AT THE “CIRCLE O” RANCH
Camp was pitched in the foothills about four o’clock that afternoon.
Grazing lands stretched away parallel with the mountain range as far
as the eye could see, and then were swallowed up in that everlasting
purple haze.
Farther along the valley in the opposite direction they could make
out the buildings of the Bindloss ranch, to which Sam said they
would ride in the morning, as Hippy Wingate wished to introduce
himself to the owner.
Cattle were grazing all along the foothills, hundreds of them, and
those close at hand were observed to have the brand of the “Circle
O” ranch. They were part of the great herd belonging to Old Joe
Bindloss, a rich rancher, a hard man, according to Sam, but
respected as a just one.
Cowboys riding in to the ranch-house for supper gazed curiously at
the outfit that was making camp, for it was seldom that anything of
the sort was seen in the Coso Valley. Arriving at their headquarters
the cowboys reported what they had seen. Shortly after supper the
Overland Riders were again disturbed, and half a dozen cowboys rode
up in a cloud of dust, sweeping off their hats as they pulled down
their mustangs at the very edge of the camp. Their attitude was
stern, but not unfriendly, and the Overlanders surmised that they
were from the “Circle O” ranch, which they soon learned was the
fact.
“The Old Man wants to know who you be and what you are doin’ heah,”
announced the spokesman. “He ’lows thet he don’t like no strangers
foolin’ ’round whar the stock is, and he says it’ll please him if
you move on.”
“Say! This is a hospitable country, isn’t it?” cried Stacy Brown.
“Since I have been here, about all I have heard is, ‘Get out or get
shot up!’ Funny thing about it, though, is that we haven’t ‘got’ and
we haven’t been ‘shot up.’”
“Be quiet, Stacy!” admonished Grace.
“Please go back and tell Mr. Bindloss that it is Lieutenant Hippy
Wingate, and his friends from the east. Lieutenant Wingate is a
friend of Captain Gordon who was out here some time ago on a hunting
trip. Say to Mr. Bindloss that if he objects to our camping here, we
will go on up into the range and make camp there,” answered Hippy.
“Wal, the Old Man reckoned thet if ye didn’t go we was to fetch ye
back whether ye wanted to come or not, but seein’ as thar’s ladies
heah mebby we won’t have to take only the men,” answered the
spokesman doubtfully.
“Listen, Buddy! You go back and tell the Old Man to come and fetch
us himself if he wants to see us. Tell him Lieutenant Wingate said
so,” directed Hippy laughingly.
The cowboys hesitated, surveyed the Overland outfit keenly, then,
whirling their ponies, dashed away towards the “Circle O” ranch.
“Another one invites us to get out,” murmured Emma. “How exciting!”
An hour later a bellowing “halloo” informed the Overland Riders that
they were about to receive another caller, and they surmised who it
was. The hail was answered in kind, then a horseman trotted in and
hopped off. He was a big, powerful-looking man, his face hard,
probably from exposure, but the cold gray eyes now held a sparkle
that was reassuring.
“I’m Joe Bindloss. Where’s the duffer who dared me to come after
him?”
“I’m the duffer,” answered Hippy, stepping forward.
“Shake!” rumbled Old Joe Bindloss. “Any friend of Cap’n Gordon is a
friend of mine. We’ve had to be kinder careful out here lately
because there’s been some rustling done and the word has been passed
that there’s a big gang—a regular gang of thieves, that’s working
this section under all sorts of disguises.”
“Meet _our_ gang, Mr. Bindloss; every one a rustler, but not the
kind you are looking for,” said Hippy laughingly. He then introduced
the rancher to the members of the Overland party, and lastly to the
guides. Bindloss peered at Sam.
“Wal, strike me dead if it ain’t Sam Conifer!” shouted the rancher,
extending a mighty paw to Sam and another to Jim. “Do you folks
savvy this feller you’ve got here? You better savvy him if you know
what’s good for you. Sam, if you want to do the ‘Circle O’ a great
big favor you just get wise to the feller that’s stealing stock, but
give him a chance to draw so you can plug him proper. Come on up to
the ranch-house.”
Hippy said they had intended to do so in the morning, and then asked
the rancher if he knew a man named Hornby. Bindloss’s face darkened
and a heavy scowl wrinkled his forehead.
“I reckon I do. He and I don’t hook up nohow, but he’s got a
daughter that I reckon I wish was mine. Judy is a peach and you
ought to know her. Why do you ask me about Mal Hornby?”
Tom Gray explained that they had been ordered to leave the grazing
grounds on the other side of the valley, and that the demand had
been made in Hornby’s name. He also told Bindloss about the raid of
the night before.
“A-huh! Hornby ain’t got no call to tell you to get out. A Mexican
feller, you say? Probably one of the half-breeds that you’ll find
all over the ranges, and a bad lot they are, too. I don’t reckon
Hornby had to do with that.”
“Who do you think the raiders were?” questioned Grace.
“How do I know? I reckon, though, that mebby they were sent after
you. Somebody don’t want you folks hangin’ ’round these diggin’s,
but I reckon that Sam Conifer can take care of them. Eh, Sam?”
“I reckon, but honest, Joe, my rheumatiz crinkles my fingers so that
I can’t throw a gun any more, let alone pulling the trigger,”
complained Sam.
Bindloss laughed uproariously.
“The feller who reckons on gettin’ you because of your rheumatiz is
a dead man before he leaves home that day. Say, folks, the boys are
having a little shindy in the ranch-house this evenin’, and they’d
be mighty pleased to have you all come over. The boys are a rough
gang, but they will treat you fine, you ladies.”
“What kind of a shindy?” asked Nora.
“A dance. They have a fiddle and a fellow who scrapes it, and they
may walk on your toes, but they’ll feel worse about it than you do.”
“Oh, goodie! A dance! Of course we will go. Come on, folks. Oh, Mr.
Bindloss, do you ever dream?” asked Emma soberly.
“Help!” murmured J. Elfreda.
“Why, yes. I reckon I do, like everybody else does when they get
outside of too much chuck,” laughed the rancher.
“Do you ever make a psychoanalysis of your dreams, Mr. Bindloss?”
questioned Emma, laying a hand on the rancher’s arm and gazing up
into his eyes.
“Eh? Eh? A what?” he stammered.
“You should learn to read your dreams. Freud says that all dreams
mean something—ungratified desires in life—imponderable somethings
that may mean great happiness, great sorrows, disaster—any number
of fine or frightful things. If you will tell me about your dreams I
will search out the imponderable quality in them and—”
“Ride out, Miss Dean! Quick! Use your spurs because—”
“Don’t be alarmed,” begged Elfreda. “She never gets violent. We are
in hopes that the mountain air may do her good.” The Overland Riders
burst out laughing, which, after a look at Emma, Old Joe Bindloss
joined in with a bellowing laugh.
“Try that on the boys. They’ll be plumb locoed,” rumbled Bindloss.
“Are you going with me?”
“Of course we are,” answered Emma. “Where’s my horse?”
“I have ridden every foot that I am going to ride today,” protested
Miss Briggs. “Let’s walk.”
The distance to the ranch being only about a mile the Overlanders
decided that they would walk, and the rancher, assuring them that
their stock and equipment would not be disturbed, Jim-Sam welcomed
the opportunity to accompany them. Bindloss led his mustang and
walked with them, and between Emma Dean’s quaint humor and Stacy
Brown’s broader fun-making, Bindloss was kept in a roar most of the
way home.
He explained that he had no family, and that he seldom saw people of
the outside world except when he went to town, which was only at
rare intervals. He said that his men were preparing for a round-up
and that within a few days a bunch of his cowboys would start with a
drove of cattle for the north. He led his new friends to the
dance-house, which was the cowboys’ bunk-house, and there he
introduced them to that rollicking crowd.
The fiddler stopped playing the moment the party appeared in the
bunk-house.
Sierra Joe, Squint Nevada, Sallie, and Two-gun Peters, were among
the names that rolled readily from the tongue of the rancher as he
introduced his men to the Overland Riders.
“And if they don’t talk you to death I reckon they’ll dance you to
death,” warned the rancher, grinning at his men. “Scrape, you lazy
lout!” he roared to the fiddler.
The cowboys were shy, and stood about awkwardly, avoiding the eyes
of the girls who were smiling invitingly.
“See here, boys, aren’t you going to ask us to dance?” cried Emma.
“No? Then I am going to ask you. Two-gun Peters, I like your name.
It is a perfectly adorable name, and I want to dance with you. If
you are half as handy with your feet as your name indicates that you
are with your revolver, we’ll have a heavenly dance. Shake your
feet, Peter!”
There was laughter from the Overlanders, a bellowing laugh from Joe
Bindloss and sheepish grins from Two-gun Peters and his fellows, as
Emma grabbed him and began waltzing about with him. Then the other
girls of the party selected their partners, and in a few moments the
cowboys were dancing, milling about as if they were herding cattle
at a round-up. Stamping feet, shrill cries from the fiddler and an
occasional howl from Stacy Brown, who was doing an Indian dance by
himself, made the old bunk-house ring, and raised the dust until the
room was bathed in a yellow haze.
Jim and Sam, grinning and pulling their whiskers, were watching the
fun and trying to talk to Bindloss, but the old rancher was having
altogether too good a time to say much to them.
“I wish Judy was over here. She’d see somethin’ worth while,” he
finally confided to Tom Gray.
“Two-gun, do you ever dream?” Emma was saying as she swept past them
with her partner.
“Why—I—I reckon I do,” admitted Two-gun. “Why?”
“Did you ever hear of a man named Freud, the world’s most scientific
interpreter of dreams?” questioned the little freckle-faced girl
gazing soulfully up into the eyes of the big cowboy.
“I shore did heah of a feller of thet name. He was a cattle rustler
an’ I reckon he’s havin’ a long dream, ’cause they caught him and
hanged him up on Rainy Mountain ’bout three year ago. He shore was
some rustler, an’ thar’s some others of the same kind that aire
goin’ the same way when we kotch up with ’em.”
“Oh, no! That isn’t the man I mean. The one I refer to is a great
scientist who has discovered that there is an imponderable quality
in each of us, and through his method of psychoanalysis he is able
to throw the spot-light on that imponderable quality and—”
“Bang! Bang!”
Two quick shots fired from somewhere beyond the open door of the
bunk-house startled every one in the room. One bullet passed through
Sam Conifer’s whiskers, and the other grazed the dress of Emma Dean
who was dancing past him at that instant.
Sam’s weapon was out of its holster with a movement so speedy that
no one saw him draw it. Two shots rang out from the guide’s weapon,
one shattering the hanging lamp, the other following close upon the
first, but fired through the open door. The room was plunged into
deep darkness, with the odor of burnt powder heavy on the air.