The stirrups were down in the dark somewhere below the farthest reach of Pink’s toes—he never once located them. But Pink was not known all over Northern Montana as a “bronco-peeler” for nothing. He surprised Glory even more than that deceitful bit of horseflesh had surprised Pink. While his quirt swung methodically, he looked often over his shoulder for the posse, and wondered that it did not appear.
The posse, however, was at that moment having troubles of its own. Happy Jack, not having a night horse saddled, had borrowed one not remarkable for its sure-footedness. No sooner had they sighted their quarry than Jack’s horse stepped in a hole and went head-long—which was bad enough. When he got up he planted a foot hastily on Jack’s diaphragm and then bolted straight for the peacefully slumbering herd—which was worse.
With stirrup-straps snapping like pistol-shots, he tore down through the dreaming cattle, with none to stop him or say him nay. The herd did not wait for explanations; as the posse afterward said, it quit the earth, while they gathered around the fallen Jack and tried to discover if it was a doctor or coroner that was needed.
When Jack came up sputtering sand and profane words, there was no herd, no horse and no Pink anywhere in that portion of Chouteau County. Weary came back, laughing at the joke and fully expecting to see Pink a prisoner. When he saw how things stood, he said “Mamma mine!” and headed for camp on a run. The others deployed to search the range for a beef-herd, strayed, and with no tag for its prompt delivery.
Weary crept into the bed-tent and got Chip by the shoulder. Chip sat up, instantly wide-awake. “What’s the matter?” he demanded sharply.
“Chip, we—we’ve lost Cadwolloper!” Weary’s voice was tragic.
“Hell!” snapped Chip, lying down again. “Don’t let that worry yuh.”
“And we’ve lost the herd, too,” added Weary mildly.
Chip got up and stayed up, and some of his remarks, Weary afterward reported, were scandalous.
There was another scene at sunrise that the Happy Family voted scandalous—and that was when they rode into a little coulee and came upon the herd, quietly grazing, and Pink holding them, with each blue eye a volcano shooting wrath.
“Yuh knock-kneed bunch uh locoed sheep-herders!” he greeted spitefully, “if yuh think yuh can saw off on your foolery and hold this herd, I’ll go and get something to eat. When I come to this outfit t’ work, I naturally s’posed yuh was cow-punchers. Yuh ain’t. Yuh couldn’t hold a bunch uh sick lambs inside a high board corral with the gate shut and locked on the outside. When it comes t’ cow-science, you’re the limit. Yuh couldn’t earn your board on a ten-acre farm in Maine, driving one milk-cow and a yearling calf t’ pasture and back. You’re a hot bunch uh rannies—I don’t think! Up on Milk River they’d put bells on every dam’ one uh yuh t’ keep yuh from getting lost going from the mess-house t’ the corral and back. And, Mr. Weary, next time yuh give a man a horse t’ fall off from, for the Lord’s sake don’t put him on a gentle old skate that would be pickings for a two-year-old kid. I thought this here Glory’d give a man something to do, from all the yawping I’ve heard done about him. I heard uh him when I was on the Cross L; and I will say right now that he’s the biggest disappointment I’ve met up with in many a long day. He’s punk. Come and get him and let me have something alive. I’m weary uh trying to delude myself into thinking that this red image is a horse.”
The Happy Family, huddled ten paces before him, stared. Pink slid out of the saddle and came forward, smiling, and dimpling. He held out a gloved hand to the first man he came to, which was Weary himself. “Are yuh happy to meet Milk River Pink?” he wanted to know.
The Happy Family, grinning sheepishly, crowded close to shake him by the hand.
THE REVELER
Happy Jack, coming from Dry Lake where he had been sent for the mail, rode up to the Flying U camp just at dinner time and dismounted gloomily and in silence. His horse looked fagged—which was unusual in Happy’s mounts unless there was urgent need of haste or he was out with the rest of the Family and constrained to adopt their pace, which was rapid. Happy, when riding alone, loved best to hump forward over the horn and jog along slowly, half asleep.
“Something’s hurting Happy,” was Cal Emmett’s verdict when he saw the condition of the horse.
“He’s got a burden on his mind as big as a haystack,” grinned Jack Bates. “Watch the way his jaw hangs down, will yuh? Bet yuh somebody’s dead.”
“Most likely it’s something he thinks is going to happen,” said Pink. “Happy always makes me think of a play I seen when I was back home; it starts out with a melancholy cuss coming out and giving a sigh that near lifts him off his feet, and he says: ‘In soo-ooth I know not why I am so sa-ad.’ That’s Happy all over.”
The Happy Family giggled and went on with their dinner, for Happy Jack was too close for further comments not intended for his ears. They waited demurely, but in secret mirth, for him to unburden his mind. They knew that they would not have long to wait; Happy, bird of ill omen that he was, enjoyed much the telling of bad news.
“Weary’s in town,” he announced heavily, coming over and getting himself a plate and cup.
The Happy Family were secretly a bit disappointed; this promised, after all, to be tame.
“Did he bring the horses?” asked Chip, glancing up over the brim of his cup.
“I dunno,” Happy responded from the stove, where he was trying how much of everything he could possibly pile upon his plate without spilling anything. “I didn’t see no horses—but the one he was ridin’.”
Weary had been sent, two weeks ago, to the upper Marias country after three saddle horses that had strayed from the home range, and which had been seen near Shelby. It was quite time for him to return, if he expected to catch the Flying U wagon before it pulled out on the beef roundup. That he should be in town and not ride out with Happy Jack was a bit strange.
“Why don’t yuh throw it out uh yuh, yuh big, long-jawed croaker?” demanded Pink in a voice queerly soft and girlish. It had been a real grievance to him that he had not been permitted to go with Weary, who was his particular chum. “What’s the matter? Is Weary sick?”
“No,” said Happy Jack deliberately, “I guess he ain’t what yuh could call sick.”
“Why didn’t he come out with you, then?” asked Chip, sharply. Happy did get on one’s nerves so.
“Well, I ast him t’ come—and he took a shot at me for it.”
There was an instant’s dead silence. Then Jack Bates laughed uneasily.
“Happy, how many horses did yuh ride out to camp?”
Happy Jack had, upon one occasion, looked too long upon the wine—or whisky, to be more explicit. Afterward, he had insisted that he was riding two horses home, instead of one. He was not permitted to forget that defection. The Happy Family had an unpleasant habit of recalling the incident whenever Happy Jack made a statement which they felt disinclined to credit—as this last statement was.
Happy Jack whirled on the speaker. “Aw, shut up! I never kidnaped no girl off’n no train, and—”
Jack Bates colored and got belligerently to his feet. That hit him in an exceedingly tender place.
“Happy, look here,” Chip cut in authoritatively. “What’s wrong with Weary? If he took a shot at you, it’s a cinch he had some reason for it.”
Weary was even dearer to the heart of Chip than to Pink.
“Ah—he never! He’s takin’ shots permisc’us,