THE CUSTOM OF THE COUNTRY
When Bat Wing Bowles got up out of the dirt he was shaken in body and
spirit. His corporeal frame felt as if it had been passed through a
carpet-beater, and he had lost some of his most precious illusions.
Certainly, if there was any way by which a tenderfoot might hope to
achieve a little hard-earned fame in the Far West, it was not by riding
bronks; and now, before he could wipe the blood from his nose, they were
blaming him for all their troubles.
"The blank-blanked greenhorn!" cursed Hardy Atkins, pacing to and fro
and gazing at the hulk of Dunbar. "I _tol'_ 'im to keep off that hawse!
Never would've let 'im rode 'im--not for a thousand dollars! And then,
the minute my back's turned--and Dix right there to copper the play--he
goes and pulls off _this_! But I don't care--_I_ never done nothin'! You
boys seen 'im--he done it himse'f!"
And then, all the anger and blood-lust that had been in Bowles' heart
for days went suddenly to his right hand, and, putting his shoulder
behind it, he smote the ex-twister on the jaw. It was a wicked blow,
very much like the one he had received himself, and it laid the false
cow-puncher low. He came up reaching for his gun, and Bowles knocked him
down again, and took the gun away. Then he passed it on to Brigham, and
offered to fight him some more--or anybody! A raging devil of combat
seemed to possess him, and he shouted for war, and more war. The cowboys
drew away from him as from a man who has lost his right mind, and it was
not until Brigham had cajoled him into dipping his hot head into the
horse-trough that Bowles left off his raving. A drink of Mr. Mosby's
strong coffee, and a rest on his bed by the sheds, and his sanity was
completely restored--but his illusions were lost forever!
Never again would Samuel Bowles try to beat the cow-puncher at his own
game; never would he mount a wild horse; and never would he put faith in
womankind. Not out West, anyway. To be sure, Dixie Lee had saved him
from the man-killer, but she had done it in such a way as to injure his
pride irreparably. And if anybody had cooled his fevered brow after the
accident, it certainly was not Dixie, but Brigham Clark, when he ducked
his head in the horse-trough. A sudden aversion to his surroundings--a
stern dislike for sentiment and the Bat Wing--came over Bowles as he lay
moping in his blankets, and, rising on his elbow, he called to Brigham.
"Brig," he said, "I'm going to quit this accursed ranch--would you mind
catching my private horse?"
"No, ner mine neither!" fulminated Brig. "I jest been waitin' fer ye to
say the word--been ready myse'f fer a week!"
He hopped on his horse as he spoke, and rode out into the pasture, and
as he returned with their private mounts Gloomy Gus came over from the
fire.
"What ye goin' to do, Brig," he inquired; "quit?"
"Yep," answered Brig, as he lashed their beds on his spare horse;
"gittin' too bad fer me. Next thing you know, somebody'd git killed."
"That's right," agreed Gus gloomily; "gittin' pretty bad around hyer.
Cow-punchin' ain't what it used to be. Well, I'm sorry to see you go."
He put them up a lunch and watched them off, and then turned back to his
pots and kettles, grumbling and shaking his head.
That was their only farewell, but as they rode out the gate, Dixie Lee
appeared at the big house door and looked after them as they passed.
Their mounts alone told the story of their departure, and their beds on
the horse behind; but though she knew they were quitting, she stood
silent and made no sign.
"Want to say good-by?" inquired Brig, glancing up at her from under his
hat, but Bowles did not reply. A deadly apathy had succeeded his
passion, and he was sullen and incapable of higher thoughts. All he
wanted now was to get away--after that he could think what to do.
They turned their horses' heads toward Chula Vista, where they must go
to draw their time, and after they had ridden a mile Bowles suddenly
turned in his saddle--but Dixie had passed inside. A deep and melancholy
sadness came over him now, and he sighed as he slumped down in his seat,
but Brigham did not notice his silence. At noon they ate as they rode,
getting a drink at a nester's windmill, and at night they camped by a
well. Then it was that Bowles woke up from his brooding and saw that he
was not alone in his mood--Brigham, too, was downcast and wrapt up in
his thoughts. His mind ran quickly back to ascertain the cause, and he
remembered the cherished job.
For one short, eventful month Brigham Clark had been a boss. A
straw-boss, to be sure, but still a boss--and now he had lost his job.
Never again, perhaps, would he rise to the proud eminence of a
"straw"--and yet he had quit his place instantly to throw in his lot
with him. A wave of compassion and self-reproach swept over Bowles at
the thought, and he forgot his own ugly mood.
"Brig," he said, as they sat close to their tiny fire, "I'm sorry you
had to quit. If it hadn't been for me, and Hardy Atkins, you'd be back
there now, on your job. It might have led to something better, too. Mr.
Lee often said----"
"Aw, fergit it," grumbled Brig morosely. "_I_ didn't want the job.
What's the use of bein' a puncher, anyway? They's nothin' in it but hard
work. I've got a good mind to hike back to the Gila and go to pitchin'
hay."
"Well, if I'm in your way at all," urged Bowles, "don't hesitate to say
so. I only proposed this White Mountain trip----"
"Oh, that's all right," broke in Brig. "I'll be glad to git away from it
all--git where they ain't no girls, nor mail, nor nothin'. Up there in
them big pine trees where a man can fergit his troubles. But I want to
go back past the Bat Wing. I told Dix all about it last week, and I
shore want to bid her good-by. There's a good girl--Dix--but she can't
understand. She says if I had any nerve I'd go and take a chance--marry
the girl and wait and see what happened to me--my girl down on the
river, you know."
Bowles nodded gravely and waited for him to go on. It was a month since
Brigham had spoken of his girl, and he had never discussed the affair
since that first rush of confidences, until now suddenly he dived into
the midst of it.
"No," continued Brig, gazing mournfully at his dead cigarette; "Dix is
all right, but she don't know them Mormons like I do. She don't know
what they're liable to do. This feller that's tryin' to marry my girl is
the bishop's own son--he's that feller I beat up so bad when I took to
the hills a while back--and he's bound to do me dirt. My girl won't
marry me, nohow--not lessen I become a Mormon--and shore as you're
settin' there, boy, if I take that gal from the bishop's son, I'm
elected to go on a mission!
"I know it! Hain't the old man got it in fer me? And then what's to
become of my wife? Am I goin' to leave her fer two years and that
dastard a-hangin' around? Not on yore life--if they summoned me fer a
mission, I'd either take my wife along or I'd kill that bishop's
son--one or the other. But that's the worst of it--the bishop's kid is
on the spot, and I'm hidin' out like a coyote. My girl keeps a-writin'
like she never gets no letters, and beggin' me to come back and be good!
But I can't do it--that's all--I been a renegade too long."
"Well," suggested Bowles, after a long pause, "perhaps we could go by
that way. Maybe her folks are keeping your letters from her, or
something like that. If there is anything I can do for you, Brig, don't
hesitate to ask for it. I might go around and see her for you--or if you
need money----"
"No," protested Brigham petulantly; "money won't buy me nothin' with
her. I'm up ag'in the whole Mormon church--and if you knew half of what
I do about 'em, you'd know that you can't buck these bishops. The Mormon
folks is fine people--they'll feed you, and help you, and do anything in
the world fer you--but them priests and apostles and bishops--umph-umm!
The more you know about 'em, the worse it scares you up--and I'm shore
down on their black books. No, pardner, I ain't got a chanc'st, so let's
fergit it. I talked it all over with Dix, and she kinder heartened me
up; but it ain't no use. My girl don't like me enough to cut loose and
quit her people, and I won't turn Mormon fer nobody--so there you are.
Come on, let's go to bed!"
It was a hard and tragic problem, and long after the fatalistic Brig had
gone to sleep, Bowles lay awake and tried to find a way out. His own
petty griefs seemed sordid by the side of it, and all the way to town he
turned it over in his mind. But, now that he had dismissed it forever,
Brigham Clark became his old carefree self again.
"I'll tell you what we'll do!" he exclaimed, as they talked of their
trip to the hills. "We'll hunt up old Bill Jump, and show him the latest
in lies. I betcher I can make that old feller ashamed of himse'f--he's
jest one of these here common, long-haired liars that don't know nothin'
but to go you one better, anyway. But you wait till I pull that
Hippodrome stuff on 'im--I betcher that'll make his jaw drop. Never did
git to spring that on the boys--say, tell me that ag'in about the clown
that fished up bulldogs outer the lake--and them elephants comin' over
the waterfall! Yes, sir; if old Bill is up in them White Mountains,
we'll certainly make him look sick!"
It was a glorious thing to contemplate, and, once in town, they made
haste to lay in their supplies; but when Brigham came back from his
interview with the boss Bowles could see that his enthusiasm had been
shaken. For reasons of his own, Bowles had preferred not to meet the
Lees, and he had asked Brig to convey his regrets and a release for his
two months' pay. If eighty dollars would compensate for the defunct
Dunbar, Mr. Bowles was satisfied; otherwise, he would be glad to meet
the difference. But the trouble in Brigham's eye was not one of dollars
and cents--he had something big on his mind.
"Say," he said, as he beckoned Bowles to a corner of the corral, "what
d'ye think Mrs. Lee sprung on me when I went around fer my pay? And, by
the way, they was a deputy sheriff inquirin' fer you when I come out by
the desk, so come away from that gate--but what d'ye think she said?"
"Why, I'm sure I can't imagine," answered Bowles, with his old-time
calm. "What was it?"
"Well, she had a big yeller telegraph in her hand that she was kinder
wavin' around--I never did find out what it was all about--but when I
come in to the hotel she flew at me like and says:
"'Mr. Clark, do you know who that young man is you're travelin' with?'
"Well, sir, the way she said it made me mad clean through, and I says to
her:
"'No, Mrs. Lee, I don't--and, what's more, I don't care! He's a good
pardner, that's all I know--and that's all I want to know!'
"And then I turned around and walked out. I don't know what them Lees
have got to be so proud about, the way old Henry used to cave around,
but I showed her, by grab, they was one puncher she couldn't run it
over! She always did make me mad," observed Brig, as he stole quiet
glances at his friend, "but I knowed mighty well you wasn't no _crook_
and--and I don't care _what_ you done!"
"Well, thank you just as much--I haven't done anything, Brig," answered
Bowles with a reassuring smile. "But," he added, "that's no reason for
not getting out of town."
They packed their horse hurriedly, and Bowles rode on ahead, but once on
the open prairie he gave way to a hearty laugh.
"Brig," he said, "what in the world do you think I've done?"
"Well, I dunno," mumbled Brig, looking him over shrewdly. "Of course, I
knowed all along they was nothin' to that Christabel talk--stands to
reason a man wouldn't leave home for a little thing like that. About
that aunt, now, that sounds a little more likely--but I've knowed
fellers that come out here jest fer fun."
"Yes, but this deputy sheriff--and all that!"
"We-ell," drawled Brigham, with a sly twinkle in his eye, "I heeard a
little more from him than what I told you at the first!"
"Oh, indeed! And what else did you hear?"
"Well----" Brig stopped and stuck his tongue in his cheek roguishly. "He
said it was a woman that wanted you!"
"My aunt!" exclaimed Bowles, striking his leg; but Brig only spat and
grinned.
"Sure!" he said, and grinned again.
"I have it!" cried Bowles. "Mrs. Lee wrote back and told her sister I
was here--and then my aunt began telegraphing! That telegram Mrs. Lee
had was from her!"
"Sure thing," agreed Brig; and Bowles looked up to find him smirking.
"Well, what's the matter?" he demanded. "Say, you're pretty smart,
aren't you, Brig?" he observed, with pitying scorn. "They don't put one
over on you very often, do they?"
"No, indeedy!" swaggered Brigham; and then they both laughed--to
themselves. But the jest put an effectual end to the discussion, since
Brigham did not know what it was he was supposed to have discovered, and
Bowles took no pains to enlighten him. It was enough that Brig
considered him a very gay dog indeed, and he did not deny the soft
impeachment. So, each with his satisfied smile, they jogged along across
the plains, dragging their pack animal behind them and heading for the
Bat Wing.
All that day they rode on through the mellow sunshine, and the next
morning found them still on their way; but just as the well-remembered
ranch came into view there was a rattle of wheels from behind and they
swung out to give Henry Lee the road. He was driving the fiery grays,
and they fought gamely against the delay, but he pulled them down to a
walk while he handed Bowles a note.
"Telegram for you, Mr. Bowles," he said. "Brig, stop at the ranch when
you go by--I want to talk with you."
There was much more that might have been said, and Mrs. Lee smiled
approvingly at Bowles, but the grays were within sight of the haystack
and they cut the talk short with a bolt. Then Bowles glanced through the
telegram and thrust it into his shirt.
"My aunt----" he began, and as the grin on Brig's face widened, he
stopped short and fell into a sulk. "No use telling you anything, Brig,"
he said at last; "you can guess by the color of my eye."
"Sure!" said Brig, after a moment of baffled silence. "Yore aunt seems
to think a whole lot of you. And, speakin' about women-folks, what's
this comin' down off the hill?"
He nodded at the foothills to the west, and as Bowles gazed he saw Dixie
Lee coming down the broad slope like an arrow. She was riding
Wa-ha-lote, too, and at sight of that noble charger the heart of Bat
Wing Bowles became sad--or perhaps it was at sight of Dixie. However
that may be, he continued on his way with melancholy resignation; while
Brig viewed her coming with alarm.
"Here's where I ketch hell fer somethin'!" he muttered, as she sighted
him from afar; and when she rode up and faced him he hung his head like
a truant.
"You Brig!" she said at last, whipping the hair from her eyes with one
hand, "you haven't got git-up enough in you to win an Indian squaw!
You'll make a lovely husband for somebody, and that's a fact--the way
you do your courting. Who do you think is up to the big house waiting
for you?"
"Huh?" demanded Brig, now suddenly all attention.
"Well, she's been there for more than a day--while you were out shooting
prairie-dogs. What she sees in you is more than I can say, but----"
"Who're ye talkin' about?" barked Brigham, throwing loose his
leading-rope.
"I'm talking about your girl," answered Dixie with Spartan directness.
"Here, I'll lead your pack--go ahead and show her your dust."
"I'll do that," said Brig, leaning forward as she spoke; and, passing
over the rope, he went spurring up the road.
Dixie Lee gave Bowles a level look from beneath her tumbled hair, and
touched Wa-ha-lote with the spur. Her manner seemed to be a disclaimer
of any responsibility for their being left together, and yet somehow it
was very obvious that the stage had been set for an interview. But if
Dixie had any intentions, she concealed them effectually, and her manner
was one of good-natured tolerance.
"Well, look at that crazy fool ride," she observed, as Brig disappeared
in his own dust. "You'd think from the way he travels he was the keenest
lover in the world." She paused here and laughed to herself.
"Yes, indeed!" responded Bowles, with a certain brotherly pride. "Old
Brig thinks a lot of that girl."
"Well, maybe he does," conceded Dixie; "but he certainly makes me
provoked. I declare, the way some of these men----" she paused again and
bit her lip. Mr. Bowles was one of those men, too. "I reckon it's all
right," she continued resignedly; "but when a woman has to ride clear
over to the Gila, and propose for a man, and steal his girl for him, and
then round him up and send him in, I guess she has some excuse to speak
her mind. Don't you think so, Mr. Bowles? Well, then, if your friend
Brigham had had his way, he would have hit for the summit of the White
Mountains, and his girl would have been married to a Mormon! It makes me
mad, Mr. Bowles, I declare it does! The idea of leaving that poor little
girl over there and never going near her, when all the time she was
begging him to come back, and her folks were reading her letters. She
couldn't _write_ it to him--she had to _tell_ him--and he never showed
up at all. Please don't apologize for him, Mr. Bowles; I'm sure there's
not a word to be said."
Mr. Bowles bowed his head and felt very humble indeed, as if he, too, in
some inexplicable way, had erred and been rebuked.
"And now," said Dixie at last, "Father'll make Mr. Brig his wagon-boss,
and they'll get married and live at the ranch. Simple, isn't it?"
"Why, it seems so," admitted Bowles; "but how do you know he will?"
"How do I know?" repeated Dixie, rolling her eyes on him. "Why, Mr.
Bowles, have you been around the Bat Wing for two months and failed to
note who was boss? Right after you and Brigham Clark left I went down
and _fired_ that Hardy Atkins--so you don't need to be bashful about
coming back."
Her voice trailed off a little as she ended, and Bowles started and
looked at the ground. New worlds and vistas appeared before him, and
visions and sudden dreams--and then he was back by her side, and the
road was passing by.
"I'm sorry," he said at last. "It's my own fault--I should have
explained at the beginning. But now your mother has written to her
sister, and she has told my aunt, and so I've got to move on. She's
telegraphing already." He showed her the yellow message and slipped it
back into his pocket. "And there was a deputy sheriff inquiring for me,"
he added bitterly.
"Oh, dear!" pouted Dixie, yanking at the reluctant pack-horse. "I just
knew she'd do it. Mother means well, but she's a New Yorker, and--well,
I hope she's satisfied!"
"Yes, I hope so too," added Bowles. "I never did have anything to be
ashamed of, but--do you know who I am?"
"No, I don't," answered Dixie May. "And I don't care, either," she
added, glancing across at him with clear-seeing eyes. "I always knew you
were a gentleman, and--say, what's the matter with that pack?"
She dismounted quickly as she spoke, and Bowles dropped off to help.
Then, after the ropes had been tightened, they stood silent within the
circle of their horses.
"Mr. Bowles," began Dixie, leaning one arm on the pack and looking
thoughtfully away, "being the man you are, you--you wouldn't compel a
lady to apologize to you, would you?"
"Why no, no--certainly not!" gasped Bowles, alarmed by a mistiness in
her eyes.
"Because if that's what you're going away for----"
"Oh, my dear Miss Lee!" protested Bowles, now suddenly stirred to the
depths. "Don't think of it--not for a moment! No, indeed! I will confess
that I was a little hurt by your--but that's all right! That's all
right! You don't know my aunt, do you, Miss Lee? I can't explain it to
you, but--well, she's a very determined woman, in her way, and--well,
she wants me to come home."
"Yes?"
"Yes, and so I'd better move on. I'm sorry that Brig can't go along with
me, but--well, I can go alone. Do you remember one time, when we were
coming West, I spoke about the spirit of the country--the spirit of the
West? Well, I have found it--it is to move on!"
"And never come back?" inquired Dixie quickly.
"Well, something like that," admitted Bowles.
"Yes, I do remember that," responded Dixie, with a reminiscent smile. "I
remember it well. We were alone on the train and we said all kinds of
things--I didn't know you very well then. I remember you told me once,
if I'd help you find the Far West, you'd be my faithful knight--and all
that. And I helped you, too, didn't I?"
"Why, yes!" said Bowles, puzzled by her air.
"Well, what about being my knight?" demanded Dixie, with sudden
frankness. "You've done well out here, Mr. Bowles, but there's one thing
I'm disappointed in--you don't keep the customs of the country!"
"Why, what do you mean, Miss Lee?" inquired Bowles.
A sudden smile illuminated Dixie's face--the same smile that had taken
possession of him when he had forgotten and stolen a kiss--and then she
turned away and blushed.
"Well," she said, "you're the first Bat Wing man that has gone away
without--without proposing to me!"
She glanced at him defiantly and folded her arms--and Bowles felt his
reason eclipsed, and the world go dark before him. A thousand riotous
thoughts clamored suddenly for recognition, and his brain reeled at the
shock. Then he opened his eyes, and she was still smiling at him, but
the smile had a twinkle of mischief in it. The memory of her legion of
suitors came over him now, and her carefree, jesting ways, and he became
of a sudden calm. They had all proposed, and she had led them on, and
then she had told them no. But she should never deal that ignominy to
him. If she scorned his humble suit and desired only to add his scalp to
the rest, he would escape at least with his pride--he would never let
her say he had proposed.
"Ah, you must excuse me, Miss Lee," he said, speaking with a formal
restraint. "Much as I value your happiness, I--I cannot observe
this--custom of the country!"
He spat the words out bitterly, and closed his lips--as if there was
more he might say. But Dixie did not lose her smile.
"Maybe I'd accept you," she suggested with a roguish twinkle, and once
more he gazed into her eyes to read there if she was his friend. But a
woman's eyes are deceptive, and hers spoke of many things--she smiled,
the old dazzling smile, but there was mischief in the depths. He sighed
and drew away.
"Ah, no," he said, "you cannot understand." Then, as she waited, his
heart turned to bitterness and he spoke on as the thoughts came.
"Really, Miss Lee, it pains me--I cannot believe it. What is one man,
more or less, that you should hurt me like this? Dixie"--he raised his
downcast eyes and regarded her reproachfully--"I have dreamed about you.
I have worshiped you from afar--I have fought my way to be near you. You
don't know how it would pain me--after all I have hoped--to have
you----"
"Aw, Bowles," chided Dixie, reaching out her hand, "can't you see that I
want you?"
And then Bowles' dream came true.