Home Ranch Read Free Page A

rising, and the little cowhand was loosening his saddle cinches. When I rode in, Mr. Batchlett was washing at the water barrel beside the chuckwagon. He looked around and said, “Sid, this is Little Britches; he’s going to ride with us this summer.”
    Sid’s face lit up as if I were an old friend. He grinned and said, “Ain’t he the one rode ag’in Le Beau in the matched race, last Fourth o’ July? Ain’t he the one as done trick-ridin’ with Hi Beckman in the Littleton roundup?”
    â€œYep, that’s him,” was all Mr. Batchlett said.
    â€œI ought to knowed it was him when I seen him hightailin’ off to the water hole,” Sid chirped in a high voice. “I ought to knowed by the way he hauls his knees up and hunkers over the neck of a horse.” He came hurrying toward me with his hand out. “Yessirree, Little Britches! Yessirree! We’re right proud to have you in the outfit. Make yourself right to home. Hank, he’ll have the chuck ready in two shakes of a latigo.”
    I’d never known I pulled my knees up and leaned over a horse’s neck when I rode, but I suppose it was because I’d done most of my riding bareback, and had to hold on tight or fall off. When I took Sid’s hand his grip was like the closing of a vise, and the palm was as horny as a piece of sun-dried leather. I must have flinched, because he loosened his grip, looked down at his hand, then grinned and said, “That calf-brandin’ sure puts bark on ’em, don’t it? Been workin’ roundup down La Junta way. Never did wear no gloves; cheaper to grow hide than buy it.”
    Even in his high-heeled boots, Sid Faulker was only about three inches taller than I. He might have been thirty, but it’s hard to tell about those red-headed, freckled-faced fellows. His eyes were that kind of blue that can be as warm as June or as cold as January. I knew we were going to be friends.
    I had just given Lady some oats, and was washing my face and hands when Hank yelled, loud enough to have been heard in Colorado Springs, “
Come an’ git it, ya lazy mav’ricks!
”
    After I’d dried my face I looked around the front of the wagon to see if the man on the mule was coming in, but he was still riding round and round the herd, so I asked Sid, “Is the tall man deaf?”
    â€œShucks, no,” Sid chuckled, “old Zeb, he can hear a calf bat its eyes at half a mile. He’s got to stay with them ornery critters till I get out there. Leave ’em ten minutes, and they’d be scattered from here to La Junta.”
    I looked around as far as I could see, and asked, “Then who’s Hank calling in?”
    â€œAin’t callin’ nobody. Old Hank, he don’t never do nothin’ by the halves; never did—to hear him tell it. We best to light into that chuck ’fore it gets burnt to cinders.”
    When we went to eat I found out what Sid meant. Hank had a fire big enough to barbecue a beef, and was holding one arm up to shield his face from the heat as he fished burned biscuits out of an iron pot. Both frying pans were smoking like volcanoes, and the coffee pot was shooting up geysers of steam and grounds. As we filled our plates and cups, Hank kept shouting at Sid, “By dogies, Sid, look what you done to the grub! Ain’t nobody never learnt you to fetch in firewood that ain’t drier’n gun powder? Look at them biscuits! Frizzled to a . . .”
    Hank didn’t have to tell us to look at the biscuits; it was hard to look anywhere else. I’d thought I was nearly starved, but I could hardly stuff the chuck down. The canned beans had stuck to the pan and burned, the bacon was hacked half an inch thick, and was blacker than the biscuits. Mr. Batchlett winked at me and said, “Ought to make it to the ranch for supper. Reckon you can hold out? Jenny’ll be over to help Helen with