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

Happy Family. At least, he

learned as much as it was politic to tell in the presence of the

Little Doctor; and afterward, while Pink was putting the chaps

back upon the willow, where Miguel had left them, he was told

that they looked to him, Andy Green, for assistance.

 

“Oh, gosh! You don’t want to depend on me, Pink,” Andy

expostulated modestly. “I can’t think of anything—and, besides,

I’ve reformed. I don’t know as it’s any compliment to me, by

gracious—being told soon as I land that I’m expected to lie to a

perfect stranger.”

 

“You come on down to the stable and take a look at his saddle and

bridle,” urged Cal. “And wait till you see him smoking and

looking past you, as if you was an ornery little peak that didn’t

do nothing but obstruct the scenery. I’ve seen mean cusses—lots

of ‘em; and I’ve seen men that was stuck on themselves. But I

never—”

 

“Come outa that ‘doby,” Pink interrupted, “mud to his eyebrows,

just about. And he knew darned well we headed him in there

deliberate. And when I remarks it’s soft going, he says: ‘It is,

kinda,’—just like that.” Pink managed to imitate the languid

tone of Miguel very well. “Not another word outa him. Didn’t even

make him mad! He—”

 

“Tell him about the parrots, Slim,” Cal suggested soberly. But

Slim only turned purple at the memory, and swore.

 

“Old Patsy sure has got it in for him,” Happy Jack observed. “He

asked Patsy if he ever had enchiladas. Patsy won’t speak to him

no more. He claims Mig-u-ell insulted him. He told Mig-u-ell—”

 

“Enchiladas are sure fine eating,” said Andy. “I took to ‘em like

a she-bear to honey, down in New Mexico this winter. Your Native

Son is solid there, all right.”

 

“Aw, gwan! He ain’t solid nowhere but in the head. Maybe you’ll

love him to death when yuh see him—chances is you will, if

you’ve took to eatin’ dago grub.”

 

Andy patted Happy Jack reassuringly on the shoulder. “Don’t get

excited,” he soothed. “I’ll put it all over the gentleman, just

to show my heart’s in the right place. Just this once, though;

I’ve reformed. And I’ve got to have time to size him up. Where do

you keep him when he ain’t in the show window?” He swung into

step with Pink. “I’ll tell you the truth,” he confided

engagingly. “Any man that’ll wear chaps like he’s got—even

leaving out the extra finish you fellows have given ‘em—had

ought to be taught a lesson he’ll remember. He sure must be a

tough proposition, if the whole bunch of yuh have had to give him

up. By gracious—”

 

“We haven’t tried,” Pink defended. “It kinda looked to us as if

he was aiming to make us guy him; so we didn’t. We’ve left him

strictly alone. To-day”—he glanced over his shoulder to where

the becurled chaps swung comically from the willow

branch—“to-day’s the first time anybody’s made a move. Unless,”

he added, as an afterthought, “you count yesterday in the ‘doby

patch—and even then we didn’t tell him to ride into it; we just

let him do it.”

 

“And kinda herded him over towards it,” Cal amended slyly.

 

“Can he ride?” asked Andy, going straight to the main point, in

the mind of a cowpuncher.

 

“W-e-ell-he hasn’t been piled, so far. But then,” Pink qualified

hastily, “he hasn’t topped anything worse than Crow-hop. He

ain’t hard to ride. Happy Jack could—”

 

“Aw, I’m gittin’ good and sick of’ hearin’ that there tune,”

Happy growled indignantly. “Why don’t you point out Slim as the

limit, once in a while?”

 

“Come on down to the stable, and let’s talk it over,” Andy

suggested, and led the way. “What’s his style, anyway? Mouthy, or

what?”

 

With four willing tongues to enlighten him, it would be strange,

indeed, if one so acute as Andy Green failed at last to have a

very fair mental picture of Miguel. He gazed thoughtfully at his

boots, laughed suddenly, and slapped Irish quite painfully upon

the back.

 

“Come on up and introduce me, boys,” he said. “We’ll make this

Native Son so hungry for home—you watch me put it on the

gentleman. Only it does seem a shame to do it.”

 

“No, it ain’t. If you’d been around him for two weeks, you’d want

to kill him just to make him take notice,” Irish assured him.

 

“What gets me,” Andy mused, “is why you fellows come crying to me

for help. I should think the bunch of you ought to be able to

handle one lone Native Son.”

 

“Aw, you’re the biggest liar and faker in the bunch, is why,”

Happy Jack blurted.

 

“Oh, I see.” Andy hummed a little tune and pushed his hands deep

into his pockets, and at the corners of his lips there flickered

a smile.

 

The Native Son sat with his hat tilted slightly back upon his

head and a cigarette between his lips, and was reaching lazily

for the trick which made the fourth game his, when the group

invaded the bunk-house. He looked up indifferently, swept Andy’s

face and figure with a glance too impersonal to hold even a shade

of curiosity, and began rapidly shuffling his cards to count the

points he had made.

 

Andy stopped short, just inside the door, and stared hard at

Miguel, who gave no sign. He turned his honest, gray eyes upon

Pink and Irish accusingly—whereat they wondered greatly.

 

“Your deal—if you want to play,” drawled Miguel, and shoved his

cards toward Big Medicine. But the boys were already uptilting

chairs to grasp the quicker the outstretched hand of the

prodigal, so that Miguel gathered up the cards, evened their

edges mechanically, and deigned another glance at this stranger

who was being welcomed so vociferously. Also he sighed a bit—

for even a languid-eyed stoic of a Native Son may feel the twinge

of loneliness. Andy shook hands all round, swore amiably at

Weary, and advanced finally upon Miguel.

 

“You don’t know me from Adam’s off ox,” he began genially, “but I

know you, all right, all right. I hollered my head off with the

rest of ‘em when you played merry hell in that bull-ring, last

Christmas. Also, I was part of your bodyguard when them greasers

were trying to tickle you in the ribs with their knives in that

dark alley. Shake, old-timer! You done yourself proud, and I’m

glad to know yuh!”

 

Miguel, for the first time in two weeks, permitted himself the

luxury of an expressive countenance. He gave Andy Green one

quick, grateful look—and a smile, the like of which made the

Happy Family quiver inwardly with instinctive sympathy.

 

“So you were there, too, eh?” Miguel exclaimed softly, and rose

to greet him. “And that scrap in the alley—we sure had a hell of

a time there for a few minutes, didn’t we? Are you that tall

fellow who kicked that squint-eyed greaser in the stomach? Muchos

gracios, senor! They were piling on me three deep, right then,

and I always believed they’d have got me, only for a tall vaquero

I couldn’t locate afterward.” He smiled again that wonderful

smile, which lighted the darkness of his eyes as with a flame,

and murmured a sentence or two in Spanish.

 

“Did you get the spurs me and my friends sent you afterward?”

asked Andy eagerly. “We heard about the Arizona boys giving you

the saddle—and we raked high and low for them spurs. And, by

gracious, they were beauts, too—did yuh get ‘em?”

 

“I wear them every day I ride,” answered Miguel, a peculiar,

caressing note in his voice.

 

“I didn’t know—we heard you had disappeared off the earth.

Why—”

 

Miguel laughed outright. “To fight a bull with bare hands is one

thing, amigo,” he said. “To take a chance on getting a knife

stuck in your back is another. Those Mexicans—they don’t love

the man who crosses the river and makes of their bull-fights a

plaything.”

 

“That’s right; only I thought, you being a—”

 

“Not a Mexican.” Miguel’s voice sharpened a trifle. “My father

was Spanish, yes. My mother”—his eyes flashed briefly at the

faces of the gaping Happy Family—“my mother was born in

Ireland.”

 

“And that sure makes a hard combination to beat,” cried Andy

heartily. He looked at the others—at all, that is, save Pink and

Irish, who had disappeared. “Well, boys, I never thought I’d come

home and find—”

 

“Miguel Rapponi,” supplied the Native Son quickly. “As well

forget that other name. And,” he added with the shrug which the

Happy Family had come to hate, “as well forget the story, also. I

am not hungry for the feel of a knife in my back.” He smiled

again engagingly at Andy Green. It was astonishing how readily

that smile had sprung to life with the warmth of a little

friendship, and how pleasant it was, withal.

 

“Just as you say,” Andy agreed, not trying to hide his

admiration. “I guess nobody’s got a better right to holler for

silence. But—say, you sure delivered the goods, old boy! You

musta read about it, you fellows; about the American puncher that

went over the line and rode one of their crack bulls all round

the ring, and then—” He stopped and looked apologetically at

Miguel, in whose dark eyes there flashed a warning light. “I

clean forgot,” he confessed impulsively. “This meeting you here

unexpectedly, like this, has kinda got me rattled, I guess.

But—I never saw yuh before in my life,” he declared

emphatically. “I don’t know a darn thing about—anything that

ever happened in an alley in the city of—oh, come on, old-timer;

let’s talk about the weather, or something safe!”

 

After that the boys of the Flying U behaved very much as do

children who have quarreled foolishly and are trying shamefacedly

to re-establish friendly relations without the preliminary

indignity of open repentance. They avoided meeting the

velvet-eyed glances of Miguel, and at the same time they were

plainly anxious to include him in their talk as if that had been

their habit from the first. A difficult situation to meet, even

with the fine aplomb of the Happy Family to ease the awkwardness.

 

Later Miguel went unobtrusively down to the creek after his

chaps; he did not get them, just then, but he stood for a long

time hidden behind the willow-fringe, watching Pink and Irish

feverishly combing out certain corkscrew ringlets, and dampening

their combs in the creek to facilitate the process of

straightening certain patches of rebellious frizzes. Miguel did

not laugh aloud, as Big Medicine had done. He stood until he

wearied of the sight, then lifted his shoulders in the gesture

which may mean anything, smiled and went his way.

 

Not until dusk did Andy get a private word with him. When he did

find him alone, he pumped Miguel’s hand up and down and afterward

clutched at the manger for support, and came near strangling.

Miguel leaned beside him and smiled to himself.

 

“Good team work, old boy,” Andy gasped at length, in a whisper.

“Best I ever saw in m’life, impromptu on the spot, like that. I

saw you had the makings in you, soon as I caught your eye. And

the whole, blame bunch fell for it—woo-oof!” He laid his face

down again upon his folded arms and shook in all the long length

of him.

 

“They had it coming,” said Miguel softly, with a peculiar relish.

“Two whole weeks, and never a friendly word from one of them—oh,

hell!”

 

“I know—I heard it all, soon as I hit the ranch,” Andy replied

weakly, standing up and wiping his eyes. “I just thought I’d