about ridin’ a hawse!” Big Medicine flung at him disgustedly. “Honest to grandma, I never seen such a suspicious feller as you are, Mig.”
“All right, have it your way. Just the same, if you didn’t pack a load of trouble into this coulee last night, I’ll be surprised.”
“Well, he can’t steal any of my money,” Pink observed philosophically. “I lost m’ last two-bit piece on that full house of Slim’s, just before our brave hero came staggering into our midst with the dying man on his shoulders. I’m safely broke, thank God.”
“The dying man could have walked in if he’d wanted to,” the Native Son tersely declared. “I kinda thought last night he was playing possum to a certain extent. This morning—”
“This mornin’ you’re goin’ to get the livin’ tar knocked outa yuh!” bawled Big Medicine, who was nothing if not loyal to what he considered his responsibility. “That feller ain’t able to knock them words down yore throat, but I am, by cripes!” While he talked, he began peeling off his coat.
“All right, if that’s the way you feel about it. I tell you now, and time will prove it—that hombre is a crook. He’ll deal you dirt, you mark my words. He’s got about as much gratitude as a rattlesnake. Now, come on and fight!” The Native Son yanked off his new gray sombrero with its fancy silver-inlaid band and horsehair tassels, stepped into a clear space and put his hands in the significant posture of a trained boxer. Big Medicine rushed at him, grinding his teeth, but like a cat Pink leaped and landed on his back, wrapping arms and legs around him and clinging there like a leech. Weary stepped in close to the Native Son.
“Cut it out, Mig. You fellows’ll need your energy for those bronks you’re due to tackle before long. To-morrow morning, if you still want to tear each other apart, we’ll all get up early and let you go to it. But folks are coming here to-day for a good time. If this is your idea—”
“Oh, forget it!” snapped the Native Son, reaching for his hat. “I admit this is a poor time to call the turn. But to-morrow morning I’ll sure as hell show this frog-face Samaritan where he heads in.”
Big Medicine halted in the act of pulling on his coat.
“And I’ll learn a greaser to keep his mouth shut!” He started forward belligerently.
The insult turned Miguel’s face livid with anger. He whirled to do battle, met Weary’s steadying gaze and shrugged. Some one was driving briskly up the creek road, the rattle of the wagon sounding loud on the rocks as the horses splashed through the shallow ford. Miguel sent one hostile glance toward Big Medicine and picked up his rope, turning toward the corral. Even so, Weary did not appear satisfied. He followed Miguel through the gate, talking earnestly in an undertone, his hand on Miguel’s shoulder.
“Now what they framin’?” Big Medicine twitched his coat into place and started for the two. “I’ll beat the liver outa both of ’em in a holy minute, if they start framin’ on me!”
“Aw, come back here!” Pink clutched his arm. “Weary’s just calming Mig down. What you go and call him a greaser for? Don’t you know he won’t stand for that kinda talk? He’s liable to knife yuh for it.”
“Well, damn ’im, he called me a Samaritan! There’s some things I don’t stand from no man!” Big Medicine lunged toward the gate.
“Aw, that’s a compliment, you bonehead!” Pink tightened his grip.
“Like hell!” snorted Big Medicine, forging to the gate and dragging Pink with him.
“Sure, it is. Samaritan means helpful cuss—same as the word pinto means a spotted horse. You ask Weary.”
Big Medicine slowed, staring doubtfully after the Native Son.
“Well, I wish, by cripes, Mig would stick to plain United States,” he grumbled. “That’s no way to carry on an argument—draggin’ in Mex words a feller never heard before.” He grinned suddenly at Pink. “Little One, you saved Mig’s life, by cripes!”
“All right, that makes me a Samaritan too,” dimpled Pink. “Hey, Weary! Here’s the Pilgreens!”
A lumber wagon came rattling into the yard and stopped a dozen feet from the shed, and with the clannishness for which the Happy Family was noted, the boys came grinning to welcome these neighbors whom no one save Happy Jack particularly liked. Mr. and Mrs. Pilgreen, with their listless daughter, Annie, occupied the lopsided front seat. Behind them on two quilt-cushioned boards laid across the wagon box rode five juvenile Pilgreens of assorted sizes. All were grinning bashfully, save the old lady herself, whose beady eyes were roving here and there, seeking food for criticism.
“Well, now, how are yuh?” Big Medicine greeted them in his bellowing voice. “Storm any, down your way?”
“Some. Wasn’t you boys gittin’ ready to fight, a minute ago?” Mrs. Pilgreen looked hard at Big Medicine.
“Hunh? Fight? Not on your life!”
“I could hear you swearin’ something awful, comin’ up from the crick, and I saw you peelin’ off your coat and shakin’ your fist at somebuddy. I d’ know what you’d call it but a fight.” Mrs. Pilgreen eyed him coldly. “I don’t approve of swearin’, especially on Sunday. Or fightin’, either.”
“No, mom, you’re dead right. We wasn’t, though. We was jest joshin’ an’ actin’ the fool. Can I help you down?”
“I clumb in without help and I can climb out the same way,” the lady retorted, peering over the edge like a hen turkey inspecting a roost. “You help the young’ns.”
But Weary, Miguel and Pink were already performing that service. Big Medicine assisted the lank and lifeless Annie to the ground, wondering what Happy Jack could see in her to like. For thanks, she smiled and swallowed and looked at her feet, standing limply waiting for her waspish mother to make her clawing, backward descent over the wheel.
“Louise Bixby to home?” Mrs. Pilgreen flipped her calico skirt into place and glared at Big Medicine.
“Countess? Shore! Go right on up to the house. She come to git the house cleaned ’fore Chip and the Mrs. git home. She’ll be tickled to see you folks.”
“An’ that’s a lie, if I ever told one in m’ life,” he muttered later to Weary, watching the visitors go straggling through the big gate. “Guess I’ll go take a look at the pilgrim. Come on, Mig. I git mad sometimes, but I’m reasonable, by cripes. I want you should see fer yourself the pore feller ain’t runnin’ no whizzer. I’m willin’ you should prove yore case ag’in ’im. And if that ain’t fair enough, what is?”
“That’s fine with me, amigo.” The Native Son swung into step with him and they went off together. Weary and Pink, watching them go, glanced at each other and grinned.
Chapter Five. Red Loco
Andy Green, having arrived in Dry Lake on the noon train the day before, “caught a ride” within an hour to the Rogers ranch. From there to the Flying U transportation would
