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

then leaped jagged flashes of lightning—and which was rolling from the Costejo Mountains across the Kiowa range in the direction of the Quarter Circle KT.

Silent and with a heavy heart she turned away from the door.

CHAPTER XIX THE GREEK GETS HIS

It was long after midnight when the Ramblin' Kid and Skinny rode into Eagle Butte and the heels of Captain Jack and Old Pie Face echoed noisily on the board floor of the livery stable as the bronchos turned into the wide, open doorway of the barn. A drowsy voice from the cubby-hole of an office called:

"In just a minute—I'll be out!"

"Aw, thunder," Skinny answered, "go on back to sleep, we'll find stalls and put 'em up!"

Captain Jack and Old Pie Face cared for, Skinny and the Ramblin' Kid stepped out into the deserted street.

Eagle Butte was sleeping.

Here and there a blaze of light from a store window invited belated passers to covet the bargains offered within; a half-dozen incandescent bulbs, swung on cross-wires at intervals along the street, glowed feebly as if weary with the effort to beat back the darkness clutching at the throat of the town; over the sidewalk in front of the Elite Amusement Parlor an illuminated red and green sign told that Mike Sabota's place was still open; across the porch of the Occidental Hotel and spilling itself on the ground out in the street a stream of light guided weary travelers to the portals of that ancient, though hospitable, institution; from the sides of the Butte beyond the railroad tracks a coyote yelped shrilly a jerky, wailing challenge—a dozen dogs, suddenly aroused in different parts of the town, answered.

"Pretty dead-lookin'," the Ramblin' Kid remarked. "Let's go down to
Sabota's."

"All right," Skinny replied, and they moved down the street.

The pool-room offered nothing of interest. A couple of traveling men, waiting for the early morning train, were playing a listless game of billiards at one of the tables; a pair of Jap sugar-beet workers and a negro section hand sat half-asleep and leaned against the wall; "Red" Jackson, Sabota's chief lieutenant, with an air of utter boredom, lounged behind the soft-drink bar. Sabota was not there.

"What's happened to everybody?" Skinny asked; "where's Mike?"

"Everybody's got religion, I guess," Red yawned, "and gone to bed. What do you want with Sabota?" looking suspiciously at the Ramblin' Kid; "he's over at Vegas; won't be back till to-morrow—or to-day it is now, I reckon—evening sometime!"

"Th' Ramblin' Kid and me have been out in the rain," Skinny said suggestively, "and thought we might take cold—"

"Nothing doing!" Red laughed, "ain't a drop around! When Mike gets back he'll fix you up, maybe—that's what he's gone after!"

"We'd just as well go to bed!" Skinny grumbled disgustedly to the
Ramblin' Kid.

"I reckon," was the laconic answer.

They returned to the hotel, roused the clerk from his doze, secured a room and retired.

It was eight o'clock when they got up.

Both went directly to the livery stable and saw that Captain Jack and Old Pie Face were properly attended to. While at the barn Skinny took the bundle he had wrapped in the bunk-house at the ranch from the saddle where he had tied it.

"What's that?" the Ramblin' Kid queried.

"It's that darned shirt!" Skinny retorted. "I'm going to make Old Leon eat it—it wasn't the size Parker asked for!"

The Ramblin' Kid laughed, but said nothing.

They returned to the hotel and had breakfast. Manilla Endora waited on them. Before Carolyn June and Ophelia came to the Quarter Circle KT Manilla's yellow hair and blue eyes were the flames that fanned the affections of Skinny. He felt guilty as, sweetly as ever and without a hint of reproach, Manilla took their orders and served them with their ham and eggs and coffee.

After breakfast Skinny and the Ramblin' Kid explored the town.

Eagle Butte had come to life. The stores were open. Business was brisk. The "dray" was delivering the express accumulated the night before at the depot. Here and there a morning shopper was passing along the street. At the post-office there was quite a crowd.

Skinny carried the shirt, wrapped in the soggy, rain-soaked newspaper. As he and the Ramblin' Kid came near the dingy, general merchandise establishment kept by the squint-eyed Jew from whom Parker had bought the unfortunate garment a sudden look of cunning gleamed in the eyes of Skinny. He laughed aloud. A box of eggs, ten or twelve dozen it contained, was set, with other farm produce, in a display on the sidewalk at the side of the door of the store.

"Hold on a minute," Skinny said to the Ramblin' Kid, stopping in front of the Jew's place of business, "I got an idea—By golly," he continued argumentatively and with apparent irrelevancy, in a loud voice, "I tell you I'm the lightest man on my feet in Texas!" and he winked knowingly at the Ramblin' Kid. "I can walk on eggs and never bu'st a one! I've done it and"—as Leon came to the door—"I'll bet four-bits I can jump in that box of eggs right there and never crack a shell!" The Ramblin' Kid understood.

"Aw, you're crazy," he laughed. "I don't want to win your money!"

"What's the matter?" Leon asked curiously, having heard only part of
Skinny's boast.

"This locoed darn' fool thinks he can walk on them eggs an' not mash 'em!" the Ramblin' Kid laughed again. "He wants to bet me four-bits he can—"

"Walk on them eggs and not preak them?" Leon exclaimed disdainfully.
"You ought to lock him up! He iss crazy!"

"By gosh," Skinny argued, "you don't realize how light-footed I am—I can jump on them, I tell you, and I got money to back it up!" And he pulled a half-dollar from his pocket.

"Put away your money, you blamed idiot—" the Ramblin' Kid began.

"I'll bet him four-bits he can't!" Leon cried, jerking a coin from his own pocket.

Skinny and Leon each handed the Ramblin' Kid fifty cents.

"By thunder, I can," Skinny said, pausing, "that is, I'm willing to bet my money on it—"

"Vhy don't you go ahead and do it, then?" Leon exclaimed. "Vat you standing there for? Vhy don't you do it if you're so light on your feet?"

"Well, I can!" Skinny argued, still hesitating.

"Den go ahead and chump—chump I told you—into the box!" Leon shouted excitedly.

Skinny jumped. The eggs crushed under the heels of his riding boots. In an instant the box was filled with a squashy mass of whites, yolks and broken shells. Skinny pawed around until there wasn't a whole egg left in the box.

At the first crunch Leon laughed hilariously.

"I knowed you'd lose!" he cackled. "Giff me the money!"

"You win, Leon!" the Ramblin' Kid laughed, handing over the wager.
"Skinny wasn't as delicate on his feet as he thought he was!"

"Thunderation, that's funny!" Skinny said soberly as he stepped out of the box; "it wouldn't work that time! Something must have slipped!"

With a grin he calmly unwrapped the one-time white shirt and with it began to wipe the slimy mess from his boots.

"The next time you won't be so smart!" Leon cried, then paused in consternation, his eyes riveted on the scrambled mixture in the box. "But mine eggs!" he exclaimed, suddenly suspicious. "Who pays for the eggs? There vas twelve dozen—they are worth seventy cents a dozen—that is more as eight dollars. Pay me for the eggs!"

"Pay, hell!" Skinny said. "I didn't agree to furnish no eggs! You won my fifty cents and th' Ramblin' Kid gave it to you—"

"That's right, Leon," the Ramblin' Kid chuckled, "you got th' four-bits—that's all you won!"

"But pay me—" Leon whined.

"I'll pay you, you dirty crook!" Skinny snapped as he slapped the soppy, egg-splattered shirt in Leon's face. "I'll pay you with that! The next time," he added as he and the Ramblin' Kid started down the street—"anybody asks for a size fifteen shirt don't give them a sixteen and a half!"

The day was spent idling about town waiting for Sabota to return so Skinny could get some whisky and drown his disappointment in love in intoxicated forgetfulness.

After supper Skinny and the Ramblin' Kid went to the picture show—Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays were "movie nights" in Eagle Butte—and saw a thrilling "wild-west" drama in which a band of Holstein milk cows raced madly through an alfalfa field in a frenzied, hair-raising stampede! When the show was over the Ramblin' Kid started toward the livery barn.

"What you going to do?" Skinny queried.

"I was just goin' to get Captain Jack," the Ramblin' Kid replied.

"What for?" Skinny asked as they moved toward the barn. "There ain't no hurry about getting back to the ranch. We won't be going out till to-morrow or next day—there ain't no use getting the horses out to-night."

"I don't know," the Ramblin' Kid answered, without stopping, "I just got a hunch to get him in case I need him. Anyhow, it won't hurt him to stand out a while—they've been eatin' all day."

"Then I'll get Old Pie Face, too," Skinny replied.

They saddled the bronchos and rode out of the barn.

"Where'll we go?" Skinny asked.

"Reckon we'd better go back down to Sabota's," the Ramblin' Kid said as they turned their horses in the direction of the pool-room, "if you still insist on makin' a blamed fool of yourself an' gettin' drunk. Maybe Mike's back by now. Anyhow, there might be a little poker game goin' on—I saw a couple of the fellers from over on th' Purgatory come in a while ago!"

They left Captain Jack and Pie Face standing, with bridle reins dropped, across the street and in the broad shaft of light streaming from the open door of the pool-room, and went into the resort.

The place was well filled. Sabota had returned, evidently with an ample supply of the fiery stuff he called "whisky." Like vultures that unerringly seek and find the spot where a carcass has fallen the thirsty of Eagle Butte had gathered at the Elite Amusement Parlor.

Inside the door of the pool-room and at the left, as one entered, was a hardwood bar eighteen or twenty feet long and over which at one time, in the days before Eagle Butte "reformed," had been dispensed real "tarantula juice." The back bar, with its big mirrors and other fixtures, was as it had been when the place was a regular saloon. At the right of the room, opposite the bar, were several round, green-topped card tables. In the rear was the billiard and pool equipment, which entitled the place to the name "pool-room." Just across from the farther end of the bar and near the last card table a half-dozen hard-looking, small-town "toughs"—creatures who loafed about Sabota's and aided him, as occasion required, in his boot-legging operations or other questionable enterprises—were lounging, some standing, some sitting, watching a slow poker game going on at the last table. Cards, under the laws of Texas, are taboo, but for some reason Sabota managed to get by and games were allowed in his place.

The two cowboys the Ramblin' Kid had mentioned, a rancher from the irrigated section near Eagle Butte and "Jeff" Henderson, one of Sabota's henchmen, who was playing for the house, were sitting in at the game.

Half-way down the room at one side against the wall a mechanical player piano was grinding out garish, hurdy-gurdy music.

"Red" Jackson was dispensing soft drinks from behind the bar.

Sabota himself, with one heel caught on the brass foot-rail, was leaning indolently but with a lordly air against the front of the polished, imitation mahogany counter.

He had been drinking and was in his shirt-sleeves.

As Skinny and the Ramblin' Kid stepped into the pool-room Sabota glanced around. For an instant he eyed the Ramblin' Kid keenly while a nasty sneer curled his lips. As they approached he turned the grin into a hypocritical smile of welcome. The Ramblin' Kid barely noticed the Greek and passed on to where the card game was in progress. Skinny paused and said something in a low tone to Sabota. The two walked to the rear end of the bar where the proprietor of the place in turn spoke to Red and the latter furtively handed a pint bottle to the cowboy and which he dropped into the bosom of his flannel shirt.

The Ramblin' Kid was recognized by the cowboys from the Purgatory.

"Come on and get into the game!" one of them invited, moving over.

"Yes," Henderson