On the Cowboy's Trail: Western Boxed-Set. Coolidge Dane
Hardy,” she exclaimed, indignantly, “and she just dotes on every word you say! Yes, she does –– any one can see that she simply adores you. I declare, Rufus, your lack of perception would make an angel weep –– especially if it was a lady angel. But you may as well understand once and for all that I will never deprive dear, patient, long-suffering Lucy of anything she sets her heart on. No, I will not go with you the next day. If you haven’t consideration enough to invite me first, I have sense enough to stay away. It was only yesterday that you took Lucy up to Hidden Water, and to-day I find you with her again; and to-morrow –– well, I perceive that I must amuse myself down here. But –– oh, look, look! There’s a cowboy –– up on that high cliff!”
She started up, pointing at a horseman who was spurring furiously along the side of the cañon after a runaway steer.
“Oh, look!” she cried again, as Hardy surveyed him indifferently. “He is whirling his lasso. Oh! He has thrown it over that big cow’s horns! Goodness me, where is my horse? No, I am going on foot, then! Oh, Lucy –– Lucy dear,” she screamed, waving her hand wildly, “do let me have Pinto, just for a moment! All right –– and Lucy –– wasn’t that Mr. Creede?” She lingered on the ground long enough to give her an ecstatic kiss and then swung up into the saddle. “Yes, I knew it –– and isn’t he just perfectly grand on that big horse? Oh, I’ve been wanting to see this all my life –– and I owe it all to you!”
With a smile and a gay salutation, she leaned forward and galloped out into the riot and confusion of the rodéo, skirting the edge of the bellowing herd until she disappeared in the dust. And somehow, even by the childlike obliviousness with which she scampered away, she managed to convey a pang to her errant lover which clutched at his heart for days.
And what days those were for Jefferson Creede! Deep and devious as was his knowledge of men in the rough, the ways of a woman in love were as cryptic to him as the poems of Browning. The first day that Miss Kitty rode forth to be a cowboy it was the rodéo boss, indulgent, but aware of the tenderfoot’s ability to make trouble, who soberly assigned his fair disciple to guard a pass over which no cow could possibly come. And Kitty, sensing the deceit, had as soberly amused herself by gathering flowers among the rocks. But the next day, having learned her first lesson, she struck for a job to ride, and it was the giddy-headed lover who permitted her to accompany him –– although not from any obvious or selfish motives.
Miss Bonnair was the guest of the ranch, her life and welfare being placed for the time in the keeping of the boss. What kind of a foreman would it be who would turn her over to a hireling or intrust her innocent mind to a depraved individual like Bill Lightfoot? And all the decent cowmen were scared of her, so who was naturally indicated and elected but Jefferson D. Creede?
There wasn’t any branding at the round corral that night. The gather was a fizzle, for some reason, though Miss Kitty rode Pinto to a finish and killed a rattlesnake with Creede’s own gun. Well, they never did catch many cattle the first few days, –– after they had picked up the tame bunch that hung around the water, –– and the dry weather seemed to have driven the cows in from The Rolls. But when they came in the second afternoon, with only a half of their gather, Creede rode out from the hold-up herd to meet them, looking pretty black.
It is the duty of a rodéo boss to know what is going on, if he has to ride a horse to death to find out; and the next day, after sending every man down his ridge, Jeff left Kitty Bonnair talking lion hunt with old Bill Johnson who had ridden clear over from Hell’s Hip Pocket to gaze upon this horse-riding Diana, and disappeared. As a result, Bat Wings was lathered to a fine dirt-color and there was one man in particular that the boss wanted to see.
“Jim,” he said, riding up to where one of the Clark boys was sullenly lashing the drag with his reata, “what in the hell do you mean by lettin’ all them cattle get away? Yes, you did too. I saw you tryin’ to turn ’em back, so don’t try to hand me anything like that. I used to think you was a good puncher, Jim, but a man that can’t keep a herd of cows from goin’ through a box pass ought to be smokin’ cigarettes on the day herd. You bet ye! All you had to do was be there –– and that’s jest exactly where you wasn’t! I was up on top of that rocky butte, and I know. You was half a mile up the cañon mousin’ around in them cliffs, that’s where you was, and the only question I want to ask is, Did you find the Lost Dutchman? No? Then what in hell was you doin’?”
The rodéo boss crowded his horse in close and thrust his face forward until he could look him squarely in the eye, and Clark jerked back his head resentfully.
“What is it to you?” he demanded belligerently.
“Oh, nawthin’,” returned the boss lightly, “jest wanted to know.”
“Uhr!” grunted the cowboy contemptuously. “Well, I was killin’ snakes, then! What ye goin’ to do about it?”
“Snakes!” cried Creede incredulously. “Killin’ snakes! Since when did you call a feud on them?”
“Since thet young lady come,” replied Clark, glancing around to see if any one had the nerve to laugh. “I heerd her say she was collectin’ rattles; an’ I thought, while I was waitin’, I might as well rustle up a few. Oh, you don’t need to look pop-eyed –– they’s others!”
He rolled his eyes significantly at the group of assembled cowboys, and Creede took it all in at a flash. There were others –– he himself had a set of rattles in his shap pocket that were not two hours from the stump. The situation called for diplomacy.
“Well,” he drawled, scratching his bushy head to cover his confusion, “this reflects great credit on your bringin’ up, Jim, and I’m sure Miss Bonnair will appreciate what you’ve done for her, especially as I happened to notice a couple o’ head of your own cows in that bunch, but it’s a mighty expensive way to collect snake-tails. We ain’t gittin’ the cattle, boys; that’s the size of it, and they’re as much yours as they are mine. Now I suggest that we run these few we’ve got down to the corral and brand ’em quick –– and then the whole shootin’-match goes over to the big white cliff and rounds up every rattlesnake in the rock pile! Is it a go?”
“Sure!” yelled the bunch impetuously, and as they charged down upon the herd Creede quietly fished out his snake-tail and dropped it in the dirt.
If he lacked a virtue he could feign it, anyhow –– but there was no doubt about it, Miss Kitty was putting his rodéo on the bum. There had never been so many men to feed and so few calves to brand in the history of Hidden Water. Even old Bill Johnson had got the fever from hearing the boys talk and was hanging around the fire. But then, what were a few head of cows compared to –– well, what was it, anyway? The only man who could stay away was Rufe, and he was in good company.
Yet Creede was not satisfied with this explanation. Miss Kitty was always asking questions about Rufe –– they had known each other well in Berkeley –– and at the same time the little partner with whom he had been so friendly never came around any more. He was always very polite, and she called him by his first name –– and then one of them rode up the river and the other followed the round-up.
The night after the big snake-killing Jefferson Creede picked up his blankets and moved quietly back to the ramada with Hardy.
“Them locoed punchers have been skinnin’ rattlers and stretchin’ their hides,” he said, “until the camp stinks like a buzzard roost. I’m due to have some bad dreams to-night anyhow, on the strength of this snake-killin’, but it’d give me the jumpin’ jimjams if I had to sleep next to them remains. Didn’t git back in time to join in, did ye? Well, no great loss. I always did intend to clean out that snake hole over’n the cliff, and the boys was stoppin’ every time they heard one sing, anyhow, in order to git the rattles for Miss Bonnair, so I thought we might as well git it off our minds before somethin’ worse turned up. See any sheep tracks?”
He kicked off his boots, poked his six-shooter under his pillow, and settled down comfortably for the night.
“Nary