The Bottineau courant., 1909-03-12
BUMBLEPUPPY
ON THE RANGE
By EDWARD HOLLYWOOD
Copyright. by shortstory Pub. Coz

feeling Of desperation pervaded
the home ranch Of the Three x outfit
in South Dakota. Although it was the
time Of the gathering of the hands for
the beef roundup, which was regard
ed as a mere pleasure excursion up
and down the Belle Fourche in the
cool days Of September, the usually
festal occasion seemed to be darkened
by the shadow of great grief. The
boys were depressed. They sulked at
meal times. They did not tell stories
at night. It wasn't because they were
underpaid, although this was undoubt
edly true. The reason, as Shorty Carr
expressed it, was that they were
"locoed by the Britisher."
Mr.. Horace Peddie, @. c., the man
aging director of the Scotch syndicate
which owned the Three x, was max
ing his first inspection of the prop.
erty. Mr.. Peddie had examined the
company's land in South Africa, and
intended to make a clean Job of it by
looking over the American ranch also.
His coming had been awaited by his
hosts with much anticipatory pleasure,
but his actual arrival had been fol-
lowed by bewilderment and a stinging
sense of defeat, and John Heffren,
Shorty Carr, and the bookkeeper
talked 1t over one evening while they
smoked their pipes on the cook-house
steps.
"As the old man said," remarked
Mr.. Hefren, before this Peddie hit
the ranch; "Taint no HARM says he,
to make him think he's struck a hot
crowd. His letters is full of yarns and
advice from South Africa, and I'm
sick Of 'em. Bring around your buck
in bronks,' says the old man, and
pack your guns and we'll make him
think this ere western country says
Che, is darned sight wilder than any
South Africa on the map. Make it
warm for him. says he, and he'll say
we sure ought to be paid big for livin'
in such a tough place. And, put it
to you, Tompkins, amt we done our
best?"
The bookkeeper nodded.
"Best?" inquired Carr, disconsolate-
ly; "I'll bet we have. The first turn out
of the box was when 1 caught up Hot
Biscuit for this esquire to ride down
to the hay camp. Now, Biscuit amt
what you'd call bad, you know-just
loony. So I leads the pony around to
the Office, and there was Peddie
dressed up in tight white pants and
shiny boots, like he was going to walk
the slack wire. He spots me looking
at his rig, and he says: This is the
way we ride in Pretory.' 1 don't know
anything about Pretory, but men have
been shot for less in the Bad Lands
So he gets on the horse and puts his
toes In the stirrups and leans over
Biscuits neck, like he had pain in
his inside. Biscuit, she slides down a
mud bank and turns head over heels,
not knowin' what to make of the heft
on her shoulders. My word!' says
Peddie, wiping the gumbo out of his
eyes, do you ride those brutes every
day.? Sure says, thinking to get
raise of pay without showing cards.
BY Jove!' he says. It's lucky that
wasn't South African pony. When
horses over there throw a man they
try to eat him up!' went behind the
corral, and I says to myself"
Never mind what you said," inter-
rupted the bookkeeper judiciously.
why didn't you make a play with a
forty-five?"
Listen to me-" said Heffren. II
was lopin' down the creek with this
English feller day before yesterday.
I'd heard the boys claim nobody could
get a start out of him, and I thinks,
John, you are the man for this job,
even if you have to make him smell
POWDER We came along through San
dy Bottom, him and me, where the
box elders is thick and the trail mar
rer. All of sudden 1 begin to look
fierce, and cuss, and spy into the un-
derbrush like l see somethin' bad.
Then I pulls the gun, and pumps six
shells at the trees, swearin' and tear
in and leatherin' my horse. We ran
our ponies up on to the rise, and then
he said: Lets go back and skin 'em.'
Skin who?' says 1. Those rabbits,
said he. 'Rabbits!' says I. Them was
the Powder River gang, and they're on
the kill WE'LL says he, let's go back
and skin them. They do that sort of
thing most every day in South Africa.
And l couldn't say dunn word"
Carr resumed the mournful tale.
1--WE gave him meal" said Shorty,
lover to the horse camp. Raw onions
and bacon sliced lengthwise-al fat.
He said that was the kind of grub they
saved for sick hands in the Welt or
some such place. Now, 1 ask you,
Tompk1ns, how can we turn the hair
of Comanche like him?"
"Poker," said the bookkeeper.
"He says" Heffren replied, with a
hopeless air Of weariness, that the
only cards he ever plays is whist, and
a. home he has follered that game
every night for 20 years."
"Oh, that kind, is he?" said Tomp-
lott all ,oS11