Pecos Bill

by James Cloyd Bowman

  “Oh, yes? And speakin’ of the bet, how about payin’ up right now, not to mention dividin’ up? We’ve got enough steers now to make everybody a millionaire. Pay up, divide up, and shut up, I say.”

  “Keep your shirt on, Moon. What’s the idea of gettin’ galled under the saddle?”

  “I’ve been a cucumber long enough, I’m tellin’ you!”

  “All you’ve been is a bitin’ red pepper ever since Pecos Bill stepped aboard the hurricane deck of that old twistin’ buckaroo!”

  “All right. And that’s just what I’m goin’ to keep on bein’ until you use a little horse sense,” concluded Moon.

  Hour after hour and day after day the quarrel kept up. Not content with waiting peaceably, Moon Hennessey and his faction now began to plan open rebellion.

  “We’ll shoot Gun Smith and Chuck and their flunkies the same as if they was varmint porcupines or skunks,” bragged Moon secretly to his friends.

  After another week of waiting, Gun Smith and Chuck were at their wits’ end. They knew what Moon and his crowd were up to, and they never took their hands off their guns, not even when they went to sleep.

  The next thing that happened was that Moon Hennessey had begun to brag that if ever again he laid eyes on Pecos Bill it would be a mighty sorry day for that low-down windbag. He even became so reckless that he began to say so right out in front of Gun Smith and Chuck.

  One day when Moon rode down to Wichita Falls, he took one too many nips of squirrel whiskey and began to speak his mind.

  “Say! If that big bag of wind, Pecos Bill, ever gets back, tell him for me I’m lookin’ for him. I’ll fill him fuller of lead than a porcupine has quills!”

  “You’re gettin’ good, ain’t you, Moon?” commented Old Sol, the sheriff, quietly.

  “Well, if you’re around when I happen to meet him, you’ll soon see,” Moon bragged. “That son of a Coyote has got himself bragged up around these parts until he’s got everybody licked. And Gun Smith and Chuck and the rest of ’em join right in on the chorus. Their backbones ain’t nothin’ but lariats by now. They’re so limp bowin’ down to him. But I’m goin’ to show him. I’ll teach him his place. And then we’re goin’ to divide up the cattle and retire rich. That’s what the I. X. L.’s goin’ to do.”

  Now while Moon Hennessey was doing this bragging, a quiet stranger was leaning across one of the counters toward the rear of the store. He had on a Christy-stiff hat pulled down low over his eyes, a boiled shirt and a stand-up collar. He now sauntered carelessly up to Moon, held out his hand and said, “Mister, I like your line of talk. You sound like a real cowman. If you are the boss out at this I. X. L. Ranch you’ve been sayin’ so much about, I’d like to strike you for a job.”

  Moon Hennessey looked hard at the newcomer. The features seemed to resemble someone that Moon had seen, but who he was Moon couldn’t make out. If Moon had thought to look, he would have noticed that the stranger had uncommonly large feet. He would have seen too that the stranger was wearing a black wig to conceal red hair. As it was, Moon thought the stranger a greenhorn dude.

  “Well, I’m not exactly the boss, but I’m goin’ to be any day now. So I guess you won’t have any trouble landin’ something.”

  Moon Hennessey was always looking for recruits, and this stranger seemed to offer very possible material for another loyal member of his gang.

  “Where you punched cows?” asked Moon curiously.

  “Over in Missouri. We had about a dozen cows, me and my pa, I guess.”

  When the stranger said Missouri, Moon smiled. No Texas cowboy ever admitted that a Missourian was anything but a greenhorn and a tenderfoot. A dozen cows made Moon smile still more. Another chance for an initiation! Moon now urged the stranger by all means to come along out to the ranch.

  It happened to be about an hour before dinner when Moon Hennessey and the cowman from Missouri arrived at the ranch house. Bean Hole was busily getting things ready.

  The day was hot and the stranger appeared to be all tuckered out. He took a long drink of water from the spring, then lay down under a large live-oak tree to rest until the meal was ready. The stranger laid aside his Christy-stiff hat and was soon apparently fast asleep.

  “Wait till we get through with this greenhorn dude,” bragged Moon in a whisper to Bean Hole.

  “Better be careful what you say,” answered the cook softly. “Some of these strangers sleep with one ear to the breeze.”

  “Let him get his ear full if he wants. He’s in for a good drubbing whatever happens. Dudes don’t set any too well around here, you know, Bean Hole.”

  Suddenly Gun Smith and his men galloped in from work, and when they discovered the stranger and his Christy-stiff hat they stopped abruptly, twenty or thirty feet from where he lay, and began talking loudly for his benefit.

  “What do you think we ought to do about it?” asked Gun Smith in a loud tone, which he fondly thought was a frightened one.

  “We can’t do anythin’ until we know what it is,” responded Chuck.

  “It’s a bear or some worse varmint!” added Mushmouth, equally terrified.

  “No, it’s the dangerous mountain lion,” corrected Chuck. “Looks as if it was infected with hydrophobia too!”

  “I believe it’s one of them poisonous critters that run on two legs up and down the river and screech ‘Walo! Wahoo!’” declared Rusty Rogers.

  Bean Hole and Moon Hennessey were full of glee. They were off to a good start and as soon as the stranger woke up they’d go right ahead with the program. But the greenhorn did not move a muscle. Had he heard what they were saying? The men couldn’t be sure, but it was worth taking a chance on.

  “Boys, it’s a downright shame for us to stand by and see a good man like this ate up by such a terrible varmint!” Gun Smith yelled with a tone of deepest seriousness. Then suddenly raising his voice, he shouted, “Look out there, stranger, that thing’s just ready to leap on you and devour you!”

  The stranger did what he knew was expected of him. He leapt up and ran like a scared jackrabbit. And before he had time to turn around, the men had each fired three quick volleys into the Christy-stiff hat.

  Then Gun Smith climbed gingerly down from his bronco and picked up a long stick. With his gun ready, he approached the bullet-riddled hat and turned it over slowly. As he put his gun back into its holster he remarked, “Boys, whatever kind of varmint it is, it’s sure dead all right!”

  The stranger stopped in his tracks, turned and came fearfully back. When he saw his Christy-stiff hat, he solemnly discussed the averted calamity.

  “You boys sure did save me,” he said seriously. Then suddenly he burst into laughter. All the boys joined in and promptly invited him to dinner. This greenhorn wasn’t so bad, they thought. He could take a joke.

  After the meal was finished, the stranger said to Gun Smith, “I heard this mornin’ you need a man, so I came out to get the job.”

  “What kind of a job do you think you’re lookin’ for?” asked Gun Smith.

  “Why, I want to be a cowpuncher,” replied the tenderfoot with an innocent, baby-eyed stare.

  “And what do you know about cowpunchin’?”

  “Oh, I know a lot about it.”

  “Where have you punched cows?”

  “Down in Missouri, mister,” replied the stranger again, still with the same pop-eyed innocence.

  Gun Smith winked at the men and they all smiled to think that this tenderfoot thought he had learned cowpunching in Missouri. Their notion of a Missourian was that he was so green he’d finally have to be hung up in the sun for a month to dry before Satan could make any headway on him with the sulfur flames.

  “And what kind of an outfit did you work for?”

  “Well, I don’t know as you’d exactly call it an outfit. You see, I worked for my pap. Pap had somewhere nigh onto twenty cows. It was my job to take them down to water mornings and evenings. Sometimes I rode Pap’s old gray mare, Katie, and sometimes I rode t
he donkey, Jake. My ma said I could ride real nice.”

  Gun Smith was becoming disgusted with such childish prattle. He thought he had seen plenty of tenderfeet before, but this Missourian took the cake.

  “I’m sorry,” he said crisply, “but I guess we haven’t any job here big enough for you.”

  “What?” wailed the stranger. And it looked to Gun Smith as if he might cry any minute. “You don’t mean to say you’re not goin’ to give me a chance? Maybe you don’t think I can ride well enough for your outfit?”

  “I guess you’ve got your rope on exactly the right steer,” replied Gun Smith, more disgusted than anything.

  “But won’t you give me a chance to show you what I can do? Ma always said I was a real good rider.”

  “W-e-ll,” replied Gun Smith, “I guess we could give you a chance, all right. You see the head of that pinto bronco stickin’ over the edge of the corral there?”

  “Why yes, I see it.”

  “That’s General Stonewall Jackson. Well, you ride him, and if he doesn’t buck you into the middle of Kingdom Come in less than thirteen seconds, I’ll give you a job.”

  “Stonewall Jackson’s some name for a horse!” exclaimed the wide-eyed innocent. “You say if I ride old Stonewall Jackson that you’ll give me a job right away? That’s fine! And would you mind buyin’ me an outfit too? You see, I’m terribly hard up. About all I got is a plugged nickel!”

  “Yes, I’ll give you a job and throw the outfit in, if that’s what you want,” said Gun Smith.

  “Oh, thank you! Now bring on your horse,” the stranger replied as excited as a small boy who is on his way to his first circus.

  Old Stonewall Jackson was the worst piece of horse flesh on the entire ranch. He was an outlaw and a man-killer. He was such a terror that all the men were afraid to go near him. Gun Smith was the only man who had ever ridden him, and even Gun Smith had promised himself never to tackle the job again.

  It seemed rather a low-down trick to play on the tenderfoot, but he was so green he was just jumping at the chance to give an exhibition of the quickest way to break his fool neck. Besides, the men all thought he would never get near enough to the old General to get hurt.

  Finally Gun Smith called out, “Moon Hennessey, you and Mushmouth catch and saddle old General Stonewall Jackson and bring him here. Our Missouri friend thinks he can ride him.”

  After a lot of trouble the cowboys succeeded in lassoing the old General. They threw him, blindfolded him so that they could more nearly manage him, then bridled and saddled him. They tied two ropes to his bridle, and Moon Hennessey at a safe distance on one side, and Mushmouth on the other, led General Stonewall in with tight ropes to keep him from charging them. Even with this precaution, he kept them both busy bringing him up to where Gun Smith and the tenderfoot were waiting.

  “But you don’t expect me to ride on such a queer saddle as that? Why, the saddle me and my pap had wasn’t one-tenth as big as that thing! Won’t you please, mister, ask them to take it off? I’d much prefer to ride bareback.”

  Gun Smith was entirely disgusted by this time with the greenhorn’s utter stupidity.

  After the saddle was taken off with the greatest difficulty the tenderfoot said, “My pap and me never used any such fancy kind of bridle either. We always had just a halter. Perhaps, mister, you won’t object to askin’ them to take off the bridle too. You see, I think I’ll do better if I ride the same way I’ve been used to do down in Missouri.”

  The men had a hard time, indeed, in putting on the halter. Old General Stonewall Jackson surely lived up to his worst reputation, rearing and biting, striking with his forefeet and kicking with his heels. He was so vicious it was dangerous to get within half a mile of him.

  “That seems a sort of ornery kind of horse you’ve brought me to ride. I guess I’ll have some little trouble in gettin’ myself settled squarely on his back. Of course, after I’m on his back, I’ll not be afraid. It’s principally the gettin’ on that’s troublin’ me now.”

  “That’s what troubles the most of us most of the time,” answered Gun Smith with cold sarcasm. “But Chuck here’ll give you a leg up,”

  “Oh no, my pap wouldn’t want me to let you do that. He used to tell me if I couldn’t get on my horse alone, I’d better stick to walkin’. I guess I’ll have a try at him, if you fellows are ready.”

  Moon Hennessey and Mushmouth were more than ready. They had been dodging and jerking until they were worn out. Besides, everybody was bursting to see the fun. It was only a question of how far the greenhorn would fly through the air before he landed. It would do their hearts good to see this dude eat the dust.

  Then, without warning, the tenderfoot rushed at old General Stonewall Jackson, buried his hand in the bronco’s mane and landed lightly astride. When the old General became conscious of what was happening, his rider was already yelling and slapping his ears with the halter strap.

  It was a hundred times better than a circus performance to watch the old General open his bag of tricks. He tried everything he had. He bucked endways, he bucked backward, he bucked sideways, crossways and every which way. There was such a cloud of dust that the cowboys couldn’t see half that was happening.

  “We’re a crowd of idiots!” exclaimed Gun Smith, finally. “That’s no greenhorn! He’s an impostor, a cheat! And now I’m in for buyin’ him a complete outfit!”

  “He’s almost as good a rider as Pecos Bill!” shouted Chuck.

  As they were watching they saw the stranger let go his hold of the mane, wave his arms carelessly about, and then sing a merry song:

  “Sing ’er out, my bold Coyotes! leather fists and leather throats,

  Tell the stars the way we rubbed the haughty down.

  We’re the fiercest wolves a-prowling and it’s just our night for howling,

  Ee-yow! a-riding up the rocky trail from town!”

  After a long, bitter fight, old General Stonewall Jackson decided he had met his master. Gradually he began to quiet down, and as he did so the stranger began to pat him gently and croon:

  “Whoopee! tu yi yo, git along, little dogies,

  It’s your misfortune and none of my own,

  Whoopee ti yi yo, git along, little dogies,

  For you know that Texas will be your new home.”

  Gun Smith scratched his head and his eyes brightened as he commented to Chuck, “He’s singin’ the same two songs that girl, Slue-foot Sue, sung that day up at Pinnacle Mountain!”

  “You’re right,” answered Chuck. “It’s a strange coincidence!”

  When old Stonewall Jackson finally decided to stop bucking, the stranger slipped down easily from his back, placed his shoulder under the horse’s head and began stroking his cheek and feeding him lumps of sugar. The terrifying old General thus became just an ordinary bronco, eating out of his master’s hand.

  The next minute the stranger snatched off his wig and stood in his natural person before his bewildered cowpunchers.

  “You don’t mean to tell me this gentle critter is the worst horse you own!” he smiled. “Why don’t you bring on Widow Maker?”

  When Gun Smith and the others realized that this was the genuine Pecos Bill they were too astonished for words. They looked down over their noses and couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

  “Well, how are you, old Gun Smith?” Pecos laughed as he came forward to shake each man’s hand. “And you, Chuck? And you, Moon Hennessey, you, Mushmouth—one and all! But you fellows don’t act as if you are exactly glad I’ve come back.”

  “Glad ain’t quite a strong enough word to use,” answered Gun Smith, still feeling very much at a loss to find his tongue. “We’re simply delighted!”

  As the attention centered on Gun Smith, Moon Hennessey turned on his heels and started as fast as his legs could carry him in the direction of his pony. He had suddenly made up his mind to ride speedily out of the range country.

  “Stop your running, Moon, and come straight bac
k here,” shouted Pecos Bill.

  Moon stopped in his tracks, for he certainly wasn’t sure but what some flying lead would follow him. He returned with a hangdog expression.

  “Moon,” said Pecos tenderly, “remember that you and me are friends, whatever happens. You’re going to stay right here on this ranch and go straight on with your work. You’re to have the same pay and the same general good treatment that you’ve always had. Bygones between us shall be bygones. What do you say?”

  “After all that happened down at the general store this mornin’, I think I’d better be goin’ for good.”

  “Forget it!” laughed Pecos heartily. “Can’t a man be allowed to have his little brag without being held strictly to account? Say, forget it instantly. Give me your hand!”

  Moon Hennessey stepped awkwardly forward, and Pecos fairly paralyzed his fingers in his hearty grip. As he did so, he added, “Let’s turn in and celebrate the death of our terrible old varmint, Mr. Grudge!”

  All the men understood what was in Pecos Bill’s mind, and each man drew his gun and fired a volley into the air. Moon Hennessey’s deep-seated enmity was never again mentioned on the range.

  That night Moon said wistfully to his nearest friend, “What kind of critter is this Pecos Bill, when outlaw horses like old General Stonewall Jackson eat out of his hand and he’s so nice to skunks like me?”

  “All I know about it,” answered Rusty Rogers, “is that Pecos don’t belong to no ordinary breed of buckaroos I happen to be familiar with. He’s close to being somethin’ like the ninth wonder of the world!”

  CHAPTER 16

  SLUE-FOOT SUE DODGES THE MOON

  Of course, Gun Smith and his men were bursting with curiosity to hear all about Pecos Bill’s success at busting the cyclone. Gun Smith and Moon Hennessey were, in addition, personally interested because of their bet. But all the while Pecos was slow to talk about his adventure. He did, finally, after the men had plagued him almost to death with their questions, give them a few of the larger details.

  “Yes, I believe I succeeded, after a fashion, in busting the old buckaroo, but we made a lot of geography—the cyclone and I—while I was doing it. If you can imagine the old bronco pulling up mountains by their roots and making a flat empty plain out of a hilly region that had been covered with dense forests, yes, and if you can imagine its scooping out a wonderful grand canyon in its wrath, and then not being able to bury me in it, you have some faint notion, perhaps, of the punishment I was put through.”