Bat Wing Bowles

"You go on back to the house!" he said, fixing her with his horse-taming eyes. "You go back where you belong! I'm doin' this!"

"You let go of me!" stormed Dixie Lee, making a savage pass at him with her quirt – and then a great shout drowned their quarrel and made them forget everything but Bowles.

The obsession of days of brooding had laid hold upon him and left him with a single, fixed idea – to ride Dunbar or die. And to him, no less than to Hardy Atkins, the coming of Dixie Lee was a disappointment. For a minute, he too had stood irresolute; then, with the simplicity of madness, he went straight to the blindfolded horse and began to lower his foot. As the quarrel sprang up, he gathered his reins; without looking back, he hooked his stirrup; and then, very gently, he rose to the saddle. Then the shout rang out, and he reached down and twitched up the blind.

Gazing out from beneath the band which had held him in utter darkness, the deep-set rattlesnake eye of Dunbar rolled hatefully at the man on his back. He crooked his neck and twisted his malformed head, and Bowles felt him swelling like a lizard between his knees – then, with a squeal, he bared his teeth and snapped at his leg like a dog. The next moment his head went down and he rose in a series of buck-jumps, whirling sideways, turning half-way round, and landing with a jolt. And at every jolt Bowles' head snapped back and his muscles grew stiff at the jar. But just as the world began to grow black, and he felt himself shaken in his seat, the trailing neck rope lapped Dunbar about the hind legs and he paused to kick himself free.

It was only a moment's respite, but it heartened the rider mightily. He caught the stirrup that he had lost, wiped the mist from his eyes, and settled himself deep in the saddle.

"Good boy! Stay with 'im!" yelled the maniacs on the fence-posts; and then old Dunbar broke loose. The man never lived that could ride him – Bowles realized that as he clutched for the horn – and then his pride rose in him and he sat limber and swung the quirt. One, two, three times, he felt himself jarred to the center, and the blood burst suddenly from his mouth and nose and splashed in a crimson flood. He had no knowledge of what was happening now, for he could not see; and then, with a heart-breaking wrench, he felt himself hurled from the saddle and sent tumbling heels over head. He struck, and the corral dirt rose in his face; there was a cloud before him, a mist; and then, as the dizziness vanished, he beheld the man-killer charging at him through the dust with all his teeth agleam.

"Look out!" yelled the crowd on the fence-top. "Look out!"

And Bowles scrambled up and fell over to one side. His knees were weak; they would not bear him; and through the dust cloud he saw Dunbar slide and turn again. Then of a sudden he was in a tangle of legs and stirrups and striking feet, and somebody grabbed him by the arm. Three pistol shots rang out above him; he was snaked violently aside; and old Dunbar went down like a log. Somebody had killed him, that was certain; but it was not Brigham, for he could tell by the characteristic cursing that it was his partner who had pulled him out and was dragging him across the corral. He blinked and opened his eyes as he fetched up against the fence – and there was Dixie Lee, with a big, smoking pistol in her hand, striding after him out of the dust.

She looked down at him, her eyes blazing with anger; and then, snapping the empty cartridges out of the Colt's, she handed it back to a puncher.

"Well," she said, "I hope you boys are satisfied now!" And without a second look at Brigham, Bowles, Hardy Atkins, or the remains of Dunbar, she turned and strode back to the house.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE CUSTOM OF THE COUNTRY

When Bat Wing Bowles got up out of the dirt he was shaken in body and spirit. His corporeal frame felt as if it had been passed through a carpet-beater, and he had lost some of his most precious illusions. Certainly, if there was any way by which a tenderfoot might hope to achieve a little hard-earned fame in the Far West, it was not by riding bronks; and now, before he could wipe the blood from his nose, they were blaming him for all their troubles.

"The blank-blanked greenhorn!" cursed Hardy Atkins, pacing to and fro and gazing at the hulk of Dunbar. "I tol' 'im to keep off that hawse! Never would've let 'im rode 'im – not for a thousand dollars! And then, the minute my back's turned – and Dix right there to copper the play – he goes and pulls off this! But I don't care —I never done nothin'! You boys seen 'im – he done it himse'f!"

And then, all the anger and blood-lust that had been in Bowles' heart for days went suddenly to his right hand, and, putting his shoulder behind it, he smote the ex-twister on the jaw. It was a wicked blow, very much like the one he had received himself, and it laid the false cow-puncher low. He came up reaching for his gun, and Bowles knocked him down again, and took the gun away. Then he passed it on to Brigham, and offered to fight him some more – or anybody! A raging devil of combat seemed to possess him, and he shouted for war, and more war. The cowboys drew away from him as from a man who has lost his right mind, and it was not until Brigham had cajoled him into dipping his hot head into the horse-trough that Bowles left off his raving. A drink of Mr. Mosby's strong coffee, and a rest on his bed by the sheds, and his sanity was completely restored – but his illusions were lost forever!

Never again would Samuel Bowles try to beat the cow-puncher at his own game; never would he mount a wild horse; and never would he put faith in womankind. Not out West, anyway. To be sure, Dixie Lee had saved him from the man-killer, but she had done it in such a way as to injure his pride irreparably. And if anybody had cooled his fevered brow after the accident, it certainly was not Dixie, but Brigham Clark, when he ducked his head in the horse-trough. A sudden aversion to his surroundings – a stern dislike for sentiment and the Bat Wing – came over Bowles as he lay moping in his blankets, and, rising on his elbow, he called to Brigham.

"Brig," he said, "I'm going to quit this accursed ranch – would you mind catching my private horse?"

"No, ner mine neither!" fulminated Brig. "I jest been waitin' fer ye to say the word – been ready myse'f fer a week!"

He hopped on his horse as he spoke, and rode out into the pasture, and as he returned with their private mounts Gloomy Gus came over from the fire.

"What ye goin' to do, Brig," he inquired; "quit?"

"Yep," answered Brig, as he lashed their beds on his spare horse; "gittin' too bad fer me. Next thing you know, somebody'd git killed."

"That's right," agreed Gus gloomily; "gittin' pretty bad around hyer. Cow-punchin' ain't what it used to be. Well, I'm sorry to see you go."

He put them up a lunch and watched them off, and then turned back to his pots and kettles, grumbling and shaking his head.

That was their only farewell, but as they rode out the gate, Dixie Lee appeared at the big house door and looked after them as they passed. Their mounts alone told the story of their departure, and their beds on the horse behind; but though she knew they were quitting, she stood silent and made no sign.

"Want to say good-by?" inquired Brig, glancing up at her from under his hat, but Bowles did not reply. A deadly apathy had succeeded his passion, and he was sullen and incapable of higher thoughts. All he wanted now was to get away – after that he could think what to do.

They turned their horses' heads toward Chula Vista, where they must go to draw their time, and after they had ridden a mile Bowles suddenly turned in his saddle – but Dixie had passed inside. A deep and melancholy sadness came over him now, and he sighed as he slumped down in his seat, but Brigham did not notice his silence. At noon they ate as they rode, getting a drink at a nester's windmill, and at night they camped by a well. Then it was that Bowles woke up from his brooding and saw that he was not alone in his mood – Brigham, too, was downcast and wrapt up in his thoughts. His mind ran quickly back to ascertain the cause, and he remembered the cherished job.

For one short, eventful month Brigham Clark had been a boss. A straw-boss, to be sure, but still a boss – and now he had lost his job. Never again, perhaps, would he rise to the proud eminence of a "straw" – and yet he had quit his place instantly to throw in his lot with him. A wave of compassion and self-reproach swept over Bowles at the thought, and he forgot his own ugly mood.

"Brig," he said, as they sat close to their tiny fire, "I'm sorry you had to quit. If it hadn't been for me, and Hardy Atkins, you'd be back there now, on your job. It might have led to something better, too. Mr. Lee often said – "

"Aw, fergit it," grumbled Brig morosely. "I didn't want the job. What's the use of bein' a puncher, anyway? They's nothin' in it but hard work. I've got a good mind to hike back to the Gila and go to pitchin' hay."

"Well, if I'm in your way at all," urged Bowles, "don't hesitate to say so. I only proposed this White Mountain trip – "

"Oh, that's all right," broke in Brig. "I'll be glad to git away from it all – git where they ain't no girls, nor mail, nor nothin'. Up there in them big pine trees where a man can fergit his troubles. But I want to go back past the Bat Wing. I told Dix all about it last week, and I shore want to bid her good-by. There's a good girl – Dix – but she can't understand. She says if I had any nerve I'd go and take a chance – marry the girl and wait and see what happened to me – my girl down on the river, you know."

Bowles nodded gravely and waited for him to go on. It was a month since Brigham had spoken of his girl, and he had never discussed the affair since that first rush of confidences, until now suddenly he dived into the midst of it.

"No," continued Brig, gazing mournfully at his dead cigarette; "Dix is all right, but she don't know them Mormons like I do. She don't know what they're liable to do. This feller that's tryin' to marry my girl is the bishop's own son – he's that feller I beat up so bad when I took to the hills a while back – and he's bound to do me dirt. My girl won't marry me, nohow – not lessen I become a Mormon – and shore as you're settin' there, boy, if I take that gal from the bishop's son, I'm elected to go on a mission!

"I know it! Hain't the old man got it in fer me? And then what's to become of my wife? Am I goin' to leave her fer two years and that dastard a-hangin' around? Not on yore life – if they summoned me fer a mission, I'd either take my wife along or I'd kill that bishop's son – one or the other. But that's the worst of it – the bishop's kid is on the spot, and I'm hidin' out like a coyote. My girl keeps a-writin' like she never gets no letters, and beggin' me to come back and be good! But I can't do it – that's all – I been a renegade too long."

"Well," suggested Bowles, after a long pause, "perhaps we could go by that way. Maybe her folks are keeping your letters from her, or something like that. If there is anything I can do for you, Brig, don't hesitate to ask for it. I might go around and see her for you – or if you need money – "

"No," protested Brigham petulantly; "money won't buy me nothin' with her. I'm up ag'in the whole Mormon church – and if you knew half of what I do about 'em, you'd know that you can't buck these bishops. The Mormon folks is fine people – they'll feed you, and help you, and do anything in the world fer you – but them priests and apostles and bishops – umph-umm! The more you know about 'em, the worse it scares you up – and I'm shore down on their black books. No, pardner, I ain't got a chanc'st, so let's fergit it. I talked it all over with Dix, and she kinder heartened me up; but it ain't no use. My girl don't like me enough to cut loose and quit her people, and I won't turn Mormon fer nobody – so there you are. Come on, let's go to bed!"

It was a hard and tragic problem, and long after the fatalistic Brig had gone to sleep, Bowles lay awake and tried to find a way out. His own petty griefs seemed sordid by the side of it, and all the way to town he turned it over in his mind. But, now that he had dismissed it forever, Brigham Clark became his old carefree self again.

"I'll tell you what we'll do!" he exclaimed, as they talked of their trip to the hills. "We'll hunt up old Bill Jump, and show him the latest in lies. I betcher I can make that old feller ashamed of himse'f – he's jest one of these here common, long-haired liars that don't know nothin' but to go you one better, anyway. But you wait till I pull that Hippodrome stuff on 'im – I betcher that'll make his jaw drop. Never did git to spring that on the boys – say, tell me that ag'in about the clown that fished up bulldogs outer the lake – and them elephants comin' over the waterfall! Yes, sir; if old Bill is up in them White Mountains, we'll certainly make him look sick!"

It was a glorious thing to contemplate, and, once in town, they made haste to lay in their supplies; but when Brigham came back from his interview with the boss Bowles could see that his enthusiasm had been shaken. For reasons of his own, Bowles had preferred not to meet the Lees, and he had asked Brig to convey his regrets and a release for his two months' pay. If eighty dollars would compensate for the defunct Dunbar, Mr. Bowles was satisfied; otherwise, he would be glad to meet the difference. But the trouble in Brigham's eye was not one of dollars and cents – he had something big on his mind.

"Say," he said, as he beckoned Bowles to a corner of the corral, "what d'ye think Mrs. Lee sprung on me when I went around fer my pay? And, by the way, they was a deputy sheriff inquirin' fer you when I come out by the desk, so come away from that gate – but what d'ye think she said?"

"Why, I'm sure I can't imagine," answered Bowles, with his old-time calm. "What was it?"

"Well, she had a big yeller telegraph in her hand that she was kinder wavin' around – I never did find out what it was all about – but when I come in to the hotel she flew at me like and says:

"'Mr. Clark, do you know who that young man is you're travelin' with?'

"Well, sir, the way she said it made me mad clean through, and I says to her:

"'No, Mrs. Lee, I don't – and, what's more, I don't care! He's a good pardner, that's all I know – and that's all I want to know!'

"And then I turned around and walked out. I don't know what them Lees have got to be so proud about, the way old Henry used to cave around, but I showed her, by grab, they was one puncher she couldn't run it over! She always did make me mad," observed Brig, as he stole quiet glances at his friend, "but I knowed mighty well you wasn't no crook and – and I don't care what you done!"

"Well, thank you just as much – I haven't done anything, Brig," answered Bowles with a reassuring smile. "But," he added, "that's no reason for not getting out of town."

They packed their horse hurriedly, and Bowles rode on ahead, but once on the open prairie he gave way to a hearty laugh.

"Brig," he said, "what in the world do you think I've done?"

"Well, I dunno," mumbled Brig, looking him over shrewdly. "Of course, I knowed all along they was nothin' to that Christabel talk – stands to reason a man wouldn't leave home for a little thing like that. About that aunt, now, that sounds a little more likely – but I've knowed fellers that come out here jest fer fun."