The B. M. Bower Megapack

by B. M. Bower

  The Happy Family groaned as one man and gave chase.

  Banjo, with almost human maliciousness, was heading up the road straight toward Chip and the woman doctor—and she must be a poor doctor indeed, and a badly frightened one, withal, if she failed to observe a peculiarity in the horse thief’s cranium.

  Cal Emmett dug his spurs into his horse and shot by Slim like a locomotive, shouting profanity as he went.

  “Head him into the creek,” yelled Happy Jack, and leaned low over the neck of his sorrel.

  Weary Willie stood up in his stirrups and fanned Glory with his hat. “Yip, yee—e-e! Go to it, Banjo, old boy! Watch his nibs ride, would yuh? He’s a broncho buster from away back.” Weary Willie was the only man of them all who appeared to find any enjoyment in the situation.

  “If Chip only had the sense to slow up and give us a chance—or spill that old maid over the bank!” groaned Jack Bates, and plied whip and spur to overtake the runaway.

  Now the captive was riding dizzily, head downward, frightening Banjo half out of his senses. What he had started as a grim jest, he now continued in deadly earnest; what was this uncanny semblance of a cow-puncher which he could not unseat, yet which clung so precariously to the saddle? He had no thought now of bucking in pure devilment—he was galloping madly, his eyes wild and staring.

  Of a sudden, Chip saw danger lurking beneath the fun of it. He leaned forward a little, got a fresh grip on the reins and took the whip.

  “Hang tight, now—I’m going to beat that horse to the Hog’s Back.”

  Miss Whitmore, laughing till the tears stood in her eyes, braced herself mechanically. Chip had been laughing also—but that was before Banjo struck into the hill road in his wild flight from the terror that rode in the saddle.

  A smart flick of the whip upon their glossy backs, and the creams sprang forward at a run. The buggy was new and strong, and if they kept the road all would be well—unless they met Banjo upon the narrow ridge between two broad-topped knolls, known as the Hog’s Back. Another tap, and the creams ran like deer. One wheel struck a cobble stone, and the buggy lurched horribly.

  “Stop! There goes my coyote!” cried Miss Whitmore, as a gray object slid down under the hind wheel.

  “Hang on or you’ll go next,” was all the comfort she got, as Chip braced himself for the struggle before him. The Hog’s Back was reached, but Banjo was pounding up the hill beyond, his nostrils red and flaring, his sides reeking with perspiration. Behind him tore the Flying U boys in a vain effort to head him back into the coulee before mischief was done.

  Chip drew his breath sharply when the creams swerved out upon the broad hilltop, just as Banjo thundered past with nothing left of his rider but the legs, and with them shorn of their plumpness as the hay dribbled out upon the road.

  A fresh danger straightway forced itself upon Chip’s consciousness. The creams, maddened by the excitement, were running away. He held them sternly to the road and left the stopping of them to Providence, inwardly thanking the Lord that Miss Whitmore did not seem to be the screaming kind of woman.

  The “vigilantes” drew hastily out of the road and scudded out of sight down a gully as the creams lunged down the steep grade and across the shallow creek bed. Fortunately the great gate by the stable swung wide open and they galloped through and up the long slope to the house, coming more under control at every leap, till, by a supreme effort, Chip brought them, panting, to a stand before the porch where the Old Man stood boiling over with anxiety and excitement. James G. Whitmore was not a man who took things calmly; had he been a woman he would have been called fussy.

  “What in—what was you making a race track out of the grade for,” he demanded, after he had bestowed a hasty kiss beside the nose of his sister.

  Chip dropped a heavy trunk upon the porch and reached for the guitar before he answered.

  “I was just trying those new springs on the buggy.”

  “It was very exciting,” commented Miss Whitmore, airily. “I shot a coyote, J. G., but we lost it coming down the hill. Your men were playing a funny game—hare and hounds, it looked like. Or were they breaking a new horse?”

  The Old Man looked at Chip, intelligence dawning in his face. There was something back of it all, he knew. He had been asleep when the uproar began, and had reached the door only in time to see the creams come down the grade like a daylight shooting star.

  “I guess they was breaking a bronk,” he said, carelessly; “you’ve got enough baggage for a trip round the world, Dell. I hope it ain’t all dope for us poor devils. Tell Shorty I want t’ see him, Chip.”

  Chip took the reins from the Old Man’s hands, sprang in and drove back down the hill to the stables.

  The “reception committee,” as Chip sarcastically christened them, rounded up the runaway and sneaked back to the ranch by the coulee trail. With much unseemly language, they stripped the saddle and a flapping pair of overalls off poor, disgraced Banjo, and kicked him out of the corral.

  “That’s the way Jack’s schemes always pan out,” grumbled Slim. “By golly, yuh don’t get me into another jackpot like that!”

  “You might explain why you let that” (several kinds of) “cayuse get away from you!” retorted Jack, fretfully. “If you’d been onto your job, things would have been smooth as silk.”

  “Wonder what the old maid thought,” broke in Weary, bent on preserving peace in the Happy Family.

  “I’ll bet she never saw us at all!” laughed Cal. “Old Splinter gave her all she wanted to do, hanging to the rig. The way he came down that grade wasn’t slow. He just missed running into Banjo on the Hog’s Back by the skin of the teeth. If he had, it’d be good-by, doctor—and Chip, too. Gee, that was a close shave!”

  “Well,” said Happy Jack, mournfully, “if we don’t all get the bounce for this, I miss my guess. It’s a little the worst we’ve done yet.”

  “Except that time we tin-canned that stray steer, last winter,” amended Weary, chuckling over the remembrance as he fastened the big gate behind them.

  “Yes, that was another of Jack’s fool schemes,” put in Slim. “Go and tin-can a four-year-old steer and let him take after the Old Man and put him on the calf shed, first pass he made. Old Man was sure hot about that—by golly, it didn’t help his rheumatism none.”

  “He’ll sure go straight in the air over this,” reiterated Happy Jack, with mournful conviction.

  “There’s old Splinter at the bunk house—drawing our pictures, I’ll bet a dollar. Hey, Chip! How you vas, already yet?” sung out Weary, whose sunny temper no calamity could sour.

  Chip glanced at them and went on cutting the leaves of a late magazine which he had purloined from the Dry Lake barber. Cal Emmett strode up and grabbed the limp, gray hat from his head and began using it for a football.

  “Here! Give that back!” commanded Chip, laughing. “Don’t make a dish rag of my new John B. Stetson, Cal. It won’t be fit for the dance.”

  “Gee! It don’t lack much of being a dish rag, now, if I’m any judge. Now! Great Scott!” He held it at arm’s length and regarded it derisively.

  “Well, it was new two years ago,” explained Chip, making an ineffectual grab at it.

  Cal threw it to him and came and sat down upon his heels to peer over Chip’s arm at the magazine.

  “How’s the old maid doctor?” asked Jack Bates, leaning against the door while he rolled a cigarette.

  “Scared plum to death. I left the remains in the Old Man’s arms.”

  “Was she scared, honest?” Cal left off studying the “Types of Fair Women.”

  “What did she say when we broke loose?” Jack drew a match sharply along a log.

  “Nothing. Well, yes, she said ‘Are they going to h-a-n-g that man ?’” Chip’s voice quavered the words in a shrill falsetto.

  “The deuce she did!” Jack indulged in a gratified laugh.

  “What did she say when you put the creams under the whip, up there? I don’t suppose the ol
d girl is wise to the fact that you saved her neck right then—but you sure did. You done yourself proud, Splinter.” Cal patted Chip’s knee approvingly.

  Chip blushed under the praise and hastily answered the question.

  “She hollered out: ‘Stop! There goes my coyote!’”

  “Her coyote?”

  “Her coyote?”

  “What the devil was she doing with a coyote?”

  The Happy Family stood transfixed, and Chip’s eyes were seen to laugh.

  “Her coyote. Did any of you fellows happen to see a dead coyote up on the grade? Because if you did, it’s the doctor’s.”

  Weary Willie walked deliberately over and seized Chip by the shoulders, bringing him to his feet with one powerful yank.

  “Don’t you try throwing any loads into this crowd, young man. Answer me truly—s’help yuh. How did that old maid come by a coyote—a dead one?”

  Chip squirmed loose and reached for his cigarette book. “She shot it,” he said, calmly, but with twitching lips.

  “Shot it!” Five voices made up the incredulous echo.

  “What with?” demanded Weary when he got his breath.

  “With my rifle. I brought it out from town today. Bert Rogers had left it at the barber shop for me.”

  “Gee whiz! And them creams hating a gun like poison! She didn’t shoot from the rig, did she?”

  “Yes,” said Chip, “she did. The first time she didn’t know any better— and the second time she was hot at me for hinting she was scared. She’s a spunky little devil, all right. She’s busy hating me right now for running the grade—thinks I did it to scare her, I guess. That’s all some fool women know.”

  “She’s a howling sport, then!” groaned Cal, who much preferred the Sweet Young Things.

  “No—I sized her up as a maverick.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “How old is she?”

  “I never asked her age,” replied Chip, his face lighting briefly in a smile. “As to her looks, she isn’t crosseyed, and she isn’t four-eyed. That’s as much as I noticed.” After this bald lie he became busy with his cigarette. “Give me that magazine, Cal. I didn’t finish cutting the leaves.”

  CHAPTER III

  Silver

  Miss Della Whitmore gazed meditatively down the hill at the bunk house. The boys were all at work, she knew. She had heard J. G. tell two of them to “ride the sheep coulee fence,” and had been consumed with amazed curiosity at the order. Wherefore should two sturdy young men be commanded to ride a fence, when there were horses that assuredly needed exercise—judging by their antics—and needed it badly? She resolved to ask J. G. at the first opportunity.

  The others were down at the corrals, branding a few calves which belonged on the home ranch. She had announced her intention of going to look on, and her brother, knowing how the boys would regard her presence, had told her plainly that they did not want her. He said it was no place for girls, anyway. Then he had put on a very dirty pair of overalls and hurried down to help for he was not above lending a hand when there was extra work to be done.

  Miss Della Whitmore tidied the kitchen and dusted the sitting room, and then, having a pair of mischievously idle hands and a very feminine curiosity, conceived an irrepressible desire to inspect the bunk house.

  J. G. would tell her that, also, was no place for girls, she supposed, but J. G. was not present, so his opinion did not concern her. She had been at the Flying U ranch a whole week, and was beginning to feel that its resources for entertainment—aside from the masculine contingent, which held some promising material—were about exhausted. She had climbed the bluffs which hemmed the coulee on either side, had selected her own private saddle horse, a little sorrel named Concho, and had made friends with Patsy, the cook. She had dazzled Cal Emmett with her wiles and had found occasion to show Chip how little she thought of him; a highly unsatisfactory achievement, since Chip calmly overlooked her whenever common politeness permitted him.

  There yet remained the unexplored mystery of that little cabin down the slope, from which sounded so much boylike laughter of an evening. She watched and waited till she was positive the coast was clear, then clapped an old hat of J. G.’s upon her head and ran lightly down the hill.

  With her hand upon the knob, she ran her eye critically along the outer wall and decided that it had, at some remote date, been treated to a coat of whitewash; gave the knob a sudden twist, with a backward glance like a child stealing cookies, stepped in and came near falling headlong. She had not expected that remoteness of floor common to cabins built on a side hill.

  “Well!” She pulled herself together and looked curiously about her. What struck her at first was the total absence of bunks. There were a couple of plain, iron bedsteads and two wooden ones made of rough planks. There was a funny-looking table made of an inverted coffee box with legs of two-by-four, and littered with a charactertistic collection of bachelor trinkets. There was a glass lamp with a badly smoked chimney, a pack of cards, a sack of smoking tobacco and a box of matches. There was a tin box with spools of very coarse thread, some equally coarse needles and a pair of scissors. There was also— and Miss Whitmore gasped when she saw it—a pile of much-read magazines with the latest number of her favorite upon the top. She went closer and examined them, and glanced around the room with doubting eyes. There were spurs, quirts, chaps and queer-looking bits upon the walls; there were cigarette stubs and burned matches innumerable upon the rough, board floor, and here in her hand—she turned the pages of her favorite abstractedly and a paper fluttered out and fell, face upward, on the floor. She stooped and recovered it, glanced and gasped.

  “Well!”

  It was only a pencil sketch done on cheap, unruled tablet paper, but her mind dissolved into a chaos of interrogation marks and exclamation points—with the latter predominating more and more the longer she looked.

  It showed blunt-topped hills and a shallow coulee which she remembered perfectly. In the foreground a young woman in a smart tailored costume, the accuracy of which was something amazing, stood proudly surveying a dead coyote at her feet. In a corner of the picture stood a weather-beaten stump with a long, thin splinter beside it on the ground. Underneath was written in characters beautifully symmetrical: “The old maid’s credential card.”

  There was no gainsaying the likeness; even the rakish tilt of the jaunty felt hat, caused by the wind and that wild dash across country, was painstakingly reproduced. And the fanciful tucks on the sleeve of the gown—“and I didn’t suppose he had deigned so much as a glance!” was her first coherent thought.

  Miss Whitmore’s soul burned with resentment. No woman, even at twenty-three, loves to be called “the old maid”—especially by a keen-witted young man with square chin and lips with a pronounced curve to them. And whoever supposed the fellow could draw like that—and notice every tiny little detail without really looking once? Of course, she knew her hat was crooked, with the wind blowing one’s head off, almost, but he had no business: “The old maid’s credential card!”—“Old maid,” indeed!

  “The audacity of him!”

  “Beg pardon?”

  Miss Whitmore wheeled quickly, her heart in the upper part of her throat, judging by the feel of it. Chip himself stood just inside the door, eying her coldly.

  “I was not speaking,” said Miss Whitmore, haughtily, in futile denial.

  To this surprising statement Chip had nothing to say. He went to one of the iron beds, stooped and drew out a bundle which, had Miss Whitmore asked him what it was, he would probably have called his “war sack.” She did not ask; she stood and watched him, though her conscience assured her it was a dreadfully rude thing to do, and that her place was up at the house. Miss Whitmore was frequently at odds with her conscience; at this time she stood her ground, backed by her pride, which was her chiefest ally in such emergencies.

  When he drew a huge, murderous-looking revolver from its scabbard and proceeded calmly to inser
t cartridge after cartridge, Miss Whitmore was constrained to speech.

  “Are you—going to—shoot something?”

  The question struck them both as particularly inane, in view of his actions.

  “I am,” replied he, without looking up. He whirled the cylinder into place, pushed the bundle back under the bed and rose, polishing the barrel of the gun with a silk handkerchief.

  Miss Whitmore hoped he wasn’t going to murder anyone; he looked keyed up to almost any desperate deed.

  “Who—what are you going to shoot?” Really, the question asked itself.

  Chip raised his eyes for a fleeting glance which took in the pencil sketch in her hand. Miss Whitmore observed that his eyes were much darker than hazel; they were almost black. And there was, strangely enough, not a particle of curve to his lips; they were thin, and straight, and stern.

  “Silver. He broke his leg.”

  “Oh!” There was real horror in her tone. Miss Whitmore knew all about Silver from garrulous Patsy. Chip had rescued a pretty, brown colt from starving on the range, had bought him of the owner, petted and cared for him until he was now one of the best saddle horses on the ranch. He was a dark chestnut, with beautiful white, crinkly mane and tail and white feet. Miss Whitmore had seen Chip riding him down the coulee trail only yesterday, and now—Her heart ached with the pity of it.

  “How did it happen?”

  “I don’t know. He was in the little pasture. Got kicked, maybe.” Chip jerked open the door with a force greatly in excess of the need of it.

  Miss Whitmore started impulsively toward him. Her eyes were not quite clear.

  “Don’t—not yet! Let me go. If it’s a straight break I can set the bone and save him.”

  Chip, savage in his misery, regarded her over one square shoulder.