hearing Jake go on talking about the dry cows. “Well, Monte, I’ve heard of it happenin’ in lower country than the Park. Cows just don’t breed when the weather’s too hot. But if you want the truth, I’d rather lay the dry cows to them old bulls you oughta shipped. I told you when we culled the herd last fall that you needed to ship three or four old bulls and replace ’em with young bulls. But you got stubborn and put your foot down.”
“Did I? Well, I was too damned optimistic. See many slinkers this spring, Jake?”
“A few—and maybe some more comin’ up. And, as always, we had some abortin’ in the heifers in January and February. But these cows, the mature ones that slink a calf, ain’t worth a damn. If they start doin’ it, seems they do it again the next year. And ain’t it a funny thing how you can’t let a slinkin’ cow run in a pasture next to the young heifers havin’ their first calves? Seems they’ll slink their calves too.”
“I know. An abortin’ cow’s got to be kept clear of the heifers. Seems there’s a sympathetic understanding between ’em. Can’t be explained—like a lot of other things about animal life, Jake. Well, we’ll ship all the slinkin’ cows this fall. Fatten ’em up on summer range, and they’ll weigh in good when they hit the market. Now, one more thing, Jake. I see Tommy’s got the irrigatin’ started and you still got cattle on the meadows. You know I like the meadows cleared of cattle before the water starts pouring across ’em. How come?”
“They just got the water goin’ good the last few days, Monte, and I didn’t think the grass was quite ready on the flats. I figure on kickin’ the cows onto the flats tomorrow.”
She nodded. “That’s good enough.”
The other men walked out. Kelsey stood nervously by the stove, moving his feet restlessly. He watched Monte Maguire roll a cigarette with neat quick motions of her hands, put it in her mouth, and light it. The sight revolted him.
She looked at him through the drifting smoke. “Don’t think much of me, do you, young fella?”
“The name’s Cameron,” he said shortly, “Kelsey Cameron. No, I don’t think much of any woman who wears men’s clothes and smokes tobacco.”
“I see you speak your mind like I do. But you don’t need to get huffy. The worst I ever say to you will be to your face, Mr. Cameron. And what I oughta do is kick you off the place—dreamin’ along up that ditch—but maybe I expected too much, you being strange to the country.”
“I don’t have to stay here,” he said angrily. “I’ll be glad to leave.”
“Didn’t say you had to leave, did I? What did Tommy say I’d pay you?”
“Thirty dollars a month.”
“I’ll make it forty. And let me tell you something: there’s a lot to learn about ranching and cow business. Don’t expect to soak it all up overnight. Be a little patient. Now get the hell outta here. And the next time you ride a ditch, open your eyes.”
CHAPTER IV
His pride smarting from the sting of Monte Maguire’s words, Kelsey set out to learn the cattle business. During the two and a half months that followed his first meeting with her he sat late in the bunkhouse, throwing question after question at Jake. Sometimes he used pencil and paper, trying to make clear in his mind the cycle of grass and cows and weather. At every opportunity he observed at first hand some small detail of a complex business—a calf being born, a cow being doctored for disease, a bull being marked for discard and shipping because of age. And as he began to understand a little about the cattle he saw their relationship to the land.
Grass controlled where they would go at what time of the year. When cattle became restless on the spring meadows, pacing the fences, that meant the flats were turning green. Cowpunchers had only to open the gates, and the cows drifted naturally and easily to the spring range which lay between the ranch and town. In the brownish meadows they had just left, more grass came on, greening later than the flats, where the prairie sagebrush held moisture. And in June, when the flats had been grazed clean, cattle moved on to the fresh, close-to-the-snow grass of the high summer range in the mountains. As old snow melted they moved higher, and as fall came on, with the first flurries of new snowfall, cattle drifted back down onto the flats and meadows.
“I’ve got to get it right in my mind,” Kelsey would say to Jake. “I’ve got to understand more than weather and grass and where the ranges are. There’s the business of keeping calves and bulls and cows separated at the right time.”
And Jake would answer, smiling, “It’s simple, son.”
And after a while Kelsey saw that this was true. Bulls were with cows only at proper breeding time—a time that guaranteed a calf wouldn’t be born in a snowbank. Bulls went out of their tightly fenced pastures to the mountain ranges in July, and ran with the cows until fall. Rock salt was placed in grassy parks, where cows would gather and the bulls would find them. Steers were pushed on the higher slopes to keep them away from the cows. Steer and heifer calves were kept in separate pastures after their first winter. “Because a steer is cut,” Jake said, “that doesn’t change his notions when he reaches a certain age.”
June was branding time; fall was weaning and shipping time. Summer was for making hay, and winter was for feeding from the cured haystacks.
There were two kinds of cattle: range cattle, and purebred stuff. Purebreds were used only for breeding purposes. Range cattle went to the beef markets. In the Park most of the cattle were Herefords, commonly called “white faces” because of their white markings.
“Purebreds are full-horned, Kelsey,” Jake explained patiently, “and got numbers burned in the horns to match numbers on their pedigree. They gotta be kept in tight pastures all the time. Full-eared, too. You never see a purebred with an ear mark.”
Everything about cow business cost money, Kelsey concluded—especially bulls. All bulls were purebred, and a good bull meant good calves. How long would a man have to work at forty dollars a month to buy a bull? His figuring gave him a sense of mingled impatience and futility, but neither feeling lasted. With each new day he went about his work, eager to learn more. And this fine June morning he wished he were helping with the branding and cutting, but Tommy had sent him to town for rock salt.
The lumber wagon rattled along the narrow road. Kelsey, holding the lines lightly in his hands, looked over the backs of the team to the rolling country. One of Taraleean’s letters was in his pocket, but he had not heard from Prim, although he had written her two or three times a week. A paragraph in his mother’s letter stood out vividly in his mind: “Prim Munro’s gone for the summer—to the highlands, some say, but not a soul seems to know where. . . . Before she left, Crowter the rag-buyer was seen with her along the highroad and in the town of a Saturday night. Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I think you should know . . .”
He had written Prim again last night, an angry letter with words crossed out and then put in again. What did she mean, running with Crowter after what they had been to each other that night on the shore? And why hadn’t she answered his letters? What was he to think of her, anyhow?
He felt foolish, remembering the words he’d so painstakingly put down the first weeks at the Red Hill Ranch—“Prim, my dearest one . . . Prim, my very own . . .”
Before him now was the wide river he had crossed the first day he was in the Park, and the ranch house south of the pole bridge was the home place of Monte
