Bat Wing Bowles

But now the stern realities of life loomed up before him, and Bowles found himself with a real round-up on his hands. It does not take much of a man to sit on the front porch and talk near-love with a girl; but to follow a Western round-up is a task to try the hardiest. For three hours Bowles rode at a rough trot across the valley, fighting down the awful instinct to rise in his stirrups and "bob"; and then as the distant hills grew nearer the cowboys broke into a lope. They separated into two parties that formed the horns of a circle, dropping off man after man as they jumped up cattle, and still spurring on and on. The puncher with the weakest horse was dropped first, for there would be no chance to change till noon, and the best mounted was saved to the last in order to get his full strength. Bowles was on Wa-ha-lote, and he rode to the end before Henry Lee sent him back with the herd.

Very slowly now he plodded along behind his bunch of cattle, riding back and forth as he picked up strays, and driving them all to some common center. To the right and left, and far across to distant hills, he could see lone men at their task, and the great plain became dotted with cattle as the circle closed in on the grounds. A hundred cow-trails, sinuous as snake-tracks, led in to this place they all sought, and when the lowing strings of cattle met it was on the flat by a dammed-up lake. There the herds were thrown together, carefully so that no mother should lose her calf; and while they stood them upon the cutting-ground the wrangler brought up his horses, and each man caught out a fresh mount.

Nowhere in all his work is the mastery of the cowboy more apparent than when he changes horses on the open plain. The great remuda of over two hundred horses was driven in on the gallop; then the cowboys rounded them up, and each man dropped to the ground. One by one they took down their ropes and threw the loose ends to their neighbors, and there in a minute's time was a corral that would hold the wildest outlaw, for a rope is the greatest terror of a cow-pony. It was a rope that fore-footed him when he was a colt, and bound him at the branding; every morning the long, snaky loops whizzed past their ears and dragged out those who must ride till they were ready to drop; and so, even though they had the power to brush the rope fence aside, the frightened horses huddled away from it and submitted to the noose.

Bowles was barred, for his Mother Hubbard roping threw the herd into a frenzy; so he saddled up for Brigham and let that doughty puncher drag out his mount. Then the cutting and branding began, and Henry Lee put him to flanking calves. Perhaps he, too, had heard of the tenderfoot's remarks about his daughter; or it may have been the original grouch; but Bowles knew from the look in his eye that he was elected to do his full share. So he labored on, trying to learn the tricks of the older flankers, and schooling himself to their stoical endurance.

A heavy wind came up, sweeping the dust across the flat in clouds, and still the cutters rode and roped. They ate dinner in relays, turning their backs to the storm and bolting their grimy food in silence, and hurried back to the herd. The sparks from the branding-fire flew fifty feet in a line, and the irons would hardly hold heat in the wind; but they carried the work through to the end. Then they moved the herd to harder ground, and cut it between the gusts, when every horse turned tail and the riders shut their eyes. The ones and twos were lumped together, the strays turned loose on the plain, and the outfit plodded on to the east, driving their cut before them.

That night they camped at a ranch, throwing down their beds in barns and sheds, and eating in the open. The next day they braved the wind and combed the distant mountain, riding far over the rocky slopes, and branding in a cañon. On the third day the wind brought up rain and sleet, and the mountains were powdered with snow, but the round-up moved on inexorably. Then the wind veered to the east and the air became bitter cold; Gloomy Gus could hardly cook for the gale that assaulted him, and the wrangler lost eight or ten horses; but still the hardy cowboys rode and cut and branded, for a round-up never stops for wind and weather.

As for Bowles, his face was peeled and swollen, his eyes half-blinded by dust and wind, his body chilled through in spite of his clothes, and he saw himself in that company like a child among grown-up men. Half of the cowboys left their coats on the wagon until the day of the blizzard; and Brigham was still in his shirt-sleeves, having rolled up his coat with his bed and forgotten to bring his slicker. Yet none of them railed at the weather; no one quit; it was their life. Perhaps from their earliest boyhood they had braved the Texas northers or endured the continual sandstorms of high and windy plains. They were used to it, like the horses that bore them; but Bowles was a more delicate plant. All he could do was to live on from day to day, wondering at their courage and hardihood, and marveling at his own presumption in thinking he could play at their game.

A week passed, and the wind grew warmer, though it still swept in from the southeast. The outfit reached the limit of its circle and turned toward home, sending its cuts of dogies on before it. On the first of May they were contracted to be delivered at Chula Vista, there to be shipped to Colorado and the Texas Panhandle and fattened into steers. But feed was short, for the cold had set back the grass, and Henry Lee had wired that he could deliver on the twentieth. So while he waited for an answer he sent his cattle ahead of him, and every day as he rode he watched for a messenger from home.

Nor was he alone in this, for the messenger would be Dixie; but no one said a word. It was part of the patience of these rugged sons of the desert that they should make no sign. They were camped in a grove of sycamores beneath the shelter of a hill, and the outfit was gathered about the fire, when she rode in at the end of the day. Each man of them regarded her silently as she carried the word to her father; and then, when he nodded his satisfaction, they stirred in expectation of her greeting.

"Howd-do, boys?" she said, vaulting lightly off her horse and coming nearer. "'Evening, Mr. Mosby; what's the chance for a little supper?"

She looked them all over casually as she drew off her gloves by the fire, and for a few minutes the conversation was confined to news. Then she went back to her saddle, and returned with a bundle of letters.

"Well, boys," she remarked, with a teasing smile, "I'm postmistress this trip, so line up here and give me your present names – also the names you went by back in Texas. 'James Doyle!' Why, is that your name, Red? Here's one for you, too, Uncle Joe. All right now, here's one from Moroni – for Charley Clark! Aw, Brig, are you still writing to that girl down on the river? Well, isn't that provoking! And here's a whole bunch for Hardy Atkins. Every one from a girl, too – I can tell by the handwriting. No, Mr. Buchanan, you don't draw anything – not under that name, anyway. But here's one for Sam Houghton – maybe that's for you? No? Well, who is it for? No, we can't go any further until I deliver this Houghton letter. Who is there here that answers to the name of Sam?"

She glanced all around, a roguish twinkle in her eye, but no one claimed that honor.

"Nothing to be afraid of," she urged. "It was mailed at Chula Vista, and written by a girl. Pretty handwriting, too – something like mine. I bet there's something nice inside of it – I can tell by the curly-cues on the letters."

Once more she surveyed her circle of smirking admirers, but no one answered the call. She looked again, and her eyes fell on Mr. Bowles.

"Stranger," she said, speaking with well-simulated hesitation, "I didn't quite catch your name down at the ranch – isn't this letter for you?"

For a moment Bowles' heart stopped beating altogether and a hundred crazy fancies fogged his brain; then he shook his head, and gazed shamefacedly away.

"My name is Bowles," he said stiffly; "Samuel Bowles."

"Well, this says Samuel," reasoned Dixie Lee, advancing to show him the letter. "Here – take a look at it!"

She stepped very close as she spoke, and as Bowles glanced at her he saw that her eyes were big with portent. Then he scanned the letter, and in a flash he recognized her handwriting – the same that he had seen on the train. A strange impulse to possess the missive swept over him at this, and his hand leaped out to seize it; but the look in her eyes detained him. They were big with mystery, but he sensed also a shadow of deceit. And while she might merely have designs on his peace of mind, there were other possibilities involved. To be sure, his name had been Houghton on his railroad ticket, but that did not prove anything now; and, besides, he did not want even that to be known. Affairs of the heart prosper best in secret, without the aid of meddling or officious outsiders; and for that reason, if for no other, Bowles desired to remain incog. Even with a false clue, Dixie May might write to New York, and ultimately reach his aunt, thus cutting short his romantic adventures. She might even – but he skipped the rest of the things she might do, and straightened his face to a mask.

"Ah, thank you, no," he said, speaking very formally. "Not for me – though the handwriting does seem familiar."

"Maybe it's money from home," she suggested; but still he refused to accept. He was ignorant of the ways of women, but his instincts were trained to a hair-line, and he read mischief in her heart. Yet curiosity almost tempted him to accede – or was it the witchery of her presence? For Dixie May stood very close to him, closer than was necessary, and as she argued, half in earnest, she fixed him with her eyes.

The boys by the fire, who had been looking on in wonder, became suddenly restive and impatient. Their little game of post-office had been broken up in the middle, and this stranger was monopolizing the postmistress.

"But the postmaster thought it was for you," persisted Dixie May, now apparently annoyed. "He described you down to your hat-band; and if I don't get rid of this letter I'll have to take it clear back to town. Of course – "

"Aw, take the letter!" broke in Hardy Atkins, striding over from his place and fiercely confronting Bowles. "What's the matter with you – ain't you got no manners? Well then, when a lady asks you to take a letter, take it!"

He reached out to get the letter and force it upon him forthwith, but Dixie May tossed her head and jerked the missive away.

"Who called you in on this, Hardy Atkins?" she inquired, turning upon him haughtily. "It's a wonder you wouldn't go off somewhere and read those pink scented billets-doux I gave you. I reckon this man knows his own name without any outside help. Now, you go on away and let me do this!"

He went, his lips pouted out petulantly and a shifty look in his eye, and once more the fair postmistress turned upon her victim.

"Now, here," she said, lowering her voice and speaking confidentially, "I'm not trying to force this upon you, but I've got a duty to perform. Think of the poor lady that wrote this letter," she urged, smiling significantly; "she may have something important to tell you. And don't mind a little thing like an alias – these boys have all got one." Once more she smiled, holding out the letter; and the boys favored him with dark and forbidding glances; but Bowles was game to the end.

"So sorry," he murmured, bowing deferentially; "but my name is Bowles, not Houghton."

"Well, well," said Dixie Lee, looking him between the eyes; "so your name is Bowles, eh? I certainly hope you'll excuse me, stranger, but I sure thought your name was Houghton!"

So saying, she turned and left him; and after pondering upon the matter for some time Bowles suddenly felt his heart go sick, for she had addressed him at the last as "Stranger."

CHAPTER XIV

THE ENGLISH LORD

A remarkable series of accidents happened to Bat Wing Bowles immediately after his discourtesy to the lady – accidents which seemed to indicate that he had lost his horseshoe as well as the good-will of his associates. For while Bowles had been a raw hand from the start it had early been remarked that horses would not pitch with him – but now, on the very morning after his contretemps, his mount took a fit of bucking which all but landed him in the dirt. A term of years in a military academy, as well as a considerable experience in riding to hounds, had left Bowles a little vain of his horsemanship; but in this emergency he had been compelled to reach down and frankly grab the horn. Otherwise he would have been "piled" before he could recover from the surprise. As it was, he was badly jarred, not only by the shock of the buck-jumps but also by the caustic comments of the cowboys.

"Oh, mamma!" shouted one. "See 'im choke that horn!"

"Let go of the noodle, Sam!" advised another; and then, in a kind of chant, they recited those classic lines that are supposed to drive Englishmen mad:

"Hit's not the 'unting that 'urts the 'orse's 'oofs; hit's the 'ammer, 'ammer, 'ammer on the 'ard 'ighway!"

Time and again Bowles had explained that he was not English, that all gentlemen rose to the trot in the East, and that his people had never dropped an "h" in their lives. Like an old and groundless scandal that lives on denial alone, the tradition still clung to him; and now, as some vagrant fancy turned their will against him, they voiced their disapproval in this ancient gibe.

"It's Hinglish, you know!" they shouted; and once more Bowles was branded as an alien. And all for refusing a letter and speaking saucily to a lady.

As for the lady, she stayed at a ranch over night and went out early in the morning, taking a short-cut through the nesters' lanes for Chula Vista. A telegram must be sent to the receiving company that the cattle would be delivered on the twentieth, the cattle-cars must be ordered from the railroad, and the cattle inspector notified of the change; for the grass was eaten down to the rocks at Chula Vista, and a wait at the pens would be fatal. All these details Henry Lee trusted to his daughter, and, forgetting the frivolous nothings of yesterday, she rode past the Bat Wing outfit without stopping or waving her hand. Then somebody put something on Bowles' horse and they started the day with a circus.

A second day, full of excitement and rough riding, followed, and then the gang took pity on the poor tenderfoot and left him to think it over. But Bowles was not broken in spirit; far from it, for he had been secretly longing for a horse that would buck. He was rapidly becoming so wise that deception was no longer practicable. When a man has an old staid cow-pony rise up under him and try to paw the white out of the moon, he is liable to look over his rigging rather carefully to see what it was all about; and if he should find a yellow spot on the flap of his saddle-blanket, a tender place on his horse's rump, and a suspicious odor of carbon bisulphide in the air, he is likely to shy away from unfriendly horsemen, even if he never heard of "high-lifing" a bronk. Those were eventful days for Samuel Bowles, and he found himself learning fast, when Henry Lee suddenly called him aside and told him to go with Brigham.

Brigham was taking a bunch of dogies back to the home ranch and he needed a man to help him – also the boss was getting a little tired of these sudden accidents to Bowles. He was not conducting a circus or a Wild West Show but a serious and precarious business, and a touch of "high-life" at the wrong time might stampede his whole herd of cattle. So he told the tenderfoot to go on the drive with Brigham.

There is a good deal left unsaid in a cow camp – so much, in fact, that a stranger never knows what is going on; and Brigham had been as silent as the rest while Bowles was taking his medicine. Even on the drive he was strangely quiet, chewing away soberly at his tobacco and looking out from under his hat with squinting and cynical eyes. They were friends now, as far as a tenderfoot can expect to have a friend, but Brigham said nothing about stringing the cattle, and asked no questions about gay New York – he had something on his mind. And when the time came he spoke it out.

"Say, stranger," he said, still calling him by that cold name which marked him as a man apart, "did you see Dixie Lee back in New York last winter?"

It was a bolt out of the blue sky; but Bowles was trained to evasions – he had lived in polite society and tried to keep friends with Truth.

"Miss Lee?" he repeated in tones of wonderment.

"W'y, sure," answered Brigham; "she was back there all winter."

"So I hear," observed Bowles; "but there were about four million other people there too, Brig; so I can't say for sure. Why? What made you ask?"

"Oh – nothin'," mumbled Brig, playing with the rowel on his spur as he watched the cattle graze; "only it seemed like, the way she spoke to you the other day, you'd mebbe met before. Some of the boys said they reckoned you knowed her back there – she talked so kinder friendly-like."