The Flying U Ranch, B. M. Bower [diy ebook reader .txt] 📗
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- Author: B. M. Bower
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two to say about that.”
“What makes me sore,” Weary confided, “is knowing that Dunk isn’t
thinking altogether of the dollar end of it. He’s tickled to
death to get a whack at the outfit. And I hate to see him get
away with it; but I guess we’ll have to stand for it.”
That sentiment did not please Pink; nor, when Weary repeated it
later that evening in the bunk-house, did it please the Happy
Family. The less pleasing it was because it was perfectly true
and every man of them knew it. Beyond keeping the sheep off
Flying U land, there was nothing they could do without stepping
over the line into lawlessness—and, while they were not in any
sense a meek Happy Family, they were far more law-abiding than
their conversation that night made them appear.
CHAPTER IX. More Sheep
The next week was a time of harassment for the Flying U; a week
filled to overflowing with petty irritations, traceable, directly
or indirectly, to their new neighbors, the Dot sheepmen. The band
in charge of the bug-chaser and that other unlovable man from
Wyoming fed just as close to the Flying U boundary as their
guardians dared let them feed; a great deal closer than was good
for the tempers of the Happy Family, who rode fretfully here and
there upon their own business and at the same time tried to keep
an eye upon their unsavory neighbors—a proceeding as
nerve-racking as it was futile.
The Native Son, riding home in jingling haste from Dry Lake,
whither he had hurried one afternoon in the hope of cheering news
from Chicago, reported another trainload of Dots on the wide
level beyond Antelope coulee. There were, he said, four men in
charge of the band, and he believed they carried guns, though he
was not positive of that. They were moving slowly, and he thought
they would not attempt to cross Flying U coulee before the next
day; though, from the course they were taking, he was sure they
meant to cross.
Coupled with that bit of ill-tidings, the brief note from Chip,
saying very little about the Old Man, but implying a good deal by
its very omissions, would have been enough to send the Happy
Family to sleepless beds that night if they had been the kind to
endure with silent fortitude their troubles.
“If you fellers would back me up,” brooded Big Medicine down by
the corral after supper, “I’d see to it them sheep never gits
across the coulee, by cripes! I’d send ‘em so far the other way
they’d git plumb turned around and forgit they ever wanted to go
south.”
“It’s all Dunk’s devilishness,” Jack Bates declared. “He could
take them in the other way, even if the feed ain’t so good along
the trail. It’s most all prairie-dog towns—but that’s good
enough for sheep.” Jack, in his intense partisanship, spoke as if
sheep were not entitled to decent grass at any time or under any
circumstances.
“Them herders packin’ guns looks to me like they’re goin’ to make
trouble if they kin,” gloomed Happy Jack. “I betche they’ll kill
somebody before they’re through. When sheepmen gits mean—”
Pink picked up his rope and started for the large corral, where a
few saddle horses had been driven in just before supper and had
not yet been turned out.
“You fellows can stand around and chew the rag, if you want to,”
he said caustically, “and wait for Weary to make a war-talk. But
I’m going to keep cases on them Dots, if I have to stand an
all-night guard on ‘em. I don’t blame Weary; he’s looking out for
the law-and-order business—and that’s all right. But I’m not in
charge of the outfit. I’m going to do as I darn please, and, if
they don’t like my style, they can give me my time.”
“Good for you, Little One!” Big Medicine hurried to overtake him
so that he might slap him on the shoulder with his favorite,
sledge-hammer method of signifying his approval of a man’s
sentiments. “Honest to grandma, I was just b’ginnin’ to think
this bunch was gitting all streaked up with yeller. ‘Course, we
ain’t goin’ to wait for no official orders, by cripes! I’d ruther
lock Weary up in the blacksmith shop than let him tell us to go
ahead. Go awn and tell him a good, stiff lie, Andy—just to keep
him interested while us fellers make a gitaway. He ain’t in on
this; we don’t want him in on it.”
“What yuh goin’ to do?” Happy Jack inquired suspiciously. “Yuh
can’t go and monkey with them sheep, er them herders. They ain’t
on our land. And, if you don’t git killed, old Dunk’ll fix yuh
like he fixed the Gordon boys—I know him—to a fare-you-well.
It’d tickle him to death to git something on us fellers. I betche
that’s what he’s aiming t’do. Git us to fightin’ his outfit
so’s’t—”
“Oh, go off and lie down!” Andy implored him contemptuously.
“We’re going to hang those herders, and drive the sheep all over
a cut-back somewhere, like Jesus done to the hogs, and then we’re
going over and murder old Dunk, if he’s at home, and burn the
house to hide the guilty deed. And, if the sheriff comes snooping
around, asking disagreeable questions, we’ll all swear you done
it. So now you know our plans; shut your face and go on to bed.
And be sure,” he added witheringly, “you pull the soogans over
your head, so you won’t hear the dying shriek of our victims.
We’re liable to get kinda excited and torture ‘em a while before
we kill ‘em.”
“Aw, gwan!” gulped Happy Jack mechanically. “You make me sick! If
yuh think I’m goin’ to swaller all that, you’re away off! You
wouldn’t dast do nothing of the kind; and, if yuh did, you’d sure
have a sweet time layin’ it onto me!”
“Oh, I don’t know,” drawled the Native Son, with a slow,
velvet-eyed glance, “any jury in the country would hang you on
your looks, Happy. I knew a man down in the lower part of
California, who was arrested, tried and hanged for murder. And
all the evidence there was against him was the fact that he was
seen within five miles of the place on the same day the murder
was committed; and his face. They had an expert physiognomist
there, and he swore that the fellow had the face of a murderer;
the poor devil looked like a criminal—and, though he had one of
the best lawyers on the Coast, it was adios for him.”
“I s’pose you mean I got the face of a criminal!” sputtered Happy
Jack. “It ain’t always the purty fellers that wins out— like you
‘n’ Pink. I never seen the purty man yit that was worth the
powder it’d take to blow him up! Aw, you fellers make me sick!”
He went off, muttering his opinion of them all, and particularly
of the Native Son, who smiled while he listened. “You go awn and
start something—and you’ll wisht you hadn’t,” they heard him
croak from the big gate, and chuckled over his wrath.
As a matter of fact, the Happy Family, as a whole, or as
individuals, had no intention of committing any great violence
that evening. Pink wanted to see just where this new band of
sheep was spending the night, and to find out, if possible, what
were the herders’ intentions. Since the boys were all restless
under their worry, and, since there is a contagious element in
seeking a trouble-zone, none save Happy Jack, who was “sore” at
them, and Weary stayed behind in the coulee with old Patsy while
the others rode away up the grade and out toward Antelope coulee
beyond.
They meant only to reconnoiter, and to warn the herders against
attempting to cross Flying U coulee; though they were not exactly
sure that they would be perfectly polite, or that they would
confine themselves rigidly to the language they were wont to
employ at dances. Andy Green, in particular, seemed rather to
look forward with pleasure to the meeting. Andy, by the way, had
remained heartbrokenly passive during that whole week, because
Weary had extracted from him a promise which Andy, mendacious
though he had the name of being, felt constrained to keep intact.
Though of a truth it irked him much to think of two sheepherders
walking abroad unpunished for their outrage upon his person.
Weary, as he had made plain to them all, wanted to avoid trouble
if it were possible to do so. And, though they grinned together
in secret over his own affair with Dunk—which was not, in their
opinion, exactly pacific—they meant to respect his wishes as far
as human nature was able to do so. So that the Happy Family,
galloping toward the red sunset and the great, gray blot on the
prairie, just where the glory of the west tinged the grass blades
with red, were not one-half as blood-thirsty as they had
proclaimed themselves to be.
While they were yet afar off they could see two men walking
slowly in the immediate vicinity of the huddled band. A hundred
yards away was a small tent, with a couple of horses picketed
near by and feeding placidly. The men turned, gazed long at their
approach, and walked to the tent, which they entered somewhat
hastily.
“Look at ‘em dodge outa sight, will you!” cried Cal Emmett, and
lifted up his voice in the yell which sometimes announced the
Happy Family’s arrival in Dry Lake after a long, thirsty absence
on roundup. Other voices joined in after that first, shrill
“Ow-ow-ow-eee!” of Cal’s; so that presently the whole lot of them
were emitting nerve-crimping yells and spurring their horses into
a thunder of hoofbeats, as they bore down upon the tent. Between
howls they laughed, picturing to themselves four terrified
sheepherders cowering within those frail, canvas walls.
“I’m a rambler, and a gambler, and far from my ho-o-me, And if
yuh don’t like me, jest leave me alo-o-ne!” chanted Big Medicine
most horribly, and finished with a yell that almost scared
himself and set his horse to plunging wildly.
“Come out of there, you lop-eared mutton-chewers, and let us pick
the wool outa your teeth!” shouted Andy Green, telling himself
hastily that this was not breaking his promise to Weary, and
yielding to the temptation of coming as close to the guilty
persons as he might; for, while these were not the men who had
tied him and left him alone on the prairie, they belonged to the
same outfit, and there was some comfort in giving them a few
disagreeable minutes.
Pink, in the lead, was turning to ride around the tent, still
yelling, when someone within the tent fired a rifle—and did not
aim as high as he should. The bullet zipped close over the head
of Big Medicine, who happened to be opposite the crack between
the tent-flaps. The hand of Big Medicine jerked back to his hip;
but, quick as he was, the Native Son plunged between him and the
tent before he could take aim.
“Steady, amigo,” smiled Miguel. “You aren’t a crazy sheepherder.”
“No, but I’m goin’ to kill off one. Git outa my way!” Big
Medicine was transformed into a cold-eyed, iron-jawed fighting
machine. He dug the spurs in, meaning to ride ahead of Miguel.
But Miguel’s spurs also pressed home, so that the two horses
plunged as one. Big Medicine, bellowing one solitary oath, drew
his right leg from the stirrup to dismount. Miguel reached out,
caught him by the arm, and held him to
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