The Last Roundup

By Harry V. Johnston

The Last Roundup is a novel about the intimate life of real Western cowmen. It takes the reader through the thrills and romances in the early days of the old West and into the lives of gunfighters, cattle rustlers, sturdy women, and Western pioneers – real and unvarnished. The Last Roundup lives true to its title, portraying the very last roundup these cowmen ever rode.

In following the lives of Curley, Jerry, Good Eye, and Harry – four true and real Western men – you will learn more about the old-time West than in all the books you have ever read. These four men were real – not fictitious – and led thrilling and romantic lives in the truest sense.

The Last Roundup tells of Western life principally in Wyoming, but also in Arizona, South and North Dakota, and Montana. You will follow in the footsteps of men who were living an uncompromising and hazardous life – men who had to depend upon their expert knowledge of cattle and horses, as well as the six-shooters and rifles that never left their sides.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483588810

Book preview

Index

Chapter 1 Four Partners

Chapter 2 Curley, Foreman of the H.T. Outfit

Chapter 3 End of Gunny Sack Bill

Chapter 4 Badlands Bill McCarty of the Circle Dot

Chapter 5 Good Eye Slick-heel Rider

Chapter 6 The Nebraska Will’s Were All Cow-men

Chapter 7 A Wild Ride

Chapter 8 Buffalo Wolves

Chapter 9 Our Old Bellows Ranch

Chapter 10 Calamity Joe

Chapter 11 Mabelle and the Sheriff

Chapter 12 We Agree to Go Straight

Chapter 13 The Artist Sets Me Up in Big Business

Chapter 14 We See Trouble Ahead

Chapter 15 We Lose a Partner

Chapter 16 John Law Squares Us Away

Chapter 17 Charlie Armstrong of Grassy Butte

Chapter 18 How Good Eye Lost His Eye

Chapter 19 Curley Had Made His Last Roundup

Chapter 20 Mabelle Gets Her Prince Charming

Chapter 21 Jeane and Good Eye Are Happy at Last

Chapter 1

Four Partners

I’M HEADIN’ for the Last Roundup, Get along little Dogie, get along.

Curley’s voice was deep and clear. He was on the drags today and was in an unusually good humor for Curley. Jerry was ridin’ point as usual, and Good Eye and I was on both wings, helpin’ Curley with the drags from time to time as the occasion required.

I’m headin’ for the Last Roundup, sang Curley again and none of us knew at the time how true his words were.

Get along little Dogie, get along.

He’d crack his ketch rope against the ribs or flank of some luckless drag that stopped to grab a bite of grass from time to time. His clothes and hat were heavy with alkali dust and every time he snapped the long half of his ketch rope, the dust raised off his clothes like flour.

All of a sudden the lead cattle made a quick turn and started running pell mell down the hillside. We could see the reason, because ahead, a short ways away, with green weeds and grass growing around it, was a big spring. The ground around was not white which indicated good water, with very little if any alkali taste.

We saw Jerry raise up his hand and ride around the herd toward us. When he drew near, he drawled, Well, fellows, reckon this looks like the place. What do you think, boys?

We had been looking for weeks for some spot like this, a spring and grass up in the mountains, to keep the calves and older slicks satisfied, away from chance riders and people who might be gathering up stock for beef or branding stray calves.

We were in a very sparsely settled country in Northern Wyoming, near the head of a creek. The country was very rugged, dry creeks and deep canyons and we were picking up slicks to tally out to a certain outfit near Douglas, Wyoming, at twelve dollars per head for every hoof we could find without a brand on it.

Working in the corner to the Northeast, we had a fine chance to do well, as we could work the area across three other State lines and anything that we could find unbranded we could trail these bunches across into Wyoming. After cutting out and branding any young stock that was old enough to rustle for themselves that weren’t branded, we could push the remainder of the bunch back where we got them, across the State borders into Montana or North or South Dakota.

As most outfits had certain areas where they worked the country in their roundups, we knew we had a good chance to avoid trouble if we didn’t bother the local Wyoming territory near our temporary headquarters. Most outfits stuck pretty close to their side of the State lines, and drifting cattle from one State to another didn’t offer the chances in rustling stock that we would have in trying to deliver stock to someone in the same area, would have done.

There were four of us fellows and each one was plenty handy at whatever was necessary in our business. Between the four of us, we pretty much knew the layout and country in the territory we were operating.

I had worked in the Belle Fourche Country in South Dakota for cow outfits, as well as being raised in the North Dakota Badlands. Jerry was in the Jackson Hole country for years and knew Wyoming as well as anyone could. Good Eye, a slick-heel rider from Wyoming, had worked in the Powder River Country in Montana, and Curley had punched cows all over the Badlands in North Dakota and had fine connections with certain people there who would help us to get slicks for a split in our profits.

We had a pretty fine set-up and she was sure working good. Calamity Joe over on Bullion Butte, was the only one outside of us four fellows who got a bigger split than any of the others, but Calamity was in a class by himself; and as he had his own personal outfit in the Badlands, he could do things that we were not in a position to do. He worked on the Indians in the Dakota Territory, and not only turned over calves, yearlings and some two-year-old slicks, but often had whole bunches of steers and she-stock that we didn’t need to worry about, even if they had brands on, for they would be stuff taken from the Indians on their reservations and there was no chance to take on them, once they were out of the Indian territory. We simply had to vent the old brands and put any brand we wanted on the critter.

We got more money for the older stock from the Indians, as they were worth twenty to twenty-five dollars per head in some places and we could sell them to most anyone without taking chances on trouble.

We decided to camp near the spring, so got off our horses (that were pretty well tired out), and started pulling our saddles. Good Eye’s job was to take care of the staked out saddle horses while he was at camp and Curley would get the fire going and kept buffalo chips, wood or some sort of fuel on hand for our camp fire. Jerry tinkered around with our small camp equipment and helped wash dishes, while my job was to cook the grub.

When we weren’t busy at these things we had lots of odd jobs to do; sewing up a torn shirt sleeve, mending a pair of chaps, cleaning or greasing up a bridle, saddle or pair of boots, washing clothes (once in awhile) or cleaning a rifle or six-shooter. While we didn’t use these weapons too often, it was the most important thing we possessed to keep in first-class shape for quick use.

Some men were proud of their ability to ride a bronc, like I was. Some men were proud of their ability to rope, like Curley. Some men were proud of their ability to read brands and work them like Good Eye, and some men were proud of their ability to cut cows and horses out of a bunch, like Jerry. But, if there was ever one thing that all wanted to be good at, it was pulling a gun quick and shooting straight. That was the one thing that counted in our Country more than any other accomplishment.

If you got thrown off a bucking horse, or missed roping a calf, or steer, or made a mistake reading a brand from across the gulch, that was something you could try over again or correct, but, Mister, if you had to pull a gun that was a split second too late, or if you shot and missed, that was something that you probably would never have another chance at.

After staking out the horses, Good Eye decided to walk up in the head of the draw above us to see if he could find anything worthwhile for supper. We had been traveling light and outside of beans, biscuits, bacon and coffee, we didn’t get much of a change of grub.

We didn’t do any shooting in most places on account of the possibility of attracting a stray rider our way, and if we stopped long enough in any place about the only extra grub we might have, would be a few June berries or whatever the Country might offer. If we killed a fat calf we would rope him and then cut his throat instead of shooting it.

However, we were all busy around camp and it was a big surprise to hear a rifle shot ring out among the trees and bushes above us where Good Eye had gone less than half an hour before.

Curley says, What in hell’s happened up there with Good Eye. Jerry ran over and took his rifle off the saddle and says, I’m going up there.

Curley and I stayed at the fire which was already burning, and I was just sharpening two sticks to hang the coffee pail on over the fire. I was plenty busy. We didn’t think anyone was around us for miles, but a shot kind of gets on your nerves in our business, and Curley was cussing around fit to kill.

Anyhow, I got my sticks braced up with some rocks and had my crosspiece on with the coffee can hanging down just right over my little fire and had started to dig a hole alongside to cook some beans in, when Curley says, Look! Here comes Good Eye, and Jerry, and they got something their dragging, and it don’t look much like a man either.

I looked up, but at first I couldn’t tell either what the hell they were dragging, until I saw a little pair of horns sticking out in front of them. They had a fat yearling deer, a mule or blacktail, pulling it along on the ground. Curley was still mad, and when Good Eye comes up close, Curley jumps him out for shooting like that without telling us he intended to, if he could locate anything.

Good Eye says, Hell, Curley, we all said when we got here that there isn’t an Indian or white man in this territory but us.

Well, Curley says, We maybe did, but it would have been a hell of a lot better if you told us you intended to shoot if you found something to shoot at.

Good Eye got kind of sore and says, Well, if you feel so bad, you don’t need to eat any of it, but about this time, Jerry cut in and says, Hell, fellows, let’s be damn glad we got some nice fat venison to eat and enjoy ourselves. Good Eye already done told me he didn’t think about telling us, ’cause he thought we knew he was going after game.

I says, Curley, if you will go up to that first clump of trees and get me some green sticks and some more dry fuel, I’ll bake you fellows some beans and roast you a big juicy steak that will make you think you’r all at some fancy restaurant in town.

So Curley took out our little hand axe that we carried with our outfit, and went up the draw and pretty soon we could hear him chopping and whistling to beat the band, so I knew that Curley was feeling good again and all over his hot temper.

We all were pretty easy to get along with, especially Good Eye, who would never say much to anyone and always minded his own business.

Jerry was like me, not quarrelsome.

Chapter 2

Curley, Foreman of the H.T. Outfit

CURLEY was a little on the hair trigger side. He was a big hombre, dark complexioned, pretty good looking, had lots of dark wavy hair, was a fighting fool, and would face a lion bare-handed.

I once saw him and a couple of other fellows try to wipe out several peace officers with their bare hands. Of course, they didn’t do it, but they tried their damndest. You see, they had a law that everybody had to check his guns when he entered the town and couldn’t have them back until they was leaving. They had to do this to stop killing and hell raising, so they got some good fast shooting gunmen to enforce the law, as Town Marshall and Deputies. These fellows of course, were armed and when a cowboy got drunk or started a fight they would generally work him over with the barrel end of a six-shooter. This was called buffaloing the man, in some places. When someone wrapped a heavy six- shooter barrel around his head, he would be knocked cold and generally woke up in the calaboose. The next day the Judge would fine him maybe twenty-five dollars and turn him loose; however, in some places they poked the fine up to as much as one hundred dollars, but that was unusual. In towns like Dodge City or Deadwood and other prominent places, they generally let a fellow off with a twenty-five dollar fine. Sometimes he was told to leave and not come back, in which case he was asking for a free ticket to Boothill Cemetery if he did.

Well, anyway, Curley got an awful beating up before he was knocked out and so did the other fellows with him. They had just come off a big horse roundup and had been working like the devil for months. Curley was foreman. It was the old H.T. outfit and Curley was living the straight and narrow path up to that time. The H.T. was a Badlands horse outfit in Dakota territory and Curley had worked up quite a reputation with the men in the outfit.

I had just come in off a cow roundup on the Yellowstone and was in town to blow in the money I had been earning, like all good cow-hands do. I was stopping at the only hotel in town, called the Rough Rider Hotel, in the little old cow-town of Medora, in Billings County near the Montana-Dakota border. Montana was wet and at Wibaux you could buy any kind of liquor.

The H.T. outfit had a deal on to ship out 15,000 head of horses. As Medora was better situated for them and their closest town, that’s how Curley and his crew pulled in to Medora on the Dakota side and over forty miles from a drink. Dakota was dry, at least at that time.

Curley came over to me at the livery barn and asked me if I knew where he and his gang could get something to drink. I told him that they had just hired a new State Attorney in Dakota and that he being meaner than Hell, had made all the sheriffs close up every saloon and sporting house that sold liquor in the State. Curley and the rest of the H.T. outfit sure did some splendid cussing, but that didn’t seem to get them anything to drink so they started to figure out what they could do to get some liquor, (or even beer, they said would do).

Wibaux was over the Montana border, but one of the fellows, a good friend of Curley’s, Gunny Sack Bill, couldn’t go over to Wibaux without getting into trouble with John Law. The Marshall at Wibaux had a warrant for Gunny Sack Bill charging him with horse stealing. Gunny Sack said that he didn’t steal the damn horses, but as he didn’t seem to want to take a chance on going over there just to prove he was no damned horse thief, no one in the bunch seemed to want to argue that one with Gunny Sack. Everybody just agreed that it might be best not to go there.

I had an idea that there was more to this horse stealing than Gunny Sack said, and I got another thought that there was a couple more of this bunch that didn’t want to stir up this horse stealing deal on account of their own necks. I never did get the low-down on it later either.

Anyway, Pug Plunket, a little bowlegged cowboy says, Tell you what fellows, I know a bootlegger near Dickinson, which ain’t mor’n fifty miles to his place, that I betcha we can get plenty Kentucky Whiskey from.

There was some question amongst the fellows about riding fifty miles there and fifty miles back and maybe no whiskey going that far.

Curley went over and talked to a bootlegger by the name of Johnnie Brill, who run the L.Z. Club, or gambling joint in Medora. Johnnie was a gambler. He also ran some horses out in the breaks and had a blind pig (saloon) when the officers permitted or closed their eyes to it. At this time Johnnie was only in the horse business. He had cleaned out his stocks after being tipped off by someone in the know about a raid by John Law. Of course, he was still making money, you see, because he didn’t always pay for some horses he got. They came easy about this time in and around Medora, if you were smart and didn’t get caught, that is all you had to be careful about. Horses were stolen within sight of Medora plenty of times.

I had one bunch of my own stolen by this same outfit; although I couldn’t prove it. I knew from what they told me themselves, but I got nowhere for a lot of good reasons. Anyway, I was playing a lone hand and was just a boy at this stage of the game. I had two tough hombres who had not only the physical means at their disposal, but they had powerful influence in the country with John Law and with the Stock Association. Their word was too strong for me, so they stole my horses and made me like it.

Anyway, Johnnie Brill finally did give them a note to this bootlegger near Dickinson and off the boys went, and sure enough they got the whiskey where little old Pug Plunket said. After all getting plenty drunk, Curley decided that he was going to Dickinson to shoot the God damn officers that were trying to run the cowmen. In fact, Curley decided to shoot up the town and the fellows were all steamed up to help him. After a few wild shots at anything they could see worthwhile shooting at, they headed in for Dickinson, which was less than ten miles from this bootlegger’s camp. They had just started up one street and was shooting out windows and other good marks, when they saw a rider loping his horse, coming down toward them from the main part of town.

Curley says, There comes one of them sons of bitches down the street now. When he gets down hyar, I’ll take care of him. You fellows, lay off. So, after a little arguing, mostly from Gunny Sack Bill, who reckoned he could outshoot any damned Northerner, the boys held their fire and waited for this officer to reach them.

Curley says, I don’t aim to start shootin’ until I see he is pulling his gun. I reckon I’m as fast on the draw as any hombre in this section.

Gunny Sack Bill says, Well, Curley, don’t forget what the Marshall in Dodge City did to Jake Spence that time, and Jake was pretty damn fast on the draw you happen to know yourself.

Jake had met Curley down at Dodge City one time and they got in a quarrel and agreed to shoot it out. So the boys all rode out to a big corral near the livery barn, so no stray bullets would hit anybody else. After they all got there, they left their horses outside the corral and going inside they marked off a fair distance (about sixty feet it was) and Curley and Jake were put in the center and faced back to back and were to start walking away from each other, each toward his mark and then turn and fire at the other when he got there.

Then Curley and Jake started walking and each figured that if he got to his mark first he would have a little better chance for first shot, so they were sure taking faster steps as they neared the marker set for them to turn at. They didn’t want any of us fellows to think that they needed any break over the other fellow, but you could plainly see they were taking longer and quicker steps at the last than at first, but when they turned, they turned almost as one man.

Jake shot a fraction of a second sooner than Curley, but both guns went off almost the same time. Jake shot from a lower position than Curley did, almost from his gun holster; while Curley seemed to raise his gun a foot or more higher. We reckoned that was the main reason for Jake’s gun shooting a split fraction of a second sooner than Curley’s.

Jake’s first shot caught Curley’s gun hand and knocked the six-shooter over the corral fence, also taking the end off of Curley’s trigger finger. Curley’s shot must have left the gun barrel after it was struck by Jake’s bullet, for it didn’t even go in the same direction as Jake, but went between the corral poles and struck Jake’s saddle horse in the leg and busted the horse’s leg. We had to kill the horse later on to put it out of its misery.

Curley and Jake shoot it out in Runyon Corral at Dodge City.

When we picked up Curley’s prize six-shooter, we found that the bullet had smashed the cartridge chambers so that it was plumb out of use. The cylinder wouldn’t turn around and Curley seemed more put out about his pet six-shooter being busted than he was about losing the end of his finger. His hand was swelling up and the finger was bleeding so bad we had to hustle him off to a doctor in town to stop it.

Gunny Sack Bill wanted to build a fire and burn the end of his finger with a hot branding iron, but we figured the doctor could stop the bleeding maybe easier than searing it with a hot iron.

Jake sure was feeling bad. You’d have thought that he would have been damn cheerful after winning his duel over Curley and not getting a hole drilled through his belly. But no, the damn fool felt so bad about his top saddle horse, that he stayed around the livery barn while we left with Curley to take him up to Dr. Shellys to get him fixed up.

After we got Curley’s finger fixed up by the Doc, Curley says, I gotta get my six-shooter fixed up the first thing, as there are several buckos in this hyar town that would polish me off if they were sure I had no gun with me.

Hell, said Johnny Cram, Look at your damn finger, Curley. You couldn’t get that God damn finger in a prairie dog hole with all that wrappin’ around it. How in hell d’you expect to stick it inside the trigger guard of your six-gun?

Curley says, Well, Johnny, I’ll use my left hand.

Then Johnny says, Curley, you never did pack two six-shooters and I’ll bet you couldn’t hit that livery barn a hundred yards off with your left hand.

Curley was kind of mad at that, but he says, I guess you fellows are right, I never could shoot worth a damn with my left hand and that’s the reason I never packed two guns on me. I’ve tried like hell for years to shoot with the left hand, but somehow she don’t want to work at all, and I make a fool of myself for trying.

That was a lot for a guy with a quick temper like Curley’s to admit. He was very fast on the draw with his right hand, but his left hand was no help at all. His raising his gun higher than Jake, had given Jake that split fraction which made for life or death in all our gun fights.

Curley was in a bad way just the same. There were several men in town that would have given a lot to run across him without a gun and we knew it as well as Curley. His temper had made him a lot of enemies in Dodge City, and men who knew they had no chance against him in a fair break of draw, would be eager to drive home their advantage now if given the chance.

Johnny says, Why don’t you come out with me to the Circle Dot Ranch and visit with us until your finger gets well and you get your six-shooter fixed? Curley says, Hell, I can buy me another six-shooter, but my damn hand and arm is paralyzed up to the elbow from shock. I’ll be no good to anyone else or myself either for a month or two, so Doc says.

Johnny says, But you can help us tally steers and earn your keep, Curley, if you feel that way about it. I know damn well the Boss would be glad to have you stay all Summer if you need, to fix up your arm.

So Curley says, All right, I guess at that I’ll live longer tallying steers at your outfit Johnny, than I would packin’ or not packin’ a gun in Dodge City, so, I reckon I’ll take you up on that invitation.

First, though, let’s get that Bill Cole, the gunsmith, to see what he can do to getting my old side kick fixed up so she’ll shoot again. I done got me that weapon when I was a little colt at Tombstone, Arizona, as a present. The fastest and best man who ever owned a six-shooter give me that gun for nothing. He kind of took a shine to me as he said I reminded him so much of one of the best bad men he’d ever known in his long experience. Going on, Curley says, You all know of him, if you don’t know him personally. His handle is Wyatt Earp, (the fastest man I ever knew) outside of Wild Bill Hickok, who got murdered in Deadwood, South Dakota. Wyatt Earp told me that I looked and acted so much like this fellow, and he said that ain’t all Curley, this fellow had the same nickname as you. He was Curley Bill from over near the Huachua Mountains, just north of the Mexican border in Arizona. Curley Bill was an outlaw most all of his years, but he had a lot of good in him as a man. His word was good and he always helped his friends when they needed it. He had a sunny and innocent look on his face and you never would think looking at him that he’d just as soon kill a man as look at him. He never did it exactly for meanness or hate, but just as a matter of fun, for convenience or necessity. He’d be willing to spend money to help bury the fellow or help his widow if he had one around. He’d even buy the corpse a fine suit of clothes to get buried in, if he happened to get killed in or near a town.

He was awful good that way and generous, but he’d steal your horse from in under you if it suited his fancy, and it suited his fancy right often.

I don’t mean that he was a little small time horse thief, that went in for someone’s lone saddle horse. No, he’d take the whole damn bunch of cattle or horses that someone owned and trail them across the border and sell them. Then he’d go back and steal them over again if he could and sell them to someone else in some other part of the country. He really knew how to steal and he could murder just as easy as he could steal, yet the hombre had a fine personality and made friends, mostly however, from the outlaws around the country. Some honest ranchers were his friends also and he would help them out of trouble if they called on him.

So, Curley went on to tell us, "Wyatt Earp gave me a six-shooter that he took away from Curley Bill in Tombstone, Arizona, along about 1881 when he arrested Curley Bill and had him fined for bustin’ their laws in Tombstone.

Curley Bill was a bad man and a crack shot. He had all the courage any man could ask for and when Wyatt Earp arrested him, it was like kicking up a sleeping rattlesnake, but Curley Bill like a lot of other gun fighters in our West, knew and respected courage in others.

Curley Bill knew, and who didn’t, the path Wyatt Earp had made, starting at Kansas City and Ellsworth, Wichita, Dodge City, Tombstone, Pierce and even Deadwood; a path of blazing six-shooters, rifles and sawed-off shotguns; a path that out shown, out fought, and out maneuvered the best and toughest men that ever wore high heeled boots; in a land that was rough, in the worst towns of the territory, where killers, fighters, cowboys, miners, whores, pimps, gamblers and Indians were all mixed together in one puddle.

No wonder Curley wanted to keep his gun that Wyatt Earp had given him, that he took from Curley Bill. I’d given a dozen head of stolen cattle myself for it.

We went down to the livery barn to see Curley and Johnny off for the Circle Dot, where Johnny was repping. When we got there the livery man told us that Jake felt so bad about losing his pet saddle horse that he borrowed twenty-five dollars from one of his friends and gave it to him to bury his horse out at the edge of town, Just like a person gets buried. George, the liveryman says, Except the minister ain’t there.

We pulled out of Dodge City