The Orphan, Clarence E. Mulford [find a book to read TXT] 📗

showing and craftily determined to take a handicap. The two stared at each other for a space and then burst into laughter, forgetting for the time being what they should do. Other heads bobbed up, and the secret was out. Only that Silent was the best swimmer in the crowd saved him from a ducking, and as it was he had to grab his clothes and run.

After being assured that he was forgiven for his trickery he rejoined his friends and his towel.

More fun was now the rule, for dressing required care. The sandy west bank sloped gradually to the water’s edge, and it was necessary to stand on one foot on a small stone in the water while the other was dipped to remove the sand. Still on one foot the other must be dried, the stocking put on, then the trouser leg and lastly the boot, and woe to the man who lost his balance and splashed stocking and trouser leg as he wildly sought to save it! Humble splashed while his foot was only half-way through the trouser leg, and The Orphan fared even worse. Then a race of awkward runners was on toward the bunk house, where breakfast was annihilated.

“Hey, Tom, what time do we leave?” asked Bud for the fifth time.

“Nine o’clock, you chump,” replied the foreman.

“Three whole hours yet,” grumbled Jim as he again plastered his hair to his head.

“I’ll lose my appetite shore,” worried Humble. “We got up too blamed early, that’s what we did.”

“Why, here’s Humble!” cried Silent in mock surprise. “Do you like apricot pie, and gingerbread and real coffee?”

“You go to the devil,” grumbled Humble. “You wouldn’t ’a’ been asked at all, only she couldn’t very well cut you out of it when she asked me along. I’m the one she really wants to feed; you fellers just happen to tag on behind, that’s all.”

“Going to take Lightning with you, Humble?” asked Docile, winking at the others.

“Why, I shore am,” replied Humble in surprise. “Do you reckon I’d leave him and that d––-d Chink all alone together, you sheep?”

“I was afraid you wouldn’t,” pessimistically grumbled Docile, but here he smiled hopefully. “Suppose you take Lee Lung and leave the dog here?” he queried.

“Suppose you quit supposing with your feet!” sarcastically countered Humble. “I know you ain’t got much brains, but you might exercise what little you have got once in a while. It won’t hurt you none after you get used to it.”

“How are you going to carry him, Humble–like a papoose?” queried Joe with a great show of interest.

Humble stared at him: “Huh!” he muttered, being too much astonished to say more.

“I asked you how you are going to carry your fighting wolfhound,” Joe said without the quiver of an eyelash. “I thought mebby you was going to sling him on your back like a papoose.”

“Carry him! Papoose!” ejaculated Humble in withering irony. “What do you reckon his legs are for? He ain’t no statue, he ain’t no ornament, he’s a dog.”

“Well, I knowed he ain’t no ornament, but I wasn’t shore about the rest of it,” responded Joe. “I only wanted to know how he’d get to town. There ain’t no crime in asking about that, is there? I know he can’t follow the gait we’ll hit up for thirty miles, so I just naturally asked, sabe?”

“Oh, you did, did you!” cried Humble, not at all humbly. “He can’t follow us, can’t he?” he yelled belligerently.

“He shore can’t, cross my heart,” asserted Silent in great earnestness. “If he runs to Ford’s Station after us and gets there inside of two days I’ll buy him a collar. That goes.”

“Huh!” snorted Humble in disgust, “he won’t wear your old collar after he wins it. He’s got too much pride to wear anything you’ll give him.”

“He couldn’t, you mean,” jabbed Jim. “He’s so plumb tender that it would strain his back to carry it. Why, he has to sit down and rest if more’n two flies get on the same spot at once.”

“He can’t wag his tail more’n three times in an hour,” added Bud, “and when he scratches hisself he has to rest for the remainder of the day.”

Humble turned to The Orphan in an appealing way: “Did you ever see so many d––d fools all at once?” he beseeched.

The Orphan placed his finger to his chin and thought for fully half a minute before replying: “I was just figuring,” he explained in apology for his abstraction. Then his face brightened: “You can tie him up in a blanket–that’s the best way. Yes, sir, tie him up in a blanket and sling him at the pommel. We’ll take turns carrying him.”

“Purple h–l!” yelled Humble. “You’re another! The whole crowd are a lot of ––!”

“Sing it, Humble,” suggested Tad, laughing. “Sing it!”

“Whistle some of it, and send the rest by mail,” assisted Jack Lawson.

“Seen th’ dlog?” came a bland, monotonous voice from the doorway, where Lee Lung stood holding a chunk of beef in one hand, while his other hand was hidden behind his back. Over his left shoulder projected half a foot of club, which he thought concealed. “Seen th’ dlog?” he repeated, smiling.

“Miss Mirandy and holy hell!” shouted Humble, leaping forward at sight of the club. There was a swish! and Humble rebounded from the door, at which he stared. From the rear of the house came more monotonous words: “Nice dlog-gie. Pletty Lightling. Here come. Gette glub,” and Humble galloped around the corner of the house, swearing at every jump.

When the laughter had died down Blake smiled grimly: “Some day Lee will get that dog, and when he does he’ll get him good and hard. Then we’ll have to get another cook. I’ve told him fifty times if I’ve told him once not to let it go past a joke, but it’s no use.”

“He won’t hurt the cur, he’s only stringing Humble,” said Bud. “Nobody would hurt a dog that minded his own business.”

“If anybody hit a dog of mine for no cause, he wouldn’t do it again unless he got me first,” quietly remarked The Orphan.

Jim hastily pointed to the corner of the house where a club projected into sight: “There’s Lee now!” he whispered hurriedly. “He’s laying for him!”

There was a sudden spurt of flame and smoke and the club flew several yards, struck by three bullets. Humble hopped around the corner holding his hand, his words too profane for repetition.

Smoke filtered from The Orphan’s holster and eyes opened wide in surprise at the wonderful quickness of his gunplay, for no one had seen it. All there was was smoke.

“Good God!” breathed Blake, staring at the marksman, who had stepped forward and was explaining to Humble. “It’s a good thing Shields was square!” he muttered.

“Did you see that?” asked Bud of Jim in whispered awe. “And I thought I was some beans with a six-shooter!”

“No, but I heard it–was they one or six?” replied Jim.

“I didn’t know it was you, Humble,” explained The Orphan. “I thought it was the Chink laying for the dog.”

“–– ––! Good for you!” cried Humble in sudden friendliness. “You’re all right, Orphant, but will you be sure next time? That stung like blazes,” he said as he held out his hand. “I can always tell a white man by the way he treats a dog. If all men were as good as dogs this world would be a blamed sight nicer place to live in, and don’t you forget it.”

“Still going to take Lightning with you, Humble?” asked Bud.

“No, I ain’t going to take Lightning with me!” snapped Humble. “I’m going to leave him right here on the ranch,” here his voice arose to a roar, “and if any sing-song, rope-haired, animated hash-wrastler gets gay while I’m gone, I’ll send him to his heathen hell!”

“Come on, boys,” said Blake, snapping his watch shut. “Time to get going.”

“Glory be!” exulted Silent, executing a few fancy steps toward the corral, his companions close behind, with the exception of The Orphan, who had gone into the bunk house for a minute.

As they whooped their way toward the town Blake noticed that a gold pin glittered at the knot of the new recruit’s neck-kerchief, and he chuckled when he recalled the warning he had given to the sheriff. He shrewdly guessed that the apricot pie and the rest of the feast were quite subordinated by The Orphan to the girl who had given him the pin.

Bud suddenly turned in his saddle and pointed to a jackrabbit which bounded away across the plain like an animated shadow.

“Now, if Humble’s bloodhound was only here,” he said, “we would rope that jack and make the cur fight it. It would be a fine fight, all right,” he laughed.

“You go to the devil,” grunted Humble, and he started ahead at full speed. “Come on!” he cried. “Come on, you snails!” and a race was on.

·····

The citizens of Ford’s Station saw a low-hanging cloud of dust which rolled rapidly up from the west and soon a hard-riding crowd of cowboys, in gala attire, galloped down the main street of the town. They slowed to a canter and rode abreast in a single line, the arms of each man over the shoulders of his nearest companions, and all sang at the top of their lungs. On the right end rode Blake, and on the left was The Orphan. Bill Howland ran out into the street and spotted his new friend immediately and swung his hat and cheered for the man who had helped him out of two bad holes. The Orphan broke from the line and shook hands with the driver, his face wreathed by a grin.

“You old son-of-a-gun!” cried Bill, delighted at the familiarity from so noted a person as the former outlaw. “How are you, hey?”

The line cried warm greeting as it swung around to shake his hand, and the driver’s chest took on several inches of girth.

“Hullo, Bill!” cried Bud with a laugh. “Seen your old friend Tex lately?”

“Yes, I did,” replied Bill. “I saw him out on Thirty-Mile Stretch, but he didn’t do nothing but swear. He didn’t want no more run-ins with me, all right, and, besides, my rifle was across my knees. He said as how he was going to come back some day and start things moving about this old town, and I told him to begin with the Star C when he did.”

He looked across the street and waved his hand at a group of his friends who were looking on. “Come on over, fellows,” he cried, and when they had done so he turned and introduced The Orphan to them.

“This ugly cuss here is Charley Winter; this slab-sided curiosity is Tommy Larkin, and here is his brother Al; Chet Dare, Duke Irwin, Frank Hicks, Hoke Jones, Gus Shaw and Roy Purvis. All good fellows, every one of them, and all friends of the sheriff. Here comes Jed Carr, the only man in the whole town who ain’t afraid of me since I licked them punchers in the defile. Hullo, Jed! Shake hands with the man who played h–l with the Cross Bar-8 and the Apaches.”

“Glad to meet you, Orphan,” remarked Jed as he shook hands. “Punching for the Star C, eh? Good crowd, most of them, as they run, though Humble ain’t very much.”

“He ain’t, ain’t he?” grinned that puncher. “You’re some sore about that day when I cleaned up all your cush at poker, ain’t you? Ain’t had time to get over it, have you? Want to borrow some?”

“You want to look out for Humble, Jed,” bantered Bud. “He’s taken a lesson at poker from our cook since he played you. Didn’t you, Easy?” he asked Humble.

The roar