Bat Wing Bowles

by Dane Coolidge

  CHAPTER XIII

  A LETTER FROM THE POSTMISTRESS

  The morning after Bowles' return from his trip to Chula Vista--duringwhich he had made the startling proposition about being misunderstood byDixie Lee--the entire Bat Wing outfit packed up its plunder and pulledout for the big round-up. First the cowboys, with a fifteen-mile rideahead of them before they began to gather, went stringing across theplains at a high trot; then the remuda, stretching out in a mighty fanof horses, came fogging along behind them, to be ready for a change atthe cutting-grounds; and last the chuck-wagon and the bed-wagon--onefull of Dutch ovens and provisions, the other piled high withwell-lashed beds--went hammering through chuck holes and dipping intodry washes in a desperate attempt to reach the rendezvous in time fordinner.

  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 thesong called "Casey Jones" drove the bed-wagon for Gloomy Gus; but Bowlesrode out with the cowboys. By a piece of good luck, he had backedWa-ha-lote into a corner that morning, and so menaced him with his ropethat the good-natured monarch had finally stood and surrendered for ahandful of sugar. So Mr. Bowles rode out in style, without anyostensible glances toward the big house, where Dixie May was reviewingher admirers from the gallery. By this time, of course, Mrs. Lee wouldhave informed her daughter of the Eastern stray's presumption--of hisdaring to suggest that, in case he called, she, Dixie, mightmisunderstand his motives and think he was laying siege to herheart--and of course Dixie May would be indignant!

  But, if she was, she carried it off well, for Bowles never got a lookfrom her. Of course, in a bunch of thirty cowboys, even on such a fancymount as high-headed Wa-ha-lote, one man does not stand outconspicuously from the rest--that is, not unless his horse is pitching.Hardy Atkins was on an outlaw sorrel called El Paso del Norte, and hemade up the center of the picture. Del Norte was a wonder at thebuck-jump, especially if some one spurred him in the shoulders, whichHardy did, and the departure of our hero was a little dimmed by hisdust. Still Bowles was pleased, even if he was leaving the home of hisbeloved for two weeks, for something told him that he had at last wondistinction in the ruck of suitors--the only man who had not let it gofor granted that he was in love with Dixie Lee. Of course, hewas--desperately so--but an instinct deep down in his breast warned himto conceal it from all the world. And especially from Dixie, thecapricious; otherwise, she might win him by a glance and a smile, andthen disprize him forever.

  But now the stern realities of life loomed up before him, and Bowlesfound himself with a real round-up on his hands. It does not take muchof a man to sit on the front porch and talk near-love with a girl; butto follow a Western round-up is a task to try the hardiest. For threehours Bowles rode at a rough trot across the valley, fighting down theawful instinct to rise in his stirrups and "bob"; and then as thedistant hills grew nearer the cowboys broke into a lope. They separatedinto two parties that formed the horns of a circle, dropping off manafter man as they jumped up cattle, and still spurring on and on. Thepuncher with the weakest horse was dropped first, for there would be nochance to change till noon, and the best mounted was saved to the lastin order to get his full strength. Bowles was on Wa-ha-lote, and he rodeto the end before Henry Lee sent him back with the herd.

  Very slowly now he plodded along behind his bunch of cattle, riding backand forth as he picked up strays, and driving them all to some commoncenter. To the right and left, and far across to distant hills, he couldsee lone men at their task, and the great plain became dotted withcattle 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 whenthe 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 shouldlose her calf; and while they stood them upon the cutting-ground thewrangler 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 thanwhen he changes horses on the open plain. The great remuda of over twohundred horses was driven in on the gallop; then the cowboys roundedthem up, and each man dropped to the ground. One by one they took downtheir ropes and threw the loose ends to their neighbors, and there in aminute's time was a corral that would hold the wildest outlaw, for arope is the greatest terror of a cow-pony. It was a rope thatfore-footed him when he was a colt, and bound him at the branding; everymorning the long, snaky loops whizzed past their ears and dragged outthose who must ride till they were ready to drop; and so, even thoughthey had the power to brush the rope fence aside, the frightened horseshuddled away from it and submitted to the noose.

  Bowles was barred, for his Mother Hubbard roping threw the herd into afrenzy; so he saddled up for Brigham and let that doughty puncher dragout his mount. Then the cutting and branding began, and Henry Lee puthim to flanking calves. Perhaps he, too, had heard of the tenderfoot'sremarks about his daughter; or it may have been the original grouch; butBowles knew from the look in his eye that he was elected to do his fullshare. So he labored on, trying to learn the tricks of the olderflankers, and schooling himself to their stoical endurance.

  A heavy wind came up, sweeping the dust across the flat in clouds, andstill the cutters rode and roped. They ate dinner in relays, turningtheir backs to the storm and bolting their grimy food in silence, andhurried back to the herd. The sparks from the branding-fire flew fiftyfeet in a line, and the irons would hardly hold heat in the wind; butthey carried the work through to the end. Then they moved the herd toharder ground, and cut it between the gusts, when every horse turnedtail and the riders shut their eyes. The ones and twos were lumpedtogether, the strays turned loose on the plain, and the outfit ploddedon to the east, driving their cut before them.

  That night they camped at a ranch, throwing down their beds in barns andsheds, and eating in the open. The next day they braved the wind andcombed the distant mountain, riding far over the rocky slopes, andbranding in a canon. On the third day the wind brought up rain andsleet, and the mountains were powdered with snow, but the round-up movedon inexorably. Then the wind veered to the east and the air becamebitter cold; Gloomy Gus could hardly cook for the gale that assaultedhim, and the wrangler lost eight or ten horses; but still the hardycowboys rode and cut and branded, for a round-up never stops for windand weather.

  As for Bowles, his face was peeled and swollen, his eyes half-blinded bydust and wind, his body chilled through in spite of his clothes, and hesaw himself in that company like a child among grown-up men. Half of thecowboys left their coats on the wagon until the day of the blizzard; andBrigham was still in his shirt-sleeves, having rolled up his coat withhis bed and forgotten to bring his slicker. Yet none of them railed atthe weather; no one quit; it was their life. Perhaps from their earliestboyhood they had braved the Texas northers or endured the continualsandstorms of high and windy plains. They were used to it, like thehorses that bore them; but Bowles was a more delicate plant. All hecould do was to live on from day to day, wondering at their courage andhardihood, and marveling at his own presumption in thinking he couldplay at their game.

  A week passed, and the wind grew warmer, though it still swept in fromthe southeast. The outfit reached the limit of its circle and turnedtoward home, sending its cuts of dogies on before it. On the first ofMay they were contracted to be delivered at Chula Vista, there to beshipped to Colorado and the Texas Panhandle and fattened into steers.But feed was short, for the cold had set back the grass, and Henry Leehad wired that he could deliver on the twentieth. So while he waited foran answer he sent his cattle ahead of him, and every day as he rode hewatched for a messenger from home.

  Nor was he alone in this, for the messenger would be Dixie; but no onesaid a word. It was part of the patience of these rugged sons of thedesert that they should make no sign. They were camped in a grove ofsycamores beneath the shelter of a hill, and the outfit was
gatheredabout the fire, when she rode in at the end of the day. Each man of themregarded her silently as she carried the word to her father; and then,when he nodded his satisfaction, they stirred in expectation of hergreeting.

  "Howd-do, boys?" she said, vaulting lightly off her horse and comingnearer. "'Evening, Mr. Mosby; what's the chance for a little supper?"

  She looked them all over casually as she drew off her gloves by thefire, and for a few minutes the conversation was confined to news. Thenshe went back to her saddle, and returned with a bundle of letters.

  "Well, boys," she remarked, with a teasing smile, "I'm postmistress thistrip, so line up here and give me your present names--also the names youwent 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 fromMoroni--for Charley Clark! Aw, Brig, are you still writing to that girldown on the river? Well, isn't that provoking! And here's a whole bunchfor Hardy Atkins. Every one from a girl, too--I can tell by thehandwriting. No, Mr. Buchanan, you don't draw anything--not under thatname, 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 thisHoughton 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 claimedthat honor.

  "Nothing to be afraid of," she urged. "It was mailed at Chula Vista, andwritten by a girl. Pretty handwriting, too--something like mine. I betthere's something nice inside of it--I can tell by the curly-cues on theletters."

  Once more she surveyed her circle of smirking admirers, but no oneanswered the call. She looked again, and her eyes fell on Mr. Bowles.

  "Stranger," she said, speaking with well-simulated hesitation, "I didn'tquite catch your name down at the ranch--isn't this letter for you?"

  For a moment Bowles' heart stopped beating altogether and a hundredcrazy fancies fogged his brain; then he shook his head, and gazedshamefacedly away.

  "My name is Bowles," he said stiffly; "Samuel Bowles."

  "Well, this says Samuel," reasoned Dixie Lee, advancing to show him theletter. "Here--take a look at it!"

  She stepped very close as she spoke, and as Bowles glanced at her he sawthat her eyes were big with portent. Then he scanned the letter, and ina flash he recognized her handwriting--the same that he had seen on thetrain. 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 detainedhim. 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 wereother possibilities involved. To be sure, his name had been Houghton onhis 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 bestin secret, without the aid of meddling or officious outsiders; and forthat reason, if for no other, Bowles desired to remain incog. Even witha false clue, Dixie May might write to New York, and ultimately reachhis aunt, thus cutting short his romantic adventures. She mighteven--but he skipped the rest of the things she might do, andstraightened his face to a mask.

  "Ah, thank you, no," he said, speaking very formally. "Not forme--though the handwriting does seem familiar."

  "Maybe it's money from home," she suggested; but still he refused toaccept. He was ignorant of the ways of women, but his instincts weretrained to a hair-line, and he read mischief in her heart. Yet curiosityalmost 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 asshe argued, half in earnest, she fixed him with her eyes.

  The boys by the fire, who had been looking on in wonder, became suddenlyrestive and impatient. Their little game of post-office had been brokenup in the middle, and this stranger was monopolizing the postmistress.

  "But the postmaster thought it was for you," persisted Dixie May, nowapparently annoyed. "He described you down to your hat-band; and if Idon't get rid of this letter I'll have to take it clear back to town. Ofcourse----"

  "Aw, take the letter!" broke in Hardy Atkins, striding over from hisplace and fiercely confronting Bowles. "What's the matter withyou--ain't you got no manners? Well then, when a lady asks you to take aletter, _take it_!"

  He reached out to get the letter and force it upon him forthwith, butDixie May tossed her head and jerked the missive away.

  "Who called you in on this, Hardy Atkins?" she inquired, turning uponhim haughtily. "It's a wonder you wouldn't go off somewhere and readthose pink scented billets-doux I gave you. I reckon this man knows hisown name without any outside help. Now, you go on away and let me dothis!"

  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, smilingsignificantly; "she may have something important to tell you. And don'tmind a little thing like an alias--these boys have all got one." Oncemore she smiled, holding out the letter; and the boys favored him withdark 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 yourname is Bowles, eh? I certainly hope you'll excuse me, stranger, but Isure thought your name was Houghton!"

  So saying, she turned and left him; and after pondering upon the matterfor some time Bowles suddenly felt his heart go sick, for she hadaddressed him at the last as "Stranger."