right—that I kinda wanted to loaf around a little bit that morning and get acquainted with the town and it wouldn’t hurt if the other cattle had a day to settle in the canyon anyway.
We rode into camp about one o’clock, and all of us set about to stir up some dinner. We’d cooked up a batch of stuff and pretty well devoured it by about two o’clock. And the old cowboy that had let some cattle get away the first chance he had had brought up the matter of whether we oughta ride that afternoon or not. I pulled out my checkbook and said, “Yeah, I think so. But I intend for it to be back to town for you would-be cowboys because I can let these cattle get away without any help and, more’n that, if some wild cattle come and try to get in the herd, I don’t need anybody to fight ’em back, and if some want to go through a gate, I don’t need a cowboy to scare ’em back, and so far as I can tell that’s the only system that you’all intend to use.”
They stood real quiet and still while I made out their checks; then they went to gatherin’ up their bedrolls and catchin’ their extra horses and doin’ a considerableamount of mouthin’ between themselves about getting fired and makin’ some pretty rash statements about Texas cowboys.
None of this bothered me too much as I had eased over by my bedroll where my extra clothes and saddle and grub were stacked and I’ad sat down on the ground and slipped my arm up in under a sack of flour and casually laid my little fist on the handle of a .45 pistol that I didn’t intend to ever pull out as long as things didn’t get beyond cussin’ and conversation stage.
And sure ’nuff they rode off carrying their belongin’s, their horses, and their ill-will with them!
This left me with one hundred and fifty-three wild cattle in two big rough pastures without any help.
The next day I tidied up my camp a little bit and rode into town to see if I had any mail. I had been into the post office and told ’em who I was and what I was doin’ there and to hold any mail for me … that I’d come in occasionally to pick it up. I had a few letters of no particular importance.
The post office was in the mercantile as was most everything else in the town, includin’ the loafers and the other local talent, such as advisers, wore-out cowboys, and even a few nice people. I tore one of these letters open and was standin’ by the doorway readin’ it when the village doctor, whom I had met, glanced up and said, “Ben, that letter must be good news.”
I said, “Yes, it’s from an old friend by the name of Russell Graham that’s got a horse and mule deal that he’s workin’ on for me and him this winter.”
The doctor stopped cold in his tracks and dropped hisjaw down and said, “Russell Graham! The name sounds familiar.”
I said, “I don’t guess you know him … he was raised out west of Fort Worth a little piece.”
The old doctor turned all smiles and said, “I guess I would. He had an older brother about my age named Harve. We moved from that country when I was in high school.”
This was the beginning of a pleasant visit and a valuable friendship, and we spent half the afternoon talkin’ about old times.
He asked about many people that I could tell him all about, and he seemed to enjoy our conversation. By this time he suggested it was a long way back to Scotty’s Canyon and that I must put my horse in his barn and spend the night.
The doctor had a nice family and home, and while I took on a dose of this hospitality I gathered much information about Scotty Perth, whom I had never seen, and the cow deal.
Scotty Perth was a Scotch-Irish orphan who came to America when he was sixteen years old with a herd of cattle for a Scotch land syndicate that was establishing a ranch in the Rocky Mountains. He was a big, hard Scotsman that had made the most of his opportunities and through hard work and honesty had acquired the ranch known as Scotty’s Canyon. He
We rode into camp about one o’clock, and all of us set about to stir up some dinner. We’d cooked up a batch of stuff and pretty well devoured it by about two o’clock. And the old cowboy that had let some cattle get away the first chance he had had brought up the matter of whether we oughta ride that afternoon or not. I pulled out my checkbook and said, “Yeah, I think so. But I intend for it to be back to town for you would-be cowboys because I can let these cattle get away without any help and, more’n that, if some wild cattle come and try to get in the herd, I don’t need anybody to fight ’em back, and if some want to go through a gate, I don’t need a cowboy to scare ’em back, and so far as I can tell that’s the only system that you’all intend to use.”
They stood real quiet and still while I made out their checks; then they went to gatherin’ up their bedrolls and catchin’ their extra horses and doin’ a considerableamount of mouthin’ between themselves about getting fired and makin’ some pretty rash statements about Texas cowboys.
None of this bothered me too much as I had eased over by my bedroll where my extra clothes and saddle and grub were stacked and I’ad sat down on the ground and slipped my arm up in under a sack of flour and casually laid my little fist on the handle of a .45 pistol that I didn’t intend to ever pull out as long as things didn’t get beyond cussin’ and conversation stage.
And sure ’nuff they rode off carrying their belongin’s, their horses, and their ill-will with them!
This left me with one hundred and fifty-three wild cattle in two big rough pastures without any help.
The next day I tidied up my camp a little bit and rode into town to see if I had any mail. I had been into the post office and told ’em who I was and what I was doin’ there and to hold any mail for me … that I’d come in occasionally to pick it up. I had a few letters of no particular importance.
The post office was in the mercantile as was most everything else in the town, includin’ the loafers and the other local talent, such as advisers, wore-out cowboys, and even a few nice people. I tore one of these letters open and was standin’ by the doorway readin’ it when the village doctor, whom I had met, glanced up and said, “Ben, that letter must be good news.”
I said, “Yes, it’s from an old friend by the name of Russell Graham that’s got a horse and mule deal that he’s workin’ on for me and him this winter.”
The doctor stopped cold in his tracks and dropped hisjaw down and said, “Russell Graham! The name sounds familiar.”
I said, “I don’t guess you know him … he was raised out west of Fort Worth a little piece.”
The old doctor turned all smiles and said, “I guess I would. He had an older brother about my age named Harve. We moved from that country when I was in high school.”
This was the beginning of a pleasant visit and a valuable friendship, and we spent half the afternoon talkin’ about old times.
He asked about many people that I could tell him all about, and he seemed to enjoy our conversation. By this time he suggested it was a long way back to Scotty’s Canyon and that I must put my horse in his barn and spend the night.
The doctor had a nice family and home, and while I took on a dose of this hospitality I gathered much information about Scotty Perth, whom I had never seen, and the cow deal.
Scotty Perth was a Scotch-Irish orphan who came to America when he was sixteen years old with a herd of cattle for a Scotch land syndicate that was establishing a ranch in the Rocky Mountains. He was a big, hard Scotsman that had made the most of his opportunities and through hard work and honesty had acquired the ranch known as Scotty’s Canyon. He
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