Part 11 (1/2)
The boys held their breaths, intent on catching the sound that Joe had picked up.
”I hear it!” Frank said hoa.r.s.ely. ”It's a rider. Maybe the same one coming back!”
107 The brothers raced into the shadow of a shed which stood near the corral, and waited.
The hoofbeats grew closer. A few minutes later a cowboy reined in his mount at the corral gate and flung himself off the saddle. Lifting the bar, he slapped his horse on the rump and the animal bounded inside.
All the while, Frank and Joe craned their necks to get a glimpse of the stranger. But a deep shadow, thrown by his broad-brimmed hat, concealed the face of the rider.
The boys noted that he was tall and rangy, but so were many other cowboys. If only they could get a good look at him!
The man hastened toward the bunkhouse. As he neared the hiding place of the Hardys, Frank and Joe flattened themselves against the side of the building. The beating of their hearts sounded like trip hammers in their ears.
When the cowboy pa.s.sed them, he suddenly whipped off his hat, wiping his brow with the back of his wrist. The moon shone full on his face. It revealed a thin nose and jutting jaw, giving his face the sour demeanor of a man who is dissatisfied with the whole world.
He hurried on, and soon the boys heard the bunk-house door shut lightly after him. When all was 108 quiet again, the brothers made their way silently to the house.
”We'll spot him in the morning,” Frank whispered. ”Something's up!”
They opened the back door, which they had left ajar. Then, taking off their shoes, they crept back to their room.
In the morning the brothers were awakened by the bright sun. It burst into their window with a brilliance unlike that in Bayport.
”Swell country, this,” Joe commented.
”Sure is. We've got to see to it Cousin Ruth doesn't lose this ranch,” Frank declared.
The Hardys roused Chet, who rolled sleepily from bed.
”Hi, it's time to get up,” Joe said, as he prodded his friend.
”Lemme sleep,” Chet protested.
”You're going to miss breakfast,” Frank teased. ”They don't serve it in bed, you know.”
Hearing the word breakfast, the stocky boy quickly shook off his drowsiness and dressed. Cousin Ruth greeted them in the living room.
”While breakfast is being cooked,” she said, ”suppose we go outside and I'll introduce you to the men.”
They stepped onto a rambling porch, which shaded one side of the building, then walked to-109 ward the bunkhouse. A group of cowboys, whom the Easterners had not seen the day before, were making ready for their day's work.
”I'd like you to meet my two cousins Frank and Joe and their friend, Chet,” the widow said pleasantly, approaching the cowboys. ”They're from Bayport and are spending a little vacation with us.”
”Howdy,” said the men, shaking hands with the trio.
Ruth Hardy introduced them one by one. Presently she stopped beside a little fellow with s.h.i.+ny, black braids falling over each shoulder. His leathery face was as weather-beaten as a mountain rock, but the crinkly expression around his eyes indicated a keen sense of humor.
”I know you'll like Crowhead's Pye,” their cousin said, turning to the boys.
”Pie?” Chet said enthusiastically. ”Are we going to have pie for breakfast?”
A few of the cowboys laughed. The others registered a look of disgust.
”No.” The woman smiled. ”This is Pye. P-Y-E. His real name is Pymatuno, and he's the best Indian in all of New Mexico!”
A broad smile forced Pye's eyes into little slits as he shook hands with the boys. Then Cousin Ruth looked around, as if she had missed somebody.
”Where's Hank?” she asked. Turning to her 110 visitors, Mrs. Hardy said, ”He's my foreman.”
As she spoke, the bunkhouse door slammed and a tall man emerged. He had a thin nose and jutting jaw.
The cowboy was the mysterious rider of the night before! As he approached the group, Ruth Hardy introduced him.
”Howdy,” he said, extending a long, bony hand and showing no enthusiasm at the meeting.
”Up purty early for city kids, ain't yo'?” he commented, looking at the trio with a poker face.
The boys resented the cutting remark, especially Joe, who wasn't endowed with the same even temper as his older brother.
”It seems to me,” he came back pointedly, ”that certain cowboys as well as city folks stay out late at night!”
Hank tensed. The muscles in his lean cheeks bulged in and out.
”Sometimes,” he snapped, ”a cowboy has to run coyotes off the place.”
Just then the mellow strum of a guitar eased the situation. A pint-sized cowboy, wearing a bright red-and-yellow s.h.i.+rt, walked from the bunkhouse. bright red-and-yellow s.h.i.+rt, walked from the bunkhouse.
”That's Terry,” Ruth Hardy said.
”He's mighty fleet-fingered with the gee-tar,” one of the men spoke up.
”I don't know what I'd do without Terry.”
111 Cousin Ruth smiled. ”He's a joy, but an awful tease.”
The singing cowboy grinned, showing a straight set of white teeth. He strummed a few chords, then said, looking directly at the visitors from Bayport: ”Howdy, howdy, all o' you,” then broke into song.
Ef yo' wanna be a cowman, Tippee, yippee-yay, Yo' gotta ride to beat the band Every single day.
But take a soft guy from the city Ah, how his hoss will play, It sh.o.r.e will be a pity When his rider hits the sand!
Terry gaily tw.a.n.ged out an extra chord as the cowboys roared with laughter.
”Oh, we can ride some,” Frank volunteered with a laugh.
”If yo' can't, then we'll larn yo',” Terry said.