On the Cowboy's Trail: Western Boxed-Set. Coolidge Dane

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СКАЧАТЬ wasn’t any branding at the round corral that night. The gather was a fizzle, for some reason, though Miss Kitty rode Pinto to a finish and killed a rattlesnake with Creede’s own gun. Well, they never did catch many cattle the first few days, –– after they had picked up the tame bunch that hung around the water, –– and the dry weather seemed to have driven the cows in from The Rolls. But when they came in the second afternoon, with only a half of their gather, Creede rode out from the hold-up herd to meet them, looking pretty black.

      It is the duty of a rodéo boss to know what is going on, if he has to ride a horse to death to find out; and the next day, after sending every man down his ridge, Jeff left Kitty Bonnair talking lion hunt with old Bill Johnson who had ridden clear over from Hell’s Hip Pocket to gaze upon this horse-riding Diana, and disappeared. As a result, Bat Wings was lathered to a fine dirt-color and there was one man in particular that the boss wanted to see.

      “Jim,” he said, riding up to where one of the Clark boys was sullenly lashing the drag with his reata, “what in the hell do you mean by lettin’ all them cattle get away? Yes, you did too. I saw you tryin’ to turn ’em back, so don’t try to hand me anything like that. I used to think you was a good puncher, Jim, but a man that can’t keep a herd of cows from goin’ through a box pass ought to be smokin’ cigarettes on the day herd. You bet ye! All you had to do was be there –– and that’s jest exactly where you wasn’t! I was up on top of that rocky butte, and I know. You was half a mile up the cañon mousin’ around in them cliffs, that’s where you was, and the only question I want to ask is, Did you find the Lost Dutchman? No? Then what in hell was you doin’?”

      The rodéo boss crowded his horse in close and thrust his face forward until he could look him squarely in the eye, and Clark jerked back his head resentfully.

      “What is it to you?” he demanded belligerently.

      “Oh, nawthin’,” returned the boss lightly, “jest wanted to know.”

      “Uhr!” grunted the cowboy contemptuously. “Well, I was killin’ snakes, then! What ye goin’ to do about it?”

      “Snakes!” cried Creede incredulously. “Killin’ snakes! Since when did you call a feud on them?”

      “Since thet young lady come,” replied Clark, glancing around to see if any one had the nerve to laugh. “I heerd her say she was collectin’ rattles; an’ I thought, while I was waitin’, I might as well rustle up a few. Oh, you don’t need to look pop-eyed –– they’s others!”

      He rolled his eyes significantly at the group of assembled cowboys, and Creede took it all in at a flash. There were others –– he himself had a set of rattles in his shap pocket that were not two hours from the stump. The situation called for diplomacy.

      “Well,” he drawled, scratching his bushy head to cover his confusion, “this reflects great credit on your bringin’ up, Jim, and I’m sure Miss Bonnair will appreciate what you’ve done for her, especially as I happened to notice a couple o’ head of your own cows in that bunch, but it’s a mighty expensive way to collect snake-tails. We ain’t gittin’ the cattle, boys; that’s the size of it, and they’re as much yours as they are mine. Now I suggest that we run these few we’ve got down to the corral and brand ’em quick –– and then the whole shootin’-match goes over to the big white cliff and rounds up every rattlesnake in the rock pile! Is it a go?”

      “Sure!” yelled the bunch impetuously, and as they charged down upon the herd Creede quietly fished out his snake-tail and dropped it in the dirt.

      If he lacked a virtue he could feign it, anyhow –– but there was no doubt about it, Miss Kitty was putting his rodéo on the bum. There had never been so many men to feed and so few calves to brand in the history of Hidden Water. Even old Bill Johnson had got the fever from hearing the boys talk and was hanging around the fire. But then, what were a few head of cows compared to –– well, what was it, anyway? The only man who could stay away was Rufe, and he was in good company.

      Yet Creede was not satisfied with this explanation. Miss Kitty was always asking questions about Rufe –– they had known each other well in Berkeley –– and at the same time the little partner with whom he had been so friendly never came around any more. He was always very polite, and she called him by his first name –– and then one of them rode up the river and the other followed the round-up.

      The night after the big snake-killing Jefferson Creede picked up his blankets and moved quietly back to the ramada with Hardy.

      “Them locoed punchers have been skinnin’ rattlers and stretchin’ their hides,” he said, “until the camp stinks like a buzzard roost. I’m due to have some bad dreams to-night anyhow, on the strength of this snake-killin’, but it’d give me the jumpin’ jimjams if I had to sleep next to them remains. Didn’t git back in time to join in, did ye? Well, no great loss. I always did intend to clean out that snake hole over’n the cliff, and the boys was stoppin’ every time they heard one sing, anyhow, in order to git the rattles for Miss Bonnair, so I thought we might as well git it off our minds before somethin’ worse turned up. See any sheep tracks?”

      He kicked off his boots, poked his six-shooter under his pillow, and settled down comfortably for the night.

      “Nary one, eh?” he repeated musingly. “Well, when you see one you’ll see a million –– that’s been my experience. But say, Rufe, why don’t you come and ride with the boys once in a while? The rodéo has been goin’ rotten this year –– we ain’t gittin’ half of ’em –– and you’d come in mighty handy. Besides, I’ve been braggin’ you up to Miss Bonnair.”

      He dropped this last as a bait, but Hardy did not respond.

      “I told her you was the best bronco-buster in the Four Peaks country,” continued Creede deliberately, “and that you could drift Chapuli over the rocks like a sand lizard; but I’m too heavy for anything like that now, and Bill Lightfoot has been puttin’ up the fancy work, so far. You know how I like Bill.”

      Once more he waited for an answer, but Hardy was wrestling with those elementary passions which have been making trouble since Helen of Troy left home, and he received the remark in silence.

      “I’ll tell you, Rufe,” said Creede, lowering his voice confidentially. “Of course I see how it is with you and Miss Ware, and I’m glad of it; but things ain’t goin’ so lovely for me. It ain’t my fault if Miss Bonnair happens to like my company, but Bill and some of the other boys have got their backs up over it, and they’ve practically gone on a strike. Leastwise we ain’t gittin’ the cattle, and God knows the range won’t more ’n carry what’s left. I’ve got to git out and do some ridin’, and at the same time I want to do the right thing by Miss Bonnair, so if you could jest kindly come along with us to-morrow I’ll be much obliged.”

      The elemental passions –– man-love, jealousy, the lust for possession –– are ugly things at best, even when locked in the bosom of a poet. In their simplest terms they make for treachery and stealth; but when complicated with the higher call of friendship and duty they gall a man like the chains of Prometheus and send the dragon-clawed eagles of Jove to tear at his vitals. Never until this naive confession had Hardy suspected the sanity of his friend nor the constancy of Kitty Bonnair. That she was capable of such an adventure he had never dreamed –– and yet –– and yet –– where was there a more masterful man than Jeff? Anything can happen in love; and who was there more capable of winning a romantic woman’s regard than good-natured, impulsive, domineering Jeff?

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