by Alan Lemay
He caught her up and laid her gently on the four-poster. Her fingers clung to his, so that he had to sit down on the edge. Softly he began to sing to her, whispering and low: 11 'Better days.. .are humming in...the honeysuckle vine.' "He watched the young sunlight from the frosted pane come in and touch her hair with gold.
Jud said: "Soon as there's a let-up in the work, I'll be hauling timber...this ice will make fine sledding. You and I are going to have the prettiest house in the Silver Bow, in the spring."
Fodder Williams, wandering bronc' peeler, had hung his rope on a close-coupled cayuse in the Triangle R breaking corral. He had snubbed the horse's head short to a post and put on the saddle blanket. The horse had stamped on his foot. Fodder, whose temper was short, had responded with an oath that smoked, and grabbed the quirt that dangled from his wrist, when....
Whack! A hard old fist caught Fodder Williams back of the ear. It was a stinging blow, probably accompanied, in Fodder's head, by a great flash of light and the sound of distant thunder. The cowboy took three gigantic, hasty steps, such as any man takes when caught off his balance, and sprawled in the spring mud. He was up instantly and whirled with ready fists.
"Now, listen," said Whiskers Beck, backing away with his hands above his head. "Wait a minute! I didn't go fer to cause no bother! Now, listen!"
To be walloped behind the ear without notice is a surprise to most. But to whirl, with battle in your eye, to find a white-bearded attacker backing away with his hands up, and declaring that he didn't mean anything by it that is astonishing. Fodder paused with fist drawn back for a shattering haymaker, and his mouth dropped open.
"Leave me explain," urged Whiskers. "Hold on now!"
Fodder recovered himself and started forward. "Why, you...old...."
Whiskers lowered his hands and ruefully braced himself to meet the attack. It didn't come. A restraining noose dropped over Fodder's shoulders and jerked his elbows against his sides.
"Now, here!" interposed Whack-Ear Bates, approaching hand over hand along the rope. "Mebbe you think you're havin' a scrap with Whiskers, but sech ain't the case! Anyways, not till I'm topped off. `Smatter with you?"
Fodder Williams was a man extremely willing with his fists. But he was only a medium-size man, and Whack-Ear's lean two hundred pounds towered above him like a coyote over a prairie dog. Fodder considered a moment as he shook loose the relaxed rope, and his wrath cooled somewhat.
"This bush-faced pelican went to work an' pasted me with a rock!" he declared.
"I done no sech thing," protested Whiskers. "I jest kinda patted him with the flat o' my hand to `tract his attention."
"Why, you...!" began Fodder again, showing signs of action.
At this point old Ben Rutherford, the Old Man, stepped into the conference. "Whup! Pull up!" he put in. "Mostly my boys takes care o' themselves... but Whiskers is only about a hundred years old, an' a likely lad, and I don't want him all busted in pieces. You leave him be!"
"I guess I'm able tuh...," began Whiskers.
Fodder slammed his five-pound hat against the ground. "You standin' there an' tellin' me I got to let every damn' fool in the outfit knock me down all he wants to?"
"Leave me explain," said Whiskers. "Didn't mean to cause no bother. But that bronc' there's jest exactly the hoss I been lookin' fer, fer a sartin partic'lar use. It took more'n three years tuh make that hors, an' I don't perpose to have him spoiled by bein' hit with no quirt. So when Fodder hauls off at him, I had to take action sudden."
"Lemme get this straight," said the Old Man, shoving his broad hat to the back of his head. "You wallops this feller?"
"Yep.11
"To stop him hittin' the hoss?"
Yep!" .
Three mouths dropped open as the men stared at Whiskers. A blank expression erased all signs of intelligence from the Old Man's craggy face. He and Whack-Ear looked at each other, dumbfounded.
"Well," said Old Man Rutherford finally, "it's a plumb mystery to me. But, Williams, you'll have to leave Whiskers be, that's flat. Either you calls off this deal or you kin move out!"
Fodder computed hastily. He knew that, if he quit, the story would go out that he had been whipped and driven off by a man old enough to be his great-grandfather. Such a story would never do for his future reputation on the range. He stalled for time.
"Look at them chaps!" he demanded. He pointed to the dirt that smeared the silky undipped goat hair adorning his bowed legs. "Jest look!"
"Leave me have that cayuse, an' I'll clean them chaps up fine," offered Whiskers.
"How `bout the hat?" pursued Fodder, picking up the article from where he had thrown it himself.
"All right...hat, too," conceded Whiskers.
"Take it or leave it lie," said Old Man Rutherford.
"I'll call quits," Fodder decided.
Whiskers heaved a sigh of relief. "Come on, hoss. Le's you an' me go somewheres where it's quiet."
The three stared after him without comprehension as he led the dancing cayuse away.
"How yuh comin' with the specially eddicated bronc', Whiskers?"
Four days had gone by since Whiskers had knocked Fodder sprawling, and Whack-Ear thought the subject should now be cool enough for mess-shack handling.
"Fair," Whiskers reported. "Kettled somethin' terr'ble yestidday. Didn't know but what I'd bit off more'n I should, me bein' stiffer than once. That part's finished, though. Won't do no more than crow-hop to get warm from now on, I figger."
"I wouldn't give two cents for a horse that bucked only jest the once," said Dixie Kane. "Not one cent, even. Gimme a horse with sperrit...that fights back plenty!"
"This 'n's different," said Whiskers through a mouthful of hot potatoes.
"Get a real sperrited horse," said Dixie Kane. "Then get on an' ride... that's my way."
Whiskers gestured with his fork, gulped, and unlimbered into speech. "So I notice," he replied. "An' you never made a top hors, neither. Some o' you rannies think if you can climb on an' stay on the top side that you know the whole works. Nossir. Trouble with you, yer ridin' hasn't been backed up by no readin'."
"Readin'?" repeated Doughnut Wilson, startled into unaccustomed speech. "What the...?"
Squirty Wallace snickered and choked.
Whiskers went on unperturbed. "Betcha yuh never even heard about terlegaphy," he declared.
"Sure I did," Dixie Kane contended hotly. "You sends somethin' through a wire, an' it comes out the other end in the shape o' rattles an' clicks."
"This here I got hold of is a new kind," said Whiskers. "I got it out of a newspaper. You sends a message from one brain to another, without wires nor nothin', jest by concentratin' the human eye. Hosses catches on special easy, bein' they use it theirself all the time.
"Now this here little hors, Ten Spot, he's jest the hoss for that. I'm goin' to fix him so I kin operate him by terlegaphy, not hollerin' at him nor nothin'. Trouble with most cayuses is they're hard in the head, peetrified yuh might say. Ten Spot's different. What I think goes from my right eye to his temper'ment, like a magnet, an' there takes effect. Ten Spot, he's the right kind.. .hard in the muscle, but not in the head."
"Kind o' soft in the bean, huh?" said Whack-Ear. "Well, there's others."
"Mebbe," said Whiskers, wiping his brush-like beard with his sleeve. "Wait a while, an' we'll see."
He got up and strolled out, fumbling for his makings. Just around the corner of the mess shack he brought them to light, and paused to light a cigarette. He could hear the voices within.
"He's goin' to work an' spoilin' a good fast horse," said Dixie Kane. "When a horse don't fight back right, why, somethin's wrong either in horse or handlin'."
"He makes me sick," said Fodder's voice. "If, now, jest f r instance, somebody would take an' sling their hat down in front o' that bronc', jest as he was ridin' him out... I wonder now if what follered wouldn't set 'em both into righter ways o' thinkin'!"
"Yep," said Whack-Ear. "On'y, anybod
y won't, or hadn't better."
"Well, there's a whole hell of a lot of won'ts around this outfit," answered Fodder. "That's all I got to say!"
Whiskers walked to the bunkhouse and got his old sixshooter out of his bedroll, and, when Fodder came up, Whiskers was sitting on a bench outside, cleaning the gun with care.
"What's all that for?" Fodder asked casually.
Whiskers looked at him with a slow, baleful gaze.
"Well," he said, "if everythin' goes jest to suit me, I'm goin' to shoot a yalla praira dog someday." He got up, stuck the iron in its open holster, hooked the slit thong over the hammer, and strolled off toward the corrals.
Fodder stared after him. Crazy-loco, he told himself, an li'ble to go hurtin' somebody, like as not. Somethin' oughter be done `bout that. He scratched his head. Mebbe, too, I'm the one that oughter do it, come a chancel!
Whiskers began Ten Spot's education when the first green grass was showing at the edge of the melting snow. For four weeks Fodder Williams, Dixie Kane, and Charley Decatur worked in the breaking corral, peeling the raw bronc's that had been hazed in with the range stock. The winter riders, together with a half dozen 'punchers who had wintered in town and several new hands, amused themselves topping off the strings of saddle stock that were cut to them. And Whiskers worked chiefly on Ten Spot.
By the time that the wagons pulled out for the spring roundup, Whiskers was more confident than ever that Ten Spot was the makin's of probably the best and certainly the most terlegaphic-cow horse in three remudas.
From time to time Whiskers would demonstrate to skeptics how terlegaphy worked in practice. He would walk out to the edge of the remuda, and pick a point possibly fifty yards from Ten Spot. Then, without saying a word, he would fold his arms and subject Ten Spot to a piercing glare. The ragging of the other 'punchers was somewhat diminished by the fact that Ten Spot actually came. Doughfoot Wilson, at least, was sufficiently impressed to try it himself, but, as nothing happened, he gave it up and returned to "talkin' down a rope."
Most, however, thought they perceived a connection between Whiskers's terlegaphy and Ten Spot's taste for fresh bread, and said so. Nevertheless the most unimpressed were willing to admit that Whiskers's tutelage was developing Ten Spot into a willing and brainy little cow horse.
Spring breezed past, and the early roundup was over. Riders rode out singly, or in little groups of twos and threes, to hunt out the scattered wild cattle that the roundup had missed, with a view to decorating calf hides with brands. These were often gone many weeks at a time, living off the country when their scant rations were exhausted. So the summer ran its course.
Then, as the first frosts began to turn the prairie wool the color of dusty leather, the cook once more yelled at his six-horse team, and the chuck wagon rolled. Charlie Decatur, the pilot, rode in the lead, and the bed wagon and the wood wagon swung in behind. Following these came the remuda the herd of saddle stock and sixteen or seventeen 'punchers rode where they pleased. The fall works were on.
Ten Spot was now rounding into a mighty neat little cow horse, one that showed an intelligent interest in his work. Whiskers was working harder than ever to make Ten Spot strictly terlegaphic, and seemed to be having some success.
The test of Whiskers's terlegaphy theory came in the fall roundup's third week.
Whiskers had in mind several fine points in the education of Ten Spot, which he conceived could be best taught out of sight and sound of the herd. He wanted to teach him, for instance, the uncommon knack of driving two or three steers in a constant direction without frequent correction by his rider. He wanted him to know the vagaries of a lone steer on the open plain, as differing from those of a steer near a herd, and other points leading to the consummation of his ideal.
"Whack-Ear," said Whiskers to the straw boss, "reckon if I'd ride back north'ard a ways I might pick up quite a little bunch of stray critters."
"Take a look," said Whack-Ear.
Whiskers Beck, therefore, tied three days' very scant rations and a couple of blankets to his saddle, and, without further ado, rode north.
He swung in a wide circle, so planning that, when his chuck gave out, he would be not more than nine hours easy ride from the main herd. Hunting was for some reason not so good as he had expected. On the morning of the fourth day he was not more than four hours' jog from the herd, driving only two hobbled steers. A little after midday he jumped at a third steer.
The animal, evidently a wise old-timer, had been lying low in a bunch of brush, and Ten Spot was almost upon the steer before it broke. The horse leaped in pursuit, overtaking the steer in easy bounds. Whiskers tossed his rope over the long horns and jerked it taut. Ten Spot was fast catching on to this part of the job. The buckskin pony swung round the hindquarters of the steer to the far side and raced ahead. The steer, his hind legs jerked from under him, crashed to the ground in a cloud of dust.
Ten Spot stopped and leaned on the rope. Whiskers was already off, running to the steer. Quickly the old 'puncher hog-tied one foreleg to the two hind hoofs. Then he calmly sat on the steer's carcass and rolled a cigarette.
"Real good, Ten Spot. Make a hors yet, iffen you keep trym.
Leisurely he smoked the cigarette and rested, watching with pleasure the patience with which Ten Spot stood to the rope. Presently he tossed away the fag, loosed the lariat, coiled it, and hung it on the saddle. Next he tied the steer's off hind hoof to its near fore with a short piece of rope.
Whiskers remembered afterward that he had looked at that bit of rope with suspicion. It was pretty old, cut from a worn-out lariat. But....
"Iffen it busts, we got more," said Whiskers.
Now he passed the steer's tail between its hind legs, took a firm grip with one hand, and with the other loosed the piggin' string.
Twelve hundred pounds of beef struggled to rise. Whiskers hung on the tail, pulling upward, and the steer stayed down. In a few moments the big black beast gave it up.
"Now, c'mere," said Whiskers to Ten Spot. Still dimly trying to please, Ten Spot came three steps closer.
"Little more," demanded Whiskers.
Ten Spot advanced one step.
"More yet!"
Ten Spot lowered his head and whuffed at the steer with an air of distrust, then advanced a very scant foot.
"Oh, all right," said Whiskers. "Guess the old man can make it from here."
Whiskers suddenly released the steer's tail and bolted for his saddle. He saw Ten Spot shuffle nervously, and knew the big black critter was surging to his feet. In that instant a dog hole caved under Whiskers's foot, and he plunged headlong, almost against his horse's cannon bone. Ten Spot shied in a sidelong leap that took him yards beyond Whiskers's reach. The old man heard the snap of the breaking hobble, and a furious thud of hoofs.
Instantly Whiskers snatched his iron from its open holster, cocked the pistol with the same motion that flicked the slit thong of the hammer, rolled over on his elbow, threw up the barrel all in less than a second and pulled the trigger.
A dull click responded, then a second, as he pulled again. Flying hoofs, red eyes, a tremendous sweep of horns were almost upon him. Whiskers rolled like a flash toward the charging beast. Horns and hoofs passed over.
The man twisted head and shoulders and, with elbow resting on the ground, pulled the trigger four times as the steer whirled and returned to the charge. Not one shot answered. A terrible sickening sensation gripped the old man's vitals, the sensation of a weaponless man facing imminent death.
As the hammer clicked harmlessly upon the last chamber, Whiskers threw out the cylinder and snapped the ejector. Six empty shells fell into the dust. His left hand shot to a chap pocket. Once more that great horned head flashed above him. He rolled toward the trampling hoofs. The fore hoofs passed over. One sharp, iron-hard hoof spurned his left knee with a vicious grind.
In a deep corner of the pocket Whiskers's fingers found a cartridge. With hand shaking a little with haste, he popped the c
artridge into the chamber, snapped the cylinder into place. The steer was charging again. This time the gun spoke with a heavy crash, and the steer went down.
"Well, gosh-a'mighty," said Whiskers peevishly, "it's pretty damn' near time!"
He sat up and examined his numbed knee ill-humoredly. The pain was just beginning to course through it with the throbbing return of the blood. A warm trickle along his thigh told him that the knee was beginning to bleed. He decided to take off his weather-stiffened chap and see if a bandage would help. With his hands he gingerly bent the leg.
"Wowie! Hold on, cowboy!" he addressed himself. "We jest better let well enough be. Me, I'm goin' home!"
He tried to get to his feet. It was no use. It simply couldn't be done. Now, if ever, was the time to send a few urgent mental messages to his horse. He rested painfully on his elbow and concentrated mind and eye on Ten Spot.
Ten Spot had discreetly retired from the scene of action, and was now grazing a hundred yards away. Whiskers fixed him with a sincere glare, and sent him a mental telegram that fairly shot sparks. Nothing happened. Perhaps, after all, terlegaphy was unable to carry over so great distances. When several minutes of this brought no more favorable results, Whiskers tried other resources. He whistled sharply to attract the pony's attention. Ten Spot looked up and favored Whiskers with a long, deliberate stare. Then he returned to his grass.
"Hey, there!" shouted Whiskers. "You know what I mean! Come over here! Mind, now!"
No sign of intelligence from Ten Spot.
The old man began to swear. A thin stream of scorching invective trailed across the prairie to Ten Spot. The horse grazed steadily, unimpressed. Whiskers changed his tactics.
"Beans, Ten Spot!" he called persuasively. "Openin' up a nice, juicy can o' beans! Come an' get 'em! Don't you want beans?"
Ten Spot gave no sign that he had heard. Possibly he preferred tangible grass to imaginary canned goods. In any case he stayed where he was. Terlegaphy and the human voice alike failed to dent Ten Spot's brazen indifference. He had evidently discovered that he didn't have to obey.