Housetops Bear by Joe Moon
Dance and I were green breaking a bunch of four and five-year-old stock for a hard nosed German name of Heinstroff. He had homesteaded a place at the foothills of the bighorns. He was tight fisted with his money, never bought any thing he could make for himself and was right handy at making most any thing that was needed. And cause of that he had increased his spread to thirty-two sections ten years after he homesteaded.
The old man had named his spread the Housetop creek ranch and branded his stock with a rafter H, covering the left side of his cattle and the left jaw of his horses. His place was in the foothills of the mountains, and was rough country mostly juniper brakes, with some pine and meadow mountain land.
He ran about five hundred head of shorthorn cattle on fifteen sections of that land. But his first love was horses; had he about eighty head of blooded Percheron brood mares and kept four Morgan studs. He had fenced and cross-fenced another ten sections where he kept them in bunches of 20 mares to one stallion.
Each fall he would have him a horse roundup, separate the colts from their mammy’s and then he would brand them and geld the males, cull the fillies by selling the best ones to ranches for breeding stock, the rest were shipped to the glue factory. He would then cut these short yearlings gilding from the breeding stock and throw them into a four-section pasture. He had four of these pastures and he would let those yearlings run free until they were four needless to say between starvation, mountain lion, coyotes, wolves and bear; those that survived to 4 were few and far between also they were a tough and independent bunch but the Army sure paid him top dollar for remounts.
Although he put up hay on about five sections of meadowland he never winter-fed the common stock, saying, “I only vant da vons who is smard enuff to live on dere own.”
Now he kept his breeding stock well fed and healthy but the rest, his selling stock ran free and wild on the rest of his land, which was the roughest meanest piece of real estate, a body could find. There was no flat when traveling over it a body was either going up or coming down. There were boulders, coulees, rim rock, timber, cactus, scrub juniper and sagebrush. Snakes, badger, prairie dog towns and all kinds of varmints that could make a young horses life plumb miserable.
Those that survived were the best of the best.
Because his name was so hard to wrap your tongue around folk started calling him Hans or Old Housetop. His horses were housetop horses.
That old man was as independent has his broncs. He had built and fixed up his place on his lonesome. Not asking or receiving help from anyone. It was four square, hog tight, and plumb. The logs for his house and barn were fitted so tight
You couldn’t find a spot of daylight through them. Thick sod roofs that drained into rain barrels. Both the barn and the house were spotless and you could eat off the floor in either one of them.
Dance and I slept in the barn in a big old room he called the bunkhouse. We took our meals with him in the house. With his disposition, he went through hands pretty often.
We had been working pretty steady had about 20 head ready to sell with another twenty coming along. So after three months we decided we should ride into Sheridan see the sights and tree the tiger. It was Saturday morning when we broached the subject. Dance being the spokesman put it to him like this at breakfast. “Hans, Windy, and I are going to take a couple of days in town so we’d like to draw forty dollars each get some new clothes, take in the sites and have a taste o’ firewater. We’ll ride in today and be back Sunday night, ready to go to work Monday.
The old man glared across the table at him. Slammed those big ham like hands of his down on that two inch oak so hard all the dishes on the table jumped.
“You poys vill not pe goink anyvere till da vork you do pe done!” He bellowed. “If you go do not come pak. For you vill pe fired da minute you ride out.”
No me I am a peace loving man. I would have probably stayed and toughed it out. But Dance he has got a stubborn streak in him and when pushed he just naturally pushes back.
“Fine you, grumpy old buzzard, you kin finish off the rest of those broomtails you self! You get our money now and we’ll be riding!”
That old man was mad. He sat there a minute his neck swelling his face turning red I thought he was going to pass out. With a loud whoosh he let, his breath out stood up shoved the table knocking Dance and me a rolling, and stomped out the room to his office.
I stood up, give Dance a hand up, we dusted ourselves off.
“Well ol’ buddy”, I said, “now that you quit for both of us what we are going to do now?”
“We was looking for work when we got this”, he replied, “I’ve had enough of Wyoming, les go to Nevada?”
About then the old man come stomping back in. He had a salt sack in one hand and a twelve gauge double-barreled shotgun in the other, fully cocked and stuffed against his hip. He threw the salt sack to Dance. “Dere pe vunhunert dollars in dat sack. Take it and get oudt it twenty minutes or I vill shoot you for trespass.
For a minute, I thought that fool Dance was going to argue. One hundred dollars was half of what we had coming. We had contracted to break them ol ponies for twenty dollars a head. We had twenty of them ready. But to me, and the math I was using, one hundred dollars was more than two barrels of buckshot any day.
Dance must have come to the same cipher, cause he turned with me and was shoving awful hard when we hit that door a running.
Old Housetop, I couldn’t figure, why the shotgun? He had a reputation as a brawler. He stood six foot six in his bare feet. Weighed three hundred and twenty pounds. He made his brag that man or beast had never whipped him, in his entire fifty-two years of living. My self I had seen him kill a mad bull that charged him, by side stepping him and smashing a fist into the side of his neck. He surely didn’t need a shotgun for a couple of half pints like us?
We had caught up our stock before we went to breakfast. So it was just a matter of rolling up our plunder saddling up and riding out. While I rolled up the gear, Dance was saddling the horses and cussing Old Housetop with every breath.
After a while, I couldn’t here him grumbling so I looked out to see what was the matter. When he saw me, he put his finger over his lips and shushed me pointing to the west end of the barn.
Now it was a big old barn about thirty feet wide and fifty feet long. On the south side, towards the house, house there was a man door. And big, double stock and equipment doors, on the east and west end. When I looked at the west end where Dance was pointing, I sees a young black bear cub investigating the shadows about ten feet inside the west doors.
Dance had a gleam in his eye I didn’t like. He led the horse quietly to the east doors and as we were tying the gear behind our saddles, he outlined it his idea to me. He lowed as how that the mama bear was in the center of a plumb thicket about twenty feet west of the barn door. He was going to sneak out the south door sidle around to the west doors swing them shut, bar them then hot foot it down to the east end where I would be waiting with the horses. We would then close and lock the east end doors leaving Housetop with a barn full of squalling bear cub and a mad mama bear on the outside.
I was agin’ it. “Dance that ol’ man is setting on the porch with that shotgun across his knees. He’ll plumb load you down with buckshot!”
“Naw I’ll be around the west end of that barn for he wakes up. You jes be ready to go when I get down here!”
With that he scooted to the side door and outside.
I looked; the cub was still there, rolling around in a patch of sunlit dust. About then I hear Hans beller, “Hey vat da………” and the shotgun goes off.
Dance comes through the west doors slams them shut, drops the bar, kicks the cub a squalling as he comes running down the ally way to me. I am a horseback. He slams the east door drops the bar on it. I throw him his bridle reins and head out at a dead run. He makes a pony express mount, and hits the trail right behind me. We ride to the brow of a hill out of shotgun range; then Dance pulls up to watch the show. We are both laughing so hard we can hardly set our saddles.
Then we quit laughing.
Old Housetop comes around the southeast corner of the barn, head down trying to stuff shells in that gun, about the same time as mama comes around the northeast corner. Housetop drops the shells, snaps the gun closed, ducks a swipe by mama and the both run into each other a both go down. Housetop is up first but it is close he jambs the gun into mama’s throat, as she’s coming in. it sets her back on her haunches and you can hear her gagging from where we are. She slaps the gun out of Housetops hands. As she is starting to get up he steps to one side and lands one of those ham sized fist along side her head; knocking her down again. Then the fool steps in as she is getting up and hits her with both hands in the same place. This time she stays down.
Housetop goes to the east door unbars them and throws them open. That cub comes rolling out and runs to his mama who is now setting up shaking her head trying to get the cobwebs out.
Now me I figured up to this time had been plumb lucky, and if I were, he I would be making tracks cause that old bear was going to be one mad mamma. But no not him, he just stands there watching the cub snuggle up to its mama. Then that old girl gets to her feet, stairs at the old man for a minute then walking a wide circle around him her and the cub head up the hill to the north. When they had gone about forty yards she stops stands up on her hind legs looking back at him she raises her right paw and kind of waves in his direction. Housetop waves back. She drops down on all fours and her and the cub disappear into the timber.
Housetop looks up to where we are setting our broncs bug eyed, and hollers, “You poys come here.”
He didn’t sound upset so we cantered down to where he stood. Both of us was kind of awestruck by what we’d just seen.
“Yes Sir.” Dance mumbled.
The old man smiled. “You poys, put your gear back in der bunkhouse. You haf had a goot laugh, and I haf had a goot fight, you go on to town, but be back here for work Mondays.”
Dance looked at me. "What'cha think Windy?
“Well Dance, I don’t know bout you. But I think I’ll hang around.”
“Me too”, he grunts, “Ain’t everybody gets to work for a man who can whip a bear.
The end
