The Jimmyjohn Boss, and Other Stories. Owen Wister
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Oregon and the Owyhee, Brock often turning in his driver's seat so as to speak with Drake. He had a long, gradual chapter of confidences and events; through miles he unburdened these to his favorite:
The California mare was coring well in harness. The eagle over at Whitehorse ranch had fought the cat most terrible. Gilbert had got a mule-kick in the stomach, but was eating his three meals. They had a new boy who played the guitar. He used maple-syrup an his meat, and claimed he was from Alabama. Brock guessed things were about as usual in most ways. The new well had caved in again. Then, in the midst of his gossip, the thing he had wanted to say all along came out: “We're pleased about your promotion,” said he; and, blushing, shook Drake's hand again.
Warmth kindled the boy's face, and next, with a sudden severity, he said: “You're keeping back something.”
The honest Brock looked blank, then labored in his memory.
“Has the sorrel girl in Harney married you yet?” said Drake. Brock slapped his leg, and the horses jumped at his mirth. He was mostly grave-mannered, but when his boy superintendent joked, he rejoiced with the same pride that he took in all of Drake's excellences.
“The boys in this country will back you up,” said he, next day; and Drake inquired: “What news from the Malheur Agency?”
“Since the new Chinaman has been cooking for them,” said Brock, “they have been peaceful as a man could wish.”
“They'll approve of me, then,” Drake answered. “I'm feeding 'em hyas Christmas muck-a-muck.”
“And what may that be?” asked the schoolmaster.
“You no kumtux Chinook?” inquired Drake. “Travel with me and you'll learn all sorts of languages. It means just a big feed. All whiskey is barred,” he added to Brock.
“It's the only way,” said the foreman. “They've got those Pennsylvania men up there.”
Drake had not encountered these.
“The three brothers Drinker,” said Brock. “Full, Half-past Full, and Drunk are what they call them. Them's the names; they've brought them from Klamath and Rogue River.”
“I should not think a Chinaman would enjoy such comrades,” ventured Mr. Bolles.
“Chinamen don't have comrades in this country,” said Brock, briefly. “They like his cooking. It's a lonesome section up there, and a Chinaman could hardly quit it, not if he was expected to stay. Suppose they kick about the whiskey rule?” he suggested to Drake.
“Can't help what they do. Oh, I'll give each boy his turn in Harney City when he gets anxious. It's the whole united lot I don't propose to have cut up on me.”
A look of concern for the boy came over the face of foreman Brock. Several times again before their parting did he thus look at his favorite. They paused at Harper's for a day to attend to some matters, and when Drake was leaving this place one of the men said to him: “We'll stand by you.” But from his blithe appearance and talk as the slim boy journeyed to the Malheur River and Headquarter ranch, nothing seemed to be on his mind. Oregon twinkled with sun and fine white snow. They crossed through a world of pines and creviced 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