Cowboys -- Fiction; Montana -- Fiction; Ranch life -- Fiction; Western stories
Happy Jack continued to eye the three distrustfully. Too often had he
been the victim of their humor for him now to believe implicitly in
their ignorance. It was too good to be real, it seemed to him. Still,
if by any good luck it _were_ real, he hated to think what would
happen if they ever found out the truth. He eased the clothing
cautiously away from his smarting back, and stared hard into a coulee.
"It was likely some sheepherder gone clean nutty," mused Irish.
"Well, the most uh them wouldn't have far to go," ventured Happy Jack,
thinking of the Swede.
"What we ought to do," said Pink, keen for the chase, "is for the
whole bunch of us to come down here and round him up. Wonder if we
couldn't talk Chip into laying off for a day or so; there's no herd to
hold. I sure would like to get a good look at him."
"Somebody ought to take him in," observed Irish longingly. "He ain't
safe, running around loose like that. There's no telling what he might
do. The way them campers read his brand, he's plumb dangerous to meet
up with alone. It's lucky you didn't run onto him, Happy."
"Well, I didn't," growled Happy Jack. "And what's more, I betche there
ain't any such person."
"Don't call us liars to our faces, Happy," Weary reproved. "We told
yuh, a dozen times, that we saw him ourselves. Yuh might be polite
enough to take our word for it."
"Aw, gwan!" Happy Jack grunted, still not quite sure of how much--or
how little--they knew. While they discussed further the wild man, he
watched furtively for the surreptitious lowering of lids that would
betray their insincerity. When they appealed to him for an opinion of
some phase of the subject, he answered with caution. He tried to turn
the talk to his experiences on the Shonkin range, and found the wild
man cropping up with disheartening persistency. He shifted often in
the saddle, because of the deep sunburns which smarted continually and
maddeningly. He wondered if the boys had used all of that big box of
carbolic salve which used to be kept in a corner of the mess-box; and
was carbolic salve good for sun-blisters? He told himself gloomily
that if there was any of it left, and if it were good for his ailment,
there wouldn't be half enough of it, anyway. He estimated unhappily
that he would need about two quarts.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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