Our family moved West to do some homesteading. While my father is a good farmer the land out our way isn't really much good. A lot of work is required for a poor return. He figured to move West, find a place with decent soil, and start afresh. He sold off our old place, getting more than it was worth. Old Joe McLin had always wanted our place, attributing the quality of my father's produce to us having decent land. He was in for a nasty shock when he found that his lazy methods wouldn't raise the same results as my father's hard work.
Our land abutted the official boundaries of a rather large ranch. Not being an idiot, Pop went to the ranch headquarters and introduced himself. He explained what he intended doing and got tacit permission from the rancher to go ahead. Not that he required permission, legally, but being legal didn't stop rancher's running homesteaders off their land. He also set up a deal with the rancher where the ranch would supply us with beef and we, in turn, would supply the ranch with pork, fresh vegetables, and eggs.
All-in-all it was a sweet deal. We were farming at the mouth of a valley and the farm could expand into the valley if we needed more land. As far as the rancher was concerned he didn't need the valley as any expansion he wanted to do would be to the East of his property.
My father and brothers threw up a shack for us to live in and then got to work preparing the farm. A sty, a henhouse, and a corral were put up, all of them better workmanship than our shack. With the animals housed my father and brothers got to work on their main task - farming, preparing the soil and getting the first planting in while there was still time to get a crop this year. All except for Mike. Mike was really good with his hands and he was assigned the job of building a barn and a proper house. (You'll notice the barn came first. Pop always put the animals first.)
By the end of the first year things were going well. We'd had a pretty decent crop and made some money off it. The barn and the house were up and the house was quite a good one. Only waxed paper for window, but glass just cost too much. The waxed paper would do for the time being. That was the year I turned eighteen and I was given a day off my chores, except for feeding the chickens and pigs.
I decided to go fishing. The river was just a short walk from our place and there were a couple of decent pools there where you could catch some trout. It was a hot day so I might even take a dip. It wasn't as though there'd be anyone around and I'd have warning if anyone did come that way.
I took an old bucket with me along with my rifle. Instead of putting the fish on a string as soon as I caught them I'd just dump them in the bucket of water. They'd stay alive and wouldn't go off, which could easily happen if the sun got too hot. I spent a lazy morning and caught half a dozen fat trout, which was easily enough for our dinner that night. I was going to leave it at that and go swimming when I heard horses approaching.
A couple of riders came into view. Spotting me the riders steered in my direction. As they pulled up I spotted the brand on the horses - a Rocking R, the big ranch that my father dealt with.
One of the young men was snapping his fingers, as he looked at me, and then his face brightened.
"Got you," he said. "You'll be Tracy, the local farmer's girl. Right?"
I conceded that he was right and asked who they were
"I'm Chuck. He's Hank. Been fishing I see."
Seeing I had a bucket full of fish and was carrying a fishing rod it was a pretty obvious conclusion. I simply gave a nod of acknowledgement and waited to see if they actually wanted something or just wanted to get acquainted.
"I don't recall the boss giving you fishing rights," Chuck said.
"Don't need them," I pointed out. "The river is unclaimed. If it helps, these aren't Rocking R fish."
"And you can tell this how?" asked Chuck.
"No Rocking R brand on them," I said. "I checked. Your boss assured us that all his stock has been branded. He also suggested we do the same to our own stock. These fish are mavericks and free for the taking."
"She's got you there, Chuck," sniggered Hank. "Maybe you should suggest to the boss that we round up the trout and brand them."
"What sort of brand did you pick?" asked Chuck.
"A dog," I told him. "My brother is very good with his hands and he came up with a branding iron that's the shape of a dog."
"Not bad," said Hank. "That one won't be blotted in a hurry and it would be real hard to alter someone else's brand to resemble a dog. Protection both ways."
"Ah, blotted?" I asked, not having heard the word before.
"It's what we call it when rustlers change the brand. The Boss doesn't just own the Rocking R. He finished up registering the Circle B, as well, as someone started changing his brands. Fortunately the idiot forgot to register the brand. The boss registered it and then claimed his stolen stock and some stuff the rustler had actually owned."
"Oh. Well, good luck changing a dog to look like something else."
"Anyway, you say that unbranded stock is free for the taking," said Chuck with a grin. "Not strictly true, but close enough, I guess. Accordingly we should always check for brands, yes?"
Chuck dismounted and nodded to Hank, who also dismounted. They ambled across to me and looked in the bucket.
"Nice fish," admitted Chuck, "and no brands, as you said. I guess they're yours."
"Why, thank you," I said, smiling.
"Now we'll just check your brand."
"Excuse me?" Check my brand? What the hell did he mean by that?
"I'm just going to check to see if you're properly branded. If not then I reckon you're free for us to take."
