CHUNKY RIDES THE GOAT
"There's the sheep," announced Tad, after they had ridden on for
some time.
"I'm glad," said Phil, "do you know, Tad, I thought those men were
going to kill you." Phil's courage had returned, when he realized
that they were in sight of friends once more.
Tad laughed.
"They aren't half so bad as they would have us believe. The boy was
the worst of the lot. He needed to be taught a lesson, but I wish I
hadn't hurt him," he mused.
"He did it himself; you didn't."
"Yes, I know. I had to to save my own face." The lad laughed
heartily at his own joke, which Philip, however, failed to
catch. "Now we'll find out where the camp is," said Tad, espying a
herder off to the north of them.
Having been directed to the new camp, Phil galloped away, Tad
remaining to chat with the sheepman a few minutes. Yet he made no
mention of his experience at Groveland Corners, not being
particularly proud of it, after all. After riding slowly about with,
the herder for half an hour, the lad jogged off toward camp, which
his companion had reached before him.
Philip had spread the story of Tad's battle with the cowboy. Old
Hicks, contrary to his usual practice, had listened with one ear,
giving a grunt of satisfaction when the story had been told. As a
result there were several persons eagerly awaiting him in the sheep
camp when he rode up.
"Who's getting into trouble now?" demanded Stacy, with mock
seriousness. "You need a guardian, I guess. I presume Mr. Simms
thinks so, too."
"Heard you had two black eyes," jeered Ned Rector.
"Say, Tad, we've agreed that you shall show us how you did it, using
Chunky for your model," said Walter Perkins.
Tad smiled good-naturedly, dismounting from the saddle and tethering
the pony with his usual care.
"Guess I'd better leave the saddle on. There may be something doing
any minute," he mused.
"Mr. Simms wants ye over to his tent," Old Hicks informed Tad.
"Oh, all right," answered the lad, walking briskly to the little
tent occupied by the owner of the herd.
The foreman was there awaiting Tad's arrival as well.
"First I want to thank you for having taken Phil's part so
splendidly," glowed Mr. Simms. "It is a wonder they did not do you
some harm after that."
"Oh, they were not half bad," laughed Tad. "They were ashamed of
what they'd done after it was all over."
"No. There's no shame in that crowd. I know them. Phil has told me
about it. I know them all, and they shall suffer for roping that
boy," went on the rancher angrily.
"One of them has," answered Tad, with a mischievous twinkle in his
eyes. "Besides, there's going to be a big fight over there. Perhaps
they are at it now."
"Fight? I should judge from what I hear that there already has been
one. What do you mean?"
"Oh, nothing very serious. I taught them the Japanese trick of
throwing a man over my head. They were trying it on when I
left. Shouldn't be surprised, after they learn how to do the trick,
if they got mad and had a real fight."
Luke Larue leaned back, slapping his thighs and laughing
uproariously.
"Well, you are a smart one," he exclaimed. "Couldn't lick them all
yourself, so you fixed it so they'd sail in and lick each
other. Funniest thing I ever heard. I'll have to tell Old Hicks
about that. But I won't do it till after dinner, or he'll burn the
mutton and spoil our meal. Fighting each other!" Luke indulged in
more hilarity.
"You heard nothing, of course--they said nothing about our herd----"
"No, but it was plain that they had no love for you, Mr. Simms. It
was the boy who roped Philip, though. I do not think the men would
have done anything like that."
"It's all the same. It shows the feeling that exists. Nothing will
ever wipe that out except a good whipping. It's coming to them and
they are going to get it."
"You think then--you believe they have not given up their plan of
attacking the sheep?" asked Tad.
"Given it up? Not they. They have been too well nagged on by your
friend of the Rosebud. I wish I knew who he is. I probably never
shall, though."
"I'll know him if I see him again."
"You might not. Camp-fire sight is tricky."
"I'll know his voice, sir. I presume you will continue
your watch over the herd to-night?"
"Yes, and for many nights to come. We shall keep it up until we get
far enough to the north so that we are sure there will be no
trouble. I guess you had better go on the late trick to-night. That
is the most important. We'll send your friend Chunky out early in
the evening. His habit of going to sleep at unusual times is too
serious to trust him with the late and dangerous watch. If they
strike it will be close to morning, I imagine."
"I hope they won't, for your sake."
"So do I," answered Mr. Simms, with emphasis.
The afternoon was waning. The Pony Riders were all in camp, some
reading, others writing letters home, for already much had happened
that would make interesting reading to the folks off in the little
Missouri town.
Steam was rising from the big kettle, into which Old Hicks was about
to drop a quarter of mutton for the evening meal, and an air of
perfect peace hovered over the camp of the sheepmen. Under a
spreading tree the bell goat of the outfit lay stretched out sound
asleep. He had been in that position most of the afternoon, there
being nothing special for him to do, as the herd was grazing as it
saw fit, without any effort being made to urge it along.
From the other side of the tree the round face of Stacy Brown might
have been observed peering to one side of the sleeping goat.
He listened intently. Billy was breathing short, regular breaths,
with no thought of the trouble that was in store for him. From the
expression of the boy's face it was evident that he was forming some
mischievous plan of his own. This was verified when, after dodging
back behind the tree, his head appeared once more and a stick was
cautiously thrust out. Slowly it was pushed toward Billy's nose,
which it gently rubbed and then was withdrawn.
Billy probably thought it was a fly, for one impatient hoof brushed
the troubled nose; then the interrupted nap was continued.
Stacy tried it again with equal success. His sides were shaking with
laughter, and every little while he would hide himself behind the
tree to give vent to his merriment.
The others were too busy to notice what he was doing, though once
Old Hicks paused in his work to cast a suspicious glance in that
direction.
Stacy had been amusing himself for several minutes and with such
success that he grew more bold. He had stepped from behind the tree
that he might the better reach his victim. Now the tickling and the
sweep of the impatient hoof became more frequent. Billy grunted as
if he were having a bad dream, and this amused Stacy so much that he
was obliged to retire behind the tree again to laugh.
As he emerged this time, Billy slowly opened a cautious eye, all
unobserved by his tormentor. With a hand over his own mouth to keep
back the laughter, the lad rubbed the stick gently over the goat's
nose. Billy's chin whiskers took an almost imperceptible upward tilt
and the observing eye opened a little more widely.
Next time Stacy varied the performance by giving the goat a
malicious little dig in the ribs with the sharp end of the stick.
Billy rose up into the air as if hurled there by an explosion
beneath him. When he landed on his four feet, it was with head
pointed directly toward the foe and with fore legs sloping well back
under him ready for a drive with his tough little head.
"Oh!" exclaimed Chunky, rapping the goat smartly over the nose with
the stick to drive the animal off.
Billy drove all right, but it was not away from the lad. Stacy was
standing with legs apart and Billy dived between them, at the same
time lifting his head.
The effect was instantaneous. Chunky was neatly flipped to the
goat's back, face down with his legs dangling about the animal's
neck. Instinctively he took a quick grip with the legs, locking his
feet on the underside of Billy's neck and his hands about the
withers.
At that moment the surprised goat gave an excellent imitation of a
broncho trying to throw its rider.
"Hel-p!" cried Chunky in a muffled voice.
No one save the cook heard it.
"Whoop!" bellowed Old Hicks, smiting his thigh with a mighty fist
and screaming with laughter.
The Pony Riders and everyone else in camp sprang to their feet, not
understanding what the commotion was about.
"The kid's riding the goat," yelled Hicks. "He's initiating himself
into the order of Know Nuthins. See him buck! See him buck!"
The camp roared.
"Let go, Chunky!" shouted Walter.
"I can't, I'll fall off," answered the boy in a scarcely audible
voice.
"I'll help you then. Come on, boys."
They made a concerted rush to rescue their companion. This was the
signal for the goat to adopt new tactics. He probably thought it was
some new form of torture that they had planned for him.
Billy headed for the tent of the owner of the herd. He went through
it like a projectile, upsetting the folding table on which Mr. Simms
was writing, and out through the flap at the other end.
By this time the outfit was in an uproar. Even the sheep on the
range near by paused in their grazing to gaze curiously campward;
the herders off in that direction shaded their eyes against the sun
and tried to make out the cause of the disturbance.
"Y-e-o-w!" encouraged the cook, waving a loaf of bread above his
head and dancing about with a more pronounced limp than usual.
Jerk, jerk, went Chunky's head until he feared it would be jerked
from his body.
"Stay by him, stay by him, kid," encouraged a sheepman.
Mr. Simms rushing from his tent, startled and angry, instantly
forgot the words of protest that were on his lips and joined
heartily in laughter at the ludicrous sight.
"Look out that you don't lose your stirrups," jeered Ned as goat and
rider shot by him with a bleat.
Walter made a grab for Billy with the result that he was pivoting on
his own head the next second.
Once they thought Chunky was going to fall off and put a sudden end
to their fun, but he soon righted himself, whereupon he tightened
the grip of hands and legs.
By this time the goat was mad all through. He seemed bent now upon
doing all the damage he could.
"Stop that! Want to run me down!" shouted Ned, grabbing a tree as
the outfit swept by him, the goat uttering a sharp bleat and Chunky
a howl of protest.
All at once Billy headed for the kitchen department. Old Hicks saw
him coming and with a few quick hops got out of the way.
"Hi there, hang you, where you heading?" he roared.
The tinware had been stacked up on a bench to dry out in the
sunlight. Perhaps it was the rays of the sun on the bright tin that
attracted Billy's attention. At any rate he went through it with a
bound, amid the crash of rattling tin and splintering wood.
Old Hicks made a swing at the animal with the long stick he had been
using to prod the kettle of mutton. He missed and sat down suddenly,
his lame leg refusing to bear the strain that had been put upon it.
It was astonishing the endurance the goat showed, for Chunky was no
light weight in any sense of the word. Now and then he would just
graze the trunk of a tree, bringing a howl from his rider as the
latter's leg was scraped its full length against the bark of the
tree.
By this time nearly everyone in camp had laughingly sought places of
safety, some in the chuck wagon, others climbing saplings as best
they could, for no man knew in what direction Billy might head next.
Old Hicks refused to take the protection that the wagon offered. He
stood his ground, stick held firmly in both hands, awaiting a chance
to rap the boy or the goat when they next passed.
His opportunity came soon. He had been baking pies for the
sheepmen's supper and these he had placed on the tail board of the
wagon, which he had removed and laid upon a frame made of sticks
stuck into the ground.
Billy finished the pies in one grand charge.
The enraged cook forgot his own danger and boldly striding out into
the open began throwing things at the mad goat. It mattered not what
he threw. Anything he laid his hands on answered for the
purpose--dishpans, small kettles, knives, loaves of bread--all went
the same way, some of them reaching Chunky and bringing a howl from
him. The goat, however, escaped without being hit once.
Twice more after wrecking the pies, did he charge the kitchen. It
was noticed, however, that he avoided the hot stove. Hicks gladly
would have lost that for the sake of seeing the goat smash against
it and end his career.
After one drive more ferocious than any he had made before, Billy
whirled and came back. Old Hicks stood with his back to the kettle,
stick held aloft. He was going to get the goat this time, for he saw
the animal would pass close to him if he held his present course.
Billy did so until within a few feet of the cook. Then he changed
his direction. He changed it more suddenly than the cook had looked
for.
Billy's head hit Old Hicks a powerful blow. The cook doubled up with
a grunt. When he came down he landed fairly in the kettle of hot
mutton. Cook and kettle toppled over, the former yelling for help
and struggling desperately to extricate himself.
Chunky too had fared badly in the final charge. The shock had thrown
him sideways and he crumpled up not far from the kettle and its
human occupant.
They fished Old Hicks from the wreck, fuming and raging and
threatening to kill the goat and to chase the "heathen kid" out of
the camp.
Chunky was limp and breathless when they picked him up. They dragged
the lad away from the vicinity of the cook as quickly as
possible. Old Hicks' rage at that moment was a thing to avoid. The
goat, Billy, galloped away, the least disturbed of the outfit, but
it was observed that he prudently remained out on the range with the
sheep that night.
"I didn't fall in that time, did I?" gasped Chunky, after his breath
had come back sufficiently to enable him to talk.
"No, but you're going to do so when the cook gets hold of you,"
warned Ned.
"Hicks? Old Hicks fell into the mutton broth, didn't he?" chuckled
the fat boy.