The Diamond Hitch. Frank O'Rourke
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Dewey watched, and solved the mystery of bringing so many burros along. The boys had twelve cattle, no young stuff, all old cows and bulls and steers. Driver Gobet and George Spradley came up driving twelve burros and held them on one side while Jim Thornhill and the others closed in on the first cow.
By the time a cow had fought the tree all night, its head was pretty sore and some of the fight was soothed down. Raymond sawed off an outside horn, leaving a little stump about four inches long. During this time Driver Gobet was putting a surcingle around a burro, with a breast strap in front and britching behind. There was a four-inch steel ring braided into the right side of the surcingle, halfway down the burro’s side.
Then Thornhill rode up to the cow and dallied off, and Driver Gobet caught the free end of Thornhill’s fifteen-foot rope and pulled it through the steel ring and led the burro up against the cow. Gobet grabbed a six-foot length of rope and tied one end to the ring and the other around the cow’s horns, anchoring the cow about three feet from the burro. Thornhill took off the long rope, and they turned cow and burro loose.
Dewey saw that the only trouble the burro had was in the beginning minutes. If the cow tried to jab that horn nub into the burro, the burro just hauled off and kicked him in the belly about ten times, and that settled matters. The cow might fight two or three times, but no more, and then every time the burro took a step the cow went right along.
Dewey watched the first pair fight it out, then the burro lined straight for the the main ranch where he’d been fed all that good cotton-seed cake and oats. That was the simple reason for bringing the cake and oats, and feeding the burros so good before work started. Dewey went back to camp and started dinner, but he watched operations while he cooked. It didn’t take the boys long to tie up twelve burros and cows, and after that they all disappeared into the deep brush to rope more cattle through the balance of the day.
Squab had fresh horses ready when the boys came in for dinner. They ate fast, changed mounts, and took off again. It was routine work settling into a rough and tough pattern, and Dewey realized that day how much difference there was in this country compared to New Mexico. And he woke to the fact that, compared to these men, he was about zero so far as being a real cowboy. It made him buckle down all the harder and do his best to carry his share of the load.
Right after breakfast Raymond and George Spradley took off for the main ranch to meet the burros coming in with their cows, where they’d turn the cows into the pasture, feed the burros good, and bring them right back to camp. That was how it worked, roping the cattle, tying them to burros, taking turns going back to the main ranch and meeting the burros. Dewey sent the boys off with a big breakfast and then got started on his roast.
He put a twelve pound rib roast on the fire and mixed his dressing. When the roast was done he poured the dressing all around and over the meat, and set the oven in the coals for thirty minutes of browning. No flavor got away and when the boys rode in at noon and began eating, their faces made Dewey grin with pleasure.
“By God,” Thornhill said. “You can cook.”
“I get by,” Dewey said modestly.
“Got enough for supper?” Hank asked.
“It’ll stretch,” Dewey said. “You like that corn-bread dressing?”
“Fine,” Hank said. “You New Mexico cowboys can do somethin’ right.”
The boys went out for the afternoon work and Dewey spent the rest of the day cleaning up camp, burying refuse and burning odds and ends. He watched the burros and felt he was getting on their good side. He was always kind to them, fed them cold biscuits and pieces of beef, but he knew he’d never get one to be real friendly. They were independent and their motto seemed to be: “You let me alone and I won’t bother you.” They were not like horses, but then, they were smarter in some respects. Damned smart, Dewey decided the next morning.
He rode out with Squab to help bring in the saddle horses for the noon change. When he got back, Benstega and the other three had ransacked camp. Old Benstega was standing out behind a tree, flour all over his face and ears, and the others were close by, giving Benstega wistful looks because he’d beaten them to the good pickings. And they had left their calling card—a pile of droppings—right beside Dewey’s bedroll. Dewey knew he’d have to recook his bread, and was just lucky they hadn’t bothered anything else because supper was on the fire and too hot to grab.
“You thieving bastards!” Dewey shouted. “I’ll—”
Then he sat down on his bedroll and looked at Squab, and had to laugh. He’d been warned and plumb forgot to protect stuff, and old Benstega had offered him a sample of the life burros could lead an honest man. That night after supper he got Hank talking about burros, knowing that Hank knew more about the little devils than anybody else. They lay back on the blankets, drinking coffee, and Hank told about his growing up days around Winslow and how he roped wild burros for practice.
“There’s always a leader,” Hank said. “A lot like wild horses, Dewey. Out on guard on some high knoll, you can pop up over a hill right in his face and there’s a good chance he’ll give you a close inspection before he turns to lead his bunch away. At the same time he’s looking you over, his bunch is moving off just like he gave them some signal you can never make out. And they never run and buck. Little burro colts won’t do anything except stick their noses close to the ground, wring their tail, and run like hell.”
“They sure will eat most anything,” Dewey said.
Hank smiled. “Been feedin’ them good?”
“Plenty,” Dewey said disgustedly. “So they turn around and rifle camp.”
“Hell, that’s their nature,” Hank said. “Every time you leave camp, they’ll try to rob it. And they don’ miss a thing. It’s funny the way they seem to know. They can be way off grazing and maybe you sneak out to break broncs, and when you come back, there you’ll find ’em with flour in their ears. And when you finish eating, they’ll be around looking for that handout. Missed your dishrags yet?”
“Not yet,” Dewey said.
“You will.”
Dewey said, “The hell I will! Say, what size bunches do these wild burros run in?”
“Oh, eight to ten,” Hank said. “They’re like deer in many ways. When it comes time to have a colt the mare’ll go off by herself but the bunch won’t be too far away. Just as soon as she’s had the colt and it can wobble along, she’ll rejoin the bunch again. Dewey, you noticed how their ears stand up?”
“Sure,” Dewey said. “It appears they got mighty keen hearing.”
“You watch a burro’s ears,” Hank said. “He’ll tell you if anything is happening or somebody’s comin’. A burro can be standing out yonder asleep, let something happen way off on the hillside and he’ll point an ear like he’s looking that way, and it might be twenty seconds before he opens his eyes. I guess that’s because his hearing is best and it has to come on down into his brain before his eyes get the signal to take a look. An’ talking about dishrags, Dewey, you better watch everything. They don’t stop at nothin’ except anything rotten.”
“Dried fruit,” Thornhill said. “And grain. I remember one old burro on the Circle C that could open the granary door faster’n a man. They knew he was thirty-eight years