The Cow Puncher

The Cow Puncher, by Robert J.
C. Stead

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Title: The Cow Puncher
Author: Robert J. C. Stead
Release Date: September 4, 2006 [EBook #19173]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COW
PUNCHER ***

Produced by Al Haines

[Frontispiece: The Cow Puncher]

The Cow Puncher

By
ROBERT J. C. STEAD

Author of "The Homesteaders," "Kitchener and Other Poems," "The
Bail Jumper," "Songs of the Prairie," "Prairie Born," "The Empire
Builders," etc.

TORONTO
THE MUSSON BOOK COMPANY
LIMITED

Copyright Canada, 1918
THE MUSSON BOOK CO., LIMITED
Publishers -------- TORONTO

CONTENTS
CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
The Cow Puncher . . . . . . Frontispiece
These long rides afforded her many side-lights on the remarkable
nature of her escort.
"You aren't talking to-day . . . what's wrong?"
"There is only one answer, Dave. Because I love you."

THE COW PUNCHER
CHAPTER ONE
The shadows of the spruce trees fell north-eastward, pointing long, cool
fingers across belts of undulating prairie, or leaning lazily against the
brown foothills. Like an incandescent globe the afternoon sun hung in
the bowl of a cloudless heaven, filmy with heat, but the hot rays were
met by the high altitude of the ranch country and lost their force like a
blow half struck. And among the spruce trees it was cool and green,
and clear blue water rippled over beds of shining gravel.
The ranch buildings lay a little to the rear, as though the trees stood
sentinel between them and the prairies. The house was of round straight
logs; the shingles of the squat roof were cupped and blistered with the
suns of many summers. Refuse loitered about the open door; many
empty tins; a leaky barrel, with missing hoops; boxes, harness, tangled
bits of wire. Once there had been a fence; a sort of picket fence of little
saplings, but wild bronchos had kicked it to pieces and range steers had
straggled unscarred across its scattered remnants.
Forward, and to the left, was the corral; mill slabs on end, or fences of
lodge-pole pine; a corner somewhat covered in, offering vague
protection from the weather. The upper poles were worn thin with the
cribbing of many horses.

The sunlight bathed the scene; nursed it in a soft, warm silence. The
desertion seemed absolute; the silence was the silence of the unspoken
places. But suddenly it was broken by a stamping in the covered part of
the corral, and a man's voice saying, "Hip, there; whoa, you cayuse; get
under your saddle! Sleepin' against a post all day, you sloppy-eye. Hip,
come to it!"
Horse and rider dashed into the sunlight. The boy--for he was no more
than a boy--sat the beast as though born to it, his lithe frame taking
every motion of his mount as softly as a good boat rides the sea. His
red shirt and thick hairy schaps could not disguise the lean muscularity
of his figure; the broad felt hat, and the revolver at his belt, gave just
the touch of romance. With a yell at his horse he snatched the hat from
his head, turning to the sun a smooth, brown face and a mane of dark
hair, and slapped the horse across the flank with his crumpled headgear.
At the signal the animal sprang into the air, then dashed at a gallop
down the roadway, bearing the boy as unconcerned as a flower on its
stem.
Suddenly he brought his horse to a stop; swung about, and rode back at
a gentle canter. A few yards from the house he again spurred him to a
gallop, and, leaning far down by the animal's side, deftly picked a
bottle from among the grass. Then he circled about, repeating this
operation as often as his eye fell on a bottle, until he had half-a-dozen;
then down the road again, carefully setting a bottle on each post of the
fence that skirted it to the right.
Again he came back to the house, but, when he turned, his eye was on
the