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The Cow-Boss
by
“Now you must let me hang round till he gets well,” he said, forgetful of all other duties.
“That reminds me. You’ll need some breakfast,” she said, hurriedly; “for here comes the sun.” And as she spoke the light of the morning streamed like a golden river into the little room.
“It’s me to the wood-pile, then,” cried Roy, and his smile was of a piece with the sunshine on the wall.
II
Beside the fallen monarch of the wood the lifting saplings bud and intertwine. So over the stern old postmaster these young people re-enacted the most primitive drama in the world. Indifferent to the jeers of his fellows, Roy devoted himself to the service of “The Badger’s Niece,” and was still in town when McCoy returned from “the East”; that is to say, from Kansas City.
Lida had ceased to protest against the cowboy’s attendance and his love-making, for the good reason that her protests were unavailing. He declined to take offense, and he would not remain silent. A part of his devotion was due, of course, to his sense of guilt, and yet this was only a small part. True, he had sent warnings and dire threats to silence his band of marauders; but he did not feel keenly enough about their possible tale-bearing to carry his warnings in person. “I can’t spare the time,” he argued, knowing that Lida would be going home in a few days and that his world would then be blank.
“I lose too much of you,” he said to her once; “I can’t afford to have you out of my sight a minute.”
She had grown accustomed to such speeches as these, and seldom replied to them, except to order the speaker about with ever-increasing tyranny. “You’re so anxious to work,” she remarked, “I’ll let you do a-plenty. You’ll get sick o’ me soon.”
“Sick of you! Lord heavens! what’ll I do when you leave?”
“You’ll go back to your ranch. A fine foreman you must be, fooling round here like a tramp. What does your boss think?”
“Don’t know and don’t care. Don’t care what anybody thinks–but you. You’re my only landmark these days. You’re my sun, moon, and stars, that’s what you are. I set my watch by you.”
“You’re crazy!” she answered, with laughter.
“Sure thing! Locoed, we call it out here. You’ve got me locoed–you’re my pink poison blossom. There ain’t any feed that interests me but you. I’m lonesome as a snake-bit cow when I can’t see you.”
“Say, do you know Uncle Dan begins to notice you. He asked me to-day what you were hanging round here for, and who you were.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him you were McCoy’s hired man just helping me take care of him.”
“That’s a lie. I’m your hired man. I’m takin’ care of you–willing to work for a kiss a day.”
“You’ll not get even that.”
“I’m not getting it–yet.”
“You’ll never get it.”
“Don’t be too sure of that. My life-work is collecting my dues. I’ve got ’em all set down. You owe me a dozen for extra jobs, and a good hug for overtime.”
She smiled derisively, and turned the current. “The meals you eat are all of a dollar a day.”
“They’re worth a bushel of diamonds–when you cook ’em. But let me ask you something–is your old dad as fierce as Uncle Dan?”
She nodded. “You bet he is! He’s crusty as old crust. Don’t you go up against my daddy with any little bank-book. It’s got to be a fat wad, and, mind you, no cloves on your breath, either. He’s crabbed on the drink question; that’s why he settled in Colorado Springs. No saloons there, you know.”
He considered a moment. “Much obliged. Now here’s something for you. You’re not obliged to hand out soft words and a sweet smile to every doggone Injun that happens to call for mail. Stop it. Why, you’ll have all the cow-punchers for fifty miles around calling for letters. That bunch that was in here just now was from Steamboat Springs. Their mail don’t come here; it comes by way of Wyoming. They were runnin’ a bluff. It makes me hot to have such barefaced swindling going on. I won’t stand for it.”