BUCK MAKES FRIENDS
The town of Twin River straggled with indifferent impartiality along the
banks of the Black Jack and Little Jill branches where they ran together
to form the Jones' Luck River, two or three houses lying farther north
along the main stream. The trail from Wayback, the nearest railway
point, hugged the east bank of Jones' Luck, shaded throughout its course
by the trees which lined the river, as they did all the streams in this
part of the country: cottonwoods mostly, with an occasional ash or elm.
Looking to the east, the rolling ground sloped upward toward a chain of
hills; to the west, beyond the river, the country lay level to the
horizon. On both sides of the trail the underbrush grew thick; spring
made of it a perfect paradise of blossoms.
Boomerang, pet hobo of Twin River and the only one who ever dared to
come back, left Little Nell's with his characteristic hurried shuffle
and approached the wooden bridge where the Wayback trail crossed the
Jill, and continued south to Big Moose. Boomerang was errand boy just
now, useful man about the hotel or one of the saloons when necessity
drove, at other times just plain bum. He was suspected of having been a
soldier. A sharp "'tention" would startle him into a second's upright
stiffness which after a furtive look around would relax into his
customary shambling lack of backbone. He had one other amusing
peculiarity: let a gun be discharged in his vicinity and there was
trouble right away, trouble the gunner was not looking for; Boomerang
would fly into such a fury of fighting rage, it was a town wonder that
some indignant citizen had not sent him long ago where he never could
come back.
Coming to the bridge he looked casually and from habit along the trail
and espied a horseman riding his way. He studied him reflectively a few
seconds and then spat vigorously at something moving on one of the
bridge planks, much as the practised gun-man snaps without appearing to
aim. "Stranger," he affirmed; "Cow-punch," he added; "Old man," he
shrewdly surmised, and shook his head; "Dunno 'im" and he glanced at the
stain on the plank to see what he had bagged. Among his other pleasing
human habits "Boom" used tobacco--as a masticant--there was the evidence
of the fact. But he had missed and after a wistful look for something
to inspire him to a more successful effort, he shuffled on.
The horseman came at a steady gait, his horse, a likely-looking bay with
black spots, getting over the ground considerably faster than the
cow-ponies common to the locality; approaching the bridge he was slowed
to a walk while his rider took in the town with comprehensive glance. A
tall man, lean and grizzled, with the far-seeing, almost vacant eye of
the plainsman, there was nothing, to any one but such a student of
humanity as "Boom," to indicate his calling, much less his position in
it. The felt hat, soft shirt and rough, heavy suit, the trousers pushed
into the tops of his boots, were such as a man in the town might wear
and many did wear. He forded the stream near the bridge at a walk. Pop
Snow, better known as Dirty, cleverly balancing himself within an inch
of safety in front of the "I-Call" saloon, greeted him affably: "Come a
long way, stranger?" asked Dirty.
"From Wayback," announced the other and paused in interested suspense.
Dirty had become seized with some internal convulsion, which momentarily
threatened disaster to his balance. His feet swung back and forth in
spasmodic jerks, the while his sinful old carcass shook like a man with
the Chagres fever. Finally a strangled wheeze burst from his throat and
explained the crinkle about his eyes: he was laughing.
"Wayback ain't fur," he declared, licking his lips in anticipation of
the kernel of his joke about to come. "You can a'most see it frum here
through the bottom uv--"
"How d' you know it ain't?" the horseman abruptly interrupted.
Dirty was hurt. This was not according to Hoyle. Two more words and no
self-respecting "gent" could refuse to look toward Wayback through a
glass--and certainly not alone. The weather was already too cold to sit
fishing for such fish as this; and here was one who had swallowed the
bait, rejecting the hook.
"Why, stranger, I been there," explained Dirty, in aggrieved
remonstrance.
"How long since you been there? Not since two-at-once, was you? Didn't
it used to be at Drigg's Worry? Didn't it?"
Snow lost his balance. He nodded in open-mouthed silence.
"Course it was--at Drigg's Worry--and now it's way back," and with a
grim chuckle the stranger pressed in his knees and loped on down the
trail to the Sweet-Echo Hotel.
Dirty stared after him. "Who in hell's that?" he asked himself in
profane astonishment. "It 's never Black Jack--too old; an' it ain't
Lucky Jones--too young. He sure said 'two-at-once.' Two-at-once: I
ain't heard that in more 'n twenty years." His air-dried throat
compelled inward attention and he got up from his box and turned and
looked at it. "Used to be at Drigg's Worry, did n't it?" he mimicked.
"Did n't it? An' now it's way back." He kicked the box viciously
against the tavern wall. "D--n yer! This yer blasted town 's gettin'
too smart," and he proceeded to make the only change of base he ever
undertook during the day, by stamping across the bridge to the
"Why-Not."
The door of the I-Call opened and a man appeared. He glanced around
carelessly until he noticed the box, which he viewed with an appearance
of lively interest, coming outside and walking around it at a respectful
distance. "Huh!" he grunted. Having satisfied himself of its condition
he drawlingly announced it for the benefit of those inside. "Dirty 's
busted his chair," he informed, and turned to look curiously after Pop
Snow, who was at that moment slamming the door of the Why-Not behind
him.
Through the open door three other men came out. They all looked at the
box. One of them stopped and turned it over with his thumb. "Kicked
it," he said, and they all looked across at the Why-Not, considering. A
roar from behind them smote upon their ears like a mine blast: "Shut
that door!" With one accord they turned and trooped back again.
The rider meanwhile was talking to his horse as he covered the short
distance to the Sweet-Echo Hotel. "Wonderful climate, Allday. If twenty
years don't wear you down no more 'n old Snow you 'll shore be a grand
horse t' own," and he playfully banged him alongside the neck with his
stirrup. Allday limited his resentment to a flattening of the ears and
the rider shook his head sorrowfully. "Yo 're one good li'l hoss but
yore patience 'd discourage a saint." He swung off the trail to ride
around the building in search of a shelter of some kind, catching sight
of Boomerang just disappearing through the door of the bar-room. "Things
has been a-movin' 'round Twin River since Frenchy an' me went after
Slippery an' his gang: bridges, reg'lar hotels, an' tramps. An' oblige
me by squintin' at th' stable. If Cowan 'd wake up an' find that at th'
back door, he 'd fall dead."
He dismounted and led his horse through the stable door, stopping in
contemplation of the interior. He was plainly surprised. "One, two,
three, four," he counted, "twenty stalls--twenty tie-'em-by-th'-head
stalls--no, there 's a rope behind 'em. Well, I 'm d--d! He ain't
meanin' to build again in fifty years; no, not never!"
Allday went willingly enough into one of the stalls--they were nothing
new to him--and fell to eating with no loss of time. Buck watched him
for a few moments and then, throwing saddle and bridle onto his
shoulder, he walked back the way he had come and into the hotel bar. No
one noticed him as he entered, all, even the bartender, being deeply
intent on watching a game of cards. Buck grunted, dropped his
belongings in a corner, and paused to examine the group. A grand collie
dog, lying near the stove in the middle of the room, got up, came and
sniffed at him, and went back and lay down again.
The game was going on at a table close to the bar, over which the
bartender leaned, standing on some elevation to enable him to draw
closer. Only two men were playing. The one facing Buck was a big man,
in the forties, his brown hair and beard thickly sprinkled with gray;
brown eyes, red-rimmed from dissipation, set wide apart from a big, bold
nose, stared down at the cards squeezed in a big hand. The other man
was of slight build, with black hair, and the motions of his hands,
which Buck had caught as he entered, were those of a gambler: accurate,
assured, easy with a smooth swiftness that baffled the eye. He was
dressed like a cowpunch; he looked like a cow-punch--all but the hands;
these, browned as they were, and dirty, exhibited a suppleness that had
never been injured by hard work. Buck walked up to the bar and a soft
oath escaped him as he caught sight of the thin, brown face, the
straight nose, the out-standing ears, the keen black eyes--Buck's glance
leaped around the circle of on-lookers in the effort to discover how
many of the gambler's friends were with him. He was satisfied that the
man was playing a lone hand. There was a tenseness in the air which
Buck knew well, but from across the hall came a most incongruous sound.
"Piano, by G--d!" breathed Buck in amazement. The intentness on the
game of those in the room explained why he had seen no one about the
place and he was at a loss to account for the indifference of the
musician.
At the big man's left, standing in the corner between the bar and the
wall, was a woman. Her blonde hair and blue eyes set off a face with
some pretensions to beauty, and in point of size she was a fitting mate
for the big man at whom she stared with lowering gaze. Close to her
stood the hobo, and Buck rightly concluded he was a privileged
character. Surrounding the table were several men quite evidently
punchers, two or three who might be miners, and an unmistakable
travelling salesman of that race whose business acumen brings them to
the top though they start at the bottom. Buck had gauged them all in
that one glance. Afterward he watched the gambler's hands and a puzzled
expression gradually appeared on his face; he frowned and moved
uneasily. Was the man playing fair or were his eyes getting old?
Suddenly the frown disappeared and he breathed a sigh of relief: the
motion itself had been invisible but Buck had caught the well-remembered
preliminary flourish; thereafter he studied the faces of the others; the
game had lost interest, even the low voices of the players fell on deaf
ears. His interest quickened as the big man stood up.
"I 'm done," he declared. "That lets me out, Dave. You 've got th'
pile. After to-night I 'll have to pound leather for forty a month and
my keep." He turned to the woman, while an air of relief appeared among
the others at his game acceptance of the loss. "Go on home, Nell. I
won't be up yet a while."
"You won't be up at all," was the level-voiced reply.
"Eh?" he exclaimed, in surprised questioning.
She pushed past him and walked to the door. "You won't be up at all,"
she repeated, facing him. "You 've lost your pile and sent mine after
it in a game you don't play any better than a four-year-old. I warned
you not to play. Now you take the consequences." The door slammed
after her. "Boom" silently opened the door into the hall and vanished.
The big man looked around, dazed. No one met his eye. Dave was sliding
the cards noiselessly through his fingers and the rest appeared
fascinated by the motion. The big man turned to the bartender.
"Slick, gimme a bottle," he demanded. Slick complied without a word and
he bore it in his hand to the table behind the door, where he sat
drinking alone, staring out morosely at the gathering darkness.
Buck dropped into the vacated chair and laid his roll on the table.
"The time to set in at a two-hand game of draw," he remarked with easy
good nature, "is when th' other feller is feelin' all flushed up with
winnin'. If you like to add my pile to that load you got a'ready, I 'm
on." He beamed pleasantly on the surrounding faces and a cynical smile
played for a moment on the thin lips of the man facing him. "Sure," he
agreed, and pushed the cards across the table.
"Bar-keep, set 'em up," said Buck, flicking a bill behind him. Slick
became busy at once and Buck, in a matter-of-fact manner, placed his gun
on the table at his left hand and picked up the pack. "Yes," he went on
with vacuous cheerfulness, "the best man with a full deck I ever saw
told me that. We crossed trails down in Cheyenne. They was shore some
terrors in that li'l town, but he was th' one original." He shook his
head in reminiscent wonder, and raised his glass. "Here 's to a growin'
pile, Bud," and nodding to the others, who responded with indistinct
murmurs, the drink was drained in the customary gulp. "One more,
bar-keep, before we start her," he demanded. "I never drink when I 'm
a-playin'." Here he leaned forward and raised his voice. "Friend, you
over there by th' winder, yo 're not drinkin'."
The big man slowly turned his head and looked at Buck with blood-shot
eyes, then at the extra glass on his table. "Here 's better luck ner
mine, friend--not wishin' you no harm, Dave," and he added the drink to
the generous quantity he had already consumed. Buck waved his hand in
acknowledgment, then he smiled again on his opponent.
"Same game you was playin', Bud?" he asked, genially.
"Suits me," was the laconic reply.
Buck raised the second drink. "Here's to Tex Ewalt, th' man who showed
me th' error of my ways." The tail of his eye was on Dave.
The name of Tex must have shocked him like a bucket of ice water but he
did not betray it by so much as the flicker of an eyelid. Ewalt and he
had been friends in the Panhandle and both had escaped the fate of
Trendley and his crowd more by luck than merit. Buck knew Dave's history
in Texas, related by Ewalt himself, who had illustrated the tell-tale
flourish with which Dave introduced a crooked play; but he did not know
that Dave Owens was Black Jack, returned after years of wandering, to
the place of his nativity.[#]
[#] The boy and girl history of David Jones (Black Jack) and his sister,
Veia (called Jill) was well known to some of the old timers who went to
Montana in the first gold rush and stayed there. It was difficult to
get them to tell it and one was sorry to have heard it, if successful.
Buck shuffled the cards slowly and then with a careful exaggeration of
the flourish, dealt the hand in a swift shower of dropping units. A
sigh of appreciation escaped the observant group and this time Buck got
results: at sight of the exaggerated flourish an involuntary contraction
of the muscles hardened the deceptively boyish form and face of the
younger man and the black eyes stared a challenging question at the
smiling gray ones opposite before dropping to the cards he had
unconsciously gathered up.
Luck smiled on Buck from the start. He meant that it should. Always a
good player, his acquaintance with Tex, who had taught him all he knew
of crooked plays, had made him an apt pupil in the school in which his
slippery opponent was a master. With everything coming his way Buck was
quite comfortable. Sooner or later the other would force the fighting.
Time enough to sit up and take notice when the flourishing danger signal
appeared.
It came at last. Dave leaned forward and spoke. "Cheyenne, how'd
jack-pots strike yer? I got ter hit th' trail before six an' it's
pretty nigh time to feed."
"Shore!" assented Buck, heartily.
The pot grew in a manner scandalous to watch. "Double the ante," softly
suggested Dave.
"Shore," agreed Buck, with genial alacrity.
"Double her ag'in."
"Double she is," was Buck's agreeable response.
Pass after pass, and Slick stretched out over the bar and craned his
neck. At last, with a graceful flourish a good hand fell to Buck, a
suspiciously good hand, while Dave's thin lips were twisted into a
one-sided smile. Buck looked at him reproachfully.
"Bud, you should oughter o' knowed better 'n that. I got six cards."
The smile faded from Dave's face and he stared at the cards like a man
who sees ghosts. The stare rose slowly to Buck's face, but no one could
possibly suspect such grieved reproach to be mere duplicity. It was too
ridiculous--only Dave knew quite well that he had not dealt six cards.
"Funny," he said. "Funny how a man 'll make mistakes."
"I forgive you this once, but don't do it no more," and Buck shuffled
the cards, executed a particularly outrageous flourish, and dealt.
"Ha! Ha!" barked Bow-Wow Baker. "D--n if they ain't both makin' th'
same sign. Must belong to th' same lodge."
Chesty Sutton dug him in the ribs with an elbow. "Shut up!" he hissed,
never taking his eyes from the game.
Dave passed and Buck opened. Dave drew three cards to two high ones.
Buck stood pat. Dave scanned his hand; whatever suspicion he might have
had, vanished: he had never seen the man who could deal him a straight
in that fashion. He backed his hand steadily until Buck's assurance and
his own depleted cash made him pause, and he called. Buck solemnly laid
down four aces. Four!--and Dave would have taken his oath the diamond
ace had been on the bottom of the deck before the deal--and Buck had not
drawn cards.
"They 're good," said Dave shortly, dropping his hand into the discard.
"If you 're goin' to stay around here, Cheyenne, I 'll get revenge
to-morrer." He started to rise.
"Nope, I guess not, Bud. I never play yore kind of a game with th' same
man twice."
Dave froze in his position. "Meanin'?" he asked, coldly.
"I don't like th' way you deal," was the frank answer.
"D--n you!" cursed Dave. His hand flew to his gun--and stopped. Over
the edge of the table a forty-five was threatening with steady mouth.
"Don't do it, Bud," warned Buck.
Dave's hand slowly moved forward. "A two-gun man, eh?" he sneered.
"Shore. Never bet on th' gun on th' table, Bud. You got a lot to learn.
Hit her up or you 'll be late--an' down where I came from it's unhealthy
to look through a winder without first makin' a noise."
"Yore argument is good. But I reckon it 'd be a good bet as how you 'll
learn somethin' in Twin River you ain't never learned nowhere else."
Dave sauntered carelessly to the front door.
"You ain't never too old to learn," agreed Buck, sententiously. The
front door closed quietly after Dave and half a minute later his pony's
hoofs were heard pounding along the trail that led toward Big Moose.
"Cheyenne, put her there! I like yore style!" Chesty Sutton, late
puncher for the Circle X, shoved his hand under Buck's nose with
unmistakable friendliness. "_I_ like th' way _you_ play, all right."
"Me, too," chimed in Bow-Wow. "Dave Owens has got th' lickin' of his
life. An' between you an' I, Cheyenne, I ain't never seed Dave get
licked afore--not reg'lar."
The chorus of congratulations that followed was so sincere that Buck's
heart warmed toward the company. Chesty secured attention by pointing
his finger at Buck and wagging it impressively. "But you hear me,
Cheyenne," he warned. "Dave ain't no quitter. He 's got it agin' you
an' he 's h--l on th' shoot. I ain't never heerd of his killin' nobody
but he 's right handy spoilin' yore aim. Ain't he, Bow-Wow?"
"Look a-here. How often have I told you? You sez so. He is. Don't
allus leave it to me." Bow-Wow's tone was indignant as he rubbed his
right arm reflectively.
"Gentlemen, I 'm not sayin' a word against anybody, not one word," and
Slick glanced from man to man, shaking his head to emphasize his perfect
belief in the high standard of morality prevalent in Twin River. "But I
begs leave to remark that _I_ like Cheyenne's game--which it is th'
first time in my brief but eventful career that I seen five dealt cards
turn into six. You all seen it. It sure happened. Mr. Cheyenne, you
have my joyous admiration. Let's celebrate. An' in th' meantime, might
I inquire, without offence, if Cheyenne has a habit of complainin' of
too many cards?"
They had lined up before the bar and all glasses were filled before Buck
answered. Slick stood directly before him and every face, showing
nothing beyond polite interest, was turned his way. But Buck well knew
that on his reply depended his position in the community and the gravity
of the occasion was in his voice when he spoke.
"Gentlemen, Mr. Slick has called. There's two ways of playin'. When I
plays with any gentleman here, I plays one way. Dave Owens played th'
other way. I played his game."
He glanced at the silent figure by the window, set down his glass, and
started to cross the room. Chesty Sutton put out his hand and stopped
him. "I would n't worry him none, Cheyenne. Ned Monroe 's th' best
boss I ever worked for but hard luck has been pilin' up on him higher 'n
th' Rockies since he lost his ranch. Better let him fight it out alone,
friend."
Lost his ranch--Ned Monroe--Buck's intention was doubly strengthened.
"Leave it to me," was his confident assurance, and he strode across the
room and around the table in front of the window. The sombre eyes of
the big man were forced to take notice of him.
"Friend, it's on th' house. Mr. Slick is a right pleasant man, an' he
's waitin'." A rapid glance at the bottle told him that Monroe, in his
complete oblivion, had forgotten it. Ned eyed him with a puzzled frown
while the words slowly illumined his clouded mind. At length he turned
slowly, sensed the situation, and rose heavily to his feet. "Sure," was
the simple reply.
At the bar significant looks were exchanged. "I 'm beginnin' to _like_
Cheyenne," declared Slick, thoughtfully, rubbing the palm of his left
hand against the bar; "which his persuadin' language is fascinatin' to
see."
"It sure is," Chesty Sutton endorsed promptly, while the others about
him nodded their heads in silent assent.
"Well, gentlemen," said Slick, "here 's to th' continued good health of
Mr. Cheyenne." Down the line ran the salutation and Buck laughed as he
replaced his empty glass.
"I shore hope you-all ain't tryin' to scare me none," he insinuated;
"because I 'm aimin' to stop up here an'--who in h--l's poundin' that
pie-anner?" he broke off, turning to glare in the direction of the
melancholy sound.
"Ha! Ha!" barked in his ear, and Buck wheeled as if he had been kicked.
"That's Sandy," explained Bow-Wow Baker. "He thinks he 's some player.
An' he is. There ain't nothin' like it between here an' Salt Lake."
"Oh, yes; there is," contradicted Buck. "You an' him 's a good team. I
bet if you was in th' same room you 'd set up on yore hind laigs an'
howl." Bow-Wow drew back, abashed.
"Set 'em up, Mr. Slick," chuckled the salesman.
"Don't notice him, Cheyenne," advised Chesty in a disgusted aside. "He
don't mean nothin' by it. It's just a habit. It's got so I 'm allus
expectin' him to raise his foot an' scratch for fleas," and he withered
the crestfallen Bow-Wow with a look of scorn.
"You was sayin' as how you was aimin' to stop here," suggested Ned
Monroe, his interest awakened at thought of a rising star so often
following the fall of his own.
"Yes," acknowledged Buck. "If I find--"
Crash! Ding-dong! Ding-dong! The noise of the bell was deafening.
Buck set down his glass with extreme care and looked at Slick with an
air of helpless wonder, but Bow-Bow was ready with the explanation.
"Grub-pile!" he shouted, making for the side door, grasping hold of
Chesty's hand as he went out and dragging that exasperated puncher after
him by strength of muscle and purpose. "Come on, Cheyenne! No
'angel-in-th'-pot,' but a good, square meal, all right."
Chesty Sutton cast behind him at Buck a glance of miserable apology,
seized the door-frame in passing, and delivered to Bow-Wow a well-placed
and energetic kick. Relieved of the drag of Chesty's protesting weight
and with the added impetus of the impact of Chesty's foot, Bow-Wow shot
across the wide hall, struggling frantically to regain his equilibrium,
and passed through the door of the dining-room like a quarter-horse with
the blind staggers. The bell-ringing ended in a crash of broken
crockery, succeeded by a fearful uproar of struggling and profanity.
The collie bounded to his feet, his hair bristling along his spine, and
rushed at the door with a low growl. Ned caught him by the collar and
held him. "Down, Bruce, down!" he commanded, and the dog subsided into
menacing growls.
Chesty, at the door, snorted in derision. "D--n fool!" he informed
those behind him. "He 's tryin' to climb th' table. Hey, Ned; let th'
other dog loose," he suggested, hopefully.
By the time the highly entertained group had gathered about the
dining-room door, the oaths and imprecations had resolved themselves
into a steady railing. Bow-Wow sat sprawled in a chair, gazing in awed
silence along the path of wreckage wrought by the flying bell; opposite
him, waving a pair of pugnacious fists in close proximity to Bow-Wow's
face, stood Sandy McQueen, proprietor of the Sweet-Echo. It appeared
that he was angry and the spectators waited with absorbed expectancy on
what would happen next.
"Ye gilravagin' deevil!" he shouted, "canna ye see an inch afore yer ain
nase? Gin ye hae nae better manners na a gyte bull, gang oot to grass
like thae ither cattle. Lord preserv's," he prayed, following the
strained intensity of Bow-Wow's gaze, "look at the cheeny! A 'm
ruined!" He started to gather up the broken crockery when the roar of
laughter, no longer to be restrained, assailed his outraged ears. He
looked sourly at his guests. "Ou, ay, ye maun lauch, but wha's to pay
for the cheeny? Ou, ay! A ken weel eneuch!"
The hilarious company pushed into the dining-room and began to help him
in his task, casting many jocose reproaches on the overburdened Bow-Wow.
Slick returned to the bar-room to clean off the bar before eating, and
Buck went after him. "Hey, what have I struck?" he asked, with much
curiosity. "He sounds worse 'n a circus."
"He 's mad," explained Slick. "Nobody on God's green earth can
understand him when he 's mad. Which a circus is music alongside o'
him. When he 's ca'm, he talks purty good American."
"You shore relieves my mind. What is he--Roosian?"
"Claims to be Scotch. But I dunno--a Scotchman 's a sort of Englishman,
ain't he?"
"That was allus my opinion," agreed Buck.
"Well--I dunno," and Slick shook his head doubtfully as he hung the
towel onto a handy hook and stooped to come under the bar. "Sounds
funny to me, all right. 'Tain't English; not by a h--l of a sight."
"Sounds funny to me," echoed Buck. "I 'm _shore_ it ain't English.
But, say, Slick; gimme a room. I 'm stoppin' here an' I 'd like to drop
my things where I can find 'em."
"Right," said Slick, and he led the way into the hall and toward a
bedroom at the rear. Chesty Sutton stood in the doorway of the
dining-room. "Better git in on th' jump, Cheyenne," he advised,
anxiously. "Bow-Wow 's that savage, he's boltin' his grub in chunks an'
there ain't goin' to be a whole lot left for stragglers."
"Muzzle him," replied Buck, over his saddle-weighted shoulder, while
Slick only grinned, "If I goes hungry, I eats Bow-Wow. Dog ain't so
bad." Chesty chuckled and returned to the sulky Bow-Wow with the
warning.
Despite Chesty's fears, there was plenty to eat and to spare. Little
talking was done, as every one was hungry, with the possible exception
of Ned, and even he would have passed for a hungry man. Sandy McQueen
and the cook officiated and the race was so nearly a dead heat that the
first to finish was hardly across the hall before the last pushed his
chair back from the table.
An immediate adjournment to the bar-room was the customary withdrawal,
and Buck, doing as the others, found Ned in his former seat beside a
table. Buck joined him and showed such an evident desire for privacy
that the others forbore to intrude.
"Ned," said Buck, leaning towards him across the table, "it ain't none
of my business, an' it ain't as I 'm just curious, but was that
straight, what you said about bein' broke?"
"That's straight," Ned assured him, gloomily.
"An' lookin' for a job?" asked Buck, quietly.
"You bet," was the emphatic reply.
"Chesty said as how he used to work for you. Was you foreman?"
"I was foreman an' boss of the NM ranch till them blood-suckers back
East druv me off 'n it--d--n 'em."
"Boss, was you? Then I reckon you wouldn't refuse a job as foreman,
would you?"
Ned's interest became practical. "Where 's yore ranch?" he asked, with
some show of eagerness.
"Why, I was aimin' to stop 'round here some'rs."
"H--l! There ain't a foot o' ground within eighty mile o' where yo 're
sittin' as ain't grazed a heap over, less 'n it's some nester hangin' on
by his fingers an' toes--an' blamed few o' them, neither. Leastaways,
none but th' NM an' Schatz's range, which they says belongs to th' old
Double Y, both of 'em."
"What's keepin' them free?"
"'Bout a regiment o' deputies, I reckon." He smiled grimly. "It's
costin' 'em somethin' to keep th' range free o' cattle. Mebby you could
lease it. That McAllister feller ain't never goin' to get a man to run
it for long. Some o' th' boys is feelin' mighty sore an' Schatz is a
tough nut. It's goin' to be a mighty big job, when he starts, an'
that's certain."
"I 'd like to see it. We 'll go t'morrow."
Buck's careless defiance of the situation pleased Ned. With the first
evidence of good humor he had shown he hit Buck a resounding slap on the
back. "That's you," was his admiring comment.
The door opened to admit the short, broad figure of a man who, after a
glance around the room, made his bow-legged way to their table. His
tone betrayed some anxiety as he asked: "Ned, haf you seen mein Fritz?"
"Nope," answered Ned, "I have n't, Dutch. Hey, boys!" he called,
"Anybody seen Pickles?"
A chorus of denials arose and Chesty sauntered over to get details.
"W'y, you durned ol' Dutch Onion, you ain't gone an' lost him again,
have you?"
"Ach! Dot leetle _Kobold_! Alvays ven I looks, like a flea he iss
someveres else."
"How 'd you lose him?" demanded Chesty.
Dutch stole a look askance at Ned and turned on Chesty a reproachful
face. He laid a glove on the edge of the table. "Dot's Fritz. I turn
'round, like dot," suiting action to word, in a complete turn, his right
hand reaching out, taking up the glove and whirling it behind his back
as he faced the table again. He looked at the empty spot with vast
surprise, in delicious pantomime.
The glove, meanwhile, had fallen against the nose of Bruce, who sniffed
at it and then picked it up and carried it to Slick behind the bar,
returning to his resting place with the air of a duty accomplished.
Dutch continued to stare at the table for several seconds. Then he
glanced around and called: "Fritz! Fritz! _Komm' zu mir_--und Fritz iss
gone," he finished, turning to those at the table an expression of
comical bewilderment. He took a couple of steps in the direction where
he supposed the glove to be. Bruce was just lying down. Dutch looked
more carefully, stooping to see along the floor. A light broke in on
him. He straightened up and excitedly declared: "Yoost like dot! Yoost
like der glove iss Fritz: I know ver he iss bud I can't see him."
"Dutch, come here." Ned's voice was stern and Dutch approached with
hanging countenance. "Where was you when you 'turn 'round like dot'?"
asked Ned.
"Only a minute, Ned; yoost a minute!"
"Where?"
"In Ike's I vas; yoost a minute."
"Ain't I told you to keep out o' there?"
Dutch moved his feet, licked his lips, and cleared his throat; words
seemed to fail him.
While he hesitated the door opened again, something more than six
inches, and Boomerang squeezed through. He shuffled up to Dutch and
touched him on the shoulder. "Hey, Dutch, I been chasin' you all over.
Pickles went home wit' Little Nell, see? An' she sent me ter tell you."
"Vat! mit dot--" he broke off and turned to Ned. "I begs your pardon,
but Fritz, he iss leetle--he learn quick. Right avay I go." He was at
the door when Slick hailed him.
"Hey, Dutchy, this yourn?" The other caught the tossed glove, and
nodded.
"Yah, first der glove, soon iss Fritz," and the door closed behind him.
"Good as a circus," laughingly declared Buck. "About pay now--how would
eighty a month hit you, for a starter?"
"Fine," declared Ned.
"Then here she is, first month," and Buck handed it over. "Will that be
enough to square up what you owe?" he added.
"W'y, I don't owe nothin'," declared Ned.
"Well--now--I was just a-thinkin' 'bout th' lady as seemed right vexed
when you dropped yore roll to Dave." He looked casually at Slick,
behind the bar, while he was saying it.
"Little Nell? I don't owe her nothin', neither. It was my pile,--all
of it."
Buck heaved a sigh of relief. "I 'm right glad to hear it. Then you
'll be all ready to hit th' trail with me in th' mornin'?" he asked.
"Shore; but s'pos'n you can't get th' ranch?" suggested Ned.
"I 'll get it. An' when I get it I 'll run it, too, less'n they load me
with lead too heavy to sit a horse--then you 'll run it." His smile was
infectious.
"Cheyenne, I like yore style. Put 'er there," and he shoved a huge,
hairy fist at Buck. "'Nother thing," he went on, "Chesty an' Bow-Wow
was a-goin' over to th' Bitter Root. I 'll tell 'em to hang 'round for
a spell. Them 's two good boys. So 's Dutchy--when he ain't a-runnin'
after Pickles."
"All right; you talk to 'em. See you in th' mornin'," and with a
general good-night, Buck went to his room.
Chesty and Bow-Wow joined Ned to have a "night cap" and say good-bye,
intending to start early next morning. "No, boys, I 've had enough,"
said Ned. "I 've took a job with Cheyenne, an' you boys better hang
'round. Find Dutch in th' mornin' an' tell him. An' I 'm a-goin' to
turn in, too. I 'm cussed sleepy." The other two sat staring across
the table at one another. The news seemed too good to be true.
"Ha! Ha!" barked Bow-Wow, "I never did like them d--n Bitters, not
nohow."
Chesty nodded his head. "Me, too," he agreed. "Son, there 's a big time
due in these parts: I feel it in my bones."
Seized with a common impulse they sprang to their feet and began a
war-dance around the stove, chanting some Indian gibberish that was a
series of grunts, snarls, and yells. Their profane demands for
information meeting with no response, the others one by one joined them,
until a howling, bobbing ring of men circled the stove, and, growling
and barking at their heels, the dog danced with them. Slick looked on
with an indulgent grin and the row did not cease until Sandy stuck his
head in at the hall door. "Deil tak' ye!" he shouted. "Canna ye let a
body sleep?"
A minute later the room had settled down into its customary decorum and
Bruce, with a wary look about, now and then, was preparing to resume his
rudely interrupted doze.