The B. M. Bower Megapack

by B. M. Bower

  “That’s why,” he said to them all when he saw that they had ridden up close that they might hear what he was saying, “I’ve been hollering so loud for the meek-and-mild stunt. When I slapped him on the jaw, and he stood there and took it, I saw his game. He had a witness to swear I hit him and he didn’t hit back. And when I saw them Dots in our field again, I knew, just as well as if Dunk had told me, that he was kinda hoping we’d kill a herder or two so he could cinch us good and plenty. I don’t say,” he qualified with a rueful grin, “that Dunk went into the sheep business just to get r-re-venge, as they say in shows. But if he can make money running sheep—and he can, all right, because there’s more money in them right now than there is in cattle—and at the same time get a good whack at the Flying U, he’s the lad that will sure make a running jump at the chance.” He spat upon the burnt end of his cigarette stub from force of the habit that fear of range fires had built, and cast it petulantly from him; as if he would like to have been able to throw Dunk and his sheep problem as easily out of his path.

  “So I wish you boys would hang onto yourselves when you hear a sheep blatting under your window,” he summed up his unburdening whimsically. “As Bud said this morning, you can’t hang a man for telling a sheepherder you’ll take off his shoes. And they can’t send us over the road for moving that band of sheep onto new range today. Last night you all were kinda disorderly, maybe, but you didn’t hurt anybody, or destroy any property. You see what I mean. Our only show is to stop with our toes on the right side of the dead line.”

  “If Andy, here, would jest git his think-wheels greased and going good,” Big Medicine suggested loudly, “he ought to frame up something that would put them Dots on the run permanent. I d’no, by cripes, why it is a feller can always think uh lies and joshes by the dozens, and put ’em over O. K. when there ain’t nothing to be made out of it except hard feelin’s; and then when a deal like this here sheep deal comes up, he’s got about as many idees, by cripes, as that there line-back calf over there. Honest to grandma, Andy makes me feel kinda faint. Only time he did have a chanc’t, he let them—” It occurred to Big Medicine at that point that perhaps his remarks might be construed by the object of them as being offensively personal. He turned his head and grinned good-naturedly in Andy’s direction, and refrained from finishing what he was going to say. “I sure do like them wind-flowers scattered all over the ground,” he observed with such deliberate and ostentatious irrelevance that the Happy Family laughed, even to Andy Green, who had at first been inclined toward anger.

  “Everything,” declared Andy in the tone of a paid instructor, “has its proper time and place, boys; I’ve told you that before. For instance, I wouldn’t try to kill a skunk by talking it to death; and I wouldn’t be hopeful of putting the run on this Dunk person by telling him ghost stories. As to ideas—I’m plumb full of them. But they’re all about grub, just right at present.”

  That started Slim and Happy Jack to complaining because no one had had sense enough to go back after some lunch before taking that long trail south; the longer because it was a slow one, with sheep to set the pace. And by the time they had presented their arguments against the Happy Family’s having enough brains to last them overnight, and the Happy Family had indignantly pointed out just where the mental deficiency was most noticeable, they were upon that last, broad stretch of “bench” land beyond which lay Flying U coulee and Patsy and dinner; a belated dinner, to be sure, but for that the more welcome.

  And when they reached the point where they could look away to the very rim of the coulee, they saw sheep—sheep to the skyline, feeding scattered and at ease, making the prairie look, in the distance, as if it were covered with a thin growth of gray sage-brush. Four herders moved slowly upon the outskirts, and the dogs were little, scurrying, black dots which stopped occasionally to wait thankfully until the master-minds again urged them to endeavor.

  The Happy Family drew up and stared in silence.

  “Do I see sheep?” Pink inquired plaintively at last. “Tell me, somebody.”

  “It’s that bunch you fellows tackled last night,” said Weary miserably. “I ought to have had sense enough to leave somebody on the ranch to look out for this.”

  “They’ve got their nerve,” stated Irish, “after the deal they got last night. I’d have bet good money that you couldn’t drag them herders across Flying U coulee with a log chain.”

  “Say, by golly, do we have to drive this here bunch anywheres before we git anything to eat?” Slim wanted to know distressfully.

  Weary considered briefly. “No, I guess we’ll pass ’em up for the present. An hour or so won’t make much difference in the long run, and our horses are about all in, right now—”

  “So’m I, by cripes!” Big Medicine attested, grinning mirthlessly. “This here sheep business is plumb wearin’ on a man. ’Specially,” he added with a fretful note, “when you’ve got to handle ’em gentle. The things I’d like to do to them Dots is all ruled outa the game, seems like. Honest to grandma, a little gore would look better to me right now than a Dutch picnic before the foam’s all blowed off the refreshments. Lemme kill off jest one herder, Weary?” he pleaded. “The one that took a shot at me las’ night. Purty, please!”

  “If you killed one,” Weary told him glumly, “you might as well make a clean sweep and take in the whole bunch.”

  “Well, I won’t charge nothin’ extra fer that, either,” Bud assured him generously. “I’m willin’ to throw in the other three—and the dawgs, too, by cripes!” He goggled the Happy Family quizzically. “Nobody can’t say there’s anything small about me. Why, down in the Coconino country they used to set half a dozen greasers diggin’ graves, by cripes, soon as I started in to argy with a man. It was a safe bet they’d need three or four, anyways, if old Bud cut loose oncet. Sheepherders? Why, they jest natcherly couldn’t keep enough on hand, securely, to run their sheep. They used to order sheepherders like they did woolsacks, by cripes! You could always tell when I was in the country, by the number uh extra herders them sheep outfits always kep’ in reserve. Honest to grandma, I’ve knowed two or three outfits to club together and ship in a carload at a time, when they heard I was headed their way. And so when it comes to killin’ off four, why that ain’t skurcely enough to make it worth m’while to dirty up m’gun!”

  “Aw, I betche yuh never killed a man in your life!” Happy Jack grumbled in his characteristic tone of disparagement; but such was his respect for Big Medicine’s prowess that he took care not to speak loud enough to be overheard by that modest gentleman, who continued with certain fearsome details of alleged murderous exploits of his own, down in Coconino County, Arizona.

  But as they passed the detested animals, thankful that the trail permitted them to ride by at a distance sufficient to blur the most unsavory details, even Big Medicine gave over his deliberate boastings and relapsed into silence.

  He had begun his fantastic vauntings from an instinctive impulse to leaven with humor a situation which, at the moment, could not be bettered. Just as they had, when came the news of the Old Man’s dire plight, sought to push the tragedy of it into the background and cling to their creed of optimism, they had avoided openly facing the sheep complication squarely with mutual admissions of all it might mean to the Flying U.

  Until Weary had unburdened his heart of worry on the ride home that day, they had not said much about it, beyond a general vilification of the sheep industry as a whole, of Dunk as the chief of the encroaching Dots, and of the herders personally.

  But there were times when they could not well avoid thinking rather deeply upon the subject, even if they did refuse to put their forebodings into speech. They were not children; neither were they to any degree lacking in intelligence. Swearing, about herders and at them, was all very well; bluffing, threatening, pummeling even with willing fists, tearing down tents and binding men with ropes might serve to relieve the emotions upon occasion. But there was the grim economic problem wh
ich faced squarely the Flying U as a “cow outfit”—the problem of range and water; the Happy Family did not call it by name, but they realized to the full what it meant to the Old Man to have sheep just over his boundary line always. They realized, too, what it meant to have the Old Man absent at this time—worse, to have him lying in a hospital, likely to die at any moment; what it meant to have the whole responsibility shifted to their shoulders, willing though they might be to bear the burden; what it meant to have the general of an army gone when the enemy was approaching in overwhelming numbers.

  Pink, when they were descending the first slope of the bluff which was the southern rim of Flying U coulee, turned and glared vindictively back at the wavering, gray blanket out there to the west. When he faced to the front his face had the look it wore when he was fighting.

  “So help me, Josephine!” he gritted desperately, “we’ve got to clean the range of them Dots before the Old Man comes back, or—” He snapped his jaws shut viciously.

  Weary turned haggard eyes toward him.

  “How?” he asked simply. And Pink had no answer for him.

  CHAPTER XII

  Two of a Kind

  Patsy, staunch old partisan that he was, placed before them much food which he had tried his best to keep hot without burning everything to a crisp, and while they ate with ravenous haste he told, with German epithets and a trembling lower jaw, of his troubles that day.

  “Dem sheeps, dey coom by der leetle pasture,” he lamented while he poured coffee muddy from long boiling. “Looks like dey know so soon you ride away, und dey cooms cheeky as you pleece, und eats der grass und crawls under der fence and leafs der vool sthicking by der vires. I goes out mit a club, py cosh, und der sheeps chust looks und valks by some better place alreatty, und I throw rocks and yells till mine neck iss sore.

  “Und’ dose herders, dey sets dem by der rock and laugh till I felt like I could kill der whole punch, by cosh! Und von yells, ‘Hey, dutchy, pring me some pie, alreatty!’ Und he laughs some more pecause der sheeps dey don’t go avay; dey chust run around und eat more grass and baa-aa!” He turned and went heavily back to the greasy range with the depleted coffee pot, lifted the lid of a kettle and looked in upon the contents with a purely mechanical glance; gave a perfunctory prod or two with a long-handled fork, and came back to stand uneasily behind Weary.

  “If you poys are goin’ to shtand fer dot,” he began querulously, “Py cosh I von’t! Py myself I vill go and tell dot Dunk W’ittaker vot lowdown skunk I t’ink he iss. Sheep’s vool shtickin’ by der fences efferwhere on der ranch, py cosh! Dot vould sure kill der Old Man quick if he see it. Shtinkin’ off sheeps py our noses all der time, till I can’t eat no more mit der shmell of dem. Neffer pefore did I see vool on der Flying U fences, py cosh, und sheeps baa-aain’ in der coulee!”

  Never had they seen Patsy take so to heart a matter of mere business importance. They did not say much to him; there was not much that they could say. They ate their fill and went out disconsolately to discuss the thing among themselves, away from Patsy’s throaty complainings. They hated it as badly as did he; with Weary’s urgent plea for no violence holding them in leash, they hated it more, if that were possible.

  The Native Son tilted his head unobtrusively stableward when he caught Andy’s eye, and as unobtrusively wandered away from the group. Andy stopped long enough to roll and light a cigarette and then strolled after him with apparent aimlessness, secretly curious over the summons. He found Miguel in the stable waiting for him, and Miguel led the way, rope in hand across the corral and into the little pasture where fed a horse he meant to ride. He did not say anything until he had turned to close the gate, and to make sure that they were alone and that their departure had not carried to the Happy Family any betraying air of significance.

  “You remember when you blew in here, a few weeks or so ago?” the Native Son asked abruptly, a twinkle in his fathomless eyes. “You put up a good one on the boys, that time, you remember. Bluffed them into thinking I was a hero in disguise, and that you’d seen me pull off a big stunt of bull-fighting and bull-dogging down in Mexico. It was a fine josh. They believe it yet.”

  Andy glanced at him perplexedly. “Yes—but when it turned out to be true,” he amended, “the josh was on me, I guess; I thought I was just lying, when I wasn’t. I’ve wondered a good deal about that. By gracious, it makes a man feel funny to frame up a yarn out of his own think-machine, and then find out he’s been telling the truth all the while. It’s like a fellow handing out a twenty-four karat gold bar to a rube by mistake, under the impression it only looks like one. Of course they believe it! Only they don’t know I just merely hit the truth by accident.”

  The Native Son smiled his slow, amused smile, that somehow never failed to be impressive. “That’s the funny part of it,” he drawled. “You didn’t. I just piled another little josh on top of yours, that’s all. I never throwed a bull in my life, except with my lariat. I’d heard a good deal about you, and—well, I thought I’d see if I could go you one better. And you put that Mexico yarn across so smooth and easy, I just simply couldn’t resist the temptation to make you think it was all straight goods. Sabe?”

  Andy Green did not say a word, but he looked exceedingly foolish.

  “So I think we can both safely consider ourselves top-hands when it comes to lying,” the Native Son went on shamelessly. “And if you’re willing to go in with me on it and help put Dunk on the run—” He glanced over his shoulder, saw that Happy Jack, on horseback, was coming out to haze in the saddle bunch, and turned to stroll back as lazily as he had come. He continued to speak smoothly and swiftly, in a voice that would not carry ten paces. While Andy Green, with brown head bent attentively, listened eagerly and added a sentence or two on his own account now and then, and smiled—which he had not been in the habit of doing lately.

  “Say, you fellers are gittin’ awful energetic, ain’t yuh?—wranglin’ horses afoot!” Happy Jack bantered at the top of his voice when he passed them by. “Better save up your strength while you kin. Weary’s goin’ to set us herdin’ sheep agin—and I betche there’s goin’ to be something more’n herdin’ on our hands before we git through.”

  “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if there was,” sang out Andy, as cheerfully as if he had been invited to dance “Ladies’ choice” with the prettiest girl in the crowd. “Wonder what hole he’s going to dump this bunch into,” he added to the Native Son. “By gracious, he ought to send ’em just as far north as he can drive ’em without paying duty! I’d sure take ’em over into Canada, if it was me running the show.”

  “It was a mistake,” the Native Son volunteered, “for the whole bunch to go off like we did today. They had those sheep up here on the hill just for a bait. They knew we’d go straight up in the air and come down on those two freaks herding ’em, and that gave them the chance to cross the other bunch. I thought so all along, but I didn’t like to butt in.”

  “Well Weary’s mad enough now to do things that will leave a dent, anyway,” Andy commented under his breath when, from the corral gate, he got a good look at Weary’s profile, which showed the set of his mouth and chin. “See that mouth? It’s hunt the top rail, and do it quick, when old Weary straightens out his lips like that.”

  Behind them, Happy Jack bellowed for an open gate and no obstructions, and they drew hastily to one side to let the saddle horses gallop past with a great upflinging of dust. Pink, with a quite obtrusive facetiousness, began lustily chanting that it looked to him like a big night tonight—with occasional, furtive glances at Weary’s face; for he, also, had been quick to read those close-pressed lips, which did not soften in response to the ditty. Usually he laughed at Pink’s drollery.

  They rode rather quietly upon the hill again, to where fed the sheep. During the hour or so that they had been absent the sheep had not moved appreciably; they still grazed close enough to the boundary to make their position seem a direct insult to the Flying U, a virtual slap in the fa
ce. And these young men who worked for the Flying U, and who made its interests right loyally their own, were growing very, very tired of turning the other cheek. With them, the time for profanity and for horseplay bluffing and judicious temporizing was past. There were other lips besides Weary’s that were drawn tight and thin when they approached that particular band of sheep. More than one pair of eyes turned inquiringly toward him and away again when they met no answering look.

  They topped a rise of ground, and in the shallow wrinkle which had hidden him until now they came full upon Dunk Whittaker, riding a chunky black which stepped restlessly about while he conferred in low tones with a couple of the herders. The Happy Family recognized them as two of the fellows in whose safe keeping they had left their ropes the night before. Dunk looked around quickly when the group appeared over the little ridge, scowled, hesitated and then came straight up to them.

  “I want you rowdies to bring back those sheep you took the trouble to drive off this morning,” he began, with the even, grating voice and the sneering lift of lip under his little, black mustache which the older members of the Happy Family remembered—and hated—so vividly. “I’ve stood just all I’m going to stand, of these typically Flying U performances you’ve been indulging in so freely during the past week. It’s all very well to terrorize a neighborhood of long-haired rubes who don’t know enough to teach you your places; but interfering with another man’s property is—”