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Dude Wrangler

<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2> <h3>HIS "GAT"</h3> "How much 'Jack' did you say you got?" Pinkey, an early caller at the Prouty House, sitting on his heel with his back against the wall, awaited with evident interest an answer to this pointed question. He explained further in response to Wallie's puzzled look: "Kale—dinero—the long green—money." "Oh," Wallie replied, enlightened, "about $1,800." He was in his blue silk pajamas, sitting on the iron rail of his bed—it had an edge like a knife-blade. There was no resemblance between this room and the one he had last occupied. The robin's egg-blue alabastine had scaled, exposing large patches of plaster, and the same thing had happened to the enamel of the wash-bowl and pitcher—the dents in the latter leading to the conclusion that upon some occasion it had been used as a weapon. A former occupant who must have learned his art in the penitentiary had knotted the lace curtains in such a fashion that no one ever had attempted to untie them, while the prison-like effect of the iron bed, with its dingy pillows and counterpane and sagging middle, was such as to throw a chill over the spirits of the cheeriest traveller. It had required all Wallie's will power, when he had arrived at midnight, to rise above the depression superinduced by these surroundings. His luggage was piled high in the corner, while the two trunks setting outside his doorway already had been the cause of threats of an alarming nature, made against the owner by sundry guests who had bruised their shins on them in the ill-lighted corridor. Pinkey's arrival had cheered him wonderfully. Now when that person observed tentatively that $1,800 was "a good little stake," Wallie blithely offered to count it. "You got it with you?" Wallie nodded. "That's chancey," Pinkey commented. "They's people in the country would stick you up if they knowed you carried it." "I should resist if any one attempted to rob me," Wallie declared as he sat down on the rail gingerly with his bulging wallet. "What with?" Pinkey inquired, humorously. Wallie reached under his pillow and produced a pearl-handled revolver of 32 calibre. "Before leaving I purchased this pistol." Pinkey regarded him with a pained expression. "Don't use that dude word, feller. Say 'gun,' 'gat,' 'six-shooter,' anything, but don't ever say 'pistol' above a whisper." A little crest-fallen, Wallie laid it aside and commenced to count his money. Pinkey, he could see, was not impressed by the weapon. "Yes, eighteen hundred exactly. I spent $250 purchasing a camping outfit." Pinkey looked at him incredulously. He was thinking of the frying-pan, coffee-pot, and lard-kettle of which his own consisted. He made no comment, however, until Wallie mentioned his portable bath-tub, which, while expensive, he declared he considered indispensable. "Yes," Pinkey agreed, drily, "you'll be needin' a portable bath-tub something desperate. I wisht I had one. The last good wash I took was in Crystal Lake the other side of the Bear-tooth Mountain. When I was done I stood out till the sun dried me, then brushed the mud off with a whisk-broom." "That must have been uncomfortable," Wallie observed, politely. "I hope you will feel at liberty to use my tub whenever you wish." "That won't be often enough to wear it out," said Pinkey, candidly. "But you'd better jump into your pants and git over to the land-office. We want to nail that 160 before some other 'Scissor-bill' beats you to it." Under Pinkey's guidance Wallie went to the land office, which was in the rear of a secondhand store kept by Mr. Alvin Tucker, who was also the land commissioner. The office was in the rear and there were two routes by which it was possible to get in touch with Mr. Tucker: one might gain admittance by walking over the bureaus, centre-tables, and stoves that blocked the front entrance, or he could crawl on his hands and knees through a large roll of chicken-wire wedged into the side door of the establishment. The main-travelled road, however, was over the tables and bureaus, and this was chosen by Pinkey and Wallie, who found Mr. Tucker at his desk attending to the State's business. Mr. Tucker had been blacking a stove and had not yet removed the traces of his previous occupation, so when Pinkey introduced him his hand was of a colour to make Wallie hesitate for the fraction of a second before taking it. Mr. Tucker being a man of great good nature took no offense, although he could scarcely fail to notice Wallie's hesitation; on the contrary, he inquired with the utmost cordiality: "Well, gents, what can I do for you this morning?" His tone implied that he had the universe at his disposal, and he also looked it as he tipped back his swivel chair and regarded them. "He wants to file on the 160 on Skull Crick that Boise Bill abandoned," said Pinkey. Tucker's gaze shifted. "I'm not sure it's open to entry," he replied, hesitatingly. "Yes, it is. His time was up a month ago, and he ain't even fenced it." "You know he's quarrelsome," Tucker suggested. "Perhaps it would be better to ask his intentions." "He ain't none," Pinkey declared, bluntly. "He only took it up to hold for Canby and he's never done a lick of work on it." "Of course it's right in the middle of Canby's range," Tucker argued, "and you can scarcely blame him for not wanting it homesteaded. Why don't you select a place that won't conflict with his interests?" "Why should we consider his interests? He don't think of anybody else's when he wants anything," Pinkey demanded. "Your friend bein' a newcomer, I thought he wouldn't want to locate in the middle of trouble." "He can take care of himself," Pinkey declared, confidently; though, as they both glanced at Wallie, there seemed nothing in his appearance to justify his friend's optimism. He looked a lamblike pacifist as he sat fingering his straw hat diffidently. Tucker brought his feet down with the air of a man who had done his duty and washed his hands of consequences; he prepared to make out the necessary papers. As he handled the documents he left fingerprints of such perfection on the borders that they resembled identification marks for classification under the Bertillon system, and Wallie was far more interested in watching him than in his intimation that there was trouble in the offing if he made this filing. He paid his fees and filled out his application, leaving Tucker's office with a new feeling of importance and responsibility. One hundred and sixty acres was not much of a ranch as ranches go in Wyoming, but it was a beginning. As soon as they were out of the building, Wallie inquired casually: "Does Miss Spenceley live in my neighbourhood?" "Across the mounting!" Which reply conveyed nothing to Wallie. Pinkey added: "I punch cows for their outfit." "Indeed," politely. Then, curiosity consuming him, he hazarded another question: "What did she say when she heard I was coming?" "She laughed to kill herself." Pinkey seldom lied when the truth would answer. In the meantime, Tucker, in guarded language, was informing Canby of the entry by telephone. From the sounds which came through the receiver he had the impression that the land baron was pulling the telephone out by the roots in his exasperation at the negligence of his hireling whom he had supposed had done sufficient work to hold it. "I'll attend to it," he answered. Tucker thought there was no doubt about that, and he had a worthy feeling of having earned the yearly stipend which he received from Canby for these small services. "We'd better sift along and git out there," Pinkey advised when they were back at the Prouty House. "To-day?" "You bet you! That's no dream about Boise Bill bein' ugly, and he might try to hold the 160 if he got wind of your filing." "In that event?" "In that event," Pinkey mimicked, "he's more'n likely to run you off, unless you got the sand to fight fer it. That's what I meant in my telegram." "Oh," said Wallie, enlightened. "'Sand' and—er—intestines are synonymous terms in your vernacular?" Pinkey stared at him. "Say, feller, you'll have to learn to sling the buckskin before we can understand each other. Anyhow, as I was sayin', you got a good proposition in this 160 if you can hold it." "If I am within my rights I shall adhere to them at all hazards," declared Wallie, firmly. "At first, however, I shall use moral suasion." "Can't you say things plainer?" Pinkey demanded, crossly. "Why don't you talk United States? You sound like a Fifth Reader. If you mean you aim to argue with him, he'll knock you down with a neck-yoke while you're gittin' started." "In that event, if he attempted violence, I should use my pistol—my 'gat'—and stop him." "In that event," Pinkey relished the expression, "in that event I shall carry a shovel along to bury you." Riding a horse from the livery stable and accompanied by Pinkey driving two pack-horses ahead of him, Wallie left the Prouty House shortly after noon, followed by comments of a jocular nature from the bystanders. "How far is it?" inquired Wallie, who was riding his English saddle and "posting." "Twenty for me and forty for you, if you aim to ride that way," said Pinkey. "Why don't you let out them stirrups and shove your feet in 'em?" Wallie preferred his own style of riding, however, but observed that he hoped never to have another such fall as he had had at The Colonial. "A feller that's never been throwed has never rid," said Pinkey, sagely, and added: "You'll git used to it." This Wallie considered a very remote possibility, although he did not say so. Once they left the town they turned toward the mountains and conversation ceased shortly, for not only were they obliged to ride single file through the sagebrush and cacti but the trot of the livery horse soon left Wallie with no breath nor desire to continue it. The vast tract they were traversing belonged to Canby, so Pinkey informed him, and as mile after mile slipped by he was amazed at the extent of it. Through illegal fencing, leasing, and driving small stockmen from the country by various methods, Canby had obtained control of a range of astonishing circumference, and Wallie's homestead was nearly in the middle of it. Although they had eaten before leaving Prouty, it was not more than two o'clock before Wallie began to wonder what they would have for supper. They were not making fast time, for his horse stumbled badly and the pack-horses, both old and stiff, travelled slowly, so at three o'clock the elusive mountains seemed as far away as when they had started. Unable to refrain any longer, Wallie called to ask how much farther. "Twelve miles, or some such matter." Pinkey added: "I'm so hungry I don't know where I'm goin' to sleep to-night. That restaurant is reg'lar stummick-robbers." By four o'clock every muscle in Wallie's body was aching, but his fatigue was nothing as compared with his hunger. He tried to admire the scenery, to think of his magnificent prospects, of Helene Spenceley, but his thoughts always came back quickly to the subject of food and a wonder as to how soon he could get it. In his regular, well-fed life he never had imagined, much less known, such a gnawing hunger. His destination represented only something to eat and it seemed to him they never would get there. "What will we have for supper, Pinkey?" he shouted, finally. Pinkey replied promptly: "I was thinkin' we'd have ham and gra-vy and cowpuncher perta-toes; and maybe I'll build some biscuit, if we kin wait fer 'em." "Let's not have biscuit—let's have crackers." Ham and gravy and cowpuncher potatoes! Wallie rode along with his mouth watering and visualizing the menu until Pinkey came to a halt and said with a dramatic gesture: "There's your future home, Mr. Macpherson! That's what I call a reg'lar paradise." As Mr. Macpherson stared at the Elysium indicated, endeavouring to discover the resemblance, surprise kept him silent. So far as he could see, it in nowise differed from the arid plain across which they had ridden. It was a pebbly tract, covered with sagebrush and cacti, which dropped abruptly to a creek-bed that had no water in it. Filled with sudden misgivings, he asked feebly: "What's it good for?" "Look at the view!" said Pinkey, impatiently. "I can't eat scenery." "It'll be a great place for dry-farmin'." Wallie looked at a crack big enough to swallow him and observed humorously: "I should judge so." "You see," Pinkey explained, enthusiastically, "bein' clost to the mountings, the snow lays late in the spring and all the moisture they is you git it." "I see." Wallie nodded comprehensively. "Why didn't you take it up yourself, Pinkey?" "Oh, I got to make a livin'." There was food for thought in the answer and Wallie pondered it as he got stiffly out of the saddle. "Can I be of any assistance?" he asked, politely. "You can git the squaw-axe and hack out a place fer a bed-ground and you can hunt up some firewood and take a bucket out of the pack and go to the crick and locate some water while I'm finding a place to picket these horses." Because it would hasten supper, it seemed to Wallie that wood and water were of more importance than clearing a place to sleep, so he collected a small pile of twigs and dead sagebrush, then took an aluminum kettle from his camping utensils and walked along the bank of Skull Creek looking for a pool which contained enough water to fill the kettle. He finally saw one, and planting his heels in a dirt slide, shot like a toboggan some twenty feet to the bottom. Filling his kettle he walked back over the boulders looking for a more convenient place to get up than the one he had descended. He was abreast of the camp before he knew it. "Whur you goin'?" Pinkey, who had returned, was hanging over the edge watching him stumbling along with his kettle of water. "I'm hunting a place to get up," said Wallie, tartly. "How did you git down?" "'Way back there." "Why didn't you git up the same way?" "Couldn't—without spilling the water." "I'll git a rope and snake you." "This doesn't seem like a very convenient location," said Wallie, querulously. "You can cut out some toe-holts to-morrow," Pinkey suggested, cheerfully. "The ground has got such a good slope to drain the corrals is the reason I picked it to build on." This explanation reconciled Wallie to the difficulty of getting water. To build a fire and make the coffee was the work of a moment, but it seemed twenty-four hours to Wallie, sitting on a saddle-blanket watching every move like a hungry bird-dog. He thought he never had smelled anything so savoury as the odour of potatoes and onions cooking, and when the aroma of boiling coffee was added to it! Pinkey stopped slicing ham to point at the sunset. "Ain't that a great picture?" "Gorgeous," Wallie agreed without looking. "If I could paint." "Does it take long to make gravy?" Wallie demanded, impatiently. "Not so very. I'll git things goin' and let you watch 'em while I go and take a look at them buzzard-heads. If a horse ain't used to bein' on picket he's liable to go scratchin' his ear and git caught and choke hisself." "Couldn't we eat first?" Wallie asked, plaintively. "No, I'll feel easier if I know they ain't tangled. Keep stirrin' the gravy so it won't burn on you," he called back. "And set the coffee off in a couple of minutes." Wallie was on his knees absorbed in his task of keeping the gravy from scorching when a sound made him turn quickly and look behind him. A large man on a small white pony was riding toward him. He looked unprepossessing even at a distance and he did not improve, as he came closer. His nose was long, his jaw was long, his hair needed cutting and was greasy, while his close-set blue eyes had a decidedly mean expression. There was a rifle slung under his stirrup-leather, and a six-shooter in its holster on his hip was a conspicuous feature of his costume. He sat for a moment, looking, then dropped the bridle reins as he dismounted and sauntered up to the camp-fire. Wallie was sure that it was "Boise Bill," from a description Pinkey had given him, and his voice was slightly tremulous as he said: "Good evening." The stranger paid no attention to his greeting. He was surveying Wallie in his riding breeches and puttees with an expression that was at once amused and insolent. "Looks like you aimed to camp a spell, from your lay-out," he observed, finally. "Yes, I am here permanently." Wallie wondered if the stranger could see that his hand was trembling as he stirred the gravy. "Indeed! How you got that figgered?" asked the man, mockingly. Wallie replied with dignity: "This is my homestead; I filed on it this morning." "Looks like you'd a-found out if it was open to entry before you went to all that trouble." Boise Bill shuffled his feet so that a cloud of the light wood-ashes rose and settled in the gravy. Wallie frowned but picked them out patiently. "I did," he answered, moving the pan. "Then somebody's lied to you, fer I filed on this ground and I ain't abandoned it." "You've never done any work on it, and Mr. Tucker has my filing fees and application so I cannot see that there is any argument about it." Wallie was very polite and conciliatory. "You'll find that filin' is one thing and holdin' is another in this man's country." Quite deliberately he scuffled up another cloud of cinders. "I will appreciate it," said Wallie, sharply, "if you won't kick ashes in my gravy!" "And I will appreciate it," Boise Bill mocked him, "if you'll git your junk together and move off my land in about twenty minutes." "I refuse to be intimidated," said Wallie, paling. "I shall begin a contest suit if necessary." "I allus fight first and contest afterward." Boise Bill lifted his huge foot and kicked over first the pan of ham and then the gravy. Wallie stood for a second staring at the tragedy. Then his nerves jumped and he shook in a passion which seemed to blind and choke him. Boise Bill had drawn his six-shooter and Wallie was looking into the barrel of it. His homestead, his life, was in jeopardy, but this seemed nothing at all compared to the fact that the ruffian, with deliberate malice, had kicked over his supper! "Have I got to try a chunk o' lead on you?" Boise Bill snarled at him. For answer Wallie stooped swiftly and gripped the long handle of the frying-pan. He swung it with all his strength as he would have swung a tennis racket. Knocking the six-shooter from Boise Bill's hand he jumped across the fire at him. Scarcely conscious of what he was doing in the frenzy of rage that consumed him, Wallie whipped his little pearl-handled pistol from his breeches pocket and as Boise Bill opened his mouth in an exclamation of astonishment, Wallie shoved it down his throat, yelling shrilly that if he moved an eye-lash he would pull the trigger! This was the amazing sight that stopped Pinkey in his tracks as effectively as a bullet. Wallie heard his step and asked plaintively but without turning: "What'll I do with him?" "As you are, until I pull his fangs." Pinkey threw the shells from Boise Bill's rifle and removed the cartridges from his six-shooter. Handing the latter back to him he said laconically: "Drift! And don't you take the beef-herd gait, neither." The malevolent look Boise Bill sent over his shoulder was wasted on Wallie who was picking out of the ashes and dusting the ham for which he had stood ready to shed his blood. <hr class="major" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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