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Title: Fifty-fifty with Bonnie

Author: W. C. Tuttle

Release date: May 7, 2026 [eBook #78627]

Language: English

Original publication: New York, NY: The Ridgway Company, 1917

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78627

Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FIFTY-FIFTY WITH BONNIE ***

FIFTY-FIFTY WITH BONNIE

By W. C. Tuttle

Author of “A Bull Movement in Yellow Horse,” “Fate and a Fool,” etc.

“My Bonnie-e-e lies over th’ ocean. My Bonnie-e-e lies over th’ sea. My Bonnie-e-e lies o-ver th’——” wailed Chuck Warner in a minor key, turning his long nose toward the blue sky, and keeping a silent accompaniment to his vocal gyrations by wiggling his ears.

“Here,” interrupted the postmaster of Curlew, handing Chuck a letter. “When yuh gits over feelin’ so bad yuh might put this in yore pocket and hand it to Johnny Myers as yuh rides past th’ Triangle ranch.”

Chuck reached for the letter, stuffed it into his vest pocket and resumed his lamentations to some one to “Bring ba-a-ack, bring ba-a-ack, o-o-oh, bring back my Bonnie-e-e to me-e-e-e.”

Chuck had the longest face and the shortest legs west of Bismarck. His claims to notoriety consisted of complete control of his ear muscles, an ability to ride anything that ever wore hair, the memory of a snowshoe rabbit and the conscience of a Flathead half-breed. Chuck drew an intermittent salary from Hank Padden, owner of the Seven-A cattle outfit. When he wasn’t engaged in drawing a salary from Hank, he was spending what he had already drawn, on wine and song. Women were a minus quantity with Chuck; that is, women who figure with wine and song. His favorite song—sober or not—has been mentioned at the beginning of this tale.

Hank Padden was the owner of the Seven-A and a grouch against women. It was rumored that at one time Hank had been jilted by a Piegan squaw, and if that isn’t the height of humiliation there ain’t no such animile.

Also Hank harbored the worst misfit bunch of cow-punchers that ever jingled a spur. Outside of Chuck, he had Weinie Lopp, Zeb Crandall, Hen Peck—christened Gilliland—Mort Blackwell and Swede Johnson.

Leaving Chuck out of the group your eye naturally gravitates toward Swede Johnson. Swede is six feet five in his boots, with a head the shape and size of a croquet ball, and his boots admit twelve sizes. His hat is a 6½ and he draws it up a little with a snakeskin band. Swede was not a hero and did not look like a viking.

This narrative starts with Chuck and Weinie Lopp sitting on the depot steps at Curlew, cussing the train ’cause it wasn’t on time.

“If I hadn’t promised th’ ol’ man before he left that I’d see that this freight got hauled up to th’ ranch right away, I’d go some place where it’s cool and—dog-gone, I shore don’t admire to ride in uh lumber wagon a-tall. That ranch is goin’ to th’ dogs.”

“Uh-huh,” agreed Weinie. “I’m gittin’ tired of th’ Seven-A myself.”

“Aw, th’ ranch is all right,” defended Chuck. “It’s th’ danged lonesomeness that gits under my hide. It shore needs wakin’ or it will pass out from dry rot. Here th’ ol’ man goes gallivantin’ over to Helena and leaves Swede in charge of th’ ranch. Swede! Every time he takes off his hat I wants to play uh combination shot. He shore does carry th’ first cousin to uh pool ball on top of his neck. Here comes th’ train.”

The train pulled in and off hopped two women. As a team they didn’t match up at all. One of them was short and fat and the other favored a lodge-pole. Not tall and willowy but tall and stiff. They were both wearing tan outing suits, straw hats and glasses, with enough black cord fastened thereto to hang a horse thief.

They scanned the horizon and then engaged the agent in conversation for a minute. He listened and then pointed over at Chuck and Weinie. The two women walked over and made a minute inspection of the two punchers.

“Have you a conveyance?” asked the tall one.

Chuck looked at Weinie and then back at the women.

“We’re both uh li’l hard uh hearin’ ma’am. What yuh say?”

“I awsked you if you had a conveyance.”

“She awsk—” began Weinie. “Oh, shore. You means uh way to git there without wearin’ out yore shoes.”

“Certainly!” she snapped. “The manager must have told you.”

“The manager?” wonders Chuck, aloud.

“Oh, yes—shore—huh—yes’m.”

“How far is it?” asked the fat one.

“Nobody knows,” replied Chuck confidentially. “Th’ ol’ timers says that it ain’t——”

“Your conveyance is near at hand?” interrupts the tall one.

“I’d tell uh man,” replied Weinie, “it’s right behind th’ station. You show ’em, Chuck, while I asks about that freight.”

The freight had not arrived, and as Weinie comes out of the depot doors he meets Chuck coming in.

“Did yuh show ’em th’ con-vey-ance?” laughed Weinie.

Chuck grinned back and yelled at the agent—“Does all these trunks belong to them females?”

“What do you care?” asked Weinie.

“They wants to take ’em along. Dog-gone, I reckon we’ll have uh load after all.”

“Jist about what’s th’ idea, Chuck. Who’s goin’ to take ’em along and where?”

“Search me, Weinie. I shows ’em th’ conveyance and they eases themselves into it and yells for th’ trunks.”

“Didn’t they say where they’re a-goin’?”

“Not a say. They awsked me if there were any cowboys on th’ farm, and also if th’ Injuns ever got hostile. I tells ’em that I never seen uh cowboy and that all Injuns is hostile. What do yuh reckon we’ve corraled, Weinie?”

Weinie rolled a smoke and leaned thoughtfully against the depot wall. He snapped the half-smoked cigarette out over the tracks and shook his head.

“I don’t know, Chuck. When uh female attaches herself to yuh thataway it ain’t good manners to question her motives. Jist lay fer uh chance and pass her on. Let’s take ’em out and sic ’em on Swede. Th’ Seven-A needs uh woman’s ministerin’ hand, Chuck. Six trunks! By cripes, this ain’t no fleetin’ visit they’re makin’. It’s uh good thing we didn’t come hossback.”

“My man,” interrupted a harsh voice, and the tall woman stood at the corner of the building, with hands on her hips and an outlaw gleam in her eye. “Load those trunks!”

“Yes’m,” replied Chuck, removing his hat. “We’ll jist——”

“Don’t wiggle your ears that way!” she snaps. “One would think that you belonged to the lower order of animals.”

“Not only one, ma’am,” agreed Weinie. “You and me both. I allus figure that uh human bein’ what can wiggle his ears thataway is——”

“Aw ——!” snaps Chuck. “Git hold of that trunk!”

“Your language,” remarked the woman, “is also ——”

But Chuck had a trunk on his back and was waddling around the corner, and she shut her lips and followed.

“That’s her,” stated Weinie, pointing with his whip at the ranch buildings of the Seven-A. The main building had originally been a one-story, square structure, but additional rooms had been added until it resembled a Maltese cross. Unpainted and weather-worn but with a wide veranda running around the front, it was at least habitable. Further down the slope stood the bunk-house and off to the east was the long rambling stable and corrals.

“Rawther primitive,” remarked the fleshy member. “I suppose that preparations have been made for our arrival.”

“Yes, indeed,” added the tall one. “That was all understood in case I wrote accepting terms. My letter must have reached here a week ago.”

Chuck and Weinie exchanged glances and drove the team up to the front of the house.

Swede Johnson heard the wagon roll up and he came out on the porch in his stocking feet and without his shirt on. He saw the women and stood there like an owl blinking in the sun.

“That’s the boss,” whispered Chuck to the women. “He’s very fond uh women and mighty good-hearted, but he’s hard uh hearin’. Yuh got to speak loud to him, ma’am.”

“Good afternoon!” yells th’ tall one in uh voice that would carry plumb to th’ forks of Roarin’ Creek.

Chuck walked over to Swede and whispers out of the side of his mouth:

“Ladies to see yuh, Swede. They’re hard uh hearin’.”

“Ladies ——!” grunts Swede, and then at th’ top of his voice he yells: “Howdy! Git down and rest your feet!”

The women climbed down and walked up to the porch.

“You received my letter?” yelps the tall one in Swede’s ear, and he looks as blank as an alkali flat.

“Louder,” whispers Weinie.

“I asked,” she whoops again, “if you got my letter!”

“What letter?” whoops Swede, leaning closer and getting red in the face.

“My letter!” screams the lady so hard that her glasses fall off.

“O-o-o-o-oh!” shrills Swede in a crescendo. “You git uh letter? Who from?”

“Fool!” she snaps, puffing like she’d run a mile.

“Yes’m,” agreed Swede at the top of his voice. “He must ’a’ been.” And then he went in the house and shut the door.

“Well,” remarked the fat one, “this isn’t exactly the kind of a reception I was expecting, but we’ll look the place over and if it is suitable I suppose we can put up with a few inconveniences, Clarissa.”

“Few inconveniences? Why, bless my soul, Genevieve, I hardly know what to expect now. I can scarcely believe that this person ever wrote those letters. He’s uncouth and——”

“Don’t try to express it, ma’am,” grinned Chuck. “Better men than you have exhausted their supply of profanity in tryin’ to describe our boss. It can’t be did. Me and Weinie will take yore trunks into th’ house and you can make yoreself right to home. If yuh wants anything jist call th’ cook. His name is Beans. Full title is Lee Fung Yok. He’s imported stock.”

All this time Zeb Crandall, Hen Peck and Mort Blackwell are sitting on the corral fence, gawping like a bunch of hungry magpies.

“Jist about what’s th’ main idea, Chuck?” yelps Mort, and Chuck and Weinie come down from the house, chuckling to themselves.

“That,” replied Chuck seriously, “is ol’ man Padden’s intended and his imported chaperon. Th’ human lodge-pole is th’ bride to be. Did yuh hear ’em yellin’? They’re hard uh hearin’.”

“Chuck,” remarked Hen in a reproving voice, “yo’re handlin’ th’ truth like uh shepherd.”

“When Chuck gits to lyin’ he’s uh world-beater,” agreed Zeb. “Jist about what is th’ real truth of the matter, Weinie?”

“Chuck said it all, boys,” laughed Weinie.

“Yuh see it’s this way,” explained Chuck. “Th’ ol’ man, so far as I can find out, has been correspondin’ with this female, and when he finds out that she’s comin’ out here he loses his nerve and ducks.”

“Th’ ol’ pack-rat!” exclaimed Hen Peck. “Makin’ us believe all th’ time that he’s uh woman hater, and gittin’ engaged by mail. Dog-gone!”

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roared Mort. “Ain’t he th’ li’l ol’ devil though? Let’s all go up and look her over. I’d shore admire to see what he’s selected.”

“You fellers can,” remarked Chuck. “I shore got a eyeful. We’ll put th’ team up. Say, Hen—oh, Hennery, don’t flirt with th’ ladies!”

The delegation of three ambles up to the house and clatters up the steps. The ladies are there arguing with Swede, and everybody is talking at the top of their voices.

“You must have some one clean out those front rooms!” yelps the tall one. “Miss Elberfield and I must have those rooms.”

“Haw-w-w!” roars Swede. “I can’t do it. Them’s th’ ol’ man’s rooms. Sabe?”

“He told us we could have the best in the house,” howls the tall one right back at him, shaking her finger in his face.

Swede gets as red as a beet in the face and hitches up his belt.

“Well,” he yells, “I don’t give uh ——! Take ’em! I’ll have Beans swamp ’em up a li’l.”

“Do you employ all of these men?” asked the fleshy one, pointing to the delegation on the steps.

“Yah!” yelled Swede. “Them’s Zeb and Hen and Mort. Jist plain punchers.”

“Pleased to meet yuh, ladies,” sez Mort, taking off his hat and speaking in an ordinary tone.

“Yell it!” exclaimed Swede in a whisper to Mort. “They’re deef.”

“Glad to meet yuh!” Mort tore a six-foot hole in the atmosphere with his voice.

“Delighted!” howls the fat one. “I am Miss Genevieve Elberfield and this is Miss Clarissa Vanderberg.”

“Nice day!” whoops Hen, shaking hands with both of them. “How’s yore folks?”

Miss Elberfield leaned against the side of the porch and watched the three walk back to the bunk-house.

“Clarissa, there are some real red-blooded men—real ones.”

“Yes, my dear, but it’s too bad they are so hard of hearing.”

“What I don’t see,” remarked Hen, as they stopped at the bunk-house, “is what th’ ol’ man can see about Clarissa.”

“Well,” drawled Zeb, “after considerin’ everything about th’ Seven-A from th’ mongrel dog to th’ hired hands, I’d say that Hank Padden is jist about runnin’ true to form.”

The next morning Chuck meets Swede on the porch.

“Chuck, I ain’t noways clear on this subject,” announced Swede, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the main part of the house. “Where in —— did these females come from, and what are they doin’ here? I’ve worked my danged fingers off fer them already, and Beans swears that he’ll quit tonight if they don’t keep out of th’ kitchen. They makes me dump all th’ ol’ man’s stuff into th’ back room. By cripes, when he comes back there’ll be —— raised around this ranch, Chuck. He can’t blame——”

“Good morning!” the tall one had slipped out of the door and yelled right in Swede’s ear, and he ducked like some one was shooting at his right ear. “Have you mounts enough for twelve?”

“Hey!” yells Swede. “What you say?”

“Have you horses enough for twelve?” she yells again.

“What yuh goin’ to do—git up uh posse?” howled Swede.

“Don’t be sarcastic,” she snaps like the crack of a .45-70. “I’ll have to be sure of these small details, as I’m sending for the girls today.”

“Sending fer th’— Say, what girls yuh talkin’ about?”

“Goodness gracious, didn’t you read my letter?” she yelled.

“Ma’am—” Swede strained his voice until his neck looked like a piece of rawhide rope, and his little blue eyes snapped— “I never reads anybody’s mail except my own!”

Miss Clarissa stares at Swede and then at Chuck, who is choking to death from unnatural causes, grunts wonderingly and goes back into the house.

“I finds, Chuck, that th’ only way to handle uh woman is to show her that she can’t run over yuh,” observed Swede.

“Uh-huh,” agreed Chuck, wiping the tears off his cheeks. “When it comes to yellin’, Swede, you shore got anything beat I ever hears. If I didn’t know for shore that yore name was Johnson, I’d bet six to one that yore ancestors were war-whoops.”

“And still I don’t know why they’re hivin’ up here,” wailed Swede.

“Pshaw! I thought you knowed, Swede. Lissen—them fe-males are rich. They been writin’ to th’ ol’ man about buyin’ th’ ranch, sabe? They wants to acquire th’ Seven-A, lock, stock and barrel. Ain’t they said nothin’ to you about it? No? Huh, that’s shore queer. They hints to me that they likes your style and will probably want to keep yuh as sort of uh general manager in case they takes th’ place. They asks me how much yo’re worth per month and I said you was worth uh hundred at least. They says, ‘That’s very reasonable.’”

“Cripes! Is that uh fact, Chuck? I reckon I’ll have to treat ’em as nice as possible. Who do yuh reckon them twelve girls are?”

“Didn’t they tell yuh about them? Why them two females have been runnin’ uh matrimonial bureau fer years—in fact that’s where they makes all their money. Accordin’ to their contracts they has to find husbands fer all th’ girls on their books. They had twelve left over when they decides to quit th’ business and settle down, so they’re goin’ to do th’ square thing by bringin’ ’em out here and gittin’ husbands fer ’em right here in li’l ol’ Montana. Sabe?”

“Cripes!” yelled Swede at the top of his voice. “Mebby we’ll all git uh gal from that herd, eh, Chuck?”

“Yuh don’t have to yell at me thataway. Also you’ll git uh girl—not. Th’ fat one intimates to me that she likes you uh heap, and, believe me, if uh she-person with her capabilities makes up her mind to do uh thing like that she’ll shore annex th’ cognomen of Johnson mighty sudden.”

“Me? Not me, Chuck! You intimate to her that I’m uh widower with six kids. Cripes! I won’t marry her—not a-tall!”

“Well, yuh don’t have to announce it to th’ next county, Swede. Weinie and me had uh hard time tryin’ to keep her from kidnapin’ them two papooses of Potlatch Annie’s as we came up here. She likes kids.”

Swede hooked his thumbs over the waistband of his trousers and scowled at the horizon.

“What’ll I do, Chuck?”

Chuck leaned against a post and contemplated the situation for a while and then slapped Swede on the shoulder.

“Tell her yo’re married already.”

“Huh! Where’ll I tell her my wife is?”

Chuck snapped his cigaret over the railing and yawned as he replied:

“Dog-gone it, Swede, do you expect me to lie about it? I ain’t afraid to tell uh li’l untruth once in uh while, but you shore got to fix yore wife’s place of residence. Here comes th’ females.”

Swede ducked around the corner and ambled for the bunk-house, but Chuck, after one look, leaned against the porch and studied the hand-stamping on his leather cuffs.

“Where is the manager?” asked Miss Clarissa.

“Oh, I reckon he’s gone down to see his wife,” replied Chuck. “Said he was goin’ down that way this mornin’.”

“His wife!” exclaimed Miss Genevieve. “Why don’t he keep her here at the farm? I can see where a woman’s hand could work wonders here.”

“Not hers, ma’am,” gravely stated Chuck. “You see, she’s uh squaw. He married Potlatch Annie uh few years ago, and they’ve got some kids. Th’ bunch around here won’t stand fer no Injuns hangin’ around, so he has to keep her down on Roarin’ Creek in uh tepee.”

“Heavens!” exclaimed Miss Clarissa. “How perfectly unfair! This man evidently loves this Indian maiden, and just because of race prejudice he is forced to live apart from her. We must investigate it, my dear Genevieve.”

“Yes, indeed! Would it be feasible, Mr. Warner, for us to arrange to have her brought up here where she rightfully belongs?”

“Well,” replied Chuck slowly, “I don’t reckon it would. You see, while I mixes my sympathy with yours fer th’ pore klooch, I can’t see where we has any chance to change things. Chief Runnin’ Wolf is uh close relative of hers, and he hates th’ whites a plenty. He’d jist about go on th’ grouch trail and lift some hair if we brought Annie up to live here with—No, I’d let well enough alone.”

Well, things go along like this for a week. Poor old Swede is getting thinner, and Beans won’t talk to any one at all. The boys, with the exception of Mort Blackwell, hang around the house and yell so much that when they go to bed they are unable to talk above a whisper. One morning Hen drops into the kitchen and walks up behind Beans, who is peeling potatoes. He says to Beans:

“Beans, can I have some—— Git away with that knife, you Celestial devil! What do yuh think yo’re doin’?”

“Whasamalla you?” howled Beans, throwing the knife on the floor. “You sneak in easy allesame woman. Woman no good, Hen. Alle time say, ‘Beans, you washee face. Beans, you washee shirt’. Alle time wantum sclub flo’. Mebby so I’m chasum li’l fly! Ol’ man Padden come pretty soon, I quit. Alle time scare—no good.”

“Th’ ol’ man’s comin’ home tomorrow,” stated Swede, in the bunk-house, after Weinie had been down after the mail. “He wants somebody to come—Chuck, yuh bantie-legged maverick, shut up!”

“Come ba-a-ack, come ba-a-a-ack—” mimicked Swede. “When you gits to singin’, Chuck, you shore are uh specimen.”

“Well, Swede, before yuh imitates uh singer you better learn th’ words to th’ song. It ain’t ‘come back’ it’s ‘bring back.’ That is shore one grand li’l song. I’ll bet thet I can sing——”

“Chuck, th’ ol’ man wants one of us to meet him at th’ station with uh saddle-hoss. You want to go?”

“Naw, let Zeb go. He ain’t done nothin’ but lay around all week.”

“Zeb and Hen are out breakin’ that sorrel team,” informed Weinie.

“I seen ’em drive off down th’ road uh while ago, and that team went away like they’d been broke all their lives. There’s th’ wagon comin’ right now.”

They stepped out of the door and the team was just pulling up to the house. There is a big black bundle in the back of the wagon, and Zeb is having a hard time trying to get the team up to the porch. Just then Miss Elberfield and Miss Vanderberg come out of the house and trot down the steps.

“Did you succeed?” yells Miss Vanderberg.

“Yes’m,” replied Zeb. “I’d sort-a remark that we did—mostly. One uh them kids hides out in th’ bunch grass and we leaves him. Th’ rest are here.”

Zeb untied the rope, pulled the blanket off and up stands Potlatch Annie. She grabs the back of the seat and steadies herself long enough to reach down and pick up a papoose, which wails loud and free.

“What th’ —— yuh got there?” yells Swede.

“Your wife!” shouts Miss Elberfield. “Won’t you make her welcome?”

“My Gawd!” croaks Swede. “My wife? That’s ol’ Runnin’ Wolf’s klooch! Where—what yuh goin’ to do with her, Zeb?”

“Them women,” replied Zeb, “pays me and Hen to go down and kidnap her and her flock and bring ’em up here. I didn’t know she was yore wife, Swede, or we wouldn’t have lost that papoose.”

Swede can’t stand any more so he claps his hat on his head and gallops down toward the barn like a locoed cayuse in flytime.

The women take Annie into the house, and all the bunch, with the exception of Chuck, go back to the bunk-house. Miss Elberfield turns to Chuck, sort of sarcastic like, and remarks—

“Do all the men in this country act that way when some one tries to do their wife a good turn?”

“Wife?” said Chuck wonderingly. “Oh, I—I—I think I begins to see. I reckon this is a mistake. You thought I meant she was th’ boss’ wife. You spoke of the owner. You see Mister Johnson isn’t th’ owner. Mister Padden—Henry L. Padden, is th’ owner.”

“That don’t sound like the name,” mused Miss Vanderberg aloud. “It was more like Mayer or—”

“Padden is th’ name, ma’am. You see it’s this way: Swede is supposed to be th’ owner, but he ain’t a-tall. Ol’ man Padden got in bad with th’ law—nothin’ bad, you understand. He shoots two cow-punchers to begin with, ma’am. That wasn’t nothin’ to speak of, but one day somebody sees him brandin’ uh cow what don’t exactly belong to him. That’s why he ain’t in evidence. Uh course he’s gittin’ bolder all th’ time, and I sort-a look fer him to show up here at th’ ranch to-morrow. I don’t know what he’ll think when he sees his squaw up here. But no matter what he does, you women don’t need to be scared. He ain’t never shot no women—yet.”

“You say he will be here to-morrow!” exclaimed Miss Elberfield.

“Won’t that be lovely, Clarissa. The girls will be on that noon train, and it will give them a chance to see a real live bad man. I hope he won’t disappoint us, Mr. Warner.”

“No,” replied Chuck. “I—I—I don’t reckon he will. Who is goin’ after th’ girls?”

“Messrs. Peck, Crandall and Lopp,” replied Miss Clarissa.

“I shore ought to be included,” groaned Chuck to himself. “If I ain’t qualified to join th’ Messrs, I don’t know of anybody around this illahee what is.”

“My Bonnie-e-e lies over th’ ocean. My Bonnie-e-e—” wailed Chuck, lying on his bunk, with his hands under his head. “Say, Weinie, this is th’ dog-gonedest funniest thing I ever heard of. Here these females been here all this time and nobody knows what for.”

“Uh-huh,” agreed Weinie, with his face twisted out of shape, trying to shave in a splinter of glass on the wall. “Ain’t it too true. Uh course everybody knows but me and you, Chuck. You told ’em.”

“Well,” drawled Chuck, “would you have ’em live in ignorance?”

“Well, I do know that I’m one uh those selected to meet th’ girls, whoever they are,” states Weinie, as he tossed the razor into a box and sighed at his scratched face in the mirror. “They’re comin’ in on that noon train from th’ East.”

“Some people shore are lucky,” complained Chuck. “Here I’ve got to go down there with uh hoss to meet th’ ol’ man at eleven. If there’s any disagreeable work to do I shore gits uh front seat. I wonder what th’ ol’ man will do when he sees all these females, Weinie?”

“And his foreman missin’,” supplemented Weinie. “Swede has hived up with Pete Gonyer, over on Roarin’ Creek, and Beans threatens to shoot th’ first woman what pokes her nose in th’ kitchen.”

“Swede got tired of yellin’,” laughed Chuck. “Mama mine! This shore has been what you’d call an audible week. Has Potlatch Annie gone home yet?”

“Nope. I seen her this mornin’. She’s livin’ in th’ ol’ man’s room and I see her wearin’ that fancy silk coat he bought that time he got stewed down at Great Falls. When he sees her there’ll jist about be uh vacancy in her tribe, Chuck.”

Chuck saddled two horses, and just as he climbed into the saddle he heard a hail from the house and saw Miss Elberfield waving at him.

“I just wanted to ask you one question,” she said, as Chuck rode up.

“Do you really think your manager loves this Indian girl?”

“Well,” drawled Chuck, “I’d shore hate to say he don’t. You see it’s this way: Annie, bein’ an Injun, is entitled to uh certain allotment uh ground in the reservation. If she’s got uh husband he gits in on it, and every half-breed papoose gits uh share too. Sabe? I don’t sabe love much, but any man can admire good land.”

“Mercenary brute!” she snapped. “Will he be here today?”

“Yes’m, about noon. I’ll probably be with him. You see I’m about th’ only person in th’ county he can fully trust. Everybody trusts me.”

“Perfect faith is a great thing,” she sighed.

“Yes’m. Sometimes I think that I’m to be classed with th’ inscription on uh dollar, ma’am. Everybody trusts me. So long, ma’am.”

Old Hank Padden swung wearily off the east-bound train and shook hands with Chuck.

“How’s everything, Chuck?” he asked.

“Pretty fair, Hank. Have uh good trip?”

“Very dry. Let’s go over and loosen up some of th’ dust.”

They ambled over to Sam Belden’s saloon and finds Zeb, Mort, Weinie and Hen playing freeze-out. They shake hands with Padden and line up to the bar with many a wink at each other.

“Well, here’s luck to him, boys!” laughed Zeb. “And may all his troubles be li’l ones.”

“Huh!” exclaimed Padden. “They can’t be too small to suit me.”

“Ten pounds is uh good average, I believe,” chuckled Mort.

“Hm-m-m” grunted Padden, looking foolish at Mort. “Ten pounds uh what? I suppose you fellers ain’t done nothin’ but trail into town and lick up hooch since I left. Yo’re all talkin’ loco language. Zeb, did you and Mort go after them strays over on th’ Little Muddy?”

“Nope,” replied Zeb. “We been too busy close-herdin’ th’ house. You know why.”

“Only I don’t know!” snapped Padden. “Would some of you imitation cow-punchers tell me what th’ joke is?”

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roared Zeb. “Ain’t he there, boys. Dog-goned ol’ fox, eh? Oh, well, Hank, it happens to th’ best of ’em. Let’s all go over to th’ depot.”

They left the saloon, slapping each other on the backs and laughing, while Padden stood and stared at Chuck, as if asking for an explanation.

“Chuck, am I running an insane asylum or a cow ranch? Am I crazy or what’s th’ matter?”

Chuck grinned at Padden and admired the color of the liquor in his glass before he replied:

“You see, it’s this way. They wasn’t talkin’ about you a-tall. Swede Johnson is goin’ to marry Potlatch Annie, and he’s done stated that you are goin’ to be best man at th’ weddin’, and also to be godfather, whatever that is, to his first born. Sabe?”

“Lord A’mighty, Chuck! Annie’s already got uh husband!”

“Not now,” stated Chuck. “She did have, but somebody slips ol’ Runnin’ Wolf uh quart uh wood alcohol.”

“But Swede ain’t goin’ to marry that klooch is he?”

“Shore is, boss. She’s livin’ in th’ ranch house right now—yore house.”

Old Man Padden slammed his glass on the bar and snorted with fury.

“By th’ horns on th’ moon! I’m goin’ right up there and bust this up! In my house, eh? Dog-gone it, Chuck, that Swede knows I don’t allow no woman, red, white or black in my house! Here I goes away fer uh week and th’ first thing he does is to bring uh flea-packin’ squaw up there. I’ll show that pool-ball-headed cow-trailer where to git off at, Chuck. Come on and I’ll show yuh some fun.”

“I’d shore admire to,” replied Chuck. “But I can’t go with yuh. My bronc done picked up uh nail in his hoof and can’t hardly walk. I’ve got to rustle another hoss before I can git my saddle home.”

“Well, I’ll go on then. Git uh hoss as soon as yuh can, cause when I gits through with Swede I’ll shore need another foreman. If yuh sees th’ rest of them crazy punchers, tell ’em to come home sober or git their time.”

“Hello, Mister Padden!” yells a voice that rasped on their ear-drums, and there stood Swede Johnson, with a grin all over his face.

Padden stands there and stares at Swede for a full minute. He don’t seem able to speak, and Swede remarks in the same tremendous voice:

“I hope they don’t buy you out, Mister Padden. If they does I won’t work for ’em.”

“What th’—what’s th’—matter with you?” howled Padden. “Do you think I’m deef? Yuh—yuh Swede Johnson, yo’re uh—dog-gone, I jist don’t seem to be able to express my feelin’s a-tall. You squaw-marryin’, lop-sided, marble-headed full cousin to uh coyote, you. What do yuh mean by bringin’ uh broad-faced, flea-packin’, smoke-smellin’ aborigine into my house, eh? Yo’re fired, Swede! I only wants you to come near my ranch once more, and that will be to git what’s left of that squaw after I pitches her out on her head! Sabe?”

Padden pushed the amazed Swede to one side and gallops over to the hitch-rack, where his bronc is tied. He vaults into the saddle and without a backward glance, fogs for the Seven-A.

“Huh!” grunted Swede, as Padden faded into the distance. “I’d almost say that I’d been fired, Chuck.”

“Uh-huh,” agreed Chuck, sitting down on the saloon porch and rolling a smoke. “Takin’ it all in all, Swede, uh feller would de-duce that he ain’t goin’ to put himself out none whatever to induce you to labor on his property any more.”

“He said I was uh lop-sided, squaw-marryin’—Say, Chuck, I ain’t married to no squaw! Dog-gone it all, I ain’t!”

“Don’t yell, Swede. Either ease up or hire uh hall. I ain’t disputin’ yuh am I?”

“Somebody told that around, Chuck. By cripes, when I finds th’ hombre what circulated that story I’ll stake him out to uh sidewinder! Chuck, did—did you tell ’em I married uh squaw?”

“Me? Say, Swede, there are times—infrequently—when I’ll depart from th’ naked truth to help uh friend, but far be it from me to marry a friend into th’ Piegan tribe.” And then to himself: “That’s no lie. Annie’s uh Flathead.”

Hank Padden spared not his mount on his homeward journey. Usually an easy-going, hard-to-make-mad person, when he did get angry he shut his eyes to everything but his own personal feelings. He spurred his horse right up to the porch of the house and slid off. He dropped his reins and strode up on the porch, and just then the door opened and out walked Miss Clarissa.

“Did you wish to see some one?” she asked, peering at Padden.

Hank looked at her for a moment and then snorted:

“Chuck was a danged liar! He said it was uh squaw!”

Then he starts for the door. Miss Clarissa steps in front of him and holds up her hand.

“Would you mind stating your business?” she asked.

“Ma’am,” replied Padden, “since when has th’ owner of this place got in so bad with his household that he has to stand on his porch and explain why he wants to go in his own house?”

“Oh! So you’re the owner, are you?” She looks Padden over from boots to sombrero. “Well, you look just like a man who would marry a poor squaw for gain. For a few measly acres of land, you marry her. Yes, you look like you would do it. I pity the poor girl.”

“You do, eh!” snorted Padden. “I never posed as uh he-beauty, ma’am, but I shore resents marryin’ squaws. Jist about who are yuh and what are yuh doin’ here?”

“I suppose you don’t know who I am.”

“Ma’am, I’m no good at puzzles. I’m a-listenin’.”

“I am,” she replied, “the woman who wrote those letters. I also received replies from you. Your memory must be very short.”

Padden jabbed his spur into his ankle and scowled at Miss Clarissa.

“I’m neither asleep or drunk, so I must be crazy,” he mumbled to himself.

“I suppose you’ll say next that this Indian girl isn’t your wife.”

“My—what? Wife?” roared Padden. “Did you say wife?”

“Don’t you dare to deny it!” she snapped, shaking her finger in Padden’s face. “I can forgive you for killing those two cowboys, and for stealing cattle, but a man who deliberately marries a poor Indian girl for what property she can bring him, makes her live in a teepee, while he lives in ease and comfort, and then denies it—well, he’s outside the pale of forgiveness.”

“Go on and strike me!” she continued, as Padden grunted and started toward her. “I wouldn’t put it one bit past you.”

“Lord love yuh, woman!” wailed Padden. “I wouldn’t strike yuh—besides it’s agin’ th’ law in this state to hit uh person which had glasses on. Somebody’s shore gone loco, ma’am. I’d shore admire to——”

“Here comes the girls!” exclaimed Miss Clarissa, pointing down the road.

Padden turns and looks at the wagon-load of petticoats driving into the front yard, and then sits down weakly on the steps.

“Sufferin’ coyotes!” he wailed. “They’re comin’ in bunches!”

In the next few minutes there is a lot of female talk spilled around the place. Everyone tries to talk at once, and they swamps Miss Clarissa with kisses. As Zeb said afterward; “There was more kisses spilt right there in uh minute than ever was smacked in Yaller Rock County since the Custer fight.”

“Now, girls,” said Miss Clarissa, after the kissing bee was over, or had rather died down to skirmish fire, “come right in the house. We will probably have to get the men to build us some more beds, but we’ll get along nicely.”

The girls danced up the steps and into the house, right past Padden who is sitting there like a foundered calf, looking at the sky. Weinie, Hen and Zeb are still sitting in the wagon, and looking foolishly at Padden, who seems to come out of his daze after a while and notice things. He opens his mouth several times and then points at the stable.

“Put up th’ team,” was all he seemed able to say.

“Gosh, th’ ol’ man is still there on th’ steps!” chuckled Hen, as the trio went back to the bunk-house.

“Uh-huh,” agreed Zeb. “He ain’t got no other place to go. We ain’t got no room in here for him—and th’ stable’s full.”

“I wonder where Chuck is?” mumbled Weinie through the lather on his face. “Drop that necktie Zeb! Dog-gone, uh feller can’t own nothin’ around this place without some jasper actin’ free with it. I buys that tie uh purpose fer this occasion. Chuck’s got uh dandy green one in his war-sack—help yourself.”

“Over th’ unconscious form of old man Warner’s son yuh might,” stated Chuck from the doorway.

“Hello, Chawles!” laughed Zeb, sluicing his face from the wash-basin.

“Did yuh see th’ girls? Chuck’s uh wise ol’ owl, Hen. He opined he’d have first pick from this female herd, but Swede gave th’ secret away. Did yuh notice th’ li’l blond, Hen. Th’ one what sat beside me all th’ way up. Some han’some li’l filly, eh? Believe me, Hennie, ol’ boy, li’l Zebbie is shore goin’ to mark one uh them matrimonial holdovers off th’ books.”

Chuck sat down on the bunk and picked up an old magazine.

“Ain’t yuh goin’ to harvest th’ hair off yore face, Chuck?” asked Weinie. “Aw, be uh sport. Jist because yuh didn’t git first pick ain’t no reason fer uh peeve. Hereafter don’t tell Swede anything, old-timer.”

Chuck shook his head and sprawled on the bunk, as the rest of the bunch trailed off toward the house. He rolled a cigaret and pondered deeply.

“Matrimonial bureau,” he grinned to himself. “Well, dog-gone it, mebby it wasn’t a fabrication after all.”

He thought of the new green tie and pink shirt in the war-sack, and reached for the razor.

“You never can tell which way uh dill pickle might squirt,” he soliloquized, as he reached for the sack. “I might as well put on that blue vest too.”

He took his belongings out of the vest he was wearing and, as an afterthought, ran his hand into the inside pocket. He pulled out a crumpled envelope and turned it over in his hands. He studied it for a few minutes, with a frown of wonderment on his face, and suddenly broke into a smile. He slipped his finger under one corner of the flap and opened it.

For fully five minutes he sat on the bunk and read and reread the contents of that envelope. Finally he slipped it back into the pocket and sat down on Zeb’s bunk, and incidentally on top of Zeb’s guitar. He picked up the instrument and picked softly on the strings.

“Bring ba-a-ack, bring ba-a-ack, oh, bring——”

“Hey, Chuck! Oh, Chuck!” yelled Zeb’s voice from the house. “Come up here, th’ ol’ man wants yuh, Chuck.”

Chuck walked slowly up the slope toward the house, which seemed strangely silent for a house so full of the gentle sex, and opened the door. Everybody was in the front room, and the silence was pregnant with disaster. The women were all standing around Potlatch Annie on one side, and on the other stood Padden, all alone, and off to one side—sort of neutral—stood Zeb, Hen and Weinie.

“Did you not tell me that this Indian girl was the wife of your manager?” asked Miss Clarissa.

“He surely did,” stated Miss Genevieve, before Chuck had a chance to speak. “I heard him.”

Chuck cleared his throat and fidgets with his hat.

“I’ll tell yuh how it was if you’ll give me uh chance. Yuh see——”

A little scream from one of the girls nearest the door causes every one to turn, and there stood the tallest, meanest looking Indian in the state of Montana—Chief Running Wolf. He’s painted up like a circus bill-board and carrying a heavy carbine. The top half of his face is stained a bright yellow, the lower half is vermilion, and two bands of green are painted across his forehead and one runs the full length of his hooked nose. He exuded an aroma of lemon extract and bay rum.

“Hooh!” he grunted like a Mogul freight engine on a grade, as he shifted the rifle to a handy position and looked over the assemblage. He swung the rifle, with both hands, across his hip and scowled at Padden.

“Yo’ stealum klooch?” he grunted.

“Not me, chief,” denied Padden. “You see—yo’re supposed to be dead!”

“Plenty lie no good! Johnson say yo’ stealum. Mebby so Tenas Charley (Chuck) help stealum. Lie no good! Hooh!”

He stood as straight as a young lodge-pole and shook the feathers in his greasy hair.

The women were all scared stiff, but they didn’t have anything on Hank Padden. Hank knew that Running Wolf was drunk, because he had got a whiff of the flavoring extract, and he knew what an Indian was capable of in that condition. All the time the chief is making his war talk, Padden is getting his fingers under the window and lifting it up. Just then the chief sees Potlatch Annie, and he breaks into a smile.

“Huh!” he pats himself on the chest and nods his head.

“All he needs is Watson and th’ needle to be uh Sherlock,” murmurs Chuck to himself.

“Mesika klatawa klaghanie!” howls the chief at Annie, and points at the door.

She lost no time in getting outside. He turns to Padden and takes one step forward.

“Kahpho kopo talapus!” he hisses at Padden, the same in English meaning “Brother to a coyote!” and slaps that rifle barrel into the palm of his hand.

“Bang!”

Either he had been doing all his talking with a cocked rifle in his hands, or struck the hammer in some way as he swung the barrel down, because the rifle went off and blew a pane of glass out of the window behind Padden and filled the room full of smoke.

Rats never left a sinking ship with such dispatch as the present company left the Seven-A ranch house. Padden took what was left of the window and carried it proudly around his neck as he galloped wildly down past the corral and off across the flat toward the Little Muddy. He knew that Running Wolf was a crack shot.

A few of the women knew that the house had doors, but the majority took it for granted that the owner knew the best exit and followed him through the window. The trio of wife-hunters clawed their way out of the front door and lit running right away from there.

Running Wolf, in the exuberance of his flavoring jag and war-paint, emptied his rifle at everything in sight and then reached for more ammunition. His reaching was in vain, for the reason that at the moment his rifle was empty, Chuck slid out from under the horsehair sofa and attacked him from the rear.

“Wah!” yells the chief, as Chuck hustles him to the door, by the slack of his pants and the short hair in the back of his neck.

“Spat!” Chuck’s heavy riding boot caught the chief in the most convenient part of his anatomy, and the chief lit on his painted face in the gravel.

“Wah!” he snorted, sitting up and scowling at Chuck. “He-e-eap cultus!”

“Shore was!” snapped Chuck, rubbing his ankle. “Klatawa, yuh ornery acid swillin’ aborigine!”

The chief got up and waddled off down the trail. He needed a drink to drown the insult.

“That shore was uh welcome interruption,” chuckled Chuck. “In about another second I’d have had to tell uh lie.”

He walked back into the house, but there was no one in sight. Not even a ribbon was left to show that a woman had ever invaded the precincts of the house. As Chuck walked back to the front door, he ran right up against the muzzle of a rifle, and Hank Padden’s angry face was behind it.

“Now, dog-gone yo’re hide, Chuck, yo’re a-goin’ to tell th’ truth!”

“Drop that gun, Hank!” roared a voice behind them, and there stood Magpie Simpkins, the sheriff, covering Padden’s back with a long, blue Colt of large caliber.

“That’s right, Hank, drop it! What yuh tryin’ to do around here—kill off all yo’re help? Slip these on him, Chuck.”

He handed Chuck a pair of handcuffs which Chuck accepted mechanically and looked foolishly at the sheriff.

“What—what in —— yuh tryin’ to pull off, Magpie?” yelped Padden. “Stickin’ uh gun in my back and wantin’ me to wear hardware on my wrists! I ain’t done——”

“Anything yuh say can be used agin’ yuh in court,” stated Magpie, as he snapped the cuffs on Padden’s wrists. “Jist better keep yore mouth shut and come peaceful like, Padden.”

Padden flopped down in a convenient chair and stared first at his wrists and then at Magpie. The women had evidently overcome their fears and crowded into the house and stared at the sheriff and his prisoner. Padden scowled at Magpie for a few minutes, amid a deep silence and then—

“You long, cadaverous kin to uh coyote, what do yuh mean? Used agin’ me in court? Me? Jist about what fer?”

“Hank,” replied Magpie, looking at the women in open-mouthed wonderment, “I’ve got uh warrant for yore arrest on uh charge uh murder.”

“Huh—I—uh—say, who did I murder?”

“Th’ paper don’t say, Hank. It was swore out by uh woman who was in Curlew today. She got th’ warrant from Judge Wilson, and he hands it to me when I’m goin’ through there today. It don’t say who yuh murdered, but it does say that yuh done got two punchers.”

“That woman, whoever she is, is uh danged liar!” roared Hank.

“Don’t you call me a liar!” Miss Genevieve Elberfield strode out from the bunch of women and faced Hank with a flushed face. “I swore out that warrant. You can’t escape the consequence of your acts. If men won’t clean up the West, the women will have to. We didn’t care to have our girls come out here while a creature of your caliber was at large, but we didn’t find out about you until it was too late, so Miss Vanderberg and I decided that we would do the next best thing and put you behind the prison bars. Oh, you don’t need to look surprised, Mister Man. We were told all about you by a man whom everybody trusts. He wouldn’t lie.”

“Hello, folks!” yelled a voice from the doorway, and Johnny Myers, foreman of the Triangle outfit, removed his hat with a flourish when he saw the ladies. “Who’s sick?”

“Who’s sick?” echoed Hank. “By th’ horns on th’ moon, I am, Myers! Better git on yore bronc and hit fer th’ ridges, ’cause this wickiup is shore sufferin’ from aggravated hallucinations.”

“Well,” remarked Myers, “it don’t look natural, that’s uh fact. I was cuttin’ across th’ hills down by Roarin’ Creek uh while ago when I meets Chuck Warner on uh roan hoss and he shore was goin’ toward town some fast. He pulls up long enough to tell me that he’s on his way to git uh doctor, and then he fades out of sight. That’s shore some travelin’ bronc he’s ridin’.”

The sheriff took two long strides and looked out of the door.

“Uh-huh,” he grunted. “That roan shore can run. Cost me uh hundred.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Miss Clarissa, “but did you—did I understand that your name is Myers?”

“Yes’m, that’s my name. Johnny Myers, of th’ Triangle.”

“I’m Miss Clarissa Vanderberg, of the Gladstone School for Girls.”

“Gosh!” exclaimed Johnny. “Why, I’ve been lookin’ fer uh letter from you fer two weeks. I figgered that yore cattle-ranch outing didn’t pan out th’ way yuh expected. Did—did Chuck tell yuh this was th’ place?”

“No, no, I don’t believe he did.”

“Well, ma’am,” grunted Padden, “that’s one thing in his favor. It’s probably th’ first time that he ever had uh chance to lie and didn’t.”

“Ma’am,” whispered Padden, edging over close to Miss Clarissa, “did you ever run uh matrimonial bureau?”

“Why, the very idea! Of course not! Why do you ask that?”

“Oh—I—huh—jist asked, ma’am. No harm done.”

“Well, I suppose we’d better move over to Mr. Myers’s farm at once, or go back East again,” stated Miss Vanderberg.

“Amen,” sighed Padden. “There’s two things I can’t stand. One is uh woman around th’ ranch, and th’ other is—ridin’ th’ sheriff’s hoss after uh doctor.”

“My Bonnie-e-e-e lies over th’ ocean. My Bonnie-e-e-e lies——” sang Chuck Warner in a plaintive minor key, which was completely drowned out by the clatter of the cattle car under him, as it crossed the Curlew switch and headed west. “Mama mine! When yuh come to think of it, Bonnie ain’t got nothin’ on li’l Chuck. I reckon me and her goes fifty-fifty. But I does all my lyin’ on this side of th’ sea.”

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the April, 1917 issue of Adventure magazine.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FIFTY-FIFTY WITH BONNIE ***

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