Oh-You Tex

by Raine, William MacLeod

  A little man with a goatee, hawk-nosed and hawk-eyed, came down the street with jingling spurs to meet them. At sight of Ramona his eyes lighted. From his well-shaped gray head he swept in a bow a jaunty, broad-brimmed white hat.

  The young girl smiled, because there were still a million unspent smiles in her warm and friendly heart.

  "Good-morning, Captain Ellison," she called.

  "Don't know you a-tall, ma'am." He shook his head with decision. "Never met up with you before."

  "Good gracious, Captain, and you've fed me candy ever since I was a sticky little kid."

  He burlesqued a business of recognizing her with much astonishment. "You ain't little 'Mona Wadley. No! Why, you are a young lady all dressed up in go-to-meet-him clothes. I reckon my little side-partner has gone forever."

  "No, she hasn't, Uncle Jim," the girl cried. "And I want you to know I still like candy."

  He laughed with delight and slapped his thigh with his broad-brimmed ranger hat. "By dog, you get it, 'Mona, sure as I'm a foot high."

  Chuckling, he passed down the street.

  "Captain Jim Ellison of the Rangers," explained Ramona to her companion. "He isn't really my uncle, but I've known him always. He's a good old thing and we're great friends."

  Her soft, smiling eyes met those of Arthur. He thought that it was no merit in Ellison to be fond of her. How could he help it?

  "He's in luck," was all the boy said.

  A little flag of color fluttered in her cheek. She liked his compliments, but they embarrassed her a little.

  "Did you fix it all up with Dad?" she asked, by way of changing the subject.

  "Yes. I'm to go to Fort Winston to get the money for the beeves, and if I fall down on the job I'll never get another from him."

  "I believe you're afraid of Dad," she teased.

  "Don't you believe it—know it. I sure enough am," he admitted promptly.

  "Why? I can twist him round my little finger," she boasted.

  "Yes, but I'm not his only daughter and the prettiest thing in West Texas."

  She laughed shyly. "Are you sure you're taking in enough territory?"

  "I'll say south of Mason and Dixon's line, if you like."

  "Really, he likes you. I can tell when Dad is for any one."

  A sound had for some minutes been disturbing the calm peace of the morning. It was the bawling of thirsty cattle. The young people turned a corner into the main street of the town. Down it was moving toward them a cloud of yellow dust stirred up by a bunch of Texas longhorns. The call of the cattle for drink was insistent. Above it rose an occasional sharp "Yip yip!" of a cowboy.

  Ramona stopped, aghast. The cattle blocked the road, their moving backs like the waves of a sea. The dust would irreparably soil the clean frock fresh from the hands of her black mammy. She made as if to turn, and knew with a flash of horror that it was too late.

  Perhaps it was the gleam of scarlet in her sash that caught the eye of the bull leading the van. It gave a bellow of rage, lowered its head, and dashed at her.

  Ramona gave a horror-stricken little cry of fear and stood motionless. She could not run. The fascination of terror held her paralyzed. Her heart died away in her while the great brute thundered toward her.

  Out of the dust-cloud came a horse and rider in the wake of the bull. Frozen in her tracks, Ramona saw with dilated eyes all that followed. The galloping horse gained, was at the heels of the maddened animal, drew up side by side. It seemed to the girl that in another moment she must be trampled underfoot. Nothing but a miracle from God's blue could save her.

  For what registered as time without end to the girl's fear-numbed brain, horse and bull raced knee to knee. Then the miracle came. The rider leaned far out from the saddle, loosened his feet from the stirrups, and launched himself at the crazed half-ton of charging fury.

  His hands gripped the horns of the bull. He was dragged from the saddle into the dust, but his weight deflected the course of the animal. With every ounce of strength given by his rough life in the open the cowboy hung on, dragging the head of the bull down with him toward the ground. Man and beast came to a slithering halt together in a great cloud of dust not ten feet from Ramona.

  Even now terror held her a prisoner. The brute would free itself and stamp the man to death. A haze gathered before her eyes. She swayed, then steadied herself. Man and bull were fighting desperately, one with sheer strength, the other with strength plus brains and skill. The object of the animal was to free itself. The bull tossed wildly in frantic rage to shake off this incubus that had fastened itself to its horns. The man hung on for life. All his power and weight were centered in an effort to twist the head of the bull sideways and back. Slowly, inch by inch, by the steady, insistent pressure of muscles as well packed as any in Texas, the man began to gain. The bull no longer tossed and flung him at will. The big roan head went down, turned backward, yielded to the pressure on the neck-muscles that never relaxed.

  The man put at the decisive moment his last ounce of strength into one last twist. The bull collapsed, went down heavily to its side.

  A second cowboy rode up, roped the bull, and deftly hogtied it.

  The bulldogger rose and limped forward to the girl leaning whitely against a wall.

  "Sorry, Miss Wadley. I hadn't ought to have brought the herd through town. We was drivin' to water."

  "Are you hurt?" Ramona heard her dry, faint voice ask.

  "Me!" he said in surprise. "Why, no, ma'am."

  He was a tall, lean youth, sunburned and tough, with a face that looked sardonic. Ramona recognized him now as her father's new foreman, the man she had been introduced to a few days before. Hard on that memory came another. It was this same Jack Roberts who had taken her brother by surprise and beaten him so cruelly only yesterday.

  "It threw you around so," she murmured.

  "Sho! I reckon I can curry a li'l ol' longhorn when I have it to do, ma'am," he answered, a bit embarrassed.

  "Are—are you hurt?" another voice quavered.

  With a pang of pain Ramona remembered Arthur Ridley. Where had he been when she so desperately needed help?

  "No. Mr. Roberts saved me." She did not look at Ridley. A queer feeling of shame for him made her keep her eyes averted.

  "I—went to get help for you," the boy explained feebly.

  "Thank you," she said.

  The girl was miserably unhappy. For the boy to whom she had given the largesse of her friendship had fled in panic; the one she hated for bullying and mistreating her brother had flung himself in the path of the furious bull to save her.

  Captain Ellison came running up. He bristled at the trail foreman like a bantam. "What do you mean by drivin' these wild critters through town? Ain't you got a lick o' sense a-tall? If anything had happened to this little girl—"

  The Ranger left his threat suspended in midair. His arms were round Ramona, who was sobbing into his coat.

  The red-headed foreman shifted his weight from one foot to another. He was acutely uncomfortable at having made this young woman weep. "I ain't got a word to say, Captain. It was plumb thoughtless of me," he apologized.

  "You come to my office this mo'nin' at twelve o'clock, young fellow. Hear me? I've got a word to say to you."

  "Yes," agreed the bulldogger humbly. "I didn't go for to scare the young lady. Will you tell her I'm right sorry, Captain?"

  "You eat yore own humble pie. You've got a tongue, I reckon," snorted Ellison, dragging at his goatee fiercely.

  The complexion of Roberts matched his hair. "I—I—I'm turrible sorry, miss. I'd ought to be rode on a rail."

  With which the range-rider turned, swung to the saddle of his pony without touching the stirrups, and fairly bolted down the street after his retreating herd.

  * * *

  CHAPTER V

  CAPTAIN ELLISON HIRES A HAND

  Captain Ellison was preparing for the Adjutant-General a report of a little affair during which one of his men had been obl
iged to snuff out the lives of a couple of Mexican horsethieves and seriously damage a third. Writing was laborious work for the Captain of Rangers, though he told no varnished tale. His head and shoulders were hunched over the table and his fingertips were cramped close to the point of the pen. Each letter as it was set down had its whispered echo from his pursed lips.

  "Doggone these here reports," he commented in exasperation. "Looks like a man hadn't ought to make out one every time he bumps off a rustler."

  He tugged at his goatee and read again what he had just written:

  Then this José Barela and his gang of skoundrels struck out for the Brazos with the stolen stock. Ranger Cullom trailed them to Goose Creek and recovered the cattle. While resisting arrest Barela and another Mexican were killed and a third wounded. Cullom brought back the wounded man and the rustled stock.

  A short noontime shadow darkened the sunny doorway of the adobe office. Ellison looked up quickly, his hand falling naturally to the handle of his forty-five. Among the Rangers the price of life was vigilance. A tall, lean, young man with a sardonic eye and a sunburned face jingled up the steps.

  "Come in," snapped the Captain. "Sit down. With you in a minute."

  The cowboy lounged in, very much at his ease. Roberts had been embarrassed before Ramona Wadley that morning, but he was not in the least self-conscious now. In the course of a short and turbid life he had looked too many tough characters in the eye to let any mere man disturb his poise.

  "Do you spell scoundrel with a k?" the Ranger chief fired abruptly at him.

  "Nary a k, Captain. I spell it b-a-d m-a-n."

  "H'mp!" snorted the little man. "Ain't you got no education? A man's got to use a syllogism oncet in a while, I reckon."

  "Mebbeso. What kind of a gun is it?" drawled Jack Roberts.

  "A syllogism is a word meanin' the same as another word, like as if I was to say caballo for horse or six-shooter for revolver."

  "I see—or tough guy for Texas ranger."

  "Or durn fool for Jack Roberts," countered Ellison promptly.

  "Now you're shoutin', Cap. Stomp on me proper. I certainly need to be curried."

  Again the Ranger snorted. "H'mp! Been scarin' any more young ladies to death?"

  "No more this mo'nin', Captain," answered Jack equably.

  "Nor grandstandin' with any more ladino steers?"

  "I exhibit only once a day."

  "By dog, you give a sure-enough good show," exploded Ellison. "You got yore nerve, boy. Wait around till the prettiest girl in Texas can see you pull off the big play—run the risk of havin' her trampled to death, just so's you can grin an' say, 'Pleased to meet you, ma'am.' When I call you durn fool, I realize it's too weak a name."

  "Hop to it, Captain. Use up some real language on me. Spill out a lot of those syllogisms you got bottled up inside you. I got it comin'," admitted Roberts genially as he rolled a cigarette.

  The Captain had been a mule-skinner once, and for five glorious minutes he did himself proud while the graceless young cowpuncher beamed on him.

  "You sure go some, Cap," applauded the young fellow. "I'd admire to have your flow of talk."

  Ellison subsided into anticlimax. "Well, don't you ever drive yore wild hill-critters through town again. Hear me, young fellow?"

  "You'll have to speak to Wadley about that. I'm not his trail boss any longer."

  "Since when?"

  "Since five o'clock yesterday evenin'. I was turnin' over the herd this mo'nin' when the little lady showed up an' I had to pull off the bulldoggin'."

  "Wadley fire you?"

  "That's whatever."

  "Why?"

  "Didn't like the way I mussed up son Rutherford, I kind o' gathered."

  "Another of yore fool plays. First you beat up Wadley's boy; then you 'most massacree his daughter. Anything more?"

  "That's all up to date—except that the old man hinted I was a brand-burner."

  "The deuce he did!"

  "I judge that son Rutherford had told him I was one of the Dinsmore gang. Seems I'm all right except for bein' a rowdy an' a bully an' a thief an' a bad egg generally."

  "H'mp! Said you was a rustler, did he?" The Ranger caressed his goatee and reflected on this before he pumped a question at the line-rider. "Are you?"

  "No more than Rutherford Wadley."

  The Captain shot a swift slant look at this imperturbable young man. Was there a hidden meaning in that answer?

  "What's the matter with Wadley? Does he expect you to let Ford run it over you? That ain't like Clint."

  "He's likely listened to a pack o' lies."

  "And you haven't heard from him since?"

  "Yes, I have. He sent me my check an' a hundred-dollar bill."

  Ellison sat up. "What for?"

  "For my fancy bulldoggin'." The hard eyes of the young fellow smouldered with resentment.

  "By dog, did Clint send you money for savin' 'Mona?"

  "He didn't say what it was for—so I rolled up the bill an' lit a cigarette with it."

  "You take expensive smokes, young man," chuckled the officer.

  "It was on Wadley. I burned only half the bill. He can cash in the other half, for I sent it back to him. When he got it, he sent for me."

  "And you went?"

  "You know damn well I didn't. When he wants me, he knows where to find me."

  "Most young hill-billies step when Clint tells 'em to."

  "Do they?" asked the range-rider indifferently.

  "You bet you. They jump when he whistles. What are you figurin' to do?"

  "Haven't made up my mind yet. Mebbe I'll drift along the trail to the Pecos country."

  "What was Clint payin' you?"

  "Sixty a month an' found."

  "How'd you like to have yore wages lowered?"

  "Meanin'—"

  "That I'll give you a job."

  Young Roberts had a capacity for silence. He asked no questions now, but waited for Ellison to develop the situation.

  "With the Rangers. Dollar a day an' furnish yore own bronc," explained the Captain.

  "The State of Texas is liberal," said the cowboy with dry sarcasm.

  "That's as you look at it. If you're a money-grubber, don't join us. But if you'd like to be one of the finest fightin' force in the world with somethin' doin' every minute, then you'd better sign up. I'll promise that you die young an' not in yore bed."

  "Sounds right attractive," jeered the red-haired youngster with amiable irony.

  "It is, for men with red blood in 'em," retorted the gray-haired fire-eater hotly.

  "All right. I'll take your word for it, Captain. You've hired a hand."

  * * *

  CHAPTER VI

  CLINT WADLEY'S MESSENGER

  Outside the door of the commandant's office Arthur Ridley stood for a moment and glanced nervously up and down the dirt road. In a hog-leather belt around his waist was six thousand dollars just turned over to him by Major Ponsford as the last payment for beef steers delivered at the fort according to contract some weeks earlier.

  Arthur had decided not to start on the return journey until next morning, but he was not sure his judgment had been good. It was still early afternoon. Before nightfall he might be thirty miles on his way. The trouble with that was that he would then have to spend two nights out, and the long hours of darkness with their flickering shadows cast by the camp-fires would be full of torture for him. On the other hand, if he should stay till morning, word might leak out from the officers' quarters that he was carrying a large sum of money.

  A drunken man came weaving down the street. He stopped opposite Ridley and balanced himself with the careful dignity of the inebriate. But the gray eyes, hard as those of a gunman, showed no trace of intoxication. Nor did the steady voice.

  "Friend, are you Clint Wadley's messenger?"

  The startled face of Ridley flew a flag of confession. "Why—what do you mean?" he stammered. Nobody was to have known that he had come to get the mon
ey for the owner of the A T O.

  "None of my business, you mean," flung back the man curtly. "Good enough! It ain't. What's more, I don't give a damn. But listen: I was at the Buffalo Hump when two fellows came in. Me, I was most asleep, and they sat in the booth next to me. I didn't hear all they said, but I got this—that they're aimin' to hold up some messenger of Clint Wadley after he leaves town to-morrow. You're the man, I reckon. All right. Look out for yourself. That's all."

  "But—what shall I do?" asked Ridley.

  "Do? I don't care. I'm tellin' you—see? Do as you please."

  "What would you do?" The danger and the responsibility that had fallen upon him out of a sky of sunshine paralyzed the young man's initiative.

  The deep-set, flinty eyes narrowed to slits. "What I'd do ain't necessarily what you'd better do. What are you, stranger—high-grade stuff, or the run o' the pen?"

  "I'm no gun-fighter, if that's what you mean."

  "Then I'd make my get-away like a jackrabbit hell-poppin' for its hole. I got one slant at these fellows in the Buffalo Hump. They're bully-puss kind o' men, if you know what I mean."

  "I don't. I'm from the East."

  "They'll run it over you, bluff you off the map, take any advantage they can."

  "Will they fight?"

  "They'll burn powder quick if they get the drop on you."

  "What are they like?"

  The Texan considered. "One is a tall, red-headed guy; the other's a sawed-off, hammered-down little runt—but gunmen, both of 'em, or I'm a liar."

  "They would probably follow me," said the messenger, worried.

  "You better believe they will, soon as they hear you've gone."

  Arthur kicked a little hole in the ground with the toe of his shoe. What had he better do? He could stay at the fort, of course, and appeal to Major Ponsford for help. But if he did, he would probably be late for his appointment with Wadley. It happened that the cattleman and the army officer had had a sharp difference of opinion about the merits of the herd that had been delivered, and it was not at all likely that Ponsford would give him a military guard to Tascosa. Moreover, he had a feeling that the owner of the A T O would resent any call to the soldiers for assistance. Clint Wadley usually played his own hand, and he expected the same of his men.