After a few weeks’ respite the news from upriver turned downright bad again—the Stranglers were riding in force and purportedly had strung up more than a dozen “outlaws” and, as a result, a good many men had taken flight from their small outfits in the Bad Lands.
“Good riddance,” said Uncle Bill. “They must have guilty consciences.”
Wil Dow retorted, “Maybe they’re just scared of getting lynched by mistake.”
“It’s all right to listen to the boss, Wil, but you don’t need to swallow every word he says as Gospel truth. There’s all too many stock-thieves hidden out in these Bad Lands and they’re by no means the innocent band of independent ranchers Mr. Roosevelt makes them out to be. He’s inclined to take too much on faith.”
“They’re innocent,” Wil Dow said, “until proven guilty. So say I.”
“Aagh,” Uncle Bill growled in disgust.
In any event each of them traveled well-armed wherever he went, even if was only from the house to the barn.
Stranglers or no, the commerce of the prairie must go on. Spring round-up, with its attendant sorting out and branding of the season’s calf crop, could not await the whim of night-riding vigilantes.
Roosevelt left a hired man to look after things at the Elkhorn while the boss took his two New Englanders south with their cavvy to join round-up headquarters. The temporary caretaker they left behind was a cowboy recommended by Eaton’s foreman; he had injured his Achilles tendon and Eaton wanted to spare the man the rigors of round-up.
By general consent Johnny Goodall once again was elected round-up manager. Wil found the first two days in the headquarters camp near Custer Trail given up mostly to re-educating remuda ponies that were grass-fed, unshod and frisky. That first campfire evening was a delight to Wil Dow even though his bones ached so from bucking that no matter how he lay down he could not find a tolerable position. But bruises and aches could be forgotten in the swapping of good-natured lies. The Stranglers were not forgotten; but here in the heavily populated camp they could be set to one side while the ranch hands played cards and checkers, braided rawhide riatas and spun tall tales.
Even Roosevelt had learned to yarn. He said, “I chased that horse so far this afternoon I ran right into a Sioux Indian camp and got into conversation with an old red gentleman whose name I didn’t catch, but we had quite a spirited discourse. When I scolded the old chief for his polygamous marriages and told him he must give up all but one wife if he hoped to be a Christian, the chief directed my attention at the several women and replied, ‘Very good, sir. You tell them which one!’” Roosevelt laughed loudly at his own joke.
Sewall squirmed against the hard earth, trying to make depressions for hip and shoulder, and said, “Strikes me the man who first called it ‘Bad Lands’ hit it about right.”
Howard Eaton said, “I understand that was a Frenchman, Boneval, one of Astor’s old fur men.”
This was at least the dozenth explanation Wil had heard; nonetheless he attended with interest.
Eaton went on: “They’d done some trading, filled three or four wagonloads of pelts. They were trying to get away from some Indians and they came on the Little Missouri. Couldn’t find game of any kind, and the weather so dry and hot the wagons came to pieces. Provisions ran short and they had a hard time getting through. So Boneval named the country Malpais, which is Bad Lands in French.”
Johnny Goodall said, “I heard that story and sixteen others. Lakota Indi’ns say they been calling this country Bad Lands for a thousand years.”
Sewall said, “You ever meet an Indian didn’t like to spin a lie? A thousand years ago there weren’t any Lakota around here. This whole place was the bottom of an ocean, as a man can plainly tell on account of you pull up dead brush to make your fire on top of any high bluff around here, you find clamshells in the dirt.”
Wil Dow said, “Maybe the Indians had gills in those days.”
“Well you could be right about that. Maybe they had steamboats too.”
Huidekoper rode in and unsaddled. He dampened down the evening: “Jerry Paddock and his boys are riding the district. I recommend you gentlemen watch out they don’t gulch you.”
Bill Sewall said, “Jerry Paddock is a creature I can stand to be near only if the wind happens to be right.”
Wil Dow said, “For sure he’s tied up with the Stranglers.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” agreed Huidekoper. “Wherever there are underhanded doings, I always expect to find Jerry Paddock up to his chin. I don’t believe he rides with the vigilantes but I certainly would not put it past him to be passing information to them.”
The subject put a chill on things. Everyone turned in quickly; there was no more conversation.
In the morning Wil thought he was first awake and first to the coffee but he found Roosevelt wrapped in a blanket by the fire reading his book—Washington Irving. The boss lowered the book and put his grave glance upon Wil Dow. “You know these months have been my first experience in living among what I suppose my family would call the common folk. Working and riding among these ordinary men of the West—I find it a privilege. They’re bully men.”
“Yes sir.”
All that morning Wil Dow saw Roosevelt try to prove he belonged among the common folk by continuing to ride horses too rugged for him; they kept bruising his bones. Hadn’t he broken enough bones already? The boss was pushing himself, asking too much of his mortal skeleton; he must have known that but he kept pushing.
In noontime dinner camp Wil Dow said, “Uncle Bill, we have to find a way to persuade him he doesn’t need to prove he’s man enough to get killed by some outlaw horse.”
Bill Sewall gave it thought. After a moment he carried his tin dish across to where the boss was cooking up a brace of quail he had shot. Wil trailed after him.
Roosevelt was using his engraved hunting knife to push the meat around the black frying pan that sat directly on the fire. Quail made good round-up eating, for they did not need to be plucked; it was a quick matter to pull off the skin, cut off head and feet, take out the insides, salt, roll in flour and fry hot and fast.
Uncle Bill said to Mr. Roosevelt, “Cowboying isn’t a religion.”
“Whatever do you mean by that?”
“It takes more than faith—more than devotion. It’s no reflection on a man if he doesn’t happen to be the best bronco-buster in the country.”
“Why, Bill, I’m a second-rate horseman and I’ve never laid claim to better. You know that.”
“You admit it cheerful enough. What you won’t admit is that you’re as scared of horses as I am. That’s not unreasonable. But it’s not smart to be too proud to give in to it.”
Had it come from anyone else it might have provoked fiery argument. Bill Sewall was one of the few men alive from whom Roosevelt would tolerate that sort of comment without retort.
When Wil looked up he saw Johnny Goodall gazing at them. He was sure Johnny had overheard; but Johnny said nothing. He walked away. Apparently Roosevelt had not seen him; the boss was occupied trying to remove his pan from the fire without burning his hands too badly.
They helped themselves. The first bite burned the roof of Wil’s mouth but he found it delicious. Roosevelt was saying to Uncle Bill, “Any man would be a fool not to own a healthy respect for the power of a half-ton beast with sharp hoofs and sharper teeth, Bill, but I don’t intend to back away from any horse, and that’s all I care to say on the subject, except that I’d certainly feel better all around if I were free to ride no other horse than good old Manitou. He’s a steam engine—I trust that beast never to let me down. Truly a horse without compare.”
“Well you do cook up an eatable dinner, for a New Yorker,” said Uncle Bill.