The Greatest Works of B. M. Bower - 51 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). B. M. Bower
if the Flying U has any claim against us, let the owner present it in the usual way.” Dunk drew down his black brows, lifted a corner of his lip and turned his back deliberately upon them.
Oleson let himself through the gate, which he closed somewhat hastily behind him. “I’m sorry you fellows seem to want to make trouble,” he said, without looking up from the latch, which seemed somewhat out of repair, like the rest of the Denson property. “That’s a poor way to start in with new neighbors.” He lifted his hat with what Pink considered insulting politeness, and followed Dunk into the house.
Weary waited there until they had gone in and closed the door, then turned and rode back home again, frowning thoughtfully at the trail ahead of them all the way, and making no reply to Pink’s importunings for war.
“I’d hate to say you’ve lost your nerve, Weary,” Pink cried at last, in sheer desperation. “But why the devil didn’t you get down and thump the daylights out of that black son-of-a-gun? I came pretty near walking into him myself, only I hate to butt into another fellow’s scrap. But, if I’d known you were going to set there and let him walk off with that sneer on his face—”
“I can’t fight a man that won’t hit back,” Weary protested. “You couldn’t either, Cadwalloper. You’d have done just what I did; you’d have let him go.”
“He will hit back, all right enough,” Pink retorted passionately. “He’ll do it when you ain’t looking, though. He—”
“I know it,” Weary sighed. “I’m kinda sorry, now, I slapped him. He’ll hit back—but he won’t hit me; he’ll aim at the outfit. If the Old Man was here, or Chip, I’d feel a whole lot easier in my mind.”
“They couldn’t do anything you can’t do,” Pink assured him loyally, forgetting his petulance when he saw the careworn look in Weary’s face. “All they can do is gobble all the range around here—and I guess there’s a few of us that will have a word or two to say about that.”
“What makes me sore,” Weary confided, “is knowing that Dunk isn’t thinking altogether of the dollar end of it. He’s tickled to death to get a whack at the outfit. And I hate to see him get away with it; but I guess we’ll have to stand for it.”
That sentiment did not please Pink; nor, when Weary repeated it later that evening in the bunk-house, did it please the Happy Family. The less pleasing it was because it was perfectly true and every man of them knew it. Beyond keeping the sheep off Flying U land, there was nothing they could do without stepping over the line into lawlessness—and, while they were not in any sense a meek Happy Family, they were far more law-abiding than their conversation that night made them appear.
Chapter IX. More Sheep
The next week was a time of harassment for the Flying U; a week filled to overflowing with petty irritations, traceable, directly or indirectly, to their new neighbors, the Dot sheepmen. The band in charge of the bug-chaser and that other unlovable man from Wyoming fed just as close to the Flying U boundary as their guardians dared let them feed; a great deal closer than was good for the tempers of the Happy Family, who rode fretfully here and there upon their own business and at the same time tried to keep an eye upon their unsavory neighbors—a proceeding as nerve-racking as it was futile.
The Native Son, riding home in jingling haste from Dry Lake, whither he had hurried one afternoon in the hope of cheering news from Chicago, reported another trainload of Dots on the wide level beyond Antelope coulee. There were, he said, four men in charge of the band, and he believed they carried guns, though he was not positive of that. They were moving slowly, and he thought they would not attempt to cross Flying U coulee before the next day; though, from the course they were taking, he was sure they meant to cross.
Coupled with that bit of ill-tidings, the brief note from Chip, saying very little about the Old Man, but implying a good deal by its very omissions, would have been enough to send the Happy Family to sleepless beds that night if they had been the kind to endure with silent fortitude their troubles.
“If you fellers would back me up,” brooded Big Medicine down by the corral after supper, “I’d see to it them sheep never gits across the coulee, by cripes! I’d send ‘em so far the other way they’d git plumb turned around and forgit they ever wanted to go south.”
“It’s all Dunk’s devilishness,” Jack Bates declared. “He could take them in the other way, even if the feed ain’t so good along the trail. It’s most all prairie-dog towns—but that’s good enough for sheep.” Jack, in his intense partisanship, spoke as if sheep were not entitled to decent grass at any time or under any circumstances.
“Them herders packin’ guns looks to me like they’re goin’ to make trouble if they kin,” gloomed Happy Jack. “I betche they’ll kill somebody before they’re through. When sheepmen gits mean—”
Pink picked up his rope and started for the large corral, where a few saddle horses had been driven in just before supper and had not yet been turned out.
“You fellows can stand around and chew the rag, if you want to,” he said caustically, “and wait for Weary to make a war-talk. But I’m going to keep cases on them Dots, if I have to stand an all-night guard on ‘em. I don’t blame Weary; he’s looking out for the law-and-order business—and that’s all right. But I’m not in charge of the outfit. I’m going to do as I darn please, and, if they don’t like my style, they can give me my time.”
“Good for you, Little One!” Big Medicine hurried to overtake him so that he might slap him on the shoulder with his favorite, sledge-hammer method of signifying his approval of a man’s sentiments. “Honest to grandma, I was just b’ginnin’ to think this bunch was gitting all streaked up with yeller. ‘Course, we ain’t goin’ to wait for no official orders, by cripes! I’d ruther lock Weary up in the blacksmith shop than let him tell us to go ahead. Go awn and tell him a good, stiff lie, Andy—just to keep him interested while us fellers make a gitaway. He ain’t in on this; we don’t want him in on it.”
“What yuh goin’ to do?” Happy Jack inquired suspiciously. “Yuh can’t go and monkey with them sheep, er them herders. They ain’t on our land. And, if you don’t git killed, old Dunk’ll fix yuh like he fixed the Gordon boys—I know him—to a fare-you-well. It’d tickle him to death to git something on us fellers. I betche that’s what he’s aiming t’do. Git us to fightin’ his outfit so’s’t—”
“Oh, go off and lie down!” Andy implored him contemptuously. “We’re going to hang those herders, and drive the sheep all over a cut-back somewhere, like Jesus done to the hogs, and then we’re going over and murder old Dunk, if he’s at home, and burn the house to hide the guilty deed. And, if the sheriff comes snooping around, asking disagreeable questions, we’ll all swear you done it. So now you know our plans; shut your face and go on to bed. And be sure,” he added witheringly, “you pull the soogans over your head, so you won’t hear the dying shriek of our victims. We’re liable to get kinda excited and torture ‘em a while before we kill ‘em.”
“Aw, gwan!” gulped Happy Jack mechanically. “You make me sick! If yuh think I’m goin’ to swaller all that, you’re away off! You wouldn’t dast do nothing of the kind; and, if yuh did, you’d sure have a sweet time layin’ it onto me!”
“Oh, I don’t know,” drawled the Native Son, with a slow, velvet-eyed glance, “any jury in the country would hang you on your looks, Happy. I knew a man down in the lower part of California, who was arrested, tried and hanged for murder. And all the evidence there was against him was the fact that he was seen within five miles of the place on the same day the murder was committed; and his face. They had an expert physiognomist there, and he swore that the fellow had the face of a murderer; the poor devil looked like a criminal—and, though he had one of the best lawyers on the Coast, it was adios for him.”
“I s’pose