Bat Wing Bowles. Coolidge Dane

bitter emphasis. "It's a common remark or sayin' that when you drop yore dishrag it means a visitor is comin' – or, as some say, it means bad luck. Now jest look at that ornery feller comin' up the road! Can't let his hawse out none – can't whip up a little and git in by supper-time – has to come draggin' in jest as I'm finishin' my work!"

      The cowboy raised himself up slowly from crouching on his heels and regarded the stranger intently.

      "Say, who is that?" he said at last. "Looks like he was ridin' that little bald-faced sorrel that Lon Morrell traded to Jim Scrimsher last summer. Yes, sir, it's the very same hawse – that's somebody from down Chula Vista way!"

      "Well, I don't care where he comes from," grumbled the cook, "as long as he comes a-runnin'! I sure will be one happy man when the wagon gits away from this ranch and I git shut of these no-'count, worthless chuck-riders. Well, biscuits and coffee is all he gits now, I don't care if he's a cattle-buyer!"

      He wiped his hands carefully on a clean towel he kept hid for that purpose, pulled out his long gray mustaches and regarded the stranger with a baleful stare.

      "Hoo!" he sneered. "Look at them shaps, will you? Ain't them the fancy pants though! Right new, too – and git on to that great big six-shooter! Must be a forest ranger!"

      "Shut up!" said the cowboy as the stranger dropped off at the gate. "He might hear ye!"

      "Don't give a rip if he did!" snorted Gus, to whom Uncle Sam's gay young forest-savers were intimately associated with an extra plate; and, grumbling and slamming down dishes, he returned to his manifold duties.

      But the stranger was evidently not a common chuck-rider; in fact, so gloriously was he appareled that the moment his rigging became apparent the idling cowboy made a swift sneak to the bunk-house, where the boys were wrangling over a pitch game, and turned in a general alarm.

      "Come out, fellers," he whispered hoarsely, "and see the new tenderfoot! Hurry up, he's goin' over to the big house! Say, he's a forest ranger all right!"

      "Nothin' of the kind!" asserted a burly cow-puncher, thrusting his head out the door. "Movin' picture cowboy, I'll bet a hat!"

      The stranger remounted gracefully as they gazed out at him; then he touched his jaded sorrel with the spur and trotted over to the big house gate – and as he trotted he rose rhythmically in his stirrups, while all cowboy-land stood aghast!

      "English!" they gasped in a chorus, and burst into fervid curses as they stared at the uncouth sight. A grown man, a white man, and hopping up and down like that! Holy, jumping Jerusalem! They beat each other on the back in an agony of despair – and yet it was no more than Mr. Bowles, dropping back into his old Central Park habits. To be sure, the man who coached him at Chula Vista had warned him against it repeatedly, but the customs of a lifetime are not wiped out in a minute, and to that extent Mr. Bowles was still an Easterner.

      The big white house in which Henry Lee made his home was a landmark in southeast Arizona. Some people merely referred to it as "The White House," and though it was forty miles from the railroad it was as well known in its way as the abiding place of Presidents in Washington. The White House was a big, square, adobe building, set boldly on the top of a low hill and surrounded by a broad wooden gallery, from behind whose clambering honeysuckles and gnarled rose-bushes Mrs. Lee and Dixie May looked down upon the envious world below. To be invited up to the big house, to sit on the flower-scented porch and listen to the soft voices of the women – that was a dream to which every cow-puncher's heart aspired, although in the realization many a bold, adventurous man lost face and weakened. But to Bowles the big house was the natural place to go, and he unlatched the gate and mounted to the gallery without a tremor.

      Upon the edge of the porch, smoking his pipe and gazing out over his domain, sat Henry Lee, the pioneer cattleman of the Tortugas Valley, and a man who had fought Indians to get his start. He was a great man – old Henry Lee – but to Bowles chiefly distinguished by being the father of Dixie May.

      "Ah, good-evening!" he began, bringing his heels together and bowing. "Are you Mr. Lee?"

      The cattleman looked at him a moment with a calm, appraising eye. He was a small, rather slight man, but square-shouldered and far from decrepit – also, he had seen the procession go by for quite a while, and he could judge most men by their faces.

      "That's my name," he said, rising quietly from his place. "What can I do for you?"

      "My name is Bowles," said that gentleman, following the procedure he thought most fitting in one seeking employment. "Mr. Scrimsher, of Chula Vista, has referred me to you in regard to a position as cowboy. I should like very much to get such a place."

      "Sorry, Mr. Bowles," answered Mr. Lee, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, "but I'm not taking on any hands at present."

      "Oh, indeed!" murmured the would-be cowboy, not at all dismayed. "Perhaps there will be an opening for me later?"

      "No; I'm afraid not. I generally take on about the same boys every year, or men that know the country, and there won't be any place for you."

      There was something very final about the way that this was said, and Bowles paused to meditate.

      "Turn your horse into the pasture and git some supper at the wagon," added the old man, with a friendly gesture; but supper was not what Bowles had come for. He had come to get a job where he could be near the queen of his heart, and perhaps win her by some deed of prowess and daring. So he ignored this tacit dismissal and returned again to the charge.

      "I can readily understand, Mr. Lee," he began, "why you hesitate to employ a stranger, and especially a man who has newly come from the East, but if you would give me a trial for a few days I am sure you would find me a very willing worker. I have come out here in order to learn the cattle business, and the compensation is of no importance to me at first; in fact, I should be glad to work without pay until you found my services of value. Perhaps now – "

      "Nope," interposed the cattleman, shaking his head regretfully. "I've tried that before, and it don't work. Cow-punching is a business by itself, and it can't be learned in a minute; in fact, a good puncher is the scarcest thing on the range, and I either pay the top price or I don't take a man on at all. I can't stop to monkey with green hands."

      Now, this was pretty direct, and it was calculated to put the ordinary tenderfoot in his place; but Mr. Bowles came from a self-selected class of people who are accustomed to having their own way, and he would not acknowledge himself beaten.

      "Now, really, Mr. Lee," he protested, "I don't think you are quite fair to me in this. As I understand it, your round-up is just beginning, and I am sure I could be of some service – for a few days, at least."

      The old man glanced at his fancy new outfit, and thought he saw another way out.

      "Can you ride?" he inquired, asking that first fatal question before which so many punchers go down.

      "Yes, sir," answered Bowles politely.

      "You mean you can ride a gentle horse," corrected Lee. "I've got some pretty wild ones in my bunch, and of course a new hand couldn't expect to get the best. Can you rope?"

      "No, I mean any horse," retorted Bowles, avoiding the subject of roping. "Any horse you have."

      "Hmm!" observed Mr. Lee, laying down his pipe and regarding his man with interest. "Did you ever ride any bad horses?"

      "Yes, sir," lied Bowles; "several of them."

      "And you think you can ride any horse I've got, eh?" mused Lee. "Well, I'll tell you, Mr. Bowles," he continued, speaking very deliberately; "I've got a horse in my remuda that killed a man last fall – if you'll ride him I'll take you on for a puncher."

      "Very well, sir," responded Bowles. "And thank you very much. It's very kind of you, I'm sure."

      He turned to go but the cattleman stopped him in his second stride. His bluff had been called, for it would never do to go to a show-down – not unless he wanted a man's blood on his hands.

      "Here! Wait a minute!" he cried impatiently. "I don't want to get you killed, so what's the use of talking? The only way for you to get to be a cow-puncher is to work up to it, the way everybody