The Dude Wrangler Part 42

In spite of Wallie's request, however, Mr. Stott, seeing the cook getting ahead, started off at a gallop to overtake him. In no uncertain voice Wallie called to him.

"You will oblige me if you will ride more slowly," Wallie said, speaking very distinctly when Mr. Stott came back to ask what was wanted.

"Why, what's the matter?"

His feigned innocence added to Wallie's anger.

"I don't want that horse ruined."

"I am paying for him," Stott returned, insolently.

"I still own him, and it's my privilege to say how he shall be ridden."

Stott dropped back suddenly but Wallie foresaw trouble with him before the trip was finished, though he meant to hold his temper as long as possible.

The reprimand had a beneficial effect upon the other equestrians, who had contemplated dashing after Mr. Stott, but now concluded to jog along at a reasonable gait, working off their superfluous energy in asking questions. Did eagles really carry off children? And was the earth under the Yellowstone Park hollow?

In the surrey "Red" McGonnigle was putting forth his best efforts to entertain Aunt Lizzie and Miss Mercy, which he considered as much a part of his duties as driving.

A portion of the road was through a canon, cut from the solid rock in places, with narrow turnouts, and a precipitous descent of hundreds of feet to a sinister-looking green river roaring in the bottom.

"Now, here," said Mr. McGonnigle, as they entered it, lolling back in the seat and crossing his legs in leisurely fashion, "is where there's been all kinds of accee-dents."

He pointed with the stub of a buggy-whip:

"About there is where four horses on a coal-wagon run away and went over. Two was killed and one was crippled so they had to shoot it."

"Oh, how dread-ful!" Aunt Lizzie exclaimed, nervously.

Miss Mercy's contralto voice boomed at him:

"What happened to the driver?"

"His bones was broke in a couple of dozen places, but they picked him up, and sence, he has growed together."

Miss Mercy snickered.

"You see that p'int ahead of us? Onct a feller ridin' a bronc backed off there. They rolled two hundred feet together. Wonder it didn't kill 'em."

Aunt Lizzie was twisting her fingers and whispering:

"Oh, how dread-ful!"

"Jest around that bend," went on the entertainer, expectorating with deliberation before he continued, "a buggy tried to pa.s.s a hay-wagon. It was a brand-new buggy, cost all of $250, and the first time he'd took his family out in it. Smashed it to kindlin' wood. The woman threw the baby overboard and it never could see good out of one eye afterward. She caught on a tree when she was rollin' and broke four ribs, or some such matter. He'd ought to a-knowed better than to pa.s.s a hay-wagon where it was sidlin'. Good job, says I, fer havin' no judgment though I was one of his pall-bearers, as an accommodation."

Aunt Lizzie was beyond exclaiming, and Miss Mercy's toes were curling and uncurling, though she preserved a composed exterior.

After setting the brake, McGonnigle went on humorously, gesticulating s.p.a.ciously while the slack of the lines swung on the single-tree:

"On this here hill the brake on a dude's automo-bubbly quit on him. When he come to the turn he went on over. Ruined the car, plumb wrecked it, and it must a cost $1,500 to $2,000. They shipped his corp' back East somewhere."

Pale, and shaking like an aspen, Aunt Lizzie clung tightly to Miss Mercy. The scenery was sublime, but they had no eye for it. Their gaze was riveted upon the edge of the precipice some six or eight inches from the outer wheels of the surrey, and life at the moment looked as sweet as it seemed uncertain.

Driving with one hand and pointing with the other, McGonnigle went on with the fluency for which he was celebrated:

"That sharp curve we're comin' to is where they was a head-on collision between a chap on a motorcycle and a traction en-jine they was takin'

through the canon. He was goin' too fast, anyhow--the motorcycle--and it jest splattered him, as you might say, all over the front of the en-jine."

Mr. McGonnigle put the lines between his knees and gripped them while he readjusted his hat with one hand and pointed with the other:

"You see that hangin' rock? There where it sticks over? Well, sir, two cayuses tryin' to unload their packs bounced off there and----"

A shriek in his ear interrupted McGonnigle at this juncture. He turned, startled, to see Aunt Lizzie with her fingers in her ears screaming that she was going to have hysterics.

To prove that she was a woman of her word, she had them, while Mr.

McGonnigle, utterly unconscious that he was the cause, regarded her in astonishment.

"She's got a fit," he said to Wallie, who hurried forward.

"He's scared her out of her wits," declared Miss Mercy, glaring at him.

"Me?"

"You! You're a careless driver. I don't believe you understand horses, and I shan't ride any further with you."

"Red" jammed the whip in its socket and wrapped the lines around it.

Springing over the wheel he stood by the roadside and declared defiantly:

"I'm quittin'. Hate to leave you in a pinch, Wallie, but I take sa.s.s from no female. I'd ruther herd sheep than wrangle dudes, anyhow. I tried to be entertainin', and this is the thanks I git fer it."

"n.o.body asked you to talk," Miss Mercy snapped at him.

Wallie succeeded in pacifying "Red" finally and suggested that he and Pinkey exchange places. Pinkey consented reluctantly, and "Red" climbed upon the seat of the bed-wagon with a dark look at the "female" who had questioned his knowledge of horses, while he mumbled something about "fixin' her."

By ten-thirty food was the chief topic of conversation, and everyone was keeping an eye out for Hicks and the "grub-wagon." At eleven the hilarity had simmered to monosyllables, and old Mr. Penrose, who always became incredibly cross when he was hungry, rode along with his face screwed up like a bad youngster that is being carried out of church for a spanking in the vestibule.

"I'm so weak I can scarcely sit in the saddle!" Mrs. J. Harry Stott snapped at Wallie as if she held him responsible.

"I'm simply ravenous--starving!" declared Mrs. Budlong. She also looked at him accusingly.

By eleven-thirty they were all complaining bitterly that the cook had been allowed to get so far ahead that they should all perish of hunger before they could overtake him. Mr. Stott galloped ahead as if he were pursued by hostile Indians to see if he could see Hicks, and galloped back again to say that he could not.

At twelve the animals in a zoo just before feeding time had "nothing on"

The Happy Family when it came to ferocity, but they brightened immediately as they finally caught a glimpse of Hicks' camp-fire, and grew almost cheerful when they saw him cutting bread on the lowered tail-board of the wagon, where the lunch was waiting for them.

The spot he had selected could not truthfully be called ideal, viewed from any angle, since there was no shade and the sand, sizzling hot, reflected the glare of the mid-day sun as painfully as a mirror. None, however, had the temerity to offer any criticism to Mr. Hicks personally, for his vitriolic tongue had long since properly subjugated even the rambunctious attorney.

The "dudes" dismounted stiffly and stood at a respectful distance, sniffing the bubbling coffee and watching the cook slice ham with a knife that had a blade like the sword of a Crusader.