My home ranch-house stands on the river brink. From the low, long veranda, shaded by leafy cottonwoods, one looks across sand bars and shallows to a strip of meadowland, behind which rises a line of sheer cliffs and grassy plateaus. This veranda is a pleasant place in the summer evenings when a cool breeze stirs along the river and blows in the faces of the tired men, who loll back in their rocking chairs (what true American does not enjoy a rocking-chair?), book in hand--though they do not often read the books, but rock gently to and fro, gazing sleepily out at the weird-looking buttes opposite, until their sharp outlines grow indistinct and purple in the afterglow of the sunset - Theodore Roosevelt
He heaved himself over on the horse and turned himself to face the Stegosaurus and the calf. The wrangler drew a coil of rope and began twirling it.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Bill Sewall’s voice rang out loud and clear across the corral. Theodore Roosevelt wiped the hat across his brow, leaving a dirty smudge and smashed it down on his head. He picked up the still rope and began coiling it for another throw.
Roosevelt frowned. Bill wasn’t due back from the ox Bow ranch until Dinner. He had thought he had plenty of time to show the men how much his training was paying off. Now, here Bill was, sitting on his pony and watching him make a fool of himself in front of the men. This wasn’t good.
He reached down and picked up what was left of his expensive stetson and shook the dust off it. He slapped it roughly against his buckskin chaps and tried to pound it back into some sort of shape. The back of his neck burned red and he tried to ignore the stifled laughter from the ranch hands.
“I have this, Bill,” he called out.
“Ayup. Get on it this time or I’m shutting you down. These men have real work to do.”
“I said I have this.”
The cow was backed up against the far side, her head lowered into a defensive posture. Her spiked tail was arched over her head, ready to swing. At her side was an agitated calf. The calf was trying to hide and shield itself with her body. It was bleating and nuzzling the larger beast.
Around the outside of the ring, a horse paced, turning from one side to the other. The horse was saddled, and a taut length of rope was tied to the saddle horn and led to a figure coiling a length of rope. Sewall frowned. Roosevelt had snagged the Calf with a throw that had come loose. He should not have gotten off the horse until it was secure. Bill spat into the ground.
“Then why’d ya get down off the pony?”
Roosevelt grimaced.
“Boss’s OK, Bill. She ain’t charged anyone yet. That cow’s soft,” Roosevelt heard Wilmot Dow talking to his Uncle. Wilmot had followed Sewall and Roosevelt out to the badlands from Maine and was Bill’s right-hand man at the ranch. Young and wiry, he had a lot in common with both men.
“About as soft as the boss’s head. Get a couple rifles on her. If she charges I want her put down. It’ll be on him.”
Bill turned and shouted into the ring, “Get on the damn horse!” He motioned to the two men at the gate of the corral and spurred his horse over to it. One of the hands quickly untied the gate and let him into the corral. Sewall positioned himself between the Stegosaurus and the Boss, giving him time to get back on his mount.
Roosevelt swung himself onto his pony, Manitou, set his feet in the stirrups. He hooked the rope over the saddle’s horn and turned Manitou to the right. The Mother Stegosaur snapped at him, then turned the other way and whipped its spiked tail at him. Manitou, at least, was expecting it and reared up and out of the way as Roosevelt stood in the stirrups and held on.
Bill moved off to the left. He goaded his horse towards the dinosaur. The beast bellowed at him and swung to the side, readying its tail for a strike. That turned it away from the calf, which bolted.
Trying to find safety under its mother’s belly, the calf turned and made a dash under the big animals chin. Roosevelt threw his rope and this time it hit its mark, easily looping over the calf’s exposed beak and sliding down its neck. Quickly he jumped off his horse and slapped it. Manitou had been trained well and immediately back off towards the fence, tightening the rope around the calf’s neck and yanking it towards the cowboy.
Roosevelt was quick. He grabbed another length of rope from his belt, reached under the calf’s neck with his free arm and gave a quick yank to the far foreleg. As he did, he slammed himself into the calf’s shoulder, pitching it onto its side. He tied a half hitch around the one foreleg, then brought them together. It was more difficult than bulldogging a cattle’s calf for branding: the legs didn’t quite fit together right, but after a few seconds of pulling and shoving the animal around, he had all four legs tied together. The calf was on its side, panting into the dirt, kicking up little clouds of dust with each breath.
The mother turned towards the calf and bellowed again. Bill Sewall cut in front of it, backing it into the fence and keeping it from charging.
“Get that rope off, now.”
Some of the men had opened the gate and had untied the rope from the boss’s horse. He snapped the slack towards the bulldogged calf and quickly set it free. The calf bounded up and ran towards its mother. Four of the hands appeared in the ring on their mounts and circled the mother.
“Where’d you men get them?” Sewall asked.
“Down at the Ox-bow. There were about thirty.”
“Alright. Get ’em back, and tomorrow we’ll bring the herd up out of those bottoms. Get the cattle over to the east end and box them in. I don’t want them mixing in with the Dinosaurs or we won’t get them back by the roundup.”
The men started shouting and slapping at the big beasts side, deftly avoiding the tail. The Stegosaurus grunted it’s displeasure, but began moving out of the arena.
The Boss was finishing coiling his rope. He had lowered the bandanna. He was young, only in his mid-twenties, and his face was dominated by a bushy, sandy beard and an infectious grin. Bill rode over to him.
“You’re getting better, but I still don’t want you in that ring alone.”
“Sorry, Bill. I thought you were going to be gone most of the day.”
“Ayup, I was. But there’s a visitor for you at the Maltese.”
“Really?” He reached into a shirt pocket and pulled out a thick pair of spectacles. He pinched them onto his nose and squinted up at Sewall. “Family?”
“No. New York type, though.”
“Well then,” He swung himself up on the Pony. “I better go check it out.”