The B. M. Bower Megapack

by B. M. Bower

  It was perhaps an hour later that Pink, always of an investigative turn of mind, came slipping quietly up through the rose bushes from the creek. The Happy Family, lying luxuriously upon the grass, were still discussing the latest excitement. Pink watched his chance and when none but Weary observed him jerked his head mysteriously toward the creek.

  Weary got up, yawned ostentatiously, and sauntered away in the wake of Pink. “What’s the matter, Cadwolloper?” he asked, when he was close enough. “Seen a garter snake?” Pink was notoriously afraid of snakes.

  “You come with me, and I’ll show yuh the wild man,” he grinned.

  “Mama!” ejaculated Weary, and followed stealthily where Pink led.

  Some distance up the creek Pink signalled caution, and they crept like Indians on hands and knees through the grass. On the edge of the high bank they stopped, and Pink motioned. Weary looked over and came near whooping at the sight below. He gazed a minute, drew back and put his face close to the face of Pink.

  “Cadwolloper, go get the bunch!” he commanded in a whisper, and Pink, again signalling needlessly for silence, slipped hastily away from the spot.

  Happy Jack, secure in the seclusion offered by the high bank of the creek, ran his finger regretfully around the inside of the carbolic salve box, eyed the result dissatisfiedly, and applied the finger carefully to a deep cut on his knee. He had got that cut while going up the bluff, just after leaving the tent where had been the shrieking females. He wished there was more salve, and he picked up the cover of the box and painstakingly wiped out the inside; the result was disheartening.

  He examined his knee dolefully. It was beginning to look inflamed, and it was going to make him limp. He wondered if the boys would notice anything queer about his walk. If they did, there was the conventional excuse that his horse had fallen down with him—Happy Jack hoped that it would be convincing. He took up the box again and looked at the shining emptiness of it. It had been half full—not enough, by a long way—and maybe some one would wonder what had become of it. Darn a bunch that always had to know everything, anyway!

  Happy Jack, warned at last by that unnamed instinct which tells of a presence unseen, turned around and looked up apprehensively. The Happy Family, sitting in a row upon their heels on the bank, looked down at him gravely and appreciatively.

  “There’s a can uh wagon dope, up at camp,” Cal Emmett informed him sympathetically.

  “Aw—” Happy Jack began, and choked upon his humiliation.

  “I used to know a piece uh poetry about a fellow like Happy,” Weary remarked sweetly. “It said

  ‘He raised his veil, the maid turned slowly round

  Looked at him, shrieked, and fell upon the ground.’

  Only, in this case,” Weary smiled blandly down upon him, “Happy didn’t have no veil.”

  “Aw, gwan!” adjured Happy Jack helplessly, and reached for his clothes, while the Happy Family chorused a demand for explanations.

  A TAMER OF WILD ONES.

  When the days grow crisp at each end and languorous in the middle; when a haze ripples the skyline like a waving ribbon of faded blue; when the winds and the grasses stop and listen for the first on-rush of winter, then it is that the rangeland takes on a certain intoxicating unreality, and range-wild blood leaps with desire to do something—anything, so it is different and irresponsible and not measured by precedent or prudence.

  In days like that one grows venturesome and ignores difficulties and limitations with a fine disregard for probable consequences, a mental snapping of fingers. On a day like that, the Happy Family, riding together out of Dry Lake with the latest news in mind and speech, urged Andy Green, tamer of wild ones, to enter the rough-riding contest exploited as one of the features of the Northern Montana Fair, to be held at Great Falls in two weeks. Pink could not enter, because a horse had fallen with him and hurt his leg, so that he was picking the gentlest in his string for daily riding. Weary would not, because he had promised his Little Schoolma’am to take care of himself and not take any useless risks; even the temptation of a two-hundred-dollar purse could not persuade him that a rough-riding contest is perfectly safe and without the ban. But Andy, impelled by the leaping blood of him and urged by the loyal Family, consented and said he’d try it a whirl, anyway.

  They had only ridden four or five miles when the decision was reached, and they straightway turned back and raced into Dry Lake again, so that Andy might write the letter that clinched matters. Then, whooping with the sheer exhilaration of living, and the exultation of being able to ride and whoop unhindered, they galloped back to camp and let the news spread as it would. In a week all Chouteau County knew that Andy Green would ride for the purse, and nearly all Chouteau County backed him with all the money it could command; certainly, all of it that knew Andy Green and had seen him ride, made haste to find someone who did not know him and whose faith in another contestant was strong, and to bet all the money it could lay hands upon.

  For Andy was one of those mild-mannered men whose genius runs to riding horses which object violently to being ridden; one of those lucky fellows who never seems to get his neck broken, however much he may jeopardize it; and, moreover, he was that rare genius, who can make a “pretty” ride where other broncho-fighters resemble nothing so much as a scarecrow in a cyclone. Andy not only could ride—he could ride gracefully. And the reason for that, not many knew: Andy, in the years before he wandered to the range, had danced, in spangled tights, upon the broad rump of a big gray horse which galloped around a saw-dust ring with the regularity of movement that suggested a machine, while a sober-clothed man in the center cracked a whip and yelped commands. Andy had jumped through blazing hoops and over sagging bunting while he rode—and he was just a trifle ashamed of the fact. Also—though it does not particularly matter—he had, later in the performance, gone hurtling around the big tent dressed in the garb of an ancient Roman and driving four deep-chested bays abreast. As has been explained, he never boasted of his circus experience; though his days in spangled tights probably had much to do with the inimitable grace of him in the saddle. The Happy Family felt to a man that Andy would win the purse and add honor to the Flying U in the winning. They were enthusiastic over the prospect and willing to bet all they had on the outcome.

  * * * *

  The Happy Family, together with the aliens who swelled the crew to round-up size, was foregathered at the largest Flying U corral, watching a bunch of newly bought horses circle, with much snorting and kicking up of dust, inside the fence. It was the interval between beef-and calf-roundups, and the witchery of Indian Summer held the range-land in thrall.

  Andy, sizing up the bunch and the brands, lighted upon a rangy blue roan that he knew—or thought he knew, and the eyes of him brightened with desire. If he could get that roan in his string, he told himself, he could go to sleep in the saddle on night-guard; for an easier horse to ride he never had straddled. It was like sitting in grandma’s pet rocking chair when that roan loosened his muscles for a long, tireless gallop over the prairie sod, and as a stayer Andy had never seen his equal. It was not his turn to choose, however, and he held his breath lest the rope of another should settle over the slatey-black ears ahead of him.

  Cal Emmett roped a plump little black and led him out, grinning satisfaction; from the white saddle-marks back of the withers he knew him for a “broke” horse, and he certainly was pretty to look at. Andy gave him but a fleeting glance.

  Happy Jack spread his loop and climbed down from the fence, almost at Andy’s elbow. It was his turn to choose. “I betche that there blue roan over there is a good one,” he remarked. “I’m going to tackle him.”

  Andy took his cigarette from between his lips. “Yuh better hobble your stirrups, then,” he discouraged artfully. “I know that roan a heap better than you do.”

  “Aw, gwan!” Happy, nevertheless, hesitated. “He’s got a kind eye in his head; yuh can always go by a horse’s eye.”

  “Can yuh?�
�� Andy smiled indifferently. “Go after him, then. And say, Happy: if yuh ride that blue roan for five successive minutes, I’ll give yuh fifty dollars. I knew that hoss down on the Musselshell; he’s got a record that’d reach from here to Dry Lake and back.” It was a bluff, pure and simple, born of his covetousness, but it had the desired effect—or nearly so.

  Happy fumbled his rope and eyed the roan. “Aw, I betche you’re just lying,” he hazarded; but, like many another, when he did strike the truth he failed to recognize it. “I betche—”

  “All right, rope him out and climb on, if yuh don’t believe me.” The tone of Andy was tinged with injury. “There’s fifty dollars—yes, by gracious, I’ll give yuh a hundred dollars if yuh ride him for five minutes straight.”

  A conversation of that character, carried on near the top of two full-lunged voices, never fails in the range land to bring an audience of every male human within hearing. All other conversations and interests were immediately suspended, and a dozen men trotted up to see what it was all about. Andy remained roosting upon the top rail, his rope coiled loosely and dangling from one arm while he smoked imperturbably.

  “Oh, Happy was going to rope out a sure-enough bad one for his night hoss, and out uh the goodness uh my heart, I put him wise to what he was going up against,” he explained carelessly.

  “He acts like he has some thoughts uh doubting my word, so I just offered him a hundred dollars to ride him—that blue roan, over there next that crooked post. Get a reserved seat right in front of the grand stand where all the big acts take place;” he sung out suddenly, in the regulation circus tone. “Get-a-seat-right-in-front-where-Happy-Jack-the-Wild-Man-rides-the-bucking-broncho—Go on, Happy. Don’t keep the audience waiting. Aren’t yuh going to earn that hundred dollars?”

  Happy Jack turned half a shade redder than was natural. “Aw, gwan. I never said I was going to do no broncho-busting ack. But I betche yuh never seen that roan before he was unloaded in Dry Lake.”

  “What’ll yuh bet I don’t know that hoss from a yearling colt?” Andy challenged, and Happy Jack walked away without replying, and cast his loop sullenly over the first horse he came to—which was not the roan.

  Chip, coming up to hear the last of it, turned and looked long at the horse in question; a mild-mannered horse, standing by a crooked corral post and flicking his ears at the flies. “Do you know that roan?”he asked Andy, in the tone which brings truthful answer. Andy had one good point: he never lied except in an irresponsible mood of pure deviltry. For instance, he never had lied seriously, to an employer.

  “Sure, I know that hoss,” he answered truthfully.

  “Did you ever ride him?”

  “No,” Andy admitted, still truthfully. “I never rode him but once myself, but I worked right with a Lazy 6 rep that had him in his string, down at the U up-and-down, two years ago. I know the hoss, all right; but I did lie when I told Happy I knowed him from a colt. I spread it on a little bit thick, there.” He smiled engagingly down at Chip.

  “And he’s a bad one, is he?” Chip queried Over his shoulder, just as he was about to walk away.

  “Well,” Andy prevaricated—still clinging to the letter, if not to the spirit of truth. “He ain’t a hoss I’d like to see Happy Jack go up against. I ain’t saying, though, that he can’t be rode. I don’t say that about any hoss.”

  “Is he any worse than Glory, when Glory is feeling peevish?” Weary asked, when Chip was gone and while the men still lingered. Andy, glancing to make sure that Chip was out of hearing, threw away his cigarette and yielded to temptation. “Glory?” he snorted with a fine contempt. “Why, Glory’s—a—lamb beside that blue roan! Why, that hoss throwed Buckskin Jimmy clean out of a corral—Did yuh ever see Buckskin Jimmy ride? Well, say, yuh missed a pretty sight, then; Jimmy’s a sure-enough rider. About the only animal he ever failed to connect with for keeps, is that same cow-backed hoss yuh see over there. Happy says he’s got a kind eye in his head—” Andy stopped and laughed till they all laughed with him. “By gracious, Happy ought to step up on him, once, and see how kind he is!” He laughed again until Happy, across the corral saddling the horse he had chosen, muttered profanely at the derision he knew was pointed at himself.

  “Why, I’ve seen that hoss—” Andy Green, once fairly started in the fascinating path of romance, invented details for the pure joy of creation. If he had written some of the tales he told, and had sold the writing for many dollars, he would have been famous. Since he did not write them for profit, but told them for fun, instead, he earned merely the reputation of being a great liar. A significant mark of his genius lay in the fact that his inventions never failed to convince; not till afterward did his audience doubt.

  That is why the blue roan was not chosen in any of the strings, but was left always circling in the corral after a loop had settled. That is why the Flying U boys looked at him askance as they passed him by. That is why, when a certain Mr. Coleman, sent by the board of directors to rake northern Montana for bad horses, looked with favor upon the blue roan when he came to the Flying U ranch and heard the tale of his exploits as interpreted—I should say created—by Andy Green.

  “We’ve got to have him,” he declared enthusiastically. “If he’s as bad as all that, he’ll be the star performer at the contest, and make that two-hundred-dollar plum a hard one to pick. Some of these gay boys have entered with the erroneous idea that that same plum is hanging loose, and all they’ve got to do is lean up against the tree and it’ll drop in their mouths. We’ve got to have that roan. I’ll pay you a good price for him, Whitmore, if you won’t let him go any other way. We’ve got a reporter up there that can do him up brown in a special article, and people will come in bunches to see a horse with that kind of a pedigree. Is it Green, here, that knows the horse and what he’ll do? You’re sure of him, are you, Green?”

  Andy took time to roll a cigarette. He had not expected any such development as this, and he needed to think of the best way out. All he had wanted or intended was to discourage the others from claiming the blue roan; he wanted him in his own string. Afterwards, when they had pestered him about the roan’s record, he admitted to himself that he had, maybe, overshot the mark and told it a bit too scarey, and too convincingly. Under the spell of fancy he had done more than make the roan unpopular as a roundup horse; he had made him a celebrity in the way of outlaw horses. And they wanted him in the rough-riding contest! Andy, perhaps, had never before been placed in just such a position.

  “Are you sure of what the horse will do?” Mr. Coleman repeated, seeing that Andy was taking a long time to reply.

  Andy licked his cigarette, twisted an end and leaned backward while he felt in his pocket for a match. From the look of his face you never could have told how very uncomfortable he felt “Naw,” he drawled. “I ain’t never sure of what any hoss will do. I’ve had too much dealings with ’em for any uh that brand uh foolishness.” He lighted the cigarette as if that were the only matter in which he took any real interest, though he was thinking fast.

  Mr. Coleman looked nonplussed. “But I thought—you said—”

  “What I said,” Andy retorted evenly, “hit the blue roan two years ago; maybe he’s reformed since then; I dunno. Nobody’s rode him, here.” He could not resist a sidelong glance at Happy Jack. “There was some talk of it, but it never come to a head.”

  “Yuh offered me a hundred dollars—” Happy Jack began accusingly.

  “And yuh never made no move to earn it, that I know of. By gracious, yuh all seem to think I ought to mind-read that hoss! I ain’t seen him for two years. Maybe so, he’s a real wolf yet; maybe so, he’s a sheep.” He threw out both his hands to point the end of the argument—so far as he was concerned—stuck them deep into his trousers’ pockets and walked away before he could be betrayed into deeper deceit. It did seem to him rather hard that, merely because he had wanted the roan badly enough to—er—exercise a little diplomacy in order to get him, they should keep harping on
the subject like that. And to have Coleman making medicine to get the roan into that contest was, to say the least, sickening. Andy’s private belief was that a twelve-year-old girl could go round up the milk-cows on that horse. He had never known him to make a crooked move, and he had ridden beside him all one summer and had seen him in all places and under all possible conditions. He was a dandy cow-horse, and dead gentle; all this talk made him tired. Andy had forgotten that he himself had started the talk.

  Coleman went often to the corral when the horses were in, and looked at the blue roan. Later he rode on to other ranches where he had heard were bad horses, and left the roan for further consideration. When he was gone, Andy breathed freer and put his mind to the coming contest and the things he meant to do with the purse and with the other contestants.

  “That Diamond G twister is going t’ ride,” Happy Jack announced, one day when he came from town. “Some uh the boys was in town and they said so. He can ride, too. I betche Andy don’t have no picnic gitting the purse away from that feller. And Coleman’s got that sorrel outlaw uh the HS. I betche Andy’ll have to pull leather on that one.” This was, of course, treason pure and simple; but Happy Jack’s prophecies were never taken seriously.

  Andy simply grinned at him. “Put your money on the Diamond G twister,” he advised calmly. “I know him—he’s a good rider, too. His name’s Billy Roberts. Uh course, I aim to beat him to it, but Happy never does like to have a sure-thing. He wants something to hang his jaw down over. Put your money on Billy and watch it fade away, Happy.”

  “Aw, gwan. I betche that there sorrel—”

  “I rode that there sorrel once, and combed his forelock with both spurs alternate,” Andy lied boldly. “He’s pickings. Take him back and bring me a real hoss.”