THE BAT WING RANCH
A week passed by while Mr. Bowles prepared for his great emprise, and then one evening as the sun set behind the purple peaks of the Tortugas and lighted up the white walls of the big house on the hill a stranger might have been seen riding up toward the Bat Wing gate. In fact, he was seen, and the round-up cook, who was washing supper dishes at the rear of the chuck-wagon, delivered himself of a heartfelt curse.
"What's the matter, Gus?" inquired a lounging cowboy who was hovering over the fire. "Drop yore dishrag?"
"No; and I don't need to around this ranch!" commented Gus with bitter emphasis. "It's a common remark or sayin' that when you drop yore dishrag it means a visitor is comin'—or, as some say, it means bad luck. Now jest look at that ornery feller comin' up the road! Can't let his hawse out none—can't whip up a little and git in by supper-time—has to come draggin' in jest as I'm finishin' my work!"
The cowboy raised himself up slowly from crouching on his heels and regarded the stranger intently.
"Say, who is that?" he said at last. "Looks like he was ridin' that little bald-faced sorrel that Lon Morrell traded to Jim Scrimsher last summer. Yes, sir, it's the very same hawse—that's somebody from down Chula Vista way!"
"Well, I don't care where he comes from," grumbled the cook, "as long as he comes a-runnin'! I sure will be one happy man when the wagon gits away from this ranch and I git shut of these no-'count, worthless chuck-riders. Well, biscuits and coffee is all he gits now, I don't care if he's a cattle-buyer!"
He wiped his hands carefully on a clean towel he kept hid for that purpose, pulled out his long gray mustaches and regarded the stranger with a baleful stare.
"Hoo!" he sneered. "Look at them shaps, will you? Ain't them the fancy pants though! Right new, too—and git on to that great big six-shooter! Must be a forest ranger!"
"Shut up!" said the cowboy as the stranger dropped off at the gate. "He might hear ye!"