Joe knew he was not likely to see Sam again ever; and the big boss surely would be away three months or more. Something had to be done at once with the horse herd remnant, or it would vanish.
"I'll gather the poorer 'ns fust, an' sell 'em. Then the good ones. The broodies an' stallions last. . . iffen Big Jim ain't come by then. . ." he decided.
He had accompanied Sam Hardy once to the market at Fort Dickerson, where army buyers haggled and bought—and sometimes split prices with men who could be bribed. So Rosebud Joe knew about what the ordinary grade of Morgan saddlers should bring. Also he expected to have to bargain a long time when he offered animals for sale.
But almost unknown to this horse range, bugles were blowing. Great ships of the navy were plowing the deep, bound for Santiago and Manila Bay. Transports were carrying troops to Cuba. Rough Riders were gathering under the beloved Teddy. Down at Chickamauga twenty thousand soldiers were stricken with yellow jack. A war was on. . .
So it was that when two weeks later a saddle stained and tired looking waddy came into the Fort with thirty-three splendid, well-fed Morgans—the culls they were, at that—the army buyers fairly mobbed Rosebud Joe. They asked no questions, but demanded the horses. The rate they mentioned made the lad's brown eyes bulge. But he had a certain duty to Big Jim, he thought. He refused the first offer—and got one fifty percent higher.
He accepted that, took the paymaster's check, and went to the bank at Marysville. With complete candor he went to the bank president and told his simple story; how this money belonged to Big Jim Haskins, and there would be more. How could he keep it safe for his boss?
Matt Halleck was a straight shooter. As soon as he found out the kid was square, he helped. He fixed up the account in Big Jim's name, giving the boy a hundred dollars for grub, out of it. Then Matt sat down and wrote a dry sort of letter to Big Jim at the hospital in Miles City, enclosing the deposit slip and saying he thought Big Jim had considerable trust in humanity to load this responsibility on a kid's shoulders.
Big Jim cursed and squirmed in his cast. He managed to write a long letter of directions to Rosebud Joe and Sam Hardy, whom he supposed to be at the ranch. The letter never was delivered, for the simple reason that Rosebud Joe never had got a letter in his life, and did not think to go to a post-office and enquire for one now.
It was nearly a month later that the young waddy rode into the Fort with his next herd of horses. Then it was he learned of the death by blood poisoning, of Sam Hardy. There was nothing to do but set his jaw. Sam had been a friend. Now he was gone. Rosebud Joe sold the thirty-seven horses and went back for more.
One more trip was made in safety; and then there were just three extremely valuable stallions, and fifteen brood mares left. These stallions had to be hoppled; and even then, with their flaring nostrils blood red, their mating and fighting passions aroused, they would be extremely troublesome on the trail.
It took the kid five days to get them V-stalled, hoppled, and turned into the holding corral. Then Rosebud Joe
