Part 8 (1/2)

The cook beat on his pan, and at the thought of the long ride before him Bowles did his best to eat--to eat heartily, ravenously, to gorge himself full of meat against the hours of hunger to come; and, pa.s.sing up the three-tined steel fork, he went to it with his knife and spoon.

”You make the finest biscuits I have ever eaten, Mr. Mosby,” he observed by way of apology as he slipped one into his pocket; and the sleep-weary eyes of the cook lighted up for a moment before he summoned his cynical smile.

”That's what they all say--when they're hungry,” he remarked. ”Then when they've et a plenty they throw 'em in the dirt.”

He waved his hand at a circle of white spots that lay just outside the firelight, and turned to begin his dishwas.h.i.+ng. Then, seeing that Mr.

Bowles was still interested, he dilated on his troubles.

”Yes, sir,” he said; ”a cowboy is jest naturally wasteful--if he wasn't, he wouldn't be a cowboy. He'll take a whole biscuit and eat half of it and throw the other half away. There you see 'em out there, jest like I been seein' 'em fer forty years and more. It's in the blood. A cowboy wastes his grub, he wastes his terbakker, he wastes his money. He wastes cows, and hawses--an' he wastes his life. I got my opinion of a man that will work like a dog fer forty dollars a month. These hyer boys know what I think of 'em.”

The cowboys grinned sheepishly and backed up nearer the fire. It was still too dark to rope, and they were waiting for Henry Lee; and the cold starlight made them solemn. When the sun came up and they got a horse between their knees they would laugh old Gus to scorn; now they listened to him soberly in lieu of sprightlier conversation.

”And me,” continued Gloomy Gus, as he sensed the heavy silence, ”I work harder than any of 'em. The mornin' star don't catch me in bed--no, sir!

Not after half-past three. I got to git up then and mix my bread. And come night time, after my long day's work, I got to set my dough. But I git paid fer it--eighty dollars a month--and you can have the job to-morrer.”

He paused again, as if to emphasize the lack of bidders, and then went deftly about his task.

”No, sir,” he said; ”you don't see no one strikin' fer the job of cook.

That's hard work, that is. These boys all want to sit on a hawse and see the world go by.”

Once more the heavy silence fell upon them, and Brigham picked up a towel and began to wipe the dishes.

”Goin' out to-day?” he inquired, as the boys began to straggle toward the corral.

”That's the word!” returned the cook. ”Dinner at the north well, and back ag'in fer supper. Pack up and unpack, and pack ag'in at the well.

Then cook a dinner and hook up the hawses, and cook some more at the home. Ef Henry Lee don't git me a flunky pretty soon I'm sh.o.r.e goin' to up and quit.”

He glanced significantly at Bowles as he finished this last remark, but Brigham shook his head.

”I seen that Pringle kid come in yisterday,” he said. ”Mebbe you could git to have him.”

That closed the conversation, and Bowles moved away. He was sorry for Mr. Mosby, very sorry; but not sorry enough to take a job as official dishwasher. Somehow all the world seemed to be in a conspiracy to make him flunky to the cook.

He hurried over to the corral, where the roping was going on, and as he neared the gate he met the boss coming out. On the previous day Mr. Lee had seemed a little under the dominance of his feelings, but this morning he was strictly business.

”Mr. Bowles,” he said, ”I'll keep my word with you and take you on for a puncher. Do your work and keep off Dunbar, and I'll try to get along with you--otherwise you get your time. Now come on back and I'll cut you out a mount.”

He tied his own horse to a post, and swung up on the corral fence.

”You get two gentle horses and five bronks,” he continued; ”and I'll call Wa-ha-lote a bronk.”

”Oh, thank you!” began Bowles; but the boss checked him right there.

”You've got nothing to thank me for, young man,” he said. ”I'd rather lose a top hand any time than take on a tenderfoot, so don't think for a minute that I'm stuck on you. Pa.s.sed my word, that's all--and Wa-ha-lote forgot to buck. Now you see that gray over there--the one with the saddle-marks on his back--that's one of 'em--he's gentle. See this little sorrel, right close--that's Scrambled Eggs--he's a bronk. Then you can have that red roan over there for a night horse, and I'll cut you out some more bronks bymeby. You ride old Gray and the roan for a while--understand? And I employ a twister to break my wild stock, so keep off of them bronks--if--you--please.”

He added this last as if he really meant it, and left Bowles to wonder at his emphasis--but not for long. The times called for action. He was a puncher now, and it was necessary for him to la.s.so his mount. So, shaking out his new rope, which snarled and crawled in a most disconcerting fas.h.i.+on, the new cowboy dropped down into the corral, while everybody who could conveniently do so stepped up and looked over the fence. But Bowles had had a few days' training at the hands of Jim Scrimsher, the livery-stable keeper and all-round horse trader and confidence man at Chula Vista, and he shook out a fairly good loop.

Then, swinging it above his head, he advanced upon the gray, who promptly put the whole herd between them, and raced along next the fence. The roan came along just then and Bowles made a cast at him and caught two others, who instantly made away with his rope.