THE FIGHT
With one bound, it seemed, Mr. Carson leaped away from the side of his
invalid guest, and was in the saddle of his favorite pony, that had been
standing near the chuck wagon.
"He's killed!" was the thought that came instantly into the mind of Mr.
Bellmore. "No rider could suffer such a fall, and live!"
Such an idea, too, it seemed, was in the thought of the ranch owner, for
he was slightly pale underneath his coat of tan as he spurred his steed
forward.
A number of other cowboys had seen the happening, and those who could
leave the work in which they were engaged, started for the scene of the
accident. But there were some, holding down a refractory steer, or engaged
in putting on the hot branding irons, who only looked over, shrugged their
shoulders, and kept on with their tasks.
For that, too, was the law of the range. If a man had a fall, he was
either killed or he was not killed. If he was killed there was no use
dropping important work to go to his aid. If he was not killed he must
either help himself, or take such help as could be sent to him at the
time.
Cruel, perhaps you will say, but it was eminently practical, and, after
all, that is life.
If Dave was really dead no power the cowboys could exert would save him.
The accident had happened--it was over with--and that was all there was to
it.
Of course some did go to his aid--Mr. Carson and several of the less busy
punchers. And, to do justice to the others, not a man but, would have
rushed to help Dave had he been in a position to do so. But the work of
the ranch must go on--and it did.
Long before Mr. Carson reached the scene, or, for that matter, before any
of the others were in a position to help Dave, a movement was observed in
the tangle of pony, rider and steer. Just who, or which, was doing the
moving it was hard to determine, as the haze of dust still overhung
everything.
"Can a person live after that mix-up?" asked Mr. Bellmore, speaking aloud,
unconsciously.
"Oh, him plenty mluch alive!" glibly replied the Chinese cook. "Dave he
plenty mluch hab fall, an' he come up smilin'."
"Oh, he does; eh?" asked the Chicago man.
"Sure!" was the answer, given with a bland grin. "He clum' up smilin'."
"Well, I hope he does," was the comment.
By this time it could be seen that Dave was at least alive. Out of the
haze of dust he limped, But the steer lay prone.
Mr. Carson jumped from his horse, and an instant later had the young
cowboy in his arms.
"Dave! Dave!" he cried. "My boy! My boy! Tell me you're not hurt!"
As the other cowboys rode up one of them gave a look at the prostrate
steer.
"He's done for," he commented.
It needed but a look at the curiously and grotesquely twisted neck of the
animal to tell that it was broken.
"Dave, are you hurt?" gasped the ranchman.
"Well, I've felt better," Dave answered, slowly, making a wry face as he
limped to one, side. He leaned heavily on the arm of Mr. Carson.
Then, as if remembering something he had forgotten, Dave looked toward his
pony. To his great relief he saw Crow rise to his feet, shake himself and
run off a little way, seemingly little the worse for his adventure.
"Thank goodness!" murmured Dave, and there was a prayer of gratitude in
his heart. "I thought he was a goner."
"And we thought you were," put in Tubby Larkin, as he strode up. "That was
some fall--believe me!"
"Must have got tangled up in the rope," commented Pocus Pete, who had
finished a task he was at, and who now spurred forward.
"That's what happened," Dave explained, as he rubbed the back of his head
and threw out one leg as if to test whether or not it had been knocked out
of joint. "I didn't see the trailing lasso, and it got around Crow's
feet."
"Yes, that's how it happened," said Mr. Carson. "But I certainly thought
both steer and pony fell on you."
"I managed to roll out of the way," said Dave, grimly.
"Lucky for you," commented Pocus Pete. "That's one of the biggest and
worst steers on the ranch, and he weighs something, too."
"His own weight broke his neck," said Tubby, reflectively. "Well, we was
needin' some beef an' now we've got it."
"I'm sorry he had to go," remarked Dave, as he walked off toward his pony,
having made sure that none of his bones was broken.
"Better him than you," murmured Mr. Carson. "Are you sure you're all
right, Dave, my boy?" he asked anxiously.
"Oh, yes I'm a bit shaken up, but I'll be all right. I can go on with the
round-up."
"You can--but you'll not!" was the ranch owner's decision. "I want you to
take a little rest. The worst of the job's over, anyhow."
Dave was nothing loath to have a little respite, and as he came up to the
chuck wagon, where Mr. Bellmore was eagerly waiting for him, the Chicago
man said:
"Well, I never expected to see you come up this way, Dave," and he held
out a welcoming hand.
"Oh, we get used to little things like that."
"Little things!" exclaimed the irrigation engineer. "Well, I thought I had
a hard time when I was hanging over that gully. But that wasn't a
circumstance to yours."
"It's all in the day's work," said Dave with a shrug of his shoulders, as
he sank down on a pile of sacks.
"He's grit clear through," thought the visitor. "I like him more every day
I see him."
As for Dave, in addition to the thankfulness in his heart that he was not
hurt, and that his favorite pony had escaped, was a deep sense of
gratitude for the manner manifested toward him by Mr. Carson. No father
could have showed more love toward his own son than the ranch owner did
toward his ward, his nameless ward.
The excitement caused by Dave's fall soon passed, for, after all, such
things are comparatively common on the ranch, and he had really been more
than usually fortunate.
And so the work of the round-up went on, day after day. Hard, hot, sweaty
and dusty work it was, too, with little of the romance that attaches to
the book stories of life on a cattle range. But no one complained, least
of all Dave Carson.
It was about a week after this that Dave was sent out again to look up
some stray cattle. He was not riding his own pony Crow, who had, after
all, developed a lame shoulder from his fall. So he was left in the stable
for a day or two.
As the animal Dave had was rather strange he took the precaution of
staking him out as he halted for a bite to eat at noon. Dave was taking
his nooning, resting lazily on the silent plain, when he heard a noise
that caused him to rouse up suddenly.
What he saw brought an exclamation of anger to his lips, for in the act of
cutting the rope that held the somewhat restive pony was Len Molick. Dave
had caught him in the nick of time.
Len had looked around, to make sure he was unobserved, but his back was
toward our hero, who was down in a little hollow.
"The sneak!" murmured Dave.
Then, silently, he began stalking the bully, who was preparing to go back
to his own horse, that was standing with reins over its head.
Len's object was plain. He wanted to let Dave's pony run back to the
ranch, so our hero would have a long walk. But his plan failed.
Just as Len was about to sever the lariat Dave sprang up, and with a yell
that startled both horses, fairly threw himself on the back of the bully.
"At last I've got you just where I want you, Len Molick!" Dave cried.
"Maybe I can't prove you sawed the fence posts, but I don't need any more
evidence than I've just had of what you were going to do. I've got you!"
"You--you let me alone!" whimpered Len, who was a coward, as most bullies
are.
"I will, when I've finished," said Dave, laying aside his coat.
"What are you going to do?" asked Len, who had straightened up, after
having been rolled on the ground by Dave.
"What am I going to do? I'm going to give you the best drubbing you ever
had. Stand up and fight now, you big coward!"