The B. M. Bower Megapack

by B. M. Bower

  “Interfering with another—what?” Big Medicine, his pale blue eyes standing out more like a frog’s than ever upon his face, gave his horse a kick and lunged close that he might lean and thrust his red face near to Dunk’s. “Another what? I don’t see nothin’ in your saddle that looks t’me like a man, by cripes! All I can see is a smooth-skinned, slippery vermin I’d hate to name a snake after, that crawls around in the dark and lets cheap rough-necks do all his dirty work. I’ve saw dogs sneak up and grab a man behind, but most always they let out a growl or two first. And even a rattler is square enough to buzz at yuh and give yuh a chanc’t to side-step him. Honest to grandma, I don’t hardly know what kinda reptyle y’are. I hate to insult any of ’em, by cripes, by namin’ yuh after ’em. But don’t, for Lordy’s sake, ever call yourself a man agin!”

  Big Medicine turned his head and spat disgustedly into the grass and looked back slightingly with other annihilating remarks close behind his wide-apart teeth, but instead of speaking he made an unbelievably quick motion with his hand. The blow smacked loudly upon Dunk’s cheek, and so nearly sent him out of the saddle that he grabbed for the horn to save himself.

  “Oh, I seert yuh keepin’ yer hand next yer six-gun all the while,” Big Medicine bawled. “That’s one reason I say yuh ain’t no man! Yuh wouldn’t dast talk up to a prairie dog if yuh wasn’t all set to make a quick draw. Yuh got your face slapped oncet before by a Flyin’ U man, and yuh had it comm’. Now you’re—gittin’—it—done—right!”

  If you have ever seen an irate, proletarian mother cuffing her offspring over an empty wood-box, you may picture perhaps the present proceeding of Big Medicine. To many a man the thing would have been unfeasible, after the first blow, because of the horses. But Big Medicine was very nearly all that he claimed to be; and one of his pet vanities was his horsemanship; he managed to keep within a fine slapping distance of Dunk. He stopped when his hand began to sting through his glove.

  “Now you keep your hand away from that gun—that you ain’t honest enough to carry where folks can see it, but ye got it cached in your pocket!” he thundered. “And go on with what you was goin’ t’say. Only don’t get swell-headed enough to think you’re a man, agin. You ain’t.”

  “I’ve got this to say!” Mere type cannot reproduce the malevolence of Dunk’s spluttering speech. “I’ve sent for the county sheriff and a dozen deputies to arrest you, and you, and you, damn you!” He was pointing a shaking finger at the older members of the Happy Family, whom he recognized not gladly, but too well. “I’ll have you all in Deer Lodge before that lying, thieving, cattle-stealing Old Man of yours can lift a finger. I’ll sheep Flying U coulee to the very doors of the white house. I’ll skin the range between here and the river—and I’ll have every one of you hounds put where the dogs won’t bite you!” He drew a hand across his mouth and smiled as they say Satan himself can smile upon occasion.

  “You’ve done enough to send you all over the road; destroying property and assaulting harmless men—you wait! There are other and better ways to fight than with the fists, and I haven’t forgotten any of you fellows—there are a few more rounders among you—”

  “Hey! You apologize fer that, by cripes, er I’ll kill yuh the longest way I know. And that—” Big Medicine again laid violent hands upon Dunk, “and that way won’t feel good, now I’m tellin’ yuh. Apologize, er—”

  “Say, all this don’t do any good, Bud,” Weary expostulated. “Let Dunk froth at the mouth if he wants to; what we want is to get these sheep off the range. And,” he added recklessly, “so long as the sheriff is headed for us anyway, we may as well get busy and make it worth his while. So—” He stopped, silenced by a most amazing interruption.

  On the brow of the hill, when first they had sighted Dunk in the hollow, something had gone wrong with Miguel’s saddle so that he had stopped behind; and, to keep him company, Andy had stopped also and waited for him. Later, when Dunk was spluttering threats, they had galloped up to the edge of the group and pulled their horses to a stand. Now, Miguel rode abruptly close to Dunk as rides one with a purpose.

  He leaned and peered intently into Dunk’s distorted countenance until every man there, struck by his manner, was watching him curiously. Then he sat back in the saddle, straightened his legs in the stirrups and laughed. And like his smile when he would have it so, or the little twitch of shoulders by which he could so incense a man, that laugh brought a deeper flush to Dunk’s face, reddened though it was by Big Medicine’s vigorous slapping.

  “Say, you’ve got nerve,” drawled the Native Son, “to let a sheriff travel toward you. I can remember when you were more timid, amigo.” He turned his head until his eyes fell upon Andy. “Say, Andy!” he called. “Come and take a look at this hombre. You’ll have to think back a few years,” he assisted laconically.

  In response, Andy rode up eagerly. Like the Native Son, he leaned and peered into eyes that stared back defiantly, wavered, and turned away. Andy also sat back in the saddle then, and snorted.

  “So this is the Dunk Whittaker that’s been raising merry hell around here! And talks about sending for the sheriff, huh? I’ve always heard that a lot uh gall is the best disguise a man can hide under, but, by gracious, this beats the deuce!” He turned to the astounded Happy Family with growing excitement in his manner.

  “Boys, we don’t have to worry much about this gazabo! We’ll just freeze onto him till the sheriff heaves in sight. Gee! There’ll sure be something stirring when we tell him who this Dunk person really is! And you say he was in with the Old Man, once? Oh, Lord!” He looked with withering contempt at Dunk; and Dunk’s glance flickered again and dropped, just as his hand dropped to the pocket of his coat.

  “No, yuh don’t, by cripes!” Big Medicine’s hand gripped Dunk’s arm on the instant. With his other he plucked the gun from Dunk’s pocket, and released him as he would let go of something foul which he had been compelled to touch.

  “He’ll be good, or he’ll lose his dinner quick,” drawled the Native Son, drawing his own silver-mounted six-shooter and resting it upon the saddle horn so that it pointed straight at Dunk’s diaphragm. “You take Weary off somewhere and tell him something about this deal, Andy. I’ll watch this slippery gentleman.” He smiled slowly and got an answering grin from Andy Green, who immediately rode a few rods away, with Weary and Pink close behind.

  “Say, by golly, what’s Dunk wanted fer?” Slim blurted inquisitively after a short silence.

  “Not for riding or driving over a bridge faster than a walk Slim,” purred the Native Son, shifting his gun a trifle as Dunk moved uneasily in the saddle. “You know the man. Look at his face—and use your imagination, if you’ve got any.”

  CHAPTER XIII

  The Happy Family Learn Something

  “Well, I hope this farce is about over,” Dunk sneered, with as near an approach to his old, supercilious manner as he could command, when the three who had ridden apart returned presently. “Perhaps, Weary, you’ll be good enough to have this fellow put up his gun, and these—” he hesitated, after a swift glance, to apply any epithet whatever to the Happy Family. “I have two witnesses here to swear that you have without any excuse assaulted and maligned and threatened me, and you may consider yourselves lucky if I do not insist—”

  “Ah, cut that out,” Andy advised wearily. “I don’t know how it strikes the rest, but it sounds pretty sickening to me. Don’t overlook the fact that two of us happen to know all about you; and we know just where to send word, to dig up a lot more identification. So bluffing ain’t going to help you out, a darned bit.”

  “Miguel, you can go with Andy,” Weary said with brisk decision. “Take Dunk down to the ranch till the sheriff gets here—if it’s straight goods about Dunk sending for him. If he didn’t, we can take Dunk in tomorrow, ourselves.” He turned and fixed a cold, commanding eye upon the slack-jawed herders. “Come along, you two, and get these sheep headed outa here.”

  “Say, we’ll just lo
ck him up in the blacksmith shop, and come on back,” Andy amended the order after his own free fashion. “He couldn’t get out in a million years; not after I’m through staking him out to the anvil with a log-chain.” He smiled maliciously into Dunk’s fear-yellowed countenance, and waved him a signal to ride ahead, which Dunk did without a word of protest while the Happy Family looked on dazedly.

  “What’s it all about, Weary?” Irish asked, when the three were gone. “What is it they’ve got on Dunk? Must be something pretty fierce, the way he wilted down into the saddle.”

  “You’ll have to wait and ask the boys.” Weary rode off to hurry the herders on the far side of the band.

  So the Happy Family remained perforce unenlightened upon the subject and for that they said hard things about Weary, and about Andy and Miguel as well. They believed that they were entitled to know the truth, and they called it a smart-aleck trick to keep the thing so almighty secret.

  There is in resentment a crisis; when that crisis is reached, and the dam of repression gives way, the full flood does not always sweep down upon those who have provoked the disaster. Frequently it happens that perfectly innocent victims are made to suffer. The Happy Family had been extremely forbearing, as has been pointed out before. They had frequently come to the boiling point of rage and had cooled without committing any real act of violence. But that day had held a long series of petty annoyances; and here was a really important thing kept from them as if they were mere outsiders. When Weary was gone, Irish asked Pink what crime Dunk had committed in the past. And Pink shook his head and said he didn’t know. Irish mentally accused Pink of lying, and his temper was none the better for the rebuff, as anyone can readily understand.

  When the herders, therefore, rounded up the sheep and started them moving south, the Happy Family speedily rebelled against that shuffling, nibbling, desultory pace that had kept them long, weary hours in the saddle with the other band. But it was Irish who first took measures to accelerate that pace.

  He got down his rope and whacked the loop viciously down across the nearest gray back. The sheep jumped, scuttled away a few paces and returned to its nibbling progress. Irish called it names and whacked another.

  After a few minutes he grew tired of swinging his loop and seeing it have so fleeting an effect, and pulled his gun. He fired close to the heels of a yearling buck that had more than once stopped to look up at him foolishly and blat, and the buck charged ahead in a panic at the noise and the spat of the bullet behind him.

  “Hit him agin in the same place!” yelled Big Medicine, and drew his own gun. The Happy Family, at that high tension where they were ready for anything, caught the infection and began shooting and yelling like crazy men.

  The effect was not at all what they expected. Instead of adding impetus to the band, as would have been the case if they had been driving cattle, the result was exactly the opposite. The sheep ran—but they ran to a common center. As the shooting went on they bunched tighter and tighter, until it seemed as though those in the center must surely be crushed flat. From an ambling, feeding company of animals, they become a lumpy gray blanket, with here and there a long, vacuous face showing idiotically upon the surface.

  The herders grinned and drew together as against a common enemy—or as with a new joke to be discussed among themselves. The dogs wandered helplessly about, yelped half-heartedly at the woolly mass, then sat down upon their haunches and lolled red tongues far out over their pointed little teeth, and tilted knowing heads at the Happy Family.

  “Look at the darned things!” wailed Pink, riding twice around the huddle, almost ready to shed tears of pure rage and helplessness. “Git outa that! Hi! Woopp-ee!” He fired again and again, and gave the range-old cattle-yell; the yell which had sent many a tired herd over many a weary mile; the yell before which had fled fat steers into the stockyards at shipping time, and up the chutes into the cars; the yell that had hoarsened many a cowpuncher’s voice and left him with a mere croak to curse his fate with; a yell to bring results—but it did not start those sheep.

  The Happy Family, riding furiously round and round, fired every cartridge they had upon their persons; they said every improper thing they could remember or invent; they yelled until their eyes were starting from their sockets; they glued that band of sheep so tight together that dynamite could scarcely have pried them apart.

  And the herders, sitting apart with grimy hands clasped loosely over hunched-up knees, looked on, and talked together in low tones, and grinned.

  Irish glanced that way and caught them grinning; caught them pointing derisively, with heaving shoulders. He swore a great oath and made for them, calling aloud that he would knock those grins so far in that they would presently find themselves smiling wrong-side-out from the back of their heads.

  Pink, overhearing him, gave a last swat at the waggling tail of a burrowing buck, and wheeled to overtake Irish and have a hand in reversing the grins. Big Medicine saw them start, and came bellowing up from the far side of the huddle like a bull challenging to combat from across a meadow. Big Medicine did not know what it was all about, but he scented battle, and that was sufficient. Cal Emmett and Weary, equally ignorant of the cause, started at a lope toward the trouble center.

  It began to look as if the whole Family was about to fall upon those herders and rend them asunder with teeth and nails; so much so that the herders jumped up and ran like scared cottontails toward the rim of Denson coulee, a hundred yards or so to the west.

  “Mamma! I wish we could make the sheep hit that gait and keep it,” exclaimed Weary, with the first laugh they had heard from him that day.

  While he was still laughing, there was a shot from the ridge toward which they were running; the sharp, vicious crack of a rifle. The Happy Family heard the whistling hum of the bullet, singing low over their heads; quite low indeed; altogether too low to be funny. And they had squandered all their ammunition on the prairie sod, to hurry a band of sheep that flatly refused to hurry anywhere except under one another’s odorous, perspiring bodies.

  From the edge of the coulee the rifle spoke again. A tiny geyser of dust, spurting up from the ground ten feet to one side of Cal Emmett, showed them all where the bullet struck.

  “Get outa range, everybody!” yelled Weary, and set the example by tilting his rowels against Glory’s smooth hide, and heading eastward. “I like to be accommodating, all right, but I draw the line on standing around for a target while my neighbors practise shooting.”

  The Happy Family, having no other recourse, therefore retreated in haste toward the eastern skyline. Bullets followed them, overtook them as the shooter raised his sights for the increasing distance, and whined harmlessly over their heads. All save one.

  CHAPTER XIV

  Happy Jack

  Big Medicine, Irish and Pink, racing almost abreast, heard a scream behind them and pulled up their horses with short, stiff-legged plunges. A brown horse overtook them; a brown horse, with Happy Jack clinging to the saddle-horn, his body swaying far over to one side. Even as he went hurtling past them his hold grew slack and he slumped, head foremost, to the ground. The brown horse gave a startled leap away from him and went on with empty stirrups flapping.

  They sprang down and lifted him to a less awkward position, and Big Medicine pillowed the sweat-dampened, carroty head in the hollow of his arm. Those who had been in the lead looked back startled when the brown horse tore past them with that empty saddle; saw what had happened, wheeled and galloped back. They dismounted and stood silently grouped about poor, ungainly Happy Jack, lying there limp and motionless in Big Medicine’s arms. Not one of them remembered then that there was a man with a rifle not more than two hundred yards away; or, if they did, they quite forgot that the rifle might be dangerous to themselves. They were thinking of Happy Jack.

  Happy Jack, butt of all their jokes and jibes; Happy the croaker, the lugubrious forecaster of trouble; Happy Jack, the ugliest, the stupidest, the softest-hearted man of them all.
He had “betched” there would be someone killed, over these Dot sheep; he had predicted trouble of every conceivable kind; and they had laughed at him, swore at him, lied to him, “joshed” him unmercifully, and kept him in a state of chronic indignation, never dreaming that the memory of it would choke them and strike them dumb with that horrible, dull weight in their chests with which men suffer when a woman would find the relief of weeping.

  “Where’s he hurt?” asked Weary, in the repressed tone which only tragedy can bring into a man’s voice, and knelt beside Big Medicine.

  “I dunno—through the lungs, I guess; my sleeve’s gitting soppy right under his shoulder.” Big Medicine did not bellow; his voice was as quiet as Weary’s.

  Weary looked up briefly at the circle of staring faces. “Pink, you pile onto Glory and go wire for a doctor. Try Havre first; you may get one up on the nine o’ clock train. If you can’t, get one down on the ’leven-twenty, from Great Falls. Or there’s Benton—anyway, git one. If you could catch MacPherson, do it. Try him first, and never mind a Havre doctor unless you can’t get MacPherson. I’d rather wait a couple of hours longer, for him. I’ll have a rig—no, you better get a team from Jim. They’ll be fresh, and you can put ’em through. If you kill ’em,” he added grimly, “we can pay for ’em.” He had his jack-knife out, and was already slashing carefully the shirt of Happy Jack, that he might inspect the wound.

  Pink gave a last, wistful look at Happy Jack’s face, which seemed unfamiliar with all the color and all the expression wiped out of it like that, and turned away. “Come and help me change saddles, Cal,” he said shortly. “Weary’s stirrups are too darned long.” Even with the delay, he was mounted on Glory and galloping toward Flying U coulee before Weary was through uncovering the wound; and that does not mean that Weary was slow.

  The rifle cracked again, and a bullet plucked into the sod twenty feet beyond the circle of men and horses. But no one looked up or gave any other sign of realization that they were still the target; they were staring, with that frowning painfully intent look men have at such moments, at a purplish hole not much bigger than if punched by a lead pencil, just under the point of Happy Jack’s shoulder blade; and at the blood oozing sluggishly from it in a tiny stream across the girlishly white flesh and dripping upon Big Medicine’s arm.