The cattle, it would seem, had been driven purposefully into the edge of the breaks and there made to scatter out through the winding gulches and canyons that led deeper into the Badlands. It was the trick of range-men—he could not believe that the strange settlers, ignorant of the country and the conditions, would know enough to do this. He hesitated before several possible routes, the rain pouring down upon him, a chill breeze driving it into his face. If there had been hoofprints to show which way the boys had gone, the rain had washed them so that they looked dim and old and gave him little help.
He chose what seemed to him the gorge which the boys would be most likely to follow—especially at night and if they were in open pursuit of those who had driven the cattle off the benchland; and that the cattle had been driven beyond this point was plain enough, for otherwise he would have overtaken stragglers long before this.
It was nearing noon when he came out finally upon a little, open flat and found there Big Medicine and Pink holding a bunch of perhaps a hundred cattle which they had gleaned from the surrounding gulches and little “draws” which led into the hills. The two were wet to the skin, and they were chilled and hungry and as miserable as a she-bear sent up a tree by yelping, yapping dogs.
Big Medicine it was who spied him first through the haze of falling water, and galloped heavily toward him, his horse flinging off great pads of mud from his feet as he came.
“Say!” he bellowed when he was yet a hundred yards away. “Got any grub with yuh?”
“No!” Irish called back.
“Y’AIN’T” Big Medicine’s voice was charged with incredulous reproach. “What’n hell yuh doin’ here without GRUB? Is Patsy comin’ with the wagon?”
“No. I sent Patsy on in to town after—”
“Town? And us out here—” Big Medicine choked over his wrongs.
Irish waited until he could get in a word and then started to explain. But Pink rode up with his hatbrim flapping soggily against one dripping cheek when the wind caught it, and his coat buttoned wherever there were buttons, and his collar turned up, and looking pinched and draggled and wholly miserable.
“Say! Got anything to eat?” he shouted when he came near, his voice eager and hopeful.
“No!” snapped Irish with the sting of Big Medicine’s vituperations rankling fresh in his soul.
“Well why ain’t yuh? Where’s Patsy?” Pink came closer and eyed the newcomer truculently.
“How’n hell do I know?” Irish was getting a temper to match their own.
“Well, why don’t yuh know? What do yuh think you’re out here for? To tell us you think it’s going to rain? If we was all of us like you, there’d be nothing to it for the nester-bunch. It’s a wonder you come alive enough to ride out this way at all! I don’t reckon you’ve even got anything to drink!” Pink paused a second, saw no move toward producing anything wet and cheering, and swore disgustedly. “Of course not! You needed it all yourself! So help me Josephine, if I was as low-down ornery as some I could name I’d tie myself to a mule’s tail and let him kick me to death! Ain’t got any grub! Ain’t got—”
Irish interrupted him then with a sentence that stung. Irish, remember, distinctly approved of himself and his actions. True, he had forgotten to bring anything to eat with him, but there was excuse for that in the haste with which he had left his own breakfast. Besides how could he be expected to know that the cattle had been driven away down here, and scattered, and that the Happy Family would not have overtaken them long before? Did they think he was a mind-reader?
Pink, with biting sarcasm, retorted that they did not. That it took a mind to read a mind. He added that, from the looks of Irish, he must have started home drunk, anyway, and his horse had wandered this far of his own accord. Then three or four cows started up a gulch to the right of them and Pink, hurling insults over his shoulder, rode off to turn them back. So they did not actually come to blows, those two, though they were near it.
Big Medicine lingered to bawl unforgivable things at; Irish, and Irish shouted back recklessly that they had all acted like a bunch of sheepherders, or the cattle would never have been driven off the bench at all. He declared that anybody with the brains of a sick sage hen would have stopped the thing right in the start. He said other things also.
Big Medicine said things in reply, and Pink, returning to the scene with his anger grown considerably hotter from feeding upon his discomfort, made a few comments pertinent to the subject of Irish’s shortcomings.
You may scarcely believe it, unless you have really lived, and have learned how easily small irritations grow to the proportions of real trouble, and how swiftly—but this is a fact: Irish and Big Medicine became so enraged that they dismounted simultaneously and Irish jerked off his slicker while Big Medicine was running up to smash him for some needless insult.
They fought, there in the rain and the mud and the chill wind that whipped their wet cheeks. They fought just as relentlessly as though they had long been enemies, and just as senselessly as though they were not grown men but schoolboys. They clinched and pounded and smashed until Pink sickened at the sight and tore them apart and swore at them for crazy men and implored them to have some sense. They let the cattle that had been gathered with so much trouble drift away into the gulches and draws where they must be routed out of the brush again, or perhaps lost for days in that rough country.
When the first violence of their rage had like the storm settled to a cold steadiness of animosity, the two remounted painfully and turned back upon each other.
Big Medicine and Pink drew close together as against a common foe, and Irish cursed them both and rode away—whither he did not know nor care.
Chapter 15. The Kid Has Ideas of His Own
The Old Man sat out in his big chair on the porch, smoking and staring dully at the trail which led up the bluff by way of the Hog’s Back to the benchland beyond. Facing him in an old, cane rocking chair, the Honorable Blake smoked with that air of leisurely enjoyment which belongs to the man who knows and can afford to burn good tobacco and who has the sense to, burn it consciously, realizing in every whiff its rich fragrance. The Honorable Blake flicked a generous half-inch of ash from his cigar upon a porch support and glanced shrewdly at the Old Man’s abstracted face.
“No, it wouldn’t do,” he observed with the accent of a second consideration of a subject that coincides exactly with the first. “It wouldn’t do at all. You could save the boys time, I’ve no doubt—time and trouble so far as getting the cattle back where they belong is concerned. I can see how they must be hampered for lack of saddle-horses, for instance. But—it wouldn’t do, Whitmore. If they come to you and ask for horses don’t let them have them. They’ll manage somehow—trust them for that. They’ll manage—” “But doggone it, Blake, it’s for—”
“Sh-sh—” Blake held up a warning hand. “None of that, my dear Whitmore! These young fellows have taken claims in—er—good faith.” His bright blue eyes sparkled with a sudden feeling. “In the best of good faith, if you ask me. I—admire them intensely for what they have started out to do. But—they have certain things which they must do, and do alone. If you would not thwart them in accomplishing what they have set out to do, you must go carefully; which means that you must not run to their aid with your camp-wagons and your saddle-horses, so they can gather the cattle again and drive them back where they belong. You would not be helping them. They would get the cattle a little easier and a little quicker—and lose their claims.”
“But doggone it, Blake, them boys have lived right here at the Flying U—why, this has been their home, yuh might say. They ain’t like the general run of punchers that roam around, workin’ for this outfit and for that; they’ve stuck. Why, doggone it, what they done