Overland Red Part 22

And Collie looked upon his work as a game--a game that had to be played hard and well, but a game, nevertheless. Incidentally he thought often of Overland Red. He had searched the papers diligently for a year, before he received the first letter from Overland. The news it contained set Collie to thinking seriously of leaving the Moonstone Rancho and joining his old companion in this new venture of gold-digging which, as Overland took pains to explain, was "paying big." But there was Louise.... They were great friends. They had even ridden to town together and attended the little white church in the eucalyptus grove.... He thought of their ride homeward late that Sunday afternoon....

Once and once only had Overland's name been mentioned in the bunk-house.

Saunders, discussing horses and riders in general, listened to Collie's account of Overland's escape from the deputy, Tenlow. Then he spoke slightingly of the feat, claiming that any man who had ever ridden range could do as much, with the right pony.

Brand Williams tried to change the subject, for shrewd reasons of his own, but Collie flamed up instantly. "I got a little saved up," he said; "mebby eight hundred. She's yours if you dast to walk a horse, comin' or goin', over that drift that Red took on the jump. Are you game?"

"I'm not on the bet," replied Saunders. "So Overland Red is a friend of yours, eh?"

"Overland Red could ride where you da.s.sent to walk and drag a halter,"

a.s.serted Collie. Then he relapsed to silence, a little ashamed in that he had been trapped into showing temper.

Williams the taciturn astonished the bunk-house by adding: "The kid is right. Red could outride most men. I was his pal once, down in Sonora.

There ain't a better two-gun artist livin'." And the lean foreman looked pointedly at Saunders.

Saunders smiled evilly. He had reason to believe that Williams had spoken the truth.

A few weeks later, Williams, returning unexpectedly to the bunk-house, found Saunders changing his s.h.i.+rt preparatory to a ride to town. The rest of the boys were already on their way to the Oro Rancho across the valley. Williams saw two puckered scars, each above the elbow on Saunders's bared arms.

"That was dam' good shootin'," said the foreman, indicating the other's scarred arms.

"Fair," said Saunders gruffly.

"Takes a gun-artist to put a man out of business that way and not finish him," said Williams, smiling.

"Cholo mix-up," said Saunders.

"And shootin' from the ground, at that," continued Williams. "And at a fella on a horse. Easy to see that, for the both holes are slantin' up.

The shootin' was done from below."

Saunders flushed. He was about to speak when Williams interrupted him.

"Makes me think of some of Overland Red's--that is, old Red Jack Summers's fancy work. I don' know why," he drawled, and turning he left the bunk-house.

Collie, returning from a visit to the Oro Rancho that evening, was met by Williams. The latter was on foot.

"Drop into my shack after dark," said the foreman. Then he stepped back into the bushes as the other men rode up.

The foreman's interview with Collie that evening was brief. It left a lot to the imagination. "You said too much about Overland Red the other night, when you was talkin' to Silent Saunders," said Williams. "He's tryin' to find out somethin'. I don't know what he's after. Keep your eye peeled and your teeth on the bit. That's all."

CHAPTER XVI

BLUNDER

"Oh, he's built all right, and he comes of good stock," said Brand Williams, nodding toward a bay colt that stood steaming in the sun.

It had rained the night before--an unexpected shower and the last of the winter rains. Now that the snow had left the hills, the young stock, some thirty-odd year-old colts had been turned into the north range.

Collie and Williams had ridden over to look at the colts; Williams as a matter of duty, Collie because he was interested and liked Williams's society.

The colt, shaking itself, turned and nipped at its shoulder and switched its tail.

"He's stayed fat, too," continued Williams. "But look at him! He's bitin' and switchin' because he's wet. Thinks it's fly-time a'ready.

He's jest a four-legged horse-hide blunder. I know his kind."

Collie, dismounting and unb.u.t.toning his slicker, rolled it and tied it to the saddle. "I guess you're right, Brand. Last week I was over this way. He had his head through the corral bars at the bottom and he couldn't get loose. He was happy, though. He must have been there quite a spell, for he ate about half a bale of hay. I got him loose and he tried his darndest to kick my head off."

"Uhuh," grunted the foreman. "Reckon it's the last rain we'll get this year. Now would you look at that! He's the limit!"

The colt, sniffing curiously at a crotch in the live-oak against which he had been rubbing, had stepped into the low fork of the tree. Perhaps he had some vague notion to rub both his sides at once as an economy of effort. His front feet had slipped on the wet ground. He went down, wedged fast. He struggled and kicked. He nickered plaintively, and rolled his terror-stricken eyes toward the cowmen in wild appeal.

"And like all of his kind, hoss and human," said Williams, dismounting, "he's askin' for help in a voice that sounds like it was our fault that he's in trouble. He's the limit!"

With much labor they finally released the colt, who expressed prompt grat.i.tude by launching a swift and vicious kick at Collie.

"He's feeling good enough," said that youth, coolly picking up his hat that had dropped as he dodged.

"Yes. All he needs is a couple of punchers and a hoss-doctor and a policeman to ride round with him and keep him out of trouble. He's no account; never will be," growled Williams.

"I don't know, Brand. He's a mighty likely-looking and interesting specimen. He's different. I kind of like him."

"Well, I don't. I ain't got time. He's always goin' to manufacture trouble, when he don't come by it natural. He's got a kind eye, but no brains behind it."

They mounted and rode up the hill, looking for breaks in the fences and counting the colts, some of whom, luxuriously lazy in the heat of the sun, stood with lowered heads, drowsing. Others, scattered about the hillsides and in the arroyos, grazed nippingly at the spa.r.s.e bunch-gra.s.s, moving quickly from clump to clump.

The "blunder" colt seemed to find his own imbecilities sufficiently entertaining, for he grazed alone.

The foreman's inspection terminated with the repairing of a break in the fence inclosing the spring-hole, a small area of bog-land dotted with hummocks of lush gra.s.s. Between the hummocks was a slimy, black ooze that covered the bones of more than one unfortunate animal. The heavy, ripe gra.s.s lent an appearance of stability, of solidity, to the treacherous footing.

Williams and Collie reinforced the sagging posts with props of fallen limbs and stones carried from the trail below. They piled brush where the wire had parted, filling the opening with an almost impa.s.sable barrier of twisted branches. Until the last rain, the spring-hole fence had appeared solid--but one night of rain in the California hills can work unimaginable changes in trail, stream-bed, or fence line.

"Get after that fence first thing in the morning," said Williams as he unsaddled the pinto that afternoon. "I noticed the blunder colt followed us up to the spring. If there's any way of gettin' bogged, he'll find it, or invent a new way for himself."

The blunder colt's mischief-making amounted to absolute genius. There was much of the enterprising puppy in his nature and in his methods. The impulse which seemed to direct the extremely uneven tenor of his way would have resolved itself orally into: "Do it--and then see what happens!" He was not vicious, but brainlessly joyful in his mischief.

As the foreman and Collie disappeared beyond the crest of the hill, the colt, who had watched them with absurdly stupid intensity, lowered his head and nibbled indifferently at the gra.s.s along the edge of the spring-hole fence. He approached the break and sniffed at the props and network of branches. This was interesting! And a very carelessly constructed piece of fence, indeed! He would investigate. The blunder colt was never too hungry to cease grazing and turn toward adventure.

He nosed one of the props. He leaned against it heavily, deliberately, and rubbed himself. Verily "His eye had all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming"--of unalloyed mischief.

The prop creaked, finally became loosened, and fell. The colt sprang back awkwardly, snorting in indignant surprise. "The very idea!" he would have said, even as he would have chewed gum and have worn a perpetual tear in his trousers had he been human.

With stiff stealthiness he approached the break again, pretending a hesitancy that he enjoyed immensely. He reached under the lower wire, neck outstretched, and nibbled at a bunch of ripe gra.s.s. There was plenty of gra.s.s within easier reach, but he wanted the unattainable. A barb caught in his mane. He jerked his head up. The barb p.r.i.c.ked his neck. He jerked harder. Another prop became loosened. Then he strode away, this time with calm indifference. He pretended to graze, but his eye roved back to the break. His att.i.tude expressed a sly alertness--something of the quiet vigilance a grazing horse betrays when one approaches with a bridle. He drew nearer the fence again. With head over the top wire he gazed longingly at the clumps of gra.s.s on the hummocks scattered over the muck of the overflow. His shoulder needed scratching. With drooping head, eyes half-closed, and lower lip pendant, he rubbed against the loosened post. The post sagged and wobbled.

Whether it was deliberate intent, or just natural "horse" predominating his actions, it would be difficult to determine. Finally the post gave way and fell. The colt drew back and contemplated the opening with a vacuous eye. It was not interesting now. No, indeed! He wandered away.