The Texan, James B. Hendryx [ebook and pdf reader TXT] 📗

As Bat started for the alfalfa field the man fairly writhed with fury: "I'll hev the law on ye, ye—" he stopped abruptly as Tex reached for the soap.

"You won't have the law on no one, you lizard! You don't dare to get within hollerin' distance of the law."

"I will pay you a reasonable amount for any damage to your field, and for the food, and the use of your horses," offered Endicott, reaching for his pocket.

"Keep your money, Win," grinned the Texan. "Let me pay for this. This coyote owes me twenty dollars he borrowed from me when I first hit the country an' didn't know him. He's always be'n anxious to pay it, ain't you, Bill? Well, it's paid now, an' you don't need to go worryin' your heart out about that debt no longer."

Again the man opened his lips, but closed them hurriedly as Tex reached for the soap.

"I'll have to borrow your horse an' saddle for my friend, here," said the Texan, "an' Bat, he'll have to borrow one, too. We'll leave 'em in Timber City."

"Non!" cried the half-breed, who had paused in the process of changing Alice's saddle to her own horse. "Me—I ain' gon' for bor' no hoss. Am tak' dis hoss an' giv' heem back to Judge Carson. Him b'long over on Sage Creek."

"Whad'ye mean, ye red scum!" screamed the man, his face growing purple.
"That Circle 12 brand is——"

"Ha! Circle 12! De mos' dat Circle 12 she hair-bran'." He stepped into the cabin and reappeared a moment later with some coal-oil in a cup. This he poured into his hand and rubbed over the brand on the horse's shoulder. And when he had pressed the hair flat, the Circle 12 resolved itself into a V 2.

The Texan laughed: "I suppose I ought to take you into Timber City, but I won't. I imagine, though, when the Judge hears about this, you'd better be hittin' the high spots. He's right ugly with horse thieves."

"Hey, hain't ye goin' to ontie me?" squealed the man, as the four started down the bank with the horses.

"You don't suppose I'd go off an' leave a good rope where you could get your claws on it, do you? Wait 'til we get these horses onto the flat-boat, and all the guns around here collected so you can't peck at us from the brush, an' I'll be back."

"You gon' on to Timbaire City," said Bat, "an' I'm com' long bye-m-bye. A'm tak' dis hoss an' ride back an' git ma saddle an' bridle." He advanced and removed his hat; "Adieu, ma'mselle, mebbe-so I ain' git dere 'til you gon'. Ol' Bat, he lak' you fine. You need de help, som'tam', you mak' de write to ol' Bat an', ba Goss, A'm com' lak' hell—you bet you dam' life!" Tears blinded the girl's eyes as she held out her hand, and as a cavalier of old France, the half-breed bent and brushed it with his lips. He shook the hand of Endicott: "Som'tam' mebbe-so you com' back, we tak' de hont. Me—A'm know where de elk an' de bear liv' plenty." Endicott detected a twinkle in his eye as he turned to ascend the bank: "You mak' Tex ke'p de strong lookout for de posse. A'm no lak' I seen you git hang."

"Beat it! You old reprobate!" called the Texan as he followed him up the slope.

"How'm I goin' to git my boat back?" whined Long Bill, as the Texan coiled his rope.

"Swim acrost. Or, maybe you'd better go 'round—it's some little further that way, but it's safer if you can't swim. I'll leave your guns in the boat. So long, an' be sure to remember not to furget sometime an' pay me back that twenty."

The ride to Timber City was made almost in silence. Only once did the Texan speak. It was when they passed a band of sheep grazing beside the road: "They're minin' the country," he said, thoughtfully. "The time ain't far off when we'll have to turn nester—or move on."

"Where?" asked Alice.

The cowboy shrugged, and the girl detected a note of unconscious sadness in his tone: "I don't know. I reckon there ain't any place for me. The whole country's about wired in."

Timber City, since abandoned to the bats and the coyotes, but then in her glory, consisted of two stores, five saloons, a half-dozen less reputable places of entertainment, a steepleless board church, a schoolhouse, also of boards, a hotel, a post office, a feed stable, fifty or more board shacks of miners, and a few flimsy buildings at the mouths of shafts. It was nearly noon when the three drew up before the hotel.

"Will you dine with us in an hour?" asked Endicott.

The Texan nodded. "Thanks," he said, formally, "I'll be here." And as the two disappeared through the door, he gathered up the reins, crossed to the feed barn where he turned the animals over to the proprietor, and passing on to the rear, proceeded to take a bath in the watering trough.

Punctually on the minute he entered the hotel. The meal was a solemn affair, almost as silent as the ride from the river. Several attempts at conversation fell flat, and the effort was abandoned. At no time, however, did the Texan appear embarrassed, and Alice noted that he handled his knife and fork with the ease of early training.

At the conclusion he arose, abruptly: "I thank you. Will you excuse me, now?"

Alice nodded, and both watched as he crossed the room, his spurs trailing noisily upon the wooden floor.

"Poor devil," said Endicott, "this has hit him pretty hard."

The girl swallowed the rising lump in her throat: "Oh, why can't he meet some nice girl, and——"

"Women—his kind—are mighty scarce out here, I imagine."

The girl placed her elbows upon the table, rested her chin upon her knuckles, and glanced eagerly into Endicott's face:

"Win, you've just got to buy a ranch," she announced, the words fairly tumbling over each other in her excitement. "Then we can come out here part of the time and live, and we can invite a lot of girls out for the summer—I just know oodles of nice girls—and Tex can manage the ranch, and——"

"Match-making already!" laughed Endicott. "Why buy a ranch? Why not move into Wolf River, or Timber City, and start a regular matrimonial agency—satisfaction guaranteed, or your money back. It would be more prac——"

"Winthrop Adams Endicott!"

"Oh, I forgot! I'm not practical. I'm romantic, and red-blooded, and—" they had the little dining-room to themselves; he rose swiftly from his chair and, crossing to her side, stooped and kissed her, not once, but twice, and thrice,—"I'm glad of it! And that reminds me, I have a couple of errands to attend to, so you will have to manage to worry along without me for fifteen minutes or so."

She laughed up into his face: "How can I ever stand it? I've worried along without you all my life. I guess I'll survive."

"You won't have to much longer," he smiled, and hastened from the room. A half-hour later he returned to find her waiting in the hotel "parlour." She saw that his eyes were shining as he crossed eagerly, seated himself upon the haircloth sofa beside her, and whispered in her ear.

"Winthrop! Indeed we won't do anything of the kind! Why it's—it's——"

"It's impractical, and it's romantic," he finished for her. "Also, it's unconventional. Now, refuse if you dare! The stage leaves for Lewiston and the railroad at five. He seems to be a regular chap—the parson. Both he and his wife insisted that the event take place in their house. Said it would be much pleasanter than the hotel—and I heartily agreed with them. We figured that half-past four would give us just about time."

"Well, of all things!" blushed the girl. "You two arranged the whole affair, and of course, as I'm only the bride, it wasn't necessary to consult me at all!"

"Exactly," smiled Endicott; "I'm red-blooded, you know, and romantic—and when I go in for little things like unconventionality, and romance, I go the limit. And you don't dare refuse!"

She looked up into his eyes, shining with boyish enthusiasm: "I don't dare," she whispered. "I don't want to dare. Oh, Win, I—I'm just crazy about it!"

A few moments later she drew away from him and smoothed her hair.

"You must go right this minute and find Tex. And, oh, I hope Bat will be here in time! I just love old Bat!" She ceased speaking and looked questioningly into his eyes which had suddenly become grave.

"I have been looking for Tex, and I couldn't find him anywhere. Then I went to the stable across the street. His horse is gone."

For some moments both were silent. "He never even said good-bye," faltered the girl, and in her voice was a note of real hurt.

"No," answered Endicott, softly, "he should have said good-bye."

Alice rose and put on her hat: "Come on, let's get out of this hateful stuffy little room. Let's walk and enjoy this wonderful air while we can. And besides, we must find some flowers—wild flowers they must be for our wedding, mustn't they, dear? Wild flowers, right from God's own gardens—wild, and free, and uncultivated—untouched by human hands. I saw some lovely ones, blue and white, and some wild-cherry blossoms, too, down beside that little creek that crosses the trail almost at the edge of the town." Together they walked to the creek that burbled over its rocky bed in the shadow of the bull-pine forest from which Timber City derived its name. Deeper and deeper into the pines they went, stopping here and there to gather the tiny white and blue blossoms, or to break the bloom-laden twigs from the low cherry bushes. As they rounded a huge upstanding rock, both paused and involuntarily drew back. There, in the centre of a tiny glade that gave a wide view of the vast sweep of the plains, with their background of distant mountains, stood the Texan, one arm thrown across the neck of his horse, and his cheek resting close against the animal's glossy neck. For a moment they watched as he stood with his eyes fixed on the far horizon.

"Go back a little way," whispered Endicott. "I want to speak with him." The girl obeyed, and he stepped boldly into the open.

"Tex!"

The man whirled. "What you doin' here?" his face flushed red, then, with an effort, he smiled, as his eyes rested upon the blossoms. "Pickin' posies?"

"Yes," answered Endicott, striving to speak lightly, "for a very special occasion. We are to be married at half-past four, and we want you to be there—just you, and Bat, and the parson. I hunted the town for you and when I found your horse gone I—we thought you had ridden away without even saying good-bye."

"No," answered the cowboy slowly, "I didn't do that. I was goin' back—just for a minute—at stage time. But, it's better this way. In rooms—like at dinner, I ain't at home, any more. It's better out here in the open. I won't go to your weddin'. Damn it, man, I can't! I'm more than half-savage, I reckon. By the savage half of me, I ought to kill you. I ought to hate you—but I can't. About a lot of things you're green as hell. You can't shoot, nor ride, nor rope, nor do hardly any other damn thing a man ought to do. But, at that, you whirl a bigger loop than I do. You've got the nerve, an' the head, an' the heart. You're a man. The girl loves you. An' I love her. My God, man! More than all the world, I love the woman who is to be your wife—an' I have no right to! I tell you I'm half-savage! Take her, an' go! Go fast, an' go a long time! I never want to