RIDE HIM, COWBOY!
So to the tanks; but here at least was a little luck. The tub was full
and over-flowing; he would not have to cause the agent to swear by
swinging round the nozzle and wasting of his water. And something
besides sagebrush and sand to look at, too. For upon the tracks stood
a train; a train packed very full with men whose faces showed white at
the windows,--indoor men, Eastern men,--and a private car at the end of
the string.
All men! Well, that would be the special train, come through from the
other coast; the prize-fight special,--and the last section, at that.
There was no man up the tracks with a red flag to guard against a
pile-up. And they also looked bored; they must have been standing
there quite a while. And hot. So, you see, his plight was not so bad!
He didn't have to breathe that air and sit in a slippery red-plush
seat. Not much!
He went to the drip, serenely careless of the thousand eyes upon him;
he drank and clicked to Girl o' Mine, his mare. She pricked up her
ears and approached a step or two; she tossed her head and whinnied;
she was afraid of the drip and spatter of the overflow.
He drank again.
"See," he said, "it'll not hurt you. Plain water--that's all--awful
plain! Sure, you're unstrung--but that's nothing. So am I. We both
been under a strain. But I'm not asking you to do anything I'll not do
myself. See, I'm drinking it--just plain water! There--what'd I tell
you? See!"
The mare had edged nearer, eagerly, while he talked. She was very
thirsty, though fearful. And at length his voice reassured her; she
thrust her velvet nostrils into the tub.
Then he seated himself upon a foundation timber of the tank and rolled
a cigarette. His toilet could wait. He wasn't going to ride into
Reservoir and advertise his straits,--not to a lot of half-breeds and
Mexicans and worse. He could wait; years and years of time were before
him. For, vindictively, he wasn't going to provide a spectacle for
those eyes at the windows to watch either; eyes hungry to look upon
anything--anything--if only it wasn't empty desert. Not even the
spectacle of a scarecrow making himself neat and clean,--not him! Let
'em suffer and be bored. He was bored himself!
He smoked and meditated, and presently a shadow fell athwart his lap.
Another horseman was arriving, and he was creating not mild interest
but a veritable stir at the windows. For he was different,
oh-so-different! He drew the eye with his magnificence. His chaps
were new and so was his shirt and his hat had cost thirty dollars. And
Blue Jeans could almost hear them exclaiming as they crowded to the
panes.
This was the real thing! You bet! No fringy-panted scarecrow upon a
horse too good for him--stolen probably at that. Well, I guess not!
This was a bit of the real West--the old West. Look at them spurs.
Silver--solid! A regular cowboy!
And the newcomer had been quick to sense this too. He was on his way
out from Reservoir, traveling north. Of course he would be traveling
north--the Dee & Zee lay in that quarter--and this magnificence was the
Dee & Zee superintendent. More than that, his horse was fresh up from
the stable, and the stable hands were not accustomed to sending a horse
out thirsty into the desert, but he did not now pause to consider this.
He felt the eye of that whole train upon him, its approval, its
admiration, and his importance grew. He couldn't help it; he played up
to his audience. Some men invariably will, with the eye of the world
upon them. They're made that way.
Just for an instant the sight of that familiar figure, quiet there
before him, had given him an unpleasant start. The little matter of
unpaid back wages had crowded to mind and simultaneously a realization
that in numbers he was no longer superior, and therefore not equal in
other essentials. Just for an instant--and then the fact of the train
reassured him. Blue Jeans, hardy though he undoubtedly was and in
desperate need of cash, would scarcely venture force so publicly. It
would look to be nothing but rankest hold-up and robbery. And when
Blue Jeans, having out-thought him and arrived already at the same
depressing conclusion, let his regret show in his face, the
superintendent swelled some more. It appeared quite safe.
"Back that horse away from that bucket," he directed. It was the voice
of authority commanding the urchin on the curb; of seasoned seniority
chiding the heedlessness of the stripling of twenty-two.
"Can't you see that my beast wants water?" Blue Jeans was deeply
offended. Such opulence in anyone at such a moment would have seemed a
needless taunt; that chance had selected the superintendent to flaunt
it was surplusage of insult. Yet he could not even resent the
superintendent's gesture, wide-flung and arrogant to all beholders.
Again the superintendent looked to have the right of it. He clicked to
Girl o' Mine and she came to him, out of the way, like an obedient
puppy.
And then began the performance for the benefit of the car windows, and
which the car windows enjoyed. This picturesque son of the real West,
this colorful figure in new chaps and new shirt and thirty dollar hat,
tried to ride his horse up to the tub. And the horse would not go. In
the first place the horse was not thirsty; in the second place, like
Girl o' Mine, he was exceedingly afraid. Yet in the beginning, when
the Dee & Zee superintendent scratched him with the solid silver spurs
by way of comforting him, he merely rose on his hind legs, but no
nearer the tank.
At any other time the superintendent, who was not an unusual fool,
would have done the wiser thing; he would have dismounted and led his
animal. But now, even though he might have bested his own vanity in
spite of the car windows, Blue Jeans would not permit it. Blue Jeans
had been quick to see where this might lead and spoke with malicious
calculation.
"I thought your horse wanted water?" he drawled, as the superintendent
paused to consider his course. "Pshaw! He ain't so plumb crazy for
it!"
That settled it. It grew instantly furious and cruel. The
superintendent no longer merely scratched with the rowels; he drove
them home. And the roan horse plunged and bucked and staggered.
It was hot and the sawing bit raised quickly a white slaver. The roan
wasn't a bad horse at heart; he was frightened at something he couldn't
understand. He tried to break and run. But at his bad heart the
superintendent wasn't even a man, and no damned bronco was going to
have his way with him. He rounded him back and sent him full at that
tinkling, dreadful drip once more. So the roan fought on, till tumult
rose within the cars.
This was real! This was regular! One wiser than the rest--one who
thought himself schooled in the vernacular, because he had once
witnessed a Frontier Week celebration at Cheyenne--seized upon this
opportunity to air his vocabulary.
The sashes had been left closed to exclude sand and cinders. He tugged
one open now and sent forth his voice.
"Hi yi yi-i-p," he shouted. "Ride him, cowboy!"
And the superintendent rode him! Rode him till the slaver turned red
and the spurs were a torture to the raw torn flanks. Rode him till his
eyes rolled white and crazed. For the superintendent had gone mad too,
mad with vain rage. He laid his rope across the roan's dripping
withers; it did not help; it was inadequate. With staring eyes he cast
about for a more efficient weapon. Then he drew his gun from its
holster.
"You won't, eh, you--?" he panted, foaming a little himself. "You
won't, eh? Try that! Maybe that'll persuade you!" And holding the
long blue sixshooter by its barrel, he struck the roan heavily with the
butt just behind the eyes. Immediately the roan stood stock-still and
slowly closed his eyes. A less strong-hearted horse would have sunk to
the ground. But the superintendent was blind now to the pass to which
he had brought his mount.
"Maybe that'll persuade you! Maybe that--" He mouthed the words
thickly and would have struck again.
But just then Blue Jeans struck him.
Blue Jeans took his gun away from him. How weak is that poor word!
Took? It would not have been so simple a recital had not the weapon
been reversed in the superintendent's hand for the hazing of the roan.
The train would have been treated otherwise to a bit of the real West
indeed, for the superintendent was beyond all sane thought or
discretion. Blue Jeans took his gun away from him. As the
superintendent would have thrust it into his face to fire he struck the
out-stretched wrist with the edge of his stiffened hand, and it fell to
the ground.
Then Blue Jeans took the superintendent from the saddle.
And now the train rocked and roared. This was not novelty, but it was
good. This was what they had come West to see, but better--better!
Better fifty times over than the tame affair which the world's
championship heavy-weight bout at Denver had turned out to be. This
was a fight. You said it--a fight!
The superintendent fought with wasteful fury; Blue Jeans with a cold
hatred of his cruelty--a cold and bitter hatred of his opulence. The
superintendent struck him once with a wild, wide swing. Once--only
once. For he hugged to the superintendent after that and those wild
swings went past. And he jabbed! And jabbed! And jabbed!
After a while the foeman would have clinched, but Blue Jeans prevented
that. That would not do; the superintendent was heavy and he was
slight. So from a position always before his own face his fists
battered the other man's features blank. And he tore that new shirt,
and trampled on the thirty dollar hat; and the chaps grew old and dingy
from constant falling and rising.
Later the superintendent rose less readily; later still he did not rise
at all. Then Blue Jeans watered his horse for him and led it where he
lay. With a heave he tossed the once pretty puncher into the
saddle,--he was pretty no longer. He returned his gun. But he broke
that weapon and extracted the shells before he gave it back.
"There it is," he told the beaten man, and instantly a light leaped to
the half-closed eyes.
Blue Jeans read it.
"Oh, it ain't loaded. See!" And he flung afar the handful of
cartridges.
"It ain't loaded, and don't you load it, either. Don't you try to load
it, till you're out of sight. Don't you even think to try to load it.
If you do--if you do--"
He went back to his seat on the timber.
And the train rocked no more. It became instead loquacious.
"Didn't I tell you?" it demanded. "Didn't I say so, the minute I
spotted that moving-picture scenery! You didn't think real cowboys
dolled up like that, did you? You did? My Gawd! But that other
bird--look at him! Sure--smoking his cigarette as if nothing had
happened. Bet he rolls 'em with one hand! Bet he rolls 'em with one
hand, going at a gallop! And dressed for business all the while!
Gentlemen, you're looking at a cowboy!"
And the wise one--the one who had been in Cheyenne during Frontier
Week--capped it all, nonchalantly. He'd never hoped to have such a
happy chance to display his vocabulary.
"One bad hombre," he declared. "One bad hombre!"
Oh, but they were loquacious! They forgot the heat and delay; they
would have risen to a man and gone out to him who sat, back toward
them, on the timber base of the tank, only they were afraid that the
train might pull out without them. So they had to be content with
watching him while they continued to tell each other what good offhand
judges of human nature they were.
Not so, however, in the private car at the end of the row of coaches.
No noise had come from its occupants during even the worst, or the
best, of it. First tense attention and then when it was over and the
superintendent had ridden away, three pairs of eyes which, turned upon
each other, were startled, questioning.
One of the men was tall and fat, and prosperous to the casual eye, as
he most surely must have been offensive to the fastidious. One of them
was short and fat, with pointed ears that made him look quite
fox-faced. And the other was a reporter. From his appearance one
would have said I hope, and truly, that only pursuit of his calling
could have brought him in such company.
These three, then, sat for a time and looked eloquently at each other.
They were not loquacious about it, not verbally; and finally the tall
fat one heaved himself from his seat.
"I've got a hunch," he declared, "and God never forgives a man who
doesn't ride one." Certainly he was a strange person to be mentioning
God so complacently.
"Pull the bell cord if that fool engineer tries to start without me."
And he left the car.
So presently another shadow fell athwart Blue Jeans' lap. He did not
bother to raise his head this time, however; he was nursing a bruised
hand and craved solitude. The fat man stood and looked down at him
until he realized that the other was likely never to look up, unless he
did something besides impose his plainly unwelcome presence upon him.
Therefore he cleared his throat--"hm-m-m."
"Don't hm-m-m me," snarled Blue Jeans promptly. "And get out of my
light."
In his own way the huge man was a genius, for surely nothing else could
have accomplished it.
"Warm, isn't it?" he commented; and at that inanity Blue Jeans raised
his head.
The huge man had his first fair view of the other's fine hard youth;
and while he observed the self-possessed eyes and long nose,
acquisitive and courageous, Blue Jeans devoted the interval to a
counter-scrutiny. He scanned the newcomer from head to foot, silk hose
and hair-line suit and expensive panama. The rings upon those pudgy
fingers held longest his wandering eye, the blue-white fortune in the
burnt-orange cravat. But all this seemed to kindle no approval.
"Prosperous!" he muttered bitterly. "Prosperous! And yet I don't hate
you like I did that superintendent. Just as much maybe, but not just
the same. . . . Go away!"
But the huge man smiled and stood his ground until finally Blue Jeans
slanted his head at him, wickedly, and fell to talking again.
"I could pluck that stone from out your tie _that_ easy!" And his
voice held no assurance that he would not act upon his words. "Just as
easy! Yes, and I could beat you over the head with my gun--oh, sure
I've got one!--just like he beat that roan horse, and strip your
pockets and be clean away before one of those"--he nodded over his
shoulder at the train--"could think to call for help. And thinking to
call for help would come quicker to them than thinking to help without
calling. And Girl o' Mine would carry me clear in five minutes."
He paused remorselessly, as if to let this sink in, but out of the
silence, "I don't scare easily," the huge man said.
"Pshaw! I'm not telling you to try to scare you," Blue Jeans scoffed.
"I'm telling myself how simple it could be--and wondering why I don't
do it!"
"I can tell you that," answered the Easterner. "Because you're honest."
But that was not subtle, and he realized the flattery had been
ill-chosen, even before Blue Jeans flared, which was almost
instantaneously.
"Don't you tell me I'm honest! Don't you dare even hint I am! It's
honesty brought me here."
The huge man laughed gently. He'd made one mistake; few could accuse
him of repeating in stupidity. He took accurate stock of the symptoms;
set his sights upon what he surmised must be the bull's-eye of Blue
Jeans' discontent; waited a nicely balanced moment, and fired.
"How," he inquired in a tone both mild and unsensational, "how would
you like to earn two hundred dollars?"
But the shot did not take effect as he had expected it to. Instead of
snapping back Blue Jeans' curly head sank a little lower. Though his
inward start at the query had been great his outward display of emotion
was scarcely visible. For perceiving that this was a deliberate
attempt to arouse his interest, he dissembled it and exhibited no
interest at all.
"I balk at murder," he replied with careful indifference and no flicker
of jocularity. "And it would have to be that, to earn that much money.
Two hundred dollars is a fortune; so's one; so's fifty. But I'm kind
of particular that way--though the offer is liberal--it is so! I admit
that, but I--"
He would have gone on rambling had not the other stopped him.
"Sure, it's a nice bunch of coin." And then, daring to be facetious
himself, though adhering still to his admirable and just-formed plan of
not disclosing too much at once:
"You'd not have to kill him, you know. Half of what you did to your
friend on the roan horse would be plenty and to spare."
"He was no friend of mine," Blue Jeans corrected coldly. "We'd just
barely begun to get acquainted."
"Lucky for him!" Indeed, despite his personality, the huge man had a
lively wit.
"A life-long friendship would have proved fatal!"
It made Blue Jeans' eyes twinkle though it warmed them not at all. He
didn't like the fat man and he wasn't going to try. But when the
latter showed no readiness to go back to the important topic which he
had himself introduced, he found anxiety overcoming his resolution to
remain unconcerned.
"You were speaking intimately of two hundred dollars," he drew it back
tentatively.
And then the huge man knew that it was best to be precise.
"For eighteen minutes' work," he explained. "Six rounds with young
Condit, at Estabrook, on the tenth."
"Me!" Blue Jeans blurted his surprise, it was so far from the sort of
proposition he had been prepared to hear. In spite of his habiliments
the Easterner was no new type to him, and he had been ready to dismiss
him and his project, whenever it should develop, with a satisfying
frankness which could not have been admitted here. But this tripped
him,--stripped him momentarily of his self-possession.
"Me!" he deprecated. "Pshaw! I'm no box-fighter! I don't box!"
"Sure you don't," the huge man agreed, eagerly and instantly. "That's
what I saw as I watched you from the window, arguing with your fr--your
acquaintance. The whole world is full of box-fighters who box. You'll
look years and years, however, before you'll find one who will fight."
Blue Jeans had learned to make his decisions quickly, and to abide
later by their results without complaint. Swift and sudden, that was
the better way. But here was no step to be taken ill-considered. He
wasn't sick of cowpunching; he hadn't had half enough of it; he'd never
have enough. But he was sick of punching other men's cattle. And he'd
been maturing lately, getting full-grown ideas into his head. There
wasn't any future for him, or for any man, hellin' around the country.
But if a man was to settle down,--that was the Dream!
And he knew the place,--back of Big Thumb Butte. Good pasture; not too
big, but enough for any bunch he was ever likely to own. Some fence;
some buildings; both in a sad state but reclaimable by a handy man.
And water! The finest water in all the country, and it never failed.
And cheap! Cheap if one kept one's mind on relative values and off
one's own financial troubles; cheap if one didn't pause to recollect
that six bits, at the moment, would have been a prohibitive price.
He'd got his eye on that place lately; that's why he had tried so hard
with the Dee & Zee; that's why he had been over-anxious at poker. He'd
even figured how, by being saving and eating nothing to speak of and
drinking nothing at all, he could save up half the price in about
twenty years. But he'd be old in twenty years, past forty, and
tottering and toothless without doubt. Unless Opportunity--_was_ this
Opportunity?
He didn't like that game--not much--not at all! But, then, he didn't
know much about it; he could judge only by externals, by the clique who
made it their profession. And he'd liked none of them any better than
he did this huge Easterner standing before him, waiting for an answer.
But if this was Opportunity--he didn't have to mix--he could herd by
himself, as he had at the Dee & Zee. And it was the best water in the
county, and somebody, pretty soon, was going to see the possibilities
in that valley and snap it up. And then where'd he be? He wanted to
become a solid citizen; he wanted to amount to something _now_.
He raised a chill, gray-green eye.
"You can say on," he gave leave calmly.
But the huge man drew a slip of cardboard from his pocket instead, and
wrote upon it. It seemed to be one of a stock for such emergencies,
for it bore no engraving.
"If you'll carry this to Harry Larrabie, he'll understand. He'll give
you what you need and send you against Condit Saturday night. Short
notice for you, I know, but you look to be in shape." He glanced at
the lean length.
"One hundred and twenty-eight?"
"Thirty-two," said Blue Jeans, and somehow resentfully.
"Fine--fine! Well?"
Blue Jeans had learned to make decisions with suddenness. He gave this
one, however, a full five seconds' consideration. Then he reached out
and possessed himself of the card.
"Scratch Blake and send bearer against Condit Saturday. If he looks as
good to you as he has to me, keep him busy. Some day I may have
employment for him myself."
It was signed with the single letter D.
"There are no strings to it, after Condit?" Blue Jeans asked finally.
"None--if you want to quit. None."
"Then what is there in it for you?"
Blue Jeans had been schooled to be skeptical concerning any act masking
as purely philanthropic. But the huge man wisely disclaimed such
motives.
"Maybe you won't want to quit,--not right away." He had taken accurate
account of the symptoms. Everybody wanted money, but this man's
desire, he discerned, though great, was curbed and disciplined. It was
not feverish, as if ambitious merely of a few days of debauch in town.
It was controlled, and fixed and steady.
"You'll find other two hundreds waiting," said he.
"That's your gamble?"
"That's my gamble."
Again the card.
"There's no sum mentioned here."
Keenly the huge man's regard played over him. A scarecrow without
question,--poverty had had shabby sport with him,--but honest. You
couldn't mistake it. The large man's flattery had been ill-chosen, yet
well-founded. He drew two one hundred dollar bills from a folder and
handed them to Blue Jeans.
"That'll let you buy some clothes, too," he said, and largely. And
this largeness was his second bad mistake.
Blue Jeans had risen, and as they stood side by side, one thing was now
strangely emphasized. Travel-soiled as he was, and tattered and marked
with signs of conflict, Blue Jeans was the cleaner of the two, the more
wholesome, and immaculate. For what _he_ was stood out upon the huge
man in every fold of flesh.
And Blue Jeans was at no pains to hide his distaste. He was no
prude--no sissy--but somewhere every man had to draw the line. And
every man should draw it before the state of his soul did such things
to lips and eyes. Therefore, and because of the other's condescending
largeness, his reply was cold.
"I'd better," he said, without thanks. "When a man goes into a
doubtful business he'd ought at least to dress respectable. He owes it
to himself to look his best."
The level dislike in the other's tone disconcerted the huge man not at
all. He was wise enough to drop it there. But it set him thinking as
he retraced his way to the private car.
The fox-faced man and the reporter who was monosyllabic were waiting
for his return.
"How much?" This from Fox-face, avidly. He had seen money change
hands.
"Two hundred. He was stony!"
"He did look hungry." This from the reporter, ruminatingly.
"I sent him on to Larrabie."
"Bet you a hundred that Larrabie never sees him!"
"I'll take that," said the reporter.
But Fox-face, perceiving better ones, changed the terms of his
proffered wager.
"Bet you a hundred you never hear from him, even if he does meet
Condit." He hurled this at the huge man, disdaining the reporter.
"Bet you you've not heard from him in three years--in five!"
"There's too many sure things in this world," opined the huge man, calm
under Fox-face's challenge with something like contempt, "to bother
with a gamble." He squinted a moment in thought.
"But when we pull into Shell you'd better wire Larrabie to be discreet.
If he wants to know who D. is, better advise Larrabie to call me
'Denver'--'Denver' Smith will do. Just a disinterested party."
And at that Fox-face was instantly, visibly consumed with curiosity.
The reporter looked almost as though he understood.
"He might not approve of me," he chose to be downright, and enlighten
Fox-face at the same time. "He doesn't now, as it is." And then he
laughed softly, as if at himself.
"It's funny, too. I suppose he's like all of them, drunk every pay-day
while his money holds out, and a familiar face at every brothel. And
yet from the way he looked at me--" He shook his head, not in anger
but amiable meditation. "It's funny," he repeated, and let it go at
that.
So it remained a conundrum to Fox-face. The reporter, however, was now
sure that he had understood. He was sorry that he had not gone out to
speak to Blue Jeans himself. And now the fat man was speaking again.
"He'll go to Estabrook, and he'll earn his two hundred. No room for
doubt. But beyond that--" he shook his head. He could talk frankly to
the reporter, for he never talked for publication.
"He looked honest--but it was a bad hunch, I'm afraid. I'm not so
certain but what he would prove to be too honest, for any practical
purpose, if he ever did come through."
"You've seen the last of him," stated Fox-face omnisciently.
But they hadn't. Blue Jeans was invisible for a while, then he
reappeared, and the water from the tank overflow had done much for man
and beast. He looked almost neat, and very shining and clean. And the
huge man, the reporter observed, must have been mistaken about the
brothels. Blue Jeans was no prude--no sissy--but a man had to draw the
line somewhere. Wherefore his lips did not puff and sag, his eyeballs
were not mottled.
His neckerchief had been newly knotted, with a flourish; his
discouraged boots wiped free of dust. And the mare, Girl o' Mine, had
also found refreshment. She drooped no longer; she even arched her
neck and buck-jumped a little, when he put his weight in the stirrup.
"You, too," he chided her, though gravely, for he was not pleased, not
happy in the course to which he had committed himself. "You, too," he
chided. "Oh, you brazen huzzy! There's nothing like it--nothing in
all the world like ready cash to make a female frivolous!"
He turned her across the tracks.
"We'll not linger long in Reservoir," he spoke again aloud, and the
mare threw back one ear to listen. "Just long enough to eat and sleep,
and then we'll start overland to Estabrook. That's sensible! That's
better than squandering money on a railroad ticket."
Certainly the prospect to which he was bound irked his pride; hurt him
definitely in his self-respect. But with this frugal reflection his
spirits rose a little. He'd not have to be like them; he'd not mix
with that clique; he'd herd alone. And save his money! That was it.
There was the Dream again!
His spirits rose. With the whole train watching him he rode from sight
without even putting up a hand in farewell to those at the private car
windows. And at that, without realizing it, Fox-face--for that--began
hating him.
Once across the tracks Blue Jeans clicked to Girl o' Mine. She swung
to a canter.
"Trip along, honey," he bade her, his serenity almost restored. "Trip
along, and watch your step. Remember you're bearing a capitalist!"