Read Ebook: Bat Wing Bowles by Coolidge Dane Hutchison D C Illustrator

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Ebook has 1054 lines and 60835 words, and 22 pages

At these revolutionary remarks, Mr. Bowles started, and for a moment he almost forgot his breeding; then he withdrew into himself, and let the gaucherie pass with the contempt which it deserved. But it is hard to be dignified when you are hungry, and after several minutes of silence he addressed himself to the cowboy.

"Excuse me," he said, "but is there any other place nearby where I could buy a little food?"

"W'y, no, stranger," returned the cowboy amiably; "I don't reckon there is. Why don't you pick up a little around here? They's some coffee in that pot."

He nodded toward a large black coffee-pot that stood simmering by the fire, and Bowles cast a questioning glance at the cook.

"Hop to it!" exclaimed that dignitary, not a little awed by the stranger's proud reserve. "They's some bread in that can up there."

But still Bowles was helpless.

"Er--where do you eat?" he inquired, looking about for some sign of a table, or even of a plate and cup.

"Anywhere!" answered the cook, with a large motion of the hand. Then, as his guest still stood staring, he wearily rose to his feet. Without a word, he reached down into a greasy box and grabbed out a tin plate and cup; from another compartment he fished forth a knife, fork and spoon; with a pot-hook he lifted the cover of an immense Dutch oven, thumped an oil-can half-full of cooked beans, and slopped a little coffee out of the pot. Then he let down the hinged door to his chuck-box, spread a clean white flour sack on it, laid out the dishes with elaborate solicitude, and slumped down again by the fire. Nothing said--and the cowboy sat nerveless in his place--but Mr. Bowles felt rebuked. He was a tenderfoot--an Easterner masquerading as a cowboy--and every movement of the sardonic pot-tender was calculated to rub it in and leave him, as it did, in a welter of rage and shame.

From the oil-can be dipped out some beans; he poured coffee and ate in silence, not daring to ask for butter or sugar lest he should still further reveal his ignorance; and when he had finished his meal he slipped away and went out to look at his horse. A piano was tinkling up at the big house, and the stars were very bright, but neither stars nor music could soothe his wounds, and at last he went back to the fire. The cook was gone now, and the cowboy also; the big noise was in the long, low building from which so many heads had appeared when he rode in from Chula Vista. He paused at the doorway, and listened; then, bracing himself for the hazing which was his due, he knocked.

Bowles pushed open the door, that scraped and sagged as he shoved it, and stepped into a room that was exactly posed for one of those old-fashioned pictures labeled "Evil Associates; or The First Step Toward Destruction." At a long table, upon which burned a smoky lamp, a group of roughly dressed men were wrangling over a game of cards, while other evil-doers looked over their shoulders and added to the general blasphemy. A growth of beard, ranging anywhere from three days' to a week's, served to give them all a ferocious, cave-dweller appearance; and so intent were they on their quarrel that not a man looked up. If Bowles had expected to be the center of the stage, it was from an exaggerated sense of his own importance, for so lightly was he held that no one so much as glanced at him--with the single exception of the red-headed cowboy, who was playing a mouth-organ in the corner--until the missing jack was produced.

A wooden bunk, built against the wall, was weighed down with a sprawling mass of long-limbed men; on the floor the canvas-covered beds of the cowboys were either thrown flat or still doubled up in rolls; and the only other furniture in sight was the two benches by the table and a hot stove that did yeoman service as a cuspidor. The air was thick with the smoke of cigarettes, and those who did not happen to be smoking were chewing plug tobacco, but the thing which struck Bowles as most remarkable was the accuracy with which they expectorated. A half oil-can filled with ashes served as a mark on the farther side; and the big, bull-voiced puncher who had so casually bid him come in was spitting through a distant knot-hole, which was rapidly becoming the center of a "Texas Flag."

Really, it was astounding to Bowles, even after all he had read and seen enacted on the films, to observe the rude abandon of these Western characters, and particularly in their speech. Somehow the Western tales he had read had entirely failed to catch the startling imagery of their vernacular--or perhaps the editors had cut it out. The well-known tendency toward personal violence, however, was ever present, and as Bowles made bold to overlook the game a controversy sprang up which threatened to result in bloodshed.

The bull-voiced man--a burly, hook-nosed Texan, who answered to the name of Buck--was playing partners with a tall, slim, quiet-spoken puncher who centered all his thoughts on the cards; and against them were ranged a good-natured youth called Happy Jack and the presumptuous cowboy who had offered to kiss Dixie Lee. The game was fast, proceeding by signs and grunts and mysterious knocks on the table, and as it neared its close and each man threw down his cards with a greater vehemence, Happy Jack flipped out three final cards and made a grab for the matches. But this did not suit the ideas of the bull moose and his partner, and they rose from their seats with a roar.

"What you claim?" demanded Buck, laying a firm hand on the stakes.

"High, low, and the game!" answered Happy Jack wrathfully.

"You ain't got no game," put in the quiet puncher. "Why don't you play yore hand out instead of makin' a grab?"

"Yes, you will!" sneered Buck, shoving his big head closer, as if to dare the blow. "You don't look bad to me, Hardy Atkins, and never did; and don't you never think for a moment that you can run it over me and Bill, because you cain't! Now you better pull in that ornery face of yourn while it's all together--and we're goin' to count them cards, by this-and-that, if it's the last act!"

As interest in the pitch game languished and a scuffle made the bunk untenable, stray cowboys began to drift outside again, some to seek out their beds beneath the wagon-sheds and others to foregather about the fire. First among these was the red-headed man called Brigham; and when Bowles, after sitting solitary for a while, followed after them, he found Brigham the center of attraction. Perched upon an upturned box, and with one freckled hand held out to keep the firelight from his eyes, he was holding forth with a long story which had everybody listening.

He cocked one eye up to see if Bowles was listening, and then indulged in a reminiscent chuckle.

"Well, I climbed up on that ol' rockin'-hawse--I was dressed like a clown, of course--and after the regular people had gone round the ring I come rackin' along out of the side-tent, a-bowin' to all the ladies and whistlin' to all the dogs, until you'd think I was goin' to do wonders. But all the kids was on, and they begin to laugh and throw peanuts, because they knowed the clown was bound to git busted--that's what the rascal is paid fer. Well, we went canterin' around the ring, me and that old white hawse that had been doin' it for fifteen years, and every time we come to a hoop I'd make my jump--the ring-master would pop his whip--and when I come squanderin' out the other side the old hawse would be right there to ketch me. Trick he had--he'd slow down and kinder wait fer me--but that dogged ring-master put up a job on me--he shore did; but the scoundrel tried to lie out of it afterwards.

"You see, them people that come out to Coney they expect somethin' fer their money, and bein' as I was only the fill-in man and the other feller was comin' back anyway, the management decided to ditch me. So when I made a jump at my last hoop the ring-master forgot to pop his whip--or so he said--and I come down on my head and like to killed me. Well, sir, the way them people hollered you'd think the king had come, an' when a couple of fool clowns come runnin' out and carried me off on a shutter they laughed till they was pretty nigh sick. That's the way it is at Coney Island--unless somebody is gittin' killed, them tight-wads won't spend a cent."

The red-headed raconteur laughed a little to himself, and, seeing his audience still attentive, he launched out into another.

"'La-adies and gentle-men, before our performance begins I wish to say a few words relatin' to Echigogo Cabagan, the wild boy of Luzon. This strange creature was captured by Lieutenant Crawford, of the Seventy-ninth Heavy Artillery, in the wilds of the Igorotte country in the Philippines. At the time of his recovery he was livin' in the tropical jungles, never havin' seen a human face, an' subsistin' entirely upon poisonous reptyles, which was his only pets and companions. So frequently was he bit by these venomous reptyles that Professor Swope, of the Philadelphia Academy, after a careful analysis of his blood, figgers out that it contains seven fluid ounces of the deadly poison, or enough to kill a thousand men.

A noise of scuffling feet made the story-teller pause, and then the gang of card players came tumbling out of the bunk-house.

"Let's roast some ribs," said one.

"No, I want some bread and lick," answered another.

"What's the matter with aigs?" broke in a third.

"Say, you fellers shut up, will you?" shouted a man by the fire. "Old Brig's tellin' us a story!"

"Oh, git 'im a chin-strap," retorted the bull-voiced Buck. "I want some ribs!"

"Well, keep still, can't ye?" appealed the anxious listener; but silence was not on the cards. The chuck-box was broken open and ransacked for a butcher-knife; then as Buck went off to trim away the ribs of the cook's beef, Hardy Atkins and his friends made merry with the quiet company.

"Ridin' 'em again, are you, Brigham?" inquired Happy Jack with a grin.

"No, he's divin' off'n that hundred-foot pole!" observed Poker-faced Bill sardonically.

Something about this last remark seemed to touch the loquacious Brigham, for he answered it with spirit:

"Well, that's more than some folks can say," he retorted. "I sure never run no hawse race with the sheriff out of Texas!"

"No, you pore, ignorant Jack Mormon," jeered Atkins; "and you never rode no circus hawse at Coney Island, neither. I've seen fellers that knowed yore kinfolks down on the river, and they swore to Gawd you never been outside of Arizona. More'n that, they said you was a worser liar than old Tom Pepper--and he got kicked out of hell fer lyin'."

A guffaw greeted this allusion to the fate of poor old Tom; but Brigham was not to be downed by comparisons.

"Yes," he drawled; "I heerd about Tom Pepper. I heerd say he was a Texican, and the only right smart one they was; and the people down there was so dog ignorant, everything he told 'em they thought it was a lie. Built up quite a reputation that way--like me, here. Seems like every time I tell these Arizona Texicans anything, they up and say I'm lyin'."

He ran his eye over his audience and, finding no one to combat him further, he lapsed into a mellow philosophy.

"Yes," he said, cocking his eye again at Bowles; "I'm an ignorant kind of a feller, and I don't deny it; but I ain't one of these men that won't believe a thing jest because I never seen it. Now, here's a gentleman here--I don't even know his name--but the chances are, if he's ever been to Coney, he'll tell you my stories is nothin'."

"How about that hundred-foot pole?" inquired Poker Bill, as Bowles bowed and blushed.

"Yes, sure!" agreed Brigham readily. "We'll take that one now and let it go fer the bunch. If that's true, they're all true, eh?"

"That's me!" observed Bill laconically.

"All right, then, stranger," continued Brigham. "We'll jest leave the matter with you, and if what I said ain't true I'll never open my head again. I was tellin' these pore, ignorant Texas cotton-pickers that back at Coney Island they was a feller that did high divin'--ever see anything like that? All right, then, this is what I told 'em. I told 'em this divin' sport had a pole a hundred foot high, with a tank of water at the bottom six foot deep and mebbe ten foot square, and when it come time he climbed up to the top and stood on a little platform, facin' backwards and lookin' into a pocket mirror. Then he begun to lean over backwards, and finally, when everything was set, he threw a flip-flap and hit that tank a dead center without hurtin' himself a bit. Now, how about it--is that a lie?"

He looked up at Bowles with a steady gaze; and that gentleman did not fail him.

"Why, no," he said; "really, I see no reason to doubt what you say. Of course, I haven't been to Coney Island recently, but such events are quite a common occurrence there."

"Now, you see?" inquired Brigham triumphantly. "This gentleman has been around a little. Back at Coney them stunts is nothin'! They don't even charge admission."

"But how can that feller hit the water every time?" argued Bill the doubter, pressing forward to fight the matter out.

"Well, git out of the way!" shouted the voice of Buck. "And throw down that frame so I can roast these ribs!"

That ended the controversy for the time, but before the ribs were cooked Brigham edged in another story--and he proved it by Mr. Bowles. It was a trifle improbable, perhaps, but Bowles was getting the spirit of the Great West and he vouched for it in every particular. Then when the ribs were done he cut some of the scorched meat from the bones, and ate it half-raw with a pinch of salt, for he was determined to be a true sport. Buck and Brigham devoured from one to two pounds apiece and gnawed on the bones like dogs; but Mr. Bowles was more moderate in his desires. What he really longed for was a bed or a place to sleep; but the gentleman who had coached him on cowboy life--and sold him his fancy outfit--had not mentioned the sleeping accommodations, and Bowles was too polite to inquire. So he hung around until the last story was told, and followed the gang back to the bunk-house.

Each man went to his big blanket roll and spread it out for the night without a single glance at the suppliant, for a cowboy hates to share his bed; but as they were taking off their boots Brigham Clark spoke up.

"Ain't you got no bed, stranger?" he inquired; and when Bowles shook his head he looked at Hardy Atkins, who as bronco-twister and top-hand held the job of straw-boss. A silence fell and Bowles glanced about uneasily.

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