Part 17 (2/2)

Well, I'll make it Jim and Hank, anyhow--only way to keep 'em in camp.

You boys know Mr. Lee's orders--no drinkin' now--I don't want to find you downtown!”

”Aw-haw-haw!” roared the crowd. That was a good one--he didn't want to find them downtown! Well, what would _he_ be doing down there?

”Well, who's goin' to relieve us?” inquired Hank plaintively. ”Last time we was down I had to stand guard all night!”

The bronco-twister ran his eyes over the crowd again, as if searching for some one.

”Where's that feller that refused a drink this evenin'?” he demanded facetiously. ”He's the boy fer second guard--good and reliable--and Hinglish, too. Hinglish, I'll ask you and yore Mormon friend, Mr. Clark, to kindly stand the second guard. Bud and Bill third, and Jack and Buck fourth. I'm boss now, and I don't stand guard.”

”Oh, thunder!” grumbled Brig, as he threw himself down on his bed. ”I wish the boss would come back. Them rounders will stay in town all night. Let's take a little flier ourselves,” he urged as Bowles lay down beside him. ”We can git back in time!”

But a sudden sense of responsibility had come over Bowles as he observed how the crowd faded away, and he held Brigham to his post. At ten-thirty, in response to a hurried summons, they took a spare blanket for warmth and rode out to stand their guard.

The stars wheeled round in their courses and sank down in the west; the horses s.h.i.+fted about on the barren plain and made their customary efforts to escape; and when the first cold light of dawn crept in, it showed ”Hinglish” and his Mormon friend still standing their lonely vigil.

But for once in a lifetime self-sacrificing virtue got its reward, for Henry Lee came riding out with his buyer at daylight and discovered them at their post. He did not say much--in fact he did not say anything--and Brigham and Bowles did the same; but there was a difference in the air.

At last Bowles had justified his existence--he had stayed with his job to the end.

There was a hurried searching of the town for Bat Wing cowboys, a straggling return of drunken and mutinous punchers, and then, with barely men enough to man the gates, the work of s.h.i.+pping began. By twos and threes the dogies were driven down a lane; the cattle inspector read the brands and made his tally, and the buyer pa.s.sed them on or cut them back. Then, as the cutting and re-cutting was finished, the cattle were punched up the chutes and crowded into the cars. As the day wore on, more and more of the hands returned and took up the prod pole; but Henry Lee made no remarks. Even when his trusted straw-boss showed up late, he made no comment; but once back in camp he pulled his book like a pistol, and began to write out checks.

”Well, boys,” he said, ”you were drunk last night; I'll have to give you your time. Hardy, you're a good cow-hand, but I'll have to let you go, too. So here's your time checks; and turn your horses out. I've got to have men I can trust.”

There was a heavy silence at this, for all the outfits in the country were full-handed now, and no one was looking for men. And Henry Lee was a good man to work for--he treated his hands white, fed them well, and paid the top price to boot. He also kept the best of them over winter, while others were riding the chuck-line or hanging around livery-stables in town. But n.o.body said a word, for they knew it would do no good; and, after he had paid them off and gone back to town, the luckless ones who had been fired drew off by themselves and talked the matter over. To be sure, they had the price of a drunk in their clothes; but they were fired and put afoot now, and town has no allurements to a cowboy unless he can ride in on a horse. So Hardy Atkins and his Texas followers lolled sulkily around the camp, sleeping fitfully in their blankets and glowering at Brigham Clark and the few careful spirits who had escaped their employer's wrath. And in particular they glowered at Bowles, the virtuous and dutiful, and hated him above all the rest for his air of conscious rect.i.tude.

Supper that evening offered no appeal to the drink-shaken carousers, but they stayed for it all the same, hoping against hope that the boss would come back and give them another chance. But they knew him too well to think it--Henry Lee would let his whole calf crop grow up to be mavericks before he would take back his word. Still they waited, and along toward sundown, as luck would have it, he came out; and with him, riding like a queen on her spirited horse, came Dixie May. She looked them over coldly, returning short answers to their shamefaced greetings and saving a smile for the cook.

”Good-evening, Mr. Mosby,” she said, pouring out a little coffee for politeness' sake. ”And so these boys had to go on a drunk and get fired, did they? Well, you won't have so many to cook for now--that'll be one consolation.”

”Yes, Miss Dix,” agreed the cook, ”but mighty little, believe me! One cowboy is jest about as ornery an' no 'count as the other--and whisky gits 'em all. They're all alike--I been cookin' for 'em fer thirty years, off an' on, and they ain't one of 'em is worth the powder to blow 'im to--excuse me, Miss Dix. But, as I was sayin', take 'em as they come, and keep 'em out of town, and these boys is pretty fair--pretty fair; I'm sorry to see 'em go.”

At this kindly word of intercession, a new light came into the eyes of the unemployed; but Dixie Lee had come on a mission, and it was not her policy to yield in a minute.

”Well, _I'm_ not!” she declared. ”If you'd listened to the amount of foolishness that I've suffered from these boys, Mr. Mosby; if you'd heard 'em say how they were going to save their wages and buy a little bunch of cows--and tell about the quarter-section of land they had their eye on--and swear, so help me G.o.d, they'd never take another drink of whisky as long as they lived--I believe you'd be glad to get rid of 'em!”

She turned and ran her eye over the crowd, and both the just and the unjust quailed before her.

”And so you were drunk, were you, Mr. Atkins?” she inquired, fixing her gaze upon the deposed straw-boss; and Hardy Atkins shot a look at her which was both confession and appeal.

”And you, Jack?” she continued severely.

”Yes, ma'am,” spoke up Happy Jack, upon whom the severity of her manner was lost. ”I was drunk, all right.”

”Well, you don't need to be proud of it!” she observed cuttingly. ”It's no distinction in this bunch. Brig, were you drunk, too?”

”No, ma'am,” responded Brigham promptly.

”Oh, what's the use of talking?” scoffed Dixie, glancing at his swollen face and bloodshot eyes.

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