From this time on there would be a complete change in the air around Frank and Andy. The talk of the cowboys was along the line of ranch life; and by degrees many of the phrases that went to describe such things entering into the daily life of these wild plains riders, would become familiar to the “tenderfeet.”
They saw the cactus that grew along the border of the desert; the tufts of what Uncle Jethro called “buffalo grass,” possibly because the bison that formerly covered these same plains in countless tens of thousands used to feed upon it; watched the queer antics of a village of prairie dogs they passed on the way to the ranch; and heard the boys speak of a muddy hole as a “buffalo wallow,” though the chances were it had been half a century since such an animal had lain down to rid himself of the flies, by wallowing in the mud and water that came from a rainfall.
Here were a few stray cattle which the rancher termed “Mavericks;” and called to the foreman to mark down, so they could be rounded-up and branded on the morrow; there they overtook an Indian family on the move, with a calico horse harnessed to a couple of long drag-poles, upon which were piled all their worldly possessions, including the squaw herself and a dusky papoose; and once in the distance they saw a line of white-topped wagons that gave the boys a thrill, thinking of those old days when emigrants were in the habit of crossing the plains in such vehicles; until Uncle Jethro kindly explained that this was a freighter’s caravan, the prairie schooners being loaded with supplies for the mines that were located away up in the mountains, where it was difficult to get such material, the smelting being done on the ground, and only the pure copper shipped out to the market.
It was altogether too short a ride, Andy loudly declared, when his uncle announced that the ranch buildings were in sight ahead. He had seen so many new and interesting sights that he thought he could never drink in enough of this air, heated though it might be.
All the same, both lads looked eagerly ahead, anxious to know what the Double X Ranch would turn out to be like.
They saw a cluster of white buildings, none of them over one story in height; and partly surrounded by green trees, that had doubtless influenced the owner to make his headquarters in this particular spot, where good water was to be had in abundance.
Already the boys had started on a gallop for the house, whooping as usual. A genuine happy-go-lucky cow puncher is probably about the noisiest creature on the face of the earth; he never seems to be fully satisfied unless he is making some sort of a racket, either chasing cattle, cavorting on his pony amidst his comrades, or shooting up a border town when on one of his “pay-day” outings.
Before they reached the buildings they had drawn close enough to the passing freight caravan for the boys to even hear the vicious crack of the teamster’s long blacksnake whips, and to hear a choice collection of words when some little accident happened to delay the creaking wagons a brief time. Uncle Jethro was an old bachelor. He had a very efficient housekeeper in a Mrs. Ogden, a middle-aged widow, whose husband had been some sort of cousin to the owner of the ranch, and connected with him slightly in the business, at the time he died.
A beaming Celestial cook, who sailed under the name of Charley Woo, looked after the kitchen, and seemed to satisfy the demands of the vigorous punchers. When he was out with the boys in charge of the “grub wagon,” during their round-ups, those left at home were well taken care of by the housekeeper herself.
Everything was so fine that both Andy and Frank knew they were going to have the time of their lives; and would begrudge the days that slipped past. They meant to soak in all the information possible, as well as show these dashing riders that if they were greenhorns in all that was connected with cattle punching, at least they occupied a high standard when it came to bold exploits away up in the clouds.