Pink, when they were descending the first slope of the bluff which was the southern rim of Flying U coulee, turned and glared vindictively back at the wavering, gray blanket out there to the west. When he faced to the front his face had the look it wore when he was fighting.
“So help me, Josephine!” he gritted desperately, “we’ve got to clean the range of them Dots before the Old Man comes back, or—” He snapped his jaws shut viciously.
Weary turned haggard eyes toward him.
“How?” he asked simply. And Pink had no answer for him.
CHAPTER XII
Two of a Kind
Patsy, staunch old partisan that he was, placed before them much food which he had tried his best to keep hot without burning everything to a crisp, and while they ate with ravenous haste he told, with German epithets and a trembling lower jaw, of his troubles that day.
“Dem sheeps, dey coom by der leetle pasture,” he lamented while he poured coffee muddy from long boiling. “Looks like dey know so soon you ride away, und dey cooms cheeky as you pleece, und eats der grass und crawls under der fence and leafs der vool sthicking by der vires. I goes out mit a club, py cosh, und der sheeps chust looks und valks by some better place alreatty, und I throw rocks and yells till mine neck iss sore.
“Und’ dose herders, dey sets dem by der rock and laugh till I felt like I could kill der whole punch, by cosh! Und von yells, ‘Hey, dutchy, pring me some pie, alreatty!’ Und he laughs some more pecause der sheeps dey don’t go avay; dey chust run around und eat more grass and baa-aa!” He turned and went heavily back to the greasy range with the depleted coffee pot, lifted the lid of a kettle and looked in upon the contents with a purely mechanical glance; gave a perfunctory prod or two with a long-handled fork, and came back to stand uneasily behind Weary.
“If you poys are goin’ to shtand fer dot,” he began querulously, “Py cosh I von’t! Py myself I vill go and tell dot Dunk W’ittaker vot lowdown skunk I t’ink he iss. Sheep’s vool shtickin’ by der fences efferwhere on der ranch, py cosh! Dot vould sure kill der Old Man quick if he see it. Shtinkin’ off sheeps py our noses all der time, till I can’t eat no more mit der shmell of dem. Neffer pefore did I see vool on der Flying U fences, py cosh, und sheeps baa-aain’ in der coulee!”
Never had they seen Patsy take so to heart a matter of mere business importance. They did not say much to him; there was not much that they could say. They ate their fill and went out disconsolately to discuss the thing among themselves, away from Patsy’s throaty complainings. They hated it as badly as did he; with Weary’s urgent plea for no violence holding them in leash, they hated it more, if that were possible.
The Native Son tilted his head unobtrusively stableward when he caught Andy’s eye, and as unobtrusively wandered away from the group. Andy stopped long enough to roll and light a cigarette and then strolled after him with apparent aimlessness, secretly curious over the summons. He found Miguel in the stable waiting for him, and Miguel led the way, rope in hand across the corral and into the little pasture where fed a horse he meant to ride. He did not say anything until he had turned to close the gate, and to make sure that they were alone and that their departure had not carried to the Happy Family any betraying air of significance.
“You remember when you blew in here, a few weeks or so ago?” the Native Son asked abruptly, a twinkle in his fathomless eyes. “You put up a good one on the boys, that time, you remember. Bluffed them into thinking I was a hero in disguise, and that you’d seen me pull off a big stunt of bull-fighting and bull-dogging down in Mexico. It was a fine josh. They believe it yet.”
Andy glanced at him perplexedly. “Yes—but when it turned out to be true,” he amended, “the josh was on me, I guess; I thought I was just lying, when I wasn’t. I’ve wondered a good deal about that. By gracious, it makes a man feel funny to frame up a yarn out of his own think-machine, and then find out he’s been telling the truth all the while. It’s like a fellow handing out a twenty-four karat gold bar to a rube by mistake, under the impression it only looks like one. Of course they believe it! Only they don’t know I just merely hit the truth by accident.”
The Native Son smiled his slow, amused smile, that somehow never failed to be impressive. “That’s the funny part of it,” he drawled. “You didn’t. I just piled another little josh on top of yours, that’s all. I never throwed a bull in my life, except with my lariat. I’d heard a good deal about you, and—well, I thought I’d see if I could go you one better. And you put that Mexico yarn across so smooth and easy, I just simply couldn’t resist the temptation to make you think it was all straight goods. Sabe?”
Andy Green did not say a word, but he looked exceedingly foolish.
“So I think we can both safely consider ourselves top-hands when it comes to lying,” the Native Son went on shamelessly. “And if you’re willing to go in with me on it and help put Dunk on the run—” He glanced over his shoulder, saw that Happy Jack, on horseback, was coming out to haze in the saddle bunch, and turned to stroll back as lazily as he had come. He continued to speak smoothly and swiftly, in a voice that would not carry ten paces. While Andy Green, with brown head bent attentively, listened eagerly and added a sentence or two on his own account now and then, and smiled—which he had not been in the habit of doing lately.
“Say, you fellers are gittin’ awful energetic, ain’t yuh?—wranglin’ horses afoot!” Happy Jack bantered at the top of his voice when he passed them by. “Better save up your strength while you kin. Weary’s goin’ to set us herdin’ sheep agin—and I betche there’s goin’ to be something more’n herdin’ on our hands before we git through.”
“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if there was,” sang out Andy, as cheerfully as if he had been invited to dance “Ladies’ choice” with the prettiest girl in the crowd. “Wonder what hole he’s going to dump this bunch into,” he added to the Native Son. “By gracious, he ought to send ’em just as far north as he can drive ’em without paying duty! I’d sure take ’em over into Canada, if it was me running the show.”
“It was a mistake,” the Native Son volunteered, “for the whole bunch to go off like we did today. They had those sheep up here on the hill just for a bait. They knew we’d go straight up in the air and come down on those two freaks herding ’em, and that gave them the chance to cross the other bunch. I thought so all along, but I didn’t like to butt in.”
“Well Weary’s mad enough now to do things that will leave a dent, anyway,” Andy commented under his breath when, from the corral gate, he got a good look at Weary’s profile, which showed the set of his mouth and chin. “See that mouth? It’s hunt the top rail, and do it quick, when old Weary straightens out his lips like that.”
Behind them, Happy Jack bellowed for an open gate and no obstructions, and they drew hastily to one side to let the saddle horses gallop past with a great upflinging of dust. Pink, with a quite obtrusive facetiousness, began lustily chanting that it looked to him like a big night tonight—with occasional, furtive glances at Weary’s face; for he, also, had been quick to read those close-pressed lips, which did not soften in response to the ditty. Usually he laughed at Pink’s drollery.
They rode rather quietly upon the hill again, to where fed the sheep. During the hour or so that they had been absent the sheep had not moved appreciably; they still grazed close enough to the boundary to make their position seem a direct insult to the Flying U, a virtual slap in the face. And these young men who worked for the Flying U, and who