Bat Wing Bowles

"Won't you take my chair?" he said, rising with all the gallantry of his kind. "I enjoyed that Donna e Mobile of Caruso's so much!"

"Oh," said Mrs. Lee, beaming with pleasure, "you know it, then! And do you care for it, too?"

"Very much!" replied Bowles, falling back into the familiar formula of polite conversation; and by the time the phonograph had started up on "Casey Jones" they were deep in a discussion of classic music. As often happens in good society, they discovered a wonderful similarity in their likes and dislikes; and by the time the nester girls began to arrive and the dance started up on the gallery, Bowles was very popular in the big house – that is, as far as the hostess was concerned.

But the climax of the evening came at the close of the dance, just as Mr. Bowles was taking his leave.

"Well, good-night, Mrs. Lee," he murmured as he stood in the half light of the porch. "It was so kind of you to invite us up."

He paused then with the rest of his politenesses unsaid, for Dixie Lee was coming down the hall.

"I can't say how much I have enjoyed talking with you, Mr. Bowles," returned the lady, offering him her hand. "It takes me back to my girlhood days, when music was the breath of my life. Perhaps – Oh, Dixie, have you met Mr. Bowles?"

There was silence for a moment as their eyes met across the abyss, hers stern and forbidding, his smiling and conciliatory; and then Dixie bowed very stiffly.

"Why, not that I remember," she replied, with a militant toss of the head.

"How do you do, Miss Lee," observed Mr. Bowles, bowing formally as he received his congé. "So glad to make your acquaintance!" And, murmuring other maddening phrases, he bowed himself out the door, leaving Dixie Lee to explain the feud in any way she chose.

CHAPTER VIII

A COWBOY'S LIFE

As the name of the Deity, to a cowboy, means little more than a word to swear by, so the holy Sabbath is forgotten as a day of rest. Not that the hard-riding puncher would not rest if he got the chance, but the traditions of the cow business make no allowances for godliness and ease. For forty dollars and found, the round-up hand is expected to work every day in the month, and take all his Sundays in a bunch when the boss writes out his time. From daylight to dark are his hours of labor, with horse wrangling and night-guard to boot; and yet there are men of elegance and leisure who try to crush in on the job.

Mr. Bowles rolled into bed a perfect gentleman, and something of a knight-errant as well; but when Gloomy Gus gave vent to his shrill morning call he turned in his blankets and muttered. As the dishpan yammered and clashed discordantly he shuddered like a craven; and when Gus finally kicked open the door he could have cursed like any cow-puncher. It was a dreary life he had elected to follow, a life of drudgery, hardship, and discomfort, and with no compensating element but the danger of getting killed. And all for the sake of a girl who never had met him before!

Bowles crawled out very slowly and stood shivering by the fire, marveling at the iron endurance of Gloomy Gus, and understanding his gloom. Never again, he resolved, as he drank a pint of hot coffee, never again would he address Mr. Mosby in aught but terms of respect. A man who could stand his life and still wear the mantle of self-restraint was worthy of a place among the stoics. And to get up alone – alone and of his own volition – at three-thirty and four of the morning! It was a task to give a Spartan pause and win an enduring fame among the gods. A large humility came over Bowles as he contemplated the rough men about him and observed how uncomplainingly they accepted their lot. And they had been at the work for months and years – it was the second day for him!

The cook beat on his pan, and at the thought of the long ride before him Bowles did his best to eat – to eat heartily, ravenously, to gorge himself full of meat against the hours of hunger to come; and, passing up the three-tined steel fork, he went to it with his knife and spoon.

"You make the finest biscuits I have ever eaten, Mr. Mosby," he observed by way of apology as he slipped one into his pocket; and the sleep-weary eyes of the cook lighted up for a moment before he summoned his cynical smile.

"That's what they all say – when they're hungry," he remarked. "Then when they've et a plenty they throw 'em in the dirt."

He waved his hand at a circle of white spots that lay just outside the firelight, and turned to begin his dishwashing. Then, seeing that Mr. Bowles was still interested, he dilated on his troubles.

"Yes, sir," he said; "a cowboy is jest naturally wasteful – if he wasn't, he wouldn't be a cowboy. He'll take a whole biscuit and eat half of it and throw the other half away. There you see 'em out there, jest like I been seein' 'em fer forty years and more. It's in the blood. A cowboy wastes his grub, he wastes his terbakker, he wastes his money. He wastes cows, and hawses – an' he wastes his life. I got my opinion of a man that will work like a dog fer forty dollars a month. These hyer boys know what I think of 'em."

The cowboys grinned sheepishly and backed up nearer the fire. It was still too dark to rope, and they were waiting for Henry Lee; and the cold starlight made them solemn. When the sun came up and they got a horse between their knees they would laugh old Gus to scorn; now they listened to him soberly in lieu of sprightlier conversation.

"And me," continued Gloomy Gus, as he sensed the heavy silence, "I work harder than any of 'em. The mornin' star don't catch me in bed – no, sir! Not after half-past three. I got to git up then and mix my bread. And come night time, after my long day's work, I got to set my dough. But I git paid fer it – eighty dollars a month – and you can have the job to-morrer."

He paused again, as if to emphasize the lack of bidders, and then went deftly about his task.

"No, sir," he said; "you don't see no one strikin' fer the job of cook. That's hard work, that is. These boys all want to sit on a hawse and see the world go by."

Once more the heavy silence fell upon them, and Brigham picked up a towel and began to wipe the dishes.

"Goin' out to-day?" he inquired, as the boys began to straggle toward the corral.

"That's the word!" returned the cook. "Dinner at the north well, and back ag'in fer supper. Pack up and unpack, and pack ag'in at the well. Then cook a dinner and hook up the hawses, and cook some more at the home. Ef Henry Lee don't git me a flunky pretty soon I'm shore goin' to up and quit."

He glanced significantly at Bowles as he finished this last remark, but Brigham shook his head.

"I seen that Pringle kid come in yisterday," he said. "Mebbe you could git to have him."

That closed the conversation, and Bowles moved away. He was sorry for Mr. Mosby, very sorry; but not sorry enough to take a job as official dishwasher. Somehow all the world seemed to be in a conspiracy to make him flunky to the cook.

He hurried over to the corral, where the roping was going on, and as he neared the gate he met the boss coming out. On the previous day Mr. Lee had seemed a little under the dominance of his feelings, but this morning he was strictly business.

"Mr. Bowles," he said, "I'll keep my word with you and take you on for a puncher. Do your work and keep off Dunbar, and I'll try to get along with you – otherwise you get your time. Now come on back and I'll cut you out a mount."

He tied his own horse to a post, and swung up on the corral fence.

"You get two gentle horses and five bronks," he continued; "and I'll call Wa-ha-lote a bronk."

"Oh, thank you!" began Bowles; but the boss checked him right there.

"You've got nothing to thank me for, young man," he said. "I'd rather lose a top hand any time than take on a tenderfoot, so don't think for a minute that I'm stuck on you. Passed my word, that's all – and Wa-ha-lote forgot to buck. Now you see that gray over there – the one with the saddle-marks on his back – that's one of 'em – he's gentle. See this little sorrel, right close – that's Scrambled Eggs – he's a bronk. Then you can have that red roan over there for a night horse, and I'll cut you out some more bronks bymeby. You ride old Gray and the roan for a while – understand? And I employ a twister to break my wild stock, so keep off of them bronks – if – you – please."

He added this last as if he really meant it, and left Bowles to wonder at his emphasis – but not for long. The times called for action. He was a puncher now, and it was necessary for him to lasso his mount. So, shaking out his new rope, which snarled and crawled in a most disconcerting fashion, the new cowboy dropped down into the corral, while everybody who could conveniently do so stepped up and looked over the fence. But Bowles had had a few days' training at the hands of Jim Scrimsher, the livery-stable keeper and all-round horse trader and confidence man at Chula Vista, and he shook out a fairly good loop. Then, swinging it above his head, he advanced upon the gray, who promptly put the whole herd between them, and raced along next the fence. The roan came along just then and Bowles made a cast at him and caught two others, who instantly made away with his rope.

A yell went up from along the top of the fence; and with many shouts of encouragement and veiled derision, they threw him a new rope. This was a worn one and capable of dexterous handling, and, with a set smile on his face, Bowles shook out a big loop and advanced cautiously upon the roan. By this time he, too, had read the hypnotic message of the eye, and had crowded well in behind the main herd, which was dashing around the corral with ever-increasing speed. The slashing rope-work of the old hands had already left the horse herd nervous and flighty, and something about the way Bowles whirled his wide-flung loop seemed to drive them into a frenzy. A shout of warning went up, and then another, and then, as Wa-ha-lote made another balk at the gate, Hardy Atkins rushed out through the cloud of dirt and signaled him to stop.

"What do you want to do?" he yelled. "Break down the fence?"

He edged in on the leaders as he spoke and soon brought them to a halt; then, with his eyes on another horse, he stepped in close, dragging his loop, until suddenly he whipped it over the old gray's head and jerked him out of the herd.

"Here's yore hawse," he said, handing him over the rope's end. "And, say, if you can't rope without swingin' a Mother Hubbard, jest let me ketch yore hawse!"

"Why, what's the matter?" inquired Bowles.

"Oh, nawthin'," sneered the bronco-twister, "only it skeers 'em to death – that's all. Old Henry generally gives a man his time fer swingin' his loop in the corral."

Bowles followed along after him, flushed and downcast over his mistake; and as the others saddled their prancing bronks and went pitching and plunging around the horse lot he threw his saddle on the old, moss-backed gray and watched them with a wholesome awe. Horse after horse, as his rider hooked the stirrup, flew back or kicked like a flash. Some bucked the saddles off and had to be mastered by brute force. Here it was that the green-eyed Hardy Atkins, that long and lissom twister whom he so heartily despised, stood out like a riding king among the men. If a horse would not stand, he held it by the ears; if it bucked its saddle off, he seized an ear in his teeth, and hung on like a bulldog until the girths were cinched; and then, if the rider but said the word, he topped it off in his place. And all with such a tigerish swing, such a wild and masterful certitude, that even Bowles could not but secretly admire him.

It was nearing the first of April, when the wagon went out on the round-up, and the boys were topping off their mounts in order to gentle them for the spring work. Shrill yells and whoops went up as man after man uncocked his bronk; and then, as the procession filed out the gate, Hardy Atkins swung up on his own and went whipping and plunging after them. This was the big event of the day, and all hands craned their necks to view it; but the real spectators were up by the big white house, where Dixie Lee and her mother stood watching.

"Good boy, Hardy!" cried Dixie May, waving her hat to flag him. "Stay with him, Hardy!" And while the wild brute bucked and grunted beneath the steady jab of the spurs his rider raised a slender hand and waved it in salute. Bowles came dragging after him, sitting up very straight on old Gray; but nobody gave him a gay salute or so much as noticed him pass. Big Snake, the outlaw, was sun-fishing and doing buck-jumps, and every eye was upon the gallant rider who sat him so limber and free – Hardy Atkins, bronco-twister, and top cowboy at the Bat Wing.

"Pitch, then, you bastard," he was shouting. "Buck, you wild, woolly wolf – I'll put a hat on you!"

Bowles did not know what a "hat" was as he rode along out the gate, but when the cattle were thrown together and the wrangler brought up the spare horses, he knew. Walking across the brushy flat came Hardy Atkins, leading the worn and whip-marked Snake at a slow walk; and as he drew near, Bowles saw the "hat," a great, puffed-up swelling, raw and bloody, where the spur had jabbed his side. And there was a look in the outlaw's haggard eye that reminded him of old Dunbar – a wild, homicidal stare, yet tragic with fear and pain. As he reached the horse herd the twister looked back and regarded his mount intently; then very cautiously he worked up to his head and caught him by the cheek-strap.

"Don't you bite me, you devil," he threatened as the Snake showed all his teeth, "or I'll beat yore brains out with this quirt!"

The Big Snake winced and crooked his neck sullenly; then, as the twister snapped up the stirrup and uncinched the saddle with his free hand, he sighed and hung his head. With a deft jerk the puncher stripped off saddle and blanket; he reached up between his ears and laid hold of the headstall, then with a heave he tore off the bridle and landed his boot in the Snake's ribs.

"Git, you owl-headed old skate!" he yelled; and the Snake cow-kicked at him like a flash of light.

"Hah!" laughed the twister, stepping dexterously aside; and, swinging the bridle as he ducked, he brought the heavy reins down across his mount's rump. Again there was a flash of light as the Snake lashed out from behind; and then he limped off to one side, his eyes glowing with impotent rage and hate. Bowles looked at him as he lay wearily down in the sand, and then at the man who had conquered him, and a glow crept into his own eyes – a glow very much like the Big Snake's. He had entered a new world, with a different standard of courage and hardihood, and the first look at it frightened and awed him. But though he knew he could not meet its standards nor measure up to its tests, he scorned the man who could, and hated him for his rude strength – and his sympathy went out to Big Snake, the outlaw.

CHAPTER IX

REDUCED TO THE RANKS

The last place in the world for a humanitarian is around a cow camp, for everything there seems to savor of cruelty and blood. The only anti-cruelty-to-animals man who ever made a winning in the cattle business was good old Dr. Maverick, of Texas, who, when they made up the first brand book, swore he could not bring himself to cut an ear or burn a brand and craved the privilege of letting his cattle run unmarked. So, when it came to the round-up, the old doctor received his reward, for he claimed every maverick in the bunch and took them home for his own. This was a long time ago, in the age of myth and fable, and the doctor's herd has been sadly decimated since by rustlers and ruthless brand blotchers. A brand that can't be burned over is more precious than rubies now; and the bigger it is, the better.

The Bat Wing was an old brand, dating back to some Mexican Manuel Ortega, or Mariano Ortiz, who had writ his initials large on the left hip of his steers, M above O, connected. With years the O had shrunk and the M spraddled out until it looked like a winged disk – and had taken on different names: Money-bug, from its resemblance to a dollar on the wing; Bat-out-o'-hell, from a similar frontier fancy; until finally it settled down to plain Bat Wing. But whatever else happened to the Bat Wing brand, the iron never got any smaller; in fact, the reason the M grew so big that it flew away with the O was because a calf's hip widens out at the top and if the whole space is securely covered there will be no room left for illicit alterations.

This is all very interesting and romantic, of course, when taken by itself; but nobody stopped to explain it to Bowles, the humanitarian cowboy. When the cattle were on the cutting-grounds and the branding was about to begin, Henry Lee cast a contemptuous glance at his new hand and decided to put him to work.

"Bowles," he said, "you help with the flanking."

So when the first little calf came gamboling in on the line, Bowles rushed out and seized the rope. Working down to the calf, he caught it by its neck and flank and finally wrestled it to the ground. He was casting loose the rope when Buck Buchanan grabbed the calf by the upper hind leg, braced his boot against the lower leg, and sat comfortably down behind. Then Happy Jack came ramping out with a red-hot stamp-iron and slapped it against the tender hide.

"Baaa!" blatted the little calf, rolling its eyes until they showed the whites. "Baaa!" And then, before it knew what was happening, Hardy Atkins knelt roughly on its neck, grabbed its left ear, and cut away half of it at a single stroke of the knife. "Baaa!" bellowed the calf, curling up its tail; and as the blood trickled forth Bowles felt himself grow sick and faint.

"Hold his head up!" directed Atkins; and then, with an impatient yank, he twitched up the second ear and cut a swallow-fork. The calf writhed and struggled to escape, and as he fought against it Bowles caught the stench of burning hair. Turning, he discovered Happy Jack still bearing down on the hot iron and searing it deep into the flesh. That finished Bowles, and he sank back on the ground, turning his victim loose.

"You want to hold their heads up," remarked Buck Buchanan, and Bowles nodded and answered faintly. What he really wanted was a chance to guard the herd; but orders were orders with Henry Lee, and if he failed to do his work he was fired. Another calf came in – a big, lusty yearling – and Buck made a motion with his hand.

"Ketch that one," he directed in a fatherly tone of voice, and Bowles staggered out to do or die. But a yearling calf can be a very obstreperous brute on occasion, and this one was hot from his run. Within a minute after he had grappled with it all thought of pity had died out in Bowles' breast. First he caught the bull calf by the neck and flank and tried to pull it over; then, as it fought against him and trampled on his feet, he seized its further legs and tried to lift them up; failing in this, he laid hold of it in a frenzy and tried to throw it by main strength.

"Git yore knees under him," suggested Buck from the middle distance. Then, after another period of waiting, he slouched ponderously out and shoved him aside.

"Let me at 'im," he said. "You're keepin' Bill waitin' for his rope."

He felt of the calf for a minute and pushed him to make him change his feet; then, as the yearling started to step, he boosted him with his knees, heaved him into the air, and slammed him down on his side. It was a man's job, and difficult for the best of them, but Bowles didn't know that. All he knew was that the boss was watching him, over there by the fire where he was keeping tally on the brands, and thinking what a tenderfoot he was. And he was right – Bowles conceded it. He could not catch his horse, he could not ride a bronk, he could not even throw a calf or lift it off the ground. And his back ached, awfully.

It was a long morning for Mr. Bowles, packed with misery and hopeless struggling, like a nightmare without end. They say that in the short time between the instant a man starts falling out of bed and the moment he hits the floor, he can pass through a very inferno of dreams, passed down from our tree-living ancestors and striking terror to the heart – and yet he generally wakes up before he lands. If he did not, so the old nurses say, he would surely, surely die. The jagged rocks that threatened him in his dream would pierce his quivering body and he would be found dead on the floor. The coroner would call it heart-failure, of course; and that was what threatened Bowles.

He was saved by a sound he had cursed that very morning – Gloomy Gus beating on his dishpan! Packing all his kit into the chuck-wagon, and throwing on a few sticks of wood, the cook had struck out through the dog towns and across the brushy flats and set up his fire irons by the side of a man-made lake. There he had gone busily about his task without waiting for the herd to come in; and just as Bowles was dropping dead, the dinner-call saved his life.

It had been a bad dream, but, thank Heaven, he had waked up before he struck. A pint of scalding coffee, black and bitter from much boiling, and he was able to look about; and as he disposed of a couple of beefsteaks and dipped his biscuits in the grease, the weak place in his middle seemed comforted; and by the time he got around to the "fruit" and syrup he felt almost like a man again. Such jests as had been passed upon his condition had fallen upon unhearing ears, but now that he was brought back to health and strength he was able to smile grimly at his appearance as mirrored in the honest lake.

His face, which he had neglected to wash before eating, was crusted with sweat and dirt and spotted with gouts of blood; his hair was matted and dust-powdered; and in the bloodshot and haggard orbs that gazed up at him from the placid depths he saw a look that made him start. It was a cruel, vindictive look, almost inhuman in its intensity; and it came from flanking bull calves. He looked down at his hands, all swollen and crabbed from clutching, and saw that they were caked with blood. His shirt, too, and his trim-fitting trousers were dirty and spattered with gore. In fact – and here was where the grim smile came in – he could hardly be told from a real cowboy!

After dinner the cutting and branding went on as before, but with this important difference – Bowles flanked only his share of the calves. There were two sets of flankers, two hot-iron men, and two ear-markers, and the calves came up as they were caught. A really ambitious flanker, out for experience, could get almost all the calves; but the only ones that Bowles ran after now were the ones that were easy to throw. If a yearling came dancing up on a rope, he stepped on his own foot and let the other man beat him to it – either that or turned him over to Buck. It was quick work; but Bowles had a college education – he had been only six hours a cowboy when he learned to malinger on the job.

As for the rest of the gang, inured as they were to hard labor, the branding was no more than a picnic for them. They found time to take chews of tobacco, tell stories, and watch all the roping; and if any calf turned out to be too big for flanking they grabbed him by the neck and made him run, and bulldogged him, "California fashion." Happy Jack was best at that, and several times in a fit of emulation he shoved some puncher aside and showed him how it ought to be done – but never for Bowles. It was strange how carefully they all avoided him – never looking at him, rarely addressing him, and answering his inquiries with a word. He was an alien, a stranger among them, and – slowly the truth was borne in on him – an inferior.

From the start Bowles had taken it for granted that they were abashed, tongue-tied by his obvious education, and awed by his gentlemanly bearing. But now they would not so much as laugh at him, lest it encourage him to familiarity. Never for a minute did they allow him to presume on their sufferance, and his remarks fell dead and flat. Even Henry Lee, who had the bearing and spoke the language of a gentleman, refused to encourage him by a word; and at last he retired within himself, and saved his breath for flanking and his wits for dodging work.

If a cowboy never soldiered on the job he would be dead before it came pay-day; but there are certain tasks which cannot be slighted, and one of these is bringing home the herd. After the day's branding the calves are cut into "ones" and "twos," and while the rest of the outfit troops gaily homeward somebody must stay behind and bring up the cut. One of them must be a cowman, for trailing is an art in itself, but the others are likely to be dubs. Certainly no boss would penalize his best hands and most willing workers by giving them such a task; and so, when the cutting was over and Henry Lee looked around for a poor hand, or one who had been soldiering on the job, he picked Bowles on both counts.