CHAPTER III
DAVE RIDES ON HIS SPURS
Hart came up to his friend grinning. "Well, you old horn-toad, we got nokick comin'. Chiquito run a mighty pretty race. Only trouble was hislaigs wasn't long enough."
The owner of the pony nodded, a lump in his throat. He was not thinkingabout his thirty-five dollars, but about the futile race into which hehad allowed his little beauty to be trapped. Dave would not be twenty-onetill coming grass, and it still hurt his boyish pride to think that hisfavorite had been beaten.
Another lank range-rider drifted up. "Same here, Dave. I'll kiss mytwenty bucks good-bye cheerful. You 'n' the li'l hoss run the best race,at that. Chiquito started like a bullet out of a gun, and say, boys! howhe did swing round on the turn."
"Much obliged, Steve. I reckon he sure done his best," said Sandersgratefully.
The voice of George Doble cut in, openly and offensively jubilant. "Me,I'd ruther show the way at the finish than at the start. You're moreliable to collect the mazuma. I'll tell you now that broomtail neverhad a chance to beat Whiskey Bill."
"Yore hoss can run, seh," admitted Dave.
"I _know_ it, but you don't. He didn't have to take the kinks out of hislegs to beat that plug."
"You get our money," said Hart quietly. "Ain't that enough withoutrubbin' it in?"
"Sure I get yore money--easy money, at that," boasted Doble. "Got anymore you want to put up on the circus bronc?"
Steve Russell voiced his sentiments curtly. "You make me good and tired,Doble. There's only one thing I hate more'n a poor loser--and that's apoor winner. As for putting my money on the pinto, I'll just say this:I'll bet my li'l' pile he can beat yore bay twenty miles, a hundredmiles, or five hundred."
"Not any, thanks. Whiskey Bill is a racer, not a mule team," Miller said,laughing.
Steve loosened the center-fire cinch of his pony's saddle. He noted thatthere was no real geniality in the fat man's mirth. It was a surfacething designed to convey an effect of good-fellowship. Back of it laythe chill implacability of the professional gambler.
The usual give-and-take of gay repartee was missing at supper that night.Since they were of the happy-go-lucky, outdoor West it did not greatlydistress the D Bar Lazy R riders to lose part of their pay checks. Evenif it had, their spirits would have been unimpaired, for it is written intheir code that a man must take his punishment without whining. What hurtwas that they had been tricked, led like lambs to the killing. None ofthem doubted now that the pack-horse of the gamblers was a "ringer."These men had deliberately crossed the path of the trail outfit in orderto take from the vaqueros their money.
The punchers were sulky. Instead of a fair race they had been up againstan open-and-shut proposition, as Russell phrased it. The jeers of Dobledid not improve their tempers. The man was temperamentally mean-hearted.He could not let his victims alone.
"They say one's born every minute, Ad. Dawged if I don't believe it," hesneered.
Miller was not saying much himself, but his fat stomach shook at thissally. If his partner could goad the boys into more betting he was quitewilling to divide the profits.
Audibly Hart yawned and murmured his sentiments aloud. "I'm liable totell these birds what I think of 'em, Steve, if they don't spend quitesome time layin' off'n us."
"Don't tell us out loud. We might hear you," advised Doble insolently.
"In regards to that, I'd sure worry if you did."
Dave was at that moment returning to his place with a cup of hot coffee.By some perverse trick of fate his glance fell on Doble's sinister faceof malignant triumph. His self-control snapped, and in an instant thewhole course of his life was deflected from the path it would otherwisehave taken. With a flip he tossed up the tin cup so that the hot coffeesoused the crook.
"Goddlemighty!" screamed Doble, leaping to his feet. He reached for hisforty-five, just as Sanders closed with him. The range-rider's revolver,like that of most of his fellows, was in a blanket roll in the wagon.
Miller, with surprising agility for a fat man, got to his feet andlaunched himself at the puncher. Dave flung the smaller of his opponentsback against Steve, who was sitting tailor fashion beside him. The gunmantottered and fell over Russell, who lost no time in pinning his hands tothe ground while Hart deftly removed the revolver from his pocket.
Swinging round to face Miller, Dave saw at once that the big man hadchosen not to draw his gun. In spite of his fat the gambler was arough-and-tumble fighter of parts. The extra weight had come in recentyears, but underneath it lay roped muscles and heavy bones. Men oftenremarked that they had never seen a fat man who could handle himself likeAd Miller. The two clinched. Dave had the under hold and tried to triphis bulkier foe. The other side-stepped, circling round. He got one handunder the boy's chin and drove it up and back, flinging the range-ridera dozen yards.
Instantly Dave plunged at him. He had to get at close quarters, for hecould not tell when Miller would change his mind and elect to fight witha gun. The man had chosen a hand-to-hand tussle, Dave knew, because hewas sure he could beat so stringy an opponent as himself. Once he got thegrip on him that he wanted the big gambler would crush him by sheerstrength. So, though the youngster had to get close, he dared not clinch.His judgment was that his best bet was his fists.
He jabbed at the big white face, ducked, and jabbed again. Now he was inthe shine of the moon; now he was in darkness. A red streak came out onthe white face opposite, and he knew he had drawn blood. Miller roaredlike a bull and flailed away at him. More than one heavy blow jarred him,sent a bolt of pain shooting through him. The only thing he saw was thatshining face. He pecked away at it with swift jabs, taking whatpunishment he must and dodging the rest.
Miller was furious. He had intended to clean up this bantam in about aminute. He rushed again, broke through Dave's defense, and closed withhim. His great arms crushed into the ribs of his lean opponent. As theyswung round and round, Dave gasped for breath. He twisted and squirmed,trying to escape that deadly hug. Somehow he succeeded in tripping hishuge foe.
They went down locked together, Dave underneath. The puncher knew that ifhe had room Miller would hammer his face to a pulp. He drew himself closeto the barrel body, arms and legs wound tight like hoops.
Miller gave a yell of pain. Instinctively Dave moved his legs higher andclamped them tighter. The yell rose again, became a scream of agony.
"Lemme loose!" shrieked the man on top. "My Gawd, you're killin' me!"
Dave had not the least idea what was disturbing Miller's peace of mind,but whatever it was moved to his advantage. He clamped tighter, workinghis heels into another secure position. The big man bellowed with pain."Take him off! Take him off!" he implored in shrill crescendo.
"What's all this?" demanded an imperious voice.
Miller was torn howling from the arms and legs that bound him and Davefound himself jerked roughly to his feet. The big raw-boned foreman wasglaring at him above his large hook nose. The trail boss had been outat the remuda with the jingler when the trouble began. He had arrivedin time to rescue his fat friend.
"What's eatin' you, Sanders?" he demanded curtly.
"He jumped George!" yelped Miller.
Breathing hard, Dave faced his foe warily. He was in a better strategicposition than he had been, for he had pulled the revolver of the fat manfrom its holster just as they were dragged apart. It was in his righthand now, pressed close to his hip, ready for instant use if need be. Hecould see without looking that Doble was still struggling ineffectivelyin the grip of Russell.
"Dave stumbled and spilt some coffee on George; then George he tried togun him. Miller mixed in then," explained Hart.
The foreman glared. "None of this stuff while you're on the trail with myoutfit. Get that, Sanders? I won't have it."
"Dave he couldn't hardly he'p hisse'f," Buck Byington broke in. "They wasrunnin' on him considerable, Dug."
"I ain't askin' for excuses. I'm tellin' you boys what's what," retortedthe road boss. "
Sanders, give him his gun."
The cowpuncher took a step backward. He had no intention of handing aloaded gun to Miller while the gambler was in his present frame of mind.That might be equivalent to suicide. He broke the revolver, turned thecylinder, and shook out the cartridges. The empty weapon he tossed on theground.
"He ripped me with his spurs," Miller said sullenly. "That's howcome Ihad to turn him loose."
Dave looked down at the man's legs. His trousers were torn to shreds.Blood trickled down the lacerated calves where the spurs had roweled theflesh cruelly. No wonder Miller had suddenly lost interest in the fight.The vaquero thanked his lucky stars that he had not taken off his spursand left them with the saddle.
The first thing that Dave did was to strike straight for the wagon wherehis roll of bedding was. He untied the rope, flung open the blankets, andtook from inside the forty-five he carried to shoot rattlesnakes. This heshoved down between his shirt and trousers where it would be handy foruse in case of need. His roll he brought back with him as a justificationfor the trip to the wagon. He had no intention of starting anything.All he wanted was not to be caught at a disadvantage a second time.
Miller and the two Dobles were standing a little way apart talkingtogether in low tones. The fat man, his foot on the spoke of a wagonwheel, was tying up one of his bleeding calves with a bandannahandkerchief. Dave gathered that his contribution to the conversationconsisted mainly of fervent and almost tearful profanity.
The brothers appeared to be debating some point with heat. Georgeinsisted, and the foreman gave up with a lift of his big shoulders.
"Have it yore own way. I hate to have you leave us after I tell youthere'll be no more trouble, but if that's how you feel about it I gotnothin' to say. What I want understood is this"--Dug Doble raised hisvoice for all to hear--"that I'm boss of this outfit and won't stand forany rough stuff. If the boys, or any one of 'em, can't lose their moneywithout bellyachin', they can get their time pronto."
The two gamblers packed their race-horse, saddled, and rode away withouta word to any of the range-riders. The men round the fire gave no signthat they knew the confidence men were on the map until after they hadgone. Then tongues began to wag, the foreman having gone to the edge ofthe camp with them.
"Well, my feelin's ain't hurt one li'l' bit because they won't play withus no more," Steve Russell said, smiling broadly.
"Can you blame that fat guy for not wantin' to play with Dave here?"asked Hart, and he beamed at the memory of what he had seen. "Son, youce'tainly gave him one surprise party when yore rowels dug in."
"Wonder to me he didn't stampede the cows, way he hollered," grinned athird. "I don't grudge him my ten plunks. Not none. Dave he give me mymoney's worth that last round."
"I had a little luck," admitted Dave modestly.
"Betcha," agreed Steve. "I was just startin' over to haul the fat guy offDave when he began bleatin' for us to come help him turn loose the bear.I kinda took my time then."
"Onct I went to a play called 'All's Well That Ends Well,'" said Byingtonreminiscently. "At the Tabor Grand the-a-ter, in Denver."
"Did it tell how a freckled cow-punch rode a fat tinhorn on his spurs?"asked Hart.
"Bet he wears stovepipes on his laigs next time he mixes it with Dave,"suggested one coffee-brown youth. "Well, looks like the show's over forto-night. I'm gonna roll in." Motion carried unanimously.
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