Bat Wing Bowles

by Dane Coolidge

  CHAPTER IX

  REDUCED TO THE RANKS

  The last place in the world for a humanitarian is around a cow camp, foreverything there seems to savor of cruelty and blood. The onlyanti-cruelty-to-animals man who ever made a winning in the cattlebusiness was good old Dr. Maverick, of Texas, who, when they made up thefirst brand book, swore he could not bring himself to cut an ear or burna brand and craved the privilege of letting his cattle run unmarked. So,when it came to the round-up, the old doctor received his reward, for heclaimed every maverick in the bunch and took them home for his own. Thiswas a long time ago, in the age of myth and fable, and the doctor's herdhas been sadly decimated since by rustlers and ruthless brand blotchers.A brand that can't be burned over is more precious than rubies now; andthe bigger it is, the better.

  The Bat Wing was an old brand, dating back to some Mexican ManuelOrtega, or Mariano Ortiz, who had writ his initials large on the lefthip of his steers, M above O, connected. With years the O had shrunk andthe M spraddled out until it looked like a winged disk--and had taken ondifferent names: Money-bug, from its resemblance to a dollar on thewing; Bat-out-o'-hell, from a similar frontier fancy; until finally itsettled down to plain Bat Wing. But whatever else happened to the BatWing brand, the iron never got any smaller; in fact, the reason the Mgrew so big that it flew away with the O was because a calf's hip widensout at the top and if the whole space is securely covered there will beno room left for illicit alterations.

  This is all very interesting and romantic, of course, when taken byitself; but nobody stopped to explain it to Bowles, the humanitariancowboy. When the cattle were on the cutting-grounds and the branding wasabout to begin, Henry Lee cast a contemptuous glance at his new hand anddecided to put him to work.

  "Bowles," he said, "you help with the flanking."

  So when the first little calf came gamboling in on the line, Bowlesrushed out and seized the rope. Working down to the calf, he caught itby its neck and flank and finally wrestled it to the ground. He wascasting loose the rope when Buck Buchanan grabbed the calf by the upperhind leg, braced his boot against the lower leg, and sat comfortablydown behind. Then Happy Jack came ramping out with a red-hot stamp-ironand slapped it against the tender hide.

  "Baaa!" blatted the little calf, rolling its eyes until they showed thewhites. "Baaa!" And then, before it knew what was happening, HardyAtkins knelt roughly on its neck, grabbed its left ear, and cut awayhalf of it at a single stroke of the knife. "Baaa!" bellowed the calf,curling up its tail; and as the blood trickled forth Bowles felt himselfgrow sick and faint.

  "Hold his head up!" directed Atkins; and then, with an impatient yank,he twitched up the second ear and cut a swallow-fork. The calf writhedand struggled to escape, and as he fought against it Bowles caught thestench of burning hair. Turning, he discovered Happy Jack still bearingdown on the hot iron and searing it deep into the flesh. That finishedBowles, and he sank back on the ground, turning his victim loose.

  "You want to hold their heads up," remarked Buck Buchanan, and Bowlesnodded and answered faintly. What he really wanted was a chance to guardthe herd; but orders were orders with Henry Lee, and if he failed to dohis work he was fired. Another calf came in--a big, lusty yearling--andBuck made a motion with his hand.

  "Ketch that one," he directed in a fatherly tone of voice, and Bowlesstaggered out to do or die. But a yearling calf can be a veryobstreperous brute on occasion, and this one was hot from his run.Within a minute after he had grappled with it all thought of pity haddied out in Bowles' breast. First he caught the bull calf by the neckand flank and tried to pull it over; then, as it fought against him andtrampled on his feet, he seized its further legs and tried to lift themup; failing in this, he laid hold of it in a frenzy and tried to throwit by main strength.

  "Git yore knees under him," suggested Buck from the middle distance.Then, after another period of waiting, he slouched ponderously out andshoved him aside.

  "Let me at 'im," he said. "You're keepin' Bill waitin' for his rope."

  He felt of the calf for a minute and pushed him to make him change hisfeet; then, as the yearling started to step, he boosted him with hisknees, heaved him into the air, and slammed him down on his side. It wasa man's job, and difficult for the best of them, but Bowles didn't knowthat. All he knew was that the boss was watching him, over there by thefire where he was keeping tally on the brands, and thinking what atenderfoot he was. And he was right--Bowles conceded it. He could notcatch his horse, he could not ride a bronk, he could not even throw acalf or lift it off the ground. And his back ached, awfully.

  It was a long morning for Mr. Bowles, packed with misery and hopelessstruggling, like a nightmare without end. They say that in the shorttime between the instant a man starts falling out of bed and the momenthe hits the floor, he can pass through a very inferno of dreams, passeddown from our tree-living ancestors and striking terror to theheart--and yet he generally wakes up before he lands. If he did not, sothe old nurses say, he would surely, surely die. The jagged rocks thatthreatened him in his dream would pierce his quivering body and he wouldbe found dead on the floor. The coroner would call it heart-failure, ofcourse; and that was what threatened Bowles.

  He was saved by a sound he had cursed that very morning--Gloomy Gusbeating on his dishpan! Packing all his kit into the chuck-wagon, andthrowing on a few sticks of wood, the cook had struck out through thedog towns and across the brushy flats and set up his fire irons by theside of a man-made lake. There he had gone busily about his task withoutwaiting for the herd to come in; and just as Bowles was dropping dead,the dinner-call saved his life.

  It had been a bad dream, but, thank Heaven, he had waked up before hestruck. A pint of scalding coffee, black and bitter from much boiling,and he was able to look about; and as he disposed of a couple ofbeefsteaks and dipped his biscuits in the grease, the weak place in hismiddle seemed comforted; and by the time he got around to the "fruit"and syrup he felt almost like a man again. Such jests as had been passedupon his condition had fallen upon unhearing ears, but now that he wasbrought back to health and strength he was able to smile grimly at hisappearance as mirrored in the honest lake.

  His face, which he had neglected to wash before eating, was crusted withsweat and dirt and spotted with gouts of blood; his hair was matted anddust-powdered; and in the bloodshot and haggard orbs that gazed up athim from the placid depths he saw a look that made him start. It was acruel, vindictive look, almost inhuman in its intensity; and it camefrom flanking bull calves. He looked down at his hands, all swollen andcrabbed from clutching, and saw that they were caked with blood. Hisshirt, too, and his trim-fitting trousers were dirty and spattered withgore. In fact--and here was where the grim smile came in--he couldhardly be told from a real cowboy!

  After dinner the cutting and branding went on as before, but with thisimportant difference--Bowles flanked only his share of the calves. Therewere two sets of flankers, two hot-iron men, and two ear-markers, andthe calves came up as they were caught. A really ambitious flanker, outfor experience, could get almost all the calves; but the only ones thatBowles ran after now were the ones that were easy to throw. If ayearling came dancing up on a rope, he stepped on his own foot and letthe other man beat him to it--either that or turned him over to Buck. Itwas quick work; but Bowles had a college education--he had been only sixhours a cowboy when he learned to malinger on the job.

  As for the rest of the gang, inured as they were to hard labor, thebranding was no more than a picnic for them. They found time to takechews of tobacco, tell stories, and watch all the roping; and if anycalf turned out to be too big for flanking they grabbed him by the neckand made him run, and bulldogged him, "California fashion." Happy Jackwas best at that, and several times in a fit of emulation he shoved somepuncher aside and showed him how it ought to be done--but never forBowles. It was strange how carefully they all avoided him--never lookingat him, rarely addressing him, and answering his inquiries with a word.He was an alien, a stranger among the
m, and--slowly the truth was bornein on him--an inferior.

  From the start Bowles had taken it for granted that they were abashed,tongue-tied by his obvious education, and awed by his gentlemanlybearing. But now they would not so much as laugh at him, lest itencourage him to familiarity. Never for a minute did they allow him topresume on their sufferance, and his remarks fell dead and flat. EvenHenry Lee, who had the bearing and spoke the language of a gentleman,refused to encourage him by a word; and at last he retired withinhimself, and saved his breath for flanking and his wits for dodgingwork.

  If a cowboy never soldiered on the job he would be dead before it camepay-day; but there are certain tasks which cannot be slighted, and oneof these is bringing home the herd. After the day's branding the calvesare cut into "ones" and "twos," and while the rest of the outfit troopsgaily homeward somebody must stay behind and bring up the cut. One ofthem must be a cowman, for trailing is an art in itself, but the othersare likely to be dubs. Certainly no boss would penalize his best handsand most willing workers by giving them such a task; and so, when thecutting was over and Henry Lee looked around for a poor hand, or one whohad been soldiering on the job, he picked Bowles on both counts.

  "Bowles," he said, "you help Brigham bring up those twos!" And that wasall there was to it. But to Brigham he spoke differently. It was "Brig,"with him; and instead of an order it was a request.

  "Brig," he said, "I'll ask you to take charge of the twos. Drive 'emeasy and put 'em in the north pasture."

  "All right, sir," answered Brigham in a friendly, off-hand way, and thenthe drive began. Mounted upon a rough-coated bronk that fought his bitconstantly yet responded to every touch of rein or spur, the burlypuncher rode back and forth, from the rear to the flank, and then upnear the point; and when he had them strung out to suit him he traveledalong on one side, while Bowles brought up the rear. It was weary work,after the long day of flanking, and as the weaker ones began to getfootsore they fell back to the drag and more than doubled his labors. Attimes Brigham Clark dropped back and strung them out for him again; buthe said nothing, chewing placidly on his tobacco and giving all histhought to the cattle. Still the drag increased, and as they began tolag behind, Bowles let down his rope and lashed them with the loop. Itwas then that Brigham Clark spoke.

  "Don't do no good to whip 'em," he remarked, falling back to string themout. "They'll travel as fast as the leaders--jest let 'em go."

  So Bowles put up his rope and let them go, and soon they fell fartherbehind; but about the time he was preparing to whip them anyway, thecowman dropped back from the flank.

  "Now, that's the way to handle cattle," he said, nodding at the ploddingline. "String 'em out and crowd the leaders--the drag will take care ofitself."

  At that he was gone again; and for an hour or more he rode tirelessly upand down the side, filling up every hole and gap and shoving the leadersahead. The cottonwoods of the home ranch showed green against the hills,and the end of their drive was in sight, when suddenly Brigham held uphis hand to stop.

  "Let 'em feed a while," he said, as Bowles rode up to inquire. "The dragis gittin' weak." Then he sat silent on his rough-haired bronk, hisinscrutable eyes gazing dully over the plain to the south, and Bowlesdropped wearily off his horse and stretched himself out on the ground.Half an hour afterward he roused up with a start just as Dixie Lee,mounted on a long, rangy bay, came galloping up the road. Her eyes werevery bright, and her cheeks were flushed from riding against the wind,and as she reined her horse in with a jerk her hair framed her face likea halo. But she did not see Bowles, though he stood up and took off hishat.

  "Hello, Brig," she called. "Watching 'em pick the flowers?"

  "Yes'm," answered Brigham, grinning amiably. "Watchin' 'em pluck theblossoms. What's goin' on down below now? Seen you go down there severaltimes."

  "Oh, you're still keeping track of me, are you?" queried Dixie Leegaily. "Well, you want to look out, Brigham--I'm getting awfullyinterested in a young Texican down there. He's got a nice farm,too--hundred and sixty acres!"

  "Sure!" agreed Brigham. "All covered with loco weed and this nice whitestuff!"

  He nodded at the glistening alkali along the flat, and his eyes twinkledwith furtive humor as Dixie Lee raised her quirt.

  "Aw, Brigham," she chided, "I believe you're jealous!" She leanedforward as she spoke, and the bay broke into a gallop, while Dixie senta laugh down the wind.

  "Heh, heh, heh," chuckled Brigham, reaching into his vest for acigarette paper. "That's Dix, all right. Don't you know, stranger," hewent on as he rolled himself a smoke, "that's the finest gal in Arizona.Good folks an' all that, but nothin' stuck up about her. Heh, heh,mighty nigh ast her to marry me one time, but couldn't quite cutit--she's been joshin' me ever since. Got 'em all comin' and won't havenone of 'em. Oh, hookey, wisht I wasn't a common, ornery cow-punch!"

  He paused and smoked a while, still gazing at the streak of dust.

  "Good rider, too," he observed; "beat most of the boys. I knowed herfour miles away by section lines."

  Once more he paused, and Bowles preserved his Sphinx-like silence. Hewas learning the customs of the country fast.

  "Don't have any like her back where you come from, I reckon," suggestedBrigham, his eyes shining with local pride; and Bowles sadly shook hishead. No, they did not--there was no one like Dixie Lee.