Bat Wing Bowles. Coolidge Dane

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СКАЧАТЬ you out somethin', but now you can rustle yore own grub."

      At these revolutionary remarks, Mr. Bowles started, and for a moment he almost forgot his breeding; then he withdrew into himself, and let the gaucherie pass with the contempt which it deserved. But it is hard to be dignified when you are hungry, and after several minutes of silence he addressed himself to the cowboy.

      "Excuse me," he said, "but is there any other place nearby where I could buy a little food?"

      "W'y, no, stranger," returned the cowboy amiably; "I don't reckon there is. Why don't you pick up a little around here? They's some coffee in that pot."

      He nodded toward a large black coffee-pot that stood simmering by the fire, and Bowles cast a questioning glance at the cook.

      "Hop to it!" exclaimed that dignitary, not a little awed by the stranger's proud reserve. "They's some bread in that can up there."

      But still Bowles was helpless.

      "Er – where do you eat?" he inquired, looking about for some sign of a table, or even of a plate and cup.

      "Anywhere!" answered the cook, with a large motion of the hand. Then, as his guest still stood staring, he wearily rose to his feet. Without a word, he reached down into a greasy box and grabbed out a tin plate and cup; from another compartment he fished forth a knife, fork and spoon; with a pot-hook he lifted the cover of an immense Dutch oven, thumped an oil-can half-full of cooked beans, and slopped a little coffee out of the pot. Then he let down the hinged door to his chuck-box, spread a clean white flour sack on it, laid out the dishes with elaborate solicitude, and slumped down again by the fire. Nothing said – and the cowboy sat nerveless in his place – but Mr. Bowles felt rebuked. He was a tenderfoot – an Easterner masquerading as a cowboy – and every movement of the sardonic pot-tender was calculated to rub it in and leave him, as it did, in a welter of rage and shame.

      From the oil-can be dipped out some beans; he poured coffee and ate in silence, not daring to ask for butter or sugar lest he should still further reveal his ignorance; and when he had finished his meal he slipped away and went out to look at his horse. A piano was tinkling up at the big house, and the stars were very bright, but neither stars nor music could soothe his wounds, and at last he went back to the fire. The cook was gone now, and the cowboy also; the big noise was in the long, low building from which so many heads had appeared when he rode in from Chula Vista. He paused at the doorway, and listened; then, bracing himself for the hazing which was his due, he knocked.

      "Come in!" yelled a raucous voice in an aside to the general uproar. "Come in here – No, by thunder, you played a seven! Well, where is it, then? Show me, pardner; I'm from Missou'. If you played the jack, where is it?"

      Bowles pushed open the door, that scraped and sagged as he shoved it, and stepped into a room that was exactly posed for one of those old-fashioned pictures labeled "Evil Associates; or The First Step Toward Destruction." At a long table, upon which burned a smoky lamp, a group of roughly dressed men were wrangling over a game of cards, while other evil-doers looked over their shoulders and added to the general blasphemy. A growth of beard, ranging anywhere from three days' to a week's, served to give them all a ferocious, cave-dweller appearance; and so intent were they on their quarrel that not a man looked up. If Bowles had expected to be the center of the stage, it was from an exaggerated sense of his own importance, for so lightly was he held that no one so much as glanced at him – with the single exception of the red-headed cowboy, who was playing a mouth-organ in the corner – until the missing jack was produced.

      A wooden bunk, built against the wall, was weighed down with a sprawling mass of long-limbed men; on the floor the canvas-covered beds of the cowboys were either thrown flat or still doubled up in rolls; and the only other furniture in sight was the two benches by the table and a hot stove that did yeoman service as a cuspidor. The air was thick with the smoke of cigarettes, and those who did not happen to be smoking were chewing plug tobacco, but the thing which struck Bowles as most remarkable was the accuracy with which they expectorated. A half oil-can filled with ashes served as a mark on the farther side; and the big, bull-voiced puncher who had so casually bid him come in was spitting through a distant knot-hole, which was rapidly becoming the center of a "Texas Flag."

      Really, it was astounding to Bowles, even after all he had read and seen enacted on the films, to observe the rude abandon of these Western characters, and particularly in their speech. Somehow the Western tales he had read had entirely failed to catch the startling imagery of their vernacular – or perhaps the editors had cut it out. The well-known tendency toward personal violence, however, was ever present, and as Bowles made bold to overlook the game a controversy sprang up which threatened to result in bloodshed.

      The bull-voiced man – a burly, hook-nosed Texan, who answered to the name of Buck – was playing partners with a tall, slim, quiet-spoken puncher who centered all his thoughts on the cards; and against them were ranged a good-natured youth called Happy Jack and the presumptuous cowboy who had offered to kiss Dixie Lee. The game was fast, proceeding by signs and grunts and mysterious knocks on the table, and as it neared its close and each man threw down his cards with a greater vehemence, Happy Jack flipped out three final cards and made a grab for the matches. But this did not suit the ideas of the bull moose and his partner, and they rose from their seats with a roar.

      "What you claim?" demanded Buck, laying a firm hand on the stakes.

      "High, low, and the game!" answered Happy Jack wrathfully.

      "You ain't got no game," put in the quiet puncher. "Why don't you play yore hand out instead of makin' a grab?"

      "Here now!" spoke up Dixie Lee's miscreant friend, leaning half-way across the table. "You-all quit jumpin' on Happy or I'll bust you on the cabezon!"

      "Yes, you will!" sneered Buck, shoving his big head closer, as if to dare the blow. "You don't look bad to me, Hardy Atkins, and never did; and don't you never think for a moment that you can run it over me and Bill, because you cain't! Now you better pull in that ornery face of yourn while it's all together – and we're goin' to count them cards, by this-and-that, if it's the last act!"

      So they raged and wrangled, apparently on the very verge of a personal conflict; but as the play wore on Bowles became increasingly aware of a contemptuous twinkle that dwelt in the eyes of the man called Hardy Atkins. Then it came over him suddenly that other eyes were upon him; and instantly the typical Western scene was wrecked, and he saw himself made the fool. No burst of ruffianly laughter gave point to the well-planned jest – it passed over as subtly as a crisis in high society – but as he turned away from the game Bowles found himself in possession of a man-sized passion. Back where he came from an open, personal hatred was considered a little outré; but the spirit of the wilds had touched him already, and Hardy Atkins, the green-eyed, familiar friend of Dixie Lee, was the man that he hoped would choke.

      As interest in the pitch game languished and a scuffle made the bunk untenable, stray cowboys began to drift outside again, some to seek out their beds beneath the wagon-sheds and others to foregather about the fire. First among these was the red-headed man called Brigham; and when Bowles, after sitting solitary for a while, followed after them, he found Brigham the center of attraction. Perched upon an upturned box, and with one freckled hand held out to keep the firelight from his eyes, he was holding forth with a long story which had everybody listening.

      "And I says to this circus feller," he was saying, "'Well, I ain't never done no bareback work, but if you cain't git no one else to jump through them hoops I'll guarantee to take the pretty outer one of 'em. But you be mighty p'ticular to pop that whip of yourn, pardner,' I says to the ring-master, 'or that ol' rockin'-hawse will git away from me.'"

      He cocked one eye up to see if Bowles was listening, and then indulged in a reminiscent chuckle.

      "Well, СКАЧАТЬ