CHAPTER III
THE BAT WING RANCH
A week passed by while Mr. Bowles prepared for his great emprise, andthen one evening as the sun set behind the purple peaks of the Tortugasand lighted up the white walls of the big house on the hill a strangermight have been seen riding up toward the Bat Wing gate. In fact, he wasseen, and the round-up cook, who was washing supper dishes at the rearof the chuck-wagon, delivered himself of a heartfelt curse.
"What's the matter, Gus?" inquired a lounging cowboy who was hoveringover the fire. "Drop yore dishrag?"
"No; and I don't need to around this ranch!" commented Gus with bitteremphasis. "It's a common remark or sayin' that when you drop yoredishrag it means a visitor is comin'--or, as some say, it means badluck. Now jest look at that ornery feller comin' up the road! Can't lethis hawse out none--can't whip up a little and git in bysupper-time--has to come draggin' in jest as I'm finishin' my work!"
The cowboy raised himself up slowly from crouching on his heels andregarded the stranger intently.
"Say, who is that?" he said at last. "Looks like he was ridin' thatlittle bald-faced sorrel that Lon Morrell traded to Jim Scrimsher lastsummer. Yes, sir, it's the very same hawse--that's somebody from downChula Vista way!"
"Well, I don't care where he comes from," grumbled the cook, "as long ashe comes a-runnin'! I sure will be one happy man when the wagon gitsaway from this ranch and I git shut of these no-'count, worthlesschuck-riders. Well, biscuits and coffee is all he gits now, I don't careif he's a cattle-buyer!"
He wiped his hands carefully on a clean towel he kept hid for thatpurpose, pulled out his long gray mustaches and regarded the strangerwith a baleful stare.
"Hoo!" he sneered. "Look at them shaps, will you? Ain't them the fancypants though! Right new, too--and git on to that great big six-shooter!Must be a forest ranger!"
"Shut up!" said the cowboy as the stranger dropped off at the gate. "Hemight hear ye!"
"Don't give a rip if he did!" snorted Gus, to whom Uncle Sam's gay youngforest-savers were intimately associated with an extra plate; and,grumbling and slamming down dishes, he returned to his manifold duties.
But the stranger was evidently not a common chuck-rider; in fact, sogloriously was he appareled that the moment his rigging became apparentthe idling cowboy made a swift sneak to the bunk-house, where the boyswere wrangling over a pitch game, and turned in a general alarm.
"Come out, fellers," he whispered hoarsely, "and see the new tenderfoot!Hurry up, he's goin' over to the big house! Say, he's a forest rangerall right!"
"Nothin' of the kind!" asserted a burly cow-puncher, thrusting his headout the door. "Movin' picture cowboy, I'll bet a hat!"
The stranger remounted gracefully as they gazed out at him; then hetouched his jaded sorrel with the spur and trotted over to the big housegate--and as he trotted he rose rhythmically in his stirrups, while allcowboy-land stood aghast!
"English!" they gasped in a chorus, and burst into fervid curses as theystared at the uncouth sight. A grown man, a white man, and hopping upand down like that! Holy, jumping Jerusalem! They beat each other on theback in an agony of despair--and yet it was no more than Mr. Bowles,dropping back into his old Central Park habits. To be sure, the man whocoached him at Chula Vista had warned him against it repeatedly, but thecustoms of a lifetime are not wiped out in a minute, and to that extentMr. Bowles was still an Easterner.
The big white house in which Henry Lee made his home was a landmark insoutheast Arizona. Some people merely referred to it as "The WhiteHouse," and though it was forty miles from the railroad it was as wellknown in its way as the abiding place of Presidents in Washington. TheWhite House was a big, square, adobe building, set boldly on the top ofa low hill and surrounded by a broad wooden gallery, from behind whoseclambering honeysuckles and gnarled rose-bushes Mrs. Lee and Dixie Maylooked down upon the envious world below. To be invited up to the bighouse, to sit on the flower-scented porch and listen to the soft voicesof the women--that was a dream to which every cow-puncher's heartaspired, although in the realization many a bold, adventurous man lostface and weakened. But to Bowles the big house was the natural place togo, and he unlatched the gate and mounted to the gallery without atremor.
Upon the edge of the porch, smoking his pipe and gazing out over hisdomain, sat Henry Lee, the pioneer cattleman of the Tortugas Valley, anda man who had fought Indians to get his start. He was a great man--oldHenry Lee--but to Bowles chiefly distinguished by being the father ofDixie May.
"Ah, good-evening!" he began, bringing his heels together and bowing."Are you Mr. Lee?"
The cattleman looked at him a moment with a calm, appraising eye. He wasa small, rather slight man, but square-shouldered and far fromdecrepit--also, he had seen the procession go by for quite a while, andhe could judge most men by their faces.
"That's my name," he said, rising quietly from his place. "What can I dofor you?"
"My name is Bowles," said that gentleman, following the procedure hethought most fitting in one seeking employment. "Mr. Scrimsher, of ChulaVista, has referred me to you in regard to a position as cowboy. Ishould like very much to get such a place."
"Sorry, Mr. Bowles," answered Mr. Lee, knocking the ashes out of hispipe, "but I'm not taking on any hands at present."
"Oh, indeed!" murmured the would-be cowboy, not at all dismayed."Perhaps there will be an opening for me later?"
"No; I'm afraid not. I generally take on about the same boys every year,or men that know the country, and there won't be any place for you."
There was something very final about the way that this was said, andBowles paused to meditate.
"Turn your horse into the pasture and git some supper at the wagon,"added the old man, with a friendly gesture; but supper was not whatBowles had come for. He had come to get a job where he could be near thequeen of his heart, and perhaps win her by some deed of prowess anddaring. So he ignored this tacit dismissal and returned again to thecharge.
"I can readily understand, Mr. Lee," he began, "why you hesitate toemploy a stranger, and especially a man who has newly come from theEast, but if you would give me a trial for a few days I am sure youwould find me a very willing worker. I have come out here in order tolearn the cattle business, and the compensation is of no importance tome at first; in fact, I should be glad to work without pay until youfound my services of value. Perhaps now----"
"Nope," interposed the cattleman, shaking his head regretfully. "I'vetried that before, and it don't work. Cow-punching is a business byitself, and it can't be learned in a minute; in fact, a good puncher isthe scarcest thing on the range, and I either pay the top price or Idon't take a man on at all. I can't stop to monkey with green hands."
Now, this was pretty direct, and it was calculated to put the ordinarytenderfoot in his place; but Mr. Bowles came from a self-selected classof people who are accustomed to having their own way, and he would notacknowledge himself beaten.
"Now, really, Mr. Lee," he protested, "I don't think you are quite fairto me in this. As I understand it, your round-up is just beginning, andI am sure I could be of some service--for a few days, at least."
The old man glanced at his fancy new outfit, and thought he saw anotherway out.
"Can you ride?" he inquired, asking that first fatal question beforewhich so many punchers go down.
"Yes, sir," answered Bowles politely.
"You mean you can ride a gentle horse," corrected Lee. "I've got somepretty wild ones in my bunch, and of course a new hand couldn't expectto get the best. Can you rope?"
"No, I mean any horse," retorted Bowles, avoiding the subject of roping."Any horse you have."
"Hmm!" observed Mr. Lee, laying down his pipe and regarding his man withinterest. "Did you ever ride any bad horses?"
"Yes, sir," lied Bowles; "several of them."
"And you think you can ride any horse I've got, eh?" mused Lee. "Well,I'll tell you, Mr. Bowles," he continued, speaking very deliberately;"I've got a horse i
n my remuda that killed a man last fall--if you'llride him I'll take you on for a puncher."
"Very well, sir," responded Bowles. "And thank you very much. It's verykind of you, I'm sure."
He turned to go but the cattleman stopped him in his second stride. Hisbluff had been called, for it would never do to go to a show-down--notunless he wanted a man's blood on his hands.
"Here! Wait a minute!" he cried impatiently. "I don't want to get youkilled, so what's the use of talking? The only way for you to get to bea cow-puncher is to work up to it, the way everybody does. I'll give youa job as flunky at twenty a month and found, and if you make good I'llput you on for horse wrangler. How does that strike you?"
"Ah--what are the duties of a flunky?" inquired Bowles, cautiously andwithout enthusiasm. "You know, I'm quite content with your firstproposal."
"Very likely," answered Mr. Lee dryly. "But wait till you see the horse.All a flunky has to do is to help the cook, wash the dishes, drag up alittle wood, and drive the bed-wagon."
"It's very kind of you, I'm sure," murmured Mr. Bowles; "but I think Iprefer the other."
"The other what?"
"Why, the other position--the job of cow-puncher."
"You don't think I'll let you ride that horse, do you?" demanded Mr. Leesternly.
"Why--so I understood you."
The old cattleman snorted and muttered to himself. He had talked toomuch and that was all there was to it. Now he would have to make someconcessions to pay for it.
"Listen to me, young man," he said, rising and tapping him on theshoulder. "The horse that killed Dunbar is the worst man-eater in thecountry--I ought to have shot the brute long ago--and if you try to ridehim he'll throw you before you git your stirrup. More'n that, he'll kickyou before you hit the ground, and jump on you before you bounce. Mytwister, Hardy Atkins, won't go near 'im, and he's one of the bestriders in Arizona; so what's the use of talking about it? Now, you're astranger here, and I'll make an exception of you--how about that flunkyjob?"
"Why--really----" Mr. Bowles hesitated a moment. "Perhaps it's only inthe name, but I'd rather not accept such a menial position. Of course,it's very kind of you to offer me the alternative, but----"
"Now, here!" cried the cattleman fiercely. "I'll make you assistanthorse wrangler, at thirty dollars a month, and if you don't accept I'lltell Hardy to catch up the old man-killer and put you in the hospital! Iwas a fool to talk to you the way I did; but don't you crowd me too far,young man, or you'll find Henry Lee a man of his word! Now, will youwrangle horses, or will we have to ship you East?"
Bowles stared at him for a moment, and then he drew himself up proudly.
"If the choice lies between a menial position----" he began; and oldHenry brought his teeth together with a click.
"You poor, dam', ignorant tenderfoot!" he raved. "You don't know whenyou're being treated white! You ain't worth a cent to me, sir--no, not acent! And now I'm going to learn you something! I'll ask my twister toput the saddle on old Dunbar in the morning, and you'll have to ridehim, sir, or own yourself a coward!"
"Very well, sir," answered Bowles, with military stiffness. "Very well!I will see you in the morning, then."
He bowed and strode off down the path, his new shaps flappingponderously as he walked; and the old cattleman brushed his eyes todrive the mad thought away.
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