Bat Wing Bowles Part 9

"Baaa!" blatted the little calf, rolling its eyes until they showed the whites. "Baaa!" And then, before it knew what was happening, Hardy Atkins knelt roughly on its neck, grabbed its left ear, and cut away half of it at a single stroke of the knife. "Baaa!" bellowed the calf, curling up its tail; and as the blood trickled forth Bowles felt himself grow sick and faint.

"Hold his head up!" directed Atkins; and then, with an impatient yank, he twitched up the second ear and cut a swallow-fork. The calf writhed and struggled to escape, and as he fought against it Bowles caught the stench of burning hair. Turning, he discovered Happy Jack still bearing down on the hot iron and searing it deep into the flesh. That finished Bowles, and he sank back on the ground, turning his victim loose.

"You want to hold their heads up," remarked Buck Buchanan, and Bowles nodded and answered faintly. What he really wanted was a chance to guard the herd; but orders were orders with Henry Lee, and if he failed to do his work he was fired. Another calf came in--a big, l.u.s.ty yearling--and Buck made a motion with his hand.

"Ketch that one," he directed in a fatherly tone of voice, and Bowles staggered out to do or die. But a yearling calf can be a very obstreperous brute on occasion, and this one was hot from his run.

Within a minute after he had grappled with it all thought of pity had died out in Bowles' breast. First he caught the bull calf by the neck and flank and tried to pull it over; then, as it fought against him and trampled on his feet, he seized its further legs and tried to lift them up; failing in this, he laid hold of it in a frenzy and tried to throw it by main strength.

"Git yore knees under him," suggested Buck from the middle distance.

Then, after another period of waiting, he slouched ponderously out and shoved him aside.

"Let me at 'im," he said. "You're keepin' Bill waitin' for his rope."

He felt of the calf for a minute and pushed him to make him change his feet; then, as the yearling started to step, he boosted him with his knees, heaved him into the air, and slammed him down on his side. It was a man's job, and difficult for the best of them, but Bowles didn't know that. All he knew was that the boss was watching him, over there by the fire where he was keeping tally on the brands, and thinking what a tenderfoot he was. And he was right--Bowles conceded it. He could not catch his horse, he could not ride a bronk, he could not even throw a calf or lift it off the ground. And his back ached, awfully.

It was a long morning for Mr. Bowles, packed with misery and hopeless struggling, like a nightmare without end. They say that in the short time between the instant a man starts falling out of bed and the moment he hits the floor, he can pa.s.s through a very inferno of dreams, pa.s.sed down from our tree-living ancestors and striking terror to the heart--and yet he generally wakes up before he lands. If he did not, so the old nurses say, he would surely, surely die. The jagged rocks that threatened him in his dream would pierce his quivering body and he would be found dead on the floor. The coroner would call it heart-failure, of course; and that was what threatened Bowles.

He was saved by a sound he had cursed that very morning--Gloomy Gus beating on his dishpan! Packing all his kit into the chuck-wagon, and throwing on a few sticks of wood, the cook had struck out through the dog towns and across the brushy flats and set up his fire irons by the side of a man-made lake. There he had gone busily about his task without waiting for the herd to come in; and just as Bowles was dropping dead, the dinner-call saved his life.

It had been a bad dream, but, thank Heaven, he had waked up before he struck. A pint of scalding coffee, black and bitter from much boiling, and he was able to look about; and as he disposed of a couple of beefsteaks and dipped his biscuits in the grease, the weak place in his middle seemed comforted; and by the time he got around to the "fruit"

and syrup he felt almost like a man again. Such jests as had been pa.s.sed upon his condition had fallen upon unhearing ears, but now that he was brought back to health and strength he was able to smile grimly at his appearance as mirrored in the honest lake.

His face, which he had neglected to wash before eating, was crusted with sweat and dirt and spotted with gouts of blood; his hair was matted and dust-powdered; and in the bloodshot and haggard orbs that gazed up at him from the placid depths he saw a look that made him start. It was a cruel, vindictive look, almost inhuman in its intensity; and it came from flanking bull calves. He looked down at his hands, all swollen and crabbed from clutching, and saw that they were caked with blood. His s.h.i.+rt, too, and his trim-fitting trousers were dirty and spattered with gore. In fact--and here was where the grim smile came in--he could hardly be told from a real cowboy!

After dinner the cutting and branding went on as before, but with this important difference--Bowles flanked only his share of the calves. There were two sets of flankers, two hot-iron men, and two ear-markers, and the calves came up as they were caught. A really ambitious flanker, out for experience, could get almost all the calves; but the only ones that Bowles ran after now were the ones that were easy to throw. If a yearling came dancing up on a rope, he stepped on his own foot and let the other man beat him to it--either that or turned him over to Buck. It was quick work; but Bowles had a college education--he had been only six hours a cowboy when he learned to malinger on the job.

As for the rest of the gang, inured as they were to hard labor, the branding was no more than a picnic for them. They found time to take chews of tobacco, tell stories, and watch all the roping; and if any calf turned out to be too big for flanking they grabbed him by the neck and made him run, and bulldogged him, "California fas.h.i.+on." Happy Jack was best at that, and several times in a fit of emulation he shoved some puncher aside and showed him how it ought to be done--but never for Bowles. It was strange how carefully they all avoided him--never looking at him, rarely addressing him, and answering his inquiries with a word.

He was an alien, a stranger among them, and--slowly the truth was borne in on him--an inferior.

From the start Bowles had taken it for granted that they were abashed, tongue-tied by his obvious education, and awed by his gentlemanly bearing. But now they would not so much as laugh at him, lest it encourage him to familiarity. Never for a minute did they allow him to presume on their sufferance, and his remarks fell dead and flat. Even Henry Lee, who had the bearing and spoke the language of a gentleman, refused to encourage him by a word; and at last he retired within himself, and saved his breath for flanking and his wits for dodging work.

If a cowboy never soldiered on the job he would be dead before it came pay-day; but there are certain tasks which cannot be slighted, and one of these is bringing home the herd. After the day's branding the calves are cut into "ones" and "twos," and while the rest of the outfit troops gaily homeward somebody must stay behind and bring up the cut. One of them must be a cowman, for trailing is an art in itself, but the others are likely to be dubs. Certainly no boss would penalize his best hands and most willing workers by giving them such a task; and so, when the cutting was over and Henry Lee looked around for a poor hand, or one who had been soldiering on the job, he picked Bowles on both counts.

"Bowles," he said, "you help Brigham bring up those twos!" And that was all there was to it. But to Brigham he spoke differently. It was "Brig,"

with him; and instead of an order it was a request.

"Brig," he said, "I'll ask you to take charge of the twos. Drive 'em easy and put 'em in the north pasture."

"All right, sir," answered Brigham in a friendly, off-hand way, and then the drive began. Mounted upon a rough-coated bronk that fought his bit constantly yet responded to every touch of rein or spur, the burly puncher rode back and forth, from the rear to the flank, and then up near the point; and when he had them strung out to suit him he traveled along on one side, while Bowles brought up the rear. It was weary work, after the long day of flanking, and as the weaker ones began to get footsore they fell back to the drag and more than doubled his labors. At times Brigham Clark dropped back and strung them out for him again; but he said nothing, chewing placidly on his tobacco and giving all his thought to the cattle. Still the drag increased, and as they began to lag behind, Bowles let down his rope and lashed them with the loop. It was then that Brigham Clark spoke.

"Don't do no good to whip 'em," he remarked, falling back to string them out. "They'll travel as fast as the leaders--jest let 'em go."

So Bowles put up his rope and let them go, and soon they fell farther behind; but about the time he was preparing to whip them anyway, the cowman dropped back from the flank.

"Now, that's the way to handle cattle," he said, nodding at the plodding line. "String 'em out and crowd the leaders--the drag will take care of itself."

At that he was gone again; and for an hour or more he rode tirelessly up and down the side, filling up every hole and gap and shoving the leaders ahead. The cottonwoods of the home ranch showed green against the hills, and the end of their drive was in sight, when suddenly Brigham held up his hand to stop.

"Let 'em feed a while," he said, as Bowles rode up to inquire. "The drag is gittin' weak." Then he sat silent on his rough-haired bronk, his inscrutable eyes gazing dully over the plain to the south, and Bowles dropped wearily off his horse and stretched himself out on the ground.

Half an hour afterward he roused up with a start just as Dixie Lee, mounted on a long, rangy bay, came galloping up the road. Her eyes were very bright, and her cheeks were flushed from riding against the wind, and as she reined her horse in with a jerk her hair framed her face like a halo. But she did not see Bowles, though he stood up and took off his hat.

"h.e.l.lo, Brig," she called. "Watching 'em pick the flowers?"

"Yes'm," answered Brigham, grinning amiably. "Watchin' 'em pluck the blossoms. What's goin' on down below now? Seen you go down there several times."

"Oh, you're still keeping track of me, are you?" queried Dixie Lee gaily. "Well, you want to look out, Brigham--I'm getting awfully interested in a young Texican down there. He's got a nice farm, too--hundred and sixty acres!"

"Sure!" agreed Brigham. "All covered with loco weed and this nice white stuff!"

He nodded at the glistening alkali along the flat, and his eyes twinkled with furtive humor as Dixie Lee raised her quirt.

"Aw, Brigham," she chided, "I believe you're jealous!" She leaned forward as she spoke, and the bay broke into a gallop, while Dixie sent a laugh down the wind.

"Heh, heh, heh," chuckled Brigham, reaching into his vest for a cigarette paper. "That's Dix, all right. Don't you know, stranger," he went on as he rolled himself a smoke, "that's the finest gal in Arizona.

Good folks an' all that, but nothin' stuck up about her. Heh, heh, mighty nigh ast her to marry me one time, but couldn't quite cut it--she's been jos.h.i.+n' me ever since. Got 'em all comin' and won't have none of 'em. Oh, hookey, wisht I wasn't a common, ornery cow-punch!"

He paused and smoked a while, still gazing at the streak of dust.

"Good rider, too," he observed; "beat most of the boys. I knowed her four miles away by section lines."

Once more he paused, and Bowles preserved his Sphinx-like silence. He was learning the customs of the country fast.

"Don't have any like her back where you come from, I reckon," suggested Brigham, his eyes s.h.i.+ning with local pride; and Bowles sadly shook his head. No, they did not--there was no one like Dixie Lee.

CHAPTER X

THE FIRST SMILE

The next three days were one long, aching agony for Bowles. He carried a little water for Gloomy Gus, but stubbornly refused the job of flunky.

He helped the horse wrangler--a wild-eyed youth who could pop a rope like a pistol-shot and yell like a murdering Apache--but as resolutely refused the job of a.s.sistant. He had been taken on as a cowboy, and a cowboy he tried to be, though every nerve and muscle called a halt. From the first morning, when they sent him out in the dark to wrangle the horse pasture, to the third evening, when he crawled wearily into an old "bed" that he had picked up, his life was a prolonged succession of accidents, mistakes, and awkward happenings; yet he stayed with it, bull-headed and determined, until Henry Lee grew tired of hazing him and put him on the day-herd to get healed up.

There was very little left of the lily-white Mr. Bowles when the ordeal came to an end. His hands that had been so trim and slender were swelled up too big for his gloves. The outside was raw with sunburn and wind-chap and the inside was blistered and rope-worn. His lips had cracked wide open from the dry north wind, and his face was beginning to peel like a snake. Also his arms had been nearly jerked from the sockets by a horse he had tried to hold, and a calf had kicked him in the leg while he was trying to bulldog it at the branding. Like the cowboy in the ballad, "he was busted from his somber to his heel," but he had managed to come through alive. And now, as a reward for his prowess and daring, he was set to mind the day-herd.

Gra.s.s was short in the Bat Wing pastures, and every day brought in new herds of dogies to be held for the April s.h.i.+pping; so, just to keep all hands busy and save a little feed, Henry Lee turned his gentle cattle out on to the prairie to rustle what provender they could. Now riding day-herd is not supposed to be a very high-grade or desirable occupation, and good punchers have been known to quit a boss who put them at it; but Bowles was led to believe that it was a post of honor.

Awful stories of cowboys who had gone to sleep on guard were told by the fire at night, and the danger from sudden stampedes was played up to the skies. The monotony of the job was admitted, but the responsibility was great. So Bowles accepted the position gladly, and the round-up went on unimpeded.

Lolling in the shade of his horse or sitting with his back to the dry wind, Bowles watched them "pluck the blossoms" while he doctored his numerous wounds, meanwhile falling into lovelorn reveries on the subject of Dixie Lee. It was humiliating, in a way, to be reduced to the ranks; to be compelled to wait on her pleasure, and court her from afar; but something told him that Dixie thought of him even though she pa.s.sed him by; and just to be one of her lovers, to be allowed to wors.h.i.+p with the rest--that was enough to bear him up and give him courage to wait. And either in the end she would speak to him and take him back into her life, or he would depart in silence to hide from her laughing eyes. The game of love was new to Bowles and he knew little of its stealth and wiles; just to be near her was all he knew, and the future must solve the rest. So, like a questing knight, nursing his hurts after his first combat, he sat out on the boundless prairie and communed with his own sad heart.

Across the herd from him a battered old-time cowboy sat, crooked-legged, on his horse. On the day before a bronk had thrown him by treachery and kicked him as he dragged--even turned around and jumped on him and stamped him in the face. A great bruise, red and raw, ran up from his brows to his bald-spot where the iron shoe had struck; but still the old-timer was content.

"A cowboy don't need no haid above his eyebrows, nohow," he had said.

"Jest think if he had hit me on the jaw!" Yes, indeed, but what if he had hit him in the temple or trampled him to death! Or suppose, just for instance, that Mr. Bowles, of New York, had been on the bronk instead of Uncle Joe, the veteran--would he have had sense enough to get his foot out of the stirrup? That was the trouble with standing day-herd--it gave the imagination a chance to work.

Bowles looked out over the plain again and noticed every little thing--the rattleweed, planted so regularly on the sandy flat; the dogholes, each with its high-topped mound to keep out the rain and floods; the black line of mesquite brush against the distant hills; the band of yuccas along their flanks; and then the soft, moulded summits, now green, now yellow, now creamy white as shrubs and bushes and bunch gra.s.s caught the light. It was very beautiful, but lonely. Yes, it lacked color--a vigorous girlish figure in the foreground to give it the last poetic touch.