The Flying U's Last Stand by B. M. Bower (ebook reader with highlighter TXT) đź“•
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- Author: B. M. Bower
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“Sounds good—if the Old Man will come to the centre,” said Weary dubiously. The chill atmosphere of Flying U coulee, with strangers in the bunk-house and with the Old Man scowling at his paper on the porch, had left its effect upon Weary, sunny-souled as he was.
“Oh, he'll come through,” cried Cal, moving toward his horse, “gee whiz, he's got to! Come on—let's go and get it done with. As it stands now, we ain't got a thing to do but set around and look wise—unless we go spoiling good grass with plows. First thing we know our neighbors will be saying we ain't improving our claims!”
“You improve yours every time you git off it!” stated Happy Jack spitefully because of past wrongs. “You could improve mine a whole lot that way, too,” he added when he heard the laugh of approval from the others.
They rung all the changes possible upon that witticism while they mounted and rode away, every man of them secretly glad of some excuse for making overtures to the Old Man. Spite of the excitement of getting on to their claims, and of watching strangers driving here and there in haste, and hauling loads of lumber toilfully over the untracked grass and building chickencoop dwellings as nearly alike as the buttons on a new shirt—spite of all that they had felt keenly their exile from Flying U ranch. They had stayed away, for two reasons: one was a latent stubbornness which made them resent the Old Man's resentment; the other was a matter of policy, as preached by Andy Green and the Native Son. It would not do, said these two cautious ones, to be running to the Flying U outfit all the time.
So the Happy Family had steered clear since that afternoon when they had simulated treachery to the outfit. And fate played them a scurvy trick in spite of their caution, for just as they rode down the Hog's Back and across the ford, Florence Grace Hallman rode away from the White House and met them fairly at the stable.
Florence Grace smiled a peculiar smile as she went past them. A smile that promised she would not forget; a smile that told them how sure she felt of having caught them fairly. With the smile went a chilly, supercilious bow that was worse than a direct cut, and which the Happy Family returned doubtfully, not at all sure of the rules governing warfare with a woman.
CHAPTER 9. THE HAPPY FAMILY BUYS A BUNCH OF CATTLE
With the Kid riding gleefully upon Weary's shoulder they trooped up the path their own feet had helped wear deep to the bunk-house. They looked in at the open door and snorted at the cheerlessness of the place.
“Why don't you come back here and stay?” the Kid demanded. “I was going to sleep down here with you—and now Doctor Dell won't let me. These hobees are no good. They're damn' bone-head. Daddy Chip says so. I wish you'd come back, so I can sleep with you. One man's named Ole and he's got a funny eye that looks at the other one all the time. I wish you'd come back.”
The Happy Family wished the same thing, but they did not say so. Instead they told the Kid to ask his mother if he couldn't come and visit them in their new shacks, and promised indulgences that would have shocked the Little Doctor had she heard them. So they went on to the house, where the Old Man sat on the porch looking madder than when they had left him three weeks before.
“Why don't yuh run them nesters outa the country?” he demanded peevishly when they were close enough for speech. “Here they come and accuse me to my face of trying to defraud the gov'ment. Doggone you boys, what you think you're up to, anyway? What's three or four thousand acres when they're swarming in here like flies to a butcherin'? They can't make a living—serve 'em right. What you doggone rowdies want now?”
Not a cordial welcome, that—if they went no deeper than his words. But there was the old twinkle back of the querulousness in the Old Man's eyes, and the old pucker of the lips behind his grizzled whiskers. “You've got that doggone Kid broke to foller yuh so we can't keep him on the ranch no more,” he added fretfully. “Tried to run away twice, on Silver. Chip had to go round him up. Found him last time pretty near over to Antelope coulee, hittin' the high places for town. Might as well take yuh back, I guess, and save time running after the Kid.”
“We've got to hold down our claims,” Weary minded him regretfully. In three weeks, he could see a difference the Old Man, and the change hurt him.
Lines were deeper drawn, and the kind old eyes were a shade more sunken.
“What's that amount to?” grumbled the Old Man, looking from one to the other under his graying eye brows. “You can't stop them dry-farmers from taking the country. Yuh might as well try to dip the Missouri dry with a bucket. They'll flood the country with stock—”
“No, they won't,” put in Big Medicine, impatient for the real meat of their errand. “By cripes, we got a scheme to beat that—you tell 'im, Weary.”
“We want to buy a bunch of cattle from you,” Weary said obediently. “We want to graze our claims, instead of trying to crop the land. We haven't any fence up, so we'll have to range-herd our stock, of course. I—don't hardly think any nester stock will get by us, J. G. And seeing our land runs straight through from Meeker's line fence to yours, we kinda think we've got the nesters pretty well corralled. They're welcome to the range between Antelope coulee and Dry Lake, far as we're concerned. Soon as we can afford it,” he added tranquilly, “we'll stretch a fence along our west line that'll hold all the darn milkcows they've a mind to ship out here.”
“Huh!” The Old Man studied them quizzically, his chin on his chest.
“How many yuh want?” he asked abruptly.
“All you'll sell us. We want to give mortgages, with the stock for security.”
“Oh, yuh do, ay? What if I have to foreclose on yuh?” The pucker of his lips grew more pronounced. “Where do you git off at, then?”
“Well, we kinda thought we could fix it up to save part of the increase outa the wreck, anyway.”
“Oh. That's it ay?” He studied them another minute. “You'll want all my best cows, too, I reckon—all that grade stock I shipped in last spring. Ay?”
“We wouldn't mind,” grinned Weary, glancing at the others roosting at ease along the edge of the porch.
“Think you could handle five-hundred head—the pick uh the bunch?”
“Sure, we could! We'd rather split 'em up amongst us,
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