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CHAPTER XXI
A CALL

There is a regrettable but very well defined tendency in human nature which prompts the author of a miss-fire revenge to take it out on the dog. Certainly there was no more innocent party to the inveigling of Gloomy Gus than Bowles, and yet for some reason Hardy Atkins and his comrades in crime chose to gaze upon him with a frown. After laboring far into the night they had finally persuaded the cook that it was all a mistake; that no insult was intended to his years; and that it would be contrary to those high principles of Southern chivalry of which he had always been such an illustrious exponent to report the fake fight to the boss. Then they had busied themselves in the early morning with chopping wood and packing water, and similar ingratiating tasks, with the result that, when Henry Lee came down after breakfast, there was no complaint from anybody. But when he had let it pass, and started off for Chula Vista, it was cloudy in the south for Bowles.

But your true lover, with the wine of ecstasy in his veins, and haunting feminine glimpses to catch his eye, is not likely to be scanning the horizon for a cloud the size of a man's hand. Bowles' troubles began that evening when, after an arduous day in the saddle, he returned to his own social sphere. For two months and more Samuel Bowles had been a cow-hand. He had slept on the ground, he had eaten in the dirt, and when luck had gone against him he had learned to swear. But now, as he was riding past the gate, Mrs. Lee, in a charming house-gown, had waylaid him with a smile; he paused for a friendly word, and his breeding had prompted him to linger while she chatted; then she had invited him to dinner – not supper – and he had forgotten his lowly part. Forgotten also was the warning of Hardy Atkins, now so sullen in his defeat, and everything else except the lure of dainty living and the memory of a smile. So, after a hasty shave and a change to cleaner clothes, he stepped out boldly from the ranks and walked up to the big white house.

The chill and gusty days of early spring had passed and the soft warmth of May had brought out all the flowers. Along the gallery the honeysuckle and the Cherokee climbers were fragrant with the first blossoms of summer, and Bowles was glad to tarry beneath them when Mrs. Lee met him hospitably at the stoop. In the far west the Tortugas were passing through the daily miracle of sunset, and the hush of evening had settled upon all the land.

"Ah, Mrs. Lee," sighed Bowles, as he contemplated with a poet's eye the beauties of nature, "now I understand how you can live here for thirty years and never go back to New York. Such illumination – such color! And from the hill here, it is so much more glorious! Really, in spite of the loneliness, I almost envy you those thirty years!"

"Yes," admitted Mrs. Lee, leading him to a rawhide chair beneath the honeysuckle, "it is beautiful. I like it – in a way – but still, I can never forget New York. It offers so much, you know, of music and art and society; and yet – well, Henry needed me, and so I stayed. But I have tried to give my daughter what advantages I could. I have a sister, you know, living in New York – Mrs. Elwood Tupper – perhaps you know her?"

"Why, the name seems familiar," returned Bowles glibly.

"Yes, she's my sister," resumed Mrs. Lee, after glancing at him curiously. "Dixie was with her all last winter – I thought perhaps you might have met her there?"

Once more she gazed at him in that same inquiring way, and Bowles wondered if she had heard anything, but he was quick to elude the point.

"Hmm," he mused, "Tupper! No, I hardly think so. When I return, though, I shall be glad to look her up – perhaps I can convey some message from you. Your daughter must find it rather close and confining in the city, after her fine, free life in the open. Really, Mrs. Lee, I never knew what living was until I came out here! Of course, I'm very new yet – "

"Yes," agreed Mrs. Lee, who knew a few social sleights herself, "Dixie did complain of the confinement, but she —O Dixie!"

"Yes, Mother!" replied a dutiful voice from within.

"Come out on the gallery – Mr. Bowles is here. But she met some very nice people there – some of the real old families, you know – and I thought – "

The door opened at this point, and Bowles leapt to his feet in astonishment. It was a different Dixie that appeared before him – the same bewitching creature who had dazzled his eyes at the Wordsworth Club, and she wore the very same gown. And what a wonderful transformation it seemed to make in her – she was so quiet and demure now, and she greeted him in quite the proper manner.

"I was just telling Mr. Bowles, Dixie," continued Mrs. Lee, still holding to her fixed idea, "that you went out quite a little in New York – and perhaps you might have met back there."

For a moment the two eyed each other shrewdly, each guessing how much the other had said, and then Bowles opened up the way.

"Why, really, Miss Lee," he exclaimed, still gazing at her with admiring eyes, "you do look familiar in that dress! Perhaps we have met in a crush, like ships that pass in the night? May I ask at what function you wore this charming gown?"

"Yes, indeed, Mr. Bowles," returned Dixie May; "but, rather than run over the whole list and recall a winter's agony, let's take it for granted that we met. It's a fine, large place to come away from, isn't it – dear old New York? Wasn't the slush of those sidewalks something elegant? And that steam heat! My! It never gets as hot as that out here. Yes, indeed, Mother, I'm sure Mr. Bowles and I have met before; but," she added, and here her voice changed, "since he's traveling incognito, changing his name as a garment and not getting any letters from home, perhaps it's just as well not to dwell upon the matter."

"Why, Dixie, child!" protested Mrs. Lee. "What in the world do you mean?"

"Nothing at all, Mother, except that he is our guest. Shall we go in now to dinner?"

They went in, and throughout the rest of the evening Bowles was guiltily conscious of a startled mother's eyes which regarded him with anxious scrutiny at first and then became very resolute and stern. Mrs. Lee had solved her problem, whatever it was, and settled upon her duty. Bowles felt a social chill creep into the air as he rose to go, and he braced himself for some ultimatum; but his hostess did not speak her thoughts. There was no further allusion to New York, or his alias, or the fact that he had acted a lie. All those things were taken for granted, and he left with a balked feeling, as if he had failed of some purpose. Her very silence clutched at his heart, and her passive hand-touch as they parted. Dixie, too, seemed to share in the general aloofness. She had said good-night without any friendly grip of the fingers, looking at him very straight, as if to fathom his deceit.

Bowles lay awake that night and thought it out, and he saw where he had made his mistake. From the first his manner had been evasive almost to mendacity, and, with both Dixie and her mother, he had made a mystery of his past. Now the time for explanations was gone, and he was reaping his just reward. He should have taken Dixie into his confidence when they were alone beneath the cedars; he should have answered that question of hers when she asked it – but now it was too late.

"Mr. Bowles," she had said, "who are you, anyway?"

And when he had evaded her, she had never asked again. And now, through the same damnable ineptitude, he had estranged her mother and lost his welcome at the big house. All the explanations in the world would not square him now, for one deceit follows another and his second word was no better than his first. He could see with half an eye that Mrs. Lee distrusted him. He must seem to her candid mind no less than a polite adventurer, a ne'er-do-weel young profligate from the East with intentions as dark as his past. Nor could he bring himself to blame her, for the inference was logical – if a man conceals his identity and denies his acquaintances and friends, surely there must be something shameful that he is at such pains to hide.

But the way out? That was what kept Bowles awake. Certainly, if he were a gentleman, he would stay away from the house. Nor would it be wholly honorable to waylay Dixie May and explain. And, besides, there was nothing to explain. He had references, of course, but if he gave them, his aunt would discover his whereabouts and summon him home – and then there was Christabel!

The memory of those prearranged meetings at his aunt's swept over him, and he shuddered where he lay. Dear, pretty, patient Christabel! What if she should sense this conspiracy to make him marry her and lose that friendly smile? What if she should blush as he had blushed at each chance tête-à-tête, gazing nervously into his eyes to guess if he would yield? And to wonder if that was love! Ah no, he could never do that! Rather than inflict such torture upon her he would flee to the depths of the wilderness and hide until she was married. But his safety lay only in flight, for his aunt was a resolute woman, with tears and sighs at her command, if all else failed. Yes, he must run away – that was the way out.

And it would solve all his problems at once. There would be no lame explanations to make at the house, no cheap jealousies with Hardy Atkins, no breaking of his cherished dream of seeing the West. He would move on into the White Mountains and explore their fastnesses with Brigham. Or, lacking Brigham, he would plunge into that wilderness alone.

The harsh clangor of Gloomy Gus's dishpan cut short his fitful sleep, and he rolled out of bed with his mind made up to quit. At breakfast he said nothing, bolting his food with the rest of them, and followed on to the horse corral for a private word with Brig. But right there fate played him a scurvy trick, and disrupted all his schemes, for as he stepped around behind the corral Hardy Atkins strode in upon him and made signs to certain of his friends.

"Now, lookee here, Mr. Man," he said, and he said it quietly for once, "you been four-flushin' around hyer long enough, and we give you warnin' to git. We got yore record and we know what you're after, so don't hand us out any bull. Yore name ain't Bowles and you're aimin' at Dix, but she's got too many good friends. Now we've let you off easy, so far, but Gawd he'p you if we come ag'in. Ain't that so, boys?"

"You bet it is!" answered three or four, and the rest of them looked their disdain.

But an unreasoning anger swept over Bowles at the very first word, and he returned the sneer with interest.

"Mr. Atkins," he said, "you have threatened me before, but I am not afraid of you. You cannot frighten me away."

"Oh, I cain't, cain't I?" jeered Hardy Atkins, while his friends rumbled threats from behind. "Well, poco pronto you're liable to change yore mind. You come into this country on a Hinglish trot and we thought you was a sport, but now that we know better, you got to make good or git. Ain't that so, boys?"

"You bet it is!" roared the bunch, and Atkins hitched up his shaps.

"All right," he said. "You got a job with this outfit by claimin' that you could ride. Now– you're so brave – either you ride that Dunbar hawse the way you said or we kick you out o' camp! You can take yore choice."

"Very well," said Bowles; "I'll ride the horse."

"Like hell you will!" sneered the gang in a chorus, but Bowles did not heed their words.

"Any time you put the saddle on him," he said, "I'll ride him."

At this they stood irresolute, unable to make him out. On the morning that he had ridden Wa-ha-lote he was a tenderfoot, not knowing one horse from another, but now he had seen the worst. And yet he would climb up on Dunbar!

"Come on – let's rope 'im!" urged Hardy Atkins, but he did not move out of his tracks. "No, the boss is comin' back," he said. "Let's wait till we're hyer by ourse'ves. All right, Mr. Bronco-bustin' Bowles, we'll fix you good and plenty – the first time the folks leave the house. And meantime, if you value yore health, you better stay down on low ground."

"I will go wherever I please," answered Bowles; but he stayed down on the low ground.

CHAPTER XXII
THE HORSE THAT KILLED DUNBAR

In the Homeric simplicity of the cow camps, where the primitive emotions still rule, any soul-stirring which cannot find its expression in curses is pretty sure to seek the level of laughter. The boys were profoundly moved by Bowles' declaration of intention, but after gazing upon him for a spell in mingled incredulity and awe, their lips began to curl.

"Aw —him!" they said. "Him ride Dunbar? Umph-umm! We'll wake up some mornin' and find him gone!"

Then, as a morning or two passed and Bowles was still in his place, they began to lapse into jest.

"Old Henry will shore be s'prised when he comes back from town," observed blithesome Happy Jack. "He'll find Bowles ridin' Dunbar with a hackamore and feedin' him sugar from his hand. Big doin's soon to come, boys – boss and family goin' down to Chula Vista to-morrer."

"Well, we better hog-tie Hinglish, then," grumbled Buck Buchanan; "he'll never last till mornin'. Gittin' right close on to that time!"

"Never you mind about Hinglish," retorted Brigham Clark, whose loyalty had been fanned to a flame. "If it was you, Buck Buchanan, we couldn't see you fer dust right now. They ain't a man of ye dares to say he'd ride Dunbar, let alone the doin' of it. Will you ride him second if he throws Bowles off? Well, keep yore face shut, then! The whole bunch of ye ought to be canned fer tryin' to git 'im killed!"

"Well, let 'im go on away, then!" burst out Hardy Atkins. "We never told 'im to ride Dunbar – we told 'im to quit his four-flushin' and either make good or git. There's the road down there – let 'im take to it!"

He jerked an imperious hand at Bowles, who answered him with a scowl.

"If you will kindly mind your own business, Mr. Atkins," he purled, "I shall certainly be greatly obliged."

He gave each word the Harvard accent and tipped it off with venom, for Bowles was losing his repose. In fact, he was mad, mad all over, and at every remark he bristled like a dog. A concatenation of circumstances had thrown him into the company of these Texas brawlers, but he aimed to show by every means in his power his absolute contempt for their trickery and his determination to stand on his rights. He had said he would ride Dunbar, and that was enough – he had given his word as a gentleman. Therefore, he resented their insinuations and desired only to be left alone. Certainly he had enough on his mind to keep him occupied without responding to ill-natured remarks.

Fate was piling things up on poor Bowles, and he earnestly longed for the end. There is a cynic's saying that every time a man gets into trouble his girl goes back on him, just to carry out the run of luck; and while of course it isn't true, it seemed that way to Bowles. Perhaps his own manner had had something to do with it, but, the morning after his rebuff, Dixie greeted him almost as a stranger, and, falling back shortly afterward into her old carefree way of talking, she began to josh with the boys. Then she took a long ride with Brigham, a ride that left him all lit up with enthusiasm and made him want to talk about love. As a matter of fact, Dixie had sensed something big in the air and was anxiously ferreting it out, but Bowles did not know about that. All he knew was that he disapproved of her conduct, and wondered vaguely what her mother would say. Not that it was any of his business, but he wondered all the same; and, wondering, shook his head and sighed.

But three days of flirting and sleuthing brought nothing to Dixie's net. From the cook down, the outfit was a solid phalanx against her – they would talk and smile but they never showed their hand. One clue and only one she had – there seemed to be an unusual interest in when she was going to town. First on one pretext and then on another they inquired casually about the date, and if her folks were going along too. So, whatever the deviltry was, it was something that called for secrecy – and it was due on the day they left home. She looked them over as they gathered about the evening fire, and smoothed her hair down thoughtfully – and the next morning she started for town.

The sale of his steers was making Henry Lee a lot of trouble – and the holding of them as well. Not being able to find a buyer at his price, he set the cowboys to fence mending – lest the outlaws should breach the wires – and went back and forth to town. And this morning his wife went with him, sitting close behind the grays, with Dixie riding fast behind. Their dust changed to haze on the horizon before any one moved a hand, and then Hardy Atkins turned on Bowles.

"All right, Mr. Bowles," he said. "Here's where we see yore hand. I'll saddle that hawse if you'll ride 'im, but don't make me that trouble fer nothin', because if you do– "

"Oh, shut up!" snapped Bowles, whose nerves were worn to a frazzle. "What's the use of talking about it? Put the saddle on him!"

"Holy Jehu!" whistled Atkins. "Listen to the boy talk, will you? Must have somethin' on his mind – what?"

"Well, quit yore foolin'!" put in Brigham abruptly. "We'll all git fired fer this, and him liable to git killed to boot, so hurry up and let's have it over with!"

"I'll go ye!" laughed the ex-twister, skipping off with a sprightly step. "Come on, boys; it'll take the bunch of us – but I'll saddle old Dunbar or die! 'O-oh, hit's not the 'unting that 'urts the 'orse's 'oofs; hit's the 'ammer, 'ammer, 'ammer on the 'ard 'ighway!' E-e-e – hoo!"

He laughed and cut another caper as he ended this bald refrain, and Brigham glowered at him balefully.

"'Hit's!'" he quoted. "'Hit's!' Listen to the ignorant cracker! I never seen a Texican yet that could talk the straight U. S.! But go on now, you low-flung cotton-pickers, and I'll fix Bowles fer his ridin'!"

They hustled away as he spoke, the best of them to wrangle Dunbar, and the rest to admire the sight. Here was an event that would go down in Bat Wing history, and only the cook stayed away. Life had been stale, flat, and unprofitable to Gloomy Gus since he delivered the oration over Happy Jack, and the very care with which all hands refrained from speaking of it showed how poignant the joke had been. Faces which had looked pleasant to him before were repulsive now, and in this last assay on Bowles he saw but a recrudescence of the horse-play which had worked such havoc with his own pride. Therefore, he was morose and sullen and stayed with his pots and pans.

"I want to warn you, Mr. Bowles," he called, as Bowles came, full-rigged, from the bunk-house. "I want to give you warnin' – thet hawse is dangerous!"

"All right, Mr. Mosby," answered Bowles absently, as he started for the round corral.

"He done killed a man!" croaked Gloomy Gus. "A right good cow-puncher, too – I knowed him well. Jim Dunbar – the top rider of the outfit. Don't say I never warned you, now – keep off that hawse!"

"All right, Mr. Mosby," responded Bowles, but he never missed a stride. The time had come to show himself a man, and, like an athlete who goes forth to win, his thoughts were on the battle.

"You want to set him limber," reiterated Brigham in his ear. "Ride 'im like a drunk man, and whip 'im at every jump – it gives you somethin' to do. Grab 'im with yore spurs every time he lights; and look out he don't bite yore legs. Here, take my quirt – it's heavier – and if he starts to go over backwards, hit 'im hard between the ears. You kin ride 'im, pardner, I know it! Jest keep cool and don't get stiff!"

"All right, Brig," muttered Bowles; "all right!" But his eyes were on the corral.

A cloud of dust rose on the still morning air like smoke from some red-burning fire, and through the poles of the fence he could see horses running like mad, and men with trailing ropes. Then, as the stampede rose to a thunder of feet, he heard a shrill yell of triumph, and scrambling men jerked the bars from the gate. The current of galloping slackened, it paused, and the leaders shot out the gap with a sea of high-flung heads behind. When the dust of their outrush had settled, there was only one horse left inside – the horse that killed Dunbar – and he lay grunting in the dirt.

"Fetch me that hackamore!" yelled Hardy Atkins from where he knelt on the brute's straining neck. "Now bring me that well-rope – we'll tie up his dad-burned leg!"

They gave him the ropes as he called for them, and he rigged them with masterful hands – first the rough-twisted hackamore, to go over his head and cut off his breath; then the two-inch well-rope, to hang from his neck and serve later to noose his hind foot. Then all hands tailed on to the throw-rope; they swayed back as he rose to his feet; and when Dunbar went to the end of it, the heave they gave threw him flat. He leaped up and flew back on his haunches, and the rope halter cut off his breath. His sides heaved as he struggled against it; his eyes bulged big and he shook his head; then, with a final paroxysm, he sank to his knees and they slackened away on the rope. A single mighty breath, and he was up on his feet and fighting; and they choked him down again. Then Hardy Atkins stepped in behind and picked up the end of the shoulder rope, where it dragged between his legs, and drew the loop up to his hocks. A jerk – a kick at the burn – and Dunbar was put on three legs. He fought, because that was his nature, but it was in vain; they trussed his foot up high, tied the rope's end to the neck loop, and clapped a broad blind over his eyes. So Dunbar was conquered, and while he squealed and cow-kicked, they lashed Bowles' saddle on his bowed-up back and slipped the bit between his teeth.

There he stood at last, old Dunbar the man-killer, sweating and trembling and cringing his head to the blind, and Bowles jumped down off the fence.

"All right," he said, "you can let down his foot. I'll pull up the blinder myself."

"Say yore prayers first, Mr. Man," gritted Atkins, lolling and mopping his face. "If he's half as good as his promise, you'll never git off alive!"

"Very likely," observed Bowles grimly. "You can let his foot down now."

"Hey! Git a move on!" yelled a cow-puncher up on the fence. "They's somebody comin' up the road!"

"Aw, let 'em come," drawled Atkins carelessly. "They're hurryin' up to see the show. Step up and look 'im over!" he grinned at Bowles. "No rush – you got lots of time!"

"Let his foot down!" snarled Bowles, his nerves giving way to anger. "I'm not – "

"It's Dix!" clamored the cow-puncher on the fence-top. "It's Dix!"

There was a rush for the fence to make certain, and as Dixie Lee dashed in through the horse lot, Hardy Atkins threw down his hat and cursed. Then he stood irresolute, gazing first at Bowles and then at the fence, until suddenly she slipped through the bars and came striding across the corral.

"Oho, Hardy Atkins," she panted, as she tapped at her boot with a quirt. "So this is what you were up to – riding horses while Dad went to town! Didn't he tell you to keep off that Dunbar horse? Well, then, you just – "

She paused as she sensed the tense silence, and then she saw Bowles, walking resolutely up to the horse. In a flash it all came clear to her – the feud, the fights, and now this compact to ride.

"Mr. Bowles!" she cried, raising her voice in a sudden command – but before she could get out the words Hardy Atkins laid his hand on her arm.

"You go on back to the house!" he said, fixing her with his horse-taming eyes. "You go back where you belong! I'm doin' this!"

"You let go of me!" stormed Dixie Lee, making a savage pass at him with her quirt – and then a great shout drowned their quarrel and made them forget everything but Bowles.

The obsession of days of brooding had laid hold upon him and left him with a single, fixed idea – to ride Dunbar or die. And to him, no less than to Hardy Atkins, the coming of Dixie Lee was a disappointment. For a minute, he too had stood irresolute; then, with the simplicity of madness, he went straight to the blindfolded horse and began to lower his foot. As the quarrel sprang up, he gathered his reins; without looking back, he hooked his stirrup; and then, very gently, he rose to the saddle. Then the shout rang out, and he reached down and twitched up the blind.

Gazing out from beneath the band which had held him in utter darkness, the deep-set rattlesnake eye of Dunbar rolled hatefully at the man on his back. He crooked his neck and twisted his malformed head, and Bowles felt him swelling like a lizard between his knees – then, with a squeal, he bared his teeth and snapped at his leg like a dog. The next moment his head went down and he rose in a series of buck-jumps, whirling sideways, turning half-way round, and landing with a jolt. And at every jolt Bowles' head snapped back and his muscles grew stiff at the jar. But just as the world began to grow black, and he felt himself shaken in his seat, the trailing neck rope lapped Dunbar about the hind legs and he paused to kick himself free.

It was only a moment's respite, but it heartened the rider mightily. He caught the stirrup that he had lost, wiped the mist from his eyes, and settled himself deep in the saddle.

"Good boy! Stay with 'im!" yelled the maniacs on the fence-posts; and then old Dunbar broke loose. The man never lived that could ride him – Bowles realized that as he clutched for the horn – and then his pride rose in him and he sat limber and swung the quirt. One, two, three times, he felt himself jarred to the center, and the blood burst suddenly from his mouth and nose and splashed in a crimson flood. He had no knowledge of what was happening now, for he could not see; and then, with a heart-breaking wrench, he felt himself hurled from the saddle and sent tumbling heels over head. He struck, and the corral dirt rose in his face; there was a cloud before him, a mist; and then, as the dizziness vanished, he beheld the man-killer charging at him through the dust with all his teeth agleam.

"Look out!" yelled the crowd on the fence-top. "Look out!"

And Bowles scrambled up and fell over to one side. His knees were weak; they would not bear him; and through the dust cloud he saw Dunbar slide and turn again. Then of a sudden he was in a tangle of legs and stirrups and striking feet, and somebody grabbed him by the arm. Three pistol shots rang out above him; he was snaked violently aside; and old Dunbar went down like a log. Somebody had killed him, that was certain; but it was not Brigham, for he could tell by the characteristic cursing that it was his partner who had pulled him out and was dragging him across the corral. He blinked and opened his eyes as he fetched up against the fence – and there was Dixie Lee, with a big, smoking pistol in her hand, striding after him out of the dust.

She looked down at him, her eyes blazing with anger; and then, snapping the empty cartridges out of the Colt's, she handed it back to a puncher.

"Well," she said, "I hope you boys are satisfied now!" And without a second look at Brigham, Bowles, Hardy Atkins, or the remains of Dunbar, she turned and strode back to the house.