The Fighting Edge
Page 19
CHAPTER XIX
DUD QUALIFIES AS COURT JESTER
It was still dark when Dud Hollister and Bob Dillon waded through thesnow to the corral and saddled their horses.
They jogged across the mesa through the white drifts.
Bob's pony stumbled into a burrow, but pulled out again without damage.
In the years when cattle first came to the Rio Blanco the danger fromfalls was greater than it is now, even if the riding had not been harder.A long thick grass often covered the badger holes.
"How does a fellow look out for badger and prairie-dog holes?" Bob askedhis companion as they jogged along at a road gait. "I mean when he'schasin' dogies across a hill on the jump."
"He don't," Dud answered ungrammatically but promptly. "His bronc 'tendsto that. If you try to guide you're sure enough liable to take a fall."
"But when the hole's covered with grass?"
"You gotta take a chance," Dud said. "They're sure-footed, thesecowponies are. A fellow gets to thinkin' they can't fall. Then down hegoes. He jumps clear if he can an' lights loose."
"And if he can't?"
"He's liable to get stove up. I seen five waddies yesterday in Bear Catwith busted legs or arms. Doc's fixin' 'em up good as new. In a week ortwo they'll be ridin' again."
Bob had seen those same crippled cowboys and he could not quite get themout of his mind. He knew of two punchers killed within the year fromfalls.
"Ridin' for a dogie outfit ain't no sin-cure, as Blister told you whilehe was splicin' you 'n' Miss Tolliver," Dud went on. "It's a man-sizejob. There's ol' Charley Mason now. He's had his ribs stove in, busted anarm, shot hisself by accident, got rheumatism, had his nose bit off by arailroad guy while he was b'iled, an' finally married a femalebattle-axe, all inside o' two years. He's the hard luck champeen, though,Charley is."
It had snowed heavily during the night. The day was "soft," in the phraseof the pioneer. In places the ground was almost clear. In others thedrifts were deep. From a hillside they looked down into a grove ofcottonwoods that filled a small draw. Here the snow had blown in and washeavy. Three elk were floundering in the white banks.
Dud waded in and shot two with his revolver. The third was a doe. Thecowponies snaked them out to the open.
"We'll take 'em with us to 'Leven Mile camp," Dud said. "Then we'll carry'em back to the ranch to-morrow. The Slash Lazy D is needin' meat."
Harshaw had given orders that they were to spend the night at Eleven Milecamp. The place was a deserted log cabin built by a trapper. Supplieswere kept there for the use of Slash Lazy D riders. Usually some of themwere there at least two or three nights a week. Often punchers from otheroutfits put up at the shack. Range favors of this sort were taken as amatter of course. If the cabin was empty the visiting cowboy helpedhimself to food, fire, and shelter. It was expected of him that he wouldcut a fresh supply of fuel to take the place of that he had used.
It was getting on toward dusk when they reached Eleven Mile. Bob made afire in the tin stove while Dud took care of the horses. He found flourand lard[2] hanging in pails from the rafters. Coffee was in a tin underthe bunk.
Soon Dud joined him. They made their supper of venison, biscuits, andcoffee. Hollister had just lit a pipe and stretched himself on the bedwhen the door opened and sixteen Ute bucks filed gravely in.
Colorow was the spokesman. "Hungry! Heap hungry!" he announced.
Hollister rolled out of the bunk promptly. "Here's where we go into thebarbecue business an' the Slash ranch loses them elk," he told Bob undercover of replenishing the fire in the stove. "An' I can name two ladswho'll be lucky if they don't lose their scalps. These birds have beendrinkin'."
It took no wiseacre to divine the condition of the Indians. Their whiskeybreaths polluted the air of the cabin. Some of them swayed as they stoodor clutched at one another for support. Fortunately they were for themoment in a cheerful rather than a murderous frame of mind. They chantedwhat was gibberish to the two whites while the latter made theirpreparations swiftly. Dud took charge of affairs. He noticed that hiscompanion was white to the lips.
"I'll knock together a batch of biscuits while you fry the steaks. Braceup, kid. Throw out yore chest. We better play we're drunk too," he saidin a murmur that reached only Bob.
While Bob sliced the steaks from the elk hanging from pegs fastened inthe mud mortar between the logs of the wall, Dud was busy whipping up abatch of biscuits. The Indians, packed tight as sardines in the room,crowded close to see how it was done. Hollister had two big frying-panson the stove with lard heating in them. He slapped the dough in,spattering boiling grease right and left. One pockmarked brave gave ananguished howl of pain. A stream of sizzling lard had spurted into hisface.
The other Utes roared with glee. The aboriginal sense of humor may not behighly developed, but it is easily aroused. The friends of the outragedbrave stamped up and down the dirt floor in spasms of mirth. They clappedhim on the back and jabbered ironic inquiries as to his well-being. Forthe moment, at least, Dud was as popular as a funny clown in a sawdustring.
Colorow and his companions were fed. The stove roared. The frying-panswere kept full of meat and biscuits. The two white men discarded coats,vests, and almost their shirts. Sweat poured down their faces. They stoodover the red-hot cook stove, hour after hour, while the Utes gorged. Thesteaks of the elk, the hind quarters, the fore quarters, all vanishedinto the sixteen distended stomachs. Still the Indians ate, voraciously,wolfishly, as though they could never get enough. It was not a meal butan endurance contest.
Occasionally some wag would push forward the pockmarked brave and demandof Dud that he baptize him again, and always the puncher made motions ofgoing through the performance a second time. The joke never staled. Italways got a hand, no matter how often it was repeated. At each encorethe Utes stamped their flatfooted way round the room in a kind ofimpromptu and mirthful dance. The baptismal jest never ceased to be ascream.
Dud grinned at Dillon. "These wooden heads are so fond of chestnuts I'mfigurin' on springin' on them the old one about why a hen crosses theroad. Bet it would go big. If they got the point. But I don't reckon theywould unless I had a hen here to show 'em."
The feast ended only when the supplies gave out. Two and a half sacks offlour disappeared. About fifteen pounds of potatoes went into the pot andfrom it into the openings of copper-colored faces. Nothing was left ofthe elk but the bones.
"The party's mighty nigh over," Dud murmured. "Wonder what our guests aimto do now."
"Can't we feed 'em anything more?" asked Bob anxiously.
"Not unless we finish cookin' the pockmarked gent for 'em. I'm kindahopin' old Colorow will have sabe enough not to wear his welcome out.It'd make a ten-strike with me if he'd say 'Much obliged' an' hit thetrail."
Bob had not the heart to jest about the subject, and his attempt to backup his companion's drunken playacting was a sad travesty. He did not knowmuch about Indians anyhow, and he was sick through and through withapprehension. Would they finish by scalping their hosts, as Dud hadsuggested early in the evening?
It was close to midnight when the clown of Colorow's party invented a newand rib-tickling joke. Bob was stooping over the stove dishing up thelast remnants of the potatoes when this buck slipped up behind with thecarving-knife and gathered into his fist the boy's flaming topknot. Helet out a horrifying yell and brandished the knife.
In a panic of terror Bob collapsed to the floor. There was a moment whenthe slapstick comedy grazed red tragedy. The pitiable condition of theboy startled the Ute, who still clutched his hair. An embryonic idea wasfinding birth in the drunken brain. In another moment it would havedeveloped into a well-defined lust to kill.
With one sweeping gesture Dud lifted a frying-pan from the red-hot stoveand clapped it against the rump of the jester. The redskin's head hit theroof. His shriek of agony could have been heard half a mile. He clappedhands to the afflicted part and did a humped-up dance of woe. Thecarving-knife lay forgotten on the floo
r. It was quite certain that hewould take no pleasure in sitting down for some few days.
Again a series of spasms of turbulent mirth seized upon his friends. Theydoubled up with glee. They wept tears of joy. They howled down hisanguish with approving acclaim while they did a double hop around him asa vent to their enthusiasm. The biter had been bit. The joke had beenturned against the joker, and in the most primitive and direct way. Thiswas the most humorous event in the history of the Rio Blanco Utes. It wasdestined to become the stock tribal joke.
Dud, now tremendously popular, joined in the dance. As he shuffled pastBob he growled an order at him.
"Get up on yore hind laigs an' dance. I got these guys going my way. Hopto it!"
Bob danced, at first feebly and with a heart of water. He need not haveworried. If Dud had asked to be made a blood member of the tribe he wouldhave been elected by fourteen out of the sixteen votes present.
The first faint streaks of day were in the sky when the Utes mountedtheir ponies and vanished over the hill. From the door Dud watched themgo. It had been a strenuous night, and he was glad it was over. But hewouldn't have missed it for a thousand dollars. He would not haveadmitted it. Nevertheless he was immensely proud of himself in the roleof court jester.
Bob sat down on the bunk. He was a limp rag of humanity. In the reactionfrom fear he was inclined to be hysterical.
"You saved my life--when--when that fellow--" He stopped, gulping down alump in the throat.
The man leaning against the door-jamb stretched his arms and his mouth ina relaxing yawn. "Say, fellow, I wasn't worryin' none about yore life. Iwas plumb anxious for a moment about Dud Hollister's. If old Colorow'sgang had begun on you they certainly wouldn't 'a' quit without takin' mytopknot for a souvenir of an evenin' when a pleasant time was had byall." He yawned a second time. "What say? Let's hit the hay. I don't aimfor to do no ridin' this mornin'."
A faint sniffling sound came from the bunk.
Dud turned. "What's ailin' you now?" he wanted to know.
Bob's face was buried in his hands. The slender body of the boy wasshaken with sobs.
"I--I--"
"Cut out the weeps, Miss Roberta," snapped Hollister. "What in Mexico 'seatin' you anyhow?"
"I--I've had a horrible night."
"Don't I know it? Do you reckon it was a picnic for me?"
"You--laughed an' cut up."
"Some one had to throw a bluff. If they'd guessed we were scared stiffthem b'iled Utes sure enough would have massacreed us. You got to learnto keep yore grin workin', fellow."
"I know, but--" Bob stopped. Dry sobs were still shaking him.
"Quit that," Dud commanded. "I'll be darned if I'll stand for it. Youshut off the waterworks or I'll whale you proper."
He walked out to look at the horses. It had suddenly occurred to him thatperhaps their guests might have found and taken them. The broncos werestill grazing in the draw where he had left them the previous night.
When Dud returned to the cabin young Dillon had recovered his composure.He lay on the bunk, face to the wall, and pretended to be asleep.
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[2] The lard in the White River country was all made in those days of bear grease and deer tallow mixed.