The Happy Family written by Bertha Muzzy Bower

B >> Bertha Muzzy Bower >> The Happy Family

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15

On this day the horses were wickeder, and one man came near getting
his neck broken. As it was, his collar-bone snapped and he was carried
off the infield on a stretcher and hurried to the hospital; which did
not tend to make the other riders feel more cheerful. Andy noted that
it was the HS sorrel which did the mischief, and glanced meaningly
across at Billy Roberts.

Then it was his turn with the striking, kicking gray, and he mounted
and prepared for what might come. The gray was an artist in his line,
and pitched "high, wide and crooked" in the most approved fashion. But
Andy, being also an artist of a sort, rode easily and with a grace
that brought much hand-clapping from the crowd. Only the initiated
reserved their praise till further trial; for though the gray was not
to say gentle, and though it took skill to ride him, there were a
dozen, probably twice as many, men in the crowd who could have done as
well.

The Happy Family, drawn together from habit and because they could
speak their minds more freely, discussed Andy gravely among
themselves. Betting was growing brisk, and if their faith had not been
so shaken they could have got long odds on Andy.

"I betche he don't win out," Happy Jack insisted with characteristic
gloom. "Yuh wait till he goes up agin that blue roan. They're savin'
that roan till the las' day--and I betche Andy'll git him. If he hangs
on till the las' day." Happy Jack laughed ironically as he made the
provision.

"Any you fellows got money yuh want to put up on this deal?" came the
voice of Andy behind them.

They turned, a bit shamefaced, toward him.

"Aw, I betche--" began Happy.

"That's what I'm here for," cut in Andy. "What I've got goes
up--saddle, spurs--_all_ I've got. You've done a lot uh mourning, now
here's a chance to break even on _me_. Speak up."

The Happy Family hesitated.

"I guess I'll stay out," dimpled Pink. "I don't just savvy your play,
Andy, and if I lose on yuh--why, it won't be the first time I ever
went broke."

"Well, by golly, _I'll_ take a chance," bellowed Slim, whose voice was
ever pitched to carry long distances in a high wind. "I'll bet yuh
fifty dollars yuh don't pull down that belt or purse. By golly,
there's two or three men here that can _ride_."

"There's only one that'll be the real star," smiled Andy with
unashamed egotism. "Happy, how rich do _you_ want to get off me?"

Happy said a good deal and "betche" several things would
happen--things utterly inconsistent with one another. In the end, Andy
pinned him down to twenty dollars against Andy's silver-mounted
spurs--which was almost a third more than the spurs were worth; but
Andy had no sympathy for Happy Jack and stuck to the price doggedly
until Happy gave in.

Jack Bates advertised his lack of faith in Andy ten dollars worth, and
Cal Emmett did the same. Irish, coming in on the afternoon train and
drifting instinctively to the vicinity of the Happy Family, cursed
them all impartially for a bunch of quitters, slapped Andy on the back
and with characteristic impetuosity offered a hundred dollars to
anybody who dared take him up, that Andy would win. And this after he
had heard the tale of the blue roan and before they told him about the
two rides already made in the contest.

It is true that Happy Jack endeavored to expostulate, but Irish glared
at him in a way to make Happy squirm and stammer incoherently.

"I've heard all about it," Irish cut in, "and I don't have to hear any
more. I know a rider when I see one, and my money's on Andy from start
to finish. You make me sick. Weary, have _you_ gone against our man?"
The tone was a challenge in itself.

Weary grinned goodnaturedly. "I haven't pulled down any bets," he
answered mildly, "and I haven't put up my last cent and don't intend
to. I'm an engaged young man." He shrugged his shoulders to point the
moral. "I sure do hope Andy'll win out," he added simply.

"_Hope_? Why, damn it, yuh _know_ he'll win!" stormed Irish.

Men in their vicinity caught the belligerence of the tone and turned
about, thinking there was trouble, and the Happy Family subsided into
quieter discussion. In the end Irish, discovering that Andy had for
the time being forsworn the shelter of the Flying U tents, stuck by
him loyally and forswore it also, and went with Andy to share the
doubtful comfort of the obscure lodging house. For Irish was all or
nothing, and to find the Happy Family publicly opposed--or at most
neutral--to a Flying U man in a rough-riding contest like this,
incensed him much.

The Happy Family began to feel less sure of themselves and a bit
ashamed--though of just what, they were not quite clear, for surely
they had reason a-plenty for doubting Andy Green.

The last day found the Happy Family divided against itself and growing
a bit venomous in its remarks. Andy had not as yet done anything
remarkable, except perhaps keep in the running when the twenty had
been culled to three: Billy Roberts, Andy and a man from the
Yellowstone Valley, called Gopher by his acquaintances. Accident and
untoward circumstances had thrown out the others--good riders all of
them, or they would not have been there. Happy Jack proclaimed loudly
in camp that Andy was still in because Andy had not had a real bad
horse. "I seen Coleman looking over the blue roan and talkin' to them
guys that runs things; they're goin' t' put Andy on him t-day, I
betche--and we seen how he can _ride_ him! Piled in a heap--"

"Not exactly," Pink interrupted. "I seem to remember Andy lighting on
his feet; and he was smoking when he started, and smoking when he
quit. It didn't strike me at the time, but that's kinda funny, don't
yuh think?"

So Pink went back to his first faith, and the Happy Family straightway
became loud and excited over the question of whether Andy did really
light upon his feet, or jumped up immediately, and whether he kept his
cigarette or made a new one. The discussion carried them to the fair
grounds and remained just where it started, so far as any amicable
decision was concerned.

Now this is a fair and true report of that last day's riding: There
being but the three riders, and the excitement growing apace, the
rough-riding was put first on the program and men struggled for the
best places and the best view of the infield.

In the beginning, Andy drew the HS sorrel and Billy Roberts the blue
roan. Gopher, the Yellowstone man, got a sulky little buckskin that
refused to add one whit to the excitement, so that he was put back and
another one brought. This other proved to be the wicked-eyed brown
which Andy had ridden the first day. Only this day the brown was in
different mood and pitched so viciously that Gopher lost control in
the rapid-fire changes, and rode wild, being all over the horse and
everywhere but on the ground. He did not pull leather, however though
he was accused by some of riding on his spurs at the last. At any
rate, Andy and Billy Roberts felt that the belt lay between
themselves, and admitted as much privately.

"You've sure got to ride like a wild man if yuh beat me to it,"
grinned Billy.

"By gracious, I'm after it like a wolf myself," Andy retorted. "Yuh
know how I'm fixed--I've just got to have it, Bill."

Billy, going out to ride, made no reply except a meaning head-shake.
And Billy certainly rode, that day; for the blue roan did his worst
and his best. To describe the performance, however, would be to invent
many words to supply a dearth in the language. Billy rode the blue
roan back to the corral, and he had broken none of the stringent rules
of the contest--which is saying much for Billy.

When Andy went out--shot out, one might say--on the sorrel, the Happy
Family considered him already beaten because of the remarkable riding
of Billy. When the sorrel began pitching the gaping populace, grown
wise overnight in these things, said that he was _e-a-s-y_--which he
was not. He fought as some men fight; with brain as well as muscle,
cunningly, malignantly. He would stop and stand perfectly still for a
few seconds, and then spring viciously whichever way would seem to him
most unexpected; for he was not bucking from fright as most horses do
but because he hated men and would do them injury if he could.

When the crowd thought him worn out, so that he stood with head
drooping all that Andy would permit, then it was that Andy grew most
wary. It was as he had said. Of a sudden, straight into the air leaped
the sorrel, reared and went backward in a flash of red. But as he
went, his rider slipped to one side, and when he struck the ground
Andy struck also--on his feet. "Get up, darn yuh," he muttered, and
when the sorrel gathered himself together and jumped up, he was much
surprised to find Andy in the saddle again.

Then it was that the HS sorrel went mad and pitched as he had never,
even when building his record, pitched before. Then it was that Andy,
his own temper a bit roughened by the murderous brute, rode as he had
not ridden for many a day; down in the saddle, his quirt keeping time
with the jumps. He was just settling himself to "drag it out of him
proper," when one of the judges, on horseback in the field, threw up
his hand.

"Get off!" he shouted, galloping closer. "That horse's got to be rode
again to-day. You've done enough this time."

So Andy, watching his chance, jumped off when the sorrel stopped for a
few seconds of breath, and left him unconquered and more murderous
than ever. A man with a megaphone was announcing that the contest was
yet undecided, and that Green and Roberts would ride again later in
the afternoon.

Andy passed the Happy Family head in air, stopped a minute to exchange
facetious threats with Billy Roberts, and went with Irish to roost
upon the fence near the judge's stand to watch the races. The Happy
Family kept sedulously away from the two and tried to grow interested
in other things until the final test.

It came, when Billy Roberts, again first, mounted the HS sorrel, still
in murderous mood and but little the worse for his previous battle.
What he had done with Andy he repeated, and added much venom to the
repetition. Again he threw himself backward, which Billy expected and
so got clear and remounted as he scrambled up. After that, the sorrel
simply pitched so hard and so fast that he loosened Billy a bit; not
much, but enough to "show daylight" between rider and saddle for two
or three high, crooked jumps. One stirrup he lost, rode a jump without
it and by good luck regained it as it flew against his foot. It was
great riding, and a gratifying roar of applause swept out to him when
it was over.

Andy, saddling the blue roan, drew a long breath. This one ride would
tell the tale, and he was human enough to feel a nervous strain such
as had not before assailed him. It was so close, now! and it might
soon be so far. A bit of bad luck such as may come to any man, however
great his skill, and the belt would go to Billy. But not for long
could doubt or questioning hold Andy Green. He led the Weaver out
himself, and instinctively he felt that the horse remembered him and
would try all that was in him. Also, he was somehow convinced that the
blue roan held much in reserve, and that it would be a great fight
between them for mastery.

When he gathered up the reins, the roan eyed him wickedly sidelong and
tightened his muscles, as it were, for the struggle. Andy turned the
stirrup, put in his toe, and went up in a flash, warned by something
in the blue roan's watchful eye. Like a flash the blue roan also went
up--but Andy had been a fraction of a second quicker. There was a
squeal that carried to the grand stand as the Weaver, wild-eyed and
with red flaring nostrils, pounded the wind-baked sod with high,
bone-racking jumps; changed and took to "weaving" till one wondered
how he kept his footing--more particularly, how Andy contrived to sit
there, loose-reined, firm-seated, riding easily. The roan, tiring of
that, began "swapping ends" furiously and so fast one could scarce
follow his jumps. Andy, with a whoop of pure defiance, yanked off his
hat and beat the roan over the head with it, yelling taunting words
and contemptuous; and for every shout the Weaver bucked harder and
higher, bawling like a new-weaned calf.

Men who knew good riding when they saw it went silly and yelled and
yelled. Those who did not know anything about it caught the infection
and roared. The judges galloped about, backing away from the living
whirlwind and yelling with the rest. Came a lull when the roan stood
still because he lacked breath to continue, and the judges shouted an
uneven chorus.

"Get down--the belt's yours"--or words to that effect. It was
unofficial, that verdict, but it was unanimous and voiced with
enthusiasm.

Andy turned his head and smiled acknowledgment. "All right--but wait
till I tame this hoss proper! Him and I've got a point to settle!" He
dug in his spurs and again the battle raged, and again the crowd, not
having heard the unofficial decision, howled and yelled approval of
the spectacle.

Not till the roan gave up completely and owned obedience to rein and
voiced command, did Andy take further thought of the reward. He
satisfied himself beyond doubt that he was master and that the Weaver
recognized him as such. He wheeled and turned, "cutting out" an
imaginary animal from an imaginary herd; he loped and he walked,
stopped dead still in two jumps and started in one. He leaned and ran
his gloved hand forgivingly along the slatey blue neck, reached
farther and pulled facetiously the roan's ears, and the roan meekly
permitted the liberties. He half turned in the saddle and slapped the
plump hips, and the Weaver never moved. "Why, you're an all-right
little hoss!" praised Andy, slapping again and again.

The decision was being bellowed from the megaphone and Andy, hearing
it thus officially, trotted over to where a man was holding out the
belt that proclaimed him champion of the state. Andy reached out a
hand for the belt, buckled it around his middle and saluted the grand
stand as he used to do from the circus ring when one Andre de Greno
had performed his most difficult feat.

The Happy Family crowded up, shamefaced and manfully willing to own
themselves wrong.

"We're down and ready to be walked on by the Champion," Weary
announced quizzically. "Mama mine! but yuh sure can ride."

Andy looked at them, grinned and did an exceedingly foolish thing,
just to humiliate Happy Jack, who, he afterwards said, still looked
unconvinced. He coolly got upon his feet in the saddle, stood so while
he saluted the Happy Family mockingly, lighted the cigarette he had
just rolled, then, with another derisive salute, turned a double
somersault in the air and lighted upon his feet--and the roan did
nothing more belligerent than to turn his head and eye Andy
suspiciously.

"By gracious, maybe you fellows'll some day own up yuh don't know it
all!" he cried, and led the Weaver back into the corral and away from
the whooping maniacs across the track.

* * * * *

ANDY, THE LIAR

Andy Green licked a cigarette into shape the while he watched with
unfriendly eyes the shambling departure of their guest. "I believe the
darned old reprobate was lyin' to us," he remarked, when the horseman
disappeared into a coulee.

"You sure ought to be qualified to recognize the symptoms," grunted
Cal Emmett, kicking his foot out of somebody's carelessly coiled rope
on the ground. "That your rope, Happy? No wonder you're always on the
bum for one. If you'd try tying it on your saddle--"

"Aw, g'wan. That there's Andy's rope--"

"If you look at my saddle, you'll find my rope right where it
belongs," Andy retorted. "I ain't sheepherder enough to leave it
kicking around under foot. That rope belongs to his nibs that just
rode off. When he caught up his horse again after dinner, he throwed
his rope down while he saddled up, and then went off and forgot it. He
wasn't easy in his mind--that jasper wasn't. I don't go very high on
that hard-luck tale he told. I know the boy he had wolfing with him
last winter, and he wasn't the kind to pull out with all the stuff he
could get his hands on. He was an all-right fellow, and if there's
been any rusty work done down there in the breaks, this shifty-eyed
mark done it. He was lying--"

Somebody laughed suddenly, and another chuckle helped to point the
joke, until the whole outfit was in an uproar; for of all the men who
had slept under Flying-U tents and eaten beside the mess-wagon, Andy
Green was conceded to be the greatest, the most shameless and wholly
incorrigible liar of the lot.

"Aw, yuh don't want to get jealous of an old stiff like that," Pink
soothed musically. "There ain't one of us but what knows you could lie
faster and farther and more of it in a minute, with your tongue
half-hitched around your palate and the deaf-and-dumb language barred,
than any three men in Chouteau County. Don't let it worry yuh, Andy."

"I ain't letting it worry me," said Andy, getting a bit red with
trying not to show that the shot hit him. "When my imagination gets to
soaring, I'm willing to bet all I got that it can fly higher than the
rest of you, that have got brains about on a par with a sage-hen, can
follow. When I let my fancy soar, I take notice the rest of yuh like
to set in the front row, all right--and yuh never, to my knowledge,
called it a punk show when the curtain rung down; yuh always got the
worth uh your money, and then some.

"But if yuh'd taken notice of the load that old freak was trying to
throw into the bunch, you'd suspicion there was something scaley about
it; there was, all right. I'd gamble on it."

"From the symptoms," spoke Weary mildly, rising to an elbow, "Andy's
about to erupt one of those wide, hot, rushing streams of melted
imagination that bursts forth from his think-works ever so often.
Don't get us all worked up over it, Andy; what's it going to be this
time? A murder in the Bad-lands?"

Andy clicked his teeth together, thought better of his ill-humor and
made reply, though he had intended to remain dignifiedly silent.

"Yuh rung the bell, m'son--but it ain't any josh. By gracious, I mean
it!" He glared at those who gurgled incredulously, and went on: "No,
sir, you bet it ain't any josh with me _this_ time. That old gazabo
had something heavy on his conscience--and knowing the fellow he had
reference to, I sure believe he lied a whole lot when he said Dan
pulled out with all the stuff they'd got together, and went down
river. Maybe he went down river, all right--but if he did, it was most
likely to be face-down. Dan was as honest a boy as there is in the
country, and he had money on him that he got mining down in the little
Rockies last summer. I know, because he showed me the stuff last fall
when I met him in Benton, and he was fixing to winter with this fellow
that just left.

"Dan was kinda queer about some things, and one of 'em was about
money. It never made any difference how much or how little he had, he
always packed it in his clothes; said a bank had busted on him once
and left him broke in the middle uh winter, and he wasn't going to let
it happen again. He never gambled none, nor blowed his money any
farther than a couple uh glasses uh beer once in a while. He was one
uh these saving cusses--but he was honest; I know that for a fact.

"So he had all this money on him, and went down there with this
jasper, that he'd got in with somehow and didn't know much about, and
they wolfed all winter, according to all accounts, and must uh made
quite a stake, the way the bounty runs up, these days. And here comes
this darned Siwash, hiking out uh there fast as he can--and if he
hadn't run slap onto us at this crossing, I'll gamble he'd never uh
showed up at camp at all, but kept right on going. We didn't ask him
no questions, did we? But he goes to all the pains uh telling us his
tale uh woe, about how Dan had robbed him and pulled out down river.

"If that was the case, wouldn't he be apt to hike out after him and
try and get back his stuff? And wouldn't--"

"How much money did this friend uh yours have?" queried Jack Bates
innocently.

"Well, when I seen him in Benton, he had somewhere between six and
seven hundred dollars. He got it all changed into fifty-dollar
bills--"

"Oh, golly!" Jack Bates rolled over in disgust. "Andy's losing his
grip. Why, darn yuh, if you was in a normal, lying condition, you'd
make it ten thousand, at the lowest--and I've seen the time when you'd
uh said fifty thousand; and you'd uh made us swallow the load, too!
Buck up and do a good stunt, Andy, or else keep still. Why, Happy Jack
could tell that big a lie!"

"Aw, gwan!" Happy Jack rose up to avenge the insult. "Yuh needn't
compare me to Andy Green. I ain't a liar, and I can lick the darned
son-of-a-gun that calls me one. I ain't, and yuh can't say I am,
unless yuh lie worse'n Andy."

"Calm down," urged Weary pacifically. "Jack said yuh _could_ lie; he
didn't say--"

"By gracious, you'd think I was necked up with a whole bunch uh George
Washingtons!" growled Andy, half-indignantly. "And what gets me is,
that I tell the truth as often as anybody in the outfit; oftener than
some I could mention. But that ain't the point. I'm telling the truth
now, when I say somebody ought to hike down to their camp and see what
this old skunk has done with Dan. I'd bet money you'd find him sunk in
the river, or cached under a cut-bank, or something like that. If he'd
kept his face closed I wouldn't uh give it a second thought, but the
more I think uh the story he put up, the more I believe there's
something wrong. He's made way with Dan somehow, and--"

"Yes. Sure thing," drawled Pink wickedly. "Let's organize a searching
party and go down there and investigate. It's only about a three or
four days' trip, through the roughest country the Lord ever stood on
end to cool and then forgot till it crumpled down in spots and got set
that way, so He just left it go and mixed fresh mud for the job He was
working on. Andy'd lead us down there, and we'd find--"

"His friend Dan buried in a tomato can, maybe," supplied Jack Bates.

"By golly, I'll bet yuh _could_ put friend Dan into one," Slim burst
out. "By golly, _I_ never met up with no Dan that packed fifty-dollar
bills around in his gun-pocket--"

"Andy's telling the truth. He says so," reproved Weary. "And when Andy
says a thing is the truth, yuh always know--"

"It ain't." Cal Emmett finished the sentence, but Weary paid no
attention.

"--what to expect. Cadwolloper's right, and we ought to go down there
and make a hunt for friend Dan and his fifty-dollar bills. How many
were there, did yuh say?"

"You go to the devil," snapped Andy, getting up determinedly. "Yuh
bite quick enough when anybody throws a load at yuh that would choke a
rhinoscerous, but plain truth seems to be too much for the weak heads
of yuh. I guess I'll have to turn loose and _lie_, so yuh'll listen to
me. There _is_ something crooked about this deal--"

"We all thought it sounded that way," Weary remarked mildly.

"And if yuh did go down to where them two wintered, you'd find out I'm
right. But yuh won't, and that old cutthroat will get off with the
murder--and the money."

"Don't he lie natural?" queried Jack Bates solemnly.

That was too much. Andy glared angrily at the group, picked up the
wolfer's rope, turned on his heel and walked off to where his horse
was tied; got on him and rode away without once looking back, though
he knew quite well that they were watching every move he made. It did
not help to smooth his temper that the sound of much laughing followed
him as he swung into the trail taken by the man who had left not long
before.

Where he went, that afternoon when for some reason sufficient for the
foreman--who was Chip Bennett--the Flying U roundup crew lay
luxuriously snoring in the shade instead of riding hurriedly and hotly
the high divides, no one but Andy himself knew. They talked about him
after he left, and told one another how great a liar he was, and how
he couldn't help it because he was born that way, and how you could
hardly help believing him. They recalled joyously certain of his
fabrications that had passed into the history of the Flying U, and
wondered what josh he was trying to spring this time.

"What we ought to do," advised Cal, "is to lead him on and let him lie
his darndest, and make out we believe him. And then we can give him
the laugh good and plenty--and maybe cure him."

"Cure nothing!" exclaimed Jack Bates, getting up because the sun had
discovered him, and going over to the mess-wagon where a bit of shade
had been left unoccupied. "About the only way to cure Andy of lying,
is to kill him. He was working his way up to some big josh, and if yuh
let him alone you'll find out what it is, all right. I wouldn't worry
none about it, if I was you." To prove that he did not worry, Jack
immediately went to sleep.

Such being the attitude of the Happy Family, when Andy rode hurriedly
into camp at sundown, his horse wet to the tips of his ears with
sweat, they sat up, expectancy writ large upon their faces. No one
said anything, however, while Andy unsaddled and came over to beg a
belated supper from the cook; nor yet while he squatted on his heels
beside the cook-tent and ate hungrily. He seemed somewhat absorbed in
his thoughts, and they decided mentally that Andy was a sure-enough
good actor, and that if they were not dead next to him and his
particular weakness, they would swallow his yarn whole--whatever it
was. A blood-red glow was in the sky to the west, and it lighted
Andy's face queerly, like a vivid blush on the face of a girl.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15