CHAPTER XXTHE SIEGE OF CORK
Even the possession of his broncho could not long fill the mind of Dennis to the exclusion of his “little lady.” Having missed her from the party in advance of the wagon he halted and let that pass, then retraced his way to where she was slowly approaching, alone.
“Sure, Miss Carlota, this is the botherin’ beast! If I wants him to go forard it’s backard he will; an’ if backard—then forard’s the word. What would ye be doin’ to him if he was yours, if ye please?”
“I don’t know. I never ‘broke’ a horse, though I’ve often seen others do it. Miguel says that either a man or his horse must be master and that there’s no peace till it’s settled. He believes in making a final thing of it, once for all.”
“Faith, I’m not thinkin’ I’d like the ‘Greaser’ overmuch but, all the same, a bodymust give—um, um—his due. I’ll have to tussle the thing out, bime-by, I trow.”
Then he looked at her wondering to see traces of tears on her face. Pulling the forelock which dangled below his sombrero, he asked:
“An’ who’s been makin’ ye cry, this fine mornin’, Miss Carlota?”
“Nobody. Nobody, at all. It was foolish, but see? I am not now,” and she smiled into his troubled face.
“But where is the little gossoon, me dear? Sure, I’ve a mind to go halves with him in this creatur’ o’ mine. That boy Jack, beyant, who doesn’t know horse from mule nor t’other from which, is so set up an’ flairboyant, I must take him down a peg. Never mind, says I to myself. Wait a bit, Dennis, me boy, says I. ’Tis a half of a horse master Carlos shall have now, but a whole one bime-by.”
“Why, Dennis! What do you mean? How do you know? I thought it was to be a surprise!” cried Carlota.
“Sure, an isn’t it? We’ll speak never a word, you an’ me, till we meets up with a beast what wants to be sellin’ himself an’ then—out goes the wind from Jack’s sails—kerflump!”
“Oh! is that all? I thought you meant something different;” and she smiled again, anticipating the moment when Carlos should return, riding a beautiful animal which had cost him nothing but his own prowess. “But, Dennis, what is your broncho’s name!”
“Name, says you? Humph! That’s more nor I know meself. But, bein’s he’s a new master why not a new name? Eh? An’ is it yourself will be doin’ the honor to speak it?”
“Oh! I thank you, but I couldn’t. I’ve named one animal already to-day and I may have to name another—I mean—I’d rather you did it yourself. Dennis, though it was kind of you to think I might. What shall it be?”
“Belike—it may not be—anything! Whoa, there! Whoa, I tell ye!”
“You’re pulling too tight on that bridle. Maybe, he thinks you want him to stand on his head—drawing him like that! Oh, Dennis, Dennis! Don’t. Do take it easily. Your fingers are clinched and your teeth set as if you were in terror. That’s not the way to ride, no, no; and I’ve told you once, already.”
“What then? What’s ‘once’ to a stupid likeme? Ain’t this the right grip o’ the thing—so?”
“No, indeed! You should see Miguel. His touch is like a feather on the rein yet—so firm! Amador would neither disobey him nor obey anybody else. See. This way. Don’t squeeze your hand so tight. You look, Dennis, you do look as if you were in—agony!”
The poor fellow was. He would a thousand times rather have been striding along upon his own stout feet than riding that uncomfortable thing. The saddle had become a throne of torment. His great boots seemed like lead. His hat flopped in his eyes, his buckskin jacket gave him a vapor bath, and his spurs got into the wrong places, goading rather than guiding the broncho.
Carlota suggested:
“S’pose we wait and rest a bit, and I’ll give you another lesson. Good. First, now name him. Then we’ll talk to him by his name till he learns it, and finds that new, better behavior is expected of him.”
“All right, me little lady. That there Meegell rests now an’ again, I s’pose?”
“Surely. Did you think that he rode all the time?”
Dennis had so thought. The vivid picture in his imagination was of a dark and handsome horseman sitting upright in his saddle and careering at breakneck speed over hill and plain.
“The name, Dennis. Let’s stick to that, first.”
“Acushla! What says you to—Cork?”
“Cork! Cork? Is he a cork? Beg pardon, but I don’t quite understand.”
Somewhat nettled, the Irishman responded:
“Faith, ’tis simple, thinks I. If Connemara, what’s a town, is a good name for a no-account creatur’ of a burro, can’t Cork, what’s a city, be right for a horse? Eh? A city’s finer nor a town an’ a horse nor a donkey, says I.”
“That seems sensible. Cork isn’t as musically, I mean musical, as Connemara, and your broncho isn’t as pretty a beast. But it’s short and easy to say when you get—angry—so often, poor Dennis!”
“Who-a-a, there! Stand still. Be easy, easy, lad! Cork—Cor—rk, C-O-R-K!!”
Carlota backed away and gave the broncho and his master a wide space. She was half-frightened,half-amused, for matters between them had, evidently, reached a crisis. The animal upraised, and so suddenly, that Dennis was unseated and slipped down over its back in a manner neither flattering to his vanity nor helpful to his temper. Then, from somewhere about his person, he produced a short, stout stick, with which he belabored the equally furious beast as if death were the object at which he aimed.
“Oh! you cruel, cruel man! He’ll kill you—or you him! Dennis—Cork! Oh! Dennis, Dennis!” screamed Carlota, lustily.
The wagon, now some distance in front, came to a halt, for the girl’s cries had reached and startled its occupants, so that Mr. Burnham and Jack ran back to see what caused the uproar. Yet, at that critical moment, even they dared not interfere. They ranged themselves beside Carlota and silently watched the strange contest.
“If ’tis a fight ye be wantin’ ’tis a fight ye shall have!” yelled the trackman, now indifferent to everything save the rebellious beast for which he had spent his hardly earned dollars. His blood was up, his spirits rose. “Sure, Ithought me daily exercise was gone entirely, seein’ I’d left me friend Mickey behind. Come on, then, I’m the man for ye!” he panted.
The battle which ensued was against all rules of horse training and more in the line of warfare to which the Irishman was accustomed; but, even in the fiercest of the mêlée Dennis retained a firm hold upon the bridle rein. Because of carelessness, he would never again lose his precious broncho. The spectators beheld a dangerous mixture of legs, heads, and hoofs; heard the continued whack, whack, of the shillalah, and anticipated mortal hurt to the ignorant trackman. Then—the mustang lay prone upon the ground and Dennis stood above it—master!
“Faith, that settles it! From this on, Fogarty’s boss!”
“O, Dennis! You’ve hurt him cruelly, cruelly, I’m afraid!” said Carlota, slipping off her burro to kneel beside the prostrate brute and tenderly pat his head.
For the conqueror, she had no word of compassion, though he looked much the worse of the two. His fine attire was torn and dust-covered, his face scratched and bleeding, one of hisgigantic spurs broken, and his gay sash in ribbons. Yet there was an expression of supreme content upon his features and his labor-bowed shoulders held themselves with a new and martial bearing.
“‘See, the conquering hero comes!’” mocked Jack, and waved his hat ecstatically.
Not a muscle of Dennis moved. Rigidly grand and imperturbable, he stood a monument for all to see. When sufficient silence was obtained for the full effect of his superiority he commanded, with great dignity:
“Cork, get up!”
The animal glanced at the man who stood above him; then, meekly as any burro might, the forever-tamed broncho staggered to its feet. With a look toward the still kneeling Carlota, which asked as plain as speech—“Could your Meegell beat that?” Mr. Fogarty slipped the bridle over his arm and airily strode away.