The next three days were one long, aching agony for Bowles. He carried a little water for Gloomy Gus, but stubbornly refused the job of flunky. He helped the horse wrangler—a wild-eyed youth who could pop a rope like a pistol-shot and yell like a murdering Apache—but as resolutely refused the job of assistant. He had been taken on as a cowboy, and a cowboy he tried to be, though every nerve and muscle called a halt. From the first morning, when they sent him out in the dark to wrangle the horse pasture, to the third evening, when he crawled wearily into an old "bed" that he had picked up, his life was a prolonged succession of accidents, mistakes, and awkward happenings; yet he stayed with it, bull-headed and determined, until Henry Lee grew tired of hazing him and put him on the day-herd to get healed up.
There was very little left of the lily-white Mr. Bowles when the ordeal came to an end. His hands that had been so trim and slender were swelled up too big for his gloves. The outside was raw with sunburn and wind-chap and the inside was blistered and rope-worn. His lips had cracked wide open from the dry north wind, and his face was beginning to peel like a snake. Also his arms had been nearly jerked from the sockets by a horse he had tried to hold, and a calf had kicked him in the leg while he was trying to bulldog it at the branding. Like the cowboy in the ballad, "he was busted from his somber to his heel," but he had managed to come through alive. And now, as a reward for his prowess and daring, he was set to mind the day-herd.
Grass was short in the Bat Wing pastures, and every day brought in new herds of dogies to be held for the April shipping; so, just to keep all hands busy and save a little feed, Henry Lee turned his gentle cattle out on to the prairie to rustle what provender they could. Now riding day-herd is not supposed to be a very high-grade or desirable occupation, and good punchers have been known to quit a boss who put them at it; but Bowles was led to believe that it was a post of honor. Awful stories of cowboys who had gone to sleep on guard were told by the fire at night, and the danger from sudden stampedes was played up to the skies. The monotony of the job was admitted, but the responsibility was great. So Bowles accepted the position gladly, and the round-up went on unimpeded.
Lolling in the shade of his horse or sitting with his back to the dry wind, Bowles watched them "pluck the blossoms" while he doctored his numerous wounds, meanwhile falling into lovelorn reveries on the subject of Dixie Lee. It was humiliating, in a way, to be reduced to the ranks; to be compelled to wait on her pleasure, and court her from afar; but something told him that Dixie thought of him even though she passed him by; and just to be one of her lovers, to be allowed to worship with the rest—that was enough to bear him up and give him courage to wait. And either in the end she would speak to him and take him back into her life, or he would depart in silence to hide from her laughing eyes. The game of love was new to Bowles and he knew little of its stealth and wiles; just to be near her was all he knew, and the future must solve the rest. So, like a questing knight, nursing his hurts after his first combat, he sat out on the boundless prairie and communed with his own sad heart.
Across the herd from him a battered old-time cowboy sat, crooked-legged, on his horse. On the day before a bronk had thrown him by treachery and kicked him as he dragged—even turned around and jumped on him and stamped him in the face. A great bruise, red and raw, ran up from his brows to his bald-spot where the iron shoe had struck; but still the old-timer was content.
"A cowboy don't need no haid above his eyebrows, nohow," he had said. "Jest think if he had hit me on the jaw!" Yes, indeed, but what if he had hit him in the temple or trampled him to death! Or suppose, just for instance, that Mr. Bowles, of New York, had been on the bronk instead of Uncle Joe, the veteran—would he have had sense enough to get his foot out of the stirrup? That was the trouble with standing day-herd—it gave the imagination a chance to work.
Bowles looked out over the plain again and noticed every little thing—the rattleweed, planted so regularly on the sandy flat; the dogholes, each with its high-topped mound to keep out the rain and floods; the black line of mesquite brush against the distant hills; the band of yuccas along their flanks; and then the soft, moulded summits, now green, now yellow, now creamy white as shrubs and bushes and bunch grass caught the light. It was very beautiful, but lonely. Yes, it lacked color—a vigorous girlish figure in the foreground to give it the last poetic touch.
The only men who can stand the monotony of day-herding are those who are not overburdened with brains, and so have the ability to turn off the thinking-machine entirely until they need it again. Smoking helps, and singing long-drawn songs; but Bowles turned back to Wordsworth, the poet of nature. Stray snatches of poems and sonnets rose in his mind, and he tried to piece out the rest; then he gazed at the quivering mirage, the plain, the straying cattle, and wondered how Wordsworth would see it. He was engaged in this peaceful occupation when, on the second day, he noted a moving figure, far away; dreamily he watched it as it emerged from the barbed-wire lanes of the nesters, and then, like a flash, the words of Brigham came back to him: "I knowed her four miles away by section lines." It was Dixie Lee, and she was coming his way!
There were three other worthless cowboys like himself on the day-herd, and they had seen her already. Like Brigham, they knew her by the way she rode, miles and miles away. Steadily she pounded along, keeping the rangy bay at an even lope, and then she turned toward the ranch. The long wire fence of the horse pasture had thrown her from her course, but now she was on the barren prairie and could skirt the north fence home. A series of muttered comments marked this sudden turn to the west, and the tall, cigarette-smoking youth who had been rubbing the sleep from his eyes lopped down beneath his salt-bush again. But he had returned to Morpheus too soon, for almost immediately after he had laid his hat over his eyes the distant rider changed her course, and the boys held up their hands for silence. Dixie Lee was going to make them a visit, after all, and they would let her catch him asleep.
Swiftly the tireless bay came loping across the flats, winding in and out to dodge the dog towns, and soon the queen of the cowboys was up to the edge of the herd.
"Hello, Uncle Joe!" she hailed, riding over toward the old-timer. "How's your head?"
"All right, Miss Dix," replied the puncher amiably. "Cain't hurt a cowboy in the haid, you know."
"No, but you can spoil his looks, Uncle," retorted Dixie May playfully. "You want to remember that—I heard a lady down here inquiring for you mighty special. What's the matter with Slim over there?"
A whoop went up at this, and the sleeper sat up guiltily.
"Oh, him?" queried Uncle Joe, speaking loud so that all could hear. "W'y, kinder overcome by the heat, I reckon. He gits took that way every once in a while."
"Ever since he begin settin' up with that nester girl!" put in the other day-herder, with a guffaw; and Dixie May began to chuckle with laughter as she rode around the herd.
"Well, it's too bad about him," she called back. "I'll have to go over there and see if he's likely to die."
It took her but a moment to diagnose the sad case of Slim, and then the other cowboy had his call from the consulting physician. Bowles was the last man on the circuit, but he did not step out and bow. He did not expect a visit—and, besides, something told him she did not approve of it. So he stood quietly by his horse, and only his eyes followed her as she bore down on him, her head turned back to fling some gay retort and her horse falling into his stride. She rode to the right of him, and as she faced about and met his glance she stared, as if surprised.
"Why, hello there, cowboy!" she challenged bluntly; and then, with a smile on her face, she went galloping on toward the ranch.
Nobody heard her speak but Bowles; and he, poor, unsophisticated man, was more puzzled than enlightened by her remarks. Of one thing he was sure—she had lowered her voice on purpose, and her words were for him alone. But her smile—was it one of derision, or a token of forgiveness and regard? And her secret greeting—was it an accident, or was she ashamed of his friendship? Perhaps she had weighty reasons for keeping their acquaintance unknown. Somehow, that thought appealed to him above the rest. Perhaps she knew more than he did of the dangers which surrounded him—from Hardy Atkins, or some other jealous suitor, to whom a single smile for him might be the signal for reprisal. They might—why, there were a thousand things they might do if they knew what was in his heart! Bowles ran it all over in his mind: her sudden turning upon him as they approached the Chula Vista hotel; her haughty repudiation of him when he met her at the big house; and now this secret greeting, so carelessly given, yet so fraught with hidden meaning.
"Why, hello there, cowboy!" she had said. And she appeared surprised, as if she had not expected to see him in the guise of an ordinary puncher. She had smiled, too; but—well, a little too broadly. Of course, out in the West—but, even then, it was a little broad.
It is wonderful how much a smile, or even a grin, will do for a disconsolate lover. Bowles woke suddenly to the beauties of nature and the wild joy of living; and that evening, instead of dropping into his blankets like a dead man, he tarried by the fire. A chill wind swept in from the frigid north, and the smoke guttered and flurried from the burning logs; but the cowboys sat about in their shirt-sleeves and blinked patiently when they caught the smoke. Inside the bunk-house the noise of the perpetual pitch game told where battles were being lost and won, a secret understanding that every game was worth a quarter on pay-day being the contributing cause for the excitement, since Henry Lee allowed no gambling among his punchers. But outside everybody was either broke or in the hole, and so there was nothing but peace and amity and long-winded arguments.
The talk for the moment was centered upon "ring-tail" in horses, a subject upon which Brigham Clark claimed to be an authority, although Bowles had never even heard of it before.
"No, sir," asserted Brigham, addressing the company at large; "you show me a ring-tailed hawse, and I'll show you a hawse with weak kidneys, every time. Now, I don't say how he gits them weak kidneys, y'understand; he may git 'em from bein' rode too young, the way Uncle Joe claims; or he may git 'em from drinkin' bad water, like folks; or he may jest be born that way. But that ain't the point—when you take a nice young hawse and turn him up a hill, and he quits and goes to ringin' his tail around—that hawse is weak, I say, or he wouldn't quit. A ring-tailed hawse is a weak hawse, and you might jest as well give 'im to the kids to play with—he'll never be no good fer a cow-pony."
Coming as this did at the end of a long and technical argument, it was allowed to pass by the company. A quiet fell, and three or four men to leeward got up to avoid the smoke; but all the time Brigham Clark sat on the box he had captured, his big black hat pushed back on his head, his hand held out to the fire, and his shrewd eyes twinkling as he gazed down into the flames. Then he shook with silent laughter, and they knew he was off on another one.
"Heh, heh, heh!" he chuckled. "Speakin' of ring-tails reminds me of a ring-tailed monkey I used to have to take care of when I was on the road. He was the orneriest little brat you ever see in yore life—a little, spider-legged proposition, with a long, limber tail, and big eyes that he'd always be winkin' and a-blinkin' while he was figurin' out some new kind of devilment—and all the time he'd be sneezin' and cuddlin' and snugglin' up ag'inst you like he loved you more'n his mammy. The boss's wife kept the little snifter fer company-like, and she'd pet and coddle and talk foolish to 'im until the boss would nigh have a fit. Jest like when a woman keeps a lap-dog, I reckon—kinder makes a man want to kill 'im, to keep her from muchin' 'im all the time.
"Well, this here lady was shore foolish about that monkey, and every mornin' when we were in a town I had to take 'im out fer a walk. Leastways, somebody had to do it; and rather than not see the town at all I'd take him along under my arm. If I'd had a hand-organ I'd shore made a lot of money that trip—but I was thinkin' about the time I took the ring out of his tail. Every time we'd come to a tree, or a fire-escape, or something like that, the little devil would begin to hook up at it with his tail; and this time I'm speakin' of we was goin' through a little park, and I'm a son-of-a-gun if he didn't git away on me. Jest reached out with his tail where it was hangin' down behind, and grabbed a limb, and slipped the collar on me.
"Yes, sir! And then he begun doin' circus stunts through them trees. First he'd climb up one, and then another, and then he hooked on to a fire-escape, and I chased him clean over a house. Policeman came along and wanted to arrest me, but I give 'im a talk and kept travelin', because I knew if I didn't ketch that monkey I didn't need to go back to the tent. Well, I chased him till my tongue hung out, but about the time I'd reach out to ketch 'im he'd swing off with his tail and git into the next tree; so I went over to a fruit store and tried to ketch 'im with bananas. Last chance I had, and I was gittin' pretty mad. All the kids was there to tease me, the policeman was tellin' me to move on—and that cussed monkey kept hangin' down by his tail and makin' faces at me, until, by grab, I reached down and took up a rock.
"'Now, hyer,' I says, holdin' up the banana, 'you'd better come down before I git hot and soak you with this,' and I showed him the size of that pavin' stone.
"'Etchee-etchee-etchee!' he says, swingin' up for a limb; and then I let 'im have it. They wasn't any ring in his tail when he come down, believe me; and when I showed the remains to the missus she like to tore my hair out. Boss he fired me—mad as the devil—then when she wasn't lookin' he slipped me a twenty, and told me to go back to Coney. There was a happy man, fellers, but he had to let on different—married, you know. So I took the twenty and went back to old Coney, where they shoot the chutes and loop the loops, and any man that's got a dime is as rich as John G. Rockefeller. Big doin's back there, fellers—you don't know what you're missin'."
An abashed silence followed this remark, calculated as it was to reduce his hearers to a proper state of humility; and then, to add to its effectiveness, the Odysseus of the cow camps turned to Bowles.
"Ain't that so, stranger?" he said; and Bowles thought he detected a twinkle in his eye.
"Yes, indeed!" he replied. "There's no place in the world like Coney Island. Changing very rapidly, too. Have you been there lately? That Dreamland is wonderful, isn't it? And Luna Park——"
"Hah!" exclaimed Brigham, slapping his leg. "That's the place! Loony Park! Ain't that the craziest place you ever see? Everything upside-down, topsy-turvy—guess I never told you boys about that. Didn't dare to, by grab—not till this gentleman come along to back me up!"
He glanced at Bowles significantly and waited for the questions.
"What does she look like, Brig?" inquired Bar Seven, the stray man. "Pretty fancy, eh?"
"Fancy!" repeated Brigham, with royal insolence. "Well, believe me, goin' through this Loony Park would make Tucson look like a cow camp! She's shore elegant—silver and gold, and big barroom looking-glasses everywhere—only everything is upside-down. You go into the house through the chimney, walk around on the ceilin' and there's all the tables and chairs stuck up on the top. Big chandeliers standin' straight up from the floor, and all the pictures hangin' wrong side to on the walls. Stairs is all built backwards, and when you're half way up, if you look like a Rube, they'll straighten 'em out like a flat board and shoot you into the attic. Talk about crazy—w'y, they's been a feller walked through this Loony Park and never knowed straight up afterwards. It's shore wonderful, ain't it, pardner?"
"Yes, indeed!" answered Bowles suavely; and, seeing that he could be relied upon, Brigham Clark cut loose with another one.
"Ain't that so, mister?" he inquired at the end; and Bowles, who saw a chance for revenge, assured the gawking cowboys that it was. These were the boys who had been gloating over him for a week and more, but now it was his turn.
"Yes, indeed," he replied, with a blasé, worldly-wise air; "quite a common occurrence, I'm sure."
At this the ready Brigham took fresh courage, and his little eyes twinkled with mischief.
"Friend," he said, "if it's none of my business, of course you'll let me know, but you've been around a little, haven't you? Seen the world, mebbe? Well now, what's the wonderfulest thing you ever see?"
A flush of pleasure mantled Bowles' sunburned face, for it was the first time he had been addressed as man to man since he struck the Bat Wing; but he did not lose the point—Brigham had a bigger story to bring out and he was waiting for a lead.
"Well," he said, "Ihaveseen a good many wonderful exhibitions, but the one that I think of at this moment as the most striking was Selim, the diving horse. You remember him, I guess—out at Coney Island. He was a beautiful horse, wasn't he? Snowy white, with a long, flowing mane, and intelligent as a human. He mounted to a platform forty-five feet high and leaped off into a pool of water. That was the most wonderful thing I ever saw, because he did it all by himself—climbed up to the platform, stepped out to the diving-place, and jumped off when his master said the word. Yes, that was certainly wonderful."
"You bet!" assented Brig, regarding him with admiring eyes; but the others were not so easily satisfied. That was one thing they claimed to be up on—horses—and they looked the solemn stranger over dubiously.
"How high did you say that platform was?" inquired Uncle Joe cautiously. "Forty-five—well, that was shore high. I cain't hardly git my hawse to cross the crick."
"How deep was that pool?" spoke up Bar Seven, the stray man. "Ten foot? Huh! Say, boys, this reminds me of that divin' story of Brig's!"
"Well, what's the matter with that divin' story of mine?" demanded Brigham orgulously. "You're behind the times, Bar Seven. While you was on yore way this gentleman come into camp, and he's seen that done himself. What do you know about it, anyhow—spent all yore life punchin' cows and eatin' sand—what do you know about divin', anyhow?"
"Well, they's one thing I do know," retorted Bar Seven, "and that's hawses. I been with hawses all my life, and you cain't tell me about no hawse divin'—stands to reason he'd hit the bottom and break his neck, anyway!"
"Perhaps I would better explain," broke in Bowles politely. "When the horse leaves the platform he slides down an inclined chute, below which is hung a heavily padded board. As the horse slips off he naturally kicks and struggles, and his feet, flying out behind, strike the padded board so that, while he leaps off headforemost, he rights himself in the air and falls into the pool feet first. Of course, forty-five feet is quite a distance, but he probably never goes to the bottom at all."
"Well, that's all right," admitted Bar Seven. "I don't know about that—but tell me this, stranger: How does the man git that hawse to climb up there and take the jump? Tell me that, and I'll believe anything!"
"Why, certainly," said Bowles. "At the time of which I speak, a young girl rode on his back when he made the plunge—just to make it more exciting, you know—but I watched the man quite closely, and really it was very interesting. First the girl went up the long incline, which had a railing and was provided with cleats, of course. Then the trainer brought Selim out and gave him a handful of sugar from his pocket, rubbing his head and talking to him while he was begging for more, until he had him up to the chute. There he stripped the halter off and spoke to him, and the horse started up by himself, he was so eager for the reward. At the top the girl mounted him and turned him down the diving-chute; and, don't you know, the first thing he did when he got to land was to trot back and get his sugar!"
"Oh, sugar!" cried Bar Seven, in disgust; but somehow the circumstantiality of the narrative seemed to carry conviction with the others, and he found himself alone.
"What breed of hawse was that?" inquired Uncle Joe, after a pause.
"A pure-blooded Arabian," answered Bowles; "supposed to be the most intelligent horses in the world. The Arabians, you know, keep their horses about their tents and raise them as if they were children, teaching them to understand the human voice and to answer like a dog."
"W'y, sure!" broke in Brigham, artfully taking the lead again. "Don't you fellers remember that story in the school book about Ali Ben Hassan, or whatever his name was, that was wounded in a battle and his hawse picked him up by his belt and packed him back to his tent? I tell you, them A-rabs are a pretty smooth bunch ofhombres. They not only savvy hawses from the ground up but they're the finest jugglers and strong-armed men that the world has ever seen. I remember back at Coney they was three brothers that did sech tricks you couldn't hardly believe it.
"They was called the Hassan brothers—all A-rabs is either named Hassan or A-li—and the oldest one was a balancer. That feller could balance a peacock feather on his nose—throw a flip-flap clean over it, and come up with it still on his nose—but that was jest fer a starter. His big stunt was balancin' clay pipes. He'd take a hundred and forty-four long-handled pipes, balance 'em one on top of the other, and then skip up to the top and set there while he took a smoke."
"What! One on top of the other?" demanded Bar Seven incredulously.
"Aw, no, you bone head!" replied Brigham impatiently. "What d'ye think—would he pile 'em up a hundred foot high? He made 'em into a kind of pyramid-like—but he was nothin' to his younger brother. That feller was a rope-sharp. You punchers think you can twirl the rope some, but you're back in the calf corral alongside of him. He could throw a loop out on the floor, and send it quilin' around like a snake, hoppin' over chairs and tables like a trained dog, and then have it come back and hog-tie 'im at one lick, so that an expert couldn't unfasten the knots in half an hour. But that was jest good rope work with him; his big play come at the end when he tied a twenty-pound weight at the end of it and began to swing it round. By Joe, that was great! And then, right at the end, when he pulled his big stuff, he heaved that weight forty foot into the air, clum up the rope and set down on top of it smokin' his cigar! Now, by grab, can you beat that?"
"Kin we beat it?" echoed Bar Seven and the bunch. "Kin we believe it—that's the point!"
"Well, what's the matter with it?" demanded Brigham irritably. "Seems like every time I tell you cotton-pickers anythin' you up an' call me a liar. What's the matter, anyway?"
"What's the matter?" yelled Bar Seven, raising his voice above the rest. "W'y, you ignorant devil, how could the feller set on the weight when it was only throwed up in the air?"
A chorus of other demands followed, but Brigham only sat on his box, smiling easily.
"Say, what do you take me for?" he inquired, gazing about him pityingly. "If I knowed how that A-rab did that rope-work, d'ye think I'd be punchin' cows? Not fer me—I'd be drawin' a thousand dollars a week back at Coney. Of co'se I can't say how it was done—no more than you can—but that's what makes the show! If the people knowed, they wouldn't come no more! Ain't that so, pardner?"
"Yes, indeed!" responded Bowles.
"W'y sure!" went on Brigham. "Anybody that knows anythin' about the show business knows that. No matter how good a stunt is, it's got to be mysterious or the people won't pay to see it. Either that, or it's got to be feats of strength and darin'. Now this youngest Hassan brother was a strong-armed man. He'd wrap a piece of chain around his arm, tighten up his muscle andpop!it'd break right square in two. Same thing with his chest—he'd wrap a loggin' chain around his breast, suck in his breast, and snap it like a thread. You've seen fellers like that, haven't you?"
"Sure!" said Bowles.
"Yes—all right!" continued Brigham apologetically. "Seems like the simplest thing I tell these fellers some rabbit-twister from Texas up and contradicts me. Well, this youngest brother had a pretty good stunt to end up with—nothin' flashy, of co'se, but pretty good fer a kid. He was powerful strong in the right arm and he'd hold it out like this"—Brigham held out his brawny arm—"and then he'd muscle up, real slow-like, and then, by grab, he'd raise himself right up, and come down over, and set right down on that thumb!"
He elevated his thumb as he spoke, and the cowboys gazed at it as if hypnotized. Then Bar Seven rose up slowly and, walking over to the defenseless Brigham, mashed his hat down over his eyes at a single blow.
"Brig," he said, his voice trembling with conviction, "you're a dad-burned liar!"
There was quite a little excitement in the bunk-house that night, and when it was at its height Brigham Clark came tottering out with his bed.
"Say, where's that friend of mine—that Coney Island feller?" he inquired, addressing the recumbent forms of men as he scouted along the wagon-shed. "I'm skeered to sleep in the same house with them cotton-pickers and old Bar Seven—they might rise up in the night and throw me into the hawse-trough. Huh? Oh, that's him over there, hey? Well, so long, fellers—kinder cold out hyer, ain't it? But I cain't sleep in that bunk-house no more—them fellers, they doubt my veracity!"
He was still chuckling with subdued laughter as he dropped his bed down in a far corner beside Bowles; but nothing was said until he had spread his "tarp" and blankets and crept in out of the cold. Then he laughed again, quivering until the earth seemed to shake with his contagious merriment.
"Say, pardner," he said, "you're all right. We capped 'em in on that proper, and no mistake. Did you see old Bar Seven's jaw drop when he saw how he was bit? I'll have that on him for many a long day now, and it'll shore cost him the drinks when we git to town next month. Gittin' too lively for me over in the bunk-house, so I thought I'd come out here with you."
"Sure!" responded Bowles, who had secretly been lonely for company. "It's rather cold out here, but the air is better."
"Yes—and the company," added Brigham meaningly. "Ain't these Texicans the ignorantest bunch? W'y, them fellers don't knownothin'till they see you laugh! I could've got away with that strong-arm business if I could've kept my face straight, but old Bar Seven was too many fer me—I jest had to snicker or I'd bust! Heh, heh, heh, heh, heh!"
"There was one thing which kind of puzzled me, though," observed Bowles. "Would you mind telling me where you got that absurd idea of the three Hassan brothers?"
"W'y, sure not," giggled Brigham, creeping closer and lowering his voice. "Don't tell anybody, but I got it off a drummer in the smokin'-car when I was comin' back from the Fair in Phœnix. The way he told it, there was an Englishman and a Frenchman and an Irishman talkin' together, each one braggin' about his own country; and the Englishman began it by tellin' about his younger brother, who wasn't nothin' hardly in England but could do that first stunt with the clay pipes. Then the Frenchman told about his brother, who wasn't nothin' for a balancer but was pretty good at rope-work; and the Irishman, in order to trump 'em right, he tells about his youngest brother that was strong in the arms. Say, that shore knocked the persimmon, didn't it? Them fellers was like the man that come out of Loony Park—they didn't know straight-up! Their eyes was stickin' out so you could rope 'em with a grape-vine, but they didn't dare to peep. Been called down too often. But say, pardner, on the dead, how about that divin' hawse?"
"Why—er—what do you mean?" asked Bowles.
"Well, did he shore enough do that, or was you jest stringin' 'em?"
"Why, yes, certainly he did! Haven't you ever heard about Selim, the diving horse? How long ago was it that you were at Coney Island?"
"Who—me?" inquired Brigham. "Never was there," he replied with engaging frankness; "never been outside the Territory. Say, you didn't think I'd shore been there, did ye?" he questioned eagerly.
"I certainly did," replied Bowles. "Of course, I knew that you were drawing the long bow this evening—but how did you get all this information if you've never been there?"
"Heh, heh, heh!" chuckled Brigham, rolling over on his bed. "Say, this is pretty good, by grab! Feller comes clear out hyer from New York, and I take him in, too! W'y, pardner, I was with a carnival company down at the Territorial Fair last fall, and that was the nearest I ever got to Coney; but they was a feller there—the ballyhoo man for Go-Go, the wild boy—and he was always tellin' me about Coney, until I knowed it like a book. Yes, sir, I jest camped right down and listened to that spieler; and he was shore glad to talk. Talkin' was his business, and he'd been at it so long he'd got the habit—couldn't help it—all he needed was some feller to listen to 'im. But all he'd talk about was Coney Island. Been there for years and didn't know nothin' else—and he shore filled me up right. Learned me all his spiels and everythin', and when I come back from winterin' in that Phœnix country I tole 'em I was back from New York. New York and the Great White Way—and Coney.
"But you shore strengthened my hand immensely, pardner, the way you he'ped out to-night. Now, we want to stand pat on this—don't tip me off to 'em—and pretty soon I'll have 'em all spraddled out ag'in. Hardy Atkins and that bunch, they make too much noise—they won't let me talk at all—but you watch me go after Bar Seven and these stray men. I'll tell ye—you put me wise to a whole lot more stuff, and I'll frame up another come-on. How's that now?"
"All right," agreed Bowles, yawning sleepily. "Good-night!"
He dropped back into his blankets and covered up his head; but Brigham failed to take the hint.
"Got any more divin' stories?" he asked, with gentle insistence. "They bite on them fine. Or a hawse story! A cowboy thinks he knows all about hawses. Go ahead and give me one now, so I can spring it on 'em in the mornin'—I got to have somethin' to come back at 'em with. They're always throwin' it into me about being a Mormon—I jest wanter show 'em that I've got the goods. Go ahead now—tell me somethin'!"
"All right," said Bowles, coming out from under his blankets; "but, really, I'm awfully sleepy!"
"Yeah; you'll git over that after you've been punchin' cows a while," observed Brigham sagely. "I'm on the wrangle again, but it don't worry me none. Cowboy's got no right to sleep, nohow. Let 'im trade his bed for a lantern—that's what they all say—but don't fergit that divin' story, pardner. Didn't you never see no more divin' stunts—in New York or somewhere?"
"Why, yes," answered Bowles, brightening up; "that reminds me—there's the Hippodrome!"
"Aha!" breathed Brigham. "What's it like?"
"Why, the Hippodrome," continued Bowles, "is an immense playhouse right in the heart of New York that's given over entirely to spectacles. It has a stage large enough to accommodate a thousand people, and a great lake out in front that is big enough to float a fleet of boats; and every year they put on some new spectacle. One year it will be the battle of Manila Bay, for instance, with ships and men and cannons, and a great shipwreck scene right there in the lake, with people falling overboard and getting drowned—and the peculiar thing is that when a boatload of people fall into that lake they never come up again. It's just the same as if they were drowned."
"Aw, say," broke in Brigham, "you're givin' me a fill, ain't you?"
"No," protested Bowles warmly; "I'm telling you the truth. Why, I saw the most glorious spectacle there one night. It represented the tempting of some young prince by Cleopatra, the beautiful Egyptian queen. There were six hundred women in the play, and as they marched and countermarched across the stage the lights would throw soft colors about them, and then as they danced the colors would change, until the whole place looked like fairyland. Then they would swing up into the air on invisible wires and hover about like butterflies—there would be a flash and all would have wings—and then they would disappear again and come out dressed in armor like Amazons. And in the last act, when the prince had sent them away, they marched down the broad stone steps that lead into the lake, four abreast, and without taking a deep breath, or showing any concern whatever, they just walked right into that deep water and disappeared. Never came up again. Gone, the whole six hundred of them!"
"Gone!" echoed Brigham in amazement. "Where to? Where'd they go to?"
"Under the water—that's all I know."
"Gee, what a lie!" exclaimed Brigham, rising up in bed. "By jicks, pardner, I shore have to take off my hat to you—you got a wonderful imagination!"
"No, indeed!" protested Bowles. "It's every word of it true. This Hippodrome was designed by the same man who built Luna Park, and invented the loop the loop, and shoot the chutes, and all those other wonderful things. I was reading an article about that Hippodrome lake and it seems he built some kind of a great metal hood down under the water and filled it with compressed air of just the right pressure to displace the water. All the details are held secret, and the very people who use it are kept in ignorance, but as near as can be found out the performers dive right down under that hood and from there they are taken off through underground passages and carried back to their dressing-rooms. Several people were drowned while they were experimenting with it, but now it's perfectly safe; I don't suppose those women mind it at all."
"No!" cried Brigham, still struggling with his emotions. "Is it as easy as that? But say," he whispered, as the magnitude of the story came over him, "jest wait till I get this off on the cowboys—I'll have me a reputation like old Tom Pepper, or Windy Bill up on the J.F.! You don't want to pull it yoreself, do you? Well, jest give me the details, then, and I'll depend on you to make my hand good when they come back for the explanation. But, by grab, if it's anythin' like what you say, I'm shore goin' to save my money and drag it fer old New York!"
"Yes, indeed," murmured Bowles, cuddling down into his bed; "I'm sure you'd enjoy it."
He fell to breathing deeply immediately, feigning a dreamless slumber, and when Brigham asked his next question Bowles was lost to the world. The cowboy's night was all too short for him, ending as it did at four-thirty in the morning, and not even a consideration for Brigham's future career could fight off the demands of sleep. Yet hardly had he closed his eyes—or so it seemed—when Gloomy Gus flashed his lantern in his face and then turned to the ambitious Brigham.
"Git up, Brig!" he rasped. "It's almost day! Wranglers!"
"Oh, my Lord!" moaned Brigham, turning to hide his face, but the round-up cook was inexorable and at last he had his way. Then as the wranglers clumped away to saddle their night-horses the dishpan clanged out its brazen summons and one by one the cowboys stirred and rose. Last of all rose Bat Wing Bowles, for his head was heavy with sleep; but a pint of the cook's hot coffee brought him back to life again, and he was ready for another day.
Shrill yells rose from the far corner of the horse pasture; there was a rumble of feet, a din of hoofbeats growing nearer, and then with a noise like thunder the remuda poured into the corral. A scamper of ponies and the high-pitched curses of the riders told where the outlaws were being turned back from a break; and then the bars went up and the wranglers ran shivering to the fire.
"Pore old Brig!" observed Bar Seven with exaggerated concern. "He was up all night!"
"What's the matter?" inquired another. "Feet hurt 'im?"
"No," said Bar Seven sadly; "it was his haid!"
Brigham looked up from his cup of coffee and said nothing. Then, seeing many furtive eyes upon him, he laughed shortly, and filled his cup again.
"Yoreeyeslook kinder bad, Seven," he said. "Must've kinder strained 'em last night."
"Nope," answered Bar Seven, upon whom the allusion was not lost; and with this delicate passage at arms the subject of big stories was dropped. Henry Lee came down, there was a call for horses, and in the turmoil of roping and mounting the matter was forgotten. Brigham had scored a victory and he was satisfied, while the stray men were biding their time. So the marvels of the Hippodrome were held in reserve, and the round-up supplied the excitement.
As the riding of bronks progressed, the accidents that go with such work increased. Almost every morning saw its loose horse racing across the flats, and the number of receptive candidates for the job of day-herding was swelled by the battle-scarred victims. Then fate stepped in, the scene was changed, and Bowles found himself a man again.
"Bowles," said Henry Lee, as he lingered by the fire, "can you drive a team?"
Visions of a flunky's job driving the bed-wagon rose instantly in his mind; but Bowles had been trained to truth-telling and he admitted that he could.
"Ever drive a wild team?" continued Lee, with a touch of severity.
"Well—no," answered Bowles. "I've driven spirited horses, such as we have in the East, but——"
"Think you could drive the grays to Chula Vista and back?"
"Oh, the grays!" cried Bowles, a sudden smile wreathing his countenance as he thought of that spirited pair. "Why, yes; I'm sure I could!"
"Oh," commented Henry Lee, as if he had his doubts; but after a quick glance at the self-sufficient youth he seemed to make up his mind. "Well," he said, "I'll get Hardy to hook 'em up—Mrs. Lee wants you to take her to town."
"Certainly," responded Bowles, turning suddenly sober. "I'll be very careful indeed."
"Yes," said the cattleman; "and if you can't drive, I want you to say so now."
"I've driven in the horse shows, Mr. Lee," answered Bowles. "You can judge for yourself."
"Oh, you have, have you?" And the keen gray eyes of Henry Lee seemed to add: "Then what are you doing out here?" But all he said was: "Very well."
Half an hour later, with his gloved hands well out to the front, and the whip in his right for emergencies, Bowles went racing southward behind the grays; while Mrs. Lee, her face muffled against the wind, was wondering at his skill. As a cowboy, Mr. Bowles had been a laughing-stock, but now he displayed all the courage and control of a Western stage-driver, with some of the style of a coachman thrown in.
"How well you drive, Mr. Bowles!" she ventured, after the grays had had their first dash. "I was afraid I shouldn't be able to go to town until after the round-up—Mr. Atkins is so busy, you know."
Bowles bowed and smiled grimly. It had been Hardy Atkins' boast that he alone was capable of handling the grays, and as he was harnessing them up that gentleman had seen fit to criticize the arrangements, only to be rebuked by Henry Lee.
"You know Mr. Lee depends so much on Hardy," continued Mrs. Lee, "and he needs him so on the circle that I disliked very much to ask for him—but something you said the other night about stage-coaching made me think that perhaps you could drive. Of course, any of the boyscoulddrive, but—well, for some reason or other, I can never get them to talk to me; and to ride forty miles with a man who is too embarrassed to talk, and who hates you because he can't chew tobacco—that isn't so pleasant—now, is it?"
"Why, no, I presume not," agreed Bowles. "You know, I'm recently from the East, and perhaps that's why I notice it, but these Western men seem very difficult to get acquainted with. Of course I'm a greenhorn and all that, and I suppose they haven't much respect for me as a cowboy, but it's such a peculiar thing—no one will speak to me directly. Even when they make fun of me, they keep it among themselves. Brigham Clark is the only one who gives me any degree of friendship—and, that reminds me, I must get him some tobacco in town."
"Yes, I know what you mean," said Mrs. Lee. "I guess I do! Think of living out here for thirty years, Mr. Bowles, and having them still hold aloof. With Dixie, now, it is different. She was born here, and in a way she speaks their language. I have done my best, to be sure, to keep her diction pure—and Henry even has given up all his old, careless ways of speaking in order to do his part; but, somehow, she has learned the vernacular from these cowboys, and in spite of all I can say she will persist in using it. It was only yesterday that I overheard her say to Hardy: 'Yes, I can ride ary hawse in the pen!' And she says 'You-all' like a regular Texan. Of course, that is Southern too—and I have known some very cultivated Texans—but, oh, it makes me feel so bad that my daughter should fall into these careless ways! I have been in Arizona nearly thirty years now, and it has meant the loss of a great deal to me in many ways; but there was one thing I would not give up, Mr. Bowles—I would not give up my educated speech!"
She ended with some emotion, and Bowles glanced at her curiously, but he made no carping comments. When a lady has sacrificed so much to preserve the language of her fathers, it would be a poor return indeed to give her aught but praise—and yet he could sense it dimly that she had paid a fearful price. Personally, he was beginning to admire the direct speech of Dixie May, even to the extent of dropping some of his more obvious Eastern variants; but to the mother he hid the leanings of his heart.
"Your accent is certainly very pure," he said. "Really, I have never heard more perfect English—except, perhaps, from some highly educated foreigner. Our tendency to lapse into the vernacular lays us all open to criticism, of course. But don't you find, Mrs. Lee, that your Eastern speech is a bar, in a way, to the closest relations with your neighbors? I know with me it has been that way, and I am already trying to adopt the Western idiom as far as possible. Why, really, when I first came, they ridiculed me so for saying 'Beg pardon' that I doubt if I shall ever use the expression again. And I am having such a struggle to say 'calves'—not 'cahves,' you know, but 'calves'! It is all right to say 'brahnding cahves' back in New York, but out here it is so frightfully conspicuous! And besides——"
"Oh, now, Mr. Bowles," protested Mrs. Lee, laying a restraining hand on his arm, "I hope you will not shatter all my hopes by falling into this dreadful vernacular. If you only knew how much I enjoy your manner of speaking, if you knew what memories of New York and the old life your words bring up, you would hesitate, I am sure, to cast aside your heritage. Really, if Henry would have let me, I should have invited you up to the house the very evening you came; but you—well, you had some disagreement with him at the start, and it's rather prejudiced him against you. And, besides, he has his ideas of discipline, you know, and against making exceptions of one man over another; and so—well, I did hope you would be able to drive, because now I want to have a good long talk.
"I'm not proud, or 'stuck up,' as they say out here, Mr. Bowles," she went on, as if eager to begin her holiday; "and really I do everything in my power to be friendly, but the class of people who come here—these poor, ignorant nesters, and rough, hard-swearing cowboys—they seem actually to resent my manner of speaking. Of course, I was a school-teacher for a few years—before I married Henry—and I suppose that has made a difference; but I do get so lonely sometimes, with Dixie out riding around somewhere and Henry off on the round-up—and yet I just can't bring myself to speak this awful, vulgar Texas-talk. Now Dixie, she rides around anywhere, speaks to all the women, says 'Howdy' to all the men, and, I declare, when I hear her talking with these cowboys I wonder if she's my own daughter! They have such common ways of expressing themselves, although I must say they are always polite enough—but what I really object to is their familiar attitude toward Dixie. No matter what their class or station, they always seem to take it for granted that they are perfectly eligible, and that she is sure to marry one of them, and that even the commonest has a kind of gambler's chance to win her hand."
She paused, overcome apparently by memories of past courtships, and Bowles shuffled his feet uneasily.
"Of course," he said at length, "your daughter is very attractive——"
"Oh, do you think so?" exclaimed Mrs. Lee, making no concealment of her pleasure in the fact. "I thought, from the way you spoke to her—when I introduced you, you know——"
"Oh, that was just my manner!" interrupted Bowles hastily. "A little embarrassed, perhaps."
"But I thought," persisted Mrs. Lee, "I thought from the way you both acted that you had met before. In New York, perhaps—you know, she has been there all winter—or some time before that evening. You know, Dixie is generally so free with the new cowboys, but she spoke up at you so sharply, and you——"
"Ah—excuse me," interposed Bowles, "perhaps I would better explain. I did meet your daughter, very informally to be sure, on the morning of my arrival at Chula Vista. It was that which caused my embarrassment—always painful when people fail to recognize you, you know—and especially with a lady. Er—what do all these prairie-dogs live on, Mrs. Lee? We have passed so many of them, but I don't see——"
"Mr. Bowles," said Mrs. Lee, placing her hand once more upon his arm and looking at him with an anxious mother's eyes, "I want you to meet my daughter again. She was in New York all winter, you know, and perhaps you have some friends in common. Anyway, I wish we could see more of you—it would be such a pleasure to me, and Dixie——"
She let her eyes express her longing for the improvement of Dixie's diction—a certain approval, too, of Bowles—but he did not respond at once. Fighting within his breast was a mad, fatuous desire to stand in the presence of his beloved, to hear the music of her voice and behold the swiftness and grace of her comings and goings; but almost as an echo in his ears he could hear the mocking formalism of her answers, and feel the scorn in her eyes as she sneered at him for pursuing her. His face became graver as he thought, and then, with the ready wit of his kind, he framed up a tactful excuse.
"Oh, thank you," he said. "It's very kind of you, I'm sure—and there is nothing I should enjoy more—but under the circumstances I am afraid I shall have to decline. You know of course that, whatever my life may have been in the past, at present I am nothing but a hired hand—and a very poor hand at that, I am afraid. And since Mr. Lee has asked you not to make exceptions among the men, I should be very sorry indeed to go against his wishes."
"Oh, that is not the rule, Mr. Bowles," protested Mrs. Lee. "We make exceptions to it all the time, and I am sure Henry would be glad to have you come. Some evening after supper, you know. I want so much to have Dixie meet people of refinement and education, and while for the moment you may be working as a common cowboy, of course we know——"
"You know very little, as a matter of fact," interposed Bowles; "and I am sorry that circumstances make it impossible for me to discuss my antecedents. But has it not occurred to you, Mrs. Lee, that, considering the attitude of the cowboys in the past, it might—well, my motives might be misunderstood—if I should call."
"Why, surely, Mr. Bowles," began Mrs. Lee, her eyes big with wonder, "you are not—er—afraid of what the cowboys——"
"Oh, no, no!" protested Bowles, blushing to the tips of his sunburned ears. "Certainly not! I did not mean the cowboys."
"Well, what then?" demanded Mrs. Lee, in perplexity.
Mr. Bowles hesitated a moment, looking straight ahead to where Chula Vista rose between the horses' ears.
"You will excuse me, Mrs. Lee, I'm sure," he said, speaking very low. "But when I spoke of my motives being misunderstood, I did not have reference to the cowboys. I was—er—thinking of your daughter."
"My daughter!" echoed Mrs. Lee, suddenly sitting up very straight in her seat. Then, as the significance of his remarks became evident, she gazed across at him reproachfully.
"Why, Mr. Bowles!" she said; and then there was a long, pensive silence, broken only by the thud of flying feet, the rattle and rumble of wheels, and theyikr-r-rof startled prairie-dogs.
The morning after Bowles' return from his trip to Chula Vista—during which he had made the startling proposition about being misunderstood by Dixie Lee—the entire Bat Wing outfit packed up its plunder and pulled out for the big round-up. First the cowboys, with a fifteen-mile ride ahead of them before they began to gather, went stringing across the plains at a high trot; then the remuda, stretching out in a mighty fan of horses, came fogging along behind them, to be ready for a change at the cutting-grounds; and last the chuck-wagon and the bed-wagon—one full of Dutch ovens and provisions, the other piled high with well-lashed beds—went hammering through chuck holes and dipping into dry washes in a desperate attempt to reach the rendezvous in time for dinner.
A gangling youth in overalls, and with a pair of cheap "can-opener" spurs on his shoes, acted the part of assistant to the horse-wrangler; and an open-faced individual with a great taste for plug tobacco and the song called "Casey Jones" drove the bed-wagon for Gloomy Gus; but Bowles rode out with the cowboys. By a piece of good luck, he had backed Wa-ha-lote into a corner that morning, and so menaced him with his rope that the good-natured monarch had finally stood and surrendered for a handful of sugar. So Mr. Bowles rode out in style, without any ostensible glances toward the big house, where Dixie May was reviewing her admirers from the gallery. By this time, of course, Mrs. Lee would have informed her daughter of the Eastern stray's presumption—of his daring to suggest that, in case he called, she, Dixie, might misunderstand his motives and think he was laying siege to her heart—and of course Dixie May would be indignant!
But, if she was, she carried it off well, for Bowles never got a look from her. Of course, in a bunch of thirty cowboys, even on such a fancy mount as high-headed Wa-ha-lote, one man does not stand out conspicuously from the rest—that is, not unless his horse is pitching. Hardy Atkins was on an outlaw sorrel called El Paso del Norte, and he made up the center of the picture. Del Norte was a wonder at the buck-jump, especially if some one spurred him in the shoulders, which Hardy did, and the departure of our hero was a little dimmed by his dust. Still Bowles was pleased, even if he was leaving the home of his beloved for two weeks, for something told him that he had at last won distinction in the ruck of suitors—the only man who had not let it go for granted that he was in love with Dixie Lee. Of course, he was—desperately so—but an instinct deep down in his breast warned him to conceal it from all the world. And especially from Dixie, the capricious; otherwise, she might win him by a glance and a smile, and then disprize him forever.
But now the stern realities of life loomed up before him, and Bowles found himself with a real round-up on his hands. It does not take much of a man to sit on the front porch and talk near-love with a girl; but to follow a Western round-up is a task to try the hardiest. For three hours Bowles rode at a rough trot across the valley, fighting down the awful instinct to rise in his stirrups and "bob"; and then as the distant hills grew nearer the cowboys broke into a lope. They separated into two parties that formed the horns of a circle, dropping off man after man as they jumped up cattle, and still spurring on and on. The puncher with the weakest horse was dropped first, for there would be no chance to change till noon, and the best mounted was saved to the last in order to get his full strength. Bowles was on Wa-ha-lote, and he rode to the end before Henry Lee sent him back with the herd.
Very slowly now he plodded along behind his bunch of cattle, riding back and forth as he picked up strays, and driving them all to some common center. To the right and left, and far across to distant hills, he could see lone men at their task, and the great plain became dotted with cattle as the circle closed in on the grounds. A hundred cow-trails, sinuous as snake-tracks, led in to this place they all sought, and when the lowing strings of cattle met it was on the flat by a dammed-up lake. There the herds were thrown together, carefully so that no mother should lose her calf; and while they stood them upon the cutting-ground the wrangler brought up his horses, and each man caught out a fresh mount.
Nowhere in all his work is the mastery of the cowboy more apparent than when he changes horses on the open plain. The great remuda of over two hundred horses was driven in on the gallop; then the cowboys rounded them up, and each man dropped to the ground. One by one they took down their ropes and threw the loose ends to their neighbors, and there in a minute's time was a corral that would hold the wildest outlaw, for a rope is the greatest terror of a cow-pony. It was a rope that fore-footed him when he was a colt, and bound him at the branding; every morning the long, snaky loops whizzed past their ears and dragged out those who must ride till they were ready to drop; and so, even though they had the power to brush the rope fence aside, the frightened horses huddled away from it and submitted to the noose.
Bowles was barred, for his Mother Hubbard roping threw the herd into a frenzy; so he saddled up for Brigham and let that doughty puncher drag out his mount. Then the cutting and branding began, and Henry Lee put him to flanking calves. Perhaps he, too, had heard of the tenderfoot's remarks about his daughter; or it may have been the original grouch; but Bowles knew from the look in his eye that he was elected to do his full share. So he labored on, trying to learn the tricks of the older flankers, and schooling himself to their stoical endurance.
A heavy wind came up, sweeping the dust across the flat in clouds, and still the cutters rode and roped. They ate dinner in relays, turning their backs to the storm and bolting their grimy food in silence, and hurried back to the herd. The sparks from the branding-fire flew fifty feet in a line, and the irons would hardly hold heat in the wind; but they carried the work through to the end. Then they moved the herd to harder ground, and cut it between the gusts, when every horse turned tail and the riders shut their eyes. The ones and twos were lumped together, the strays turned loose on the plain, and the outfit plodded on to the east, driving their cut before them.
That night they camped at a ranch, throwing down their beds in barns and sheds, and eating in the open. The next day they braved the wind and combed the distant mountain, riding far over the rocky slopes, and branding in a cañon. On the third day the wind brought up rain and sleet, and the mountains were powdered with snow, but the round-up moved on inexorably. Then the wind veered to the east and the air became bitter cold; Gloomy Gus could hardly cook for the gale that assaulted him, and the wrangler lost eight or ten horses; but still the hardy cowboys rode and cut and branded, for a round-up never stops for wind and weather.
As for Bowles, his face was peeled and swollen, his eyes half-blinded by dust and wind, his body chilled through in spite of his clothes, and he saw himself in that company like a child among grown-up men. Half of the cowboys left their coats on the wagon until the day of the blizzard; and Brigham was still in his shirt-sleeves, having rolled up his coat with his bed and forgotten to bring his slicker. Yet none of them railed at the weather; no one quit; it was their life. Perhaps from their earliest boyhood they had braved the Texas northers or endured the continual sandstorms of high and windy plains. They were used to it, like the horses that bore them; but Bowles was a more delicate plant. All he could do was to live on from day to day, wondering at their courage and hardihood, and marveling at his own presumption in thinking he could play at their game.
A week passed, and the wind grew warmer, though it still swept in from the southeast. The outfit reached the limit of its circle and turned toward home, sending its cuts of dogies on before it. On the first of May they were contracted to be delivered at Chula Vista, there to be shipped to Colorado and the Texas Panhandle and fattened into steers. But feed was short, for the cold had set back the grass, and Henry Lee had wired that he could deliver on the twentieth. So while he waited for an answer he sent his cattle ahead of him, and every day as he rode he watched for a messenger from home.
Nor was he alone in this, for the messenger would be Dixie; but no one said a word. It was part of the patience of these rugged sons of the desert that they should make no sign. They were camped in a grove of sycamores beneath the shelter of a hill, and the outfit was gathered about the fire, when she rode in at the end of the day. Each man of them regarded her silently as she carried the word to her father; and then, when he nodded his satisfaction, they stirred in expectation of her greeting.
"Howd-do, boys?" she said, vaulting lightly off her horse and coming nearer. "'Evening, Mr. Mosby; what's the chance for a little supper?"
She looked them all over casually as she drew off her gloves by the fire, and for a few minutes the conversation was confined to news. Then she went back to her saddle, and returned with a bundle of letters.
"Well, boys," she remarked, with a teasing smile, "I'm postmistress this trip, so line up here and give me your present names—also the names you went by back in Texas. 'James Doyle!' Why, is that your name, Red? Here's one for you, too, Uncle Joe. All right now, here's one from Moroni—for Charley Clark! Aw, Brig, are you still writing to that girl down on the river? Well, isn't that provoking! And here's a whole bunch for Hardy Atkins. Every one from a girl, too—I can tell by the handwriting. No, Mr. Buchanan, you don't draw anything—not under that name, anyway. But here's one for Sam Houghton—maybe that's for you? No? Well, who is it for? No, we can't go any further until I deliver this Houghton letter. Who is there here that answers to the name of Sam?"
She glanced all around, a roguish twinkle in her eye, but no one claimed that honor.
"Nothing to be afraid of," she urged. "It was mailed at Chula Vista, and written by a girl. Pretty handwriting, too—something like mine. I bet there's something nice inside of it—I can tell by the curly-cues on the letters."
Once more she surveyed her circle of smirking admirers, but no one answered the call. She looked again, and her eyes fell on Mr. Bowles.
"Stranger," she said, speaking with well-simulated hesitation, "I didn't quite catch your name down at the ranch—isn't this letter for you?"
For a moment Bowles' heart stopped beating altogether and a hundred crazy fancies fogged his brain; then he shook his head, and gazed shamefacedly away.
"My name is Bowles," he said stiffly; "Samuel Bowles."
"Well, this says Samuel," reasoned Dixie Lee, advancing to show him the letter. "Here—take a look at it!"
She stepped very close as she spoke, and as Bowles glanced at her he saw that her eyes were big with portent. Then he scanned the letter, and in a flash he recognized her handwriting—the same that he had seen on the train. A strange impulse to possess the missive swept over him at this, and his hand leaped out to seize it; but the look in her eyes detained him. They were big with mystery, but he sensed also a shadow of deceit. And while she might merely have designs on his peace of mind, there were other possibilities involved. To be sure, his name had been Houghton on his railroad ticket, but that did not prove anything now; and, besides, he did not want even that to be known. Affairs of the heart prosper best in secret, without the aid of meddling or officious outsiders; and for that reason, if for no other, Bowles desired to remain incog. Even with a false clue, Dixie May might write to New York, and ultimately reach his aunt, thus cutting short his romantic adventures. She might even—but he skipped the rest of the things she might do, and straightened his face to a mask.
"Ah, thank you, no," he said, speaking very formally. "Not for me—though the handwriting does seem familiar."
"Maybe it's money from home," she suggested; but still he refused to accept. He was ignorant of the ways of women, but his instincts were trained to a hair-line, and he read mischief in her heart. Yet curiosity almost tempted him to accede—or was it the witchery of her presence? For Dixie May stood very close to him, closer than was necessary, and as she argued, half in earnest, she fixed him with her eyes.
The boys by the fire, who had been looking on in wonder, became suddenly restive and impatient. Their little game of post-office had been broken up in the middle, and this stranger was monopolizing the postmistress.
"But the postmaster thought it was for you," persisted Dixie May, now apparently annoyed. "He described you down to your hat-band; and if I don't get rid of this letter I'll have to take it clear back to town. Of course——"
"Aw, take the letter!" broke in Hardy Atkins, striding over from his place and fiercely confronting Bowles. "What's the matter with you—ain't you got no manners? Well then, when a lady asks you to take a letter,take it!"
He reached out to get the letter and force it upon him forthwith, but Dixie May tossed her head and jerked the missive away.
"Who called you in on this, Hardy Atkins?" she inquired, turning upon him haughtily. "It's a wonder you wouldn't go off somewhere and read those pink scented billets-doux I gave you. I reckon this man knows his own name without any outside help. Now, you go on away and let me do this!"
He went, his lips pouted out petulantly and a shifty look in his eye, and once more the fair postmistress turned upon her victim.
"Now, here," she said, lowering her voice and speaking confidentially, "I'm not trying to force this upon you, but I've got a duty to perform. Think of the poor lady that wrote this letter," she urged, smiling significantly; "she may have something important to tell you. And don't mind a little thing like an alias—these boys have all got one." Once more she smiled, holding out the letter; and the boys favored him with dark and forbidding glances; but Bowles was game to the end.
"So sorry," he murmured, bowing deferentially; "but my name is Bowles, not Houghton."
"Well, well," said Dixie Lee, looking him between the eyes; "so your name is Bowles, eh? I certainly hope you'll excuse me, stranger, but I sure thought your name was Houghton!"
So saying, she turned and left him; and after pondering upon the matter for some time Bowles suddenly felt his heart go sick, for she had addressed him at the last as "Stranger."