Holy Smoke was strong as an ox and had the reputation of phenomenal
deeds done “across the line,” where to use his own boasts “they did
things brown.” It is true, he had come hastily out of that particular
part of the American union, with a posse at his heels. He had secured a
berth at O Bar O in a busy season, when help was scarce and work heavy.
His big physique stood him in good stead when it came to a matter
of endurance, though he was too heavy for swift riding, needed for
breaking horses or cutting out cattle. However, there was no man in the
country could beat him at lariat throwing and he was generally esteemed
a first-rate hand. His last name was actually “Smoke,” and his first
initial “H” it did not take the men long to dub him “Holy Smoke” though
he was more shortly called “Ho.”
Other nicknames were secretly applied to him. Secretly because Ho had
achieved such a reputation as a fighter that few of the men cared to
risk his displeasure by calling him to his face “Windy Ho” or “Blab.”
His was the aggressive, loud-voiced overbearing type of personality
that by sheer noise often will win out in an argument and makes an
impression on those who are not expert students of character. Few at
O Bar O questioned the prowess of which Ho everlastingly boasted, for
he looked the part he played. His favourite boast was that he “could
lick any son-of-a-gun in Alberta, just as I licked every son-of-a-gun
in Montana” with one hand tied behind. No one accepted his challenge,
pugnaciously tossed forth, and little Buddy Wallace, one of P. D.’s
diminutive jockies, hurriedly retreated when the big fellow merely
stretched out a clinched fist toward him.
Even Bully Bill, himself somewhat of a blusterer, discovered in Ho a
personality more domineering than his own. It was uncomfortable to
have the big bully around, but the foreman had never quite screwed up
the courage to “fire the man” as more than once P. D. had suggested.
Easy-going and good-natured Bully Bill had suffered Ho to remain all of
that summer, enduring meanwhile the fellow’s arrogance and boasts and
even threats of violence to each and every hand upon the place. He had
wormed his way to the position of temporary assistant foreman, as Bully
Bill had discovered that the men took orders from him as meekly as
from P. D. himself. This was up to the time that Cheerio drifted into
O Bar O. Soon after that memorable day, another even more important
in the annals of O Bar O dawned that not only elevated the Englishman
permanently from the woodpile and chores to the proud position of first
rider, but lost Ho his prestige in the cattle country.
The row started in the cook-car. The first prod in his side had been
ignored by Cheerio, who had continued to eat his meal in silence, just
as if a vicious punch from the thick elbow of the man on his right
had not touched him. Holy Smoke winked broadly down the length of the
table. At the second prod, Cheerio looked the man squarely in the eye
and said politely:
“I wouldn’t keep that up if I were you.”
This brought a roar of laughter followed by the third prod. There was a
pause. He had raised in the interval his bowl of hot soup in his hands
and was greedily and noisily swallowing, when a surprising dig in his
own left rib not only produced a painful effect but sent the hot soup
spluttering all over him. Up rose the huge cowhand, while in the tense
silence that ensued all hands held their breath in thrilled suspense.
As Ho cleared his vision--temporarily dimmed by the hot soup, Cheerio,
who had also risen in his seat, said quietly:
“I d-don’t want to hurt you, you know, b-but the fact is it’s got to be
done. S-suppose we go outside. T-too bad to m-make a m-m-mess of Chum
Lee’s car.”
Holy Smoke snorted, hitched his trousers up by the belt, and then in
ominous silence he accompanied the Englishman, followed by every man in
the cook-car, including Chum Lee.
A ring was made in short order and into the ring went the snorting,
loudly-laughing Ho and the lean, quiet young Englishman.
“I hate this sort of a thing,” said Cheerio, “and if you feel equal to
an apology, old man, we’ll let it go at that.”
Holy Smoke retorted with a low string of oaths and a filthy name that
brought Cheerio’s fist squarely up to his jaw.
To describe that fight would require more craft and knowledge than the
author possesses. Suffice it to say that weight and size, the strength
of the powerful hands and limbs availed the cowhand nothing when pitted
against the scientific skill of one of the cleanest boxers in the
British army, who, moreover, had studied in the east that little-known
but remarkable art of wrestling known as jiujitsu. The big man found
himself whirling about in a circle, dashing blindly this way and that,
and through the very force of his own weight and strength overcoming
himself, and in the end to find himself literally going over the head
of the man who had ducked like lightning under him. There on the
ground sprawled the huge, beaten bully, who had tyrannized over the
men of O Bar O. His the fate to come to out of his daze only to hear
the frantic yells and cheers of the encircling men and to see his
antagonist borne back into the cook-car upon the shoulders of the men.
Holy Smoke was a poor loser. His defeat, while it quenched in a
measure his outward show of bluster, left him nursing a grudge against
Cheerio, which he promised himself would some day be wiped out in a
less conspicuous manner and place. Not only had his beating caused him
to lose caste in the eyes of the men of the ranching country, but the
story went the rounds of the ranches, and the big cowhand suffered
the snubs and heartless taunts of several members of the other sex.
Now Ho was what is termed “a good looker,” and his conquests over the
fair sex generally had long been the subject of gossip and joke or
serious condemnation. He was, however, ambitious and aspired to make
an impression upon Hilda McPherson. For her this big handsome animal
had no attraction, and his killing glances, his oily compliments and
the flashy clothes that might have impressed a simpler-minded maid than
she, aroused only her amused scorn. Herself strong and independent by
nature, beneath her thorny exterior Hilda McPherson had the tender
heart of the mother-thing, and the brute type of man appealed less to
her than one of a slighter and more æsthetic type.
Furthermore, Hilda loved little Jessie Three-Young-Mans, a squaw of
fifteen sad years, whose white-faced blue-veined papoose was kept alive
only by the heroic efforts of Hilda and the Agency doctor. The Morley
Indian Reserve adjoined the O Bar O ranch, and P. D. employed a great
many of the tribe for brush-cutting, fencing and riding at round-ups.
No matter how unimportant a job given to a “brave,” he moved upon the
place the following day with all of his relatives far and near, and
until the job was done, O Bar O would take on the aspect of an Indian
encampment. At such times Hilda, who knew personally most of the
Indians of the Stoney tribe, would ride over to the camp daily to call
upon the squaws, her saddle bags full of the sweet food the Indians
so loved. She was idolized by the Indian women. When riding gauntlets
and breeks were to be made for the daughter of P. D. only the softest
of hides were used and upon them the squaws lavished their choicest
of bead work. They were for “Miss Hildy, the Indian’s friend.” Of all
the squaws, Hilda loved best Jessie Three-Young-Mans; but Jessie had
recently fallen into deep trouble. Like her tiny papoose, the Indian
girl’s face had that faraway longing look of one destined to leave this
life ere long. She who had strayed from her own people clung the closer
to them now when she was so soon to leave them forever. Hilda alone of
the white people, the Indian girl crept forth from her tent to greet.
What she refused to tell even her parents, Jessie revealed to Hilda
McPherson and accordingly Hilda loathed Holy Smoke.
However, Ho was assistant foreman at O Bar O and very often in full
charge of the ranch, for there were times when Bully Bill went to the
camps to oversee certain operations and in his absence Ho had charge of
the ranch and its stock. Also in P. D.’s absence, Hilda was accustomed
to take her father’s place so far as the men were concerned, and if
there were any questions that needed referring to the house they were
brought to her. Thus she was forced to come into contact with the
foreman as well as his assistant.
Ho had what Hilda considered a “disgusting habit” of injecting personal
remarks into his conversation when he came to the house on matters
connected with the cattle, and no amount of snubbing or even sharp
reproof or insult feazed him. He was impervious to hurt and continued
his smirking efforts to ingratiate himself with P. D.’s daughter. He
always spruced himself up for those calls at the ranch-house, slicked
his hair smooth with oil and axle grease, put on his white fur chaps,
carried his huge Mexican sombrero with its Indian head band, and with
gay handkerchief at his neck, Ho set out to make a “hit” with his
employer’s daughter.
At the time when Cheerio was reading from Dumas, P. D. was away in
Edmonton, and for a few days Bully Bill had gone down to Calgary,
accompanying his men with a load of steers for the local market. Ho,
therefore, in the absence of both of the bosses, was in charge of the
ranch, and one evening he presented himself at the house, ostensibly
to inquire regarding the disposition of certain yearlings that had
been shipped by Bully Bill from the Calgary stockyards. Were they to
be turned on the range with the other stuff? Should he keep them in
separate fields? How about rebranding the new stuff? Should he go ahead
or wait till the round-up of the O Bar O yearlings and brand all at one
time?
“Dad’s in Edmonton,” replied Hilda. “You had better wait till he gets
back, though I don’t know just when that will be. He’s playing chess.”
“Couldn’t you get him by phone or wire, Miss Hilda? Rather important to
know what to do with this new stuff, seein’ as how they’re pure-bred.
Maybe the boss’ll want them specially cared for.”
“I could phone, of course, for I know where to get him, but it makes
him mad as a hornet to talk on the telephone, especially long distance,
and as for a wire, like as not, if Dad’s playing chess, he’d just chuck
it into his pocket and never bother to read it.”
“Wa-al, I just thought I’d come along over and talk it out with you,
Miss Hilda. Your orders goes, you know, every time.”
He helped himself to a seat, which the girl had not proffered him, and
stretched out his long legs as if for a prolonged visit. Hilda remained
standing, looking down at him coolly, then she quietly moved toward the
door, and opened it.
“That’ll be all, then,” she said, and held the screen door open.
The cowhand, with a black look at the back of the small, proud head,
arose and taking the hint he passed out. Hilda snapped the screen door
and hooked it. From outside, in a last effort to detain her, Ho said:
“One minute, Miss Hilda. Did you say them doegies were to go into the
south pasture with our own stuff, then?”
Hilda had not mentioned the south pasture. However she said now:
“I suppose that will be all right, won’t it?”
“Well, if they was mine I’d keep ’em in the corrals for a bit, and give
’em the once-over in case they’s any blackleg among em. They’s one or
two looks kind o’ suspicious.”
“All right, then. Keep them in the corrals.”
After all, the man knew his business, and she looked at him curiously
through the screen door.
“Everything else on the place all right? Nothing loose? I thought I saw
some stuff in the bull pasture when I rode up from the Minnehaha ranch
to-day.”
“Them doegies is all right, Miss Hilda. There ain’t nothin’ out ’cept
what’s meant to be out. You leave it to me. Nothin’s goin’ to git out
of hick with the boss away, you can take it from me.”
“I didn’t mean to question that,” she said quickly.
Her father’s sense of squareness in treatment of his men was shared by
her, and she added with a slightly more friendly tone:
“You know an awful lot about cattle, don’t you, Ho?”
To give Ho “an inch” was to yield the proverbial mile. Instantly he was
grinning back at her, his chest swelling with conceit and self-esteem,
as he pressed against the screen door, his bold eyes seeking hers.
“I know ’bout everything they is to know ’bout cattle--the two-legged
as well as the four.”
“Is that so?”
“You see, Miss Hilda, they ain’t much difference between ’em, whichever
way you look at ’em. Some folks are scrub stock and go up blind before
the branding iron; others is like yourself, Miss Hilda, with high
spirits and you got to get ’em broke in the Squeezegate before you
can use ’em. Pretty hard to slip a lariat over that kind, but they’s
a saying among cowhands that ‘every outlaw has his day,’ and I’m
thinking”--his bold eyes leered into her own with significance, “the
rope’ll git you too.”
“You think so, do you? Well, who do you think is smart enough to get
the rope over my head, I’d like to know?”
He leered and chuckled. The conversation was to his liking.
“Can’t say, but the woods is full of them as is achin’ for the chance.
Some day when you’re loose on the range maybe you’ll slip under.”
Hilda’s scorn had turned to anger. Holy Smoke’s body was against the
screen door, bulging the wirework in. His cunning gaze never left her
face. He had lowered his voice meaningly.
“How about that English fly, Miss? He’s getting fair handy with the
lariat, they do say.”
Hilda had flushed scarlet and drawn back with blazing eyes, but the
words of the cowhand on the outer side of the door stopped her in her
premeditated flight and sent a cold shiver all over her.
“Ye needn’t to worry ’bout him, Miss Hilda. He ain’t likely to swing
his lariat in your direction. It’s hooked already over another one.”
Hilda’s dry lips, against her will, moved in burning query:
“Who do you mean?”
She scarcely knew her own voice. Something wild and primitive was
surging through her being. She wanted to cry out, to hurl something
into the face of the grinning man at the door, yet fascinated,
tormented, she stayed for an answer:
“Her that’s under his pillow. Her that he takes along of him wherever
he goes and has locked up in one of them gold gimcracks as if her face
was radio. It’d make you laugh to see him take it to bed with him, and
tuck it just as if it was heaven under his pillow and----”
Hilda stared blankly at the man on the other side of the door. She
uttered not a word. Her hand shot out, as if she were dealing a blow to
him, and the inside door banged hard.