Bandy Walker knew how to rope and ride. That was the main consideration of Harshaw when he hired him. He guessed the fellow’s name was not Walker any more than it was Bandy. One cognomen had been given him because he was so bow-legged; the other he had no doubt taken for purposes of non-identification.
Bandy was short, heavy-set, and muscular. At a glance one would have picked him out as dangerous. The expression on the face was sulky. The eyes were expressionless as jade.
He was given the bunk next Dillon and before twenty-four hours were past he had begun to bully him. It began with a surly request behind which Bob sensed a command.
“Fellow, get my bridle, won’t you? I left it with my saddle somewheres close to the chuck house. Got to fix it to-night.”
Dillon had taken off his high-heeled boots because they were hurting his feet. He observed that Walker, lying fully dressed on the blankets, was still wearing his.
“Why, sure,” Bob said amiably, and he tugged on his boots.
Presently he returned with the bridle and handed it to Bandy.
That was the beginning of it. Before the week was out Bob was the man’s flunkey, the butt of his ill-natured jokes, the helpless victim of his bad temper. Inside, he writhed. Another failure was being scored against him. But what could he do? This Bandy Walker was a gunman and a rough-and-tumble fighter. He boasted of it. Bob would be a child in his hands.
The other punchers watched the affair, drew deductions, but made no audible comments. The law of the outdoors is that every man must play his own hand. The Slash Lazy D resented Bandy. He was ugly in face, voice, and manner. His speech was offensive. He managed to convey insult by the curl of his lip. Yet he was cunning enough to keep within the bounds of safety. Nobody wanted to pick a quarrel with him, for it might turn out to be a serious business. The fellow looked rancorous. Moreover, the ranch riders had no use for Dillon. It would be a relief if Bandy drove him away. They felt disgraced when cowboys from the Circle Bar or the Quarter Circle Triangle inquired for the health of their new rider Miss Roberta.
Dud and Bob were riding Milk Creek one day about a week after Walker’s arrival. They unsaddled at noon and lay down to loaf on a sunny bank close to the water’s edge.