"Fair," answered Jack, "but nothing to brag of—nothing great. They do as well as any of us ordinary cowboys. There is an interesting thing about that—something that Hugh once told me—that a good many years ago, when Hugh first came into the country—that was in 1849—the Indians could hardly rope at all. All the same they used to catch lots of wild horses by just running them down. The country then was full of wild horses. In the spring when the wild horses were poor and weak, the Indians used to take their best horses and start out and find a bunch of the wild horses and chase them as hard as they could, and finally catch them. But they did not know how to rope them. They used to make big hoops of willows and tie the noose of the rope to such a hoop with small strings; then when they had run down an animal, so that they could ride up alongside of it, they would pass the hoop over its head and pull back on the rope; the strings which tied it to the hoop would break, the noose would run up, and the animal could be choked down.
"Of course, they could never catch good horses; those that they got were mostly colts or mares heavy with foal, and animals that were particularly weak from lack of food and the winter's cold.
"The Indians that I've seen did not appear to me to handle their horses very well, and they have no more feeling for a horse than they have for a saddle or a travois. They never consider that a horse has any feelings: it is simply a tool to help them get about and to bear burdens. The Indians are really kind-hearted, but my notion is they just don't happen to think of the suffering they may cause the horse. Indians are kind to each other and to their friends, but I don't think you could call them kind to animals."
"I suppose that is a matter of education," suggested Donald.
"I suppose so," answered Jack. "Besides that, when you are all the time struggling with an animal, or a lot of animals, and trying to make them do something that you want them to do, and that they don't understand, you get kind o' mad at them because they don't mind you. You forget that they don't understand, and you are likely to be brutal to them. Now, for example, I was thinking to-day that it would be a good idea for you, after you get to know how to use a rope a little better, to practise on some of these cows, catching them and throwing them, but I don't suppose a cow very much enjoys being thrown, and it is a question which is the more important, for you to have practise in throwing cows, or to spare the cow the grief of being thrown. I don't suppose it is very pleasant for an animal running at full speed to be checked up and made to turn a somersault and hit the ground like a thousand of—beef we'll say."
"No," Donald said slowly; "I guess not; and I think the question you have suggested is rather a nice one."
"Well, we needn't worry about that. There will be plenty of chances for you to practise on cows before long; and meantime you've got to learn to catch calves."
The boys had an idle, easy time watching this bunch of cattle which was constantly being added to by animals cut out from the big bunch. Before evening all the cattle had been separated and Jack and Donald rode back to the camp together.
Supper over, the boys sat about the fire lazily smoking and talking. After a while there was a pause, which was presently broken by McIntyre.
"I met one of the boys from the Bar Lazy A to-day when I was riding. He was going back to the ranch. Said he had been sent in with a message and spent a day or two in town. I asked him if he had seen anything of Claib Wood, and he said yes, he met him a couple of nights ago; that Claib was full, and looked as if he were hunting trouble. Then he said the next day they had quite a little excitement in town—let's see, Mason, that must have been about the time you were there. Did you hear of any excitement?"