Part 9 (1/2)

”Say, guess you fellers ain't never made no sort o' mistakes--any o'

you. You're laffin' a heap. Quit it, or--” His eyes flashed dangerously. Then, as the men became silent, he darted across to where Scipio was still fumbling with the neck rope.

The little man's attempt at saddling, under any other circ.u.mstances, would have brought forth Bill's most scathing contempt. The saddle was set awry upon an ill-folded blanket. It was so far back from the mare's withers that the twisted double cinchas were somewhere under her belly, instead of her girth. Then the bit was reversed in her mouth, and the curb-strap was hanging loose.

Bill came to his rescue in his own peculiar way.

”Say, Zip,” he cried in a voice that nothing could soften, ”I don't guess you altered them stirrups to fit you. I'll jest fix 'em.” And the little man stood humbly by while he set to work. He quickly unfastened the cinchas, and set the blanket straight. Then he s.h.i.+fted the saddle, and refastened the cinchas. Then he altered the stirrups, and pa.s.sed on to the mare's bridle--Scipio watching him all the while without a word. But when the gambler had finished he glanced up into his lean face with an almost dog-like grat.i.tude.

”Thanks, Bill,” he said. ”I never done it before.”

”So I guessed.” And the gambler's words, though wholly harsh, had no other meaning in them. Then he went on, as Scipio scrambled into the saddle, ”You don't need to worry any 'bout things here. Your kiddies'll be seen to proper till you get back, if you're on the trail a month.”

Scipio was startled. He had forgotten his twins.

”Say--you--”

But Bill wanted no thanks or explanations.

”We're seein' to them things--us, an' that all-fired lazy slob, Sunny Oak. Ther' won't be no harm--” He flicked the restive mare, which bounded off with the spring of a gazelle. ”Ease your hand to her,” he called out, so as to drown Scipio's further protestations of grat.i.tude, ”ease your hand, you blamed little fule. That's it. Now let her go.”

And the mare raced off in a cloud of dust.

CHAPTER V

HUSBAND AND LOVER

Where all the trail-wise men of Suffering Creek and the district had failed, Scipio, the incompetent, succeeded. Such was the ironical pleasure of the jade Fortune. Scipio had not the vaguest idea of whither his quest would lead him. He had no ideas on the subject at all. Only had he his fixed purpose hard in his mind, and, like a loadstone, it drew him unerringly to his goal.

There was something absolutely ludicrous in the manner of his search.

But fortunately there are few ready to laugh at disaster. Thus it was that wherever he went, wherever he paused amongst his fellows in search of information he was received perfectly seriously, even when he told the object of his search, and the story of its reason.

An ordinary man would probably have hugged such a story to himself. He would have resorted to covert probing and excuse in extracting information. But then it is doubtful if, under such circ.u.mstances, his purpose would have been so strong, so absolutely invincible as Scipio's. As it was, with single-minded simplicity, Scipio saw no reason for subterfuge, he saw no reason for disguising the tragedy which had befallen him. And so he shed his story broadcast amongst the settlers of the district until, by means of that wonderful prairie telegraphy, which needs no instruments to operate, it flew before him in every direction, either belittled or exaggerated as individual temperament prompted.

At one ranch the news was brought in from the trail by a hard-faced citizen who had little imagination, but much knowledge of the country.

”Say, fellers,” he cried, as he swung out of the saddle at the bunkhouse door, ”ther's a tow-headed sucker on the trail lookin' fer the James outfit. Guess he wants to shoot 'em up. He's a sawed-off mutt, an' don't look a heap like scarin' a jack-rabbit. I told him he best git back to hum, an' git busy fixin' his funeral right, so he wouldn't have no trouble later.”

”Wher's he from?” someone asked.

”Sufferin' Creek,” replied the cowpuncher, ”an' seems to me he's got more grit than savvee.”

And this opinion was more or less the general one. The little man rode like one possessed, and it was as well that of all his six treasured horses Wild Bill had lent him his black beauty, Gipsy. She was quite untiring, and, with her light weight burden, she traveled in a spirit of sheer delight.

At every homestead or ranch Scipio only paused to make inquiries and then hurried on. The information he received was of the vaguest. James or some of his gang were often seen in the remoter parts of the lower foothills, but this was all. At one farm he had a little better luck, however. Here he was told that the farmer had received an intimation that if he wished to escape being burnt out he must be prepared to hand over four hundred dollars when called upon by the writer to do so; and the message was signed ”James.”

”So ye see,” said the farmer--a man named Nicholls--despondently, ”he's som'eres skulkin' around hyar.”