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Show /s back and something of a heller himself. He shook out the rope and waved the loop back and forth with his wrist. "Ain't it twisted?" said Dad. "Hell no," said Henry, "that's as open as a door." But when he got his first throw at a calf, the loop closed. Henry sort of grinned: "This stupid rope heard you," he said. He kept trying, not too good at it, and finally got one of the little Jersey heifers. Dad threw her down and tied her with the ortier rope, then we dehorned, ear-marked and branded her. While Dad untied her, I got the other rope ready. "I'll get the next one," he said. I didn't mind, the youngest is always last, but I did think he should have gone before Henry. I was worried about my roping too; I'd been out practicing every evening after chores for a month, but on fence posts since calves were forbidden, and so I was watching my father the way sons do, for inspiration. But though he was a good roper, he wasn't having much luck. He'd get a good shot and another calf would break it up; or the calf would stand still until he threw and then run like hell; and he was swearing and sweating and he got hurried and on his best shot his loop closed. "Always make sure your loop ain't twisted," I hollered cockily. He grinned and went for one as it broke from a corner. It looked like a perfect throw but that calf stopped like he'd hit a glass wall and the loop fell off his nose. Henry and I were bunching the calves and holding them, and once in a while I'd had a loop out sort oE test whirling it, and that time while Dad was pulling in his rope and coiling it, I gave mine a whirl and there was this white-face going by, so I tossed and got hm. "Hey! Good throw, Bill!" yelled Henry, and I was skidding my heels in the dust trying to hold him, and Dad yelled to Henry: "Don't stand there talking, get him down!" He sounded mad but it wasn't until the calf was down and tied that I realized he was mad at me. I didn't care. It was the bull calf and I went to get the dehorners strutting like I really had it made. But I didn't have the strength to cut clean with them, so I handed them to Dad, who fit them to the base of the hom, closed the handles with a strong smooth motion and sheared the hom off so close to the skull that a ring of hair went with it. It left a little hole in the skull where we poured the creosote dip so that the flies wouldn't blow it. After the horns, Dad opened 231 |
