The Dude Wrangler

by Lockhart, Caroline

  Mr. Stott, who was still patting his lip with his handkerchief, declared:

  "Such roads as these retard the development of a county."

  "Undoubtedly," agreed Mr. Appel, getting up out of the aisle. "They are a disgrace!"

  "We are goingaway from the mountains-I don't understand--"

  Mr. Stott smiled reassuringly at Mrs. Budlong and told her that Wallie and Pinkey, of course, knew the road.

  "I don't care," she insisted, stoutly, "I believe something's wrong. We are going awfully fast, and if I thought it was as rough as this all the way I should prefer to walk."

  "You must remember that you are now in the West, Mrs. Budlong," Mr. Stott replied in a kind but reproving tone, "and we cannot expect--"

  Mrs. Budlong, who had just bitten her tongue, retorted sharply:

  "We certainly could expect a more comfortable conveyance than this. If I live to get out I shall never step foot in it again."

  "When we stop at the post-office," said Mr. Budlong in a tone of decision as he clung to the window frame, "I shall hire a machine and go out-the rest of you can do as you like."

  If there was dissatisfaction inside the coach it was nothing at all compared to the excitement on the box as the horses galloped down the railroad track. The leaders' mouths might have been bound in cast-iron for all the attention they paid to the pull on their bits, although Pinkey and Wallie were using their combined strength in their efforts to stop the runaways.

  "Them dudes must be gittin' an awful churnin'," said Pinkey through his clenched teeth.

  "We'll be lucky if we are not ditched," Wallie panted as he braced his feet.

  "Wouldn't that be some rank! Even if we 'rim a tire' we got to swing off this track, for there's a culvert somewheres along here and--"

  "Pink!"

  Pinkey had no time to look, but he knew what the sharp exclamation meant.

  "Pull my gun out-lay it on the seat-I can stop 'em if I must."

  Pinkey's face was white under its sunburn and his jaw was set.

  "How far we got?"

  "About a hundred yards," Wallie answered, breathing heavily.

  "We'll give 'em one more try. My hands are playin' out. You pop it to the roan when I say. Cut him wide open! If I can't turn him, I'll drop him. They'll pile up and stop. It's the only way."

  Pinkey dug his heels into the foot-brace in front and took a tighter wrap of the lines around his hands. He could see the culvert ahead. His voice was hoarse as he gave the word.

  Wallie stood up and swung the long rawhide braided whip. At the same time Pinkey put all his failing strength on one line. As the roan felt the tremendous pull on his mouth and the whip-thongs stung his head and neck, he turned at a sharp angle, dragging his mate. The wheel horses followed, and some of the stout oak spokes splintered in the wheels as they jerked the coach over the rail.

  The pallid pair exchanged a quick glance of unutterable relief. The horses were still running but their speed was slackening as Pinkey swung them in a circle toward the town. Dragging the heavy coach over sagebrush hummocks and through sand had winded them so that they were almost ready to quit when they turned down the main street.

  "If we'd 'a' hit that culvert we mighta killed off half our dudes. That woulda been what I call notorious hard luck," Pinkey had just observed, when Wallie commenced to whip the horses to a run once more.

  "What you doin' that for?" He turned in astonishment.

  "Let 'em go-I know what I'm about!"

  "I think you're crazy, but I'll do what you say till I'm sure," Pinkey answered as Wallie continued to lay on the lash.

  Imperative commands were coming from inside the coach as it tore through the main street.

  "Let me out of this death-trap!" Old Mr. Penrose's bellow of rage was heard above the chorus of voices demanding that Pinkey stop.

  But it was not until they were well on the road to the ranch, and Prouty was a speck, that the horses were permitted to slow down; then Pinkey turned and looked at Wallie admiringly.

  "You shore got a head on you, old pard! We wouldn't 'a' had a dude left if we'd let 'em out while they was mad."

  "It just occurred to me in time," said Wallie, complacently.

  "You don't s'pose any of 'em'll slip out and run back?"

  "No, I think we're all right if nothing more happens between here and the ranch."

  After a time Pinkey remarked:

  "That lady with the bad heart-she must 'a' been scairt. I'll bet her lips were purple as a plum, don't you?"

  But Wallie, who was far more interested in the probable fact that the coach as a source of revenue could no longer be counted on than in the colour of Miss Eyester's lips, mumbled that he didn't know.

  * * *

  The morning following their arrival at The Lolabama, The Happy Family, looking several shades less happy, began coming from their tents shortly after daylight. By five o'clock they were all up and dressed, since, being accustomed to darkened rooms, they found themselves unable to sleep owing to the glare coming through the white canvas.

  Out of consideration for his guests, whom he remembered as late risers, Wallie had set the breakfast hour at eight-thirty. This seemed an eternity to The Happy Family who, already famished, consulted their watches with increasing frequency while they watched the door of the bunk-house like cats at a mouse-hole for the cook to make his appearance.

  After a restless night due to strange beds and surroundings, still fatigued with their long journey, their muscles stiff from the "churning" in the stagecoach, they were not better natured for being ferociously hungry.

  After wandering around to look listlessly at the ponies, and at the salt-water plunge that was to rejuvenate them, they sat down on the edge of the platforms in front of their tents to endure somehow the three hours which must pass before breakfast.

  The dawn was sweet-scented, the song of the meadow-lark celestial, and the colours of the coming day reflected on the snow-covered peaks a sight to be remembered, but the guests had no eyes or ears or nose for any of the charms of the early morning. The rising of the sun was nothing as compared to the rising of the cook who would appease their savage hunger.

  Conversation was reduced to monosyllables as, miserable and apathetic, they sat thinking of the food they had sent back to Mr. Cone's kitchen with caustic comments, of the various dishes for which the chef of The Colonial was celebrated.

  Mr. Stott thought that his watch must be slow until it was found that every other watch agreed with his exactly. He declared that when the cook did appear he meant to urge him to hurry breakfast.

  The cook came out, finally, at seven-thirty, and, after a surprised glance at the row on the platforms, strode into the kitchen where he rattled the range as if it were his purpose to wreck it.

  When the smoke rose from the chimney Mr. Stott went to the door to carry out his intention of asking the cook to speed up breakfast.

  A large sign greeted him:

  DUDES KEEP OUT

  The cook was a gaunt, long-legged person with a saturnine countenance. He wore a seersucker coat with a nickel badge pinned on the lapel of it.

  As an opening wedge Mr. Stott smiled engagingly and pointed to it:

  "For exceptional gallantry, I presume-a war medal?"

  The hero stopped long enough to offer it for Mr. Stott's closer inspection.

  It read:

  UNITED ORDER OF PASTRY COOKS OF THE WORLD

  Taken somewhat aback, Mr. Stott said feebly:

  "Very nice, indeed-er--"

  "Mr. Hicks, at your service!" the cook supplemented, bowing formally.

  "Hicks," Mr. Stott added.

  "Just take a second longer and say 'Mister.'"

  The cook eyed him in such a fashion as he administered the reprimand for his familiarity that Mr. Stott backed off without mentioning his starving condition.

  "What did he say?" they asked, eagerly, as he sat down on his platform, somewhat crestfallen.

  "He seems a
temperamental person," Mr. Stott replied, evasively. "But we shall have breakfast in due season."

  It was suspected that Mr. Stott had failed in his mission, and they were sure of it as the hands dragged around to eight-thirty.

  At that hour precisely Mr. Hicks came out and hammered on a triangle as vigorously as if it were necessary. In spite of their efforts to appear unconcerned when it jangled, the haste of the guests was nothing less than indecent as they hurried to the dining room and scrambled for seats at the table.

  The promise of food raised their spirits a trifle and Mr. Appel was able to say humorously as, with his table knife, he scalped his agate-ware plate loose from the oil-cloth:

  "I suppose we shall soon learn the customs of the country. In a month we should all be fairly well ac'climated."

  "Acclim'ated," Mr. Stott corrected.

  "Ac'climated," Mr. Appel maintained, obstinately. "At least with your kind permission I shall continue to so pronounce it."

  "I beg your pardon," Mr. Stott apologized with elaborate sarcasm, "but when I am wrong I like to be told of it." Which was not the strict truth for the reason that no one ever was able to convince him that he ever was mistaken. As a result of the discussion everyone was afraid to use the word for fear of offending one or the other.

  The silence that followed while breakfast was being placed upon the table was broken by Miss Eyester, who said timidly:

  "In the night I thought I heard something sniffing, and it frightened me."

  Not to be outdone in sensational experiences, Mrs. Stott averred positively:

  "There was somewild animal running over our tent. I could hear its sharp claws sticking into the canvas. A coyote, I fancy."

  "A ground-squirrel, more likely," remarked Mr. Appel.

  Mr. Stott smiled at him:

  "Squee-rrel, if you will allow me to again correct you."

  "I guess I can't help myself," replied Mr. Appel, drily.

  Mr. Stott shrugged a shoulder and his tolerant look said plainly that, after all, one should not expect too much of a man who had begun life as a "breaker-boy."

  "The squee-rrel or coyote or whatever it was," Mrs. Stott continued, "went pitter-patter, pitter-patter-so!" She illustrated with her finger-tips on the oil-cloth.

  "Prob'ly a chipmunk," said Pinkey, prosaically.

  "Are they dangerous, Mr. Fripp?" inquired Miss Gaskett.

  "Not unless cornered or wounded," he replied, gravely.

  This was a joke, obviously, so everybody laughed, which stimulated Pinkey to further effort. When Mr. Hicks poured his cup so full that the coffee ran over he remarked facetiously:

  "It won't stack, cookie."

  Coffee-pot in hand, Mr. Hicks drew himself up majestically and his eyes withered Pinkey.

  "I beg to be excused from such familiarity, and if you wish our pleasant relations to continue you will not repeat it."

  "I bet I won't joshhim again," Pinkey said, ruefully, when Mr. Hicks returned to the kitchen in the manner of offended royalty.

  "Cooks are sometimes very peculiar," observed Mr. Stott, buttering his pancakes lavishly. "I remember that my mother-my mother, by the way, Mr. Penrose, was a Sproat--"

  "Shoat?" Old Mr. Penrose, who complained of a pounding in his ears, was not hearing so well in the high altitude.

  Mr. Appel and Pinkey tittered, which nettled Mr. Stott and he shouted:

  "Sproat! An old Philadelphia family."

  "Oh, yes," Mr. Penrose recollected. "I recall Amanda Sproat-she married a stevedore. Your sister?"

  Mr. Stott chose to ignore the inquiry, and said coldly:

  "My father was in public life." He might have added that his father was a policeman, and therefore his statement was no exaggeration.

  Everybody felt that it served Mr. Penrose right for telling about the stevedore when he was seized with a violent fit of coughing immediately afterward. Wiping his streaming eyes, he looked from Wallie to Pinkey and declared resentfully:

  "This is the result of your reckless driving. The cork came out of my cough syrup in the suitcase. The only way I can get relief from the irritation is to apply my tongue to the puddle. I shall have to lick my valise until I can have the prescription refilled in Prouty."

  The culprits mumbled that they "were sorry," to which Mr. Penrose replied disagreeably that that did not keep him from "coughing his head off!"

  Looking sympathetically at Pinkey, Miss Eyester, for the purpose of diverting the irascible old gentleman's attention from the subject, asked when she might take her first riding lesson.

  Pinkey said promptly: "This mornin'-they's nothin' to hinder."

  "That's awfully good of you, Mr. Fripp," she said, gratefully.

  Pinkey, who always jumped when any one called him "Mister," replied bluntly:

  "Tain't-I wantta."

  "We'll all go!" Mrs. Stott cried, excitedly.

  "Shore." There was less enthusiasm in the answer.

  "We were so fortunate as to be able to purchase our equipment for riding broncos before coming out here," explained Mr. Budlong. "There is an excellent store on the Boardwalk and we found another in Omaha."

  "We have divided skirts and everything! Just wait till you see us!" cried Mrs. Budlong. "And you'll take our pictures, won't you, Mr. Penrose?"

  "I don't mind wasting a couple of films," he consented.

  Between the pancakes and the prospective riding lesson the atmosphere cleared and everyone's spirits rose so that the slightly strained relations were again normal by the time they got up from the table.

  They were as eager as children as they opened their trunks for their costumes, and even Aunt Lizzie Philbrick, who had once ridden a burro in Old Mexico, declared her intention of trying it.

  While the "dudes" dressed, Pinkey and Wallie went down to the corral to saddle for them.

  "We better let her ride the pinto," said Pinkey, casually.

  "'Her?'" Wallie looked at his partner fixedly. "Which 'her'?"

  "That lady that's so thin she could hide behind a match and have room left to peek around the corner. She seems sickly, and the pinto is easy-gaited," Pinkey explained, elaborately.

  "All right," Wallie nodded, "and we'll put Aunt Lizzie on the white one and give Mrs. Budlong--"

  "Kindly assign me a spirited mount," interrupted Mr. Stott, who, as to costume, was a compromise between an English groom and a fox-hunter.

  Wallie looked dubious.

  "Oh, I understand horses," declared Mr. Stott, "I used to ride like an Indian."

  "The buckskin?" Wallie asked doubtfully of Pinkey.

  Pinkey hesitated.

  "You need not be afraid that he will injure me. I can handle him."

  Wallie, who never had heard of Mr. Stott's horsemanship, consented reluctantly.

  "I prefer to saddle and bridle myself, also," said Mr. Stott, when the buckskin was pointed out to him.

  Wallie's misgivings returned to him and Pinkey rolled his eyes eloquently when they saw "the man who understood horses" trying to bridle with the chin-strap and noted that he had saddled without a blanket.

  Mr. Stott laughed inconsequently when the mistake was pointed out to him and declared that it was an oversight merely.

  "Now, if you will get me something to stand on I am ready to mount."

  Once more Pinkey and Wallie exchanged significant glances as the man "who used to ride like an Indian" climbed into the saddle like someone getting into an upper berth in a Pullman.

  Mr. Stott was sitting with the fine, easy grace of a clothespin when the rest of the party came down the path ready for their riding lesson.

  Neither Pinkey nor Wallie was easily startled, but when they saw their guests the most their astonishment permitted was an inarticulate gurgle. Dismay also was among their emotions as they thought of conducting the party through Prouty and the Yellowstone. Wallie had his share of moral courage, but when they first met his vision he doubted if he was strong enough for the ordeal.

  Mrs. Bu
dlong, whose phlegmatic exterior concealed a highly romantic nature and an active imagination, was dressed to resemble a cow-girl of the movies as nearly as her height and width permitted. Her Stetson, knotted kerchief, fringed gauntlets, quirt, spurs to delight a Mexican, and swagger-which had the effect of a barge rocking at anchor-so fascinated Pinkey that he could not keep his eyes from her.

  Old Mr. Penrose in a buckskin shirt ornate with dyed porcupine quills, and a forty-five Colt slung in a holster, looked like the next to the last of the Great Scouts, while Mr. Budlong, in a beaded vest that would have turned bullets, was happy though uncomfortable.

  Mr. Budlong was dressed like a stage bandit, except that he wore moccasins in spite of Pinkey's warning that he would find it misery to ride in them unless he was accustomed to wearing them.

  Simultaneous with Miss Gaskett's appearance in plaid bloomers a saddle-horse lay back and broke his bridle-reins, for which Pinkey had not the heart to punish him in the circumstances.

  Aunt Lizzie wore long, voluminous, divided skirts and a little white hat like a pate-tin, while by contrast Mrs. Harry Stott looked very smart and ultra in a tailored coat and riding breeches.

  This was the party that started up Skull Creek under Pinkey's guidance, and the amazing aggregation that greeted the choleric eye of Mr. Canby on one of the solitary rides which were his greatest diversion. He had just returned from the East and had not yet learned of the use to which Wallie had put his check. But now he recalled Wallie's parting speech to Pinkey when he had started to get the paper cashed, and this fantastic company was the result!

  As Canby drew in his horse, he stared in stony-eyed unfriendliness while they waved at him gaily and Mr. Stott called out that they were going to be neighbourly and visit him soon.

  The feeling of helpless wrath in which he now looked after the party was a sensation that he had experienced only a few times in his life. Pinkey had warned him that at the first openly hostile act he would "blab" the story of the Skull Creek episode far and wide. He had hit Canby in his most vulnerable spot, for ridicule was something which he found it impossible to endure, and he could well appreciate the glee with which his many enemies would listen to the tale, taking good care that it never died.