O. Henry



 
   Hygeia At The Solito

    If you are knowing in the chronicles of the ring you will recall to mind an 
event in the early 'nineties  when,  for  a  minute  and  sundry  odd  seconds, 
a champion and  a  "would-be"  faced  each  other  on  the  alien  side  of  an 
international river. So brief a conflict  had  rarely  imposed  upon  the  fair 
promise of true sport. The reporters made what they could of it, but,  divested 
of padding, the action was sadly  fugacious.  The  champion  merely  smote  his 
victim, turned his back upon him, remarking, "I know what I done to dat stiff," 
and extended an arm like a ship's mast for his glove to be removed.
    Which accounts for a trainload  of  extremely  disgusted  gentlemen  in  an 
uproar of fancy vests and neck-wear being spilled from their  pullmans  in  San 
Antonio in the early morning following the fight. Which  also  partly  accounts 
for the unhappy predicament in which "Cricket"  McGuire  found  himself  as  he 
tumbled from his car and sat upon the depot platform, torn by a spasm  of  that 
hollow, racking cough so familiar to San Antonian ears. At that  time,  in  the 
uncertain light of dawn, that way passed  Curtis  Raidler,  the  Nueces  County 
cattleman - may his shadow never measure under six foot two.
    The cattleman, out this early  to  catch  the  south-bound  for  his  ranch 
station, stopped at the side of the distressed patron of sport,  and  spoke  in 
the kindly drawl of his ilk and region, "Got it pretty bad, bud?"
    "Cricket" McGuire, ex-feather-weight prizefighter, tout,  jockey,  follower 
of the "ponies," all-round sport, and manipulator of the gum balls  and  walnut 
shells, looked up pugnaciously at the imputation cast by "bud."
    "G'wan," he rasped, "telegraph pole. I didn't ring for yer."
    Another paroxysm wrung him, and  he  leaned  limply  against  a  convenient
baggage truck. Raidler waited patiently, glancing around  at  the  white  hats, 
short overcoats, and big cigars thronging the platform. "You're from the No'th, 
ain't you, bud?" he asked when the other was partially recovered. "Come down to 
see the fight?"
    "Fight!"  snapped  McGuire.   "Puss-in-the-corner!   'Twas   a   hypodermic 
injection. Handed him just one like a squirt of dope, and he's asleep,  and  no 
tanbark needed in front of his residence. Fight!" He rattled  a  bit,  coughed, 
and went on, hardly addressing the cattleman, but  rather  for  the  relief  of 
voicing his troubles. "No more dead sure t'ings for me. But  Rus  Sage  himself 
would have snatched at it. Five to one dat de boy from Cork wouldn't stay t'ree 
rounds is what I invested in. Put my last cent on, and could already smell  the 
sawdust in dat all-night joint of  Jimmy  Delaney's  on  T'irty-seventh  Street 
I was goin' to buy. And den - say, telegraph pole, what a gazaboo a guy  is  to 
put his whole roll on one turn of the gaboozlum!"
    "You're plenty right," said the big cattleman; "more  'specially  when  you 
lose. Son, you get up and light out for a hotel. You got a  mighty  bad  cough. 
Had it long?"
    "Lungs," said McGuire comprehensively. "I got it.  The  croaker  says  I'll 
come to time for six months longer--maybe a year if I hold my gait. I wanted to 
settle down and take care of myself. Dat's why I speculated on dat five to  one 
perhaps. I had a t'ousand iron dollars saved up. If I winned I was goin' to buy 
Delaney's cafe. Who'd a t'ought dat stiff would take a nap in de foist  round - 
say?"
    "It's a hard deal," commented Raidler, looking down at the diminutive  form 
of McGuire crumpled against the truck. "But you go to a hotel and rest. There's 
the Menger and the Maverick, and - "
    "And the Fi'th Av'noo, and the Waldorf-Astoria,"  mimicked  McGuire.  "Told 
you I went broke. I'm on de bum proper. I've got one dime left. Maybe a trip to 
Europe or a sail in me private yacht would fix me up - pa-per!"
    He flung his dime at a newsboy, got his /Express/, propped his back against 
the truck, and was at once rapt in the account of his Waterloo, as expanded  by 
the ingenious press.
    Curtis Raidler interrogated an enormous gold watch, and laid  his  hand  on 
McGuire's shoulder.
    "Come on, bud," he said. "We got three minutes to catch the train."
    Sarcasm seemed to be McGuire's vein.
    "You ain't seen me cash in any chips or call a turn since I told you I  was 
broke, a minute ago, have you? Friend, chase yourself away."
    "You're going down to my ranch," said the cattleman, "and stay till you get 
well. Six months'll fix you good as new." He lifted McGuire with one hand,  and 
half-dragged him in the direction of the train.
    "What about the money?" said McGuire, struggling weakly to escape.
    "Money for what?"  asked  Raidler,  puzzled.  They  eyed  each  other,  not 
understanding, for they touched only as at the gear of bevelled cog-wheels - at 
right angles, and moving upon different axes.
    Passengers on the south-bound saw them seated together, and wondered at the 
conflux of two such antipodes. McGuire was five feet one,  with  a  countenance 
belonging to either Yokohama or Dublin. Bright-beady of eye, bony of cheek  and 
jaw,  scarred,  toughened,   broken   and   reknit,   indestructible,   grisly, 
gladiatorial as a hornet, he was a type neither new nor unfamiliar. Raidler was 
the product of a different soil. Six feet two in height, miles  broad,  and  no 
deeper than a crystal brook, he represented the union of the  West  and  South. 
Few accurate pictures of his kind have been made,  for  art  galleries  are  so 
small and the mutoscope is as  yet  unknown  in  Texas.  After  all,  the  only 
possible medium of portrayal of Raidler's kind would be the  fresco - something 
high and simple and cool and unframed.
    They were rolling southward on the International. The timber  was  huddling 
into little, dense green motts at rare distances before the inundation  of  the 
downright, vert prairies. This was the land of the ranches; the domain  of  the 
kings of the kine.
    McGuire sat, collapsed into his corner of the  seat,  receiving  with  acid 
suspicion the conversation of the cattleman. What was the "game"  of  this  big 
"geezer" who was carrying him off? Altruism  would  have  been  McGuire's  last 
guess. "He ain't no farmer," thought the captive, "and he ain't no con man, for 
sure. W'at's his lay? You trail in, Cricket, and see how many cards  he  draws. 
You're up against it, anyhow. You got a nickel and gallopin'  consumption,  and 
you better lay low. Lay low and see w'at's his game."
    At Rincon, a hundred miles from  San  Antonio,  they  left  the  train  for 
a buckboard which was waiting there for Raidler. In  this  they  travelled  the 
thirty miles between the station and their destination. If anything could, this 
drive should have stirred the acrimonious McGuire to a  sense  of  his  ransom. 
They sped upon velvety wheels across an exhilarant savanna. The pair of Spanish 
ponies struck a nimble, tireless trot, which gait they occasionally relieved by 
a wild, untrammelled gallop. The air was wine and seltzer,  perfumed,  as  they
absorbed it, with the delicate redolence of prairie flowers. The road perished, 
and the buckboard swam the uncharted billows of the grass  itself,  steered  by 
the practised hand of Raidler, to whom each tiny  distant  mott  of  trees  was 
a signboard, each convolution  of  the  low  hills  a  voucher  of  course  and 
distance. But McGuire reclined upon his spine, seeing nothing but a desert, and 
receiving the cattleman's advances with sullen distrust. "W'at's he up to?" was 
the burden of his thoughts; "w'at kind of a gold brick has the big guy  got  to 
sell?" McGuire was only applying the measure of the streets he  had  walked  to 
a range bounded by the horizon and the fourth dimension.
    A week before, while riding the prairies, Raidler had come upon a sick  and 
weakling calf deserted and bawling. Without  dismounting  he  had  reached  and 
slung the distressed bossy across his saddle, and dropped it at the  ranch  for 
the boys to attend to. It was impossible for  McGuire  to  know  or  comprehend 
that, in the eyes of the  cattleman,  his  case  and  that  of  the  calf  were 
identical in interest and demand upon his assistance. A creature  was  ill  and 
helpless; he had the power to render aid  -  these  were  the  only  postulates 
required for the cattleman to act. They formed his system of logic and the most 
of his creed. McGuire was the seventh invalid whom Raidler had picked  up  thus
casually in San Antonio, where so many thousand go for the ozone that  is  said 
to linger about its contracted streets. Five of them had been guests of  Solito 
Ranch until they had been able to leave, cured or better,  and  exhausting  the 
vocabulary  of  tearful  gratitude.  One  came  too  late,  but   rested   very 
comfortably, at last, under a ratama tree in the garden.
    So, then, it was no surprise to the ranchhold when the  buckboard  spun  to 
the door, and Raidler took up his debile /protege/ like a handful of  rags  and 
set him down upon the gallery.
    McGuire looked upon things strange to him. The ranch-house was the best  in 
the country. It was built of brick hauled one hundred miles by  wagon,  but  it 
was of but one story, and its four rooms were completely  encircled  by  a  mud 
floor "gallery." The miscellaneous setting of horses,  dogs,  saddles,  wagons, 
guns, and cow-punchers' paraphernalia oppressed the metropolitan  eyes  of  the 
wrecked sportsman.
    "Well, here we are at home," said Raidler, cheeringly.
    "It's a h - l of a looking place," said McGuire promptly, as he rolled upon 
the gallery floor in a fit of coughing.
    "We'll try to make it comfortable  for  you,  buddy,"  said  the  cattleman 
gently. "It ain't fine inside; but it's the outdoors, anyway,  that'll  do  you 
the most good. This'll be your room, in here. Anything we got, you ask for it."
    He led McGuire into the east room. The floor  was  bare  and  clean.  White
curtains waved in the gulf breeze  through  the  open  windows.  A  big  willow 
rocker, two straight chairs, a  long  table  covered  with  newspapers,  pipes, 
tobacco, spurs, and cartridges stood in the centre. Some well-mounted heads  of 
deer and one of an enormous black javeli projected from the walls. A wide, cool 
cot-bed stood in a corner. Nueces County people regarded this guest chamber  as 
fit for a prince. McGuire showed his eyeteeth at it. He took out his nickel and 
spun it up to the ceiling.
    "T'ought I was lyin' about the money, did ye? Well, you can frisk me if you 
wanter. Dat's the last simoleon in the treasury. Who's goin' to pay?"
    The cattleman's clear grey eyes looked  steadily  from  under  his  grizzly 
brows into the huckleberry optics of his guest. After a little he said  simply, 
and not ungraciously, "I'll be much obliged to you, son, if you  won't  mention 
money any more. Once was quite a plenty. Folks I ask to my ranch don't have  to 
pay anything, and they very scarcely ever offers it. Supper'll be ready in half 
an hour. There's water in the pitcher, and some, cooler, to drink, in that  red 
jar hanging on the gallery."
    "Where's the bell?" asked McGuire, looking about.
    "Bell for what?"
    "Bell to ring for things. I can't - see here," he  exploded  in  a  sudden, 
weak fury, "I never asked you to bring me here. I never held you up for a cent. 
I never gave you a hard-luck story till you asked me. Here  I  am  fifty  miles 
from a bellboy or a cocktail. I'm sick. I can't hustle. Gee! But I'm up against 
it!" McGuire fell upon the cot and sobbed shiveringly.
    Raidler went to the door and called. A slender, bright-complexioned Mexican 
youth about twenty came quickly. Raidler spoke to him in Spanish.
    "Ylario, it is in my mind that I promised you the position  of  vaquero  on 
the San Carlos range at the fall rodeo."
    "Si, Señor, such was your goodness."
    "Listen. This Señorito is my friend. He is very sick. Place yourself at his 
side. Attend to his wants at all times. Have much patience and care  with  him. 
And when he is well, or - and when he is well, instead of vaquero I  will  make 
you mayordomo of the Rancho de las Piedras. Esta bueno?"
    "Si, si - mil gracias, Señor." Ylario tried to kneel upon the floor in  his 
gratitude, but the cattleman kicked at him  benevolently,  growling,  "None  of 
your opery-house antics, now."
    Ten minutes later Ylario came from McGuire's room and stood before Raidler.
    "The little Señor,"  he  announced,  "presents  his  compliments"  (Raidler 
credited Ylario with the preliminary) "and desires some pounded  ice,  one  hot 
bath, one gin feez-z, that the windows be all closed,  toast,  one  shave,  one 
Newyorkheral', cigarettes, and to send one telegram."
    Raidler took a quart bottle of whisky from his medicine cabinet.
    "Here, take him this," he said.
    Thus was instituted the reign of terror at the  Solito  Ranch.  For  a  few 
weeks McGuire blustered and boasted and swaggered before the  cow-punchers  who 
rode in for miles around to see this latest importation of Raidler's. He was an 
absolutely new experience to them. He  explained  to  them  all  the  intricate 
points of sparring and the tricks of training and defence. He opened  to  their 
mind's view all the indecorous life of a tagger after professional sports.  His 
jargon of slang was a continuous joy and surprise to them.  His  gestures,  his
strange poses, his frank ribaldry of tongue and principle fascinated  them.  He 
was like a being from a new world.
    Strange to say, this new world he had entered did not exist to him. He  was 
an utter egoist of bricks and mortar. He had dropped out, he  felt,  into  open 
space for a time, and all it contained was an audience for  his  reminiscences. 
Neither the limitless freedom of the prairie days nor the  grand  hush  of  the 
close-drawn, spangled nights touched him. All the hues of Aurora could not  win 
him from the pink pages of a sporting journal. "Get something for nothing," was 
his mission in life; "Thirty-seventh" Street was his goal.
    Nearly two months after his arrival he  began  to  complain  that  he  felt 
worse. It was then that he became the ranch's incubus, its harpy, its  Old  Man 
of the Sea.  He  shut  himself  in  his  room  like  some  venomous  kobold  or 
flibbertigibbet, whining, complaining, cursing, accusing. The  keynote  of  his 
plaint was that he had been inveigled into a gehenna against his will; that  he 
was dying of neglect and lack of comforts. With all his dire  protestations  of 
increasing illness, to the eye of others he remained  unchanged.  His  currant-
like eyes were as bright and diabolic as ever; his voice was  as  rasping;  his 
callous face, with the skin drawn tense as a drum-head, had no flesh  to  lose.
A flush on his prominent cheek bones each  afternoon  hinted  that  a  clinical 
thermometer  might  have  revealed  a  symptom,  and  percussion   might   have 
established the fact that McGuire was breathing with only  one  lung,  but  his 
appearance remained the same.
    In constant attendance upon him was Ylario, whom the coming reward  of  the 
mayordomoship must have greatly stimulated, for McGuire chained him to a 
bitter existence. The air - the man's only chance for life - he commanded to be 
kept out by closed windows and drawn curtains. The room  was  always  blue  and 
foul with cigarette smoke; whosoever entered  it  must  sit,  suffocating,  and 
listen to the imp's interminable gasconade concerning his scandalous career.
    The oddest thing of all was the relation existing between McGuire  and  his 
benefactor. The attitude of the invalid toward the cattleman was something like 
that of a peevish, perverse child toward  an  indulgent  parent.  When  Raidler 
would leave the ranch McGuire would fall  into  a  fit  of  malevolent,  silent 
sullenness. When he returned, he would be  met  by  a  string  of  violent  and 
stinging  reproaches.  Raidler's  attitude  toward   his   charge   was   quite 
inexplicable in its way. The cattleman seemed actually to assume and  feel  the 
character assigned to him by McGuire's intemperate accusations - the  character 
of tyrant and guilty oppressor. He seemed to have adopted the responsibility of 
the fellow's condition, and he always met his tirades with a pacific,  patient, 
and even remorseful kindness that never altered.
    One day Raidler said to him, "Try more air, son. You can have the buckboard 
and a driver every day if you'll go. Try a week or two in one of the cow camps. 
I'll fix you up plumb comfortable. The ground, and the air next to  it - them's 
the things to cure you. I knowed a man from Philadelphy, sicker than  you  are, 
got lost on the Guadalupe, and slept on the bare grass in sheep camps  for  two 
weeks. Well, sir, it started him getting well, which  he  done.  Close  to  the 
ground - that's where the medicine in the air  stays.  Try  a  little  hossback 
riding now. There's a gentle pony - "
    "What've I done to yer?" screamed McGuire. "Did I ever doublecross yer? Did 
I ask you to bring me here? Drive me out to your camps if you wanter; or  stick 
a knife in me and save trouble. Ride! I can't lift my feet. I couldn't sidestep 
a jab from a five-year-old kid. That's what your d - d ranch has done  for  me. 
There's nothing to eat, nothing to see, and nobody to talk  to  but  a  lot  of 
Reubens who don't know a punching bag from a lobster salad."
    "It's a lonesome place, for certain," apologised Raidler abashedly. "We got 
plenty, but it's rough enough. Anything you think of you want, the boys'll ride 
up and fetch it down for you."
    It was Chad Murchison, a cow-puncher from the Circle Bar outfit, who  first 
suggested that McGuire's illness was fraudulent. Chad had brought a  basket  of 
grapes for him thirty miles, and four out of his way, tied to his  saddle-horn. 
After remaining in the smoke-tainted room for a while, he emerged  and  bluntly 
confided his suspicions to Raidler.
    "His arm," said Chad, "is harder'n a diamond. He interduced me to  what  he 
called a shore-perplexus punch, and 'twas like being kicked twice by a mustang. 
He's playin' it low down on you, Curt. He ain't no sicker'n I am. I hate to say 
it, but the runt's workin' you for range and shelter."
    The cattleman's ingenuous mind refused to  entertain  Chad's  view  of  the 
case, and when, later, he came to apply the test, doubt entered  not  into  his 
motives.
    One day, about noon, two men drove up to the ranch, alighted, hitched,  and 
came in to dinner; standing and general invitations being  the  custom  of  the 
country. One of them was a great San Antonio doctor, whose costly services  had 
been engaged by a wealthy cowman who had been laid low by an accidental bullet. 
He was now being driven back to the station to take the  train  back  to  town. 
After dinner Raidler took him aside, pushed a twenty-dollar  bill  against  his 
hand, and said:
    "Doc, there's a young chap in that room I guess  has  got  a  bad  case  of 
consumption. I'd like for you to look him over and see just how bad he is,  and 
if we can do anything for him."
    "How much was that dinner  I  just  ate,  Mr.  Raidler?"  said  the  doctor 
bluffly, looking over his spectacles. Raidler returned the money to his pocket. 
The doctor immediately entered McGuire's room, and the cattleman seated himself 
upon a heap of saddles on the gallery, ready to reproach himself in  the  event 
the verdict should be unfavourable.
    In ten minutes the doctor came briskly out. "Your man," he  said  promptly, 
"is as sound as a new dollar. His lungs  are  better  than  mine.  Respiration, 
temperature, and pulse normal. Chest expansion  four  inches.  Not  a  sign  of 
weakness anywhere. Of course I didn't examine for the bacillus,  but  it  isn't 
there. You can put my name to the diagnosis. Even cigarettes and a vilely close 
room haven't hurt him. Coughs, does he? Well, you tell him it isn't  necessary. 
You asked if there is anything we could do for him. Well, I advise you  to  set 
him digging post-holes or breaking mustangs. There's our team ready.  Good-day, 
sir." And like a puff of wholesome, blustery wind the doctor was off.
    Raidler reached out and plucked a leaf from a mesquite bush by the railing, 
and began chewing it thoughtfully.
    The branding season was at hand, and the next morning Ross Hargis,  foreman 
of the outfit, was mustering his force of some twenty-five men  at  the  ranch, 
ready to start for the San Carlos range, where the work was to  begin.  By  six 
o'clock the horses were all saddled, the grub wagon ready, and the cow-punchers 
were swinging themselves upon their mounts, when Raidler bade them wait. A  boy 
was bringing up an extra pony, bridled and saddled, to the gate. Raidler walked 
to McGuire's room and threw open the door. McGuire was lying on  his  cot,  not 
yet dressed, smoking.
    "Get up," said the cattleman, and his voice  was  clear  and  brassy,  like
a bugle.
    "How's that?" asked McGuire, a little startled.
    "Get up and dress. I can stand a rattlesnake, but I hate a liar. Do I  have 
to tell you again?" He caught McGuire by the neck and stood him on the floor.
    "Say, friend," cried McGuire wildly, "are you  bug-house?  I'm  sick - see? 
I'll croak if I got to hustle. What've I done to yer?" - he began  his  chronic 
whine - "I never asked yer to - "
    "Put on your clothes," called Raidler in a rising tone.
    Swearing, stumbling, shivering, keeping his amazed, shining eyes  upon  the 
now menacing form of the aroused cattleman, McGuire managed to tumble into  his 
clothes. Then Raidler took him by the collar and shoved him out and across  the 
yard to the extra pony hitched at the gate. The cow-punchers  lolled  in  their 
saddles, open-mouthed.
    "Take this man," said Raidler to Ross Hargis, "and put him  to  work.  Make 
him work hard, sleep hard, and eat hard. You boys know I done what I could  for 
him, and he was welcome. Yesterday the best doctor in San Antone examined  him, 
and says he's got the lungs of a burro and the constitution  of  a  steer.  You 
know what to do with him, Ross."
    Ross Hargis only smiled grimly.
    "Aw," said McGuire, looking intently at Raidler, with a peculiar expression 
upon his face, "the croaker said I was all right, did he? Said  I  was  fakin', 
did he? You put him onto me. You t'ought I wasn't sick. You said I was a  liar. 
Say, friend, I talked rough, I know, but I didn't mean most of it. If you  felt 
like I did - aw! I forgot - I ain't sick, the croaker says. Well,  friend,  now 
I'll go work for yer. Here's where you play even."
    He sprang into the saddle easily as a bird, got the quirt  from  the  horn, 
and gave his pony a slash with it. "Cricket," who once brought in Good Boy by a 
neck at Hawthorne - and a 10 to 1 shot - had his foot in the stirrups again.
    McGuire led the cavalcade as they dashed away for San Carlos, and the  cow-
punchers gave a yell of applause as they closed in behind his dust.
    But in less than a mile he had lagged to the rear, and was  last  man  when 
they struck the patch of high chaparral below the horse pens. Behind a clump of 
this he drew rein, and held a handkerchief  to  his  mouth.  He  took  it  away 
drenched with bright, arterial blood, and threw it carefully into  a  clump  of 
prickly pear. Then he slashed with his  quirt  again,  gasped  "G'wan"  to  his 
astonished pony, and galloped after the gang.
    That night Raidler received a message from his old home in  Alabama.  There 
had been a death in the family; an estate was to divide, and  they  called  for 
him to come. Daylight found him in the buckboard, skimming the prairies for the 
station. It was two months before he returned. When he  arrived  at  the  ranch 
house he found it well-nigh deserted save for Ylario, who acted as  a  kind  of 
steward during his absence. Little by little the youth made him acquainted with 
the work done while he was away. The branding camp, he was informed, was  still
doing business. On account of many severe storms  the  cattle  had  been  badly 
scattered, and the branding had been accomplished but slowly. The camp was  now 
in the valley of the Guadalupe, twenty miles away.
    "By the way," said Raidler, suddenly remembering, "that fellow I sent along 
with them - McGuire - is he working yet?"
    "I do not know," said Ylario. "Mans from the camp come verree few times  to 
the ranch. So plentee work with the leetle calves. They no  say.  Oh,  I  think 
that fellow McGuire he dead much time ago."
    "Dead!" said Raidler. "What you talking about?"
    "Verree sick  fellow,  McGuire,"  replied  Ylario,  with  a  shrug  of  his 
shoulder. "I theenk he no live one, two month when he go away."
    "Shucks!" said Raidler. "He humbugged you, too, did he? The doctor examined 
him and said he was sound as a mesquite knot."
    "That doctor," said Ylario, smiling, "he tell you so? That  doctor  no  see 
McGuire."
    "Talk up," ordered Raidler. "What the devil do you mean?"
    "McGuire," continued the boy tranquilly, "he getting  drink  water  outside 
when that doctor come in room. That doctor take me and pound me all  over  here 
with his fingers" - putting his hand to his chest - "I not know  for  what.  He 
put his ear here and here and here, and listen - I not know for  what.  He  put 
little glass stick in my mouth. He feel my arm here.  He  make  me  count  like 
whisper - so - twenty, treinta, cuarenta. Who knows,"  concluded  Ylario,  with 
a deprecating spread of his hands, "for what that doctor do those verree  droll 
and such-like things?"
    "What horses are up?" asked Raidler shortly.
    "Paisano is grazing out behind the little corral, Señor."
    "Saddle him for me at once."
    Within a very few minutes the cattleman was mounted and away. Paisano, well 
named after that ungainly but swift-running bird, struck  into  his  long  lope 
that ate up the ground like a strip of macaroni. In two  hours  and  a  quarter 
Raidler, from a gentle swell, saw the branding camp by  a  water  hole  in  the 
Guadalupe. Sick with expectancy of the news he feared, he rode up,  dismounted, 
and dropped Paisano's reins. So gentle was his heart that  at  that  moment  he 
would have pleaded guilty to the murder of McGuire.
    The only being in the camp was the cook, who was just arranging  the  hunks 
of barbecued beef, and distributing the tin coffee  cups  for  supper.  Raidler 
evaded a direct question concerning the one subject in his mind.
    "Everything all right in camp, Pete?" he managed to inquire.
    "So, so," said Pete, conservatively. "Grub give out twice.  Wind  scattered 
the cattle, and we've had to rake the brush  for  forty  mile.  I  need  a  new 
coffee-pot. And the mosquitos is some more hellish than common."
    "The boys - all well?"
    Pete was no optimist. Besides, inquiries  concerning  the  health  of  cow-
punchers were not only superfluous, but bordered on flaccidity. It was not like 
the boss to make them.
    "What's left of 'em don't miss no calls to grub," the cook conceded.
    "What's left of 'em?" repeated Raidler in a husky  voice.  Mechanically  he 
began to look around for McGuire's grave. He had in his mind a white slab  such 
as he had seen in the Alabama church-yard. But immediately  he  knew  that  was 
foolish.
    "Sure," said Pete; "what's left. Cow camps change  in  two  months.  Some's 
gone."
    Raidler nerved himself.
    "That - chap - I sent along - McGuire - did - he - "
    "Say," interrupted Pete, rising with a chunk of corn bread  in  each  hand, 
"that was a dirty shame, sending that poor, sick kid to a cow  camp.  A  doctor 
that couldn't tell he was graveyard meat ought  to  be  skinned  with  a  cinch 
buckle. Game as he was, too - it's a scandal among snakes - lemme tell you what 
he done. First night in camp the boys started to initiate him  in  the  leather 
breeches degree. Ross Hargis busted him one swipe  with  his  chaparreras,  and 
what do you reckon the poor child did? Got up, the little skeeter,  and  licked 
Ross. Licked Ross Hargis. Licked him good. Hit him plenty  and  everywhere  and 
hard. Ross'd just get up and pick out a fresh place to lay down on  agin.  Then 
that McGuire goes off there and lays down  with  his  head  in  the  grass  and 
bleeds. A hem'ridge they calls it. He lays there eighteen hours by  the  watch, 
and they can't budge him. Then Ross Hargis, who loves any man who can lick him, 
goes to work and damns the doctors from Greenland to Poland Chiny; and him  and 
Green Branch Johnson they gets McGuire into  a  tent,  and  spells  each  other 
feedin' him chopped raw meat and whisky.
    "But it looks like the kid ain't got no appetite  to  git  well,  for  they 
misses him from the tent in the night and finds him rootin' in the  grass,  and 
likewise a drizzle fallin'. 'G'wan,' he says, 'lemme go and die like I  wanter. 
He said I was a liar and a fake and I was playin' sick. Lemme alone.'
    "Two weeks," went on the cook, "he laid around, not  noticin'  nobody,  and 
then - "
    A sudden thunder filled the air, and a score of galloping centaurs  crashed 
through the brush into camp.
    "Illustrious rattlesnakes!" exclaimed Pete, springing  all  ways  at  once; 
"here's the boys come, and I'm an assassinated man if  supper  ain't  ready  in 
three minutes."
    But Raidler saw only one  thing.  A  little,  brown-faced,  grinning  chap,
springing from his saddle in the full light of the fire. McGuire was  not  like 
that, and yet -
    In another instant the cattleman was holding him by the hand and shoulder.
    "Son, son, how goes it?" was all he found to say.
    "Close to the ground,  says  you,"  shouted  McGuire,  crunching  Raidler's
fingers in a grip of steel; "and dat's where I found it - healt' and  strengt', 
and tumbled to what a cheap skate I been actin'. T'anks  fer  kickin'  me  out, 
old man. And - say! de joke's on dat croaker, ain't it? I  looked  t'rough  the 
window and see him playin' tag on dat Dago kid's solar plexus."
    "You son of a tinker," growled the cattleman, "whyn't you talk up  and  say 
the doctor never examined you?"
    "Ah - g'wan!" said McGuire, with a flash of his old asperity, "nobody can't 
bluff me. You never ast me. You made your spiel, and you t'rowed  me  out,  and 
I let it go at dat. And, say, friend, dis chasin' cows is outer sight.  Dis  is 
de whitest bunch of sports I ever travelled with. You'll  let  me  stay,  won't 
yer, old man?"
    Raidler looked wonderingly toward Ross Hargis.
    "That cussed little runt," remarked Ross tenderly, "is  the  Jo-dartin 'est 
hustler - and the hardest hitter in anybody's cow camp."

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