Читать книгу Frank Merriwell's New Comedian: or, The Rise of a Star - Standish Burt L. - Страница 5

Frank found the Twin Star Ranch a pleasant place. The house was large and well furnished, everything being in far better taste than he had expected.

Merry knew something of ranches and ranch life which, however, he said nothing about. He was supposed to be a very tender tenderfoot. Nobody dreamed he had ever handled a lariat, ridden a bucking broncho, or taken part in a round-up.

Gallup roamed about the ranch, inspecting everything, and he was a source of constant amusement to the “punchers,” as the cowboys were called.

After one of these tours of inspection, he came back to the room where Frank and Bart were sitting, filled with amazement.

“Vermont farms are different from this one,” smiled Merry.

“Waal, naow yeou’re talkin’! I’d like ter know haow they ever do the milkin’ here. I don’t b’lieve all ther men they’ve got kin milk so menny caows. Why, I saw a hull drove of more’n five hundred cattle about here on the farm, an’ they told me them warn’t a pinch of what Mr. Carson owns. Gosh all hemlock! but he must be rich!”

“Mr. Carson seems to be pretty well fixed,” said Merry.

“That’s so. He’s got a fine place here, only it’s too gol-dinged mernoternous.”

“Monotonous? How?”

“The graound’s too flat. Ain’t any hills to rest a feller’s eyes ag’inst. I tell yeou it does a man good to go aout where he kin see somethin’ besides a lot of flatness an’ sky. There ain’t northin’ in the world purtier than the Varmount hills. In summer they’re all green an’ covered with grass an’ trees, an’ daown in the valleys is the streams an’ rivers runnin’ along, sometimes swift an’ foamin’, sometimes slow an’ smooth, like glars. An’ ther cattle are feedin’ on ther hills, an’ ther folks are to work on their farms, an’ ther farm haouses, all painted white, are somethin’ purty ter see. They jest do a man’s heart an’ soul good. An’ then when it is good summer weather in Varmount, I be dad-bimmed if there’s any better weather nowhere! Ther sun jest shines right daown as if it was glad to git a look at sech a purty country, an’ ther sky’s as blue as Elsie Bellwood’s eyes. Ther birds are singin’ in ther trees, an’ ther bees go hummin’ in ther clover fields, an’ there’s sich a gol-durn good feelin’ gits inter a feller that he jest wants ter larf an’ shaout all ther time. Aout here there ain’t no trees fer ther birds ter sing in, an’ there don’t seem ter be northin’ but flat graound an’ cattle an’ sky.”

Frank had been listening with interest to the words of the country boy. A lover of nature himself, Merry realized that Gallup’s soul had been deeply impressed by the fair features of nature around his country home.

“Yes, Ephraim,” he said, “Vermont is very picturesque and beautiful. The Vermont hills are something once seen never to be forgotten.”

Gallup was warmed up over his subject.

“But when it comes to daownright purtiness,” he went on, “there ain’t northing like Varmount in the fall fer that. Then ev’ry day yeou kin see ther purtiest sights human eyes ever saw. Then is the time them hills is wuth seein’. First the leaves on ther maples, an’ beeches, an’ oaks they begin ter turn yaller an’ red a little bit. Then ther frost comes more, an’ them leaves turn red an’ gold till it seems that ther hull sides of them hills is jest like a purty painted picter. The green of the cedars an’ furs jest orfsets the yaller an’ gold. Where there is rocks on the hills, they seem to turn purple an’ blue in the fall, an’ they look purty, too – purtier’n they do at any other time. I uster jest go aout an’ set right daown an’ look at them air hills by the hour, an’ I uster say to myself I didn’t see haow heaven could be any purtier than the Varmount hills in ther fall.

“But there was folks,” he went on, whut lived right there where all them purty sights was an’ never saw um. They warn’t blind, neither. I know some folks I spoke to abaout how purty the hills looked told me they hedn’t noticed um! Naow, what du yeou think of that? I’ve even hed folks tell me they couldn’t see northin’ purty abaout um! Naow whut do yeou think of that? I ruther guess them folks missed half ther fun of livin’. They was born with somethin’ ther matter with um.

“It uster do me good ter take my old muzzle-loadin’ gun an’ go aout in the woods trampin’ in the fall. I uster like ter walk where the leaves hed fell jest to hear um rustle. I’d give a dollar this minute ter walk through the fallen leaves in the Varmount woods! I didn’t go out ter shoot things so much as I did to see things. There was plenty of squirrels, but I never shot but one red squirrel in my life. He come aout on the end of a limb clost to me an’ chittered at me in a real jolly way, same’s to say, ‘Hello, young feller! Ain’t this a fine day? Ain’t yeou glad yeou’re livin’?’ An’ then I up an’ shot him, like a gol-durn pirut!”

Ephraim stopped and choked a little. Bart was looking at him now with a strange expression on his face. Frank did not speak, but he was fully in sympathy with the tender-hearted country youth.

Bart rose to his feet, heaving a deep sigh.

“I’m afraid I missed some things when I was a boy,” he said. “There were plenty of woods for me, but I never found any pleasure in them. I used to think it fun to shoot squirrels; but now I believe it would have been greater pleasure for me if I had not shot them. I never listened to the music of the woods, for I didn’t know there was any music in them. Gallup, you have shown me that I was a fool.”

Then, with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, he walked out of the room.

Because Ephraim was very verdant the cowboys on the Twin Star fancied that Mr. Carson’s other visitors must be equally as accustomed to Western ways.

Frank was hard at work on his play, and that caused him to stick pretty close to the house. However, he was a person who believed in exercise when he could find it, and so, on the afternoon of the second day, he went out and asked one of the punchers if he could have a pony.

The man looked him over without being able to wholly conceal his contempt.

“Kin you ride?” he asked.

“Yes,” answered Frank, quietly.

“Hawse or kaow?” asked the cowboy.

“If you have a good saddle horse, I’d like to have him,” said Merry. “And be good enough to restrain your sarcasm. I don’t like it.”

The puncher gasped. He was angry. The idea of a tenderfoot speaking to him in such a way!

“All right,” he muttered. “I’ll git ye a critter, but our Western hawses ain’t like your Eastern ladies’ hawses.”

He departed.

Hodge had overheard all this, and he came up.

“You want to look out, Merry,” he said. “That chap didn’t like the way you called him down, and he’ll bring you a vicious animal.”

“I know it,” nodded Merry, pulling on a pair of heavy gloves. “It is what I expect.”

Bart said no more. He had seen Merry ride, and he knew Frank was a natural horse breaker.

The puncher returned in a short time, leading a little, wiry, evil-eyed broncho. He was followed by several other cowboys, and Merry heard one of them say:

“Better not let him try it, Hough. He’ll be killed, and Carson will fire you.”

“I’ll warn him,” returned the one called Hough, “an’ then I won’t be ter blame. He wants ter ride; let him ride – if he kin.”

Frank looked the broncho over.

“Is this the best saddle horse you have?” he asked.

“Waal, he’s the only one handy now,” was the sullen answer. “He’s a bit onreliable at times, an’ you’d better look out fer him. I wouldn’t recommend him for a lady ter ride.”

“By that I presume you mean he is a bucker?”

“Waal, he may buck some!” admitted the puncher, surprised that Frank should ask such a question.

“You haven’t anything but a hackamore on him,” said Merry. “Why didn’t you put a bit in his mouth? Do people usually ride with hackamores out here?”

“He kinder objects to a bit,” confessed the cowboy, his surprise increasing. “People out here ride with any old thing. Mebbe you hadn’t better try him.”

“Has he ever been ridden?”

“Certainly.”

“You give your word to that?”

“Yep.”

“All right. Then I’ll ride him.”

Frank went into the saddle before the puncher was aware that he contemplated such a thing. He yanked the halter out of the man’s hand, who leaped aside, with a cry of surprise and fear, barely escaping being hit by the broncho’s heels, for the creature wheeled and kicked, with a shrill scream.

Frank was entirely undisturbed. He had put on a pair of spurred riding boots which he found in the house, and now the broncho felt the prick of the spurs.

Then the broncho began to buck. Down went his head, and up into the air went his heels; down came his heels, and up went his head. Then he came down on all fours, and his entire body shot into the air. He came down stiff-legged, his back humped. Again and again he did this, with his nose between his knees, but still the tenderfoot remained in the saddle.

“Good Lord!” cried the wondering cowboys.

Bart Hodge stood at one side, his hands in his pockets, a look of quiet confidence on his face.

From an upper window of the ranch a pretty, sad-faced girl looked out, seeing everything. Frank had noticed her just before mounting the broncho. He wondered not a little, for up to that moment he had known nothing of such a girl being there. He had not seen her before since coming to the ranch.

All at once the broncho began to “pitch a-plunging,” jumping forward as he bucked. He stopped short and whirled end-for-end, bringing his nose where his tail was a moment before. He did that as he leaped into the air. Then he began to go up and down fore and aft with a decidedly nasty motion. He screamed his rage. He pitched first on one side and then on the other, letting his shoulders alternately jerk up and droop down almost to the ground.

“Good Lord!” cried the cowboys again, for through all this Frank Merriwell sat firmly in the saddle.

“Is this yere your tenderfoot what yer told us ye was goin’ ter learn a lesson, Hough?” they asked.

“Waal, I’ll be blowed!” was all the reply Hough made.

The broncho pitched “fence-cornered,” but even that had no effect on the rider.

Hough told the truth when he said the animal had been ridden before. Realizing at last the fruitlessness of its efforts, it suddenly ceased all attempts to unseat Frank. Two minutes later Merriwell was riding away on the creature’s back, and Hough, the discomfited cowboy, was the laughing-stock of the Twin Star Ranch.