C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
Robert Milto preferred to graze his herd until snow cover forced him to commence his winter feeding program. The range cattle, summer residents of the far western reaches of the ranch, were rounded up and driven closer to the home place for several reasons: a precaution against an early winter impeding access to the rough country; an opportunity to sort and wean the calves for market or herd replacement; culling of the less desirable cows; relief for the summer graze; problems associated with freezing at the watering holes. The Winter Field with its wide treeless 'flats' provided late fall and early winter forage as well as a month or so of grazing after the new calves arrived and snow had melted in the spring. Brush choked draws of clump willow and black birch interspersed with pockets of aspen poplar along the northern edges of this pasture supplied shelter for the cattle from the cold seasonal winds which frequently swept unimpeded across the barren open areas.
This autumn, however, the rancher had been temporarily bested by the weatherman.
Benny Collins sat hunkered down in his saddle, chin tucked into his silk scarf and the collar of his sheepskin rolled up around his ears. A bitter wind at his back tugged with grim determination at the horse hide skirting of his leather chaps. A shock of blond hair and frosty blue eyes bridging a nose reddened by the cold were barely visible beneath the brim of a tightly 'screwed down' beat-up Stetson.
“A real cowboy is a fellow who forked his horse when he really didn't want to” or words to that effect, were a portion of the wisdom Ben imparted to Tom O'Brien last summer when the boy from Toronto had his heart set upon learning to ride.
Ben looked over at his companion riding a big whiskey coloured buckskin. “Tom O'Brien should be here today for some 'real cowboy' action.”
Milt, bundled up in multiple layers to fend off the bitter cold, smiled acknowledgement. Her thoughts had been of Tom O'Brien quite often this day recalling his eagerness during the trail riding expedition. The easterner would have endured the challenge of the miserable weather conditions. He had 'no quit' as Ben would say.
Milt and Ben had taken the same section of pasture for fall round-up as they had for the branding back at the end of June. Her parents, along with Lou Collins and Leonard Yeast, had followed their old routes as well. A better day could have been in the offing but Robert Milto had cattle buyer commitments and trucks were booked as well. Postponement of the round-up would have been awkward. Days were shorter now and a sense of urgency hung in the air while the younger cowhands worked the rough stuff. The cold found most of the older and wiser (if such a term could be assigned to a cow) animals eager to quit the summer range and follow their instincts to greener or at least grassier pastures. Some of the bovines, however, did not appreciate that sentiment and were obdurately reluctant to abandon the shelters of dense thickets in the roughest part of the land. Riders and horses were thoroughly warmed by the time the herd had been gathered and chased out onto the flatter areas, pointed east.
Here the cold and wind were equally merciless.
Milt sought shelter in her thoughts of warmer days… Tom O'Brien grew into a man over the course of the summer. Milt had heard his voice change from the higher pitch of an adolescent to the bass of a young man. But, there was more than that. The way he looked at her; after the week of trail riding things between them changed; they were best of friends yet different somehow from the friendship between her and Benny or any of the boys Milt knew. Tom O'Brien was in love. Tom was in love and Milt was in a very awkward position. She may have been in love too for she had never met a person like him, but a budding romance was not to be encouraged. Milt was ageless, at least for ten more years.
The thought suddenly occurred to her that there had been another man named Tom O'Brien… From a different time… Almost six years ago… Before the time transfer. She shrugged off the coincidence: he must be sixty years old! She sighed in exasperation and Whiskey flicked his ears. Milt sighed often these past few months.
Suddenly Whiskey spun sideways on the trail and Milt, with her felt booted feet dangling outside the stirrups, made a fast grab, clutching the horn to stay in the saddle. A bellowing white streak of misery charged through the herd, scattering cattle across the trail. Milt heard Ben cursing as Scoundrel nearly unseated him. “By God, if I had Old Pete's .32 that Charolais bitch would be layin' gut shot back where we first put her up.”
Earlier in the day the riders had encountered the infamous Charolais-cross cow that had caused pandemonium during the branding round-up. The young cowboy advised Milt to leave the rabidly loco beast behind but take her calf if possible. So when the cow dove into a dense thicket, Milt put the heels to Whiskey and together they cut the calf out, forcing the young bovine to stay with the small bunch already gathered.
Now, the cow wanted her calf back.
The upside of the ensuing struggle was that it served to dispense with any remnants of cold. The havoc wreaked by the the Charolais-cross overheated horses, humans, the herd. The contumacious cow and the uncompromising cowboy locked horns. Benny refused to let the Charolais have her calf though he would have been happy to see her high-tail it back to the breaks, and the cow wouldn't leave without her baby. She wouldn't leave, but neither would she stay within the herd. The bewildered calf began to show evidence of fatigue and Ben, in desperation, shook out a loop and roped the five hundred pound animal. The steer struggled briefly until the lariat cut its wind at which time Ben piled off Scoundrel and, using spare rope from the loosened noose, quickly threw a half hitch around the calf's nose. In this manner he formed a makeshift halter that wouldn't choke the beast. Ben remounted and eased Scoundrel toward the still prone bovine, collecting slack in the lariat as he did so. In a short time the dazed steer regained its feet.
Meanwhile, Milt and Whiskey had abandoned the drifting herd to play a hazardous game of running interference between Ben and the onslaught of the bellowing bovine.
For Ben, Scoundrel and their captive, an awkward quarter mile served to fully subdue the tiring calf and a short distance later it gave up the fight, fully halter broke. The lariat must have made the calf's mother leery for she momentarily dropped back behind the riders and followed at a less menacing distance.
A quarter ton anchor of solid beef limited Ben and Scoundrel in their ability to assist in moving the remainder of the herd. However, Milt, Whiskey and Chase managed to keep the bunch together and travelling in the general direction intended. They were aided by the fact that the cattle now had a well worn prairie trail to follow.
In this fashion they arrived at the holding corrals where a much warmer day had previously witnessed the branding performance. The other four riders with their gather were already at the pens. Milt could see one of the ranch trucks parked near the mill and assumed Sven must be nearby too.
Robert Milto surveyed the approaching herd. Recognizing the trailing Charolais he anticipated problems at the gate. He mounted his horse and rode to meet Ben and Milt. Lou Collins and Leonard Yeast downed their rapidly cooling mugs of coffee, passed them to Connie Milto and resignedly climbed back into their cold saddles to follow the younger rancher.
Three extra mounts overwhelmed the Charolais-cross and the entire herd was soon locked in the huge enclosure. Ben and Scoundrel led the fatigued calf to a vacant corral; the same pen occupied by the lame bull last summer. Ben turned the young animal loose.
The last half mile had been brutal and Ben wondered how Robert and Connie Milto had fared driving their herd from the east, facing into the nor'wester. Feet stiff from the cold jarred Ben's body at every step as, leading his horse, he walked gingerly across the hard pan of the corral. Gratefully, he joined his companions gathered near the hot coffee.
Frozen droplets on the blade of the axe Sven held gave testimony to the low temperature; the water in the trough had iced over. “She might make snow this night – jah!” he said.
Ben grinned though his cheeks felt stiff from the cold. “Jah, she'll freeze-over the fjord tonight.” Dropping Scoundrel's reins on the ground, he accepted the mug of hot coffee Connie had poured. Turning to his father, he said, “I put up that big mule buck.”
Lou ran his tongue across the paper of a home built. “In close to that mill where you saw him last summer?”
“Same place. If he stays there another week and the snow isn't too deep, we should be able to find him again.”
The boy's father struck a wooden match with his thumbnail, cupping the flame in his hand as he touched it to the cigarette, then nodded. “He won't travel far now, the rut will be on soon.” He exhaled a cloud of smoke, “If the snow isn't too deep for us to get out there.”
“You are welcome to use a four wheel drive,” Robert offered.
Ben's appreciation shone. “That would be a real bonus; perhaps you'd lend me the Shelby so I could catch up to him?”
“That's one mustang that won't be seeing any work this winter, I'll wager!” Connie laughed.
“No, it won't be going anywhere for awhile.” Robert said. He tossed the dregs of his coffee cup on the grass. “Well, it's too late to sort calves today and the horses could use a rest too. So we may as well corral the ponies and throw them a few forkfuls of feed. I don't know what to do with that calf; most likely his mother will tear down half the fence trying to join him…she'll be on a truck out of here tomorrow if I can run her through the loading chute.”
Milt offered to haul water and hay to the young steer in an effort to keep it content for the night. Ben accompanied her.
“I hope the little bugger doesn't get pu-new-monia from being so worked up in this cold weather.” he said. “That miserable old heathen raises a good calf, I'll give her that much.”
Milt paused a moment as they neared the pole corral.
“What's up?” Ben asked.
“This is the exact spot where you took a kick in the head and woke up proposing.”
“Oh yeah!” Ben groaned, “and I still haven't bought her the engagement ring.”
“Well, better hurry; maybe Brenda will find another cowboy,” Milt said.
“After hunting season.”
“After hunting season? Ben, you are impossible!”
“A man has got to keep his priorities straight, Milt. Once Dad and I bag that big mule, I'll take Brenda into the city and she can pick out that ring.”
A flash of recollection entered Milt's thoughts. The day Benny proposed had been the first time Milt had met the boy from Toronto; right over there, just beyond the windmill. A pang pierced her heart as she recalled the words of the much older Tom O'Brien: “I was in love once… a long time ago.” and now definite realization dawned upon Milt of who he really was and who he had been in love with…. “Poor Tom,” she murmured sadly. “He will never buy an engagement ring.”
Myrna Yeast and her daughters had commandeered Connie's kitchen to provide a hot supper for the riders. When the help had gone to their respective homes for the night, a tired young lady cried herself to sleep wrapped in her mother's loving arms. It was the first time she had cried since meeting the easterner; it had been his arrival that permitted Milt to 'let go' of haunting memories surrounding the tragic deaths of her three friends. “I found it in the book,” she sobbed, “Benny wrote a story about branding and he mentioned Tom O'Brien. Our Tom is the same person as the old Tom O'Brien from Ottawa! The man who sent us to this place, to this time.”
“I know, honey,” her mother soothed. “Your dad figured it out the day he met Tom out at the corrals…We didn't know whether to tell you; perhaps we should have but what difference could it make? We aren't allowed to change the past.”
“But Tom is in love with me! And… and… I really like him lots too! He will live his whole life loving a ghost, a transplant from the future, and it will be all my fault!”
Tears welled up, spilling down Constance Milto's cheeks and she held her daughter closer. She thought of Tom O'Brien, man and boy. “What a remarkable individual he is,” she whispered.
Sven's prediction of snow proved accurate the next morning. The headlights of the three trucks bouncing their way along the prairie trail leading to the holding corrals intensified the tiny white flakes. Milt thought it looked like they were driving into the backside of a gigantic porcupine. She and Benny rode with Sven in the lead so Ben could open the gates; Milt's parents followed, while Lou Collins and Leonard Yeast occupied position three. At the first gate Ben piled out and opened the enclosure then waited until all vehicles passed through before closing the gate. The trucks leap-frogged in this fashion but the Miltos weren't allowed the lead. Sven and the other ranchers wouldn't permit a lady to open gates for them.
“Chivalry is alive and well in 1968,” Connie laughed in response to her husband's dry observation: “You have it easy this morning.”
Upon arriving at the corrals, horses were watered at the ice encrusted trough and given a ration of oats before being saddled. Ben checked the penned calf and noticed a dark melted imprint in the snow beside the corral: its mother had lain here during the night. She apparently had broken through the outer perimeter but was stymied by the higher walls of the pole corral.
Snow stopped with the arrival of full daylight and angry grey clouds scudded across the sky. Luckily, Leonard Yeast's forecast, “It'll clear off and warm up some this afternoon”, came true.
Sorting of the herd went well with Sven and Robert manning the gates while the riders put their mounts through their cutting horse paces. All the calves were separated and penned in a corral roughly half the size of the sorting pens. Cow prices held fairly strong on the market so Robert Milto selected enough culls to make up a cattle liner load. He allowed that he would cut more later in the year.
The mean tempered Charolais-cross, B324, was in the group to be sold.
It was noon when the first semi trailer unit pulled up to the pens accompanied by Sven. He had headed back to the ranch to meet the trucker and then guided him to the corrals, opening gates for the big rig to pass through. More trucks were scheduled to arrive later to haul the calves. The riders and ground team, Milt having taken Sven's place on the ground when the hired hand departed to escort the cattle liner, stopped work for a lunch break. The trucker joined them after backing his trailer up to the raised platform of the loading chute.
The driver surveyed the herd as he sipped from a steaming coffee mug. “Good lookin' bunch of calves.” He was a tall, heavy fellow; Milt estimated he would make more than three of Benny.
Robert Milto said above the din of bawling bovines, “I hope the buyers see it that way too.”
Lou and Leonard quizzed the trucker about livestock prices. The big man appeared to possess a wealth of information in that regard, having hauled to every auction ring for hundreds of miles.
The lunch was quickly devoured and the crew proceeded to load the culled cows on the semi trailer. As she fought her way up the chute, the Charolais-cross, Benny's nemesis, attempted one last break for freedom as she threw her weight against heavy plank walls and managed to hook a foreleg over the top. B324 met her match at that point. The trucker physically lifted the cow's front end and, none too gently, dropped her back into the chute. She gave him a whip across the face with her soggy, manure stained tail before disappearing into the depths of the 'possum belly.
Sven and Mrs. Milto escorted the liner out of the hills where the hired hand would await the convoy of rigs inbound for the cargo of calves. Connie had chores at the ranch.
Robert Milto's calf crop were a fairly uniform bunch so the sorting of the calves only necessitated the selection of promising heifers for replacements of the previously culled cows. The numbers weren't in a particular ratio as the rancher also used rejections from his artificially inseminated operations to bolster the commercial grade stock. A handful of the smaller heifers and steer calves were also cut back from the market bound animals. These would go into a back-grounding and finishing program the Miltos operated in conjunction with Ben and Lou Collins, Leonard Yeast and, in the past, when he still owned livestock, Pete Liscombe. These animals would eventually become top choice beef for a select, local market: Danny Reid and Doctor O'Brien, for instance, as well as at the kitchen tables of the ranchers involved. Many producers didn't keep the best quality for their personal consumption but Robert Milto successfully argued that he and his partners in the feeding program should only produce the standard of beef they personally demanded. “Besides,” he said, “it's good advertising when company calls.” He proved this on a grand scale every year when Stan Olsen performed his magic over the barbecue pit at the Miltos' branding. Those who tasted it, agreed that the quality of beef produced in the partnership could not be purchased over-the-counter, even in the city.
Three semi tractor units each towing a double deck 'possum belly trailer, arrived before Robert Milto was entirely satisfied that he had cut out all the 'keepers'. While his helpers pushed calves into the holding corrals which opened into the loading area, he made a final study of the animals. Only one more particularly promising heifer was cut out of that bunch before they were loaded on the cattle liners. Each of these trucks would make two trips to the auction barn in Stockton. The big trucker who had taken a load of cows earlier would also return for a second shipment of calves. The culls were hauled to the stockyards in the city to be sold at a cow sale but the young 'stuff' would be put through Ralph Osborne's auction ring in town. Robert Milto preferred to deal with local merchants. This year, however, it didn't work out for the selling of the culled cows (or for the purchase of a Shelby Mustang which could not be obtained by the Stockton Ford dealership). Ralph would earn the commission on four hundred and twenty calves tomorrow, bolstering the books at his auction barn. That number represented less than half of the Milto sales; there were more to come: calves, open cows and heifers, bred heifers, bred cows and, of course, the quality selection of bulls, all from the ranch's herds.
During the lull between loads of calves, Milt and Benny hauled Connie Milto's big quarter horse mare back to the ranch. All the clouds had been blown away and a perfectly blue sky now looked down on the fresh white layer of snow. Ben eased the truck and stock trailer along the prairie trail which ran fairly straight in an east west direction across the flats of the winter field.
“You're awful quiet, Milt,” Ben said. He was surprised to see tears in the pretty eyes of his young friend when she abandoned her gazing out the truck window and turned to face him.
“It's Tom!”
Ben looked around quickly. “Tom?”
“Not here, not now.” Milt smiled in spite of her blues. “I was just thinking about Tom and I hauling hay from out on these flats in haying season… he enjoyed everything so much; even work was fun to him.”
“Yeah!” Ben said. “Yeah, he was a good guy… especially for an easterner.” He caught the reproach before Milt uttered it. “I mean, he fit in so well in such a short time and he had no western background at all. He was as green as….as green as anything that's real green.”
“Ben, your charm really is in the way you can't talk!”
“Well….”
“That's just fine. I wouldn't want you to change…Remember how sore Tom was that first day on the trail ride?”
Ben said, “He must have been hurting something awful, but he wouldn't complain. And, 'member how he rode that calf? He didn't get booted in the head like I did! He told me before heading back east that he wants to be a bull rider,” Ben continued. “That's a tough occupation but I'll bet my pony he would be good at it.”
Milt looked thoughtful. “Yes, you can bet on Tom when he joins the rodeo…. I mean, if he joins the rodeo.”
Ben laughed, “Aw, by next year he will be thinking of joining the Maple Leafs.”
“Don't be too sure.”
'Stubborn' applies equally well to an obdurate mule or a cow that doesn't want to leave an area because she believes her calf is there; multiply that animal's recalcitrant behaviour by five hundred and the product is roughly equal to the task faced by Robert Milto and his riders as they commenced driving the calf-less herd east to the winter field after the final load of young beef had departed. Horses, fatigued by the gruelling pace of cutting and sorting, were further taxed in trying to keep the herd together while beating back those cows determined to return to the holding corrals. Riders' voices grew hoarse and sweat foamed white on the neck and chests of their ponies as it seemed that each cow in turn had to make at least one attempt at turning back. Fortunately for the drovers the lay of the land presented a fairly treeless and open view, preventing an unobserved escape for the cantankerous cows. At length, the herd was lined out and broken to the trail for the two mile push to their pre-winter lodgings.
Robert Milto was thinking he had misjudged the weather of the past few days and hoped a trend hadn't started in that regard. He smiled ruefully; usually his personal long-term forecast was quite accurate. Darkness had almost fully descended and bitter cold was there to meet it when Sven closed the gate behind the the last few cows passing into the winter field.
“Damn,” Lou Collins said, taking the proffered sack of tobacco from his neighbour, “that there is a stubborn bunch of beasts.”
Leonard Yeast held off striking his wooden match until Lou was ready to share the flame. “Cows is females,” he advised, “they can be gawd-awful headstrong. No offence there, young Milt, but I know and when it is four to one, like around my place, there ain't no sense in me even opening my mouth.”
Milt laughed. “Well, if Ben would hurry up and buy that ring, the balance would be more in your favour.”
“Don't matter for my part, anyway,” Leonard sighed. “I go around home like one of them dang mechanical robots they had on the television the other night. Now it will be Ben's turn.”
“Sven's too.” Ben opted to share the barb.
Lou Collins face glowed orange in the sheltered flare of Leonard's match as he lit the roll-your-own. “Well, boys, it's a whole lot better than not having your missus around,” he said.
Milt thought again of Tom O'Brien.
…Wintering cows is still a pretty big chore though we have plenty new-fangled equipment to handle the feed and maybe speed things up. When I was a lad we hauled everything with a team of horses hooked to a sleigh, both ways… to the cows and from them…
Submitted by Kent Miller for Dad, Rex Miller
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