The Jimmyjohn Boss, and Other Stories by Owen Wister (the best novels to read TXT) 📗

streams and exhilarating silence. The little waters fell tinkling through icicles in the loneliness of the woods, and snowshoe rabbits dived into the brush. East Oregon, the Owyhee and the Malheur country, the old trails of General Crook, the willows by the streams, the open swales, the high woods where once Buffalo Horn and Chief E-egante and O-its the medicine-man prospered, through this domain of war and memories went Bolles the school-master with Dean Drake and Brock. The third noon from Harper's they came leisurely down to the old Malheur Agency, where once the hostile Indians had drawn pictures on the door, and where Castle Rock frowned down unchanged.

“I wish I was going to stay here with you,” said Brock to Drake. “By Indian Creek you can send word to me quicker than we've come.”

“Why, you're an old bat!” said the boy to his foreman, and clapped him farewell on the shoulder.

Brock drove away, thoughtful. He was not a large man. His face was clean-cut, almost delicate. He had a well-trimmed, yellow mustache, and it was chiefly in his blue eye and lean cheek-bone that the frontiersman showed. He loved Dean Drake more than he would ever tell, even to himself.

The young superintendent set at work to ranch-work this afternoon of Brock's leaving, and the buccaroos made his acquaintance one by one and stared at him. Villany did not sit outwardly upon their faces; they were not villains; but they stared at the boy sent to control them, and they spoke together, laughing. Drake took the head of the table at supper, with Bolles on his right. Down the table some silence, some staring, much laughing went on—the rich brute laugh of the belly untroubled by the brain. Sam, the Chinaman, rapid and noiseless, served the dishes.

“What is it?” said a buccaroo.

“Can it bite?” said another.

“If you guess what it is, you can have it,” said a third.

“It's meat,” remarked Drake, incisively, helping himself; “and tougher than it looks.”

The brute laugh rose from the crowd and fell into surprised silence; but no rejoinder came, and they ate their supper somewhat thoughtfully. The Chinaman's quick, soft eye had glanced at Dean Drake when they laughed. He served his dinner solicitously. In his kitchen that evening he and Bolles unpacked the good things—the olives, the dried fruits, the cigars—brought by the new superintendent for Christmas; and finding Bolles harmless, like his gentle Asiatic self, Sam looked cautiously about and spoke:

“You not know why they laugh,” said he. “They not talk about my meat then. They mean new boss, Misser Dlake. He velly young boss.”

“I think,” said Bolles, “Mr. Drake understood their meaning, Sam. I have noticed that at times he expresses himself peculiarly. I also think they understood his meaning.”

The Oriental pondered. “Me like Misser Dlake,” said he. And drawing quite close, he observed, “They not nice man velly much.”

Next day and every day “Misser Dlake” went gayly about his business, at his desk or on his horse, vigilant, near and far, with no sign save a steadier keenness in his eye. For the Christmas dinner he provided still further sending to the Grande Ronde country for turkeys and other things. He won the heart of Bolles by lending him a good horse; but the buccaroos, though they were boisterous over the coming Christmas joy, did not seem especially grateful. Drake, however, kept his worries to himself.

“This thing happens anywhere,” he said one night in the office to Bolles, puffing a cigar. “I've seen a troop of cavalry demoralize itself by a sort of contagion from two or three men.”

“I think it was wicked to send you here by yourself,” blurted Bolles.

“Poppycock! It's the chance of my life, and I'll jam her through or bust.”

“I think they have decided you are getting turkeys because you are afraid of them,” said Bolles.

“Why, of course! But d' you figure I'm the man to abandon my Christmas turkey because my motives for eating it are misconstrued?”

Dean Drake smoked for a while; then a knock came at the door. Five buccaroos entered and stood close, as is the way with the guilty who feel uncertain.

“We were thinking as maybe you'd let us go over to town,” said Half-past Full, the spokesman.

“When?”

“Oh, any day along this week.”

“Can't spare you till after Christmas.”

“Maybe you'll not object to one of us goin'?”

“You'll each have your turn after this week.”

A slight pause followed. Then Half-past Full said: “What would you do if I went, anyway?”

“Can't imagine,” Drake answered, easily. “Go, and I'll be in a position to inform you.”

The buccaroo dropped his stolid bull eyes, but raised them again and grinned. “Well, I'm not particular about goin' this week, boss.”

“That's not my name,” said Drake, “but it's what I am.”

They stood a moment. Then they shuffled out. It was an orderly retreat—almost.

Drake winked over to Bolles. “That was a graze,” said he, and smoked for a while. “They'll not go this time. Question is, will they go next?”

III

Drake took a fresh cigar, and threw his legs over the chair arm.

“I think you smoke too much,” said Bolles, whom three days had made familiar and friendly.

“Yep. Have to just now. That's what! as Uncle Pasco would say. They are a half-breed lot, though,” the boy continued, returning to the buccaroos and their recent visit. “Weaken in the face of a straight bluff, you see, unless they get whiskey-courageous. And I've called 'em down on that.”

“Oh!” said Bolles, comprehending.

“Didn't you see that was their game? But he will not go after it.”

“The flesh is all they seem to understand,” murmured Bolles.

Half-past Full did not go to Harney City for the tabooed whiskey, nor did any one. Drake read his buccaroos like the children that they were. After the late encounter of grit, the atmosphere was relieved of storm. The children, the primitive, pagan, dangerous children, forgot all about whiskey, and lusted joyously for Christmas. Christmas was coming! No work! A shooting-match! A big feed! Cheerfulness bubbled at the Malheur Agency. The weather itself was in tune. Castle Rock seemed no longer to frown, but rose into the shining air, a mass of friendly strength. Except when a rare sledge or horseman passed, Mr. Bolles's journeys to the school were all to show it was not some pioneer colony in a new, white, silent world that heard only the playful shouts and songs of the buccaroos. The sun overhead and the hard-crushing snow underfoot filled every one with a crisp, tingling hilarity.

Before the sun first touched Castle Rock on the morning of the feast they