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

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      “No,” he said, slowly and deliberately, “not a dam’ bit.” There was no bitterness in his words, only an acknowledgment of the truth. “They was only one thing for me to do after I received that letter,” he continued, “and I done it. I went on a hell-roarin’ drunk. That’s right. I filled up on that forty-rod whiskey until I was crazy drunk, an’ then I picked out the biggest man in town and fought him to a whisper.”

      He sighed and glanced at his swollen knuckles, which still showed the marks of combat.

      “That feller was a jim-dandy scrapper,” he said, smiling magnanimously, “but I downed ’im, all right. I couldn’t quite lick the whole town, but I tried; and I certainly gave ’em a run for their money, while it lasted. If Bender don’t date time from Jeff Creede’s big drunk I miss my guess a mile. And you know, after I got over bein’ fightin’ drunk, I got cryin’ drunk –– but I never did get drunk enough to tell my troubles, thank God! The fellers think I’m sore over bein’ sheeped out. Well, after I’d punished enough booze to start an Injun uprisin’, and played the faro bank for my wad, I went to sleep; and when I woke up it seemed a lo-ong time ago and I could look back and see jest how foolish I’d been. I could see how she’d jollied me up and got me comin’, playin’ me off against Bill Lightfoot; and then I could see how she’d tantalized me, like that mouse the cat had when you was down in Bender; and then I could see where I had got the big-head bad, thinkin’ I was the only one –– and all the time she was laughin’ at me! Oh, it’s nothin’ now –– I kin laugh at it myself in a month; but I’m so dam’ ’shamed I could cry.” He lopped down in his chair, a great hulk of a man, and shook his head gloomily.

      “They ain’t but one girl I ever knowed,” he said solemnly, “that wasn’t stringin’ me, and that was Sallie Winship. Sal liked me, dam’d if she didn’t. She cried when she went away, but the old lady wouldn’t stand for no bow-legged cowpuncher –– and so I git euchred, every time.”

      For lack of some higher consolation Hardy cooked up a big supper for his low-spirited partner, and after he had done the honors at the feast the irrepressible good health of the cowboy rose up and conquered his grief in spite of him. He began by telling the story of his orgy, which apparently had left Bender a wreck. The futile rage of Black Tex, the despair of the town marshal, the fight with the Big Man, the arrest by the entire posse comitatus, the good offices of Mr. Einstein in furnishing bail, the crying and sleeping jags –– all were set forth with a vividness which left nothing to the imagination, and at the end the big man was comforted. When it was all over and his memory came down to date he suddenly recalled a package of letters that were tied up in his coat, which was still on the back of his saddle. He produced them forthwith and, like a hungry boy who sees others eat, sat down to watch Rufe read. No letters ever came for him –– and when one did come it was bad. The first in the pack was from Lucy Ware and as Hardy read it his face softened, even while he knew that Creede was watching.

      “Say, she’s all right, ain’t she?” observed Jeff, when his partner looked up.

      “That’s right,” said Hardy, “and she says to take you on again as foreman and pay you for every day you didn’t carry your gun.”

      “No!” cried Creede, and then he laughed quietly to himself. “Does that include them days I was prizin’ up hell down in Bender? Oh, it does, eh? Well, you can tell your boss that I’ll make that up to her before the Summer’s over.”

      He leaned back and stretched his powerful arms as if preparing for some mighty labor. “We’re goin’ to have a drought this Summer,” he said impressively, “that will have the fish packin’ water in canteens. Yes, sir, the chaser is goin’ to cost more than the whiskey before long; and they’s goin’ to be some dead cows along the river. Do you know what Pablo Moreno is doin’? He’s cuttin’ brush already to feed his cattle. That old man is a wise hombre, all right, when it comes to weather. He’s been hollerin’ ‘Año seco, año seco,’ for the last year, and now, by Joe, we’ve got it! They ain’t hardly enough water in the river to make a splash, and here it’s the first of June. We’ve been kinder wropt up in fightin’ sheep and sech and hain’t noticed how dry it’s gittin’; but that old feller has been sittin’ on top of his hill watchin’ the clouds, and smellin’ of the wind, and measurin’ the river, and countin’ his cows until he’s a weather sharp. I was a-ridin’ up the river this afternoon when I see the old man cuttin’ down a palo verde tree, and about forty head of cattle lingerin’ around to eat the top off as soon as she hit the ground; and he says to me, kinder solemn and fatherly:

      “‘Jeff,’ he says, ‘cut trees for your cattle –– this is an año seco.”

      “‘Yes, I’ve heard that before,’ says I. ‘But my cows is learnin’ to climb.’”

      “‘Stawano,’ he says, throwin’ out his hands like I was a hopeless proposition. But all the same I think I’ll go out to-morrow and cut down one of them palo verdes like he show’d me –– one of these kind with little leaves and short thorns –– jest for an expeeriment. If the cattle eat it, w’y maybe I’ll cut another, but I don’t want to be goin’ round stuffin’ my cows full of twigs for nothin’. Let ’em rustle for their feed, same as I do. But honest to God, Rufe, some of them little runty cows that hang around the river can’t hardly cast a shadder, they’re that ganted, and calves seems to be gittin’ kinder scarce, too. But here –– git busy, now –– here’s a letter you overlooked.”

      He pawed over the pile purposefully and thrust a pale blue envelope before Hardy –– a letter from Kitty Bonnair. And his eyes took on a cold, fighting glint as he observed the fatal handwriting.

      “By God,” he cried, “I hain’t figured out yet what struck me! I never spoke a rough word to that girl in my life, and she certainly gimme a nice kiss when she went away. But jest as soon as I write her a love letter, w’y she –– she –– W’y hell, Rufe, I wouldn’t talk that way to a sheep-herder if he didn’t know no better. Now you jest read that” –– he fumbled in his pocket and slammed a crumpled letter down before his partner –– “and tell me if I’m wrong! No, I want you to do it. Well, I’ll read it to you, then!”

      He ripped open the worn envelope, squared his elbows across the table, and opened the scented inclosure defiantly, but before he could read it Hardy reached out suddenly and covered it with his hand.

      “Please don’t, Jeff,” he said, his face pale and drawn. “It was all my fault –– I should have told you –– but please don’t read it to me. I –– I can’t stand it.”

      “Oh, I don’t know,” retorted Creede coldly. “I reckon you can stand it if I can. Now suppose you wrote a real nice letter –– the best you knowed how –– to your girl, and she handed you somethin’ like this: ‘My dear Mr. Creede, yore amazin’ letter –– ’ Here, what ye doin’?”

      “I won’t listen to it!” cried Hardy, snatching the letter away, “it’s –– ”

      “Now lookee here, Rufe Hardy,” began Creede, rising up angrily from his chair, “I want to tell you right now that you’ve got to read that letter or lick me –– and I doubt if you can do that, the way I happen to be feelin’. You got me into this in the first place and now, by God, you’ll see it out! Now you read that letter and tell me if I’m wrong!”

      He reared up his head as he spoke and Hardy saw the same fierce gleam in his eyes that came when he harried the sheep; but there was something beside that moved his heart to pity. It was the lurking sadness of a man deep hurt, who СКАЧАТЬ