A bunch of burros gathered about the doorway of the cabin, snooping for bacon rinds; the hounds leaned their heavy jowls upon his knees and gazed up worshipfully into their master’s face; and as the sun dipped down toward the rim of the mighty cliffs that shut him in, the lord of Hell’s Hip Pocket broke into the chorus of an ancient song:
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“Oh, o-ver the prairies, and o-ver the mountains, And o-ver the prairies, and o-ver the mountains, And o-ver the prairies, and o-ver the mountains, I’ll go till I find me a home.” |
CHAPTER VIII
A YEAR’S MAIL
The beef herd was safely delivered at Bender, the feeders disposed of at Moroni, and the checks sent on to the absentee owner, who did not know a steer from a stag; the rodéo hands were paid off and successfully launched upon their big drunk; bills were paid and the Summer’s supplies ordered in, and then at last the superintendent and rodéo boss settled down to a little domesticity.
Since the day that Hardy had declined to drink with him Creede had quietly taken to water, and he planted a bag of his accumulated wages in a corner of the mud floor, to see, as he facetiously expressed it, if it would grow. Mr. Bill Johnson had also saved his “cow money” from Black Tex and banked it with Hardy, who had a little cache of his own, as well. With their finances thus nicely disposed of the two partners swept the floor, cleaned up the cooking dishes, farmed out their laundry to a squaw, and set their house in order generally. They were just greasing up their reatas for a run after the wild horses of Bronco Mesa when Rafael pulled in with 134 a wagon-load of supplies and destroyed their peaceful life.
It was late when the grinding and hammering of wheels upon the boulders of the creek-bed announced his near approach and Creede went out to help unload the provisions. A few minutes later he stepped into the room where Hardy was busily cooking and stood across the table from him with his hands behind his back, grinning mischievously.
“Rufe,” he said, “you’ve got a girl.”