Part 5

About fifty feet away from them were Oyster and Eskimo, saddling a horse. The animal was humped painfully, squirming uneasily under the pull of the cinch, but fearing to move, because a heavy bandage had been fastened across its eyes. The two cowboys were talking softly to each other.

“This has gone past the funny stage,” Johnny Grant spoke to Jimmy Legg seriously. “We was jokin’ when we dared yuh to ride Cowcatcher. You can’t ride him. He ditched Eskimo in four jumps, and Eskimo is the best there is around here, Jimmy.”

“I said I’d ride him,” reminded Jimmy Legg. “I haven’t quit yet, have I?” Johnny Grant shook his head.

“That’s why I hate to see yuh fork that bronc, Jimmy. I don’t _sabe_ yuh, kid. You ain’t strong. Yore body ain’t built for the shocks yuh get in this business. We was raised for this kinda stuff. You ain’t no youngster. That bronc will jist about flatten yuh for life—and whatsa use?”

“Johnny, I want to be a cowboy,” said Jimmy seriously. “It’s something I can’t explain right now. I appreciate you trying to save me. I’ve been thrown five times since I came here, and I’m still able to hobble around.”

“Yeah, I know. But this is a _horse_. He’s plumb bad. If there’s any slip in the boys bein’ able to herd him away after he’s spilled yuh, he might tromp yuh.”

“But,” Jim Legg spoke softly, “I’ve got confidence in Oyster and Eskimo. They’ll do their part. If I can ride Cowcatcher, will you admit that I can ride?”

Johnny smiled softly. “I’ll admit that yore the best rider in the Blue Wells country.”

“All set!” called Eskimo. “Johnny, you pull the blind, after me and Oyster get all set, will yuh?”

Johnny held Cowcatcher while Jim Legg mounted. The rough-coated gray outlaw, which had defied the best riders of the Blue Wells ranges, stiffened slightly, but did not move. Oyster and Eskimo mounted and rode in on each side of him, prepared to block the bucker from heading into obstacles, and to herd him away from the rider, in case of a spill.

They did not see the sheriff, deputy and another rider swing around the corner of the corral and come toward them.

Jim Legg straightened up in his saddle, grasped the reins tightly and nodded to Johnny Grant.

Johnny reached up and grasped the bandage.

“Pull leather, Jimmy,” he said softly. “Don’t be ashamed to do it. It’s only fools and contest riders that don’t, when they feel themselves goin’.”

But Jim Legg shut his lips tightly and looked straight ahead. He had asked to ride Cowcatcher, after every half-way bucker on the AK had thrown him, and he was going to ride him, or get thrown clean.

Then the bandage was jerked off, and Cowcatcher was moving as he caught his first flash of sunlight, but not ahead, as they expected. Veteran of many battles, he hated the horses and riders which crowded him too closely; so he had whirled free of them, catching them flat-flooted, headed the wrong way.

Although Jim Legg was not unseated, he was flung sidewise, and his right spur hooked wickedly into Cowcatcher’s flank; hooked in while the outlaw was still in the air, heading for the three riders which were not over a hundred feet away, just drawing up to witness the sport.

There was no chance for Oyster and Eskimo to ride herd on Cowcatcher. The gray outlaw churned into the dust, fairly screaming with rage, head down, running like a streak, forgetting to buck, because of that spur, socked to the full limit of the rowels into his flank.

Johnny Grant ran toward the corral, trying to see through the cloud of dust. Jim Legg was still in the same position, hands flung up, as if fearful of making a mistake and pulling leather.

The sheriff’s party tried to spur their horses aside, but their slow-moving mounts failed to move quickly enough.

Came the crash of impact, the scream of a horse. A man yelled. Eskimo and Oyster were riding toward them as fast as possible, while Johnny Grant ran through the dust, trying to see what had happened.

He saw one horse and rider heading toward the ranch-house, and a moment later he heard something crash into the corral fence. Two horses were down. A gust of wind blew the dust aside and he saw Scotty Olson on his hands and knees about twenty feet away from his horse, going around and around, like a pup trying to lie down.

Al Porter was flat on his back just beyond the two horses, which were trying to get up, and up by the house was the third member of the sheriff’s party, trying to recover his reins, which he had dropped.

And there was Cowcatcher, standing in an angle of the corral fence, head hanging down, a most dejected-looking outlaw, while still on his back was Jimmy Legg, his hands resting on the saddle-horn, apparently oblivious to everything.

He slowly climbed down and staggered toward Johnny Grant, his lips parting in a foolish smile, as he whispered—

“My ——, wasn’t that a wreck!”

Oyster and Eskimo had helped Al Porter to his feet, and he was clinging to them, puffing heavily. The sheriff managed to get up without further difficulty, and they waited for him to recover his speech. The two horses scrambled to their feet and moved toward the ranch-house, still frightened.

The sheriff was mad; so much so, in fact, that he almost yanked one side of his mustache off, trying to find words with which to express his feelings.

“Yuh know, Sheriff,” said Johnny Grant, anticipating the sheriff’s coming flood of profanity, “you know it was an accident.”

“Yea-a-a-huh?” blurted the sheriff.

“Wh-wh-who was ridin’ that —— bub-bucker?” stammered Al Porter.

Johnny looked around at Jim Legg, who was still a trifle dazed over it all. Johnny grasped him by the arm and turned to the deputy.

“This is Jimmy Legg, the only man that ever stayed on Cowcatcher.”

“I don’t give a ——!” roared the sheriff. “Every time I get in sight of you fellers, somethin’ happens. By ——, I’m sick and tired of it! Do yuh hear me?”

“Louder and more profane,” begged Eskimo, cupping one hand beside his ear.

“A-a-a-aw, shut up!” The sheriff was too mad to say anything more.

The stranger had ridden up closer to them, and was listening with an amused smile. He was a well-dressed, middle-aged sort of person, rather hard-faced.

“I got out of that pretty lucky,” he said, “I happened to be just outside the crash.”

“Well, I didn’t,” said Porter ruefully. “Any old time there’s a crash—I’m in it. Boys,” he turned to Johnny Grant, “this is Mr. Wade, the detective for the express company.”

The boys of the AK looked Wade over critically, but the keen scrutiny of these sons of the range did not embarrass Wade. He was what is know as “hard-boiled.”

“Hyah,” nodded Johnny Grant. “What do yuh know?”

“Not very much,” admitted Wade. “What do you know?”

“I know m’ head, I know m’ feet, I know you’ll soon Stand up to eat.”

Oyster Shell chanted it softly, noticing that the detective was sitting rather sidewise in the saddle. Wade grinned widely.

“I guess that’s right,” he said. “I’m not used to riding.”

“You workin’ on that train robbery?” asked Eskimo.

“Yes, I’m supposed to be,” he turned and looked at Jimmy Legg, who was still leaning against Johnny Grant. “They tell me you’re a stranger around here, Mr. Legg.”

“I—I’ve been here a while,” stammered Jimmy Legg.

“Uh-huh,” nodded the sheriff, breaking in on the detective. “You showed up the night of the robbery, didn’t yuh?”

“He did not,” said Johnny Grant quickly, “he was here the day before.”

“Here at the AK?” queried Porter.

“Yeah,” defiantly.

“That’s funny,” smiled Porter. “We just met George Bonnette in Blue Wells, and he said you came here to the ranch the day after the hold-up. And that yuh wasn’t even hired yet.”

“And that none of the boys knew yuh, until they met yuh that day in Blue Wells,” added Scotty Olson. “Yuh bought all yore clothes there in Blue Wells, and you —— near killed me and Lee Barnhardt, because yuh acted like yuh didn’t know nothin’ about a six-gun. And yuh had plenty of money to buy anythin’ yuh wanted.”

Johnny Grant, caught in a lie, did not back up an inch. He stepped in front of Jimmy Legg and glared at the sheriff.

“Well, what if he did?” demanded Johnny.

“It’s nothing to quarrel about,” interposed the detective. “I merely wanted to know when, how and why he came to Blue Wells. He’s a stranger around here, it seems.”

“And if he is—what about it?” asked Eskimo. “There’s no law against a stranger comin’ here, is there?”

“Not at all,” smiled the detective. “This man does not fit the description of any of the robbers, but we can’t afford to miss any lead that might set us on the right track. There’s a man and a dog to be accounted for.

“It seems that this man shipped his dog in the express car. We have a fairly accurate description of the dog, but not of the man. The express messenger fought with a man who got on his car at Encinas. They fell out of the car, while the train was in motion.

“This dog was on the car at that time, because the engineer and fireman saw him when the three robbers led them back to the car. The dog was there when the engineer got the messenger’s shotgun and started battle with the three robbers.

“A few minutes later the engine crew sneaked back to their engine to escape the bullets of the bandits. The fireman says he thought he heard a man walk past the engine, just before they started back to pick up the rest of the train, but he is not sure. At any rate, the dog was missing when the train came to Blue Wells.

“Our theory is that the dog was merely a blind to let the man into the car at Encinas. It gave the robbers an inside man, in case the messenger might refuse to open the door. Of course they could dynamite the door, but that takes time. Perhaps the inside man did not expect the messenger to put up a battle, and that the falling out of the express car was an unexpected incident.

“The messenger states that the man tried to pull a gun, which strengthens the theory of the fourth bandit. It is just barely possible that this dog might be identified; so the owner took a chance, sneaked back to the hold-up and secured the dog. This would make it appear that they felt it necessary to have the dog in their possession. That dog was in the car when the engineer and fireman went back to the engine. When the train arrived at Blue Wells, the dog was gone.”

“Which don’t prove anythin’,” said Johnny Grant. “When the train was robbed there were three masked men on the car, and when the train got to Blue Wells there wasn’t a —— masked man on it.”

The detective laughed.

“That’s true. But it doesn’t explain when and how Mr. Legg came to Blue Wells.”

“I walked,” declared Jimmy Legg bravely. “The train passed me.”

“Where?” asked the sheriff.

“I don’t know. It was dark, and I’m not familiar with this country. I got a room at a hotel that night.”

“When did you hear that there had been a hold-up?”

“I heard them talking about it the next day,” said Jimmy Legg truthfully.

He did not think it necessary to tell them he had also heard it the night before.

“I don’t think he knows anything about it,” said the sheriff. “He don’t fit the description of any one of the robbers, and it’s a cinch he ain’t the big geezer that fought the messenger.”

“What kind of a dog was it?” asked Oyster.

“No special breed,” replied the detective. “It was of medium size, yellowish-red, and had one black eye. At least that’s the description which was given to me.”

A few minutes later the three officers rode away, and the cowboys turned their attention to Cowcatcher, the gray outlaw, which was still beside the corral fence. The collision with the other two horses had wrenched its right shoulder, which accounted for its not going any farther.

They took off the saddle and turned it loose. The boys were loud in their praise of Jimmy’s ability as a rider. The marvel of it all was the fact that Jim had stayed with the horse.

“If he knowed anythin’ about ridin’, he’d ’a’ been killed,” Eskimo told Johnny a few minutes later, after Jim had gone into the bunk-house. “He had the luck of a drunk. I’m glad it happened thataway, instead of havin’ to pick him up on a shovel.”

“Sure,” grinned Johnny, and then confidentially. “Eskimo, I don’t _sabe_ that feller. Remember when them fellers were shootin’ at us from the express car? Remember the feller we seen, who comes along the track and gets into the car?”

“Yeah, I remember, Johnny. But I was too drunk to remember much more than that.”

“I wasn’t as sober as a judge myself, Eskimo. But I’ll be danged if it was a big man. Do yuh remember somethin’ about somebody named Geronimo?”

“That’s right, Johnny! I wonder if it was the man’s name, or the dog’s.”

“And that man headed for Blue Wells, Eskimo.”

Eskimo nodded seriously.

“That’s right. By golly, don’tcha know,” Eskimo scratched his head thoughtfully, “I’m wonderin’ what our little friend knows about that hold-up.”

“And why he wants to be a cowboy. Anyway,” Johnny grinned widely, “I’m for him. He’s got guts. If the Old Man will hire him, we’ll make a puncher out of him.”

Jimmy Legg was thanking his stars that Geronimo had deserted him. He was stiff and sore from his efforts to learn the cattle business all in a few days, and he did not realize that the boys had been trying to make him quit. He had been thrown from bucking horses, until it seemed to him that ranch life consisted of dull thuds.

Because he could not rope from a horse the boys had let him work from the ground during a day’s calf-branding, and his hands were seared so badly he could hardly shut them. He had managed to make enough good casts to encourage him, and he had spent hours alone in the corral, throwing loops at a snubbing post.

But his unfailing good-humor and earnest endeavor had caused the boys to go easier than they would have had he not been so foolishly innocent. George Bonnette had watched him, but said nothing. He was not running a school for making cowpunchers, but decided that Jimmy Legg was earning his board and keep.

Jimmy had decided to ride to Blue Wells that afternoon, but after a nap, which left him stiff and sore, he decided to saddle a horse and go for a ride into the hills. The other boys had ridden away before Jimmy awoke; so he saddled the horse alone for the first time. It was a fairly well broken roan mare, and he had little difficulty. He buckled on his gun and rode away.

Although the hills were fairly open, Jimmy watched his landmarks carefully. He realized that the hills and dales looked pretty much alike, and it might be difficult for him to hit a straight line back to the ranch.

A coyote crossed in front of him, stopped long enough to get a good look, and went on. Jimmy did not realize that it was a wild animal. A flock of blue quail whirred up in front of the horse and went careening down across a brushy draw. Something told him that these were game birds, and he wondered whether they were prairie chickens. He had heard of them.

He wasted several cigaret papers, trying to master the art of rolling a cigaret on a moving horse. He did not in the least resemble the James Eaton Legg, who had slid off his high stool in Mellon & Company’s office a short time before. His face was just as thin, but there was none of the office pallor. He was, as Eskimo declared, “burnt to a darned cinder.”

His hands were red, his lower lip cracked. And he had quit wearing glasses. It seemed to him that they were too indelibly stamped with his former occupation. He squinted badly in the bright sun, but his vision was all right. His ornate cowboy garb was no longer ornate, and to the casual eye he would have appeared about the same as the rest of the range riders.

And, to his great delight, he was picking up a smattering of range lingo, a few well-chosen cuss words, and he could draw his six-shooter out of the holster without shooting it accidentally. He had realized later how close he had been to killing two men, and had promised himself that when he went to town with the boys he would leave his gun at the ranch.

He rode into a well defined cattle-trail and managed to light his cigaret. Since leaving the ranch he had ridden at a walk, but now he spurred his horse into a gallop. It gave him a thrill to ride alone; to know that critical eyes were not watching his riding ability. The mare was willing to run, but he curbed her slightly. He tried to remember a song that Eskimo sang, but the words escaped him.

In his reckless abandon he stood up in his stirrups, as he had seen Johnny Grant do many times, whipped off his sombrero and slapped the mare across the rump.

The next thing he realized was that the mare’s ears had disappeared with a terrible lurch, and that he was again flying through space. He struck sitting down in the sand, and skidded along for several feet before stopping. He was badly jarred, but unhurt. His sombrero sailed into the brush, and the mare kept right on going for a hundred feet or so, where she whirled around, cut across a little ridge and went back toward the AK.

“That was an awful fool thing to do.”

The voice seemed to come from nowhere. Jimmy Legg stretched his neck and looked around. Standing in the trail, just a few feet beyond him was a girl—Marion Taylor. Jimmy Legg shut one eye and considered her gravely. He was sure he was mistaken, and wondered whether this could be a mirage. Oyster had told him of many mirages in that country, but he had never mentioned one of a pretty girl, who could talk.

“What was a fool thing?” asked Jimmy.

“Slappin’ a horse, and gettin’ throwed off,” she replied.

Jimmy got to his feet, braced his legs and stared at her.

“I dunno just what did happen,” he confessed foolishly.

Marion eyed him gravely, and he thought she was the prettiest girl he had ever seen.

“You must be the new man at the AK,” she said.

“Yes ma’am, I’m the new cowpuncher.”

“Cowpuncher?”

“Well, yea-a-ah,” he tried to imitate Johnny Grant.

The girl laughed.

“I’m James Eat—Jimmy Legg,” he stammered.

“I am Marion Taylor,” she said, smiling. “We own the Double Bar 8.”

“Oh, yes.”

They considered each other silently for a while. Jimmy glanced around.

“Where’s your horse, Miss Taylor?”

She colored slightly.

“Got away from me. Spike hates snakes, you see. We found a big rattler, and I got off to shoot it. I didn’t want to shoot off Spike, because he hates a gun; so I got off, and when I shot the rattler, Spike yanked away.”

Jimmy nodded.

“We’ve both lost our horses, it seems. You see, I don’t know anything about snakes.”

“No? You know a rattler when you see one, don’t you?”

“No, I’m sure I wouldn’t.”

“Then you better walk carefully, because we’ve got plenty of them around here. You’ll probably see one on your way back to the AK.”

“Possibly,” said Jimmy gravely. “But I’m not going back—not now. You see, I’m going to take you home first.”

“Oh, no,” Marion smiled shortly. “It’s only about three miles, you see. I don’t mind the walk.”

“Well, I’m goin’ along,” declared Jimmy. “You might get bit by a snake, or—or—”

Marion smiled with amusement.

“Do you think you could protect me from a rattler, Mr. Legg?”

“I dunno,” confessed Jimmy.

He glanced at the Colt, which swung from her hip.

“Can you hit anything with that?”

“Sometimes. Why?”

“I was just wondering.”

“Can you shoot?” she asked.

“Yea-a-a-ah, sure,” solemnly. Then he laughed outright. “I almost killed the sheriff and a prominent attorney, I believe. It—it went off when I wasn’t looking, you see.”

“I heard about it.”

They both laughed.

“Why not walk to the AK?” asked Marion. “It’s a lot nearer than the Double Bar 8. We—I could get a horse there.”

Jimmy shook his head quickly.

“Everybody is away, and the only horse there is one they call Cowcatcher.”

“Cowcatcher!” exclaimed Marion. “I’m sure I don’t want to ride him.”

“You couldn’t, anyway. I rode him today, and he ran rather wild, it seems. We knocked the horses from under the sheriff and the deputy, and ran into the corral fence, where Cowcatcher hurt his shoulder.”

Marion looked at him in amazement. She knew the reputation of that outlaw bucker.

“Do you mean to say that you rode Cowcatcher?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And were you on him when he quit?”

“Oh, yes,” innocently. “He’s not very tame, is he?” Jimmy laughed softly. “It was lots of fun.”

“Lots of fun?” Marion bit her lip and stared at this strange young man, whose language and actions did not brand him as a man of the ranges, and yet who had ridden the worst horse in the Blue Wells country, and thought it lots of fun.

And yet she had seen him thrown clean at the first pitching buck of a galloping horse. She could see that he had been freshly sunburned, and that his clothes were comparatively new.

“I don’t understand you,” she told him. Jimmy looked away, his eyes squinted seriously.

“Do you always have to understand any one?” he asked.

“You’re not a cowpuncher, Mr. Legg.”

Jimmy turned to her, a half-smile on his wide mouth.

“Do I look as raw as all that, Miss Taylor? I know I’m not a cowboy, but I’m going to be. Johnny Grant says I’ll make a good one, if I live to finish my education.”

Marion laughed at his naive confession.

“I didn’t know that anybody ever wanted to be a cowboy,” she said. “It’s just hard work.”

Jimmy Legg looked at her, a curious expression in his eyes.

“And romance,” he said slowly. “It is a big world out here. The blue nights, the sweet air of the hills in the morning, the midday, when the air fairly hums with the heat; and then when the shadows of sunset come, and the birds call—isn’t it worth learning to be a cowboy, to live here?”

“Well, when you see things that way, Mr. Legg. I’ve lived here almost all my life, and I—maybe I’m so used to it.”

“Having cowboys thrown off at your feet?” grinned Jimmy.

Marion flushed slightly.

“No, this is the first time. But you see, you are not a regular cowpuncher.”

“I suppose that does make a difference. Perhaps we better start walking, Miss Taylor.”

“Well, if you insist. I can let you have a horse to ride back to the AK.”

“That will be fine. We should be at your ranch in an hour.”

“But we won’t,” laughed Marion. “Any time you walk three miles an hour through this sand, the State of Arizona will give you a medal for bravery. In about fifteen minutes you’ll decide that high-heeled boots were never made for walking.”

It did not take Jimmy Legg that long to find it out. His left boot rubbed a blister on his heel, and his right boot creased deeply across his toes, adding several more blisters to his grand total. But he gritted his teeth and said nothing.

“Next time I go riding alone,” panted Jimmy, “I’m going to tie the lead-rope around my waist. Then, if my horse throws me off and tries to go home, he’ll have to drag me along.”

“You’ve got silk socks on, haven’t you?” asked Marion. Jimmy admitted that he had.

“No good,” said Marion. “Stylish, but terrible. Wear woolen socks.”

“You make me ashamed,” confessed Jimmy. “You travel along as though it was nothing, while I’m having an awful time. All I need is a handful of lead-pencils and I’d be a first-class cripple.”

The last mile was exquisite torture, but Jimmy managed to stumble into the patio of the Double Bar 8 and sit down on the well-curb.

He took off his boots, while Marion drew a fresh bucket of water. His feet were so swollen that he could hardly get the boots off, and his silk socks were in shreds.

He sat on the edge of the curb and soaked his feet in the cold water of the trough, while Marion found him a pair of Buck’s socks.

“Do you still think there is romance?” she asked, as he grimaced over his blisters. He looked up at her, forgetting the pain in his feet.

“Yes,” he said honestly. “You are the Beautiful Lady, and I am the Knight of the Blistered Feet.” He laughed softly. “As soon as I can get my boots on, I shall try and slay a dragon for you.”