Edward G. Cheyney

A DAY WITH THE SMALL RANCHERS

Scott was awakened the next morning by the rattle of dishes and found that Heth had breakfast all ready to go on the table. Whatever other shortcomings might be attributed to the guard he could hardly be called lazy. He never objected to any job that was assigned to him, was continually busy when around the camp, was up early and came in late. Scott recognized all this and realized the perfect knowledge that the man seemed to have of every phase of the forest work. He bounded out of bed thoroughly ashamed of himself.

“Why didn’t you call me?” Scott exclaimed.

Heth seemed somewhat surprised at the irritated tone. “Breakfast wasn’t ready,” he replied simply.

“I did not mean it that way,” Scott replied, a little taken back, “but I want to do my share of the work around here. I intended to help you get breakfast, but the high altitude seems to make me sleep like a hammer.”

“Gets them all that way when they first come up,” Heth replied pleasantly. “Might as well sleep it out. I wake up anyway and don’t mind getting breakfast. I’m used to it.”

Heth’s pleasant manner was so different from his grouch of the morning before that Scott felt even more ashamed of himself and wondered if he had misjudged the man. “Well, I’ll try to make up for it later,” he sputtered through the cold spring water, and as he dried the few breakfast dishes he felt happier than he had at any time since he first met Heth.

“How does the big black go?” Heth asked. “Have any trouble with him?”

“No,” Scott replied, warming up on the subject of his horse, “he behaved splendidly; but I had a funny experience yesterday.” And he explained in detail how the strange horseman had attempted to steal Jed. He kept quiet about the rest of the conversation.

Heth listened excitedly and did not let on that he had seen the horseman afterward and heard his version of the story. “Maybe he was trying to catch him for you,” Heth said. “No one ever thought that anybody could ride that horse and they all expect him to kill you before you have had him very long.”

“It’s possible,” Scott said doubtfully, “but I don’t believe it. He was with Jed Clark the day I bought the horse, and I know Jed had no idea of selling him.”

Heth had his own reasons for not pushing the matter and a ring at the ’phone interrupted any further talk on the subject.

It was the ranger. He ordered Scott to find how much stock the ranchers would have for free use and have Heth fix up the chute ready for the counting of the sheep. Scott again relayed the orders to Heth.

“I suppose you know all about this business, but it is pretty much Greek to me. How do you find out about the free use stock?” The day before Scott would never have asked Heth this question, but this morning he felt more friendly, and he knew it was the sensible thing to do.

“Nothing to it,” Heth replied, “except a long ride. Just go to see each one, ask him how many head he is going to run on the forest this year and give him a permit if he is under the limit. There are some forms here for it.”

Heth produced the forms and Scott looked them over carefully.

“Looks simple enough. If he has too many I suppose I give him a permit for the limit and charge him for the rest.”

“No, you give him a permit for the limit and report the overrun to the ranger. He attends to that.”

“Is there a list of these settlers?” Scott asked.

“No, but I can tell you who they all are and they live in a string in the valley along the edge of the forest. The ones farther out are the big fellows and we do not have to monkey with them. They get theirs at the super’s office.”

With this information in hand Scott saddled up Jed, who was getting very much attached to his kind master, and started down the trail to the valley. Heth rode with him as far as the sheep chute, and pointed out the sheep trails he had posted with new signs the day before. “You see,” he explained, “you can’t let them wander all over or they would never get where they were going. They would be grazing on somebody else’s range all summer. So we post these trails which they have to follow and we limit the time they can have to get to their own range. Each man has a range allotted to him and has to stay on it.”

“Do they all come in at the same time?” Scott asked. He wanted to get all the information he could on it before he came in contact with the ranchers themselves. Heth already knew he was green but he did not want the ranchers to find it out.

“Don’t have to,” Heth replied, “but they will this year. The winter range is just about played out and they will want to get into the hills as soon as possible. That means that the whole bunch of them will be crowding in to-morrow. You will probably meet some of them on their way up to-day.”

Scott stopped for a few minutes to examine the chute. It was made of two fences which were built to form an hour glass. The sheep were driven into the broad funnel-shaped entrance which narrowed down till there was room for only one or two sheep to go through at a time.

“You sit up there,” Heth explained, “and count them as they go through. It’s some job when they get to crowding and piling up, but easy enough most of the time.”

“Is there any way to stop them if they get to coming too fast?” Scott asked.

“Couldn’t stop them with a four bar gate after the leader has gone through. You can keep pretty good track of them after you get used to it. We had one fellow here who used to be a whirlwind at counting before the chute was built. They could not come too fast for him. Some guy asked him how he did it. ‘Easy enough,’ he says, ‘count their feet and divide by four.’”

“Well,” Scott laughed, “I guess I can manage it all right then if they all have the same number of feet. See you at supper.” He rode on down the steep trail alone. He felt that now for the first time he was really doing a patrolman’s work. Yesterday’s ride was designed to acquaint him with the trails, but to-day he was doing something which would go on record. Just how much of a record he was going to make that day he did not dream at the time.

Once out of the caÑon Jed struck a long, swinging pace which made the valley slip by like a panorama, and soon brought him to the home of the first small rancher. The man was just about to mount his horse when Scott rode up. He returned a sullen nod to Scott’s cheery greeting.

“Mr. Simpson?” Scott asked, pausing in the act of dismounting. He was feeling particularly friendly himself this morning and the other’s cold manner grated on him. “More Western hospitality,” he thought.

“You guessed it,” Mr. Simpson answered briefly.

“I am the patrolman for district three of the National Forest,” Scott explained. The man knew perfectly well who he was and Scott knew that he knew, but an introduction seemed necessary to crack the ice. The man made no answer.

“I want to find out,” Scott continued, anxious to get through with this old grouch as soon as possible, “how many head of stock you want to run on the forest this year on your free use permit?”

“How much is this ‘free use’ going to cost this year,” the man asked sarcastically.

“Cost?” Scott exclaimed in surprise.

“I think that is what I said,” the man drawled, “Cost.”

“First time I ever heard of a free use permit costing anything,” Scott retorted. The man’s ugly manner and a feeling that he was being guyed angered Scott.

“Cost me a dollar a head, last year,” the man persisted with an ugly sneer.

“How did that happen?” Scott asked a little doubtfully. He was almost sure that he would get a “joshing” answer of some kind to this question and he did not feel in the humor to take it.

“’Cause that’s what that robber patrolman demanded,” the man exploded. “Think I offered it to him voluntarily?”

“I don’t see why you should pay a patrolman for a free use permit either voluntarily or any other way,” Scott retorted.

“Hicks over here on the next ranch could not see it either,” Simpson replied, “and all his sheep died of the loco weed.”

“Do you mean to say that the patrolman poisoned them?” Scott exclaimed in horror.

“I’d say he did,” the man answered fiercely.

“Why didn’t you report him to the ranger?” Scott asked.

“Lot of good that would do and he knew it,” the man growled.

Scott was perplexed. He did not like to listen to the slander of his service and yet if it was true it ought to be investigated. He wisely decided to end the discussion now and investigate it later.

“Well, Mr. Simpson,” he said with dignity, “possibly this has been done in the past, and possibly that is the reason that the man was fired. I don’t know anything about it and I did not come here to hear the service accused of graft. I came to find out how many head of stock you wanted on free use permit and I am not used to being accused of graft. If you do not want a permit, say so.”

Simpson eyed him for a moment in silence and then said briefly, “Put me down for the limit.”

“Any extras?” Scott asked as he made out the permit.

“Thought the ranger took care of that.” Simpson objected suspiciously.

“So he does,” Scott replied, “but I am supposed to report where there are any.”

“All right,” Simpson said, “tell him I’ll have a hundred.”

“If the sheep on that permit cost you anything, let me know,” Scott said a little pompously, as he handed over the permit.

“Going to Hicks’ place?” Simpson asked in a suddenly friendly tone as he put the permit in his pocket.

Scott nodded.

“I’ll ride over with you,” Simpson volunteered.

Scott was somewhat surprised at the sudden change of manner, but gladly accepted the offer. Simpson soon won his way into Scott’s good graces by his generous praises of Jed and before they had covered the two miles to Hicks’ place they were on very good terms.

Mr. Hicks had ridden out to look over his stock but they soon found him. He was a jolly little Irishman with sparkling blue eyes which danced when he recognized the new patrolman. “Howdy,” he responded to Scott’s greeting, “I see you are still sticking to that horse.”

“You bet,” Scott replied enthusiastically, “I’ve never had a better one.” He did not explain that he had never had another one. “I came over to see how many head of stock you are going to put on your free use permit this spring.”

Hicks winked at Simpson. “Out collecting his fees before he fair knows the way home,” he chuckled. “Well, how much do I have to pay this year to keep my sheep out of that loco patch?”

His manner was friendly enough but Scott thought he recognized a certain shrewd hardness back of it and when he remembered what Simpson had told him he did not blame him. “I’ve been through all that with Mr. Simpson,” Scott replied a little haughtily, “and I don’t care to hear it again. I am new here and I know nothing of what happened last year and I will not be accused of graft. A free use permit means free use to me. If you want one I am here to give it to you; if you don’t want it I have a long way to ride.”

“Give me the limit, me boy, and shake hands on it.”

Scott gladly shook hands. He liked this little Irishman. “Any extras?” he asked and he felt the little man start perceptibly.

“So that’s where you come in?” Hicks exclaimed.

“That’s where I will come in if you insist,” Scott replied hotly. “It is my duty to report to the ranger where there are any extras and I do not propose to be insulted every time I ask for the information.”

“Tut, tut, no offense was meant. Tell Dawson I’ll have fifty. If you knew what I know you would not be surprised. Besides it is what you are going to get wherever you go so you might as well get used to it.”

“Then I shall probably lick somebody before night,” Scott laughed.

“And I’m going along to help you,” said Hicks pocketing his permit.

So they all three rode down the valley to Bradish’s where Scott met with the same suspicious reception, made the same explanation and finally rode on down the valley with Mr. Bradish added to the little troop. He could not understand the readiness with which each man offered to accompany him, but his advance was like that of a snow ball. Each rancher he saw promptly took out a permit for free use and joined the procession.

When they reached Wren’s place at noon there were six in the party. Mr. Wren, a big, rough, raw-boned fellow, was so blunt in his insinuations that Scott was furious before the permit was finally written, but Wren did not seem to notice it. With the permit safe in his pocket he looked the rest of the bunch over curiously. “Where is this crowd bound for? If it’s any of my business,” he asked.

“Up to Bronson’s,” was the prompt reply.

“Party there?” Wren asked. A party in this thinly settled country was a great event and every one who heard about it came regardless of distance or invitation.

“Guess there will be when we all get there,” said Simpson with a grin.

“Come on in to dinner,” said Wren turning toward the house, “and I’ll ride over with you.”

They all accepted the invitation as a matter of course, and Scott, still smarting from Wren’s rough speeches, mounted Jed to continue his journey, wondering where he would find a meal. He had expected to get dinner at one of the ranches and had not counted on them being hostile to the Service.

Wren happened to turn just as he was settling into the saddle. “Hey,” he shouted. Scott paused. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Scott had not had a civil word from Wren since he arrived and was not in a humor to be ordered around now. “To Brown’s,” he answered shortly, and added, “If it’s any of your business.”

“Turning down my invitation to dinner are you?” he asked in an ominously gentle voice. To ignore an invitation to dinner was considered a deadly insult and the others all stared expectantly.

“I do not care to eat at a home where I am called a grafter and looked on with suspicion,” Scott answered with dignity. He had sized his man up and felt pretty certain that he would get the worst of a fight but he was an experienced boxer and was not at all dismayed by the prospect.

Wren, who had been advancing toward Jed with mighty strides, stopped suddenly at this retort and looked at Scott silently for almost a minute. When he spoke his voice was gentle again but it was not the gentleness of intense anger this time. “Well, young man, this is the first time I ever had a man ignore my invitation to dinner and didn’t try to kill him, but this time I reckon you’re right. I reckon I would not eat with a man myself who talked that way to me, but if you had had the experiences that I have in the last five years you wouldn’t hold it against me. I thought you were passing us up because we were not good enough for you. Some Easterners think that way. If I hadn’t believed you honest, I wouldn’t have asked you to dinner. If you’ll come in we’ll be glad to have you.”

It was the longest speech that Wren had ever been known to make and his friends looked at him in admiration. Scott was only too glad to accept the apology and get out of his trouble so easily. He dismounted and extended his hand. “If that is the way you feel, Mr. Wren, I shall be delighted to come in,” he said heartily.

Mrs. Wren, a large motherly woman, met them at the door. She was not at all dismayed by the unexpected dinner party and greeted them cordially. Visitors here were few and always welcome. “Mother,” bawled Mr. Wren, once more restored to his boisterous self, “Here is an honest patrolman.”

Such was Scott’s introduction. It troubled him to hear the service spoken of in that way, but he knew that they did not mean it for an insult to him and tried to overlook it. The inside of the ’dobe house was as neat and clean as a pin and the ham and eggs were of the best. All in all they had a jolly time and Scott was certainly glad that he got in on it. He learned to know these people in that brief time as he could never have learned to know them in any other way.

After dinner the little cavalcade rode on to Brown’s, to Mathey’s and finally to Bronson’s. The result everywhere was the same. Distrust, incredulity, acceptance and cordiality.

When Scott signed the last permit it was four o’clock in the afternoon and he was sixteen miles from home. “Sorry I can’t stay to the party, gentlemen,” he said pleasantly, “but I am a long way from home and I have to be out on that chute early in the morning counting sheep. The whole bunch will be rushing in on us to-morrow.”

“Well, me boy,” said little Mr. Hicks speaking for them all, “you won’t be missing much, because you are the party. You have given us the first square deal we have had in several years and we came along to see you through. We’ll ride back with you whenever you are ready to go, but I want to tell you while we are all here together that we appreciate this and we are going to back you up whenever you need it. And unless I miss my guess an honest man coming into that district is going to need backing.”

Scott thanked them profusely. “Possibly some of you have had a raw deal from some individual,” he exclaimed, “but the service intends to give every man a square deal, and I am going to try to see that you all get it.”

They swept away up the valley like a crowd of care-free school-boys. Each shouted a friendly good-by as he dropped out at his home. When the last man had dropped out and Scott was riding on alone he felt as though he had left old friends. All along the caÑon trail he passed by what seemed to him a countless ocean of sheep, tired out by their long day’s drive and all bedded down for the night waiting for the chance to get onto the green mountain range in the morning. Their continuous bleating had a strange, weird sound to Scott’s unaccustomed ears. It was late when he reached the cabin but he found Heth waiting supper for him.

In bed that night he thought over the strange experiences of the day. There was not another people in the world who would have done such a thing and he liked it. For some reason which he did not stop to analyze he had not told Heth anything about it.