A MAN'S SIZE HORSE
At dusk the sonorous boom of a Japanese gong gave warning of the
approach of the supper hour. A few minutes later a second booming
summoned all in to the meal. Miss Isobel sat at one end of the table;
her father at the other. Along the sides were the employes, Ashton and
Gowan at the corners nearest the girl. A large coal oil lamp with an
artistic shade cast a pink light on the clean white oilcloth of the
table and the simple tasteful table service.
Yuki, the silent Jap, served all with strict impartiality, starting
with the mistress of the house and going around the table in regular
succession, either one way or the other. The six rough-appearing
haymakers used their knives with a freedom to which Ashton was
unaccustomed, but their faces were clean, their behavior quiet, and
their occasional remarks by no means inapt.
After the meal they wished Miss Knowles a pleasant "Good-night," and
left for the bunkhouse. But Ashton and Gowan, at the smiling
invitation of the girl, followed her into the front room. Knowles
came in a few minutes later and, with scarcely a glance at the young
people, settled down beside a tableful of periodicals and magazines to
study the latest Government report on the reclamation service.
Ashton had entered the "parlor" under the impression that here he
would have Gowan at a disadvantage. To his surprise, the puncher
proved to be quite at ease; his manners were correct and his
conversation by no means provincial. A moment's reflection showed
Ashton that this could not well be otherwise, in view of the young
fellow's intimacy with Miss Chuckie Isobel.
Another surprise was the discovery that Gowan had a remarkably good
ear for music and knew even more than the girl about the masters and
their works. There was a player attachment to the piano, and the girl
and Gowan had a contest, playing the same selections in turn, to see
which could get the most expression by means of the mechanical
apparatus. If anything, the girl came out second best. At least she
said so; but Ashton would not admit it.
Between times the three chatted on a thousand and one topics, the girl
always ready to bubble over with animation and merriment. She bestowed
her dimpled smiles on both her admirers with strict impartiality and
as impartially stimulated each to his best with her tact and gay
wit.
At nine o'clock sharp Knowles closed his report and rose from his
comfortable seat.
"Time to turn in, boys. Coal oil costs more than sunlight," he
announced, in the flat tone of a standing joke. "We'll take a jog down
creek to the Bar-Lazy-J ranch, first thing tomorrow, Kid.--Ashton,
you'd better start off in the cool, before sunup. Here's my bunch of
letters, case I might forget them."
He handed over half a dozen thinly padded envelopes. Gowan was already
at the door, hat in hand.
"Good night, Mr. Knowles. Good night, Miss Chuckie. Pleasant dreams!"
he said.
"Same to you, Kid!" replied the girl.
"May I give and receive the same?" asked Ashton.
"Of course," she answered. "But wait a moment, please. I've some
letters to go, myself, if you'll kindly take them with Daddy's."
As she darted into a side room, Knowles stepped out after Gowan. When
the girl returned, Ashton took the letters that she held out to him
and deliberately started to tie them in a packet with those of her
father. His sole purpose was to prolong his stay to the last possible
moment. But inadvertently his eye caught the name "Blake" on one of
the envelopes. His smile vanished; his jaw dropped.
"Why, Mr. Ashton, what is the matter?" said the girl.
"I--I beg your pardon," he replied. "I did not realize that--But it's
too absurd--it can't be! You did not mean what you said this
afternoon. It can't be you're writing to that man to come here."
"I am," she replied.
"But you can't--you must not. He's the very devil for doing impossible
things. He'll be sure to turn loose a flood on you--drown you
out--destroy your range!"
"If it can be done, the sooner we know it the better," she argued.
"Daddy says little, but it is becoming a monomania with him--the
dread. I wish to put an end to his suspense. Besides, if--if this Mr.
Blake is as remarkable as you and the reports say he is, it will be
interesting to meet him. My only fear is that so great an engineer
will not think it worth while to come to this out-of-the-way
section."
"The big four-flusher!" muttered Ashton.
"How you must dislike him! It makes me all the more curious to see
him."
"Does your father know about this letter?" queried Ashton.
"You forget yourself, sir," she said.
Meeting her level gaze, he flushed crimson with mortification. He
stood biting his lip, unable to speak.
She went on coldly: "I do not ask you to tell me the cause of your
hatred for Mr. Blake. I assume that you are a gentleman and will not
destroy my letter. But even if you should do so, it would mean only a
short delay. I shall write him again if I receive no reply to this."
Ashton's flush deepened. "I did not think you could be so hard. But--I
presume I deserved it."
"Yes, you did," she agreed, with no lessening of her coldness.
"I see you will not accept an apology, Miss Knowles. However, I give
you my word that I will deliver your letter to the postmaster at
Stockchute."
He started out, very stiff and erect. As he passed through the doorway
she suddenly relented and called after him: "Good night, Mr. Ashton!
Pleasant dreams!"
He wheeled and would have stepped back to reply had not Knowles spoken
to him from the darkness at the end of the porch: "This way, Ashton.
Kid is waiting to show you to the bunkhouse. You'll find a clean bunk
and new blankets. I've also issued you corduroy pants and a pair of
leather chaps from the commissary. Those city riding togs aren't
hardly the thing on the range. There's a spare saddle, if you want to
change off from yours."
"Thank you for the other things; but I prefer my own saddle," replied
Ashton.
He now perceived the dim form of Gowan starting off in the starlight,
and followed him to the bunkhouse. The other men were already in
their beds, fast asleep and half of them snoring. Gowan silently lit a
lantern and showed the tenderfoot to an unoccupied bunk in the far
corner of the rough but clean building. After a curt request for
Ashton to blow out the lantern when through with the light, he
withdrew, to tumble into a bunk near the door.
Ashton removed twice as many garments as had the puncher, and slipped
in between his fresh new blankets, after several minutes spent in
finding out how to extinguish the lantern. For some time he lay
listening. He had often read of the practical jokes that cowboys are
supposed always to play on tenderfeet. But the steady concert of the
snoring sleepers was unbroken by any horseplay. Presently he, too,
fell asleep.
He was wakened by a general stir in the bunkhouse. Day had not yet
come, but by the light of a lantern near the door he could see his
fellow employes passing out. He dressed as hastily as he could in his
gloomy corner, putting on his new trousers and the stiff leather
chapareras in place of his breeches and leggings. Gowan came in,
glanced at him with a trace of surprise, and went out with the
lantern.
Ashton followed to the house and around into the side porch. The other
men were making their morning toilets by lantern light, each drying
face and hands on his own towel. Ashton and Gowan waited their turn
at the basins, and together went into the lamplit dining-room, where
the Jap cook was serving bacon, coffee, and hot bread. Ashton lingered
over his meal, hoping to see Miss Isobel. But neither she nor her
father appeared.
Gowan had gone out with the other men. Presently he came back to the
side door and remarked in almost a friendly tone: "Your hawss is ready
whenever you are, Ashton."
"Thanks," said Ashton, rising. "The poor old brute must be rather
stiff after the spurring I gave him yesterday."
Gowan did not reply. He had gone out again. Somewhat nettled, Ashton
hastened after him. Dawn had come. The gray light in the east was
brightening to an exquisite pink. The clear twilight showed the
puncher waiting at the front of the house beside a saddled horse. A
glance showed Ashton that the saddle and bridle were his own, but that
the horse was a big, rawboned beast.
"That's not my pony," he said.
"This here Rocket hawss ain't _any_ pony," agreed Gowan. "He's a man's
size hawss. Ain't afraid you'll drop too far when you fall off, are
you?"
"You're trying to get me on a bucking bronco!" said Ashton,
suspiciously eying the bony, wild-eyed brute.
"He's no outlaw," reassured Gowan. "Most all our hawsses are liable
to prance some when they've et too many rattlers. But Miss Chuckie
said you can ride."
"I can," said Ashton, tightening the thong of his sombrero down across
the back of his head and buttoning his coat.
"Roped this Rocket hawss for you because Mr. Knowles wants his mail by
sundown," remarked Gowan. "He shore can travel some when he feels like
it. Don't know as you'll need your spurs. Here's a five-spot Mr.
Knowles said to hand you by way of advance. Thought you might want to
refresh yourself over at Stockchute. Wouldn't rather have another
saddle and bridle, would you?"
"Kindly thank Mr. Knowles for me," said Ashton, pocketing the five
dollar bill. "No--the horse is hard-mouthed, but I prefer my own
saddle and bridle."
He drew his rifle from its sheath, wiped the dew from the butt, and
tested the mechanism. The horse cocked his ears, but stood motionless
while the rifle was taken out and replaced. Ashton picked up the reins
from the ground and threw them over the horse's head. The beast did
not swing around, but his ewe neck straightened and his entire body
stiffened to a peculiar rigidity.
Ashton tested the tightness of his saddle girth, and paused to gaze at
the closed front door of the house. Aside from his saddle and
burlesque sombrero, he looked every inch a puncher, both in dress and
in bearing. But Miss Isobel missed the effect of his new _ensemble_.
She missed also the interesting spectacle of his mounting.
If he had never ridden a cow pony he would have been thrown and
dragged the instant he put his foot in the narrow metal stirrup. The
horse was watching him alertly, every muscle tense. Ashton smiled
confidently, spoke to the beast in a quiet tone, and pulled on the off
rein. The horse bent his head to the pull, for the moment off his
guard. In a twinkling Ashton had his foot in the stirrup and was up in
the saddle. His toe slipped into the other stirrup as the horse jumped
sideways.
The leap was tremendous, but it failed to unseat Ashton. It was
instantly followed by other wild jumps--whirling forward and sidelong
leaps, interspersed with frantic plunging and rearing. Gowan looked
on, agape with amazement. The tenderfoot stuck fast on his flat little
saddle and only once pulled leather. Rocket was not a star bucker, but
he had thrown more than one half-baked cowboy.
Finding that he could not unseat his rider, the beast suddenly gave
over his plunging, and bolted at furious speed down the smooth slope
towards Plum Creek. Before they had gone half a furlong Ashton
realized that he was on a blooded horse of unusual speed and a
runaway. He could not hope to pull down so tough-mouthed a beast with
his ordinary curb. The best he could do was to throw all his weight on
the right rein. Unable altogether to resist the steady tug at his
head, the racing horse gradually swerved until he was headed across
the mesa towards the jagged, snow-streaked twin crests of Split Peak.
Horse and rider were still in the curve of their swift flight when
Isobel Knowles came out into the porch, yawning behind her plump,
sunbrowned hand. A glance at Gowan cut the yawn short. She looked
alertly afield and at once caught sight of the runaway.
"Kid!--O-oh!" she cried. "Mr. Ashton!--on Rocket!"
Gowan spun about to her with a guilty start, but answered almost
glibly: "You said he could ride, Miss Chuckie."
"He'll--he'll be killed!--Daddy!"
Knowles stepped out through the doorway, cocking his big blue-barreled
Colt's. Gowan hastily pointed towards the runaway. Knowles looked, and
dropped the revolver to his side. "What's up?" he growled.
"Kid--he--he put Mr. Ashton on Rocket!" breathlessly answered his
daughter.
"Sorry to contradict you, Miss Chuckie," said Gowan. "He put himself
on."
"He's on yet," dryly commented the cowman. "May be something to that
boy, after all."
"But, Daddy!--"
"Now, just stop fussing yourself, honey. He and Rocket are going
smooth as axlegrease and bee-lining for Stockchute. How did the hawss
start off?--skittish?"
"Enough to make the tenderfoot pull leather," said Gowan.
"If he stuck at all, with that fool saddle--!" rejoined Knowles.
"Don't you worry, honey. He sure can fork a hawss--that tenderfoot."
"Oh, yes," the girl sighed with relief. "If Rocket started off
bucking, and he kept his seat, of course it's all right. See him take
that gully!"
"You sure gave me a start, honey, calling out that way.--Well, Kid,
it's about time we were off. I'll get my hat."
Gowan stepped nearer the girl as her father went inside. "I'll leave
it to the tenderfoot to tell you, Miss Chuckie. He'll have to own up I
gave him fair warning. Told him he wouldn't need his spurs, and asked
if he'd have another bit and saddle; but it wasn't any use. He's the
kind that won't take advice."
"I know you meant it as a joke, Kid. You did not realize the danger of
his narrow stirrups. Had he been caught in mounting or had he been
thrown, he would almost certainly have been dragged. And for you to
give him our one ugly hawss!"
"You said he could ride," the puncher defended himself.
"I'll forgive you for your joke--if he comes back safe," she
qualified, without turning her gaze from the now distant horse and
rider.
Gowan started for the corral, the slight waddle of his bowlegged gait
rather more pronounced than usual. When Knowles came out with his hat,
the runaway was well up on the divide towards Dry Fork. Rocket was
justifying his name.
In a few seconds the flying horse and rider had disappeared down the
far slope. The girl followed her father and Gowan to the corral, and
after they had ridden off, she roped and saddled one of the three
horses in the corral. She mounted and was off on the jump, riding
straight for the nearest point on the summit of the divide.
As, presently, she came up towards the top of the rise, she gazed
anxiously ahead towards Dry Fork. Before she could see over the bend
down to the creek channel, she caught sight of a cloud of dust far out
on the mesa beyond the stream. She smiled with relief and wheeled
about to return. The tenderfoot had safely crossed the stream bed. He
would have Rocket well in hand before they came to rough country.