The Greatest Works of B. M. Bower - 51 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). B. M. Bower
wounds. “You oughta soak them heels in carbolic before you get lockjaw or something.”
“Haw-haw-haw-w-w!” chortled Big Medicine, his spirits lifted amazingly by admiration and two fingers of excellent brandy. “I’m the toughest ole wolf that ever howled along the Pecos River, by cripes! And the biggest-hearted. I saved a feller’s life and I’m proud of it. Give ’im a shot uh that there brandy, and then I’ll have another little snort. By cripes, I earnt it!”
The Happy Family agreed with him. With fine loyalty they first inspected the brandy, just to make sure that it was fit for medicinal purposes, and administered it sparingly to Big Medicine and the stranger brought within their gate. They glowed with pride in Big Medicine’s achievement, in the greatness of his heart and in his fortitude. They felt a warm benignity toward the pilgrim, lying there flushed and speechless—but unmistakably alive—in Big Medicine’s bunk. Until long past midnight a light shone into the drizzle through the two square windows of the Flying U bunk-house. Snatches of song, laughter, the cheerful confusion of voices raised in facetious argument overrode the drumming of rain on the low roof.
In a word, the Happy Family were for the time being in complete accord with Big Medicine and his splendid role of Good Samaritan. When at last they laid themselves between their blankets, the brandy flask had been emptied to the last drained drop—for medicinal purposes only—and Big Medicine was still wearing the warped halo of a saint (if one might believe the Happy Family’s sleep-drugged statements). The rescued stranger was a hero also. Though his lips had not once opened for speech and nothing was known of his identity, they were for the time being perfectly willing to accept Big Medicine’s optimistic statements and let it go at that.
Warm-hearted heroes all, they slept in happy ignorance of what the morrow might hold for them. Which was just as well.
Chapter Three. Fame is Fleeting
Fame is a fickle thing, as has often been stated and as Big Medicine straightway discovered. He went to bed a hero. He rose a man who has boasted overmuch and who must be put in his place and kept there. To a man the Happy Family snubbed him for the thing he had done; or which he claimed to have done. With slightly bloodshot eyes, they watched him ostentatiously salve his blistered heels, sucking his breath in through his teeth in a childish play for sympathy. They refused to be impressed.
“You’d think, by thunder, a man would have sense enough to buy boots to fit,” Cal Emmett observed tartly to no one in particular.
“I never seen a man always trying to show off his little feet, by golly, that had a lick uh sense,” Slim growled agreement.
“They always suffer for it when they have to walk half a mile or so,” Pink yawned.
“Yeah, I betcha Big Medicine never packed that guy a mile,” Happy Jack declared sourly. “I’ve saw grandstand plays before.”
“If he did, it was just a mile too far,” drawled the Native Son. “Tell yuh right now, I’d feel a darn sight more like booting him away from the ranch than packing him in here. He don’t look so good to me, amigos.”
“Well, damn the hull of yuh fer a hard-hearted bunch of booze hounds!” snarled Big Medicine, screwing his face into agonized grimaces while he slid his feet into his oldest boots. “Lapped up a hull quart of brandy the Little Doctor was keepin’ fer medical cases like me ’n’ that pore feller I brung home on m’ damn’ back! Lapped it up like a bunch uh sheep herders, by cripes! You wait—”
“You wasn’t bashful about swillin’ it down, yourself,” Cal snorted. “We had to take a nip or two so we could stomach your darned bragging.”
“Braggin’! Me? Well, by cripes!” Big Medicine sat on the edge of his bunk and goggled amazedly around at the disgruntled group. “Me brag! Packed ’im a mile, hunh? I dare the bunch of yuh to ride over to Dry Gulch and see where I packed ’im from, and then say ag’in that I packed ’im a mile, mebby.”
“Don’t worry—that’s right where we’re heading for, soon as we eat,” drawled Weary. “If you packed that man on your back clear from Dry Gulch, my hat is off to you. You can brag about it for the rest of your life, for all me.”
So a truce was tacitly declared for the time being.
“By golly, looks like he done it, all right,” Slim admitted reluctantly an hour later, pointing a gloved finger toward drying footprints in the trail.
“Shore, I done it.” Big Medicine, riding his chastened sorrel at the head of the little cavalcade, twisted in the saddle to glare back at the group. “It don’t take my tracks in the mud to show I done it, either. My word for it had oughta be sufficient, by cripes!” He lifted an arm and gestured accusingly toward the far-away broken line of low ridges that marked Dry Gulch. “Six mile acrost this bench and two mile down the gulch, and I hoofed it every step uh the way with that pore feller on m’ back. And you darned chumps settin’ there in the bunk-house lettin’ me do it!”
“Yeah, we heard that before,” Pink reminded him.
“Hunh?”
“It was mentioned, amigo, seventeen times last night, and four times since we left the corral,” the Native Son reminded him gently.
“Well, it’s the truth, by cripes,” Big Medicine bellowed over his shoulder. “When a man’s hawse shows up with a empty saddle, it’s time somebuddy rode out to see what took place. I coulda laid out here and died, by cripes!” His pale stare went from face to face. “That gits me.”
“Aw, gwan!” snorted Happy Jack. “There wouldn’t nothin’ git you. I betcha a double-bitted axe wouldn’t only show a few nicks if a feller tried to brain yuh with it. I betcha sparks ’d fly off your head like hackin’ at a rock. You wouldn’t lay out an’ die nowhere!”
“Wonder who that fellow is,” Weary tactfully observed. “Not a thing in his pockets to show where he come from or where he was headed for. Cadwalloper and I went through his clothes and we didn’t find the scratch of a pen.”
“I betcha he’s on the dodge,” Happy Jack hazarded, with his usual pessimism. “He’s got a mean look, to me.”
“So’d you have a mean look, if you was struck by lightning,” Big Medicine defended loudly. “The pore feller ain’t goin’ to be pesticated about no pedigree. He’s all right—barrin’ he don’t know how to set a hawse. Pullin’ leather with all two hands, and his hawse only in a high lope—but hell, that ain’t no crime.” He sent another sweeping stare over his shoulder. “I’ve saw as pore ridin’ more’n once, right in Flying U Coulee.”
“Who, for instance?” Cal Emmett demanded quickly.
Big Medicine hedged. “Well, I ain’t namin’ no names—but I could shore spit in the feller’s eye right now that I seen chokin’ his saddle horn one mornin’—”
They disputed that assertion with bitter argument, while over their heads gray curlews sailed with slim legs dangling, curved rapier beaks thrust out as they called “Cor-reck? Cor-reck?” in aimless inquiry. On storm-draggled bushes, meadowlarks teetered and sang sweet snatches of rippling melody, endlessly repeated as if they had forgotten the rest of the song. These things, while seemingly unregarded, nevertheless soothed their mood appreciably.
“Oh, I forgot to say the Meekers aim to drive over t’day if the weather’s good,” Big Medicine announced suddenly, forgetting his grievance as they rode into Dry Gulch. “The new schoolma’am never has saw any real bronk ridin’, so when Joe made a remark about ridin’ over to watch me gentle that gray outlaw, schoolma’am spoke up an’ said she wanted to come. So they kinda framed up a Sunday picnic over t’ our place.”
“Hully gee, I guess lightnin’