The Max Brand Megapack. Max Brand
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overlooked this rejoinder, saying: “Is it his scalp you’re after?”
“Your ideas are like nest-eggs, Logan, an’ you set over ’em like a hen. They look like eggs; they feel like eggs; but they don’t never hatch. That’s the way with your ideas. They look all right; they sound all right; but they don’t mean nothin’. So-long.”
But Logan merely chuckled wisely. He had been long on the range.
As Nash turned his pony and trotted off in the direction of the A Circle Y ranch, the sheepherder called after him: “What you say cuts both ways, Steve. This feller Bard looks like a tenderfoot; he sounds like a tenderfoot; but he ain’t a tenderfoot.”
Feeling that this parting shot gave him the honours of the meeting, he turned away whistling with such spirit that one of his dogs, overhearing, stood still and gazed at his master with his head cocked wisely to one side.
His eastern course Nash pursued for a mile or more, and then swung sharp to the south. He was weary, like his horse, and he made no attempt to start a sudden burst of speed. He let the pony go on at the same tireless jog, clinging like a bulldog to the trail.
About midday he sighted a small house cuddled into a hollow of the hills and made toward it. As he dismounted, a tow-headed, spindling boy lounged out of the doorway and stood with his hands shoved carelessly into his little overall pockets.
“Hello, young feller.”
“’Lo, stranger.”
“What’s the chance of bunking here for three or four hours and gettin’ a good feed for the hoss?”
“Never better. Gimme the hoss; I’ll put him up in the shed. Feed him grain?”
“No, you won’t put him up. I’ll tend to that.”
“Looks like a bad ’un.”
“That’s it.”
“But a sure goer, eh?”
“Yep.”
He led the pony to the shed, unsaddled him, and gave him a small feed. The horse first rolled on the dirt floor and then started methodically on his fodder. Having made sure that his mount was not “off his feed,” Nash rolled a cigarette and strolled back to the house with the boy.
“Where’s the folks?” he asked.
“Ma’s sick, a little, and didn’t get up to-day. Pa’s down to the corral, cussing mad. But I can cook you up some chow.”
“All right son. I got a dollar here that’ll buy you a pretty good store knife.”
The boy flushed so red that by contrast his straw coloured hair seemed positively white.
“Maybe you want to pay me?” he suggested fiercely. “Maybe you think we’re squatters that run a hotel?”
Recognizing the true Western breed even in this small edition, Nash grinned.
“Speakin’ man to man, son, I didn’t think that, but I thought I’d sort of feel my way.”
“Which I’ll say you’re lucky you didn’t try to feel your way with pa; not the way he’s feelin’ now.”
In the shack of the house he placed the best chair for Nash and set about frying ham and making coffee. This with crackers, formed the meal. He watched Nash eat for a moment of solemn silence and then the foreman looked up to catch a meditative chuckle from the youngster.
“Let me in on the joke, son.”
“Nothin’. I was just thinkin’ of pa.”
“What’s he sore about? Come out short at poker lately?”
“No; he lost a hoss. Ha, ha, ha!”
He explained: “He’s lost his only standin’ joke, and now the laugh’s on pa!”
Nash sipped his coffee and waited. On the mountain desert one does not draw out a narrator with questions.
“There was a feller come along early this mornin’ on a lame hoss,” the story began. “He was a sure enough tenderfoot—leastways he looked it an’ he talked it, but he wasn’t.”
The familiarity of this description made Steve sit up a trifle straighter.
“Was he a ringer?”
“Maybe. I dunno. Pa meets him at the door and asks him in. What d’you think this feller comes back with?”
The boy paused to remember and then with twinkling eyes he mimicked: “‘That’s very good of you, sir, but I’ll only stop to make a trade with you—this horse and some cash to boot for a durable mount out of your corral. The brute has gone lame, you see.’
“Pa waited and scratched his head while these here words sort of sunk in. Then says very smooth: ‘I’ll let you take the best hoss I’ve got, an’ I won’t ask much cash to boot.’
“I begin wonderin’ what pa was drivin’ at, but I didn’t say nothin’—jest held myself together and waited.
“‘Look over there to the corral,’ says pa, and pointed. ‘They’s a hoss that ought to take you wherever you want to go. It’s the best hoss I’ve ever had.’
“It was the best horse pa ever had, too. It was a piebald pinto called Jo, after my cousin Josiah, who’s jest a plain bad un and raises hell when there’s any excuse. The piebald, he didn’t even need an excuse. You see, he’s one of them hosses that likes company. When he leaves the corral he likes to have another hoss for a runnin’ mate and he was jest as tame as anything. I could ride him; anybody could ride him. But if you took him outside the bars of the corral without company, first thing he done was to see if one of the other hosses was comin’ out to join him. When he seen that he was all laid out to make a trip by himself he jest nacherally started in to raise hell. Which Jo can raise more hell for his size than any hoss I ever seen.
“He’s what you call an eddicated bucker. He don’t fool around with no pauses. He jest starts in and figgers out a situation and then he gets busy slidin’ the gent that’s on him off’n the saddle. An’ he always used to win out. In fact, he was known for it all around these parts. He begun nice and easy, but he worked up like a fiddler playin’ a favourite piece, and the end was the rider lyin’ on the ground.
“Whenever the boys around here wanted any excitement they used to come over and try their hands with Jo. We used to keep a pile of arnica and stuff like that around to rub them up with and tame down the bruises after Jo laid ’em cold on the ground. There wasn’t never anybody could ride that hoss when he was started out alone.
“Well, this tenderfoot, he looks over the hoss in the corral and says: ‘That’s a pretty fine mount, it seems to me. What do you want to boot?’
“‘Aw, twenty-five dollars is enough,’ says pa.
“‘All right,’ says the tenderfoot, ‘here’s the money.’
“And he counts it out in pa’s hand.
“He says: ‘What a little beauty! It would be a treat to see him work on a polo field.’
“Pa says: ‘It’d’be a treat to see this hoss work anywhere.’
“Then he steps on my foot to make me wipe the grin off’n my face.
“Down goes the tenderfoot and takes his saddle and flops it on the piebald pinto, and the piebald was jest as nice as milk. Then he leads him out’n the corral and gets on.
“First the pinto takes a look over his shoulder like he was waiting for one of his pals among the hosses to come along, but he didn’t see none. Then the circus started. An’ b’lieve me, it was some circus. Jo hadn’t had much action for some time, an’ he must have used the wait thinkin’ up new ways of raisin’ hell.
“There