The B. M. Bower Megapack

by B. M. Bower

  “There’s nothing so snaky about her that I could see,” defended Rowdy. He did not particularly relish having his own mental argument against Miss Conroy thrown back at him from another. “She seemed to be all right; and if you’d seen how plucky she was in that blizzard—”

  “Well, I never heard anybody stand up and call Harry white-livered, when yuh come t’ that,” Pink cut in tartly. “Anyway, you’re a blame fool. If she was a little white-winged angel, yuh wouldn’t stand no kind uh show; and I tell yuh why. She’s got a little tin god that she says prayers to regular.”

  “That’s Harry. And wouldn’t he be the fine brother-in-law? He could borrow all your wages off’n yuh, and when yuh went t’ make a pretty ride, he’d up and cut your latigo, and give yuh a fall. And he could work stolen horses off onto yuh—and yuh wouldn’t give a damn, ’cause Jessie wears a number two shoe—”

  “You must have done some rimrock riding after her yourself!” jeered Rowdy.

  “And has got shiny brown eyes, just like Harry’s—”

  “They’re not!” laughed Rowdy, half-angrily. “If you say that again, Pink, I’ll stick your head in a snow-bank. Her eyes are all right. They sure look good to me.”

  “You’ve sure got ’em,” mourned Pink. “Yuh need t’ be close-herded by your friends, and that’s no dream. You wait till toward evening before yuh take that horse back. I’m going along t’ chappyrone yuh, Rowdy. Yuh ain’t safe running loose any more.”

  Rowdy cursed him companionably and told him to go along, if he wanted to, and to look out he didn’t throw up his own hands; and Pink grumbled and swore and did go along. But when they got there, Miss Conroy greeted him like a very good friend; which sent Rowdy sulky, and kept him so all the evening. It seemed to him that Pink was playing a double game, and when they started home he told him so.

  But Pink turned in his saddle and smiled so that his dimples showed plainly in the moonlight. “Chappyrones that set in a corner and look wise are the rankest kind uh fakes,” he explained. “When she was talking to me, she was letting you alone—see?”

  Rowdy accepted the explanation silently, and stored it away in his memory. After that, by riding craftily, and by threats, and by much vituperation, he managed to reach Rodway’s unchapperoned at least three times out of five—which was doing remarkably well, when one considers Pink.

  CHAPTER 5

  At Home at Cross L

  In two days Rowdy was quite at home with the Cross L. In a month he found himself transplanted from the smoke-laden air of the bunk-house, and set off from the world in a line camp, with nothing to do but patrol the boggy banks of Milk River, where it was still unfenced and unclaimed by small farmers. The only mitigation of his exile, so far as he could see, lay in the fact that he had Pink and the Silent One for companions.

  It developed that when he would speak to the Silent One, he must say Jim, or wait long for a reply. Also, the Silent One was not always silent, and he was quick to observe the weak points in those around him, and keen at repartee. When it pleased him so to do, he could handle the English language in a way that was perfectly amazing—and not always intelligible to the unschooled. At such times Pink frankly made no attempt to understand him; Rowdy, having been hustled through grammar school and two-thirds through high school before he ran away from a brand new stepmother, rather enjoyed the outbreaks and Pink’s consequent disgust.

  Not one of them loved particularly the line camp, and Rowdy least of all, since it put an extra ten miles between Miss Conroy and himself. Rowdy had got to that point where his mind dwelt much upon matters domestic, and he made many secret calculations on the cost of housekeeping for two. More than that, he put himself upon a rigid allowance for pocket-money—an allowance barely sufficient to keep him in tobacco and papers. All this without consulting Miss Conroy’s wishes—which only goes to show that Rowdy Vaughan was a born optimist.

  The Silent One complained that he could not keep supplied with reading-matter, and Pink bewailed the monotony of inaction. For, beyond watching the river to keep the cattle from miring in the mud lately released from frost grip, there was nothing to do.

  According to the calendar, spring was well upon them, and the prairies would soon be flaunting new dresses of green. The calendar, however, had neglected to record the rainless heat of the summer gone before, or the searing winds that burned the grass brown as it grew, or the winter which forgot its part and permitted prairie-dogs to chip-chip-chip above ground in January, when they should be sleeping decently in their cellar homes.

  Apart from the brief storm which Rowdy had brought with him, there had been no snow worth considering. Always the chill winds shaved the barren land from the north, or veered unexpectedly, and blew dry warmth from the southwest; but never the snow for which the land yearned. Wind, and bright sunlight, and more wind, and hypocritical, drifting clouds, and more sun; lean cattle walking, walking, up-hill and down coulee, nose to the dry ground, snipping the stray tufts where should be a woolly carpet of sweet, ripened grasses, eating wildrose bushes level with the sod, and wishing there was only an abundance even of them; drifting uneasily from hilltop to farther hilltop, hunger-driven and gaunt, where should be sleek content. When they sought to continue their quest beyond the river, and the weaker bogged at its muddy edge, Rowdy and Pink and the Silent One would ride out, and with their ropes drag them back ignominiously to solid ground and the very doubtful joy of living.

  May Day found the grass-land brown and lifeless, with a chill wind blowing over it. The cattle wandered as before except that knock-kneed little calves trailed beside their lean mothers and clamored for full stomachs.

  The Cross L cattle bore the brunt of the range famine, because Eagle Creek Smith was a stockman of the old school. His cattle must live on the open range, because they always had done so. Other men bought or leased large tracts of grass-land, and fenced them for just such an emergency, but not he. It is true that he had two or three large fields, as Miss Conroy had told Rowdy, but it was his boast that all the hay he raised was eaten by his saddlehorses, and that all the fields he owned were used solely for horse pastures. The open range was the place for cattle and no Cross L critter ever fed inside a wire fence.

  Through the dry summer before, when other men read the ominous signs and hurriedly leased pasture-land and cut down their herds to what the fields would feed, Eagle Creek went calmly on as he had done always. He shipped what beef was fit—and that, of a truth, was not much!—and settled down for the winter, trusting to winter snows and spring rains to refill the long-dry lakes and waterholes, and coat the levels anew with grass.

  But the winter snows had failed to appear, and with the spring came no rain. “April showers” became a hideously ironical joke at nature’s expense. Always the wind blew, and sometimes great flocks of clouds would drift superciliously up from the far sky-line, play with men’s hopes, and sail disdainfully on to some more favored land.

  It is all very well for a man to cling stubbornly to precedent, but if he clings long enough, there comes a time when to cling becomes akin to crime. Eagle Creek Smith still stubbornly held that rangecattle should be kept to the range. He waited until May was fast merging to June, watching, from sheer habit, for the spring transformation of brown prairies into green. When it did not come, and only the coulee sides and bottoms showed green among the brown, he accepted ruefully the unusual conditions which nature had thrust upon him, and started “Wooden Shoes” out with the wagons on the horse round-up, which is a preliminary to the roundup proper, as every one knows.

  CHAPTER 6

  A Shot From the Dark

  “I call that a bad job well done,” Pink remarked, after a long silence, as he gave over trying to catch a fish in the muddy Milk River.

  “What?” Rowdy, still prone to day-dreams of matters domestic, came back reluctantly to reality, and inspected his bait.

  “Oh, come alive! I mean the horse round-up. How we’re going to keep that bunch uh skeletons
under us all summer is a guessing contest for fair. Wooden Shoes has got t’ give me about forty, instead of a dozen, if he wants me t’ hit ’er up on circle the way I’m used to. I bet their back-bones’ll wear clean up through our saddles.”

  “Oh, I guess not,” said Rowdy calmly. “They ain’t so thin—and they’ll pick up flesh. There’s some mighty good ones in the bunch, too. I hope Wooden Shoes don’t forget to give me the first pick. There’s one I got my eye on—that blue roan. Anyway, I guess you can wiggle along with less than forty.”

  Pink shook his head thoughtfully and sighed. Pink loved good mounts, and the outlook did not please him. The round-up had camped, for the last time, on the river within easy riding distance of Camas. The next day’s drive would bring them to the home ranch, where Eagle Creek was fuming over the lateness of the season, the condition of the range, and the June rains, which had thus far failed even to moisten decently the grass-roots.

  “Let’s ride over to Camas; all the other fellows have gone,” Pink proposed listlessly, drawing in his line.

  Rowdy as listlessly consented. Camas as a town was neither interesting nor important; but when one has spent three long weeks communing with nature in her sulkiest and most unamiable mood, even a town without a railroad to its name may serve to relieve the monotony of living.

  The sun was piling gorgeous masses of purple and crimson clouds high about him, cuddling his fat cheeks against their soft folds till, a Midas, he turned them to gold at the touch. Those farther away gloomed jealously at the favoritism of their lord, and huddled closer together—the purple for rage, perhaps; and the crimson for shame!

  Pink’s face was tinged daintily with the glow, and even Rowdy’s lean, brown features were for the moment glorified. They rode knee to knee silently, thinking each his own thoughts the while they watched the sunset with eyes grown familiar with its barbaric splendor, but never indifferent.

  Soon the west held none but the deeper tints, and the shadows climbed, with the stealthy tread of trailing Indians, from the valley, chasing the after-glow to the very hilltops, where it stood a moment at bay and then surrendered meekly to the dusk. A meadow-lark near-by cut the silence into haunting ripples of melody, stopped affrighted at their coming, and flew off into the dull glow of the west; his little body showed black against a crimson cloud. Out across the river a lone coyote yapped sharply, then trailed off into the weird plaint of his kind.

  “Brother-in-law’s in town today; Bob Nevin saw him,” Pink remarked, when the coyote ceased wailing and held his peace.

  “Who?” Rowdy only half-heard.

  “Bob Nevin,” repeated Pink naively.

  “Don’t get funny. Who did Bob see?”

  “Brother-in-law. Yours, not mine. Jessie’s tin god. If he’s there yet, I bid for an invite to the ‘swatfest.’ Or maybe”—a horrible possibility forced itself upon Pink—“maybe you’ll kill the fattest maverick and fall on his neck—”

  “The maverick’s?” Rowdy’s brows were rather pinched together, but his tone told nothing.

  “Naw; Harry Conroy’s a fellow’s liable to do most any fool thing when he’s got schoolma’amitis.”

  “That so?”

  Pink snorted. The possibility had grown to black certainty in his mind. He became suddenly furious.

  “Lord! I hope some kind friend’ll lead me out an’ knock me in the head, if ever I get locoed over any darned girl!”

  “Same here,” agreed Rowdy, unmoved.

  “Then your days are sure numbered in words uh one syllable, old-timer,” snapped Pink.

  Rowdy leaned and patted him caressingly upon the shoulder—a form of irony which Pink detested. “Don’t get excited, sonny,” he soothed. “Did you fetch your gun?”

  “I sure did!” Pink drew a long breath of relief. “Yuh needn’t think I’m going t’ take chances on being no human colander. I’ve packed a gun for Harry Conroy ever since that rough-riding contest uh yourn. Yuh mind the way I took him under the ear with a rock? He’s been makin’ war-talk behind m’ back ever since. Did I bring m’ gun! Well, I guess yes!” He dimpled distractingly.

  “All the same, it’ll suit me not to run up against him,” said Rowdy quite frankly. He knew Pink would understand. Then he lifted his coat suggestively, to show the weapon concealed beneath, and smiled.

  “Different here. Yuh did have sense enough t’ be ready—and if yuh see him, and don’t forget he’s got a sister with a number two foot, damned if I don’t fix yuh both a-plenty!” He settled his hat more firmly over his curls, and eyed Rowdy anxiously from under his lashes.

  Rowdy caught the action and the look from the tail of his eye, and grinned at his horse’s ears. Pink in warlike mood always made him think of a four-year-old child playing pirate with the difference that Pink was always in deadly earnest and would fight like a fiend.

  For more reasons than one he hoped they would not meet Harry Conroy. Jessie was still in ignorance of his real attitude toward her brother, and Rowdy wanted nothing more than to keep her so. The trouble was that he was quite certain to forget everything but his grievances, if ever he came face to face with Harry. Also, Pink would always fight quicker for his friends than for himself, and he felt very tender toward Pink. So he hoped fervently that Harry Conroy had already ridden back whence he came, and there would be no unpleasantness.

  Four or five Cross L horses stood meekly before the Come Again Saloon, so Rowdy and Pink added theirs to the gathering and went in. The Silent One looked up from his place at a round table in a far corner, and beckoned.

  “We need another hand here,” he said, when they went over to him. “These gentlemen are worried because they might be taken into high society some day, and they would be placed in a very embarrassing position through their ignorance of bridge-whist. I have very magnanimously consented to teach them the rudiments.”

  Bob Nevin looked up, and then lowered an eyelid cautiously. “He’s a liar. He offered to learn us how to play it; we bet him the drinks he didn’t savvy the game himself. Set down, Pink, and I’ll have you for my pretty pardner.”

  The Silent One shuffled the cards thoughtfully. “To make it seem like bona-fide bridge,” he began, “we should have everybody playing.”

  “Aw, the common, ordinary brand is good enough,” protested Bob. “I ain’t in on any trimmings.”

  The Silent One smiled ever so slightly. “We should have prizes—or favors. Is there a store in town where one could buy something suitable?”

  “They got codfish up here; I smelt it,” suggested Jim Ellis. Him the Silent One ignored.

  “What do you say, boys, to a real, high society whist-party? I’ll invite the crowd, and be the hostess. And I’ll serve punch—”

  “Come on, fellows, and have one with me,” called a strange voice near the door.

  “Meeting’s adjourned,” cried Jim Ellis, and got up to accept the invitation and range along the bar with the rest. He had not been particularly interested in bridge-whist anyway.

  The others remained seated, and the bartender called across to know what they would have. Pink cut the cards very carefully, and did not look up. Rowdy thrust both hands in his pockets and turned his square shoulder to the bar. He did not need to look—he knew that voice, with its shoddy heartiness.

  Men began to observe his attitude, and looked at one another. When one is asked to drink with another, he must comply or decline graciously, if he would not give a direct insult.

  Harry Conroy took three long steps and laid a hand on Rowdy’s shoulder—a hand which Rowdy shook off as though it burned. “Say, stranger, are you too high-toned t’ drink with a common cowpuncher?” he demanded sharply.

  Rowdy half-turned toward him. “No, sir. But I’ll be mighty thirsty before I drink with you.” His voice was even, but it cut.

  The room stilled on the instant; it was as if every man of them had turned to lay figures. Harry Conroy had winced at sight of Rowdy’s face—men saw that, and some of them wondered. Pin
k leaned back in his chair, every nerve tightened for the next move, and waited. It was Harry—handsome, sneering, a certain swaggering defiance in his pose—who first spoke.

  “Oh, it’s you, is it? I haven’t saw yuh for some time. How’s bronco-fighting? Gone up against any more contests?” He laughed mockingly—with mouth and eyes maddeningly like Jessie’s in teasing mood.

  Rowdy could have killed him for the resemblance alone. His lids drooped sleepily over eyes that glittered. Harry saw the sign, read it for danger; but he laughed again.

  “Yuh ought to have seen this bronco-peeler pull leather, boys,” he jeered recklessly “I like to ’a’ died. He got piled up the slickest I ever saw; and there was some feeble-minded Canucks had money up on him, too: He won’t drink with me, ’cause I got off with the purse. He’s got a grouch—and I don’t know as I blame him; he did get let down pretty hard, for a fact.”

  “Maybe he did pull leather—but he didn’t cut none, like you did, you damn’ skunk!” It was Pink—Pink, with big, long-lashed eyes purple with rage, and with a dead-white streak around his mouth, and a gun in his hand.

  Harry wheeled toward him, and if a new light of fear crept into his eyes, his lips belied it in a sneer. “Two of a kind!” he laughed. “So that’s the story yuh brought over here, is it? Hell of a lot uh good it’ll do yuh!”

  Something in Pink’s face warned Rowdy. Harry’s face turned watchfully from one to the other. Evidently he considered Pink the more uncertain of the two; and he was quite justified in so thinking. Pink was only waiting for a cue before using his gun; and when Pink once began, there was no telling where or when he would leave off.

  While Harry stood uncertain, Rowdy’s fist suddenly spatted against his cheek with considerable force. He tumbled, a cursing heap, against the foot-rail of the bar, scrambled up like a cat—a particularly vicious cat—and came at Rowdy murderously. The Come Again would shortly have been filled with the pungent haze of burned powder, only that the bartender was a man-of-action. He hated brawls, and it did not matter to him how just might be the quarrel; he slapped the gaping barrels of a sawed-off shotgun across the bar—and from the look of it one might imagine many disagreeable things.