Part 1

FIFTY-FIFTY WITH BONNIE

By W. C. Tuttle

Author of “A Bull Movement in Yellow Horse,” “Fate and a Fool,” etc.

“My Bonnie-e-e lies over th’ ocean. My Bonnie-e-e lies over th’ sea. My Bonnie-e-e lies o-ver th’----” wailed Chuck Warner in a minor key, turning his long nose toward the blue sky, and keeping a silent accompaniment to his vocal gyrations by wiggling his ears.

“Here,” interrupted the postmaster of Curlew, handing Chuck a letter. “When yuh gits over feelin’ so bad yuh might put this in yore pocket and hand it to Johnny Myers as yuh rides past th’ Triangle ranch.”

Chuck reached for the letter, stuffed it into his vest pocket and resumed his lamentations to some one to “Bring ba-a-ack, bring ba-a-ack, o-o-oh, bring back my Bonnie-e-e to me-e-e-e.”

Chuck had the longest face and the shortest legs west of Bismarck. His claims to notoriety consisted of complete control of his ear muscles, an ability to ride anything that ever wore hair, the memory of a snowshoe rabbit and the conscience of a Flathead half-breed. Chuck drew an intermittent salary from Hank Padden, owner of the Seven-A cattle outfit. When he wasn’t engaged in drawing a salary from Hank, he was spending what he had already drawn, on wine and song. Women were a minus quantity with Chuck; that is, women who figure with wine and song. His favorite song--sober or not--has been mentioned at the beginning of this tale.

Hank Padden was the owner of the Seven-A and a grouch against women. It was rumored that at one time Hank had been jilted by a Piegan squaw, and if that isn’t the height of humiliation there ain’t no such animile.

Also Hank harbored the worst misfit bunch of cow-punchers that ever jingled a spur. Outside of Chuck, he had Weinie Lopp, Zeb Crandall, Hen Peck--christened Gilliland--Mort Blackwell and Swede Johnson.

Leaving Chuck out of the group your eye naturally gravitates toward Swede Johnson. Swede is six feet five in his boots, with a head the shape and size of a croquet ball, and his boots admit twelve sizes. His hat is a 6½ and he draws it up a little with a snakeskin band. Swede was not a hero and did not look like a viking.

This narrative starts with Chuck and Weinie Lopp sitting on the depot steps at Curlew, cussing the train ’cause it wasn’t on time.

“If I hadn’t promised th’ ol’ man before he left that I’d see that this freight got hauled up to th’ ranch right away, I’d go some place where it’s cool and--dog-gone, I shore don’t admire to ride in uh lumber wagon a-tall. That ranch is goin’ to th’ dogs.”

“Uh-huh,” agreed Weinie. “I’m gittin’ tired of th’ Seven-A myself.”

“Aw, th’ ranch is all right,” defended Chuck. “It’s th’ danged lonesomeness that gits under my hide. It shore needs wakin’ or it will pass out from dry rot. Here th’ ol’ man goes gallivantin’ over to Helena and leaves Swede in charge of th’ ranch. Swede! Every time he takes off his hat I wants to play uh combination shot. He shore does carry th’ first cousin to uh pool ball on top of his neck. Here comes th’ train.”

The train pulled in and off hopped two women. As a team they didn’t match up at all. One of them was short and fat and the other favored a lodge-pole. Not tall and willowy but tall and stiff. They were both wearing tan outing suits, straw hats and glasses, with enough black cord fastened thereto to hang a horse thief.

They scanned the horizon and then engaged the agent in conversation for a minute. He listened and then pointed over at Chuck and Weinie. The two women walked over and made a minute inspection of the two punchers.

“Have you a conveyance?” asked the tall one.

Chuck looked at Weinie and then back at the women.

“We’re both uh li’l hard uh hearin’ ma’am. What yuh say?”

“I awsked you if you had a conveyance.”

“She awsk--” began Weinie. “Oh, shore. You means uh way to git there without wearin’ out yore shoes.”

“Certainly!” she snapped. “The manager must have told you.”

“The manager?” wonders Chuck, aloud.

“Oh, yes--shore--huh--yes’m.”

“How far is it?” asked the fat one.

“Nobody knows,” replied Chuck confidentially. “Th’ ol’ timers says that it ain’t----”

“Your conveyance is near at hand?” interrupts the tall one.

“I’d tell uh man,” replied Weinie, “it’s right behind th’ station. You show ’em, Chuck, while I asks about that freight.”

The freight had not arrived, and as Weinie comes out of the depot doors he meets Chuck coming in.

“Did yuh show ’em th’ con-vey-ance?” laughed Weinie.

Chuck grinned back and yelled at the agent--“Does all these trunks belong to them females?”

“What do you care?” asked Weinie.

“They wants to take ’em along. Dog-gone, I reckon we’ll have uh load after all.”

“Jist about what’s th’ idea, Chuck. Who’s goin’ to take ’em along and where?”

“Search me, Weinie. I shows ’em th’ conveyance and they eases themselves into it and yells for th’ trunks.”

“Didn’t they say where they’re a-goin’?”

“Not a say. They awsked me if there were any cowboys on th’ farm, and also if th’ Injuns ever got hostile. I tells ’em that I never seen uh cowboy and that all Injuns is hostile. What do yuh reckon we’ve corraled, Weinie?”

Weinie rolled a smoke and leaned thoughtfully against the depot wall. He snapped the half-smoked cigarette out over the tracks and shook his head.

“I don’t know, Chuck. When uh female attaches herself to yuh thataway it ain’t good manners to question her motives. Jist lay fer uh chance and pass her on. Let’s take ’em out and sic ’em on Swede. Th’ Seven-A needs uh woman’s ministerin’ hand, Chuck. Six trunks! By cripes, this ain’t no fleetin’ visit they’re makin’. It’s uh good thing we didn’t come hossback.”

“My man,” interrupted a harsh voice, and the tall woman stood at the corner of the building, with hands on her hips and an outlaw gleam in her eye. “Load those trunks!”

“Yes’m,” replied Chuck, removing his hat. “We’ll jist----”

“Don’t wiggle your ears that way!” she snaps. “One would think that you belonged to the lower order of animals.”

“Not only one, ma’am,” agreed Weinie. “You and me both. I allus figure that uh human bein’ what can wiggle his ears thataway is----”

“Aw ----!” snaps Chuck. “Git hold of that trunk!”

“Your language,” remarked the woman, “is also ----”

But Chuck had a trunk on his back and was waddling around the corner, and she shut her lips and followed.

* * * * *

“That’s her,” stated Weinie, pointing with his whip at the ranch buildings of the Seven-A. The main building had originally been a one-story, square structure, but additional rooms had been added until it resembled a Maltese cross. Unpainted and weather-worn but with a wide veranda running around the front, it was at least habitable. Further down the slope stood the bunk-house and off to the east was the long rambling stable and corrals.

“Rawther primitive,” remarked the fleshy member. “I suppose that preparations have been made for our arrival.”

“Yes, indeed,” added the tall one. “That was all understood in case I wrote accepting terms. My letter must have reached here a week ago.”

Chuck and Weinie exchanged glances and drove the team up to the front of the house.

Swede Johnson heard the wagon roll up and he came out on the porch in his stocking feet and without his shirt on. He saw the women and stood there like an owl blinking in the sun.

“That’s the boss,” whispered Chuck to the women. “He’s very fond uh women and mighty good-hearted, but he’s hard uh hearin’. Yuh got to speak loud to him, ma’am.”

“Good afternoon!” yells th’ tall one in uh voice that would carry plumb to th’ forks of Roarin’ Creek.

Chuck walked over to Swede and whispers out of the side of his mouth:

“Ladies to see yuh, Swede. They’re hard uh hearin’.”

“Ladies ----!” grunts Swede, and then at th’ top of his voice he yells: “Howdy! Git down and rest your feet!”

The women climbed down and walked up to the porch.

“You received my letter?” yelps the tall one in Swede’s ear, and he looks as blank as an alkali flat.

“Louder,” whispers Weinie.

“I asked,” she whoops again, “if you got my letter!”

“What letter?” whoops Swede, leaning closer and getting red in the face.

“My letter!” screams the lady so hard that her glasses fall off.

“O-o-o-o-oh!” shrills Swede in a crescendo. “You git uh letter? Who from?”

“Fool!” she snaps, puffing like she’d run a mile.

“Yes’m,” agreed Swede at the top of his voice. “He must ’a’ been.” And then he went in the house and shut the door.

“Well,” remarked the fat one, “this isn’t exactly the kind of a reception I was expecting, but we’ll look the place over and if it is suitable I suppose we can put up with a few inconveniences, Clarissa.”

“Few inconveniences? Why, bless my soul, Genevieve, I hardly know what to expect now. I can scarcely believe that this person ever wrote those letters. He’s uncouth and----”

“Don’t try to express it, ma’am,” grinned Chuck. “Better men than you have exhausted their supply of profanity in tryin’ to describe our boss. It can’t be did. Me and Weinie will take yore trunks into th’ house and you can make yoreself right to home. If yuh wants anything jist call th’ cook. His name is Beans. Full title is Lee Fung Yok. He’s imported stock.”

All this time Zeb Crandall, Hen Peck and Mort Blackwell are sitting on the corral fence, gawping like a bunch of hungry magpies.

“Jist about what’s th’ main idea, Chuck?” yelps Mort, and Chuck and Weinie come down from the house, chuckling to themselves.

“That,” replied Chuck seriously, “is ol’ man Padden’s intended and his imported chaperon. Th’ human lodge-pole is th’ bride to be. Did yuh hear ’em yellin’? They’re hard uh hearin’.”

“Chuck,” remarked Hen in a reproving voice, “yo’re handlin’ th’ truth like uh shepherd.”

“When Chuck gits to lyin’ he’s uh world-beater,” agreed Zeb. “Jist about what is th’ real truth of the matter, Weinie?”

“Chuck said it all, boys,” laughed Weinie.

“Yuh see it’s this way,” explained Chuck. “Th’ ol’ man, so far as I can find out, has been correspondin’ with this female, and when he finds out that she’s comin’ out here he loses his nerve and ducks.”

“Th’ ol’ pack-rat!” exclaimed Hen Peck. “Makin’ us believe all th’ time that he’s uh woman hater, and gittin’ engaged by mail. Dog-gone!”

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roared Mort. “Ain’t he th’ li’l ol’ devil though? Let’s all go up and look her over. I’d shore admire to see what he’s selected.”

“You fellers can,” remarked Chuck. “I shore got a eyeful. We’ll put th’ team up. Say, Hen--oh, Hennery, don’t flirt with th’ ladies!”

* * * * *

The delegation of three ambles up to the house and clatters up the steps. The ladies are there arguing with Swede, and everybody is talking at the top of their voices.

“You must have some one clean out those front rooms!” yelps the tall one. “Miss Elberfield and I must have those rooms.”

“Haw-w-w!” roars Swede. “I can’t do it. Them’s th’ ol’ man’s rooms. _Sabe_?”

“He told us we could have the best in the house,” howls the tall one right back at him, shaking her finger in his face.

Swede gets as red as a beet in the face and hitches up his belt.

“Well,” he yells, “I don’t give uh ----! Take ’em! I’ll have Beans swamp ’em up a li’l.”

“Do you employ all of these men?” asked the fleshy one, pointing to the delegation on the steps.

“Yah!” yelled Swede. “Them’s Zeb and Hen and Mort. Jist plain punchers.”

“Pleased to meet yuh, ladies,” sez Mort, taking off his hat and speaking in an ordinary tone.

“Yell it!” exclaimed Swede in a whisper to Mort. “They’re deef.”

“Glad to meet yuh!” Mort tore a six-foot hole in the atmosphere with his voice.

“Delighted!” howls the fat one. “I am Miss Genevieve Elberfield and this is Miss Clarissa Vanderberg.”

“Nice day!” whoops Hen, shaking hands with both of them. “How’s yore folks?”

Miss Elberfield leaned against the side of the porch and watched the three walk back to the bunk-house.

“Clarissa, there are some real red-blooded men--real ones.”

“Yes, my dear, but it’s too bad they are so hard of hearing.”

“What I don’t see,” remarked Hen, as they stopped at the bunk-house, “is what th’ ol’ man can see about Clarissa.”

“Well,” drawled Zeb, “after considerin’ everything about th’ Seven-A from th’ mongrel dog to th’ hired hands, I’d say that Hank Padden is jist about runnin’ true to form.”

The next morning Chuck meets Swede on the porch.

“Chuck, I ain’t noways clear on this subject,” announced Swede, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the main part of the house. “Where in ---- did these females come from, and what are they doin’ here? I’ve worked my danged fingers off fer them already, and Beans swears that he’ll quit tonight if they don’t keep out of th’ kitchen. They makes me dump all th’ ol’ man’s stuff into th’ back room. By cripes, when he comes back there’ll be ---- raised around this ranch, Chuck. He can’t blame----”

“Good morning!” the tall one had slipped out of the door and yelled right in Swede’s ear, and he ducked like some one was shooting at his right ear. “Have you mounts enough for twelve?”

“Hey!” yells Swede. “What you say?”

“Have you horses enough for twelve?” she yells again.

“What yuh goin’ to do--git up uh posse?” howled Swede.

“Don’t be sarcastic,” she snaps like the crack of a .45-70. “I’ll have to be sure of these small details, as I’m sending for the girls today.”

“Sending fer th’-- Say, what girls yuh talkin’ about?”

“Goodness gracious, didn’t you read my letter?” she yelled.

“Ma’am--” Swede strained his voice until his neck looked like a piece of rawhide rope, and his little blue eyes snapped-- “I never reads anybody’s mail except my own!”

Miss Clarissa stares at Swede and then at Chuck, who is choking to death from unnatural causes, grunts wonderingly and goes back into the house.

“I finds, Chuck, that th’ only way to handle uh woman is to show her that she can’t run over yuh,” observed Swede.

“Uh-huh,” agreed Chuck, wiping the tears off his cheeks. “When it comes to yellin’, Swede, you shore got anything beat I ever hears. If I didn’t know for shore that yore name was Johnson, I’d bet six to one that yore ancestors were war-whoops.”

“And still I don’t know why they’re hivin’ up here,” wailed Swede.

“Pshaw! I thought you knowed, Swede. Lissen--them fe-males are rich. They been writin’ to th’ ol’ man about buyin’ th’ ranch, _sabe_? They wants to acquire th’ Seven-A, lock, stock and barrel. Ain’t they said nothin’ to you about it? No? Huh, that’s shore queer. They hints to me that they likes your style and will probably want to keep yuh as sort of uh general manager in case they takes th’ place. They asks me how much yo’re worth per month and I said you was worth uh hundred at least. They says, ‘That’s very reasonable.’”

“Cripes! Is that uh fact, Chuck? I reckon I’ll have to treat ’em as nice as possible. Who do yuh reckon them twelve girls are?”

“Didn’t they tell yuh about them? Why them two females have been runnin’ uh matrimonial bureau fer years--in fact that’s where they makes all their money. Accordin’ to their contracts they has to find husbands fer all th’ girls on their books. They had twelve left over when they decides to quit th’ business and settle down, so they’re goin’ to do th’ square thing by bringin’ ’em out here and gittin’ husbands fer ’em right here in li’l ol’ Montana. _Sabe_?”

“Cripes!” yelled Swede at the top of his voice. “Mebby we’ll all git uh gal from that herd, eh, Chuck?”

“Yuh don’t have to yell at me thataway. Also you’ll git uh girl--not. Th’ fat one intimates to me that she likes you uh heap, and, believe me, if uh she-person with her capabilities makes up her mind to do uh thing like that she’ll shore annex th’ cognomen of Johnson mighty sudden.”

“Me? Not me, Chuck! You intimate to her that I’m uh widower with six kids. Cripes! I won’t marry her--not a-tall!”

“Well, yuh don’t have to announce it to th’ next county, Swede. Weinie and me had uh hard time tryin’ to keep her from kidnapin’ them two papooses of Potlatch Annie’s as we came up here. She likes kids.”

Swede hooked his thumbs over the waistband of his trousers and scowled at the horizon.

“What’ll I do, Chuck?”

Chuck leaned against a post and contemplated the situation for a while and then slapped Swede on the shoulder.

“Tell her yo’re married already.”

“Huh! Where’ll I tell her my wife is?”

Chuck snapped his cigaret over the railing and yawned as he replied:

“Dog-gone it, Swede, do you expect me to lie about it? I ain’t afraid to tell uh li’l untruth once in uh while, but you shore got to fix yore wife’s place of residence. Here comes th’ females.”

* * * * *

Swede ducked around the corner and ambled for the bunk-house, but Chuck, after one look, leaned against the porch and studied the hand-stamping on his leather cuffs.

“Where is the manager?” asked Miss Clarissa.

“Oh, I reckon he’s gone down to see his wife,” replied Chuck. “Said he was goin’ down that way this mornin’.”

“His wife!” exclaimed Miss Genevieve. “Why don’t he keep her here at the farm? I can see where a woman’s hand could work wonders here.”

“Not hers, ma’am,” gravely stated Chuck. “You see, she’s uh squaw. He married Potlatch Annie uh few years ago, and they’ve got some kids. Th’ bunch around here won’t stand fer no Injuns hangin’ around, so he has to keep her down on Roarin’ Creek in uh tepee.”

“Heavens!” exclaimed Miss Clarissa. “How perfectly unfair! This man evidently loves this Indian maiden, and just because of race prejudice he is forced to live apart from her. We must investigate it, my dear Genevieve.”

“Yes, indeed! Would it be feasible, Mr. Warner, for us to arrange to have her brought up here where she rightfully belongs?”

“Well,” replied Chuck slowly, “I don’t reckon it would. You see, while I mixes my sympathy with yours fer th’ pore klooch, I can’t see where we has any chance to change things. Chief Runnin’ Wolf is uh close relative of hers, and he hates th’ whites a plenty. He’d jist about go on th’ grouch trail and lift some hair if we brought Annie up to live here with--No, I’d let well enough alone.”

Well, things go along like this for a week. Poor old Swede is getting thinner, and Beans won’t talk to any one at all. The boys, with the exception of Mort Blackwell, hang around the house and yell so much that when they go to bed they are unable to talk above a whisper. One morning Hen drops into the kitchen and walks up behind Beans, who is peeling potatoes. He says to Beans:

“Beans, can I have some---- Git away with that knife, you Celestial devil! What do yuh think yo’re doin’?”

“Whasamalla you?” howled Beans, throwing the knife on the floor. “You sneak in easy allesame woman. Woman no good, Hen. Alle time say, ‘Beans, you washee face. Beans, you washee shirt’. Alle time wantum sclub flo’. Mebby so I’m chasum li’l fly! Ol’ man Padden come pretty soon, I quit. Alle time scare--no good.”

“Th’ ol’ man’s comin’ home tomorrow,” stated Swede, in the bunk-house, after Weinie had been down after the mail. “He wants somebody to come--Chuck, yuh bantie-legged maverick, shut up!”

“Come ba-a-ack, come ba-a-a-ack--” mimicked Swede. “When you gits to singin’, Chuck, you shore are uh specimen.”

“Well, Swede, before yuh imitates uh singer you better learn th’ words to th’ song. It ain’t ‘come back’ it’s ‘bring back.’ That is shore one grand li’l song. I’ll bet thet I can sing----”

“Chuck, th’ ol’ man wants one of us to meet him at th’ station with uh saddle-hoss. You want to go?”

“Naw, let Zeb go. He ain’t done nothin’ but lay around all week.”

“Zeb and Hen are out breakin’ that sorrel team,” informed Weinie.

“I seen ’em drive off down th’ road uh while ago, and that team went away like they’d been broke all their lives. There’s th’ wagon comin’ right now.”

They stepped out of the door and the team was just pulling up to the house. There is a big black bundle in the back of the wagon, and Zeb is having a hard time trying to get the team up to the porch. Just then Miss Elberfield and Miss Vanderberg come out of the house and trot down the steps.

“Did you succeed?” yells Miss Vanderberg.

“Yes’m,” replied Zeb. “I’d sort-a remark that we did--mostly. One uh them kids hides out in th’ bunch grass and we leaves him. Th’ rest are here.”

Zeb untied the rope, pulled the blanket off and up stands Potlatch Annie. She grabs the back of the seat and steadies herself long enough to reach down and pick up a papoose, which wails loud and free.

“What th’ ---- yuh got there?” yells Swede.

“Your wife!” shouts Miss Elberfield. “Won’t you make her welcome?”

“My Gawd!” croaks Swede. “My wife? That’s ol’ Runnin’ Wolf’s klooch! Where--what yuh goin’ to do with her, Zeb?”

“Them women,” replied Zeb, “pays me and Hen to go down and kidnap her and her flock and bring ’em up here. I didn’t know she was yore wife, Swede, or we wouldn’t have lost that papoose.”

Swede can’t stand any more so he claps his hat on his head and gallops down toward the barn like a locoed cayuse in flytime.

The women take Annie into the house, and all the bunch, with the exception of Chuck, go back to the bunk-house. Miss Elberfield turns to Chuck, sort of sarcastic like, and remarks--

“Do all the men in this country act that way when some one tries to do their wife a good turn?”

“Wife?” said Chuck wonderingly. “Oh, I--I--I think I begins to see. I reckon this is a mistake. You thought I meant she was th’ boss’ wife. You spoke of the owner. You see Mister Johnson isn’t th’ owner. Mister Padden--Henry L. Padden, is th’ owner.”

“That don’t sound like the name,” mused Miss Vanderberg aloud. “It was more like Mayer or--”

“Padden is th’ name, ma’am. You see it’s this way: Swede is supposed to be th’ owner, but he ain’t a-tall. Ol’ man Padden got in bad with th’ law--nothin’ bad, you understand. He shoots two cow-punchers to begin with, ma’am. That wasn’t nothin’ to speak of, but one day somebody sees him brandin’ uh cow what don’t exactly belong to him. That’s why he ain’t in evidence. Uh course he’s gittin’ bolder all th’ time, and I sort-a look fer him to show up here at th’ ranch to-morrow. I don’t know what he’ll think when he sees his squaw up here. But no matter what he does, you women don’t need to be scared. He ain’t never shot no women--yet.”

“You say he will be here to-morrow!” exclaimed Miss Elberfield.

“Won’t that be lovely, Clarissa. The girls will be on that noon train, and it will give them a chance to see a real live bad man. I hope he won’t disappoint us, Mr. Warner.”

“No,” replied Chuck. “I--I--I don’t reckon he will. Who is goin’ after th’ girls?”

“Messrs. Peck, Crandall and Lopp,” replied Miss Clarissa.

“I shore ought to be included,” groaned Chuck to himself. “If I ain’t qualified to join th’ Messrs, I don’t know of anybody around this illahee what is.”

“My Bonnie-e-e lies over th’ ocean. My Bonnie-e-e--” wailed Chuck, lying on his bunk, with his hands under his head. “Say, Weinie, this is th’ dog-gonedest funniest thing I ever heard of. Here these females been here all this time and nobody knows what for.”

“Uh-huh,” agreed Weinie, with his face twisted out of shape, trying to shave in a splinter of glass on the wall. “Ain’t it too true. Uh course everybody knows but me and you, Chuck. You told ’em.”

“Well,” drawled Chuck, “would you have ’em live in ignorance?”

“Well, I do know that I’m one uh those selected to meet th’ girls, whoever they are,” states Weinie, as he tossed the razor into a box and sighed at his scratched face in the mirror. “They’re comin’ in on that noon train from th’ East.”

“Some people shore are lucky,” complained Chuck. “Here I’ve got to go down there with uh hoss to meet th’ ol’ man at eleven. If there’s any disagreeable work to do I shore gits uh front seat. I wonder what th’ ol’ man will do when he sees all these females, Weinie?”