A LETTER FROM THE POSTMISTRESS
The morning after Bowles' return from his trip to Chula Vista--during
which he had made the startling proposition about being misunderstood by
Dixie Lee--the entire Bat Wing outfit packed up its plunder and pulled
out for the big round-up. First the cowboys, with a fifteen-mile ride
ahead of them before they began to gather, went stringing across the
plains at a high trot; then the remuda, stretching out in a mighty fan
of horses, came fogging along behind them, to be ready for a change at
the cutting-grounds; and last the chuck-wagon and the bed-wagon--one
full of Dutch ovens and provisions, the other piled high with
well-lashed beds--went hammering through chuck holes and dipping into
dry washes in a desperate attempt to reach the rendezvous in time for
dinner.
A gangling youth in overalls, and with a pair of cheap "can-opener"
spurs on his shoes, acted the part of assistant to the horse-wrangler;
and an open-faced individual with a great taste for plug tobacco and the
song called "Casey Jones" drove the bed-wagon for Gloomy Gus; but Bowles
rode out with the cowboys. By a piece of good luck, he had backed
Wa-ha-lote into a corner that morning, and so menaced him with his rope
that the good-natured monarch had finally stood and surrendered for a
handful of sugar. So Mr. Bowles rode out in style, without any
ostensible glances toward the big house, where Dixie May was reviewing
her admirers from the gallery. By this time, of course, Mrs. Lee would
have informed her daughter of the Eastern stray's presumption--of his
daring to suggest that, in case he called, she, Dixie, might
misunderstand his motives and think he was laying siege to her
heart--and of course Dixie May would be indignant!
But, if she was, she carried it off well, for Bowles never got a look
from her. Of course, in a bunch of thirty cowboys, even on such a fancy
mount as high-headed Wa-ha-lote, one man does not stand out
conspicuously from the rest--that is, not unless his horse is pitching.
Hardy Atkins was on an outlaw sorrel called El Paso del Norte, and he
made up the center of the picture. Del Norte was a wonder at the
buck-jump, especially if some one spurred him in the shoulders, which
Hardy did, and the departure of our hero was a little dimmed by his
dust. Still Bowles was pleased, even if he was leaving the home of his
beloved for two weeks, for something told him that he had at last won
distinction in the ruck of suitors--the only man who had not let it go
for granted that he was in love with Dixie Lee. Of course, he
was--desperately so--but an instinct deep down in his breast warned him
to conceal it from all the world. And especially from Dixie, the
capricious; otherwise, she might win him by a glance and a smile, and
then disprize him forever.
But now the stern realities of life loomed up before him, and Bowles
found himself with a real round-up on his hands. It does not take much
of a man to sit on the front porch and talk near-love with a girl; but
to follow a Western round-up is a task to try the hardiest. For three
hours Bowles rode at a rough trot across the valley, fighting down the
awful instinct to rise in his stirrups and "bob"; and then as the
distant hills grew nearer the cowboys broke into a lope. They separated
into two parties that formed the horns of a circle, dropping off man
after man as they jumped up cattle, and still spurring on and on. The
puncher with the weakest horse was dropped first, for there would be no
chance to change till noon, and the best mounted was saved to the last
in order to get his full strength. Bowles was on Wa-ha-lote, and he rode
to the end before Henry Lee sent him back with the herd.
Very slowly now he plodded along behind his bunch of cattle, riding back
and forth as he picked up strays, and driving them all to some common
center. To the right and left, and far across to distant hills, he could
see lone men at their task, and the great plain became dotted with
cattle as the circle closed in on the grounds. A hundred cow-trails,
sinuous as snake-tracks, led in to this place they all sought, and when
the lowing strings of cattle met it was on the flat by a dammed-up lake.
There the herds were thrown together, carefully so that no mother should
lose her calf; and while they stood them upon the cutting-ground the
wrangler brought up his horses, and each man caught out a fresh mount.
Nowhere in all his work is the mastery of the cowboy more apparent than
when he changes horses on the open plain. The great remuda of over two
hundred horses was driven in on the gallop; then the cowboys rounded
them up, and each man dropped to the ground. One by one they took down
their ropes and threw the loose ends to their neighbors, and there in a
minute's time was a corral that would hold the wildest outlaw, for a
rope is the greatest terror of a cow-pony. It was a rope that
fore-footed him when he was a colt, and bound him at the branding; every
morning the long, snaky loops whizzed past their ears and dragged out
those who must ride till they were ready to drop; and so, even though
they had the power to brush the rope fence aside, the frightened horses
huddled away from it and submitted to the noose.
Bowles was barred, for his Mother Hubbard roping threw the herd into a
frenzy; so he saddled up for Brigham and let that doughty puncher drag
out his mount. Then the cutting and branding began, and Henry Lee put
him to flanking calves. Perhaps he, too, had heard of the tenderfoot's
remarks about his daughter; or it may have been the original grouch; but
Bowles knew from the look in his eye that he was elected to do his full
share. So he labored on, trying to learn the tricks of the older
flankers, and schooling himself to their stoical endurance.
A heavy wind came up, sweeping the dust across the flat in clouds, and
still the cutters rode and roped. They ate dinner in relays, turning
their backs to the storm and bolting their grimy food in silence, and
hurried back to the herd. The sparks from the branding-fire flew fifty
feet in a line, and the irons would hardly hold heat in the wind; but
they carried the work through to the end. Then they moved the herd to
harder ground, and cut it between the gusts, when every horse turned
tail and the riders shut their eyes. The ones and twos were lumped
together, the strays turned loose on the plain, and the outfit plodded
on to the east, driving their cut before them.
That night they camped at a ranch, throwing down their beds in barns and
sheds, and eating in the open. The next day they braved the wind and
combed the distant mountain, riding far over the rocky slopes, and
branding in a canon. On the third day the wind brought up rain and
sleet, and the mountains were powdered with snow, but the round-up moved
on inexorably. Then the wind veered to the east and the air became
bitter cold; Gloomy Gus could hardly cook for the gale that assaulted
him, and the wrangler lost eight or ten horses; but still the hardy
cowboys rode and cut and branded, for a round-up never stops for wind
and weather.
As for Bowles, his face was peeled and swollen, his eyes half-blinded by
dust and wind, his body chilled through in spite of his clothes, and he
saw himself in that company like a child among grown-up men. Half of the
cowboys left their coats on the wagon until the day of the blizzard; and
Brigham was still in his shirt-sleeves, having rolled up his coat with
his bed and forgotten to bring his slicker. Yet none of them railed at
the weather; no one quit; it was their life. Perhaps from their earliest
boyhood they had braved the Texas northers or endured the continual
sandstorms of high and windy plains. They were used to it, like the
horses that bore them; but Bowles was a more delicate plant. All he
could do was to live on from day to day, wondering at their courage and
hardihood, and marveling at his own presumption in thinking he could
play at their game.
A week passed, and the wind grew warmer, though it still swept in from
the southeast. The outfit reached the limit of its circle and turned
toward home, sending its cuts of dogies on before it. On the first of
May they were contracted to be delivered at Chula Vista, there to be
shipped to Colorado and the Texas Panhandle and fattened into steers.
But feed was short, for the cold had set back the grass, and Henry Lee
had wired that he could deliver on the twentieth. So while he waited for
an answer he sent his cattle ahead of him, and every day as he rode he
watched for a messenger from home.
Nor was he alone in this, for the messenger would be Dixie; but no one
said a word. It was part of the patience of these rugged sons of the
desert that they should make no sign. They were camped in a grove of
sycamores beneath the shelter of a hill, and the outfit was gathered
about the fire, when she rode in at the end of the day. Each man of them
regarded her silently as she carried the word to her father; and then,
when he nodded his satisfaction, they stirred in expectation of her
greeting.
"Howd-do, boys?" she said, vaulting lightly off her horse and coming
nearer. "'Evening, Mr. Mosby; what's the chance for a little supper?"
She looked them all over casually as she drew off her gloves by the
fire, and for a few minutes the conversation was confined to news. Then
she went back to her saddle, and returned with a bundle of letters.
"Well, boys," she remarked, with a teasing smile, "I'm postmistress this
trip, so line up here and give me your present names--also the names you
went by back in Texas. 'James Doyle!' Why, is that your name, Red?
Here's one for you, too, Uncle Joe. All right now, here's one from
Moroni--for Charley Clark! Aw, Brig, are you still writing to that girl
down on the river? Well, isn't that provoking! And here's a whole bunch
for Hardy Atkins. Every one from a girl, too--I can tell by the
handwriting. No, Mr. Buchanan, you don't draw anything--not under that
name, anyway. But here's one for Sam Houghton--maybe that's for you? No?
Well, who is it for? No, we can't go any further until I deliver this
Houghton letter. Who is there here that answers to the name of Sam?"
She glanced all around, a roguish twinkle in her eye, but no one claimed
that honor.
"Nothing to be afraid of," she urged. "It was mailed at Chula Vista, and
written by a girl. Pretty handwriting, too--something like mine. I bet
there's something nice inside of it--I can tell by the curly-cues on the
letters."
Once more she surveyed her circle of smirking admirers, but no one
answered the call. She looked again, and her eyes fell on Mr. Bowles.
"Stranger," she said, speaking with well-simulated hesitation, "I didn't
quite catch your name down at the ranch--isn't this letter for you?"
For a moment Bowles' heart stopped beating altogether and a hundred
crazy fancies fogged his brain; then he shook his head, and gazed
shamefacedly away.
"My name is Bowles," he said stiffly; "Samuel Bowles."
"Well, this says Samuel," reasoned Dixie Lee, advancing to show him the
letter. "Here--take a look at it!"
She stepped very close as she spoke, and as Bowles glanced at her he saw
that her eyes were big with portent. Then he scanned the letter, and in
a flash he recognized her handwriting--the same that he had seen on the
train. A strange impulse to possess the missive swept over him at this,
and his hand leaped out to seize it; but the look in her eyes detained
him. They were big with mystery, but he sensed also a shadow of deceit.
And while she might merely have designs on his peace of mind, there were
other possibilities involved. To be sure, his name had been Houghton on
his railroad ticket, but that did not prove anything now; and, besides,
he did not want even that to be known. Affairs of the heart prosper best
in secret, without the aid of meddling or officious outsiders; and for
that reason, if for no other, Bowles desired to remain incog. Even with
a false clue, Dixie May might write to New York, and ultimately reach
his aunt, thus cutting short his romantic adventures. She might
even--but he skipped the rest of the things she might do, and
straightened his face to a mask.
"Ah, thank you, no," he said, speaking very formally. "Not for
me--though the handwriting does seem familiar."
"Maybe it's money from home," she suggested; but still he refused to
accept. He was ignorant of the ways of women, but his instincts were
trained to a hair-line, and he read mischief in her heart. Yet curiosity
almost tempted him to accede--or was it the witchery of her presence?
For Dixie May stood very close to him, closer than was necessary, and as
she argued, half in earnest, she fixed him with her eyes.
The boys by the fire, who had been looking on in wonder, became suddenly
restive and impatient. Their little game of post-office had been broken
up in the middle, and this stranger was monopolizing the postmistress.
"But the postmaster thought it was for you," persisted Dixie May, now
apparently annoyed. "He described you down to your hat-band; and if I
don't get rid of this letter I'll have to take it clear back to town. Of
course----"
"Aw, take the letter!" broke in Hardy Atkins, striding over from his
place and fiercely confronting Bowles. "What's the matter with
you--ain't you got no manners? Well then, when a lady asks you to take a
letter, _take it_!"
He reached out to get the letter and force it upon him forthwith, but
Dixie May tossed her head and jerked the missive away.
"Who called you in on this, Hardy Atkins?" she inquired, turning upon
him haughtily. "It's a wonder you wouldn't go off somewhere and read
those pink scented billets-doux I gave you. I reckon this man knows his
own name without any outside help. Now, you go on away and let me do
this!"
He went, his lips pouted out petulantly and a shifty look in his eye,
and once more the fair postmistress turned upon her victim.
"Now, here," she said, lowering her voice and speaking confidentially,
"I'm not trying to force this upon you, but I've got a duty to perform.
Think of the poor lady that wrote this letter," she urged, smiling
significantly; "she may have something important to tell you. And don't
mind a little thing like an alias--these boys have all got one." Once
more she smiled, holding out the letter; and the boys favored him with
dark and forbidding glances; but Bowles was game to the end.
"So sorry," he murmured, bowing deferentially; "but my name is Bowles,
not Houghton."
"Well, well," said Dixie Lee, looking him between the eyes; "so your
name is Bowles, eh? I certainly hope you'll excuse me, stranger, but I
sure thought your name was Houghton!"
So saying, she turned and left him; and after pondering upon the matter
for some time Bowles suddenly felt his heart go sick, for she had
addressed him at the last as "Stranger."