Chapter I A COWBOY CELEBRATION

 SOME unpoetic old frontiersman first called the place a trapper’s “hole,”—an ugly, misleading name for this wondrous mountain valley, lying up there on the western slopes of the Continental Divide next to the Yellowstone country, almost surrounded by a rim of craggy, snow-streaked mountains, and grassy, wooded hills, out of whose picturesque canyons streams came leaping and sparkling to make a silvery network over the valley floor and to combine at last into the beautiful river that winds along the base of the western hills. This web of streams may still be traced as one gets a kind of bird’s-eye view of it from the hills above; but irrigation has given a conventional aspect to the valley floor by checkering it with farms, dotting it with regularly laid out towns and cities, and marking it with surveyors’ roads and canals.{2}   Some thirty years ago, when the first wave of colonization broke over the rim of this valley, it was still nature’s playground, the haunt of herds of antelope, elk and deer. A few widely scattered ranch shacks, a trapper’s hut or two, with occasionally a group of tepees, pitched temporarily by some wandering band of Indians, were the only human habitations within its borders.   There were no garden roses in the valley then, but the wild ones ran riot along the streams among a tangle of thorns, sending their sweet fragrance everywhere.   In that not-so-long-ago time, one day in July, the month of roses there, the valley lay dozing under the spell of the noontide heat. A warm haze spread over the drowsy hills; the cooling canyon breezes were asleep; even the quaking aspens were still; the sky was cloudless; there was nothing to keep the sun from pouring down all of its rays fiercely upon the scene.   To escape its scorching heat, everything had sought the shade except the grasshoppers and locusts; they were reveling in the burning brightness, dancing and singing all over the grassy and sage-spread flats.   The cowboys at the Bar B ranch were sprawled about on their bunks, sleeping after{3} their noonday meal—all but Jim Hardy. He stood out under the porch-like projection of the old log shack, making faces at himself in a broken mirror as he worked with a dull razor to shave the brown stubble off his square-set jaws and chin. Topsy and Rock, the ranch dogs, lay near him, lazily snapping at the buzzing flies.   When the scraping process was done, Jim rubbed his persecuted face to comfort it a little, and then stepped inside of the shack to get a drink. As he was enjoying his second cup of coolness, his attention was suddenly turned on Dick Davis, lying there with his half-open mouth emitting a purring snore. The spirit of rough fun, always strong in Jim, found expression as usual; he dashed the rest of the cup of water into Dick’s face.   Dick jumped up choking and sputtering and swearing at his tormentor, who stood laughing over his victim’s discomfiture.   “It’s a hill of a racket ye’re makin’,” said Pat Kelsey, the cook; “can’t ye let a feller slape a little?”   “Oh, cut out your sleepin’; let’s do some celebratin’. Have you forgotten it’s the glorious Fourth of July? Come, have a drink with me, Pat.” He dashed a cup of water into the waking Irishman’s face.{4}   “Ye dirty son of a Yankee!” blurted Pat, jumping up, and making for the joker; “it’s auld Ireland that can lick you, if auld England didn’t.”   “Stop, or I’ll shoot,” said Jim, jerking a flask of whisky out of his hip pocket, and pointing it at the wrathful cook.   “Be jabers, if it’s loaded,” said Pat, checking himself, “I’ll give up.”   He grabbed the bottle out of Jim’s hand, uncorked it, and said, “Here’s to Ameriky, the land that Saint Patrick Henry didicated to liberty.” Then he took a long drink and smacked his lips.   The rest of the boys, roused by the noise, were laughing over the fun.   “Pass the bottle around, Pat,” said Jim; “drink hearty, boys.”   Every one but Dan Miller and Fred Benton took a drink; they passed the bottle on with thanks.   “Oh, will, boys,” said Pat, “there’s more for them as likes it.” He raised the bottle and took another drink.   A wild thumping of horses’ hoofs was heard outside. The boys jumped up and reached the door just as a band of half-tipsy cowboys from Morgan’s and other ranches, with Bud Nixon at their head, charged up to the shack.{5} They checked their ponies with a suddenness that sent the gravel flying in front of them.   “Hello, you stags!” shouted Nixon; “got anything to drink?”   “Sure an’ we have,” returned Pat; “bring the bucket, Tiddy, and water ’em.”   “Oh, to hell with your water; give us some whisky.”   “Well, seein’s it’s you,” said Jim, reaching up the flask. It soon went the rounds and returned empty.   “Got any race horses?” said Nixon.   “Yes, a whole herd of ’em that can kick dust in your eyes.”   “Talk’s cheap, but it takes money to buy whisky. Bet ye my bridle ’gin yours that my horse can outrun yours.”   “It’s a go. Your bridle’s mine,” said Jim, starting for the barn, while the rest of the boys continued bantering one another and matching their ponies for other races.   A race track, about a quarter of a mile stretch along the dusty road, was chosen. Dick Davis and Bill Peters were selected as starters. Dan Miller and Tick Johnson were the judges. Pat was elected stakeholder.   The first race was between Silver Bill, one of the blooded animals of the Morgan ranch,{6} and Tex, Jim’s best saddle horse. The two cowboys, with saddles and with chaps on, jogged off to the starting place and began to play for a good start.   Suddenly they whirled and leaped together across the line towards the goal, the eager riders leaning low with quirts flying. Jim’s horse held an easy lead for nearly half the way, then he lost it, the longer-winded roan gradually slipping up and past him. When they dashed by the judges, Bud was full two rods ahead.   “You made me eat dirt square enough,” said Jim, jerking off his silver-mounted bridle and tossing it to Bud. “That’s a good horse you’ve got.”   “Yes, ’n he kin beat any cayuse in this hole,” boasted Bud.   “Got anything beside talk to stake on that?”   “My saddle ’gin yours.”   “Pull ’er off, and stack her here with mine.” Jim loosed the cinches as he spoke, jerked off his saddle and flung it over by Pat.   “Here, Teddy, get your little mare. Let’s take the cackle out of this crow.”   “All right, Jim, if you say so; but I don’t know what Brownie can do. I’ve never run a race with her.{7}”   “That’s my risk. Get yer mare.”   Fred went back to the shack, took a pan of oats, and walked over to the pasture bars to call Brownie. Hearing him, she raised her pretty head and trotted nimbly up to him. He threw his arm over her glossy neck while she enjoyed the taste of grain, then slipped the bit into her willing mouth, leaped on her and rode over to the boys.   He reached them just in time to see a “joke race” pulled off between Freckles, a pinto squaw pony belonging to Hen Sikes, a big cow-puncher from the Morgan ranch, and Meg Murphy, a tall and lanky old mare that Pat had purchased for five dollars from a stranded emigrant who was passing through the valley. It was a comical sight to see the plump cook perched on his high-backed steed, his smooth face held sober, but his bright eyes twinkling with fun; and beside him tall Hen, with his long legs dangling almost to the ground over the little pony’s back. The race was funnier still. The cowboys howled and whooped to see the two coming, Pat making clown antics to keep his big mare going; the little Indian pony struggling to carry his big load through first; but in spite of all Pat’s efforts, Freckles won the race, leaving Meg full fifty yards behind.{8}   “Home at last!” cried Pat as he reined his mare, galloping stiffly, to a sudden standstill at the finish. “Give us a drink to cheer our droopin’ spirits.”   “Have a swig on me,” said Bud; “I kin stan’ it, fer we’re goin’ to skin you good and proper to-day.”   “Not so sure of that,” said Jim; “here, Teddy, let me fix things for you.”   “Goin’ to ride ’er stripped, air ye?” said Bud, as Jim began to put a surcingle around the mare and over Fred’s knees. “Well, tie the kid on tight, for I’m—goin’ to—sha—shake ’im up.” He took another drink of whisky.   “You’d better tie yourself on, old soak.”   “Oh, I kin stick all right,—all right,” said Nixon, staggering toward his horse, “and I’ll beat thet cow-kid so fer he’ll never know he started. Gimme a leg up, Ticky, ole boy.” Tick helped Bud to mount, and he rode off with Fred toward the starting point, swaggering and boasting all the way.   They had to do a good deal of jockeying to get a fair start. Silver Bill, naturally nervous after his first race, was driven frantic by his tipsy rider, who thrashed the beautiful little animal unmercifully with his quirt. For half a dozen times they tried to get off, and as many times{9} Dick shouted Bud back, until he got angry and began to curse both Dick and Fred; but finally they managed to get over the line with Brownie about a neck ahead.   “Go,” shouted Dick, and down the track they flew. The little mare, without a touch from her rider, held her lead until they were almost to the finish, then leaping in response to a sharp cut from Fred’s quirt, she spurted ahead and came across the line an easy winner. The Bar B boys threw their hats in the air and yelled like Comanches.   When the riders had slowed down and turned back, Nixon broke out with his cursing again, and galloped into the crowd sputtering and swearing and accusing Dick and Fred of foul play.   The winning crowd checked their jubilant expressions and turned on him.   “Here, you calf, stop your bellerin’ and take your medicine,” said Jim.   “What about the start?” asked Dan, as the starters rode up.   “Fair enough!” returned Dick.   “You’re a liar,” shouted Bud.   Dick leaped from his horse and started for Nixon, who was bristling for a fight.   “Hold on, boys!” shouted Dan, pointing down the road.{10}   The opponents checked themselves and looked up to see two ranch girls galloping towards them. It was Alta Morgan, of the Morgan ranch, and Sally Johnson, the daughter of the game warden. They were riding around the valley to invite everybody to come to the dance at Morgan’s that night. As they dashed up to the crowd, the cowboys received them with whoops of welcome. Their coming suggested a new hope to Nixon.   “Here’s the pony that can beat the cow-kid’s mare,” he said. “You’re just in time to sa—to save the day, little gal.”   “What do you mean?” asked Alta.   “I mean that—that Silver Bill’s got beat, and you’ve got to save the rep—rep-u-tashun of the Morgan ranch; you got to do it.”   “How?”   “By racin’ Eagle agin’ that Brown mouse over thar. Come, now, show ’em your spunk, little one—show ’em your spunk.”   “What, ride in a race?”   “Sure!”   “Well, I never did such a thing; but if the Morgan name is at stake, I’m ready.”   A lusty cheer greeted the girl’s decision. The boys began to lay their wagers. Hats, spurs, chaps, bridles, shirts, kerchiefs, saddles and{11} even horses were put at stake, while Alta, laughing nervously, made ready for the race. Fred also was excited. To ride any race is enough to make one a little nervous, but to be matched against a dashing girl, and a stranger at that, was a thrilling experience.   “I’m going to win the race,” said Alta, throwing a smile at him.   “I hope you do,” he said gallantly, “but I’ll give you a merry chase.”   “All right, come on!”   She was a picture of animation, as they cantered away together,—graceful, alert, eager for the fun, her pretty cheeks glowing and her eyes laughing.   His bright eyes were dancing too; and his frank face was flushing, from the thrill of blended emotions that were stirring his heart.   Eagle and Brownie seemed to sense that something unusual was in the air, but they both held their nerves responsive to their riders’ wills.   “Get ready,” cried Dick.   They turned their horses toward the north, riding in that direction a few rods; then they whirled close together, and the little animals leaped back, head to head across the line; and head to head they stayed as they flashed along{12} the track. Alta’s hat flew off, her hair was flying in the breeze. They both were leaning forward in excitement and eagerness as the fleet little horses strained every nerve and muscle to win.   The cowboys yelled their wild delight to see them coming, nose to nose, nearer and nearer, heads low, hoofs fluttering, the result in doubt until almost at the finish, when Alta cried, “Win, Eagle, win!”   The little dapple-gray pony leaped in response, and forged half a neck ahead of his glossy brown rival, and he held this slight lead till they shot over the line, past the excited faces of the yelling cowboys crowded close to see the finish. The riders gradually slowed down to an easy gallop, then turned round together to canter back.   “Fine!” cried Fred; “I’m so glad you won.”   “I said I would; but you certainly gave us a close chase. Oh, wasn’t it fun?” She threw another joyous smile at him; her eyes were dancing with delight, as they rode up to the cheering crowd. The losers were as happy as the winners. The race was worth the money. And they really wanted her to win, for Alta was a great favorite among them.{13}   “You’re full of grit and ginger, little gal,” said Jim, reaching out his big hand.   “A regular trump,” said Sally, giving her a big squeeze.   “A quane o’ hearts!” put in Pat gallantly.   “Oh, thank you, thank you! It was heaps o’ fun,” responded Alta; “and now I want you all to have some more fun. Will you come to our dance to-night? Everybody is invited.”   “We’ll sure be there!” shouted the boys, as the girls turned to gallop away.   “I speak for the first dance with you, Miss Morgan,” said Dick.   “You may have it,” responded Alta, laughingly,—“to pay for giving us such a fine start. Good-by.”   They waved their hands at the admiring group of boys and dashed away.   An ugly, jealous look flashed out of Bud Nixon’s eyes when Dick spoke up so smartly to get first place that night with Alta.   “You’d better go a little slow around that gal, pardner; er ye might strike some tr-trouble,” he said, threateningly.   “If you’re lookin’ fer trouble, old man,” retorted Dick, “you can find it any time you want it.{14}”   “Here, cut your cussin’,” said Jim, “and have another one on me. You beat us all right, Nixon, but we’re game yet.”   The bottle was passed around. Then Bud and his tipsy followers gathered up their winnings and struck off whooping down the road, while the Bar B boys returned to the old shack.