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  I’d been interested in Tom’s story, but it was what Ned had told me that made up my mind. I’d ridden some pretty good bucking horses at the Y-B and the fair-grounds, though I’d never ridden any real twisters, and was a little out of practice. But when Ned said Blueboy was only a crowhopper, I made up my mind that I was going to pick him for my string, no matter what anybody thought about him.

  Sid and I sat without saying anything for quite a few minutes after Tom and Ned had left, then I asked, “Made your pick yet?”

  “Well, yes and no,” Sid answered. “I been keepin’ an eye on that sorrel gelding yonder, and aim to dab my rope on him if I can. If he don’t bust it and throw me cattiwumpus, and if he can turn on a dollar and a half, I might think about him. For this brush country, I like a horse tall enough to histe a man up, so’s he can see where he’s headed for. You got an eye peeled yet?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” I told him, “if he doesn’t histe me over the fence on his first pitch. I haven’t tried to ride a rough one for nearly a year.”

  “Ground’ll always catch you! Never heard tell of it lettin’ nobody through! Which one you aimin’ to go after?”

  “Blueboy,” I told him.

  “Blueboy! What you aimin’ to do, start up a circus?” Sid asked sharply. “Ain’t you the one that claims he come out here to work cattle?”

  “That’s what I am here for,” I told him, “and I’m going to do it with Blueboy. If he can handle cattle the way he handles horses, I guess we’ll make out all right.”

  “Take it easy! You ain’t workin’ mustangs, but milk cows!” Sid said—and he said it in exactly the same voice Mr. Batchlett had used when he’d told me the same thing the day before. Sid pointed to a sleek-looking seal-brown mare, and went on, “You forget about that Blueboy; he’s too much horse for you! How ’bout that little mare with the star in her forehead? I been watchin’ her, and she’s handy and clever; make you a mighty fine trail horse.”

  Zeb and Hank drove in with the chuckwagon just then, so I didn’t have to argue with Sid any more. Mrs. Bendt and the children were right behind them with the buckboard. Before we had the teams unharnessed and watered, Mr. Batchlett and Mr. Bendt rode in. And Jenny rang the dinner bell as soon as she saw them.

  The day the horse strings are picked in the spring is one of the biggest days on cattle ranches. In working cattle, a cowhand and his horse have to be partners, and understand and trust each other. If a man picks the wrong horses in the spring, there isn’t much understanding, and even less trust. A man may be a top hand, but if he gets a poor string of horses he can’t do a very good job. Or a man can be only a fair rider and, with a good string, do the job of a top hand.

  Picking our horses in go-rounds, as Mr. Batchlett had said we would, no one could be sure of getting the horses he wanted, and most of the men were nervous and jumpy when we sat down at the dinner table. Nobody joked, and Sid didn’t even try to get Jenny to talk to him. First one man would tell about some smart horse he used to ride, then another would brag about one he’d had that was smarter. But no one mentioned the horse-picking until we’d nearly finished eating. Then Kenny piped up, “If Batch would leave me have my pickin’s, I know what ones I’d take. I’d take . . .”

  “Never you mind which ones you’d take” his father told him. “Them of us that’s been around here and knows ’em ought to have claim to a little edge. Who’s goin’ to get the first pick, Batch?”

  I hadn’t seen Mrs. Bendt or the girls since they drove in from church, but when the talk of horse-picking began they crowded into the kitchen doorway. Mr. Batchlett turned toward them and asked, “How about writin’ eight numbers, folding ’em, and putting ’em in a hat for us, Hazel?”

  I think Hazel had the numbers all written out and folded ahead of time, and that she knew right where each one was in the hat. Anyway, she was only gone two minutes, and when she passed the hat to Mr. Batchlett, her father, and me, she kept twisting and turning it. Mr. Batchlett shut his eyes, reached in real slowly, and picked out the number one slip. Mr. Bendt and I just looked and grabbed. He got number six and I got five.

  As soon as we’d all drawn our numbers, Mr. Batchlett pushed his chair back, and said, “Let’s get at it! You all know how it works: go-rounds; each man picks one horse in his turn. You’ll have three chances with the rope—what you get on it is your pick, like it or not. With the help of your partner you’ll saddle it, and ride it to a count of ten. Miss either way and you’ll lose your turn till the go-rounds are over. That goes for all of you!” Then he looked around at me and added, “but Watt’ll give you a hand if you want it, Little Britches.”

  If we’d been alone I’m sure I’d have thanked him and told him I’d be glad to have Mr. Bendt help me. But with all the men, even the dairyhands, and Mrs. Bendt and Jenny and Hazel there, I didn’t like to be singled out. I’d come out there at a man’s wages to do a man’s job, and I didn’t want anybody to think I couldn’t do it, so I looked over at Mr. Bendt, and said, “Thank you just the same, but I’d rather take my chances along with the rest of the cowhands.”

  5

  Picking a String

  IN A GOOD many ways, horse-picking day on the big cattle ranches was like a Fourth of July roundup. Horses that had been out on the range or pasture all winter would usually buck when they were saddled for the first time in the spring. The good ones might never buck again all summer, but on that first shake-down they’d pitch and twist like fury. The older ones—the smartest—were often the hardest to catch and ride. From years of handling cattle they’d learned every trick of the trade—and some that were all their own. They knew just as well as the men did that if they could keep from being roped, or could dump their rider, they’d be turned back to pasture for the summer.

  A horse string wasn’t all that was chosen at the spring picking. Cowhands almost always worked in pairs, and that was the time when the new men chose their partners. One man didn’t say to another, “Will you be my partner?” He waited until the man he wanted to team up with had ridden into the big corral and roped his first horse. Then he rode into the breaking-pen to open the gate, help with the saddling, and stand by as pickup man. Picking the wrong partner could be even worse than picking the wrong horse.

  By the time we were all saddled up, and Mr. Batchlett was ready to ride in for his number one pick, everybody on the ranch, except the baby, was crowded around the big pole horse corral. The dairyhands were perched along the top rail of the breaking pen like a row of magpies. Mrs. Bendt, Jenny, and the smaller girls were peeking through the bars, and Hazel and Kenny were on the top rail of the horse corral, with their arms and legs wrapped around the high gateposts like a pair of teddy bears.

  Those of us who were going to do the picking sat on our horses outside the gate, and my heart was pounding like the hoofs of a stampeding herd. I knew how much I was going to need good horses that summer, and I knew I’d made a bad mistake in telling Mr. Bendt I didn’t want his help. I was determined to get Blueboy, but didn’t have any more idea than a goose what other horses to pick.

  I think everyone was holding his breath when Mr. Batchlett rode into the corral. The second he unlimbered his rope and started it swinging, the horses began to mill and dodge. Before I had any idea which one he was after, his line whistled out and the loop settled around the neck of the seal-brown mare Sid had pointed out to me. She seemed to have known she was going to be chosen, and came out of the milling bunch without ever tightening the rope. When Mr. Batchlett turned her toward the breaking pen, Mr. Bendt was there to open the gate. “Easy, Starlight,” was all he said as the mare crowded past him.

  Starlight bucked hard, quick, and for only five or six seconds. Anyone who knew anything about horses could see that she and Mr. Batchlett understood each other perfectly—and that one was having as much fun as the other. He never left the saddle far enough that a piece of paper could have been slipped under him, and when he led the mare out through the gate she nuzzled his should
er.

  Hank had drawn number two, and was barely inside the corral when he spurred straight at a high-headed bay gelding. It looked to be an easy catch, but the bay bolted away as the loop flew. So did the rest of the bunch, with Blueboy in the lead and Hank spurring close behind—swearing at the bay and gathering his rope back in. He let his second loop fly before it was half built, and it closed before it reached the bay. His third loop was nearly as big as a circus tent. It fell short of the bay and snagged an old black mare. Everyone knew she wouldn’t buck, and no one went into the breaking pen to help Hank saddle her. Mr. Batchlett hardly excited the bunch at all when he took Starlight out, but Hank had driven them half crazy.

  Sid’s turn followed Hank’s, and I knew he’d go for the tall sorrel, but I was worried about who would go in to open the bucking-pen gate for him. I wanted to do it myself, but it would have taken a lot of nerve for a boy to pick himself as a man’s partner. I didn’t even look toward Sid when he started to ride in for his first pick, but just sat on Lady, looking at the excited horses in the corral. As he rode past me there was a sharp sting on my hip pocket. When I jumped and looked around, Sid grinned and jerked his head toward the breaking pen. I couldn’t have been happier if somebody had given me a thousand dollars.

  Sid didn’t make much work of getting his rope on the sorrel, and led it toward the bucking pen by the time I was there to open the gate. It bucked hard and fast, but Sid was a fine rider and stuck like a burr.

  Zeb had drawn number four, but didn’t even bother to ride his mule into the corral. Blueboy was driving the remuda in a racing merry-go-round, but Zeb slouched into the corral as unconcerned as if he’d been going to the well for a bucket of water. He stood with his loop dangling at his side, and when the horse he wanted passed him he flipped the rope over its neck. The horse was the smallest in the corral, and he didn’t show a bit of fight, but Hank was at the breaking pen gate, pushing it open and shouting, “Hold him, Zeb! Hold him! Head him this-a-way, so’s I can give you a hand!”

  My turn was next, and I was so busy thinking about the way I’d try to handle Blueboy that I didn’t notice Hazel until Sid came to open the gate for me. She was still sitting on the top rail and had her arm wrapped around the gatepost just above my head. I was starting to shake a loop in my catch rope when she reached out a toe and just touched me on my shoulder. When I looked up, she whispered, “If I thought you could ride good enough, I’d tell you to pick Clay.”

  “Maybe I’ll pick him on second go-round,” I whispered back. “I’ve already got one all . . .”

  “Hmff!” she sniffed, “a little boy like you prob’ly couldn’t handle Clay anyways. He’s mighty quick.”

  If she’d been grown-up I wouldn’t have flown mad so quick about her calling me a little boy, but, with her, I couldn’t help it. “Which one is he?” I snapped at her. “We’ll see if I’m good enough to handle him!”

  Hazel didn’t look at me, and she didn’t look at the horses, but off toward the dairy barn, and her lips hardly moved as she said, “The little claybank—with the black stripe down his back.”

  I’d been nervous when I was sitting there on Lady, waiting to go in and make my try for Blueboy. But if my hands were shaking when Sid opened the corral gate for me, it was because I was so mad I couldn’t hold them still. I crowded Lady right in before the gate was open more than a yard, shook out my loop, and looked to see where the little claybank was. I’d noticed him that morning when he dodged back past Blueboy and led the remuda out of the S canyon. But all I remembered about him was that he ran with the slow bunch, had a short, hoppity-hop gait, saddle scars on his back, and carried his head low. I didn’t want him at all, but I wasn’t going to let Hazel think I couldn’t handle him.

  The bunch was still excited and jumpy, and I didn’t help things any by spurring Lady into the corral so fast. The first thing I knew, I had a merry-go-round going, and the claybank was right in the center—sort of dog-hopping along, with his head low and tight against the rump of a big bay. If I’d been on his back, I couldn’t have got a rope around his neck.

  I was sure I hadn’t made any move that would let the claybank know I was after him, but he watched me like a gopher. I let the bunch make three or four circles, while I just sat there with my rope swinging easy. Then I spurred Lady hard and straight into the merry-go-round. As the horses wheeled away, the claybank’s head came loose from the bay, and I whanged my loop down at it. It was one of the best throws I’d ever made, but the claybank ducked his head, and my loop slithered across his mane. It had barely touched the ground when I heard Mr. Bendt shout, “Hazel, you get down off’n that fence! Get on over with your maw where you belong!”

  It must have been nearly ten minutes before I got another chance to make a throw at the claybank. Of course, after my first throw, he and everybody else knew I was after him, and he kept his head tucked up against some other horse so tight I couldn’t shake him loose. Hank kept shouting orders at me, and I think it was his shouting that made me miss my second throw; I let the loop go when I didn’t have more than half a chance.

  When I gathered in my rope I was so nervous that it came up wiggling like a snake. My mouth was dry and there was a lump in my throat that was half choking me. I knew I was doing a little-boy sort of a job, right out there in front of everybody, and that Hazel was probably snickering at me. I had to sit there for a minute or two, trying not to hear what Hank was yelling, and trying to make up my mind whether or not to dab my loop onto the first horse that would make me an easy catch. One more miss and I’d lose my turn altogether.

  As I sat there I built a new loop, and was swinging it sort of lazy-like when Hazel yelled, “Now! Now!”

  I woke up as if I’d been dreaming, and the first thing I saw was the little claybank dog-hopping past me. He had his head turned my way, and was looking at me as much as to ask if I’d given up. Without even thinking, I whipped my loop just over Lady’s ears and yanked it down. It came tight around the claybank’s neck.

  Sid was grinning like a jack-o’-lantern when he opened the breaking pen gate and let us through. As I passed him the catch rope, he asked, “Know what one you got?”

  “Sure,” I said, “the one I went in after.”

  “Dogged if you didn’t,” he chirped, “but I’ll bet a hat you don’t know what one it is.”

  “I ought to,” I told him, “I had a hard enough time getting a loop on him.” And then I added, “. . . with Hazel’s help.”

  “Bet she gets her biscuits warmed,” he chuckled. “This here is her old man’s prize cuttin’ horse. Watt’s been chewin’ on his knuckles ever since the picking begun—scairt somebody’d dab a rope on ’fore his turn come up.”

  “Then I’m going to turn him back,” I said. “I didn’t know he was any special horse.”

  “No, you ain’t neither!” Sid snapped. “Watt, he wouldn’t let you—Batch neither! Now you get on outside and haul that saddle off; you still got a job o’ riding to do ’fore you got a claim to this little devil.”

  I did a lot of thinking as I took off my spurs, uncinched my saddle, and pulled it off Lady. In the first place, it wasn’t very fair for Hazel to have told me about picking Clay. And in the second place, I’d be in a bad way if I had Mr. Bendt sore at me. By the time I got back to the breaking pen I had my mind made up about what I was going to do. If the claybank bucked hard enough to give me any excuse at all, I’d use one of the tricks I’d learned for the Littleton roundup: I’d flip out of the saddle, somersault, and land sitting down. I could do it without being hurt, and it would be hard for anybody to see that I hadn’t been thrown. After what Hazel had said about my not being good enough to handle Clay, I didn’t like to be the first one tossed, but it seemed to be my only way out of a lot of trouble.

  I must have buttoned my lips tight when I made up my mind. When I was climbing the fence with my saddle, Sid snapped, “Get that look off’n your pan, and them idees out of your head! You wouldn’t be fo
olin’ nobody if you took a flopperoo, and you wouldn’t be doin’ yourself no good. Histe that saddle over here, and haul your belt up tight.”

  Clay didn’t make a move when the cinches were pulled tight or when I eased into the saddle. I didn’t think he was going to buck at all, but before Sid turned him loose, he half-whispered, “Watch out for him! He ain’t goin’ high, but he’ll be a sidewindin’ son-of-a-gun, and quicker’n scat. Hold your hat in your hand and keep it up high; you’ll need all the balance you can get out of it.”

  I didn’t have time to do much thinking, and I couldn’t have flipped out of the saddle on purpose to save my neck. It was only what Sid had told me about holding my hat high that saved me a dozen times. Clay never went more than a foot off the ground, and he didn’t bog his head enough to even give me a light line to hold. He didn’t sunfish, and he didn’t swap ends, but he did every double-shuffle, fence row, and zigzag in the book—and some that weren’t.

  I don’t think the seat of my pants was square in that saddle for a tenth of a second after Clay’s first side-slip. Twice I was so far off balance that I could see the ground between my own legs. But, both times, just when I thought I was a goner for sure, Clay changed direction and snapped the saddle back under me. I don’t suppose he put on more than a ten-second show—nobody could really have called it bucking—but it seemed to me like an hour. When he swung around to the gate and stopped, he turned his head and looked at me as if he were saying, “Well, you made it, didn’t you, kid?”

  Everybody, even the dairyhands, were crowded around the breaking pen when Sid opened it and let me ride Clay out. Hazel was hopping up and down, and half a dozen were talking at the same time, but I was only listening for Mr. Bendt. “Reckon you know what you done to me,” he said, with a laugh that didn’t have any music in it. “Dang near put me afoot, that’s what you done! Figgered I had a chance right up to the last hop. You wasn’t on by more’n a boot heel.” Then he slapped Mr. Batchlett on the back, and hooted, “By dog, did you take note of all the air he beat with that Stetson? Looked like a dadgummed hawk fightin’ a coyote with one busted wing.”