Bat Wing Bowles

"No, you pore, ignorant Jack Mormon," jeered Atkins; "and you never rode no circus hawse at Coney Island, neither. I've seen fellers that knowed yore kinfolks down on the river, and they swore to Gawd you never been outside of Arizona. More'n that, they said you was a worser liar than old Tom Pepper – and he got kicked out of hell fer lyin'."

A guffaw greeted this allusion to the fate of poor old Tom; but Brigham was not to be downed by comparisons.

"Yes," he drawled; "I heerd about Tom Pepper. I heerd say he was a Texican, and the only right smart one they was; and the people down there was so dog ignorant, everything he told 'em they thought it was a lie. Built up quite a reputation that way – like me, here. Seems like every time I tell these Arizona Texicans anything, they up and say I'm lyin'."

He ran his eye over his audience and, finding no one to combat him further, he lapsed into a mellow philosophy.

"Yes," he said, cocking his eye again at Bowles; "I'm an ignorant kind of a feller, and I don't deny it; but I ain't one of these men that won't believe a thing jest because I never seen it. Now, here's a gentleman here – I don't even know his name – but the chances are, if he's ever been to Coney, he'll tell you my stories is nothin'."

"How about that hundred-foot pole?" inquired Poker Bill, as Bowles bowed and blushed.

"Yes, sure!" agreed Brigham readily. "We'll take that one now and let it go fer the bunch. If that's true, they're all true, eh?"

"That's me!" observed Bill laconically.

"All right, then, stranger," continued Brigham. "We'll jest leave the matter with you, and if what I said ain't true I'll never open my head again. I was tellin' these pore, ignorant Texas cotton-pickers that back at Coney Island they was a feller that did high divin' – ever see anything like that? All right, then, this is what I told 'em. I told 'em this divin' sport had a pole a hundred foot high, with a tank of water at the bottom six foot deep and mebbe ten foot square, and when it come time he climbed up to the top and stood on a little platform, facin' backwards and lookin' into a pocket mirror. Then he begun to lean over backwards, and finally, when everything was set, he threw a flip-flap and hit that tank a dead center without hurtin' himself a bit. Now, how about it – is that a lie?"

He looked up at Bowles with a steady gaze; and that gentleman did not fail him.

"Why, no," he said; "really, I see no reason to doubt what you say. Of course, I haven't been to Coney Island recently, but such events are quite a common occurrence there."

"Now, you see?" inquired Brigham triumphantly. "This gentleman has been around a little. Back at Coney them stunts is nothin'! They don't even charge admission."

"But how can that feller hit the water every time?" argued Bill the doubter, pressing forward to fight the matter out.

"Don't make no difference how he does it," answered Brigham; "that's his business. If people knowed how he done it, they wouldn't come to see 'im no more. By jicks, I'd jest like to take some of you fellers back to New York and show you some of the real sights. I ain't hardly dared to open my mouth since I took on with this ignorant outfit, but now that I got a gentleman here that's been around a little I may loosen up and tell you a few things."

"Oh, my Joe!" groaned Hardy Atkins, making a motion like fanning bees from his ears. "Hear the doggone Mormon talk – and never been outer the Territory! Been pitchin' hay and drinkin' ditch-water down on the Gila all his life and – "

"That's all right," retorted Brigham stoutly; "I reckon – "

"Well, git out of the way!" shouted the voice of Buck. "And throw down that frame so I can roast these ribs!"

That ended the controversy for the time, but before the ribs were cooked Brigham edged in another story – and he proved it by Mr. Bowles. It was a trifle improbable, perhaps, but Bowles was getting the spirit of the Great West and he vouched for it in every particular. Then when the ribs were done he cut some of the scorched meat from the bones, and ate it half-raw with a pinch of salt, for he was determined to be a true sport. Buck and Brigham devoured from one to two pounds apiece and gnawed on the bones like dogs; but Mr. Bowles was more moderate in his desires. What he really longed for was a bed or a place to sleep; but the gentleman who had coached him on cowboy life – and sold him his fancy outfit – had not mentioned the sleeping accommodations, and Bowles was too polite to inquire. So he hung around until the last story was told, and followed the gang back to the bunk-house.

Each man went to his big blanket roll and spread it out for the night without a single glance at the suppliant, for a cowboy hates to share his bed; but as they were taking off their boots Brigham Clark spoke up.

"Ain't you got no bed, stranger?" he inquired; and when Bowles shook his head he looked at Hardy Atkins, who as bronco-twister and top-hand held the job of straw-boss. A silence fell and Bowles glanced about uneasily.

"There's a bed over there in the saddle-room," observed Atkins, with a peculiar smile.

A startled look went around the room, and then Buck came in on the play.

"Yes," he said, "that feller ain't here now."

"Oh, thank you," began Bowles, starting toward it; but he was halted in his tracks by a savage oath from Brigham.

"Here!" he ordered. "You come and sleep with me – that's Dunbar's bed!"

"Dunbar's!" exclaimed Bowles with a gasp. "Ah, I see!" And with a secret shudder he turned away from the dead man's bed and crept in next to Brigham.

CHAPTER V

WA-HA-LOTE

The cowboy's day begins early, no matter how he spends his night. It was four o'clock in the morning and Bowles was dead with sleep when suddenly the light of a lantern was thrown in his eyes and he heard the cook's voice rousing up the horse wranglers.

"Wranglers!" he rasped, shaking Brigham by the shoulder. "Git up, Brig; it's almost day!"

"All right, Gus!" answered Brigham, cuddling down for another nap; but Gloomy Gus had awakened too many generations of cowboys to be deceived by a play like that, and on his way out to finish breakfast he stumbled over Brigham's boots and woke him up to give them to him. So, with many a yawn and sigh, poor Brigham and his fellow wrangler stamped on their boots and went out to round up the horse pasture, and shortly afterward a shrill yell from the cook gave notice that breakfast was ready. Five minutes later he yelled again and beat harshly on a dishpan; then, as the rumble of the horse herd was heard, he came and kicked open the door.

"Hey, git up, boys!" he shouted. "Breakfast's waitin' and the remuda is in the c'rell! The old man will be down hollerin' 'Hawses!' before you git yore coffee!"

The bite of the cold morning air swept in as he stood there and roused them at last to action. Swiftly Buck and Bill and Happy Jack rolled out and hustled into their clothes; other men not yet known by name hurried forth to wash for breakfast; and at last Bowles stepped out, to find the sky full of stars. A cold wind breathed in from the east, where the deceitful radiance of the false dawn set a halo on the distant ridges; and the cowboy's life, for the moment, seemed to offer very little to an errant lover. Around the cook's fire, with their coat collars turned up to their ears, a group of punchers was hovering in a half-circle, leaving the other half for Gloomy Gus. Their teeth chattered in the frosty silence, and one by one they washed their faces in hot water from the cook's can and waited for the signal to eat. Then the wranglers came in, half frozen from their long ride in the open pasture, and as Brigham poured out a cup of coffee, regardless, old Gus raised the lid from a Dutch oven, glanced in at the nicely browned biscuits and hollered:

"Fly at it!"

A general scramble for plates and cups followed; then a raid on the ovens and coffee-pots and kettles; and inside of three minutes twenty men were crouching on the ground, each one supplied with beans, biscuits and beef – the finest the range produced. They ate and came back for more, and Bowles tried to follow their example; but breakfast at home had been served at a later hour, and it had not been served on the ground, either. However, he ate what he could and drank a pint of coffee that made him as brave as a lion. It was real range coffee, that had set on the grounds over night and been boiled for an hour in the morning. It was strong, and made him forget the cold; but just as he was beginning to feel like a man again silence fell on the crowd, and Henry Lee appeared.

In his riding boots, and with a wooden-handled old Colt's in his shaps, Mr. Lee was a different creature from the little man that Bowles had whipsawed on the previous evening. He was a dominating man, and as he stood by the fire for a minute and waited for enough light to rope by, Mr. Bowles began to have his regrets. It is one thing to bully-rag a man on his front steps, and quite another to ride bronks on a cold morning. The memory of a man named Dunbar came over him, and he wondered if he had died in the morning, when his bones were brittle and cold. He remembered other things, including Dixie Lee, but without any positive inspiration; and he took a sneaking pleasure at last in the fact that Mr. Lee appeared to have forgotten all about him.

But Henry Lee was not the man to let an Eastern tenderfoot run it over him, and just as he called for horses and started over toward the corral he said to Hardy Atkins:

"Oh, Hardy, catch up that Dunbar horse and put this gentleman's saddle on him, will you?"

He waved his hand toward Bowles, whose heart had just missed a beat, and pulled on a trim little glove.

"What – Dunbar?" gasped the bronco-twister, startled out of his calm.

"Yes," returned Lee quietly. "The gentleman claims he can ride."

"Who – him?" demanded Atkins, pointing incredulously at the willowy Bowles.

"Yes – him!" answered the cattleman firmly. "And after what he said to me last evening he's either got to ride Dunbar or own himself a coward – that's all."

"Oh," responded the twister, relieved by the alternative; and with a wink at Buck and the rest of the crowd he went rollicking out to the corral. By the usual sort of telepathy Hardy Atkins had come to hate and despise Bowles quite as heartily as Bowles had learned to hate him, and the prospect of putting the Easterner up against Dunbar made his feet bounce off the ground. First he roped out his own mount and saddled him by the gate; then, as the slower men caught their horses and prepared for the work of the day, he leaned against the bars and pointed out the man-killer to Bowles, meanwhile edging in his little talk.

"See that brown over there?" he queried, as Bowles stared breathlessly out over the sea of tossing heads. "No, here he is now – that wall-eyed devil with his hip knocked down – he got that when he rared over and killed Dunbar. Can't you see 'im? Right over that bald-faced sorrel! Yes, that hawse that limps behind!"

At that moment some impetuous cowboy roped at his mount and the round corral became a raging maelstrom of rushing horses, thundering about in a circle and throwing the dirt twenty feet high; but as a counter movement checked the charge and the wind blew the dust away, the lanky form of the horse that killed Dunbar loomed up on the edge of the herd. He was a big, raw-boned brute, colored a sunburned, dusty brown, and a limp in his off hind leg gave him a slinking, stealthy air; but what impressed Bowles the most was the sinister look in his eyes. If ever a horse was a congenital criminal, Dunbar was the animal. His head was long and bony and bulging around the ears, and his eyes were sunk deep, like a rattlesnake's, and with a rattlesnake's baleful glare. But there was more than a snaky wildness in them: the wicked creature seemed to be meditating upon his awful past, and scheming greater crimes, until his haggard, watchful eyes were set in a fixed, brooding stare. He was a bad horse, old Dunbar, and Atkins was there to play him up.

"You want to be careful not to hurt that hawse," he warned, as Bowles caught his breath and started. "The boss expects to git a thousand dollars fer him at the Cheyenne Rough-Riding Contest next summer. Now that old Steamboat is rode, and Teddy Roosevelt is busted, they's big money hangin' up fer a bad hawse. Got to have one, you know. It's fer the championship of the world, and if they don't git another man-killer they can't have no contest. I would've tried him myself, but he's too valuable. How do you ride – with yore stirrups tied? No? Well, I reckon you're right – likely to get caught and killed if he throws himself over back. You ain't down here fer a Wild West Show, are ye? Uh-huh, jest thought you might be – knowed you wasn't a puncher. Well, we'll saddle him up fer you now – if you say so!"

He lingered significantly on the last words, and Henry Lee, who was standing near, half smiled; but there must have been some sporting blood back in the Bowles family somewhere, for Mr. Bowles merely murmured:

"If you will, please!" and got his saddle.

So there was nothing for Atkins to do but go in and try to catch Dunbar. The bronco-twister shook out his rope, glanced at the boss, glanced at him again, and dropped reluctantly into the corral. Hardy Atkins would rather have taken a whipping than put a saddle on Dunbar; but he was up against it now, so he lashed his loop out on the ground and advanced to make his throw. One by one the horses that had gathered about Dunbar ran off to the right or left, and as the old man-killer made his dash to escape the long rope shot out with a lightning swiftness and settled around his neck. The twister passed the rope behind him, sat back on it and dug his high heels into the ground; but the jerk was too much for his hand-grip, and before anyone could tail on behind he let go and turned the horse loose.