“Mornin’, Kelsey.” His voice was low and soft. “Heard you’d blown in when I come home last night. I gotta ride the north pasture—coupla heifers are on my mind.” He moved on up to Kelsey, pulled off a glove, and thrust out his hand. It was a smooth white hand, but the grip was firm. “I’m Jake, Monte’s cow boss.”
Everything about Jake was neat and immaculate, from the creased trousers to the top of his big dark hat. Kelsey tried to keep from staring at him, finally blurted out, “Man, how can you have hands like that and work?”
Jake smiled. “I keep ’em that way. Cowpunchers got a reputation for havin’ pretty hands. That’s why the women like us; we don’t rough ’em up too much. I see what I gotta see from the saddle, and most of the work I do can be done with gloves on. Punchin’ cows ain’t like fixin’ fence or shovelin’ manure, kid.”
“I’d like to go with you to see the heifers.”
“You would, huh?” Jake blinked. “Well, I never could figure out a man who wanted to get outta bed until he had to, but you’re welcome to string along. Hold this nag and I’ll fetch you a horse.” He started toward the barn and turned. “Ever been on a horse before?”
“No.”
“It’s a damn good job I asked. You mighta been kissin’ the sagebrush. Don’t worry. I’ll get you an old cowpony that knows more than both of us put together. Say, you don’t have any boots or chaps—well, it won’t matter, for we’re not travelin’ far. North pasture’s only a step.” He looked Kelsey over for a moment. “Reckon you’ll do, kid.” A little later he came out of the barn with the horse. Kelsey stepped eagerly forward.
“Hold it, kid! Even an old horse ain’t gonna tolerate that. You’re on the wrong side. Start over. Take the reins and the horn in one hand—like so. Now reach for the stirrup, and up you go.” And he laughed as Kelsey pulled himself awkwardly to the saddle. “Them stirrups is long, but you won’t be runnin’ no races.”
They rode slowly through the pasture Kelsey had walked across the day before. The cattle were scattered and quiet. There was no wind, and to Kelsey the earth seemed more remote than before, for it had a darker, bleaker appearance.
“We always keep the heifers here,” Jake said. “They been bred as long yearlings, so they’ll calf early, for first calves don’t always come easy. We gotta watch ’em, and we don’t turn ’em out on the flats as soon as the older cows. Older cows can calf by themselves.”
“I don’t know anything about cattle,” Kelsey said. “I couldn’t ask a question that made sense.”
Jake gave him a sidelong glance. “Well, there ain’t much to say about it. You can put the whole shebang in a few words—feed ’em and breed ’em. That’s all of it, kid.” Jake yawned and then straightened in the saddle, staring ahead. “Just the way I had it figured; them two have dropped their calves, but trouble’s started. Well, I’ll be damned. One of ’em don’t want her calf; she’s tryin’ to steal the other heifer’s.” He kicked his horse into a lope, heading toward two young cows standing off by themselves. Kelsey’s horse plunged after Jake’s, and he clung to the saddle horn while the saddle smacked him briskly on the backside.
He saw one cow cleaning off her calf, licking it with her tongue and nudging it to its feet. Near her, the other heifer ignored the calf on the ground, lifted her head, and let out a bellow. Then she ran to claim the standing calf.
“Crazy bitch!” Jake was out of the saddle and running to the deserted calf. He yanked off his shirt, bent over the dark heap on the ground, and began rubbing it, wiping away the membrane. The calf gave a feeble gasp. Jake tipped the head back and thrust his hand down the throat, pulling out mucus. He lifted the calf to its feet, shouting at Kelsey, “Here! Hold him up! I’ve got to head that wild one off!”
Hurriedly Kelsey dismounted, went to the calf, and put his hands on it. The calf felt warm and damp. He watched Jake ride after the heifer, which ran in circles around the other heifer and her calf. She kept bellowing, and the long bloody afterbirth dangled from her. Then Jake’s horse was right on her flank, darting to head her off, swerving with incredible speed, anticipating her every move, working her farther and farther away from the calf she wanted to claim. Kelsey saw that Jake was taking the wild-eyed heifer toward the barn. He looked at the wobbly calf and didn’t know what to do. Then he gathered it in his arms and started walking toward the corrals, the old saddle horse following. The calf bawled weakly. From it rose the humid, rank, yet strangely sweet odor of birth. It was a smell could turn a man’s stomach, Kelsey thought, but it was the smell of life. The sun came over the east mountain range of the Park, and its light and warmth fell over him and the new calf.
Around him the cattle stirred, some getting up from where they had lain among the sagebrush, some taking a step or two and stretching, some appearing to notice him for the first time and moving away. The pinkish-red light of the sun touched them and stained the tops of the mountains behind the long ridge back of the ranch house. And a small wind came out of the south, bringing the fragrance of woodsmoke, telling him that Hilder was up and had started the cookstove in the kitchen. He saw Jake waiting for him at the corral gate, and he shifted the calf in his arms and walked faster.
They put the calf with the heifer in a box stall in the barn. “If she don’t claim him,” Jake said, “we’ll have to feed him skim milk.” Then they walked toward the house. Jake’s hand rested for a moment on Kelsey’s shoulder. “You got a good initiation, kid.”
Kelsey looked at the stains on his clothes. He remembered the feel of the calf and the way the hair had curled on the top of its head. And he thought how quick was the beginning of life—out of darkness, like the sun bursting over the mountains. “It was fine,” he said, more to himself than to Jake.
The men were at the breakfast table. There were beads of water on Dalt’s thick, slicked-down hair. Hilder’s face was redder than usual from bending over the hot stove. Tommy looked up from his place at the head of the table, and Kelsey felt the coldness in his small black eyes. “If you expect to stick around here,” Tommy said, “don’t let me catch you actin’ the cowboy. You get on the end of a shovel where you belong—and stay there.”
Hilder and Dalt looked down at their plates. Jake took off his hat and smoothed the top of his bald head. “Shucks,” Jake said mildly, “it’s no skin off’n your nose, Tommy. Work day ain’t even started. What’s wrong with the kid givin’ me a hand?”
“You run the cattle,” Tommy said shortly. “I run the ranch, see? I’ll decide what he does and when.”
Jake shrugged. “Some people act like they been hit in the ass with a sour apple.” He reached for the tin washbasin. “Come on, Kelsey. Let’s clean up.”
Kelsey’s face was hot. Did Tommy have to speak so sharply to him before all the men?
Two weeks later Kelsey sat in the bunkhouse with Dalt and Jake; he spent every free moment in the bunkhouse, for that was the only place he could see Jake and talk with him and be free of Tommy’s curt tongue and sharp eyes.
The rain made no sound on the dirt roof, but Kelsey could see it streaking down the fly-specked window. Jake had taken off his yellow slicker and was shaking it. “Keeps on rainin’, a man’ll have web feet,” Jake said.
“It won’t,” Dalt replied. “It’ll turn to snow. Now’s the meanest time in this country. A man’s sick of winter and achin’ clear down to his guts for warm weather. And what kind of summer we got here anyhow? Not much, I’ll tell you. Like an old-timer said, North Park’s nine months winter and three months late fall. And spring—I haven’t seen any of it.”