It was one of the darkest nights Lasso Luke had ever seen in the desert. The night before the moon had lit every yucca leaf like a branding iron, but tonight even the flicker of the close fire was swallowed in the black. Just beyond, the herd of steers had settled down, and only their slight rustle broke the desert silence.
“I’m ready for this drive to be over,” Lasso snarled, “My rear end’s sore and I’m sick of cold grits. Everything out here tastes like sand.”
Three-Toed Pete huddled near the flame, wailing a tune on his harmonica and had been stuck on the same note for too long.
Ain’t got a home,
Ain’t got no fire and no warm coals,
I aint got a home,
Ain’t got a home for my lost toes.
The next verse was the same, with a long note again held beyond what any cowboy could tolerate.
“I wish you’d sing about something other than your lost toes,” Lasso said, not looking up. “I’m still in a bad temper over what happened in Laramie. The nerve of that auctioneer asking us to round up! He got no idea ‘bout rounding up.”
Three-toed stopped abruptly, looked up now and shook his head.
“You’re right Lasso. We take care of our steers like they was our kin, then they expect us to give a couple more of them away cause the herd ain’t an even number. That auctioneer – HA! – I’ve a mind to cut his ear off.”
“Glad you didn’t, Three-toed, but I’m the same. Round up? What’s that all about? Got some nerve asking us to round up the herd.”
“Other day,” Three-toed butted in, “A man asks me if I care to round up for the Hatfields and McCoy feud? I told him they can fix their own feud! I ain’t giving a few extra of my herd for some cause I had nothing to do with. Those Hatfields and McCoys can pick themselves up by their own bootstraps and get moving like the rest of us had to. Go round your own self up I says to that clerk.”
“Cattle pies!” Lasso yelped, jumping up and spitting in the fire. “The OK Corral wanted me to donate a steer back in Tombstone for Wyatt, you know on account of when his brother got shot, then some charity cornered me about rounding up for some gruesome mess Calamity Jane got herself into there in El Paso. Cattle pies I said. When they find me dead and gone, dried up out here deadern’ doornail, there won’t be anything left to round up, and...”
Three-toed was up on his boots too, fuming.
“I had to round up when Butch and Sundance robbed that train outa Nevada Territory, and I telled myself that was it. I can’t be rounding up for every outlaw that walks into Dodge or wears a six shooter! You sees anybody rounding up for me? Won’t be long before they’ll be asking us to round up for a lot more than just our cattle! No sirs I’m rounding up no more. I’z doooone with a capitol D.”
It had been a blistering cattle drive, and it had brought out the worst in them both. The Rio Grande was nothing but a mud pit when they tried to cross over. Three prime steers got stuck in the mud and had to be shot right there and left to rot in the sun. With a head of eighty, they were already days behind auction when two more steers fell off a ridge near the San DeHoochie Pass, pinned down in a gorge twenty feet below. They had to leave them there too, snorting in misery, most likely to die by coyotes as soon as night fell.
“Play us something Three-toed,” urged Lasso Luke, leaning on his saddle roll, “Play another tune on that harp. I’m tired and I wanna forget my worries.”
Reaching in his saddlebag, Three-Toed Pete pulled out his harp again, blew off the sand and hit a middle C, just to hear it drift off into the starless night:
I got those round up blues,
oh yea, I does, I do
I had me ninety cattle
They rounded me up to ninety-two.
My horse is spent from round ups
I’m dang tired of ‘em too...
I can’t stand to lose more toes,
if they round up my shoes.
Oh yea, I got those Round up Blues…(harmonica fades).