The Complete Short Stories. O. Hooper Henry

asleep against a wheel of the grub wagon with only a saddle blanket around him, while Curly’s blankets were stretched over Wilson to protect him from the rain and wind.

      Three nights after that Curly rolled himself in his blanket and went to sleep. Then the other punchers rose up softly and began to make preparations. Ranse saw Long Collins tie a rope to the horn of a saddle. Others were getting out their sixshooters.

      “Boys,” said Ranse, “I’m much obliged. I was hoping you would. But I didn’t like to ask.”

      Half a dozen sixshooters began to pop — awful yells rent the air — Long Collins galloped wildly across Curly’s bed, dragging the saddle after him. That was merely their way of gently awaking their victim. Then they hazed him for an hour, carefully and ridiculously, after the code of cow camps. Whenever he uttered protest they held him stretched over a roll of blankets and thrashed him woefully with a pair of leather leggings.

      And all this meant that Curly had won his spurs, that he was receiving the puncher’s accolade. Nevermore would they be polite to him. But he would be their “pardner” and stirrup-brother, foot to foot.

      When the fooling was ended all hands made a raid on Joe’s big coffeepot by the fire for a Java nightcap. Ranse watched the new knight carefully to see if he understood and was worthy. Curly limped with his cup of coffee to a log and sat upon it. Long Collins followed and sat by his side. Buck Rabb went and sat at the other. Curly — grinned.

      And then Ranse furnished Curly with mounts and saddle and equipment, and turned him over to Buck Rabb, instructing him to finish the job.

      Three weeks later Ranse rode from the ranch into Rabb’s camp, which was then in Snake Valley. The boys were saddling for the day’s ride. He sought out Long Collins among them.

      “How about that bronco?” he asked.

      Long Collins grinned.

      “Reach out your hand, Ranse Truesdell,” he said, “and you’ll touch him. And you can shake his’n, too, if you like, for he’s plumb white and there’s none better in no camp.”

      Ranse looked again at the clear-faced, bronzed, smiling cowpuncher who stood at Collins’s side. Could that be Curly? He held out his hand, and Curly grasped it with the muscles of a bronco-buster.

      “I want you at the ranch,” said Ranse.

      “All right, sport,” said Curly, heartily. “But I want to come back again. Say, pal, this is a dandy farm. And I don’t want any better fun than hustlin’ cows with this bunch of guys. They’re all to the merry-merry.”

      At the Cibolo ranch-house they dismounted. Ranse bade Curly wait at the door of the living room. He walked inside. Old “Kiowa” Truesdell was reading at a table.

      “Good-morning, Mr. Truesdell,” said Ranse.

      The old man turned his white head quickly.

      “How is this?” he began. “Why do you call me ‘Mr.—’?”

      When he looked at Ranse’s face he stopped, and the hand that held his newspaper shook slightly.

      “Boy,” he said slowly, “how did you find it out?”

      “It’s all right,” said Ranse, with a smile. “I made Tia Juana tell me. It was kind of by accident, but it’s all right.”

      “You’ve been like a son to me,” said old “Kiowa,” trembling.

      “Tia Juana told me all about it,” said Ranse. “She told me how you adopted me when I was knee-high to a puddle duck out of a wagon train of prospectors that was bound West. And she told me how the kid — your own kid, you know — got lost or was run away with. And she said it was the same day that the sheep-shearers got on a bender and left the ranch.”

      “Our boy strayed from the house when he was two years old,” said the old man. “And then along came those emigrant wagons with a youngster they didn’t want; and we took you. I never intended you to know, Ranse. We never heard of our boy again.”

      “He’s right outside, unless I’m mighty mistaken,” said Ranse, opening the door and beckoning.

      Curly walked in.

      No one could have doubted. The old man and the young had the same sweep of hair, the same nose, chin, line of face, and prominent light-blue eyes.

      Old “Kiowa” rose eagerly.

      Curly looked about the room curiously. A puzzled expression came over his face. He pointed to the wall opposite.

      “Where’s the tick-tock?” he asked, absentmindedly.

      “The clock,” cried old “Kiowa” loudly. “The eight-day clock used to stand there. Why—”

      He turned to Ranse, but Ranse was not there.

      Already a hundred yards away, Vaminos, the good flea-bitten dun, was bearing him eastward like a racer through dust and chaparral towards the Rancho de los Olmos.

Cupid A La Carte

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      “The dispositions of woman,” said Jeff Peters, after various opinions on the subject had been advanced, “run, regular, to diversions. What a woman wants is what you’re out of. She wants more of a thing when it’s scarce. She likes to have souvenirs of things that never happened. She likes to be reminded of things she never heard of. A onesided view of objects is disjointing to the female composition.

      “’Tis a misfortune of mine, begotten by nature and travel,” continued Jeff, looking thoughtfully between his elevated feet at the grocery stove, “to look deeper into some subjects than most people do. I’ve breathed gasoline smoke talking to street crowds in nearly every town in the United States. I’ve held ’em spellbound with music, oratory, sleight of hand, and prevarications, while I’ve sold ’em jewelry, medicine, soap, hair tonic, and junk of other nominations. And during my travels, as a matter of recreation and expiation, I’ve taken cognisance some of women. It takes a man a lifetime to find out about one particular woman; but if he puts in, say, ten years, industrious and curious, he can acquire the general rudiments of the sex. One lesson I picked up was when I was working the West with a line of Brazilian diamonds and a patent fire kindler just after my trip from Savannah down through the cotton belt with Dalby’s Anti-explosive Lamp Oil Powder. ’Twas when the Oklahoma country was in first bloom. Guthrie was rising in the middle of it like a lump of self-raising dough. It was a boom town of the regular kind — you stood in line to get a chance to wash your face; if you ate over ten minutes you had a lodging bill added on; if you slept on a plank at night they charged it to you as board the next morning.

      “By nature and doctrines I am addicted to the habit of discovering choice places wherein to feed. So I looked around and found a proposition that exactly cut the mustard. I found a restaurant tent just opened up by an outfit that had drifted in on the tail of the boom. They had knocked together a box house, where they lived and did the cooking, and served the meals in a tent pitched against the side. That tent was joyful with placards on it calculated to redeem the world-worn pilgrim from the sinfulness of boarding houses and pick-me- up hotels. ‘Try Mother’s HomeMade Biscuits,’ ‘What’s the Matter with Our Apple Dumplings and Hard Sauce?’ ‘Hot Cakes and Maple Syrup Like You Ate When a Boy,’ ‘Our Fried Chicken Never Was Heard to Crow’ — there was literature doomed to please the digestions of man! I said to myself that mother’s wandering boy should munch there that night. And so it came to pass. And there is where I contracted my case of Mame Dugan.

      “Old Man Dugan was six feet by one of Indiana loafer, and he spent his time sitting on his shoulder blades in a rocking-chair in the shanty memorialising the great corn-crop failure of ‘96. Ma Dugan did the cooking, and Mame waited on the table.

      “As