The Ramblin Kid

by Bowman, Earl Wayland

  It was midnight before Parker and the cowboys came in.

  When Carolyn June stepped out on the porch Tuesday morning she glanced toward the circular corral, which for more than a week had been empty. Her heart gave a leap of delight.

  Captain Jack was standing at the bars of the corral and behind him the early sunlight glinted on the chestnut sides of the Gold Dust maverick.

  CHAPTER XIV

  THE GRAND PARADE

  Eagle Butte was a jam of humanity. It was Tuesday noon. At one o'clock the Grand Parade would circle the mile track at the "Grounds"—a hundred level acres enclosed by a high board fence lying at the west edge of Eagle Butte, between the Cimarron River and the road that led out to the Vermejo—swing down the main street of the town, return again to the enclosed area, flow once more past the grandstand, salute the judges of the coming events, and the Fifth Annual Independence Rodeo of Eagle Butte would be officially opened.

  Special excursion rates had brought thousands from all parts of western Texas, New Mexico and Colorado. Hundreds of tourists, sight-seeing the West, had so arranged their itineraries that they might be present at the big exhibition of riding, roping, racing, bull-dogging and other cow-country arts,—arts rapidly becoming mere memories of a day too quickly passing.

  Moving-picture machine operators were seeking advantageous locations for their outfits; pedestrians dodged, indiscriminately, high-powered automobiles and plunging bronchos; the old and the new were slapped together in an incongruous jumble in the streets of Eagle Butte.

  The best range men and women of the West were gathered in the western

  Texas town.

  New Mexico, Arizona, Idaho, Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, Oregon, Texas herself, were represented by their most famous riders, ropers, bull-doggers, cow-experts, and noted outlaw horses.

  There were many masqueraders.

  Imitation cow-people, they were, made up in fancy wild-west costumes, long-haired chaps, mammoth black sombreros, gaudy neck-cloths, silver-spangled saddles, spurs and bridles—typical moving-picture cowboys, cowgirls and rough riders. But there were, as well, hundreds of real range people. People whose business it is to work every day at the "stunts" they were, for the next five days, to play at for the pleasure of proving their skill and winning the applause of the multitude of spectators packed each day in the grandstand behind the judges' box at the Eagle Butte Rodeo.

  Every outfit in western Texas sent its most clever riders.

  Indians and Mexicans, in picturesque attire, sprinkled the milling mass of humanity with a dash of rainbow color.

  Dance-halls were running, fare layouts were operating, roulette wheels were spinning. For the time, with the consent of the sheriff and other reformed authorities, Eagle Butte tried hard to be as Eagle Butte was twenty—thirty—years ago.

  The entire Quarter Circle KT crowd left the ranch early Tuesday morning'. Parker had surprised Old Heck, and filled his mind with misgivings, by calling him to one side after breakfast and stammering:

  "I—I—reckon you'd just as well go ahead the rest of this week and—and—look after the widow by yourself—"

  "What's the matter?" Old Heck asked suspiciously; "have you found out anything dangerous about that 'Movement' or whatever it is Ophelia's mixed up in?"

  "No, it ain't that," Parker assured him, "I just thought I'd kind of—well, like to be free, to knock around at the Rodeo without being bothered with a woman or anything."

  The truth was Parker was trying to hedge. When he had got away on the beef hunt and began to figure things out he had come to doubt the wisdom of his sudden infatuation for the widow. Thinking it over, out on the open range, he was appalled by his rash, headlong falling in love. He had never married, nor had he, until Ophelia came, been even near it. Someway, the moment Carolyn June and the widow arrived at the Quarter Circle KT some sort of devil seemed to possess him. He couldn't explain it. Maybe it had been just an impulse to get ahead of Old Heck. Whatever it was, Parker was worried. What would he do with a wife if he had one? All he wanted now was to let the thing blow over. Perhaps the widow would forget his impetuous proposal or fall in love with Old Heck.

  Old Heck, his heart filled with a queer mixture of elation and uncertainty—with a sort of joy and sinking sensation all at once—agreed to Parker's suggestion.

  Parker rode into Eagle Butte with the cowboys. Old Heck, Ophelia, Skinny and Carolyn June went in the Clagstone "Six." Chuck led Old Pie Face for Skinny to ride in the parade and Bert took Red John, Old Heck's most showy saddle horse—a long-legged, high-stepping, proud-headed, bay gelding—for Carolyn June to use, for she, too, had declared her intention of joining in the grand promenade with which the Rodeo would open.

  The Ramblin' Kid left the Gold Dust maverick in the circular corral and rode Captain Jack to Eagle Butte. It would be necessary for him to register the filly, with the entry judges, on the first day of the Rodeo if she was to run in the two-mile sweepstakes.

  The rules of the Rodeo required, also, that all who expected to participate in any of the events of the coming week must "show" in the grand march or parade. The animals that were to be used might also be paraded, but this was not compulsory.

  Accompanied by Chuck, the Ramblin' Kid went directly to the entry offices of the Rodeo, which were roughly boxed-up compartments under the rear of the grandstand.

  A group of "hot-dog" vendors and "concession spielers" looked curiously at the two as they left Captain Jack and Silver Tip, with bridle reins dropped over their heads, standing in front of the office and stepped inside.

  Lafe Dorsey and Flip Williams were at the clerk's desk.

  The Vermejo cattleman had just registered Thunderbolt, with Flip as rider, for the big race.

  They looked around as the Ramblin' Kid and Chuck came in.

  "Well, is the Quarter Circle KT getting up sand enough to go against old Thunderbolt again?" Dorsey asked with a curl of his lip and an ugly sneer.

  "Oh, I reckon we've got a little nerve left," Chuck answered with mock humility, "not much, but a little, maybe. I was going to put Silver Tip in the sweepstakes," he went on, "but I guess I won't. Th' Ramblin' Kid's got an entry and it looks like a darned shame for one outfit to want to hog it all and grab first and second money both, so I'll stay out this time."

  "You talk pretty loud," Dorsey snarled, catching instantly, as Chuck intended he should, the covert slur at the black Y-Bar stallion. "Maybe your money won't make so damned much noise!"

  "Here's a couple hundred," Chuck said, pulling a roll of bills from his shirt pocket. "I'll invest that much on my judgment that Thunderbolt ain't as good as you think he is."

  "I'll take it!" Dorsey snapped, jerking a wad of money from his own pocket and counting out the amount which he handed to the clerk as stake-holder. "And here's another hundred—or a thousand if you want it!"

  "That two hundred is about all I can handle this morning," Chuck laughed. "But I understand Old Heck's aiming to bet a little," he drawled suggestively; "probably you'd like to see him?"

  "I'll see him—and raise him till he squeals!" Dorsey sneered.

  The Ramblin' Kid ignored the tilt between Dorsey and Chuck and leaned indifferently against the counter waiting for the clerk to fill out the entry blank.

  "Event?" the clerk questioned.

  "Two-mile run," was the quiet answer.

  "Rider—and horse?" glancing up.

  Dorsey and Flip paused and turned their heads to catch the names the

  Ramblin' Kid gave.

  "I'm the rider, I reckon," the Ramblin' Kid replied, "I guess you know who I am. Th' name of th' horse? Well, now ain't that funny?" he said with a little laugh, "I never have bothered to name that critter yet! But—oh, hell, what's the difference? We'll just call her 'Ophelia' for th' time bein'—in honor of a lady-widow that's visitin' out at th' ranch!"

  "The Quarter Circle KT's getting to be quite a female institution, ain't it?" Dorsey said contemptuously. "I suppose this wonder horse
of yours is one of the ranch fillies and regular lightning!"

  For a second the Ramblin' Kid's eyes narrowed, then he replied coldly to the last half of Dorsey's sentence:

  "Well, th' filly's been runnin' in that neighborhood an'"—with a laugh that had in it just the hint of a sneer—"she's pretty fair—good enough, I figure, to beat hell out of old Thunderbolt!"

  "Are you backing that with money?" Dorsey and Flip spoke together.

  "No," the Ramblin' Kid answered slowly, "money ain't no object with me in a horse-race. I don't run 'em for that purpose. Anyhow, poker is my favorite method of gamblin'!"

  Dorsey and Flip whirled angrily out of the office and walked rapidly toward the stables where they had left their horses.

  After reserving a box stall, which was to be occupied by Captain Jack and the Gold Dust maverick, the Ramblin' Kid and Chuck left the entry office and mounting their bronchos rode toward the section of the grounds, over by the stables, where the parade was already forming.

  As they passed through the entrance to the track and the inside field which lay beyond Chuck and the Ramblin' Kid rode within a few feet of the Clagstone "Six," which was parked near the east end of the grandstand. Old Heck and Ophelia were in the front seat of the car watching the riders assemble for the parade. Carolyn June was standing on the running-board waiting for Skinny to come with Old Pie Face and Red John, the boys having left the horses at the stables.

  Carolyn June looked up with a bright smile at Chuck. As her eyes met the Ramblin' Kid's there was a question in them. She was not sure yet that she had forgiven him for the brutal rebuff the night of the dance. If there was any feeling in his heart, either of resentment or otherwise, toward the girl the Ramblin' Kid hid it. The look he gave her was one of unfathomable humility and indifference.

  Chuck wheeled Silver Tip to the side of the car and stopped. His eyes were filled with frank admiration as he gazed at the girl. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement, her white felt hat sat jauntily on the crown of brown hair, her eyes were sparkling and in the close-fitting riding suit she was the picture of youthful charm and grace. The Ramblin' Kid nodded to Old Heck, glanced at Ophelia with a smile, looked steadily an instant at Carolyn June and raising his hat to the two women passed on with the remark: "I reckon I'll go on over an' see what they're doin'."

  "Has he entered the outlaw filly for the sweepstakes, yet?" Old Heck asked Chuck as the Ramblin' Kid reined Captain Jack down the race track.

  "Yes," Chuck answered, "he signed her up."

  "Did he name her as the Gold Dust maverick?" Old Heck inquired anxiously.

  "No," Chuck grinned, "he called her 'Ophelia!'"

  Old Heck leaned back in the seat and roared with laughter in which

  Carolyn June and the widow joined.

  "Dorsey was there," Chuck said with another grin, "he'd just finished entering Thunderbolt for the big race when th' Ramblin' Kid and me got to the registering office. I bet him two hundred dollars. He was bragging a good deal—"

  Old Heck's eyes flashed and the mirth left them.

  "He was blowing, was he?" he said with a hard laugh, "the damn—darned fool!" he corrected, remembering Ophelia at his side. "Well, 'egg' him on—the higher he flies the worse he'll flop when he bu'sts a wing!"

  In the parade Skinny rode with Carolyn June. Parker and the Quarter Circle KT cowboys were in a group directly behind them. The Vermejo crowd, with Dorsey himself mounted on Thunderbolt, had a place just ahead of Skinny and Carolyn June. The beautiful black Y-Bar stallion was really a wonderful horse. Speed, strength and endurance radiated with every movement of the glossy, subtle body. Without doubt he was the most handsome animal on the grounds. Dorsey was a splendid rider and a man—he was in the early forties—of striking appearance. He was fully conscious of the magnificent showing he made on Thunderbolt. The racer danced proudly, prancing forward in short, graceful leaps as the column swept past the grandstand and the consolidated Eagle Butte and Vegas bands crashed out the strains of a stirring march. A ripple of applause ran over the crowd in the grandstand as Dorsey, at the head of the Vermejo cowboys, rode by the judges' box. He lifted his sombrero and waved it in pleased acknowledgment.

  The Ramblin' Kid was in line a little distance behind Carolyn June, Skinny and the Quarter Circle KT cowboys. He rode alone just back of a quartette of Indians from down on the Chickasaw.

  His plain rigging, the slick, smoothly worn, leather chaps, the undecorated saddle, bridle and spurs, his entire work-a-day outfit contrasted vividly with the gaudy get-up of most of the other riders. Captain Jack moved along easily and freely, but quietly, and with an air of utter boredom with all the show and confusion about him. The Ramblin' Kid's attitude, whole appearance, matched perfectly the mood of his horse. He sat loosely in the saddle and carelessly smoked a cigarette. The truth was his mind was far from the pageant of which he and the little stallion were a part. He scarcely heard the music nor did he seem to see the thousands of human beings, packed tier above tier, under the mammoth roof of the grandstand. His thoughts were at the upper crossing of the treacherous Cimarron, out at the Quarter Circle KT; he was seeing again, Carolyn June, as she looked up into his eyes when he dragged her out of the quicksand—he was hearing, once more, her cry of agony as the bullet from his gun buried itself in the brain of Old Blue.

  Louder hand-clapping, stamping of feet, and calling voices, than any that had sounded before, rolled out from the grandstand as the lone rider, on the quiet, unexcited little roan, came down the stretch in front of the great crowd.

  Carolyn June looked back, saw the waving hats and handkerchiefs, heard hundreds of voices shouting:

  "Th' Ramblin' Kid! Th' good old Ramblin' Kid!"

  The crowd had recognized him as the slender rider who, a year ago, after the untamable Cyclone horse had killed Dick Stanley before their eyes and in front of where they sat, had ridden, straight-up and scotching him at every jump, that vicious, murderous-hearted outlaw.

  Carolyn June's eyes moistened and she felt a thrill of pride.

  The Ramblin' Kid barely glanced at the sea of faces, a faint smile hung for an instant on his lips, as he jerked his hand, the one in which he held the cigarette, to the brim of his hat when he came opposite the judges' stand.

  When the parade swung down the wide, one-sided, main street of Eagle Butte, Mike Sabota, from the door of the Elite Amusement Parlor, watched it pass. He was standing there, by the side of the lanky marshal and surrounded by a group of pool-room loafers and "carnival sharks" when Carolyn June and Skinny came by. She looked around in time to see him staring, with a vulgar leer, straight into her eyes.

  "There is that big, dirty, animal-looking fellow we saw the other day!" she said, with a frown of disgust, to Skinny. "He's horrible—"

  Skinny glanced at Sabota.

  "Yes, he is ornery," he said. "He runs that joint and boot-legs on the side. He's got a reputation as a slugger and keeps the crowd around him buffaloed. They say he killed a feller—beat him to death—in a fight over at Sapulpa before he came to Eagle Butte. I don't like the filthy cuss. He's mean!"

  "He looks it!" Carolyn June exclaimed, with the uncomfortable feeling that the big Greek's look had touched her with something vile and unclean.

  After the parade disbanded Carolyn June and Skinny rode back to the car where Old Heck and Ophelia had remained.

  "You made a darned good-looking cowgirl!" Old Heck said proudly to her as she stopped Red John by the side of the Clagstone "Six."

  "She and Skinny both presented a very fine appearance!" the widow added, while Carolyn June playfully blew a kiss at each in acknowledgment of the compliment. Skinny sat on Old Pie Face and felt a warm glow of satisfaction at the words of Old Heck and Ophelia. He had known all the time that Carolyn June and he had shown up well, but he was glad to find that others besides himself had noticed it.

  Dorsey, on a black stallion, cantered past.

  A moment later the Ramblin' Kid came jogging off the race
course on Captain Jack. He threw up his hand in greeting and passed on out of the grounds.

  Parked next to the Clagstone "Six" was a handsome touring car, occupied by a party consisting of a girl about Carolyn June's own age, a woman a few years older and a couple of immaculately dressed young men who wore flaring brimmed black felt hats that contrasted absurdly with their expensively tailored suits. Evidently all were "big town" people from a distance—very "superior" and patronizing in their attitude toward the "natives." They had been free and voluble in their comments on the various riders. Dorsey, on the magnificent Thunderbolt, drew a murmur of admiration from the lips of the girl. As the Ramblin' Kid, the next moment, rode by on Captain Jack one of the young fellows said loudly and with a laugh of ridicule:

  "Look at that one, Bess," addressing the girl; "there's the 'wild and woolly' West for you! I'll bet if that horse sneezed he'd fall down and the lonesome-looking little runt that's riding him would tumble off and root his nose in the dust!"

  A cackle of derisive laughter greeted the cheap witticism.

  Before any of the others could speak Carolyn June's eyes blazed with sudden wrath. She turned her body in the saddle and faced the speaker, her hands tightly clenched, her cheeks white with passion and her lip curling wickedly.

  "Which shows," she said slowly, every word stinging like the bite of a whip-lash, "that you are running, true to form and there is one fool, at least, still unslaughtered! That"—she continued with a proud toss of her head—"'lonesome-looking little runt' is the Ramblin' Kid! Not another man in Texas can ride the horse he is on—and there is not a horse in Texas that he can't ride!"