A COMMON BRAWL
There is a madness which comes to certain people at certain times and
makes them forget the whole world. In such a moment Bowles had stolen a
kiss--for the first time in his life--and Dixie Lee had forgiven him. He
had stolen it quickly, and she had forgiven him quickly, and then they
had ridden on together without daring so much as a glance. That kiss had
meant a great deal to both of them, and they needed time to think. So
they rode down to the hold-up herd in silence and parted without a word.
Dixie went on to camp, to rest and care for her hurts; and Bowles, with
a sad and preoccupied smile, stayed by to help with the herd. But the
jealous eyes of hate are quick to read such smiles, and as Bowles rode
along on the swing he was suddenly startled out of his dreams. Hardy
Atkins went out of his way to ride past him, and as he spurred his horse
in against his stirrup he hissed:
"You leave my girl alone, you blankety-blank!" and went muttering on his
way.
This roused Bowles from his reverie, and he began to think. If Hardy
Atkins had noticed a change, there were others who would do the same.
How Atkins had guessed, or what the clue had been, he could not tell;
but, having been carefully brought up, Bowles knew exactly what he ought
to do. Before the first rumor had run its course it was his duty as a
gentleman to go to Henry Lee and make a report of the facts; then, if
any exaggerated statements came to his ears later, Mr. Lee would know
that his conduct had been honorable and that green-eyed envy was raising
its hateful head. So, without more ado, he rode up to the point of the
herd and saluted the austere boss.
"Mr. Lee," he said, as that gentleman turned upon him sharply, "I am
sorry, but Miss Lee had a very bad fall this morning and she has gone
ahead to camp."
"Yes, I saw her," returned the boss. "What about it?"
"Well--I was afraid she might not mention it to you, or might minimize
her hurts, but as a matter of fact she fell on a steep hill, and if it
hadn't been for a juniper tree she might have been seriously injured. As
it is, her knee gave her quite a lot of trouble and I had to help her to
mount."
"Oh!" commented Henry Lee, and glanced at him again. "Well, what is it?"
he inquired, as Bowles still rode at his side.
"Excuse me," stammered Bowles, holding resolutely to his task, "I
thought perhaps you might want to ride ahead and help her off her
horse."
For a moment the boss looked him over, then he grunted and bowed quite
formally.
"Yes, thank you, Mr. Bowles," he said. "Will you call Hardy to take my
place?"
He waited until Hardy Atkins had started, and then put spurs to his
horse, and when the cowboys reached camp he was busy about the tent. The
next day Dixie did not ride out on the round-up, and when they came back
she was gone. "Back to the home ranch," the cook reported, and he added
that she was not very lame; but the cow-punchers glared at Bowles as if
he had crippled her for life. And not only that, but as if he had done
it on purpose.
"These blankety-blank tenderfeet!" commented Hardy Atkins by the fire.
"They can make an outfit more trouble than a bunch of Apache Indians. I
cain't stand 'em--it's onlucky to have 'em around."
"I'd rather be short-handed, any time," observed Buck Buchanan sagely.
"Now, there's Dix," continued Hardy, with a vindictive glance at Bowles;
"worth any two men in the outfit--ride anywhere--goes out with this
tenderfoot and comes within an ace of gittin' killed. She raced with me,
rode with Jack and Slim, and left the Straw a mile--the Hinglishman
comes in behind her, crowds her outer the trail, and if it hadn't been
fer that juniper she'd a-landed in them rocks."
Bowles looked up scornfully from his place and said nothing, but Brigham
appeared for the defense.
"Aw, what do _you_ know about it?" he growled. "You wasn't there. Who
told you he crowded her out of the trail?"
"Well, he says so himse'f!" protested Atkins, pointing an accusing
finger at Bowles. "Didn't he come into camp and tell all about it? I
believe that he was tryin' to do it so he could git a chance to----"
"Mr. Atkins," said Bowles, rising to his feet and speaking tremulously,
"I shall have to ask----"
But that was as far as he got. With a tiger-like spring the ex-twister
was upon him, and before he could raise his hands he struck him full in
the face.
"You will talk about my gal, will ye?" he shouted, as Bowles went down
at the blow. "Stand up hyer, you white-livered Hinglishman; I'll learn
you to butt in on my game!"
"Here! What're you tryin' to do?" demanded Brigham, leaping up hastily
and confronting his old-time enemy. "You touch that boy again, and I'll
slap yore dirty face off!"
"Well, he's been gittin' too important around hyer!" cried Atkins
noisily. "And he's been talkin' about my gal--I won't take that from no
man!"
"Huh!" sneered Brigham, drawing closer and clenching his hands. "You're
mighty quick to hit a man when he ain't lookin'--why don't you take a
man of yore size now and hit me?"
"I ain't got no quarrel with you!" raved Hardy Atkins. "That's the
feller I'm after--he's been talkin' about my gal!"
"He has not!" replied Brigham deliberately. "He never talked about no
gal, and I'll whip the man that says so--are you bad hurt, pardner?"
He knelt by the side of the prostrate Bowles, who opened his eyes and
stared. Then he looked about him and raised one hand to his cheek, which
was bruised and beginning to swell.
"I'll learn you to cut me out!" taunted Hardy Atkins, shaking his fist
and doing a war-dance. "I'll make you hard to ketch if you try to butt
in on me!"
"Aw, shut up!" snarled Brigham, lifting his partner up. "You're brave
when a man ain't lookin', ain't ye? Here, ketch hold of me, pardner, and
I'll take you to yore bed."
Bowles dropped down on his blankets, still nursing his aching head; but
in the morning he rose up with a purposeful look in his eye. He was a
long way from New York and the higher life now, and that one treacherous
blow had roused his fighting blood. For the courage which prompts a man
to strike in the dark, he had little if any respect, and he went
straight over to Hardy Atkins the moment he saw him alone.
"Mr. Atkins," he said, "you hit me when I wasn't looking last night.
Next time you won't find me so easy--but be so good as to leave Miss
Lee's name out of this."
"Oho!" taunted the cow-puncher, straightening up and regarding him with
a grin. "So you want some more, hey? That crack on the jaw didn't
satisfy you. What's the matter with yore face this mawnin'?"
"Never you mind about my face," returned Bowles warmly. "If you are so
low as to be proud of a trick like that, you are a coward, and no
gentleman, and--put up your hands!"
He squared off as he spoke, falling back upon his right foot and
presenting a long, menacing left; but Hardy Atkins only laughed and
loosened his pistol.
"Aw, go on away," he said. "D'ye think I want to _box_ with you? No, if
you git into a fight with me you're liable to stop 'most anythin'--I'll
hit you over the coco with _this_!"
He laid his hand on the heavy Colt's which he always wore in his shaps,
and gazed upon Bowles insolently.
"You can't run no blazer over me, Mr. Willie-boy," he went on, as Bowles
put down his hands. "You're out West now, where everythin' goes. If
you'd happen to whip me in a fist-fight I'd git my gun and shoot you, so
keep yore mouth shut unless you want to go the limit. And while we're
talkin'," he drawled, "I think you might as well drift--it's goin' to be
mighty onhealthy around hyer if I ketch you with Dixie again."
"I asked you to leave her name out of this," suggested Bowles, trying
bravely to keep his voice from getting thin. "If you've got a quarrel
with me, well and good, but certainly no gentleman----"
"Aw, go on away from me," sneered Hardy Atkins, waving him wearily
aside. "You seem to think you're the only gentleman in the outfit! Go
chase yoreself--you make me tired!"
The sight of grinning faces about the corral recalled Bowles to the
presence of an audience and, choking with anger and chagrin, he went off
to saddle his horse. Ever since his arrival Hardy Atkins had ignored
him, glancing at him furtively or gazing past him with supercilious
scorn. Now for the first time they had met as man to man, and in that
brief minute the ex-twister had shown his true colors. He was a man of
treachery and violence, and proud of it. He did not pretend to fair play
nor subscribe to the rules of the game. He did not even claim to be a
gentleman! There was the crux, and Bowles labored in his mind to find
the key. How could he compete--in either love or war--with a man who was
not a gentleman?
It was Brigham who gave the answer, and to him it was perfectly simple.
"Well," he said, as they rode back together from the circle, "he's
warned you out of camp--what ye goin' to do about it?"
"Why, what can I do?" faltered Bowles, whose soul was darkened with
troubles.
"Fight or git out," replied Brigham briefly.
"But he won't fight fair!" cried Bowles. "He hits me when I'm not
looking; then when I offer to fight him with my hands he threatens me
with a pistol. What can a man do?"
"Threaten 'im with yourn!" returned Brigham. "He won't shoot--he's one
of the worst four-flushers in Arizona! He's jest runnin' it over you
because he thinks you're a tenderfoot."
"How do you know he won't shoot?" inquired Bowles, to whom the whole
proposition was in the nature of an enigma. "What does he carry that
pistol for, then?"
"Jest to look ba-ad," sneered Brigham, "and throw a big scare into
strangers. _I_ ain't got no six-shooter, and he don't run it over me,
does he? He's afraid to shoot, that's what's the matter--he knows very
well the Rangers would be on his neck before he could cross the line.
Don't you let these Texicans buffalo you, boy--the only time they're
dangerous is when they're on a drunk."
"Then you mean," began Bowles hopefully, "if I'd struck him this morning
he wouldn't have used his gun?"
"Well," admitted Brig, "he might've drawed it--and if you'd whipped him
he might've taken a shot at you. But you got a gun too, ain't you?"
"Ye-es," acknowledged Bowles; "but I don't want to kill a man. I
wouldn't like to shoot him with it."
"Well, then, for Gawd's sake, _take it off_!" roared Brigham. "If he'd
shot you this mornin' he could a got off fer self-defense! Turn it over
to the boss and tell him you don't want no trouble--then if Hardy shoots
you he'll swing fer it!"
"But how about me?" queried Bowles.
"You're twice as likely to git shot anyway," persisted Brig, "with a gun
on you. If you got to pack a gun, leave it in yore bed, where you can
git it if you want it; but if the other feller sees you're heeled, and
he's got a gun, it makes him nervous, and if you make a sudden move he
plugs you. But if you ain't armed he don't dare to--they're awful strict
out here, and these Rangers are the limit. Hardy won't shoot--you ain't
afraid of 'im, are you?"
"No-o," said Bowles; "not if he'd fight fair."
"D'ye think you could whip 'im?" demanded Brigham eagerly.
"I can try," responded Bowles grimly.
"That's the talk!" cheered Brigham, leaning over to whack him on the
back. "Stand up to 'im! He's nothin' but a big bluff!"
"I don't know about that," grumbled Bowles, with the affair of the
morning still fresh in mind; "I'm afraid he'll hit me with his gun."
"Well, here, we'll fix that," said Brig, hastily stripping the heavy
quirt from his wrist. "You turn yore pistol over to the boss and take
this loaded quirt--then if Hardy offers to club you with his gun you
knock his eye out with _this_!"
He made a vicious pass into the air with the bludgeon-like handle,
holding the quirt by the lash, and passed it over to Bowles.
"Now you're heeled!" he said approvingly. "That's worse'n a gun, any
time, and you kin hit 'im as hard as you please. Jest hang that on yore
wrist, where it'll be handy, and turn that cussed six-shooter in."
The matter was still a little mixed in Bowles' mind, and he felt that he
was treading upon new and dangerous ground, but his evil passions were
still afoot and he longed gloomily for his revenge. So when they got
into camp that evening he went over to Henry Lee's tent, with Brigham to
act as his witness.
"Mr. Lee," he said, speaking according to instructions, "I've had a
little difficulty with one of the boys, and I'd like to turn in my gun.
I don't want to have any trouble."
"All right, Mr. Bowles," answered the boss very quietly. "Just throw it
on my bed. What's the matter, Brig?"
"Oh, nothin' much," replied Brigham. "You saw it yorese'f--last night."
"Um," assented Henry Lee, glancing for a moment at Bowles' skinned
cheek. "Well, we don't want to have any racket now, boys--not while
we've got these wild cattle on our hands--and I'm much obliged. Hope you
don't have any more trouble, Mr. Bowles."
He bowed them out of the tent without any more words, and they proceeded
back to the camp. A significant smile went the rounds as Bowles came
back from the tent, but in the morning he went to the corral as usual.
"I thought you'd got yore time," ventured Buck Buchanan, as Bowles began
to saddle up; and as the word passed around that he had not, Hardy
Atkins rode over to inquire.
"What's this I hear?" he said. "I thought you was goin' to quit."
"Then you were mistaken, Mr. Atkins," answered Bowles politely. "I am
not."
"Then what did you see the boss fer? Makin' some kick about me?"
"Your name was not mentioned, Mr. Atkins," replied Bowles, still
politely. "I simply turned over my gun to Mr. Lee and told him I'd had
some trouble."
"Well, it's nothin' to what you _will_ have!" scowled the ex-twister
hatefully. "I can tell you that! And I give you till night to pull. If
you don't----"
He paused with meaning emphasis and turned his horse to go, but Henry
Lee had been watching him from a distance and now he came spurring in.
"Hardy," he said, "I'll have to ask you to leave Bowles strictly alone.
He's turned his gun in to me and is tending to his own business, so
don't let me speak to you again. D'ye understand?"
"Yes, sir!" mumbled the cow-puncher, fumbling sullenly with his
saddle-strings; but his mind was not turned from his purpose, as Bowles
found out that same night.
They were swinging around toward the south and west, raking the last
barren ridges before they started the day-herd for home; and in the
evening they camped in the open and threw their beds down anywhere.
After a hasty supper by the fire, Bowles spread out his blankets, coiled
up his bed-rope, and rode forth to stand the first guard. For Bowles was
a top hand now, whatever his enemy might say, and he had his choice of
guards. It was very dark when he came in at ten-thirty, and he was too
sleepy to notice the change, but after he had slipped under his
tarpaulin he felt something through the bed. It was his bed-rope,
stretched carelessly across the middle, from side to side, and he
grumbled for a moment to himself as he squirmed down where it would not
hurt him. Then he went to sleep.
After a man has ridden hard all day and stood his guard at night, a
little thing like a rope under his bed is not likely to disturb his
dreams--the way the pea did the soft-sleeping True Princess--but with
this particular rope it was different. Hardy Atkins had stretched it
there with malice aforethought; and when, later in the night, he saddled
his snorting night horse and prepared to ride out to the herd, he tied
the two ends into a loop and silently stepped away with the slack. Then
he took a turn around the horn, put spurs to his horse, and went
plunging out into the night.
A sudden yank almost snapped Bowles in two in the middle; he woke up
clutching, to find himself side-swiping the earth; then an agonizing
series of bumps and jolts followed, and he fetched up against a juniper
with a jar that rattled his teeth. There was a strain, a snap, and as
the rope parted he heard a titter, and a horse went galloping on. It was
a practical joke--Bowles realized that the moment he woke up--but the
terror of that first grim nightmare wrenched his soul to the very
depths. He came to, cursing and fighting, still bound by the loop of the
lariat and half-buried in the wreck of the juniper. Then he jerked
himself loose and sprang up, staring about in the darkness for some
enemy that he could kill. The titter of the galloping horseman gave the
answer, and he knew it was Hardy Atkins. Hardy had given him till
nightfall to quit camp or look out for trouble. This was the trouble.
Bowles spread out his bed as best he could and slept where he lay till
dawn. Then he went to Henry Lee and said he would like his gun. His
hands were bloody and torn from contact with the brush, and there was a
fresh welt above one eye that gave him a sinister leer. There was no
doubt about it--Bowles was mad--and after a cursory glance the boss saw
he was out for blood.
"Just a moment, Mr. Bowles," he said, advancing to the fire. "Boys," he
continued, addressing the smirking hands who stood there, "I make it a
rule on my round-ups that nobody carries a gun. That includes you, too,
Mr. Bowles," he added meaningly. "Mosby, get me a gunny-sack."
With the gunny-sack under one arm the wagon-boss went the rounds, and
when he had finished his trip the sack was full of guns.
"I'll just keep these till we get back to the ranch," he observed.
"And," he added, "the next man that picks on Bowles will have to walk to
town. Hardy, were you in on this?"
"No, sir!" replied Atkins stoutly. "I don't know a thing about it!"
"Well, be mighty careful what you do," charged Henry Lee severely.
"Brig, throw that herd on the trail--we might as well hit for the
ranch."