by B. M. Bower
Happy Jack glanced furtively at a long figure in the grass near by, and then, unhappily, at Weary.
“It’s him, all right,” he blurted solemnly. “They’re both him!”
The Happy Family snickered hysterically.
Weary took a long step and confronted Happy Jack. “I’m both him, am I?” he repeated mockingly. “Mamma, but you’re a lucid cuss!” He turned and regarded the stunned Family judicially.
“If there’s any of it left,” he hinted sweetly, “I wouldn’t mind taking a jolt myself; but from the looks, and the actions, yuh must have got away with at least two gallons!”
“Oh, we can give you a jolt, I guess,” Chip retorted dryly. “Just step this way.”
Weary, wondering a bit at the tone of him, followed; at his heels came the perturbed Happy Family. Chip stooped and turned the sleeping one over on his back; the sleeper opened his eyes and blinked questioningly up at the huddle of bent faces.
The astonished, blue eyes of Weary met the quizzical blue eyes of his other self. He leaned against the wagon wheel.
“Oh, mamma!” he said, weakly.
His other self sat up and looked around, felt for his hat, saw that it was gone, and reached mechanically for his cigarette material.
“By the Lord! Are punchers so damn scarce in this neck uh the woods, that yuh’ve got to shanghai a man in order to make a full crew?” he demanded of the Happy Family, in the voice of Weary—minus the drawl. “I’ve got a string uh cayuses in that darn stockyards, back in town—and a damn poor town it is!—and I’ve also got a date with the Circle roundup for tomorrow night. What yuh going to do about it? Speak up, for I’m in a hurry to know.”
The Happy Family looked at one another and said nothing.
“Say,” began Weary, mildly. “Did yuh say your name was Ira Mallory, and do yuh mind how they used to mix us up in school, when we were both kids? ’Cause I’ve got a hunch you’re the same irrepressible that has the honor to be my cousin.”
“I didn’t say it,” retorted his other self, pugnaciously. “But I don’t know as it’s worth while denying it. If you’re Will Davidson, shake. What the devil d’yuh want to look so much like me, for? Ain’t yuh got any manners? Yuh always was imitating your betters.” He grinned and got slowly to his feet. “Boys, I don’t know yuh, but I’ve a hazy recollection that we had one hell of a time shooting up that little townerine, back there. I don’t go on a limb very often, but when I do, folks are apt to find it out right away.”
The Happy Family laughed.
“By golly,” said Slim slowly, “that cousin story’s all right—but I bet yuh you two fellows are twins, at the very least!”
“Guess again, Slim,” cried Weary, already in the clutch of old times. “Run away and play, you kids. Irish and me have got steen things to talk about, and mustn’t be bothered.”
THE SPIRIT OF THE RANGE
Cal Emmett straightened up with his gloved hand pressed tight against the small of his back, sighed “Hully Gee!” at the ache of his muscles and went over to the water bucket and poured a quart or so of cool, spring water down his parched throat. The sun blazed like a furnace with the blower on, though it was well over towards the west; the air was full of smoke, dust and strong animal odors, and the throaty bawling of many cattle close-held. For it was nearing the end of spring round-up, and many calves were learning, with great physical and mental distress, the feel of a hot iron properly applied. Cal shouted to the horse-wrangler that the well had gone dry—meaning the bucket—and went back to work.
“I betche we won’t git through in time for no picnic,” predicted Happy Jack gloomily, getting the proper hold on the hind leg of a three-months-old calf. “They’s three hundred to decorate yet, if they’s one; and it’ll rain—”
“You’re batty,” Cal interrupted. “Uh course we’ll get through—we’ve got to; what d’yuh suppose we’ve been tearing the bone out for the last three weeks for?”
Chip, with a foot braced against the calf’s shoulder, ran a U on its ribs with artistic precision. Chip’s Flying U’s were the pride of the whole outfit; the Happy Family was willing at any time, to bet all you dare that Chip’s brands never varied a quarter-inch in height, width or position. The Old Man and Shorty had been content to use a stamp, as prescribed by law; but Chip Bennett scorned so mechanical a device and went on imperturbably defying the law with his running iron—and the Happy Family gloated over his independence and declared that they would sure deal a bunch of misery to the man that reported him. His Flying U’s were better than a stamp, anyhow, they said, and it was a treat to watch the way he slid them on, just where they’d do the most good.
“I’m going home, after supper,” he said, giving just the proper width to the last curve of the two-hundredth U he had made that afternoon. “I promised Dell I’d try and get home tonight, and drive over to the picnic early tomorrow. She’s head push on the grub-pile, I believe, and wants to make sure there’s enough to go around. There’s about two hundred and fifty calves left. If you can’t finish up tonight, it’ll be your funeral.”
“Well, I betche it’ll rain before we git through—it always does, when you don’t want it to,” gloomed Happy, seizing another calf.
“If it does,” called Weary, who was branding—with a stamp—not far away, “if it does, Happy, we’ll pack the bossies into the cook-tent and make Patsy heat the irons in the stove. Don’t yuh cry, little boy—we’ll sure manage somehow.”
“Aw yes—you wouldn’t see nothing to worry about, not if yuh was being paid for it. They’s a storm coming—any fool can see that; and she’s sure going to come down in large chunks. We ain’t got this amatoor hell for nothing! Yuh won’t want to do no branding in the cook-tent, nor no place else. I betche—”
“Please,” spoke up Pink, coiling afresh the rope thrown off a calf he had just dragged up to Cal and Happy Jack, “won’t somebody lend me a handkerchief? I want to gag Happy; he’s working his hoodoo on us again.”
Happy Jack leered up at him, consciously immune—for there was no time for strife of a physical nature, and Happy knew it. Everyone was working his fastest.
“Hoodoo nothing! I guess maybe yuh can’t see that bank uh thunderheads. I guess your sight’s poor, straining your eyes towards the Fourth uh July ever since Christmas. If yuh think yuh can come Christian Science act on a storm, and bluff it down jest by sayin’ it ain’t there, you’re away off. I ain’t that big a fool; I—” he trailed into profane words, for the calf he was at that minute holding showed a strong inclination to plant a foot in Happy’s stomach.
Cal Emmett glanced over his shoulder, grunted a comprehensive refutation of Happy Jack’s fears and turned his whole attention to work. The branding proceeded steadily, with the hurry of skill that makes each motion count something done; for though not a man of them except Happy Jack would have admitted it, the Happy Family was anxious. With two hundred and fifty calves to be branded in the open before night, on the third day of July; with a blistering sun sapping the strength of them and a storm creeping blackly out of the southwest; with a picnic tugging their desires and twenty-five long prairie miles between them and the place appointed, one can scarce wonder that even Pink and Weary—born optimists, both of them—eyed the west anxiously when they thought no one observed them. Under such circumstances, Happy Jack’s pessimism came near being unbearable; what the Happy Family needed most was encouragement.
The smoke hung thicker in the parched air and stung more sharply their bloodshot, aching eyeballs. The dust settled smotheringly upon them, filled nostrils and lungs and roughened their patience into peevishness. A calf bolted from the herd, and a “hold-up” man pursued it vindictively, swearing by several things that he would break its blamed neck—only his wording was more vehement. A cinder got in Slim’s eye and one would think, from his language, that such a thing was absolutely beyond the limit of man’s endurance, and a blot upon civilization. Even Weary, the sweet-tempered, grew irritable and he
aped maledictions on the head of the horse-wrangler because he was slow about bringing a fresh supply of water. Taken altogether, the Happy Family was not in its sunniest mood.
When Patsy shouted that supper was ready, they left their work reluctantly and tarried just long enough to swallow what food was nearest. For the branding was not yet finished, and the storm threatened more malignantly.
Chip saddled Silver, his own particular “drifter,” eyed the clouds appraisingly and swung into the saddle for a fifteen-mile ride to the home ranch and his wife, the Little Doctor. “You can make it, all right, if yuh half try,” he encouraged. “It isn’t going to cut loose before dark, if I know the signs. Better put your jaw in a sling, Happy—you’re liable to step on it. Cheer up! tomorrow’s the Day we Celebrate in letters a foot high. Come early and stay late, and bring your appetites along. Fare-you-well, my brothers.” He rode away in the long lope that eats up the miles with an ease astonishing to alien eyes, and the Happy Family rolled a cigarette apiece and went back to work rather more cheerful than they had been.
Pleasure, the pleasure of wearing good clothes, dancing light-footedly to good music and saying nice things that bring smiles to the faces of girls in frilly dresses and with brown, wind-tanned faces and eyes ashine, comes not often to the veterans of the “Sagebrush Cavalry.” They were wont to count the weeks and the days, and at last the hours until such pleasure should come to them. They did not grudge the long circles, short sleeps and sweltering hours at the branding, which made such pleasures possible—only so they were not, at the last, cheated of their reward.
Every man of them—save Pink—had secret thoughts of some particular girl. And more than one girl, no doubt, would be watching, at the picnic, for a certain lot of white hats and sun-browned faces to dodge into sight over a hill, and looking for one face among the group; would be listening for a certain well-known, well-beloved chorus of shouts borne faintly from a distance—the clear-toned, care-naught whooping that heralded the coming of Jim Whitmore’s Happy Family.
Tomorrow they would be simply a crowd of clean-hearted, clean-limbed cowboys, with eyes sunny and untroubled as a child’s, and laughs that were good to hear and whispered words that were sweet to dream over until the next meeting. (If you ask the girls of the range-land, and believe their verdict, cowboys make the very best and most piquant of lovers.) Tomorrow there would be no hint of the long hours in the saddle, or the aching muscles and the tired, smarting eyes. They might, if pressed, own that they burnt the earth getting there, but the details of that particular conflagration would be far, far behind them—forgotten; no one could guess, tomorrow, that they were ever hot or thirsty or tired, or worried over a threatening storm, or that they ever swore at one another ill-naturedly from the sheer strain of anxiety and muscle-ache.
By sundown, so great was their industry, the last calf had scampered, blatting resentment, to seek his mother in the herd. Slim kicked the embers of the branding fire apart and emptied the water-bucket over them with a satisfied grunt.
“By golly, I ain’t mourning because brandin’s about over,” he said. “I’m plumb tired uh the sight uh them blasted calves.”
“And we got through ahead of the storm,” Weary sweetly reminded Happy Jack.
Happy looked moodily up at the muttering black mass nearly over their heads and said nothing; Happy never did have anything to say when his gloomy predictions were brought to naught.
“I’m going to get on the bed-ground without any red tape or argument, if yuh ask me,” volunteered Cal Emmett, rubbing his aching arms. “We want to get an early start in the morning.”
“Meaning sun-up, I suppose,” fleered Pink, who had no especial, feminine reason for looking forward with longing. With Pink, it was pleasure in the aggregate that lured him; there would be horse racing after dinner, and a dance in the school-house at night, and a season of general hilarity over a collection of rockets and Roman candles. These things appealed more directly to the heart of Pink than did the feminine element; for he had yet to see the girl who could disturb the normal serenity of his mind or fill his dreams with visions beautiful. Also, there was one thing about these girls that did not please him; they were prone to regard him as a sweet, amusing little boy whose dimples they might kiss with perfect composure (though of course they never did). They seemed to be forever taking the “Isn’t he cunning!” attitude, and refused to regard him seriously, or treat him with the respect they accorded to the rest of the Happy Family. Weary’s schoolma’am had offended him deeply, at a dance the winter before, by patting him indulgently on the shoulder and telling him to “Run along and find you a partner.” Such things rankled, and he knew that the girls knew it, and that it amused them very much. Worse, the Happy Family knew it, and it amused them even more than it amused the girls. For this reason Pink would much prefer to sleep luxuriously late and ride over to the picnic barely in time for dinner and the races afterward. He did not want too long a time with the girls.
“Sure, we’ll start at sun-up,” Cal answered gravely. “We’ve got to be there by ten o’clock, so as to help the girls cut the cake and round up all the ham sandwiches; haven’t we, Weary?”
“I should smile to remark,” Weary assented emphatically. “Sun-up sure sees us on the road, Cadwolloper—and yuh want to be sure and wear that new pink silk handkerchief, that matches the roses in your cheeks so nice. My schoolma’am’s got a friend visiting her, and she’s been hearing a lot about yuh. She’s plumb wild to meet yuh. Chip drawed your picture and I sent it over in my last letter, and the little friend has gone plumb batty over your dimples (Chip drawed yuh with a sweet smile drifting, like a rose-leaf with the dew on it, across your countenance, and your hat pushed back so the curls would show) and it sure done the business for Little Friend. Schoolma’am says she’s a good-looker, herself, and that Joe Meeker has took to parting his hair on the dead center and wearing a four-inch, celluloid collar week days. But he’s all to the bad—she just looks at your picture and smiles sad and longing.”
“I hate to see a man impose on friendship,” murmured Pink. “I don’t want to spoil your face till after the Fourth, though that ain’t saying yuh don’t deserve it. But I will say this: You’re a liar—you ain’t had a letter for more than six weeks.”
“Got anything yuh want to bet on that?” Weary reached challengingly toward an inner pocket of his vest.
“Nit. I don’t give a darn, anyway yuh look at it. I’m going to bed.” Pink unrolled his “sooguns” in their accustomed corner next to Weary’s bed and went straightway to sleep.
Weary thumped his own battered pillow into some semblance of plumpness and gazed with suspicion at the thick fringe of curled lashes lying softly upon Pink’s cheeks.
“If I was a girl,” he said pensively to the others, “I’d sure be in love with Cadwolloper myself. He don’t amount to nothing, but his face’d cause me to lose my appetite and pine away like a wilted vi’let. It’s straight, about that girl being stuck on his picture; I’d gamble she’s counting the hours on her fingers, right now, till he’ll stand before her. Schoolma’am says it’ll be a plumb sin if he don’t act pretty about it and let her love him.” He eyed Pink sharply from the tail of his eye, but not a lash quivered; the breath came evenly and softly between Pink’s half-closed lips—and if he heard there was nothing to betray the fact.
Weary sighed and tried again. “And that ain’t the worst of it, either. Mame Beckman has got an attack; she told Schoolma’am she could die for Pink and never bat an eye. She said she never knowed what true love was till she seen him. She says he looks just like the cherubs—all but the wings—that she’s been working in red thread on some pillow shams. She was making ’em for her sister a present, but she can’t give ’em up, now; she calls all the cherubs ‘Pink,’ and kisses ’em night and morning, regular.” He paused and watched anxiously Pink’s untroubled face. “I tell yuh, boys, it’s awful to have the fatal gift uh beauty, like Cadwolloper’s got. He means all
right, but he sure trifles a lot with girls’ affections—which ain’t right. Mamma! don’t he look sweet, laying there so innocent? I’m sure sorry for Mame, though.” He eyed him sidelong. But Pink slept peacefully on, except that, after a half minute, he stirred slightly and muttered something about “drive that darned cow back.” Then Weary gave up in despair and went to sleep. When the tent became silent, save for the heavy breathing of tired men. Pink’s long lashes lifted a bit, and he grinned maliciously up at the cloth roof.
For obvious reasons he was the only one of the lot who heard with no misgivings the vicious swoop of the storm; so long as the tent-pegs held he didn’t care how hard it rained. But the others who woke to the roar of wind and the crash of thunder and to the swish and beat of much falling water, turned uneasily in their beds and hoped that it would not last long. To be late in starting for that particular scene of merry-making which had held their desires for so long would be a calamity they could not reflect upon calmly.
At three o’clock Pink, from long habit, opened his eyes to the dull gray of early morning. The air in the tent was clammy and chill and filled with the audible breathing of a dozen sleeping men; overhead the canvas was dull yellow and sodden with the steady drip, drip, drop of rain. There would be no starting out at sunrise—and perhaps there would be no starting at all, he thought with lazy disappointment, and turned on his side for another nap. His glance fell upon Weary’s up-turned, slumber-blank face, and his memory reverted revengefully to the baiting of the night before. He would fix Weary for that, he told himself spitefully; mentally measured a perpendicular line from Weary’s face to the roof, reached up and drew his finger firmly down along the canvas for a good ten inches—and if you don’t know why, try it yourself some time in a tent with the rain pouring down upon the land. As if that were not enough he repeated the operation again and again, each time in a fresh place, until the rain came through beautifully all over the bed of Weary. Then he lay down, cuddled the blankets up to his ears, closed his eyes and composed himself to sleep, at peace with his conscience and the world—and it did not disturb his self-satisfaction when Weary presently awoke, moved sleepily away from one drip and directly under another, shifted again, swore a little in an undertone and at last was forced to take refuge under his tarpaulin. After that Pink went blissfully off to dreamland.