The B. M. Bower Megapack

by B. M. Bower

  She might have got up in time to see him off, he thought discontentedly; but he supposed one cowpuncher more or less made little difference to her. Anyway, he didn’t know as he had any license to moon around her. She probably had a fellow; she might even be engaged, for all he knew. And—she was Harry Conroy’s sister; and from his experience with the breed, good looks didn’t count for anything. Harry was good-looking, and he was a snake, if ever there was one. He had never expected to lie for him—but he had done it, all right—and because Harry’s sister happened to have nice eyes and a pretty little foot!—

  He had half a mind to go back and tell Rodway all he knew about those horses; it was only a matter of time, anyway, till Harry Conroy overshot the mark and got what was coming to him. He sure didn’t owe Harry anything, that he had need to shield him like he had done. Still, Rodway would wonder why he hadn’t told it at first; and that little girl believed in Harry, and said he was “splendid!” Humph! He wondered if she really meant that. If she did—

  He squared his back to the house—and the memory of Miss Conroy’s eyes—and plodded across the field to the gate. Now the sun was shining, and there was no possibility of getting lost. The way to the Cross L lay straight and plain before him.

  Rowdy rode leisurely up over the crest of a ridge beyond which lay the home ranch of the Cross L. Whether it was henceforth to be his home he had yet to discover—though there was reason for hoping that it would be. Even so venturesome a man as Rowdy Vaughan would scarce ride a long hundred miles through unpeopled prairie, in the tricky month of March, without some reason for expecting a welcome at the end of his journey. In this case, a previous acquaintance with “Wooden Shoes” Mielke, foreman of the Cross L, was Rowdy’s trump-card. Wooden Shoes, whenever chance had brought them together in the last two or three years, was ever urging Rowdy to come over and unroll his soogans in the Cross L bed-tent, and promising the best string in the outfit to ride—besides other things alluring to a cow-puncher. So that, when his relations with the Horseshoe Bar became strained, Rowdy remembered his friend of the Cross L and the promises, and had drifted south.

  Just now he hoped that Wooden Shoes would be home to greet him, and his eyes searched wishfully the huddle of low-eaved cabins and the assortment of sheds and corrals for the bulky form of the foreman. But no one seemed to be about—except a bigbodied, bandy-legged individual, who appeared to be playfully chasing a big, bright bay stallion inside the large enclosure where stood the cabins.

  Rowdy watched them impersonally; a glance proved that the man was not Wooden Shoes, and so he was not particularly interested in him or his doings. It did occur to him, however, that if the fellow wanted to catch that brute, he ought to have sense enough to get a horse. No one but a plumb idiot would mill around in that snow afoot. He jogged down the slope at a shuffling trot, grinning tolerantly at the pantomime below.

  He of the bandy-legs stopped, evidently out of breath; the stallion stopped also, snorting defiance. Rowdy heard him plainly, even at that distance. The horse arched his neck and watched the man warily, ready to be off at the first symptom of hostilities—and Rowdy observed that a short rope hung from his halter, swaying as he moved.

  Bandy-legs seemed to have an idea; he turned and scuttled to the nearest cabin, returning with what seemed a basin of oats, for he shook it enticingly and edged cautiously toward the horse. Rowdy could imagine him coaxing, with hypocritically endearing names, such as “Good old boy!” and “Steady now, Billy”—or whatever the horse’s name might be. Rowdy chuckled to himself, and hoped the horse saw through the subterfuge.

  Perhaps the horse chuckled also; at any rate, he stood quite still, equally prepared to bounce away on the instant or to don the mask of docility. Bandy-legs drew nearer and nearer, shaking the basin briskly, like an old woman sifting meal. The horse waited, his nostrils quivering hungrily at the smell of the oats, and with an occasional low nicker.

  Bandy-legs went on tiptoes—or as nearly as he could in the snow—the basin at arm’s length before. The dainty, flaring nostrils sniffed tentatively, dipped into the basin, and snuffed the oats about luxuriously—till he felt a stealthy hand seize the dangling rope. At the touch he snorted protest, and was off and away, upsetting Bandy-legs and the basin ignominiously into a high-piled drift.

  Bandy-legs sat up, scraped the snow out of his collar and his ears, and swore. It was then that Rowdy appeared like an angel of deliverance.

  “Want that horse caught?” he yelled cheerfully.

  Bandy-legs lifted up his voice and bellowed things I should not like to repeat verbatim. But Rowdy gathered that the man emphatically did want that so-and-so-and-then-some horse caught, and that it couldn’t be done a blessed minute too soon. Whereat Rowdy smiled anew, with his face discreetly turned away from Bandy-legs, and took down his rope and widened the loop. Also, he turned Chub loose.

  The stallion evidently sensed what new danger threatened his stolen freedom, and circled the yard with high, springy strides. Rowdy circled after, saw his chance, swirled the loop twice over his head, and hazarded a long throw.

  Rowdy knew it for pure good luck that it landed right, but to this day Bandy-legs looks upon him as a Wonder with a rope—and Bandy-legs would insist upon the capital.

  “Where shall I take him?” Rowdy asked, coming up with his captive, and with nothing but his eyes to show how he was laughing inwardly.

  Bandy-legs crawled from the drift, still scraping snow from inside his collar, and gave many directions about going through a certain gate into such-and-such a corral; from there into a stable; and by seeming devious ways into a minutely described stall.

  “All right,” said Rowdy, cutting short the last needless details. “I guess I can find the trail;” and started off, leading the stallion. Bandy-legs followed, and Chub, observing the departure of Dixie, ambled faithfully in the rear.

  “Much obliged,” conceded Bandy-legs, when the stallion was safely housed and tied securely. “Where yuh headed for, young man?”

  “Right here,” Rowdy told him calmly, loosening Dixie’s cinch. “I’m the long-lost top hand that the Cross L’s been watching the sky-line for, lo! these many moons, a-yearning for the privilege of handing me forty plunks about twice as fast as I’ve got ’em coming. Where’s the boss?”

  “Er—I’m him,” confessed Bandy-legs meekly, and circled the two dubiously. “I guess you’ve heard uh Eagle Creek Smith—I’m him. The Cross L belongs to me.”

  Rowdy let out an explosive, and showed a row of nice teeth. “Well, I ain’t hard to please,” he added. “I won’t kick on that, I guess. I like your looks tolerable well, and I’m willing to take yuh on for a boss. If yuh do your part, I bet we’ll get along fine.” His tone was banteringly patronizing “Anyway, I’ll try yuh for a spell. You can put my name down as Rowdy Vaughan, lately canned from the Horseshoe Bar.”

  “What for?” ventured Bandy-legs—rather, Eagle Creek—still circling Rowdy dubiously.

  “What for was I canned?” repeated Rowdy easily. “Being a modest youth, I hate t’ tell yuh. But the old man’s son and me, we disagreed, and one of his eyes swelled some; so did mine, a little.” He stood head and shoulders above Eagle Creek, and he smiled down upon him engagingly. Eagle Creek capitulated before the smile.

  “Well, I ain’t got any sons—that I know of,” he grinned. “So I guess yuh can consider yourself a Cross L man till further notice.”

  “Why, sure!” The teeth gleamed again briefly. “That’s what I’ve been telling you right along. Where’s old Wooden Shoes? He’s responsible for me being here.”

  “Gone to Chinook. He’ll be back in a day or two.” Eagle Creek shifted his feet awkwardly. “Say”—he glanced uneasily behind him—“yuh don’t want t’ let it get around that yuh sort of—hired me—see?”

  “Of course not,” Rowdy assured him. “I was only joshing. If you don’t want me, just tell me to hit the sod.”

  “You stay right where you’re at!” comma
nded Eagle Creek with returned confidence in himself and his authority. Of a truth, this self-assured, straight-limbed young man had rather dazed him. “Take your bed and war-bag up to the bunk-house and make yourself t’ home till the boys get back, and—say, where’d yuh git that pack-horse?”

  The laugh went out of Rowdy’s tawny eyes. The question hit a spot that was becoming sore. “I borrowed him this morning from Mr. Rodway,” he said evenly. “I’m to take him back today. I stopped there last night.”

  “Oh!” Eagle Creek coughed apologetically, and said no word, while Rowdy led Chub back to the cabin which he had pointed out as the bunk-house; he stood by while Rowdy loosened the pack and dragged it inside.

  “I guess you can get located here,” he said. “I ain’t workin’ more’n three or four men just now, but there’s quite a few uh the boys stopping here; the Cross L’s a regular hang-out for cow-punchers. You’re a little early for the season, but I’ll see that yuh have something t’ do—just t’ keep yuh out uh devilment.”

  Rowdy’s brows unbent; it would seem that Eagle Creek was capable of “joshing” also. “It’s up t’ you, old-timer,” he retorted. “I’m strong and willing, and don’t shy at anything but pitchforks.”

  Eagle Creek grinned. “This ain’t no blamed cowhospital,” he gave as a parting shot. “All the hay that’s shoveled on this ranch needn’t hurt nobody’s feelings.” With that he shut the door, and left Rowdy to acquaint himself with his new home.

  CHAPTER 4

  Pink as “Chappyrone”

  Rowdy was sprawled ungracefully upon somebody’s bunk—he neither knew nor cared whose—and he was snoring unmelodiously, and not dreaming a thing; for when a cow-puncher has nothing in particular to do, he sleeps to atone for the weary hours when he must be very wide-awake. An avalanche descended upon his unwarned middle, and checked the rhythmic ebb and flow of sound. He squawked and came to life clawing viciously.

  “I’d like t’ know where the devil yuh come from,” a voice remarked plaintively in a soft treble.

  Rowdy opened his eyes with a snap. “Pink! by all that’s good and bad! Get up off my diaphragm, you little fiend.”

  Pink absent-mindedly kneaded Rowdy’s stomach with his knuckles, and immediately found himself in a far corner. He came back, dimpling mischievously. He looked much more an angel than a fiend, for all his Angora chaps and flame-colored scarf.

  “Your bed and war-bag’s on my bunk; you’re on Smoky’s; and Dixie’s makin’ himself to home in the corral. By all them signs and tokens, I give a reckless guess you’re here t’ stay a while. That right?” He prodded again at Rowdy’s ribs.

  “It sure is, Pink. And if I’d known you was holding out here, I’d ’a’ come sooner, maybe. You sure look good to me, you darned little cuss!” Rowdy sat up and took a lightning inventory of the four or five other fellows lounging about. He must have slept pretty sound, he thought, not to hear them come in.

  Pink read the look, and bethought him of the necessary introductions. “This is my side-kicker over the line that—you’ve heard about till you’re plumb weary, boys,” he announced musically. “His name is Rowdy Vaughan—bronco-peeler, crap fiend, and all-round bad man. He ain’t a safe companion, and yuh want t’ sleep with your six-guns cuddled under your right ear, and never, on no account, show him your backs. He’s a real wolf, he is, and the only reason I live t’ tell the tale is because he respects m’ size. Boys, I’m afraid for yuh—but I wish yuh well.”

  “Pink, you need killing, and I’m tempted to live up to my rep,” grinned Rowdy indulgently. “Read me the pedigree of your friends.”

  “Oh, they ain’t no worse—when yuh git used to ’em. That long-legged jasper with the far-away look in his eyes is the Silent One—if he takes a notion t’ you, he’ll maybe tell yuh the name his mother calls him. He may have seen better days; but here’s hoping he won’t see no worse! He once was a tenderfoot; but he’s convalescing.”

  The Silent One nodded carelessly, but with a quick, measuring glance that Rowdy liked.

  “This unshaved savage is Smoky. He’s harmless, if yuh don’t mention socialism in his presence; and if yuh do, he’ll down-with-the-trust-and-long-live-the-sons-uh-toil, all hours uh the night, and keep folks awake. Then him and the fellow that started him off ’ll likely get chapped good and plenty. Over there’s Jim Ellis and Bob Nevin; they’ve both turned a cow or two, and I’ve seen worse specimens running around loose—plenty of ’em. That man hidin’ behind the grin—you can see him if yuh look close—is Sunny Sam. Yuh needn’t take no notice of him, unless you’re a mind to. He won’t care—he’s dead gentle.

  “Say,” he broke off, “how’d you happen t’ stray onto this range, anyhow? Yuh used t’ belong t the Horseshoe Bar so solid the assessor always t’ yuh down on the personal-property list.”

  “They won’t pay taxes on me no more, son.” Rowdy’s eyes dwelt fondly upon Pink’s cupid-bow mouth and dimples. He had never dreamed of finding Pink here; though, when he came to think of it there was no reason why he shouldn’t.

  Pink was not like any one else. He was slight and girlish to look at. But you mustn’t trust appearances; for Pink was all muscle strung on steel wire, according to the belief of those who tried to handle him. He had little white hands, and feet that looked quite comfortable in a number four boot, and his hair was a tawny gold and curled in distracting, damp rings on his forehead. His eyes were blue and long-lashed and beautiful, and they looked at the world with baby innocence—whereas a more sophisticated little devil never jangled spurs at his heels. He was everything but insipid, and men liked him—unless he chose to dislike them, when they thought of him with grating teeth. To find him bullying the Cross L boys brought a warmth to Rowdy’s heart.

  Pink made a cigarette, and then offered Rowdy his tobacco-sack, and asked questions about the Cypress Hills country. How was this girl?—and was that one married yet?—and did the other still grieve for him? As a matter of fact, he had yet to see the girl who could quicken his pulse a single beat, and for that reason it sometimes pleased him to affect susceptibility beyond that of other men.

  It was after dinner when he and Rowdy went humming down to the stables, gossiping like a couple of old women over a back fence.

  “I see you’ve got Conroy’s Chub yet,” Pink observed carelessly.

  “Oh, for Heaven’s sake let up on that cayuse!” Rowdy cried petulantly. “I wish I’d never got sight of the little buzzard-head; I’ve had him crammed down my throat the last day or two till it’s getting plumb monotonous. Pink, that cayuse never saw Oregon. He was raised right on this flat, and he belongs to old Rodway. I’ve got to lead him back there and turn him over today.”

  Pink took three puffs at his cigarette, and lifted his long lashes to Rowdy’s gloom-filled face. “Stole?” he asked briefly.

  “Stole,” Rowdy repeated disgustedly. “So was the whole blame’ bunch, as near as I can make out.”

  “We might ’a’ knowed it. We might ’a’ guessed Harry Conroy wouldn’t have a straight title to anything if he could make it crooked. I bet he never finished paying back that money yuh lent him—out uh the kindness uh your heart. Did he?” Pink leaned against the corral fence and kicked meditatively at a snow-covered rock.

  “He did not, m’ son. Chub’s all I ever got out uh the deal—and I haven’t even got him. I borrowed him from Rodway to pack my bed over—borrowed the blame’ little runty cayuse that cost me sixty-four hard-earned dollars; that’s what Harry borrowed of me. And every blame’ gazabo on the flat wanted to know what I was doing with him!”

  “I can tell yuh where t’ find Conroy, Rowdy. He’s working for an outfit down on the river. I’d sure fix him for this! Yuh got plenty of evidence; you can send him up like a charm. It was different when he cut your latigo strap in that rough-riding contest; yuh couldn’t prove it on him. But this—why, man, it’s a cinch!”

  “I haven’t lost Harry Conroy, so I ain’t looking for him just now,” growle
d Rowdy. “So long as he keeps out uh reach, I won’t ask no more of him. And, Pink, I wish you’d keep this quiet—about him having Chub. I told Rodway I couldn’t put him next to the fellow that brought that bunch across the line. I told him the fellow went north and got killed. He did go north—fifty miles or so; and he’d ought to been killed, if he wasn’t. Let it go that way, Pink.”

  Pink looked like a cherub-faced child when he has been told there’s no Santa Claus. “Sure, if yuh say so,” he stammered dubiously. He eyed Rowdy reproachfully, and then looked away to the horizon. He kicked the rock out of place, and then poked it painstakingly back with his toe—and from the look of him, he did not know there was a rock there at all.

  “How’d yuh happen to run across Rodway?” he asked guilelessly.

  “I stopped there last night. I got to milling around in that storm, and ran across the schoolma’am that boards at Rodway’s, She was plumb lost, too, so we dubbed around together for a while, and finally got inside Rodway’s field. Then Chub come alive and piloted us to the house. This morning Rodway claimed him—says the brand has been worked from a Roman four. Oh, it’s all straight goods,” he added hastily. “Old Eagle Creek here knew him, too.”

  But Pink was not thinking of Chub. He hunched his chap-belt higher and spat viciously into the snow. “I knowed it,” he declared, with melancholy triumph. “It’s school-ma’amitis that’s gave yuh softening uh the vitals, and not no Christian charity play. How comes it you’re took that way, all unbeknown t’ your friends? Yuh never used t’ bother about no female girls. It’s a cinch you’re wise that she’s Harry’s sister; and I admit she’s a swell looker. But so’s he; and I should think, Rowdy, you’d had about enough uh that brand uh snake.”