Bat Wing Bowles

He paused then with the rest of his politenesses unsaid, for Dixie Lee was coming down the hall.

"I can't say how much I have enjoyed talking with you, Mr. Bowles," returned the lady, offering him her hand. "It takes me back to my girlhood days, when music was the breath of my life. Perhaps – Oh, Dixie, have you met Mr. Bowles?"

There was silence for a moment as their eyes met across the abyss, hers stern and forbidding, his smiling and conciliatory; and then Dixie bowed very stiffly.

"Why, not that I remember," she replied, with a militant toss of the head.

"How do you do, Miss Lee," observed Mr. Bowles, bowing formally as he received his congé. "So glad to make your acquaintance!" And, murmuring other maddening phrases, he bowed himself out the door, leaving Dixie Lee to explain the feud in any way she chose.

CHAPTER VIII

A COWBOY'S LIFE

As the name of the Deity, to a cowboy, means little more than a word to swear by, so the holy Sabbath is forgotten as a day of rest. Not that the hard-riding puncher would not rest if he got the chance, but the traditions of the cow business make no allowances for godliness and ease. For forty dollars and found, the round-up hand is expected to work every day in the month, and take all his Sundays in a bunch when the boss writes out his time. From daylight to dark are his hours of labor, with horse wrangling and night-guard to boot; and yet there are men of elegance and leisure who try to crush in on the job.

Mr. Bowles rolled into bed a perfect gentleman, and something of a knight-errant as well; but when Gloomy Gus gave vent to his shrill morning call he turned in his blankets and muttered. As the dishpan yammered and clashed discordantly he shuddered like a craven; and when Gus finally kicked open the door he could have cursed like any cow-puncher. It was a dreary life he had elected to follow, a life of drudgery, hardship, and discomfort, and with no compensating element but the danger of getting killed. And all for the sake of a girl who never had met him before!

Bowles crawled out very slowly and stood shivering by the fire, marveling at the iron endurance of Gloomy Gus, and understanding his gloom. Never again, he resolved, as he drank a pint of hot coffee, never again would he address Mr. Mosby in aught but terms of respect. A man who could stand his life and still wear the mantle of self-restraint was worthy of a place among the stoics. And to get up alone – alone and of his own volition – at three-thirty and four of the morning! It was a task to give a Spartan pause and win an enduring fame among the gods. A large humility came over Bowles as he contemplated the rough men about him and observed how uncomplainingly they accepted their lot. And they had been at the work for months and years – it was the second day for him!

The cook beat on his pan, and at the thought of the long ride before him Bowles did his best to eat – to eat heartily, ravenously, to gorge himself full of meat against the hours of hunger to come; and, passing up the three-tined steel fork, he went to it with his knife and spoon.

"You make the finest biscuits I have ever eaten, Mr. Mosby," he observed by way of apology as he slipped one into his pocket; and the sleep-weary eyes of the cook lighted up for a moment before he summoned his cynical smile.

"That's what they all say – when they're hungry," he remarked. "Then when they've et a plenty they throw 'em in the dirt."

He waved his hand at a circle of white spots that lay just outside the firelight, and turned to begin his dishwashing. Then, seeing that Mr. Bowles was still interested, he dilated on his troubles.

"Yes, sir," he said; "a cowboy is jest naturally wasteful – if he wasn't, he wouldn't be a cowboy. He'll take a whole biscuit and eat half of it and throw the other half away. There you see 'em out there, jest like I been seein' 'em fer forty years and more. It's in the blood. A cowboy wastes his grub, he wastes his terbakker, he wastes his money. He wastes cows, and hawses – an' he wastes his life. I got my opinion of a man that will work like a dog fer forty dollars a month. These hyer boys know what I think of 'em."

The cowboys grinned sheepishly and backed up nearer the fire. It was still too dark to rope, and they were waiting for Henry Lee; and the cold starlight made them solemn. When the sun came up and they got a horse between their knees they would laugh old Gus to scorn; now they listened to him soberly in lieu of sprightlier conversation.

"And me," continued Gloomy Gus, as he sensed the heavy silence, "I work harder than any of 'em. The mornin' star don't catch me in bed – no, sir! Not after half-past three. I got to git up then and mix my bread. And come night time, after my long day's work, I got to set my dough. But I git paid fer it – eighty dollars a month – and you can have the job to-morrer."

He paused again, as if to emphasize the lack of bidders, and then went deftly about his task.

"No, sir," he said; "you don't see no one strikin' fer the job of cook. That's hard work, that is. These boys all want to sit on a hawse and see the world go by."

Once more the heavy silence fell upon them, and Brigham picked up a towel and began to wipe the dishes.

"Goin' out to-day?" he inquired, as the boys began to straggle toward the corral.

"That's the word!" returned the cook. "Dinner at the north well, and back ag'in fer supper. Pack up and unpack, and pack ag'in at the well. Then cook a dinner and hook up the hawses, and cook some more at the home. Ef Henry Lee don't git me a flunky pretty soon I'm shore goin' to up and quit."

He glanced significantly at Bowles as he finished this last remark, but Brigham shook his head.

"I seen that Pringle kid come in yisterday," he said. "Mebbe you could git to have him."

That closed the conversation, and Bowles moved away. He was sorry for Mr. Mosby, very sorry; but not sorry enough to take a job as official dishwasher. Somehow all the world seemed to be in a conspiracy to make him flunky to the cook.

He hurried over to the corral, where the roping was going on, and as he neared the gate he met the boss coming out. On the previous day Mr. Lee had seemed a little under the dominance of his feelings, but this morning he was strictly business.

"Mr. Bowles," he said, "I'll keep my word with you and take you on for a puncher. Do your work and keep off Dunbar, and I'll try to get along with you – otherwise you get your time. Now come on back and I'll cut you out a mount."

He tied his own horse to a post, and swung up on the corral fence.

"You get two gentle horses and five bronks," he continued; "and I'll call Wa-ha-lote a bronk."

"Oh, thank you!" began Bowles; but the boss checked him right there.

"You've got nothing to thank me for, young man," he said. "I'd rather lose a top hand any time than take on a tenderfoot, so don't think for a minute that I'm stuck on you. Passed my word, that's all – and Wa-ha-lote forgot to buck. Now you see that gray over there – the one with the saddle-marks on his back – that's one of 'em – he's gentle. See this little sorrel, right close – that's Scrambled Eggs – he's a bronk. Then you can have that red roan over there for a night horse, and I'll cut you out some more bronks bymeby. You ride old Gray and the roan for a while – understand? And I employ a twister to break my wild stock, so keep off of them bronks – if – you – please."

He added this last as if he really meant it, and left Bowles to wonder at his emphasis – but not for long. The times called for action. He was a puncher now, and it was necessary for him to lasso his mount. So, shaking out his new rope, which snarled and crawled in a most disconcerting fashion, the new cowboy dropped down into the corral, while everybody who could conveniently do so stepped up and looked over the fence. But Bowles had had a few days' training at the hands of Jim Scrimsher, the livery-stable keeper and all-round horse trader and confidence man at Chula Vista, and he shook out a fairly good loop. Then, swinging it above his head, he advanced upon the gray, who promptly put the whole herd between them, and raced along next the fence. The roan came along just then and Bowles made a cast at him and caught two others, who instantly made away with his rope.

A yell went up from along the top of the fence; and with many shouts of encouragement and veiled derision, they threw him a new rope. This was a worn one and capable of dexterous handling, and, with a set smile on his face, Bowles shook out a big loop and advanced cautiously upon the roan. By this time he, too, had read the hypnotic message of the eye, and had crowded well in behind the main herd, which was dashing around the corral with ever-increasing speed. The slashing rope-work of the old hands had already left the horse herd nervous and flighty, and something about the way Bowles whirled his wide-flung loop seemed to drive them into a frenzy. A shout of warning went up, and then another, and then, as Wa-ha-lote made another balk at the gate, Hardy Atkins rushed out through the cloud of dirt and signaled him to stop.

"What do you want to do?" he yelled. "Break down the fence?"

He edged in on the leaders as he spoke and soon brought them to a halt; then, with his eyes on another horse, he stepped in close, dragging his loop, until suddenly he whipped it over the old gray's head and jerked him out of the herd.

"Here's yore hawse," he said, handing him over the rope's end. "And, say, if you can't rope without swingin' a Mother Hubbard, jest let me ketch yore hawse!"

"Why, what's the matter?" inquired Bowles.

"Oh, nawthin'," sneered the bronco-twister, "only it skeers 'em to death – that's all. Old Henry generally gives a man his time fer swingin' his loop in the corral."

Bowles followed along after him, flushed and downcast over his mistake; and as the others saddled their prancing bronks and went pitching and plunging around the horse lot he threw his saddle on the old, moss-backed gray and watched them with a wholesome awe. Horse after horse, as his rider hooked the stirrup, flew back or kicked like a flash. Some bucked the saddles off and had to be mastered by brute force. Here it was that the green-eyed Hardy Atkins, that long and lissom twister whom he so heartily despised, stood out like a riding king among the men. If a horse would not stand, he held it by the ears; if it bucked its saddle off, he seized an ear in his teeth, and hung on like a bulldog until the girths were cinched; and then, if the rider but said the word, he topped it off in his place. And all with such a tigerish swing, such a wild and masterful certitude, that even Bowles could not but secretly admire him.

It was nearing the first of April, when the wagon went out on the round-up, and the boys were topping off their mounts in order to gentle them for the spring work. Shrill yells and whoops went up as man after man uncocked his bronk; and then, as the procession filed out the gate, Hardy Atkins swung up on his own and went whipping and plunging after them. This was the big event of the day, and all hands craned their necks to view it; but the real spectators were up by the big white house, where Dixie Lee and her mother stood watching.

"Good boy, Hardy!" cried Dixie May, waving her hat to flag him. "Stay with him, Hardy!" And while the wild brute bucked and grunted beneath the steady jab of the spurs his rider raised a slender hand and waved it in salute. Bowles came dragging after him, sitting up very straight on old Gray; but nobody gave him a gay salute or so much as noticed him pass. Big Snake, the outlaw, was sun-fishing and doing buck-jumps, and every eye was upon the gallant rider who sat him so limber and free – Hardy Atkins, bronco-twister, and top cowboy at the Bat Wing.

"Pitch, then, you bastard," he was shouting. "Buck, you wild, woolly wolf – I'll put a hat on you!"

Bowles did not know what a "hat" was as he rode along out the gate, but when the cattle were thrown together and the wrangler brought up the spare horses, he knew. Walking across the brushy flat came Hardy Atkins, leading the worn and whip-marked Snake at a slow walk; and as he drew near, Bowles saw the "hat," a great, puffed-up swelling, raw and bloody, where the spur had jabbed his side. And there was a look in the outlaw's haggard eye that reminded him of old Dunbar – a wild, homicidal stare, yet tragic with fear and pain. As he reached the horse herd the twister looked back and regarded his mount intently; then very cautiously he worked up to his head and caught him by the cheek-strap.

"Don't you bite me, you devil," he threatened as the Snake showed all his teeth, "or I'll beat yore brains out with this quirt!"

The Big Snake winced and crooked his neck sullenly; then, as the twister snapped up the stirrup and uncinched the saddle with his free hand, he sighed and hung his head. With a deft jerk the puncher stripped off saddle and blanket; he reached up between his ears and laid hold of the headstall, then with a heave he tore off the bridle and landed his boot in the Snake's ribs.

"Git, you owl-headed old skate!" he yelled; and the Snake cow-kicked at him like a flash of light.

"Hah!" laughed the twister, stepping dexterously aside; and, swinging the bridle as he ducked, he brought the heavy reins down across his mount's rump. Again there was a flash of light as the Snake lashed out from behind; and then he limped off to one side, his eyes glowing with impotent rage and hate. Bowles looked at him as he lay wearily down in the sand, and then at the man who had conquered him, and a glow crept into his own eyes – a glow very much like the Big Snake's. He had entered a new world, with a different standard of courage and hardihood, and the first look at it frightened and awed him. But though he knew he could not meet its standards nor measure up to its tests, he scorned the man who could, and hated him for his rude strength – and his sympathy went out to Big Snake, the outlaw.

CHAPTER IX

REDUCED TO THE RANKS

The last place in the world for a humanitarian is around a cow camp, for everything there seems to savor of cruelty and blood. The only anti-cruelty-to-animals man who ever made a winning in the cattle business was good old Dr. Maverick, of Texas, who, when they made up the first brand book, swore he could not bring himself to cut an ear or burn a brand and craved the privilege of letting his cattle run unmarked. So, when it came to the round-up, the old doctor received his reward, for he claimed every maverick in the bunch and took them home for his own. This was a long time ago, in the age of myth and fable, and the doctor's herd has been sadly decimated since by rustlers and ruthless brand blotchers. A brand that can't be burned over is more precious than rubies now; and the bigger it is, the better.