Back Aa

Meadowlark Basin

<h2>CHAPTER TEN</h2> <h3>THE FRYING PAN</h3> In that rare half-hour just before sunrise, when the cool breeze blowing across the meadows seemed saturated with sweetness and the vivifying essence of all life, as if here for a moment one might inhale the very breath which God breathed into his image made of clay and awakened it to the consciousness that it was a man, seven riders mounted at the Meadowlark corrals and went galloping down the trail, bound for the Frying Pan ranch, a long ride of forty miles through rough country. Quivering drops of dew, scattered by eager hoofs, blinked at the first mellow sun rays and vanished from sight. Birds chirped and sang and flew here and there seeking breakfast for their hungry fledglings that would themselves soon be surprising the early worm. Every man's face was eager and alert, glad for no tangible reason save that it was good to be alive and on a horse, riding out in the cool of the morning once more after the leisurely two weeks just gone. Lark was not among them, having made the excuse that he was tired from his trip to Glasgow; a thin excuse, for Lark could stay in the saddle as long as any man when the need arose. In reality Lark wanted to leave this horse-buying deal for Bud to handle alone. It was time, he thought, that the young man learned to assume some responsibility in a business way, and he was curious to see what sort of bargain Bud would make with the Frying Pan. So far Lark was secretly proud of his handsome young nephew whom he had cared for since he was a boy the size of Skookum, but for all that he was minded now to supplement Bud's schooling with a course of practical application of the lessons he had presumably learned from books. The Meadowlark needed to build up its horse herd, and it was Bud himself who had suggested that they see what the Frying Pan had to offer. Lark did not think much of the Frying Pan, and Kid Kern, the owner, he did not trust at all; but he told Bud to go ahead and see what he could do over there with fifteen hundred dollars, intimating that he ought to be able to buy a hundred head of mixed stock for that amount. Privately, Lark believed that the Frying Pan dealt mostly in "wet" stock—which is range parlance for stolen stock. A fresh brand is a "wet" brand. Stolen horses or cattle must be rebranded, the original brand hidden under another. That detail, combined with the fact that stolen stock is rushed by forced drives to distant localities, gave rise to the term, and that term was applied in undertones to Frying Pan horses. Lark wondered if Bud knew that. But wet stock is usually good stock, and cheap—for cash. So Lark did not say anything to Bud. If the kid wanted advice he'd probably ask for it. So Bud rode proudly at the head of the little cavalcade with fifteen hundred dollars in gold coin wrapped in his slicker and tied behind the cantle, and the cameo brooch pinning back his hat brim while a blue satin bow stolen laughingly from Marge sat perkily between the twitching ears of his horse—braided into the short hairs of the mane for safe-keeping. And Bud, the young devil, was not thinking of girls at all, but dreaming of those two black bronchos he meant to tame, and trying to think of names worthy their magnificent beauty. Stirrup to stirrup with him rode Frank Gelle, who sent a glance over his shoulder to see how close were the others when they slowed for the climb up through the pass. "What was Butch quizzing Skookum about last night, Bud, down by the little corral?" he broke ruthlessly into Bud's meditations. "Butch? I don't know, Jelly. I heard him say something about teaching the kid some birdcall or other." Bud, brought back to the present, bethought him that now was a good time to roll a smoke. He slipped the reins daintily between his third and little fingers and reached for tobacco sack and papers. "Didn't sound like no birdcall to me, Bud. He was pumpin' the kid about something. I couldn't ketch none of the words, but I could tell by the tonation of his voice that he was askin' one question right on top of another. Do you reckon, Bud, he was snoopin' around tryin' to pump the kid about our pilgress?" "Marge? No reason he should pump the kid about her. That girl's an open book—printed in clear type. She and Butch were having a great old visit down by the corral yesterday when he was showing off his fancy roping. You saw them, Jelly. I bet she was giving him her life history. A girl that's lived the pure, simple life Marge has will tell all about herself without much coaxing. I don't believe Butch would be a darn bit backward about asking her anything he wanted to know. He must have been quizzing the kid about something else." "She's a purty girl and a sweet girl, and no mother to guide her," Gelle eulogized solemnly. "No bonehead rustler like Butch Cassidy can run any rannigans whilst I'm on the job. If I was shore—" "It wasn't that. Anyway, Marge can hold her own without any help. If you'd heard some of the roastings I've got, already—somebody told her I lied about our frogs. I never will be able to square myself, I guess. Say, Jelly, Butch may have been asking Skookum about that boat. He seemed pretty keen about it in the bunk house." "Bud, I wouldn't put that bank job past the Fryin' Pan outfit, do you know it? From the way Butch talked, I'll bet they've been figuring on it, some time or other." Gelle sent another cautious glance over his shoulder. "They didn't do it, Jelly. I left them all at the ranch, and rode straight across the reservation, the shortest way there is. I was expecting to make it home that night, you see. They couldn't have beaten me in. They were sitting around the house, whittling and telling it scarey, when I left, and their horses weren't caught up or anything. Butch may feel sore because some one beat them to it, and if he thought the boodle was cached somewhere within reach— "Tell you what I'm going to do, Jelly. Soon as we get back with the horses I'm going to do a little scouting around. I've thought of several places I want to take a look at. That yarn about how I was spotting for the gang that killed Charlie Mulholland—well, the quickest way to stop that is to pin it on the guilty parties. If it's a home job, as it looks to be, we can do as much as the sheriff toward getting them with the goods. And, Jelly, I may need you before I'm through." "Well, now, you'd have a heck of a time tryin' to keep me out of the muss!" Gelle laughed to himself. "Here comes Butch, so I'll drop back with the roughnecks. I wouldn't trust Butch if I was you, Bud. He's a nice feller and all that, but he's a horse thief and a killer and I wouldn't trust him fur as I could throw a bull by the tail." Bud was grinning at that when Butch rode up on his high-stepping brown horse, but he did not pass along the joke. The Frying Pan ranch, so called because of the brand most used by the owners, lay a good day's ride from the Meadowlark, over near the Missouri and close to that stretch of chaotic country called the Badlands. A small town might have stood on the level plateau against the hills, but as it was the Frying Pan ranch had a fine sweep of pasture land with a long lane running straight back to where the house, stable and corrals stood against the butte. Had the owners planned the place with an eye to the strategic possibilities, they could not have improved the smallest detail. First, the house, a two-story log building set well out in the open with a well and pump in one corner of the woodshed built against the kitchen. Beyond the house stood the barn, another log building with ample room for hay sufficient to winter eight or ten horses; and behind the barn the corrals, three of them in a string, with a branding chute between the two smaller ones and with a pair of funnel wings that never failed to ease the wildest broomtails into the enclosure left open to receive them. A somewhat elaborate arrangement, though the Frying Pan was a horse outfit that seemed to be making money faster than the cattlemen. Range gossip is quite as malicious as a small-town club that is on the brink of disorganization. Range gossipers grinned at the Frying Pan brand, a blotched circle with the handle pointing downward; very convenient to cover any small brand and blot it forever from sight; handier still to have the choice of left hip or shoulder. One might guess that another brand was buried beneath that burned circle, but who could swear to the fact? Whether Bud knew the gossip or not, he did know good horses when he saw them, and it was with a glow of pride that he climbed the fence of the largest corral and roosted on the top rail with the other Meadowlark riders, all staring down at the circling, kicking, squealing, nipping herd which the Frying Pan boys had just whooped down the wings and inside. A pretty sight they were—one that brought a shine into eyes other than Bud's. "I trimmed the bunch down to about three hundred while we had them up waiting for you to come over after them," Kid Kern shouted, climbing up to straddle the rail and sit beside Bud. "I knew pretty well what you didn't want. Some good stuff there, hunh?" "I've seen worse pelters than these," Bud grinned. "Got any fillies you want to throw in as an honorarium to me for having Lark dig up the full price in gold?" "Say, Bud! If you bring any honorariums on to the ranch, by golly, you'll have to break 'em yourself!" Tony yelled, and winked at Jack Rosen. "They're tricky as hell, and you know it." "Oh, I know you're not supposed to look a gift horse in the mouth," Bud retorted, "but I'll take a chance on five or six colts presented by Kid, here." "If you put it that way, I might add half a dozen head; for you yourself, Bud. Gold is mighty useful to me, boy." "You talk like good old greenbacks ain't money no more," Bob Leverett chided. "There's a black gelding I'm going to build a loop for," Tony cried enthusiastically, and pointed to where a magnificent head and neck showed over the shoulder of a sorrel, the big brown eyes regarding curiously the strange row of figures on the fence. "There's his twin, by golly! I speak fer him right now," Jack Rosen exclaimed. "And they both belong to yours truly," Bud stated with outward calm. "Lark's giving them to me for making the deal, and my one-legged Meadowlark goes on to-morrow morning. You'll need darned fast loops, you fellows, to beat mine." "My gosh, more honorariums!" wailed Tony. "Bud's bashful, I don't think!" "Bud knows two good horses," Kid grinned, glancing sidelong toward Butch. "Them two blacks came"—he glanced again toward Butch and went on smoothly—"damn' near queering the deal. I didn't want to let them two go, but Bud, he couldn't see no bunch of horses that didn't include them, so I had to cave in or lose the sale. You'll have two dandy mounts, Bud, if you break 'em right." "I don't intend to break them at all." Bud's eyes softened wonderfully as they rested on the nearest black horse. "All they need is to be taught. I'll have them both following me around like dogs, inside a month." Butch lounged over and leaned against the fence near where Bud was perched. His hatcrown reached to Bud's knees, and he stared into the restless herd that crowded to the far side of the corral. His lip lifted a bit at one corner. "Look out fer hydrophoby, then," he drawled. "One of 'em is a mankiller at heart; mebbe both. You'll have one fine time makin' pet dogs outa them two. I advise yuh to hogtie 'em and put a muzzle on 'em before you go caressin' around them birds." Bud's cheeks darkened with the hot blood of anger, for Butch lied. Those big, intelligent eyes staring with shy wistfulness from the head of the nearest black betrayed the slander. "Thanks for the advice, Butch. When I need more, I'll send word over," he said coldly. The Meadowlark boys almost stopped breathing for a moment, and sent swift, sidelong glances at one another. But nothing came of the incident, save a tenseness in the atmosphere, a guarded note in conversations that had before been carelessly friendly. Not until after supper, however, did Bud speak his mind to any one, and then it was to Gelle. "I don't like the feel of this place, Jelly. We'll get out of here as soon as we can in the morning, and I wish you'd come with me while I turn over the money to Kid and get a bill of sale—and then I wish you'd slip the word to the boys that I'd like to have them keep out of the card games and turn in early. "The Frying Pan thinks I'm young and green. I suppose they also think I'm a fool, and can't take the hints that have dropped around here. But it's like this, Jelly: We need this bunch of horses. I want that bill of sale signed to-night, and I want you to see me pay Kid the money. Butch doesn't want to see me get those two blacks, and the whole bunch may be slightly damp." He grinned, and Gelle laughed softly. "But if we lose any horses on that account, Kid will have to settle with the Meadowlark; don't think he won't! "And when we've got them safe home," he added, after a reflective pause, "I'll have Lark let the boys off for a few days. They can go spend their good money in Smoky Ford while you and I take a little scouting trip around. How does that strike you, Jelly?" "Fine and dandy; betcher life!" "So come on, now, while all the boys are in sight and it's still daylight, and we'll dig up the gold and get the paper signed that will make these our horses. One hundred and six head of them, at least. Nothing like being young and innocent, is there, Jelly?" "No, there ain't," Gelle agreed soberly. "I never did have much use fer the Fryin' Pan, and that's the truth. Now Butch is with 'em, they don't stack up near so good. Come awn, let's git that gold money paid over to Kid before they steal it. That's how I trust this bunch!" <hr class="chap" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2

Update Required To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.