CHAPTER X
Holy Smoke was strong as an ox and had the reputation of phenomenal deeds done “across the line,” where to use his own boasts “they did things brown.” It is true, he had come hastily out of that particular part of the American union, with a posse at his heels. He had secured a berth at O Bar O in a busy season, when help was scarce and work heavy. His big physique stood him in good stead when it came to a matter of endurance, though he was too heavy for swift riding, needed for breaking horses or cutting out cattle. However, there was no man in the country could beat him at lariat throwing and he was generally esteemed a first-rate hand. His last name was actually “Smoke,” and his first initial “H” it did not take the men long to dub him “Holy Smoke” though he was more shortly called “Ho.”
Other nicknames were secretly applied to him. Secretly because Ho had achieved such a reputation as a fighter that few of the men cared to risk his displeasure by calling him to his face “Windy Ho” or “Blab.” His was the aggressive, loud-voiced overbearing type of personality that by sheer noise often will win out in an argument and makes an impression on those who are not expert students of character. Few at O Bar O questioned the prowess of which Ho everlastingly boasted, for he looked the part he played. His favourite boast was that he “could lick any son-of-a-gun in Alberta, just as I licked every son-of-a-gun in Montana” with one hand tied behind. No one accepted his challenge, pugnaciously tossed forth, and little Buddy Wallace, one of P. D.’s diminutive jockies, hurriedly retreated when the big fellow merely stretched out a clinched fist toward him.
Even Bully Bill, himself somewhat of a blusterer, discovered in Ho a personality more domineering than his own. It was uncomfortable to have the big bully around, but the foreman had never quite screwed up the courage to “fire the man” as more than once P. D. had suggested. Easy-going and good-natured Bully Bill had suffered Ho to remain all of that summer, enduring meanwhile the fellow’s arrogance and boasts and even threats of violence to each and every hand upon the place. He had wormed his way to the position of temporary assistant foreman, as Bully Bill had discovered that the men took orders from him as meekly as from P. D. himself. This was up to the time that Cheerio drifted into O Bar O. Soon after that memorable day, another even more important in the annals of O Bar O dawned that not only elevated the Englishman permanently from the woodpile and chores to the proud position of first rider, but lost Ho his prestige in the cattle country.
The row started in the cook-car. The first prod in his side had been ignored by Cheerio, who had continued to eat his meal in silence, just as if a vicious punch from the thick elbow of the man on his right had not touched him. Holy Smoke winked broadly down the length of the table. At the second prod, Cheerio looked the man squarely in the eye and said politely:
“I wouldn’t keep that up if I were you.”
This brought a roar of laughter followed by the third prod. There was a pause. He had raised in the interval his bowl of hot soup in his hands and was greedily and noisily swallowing, when a surprising dig in his own left rib not only produced a painful effect but sent the hot soup spluttering all over him. Up rose the huge cowhand, while in the tense silence that ensued all hands held their breath in thrilled suspense. As Ho cleared his vision—temporarily dimmed by the hot soup, Cheerio, who had also risen in his seat, said quietly:
“I d-don’t want to hurt you, you know, b-but the fact is it’s got to be done. S-suppose we go outside. T-too bad to m-make a m-m-mess of Chum Lee’s car.”
Holy Smoke snorted, hitched his trousers up by the belt, and then in ominous silence he accompanied the Englishman, followed by every man in the cook-car, including Chum Lee.
A ring was made in short order and into the ring went the snorting, loudly-laughing Ho and the lean, quiet young Englishman.
“I hate this sort of a thing,” said Cheerio, “and if you feel equal to an apology, old man, we’ll let it go at that.”
Holy Smoke retorted with a low string of oaths and a filthy name that brought Cheerio’s fist squarely up to his jaw.
To describe that fight would require more craft and knowledge than the author possesses. Suffice it to say that weight and size, the strength of the powerful hands and limbs availed the cowhand nothing when pitted against the scientific skill of one of the cleanest boxers in the British army, who, moreover, had studied in the east that little-known but remarkable art of wrestling known as jiujitsu. The big man found himself whirling about in a circle, dashing blindly this way and that, and through the very force of his own weight and strength overcoming himself, and in the end to find himself literally going over the head of the man who had ducked like lightning under him. There on the ground sprawled the huge, beaten bully, who had tyrannized over the men of O Bar O. His the fate to come to out of his daze only to hear the frantic yells and cheers of the encircling men and to see his antagonist borne back into the cook-car upon the shoulders of the men.
Holy Smoke was a poor loser. His defeat, while it quenched in a measure his outward show of bluster, left him nursing a grudge against Cheerio, which he promised himself would some day be wiped out in a less conspicuous manner and place. Not only had his beating caused him to lose caste in the eyes of the men of the ranching country, but the story went the rounds of the ranches, and the big cowhand suffered the snubs and heartless taunts of several members of the other sex. Now Ho was what is termed “a good looker,” and his conquests over the fair sex generally had long been the subject of gossip and joke or serious condemnation. He was, however, ambitious and aspired to make an impression upon Hilda McPherson. For her this big handsome animal had no attraction, and his killing glances, his oily compliments and the flashy clothes that might have impressed a simpler-minded maid than she, aroused only her amused scorn. Herself strong and independent by nature, beneath her thorny exterior Hilda McPherson had the tender heart of the mother-thing, and the brute type of man appealed less to her than one of a slighter and more æsthetic type.
Furthermore, Hilda loved little Jessie Three-Young-Mans, a squaw of fifteen sad years, whose white-faced blue-veined papoose was kept alive only by the heroic efforts of Hilda and the Agency doctor. The Morley Indian Reserve adjoined the O Bar O ranch, and P. D. employed a great many of the tribe for brush-cutting, fencing and riding at round-ups. No matter how unimportant a job given to a “brave,” he moved upon the place the following day with all of his relatives far and near, and until the job was done, O Bar O would take on the aspect of an Indian encampment. At such times Hilda, who knew personally most of the Indians of the Stoney tribe, would ride over to the camp daily to call upon the squaws, her saddle bags full of the sweet food the Indians so loved. She was idolized by the Indian women. When riding gauntlets and breeks were to be made for the daughter of P. D. only the softest of hides were used and upon them the squaws lavished their choicest of bead work. They were for “Miss Hildy, the Indian’s friend.” Of all the squaws, Hilda loved best Jessie Three-Young-Mans; but Jessie had recently fallen into deep trouble. Like her tiny papoose, the Indian girl’s face had that faraway longing look of one destined to leave this life ere long. She who had strayed from her own people clung the closer to them now when she was so soon to leave them forever. Hilda alone of the white people, the Indian girl crept forth from her tent to greet. What she refused to tell even her parents, Jessie revealed to Hilda McPherson and accordingly Hilda loathed Holy Smoke.
However, Ho was assistant foreman at O Bar O and very often in full charge of the ranch, for there were times when Bully Bill went to the camps to oversee certain operations and in his absence Ho had charge of the ranch and its stock. Also in P. D.’s absence, Hilda was accustomed to take her father’s place so far as the men were concerned, and if there were any questions that needed referring to the house they were brought to her. Thus she was forced to come into contact with the foreman as well as his assistant.
Ho had what Hilda considered a “disgusting habit” of injecting personal remarks into his conversation when he came to the house on matters connected with the cattle, and no amount of snubbing or even sharp reproof or insult feazed him. He was impervious to hurt and continued his smirking efforts to ingratiate himself with P. D.’s daughter. He always spruced himself up for those calls at the ranch-house, slicked his hair smooth with oil and axle grease, put on his white fur chaps, carried his huge Mexican sombrero with its Indian head band, and with gay handkerchief at his neck, Ho set out to make a “hit” with his employer’s daughter.
At the time when Cheerio was reading from Dumas, P. D. was away in Edmonton, and for a few days Bully Bill had gone down to Calgary, accompanying his men with a load of steers for the local market. Ho, therefore, in the absence of both of the bosses, was in charge of the ranch, and one evening he presented himself at the house, ostensibly to inquire regarding the disposition of certain yearlings that had been shipped by Bully Bill from the Calgary stockyards. Were they to be turned on the range with the other stuff? Should he keep them in separate fields? How about rebranding the new stuff? Should he go ahead or wait till the round-up of the O Bar O yearlings and brand all at one time?
“Dad’s in Edmonton,” replied Hilda. “You had better wait till he gets back, though I don’t know just when that will be. He’s playing chess.”
“Couldn’t you get him by phone or wire, Miss Hilda? Rather important to know what to do with this new stuff, seein’ as how they’re pure-bred. Maybe the boss’ll want them specially cared for.”
“I could phone, of course, for I know where to get him, but it makes him mad as a hornet to talk on the telephone, especially long distance, and as for a wire, like as not, if Dad’s playing chess, he’d just chuck it into his pocket and never bother to read it.”
“Wa-al, I just thought I’d come along over and talk it out with you, Miss Hilda. Your orders goes, you know, every time.”
He helped himself to a seat, which the girl had not proffered him, and stretched out his long legs as if for a prolonged visit. Hilda remained standing, looking down at him coolly, then she quietly moved toward the door, and opened it.
“That’ll be all, then,” she said, and held the screen door open.
The cowhand, with a black look at the back of the small, proud head, arose and taking the hint he passed out. Hilda snapped the screen door and hooked it. From outside, in a last effort to detain her, Ho said:
“One minute, Miss Hilda. Did you say them doegies were to go into the south pasture with our own stuff, then?”
Hilda had not mentioned the south pasture. However she said now:
“I suppose that will be all right, won’t it?”
“Well, if they was mine I’d keep ’em in the corrals for a bit, and give ’em the once-over in case they’s any blackleg among em. They’s one or two looks kind o’ suspicious.”
“All right, then. Keep them in the corrals.”
After all, the man knew his business, and she looked at him curiously through the screen door.
“Everything else on the place all right? Nothing loose? I thought I saw some stuff in the bull pasture when I rode up from the Minnehaha ranch to-day.”
“Them doegies is all right, Miss Hilda. There ain’t nothin’ out ’cept what’s meant to be out. You leave it to me. Nothin’s goin’ to git out of hick with the boss away, you can take it from me.”
“I didn’t mean to question that,” she said quickly.
Her father’s sense of squareness in treatment of his men was shared by her, and she added with a slightly more friendly tone:
“You know an awful lot about cattle, don’t you, Ho?”
To give Ho “an inch” was to yield the proverbial mile. Instantly he was grinning back at her, his chest swelling with conceit and self-esteem, as he pressed against the screen door, his bold eyes seeking hers.
“I know ’bout everything they is to know ’bout cattle—the two-legged as well as the four.”
“Is that so?”
“You see, Miss Hilda, they ain’t much difference between ’em, whichever way you look at ’em. Some folks are scrub stock and go up blind before the branding iron; others is like yourself, Miss Hilda, with high spirits and you got to get ’em broke in the Squeezegate before you can use ’em. Pretty hard to slip a lariat over that kind, but they’s a saying among cowhands that ‘every outlaw has his day,’ and I’m thinking”—his bold eyes leered into her own with significance, “the rope’ll git you too.”
“You think so, do you? Well, who do you think is smart enough to get the rope over my head, I’d like to know?”
He leered and chuckled. The conversation was to his liking.
“Can’t say, but the woods is full of them as is achin’ for the chance. Some day when you’re loose on the range maybe you’ll slip under.”
Hilda’s scorn had turned to anger. Holy Smoke’s body was against the screen door, bulging the wirework in. His cunning gaze never left her face. He had lowered his voice meaningly.
“How about that English fly, Miss? He’s getting fair handy with the lariat, they do say.”
Hilda had flushed scarlet and drawn back with blazing eyes, but the words of the cowhand on the outer side of the door stopped her in her premeditated flight and sent a cold shiver all over her.
“Ye needn’t to worry ’bout him, Miss Hilda. He ain’t likely to swing his lariat in your direction. It’s hooked already over another one.”
Hilda’s dry lips, against her will, moved in burning query:
“Who do you mean?”
She scarcely knew her own voice. Something wild and primitive was surging through her being. She wanted to cry out, to hurl something into the face of the grinning man at the door, yet fascinated, tormented, she stayed for an answer:
“Her that’s under his pillow. Her that he takes along of him wherever he goes and has locked up in one of them gold gimcracks as if her face was radio. It’d make you laugh to see him take it to bed with him, and tuck it just as if it was heaven under his pillow and——”
Hilda stared blankly at the man on the other side of the door. She uttered not a word. Her hand shot out, as if she were dealing a blow to him, and the inside door banged hard.