The Man from Bar 20: A Story of the Cow CountryMulford, Clarence Edward
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The Man from Bar 20: A Story of the Cow Country
Mulford, Clarence Edward
Cassidy, Hopalong (Fictitious character) -- Fiction; Western stories
A black blot arose hastily from the earth and became a cow. Two more
near it also arose, and the three lumbered off clumsily, driven in the
right direction by a horse that knew her work. It was her firm belief
that cows had been put on earth to be bossed by her, and no matter how
quickly they swerved she was always at the right place at the right
time and kept them going as her master wished. She neither hurried them
too fast nor pressed them too closely, for she knew that when a range
cow is pushed too hard it is likely to go "on the prod" and change
instantly from an easy-going, docile victim to a stubborn, vicious
quadruped with no sense whatever and a strong yearning to use its horns.
It did not take long to get six cows to the edge of the Deepwater; but
it took two hours of careful but hard riding, perseverance and profuse
profanity to get them into the water. It was no one-man job, and with
a horse that had less training than Pepper it might have proved to be
an impossibility; but at last one cow preferred the water to being
made a fool of, and when it went in the others reluctantly followed.
Scrambling out on the farther bank they doubtless were congratulating
themselves upon having escaped a pest, when the pest itself emerged
behind them and drove them slowly but steadily toward Little Canyon.
In it they went, and up it; and as they paused on the main trail to
determine which way to go, the pest arrived and decided the question
for them, drove them across it and into a small valley; and as day
broke, six unhurried, placid cows wandered slowly into the crooked
canyon and through the opening in the fence.
Having changed the brands from the original CL to an equally sprawling
GB, he returned to the cabin, unsaddled, and entered, stepping high
over the sill. No one was there and nothing had been disturbed, but
when he looked for the thread he found it snapped and lying on the
floor.
Starting a brisk fire he hung his wet clothes before it on crude
tripods made of sticks, hastily ate a substantial breakfast, fastened
the shutter of the window, hung the gold pan over the closed door to
serve as an alarm if anyone should enter, and in a few minutes was
asleep.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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