"Whoo-oh!--Steady!... Let's git me cigarette lit!
Oh, a cow-puncher's curse on that frizzling sun!
There!... Whoop!... Go to her, goldarn it!
Yu' dirty, mean, locoed old son of a gun!"
--_Bronco-Buster's Chorus_
Morning came, and with it a visit from one Gallagher, a middle-aged
bachelor, his nearest neighbor, whose ranch lay about a mile distant.
The Sergeant, seated outside the door, in the sun, smoking an
after-breakfast pipe, greeted the newcomer civilly as he lowered himself
stiffly out of the saddle, and waited for the other to divulge his
business.
Nature had not been kind to Mr. Gallagher in regard to his physiognomy,
and Ellis, whenever he contemplated that homely visage, from certain
canine peculiarities therein, always mentally labeled him "Old
Dog-face." It _was_ an ugly, repellant countenance in a way, but the
eyes were those of an honest man, and the thick lips expressed a species
of genial humor.
Meeting each other casually at the usual weekly mail gatherings, Benton
was always conscious of a kind of surly friendliness on Gallagher's
part, that showed up in marked contrast to the silent, mistrustful
antipathy, with which many of those present generally regarded him;
which attitude, be it remarked, worried the Sergeant but little. The
rancher broached the subject of his visit with little preamble.
"Old man Tucker, from Fish Creek, was over wantin' to see yu' yesterday,
Sargint. Didn't find yu' in, so he come around to my place before he
went back."
"Oh," said Ellis absently, and with a slight trace of weary irritation
in his tones; "what's bitin' that old fool now--was he full?"
It was curiously noticeable that, when back amidst the habitues and
surroundings of his former life and calling, how naturally he reverted
to the terse, ungrammatical speech of the range.
Gallagher, with a grin, lit his pipe, and leaning back in the chair that
the Sergeant had dragged out for him, blew out a cloud of smoke
reflectively.
"Well, he weren't what you'd call exactly sober," he drawled. "It was
the same old business.... Says there's some of them a layin' to run off
that bunch o' hawsses o' his. Reckons he's got it straight this time."
"He always has," responded the policeman, spitting with contemptuous
remembrance. "I'm just about fed up with his picayune happenings. He
makes me tired. Time and again he's got me a chasin' over to his place,
and there's never nothin' doin'.... Just some gag they've bin a throwin'
into him."
The other was silent for a space. "Mebbe," he acquiesced musingly. "But
I don't know, Sargint ... he seemed more worked up this time'n I ever
see him."
Ellis pondered over this dilemma. A complaint was a complaint, and
anyhow, no one could ever accuse him of neglecting his duty.
"See here; look," he said presently. "I'd go on over and see what's
worryin' that old _soor_, but fact is, I'm stuck for a hawss. That black
o' mine went lame on me comin' home last night. Picked up a nail. He
won't be fit to ride for three or four days. Got anythin' in yore bunch
yu' could fix me up with till he gets sound again, Gallagher?"
The rancher considered a moment or two with a grave, inscrutable face.
"Let's see," he said thoughtfully, the corners of his mouth twitching
ever so little. "I guess," he broke out finally. "Will yu' come on over,
Sargint?"
An hour later Benton, perched on the top rail of Gallagher's horse
corral, lazily watched that worthy driving in his band of horses from
their range in a neighboring coulee and, slipping down on their near
approach, he opened the gate and then effaced himself out of their sight
carefully, to prevent a possible scare.
Well strung out, with heads up and manes and tails flying, they followed
their leader, a powerfully-built, buckskin gelding. It was an old,
well-known trail to them and, presently, with customary obedience, they
surged through the opening into the big main corral, where they stood
around, a playfully biting, kicking mass of horseflesh, while their
owner, bringing up the rear, dismounted from his quiet old cow-pony and
hung up the gate behind them. Ellis, emerging from his hiding-place,
climbed up beside him on the fence, and together the two men gazed
silently awhile at the animated scene below them.
There were perhaps about thirty head all told, of different grades,
ages, and colors, from the heavy Percheron-bred draught-horse to the
slender, cat-like cayuse.
Benton, with the eye of a connoisseur of horseflesh, quickly ran them
over. "Pretty mixed bunch," he mumbled, ungraciously.
"Well, yu' ain't buyin' 'em, Sargint," answered Gallagher, somewhat
nettled at the other's remark, and a silence ensued which was finally
broken by Ellis "shooing" at a big Clyde-built mare, heavy in foal, that
was hiding another horse from his view. The startled animal slowly
waddled away, disclosing the aforementioned buckskin, which bad somehow
escaped the Sergeant's notice.
He quickly appraised its points. "Eyah," he muttered; "now _that's_ some
horse!"
And indeed his approval was justified for it was about as likely a
looking specimen of the saddle-remount as one could wish to see, with
the short, strong back, long, springy fetlocks, and powerful quarters
that denoted speed and endurance no less than an easy gait.
"That sorrel ain't a bad looker, either," he pursued. "Are they
saddle-broke, them two?"
"Yep," said Gallagher shortly. "Yu' kin take yore pick, Sargint, of
anythin' that's in here."
Benton, shading his eyes from the sun, scrutinized the two horses a
little longer and then, leisurely dropping to the ground, slid into the
saddle of Gallagher's waiting horse.
"Guess I'll have to borrow yore saddle and bridle a space, old-timer, if
yu' don't mind," he remarked. "Lord, but yu' must be split to the chin.
I'll have to take these stirrups up a hole or two."
Quickly unlacing the rawhide thongs, he adjusted them to his liking and,
tying the horse's halter-shank to the corral, unshipped the heavy
stock-saddle and bridle, depositing them on the ground beside the fence.
The rancher's high-heeled Kansas boots, with their huge-rowelled Mexican
spurs, next attracted his attention and he stood for a moment silently
eyeing them and his own broad-welted, flat-heeled footwear.
"What size boots d'yu' wear, Gallagher?" he inquired, with a mild grin.
"Nines, eh? ... same as me. D'yu' mind changin'? I'm sure on the
borrowin' stunt all right this trip, but them stirrups of yores ain't
none too wide an' I don't much fancy gettin' 'hung up.'"
The other acquiesced willingly enough and the exchange was soon
effected. Unstrapping the lariat from off the saddle, Benton climbed up
and dropped inside the corral, the horses beginning immediately to
circle around uneasily at his approach, raising clouds of dust.
"Which 'un yu' goin' to take, Sargint?" inquired their owner.
"Guess I'll try out that buckskin first!" Ellis answered laconically. "I
wanta hold him and that sorrel. We'll let the others drift."
Standing in the center of the corral, with an ease that bespoke long
practise, he slowly shook out a workable loop and began to adroitly
maneuver the buckskin to the rear of the bunch. But the latter, scenting
danger, and being apparently an old hand at the game, was very elusive,
diving head-down into the ruck always at the psychological moment.
Patiently watching his chance as, for about the twentieth time the
buckskin's head reappeared amidst the flying manes, the Sergeant
carelessly, with a curious overhand flip, swung and threw, the noose
dropping fairly over the ears and nose.
Tailing onto the rope, with heels digging into the soft ground, he slid
for a few yards, then suddenly detaching the animal from the retreating
bunch with a powerful hip-heave he brought it up facing him.
Gallagher watched the performance with a lazy curiosity. "Knows his
business with a rope all right," was his silent comment.
Once caught, as Benton coiled in the slack, hand over hand, the buckskin
walked meekly up to his captor like one who knows the game is up, and
allowed himself to be patted. Leaving Gallagher to hold the animal,
Ellis proceeded to cut the sorrel into a small inner corral. This done,
he opened the gate once more, and with a wild whirl and surge that
scattered clouds of dust the late occupants eagerly streamed out on the
run back to their range again.
Carrying the blanket, saddle, and bridle, the Sergeant entered the
corral and cautiously approaching the held horse, deftly slipped the bit
between its teeth and buckled the throat-lash firmly, then, drawing off
the lariat, picked up the blanket and flopped it over the withers with a
smack. The saddle next followed suit; the double cinches, although
slapping the animal's belly with the same deliberate roughness, failed
to produce any startling effect.
"Seems gentle," Benton muttered aloud.
"Yep," assented Gallagher, in a toneless voice. "Better take th' sorrel,
Sargint."
Ellis glanced up sharply, but the rancher's face was set like an ugly,
expressionless mask, and he gleaned nothing there.
"Why?" he inquired.
"Pitches some," said the other drily and, with calculating inference,
"the sorrel, he's gentle. _I_ kin ride _him_."
Ellis hesitated a moment. He was hardly to be classed in the same
category as a greenhorn, whom ignorance, taunt, or bravado will often
provoke into climbing onto a bad horse, with equally bad results, but
his reputation as a rider was at stake, for he knew Gallagher's tongue
was prone to wag at times. The latter's last words--"The sorrel, _he's_
gentle!"--rankled a little, and his decision was made with an
unconscious snort of contempt, as he dragged at the latigo straps and
drew the cinches taut.
"Pitches, does he?" he mumbled to himself. All right, then! He would
show Mr. "Dog-face" Gallagher something. And bending down he buckled on
the big, straight-shanked, Mexican spurs. "Gimme yore quirt, Gallagher!"
Crossing the split reins carefully in the palm of his left hand and
catching the cheek-strap of the bridle, he reached out his right and
guided his foot cautiously into the stirrup, eyeing the buckskin closely
the while. The animal stood ominously quiet. Grasping the horn he swung
lightly and warily into the saddle and settled his feet home. Still no
movement from the motionless horse. Vaguely uneasy, he clucked and gave
it a light touch with the spurs. The effect was magical. The ears
suddenly flattened. A ripple ran along the black-striped back and as,
with a hoarse, grunting scream the buckskin dropped its head and bucked
into the air, in a flash Benton realized that he was on one of the worst
horses it had ever been his lot to tackle.
"Oh--o-ooh--he-e--s-ss--a-ah!" in bitter bodily anguish, he groaned, as
again and again the horse rocketed and propped, stiff and hard with
terrible impact, and with a jarring side-shake that seemed to shiver his
very soul. The blood burst from his nose and mouth under the constant
violent concussions and he felt deathly sick. Still the snapping,
whalebone-like back rose and descended, "sun-fishing" in midair with a
curious upward flirt of the rump that was well-nigh irresistible,
causing the Sergeant's hand to swing up towards the horn more than once,
and but for the fact of Gallagher watching, he would have "pulled
leather" without shame. "Not grain fed.... Can't keep this up much
longer!" he gasped to himself. And shifting slightly in the saddle he
threw all his dead weight on to the nigh fore-leg. It was an old trick
that Ellis had often used in his younger and more elastic days, and by
degrees he became conscious between the twisting, jerking leaps of the
bucking fury under him, that the animal was weakening.
Its resistance provoked a wild, unreasoning wave of anger to surge
through him, driving the remnants of his sick faintness before it, and
raising his hand he quirted and raked the still pitching buckskin with a
ferocity that finally drove it to a sweating standstill.
"Go to it, d--n yu'!" he yelled, but the horse had had enough and only
broke into an easy trot around the corral. Swinging out of the saddle,
he stood for a moment swaying, dazed from the terrific ordeal he had
undergone.
To him came Gallagher. "Holy doodle!" exclaimed that worthy, with a sort
of miserable heartiness, "he sure went after yu' some!"
The policeman did not answer, but breathing in deep, heavy gasps, and
streaming with perspiration, slowly raised his head. At the unmistakable
silent animosity depicted on that drawn, bitter face, the rancher
changed countenance and retreated slightly with a deprecating gesture.
"Now don't yu' go for to blame me, Sargint!" he began. "--'Member I
warned yu'!"
Ellis looked at him loweringly, with evil irresolution. The man was
right, he reflected, but nothing makes us so unforgiving as the
consciousness of being in the wrong.
"Warned me?" he echoed, with a mirthless laugh, and at the same time
blowing a stream of blood from his nose. "Oh, aye, yu' _warned_ me all
right--like Paddy warned his landlord!..."
Regaining his breath somewhat, he resumed with savage ill-humor. "Yu've
an ugly mug, Gallagher.... If I thought for a minute yu'd handed me this
here stick of dynamite for a josh, I'd push what's meant to be yore face
right in, an' don't yu' forget it!"
The other's dog-like visage contracted with a grin and he emitted a
short, barking laugh.
"Easy! easy there, Sargint!... Now don't yu' start for to get mad 'bout
it," he chuckled. "Never yu' mind my mug. I ain't a beauty, I know....
But handsome is that handsome does.... 'Member, I'm lendin' yu' a
horse."
At the remembrance of the man's generosity, and his good-natured
response, Benton's short-lived fit of bad temper quickly evaporated, and
he felt guilty and ashamed at his own illogical outburst.
"Gallagher," he said hoarsely, spitting out a mouthful of blood and
dust, "I guess I'm in wrong.... I take it all back."
With an earnestness that there was no mistaking, the rancher reached out
his hand.
"Sargint," he said solemnly, "shake. Yu're a rider." And in the warmth
of that grip Ellis became vaguely conscious that his nerve had won for
him a friend.
Good fellowship established once more, Gallagher's taciturnity vanished
and he became voluble and communicative.
"Now, see here, look; I'll tell yu', Sargint," he rambled on. "I raised
that hawss, an' I know him like a book. There's only two men ever stayed
with him. They're no-goods, both of 'em, but they kin _ride_. Yu' know
'em, too--Short an' Dirty's one, an' that there Jules Le Frambois yu've
just took down for rustlin' Billy Jacques' stock, t'other. Jules--he got
piled higher'n a kite, first crack outer th' box, but he stayed with him
th' second trip. Wanst he finds a feller kin ride him he quits pitchin'
right away _with_ that feller--for good. Yu' git on him now an' see 'f I
ain't right."
Ellis did so and, with a rough slap of the quirt and a thrust of the
spurs, thumbing the horse's withers and fanning its ears with his hat;
but all his efforts to make the buckskin hump again were fruitless, and
the Sergeant, as he felt the surge of the easy-gaited, powerful animal
under him, knew that here was a remount that could be depended on in any
emergency.
"What'd I tell yu'?" said Gallagher, as Benton dismounted and
off-saddled. "Nary a jump--an' Short an' Dirty, he rode him for three
months--an' he says he's good on th' rope an'll stand wherever his lines
is dropped. Now yu' take him and ride him as long as yu' want,
Sargint.... I guess there ain't nobody else around here as is anxious,"
he added, grinning. "What's his name? Why, I calls him 'Shakem.' He's
sure shook a few of 'em, too. I didn't aim to get yu' hurt none, but
some of th' boys had it that yu' used to bust for th' 'Turkey-Track,'
an', well, I kinder own I was a bit minded to see if yu' shaped like
it," he ended whimsically.
The ghost of a smile for a moment illuminated Benton's blood-stained,
tired face as, lighting a cigarette, he retrieved his own boots and
prepared to lead his borrowed mount away.
"An' are yu' satisfied?" he queried wearily.
"Aye," answered the rancher, with fervent conviction. "I sure am that.
Yes, I'll ride on over an' fix up that black o' yores if yu're away th'
night. So long, Sargint."