Part 12 (1/2)
”Got any more divin' stories?” he asked, with gentle insistence. ”They bite on them fine. Or a hawse story! A cowboy thinks he knows all about hawses. Go ahead and give me one now, so I can spring it on 'em in the mornin'--I got to have somethin' to come back at 'em with. They're always throwin' it into me about being a Mormon--I jest wanter show 'em that I've got the goods. Go ahead now--tell me somethin'!”
”All right,” said Bowles, coming out from under his blankets; ”but, really, I'm awfully sleepy!”
”Yeah; you'll git over that after you've been punchin' cows a while,”
observed Brigham sagely. ”I'm on the wrangle again, but it don't worry me none. Cowboy's got no right to sleep, nohow. Let 'im trade his bed for a lantern--that's what they all say--but don't fergit that divin'
story, pardner. Didn't you never see no more divin' stunts--in New York or somewhere?”
”Why, yes,” answered Bowles, brightening up; ”that reminds me--there's the Hippodrome!”
”Aha!” breathed Brigham. ”What's it like?”
”Why, the Hippodrome,” continued Bowles, ”is an immense playhouse right in the heart of New York that's given over entirely to spectacles. It has a stage large enough to accommodate a thousand people, and a great lake out in front that is big enough to float a fleet of boats; and every year they put on some new spectacle. One year it will be the battle of Manila Bay, for instance, with s.h.i.+ps and men and cannons, and a great s.h.i.+pwreck scene right there in the lake, with people falling overboard and getting drowned--and the peculiar thing is that when a boatload of people fall into that lake they never come up again. It's just the same as if they were drowned.”
”Aw, say,” broke in Brigham, ”you're givin' me a fill, ain't you?”
”No,” protested Bowles warmly; ”I'm telling you the truth. Why, I saw the most glorious spectacle there one night. It represented the tempting of some young prince by Cleopatra, the beautiful Egyptian queen. There were six hundred women in the play, and as they marched and countermarched across the stage the lights would throw soft colors about them, and then as they danced the colors would change, until the whole place looked like fairyland. Then they would swing up into the air on invisible wires and hover about like b.u.t.terflies--there would be a flash and all would have wings--and then they would disappear again and come out dressed in armor like Amazons. And in the last act, when the prince had sent them away, they marched down the broad stone steps that lead into the lake, four abreast, and without taking a deep breath, or showing any concern whatever, they just walked right into that deep water and disappeared. Never came up again. Gone, the whole six hundred of them!”
”Gone!” echoed Brigham in amazement. ”Where to? Where'd they go to?”
”Under the water--that's all I know.”
”Gee, what a lie!” exclaimed Brigham, rising up in bed. ”By jicks, pardner, I sh.o.r.e have to take off my hat to you--you got a wonderful imagination!”
”No, indeed!” protested Bowles. ”It's every word of it true. This Hippodrome was designed by the same man who built Luna Park, and invented the loop the loop, and shoot the chutes, and all those other wonderful things. I was reading an article about that Hippodrome lake and it seems he built some kind of a great metal hood down under the water and filled it with compressed air of just the right pressure to displace the water. All the details are held secret, and the very people who use it are kept in ignorance, but as near as can be found out the performers dive right down under that hood and from there they are taken off through underground pa.s.sages and carried back to their dressing-rooms. Several people were drowned while they were experimenting with it, but now it's perfectly safe; I don't suppose those women mind it at all.”
”No!” cried Brigham, still struggling with his emotions. ”Is it as easy as that? But say,” he whispered, as the magnitude of the story came over him, ”jest wait till I get this off on the cowboys--I'll have me a reputation like old Tom Pepper, or Windy Bill up on the J.F.! You don't want to pull it yoreself, do you? Well, jest give me the details, then, and I'll depend on you to make my hand good when they come back for the explanation. But, by grab, if it's anythin' like what you say, I'm sh.o.r.e goin' to save my money and drag it fer old New York!”
”Yes, indeed,” murmured Bowles, cuddling down into his bed; ”I'm sure you'd enjoy it.”
He fell to breathing deeply immediately, feigning a dreamless slumber, and when Brigham asked his next question Bowles was lost to the world.
The cowboy's night was all too short for him, ending as it did at four-thirty in the morning, and not even a consideration for Brigham's future career could fight off the demands of sleep. Yet hardly had he closed his eyes--or so it seemed--when Gloomy Gus flashed his lantern in his face and then turned to the ambitious Brigham.
”Git up, Brig!” he rasped. ”It's almost day! Wranglers!”
”Oh, my Lord!” moaned Brigham, turning to hide his face, but the round-up cook was inexorable and at last he had his way. Then as the wranglers clumped away to saddle their night-horses the dishpan clanged out its brazen summons and one by one the cowboys stirred and rose. Last of all rose Bat Wing Bowles, for his head was heavy with sleep; but a pint of the cook's hot coffee brought him back to life again, and he was ready for another day.
Shrill yells rose from the far corner of the horse pasture; there was a rumble of feet, a din of hoofbeats growing nearer, and then with a noise like thunder the remuda poured into the corral. A scamper of ponies and the high-pitched curses of the riders told where the outlaws were being turned back from a break; and then the bars went up and the wranglers ran s.h.i.+vering to the fire.
”Pore old Brig!” observed Bar Seven with exaggerated concern. ”He was up all night!”
”What's the matter?” inquired another. ”Feet hurt 'im?”
”No,” said Bar Seven sadly; ”it was his haid!”
Brigham looked up from his cup of coffee and said nothing. Then, seeing many furtive eyes upon him, he laughed shortly, and filled his cup again.
”Yore _eyes_ look kinder bad, Seven,” he said. ”Must've kinder strained 'em last night.”
”Nope,” answered Bar Seven, upon whom the allusion was not lost; and with this delicate pa.s.sage at arms the subject of big stories was dropped. Henry Lee came down, there was a call for horses, and in the turmoil of roping and mounting the matter was forgotten. Brigham had scored a victory and he was satisfied, while the stray men were biding their time. So the marvels of the Hippodrome were held in reserve, and the round-up supplied the excitement.
As the riding of bronks progressed, the accidents that go with such work increased. Almost every morning saw its loose horse racing across the flats, and the number of receptive candidates for the job of day-herding was swelled by the battle-scarred victims. Then fate stepped in, the scene was changed, and Bowles found himself a man again.