Part 5 (2/2)
The bronco-twister shook out his rope, glanced at the boss, glanced at him again, and dropped reluctantly into the corral. Hardy Atkins would rather have taken a whipping than put a saddle on Dunbar; but he was up against it now, so he lashed his loop out on the ground and advanced to make his throw. One by one the horses that had gathered about Dunbar ran off to the right or left, and as the old man-killer made his dash to escape the long rope shot out with a lightning swiftness and settled around his neck. The twister pa.s.sed the rope behind him, sat back on it and dug his high heels into the ground; but the jerk was too much for his hand-grip, and before anyone could tail on behind he let go and turned the horse loose.
Then, as the great whirlpool of frightened horses went charging around the corral, Buck Buchanan, the man with the bull-moose voice, hopped down and rushed to the center. Some one threw an extra rope to Hardy Atkins, and once more they closed in on the outlaw. But the horse that killed Dunbar was better than the two of them, and soon he had a second rope to trail. A third and a fourth man leaped in to join the conflict; and as they roped and ran and fought with Dunbar the remuda went crazy with excitement and threatened to break down the fence.
”Put up them bars!” yelled Hardy Atkins, as a beautiful, dappled black made a balk to leap over the gate. ”Now all on this rope, boys--snub him to that post--oh, h.e.l.l!” The pistol-like report of a gra.s.s rope parting filled out the rest of the sentence. Then the bronco-twister came limping over to the gate where Bowles and Henry Lee were sitting, shaking the blood from a freshly barked knuckle.
”We can't hold the blinkety-blank,” he announced, gazing defiantly at the boss. ”And what's the use, anyhow?” he demanded, petulantly. ”They ain't a bronk in the remuda that can't throw this Englishman a mile! Of course, if you want us to take a day to it----”
”Well, catch Wa-ha-lote, then!” snapped Mr. Lee. ”And be quick about it!
I've got something else to do, Mr. Bowles,” he observed tartly, ”besides saddle up man-killers for a man that can't sit a trotting-horse!”
This was evidently an allusion to Mr. Bowles' way of putting the English on a jog-trot; but Bowles was too much interested to resent it. He was watching Hardy Atkins advancing on the dappled black that had tried to jump the bars.
”Oh,” he cried enthusiastically, ”is that the horse you mean? Oh, isn't he a beautiful creature! It's so kind of you to make the change!”
”Ye-es!” drawled Mr. Lee; and all the cowboys smiled. Next to Dunbar, Wa-ha-lote was the champion sc.r.a.pper of the Bat Wing. There had been a day when he was gentle, but ever since a drunken Texas cowboy had ridden him with the spurs his views of life had changed. He had decided that no decent, self-respecting horse would stand for such treatment and, after piling a few adventurous bronco-busters, had settled down to a life of ease and plenty. The finest looking horse in the remuda, by all odds, was old Wa-ha-lote, the Water-dog. He was fat and s.h.i.+ny, and carried his tail straight up, like a banner; the yellow dapples, like the spots on a salamander's black hide--whence his Mexican name, Wa-ha-lote--were bright and plain in the sunlight; and he held his head up high as he ramped around the corral.
The sun had come up over the San Ramon Mountains while Hardy Atkins was wrestling with Dunbar; it soared still higher while the boys caught Wa-ha-lote. But caught he was, and saddled, for the horse never lived that a bunch of Texas punchers cannot tie. It was hot work, with skinned knuckles and rope-burned hands to pay for it; but the hour of revenge was at hand, and they called for Bowles. A wild look was in every eye, and heaven only knows what would have happened had he refused; but the hot sun and the excitement had aroused Mr. Bowles from his calm, and he answered like a bridegroom. Perhaps a flash of white up by the big house added impetus to his feet; but, be that as it may, he slipped blithely through the bars and hurried out to his mount.
”Oh, what a beautiful horse!” he cried, standing back to admire his lines. ”Do you need that blinder on his eyes?”
”What I say!” commented Atkins, ambiguously. ”Now you pile on him and take this quirt, and when I push the blind up you holler and throw it into 'im. Are you ready?”
”Just a moment!” murmured Bowles, and for the s.p.a.ce of half a minute he stood patting old Water-dog's neck where he stood there, grim and waiting, his iron legs set like posts and every muscle aquiver. Then, with unexpected quickness, he swung lightly into the saddle and settled himself in the stirrups.
”All right,” he said. ”Release him!”
”Release him it is!” shouted Atkins, with brutal exulting. ”Let 'im go, boys; and--_yee-pah_!”
He raised the blind with a single jerk, leaped back, and warped Wa-ha-lote over the rump with a coil of rope. Other men did as much, or more; and Bowles did not forget to holler.
”Get up, old fellow!” he shouted.
As the lashes fell, Wa-ha-lote made one mighty plunge--and stopped.
Then, as the crowd scattered, he shook out his mane and charged straight at the high, pole gate. A shout went up, and a cry of warning, and as the cowboys who draped the bars scrambled down to escape the crash Bowles was seen to lean forward; he struck with his quirt, and Wa-ha-lote vaulted the bars like a hunter. But even then he was not satisfied. Two panel gates stood between him and the open, and he took them both like a bird; then the dust rose up in his wake and the Bat Wing outfit stood goggle-eyed and blasphemous.
”W'y, the blankety-blank!” crooned Hardy Atkins.
”Too skeered to pitch!” lamented Buck.
”You hit 'im too hard!” shouted Happy Jack.
”But that feller kin ride!” put in Brigham stoutly.
”Aw, listen to the Mormon-faced dastard!” raved Hardy Atkins; and as the conversation rose mountain high, the white dresses up on the hill fluttered back inside the house. But when Bowles came riding back on Wa-ha-lote not even the outraged Hardy could deny that the Bat Wing had a new hand.
CHAPTER VI
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