MAVERICK CANYON

Blossom was a little brown female dog with floppy ears, short legs and a long body. She was my trapping dog, good to follow the drag marks of an animal with a trap on its foot. Maybe she was a cross between a Cocker Spaniel and a Dachshund. Somebody gave her to me when I was at Uncle Roy Whip's and she was with me when I helped Meb Whipple and George Iverson push their cattle off a steep trail into lower Mule Canyon, then around below the point of the Grassy Mountain country, across the gravel water course of Andrew Canyon and on to winter range

Here, below the cedar tree elevation, cat claw, mesquite, old man brush and other desert plants flourished. When it snowed up on top, rain fell here to water early green grass and weeds that grew under the protection of the brush. Big mule deer drifted down to this milder climate and stayed fat while those on top became lean and poor. Higher up on the steeper slopes, black brush provided tender growth when the earth was wet. This country was about 2000 feet below the edge of the mesa as the landscape broke away into the vast expanse of the Grand Canyon, west of Trumble Mountain. Smoky was my saddle horse. Skip, a little roman nosed garula horse, carried my bed roll, 16 coyote traps, and a bottle of "scent". I planned to look after a trap line in my spare time.

We made our camp under a large overhanging ledge facing west. Below camp was a shallow draw that ran south about 50 yards to where it spilled off into Maverick Canyon. Under the overhanging protection of the ledge there was plenty of room to roll out several beds, for saddles, pack saddles and other camp gear, for a campfire and to stack dry wood out of the rain storms.

Uncle Roy Whip came down to outline some corral building for us to do. He was a good camp cook. One morning before we left for work he dug a hole with the shovel, about 15 inches deep, put in some hot coals, then set a gallon bucket of beans on it and filled it all around with more coals fresh from the campfire up even to the top. A press lid was on the bucket with a small steam hole punched to let off pressure. Dirt then was covered over the coals leaving the lid of the bucket flush to ground level. When we came back to camp that evening he made some dutch oven biscuits and with those good beans, done to perfection, we had the best grub a fellow like me could ever want.

I strung my trap line to the north of camp about 5 miles, then crossed over on the east side of the Andrews Canyon water course, which was comparatively shallow at that point, then south, southeast over little hills below the high mesa country of Johnny Pymm's Grassy Mountain range. Blossom always went with me. Sometimes when I thought she was tired of working her short little legs, I'd reach down and lift her up behind my saddle, or she could jump on if I stopped by a bank or big rock. Smoky didn't mind, for the two of them were good friends. I think I was in my early teens that winter. Meb was a couple years older than me and George was a year or so older than him. They were good cowboys, I was just a flunky and horse wrangler, but it was lots of fun to be around good horses and those fun-loving young fellows.

Every third day I rode Smoky around my trap line with Blossom tagging along or else riding on back. When a set was tripped and dragged off through the brush she would sniff along and follow to where the coyote, bobcat, or fox had tangled the dragging hook into the brush. The reason for the small chains with drag hooks was to allow the trap to go with the animal rather than a solid anchor where it might yank out of the trap or break off a foot. After it had tired out from fighting the trap and the drag hooked a bush, it wasn't likely to break away.

My trap line usually produced from 1 to 3 catches each time I made the rounds and I would skin them out where they were caught. The bobcats made good dog meat for Blossom and Van Dyke, George's hound dog, but the coyotes had a bad taste and smell, only crows and eagles would eat their carcasses. A sharp rap with a stick on top of a coyote's or fox's nose would knock them out, then I'd kneel on the side of their chest for about 3 minutes which would cause death. That way the fur or pelt was left undamaged. The bobcats I shot with my .22 rifle, they didn't knock out like the coyote.

As I rode along the trail, fat little cottontail rabbits would set up to make an easy shot. They were tasty eating and supplemented our grub supply. George kept us in venison from the several bunches of deer that ranged within a few miles of camp.

Corral building wasn't much fun, just a lot of hard work digging trenches into which to place cedar posts, stockade fashion. The posts were cut with an axe, high up on the slopes where the cedar trees grew. Two or three posts tied together were snaked down to the corral site at the end of a rope dallied to the saddle horn. They slid downhill pretty good, unless you snagged a big rock with the butt end. That was all right too, if your horse was on the run. Flipping posts up in the air added to the action and fun. It's that axe and shovel handle work that wears a fellow down to a frazzle in short order

Six to a dozen posts was all that this corral building crew could stand in a day and that was for only two or three days in a week cause there were other important things that needed tending to, like checking on the cows, my trap line, and riding and training on young horses. Several times we had to ride out on top, above camp to the breaks on the south end of Green Mountain. The trees and brush were thick, the draws steep and rough with boulders and rimrock blocking off the way. This was "long eared" maverick range where the green splatter of bovine overflow marked the way of a boogered critter.

Ol' Van Dyke, the hound dog, could readily overtake such cattle and put them at bay. (They'd stop to fight). While he ran among them barking and baying the cow critters would bellow and chase him around and around through the thick trees, making time for those cowboys to catch up, otherwise they'd set their minds on drifting to other parts too fast for a man and horse to catch up. Dyke belonged to George and was a real wild-cow catching dog, the success element of any maverick chase. Without him you needed lots of just plain luck.

One time I rode a blue mustang of Meb's up there, a snaky worthless animal. He bucked with me at camp and a time or two before we reached the steep climbing. Then, I led him onto the top where he wanted to buck some more. When we jumped the wild cows and the chase was on he gave out. Just wouldn't go any farther, so I led him down off the mountain and over to camp. I promised myself I'd never ride that thing again, and I never did.

That evening George and Meb led in a nice big heifer. After she was marked and burned up some, they put her down into Maverick Canyon. Here the brand could heal up, then in the spring they would put them all with the other cattle. Several more long ears went down with her that winter which made up a nice little bunch. We never did get that corral finished. Them fellers knew what the important work was. Those mavericks had to be harvested.

About the first of December George rode out to the home ranch and took my bundle of furs with him. Come Christmas time Meb went out to get some grub and tend to other things. That left me and Blossom and Smoky to look after the cows. It was just the way we liked it. What better company than a good horse and a good little dog? I also had my trusty single shot .22 rifle with which to supply a tasty cottontail rabbit for Christmas dinner.

During the 10 days or two weeks Meb was gone my trap line took several nice coyotes and bobcat furs. Fur companies were paying about $2.50 for coyotes, $1.50 for bobcats and 50 cents or less for foxes, good silver money that would buy a lot of grub and other things.

The nature of coyotes is to scratch around and leave an indication that they have been there at preferred places such as a pass or saddle in the hills where the trail crossed from one draw to the next or where the bones of some dead critter lay. These were the places where coyotes posted all their social news. It was here I carefully made my sets and placed the "scent" at a strategic spot so the next traveler would step in the trap when checking out that new odor

One day I found a big beautiful golden eagle in my trap. I guess he had landed there and had accidently stepped in it, or maybe 2 traps were set at the same location and one had caught a rabbit which attracted him to land. He was real fierce and I didn't want his beak or talons used on me, so I fixed a forked limb with which to hold his neck onto the ground while I removed the trap. We were both happy when he took off for the wild blue yonder. Blossom tried to help me but I was afraid she'd just get an eye pecked out.

One evening I heard horses coming down the draw toward camp. Meb and George rode up with a pack horse. As they unpacked I put more wood on the fire to brighten things up. They brought in some beef freshly killed that day. It was one of Johnny Pymm's yearlings, another cowboy and trapper who was working the high country had shared it with them. They said of Van Dyke had tanked up on internal organs so full he could scarcely keep up the rest of the way down. George also brought my check from the fur company which was good for 17 or 18 silver dollars, all that for only about a month of trapping.

The next spring my uncles: Roy Whip, Meb's dad, and Martin Iverson, George's dad bought Johnny's range and cattle so that beef was really one of their own critters. It's a wonder them fellers didn't get sick, eating their own beef like that.

The next day or so as I was riding my trap line I decided to take a live coyote back to camp so I could save his bladder and urine before I peeled off his hide. I wanted to start another batch of "scent". The scent glands down his hind legs are also used along with other things. The entire collection is sealed up in a bottle and allowed to putrefy. When it turns to a thick liquid it is highly aromatic and ready for use. Only a couple drops is needed at each set.

After applying a sedative to the coyotes nose I trussed up his mouth so he wouldn't bite me and tied him on the back of my saddle by the saddle strings. I told Blossom she'd have to trot back to camp, which she really didn't seem to mind at all. When we rode into camp it was late afternoon and those two wild-cow fellers were sitting in camp wondering what to do to put some excitement back into living.

When they saw Coyote tied to my saddle, they knew he was just the thing. They said to me: "you turn that coyote loose and we'll shoot him'fore he gets up the draw 50 yards." "Well, I don't know, what if you miss? Then I'll be out a prize fur worth maybe $2.50, besides bullet holes ain't gonna help it none," "Ha, ha," they laugh in derision, "ain't a chance he could possibly get away since George was equal to Daniel Boone, Davey Crockett and Kit Carson all rolled into one. And Meb was a six-gun man equal to or better than Wyatt Earp, or Billy the Kid. No siree, that coyote was doomed, same as dead."

So I reluctantly untied him from the saddle, stood him on his legs, untrussed his mouth, and gave him a shove. He took off like a jackrabbit, jumping from side to side among the boulders. The gunfire was a continual roar until George's rifle was empty and all cartridges in the six-gun were spent, but it looked to me like that coyote was still going.

They reload their guns then walk up the draw to check things out. After awhile they come back and fry up some good beef steak. We don't allude to possible lack of expertise, that coyote was full of holes, just kept going on nerve reflexes. We'll find him in the morning.

After we went to bed that night I felt something crawling on my neck, then my ribs, then over my shoulder. "I wonder if some of them little black ants have got into my bed?" The campfire was only a bed of coals so there wasn't much light to see by. I get up and shake some of my blankets. "What, you doin?" Meb asks. "Guess some of them black ants has got into my bed. I can feel 'em crawling on me." George laughs, "you got coyote fleas on you." They both take great delight in that. "How do I get rid of them?" "Oh, you don't smell or taste too much like a coyote. They'll get tired of you in 3 or 4 days and leave on their own account." Sure enough, just when I was getting used to their crawling they left.

When Meb came back from up on top after Christmas he brought a hammer and chisel cause I'd been wanting to dig some peg holes in the walls of the sand rocks so we could hang our bridles, ropes, saddles and other gear up off the ground. Also some pegs over by the campfire for gonch hook, wash rags, towels, and other cooking equipment. I had 'em dug in about a week and fitted with pegs from catclaw and chapparel brush that I fitted in good and snug. About 55 years later I was talking with Afton Snyder and he said those pegs were still there. He'd wondered what prehistoric caveman had put them up.

Sometime in March I gathered up my traps, packed all my gear on Skip, mounted Smoky and with Blossom trailing, headed over for Mule Canyon Trail. It was a pretty sun-shiny forenoon day and I was happy, singing along as we trailed out. The horses didn't 'specially appreciate the off-key way I did it but they were tolerant. Once in awhile Smoky would shake his head trying to clear his brains of that discordant racket, but it felt good just to ride along the trail.