The B.M. Bower MEGAPACK ®. B.M. Bower
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not heating branding-irons, mister man,” she added. “You’ll burn all the hair off, if you let the tongs get red-hot. Just so they’ll sizzle; I’ve told you five times already.” She picked up the Kid, kissed many times the finger he held up for sympathy—the finger with which he had touched the tongs as Pink was putting them back into the grate of the kitchen stove, and spoke again to ease her conscience. “I think it’s awfully mean of you to do it. Miguel ought to thrash you both.”
“We’re dead willing to let him try, Mrs. Chip. We know it’s mean. We’re real ashamed of ourselves.” Irish tested his tongs as he had been told to do. “But we’d rather be ashamed than good, any old time.”
The Little Doctor giggled behind the Kid’s tousled curls, and reached out a slim hand once more to give Pink’s tongs the expert twist he was trying awkwardly to learn. “I’m sorry for Miguel; he’s got lovely eyes, anyway.”
“Yes, ain’t he?” Pink looked up briefly from his task. “How’s your leg, Irish? Mine’s done.”
“Seems to me I’d make a deep border of them corkscrew curls all around the bottoms, if I was doin’ it,” said the Countess peevishly, from the kitchen sink. “If I was that dago I’d murder the hull outfit; I never did see a body so hectored in my life—and him not ever ketchin’ on. He must be plumb simple-minded.”
When the curling was done to the hilarious satisfaction of Irish and Pink, and, while Pink was dancing in them to show them off, another entered with mail from town. And, because the mail-bearer was Andy Green himself, back from a winter’s journeyings, Cal, Happy Jack and Slim followed close behind, talking all at once, in their joy at beholding the man they loved well and hated occasionally also. Andy delivered the mail into the hands of the Little Doctor, pinched the Kid’s cheek, and said how he had grown good-looking as his mother, almost, spoke a cheerful howdy to the Countess, and turned to shake hands with Pink. It was then that the honest, gray eyes of him widened with amazement.
“Well, by golly!” gasped Slim, goggling at the chaps of Miguel.
“That there Natiff Son’ll just about kill yuh for that,” warned Happy Jack, as mournfully as he might with laughing. “He’ll knife yuh, sure.”
Andy, demanding the meaning of it all, learned all about Miguel Rapponi—from the viewpoint of the Happy Family. At least, he learned as much as it was politic to tell in the presence of the Little Doctor; and afterward, while Pink was putting the chaps back upon the willow, where Miguel had left them, he was told that they looked to him, Andy Green, for assistance.
“Oh, gosh! You don’t want to depend on me, Pink,” Andy expostulated modestly. “I can’t think of anything—and, besides, I’ve reformed. I don’t know as it’s any compliment to me, by gracious—being told soon as I land that I’m expected to lie to a perfect stranger.”
“You come on down to the stable and take a look at his saddle and bridle,” urged Cal. “And wait till you see him smoking and looking past you, as if you was an ornery little peak that didn’t do nothing but obstruct the scenery. I’ve seen mean cusses—lots of ’em; and I’ve seen men that was stuck on themselves. But I never—”
“Come outa that ’doby,” Pink interrupted, “mud to his eyebrows, just about. And he knew darned well we headed him in there deliberate. And when I remarks it’s soft going, he says: ‘It is, kinda,’—just like that.” Pink managed to imitate the languid tone of Miguel very well. “Not another word outa him. Didn’t even make him mad! He—”
“Tell him about the parrots, Slim,” Cal suggested soberly. But Slim only turned purple at the memory, and swore.
“Old Patsy sure has got it in for him,” Happy Jack observed. “He asked Patsy if he ever had enchiladas. Patsy won’t speak to him no more. He claims Mig-u-ell insulted him. He told Mig-u-ell—”
“Enchiladas are sure fine eating,” said Andy. “I took to ’em like a she-bear to honey, down in New Mexico this winter. Your Native Son is solid there, all right.”
“Aw, gwan! He ain’t solid nowhere but in the head. Maybe you’ll love him to death when yuh see him—chances is you will, if you’ve took to eatin’ dago grub.”
Andy patted Happy Jack reassuringly on the shoulder. “Don’t get excited,” he soothed. “I’ll put it all over the gentleman, just to show my heart’s in the right place. Just this once, though; I’ve reformed. And I’ve got to have time to size him up. Where do you keep him when he ain’t in the show window?” He swung into step with Pink. “I’ll tell you the truth,” he confided engagingly. “Any man that’ll wear chaps like he’s got—even leaving out the extra finish you fellows have given ’em—had ought to be taught a lesson he’ll remember. He sure must be a tough proposition, if the whole bunch of yuh have had to give him up. By gracious—”
“We haven’t tried,” Pink defended. “It kinda looked to us as if he was aiming to make us guy him; so we didn’t. We’ve left him strictly alone. Today”—he glanced over his shoulder to where the becurled chaps swung comically from the willow branch—“today’s the first time anybody’s made a move. Unless,” he added, as an afterthought, “you count yesterday in the ’doby patch—and even then we didn’t tell him to ride into it; we just let him do it.”
“And kinda herded him over towards it,” Cal amended slyly.
“Can he ride?” asked Andy, going straight to the main point, in the mind of a cowpuncher.
“W-e-ell—he hasn’t been piled, so far. But then,” Pink qualified hastily, “he hasn’t topped anything worse than Crow-hop. He ain’t hard to ride. Happy Jack could—”
“Aw, I’m gittin’ good and sick of’ hearin’ that there tune,” Happy growled indignantly. “Why don’t you point out Slim as the limit, once in a while?”
“Come on down to the stable, and let’s talk it over,” Andy suggested, and led the way. “What’s his style, anyway? Mouthy, or what?”
With four willing tongues to enlighten him, it would be strange, indeed, if one so acute as Andy Green failed at last to have a very fair mental picture of Miguel. He gazed thoughtfully at his boots, laughed suddenly, and slapped Irish quite painfully upon the back.
“Come on up and introduce me, boys,” he said. “We’ll make this Native Son so hungry for home—you watch me put it on the gentleman. Only it does seem a shame to do it.”
“No, it ain’t. If you’d been around him for two weeks, you’d want to kill him just to make him take notice,” Irish assured him.
“What gets me,” Andy mused, “is why you fellows come crying to me for help. I should think the bunch of you ought to be able to handle one lone Native Son.”
“Aw, you’re the biggest liar and faker in the bunch, is why,” Happy Jack blurted.
“Oh, I see.” Andy hummed a little tune and pushed his hands deep into his pockets, and at the corners of his lips there flickered a smile.
The Native Son sat with his hat tilted slightly back upon his head and a cigarette between his lips, and was reaching lazily for the trick which made the fourth game his, when the group invaded the bunk-house. He looked up indifferently, swept Andy’s face and figure with a glance too impersonal to hold even a shade of curiosity, and began rapidly shuffling his cards to count the points he had made.
Andy stopped short, just inside the door, and stared hard at Miguel, who gave no sign. He turned his honest, gray eyes upon Pink and Irish accusingly—whereat they wondered greatly.
“Your deal—if you want to play,” drawled Miguel, and shoved his cards toward Big Medicine. But the boys were already uptilting chairs to grasp the quicker the outstretched hand of the prodigal, so that Miguel gathered up the cards, evened their edges mechanically, and deigned another glance at this stranger who was being welcomed so vociferously. Also he sighed a bit—for even a languid-eyed