The Cowboy MEGAPACK ®. Owen Wister

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      * * * *

      The next day is somewhat like the others, only worse. The dude just don’t have what it takes to be a cowboy. Once, he throws a loop at a fence post, gets Wintergreen by the neck instead, and likes to choke him to death. Later, when we are showing him how to brand a calf, he takes a red-hot iron and puts it against the seat of Wintergreen’s pants. Wintergreen lets out a howl and jumps over a six-foot gate.

      The dude looks like he is about to cry. “Seems like I never will learn this cowboy business,” he says in a quavery voice.

      That same afternoon, the Paschal brothers ride up, bringing along this beady-eyed gent they call Curly.

      “Heard there was a stranger in the country,” Orv says belligerent.

      “Yeah,” Neff says. “Always like to look strangers over.”

      “Is that him?” Curly asks, pointing at Omaha who is all tangled up in a lariat.

      “Omaha,” Wintergreen says, “meet Orv and Neff Paschal. They own the Double-X, first ranch south of us.”

      “Howdy, Dude,” Orv says scornful. “Hey, be careful—”

      But Omaha’s lariat settles about Orv’s neck and shuts off his wind. The next thing we know, Orv hits the dust with a thud and a bounce. Cussing, he untangles his throat and stands up.

      “Sorry,” Omaha croaks, “but I’m not very adept at roping.”

      “Mebbe you’re better at dancin’!” Orv bellows.

      He pulls his six and begins to blast away at the dude’s feet, and Omaha does a Highland Fling like nobody’s business.

      * * * *

      After the Double-X outfit rides away, Wintergreen says, “Omaha, them boys ain’t to be fooled with. After this, be careful.”

      Omaha says nothing. He just wipes the clammy sweat off his bony face and stares where the bullets chewed up the ground.

      That night, Wintergreen loses his last ten dollars. “Blast it, Omaha!” he yells. “That’s no way to play poker!”

      “You mean I don’t play the game right?”

      Cussing, Wintergreen climbs into bed and pulls the covers over his head.

      The next day, we are showing Omaha how to shoot a rifle when a cowboy rides up and tells us the Putantake Bank has been robbed.

      “Three masked men did it,” he says, all excited. “Headed straight for the badlands. Reckon the posse won’t be able to find ’em once they get into that country. Five hundred reward offered for ’em, dead or alive!”

      “Goodness me!” the dude hollers. “Such excitement!” And he cuts loose with a blast of the rifle that likes to scare the cowboy out of his pants.

      “Hold that feller while I get outa here,” he yells, and spurs his horse into a dead run.

      Looking discouraged, Omaha hands the rifle to Wintergreen. “Seems like I never do anything right,” he says and ambles unhappy-like into the house.

      “No use talkin’,” Wintergreen growls, “that idiot ain’t cut out to be a cowboy; maybe we ought to get rid of him before he kills somebody.”

      While we are pondering this question, Omaha comes out, all shaved and powdered up as pretty as a field of daisies.

      “Now,” he says, “I wish to continue my riding lessons.”

      “Hop to it,” Wintergreen grunts. “But don’t get lost.”

      After three tries, Omaha gets aboard the horse we have saddled for him and rides away, looking like an overdressed scarecrow.

      Presently, Wintergreen and I go into the house to start supper. Laying on the dining table, scattered about on an old newspaper, is Omaha’s fancy shaving outfit.

      “Hum,” Wintergreen says, feeling the stubble on his chin, “maybe I had ought to borrow these tools an’—”

      His voice ends in a gurgle, and I see he is staring pop-eyed at the newspaper. I also stare at the paper and see a picture of a gent. This gent, it seems, has served five years in prison for robbing the U.S. mails and has been released recent for good behavior. It mentions that his name is William Black.

      I glance at Wintergreen and see his jaw muscles twitching. “Orv an’ Neff Paschal call him Curly,” he says in a husky voice.

      “William, or Curly,” I say, also husky, “it’s him.”

      “Once a crook, always a crook,” Wintergreen says, tearing the picture out of the paper and sticking it into a pocket.

      “Them three gents who held up the bank,” I murmur, “likely had a change of horses hid in the badlands. They would likely hide the loot and ride back to the Double-X on different horses.”

      “Five hundred dollars reward,” Wintergreen gurgles. “Easy money if we got the drop on ’em while they was asleep, Lywell.”

      * * * *

      I unleather my gun and examine it closely. Wintergreen does likewise with his six and then picks up the rifle. Without a word, we go to the corral, saddle our horses, and ride south. We take our time, so it is pleasantly dark when we leave our mounts and cut through the cottonwood timber that surrounds the Double-X buildings. All is quiet; not a light anyplace.

      “Maybe they ain’t home yet,” Wintergreen whispers.

      “Maybe they have gone to bed,” I whisper.

      We ease up to a side window and peek in, but see nothing whatsoever, for it is darker inside than out, which is very dark, indeed.

      “Now, what’ll we do?” Wintergreen whispers. “Slip in an’—”

      There comes a sudden noise from behind, followed by a dull thud and a groan from Wintergreen. Before I can get my gun from the holster, my head explodes, and I see numerous stars whirling around and about.

      The next thing I know, I am in a lighted room with my hands tied behind my back, very uncomfortable. Glancing about, I observe Wintergreen propped in a corner, his hands also tied behind his back. He is somewhat pale and staring fearful beyond me. Turning slightly, I see what he is looking at. Orv and Neff Paschal and Curly Black. Curly is scowling at a piece of newspaper, which I recognize as the picture of himself, and I feel a slight chill creep along my spine.

      “Ain’t no question about it,” Curly says, “they’re on to us. That’s why they was snoopin’ around.”

      “Can’t understand why they’d bust out a window an’ wake us up, an’ then hang around till we caught ’em,” Orv says.

      “What’re we goin’ to do with ’em?” Neff pipes up.

      “If a couple dimwits like them have caught onto our game,” Curly says, “no reason СКАЧАТЬ