Bat Wing Bowles

by Dane Coolidge

"Hold his head up!" directed Atkins; and then, with an impatient yank, he twitched up the second ear and cut a swallow-fork. The calf writhed and struggled to escape, and as he fought against it Bowles caught the stench of burning hair. Turning, he discovered Happy Jack still bearing down on the hot iron and searing it deep into the flesh. That finished Bowles, and he sank back on the ground, turning his victim loose.

"You want to hold their heads up," remarked Buck Buchanan, and Bowles nodded and answered faintly. What he really wanted was a chance to guard the herd; but orders were orders with Henry Lee, and if he failed to do his work he was fired. Another calf came in—a big, lusty yearling—and Buck made a motion with his hand.

"Ketch that one," he directed in a fatherly tone of voice, and Bowles staggered out to do or die. But a yearling calf can be a very obstreperous brute on occasion, and this one was hot from his run. Within a minute after he had grappled with it all thought of pity had died out in Bowles' breast. First he caught the bull calf by the neck and flank and tried to pull it over; then, as it fought against him and trampled on his feet, he seized its further legs and tried to lift them up; failing in this, he laid hold of it in a frenzy and tried to throw it by main strength.

"Git yore knees under him," suggested Buck from the middle distance. Then, after another period of waiting, he slouched ponderously out and shoved him aside.

"Let me at 'im," he said. "You're keepin' Bill waitin' for his rope."

He felt of the calf for a minute and pushed him to make him change his feet; then, as the yearling started to step, he boosted him with his knees, heaved him into the air, and slammed him down on his side. It was a man's job, and difficult for the best of them, but Bowles didn't know that. All he knew was that the boss was watching him, over there by the fire where he was keeping tally on the brands, and thinking what a tenderfoot he was. And he was right—Bowles conceded it. He could not catch his horse, he could not ride a bronk, he could not even throw a calf or lift it off the ground. And his back ached, awfully.

It was a long morning for Mr. Bowles, packed with misery and hopeless struggling, like a nightmare without end. They say that in the short time between the instant a man starts falling out of bed and the moment he hits the floor, he can pass through a very inferno of dreams, passed down from our tree-living ancestors and striking terror to the heart—and yet he generally wakes up before he lands. If he did not, so the old nurses say, he would surely, surely die. The jagged rocks that threatened him in his dream would pierce his quivering body and he would be found dead on the floor. The coroner would call it heart-failure, of course; and that was what threatened Bowles.

He was saved by a sound he had cursed that very morning—Gloomy Gus beating on his dishpan! Packing all his kit into the chuck-wagon, and throwing on a few sticks of wood, the cook had struck out through the dog towns and across the brushy flats and set up his fire irons by the side of a man-made lake. There he had gone busily about his task without waiting for the herd to come in; and just as Bowles was dropping dead, the dinner-call saved his life.

It had been a bad dream, but, thank Heaven, he had waked up before he struck. A pint of scalding coffee, black and bitter from much boiling, and he was able to look about; and as he disposed of a couple of beefsteaks and dipped his biscuits in the grease, the weak place in his middle seemed comforted; and by the time he got around to the "fruit" and syrup he felt almost like a man again. Such jests as had been passed upon his condition had fallen upon unhearing ears, but now that he was brought back to health and strength he was able to smile grimly at his appearance as mirrored in the honest lake.

His face, which he had neglected to wash before eating, was crusted with sweat and dirt and spotted with gouts of blood; his hair was matted and dust-powdered; and in the bloodshot and haggard orbs that gazed up at him from the placid depths he saw a look that made him start. It was a cruel, vindictive look, almost inhuman in its intensity; and it came from flanking bull calves. He looked down at his hands, all swollen and crabbed from clutching, and saw that they were caked with blood. His shirt, too, and his trim-fitting trousers were dirty and spattered with gore. In fact—and here was where the grim smile came in—he could hardly be told from a real cowboy!