When he gathered up the reins, the roan eyed him wickedly sidelong and tightened his muscles, as it were, for the struggle. Andy turned the stirrup, put in his toe, and went up in a flash, warned by something in the blue roan’s watchful eye. Like a flash the blue roan also went up—but Andy had been a fraction of a second quicker. There was a squeal that carried to the grand stand as the Weaver, wild-eyed and with red flaring nostrils, pounded the wind-baked sod with high, bone-racking jumps; changed and took to “weaving” till one wondered how he kept his footing—more particularly, how Andy contrived to sit there, loose-reined, firm-seated, riding easily. The roan, tiring of that, began “swapping ends” furiously and so fast one could scarce follow his jumps. Andy, with a whoop of pure defiance, yanked off his hat and beat the roan over the head with it, yelling taunting words and contemptuous; and for every shout the Weaver bucked harder and higher, bawling like a new-weaned calf.
Men who knew good riding when they saw it went silly and yelled and yelled. Those who did not know anything about it caught the infection and roared. The judges galloped about, backing away from the living whirlwind and yelling with the rest. Came a lull when the roan stood still because he lacked breath to continue, and the judges shouted an uneven chorus.
“Get down—the belt’s yours”—or words to that effect. It was unofficial, that verdict, but it was unanimous and voiced with enthusiasm.
Andy turned his head and smiled acknowledgment. “All right—but wait till I tame this hoss proper! Him and I’ve got a point to settle!” He dug in his spurs and again the battle raged, and again the crowd, not having heard the unofficial decision, howled and yelled approval of the spectacle.
Not till the roan gave up completely and owned obedience to rein and voiced command, did Andy take further thought of the reward. He satisfied himself beyond doubt that he was master and that the Weaver recognized him as such. He wheeled and turned, “cutting out” an imaginary animal from an imaginary herd; he loped and he walked, stopped dead still in two jumps and started in one. He leaned and ran his gloved hand forgivingly along the slatey blue neck, reached farther and pulled facetiously the roan’s ears, and the roan meekly permitted the liberties. He half turned in the saddle and slapped the plump hips, and the Weaver never moved. “Why, you’re an all-right little hoss!” praised Andy, slapping again and again.
The decision was being bellowed from the megaphone and Andy, hearing it thus officially, trotted over to where a man was holding out the belt that proclaimed him champion of the state. Andy reached out a hand for the belt, buckled it around his middle and saluted the grand stand as he used to do from the circus ring when one André de Grenó had performed his most difficult feat.
The Happy Family crowded up, shamefaced and manfully willing to own themselves wrong.
“We’re down and ready to be walked on by the Champion,” Weary announced quizzically. “Mama mine! but yuh sure can ride.”
Andy looked at them, grinned and did an exceedingly foolish thing, just to humiliate Happy Jack, who, he afterwards said, still looked unconvinced. He coolly got upon his feet in the saddle, stood so while he saluted the Happy Family mockingly, lighted the cigarette he had just rolled, then, with another derisive salute, turned a double somersault in the air and lighted upon his feet—and the roan did nothing more belligerent than to turn his head and eye Andy suspiciously.
“By gracious, maybe you fellows’ll some day own up yuh don’t know it all!” he cried, and led the Weaver back into the corral and away from the whooping maniacs across the track.
ANDY, THE LIAR
Andy Green licked a cigarette into shape the while he watched with unfriendly eyes the shambling departure of their guest. “I believe the darned old reprobate was lyin’ to us,” he remarked, when the horseman disappeared into a coulee.
“You sure ought to be qualified to recognize the symptoms,” grunted Cal Emmett, kicking his foot out of somebody’s carelessly coiled rope on the ground. “That your rope, Happy? No wonder you’re always on the bum for one. If you’d try tying it on your saddle—”
“Aw, g’wan. That there’s Andy’s rope—”
“If you look at my saddle, you’ll find my rope right where it belongs,” Andy retorted. “I ain’t sheepherder enough to leave it kicking around under foot. That rope belongs to his nibs that just rode off. When he caught up his horse again after dinner, he throwed his rope down while he saddled up, and then went off and forgot it. He wasn’t easy in his mind—that jasper wasn’t. I don’t go very high on that hard-luck tale he told. I know the boy he had wolfing with him last winter, and he wasn’t the kind to pull out with all the stuff he could get his hands on. He was an all-right fellow, and if there’s been any rusty work done down there in the breaks, this shifty-eyed mark done it. He was lying—”
Somebody laughed suddenly, and another chuckle helped to point the joke, until the whole outfit was in an uproar; for of all the men who had slept under Flying-U tents and eaten beside the mess-wagon, Andy Green was conceded to be the greatest, the most shameless and wholly incorrigible liar of the lot.
“Aw, yuh don’t want to get jealous of an old stiff like that,” Pink soothed musically. “There ain’t one of us but what knows you could lie faster and farther and more of it in a minute, with your tongue half-hitched around your palate and the deaf-and-dumb language barred, than any three men in Chouteau County. Don’t let it worry yuh, Andy.”
“I ain’t letting it worry me,” said Andy, getting a bit red with trying not to show that the shot hit him. “When my imagination gets to soaring, I’m willing to bet all I got that it can fly higher than the rest of you, that have got brains about on a par with a sage-hen, can follow. When I let my fancy soar, I take notice the rest of yuh like to set in the front row, all right—and yuh never, to my knowledge, called it a punk show when the curtain rung down; yuh always got the worth uh your money, and then some.
“But if yuh’d taken notice of the load that old freak was trying to throw into the bunch, you’d suspicion there was something scaley about it; there was, all right. I’d gamble on it.”
“From the symptoms,” spoke Weary mildly, rising to an elbow, “Andy’s about to erupt one of those wide, hot, rushing streams of melted imagination that bursts forth from his think-works ever so often. Don’t get us all worked up over it, Andy; what’s it going to be this time? A murder in the Bad-lands?”
Andy clicked his teeth together, thought better of his ill-humor and made reply, though he had intended to remain dignifiedly silent.
“Yuh rung the bell, m’son—but it ain’t any josh. By gracious, I mean it!” He glared at those who gurgled incredulously, and went on: “No, sir, you bet it ain’t any josh with me this time. That old gazabo had something heavy on his conscience—and knowing the fellow he had reference to, I sure believe he lied a whole lot when he said Dan pulled out with all the stuff they’d got together, and went down river. Maybe he went down river, all right—but if he did, it was most likely to be face-down. Dan was as honest a boy as there is in the country, and he had money on him that he got mining down in the little Rockies last summer. I know, because he showed me the stuff last fall when I met him in Benton, and he was fixing to winter with this fellow that just left.
“Dan was kinda queer about some things, and one of ’em was about money. It never made any difference how much or how little he had, he always packed it in his clothes; said a bank had busted on him once and left him broke in the middle uh winter, and he wasn’t going to let it happen again. He never gambled none, nor blowed his money any farther than a couple uh glasses uh beer once in a while. He was one uh these saving cusses—but he was honest; I know that for a fact.
“So he had all this money on him, and went down there with this jasper, that he’d got in with somehow and didn’t know much about, and they wolfed all winter, according to all accounts, and must uh made quite a stake, the way the bounty runs up, these days. And here comes this darned Siwash, hiking out uh there fast as he can—and if he hadn’t run slap onto us at this crossing, I’ll gamble he’d never