Bat Wing Bowles

It is the philosophy of the poseurs in pessimism that for every happy moment we have in life we pay at a later date a greater price. Of course, any one who ever took a kid to the circus knows better, but there are times when the doctrine seems to hold. When Bowles returned to the round-up, the news of his perfidy had preceded him – he had taken advantage of his position and spent the evening at the big house! Thereupon the hotheads lowered upon him malignantly, and Hardy Atkins hunted up his high-life bottle.

The accepted function of carbon bisulphide in the great Southwest is to kill off prairie-dogs. A tablespoonful poured on a cow-chip and rolled down a dog hole will asphyxiate the entire family. The same amount poured on a man's horse will make the man think he has been shot with a pack-saddle, and that was what happened to Bowles. When he became too wary for the bottle, they resorted to other means, and finally he detected the bronco-twister with a loaded syringe in his hand.

"Now, that will do, Mr. Atkins," he observed with some asperity. "It's all right for you boys to haze me a little, but my horses are getting spoiled and I'll have to ask you to stop."

"Oho!" shouted Bar Seven and the stray men, who had sweethearts in other parts and dearly loved excitement. "He caught you at it, Hardy! Now what you goin' to do?"

"I ain't goin' to do nothin'," declared Hardy Atkins, carefully stowing his squirt-gun away. "No Hinglishman looks bad to me, and I'll high-life him whenever I like!"

"You will not!" said Henry Lee, coming up as he heard the words. "I've had enough of this foolishness, and I want you to quit right now. First thing you know that hawse will pitch into the herd and we'll have a stampede on our hands. Now, come ahead and clean out this pasture, we'll start the drive for town."

They rounded up the pastures then, one after the other, and soon the great herd of dogies was strung out on the road. At regular distances along the flanks the swing men plodded along; toward the front the two point men directed the head of the herd; and, behind, the remainder of the men brought up the drag. They traveled slowly, sometimes swinging out into the hills and letting the cattle feed, and as they drifted along over the rock-patches the clack, clack, clack of splay-toed hoofs made a noise like rain on the roof. At intervals some stubborn two-year-old would break from the tail of the herd, some fresh-branded calf fall by the wayside, to be left for another drive; but the day of the steer is past on the lower ranges of the great Southwest, and feeders are easier to handle. So they dragged on, drifting over to the river for water and back onto the plains for the night, and many a nester's fence was laid flat as they jerked it to turn out the strays. Then, at the end of the third day, they came within sight of Chula Vista and Henry Lee rode on ahead.

"Hardy," he said as he turned his horse toward town, "I'll leave you in charge of the herd. Put them into the pens for the night, and hold the remuda out on the flats. I'll be down as soon as I find my men. And, remember, no drinking!"

He looked very hard at his straw-boss as he spoke, and Hardy Atkins answered him dutifully; but when the boss was gone he turned and winked at his partners.

"You hear me now, boys," he said. "No drinkin'! You know the rule – you cain't drink whisky and work fer Henry Lee! Umph-umm! But I hope to Gawd some of them town boys come out with a bottle!"

He smacked his lips as he spoke, and made up a funny face.

"I got three months' pay comin' to me," he remarked, and went spurring up to the front.

"I never seen the time yet," observed Buck Buchanan, as he loafed philosophically along with the drag, "that I couldn't git another job somewhere. When I've got money comin' to me, I want to spend it, by Joe!"

"Sure!" agreed Happy Jack, who had been singing songs all day. "What's the use of workin', anyway?"

"That's me!" chimed in Poker Bill. "Let's quit and draw our pay!"

"Put these cows in the pen first," said Jack, snapping his fingers and waltzing airily in his saddle.

"Whoopee tee, yi, yo, git along, little dogies,
It's all yore misfortune and none of my own.
Whoopee tee, yi, yo, git along, little dogies,
'Cause you know my whistle is dry as a bone."

It was a new experience to Bowles, this riding into a cow town, and he viewed with wide-eyed alarm the evidences of dissolution and revolt. Even Brigham was licking his lips and gazing at the town; and when the first bottle came out he took a long drink with the rest. Bowles excused himself, and wondered what would happen; but the half-drunken cowboy who brought out the life-saver never gave him a second look. It was not so hard to dispose of whisky in those parts.

As the herd neared town, the idle and curious came riding out to see it, and Bowles was pained to notice certain painted women, who seemed to know the boys by their first names. They rode along the herd, waving handkerchiefs and shouting greetings, and a sudden distrust of frontier morality came over him as he observed the shameless response. The shipping pens were below the town about a mile – a barren square of whitewashed fencing, backed up to a side-track full of empty stock-cars – and as the weary cattle dragged along across the flats Hardy Atkins and a bunch of punchers cut off the leaders and whooped them on ahead. There was a jam at the gates, a break or two, and then the first timid dogie stepped fearfully into the enclosure. The smell of water in the troughs lured him on, the rest followed, and when the main herd came up it was artfully tailed on to the drag.

At last! The high gate swung to on the harvest of the long round-up, and the punchers raced their horses to be first at the waiting chuck-wagon. In an angle of the fence Gloomy Gus had unpacked his ovens and set up his fire irons, and now as they flew at their supper he surveyed them with cynical calm.

"Whar's Henry Lee?" he inquired at length; and Hardy Atkins pointed back to town with his knife.

"He's over lookin' up his buyer," he said. "I'm the boss now, Cusi; what can I do fer you?"

"Oh, you're boss now, are you?" repeated Gus, with heavy scorn. "Well, then, why don't you send some one out to relieve thet hawse wrangler? He'll be turnin' the remuda loose pretty soon, from the way he's been makin' signs."

"Aw, he'll keep!" laughed the straw-boss. "Hey, fellers, who wants the first guard to-night?"

Nobody spoke.

"Somebody's got to stand guard," he observed, running his eyes over the crowd. "First guard's the best – eight to half-past ten. Bill? Jim? Hank? Well, I'll make it Jim and Hank, anyhow – only way to keep 'em in camp. You boys know Mr. Lee's orders – no drinkin' now – I don't want to find you downtown!"

"Aw-haw-haw!" roared the crowd. That was a good one – he didn't want to find them downtown! Well, what would he be doing down there?

"Well, who's goin' to relieve us?" inquired Hank plaintively. "Last time we was down I had to stand guard all night!"

The bronco-twister ran his eyes over the crowd again, as if searching for some one.

"Where's that feller that refused a drink this evenin'?" he demanded facetiously. "He's the boy fer second guard – good and reliable – and Hinglish, too. Hinglish, I'll ask you and yore Mormon friend, Mr. Clark, to kindly stand the second guard. Bud and Bill third, and Jack and Buck fourth. I'm boss now, and I don't stand guard."

"Oh, thunder!" grumbled Brig, as he threw himself down on his bed. "I wish the boss would come back. Them rounders will stay in town all night. Let's take a little flier ourselves," he urged as Bowles lay down beside him. "We can git back in time!"

But a sudden sense of responsibility had come over Bowles as he observed how the crowd faded away, and he held Brigham to his post. At ten-thirty, in response to a hurried summons, they took a spare blanket for warmth and rode out to stand their guard.

The stars wheeled round in their courses and sank down in the west; the horses shifted about on the barren plain and made their customary efforts to escape; and when the first cold light of dawn crept in, it showed "Hinglish" and his Mormon friend still standing their lonely vigil.

But for once in a lifetime self-sacrificing virtue got its reward, for Henry Lee came riding out with his buyer at daylight and discovered them at their post. He did not say much – in fact he did not say anything – and Brigham and Bowles did the same; but there was a difference in the air. At last Bowles had justified his existence – he had stayed with his job to the end.

There was a hurried searching of the town for Bat Wing cowboys, a straggling return of drunken and mutinous punchers, and then, with barely men enough to man the gates, the work of shipping began. By twos and threes the dogies were driven down a lane; the cattle inspector read the brands and made his tally, and the buyer passed them on or cut them back. Then, as the cutting and re-cutting was finished, the cattle were punched up the chutes and crowded into the cars. As the day wore on, more and more of the hands returned and took up the prod pole; but Henry Lee made no remarks. Even when his trusted straw-boss showed up late, he made no comment; but once back in camp he pulled his book like a pistol, and began to write out checks.

"Well, boys," he said, "you were drunk last night; I'll have to give you your time. Hardy, you're a good cow-hand, but I'll have to let you go, too. So here's your time checks; and turn your horses out. I've got to have men I can trust."

There was a heavy silence at this, for all the outfits in the country were full-handed now, and no one was looking for men. And Henry Lee was a good man to work for – he treated his hands white, fed them well, and paid the top price to boot. He also kept the best of them over winter, while others were riding the chuck-line or hanging around livery-stables in town. But nobody said a word, for they knew it would do no good; and, after he had paid them off and gone back to town, the luckless ones who had been fired drew off by themselves and talked the matter over. To be sure, they had the price of a drunk in their clothes; but they were fired and put afoot now, and town has no allurements to a cowboy unless he can ride in on a horse. So Hardy Atkins and his Texas followers lolled sulkily around the camp, sleeping fitfully in their blankets and glowering at Brigham Clark and the few careful spirits who had escaped their employer's wrath. And in particular they glowered at Bowles, the virtuous and dutiful, and hated him above all the rest for his air of conscious rectitude.

Supper that evening offered no appeal to the drink-shaken carousers, but they stayed for it all the same, hoping against hope that the boss would come back and give them another chance. But they knew him too well to think it – Henry Lee would let his whole calf crop grow up to be mavericks before he would take back his word. Still they waited, and along toward sundown, as luck would have it, he came out; and with him, riding like a queen on her spirited horse, came Dixie May. She looked them over coldly, returning short answers to their shamefaced greetings and saving a smile for the cook.

"Good-evening, Mr. Mosby," she said, pouring out a little coffee for politeness' sake. "And so these boys had to go on a drunk and get fired, did they? Well, you won't have so many to cook for now – that'll be one consolation."

"Yes, Miss Dix," agreed the cook, "but mighty little, believe me! One cowboy is jest about as ornery an' no 'count as the other – and whisky gits 'em all. They're all alike – I been cookin' for 'em fer thirty years, off an' on, and they ain't one of 'em is worth the powder to blow 'im to – excuse me, Miss Dix. But, as I was sayin', take 'em as they come, and keep 'em out of town, and these boys is pretty fair – pretty fair; I'm sorry to see 'em go."

At this kindly word of intercession, a new light came into the eyes of the unemployed; but Dixie Lee had come on a mission, and it was not her policy to yield in a minute.

"Well, I'm not!" she declared. "If you'd listened to the amount of foolishness that I've suffered from these boys, Mr. Mosby; if you'd heard 'em say how they were going to save their wages and buy a little bunch of cows – and tell about the quarter-section of land they had their eye on – and swear, so help me God, they'd never take another drink of whisky as long as they lived – I believe you'd be glad to get rid of 'em!"

She turned and ran her eye over the crowd, and both the just and the unjust quailed before her.

"And so you were drunk, were you, Mr. Atkins?" she inquired, fixing her gaze upon the deposed straw-boss; and Hardy Atkins shot a look at her which was both confession and appeal.

"And you, Jack?" she continued severely.

"Yes, ma'am," spoke up Happy Jack, upon whom the severity of her manner was lost. "I was drunk, all right."

"Well, you don't need to be proud of it!" she observed cuttingly. "It's no distinction in this bunch. Brig, were you drunk, too?"

"No, ma'am," responded Brigham promptly.