by B. M. Bower
Slim’s eyes went to the anvil and clung there in a widening stare. His hands, white and soft when his gloves were off, drew up convulsively into fighting fists, and as he stood looking, the cords swelled and stood out upon his thick neck. For years he had hated Dunk Whittaker—
The Happy Family, with rare good sense, had not hesitated to turn the white house into an impromptu hospital. They knew that if the Little Doctor and Chip and the Old Man had been at home Happy Jack would have been taken unquestioningly into the guest chamber—which was a square, three-windowed room off the big livingroom. More than one of them had occupied it upon occasion. They took Happy Jack up there and put him to bed quite as a matter-of-course, and when he was asleep they lingered upon the wide, front porch; the hammock of the Little Doctor squeaked under the weight of Andy Green, and the wide-armed chairs received the weary forms of divers young cowpunchers who did not give a thought to the intrusion, but were thankful for the comfort. Andy was swinging luxuriously and drawing the last few puffs from a cigarette when Slim, purple and puffing audibly, appeared portentously before him.
“I thought you said you was goin’ to lock Dunk up in the blacksmith shop,” he launched accusingly at Andy.
“We did,” averred that young man, pushing his toe against the railing to accelerate the voluptuous motion of the hammock.
“He ain’t there. He’s broke loose. The chain—by golly, yuh went an’ used that chain that was broke an’ jest barely hangin’ together! His horse ain’t anywheres around, either. You fellers make me sick. Lollin’ around here an’ not paying no attention, by golly—he’s liable to be ten mile from here by this time!” When Slim stopped, his jaw quivered like a dish of disturbed jelly, and I wish I could give you his tone; choppy, every sentence an accusation that should have made those fellows wince.
Irish, Big Medicine and Jack Bates had sprung guiltily to their feet and started down the steps. The drawling voice of the Native Son stopped them, ten feet from the porch.
“Twelve, or fifteen, I should make it. That horse of his looked to me like a drifter.”
“Well—are yuh goin’ t’ set there on your haunches an’ let him go?” Slim, by the look of him, was ripe for murder.
“You want to look out, or you’ll get apoplexy sure,” Andy soothed, giving himself another luxurious push and pulling the last, little whiff from his cigarette before he threw away the stub. “Fat men can’t afford to get as excited as skinny ones can.”
“Aw, say! Where did you put him, Andy?” asked Big Medicine, his first flurry subsiding before the absolute calm of those two on the porch.
“In the blacksmith shop,” said Andy, with a slurring accent on the first word that made the whole sentence perfectly maddening. “Ah, come on back here and sit down. I guess we better tell ’em the how of it. Huh, Mig?”
Miguel cast a slow, humorous glance over the four. “Ye-es—they’ll have us treed in about two minutes if we don’t,” he assented. “Go ahead.”
“Well,” Andy lifted his head and shoulders that he might readjust a pillow to his liking, “we wanted him to make a getaway. Fact is, if he hadn’t, we’d have been—strictly up against it. Right! If he hadn’t—how about it, Mig? I guess we’d have been to the Little Rockies ourselves.”
“You’ve got a sweet little voice,” Irish cut in savagely, “but we’re tired. We’d rather hear yuh say something!”
“Oh—all right. Well, Mig and I just ribbed up a josh on Dunk. I’d read somewhere about the same kinda deal, so it ain’t original; I don’t lay any claim to the idea at all; we just borrowed it. You see, it’s like this: We figured that a man as mean as this Dunk person most likely had stepped over the line, somewhere. So we just took a gambling chance, and let him do the rest. You see, we never saw him before in our lives. All that identification stunt of ours was just a bluff. But the minute I shoved my chips to the center, I knew we had him dead to rights. You were there. You saw him wilt. By gracious—”
“Yuh don’t know anything against him?” gasped Irish.
“Not a darned thing—any more than what you all know,” testified Andy complacently.
It took a minute or two for that to sink in.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” breathed Irish.
“We did chain him to the anvil,” Andy went on. “On the way down, we talked about being in a hurry to get back to you fellows, and I told Mig—so Dunk could hear—that we wouldn’t bother with the horse. We tied him to the corral. And I hunted around for that bum chain, and then we made out we couldn’t find the padlock for the door; so we decided, right out loud, that he’d be dead safe for an hour or two, till the bunch of us got back. Not knowing a darn thing about him, except what you boys have told us, we sure would have been in bad if he hadn’t taken a sneak. Fact is, we were kinda worried for fear he wouldn’t have nerve enough to try it. We waited, up on the hill, till we saw him sneak down to the corral and jump on his horse and take off down the coulee like a scared coyote. It was,” quoth the young man, unmistakably pleased with himself, “pretty smooth work, if you ask me.”
“I’d hate to ride as fast and far tonight as that hombre will,” supplemented Miguel with his brief smile, that was just a flash of white, even teeth and a momentary lightening of his languorous eyes.
Slim stood for five minutes, a stolid, stocky figure in the midst of a storm of congratulatory comment. They forgot all about Happy Jack, asleep inside the house, and so their voices were not hushed. Indeed, Big Medicine’s bull-like remarks boomed full-throated across the coulee and were flung back mockingly by the barren hills. Slim did not hear a word they were saying; he was thinking it over, with that complete mental concentration which is the chief recompense of a slow-working mind. He was methodically thinking it all out—and, eventually, he saw the joke.
“Well, by golly!” he bawled suddenly, and brought his palm down with a terrific smack upon his sore leg—whereat his fellows laughed uproariously.
“We told you not to try to see through any more jokes till your leg gets well, Slim,” Andy reminded condescendingly.
“Say, by golly, that’s a good one on Dunk, ain’t it? Chasin’ himself clean outa the country, by golly—scared plumb to death—and you fellers was only jest makin’ b’lieve yuh knowed him! By golly, that sure is a good one, all right!”
“You’ve got it; give you time enough and you could see through a barbed-wire fence,” patronized Andy, from the hammock. “Yes, since you mention it, I think myself it ain’t so bad.”
“Aw-w shut up, out there, an’ let a feller sleep!” came a querulous voice from within. “I’d ruther bed down with a corral full uh calves at weanin’ time, than be anywheres within ten mile uh you darned, mouthy—” The rest was indistinguishable, but it did not matter. The Happy Family, save Slim, who stayed to look after the patient, tiptoed penitently off the porch and took themselves and their enthusiasm down to the bunk-house.
CHAPTER XVII
Good News
Pink rolled over in his bed so that he might look—however sleepily—upon his fellows, dressing more or less quietly in the cool dawn-hour.
“Say, I got a letter for you, Weary,” he yawned, stretching both arms above his head. “I opened it and read it; it was from Chip, so—”
“What did he have to say?”
“Old Man any better?”
“How they comm’, back here?”
Several voices, speaking at once, necessitated a delayed reply.
“They’ll be here, today or tomorrow,” Pink replied without any circumlocution whatever, while he fumbled in his coat pocket for the letter. “He says the Old Man wants to come, and the doctors think he might as well tackle it as stay there fussing over it. They’re coming in a special car, and we’ve got to rig up an outfit to meet him. The Little Doctor tells just how she wants things fixed. I thought maybe it was important—it come special delivery,” Pink added naively, “so I just played it was mine and read it.”
“That’s a
ll right, Cadwalloper,” Weary assured him while he read hastily the letter. “Well, we’ll fix up the spring wagon and take it in right away; somebody’s got to go back anyway, with MacPherson. Hello, Cal; how’s Happy?”
“All right,” answered Cal, who had watched over him during the night and came in at that moment after someone to take his place in the sickroom. “Waked up on the fight because I just happened to be setting with my eyes shut. I wasn’t asleep, but he said I was; claimed I snored so loud I kept him awake all night. Gee whiz! I’d ruther nurse a she bear with the mumps!”
“Old Man’s coming home, Cal.” Pink announced with more joy in his tone and in his face than had appeared in either for many a weary day. Whereupon Cal gave an exultant whoop. “Go tell that to Happy,” he shouted. “Maybe he’ll forget a grouch or two. Say, luck seems to be kinda casting loving glances our way again—what?”
“By golly, seems to me Pink oughta told us when he come in, las’ night,” grumbled Slim, when he could make himself heard.
“You were all dead to the world,” Pink defended, “and I wanted to be. Two o’clock in the morning is a mighty poor time for elegant conversation, if you want my opinion.”
“And the main point is, you knew all about it, and you didn’t give a darn whether we did or not,” Irish said bluntly. “And Weary sneaked in, too, and never let a yip outa him about things over in Denson coulee.”
“Oh, what was the use?” asked Weary blandly. “I got an option out of Oleson for the ranch and outfit, and all his sheep, at a mighty good figure—for the Flying U. The Old Man can do what he likes about it; but ten to one he’ll buy him out. That is, Oleson’s share, which was two-thirds. I kinda counted on Dunk letting go easy. And,” he added, reaching for his hat, “once I got the papers for it, there wasn’t anything to hang around for, was there? Especially,” he said with his old, sunny smile, “when we weren’t urged a whole lot to stay.”
Remained therefore little, save the actual arrival of the Old Man—a pitifully weak Old Man, bandaged and odorous with antiseptics, and quite pathetically glad to be back home—and his recovery, which was rather slow, and the recovery of Happy Jack, which was rapid.
For a brief space the Flying U outfit owned the Dots; very brief it was; not a day longer than it took Chip to find a buyer—at a figure considerably above that named in the option, by the way.
So, after a season of worry and trouble and impending tragedy such as no man may face unflinchingly, life dropped back to its usual level, and the trail of the Flying U outfit once more led through pleasant places.
CHIP, OF THE FLYING U
CHAPTER I
The Old Man’s Sister
The weekly mail had just arrived at the Flying U ranch. Shorty, who had made the trip to Dry Lake on horseback that afternoon, tossed the bundle to the “Old Man” and was halfway to the stable when he was called back peremptorily.
“Shorty! O-h-h, Shorty! Hi!”
Shorty kicked his steaming horse in the ribs and swung round in the path, bringing up before the porch with a jerk.
“Where’s this letter been?” demanded the Old Man, with some excitement. James G. Whitmore, cattleman, would have been greatly surprised had he known that his cowboys were in the habit of calling him the Old Man behind his back. James G. Whitmore did not consider himself old, though he was constrained to admit, after several hours in the saddle, that rheumatism had searched him out—because of his fourteen years of roughing it, he said. Also, there was a place on the crown of his head where the hair was thin, and growing thinner every day of his life, though he did not realize it. The thin spot showed now as he stood in the path, waving a square envelope aloft before Shorty, who regarded it with supreme indifference.
Not so Shorty’s horse. He rolled his eyes till the whites showed, snorted and backed away from the fluttering, white object.
“Doggone it, where’s this been?” reiterated James G., accusingly.
“How the devil do I know?” retorted Shorty, forcing his horse nearer. “In the office, most likely. I got it with the rest today.”
“It’s two weeks old,” stormed the Old Man. “I never knew it to fail—if a letter says anybody’s coming, or you’re to hurry up and go somewhere to meet somebody, that letter’s the one that monkeys around and comes when the last dog’s hung. A letter asking yuh if yuh don’t want to get rich in ten days sellin’ books, or something, ’ll hike along out here in no time. Doggone it!”
“You got a hurry-up order to go somewhere?” queried Shorty, mildly sympathetic.
“Worse than that,” groaned James G. “My sister’s coming out to spend the summer—t’morrow. And no cook but Patsy—and she can’t eat in the mess house—and the house like a junk shop!”
“It looks like you was up against it, all right,” grinned Shorty. Shorty was a sort of foreman, and was allowed much freedom of speech.
“Somebody’s got to meet her—you have Chip catch up the creams so he can go. And send some of the boys up here to help me hoe out a little. Dell ain’t used to roughing it; she’s just out of a medical school—got her diploma, she was telling me in the last letter before this. She’ll be finding microbes by the million in this old shack. You tell Patsy I’ll be late to supper—and tell him to brace up and cook something ladies like—cake and stuff. Patsy’ll know. I’d give a dollar to get that little runt in the office—”
But Shorty, having heard all that it was important to know, was clattering down the long slope again to the stable. It was supper time, and Shorty was hungry. Also, there was news to tell, and he was curious to see how the boys would take it. He was just turning loose the horse when supper was called. He hurried back up the hill to the mess house, performed hasty ablutions in the tin wash basin on the bench beside the door, scrubbed his face dry on the roller towel, and took his place at the long table within.
“Any mail for me?” Jack Bates looked up from emptying the third spoon of sugar into his coffee.
“Naw—she didn’t write this time, Jack.” Shorty reached a long arm for the “Mulligan stew.”
“How’s the dance coming on?” asked Cal Emmett.
“I guess it’s a go, all right. They’ve got them coons engaged to play. The hotel’s fixing for a big crowd, if the weather holds like this. Chip, Old Man wants you to catch up the creams, after supper; you’ve got to meet the train tomorrow.”
“Which train?” demanded Chip, looking up. “Is old Dunk coming?”
“The noon train. No, he didn’t say nothing about Dunk. He wants a bunch of you fellows to go up and hoe out the White House and slick it up for comp’ny—got to be done t’night. And Patsy, Old Man says for you t’ git a move on and cook something fit to eat; something that ain’t plum full uh microbes.”
Shorty became suddenly engaged in cooling his coffee, enjoying the varied emotions depicted on the faces of the boys.
“Who’s coming?”
“What’s up?”
Shorty took two leisurely gulps before he answered:
“Old Man’s sister’s coming out to stay all summer—and then some, maybe. Be here tomorrow, he said.”
“Gee whiz! Is she pretty?” This from Cal Emmett.
“Hope she ain’t over fifty.” This from Jack Bates.
“Hope she ain’t one of them four-eyed school-ma’ams,” added Happy Jack —so called to distinguish him from Jack Bates, and also because of his dolorous visage.
“Why can’t some one else haul her out?” began Chip. “Cal would like that job—and he’s sure welcome to it.”
“Cal’s too dangerous. He’d have the old girl dead in love before he got her over the first ridge, with them blue eyes and that pretty smile of his’n. It’s up to you, Splinter—Old Man said so.”
“She’ll be dead safe with Chip. He won’t make love to her,” retorted Cal.
“Wonder how old she is,” repeated Jack Bates, half emptying the syrup pitcher into his plate. Patsy had hot biscuits for supper, and Jack’s esp
ecial weakness was hot biscuits and maple syrup.
“As to her age,” remarked Shorty, “it’s a cinch she ain’t no spring chicken, seeing she’s the Old Man’s sister.”
“Is she a schoolma’am?” Happy Jack’s distaste for schoolma’ams dated from his tempestuous introduction to the A B C’s, with their daily accompaniment of a long, thin ruler.
“No, she ain’t a schoolma’am. She’s a darn sight worse. She’s a doctor.”
“Aw, come off!” Cal Emmett was plainly incredulous.”
“That’s right. Old Man said she’s just finished taking a course uh medicine—what’d yuh call that?”
“Consumption, maybe—or snakes.” Weary smiled blandly across the table.
“She got a diploma, though. Now where do you get off at?”
“Yeah—that sure means she’s a doctor,” groaned Cal.
“By golly, she needn’t try t’ pour any dope down me,” cried a short, fat man who took life seriously—a man they called Slim, in fine irony.
“Gosh, I’d like to give her a real warm reception,” said Jack Bates, who had a reputation for mischief. “I know them Eastern folks, down t’ the ground. They think cow-punchers wear horns. Yes, they do. They think we’re holy terrors that eat with our six-guns beside our plates— and the like of that. They make me plum tired. I’d like to—wish we knew her brand.”
“I can tell you that,” said Chip, cynically. “There’s just two bunches to choose from. There’s the Sweet Young Things, that faint away at sight of a six-shooter, and squawk and catch at your arm if they see a garter snake, and blush if you happen to catch their eye suddenly, and cry if you don’t take off your hat every time you see them a mile off.” Chip held out his cup for Patsy to refill.
“Yeah—I’ve run up against that brand—and they’re sure all right. They suit me,” remarked Cal.
“That don’t seem to line up with the doctor’s diploma,” commented Weary.
