Probably Blister was right when he had told him to be a wolf. For him, anything was better than to be a sheep.
He clamped his teeth. He would show the Rio Blanco country whether he had a chicken heart. He would beat back somehow so that they would have to respect him whether they wanted to or not. If he made up his mind to it he could be just as game as Dud Hollister.
He would go through or he would die trying.
* * *
CHAPTER XXI
JUNE DISCOVERS A NEW WORLD
Blister had not overstated the case to Bob when he told him that June had been having the time of her life getting well. She had been a lonely little thing, of small importance in a country very busy on its own affairs. The sense of inferiority had oppressed her, due both to the secret of her father’s past and the isolation in which she dwelt. This had stimulated a sullen resentment and a shy pride which held even friendly souls at arm’s length.
Now she was being petted by everybody with whom she came into contact. She was pathetically grateful, and the big-hearted men and women of the frontier were worthy of the feeling. They gave her eager good will and generous sympathy. Into her room came soups and custards made by the best cooks on the river. When she was well enough to see visitors the mothers of Bear Cat came in person.
Through Melancthon Browning the landlady of the hotel shrewdly enlisted the aid of the most influential women in the community. June needed clothes. She had not a garment that was not worn out and ragged. But Mollie recognized the fact that more than these she was in need of the moral support of the settlers’ wives. Mrs. Larson could give her work and a home, but she could not give her that bulwark of her sex, respectability. Mollie was an exception to an established rule. She was liked and respected by other women in spite of her peculiarities. But this would not be true of her protégée unless the girl was above criticism. June must never step inside the bar or the gambling-room. She must find friends among the other girls of the town and take part in their social activities.
Wherefore Mollie, by timely suggestion, put it into the mind of the preacher to propose a sewing-bee to his congregation. Tolliver, under supervision, bought the goods and the women sewed. They made underclothes, petticoats, nightgowns, and dresses. They selected from the stock of Platt & Fortner shoes, stockings, and a hat, charging them to the account of Pete.
It was on her sixteenth birthday that June was taken into an adjoining room and saw all these treasures laid upon the bed. She did not at first understand that the two pretty dresses and all the comfortable, well-made clothes were for her. When this was made clear to her the tears brimmed to the long-lashed eyes. The starved little Cinderella was greatly touched. She turned to Mollie and buried her twitching face in a friendly bosom.
“Now—now—now,” Mollie reproved gently, stroking the dark crisp hair. “This is no way to act, dearie, an’ all the ladies so kind to you. You want to thank ’em, don’t you?”
“Yes, but—but—I—I—”
The smothered voice was tearful.
Mollie smiled at the committee. “I reckon she wants me to tell you for her that she’s plumb outa words to let you know how good she thinks you-all are.”
The black head nodded vigorously. “You’re the best folks—”
Mrs. Platt, a large and comfortable mother of seven, answered placidly. “I expect you’ll find, dearie, that most folks are good when you get on the right side of them. Now you try on them clothes an’ see if they fit. We tried ’em on my Mary. She’s about your size. You’re comin’ down to our house to supper to-night. I want you should get acquainted with the girls.”
June looked at Mollie, who nodded smilingly.
“I’ll be terrible glad to come, ma’am,” June said.
“Then that’s settled. They’re nice girls, if I do say it myself that am their mother.”
So June took her first timid steps into the social life of the frontier town. Shyly she made friends, and with them went to church, to Sunday School, and to picnics.
It had been definitely decided that she was to wait on table at the hotel restaurant and not return with her father to Piceance Creek. The plan had originated with Mollie, but Tolliver had acquiesced in it eagerly. If June went home with him Houck might reappear on the horizon, but if she stayed at Bear Cat, buttressed by the support of the town, the man from Brown’s Park would not dare to urge his claim again.
June waited on table at the hotel, but this did not keep her from the dances that were held in the old army hospital building. There were no class distinctions in Bear Cat then. There are not many now. No paupers lived in the county. This still holds good. Except the owners of the big cattle companies there were no men of wealth. A man was not judged by what he had or by the kind of work he was doing. His neighbors looked through externals to see what he was, stripped of all adventitious circumstance. On that basis solely he was taken into fellowship or cast out from it.
The girl from Piceance Creek worked hard and was content, even if not quite happy. If she ever thought of the boy she had married, no reference to him ever crossed her lips. She was known simply as June by the town. Strangers called her Miss Tolliver.
There was about her a quiet self-possession that discouraged familiarity on the part of ambitious and amorous cowboys. Her history, with its thread of tragedy running through the warp and woof of it, set her apart from other girls of her age. Still almost a child in years, she had been caught in the cross-currents of life and beaten by its cold waves. Part of the heritage of youth—its gay and adventurous longing for experience—had been filched from her before she was old enough to know its value. In time she would perhaps recover her self-esteem, but she would never know in its fullness that divine right of American maidenhood to rule its environment and make demands of it.
* * *
CHAPTER XXII
AN ALTERNATIVE PROPOSED AND DECLINED
The prediction made by Blister Haines that some overbearing puncher would bully Bob because of his reputation as safe game did not long wait fulfillment. A new rider joined the Slash Lazy D outfit. He had been working for the K Bar T for a couple of months. Prior to that time he had not been seen on the river. The rumor was that he hailed from Wyoming. To ask for more specific information would not have been good form. More than one or two cowboys in the Rio Blanco country had left their former homes just ahead of a sheriff.
Bandy Walker knew how to rope and ride. That was the main consideration of Harshaw when he hired him. He guessed the fellow’s name was not Walker any more than it was Bandy. One cognomen had been given him because he was so bow-legged; the other he had no doubt taken for purposes of non-identification.
Bandy was short, heavy-set, and muscular. At a glance one would have picked him out as dangerous. The expression on the face was sulky. The eyes were expressionless as jade.
He was given the bunk next Dillon and before twenty-four hours were past he had begun to bully him. It began with a surly request behind which Bob sensed a command.
“Fellow, get my bridle, won’t you? I left it with my saddle somewheres close to the chuck house. Got to fix it to-night.”
Dillon had taken off his high-heeled boots because they were hurting his feet. He observed that Walker, lying fully dressed on the blankets, was still wearing his.
“Why, sure,” Bob said amiably, and he tugged on his boots.
Presently he returned with the bridle and handed it to Bandy.
That was the beginning of it. Before the week was out Bob was the man’s flunkey, the butt of his ill-natured jokes, the helpless victim of his bad temper. Inside, he writhed. Another failure was being scored against him. But what could he do? This Bandy Walker was a gunman and a rough-and-tumble fighter. He boasted of it. Bob would be a child in his hands.
The other punchers watched the affair, drew deductions, but made no audible comments. The law of the outdoors is that every man must play his own hand. The Slash Lazy D resented Bandy. He was ugly in face, v
oice, and manner. His speech was offensive. He managed to convey insult by the curl of his lip. Yet he was cunning enough to keep within the bounds of safety. Nobody wanted to pick a quarrel with him, for it might turn out to be a serious business. The fellow looked rancorous. Moreover, the ranch riders had no use for Dillon. It would be a relief if Bandy drove him away. They felt disgraced when cowboys from the Circle Bar or the Quarter Circle Triangle inquired for the health of their new rider Miss Roberta.
Dud and Bob were riding Milk Creek one day about a week after Walker’s arrival. They unsaddled at noon and lay down to loaf on a sunny bank close to the water’s edge.
Hollister had been silent all morning, contrary to his usual custom. His good spirits usually radiated gayety.
“What’s the matter? Ain’t you feelin’ good?” Bob asked.
“No, I ain’t.”
“Stomach?”
“Heart,” returned Dud gloomily.
Bob sat up. “Why, I never heard there was anything the matter with yore heart. If there is, you hadn’t ought to be ridin’ these crazy colts you do.”
“Nothin’ the matter with my heart. It’s yore’s I’m worryin’ about.”
Bob flushed, but said nothing.
“I’m wonderin’ how long you’re aimin’ to let that bully puss fellow Walker run over you.”
“What can I do?” Bob did not look at his companion. He kept his eyes on the ground, where he was tracing figures with a broken stick.
“Well, there’s seve-re-al things you could do. You might work the plug-ugly over. It couldn’t hurt his looks none, an’ it might improve ’em. That’s one suggestion. I’ve got others where that come from.”
“He’s a bad actor. I expect he’d half kill me,” Bob muttered.
“I reckon he would, onless you beat him to it. That’s not the point. You got to fight him or admit you’re yellow. No two ways about that.”
“I can’t fight. I never did,” groaned Dillon.
“Then how do you know you can’t? If you can’t, take yore lickin’. But you be on top of him every minute of the time whilst you’re gettin’ it. Go to it like a wild cat. Pretty soon something’ll drop, an’ maybe it won’t be you.”
“I—can’t.”
Dud’s blue eyes grew steely. “You can’t, eh? Listen, fellow. I promised Blister to make a man outa you if I could. I aim to do it. You lick Bandy good to-night or I’ll whale you to-morrow. That ain’t all either. Every time you let him run on you I’ll beat you up next day soon as I get you alone.”
Bob looked at him, startled. “You wouldn’t do that, Dud?”
“Wouldn’t I? Don’t you bet I wouldn’t. I’m makin’ that promise right now.”
“I thought you were—my friend,” Bob faltered.
“Don’t you think it. I’m particular who I call by that name. I ain’t a friend of any man without sand in his gizzard. But I done give my word to Old Blister an’ I gotta come through. It’ll hurt you more’n it will me, anyhow.”
“I’ll quit an’ leave this part of the country,” Bob said wretchedly.
“I’m not stoppin’ you, but you won’t go till I’ve whopped you once good. Will you take it now?”
“Let’s talk it over reasonable,” Bob pleaded.
Dud looked disgusted. “I never see such a fellow for thinkin’ he could chin himself outa trouble. Nothin’ doing.”
“You’ve got no right to interfere in my affairs. It’s not yore business,” the worried victim of circumstances declared with an attempt at dignity.
“Say, don’t I know it? If I hadn’t promised Blister—But what’s the use? I done said I would, an’ I got to go through.”
“I’ll let you off yore promise.”
Dud shook his head. “Wish you could, but you can’t. It was to Blister I give my word. No, sir. You gotta take or give a lickin’, looks like. Either me or Bandy, I ain’t particular which.”
“You lay off me, Dud Hollister.”
“Honest, I hope you’ll fix it so’s I can. Well, you got till to-morrow to decide. Don’t forget. Me or Bandy one. You take yore choice.”
“I won’t fight you.”
“Then it’s Bandy. Suits me fine. Say, Bob, I ain’t so darned sure that fellow’ll be there so big when it comes to a show-down. He looks to me tricky rather than game. Take him by surprise. Then crawl his hump sudden. With which few well-chosen words I close. Yores sincerely, Well-wisher, as these guys sign themselves when they write to the papers.”
All through the rest of the day Bob was depressed. He felt as cheerful as a man about to be hanged. Why couldn’t they let him alone? He never in his life went looking for trouble and it seemed to hunt him out if he was anywhere in reach. It was not fair. What claim had Dud to mix into his difficulties with Bandy? Absolutely none.
He made up his mind to slip away in the night, ride to Glenwood, and take the train for Denver. There a fellow could live in peace.
* * *
CHAPTER XXIII
BOB CRAWLS HIS HUMP SUDDEN
There was a game of stud after supper in the bunkhouse. Bob lay on his bed, a prey to wretched dread. He had made up his mind to have it out with Bandy, but his heart was pumping water instead of blood. When he looked at the squat puncher, thick-necked and leather-faced, an ugly sneer on his lips, the courage died out of his breast.
Dud was sitting with his back to the wall. His attention was ostensibly on the game, but Bob knew he was waiting for developments.
Bandy sat next Dud. “Raise you once,” he snarled. His card-playing was like everything else he did, offensive by reason of the spirit back of it. He was a bad loser and a worse winner.
“And another blue,” said Hollister easily when it came his turn again. “Got to treat an ace in the hole with respect.”
The other two players dropped out, leaving only Bandy to contest the pot with Dud.
“Once more,” retorted the bow-legged puncher, shoving in chips.
“And again.”
“Hmp! Claim an ace in the hole, do you? Well, I’ll jes’ give it one more li’l’ kick.”
Hollister had showing a deuce of hearts, a trey of clubs, an ace of spades, and a four of hearts. He might have a five in the hole or an ace. Bandy had a pair of jacks in sight.
Dud called.
“You see it,” growled Bandy. “One pair.”
His opponent flipped over an ace of diamonds. “One pair here—aces.”
“Knew it all the time. Yore play gave it away,” jeered Bandy with obvious ill-temper.
“I reckon that’s why you kept raisin’,” Dud suggested, raking in the pot.
“All I needed was to hook a jack or another pair to beat you.”
“If I didn’t catch another ace or a small pair.”
The game was breaking up.
“Hell! I was playin’ poker before you could navigate, young fellow,” Bandy boasted. He had lost four dollars and was annoyed.
“An’ you’re still an optimist about hookin’ another pair when you need ’em.” Dud was counting his winnings placidly. “Six-fifty—seven—seven and two bits. Wish I had yore confidence in the music of the spears workin’ out so harmonious.”
This last was a reference to a book left at the ranch recently by the Reverend Melancthon Browning, the title of which was, “The Music of the Spheres.” Its philosophy was that every man makes his own world by the way he thinks about it.
Bandy jingled back to his bunk. He unstrapped his spurs, hooked one foot behind the knee of the other leg, and tried to work the wet boot off. The slippery leather stuck.
He called to Bob. “Come here, fellow, an’ yank this boot off for me.”
Dillon did not move. His heart stood still, then began to race. A choking filled his throat. The hour was striking for him. It was to be now or never.
The bow-legged puncher slewed his head. “I’m talkin’ to you.”
Slowly, reluctantly, Bob rose. He did not want to move. Something stronger tha
n his will lifted him out of the bed and dragged him across the floor. He knew his hands were trembling.
Malignant triumph rode in Bandy’s eye. It was always safe to bully this timid youth. Dud Hollister had a “No Trespass” sign displayed in his quiet, cool manner. Very well. He would take it out of his riding mate. That was one way of getting at him.
“What’s ailin’ you? Git a move on. You act like you’d like to tell me to go take a walk. I’ll bet you would, too, if you wasn’t such a rabbit heart.”
Bob stooped and picked up the dirty boot. He zigzagged it from the foot. As he straightened again his eyes met those of Dud. He felt a roaring in the temples.
“O’ course any one that’d let another fellow take his wife from him—an’ him not married more’n an hour or two—”
The young fellow did not hear the end of the cruel gibe. The sound of rushing waters filled his ears. He pulled off the second boot.
Again his gaze met that of Hollister. He remembered Dud’s words. “Crawl his hump sudden. Go to it like a wild cat.” The trouble was he couldn’t. His muscles would not obey the flaccid will.
The flood of waters died down. The roaring ceased. The puncher’s words came to him clear.
“... not but what she was likely glad enough to go with Jake. She was out with him four-five hours. Where was they, I ask? What was they doing? You can’t tell me she couldn’t ’a’ got away sooner if she’d wanted to so darned bad. No, sir, I’m no chicken right out of a shell. When it comes to a woman I say, Where’s the man?”
A surge of anger welled up in Dillon and overflowed. He forgot about Dud and his threats. He forgot about his trepidation. This hound was talking of June, lying about her out of his foul throat.
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