Brigham Clark's squirrel-skin story was not calculated to build up theentente cordialwith Texas, but Brigham was no trimmer. The only kind of fighting he knew was to stand up and strike from the shoulder, and a few cracks about Mormon marital customs had not tended to lighten the blow. Numerically he was outnumbered by the Texans, but when it came to a contest of wits he did not need any help. He went off to bed now, laughing, and to all of Bowles' chidings he turned an unheeding ear.
"Let 'em roar," he said. "It's no skin off my nose. Them fellers has been cavin' round and givin' off head long enough—I sure capped 'em in on that, all right. Well, let 'em rough-house me if they want to—they's two can play at that game. I never seen the Texan yet that looked bad to me. And if they git too gay the boss will fire the whole caboodle. I ain't lookin' fer trouble, but no bunch of ignorant Texicans can run it overme! Umph-umm!"
So the feud went on, and when Dixie rode into camp with the mail she smelled war in the very air. The men walked past each other with the wary glances of fighting dogs, and even her little comedy at the delivering of the letters failed to visibly lighten the gloom. A private interview with the cook, who carefully kept out of the ruction and gave neither side comfort nor succor, revealed the fact that the situation was serious; and with the success of the round-up at stake, Dixie May was quick to act. When her father returned to his dog tent at supper-time he found her war-bag inside, and with a mount of horses cut out for her, Dixie Lee took on for a cowboy.
They were up on the cedar ridges of the mountains now, driving down wild steers from the upper pastures, and a woman was as good as a man. Dixie was better than most, for she had ridden those rough mesas before and could drift off a ridge like a blacktail. Her desperate rivalry in the chase fired the hearts of the most malingering, and more than one moss-headed old outlaw found himself outgeneraled and flogged into the herd. And a steer is a steer these days—he is worth as much as a horse.
Every morning as the punchers set out on the long circle Dixie May picked out a man to dare, and several prairie-bred Texans failed to follow her over the rocks. Mounted on the best horses in the remuda, knowing the ways of wild cattle and the lay of the land ahead, she took after the first puff of dust she saw and followed it till she smelled smoke. If her steer turned back, she ran him down and roped him, and if her escort did not show up by that time, she hog-tied her catch and went on. It was a wild, free life, and she threw herself into it recklessly, glorying in the unholy joy of beating them at their own game. She rode with Brigham, and Hardy Atkins; uncouth mountain men, and raw-boned nester kids; and finally, when the time was ripe, she picked out Bowles.
Bowles was mounted on his top horse, Wa-ha-lote, and he rode proudly along behind Brigham, for in the rough and tumble of cross-country running he was holding his own with the best. A bunch of wild cattle sprang up suddenly from their hiding place on a far point; for a moment they stood staring, their ears silhouetted against the sky, and the keen eyes of the straw-boss read their earmarks like a book.
"They's two Bat Wing steers in that bunch," he said. "Head 'em off, Bowles, and drive 'em down the cañon!"
Then Bowles leaned forward in his saddle and raced them for the high ground. He headed them, and they doubled to beat him back. Once more he headed them off, while the outfit went on with its circle, and just as they stopped to look him over again he saw a horse coming down on his right. It was Dixie, mounted on her favorite roan, and she motioned to him to swing around on the left. Then the riding began all over again, for the steers were wild as bucks and they knew every trail on the bench; but the shod horses were too fast for them over the rocks, and as their hoofs began to get hot from the friction they turned and dashed for the rim.
From the high ridge where the circle was led, to the bottom cañon where the hold-up herd lay, the land fell away in three benches, each a little narrower, each a little steeper at the jump-off—and Bowles and Dixie Lee went over the first pitch hot-foot on the heels of their quarry. They raced back and forth on the second terrace, trying to head the cattle down a natural trail; but now a wild, self-destroying panic came upon them and they took off over the rough ground.
"I'll dare you to follow me!" cried Dixie, turning her eager roan after them; and helter-skelter over the rough rocks, swinging and ducking under trees and jumping over boulders and bushes, she went spurring after the cattle. Behind her came Bowles, his eyes big with excitement, staring at her madcap riding with the fear of death in his heart. Down over the rough jump-off they went, the dust and smoke from friction-burnt hoofs striking hot in their faces as they rode, and by the grace of God somehow they reached the bench below.
"Don't ride over there!" he entreated, as the cattle scampered on toward the last pitch; but Dixie laughed at him, loud and shrill.
"Will you take a dare?" she taunted, raising her quirt to strike; and before Bowles could say a word, Wa-ha-lote grabbed the bit and went after her like a rocket. Whatever his master thought, it was outside of Wa-ha-lote's simple code to let any horse give him his dust. Wild with terror and excitement, the big steers made straight for the jump-off, which was high and steep; over they went, with Dixie after them, and then, like a bolt from behind, Wa-ha-lote leaped over the rampart and went plowing down the slope. Twice he jumped as he came to dykes of rock, and Bowles stayed with him like a hurdler; then, with a lightning scramble over the loose stones, he took the trail from the roan and went pounding down the hill.
Tree limbs reached down to brush Bowles off, sharp stubs threatened momentarily to snag his legs, and boulders to dash his brains out if he fell, but the lion-hearted Wa-ha-lote had asserted his mastery and Bowles could only hang on. At the bottom of the slide they crashed through a dead-limbed cedar, sending the bone-dry sticks flying in every direction; and when Bowles swung up into the saddle he was thundering across the flat and the steers were at his bits. Vague wisps of smoke, white and smelling like a blacksmith-shop, leaped up as the harried brutes skated over the rocks, and Bowles knew that his battle was won. Once in the soft sand of the creek bed they would never turn back to the heights, for their feet were worn to the quick. But it had been a hard race—even Wa-ha-lote was slowing down, and Dixie Lee was nowhere in sight.
A sudden doubt assailed Bowles, and he tugged sharply at the bit; he pulled down to a walk and looked behind; then, as he saw no sign, he stopped short and let the cattle go. For a tense minute he listened while Wa-ha-lote puffed like a steamboat; then, with a grave look on his face, he turned and rode back up the hill.
"O Miss Lee!" he shouted. "Dixie!"
And a thin answer came from the slope above.
"Catch my horse!" it said. "He's down in the gulch!"
Bowles stared about and caught sight of the red roan's hide as he stood behind some trees; then, with his rope about its neck, he went spurring up the hill.
Dixie Lee was lying very awkwardly among the rocks at the foot of a scrubby juniper, and at the first glance Bowles knew she was hurt. Not only was her hat gone and her stout skirt ripped and torn, but her face was very pale and her lips drawn tight together.
"Horse fell with me," she said, greeting him with a fleeting smile; "hurt my knee right bad. First time I've known him to do that—say, help me out of these rocks."
Very tenderly Bowles reached down and raised her to her feet; then, with one arm about his neck, she tried to hobble away, but at the second hop she paused.
"Nope—hurts too bad," she said; "put me down."
But Bowles did nothing of the kind. He took her up in his strong young arms and carried her down the hill. He even wished it were farther, but she spied a bed of leaves under a cedar and ordered him to put her there. Then she looked up at him curiously and for a while lay very still.
"What you got there?" she inquired, as he came back holding his hat, and Bowles showed her a crownful of water that he had brought from a pool in the gulch.
"Ah!" sighed Dixie, and drank out of it without scruple, long and deep. "Say, that's good," she said; "now pour some on my hands—they're all scratched up." He did that too, and loaned her his neck handkerchief to sop up the last of the wet.
"Well, it's a wonder you wouldn't ask a few questions," she observed at length, bathing her grimy face with the handkerchief. "'How did it happen?' or 'How're you feeling?' or something like that!"
She smiled naturally at him now, fluffing out her dark hair that hung like an Indian's in heavy braids; and Bowles' face lighted up and then flushed a rosy red.
"I see you are feeling better," he said, sitting down off to one side, and decorously regarding his wet hat, "so how did it happen?"
"Well," began Dixie, ruefully inspecting her torn hands, "all I can remember is feeling my horse going down and jerking my feet out of the stirrups—then I fetched up in that juniper. I scrambled out the minute I struck—afraid old Rufus would fall on me—and that's where I hurt my knee—I bumped it against a rock."
She felt the injured limb over carefully and shook her head.
"I'm afraid I can't travel on that for a while," she said. "So get me your coat to put under it and prop it up, and we'll talk about something pleasant. It'll be all right, I reckon, after I rest a while, but that fall certainly jarred me up.
"Say," she observed, as Bowles came back with his coat, "that was pretty good, wasn't it, what I was telling you the other day—about nursing you back to health and strength. Looks like you're the nurse, the way it turns out. But you're going to make a good one," she went on, as he tucked the coat under her knee; "I can see that. Now, most people, when you get a hurt, or a fall, or something, they come rushing up to where you're making faces and ask a lot of foolish questions—'Are you hurt?' and 'Did you fall?' and all that, until you want to kill 'em. But you haven't hardly said a word."
"No," said Bowles, blushing and looking away. "I'm awfully sorry you fell—hope I didn't make you. Is there anything more I can do?"
"Oh, that's all right," she assured him. "We all take a fall once in a while. I feel kind of weak and trifling right now—but don't go! No, I want you here for company!"
Bowles had stood up on a pretext of looking after the horses, but Dixie was firm.
"No, you stay," she said, as he explained that she might wish to be alone. "You're out West now, Bowles, and you remember what Hardy Atkins told you—'if a lady asks you to take a letter,take it!' Of course, that was none of Hardy's business, but that's the rule out here, and I want you to come back and sit down. No, not away over there—I want you right up close!"
Bowles came back as readily as a dog, but he did not sit very close. For some reason unknown to himself he assumed that she would be embarrassed, not only by their isolated position but by the intimacies which had arisen between them. Moved by a strong and humane purpose, he had gathered her up in his arms and carried her down the hill; but hardly had he felt her arm about his neck, her breath against his cheek, and her heart against his breast, when the dimensions of his world had suddenly narrowed down, and there was only Dixie Lee and him. And now he was still dazed and breathless, afraid of himself, and not trusting in his strength—and yet he would do anything to please her.
"Come on over here," she coaxed, patting the leaves by her side, and Bowles came as near as he dared. "Now tell me some stories," she said, settling back and closing her eyes. "Ah, this will be fine—tell me something interesting, so I can forget that knee. It sure aches—when I think about it—but I believe there's something in mind-cure. Go ahead and talk. Where'd you learn to ride so well?"
"Oh, that?" beamed Bowles. "Do you think I can ride? Well, I'm not so bad, over the rocks, you know. I used to ride to the hounds. We chased foxes through the woods, leaping stone walls and five-bar gates and all that, and, really, I used to enjoy it. Nothing like cow-punching, of course, but great sport all the same. I remember once we were out at Clarendon——"
He fell into the details of a fox hunt—the first time he had spoken of his past life—and Dixie was careful not to interrupt him. Then he told of his life in the military school, where they taught boys the cavalryman's craft, and Dixie lay quiet and listened. If her knee hurt she did not know it, for she was piecing out his career. School, college, country club, one after the other he alluded to them, but even in his boyish enthusiasm he was careful to mention no names; and as he wandered on with his stories Dixie Lee wondered who he was. Certainly no inconsiderable man in his own country, and yet here he was, an ordinary hired hand, punching cows for forty-five a month. But why? And if he had followed her to the end of the world to win her heart, why did he not talk of love to her, now that they were there together? And when he had taken her in his arms, when he had carried her under the tree and pulled off her boot and tucked his coat under her knee, why had there been no caress, no look, no unnecessary attentions to show that he really cared? Dixie May opened her eyes and gazed out at him through half-closed lashes, and somehow she liked him better—he seemed to be different from the rest.
"Mr. Bowles," she said at last, "you're an awfully interesting man, but there are some things I can't understand. There's something mysterious about you. I know you must be all right, because I met you at Mrs. Melvine's, but at the same time you're hiding out like an ordinary horse-stealing Texican. What are you up to, anyway?"
"Why, I thought you knew all about that," explained Bowles, the old baffling smile coming back into his eyes. "Don't you remember, I told you about it on the train?"
"Yes, I remember, all right," answered Dixie. "But you didn't tell me very much—and then you told me different at Chula Vista. I thought I had a line on you once, but you're too deep for me. What's this I hear about a girl?"
"A girl?" repeated Bowles, with questioning gravity. "Why, what do you mean? What did you hear?"
"A girl back in New York," continued Dixie, glancing at him shrewdly as she hazarded a guess—and as she gazed he flushed and looked away.
"Whatever you have heard," he said at last, "I have nothing to be ashamed of—would you like me to get you some water?"
"Aw, Mr. Bowles," cried Dixie reproachfully, "are you trying to side-step me on this?"
"No, indeed!" replied Bowles, settling back with masterful calm. "What is it you have heard—and what would you like to know?"
He paused and regarded her expectantly, and Dixie saw that she was called. A shadow passed over her face; a shadow of annoyance, and of suspicion, perhaps, as well; but she felt the rebuke of his frankness and pursued her inquiry no further.
"Well, perhaps you are right," she said, as if answering an unspoken reproof. "It was nothing to your discredit, Mr. Bowles; and I am sure it is none of my business. I guess I'm kind of spoiled out here—I get to joshing with these cowboys until I don't know anything else. I believe I would like that drink."
Bowles leaped up promptly at the word and came back with his new hat full of water. He held it for her to drink, and as she finished and looked up she saw that his eyes were troubled.
"Oh, dear!" she cried impulsively, "have I made you any trouble? You've been so good to me here—what have I gone and done now?"
"Oh, it's not you at all," he assured her, and then his voice broke and he faltered. "But have you really heard from New York?"
"Why, no, Mr. Bowles," soothed Dixie, laying her hand on his arm. "Not a word—I don't know anything about you—I was only making it up."
"Oh!" said Bowles, and drew his arm away. He looked out at the horses for a moment, poured the water out of his hat, and turned back, his old smiling self.
"How is your knee now?" he inquired kindly. "Do you think you can ride? I suppose we ought to be going pretty soon."
Dixie glanced over at him and her heart sank—she had observed these sudden changes in Bowles before, and even his boyish smile could not lighten the veiled rebuke. When Bowles had thoughts that were anti-social he was always unusually kind, and his way of expressing disapproval was to tactfully change the subject. And now he was talking of going! Dixie scowled and felt of her knee, and rose stiffly to her feet.
"Well, if you're in such a hurry," she sulked; but Bowles was at her side in an instant.
"Oh, my dear Miss Lee!" he cried, catching her as she poised for a limp. "Please don't do that! Let me carry you, when the time comes, but we will rest as long as you please."
He passed a compelling arm about her and lowered her gently to her place; then he sat down beside her, and breathed hard as he set her free.
"Really," he murmured, "we don't seem to understand each other very well, Miss Lee!"
"That's because neither one of us is telling the truth!" observed Dixie with a certain bitterness.
They sat for a moment in silence, and then she turned about and looked him squarely in the eye.
"Mr. Bowles," she said, in measured tones, "who are you, anyway?"
"Who—me?" parried Bowles, lapsing into the vernacular. "Why, you know me! I'm Bowles, the gentleman you met at Mrs. Melvine's."
"There! You see?" commented Dixie. "You're afraid to tell your own name, and I'm——"
"Yes?" questioned Bowles.
"Well, I don't know what I'm afraid of," she went on bluntly, "but I've gotsomethingon my mind."
"Why, surely," began Bowles, apprehensively, "I—I hope I haven't given offense in any way. You were hurt, you know—and I was a little excited—and——"
"Oh, that's all right," said Dixie heartily. "You're a perfect gentleman—I always knew that. But you haven't had much to do with women, have you, Mr. Bowles?"
Her voice trailed off a little at the close, and Bowles looked up at her mystified. He thought quickly, wondering where she was leading him, and decided to tell the truth.
"Why, no, Miss Lee," he stammered, "I suppose not. I hope I haven't——"
"Oh, no, no!" cried Dixie. "I don't mean that. I was just thinking—well, I mustn't take advantage of you, then."
She favored him with one of her sudden, tantalizing smiles, and his brain whirled as he looked away.
"No," he muttered, taking a deep breath; "it wouldn't be fair, you know."
"Well, go and cinch up my horse, then," she said, "and I'll make an exception of you."
He looked up at her suddenly, startled by the way she spoke, and went to do her will.
"Now," he announced, when the horse was ready, "shall I help you while you mount?"
"Why, yes," she said, "if you think it's safe!"
And then he gathered her into his arms.
"I'll be careful," he said. But the devil tempted him—and Dixie forgot and smiled.
"Never mind," she whispered, as he lifted her to the saddle; "that was to pay you for being nurse."
There is a madness which comes to certain people at certain times and makes them forget the whole world. In such a moment Bowles had stolen a kiss—for the first time in his life—and Dixie Lee had forgiven him. He had stolen it quickly, and she had forgiven him quickly, and then they had ridden on together without daring so much as a glance. That kiss had meant a great deal to both of them, and they needed time to think. So they rode down to the hold-up herd in silence and parted without a word.
Dixie went on to camp, to rest and care for her hurts; and Bowles, with a sad and preoccupied smile, stayed by to help with the herd. But the jealous eyes of hate are quick to read such smiles, and as Bowles rode along on the swing he was suddenly startled out of his dreams. Hardy Atkins went out of his way to ride past him, and as he spurred his horse in against his stirrup he hissed:
"You leave my girl alone, you blankety-blank!" and went muttering on his way.
This roused Bowles from his reverie, and he began to think. If Hardy Atkins had noticed a change, there were others who would do the same. How Atkins had guessed, or what the clue had been, he could not tell; but, having been carefully brought up, Bowles knew exactly what he ought to do. Before the first rumor had run its course it was his duty as a gentleman to go to Henry Lee and make a report of the facts; then, if any exaggerated statements came to his ears later, Mr. Lee would know that his conduct had been honorable and that green-eyed envy was raising its hateful head. So, without more ado, he rode up to the point of the herd and saluted the austere boss.
"Mr. Lee," he said, as that gentleman turned upon him sharply, "I am sorry, but Miss Lee had a very bad fall this morning and she has gone ahead to camp."
"Yes, I saw her," returned the boss. "What about it?"
"Well—I was afraid she might not mention it to you, or might minimize her hurts, but as a matter of fact she fell on a steep hill, and if it hadn't been for a juniper tree she might have been seriously injured. As it is, her knee gave her quite a lot of trouble and I had to help her to mount."
"Oh!" commented Henry Lee, and glanced at him again. "Well, what is it?" he inquired, as Bowles still rode at his side.
"Excuse me," stammered Bowles, holding resolutely to his task, "I thought perhaps you might want to ride ahead and help her off her horse."
For a moment the boss looked him over, then he grunted and bowed quite formally.
"Yes, thank you, Mr. Bowles," he said. "Will you call Hardy to take my place?"
He waited until Hardy Atkins had started, and then put spurs to his horse, and when the cowboys reached camp he was busy about the tent. The next day Dixie did not ride out on the round-up, and when they came back she was gone. "Back to the home ranch," the cook reported, and he added that she was not very lame; but the cow-punchers glared at Bowles as if he had crippled her for life. And not only that, but as if he had done it on purpose.
"These blankety-blank tenderfeet!" commented Hardy Atkins by the fire. "They can make an outfit more trouble than a bunch of Apache Indians. I cain't stand 'em—it's onlucky to have 'em around."
"I'd rather be short-handed, any time," observed Buck Buchanan sagely.
"Now, there's Dix," continued Hardy, with a vindictive glance at Bowles; "worth any two men in the outfit—ride anywhere—goes out with this tenderfoot and comes within an ace of gittin' killed. She raced with me, rode with Jack and Slim, and left the Straw a mile—the Hinglishman comes in behind her, crowds her outer the trail, and if it hadn't been fer that juniper she'd a-landed in them rocks."
Bowles looked up scornfully from his place and said nothing, but Brigham appeared for the defense.
"Aw, what doyouknow about it?" he growled. "You wasn't there. Who told you he crowded her out of the trail?"
"Well, he says so himse'f!" protested Atkins, pointing an accusing finger at Bowles. "Didn't he come into camp and tell all about it? I believe that he was tryin' to do it so he could git a chance to——"
"Mr. Atkins," said Bowles, rising to his feet and speaking tremulously, "I shall have to ask——"
But that was as far as he got. With a tiger-like spring the ex-twister was upon him, and before he could raise his hands he struck him full in the face.
"You will talk about my gal, will ye?" he shouted, as Bowles went down at the blow. "Stand up hyer, you white-livered Hinglishman; I'll learn you to butt in on my game!"
"Here! What're you tryin' to do?" demanded Brigham, leaping up hastily and confronting his old-time enemy. "You touch that boy again, and I'll slap yore dirty face off!"
"Well, he's been gittin' too important around hyer!" cried Atkins noisily. "And he's been talkin' about my gal—I won't take that from no man!"
"Huh!" sneered Brigham, drawing closer and clenching his hands. "You're mighty quick to hit a man when he ain't lookin'—why don't you take a man of yore size now and hit me?"
"I ain't got no quarrel with you!" raved Hardy Atkins. "That's the feller I'm after—he's been talkin' about my gal!"
"He has not!" replied Brigham deliberately. "He never talked about no gal, and I'll whip the man that says so—are you bad hurt, pardner?"
He knelt by the side of the prostrate Bowles, who opened his eyes and stared. Then he looked about him and raised one hand to his cheek, which was bruised and beginning to swell.
"I'll learn you to cut me out!" taunted Hardy Atkins, shaking his fist and doing a war-dance. "I'll make you hard to ketch if you try to butt in on me!"
"Aw, shut up!" snarled Brigham, lifting his partner up. "You're brave when a man ain't lookin', ain't ye? Here, ketch hold of me, pardner, and I'll take you to yore bed."
Bowles dropped down on his blankets, still nursing his aching head; but in the morning he rose up with a purposeful look in his eye. He was a long way from New York and the higher life now, and that one treacherous blow had roused his fighting blood. For the courage which prompts a man to strike in the dark, he had little if any respect, and he went straight over to Hardy Atkins the moment he saw him alone.
"Mr. Atkins," he said, "you hit me when I wasn't looking last night. Next time you won't find me so easy—but be so good as to leave Miss Lee's name out of this."
"Oho!" taunted the cow-puncher, straightening up and regarding him with a grin. "So you want some more, hey? That crack on the jaw didn't satisfy you. What's the matter with yore face this mawnin'?"
"Never you mind about my face," returned Bowles warmly. "If you are so low as to be proud of a trick like that, you are a coward, and no gentleman, and—put up your hands!"
He squared off as he spoke, falling back upon his right foot and presenting a long, menacing left; but Hardy Atkins only laughed and loosened his pistol.
"Aw, go on away," he said. "D'ye think I want toboxwith you? No, if you git into a fight with me you're liable to stop 'most anythin'—I'll hit you over the coco withthis!"
He laid his hand on the heavy Colt's which he always wore in his shaps, and gazed upon Bowles insolently.
"You can't run no blazer over me, Mr. Willie-boy," he went on, as Bowles put down his hands. "You're out West now, where everythin' goes. If you'd happen to whip me in a fist-fight I'd git my gun and shoot you, so keep yore mouth shut unless you want to go the limit. And while we're talkin'," he drawled, "I think you might as well drift—it's goin' to be mighty onhealthy around hyer if I ketch you with Dixie again."
"I asked you to leave her name out of this," suggested Bowles, trying bravely to keep his voice from getting thin. "If you've got a quarrel with me, well and good, but certainly no gentleman——"
"Aw, go on away from me," sneered Hardy Atkins, waving him wearily aside. "You seem to think you're the only gentleman in the outfit! Go chase yoreself—you make me tired!"
The sight of grinning faces about the corral recalled Bowles to the presence of an audience and, choking with anger and chagrin, he went off to saddle his horse. Ever since his arrival Hardy Atkins had ignored him, glancing at him furtively or gazing past him with supercilious scorn. Now for the first time they had met as man to man, and in that brief minute the ex-twister had shown his true colors. He was a man of treachery and violence, and proud of it. He did not pretend to fair play nor subscribe to the rules of the game. He did not even claim to be a gentleman! There was the crux, and Bowles labored in his mind to find the key. How could he compete—in either love or war—with a man who was not a gentleman?
It was Brigham who gave the answer, and to him it was perfectly simple.
"Well," he said, as they rode back together from the circle, "he's warned you out of camp—what ye goin' to do about it?"
"Why, what can I do?" faltered Bowles, whose soul was darkened with troubles.
"Fight or git out," replied Brigham briefly.
"But he won't fight fair!" cried Bowles. "He hits me when I'm not looking; then when I offer to fight him with my hands he threatens me with a pistol. What can a man do?"
"Threaten 'im with yourn!" returned Brigham. "He won't shoot—he's one of the worst four-flushers in Arizona! He's jest runnin' it over you because he thinks you're a tenderfoot."
"How do you know he won't shoot?" inquired Bowles, to whom the whole proposition was in the nature of an enigma. "What does he carry that pistol for, then?"
"Jest to look ba-ad," sneered Brigham, "and throw a big scare into strangers.Iain't got no six-shooter, and he don't run it over me, does he? He's afraid to shoot, that's what's the matter—he knows very well the Rangers would be on his neck before he could cross the line. Don't you let these Texicans buffalo you, boy—the only time they're dangerous is when they're on a drunk."
"Then you mean," began Bowles hopefully, "if I'd struck him this morning he wouldn't have used his gun?"
"Well," admitted Brig, "he might've drawed it—and if you'd whipped him he might've taken a shot at you. But you got a gun too, ain't you?"
"Ye-es," acknowledged Bowles; "but I don't want to kill a man. I wouldn't like to shoot him with it."
"Well, then, for Gawd's sake,take it off!" roared Brigham. "If he'd shot you this mornin' he could a got off fer self-defense! Turn it over to the boss and tell him you don't want no trouble—then if Hardy shoots you he'll swing fer it!"
"But how about me?" queried Bowles.
"You're twice as likely to git shot anyway," persisted Brig, "with a gun on you. If you got to pack a gun, leave it in yore bed, where you can git it if you want it; but if the other feller sees you're heeled, and he's got a gun, it makes him nervous, and if you make a sudden move he plugs you. But if you ain't armed he don't dare to—they're awful strict out here, and these Rangers are the limit. Hardy won't shoot—you ain't afraid of 'im, are you?"
"No-o," said Bowles; "not if he'd fight fair."
"D'ye think you could whip 'im?" demanded Brigham eagerly.
"I can try," responded Bowles grimly.
"That's the talk!" cheered Brigham, leaning over to whack him on the back. "Stand up to 'im! He's nothin' but a big bluff!"
"I don't know about that," grumbled Bowles, with the affair of the morning still fresh in mind; "I'm afraid he'll hit me with his gun."
"Well, here, we'll fix that," said Brig, hastily stripping the heavy quirt from his wrist. "You turn yore pistol over to the boss and take this loaded quirt—then if Hardy offers to club you with his gun you knock his eye out withthis!"
He made a vicious pass into the air with the bludgeon-like handle, holding the quirt by the lash, and passed it over to Bowles.
"Now you're heeled!" he said approvingly. "That's worse'n a gun, any time, and you kin hit 'im as hard as you please. Jest hang that on yore wrist, where it'll be handy, and turn that cussed six-shooter in."
The matter was still a little mixed in Bowles' mind, and he felt that he was treading upon new and dangerous ground, but his evil passions were still afoot and he longed gloomily for his revenge. So when they got into camp that evening he went over to Henry Lee's tent, with Brigham to act as his witness.
"Mr. Lee," he said, speaking according to instructions, "I've had a little difficulty with one of the boys, and I'd like to turn in my gun. I don't want to have any trouble."
"All right, Mr. Bowles," answered the boss very quietly. "Just throw it on my bed. What's the matter, Brig?"
"Oh, nothin' much," replied Brigham. "You saw it yorese'f—last night."
"Um," assented Henry Lee, glancing for a moment at Bowles' skinned cheek. "Well, we don't want to have any racket now, boys—not while we've got these wild cattle on our hands—and I'm much obliged. Hope you don't have any more trouble, Mr. Bowles."
He bowed them out of the tent without any more words, and they proceeded back to the camp. A significant smile went the rounds as Bowles came back from the tent, but in the morning he went to the corral as usual.
"I thought you'd got yore time," ventured Buck Buchanan, as Bowles began to saddle up; and as the word passed around that he had not, Hardy Atkins rode over to inquire.
"What's this I hear?" he said. "I thought you was goin' to quit."
"Then you were mistaken, Mr. Atkins," answered Bowles politely. "I am not."
"Then what did you see the boss fer? Makin' some kick about me?"
"Your name was not mentioned, Mr. Atkins," replied Bowles, still politely. "I simply turned over my gun to Mr. Lee and told him I'd had some trouble."
"Well, it's nothin' to what youwillhave!" scowled the ex-twister hatefully. "I can tell you that! And I give you till night to pull. If you don't——"
He paused with meaning emphasis and turned his horse to go, but Henry Lee had been watching him from a distance and now he came spurring in.
"Hardy," he said, "I'll have to ask you to leave Bowles strictly alone. He's turned his gun in to me and is tending to his own business, so don't let me speak to you again. D'ye understand?"
"Yes, sir!" mumbled the cow-puncher, fumbling sullenly with his saddle-strings; but his mind was not turned from his purpose, as Bowles found out that same night.
They were swinging around toward the south and west, raking the last barren ridges before they started the day-herd for home; and in the evening they camped in the open and threw their beds down anywhere. After a hasty supper by the fire, Bowles spread out his blankets, coiled up his bed-rope, and rode forth to stand the first guard. For Bowles was a top hand now, whatever his enemy might say, and he had his choice of guards. It was very dark when he came in at ten-thirty, and he was too sleepy to notice the change, but after he had slipped under his tarpaulin he felt something through the bed. It was his bed-rope, stretched carelessly across the middle, from side to side, and he grumbled for a moment to himself as he squirmed down where it would not hurt him. Then he went to sleep.
After a man has ridden hard all day and stood his guard at night, a little thing like a rope under his bed is not likely to disturb his dreams—the way the pea did the soft-sleeping True Princess—but with this particular rope it was different. Hardy Atkins had stretched it there with malice aforethought; and when, later in the night, he saddled his snorting night horse and prepared to ride out to the herd, he tied the two ends into a loop and silently stepped away with the slack. Then he took a turn around the horn, put spurs to his horse, and went plunging out into the night.
A sudden yank almost snapped Bowles in two in the middle; he woke up clutching, to find himself side-swiping the earth; then an agonizing series of bumps and jolts followed, and he fetched up against a juniper with a jar that rattled his teeth. There was a strain, a snap, and as the rope parted he heard a titter, and a horse went galloping on. It was a practical joke—Bowles realized that the moment he woke up—but the terror of that first grim nightmare wrenched his soul to the very depths. He came to, cursing and fighting, still bound by the loop of the lariat and half-buried in the wreck of the juniper. Then he jerked himself loose and sprang up, staring about in the darkness for some enemy that he could kill. The titter of the galloping horseman gave the answer, and he knew it was Hardy Atkins. Hardy had given him till nightfall to quit camp or look out for trouble. This was the trouble.
Bowles spread out his bed as best he could and slept where he lay till dawn. Then he went to Henry Lee and said he would like his gun. His hands were bloody and torn from contact with the brush, and there was a fresh welt above one eye that gave him a sinister leer. There was no doubt about it—Bowles was mad—and after a cursory glance the boss saw he was out for blood.
"Just a moment, Mr. Bowles," he said, advancing to the fire. "Boys," he continued, addressing the smirking hands who stood there, "I make it a rule on my round-ups that nobody carries a gun. That includes you, too, Mr. Bowles," he added meaningly. "Mosby, get me a gunny-sack."
With the gunny-sack under one arm the wagon-boss went the rounds, and when he had finished his trip the sack was full of guns.
"I'll just keep these till we get back to the ranch," he observed. "And," he added, "the next man that picks on Bowles will have to walk to town. Hardy, were you in on this?"
"No, sir!" replied Atkins stoutly. "I don't know a thing about it!"
"Well, be mighty careful what you do," charged Henry Lee severely. "Brig, throw that herd on the trail—we might as well hit for the ranch."
When Bowles rode back to the Bat Wing Ranch he was a hard-looking citizen. His aunt, the hypothetical Mrs. Earl-Bowles, would scarcely have recognized him; Mrs. Lee started visibly at sight of his battered face; and Dixie smiled knowingly as she glanced at his half-closed eye.
"Aha, Mr. Man," she said, "it looks like you'd been into a juniper, too!"
"Well, something like that," acknowledged Bowles, gazing lover-like into her eyes; and from that he led the conversation into other channels, less intimately associated with common brawls. For though Bowles had given way to his evil passions and had even gone so far as to call for his gun in order to beard his rival, he did not wish it known to his lady. As he contemplated her grace in a plain white dress, and the witchery of her faintest smile, it seemed indeed a profanation of the sacred Temple of Love to so much as allude to a fight. Undoubtedly in the wooings of the stone age the males had competed with clubs, but certainly for no woman like this. Love, as Bowles had learned it from the poets, was above such sordid scenes; and as he had learned it from her—when she had chastened his soul with a kiss—ah, now he could sing with old Ben Jonson and the deathless Greeks:
"Drink to me only with thine eyes,And I will pledge with mine;Or leave a kiss within the cup,And I'll not ask for wine."
"Drink to me only with thine eyes,And I will pledge with mine;Or leave a kiss within the cup,And I'll not ask for wine."
Here was the shrine at which he worshiped, and he wished no carnal thought to enter in. So he spoke to her softly and went his way, lest some one should read his heart and break the spell with jeering.
The dust of a day's hard driving was on his face; there was a red weal over one eye and a bruise on his bearded cheek, but he was a lover still. Dixie knew it by his eyes, that glowed and kindled; by his voice, whose every word veiled a hidden caress; and she greeted the others coldly from thinking of this one who had come. Then she dissembled and went down among them, but her ways were changed and she only smiled at their jests.
"Hey, Dix," challenged Hardy Atkins at last, thrusting a grimy hand down into his shap pocket, "look what I got fer ye!"
He drew out a money-order ring that he had won in a mountain poker game, and flashed the stone in the sun.
"It's a genuwine, eighteen-carat diamond," he announced. "Come over hyer and let's see which finger it fits. If it fits yore third finger, you know——"
"Well, I like your nerve," observed Dixie Lee, smiling tolerantly with Gloomy Gus. "'Come over hyer!' eh? It's a wonder you wouldn't come over here—but I don't want your old ring, so don't come."
"W'y, what's the matter?" inquired Hardy Atkins, who loved to do his courting in public. "You ain't goin' back on me, are you, Dix?"
"Well, if I went very far back onyourtrail," answered Dixie, "I reckon I'd find where yougotthat ring. What's the matter? Wouldn't she have it? Or did that other girl give it back?"
She turned away with a curl on her lips, and when he saw that she meant it, Hardy Atkins was filled with chagrin. From a man now, that would be a good joke; but from Dixie—well, somebody must have blabbed! He turned a darkly inquiring eye upon Bowles, and looked no farther; but Henry Lee had spoken, and all that rough work was barred. Still there were ways and ways, and after thinking over all the dubious tricks of the cow camp he called in his faithful friends and they went into executive session.
"Now, hyer," expounded the ex-twister, as they got together over the butchering of a beef, "the way to bump that Hinglishman off is to make a monkey of 'im—skeer 'im up and laugh 'im out o' camp. He's so stuck on himse'f he cain't stand to be showed up—what's the matter with a fake killin'? Here's lots of blood."
He cupped up a handful of blood from the viscera of the newly killed beef, and his side partners chuckled at the thought.
"Let me do the shootin', and I'll throw in with ye," rumbled Buck Buchanan.
"I'll hold the door on 'im," volunteered Poker Bill.
"Well, who's goin' to play dead?" grinned Happy Jack. "Me? All right. Git some flour to put on my face, and watch me make the fall—I done that once back on the Pecos."
So they laid their plans, very mysteriously, and when the big poker game began that night there was no one else in on the plot. Buck had the pistol he had killed the beef with tucked away in the slack of his belt; Jack had changed to a light shirt, the better to show the blood; and Hardy Atkins was a make-up man, with bottled blood and a pinch of flour in his pockets to use when the lights went out.
The game was straight draw poker, and the prize a private horse. Ten dollars apiece was the price of a chance, and it was freeze-out at four-bits a chip. That served to draw the whole crowd, and as the contest narrowed down to Buck Buchanan and Happy Jack, the table was lined three deep.
"How many?" asked Buck, picking up the deck.
"Gimme one!" said Jack, and when he got it he looked grave and turned down his hand, the way all good poker players do when they have tried to fill a flush and failed.
"I bet ye ten!" challenged Jack.
"Go you—and ten more!" came back Buck.
"Raise ye twenty!"
"What ye got?" demanded Buck, shoving his beans to the center, and then, with a sudden roar, he leaped up and seized the stakes. "Keep yore hands off that discyard!" he bellowed, hammering furiously on the table. "You lie, you——"
Whack!came Happy Jack's hand across his face, and Buchanan grabbed for his gun. Then, as the crowd scattered wildly, he thrust out his pistol and shot a great flash of powder between Happy Jack's arm and his ribs.
"Uh!" grunted Jack, and went over backward, chair and all.
Then Hardy Atkins blew out the lamp, and the riot went on in the dark. Bowles was only one of ten frantic punchers who struggled to get out the door; Brigham Clark was one of as many more who burrowed beneath the beds; and when Hardy Atkins lit the lamp and threw the dim light on Happy Jack's wan face he was just in time to save his audience. True, the older punchers had been in fake fights before; but they had been in real ones, too—where the bullets flew wide of the mark—and this had seemed mighty real. In fact, if one were to criticize such a finished production, it was a little too real for the purpose, for the conduct of Bowles was in no wise different from the rest. There had been a little too much secrecy and not quite enough team-work about the play, but Poker-face Bill was still at his post and the victim was caught in the crowd.
"Oh, my Gawd!" moaned Hardy Atkins, kneeling down and tearing aside Jack's coat. "Are you hurt bad, Jack?"
The red splotch on his shirt gave the answer, and the room was silent as death. Then Poker Bill began to whisper and push; delighted grins were passed and stilled; and, moving in a mass, with Bowles up near the front, the crowd closed in on the corpse.
"He's dead!" rumbled Buck Buchanan, making a fierce gesture with his pistol. "I don't make no mistakes. You boys saw him cheat," he went on, approaching nearer to the crowd. "And he slapped me first! You saw that, didn't you, Bowles?"
"Oh, hush up!" cried Hardy Atkins, tragically shaking his fallen friend; and then as he worked up to the big scene where Happy Jack was to come to life and run amuck after Bowles, the door was kicked open and gloomy Gus strode in.
"What's the matter with you fellers?" he demanded, his voice trembling with indignation at the thought of his broken sleep, and then, at sight of Jack, he stopped.
"Jack's dead," said Hardy Atkins, trying hard to give Gus the wink; but the cook was staring at the corpse. Perhaps, being roused from a sound sleep, his senses were not quite as acute as usual; perhaps the play-acting was too good; be that as it may, his rage was changed to pity, and, he took the center of the stage.
"Ah, poor Jack!" he quavered, going closer and gazing down upon him. "Shot through the heart. He's dead, boys; they's no use workin' on 'im—I've seen many a man like that before."
"Well, let's try, anyway!" urged Atkins, in a desperate endeavor to get rid of him. "Go git some water, Gus! Haven't you got any whisky?"
"Oh, he's dead," mourned the cook; "they's no use troublin' him—it's all over with poor old Jack. You'll never hearhimlaugh no more."
A faint twitch came over the set features of the corpse at this, and Hardy Atkins leaped desperately in to shield his face.
"He was a good-hearted boy," continued Gloomy Gus, still intent upon his eulogy—and then Happy Jack broke down. First he began to twitch, then a snort escaped him, and he shook with inextinguishable laughter. A look went around the room, Brigham Clark punched Bowles with his elbow and pulled him back, and then Gus glanced down at the corpse. His peroration ceased right there, and disgust, chagrin, and anger chased themselves across his face like winds across a lake; then, with a wicked oath, he snatched the gun away from Buck and struggled to get it cocked.
"You young limb!" he raved, menacing Happy Jack with the pistol and fighting to break clear of Buck. "You'll play a trick on me, will ye—an old man and punched cows before you was born! Let go of that gun, Mr. Buchanan! I'll show the blankety-blank——" And so he raged, while the conspirators labored to soothe him, and Brig dragged Bowles outside.
There is a regrettable but very well defined tendency in human nature which prompts the author of a miss-fire revenge to take it out on the dog. Certainly there was no more innocent party to the inveigling of Gloomy Gus than Bowles, and yet for some reason Hardy Atkins and his comrades in crime chose to gaze upon him with a frown. After laboring far into the night they had finally persuaded the cook that it was all a mistake; that no insult was intended to his years; and that it would be contrary to those high principles of Southern chivalry of which he had always been such an illustrious exponent to report the fake fight to the boss. Then they had busied themselves in the early morning with chopping wood and packing water, and similar ingratiating tasks, with the result that, when Henry Lee came down after breakfast, there was no complaint from anybody. But when he had let it pass, and started off for Chula Vista, it was cloudy in the south for Bowles.
But your true lover, with the wine of ecstasy in his veins, and haunting feminine glimpses to catch his eye, is not likely to be scanning the horizon for a cloud the size of a man's hand. Bowles' troubles began that evening when, after an arduous day in the saddle, he returned to his own social sphere. For two months and more Samuel Bowles had been a cow-hand. He had slept on the ground, he had eaten in the dirt, and when luck had gone against him he had learned to swear. But now, as he was riding past the gate, Mrs. Lee, in a charming house-gown, had waylaid him with a smile; he paused for a friendly word, and his breeding had prompted him to linger while she chatted; then she had invited him to dinner—not supper—and he had forgotten his lowly part. Forgotten also was the warning of Hardy Atkins, now so sullen in his defeat, and everything else except the lure of dainty living and the memory of a smile. So, after a hasty shave and a change to cleaner clothes, he stepped out boldly from the ranks and walked up to the big white house.
The chill and gusty days of early spring had passed and the soft warmth of May had brought out all the flowers. Along the gallery the honeysuckle and the Cherokee climbers were fragrant with the first blossoms of summer, and Bowles was glad to tarry beneath them when Mrs. Lee met him hospitably at the stoop. In the far west the Tortugas were passing through the daily miracle of sunset, and the hush of evening had settled upon all the land.
"Ah, Mrs. Lee," sighed Bowles, as he contemplated with a poet's eye the beauties of nature, "now I understand how you can live here for thirty years and never go back to New York. Such illumination—such color! And from the hill here, it is so much more glorious! Really, in spite of the loneliness, I almost envy you those thirty years!"
"Yes," admitted Mrs. Lee, leading him to a rawhide chair beneath the honeysuckle, "itisbeautiful. I like it—in a way—but still, I can never forget New York. It offers so much, you know, of music and art and society; and yet—well, Henry needed me, and so I stayed. But I have tried to give my daughter what advantages I could. I have a sister, you know, living in New York—Mrs. Elwood Tupper—perhaps you know her?"
"Why, the name seems familiar," returned Bowles glibly.
"Yes, she's my sister," resumed Mrs. Lee, after glancing at him curiously. "Dixie was with her all last winter—I thought perhaps you might have met her there?"
Once more she gazed at him in that same inquiring way, and Bowles wondered if she had heard anything, but he was quick to elude the point.
"Hmm," he mused, "Tupper! No, I hardly think so. When I return, though, I shall be glad to look her up—perhaps I can convey some message from you. Your daughter must find it rather close and confining in the city, after her fine, free life in the open. Really, Mrs. Lee, I never knew what living was until I came out here! Of course, I'm very new yet——"
"Yes," agreed Mrs. Lee, who knew a few social sleights herself, "Dixie did complain of the confinement, but she——O Dixie!"
"Yes, Mother!" replied a dutiful voice from within.
"Come out on the gallery—Mr. Bowles is here. But she met some very nice people there—some of the real old families, you know—and I thought——"
The door opened at this point, and Bowles leapt to his feet in astonishment. It was a different Dixie that appeared before him—the same bewitching creature who had dazzled his eyes at the Wordsworth Club, and she wore the very same gown. And what a wonderful transformation it seemed to make in her—she was so quiet and demure now, and she greeted him in quite the proper manner.
"I was just telling Mr. Bowles, Dixie," continued Mrs. Lee, still holding to her fixed idea, "that you went out quite a little in New York—and perhaps you might have met back there."
For a moment the two eyed each other shrewdly, each guessing how much the other had said, and then Bowles opened up the way.
"Why, really, Miss Lee," he exclaimed, still gazing at her with admiring eyes, "you do look familiar in that dress! Perhaps we have met in a crush, like ships that pass in the night? May I ask at what function you wore this charming gown?"
"Yes, indeed, Mr. Bowles," returned Dixie May; "but, rather than run over the whole list and recall a winter's agony, let's take it for granted that we met. It's a fine, large place to come away from, isn't it—dear old New York? Wasn't the slush of those sidewalks something elegant? And that steam heat! My! It never gets as hot as that out here. Yes, indeed, Mother, I'm sure Mr. Bowles and I have met before; but," she added, and here her voice changed, "since he's traveling incognito, changing his name as a garment and not getting any letters from home, perhaps it's just as well not to dwell upon the matter."
"Why, Dixie, child!" protested Mrs. Lee. "What in the world do you mean?"
"Nothing at all, Mother, except that he is our guest. Shall we go in now to dinner?"
They went in, and throughout the rest of the evening Bowles was guiltily conscious of a startled mother's eyes which regarded him with anxious scrutiny at first and then became very resolute and stern. Mrs. Lee had solved her problem, whatever it was, and settled upon her duty. Bowles felt a social chill creep into the air as he rose to go, and he braced himself for some ultimatum; but his hostess did not speak her thoughts. There was no further allusion to New York, or his alias, or the fact that he had acted a lie. All those things were taken for granted, and he left with a balked feeling, as if he had failed of some purpose. Her very silence clutched at his heart, and her passive hand-touch as they parted. Dixie, too, seemed to share in the general aloofness. She had said good-night without any friendly grip of the fingers, looking at him very straight, as if to fathom his deceit.
Bowles lay awake that night and thought it out, and he saw where he had made his mistake. From the first his manner had been evasive almost to mendacity, and, with both Dixie and her mother, he had made a mystery of his past. Now the time for explanations was gone, and he was reaping his just reward. He should have taken Dixie into his confidence when they were alone beneath the cedars; he should have answered that question of hers when she asked it—but now it was too late.
"Mr. Bowles," she had said, "who are you, anyway?"
And when he had evaded her, she had never asked again. And now, through the same damnable ineptitude, he had estranged her mother and lost his welcome at the big house. All the explanations in the world would not square him now, for one deceit follows another and his second word was no better than his first. He could see with half an eye that Mrs. Lee distrusted him. He must seem to her candid mind no less than a polite adventurer, a ne'er-do-weel young profligate from the East with intentions as dark as his past. Nor could he bring himself to blame her, for the inference was logical—if a man conceals his identity and denies his acquaintances and friends, surely there must be something shameful that he is at such pains to hide.
But the way out? That was what kept Bowles awake. Certainly, if he were a gentleman, he would stay away from the house. Nor would it be wholly honorable to waylay Dixie May and explain. And, besides, there was nothing to explain. He had references, of course, but if he gave them, his aunt would discover his whereabouts and summon him home—and then there was Christabel!
The memory of those prearranged meetings at his aunt's swept over him, and he shuddered where he lay. Dear, pretty, patient Christabel! What if she should sense this conspiracy to make him marry her and lose that friendly smile? What if she should blush as he had blushed at each chance tête-à-tête, gazing nervously into his eyes to guess if he would yield? And to wonder if that was love! Ah no, he could never do that! Rather than inflict such torture upon her he would flee to the depths of the wilderness and hide until she was married. But his safety lay only in flight, for his aunt was a resolute woman, with tears and sighs at her command, if all else failed. Yes, he must run away—that was the way out.
And it would solve all his problems at once. There would be no lame explanations to make at the house, no cheap jealousies with Hardy Atkins, no breaking of his cherished dream of seeing the West. He would move on into the White Mountains and explore their fastnesses with Brigham. Or, lacking Brigham, he would plunge into that wilderness alone.
The harsh clangor of Gloomy Gus's dishpan cut short his fitful sleep, and he rolled out of bed with his mind made up to quit. At breakfast he said nothing, bolting his food with the rest of them, and followed on to the horse corral for a private word with Brig. But right there fate played him a scurvy trick, and disrupted all his schemes, for as he stepped around behind the corral Hardy Atkins strode in upon him and made signs to certain of his friends.
"Now, lookee here, Mr. Man," he said, and he said it quietly for once, "you been four-flushin' around hyer long enough, and we give you warnin' to git. We got yore record and we know what you're after, so don't hand us out any bull. Yore name ain't Bowles and you're aimin' at Dix, but she's got too many good friends. Now we've let you off easy, so far, but Gawd he'p you if we come ag'in. Ain't that so, boys?"
"You bet it is!" answered three or four, and the rest of them looked their disdain.
But an unreasoning anger swept over Bowles at the very first word, and he returned the sneer with interest.
"Mr. Atkins," he said, "you have threatened me before, but I am not afraid of you. You cannot frighten me away."
"Oh, I cain't, cain't I?" jeered Hardy Atkins, while his friends rumbled threats from behind. "Well,poco prontoyou're liable to change yore mind. You come into this country on a Hinglish trot and we thought you was a sport, but now that we know better, you got to make good or git. Ain't that so, boys?"
"You bet it is!" roared the bunch, and Atkins hitched up his shaps.
"All right," he said. "You got a job with this outfit by claimin' that you could ride.Now—you're so brave—either you ride that Dunbar hawse the way you said or we kick you out o' camp! You can take yore choice."
"Very well," said Bowles; "I'll ride the horse."
"Like hell you will!" sneered the gang in a chorus, but Bowles did not heed their words.
"Any time you put the saddle on him," he said, "I'll ride him."
At this they stood irresolute, unable to make him out. On the morning that he had ridden Wa-ha-lote he was a tenderfoot, not knowing one horse from another, but now he had seen the worst. And yet he would climb up on Dunbar!
"Come on—let's rope 'im!" urged Hardy Atkins, but he did not move out of his tracks. "No, the boss is comin' back," he said. "Let's wait till we're hyer by ourse'ves. All right, Mr. Bronco-bustin' Bowles, we'll fix you good and plenty—the first time the folks leave the house. And meantime, if you value yore health, you better stay down on low ground."
"I will go wherever I please," answered Bowles; but he stayed down on the low ground.
In the Homeric simplicity of the cow camps, where the primitive emotions still rule, any soul-stirring which cannot find its expression in curses is pretty sure to seek the level of laughter. The boys were profoundly moved by Bowles' declaration of intention, but after gazing upon him for a spell in mingled incredulity and awe, their lips began to curl.
"Aw—him!" they said. "Him ride Dunbar? Umph-umm! We'll wake up some mornin' and find him gone!"
Then, as a morning or two passed and Bowles was still in his place, they began to lapse into jest.
"Old Henry will shore be s'prised when he comes back from town," observed blithesome Happy Jack. "He'll find Bowles ridin' Dunbar with a hackamore and feedin' him sugar from his hand. Big doin's soon to come, boys—boss and family goin' down to Chula Vista to-morrer."
"Well, we better hog-tie Hinglish, then," grumbled Buck Buchanan; "he'll never last till mornin'. Gittin' right close on to that time!"
"Never you mind about Hinglish," retorted Brigham Clark, whose loyalty had been fanned to a flame. "If it was you, Buck Buchanan, we couldn't see you fer dust right now. They ain't a man of ye dares tosayhe'd ride Dunbar, let alone the doin' of it. Will you ride him second if he throws Bowles off? Well, keep yore face shut, then! The whole bunch of ye ought to be canned fer tryin' to git 'im killed!"
"Well, let 'im go on away, then!" burst out Hardy Atkins. "Wenever told 'im to ride Dunbar—we told 'im to quit his four-flushin' and either make good or git. There's the road down there—let 'im take to it!"
He jerked an imperious hand at Bowles, who answered him with a scowl.
"If you will kindly mind your own business, Mr. Atkins," he purled, "I shall certainly be greatly obliged."
He gave each word the Harvard accent and tipped it off with venom, for Bowles was losing his repose. In fact, he was mad, mad all over, and at every remark he bristled like a dog. A concatenation of circumstances had thrown him into the company of these Texas brawlers, but he aimed to show by every means in his power his absolute contempt for their trickery and his determination to stand on his rights. He had said he would ride Dunbar, and that was enough—he had given his word as a gentleman. Therefore, he resented their insinuations and desired only to be left alone. Certainly he had enough on his mind to keep him occupied without responding to ill-natured remarks.
Fate was piling things up on poor Bowles, and he earnestly longed for the end. There is a cynic's saying that every time a man gets into trouble his girl goes back on him, just to carry out the run of luck; and while of course it isn't true, it seemed that way to Bowles. Perhaps his own manner had had something to do with it, but, the morning after his rebuff, Dixie greeted him almost as a stranger, and, falling back shortly afterward into her old carefree way of talking, she began to josh with the boys. Then she took a long ride with Brigham, a ride that left him all lit up with enthusiasm and made him want to talk about love. As a matter of fact, Dixie had sensed something big in the air and was anxiously ferreting it out, but Bowles did not know about that. All he knew was that he disapproved of her conduct, and wondered vaguely what her mother would say. Not that it was any of his business, but he wondered all the same; and, wondering, shook his head and sighed.
But three days of flirting and sleuthing brought nothing to Dixie's net. From the cook down, the outfit was a solid phalanx against her—they would talk and smile but they never showed their hand. One clue and only one she had—there seemed to be an unusual interest in when she was going to town. First on one pretext and then on another they inquired casually about the date, and if her folks were going along too. So, whatever the deviltry was, it was something that called for secrecy—and it was due on the day they left home. She looked them over as they gathered about the evening fire, and smoothed her hair down thoughtfully—and the next morning she started for town.
The sale of his steers was making Henry Lee a lot of trouble—and the holding of them as well. Not being able to find a buyer at his price, he set the cowboys to fence mending—lest the outlaws should breach the wires—and went back and forth to town. And this morning his wife went with him, sitting close behind the grays, with Dixie riding fast behind. Their dust changed to haze on the horizon before any one moved a hand, and then Hardy Atkins turned on Bowles.
"All right, Mr. Bowles," he said. "Here's where we see yore hand. I'll saddle that hawse if you'll ride 'im, but don't make me that trouble fer nothin', because if youdo——"
"Oh, shut up!" snapped Bowles, whose nerves were worn to a frazzle. "What's the use of talking about it? Put the saddle on him!"
"Holy Jehu!" whistled Atkins. "Listen to the boy talk, will you? Must have somethin' on his mind—what?"
"Well, quit yore foolin'!" put in Brigham abruptly. "We'll all git fired fer this, and him liable to git killed to boot, so hurry up and let's have it over with!"
"I'll go ye!" laughed the ex-twister, skipping off with a sprightly step. "Come on, boys; it'll take the bunch of us—but I'll saddle old Dunbar or die! 'O-oh, hit's not the 'unting that 'urts the 'orse's 'oofs; hit's the 'ammer, 'ammer, 'ammer on the 'ard 'ighway!' E-e-e—hoo!"
He laughed and cut another caper as he ended this bald refrain, and Brigham glowered at him balefully.
"'Hit's!'" he quoted. "'Hit's!' Listen to the ignorant cracker! I never seen a Texican yet that could talk the straight U. S.! But go on now, you low-flung cotton-pickers, and I'll fix Bowles fer his ridin'!"
They hustled away as he spoke, the best of them to wrangle Dunbar, and the rest to admire the sight. Here was an event that would go down in Bat Wing history, and only the cook stayed away. Life had been stale, flat, and unprofitable to Gloomy Gus since he delivered the oration over Happy Jack, and the very care with which all hands refrained from speaking of it showed how poignant the joke had been. Faces which had looked pleasant to him before were repulsive now, and in this last assay on Bowles he saw but a recrudescence of the horse-play which had worked such havoc with his own pride. Therefore, he was morose and sullen and stayed with his pots and pans.
"I want to warn you, Mr. Bowles," he called, as Bowles came, full-rigged, from the bunk-house. "I want to give you warnin'—thet hawse is dangerous!"
"All right, Mr. Mosby," answered Bowles absently, as he started for the round corral.
"He done killed a man!" croaked Gloomy Gus. "A right good cow-puncher, too—I knowed him well. Jim Dunbar—the top rider of the outfit. Don't say I never warned you, now—keep off that hawse!"
"All right, Mr. Mosby," responded Bowles, but he never missed a stride. The time had come to show himself a man, and, like an athlete who goes forth to win, his thoughts were on the battle.
"You want to set him limber," reiterated Brigham in his ear. "Ride 'im like a drunk man, and whip 'im at every jump—it gives you somethin' to do. Grab 'im with yore spurs every time he lights; and look out he don't bite yore legs. Here, take my quirt—it's heavier—and if he starts to go over backwards, hit 'im hard between the ears. You kin ride 'im, pardner, I know it! Jest keep cool and don't get stiff!"
"All right, Brig," muttered Bowles; "all right!" But his eyes were on the corral.
A cloud of dust rose on the still morning air like smoke from some red-burning fire, and through the poles of the fence he could see horses running like mad, and men with trailing ropes. Then, as the stampede rose to a thunder of feet, he heard a shrill yell of triumph, and scrambling men jerked the bars from the gate. The current of galloping slackened, it paused, and the leaders shot out the gap with a sea of high-flung heads behind. When the dust of their outrush had settled, there was only one horse left inside—the horse that killed Dunbar—and he lay grunting in the dirt.
"Fetch me that hackamore!" yelled Hardy Atkins from where he knelt on the brute's straining neck. "Now bring me that well-rope—we'll tie up his dad-burned leg!"
They gave him the ropes as he called for them, and he rigged them with masterful hands—first the rough-twisted hackamore, to go over his head and cut off his breath; then the two-inch well-rope, to hang from his neck and serve later to noose his hind foot. Then all hands tailed on to the throw-rope; they swayed back as he rose to his feet; and when Dunbar went to the end of it, the heave they gave threw him flat. He leaped up and flew back on his haunches, and the rope halter cut off his breath. His sides heaved as he struggled against it; his eyes bulged big and he shook his head; then, with a final paroxysm, he sank to his knees and they slackened away on the rope. A single mighty breath, and he was up on his feet and fighting; and they choked him down again. Then Hardy Atkins stepped in behind and picked up the end of the shoulder rope, where it dragged between his legs, and drew the loop up to his hocks. A jerk—a kick at the burn—and Dunbar was put on three legs. He fought, because that was his nature, but it was in vain; they trussed his foot up high, tied the rope's end to the neck loop, and clapped a broad blind over his eyes. So Dunbar was conquered, and while he squealed and cow-kicked, they lashed Bowles' saddle on his bowed-up back and slipped the bit between his teeth.