THE SIEGE OF CORK
Even the possession of his broncho could not long fill the mind of
Dennis to the exclusion of his “little lady.” Having missed her from
the party in advance of the wagon he halted and let that pass, then
retraced his way to where she was slowly approaching, alone.
“Sure, Miss Carlota, this is the botherin’ beast! If I wants him to go
forard it’s backard he will; an’ if backard--then forard’s the word.
What would ye be doin’ to him if he was yours, if ye please?”
“I don’t know. I never ‘broke’ a horse, though I’ve often seen others
do it. Miguel says that either a man or his horse must be master and
that there’s no peace till it’s settled. He believes in making a final
thing of it, once for all.”
“Faith, I’m not thinkin’ I’d like the ‘Greaser’ overmuch but, all the
same, a body must give--um, um--his due. I’ll have to tussle the thing
out, bime-by, I trow.”
Then he looked at her wondering to see traces of tears on her face.
Pulling the forelock which dangled below his sombrero, he asked:
“An’ who’s been makin’ ye cry, this fine mornin’, Miss Carlota?”
“Nobody. Nobody, at all. It was foolish, but see? I am not now,” and
she smiled into his troubled face.
“But where is the little gossoon, me dear? Sure, I’ve a mind to go
halves with him in this creatur’ o’ mine. That boy Jack, beyant, who
doesn’t know horse from mule nor t’other from which, is so set up an’
flairboyant, I must take him down a peg. Never mind, says I to myself.
Wait a bit, Dennis, me boy, says I. ’Tis a half of a horse master
Carlos shall have now, but a whole one bime-by.”
“Why, Dennis! What do you mean? How do you know? I thought it was to be
a surprise!” cried Carlota.
“Sure, an isn’t it? We’ll speak never a word, you an’ me, till we meets
up with a beast what wants to be sellin’ himself an’ then--out goes the
wind from Jack’s sails--kerflump!”
“Oh! is that all? I thought you meant something different;” and she
smiled again, anticipating the moment when Carlos should return, riding
a beautiful animal which had cost him nothing but his own prowess.
“But, Dennis, what is your broncho’s name!”
“Name, says you? Humph! That’s more nor I know meself. But, bein’s he’s
a new master why not a new name? Eh? An’ is it yourself will be doin’
the honor to speak it?”
“Oh! I thank you, but I couldn’t. I’ve named one animal already to-day
and I may have to name another--I mean--I’d rather you did it yourself.
Dennis, though it was kind of you to think I might. What shall it be?”
“Belike--it may not be--anything! Whoa, there! Whoa, I tell ye!”
“You’re pulling too tight on that bridle. Maybe, he thinks you want him
to stand on his head--drawing him like that! Oh, Dennis, Dennis! Don’t.
Do take it easily. Your fingers are clinched and your teeth set as if
you were in terror. That’s not the way to ride, no, no; and I’ve told
you once, already.”
“What then? What’s ‘once’ to a stupid like me? Ain’t this the right
grip o’ the thing--so?”
“No, indeed! You should see Miguel. His touch is like a feather on the
rein yet--so firm! Amador would neither disobey him nor obey anybody
else. See. This way. Don’t squeeze your hand so tight. You look,
Dennis, you do look as if you were in--agony!”
The poor fellow was. He would a thousand times rather have been
striding along upon his own stout feet than riding that uncomfortable
thing. The saddle had become a throne of torment. His great boots
seemed like lead. His hat flopped in his eyes, his buckskin jacket gave
him a vapor bath, and his spurs got into the wrong places, goading
rather than guiding the broncho.
Carlota suggested:
“S’pose we wait and rest a bit, and I’ll give you another lesson. Good.
First, now name him. Then we’ll talk to him by his name till he learns
it, and finds that new, better behavior is expected of him.”
“All right, me little lady. That there Meegell rests now an’ again, I
s’pose?”
“Surely. Did you think that he rode all the time?”
Dennis had so thought. The vivid picture in his imagination was of a
dark and handsome horseman sitting upright in his saddle and careering
at breakneck speed over hill and plain.
“The name, Dennis. Let’s stick to that, first.”
“Acushla! What says you to--Cork?”
“Cork! Cork? Is he a cork? Beg pardon, but I don’t quite understand.”
Somewhat nettled, the Irishman responded:
“Faith, ’tis simple, thinks I. If Connemara, what’s a town, is a good
name for a no-account creatur’ of a burro, can’t Cork, what’s a city,
be right for a horse? Eh? A city’s finer nor a town an’ a horse nor a
donkey, says I.”
“That seems sensible. Cork isn’t as musically, I mean musical, as
Connemara, and your broncho isn’t as pretty a beast. But it’s short and
easy to say when you get--angry--so often, poor Dennis!”
“Who-a-a, there! Stand still. Be easy, easy, lad! Cork--Cor--rk,
C-O-R-K!!”
Carlota backed away and gave the broncho and his master a wide space.
She was half-frightened, half-amused, for matters between them had,
evidently, reached a crisis. The animal upraised, and so suddenly,
that Dennis was unseated and slipped down over its back in a manner
neither flattering to his vanity nor helpful to his temper. Then, from
somewhere about his person, he produced a short, stout stick, with
which he belabored the equally furious beast as if death were the
object at which he aimed.
“Oh! you cruel, cruel man! He’ll kill you--or you him! Dennis--Cork!
Oh! Dennis, Dennis!” screamed Carlota, lustily.
The wagon, now some distance in front, came to a halt, for the girl’s
cries had reached and startled its occupants, so that Mr. Burnham and
Jack ran back to see what caused the uproar. Yet, at that critical
moment, even they dared not interfere. They ranged themselves beside
Carlota and silently watched the strange contest.
“If ’tis a fight ye be wantin’ ’tis a fight ye shall have!” yelled the
trackman, now indifferent to everything save the rebellious beast for
which he had spent his hardly earned dollars. His blood was up, his
spirits rose. “Sure, I thought me daily exercise was gone entirely,
seein’ I’d left me friend Mickey behind. Come on, then, I’m the man for
ye!” he panted.
The battle which ensued was against all rules of horse training and
more in the line of warfare to which the Irishman was accustomed; but,
even in the fiercest of the mêlée Dennis retained a firm hold upon the
bridle rein. Because of carelessness, he would never again lose his
precious broncho. The spectators beheld a dangerous mixture of legs,
heads, and hoofs; heard the continued whack, whack, of the shillalah,
and anticipated mortal hurt to the ignorant trackman. Then--the mustang
lay prone upon the ground and Dennis stood above it--master!
“Faith, that settles it! From this on, Fogarty’s boss!”
“O, Dennis! You’ve hurt him cruelly, cruelly, I’m afraid!” said
Carlota, slipping off her burro to kneel beside the prostrate brute and
tenderly pat his head.
For the conqueror, she had no word of compassion, though he looked much
the worse of the two. His fine attire was torn and dust-covered, his
face scratched and bleeding, one of his gigantic spurs broken, and his
gay sash in ribbons. Yet there was an expression of supreme content
upon his features and his labor-bowed shoulders held themselves with a
new and martial bearing.
“‘See, the conquering hero comes!’” mocked Jack, and waved his hat
ecstatically.
Not a muscle of Dennis moved. Rigidly grand and imperturbable, he stood
a monument for all to see. When sufficient silence was obtained for the
full effect of his superiority he commanded, with great dignity:
“Cork, get up!”
The animal glanced at the man who stood above him; then, meekly as any
burro might, the forever-tamed broncho staggered to its feet. With
a look toward the still kneeling Carlota, which asked as plain as
speech--“Could your Meegell beat that?” Mr. Fogarty slipped the bridle
over his arm and airily strode away.