The Happy Family written by Bertha Muzzy Bower

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These and other remarks of a like nature made up the clamor that
surged in the ears of Andy as he went, disgraced and alone, up to the
deserted bunk-house where he need not hear what they were saying. He
knew, deep in his heart, that he could ride that horse. He had been
thrown because of his own unpardonable carelessness--a carelessness
which he could not well explain to the others. He himself had given
the roan an evil reputation; a reputation that, so far as he knew, was
libel pure and simple. To explain now that he was thrown simply
because he never dreamed the horse would pitch, and so was taken
unaware, would simply be to insult their intelligence. He was not
supposed, after mounting a horse like that, to be taken unaware. He
might, of course, say that he had lied all along--but he had no
intention of making any confession like that. Even if he did, they
would not believe him. Altogether, it was a very unhappy young man who
slammed his spurs into a far corner and kicked viciously a box he had
stumbled over in the dusk.

"Trying to bust the furniture?" it was the voice of the Old Man at the
door.

"By gracious, it seems I can't bust _bronks_ no more," Andy made
rueful reply. "I reckon I'll just about have to bust the furniture or
nothing."

The Old Man chuckled and came inside, sought the box Andy had kicked,
and sat down upon it. Through the open door came the jumble of many
voices upraised in fruitless argument, and with it the chill of frost.
The Old Man fumbled for his pipe, filled it and scratched a match
sharply on the box. In the flare of it Andy watched his kind old face
with its fringe of grayish hair and its deep-graven lines of whimsical
humor.

"Doggone them boys, they ain't got the stayin' qualities I give 'em
credit for having," he remarked, holding up the match and looking
across at Andy, humped disconsolately in the shadows. "Them Diamond G
men has just about got 'em on the run, right now. Yuh couldn't get a
hundred-t'-one bet, down there."

Andy merely grunted.

"Say," asked the Old Man suddenly. "Didn't yuh kinda mistake that blue
roan for his twin brother, Pardner? This here cayuse is called Weaver.
I tried t' get hold of t'other one, but doggone 'em, they wouldn't
loosen up. Pardner wasn't for sale at no price, but they talked me
into buying the Weaver; they claimed he's just about as good a horse,
once he's tamed down some--and I thought, seein' I've got some real
_tamers_ on my pay-roll, I'd take a chance on him. I thought yuh knew
the horse--the way yuh read up his pedigree--till I seen yuh mount
him. Why, doggone it, yuh straddled him like yuh was just climbing a
fence! Maybe yuh know your own business best--but didn't yuh kinda
mistake him for Pardner? They're as near alike as two bullets run in
the same mold--as far as _looks_ go."

Andy got up and went to the door, and stood looking down the
dusk-muffled hill to the white blotch which was the camp; listened to
the jumble of voices still upraised in fruitless argument, and turned
to the Old Man.

"By gracious, that accounts for a whole lot," he said ambiguously.

II

"I don't see," said Cal Emmett crossly, "what's the use uh this whole
outfit trailing up to that contest. If I was Chip, I'd call the deal
off and start gathering calves. It ain't as if we had a man to ride
for that belt and purse. Ain't your leg well enough to tackle it,
Pink?"

"No," Pink answered shortly, "it ain't."

"Riding the rough bunch they've rounded up for that contest ain't
going to be any picnic," Weary defended his chum. "Cadwolloper would
need two good legs to go up against that deal."

"I wish Irish was here," Pink gloomed. "I'd be willing to back him;
all right. But it's too late now; he couldn't enter if he was here."

A voice behind them spoke challengingly. "I don't believe it would be
etiquette for one outfit to enter _two_ peelers. One's enough, ain't
it?"

The Happy Family turned coldly upon the speaker. It was Slim who
answered for them all. "I dunno as this outfit has got _any_ peeler in
that contest. By golly, it don't look like it since las' night!"

Weary was gentle, as always, but he was firm. "We kinda thought you'd
want to withdraw," he added.

Andy Green, tamer of wild ones, turned and eyed Weary curiously. One
might guess, from telltale eyes and mouth, that his calmness did not
go very deep. "I don't recollect mentioning that I was busy penning
any letter uh withdrawal," he said. "I got my sights raised to that
purse and that belt. I don't recollect saying anything about lowering
'em."

"Aw, gwan. I guess _I'll_ try for that purse, too! I betche I got as
good a show as--"

"Sure. Help yourself, it don't cost nothing. I don't doubt but what
you'd make a real pretty ride, Happy." Andy's tone was deceitfully
hearty. He did not sound in the least as if he would like to choke
Happy Jack, though that was his secret longing.

"Aw, gwan. I betche I could make as purty a ride as we've
saw--lately." Happy Jack did not quite like to make the thing too
personal, for fear of what might happen after.

"Yuh mean last night, don't yuh?" purred Andy.

"Well, by golly, I wish you'd tell us what yuh done it for!" Slim cut
in disgustedly. "It was nacherlay supposed you could ride; we got
_money_ up on yuh! And then, by golly, to go and make a fluke like
that before them Diamond G men--to go and let that blue roan pile yuh
up b'fore he'd got rightly started t' pitch--If yuh'd stayed with him
till he got t' swappin' ends there, it wouldn't uh looked quite so
bad. But t' go and git throwed down right in the start--By golly!"
Slim faced Andy accusingly. "B'fore them Diamond G men--and I've got
money up, by golly!"

"Yuh ain't lost any money yet, have yuh?" Andy inquired patiently.
What Andy felt like doing was to "wade into the bunch"; reason,
however, told him that he had it coming from them, and to take his
medicine, since he could not well explain just how it had happened. He
could not in reason wonder that the faith of the Happy Family was
shattered and that they mourned as lost the money they had already
rashly wagered on the outcome of the contest. The very completeness of
their faith in him, their very loyalty, seemed to them their undoing,
for to them the case was plain enough. If Andy could not ride the blue
roan in their own corral, how was he to ride that same blue roan in
Great Falls? Or, if he could ride him, how could any sane man hope
that he could win the purse and the belt under the stringent rules of
the contest, where "riding on the spurs," "pulling leather" and a
dozen other things were barred? So Andy, under the sting of their
innuendoes and blunt reproaches, was so patient as to seem to them
cowed.

"No, I ain't lost any yet, but by golly, I can see it fixin' to fly,"
Slim retorted heavily.

Andy looked around at the others, and smiled as sarcastically as was
possible considering the mood he was in. "It sure does amuse me," he
observed, "to see growed men cryin' before they're hurt! By gracious,
I expect t' make a stake out uh that fall! I can get long odds from
them Diamond Gs, and from anybody they get a chance to talk to. I'm
kinda planning," he lied boldly, "to winter in an orange grove and
listen at the birds singing, after I'm through with the deal."

"I reckon yuh can count on hearing the birds sing, all right," Pink
snapped back. "It'll be _tra-la-la_ for yours, if last night's a fair
sample uh what yuh expect to do with the blue roan." Pink walked
abruptly away, looking very much like a sulky cherub.

"I s'pose yuh're aiming to give us the impression that you're going to
ride, just the same," said Cal Emmett.

"I sure am," came brief reply. Andy was beginning to lose his temper.
He had expected that the Happy Family would "throw it into him," to a
certain extent, and he had schooled himself to take their drubbing.
What he had not expected was their unfriendly attitude, which went
beyond mere disappointment and made his offence--if it could be called
that--more serious than the occasion would seem to warrant. Perhaps
Jack Bates unwittingly made plain the situation when he remarked:

"I hate to turn down one of our bunch; we've kinda got in the habit uh
hanging together and backing each other's play, regardless. But darn
it, we ain't millionaires, none of us--and gambling, it is a sin. I've
got enough up already to keep me broke for six months if I lose, and
the rest are in about the same fix. I ain't raising no long howl,
Andy, but you can see yourself where we're kinda bashful about sinking
any more on yuh than what we have. Maybe you can ride; I've heard yuh
can, and I've seen yuh make some fair rides, myself. But yuh sure fell
down hard last night, and my faith in yuh got a jolt that fair broke
its back. If yuh done it deliberate, for reasons we don't know, for
Heaven's sake say so, and we'll take your word for it and forget your
rep for lying. On the dead, Andy, did yuh fall off deliberate?"

Andy bit his lip. His conscience had a theory of its own about
truth-telling, and permitted him to make strange assertions at times.
Still, there were limitations. The Happy Family was waiting for his
answer, and he knew instinctively that they would believe him now. For
a moment, temptation held him. Then he squared his shoulders and spoke
truly.

"On the dead, I hit the ground unexpected and inadvertant. I--"

"If that's the case, then the farther yuh keep away from that contest
the better--if yuh ask _me_." Jack turned on his heel and followed
Pink.

Andy stared after him moodily, then glanced at the rest. With one
accord they avoided meeting his gaze. "Damn a bunch uh quitters!" he
flared hotly, and left them, to hunt up the Old Man and Chip--one or
both, it did not matter to him.

Pink it was who observed the Old Man writing a check for Andy. He took
it that Andy had called for his time, and when Andy rolled his bed and
stowed it away in the bunk-house, saddled a horse and rode up the
grade toward town, the whole outfit knew for a certainty that Andy had
quit.

Before many hours had passed they, too, saddled and rode away, with
the wagons and the cavvy following after--and they were headed for
Great Falls and the fair there to be held; or, more particularly, the
rough-riding contest to which they had looked forward eagerly and with
much enthusiasm, and which they were now approaching gloomily and in
deep humiliation. Truly, it would be hard to find a situation more
galling to the pride of the Happy Family.

But Andy Green had not called for his time, and he had no intention of
quitting; for Andy was also suffering from that uncomfortable malady
which we call hurt pride, and for it he knew but one remedy--a remedy
which he was impatient to apply. Because of the unfriendly attitude of
the Happy Family, Andy had refused to take them into his confidence,
or to ride with them to the fair. Instead, he had drawn what money was
still placed to his credit on the pay-roll, had taken a horse and his
riding outfit and gone away to Dry Lake, where he intended to take the
train for Great Falls.

In Dry Lake, however, he found that the story of his downfall had
preceded him, thanks to the exultant men of the Diamond G, and that
the tale had not shrunk in the telling. Dry Lake jeered him as openly
as it dared, and part of it--that part which had believed in him--was
quite as unfriendly as was the Happy Family. To a man they took it for
granted that he would withdraw from the contest, and they were not
careful to conceal what they thought. Andy found himself rather left
alone, and he experienced more than once the unpleasant sensation of
having conversation suddenly lag when he came near, and of seeing
groups of men dissolve awkwardly at his approach. Andy, before he had
been in town an hour, was in a mood to do violence.

For that reason he kept his plans rigidly to himself. When someone
asked him if he had quit the outfit, he had returned gruffly that the
Flying U was not the only cow-outfit in the country, and let the
questioner interpret it as he liked. When the train that had its nose
pointed to the southwest slid into town, Andy did not step on, as had
been his intention. He remained idly leaning over the bar in Rusty
Brown's place, and gave no heed. Later, when the eastbound came
schreeching through at midnight, it found Andy Green on the platform
with his saddle, bridle, chaps, quirt and spurs neatly sacked, and
with a ticket for Havre in his pocket. So the wise ones said that they
knew Andy would never have the nerve to show up at the fair, after the
fluke he had made at the Flying U ranch, and those whose pockets were
not interested considered it a very good joke.

At Havre, Andy bought another ticket and checked the sack which held
his riding outfit; the ticket had Great Falls printed on it in bold,
black lettering. So that he was twelve hours late in reaching his
original destination, and to avoid unwelcome discovery and comment he
took the sleeper and immediately ordered his berth made up, that he
might pass through Dry Lake behind the sheltering folds of the berth
curtains. Not that there was need of this elaborate subterfuge. He was
simply mad clear through and did not want to see or hear the voice of
any man he knew. Besides, the days when he had danced in spangled
tights upon the broad, gray rump of a galloping horse while a
sober-clothed man in the middle of the ring cracked a whip and yelped
commands, had bred in him the unconscious love of a spectacular entry
and a dramatic finish.

That is why he sought out the most obscure rooming house that gave any
promise of decency and comfort, and stayed off Central Avenue and away
from its loitering groups of range dwellers who might know him. That
is why he hired a horse and rode early and alone to the fair grounds
on the opening day, and avoided, by a roundabout trail a certain
splotch of gray-white against the brown of the prairie, which he knew
instinctively to be the camp of the Flying U outfit, which had made
good time and were located to their liking near the river. Andy felt a
tightening of the chest when he saw the familiar tents, and kicked his
hired horse ill-naturedly in the ribs. It was all so different from
what he had thought it would be.

In those last two weeks, he had pictured himself riding vaingloriously
through town on his best horse, with a new Navajo saddle-blanket
making a dab of bright color, and a new Stetson hat dimpled
picturesquely as to crown and tilted rakishly over one eye, and with
his silver-mounted spurs catching the light; around him would ride the
Happy Family, also in gala attire and mounted upon the best horses in
their several strings. The horses would not approve of the
street-cars, and would circle and back--and it was quite possible,
even probable, that there would be some pitching and some pretty
riding before the gaping populace which did not often get a chance to
view the real thing. People would stop and gaze while they went
clattering by, and he, Andy Green, would be pointed out by the knowing
ones as a fellow that was going to ride in the contest and that stood
a good chance of winning. For Andy was but human, that he dreamed of
these things; besides, does not the jumping through blazing hoops and
over sagging bunting while one rides, whet insiduously one's appetite
for the plaudits of the crowd?

The reality was different. He was in Great Falls, but he had not
ridden vaingloriously down Central Avenue surrounded by the Happy
Family, and watched by the gaping populace. Instead, he had chosen a
side street and he had ridden alone, and no one had seemed to know or
care who he might be. His horse had not backed, wild-eyed, before an
approaching car, and he had not done any pretty riding. Instead, his
horse had scarce turned an eye toward the jangling bell when he
crossed the track perilously close to the car, and he had gone
"side-wheeling" decorously down the street--and Andy hated a pacing
horse. The Happy Family was in town, but he did not know where. Andy
kicked his horse into a gallop and swore bitterly that he did not
care. He did not suppose that they gave him a thought, other than
those impelled by their jeopardized pockets. And that, he assured
himself pessimistically, is friendship!

He tied the hired horse to the fence and went away to the stables and
fraternized with a hump-backed jockey who knew a few things himself
about riding and was inclined to talk unprofessionally. It was not at
all as Andy had pictured the opening day, but he got through the time
somehow until the crowd gathered and the racing began. Then he showed
himself in the crowd of "peelers" and their friends, as unconcernedly
as he might; and as unobtrusively. The Happy Family, he observed, was
not there, though he met Chip face to face and had a short talk with
him. Chip was the only one, aside from the Old Man, who really
understood. Billy Roberts was there, and he greeted Andy
commiseratingly, as one speaks to the sick or to one in mourning; the
tone made Andy grind his teeth, though he knew in his heart that Billy
Roberts wished him well--up to the point of losing the contest to him,
which was beyond human nature. Billy Roberts was a rider and knew--or
thought he knew--just how "sore" Andy must be feeling. Also, in the
kindness of his heart he tried blunderingly to hide his knowledge.

"Going up against the rough ones?" he queried with careful
carelessness, in the hope of concealing that he had heard the tale of
Andy's disgrace.

"I sure am," Andy returned laconically, with no attempt to conceal
anything.

Billy Roberts opened his eyes wide, and his mouth a little before he
recovered from his surprise. "Well, good luck to yuh," he managed to
say, "only so yuh don't beat me to it. I was kinda hoping yuh was too
bashful to get out and ride before all the ladies."

Andy, remembering his days in the sawdust ring, smiled queerly; but
his heart warmed to Billy Roberts amazingly.

They were leaning elbows on the fence below the grand stand, watching
desultorily the endless preparatory manoeuvres of three men astride
the hind legs of three pacers in sulkies. "This side-wheeling business
gives me a pain," Billy remarked, as the pacers ambled by for the
fourth or fifth time. "I like _caballos_ that don't take all day to
wind 'em up before they go. I been looking over our bunch. They's
horses in that corral that are sure going to do things to us twenty
peelers!"

"By gracious, yes!" Andy was beginning to feel himself again. "That
blue hoss--uh course yuh heard how he got me, and heard it with
trimmings--yuh may think he's a man-eater; but while he's a bad hoss,
all right, he ain't the one that'll get yuh. Yuh want t' watch out,
Billy, for that HS sorrel. He's plumb wicked. He's got a habit uh
throwing himself backwards. They're keeping it quiet, maybe--but I've
seen him do it three times in one summer."

"All right--thanks. I didn't know that. But the blue roan--"

"The blue roan'll pitch and bawl and swap ends on yuh and raise hell
all around, but he can be rode. That festive bunch up in the reserve
seats'll think it's awful, and that the HS sorrel is a lady's hoss
alongside him, but a real rider can wear him out. But that
sorrel--when yuh think yuh got him beat, Billy, is when yuh want to
watch out!"

Billy turned his face away from a rolling dustcloud that came down the
home stretch with the pacers, and looked curiously at Andy. Twice he
started to speak and did not finish. Then: "A man can be a sure-enough
rider, and get careless and let a horse pile him off him when he ain't
looking, just because he knows he can ride that horse," he said with a
certain diffidence.

"By gracious, yes!" Andy assented emphatically. And that was the
nearest they came to discussing a delicate matter which was in the
minds of both.

Andy was growing more at ease and feeling more optimistic every
minute. Three men still believed in him, which was much. Also, the
crowd could not flurry him as it did some of the others who were not
accustomed to so great an audience; rather, it acted as a tonic and
brought back the poise, the easy self-confidence which had belonged to
one Andre de Greno, champion bareback rider. So that, when the
rough-riding began, Andy's nerves were placidly asleep.

At the corral in the infield, where the horses and men were
foregathered, Andy met Slim and Happy Jack; but beyond his curt
"Hello" and an amazed "Well, by golly!" from Slim, no words passed.
Across the corral he glimpsed some of the others--Pink and Weary, and
farther along, Cal Emmett and Jack Bates; but they made no sign if
they saw him, and he did not go near them. He did not know when his
turn would come to ride, and he had a horse to saddle at the command
of the powers that were. Coleman, the man who had collected the
horses, almost ran over him. He said "Hello, Green," and passed on,
for his haste was great.

Horse after horse was saddled and led perforce out into the open of
the infield; man after man mounted, with more or less trouble, and
rode to triumph or defeat. Billy Roberts was given a white-eyed little
bay, and did some great riding. The shouts and applause from the grand
stand rolled out to them in a great wave of sound. Billy mastered the
brute and rode him back to the corral white-faced and with beads of
sweat standing thick on his forehead.

"It ain't going to be such damn' easy money--that two hundred," he
confided pantingly to Andy, who stood near. "The fellow that gets it
will sure have to earn it."

Andy nodded and moved out where he could get a better view. Then
Coleman came and informed him hurriedly that he came next, and Andy
went back to his place. The horse he was to ride he had never seen
before that day. He was a long-legged brown, with scanty mane and a
wicked, rolling eye. He looked capable of almost any deviltry, but
Andy did not give much time to speculating upon what he would try to
do. He was still all eyes to the infield where his predecessor was
gyrating. Then a sudden jump loosened him so that he grabbed the
horn--and it was all over with that particular applicant, so far as
the purse and the championship belt were concerned. He was out of the
contest, and presently he was also back at the corral, explaining
volubly--and uselessly--just how it came about. He appeared to have a
very good reason for "pulling leather," but Andy was not listening and
only thought absently that the fellow was a fool to make a talk for
himself.

Andy was clutching the stirrup and watching a chance to put his toe
into it, and the tall brown horse was circling backwards with
occasional little side-jumps. When it was quite clear that the horse
did not mean to be mounted, Andy reached out his hand, got a rope from
somebody--he did not know who, though, as a matter of fact, it was
Pink who gave it--and snared a front foot; presently the brown was
standing upon three legs instead of four, and the gaping populace
wondered how it was done, and craned necks to see. After that, though
the horse still circled backwards, Andy got the stirrup and put his
toe in it and went up so easily that the ignorant might think anybody
could do it. He dropped the rope and saw that it was Pink who picked
it up.

The brown at first did nothing at all. Then he gave a spring straight
ahead and ran fifty yards or so, stopped and began to pitch. Three
jumps and he ran again; stopped and reared. It was very pretty to look
at, but Happy Jack could have ridden him, or Slim, or any other range
rider. In two minutes the brown was sulking, and it took severe
spurring to bring him back to the corral. Pitch he would not. The
crowd applauded, but Andy felt cheated and looked as he felt.

Pink edged toward him, but Andy was not in the mood for reconciliation
and kept out of his way. Others of the Happy Family came near, at
divers times and places, as if they would have speech with him, but he
thought he knew about what they would say, and so was careful not to
give them a chance. When the excitement was all over for that day he
got his despised hired horse and went back to town with Billy Roberts,
because it was good to have a friend and because they wanted to talk
about the riding. Billy did not tell Andy, either, that he had had
hard work getting away from his own crowd; for Billy was kind-hearted
and had heard a good deal, because he had been talking with Happy
Jack. His sympathy was not with the Happy Family, either.

On the second afternoon, such is effect of rigid winnowing, there were
but nine men to ride. The fellow who had grabbed the saddle horn,
together with ten others, stood among the spectators and made caustic
remarks about the management, the horses, the nine who were left and
the whole business in general. Andy grinned a little and wondered if
he would stand among them on the morrow and make remarks. He was not
worrying about it, though. He said hello to Weary, Pink and Cal
Emmett, and saddled a kicking, striking brute from up Sweetgrass way.

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