Read the Drift Fence (1992) Online
Authors: Zane Grey
"Ahuh," returned Jim, dubiously. He watched the cowboy stroll up the lane and down the path to the porch. Bud appeared to be a little fellow, but sturdy, bow-legged, and otherwise suggestive of long association with horses. He was smoking a cigarette, which he threw away as he reached the steps. He had an open, guileless countenance and he reminded Jim of a rosy-faced cherub.
"Good evenin', Mr. Traft, an' howdy, boss!" he said, cheerfully. "May I set down?"
"Shore, Bud," replied Traft, genially. "Reckon you look sort of weak.
What ails you? Too much town?"
"Weak? I couldn't fork a bench at a feast, let alone a hoss. We been wrastlin' all day with Hack. But you ought to see the other fellars.
They're laid out."
"Is Hack here?" asked Jim, quietly.
"He's down at the bunkhouse. I been sent fer him."
"Why didn't he come himself?"
"Wal, lust off he wouldn't come an' I reckon now, he ain't able."
Bud's grave infantile face was averted for a moment, during which Jim shot a quick glance at his uncle, to be rewarded by a wink. Matters were progressing favourably. Jim drew a breath of relief and gave in to the fun of the situation.
"What ails him? Did he get drunk last night? Sick this morning?"
"Boss, I reckon both. But it ain't them. We was sorta put out with Hack.
Shore we didn't mean to let him bust up the Diamond. An' he was daid set on thet. So after arguyin' all day we got tired, an'--wal, Hack's in bed."
"I see. Then he can't come over to apologize and get his job back. Or did he want to do it?"
"Wal, Hack shore wanted the job back all right, but he hated the terms.
He said, 'Jest tell the boss I'll apologize if he'll swear I won't have to dig no holes fer fenceposts.'"
Jim had difficulty in restraining a shout.
"Bud, I'm afraid Hack will have to dig holes along with the rest of us. I sure expect to," replied Jim, gravely.
The cowboy looked incredulously to Mr. Traft for corroboration of that statement.
"Bud, it's up to Jim. You'll have to fight it out together. You can tell the boys, though, that Jim will not give them anythin' he won't tackle himself."
"All right, sir. Thet's shore fairer'n any foreman I ever rode under... But Hack won't never dig no fence post-holes. We had it out with him an' so I may as well tell you. He yells at us, 'Hell! if I gotta dig holes, let 'em be graves fer thet Cibeque bunch of calf thieves.'"
"Wal!" the old rancher exclaimed, and glanced from Bud to see how his nephew would take that. Jim did not feel like shouting with laughter over it. Nevertheless, he concealed his consternation.
"Bud, wasn't Hack just raving?" he asked.
"Shore he was ravin'. An' he'd reason, too. Boss, shore your uncle has told you what this drift fence will do?"
"He hasn't told me anything," replied Jim.
"Wal, some of us will have to, then," said Bud. "I ain't quite agreed with Hack an' the other boys of the Diamond. But I've only been ridin' hyar fer a couple of years. Hack swears we'll have to fight. He knows Seth Haverly an' his outfit of the Cibeque. Bad hombres, he called them.
An' Slinger Dunn don't need no introduction 'round Flag. You can see his trade-mark in more'n one place... Some of the boys agree with Hack. We'll have hell buildin' thet fence, an' wuss'n hell when we get it done."
"Bud, is the Diamond game to build that drift fence?" queried Jim, with sarcasm.
"You bet your life it is," flashed Bud.
"Are you going to stick together?"
"Wal, we reckon nothin' but death can bust the outfit."
"If I left it to a vote, how many of you would be for building the fence?"
"Boss, we've already voted. This mawnin'. An' Hack was the only fellar to drop a black mark in the hat. Leastways, we think it was Hack."
"I'm glad to hear that. Now how do you stand on the moral issue?"
"Boss, I don't just savvy."
"You're all cattlemen in the making. Is it right or wrong?"
"Wal, fact is, we're not all shore. But the most of us believe that Mr.
Traft knows more an' sees farther, an' wouldn't never do no homesteader or little cattleman a low-down trick. We're goin' to believe he's right an' stand by him."
"But you all think he shouldn't have saddled this job on to a tenderfoot nephew?" queried Jim, penetratingly.
"Wall, I--I reckon we do," replied Bud, growing red in the face.
"There!" cried Jim, triumphantly, to his amused uncle. "See what you've done!... Come, Bud, I'll walk down to the bunk-house with you."
He found half a dozen of the boys there, but missed Curly Prentiss. Hack Jocelyn lay on a bunk under a window, the light of which showed him rather badly bruised up. He had one black eye, which he endeavoured to hide.
"Hack, you get your job back, but it was a half-hearted apology," said Jim.
"Boss, I'd never give in but fer this low-down lousy outfit," replied Jocelyn. "An' I'm tellin' you straight I won't dig no fence-post holes.
I'll cut an' haul posts. I'll cook an' wash, an I'll pack water an' run errands."
"Hack, you don't look like you were sorry you insulted me."
"Boss, I don't reckon it no insult. I was only bein' funny. But you shore do wear nice store clothes, don't you?"
"Can't I wear overalls all week and put on clean shirt and pants without being a dude?" inquired Jim.
"Wal, it depends on the pants an' the shirt."
"Matter of taste, eh? Well, I'll wear out my St. Louis clothes pronto."
Jocelyn peered hard out of his unclosed eye at this new specimen of range foreman, and then gave up with a disgusted grunt.
Next morning before sunrise the Diamond rode out upon their momentous adventure. Thirty saddle and pack horses, one four-horse wagon hauling wire and tools, and the chuck-wagon, made quite a cavalcade. Ring Locke saw them off, but Traft did not show up. Locke's last word was one of commendation at Jim's wise move to pitch the first camp five miles out of town. Jim intended to drop bales of wire all along the way, then work back from camp.
By the time that camp was pitched Jim imagined he was at the head of the weirdest rodeo ever given in the West. But the only argument he had was with Curly, who took violent exception to the ragged, bony old mustang Jim chose to ride.
"But I'm tellin' you," protested Curly, at length. "He'll eat out of your hand till he gets a chance to kick your brains out. Thet ain't no hots fer the boss of the Diamond. It's an orful disgrace."
"You'll have to put up with a lot, Curly," said Jim, patiently. "I can ride this nag."
"Ride him! There ain't no cowpuncher in this outfit who can do it."
"But, Curly, I have ridden him."
"He's only foolin'. Boss, he'll pile you up aboot tomorrow."
Jim started the work just after noon hour and it beat any circus he ever attended. He dug the first hole himself, with his cowboys gaping around.
"There!" he exclaimed, in satisfaction.
"Whoopee!" yelled Hack Jocelyn, in stentorian voice. "Boys, heah's the grave of the Diamond!"
His fellow cowboys whooped so wildly in reply that Jim felt constrained to believe Jocelyn's pessimistic augury. Then, under Jim's orders, they set to work, and they yelled and swore, and kept up a constant harangue with one another. Jim had three of them dragging in long poles, which were cut into seven-foot lengths, five feet of which were to stand above ground. Jim had thought out his plan and it bade fair to work. Bud Chalback, Lonestar Holliday, and Hump Stevens had volunteered to handle the wire, which, next to post-hole digging, seemed to be the most obnoxious to these aristocrats of the range.
Fortunately for Jim, it was not necessary to build the drift fence in a straight line. A general direction to the south, keeping to levels and the easiest way, was the rule. Jim marked the line and the holes for a certain distance, then went back to help in all details of the labour. It had happened that not so many months ago he had built a barbed-wire fence round his father's farm in Missouri. He had not forgotten that. His father had not only been an exacting employer, but he knew how to go about fence-building. So Jim had a distinct advantage over his cowboys. who certainly had never had any share in such work. All the same, they found fault with every single detail of Jim's plan and execution, sometimes so guilelessly and with such apparent sincerity that he knew they had begun their mischief. He took especial care, however, in every instance to explain and prove to them the fallacy of their criticisms.
Here was too good a chance to miss.
The first day ended, and a dirty, sweaty, hungry string of cowboys walked back to camp.
"Who'd a thunk it? Hoofin it to camp! As if barbed-wire-fence buildin' wasn't enough. Boys, we'd be better off in the pen at Yuma," declared Cherry Winters, throwing his sombrero.
"It's a helluva good thing none of us has to cook on this job," said Uphill Frost. "You've all got to thank the boss fer thet."
"Wal, Up," replied someone, "we'd liefer you was the cook, 'cause then we'd soon be daid."
"Look aheah, Jackson Way," retorted Frost. "You hungry-lookin' jack rabbit! I kin beat you makin' sour-dough biscuits any day."
"Shore you can. I ain't no cook."
And so the badinage went on. Jim shut his ears when he was a little way off, to avoid hearing their facetious remarks about him, but on occasions he caught some of it.
The amazing day ended with Jim's adding a lame back and blistered hands to his other ills. They had camped in the open field, where a few straggling pines had escaped the lumbermen, and the site was far from pretty. Jim unrolled his tarpaulin under one of them. He had never slept out in the open in his life. The cowboys would have laughed if they had seen him in his room at the ranch-house, struggling over the rolling and roping of that bed.
The cook had been highly recommended to Jim, by no less a person than himself, and that, too, in writing. He claimed to hear fairly well, but he was dumb. Shot in the throat once, by a vicious cowboy!
"Say, when is thet cadiverous galoot a-goin' to yell, 'Come an' get it'?" demanded Hack.
"Anybody know what his handle is?" asked another.
"Boys, our cook's name is Jeff Davis," announced Jim, importantly. "He hails from Alabama. He can't talk, but he wrote he could hear fairly well."
"Why cain't he talk?" asked Hack.
"A dumb cook! Holy Jupiter! We're Jonahed fer keeps!"
"Fine. He cain't cuss the daylights out of us."
"Wal, if he can cook--O-Kay!"
"Thar's enough rebels in this heah outfit now without havin' a rebel cook," growled another.
"Boys," added Jim, by way of answer to all these remarks, "Jeff claims to have been shot in the throat by a vicious cowboy. Made dumb forever.
Think of it!"
"Wal, he might have been one of these fellars who talk too much," declared Hack, significantly.
The sudden and violent beating of a tin pan appeared to be Jeff's call to supper.
Uphill Frost, who had fallen into a doze, leaped up with a yell, "Injuns!"
He was the last to reach the chuck-wagon, perhaps by the fraction of a second. The things they said to the grave-faced cook, as he filled their plates and cups, were enough, Jim thought, to make a dumb man swear.
Probably he alone caught a curious little gleam in Jeff's deep-set eyes.
That gave Jim food for thought. Then the members of the Diamond stood around, or sat cross-legged like Indians on the ground. The ensuing silence fell like a mantle. It seemed so beneficent and wonderful that Jim imagined he had been suddenly transported to another world.
After supper they had a camp fire around which they sat and smoked. Jim enjoyed that hour. The infinite and various moods of the cowboys seemed to have flagged. Then one by one they, some without removing their boots, rolled in their tarpaulins. Jim took off some of his clothes, and when he stretched out in his bed with a groan he felt that he would never move again. How delicious that bed! He burned and ached all over, and tired as he was could not soon go to sleep. The canopy of white stars seemed so wonderful and strange. The air, which had turned cold with the night wind down off the mountain, blew over his face. Jim had heard his first coyote chorus at the ranch, so he was in a way prepared for another at close range. Evidently this visiting bunch sat round in a half-circle, just behind his bed, and barked, yelped, whined their wild concatenations. He enjoyed the music for a while, but he conceived that he might have a murderous instinct develop.
He endeavoured to enumerate the especial happenings and remarks of the day. Impossible! It had been his intention to keep a diary. He did not think he could do the opportunity justice, though he would try. Besides, it would never do to record many of the speeches of these range-riders.
Suddenly he felt something tugging at the back of his bed, at the blankets under him. It made him start violently and instinctively frightened him. A coyote! Did the scavengering beggars steal that close?