Captain Bill Henry, foreman of the Bar O outfit, and head by choice of
the season's round up, had just ridden into camp. Most of the men were
in the cook-tent when he turned his dripping bay horse in with the
others. Then he picked up his saddle, bridle, and blanket and carried
them up to the cook-tent, where he threw them down, hitting one of the
stake-ropes with such violence as to cause the whole tent to quiver, and
one of the boys inside to mutter under his breath:
"Lord, the Cap's on the prod! What in the devil's he got in his gizzard
now?"
"Don't know," answered the second, returning from the stove, where he
had loaded his plate with a wonderful assortment of eatables and seated
himself on a roll of bedding beside the first speaker. "Too bad he
couldn't knock the roof off'n our heads. He's sure enough mad, just
look at him!" he whispered, as Captain Bill Henry stooped his tall, lank
frame to come into the tent.
The men, sitting about inside, glanced up when he entered. Some of them
grinned, others went on with their supper, but the "Cap" from under his
bushy red eyebrows hardly noticed them as he took the necessary dishes
from the mess-box and strode over to the stove, around which old Evans,
the cook, moved in great concern.
"Now just try some o' them beans. Regular Boston baked, Cap, they'll
melt in your mouth. An' here's a kidney stew I've been savin' fer you,"
taking from the oven a well concealed stew-pan. "If any o' them boys 'ud
a found it they'd made short work of it, I reckon."
He removed the cover and held the dish under Bill Henry's nose. The
"Cap" gave one sniff. "Phew! Take it away! Don't like the damn'd stuff,
nohow!"
A dazed look passed over old Evans' face, giving way to one of mortal
injury. Not a man smiled, though several seemed about to collapse with
a sudden spasm which they tried in vain to control. Away went the
contents of the pan, leaving a streak of kidney-stew almost down to the
horse ropes. "If it ain't good enough fer you, it ain't fer me," said
the cook, his bald head thrown well back upon thin shoulders.
The "Cap" glared at him as he poured out a generous measure of strong
coffee into a large tin cup, then ran his eye about the tent for a
possible seat.
A quiet-looking fellow, a youth fresh from the East, got up, politely
offering him the case of tomatoes upon which he had been sitting. Bill
Henry refused it with a scowl, taking a seat upon the ground near the
front of the tent, where he crossed his lank legs in front of him. The
cow-puncher sank back upon his case of tomatoes while the "Cap" ate in
great, hungry mouthfuls, soaking his bread in the sloppy beans and
washing it down with frequent noisy sips of hot coffee. Finally he began
to speak, with a full Missouri twang:
"This beats hell! Not a dang man around this part of the country wants
to throw in with this here outfit. Never saw no such luck! Here we are
with two months' steady work before we make town, an' only ten men to do
the work o' fifteen! I'll hire no more devilish breeds. You can't trust
'em no more'n you can a rattler, no, sir! All of 'em quit last night,
an' Long Bill along with 'em! I'd never thought it o' Bill. Been ridin'
all the evenin' an' couldn't find hair or hide of him. It's enough to
make a man swear a blue streak, yes, sir! Well, I rounded up one breed
limpin' 'round Harris' shack, an' he said his gun went off by accident
an' give him a scratch on the calf o' the leg. Bet ten dollars he's been
in a fight over there! Damn'd nest o' drunken louts! I'll be glad when
we're away from these here parts!"
At this point one of the cowboys got up, threw his dishes into the pan,
and strode outside.
"You on night-herd to-night?" asked the Captain.
"Yep," answered the cow-puncher. "Going to relieve Jack."
"Tell them other fellers to come along in an' git their chuck; it's
mighty nigh time to turn in now. Got to make Miller's crossing in the
morning."
"All right," answered the man from outside. Then putting his head back
into the tent, exclaimed in a loud whisper: "Here comes Long Bill!"
"The devil he is! It's about time," growled Bill Henry. He had no more
than got the words out of his mouth before a man, head and shoulders
above any cow-puncher there, stalked in.
"Well, Cap, I've come round to git paid off, fer I reckon I'm knocked
out of the ring fer a little spell." He stooped and held down for
inspection a hand bandaged in a much-stained bandanna handkerchief. "One
o' them damn'd dogs o' Harris' run his teeth all the way through it," he
explained.
The captain grunted, threw his well cleaned plate over into the dish
pan, and rose stiffly to his feet. "What'd you do to the dog?" he
asked.
"That was his last bite," roared out Long Bill. "I sent him flyin' into
Kingdom Come!"
"Let's see your hand," demanded his chief; thereupon the tall cowboy
hesitated an instant, then removed the bandage, and, with an air of
bravado, held out his hand for inspection. Some of the men crowded about
curiously, throwing careless jokes of condolement at the sufferer, while
others passed by regardless.
Captain Bill Henry examined the wounded member carefully, then grunted
again, while his eyelids contracted until only a sparkle of liquid blue
showed beneath his bushy red brows.
"A mighty bad bite! You'll have a hell of a time with that hand! What
were yo' tryin' to do, anyhow--makin' a mark out o' it? Was you holdin'
your hand up, or down, or what? That _dog_ must 'a' had a pretty good
eye. Do you know what that looks like to me? Well, sir, it looks mighty
like you'd held up your hand to the muzzle of your gun an' pulled the
trigger! Yes, sir, only there ain't no powder marks; so I calculate the
_dog_ must 'a' been some distance away when he took aim! The hole's
clean through, just as slick as any bullet could 'a' made it. That dog
must 'a' had a powerful sharp tooth! Well, you ain't goin' to be able to
handle a rope very soon, dog or no dog, that's plain as the nose on your
face. You'd make a mighty good ornament to have around camp, but I
reckon I'll pay you off." Later: "Know of any men I can git around
here?"
"Nary one but them breeds over to Harris'," replied Long Bill. "They're
drunker'n lords now, but they'll be wantin' a job in a day or so when
they sober up, an' I'll send 'em 'round here. I'll be huntin' a job
myself in about a month, when this here paw o' mine gits well. It's
mighty painful."
"You'd better go to town an' see a doctor," drawled the "Cap." "An'
while you're on your way stop at Hathaway's an' give him or Jim McCullen
a letter fer me. I'll have it ready in a minute an' it'll save me
sendin' a man over."
Without waiting for a reply from the tall cow-puncher, Captain Bill
Henry stalked over to his bed, took from the roll a pad of paper, and
was soon lost in the mysteries of letter-writing.
He was an awkwardly built man, but his whole appearance gave one the
impression that he meant business--and he was crammed full of it. Seated
astride his tarp-covered bed, with his back to the few straggling
cow-punchers about the tents, he proceeded in a determined,
business-like way to write the letter. Before he had finished the
difficult operation some men rode up to the camp--the men who had been
on herd, hungry for their supper, and two outsiders.
Around the mess-wagon, which had been backed into the cook-tent in the
usual order, lounged a group of cowboys whose appetites had been
satisfied and whose duties for the time being were over. Two of the men
who had just come up on horseback joined these, while Captain Bill
Henry, without looking around, continued his somewhat difficult task of
composing a letter, which, when accomplished, he folded carefully.
"Hello! Where did you'ns drop from?" he drawled as he approached the
newcomers. "I was just goin' to send word over to have your wagon join
me at west fork o' Stony Creek. I'm too short o' men to work Stony Creek
country, anyhow. Hathaway's reps all left me awhile back, an' Long Bill,
he's leavin' to-day--got bit by a mad dog over here. Jackson's wagon an'
the U Bar ain't goin' to join me till we git down in the Lonesome
Prairie country, so I was just goin' to send a letter over to your
place, for if he wants a good round-up on this range he'd better send
over that extra wagon o' his'n. You'ns goin' right back?"
"I'm not," replied Carter. "But McCullen can take word over to the
ranch. He's going the first thing in the morning."
"Cert. Got to go, anyway, an' I reckon my horse can pack your message to
the boss if it ain't too heavy," said McCullen.
Old Jim McCullen had been Hathaway's right hand man as long as anyone
could remember. He had put in many years as wagon-boss, and finally
retired from active life to the quieter one at the home-ranch, where he
drew the biggest pay of any man in Hathaway's employ, and practically
managed all the details of the great cattle concern. He saw that the
wagons were properly provisioned, manned, and started out in the spring,
that the men who brought up the trail-herds were paid off; he attended
to the haying, the small irrigating plant that had been started, and to
all the innumerable details that go toward the smooth running of a large
ranch. Now the "boss" had sent him on a mission whose import he
understood perfectly--something altogether out of the line of his usual
duties, but of greater importance than anything he had ever undertaken.
He was going back to the ranch in the morning to tell Hathaway that his
daughter was apparently all right. He and Carter had pitched their tent
not far from where the round-up was camped, and had ridden over for some
beef. One of the men cut them a liberal piece from a yearling that they
had just butchered. Carter tied it upon the back of his saddle and rode
off toward camp, while old Jim McCullen sat down, lighted a cigarette,
and listened to the gossip of the round-up.
"Right smart lot o' dogs round them breeds down there," remarked Bill
Henry, nodding his head toward Harris' ranch. "Long Bill, here, he's
been unfortunate. Went up there a-courtin' one o' them pretty Harris
girls last eyenin', an' blamed if she didn't go an' sick the dogs on
him!"
McCullen sized up his bandaged hand. "Mighty bad-lookin' fist there," he
chuckled. "Must 'a' bled some by the looks of that rag. When'd it
happen?"
"This mornin', just as I was startin' to come over to camp."
"You don't tell!" condoled the visitor. "That's mighty bad after sitting
up all-night with your best girl!"
"Long Bill's pretty intent after them breed girls," remarked Captain
Bill Henry; thereupon the cowboy flushed angrily.
"No breed girls in mine! The new school-marm's more to my likin'," he
boasted. "An' from the sweet looks she give me, I reckon I ain't goin'
to have no trouble there!"
The next instant Long Bill lay sprawling in the dust, while old Jim
McCullen rained blow after blow upon him. When he finished, Long Bill
remained motionless, the blood streaming from his nose and mouth. Old
Jim straightened up and looked down at the fallen giant with utmost
contempt, then he pulled his disarranged cartridge belt into shape and
glanced at his hands. They were covered with the cowboy's blood.
"Reckon I'd better wash up a bit," he remarked easily, and went into the
cook-tent.
The men lounged about, apparently indifferent to the scene which was
being enacted. It might have been an every day occurrence, so little
interest they showed, yet several stalwart fellows gave old Jim McCullen
an admiring glance as he passed them.
On the crest of a near divide stood a group of squaws. After a short
conference they proceeded slowly, shyly toward the round-up camp. Some
distance from it they grouped together again and waited while a very old
woman wrapped in a dingy white blanket came boldly up to the group of
men, and in a jargon of French and Indian asked for the refuse of the
newly killed yearling. The foreman pointed to where it lay, and gruffly
told her to go and get it, but she spied the unconscious figure of Long
Bill stretched out upon the grassy flat, and with a low cry of woe flung
herself down beside him.
"Who done this?" she cried in very plain English, facing the cowboys
with a look of blackest anger. No answer came.
"Better tell her," suggested a cow-puncher who was unrolling his bed.
"She's a witch, you know."
"If she's a witch she don't need no telling," replied another, at which
they all laughed.
"A witch?" said one. "I sure thought witches were all burned up!"
The old squaw was examining the fallen man, who began to show signs of
consciousness. She bristled like a dog at the cowboy's remark.
"_I see beyond!_ I know the future, the past, _everything_!" she cried
impressively. "I read your thoughts! Say what you like, you dogs, but
not one o' you would like me to tell what I read in your lives. _I know!
I know! I know everything!_" Her voice reached a high, weird cry. Her
blanket had slipped down, leaving her hair in wisps about her mummified
face. To all appearances she might have been a genuine witch as she
groveled over Long Bill.
"Ask her how she tells fortunes--cards or tea-leaves," said one.
"Or by the palm of your hand or the stars above," suggested another.
"Wonder where she keeps her broomstick," mused a third.
Just then McCullen came out of the cook-tent and faced the spectacle.
"I see he's found a nurse," he remarked, and walked over to his horse.
The old woman stood and gesticulated wildly, throwing mad, incoherent
words at him. Finally her jargon changed into fair English.
"You dog, _you_ did this! And why? Ah, ha, ha! _I know!_ I know all
things! Because of the white girl! So! Ha, ha! Must you alone love the
white girl so that no man can speak her name? Oh, you can't deny you
love her! _You_, who ride and hunt with her for fifteen years. Cannot
another man open his mouth but that you must fly at him? Ha, ha! _I
know!_"
"I'll wring your neck, you old----!" said McCullen at his horse's head.
"You will stop my tongue, will you! I'll show you! You are up here to
watch that girl--but where's your eyes? What are you doing? This is my
son-in-law, and you'd like to wipe him from the face of the earth! You
beat him in the face--him with one hand! See! How did he get it? Why are
some of my other son-in-laws limping about with bullets in their legs?
Why is a man lying dead up in the mountains? Why all this at once? Ask
that white girl who teaches little children to be good! Ask that
devil's child who can put a bullet straight as her eye! _Ask her!_ She
would destroy my people. Curse her soul, I say!"
Suddenly the witch-like spirit in her seemed to shrivel into the blanket
which she wrapped about her, then with placid, expressionless face she
made her way to where the yearling had been butchered and hurriedly
stuffed the refuse into a gunny sack which she dragged to where the
other squaws were waiting, then they all made off.
Long Bill sat up and looked about him. "Curse who?" he asked. "Curse me,
I reckon fer not knowin' enough to keep my mouth shut!"
McCullen, with face and lips pallid, had mounted his horse. Long Bill
pulled himself together and walked over toward him.
"I'll take that back," he said. "I didn't mean it, nohow."
"I reckon I was over-hasty," McCullen replied. "But that was our little
girl you were talkin' about--little Hope; an' no man on earth, let
alone a common squaw-man, ain't goin' to even breathe her name
disrespectfully. She's like my own child. I've almost brought her up.
Learned her little baby fingers to shoot, an' had her on a horse before
she could talk plain. Don't let her find this out, for I'm plumb sorry I
had to hurt you; but the man who says more than you did _dies_!" He rode
away and soon was lost in the deep falling shadows. The men in the
cow-camp unrolled their bedding, and all was soon one with the stillness
of the night.