Bat Wing Bowles
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"I don't care whose mount he belongs to!" snarled the ex-straw-boss, dragging the horse out by the neck. "You top hands mash yore ear all night and let my hawses drift – and then expect me to walk. You bet yore boots that don't go – I'll take the best I can find. You can't put me afoot!"
"I'll put you on yore back," rumbled Brigham, dropping truculently down from his perch, "if you try to git gay with me. You may be from Bitter Crick, Texas, but you got to whip me before you break into my mount!"
"Well, he's got the Bat Wing brand on 'im," sulked Atkins; "that's all I know. And as long as they's a hawse left in the remuda – "
"Here, here!" said Henry Lee, walking in on the squabble. "What's all this about? What are you doing with Brig's hawse, Hardy? Why don't you ride your own?"
"Well, these hyer nester kids and Mormons went to sleep on guard and let my top hawses pull – now I got nothin' but bronks to ride!"
"Well, ride 'em, then!" commanded Henry Lee severely. "And, another thing, Mr. Atkins! Next time you've got a grievance, come to me – don't try to correct it yourself!"
He regarded his former straw-boss with narrowing eyes, and Atkins roped out a bronk; but in the evening he took the first occasion to pick a quarrel with Brigham. They were gathered about the fire in the scant hour between branding and first guard, and Brigham was telling a story. As was his custom, Henry Lee had pitched his tent to one side, for he never mixed with his men; and Brig had the stage to himself.
"Well, you fellers talk about gittin' lost," he was saying; "you ought to be up in that Malapai country. We had a land-sharp along – claimed to know the world by sections – and he – "
"Aw, what do you know about the Malapai country?" broke in Atkins rudely. "You cain't even lead a circle on the Black Mesa and git back to camp the same day! My hawse give out this mornin' tryin' to – "
"Say," interposed Brigham peaceably, "you know what the boss said this mornin' – if you got any grievance, tell it to him. I'm tellin' these gentlemen a story."
"A dam' lie would come nearer to it!" sneered Hardy, curling his lips with spleen; and at the word Brigham rose swiftly to his feet.
"If you're lookin' fer trouble, Mr. Atkins," he said, taking off his hat and laying it carefully to one side, "you don't need to go no further. And if you ain't," he cried, suddenly advancing with blood in his eye, "you take back what you said, or I'll slap yore face off!"
The astounding ease with which he got a rise out of his adversary seemed to take all the fight out of Hardy Atkins, and he mumbled some vague words of apology; but Brigham was hard to mollify.
"Well, that's all right," he grumbled. "It ain't my fault if you go on a drunk and lose yore job, and it ain't my fault if the boss makes me straw – but don't you try to crowd me, Hardy Atkins, or I'll make you match yore words. The man never lived that can call me a liar and git away with it, and I'll thank you to let me alone."
He went back and sat down by the fire, puffing and panting with the violence of his emotions; but as he gazed thoughtfully into the fire and no one interrupted his mood he fell into a cynical philosophy.
"Mighty funny about these Tee-hannos," he said, glancing around at the respectful company. "They say, back in Texas, when a man gits where he can count fifty they set him to teachin' school – and when he can count up to a hundred he gits on to himse'f and leaves the cussed country. Ordinary folks kin only count to twenty – ten fingers and ten toes, like an Injun. It's sure a fine country to emigrate from."
He looked about with a superior smile, and Buck Buchanan took up the cudgels for Texas.
"They tell me, Brig," he said, "that them Mormons down on the river cain't talk no mo' – jest kinder git along by signs and a kind of sheep-blat they have."
"Nope," answered Brigham; "they is sech people, but they don't live along the Heely. Them fellers you're thinkin' of is in the goat business – they don't say baaa, like a sheep; they go maaa like a goat. I've heard tell of them, too. It seems they don't wear no pants – nothin' but shirts. They live on them goat ranches back in western Texas."
He paused and looked around for appreciation, but only the nester kids smiled.
"I was drivin' a bunch of strays down through that Mormon country one time," explained Buck Buchanan; "that's where I got the idee. That's a great country, ain't it, Brig? Lots of houses, too. I remember I stopped one time at a street crossin' and they was houses on all four corners. They was a lot of kids playin' around, and I asked one of 'em whose houses they were, and he says: 'My father's.'
"'How comes yore father to have so many houses?' I says. 'Does he rent 'em?'
"'No, sir,' the kid says, 'he lives in 'em. Don't you know him? He's the bishop!'"
A roar of laughter followed this brutal innuendo, but Brigham was not set back. His mind had become accustomed to all such jests.
"Aw, you're jealous," he grunted, and let the Gentiles rage until, as the talk ran on, he gradually assumed the lead.
"That's one thing you'll never find around a Mormon town," he began, still speaking with philosophical calm; "you'll never find no Texican. Of course, a Mormon has to work, and that bars most of 'em at the start; but, I dunno, seems like the first settlers took a prejudice ag'inst 'em. I remember my old man tellin' how it come that way – course they must be mistaken, but the Mormons think a Texan ain't got no sense.
"It seems the Mormons was the first folks to settle along the Heely, and my grandpaw was one of the leaders – he killed a lot of Injuns, believe me! But one day when he was gittin' kinder old and feeble-like, he got a notion in his head that he wanted a squirrel-skin, and so he called in my father and said:
"'Son, you take yore rifle and go out and git me a gray squirrel; and be careful not to shoot 'im in the head, because I want the brains to tan the skin with.'
"So my father he went up in the pines and hunted around; but the only squirrel he could find was stickin' his head over the limb, and rather than not git nothin' he shot him anyhow. Well, he brought him back to the old man and he said to 'im:
"'I'm mighty sorry, Dad; the squirrels was awful scarce, and rather than not git any I had to shoot this one through the head.'
"'Oh, that's all right,' the old man says. 'You got a nice skin anyway, and I reckon we can fix it somehow. I tell you what you do. They's a bunch of Texans camped down by the lower water – you go down and kill one of them, and mebbe we can use his brains.'"
Brigham paused and looked around with squinched-up, twinkling eyes; and at last Buck Buchanan broke the dramatic silence.
"Well," he demanded roughly, "what's the joke?"
"Well, sir," ran on Brig, "you wouldn't hardly believe it, but my old man had to kill six of them Texicans to git brains enough to tan that squirrel-skin! That's why they won't take 'em into the church."
CHAPTER XVIII
THE ROUGH-RIDERS
Brigham Clark's squirrel-skin story was not calculated to build up the entente cordial with Texas, but Brigham was no trimmer. The only kind of fighting he knew was to stand up and strike from the shoulder, and a few cracks about Mormon marital customs had not tended to lighten the blow. Numerically he was outnumbered by the Texans, but when it came to a contest of wits he did not need any help. He went off to bed now, laughing, and to all of Bowles' chidings he turned an unheeding ear.
"Let 'em roar," he said. "It's no skin off my nose. Them fellers has been cavin' round and givin' off head long enough – I sure capped 'em in on that, all right. Well, let 'em rough-house me if they want to – they's two can play at that game. I never seen the Texan yet that looked bad to me. And if they git too gay the boss will fire the whole caboodle. I ain't lookin' fer trouble, but no bunch of ignorant Texicans can run it over me! Umph-umm!"
So the feud went on, and when Dixie rode into camp with the mail she smelled war in the very air. The men walked past each other with the wary glances of fighting dogs, and even her little comedy at the delivering of the letters failed to visibly lighten the gloom. A private interview with the cook, who carefully kept out of the ruction and gave neither side comfort nor succor, revealed the fact that the situation was serious; and with the success of the round-up at stake, Dixie May was quick to act. When her father returned to his dog tent at supper-time he found her war-bag inside, and with a mount of horses cut out for her, Dixie Lee took on for a cowboy.
They were up on the cedar ridges of the mountains now, driving down wild steers from the upper pastures, and a woman was as good as a man. Dixie was better than most, for she had ridden those rough mesas before and could drift off a ridge like a blacktail. Her desperate rivalry in the chase fired the hearts of the most malingering, and more than one moss-headed old outlaw found himself outgeneraled and flogged into the herd. And a steer is a steer these days – he is worth as much as a horse.
Every morning as the punchers set out on the long circle Dixie May picked out a man to dare, and several prairie-bred Texans failed to follow her over the rocks. Mounted on the best horses in the remuda, knowing the ways of wild cattle and the lay of the land ahead, she took after the first puff of dust she saw and followed it till she smelled smoke. If her steer turned back, she ran him down and roped him, and if her escort did not show up by that time, she hog-tied her catch and went on. It was a wild, free life, and she threw herself into it recklessly, glorying in the unholy joy of beating them at their own game. She rode with Brigham, and Hardy Atkins; uncouth mountain men, and raw-boned nester kids; and finally, when the time was ripe, she picked out Bowles.
Bowles was mounted on his top horse, Wa-ha-lote, and he rode proudly along behind Brigham, for in the rough and tumble of cross-country running he was holding his own with the best. A bunch of wild cattle sprang up suddenly from their hiding place on a far point; for a moment they stood staring, their ears silhouetted against the sky, and the keen eyes of the straw-boss read their earmarks like a book.
"They's two Bat Wing steers in that bunch," he said. "Head 'em off, Bowles, and drive 'em down the cañon!"
Then Bowles leaned forward in his saddle and raced them for the high ground. He headed them, and they doubled to beat him back. Once more he headed them off, while the outfit went on with its circle, and just as they stopped to look him over again he saw a horse coming down on his right. It was Dixie, mounted on her favorite roan, and she motioned to him to swing around on the left. Then the riding began all over again, for the steers were wild as bucks and they knew every trail on the bench; but the shod horses were too fast for them over the rocks, and as their hoofs began to get hot from the friction they turned and dashed for the rim.
From the high ridge where the circle was led, to the bottom cañon where the hold-up herd lay, the land fell away in three benches, each a little narrower, each a little steeper at the jump-off – and Bowles and Dixie Lee went over the first pitch hot-foot on the heels of their quarry. They raced back and forth on the second terrace, trying to head the cattle down a natural trail; but now a wild, self-destroying panic came upon them and they took off over the rough ground.
"I'll dare you to follow me!" cried Dixie, turning her eager roan after them; and helter-skelter over the rough rocks, swinging and ducking under trees and jumping over boulders and bushes, she went spurring after the cattle. Behind her came Bowles, his eyes big with excitement, staring at her madcap riding with the fear of death in his heart. Down over the rough jump-off they went, the dust and smoke from friction-burnt hoofs striking hot in their faces as they rode, and by the grace of God somehow they reached the bench below.
"Don't ride over there!" he entreated, as the cattle scampered on toward the last pitch; but Dixie laughed at him, loud and shrill.
"Will you take a dare?" she taunted, raising her quirt to strike; and before Bowles could say a word, Wa-ha-lote grabbed the bit and went after her like a rocket. Whatever his master thought, it was outside of Wa-ha-lote's simple code to let any horse give him his dust. Wild with terror and excitement, the big steers made straight for the jump-off, which was high and steep; over they went, with Dixie after them, and then, like a bolt from behind, Wa-ha-lote leaped over the rampart and went plowing down the slope. Twice he jumped as he came to dykes of rock, and Bowles stayed with him like a hurdler; then, with a lightning scramble over the loose stones, he took the trail from the roan and went pounding down the hill.
Tree limbs reached down to brush Bowles off, sharp stubs threatened momentarily to snag his legs, and boulders to dash his brains out if he fell, but the lion-hearted Wa-ha-lote had asserted his mastery and Bowles could only hang on. At the bottom of the slide they crashed through a dead-limbed cedar, sending the bone-dry sticks flying in every direction; and when Bowles swung up into the saddle he was thundering across the flat and the steers were at his bits. Vague wisps of smoke, white and smelling like a blacksmith-shop, leaped up as the harried brutes skated over the rocks, and Bowles knew that his battle was won. Once in the soft sand of the creek bed they would never turn back to the heights, for their feet were worn to the quick. But it had been a hard race – even Wa-ha-lote was slowing down, and Dixie Lee was nowhere in sight.
A sudden doubt assailed Bowles, and he tugged sharply at the bit; he pulled down to a walk and looked behind; then, as he saw no sign, he stopped short and let the cattle go. For a tense minute he listened while Wa-ha-lote puffed like a steamboat; then, with a grave look on his face, he turned and rode back up the hill.
"O Miss Lee!" he shouted. "Dixie!"
And a thin answer came from the slope above.
"Catch my horse!" it said. "He's down in the gulch!"
Bowles stared about and caught sight of the red roan's hide as he stood behind some trees; then, with his rope about its neck, he went spurring up the hill.
Dixie Lee was lying very awkwardly among the rocks at the foot of a scrubby juniper, and at the first glance Bowles knew she was hurt. Not only was her hat gone and her stout skirt ripped and torn, but her face was very pale and her lips drawn tight together.
"Horse fell with me," she said, greeting him with a fleeting smile; "hurt my knee right bad. First time I've known him to do that – say, help me out of these rocks."
Very tenderly Bowles reached down and raised her to her feet; then, with one arm about his neck, she tried to hobble away, but at the second hop she paused.
"Nope – hurts too bad," she said; "put me down."
But Bowles did nothing of the kind. He took her up in his strong young arms and carried her down the hill. He even wished it were farther, but she spied a bed of leaves under a cedar and ordered him to put her there. Then she looked up at him curiously and for a while lay very still.
"What you got there?" she inquired, as he came back holding his hat, and Bowles showed her a crownful of water that he had brought from a pool in the gulch.
"Ah!" sighed Dixie, and drank out of it without scruple, long and deep. "Say, that's good," she said; "now pour some on my hands – they're all scratched up." He did that too, and loaned her his neck handkerchief to sop up the last of the wet.
"Well, it's a wonder you wouldn't ask a few questions," she observed at length, bathing her grimy face with the handkerchief. "'How did it happen?' or 'How're you feeling?' or something like that!"
She smiled naturally at him now, fluffing out her dark hair that hung like an Indian's in heavy braids; and Bowles' face lighted up and then flushed a rosy red.
"I see you are feeling better," he said, sitting down off to one side, and decorously regarding his wet hat, "so how did it happen?"
"Well," began Dixie, ruefully inspecting her torn hands, "all I can remember is feeling my horse going down and jerking my feet out of the stirrups – then I fetched up in that juniper. I scrambled out the minute I struck – afraid old Rufus would fall on me – and that's where I hurt my knee – I bumped it against a rock."
She felt the injured limb over carefully and shook her head.
"I'm afraid I can't travel on that for a while," she said. "So get me your coat to put under it and prop it up, and we'll talk about something pleasant. It'll be all right, I reckon, after I rest a while, but that fall certainly jarred me up.
"Say," she observed, as Bowles came back with his coat, "that was pretty good, wasn't it, what I was telling you the other day – about nursing you back to health and strength. Looks like you're the nurse, the way it turns out. But you're going to make a good one," she went on, as he tucked the coat under her knee; "I can see that. Now, most people, when you get a hurt, or a fall, or something, they come rushing up to where you're making faces and ask a lot of foolish questions – 'Are you hurt?' and 'Did you fall?' and all that, until you want to kill 'em. But you haven't hardly said a word."
"No," said Bowles, blushing and looking away. "I'm awfully sorry you fell – hope I didn't make you. Is there anything more I can do?"
"Oh, that's all right," she assured him. "We all take a fall once in a while. I feel kind of weak and trifling right now – but don't go! No, I want you here for company!"
Bowles had stood up on a pretext of looking after the horses, but Dixie was firm.
"No, you stay," she said, as he explained that she might wish to be alone. "You're out West now, Bowles, and you remember what Hardy Atkins told you – 'if a lady asks you to take a letter, take it!' Of course, that was none of Hardy's business, but that's the rule out here, and I want you to come back and sit down. No, not away over there – I want you right up close!"
Bowles came back as readily as a dog, but he did not sit very close. For some reason unknown to himself he assumed that she would be embarrassed, not only by their isolated position but by the intimacies which had arisen between them. Moved by a strong and humane purpose, he had gathered her up in his arms and carried her down the hill; but hardly had he felt her arm about his neck, her breath against his cheek, and her heart against his breast, when the dimensions of his world had suddenly narrowed down, and there was only Dixie Lee and him. And now he was still dazed and breathless, afraid of himself, and not trusting in his strength – and yet he would do anything to please her.
"Come on over here," she coaxed, patting the leaves by her side, and Bowles came as near as he dared. "Now tell me some stories," she said, settling back and closing her eyes. "Ah, this will be fine – tell me something interesting, so I can forget that knee. It sure aches – when I think about it – but I believe there's something in mind-cure. Go ahead and talk. Where'd you learn to ride so well?"
"Oh, that?" beamed Bowles. "Do you think I can ride? Well, I'm not so bad, over the rocks, you know. I used to ride to the hounds. We chased foxes through the woods, leaping stone walls and five-bar gates and all that, and, really, I used to enjoy it. Nothing like cow-punching, of course, but great sport all the same. I remember once we were out at Clarendon – "
He fell into the details of a fox hunt – the first time he had spoken of his past life – and Dixie was careful not to interrupt him. Then he told of his life in the military school, where they taught boys the cavalryman's craft, and Dixie lay quiet and listened. If her knee hurt she did not know it, for she was piecing out his career. School, college, country club, one after the other he alluded to them, but even in his boyish enthusiasm he was careful to mention no names; and as he wandered on with his stories Dixie Lee wondered who he was. Certainly no inconsiderable man in his own country, and yet here he was, an ordinary hired hand, punching cows for forty-five a month. But why? And if he had followed her to the end of the world to win her heart, why did he not talk of love to her, now that they were there together? And when he had taken her in his arms, when he had carried her under the tree and pulled off her boot and tucked his coat under her knee, why had there been no caress, no look, no unnecessary attentions to show that he really cared? Dixie May opened her eyes and gazed out at him through half-closed lashes, and somehow she liked him better – he seemed to be different from the rest.
"Mr. Bowles," she said at last, "you're an awfully interesting man, but there are some things I can't understand. There's something mysterious about you. I know you must be all right, because I met you at Mrs. Melvine's, but at the same time you're hiding out like an ordinary horse-stealing Texican. What are you up to, anyway?"
"Why, I thought you knew all about that," explained Bowles, the old baffling smile coming back into his eyes. "Don't you remember, I told you about it on the train?"
"Yes, I remember, all right," answered Dixie. "But you didn't tell me very much – and then you told me different at Chula Vista. I thought I had a line on you once, but you're too deep for me. What's this I hear about a girl?"
"A girl?" repeated Bowles, with questioning gravity. "Why, what do you mean? What did you hear?"
"A girl back in New York," continued Dixie, glancing at him shrewdly as she hazarded a guess – and as she gazed he flushed and looked away.
"Whatever you have heard," he said at last, "I have nothing to be ashamed of – would you like me to get you some water?"
"Aw, Mr. Bowles," cried Dixie reproachfully, "are you trying to side-step me on this?"
"No, indeed!" replied Bowles, settling back with masterful calm. "What is it you have heard – and what would you like to know?"
He paused and regarded her expectantly, and Dixie saw that she was called. A shadow passed over her face; a shadow of annoyance, and of suspicion, perhaps, as well; but she felt the rebuke of his frankness and pursued her inquiry no further.
"Well, perhaps you are right," she said, as if answering an unspoken reproof. "It was nothing to your discredit, Mr. Bowles; and I am sure it is none of my business. I guess I'm kind of spoiled out here – I get to joshing with these cowboys until I don't know anything else. I believe I would like that drink."
Bowles leaped up promptly at the word and came back with his new hat full of water. He held it for her to drink, and as she finished and looked up she saw that his eyes were troubled.
"Oh, dear!" she cried impulsively, "have I made you any trouble? You've been so good to me here – what have I gone and done now?"
"Oh, it's not you at all," he assured her, and then his voice broke and he faltered. "But have you really heard from New York?"
"Why, no, Mr. Bowles," soothed Dixie, laying her hand on his arm. "Not a word – I don't know anything about you – I was only making it up."
"Oh!" said Bowles, and drew his arm away. He looked out at the horses for a moment, poured the water out of his hat, and turned back, his old smiling self.
"How is your knee now?" he inquired kindly. "Do you think you can ride? I suppose we ought to be going pretty soon."
Dixie glanced over at him and her heart sank – she had observed these sudden changes in Bowles before, and even his boyish smile could not lighten the veiled rebuke. When Bowles had thoughts that were anti-social he was always unusually kind, and his way of expressing disapproval was to tactfully change the subject. And now he was talking of going! Dixie scowled and felt of her knee, and rose stiffly to her feet.
"Well, if you're in such a hurry," she sulked; but Bowles was at her side in an instant.
"Oh, my dear Miss Lee!" he cried, catching her as she poised for a limp. "Please don't do that! Let me carry you, when the time comes, but we will rest as long as you please."
He passed a compelling arm about her and lowered her gently to her place; then he sat down beside her, and breathed hard as he set her free.