Cow-Country by B. M. Bower (best color ereader txt) 📗

the pack rope, his crooked old fingers moving with the sureness of lifelong habit. He was eager to know all the news that Bud could tell him, and when he discovered that Bud had just left the Muleshoe, and that he had been fired because of a fight with Dirk Tracy, the old fellow cackled gleefully,

“Well, now, I guess you just about had yore hands full, young man,” he commented shrewdly. “Dirk ain't so easy to lick.”

Bud immediately wanted to know why it was taken for granted that he had whipped Dirk, and grandpa chortled again. “Now if you hadn't of licked Dirk, you wouldn't of got fired,” he retorted, and proceeded to relate a good deal of harmless gossip which seemed to bear out the statement. Dirk Tracy, according to grandpa, was the real boss of the Muleshoe, and Bart was merely a figure-head.

All of this did not matter to Bud, but grandpa was garrulous. A good deal of information Bud received while the two attended to the horses and loitered at the corral gate.

Grandpa admired Smoky, and looked him over carefully, with those caressing smoothings of mane and forelock which betray the lover of good horseflesh.

“I reckon he's purty fast,” he said, peering shrewdly into Bud's face. “The boys has been talking about pulling off some horse races here next Sunday—we got a good, straight, hard-packed creek-bed up here a piece that has been cleaned of rocks fer a mile track, and they're goin' to run a horse er two. Most generally they do, on Sunday, if work's slack. You might git in on it, if you're around in these parts.” He pushed his back straight with his palms, turned his head sidewise and squinted at Smoky through half-closed lids while he fumbled for cigarette material.

“I dunno but what I might be willin' to put up a few dollars on that horse myself,” he observed, “if you say he kin run. You wouldn't go an' lie to an old feller like me, would yuh, son?”

Bud offered him the cigarette he had just rolled. “No, I won't lie to you, dad,” he grinned. “You know horses too well.”

“Well, but kin he run? I want yore word on it.”

“Well-yes, he's always been able to turn a cow,” Bud admitted cautiously.

“Ever run him fer money?” The old man began teetering from his toes to his heels, and to hitch his shoulders forward and back.

“Well, no, not for money. I've run him once or twice for fun, just trying to beat some of the boys to camp, maybe.”

“Sho! That's no way to do! No way at all!” The old man spat angrily into the dust of the corral. Then he thought of something. “Did yuh BEAT 'em?” he demanded sharply.

“Why, sure, I beat them!” Bud looked at him surprised, seemed about to say more, and let the statement stand unqualified.

Grandpa stared at him for a minute, his blue eyes blinking with some secret excitement. “Young feller,” he began abruptly, “lemme tell yuh something. Yuh never want to do a thing like that agin. If you got a horse that can outrun the other feller's horse, figure to make him bring yuh in something—if it ain't no more'n a quarter! Make him BRING yuh a little something. That's the way to do with everything yuh turn a hand to; make it bring yuh in something! It ain't what goes out that'll do yuh any good—it's what comes in. You mind that. If you let a horse run agin' another feller's horse, bet on him to come in ahead—and then,” he cried fiercely, pounding one fist into the other palm, “by Christmas, make 'im come in ahead!” His voice cracked and went flat with emotion.

He stopped suddenly and let his arms fall slack, his shoulders sag forward. He waggled his head and muttered into his beard, and glanced at Bud with a crafty look.

“If I'da took that to m'self, I wouldn't be chorin' around here now for my own son,” he lamented. “I'd of saved the quarters, an' I'd of had a few dollars now of my own. Uh course,” he made haste to add, “I git holt of a little, now and agin. Too old to ride—too old to work—jest manage to pick up a dollar er two now and agin—on a horse that kin run.”

He went over to Smoky again and ran his hand down over the leg muscles to the hocks, felt for imperfections and straightened painfully, slapped the horse approvingly between the forelegs and laid a hand on his shoulder while he turned slowly to Bud.

“Young feller, there ain't a man on the place right now but you an' me. What say you throw yore saddle on this horse and take 'im up to the track? I'd like to see him run. Seems to me he'd ought to be a purty good quarter-horse.”

Bud hesitated. “I wouldn't mind running him, grandpa, if I thought I could make something on him. I've got my stake to make, and I want to make it before all my teeth fall out so I can't chew anything but the cud of reflection on my lost opportunities. If Smoky can run a few dollars into my pocket, I'm with you.”

Grandpa teetered forward and put out his hand. “Shake on that, boy!” he cackled. “Pop Truman ain't too old to have his little joke—and make it bring him in something, by Christmas! You saddle up and we'll go try him out on a quarter-mile—mebby a half, if he holds up good.”

He poked a cigarette-stained forefinger against Bud's chest and whispered slyly: “My son Dave, he 's got a horse in the stable that's been cleanin' everything in the valley. I'll slip him out and up the creektrail to the track, and you run that horse of yourn agin him. Dave, he can't git a race outa nobody around here, no more, so he won't run next Sunday. We'll jest see how yore horse runs alongside Boise. I kin tell purty well how you kin run agin the rest—Pop, he ain't s' thick-headed they kin fool him much. What say we try it?”

Bud stood back and looked him over. “You shook hands with me on it,” he said gravely. “Where I came from, that holds a man like taking oath on a Bible in court. I'm a stranger here, but I'm going to expect the same standard of honor, grandpa. You can back out now, and I'll run Smoky without any tryout, and you can take your chance. I couldn't expect you to stand by a stranger against your own folks—”

“Sho! Shucks a'mighty!” Grandpa spat and wagged his head furiously. “My own forks'd beat me in a horse race if they could, and I wouldn't hold it agin 'em! Runnin' horses is like playin' poker. Every feller fer himself an' mercy to-ward none! I knowed what it meant when I shook with yuh, young feller, and I hold ye to it. I hold ye to it! You lay low if I tell ye to lay low, and we'll make us a few dollars, mebby. C'm on and git that horse outa here b'fore somebuddy comes. It's mail day.”

He waved Bud toward his saddle and took himself off in a shuffling kind of trot. By the time Bud had saddled Smoky grandpa hailed him cautiously from the brush-fringe beyond the corral. He motioned toward a small gate and Bud led Smoky that way, closing the gate after him.