The Ramblin' Kid, Earl Wayland Bowman [mind reading books .TXT] 📗

as a permanent possibility.

Old Heck and Parker were in a quandary.

Neither was sure of his standing with Ophelia although each had reason to believe that he was her favorite. Her interest in Charley added an unexpected and perplexing equation to their problem.

"Gosh," Chuck finally exclaimed, "that dance sure was some blow out!"

"I should say it was!" Bert agreed emphatically and with a satisfied grin. "But didn't that widow act funny for an 'anti-he' suffragette?"

Old Heck looked up, startled, as if he had been reminded of a disagreeable subject and one he wished to forget.

"Are you plumb positive that she is one, Parker?" Chuck asked.

"I told you what she was," Parker growled, "she's an 'Organizer' for some sort of 'Movement' or other."

"Well, I'll be blamed if her 'movements' to-night showed any 'anti-he' inclinations," Charley interrupted. "She carried on more like a female vampire than one of these advocaters of woman's rights!"

"Aw, shut up and go to bed," Old Heck grunted. "It's too late to start any argument!"

The moon crept across the heavens and was hanging above the shadowy peaks of the Costejo Mountains when the Ramblin' Kid returned to the sleeping Quarter Circle KT, slipped the saddle from the back of the Gold Dust maverick and turned the filly and Captain Jack into the circular corral.

He had ridden the outlaw mare almost to Eagle Butte.

She had learned her lesson. She knew, when he caressed her muzzle and pressed the last lump of sugar into her mouth, before he turned away to the bunk-house, that the Ramblin' Kid was not only her master but her friend as well—understanding and sympathetic. Never again would she doubt his will or resist the gentle yet firm strength of his hand. From that moment the Gold Dust maverick, like Captain Jack, was a one-man horse, ready to serve, to trust and obey only the Ramblin' Kid.

"You little beauty," he laughed tenderly as he playfully shook the underlip of the filly and started toward the gate, "—you're a runner—gee!—but you're a runner!"

The others were fast asleep when the Ramblin' Kid noiselessly opened the door of the bunk-house, went in, and without undressing, stretched himself on his bed.

Old Heck awakened the cowboys as the sun poured its first slanting rays through the open un-draped window.

The stir aroused the Ramblin' Kid.

He made no move to arise.

"Ain't you going to get up?" Old Heck said garrulously.

"When I damn please!" was the independent reply. "Skinny, tell th' Chink to keep me a cup of hot coffee!"

Old Heck snorted but said no more.

Parker and the cowboys dressed silently, half-moodily. They hardly knew yet how they felt after the excitement of the night before. Skinny started to put on the white shirt, looked at it contemptuously a moment, and with a muttered oath threw it viciously on the bed.

In a few moments the Ramblin' Kid was left alone in the bunk-house. He lay, hands clasped at the back of his head, studying. His eyes were closed, but he was not asleep. Presently he smiled and opened his eyes. He drew the pink satin elastic from his pocket and looked at it. "That's a hell of a thing to be packin'—wonder why I keep it?" he muttered. It suddenly occurred to him that if he was not at breakfast Carolyn June would think he was afraid or ashamed to meet her. He got up, straightened his disarranged clothes, went to the house and after stopping at the ditch by the fence and washing his face, walked indifferently into the kitchen and sat down at his regular place. The others already were eating. Carolyn June glanced at him with a meaningless smile and acknowledged, without feeling, his quiet "Good morning!"

The cowboys were nervous. Memory of last night was fresh in their minds.
It made them cautious in their talk.

Ophelia and Carolyn June, also, were a bit restrained.

They were not sure but they had started more than it would be easy to stop. The expressions in the eyes of the cowboys paid tribute to the success of the two women's efforts at wholesale heart-wrecking. The child-like acceptance of a simple flirtation as the real thing, by these husky riders of the range, was little less than appalling.

It all but frightened Carolyn June and the widow.

Old Heck saw the worship in the eyes of the cowboys.

"Things sure are in a devil of a mix-up!" he growled to himself.

Skinny was so dejected Carolyn June felt half-guilty and tried to cheer him up. She began talking, in a low voice, directly to the melancholy-looking cowboy.

"To-day—or some time—when the others are away," she said caressingly, "you and I will dance all the dances by ourselves!"

His heart leaped joyously. He was sorry, now, that he had not put on the white shirt. He resolved, after a while, to sneak out to the bunk-house and change.

The confidential talk between Carolyn June and Skinny galled Chuck. He decided to break it up.

"What was your idea in riding the Gold Dust maverick last night?" he said abruptly to the Ramblin' Kid.

There was a general pause for the answer. Carolyn June stopped in the middle of a sentence and looked curiously at the Ramblin' Kid. He took his time to reply.

"Because I wanted to!" was the slow unsatisfactory retort.

"Why didn't you wait till to-day, so the rest of us could see how she acted?" Charley asked.

"What do you think you are"—he started to say—"a bunch of lawyers cross-examinin' a witness?" thought better of it and with a careless laugh answered: "If you're huntin' entertainment, why don't you go up to Eagle Butte to th' picture show? Th' maverick an' me ain't no exhibition!"

"Did she buck?" Charley continued, ignoring the sarcastic remark.

"Some," the Ramblin' Kid drawled.

"What you going to do with the filly while we're out on the beef hunt?"
Chuck queried, wishing to keep the conversation general.

"Ride her!" was the laconic reply.

"Ain't you afraid she'll break away from the caballero and you'll lose her again?" Charley asked.

"When I ain't usin' her I'll 'neck' her to Captain Jack," the Ramblin' Kid answered patiently, referring to the method of fastening a wild horse to one that is gentle and prevent its running away, by attaching a short length of rope to the neck of each. "I don't believe she'd leave th' stallion anyhow!"

"By golly," Chuck said earnestly and half-pleadingly, "I wish you'd put her against that Y-Bar outfit's Thunderbolt horse in the two-mile sweepstakes this year! It would be—"

"Fun to see her run!" the Ramblin' Kid interrupted, looking up quickly and straight into the eyes of Carolyn June as he finished the contemptuous quotation of her words, spoken the day before at the corral. She flushed, but gazed back at him without flinching. "Well," he continued, "I reckon you'll get your wish—th' maverick is goin' to run against th' Vermejo horse!"

"The Fourth of July is a week from next Wednesday," Charley said calculatingly. "The Rodeo starts on Tuesday, the roping and bucking finals come on Thursday. That makes the big race come Friday—a week from next Friday, ain't it?"

"That's right," Bert concurred. "Th' Ramblin' Kid's got nearly two weeks to get the maverick in shape."

"Nothing will be in shape for anything," Old Heck broke in, getting up from the table, "unless we move around and get things ready to begin the beef round-up to-morrow morning. Some of you boys will have to bring in those saddle horses from across the river. Each one of you can ride your regular 'string' this year"—alluding to the term used to designate the group of several horses used exclusively by each individual rider working on a round-up. "Skinny won't be with you, but you'd better take his horses along for extras. Parker can be getting the grub-wagon in shape—I reckon you'll have to work Old Tom and Baldy on it. Sing Pete ought to be able to handle them."

"Where do we start in?" Charley asked as they went toward the barn.

"Over in the Battle Ridge country," Old Heck answered, "and work everything east of the big pasture first. It'll take just about a week to clean up that side—it's pretty rough riding over there. Then you can finish the west end after the Rodeo is over."

"What all you aiming to gather?" Bert queried.

"Everything above a three-year-old," Old Heck replied in a businesslike way; "pick up the dry cows, too, if they're fat enough. Prices are better than usual and I want to sell pretty close on account of that storm knocking the hay the way it did the other night. There'll be three hundred and fifty or four hundred good beef critters on the east range. You ought to have them bunched and in the big pasture by Saturday night. Then, until the Rodeo is over you can all do what you darn' please—"

"I know what I'm going to do," Chuck laughed.

"What?" Bert asked.

"Draw all my wages, borrow all I can, and make a clean-up on that Y-Bar outfit on the race between the Gold Dust maverick and Thunderbolt!" he exclaimed vindictively.

"Probably there will be some of the rest of us have a little Quarter
Circle KT money up on that race, too," Charley insinuated.

"I know blamed well there will be!" Old Heck added earnestly as they scattered to go about their respective employments.

It was a busy Sunday at the Quarter Circle KT. Chuck, Charley and Pedro spent the morning and most of the afternoon getting the saddle horses from across the river. Bert helped Parker and Old Heck about the ranch. Sing Pete baked a supply of light-bread and stocked the grub-wagon with provisions. The Ramblin' Kid volunteered to "ride-line" on the big pasture and see that the Diamond Bar steers had not broken out again. He rode a sorrel colt—one that had had its "first-riding" in the circular corral the day before Carolyn June and Ophelia arrived at the Quarter Circle KT. When he came to the corner of the pasture where the bodies of the cattle, killed by lightning, lay, a flock of buzzards were tearing at the carcasses. As the gorged creatures flapped heavily into the air the young broncho wheeled, and bucking frantically, jolted away from the gruesome scene. The Ramblin' Kid forced the animal to turn about and made him pass, rearing and plunging, among the skinless and already decaying forms. Before sundown the Ramblin' Kid was back at the ranch.

In the afternoon Skinny and Carolyn June went for a ride down the valley. It was her first opportunity to try the new saddle. Skinny was mounted on Old Pie Face and Carolyn June rode Browny, a dependable old cow-horse.

"Gee," Carolyn June remarked as they passed the circular corral. "I'd like to ride the Gold Dust maverick with this outfit!"

"It would be a dandy combination," Skinny said admiringly, "but I doubt if anybody but th' Ramblin' Kid will ever be able to ride the filly. So far, she acts like she's going to be a worse one-man horse than Captain Jack is. She tried to kill me yesterday when I went into the corral!"

"What makes her that way?" Carolyn June asked.

"Blamed if I know," Skinny replied, "some horses are naturally like that. Th' Ramblin' Kid says it ain't in the horse—it's in the human. If the human don't understand the horse the horse won't trust the human and where there ain't trust there's fear and where there's fear there's hate. He's got some funny ideas!"

"Sounds sort of sensible, though, doesn't it?" Carolyn June said musingly.

"Maybe it does," Skinny retorted, "but he goes a little too far with his fool notions sometimes, it seems to me."

"How is that?" Carolyn June questioned.

"Well, for one thing," Skinny replied, "he says any man or woman a horse don't trust ain't a good man or woman for a human to depend on—says they ain't right inside! It looks to me like that's a pretty hard slam on people just because some darned idiot of a broncho won't make up with them!"

Carolyn June leaned back in the saddle and laughed.

"Some 'range philosopher'—this Ramblin' Kid person!" she exclaimed lightly. "Where did he come from and who is he, anyway?"

"Nobody knows," Skinny answered; "he just kind of growed up, here in the Southwest. I've heard that his mother died when he was born and his father was a preacher or something doing missionary work—I reckon that's what you'd call it—among the Mexicans and Indians and