BUNK-HOUSE TALK
About noon that day two sad boys rode into the Bar O Ranch, leading
three tired-looking broncos, who had been put through some severe paces
since early morning. One of the boys and all the horses were hungry, but
the other boy had little desire for food. Whitey had been up against
some rough adventures in the West. This was his first taste of the
tragedy that was frequent, and often necessary in regulating the affairs
of those days.
And while Whitey was far from being a coward, as you know, the sight he
had witnessed had left him a bit shaken. He and Injun unsaddled the
ponies and horses, put them in the corral, and made their way to the
ranch house. Bill Jordan and John Big Moose were in the living-room.
Bill was getting the big Indian to help him with his accounts, which
always were a puzzle to him. And this morning, after his night of
merriment at the Junction, Bill was less inclined toward figures than
usual.
"Well, well," said John Big Moose, as the boys entered the room. "You
two seem to have extended your holiday to the next morning."
"You look kinda shaky, Whitey," said Bill "You been makin' a night of
it, too?"
Without further questioning Whitey sat down and told the story of the
adventure, from the boys' awakening to their finding the bodies of the
three men hanging from the railroad bridge.
"So you were right about String an' Ham's bein' crooks," Bill said, when
the boy had finished.
"Yes, but even so, it seems terrible for them to die that way," Whitey
replied.
"The express folks is tired o' havin' their cars robbed, an' if you'd
known what I found out at the Junction, you might o' saved yourself some
trouble," said Bill. "They was a shipment of a hundred thousand dollars
in gold in that there car, an' they was six fellers went along to
pertect it. Not detectives, or nothin', just fellers that was hired, an'
was dyin' for excitement. I reck'n some o' the passengers was as tired
o' bein' held up as those fellers was pinin' for excitement, an' when
String an' Ham an' Whiff made their poor little play, they musta thought
they'd struck a hornet's nest."
"But to hang them," Whitey protested. "Why didn't they shoot them, if
they had to kill them?"
"Well, ye see hangin' makes it look worse for the next fellers what
thinks o' holdin' up a train," said Bill. "They'd stole three o' our
hosses, anyway, an' that's a hangin' offense."
But Whitey was not inclined to argue about the justice or injustice of
the lynching. He went away with Injun, and tried to eat. And he tried,
too, to forget the horror of the scene at the bridge. But all his life
long he never quite succeeded in doing that.
* * * * *
And that night, in the bunk house, the talk was all about the tragedy of
the morning. Bill Jordan and four of the cowboys were there, to say
nothing of Slim, the cook. Slim had another grievance, for, now that Ham
had gone, he was again forced to cook for the men, misery or no misery.
Whitey loved to sit in the long, half-lighted room, and listen to the
talk and yarns of the cowboys, for, "boys" they were called, whether
they were eighteen or fifty, and in many ways boys they seemed to have
remained.
They had threshed over the lynching. Whitey had answered a thousand
questions about his experiences, had been praised and blamed with equal
frankness, and now he was glad to see that the subject was to be
dropped. For it had reminded Buck Higgins of lariats and their merits,
especially for hanging men.
"For all-round use give me a braided linen," said Buck.
He was speaking of a rope that is made as its name suggests, and is very
strong. If you have ever been in the West, you probably have seen a
mounted cowboy carrying one of these thin but strong ropes coiled at the
horn of his saddle, or dragging on the ground behind him to take the
kinks out of it.
"Rawhide's purty good," suggested Shorty Palmer.
"Yes, but braided linen for me," Buck declared. "It's got any other
kind o' rope beat a mile for strength."
"Ever get stretched with one?" Jim Walker asked, with interest.
"Nope," Buck replied, "but I seen other fellers that did."
"G'wan, spill your yarn about it," said Shorty. "We don't care whether
it's true or not."
Buck was inclined to be offended. "Say, you all never heard me tell
nothin' but th' truth," he snorted.
"Sure, we didn't," said Jim. "Leastways, your yarns is told about places
so far away that we has t' take 'em as true, not knowin' any one to call
on for t' verify 'em."
"Well, if they're made up, you c'n make up just as good ones
yourselves," said Buck, and he lapsed into silence.
"Your tale interests me strangely," said Bill. "Get to it. You started
fine."
"He didn't start at all," Jim said.
"That's what Bill means," explained Shorty.
"Aw, let him tell th' story," said Charlie Bassett. "You fellers that
ain't liars yourselves is all jealous."
Whitey would have thought that the tale was to go untold had he not
known that every story of Buck's met with this sort of reception, and
that nothing short of an earthquake could keep him from talking.
"Well, just to show you fellers you can't queer me, I _will_ tell about
this here lynchin'," Buck declared, after a pause.
"'Twas back in Wyomin', 'bout five years ago," Buck began, "an' I was
workin' for the Lazy I. An' rustlers was good an' plenty. An' every one
knows that there ain't on easier brand to cover up than a lazy I. It was
got up by old man Innes, what owned th' ranch, an' lived in Boston, an'
was so honest an' unsuspectin' that he'd 'a' trusted Slim, here, with a
lead nickel."
Fortunately Slim was asleep, and did not hear this reflection on his
character, so Buck continued:
"Well, our stock had been disappearin' in bunches, an' purty soon them
bunches begins t' seem more like herds, an' somethin' had t' be did,
an' Squeak Gordon, th' manager, wa'n't no man for th' job."
"Squeak!" interrupted Jim. "That's a fine name for a white man."
"'Count of his voice," Buck explained briefly, and went on. "So it was
up t' Lem Fisher, th' foreman, an' him an' 'bout seven punchers,
includin' me, got th' job. 'Course, we had some idea of where them
steers was goin', an' what brands was goin' over ours, but we was
wantin' somethin' pos'tive before we c'd get busy.
"I started talkin' 'bout braided linen ropes, not 'bout cattle thieves,
so they's no use tellin' you of all th' figurin', an' trailin', an' hard
ridin' we did. You know old Mr. Shakespeare sez that levity's th' soul
o' wit."
"Brevity," corrected Whitey.
"What's the difference?" demanded Shorty. "Buck don't know what either
o' them words means."
"Neither do you," retorted Buck.
"Anyway, they ain't got nothin' t' do with braided linen ropes. G'wan,"
commanded Bill.
"Well," resumed Buck, "one noon, in th' foothills, we come on what we
was after, an' we did some stalkin' t' do it. We ketched three guys
red-handed. They was artistic-like re-brandin' some of our calves so's
Lazy I'd read Circle W. 'Course, they wa'n't but one thing t' do with
them fellers, an' we perceeds to do it. But unfortunate enough they
wa'n't a tree within miles of that there spot. It'd seem as though
nature hadn't figured on no rus'lers conductin' bizness there, an'
gettin' caught.
"We felt purty bad about that, an' knowin' those fellers as we did made
us feel worse. They sure didn't deserve shootin'. Then Lem Fisher, who
always was handy with his memory, happens t' think of a canyon 'bout
three mile away, with a bridge over it. Sort o' like that place at the
water tank, where them boys was strung up this mornin', only deeper, an'
th' stream under it swifter an' rockier.
"Well, we conducts our three friends to this here canyon. They draw lots
t' see who goes first, an' a feller named Red Mike wins--- or loses,
rather--as he gets number one. The noose of one of these common manilas
is attached to Mike's neck, th' other end is fastened to th' bridge,
an' he's dropped over.
"An' would you b'lieve it? When Mike comes to the end of that there rope
with a jerk, th' rope breaks, an' Mike goes cavortin' down that swift
stream, at th' rate of 'bout thirty miles an hour, bumpin' against th'
rocks an' everythin'. An' he sure must 'a' disliked that, for he hated
water.
"The next feller on th' programmy was called 'Sure Thing' Jones. You c'n
imagine why he was called that. He wouldn't even risk bein' honest.
Well, Sure Thing watches perceedin's with a good deal of interest, an'
he sees Mike disappear 'round a bend of them rapids, his arms an' legs
wavin' somewhat wild.
"Then Sure Thing goes up to Lem, an' he sez, 'Lem, have you got a
braided linen rope in the outfit?'
"'Sure,' says Lem. 'Why?'
"'It's my turn next, an' I wish you'd use it on me,' says Sure Thing.
'Ye see what happened t' Mike, an' I don't want t' take no chances. You
know I can't swim.'"
"Just the same," said Bill Jordan, determined to have the last word,
"with all your advertisin' for braided linen ropes, I'll take old maguey
for mine, swimmin' or no swimmin'."
In the midst of the laugh which had followed Buck's grim tale, Sitting
Bull, who had been lying near Whitey, rose to a sitting posture, his
cave-like mouth open wide and raised at the corners, his eyes twinkling.
"See Bull!" Bill Jordan cried delightedly. "He's laughin' at Buck's
story yet. He's sure got a sense o' humor, that dog. He's just about
human."
Bull's expression raised another laugh. All the men liked him, but Bill
was his especial admirer, and loved to dwell on Bull's wonderful
intelligence and tell stories about it.
"Me for bed," said Jim Walker. "After that jamboree las' night I feel's
though I c'd sleep a month."
"Wait a minute till I tell you 'bout me havin' Bull down t' th' Junction
las' week, an' him chasin' th' fox," Bill said.
"Tell nothin'," Jim answered. "Me for th' hay."
"Aw, g'wan," protested Bill. "'Twon't take a minute, an' you got all
'ternity t' sleep in, as the poet says."
"An' I c'n use it," Jim yawned; "but cut loose, an' make it short."
"Well," Bill began, "las' week Thursday I was goin' down t' th' Junction
for feed, an' I takes Bull along. You know how he likes t' ride in a
wagon? 'S almost human. Why, that there animal--"
"Here, cut out them side comments," commanded Jim. "We know how smart
that dog is, without your tellin' us any further. Get down t' bed rock!"
"Well," Bill continued, "when we gets t' th' store, an' Al Strong's
nigger's loadin' th' feed in th' wagon, I allows t' take Bull for a
little stroll 'round, so's he c'n stretch his legs. So I ties a halter
t' his collar an' starts out. I isn't exactly leadin' Bull, he's sort o'
leadin' me, for you all know how strong he is. But we sure needs th'
halter t' make Bull keep th' peace. He's had more fights at that there
Junction! Say, he's the fightenist dog"--a warning look from Jim kept
Bill to the thread of his story.
"We passes th' homes of all Bull's live enemies, an' th' graves of his
dead ones, an' gets to a rock, where we c'n sit an' study natur' a bit,
before we turns back. An' thinkin' it's safe t' do so, I lets go o'
Bull's halter. An' while I'm studyin' an' takin' a nip from a flask I
happens t' have in my jeans, I forgets Bull for a minit, an' when I
looks up, he's plumb absent.
"I ain't worried none, till I happens t' think we was only 'bout a
quarter mile from that Englishman, Barclay's, place, what has that pack
o' wolf-hounds that he hunts with. Fox-huntin' he calls it, though what
he mostly chases is coyotes. Ain't it funny how when an Englishman comes
t' this country he brings his habits with him, or twists ours aroun' t'
fit his'n?"
"Say," demanded Jim. "Is this a yarn 'bout a bulldog or a lecture on
them foreign habits? 'Cause if it's that last, I--"
"Well, anyway," Bill interrupted hastily, "I looks down th' road, an'
Bull's beatin' it hot foot for that Barclay's place, an' I c'n see what
happens if he meets up with them hounds. So I follers, swift's I can,
spillin' some language to Bull--prayers, an' warnin's an' such. But
before I gets there, I sees that pack o' hounds swarm over th' fence
into th' road, an' purty soon, there is Bull, right in their midst, as
th' feller says.
"For th' rest of th' way I does nothin' but pray, an' see visions of th'
biggest dog fight that ever hit Montana, but I keeps movin' rapid, an'
when I gets on th' spot, there's Bull, right in th' middle of th' pack.
Now all th' tails is waggin', an' that looks purty good, till I comes t'
think that Bull always wags his tail before he goes into battle, 'cause
he loves to fight so. An' all them hounds is sniffin' 'round, right
pert, an' Bull is purty cocky, an' when I gets close enough, I hears
Bull say:
"'Hello, d'ye want t' fight?'
"'Fight, no,' says one of th' hounds. 'We're goin' to chase a fox. D'ye
want t' go?'
"'Sure,' says Bull.
"An' with that th' whole pack o' 'em leaps over a fence, an' beats it
off toward th' hills.
"Well, Bull don't even hesitate. He leaps at that there rail fence an'
lands against it with his head, plunk--an' caroms back into th' road. He
leaps again, an' comes back th' same way, but at th' third jump he goes
through a wider place in th' rails, an' lands on th' other side o' the
fence, on that there same head. Then he scrambles to his feet, an'
starts off after them hounds.
"Now, you all know that a bulldog ain't built for speed, he's built for
war. In th' first place, his fore legs is so far apart they's almost
strangers, an' his hind legs is too short, an' th' rest of him's too
heavy for all of 'em. But Bull keeps goin', industr'ous. An' he goes so
fast that 'bout every thirty yards he stumbles, an' falls on his face,
an' his head plows up large chunks of Montana soil.
"By this time them wolf-fox-hounds has flown into them hills, they
touchin' th' ground 'bout every hunderd feet. An' Bull ain't one to let
no hounds see him quit, an' he plows along, till at last he gets t' them
hills an' is lost t' sight but t' mem'ry dear. Well, I goes back t' that
rock, an' sits down, sad-like, thinkin' mebbe I never will see Bull
again.
"An' p'r'aps it's an hour goes by, when I hears somethin' that sounds
like a engine puffin' strong on a upgrade, an' up over one of them
hummocks comes Bull, draggin' himself along like he has flatirons tied
t' his feet. An' he's all decorated with real estate, an' burrs, an'
everythin' loose what would stick to him. An' when he gets to where I
sits, he flops down flat on his back. He sure is exhausted; even his
paws is limp. But one of his eyes seems t' hold a spark o' life, an' he
fixes that on me. An' he asks, weak-like:
"'Say, Bill, what in tarnation is a fox?'"
The company looked at Bill fixedly; not reproachfully, but fixedly. Then
slowly the men began to take off their clothes, with the idea of turning
in. And Bill Jordan and Whitey started for the ranch house, for the same
purpose.