Читать книгу Dark Horse - A Story of the Flying U - Bertha Muzzy Sinclair - Страница 6

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These seemingly small matters disposed of to their satisfaction, the Happy Family rode cheerfully homeward; all, that is, save Happy Jack, who galloped away on a narrow stock trail which led by a short cut to the Adams ranch and on up to Jackson’s; and Cal Emmett, who turned off at the upper gate on his way to bring Bert Rogers.

With a hundred and more horses fresh from the range and needing to know that man is master, no preparation for a bronk-riding contest was necessary. Give them an appreciative audience roosting on the top rails of the corral, and Monday’s hard work would become Sunday afternoon’s sport. They’d coax old Patsy to cook up a flock of blueberry pies and make plenty of coffee, and it would be a real picnic. Maybe some of the women would object to dancing that evening, on account of its being Sunday, but even old lady Jackson, who was said to be a member of the Baptist Church back East somewhere, allowed Rena to play games on Sunday. The Happy Family decided that there would be plenty doing, and if it didn’t rain again, there would be a full moon for good measure.

“If Bert’ll ride that Flopper horse of his over, I might give him a race with Glory. Any money in this crowd?” planned Weary.

Whereupon Slim had a sudden thought that brought a queer look into his eyes.

“Say, Weary, mebby I oughta told yuh b’fore—but that red-headed cousin of Bert’s is out here ag’in. Bert told me in town. You want to keep yer eye peeled.”

Certain men in the group had never heard of Bert Rogers’ cousin, who had caused Weary more trouble than one woman has any right to cause. Those who did not know the story asked questions which Slim, rolling uneasy eyes toward Weary, blunderingly tried to parry. Then suddenly Weary laughed and turned to face them.

“Ancient history, boys. Myrt Forsyth and I went to school together back in Chadville, Iowa, and I got a bad case of calf love over her. Then I got the notion she was double-crossing me, so I pulled out and came west. I never knew she was Bert’s cousin till she showed up out here at a dance in Dry Lake. I was all cured long ago, but mamma! It’s women that taught cats how to deal a mouse misery. Myrt—” For once Weary hesitated, groping for words.

“Shore, we know the rest.” Big Medicine laughed. “You went and had a relapse.”

Weary flashed a glance at him.

“That’s just the trouble; I didn’t. No woman—some women—never can seem to realize a man can fall out of love as easy as he falls in. Myrt wasn’t to blame, I guess, for trying a little spite work when she found out I wasn’t packing any busted heart on her account. She’s all right—”

“Aw, why don’t you tell the truth about ’er?” Slim growled. “How she went an’ lied about yuh, and tried to bust up you ’n’ Miss Satterly—an’ did, by golly! I always thought that was at the bottom of her pullin’ out fer home—”

“I don’t know as that’s important right now,” Weary rebuffed him. “The point is, Myrt Forsyth’s here, and it’s likely she’s forgotten the whole thing. I know I have, just about.”

Whereupon Slim twisted his bulky torso in the saddle and lowered a fat eyelid at the others.

“Fergive and fergit is what the Good Book says,” he stated sententiously. “I don’t guess it’ll spoil your riding any to have Myrt Forsyth hangin’ over the top rail watchin’ yuh.”

“Not what you could notice,” Weary grinned. “I’m going to try that glass-eye sorrel a whirl; the one that come up in that bunch from Wyoming.”

“Did you notice the spur marks on him?” the Native Son inquired. “But no mark of the saddle. A bad sign, amigo.”

“All signs are bad when you ease your saddle up on a bronk’s middle,” Weary retorted. “Yes, he looks about as snaky as anything in the bunch. If I don’t gentle him down, some of you boys are liable to get hurt; and it’s too close to round-up to let you take a chance.”

As Weary intended, the talk ranged far from girls and broken romances after that. Even the pilgrim was forgotten until they dismounted at the stable and hung the town saddle by one stirrup on a spare peg in the shed. The Native Son untied the small black satchel from behind his cantle and held it up with a peculiar light in his eyes.

“Has it struck you fellows as being just a little peculiar, our unexpected guest heading into the Badlands in such a hurry with only this little bag?” he asked. “A locked bag.” He looked at Big Medicine. “Before we go up to the bunk-house again, I think you ought to know that I caught him watching us on the sly and taking in every word we said about him.”

“Say, when was that?” Big Medicine demanded with some resentment in his voice. “If yuh’re tryin’ to make out he was playin’ me fer a sucker—”

“I didn’t say that. It was when you kicked my boots back under the bunk, Pink, and I was down on the floor fishing them out. That hombre was watching you fellows like a trapped coyote. I saw his eyes turning from one to another through the slit of his eyelids. He was supposed to be unconscious, you remember. It was when Big Medicine was trying to convince us we ought to haul him to a doctor.”

“That was before breakfast,” said Pink, grinning a little.

“He got better, right away,” Miguel added drily. “Asked for some coffee, you remember, and said he didn’t feel so bad, only he had a head on him like the morning after, and he guessed he’d stay in bed to-day. Remember?”

“That’s right.”

“Say!” bawled Big Medicine angrily. “What yuh tryin’ to make out? That pore feller never knowed what hit ’im, by cripes! When he woke up and found himself in a strange place this mornin’, he just nacherly wanted to size up the layout ’fore he let on he was awake. I’d do the same thing m’self.”

“They’s something to that, all right,” Slim agreed, looking from one to the other, wondering which side to take. “By golly, it was a tough-sounding bunch this mornin’.”

“Yes, but there’s something off-color in the whole thing,” Miguel persisted, forgetting his little Spanish mannerisms, as he did when he was very much in earnest. “Why would a tenderfoot hire a livery horse and go pelting into the Badlands? That horse was a lather of sweat when he was struck dead. Didn’t you boys notice it when we turned him over? Where the rain didn’t wash off the dried sweat, it showed plain as day. And in a twenty-mile ride a man doesn’t get saddle-galled like that hombre was—unless he’s been hitting a fast pace.”

“By golly, that’s right,” Slim admitted. “I never seen a man’s legs skun any worse.”

“Well, what’s the answer, Mig?” Weary looked up from rolling a cigarette.

“Quien sabe?” The Native Son shrugged as he reached for the tobacco sack dangling by its string from Weary’s teeth.

“I s’pose yuh want ’im kicked off’n the ranch jest because he ain’t got any sense about ridin’ a hawse!” Big Medicine flung at him disgustedly. “Honest to grandma, I never seen such a suspicious feller as you are, Mig.”

“All right, have it your way. Just the same, if you didn’t pack a load of trouble into this coulee last night, I’ll be surprised.”

“Well, he can’t steal any of my money,” Pink observed philosophically. “I lost m’ last two-bit piece on that full house of Slim’s, just before our brave hero came staggering into our midst with the dying man on his shoulders. I’m safely broke, thank God.”

“The dying man could have walked in if he’d wanted to,” the Native Son tersely declared. “I kinda thought last night he was playing possum to a certain extent. This morning—”

“This mornin’ you’re goin’ to get the livin’ tar knocked outa yuh!” bawled Big Medicine, who was nothing if not loyal to what he considered his responsibility. “That feller ain’t able to knock them words down yore throat, but I am, by cripes!” While he talked, he began peeling off his coat.

“All right, if that’s the way you feel about it. I tell you now, and time will prove it—that hombre is a crook. He’ll deal you dirt, you mark my words. He’s got about as much gratitude as a rattlesnake. Now, come on and fight!” The Native Son yanked off his new gray sombrero with its fancy silver-inlaid band and horsehair tassels, stepped into a clear space and put his hands in the significant posture of a trained boxer. Big Medicine rushed at him, grinding his teeth, but like a cat Pink leaped and landed on his back, wrapping arms and legs around him and clinging there like a leech. Weary stepped in close to the Native Son.

“Cut it out, Mig. You fellows’ll need your energy for those bronks you’re due to tackle before long. To-morrow morning, if you still want to tear each other apart, we’ll all get up early and let you go to it. But folks are coming here to-day for a good time. If this is your idea—”

“Oh, forget it!” snapped the Native Son, reaching for his hat. “I admit this is a poor time to call the turn. But to-morrow morning I’ll sure as hell show this frog-face Samaritan where he heads in.”

Big Medicine halted in the act of pulling on his coat.

“And I’ll learn a greaser to keep his mouth shut!” He started forward belligerently.

The insult turned Miguel’s face livid with anger. He whirled to do battle, met Weary’s steadying gaze and shrugged. Some one was driving briskly up the creek road, the rattle of the wagon sounding loud on the rocks as the horses splashed through the shallow ford. Miguel sent one hostile glance toward Big Medicine and picked up his rope, turning toward the corral. Even so, Weary did not appear satisfied. He followed Miguel through the gate, talking earnestly in an undertone, his hand on Miguel’s shoulder.

“Now what they framin’?” Big Medicine twitched his coat into place and started for the two. “I’ll beat the liver outa both of ’em in a holy minute, if they start framin’ on me!”

“Aw, come back here!” Pink clutched his arm. “Weary’s just calming Mig down. What you go and call him a greaser for? Don’t you know he won’t stand for that kinda talk? He’s liable to knife yuh for it.”

“Well, damn ’im, he called me a Samaritan! There’s some things I don’t stand from no man!” Big Medicine lunged toward the gate.

“Aw, that’s a compliment, you bonehead!” Pink tightened his grip.

“Like hell!” snorted Big Medicine, forging to the gate and dragging Pink with him.

“Sure, it is. Samaritan means helpful cuss—same as the word pinto means a spotted horse. You ask Weary.”

Big Medicine slowed, staring doubtfully after the Native Son.

“Well, I wish, by cripes, Mig would stick to plain United States,” he grumbled. “That’s no way to carry on an argument—draggin’ in Mex words a feller never heard before.” He grinned suddenly at Pink. “Little One, you saved Mig’s life, by cripes!”

“All right, that makes me a Samaritan too,” dimpled Pink. “Hey, Weary! Here’s the Pilgreens!”

A lumber wagon came rattling into the yard and stopped a dozen feet from the shed, and with the clannishness for which the Happy Family was noted, the boys came grinning to welcome these neighbors whom no one save Happy Jack particularly liked. Mr. and Mrs. Pilgreen, with their listless daughter, Annie, occupied the lopsided front seat. Behind them on two quilt-cushioned boards laid across the wagon box rode five juvenile Pilgreens of assorted sizes. All were grinning bashfully, save the old lady herself, whose beady eyes were roving here and there, seeking food for criticism.

“Well, now, how are yuh?” Big Medicine greeted them in his bellowing voice. “Storm any, down your way?”

“Some. Wasn’t you boys gittin’ ready to fight, a minute ago?” Mrs. Pilgreen looked hard at Big Medicine.

“Hunh? Fight? Not on your life!”

“I could hear you swearin’ something awful, comin’ up from the crick, and I saw you peelin’ off your coat and shakin’ your fist at somebuddy. I d’ know what you’d call it but a fight.” Mrs. Pilgreen eyed him coldly. “I don’t approve of swearin’, especially on Sunday. Or fightin’, either.”

“No, mom, you’re dead right. We wasn’t, though. We was jest joshin’ an’ actin’ the fool. Can I help you down?”

“I clumb in without help and I can climb out the same way,” the lady retorted, peering over the edge like a hen turkey inspecting a roost. “You help the young’ns.”

But Weary, Miguel and Pink were already performing that service. Big Medicine assisted the lank and lifeless Annie to the ground, wondering what Happy Jack could see in her to like. For thanks, she smiled and swallowed and looked at her feet, standing limply waiting for her waspish mother to make her clawing, backward descent over the wheel.

“Louise Bixby to home?” Mrs. Pilgreen flipped her calico skirt into place and glared at Big Medicine.

“Countess? Shore! Go right on up to the house. She come to git the house cleaned ’fore Chip and the Mrs. git home. She’ll be tickled to see you folks.”

“An’ that’s a lie, if I ever told one in m’ life,” he muttered later to Weary, watching the visitors go straggling through the big gate. “Guess I’ll go take a look at the pilgrim. Come on, Mig. I git mad sometimes, but I’m reasonable, by cripes. I want you should see fer yourself the pore feller ain’t runnin’ no whizzer. I’m willin’ you should prove yore case ag’in ’im. And if that ain’t fair enough, what is?”

“That’s fine with me, amigo.” The Native Son swung into step with him and they went off together. Weary and Pink, watching them go, glanced at each other and grinned.