Bred of the Desert by Charles Marcus Horton (the lemonade war series .txt) 📕

a dog just because the dog was a good hunter. If I couldn’t see more in a dog than just what he’s fit for, I’d quit the sport.”

“Now we’ll cut for deal.”

Jim had been rocking back and forth easily on two legs of his stool. He now dropped forward squarely on the floor and nodded assent.

“Cut for deal,” he said, quietly. “You!”

The game began. Glover, who evidently found interest in discussions, but none whatever in a game of cards, tilted back against the wall and began to talk, now that the argument was over.

“Zeke tells me,” he began in a nasal voice, tamping the tobacco into the bowl of his pipe reflectively, “as how they’s a bunch o’ Injun renegades movin’ south’ards off the reservation on a hell-toot. I meant to speak of it afore, but forgot, as usual. Jim’s talk here o’ animals lovin’ each other that away reminds me.” He lifted gray eyes to Johnson. “Didn’t Zeke say nothin’ to you about that, neither?” he asked, evidently mindful of some other grave oversight on the part of “Zeke.”

Johnson did not reply until after three or four rounds of the cards. “Zeke told you a lot of things that hour you sat with him alone,” he rejoined, with broad sarcasm. “Zeke must like you!”

“Mebbe,” agreed Glover, accepting the remark with all seriousness. “He says as how Fort Wingate is out, and I remarks that sich a move about terminates the performance. He agrees with me–says fust squint them renegades gits at regular troops they’ll hunt gopher-holes as places o’ ginerous salvation.”

The others remained silent. The game was going decidedly against Jim. It had gone against him from the first–as he had known it would. Yet he continued to play, watchful of his opponent, keen to note any irregularities. Yet he had discovered nothing that might be interpreted as cheating. Still he was losing, and still, despite all beliefs to the contrary, he entertained hope, hope that he might win. If he did win, he told himself, Johnson was enough of a white man to accept the defeat and leave the horse where he was. Yet his chips were steadily dwindling; the cards persistently refused to come his way; only once thus far had he held a winning hand. But he played on, becoming ever more discouraged, until, suddenly awaking to an unexpectedly good hand, he opened the pot. The raises followed back and forth swiftly, but he lost again. And now Johnson, as he mechanically drew the chips toward him, broke the silence.

“Zeke got you all worked up, didn’t he?” he declared, turning his eyes upon Glover. “As for renegades,” he went on, beginning to deal the cards again, “I’ve knowed ’em–hull droves of ’em–to stampede on the whistle of a rattler.” Evidently he was returning to good humor.

Glover took his pipe from his mouth. “Renegades gits stirred up every jest so often,” he observed. “I s’pose it’s because of the way they feel about things. Being run offen the reservations thataway ain’t nowise pleasant, to begin with, and then havin’ to hang around the aidges for what grub their folks sees fit for to sneak out to ’em ought to make it jest that much more monotonous–kind of. Reckon I’d break out myself–like a man that eats pancakes a lot–under sich circumstances. Zeke says this band–the latest gang to git sore–is a-headin’ dead south. Talks like we might run agin trouble down there. More’n one brand, too–the police and the reg’lars all bein’ out thataway. They’re all out–Zeke says.”

The others were absorbed in play, and so made no retort. Whereat Glover, with a reflective light in his eyes, continued:

“I’ve seen something myself,” he went on, evidently mindful of Johnson’s observation. “I’ve seen better men than Injuns stampede on less than rattlesnakes–and cover a heap more ground in a lot less shorter time. What I’m talkin’ about is skunks,” he explained, to nobody in particular–“hydrophoby skunks–their bite. Why,” he continued, warming to his subject and seemingly ignorant of its myths, “I once seen a man ride into San Mercial with his face that white it wouldn’t ’a’ showed a chalk mark! And he was holdin’ up his thumb like it was pizen–which it was! And he was cuttin’ for old Doc Struthers that fast his cayuse was sparkin’ out of his ears. Bit by a hydrophoby skunk–yes, sirree. Got to the Doc’s just in time, too! But he allus was lucky–the Doc! Money jest rolled into that party all the time. But some folks don’t jest quite make it–horses gives out, or something. And if they ain’t got the sand to shoot the finger off–”

A sudden shadow across the window checked him. He quietly reached for his gun. Also, Johnson lifted quick eyes to the window. And now Jim turned his head. Directly Glover rose to his feet; Johnson got up off his stool; Jim flung to the door. A moment they stood tense. Then Jim moved cautiously to the window. He gazed outside. As he did so his features relaxed. Presently he returned to the table.

“That horse,” he explained, eyes twinkling.

The others returned to their places. All were visibly relieved. But Glover did not go on with his yarn. Lighting his pipe again, he fell to smoking in thoughtful silence.

Jim picked up his cards. He saw four kings. But he felt no elation. Before him was a mere dribble of chips, and he knew that he could not hold out much longer. Johnson was coldly surveying his own cards, and after a studied moment opened the pot. Jim thrust forward half his small stack, followed by Johnson with a raise, whereupon Jim placed all he had upon the board. That closed the game. The other spread out his cards generously, and Jim, glancing listlessly at four aces, rose from the table. Turning to the window, he saw Pat still lingering near the shack. He gazed at him a long moment in silence.

“He’s yours,” he said, finally, facing Johnson. “Reckon I’ll go outside for a little air.”

Outside, he made straight for Pat, removed the hobbles, led him into the grove. As the horse quenched his thirst, Jim sat down with his back against a tree and removed his hat.

“Sorry, old-timer,” he began, quietly, “but it can’t be helped. We–” He interrupted himself; shoved Pat away a step. “That’s better,” he went on, smiling. Then, as Pat looked puzzled, “On my foot–yes,” he explained. “All of your own, too, of course!” he added. “But one of mine, too!” He was silent. “As I was remarking,” he continued, after a moment, “we’ve got to beat him some other way. You’re a likely horse.”

He lowered his eyes thoughtfully. He did know of a way to beat Johnson. That way was to mount Pat, ride hard for the open, and race it out against the little gray mounted by Johnson. But already he could see the vindictive and cursing Johnson in pursuit, discharging guns before him. So the idea was hopeless, for he knew that Johnson even now was alert for some such move. But even if it were feasible, he realized that he never could rid himself of the man. Others had tried, as he well recalled–tried to break away from him for all time, with a result in no way to Johnson’s credit. Two had never been seen again, which pointed grimly to the fact that Johnson lived up to his favorite maxim, which was that dead men tell no tales. Another was the case of that poor luckless devil who, through some mysterious workings of the law, having broken with Johnson, had been arrested and convicted of a crime long forgotten. But Jim knew, as others closely associated with Johnson knew, that it was Johnson who indirectly had sent the unfortunate one to the penitentiary. So it required courage, a kind of unreasoning desperation, to quit the man and the life he led.

Suddenly Jim took a new hold upon himself. What, he began to ask himself, was getting into him? Why was he suddenly thinking of quitting Johnson? What would he do if he did quit him? To his kind all decent channels were closed for any but the exceptional man. But that wasn’t it! Why was he arguing with himself along these lines? What was getting into him? He felt as if some good and powerful influence was come into his life! He had felt like this in Denver when a Salvation Army lassie had approached him. But this wasn’t Denver! Nor was there a woman! What was it, anyway? He could not decide.

He arose and laid his hand upon Pat’s forelock.

“It’s a regular case,” he said, leading the horse out of the grove, “for something to turn up. It generally does, anyway,” he concluded. “Don’t it, Old Gravity?”

CHAPTER XVI
PAT TURNS THIEF

A week passed before Pat knew of his change in masters. But that was not strange. Busily engaged in keeping himself alive on scant herbage, he took but little interest in anything else. Besides, his young friend continued to make much of him, talking in soothing tones and gently stroking his sides, and the little gray, holding herself faithfully near, also maintained quiet evidence of friendliness. So he had no reason to suspect change. But one morning, with camp broken, and saddle-bags flung out, and the window sealed over, and the door shut and barred, and the other horses bridled and saddled, there came to him in the person of the large man himself–a person he had instinctively disliked–the first sign of the change in his fortune.

The man approached, bridle on arm, to remove his hobbles. He remained motionless under this, and prepared also to accept the bridle quietly. But in bridling him the man was rough to an extent he had never before known–forcing an oddly shaped bit against his tongue, and twisting and turning his sensitive ears as if these delicate organs were so much refractory leather or metal. Then came the saddle, and with it further torture. The forward belt was made snug, which he was accustomed to and expected; but when the rear girdle was cinched so tight that he found difficulty in breathing, he became nervous and wanted to protest. It was all very unusual, this rough handling, and he did not understand it. The effect of the tight cinch was peculiar, too. With the knot tied firmly, he felt girded as for some great undertaking, his whole nervous system seemed to center in his stomach, and all his wonted freedom and buoyancy seemed compressed and smothered. With all this, and the man in the saddle and spurring viciously, he realized grimly the change in masters.

They set out at a fox-trot, continuing their southwesterly direction. It was an unmarked course from the beginning, leading them steadily down into the Mogollon range, and, as before, Johnson was occupying the lead, with Jim next behind, and Glover bringing up the rear. And, as on the first leg of the journey, all rode in silence.

So Pat was in the lead, and while he found his new master half as heavy again as the other, he also found compensation for the increased weight in the position which he occupied. Not that he was proud to be in the lead; nothing from the beginning of this adventure had caused a thrill of either joy or pride. But he did find in his new place freedom from dust cast up by the heels of his companions, and he trotted along in contentment, to all outward appearances. But it was only an appearance of content. Within were mixed emotions. While he felt pleasure at being active again, while he was resigned in a way to his hunger pangs, and he was