The Flying U Ranch by B. M. Bower (heaven official's blessing novel english TXT) 📖

“We haven't tried,” Pink defended. “It kinda looked to us as if he was aiming to make us guy him; so we didn't. We've left him strictly alone. To-day”—he glanced over his shoulder to where the becurled chaps swung comically from the willow branch—“to-day's the first time anybody's made a move. Unless,” he added, as an afterthought, “you count yesterday in the 'doby patch—and even then we didn't tell him to ride into it; we just let him do it.”

“And kinda herded him over towards it,” Cal amended slyly.

“Can he ride?” asked Andy, going straight to the main point, in the mind of a cowpuncher.

“W-e-ell-he hasn't been piled, so far. But then,” Pink qualified hastily, “he hasn't topped anything worse than Crow-hop. He ain't hard to ride. Happy Jack could—”

“Aw, I'm gittin' good and sick of' hearin' that there tune,” Happy growled indignantly. “Why don't you point out Slim as the limit, once in a while?”

“Come on down to the stable, and let's talk it over,” Andy suggested, and led the way. “What's his style, anyway? Mouthy, or what?”

With four willing tongues to enlighten him, it would be strange, indeed, if one so acute as Andy Green failed at last to have a very fair mental picture of Miguel. He gazed thoughtfully at his boots, laughed suddenly, and slapped Irish quite painfully upon the back.

“Come on up and introduce me, boys,” he said. “We'll make this Native Son so hungry for home—you watch me put it on the gentleman. Only it does seem a shame to do it.”

“No, it ain't. If you'd been around him for two weeks, you'd want to kill him just to make him take notice,” Irish assured him.

“What gets me,” Andy mused, “is why you fellows come crying to me for help. I should think the bunch of you ought to be able to handle one lone Native Son.”

“Aw, you're the biggest liar and faker in the bunch, is why,” Happy Jack blurted.

“Oh, I see.” Andy hummed a little tune and pushed his hands deep into his pockets, and at the corners of his lips there flickered a smile.

The Native Son sat with his hat tilted slightly back upon his head and a cigarette between his lips, and was reaching lazily for the trick which made the fourth game his, when the group invaded the bunk-house. He looked up indifferently, swept Andy's face and figure with a glance too impersonal to hold even a shade of curiosity, and began rapidly shuffling his cards to count the points he had made.

Andy stopped short, just inside the door, and stared hard at Miguel, who gave no sign. He turned his honest, gray eyes upon Pink and Irish accusingly—whereat they wondered greatly.

“Your deal—if you want to play,” drawled Miguel, and shoved his cards toward Big Medicine. But the boys were already uptilting chairs to grasp the quicker the outstretched hand of the prodigal, so that Miguel gathered up the cards, evened their edges mechanically, and deigned another glance at this stranger who was being welcomed so vociferously. Also he sighed a bit—for even a languid-eyed stoic of a Native Son may feel the twinge of loneliness. Andy shook hands all round, swore amiably at Weary, and advanced finally upon Miguel.

“You don't know me from Adam's off ox,” he began genially, “but I know you, all right, all right. I hollered my head off with the rest of 'em when you played merry hell in that bull-ring, last Christmas. Also, I was part of your bodyguard when them greasers were trying to tickle you in the ribs with their knives in that dark alley. Shake, old-timer! You done yourself proud, and I'm glad to know yuh!”

Miguel, for the first time in two weeks, permitted himself the luxury of an expressive countenance. He gave Andy Green one quick, grateful look—and a smile, the like of which made the Happy Family quiver inwardly with instinctive sympathy.

“So you were there, too, eh?” Miguel exclaimed softly, and rose to greet him. “And that scrap in the alley—we sure had a hell of a time there for a few minutes, didn't we? Are you that tall fellow who kicked that squint-eyed greaser in the stomach? Muchos gracios, senor! They were piling on me three deep, right then, and I always believed they'd have got me, only for a tall vaquero I couldn't locate afterward.” He smiled again that wonderful smile, which lighted the darkness of his eyes as with a flame, and murmured a sentence or two in Spanish.

“Did you get the spurs me and my friends sent you afterward?” asked Andy eagerly. “We heard about the Arizona boys giving you the saddle—and we raked high and low for them spurs. And, by gracious, they were beauts, too—did yuh get 'em?”

“I wear them every day I ride,” answered Miguel, a peculiar, caressing note in his voice.

“I didn't know—we heard you had disappeared off the earth. Why—”

Miguel laughed outright. “To fight a bull with bare hands is one thing, amigo,” he said. “To take a chance on getting a knife stuck in your back is another. Those Mexicans—they don't love the man who crosses the river and makes of their bull-fights a plaything.”

“That's right; only I thought, you being a—”

“Not a Mexican.” Miguel's voice sharpened a trifle. “My father was Spanish, yes. My mother”—his eyes flashed briefly at the faces of the gaping Happy Family—“my mother was born in Ireland.”

“And that sure makes a hard combination to beat,” cried Andy heartily. He looked at the others—at all, that is, save Pink and Irish, who had disappeared. “Well, boys, I never thought I'd come home and find—”

“Miguel Rapponi,” supplied the Native Son quickly. “As well forget that other name. And,” he added with the shrug which the Happy Family had come to hate, “as well forget the story, also. I am not hungry for the feel of a knife in my back.” He smiled again engagingly at Andy Green. It was astonishing how readily that smile had sprung to life with the warmth of a little friendship, and how pleasant it was, withal.

“Just as you say,” Andy agreed, not trying to hide his admiration. “I guess nobody's got a better right to holler for silence. But—say, you sure delivered the goods, old boy! You musta read about it, you fellows; about the American puncher that went over the line and rode one of their crack bulls all round the ring, and then—” He stopped and looked apologetically at Miguel, in whose dark eyes there flashed a warning light. “I clean forgot,” he confessed impulsively. “This meeting you here unexpectedly, like this, has kinda got me rattled, I guess. But—I never saw yuh before in my life,” he declared emphatically. “I don't know a darn thing about—anything that ever happened in an alley in the city of—oh, come on, old-timer; let's talk about the weather, or something safe!”

After that the boys of the Flying U behaved very much as do children who have quarreled foolishly and are trying shamefacedly to re-establish friendly relations without the preliminary indignity of open repentance. They avoided meeting the velvet-eyed glances of Miguel, and at the same time they were plainly anxious to include