Tales of the Old West: B. M. Bower Collection - 45 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). B. M. Bower
and judicious temporizing was past. There were other lips besides Weary’s that were drawn tight and thin when they approached that particular band of sheep. More than one pair of eyes turned inquiringly toward him and away again when they met no answering look.
They topped a rise of ground, and in the shallow wrinkle which had hidden him until now they came full upon Dunk Whittaker, riding a chunky black which stepped restlessly about while he conferred in low tones with a couple of the herders. The Happy Family recognized them as two of the fellows in whose safe keeping they had left their ropes the night before. Dunk looked around quickly when the group appeared over the little ridge, scowled, hesitated and then came straight up to them.
“I want you rowdies to bring back those sheep you took the trouble to drive off this morning,” he began, with the even, grating voice and the sneering lift of lip under his little, black mustache which the older members of the Happy Family remembered—and hated—so vividly. “I’ve stood just all I’m going to stand, of these typically Flying U performances you’ve been indulging in so freely during the past week. It’s all very well to terrorize a neighborhood of long-haired rubes who don’t know enough to teach you your places; but interfering with another man’s property is—”
“Interfering with another—what?” Big Medicine, his pale blue eyes standing out more like a frog’s than ever upon his face, gave his horse a kick and lunged close that he might lean and thrust his red face near to Dunk’s. “Another what? I don’t see nothin’ in your saddle that looks t’me like a man, by cripes! All I can see is a smooth-skinned, slippery vermin I’d hate to name a snake after, that crawls around in the dark and lets cheap rough-necks do all his dirty work. I’ve saw dogs sneak up and grab a man behind, but most always they let out a growl or two first. And even a rattler is square enough to buzz at yuh and give yuh a chanc’t to side-step him. Honest to grandma, I don’t hardly know what kinda reptyle y’are. I hate to insult any of ‘em, by cripes, by namin’ yuh after ‘em. But don’t, for Lordy’s sake, ever call yourself a man agin!”
Big Medicine turned his head and spat disgustedly into the grass and looked back slightingly with other annihilating remarks close behind his wide-apart teeth, but instead of speaking he made an unbelievably quick motion with his hand. The blow smacked loudly upon Dunk’s cheek, and so nearly sent him out of the saddle that he grabbed for the horn to save himself.
“Oh, I seert yuh keepin’ yer hand next yer six-gun all the while,” Big Medicine bawled. “That’s one reason I say yuh ain’t no man! Yuh wouldn’t dast talk up to a prairie dog if yuh wasn’t all set to make a quick draw. Yuh got your face slapped oncet before by a Flyin’ U man, and yuh had it comm’. Now you’re—gittin’—it—done—right!”
If you have ever seen an irate, proletarian mother cuffing her offspring over an empty wood-box, you may picture perhaps the present proceeding of Big Medicine. To many a man the thing would have been unfeasible, after the first blow, because of the horses. But Big Medicine was very nearly all that he claimed to be; and one of his pet vanities was his horsemanship; he managed to keep within a fine slapping distance of Dunk. He stopped when his hand began to sting through his glove.
“Now you keep your hand away from that gun—that you ain’t honest enough to carry where folks can see it, but ‘ye got it cached in your pocket!” he thundered. “And go on with what you was goin’ t’say. Only don’t get swell-headed enough to think you’re a man, agin. You ain’t.”
“I’ve got this to say!” Mere type cannot reproduce the malevolence of Dunk’s spluttering speech. “I’ve sent for the county sheriff and a dozen deputies to arrest you, and you, and you, damn you!” He was pointing a shaking finger at the older members of the Happy Family, whom he recognized not gladly, but too well. “I’ll have you all in Deer Lodge before that lying, thieving, cattle-stealing Old Man of yours can lift a finger. I’ll sheep Flying U coulee to the very doors of the white house. I’ll skin the range between here and the river—and I’ll have every one of you hounds put where the dogs won’t bite you!” He drew a hand across his mouth and smiled as they say Satan himself can smile upon occasion.
“You’ve done enough to send you all over the road; destroying property and assaulting harmless men—you wait! There are other and better ways to fight than with the fists, and I haven’t forgotten any of you fellows—there are a few more rounders among you—”
“Hey! You apologize fer that, by cripes, er I’ll kill yuh the longest way I know. And that—” Big Medicine again laid violent hands upon Dunk, “and that way won’t feel good, now I’m tellin’ yuh. Apologize, er—”
“Say, all this don’t do any good, Bud,” Weary expostulated. “Let Dunk froth at the mouth if he wants to; what we want is to get these sheep off the range. And,” he added recklessly, “so long as the sheriff is headed for us anyway, we may as well get busy and make it worth his while. So—” He stopped, silenced by a most amazing interruption.
On the brow of the hill, when first they had sighted Dunk in the hollow, something had gone wrong with Miguel’s saddle so that he had stopped behind; and, to keep him company, Andy had stopped also and waited for him. Later, when Dunk was spluttering threats, they had galloped up to the edge of the group and pulled their horses to a stand. Now, Miguel rode abruptly close to Dunk as rides one with a purpose.
He leaned and peered intently into Dunk’s distorted countenance until every man there, struck by his manner, was watching him curiously. Then he sat back in the saddle, straightened his legs in the stirrups and laughed. And like his smile when he would have it so, or the little twitch of shoulders by which he could so incense a man, that laugh brought a deeper flush to Dunk’s face, reddened though it was by Big Medicine’s vigorous slapping.
“Say, you’ve got nerve,” drawled the Native Son, “to let a sheriff travel toward you. I can remember when you were more timid, amigo.” He turned his head until his eyes fell upon Andy. “Say, Andy!” he called. “Come and take a look at this hombre. You’ll have to think back a few years,” he assisted laconically.
In response, Andy rode up eagerly. Like the Native Son, he leaned and peered into eyes that stared back defiantly, wavered, and turned away. Andy also sat back in the saddle then, and snorted.
“So this is the Dunk Whittaker that’s been raising merry hell around here! And talks about sending for the sheriff, huh? I’ve always heard that a lot uh gall is the best disguise a man can hide under, but, by gracious, this beats the deuce!” He turned to the astounded Happy Family with growing excitement in his manner.
“Boys, we don’t have to worry much about this gazabo! We’ll just freeze onto him till the sheriff heaves in sight. Gee! There’ll sure be something stirring when we tell him who this Dunk person really is! And you say he was in with the Old Man, once? Oh, Lord!” He looked with withering contempt at Dunk; and Dunk’s glance flickered again and dropped, just as his hand dropped to the pocket of his coat.
“No, yuh don’t, by cripes!” Big Medicine’s hand gripped Dunk’s arm on the instant. With his other he plucked the gun from Dunk’s pocket, and released him as he would let go of something foul which he had been compelled to touch.
“He’ll be good, or he’ll lose his dinner quick,” drawled the Native Son, drawing his own silver-mounted six-shooter and resting it upon the saddle horn so that it pointed straight at Dunk’s diaphragm. “You take Weary off somewhere and tell him something about this deal, Andy. I’ll watch this slippery gentleman.” He smiled slowly and got an answering grin from Andy Green, who immediately rode a few rods away, with Weary and Pink close behind.
“Say, by golly, what’s Dunk wanted fer?” Slim blurted inquisitively after a short silence.
“Not for riding or driving over a bridge faster than a walk Slim,” purred the Native Son, shifting his gun a trifle as Dunk moved uneasily in the saddle. “You know the man. Look at his face—and use your imagination, if you’ve got any.”
Chapter XIII. The Happy Family Learn Something