The B.M. Bower MEGAPACK ®. B.M. Bower
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had time to cook much breakfast. And it wouldn’t be a bad idea to haze our own stuff clear off the range. I’m afraid Dunk’s sheep are going to fare kinda slim, if we go on letting our cattle eat all the good grass!” Pink did not often indulge in such lengthy sarcasm, especially toward his beloved Weary; but his exasperation toward Weary’s mild tactics had been growing apace.
Weary’s reply, I fear, will have to be omitted. It was terribly unrefined.
“I want you boys to spread out, around the whole bunch,” was his first printable utterance, “and haze these sheep just as far south as they can get without taking to the river. Don’t get all het up chasing ’em yourself—make the men (Weary did not call them men; he called them something very naughty) that’s paid for it do the driving.”
“And, if they don’t go,” drawled the smooth voice of the Native Son, “what shall we do, amigo? Slap them on the wrist?”
Weary twisted in the saddle and sent him a baleful glance, which was not at all like Weary the sunny-hearted.
“If you can’t figure that out for yourself,” he snapped, “you had better go back and wipe the dishes for Patsy; and, when that’s done, you can pull the weeds out of his radishes. Maybe he’ll give you a nickel to buy candy with, if you do it good.” Before he faced to the front again his harsh glance swept the faces of his companions.
They were grinning, every man of them, and he knew why. To see him lose his temper was something of an event with the Happy Family, who used sometimes to fix the date of an incident by saying, “It was right after that time Weary got mad, a year ago last fall,” or something of the sort. He grinned himself, shamefacedly, and told them that they were a bunch of no-account cusses, anyway, and he’d just about as soon herd sheep himself as to have to run with such an outfit; which swept his anger from him and left him his usual self, with but the addition of a purpose from which nothing could stay him. He was going to settle the sheep question, and he was going to settle it that day.
Only one injunction did he lay upon the Happy Family. “You fellows don’t want to get excited and go to shooting,” he warned, while they were still out of hearing of the herders. “We don’t want Dunk to get anything like that on us; savvy?”
They “savvied,” and they told him so, each after his own individual manner.
“I guess we ought to be able to put the run on a couple of sheepherders, without wasting any powder,” Pink said loftily, remembering his meeting with them a few days before.
“One thing sure—we’ll make a good job of it this time,” promised Irish, and spurred after Weary, who was leading the way around the band.
The herders watched them openly and with the manner of men who are expecting the worst to happen. Unlike the four whose camp had been laid low the night before, these two were unarmed, as they had been from the first; which, in Weary’s opinion, was a bit of guile upon the part of Dunk. If trouble came—trouble which it would take a jury to settle—the fact that the sheepmen were unarmed would tell heavily in their favor; for, while the petty meanness of range-stealing and nagging trespass may be harder to bear than the flourishing of a gun before one’s face, it all sounds harmless enough in the telling.
Weary headed straight for the nearest herder, told him to put his dogs to work rounding up the sheep, which were scattered over an area half a mile across while they fed, and, when the herder, who was the bug-killer, made no move to obey, Weary deliberately pulled his gun and pointed at his head.
“You move,” he directed with grim intent, “and don’t take too much time about it, either.”
The bug-killer, an unkempt, ungainly figure, standing with his back to the morning sun, scowled up at Weary stolidly.
“Yuh dassent shoot,” he stated sourly, and did not move.
For answer, Weary pulled back the hammer; also he smiled as malignantly as it was in his nature to do, and hoped in his heart that he looked sufficiently terrifying to convince the man. So they faced each other in a silent clash of wills.
Big Medicine had not been saying much on the way over, which was unusual. Now he rode forward until he was abreast of Weary, and he grinned down at the bug-killer in a way to distract his attention from the gun.
“Nobody don’t have to shoot, by cripes!” he bawled. “We hain’t goin’ to kill yuh. We’ll make yuh wisht, by cripes, we had, though, b’fore we git through. Git to work, boys, ’n’ gether up some dry grass an’ sticks. Over there in them rose-bushes you oughta find enough bresh. We’ll give him a taste uh what we was talkin’ about comm’ over, by cripes! I guess he’ll be willin’ to drive sheep, all right, when we git through with him. Haw-haw-haw-w-w!” He leaned forward in the saddle and ogled the bug-killer with horrid significance.
“Git busy with that bresh!” he yelled authoritatively, when a glance showed him that the Happy Family was hesitating and eyeing him uncertainly. “Git a fire goin’ quick’s yuh kin—I’ll do the rest. Down in Coconino county we used to have a way uh fixin’ sheepherders—”
“Aw, gwan! We don’t want no torture business!” remonstrated Happy Jack uneasily, edging away.
“Yuh don’t, hey?” Big Medicine turned in the saddle wrathfully and glared. When he had succeeded in catching Andy Green’s eye he winked, and that young man’s face kindled understandingly. “Well, now, you hain’t runnin’ this here show. Honest to grandma, I’ve saw the time when a little foot-warmin’ done a sheepherder a whole lot uh good; and, it looks to me, by cripes, as if this here feller needed a dose to gentle him down. You git the fire started. That’s all I want you t’ do, Happy. Some uh you boys help me rope him—like him and that other jasper over there done to Andy. C’mon, Andy—it ain’t goin’ to take long!”
“You bet your sweet life I’ll come on!” exclaimed Andy, dismounting eagerly. “Let me take your rope, Weary. Too bad we haven’t got a branding iron—”
“Aw, we don’t need no irons.” Big Medicine was also on the ground by then, and untying his rope. “Lemme git his shoes off once, and I’ll show yuh.”
The bug-killer lifted his stick, snarling like a mongrel dog when a stranger tries to drive it out of the house; hurled the stick hysterically, as Big Medicine, rope in hand, advanced implacably, and, with a squawk of horror, turned suddenly and ran. After him, bellowing terribly, lunged Big Medicine, straight through the band like a snowplow, leaving behind them a wide, open trail.
“Say, we kinda overplayed that bet, by gracious,” Andy commented to Weary, while he watched the chase. “That gazabo’s scared silly; let’s try the other one. That torture talk works fine.”
In his enthusiasm Andy remounted and was about to lead the way to the other herder when Big Medicine returned puffing, the bug-killer squirming in his grasp. “Tell him what yuh want him to do, Weary,” he panted, with some difficulty holding his limp victim upright by a greasy coat-collar. “And if he don’t fall over himself doin’ it, why—by cripes—we’ll take off his shoes!”
Whereupon the bug-killer gave another howl and professed himself eager to drive the sheep—well, what he said was that he would drive them to that place which ladies dislike to hear mentioned, if the Happy Family wanted him to.
“That’s all right, then. Start ’em south, and don’t quit till somebody tells you to.” Weary carefully let down the hammer of his six-shooter and shoved it thankfully into his scabbard.
“Now, you don’t want to pile it on quite so thick, next time,” Irish admonished Big Medicine, when they turned away from watching the bug-killer set his dogs to work by gestures and a shouted word or two. “You like to have sent this one plumb nutty.”
“I betche Bud gets us all pinched for that,” grumbled Happy Jack. “Torturing folks is purty darned serious business. You might as well shoot ’em up decent and be done with it.”
“Haw-haw-haw-w-w!” Big Medicine ogled the