But when the boys began to come, then came the neighbor women, making formal two-hour calls upon the new mother, eager to see and to hear and to go away and compare notes afterward. They talked much of the names that Belle Lorrigan called her children. The first one she named for the hero in her first play; wanting, I suppose, a souvenir of the time when she was fifteen and had her first speaking part on the stage. She called her first-born Algernon Adelbert. Algernon Adelbert Lorrigan, grandson of old Tom Lorrigan! Think of that!
But Algernon Adelbert no sooner outgrew his cradle than he was known to all and sundry as Al Lorrigan, so that no harm was done him in giving him such a name. He grew up lusty and arrogant, a good deal of a bully, six feet tall, a good rider––though, not so good a rider as his dad––a good shot, willing to help gather that million together on the chance that he might have a share in the spending.
Al was a youth who hunted trouble for the thrill of meeting it more than half-way, but since Tom Lorrigan happened to be his father, Al rode off the Devil’s Tooth ranch before he became the rampant young trouble-hunter. Belle had some anxious hours during the time Al was gone, but she never once betrayed her anxiety; which is doing pretty well for a mother.
The second was Marmaduke LeRoy, and the third and last she recklessly christened Lancelot Montgomery. Marmaduke never learned to spell his name correctly, and sometimes complained that Belle had gone and named him after a mess of preserves,––meaning marmalade, I suppose. But as he grew older he forgot his grievance. Belle was the only person who could remember offhand his full name, and she never called him by it except when she was very angry; when she usually attached so many adjectives that Marmaduke LeRoy was quite submerged. Commonly he was called Duke, which did well enough.
Tom used to study Duke through half-closed lids and the smoke of a cigarette, and wonder which side of the family had a yellow streak; not the Lorrigan side, so far as Tom could judge. Nor the Delavan side either, if Belle lived true to type. To be sure, Belle refused to ride a horse; but then Belle was a woman and women had whims. There was no yellow about Belle, except her hair which was pure golden.
Duke would invariably lie to dodge punishment. According to his own theory, Duke was always blameless, always the injured party, the boy who does right and never is given credit for his virtues. Even Belle, who would fight for her boys as a tigress fights for its young, looked askance at Duke while she tried, motherlike, to cover his faults from the keen eyes of Tom.
“I’d just like to know how you come by it,” she once exclaimed exasperatedly, when Duke was ten and Lance eight. “I’d sure chop one limb off the family tree, if I knew which one gave you the gall to lie to me and Tom. Duke, for heaven’s sake take a licking just once without trying to lay the blame on Al or Lance––and see how proud you’ll feel afterwards!”
“Aw––lickins hur-rt!” Duke had protested, rubbing the arm Belle had gripped none too gently, and sidled away from her.
With her hands to her hips––gracefully posed there, as became an actress––Belle regarded him fixedly. “My Gawd!” she whispered, owning defeat before that invulnerable selfishness of Duke’s.
Her tone stung even his young crocodile-hided sensibility. “You’re always blamin’ me. You’n Tom think I do everything mean on this ranch! You think Lance is an angel! He’s your pet and you let him pick on me an’ you never say a word. Lance can do any darn thing he pleases, an’ so can Al. I’m goin’ to run away, first thing you know. You can have your sweet little angel pet of a doggone ole cowardly-calf Lance!” Then he whined, “Aw––you lemme go! I never done it, I tell yuh! It was Lance!”
Belle gritted her teeth while she shook him. “You yellow-hearted little whelp. I saw you chasing that colt around the corral till he broke the fence! If Tom was to know about it he’d lick you good! Duke, why can’t you be a man and take the blame yourself, just once? I’d be––I’d be so proud o’ you if you only told the truth about things. Don’t you know––it’s only a coward that will lie to save his own skin?”
“Lance is a bigger coward than I am, an’ you never say a word to him. You think Lance is perfect.”
“I guess you’re hopeless all right,” Belle retorted. “It’s just a yellow streak in you somewhere. Living with the Lorrigans, I’m hoping you’ll outgrow it. The Lorrigans sure ain’t yellow!”
“I chased Blackie some, Belle,” Lance volunteered, peering down over the stable eave at his irate mother. “Duke started in and got him going good, and when he come fogging over to this side I flopped my arms at him. Gee, but he did stop quick! I guess if you’re going to lick Duke, you better give me about four good licks for that, Belle. And take ’em off Duke’s licking. No use licking us both for the same thing.”
Belle tilted her yellow head and looked up at her beloved youngest, grinning down at her cheerfully from the hay roof where he sprawled head downward, flat on his stomach.
“Well, thank the Lord one Lorrigan has got the nerve to own up to a thing. Come on down and get your four licks, then. I can be as square as the next one. But Duke’s got it coming to him for lying to me. Tell me, Lance, did Duke chase Blackie through the fence?”
“Aw go on, Belle! What’s matter with you, asking me what Duke done? He’s the feller to ask about that. I chased Blackie about four licks’ worth. Hurry up and let’s get it over with. You know it ain’t pleasant for either of us!”
“Smarty!” yelled Duke, quick to read in Belle’s face what softening effect Lance had on her temper. “Tryin’ to be smart––tryin’ to be George Wash’nton! You little liar, you know you chased Blackie more’n what I done. Sneak out of it––yeah, that’s you, every time. Own up just enough to make Belle think you’re an angel. Doggone the whole doggone outfit!”
“Now what?” Tom’s voice broke in upon Duke’s shrill tirade. From the back of his horse Tom looked down quizzically upon them. “Duke, what you been up to?”
“Aw, you always think it’s me! Why don’t you ask Lance what he’s been up to? Why don’t you lick Lance for being on the stable? If I was to get up there and tromp around in the hay and make it leak, I know what I’d git!”
Tom sent a glance up to where Lance was hastily scrambling down a corner. “You’d better!” he commented sternly. Then he looked at Belle, his eyes twinkling under his scowl.
“If you can’t handle these young devils, Belle, turn ’em over to me. I’ll mighty quick settle their hash for ’em.”
Belle gripped tighter the squirming Duke. “I’m not a cripple yet, Tom Lorrigan. They’ve both got a licking coming to ’em, and if you’ll kindly walk off stage R. C. I’ll go on with the scene. You weren’t cued to come on here.”
“It’s your show, Belle,” Tom assented, and very obligingly rode to the other side of the stable to unsaddle his horse, and grinned to himself when the sound of wailing and pleading and promises of the “I’ll-never-do-it-again” variety came to his ears. Belle’s lickings were distinguished chiefly by their uproar.
“Belle wallops ’em like brandin’ calves,” Tom used to chuckle. “They beller a plenty while it’s going on, and kick up their heels when it’s all over. I wish’t my dad had licked me like that when I was a kid. You can gamble, when I was thrashed, I knowed it!”
Duke grew up to be a very good cowpuncher, however. He knew every draw and dry wash, every creek bottom and every canyon on the Black Rim range; knew almost as well as the owner how many cattle carried every brand. In the Devil’s Tooth round-ups Duke held his place alongside Al as a top hand,––disputing now and then the right of young Lance to compete with him, but never quite daring to bring his dispute to the point where action would take the place of words.
“Duke’s sure enough a bad man––with his face,” Tom once snarled to Belle. “Make it a talking match, and Duke could lick any old woman, in