Bat Wing Bowles Part 26

The sale of his steers was making Henry Lee a lot of trouble--and the holding of them as well. Not being able to find a buyer at his price, he set the cowboys to fence mending--lest the outlaws should breach the wires--and went back and forth to town. And this morning his wife went with him, sitting close behind the grays, with Dixie riding fast behind.

Their dust changed to haze on the horizon before any one moved a hand, and then Hardy Atkins turned on Bowles.

"All right, Mr. Bowles," he said. "Here's where we see yore hand. I'll saddle that hawse if you'll ride 'im, but don't make me that trouble fer nothin', because if you _do_----"

"Oh, shut up!" snapped Bowles, whose nerves were worn to a frazzle.

"What's the use of talking about it? Put the saddle on him!"

"Holy Jehu!" whistled Atkins. "Listen to the boy talk, will you? Must have somethin' on his mind--what?"

"Well, quit yore foolin'!" put in Brigham abruptly. "We'll all git fired fer this, and him liable to git killed to boot, so hurry up and let's have it over with!"

"I'll go ye!" laughed the ex-twister, skipping off with a sprightly step. "Come on, boys; it'll take the bunch of us--but I'll saddle old Dunbar or die! 'O-oh, hit's not the 'unting that 'urts the 'orse's 'oofs; hit's the 'ammer, 'ammer, 'ammer on the 'ard 'ighway!'

E-e-e--hoo!"

He laughed and cut another caper as he ended this bald refrain, and Brigham glowered at him balefully.

"'Hit's!'" he quoted. "'_Hit's!_' Listen to the ignorant cracker! I never seen a Texican yet that could talk the straight U. S.! But go on now, you low-flung cotton-pickers, and I'll fix Bowles fer his ridin'!"

They hustled away as he spoke, the best of them to wrangle Dunbar, and the rest to admire the sight. Here was an event that would go down in Bat Wing history, and only the cook stayed away. Life had been stale, flat, and unprofitable to Gloomy Gus since he delivered the oration over Happy Jack, and the very care with which all hands refrained from speaking of it showed how poignant the joke had been. Faces which had looked pleasant to him before were repulsive now, and in this last a.s.say on Bowles he saw but a recrudescence of the horse-play which had worked such havoc with his own pride. Therefore, he was morose and sullen and stayed with his pots and pans.

"I want to warn you, Mr. Bowles," he called, as Bowles came, full-rigged, from the bunk-house. "I want to give you warnin'--thet hawse is dangerous!"

"All right, Mr. Mosby," answered Bowles absently, as he started for the round corral.

"He done killed a man!" croaked Gloomy Gus. "A right good cow-puncher, too--I knowed him well. Jim Dunbar--the top rider of the outfit. Don't say I never warned you, now--keep off that hawse!"

"All right, Mr. Mosby," responded Bowles, but he never missed a stride.

The time had come to show himself a man, and, like an athlete who goes forth to win, his thoughts were on the battle.

"You want to set him limber," reiterated Brigham in his ear. "Ride 'im like a drunk man, and whip 'im at every jump--it gives you somethin' to do. Grab 'im with yore spurs every time he lights; and look out he don't bite yore legs. Here, take my quirt--it's heavier--and if he starts to go over backwards, hit 'im hard between the ears. You kin ride 'im, pardner, I know it! Jest keep cool and don't get stiff!"

"All right, Brig," muttered Bowles; "all right!" But his eyes were on the corral.

A cloud of dust rose on the still morning air like smoke from some red-burning fire, and through the poles of the fence he could see horses running like mad, and men with trailing ropes. Then, as the stampede rose to a thunder of feet, he heard a shrill yell of triumph, and scrambling men jerked the bars from the gate. The current of galloping slackened, it paused, and the leaders shot out the gap with a sea of high-flung heads behind. When the dust of their outrush had settled, there was only one horse left inside--the horse that killed Dunbar--and he lay grunting in the dirt.

"Fetch me that hackamore!" yelled Hardy Atkins from where he knelt on the brute's straining neck. "Now bring me that well-rope--we'll tie up his dad-burned leg!"

They gave him the ropes as he called for them, and he rigged them with masterful hands--first the rough-twisted hackamore, to go over his head and cut off his breath; then the two-inch well-rope, to hang from his neck and serve later to noose his hind foot. Then all hands tailed on to the throw-rope; they swayed back as he rose to his feet; and when Dunbar went to the end of it, the heave they gave threw him flat. He leaped up and flew back on his haunches, and the rope halter cut off his breath.

His sides heaved as he struggled against it; his eyes bulged big and he shook his head; then, with a final paroxysm, he sank to his knees and they slackened away on the rope. A single mighty breath, and he was up on his feet and fighting; and they choked him down again. Then Hardy Atkins stepped in behind and picked up the end of the shoulder rope, where it dragged between his legs, and drew the loop up to his hocks. A jerk--a kick at the burn--and Dunbar was put on three legs. He fought, because that was his nature, but it was in vain; they trussed his foot up high, tied the rope's end to the neck loop, and clapped a broad blind over his eyes. So Dunbar was conquered, and while he squealed and cow-kicked, they lashed Bowles' saddle on his bowed-up back and slipped the bit between his teeth.

There he stood at last, old Dunbar the man-killer, sweating and trembling and cringing his head to the blind, and Bowles jumped down off the fence.

"All right," he said, "you can let down his foot. I'll pull up the blinder myself."

"Say yore prayers first, Mr. Man," gritted Atkins, lolling and mopping his face. "If he's half as good as his promise, you'll never git off alive!"

"Very likely," observed Bowles grimly. "You can let his foot down now."

"Hey! Git a move on!" yelled a cow-puncher up on the fence. "They's somebody comin' up the road!"

"Aw, let 'em come," drawled Atkins carelessly. "They're hurryin' up to see the show. Step up and look 'im over!" he grinned at Bowles. "No rush--you got lots of time!"

"Let his foot down!" snarled Bowles, his nerves giving way to anger.

"I'm not----"

"It's Dix!" clamored the cow-puncher on the fence-top. "It's Dix!"

There was a rush for the fence to make certain, and as Dixie Lee dashed in through the horse lot, Hardy Atkins threw down his hat and cursed.

Then he stood irresolute, gazing first at Bowles and then at the fence, until suddenly she slipped through the bars and came striding across the corral.

"Oho, Hardy Atkins," she panted, as she tapped at her boot with a quirt.

"So this is what you were up to--riding horses while Dad went to town!

Didn't he tell you to keep off that Dunbar horse? Well, then, you just----"

She paused as she sensed the tense silence, and then she saw Bowles, walking resolutely up to the horse. In a flash it all came clear to her--the feud, the fights, and now this compact to ride.

"Mr. Bowles!" she cried, raising her voice in a sudden command--but before she could get out the words Hardy Atkins laid his hand on her arm.

"You go on back to the house!" he said, fixing her with his horse-taming eyes. "You go back where you belong! I'm doin' this!"

"You let go of me!" stormed Dixie Lee, making a savage pa.s.s at him with her quirt--and then a great shout drowned their quarrel and made them forget everything but Bowles.

The obsession of days of brooding had laid hold upon him and left him with a single, fixed idea--to ride Dunbar or die. And to him, no less than to Hardy Atkins, the coming of Dixie Lee was a disappointment. For a minute, he too had stood irresolute; then, with the simplicity of madness, he went straight to the blindfolded horse and began to lower his foot. As the quarrel sprang up, he gathered his reins; without looking back, he hooked his stirrup; and then, very gently, he rose to the saddle. Then the shout rang out, and he reached down and twitched up the blind.

Gazing out from beneath the band which had held him in utter darkness, the deep-set rattlesnake eye of Dunbar rolled hatefully at the man on his back. He crooked his neck and twisted his malformed head, and Bowles felt him swelling like a lizard between his knees--then, with a squeal, he bared his teeth and snapped at his leg like a dog. The next moment his head went down and he rose in a series of buck-jumps, whirling sideways, turning half-way round, and landing with a jolt. And at every jolt Bowles' head snapped back and his muscles grew stiff at the jar.

But just as the world began to grow black, and he felt himself shaken in his seat, the trailing neck rope lapped Dunbar about the hind legs and he paused to kick himself free.

It was only a moment's respite, but it heartened the rider mightily. He caught the stirrup that he had lost, wiped the mist from his eyes, and settled himself deep in the saddle.

"Good boy! Stay with 'im!" yelled the maniacs on the fence-posts; and then old Dunbar broke loose. The man never lived that could ride him--Bowles realized that as he clutched for the horn--and then his pride rose in him and he sat limber and swung the quirt. One, two, three times, he felt himself jarred to the center, and the blood burst suddenly from his mouth and nose and splashed in a crimson flood. He had no knowledge of what was happening now, for he could not see; and then, with a heart-breaking wrench, he felt himself hurled from the saddle and sent tumbling heels over head. He struck, and the corral dirt rose in his face; there was a cloud before him, a mist; and then, as the dizziness vanished, he beheld the man-killer charging at him through the dust with all his teeth agleam.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "THE MAN-KILLER CHARGED AT HIM THROUGH THE DUST"]

"Look out!" yelled the crowd on the fence-top. "Look out!"

And Bowles scrambled up and fell over to one side. His knees were weak; they would not bear him; and through the dust cloud he saw Dunbar slide and turn again. Then of a sudden he was in a tangle of legs and stirrups and striking feet, and somebody grabbed him by the arm. Three pistol shots rang out above him; he was snaked violently aside; and old Dunbar went down like a log. Somebody had killed him, that was certain; but it was not Brigham, for he could tell by the characteristic cursing that it was his partner who had pulled him out and was dragging him across the corral. He blinked and opened his eyes as he fetched up against the fence--and there was Dixie Lee, with a big, smoking pistol in her hand, striding after him out of the dust.

She looked down at him, her eyes blazing with anger; and then, snapping the empty cartridges out of the Colt's, she handed it back to a puncher.

"Well," she said, "I hope you boys are satisfied now!" And without a second look at Brigham, Bowles, Hardy Atkins, or the remains of Dunbar, she turned and strode back to the house.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE CUSTOM OF THE COUNTRY