“WRECKS” MORGAN
That same morning Rex Morgan had arrived at Cañonville. His right eye
was still discolored and there were bruises on his face, but he had
purchased a pair of trousers, and still had five dollars left.
Cañonville rather amazed him. The architecture, the dusty street, the
horse-drawn vehicles, wide-hatted men. Rex knew nothing of the cattle
country. The stage office sign caught his eye and he remembered that he
must ride by stage to Mesa City. He had made up his mind to find the man
who had sent that seventy-five dollar check.
“Shore, you can ride to Mesa City,” said the nondescript Bunty Smith
who, with the able assistance of Joe Cave, piloted the stage between
Cañonville and Mesa City. Bunty was a small, grizzled individual, whose
face was unusually lopsided from an immense chew of tobacco.
He spat violently and considered Rex closely.
“Horned frawgs!” he exclaimed. “I can jist look at you and bet a hundred
to one that you ain’t no native of this here country, young man. Goin’
t’ Mesa City, eh? Drummer?”
“Drummer?”
“Uh-huh, sellin’ things.”
“I haven’t anything to sell,” smiled Rex. “No, I am merely goin’ to Mesa
City out of curiosity.”
“Horned frawgs! Curiosity? Mm-m-m-m-m, well.” He spat again and
scratched his stubbled jaw. “It ain’t none of my business. Fare’s two
dollars.”
Rex dug deep in his pocket and drew out five dollars in change, from
which he separated two dollars. Bunty watched him curiously.
As Rex pocketed the remaining three dollars, Bunty rubbed his chin again
and considered Rex gravely.
“It ain’t none of my business,” he said slowly, “but have you got any
money?”
“I’ve still got three dollars,” said Rex.
“Huh!” Bunty shoved back his battered sombrero and ran his fingers
through his sparse hair. “Three dollars, eh. And you’re goin’ to Mesa
City out of curiosity. Horned frawgs! You put that two dollars in your
pocket. I’m drivin’ this here stage to Mesa City after dinner and I need
a shotgun messenger kinda bad. You can earn your ride.”
“Shotgun messenger?” queried Rex. “I don’t understand.”
“Guard,” said Bunty, a twinkle in his eye. “You set on the seat with me
and hold the sawed-off shotgun; _sabe_? If anybody tries to hold us up,
you shoot hell out of ’em.”
“Oh!” said Rex dumbly. “But I—I never have shot a man.”
“I ain’t never been held up, either. You be here about one o’clock,
young feller. What didja say your name is?”
“My name is Morgan—Rex Morgan.”
“Yea-a-a-ah? Whatcha know about that? Mine’s Smith. You spell it
S-m-i-t-h. Pronounced jist like she’s spelled. Folks calls me Bunty. You
be here at one o’clock, Morgan.”
Bunty spat violently and headed for the back room of the office, while
Rex went back to the street. Bunty Smith rather amazed him. The idea of
any one’s not being able to spell Smith—or to pronounce it. Still, Rex
rather liked Bunty Smith.
* * * * *
Rex spent the rest of the morning on the main street. The chap clad
gentry of Cañonville paid no attention to him. It was just at noon when
Lem Sheeley and Noah Evans came to Cañonville with the body of Ben
Leach, and Rex was in the crowd that gathered around the front of the
sheriff’s office, curious to know who the dead man was and how he had
met his death.
“Got in a fight and got killed,” said the laconic Noah, as they waited
for the coroner.
Lem was a little more explicit, and Rex learned that the man had been
shot, either during or after a fight, and that he had been a resident of
Mesa City. He listened to what the sheriff had to say about it and went
to the stage office to tell Bunty Smith.
“I knowed him well,” said Bunty. “Plenty much of a fool, too. Think a
nester killed him, eh? Must ’a’ been one of the Lane fambly. Well, I’ll
be darned! Ben Leach. Still, I reckon the day must come when somebody
pokes a pin through our balloon. Sooner or later, we’ll all git it.”
“What is a nester?” asked Rex.
“Well, I’ll tell you, it all depends on the point of view. To me a
nester is jist another settler, tryin’ to git along. To the cowman,
whose range this settler settles on, he’s somethin’ to git rid of damn’
quick. Most of ’em are fence builders. We don’t like fences in this
country. When a nester squats on a piece of land, he puts bob wire all
the way around it, and inside that fence is usually a good spring. And
if you git enough nesters—goodby cow country!”
“It is all Greek to me,” said Rex honestly, “but I suppose I’ll
understand it all after I’ve lived in this country for a while.”
“Oh, shore. You stay around here twenty-five years, like I have, and
you’ll be answerin’ fool questions, jist the same as I have to now. Had
your dinner? No. Well, she’s a hard trip to Mesa City, pardner; so me
and you better upholster the old insides with some ham and aigs.”
“This air surely does give one an appetite.”
“Mm-m-m-m. If you’re jist speakin’ for yourself, you better include me,
and make it appetites for two.”
* * * * *
After they finished their meal Rex was introduced to the first four
horse stage he had ever seen. In fact, he had never seen four horses
hitched to a vehicle before, and he marveled at the way Bunty Smith
handled them. Rex was the only passenger, and he perched on the seat
with Bunty, while between them reposed a sawed-off shotgun. Bunty had
showed him how to operate the gun.
“If anythin’ goes wrong, grab her and start throwin’ lead. There’s ten
buckshot in every shell, and that old sheep laig Winchester holds six
shells. Didja ever do any drivin’?”
“Well—” Rex colored slightly—“I—I have driven. You see, I got this
discolored eye while driving a delivery wagon.”
“Runaway team?”
“Something like that. You see, I was trying to get away from a fire
department, and I had to stop quickly, because a truck had blocked me;
so I threw out the anchor.”
Bunty squinted sideways at Rex, spat thoughtfully and removed the
shotgun.
“Didja reach port safely?” he asked.
“I sailed right into a clothing store.”
“O-o-o-oh, yea-a-a-a-ah!”
Bunty swung his long lash, snapping it sharply over the rump of a
lagging leader, and the ensuing jerk almost upset Rex. Bunty decided
that he had a crazy man on board. The idea of throwing out an anchor to
stop a team! He spat violently and wondered how they got that way.
“My mother died a few days ago,” offered Rex, as they jolted up along
the Coyote Cañon grades.
“Thasso? That’s tough luck. You got any more folks?”
“I guess not,” sighed Rex. “Since she died, I find that there are many
things I don’t understand. I don’t even know who my father was.”
“No-o-o? You’re kind of an _orejano_.”
“I don’t know what that is, Mr. Smith.”
“You’ll probably learn. Educated, ain’t you?”
“I have been taught quite a lot. I never went to a public school. Mother
was always very particular in that respect.”
“You didn’t go to school?” Bunty didn’t understand.
“No, I had a private tutor.”
“Horned frawgs! You ain’t aimin’ to start a band in a town like Mesa
City, are you?”
“I don’t know anything about a band, Mr. Smith.”
“Uh-huh. Kinda warm, ain’t it? If you ain’t used to this atmosphere,
you’re liable to feel it.”
Bunty swung the four horses around a hairpin turn, where the outer
wheels ran perilously close to the edge of the cañon. It was blue down
there, and Rex could look down at the back and outspread wings of a
circling hawk.
“My, it is a long ways to the bottom!” exclaimed Rex.
“You can’t even see it,” grinned Bunty. “On this here road a driver is
jist allowed one mistake. The last man who drove off the edge fell so
danged far that his clothes was out of style when he hit bottom.”
“Really?”
“Shore. Styles change every few years, they tell me.”
* * * * *
It was a long, tedious drag over the grades, and it required all of
Bunty’s skill. Rex looked at upside-down landscapes until his eyes
ached, and he wondered why in the world so much of the country had been
set on edge.
Finally they struck the downgrade, where Bunty locked the rear wheels
and they went skidding down, with the wheel horses holding back against
the firm pull of the lines.
But something went wrong. Perhaps the old leather shoes nailed to the
brake blocks had worn out, and the friction of iron-shod wheels against
wood was not sufficient to hold back the heavy stage. At any rate the
stage lunged ahead, crowding close against the rumps of the wheelers,
skidding sideways in the gravel roadbed.
But Bunty Smith was no novice. With a wild yell at the team he slackened
the lines, while his long whip curled over the team with a vicious snap.
And the team sprang ahead, yanking the stage around, and they went down
that dangerous grade, all four horses at a furious gallop, while Bunty
braced his feet and sent his lash licking at the two running leaders. He
knew he must keep them at top speed in order to hold the stretcher taut.
If one of the wheel horses ever got its front feet over that stretcher
it would throw the wheeler and cause both team and stage to pile up in a
smashing heap, either against the inner wall of the grade, or down into
the depths.
There were plenty of curves. Rex clung to the seat, blinded with fear,
as the old stage lurched and skidded, going faster each moment. On the
right hand curves, it seemed to Rex that the entire stage was off the
grade, but at the next lurch it was back on the grade again. He did not
realize that Bunty Smith was making the drive of his life. He couldn’t
see the lurch and sway of Bunty’s body, as he guessed his turns to the
_n_th degree.
Only one more curve now. Bunty set his jaw and fairly flung the team
around. A rear wheel struck a projecting rock, and for several moments
it was an even bet whether the stage would right itself. Rex was clawing
at the seat, fearful of being thrown over the edge; but the stage
righted itself and went thundering down through a cottonwood thicket.
The road was level there, but very narrow. Bunty relaxed wearily,
although the stage was going almost as fast as it had been. But he knew
that the danger was over.
Gradually Bunty slowed down the team, but the horses were still
galloping, when a chuckhole caused the stage to swerve. Came a sickening
lurch, the crash of a wheel, and Rex felt himself shoot off the seat and
go head over heels into the brush beside the road.
The foliage broke the force of his fall, but he was still dazed when he
staggered back to the road, where Bunty was trying to get a struggling
leader to its feet. The other horses of the team were standing with
lowered heads, breathing heavily from their long run down the mountain.
The leader finally managed to struggle to its feet, after being partly
unhitched, and Bunty quickly fastened the tugs again. He turned and
looked at Rex, and a slow grin overspread his face.
“You took quite a hoolihan, didn’t you, pardner? Whooee! That was quite
some ride. Thought for a while that I had m’ right hand stretched out
for a harp.”
“What ha-happened?” stammered Rex.
“Busted a front wheel on a boulder, dang the luck. Chuckhole skidded us
into it.”
He went around and tried to examine the extent of the damage, but the
brush was so thick, and the wheel was so imbedded in the brush and rocks
that he was unable to see just how bad it was.
Bunty squinted at the sun, swore hollowly and sat down to smoke a
cigaret. Although it would soon be sundown, he did not hurry. He was due
in Mesa City before dark, but there was no hard and fast schedule.
* * * * *
After due deliberation Bunty unhitched the team, tied the horses to a
tree and made an examination of the broken wheel. But it was too badly
damaged for further progress; so the two sat down to wait until someone
came along.
“Got to take a chance that some puncher will ride along here,” he told
Rex. “We’re hung up until somebody shows up and gets us some help.”
Bunty was afraid to leave the stage. He had a fairly large load of stuff
for Mesa City—the mail and express. It was in his charge, and he was
most surely not going to leave it in charge of Rex. He considered Rex
mildly insane.
The sun went down and the air grew chill, but no one came along. It was
growing dark when Bunty got an idea.
“Can you ride a horse?” he asked.
“I never have,” replied Rex.
“Well, you’re old enough. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. That off leader
of mine is broke to ride. We’ll take off the harness and you can ride to
Mesa City. Go to the stage office, tell ’em what happened and they can
come down here with a rig to haul this stuff in.”
“I don’t know whether I can ride or not,” said Rex dubiously, “but I’ll
do the best I can, Mr. Smith.”
“That’ll be fine, Mr. Morgan. If you don’t quit callin’ me Mr. Smith,
I’ll run your hocks off. My name is Bunty. Mr. Smith was my father’s
name.”
“My first name is Rex.”
“Wrecks? Fittin’ title. Brother, you almost had my whole outfit named
after you.”
Bunty unharnessed the horse, leaving the bridle, to the bit of which he
fastened a rope. Rex looked the horse over dubiously. It was rather a
formidable order for one who had never been on a horse.
“C’m’ere and I’ll give you a leg,” ordered Bunty.
“I shall probably need an extra one,” said Rex, who was not without a
sense of humor, even if he did not understand what Bunty meant.
But he managed to get on, almost falling off the other side, as the
horse twisted nervously.
“Give him his head,” grunted Bunty. “Don’t yank! Keep right on the road
and you can’t miss the town. And tell ’em to come quick as they can.”
“Yes, sir,” said Rex politely as he rode away, keeping a tight rein on
the animal.
After the first shock of being on the horse, he began rather to enjoy
the sensation. He thumped the animal with his heels and was almost
unseated when the horse jerked quickly ahead.
“That is what makes them go,” decided Rex, wishing for daylight instead
of darkness.
It seemed rather lonesome until some coyotes started yapping from the
side of a hill, which cheered Rex up a little. He thought they were
dogs.
But Bunty Smith had made a mistake in not explaining to Rex that there
were other roads, which might confuse a man who knew so little about
roads as Rex did. It was too dark for Rex to tell one road from another,
and when the horse stopped at the forks of a road, Rex didn’t know just
what to do.
After deliberation Rex decided that the horse knew more about the roads
than he did, so he let the horse decide. He rode along through the
night, expecting at any time to reach Mesa City, when he suddenly found
himself faced by the bulky outlines of a big gate.
It seemed that beyond this gate he could see the dim outlines of a
house, but he could not be sure. He slid off the horse, swung the gate
open and led the animal toward the house, intending to find out, if
possible, where he was, before going any further.
It was a house, and as Rex drew nearer he saw a man come toward him. He
could not see very plainly. The man came close to him, and before Rex
could speak to him, something crashed down on his head, and his
consciousness went out in a blaze of fireworks.
* * * * *
Several hours later Bert Roddy and Spike Cahill came back to the 6X6,
and on the way they picked up the horse Rex had ridden. It was between
the ranch and the main road. Spike looked it over by the light of a
match and found it to be a horse that the 6X6 had sold to Bunty Smith.
“Somebody’s been ridin’ it with a work bridle and rope reins,” he told
Bert. “I reckon we better pick him up and turn him back to Bunty.”
They found Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs and Dell Bowen asleep in the
bunkhouse, woke them up rudely and were cussed for their pains.
“Now that we know all about our ancestors, mebbe we better hit the hay,”
chuckled Spike. “She’s been a large evenin’, Bertram Roddy, Esquire.”
“And to be forgotten,” reminded Bert.