AT THE CORRAL.
In the beginning of the morning, when Granite Mountain's fortress-like
battlements and towers loomed gray and bold and grim, the big bay horse
trumpeted a warning to his less watchful mates. Instantly, with heads
high and eyes wide, the band stood in frightened indecision. Two
horsemen--shadowy and mysterious forms in the misty light--were riding
from the corral into the pasture.
As the riders approached, individuals in the band moved uneasily,
starting as if to run, hesitating, turning for another look, maneuvering
to put their mates between them and the enemy. But the bay went boldly a
short distance toward the danger and stood still with wide nostrils and
fierce eyes as though ready for the combat.
For a few moments, as the horsemen seemed about to go past, hope beat
high in the hearts of the timid prisoners. Then the riders circled to
put the band between themselves and the corral gate, and the frightened
animals knew. But always as they whirled and dodged in their attempts to
avoid that big gate toward which they were forced to move, there was a
silent, persistent horseman barring the way. The big bay alone, as
though realizing the futility of such efforts and so conserving his
strength for whatever was to follow, trotted proudly, boldly into the
corral, where he stood, his eyes never leaving the riders, as his mates
crowded and jostled about him.
"There's one in that bunch that's sure aimin' to make you ride some,"
said Curly Elson with a grin, to Phil, as the family sat at breakfast.
On the Cross-Triangle the men who were held through the summer and
winter seasons between the months of the rodeos were considered members
of the family. Chosen for their character, as well as for their
knowledge of the country and their skill in their work the Dean and
"Stella," as Mrs. Baldwin is called throughout all that country, always
spoke of them affectionately as "our boys." And this, better than
anything that could be said, is an introduction to the mistress of the
Cross-Triangle household.
At the challenging laugh which followed Curly's observation, Phil
returned quietly with his sunny smile, "Maybe I'll quit him before he
gets good and started."
"He's sure fixin' to make you back the decision of them contest judges,"
offered Bob Colton.
And Mrs. Baldwin, young in spirit as any of her boys, added, "Better not
wear your medal, son. It might excite him to know that you are the
champion buster of Arizona."
"Shucks!" piped up Little Billy excitedly, "Phil can ride anything what
wears hair, can't you, Phil?"
Phil, embarrassed at the laughter which followed, said, with tactful
seriousness, to his little champion, "That's right, kid. You stand up
for your pardner every time, don't you? You'll be riding them yourself
before long. There's a little sorrel in that bunch that I've picked out
to gentle for you." He glanced at his employer meaningly, and the Dean's
face glowed with appreciation of the young man's thoughtfulness. "That
old horse, Sheep, of yours," continued Phil to Little Billy, "is getting
too old and stiff for your work. I've noticed him stumbling a lot
lately." Again he glanced inquiringly at the Dean, who answered the look
with a slight nod of approval.
"You'd better make him gentle your horse first, Billy," teased Curly.
"He might not be in the business when that big one gets through with
him."
Little Billy's retort came in a flash. "Huh, 'Wild Horse Phil' will be
a-ridin' 'em long after you've got your'n, Curly Elson."
"Look out, son," cautioned the Dean, when the laugh had gone round
again. "Curly will be slippin' a burr under your saddle, if you don't."
Then to the men: "What horse is it that you boys think is goin' to be
such a bad one? That big bay with the blazed face?"
The cowboys nodded.
"He's bad, all right," said Phil.
"Well," commented the Dean, leaning back in his chair and speaking
generally, "he's sure got a license to be bad. His mother was the
wickedest piece of horse flesh I ever knew. Remember her, Stella?"
"Indeed I do," returned Mrs. Baldwin. "She nearly ruined that Windy Jim
who came from nobody knew where, and bragged that he could ride
anything."
The Dean chuckled reminiscently. "She sure sent Windy back where he came
from. But I tell you, boys, that kind of a horse makes the best in the
world once you get 'em broke right. Horses are just like men, anyhow. If
they ain't got enough in 'em to fight when they're bein' broke, they
ain't generally worth breakin'."
"The man that rides that bay will sure be a-horseback," said Curly.
"He's a man's horse, all right," agreed Bob.
Breakfast over, the men left the house, not too quietly, and laughing,
jesting and romping like school boys, went out to the corrals, with
Little Billy tagging eagerly at their heels. The Dean and Phil remained
for a few minutes at the table.
"You really oughtn't to say such things to those boys, Will," reproved
Mrs. Baldwin, as she watched them from the window. "It encourages them
to be wild, and land knows they don't need any encouragement."
"Shucks," returned the Dean, with that gentle note that was always in
his voice when he spoke to her. "If such talk as that can hurt 'em,
there ain't nothin' that could save 'em. You're always afraid somebody's
goin' to go bad. Look at me and Phil here," he added, as they in turn
pushed their chairs back from the table; "you've fussed enough over us
to spoil a dozen men, and ain't we been a credit to you all the time?"
At this they laughed together. But as Phil was leaving the house Mrs.
Baldwin stopped him at the door to say earnestly, "You will be careful
to-day, won't you, son? You know my other Phil--" She stopped and turned
away.
The young man knew that story--a story common to that land where the
lives of men are not infrequently offered a sacrifice to the untamed
strength of the life that in many forms they are daily called upon to
meet and master.
"Never mind, mother," he said gently. "I'll be all right." Then more
lightly he added, with his sunny smile, "If that big bay starts anything
with me, I'll climb the corral fence pronto."
Quietly, as one who faces a hard day's work, Phil went to the saddle
shed where he buckled on chaps and spurs. Then, after looking carefully
to stirrup leathers, cinch and latigos, he went on to the corrals, the
heavy saddle under his arm.
Curly and Bob, their horses saddled and ready, were making animated
targets of themselves for Little Billy, who, mounted on Sheep, a gentle
old cow-horse, was whirling a miniature riata. As the foreman appeared,
the cowboys dropped their fun, and, mounting, took the coils of their
own rawhide ropes in hand.
"Which one will you have first, Phil?" asked Curly, as he moved toward
the gate between the big corral and the smaller enclosure that held the
band of horses.
"That black one with the white star will do," directed Phil quietly.
Then to Little Billy: "You'd better get back there out of the way,
pardner. That black is liable to jump clear over you and Sheep."
"You better get outside, son," amended the Dean, who had come out to
watch the beginning of the work.
"No, no--please, Uncle Will," begged the lad. "They can't get me as long
as I'm on Sheep."
Phil and the Dean laughed.
"I'll look out for him," said the young man. "Only," he added to the
boy, "you must keep out of the way."
"And see that you stick to Sheep, if you expect him to take care of
you," finished the Dean, relenting.
Meanwhile the gate between the corrals had been thrown open, and with
Bob to guard the opening Curly rode in among the unbroken horses to cut
out the animal indicated by Phil, and from within that circular
enclosure, where the earth had been ground to fine powder by hundreds of
thousands of frightened feet, came the rolling thunder of quick-beating
hoofs as in a swirling cloud of yellow dust the horses rushed and leaped
and whirled. Again and again the frightened animals threw themselves
against the barrier that hemmed them in; but that fence, built of cedar
posts set close in stockade fashion and laced on the outside with wire,
was made to withstand the maddened rush of the heaviest steers. And
always, amid the confusion of the frenzied animals, the figure of the
mounted man in their midst could be seen calmly directing their wildest
movements, and soon, out from the crowding, jostling, whirling mass of
flying feet and tossing manes and tails, the black with the white star
shot toward the gate. Bob's horse leaped aside from the way. Curly's
horse was between the black and his mates, and before the animal could
gather his confused senses he was in the larger corral. The day's work
had begun.
The black dodged skillfully, and the loop of Curly's riata missed the
mark.
"You better let somebody put eyes in that rope, Curly," remarked Phil,
laconically, as he stepped aside to avoid a wild rush.
The chagrined cowboy said something in a low tone, so that Little Billy
could not hear.
The Dean chuckled.
Bob's riata whirled, shot out its snaky length, and his trained horse
braced himself skillfully to the black's weight on the rope. For a few
minutes the animal at the loop end of the riata struggled
desperately--plunging, tugging, throwing himself this way and that; but
always the experienced cow-horse turned with his victim and the rope was
never slack. When his first wild efforts were over and the black stood
with his wide braced feet, breathing heavily as that choking loop began
to tell, the strain on the taut riata was lessened, and Phil went
quietly toward the frightened captive.
No one moved or spoke. This was not an exhibition the success of which
depended on the vicious wildness of the horse to be conquered. This was
work, and it was not Phil's business to provoke the black to extremes in
order to exhibit his own prowess as a rider for the pleasure of
spectators who had paid to see the show. The rider was employed to win
the confidence of the unbroken horse entrusted to him; to force
obedience, if necessary; to gentle and train, and so make of the wild
creature a useful and valuable servant for the Dean.
There are riders whose methods demand that they throw every unbroken
horse given them to handle, and who gentle an animal by beating it about
the head with loaded quirts, ripping its flanks open with sharp spurs
and tearing its mouth with torturing bits and ropes. These turn over to
their employers as their finished product horses that are broken,
indeed--but broken only in spirit, with no heart or courage left to
them, with dispositions ruined, and often with physical injuries from
which they never recover. But riders of such methods have no place among
the men employed by owners of the Dean's type. On the Cross-Triangle,
and indeed on all ranches where conservative business principles are in
force, the horses are handled with all the care and gentleness that the
work and the individuality of the animal will permit.
After a little Phil's hand gently touched the black's head. Instantly
the struggle was resumed. The rider dodged a vicious blow from the
strong fore hoofs and with a good natured laugh softly chided the
desperate animal. And so, presently, the kind hand was again stretched
forth; and then a broad band of leather was deftly slipped over the
black's frightened eyes. Another thicker and softer rope was knotted so
that it could not slip about the now sweating neck, and fashioned into a
hackamore or halter about the animal's nose. Then the riata was loosed.
Working deftly, silently, gently--ever wary of those dangerous
hoofs--Phil next placed blanket and saddle on the trembling black and
drew the cinch tight. Then the gate leading from the corral to the open
range was swung back. Easily, but quickly and surely, the rider swung to
his seat. He paused a moment to be sure that all was right, and then
leaning forward he reached over and raised the leather blindfold. For an
instant the wild, unbroken horse stood still, then reared until it
seemed he must fall, and then, as his forefeet touched the ground again,
the spurs went home, and with a mighty leap forward the frenzied animal
dashed, bucking, plunging, pitching, through the gate and away toward
the open country, followed by Curly and Bob, with Little Billy spurring
old Sheep, in hot pursuit.
For a little the Dean lingered in the suddenly emptied corral. Stepping
up on the end of the long watering trough, close to the dividing fence,
he studied with knowing eye the animals on the other side. Then
leisurely he made his way out of the corral, visited the windmill pump,
looked in on Stella from the kitchen porch, and then saddled Browny, his
own particular horse that grazed always about the place at privileged
ease, and rode off somewhere on some business of his own.
When the black horse had spent his strength in a vain attempt to rid
himself of the dreadful burden that had attached itself so securely to
his back, he was herded back to the corral, where the burden set him
free. Dripping with sweat, trembling in every limb and muscle,
wild-eyed, with distended nostrils and heaving flanks, the black crowded
in among his mates again, his first lesson over--his years of ease and
freedom past forever.
"And which will it be this time?" came Curly's question.
"I'll have that buckskin this trip," answered Phil.
And again that swirling cloud of dust raised by those thundering hoofs
drifted over the stockade enclosure, and out of the mad confusion the
buckskin dashed wildly through the gate to be initiated into his new
life.
And so, hour after hour, the work went on, as horse after horse at
Phil's word was cut out of the band and ridden; and every horse,
according to disposition and temper and strength, was different. While
his helpers did their part the rider caught a few moments rest. Always
he was good natured, soft spoken and gentle. When a frightened animal,
not understanding, tried to kill him, he accepted it as evidence of a
commendable spirit, and, with that sunny, boyish smile, informed his
pupil kindly that he was a good horse and must not make a fool of
himself.
In so many ways, as the Dean had said at breakfast that morning, horses
are just like men.
It was mid-afternoon when the master of the Cross-Triangle again
strolled leisurely out to the corrals. Phil and his helpers, including
Little Billy, were just disappearing over the rise of ground beyond the
gate on the farther side of the enclosure as the Dean reached the gate
that opens toward the barn and house. He went on through the corral,
and slowly, as one having nothing else to do, climbed the little knoll
from which he could watch the riders in the distance. When the horsemen
had disappeared among the scattered cedars on the ridge, a mile or so to
the west, the Dean still stood looking in that direction. But the owner
of the Cross-Triangle was not watching for the return of his men. He was
not even thinking of them. He was looking beyond the cedar ridge to
where, several miles away, a long, mesa-topped mountain showed black
against the blue of the more distant hills. The edge of this high
table-land broke abruptly in a long series of vertical cliffs, the
formation known to Arizonians as rim rocks. The deep shadows of the
towering black wall of cliffs and the gloom of the pines and cedars that
hid the foot of the mountain gave the place a sinister and threatening
appearance.
As he looked, the Dean's kindly face grew somber and stern; his blue
eyes were for the moment cold and accusing; under his grizzled mustache
his mouth, usually so ready to smile or laugh, was set in lines of
uncompromising firmness. In these quiet and well-earned restful years of
the Dean's life the Tailholt Mountain outfit was the only disturbing
element. But the Dean did not permit himself to be long annoyed by the
thoughts provoked by Tailholt Mountain. Philosophically he turned his
broad back to the intruding scene, and went back to the corral, and to
the more pleasing occupation of looking at the horses.
If the Dean had not so abruptly turned his back upon the landscape, he
would have noticed the figure of a man moving slowly along the road
that skirted the valley meadow leading from Simmons to the
Cross-Triangle Ranch.
Presently the riders returned, and Phil, when he had removed saddle,
blanket and hackamore from his pupil, seated himself on the edge of the
watering trough beside the Dean.
"I see you ain't tackled the big bay yet," remarked the older man.
"Thought if I'd let him look on for a while, he might figure it out that
he'd better be good and not get himself hurt," smiled Phil. "He's sure
some horse," he added admiringly. Then to his helpers: "I'll take that
black with the white forefoot this time, Curly."
Just as the fresh horse dashed into the larger corral a man on foot
appeared, coming over the rise of ground to the west; and by the time
that Curly's loop was over the black's head the man stood at the gate.
One glance told Phil that it was the stranger whom he had met on the
Divide.
The man seemed to understand that it was no time for greetings and,
without offering to enter the enclosure, climbed to the top of the big
gate, where he sat, with one leg over the topmost bar, an interested
spectator.
The maneuvers of the black brought Phil to that side of the corral, and,
as he coolly dodged the fighting horse, he glanced up with his boyish
smile and a quick nod of welcome to the man perched above him. The
stranger smiled in return, but did not speak. He must have thought,
though, that this cowboy appeared quite different from the picturesque
rider he had seen at the celebration and on the summit of the Divide.
_That_ Phil Acton had been--as the cowboy himself would have said--"all
togged out in his glad rags." This man wore chaps that were old and
patched from hard service; his shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, was the
color of the corral dirt, and a generous tear revealed one muscular
shoulder; his hat was greasy and battered; his face grimed and streaked
with dust and sweat, but his sunny, boyish smile would have identified
Phil in any garb.
When the rider was ready to mount, and Bob went to open the gate, the
stranger climbed down and drew a little aside. And when Phil, passing
where he stood, looked laughingly down at him from the back of the
bucking, plunging horse, he made as if to applaud, but checked himself
and went quickly to the top of the knoll to watch the riders until they
disappeared over the ridge.
"Howdy! Fine weather we're havin'." It was the Dean's hearty voice. He
had gone forward courteously to greet the stranger while the latter was
watching the riders.
The man turned impulsively, his face lighted with enthusiasm. "By Jove!"
he exclaimed, "but that man can ride!"
"Yes, Phil does pretty well," returned the Dean indifferently. "Won the
championship at Prescott the other day." Then, more heartily: "He's a
mighty good boy, too--take him any way you like."
As he spoke the cattleman looked the stranger over critically, much as
he would have looked at a steer or horse, noting the long limbs, the
well-made body, the strong face and clear, dark eyes. The man's dress
told the Dean simply that the stranger was from the city. His bearing
commanded the older man's respect. The stranger's next statement, as he
looked thoughtfully over the wide Land of valley and hill and mesa and
mountain, convinced the Dean that he was a man of judgment.
"Arizona is a wonderful country, sir--wonderful!"
"Finest in the world, sir," agreed the Dean promptly. "There just
naturally can't be any better. We've got the climate; we've got the
land; and we've got the men."
The stranger looked at the Dean quickly when he said "men." It was worth
much to hear the Dean speak that word.
"Indeed you have," he returned heartily. "I never saw such men."
"Of course you haven't," said the Dean. "I tell you, sir, they just
don't make 'em outside of Arizona. It takes a country like this to
produce real men. A man's got to be a man out here. Of course, though,"
he admitted kindly, "we don't know much except to ride, an' throw a
rope, an' shoot, mebby, once in a while."
The riders were returning and the Dean and the stranger walked back down
the little hill to the corral.
"You have a fine ranch here, Mr. Baldwin," again observed the stranger.
The Dean glanced at him sharply. Many men had tried to buy the
Cross-Triangle. This man certainly appeared prosperous even though he
was walking. But there was no accounting for the queer things that city
men would do.
"It does pretty well," the cattleman admitted. "I manage to make a
livin'."
The other smiled as though slightly embarrassed. Then: "Do you need any
help?"
"Help!" The Dean looked at him amazed.
"I mean--I would like a position--to work for you, you know."
The Dean was speechless. Again he surveyed the stranger with his
measuring, critical look. "You've never done any work," he said gently.
The man stood very straight before him and spoke almost defiantly. "No,
I haven't, but is that any reason why I should not?"
The Dean's eyes twinkled, as they have a way of doing when you say
something that he likes. "I'd say it's a better reason why you should,"
he returned quietly.
Then he said to Phil, who, having dismissed his four-footed pupil, was
coming toward them:
"Phil, this man wants a job. Think we can use him?"
The young man looked at the stranger with unfeigned surprise and with a
hint of amusement, but gave no sign that he had ever seen him before.
The same natural delicacy of feeling that had prevented the cowboy from
discussing the man upon whose privacy he felt he had intruded that
evening of their meeting on the Divide led him now to ignore the
incident--a consideration which could not but command the strange man's
respect, and for which he looked his gratitude.
There was something about the stranger, too, that to Phil seemed
different. This tall, well-built fellow who stood before them so
self-possessed, and ready for anything, was not altogether like the
uncertain, embarrassed, half-frightened and troubled gentleman at whom
Phil had first laughed with thinly veiled contempt, and then had pitied.
It was as though the man who sat that night alone on the Divide had, out
of the very bitterness of his experience, called forth from within
himself a strength of which, until then, he had been only dimly
conscious. There was now, in his face and bearing, courage and decision
and purpose, and with it all a glint of that same humor that had made
him so bitterly mock himself. The Dean's philosophy touching the
possibilities of the man who laughs when he is hurt seemed in this
stranger about to be justified. Phil felt oddly, too, that the man was
in a way experimenting with himself--testing himself as it were--and
being altogether a normal human, the cowboy felt strongly inclined to
help the experimenter. In this spirit he answered the Dean, while
looking mischievously at the stranger.
"We can use him if he can ride."
The stranger smiled understandingly. "I don't see why I couldn't," he
returned in that droll tone. "I seem to have the legs." He looked down
at his long lower limbs reflectively, as though quaintly considering
them quite apart from himself.
Phil laughed.
"Huh," said the Dean, slightly mystified at the apparent understanding
between the young men. Then to the stranger: "What do you want to work
for? You don't look as though you needed to. A sort of vacation, heh?"
There was spirit in the man's answer. "I want to work for the reason
that all men want work. If you do not employ me, I must try somewhere
else."
"Come from Prescott to Simmons on the stage, did you?"
"No, sir, I walked."
"Walked! Huh! Tried anywhere else for a job?"
"No, sir."
"Who sent you out here?"
The stranger smiled. "I saw Mr. Acton ride in the contest. I learned
that he was foreman of the Cross-Triangle Ranch. I thought I would
rather work where he worked, if I could."
The Dean looked at Phil. Phil looked at the Dean. Together they looked
at the stranger. The two cowboys who were sitting on their horses
near-by grinned at each other.
"And what is your name, sir?" the Dean asked courteously.
For the first time the man hesitated and seemed embarrassed. He looked
uneasily about with a helpless inquiring glance, as though appealing for
some suggestion.
"Oh, never mind your name, if you have forgotten it," said the Dean
dryly.
The stranger's roaming eyes fell upon Phil's old chaps, that in every
wrinkle and scar and rip and tear gave such eloquent testimony as to the
wearer's life, and that curious, self-mocking smile touched his lips.
Then, throwing up his head and looking the Dean straight in the eye, he
said boldly, but with that note of droll humor in his voice, "My name is
Patches, sir, Honorable Patches."
The Dean's eyes twinkled, but his face was grave. Phil's face flushed;
he had not failed to identify the source of the stranger's inspiration.
But before either the Dean or Phil could speak a shout of laughter came
from Curly Elson, and the stranger had turned to face the cowboy.
"Something seems to amuse you," he said quietly to the man on the horse;
and at the tone of his voice Phil and the Dean exchanged significant
glances.
The grinning cowboy looked down at the stranger in evident contempt.
"Patches," he drawled. "Honorable Patches! That's a hell of a name, now,
ain't it?"
The man went two long steps toward the mocking rider, and spoke quietly,
but with unmistakable meaning.
"I'll endeavor to make it all of that for you, if you will get off your
horse."
The grinning cowboy, with a wink at his companion, dismounted
cheerfully. Curly Elson was held to be the best man with his hands in
Yavapai County. He could not refuse so tempting an opportunity to add to
his well-earned reputation.
Five minutes later Curly lifted himself on one elbow in the corral dust,
and looked up with respectful admiration to the quiet man who stood
waiting for him to rise. Curly's lip was bleeding generously; the side
of his face seemed to have slipped out of place, and his left eye was
closing surely and rapidly.
"Get up," said the tall man calmly. "There is more where that came from,
if you want it."
The cowboy grinned painfully. "I ain't hankerin' after any more," he
mumbled, feeling his face tenderly.
"It said that my name was Patches," suggested the stranger.
"Sure, Mr. Patches, I reckon nobody'll question that."
"Honorable Patches," again prompted the stranger.
"Yes, sir. You bet; Honorable Patches," agreed Curly with emphasis.
Then, as he painfully regained his feet, he held out his hand with as
nearly a smile as his battered features would permit. "Do you mind
shaking on it, Mr. Honorable Patches? Just to show that there's no hard
feelin's?"
Patches responded instantly with a manner that won Curly's heart.
"Good!" he said. "I knew you would do that when you understood, or I
wouldn't have bothered to show you my credentials."
"My mistake," returned Curly. "It's them there credentials of yourn, not
your name, that's hell."
He gingerly mounted his horse again, and Patches turned back to the Dean
as though apologizing for the interruption.
"I beg your pardon, sir, but--about work?"
The Dean never told anyone just what his thoughts were at that
particular moment; probably because they were so many and so
contradictory and confusing. Whether from this uncertainty of mind; from
a habit of depending upon his young foreman, or because of that
something, which Phil and the stranger seemed to have in common, he
shifted the whole matter by saying, "It's up to Phil here. He's foreman
of the Cross-Triangle. If he wants to hire you, it's all right with me."
At this the two young men faced each other; and on the face of each was
a half questioning, half challenging smile. The stranger seemed to say,
"I know I am at your mercy; I don't expect you to believe in me after
our meeting on the Divide, but I dare you to put me to the test."
And Phil, if he had spoken, might have said, "I felt when I met you
first that there was a man around somewhere. I know you are curious to
see what you would do if put to the test. I am curious, too. I'll give
you a chance." Aloud he reminded the stranger pointedly, "I said we
might use you if you could ride."
Patches smiled his self-mocking smile, evidently appreciating his
predicament. "And I said," he retorted, "that I didn't see why I
couldn't."
Phil turned to his grinning but respectful helpers. "Bring out that bay
with the blazed face."
"Great Snakes!" ejaculated Curly to Bob, as they reached the gate
leading to the adjoining corral. "His name is Patches, all right, but
he'll be pieces when that bay devil gets through with him, if he can't
ride. Do you reckon he can?"
"Dunno," returned Bob, as he unlatched the gate without dismounting. "I
thought he couldn't fight."
"So did I," returned Curly, grimly nursing his battered face. "You cut
out the horse; I can't more'n half see."
It was no trouble to cut out the bay. The big horse seemed to understand
that his time had come. All day he had seen his mates go forth to their
testing, had watched them as they fought with all their strength the
skill and endurance of that smiling, boy-faced man, and then had seen
them as they returned, sweating, trembling, conquered and subdued. As
Bob rode toward him, he stood for one defiant moment as motionless as a
horse of bronze; then, with a suddenness that gave Curly at the gate
barely time to dodge his rush, he leaped forward into the larger arena.
Phil was watching the stranger as the big horse came through the gate.
The man did not move, but his eyes were glowing darkly, his face was
flushed, and he was smiling to himself mockingly--as though amused at
the thought of what was about to happen to him. The Dean also was
watching Patches, and again the young foreman and his employer exchanged
significant glances as Phil turned and went quickly to Little Billy.
Lifting the lad from his saddle and seating him on the fence above the
long watering trough, he said, "There's a grandstand seat for you,
pardner; don't get down unless you have to, and then get down outside.
See?"
At that moment yells of warning, with a "Look out, Phil!" came from
Curly, Bob and the Dean.
A quick look over his shoulder, and Phil saw the big horse with ears
wickedly flat, eyes gleaming, and teeth bared, making straight in his
direction. The animal had apparently singled him out as the author of
his misfortunes, and proposed to dispose of his arch-enemy at the very
outset of the battle. There was only one sane thing to do, and Phil did
it. A vigorous, scrambling leap placed him beside Little Billy on the
top of the fence above the watering trough.
"Good thing I reserved a seat in your grandstand for myself, wasn't it,
pardner?" he smiled down at the boy by his side.
Then Bob's riata fell true, and as the powerful horse plunged and fought
that strangling noose Phil came leisurely down from the fence.
"Where was you goin', Phil?" chuckled the Dean.
"You sure warn't losin' any time," laughed Curly.
And Bob, without taking his eyes from the vicious animal at the end of
his taut riata, and working skillfully with his trained cow-horse to
foil every wicked plunge and wild leap, grinned with appreciation, as he
added, "I'll bet four bits you can't do it again, Phil, without a
runnin' start."
"I just thought I'd keep Little Billy company for a spell," smiled Phil.
"He looked so sort of lonesome up there."
The stranger, at first amazed that they could turn into jest an incident
which might so easily have been a tragedy, suddenly laughed aloud--a
joyous, ringing laugh that made Phil look at him sharply.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Acton," said Patches meekly, but with that droll
voice which brought a glint of laughter into the foreman's eyes and
called forth another chuckle from the Dean.
"You can take my saddle," said Phil pointedly. "It's over there at the
end of the watering trough. You'll find the stirrups about right, I
reckon--I ride with them rather long."
For a moment the stranger looked him straight in the eyes, then without
a word started for the saddle. He was half way to the end of the
watering trough when Phil overtook him.
"I believe I'd rather saddle him myself," the cowboy explained quietly,
with his sunny smile. "You see, I've got to teach these horses some cow
sense before the fall rodeo, and I'm rather particular about the way
they're handled at the start."
"Exactly," returned Patches, "I don't blame you. That fellow seems
rather to demand careful treatment, doesn't he?"
Phil laughed. "Oh, you don't need to be too particular about his
feelings once you're up in the middle of him," he retorted.
The big bay, instead of acquiring sense from his observations, as Phil
had expressed to the Dean a hope that he would, seemed to have gained
courage and determination. Phil's approach was the signal for a mad
plunge in the young man's direction, which was checked by the skill and
weight of Bob's trained cow-horse on the rope. Several times Phil went
toward the bay, and every time his advance was met by one of those
vicious rushes. Then Phil mounted Curly's horse, and from his hand the
loop of another riata fell over the bay's head. Shortening his rope by
coiling it in his rein hand, he maneuvered the trained horse closer and
closer to his struggling captive, until, with Bob's co-operation on the
other side of the fighting animal, he could with safety fix the leather
blindfold over those wicked eyes.
When at last hackamore and saddle were in place, and the bay stood
trembling and sweating, Phil wiped the perspiration from his own
forehead and turned to the stranger.
"Your horse is ready, sir."
The man's face was perhaps a shade whiter than its usual color, but his
eyes were glowing, and there was a grim set look about his smiling lips
that made the hearts of those men go out to him. He seemed to realize so
that the joke was on himself, and with it all exhibited such reckless
indifference to consequences. Without an instant's hesitation he started
toward the horse.
"Great Snakes!" muttered Curly to Bob, "talk about nerve!"
The Dean started forward. "Wait a minute, Mr. Patches," he said.
The stranger faced him.
"Can you ride that horse?" asked the Dean, pointedly.
"I'm going to," returned Patches. "But," he added with his droll humor,
"I can't say how far."
"Don't you know that he'll kill you if he can?" questioned the Dean
curiously, while his eyes twinkled approval.
"He does seem to have some such notion," admitted Patches.
"You better let him alone," said the Dean. "You don't need to kill
yourself to get a job with this outfit."
"That's very kind of you, sir," returned the stranger gratefully. "I'm
rather glad you said that. But I'm going to ride him just the same."
They looked at him in amazement, for it was clear to them now that the
man really could not ride.
The Dean spoke kindly. "Why?"
"Because," said Patches slowly, "I am curious to see what I will do
under such circumstances, and if I don't try the experiment now I'll
never know whether I have the nerve to do it or not." As he finished he
turned and walked deliberately toward the horse.
Phil ran to Curly's side, and the cowboy at his foreman's gesture leaped
from his saddle. The young man mounted his helper's horse, and with a
quick movement caught the riata from the saddle horn and flipped open a
ready loop.
The stranger was close to the bay's off, or right, side.
"The other side, Patches," called Phil genially. "You want to start in
right, you know."
Not a man laughed--except the stranger.
"Thanks," he said, and came around to the proper side.
"Take your time," called Phil again. "Stand by his shoulder and watch
his heels. Take the stirrup with your right hand and turn it to catch
your foot. Stay back by his shoulder until you are ready to swing up.
Take your time."
"I won't be long," returned Patches, as he awkwardly gained his seat in
the saddle.
Phil moved his horse nearer the center of the corral, and shook out his
loop a little.
"When you're ready, lean over and pull up the blindfold," he called.
The man on the horse did not hesitate. With every angry nerve and muscle
strained to the utmost, the powerful bay leaped into the air, coming
down with legs stiff and head between his knees. For an instant the man
miraculously kept his place. With another vicious plunge and a
cork-screw twist the maddened brute went up again, and this time the man
was flung from the saddle as from a gigantic catapult, to fall upon his
shoulders and back in the corral dust, where he lay still. The horse,
rid of his enemy, leaped again; then with catlike quickness and devilish
cunning whirled, and with wicked teeth bared and vicious, blazing eyes,
rushed for the helpless man on the ground.
With a yell Bob spurred to put himself between the bay and his victim,
but had there been time the move would have been useless, for no horse
could have withstood that mad charge. The vicious brute was within a
bound of his victim, and had reared to crush him with the weight of
heavy hoofs, when a rawhide rope tightened about those uplifted forefeet
and the bay himself crashed to earth. Leaving the cow-horse to hold the
riata tight, Phil sprang from his saddle and ran to the fallen man. The
Dean came with water in his felt hat from the trough, and presently the
stranger opened his eyes. For a moment he lay looking up into their
faces as though wondering where he was, and how he happened there.
"Are you hurt bad?" asked the Dean.
That brought him to his senses, and he got to his feet somewhat
unsteadily, and began brushing the dust from his clothes. Then he looked
curiously toward the horse that Curly was holding down by the simple
means of sitting on the animal's head. "I certainly thought my legs were
long enough to reach around him," he said reflectively. "How in the
world did he manage it? I seemed to be falling for a week."
Phil yelled and the Dean laughed until the tears ran down his red
cheeks, while Bob and Curly went wild.
Patches went to the horse, and gravely walked around him. Then, "Let him
up," he said to Curly.
The cowboy looked at Phil, who nodded.
As the bay regained his feet, Patches started toward him.
"Here," said the Dean peremptorily. "You come away from there."
"I'm going to see if he can do it again," declared Patches grimly.
"Not to-day, you ain't," returned the Dean. "You're workin' for me now,
an' you're too good a man to be killed tryin' any more crazy
experiments."
At the Dean's words the look of gratitude in the man's eyes was almost
pathetic.
"I wonder if I am," he said, so low that only the Dean and Phil heard.
"If you are what?" asked the Dean, puzzled by his manner.
"Worth anything--as a man--you know," came the strange reply.
The Dean chuckled. "You'll be all right when you get your growth. Come
on over here now, out of the way, while Phil takes some of the
cussedness out of that fool horse."
Together they watched Phil ride the bay and return him to his mates a
very tired and a much wiser pupil. Then, while Patches remained to watch
further operations in the corral, the Dean went to the house to tell
Stella all about it.
"And what do you think he really is?" she asked, as the last of a long
list of questions and comments.
The Dean shook his head. "There's no tellin'. A man like that is liable
to be anything." Then he added, with his usual philosophy: "He acts,
though, like a genuine thoroughbred that's been badly mishandled an' has
just found it out."
When the day's work was finished and supper was over Little Billy found
Patches where he stood looking across the valley toward Granite Mountain
that loomed so boldly against the soft light of the evening sky. The man
greeted the boy awkwardly, as though unaccustomed to children. But
Little Billy, very much at ease, signified his readiness to help the
stranger to an intimate acquaintance with the world of which he knew so
much more than this big man.
He began with no waste of time on mere preliminaries.
"See that mountain over there? That's Granite Mountain. There's wild
horses live around there, an' sometimes we catch 'em. Bet you don't know
that Phil's name is 'Wild Horse Phil'."
Patches smiled. "That's a good name for him, isn't it?"
"You bet." He turned and pointed eagerly to the west. "There's another
mountain over there I bet you don't know the name of."
"Which one do you mean? I see several."
"That long, black lookin' one. Do you know about it?"
"I'm really afraid that I don't."
"Well, I'll tell you," said Billy, proud of his superior knowledge.
"That there's Tailholt Mountain."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, and Nick Cambert and Yavapai Joe lives over there. Do you know
about them?"
The tall man shook his head. "No, I don't believe that I do."
Little Billy lowered his voice to a mysterious whisper. "Well, I'll tell
you. Only you mus'n't ever say anything 'bout it out loud. Nick and
Yavapai is cattle thieves. They been a-brandin' our calves, an' Phil,
he's goin' to catch 'em at it some day, an' then they'll wish they
hadn't. Phil, he's my pardner, you know."
"And a fine pardner, too, I'll bet," returned the stranger, as if not
wishing to acquire further information about the men of Tailholt
Mountain.
"You bet he is," came the instant response. "Only Jim Reid, he don't
like him very well."
"That's too bad, isn't it?"
"Yes. You see, Jim Reid is Kitty's daddy. They live over there." He
pointed across the meadow to where, a mile away, a light twinkled in the
window of the Pot-Hook-S ranch house. "Kitty Reid's a mighty nice girl,
I tell you, but Jim, he says that there needn't no cow-puncher come
around tryin' to get her, 'cause she's been away to school, you know,
an' I think Phil--"
"Whoa! Hold on a minute, sonny," interrupted Patches hastily.
"What's the matter?" questioned Little Billy.
"Why, it strikes me that a boy with a pardner like 'Wild Horse Phil'
ought to be mighty careful about how he talked over that pardner's
private affairs with a stranger. Don't you think so?"
"Mebby so," agreed Billy. "But you see, I know that Phil wants Kitty
'cause--"
"Sh! What in the world is that?" whispered Patches in great fear,
catching his small companion by the arm.
"That! Don't you know an owl when you hear one? Gee! but you're a
tenderfoot, ain't you?" Catching sight of the Dean who was coming toward
them, he shouted gleefully. "Uncle Will, Mr. Patches is scared of an
owl. What do you know about that; Patches is scared of an owl!"
"Your Aunt Stella wants you," laughed the Dean.
And Billy ran off to the house to share his joke on the tenderfoot with
his Aunt Stella and his "pardner," Phil.
"I've got to go to town to-morrow," said the Dean. "I expect you better
go along and get your trunk, or whatever you have and some sort of an
outfit. You can't work in them clothes."
Patches answered hesitatingly. "Why, I think I can get along all right,
Mr. Baldwin."
"But you'll want your stuff--your trunk or grip--or whatever you've
got," returned the Dean.
"But I have nothing in Prescott," said the stranger slowly.
"You haven't? Well, you'll need an outfit anyway," persisted the
cattleman.
"Really, I think I can get along for a while," Patches returned
diffidently.
The Dean considered for a little; then he said with straightforward
bluntness, but not at all unkindly, "Look here, young man, you ain't
afraid to go to Prescott, are you?"
The other laughed. "Not at all, sir. It's not that. I suppose I must
tell you now, though. All the clothes I have are on my back, and I
haven't a cent in the world with which to buy an outfit, as you call
it."
The Dean chuckled. "So that's it? I thought mebby you was dodgin' the
sheriff. If it's just plain broke that's the matter, why you'll go to
town with me in the mornin', an' we'll get what you need. I'll hold it
out of your wages until it's paid." As though the matter were settled,
he turned back toward the house, adding, "Phil will show you where
you're to sleep."
When the foreman had shown the new man to his room, the cowboy asked
casually, "Found the goat ranch, all right, night before last, did you?"
The other hesitated; then he said gravely, "I didn't look for it, Mr.
Acton."
"You didn't look for it?"
"No, sir."
"Do you mean to say that you spent the night up there on the Divide
without blankets or anything?"
"Yes, sir, I did."
"And where did you stop last night?"
"At Simmons."
"Walked, I suppose?"
The stranger smiled. "Yes."
"But, look here," said the puzzled cowboy, "I don't mean to be asking
questions about what is none of my business, but I can't figure it out.
If you were coming out here to get a job on the Cross-Triangle, why
didn't you go to Mr. Baldwin in town? Anybody could have pointed him out
to you. Or, why didn't you say something to me, when we were talking
back there on the Divide?"
"Why, you see," explained the other lamely, "I didn't exactly want to
work on the Cross-Triangle, or anywhere."
"But you told Uncle Will that you wanted to work here, and you were on
your way when I met you."
"Yes, I know, but you see--oh, hang it all, Mr. Acton, haven't you ever
wanted to do something that you didn't want to do? Haven't you ever been
caught in a corner that you were simply forced to get out of when you
didn't like the only way that would get you out? I don't mean anything
criminal," he added, with a short laugh.
"Yes, I have," returned the other seriously, "and if you don't mind
there's no handle to my name. Around here I'm just plain Phil, Mr.
Patches."
"Thanks. Neither does Patches need decorating."
"And now, one more," said Phil, with his winning smile. "Why in the
name of all the obstinate fools that roam at large did you walk out here
when you must have had plenty of chances to ride?"
"Well, you see," said Patches slowly, "I fear I can't explain, but it
was just a part of my job."
"Your job! But you didn't have any job until this afternoon."
"Oh, yes, I did. I had the biggest kind of a job. You see, that's what I
was doing on the Divide all night; trying to find some other way to do
it."
"And do you mind telling me what that job is?" asked Phil curiously.
Patches laughed as though at himself. "I don't know that I can,
exactly," he said. "I think, perhaps, it's just to ride that big bay
horse out there."
Phil laughed aloud--a hearty laugh of good-fellowship. "You'll do that
all right."
"Do you think so, really," asked Patches, eagerly.
"Sure; I know it."
"I wish I could be sure," returned the strange man doubtfully--and the
cowboy, wondering, saw that wistful look in his eyes.
"That big devil is a man's horse, all right," mused Phil.
"Why, of course--and that's just it--don't you see?" cried the other
impulsively. Then, as if he regretted his words, he asked quickly, "Do
you name your horses?"
"Sure," answered the cowboy; "we generally find something to call them."
"And have you named the big bay yet?"
Phil laughed. "I named him yesterday, when he broke away as we were
bringing the bunch in, and I had to rope him to get him back."
"And what did you name him?"
"Stranger."
"Stranger! And why Stranger?"
"Oh, I don't know. Just one of my fool notions," returned Phil.
"Good-night!"