Adventures in Many Lands Read online

  VII

  A MIDNIGHT RIDE ON A CALIFORNIAN RANCHE

  It was in San Benito County, California, or, to be more explicit, in theHernandez Valley, the nearest station to which is King City, "upcountry" from Los Angeles. My friend, Tom Bain, owned a cattle-ranche upthere, right in the valley which lies between the hills forming thecoastal range of California.

  It is high up, this beautiful valley. I arrived at King City over-night,and my old school pal, who had asked me to pay him a visit, met me atthe Central Saloon early next morning--so early, that we had breakfastedand were off in a pair-horse buckboard by seven o'clock. And then we hada fourteen hours' drive, climbing, ever climbing, with a dip here andthere as we negotiated the irregularities of the high country, the airbecoming cooler and crisper every hour, and so clear that you could seefor miles over the plains beneath.

  It is rather wonderful, this clearness of the atmosphere in WesternAmerica. In Arizona, I believe, the phenomenon is even more noticeable,at times. The trees stand out distinctly and almost individually onhills miles and miles away, and a camera speedily proves how really freeis the atmosphere of all visionary obstruction. A photograph of a horse,a bullock, or of any such object out on the hills, will secure areproduction of a background quite extraordinary in the extent andclearness of the picture.

  And it is a sweet, pure air to breathe--life-giving, and capable ofmaking the heart glad for the very joy of things. Driving over thesehills, although it took us from seven in the morning until nine o'clockat night to complete the journey, was anything but tiring to the humanphysique. Around and beyond, Nature spread herself in a delightfulpanorama of scenic beauty--

  "And every living thing did joy in life, And every thing of beauty did seem living."

  There were two or three other fellows on the ranche with my friend Bain.Fine, big fellows they were, too; loose-limbed and strong featured.Scarcely one of them was over five-and-twenty, yet you would have vowedthat such development in face, feature, and limb could not have beenattained before the age of thirty-five years. Silent, unassumingfellows, too, not welcoming me with a smile even, nor with the slightestdemonstration of friendliness beyond a grip of the hand that made mebegin to feel glad that I had brought my "Elliman's" with me.

  It is a peculiarity--at least, we think it a peculiarity--of the Westernman, that he rarely smiles. Perhaps it would be fairer to say that henever smiles unless there is something very positive to smile at. Heseems to have such large ideas concerning all things, and to suggest byhis manner, especially when you are out on the plains with him, that hecares more for his cattle, and for his horse particularly, than he doesfor you. Yet no man is more ready with a helping hand--and a hand thatis capable of doing most things a man's hand can do--than he; none morefull of sympathy and sincere kindliness.

  But he is an undemonstrative being, this man of the West, and you take along time to find out whether he likes you or not. If you are a"tenderfoot" you can't do better than hold your tongue about the wondersof Europe and its cities, about your own various exploits here andthere. You will learn a lot by not talking, and if you don't mindsoiling your hands a little, and keeping an eye lifted to discover theway in which things are done, you will get on very well on a Westerncattle-ranche.

  There was another ranche not far away, owned by an old settler, who hadhis wife and daughter with him. These were the only women within ourimmediate ken. She was a real child of the West, this old settler'sdaughter, and as sweet and dainty as she was capable; about twenty yearsof age, I should think, and looked after as much by every man on myfriend's ranche as she was by her own father. In fact, my friend Bainseemed to take more than a fatherly interest in her. She called himTom, and he called her Edna, though in this particular respect Tom wasnot privileged more than any of the other fellows. But her eyes werealways bright when Tom was near, and--but there, it was none of mybusiness. Only, as I said before, I kept one eye lifted for most things.

  Very soon I began really to enjoy the life very much, for its own sake.There were many things lacking in the matter of house accommodation andcomfort, compared with my English home; but it was jolly, real jolly. Inever felt so well and strong in all my life as when I was gallopingover those hills, on occasion of a general inspection of the ranche. Andit was a lark, I tell you, rounding up the cattle.

  Of course, all the fellows on the ranche could ride like--well, theycould ride anything. I got out of the road when there was any of theexpert business on, such as "cutting out," and "corralling." But I begangradually to feel my way in accomplishing their many tricks ofhorsemanship, and I was able, in course of time, to take a small part inthe work of the corral.

  I essayed to throw the lasso, or lariat, of course, as one of the veryfirst experiences in ranche life. It is one of the many interestingthings you must learn on a cattle-ranche--to use the lasso. Every mancarries his rope on his saddle, as a necessary--in fact, there, _the_most necessary--part of his equipment. A ranchero would as soon think ofriding off without his lasso as an English sportsman would think ofgoing partridge-shooting without his gun.

  It looks so easy, throwing the lasso. You begin first on foot, and tryto throw the rope over a post or something, not very far away. Aftermany hours, at the end of which time you know what it is to have anarm-ache--it may be many days, even many weeks, before you are able todo it--you succeed in lassoing your object two or three times insuccession. Ha! ha! You have conquered. You have discovered the knack atlast. And you hastily mount your horse to see if you can manage the realthing.

  You throw aside your practice rope, unwind the lasso from the horn ofthe saddle, and essay a "mounted" throw. Your patient animal remainsperfectly still and quiet. He seems to know you are a tenderfoot, and tofeel quite sure what is going to happen. You whirl your lasso round yourhead, and aim it at the horns of a harmless steer in the corral someyards away. But you look in vain to see the rope curl round yourparticular objective. Instead, it flops over your horse's ears, orsmacks you on the side of your own head. Oh, it was so easy on theground, too, when you left off!

  And your horse is patient still. He even seems to be smiling quietly tohimself. After many more attempts, and with an arm that acheth much, yousucceed in affixing your rope round something, throwing from the saddle.At last you have managed it.

  Later on an opportunity occurs for the display of your prowess. You arein the corral with a bunch of moving beasts. You single out one as yourparticular victim. This time the beast is not standing still, and youthrow your lasso, carefully watching the fall as it whirls through theair. Poor animal! Instead of roping it by the horns, you nearly jerk itstail off! There are very many accomplishments that seem easy in thehands of an expert and which prove most difficult to the uninitiated,but I think the throwing of the lasso can claim more mysteries than mostothers.

  When out on an inspection of the ranche, reckoning up the stock, andseeing that all are able to secure sufficient food, it frequentlyhappens that some of the cattle will be missing. They get away into allsorts of places, some almost inaccessible among the hills, and if theyare not found and brought back to the pastures within easy reach of thecorral, they become wild, and then there is mischief to pay. They sneakdown late at night or in the small hours of the morning to the corn andwheat fields, break the fences, and trample the crops in a way thatspells disaster to many a settler.

  Some of the cattle belonging to my friend's ranche had gone astray inthis way, and we were unable to locate them.

  I remember we were sitting in our adobe house one evening, three or fourof us together. It was about seven o'clock, and we had been talking overmatters in connection with the decision of the "boss" to drive a bunchof cattle down to King City, where they would be entrained for 'Frisco.The "boss" was up at the other ranche. He had gone to ask the oldsettler to give us a hand with the cattle next day at the rodeo, or"round-up."

  He hadn't offered to take me with him. I suppose that was Edna's fault.Anyhow, we had been sitting
there discussing things, when we heard Baincoming in, after unsaddling his horse, in quite a noisy mood. He wasmuttering hard, and I wondered what Edna had been saying to him. But itwasn't Edna at all. He had come down from the other ranche, higher upthe valley, and had passed the cornfields, in which he had noticedunusual movement. He had investigated, and had found that a bunch ofwild cattle had broken down the fences, and were eating and tramplingdown the corn.

  A hasty consultation decided that we should make a midnight raid on thebeasts, and take as many of them as we could capture down to King Citywith our own bunch. We had been feeling rather sleepy, but this newsmade us at once very much alive. However, we decided not to undertakethe raid until the next night. The wild cattle would be gone with themorning light, but they would return at dark.

  We went to bed, which meant simply rolling ourselves up in our blanketson the floor. I lay awake for some time anticipating the excitement ofthe next evening. It is not all play, this raiding of wild cattle. It isa risky business, and you must have expert lassoers to lead the way, orthere will be trouble.

  Next day we went up to the old settler's ranche, "Edna's house," as wecalled it, up the valley, and there we secured the help of some of ourneighbour's men. We were there all the evening, waiting for the hour ofmidnight at which to sally forth. Edna had expressed a desire to cometoo! She was a fine horsewoman, and fearless, and she loved excitementof this sort. Tom promised to take care of her, so she was permitted tojoin our party. Lucky Tom!

  As the little clock on the settler's mantelpiece struck twelve, wesaddled our horses and set off for the corn-brake. I was keen on seeinghow these fellows were going to capture the wild cattle, but I was tooinexperienced to take a very active part at the time.

  The corn-patch was right in the hollow of the valley, on a flat on theeastern bank of the dry bed of the river. We rode down together--never aword being spoken on the way--to where a group of oak-trees raised theirstately heads, and there we held our final council of war. Bain, anxiousto give a tenderfoot a chance of seeing as much of the proceedings aspossible, directed me to get off my horse and climb the bank, from whichI should obtain a view of the field and of the cattle as they werefeeding. I was very quiet, for the beasts have ears rather sharper thananything. Tom had given me his directions in a whisper.

  So I climbed the bank and looked over the cornfield, and there in thecentre I could see a small black mass of moving things, about threehundred yards away. I went quietly back to the river-bed, and found thatmost of the fellows had dismounted and were "cinching" up their saddles.

  A moment later I was told off with a vaquero (cowboy) to ride up the bedof a creek that ran at right-angles to the river and parallel with thecornfield. We were to try to "head" the cattle, and so prevent them frombreaking out of the field, up the hillside, and getting away into themountains again, where we should have had to leave them.

  The creek-bed was low, and afforded us good cover for three parts of theway. Then it shallowed, and we soon were able to see, from our horses,the cattle in the corn. We thought we had been very quiet indeed, but wenoticed a hurried movement among the beasts, and with a cry "They'reoff!" my companion dug his spurs into his horse and was off like thewind himself. And I after him.

  We dashed into the corn, and raced like mad to head the stampedingbeasts. It was the strangest sensation in the world, galloping in themoonlight through the waving corn, which was up to our horses'shoulders. It made me quite giddy for a second or two, but I gallopedmadly on after my companion, who, with his shrill cowboy yells, helpedthe roaring cattle to wake the midnight silences of the valley. Ijoined in the yelling, too, and, so soon as our voices were heard, therewas a chorus in reply from where we had left the rest of our party.

  "We shall never head them," I cried.

  "Perhaps not, but we'll try," answered the vaquero, as we tore onward. Ithought we had not the slightest hope of heading them. Up the hillsidewe tore to keep them on the flat ground, and at every leap over a roughincline I thought my horse would break his neck and mine too. But assurefooted as goats are those horses of the hills. At length, for somereason or other, the cattle wheeled and went back down towards theriver, and we, of course, followed.

  Suddenly, two of them broke away to the right, and I after them. Ithought I might be of some little use, even if I were not an expertlassoer. But those two wild cattle knew too much for me. They toreacross a gully, dashed up the other side and away at full gallop intothe hills. I let them go. If I had pursued them farther most probably Ishould not be writing this now. As it was, it was a marvel I had notbroken my neck. Only my splendid horse had saved me.

  So I rode back to the oak-trees, and there--there was not a sign oflife. All was as silent and still as if nothing had ever disturbedNature's quiet. I remember how beautiful was the night. A half-moonshone out in a clear sky, like a semicircle of pure, bright silver, thetops of the mountains were silhouetted against the sky as if they werecut out of cardboard, and all was so calm just then. You don't get suchlovely nights elsewhere. The moon has not the sterling brightness; theair not the clearness nor the stillness that it has there.

  Where were my companions? I did not know. My panting horse was glad toget breathing-space, so I sat there in the saddle, waiting. I pulled mycoat around my shoulders, for the air was chilly. It was then about 2A.M.

  A sharp sound disturbed my reverie--the sound of a horse's hoofsgalloping over the rocky river-bed. The rattle was so clear, sodistinct, in that atmosphere and at that hour, that I could hear it longbefore my eyes could detect anything, even in that bright moonlight.Then, in a few moments, there approached a horse at full gallop, withhis head low down and neck extended--at first apparently riderless, butas he came nearer I was startled to discover a black shape, hanging overthe off-side, and, as the frightened steed tore past me, I saw it was awoman.

  It was Edna. Who else could it be? Her left foot, still in the stirrup,had come right over the saddle with her as she fell, and she wasclinging desperately with her hands to the horse's long mane, but so lowdown that, at the pace, it seemed to be impossible for her to recover.

  Without a moment's thought of how I should save her, I galloped afterher maddened steed as hard as I could go. I was on an English saddle andwithout a lasso--since to me such a thing would have been of little useon such a risky expedition as we had undertaken; but I urged my horseonwards and galloped him at his utmost in an endeavour to head theother, when perhaps I might be able to clutch a rein and stop therunaway. But Edna's horse was the fleetest of any on the ranche;moreover, her light weight was a comparative advantage, and so I gainednot a whit on the horse with his imperilled burden. It was terrible. Howlong could the poor girl hang on like that? Not much longer, I was sure,yet prayed that she might have strength.

  Then, ahead of us, in the distant moonlight, I discerned other gallopingfigures. A horseman was pursuing at full speed along the bank a hugesteer that bellowed as it endeavoured to secure a free run up into thehills, there to be safe from its mortal enemy. I yelled at the top of myvoice, with all the breath I had left.

  Immediately the horseman pulled his horse back on its haunches and fromthe bank stared down at pursued and pursuer. In a twinkling he seemed torealise the situation, wheeled, and galloped down the bank at an anglecalculated to make it easier for him to get within reach of Edna'shorse. Then I saw it was Tom, and he must have guessed that it was Ednaahead of him, in a position of direst peril. How we had all becomeseparated I could not guess, and there was no time to wonder now.

  I saw Tom gather his loop in his right hand, holding the coil in hisleft, and begin to swing the loop round his head. What! was he going totake such a risk? To lasso the horse and check it suddenly when at a madgallop like that? Surely the animal would come to earth with a fearfulcrash, most probably on the side on which it was weighed down with itsburden.

  Then I saw the rope whirl through the air, and though it could have beenbut a moment, it seemed to hang there for minutes wit
hout falling. Thiswas the time for skill. If ever Tom should throw his lariat well, itmust be now. With unerring aim the rope was cast, and the loop settledover the head of the runaway, though the maddened animal was gallopingwith neck stretched full length and head low down.

  Gradually the rope tightened round its shoulders, Tom galloping his ownhorse hard behind. By the most skilful manipulation of the lariat,Edna's horse was compelled to slacken its pace, Tom getting nearer andnearer by degrees and taking in the slack until he was right alongside.He soon brought the runaway to a stand-still, and directed me to releaseEdna's foot from the stirrup, which I did. She sank to the ground,completely exhausted. And little wonder. Her hands were cut and bleedingwith the tenacious grip she had kept on the horse's mane, and it wassome time before she recovered sufficient strength to move.

  As soon as she was able, she told us that she had become separated fromthe other riders when galloping through the cornbrake, and a wild steerhad gored her horse in the side. This had so startled the animal that hereared, and then dashed off madly up the valley in the way I had seenher coming. She had fallen over, and as her foot had caught in thestirrup, she clutched her horse's long mane, and so saved herself frombeing dragged along the ground, and, probably, from a horrible death.

  We now were able to see that her horse had been badly ripped on the nearside, and from loss of blood and as the result of his long, mad gallop,the poor animal was in a bad way. He was led back to the ranche andthere cared for.

  It appeared that the others had galloped along on the other side of thefield until they had found that the cattle had turned. Then they waiteduntil they could get behind them, and, when this was managed, theysecured half a dozen of them with their lariats.

  One man had let go his lasso. This sometimes happens. In cases ofemergency a man has to let go his rope, and that is why the cowboyspractise picking up things from the ground at full gallop. It is notdone there for show; there is no gallery to play to. It is a necessaryaccomplishment. A man has lost his rope, the other end of it, perhaps,being round the horns of a steer. He gallops after it, as soon as he isclear of the bunch, and picks up the end at full speed. At the propertime he gives the lasso a turn round the horn of the saddle, pulls uphis well-trained horse, and the steer is jerked to his feet. It isneatly done--and it takes doing.

  Next day the cattle were all in the corrals, and the wild ones wereplaced in the bunch to be travelled down to King City. But the newcomerswere too unruly. They continually broke away _en route_, and gave somuch trouble that before our destination was reached we shot every oneof them.

  I left my friend's ranche shortly after this. I had had some experiencethat was worth winning, and I had gained a little knowledge of ranchelife of the West.

  Lately I received a delicate little wedding-card, neatly inscribed, andfigured with a design representing a coiled lariat. And from out of thecoil there peeped the daintily written words--"Tom and Edna."