by Zane Grey
“I think that is just fine!” exclaimed Dorothy Coombs; and she joined in the general laugh.
“Stewart, then, doesn’t care to help entertain us?” inquired Helen, in curious interest.
“Wal, Miss Helen, Stewart is sure different from the other cowboys,” replied Stillwell. “Yet he used to be like them. There never was a cowboy fuller of the devil than Gene. But he’s changed. He’s foreman here, an’ that must be it. All the responsibility rests on him. He sure has no time for amusin’ the ladies.”
“I imagine that is our loss,” said Edith Wayne, in her earnest way. “I admire him.”
“Stillwell, you need not be so distressed with what is only gallantry in the boys, even if it does make a temporary confusion in the work,” said Madeline.
“Miss Majesty, all I said is not the half, nor the quarter, nor nuthin’ of what’s troublin’ me,” answered he, sadly.
“Very well; unburden yourself.”
“Wal, the cowboys, exceptin’ Gene, have gone plumb batty, jest plain crazy over this heah game of gol-lof.”
A merry peal of mirth greeted Stillwell’s solemn assertion.
“Oh, Stillwell, you are in fun,” replied Madeline.
“I hope to die if I’m not in daid earnest,” declared the cattleman. “It’s an amazin’ strange fact. Ask Flo. She’ll tell you. She knows cowboys, an’ how if they ever start on somethin’ they ride it as they ride a hoss.”
Florence being appealed to, and evidently feeling all eyes upon her, modestly replied that Stillwell had scarcely misstated the situation.
“Cowboys play like they work or fight,” she added. “They give their whole souls to it. They are great big simple boys.”
“Indeed they are,” said Madeline. “Oh, I’m glad if they like the game of golf. They have so little play.”
“Wal, somethin’s got to be did if we’re to go on raisin’ cattle at Her Majesty’s Rancho,” replied Stillwell. He appeared both deliberate and resigned.
Madeline remembered that despite Stillwell’s simplicity he was as deep as any of his cowboys, and there was absolutely no gauging him where possibilities of fun were concerned. Madeline fancied that his exaggerated talk about the cowboys’ sudden craze for golf was in line with certain other remarkable tales that had lately emanated from him. Some very strange things had occurred of late, and it was impossible to tell whether or not they were accidents, mere coincidents, or deep-laid, skilfully worked-out designs of the fun-loving cowboys. Certainly there had been great fun, and at the expense of her guests, particularly Castleton. So Madeline was at a loss to know what to think about Stillwell’s latest elaboration. From mere force of habit she sympathized with him and found difficulty in doubting his apparent sincerity.
“To go back a ways,” went on Stillwell, as Madeline looked up expectantly, “you recollect what pride the boys took in fixin’ up that gol-lof course out on the mesa? Wal, they worked on that job, an’, though I never seen any other course, I’ll gamble yours can’t be beat. The boys was sure curious about that game. You recollect also how they all wanted to see you an’ your brother play, an’ be caddies for you? Wal, whenever you’d quit they’d go to work tryin’ to play the game. Monty Price, he was the leadin’ spirit. Old as I am, Miss Majesty, an’ used as I am to cowboy excentrikities, I nearly dropped daid when I heered that little hobble-footed, burned-up Montana cow-puncher say there wasn’t any game too swell for him, an’ gol-lof was just his speed. Serious as a preacher, mind you, he was. An’ he was always practisin’. When Stewart gave him charge of the course an’ the club-house an’ all them funny sticks, why, Monty was tickled to death. You see, Monty is sensitive that he ain’t much good any more for cowboy work. He was glad to have a job that he didn’t feel he was hangin’ to by kindness. Wal, he practised the game, an’ he read the books in the club-house, an’ he got the boys to doin’ the same. That wasn’t very hard, I reckon. They played early an’ late an’ in the moonlight. For a while Monty was coach, an’ the boys stood it. But pretty soon Frankie Slade got puffed on his game, an’ he had to have it out with Monty. Wal, Monty beat him bad. Then one after another the other boys tackled Monty. He beat them all. After that they split up an’ begin to play matches, two on a side. For a spell this worked fine. But cowboys can’t never be satisfied long onless they win all the time. Monty an’ Link Stevens, both cripples, you might say, joined forces an’ elected to beat all comers. Wal, they did, an’ that’s the trouble. Long an’ patient the other cowboys tried to beat them two game-legs, an’ hevn’t done it. Mebbe if Monty an’ Link was perfectly sound in their legs like the other cowboys there wouldn’t hev been such a holler. But no sound cowboys’ll ever stand for a disgrace like that. Why, down at the bunks in the evenin’s it’s some mortifyin’ the way Monty an’ Link crow over the rest of the outfit. They’ve taken on superior airs. You couldn’t reach up to Monty with a trimmed spruce pole. An’ Link—wal, he’s just amazin’ scornful.
“‘It’s a swell game, ain’t it?’ says Link, powerful sarcastic. ‘Wal, what’s hurtin’ you low-down common cowmen? You keep harpin’ on Monty’s game-leg an’ on my game-leg. If we hed good legs we’d beat you all the wuss. It’s brains that wins in gol-lof. Brains an’ airstoocratik blood, which of the same you fellers sure hev little.’
“An’ then Monty he blows smoke powerful careless an’ superior, an’ he says:
“‘Sure it’s a swell game. You cow-headed gents think beef an’ brawn ought to hev the call over skill an’ graymatter. You’ll all hev to back up an’ get down. Go out an’ learn the game. You don’t know a baffy from a Chinee sandwich. All you can do is waggle with a club an’ fozzle the ball.’
“Whenever Monty gets to usin’ them queer names the boys go round kind of dotty. Monty an’ Link hev got the books an’ directions of the game, an’ they won’t let the other boys see them. They show the rules, but that’s all. An’, of course, every game ends in a row almost before it’s started. The boys are all turrible in earnest about this gol-lof. An’ I want to say, for the good of ranchin’, not to mention a possible fight, that Monty an’ Link hev got to be beat. There’ll be no peace round this ranch till that’s done.”
Madeline’s guests were much amused. As for herself, in spite of her scarcely considered doubt, Stillwell’s tale of woe occasioned her anxiety. However, she could hardly control her mirth.
“What in the world can I do?”
“Wal, I reckon I couldn’t say. I only come to you for advice. It seems that a queer kind of game has locoed my cowboys, an’ for the time bein’ ranchin’ is at a standstill. Sounds ridiculous, I know, but cowboys are as strange as wild cattle. All I’m sure of is that the conceit has got to be taken out of Monty an’ Link. Onct, just onct, will square it, an’ then we can resoome our work.”
“Stillwell, listen,” said Madeline, brightly. “We’ll arrange a match game, a four-some, between Monty and Link and your best picked team. Castleton, who is an expert golfer, will umpire. My sister, and friends, and I will take turns as caddies for your team. That will be fair, considering yours is the weaker. Caddies may coach, and perhaps expert advice is all that is necessary for your team to defeat Monty’s.”
“A grand idee,” declared Stillwell, with instant decision. “When can we have this match game?”
“Why, to-day—this afternoon. We’ll all ride out to the links.”
“Wal, I reckon I’ll be some indebted to you, Miss Majesty, an’ all your guests,” replied Stillwell, warmly. He rose with sombrero in hand, and a twinkle in his eye that again prompted Madeline to wonder. “An’ now I’ll be goin’ to fix up for the game of cowboy gol-lof. Adios.”
The idea was as enthusiastically received by Madeline’s guests as it had been by Stillwell. They were highly amused and speculative to the point of taking sides and making wagers on their choice. Moreover, this situation so frankly revealed by Stillwell had completed their deep mystification. They were now absolutely nonplussed by the singular c
haracter of American cowboys. Madeline was pleased to note how seriously they had taken the old cattleman’s story. She had a little throb of wild expectancy that made her both fear and delight in the afternoon’s prospect.
The June days had set in warm; in fact, hot during the noon hours; and this had inculcated in her insatiable visitors a tendency to profit by the experience of those used to the Southwest. They indulged in the restful siesta during the heated term of the day.
Madeline was awakened by Majesty’s well-known whistle and pounding on the gravel. Then she heard the other horses. When she went out she found her party assembled in gala golf attire, and with spirits to match their costumes. Castleton, especially, appeared resplendent in a golf coat that beggared description. Madeline had faint misgivings when she reflected on what Monty and Nels and Nick might do under the influence of that blazing garment.
“Oh, Majesty,” cried Helen, as Madeline went up to her horse, “don’t make him kneel! Try that flying mount. We all want to see it. It’s so stunning.”
“But that way, too, I must have him kneel,” said Madeline, “or I can’t reach the stirrup. He’s so tremendously high.”
Madeline had to yield to the laughing insistence of her friends, and after all of them except Florence were up she made Majesty go down on one knee. Then she stood on his left side, facing back, and took a good firm grip on the bridle and pommel and his mane. After she had slipped the toe of her boot firmly into the stirrup she called to Majesty. He jumped and swung her up into the saddle.
“Now just to see how it ought to be done watch Florence,” said Madeline.
The Western girl was at her best in riding-habit and with her horse. It was beautiful to see the ease and grace with which she accomplished the cowboys’ flying mount. Then she led the party down the slope and across the flat to climb the mesa.
Madeline never saw a group of her cowboys without looking them over, almost unconsciously, for her foreman, Gene Stewart. This afternoon, as usual, he was not present. However, she now had a sense—of which she was wholly conscious—that she was both disappointed and irritated. He had really not been attentive to her guests, and he, of all her cowboys, was the one of whom they wanted most to see something. Helen, particularly, had asked to have him attend the match. But Stewart was with the cattle. Madeline thought of his faithfulness, and was ashamed of her momentary lapse into that old imperious habit of desiring things irrespective of reason.
Stewart, however, immediately slipped out of her mind as she surveyed the group of cowboys on the links. By actual count there were sixteen, not including Stillwell. And the same number of splendid horses, all shiny and clean, grazed on the rim in care of Mexican lads. The cowboys were on dress-parade, looking very different in Madeline’s eyes, at least, from the way cowboys usually appeared. But they were real and natural to her guests; and they were so picturesque that they might have been stage cowboys instead of real ones. Sombreros with silver buckles and horse-hair bands were in evidence; and bright silk scarfs, embroidered vests, fringed and ornamented chaps, huge swinging guns, and clinking silver spurs lent a festive appearance.
Madeline and her party were at once eagerly surrounded by the cowboys, and she found it difficult to repress a smile. If these cowboys were still remarkable to her, what must they be to her guests?
“Wal, you-all raced over, I seen,” said Stillwell, taking Madeline’s bridle. “Get down—get down. We’re sure amazin’ glad an’ proud. An’, Miss Majesty, I’m offerin’ to beg pawdin for the way the boys are packin’ guns. Mebbe it ain’t polite. But it’s Stewart’s orders.”
“Stewart’s orders!” echoed Madeline. Her friends were suddenly silent.
“I reckon he won’t take no chances on the boys bein’ surprised sudden by raiders. An’ there’s raiders operatin’ in from the Guadalupes. That’s all. Nothin’ to worry over. I was just explainin’.”
Madeline, with several of her party, expressed relief, but Helen showed excitement and then disappointment.
“Oh, I want something to happen!” she cried.
Sixteen pairs of keen cowboy eyes fastened intently upon her pretty, petulant face; and Madeline divined, if Helen did not, that the desired consummation was not far off.
“So do I,” said Dot Coombs. “It would be perfectly lovely to have a real adventure.”
The gaze of the sixteen cowboys shifted and sought the demure face of this other discontented girl. Madeline laughed, and Stillwell wore his strange, moving smile.
“Wal, I reckon you ladies sure won’t have to go home unhappy,” he said. “Why, as boss of this heah outfit I’d feel myself disgraced forever if you didn’t have your wish. Just wait. An’ now, ladies, the matter on hand may not be amusin’ or excitin’ to you; but to this heah cowboy outfit it’s powerful important. An’ all the help you can give us will sure be thankfully received. Take a look across the links. Do you-all see them two apologies for human bein’s prancin’ like a couple of hobbled bronchs? Wal, you’re gazin’ at Monty Price an’ Link Stevens, who have of a sudden got too swell to associate with their old bunkies. They’re practisin’ for the toornament. They don’t want my boys to see how they handle them crooked clubs.”
“Have you picked your team?” inquired Madeline.
Stillwell mopped his red face with an immense bandana, and showed something of confusion and perplexity.
“I’ve sixteen boys, an’ they all want to play,” he replied. “Pickin’ the team ain’t goin’ to be an easy job. Mebbe it won’t be healthy, either. There’s Nels and Nick. They just stated cheerful-like that if they didn’t play we won’t have any game at all. Nick never tried before, an’ Nels, all he wants is to get a crack at Monty with one of them crooked clubs.”
“I suggest you let all your boys drive from the tee and choose the two who drive the farthest,” said Madeline.
Stillwell’s perplexed face lighted up.
“Wal, that’s a plumb good idee. The boys’ll stand for that.”
Wherewith he broke up the admiring circle of cowboys round the ladies.
“Grab a rope—I mean a club—all you cow-punchers, an’ march over hyar, an’ take a swipe at this little white bean.”
The cowboys obeyed with alacrity. There was considerable difficulty over the choice of clubs and who should try first. The latter question had to be adjusted by lot. However, after Frankie Slade made several ineffectual attempts to hit the ball from the teeing-ground, at last to send it only a few yards, the other players were not so eager to follow. Stillwell had to push Booly forward, and Booly executed a most miserable shot and retired to the laughing comments of his comrades. The efforts of several succeeding cowboys attested to the extreme difficulty of making a good drive.
“Wal, Nick, it’s your turn,” said Stillwell.
“Bill, I ain’t so all-fired particular about playin’,” replied Nick.
“Why? You was roarin’ about it a little while ago. Afraid to show how bad you’ll play?”
“Nope, jest plain consideration for my feller cowpunchers,” answered Nick, with spirit. “I’m appreciatin’ how bad they play, an’ I’m not mean enough to show them up.”
“Wal, you’ve got to show me,” said Stillwell. “I know you never seen a gol-lof stick in your life. What’s more, I’ll bet you can’t hit that little ball square—not in a dozen cracks at it.”
“Bill, I’m also too much of a gent to take your money. But you know I’m from Missouri. Gimme a club.”
Nick’s angry confidence seemed to evaporate as one after another he took up and handled the clubs. It was plain that he had never before wielded one. But, also, it was plain that he was not the kind of a man to give in. Finally he selected a driver, looked doubtfully at the small knob, and then stepped into position on the teeing-ground.
Nick Steele stood six feet four inches in height. He had the rider’s wiry slenderness, yet he was broad of shoulder. His arms were long. Manifestly, he was an exceedingly powerful man. He swung
the driver aloft and whirled it down with a tremendous swing. Crack! The white ball disappeared, and from where it had been rose a tiny cloud of dust.
Madeline’s quick sight caught the ball as it lined somewhat to the right. It was shooting low and level with the speed of a bullet. It went up and up in swift, beautiful flight, then lost its speed and began to sail, to curve, to drop; and it fell out of sight beyond the rim of the mesa. Madeline had never seen a drive that approached this one. It was magnificent, beyond belief except for actual evidence of her own eyes.
The yelling of the cowboys probably brought Nick Steele out of the astounding spell with which he beheld his shot. Then Nick, suddenly alive to the situation, recovered from his trance and, resting nonchalantly upon his club, he surveyed Stillwell and the boys. After their first surprised outburst they were dumb.
“You-all seen thet?” Nick grandly waved his hand. “Thought I was joshin’, didn’t you? Why, I used to go to St. Louis an’ Kansas City to play this here game. There was some talk of the golf clubs takin’ me down East to play the champions. But I never cared fer the game. Too easy fer me! Them fellers back in Missouri were a lot of cheap dubs, anyhow, always kickin’ because whenever I hit a ball hard I always lost it. Why, I hed to hit sort of left-handed to let ’em stay in my class. Now you-all can go ahead an’ play Monty an’ Link. I could beat ’em both, playin’ with one hand, if I wanted to. But I ain’t interested. I jest hit thet ball off the mesa to show you. I sure wouldn’t be seen playin’ on your team.”
With that Nick sauntered away toward the horses. Stillwell appeared crushed. And not a scornful word was hurled after Nick, which fact proved the nature of his victory. Then Nels strode into the limelight. As far as it was possible for this iron-faced cowboy to be so, he was bland and suave. He remarked to Stillwell and the other cowboys that sometimes it was painful for them to judge of the gifts of superior cowboys such as belonged to Nick and himself. He picked up the club Nick had used and called for a new ball. Stillwell carefully built up a little mound of sand and, placing the ball upon it, squared away to watch. He looked grim and expectant.
