Part 18 (1/2)

The Mexican held up a tawny finger to still the sc.r.a.ping of tin against tin.

”One waggeen,” said he, ”cross dthe Arroyo Hondo. Ah hear dthe wheel.

Verree rockee place, dthe Hondo.”

”You've got good ears, Gregorio,” said Mustang Taylor. ”I never heard nothin' but the song-bird in the bush and the zephyr skallyhootin'

across the peaceful dell.”

In ten minutes Taylor remarked: ”I see the dust of a wagon risin'

right above the fur end of the flat.”

”You have verree good eyes, senor,” said Gregorio, smiling.

Two miles away they saw a faint cloud dimming the green ripples of the mesquites. In twenty minutes they heard the clatter of the horses'

hoofs: in five minutes more the grey plugs dashed out of the thicket, whickering for oats and drawing the light wagon behind them like a toy.

From the _jacals_ came a cry of: ”_El Amo! El Amo_! [62]” Four Mexican youths raced to unharness the greys. The cowpunchers gave a yell of greeting and delight.

[FOOTNOTE 62: El Amo!--(Spanish) The boss!]

Ranse Truesdell, driving, threw the reins to the ground and laughed.

”It's under the wagon sheet, boys,” he said. ”I know what you're waiting for. If Sam lets it run out again we'll use those yellow shoes of his for a target. There's two cases. Pull 'em out and light up. I know you all want a smoke.”

After striking dry country Ranse had removed the wagon sheet from the bows and thrown it over the goods in the wagon. Six pair of hasty hands dragged it off and grabbled beneath the sacks and blankets for the cases of tobacco.

Long Collins, tobacco messenger from the San Gabriel outfit, who rode with the longest stirrups west of the Mississippi, delved with an arm like the tongue of a wagon. He caught something harder than a blanket and pulled out a fearful thing--a shapeless, muddy bunch of leather tied together with wire and twine. From its ragged end, like the head and claws of a disturbed turtle, protruded human toes.

”Who-ee!” yelled Long Collins. ”Ranse, are you a-packin' around of corpuses? Here's a--howlin' gra.s.shoppers!”

Up from his long slumber popped Curly, like some vile worm from its burrow. He clawed his way out and sat blinking like a disreputable, drunken owl. His face was as bluish-red and puffed and seamed and cross-lined as the cheapest round steak of the butcher. His eyes were swollen slits; his nose a pickled beet; his hair would have made the wildest thatch of a Jack-in-the-box look like the satin poll of a Cleo de Merode [63]. The rest of him was scarecrow done to the life.

[FOOTNOTE 63: Cleo de Merode (1873-1966) was a beautiful Parisian ballerina whose hair style caused a sensation when she danced in a production at age 13.]

Ranse jumped down from his seat and looked at his strange cargo with wide-open eyes.

”Here, you maverick, what are you doing in my wagon? How did you get in there?”

The punchers gathered around in delight. For the time they had forgotten tobacco.

Curly looked around him slowly in every direction. He snarled like a Scotch terrier through his ragged beard.

”Where is this?” he rasped through his parched throat. ”It's a d.a.m.n farm in an old field. What'd you bring me here for--say? Did I say I wanted to come here? What are you Reubs rubberin' at--hey? G'wan or I'll punch some of yer faces.”

”Drag him out, Collins,” said Ranse.

Curly took a slide and felt the ground rise up and collide with his shoulder blades. He got up and sat on the steps of the store s.h.i.+vering from outraged nerves, hugging his knees and sneering. Taylor lifted out a case of tobacco and wrenched off its top. Six cigarettes began to glow, bringing peace and forgiveness to Sam.

”How'd you come in my wagon?” repeated Ranse, this time in a voice that drew a reply.

Curly recognised the tone. He had heard it used by freight brakemen and large persons in blue carrying clubs.