CUTTING OUT THE HERD
"Getting ready for rain," announced the foreman, glancing up at the gathering clouds. "That will mean water for the stock, anyway."
Already the great herd was up and grazing when the cowboys reached them. But there was no time now for the animals to satisfy their appetites. They were supposed to have eaten amply since daylight.
The trail was to be taken up again and by the time the steers were bedded down at night, they should be all of fifteen miles nearer the Diamond D. Ranch for which they were headed.
The start was a matter of keen interest to the Pony Riders. To set the herd in motion, cowboys galloped along the sides of the line giving vent to their shrill, wolf-keyed yell, while others pressed forward directly in the rear.
As soon as the cattle had gotten under way six men were detailed on each side, and in a short time the herd was strung out over more than a mile of the trail.
Two riders known as "point men" rode well back from the leaders, and by riding forward and closing in occasionally, were able to direct the course of the drive.
Others, known as "swing men," rode well out from the herd, their duty being to see that none of the cattle dropped out or strayed away. Once started, the animals required no driving.
This was a matter of considerable interest to the Pony Riders.
"Don't they ever stop to eat?" asked Tad of the foreman.
"Occasionally. When they do, we have to start them along without their knowing we are doing so. It's a good rule to go by that you never should let your herd know they are under restraint. Yet always keep them going in the proper direction."
The trail wagon, carrying the cooking outfit and supplies, was not forgotten. Drawn by a team of four mules, the party seldom allowed it to get far away from them, and never, under ordinary circumstances, out of their sight. The driver walked beside the mules, while the grinning face of Pong was always to be seen in the front end of the wagon.
He was the only member of the outfit who never seemed to mind the broiling mid-day heat. He was riding there on this hot forenoon, never leaving his seat until the foreman, by a gesture, indicated that the herd was soon to be halted for its noonday meal. While the cattle were grazing, the cowboys would fall to and satisfy their own appetites.
After the cattle had finally been halted, three men were left on guard while the others rode back to the rear of the line. In the meantime Pong had been preparing the dinner, which was ready almost as soon as the men had cast aside their hats.
"When it comes to cooking for an outfit like this, a Chinaman beats anything in the world," laughed Stallings. "At least, this Chinaman does."
Pong was too busy to do more than grin at the compliment, even if he fully grasped the meaning of it.
The meal was nearly half-finished when the cowpunchers were startled by a volley of revolver shots accompanied by a chorus of shrill yells.
"What's up now?" demanded Ned Rector and Tad in one breath.
Every member of the outfit had sprung to his feet.
"Sounds like a stampede," flung back the foreman, making a flying leap for his pony.
The other cowboys were up like a flash and into their saddles, uttering sharp "ki-yis" and driving in the spurs while they laid their quirts mercilessly over the rumps of the ponies.
Tad Butler, Ned Rector and Walter Perkins were not far behind the cowmen in reaching their own ponies and leaping into their saddles.
Not so with Chunky. He only paused in his eating long enough to look his surprise and to direct an inquiring look at the Chinaman, while the others went dashing across the plain toward the herd.
"Allee same likee this," announced Pong, making a succession of violent gestures that Stacy did not understand.
But the boy nodded his head wisely and went on with his eating.
Out where the grazing herd had been peacefully eating its noonday meal all was now excitement and action.
Revolvers were popping, cowboys were yelling and the herd was surging back and forth, bellowing and dashing in and out, a shifting, confused mass of color and noise.
The boys did not know what to make of it.
"Yes; they are stampeding," decided Ned, riding alongside of Tad Butler.
"I don't believe it," answered Tad. "It looks to me as if something else were the trouble."
"What?"
"I don't know. It's an awful mix-up, whatever they may call it."
"Yes; see! They are fighting."
Surely enough, large numbers of the cattle seemed to be arrayed against each other, sending up great clouds of dust as they ran toward each other, locked horns and engaged in desperate conflict. It was noticed, however, that the muleys kept well out of harm's way, standing aloof from the herd and looking on ready to run at the shake of a horn in their direction.
"Now, look there! What are they doing?" asked Walter.
"They seem to be cutting out a bunch of steers," answered Tad. "That's funny. I can't imagine what it is all about." Neither could Professor Zepplin, who had ridden up at a more leisurely pace, explain to the boys the meaning of the scene they were viewing.
"If we knew, we might turn in and help," suggested Walter.
"That's right," replied Tad. "Suppose we ride up there where the men are at work. We may find something to do. Anyway, we'll find out what the trouble is."
Starting up their ponies, the boys galloped up the line, keeping a safe distance from the herd as they did so, and halting only when they had reached the trail leaders, as the cattle at the head of the line are called.
"What's the trouble?" shouted Ned as they came within hailing distance of the perspiring foreman.
"Mixed herd," he called back, curtly, driving his pony into the thick of the fight and yelling out his orders to the men.
"I know almost as much about it as I did before," announced Ned, disgustedly. "Got any idea, Tad?"
"Yes; I have."
"For goodness sake, let's have it, then. If I don't find out what's going on here, pretty soon, I shall jump into the fight in sheer desperation."
"Mr. Stagings said it was a mixed herd. Don't you think that must mean that a lot of cattle who don't belong there have mixed up with ours?" asked the freckle-faced boy.
"I guess that's the answer, Tad. But, if so, how can they tell one from the other?" wondered Walter.
"From the brands. I have learned that much about the business. Every one of our herd is branded with a capital D in the center of a diamond. That is the brand of Mr. Miller's ranch—the Diamond D Ranch. Evidently they are cutting out all that haven't that brand on."
"Hello! There's Chunky. Now, what do you suppose he is up to!" exclaimed Ned.
Stacy Brown had finished his meal, mounted his pony and was now riding toward the herd at what was for him a reckless speed.
All at once they saw him pull his mount sharply to the left and drive straight at a bunch of cattle that the cowboys had separated from the herd a few moments before.
The boy was too far away, the racket too loud, for their voices to reach him in a warning shout.
Stacy, having observed the cattle straying away, and having in mind Tad Butler's achievement in driving back a bunch of stray steers, thought he would do something on his own account.
"I'll show them I can drive steers as well as anybody," he told himself, bringing down the quirt about the pony's legs.
The strong-limbed little beast sprang to his work with a will. He understood perfectly what was wanted of him. A few moments more, and he had headed off the rapidly moving bunch, effectually turning the leaders, sending them on a gallop back toward the vast herd fighting and bellowing in the cloud of dust they had stirred up.
The cowboys were so fully occupied with their task that they had failed to observe Stacy Brown's action, nor would they have known anything about it had not Tad, yelling himself hoarse, managed to attract the attention of the foreman.
Tad pointed off to where Chunky was jumping his pony at the fleeing cattle, forcing them on with horse and quirt.
They had almost reached the main herd before Tad succeeded in informing the foreman.
One look was enough for Stallings.
Before he could act, however, the stray herd had once more mingled and merged with his own. The work of the cowboys had gone for naught.
Stallings fired three shots into the air as a signal to his men to stop their cutting out.
"Will you young men do me a favor?" he asked.
"Certainly, Mr. Stallings," answered Tad.
"Then ride around the herd and tell the boys not to try any more cutting out until the herd has quieted down. The dust is so thick that we can't do anything with the cows, anyway. You have some sense, but that's more than I can say for your friend, Brown. Of all the idiotic—oh, what's the use? Tell him to mind his own business and keep half a mile away from this herd for the rest of the afternoon."
"All right, sir. Where did those cattle come from?"
"I don't know, Tad. They have broken away from some nearby ranch. Probably somebody has cut a wire fence and let them out. That's the worst of the wire fence in the modern cow business. They can get through wire without being seen. But they can't get by a cowpuncher without his seeing them."
"How many cattle do you think have got mixed with ours?"
"I should imagine there were all of five hundred of them," answered the foreman.
Tad uttered a long-drawn whistle of astonishment.
"Will—will you ever be able to separate them?" asked Ned.
"We sure will. But it means a hot afternoon's work."
"May we help you, Mr. Stallings?" spoke up Walter.
"Yes; I shall be able to use you boys, some, I guess. It's a wonder to me that those cows didn't stampede our whole herd. Had it been night, our stock would have been spread over a dozen miles of territory by this time. Being day, however, our herd preferred to stay and fight the newcomers. I hope they clean up the bunch for keeps."
Pleased that they had been given a task to perform, the boys rode away, Tad and Walter going in one direction, while Ned Rector galloped off in another, that they might reach the cowmen in the shortest possible time.
The men they found sitting on their horses awaiting orders, though they understood what was in the mind of the foreman almost as well as if he had told them by word of mouth.
They found Big-foot and Lumpy Bates expressing their opinion of the mix-up in voices loud with anger. But, upon discovering the boys, the cowmen quickly checked their flow of language.
"Did you see what that—that——" bellowed Lumpy as Tad rode up to him.
"Yes; I saw it," laughed Tad.
"You think this is some kind of a joke, eh?" roared Lumpy, starting his pony toward Tad.
The boy's smile left his face and clucking to his pony he rode slowly forward toward the angry cowpuncher, meeting the fellow's menacing eyes unflinchingly.
"Is there anything you wish to say to me, Mr. Bates?" asked the lad calmly.
Lumpy's emotions were almost too great for speech. He controlled himself with an effort.
"No—only this. I—I'll forget myself some day, and clean up one of you idiotic tenderfeet."
"Perhaps you would like to begin on me, sir," said Tad steadily. "If you feel that way I should prefer to have you do that rather than to try it on any of my companions. Stacy Brown may be indiscreet, but I'd have you understand he is no idiot."
"What—what——"
"You have determined to get square with us ever since we joined out with you last night, and I knew that you and I would have to have an understanding before long. We might as well have it now, though there's nothing of enough consequence to have a quarrel about——"
"You threaten me?"
"Nothing of the kind, Mr. Bates. I only wish to tell you that my companions are the guests of this outfit, and we propose to act like gentlemen. Every other member of the outfit, not excepting the Chinaman, has given us fine treatment. You have hung back, hoping you would have a chance to get us run off the trail."
The cowpuncher's fingers were opening and closing convulsively.
"You—you run into me. The whole bunch had the laugh on me and——"
"If I remember correctly, it was you who ran me down. But we'll drop that. Will you shake hands and forget your bad temper?" asked the lad, reaching over and offering a hand to the cowboy.
For an instant the fellow glared at him, then with a snarl he jerked his pony about and drove in the rowels of the spurs.
"Lumpy's got on the grouch that won't come off," grinned Big-foot. "Better keep a weather eye on the cayuse. If he gets obstreperous, just you let me know."
"Thank you," smiled Tad. "I thought I had better say something to him before it went too far. I knew he meant mischief to us ever since he ran into me yesterday at San Diego."
Tad then delivered his message and rode on to the next cowpuncher.
For fully an hour the cattle surged and fought, some being killed and trampled under foot, while others were so seriously wounded that they had to be shot later in the day.
After a time the battle dwindled down to individual skirmishes, with two or three animals engaged at a time, until finally the entire herd moved off to the fresher ground that had not been trodden upon, and began grazing together as contentedly as if nothing had occurred to disturb them.
All immediate danger of a stampede having passed, Stallings fired a shot as a signal for the cowmen to join him. This they did on the gallop.
After a conference, during which each man gave his opinion as to whom the stray herd belonged to, none recognizing the brand, Stallings made up his mind what to do.
"You will begin at the lower end and cut out as you go through the herd. Cut the newcomers to the west, which will be starting them back toward where they came from, wherever that may be. At the same time while we cut, we will be moving our cows north, which is the direction in which we want them to go."
In the meantime Stacy Brown had ridden up. He was sitting disconsolately on his pony near where the conference was being held, having been roundly scored by every cowboy in the outfit.
The foreman motioned him to ride over to him.
"Young man, can you carry a message back to camp and get it straight!"
Stacy thought he could.
"Then go back and tell the heathen to pack up his belongings and come on. There will be no more eating done in this outfit till we have cut out that new bunch. Tell the driver to be ready to move when he sees us start. We'll get in a few miles before dark, yet, if we have good luck."
Stacy rode away full of importance to deliver the foreman's order.
Then the cutting out began. Cowboy after cowboy dashed into the herd coming out usually with his pony pressing against the side of an unwilling steer and pushing him along in the right direction by main force.
And here was where the Pony Riders made themselves useful. As an animal was cut out, the boys would ride in behind it and worry the steer along until they had gotten it a safe distance to the west of the main herd.
"There's a Diamond D steer in that bunch," Tad informed one of the cowpunchers as he rushed a big, white steer out.
"Never mind; we'll trim the mixed outfit after we get more of the bunch out," answered the cowboy, riding back into the herd.
While doing the cutting out the men also drove out the few cattle that had strayed into the herd earlier in the journey.
For three hours this grilling work had kept up, the perspiring cowboys yelling, their ponies squealing under the terrific punishment they were getting from both riders and steers.
But in the excitement of their own work, the Pony Riders had had little time in which to observe what the cowmen were doing.
Tad thought of a plan by which he might assist them further. So he galloped his pony over to the edge of the main herd and waited until the foreman dashed out with two red, fighting steers, which he gave a lively start on their way to join the mixed herd.
"Mr. Stallings, may I cut back some of the Diamond D animals in the mixed herd?" he asked.
"Think you can do it, kid?"
"I can try."
"All right. Go ahead. Be careful that you don't turn back any of the other brands, though. Above all, look out for yourself."
Tad galloped back to his companions, his face flushed, the dust standing out on his blue shirt, turning it almost gray.
"Keep this herd up, fellows," he shouted. "I'm going to try my hand at cutting out."
Fortunately, the pony understood what was wanted of it, and, the moment it had located an animal which it was desired to cut out, the pony went at the work with a will. Tad, triumphant and warm, rode out driving a Diamond D steer ahead of him, applying his quirt vigorously to the animal's rump until he had landed it safely in the ranks of the main herd.
Again and again had the boy ridden in among the cattle, seemingly taking no account of the narrow escapes both rider and pony were having from the sharp horns of the long-legged Mexican cattle.
One big, white fellow gave the lad more trouble than all the rest that he had cut out, and when once Tad had run him out into the open the perspiration was dripping from his face.
But his battle was not yet won. The steer, for some reason best known to itself, did not wish to return to its own herd. It fought every inch of the way, wearing down pony and rider until they were almost exhausted.
Tad Butler's blood was up, however. He set his jaw stubbornly and plunged into the work before him.
Bob Stallings, shooting a glance in the boy's direction understood what he had in hand, for the foreman had made the acquaintance of this same steer himself, earlier on the drive.
The lad had worried the animal nearly to its own herd, after half an hour's struggle, when, despite all his efforts, it broke away and dashed back toward the mixed bunch.
"I'll get him if it's the last thing I ever do," vowed the boy.
A rawhide lariat hung from his saddle bow, and though he had practised with the rope on other occasions, he did not consider himself an expert with it. He had watched the cowboys in their use of it and knew how they threw a cow with the rope.
On the spur of the moment Tad decided to use the lariat.
Lifting it in his right hand and swinging the great loop high above his head, he dashed up to the running steer, and when near enough to take a cast, let go of the loop.
It fell over the horns of the white animal as neatly as a cowboy could have placed it there.
The coil ran out in a flash; yet quick as the boy was, he found himself unable to take a hitch around the pommel of his saddle with the free end.
The running steer straightened the rope and Tad shot from his saddle still clinging desperately to the line.