The Greatest Works of B. M. Bower - 51 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). B. M. Bower
until they dismounted at the stable and hung the town saddle by one stirrup on a spare peg in the shed. The Native Son untied the small black satchel from behind his cantle and held it up with a peculiar light in his eyes.
“Has it struck you fellows as being just a little peculiar, our unexpected guest heading into the Badlands in such a hurry with only this little bag?” he asked. “A locked bag.” He looked at Big Medicine. “Before we go up to the bunk-house again, I think you ought to know that I caught him watching us on the sly and taking in every word we said about him.”
“Say, when was that?” Big Medicine demanded with some resentment in his voice. “If yuh’re tryin’ to make out he was playin’ me fer a sucker—”
“I didn’t say that. It was when you kicked my boots back under the bunk, Pink, and I was down on the floor fishing them out. That hombre was watching you fellows like a trapped coyote. I saw his eyes turning from one to another through the slit of his eyelids. He was supposed to be unconscious, you remember. It was when Big Medicine was trying to convince us we ought to haul him to a doctor.”
“That was before breakfast,” said Pink, grinning a little.
“He got better, right away,” Miguel added drily. “Asked for some coffee, you remember, and said he didn’t feel so bad, only he had a head on him like the morning after, and he guessed he’d stay in bed to-day. Remember?”
“That’s right.”
“Say!” bawled Big Medicine angrily. “What yuh tryin’ to make out? That pore feller never knowed what hit ’im, by cripes! When he woke up and found himself in a strange place this mornin’, he just nacherly wanted to size up the layout ’fore he let on he was awake. I’d do the same thing m’self.”
“They’s something to that, all right,” Slim agreed, looking from one to the other, wondering which side to take. “By golly, it was a tough-sounding bunch this mornin’.”
“Yes, but there’s something off-color in the whole thing,” Miguel persisted, forgetting his little Spanish mannerisms, as he did when he was very much in earnest. “Why would a tenderfoot hire a livery horse and go pelting into the Badlands? That horse was a lather of sweat when he was struck dead. Didn’t you boys notice it when we turned him over? Where the rain didn’t wash off the dried sweat, it showed plain as day. And in a twenty-mile ride a man doesn’t get saddle-galled like that hombre was—unless he’s been hitting a fast pace.”
“By golly, that’s right,” Slim admitted. “I never seen a man’s legs skun any worse.”
“Well, what’s the answer, Mig?” Weary looked up from rolling a cigarette.
“Quien sabe?” The Native Son shrugged as he reached for the tobacco sack dangling by its string from Weary’s teeth.
“I s’pose yuh want ’im kicked off’n the ranch jest because he ain’t got any sense about ridin’ a hawse!” Big Medicine flung at him disgustedly. “Honest to grandma, I never seen such a suspicious feller as you are, Mig.”
“All right, have it your way. Just the same, if you didn’t pack a load of trouble into this coulee last night, I’ll be surprised.”
“Well, he can’t steal any of my money,” Pink observed philosophically. “I lost m’ last two-bit piece on that full house of Slim’s, just before our brave hero came staggering into our midst with the dying man on his shoulders. I’m safely broke, thank God.”
“The dying man could have walked in if he’d wanted to,” the Native Son tersely declared. “I kinda thought last night he was playing possum to a certain extent. This morning—”
“This mornin’ you’re goin’ to get the livin’ tar knocked outa yuh!” bawled Big Medicine, who was nothing if not loyal to what he considered his responsibility. “That feller ain’t able to knock them words down yore throat, but I am, by cripes!” While he talked, he began peeling off his coat.
“All right, if that’s the way you feel about it. I tell you now, and time will prove it—that hombre is a crook. He’ll deal you dirt, you mark my words. He’s got about as much gratitude as a rattlesnake. Now, come on and fight!” The Native Son yanked off his new gray sombrero with its fancy silver-inlaid band and horsehair tassels, stepped into a clear space and put his hands in the significant posture of a trained boxer. Big Medicine rushed at him, grinding his teeth, but like a cat Pink leaped and landed on his back, wrapping arms and legs around him and clinging there like a leech. Weary stepped in close to the Native Son.
“Cut it out, Mig. You fellows’ll need your energy for those bronks you’re due to tackle before long. To-morrow morning, if you still want to tear each other apart, we’ll all get up early and let you go to it. But folks are coming here to-day for a good time. If this is your idea—”
“Oh, forget it!” snapped the Native Son, reaching for his hat. “I admit this is a poor time to call the turn. But to-morrow morning I’ll sure as hell show this frog-face Samaritan where he heads in.”
Big Medicine halted in the act of pulling on his coat.
“And I’ll learn a greaser to keep his mouth shut!” He started forward belligerently.
The insult turned Miguel’s face livid with anger. He whirled to do battle, met Weary’s steadying gaze and shrugged. Some one was driving briskly up the creek road, the rattle of the wagon sounding loud on the rocks as the horses splashed through the shallow ford. Miguel sent one hostile glance toward Big Medicine and picked up his rope, turning toward the corral. Even so, Weary did not appear satisfied. He followed Miguel through the gate, talking earnestly in an undertone, his hand on Miguel’s shoulder.
“Now what they framin’?” Big Medicine twitched his coat into place and started for the two. “I’ll beat the liver outa both of ’em in a holy minute, if they start framin’ on me!”
“Aw, come back here!” Pink clutched his arm. “Weary’s just calming Mig down. What you go and call him a greaser for? Don’t you know he won’t stand for that kinda talk? He’s liable to knife yuh for it.”
“Well, damn ’im, he called me a Samaritan! There’s some things I don’t stand from no man!” Big Medicine lunged toward the gate.
“Aw, that’s a compliment, you bonehead!” Pink tightened his grip.
“Like hell!” snorted Big Medicine, forging to the gate and dragging Pink with him.
“Sure, it is. Samaritan means helpful cuss—same as the word pinto means a spotted horse. You ask Weary.”
Big Medicine slowed, staring doubtfully after the Native Son.
“Well, I wish, by cripes, Mig would stick to plain United States,” he grumbled. “That’s no way to carry on an argument—draggin’ in Mex words a feller never heard before.” He grinned suddenly at Pink. “Little One, you saved Mig’s life, by cripes!”
“All right, that makes me a Samaritan too,” dimpled Pink. “Hey, Weary! Here’s the Pilgreens!”
A lumber wagon came rattling into the yard and stopped a dozen feet from the shed, and with the clannishness for which the Happy Family was noted, the boys came grinning to welcome these neighbors whom no one save Happy Jack particularly liked. Mr. and Mrs. Pilgreen, with their listless daughter, Annie, occupied the lopsided front seat. Behind them on two quilt-cushioned boards laid across the wagon box rode five juvenile Pilgreens of assorted sizes. All were grinning bashfully, save the old lady herself, whose beady eyes were roving here and there, seeking food for criticism.
“Well, now, how are yuh?” Big Medicine greeted them in his bellowing voice. “Storm any, down your way?”
“Some. Wasn’t you boys gittin’ ready to fight, a minute ago?” Mrs. Pilgreen looked hard at Big Medicine.
“Hunh? Fight? Not on your life!”