VISITORS
“Nick, why’n thunder don’t you give that mouth-organ of yourn to
Sing Lung an’ let him make soup out of it?” Gus Tripp drawled.
The cowboys, Roy and Teddy among them, were sprawled in lazy
attitudes just outside the bunk-house. Several days had passed since
they had ridden after the horse thieves--days of fruitless searching
for the lost animals.
Nick finished the last, plaintive strains of “Home, Sweet, Home,”
and removed the instrument from his lips. Noon mess had just been
concluded, and the men were resting a few moments before resuming
the work of the ranch.
“Huh?” Nick grunted. “What was that, Gus?”
“I say you ought to give that wind-wailer to Sing Lung to make soup
out of.”
“Yea?” Nick tapped the harmonica gently on the palm of his hand.
“Maybe you figger the noise you make drinkin’ soup would turn into
music then, hey?”
“Chalk up one for Nick,” Teddy grinned. Except for a small cut on
his head, the boy had completely recovered from his dangerous fall.
“Notice you been practicin’ up quite a bit lately,” Jim Casey put
in. “Norine say she likes to hear you play, Nick?” he questioned.
Norine was Mrs. Moore’s daughter, Mrs. Moore being a widow who for
five years had been the cook and housekeeper at the ranch house.
“That’s all right,” Nick returned. “Roy, tell us what Jim had on the
other night when he went callin’ over to the house. Go on, tell the
assembled multitude!”
“A boiled shirt,” Roy answered, with a smile. “At first I didn’t
believe it was Jim, but when I went closer I heard him sing, and
then I knew it was him.”
“There you are!” Nick arose and spread his arms in a wide gesture.
“The gentleman goes callin’ in a boiled shirt, an’ singin’! Could
anything be sweeter?”
“Yes! Crackers an’ milk!” Pop Burns exclaimed. “But not much
sweeter. Tell you, I don’t know what this younger generation is
comin’ to. Nick learns to blow tunes on a hunk o’ tin. Jim sports a
boiled shirt. Gus--I don’t know what Gus does. I ain’t ketched him
yet. An’ all because a silly girl knows how to make goo-goo eyes!”
“She ain’t a silly girl!” Explosions of indignation burst about
Pop’s ears.
“She’s nice, let me tell you!”
“You bet she is! Silly girl! Huh!”
“She’s the purtiest girl I ever see!”
“How’d you used to go callin’ on a girl, you old bronco-peeler? With
a six-gun hangin’ from yore belt an’ a bowie knife between yore
teeth?”
“Yes!” Pop shouted, above the din. “I sure would! In my day we went
courtin’ in hats, not hair tonic!”
“I suppose that’s why you got so much hair now!” Gus yelled,
doubling up with exaggerated laughter. “Boy, that dome of yourn
shines like a Mexican dollar!”
Pop clamped his hat savagely back on his head, and then grinned.
“Well, I suppose boys will be boys. ’Scuse me now. I got to work.
There’s some blocks behind the cook-house you children can amuse
yourselves with. You can build houses. But don’t build ’em too high.
They might fall on you an’ bust a finger nail or somethin’. Then
Norine wouldn’t like you no more!” Before they could answer him, the
veteran puncher tramped off.
“Crazy old coot!” Nat Raymond said with a grin. “Always has the last
word! Well, let’s get goin’, boys. There’s plenty to do. Roy, you’re
the boss this week, ain’t you? Want me to ride down to Eagles and
see if our inoculation stuff has come in yet?” He had reference to
an antitoxin which cattle are given to prevent a disease called
blackleg.
“Guess you’d better, Nat,” Roy said. “And while you’re there, take a
good look around. See if you can spot that puncher in a shirt
that--isn’t striped.”
“I get you,” Nat returned. “An’ if I see a geezer with a scar on the
left side of his face I’ll let you know that, too.” Mr. Manley had
told the story of the robbery to all the men on the X Bar X.
Roy and Teddy walked slowly over toward the corral.
“How does the old head feel, Teddy?” Roy asked.
“Pretty good. Aches a little now and then. But I’d rather have a
headache than an obituary notice. Roy, if you and dad hadn’t gotten
there when you did, I’d have had to be swept up with a shovel.” A
slight shudder passed over the boy.
“Forget it,” Roy advised, laying a hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“It’s over now. Say, I’ve been thinking. I--”
“So have I,” Teddy interrupted. “About Flash, mostly. I miss him,
Roy. Miss him like anything! If I ever catch the thief who took
him--”
“I know,” and Roy nodded. “I feel the same about Star, and I guess
dad does about General, too. But we can’t do any good thinking about
it. When the time comes, we’ll act. The boys say that the gang who
rustled the cattle from the 8 X 8 is around again, and I’ve still
got a hunch those are the waddies who stole our broncs. We just have
to sit tight, Teddy, and do a little figuring. In the meantime, I’ve
got an idea that might interest you.”
“Let’s hear it,” Teddy suggested. “Not about the broncs, is it?”
“No,” Roy answered. “It’s about those two girls over at Pete Ball’s
place. Remember--Nell and Ethel?”
“Well, now that you speak about it, I do,” Teddy drawled, with an
assumption of carelessness. “Why?”
“Nothing, except that they’re coming over here.”
“They are?” Teddy looked up with quick eagerness, then, as quickly,
turned away his head. “Well, that’ll be nice for you, Roy.”
“You don’t say!” his brother laughed. “Nice for me, will it? How
about you?”
“Oh, I guess I can stand it. How long can they stay?”
“I notice you didn’t ask when they’re going home, did you?” Roy
asked. “‘How long can they stay!’ Teddy, my boy, your innocence is
sublime. Well, mother telephoned to Mrs. Ball this morning, and I
guess they’ll be here tonight or early tomorrow. Bug Eye will
probably bring them over.”
The two boys had reached the corral, and Roy paused for a moment,
leaning against the rails. He peered at the horses within. Somehow,
the place did not seem the same without Star trotting over to nuzzle
his hand.
“You mentioned something about rustlers at the 8 X 8,” Teddy
remarked, as he examined the initials cut in one of the rails.
“Yes. Dad heard from Eagles that they might be the same thieves who
stole Flash, Star, and General. Don’t know who told him, but I
imagine it was one of the men who saw them ride our ponies away. You
know; the gang that hangs around the corral in town. Some of them
are pretty decent, and they’d help us if they could. There’s only a
certain bunch that’s got it in for dad because he wouldn’t go in for
that scheme of weighting the cattle scales, as Pop told us.”
Teddy nodded.
“I remember! I’ll bet Checkered Shirt is one of them, too. Well,
let’s get to work. You and I are going to ride fence, aren’t we?
Might as well get started. The better shape we keep the fence in,
the harder it will be for the rustlers to nab any of the X Bar X
stock, if they’re planning to do that. Golly, what’s this country
coming to? They claim the old West is gone, but if some of those
birds who say that would come here, they’d soon find out! But we can
do without rustlers, if we have to, I guess.”
“I’ll tell a maverick we can!” Roy declared forcibly. “If they’re
part of the old West, let ’em go. I won’t keep ’em. Come on, grab a
bronc and let’s be on our way.”
It was almost dark when the two boys returned from their work of
repairing the fence. As they dismounted and led the horses to the
watering trough, a familiar noise greeted their ears. It was the
rattle of a flivver, above which sounded a voice.
“Made it, ladies! Got this tin bronco ridin’ right along, didn’t I?
Whoa! Grab a-holt, ladies, we’re goin’ to land, an’ there’s no
tellin’ what she’ll do when she hits ground again! Yow! There she
is. Ho-o-o-old up now, you snortin’ peanut-roaster!”
“Bug Eye!” Roy exclaimed, with a grin, turning to his brother.
“And he’s not alone, either!” Teddy remarked mischievously. “He was
talking to ‘ladies,’ Roy! Did you get that?”
A girlish laugh punctuated Bug Eye’s further description of the
“peanut-roaster.”