We jogged out to Box Springs by way of the lower alkali flats. It is
about three miles farther that way; but one can see for miles in every
direction. I did not one bit fancy the cañons, the mesquite patches, and
the open ground of the usual route.
I beguiled the distance watching Brower. The animal he rode was a
hammer-headed, ewe-necked beast with a disconsolate eye and a half-shed
winter coat. The ex-jockey was not accustomed to a stock saddle. He had
shortened his stirrups beyond all reason so that his knees and his
pointed shoes and his elbows stuck out at all angles. He had thrust his
derby hat far down over his ears, and buttoned his inadequate coat
tightly. In addition, he was nourishing a very considerable grouch,
attributable, I suppose, to the fact that his customary dose was just
about due. Tiger could not be blamed for dancing wide. Evening was
falling, the evening of the desert when mysterious things seem to swell
and draw imminent out of unguessed distances. I could not help wondering
what these gods of the desert could be thinking of us.
However, as we drew imperceptibly nearer the tiny patch of cottonwoods
that marked Box Springs, I began to realize that it would be more to the
point to wonder what that gang of hoodlums in the bunk house was going
to think of us. The matter had been fairly well carried off up to that
moment, but I could not hope for a successful repetition. No man could
continue to lug around with him so delicious a vaudeville sketch without
some concession to curiosity. Nor could any mortal for long wear such
clothes in the face of Arizona without being required to show cause. He
had got away with it last night, by surprise; but that would be about
all.
At my fiftieth attempt to enter into conversation with him, I
unexpectedly succeeded. I believe I was indicating the points of
interest. You can see farther in Arizona than any place I know, so there
was no difficulty about that. I'd pointed out the range of the
Chiracahuas, and Cochise's Stronghold, and the peaks of the Galiuros and
other natural sceneries; I had showed him mesquite and yucca, and mescal
and soapweed, and sage, and sacatone and niggerheads and all the other
known vegetables of the region. Also I'd indicated prairie dogs and
squinch owls and Gambel's quail and road runners and a couple of coyotes
and lizards and other miscellaneous fauna. Not to speak of naming
painstakingly the ranches indicated by the clumps of trees that you
could just make out as little spots in the distance--Box Springs, the
O.T., the Double H, Fort Shafter, and Hooper's. He waked up and paid a
little attention at this; and I thought I might get a little friendly
talk out of him. A cowboy rides around alone so much he sort of likes to
josh when he has anybody with him. This "strong silent" stuff doesn't go
until you've used around with a man quite some time.
I got the talk, all right, but it didn't have a thing to do with
topography or natural history. Unless you call the skate he was riding
natural history. That was the burden of his song. He didn't like that
horse, and he didn't care who knew it. It was an uncomfortable horse to
ride on, it required exertion to keep in motion, and it hurt his
feelings. Especially the last. He was a horseman, a jockey, he'd ridden
the best blood in the equine world; and here he was condemned through no
fault of his own to straddle a cross between a llama and a woolly toy
sheep. It hurt his pride. He felt bitterly about it. Indeed, he fairly
harped on the subject.
"Is that horse of yours through bucking for the day?" he asked at last.
"Certain thing. Tiger never pitches but the once."
"Let me ride him a ways. I'd like to feel a real horse to get the taste
of this kangaroo out of my system."
I could see he was jumpy, so I thought I'd humour him.
"Swing on all at once and you're all right," I advised him. "Tiger don't
like fumbling in getting aboard."
He grunted scornfully.
"Those stirrups are longer than the ones you've been using. Want to
shorten them?"
He did not bother to answer, but mounted in a decisive manner that
proved he was indeed a horseman, and a good one. I climbed old crow bait
and let my legs hang.
The jockey gathered the reins and touched Tiger with his heels. I kicked
my animal with my stock spurs and managed to extract a lumbering sort of
gallop.
"Hey, slow up!" I called after a few moments. "I can't keep up with
you."
Brower did not turn his head, nor did Tiger slow up. After twenty
seconds I realized that he intended to do neither. I ceased urging on my
animal, there was no use tiring us both; evidently the jockey was
enjoying to the full the exhilaration of a good horse, and we would
catch up at Box Springs. I only hoped the boys wouldn't do anything
drastic to him before my arrival.
So I jogged along at the little running walk possessed by even the most
humble cattle horse, and enjoyed the evening. It was going on toward
dusk and pools of twilight were in the bottomlands. For the moment the
world had grown smaller, more intimate, as the skies expanded. The dust
from Brower's going did not so much recede as grow littler, more
toy-like. I watched idly his progress.
At a point perhaps a mile this side the Box Springs ranch the road
divides: the right-hand fork leading to the ranch house, the left on up
the valley. After a moment I noticed that the dust was on the left-hand
fork. I swore aloud.
"The damn fool has taken the wrong road!" and then after a moment, with
dismay: "He's headed straight for Hooper's ranch!"
I envisaged the full joy and rapture of this thought for perhaps half a
minute. It sure complicated matters, what with old Hooper gunning on my
trail, and this partner's daughter shut up behind bars. Me, I expected
to last about two days unless I did something mighty sudden. Brower I
expected might last approximately half that time, depending on how soon
Ramon _et al_ got busy. The girl I didn't know anything about, nor did I
want to at that moment. I was plenty worried about my own precious hide
just then. And if you think you are going to get a love story out of
this, I warn you again to quit right now; you are not.
Brower was going to walk into that gray old spider's web like a nice fat
fly. And he was going to land without even the aid and comfort of his
own particular brand of Dutch courage. For safety's sake, and because of
Tiger's playful tendencies when first mounted, we had tied the famous
black bag--which now for convenience contained also the soothing
syrup--behind the cantle of Meigs's old nag. Which said nag I now
possessed together with all appurtenances and attachments thereunto
appertaining I tried to speculate on the reactions of Old Man Hooper,
Ramon, Brower and no dope, but it was too much for me. My head was
getting tired thinking about all these complicated things, anyhow. I was
accustomed to nice, simple jobs with my head, like figuring on the
shrinkage of beef cattle, or the inner running of a two-card draw. All
this annoyed me. I began to get mad. When I got mad enough I cussed and
came to a decision: which was to go after Old Man Hooper and all his
works that very night. Next day wouldn't do; I wanted action right off
quick. Naturally I had no plans, nor even a glimmering of what I was
going to do about it; but you bet you I was going to do something! As
soon as it was dark I was going right on up there. Frontal attack, you
understand. As to details, those would take care of themselves as the
affair developed. Having come to which sapient decision I shoved the
whole irritating mess over the edge of my mind and rode on quite happy.
I told you at the start of this yarn that I was a kid.
My mind being now quite easy as to my future actions, I gave thought to
the first step. That was supper. There seemed to me no adequate reason,
with a fine, long night before me, why I shouldn't use a little of the
shank end of it to stoke up for the rest. So I turned at the right-hand
fork and jogged slowly toward our own ranch.
Of course I had the rotten luck to find most of the boys still at the
water corral. When they saw who was the lone horseman approaching
through the dusk of the spring twilight, and got a good fair look at the
ensemble, they dropped everything and came over to see about it, headed
naturally by those mournful blights, Windy Bill and Wooden. In solemn
silence they examined my outfit, paying not the slightest attention to
me. At the end of a full minute they looked at each other.
"What do you think, Sam?" asked Windy.
"My opinion is not quite formed, suh," replied Wooden, who was a
Texican. "But my first examination inclines me to the belief that it is
a hoss."
"Yo're wrong, Sam," denied Windy, sadly; "yo're judgment is confused by
the fact that the critter carries a saddle. Look at the animile itself."
"I have done it," continued Sam Wooden; "at first glance I should agree
with you. Look carefully, Windy. Examine the details; never mind the
_toot enscramble_. It's got hoofs."
"So's a cow, a goat, a burro, a camel, a hippypottamus, and the devil,"
pointed out Windy.
"Of course I may be wrong," acknowledged Wooden. "On second examination
I probably am wrong. But if it ain't a hoss, then what is it? Do you
know?"
"It's a genuine royal gyasticutus," esserted Windy Bill, positively. "I
seen one once. It has one peculiarity that you can't never fail to
identify it by."
"What's that?"
"It invariably travels around with a congenital idiot."
Wooden promptly conceded that, but claimed the identification not
complete as he doubted whether, strictly speaking, I could be classified
as a congenital idiot. Windy pointed out that evidently I had traded
Tiger for the gyasticutus. Wooden admitted that this proved me an idiot,
but not necessarily a congenital idiot.
This colloquy--and more like it--went on with entire gravity. The other
men were hanging about relishing the situation, but without a symptom of
mirth. I was unsaddling methodically, paying no attention to anybody,
and apparently deaf to all that was being said. If the two old fools had
succeeded in eliciting a word from me they would have been entirely
happy; but I knew that fact, and shut my lips.
I hung my saddle on the rack and was just about to lead the old skate to
water when we all heard the sound of a horse galloping on the road.
"It's a light boss," said somebody after a moment, meaning a horse
without a burden.
We nodded and resumed our occupation. A stray horse coming in to water
was nothing strange or unusual. But an instant later, stirrups swinging,
reins flapping, up dashed my own horse, Tiger.