The Coming of Cassidy. Clarence E. Mulford

      III JIMMY PRICE

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      ON a range far to the north, Jimmy Price, a youth as time measures age, followed the barranca's edge and whistled cheerfully. He had never heard of the Bar-20, and would have showed no interest if he had heard of it, so long as it lay so far away. He was abroad in search of adventure and work, and while his finances were almost at ebb tide he had youth, health, courage and that temperament that laughs at hard luck and believes in miracles. The tide was so low it must turn soon and work would be forthcoming when he needed it. Sitting in the saddle with characteristic erectness he loped down a hill and glanced at the faint trail that led into the hills to the west. Cogitating a moment he followed it and soon saw a cow, and soon after others.

      "I 'll round up th' ranch house, get a job for awhile an' then drift on south again," he thought, and the whistle rang out with renewed cheerfulness.

      He noticed that the trail kept to the low ground, skirting even little hills and showing marked preference for arroyos and draws with but little regard, apparently, for direction or miles. He had just begun to cross a small pasture between two hills when a sharp voice asked a question: "Where you goin'?"

      He wheeled and saw a bewhiskered horseman sitting quietly behind a thicket. The stranger held a rifle at the ready and was examining him critically. "Where you goin'?" repeated the stranger, ominously. "An' what's yore business?"

      Jimmy bridled at the other's impudent curiosity and the tones in which it was voiced, and as he looked the stranger over a contemptuous smile flickered about his thin lips. "Why, I 'm goin' west, an' I 'm lookin' for th' sunset," he answered with an exasperating drawl. "Ain't seen it, have you?"

      The other's expression remained unchanged, as if he had not heard the flippant and pugnacious answer. "Where you goin' an' what for?" he demanded again.

      Jimmy turned further around in the saddle and his eyes narrowed. "I 'm goin' to mind my own business, because it 's healthy," he retorted. "You th' President, or only a king?" he demanded, sarcastically.

      "I 'm boss of Tortilla range," came the even reply. "You answer my question."

      "Then you can gimme a job an' save me a lot of fool ridin'," smiled Jimmy. "It 'll be some experience workin' for a sour dough as ornery as you are. Fifty per', an' all th' rest of it. Where do I eat an' sleep?"

      The stranger gazed steadily at the cool, impudent youngster, who returned the look with an ironical smile. "Who sent you out here?" he demanded with blunt directness.

      "Nobody," smiled Jimmy. "Nobody sends me nowhere, never, 'less 'n I want to go. Purty near time to eat, ain't it?"

      "Come over here," commanded the Boss of Tortilla range.

      "It's closer from you to me than from me to you."

      "Yo 're some sassy, now ain't you? I 've got a notion to drop you an' save somebody else th' job."

      "He 'll be lucky if you do, 'cause when that gent drifts along I 'm natchurally goin' to get there first. It's been tried already."

      Anger glinted in the Boss's eyes, but slowly faded as a grim smile fought its way into view. "I 've a mind to give you a job just for th' great pleasure of bustin' yore spirit."

      "If yo 're bettin' on that card you wants to have a copper handy," bantered Jimmy. "It's awful fatal when it's played to win."

      "What's yore name, you cub?"

      "Elijah—ain't I done prophesied? When do I start punchin' yore eight cows, Boss?"

      "Right now! I like yore infernal gall; an' there's a pleasant time comin' when I starts again' that spirit."

      "Then my name's Jimmy, which is enough for you to know. Which cow do I punch first?" he grinned.

      "You ride ahead along th' trail. I 'll show you where you eat," smiled the Boss, riding toward him. Jimmy's face took on an expression of innocence that was ludicrous.

      "I allus let age go first," he slowly responded. "I might get lost if I lead. I 'm plumb polite, I am."

      The Boss looked searchingly at him and the smile faded. "What you mean by that?"

      "Just what I said. I 'm plumb polite, an' hereby provin' it. I allus insist on bein' polite. Otherwise, gimme my month's pay an' I 'll resign. But I 'm shore some puncher," he laughed.

      "I observed yore politeness. I 'm surprised you even know th' term. But are you shore you won't get lost if you foller me?" asked the Boss with great sarcasm.

      "Oh, that's a chance I gotta take," Jimmy replied as his new employer drew up alongside. "Anyhow, yo 're better lookin' from behind."

      "Jimmy, my lad," observed the Boss, sorrowfully shaking his head, "I shore sympathize with th' shortness of yore sweet, young life. Somebody 's natchurally goin' to spread you all over some dismal landscape one of these days."

      "An' he 'll be a whole lot lucky if I ain't around when he tries it," grinned Jimmy. "I got a' awful temper when I 'm riled, an' I reckons that would rile me up quite a lot."

      The Boss laughed softly and pushed on ahead, Jimmy flushing a little from shame of his suspicions. But a hundred yards behind him, riding noiselessly on the sand and grass, was a man who had emerged from another thicket when he saw the Boss go ahead; and he did not for one instant remove his eyes from the new member of the outfit. Jimmy, due to an uncanny instinct, soon realized it, though he did not look around. "Huh! Reckon I 'm th' meat in this sandwich. Say, Boss, who's th' Injun ridin' behind me?" he asked.

      "That's Longhorn. Look out or he 'll gore you," replied the Boss.

      "'That 'd be a bloody shame,' as th' Englishman said. Are all his habits as pleasant an' sociable?"

      "They 're mostly worse; he's a two-gun man."

      "Now ain't that lovely! Wonder what he'd do if I scratch my laig sudden?"

      "Let me know ahead of time, so I can get out of th' way. If you do that it 'll save me fifty dollars an' a lot of worry."

      "Huh! I won't save it for you. But I wish I could get out my smokin' what 's in my hip pocket, without Longhorn gamblin' on th' move."

      The next day Jimmy rode the west section harassed by many emotions. He was weaponless, much to his chagrin and rage. He rode a horse that was such a ludicrous excuse that it made escape out of the question, and they even locked it in the corral at night. He was always under the eyes of a man who believed him ignorant of the surveillance. He already knew that three different brands of cattle "belonged" to the "ranch," and his meager experience was sufficient to acquaint him with a blotted brand when the work had been carelessly done. The Boss was the foreman and his outfit, so far as Jimmy knew, consisted of Brazo Charley and Longhorn, both of whom worked nights. The smiling explanation of the Boss, when Jimmy's guns had been locked up, he knew to be only part truth. "Yo 're so plumb fighty we dass n't let you have 'em," the Boss had said. "If we got to bust yore high-strung, unlovely spirit without killin' you, you can't have no guns. An' th' corral gate is shore padlocked, so keep th' cayuse I gave you."

      Jimmy, enraged, sprang forward to grab at his gun, but Longhorn, dexterously tripping him, leaned against the wall and grinned evilly as the angry youth scrambled to his feet. "Easy, Kid," remarked the gun-man, a Colt swinging carelessly in his hand. "You 'll get as you give," he grunted. "Mind yore own affairs an' work, an' we 'll treat you right. Otherwise—" the shrugging shoulders made further explanations unnecessary.

      Jimmy looked from one to the other and silently wheeled, gained the decrepit horse and rode out to his allotted range, where he saturated the air with impotent profanity. Chancing to look back he saw a steer wheel and