Part 18 (2/2)

”Me?” he growled. ”Oh, was you talkin' to me? Why, I was on my way to the Menger, but my valet had forgot to pack my pyjamas. So I crawled into that wagon in the wagon-yard--see? I never told you to bring me out to this bloomin' farm--see?”

”What is it, Mustang?” asked Poky Rodgers, almost forgetting to smoke in his ecstasy. ”What do it live on?”

”It's a galliwampus, Poky,” said Mustang. ”It's the thing that hollers 'willi-walloo' up in ellum trees in the low grounds of nights. I don't know if it bites.”

”No, it ain't, Mustang,” volunteered Long Collins. ”Them galliwampuses has fins on their backs, and eighteen toes. This here is a hicklesnifter. It lives under the ground and eats cherries. Don't stand so close to it. It wipes out villages with one stroke of its prehensile tail.”

Sam, the cosmopolite, who called bartenders in San Antone by their first name, stood in the door. He was a better zoologist.

”Well, ain't that a Willie for your whiskers?” he commented. ”Where'd you dig up the hobo, Ranse? Goin' to make an auditorium for inbreviates out of the ranch?”

”Say,” said Curly, from whose panoplied breast all shafts of wit fell blunted. ”Any of you kiddin' guys got a drink on you? Have your fun.

Say, I've been hittin' the stuff till I don't know straight up.”

He turned to Ranse. ”Say, you shanghaied me on your d----d old prairie schooner--did I tell you to drive me to a farm? I want a drink. I'm goin' all to little pieces. What's doin'?”

Ranse saw that the tramp's nerves were racking him. He despatched one of the Mexican boys to the ranch-house for a gla.s.s of whisky. Curly gulped it down; and into his eyes came a brief, grateful glow--as human as the expression in the eye of a faithful setter dog.

”Thanky, boss,” he said, quietly.

”You're thirty miles from a railroad, and forty miles from a saloon,”

said Ranse.

Curly fell back weakly against the steps.

”Since you are here,” continued the ranchman, ”come along with me. We can't turn you out on the prairie. A rabbit might tear you to pieces.”

He conducted Curly to a large shed where the ranch vehicles were kept.

There he spread out a canvas cot and brought blankets.

”I don't suppose you can sleep,” said Ranse, ”since you've been pounding your ear for twenty-four hours. But you can camp here till morning. I'll have Pedro fetch you up some grub.”

”Sleep!” said Curly. ”I can sleep a week. Say, sport, have you got a coffin nail on you?”

Fifty miles had Ransom Truesdell driven that day. And yet this is what he did.

Old ”Kiowa” Truesdell sat in his great wicker chair reading by the light of an immense oil lamp. Ranse laid a bundle of newspapers fresh from town at his elbow.

”Back, Ranse?” said the old man, looking up.

”Son,” old ”Kiowa” continued, ”I've been thinking all day about a certain matter that we have talked about. I want you to tell me again.

I've lived for you. I've fought wolves and Indians and worse white men to protect you. You never had any mother that you can remember.

I've taught you to shoot straight, ride hard, and live clean. Later on I've worked to pile up dollars that'll be yours. You'll be a rich man, Ranse, when my chunk goes out. I've made you. I've licked you into shape like a leopard cat licks its cubs. You don't belong to yourself--you've got to be a Truesdell first. Now, is there to be any more nonsense about this Curtis girl?”

”I'll tell you once more,” said Ranse, slowly. ”As I am a Truesdell and as you are my father, I'll never marry a Curtis.”

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