The Flying U Ranch - B. M. Bower (ebook reader with built in dictionary .txt) 📗

class="calibre1">learn ‘em a lesson—and the way you played up—say, my hat’s off

to you, all right!”

 

“One learns to seize opportunities without stuttering,” Miguel

observed calmly—and a queer look came into his eyes as they

rested upon the face of Andy. “And, if the chance comes, I’ll do

as much for you. By the way, did you see the saddle those Arizona

boys sent me? It’s over here. It’s a pip-pin—almost as fine as

the spurs, which I keep in the bunk-house when they’re not on my

heels. And, if I didn’t say so before, I’m sure glad to meet the

man that helped me through that alley. That big, fat devil would

have landed me, sure, if you hadn’t—”

 

“Ah—what?” Andy leaned and peered into the face of Miguel, his

jaw hanging slack. “You don’t mean to tell me—it’s true?”

 

“True? Why, I thought you were the fellow—” Miguel faced him

steadily. His eyes were frankly puzzled.

 

“I’ll tell you the truth, so help me,” Andy said heavily. “I

don’t know a darned thing about it, only what I read in the

papers. I spent the whole winter in Colorado and Wyoming. I was

just joshing the boys.”

 

“Oh,” said Miguel.

 

They stood there in the dusk and silence for a space, after which

Andy went forth into the night to meditate upon this thing.

Miguel stood and looked after him.

 

“He’s the real goods when it comes to lying—but there are

others,” he said aloud, and smiled a peculiar smile. But for all

that he felt that he was going to like Andy very much indeed.

And, since the Happy Family had shown a disposition to make him

one of themselves, he knew that he was going to become quite as

foolishly attached to the Flying U as was even Slim, confessedly

the most rabid of partisans.

 

In this wise did Miguel Rapponi, then, become a member of Jim

Whitmore’s Happy Family, and play his part in the events which

followed his adoption.

 

CHAPTER III. Bad News

 

Andy Green, that honest-eyed young man whom everyone loved, but

whom not a man believed save when he was indulging his love for

more or less fantastic flights of the imagination, pulled up on

the brow of Flying U coulee and stared somberly at the picture

spread below him. On the porch of the White House the hammock

swung gently under the weight of the Little Doctor, who pushed

her shipper-toe mechanically against a post support at regular

intervals while she read.

 

On the steps the Kid was crawling laboriously upward, only to

descend again quite as laboriously when he attained the top. One

of the boys was just emerging from the blacksmith shop; from the

build of him Andy knew it must be either Weary or Irish, though

it would take a much closer observation, and some familiarity

with the two to identify the man more exactly. In the corral were

a swirl of horses and an overhanging cloud of dust, with two or

three figures discernible in the midst, and away in the little

pasture two other figures were galloping after a fleeing dozen of

horses. While he looked, old Patsy came out of the messhouse, and

went, with flapping flour-sack apron, to the woodpile.

 

Peaceful it was, and home-like and contentedly prosperous; a

little world tucked away in its hills, with its own little

triumphs and defeats, its own heartaches and rejoicings; a lucky

little world, because its triumphs had been satisfying, its

defeats small, its heartaches brief, and its rejoicings untainted

with harassment or guilt. Yet Andy stared down upon it with a

frown; and, when he twitched the reins and began the descent, he

sighed impatiently.

 

Past the stable he rode with scarcely a glance toward Weary, who

shouted a casual “Hello” at him from the corral; through the big

gate and up the trail to the White House, and straight to the

porch, where the Little Doctor flipped a leaf of her magazine and

glanced at him with a smile, and the Kid turned his plump body

upon the middle step and wrinkled his nose in a smile of

recognition, while he threw out an arm in welcome, and made a

wobbling effort to get upon his feet.

 

Andy smiled at the Kid, but his smile did not reach his eyes, and

faded almost immediately. He glanced at the Little Doctor, sent

his horse past the steps and the Kid, and close to the railing,

so that he could lean and toss the mail into the Little Doctor’s

lap. There was a yellow envelope among the letters, and her

fingers singled it out curiously. Andy folded his hands upon the

saddle-horn and watched her frankly.

 

“Must be from J. G.,” guessed the Little Doctor, inserting a slim

finger under the badly sealed flap. “I’ve been wondering if he

wasn’t going to send some word—he’s been gone a week—Baby! He’s

right between your horse’s legs, Andy! Oh-h—baby boy, what won’t

you do next?” She scattered letters and papers from her lap and

flew to the rescue. “Will he kick, Andy? You little ruffian.” She

held out her arms coaxingly from the top of the steps, and her

face, Andy saw when he looked at her, had lost some of its color.

 

“The horse is quiet enough,” he reassured her. “But at the same

time I wouldn’t hand him out as a plaything for a kid.” He leaned

cautiously and peered backward.

 

“Oh—did you ever see such a child! Come to mother, Baby!” Her

voice was becoming strained.

 

The Kid, wrinkling his nose, and jabbering unintelligibly at her,

so that four tiny teeth showed in his pink mouth, moved farther

backward, and sat down violently under the horse’s sweat-roughened belly. He wriggled round so that he faced forward,

reached out gleefully, caught the front fetlocks, and cried

“Dup!” while he pulled. The Little Doctor turned white.

 

“He’s all right,” soothed Andy, and, leaning with a twist of his

slim body, caught the Kid firmly by the back of his pink dress,

and lifted him clear of danger. He came up with a red face,

tossed the Kid into the eager arms of the Little Doctor, and

soothed his horse with soft words and a series of little slaps

upon the neck. He was breathing unevenly, because the Kid had

really been in rather a ticklish position; but the Little Doctor

had her face hidden on the baby’s neck and did not see.

 

“Where’s Chip?” Andy turned to ride back to the stable, glancing

toward the telegram lying on the floor of the porch; and from it

his eyes went to the young woman trying to laugh away her

trembling while she scolded adoringly her adventurous man-child.

He was about to speak again, but thought better of it, and

sighed.

 

“Down at the stables somewhere—I don’t know, really; the boys

can tell you. Mother’s baby mustn’t touch the naughty horses.

Naughty horses hurt mother’s baby! Make him cry!”

 

Andy gave her a long look, which had in it much pity, and rode

away. He knew what was in that telegram, for the agent had told

him when he hunted him up at Rusty Brown’s and gave it to him;

and the horse of Andy bore mute testimony to the speed with which

he had brought it to the ranch. Not until he had reached the

coulee had he slackened his pace. He decided, after that glance,

that he would not remind her that she had not read the telegram;

instead, he thought he ought to find Chip immediately and send

him to her.

 

Chip was rummaging after something in the store-house, and, when

Andy saw him there, he dismounted and stood blotting out the

light from the doorway. Chip looked up, said “Hello” carelessly,

and flung an old slicker aside that he might search beneath it.

“Back early, aren’t you?” he asked, for sake of saying something.

 

Andy’s attitude was not as casual as he would have had it.

 

“Say, maybe you better go on up to the house,” he began

diffidently. “I guess your wife wants to see yuh, maybe.”

 

“Just as a good wife should,” grinned Chip. “What’s the matter?

Kid fall off the porch?”

 

“N-o-o—I brought out a wire from Chicago. It’s from a doctor

there—some hospital. The—Old Man got hurt. One of them cussed

automobiles knocked him down. They want you to come.”

 

Chip had straightened up and was hooking at Andy blankly. “If

you’re just—”

 

“Honest,” Andy asserted, and flushed a little. “I’ll go tell some

one to catch up the team—you’ll want to make that 11:20, I take

it.” He added, as Chip went by him hastily, “I had the agent wire

for sleeper berths on the 11:20 so—”

 

“Thanks. Yes, you have the team caught up, Andy.” Chip was

already well on his way to the house.

 

Andy waited till he saw the Little Doctor come hurriedly to the

end of the porch overlooking the pathway, with the telegram

fluttering in her fingers, and then led his horse down through

the gate and to the stable. He yanked the saddle off, turned the

tired animal into a stall, and went on to the corral, where he

leaned elbows on a warped rail and peered through at the turmoil

within. Close beside him stood Weary, with his loop dragging

behind him, waiting for a chance to throw it over the head of a

buckskin three-year-old with black mane and tail.

 

“Get in here and make a hand, why don’t you?” Weary bantered, his

eye on the buckskin. “Good chance to make a ‘rep’ for yourself,

Andy. Gawd greased that buckskin—he sure can slide out from

under a rope as easy—”

 

He broke off to flip the hoop dexterously forward, had the reward

of seeing the buckskin dodge backward, so that the rope barely

flicked him on the nose, and drew in his rope disgustedly. “Come

on, Andy—my hands are up in the air; I can’t land him— that’s

the fourth throw.”

 

Andy’s interest in the buckskin, however, was scant. His face was

sober, his whole attitude one of extreme dejection.

 

“You got the tummy-ache?” Pink inquired facetiously, moving

around so that he got a fair look at his face.

 

“Naw—his girl’s went back on him!” Happy Jack put in, coiling

his rope as he came up.

 

“Oh, shut up!” Andy’s voice was sharp with trouble. “Boys, the

Old Man’s—well, he’s most likely dead by this time. I brought

out a telegram—”

 

“Go on!” Pink’s eyes widened incredulously. “Don’t you try that

kind of a load, Andy Green, or I’ll just about—”

 

“Oh, you fellows make me sick!” Andy took his elbows off the rail

and stood straight. “Dammit, the telegram’s up at the house—go

and read it yourselves, then!”

 

The three stared after him doubtfully, fear struggling with the

caution born of much experience.

 

“He don’t act, to me, like he was putting up a josh,” Weary

stated uneasily, after a minute of silence. “Run up to the house

and find out, Cadwalloper. The Old Man—oh, good Lord!” The tan

on Weary’s face took a lighter tinge. “Scoot—it won’t take but a

minute to find out for sure. Go on, Pink.”

 

“So help me Josephine, I’ll kill that same Andy Green if he’s

lied about it,” Pink declared, while he climbed the fence.

 

In three minutes he was back, and before he had said a word, his

face confirmed the bad news. Their eyes besought him for details,

and he gave them jerkily. “Automobile run over him. He ain’t

dead, but they think—Chip and the Little Doctor are going to

catch the night train. You go haze in the