THE HORSE THAT KILLED DUNBAR
In the Homeric simplicity of the cow camps, where the primitive emotions
still rule, any soul-stirring which cannot find its expression in curses
is pretty sure to seek the level of laughter. The boys were profoundly
moved by Bowles' declaration of intention, but after gazing upon him for
a spell in mingled incredulity and awe, their lips began to curl.
"Aw--_him_!" they said. "Him ride Dunbar? Umph-umm! We'll wake up some
mornin' and find him gone!"
Then, as a morning or two passed and Bowles was still in his place, they
began to lapse into jest.
"Old Henry will shore be s'prised when he comes back from town,"
observed blithesome Happy Jack. "He'll find Bowles ridin' Dunbar with a
hackamore and feedin' him sugar from his hand. Big doin's soon to come,
boys--boss and family goin' down to Chula Vista to-morrer."
"Well, we better hog-tie Hinglish, then," grumbled Buck Buchanan; "he'll
never last till mornin'. Gittin' right close on to that time!"
"Never you mind about Hinglish," retorted Brigham Clark, whose loyalty
had been fanned to a flame. "If it was you, Buck Buchanan, we couldn't
see you fer dust right now. They ain't a man of ye dares to _say_ he'd
ride Dunbar, let alone the doin' of it. Will you ride him second if he
throws Bowles off? Well, keep yore face shut, then! The whole bunch of
ye ought to be canned fer tryin' to git 'im killed!"
"Well, let 'im go on away, then!" burst out Hardy Atkins. "_We_ never
told 'im to ride Dunbar--we told 'im to quit his four-flushin' and
either make good or git. There's the road down there--let 'im take to
it!"
He jerked an imperious hand at Bowles, who answered him with a scowl.
"If you will kindly mind your own business, Mr. Atkins," he purled, "I
shall certainly be greatly obliged."
He gave each word the Harvard accent and tipped it off with venom, for
Bowles was losing his repose. In fact, he was mad, mad all over, and at
every remark he bristled like a dog. A concatenation of circumstances
had thrown him into the company of these Texas brawlers, but he aimed to
show by every means in his power his absolute contempt for their
trickery and his determination to stand on his rights. He had said he
would ride Dunbar, and that was enough--he had given his word as a
gentleman. Therefore, he resented their insinuations and desired only to
be left alone. Certainly he had enough on his mind to keep him occupied
without responding to ill-natured remarks.
Fate was piling things up on poor Bowles, and he earnestly longed for
the end. There is a cynic's saying that every time a man gets into
trouble his girl goes back on him, just to carry out the run of luck;
and while of course it isn't true, it seemed that way to Bowles. Perhaps
his own manner had had something to do with it, but, the morning after
his rebuff, Dixie greeted him almost as a stranger, and, falling back
shortly afterward into her old carefree way of talking, she began to
josh with the boys. Then she took a long ride with Brigham, a ride that
left him all lit up with enthusiasm and made him want to talk about
love. As a matter of fact, Dixie had sensed something big in the air and
was anxiously ferreting it out, but Bowles did not know about that. All
he knew was that he disapproved of her conduct, and wondered vaguely
what her mother would say. Not that it was any of his business, but he
wondered all the same; and, wondering, shook his head and sighed.
But three days of flirting and sleuthing brought nothing to Dixie's net.
From the cook down, the outfit was a solid phalanx against her--they
would talk and smile but they never showed their hand. One clue and only
one she had--there seemed to be an unusual interest in when she was
going to town. First on one pretext and then on another they inquired
casually about the date, and if her folks were going along too. So,
whatever the deviltry was, it was something that called for secrecy--and
it was due on the day they left home. She looked them over as they
gathered about the evening fire, and smoothed her hair down
thoughtfully--and the next morning she started for town.
The sale of his steers was making Henry Lee a lot of trouble--and the
holding of them as well. Not being able to find a buyer at his price, he
set the cowboys to fence mending--lest the outlaws should breach the
wires--and went back and forth to town. And this morning his wife went
with him, sitting close behind the grays, with Dixie riding fast behind.
Their dust changed to haze on the horizon before any one moved a hand,
and then Hardy Atkins turned on Bowles.
"All right, Mr. Bowles," he said. "Here's where we see yore hand. I'll
saddle that hawse if you'll ride 'im, but don't make me that trouble fer
nothin', because if you _do_----"
"Oh, shut up!" snapped Bowles, whose nerves were worn to a frazzle.
"What's the use of talking about it? Put the saddle on him!"
"Holy Jehu!" whistled Atkins. "Listen to the boy talk, will you? Must
have somethin' on his mind--what?"
"Well, quit yore foolin'!" put in Brigham abruptly. "We'll all git fired
fer this, and him liable to git killed to boot, so hurry up and let's
have it over with!"
"I'll go ye!" laughed the ex-twister, skipping off with a sprightly
step. "Come on, boys; it'll take the bunch of us--but I'll saddle old
Dunbar or die! 'O-oh, hit's not the 'unting that 'urts the 'orse's
'oofs; hit's the 'ammer, 'ammer, 'ammer on the 'ard 'ighway!'
E-e-e--hoo!"
He laughed and cut another caper as he ended this bald refrain, and
Brigham glowered at him balefully.
"'Hit's!'" he quoted. "'_Hit's!_' Listen to the ignorant cracker! I
never seen a Texican yet that could talk the straight U. S.! But go on
now, you low-flung cotton-pickers, and I'll fix Bowles fer his ridin'!"
They hustled away as he spoke, the best of them to wrangle Dunbar, and
the rest to admire the sight. Here was an event that would go down in
Bat Wing history, and only the cook stayed away. Life had been stale,
flat, and unprofitable to Gloomy Gus since he delivered the oration over
Happy Jack, and the very care with which all hands refrained from
speaking of it showed how poignant the joke had been. Faces which had
looked pleasant to him before were repulsive now, and in this last assay
on Bowles he saw but a recrudescence of the horse-play which had worked
such havoc with his own pride. Therefore, he was morose and sullen and
stayed with his pots and pans.
"I want to warn you, Mr. Bowles," he called, as Bowles came,
full-rigged, from the bunk-house. "I want to give you warnin'--thet
hawse is dangerous!"
"All right, Mr. Mosby," answered Bowles absently, as he started for the
round corral.
"He done killed a man!" croaked Gloomy Gus. "A right good cow-puncher,
too--I knowed him well. Jim Dunbar--the top rider of the outfit. Don't
say I never warned you, now--keep off that hawse!"
"All right, Mr. Mosby," responded Bowles, but he never missed a stride.
The time had come to show himself a man, and, like an athlete who goes
forth to win, his thoughts were on the battle.
"You want to set him limber," reiterated Brigham in his ear. "Ride 'im
like a drunk man, and whip 'im at every jump--it gives you somethin' to
do. Grab 'im with yore spurs every time he lights; and look out he don't
bite yore legs. Here, take my quirt--it's heavier--and if he starts to
go over backwards, hit 'im hard between the ears. You kin ride 'im,
pardner, I know it! Jest keep cool and don't get stiff!"
"All right, Brig," muttered Bowles; "all right!" But his eyes were on
the corral.
A cloud of dust rose on the still morning air like smoke from some
red-burning fire, and through the poles of the fence he could see horses
running like mad, and men with trailing ropes. Then, as the stampede
rose to a thunder of feet, he heard a shrill yell of triumph, and
scrambling men jerked the bars from the gate. The current of galloping
slackened, it paused, and the leaders shot out the gap with a sea of
high-flung heads behind. When the dust of their outrush had settled,
there was only one horse left inside--the horse that killed Dunbar--and
he lay grunting in the dirt.
"Fetch me that hackamore!" yelled Hardy Atkins from where he knelt on
the brute's straining neck. "Now bring me that well-rope--we'll tie up
his dad-burned leg!"
They gave him the ropes as he called for them, and he rigged them with
masterful hands--first the rough-twisted hackamore, to go over his head
and cut off his breath; then the two-inch well-rope, to hang from his
neck and serve later to noose his hind foot. Then all hands tailed on to
the throw-rope; they swayed back as he rose to his feet; and when Dunbar
went to the end of it, the heave they gave threw him flat. He leaped up
and flew back on his haunches, and the rope halter cut off his breath.
His sides heaved as he struggled against it; his eyes bulged big and he
shook his head; then, with a final paroxysm, he sank to his knees and
they slackened away on the rope. A single mighty breath, and he was up
on his feet and fighting; and they choked him down again. Then Hardy
Atkins stepped in behind and picked up the end of the shoulder rope,
where it dragged between his legs, and drew the loop up to his hocks. A
jerk--a kick at the burn--and Dunbar was put on three legs. He fought,
because that was his nature, but it was in vain; they trussed his foot
up high, tied the rope's end to the neck loop, and clapped a broad blind
over his eyes. So Dunbar was conquered, and while he squealed and
cow-kicked, they lashed Bowles' saddle on his bowed-up back and slipped
the bit between his teeth.
There he stood at last, old Dunbar the man-killer, sweating and
trembling and cringing his head to the blind, and Bowles jumped down off
the fence.
"All right," he said, "you can let down his foot. I'll pull up the
blinder myself."
"Say yore prayers first, Mr. Man," gritted Atkins, lolling and mopping
his face. "If he's half as good as his promise, you'll never git off
alive!"
"Very likely," observed Bowles grimly. "You can let his foot down now."
"Hey! Git a move on!" yelled a cow-puncher up on the fence. "They's
somebody comin' up the road!"
"Aw, let 'em come," drawled Atkins carelessly. "They're hurryin' up to
see the show. Step up and look 'im over!" he grinned at Bowles. "No
rush--you got lots of time!"
"Let his foot down!" snarled Bowles, his nerves giving way to anger.
"I'm not----"
"It's Dix!" clamored the cow-puncher on the fence-top. "It's Dix!"
There was a rush for the fence to make certain, and as Dixie Lee dashed
in through the horse lot, Hardy Atkins threw down his hat and cursed.
Then he stood irresolute, gazing first at Bowles and then at the fence,
until suddenly she slipped through the bars and came striding across the
corral.
"Oho, Hardy Atkins," she panted, as she tapped at her boot with a quirt.
"So this is what you were up to--riding horses while Dad went to town!
Didn't he tell you to keep off that Dunbar horse? Well, then, you
just----"
She paused as she sensed the tense silence, and then she saw Bowles,
walking resolutely up to the horse. In a flash it all came clear to
her--the feud, the fights, and now this compact to ride.
"Mr. Bowles!" she cried, raising her voice in a sudden command--but
before she could get out the words Hardy Atkins laid his hand on her
arm.
"You go on back to the house!" he said, fixing her with his horse-taming
eyes. "You go back where you belong! I'm doin' this!"
"You let go of me!" stormed Dixie Lee, making a savage pass at him with
her quirt--and then a great shout drowned their quarrel and made them
forget everything but Bowles.
The obsession of days of brooding had laid hold upon him and left him
with a single, fixed idea--to ride Dunbar or die. And to him, no less
than to Hardy Atkins, the coming of Dixie Lee was a disappointment. For
a minute, he too had stood irresolute; then, with the simplicity of
madness, he went straight to the blindfolded horse and began to lower
his foot. As the quarrel sprang up, he gathered his reins; without
looking back, he hooked his stirrup; and then, very gently, he rose to
the saddle. Then the shout rang out, and he reached down and twitched up
the blind.
Gazing out from beneath the band which had held him in utter darkness,
the deep-set rattlesnake eye of Dunbar rolled hatefully at the man on
his back. He crooked his neck and twisted his malformed head, and Bowles
felt him swelling like a lizard between his knees--then, with a squeal,
he bared his teeth and snapped at his leg like a dog. The next moment
his head went down and he rose in a series of buck-jumps, whirling
sideways, turning half-way round, and landing with a jolt. And at every
jolt Bowles' head snapped back and his muscles grew stiff at the jar.
But just as the world began to grow black, and he felt himself shaken in
his seat, the trailing neck rope lapped Dunbar about the hind legs and
he paused to kick himself free.
It was only a moment's respite, but it heartened the rider mightily. He
caught the stirrup that he had lost, wiped the mist from his eyes, and
settled himself deep in the saddle.
"Good boy! Stay with 'im!" yelled the maniacs on the fence-posts; and
then old Dunbar broke loose. The man never lived that could ride
him--Bowles realized that as he clutched for the horn--and then his
pride rose in him and he sat limber and swung the quirt. One, two, three
times, he felt himself jarred to the center, and the blood burst
suddenly from his mouth and nose and splashed in a crimson flood. He had
no knowledge of what was happening now, for he could not see; and then,
with a heart-breaking wrench, he felt himself hurled from the saddle and
sent tumbling heels over head. He struck, and the corral dirt rose in
his face; there was a cloud before him, a mist; and then, as the
dizziness vanished, he beheld the man-killer charging at him through the
dust with all his teeth agleam.
[Illustration: "THE MAN-KILLER CHARGED AT HIM THROUGH THE DUST"]
"Look out!" yelled the crowd on the fence-top. "Look out!"
And Bowles scrambled up and fell over to one side. His knees were weak;
they would not bear him; and through the dust cloud he saw Dunbar slide
and turn again. Then of a sudden he was in a tangle of legs and stirrups
and striking feet, and somebody grabbed him by the arm. Three pistol
shots rang out above him; he was snaked violently aside; and old Dunbar
went down like a log. Somebody had killed him, that was certain; but it
was not Brigham, for he could tell by the characteristic cursing that it
was his partner who had pulled him out and was dragging him across the
corral. He blinked and opened his eyes as he fetched up against the
fence--and there was Dixie Lee, with a big, smoking pistol in her hand,
striding after him out of the dust.
She looked down at him, her eyes blazing with anger; and then, snapping
the empty cartridges out of the Colt's, she handed it back to a puncher.
"Well," she said, "I hope you boys are satisfied now!" And without a
second look at Brigham, Bowles, Hardy Atkins, or the remains of Dunbar,
she turned and strode back to the house.