The Duke Of Chimney Butte

by George W. Ogden

  CHAPTER XXVI

  OYSTERS AND AMBITIONS

  "If you'd come on and go to Wyoming with me, Duke, I think it'd bebetter for you than California. That low country ain't good for a fellerwith a tender place in his lights."

  "Oh, I think I'm all right and as good as ever now, Taterleg."

  "Yes, it looks all right to you, but if you git dampness on that lungyou'll take the consumption and die. I knew a feller once that got shotthat way through the lights in a fight down on the Cimarron. Him andanother feller fell out over----"

  "Have you heard from Nettie lately?" Lambert broke in, not caring tohear the story of the man who was shot on the Cimarron, or hissubsequent miscalculations on the state of his lights.

  Taterleg rolled his eyes to look at him, not turning his head, reproachin the glance, mild reproof. But he let it pass in his good-natured way,brightening to the subject nearest his heart.

  "Four or five days ago."

  "All right, is she?"

  "Up and a-comin', fine as a fiddle."

  "You'll be holdin' hands with her before the preacher in a little whilenow."

  "Inside of a week, Duke. My troubles is nearly all over."

  "I don't know about that, but I hope it'll turn out that way."

  They were on their way home from delivering the calves and the clean-upof the herd to Pat Sullivan, some weeks after Lambert's fight atGlendora. Lambert still showed the effects of his long confinement anddrain of his wounds in the paleness of his face. But he sat his saddleas straight as ever, not much thinner, as far as the eye could weighhim, nothing missing from him but the brown of his skin and the bloodthey had drawn from him that day.

  There was frost on the grass that morning, a foretaste of winter in thesharp wind. The sky was gray with the threat of snow, the somber seasonof hardship on the range was at hand. Lambert thought, as he read thesesigns, that it would be a hard winter on livestock in that unshelteredcountry, and was comfortable in mind over the profitable outcome of hisdealings for his employer.

  As for himself, his great plans were at an end on the Bad Lands range.The fight at Glendora had changed all that. The doctor had warned himthat he must not attempt another winter in the saddle with that tenderspot in his lung, his blood thinned down that way, his flesh soft frombeing housebound for nearly six weeks. He advised a milder climate forseveral months of recuperation, and was very grave in his advice.

  So the sheep scheme was put aside. The cattle being sold, there wasnothing about the ranch that old Ananias could not do, and Lambert hadplanned to turn his face again toward the West. He could not lie aroundthere in the bunkhouse and grow strong at Vesta's expense, although thatwas what she expected him to do.

  He had said nothing to her of his determination to go, for he hadwavered in it from day to day, finding it hard to tear himself away fromthat bleak land that he had come to love, as he never had loved thecountry which claimed him by birth. He had been called on in this placeto fight for a man's station in it; he had trampled a refuge of safetyfor the defenseless among its thorns.

  Vesta had said nothing further of her own plans, but they took it forgranted that she would be leaving, now that the last of the cattle weresold. Ananias had told them that she was putting things away in thehouse, getting ready to close most of it up.

  "I don't blame you for leavin'," said Taterleg, returning to theoriginal thread of discussion, "it'll be as lonesome as sin up there atthe ranch with Vesta gone away. When she's there she fills that place uplike the music of a band."

  "She sure does, Taterleg."

  "Old Ananias'll have a soft time of it, eatin' chicken and rabbit allwinter, nothing to do but milk them couple of cows, no boss to keep hereye on him in a thousand miles."

  "He's one that'll never want to leave."

  "Well, it's a good place for a man," Taterleg sighed, "if he ain't gotnothin' else to look ahead to. I kind o' hate to leave myself, but at myage, you know, Duke, a man's got to begin to think of marryin' andsettlin' down and fixin' him up a home, as I've said before."

  "Many a time before, old feller, so many times I've got it down byheart."

  Taterleg looked at him again with that queer turning of the eyes, whichhe could accomplish with the facility of a fish, and rode on in silencea little way after chiding him in that manner.

  "Well, it won't do you no harm," he said.

  "No," sighed the Duke, "not a bit of harm."

  Taterleg chuckled as he rode along, hummed a tune, laughed again in hisdry, clicking way, deep down in his throat.

  "I met Alta the other day when I was down in Glendora," he said.

  "Did you make up?"

  "Make up! That girl looks to me like a tin cup by the side of a silvershavin' mug now, Duke. Compare that girl to Nettie, and she wouldn'ttake the leather medal. She says: 'Good morning, Mr. Wilson,' she says,and I turned my head quick, like I was lookin' around for him, and neverkep' a-lettin' on like I knew she meant me."

  "That was kind of rough treatment for a lady, Taterleg."

  "It would be for a lady, but for that girl it ain't. It's what's comin'to her, and what I'll hand her ag'in, if she ever's got the gall tospeak to me."

  The Duke had no further comment on Taterleg's rules of conduct. Theywent along in silence a little way, but that was a state that Taterlegcould not long endure.

  "Well, I'll soon be in the oyster parlor up to the bellyband," he said,full of the cheer of his prospect. "Nettie's got the place picked outand nailed down--I sent her the money to pay the rent. I'll be handin'out stews with a slice of pickle on the side of the dish before anotherweek goes by, Duke."

  "What are you goin' to make oysters out of in Wyoming?" the Dukeinquired wonderingly.

  "Make 'em out of? Oysters, of course. What do you reckon?"

  "There never was an oyster within a thousand miles of Wyoming, Taterleg.They wouldn't keep to ship that far, much less till you'd used 'em up."

  "Cove oysters, Duke, cove oysters," corrected Taterleg gently. "Youcouldn't hire a cowman to eat any other kind, you couldn't put one ofthem slick fresh fellers down him with a pair of tongs."

  "Well, I guess you know, old feller."

  Taterleg fell into a reverie, from which he started presently with avehement exclamation of profanity.

  "If she's got bangs, I'll make her cut 'em off!" he said.

  "Who cut 'em off?" Lambert asked, viewing this outburst of feeling insurprise.

  "Nettie! I don't want no bangs around me to remind me of thatsnipe-legged Alta Wood. Bangs may be all right for fellers with musicboxes in their watches, but they don't go with me no more."

  "I didn't see Jedlick around the ranch up there; what do you supposebecome of him?"

  "Well, from what the boys told me, if he's still a-goin' like he waswhen they seen him last, he must be up around Medicine Hat by now."

  "It was a sin the way you threw a scare into that man, Taterleg."

  "I'm sorry I didn't lay him out on a board, dern him!"

  "Yes, but you might as well let him have Alta."

  "He can come back and take her any time he wants her, Duke."

  The Duke seemed to reflect this simple exposition of Jedlick's presentcase.

  "Yes, I guess that's so," he said.

  For a mile or more there was no sound but the even swing of theirhorses' hoofs as they beat in the long, easy gallop which they couldhold for a day without a break. Then Lambert:

  "Plannin' to leave tonight, are you Taterleg?"

  "All set for leavin', Duke."

  On again, the frost-powdered grass brittle under the horses' feet.

  "I think I'll pull out tonight, too."

  "Why, I thought you was goin' to stay till Vesta left, Duke?"

  "Changed my mind."

  "Don't you reckon Vesta she'll be a little put out if you leave theranch after she'd figgered on you to stay and pick up and gain and bestout and hearty to go in the sheep business next spring?"

  "I hope not."


  "Yeh, but I bet she will. Do you reckon she'll ever come back to theranch any more when she goes away?"

  "What?" said Lambert, starting as if he had been asleep.

  "Vesta; do you reckon she'll ever come back any more?"

  "Well," slowly, thoughtfully, "there's no tellin', Taterleg."

  "She's got a stockin' full of money now, and nobody dependin' on her.She's just as likely as not to marry some lawyer or some other sharkthat's after her dough."

  "Yes, she may."

  "No, I don't reckon much she'll ever come back. She ain't got nothing tolook back to here but hard times and shootin' scrapes--nobody to'sociate with and wear low-neckid dresses like women with money wantto."

  "Not much chance for it here--you're right."

  "You'd 'a' had it nice and quiet there with them sheep if you'd 'a' beenable to go pardners with Vesta like you planned, old Nick Hargus in thepen and the rest of them fellers cleaned out."

  "Yes, I guess there'll be peace around the ranch for some time to come."

  "Well, you made the peace around there, Duke; if it hadn't 'a' been foryou they'd 'a' broke Vesta up and run her out by now."

  "You had as much to do with bringin' them to time as I did, Taterleg."

  "Me? Look me over, Duke; feel of my hide. Do you see any knife scars inme, or feel any bullet holes anywhere? I never done nothing but ridealong that fence, hopin' for a somebody to start something. They neverdone it."

  "They knew you too well, old feller."

  "Knowed _me_!" said Taterleg. "Huh!"

  On again in quiet, Glendora in sight when they topped a hill. Taterlegseemed to be thinking deeply; his face was sentimentally serious.

  "Purty girl," he said in a pleasant vein of musing.

  "Which one?"

  "Vesta. I like 'em with a little more of a figger, a little thicker insome places and wider in others, but she's trim and she's tasty, and herheart's pure gold."

  "You're right it is, Taterleg," Lambert agreed, keeping his eyesstraight ahead as they rode on.

  "You're aimin' to come back in the spring and go pardners with her onthe sheep deal, ain't you, Duke?"

  "I don't expect I'll ever come back, Taterleg."

  "Well," said Taterleg abstractedly, "I don't know."

  They rode past the station, the bullet-scarred rain barrel behind whichTom Hargus took shelter in the great battle still standing in its place,and past the saloon, the hitching-rack empty before it, for this was theround-up season--nobody was in town.

  "There's that slab-sided, spider-legged Alta Wood standin' out on theporch," said Taterleg disgustedly, falling behind Lambert, reiningaround on the other side to put him between the lady and himself.

  "You'd better stop and bid her good-bye," Lambert suggested.

  Taterleg pulled his hat over his eyes to shut out the sight of her,turned his head, ignoring her greeting. When they were safely past hecast a cautious look behind.

  "I guess that settled _her_ hash!" he said. "Yes, and I'd like to wad ahandful of chewin' gum in them old bangs before I leave this man'stown!"

  "You've broken her chance for a happy married life with Jedlick,Taterleg. Your heart's as hard as a bone."

  "The worst luck I can wish her is that Jedlick'll come back," he said,turning to look at her as he spoke. Alta waved her hand.

  "She's a forgivin' little soul, anyway," Lambert said.

  "Forgivin'! 'Don't hurt him, Mr. Jedlick,' she says, 'don't hurt him!'Huh! I had to build a fire under that old gun of mine to melt thechawin' wax off of her. I wouldn't give that girl a job washin' dishesin the oyster parlor if she was to travel from here to Wyoming on herknees."

  So they arrived at the ranch from their last expedition together.Lambert gave Taterleg his horse to take to the barn, while he stopped into deliver Pat Sullivan's check to Vesta and straighten up the finalbusiness, and tell her good-bye.