The Ramblin Kid

by Bowman, Earl Wayland

  Pete circled the table pouring coffee into the white porcelain cups. The

  Quarter Circle KT was famous for the excellence of its grub and the

  Chink was an expert cook.

  "Lordy, oh, lordy," Old Heck groaned, "it don't seem possible them women are coming!"

  "Maybe they won't," Parker sympathized. "When they get that telegram they ought to turn around and go back—"

  "Chuck's coming!" Bert Lilly exclaimed at that moment and the sound of a horse stopping suddenly at the front of the house reached the ears of the group at the table.

  "Go ask him if he got an answer, somebody, quick!" Old Heck cried.

  As Charley Saunders sprang to his feet Chuck yelled, "They got it and sent an answer! I got one—" and rushed excitedly through the house and into the kitchen waving an envelope, twin to the one Skinny had brought earlier in the day. "They're on Train Number Seventeen, the agent said—"

  "My Gawd!" Old Heck gasped, "what does it say? Give it here!" reaching for the message the cowboy held in his hand.

  "Good lord, it didn't work!" he groaned as he read the telegram and handed it across the table to Parker.

  "Read it out loud," several spoke at once.

  "'We've both had it,'" Parker read, "'and are not afraid. Anyhow we think you are a darned old lovable liar. Will arrive according to schedule. If you are not a liar we'll nurse you back to health and happiness. If you are, watch out! Your affectionate but suspicious little niece Carolyn June Dixon. Postscript: Are there any nice wild, untamed, young cowboys out there?—Carolyn J.'"

  "Hell-fire!" Skinny said, "what'll we do?"

  No answer. Chuck went moodily out to attend to his horse, and the meal was finished in silence. Even Sing Pete seemed deeply depressed. After supper Old Heck straightened up and in a do-or-die tone said:

  "We'll all go out where it's cool and hold a caucus and figure what ought to be done."

  "There ain't nothing we can do but surrender, as far as I can see," Parker observed gloomily as they gathered on the porch in front of the house. "They seem plumb determined to arrive—"

  "I've already give up hope," Old Heck answered, "but what will we do with them when they get here? We can't just brand 'em and turn them loose on the range."

  "I make a motion we elect Skinny to ride herd on 'em!" Bert Lilly suggested.

  "Damned if I do!" Skinny exclaimed uneasily.

  "It's a good idea," Parker said. "From all accounts the young one expects to be made love to and if she ain't she'll probably be weeping around all the time—"

  "Well, I can't stand sobbin'!" Old Heck declared. "Any female is hard enough to endure and one that gets to mourning is plumb distasteful!

  "That's probably the best thing to do," he continued, "just appoint

  Skinny to be official love-maker to Carolyn June while she's at the

  Quarter Circle KT. It will probably save confusion—"

  "I brought the telegram telling about them coming and I've done my share," Skinny protested; "somebody else can be delegated to do the love-making!"

  "That's just the reason it ought to be your job," Old Heck argued; "you went and got the telegram in the first place and are sort of responsible for them being here."

  "Aw, let th' Ramblin' Kid do it," Skinny pleaded, "he's an easy talker and everything—"

  The Ramblin' Kid straightened up and started for the gate.

  "Where you going?"

  "To catch Capt'n Jack," he drawled; "after that for a little ride down to th' Pecos or over in Chihuahua somewhere a couple hundred miles. I decline with enthusiasm to fall in love on th' spur of th' moment for any damned outfit!"

  "You come on back," Parker called, "Skinny'll have to do it. He can have all his time for it and just pretend he's in love and sort of entertain her. He don't need to go and do it in earnest. Come on back, you darned chump, I need you on the beef hunt!"

  "What'll I have to do?" Skinny asked cautiously.

  "Just set on the front porch with her at night and make your eyes roll up like a calf's that's being branded and kind of sigh heart-broken once in a while," Bert volunteered. "It'll be easy when you get used to it—"

  "If you know so much about it why don't you enlist yourself?" Skinny asked irritably. "Some of you fellows go on and volunteer," he pleaded dolefully.

  "I would in a minute," Chuck chipped in, "if I was good-looking like

  Skinny and had a white shirt—"

  "What's a white shirt got to do with it?"

  "Listen to the innocent child," Chuck laughed, "as if any darned fool didn't know that the first thing a professional love-maker has to have is a white shirt!"

  "That settles it," Skinny declared with emphasis, "I won't wear a white shirt to make love to no blamed woman—"

  "Chuck's locoed," the Ramblin' Kid interposed; "you don't need to have no white shirt—of course it would be better but it ain't downright necessary—women don't fall in love with shirts, it's what's inside of them."

  "Where did you find out so much about women?" Bert queried.

  "I didn't find out—I'm just guessin'—"

  "There ain't no use arguing," Old Heck broke in. "Skinny will have to be expert love-maker for that Carolyn June niece of mine—I'll allow him ten dollars a month more wages while he's doing it. I ain't going to have her writing letters to her pa and telling him she didn't have no conveniences or nothing. Anyhow, she's young and I reckon it's sort of necessary."

  "What about th' other one—Ophelia Cobb or whoever she is?" Bert Lilly asked.

  "She's past the age for it, probably," Parker said uneasily.

  "They don't pass it," the Ramblin' Kid interrupted laconically; "when females get too old to want to be made love to they die—"

  "I'd like to know where in hell a juvenile like you got your education about women!" Bert insisted to the Ramblin' Kid.

  "I ain't got none—I'm just guessing I told you," the other replied, "but it's the truth, anyhow."

  "Well, if I've got to make love to the young one Old Heck or Parker or somebody's got to do it for the other one," Skinny declared positively.

  "Ophelia don't need it," Old Heck said hastily, "she's a widow and has done been—"

  "Widows are th' worst," the Ramblin' Kid drawled; "they've had experience an' don't like to give it up."

  "Th' Ramblin' Kid's right," Chuck broke in. "I read a book once that said that's the way they are. It's up to Old Heck or Parker to represent Cupid to the widow—"

  "Who the hell's Cupid?" Skinny asked curiously.

  "He's a dangerous little outlaw that ain't got no reg'lar range," the

  Ramblin' Kid answered for Chuck.

  "I'll not do it—" Old Heck and Parker spoke at once.

  "Then I won't either," Skinny declared flatly, "I'll quit the dog-goned

  Quarter Circle KT first!"

  "Let Sing Pete make love to the widow," Bert suggested.

  "No, no! Me busy cookee," Sing Pete, who had been listening from the open doorway, jabbered and darted, frightened, back into the house.

  "Anyhow I'd kill him if he did," the Ramblin' Kid said softly; "no darned Chink can make love to a white woman, old, young or indifferent, in my presence an' live!"

  "Well, Old Heck'll have to do it, then," Skinny said; "hanged if I'm going to be the only he-love-maker on this ranch!"

  "Let Parker and Old Heck divide up on Ophelia," Chuck advised, "one of them can love her one day and the other the next—"

  "That's reasonable," Bert declared, "she'd probably enjoy a change herself."

  "I tell you I ain't got time," Parker protested.

  "Neither have I," Old Heck added.

  "All right then, I ain't either!" Skinny declared. "If you two ain't willing to take turn about with the widow and love her off and on between you I'll be everlastingly hell-tooted if I'm going to stand for a whole one by myself all of the time! I'll go on strike first and start right now!"

  "We'll stay with you, Skinny," the
Ramblin' Kid exclaimed with a laugh, "th' whole bunch will quit till Parker an' Old Heck grants our demands."

  "We'll all quit!" the cowboys chorused.

  "Oh, well, Parker," Old Heck grumbled, "I reckon we'll have to do it!"

  "It won't be hard work," the Ramblin' Kid said consolingly, "all you got to do is set still an' leave it to Ophelia. Widows are expert love-makers themselves an' know how to keep things goin'!"

  It was settled. Skinny Rawlins, at an increase of ten dollars a month on his wage, protestingly, was elected official love-maker to Carolyn June Dixon, Old Heck's niece, speeding unsuspectingly toward the Quarter Circle KT, and Old Heck and Parker between them were to divide the affections of Ophelia Cobb, widow and chaperon.

  In the mind of every cowboy on the ranch there was one thought unexpressed but very insistent that night, "Wonder what She looks like?" thinking, of course, of Carolyn June.

  Old Heck and Parker also were disturbed by a common worry. As each sank into fitful sleep, thinking of Ophelia Cobb, the widow, and his own predestinated affinity he murmured:

  "What if she insists on getting married?"

  CHAPTER III

  WHICH ONE'S WHICH

  Eagle Butte sprawled hot and thirsty under the melting sunshine of mid-forenoon. It was not a prepossessing town. All told, no more than two hundred buildings were within its corporate limits. A giant mound, capped by a crown of crumbling, weather-tinted rock, rose abruptly at the northern edge of the village and gave the place its name. Cimarron River, sluggish and yellow, bounded the town on the south. The dominant note of Eagle Butte was a pathetic mixture of regret for glories of other days and clumsy ambition to assume the ways of a city. Striving hard to be modern it succeeded only in being grotesque.

  The western plains are sprinkled with towns like that. Towns that once, in the time of the long-horn steer and the forty-four and the nerve to handle both, were frankly unconventional. Touched later by the black magic of development, bringing brick buildings, prohibition, picture shows, real-estate boosters, speculation and attendant evils or benefits as one chooses to classify them, they became neither elemental nor ethical—mere gawky mimics of both.

  When western Texas was cow-country and nothing else Eagle Butte at least was picturesque. Flickering lights, gay laughter—sometimes curses and the sounds of revolver shots, of battles fought close and quick and to a finish—wheezy music, click of ivory chips, the clink of glasses, from old Bonanza's and similar rendezvous of hilarity lured to the dance, faro, roulette, the poker table or the hardwood polished bar.

  The Mecca it was in those days for cowboys weary with months on the wide-flung range.

  To-day Eagle Butte is modest, mild and super-subdued.

  A garage, cement built, squatty and low and painfully new, its wide-mouthed entrance guarded by a gasoline pump freshly painted and exceedingly red, stands at the eastern end of the single, broad, un-paved business street. All of the stores face one way—north—and look sleepily across at the railroad track, the low-eaved, yellow, Santa Fe station and the sunburnt sides of the butte beyond. Opposite the station the old Occidental Hotel with its high porch, wide steps, narrow windows, dingy weather-board sides and blackened roof, still stands to remind old-timers of the days of long ago.

  A city marshal, Tom Poole, a long, slim, Sandy-mustached Missourian, completes the picture of Eagle Butte. Regularly he meets the arriving trains and by the glistening three-inch nickel star pinned to his left suspender announces to the traveling world that here, on the one time woolly Kiowa, law and order at last prevail. Odd times the marshal farms a ten-acre truck patch close to the river at the southern edge of the town. Pending the arrival of trains he divides his time between the front steps of the old hotel and the Elite Amusement Parlor, Eagle Butte's single den of iniquity where pocket pool, billiards, solo—devilish dissipations these!—along with root beer, ginger ale, nut sundaes, soda-pop, milk shakes and similar enticements are served to those, of reckless and untamed temperaments.

  From the open door of the pool hall the marshal saw a thin, black streak of smoke curling far out on the horizon—a dozen miles—northeast of Eagle Butte.

  "Seventeen's comin'," he remarked to the trio of idlers leaning against the side of the building; "guess I'd better go over an' see who's on her," moving as he spoke out into the sizzling glare of the almost deserted street. Glancing toward the east his eyes fastened on a cloud of dust whirling rapidly along the road that came from the direction of the lower Cimarron.

  "Gosh, lookey yonder," he muttered, "that must be Old Heck drivin' his new automobile—th' darn fool is goin' to bust something some day, runnin' that car the way he does!"

  Walking quickly, to escape the heat, he crossed the street to the station.

  Two minutes later the cloud of dust trailed a rakish, trim-lined, high-powered, purring Clagstone "Six" to a stop in front of the Occidental Hotel and Old Heck and Skinny Rawlins climbed glumly and stiffly from the front seat, after the thirty-minute, twenty-mile run from the Quarter Circle KT.

  Old Heck had his peculiarities. One of them was insistence for the best—absolutely or nothing. The first pure-bred, hot-blood stallions turned on the Kiowa range carried the Quarter Circle KT brand on their left shoulders. He wanted quality in his stock and spent thousands of dollars importing bulls and stallions to get it. When the automobile came it was the same. No jit for the erratic owner of the last big genuine cow-ranch on the Cimarron. Consequently the beautiful car—a car fit for Fifth Avenue—standing now in front of the old hotel in Eagle Butte.

  The smoke on the northeastern sky-line was yet some miles away.

  The lanky marshal had reached the station.

  "It's a good thing there's prohibition in this town," Skinny muttered as he stepped from the car and started brushing the dust from his coat;

  "Why?"

  "'Cause I'd go get drunk if there wasn't—. Wonder if a feller could get any boot-leg liquor?"

  "Better leave it alone," Old Heck warned, "that kind's worse than none.

  It don't make you drunk—just gives you the hysterical hydrophobia!'

  "Well, I'd drink anything in an emergency like this if I had it,"

  Skinny declared doggedly.

  "Train's comin'," Old Heck said shortly; "reckon we'd better go over to the depot—"

  "Let's wait here till they get off first," Skinny said. "We can see them from where we are and kind of size 'em up and it won't be so sudden."

  "Maybe that would be better," Old Heck answered.

  A moment later Number Seventeen, west-bound Santa Fe passenger train, stopped at the yellow station. The rear cars were obscured from the view of Skinny and Old Heck by freight sheds along the track. With the exception of the engine, baggage, mail and express cars, which were hidden by the depot, the rest of the train was in plain sight.

  A couple of men got off the day coach. These were followed by a gawky, weirdly dressed girl of uncertain age carrying an old-fashioned telescope traveling bag. At sight of the girl Skinny caught his breath with a gasp. Immediately following her was the tallest, homeliest woman he had ever seen. Thin to the point of emaciation, a wide striped, ill-fitting dress of some cheap material accentuated the angular lines of her body. A tiny narrow-brimmed hat, bright green, with a white feather, dingy and soiled, sticking straight up at the back made her more than ever a caricature. The woman also carried a bag. The two stepped up to the marshal, standing at the cornet: of the station, apparently asking him a question. He answered, pointing as he did to Old Heck and Skinny leaning silently against the side of their car. The woman and girl started toward them.

  Fascinated, the cow-men watched them approach.

  "My Gawd!" Old Heck hoarsely whispered, "that's them!"

  "Let's go!" Skinny exclaimed, sweat starting in unheeded beads on his forehead. "Good lord, let's get in the car and go while we got a chance!"

  Old Heck made a move as if to comply, then stopped. "Can't now," he said gloomily,
"it's too late!"

  As Old Heck turned the woman shrieked in a rasping voice:

  "Hey—hey you! Wait a minute!"

  The cow-men looked around and stared dumbly, dazedly, at her.

  "Can I get you to take me an' my daughter out to that construction camp where they're buildin' a ditch or something?" she asked; "that policeman said maybe we could get you to—" she continued. "I got a job cookin' out there an' Lize here is goin' to wait on table."

  Old Heck, still looking up in her eyes, with horror written on every line of his face, his lips twitching till he could scarcely speak, finally managed to say:

  "Ain't—ain't you Ophelia?"

  "Ophelia? Ophelia who?" she asked, then before he could speak she answered his question: "Ophelia—huh! No, I ain't Ophelia! I'm Missus Jasamine Swope an' a married woman an' you'd better not try to get fresh or—"

  Simultaneous with Old Heck's question, Skinny, his eyes riveted on the dowdy girl, asked in a voice barely audible:

  "Are you—are you Carolyn June?"

  "No, I ain't Carolyn June," she snorted. "Come on, ma; let's go! Them two's crazy or white slavers or somethin'!"

  Expressing their scorn and disdain by the angry flirt of their skirts, the woman and girl whirled and walked briskly away toward the garage at the end of the street.

  "Praise th' heavens," Old Heck breathed fervently as he gazed spell-bound after the retreating pair, "it wasn't them!"

  "Carolyn June and the widow probably went back after all," Skinny said without, looking around and with the barest trace of disappointment, now that the danger seemed past, in his voice. "Maybe they got to thinking about that telegram and decided not to come at last."

  "More than likely that was it," Old Heck answered.

  Steps sounded behind them. Skinny and Old Heck turned and again they almost fainted at what they saw. The marshal, a leather traveling bag in each hand, accompanied by two smartly dressed women, approached.

  "These ladies are huntin' for you," he said to Old Heck, dropping the bags and mopping his face with the sleeve of his shirt. "Guess they're some kind of kin folks," he added.