The Ramblin' Kid by Earl Wayland Bowman (great books for teens TXT) 📖

id="id01320">Saturday was a day of considerable tension for all at the Quarter Circle KT. Night came and Parker and the cowboys had not returned. Nor did they come on Sunday. Evidently the beef round-up had gone more slowly than was expected.

It was late Monday afternoon when the grub-wagon grumbled and creaked its way up the lane and stopped near the back-yard gate. Sing Pete climbed clumsily down from the high seat. Old Heck and Skinny unhitched Old Tom and Baldy while the Chinese cook chattered information about Parker, the cowboys and the round-up. He had left the North Springs early that morning. Two nights before the herd had run—it was a stampede—some sheep had been where the cattle were bedded. Maybe that was it. Chuck and Bert were on night guard and could not hold them. The steers mixed badly with the rangers. Nearly two days it took to gather them again. That was why they were late. Now everything was all right The cattle were being driven to the big pasture. Pedro would be along soon with the saddle cavallard. By dark maybe the others would be at the ranch.

It was midnight before Parker and the cowboys came in.

When Carolyn June stepped out on the porch Tuesday morning she glanced toward the circular corral, which for more than a week had been empty. Her heart gave a leap of delight.

Captain Jack was standing at the bars of the corral and behind him the early sunlight glinted on the chestnut sides of the Gold Dust maverick.

CHAPTER XIV THE GRAND PARADE

Eagle Butte was a jam of humanity. It was Tuesday noon. At one o'clock the Grand Parade would circle the mile track at the "Grounds"—a hundred level acres enclosed by a high board fence lying at the west edge of Eagle Butte, between the Cimarron River and the road that led out to the Vermejo—swing down the main street of the town, return again to the enclosed area, flow once more past the grandstand, salute the judges of the coming events, and the Fifth Annual Independence Rodeo of Eagle Butte would be officially opened.

Special excursion rates had brought thousands from all parts of western Texas, New Mexico and Colorado. Hundreds of tourists, sight-seeing the West, had so arranged their itineraries that they might be present at the big exhibition of riding, roping, racing, bull-dogging and other cow-country arts,—arts rapidly becoming mere memories of a day too quickly passing.

Moving-picture machine operators were seeking advantageous locations for their outfits; pedestrians dodged, indiscriminately, high-powered automobiles and plunging bronchos; the old and the new were slapped together in an incongruous jumble in the streets of Eagle Butte.

The best range men and women of the West were gathered in the western
Texas town.

New Mexico, Arizona, Idaho, Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, Oregon, Texas herself, were represented by their most famous riders, ropers, bull-doggers, cow-experts, and noted outlaw horses.

There were many masqueraders.

Imitation cow-people, they were, made up in fancy wild-west costumes, long-haired chaps, mammoth black sombreros, gaudy neck-cloths, silver-spangled saddles, spurs and bridles—typical moving-picture cowboys, cowgirls and rough riders. But there were, as well, hundreds of real range people. People whose business it is to work every day at the "stunts" they were, for the next five days, to play at for the pleasure of proving their skill and winning the applause of the multitude of spectators packed each day in the grandstand behind the judges' box at the Eagle Butte Rodeo.

Every outfit in western Texas sent its most clever riders.

Indians and Mexicans, in picturesque attire, sprinkled the milling mass of humanity with a dash of rainbow color.

Dance-halls were running, fare layouts were operating, roulette wheels were spinning. For the time, with the consent of the sheriff and other reformed authorities, Eagle Butte tried hard to be as Eagle Butte was twenty—thirty—years ago.

The entire Quarter Circle KT crowd left the ranch early Tuesday morning'. Parker had surprised Old Heck, and filled his mind with misgivings, by calling him to one side after breakfast and stammering:

"I—I—reckon you'd just as well go ahead the rest of this week and—and—look after the widow by yourself—"

"What's the matter?" Old Heck asked suspiciously; "have you found out anything dangerous about that 'Movement' or whatever it is Ophelia's mixed up in?"

"No, it ain't that," Parker assured him, "I just thought I'd kind of—well, like to be free, to knock around at the Rodeo without being bothered with a woman or anything."

The truth was Parker was trying to hedge. When he had got away on the beef hunt and began to figure things out he had come to doubt the wisdom of his sudden infatuation for the widow. Thinking it over, out on the open range, he was appalled by his rash, headlong falling in love. He had never married, nor had he, until Ophelia came, been even near it. Someway, the moment Carolyn June and the widow arrived at the Quarter Circle KT some sort of devil seemed to possess him. He couldn't explain it. Maybe it had been just an impulse to get ahead of Old Heck. Whatever it was, Parker was worried. What would he do with a wife if he had one? All he wanted now was to let the thing blow over. Perhaps the widow would forget his impetuous proposal or fall in love with Old Heck.

Old Heck, his heart filled with a queer mixture of elation and uncertainty—with a sort of joy and sinking sensation all at once—agreed to Parker's suggestion.

Parker rode into Eagle Butte with the cowboys. Old Heck, Ophelia, Skinny and Carolyn June went in the Clagstone "Six." Chuck led Old Pie Face for Skinny to ride in the parade and Bert took Red John, Old Heck's most showy saddle horse—a long-legged, high-stepping, proud-headed, bay gelding—for Carolyn June to use, for she, too, had declared her intention of joining in the grand promenade with which the Rodeo would open.

The Ramblin' Kid left the Gold Dust maverick in the circular corral and rode Captain Jack to Eagle Butte. It would be necessary for him to register the filly, with the entry judges, on the first day of the Rodeo if she was to run in the two-mile sweepstakes.

The rules of the Rodeo required, also, that all who expected to participate in any of the events of the coming week must "show" in the grand march or parade. The animals that were to be used might also be paraded, but this was not compulsory.

Accompanied by Chuck, the Ramblin' Kid went directly to the entry offices of the Rodeo, which were roughly boxed-up compartments under the rear of the grandstand.

A group of "hot-dog" vendors and "concession spielers" looked curiously at the two as they left Captain Jack and Silver Tip, with bridle reins dropped over their heads, standing in front of the office and stepped inside.

Lafe Dorsey and Flip Williams were at the clerk's desk.

The Vermejo cattleman had just registered Thunderbolt, with Flip as rider, for the big race.

They looked around as the Ramblin' Kid and Chuck came in.

"Well, is the Quarter Circle KT getting up sand enough to go against old Thunderbolt again?" Dorsey asked with a curl of his lip and an ugly sneer.

"Oh, I reckon we've got a little nerve left," Chuck answered with mock humility, "not much, but a little, maybe. I was going to put Silver Tip in the sweepstakes," he went on, "but I guess I won't. Th' Ramblin' Kid's got an entry and it looks like a darned shame for one outfit to want to hog it all and grab first and second money both, so I'll stay out this time."

"You talk pretty loud," Dorsey snarled, catching instantly, as Chuck intended he should, the covert slur at the black Y-Bar stallion. "Maybe your money won't make so damned much noise!"

"Here's a couple hundred," Chuck said, pulling a roll of bills from his shirt pocket. "I'll invest that much on my judgment that Thunderbolt ain't as good as you think he is."

"I'll take it!" Dorsey snapped, jerking a wad of money from his own pocket and counting out the amount which he handed to the clerk as stake-holder. "And here's another hundred—or a thousand if you want it!"

"That two hundred is about all I can handle this morning," Chuck laughed. "But I understand Old Heck's aiming to bet a little," he drawled suggestively; "probably you'd like to see him?"

"I'll see him—and raise him till he squeals!" Dorsey sneered.

The Ramblin' Kid ignored the tilt between Dorsey and Chuck and leaned indifferently against the counter waiting for the clerk to fill out the entry blank.

"Event?" the clerk questioned.

"Two-mile run," was the quiet answer.

"Rider—and horse?" glancing up.

Dorsey and Flip paused and turned their heads to catch the names the
Ramblin' Kid gave.

"I'm the rider, I reckon," the Ramblin' Kid replied, "I guess you know who I am. Th' name of th' horse? Well, now ain't that funny?" he said with a little laugh, "I never have bothered to name that critter yet! But—oh, hell, what's the difference? We'll just call her 'Ophelia' for th' time bein'—in honor of a lady-widow that's visitin' out at th' ranch!"

"The Quarter Circle KT's getting to be quite a female institution, ain't it?" Dorsey said contemptuously. "I suppose this wonder horse of yours is one of the ranch fillies and regular lightning!"

For a second the Ramblin' Kid's eyes narrowed, then he replied coldly to the last half of Dorsey's sentence:

"Well, th' filly's been runnin' in that neighborhood an'"—with a laugh that had in it just the hint of a sneer—"she's pretty fair—good enough, I figure, to beat hell out of old Thunderbolt!"

"Are you backing that with money?" Dorsey and Flip spoke together.

"No," the Ramblin' Kid answered slowly, "money ain't no object with me in a horse-race. I don't run 'em for that purpose. Anyhow, poker is my favorite method of gamblin'!"

Dorsey and Flip whirled angrily out of the office and walked rapidly toward the stables where they had left their horses.

After reserving a box stall, which was to be occupied by Captain Jack and the Gold Dust maverick, the Ramblin' Kid and Chuck left the entry office and mounting their bronchos rode toward the section of the grounds, over by the stables, where the parade was already forming.

As they passed through the entrance to the track and the inside field which lay beyond Chuck and the Ramblin' Kid rode within a few feet of the Clagstone "Six," which was parked near the east end of the grandstand. Old Heck and Ophelia were in the front seat of the car watching the riders assemble for the parade. Carolyn June was standing on the running-board waiting for Skinny to come with Old Pie Face and Red John, the boys having left the horses at the stables.

Carolyn June looked up with a bright smile at Chuck. As her eyes met the Ramblin' Kid's there was a question in them. She was not sure yet that she had forgiven him for the brutal rebuff the night of the dance. If there was any feeling in his heart, either of resentment or otherwise, toward the girl the Ramblin' Kid hid it. The look he gave her was one of unfathomable humility and indifference.

Chuck wheeled Silver Tip to the side of the car and stopped. His eyes were filled with frank admiration as he gazed at the girl. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement, her white felt hat sat jauntily on the crown of brown hair, her eyes were sparkling and in the close-fitting riding suit she was the picture of youthful charm and grace. The Ramblin' Kid nodded to Old Heck, glanced at Ophelia with a smile, looked steadily an instant at Carolyn June and raising his hat to the two women passed on with the remark: "I reckon I'll go on over an' see what they're doin'."

"Has he entered the outlaw filly for the sweepstakes, yet?" Old Heck asked Chuck as the Ramblin' Kid reined Captain Jack down the race track.

"Yes," Chuck answered, "he signed her up."

"Did he name her as the Gold Dust maverick?" Old Heck inquired anxiously.

"No," Chuck grinned, "he called her 'Ophelia!'"

Old Heck leaned back in the seat and roared with laughter in which
Carolyn June and the widow joined.

"Dorsey was there," Chuck said with another grin, "he'd just finished entering Thunderbolt for the big race when th' Ramblin' Kid and me got to the registering office. I bet him two hundred dollars. He was bragging a good deal—"

Old Heck's eyes flashed and the mirth left