The B. M. Bower Megapack

by B. M. Bower

  “Oh, cut out all that rough stuff!” advised the man wearily. “I know who you are, and what your bluff is worth. I know you can’t held a foot of land if anybody is a mind to contest your claims. I’ve filed a contest on this eighty, here, and I’m going to hold it. Let that soak into your minds. I don’t want any trouble—I’m even willing to take a good deal in the way of bluster, rather than have trouble. But I’m going to stay. See?” He waved his pipe in a gesture of finality and continued to smoke and to watch them impersonally, leaning against the door in that lounging negligence which is so irritating to a disputant.

  “Oh, all right—if that’s the way you feel about it,” Andy replied indifferently, and turned away. “Come on, boys—no use trying to bluff that gazabo. He’s wise.”

  He rode away with his face turned over his shoulder to see if the others were going to follow. When he was past the corner and therefore out of the man’s sight, he raised his arm and beckoned to them imperatively, with a jerk of his head to add insistence. The four of them looked after him uncertainly. Weary kicked his horse and started, then Pink did the same. Andy beckoned again, more emphatically than before, and Big Medicine, who loved a fight as he loved to win a jackpot, turned and glared at the man in the doorway as he passed. Slim was rumbling by-golly ultimatums in his fat chest when he came up.

  “Pink, you go on back and put the boys next, when they come up with the drag they won’t do anything much but hand out a few remarks and ride on.” Andy said, in the tone of one who knows exactly what he means to do. “This is my claim-jumper. Chances are I’ve got three more to handle—or will have. Nothing like starting off right. Tell the boys just rag the fellow a little and ride on, like we did. Get the cattle up here and set Happy and Slim day-herding and the rest of us’ll get busy.”

  “You wouldn’t tell for a dollar, would yuh?” Pi asked him with his dimples showing.

  “I’ve got to think it out first,” Andy evaded, “feel all the symptoms of an idea. You let me alone a while.”

  “Say, yuh going to tell him he’s been found out and yuh know his past,” began Slim, “like yuh done Dunk? I’ll bet, by golly—”

  “Go on off and lay down!” Andy retorted pettishly. “I never worked the same one off on you twice, did I? Think I’m getting feeble-minded? It ain’t hard to put his nibs on the run—that’s dead easy. Trouble is I went and hobbled myself. I promised a lady I’d be mild.”

  “Mamma!” muttered Weary, his sunny eyes taking in the shack-dotted horizon. “Mild!—and all these jumpers on our hands!”

  “Oh, well—there’s more’n one way to kill a cat,” Andy reminded them cheerfully. “You go on back and post the boys, Pink, not to get too riled.”

  He galloped off and left them to say and think what they pleased. He was not uneasy over their following his advice or waiting for his plan. For Andy Green had risen rapidly to a tacit leadership, since first he told them of the coming colony. From being the official Ananias of the outfit, king of all joke-makers, chief irritator of the bunch, whose lightest word was suspected of hiding some deep meaning and whose most innocent action was analysed, he had come to the point where they listened to him and depended upon him to see a way out of every difficulty. They would depend upon him now; of that he was sure—therefore they would wait for his plan.

  Strange as it may seem, the Happy Family had not seriously considered the possibility of having their claims “jumped” so long as they kept valid their legal residence. They had thought that they would be watched and accused of collusion with the Flying U, and they intended to be extremely careful. They meant to stay upon their claims at least seven months in the year, which the law required. They meant to have every blade of grass eaten by their own cattle, which would be counted as improving their claims. They meant to give a homelike air of permanency to their dwellings. They had already talked over a tentative plan of bringing water to their desert claims, and had ridden over the bench-land for two days, with the plat at hand for reference, that they might be sure of choosing their claims wisely. They had prepared for every contingency save the one that had arisen—which is a common experience with us all. They had not expected that their claims would be jumped and contests filed so early in the game, as long as they maintained their residence.

  However, Andy was not dismayed at the turn of events. It was stimulating to the imagination to be brought face to face with an emergency such as this, and to feel that one must handle it with strength and diplomacy and a mildness of procedure that would find favor in the eyes of a girl.

  He looked across the waving grass to where the four roomed shack was built upon the four corners of four “eighties” so that four women might live together and yet be said to live upon their own claims. That was drawing the line pretty fine, of course; finer than the Happy Family would have dared to draw it. But no one would raise any objection, on account of their being women and timid about living alone. Andy smiled sympathetically because the four conjunctive corners of the four claims happened to lie upon a bald pinnacle bare of grass or shelter or water, even. The shack stood bleakly revealed to the four winds—but also it over looked the benchland and the rolling, half-barren land to the west, which comprised Antelope Coulee and Dry Coulee and several other good-for-nothing coulees capable of supporting nothing but coyotes and prairie dogs and gophers.

  A mile that way Andy rode, and stopped upon the steep side of a gulch which was an arm of Antelope Coulee. He looked down into the gulch, searched with his eyes for the stake that marked the southeast corner of the eighty lying off in this direction from the shack, and finally saw it fifty yards away on a bald patch of adobe.

  He resisted the temptation to ride over and call upon Miss Allen—the resistance made easier by the hour, which was eight o’clock or thereabouts—and rode back to the others very well satisfied with himself and his plan.

  He found the whole Happy Family gathered upon the level land just over his west line, extolling resentment while they waited his coming. Grinning, he told them his plan, and set them grinning also. He gave them certain work to be done, and watched them scatter to do his bidding. Then he turned and rode away upon business of his own.

  The claim-jumper, watching the bench land through a pair of field glasses, saw a herd of cows and calves scattered and feeding contentedly upon the young grass a mile or so away. Two men on horseback loitered upon the outer fringe of the herd. From a distance hilltop came the staccato sound of hammers where an other shack was going up. Cloud shadows slid silently over the land, with bright sunlight chasing after. Of the other horsemen who had come up the bluff with the cattle, he saw not a sign. So the man yawned and went in to his breakfast.

  Many times that day he stood at the corner of his shack with the glasses sweeping the bench-land. Toward noon the cattle drifted into a coulee where there was water. In a couple of hours they drifted leisurely back upon high ground and scattered to their feeding, still watched and tended by the two horsemen who looked the most harmless of individuals. One was fat and red-faced and spent at least half of his time lying prone upon some slope in the shade of his horse. The other was thin and awkward, and slouched in the saddle or sat upon the ground with his knees drawn up and his arms clasped loosely around them, a cigarette dangling upon his lower lip, himself the picture of boredom.

  There was nothing whatever to indicate that events were breeding in that peaceful scene, and that adventure was creeping close upon the watcher. He went in from his fourth or fifth inspection, and took a nap.

  That night he was awakened by a pounding on the side of the shack where was his window. By the time he had reached the middle of the floor—and you could count the time in seconds—a similar pounding was at the door. He tried to open the door and couldn’t. He went to the window and could see nothing, although the night had not been dark when he went to bed. He shouted, and there was no reply; nor could he hear any talking without. His name, by the way, was H. J. Owens, though his name does not mat
ter except for convenience in mentioning him. Owens, then, lighted a lamp, and almost instantly was forced to reach out quickly and save it from toppling, because one corner of the shack was lifting, lifting…

  Outside, the Happy Family worked in silence. Before they had left One Man Coulee they had known exactly what they were to do, and how to do it. They knew who was to nail the hastily constructed shutter over the window. They knew who was to fasten the door so that it could not be opened from within. They knew also who were to use the crow-bars, who were to roll the skids under the shack.

  There were twelve of them—because Bert Rogers had insisted upon helping. In not many more minutes than there were men, they were in their saddles, ready to start. The shack lurched forward after the straining horses. Once it was fairly started it moved more easily than you might think it could do, upon crude runners made of cottonwood logs eight inches or so in diameter and long enough for cross pieces bolted in front and rear. The horses pulled it easily with the ropes tied to the saddle-horns, just as they had many times pulled the roundup wagons across mirey creeks or up steep slopes; just as they had many times pulled stubborn cattle or dead cattle—just as they had been trained to pull anything and everything their masters chose to attach to their ropes.

  Within, Owens called to them and cursed them. When they had just gained an even pace, he emptied his revolver through the four sides of the shack. But he did not know where they were, exactly, so that he was compelled to shoot at random. And since the five shots seemed to have no effect whatever upon the steady progress of the shack, he decided to wait until he could see where to aim. There was no use, he reflected, in wasting good ammunition when there was a strong probability that he would need it later.

  After a half hour or more of continuous travel, the shack tilted on a steep descent. H. J. Owens blew out his lamp and swore when a box came sliding against his shins in the dark. The descent continued until it was stopped with a jolt that made him bite his tongue painfully, so that tears came into the eyes that were the wrong shade of blue to please Andy Green. He heard a laugh cut short and a muttered command, and that was all. The shack heaved, toppled, righted itself and went on down, and down, and down; jerked sidewise to the left, went forward and then swung joltingly the other way. When finally it came to a permanent stand it was sitting with an almost level floor.

  Then the four corners heaved upward, two at a time, and settled with a final squeal of twisted boards and nails. There was a sound of confused trampling, and after that the lessening sounds of departure. Mr. Owens tried the door again, and found it still fast. He relighted the lamp, carried it to the window and looked upon rough boards outside the glass. He meditated anxiously and decided to remain quiet until daylight.

  The Happy Family worked hard, that night. Before daylight they were in their beds and snoring except the two who guarded the cattle. Each was in his own cabin. His horse was in his corral, smooth-coated and dry. There was nothing to tell of the night’s happenings,—nothing except the satisfied grins on their faces when they woke and remembered.

  CHAPTER 12

  SHACKS, LIVE STOCK AND PILGRIMS PROMPTLY AND PAINFULLY REMOVED

  “I’m looking rather seedy now, while holding down my claim,

  And my grub it isn’t always served the best,

  And the mice play shyly round me as I lay me down to rest

  In my little old sod shanty on my claim.

  Oh, the hinges are of leather and the windows have no glass,

  And the roof it lets the howling blizzards in,

  And I hear the hungry kiote as he sneaks up through grass—

  “Say! have they got down the hill yet, Pink;” Pink took his cigarette from his fingers, leaned and peered cautiously through the grimy window. “Unh-huh. They’re coming up the flat.”

  Whereupon Andy Green, ostentatiously washing his breakfast dishes, skipped two or three verses and lifted his voice in song to fit the occasion.

  “How I wish that some kind-hearted girl would pity on me take,

  And relieve me of the mess that I am in!

  Oh, the angel, how I’d bless her if her home with me she’d make,

  In my little old sod shanty—

  “Got her yet?” And he craned his neck to look. “Aw, they’ve pulled up, out there, listening!”

  “My clothes are plastered o’er with dough, I’m looking like a fright,

  And everything is scattered round the room—”

  “Why don’t yuh stop that caterwauling?” Pink demanded fretfully. “You’ll queer the whole play if you keep it up. They’ll swear you’re drunk!”

  There was sense in that. Andy finished the line about remaining two happy lovers in his little old sod shanty, and went to the door with the dishpan. He threw out the water, squeezed the dishrag in one hand and gave the inside of the pan a swipe before he appeared to discover that Miss Allen and Florence Grace Hallman were riding up to his door. As a matter of fact, he had seen them come over the top of the bluff and had long ago guessed who they were.

  He met them with a smile of surprised innocence, and invited them inside. They refused to come, and even Miss Allen showed a certain reproachful coolness toward him. Andy felt hurt at that, but he did not manifest the fact. Instead he informed them that it was a fine morning. And were they out taking a look around?

  They were. They were looking up the men who had perpetrated the outrage last night upon four settlers.

  “Outrage?” Andy tilted the dishpan against the cabin wall, draped the dishrag over the handle and went forward, pulling down his sleeves. “What outrage is that, Miss Hallman? Anybody killed?”

  Miss Hallman watched him with her narrowed glance. She saw the quick glance he gave Miss Allen, and her lids narrowed still more. So that was it! But she did not swerve from her purpose, for all this unexpected thrust straight to the heart of her self-love.

  “You know that no one was killed. But you damaged enough property to place you on the wrong side of the law, Mr. Green. Not one of those shacks can be gotten out of the gulch except in pieces!”

  Andy smiled inside his soul, but his face was bewildered; his eyes fixed themselves blankly upon her face. “Me? Damaging property? Miss Hallman, you don’t know me yet!” Which was perfectly true. “What shacks are you talking about? In what gulch? All the shacks I’ve seen so far have been stuck up on bald pinnacles where the blizzards will hit ’em coming and going next winter.” He glanced again at Miss Allen with a certain sympathetic foretaste of what she would suffer next winter if she stayed in her shack.

  “Don’t try to play innocent, Mr. Green.” Florence Grace Hallman drew her brows together. “We all know perfectly well who dragged those shacks off the claims last night.”

  “Don’t you mean that you think you know? I’m afraid you’ve kinda taken it for granted I’d be mixed up in any deviltry you happened to hear about. I’ve got in bad with you—I know that—but just the same, I hate to be accused of everything that takes place in the country. All this is sure interesting news to me. Whereabouts was they taken from? And when, and where to? Miss Allen, you’ll tell me the straight of this, won’t you? And I’ll get my hoss and you’ll show me what gulch she’s talking about, won’t you?”

  Miss Allen puckered her lips into a pout which meant indecision, and glanced at Florence Grace Hallman. And Miss Hallman frowned at being shunted into the background and referred to as she, and set her teeth into her lower lip.

  “Miss Allen prefers to choose her own company,” she said with distinct rudeness. “Don’t try to wheedle her—you can’t do it. And you needn’t get your horse to ride anywhere with us, Mr. Green. It’s useless. I just wanted to warn you that nothing like what happened last night will be tolerated. We know all about you Flying U men—you Happy Family.” She said it as if she were calling them something perfectly disgraceful. “You may be just as tough and bad a you please—you can’t frighten anyone into leaving the country or into giving up one iota of their ri
ghts. I came to you because you are undoubtedly the ring-leader of the gang.” She accented gang. “You ought to be shot for what you did last night. And if you keep on—” She left the contingency to his imagination.

  “Well, if settling up the country means that men are going to be shot for going to bed at dark and asleeping till sun-up, all I’ve got to say is that things ain’t like they used to be. We were all plumb peaceful here till your colony came, Miss Hallman. Why, the sheriff never got out this way often enough to know the trails! He always had to ask his way around. If your bunch of town mutts can’t behave themselves and leave each other alone, I don’t know what’s to be done about it. We ain’t hired to keep the peace.”

  “No, you’ve been hired to steal all the land you can and make all the trouble you can. We understand that perfectly.”

  Andy shook his head in meek denial, and with a sudden impulse turned toward the cabin. “Oh, Pink!” he called, and brought that boyish-faced young man to the door, his eyes as wide and as pure as the eyes of a child.

  Pink lifted his hat with just the proper degree of confusion to impress the girls with his bashfulness and his awe of their presence. His eyes were the same pansy-purple as when the Flying U first made tumultuous acquaintance with him. His apparent innocence had completely fooled the Happy Family, you will remember. They had called him Mamma’s Little Lamb and had composed poetry and horrific personal history for his benefit. The few years had not changed him. His hair was still yellow and curly. The dimples still dodged into his cheeks unexpectedly; he was still much like a stick of dynamite wrapped in white tissue and tied with a ribbon. He looked an angel of innocence, and in reality he was a little devil.

  Andy introduced him, and Pink bowed and had all the appearance of blushing—though you will have to ask Pink how he managed to create that optical illusion. “What did you want?” he asked in his soft, girlish voice, turning to Andy bashfully. But from the corner of his eye Pink saw that a little smile of remembrance had come to soften Miss Hallman’s angry features, and that the other girl was smiling also. Pink hated that attitude of pleasant patronage which women were so apt to take toward him, but for the present it suited his purpose to encourage it.