THE STRAW-BOSS
It is the philosophy of the poseurs in pessimism that for every happy
moment we have in life we pay at a later date a greater price. Of
course, any one who ever took a kid to the circus knows better, but
there are times when the doctrine seems to hold. When Bowles returned to
the round-up, the news of his perfidy had preceded him--he had taken
advantage of his position and spent the evening at the big house!
Thereupon the hotheads lowered upon him malignantly, and Hardy Atkins
hunted up his high-life bottle.
The accepted function of carbon bisulphide in the great Southwest is to
kill off prairie-dogs. A tablespoonful poured on a cow-chip and rolled
down a dog hole will asphyxiate the entire family. The same amount
poured on a man's horse will make the man think he has been shot with a
pack-saddle, and that was what happened to Bowles. When he became too
wary for the bottle, they resorted to other means, and finally he
detected the bronco-twister with a loaded syringe in his hand.
"Now, that will do, Mr. Atkins," he observed with some asperity. "It's
all right for you boys to haze me a little, but my horses are getting
spoiled and I'll have to ask you to stop."
"Oho!" shouted Bar Seven and the stray men, who had sweethearts in other
parts and dearly loved excitement. "He caught you at it, Hardy! Now what
you goin' to do?"
"I ain't goin' to do nothin'," declared Hardy Atkins, carefully stowing
his squirt-gun away. "No Hinglishman looks bad to me, and I'll high-life
him whenever I like!"
"You will not!" said Henry Lee, coming up as he heard the words. "I've
had enough of this foolishness, and I want you to quit right now. First
thing you know that hawse will pitch into the herd and we'll have a
stampede on our hands. Now, come ahead and clean out this pasture, we'll
start the drive for town."
They rounded up the pastures then, one after the other, and soon the
great herd of dogies was strung out on the road. At regular distances
along the flanks the swing men plodded along; toward the front the two
point men directed the head of the herd; and, behind, the remainder of
the men brought up the drag. They traveled slowly, sometimes swinging
out into the hills and letting the cattle feed, and as they drifted
along over the rock-patches the _clack, clack, clack_ of splay-toed
hoofs made a noise like rain on the roof. At intervals some stubborn
two-year-old would break from the tail of the herd, some fresh-branded
calf fall by the wayside, to be left for another drive; but the day of
the steer is past on the lower ranges of the great Southwest, and
feeders are easier to handle. So they dragged on, drifting over to the
river for water and back onto the plains for the night, and many a
nester's fence was laid flat as they jerked it to turn out the strays.
Then, at the end of the third day, they came within sight of Chula Vista
and Henry Lee rode on ahead.
"Hardy," he said as he turned his horse toward town, "I'll leave you in
charge of the herd. Put them into the pens for the night, and hold the
remuda out on the flats. I'll be down as soon as I find my men. And,
remember, no drinking!"
He looked very hard at his straw-boss as he spoke, and Hardy Atkins
answered him dutifully; but when the boss was gone he turned and winked
at his partners.
"You hear me now, boys," he said. "No drinkin'! You know the rule--you
cain't drink whisky and work fer Henry Lee! Umph-umm! But I hope to Gawd
some of them town boys come out with a bottle!"
He smacked his lips as he spoke, and made up a funny face.
"I got three months' pay comin' to me," he remarked, and went spurring
up to the front.
"I never seen the time yet," observed Buck Buchanan, as he loafed
philosophically along with the drag, "that I couldn't git another job
somewhere. When I've got money comin' to me, I want to spend it, by
Joe!"
"Sure!" agreed Happy Jack, who had been singing songs all day. "What's
the use of workin', anyway?"
"That's me!" chimed in Poker Bill. "Let's quit and draw our pay!"
"Put these cows in the pen first," said Jack, snapping his fingers and
waltzing airily in his saddle.
"Whoopee tee, yi, yo, git along, little dogies,
It's all yore misfortune and none of my own.
Whoopee tee, yi, yo, git along, little dogies,
'Cause you know my whistle is dry as a bone."
It was a new experience to Bowles, this riding into a cow town, and he
viewed with wide-eyed alarm the evidences of dissolution and revolt.
Even Brigham was licking his lips and gazing at the town; and when the
first bottle came out he took a long drink with the rest. Bowles excused
himself, and wondered what would happen; but the half-drunken cowboy who
brought out the life-saver never gave him a second look. It was not so
hard to dispose of whisky in those parts.
As the herd neared town, the idle and curious came riding out to see it,
and Bowles was pained to notice certain painted women, who seemed to
know the boys by their first names. They rode along the herd, waving
handkerchiefs and shouting greetings, and a sudden distrust of frontier
morality came over him as he observed the shameless response. The
shipping pens were below the town about a mile--a barren square of
whitewashed fencing, backed up to a side-track full of empty
stock-cars--and as the weary cattle dragged along across the flats Hardy
Atkins and a bunch of punchers cut off the leaders and whooped them on
ahead. There was a jam at the gates, a break or two, and then the first
timid dogie stepped fearfully into the enclosure. The smell of water in
the troughs lured him on, the rest followed, and when the main herd came
up it was artfully tailed on to the drag.
At last! The high gate swung to on the harvest of the long round-up, and
the punchers raced their horses to be first at the waiting chuck-wagon.
In an angle of the fence Gloomy Gus had unpacked his ovens and set up
his fire irons, and now as they flew at their supper he surveyed them
with cynical calm.
"Whar's Henry Lee?" he inquired at length; and Hardy Atkins pointed back
to town with his knife.
"He's over lookin' up his buyer," he said. "I'm the boss now, Cusi; what
can I do fer you?"
"Oh, you're boss now, are you?" repeated Gus, with heavy scorn. "Well,
then, why don't you send some one out to relieve thet hawse wrangler?
He'll be turnin' the remuda loose pretty soon, from the way he's been
makin' signs."
"Aw, he'll keep!" laughed the straw-boss. "Hey, fellers, who wants the
first guard to-night?"
Nobody spoke.
"Somebody's got to stand guard," he observed, running his eyes over the
crowd. "First guard's the best--eight to half-past ten. Bill? Jim? Hank?
Well, I'll make it Jim and Hank, anyhow--only way to keep 'em in camp.
You boys know Mr. Lee's orders--no drinkin' now--I don't want to find
you downtown!"
"Aw-haw-haw!" roared the crowd. That was a good one--he didn't want to
find them downtown! Well, what would _he_ be doing down there?
"Well, who's goin' to relieve us?" inquired Hank plaintively. "Last time
we was down I had to stand guard all night!"
The bronco-twister ran his eyes over the crowd again, as if searching
for some one.
"Where's that feller that refused a drink this evenin'?" he demanded
facetiously. "He's the boy fer second guard--good and reliable--and
Hinglish, too. Hinglish, I'll ask you and yore Mormon friend, Mr. Clark,
to kindly stand the second guard. Bud and Bill third, and Jack and Buck
fourth. I'm boss now, and I don't stand guard."
"Oh, thunder!" grumbled Brig, as he threw himself down on his bed. "I
wish the boss would come back. Them rounders will stay in town all
night. Let's take a little flier ourselves," he urged as Bowles lay down
beside him. "We can git back in time!"
But a sudden sense of responsibility had come over Bowles as he observed
how the crowd faded away, and he held Brigham to his post. At
ten-thirty, in response to a hurried summons, they took a spare blanket
for warmth and rode out to stand their guard.
The stars wheeled round in their courses and sank down in the west; the
horses shifted about on the barren plain and made their customary
efforts to escape; and when the first cold light of dawn crept in, it
showed "Hinglish" and his Mormon friend still standing their lonely
vigil.
But for once in a lifetime self-sacrificing virtue got its reward, for
Henry Lee came riding out with his buyer at daylight and discovered them
at their post. He did not say much--in fact he did not say anything--and
Brigham and Bowles did the same; but there was a difference in the air.
At last Bowles had justified his existence--he had stayed with his job
to the end.
There was a hurried searching of the town for Bat Wing cowboys, a
straggling return of drunken and mutinous punchers, and then, with
barely men enough to man the gates, the work of shipping began. By twos
and threes the dogies were driven down a lane; the cattle inspector read
the brands and made his tally, and the buyer passed them on or cut them
back. Then, as the cutting and re-cutting was finished, the cattle were
punched up the chutes and crowded into the cars. As the day wore on,
more and more of the hands returned and took up the prod pole; but Henry
Lee made no remarks. Even when his trusted straw-boss showed up late, he
made no comment; but once back in camp he pulled his book like a pistol,
and began to write out checks.
"Well, boys," he said, "you were drunk last night; I'll have to give you
your time. Hardy, you're a good cow-hand, but I'll have to let you go,
too. So here's your time checks; and turn your horses out. I've got to
have men I can trust."
There was a heavy silence at this, for all the outfits in the country
were full-handed now, and no one was looking for men. And Henry Lee was
a good man to work for--he treated his hands white, fed them well, and
paid the top price to boot. He also kept the best of them over winter,
while others were riding the chuck-line or hanging around livery-stables
in town. But nobody said a word, for they knew it would do no good; and,
after he had paid them off and gone back to town, the luckless ones who
had been fired drew off by themselves and talked the matter over. To be
sure, they had the price of a drunk in their clothes; but they were
fired and put afoot now, and town has no allurements to a cowboy unless
he can ride in on a horse. So Hardy Atkins and his Texas followers
lolled sulkily around the camp, sleeping fitfully in their blankets and
glowering at Brigham Clark and the few careful spirits who had escaped
their employer's wrath. And in particular they glowered at Bowles, the
virtuous and dutiful, and hated him above all the rest for his air of
conscious rectitude.
Supper that evening offered no appeal to the drink-shaken carousers, but
they stayed for it all the same, hoping against hope that the boss would
come back and give them another chance. But they knew him too well to
think it--Henry Lee would let his whole calf crop grow up to be
mavericks before he would take back his word. Still they waited, and
along toward sundown, as luck would have it, he came out; and with him,
riding like a queen on her spirited horse, came Dixie May. She looked
them over coldly, returning short answers to their shamefaced greetings
and saving a smile for the cook.
"Good-evening, Mr. Mosby," she said, pouring out a little coffee for
politeness' sake. "And so these boys had to go on a drunk and get fired,
did they? Well, you won't have so many to cook for now--that'll be one
consolation."
"Yes, Miss Dix," agreed the cook, "but mighty little, believe me! One
cowboy is jest about as ornery an' no 'count as the other--and whisky
gits 'em all. They're all alike--I been cookin' for 'em fer thirty
years, off an' on, and they ain't one of 'em is worth the powder to blow
'im to--excuse me, Miss Dix. But, as I was sayin', take 'em as they
come, and keep 'em out of town, and these boys is pretty fair--pretty
fair; I'm sorry to see 'em go."
At this kindly word of intercession, a new light came into the eyes of
the unemployed; but Dixie Lee had come on a mission, and it was not her
policy to yield in a minute.
"Well, _I'm_ not!" she declared. "If you'd listened to the amount of
foolishness that I've suffered from these boys, Mr. Mosby; if you'd
heard 'em say how they were going to save their wages and buy a little
bunch of cows--and tell about the quarter-section of land they had their
eye on--and swear, so help me God, they'd never take another drink of
whisky as long as they lived--I believe you'd be glad to get rid of
'em!"
She turned and ran her eye over the crowd, and both the just and the
unjust quailed before her.
"And so you were drunk, were you, Mr. Atkins?" she inquired, fixing her
gaze upon the deposed straw-boss; and Hardy Atkins shot a look at her
which was both confession and appeal.
"And you, Jack?" she continued severely.
"Yes, ma'am," spoke up Happy Jack, upon whom the severity of her manner
was lost. "I was drunk, all right."
"Well, you don't need to be proud of it!" she observed cuttingly. "It's
no distinction in this bunch. Brig, were you drunk, too?"
"No, ma'am," responded Brigham promptly.
"Oh, what's the use of talking?" scoffed Dixie, glancing at his swollen
face and bloodshot eyes.
"All the same, I wasn't!" denied Brigham boldly. "I reckon you'd look
kind of bug-eyed if you'd been standin' guard all night!"
"Well, what's the matter with your face then?" she demanded. "Did the
ground rise up and hit you?"
"No, but an old cow did, over in the shippin' chute!" And Brigham drew
himself up and grinned defiantly. It was not often that he had a chance
to assume this high moral pose, and he decided to make the most of it.
"That's right," interposed Henry Lee, who so far had let his daughter do
all the talking. "Brig and Bowles stood guard all night and brought up
the remuda in the morning. I won't forget that, Brig," he added
significantly. "I'm looking for men I can trust."
"Well, good for you, Brig!" commented Dixie May, smiling with sudden
approval; and at that the other suitors fell into a black rage of
jealousy and distrust. There was silence for a while, and then Happy
Jack spoke up.
"Mr. Lee," he said, "I know I was drunk last night--my own fault, of
course--but here's the proposition. You got to take on somebody to do
yore work; what's the use of hirin' these town bums when you can git
yore old hands back? That's the way we stand, and I hope you'll give us
a chance."
This was a long speech for Jack, and he wiped the sweat from his brow as
he waited for the answer. The rest of the unemployed rumbled their
acquiescence to the statement and watched for some sign of weakening;
but Henry Lee did not change his frown.
"I'm looking for men I can trust," he said at last. "These boys here
stayed in camp and were on hand to help with the shipping. Maybe some of
them ain't quite as good cowboys as you are, but I can depend on them
not to turn my remuda loose the first night I leave 'em alone, and I'm
going to make them top hands. You fellows get the top mounts and
forty-five a month," he added, glancing briefly at Brig and the faithful
few, most of whom were nesters boys, and married men working for a
stake; "and I want some more just like you."
"But how about us?" inquired Happy Jack after a silence. "I'll take on
for a green hand, myse'f--forty dollars--and ride bronks, too. And I
know that upper range like a book!"
"Sure!" murmured the rest; and once more they waited on Henry Lee.
He sat for a while studying on the matter, and then he exchanged glances
with his daughter.
"If he takes you back, are you going to run it over these other hands
and make a lot of trouble?" she inquired shrewdly. "Because if you
are----"
A chorus of indignant denials answered this unjust accusation, and Dixie
Lee's face became clear.
"Then I'd take 'em back," she said.
"No, I won't do it," rapped out Henry Lee. "But I'll tell you what I
will do," he went on, as the gang lopped down despondently. "You boys
have got your time checks. All right, you go up town and cash them in,
and if you can pay your saloon debts and get out of town sober, I'll
take you on. But if any man takes a drink, or brings out a bottle, he'll
never ride for Henry Lee again--I've lost enough horses through drunken
punchers. Brig, I'll leave you in charge of the outfit."
He swung up on his horse as he spoke, and Dixie rode away after him,
followed by the admiring gaze of all hands and the cook. Henry Lee was a
good boss, but the average Texas cow-puncher is not weak-kneed enough to
court the favor of any man. Once he is fired, he takes his money and
spends it philosophically; but in this case Dixie May had intervened,
and rather than lose their chance with her the whole gang had taken
lessons in humility.
"She's all right," observed Happy Jack, wagging his head and smiling as
he watched her off. "She wraps him around her little finger."
"Wonder how she come to be down here?" inquired a new hand; and Jack
answered him, with a laugh.
"Ridin' herd on the old man, of course!" he said.
"Sure!" grumbled Hardy Atkins. "The old lady is up there, too. That's
the one thing I got ag'inst Henry Lee--he's been a booze-fighter and
quit. That's what makes him so doggoned onreasonable!"
"They say John B. Gough and Sam Jones was reformed drunks, too,"
commented Poker Bill sagely; but there was one member present who did
not take even a philosophical interest in the discussion. It was Brigham
Clark, the new straw-boss. Through a chain of circumstances a little
hard to trace, he had refrained from his customary periodical, and,
behold, of a sudden he was elevated above all his fellows, and placed in
a position of authority.
"Well," he broke in sharply, "it's gittin' dark--who's goin' to relieve
that horse wrangler? Bill? Buck? Well, I'll put you on the first guard,
anyhow--only way to save you from yorese'ves!"
"Aw, listen to the big fat stiff!" commented Buck Buchanan, who felt the
need of a nap; but Brig paid no attention to his remarks.
"You boys bring them in to the pen fer a drink," he ordered, with
pompous circumstance, "and hold them out on yon flat. Who wants to stand
second guard? Jim? Hank?" He craned his neck about as Hardy Atkins had
done the night before; and Hardy, who had been thinking about other
things, sat up with a sudden scowl.
"Whar's that feller that refused a drink this evenin'?" demanded
Brigham, imitating with roguish accuracy the broad Texas accent of his
predecessor. "He's the boy fer second guard--good and reliable--comes
from Texas, too. Mr. Atkins, I'll ask you and yore cotton-picker friend,
Happy Jack, to kindly stand second guard. Bud and Bill third, and Sam
and Slim fourth. I'm boss now, and I don't stand no guard!"