THE RAMBLIN' KID BY EARL WAYLAND BOWMAN FRONTISPIECE BY W.H.D. KOERNER 1920 CONTENTS CHAPTER I A NIGHT LETTER II A BLUFF CALLED III WHICH ONE'S WHICH IV THE UNUSED PLATE V A DUEL OF ENDURANCE VI YOU'RE A BRUTE VII THE GREEDY SANDS VIII QUICK WITH A VENGEANCE IX OLD HECK'S STRATEGY X FIXING FIXERS XI A DANCE AND A RIDE XII YOU'LL GET YOUR WISH XIII THE ELITE AMUSEMENT PARLOR XIV THE GRAND PARADE XV MOCHA AND JAVA XVI THE SWEEPSTAKES XVII OLD HECK GOES TO TOWN XVIII A SHAME TO WASTE IT XIX THE GREEK GETS HIS XX MOSTLY SKINNY XXI A GIRL LIKE YOU THE RAMBLIN' KID CHAPTER I A NIGHT LETTER Sand and gravel slithered and slid under the heels of Old Pie Face as Skinny Rawlins whirled the broncho into the open space in front of the low-built, sprawling, adobe ranch house of the Quarter Circle KT and reined the pinto to a sudden stop. Skinny had been to Eagle Butte and with other things brought back the mail. It was hot, late June, the time between cutting the first crop of alfalfa and gathering, from the open range, the beef steers ready for the summer market. Regardless of the heat Skinny had ridden hard and his horse was a lather of sweat. A number of cowboys lounged, indolently, in the shade of the bunk-house, smoking cigarettes and contentedly enjoying the hour of rest after the noon-day dinner. Another, lean-built, slender, boyish in appearance and with strangely black, inscrutable eyes, stepped from around the corner of the house as Skinny jerked Old Pie Face to a standstill. "Where's Old Heck?" Skinny asked excitedly. "I brought the mail--here, take it to him!" The other, known on the Kiowa and the range of western Texas and Mexico only as "the Ramblin' Kid," strolled leisurely out through the sagging, weight-swung gate and up to the panting horse from which Skinny had not yet dismounted. "Asleep, I reckon," he replied in a voice peculiarly low and deliberate, "--what's your spontaneousness about? You act like a special d'livery or somethin'." "Old Heck's got a letter," Skinny said, jerkily; "maybe's it's bad news an' he ought to have it quick," as the Ramblin' Kid reached for a yellow envelope held in the outstretched hand. At that instant Old Heck, owner and boss of the Quarter Circle KT cow outfit, stepped from the shadow of the open ranch-house door. He was short and stocky, red-faced, somewhere near the fifties, and a yellowish-gray mustache hung over tobacco blackened lips. Overalls, a checked blue and white shirt, open at the throat, boots into which the trousers legs were loosely jammed comprised his attire. He was bareheaded and the sun glistened on a wrinkly forehead, topped by a thin sprinkling of hair. "What's the matter?" he asked drowsily, his small, gray-blue eyes blinking in the yellow sun-glare and still sluggish from the nap disturbed by the noise of Skinny's arrival.