The B. M. Bower Megapack

by B. M. Bower

  “Oh, the kitchen!” Marian exclaimed impatiently. “I don’t mind the cooking. That’s the least—”

  “It isn’t right, just the same. I—I don’t suppose that’s it altogether. I’m not trying to find out what the trouble is—but I wish you’d remember that I’m ready to do anything in the world that I can. You won’t misunderstand that, I’m sure.”

  “No-o,” said Marian slowly. “But you see, there’s nothing that you can do—except, perhaps, make things worse for me.” Then, to lighten that statement, she smiled at him. “Just now you can help me very much if you will go in and play something besides the Blue Danube Waltz. I’ve had to listen to that ever since Honora sent away for the music with the winter’s grocery order, last October. Tell Honora you got her some mushrooms. And don’t trust anyone. If you must bet on the horses, do so with your eyes open. They’re cheats—and worse, some of them.”

  Bud’s glance followed hers through the window that overlooked the corrals and the outbuildings. Lew was coming up to the house with a slicker over his head to keep off the drizzle.

  “Well, remember I’d do anything for you that I’d do for my mother or my sister Dulcie. And I wish you’d call on me just as they would, if you get in a pinch and need me. If I know you’ll do that I’ll feel a lot better satisfied.”

  “If I need you be sure that I shall let you know. And I’ll say that ‘It’s a comfort to have met one white man,’” Marian assured him hurriedly, her anxious eyes on her approaching husband.

  She need not have worried over his coming, so far as Bud was concerned. For Bud was in the sitting-room and had picked Honey off the piano stool, had given her a playful shake and was playing the Blue Danube as its composer intended that it should be played, when Lew entered the kitchen and kicked the door shut behind him.

  Bud spent the forenoon conscientiously trying to teach Honey that the rests are quite as important to the tempo of a waltz measure as are the notes. Honey’s talent for music did not measure up to her talent for coquetry; she received about five dollars’ worth of instruction and no blandishments whatever, and although she no doubt profited thereby, at last she balked and put her lazy white hands over her ears and refused to listen to Bud’s inexorable “One, two, three, one, two, three-and one, two, three.” Whereupon Bud laughed and returned to the bunk-house.

  He arrived in the middle of a heated argument over Jeff Hall’s tactics in racing Skeeter, and immediately was called upon for his private, personal opinion of Sunday’s race. Bud’s private, personal opinion being exceedingly private and personal, he threw out a skirmish line of banter.

  Smoky could run circles around that Skeeter horse, he boasted, and Jeff’s manner of riding was absolutely unimportant, non-essential and immaterial. He was mighty glad that holdup man had fallen down, last Sunday, before he got his hands on any money, because that money was going to talk long and loud to Jeff Hall next Sunday. Now that Bud had started running his horse for money, working for wages looked foolish and unprofitable. He was now working merely for healthful exercise and to pass the time away between Sundays. His real mission in life, he had discovered, was to teach Jeff’s bunch that gambling is a sin.

  The talk was carried enthusiastically to the dinner table, where Bud ignored the scowling proximity of Lew and repeated his boasts in a revised form as an indirect means of letting Marian know that he meant to play the Burroback game in the Burroback way—or as nearly as he could—and keep his honesty more or less intact. He did not think she would approve, but he wanted her to know.

  Once, when Buddy was fifteen, four thoroughbred cows and four calves disappeared mysteriously from the home ranch just before the calves had reached branding age. Buddy rode the hills and the valleys every spare minute for two weeks in search of them, and finally, away over the ridge where an undesirable neighbor was getting a start in cattle, Buddy found the calves in a fenced field with eight calves belonging—perhaps—to the undesirable neighbor.

  Buddy did not ride down to the ranch and accuse the neighbor of stealing the calves. Instead, he painstakingly sought a weak place in the fence, made a very accidental looking hole and drove out the twelve calves, took them over the ridge to Tomahawk and left them in a high, mountain meadow pretty well surrounded by matted thickets. There, because there was good grass and running water, the calves seemed quite as happy as in the field.

  Then Buddy hurried home and brought a branding iron and a fresh horse, and by working very hard and fast, he somehow managed to plant a deep tomahawk brand on each one of the twelve calves. He returned home very late and very proud of himself, and met his father face to face as he was putting away the iron. Explanations and a broken harness strap mingled painfully in Buddy’s memory for a long time afterwards, but the full effect of the beating was lost because Buddy happened to hear Bob Birnie confide to mother that the lad had served the old cattle-thief right, and that any man who could start with one thoroughbred cow and in four years have sufficient increase from that cow to produce eight calves a season, ought to lose them all.

  Buddy had not needed his father’s opinion to strengthen his own conviction that he had performed a worthy deed and one of which no man need feel ashamed. Indeed, Buddy considered the painful incident of the buggy strap a parental effort at official discipline, and held no particular grudge against his father after the welts had disappeared from his person.

  Wherefore Bud, the man, held unswervingly to the ethical standard of Buddy the boy. If Burroback Valley was scheming to fleece a stranger at their races and rob him by force if he happened to win, then Bud felt justified in getting every dollar possible out of the lot of them. At any rate, he told himself, he would do his darndest. It was plain enough that Pop was trying to make an opportunity to talk confidentially, but with a dozen men on the place it was easy enough to avoid being alone without arousing the old man’s suspicions. Marian had told him to trust no one; and Bud, with his usual thoroughness, applied the warning literally.

  Sunday morning he caught up Smoky and rode him to the corral. Smoky had recovered from his lameness, and while Bud groomed him for the afternoon’s running the men of Little Lost gathered round him and offered advice and encouragement, and even volunteered to lend him money if he needed it. But Bud told them to put up their own bets, and never to worry about him. Their advice and their encouragement, however, he accepted as cheerfully as they were given.

  “Think yuh can beat Skeeter, young feller?” Pop shambled up to inquire anxiously, his beard brushing Bud’s shoulder while he leaned close. “Remember what I told ye. You stick by me an’ I’ll stick by you. You shook on it, don’t forgit that, young feller.”

  Bud had forgotten, but he made haste to redeem his promise. “Last Sunday, Pop, I had to play it alone. Today-well, if you want to make an honest dollar, you know what to do, don’t you?”

  “Sho! I’m bettin’ on yore horse t’day, an’ mind ye, I want to see my money doubled! But that there lameness in his left hind ankle—I don’t see but what that kinda changes my opinion a little mite. You shore he won’t quit on ye in the race, now? Don’t lie to ole Pop, young feller!”

  “Say! He’s the gamest little horse in the state, Pop. He never has quit, and he never will.” Bud stood up and laid a friendly hand on the old fellow’s shoulder. “Pop, I’m running him today to win. That’s the truth. I’m going to put all I’ve got on him. Is that good enough?”

  “Shucks almighty! That’s good enough fer me,—plenty good fer me,” Pop cackled, and trotted off to find someone who had little enough faith in Smoky to wager a two-to-one against him.

  It seemed to Bud that the crowd was larger than that of a week ago, and there was no doubt whatever that the betting was more feverish, and that Jeff meant that day to retrieve his losses. Bud passed up a very good chance to win on other races, and centred all his betting on Smoky. He had been throughout the week boastful and full of confidence, and now he swaggered and lifted his voice in arrogant challenge to all
and sundry. His three hundred dollars was on the race, and incidentally, he never left Smoky from the time he led him up from pasture until the time came when he and Jeff Hall rode side by side down to the quarter post.

  They came up in a small whirlwind of speed and dust, and Smoky was under the wire to his ears when Skeeter’s nose showed beyond it. Little Lost was jubilant. Jeff Hall and his backers were not.

  Bud’s three hundred dollars had in less than a minute increased to a little over nine hundred, though all his bets had been moderate. By the time he had collected, his pockets were full and his cocksureness had increased to such an unbearable crowing that Jeff Hall’s eyes were venomous as a snake’s. Jeff had been running to win, that day, and he had taken odds on Skeeter that had seemed to him perfectly safe.

  “I’ll run yuh horse for horse!” he bellowed and spat out an epithet that sent Bud at him white-lipped.

  “Damn yuh, ride down to the quarter post and I’ll show you some running!” Bud yelled back. “And after you’ve swallowed dust all the way up the track, you go with me to where the women can’t see and I’ll lick the living tar outa you!”

  Jeff swore and wheeled Skeeter toward the starting post, beckoning Bud to follow. And Bud, hastily tucking in a flapping bulge of striped shirt, went after him. At that moment he was not Bud, but Buddy in one of his fighting moods, with his plans forgotten while he avenged an insult.

  Men lined up at the wire to judge for themselves the finish, and Dave Truman rode alone to start them. No one doubted but that the start would be fair—Jeff and Bud would see to that!

  For the first time in months the rein-ends stung Smoky’s flanks when he was in his third jump. Just once Bud struck, and was ashamed of the blow as it fell. Smoky did not need that urge, but he flattened his ears and came down the track a full length ahead of Skeeter, and held the pace to the wire and beyond, where he stopped in a swirl of sand and went prancing back, ready for another race if they asked it of him.

  “Guess Dave’ll have to bring out Boise and take the swellin’ outa that singin’ kid’s pocket,” a hardfaced man shouted as Jeff slid off Skeeter and went over to where his cronies stood bunched and conferring earnestly together.

  “Not today, he needn’t. I’ve had all the excitement I want; and I’d like to have time to count my money before I lose it,” Bud retorted. “Next Sunday, if it’s a clear day and the sign is right, I might run against Boise if it’s worth my while. Say, Jeff, seeing you’re playing hard luck, I won’t lick you for what you called me. And just to show my heart’s right, I’ll lend you Skeeter to ride home. Or if you want to buy him back, you can have him for sixty dollars or such a matter. He’s a nice little horse,—if you aren’t in a hurry!”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  WHY BUD MISSED A DANCE

  “Bud, you’re fourteen kinds of a damn fool and I can prove it,” Jerry announced without prelude of any kind save, perhaps, the viciousness with which he thrust a pitchfork into a cock of hay. The two were turning over hay-cocks that had been drenched with another unwelcome storm, and they had not been talking much. “Forking” soggy hay when the sun is blistering hot and great, long-billed mosquitoes are boring indefatigably into the back of one’s neck is not a pastime conducive to polite and animated conversation.

  “Fly at it,” Bud invited, resting his fork while he scratched a smarting shoulder. “But you can skip some of the evidence. I know seven of the kinds, and I plead guilty. Any able-bodied man who will deliberately make a barbecue of himself for a gang of blood-thirsty insects ought to be hanged. What’s the rest?”

  “You can call that mild,” Jerry stated severely. “Bud, you’re playing to lose the shirt off your back. You’ve got a hundred dollar forfeit up on next Sunday’s running match, so you’ll run if you have to race Boise afoot. That’s all right if you want the risk—but did it ever occur to you that if all the coin in the neighborhood is collected in one man’s pocket, there’ll be about as many fellows as there are losers, that will lay awake till sun-up figuring how to heel him and ride off with the roll? I ain’t over-stocked with courage, myself. I’d rather be broke in Burroback Valley than owner of wealth. It’s healthier.”

  He thrust his fork into another settled heap, lifted it clear of the ground with one heave of his muscular shoulders, and heard within a strident buzzing. He held the hay poised until a mottled gray snake writhed into view, its ugly jaws open and its fangs showing malevolently.

  “Grab him with your fork, Bud,” Jerry said coolly. “A rattler—the valley’s full of ’em,—some of ’em’s human.”

  The snake was dispatched and the two went on to the next hay-cock. Bud was turning over more than the hay, and presently he spoke more seriously than was his habit with Jerry.

  “You’re full enough of warnings, Jerry. What do you want me to do about it?”

  “Drift,” Jerry advised. “There’s moral diseases just as catching as smallpox. This part of the country has been settled up by men that came here first because they wanted to hide out. They’ve slipped into darn crooked ways, and the rest has either followed suit or quit. All through this rough country. It’s the same-over in the Black Rim, across Thunder Mountains, and beyond that to the Sawtooth, a man that’s honest is a man that’s off his range. I’d like to see you pull out—before you’re planted.”

  Bud looked at Jerry, studied him, feature by feature. “Then what are you doing here?” he demanded bluntly. “Why haven’t you pulled out?”

  “Me?” Jerry bit his lip. “Bud, I’m going to take a chance and tell you the God’s-truth. I dassent. I’m protected here because I keep my mouth shut, and because they know I’ve got to or they can hand me over. I had some trouble. I’m on the dodge, and Little Lost is right handy to the Sinks and—Catrock Canyon. There ain’t a sheriff in Idaho that would have one chance in a thousand of getting me here. But you—say!” He faced Bud. “You ain’t on the dodge, too, are yuh?”

  “Nope,” Bud grinned. “Over at the Muleshoe they seemed to think I was. I just struck out for myself, and I want to show up at home some day with a stake I made myself. It’s just a little argument with my dad that I want to settle. And,” he added frankly, “I seem to have struck the right place to make money quickly. The very fact that they’re a bunch of crooks makes my conscience clear on the point of running my horse. I’m not cheating them out of a cent. If Jeff’s horse is faster than Smoky, Jeff is privileged to let him out and win if he can. It isn’t my fault if he’s playing to let me win from the whole bunch in the hope that he can hold me up afterwards and get the roll. It’s straight ‘give and take’—and so far I’ve been taking.”

  Jerry worked for a while, moodily silent. “What I’d like is to see you take the trail; while the takin’s good,” he said later. “I’ve got to keep my mouth shut. But I like yuh, Bud. I hate like hell to see you walking straight into a trap.”

  “Say, I’m as easily trapped as a mountain lion,” Bud told him confidently.

  Whereat Jerry looked at him pityingly. “You going to that dance up at Morgan’s?”

  “Sure! I’m going to take Honey and—I think Mrs. Morris if she decides to go. Honey mentioned it last night. Why?”

  “Oh, nothing.” Jerry shouldered his fork and went off to where a jug of water was buried in the hay beside a certain boulder which marked the spot. He drank long, stopped for a short gossip with Charley, who strolled over for a drink, and went to work on another row.

  Bud watched him, and wondered if Jerry had changed rows to avoid further talk with him; and whether Jerry had merely been trying to get information from him, and had either learned what he wanted to know, or had given up the attempt. Bud reviewed mentally their desultory conversation and decided that he had accidentally been very discreet. The only real bit of information he had given Jerry was the fact that he was not “on the dodge”—a criminal in fear of the law—and that surely could harm no man.

  That he intended to run against Boise on Sunday was common k
nowledge; also that he had a hundred dollar forfeit up on the race. And that he was going to a dance with Honey was of no consequence that he could see.

  Bud was beginning to discount the vague warnings he had received. Unless something definite came within his knowledge he would go about his business exactly as if Burroback Valley were a church-going community. He would not “drift.”

  But after all he did not go to the dance with Honey, or with anyone. He came to the supper-table freshly shaved and dressed for the occasion, ate hungrily and straightway became a very sick young man. He did not care if there were forty dances in the Valley that night. His head was splitting, his stomach was in a turmoil. He told Jerry to go ahead with Honey, and if he felt better after a while he would follow. Jerry at first was inclined to scepticism, and accused Bud of crawfishing at the last minute. But within ten minutes Bud had convinced him so completely that Jerry insisted upon staying with him. By then Bud was too sick to care what was being done, or who did it. So Jerry stayed.

  Honey came to the bunk-house in her dance finery, was met in the doorway by Jerry and was told that this was no place for a lady, and reluctantly consented to go without her escort.

  A light shone dimly in the kitchen after the dancers had departed, wherefore Jerry guessed that Marian had not gone with the others, and that he could perhaps get hold of mustard for an emetic or a plaster—Jerry was not sure which remedy would be best, and the patient, wanting to die, would not be finicky. He found Marian measuring something drop by drop into half a glass of water. She turned, saw who had entered, and carefully counted three more drops, corked the bottle tightly and slid it into her apron pocket, and held out the glass to Jerry.

  “Give him this,” she said in a soft undertone. “I’m sorry, but I hadn’t a chance to say a word to the boy, and so I couldn’t think of any other way of making sure he would not go up to Morgan’s. I put something into his coffee to make him sick. You may tell him, Jerry, if you like. I should, if I had the chance. This will counteract the effects of the other so that he will be all right in a couple of hours.”