The Lure of the Dim Trails by B. M. Bower (books to get back into reading .TXT) 📗

why Thurston usually stood guard with Bob, whom he liked better than any of the others-always excepting Park himself.

“I brought my gun along,” Bob told him apologetically when they were left to themselves. “It's a habit I've got when I know there's bad men rampaging around the country. The boys kinda gave me the laugh when they seen me haul it out uh my war bag, but I just told 'em to go to thunder.”

“Do you think those—”

“Naw. Uh course not. I just pack it on general principles, same as an old woman packs her umbrella.”

“Say, this is dead easy! The bunch is pretty well broke, ain't it? I'm sure glad to see old Milk River again; this here trailing cattle gets plumb monotonous.” He got down and settled his back comfortably against a rock. Below them spread the herd, feeding quietly. “Yes, sir, this is sure a snap,” he repeated, after he had made himself a smoke. “They's only two ways a bunch could drift if they wanted to which they don't-up the river, or down. This hill's a little too steep for 'em to tackle unless they was crowded hard. Good feed here, too.

“Too bad yuh don't smoke, Bud. There's nothing like a good, smooth rock to your back and a cigarette in your face, on a nice, lazy day like this. It's the only kind uh day-herding I got any use for.”

“I'll take the rock to my back, if you'll just slide along and make room,” Thurston laughed. “I don't hanker for a cigarette, but I do wish I had my Kodak.”

“Aw, t'ell with your Kodak!” Bob snorted. “Can't yuh carry this layout in your head? I've got a picture gallery in mine that I wouldn't trade for a farm; I don't need no Kodak in mine, thankye. You just let this here view soak into your system, Bud, where yuh can't lose it.”

Thurston did. Long after he could close his eyes and see it in every detail; the long, green slope with hundreds of cattle loitering in the rank grass-growth; the winding sweep of the river and the green, rolling hills beyond; and Bob leaning against the rock beside him, smoking luxuriously with half-closed eyes, while their horses dozed with drooping heads a rein-length away.

“Say, Bud,” Bob's voice drawled sleepily, “I wisht you'd sing that Jerusalem song. I want to learn the words to it; I'm plumb stuck on that piece. It's different from the general run uh songs, don't yuh think? Most of 'em's about your old home that yuh left in boyhood's happy days, and go back to find your girl dead and sleeping in a little church-yard or else it's your mother; or your girl marries the other man and you get it handed to yuh right along—and they make a fellow kinda sick to his stomach when he's got to sing 'em two or three hours at a stretch on night-guard, just because he's plumb ignorant of anything better. This here Jerusalem one sounds kinda grand, and—the cattle seems to like it, too, for a change.”

“The composer would feel flattered if he heard that,” Thurston laughed. He wanted to be left alone to day-dream and watch the clouds trail lazily across to meet the hills; and there was an embryonic poem forming, phrase by phrase, in his mind. But he couldn't refuse Bob anything, so he sat a bit straighter and cleared his throat. He sang well—well enough indeed to be sought after at informal affairs among his set at home. When he came to the refrain Bob took his cigarette from between his lips and held it in his fingers while he joined his voice lustily to Thurston's:

“Jerusalem, Jerusalem, Lift up your gates and sing Hosanna in the high-est. Hosanna to your King!”

The near cattle lifted their heads to stare stupidly a moment, then moved a few steps slowly, nosing for the sweetest grass-tufts. The horses shifted their weight, resting one leg with the hoof barely touching the earth, twitched their ears at the flies and slept again.

“And then me thought my dream was changed, The streets no longer rang, Hushed were the glad Hosannas The little children sang—”

Tamale lifted his head and gazed inquiringly up the hill; but Bob was not observant of signs just then. He was Striving with his recreant memory for the words that came after:

“The sun grew dark with mystery, The morn was cold and still, As the shadow of a cross arose Upon a lonely hill.”

Tamale stirred restlessly with head uplifted and ears pointed straight before up the steep bluff. Old Ironsides, Thurston's mount, was not the sort to worry about anything but his feed, and paid no attention. Bob turned and glanced the way Tamale was looking; saw nothing, and settled down again on the small of his back.

“He sees a badger or something,” he Said. “Go on, Bud, with the chorus.”

“Jerusalem, Jerusalem, Lift up your gates and sing.”

“Lift up your hands damn quick!” mimicked a voice just behind. “If yuh ain't got anything to do but lay in the shade of a rock and yawp, we'll borrow your cayuses. You ain't needin' 'em, by the looks!”

They squirmed around until they could stare into two black gun-barrels—and then their hands went up; their faces held a particularly foolish expression that must have been amusing to the men behind the guns.

One of the gun-barrels lowered and a hand reached out and quietly took possession of Tamale's reins; the owner of the hand got calmly into Bob's saddle. Bob gritted his teeth. It was evident their movements had been planned minutely in advance, for, once settled to his liking, the fellow tested the stirrups to make sure they were the right length, and raising his gun pointed it at the two in a business-like manner that left no doubt of his meaning. Whereupon the man behind them came forward and appropriated Old Ironsides to his own use.

“Too bad we had to interrupt Sunday-school,” he remarked ironically. “You can go ahead with the meetin' now—the collection has been took up.” He laughed without any real mirth in his voice and gathered up the reins. “If yuh want our horses, they're up on the bench. I don't reckon they'll ever turn another cow, but such as they are you're quite welcome. Better set still, boys, till we get out uh sight; one of us'll keep an eye peeled for yuh. So long, and much obliged.” They turned and rode warily down the slope.

“Now, wouldn't that jar yuh?” asked Bob in deep disgust His hands dropped to his sides; in another second he was up and shooting savagely. “Get behind the rock, Bud,” he commanded.

Just then a rifle cracked, and Bob toppled drunkenly and went limply to the grass.

“My God!” cried Thurston, and didn't know that he spoke. He snatched up Bob's revolver and fired shot after shot at the galloping figures. Not one seemed to do any good; the first shot hit a two-year-old square in the ribs. After that there were no cattle within rifle range.

One of the outlaws stopped, took deliberate aim with the stolen Winchester and fired, meaning to kill; but he miscalculated the range a bit and Thurston crumpled down with a bullet in his thigh. The revolver was empty now and fell smoking at his feet. So he