THE BAT WING RANCH
A week passed by while Mr. Bowles prepared for his great emprise, and
then one evening as the sun set behind the purple peaks of the Tortugas
and lighted up the white walls of the big house on the hill a stranger
might have been seen riding up toward the Bat Wing gate. In fact, he was
seen, and the round-up cook, who was washing supper dishes at the rear
of the chuck-wagon, delivered himself of a heartfelt curse.
"What's the matter, Gus?" inquired a lounging cowboy who was hovering
over the fire. "Drop yore dishrag?"
"No; and I don't need to around this ranch!" commented Gus with bitter
emphasis. "It's a common remark or sayin' that when you drop yore
dishrag it means a visitor is comin'--or, as some say, it means bad
luck. Now jest look at that ornery feller comin' up the road! Can't let
his hawse out none--can't whip up a little and git in by
supper-time--has to come draggin' in jest as I'm finishin' my work!"
The cowboy raised himself up slowly from crouching on his heels and
regarded the stranger intently.
"Say, who is that?" he said at last. "Looks like he was ridin' that
little bald-faced sorrel that Lon Morrell traded to Jim Scrimsher last
summer. Yes, sir, it's the very same hawse--that's somebody from down
Chula Vista way!"
"Well, I don't care where he comes from," grumbled the cook, "as long as
he comes a-runnin'! I sure will be one happy man when the wagon gits
away from this ranch and I git shut of these no-'count, worthless
chuck-riders. Well, biscuits and coffee is all he gits now, I don't care
if he's a cattle-buyer!"
He wiped his hands carefully on a clean towel he kept hid for that
purpose, pulled out his long gray mustaches and regarded the stranger
with a baleful stare.
"Hoo!" he sneered. "Look at them shaps, will you? Ain't them the fancy
pants though! Right new, too--and git on to that great big six-shooter!
Must be a forest ranger!"
"Shut up!" said the cowboy as the stranger dropped off at the gate. "He
might hear ye!"
"Don't give a rip if he did!" snorted Gus, to whom Uncle Sam's gay young
forest-savers were intimately associated with an extra plate; and,
grumbling and slamming down dishes, he returned to his manifold duties.
But the stranger was evidently not a common chuck-rider; in fact, so
gloriously was he appareled that the moment his rigging became apparent
the idling cowboy made a swift sneak to the bunk-house, where the boys
were wrangling over a pitch game, and turned in a general alarm.
"Come out, fellers," he whispered hoarsely, "and see the new tenderfoot!
Hurry up, he's goin' over to the big house! Say, he's a forest ranger
all right!"
"Nothin' of the kind!" asserted a burly cow-puncher, thrusting his head
out the door. "Movin' picture cowboy, I'll bet a hat!"
The stranger remounted gracefully as they gazed out at him; then he
touched his jaded sorrel with the spur and trotted over to the big house
gate--and as he trotted he rose rhythmically in his stirrups, while all
cowboy-land stood aghast!
"English!" they gasped in a chorus, and burst into fervid curses as they
stared at the uncouth sight. A grown man, a white man, and hopping up
and down like that! Holy, jumping Jerusalem! They beat each other on the
back in an agony of despair--and yet it was no more than Mr. Bowles,
dropping back into his old Central Park habits. To be sure, the man who
coached him at Chula Vista had warned him against it repeatedly, but the
customs of a lifetime are not wiped out in a minute, and to that extent
Mr. Bowles was still an Easterner.
The big white house in which Henry Lee made his home was a landmark in
southeast Arizona. Some people merely referred to it as "The White
House," and though it was forty miles from the railroad it was as well
known in its way as the abiding place of Presidents in Washington. The
White House was a big, square, adobe building, set boldly on the top of
a low hill and surrounded by a broad wooden gallery, from behind whose
clambering honeysuckles and gnarled rose-bushes Mrs. Lee and Dixie May
looked down upon the envious world below. To be invited up to the big
house, to sit on the flower-scented porch and listen to the soft voices
of the women--that was a dream to which every cow-puncher's heart
aspired, although in the realization many a bold, adventurous man lost
face and weakened. But to Bowles the big house was the natural place to
go, and he unlatched the gate and mounted to the gallery without a
tremor.
Upon the edge of the porch, smoking his pipe and gazing out over his
domain, sat Henry Lee, the pioneer cattleman of the Tortugas Valley, and
a man who had fought Indians to get his start. He was a great man--old
Henry Lee--but to Bowles chiefly distinguished by being the father of
Dixie May.
"Ah, good-evening!" he began, bringing his heels together and bowing.
"Are you Mr. Lee?"
The cattleman looked at him a moment with a calm, appraising eye. He was
a small, rather slight man, but square-shouldered and far from
decrepit--also, he had seen the procession go by for quite a while, and
he could judge most men by their faces.
"That's my name," he said, rising quietly from his place. "What can I do
for you?"
"My name is Bowles," said that gentleman, following the procedure he
thought most fitting in one seeking employment. "Mr. Scrimsher, of Chula
Vista, has referred me to you in regard to a position as cowboy. I
should like very much to get such a place."
"Sorry, Mr. Bowles," answered Mr. Lee, knocking the ashes out of his
pipe, "but I'm not taking on any hands at present."
"Oh, indeed!" murmured the would-be cowboy, not at all dismayed.
"Perhaps there will be an opening for me later?"
"No; I'm afraid not. I generally take on about the same boys every year,
or men that know the country, and there won't be any place for you."
There was something very final about the way that this was said, and
Bowles paused to meditate.
"Turn your horse into the pasture and git some supper at the wagon,"
added the old man, with a friendly gesture; but supper was not what
Bowles had come for. He had come to get a job where he could be near the
queen of his heart, and perhaps win her by some deed of prowess and
daring. So he ignored this tacit dismissal and returned again to the
charge.
"I can readily understand, Mr. Lee," he began, "why you hesitate to
employ a stranger, and especially a man who has newly come from the
East, but if you would give me a trial for a few days I am sure you
would find me a very willing worker. I have come out here in order to
learn the cattle business, and the compensation is of no importance to
me at first; in fact, I should be glad to work without pay until you
found my services of value. Perhaps now----"
"Nope," interposed the cattleman, shaking his head regretfully. "I've
tried that before, and it don't work. Cow-punching is a business by
itself, and it can't be learned in a minute; in fact, a good puncher is
the scarcest thing on the range, and I either pay the top price or I
don't take a man on at all. I can't stop to monkey with green hands."
Now, this was pretty direct, and it was calculated to put the ordinary
tenderfoot in his place; but Mr. Bowles came from a self-selected class
of people who are accustomed to having their own way, and he would not
acknowledge himself beaten.
"Now, really, Mr. Lee," he protested, "I don't think you are quite fair
to me in this. As I understand it, your round-up is just beginning, and
I am sure I could be of some service--for a few days, at least."
The old man glanced at his fancy new outfit, and thought he saw another
way out.
"Can you ride?" he inquired, asking that first fatal question before
which so many punchers go down.
"Yes, sir," answered Bowles politely.
"You mean you can ride a gentle horse," corrected Lee. "I've got some
pretty wild ones in my bunch, and of course a new hand couldn't expect
to get the best. Can you rope?"
"No, I mean any horse," retorted Bowles, avoiding the subject of roping.
"Any horse you have."
"Hmm!" observed Mr. Lee, laying down his pipe and regarding his man with
interest. "Did you ever ride any bad horses?"
"Yes, sir," lied Bowles; "several of them."
"And you think you can ride any horse I've got, eh?" mused Lee. "Well,
I'll tell you, Mr. Bowles," he continued, speaking very deliberately;
"I've got a horse in my remuda that killed a man last fall--if you'll
ride him I'll take you on for a puncher."
"Very well, sir," responded Bowles. "And thank you very much. It's very
kind of you, I'm sure."
He turned to go but the cattleman stopped him in his second stride. His
bluff had been called, for it would never do to go to a show-down--not
unless he wanted a man's blood on his hands.
"Here! Wait a minute!" he cried impatiently. "I don't want to get you
killed, so what's the use of talking? The only way for you to get to be
a cow-puncher is to work up to it, the way everybody does. I'll give you
a job as flunky at twenty a month and found, and if you make good I'll
put you on for horse wrangler. How does that strike you?"
"Ah--what are the duties of a flunky?" inquired Bowles, cautiously and
without enthusiasm. "You know, I'm quite content with your first
proposal."
"Very likely," answered Mr. Lee dryly. "But wait till you see the horse.
All a flunky has to do is to help the cook, wash the dishes, drag up a
little wood, and drive the bed-wagon."
"It's very kind of you, I'm sure," murmured Mr. Bowles; "but I think I
prefer the other."
"The other what?"
"Why, the other position--the job of cow-puncher."
"You don't think I'll let you ride that horse, do you?" demanded Mr. Lee
sternly.
"Why--so I understood you."
The old cattleman snorted and muttered to himself. He had talked too
much and that was all there was to it. Now he would have to make some
concessions to pay for it.
"Listen to me, young man," he said, rising and tapping him on the
shoulder. "The horse that killed Dunbar is the worst man-eater in the
country--I ought to have shot the brute long ago--and if you try to ride
him he'll throw you before you git your stirrup. More'n that, he'll kick
you before you hit the ground, and jump on you before you bounce. My
twister, Hardy Atkins, won't go near 'im, and he's one of the best
riders in Arizona; so what's the use of talking about it? Now, you're a
stranger here, and I'll make an exception of you--how about that flunky
job?"
"Why--really----" Mr. Bowles hesitated a moment. "Perhaps it's only in
the name, but I'd rather not accept such a menial position. Of course,
it's very kind of you to offer me the alternative, but----"
"Now, here!" cried the cattleman fiercely. "I'll make you assistant
horse wrangler, at thirty dollars a month, and if you don't accept I'll
tell Hardy to catch up the old man-killer and put you in the hospital! I
was a fool to talk to you the way I did; but don't you crowd me too far,
young man, or you'll find Henry Lee a man of his word! Now, will you
wrangle horses, or will we have to ship you East?"
Bowles stared at him for a moment, and then he drew himself up proudly.
"If the choice lies between a menial position----" he began; and old
Henry brought his teeth together with a click.
"You poor, dam', ignorant tenderfoot!" he raved. "You don't know when
you're being treated white! You ain't worth a cent to me, sir--no, not a
cent! And now I'm going to learn you something! I'll ask my twister to
put the saddle on old Dunbar in the morning, and you'll have to ride
him, sir, or own yourself a coward!"
"Very well, sir," answered Bowles, with military stiffness. "Very well!
I will see you in the morning, then."
He bowed and strode off down the path, his new shaps flapping
ponderously as he walked; and the old cattleman brushed his eyes to
drive the mad thought away.