Bat Wing Bowles

by Dane Coolidge

  CHAPTER VIII

  A COWBOY'S LIFE

  As the name of the Deity, to a cowboy, means little more than a word toswear by, so the holy Sabbath is forgotten as a day of rest. Not thatthe hard-riding puncher would not rest if he got the chance, but thetraditions of the cow business make no allowances for godliness andease. For forty dollars and found, the round-up hand is expected to workevery day in the month, and take all his Sundays in a bunch when theboss writes out his time. From daylight to dark are his hours of labor,with horse wrangling and night-guard to boot; and yet there are men ofelegance and leisure who try to crush in on the job.

  Mr. Bowles rolled into bed a perfect gentleman, and something of aknight-errant as well; but when Gloomy Gus gave vent to his shrillmorning call he turned in his blankets and muttered. As the dishpanyammered and clashed discordantly he shuddered like a craven; and whenGus finally kicked open the door he could have cursed like anycow-puncher. It was a dreary life he had elected to follow, a life ofdrudgery, hardship, and discomfort, and with no compensating element butthe danger of getting killed. And all for the sake of a girl who neverhad met him before!

  Bowles crawled out very slowly and stood shivering by the fire,marveling at the iron endurance of Gloomy Gus, and understanding hisgloom. Never again, he resolved, as he drank a pint of hot coffee, neveragain would he address Mr. Mosby in aught but terms of respect. A manwho could stand his life and still wear the mantle of self-restraint wasworthy of a place among the stoics. And to get up alone--alone and ofhis own volition--at three-thirty and four of the morning! It was a taskto give a Spartan pause and win an enduring fame among the gods. A largehumility came over Bowles as he contemplated the rough men about him andobserved how uncomplainingly they accepted their lot. And they had beenat the work for months and years--it was the second day for him!

  The cook beat on his pan, and at the thought of the long ride before himBowles did his best to eat--to eat heartily, ravenously, to gorgehimself full of meat against the hours of hunger to come; and, passingup the three-tined steel fork, he went to it with his knife and spoon.

  "You make the finest biscuits I have ever eaten, Mr. Mosby," he observedby way of apology as he slipped one into his pocket; and the sleep-wearyeyes of the cook lighted up for a moment before he summoned his cynicalsmile.

  "That's what they all say--when they're hungry," he remarked. "Then whenthey've et a plenty they throw 'em in the dirt."

  He waved his hand at a circle of white spots that lay just outside thefirelight, and turned to begin his dishwashing. Then, seeing that Mr.Bowles was still interested, he dilated on his troubles.

  "Yes, sir," he said; "a cowboy is jest naturally wasteful--if he wasn't,he wouldn't be a cowboy. He'll take a whole biscuit and eat half of itand throw the other half away. There you see 'em out there, jest like Ibeen seein' 'em fer forty years and more. It's in the blood. A cowboywastes his grub, he wastes his terbakker, he wastes his money. He wastescows, and hawses--an' he wastes his life. I got my opinion of a man thatwill work like a dog fer forty dollars a month. These hyer boys knowwhat I think of 'em."

  The cowboys grinned sheepishly and backed up nearer the fire. It wasstill too dark to rope, and they were waiting for Henry Lee; and thecold starlight made them solemn. When the sun came up and they got ahorse between their knees they would laugh old Gus to scorn; now theylistened to him soberly in lieu of sprightlier conversation.

  "And me," continued Gloomy Gus, as he sensed the heavy silence, "I workharder than any of 'em. The mornin' star don't catch me in bed--no, sir!Not after half-past three. I got to git up then and mix my bread. Andcome night time, after my long day's work, I got to set my dough. But Igit paid fer it--eighty dollars a month--and you can have the jobto-morrer."

  He paused again, as if to emphasize the lack of bidders, and then wentdeftly about his task.

  "No, sir," he said; "you don't see no one strikin' fer the job of cook.That's hard work, that is. These boys all want to sit on a hawse and seethe world go by."

  Once more the heavy silence fell upon them, and Brigham picked up atowel and began to wipe the dishes.

  "Goin' out to-day?" he inquired, as the boys began to straggle towardthe corral.

  "That's the word!" returned the cook. "Dinner at the north well, andback ag'in fer supper. Pack up and unpack, and pack ag'in at the well.Then cook a dinner and hook up the hawses, and cook some more at thehome. Ef Henry Lee don't git me a flunky pretty soon I'm shore goin' toup and quit."

  He glanced significantly at Bowles as he finished this last remark, butBrigham shook his head.

  "I seen that Pringle kid come in yisterday," he said. "Mebbe you couldgit to have him."

  That closed the conversation, and Bowles moved away. He was sorry forMr. Mosby, very sorry; but not sorry enough to take a job as officialdishwasher. Somehow all the world seemed to be in a conspiracy to makehim flunky to the cook.

  He hurried over to the corral, where the roping was going on, and as heneared the gate he met the boss coming out. On the previous day Mr. Leehad seemed a little under the dominance of his feelings, but thismorning he was strictly business.

  "Mr. Bowles," he said, "I'll keep my word with you and take you on for apuncher. Do your work and keep off Dunbar, and I'll try to get alongwith you--otherwise you get your time. Now come on back and I'll cut youout a mount."

  He tied his own horse to a post, and swung up on the corral fence.

  "You get two gentle horses and five bronks," he continued; "and I'llcall Wa-ha-lote a bronk."

  "Oh, thank you!" began Bowles; but the boss checked him right there.

  "You've got nothing to thank me for, young man," he said. "I'd ratherlose a top hand any time than take on a tenderfoot, so don't think for aminute that I'm stuck on you. Passed my word, that's all--and Wa-ha-loteforgot to buck. Now you see that gray over there--the one with thesaddle-marks on his back--that's one of 'em--he's gentle. See thislittle sorrel, right close--that's Scrambled Eggs--he's a bronk. Thenyou can have that red roan over there for a night horse, and I'll cutyou out some more bronks bymeby. You ride old Gray and the roan for awhile--understand? And I employ a twister to break my wild stock, sokeep off of them bronks--if--you--please."

  He added this last as if he really meant it, and left Bowles to wonderat his emphasis--but not for long. The times called for action. He was apuncher now, and it was necessary for him to lasso his mount. So,shaking out his new rope, which snarled and crawled in a mostdisconcerting fashion, the new cowboy dropped down into the corral,while everybody who could conveniently do so stepped up and looked overthe fence. But Bowles had had a few days' training at the hands of JimScrimsher, the livery-stable keeper and all-round horse trader andconfidence man at Chula Vista, and he shook out a fairly good loop.Then, swinging it above his head, he advanced upon the gray, whopromptly put the whole herd between them, and raced along next thefence. The roan came along just then and Bowles made a cast at him andcaught two others, who instantly made away with his rope.

  A yell went up from along the top of the fence; and with many shouts ofencouragement and veiled derision, they threw him a new rope. This was aworn one and capable of dexterous handling, and, with a set smile on hisface, Bowles shook out a big loop and advanced cautiously upon the roan.By this time he, too, had read the hypnotic message of the eye, and hadcrowded well in behind the main herd, which was dashing around thecorral with ever-increasing speed. The slashing rope-work of the oldhands had already left the horse herd nervous and flighty, and somethingabout the way Bowles whirled his wide-flung loop seemed to drive theminto a frenzy. A shout of warning went up, and then another, and then,as Wa-ha-lote made another balk at the gate, Hardy Atkins rushed outthrough the cloud of dirt and signaled him to stop.

  "What do you want to do?" he yelled. "Break down the fence?"

  He edged in on the leaders as he spoke and soon brought them to a halt;then, with his eyes on another horse, he stepped in close, dragging hisloop, until suddenly he whipped it over
the old gray's head and jerkedhim out of the herd.

  "Here's yore hawse," he said, handing him over the rope's end. "And,say, if you can't rope without swingin' a Mother Hubbard, jest let meketch yore hawse!"

  "Why, what's the matter?" inquired Bowles.

  "Oh, nawthin'," sneered the bronco-twister, "only it skeers 'em todeath--that's all. Old Henry generally gives a man his time fer swingin'his loop in the corral."

  Bowles followed along after him, flushed and downcast over his mistake;and as the others saddled their prancing bronks and went pitching andplunging around the horse lot he threw his saddle on the old,moss-backed gray and watched them with a wholesome awe. Horse afterhorse, as his rider hooked the stirrup, flew back or kicked like aflash. Some bucked the saddles off and had to be mastered by bruteforce. Here it was that the green-eyed Hardy Atkins, that long andlissom twister whom he so heartily despised, stood out like a ridingking among the men. If a horse would not stand, he held it by the ears;if it bucked its saddle off, he seized an ear in his teeth, and hung onlike a bulldog until the girths were cinched; and then, if the rider butsaid the word, he topped it off in his place. And all with such atigerish swing, such a wild and masterful certitude, that even Bowlescould not but secretly admire him.

  It was nearing the first of April, when the wagon went out on theround-up, and the boys were topping off their mounts in order to gentlethem for the spring work. Shrill yells and whoops went up as man afterman uncocked his bronk; and then, as the procession filed out the gate,Hardy Atkins swung up on his own and went whipping and plunging afterthem. This was the big event of the day, and all hands craned theirnecks to view it; but the real spectators were up by the big whitehouse, where Dixie Lee and her mother stood watching.

  "Good boy, Hardy!" cried Dixie May, waving her hat to flag him. "Staywith him, Hardy!" And while the wild brute bucked and grunted beneaththe steady jab of the spurs his rider raised a slender hand and waved itin salute. Bowles came dragging after him, sitting up very straight onold Gray; but nobody gave him a gay salute or so much as noticed himpass. Big Snake, the outlaw, was sun-fishing and doing buck-jumps, andevery eye was upon the gallant rider who sat him so limber andfree--Hardy Atkins, bronco-twister, and top cowboy at the Bat Wing.

  "Pitch, then, you bastard," he was shouting. "Buck, you wild, woollywolf--I'll put a hat on you!"

  Bowles did not know what a "hat" was as he rode along out the gate, butwhen the cattle were thrown together and the wrangler brought up thespare horses, he knew. Walking across the brushy flat came Hardy Atkins,leading the worn and whip-marked Snake at a slow walk; and as he drewnear, Bowles saw the "hat," a great, puffed-up swelling, raw and bloody,where the spur had jabbed his side. And there was a look in the outlaw'shaggard eye that reminded him of old Dunbar--a wild, homicidal stare,yet tragic with fear and pain. As he reached the horse herd the twisterlooked back and regarded his mount intently; then very cautiously heworked up to his head and caught him by the cheek-strap.

  "Don't you bite me, you devil," he threatened as the Snake showed allhis teeth, "or I'll beat yore brains out with this quirt!"

  The Big Snake winced and crooked his neck sullenly; then, as the twistersnapped up the stirrup and uncinched the saddle with his free hand, hesighed and hung his head. With a deft jerk the puncher stripped offsaddle and blanket; he reached up between his ears and laid hold of theheadstall, then with a heave he tore off the bridle and landed his bootin the Snake's ribs.

  "Git, you owl-headed old skate!" he yelled; and the Snake cow-kicked athim like a flash of light.

  "Hah!" laughed the twister, stepping dexterously aside; and, swingingthe bridle as he ducked, he brought the heavy reins down across hismount's rump. Again there was a flash of light as the Snake lashed outfrom behind; and then he limped off to one side, his eyes glowing withimpotent rage and hate. Bowles looked at him as he lay wearily down inthe sand, and then at the man who had conquered him, and a glow creptinto his own eyes--a glow very much like the Big Snake's. He had entereda new world, with a different standard of courage and hardihood, and thefirst look at it frightened and awed him. But though he knew he couldnot meet its standards nor measure up to its tests, he scorned the manwho could, and hated him for his rude strength--and his sympathy wentout to Big Snake, the outlaw.