The soft patter of the rain on the canvas tarp woke him just as the first grey light of dawn was spreading in the eastern sky. He rolled out of his bedroll and pulled on his boots, standing and stamping his feet to settle them in. The man then reached down and slung the gunbelt around his lean hips, and settled that in place. The old Colt was an 1860 army 44 conversion. He'd toyed with the idea of getting one of the new Colt's, but this one had been with him since the war. He rode with John Mosby then, and he still smiled at the memory of how they had raided a union supply train at Cattlet Virginia and found a whole boxcar full of the revolvers. Colonel Mosby had joked that the union army had paid 17 dollars apiece for the Colt's, but his price had been somewhat cheaper. That had been almost twenty years ago. The campfire was still smouldering, so he stirred up a fire and set the coffee pot closer into the coals and laid the small iron frypan across a couple of stones. Unwrapping the last of the bacon from the cloth he sliced it into the heating pan with his well worn barlow knife. Maybe when he got to town soon he'd buy one of those newer style of cattle knives he'd seen in the general store, he thought. Soon the smell of hot coffee and frying bacon overlaid the pine scent in the air. The man glaced at the sky and saw that the summer shower would pass soon.
The horse blew and the man turned.
"I ain't forgot you, hold on."
Taking the feed bag from a saddle bag, he hung it on the dappled grey horse with the last of the oats. The horse munched the oats as the man had his hasty breakfast, and rolled up his gear. The bedroll was wrapped up in the waxed canvas tarp, and they were heading down the trail. He had been away from the ranch for 5 days now, working the canyons for the strays, and getting them started down to the valley for the summer roundup.
He'd come west after the war, like alot of young men looking for adventure. Abiline, Hays, and Dodge City, he'd seen them all, then in Colorado he found a home on the double B ranch just west of Alamosa. For the last ten years he'd been a top hand there. As he made his way down the widenening canyon pushing the couple dozen head along, he could see the morning sun breaking through the clouds and shinning on the rooftops of distant Alamosa. He was only a few miles from home then.
It was mid morning by the time he let the cattle scatter out on the flatland and rode into the ranch yard. He stepped down from his horse in front of the main building to give a brief report to the ranch owner, when a short stocky man stepped out of the cookhouse.
"Vell, da long lost one returns." he said in a heavy German accent. "You hungrey, ja?"
Gustav Hienrich Wasserman, called Gusty by the crew, was the cook, doctor, barber, and father confesser to the young cowhands at the ranch, and a friend to the tall lanky middle age cowhand that had come home.
"I could eat, yeah." was the loconic reply.
"Vell, come, I have fresh baked apple pie, and good coffee."
" Good coffee huh? Who'd ya get to make it?" the cowhand asked.
Gusty laughed at the friendly insult, and went inside.
Later the cowhand gave his report to the boss, and the owner looked thoughtfull.
"Lots of mixed stock huh? Okay, soons the rest of the hands get down we'll cut out the old stock for a drive to the railhead. At least we don't have to push them all the way to Denver, now that they have a small stockyard down the line at Trinidad. This afternoon Gusty's going into town for some supplies, go ahead with him and give him a hand."
Alamosa in 1884 was a sleepy small town that served as a watering hole and supplier for the local ranches. A dry goods and general store, small cafe and eating house, hotel, and livery stable took up one side of the main street, and a saloon, doctors office, barber shop, and town marshals/jail on the other. Gusty pulled the wagon up in front of the general store and handed the owner a list of goods. The owner said his son would load the wagon, why don't they go get a drink while the loading was done.
The next month passed rapidly with all the work that was to be done. Branding of the young stock, culling the old stock for the drive, and castrating some young bulles into steers. On the morning of the castrating a few of the hands that were to do it competed with each other to see who could get their knife the sharpest. That night Gusty made mountain oysters. Some of the younger hands passed, but a few of the older hands enjoyed the delicacy.
Finally they were on the way. Trinidad was 80 miles to the southwest and it would take them 8 to 10 days to get there. Drive the cattle too fast and you walk off beef, so they moved along at a slow 10 miles a day, stopping in the late afternoon to let the herd graze before bedding down for the night. The flat plains to the east stretched away in the distance, and after a few days they could see the tall square top of the mountain called Fishers Peak that overlooked the town of Trinidad like a great monolithic monument.
The drive was uneventfull as they had a good solid crew with men who knew their jobs. Like most of the melting pot of the west, they came from all walks of life and as many different places. The old German cook fed men who were ex confederate cavalry, a Mexican vaquerro, a freed black slave that went west, and two Indianna farm boys who had run away west 15 years before when they deceided that raising corn was not their lifes goal. But they were all good cowhands.
Finally they reached the outskirts of Trinidad. There on the eastern edge of town, the railroad had built a small stockyard of connecting corrals and counting shute. The hot dusty work of the tally was done, and the hands paid. The boss told them to go enjoy theselves, just be ready to start back the next day.
"That means you don't fall in love with the first girl in the saloon who has a drink with you." The boss lectured.
"Yeah, hold out till at least the third!" said a young voice from the group. There was a scattered laughter.
They all went off for a drink and fun, and the old German cook and the lanky middle age cowhand slowly followed. They walked over the wooden bridge that crossed the Purgatore river that flowed through town and the cowhand glanced over and saw two young boys fishing on the shaded river bank. One was trying to cut a piece of bacon rind with a small old knife that looked worn out, with just a toothpick of a blade. The cowhand had a sudden thought.
"Hang on Gusty, I want to look in that store there for a minute."
He entered the general store and looked over the pocket knives in the glass case. He saw one he did not recognize, and asked the storekeep about it. The storekeep took the knife out of the case and handed it to the cowhand who opened the main blade, then examined the other blades with a puzzeled look.
"Thats a new pattern they shipped out" the storekeep told him. " The say it's gonna replace the old cattle knife, and they call it a Premium Stockman."
The cowhand turned it over in his hand and gripped it. He liked the way the squared off knife felt in his fist, and he liked the choice of blades. He turned to the German.
"Hey look, its got a blade you can use for gathering the mountain oysters!"
"Good, I tink you should buy dat knife so I can borrow it from you next roundup" the cook told him.
The cowhand bought the knife and dropped it in his pocket alongside his old barlow. The he started back to the river. The cook followed him, curious.
At the river he called over the boy with the worn out knife. The kid looked up at the older man respectfully. The cowhand stooped down and spoke to he boy.
"I got a little problem, son, and maybe you could help me with it?"
"Yes sir, I'll try, what is it?" asked the young boy.
"Well, I got this new knife, and I still have my old one. Well, the old one is still a good knife, but it makes my pants pocket a little too heavy having both of them in there. That old barlow has been a good friend to me and I want to find it a good home since I can't be carrying all this weight around with me. " With that he took out the old barlow and held it up to the boy.
"Do you think you could give this knife a good home and take care of it?" he asked the boy.
"Yes sir!" the boy said, "I sure will take care of it, sir! You mean your giving me that knife?"
"Only if you take good care of it."
The boy was exited at the prospect of a knife way better than any he's seen in his young life. With great seriousness the cowhand gave the young boy his barlow and watched as the boy cut through a piece of bacon rind effortlessly.
As they walked back toward the saloon the old German looked at his friend.
"So, I know you are big softy now, ja?"
" Yeah, well don't go spreading it around and ruining my reputation as a hard case." the cowhand replied.
They were at the north end of Comercial Street, and as they went to cross the street they had to wait for a frieght wagon, then another going the other way. Gusty shook his head sadly.
"I remember ven a dog could sleep in da street here. Now look at it."
"Yeah, a regular growing city. I wonder what it's gonna look like in a hundred years?"
The two old friends crossed to the saloon and the sound of a tinny piano and off key singing. The went in and the bat-wing doors swung shut in back of them.
The horse blew and the man turned.
"I ain't forgot you, hold on."
Taking the feed bag from a saddle bag, he hung it on the dappled grey horse with the last of the oats. The horse munched the oats as the man had his hasty breakfast, and rolled up his gear. The bedroll was wrapped up in the waxed canvas tarp, and they were heading down the trail. He had been away from the ranch for 5 days now, working the canyons for the strays, and getting them started down to the valley for the summer roundup.
He'd come west after the war, like alot of young men looking for adventure. Abiline, Hays, and Dodge City, he'd seen them all, then in Colorado he found a home on the double B ranch just west of Alamosa. For the last ten years he'd been a top hand there. As he made his way down the widenening canyon pushing the couple dozen head along, he could see the morning sun breaking through the clouds and shinning on the rooftops of distant Alamosa. He was only a few miles from home then.
It was mid morning by the time he let the cattle scatter out on the flatland and rode into the ranch yard. He stepped down from his horse in front of the main building to give a brief report to the ranch owner, when a short stocky man stepped out of the cookhouse.
"Vell, da long lost one returns." he said in a heavy German accent. "You hungrey, ja?"
Gustav Hienrich Wasserman, called Gusty by the crew, was the cook, doctor, barber, and father confesser to the young cowhands at the ranch, and a friend to the tall lanky middle age cowhand that had come home.
"I could eat, yeah." was the loconic reply.
"Vell, come, I have fresh baked apple pie, and good coffee."
" Good coffee huh? Who'd ya get to make it?" the cowhand asked.
Gusty laughed at the friendly insult, and went inside.
Later the cowhand gave his report to the boss, and the owner looked thoughtfull.
"Lots of mixed stock huh? Okay, soons the rest of the hands get down we'll cut out the old stock for a drive to the railhead. At least we don't have to push them all the way to Denver, now that they have a small stockyard down the line at Trinidad. This afternoon Gusty's going into town for some supplies, go ahead with him and give him a hand."
Alamosa in 1884 was a sleepy small town that served as a watering hole and supplier for the local ranches. A dry goods and general store, small cafe and eating house, hotel, and livery stable took up one side of the main street, and a saloon, doctors office, barber shop, and town marshals/jail on the other. Gusty pulled the wagon up in front of the general store and handed the owner a list of goods. The owner said his son would load the wagon, why don't they go get a drink while the loading was done.
The next month passed rapidly with all the work that was to be done. Branding of the young stock, culling the old stock for the drive, and castrating some young bulles into steers. On the morning of the castrating a few of the hands that were to do it competed with each other to see who could get their knife the sharpest. That night Gusty made mountain oysters. Some of the younger hands passed, but a few of the older hands enjoyed the delicacy.
Finally they were on the way. Trinidad was 80 miles to the southwest and it would take them 8 to 10 days to get there. Drive the cattle too fast and you walk off beef, so they moved along at a slow 10 miles a day, stopping in the late afternoon to let the herd graze before bedding down for the night. The flat plains to the east stretched away in the distance, and after a few days they could see the tall square top of the mountain called Fishers Peak that overlooked the town of Trinidad like a great monolithic monument.
The drive was uneventfull as they had a good solid crew with men who knew their jobs. Like most of the melting pot of the west, they came from all walks of life and as many different places. The old German cook fed men who were ex confederate cavalry, a Mexican vaquerro, a freed black slave that went west, and two Indianna farm boys who had run away west 15 years before when they deceided that raising corn was not their lifes goal. But they were all good cowhands.
Finally they reached the outskirts of Trinidad. There on the eastern edge of town, the railroad had built a small stockyard of connecting corrals and counting shute. The hot dusty work of the tally was done, and the hands paid. The boss told them to go enjoy theselves, just be ready to start back the next day.
"That means you don't fall in love with the first girl in the saloon who has a drink with you." The boss lectured.
"Yeah, hold out till at least the third!" said a young voice from the group. There was a scattered laughter.
They all went off for a drink and fun, and the old German cook and the lanky middle age cowhand slowly followed. They walked over the wooden bridge that crossed the Purgatore river that flowed through town and the cowhand glanced over and saw two young boys fishing on the shaded river bank. One was trying to cut a piece of bacon rind with a small old knife that looked worn out, with just a toothpick of a blade. The cowhand had a sudden thought.
"Hang on Gusty, I want to look in that store there for a minute."
He entered the general store and looked over the pocket knives in the glass case. He saw one he did not recognize, and asked the storekeep about it. The storekeep took the knife out of the case and handed it to the cowhand who opened the main blade, then examined the other blades with a puzzeled look.
"Thats a new pattern they shipped out" the storekeep told him. " The say it's gonna replace the old cattle knife, and they call it a Premium Stockman."
The cowhand turned it over in his hand and gripped it. He liked the way the squared off knife felt in his fist, and he liked the choice of blades. He turned to the German.
"Hey look, its got a blade you can use for gathering the mountain oysters!"
"Good, I tink you should buy dat knife so I can borrow it from you next roundup" the cook told him.
The cowhand bought the knife and dropped it in his pocket alongside his old barlow. The he started back to the river. The cook followed him, curious.
At the river he called over the boy with the worn out knife. The kid looked up at the older man respectfully. The cowhand stooped down and spoke to he boy.
"I got a little problem, son, and maybe you could help me with it?"
"Yes sir, I'll try, what is it?" asked the young boy.
"Well, I got this new knife, and I still have my old one. Well, the old one is still a good knife, but it makes my pants pocket a little too heavy having both of them in there. That old barlow has been a good friend to me and I want to find it a good home since I can't be carrying all this weight around with me. " With that he took out the old barlow and held it up to the boy.
"Do you think you could give this knife a good home and take care of it?" he asked the boy.
"Yes sir!" the boy said, "I sure will take care of it, sir! You mean your giving me that knife?"
"Only if you take good care of it."
The boy was exited at the prospect of a knife way better than any he's seen in his young life. With great seriousness the cowhand gave the young boy his barlow and watched as the boy cut through a piece of bacon rind effortlessly.
As they walked back toward the saloon the old German looked at his friend.
"So, I know you are big softy now, ja?"
" Yeah, well don't go spreading it around and ruining my reputation as a hard case." the cowhand replied.
They were at the north end of Comercial Street, and as they went to cross the street they had to wait for a frieght wagon, then another going the other way. Gusty shook his head sadly.
"I remember ven a dog could sleep in da street here. Now look at it."
"Yeah, a regular growing city. I wonder what it's gonna look like in a hundred years?"
The two old friends crossed to the saloon and the sound of a tinny piano and off key singing. The went in and the bat-wing doors swung shut in back of them.
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