The Heritage of the Sioux, B. M. Bower [feel good fiction books TXT] 📗
- Author: B. M. Bower
Book online «The Heritage of the Sioux, B. M. Bower [feel good fiction books TXT] 📗». Author B. M. Bower
When she looked again toward the far slopes next the mountains, a black speck rolled into view, the nucleus of a little dust cloud. Her face brightened a little; she turned abruptly and sought easy footing down that ridge, and climbed hurriedly the longer rise beyond. Once or twice, when she was on high ground, she glanced behind her uneasily, as does one whose mind holds a certain consciousness of wrongdoing. She did not pause, even then, but hurried on toward the dust cloud.
On the rim of a shallow, saucer-like basin that lay cunningly concealed until one stood upon the very edge of it, Annie-Many-Ponies stopped again and stood looking out from under her spread palm. Presently the dust cloud moved over the crest of a ridge, and now that it was so much closer she saw clearly the horseman loping abreast of the dust. Annie-Many-Ponies stood for another moment watching, with that inscrutable half smile on her lips. She untied the cerise silk kerchief which she wore knotted loosely around her slim neck, waited until the horseman showed plainly in the distance and then, raising her right hand high above her head, waved the scarf three times in slow, sweeping half circles from right to left. She waited, her eyes fixed expectantly upon the horseman. Like a startled rabbit he darted to the left, pulled in his horse, turned and rode for three or four jumps sharply to the right; stopped short for ten seconds and then came straight on, spurring his horse to a swifter pace.
Annie-Many-Ponies smiled and went down into the shallow basin and seated herself upon the wide, adobe curbing of an old well that marked, with the nearby ruins of an adobe house, the site, of an old habitation of tragic history. She waited with the absolute patience of her race for the horseman had yet a good two miles to cover. While she waited she smiled dreamily to herself and with dainty little pats and pulls she widened the flaring red bows on her hair and retied the cerise scarf in its picturesque, loose knot about her throat. As a final tribute to that feminine instinct which knows no race she drew from some cunningly devised hiding place a small, cheap “vanity box,” and proceeded very gravely to powder her nose.
CHAPTER III. TO THE VICTORS THE SPOILS
“Hey, boys!” Luck Lindsay shouted to Applehead and one or two of the Happy Family who were down at the chuck—wagon engaged in uneasy discussion as to what Luck would say when he found out about their intention to leave. “Come on up here—this is going to be a wiping out of old scores and I want to get it over with!”
“Well, now, I calc'late the fur's about to fly,” Applehead made dismal prophecy, as they started to obey the summons. “All 't su'prises me is 't he's held off this long. Two hours is a dang long time fer Luck to git in action, now I'm tellin' yuh!” He took off his hat and polished his shiny pate, as was his habit when perturbed. “I'm shore glad we had t' wait and set them wagon-tires,” he added. “We'd bin started this mornin' only fer that.”
“Aw, we ain't done nothing,” Happy Jack protested in premature self defense. “We ain't left the ranch yet. I guess a feller's got a right to THINK!”
“He has, if he's got anything to do it with,” Pink could not forbear to remark pointedly.
“Well, if a feller didn't have, he'd have a fat chance borrying from YOU,” Happy Jack retorted.
“Well, by cripes, I ain't perpared to bet very high that there's a teacupful uh brains in this hull outfit,” Big Medicine asserted. “We might a knowed Luck'd come back loaded fer bear; we WOULD a knowed it if we had any brains in our heads. I'm plumb sore at myself. By cripes, I need kickin'!”
“You'll get it, chances are,” Pink assured him grimly.
Luck was in the living room, sitting at a table on which were scattered many papers Scribbled with figures. He had a cigarette in his lips, his hat on the back of his head and a twinkle in his eyes. He looked up and grinned as they came reluctantly into the room.
“Time's money from now on, so this is going to be cut short as possible,” he began with his usual dynamic energy showing in his tone and in the movements of his hands as he gathered up the papers and evened their edges on the table top. “You fellows know how much you put into the game when we started out to come here and produce The Phantom Herd, don't you? If you don't, I've got the figures here. I guess the returns are all in on that picture—and so far She's brought us twenty-three thousand and four hundred dollars. She went big, believe me! I sold thirty states. Well, cost of production is-what we put in the pool, plus the cost of making the prints I got in Los. We pull out the profits according to what we put in—sabe? I guess that suits everybody, doesn't it?”
“Sure,” one astonished voice gulped faintly. The others were dumb.
“Well, I've figured it out that way—and to make sure I had it right I got Billy Wilders, a pal of mine that works in a bank there, to figure it himself and check up after me. We all put in our services—one man's work against every other man's work, mine same as any of you. Bill Holmes, here, didn't have any money up, and he was an apprentice—but I'm giving him twenty a week besides his board. That suit you, Bill?”
“I guess it's all right,” Bill answered in his colorless tone.
Luck, being extremely sensitive to tones, cocked an eye up at Bill before he deliberately peeled, from the roll he drew from his pocket, enough twenty dollar notes to equal the number of weeks Bill had worked for him. “And that's paying you darned good money for apprentice work,” he informed him drily, a little hurt by Bill's lack of appreciation. For when you take a man from the streets because he is broke and hungry and homeless, and feed him and give him work and clothes and three meals a day and a warm bed to sleep in, if you are a normal human being you are going to expect a little gratitude from that man; Luck had a flash of disappointment when he saw how indifferently Bill Holmes took those twenties and counted them before shoving them into his pocket. His own voice was more crisply businesslike when he spoke again.
“Annie-Many-Ponies back yet? She's not in on the split either. I'm paying her ten a week besides her board. That's good money for a squaw.” He counted out the amount in ten dollar bills and snapped a rubber band around them.
“Now here is the profit, boys, on your winter's work. Applehead comes in with the use of his ranch and stock and wagons and so on. Here, pard—how does this look to you?” His own pleasure in what he was doing warmed from Luck's voice all the chill that Bill Holmes had sent into it. He smiled his contagious smile and peeled off fifty dollar banknotes until Applehead's eyes popped.
Comments (0)