The B. M. Bower Megapack

by B. M. Bower

  “I should say he does! Why, he left his bone when you called Pat. Now that’s a shame, doggums!”

  “Oh, well, we’ll let him polish off his bone first.” Starr made the offer with praiseworthy cheerfulness, and sat down on his heels with his back against the adobe wall to wait the dog’s pleasure.

  “Well, that makes up for some of the rocks,” Helen May approved generously, “and for some of the names you say you called him. And that reminds me, Man of the Desert, I suppose you have a name of some sort. I never heard what it was. Is it—Smith, perhaps?”

  “My name’s Starr,” he told her, with a little glow under the tan of his cheeks. “S, t, a, double r, Starr. I forgot I never told you. I’ve got a couple of given names, but I’d want to shoot a man that called me by ’em. Folks always call me just Starr, and maybe a few other things behind my back.”

  Helen May dropped her chin and looked at him steadily from under her eyebrows. “If there’s anything that drives me perfectly wild,” she said finally, “it’s a mystery. I’ve just simply got to know what those names are. I’ll never mention them, honest. But—”

  “Chauncy DeWitt,” Starr confessed. “Forget ’em. They was wished onto me when I wasn’t able to defend myself.”

  “Given names are horrid things, aren’t they?” Helen May sympathized. “I think mine is perfectly imbecile. Fathers and mothers shouldn’t be allowed to choose names for their children. They ought to wait till the kids are big enough to choose for themselves. If I ever have any, I’ll call them It. When they grow up they can name themselves anything they like.”

  “You’ve got no right to kick,” Starr declared bluntly. “Your name suits you fine.”

  His eyes said more than that, so that Helen May gave her attention to the dog. “There, now, you’ve licked it and polished it and left teeth marks all over it,” she said, meaning the bone. “Come on, Pat, and let’s see if you’re a trained doggums.” She looked up at Starr and smiled. “Suppose he starts running after them; he might chase them clear off the ranch, and then what?”

  “I guess the supply of rocks’ll hold out,” Starr hinted, and snapped his fingers at the dog, which went to heel as a matter of course.

  “If you throw rocks at that dog, I’ll throw rocks at you,” Helen May threatened viciously.

  “And I’ll hit, and you’ll miss,” Starr added placidly. “Come on, let’s get busy and see if you deserved that bone.”

  Helen May had learned from uncomfortable experience that high-heeled slippers are not made for tramping over rocks and sand. She said that she would come as soon as she put on some shoes; but Starr chose to wait for her, though he pretended, to himself as much as to her, that he must take the bridle off Rabbit and let him pick a few mouthfuls of grass while he had the chance. Also he loosened the cinch and killed a fly or two on Rabbit’s neck, and so managed to put in the time until Helen May appeared in her khaki skirt and her high boots.

  “That’s the sensible outfit for this work,” Starr plucked up courage to comment as they started off. “That kid brother of yours must get pretty lonesome too, out here,” he added. “If you had some one to stay with you, I’d take him out on a trip with me once in a while and show him the country and let him learn to handle himself with a horse and gun. A fellow’s got to learn, in this country. So have you. How about it? Ever shoot a gun, either of you?”

  “Vic used to keep me broke, begging money for the shooting gallery down near our place,” said Helen May. “I used to shoot there a little.”

  “Popgun stuff, but good practice,” said Starr succinctly. “Got a gun on the ranch?”

  “No, only Vic’s little single-shot twenty-two. That’s good enough for jack rabbits. What would we want a gun for?”

  Starr laughed. “Season’s always open for coyotes, and you could pick up a little money in bounties now and then, if you had a gun,” he said. “That would keep you out in the open, too. I dunno but what I’ve got a rifle I could let you have. I did have one, a little too light a calibre for me, but it would be just about right for you. It’s a 25-35 carbine. I’m right sure I’ve got that gun on hand yet. I’ll bring it over to you. You sure ought to have a gun.”

  They were nearing the goats scattered over the slope that was shadiest, chosen for Vic’s comfort and not because of any thought for his charges. Vic himself was sprawled in the shade of a huge rock, and for pastime he was throwing rocks at every ground squirrel that poked its nose out of a hole. The two hundred goats were scattered far and wide, but as long as Billy was nibbling a bush within sight, Vic did not worry about the rest. He lifted himself to a sitting posture and grinned when the two came up.

  “Didn’t think to bring any pie, I s’pose?” he hinted broadly, and grinned companionably at Starr.

  “You’ve had two handouts since lunch. I guess you’ll last another hour,” Helen May retorted unfeelingly. “See the dog that followed Mr. Starr out from town, Vic! We’re going to see if he can herd goats.”

  “Well, if he can, he’s got my permission, that’s a cinch.”

  “I do believe he can; see him look at them! His name’s Pat, and he likes me awfully well.”

  “Now, where does he get that idea?” taunted Vic, and winked openly at Starr, who was good enough to smile over what he considered a very poor joke.

  “Well, let’s see you bunch ’em, Pat.” Starr made a wide, sweeping gesture with his left arm, his eyes darting a quick look at the girl.

  Pat looked up at him, waggled his stub of a tail, and darted down the slope to the left, now and then uttering a yelp. Scattered goats lifted heads to look, their jaws working comically sidewise as though they felt they must dispose of that particular mouthful before something happened to prevent. As Pat neared them, they scrambled away from him, running to the right, which was toward the bulk of the band.

  Down into the Basin itself the dog ran, after a couple of goats that had strayed out into the level. These he drove back in a panic of haste, dodging this way and that, nipping, yelping now and then, until they had joined the others. Then he went on to the further fringes of the hand, which evened like the edge of a pie crust under the practised fingers of a good cook.

  “Well, would you look at that!” Helen May never having watched a good sheep-dog at work, spoke in an awed tone. “Vic, please write!”

  Vic, watching open-mouthed, actually forgot to resent the implication that Pat had left him hopelessly behind in the art of handling goats.

  “Seems to have the savvy, all right,” Starr observed, just as though he had not paid all those dollars for the “savvy” that made Pat one of the best goat dogs in the State.

  “Savvy? Why, that dog’s human. Now, I suppose he’s stopping over there to see what he must do next, is he?”

  “Wants to know whether I want ’em all rounded up, or just edged up outa the Basin. G’ round ’em, Pat,” he called, and made a wide, circular sweep with his right arm.

  Pat gave a yelp, dropped his head, and scurried up the ridge, driving all stragglers back toward the center of the flock. He went to every crest and sniffed into the wind to satisfy himself that none had strayed beyond his sight; returned and evened up the ragged edges of the hand, and then came trotting back to Starr with six inches of pink tongue draped over his lower jaw and a smile in his eyes and a waggle of satisfaction at loved work well done. The goats, with a meek Billy in the foreground, huddled in a compact mass on the slope and eyed the dog as they had never eyed Vic, for all his hoe-handle and his accuracy with rocks.

  Helen May dropped her hand on Pat’s head and looked soberly into his upturned eyes. “You’re a perfect miracle of a dog, so you can’t be my dog, after all,” she said. “Your owner will be riding day and night to find you. I know I should, if you got lost from me.” Then she looked at Starr. “Don’t you think you really ought to take him back with you? It—somehow it doesn’t seem quite right to keep a dog that knows so much. Why, the man I bought the goats from had a dog that could
herd them, and he wanted twenty-five dollars for it, and at that, he claimed he was putting the price awfully low for me, just because I was a lady, you know.”

  Starr, was (as he put it) kicking himself for having lied himself into this dilemma. Also he was wondering how best he might lie himself out of it.

  “You want to look out for these marks that say they’re giving you the big end of a bargain just because you’re a lady,” he said. “Chances are they’re figuring right then on doing you. If that fellow had got twenty-five dollars for his dog, take it from me, he wouldn’t have lost anything.”

  “Well, but do you think it would he right to keep this dog?”

  Since she put it that way, Starr felt better. “I sure do. Keep him anyway till he’s called for. When I go back, I’ll find out where he comes from; and when I’ve located the owner, maybe I’ll be able to fix it up with him somehow. You sure ought to have a dog. So let it stand that way. I’ll tell yuh when to give him up.”

  Helen May opened her lips, and Starr, to forestall argument and to save his soul from further sin, turned toward the dog. “Bring ’em home, Pat,” he said, and then started toward the corral, which was down below the spring. “Watch him drive,” he said to Helen May and so managed to distract her attention from the ethics of the case.

  Without any assistance, Pat drove the goats to the corral. More than that, at Starr’s command, he split the band and held half of them aloof while the rest went in. He sent these straight down the Basin until Starr recalled him, when he swung back and corralled them with the others. He came then toward the three for further orders, whereupon Vic, who had been silent from sheer amazement, gave a sudden whoop.

  “Hey, Pat! You forgot something. Go back and put up the bars!” he yelled. Then he heaved his hoe-handle far from him and stretched his arms high over his head like one released from an onerous task. “I’ll walk out and let Pat have my job,” he said. “Herding goats is dog’s work anyhow, and I told you so the first day, Helen Blazes. Hadn’t herded ’em five minutes before I knew I wasn’t cut out for a farmer.”

  “Go on, Pat; you stay with your goats,” Starr commanded gently. And Pat, because he had suckled a nanny goat when he was a pup, and had grown up with her kid, and had lived with goats all his life, trotted into the corral, found himself a likeable spot near the gate, snuffed it all over, turned around twice, and curled himself down upon it in perfect content.

  “He’ll stay there all night,” Starr told them, laying the bars in their sockets. “It’s a little early to corral ’em, sundown is about the regular time, but it’s a good scheme to give him plenty of time to get acquainted with the layout. You get up early, Vic, and let ’em out on the far side of the ridge. Pat’ll do the rest. I’ll have to jog along now.”

  “Well, say,” Vic objected, rubbing his tousled blond hair into a distracted, upstanding condition, “I wish you’d show me just how you shift his gears. How the dickens do you do it? He don’t know what you say.”

  Before he left, Starr showed him the gestures, and Vic that evening practised them so enthusiastically that he nearly drove Helen May wild. Perhaps that is why, when she was copying a sentence where Holman Sommers had mentioned the stars of the universe, Helen May spelled stars, “Starr’s” and did not notice the mistake at all.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE TRAIL OF SILVERTOWN CORDS

  Having wasted a couple of hours more than he intended to spend in delivering the dog, Starr called upon Rabbit to make up those two hours for him. And, being an extremely misleading little gray horse, with a surprising amount of speed and endurance stored away under his hide, Rabbit did not fall far short of doing so.

  Starr had planned an unexpected visit to the Medina ranch. In the guise of stock-buyer his unexpectedness would be perfectly plausible, and he would be well pleased to arrive there late, so long as he did not arrive after dark. Just before sundown would do very well, he decided. He would catch Estan Medina off his guard, and he would have the evening before him, in case he wanted to scout amongst the arroyos on the way home.

  Starr very much wanted to know who drove an automobile without lights into isolated arroyos and over the desert trails at night. He had not, strange to say, seen any machine with Silvertown cord tires in San Bonito or in Malpais, though he had given every car he saw the second glance to make sure. He knew that such tires were something new and expensive, so much so that they were not in general use in that locality. Even in El Paso they were rarely seen at that time, and only the fact that the great man who gave him his orders had happened to be using them on his machine, and had mentioned the fact to Starr, who was honored with his friendship, had caused Starr to be familiar with them and to recognize instantly the impress they left in soft soil. It was a clue, and that was the best he could say for it. It was just a little better than nothing, he decided. What he wanted most was to see the machine itself at close range, and to see the men who rode in it—and I am going to tell you why.

  There was a secret political movement afoot in the Southwest; a movement hidden so far underground as to be practically unnoticed on the surface; but a movement, nevertheless, that had been felt and recorded by that political seismograph, the Secret Service of our Government. It had been learned, no mere citizen may know just how, that the movement was called the Mexican Alliance. It was suspected that the object was the restoration of three of our States to Mexico, their original owner. Suspected, mind you; and when even the Secret Service can do no more than suspect, you will see how well hidden was the plot. Its extent and its ramifications they could only guess at. Its leaders no man could name, nor even those who might be suspected more than others.

  But a general uprising in three States, in conjunction with, and under the control of, a concerted, far-sweeping revolution across the border, would not be a thing to laugh over. Uncle Sam smiled tolerantly when some would have had him chastise. Uncle Sam smiled, and watched, and waited and drummed his fingers while he read secret reports from men away out somewhere in Arizona, and New Mexico, and Texas, and urged them to burrow deeper and deeper underground, and to follow at any cost the molelike twistings and blind turnings of this plot to steal away three whole States in a lump.

  Now you see, perhaps, why Starr was so curious about that automobile, and why he was interested in Estancio Medina, Mexican-American rancher who owned much land and many herds, and who was counted a power among his countrymen; who spoke English with what passed for fluency, and who had very decided and intelligent opinions upon political matters, and who boldly proclaimed his enthusiasm for the advancement of his own race.

  But he did not go to the Medina ranch that evening, for the very good reason that he met his man fair in the trail as it looped around the head of the draw where he had heard the automobile running without lights. As on that other evening, Starr had cut straight across the loop, going east instead of west. And where the trail forked on the farther side he met Estan Medina driving a big, lathery bay horse hitched to a shiny, new covered buggy. He seemed in a hurry, but he pulled up nevertheless to have a word with Starr. And Starr, always observant of details, saw that he had three or four packages in the bottom of the buggy, which seemed to bear out Estan’s statement that he had been to town, meaning San Bonito.

  Starr rolled a cigarette, and smoked it while he gossiped with Estan of politics, pretty girls, and the price of mutton. He had been eyeing the new buggy speculatively, and at last he spoke of it in that admiring tone which warms the heart of the listener.

  “Some turnout, Estan,” he summed up. “But you ought to be driving an automobile. All your friends are getting them.”

  Estan lifted his shoulders in true Spanish fashion and smiled. “No, amigo. Me, I can take pleasure yet from horses. And the madre, she’s so ’fraid of them automobiles. She cries yet when she knows I ride in one a little bit. Now she’s so proud, when I drive the new buggy home! She folds so pretty her best mantilla over her head and rides with me to church, and she
bows so polite—to all the señoras from the new buggy! And her face shines with the happiness in her heart. Oh, no, not me for the big automobile!” He smiled and shrugged and threw out his hands. “I like best to see my money walking around with wool on the back! Excuse, señor. I go now to bring the new buggy home and to see the smile of my mother.” Then he bethought him of the tradition of his house. “You come and have a soft bed and the comfort of my house,” he urged. “It is far to San Bonito, and it is not so far to my house.”

  Starr explained plausibly his haste, sent a friendly message to the mother and Luis, and rode on thoughtfully. Now and then he turned to glance behind him at the dust cloud rolling rapidly around the head of the draw.

  Since Estan had been to town himself that day, Starr reasoned that there would not be much gained by scouting through the arroyos that led near the Medina ranch. Estan would have seen in town the men he wanted to see. He could do so easily enough and without exciting the least suspicion; for San Bonito had plenty of saloons that were popular, and yet unobtrusive, meeting places. No need for the mysterious automobile to make the long journey through the sand today, if Estan Medina were the object of the visit, and Starr knew of no other Mexican out that way who would be important enough to have a hand in the mixing of political intrigue.

  He rode on, letting Rabbit drop into his poco-poco trail trot. He carried his head bent forward a little, and his eyebrows were pulled into a scowl of concentrated thought. It was all very well to suspect Estan Medina and to keep an eye upon him, but there were others who came nearer to the heart of the plot. He wanted to know who these were, and he believed that if he could once identify the four Mexicans whom Helen May had seen, he would be a long step ahead. He considered the simple expedient of asking her to describe them as closely as she could. But since secrecy was the keynote of his quest, he did not want to rouse her curiosity, and for purely personal reasons he did want to shield her as far as possible from any uneasiness or any entanglement in the affair.