All the while he was silently studying the impression he was making on Pecos Bill. Chuck had done such a good job of clearing away the bunchgrass and the sagebrush from his brother’s face that Pecos looked quite like a human. And the men all suspected that Pecos was a seasoned cowboy, and that Chuck and his brother were putting up a job on them.
The clothes were Chuck’s, they saw. But the boots? Would a human, who believed himself to be a Coyote, be wearing a pair of regular cowboy boots? And where did the boots come from? They were not Chuck’s. Then there was the nasty looking butt of a Colt’s revolver protruding from its holster. This belt and gun had never belonged to Chuck either. What would a Coyote be doing with a gun? They cast suspicious glances at each other with each new discovery.
The men were immensely fascinated with Pecos Bill’s finely setup figure. It was closely knit and perfect in every detail. And they were even more charmed with the bronzed features and the deep, clear eyes. And each was secretly aware of a strange power in Pecos which was something naturally to be feared. They were aware too that the stranger was not quite able to hide the fact that he was seeing everything for the first time and that he was intensely interested and even surprised in all that he observed. There was more to this brother of Chuck’s than they had thought.
But they wouldn’t let him know how they felt. Certainly not! So Gun Smith asked carelessly, “What do you say to practicin’ a little shootin’, Pecos?”
“I’d like to be excused, if you please,” Pecos replied, not a little surprised by this sudden question.
“Why? Ain’t your gun workin’ this evenin’?” Gun Smith smiled with a shrug of his shoulders.
“No, it’s not working just now,” Pecos answered.
“Perhaps you’d like to borrow my gun?”
“No, thank you, at least not tonight.”
“Then, perhaps you’d let me examine your gun. Like as not I can put it in workin’ order for you,” Gun Smith persisted.
“Is this a cowboy custom?” Pecos asked innocently as he appealed to his brother Chuck.
“Why, yes and no,” Chuck answered quietly, not wishing to be drawn into the affair. “It’s just as you like either way.”
“Well, I’ll leave the gun where it is then,” Pecos said.
Gun Smith rolled another cigarette with the cool poise of a royal prince, and as he did so, he strolled about and inquired silently from the eyes of the others what he should do next.
The signal that shot from eye to eye was to proceed with whatever in his judgment was best. Gun Smith noticed the falling shadows of night and was happy.
“Well,” he sighed, “since you don’t care to waste your lead on tin and glass, wouldn’t you like to go out gunnin’ for real game? You see, there’s a terrible monster of a Wouser down the canyon a ways. He’s already carried off a dozen of our four-year-old steers. And last night he begun to show his man-eatin’ tendencies by carryin’ off Cayenne Joe, spurs, gun, and all. What would you say to guardin’ the main trail while I go up above and drive this terrible Wouser down for you to shoot?”
“Since you’re such a fine marksman, and since I’m especially spry on my legs, I think I prefer to do the driving myself,” replied Pecos quickly, as he leapt to his feet.
There was an instant interchange of thought in the flashing eyes of the men as much as to say, “What’s this? This Pecos ain’t no Coyote greenhorn.”
“You’d best let me stick to the drivin’, Pecos. I know every foot of the land hereabouts and we can get the job over sooner with me doin’ it. You see, we eat only humans for breakfast each mornin’ in this outfit,” Gun Smith declared with a straight face. “One carcass lasts us anywheres from seven weeks to two months. This mornin’ we begun on the last pickled piece of Podgy Ike. We’re just naturally so lazy we prefer to eat one another rather than be bothered with goin’ out and wagin’ a war with neighbor ranchers in order to pick off one of their mangy cowhands. For the one that’s next in greasin’ Bean Hole’s frying pan, we draw lots. Whoever happens to pull the lucky card goes out and asks Bean Hole please to chop off his infernal head and serve him up in steak for the next breakfast.”
Pecos Bill listened respectfully.
“There’s one thing you’ve forgot,” chirped Legs now with a great show of seriousness. “Pecos Bill’s a stranger, and besides, he’s not a legal member of our outfit. He ain’t exactly obligated to take part in our lottery under these conditions, is he?”
“Thank you,” Gun Smith smiled good-naturedly. “But we can set that right in short order. How about it, Pecos? How about joinin’ our I. X. L. outfit? Then you’ll be eligible for our lottery.”
Once more Grandy’s caution came to the fore. “I’ve not exactly decided what I want to do,” Pecos replied, without at all understanding the trick they were playing on him.
“But you see,” Gun Smith continued, “we’re beginnin’ to feel a strong likin’ for you already. You’re modest, and you’re healthy and you’d make an excellent broth. Besides, we need you to help fill in our thinnin’ ranks. What do you say, fellows? What do you say? I move we vote Pecos Bill into our outfit to take the place of Cayenne Joe, who was murdered by the Wouser yesterday.”
“We’ll just see a show of hands,” shouted Legs.
Every hand except that of Pecos shot up.
“I’m happy to tell you, Pecos Bill, that you’re unanimously elected.”
It was now dark, and there came from the outside of the ranch a yowl louder than twenty lions and fifty bobcats could have made if they had all joined in a single chorus. It was Mushmouth, in what his friends considered his most talented role.
“Well, Pecos,” Gun Smith urged, “we’d best be settin’ out on our hunt. You hear for yourself the roarin’ Wouser, and besides, we want to get the job finished off before it’s time for the lottery to begin.”
“That was not the language of a Wouser,” said Pecos Bill coolly. “I know the language of every living creature of this country, and can talk to each animal in his own tongue. That noise sounded exactly like a very bad imitation of what a human thinks a Wouser should sound like. This is what a Wouser says when he sounds the blood call: ‘Gr-gr-gr-Wouw-ow-ow! Wouw-ow-ow-ow-ow! Gr-gr-gr-gr-gr-gr! Wouw-ow-wow-ow-ow!’”
It was a shrill, murderous scream, repeated a dozen times with growing intensity. It ripped the silence to tatters and curdled the blood. The men started from their places and pulled their guns.
“Wait a minute,” said Pecos, before anyone could speak. “I’ll just gallop down through the canyon, and if there’s a Wouser within sound of my voice, I’ll be talking with him across the mesquite inside of a minute, and if you want me to, I’ll bring him back with me—alive.”
Everyone was too frightened to speak until Pecos was gone. Then the men fell upon Chuck in a rage.
“A nice greenhorn, your Pecos is,” they shouted together. “He’s an old timer disguised as the son of a Coyote. You’ve brought him here to make fools of us!”
“What I’ve told you is true, every word of it,” Chuck protested. “No ordinary human could give such a bloodcurdlin’ yell like that. Why, the best Mushmouth could do sounded like a katydid compared to a grizzly bear. Besides, the reason he didn’t want to use his gun is because he don’t know how. I know where the boots and the gun come from. And neither Pecos nor me is to blame for this either.”
“You’re a cheerful liar.”
Chuck grinned. “You just wait and see.”
In the silence that ensued there was a quick series of echoing yells, more bloodcurdling even than the first the men had heard. They came from far off, down by the mouth of the canyon, upward of a mile distant.
“What’s that?” the men asked each other nervously.
“That’s brother Pecos,” Chuck smiled. “I’m telling you, he can split the wind three times as fast as a bald eagle. In a minute he’ll be back again.”
With this, Mushmouth came racing back into the circle by the open fire, his fa
ce as white as a sheet. “Who’s this two-heeled demon you fetched here, Chuck? One minute he scares the daylights out of us inside the circle. The next, he kicks off his boots like greased lightnin’ and flies off faster’n a bullet. And then you hear that infernal Wouser cry! He’s locoed, that’s what. And we’ll never be able to find our ponies or our steers after such goin’s-on as this. They’re out there now snortin’ and pawin’ up the turf like they’re locoed cayuses, all because of that infernal yowlin’.”
“Well,” drawled Gun Smith, “since I’m the director of this little show, what’s to be the next turn on the program? Most of the things we’d planned can’t be put across with this son of the Coyotes.”
“I advise you to have the cards shuffled and ready for the lottery. Pecos’ll be back any minute,” Chuck added.
Again a series of bloodcurdling yells came distinctly to the ears of the scared cowboys. This time they were another mile farther up the canyon.
“What I’ve told you is the whole truth, and nothin’ but the truth,” persisted Chuck. “Watch out—here he comes!”
Sure enough, within five minutes Pecos came leaping back into the circle as spry as a kitten and in such a hurry to get back he had entirely forgotten to put his boots back on. When the men saw his feet, they were quite willing to believe anything. The callouses were like those on the soles of wild beasts and the toes were hairy and clawed like a Coyote’s.
“You’re quite mistaken about the Wouser,” Pecos Bill began promptly. “I gave his call of blood twice—once at either end of the canyon. If he had been anywhere near, he would have answered. Besides, I talked with two different Coyotes, and they told me that there isn’t a single Wouser within a hundred miles of here. The Coyotes know everything that is happening in all directions up and down the mesa—you all know that.”
“Spoken with a Coyote,” scoffed Gun Smith. “Which reminds me—one or the other of us will soon be talkin’ with Saint Peter! It’s time now to start the lottery. We can’t be without decent food for breakfast, you know.”
There was a great show of shuffling the cards. Legs made his hand fairly fly. Then when he thought Pecos wouldn’t see, he substituted a deck which was already stacked.
“Does the low card win tonight as usual?” asked Legs with a pretense of honesty, when the cards were ready.
“That’s for you all to decide,” purred Gun Smith innocently.
“I move we make it the high card for a change—the king high, ace low,” challenged Mushmouth.
“All in favor show your claws!” Gun Smith directed, looking sharply at Pecos.
Instantly a dozen hands flew into the air like drawn pistols.
“The high card wins,” announced Gun Smith.
When the drawing was complete, Pecos Bill held the fated high card.
“Just run along now and ask Bean Hole to cut off your head and quarter you and souse what we don’t need of you for breakfast into the meat barrel,” Gun Smith commanded with pretended deep sadness.
“What are you trying to make me believe, anyhow?” Pecos grinned. “I’ve just taken a whiff of your meat barrel and there’s never been anything in it but cow!”
It was a complete victory for Pecos Bill.
Before the men could stop laughing at Gun Smith’s failure, Pecos asked if he might not entertain them with the toe dance of the pack. “Whenever a great honor befalls a Coyote, he is asked to dance.”
“You sure can!” shouted a dozen amused voices.
With this, Pecos Bill led the still half-suspicious cowboys out into the open away from the glare of the fire. Here on a level piece of turf he began to leap slowly at first, then with rapidly increasing speed, until no one was quite certain that he saw Pecos at all.
First Pecos turned the small circle and then the reverse circle; then the figure eight, and then the reverse figure eight. He flopped forward and then backward; he turned cartwheels and reverse cartwheels. He rolled nimbly back and forth on the ground, all the while giving the lonely mournful yip and howl of the wild Coyote.
The men were fascinated and were immediately sure that Pecos was the greatest magician of all time. Suddenly stopping in his tracks, he assumed the rigid pose of invisibility that Grandy had taught him, and asked the blinking cowboys pointedly: “Who did you say is the boss of this outfit?”
“I was—er thought I was an hour ago,” Gun Smith grinned as he stepped forward and grabbed Pecos Bill’s hand. “But no more. Pecos, you beat us lone handed and you beat us fair. An’ when you beat a cowboy at his own little game, he’s not the sort of critter to complain. I was the boss, but ain’t no more. Pecos Bill, you’re the boss this minute, and as far as I’m concerned, you’re going to continue to be boss. I’m ready to eat out of your hand like a ding-busted cow pony!”
“Ye’re right, Gun Smith. Right you are,” shouted a dozen hoarse voices. “Pecos Bill’s an honest to goodness cowman an’ no doubt about it.”
“In that event,” laughed Pecos Bill in high good humor, “since I’m to be the leader of your pack, or your boss, as you prefer to say, we’ll ask Bean Hole to serve cow for breakfast, the rawer the better!”
PART 2
MODERN COWPUNCHING IS INVENTED AND DEVELOPED
CHAPTER 5
PECOS BILL INVENTS MODERN COWPUNCHING
All the men of the I. X. L. were eating out of Pecos Bill’s hand within less than a week after he arrived. He took to the life of a cowboy like a duck to water. He learned their best tricks, then went on to do better. Gun Smith and Chuck and the rest were very soon like children before him. Among themselves, they bragged about their noble deeds, but when Pecos was around, they couldn’t help thinking that they were mere bridled cayuses.
He could stand on the ground beside a bronco, turn an air flop, and land astride the pony before it had time to tighten a muscle. He could ride bareback without a bridle. He could urge his pony at top speed over ground so rough and uneven that Gun Smith and the others were afraid even to attempt it with bit and saddle. And he was so casual and modest about everything he did that they thought Pecos the eighth wonder of the world. Almost at once he was full of ideas. And what ideas!
Up to Pecos Bill’s day, when a man wanted to capture a horse or a steer, he would lay a piece of rope down on the ground, make a loop in one end of it, sit down behind a tree or a blind, and by laying a bait, try to coax the wild critter to step within the loop. He would then jerk sharply on the rope, and perhaps one time in a dozen, if he was lucky, he would succeed in making a catch. It was no uncommon thing for a man to wait around and lose an entire month’s time without laying hold of a single animal.
“Well, this sort of thing has got to be changed,” said Pecos Bill to himself when no one was near to hear him. “A man can’t be expected to waste his entire lifetime catching a single horse or cow.”
The old way of roping an animal
Without further delay, Pecos got hold of the longest piece of rope he could find around the ranch, and began to throw it through the air. Next he rode off alone where the others could not see what he was doing. After three days of constant practice, he found that he could lasso almost anything. He was limited only by the reach of his line.
Pecos Bill would just make a large loop in one end of his rope, swing it wildly about his head three or four times, and then, with a quick flip of his forearm and wrist, send it flying like a bullet. And as he grew more and more skilled, he added rapidly to the length of his rope.
As soon as he was entirely sure of himself, Pecos asked the boys to come out and let him show them his new invention.
“See that roan steer across there? That’s Old Crookhorn, our wildest critter, ain’t it?” Pecos asked quietly.
Before anyone was aware of what he was doing, Pecos had whirled his loop about his head and had sent it so fast in the direction of the four-year-old, that the eye could scarcely follow it.
In an instant the old steer began to jump and bellow, and Pecos Bill starte
d to tow in the rope. Soon the astonished steer stood with lowered head before the even more surprised cowboys.
Not content with this great skill, Pecos began practicing from horseback.
In another week, he again called his cowboys out to see what he could do. They watched, with popping eyes, as he gave his rope a double turn around his saddlebow. He then started his bronco at a hard gallop. They saw him quickly approach a rather tall, scraggly mesquite tree, whirl his loop wildly about his head and then fling it into the air. When he dragged a great hawk down from the topmost branch with the lasso about its neck, the men were unable to believe their eyes.
“What sort o’ wonder worker is this anyway?” they asked each other. “No human could ever throw the rope like that!”
Then Pecos Bill showed the men how it was done, and after two or three months of hard practice, each of them was able to make frequent catches at a distance of from ten to not more than twenty feet.
In the meantime, Pecos Bill had become dissatisfied with the fact that he couldn’t find a longer rope. So he began to braid himself a cowhide lariat. This is how he went to work. First he looked up some old horned steers that had lived so many years within the depths of the trees that there were green algae on their backs—mossbacks, sure enough. What’s more, these steers were so old their faces were gray and wrinkled.
Whenever Pecos Bill got hold of one of these old fellows, he first loosened the hide behind the ears. He then grasped the steer by the tail and with a flip of his wrist and forearm and a wild yowl, he frightened the animal so that it jumped out of its skin. The tough hides of these old mossbacks were just what Pecos needed.
Three or four years later when he had it finished, his loyal ranchers declared on all sides that the lariat was as long as the equator, and that Pecos could lasso anything this side of China.
It was thus that Pecos Bill solved one of the problems that had worried cowhands and their bosses for years.
Another thing that Pecos very soon learned was that every ranch outfit was a bitter enemy of every other outfit. When two neighboring ranchers happened to meet anywhere near the supposed boundary of their pasturelands, they would begin to complain about missing cattle. Soon one would accuse the other of rustling—a polite word for stealing—his stock. Then there would be a sudden flashing of pistols, and one or the other, and often both men would bite the dust.
Pecos Bill Page 4