Have you ever watched a herd of horses come streaming down a hill at
the end of a hard day's travel? There's a thrill in it such as comes
when soldiers are marching by. First a drifting haze which is the dust
kicked up by the traveling herd; then the faint, muffled sound of hoof
beats; the heads of the point riders seen dimly through the cloud, and
after them the upflung heads of the leaders.
As the freshly branded horses sighted the delectable green of the
Basin, smelled the river rushing out of the encircling wall of
rugged hills, they came streaming down through the pass in sudden
forgetfulness of the weary miles behind them. At the foot of the hill
riders spurred out from the veil of dust, swinging closed loops and
shouting, forcing the eager band close to the bluff and away from the
alluring green of the meadows. Tired muscles tensed again. Heads went
up, dusty nostrils belled and quivered with the mingled scents of the
valley. The leg-weary colts, dusty, lagging behind and then making
sudden, shrill uproar when they missed their mothers, were sought with
frantic whinnyings by the mares. Once found, they were torn from eager
nuzzlings by the light thwacks of rope ends and the insistent, "_Hi!
Hi-yee!_" from the hoarse throats of the tired riders; the cry that all
day long without ceasing had dogged the laggards on the trail.
Even Maw left her endless pottering around the house and waddled down
to the corral where Lark was already propping open the big gate,
when Skookum came running with his body slanted perilously forward
while he yelled that the horses were coming. Marge went back for her
notebook and pencil, because you never know when cowboys are going to
say something odd or picturesque, or a killing may take place--as she
confided to her brother in passing.
(As a matter of fact, Marge was beginning to complain at the paucity of
dramatic happenings on the ranch where she had confidently expected to
find adventure galore. For however much the boys might boldly proclaim
their gallant intentions, Marge saw them mostly at a distance and found
them hopelessly shy when brought face to face with her. Young Bud
talked with her gravely and misleadingly upon occasion, wherefore she
called Bud bashful and slow--when in reality Bud was anything else, and
was mostly preoccupied with other matters. So the coming of the new
horses loomed before her as an event that promised something in the way
of Western color and, possibly, drama.)
With a last flurry of hard riding and hoarse shouts, the leaders swung
away from the tempting meadows and inside the wing fence that slanted
down from the corrals to the road, the precipitous bluff forming the
other barrier. The herd galloped in mass formation to the very gate
before they realized that here they faced another one of those hated
periods of captivity. They swerved toward the bluff, hurtled back
along it and met the implacable Meadowlark riders; milled briefly and
thundered again down the throat of the wings toward the corral. With a
flick of heels, a last surge of upflung dust, they dodged inside. The
big gate slammed shut behind them and the chain was pulled around the
great post that looked as though rats had gnawed it just there--the
hook rattled into a heavy link and that particular horse deal was
completed. The horses were safe at home and milling inside the corral
just as they had circled round and round within the Frying Pan
enclosure that morning.
Six tired cowboys rode over to the open space beside the shed where
saddles were kept, and with a backward swing of saddle-stiffened legs
over the cantles they thankfully dismounted. A hot, windy ride--and the
wind in their backs most of the way. Their throats were parched and raw
from the dust and shouting.
"Me, I'm goin' to put sideboards on my chin, to-morra, and plug up my
ears. That way I can hold more beer." This from Tony, who wished his
world to know how dry he was.
"Yeah--if we git to go," Jack Rosen qualified pessimistically. "Lark
may not let us off."
"Say, he'll let _me_ off, if he has to fire me!" Bob Leverett
threatened with a surface vehemence not meant to be taken too seriously.
"I'll see that you boys get a couple of days off, all right." Bud had
ridden up and swung from the saddle, his face a gritty gray mask from
riding point in the thick of the dust. "I'll fix it up with Lark this
evening. Now's a good time to find out just what all this talk amounts
to, and where it started. Of course, we think we know, but by the time
you boys put a little gold into circulation, we ought to be dead sure
we know. All I ask is that you boys keep your ears open and let me
know what you pick up."
"Nice bunch of horses, Bud." Lark walked over from the corral and stood
among them. "I s'pose you boys are framin' a trip in to the Ford, about
to-morra. Better not say anything to Lightfoot about goin'. He's just
fool enough to be game for anything that comes up, but he can't ride
with you bunch of hellions yet. I'd hate to tell him he can't go, so if
you'll leave without hollerin' it all over the ranch it'll suit me just
as well. I'll be over to the bunk house after a while; you can draw
what money you want then."
"Now, ain't that hell?" cried Tony after an eloquent pause. "Here we
been gittin' ready to appoint a committee to approach the throne--aw,
shucks. Lark, yo're a good boss, in some ways, but you'd keep men on
the payroll longer if you was kind to 'em!"
Since no man ever left the Meadowlark of his own free will, even the
weariest puncher laughed at that, Lark with the others; but his eyes
held a shadow as he walked toward the house with Bud.
"What do you think of my two blacks? Aren't they peaches?" For the
first time Bud's tone betrayed the fact that the black bronchos
were not absorbing his full thought, but were being used to make
conversation.
Lark grunted. They walked farther before he spoke.
"Horses are all right, I guess. Say, Bud, did you meet a feller ridin'
a chunky little bay with the Acorn brand on its hip? He rode in here
yesterday and stopped all night. Snoopy kinda cuss. Claimed to be a
stock buyer, but he didn't show me no credentials, nor talk like he
wanted to buy anything in p'ticular. Ast questions of everybody but me,
seems like--mostly things that wasn't none of his business. He left
right after dinner and said he was ridin' over Landusky way and would
mebbe meet you boys somewheres on the trail. He didn't, hunh?"
"Never saw him at all, Lark. I don't see how we could have missed
him, either, if he kept to the trail. How did you grade him, Lark? A
detective?"
"Had the earmarks, son. Sicked onto us by some of them damn'
granny-gossips in town, I take it. You goin' in with the boys to-morra?"
"No-o--well, I thought I'd take a ride around and see what sign I can
pick up; on the quiet, Lark. I want to take Jelly with me, and I don't
want the boys to know anything about it. They'll proceed to tarry with
the wine cup, the first thing they do, and what they don't know they
can't let slip when their tongues loosen a bit. I hope they stir things
up and keep the town interested enough so Jelly and I won't be missed."
"Purty late to pick up anything on the range, Bud. Seven days now, it's
been. That alleged stock buyer said they ain't got the first clew yet.
He might of lied, though. Prob'ly did. You goin' to take a look around
Palmer's place?"
"I thought we would, if we get the chance. I want to let the boys ride
in ahead of us. I want to use them for a decoy. I believe Palmer and
his men will follow them in if they see a bunch of Meadowlark boys go
riding into town. They'll want to see what's taking place, and guilty
or innocent, I believe their mental reactions will send them after the
boys."
"Mebbe." Lark lifted his hat while he pawed at his hair. "I never
went into fizzyology much, so I can't say what reactions will do to a
feller. If you say they'll act that way, I ain't goin' to contradict.
But what's the rule fer perventin' a killin' if our boys run into
Palmer whilst they're lit up? I got a nice bunch of boys, now, and I
don't want to see 'em killed off ner sent to the pen."
"Oh, you work that out by the rule of subtraction," Bud grinned. "Have
the boys leave their guns with the bartender when they take their first
drink."
"Hunh? No, sir, I won't ast the boys to do what I wouldn't do m'self.
I'd ruther leave my pants with the bartender! You musta got that idee
in school. What's the use of havin' a gun, if you got to hand it over
to some slick-haired bar-wiper just when it looks like you may want it?
I'd go in myself, but"--he paused to glance over his shoulder--"I'm
goin' to fix up the Nest again. My old dad would raise up in his grave
if he knowed how things has been let run down that way. The Lookout
needs some work on it too.
"You go on and carry out what's in yore mind, son. I'll buy in later
on, if it's necessary. But you kin make this yore fight, for the
present, and if things look like they're comin' to a head, you kin send
one of the boys back after me. I'll be workin' here, puttin' things
in shape fer a show-down. Once these things start, they's no tellin'
where they'll wind up. Callin' us a hard outfit to monkey with is one
thing--that's somethin' to be proud of. But when it comes to sayin' we
killed a man so as to rob the bank where we do our business--my Jonah,
but that's damn' hard to swaller!"
"We aren't going to swallow it," Bud declared, promptly. "Where's Maw?
I'm about half starved!"
Maw was coming, taking short, quick steps and waving the mosquitoes off
with her apron. Behind her, Marge was walking with many short halts
while she wrote something in her notebook, while whooping along in the
rear came Skookum, driving Lightfoot and flailing him with a tall weed
to keep him at a high gallop. Bud's eyes lingered on the bent head of
Marge, and he loitered, waiting for her. Then, his glance going to the
boy, his face hardened again with the purpose that filled his mind.
It was after he had eaten and Marge was waiting in the living room,
hoping Bud would come in and talk to her after the deadly monotony
of the past two days, that Bud artfully drew Skookum off by himself
and turned the conversation very casually to Butch Cassidy. He wanted
to know what it was that Butch had been talking about; but Skookum,
unfortunately, had promised not to tell.
"Well, that's all right, pardner. If you promised, don't go back on
your word; unless," he added, "it was something mean. In that case, of
course, I ought to know."
"It wasn't mean," said Skookum, after a pause for reflection. "If you
asked questions like Butch did, I'd tell you more'n I told Butch. I--I
didn't tell him any more than--than I had to. I--wouldn't hold out on
you that way, Bud. You're my--my pal."
Bud could have hugged the boy. There was a chance, then, that Butch had
not learned much more than they all had heard in the bunk house. He did
not see just what use Butch could make of the information gleaned in
this manner, but he knew what he himself wanted to do. So Bud began to
ask questions, and Skookum answered them as carefully and as completely
as possible.
When he went to bed that night, Bud kept smiling in the dark until he
fell asleep, and even then his lips were curved as if his dreams were
pleasant. Skookum smiled also and dreamed of the pinto pony Bud had
given him for his very own; a pony that was too small for a full-grown
man; a pony with white eyelashes, one blue eye, a doglike devotion to
any one who would pet him, and the unusual name of Huckleberry.
The satisfaction of Bud and Skookum must have continued through the
night, for both were up and out in the cool, dewy dawn when all the
birds were ruffling feathers and puffing throats in rhapsodical melody.
Sooner than would seem humanly possible, Skookum went wading through
dew-drenched meadows that straightway wet his feet, a frayed rope
end dragging from the coil hung over his arm and in his two hands a
battered basin holding oats enough to founder the pinto pony--or so
Jake would have told him.
The pinto proved a willing partner to the new alliance, and let
Skookum climb on his back and ride to the stable, obeying the guidance
of a hand-slap on the neck, just as Bud had said he would. Picture
any ranch-bred boy of eight or nine in full possession of a new and
gentle pony, and you will have Skookum fully accounted for: riding
reckless circles around and between Maw's flower beds to show her how
Huckleberry neckreined; sending terror to the heart of a certain mother
hen when he galloped full tilt and scattered her brood; roping gate
posts, calves, old Jake, Lark--anything upon which a loop could settle.
That was Skookum for the next few days.
As for young Bud, he was up and had a rope on one of the blacks before
Skookum had so much as glimpsed the pinto pony. There was a certain
shady corral with running water and a pole rack for hay, called the
bronch corral, where he meant to leave them until his return, but
already he was bent on making friends with them. He heard the boys
making hectic preparations for the trip to town, and thought they
must certainly be faring forth to carry out plans carefully laid in
many conferences; whereas no man save Bud had any plan at all. They
meant to ride to Smoky Ford and put a stop to the slander against the
Meadowlark--how, they did not know.
"Funny Lark wouldn't do something about it," Jake Biddle grumbled, when
the boys were saddling after breakfast. "Ain't like the old days--not
a damn' bit. Old Bill would 'a' rode into town with a gun in each hand
and a booie knife in his teeth, hollerin' his opinion of sech damn'
liars. The fellers that started it--"
"I shore wisht he'd of lived to show us how to cuss and hold a knife in
our teeth at one and the same time," fleered Tony. "You old broken-down
riders makes me tired. Think us boys is kids?"
"Yeah. Where'd you git the idee we're goin' to run home bawlin' fer
Lark to come show us what t' do to them bad men that's sayin' mean
things about us?" Bob Leverett turned a shade redder. "Mebbe we ain't
got the knack of carryin' a knife in our teeth whilst we cuss, but I
betcha we can holler our opinions jest about as loud as old Bill ever
done. And as fer wavin' a gun in both hands--why, me, I can look scarey
enough with one gun to put Smoky Ford on the run. Come on, boys. We're
keepin' Jake from settin' in the kitchen weepin' fer the days that is
gone."
"Say, ain't Jelly goin' to town?" As they swung to the saddles Tony
missed the tall rider. "Hey, Jelly!"
"You boys go awn," Gelle called from the far corral where he was
killing time with Bud until the others were gone. "Bud and me'll be
along after a while, mebbe. If we don't overtake you, you boys ride awn
in and make yoreselves to home."
"Foolin' with them black bronchs," Rosen made indulgent comment. "Let
'em throw away good minutes if they ain't got better sense. Come on,
let's be movin'."
They moved to such good purpose that presently a slow-settling dust
cloud alone remained to tell of their haste.