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CHAPTER 2

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Whatever went on in the mind of this idle, worthless fellow, it was very clear that he did not wish to be returned to his father. He remained out until noon, and then he came back to the house in prompt response to the dinner bell. He carried saddle and bridle, and Wilbur Dent looked him over critically. There was no sweat on his brow, though the day was warm; there was no dust on his torn clothes, there was no limp to his gait.

“How many have you rode?” asked Dent.

“All twelve,” said Larribee, and pumped out a basin of water to wash for lunch.

There is no use calling a man a liar until you have the proof of his lie. Dent strode to the outer corral, and there he saw twelve mustangs, and on the back of every one there was the print of a saddle in sweat, and on the head of the mustangs were the signs of cheek straps.

He came back to the house in muse. There was of course, some trick about it, but even to have saddled the twelve, to say nothing of backing them, was a feat. He said not a word to Larribee. After lunch they would see.

So they sat down to the table, where the Dents talked to one another and looked sourly as Larribee twice heaped his plate with baked beans, ate six rashers of bacon, and cleaned his plate. Then he poured in a tide of molasses and licked it up with half a dozen of Mrs. Dent’s best sour-milk biscuits, golden beauties, and her pride. He ate with the mild absorption of a stalled ox, and almost as much. When it came to coffee, his cup had to be filled five times!

West of the Mississippi, hospitality is more than a virtue; it is a religion; but Mrs. Dent could not look on at this havoc. She had to lower her eyes to her own modest portion, and finally she left the table, unable to endure the sight.

Then Wilbur Dent spoke: “Well, boys, Alfred says that he’s rode all twelve of those mustangs. You, there, Dan, you can take a fling at one of ’em after lunch and see how he’s gentled down.”

After lunch Larribee extended his large frame under a tree, folded his hands beneath his head, and slept; the rest of the menfolk filed out to the corral gate, looking sourly askance upon the sleeper. His mouth was open; his snoring was deep and vibrant.

“I wish a spider would drop down his throat,” said Dan Dent. “I’m gonna get spilled plenty. They’re as wild as mosquitoes, those devils. Look at ’em!”

For the mustangs milled as wildly as ever when the four men came to the corral fence.

“He rode ’em, did he?” said Daniel Dent. “He rode a broomstick, is what he rode.”

But he went in with his rope and snagged the smallest of the lot. It was not the smallest in spirit, however; it exploded all over the corral, and the others, in sympathy with their brother, exploded also.

The mustang, when its eyes were free from the blindfold, hesitated. Then it bucked its way to the corral fence in three jumps, and with the third it skyrocketed Daniel Dent into space.

He landed on his head and lay still. He was not dead, but he was badly stunned; and when they got him up, blood was trickling from ears, nose and mouth. His eyes were the eyes of a drunkard.

“Go get Larribee,” said the father gently.

Deny and Douglas went to the sleeper and stirred him with the toes of their boots. He opened one eye. His sleek face was flushed with sleep.

“Yes?” murmured Larribee in his husky, oily voice.

“Get up and come along,” said the two. “The old man, he wants to see you ride one of those hosses out there.”

The elder Dent pointed with a rigid arm.

“You say you rode them hosses, all of ’em,” he said, iron in his voice. “Now you can sashay in there and ride only one of ’em again. You won’t have to bother about saddlin’ it. There’s a saddle already on it. Get in there and do it!”

Larribee seemed in no hurry. He leaned for a moment on the rail of the fence and looked over the little herd.

“I left them all quiet and peaceable,” said he. “And now you’ve stirred them up. You know about bees—they’ll let you alone if you don’t bother them.”

“Shut up and get in there!” ordered Dent.

Larribee sighed. He opened the gate and walked in slowly. The mustangs faced him in a row, ready to charge. They shook their heads. Their eyes were red with the wild beast’s hatred of man and the man smell, the awkward, two-legged mysteriously horrible enemy of all things.

“Poor boys,” said Larribee. “I’m sorry for you. But you’ve got to have iron on your teeth and the saddle on your back, because nature gave you more than you need, and other people will be sure to use it. You, there, pinto, don’t roll your eyes. I know exactly what’s biting you!”

He sauntered up, talking in this idle manner. And Daniel Dent, who had regained his wits and his feet, said: “Now watch that hand-made tiger eat him up!”

But it was a strange thing to see those mustangs stand as Larribee walked about among them. He took the saddled horse by the bit and led it to the gate. It hardly knew how to lead. It seemed to follow the man by choice rather than by compulsion, and behold the whole group walked behind their brother to the gate, and when he was led out into the open, they hung their ugly heads over the rail and stared after him.

Larribee fitted his foot into the stirrup and then mounted, the saddle twisting a little under his weight. He hunched it straight as he sat upright, fumbling for the other stirrup in the meantime.

“He’s not bridlewise, yet,” said he. “But he’s learning.”

Before a silent, stupefied audience he steered the mustang slowly around the outer corral. Then he halted it by the gate again.

“Try it now, Derry,” said the father as Larribee dismounted in a continued silence.

Larribee stood at the mustang’s head. It made not a move while he was there, merely lifting its head a little and flattening its ears as Derry Dent mounted. Then the word was given, and Larribee stepped away, and that inspired little fiend deliberately tied himself into half a dozen knots. When he unravelled them, Derry was picking himself up from a dust cloud that filled half the corral.

Larribee caught the panting horse and put it inside the corral again.

“What did you do to it?” asked Wilbur Dent. “Now, you tell me what you did to that hoss?”

“I talked. You heard me,” said Larribee. “If there’s nothing more on hand, I’ll go back and have a sleep.”

They let him go because they wanted to be alone for a moment; they craved a conference.

“What good is it anyway?” said Daniel. “Suppose that he can ride any old hoss, what good is it if nobody else can foller in his tracks?”

“What good is Larribee for anything?” growled the father. “Nothin’ except to break handles, and gamble and drink. A coward, too, that runs away from everybody. The whole town is sneerin’ at him. He’s makin’ a joke out of my household. By thunder, I ain’t going to stand it!”

Lucky Larribee

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