Sammy Porter, detailed by Hopalong, the trail-boss, rode into Truxton
three days before the herd was due, to notify the agent that cars were
wanted. Three thousand three-year-olds were on their way to the packing
houses and must be sent through speedily. Sammy saw the agent and,
leaving him much less sweeter in temper than when he had found him, rode
down the dismal street kicking up a prodigious amount of dust. One
other duty demanded attention and its fulfillment was promised by the
sign over the faded pine front of the first building.
"Restaurant," he read aloud. "That's mine. Beans, bacon an' biscuits
for 'most a month! But now I 'm goin' to forget that Blinky Thompkins
ever bossed a trail wagon an' tried to cook."
Dismounting, he glanced in the window and pulled at the downy fuzz
trying to make a showing on his upper lip. "Purty, all right. Brown
hair an' I reckon brown eyes. Nice li'l girl. Well, they don't make no
dents on me no more," he congratulated himself, and entered. His twenty
years fairly sagged with animosity toward the fair sex, the intermittent
smoke from the ruins of his last love affair still painfully in evidence
at times. But careless as he tried to be he could not banish the
swaggering mannerisms of Youth in the presence of Maid, or change his
habit of speech under such conditions.
"Well, well," he smiled. "Here I 'are' again. Li'l Sammy in search of
his grub. An' if it's as nice as you he 'll shore have to flag his
outfit an' keep this town all to hisself. Got any chicken?"
The maid's nose went up and Sammy noticed that it tilted a trifle, and
he cocked his head on one side to see it better. And the eyes were
brown, very big and very deep--they possessed a melting quality he had
never observed before. The maid shrugged her shoulders and swung around,
the tip-tilt nose going a bit higher.
Sammy leaned back against the door and nodded approval of the slender
figure in spic-and-span white. "Li'l Sammy is a fer-o-cious cow-punch
from a chickenless land," he observed, sorrowfully. "There ain't _no_
kinds of chickens. Nothin' but men an' cattle an' misguided cooks; an'
beans, bacon an' biscuits. Li'l Miss, have you a chicken for me?"
"No!" The head went around again, Sammy bending to one side to see it
as long as he could. The pink, shell-like ear that flirted with him
through the loosely-gathered, rebellious hair caught his attention and
he leveled an accusing finger at it. "Naughty li'l ear, peekin' at
Sammy that-a-way! Oh, you stingy girl!" he chided as the back of her
head confronted him. "Well, Sammy don't like girls, no matter how pink
their ears are, or turned up their noses, or wonderful their eyes. He
just wants chicken, an' all th' fixin's. He 'll be very humble an'
grateful to Li'l Miss if she 'll tell him what he can have. An' he 'll
behave just like a Sunday-school boy.
"Aw, you don't want to get mad at only me," he continued after she
refused to answer. "Got any chicken? Got any--eggs? Lucky Sammy! An'
some nice ham? Two lucky Sammies. An' some mashed potatoes? Fried?
Good. An' will Li'l Miss please make a brand new cup of strong coffee?
Then he 'll go over an' sit in that nice chair an' watch an' listen. But
you ought n't get mad at him. Are you really-an'-truly mad?"
She swept down the room, into the kitchen partitioned off at the farther
end and slammed the door. Sammy grinned, tugged at his upper lip and
fancy-stepped to the table. He smoothed his tumbled hair, retied his
neck-kerchief and dusted himself off with his red bandanna handkerchief.
"Nice li'l town," he soliloquized. "_Fine_ li'l town. Dunno as I ought
to go back to th' herd--Hoppy did n't tell me to. Reckon I 'll stick in
town an' argue with th' agent. If I argue with th' agent I 'll be busy;
an' I can't leave while I 'm busy." He leaned back and chuckled.
"Lucky me! If Hoppy had gone an' picked Johnny to argue with th' agent
for three whole days where would _I_ be? But I gotta keep Johnny outa
here, th' son-of-a-gun. He ain't like me--he _likes_ girls; an' he ain't
bashful."
He picked up a paper lying on a chair near him and looked it over until
the kitchen door squeaked. She carried a tray covered with a snow-white
napkin which looked like a topographical map with its mountains and
valleys and plains. His chuckle was infectious to the extent of a smile
and her eyes danced as she placed his dinner before him.
"Betcha it's fine," he grinned, shoveling sugar into the inky coffee.
"Blinky oughta have a good look at _this_ layout."
"Don't be too sure," she retorted. "Mrs. Olmstead is sick and I 'm
taking charge of things for her. I 'm not a good cook."
"Nothin 's th' matter with this," he assured her between bites. "Lots
better 'n most purty girls can do. If Hopalong goes up against this he
'll offer you a hundred a month an' throw Blinky in to wash th' dishes.
But he 'd have to 'point me guard, or you would n't have no time to do
no cookin'."
"You 'd make a fine guard," she retorted.
"Don't believe it, huh? Jus' wait till you know me better."
"How do you know I 'm going to?"
"I 'm a good guesser. Jus' put a li'l pepper right there on that yalla
spot. Say, any chance to get a job in this town?"
"Why, I don't know."
"Goin' to stay long?"
"I can't say. I won't go till Mrs. Olmstead is well."
"Not meanin' no harm to Mrs. Olmstead, of course--but you don't _have_
to go, do you?"
"I do as I please."
"So I was thinkin'. Now, 'bout that job: any chance? Any ranches near
here?"
"Several. But they want _men_. Are you a real cowboy?"
Sammy folded his hands and shook his head sorrowfully. "Huh! Want
_men_! Now if I only had whiskers like Blinky. Why, 'course I 'm a
cowboy. Regular one--but I can outgrow it easy. I 'm a sorta maverick
an' I 'm willin' to wear a nice brand. My name's Sammy Porter," he
suggested.
"That's nice. Mine is n't nice."
"Easy to change it. Really like mine?"
"Coffee strong enough?"
"Sumptious. How long's Mrs. Olmstead going to be sick?"
Her face clouded. "I don't know. I hope it will not be for long. She
's had _so_ much trouble the past year. Oh, wait! I forgot the toast!"
and she sped lightly away to rescue the burning bread.
The front door opened and slammed shut, the newcomer dropping into the
nearest chair. He pounded on the table. "Hello, there! I want
somethin' to eat, quick!"
Sammy turned and saw a portly, flashily dressed drummer whose importance
was written large all over him. "Hey!" barked the drummer, "gimme
something to eat. I can't wait all day!"
A vicious clang in the kitchen told that his presence was known and
resented.
As Sammy turned from the stranger he caught sight of a pretty flushed
face disappearing behind the door jamb, the brown eyes snapping and the
red lips straight and compressed. His glance, again traveling to the
drummer, began with the dusty patent leathers and went slowly upward,
resting boldly on the heavy face. Sammy's expression told nothing and
the newcomer, glaring at him for an instant, looked over the menu card
and then stared at the partition, fidgeting in his chair, thumping
meanwhile on the table with his fingers.
At a sound from the kitchen Sammy turned back to his table and smiled
reassuringly as the toast was placed before him. "I burned it and had
to make new," she said, the pink spots in her cheeks a little deeper in
color.
"Why, th' other was good enough for me," he replied. "Know Mrs.
Olmstead a long time?" he asked.
"Ever since I was a little girl. She lived near us in Clev--"
"Cleveland," he finished. "State of Ohio," he added, laughingly. "I
'll get it all before I go."
"Indeed you won't!"
"Miss," interrupted the drummer, "if you ain't too busy, would you mind
gettin' me a steak an' some coffee?" The tones were weighted with
sarcasm and Sammy writhed in his chair. The girl flushed, turned
abruptly and went slowly into the kitchen, from where considerable noise
now emanated. In a short time she emerged with the drummer's order,
placed it in front of him and started back again. But he stopped her.
"I said I wanted it rare an' it's well done. An' also that I wanted
fried potatoes. Take it back."
The girl's eyes blazed: "You gave no instructions," she retorted.
"Don't tell me that! I know what I said!" snapped the drummer. "I
won't eat it an' I won't pay for it. If you was n't so _busy_ you 'd
heard what I said."
Sammy was arising before he saw the tears of vexation in her eyes, but
they settled it for him. He placed his hand lightly on her shoulder.
"You get me some pie an' take a li'l walk. Me an' this here gent is
goin' to hold a palaver. Ain't we, stranger?"
The drummer glared at him. "We ain't!" he retorted.
Sammy grinned ingratiatingly. "Oh, my; but we are." He slung a leg
over a chair back and leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knee.
"Yes, indeed we are--least-a-wise, _I_ am." His tones became very soft
and confiding. "An' I 'm shore goin' to watch you eat that steak."
"What's that you 're going to do?" the drummer demanded, half rising.
"Sit down," begged Sammy, his gun swinging at his knee. He picked up a
toothpick with his left hand and chewed it reflectively. "These here
Colts make a' awful muss, sometimes," he remarked. "'Specially at close
range. Why," he confided, "I once knowed a man what was shot 'most in
two. He was a moss-head an' would n't do what he was told. Better
sorta lead off at that steak, _hombre_," he suggested, chewing evenly on
the toothpick. Noticing that the girl still lingered, hypnotized by
fear and curiosity, he spoke to her over his shoulder. "Won't you
please get me that pie, or somethin'? Run out an' borrow a pan, or
somethin'," he pleaded. "I don't like to be handicapped when I 'm
feedin' cattle."
The drummer's red face paled a little and one hand stole cautiously
under his coat--and froze there. Sammy hardly had moved, but the Colt
was now horizontal and glowered at the gaudy waistcoat. He was between
it and the girl and she did not see the movement. His smile was placid
and fixed and he spoke so that she should get no inkling of what was
going on. "Never drink on an empty stomach," he advised. "After you
eat that meal, then you can fuss with yore flask all you wants." He
glanced out of the corner of his eye at the girl and nodded. "Still
there! Oh, I most forgot, stranger. You take off yore hat an'
'pologize, so she can go. Jus' say yo 're a dawg an never did have no
manners. _Say_ it!" he ordered, softly. The drummer gulped and muttered
something, but the Colt, still hidden from the girl by its owner's body,
moved forward a little and Sammy's throaty growl put an end to the
muttering. "Say it plain," he ordered, the color fading from his face
and leaving pink spots against the white. "That's better--now, Li'l
Miss, you get me that pie--please!" he begged.
When they were alone Sammy let the gun swing at his knee again. "I
don't know how they treats wimmin where you came from, stranger; but out
here we 're plumb polite. 'Course you did n't know that, an' that's why
you did n't get all mussed up. Yo 're jus' plain ignorant an' can't
help yore bringin' up. Now, you eat that steak, _pronto_!"
"It's too cold, now," grumbled the drummer, fidgeting in the chair.
The puncher's left hand moved to the table again and when it returned to
his side there was a generous layer of red pepper on the meat. "Easy to
fix things when you know how," he grinned. "If it gets any colder I 'll
fix it some more." His tones became sharper and the words lost their
drawled softness. "You goin' to start ag'in that by yoreself, or am I
goin' to help you?" he demanded, lifting his leg off the chair and
standing erect. All the humor had left his face and there was a
grimness about the tight lips and a menace in the squinting eyes that
sent a chill rippling down the drummer's spine. He tasted a forkful of
the meat and gulped hastily, tears welling into his eyes. The puncher
moved a little nearer and watched the frantic gulps with critical
attention. "'Course, you can eat any way you wants--yo're payin' for
it; but boltin' like a coyote ain't good for th' stummick. Howsomever,
it's yore grub," he admitted.
A cup of cold coffee and a pitcher of water followed the meat in the
same gulping haste. Tears streamed down the drummer's red face as he
arose and turned toward the door. "Hol' on, stranger!" snapped Sammy.
"That costs six bits," he prompted. The coins rang out on the nearest
table, the door slammed and the agonized stranger ran madly down the
street, cursing at every jump. Sammy sauntered to the door and craned
his neck. "Somebody 's jus' naturally goin' to bust him wide open one
of these days. He ain't got no sense," he muttered, turning back to get
his pie.
A cloud of dust rolled up from the south, causing Briggs a little
uneasiness, and he scowled through the door at the long empty siding and
the pens sprawled along it.
Steps clacked across the platform and a grinning cowpuncher stopped at
the open window. "They're here," he announced. "How 'bout th' cars?"
Briggs looked around wearily. For three days his life had been made
miserable by this pest, who carried a laugh in his eyes, a sting on his
tongue and a chip on his shoulder. "They 'll be here soon," he replied,
with little interest. "But there 's th' pens."
"Yes, there's th' pens," smiled Sammy. "They'll hold 'bout one-tenth of
that herd. Ain't I been pesterin' you to get them cars?"
The agent sighed expressively and listened to the instrument on his
table. When it ceased he grabbed the key and asked a question. Then he
smiled for the first time that day. "They 're passing Franklin. Be
here in two hours. Now get out of here or I 'll lick you."
"There 's a nice place in one of them pens," smiled Sammy.
"I see you 're eating at Olmstead's," parried the agent.
"Yea."
"Nice girl. Come up last summer when Mrs. Olmstead petered out. I ate
there last winter."