The Jimmyjohn Boss, and Other Stories by Owen Wister (ebook reader library TXT) 📖

Drake grieved over it. “Wrap it up warm,” said he. “I'll lend you a real one when we get to the Malheur Agency. But you can eat, anyhow. Christmas being next week, you see, my programme is, shoot all A.M. and eat all P.M. I wish you could light on a notion what prizes to give my buccaroos.”

“Buccaroos?” said Bolles.

“Yep. Cow-punchers. Vaqueros. Buccaroos in Oregon. Bastard Spanish word, you see, drifted up from Mexico. Vogel would not care to have me give 'em money as prizes.”

At this Uncle Pasco opened an eye.

“How many buccaroos will there be?” Bolles inquired.

“At the Malheur Agency? It's the headquarters of five of our ranches. There ought to be quite a crowd. A dozen, probably, at this time of year.”

Uncle Pasco opened his other eye. “Here, you!” he said, dragging at his box under the seat. “Pull it, can't you? There. Just what you're after. There's your prizes.” Querulous and watchful, like some aged, rickety ape, the old man drew out his trinkets in shallow shelves.

“Sooner give 'em nothing,” said Dean Drake.

“What's that? What's the matter with them?”

“Guess the boys have had all the brass rings and glass diamonds they want.”

“That's all you know, then. I sold that box clean empty through the Palouse country last week, 'cept the bottom drawer, and an outfit on Meacham's hill took that. Shows all you know. I'm going clean through your country after I've quit Silver City. I'll start in by Baker City again, and I'll strike Harney, and maybe I'll go to Linkville. I know what buccaroos want. I'll go to Fort Rinehart, and I'll go to the Island Ranch, and first thing you'll be seeing your boys wearing my stuff all over their fingers and Sunday shirts, and giving their girls my stuff right in Harney City. That's what.”

“All right, Uncle. It's a free country.”

“Shaw! Guess it is. I was in it before you was, too. You were wet behind the ears when I was jammin' all around here. How many are they up at your place, did you say?”

“I said about twelve. If you're coming our way, stop and eat with us.”

“Maybe I will and maybe I won't.” Uncle Pasco crossly shoved his box back.

“All right, Uncle. It's a free country,” repeated Drake.

Not much was said after this. Uncle Pasco unwrapped his concertina from the red handkerchief and played nimbly for his own benefit. At Silver City he disappeared, and, finding he had stolen nothing from them, they did not regret him. Dean Drake had some affairs to see to here before starting for Harper's ranch, and it was pleasant to Bolles to find how Drake was esteemed through this country. The school-master was to board at the Malheur Agency, and had come this way round because the new superintendent must so travel. They were scarcely birds of a feather, Drake and Bolles, yet since one remote roof was to cover them, the in-door man was glad this boy-host had won so much good-will from high and low. That the shrewd old Vogel should trust so much in a nineteen-year-old was proof enough at least of his character; but when Brock, the foreman from Harper's, came for them at Silver City, Bolles witnessed the affection that the rougher man held for Drake. Brock shook the boy's hand with that serious quietness and absence of words which shows the Western heart is speaking. After a look at Bolles and a silent bestowing of the baggage aboard the team, he cracked his long whip and the three rattled happily away through the dips of an open country where clear streams ran blue beneath the winter air. They followed the Jordan (that Idaho Jordan) west towards Oregon and the Owyhee, Brock often turning in his driver's seat so as to speak with Drake. He had a long, gradual chapter of confidences and events; through miles he unburdened these to his favorite:

The California mare was coring well in harness. The eagle over at Whitehorse ranch had fought the cat most terrible. Gilbert had got a mule-kick in the stomach, but was eating his three meals. They had a new boy who played the guitar. He used maple-syrup an his meat, and claimed he was from Alabama. Brock guessed things were about as usual in most ways. The new well had caved in again. Then, in the midst of his gossip, the thing he had wanted to say all along came out: “We're pleased about your promotion,” said he; and, blushing, shook Drake's hand again.

Warmth kindled the boy's face, and next, with a sudden severity, he said: “You're keeping back something.”

The honest Brock looked blank, then labored in his memory.

“Has the sorrel girl in Harney married you yet?” said Drake. Brock slapped his leg, and the horses jumped at his mirth. He was mostly grave-mannered, but when his boy superintendent joked, he rejoiced with the same pride that he took in all of Drake's excellences.

“The boys in this country will back you up,” said he, next day; and Drake inquired: “What news from the Malheur Agency?”

“Since the new Chinaman has been cooking for them,” said Brock, “they have been peaceful as a man could wish.”

“They'll approve of me, then,” Drake answered. “I'm feeding 'em hyas Christmas muck-a-muck.”

“And what may that be?” asked the schoolmaster.

“You no kumtux Chinook?” inquired Drake. “Travel with me and you'll learn all sorts of languages. It means just a big feed. All whiskey is barred,” he added to Brock.

“It's the only way,” said the foreman. “They've got those Pennsylvania men up there.”

Drake had not encountered these.

“The three brothers Drinker,” said Brock. “Full, Half-past Full, and Drunk are what they call them. Them's the names; they've brought them from Klamath and Rogue River.”

“I should not think a Chinaman would enjoy such comrades,” ventured Mr. Bolles.

“Chinamen don't have comrades in this country,” said Brock, briefly. “They like his cooking. It's a lonesome section up there, and a Chinaman could hardly quit it, not if he was expected to stay. Suppose they kick about the whiskey rule?” he suggested to Drake.

“Can't help what they do. Oh, I'll give each boy his turn in Harney City when he gets anxious. It's the whole united lot I don't propose to have cut up on me.”

A look of concern for the boy came over the face of foreman Brock. Several times again before their parting did he thus look at his favorite. They paused at Harper's for a day to attend to some matters, and when Drake was leaving this place one of the men said to him: “We'll stand by you.” But from his blithe appearance and talk as the slim boy journeyed to the Malheur River and Headquarter ranch, nothing seemed to be on his mind. Oregon twinkled with sun and fine white snow. They crossed through a world of pines and creviced