Bat Wing Bowles

"Very well," said Bowles; "I'll ride the horse."

"Like hell you will!" sneered the gang in a chorus, but Bowles did not heed their words.

"Any time you put the saddle on him," he said, "I'll ride him."

At this they stood irresolute, unable to make him out. On the morning that he had ridden Wa-ha-lote he was a tenderfoot, not knowing one horse from another, but now he had seen the worst. And yet he would climb up on Dunbar!

"Come on – let's rope 'im!" urged Hardy Atkins, but he did not move out of his tracks. "No, the boss is comin' back," he said. "Let's wait till we're hyer by ourse'ves. All right, Mr. Bronco-bustin' Bowles, we'll fix you good and plenty – the first time the folks leave the house. And meantime, if you value yore health, you better stay down on low ground."

"I will go wherever I please," answered Bowles; but he stayed down on the low ground.

CHAPTER XXII

THE HORSE THAT KILLED DUNBAR

In the Homeric simplicity of the cow camps, where the primitive emotions still rule, any soul-stirring which cannot find its expression in curses is pretty sure to seek the level of laughter. The boys were profoundly moved by Bowles' declaration of intention, but after gazing upon him for a spell in mingled incredulity and awe, their lips began to curl.

"Aw —him!" they said. "Him ride Dunbar? Umph-umm! We'll wake up some mornin' and find him gone!"

Then, as a morning or two passed and Bowles was still in his place, they began to lapse into jest.

"Old Henry will shore be s'prised when he comes back from town," observed blithesome Happy Jack. "He'll find Bowles ridin' Dunbar with a hackamore and feedin' him sugar from his hand. Big doin's soon to come, boys – boss and family goin' down to Chula Vista to-morrer."

"Well, we better hog-tie Hinglish, then," grumbled Buck Buchanan; "he'll never last till mornin'. Gittin' right close on to that time!"

"Never you mind about Hinglish," retorted Brigham Clark, whose loyalty had been fanned to a flame. "If it was you, Buck Buchanan, we couldn't see you fer dust right now. They ain't a man of ye dares to say he'd ride Dunbar, let alone the doin' of it. Will you ride him second if he throws Bowles off? Well, keep yore face shut, then! The whole bunch of ye ought to be canned fer tryin' to git 'im killed!"

"Well, let 'im go on away, then!" burst out Hardy Atkins. "We never told 'im to ride Dunbar – we told 'im to quit his four-flushin' and either make good or git. There's the road down there – let 'im take to it!"

He jerked an imperious hand at Bowles, who answered him with a scowl.

"If you will kindly mind your own business, Mr. Atkins," he purled, "I shall certainly be greatly obliged."

He gave each word the Harvard accent and tipped it off with venom, for Bowles was losing his repose. In fact, he was mad, mad all over, and at every remark he bristled like a dog. A concatenation of circumstances had thrown him into the company of these Texas brawlers, but he aimed to show by every means in his power his absolute contempt for their trickery and his determination to stand on his rights. He had said he would ride Dunbar, and that was enough – he had given his word as a gentleman. Therefore, he resented their insinuations and desired only to be left alone. Certainly he had enough on his mind to keep him occupied without responding to ill-natured remarks.

Fate was piling things up on poor Bowles, and he earnestly longed for the end. There is a cynic's saying that every time a man gets into trouble his girl goes back on him, just to carry out the run of luck; and while of course it isn't true, it seemed that way to Bowles. Perhaps his own manner had had something to do with it, but, the morning after his rebuff, Dixie greeted him almost as a stranger, and, falling back shortly afterward into her old carefree way of talking, she began to josh with the boys. Then she took a long ride with Brigham, a ride that left him all lit up with enthusiasm and made him want to talk about love. As a matter of fact, Dixie had sensed something big in the air and was anxiously ferreting it out, but Bowles did not know about that. All he knew was that he disapproved of her conduct, and wondered vaguely what her mother would say. Not that it was any of his business, but he wondered all the same; and, wondering, shook his head and sighed.

But three days of flirting and sleuthing brought nothing to Dixie's net. From the cook down, the outfit was a solid phalanx against her – they would talk and smile but they never showed their hand. One clue and only one she had – there seemed to be an unusual interest in when she was going to town. First on one pretext and then on another they inquired casually about the date, and if her folks were going along too. So, whatever the deviltry was, it was something that called for secrecy – and it was due on the day they left home. She looked them over as they gathered about the evening fire, and smoothed her hair down thoughtfully – and the next morning she started for town.

The sale of his steers was making Henry Lee a lot of trouble – and the holding of them as well. Not being able to find a buyer at his price, he set the cowboys to fence mending – lest the outlaws should breach the wires – and went back and forth to town. And this morning his wife went with him, sitting close behind the grays, with Dixie riding fast behind. Their dust changed to haze on the horizon before any one moved a hand, and then Hardy Atkins turned on Bowles.

"All right, Mr. Bowles," he said. "Here's where we see yore hand. I'll saddle that hawse if you'll ride 'im, but don't make me that trouble fer nothin', because if you do– "

"Oh, shut up!" snapped Bowles, whose nerves were worn to a frazzle. "What's the use of talking about it? Put the saddle on him!"

"Holy Jehu!" whistled Atkins. "Listen to the boy talk, will you? Must have somethin' on his mind – what?"

"Well, quit yore foolin'!" put in Brigham abruptly. "We'll all git fired fer this, and him liable to git killed to boot, so hurry up and let's have it over with!"

"I'll go ye!" laughed the ex-twister, skipping off with a sprightly step. "Come on, boys; it'll take the bunch of us – but I'll saddle old Dunbar or die! 'O-oh, hit's not the 'unting that 'urts the 'orse's 'oofs; hit's the 'ammer, 'ammer, 'ammer on the 'ard 'ighway!' E-e-e – hoo!"

He laughed and cut another caper as he ended this bald refrain, and Brigham glowered at him balefully.

"'Hit's!'" he quoted. "'Hit's!' Listen to the ignorant cracker! I never seen a Texican yet that could talk the straight U. S.! But go on now, you low-flung cotton-pickers, and I'll fix Bowles fer his ridin'!"

They hustled away as he spoke, the best of them to wrangle Dunbar, and the rest to admire the sight. Here was an event that would go down in Bat Wing history, and only the cook stayed away. Life had been stale, flat, and unprofitable to Gloomy Gus since he delivered the oration over Happy Jack, and the very care with which all hands refrained from speaking of it showed how poignant the joke had been. Faces which had looked pleasant to him before were repulsive now, and in this last assay on Bowles he saw but a recrudescence of the horse-play which had worked such havoc with his own pride. Therefore, he was morose and sullen and stayed with his pots and pans.

"I want to warn you, Mr. Bowles," he called, as Bowles came, full-rigged, from the bunk-house. "I want to give you warnin' – thet hawse is dangerous!"

"All right, Mr. Mosby," answered Bowles absently, as he started for the round corral.

"He done killed a man!" croaked Gloomy Gus. "A right good cow-puncher, too – I knowed him well. Jim Dunbar – the top rider of the outfit. Don't say I never warned you, now – keep off that hawse!"

"All right, Mr. Mosby," responded Bowles, but he never missed a stride. The time had come to show himself a man, and, like an athlete who goes forth to win, his thoughts were on the battle.

"You want to set him limber," reiterated Brigham in his ear. "Ride 'im like a drunk man, and whip 'im at every jump – it gives you somethin' to do. Grab 'im with yore spurs every time he lights; and look out he don't bite yore legs. Here, take my quirt – it's heavier – and if he starts to go over backwards, hit 'im hard between the ears. You kin ride 'im, pardner, I know it! Jest keep cool and don't get stiff!"

"All right, Brig," muttered Bowles; "all right!" But his eyes were on the corral.

A cloud of dust rose on the still morning air like smoke from some red-burning fire, and through the poles of the fence he could see horses running like mad, and men with trailing ropes. Then, as the stampede rose to a thunder of feet, he heard a shrill yell of triumph, and scrambling men jerked the bars from the gate. The current of galloping slackened, it paused, and the leaders shot out the gap with a sea of high-flung heads behind. When the dust of their outrush had settled, there was only one horse left inside – the horse that killed Dunbar – and he lay grunting in the dirt.

"Fetch me that hackamore!" yelled Hardy Atkins from where he knelt on the brute's straining neck. "Now bring me that well-rope – we'll tie up his dad-burned leg!"

They gave him the ropes as he called for them, and he rigged them with masterful hands – first the rough-twisted hackamore, to go over his head and cut off his breath; then the two-inch well-rope, to hang from his neck and serve later to noose his hind foot. Then all hands tailed on to the throw-rope; they swayed back as he rose to his feet; and when Dunbar went to the end of it, the heave they gave threw him flat. He leaped up and flew back on his haunches, and the rope halter cut off his breath. His sides heaved as he struggled against it; his eyes bulged big and he shook his head; then, with a final paroxysm, he sank to his knees and they slackened away on the rope. A single mighty breath, and he was up on his feet and fighting; and they choked him down again. Then Hardy Atkins stepped in behind and picked up the end of the shoulder rope, where it dragged between his legs, and drew the loop up to his hocks. A jerk – a kick at the burn – and Dunbar was put on three legs. He fought, because that was his nature, but it was in vain; they trussed his foot up high, tied the rope's end to the neck loop, and clapped a broad blind over his eyes. So Dunbar was conquered, and while he squealed and cow-kicked, they lashed Bowles' saddle on his bowed-up back and slipped the bit between his teeth.

There he stood at last, old Dunbar the man-killer, sweating and trembling and cringing his head to the blind, and Bowles jumped down off the fence.

"All right," he said, "you can let down his foot. I'll pull up the blinder myself."

"Say yore prayers first, Mr. Man," gritted Atkins, lolling and mopping his face. "If he's half as good as his promise, you'll never git off alive!"

"Very likely," observed Bowles grimly. "You can let his foot down now."

"Hey! Git a move on!" yelled a cow-puncher up on the fence. "They's somebody comin' up the road!"

"Aw, let 'em come," drawled Atkins carelessly. "They're hurryin' up to see the show. Step up and look 'im over!" he grinned at Bowles. "No rush – you got lots of time!"

"Let his foot down!" snarled Bowles, his nerves giving way to anger. "I'm not – "

"It's Dix!" clamored the cow-puncher on the fence-top. "It's Dix!"

There was a rush for the fence to make certain, and as Dixie Lee dashed in through the horse lot, Hardy Atkins threw down his hat and cursed. Then he stood irresolute, gazing first at Bowles and then at the fence, until suddenly she slipped through the bars and came striding across the corral.

"Oho, Hardy Atkins," she panted, as she tapped at her boot with a quirt. "So this is what you were up to – riding horses while Dad went to town! Didn't he tell you to keep off that Dunbar horse? Well, then, you just – "

She paused as she sensed the tense silence, and then she saw Bowles, walking resolutely up to the horse. In a flash it all came clear to her – the feud, the fights, and now this compact to ride.

"Mr. Bowles!" she cried, raising her voice in a sudden command – but before she could get out the words Hardy Atkins laid his hand on her arm.