Benton of the Royal Mounted Part 7

"See here; look," he said presently. "I'd go on over and see what's worryin' that old _soor_, but fact is, I'm stuck for a hawss. That black o' mine went lame on me comin' home last night. Picked up a nail. He won't be fit to ride for three or four days. Got anythin' in yore bunch yu' could fix me up with till he gets sound again, Gallagher?"

The rancher considered a moment or two with a grave, inscrutable face.

"Let's see," he said thoughtfully, the corners of his mouth twitching ever so little. "I guess," he broke out finally. "Will yu' come on over, Sargint?"

An hour later Benton, perched on the top rail of Gallagher's horse corral, lazily watched that worthy driving in his band of horses from their range in a neighboring coulee and, slipping down on their near approach, he opened the gate and then effaced himself out of their sight carefully, to prevent a possible scare.

Well strung out, with heads up and manes and tails flying, they followed their leader, a powerfully-built, buckskin gelding. It was an old, well-known trail to them and, presently, with customary obedience, they surged through the opening into the big main corral, where they stood around, a playfully biting, kicking ma.s.s of horseflesh, while their owner, bringing up the rear, dismounted from his quiet old cow-pony and hung up the gate behind them. Ellis, emerging from his hiding-place, climbed up beside him on the fence, and together the two men gazed silently awhile at the animated scene below them.

There were perhaps about thirty head all told, of different grades, ages, and colors, from the heavy Percheron-bred draught-horse to the slender, cat-like cayuse.

Benton, with the eye of a connoisseur of horseflesh, quickly ran them over. "Pretty mixed bunch," he mumbled, ungraciously.

"Well, yu' ain't buyin' 'em, Sargint," answered Gallagher, somewhat nettled at the other's remark, and a silence ensued which was finally broken by Ellis "shooing" at a big Clyde-built mare, heavy in foal, that was hiding another horse from his view. The startled animal slowly waddled away, disclosing the aforementioned buckskin, which bad somehow escaped the Sergeant's notice.

He quickly appraised its points. "Eyah," he muttered; "now _that's_ some horse!"

And indeed his approval was justified for it was about as likely a looking specimen of the saddle-remount as one could wish to see, with the short, strong back, long, springy fetlocks, and powerful quarters that denoted speed and endurance no less than an easy gait.

"That sorrel ain't a bad looker, either," he pursued. "Are they saddle-broke, them two?"

"Yep," said Gallagher shortly. "Yu' kin take yore pick, Sargint, of anythin' that's in here."

Benton, shading his eyes from the sun, scrutinized the two horses a little longer and then, leisurely dropping to the ground, slid into the saddle of Gallagher's waiting horse.

"Guess I'll have to borrow yore saddle and bridle a s.p.a.ce, old-timer, if yu' don't mind," he remarked. "Lord, but yu' must be split to the chin.

I'll have to take these stirrups up a hole or two."

Quickly unlacing the rawhide thongs, he adjusted them to his liking and, tying the horse's halter-shank to the corral, unshipped the heavy stock-saddle and bridle, depositing them on the ground beside the fence.

The rancher's high-heeled Kansas boots, with their huge-rowelled Mexican spurs, next attracted his attention and he stood for a moment silently eyeing them and his own broad-welted, flat-heeled footwear.

"What size boots d'yu' wear, Gallagher?" he inquired, with a mild grin.

"Nines, eh? ... same as me. D'yu' mind changin'? I'm sure on the borrowin' stunt all right this trip, but them stirrups of yores ain't none too wide an' I don't much fancy gettin' 'hung up.'"

The other acquiesced willingly enough and the exchange was soon effected. Unstrapping the lariat from off the saddle, Benton climbed up and dropped inside the corral, the horses beginning immediately to circle around uneasily at his approach, raising clouds of dust.

"Which 'un yu' goin' to take, Sargint?" inquired their owner.

"Guess I'll try out that buckskin first!" Ellis answered laconically. "I wanta hold him and that sorrel. We'll let the others drift."

Standing in the center of the corral, with an ease that bespoke long practise, he slowly shook out a workable loop and began to adroitly maneuver the buckskin to the rear of the bunch. But the latter, scenting danger, and being apparently an old hand at the game, was very elusive, diving head-down into the ruck always at the psychological moment.

Patiently watching his chance as, for about the twentieth time the buckskin's head reappeared amidst the flying manes, the Sergeant carelessly, with a curious overhand flip, swung and threw, the noose dropping fairly over the ears and nose.

Tailing onto the rope, with heels digging into the soft ground, he slid for a few yards, then suddenly detaching the animal from the retreating bunch with a powerful hip-heave he brought it up facing him.

Gallagher watched the performance with a lazy curiosity. "Knows his business with a rope all right," was his silent comment.

Once caught, as Benton coiled in the slack, hand over hand, the buckskin walked meekly up to his captor like one who knows the game is up, and allowed himself to be patted. Leaving Gallagher to hold the animal, Ellis proceeded to cut the sorrel into a small inner corral. This done, he opened the gate once more, and with a wild whirl and surge that scattered clouds of dust the late occupants eagerly streamed out on the run back to their range again.

Carrying the blanket, saddle, and bridle, the Sergeant entered the corral and cautiously approaching the held horse, deftly slipped the bit between its teeth and buckled the throat-lash firmly, then, drawing off the lariat, picked up the blanket and flopped it over the withers with a smack. The saddle next followed suit; the double cinches, although slapping the animal's belly with the same deliberate roughness, failed to produce any startling effect.

"Seems gentle," Benton muttered aloud.

"Yep," a.s.sented Gallagher, in a toneless voice. "Better take th' sorrel, Sargint."

Ellis glanced up sharply, but the rancher's face was set like an ugly, expressionless mask, and he gleaned nothing there.

"Why?" he inquired.

"Pitches some," said the other drily and, with calculating inference, "the sorrel, he's gentle. _I_ kin ride _him_."

Ellis hesitated a moment. He was hardly to be cla.s.sed in the same category as a greenhorn, whom ignorance, taunt, or bravado will often provoke into climbing onto a bad horse, with equally bad results, but his reputation as a rider was at stake, for he knew Gallagher's tongue was p.r.o.ne to wag at times. The latter's last words-"The sorrel, _he's_ gentle!"-rankled a little, and his decision was made with an unconscious snort of contempt, as he dragged at the latigo straps and drew the cinches taut.

"Pitches, does he?" he mumbled to himself. All right, then! He would show Mr. "Dog-face" Gallagher something. And bending down he buckled on the big, straight-shanked, Mexican spurs. "Gimme yore quirt, Gallagher!"

Crossing the split reins carefully in the palm of his left hand and catching the cheek-strap of the bridle, he reached out his right and guided his foot cautiously into the stirrup, eyeing the buckskin closely the while. The animal stood ominously quiet. Grasping the horn he swung lightly and warily into the saddle and settled his feet home. Still no movement from the motionless horse. Vaguely uneasy, he clucked and gave it a light touch with the spurs. The effect was magical. The ears suddenly flattened. A ripple ran along the black-striped back and as, with a hoa.r.s.e, grunting scream the buckskin dropped its head and bucked into the air, in a flash Benton realized that he was on one of the worst horses it had ever been his lot to tackle.

"Oh-o-ooh-he-e-s-ss-a-ah!" in bitter bodily anguish, he groaned, as again and again the horse rocketed and propped, stiff and hard with terrible impact, and with a jarring side-shake that seemed to shiver his very soul. The blood burst from his nose and mouth under the constant violent concussions and he felt deathly sick. Still the snapping, whalebone-like back rose and descended, "sun-fishing" in midair with a curious upward flirt of the rump that was well-nigh irresistible, causing the Sergeant's hand to swing up towards the horn more than once, and but for the fact of Gallagher watching, he would have "pulled leather" without shame. "Not grain fed.... Can't keep this up much longer!" he gasped to himself. And shifting slightly in the saddle he threw all his dead weight on to the nigh fore-leg. It was an old trick that Ellis had often used in his younger and more elastic days, and by degrees he became conscious between the twisting, jerking leaps of the bucking fury under him, that the animal was weakening.

Its resistance provoked a wild, unreasoning wave of anger to surge through him, driving the remnants of his sick faintness before it, and raising his hand he quirted and raked the still pitching buckskin with a ferocity that finally drove it to a sweating standstill.

"Go to it, d-n yu'!" he yelled, but the horse had had enough and only broke into an easy trot around the corral. Swinging out of the saddle, he stood for a moment swaying, dazed from the terrific ordeal he had undergone.

To him came Gallagher. "Holy doodle!" exclaimed that worthy, with a sort of miserable heartiness, "he sure went after yu' some!"

The policeman did not answer, but breathing in deep, heavy gasps, and streaming with perspiration, slowly raised his head. At the unmistakable silent animosity depicted on that drawn, bitter face, the rancher changed countenance and retreated slightly with a deprecating gesture.

"Now don't yu' go for to blame me, Sargint!" he began. "-'Member I warned yu'!"

Ellis looked at him loweringly, with evil irresolution. The man was right, he reflected, but nothing makes us so unforgiving as the consciousness of being in the wrong.

"Warned me?" he echoed, with a mirthless laugh, and at the same time blowing a stream of blood from his nose. "Oh, aye, yu' _warned_ me all right-like Paddy warned his landlord!..."

Regaining his breath somewhat, he resumed with savage ill-humor. "Yu've an ugly mug, Gallagher.... If I thought for a minute yu'd handed me this here stick of dynamite for a josh, I'd push what's meant to be yore face right in, an' don't yu' forget it!"

The other's dog-like visage contracted with a grin and he emitted a short, barking laugh.

"Easy! easy there, Sargint!... Now don't yu' start for to get mad 'bout it," he chuckled. "Never yu' mind my mug. I ain't a beauty, I know....

But handsome is that handsome does.... 'Member, I'm lendin' yu' a horse."

At the remembrance of the man's generosity, and his good-natured response, Benton's short-lived fit of bad temper quickly evaporated, and he felt guilty and ashamed at his own illogical outburst.

"Gallagher," he said hoa.r.s.ely, spitting out a mouthful of blood and dust, "I guess I'm in wrong.... I take it all back."

With an earnestness that there was no mistaking, the rancher reached out his hand.

"Sargint," he said solemnly, "shake. Yu're a rider." And in the warmth of that grip Ellis became vaguely conscious that his nerve had won for him a friend.

Good fellowship established once more, Gallagher's taciturnity vanished and he became voluble and communicative.