by B. M. Bower
CHAPTER NINE: LITTLE LOST
Little Lost--somehow the name appealed to Bud, whose instinct forharmony extended to words and phrases and, for that matter, toeverything in the world that was beautiful. From the time when he firstheard Little Lost mentioned, he had felt a vague regret that chance hadnot led him there instead of to the Muleshoe. Brands he had heard allhis life as the familiar, colloquial names for ranch headquarters. TheMuleshoe was merely a brand name. Little Lost was something else,and because Buddy had been taught to "wait and find out" and to askquestions only as a last resort, Bud was still in ignorance of themeaning of Little Lost. He knew, from careless remarks made in hispresence, that the mail came to Little Lost, and that there was somesort of store where certain everyday necessities were kept, for whichthe store-keeper charged "two prices." But there was also a ranch, forhe sometimes heard the boys mention the Little Lost cattle, and speak ofsome man as a rider for the Little Lost.
So to Little Lost Bud rode blithely next morning, riding Stopper andleading Smoky, Sunfish and the pack following as a matter of course.Again his trained instinct served him faithfully. He had a very goodgeneral idea of Burroback Valley, he knew that the Muleshoe occupied afair part of the south side, and guessed that he must ride north, towardthe Gold Gap Mountains, to find the place he wanted.
The trail was easy, his horses were as fat as was good for them. Intwo hours of riding at his usual trail pace he came upon another streamwhich he knew must be Sunk Creek grown a little wider and deeper in itsjourney down the valley. He forded that with a great splashing, climbedthe farther bank, followed a stubby, rocky bit of road that woundthrough dense willow and cottonwood growth, came out into a humpy meadowfull of ant hills, gopher holes and soggy wet places where the watergrass grew, crossed that and followed the road around a brushy ridge andfound himself squarely confronting Little Lost.
There could be no mistake, for "Little Lost Post Office" was unevenlypainted on the high cross-bar of the gate that stood wide open andpermanently warped with long sagging. There was a hitch-rail outside thegate, and Bud took the hint and left his horses there. From the wispsof fresh hay strewn along the road, Bud knew that haying had begun atLittle Lost. There were at least four cabins and a somewhat pretentious,story-and-a-half log house with vines reaching vainly to the high windowsills, and coarse lace curtains. One of these curtains moved slightly,and Bud's sharp eyes detected the movement and knew that his arrival wasobserved in spite of the emptiness of the yard.
The beaten path led to a screen door which sagged with much slamming,leaving a wide space at the top through which flies passed in and outquite comfortably. Bud saw that, also, and his fingers itched to resetthat door, just as he would have done for his mother--supposing hismother would have tolerated the slamming which had brought the need. Budlifted his gloved knuckles to knock, saw that the room within wasgrimy and bare and meant for public use, very much like the office of acountry hotel, with a counter and a set of pigeon-holes at the fartherend. He walked in.
No one appeared, and after ten minutes or so Bud guessed why, and wentback to the door, pushed it wide open and permitted it to fly shut witha bang. Whereupon a girl opened the door behind the counter and came in,glancing at Bud with frank curiosity.
Bud took off his hat and clanked over to the counter and asked if therewas any mail for Bud Birnie--Robert Wallace Birnie.
The girl looked at him again and smiled, and turned to shuffle a handfulof letters. Bud employed the time in trying to guess just what she meantby that smile.
It was not really a smile, he decided, but the beginning of one. And ifthat were the beginning, he would very much like to know what the wholesmile would mean. The beginning hinted at things. It was as if shedoubted the reality of the name he gave, and meant to conceal her doubt,or had heard something amusing about him, or wished to be friends withhim, or was secretly timorous and trying to appear merely indifferent.Or perhaps----
She replaced the letters and turned, and rested her hands on thecounter. She looked at him and again her lips turned at the corners inthat faint, enigmatical beginning of a smile.
"There isn't a thing," she said. "The mail comes this noon again. Do youwant yours sent out to any of the outfits? Or shall I just hold it?"
"Just hold it, when there is any. At least, until I see whether I land ajob here. I wonder where I could find the boss?" Bud was glancing oftenat her hands. For a ranch girl her hands were soft and white, but herfingers were a bit too stubby and her nails were too round and flat.
"Uncle Dave will be home at noon. He's out in the meadow with the boys.You might sit down and wait."
Bud looked at his watch. Sitting down and waiting for four hours did notappeal to him, even supposing the girl would keep him company. But helingered awhile, leaning with his elbows on the counter near her; and bythose obscure little conversational trails known to youth, he progressedconsiderably in his acquaintance with the girl and made her smile oftenwithout once feeling quite certain that he knew what was in her mind.
He discovered that her name was Honora Krause, and that she was calledHoney "for short." Her father had been Dutch and her mother a Yankee,and she lived with her uncle, Dave Truman, who owned Little Lost ranch,and took care of the mail for him, and attended to the store--whichwas nothing more than a supply depot kept for the accommodation of theneighbors. The store, she said, was in the next room.
Bud asked her what Little Lost meant, and she replied that she did notknow, but that it might have something to do with Sunk Creek losingitself in The Sinks. There was a Little Lost river, farther across themountains, she said, but it did not run through Little Lost ranch, norcome anywhere near it.
After that she questioned him adroitly. Perversely Bud declined tobecome confidential, and Honey Krause changed the subject abruptly.
"There's going to be a dance here next Friday night. It'll be a goodchance to get acquainted with everybody--if you go. There'll be goodmusic, I guess. Uncle Dave wrote to Crater for the Saunders boys to comedown and play. Do you know anybody in Crater?"
The question was innocent enough, but perverseness still held Bud. Hesmiled and said he did not know anybody anywhere, any more. He said thatif Bobbie Burns had asked him "Should auld acquaintance be forgot," he'dhave told him yes, and he'd have made it good and strong. But he addedthat he was just as willing to make new acquaintance, and thought thedance would be a good place to begin.
Honey gave him a provocative glance from under her lashes, and Budstraightened and stepped back.
"You let folks stop here, I take it. I've a pack outfit and a couple ofsaddle horses with me. Will it be all right to turn them in the corral?I hate to have them eat post hay all day. Or I could perhaps go back tothe creek and camp."
"Oh, just turn your horses in the corral and make yourself at home tilluncle comes," she told him with that tantalizing half-smile. "We keeppeople here--just for accommodation. There has to be some place in thevalley where folks can stop. I can't promise that uncle will give you ajob, but There's going to be chicken and dumplings for dinner. And themail will be in, about noon--you'll want to wait for that."
She was standing just within the screen door, frankly watching him ashe came past the house with the horses, and she came out and halted himwhen she spied the top of the pack.
"You'd better leave those things here," she advised him eagerly. "I'llput them in the sitting-room by the piano. My goodness, you must be awhole orchestra! If you can play, maybe you and I can furnish the musicfor the dance, and save Uncle Dave hiring the Saunders boys. Anyway, wecan play together, and have real good times."
Bud had an odd feeling that Honey was talking one thing with her lips,and thinking an entirely different set of thoughts. He eyed her covertlywhile he untied the cases, and he could have sworn that he saw hersignal someone behind the lace curtains of the nearest window. Heglanced carelessly that way, but the curtains were motionless. Honey washolding out her hands for the guitar and the mandolin when he tur
ned, soBud surrendered them and went on to the corrals.
He did not return to the house. An old man was pottering around amachine shed that stood backed against a thick fringe of brush, and whenBud rode by he left his work and came after him, taking short steps andwalking with his back bent stiffly forward and his hands swinging limplyat his sides.
He had a long black beard streaked with gray, and sharp blue eyes setdeep under tufted white eyebrows. He seemed a friendly old man whoseinterest in life remained keen as in his youth, despite the feeblenessof his body. He showed Bud where to turn the horses, and went to workon the pack rope, his crooked old fingers moving with the sureness oflifelong habit. He was eager to know all the news that Bud could tellhim, and when he discovered that Bud had just left the Muleshoe, andthat he had been fired because of a fight with Dirk Tracy, the oldfellow cackled gleefully,
"Well, now, I guess you just about had yore hands full, young man," hecommented shrewdly. "Dirk ain't so easy to lick."
Bud immediately wanted to know why it was taken for granted that he hadwhipped Dirk, and grandpa chortled again. "Now if you hadn't of lickedDirk, you wouldn't of got fired," he retorted, and proceeded to relatea good deal of harmless gossip which seemed to bear out the statement.Dirk Tracy, according to grandpa, was the real boss of the Muleshoe, andBart was merely a figure-head.
All of this did not matter to Bud, but grandpa was garrulous. A gooddeal of information Bud received while the two attended to the horsesand loitered at the corral gate.
Grandpa admired Smoky, and looked him over carefully, with thosecaressing smoothings of mane and forelock which betray the lover of goodhorseflesh.
"I reckon he's purty fast," he said, peering shrewdly into Bud's face."The boys has been talking about pulling off some horse races here nextSunday--we got a good, straight, hard-packed creek-bed up here a piecethat has been cleaned of rocks fer a mile track, and they're goin' torun a horse er two. Most generally they do, on Sunday, if work's slack.You might git in on it, if you're around in these parts." He pushed hisback straight with his palms, turned his head sidewise and squinted atSmoky through half-closed lids while he fumbled for cigarette material.
"I dunno but what I might be willin' to put up a few dollars on thathorse myself," he observed, "if you say he kin run. You wouldn't go an'lie to an old feller like me, would yuh, son?"
Bud offered him the cigarette he had just rolled. "No, I won't lie toyou, dad," he grinned. "You know horses too well."
"Well, but kin he run? I want yore word on it."
"Well-yes, he's always been able to turn a cow," Bud admittedcautiously.
"Ever run him fer money?" The old man began teetering from his toes tohis heels, and to hitch his shoulders forward and back.
"Well, no, not for money. I've run him once or twice for fun, justtrying to beat some of the boys to camp, maybe."
"Sho! That's no way to do! No way at all!" The old man spat angrilyinto the dust of the corral. Then he thought of something. "Did yuh BEAT'em?" he demanded sharply.
"Why, sure, I beat them!" Bud looked at him surprised, seemed about tosay more, and let the statement stand unqualified.
Grandpa stared at him for a minute, his blue eyes blinking with somesecret excitement. "Young feller," he began abruptly, "lemme tell yuhsomething. Yuh never want to do a thing like that agin. If you got ahorse that can outrun the other feller's horse, figure to make him bringyuh in something--if it ain't no more'n a quarter! Make him BRING yuh alittle something. That's the way to do with everything yuh turn a handto; make it bring yuh in something! It ain't what goes out that'll doyuh any good--it's what comes in. You mind that. If you let a horse runagin' another feller's horse, bet on him to come in ahead--and then,"he cried fiercely, pounding one fist into the other palm, "by Christmas,make 'im come in ahead!" His voice cracked and went flat with emotion.
He stopped suddenly and let his arms fall slack, his shoulders sagforward. He waggled his head and muttered into his beard, and glanced atBud with a crafty look.
"If I'da took that to m'self, I wouldn't be chorin' around here now formy own son," he lamented. "I'd of saved the quarters, an' I'd of had afew dollars now of my own. Uh course," he made haste to add, "I git holtof a little, now and agin. Too old to ride--too old to work--jest manageto pick up a dollar er two now and agin--on a horse that kin run."
He went over to Smoky again and ran his hand down over the leg musclesto the hocks, felt for imperfections and straightened painfully, slappedthe horse approvingly between the forelegs and laid a hand on hisshoulder while he turned slowly to Bud.
"Young feller, there ain't a man on the place right now but you an'me. What say you throw yore saddle on this horse and take 'im up to thetrack? I'd like to see him run. Seems to me he'd ought to be a purtygood quarter-horse."
Bud hesitated. "I wouldn't mind running him, grandpa, if I thought Icould make something on him. I've got my stake to make, and I want tomake it before all my teeth fall out so I can't chew anything but thecud of reflection on my lost opportunities. If Smoky can run a fewdollars into my pocket, I'm with you."
Grandpa teetered forward and put out his hand. "Shake on that, boy!" hecackled. "Pop Truman ain't too old to have his little joke--and make itbring him in something, by Christmas! You saddle up and we'll go try himout on a quarter-mile--mebby a half, if he holds up good."
He poked a cigarette-stained forefinger against Bud's chest andwhispered slyly: "My son Dave, he 's got a horse in the stable that'sbeen cleanin' everything in the valley. I'll slip him out and up thecreektrail to the track, and you run that horse of yourn agin him. Dave,he can't git a race outa nobody around here, no more, so he won't runnext Sunday. We'll jest see how yore horse runs alongside Boise. Ikin tell purty well how you kin run agin the rest--Pop, he ain't s'thick-headed they kin fool him much. What say we try it?"
Bud stood back and looked him over. "You shook hands with me on it," hesaid gravely. "Where I came from, that holds a man like taking oath ona Bible in court. I'm a stranger here, but I'm going to expect the samestandard of honor, grandpa. You can back out now, and I'll run Smokywithout any tryout, and you can take your chance. I couldn't expect youto stand by a stranger against your own folks--"
"Sho! Shucks a'mighty!" Grandpa spat and wagged his head furiously. "Myown forks'd beat me in a horse race if they could, and I wouldn't holdit agin 'em! Runnin' horses is like playin' poker. Every feller ferhimself an' mercy to-ward none! I knowed what it meant when I shook withyuh, young feller, and I hold ye to it. I hold ye to it! You lay low ifI tell ye to lay low, and we'll make us a few dollars, mebby. C'm on andgit that horse outa here b'fore somebuddy comes. It's mail day."
He waved Bud toward his saddle and took himself off in a shuffling kindof trot. By the time Bud had saddled Smoky grandpa hailed him cautiouslyfrom the brush-fringe beyond the corral. He motioned toward a small gateand Bud led Smoky that way, closing the gate after him.
The old man was mounted on a clean-built bay whose coat shone withlittle glints of gold in the dark red. With one sweeping look Budobserved the points that told of speed, and his eyes went inquiringly tomeet the sharp blue ones, that sparkled under the tufted white eyebrowsof grandpa.
"Do you expect Smoky to show up the same day that horse arrives?" heinquired mildly. "Pop, you'll have to prove to me that he won't runSunday--"
Pop snorted. "Seems to me like you do know a speedy horse when you seeone, young feller. Beats me't you been overlookin' what you got underyore saddle right now. Boise, he's the best runnin' horse in thevalley--and that's why he won't run next Sunday, ner no other Sundaytill somebuddy brings in a strange horse to put agin him. Dave, he won'tcrowd ye fur a race, boy. You kin refuse to run yore horse agin him,like the rest has done. I'll jest lope along t'day and see what yourskin do."
"Well, all right, then." Bud waited for the old man to ride ahead downthe obscure trail that wound through the brush for half a mile or sobefore they emerged into the rough border of the creek bed. Pop reinedin c
lose and explained garrulously to Bud how this particular streamdisappeared into the ground two miles above Little Lost, leaving thewide, level river bottom bone dry.
Pop was cautious. He rode up to a rise of ground and scanned the countrysuspiciously before he led the way into the creek bed. Even then he keptclose under the bank until they had passed two of the quarter-mile poststhat had been planted in the hard sand.
Evidently he had been doing a good deal of thinking during the ride;certainly he had watched Smoky. When he stopped under the bank oppositethe half-mile post he dismounted more spryly than one would haveexpected. His eyes were bright, his voice sharp. Pop was forgetting hisage.
"I guess I'll ride yore horse m'self," he announced, and they exchangedhorses under the shelter of the bank. "You kin take an' ride Boise-an'I want you should beat me if you kin." He looked at Bud appraisingly."I'll bet a dollar," he cried suddenly, "that I kin outrun ye, youngfeller! An' you got the fastest horse in Burroback Valley and I don'tknow what I got under me. I'm seventy years old come September--when I'mafoot. Are ye afraid to bet?"
"I'm scared a dollar's worth that I'll never see you again to-day unlessI ride back to find you," Bud grinned.
"Any time you lose ole Pop Truman--shucks almighty! Come on, then--I'llshow ye the way to the quarter-post!"
"I'm right with you, Pop. You say so, and I'm gone!"
They reined in with the shadow of the post falling square across thenecks of both horses. Pop gathered up the reins, set his feet in thestirrups and shrilled, "Go, gol darn ye!"
They went, like two scared rabbits down the smooth, yellow stretch ofpacked sand. Pop's elbows stuck straight out, he held the reins highand leaned far over Smoky's neck, his eyes glaring. Bud--oh, never worryabout Bud! In the years that lay between thirteen and twenty-one Budhad learned a good many things, and one of them was how to get out of ahorse all the speed there was in him.
They went past the quarter-post and a furlong beyond before either couldpull up. Pop was pale and triumphant, and breathing harder than hismount.
"Here 's your dollar, Pop--and don't you talk in your sleep!" Budadmonished, smiling as he held out the dollar, but with an anxioustone in his voice. "If this is the best running horse you've got in thevalley, I may get some action, next Sunday!"
Pop dismounted, took the dollar with a grin and mounted Boise--and thatin spite of the fact that Boise was keyed up and stepping around andsnorting for another race. Bud watched Pop queerly, remembering howfeeble had been the old man whom he had met at the corral.
"Say, Pop, you ought to race a little every day," he bantered. "You'refifteen years younger than you were an hour ago."
For answer Pop felt of his back and groaned. "Oh, I'll pay fer it, youngfeller! I don't look fer much peace with my back fer a week, after this.But you kin make sure of one thing, and that is, I ain't goin' to talkin my sleep none. By Christmas, We'll make this horse of yours bringus in something! I guess you better turn yore horses all out in thepasture. Dave, he'll give yuh work all right. I'll fix it with Dave.And you listen to Pop, young feller. I'll show ye a thing or twoabout runnin' horses. You'n me'll clean up a nice little bunch ofmoney-HE-HE!-beat Boise in a quarter dash! Tell that to Dave, an' hewouldn't b'lieve ye!"
When Pop got off at the back of the stable he could scarcely move,he was so stiff. But his mind was working well enough to see that Budrubbed the saddle print off Boise and turned his own horses loose in thepasture, before he let him go on to the house. The last Bud heard fromPop that forenoon was a senile chuckle and a cackling, "Outrun Boisein a quarter dash! Shucks a'mighty! But I knew it--I knew he had thespeed--sho! Ye can't fool ole Pop--shucks!"
