[Illustration: “AND HOW ARE WE NOW, MY YOUNG FRIEND?”--Page 39.]
GOOD MEN AND
TRUE
AND
HIT THE LINE HARD
BY
EUGENE MANLOVE RHODES
AUTHOR OF
BRANSFORD OF RAINBOW RANGE,
THE DESIRE OF THE MOTH,
WEST IS WEST, ETC.
ILLUSTRATIONS BY
H. T. DUNN
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
Made in the United States of America
Copyright, 1910, by
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
Copyright, 1920, by
THE H. K. FLY COMPANY
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
“AND HOW ARE WE NOW, MY YOUNG FRIEND?” _Frontispiece_
THEY PULLED HIM DOWN, FIGHTING SAVAGELY 166
GOOD MEN AND TRUE
Chapter I
“I always thought they were fabulous monsters.
Is it alive?”
--_The Unicorn._
Sun and wind of thirty-six out-of-door years had tanned Mr. Jeff
Bransford’s cheek to a rosy-brown, contrasting sharply with the
whiteness of the upper part of his forehead, when exposed--as now--by
the pushing up of his sombrero. These same suns and winds had drawn at
the corners of his eyes a network of fine lines: but the brown eyes
were undimmed, and his face had a light, sure look of unquenchable
boyishness; sure mark of the unattached, and therefore carefree and
irresponsible man, who, as the saying goes, “is at home wherever his
hat is hung.”
The hat in question was a soft gray one, the crown deeply creased down
the middle, the wide brim of it joyously atilt, merging insensibly from
one wavy curve into another and on to yet a third, like Hogarth’s line
of beauty.
Mr. Bransford’s step was alert and springy: perhaps it had even a
slight, unconscious approach to a swagger, as of one not unsatisfied
with himself. He turned at the corner of Temple Street, skipped
lightsome up a stairway and opened an office door, bearing on its glass
front the inscription:
SIMON HIBLER
ATTORNEY-AT-LAW
“Is Mr. Hibler in?”
The only occupant of the room--a smooth-faced and frank-eyed young
man--rose from his desk and came forward.
“Mr. Hibler is not in town.”
“Dee-lightful! And when will he be back?” The rising inflection on the
last word conveyed a resolute vivacity proof against small annoyances.
“To tell you the truth, I do not know. He is over in Arizona, near San
Simon--for change and rest.”
“H’m!” The tip of the visitor’s nose twitched slightly, the brown
eyes widened reflectively; the capable mouth under the brown mustache
puckered as if to emit a gentle whistle. “He’ll bring back the change.
I’ll take all bets on that. San Simon! H’m!” He shrugged his shoulders,
one corner of his mouth pulled down in whimsical fashion, while the
opposite eyebrow arched, so giving his face an appearance indescribably
odd: the drooping side expressive of profound melancholy, while the
rest of his face retained its habitual look of invincible cheerfulness.
“San Simon! Dear, oh dear! And I may just nicely contemplate my two
thumbs till he gets back with the change--and maybeso the rest!”
He elevated the thumbs and cast vigilant glances at each in turn:
half-chanting, dreamily:
“‘O, she left her Tombstone home
For to dwell in San Simon,
And she run off with a prairie-navigator.’
--Ran off, I should say.” His nose tweaked again.
The clerk was a newcomer in El Paso, hardly yet wonted to the freakish
humor and high spirits that there flourish unrebuked--and indeed,
unnoticed. But he entered into the spirit of the occasion. “Is there
anything I can do?” he inquired. “I am Mr. Hibler’s chief--and
only--clerk.”
“No-o,” said the visitor doubtfully, letting his eyes wander from his
thumbs to the view of white-walled Juarez beyond the river. “No-o--That
is, not unless you can sell me his Rainbow ranch and brand for less
than they’re worth. Such is my errand--on behalf of Pringle, Beebe,
Ballinger and Bransford. I’m Bransford--me.”
“Jeff Bransford? Mr. Hibler’s foreman?” asked the young man eagerly.
“_Mr._ Jeff Bransford--foreman _for_ Hibler--not of,” amended Bransford
gently. His thumbs were still upreared. Becoming suddenly aware of
this, he fixed them with a startled gaze.
“Say! Take supper with me!” The young man blurted out the words. “Mr.
Hibler’s always talking about you and I want to get acquainted with
you. Aughinbaugh’s my name.”
Bransford sat down heavily, thumbs still erect, elbows well out from
his side, and transferred his gaze, with marked respect, to the
clerk’s boyish face, now very rosy indeed.
Jeff’s eyes grew big and round; his lips were slightly parted; the
thumbs drooped, the fingers spread wide apart in mutual dismay. Holding
Aughinbaugh’s eyes with his own, he pressed one outspread hand over his
heart. Slowly, cautiously, the other hand fumbled in a vest pocket,
produced notebook and pencil, spread the book stealthily on his knee
and began to write. “‘A good name,’” he murmured, “‘is rather to be
chosen than great riches.’”
But the owner of the good name was a lad of spirit, and had no mind to
submit tamely to such hazing. “See here! What does a cowboy know about
the Bible, anyway?” he demanded, glaring indignantly. “I believe you’re
a sheep in wolves’ clothing! You don’t talk like a cowboy--or look like
a cowboy.”
Jeff glanced down at his writing, and back to his questioner. Then he
made an alteration, closed the book and looked up again. He had a merry
eye.
“Exactly how does a cowboy look? And how does it talk?” he asked
mildly. He glanced with much interest over as much of his own person
as he could see; turning and twisting to aid the process. “I don’t see
anything wrong. Is my hair on straight?”
“Wrong!” echoed Aughinbaugh severely, shaking an accusing finger. “Why,
you’re all wrong. What the public expects----”
Mr. Bransford’s interruption may be omitted. It was profane. Also, it
was plagiarized from Commodore Vanderbilt.
“You a cowboy! Yah!” said Aughinbaugh in vigorous scorn. “With a silk
necktie! Everybody knows that the typical cowboy wears a red cotton
handkerchief.”
“How long since you left New York?”
“Me? I’m from Kansas City.”
“Same thing,” said Bransford coldly. “I mean, how long since you came
to El Paso? And have you been out of town since?”
“About eight months. And I confess that my duties--at first in the bank
and afterwards here, have kept me pretty close, except for a trip or
two to Juarez. But why?”
“Why enough!” returned Jeff. “Young man, young man! I see the finger of
fate in this. It is no blind chance that brought me here while Hibler
was away. It was predestined from the foundations of earth that I was
to come here at this very now to explain to you about cowboys. I have
the concentrated venom of about twenty-one years stored away to work
off on somebody, and I feel it in my bones that you are the man. Come
with me and I will do you good--as it says in mournful Numbers. You’ve
been led astray. You shouldn’t believe all you read and only half what
you see.
“In the first place, take the typical cowboy. There positively ain’t
no sich person! Maybe so half of ’em’s from Texas and the other half
from anywhere and everywhere else. But they’re all alike in just one
thing--and that is that every last one of them is entirely different
from all the others. Each one talks as he pleases, acts as he pleases
and--when not at work--dresses as he pleases. On the range though, they
all dress pretty much alike.--Because, the things they wear there have
been tried out and they’ve kept only the best of each kind--the best
for that particular kind of work.”
“They ‘proved all things and held fast that which was good,’” suggested
Aughinbaugh.
“Exactly. For instance, that handkerchief business. That isn’t meant
as a substitute for a necktie. Ever see a drought? If you did, you
probably remember that it was some dusty. Well--there’s been a
steady drought out here for two hundred and eight million years come
August. And when you drive two, three thousand head of cattle, with
four feet apiece, to the round-up ground and chouse ’em ’round half a
day, cutting out steers, the dust is so thick a horse can’t fall down
when he stumbles. Then mister cowboy folds his little hankie, like
them other triangles that the ladies, God bless ’em, with their usual
perversity, call ‘squares,’ ties the ends, puts the knot at the back of
his neck, pulls the wide part _over_ his mouth and up over the bridge
of his nose, _and breathes through it_! Got that? By heavens, it’s a
filter to keep the dust out of your lungs, and not an ornament! It’s
usually silk--not because silk is booful but because it’s better to
breathe through.”
“Really, I never dreamed----” began Aughinbaugh. But Jeff waved him
down.
“Don’t speak to the man at the wheel, my son. And everything a cowboy
uses, at work, from hat to boots, from saddle to bed, has just as good
a reason for being exactly what it is as that handkerchief. Take the
high-heeled boots, now----”
“Dad,” said Aughinbaugh firmly. “I am faint. Break it to me easy. I was
once an interior decorator of some promise, though not a professional.
Let me lead you to a restaurant and show you a sample of my skill. Then
come round to my rooms and tell me your troubles at leisure. Maybe
you’ll feel better. But before you explain your wardrobe I want to know
why you don’t say ‘You all’ and ‘that-a-way,’ ‘plumb’ and ‘done gone,’
and the rest of it.”
“I do, my dear, when I want to,” said Bransford affectionately.
“Them’s all useful words, easy and comfortable, like old clothes and
old shoes. I like ’em. But they go with the old clothes. And now, as
you see, I am--to use the metropolitan idiom--in my ‘glad rags’ and
my speech naturally rises in dignity to meet the occasion. Besides,
associating with Beebe--he’s one of them siss--boom--ah! boys--has
mitigated me a heap. Then I read the signs, and the brands on the
freight cars. And I’ll tell you one more thing, my son. A large
proportion--I mean, of course, a right smart chance--of the cowboys are
illiterate, and some of them are grand rascals, but they ain’t none of
’em plumb imbeciles. They couldn’t stay on the job. If their brains
don’t naturally work pretty spry, things happen to ’em--the chuck-wagon
bunts ’em or something. And they all have a chance at ‘the education of
a gentleman’--‘to ride, to shoot and to speak the truth.’ They have to
ride and shoot--and speakin’ the truth comes easier for them than for
some folks, ’cause if speaking the aforesaid truth displeases any one
they mostly don’t give a damn.”
“Stop! Spare me!” cried Aughinbaugh. He collapsed in his chair, sliding
together in an attitude of extreme dejection. “My spirits are very low,
but----” He rose, tottered feebly to his desk and took therefrom a
small bottle, which, with a glass, he handed to Bransford.
“Thanks. But you--you’re a tee-totaler?” said Jeff.
“A--well--not exactly,” stammered Aughinbaugh. “But I have to be very
careful. I--I only take one drink at a time!” He fumbled out another
glass.
“I stumble, I stumble!” said Bransford gravely. He poured out a small
drink and passed the bottle. “‘I fill this cup to one made up!’”--He
held the glass up to the light.
“Well?” said Aughinbaugh, expectantly. “Go on!”
“That description can’t be bettered,” said Bransford.
“Never will I drink such a toast as that,” cried Aughinbaugh, laughing.
“Let me substitute, Here’s to our better acquaintance!”