Cow-Country by B. M. Bower (ink book reader TXT) 📕

At the last camp, just north of the Platte, Bud's two black sheep balked. Bud himself, worn by sleepless nights and long hours in the saddle, turned furiously when Jerry announced that he guessed he and Ed wouldn't go any farther.

“Well, damn you both for ungrateful hounds!” grated Bud, hurt to the quick. “I hope you don't think I brought you this far to help hold me in the saddle; I made it north alone, without any mishap. I think I could have come back all right. But if you want to quit here, all right. You can high-tail it back to your outlaws—”

“Well, if you go 'n put it that way!” Jerry expostulated, lifting both hands high in the air in a vain attempt to pull the situation toward the humorous. “You're a depity sheriff, and you got the drop.” He grinned, saw that Bud's eyes were still hard and his mouth unyielding, and lowered his hands, looking crestfallen as a kicked pup that had tried to be friendly.

“You can see for yourself we ain't fit to go 'n meet your mother and your father like we was—like we'd went straight,” Eddie put in explanatorily. “You've been raised good, and—say, it makes a man want to BE good to see how a feller don't have to be no preacher to live right. But it don't seem square to let you take us right home with you, just because you're so darned kind you'd do it and never think a thing about it. We ain't ungrateful—I know I ain't. But—but—”

“The kid's said it, Bud,” Jerry came to the rescue. “We come along because it was a ticklish trip you had ahead. And I've knowed as good riders as you are, that could stand a little holding in the saddle when some freak had tried to shoot 'em out of it. But you're close to home now and you don't need us no more, and so we ain't going to horn in on the prodigal calf's milkbucket. Marian, She's likely there—”

“If Sis ain't with your folks we'll hunt her up,” Eddie interrupted eagerly. “Sis is your kind—she—she's good enough for yuh, Bud, and I hope she—ll—well if she's got any sense she will—well, if it comes to the narrying point, I—well, darn it, I'd like to see Sis git as good a man as you are!” Eddie, having bluntered that far, went headlong as if he were afraid to stop. “Sis is educated, and she's an awful good singer and a fine girl, only I'm her brother. But I'm going to live honest from now on, Bud, and I hope you won't hold off on account of me. I ain't going to have sis feel like crying when she thinks about me! You—you—said something that hurt like a knife, Bud, when you told me that, up in Crater. And she wasn't to blame for marryn' Lew—and she done that outa goodness, the kind you showed to Jerry and me. And we don't want to go spoilin' everything by letting your folks see what you're bringin' home with yuh! And it might hurt Sis with your folks, if they found out that I'm—”

Bud had been standing by his horse, looking from one to the other, listening, watching their faces, measuring the full depth of their manhood. “Say! you remind me of a story the folks tell on me,” he said, his eyes shining, while his voice strove to make light of it all. “Once, when I was a kid in pink-aprons, I got lost from the trail-herd my folks were bringing up from Texas. It was comin' dark, and they had the whole outfit out hunting me, and everybody scared to death. When they were all about crazy, they claim I came walking up to the camp-fire dragging a dead snake by the tail, and carrying a horn toad in my shirt, and claiming they were mine because I 'ketched 'em.' I'm not branding that yarn with any moral—but figure it out for yourself, boys.”

The two looked at each other and grinned. “I ain't dead yet,” Eddie made sheepish comment. “Mebbe you kinda look on me as being a horn toad, Bud.”

“When you bear in mind that my folks raised that kid, You'll realize that it takes a good deal to stampede mother.” Bud swung into the saddle to avoid subjecting his emotions to the cramped, inadequate limitations of speech. “Let's go, boys. She's a long trail to take the kinks out of before supper-time.”

They stood still, making no move to follow. Bud reined Smoky around so that he faced them, reached laboriously into that mysterious pocket of a cowpuncher's trousers which is always held closed by the belt of his chaps, and which invariably holds in its depths the things he wants in a hurry. They watched him curiously, resolutely refusing to interpret his bit of autobiography, wondering perhaps why he did not go.

“Here she is.” Bud had disinterred the deputy sheriff's badge, and began to polish it by the primitive but effectual method of spitting on it and then rubbing vigorously on his sleeve. “You're outside of Crater County, but by thunder you're both guilty of resisting an officer, and county lines don't count!” He had pinned the badge at random on his coat while he was speaking, and now, before the two realized what he was about, he had his six-shooter out and aimed straight at them.

Bud had never lived in fear of the law. Instantly was sorry when he saw the involuntary stiffening of their muscles, the quick wordless suspicion and defiance that sent their eyes in shifty glances to right and left before their hands lifted a little. Trust him, love him they might, there was that latent fear of capture driven deep into their souls; so deep that even he had not erased it.

Bud saw—and so he laughed.

“I've got to show my folks that I've made a gathering,” he said. “You can't quit, boys. And I'm going to take you to the end of the trail, now you've started.” He eyed them, saw that they were still stubborn, and drew in his breath sharply, manfully meeting the question in their minds.

“We've left more at the Sinks than the gnashing of teeth,” he said whimsically. “A couple of bad names, for instance. You're two bully good friends of mine, and—damn it, Marian will want to see both of you fellows, if she's there. If she isn't—we'll maybe have a big circle to ride, finding her. I'll need you, no matter what's ahead.” He