The Flying U Ranch, B. M. Bower [diy ebook reader .txt] 📗

a few of us that will have a word or

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