THE TAUNT
Pocus Pete shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed long and earnestly in
the direction indicated by Dave Carson. The two cow-ponies, evidently glad
of the little rest, nosed about the sun-baked earth for some choice morsel
of grass.
"It might be either--or both," Pete finally said.
"Either or both?" repeated Dave. "How can that be?"
"Don't you see two specks there, Dave? Look ag'in."
Dave looked. His eyes were younger and perhaps, therefore, sharper than
were those of the foreman of Bar U ranch, but Dave lacked the training
that long years on the range had given the other.
"Yes, I do see two," the youth finally said, "But I can't tell which is
which."
"I'm not altogether sure myself," Pete said, quietly and modestly. "We'll
ride a little nearer," he suggested, "an' then we can tell for sure. I
guess we're on th' track of some strays all right."
"Some strays, Pete? You mean our strays; don't you?" questioned Dave.
"Well, some of 'em 'll be, probably," was the quiet answer. "But you've
got t' remember, Dave, that there's a point of land belongin' t' Centre O
ranch that comes up there along the Forked Branch trail. It may be some of
Molick's strays."
"That's so. I didn't think of that, Pete. There's more to this business
than appears at first sight."
"Yes, Dave; but you're comin' on first-rate. I was a leetle opposed to th'
Old Man sendin' you East to study, for fear it would knock out your
natural instincts. But when you picked up that man as soon as you did,"
and he waved his hand toward the distant specks, "when you did that, I
know you've not been spoiled, an' that there's hope for you."
"That's good, Pete!" and Dave laughed.
"Yes, I didn't agree with th' Old Man at first," the foreman went on, "but
I see he didn't make any mistake."
Mr. Carson was the "Old Man" referred to, but it was not at all a term of
disrespect as applied to the ranch owner. It was perfectly natural to Pete
to use that term, and Dave did not resent it.
"Yes, I'm glad dad did send me East," the young man went on, as they
continued on their way up the trail. "I was mighty lonesome at first, and
I felt--well, cramped, Pete. That's the only way to express it."
"I know how you felt, Dave. There wasn't room to breathe in th' city."
"That's the way I felt. Out here it--it's different."
He straightened up in the saddle, and drew in deep breaths of the pure air
of the plains; an air so pure and thin, so free from mists, that the very
distances were deceiving, and one would have been positive that the
distant foot-hills were but half an hour's ride away, whereas the better
part of a day must be spent in reaching them.
"Yes, this is livin'--that's what it is," agreed Pocus Pete. "You can make
them out a little better now, Dave," and he nodded his head in the
direction of the two distant specks. They were much larger now.
"It's a chap on a horse, and he's going in the same direction we are,"
Dave said, after a moment's observation.
"That's right. And it ain't every cowpuncher on Bar U who could have told
that."
"I can see two--three--why, there are half a dozen cattle up there Pete."
"Yes, an' probably more. I reckon some of th' Centre O outfit has strayed,
same as ours. That's probably one of Molick's men after his brand," Pete
went on.
The Bar U ranch (so called because the cattle from it were branded with a
large U with a straight mark across the middle) adjoined, on the north,
the ranch of Jason Molick, whose cattle were marked with a large O in the
centre of which was a single dot, and his brand consequently, was known as
Centre O.
"Maybe that's Len," suggested Dave, naming the son of the adjoining ranch
owner.
"It may be. I'd just as soon it wouldn't be, though. Len doesn't always
know how to keep a civil tongue in his head."
"That's right, Pete. I haven't much use for Len myself."
"You an' he had some little fracas; didn't you?"
"Oh, yes, more than once."
"An' you tanned him good and proper, too; didn't you Dave?" asked the
foreman with a low chuckle.
"Yes, I did." Dave did not seem at all proud of his achievement. "But that
was some time ago," he added. "I haven't seen Len lately."
"Well, you haven't missed an awful lot," said Pete, dryly.
The two rode on in silence again, gradually coming nearer and nearer to
the specks which had so enlarged themselves, by reason of the closing up
of the intervening distance, until they could be easily distinguished as a
number of cattle and one lone rider. The latter seemed to be making his
way toward the animals.
"Is he driving them ahead of him?" asked Dave, after a long and silent
observation.
"That's the way it looks," said Pocus Pete. "It's Len Molick all right,"
he added, after another shading of his eyes with his hand.
"Are you sure?" Dave asked.
"Positive. No one around here rides a horse in that sloppy way but him."
"Then he must have found some of his father's strays, and is taking them
to the ranch."
"I'm not so sure of that," Pete said.
"Not so sure of what?"
"That the cattle are all his strays. I wouldn't be a bit surprised but
what some of ours had got mixed up with 'em. Things like that have been
known to happen you know."
"Do you' think---" began Dave.
"I'm not goin' to take any chances thinkin'," Pete said significantly.
"I'm going to make sure."
"Look here, Dave," he went on, spurring his pony up alongside of the young
cowboy's. "My horse is good an fresh an' Len's doesn't seem to be in such
good condition. Probably he's been abusin' it as he's done before. Now I
can take this side trail, slip around through the bottom lands, an' get
ahead of him."
"But it's a hard climb up around the mesa, Pete."
"I know it. But I can manage it. Then you come on up behind Len, casual
like. If he has any of our cattle--by mistake," said Pete, significantly,
"we'll be in a position to correct his error. Nothin' like correctin'
errors right off the reel, Dave. Well have him between two fires, so to
speak."
"All right, Pete. I'll ride up behind him, as I'm doing now, and you'll
head him off; is that it?"
"That's it. You guessed it first crack out of th' box. If nothin's wrong,
why we're all right; we're up this way to look after our strays. And if
somethin' is wrong, why we'll be in a position to correct it--that's all."
"I see." There was a smile on Dave's face as his cowboy partner, with a
wave of his hand, turned his horse into a different trail, speeding the
hardy little pony up so as to get ahead of Len Molick.
Dave rode slowly on, busy with many thoughts, some of which had to do with
the youth before him. Len Molick was about Dave's own age, that is
apparently, for, strange as it may seem, Dave was not certain of the exact
number of years that had passed over his head.
It was evident that he was about eighteen or nineteen. He had recently
felt a growing need of a razor, and the hair on his face was becoming
wiry. But once, when he asked Randolph Carson, about a birthday, the ranch
owner had returned an evasive answer.
"I don't know exactly when your birthday does come, Dave," he had said.
"Your mother, before she--before she died, kept track of that. In fact I
sometimes forget when my own is. I think yours is in May or June, but for
the life of me I can't say just which month. It doesn't make a lot of
difference, anyhow."
"No, Dad, not especially. But just how old am I?"
"Well, Dave, there you've got me again. I think it's around eighteen. But
your mother kept track of that, too. I never had the time. Put it down at
eighteen, going on nineteen, and let it go at that. Now say, about that
last bunch of cattle we shipped--"
Thus the ranchman would turn the subject. Not that Dave gave the matter
much thought, only now, somehow or other, the question seemed to recur
with increased force.
"Funny I don't know just when my birthday is," he mused. "But then lots of
the cowboys forget theirs."
The trail was smooth at this point, and Dave soon found himself close to
Len, who was driving ahead of him a number of cattle. With a start of
surprise Dave saw two which bore the Bar U brand.
"Hello, Len," he called.
Len Molick turned with a start. Either he had not heard Dave approach, or
he had pretended ignorance.
"Well, what do yon want?" demanded the surly bully.
"Oh, out after strays, as you are," said Dave, coolly. "Guess your cattle
and ours have struck up an acquaintance," he added, with assumed
cheerfulness.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean they're traveling along together just as if they belonged to the
same outfit."
"Huh! I can't help it, can I, if your cows tag along with our strays?"
demanded Len with a sneer.
"That's what I'm here for--to help prevent it," Dave went on, and his
voice was a trifle sharp. "The Bar U ranch can't afford to lose any strays
these days," he resumed. "The Carson outfit needs all it can get, and, as
representative of the Carson interests I'll just cut out those strays of
ours, Len, and head them the other way."
"Huh! What right have you got to do it?"
"What right? Why my father sent me to gather up our strays. I saw some of
them up here yesterday."
"Your father?" The sneer in Len's voice was unmistakable.
"Yes, of course," said Dave, wondering what was the matter with Len. "My
father, Randolph Carson."
"He isn't your father!" burst out Len in angry tones. "And you aren't his
son! You're a nameless picked-up nobody, that's what you are! A nobody!
You haven't even a name!"
And with this taunt on his lips Len spurred his horse away from Dave's.