The Ramblin' Kid

By Earl Wayland Bowman

DigiCat Publishing presents to you this special edition of "The Ramblin' Kid" by Earl Wayland Bowman. DigiCat Publishing considers every written word to be a legacy of humankind. Every DigiCat book has been carefully reproduced for republishing in a new modern format. The books are available in print, as well as ebooks. DigiCat hopes you will treat this work with the acknowledgment and passion it deserves as a classic of world literature.

• Language: English
• Publisher: DigiCat
• Release date: Sep 16, 2022
• ISBN: 8596547375647

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Earl Wayland Bowman

The Ramblin' Kid

EAN 8596547375647

DigiCat, 2022

Contact: [e-mail]

Table of Contents

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER I

Table of Contents

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.

Nothin'. Skinny's just got a letter an' is excited about it, the

Ramblin' Kid said, handing the envelope to him. It's for you.

My Gawd! Old Heck exclaimed, it's a telegram!

The cowboys resting in the shade of the bunk-house rose to their feet, sauntered over and surrounded Old Heck and the Ramblin' Kid, commenting meanwhile, frankly and caustically, on the fagged condition of the broncho Skinny was on:

Must 'a' been scared, the way you run that horse, Parker, range foreman of the Quarter Circle KT, a heavy-built, sandy-complexioned man in the forties, remarked witheringly to Skinny as the cow-puncher climbed from the saddle and slid to the ground.

He's mine, I reckon, Skinny retorted, an' I figure it's nobody's darn' business how I ride him—anyhow I brought Old Heck a telegram! he added triumphantly.

Blamed if he didn't! Charley Saunders, with a trifle of awe, pretended or real, in his tone, said. It sure is!

My Gawd! Old Heck repeated, slowly turning the envelope over in his hand, it's a telegram! Wonder what it's about?

Why don't you open it and see? Parker suggested.

Yes, open th' blamed thing and find out, Skinny encouraged.

I—I've a notion to, Old Heck whispered.

Go on and do it, it won't take but a minute, Charley Saunders entreated.

Maybe he's one of these mind-readers and can read it through the envelope, Bert Lilly volunteered.

Aw, shut up and give him a chance!

Trembling, Old Heck tore open the envelope and silently read the message.

My Gawd! he groaned again. The worst has come to the worst!

That ought to make it middlin' bad, Charley remarked soberly.

Ought to, Bert added sententiously.

Parker crowded forward on sympathy bent.

Tell us what's in it, he said; if it's sorrowful we'll be plumb glad to condole!

It's worse than sorrowful—

Melancholical? Skinny inquired.

My Gawd! Old Heck said again, his weatherworn features working convulsively, it's more than a mortal man can endure and stand!

Bet somebody's dead! Bert whispered to the Ramblin' Kid.

Probably. Most everybody gets to be sooner or later, was the answer without emotion.

Sing Pete, Chinese cook for the outfit, dish-rag over his shoulder, edged out of the kitchen door and shuffled around to the group. Glimpsing the yellow slip of paper held in the shaking hand of Old Heck and the awed interest of the cowboys gathered about the boss, he queried:

Teleglam?

No answer.

Teleglam? Maybe alle samee somebody sickee? he continued, cheerfully confident that questions enough would ultimately bring a reply. He was rewarded:

What do you know about 'teleglams'? You slant-eyed burner of beef-steaks!

Who's it from? Charley asked. Anybody we know—

My Gawd, Old Heck mourned once more, she's comin'!

Who's she? Parker coaxed.

A female, Old Heck replied, she's a female!

The darned old cuss has had a wife sometime and run off from her and deserted her and she's pursuing him and trailing him down to earth! Chuck Slithers, doubting Thomas of the outfit and student of Sherlock Holmes, cunningly suggested. I always imagined he was a varmint with a past—a' ex-heart breaker of innocent women or a train-robber or—

Aw, hell, the Ramblin' Kid rebuked, him have a wife? Don't insult th' female population!

"Carramba! exclaimed Pedro Valencia, Mexican line-rider for the Quarter Circle KT, perhaps she will stick him with the dagger, or shoot him with the gun when she arrive! The ladies with love kill quick when the love is—what you call him?—the jilt?"

And I'd almost forgot I ever had one! Old Heck continued talking as if to himself.

What'd I tell you? Chuck exulted.

Shut up! He's confessin'—let him alone an' he'll get it out of his conscience sooner or later!

Had a what? Parker urged sympathetically. Maybe you didn't have one—maybe you only imagined you did!

Had a brother—anyhow a half a one—our mothers was the same but different fathers on account of mine dyin' when I was little and his marrying our mother again; we was playmates together in our innocent childhood and infancy until I run away and went to sea and finally anchored on the Kiowa and got to raisin' cattle—

Where does he come in at? Parker questioned.

He said it was a female, to start with, Skinny added.

—and his name is Simeon Dixon on account of his father's being the same thing, and he went in the street railroad business in a place named Hartville in Connecticut, and he got married and had a wife—she was Zithia Forbes, and she's dead, and I knowed that, and he's rich I reckon and—

An' Amrak begat Meshak an' Meshak begat Zimri an' Zimri was th' founder of th' House of Old Heck, the Ramblin' Kid chanted. What in thunder does details amount to, anyhow?

But you was mournin' about a she! Parker insisted.

Well, I reckon it ain't a wife—at least not the one I was thinking about, Chuck murmured disappointedly, but I bet he's had one somewhere in his vari'gated career and is hiding out from her in fear an' tremblin'—

And there will not be the grand, the beautiful murder? Pedro sighed, questioningly.

Wait a minute, Skinny pleaded, —give him air!

—and he's got a female daughter—and I didn't know that—and he's—oh, Gawd!—he's sending her out to the Quarter Circle KT!

How big is she? Parker whispered.

She's—she's twenty-two—

Inches around or what? Charley gasped.

—and Ophelia is coming with her—Ophelia Cobb—C-o-double-b it is—is coming with her for a chaperon—

Great guns! Skinny breathed,—two females!

Hold still and I'll read it—no, you do it, Parker—I'm too full of emotion—my voice'd quiver—

Parker read:

"Josiah Heck, Eagle Butte, Texas:

"Am sending my daughter, Carolyn June, out to your ranch for a while. She needs a change. She has broke all the he-human hearts in Hartville—that is all of them old enough or young enough to be broke—and is what's called a love-stimulator and won't settle. She is twenty-two and it's time she was calmed. Hoping six months on the Kiowa range will gentle her quite a lot, I am sympathetically your 1/2 brother, Simeon.

P.S.—Mrs. Ophelia Cobb, a lady widow, is coming with her for a chaperon. Beware of both of them. They will arrive at Eagle Butte the 21st.—S.

Gee, it's a long one! Chuck said admiringly.

It's one of these 'Night Letters,' Parker explained.

I knowed it was bad news, Skinny exclaimed, —poor old Heck!

Better say, 'Poor we all!' Bert declared. Farewell peace and joy on the Quarter Circle KT!

The Lord have mercy on Old Heck! Charley cried with dramatic fervor.

Holy smoke, Parker murmured desperately, "two of them on the twenty-first—and that's to-morrow!"

CHAPTER II

Table of Contents

A BLUFF CALLED

The Quarter Circle KT was a womanless ranch. Came now, like a bolt from the clear sky or the sudden clang of a fire-alarm bell, the threat of violation of this Eveless Eden by the intrusion of a pair of strange and unknown females. The arrival of the telegram telling of the coming of Carolyn June Dixon, Old Heck's niece, and Ophelia Cobb, her chaperon, filled with varying emotions the hearts of Old Heck, Parker and the cowboys.

To Old Heck their presence meant nothing less than calamity. Long years of he-man association had made him dread the petty restraints he imagined would be imposed by intimate contact with womankind. Good lord, a man wouldn't be able even to cuss freely, and without embarrassment, with a couple of women in the house and prowling around the ranch!

Skinny, Bert, Chuck, Pedro, Charley, the Ramblin' Kid, even the Chink cook and Parker, quivered with excitement and curiosity behind thinly veiled pretense of fear and horror. Secretly they rejoiced. It was marvelous news borne by the telegram Skinny brought. Here would be diversion ample, unusual, wholly worth while and filled with possibilities of romance as luring as the first glimpse of a strange new land shadowed with mystery and promise of thrilling adventure.

Sing Pete paddled back to the unfinished business of the kitchen, chattering excitedly. The cowboys stood mutely and stared at Old Heck and the fatal slip of yellow paper.

What'll I do? Old Heck asked the group despairingly. They'll ruin everything.

Can't you head 'em off, somehow? Parker suggested.

Can't be done. They're already on their way and probably somewhere this side of Kansas City by now.

Find out which train they're on and let the Ramblin' Kid and me cut across to the Purgatory River bridge and wreck it, Skinny Rawlins, always tragic, darkly advised.

I ain't particular about killin' females, the Ramblin' Kid objected, besides, we ain't got no dynamite.

Send them a telegram and say Old Heck's dead and not to come, Bert

Lilly volunteered.

Aw, you blamed idiot, they'd come anyhow then, just to attend the funeral—

I got an idea, Chuck Slithers exclaimed; it's a telegram too. Send them one C.O.D. in care of the train that will get to Eagle Butte the twenty-first and tell them we've all got the smallpox and we're sorry but everybody's dangerously sick and to please answer!"

That might work, Parker said; they'd be mighty near sure not to want to catch it.

We'll try it, Old Heck agreed. Chuck wants to ride over to Eagle Butte anyway and he can have the depot agent send it and wait for a reply.

Go get your horse ready, Chuck, Parker said, we'll write it while you're saddlin' up!

Chuck hurried to the corral while Old Heck went into the house for pencil and writing-paper. Parker and the cowboys moved in a group to the shade of the porch in front of the house.

What'll we tell them? Old Heck asked, reappearing with writing materials. Here, Parker, you write it.

Dear niece Carolyn June Dixon and Chaperon: Sorry, but there's an epidemic of smallpox at the Quarter Circle KT and you can't come. Chuck is dying with it. Old Heck's plumb prostrated, Bert is already broke out, Pedro is starting to and Skinny Rawlins and the Ramblin' Kid are just barely able to be up. I love you too much to want you to catch it. Please go back to Hartville and give my regards to your pa and don't expose yourself. Answer by return telegram so I'll know your intentions. Affectionately and absolutely your Uncle Josiah Heck, Parker read after writing a few moments. How's that?

Sounds all right.

Got it ready? Chuck called from the fence, while Silver Tip, the trim-built half-blood Hambletonian colt he was riding, reared and pranced, eager for the road and a run.

For lord's sake hurry up, Chuck, Old Heck yelled as the Ramblin' Kid handed the paper to Chuck and the cowboy whirled his horse into a gallop toward Eagle Butte. Have the agent send it in care of whatever train they might be on and get an answer, then come back as quick as possible —waiting is agony!

It was a long afternoon for Old Heck and the cowboys of the Quarter Circle KT. A band of colts were in the circular corral to be gentled to rope, saddle and hackamore. Old Heck sat on the top pole of the corral and moodily watched the struggle of the men and horses in the dry, dusty enclosure as one by one each young broncho was roped, saddled and ridden. Frequently he turned longing eyes toward Eagle Butte, anxious for sight of the cloud of dust from which Chuck would emerge bringing, he hoped, word that Carolyn June and Ophelia Cobb had heeded the misleading message.

The sun crept across the western sky and dropped lower and lower until it hung at last, a blazing disk of fire, close above the highest peaks of the Costejo mountain range. The poplars in front of the house flung slim black shadows across the low adobe buildings and splashed the tip of their shade in the dust-cloud that filled with haze the corral a hundred yards away. Sing Pete stepped from the door and beat a tattoo on the iron triangle suspended by a piece of wire from the lowest branch of a mesquit tree at the corner of the house, announcing by the metallic clamor that the work of the day was finished and supper was ready and waiting. Parker swung back the heavy gate at the corral entrance and the dozen colts, sweat streaks on heads and backs and bellies where hackamore, saddle and cinches told of the lessons of the afternoon, pushing and jamming and with a clatter of hoofs, whirled out to freedom, around the stable and down a lane into an open meadow.

Kicking off their chaps the cowboys tossed them on the riding gear, piled already against the fence of the corral, and straggled stiffly toward the house. On the wire enclosing the back yard Sing Pete had hung a couple of heavy towels, coarse and long. Some basins and several chunks of yellow laundry soap were on a bench beside an irrigation ditch that ran along the fence just inside the gate. Old Heck, Parker and the cowboys stopped at the ditch, pitched their hats on the grass and dipping water from the ditch scoured the dust and sweat from their faces and hands.

All were silent as if each was troubled with thoughts too solemn to be spoken aloud.

At last, Skinny, handing a towel to Bert after drying his own sun-tanned face and hands, remarked inanely:

Chuck ain't come, has he?

Slupper! Sing Pete called.

They filed into the kitchen and each took his regular place at the long, oilcloth covered table. The food, wholesome, plain and abundant, was already served.

Silently each heaped his plate with the viands before him while Sing

Pete circled the table pouring coffee into the white porcelain cups. The

Quarter Circle KT was famous for the excellence of its grub and the

Chink was an expert cook.

Lordy, oh, lordy, Old Heck groaned, it don't seem possible them women are coming!

Maybe they won't, Parker sympathized. When they get that telegram they ought to turn around and go back—

Chuck's coming! Bert Lilly exclaimed at that moment and the sound of a horse stopping suddenly at the front of the house reached the ears of the group at the table.

Go ask him if he got an answer, somebody, quick! Old Heck cried.

As Charley Saunders sprang to his feet Chuck yelled, They got it and sent an answer! I got one— and rushed excitedly through the house and into the kitchen waving an envelope, twin to the one Skinny had brought earlier in the day. They're on Train Number Seventeen, the agent said—

My Gawd! Old Heck gasped, what does it say? Give it here! reaching for the message the cowboy held in his hand.

Good lord, it didn't work! he groaned as he read the telegram and handed it across the table to Parker.

Read it out loud, several spoke at once.

'We've both had it,' Parker read, 'and are not afraid. Anyhow we think you are a darned old lovable liar. Will arrive according to schedule. If you are not a liar we'll nurse you back to health and happiness. If you are, watch out! Your affectionate but suspicious little niece Carolyn June Dixon. Postscript: Are there any nice wild, untamed, young cowboys out there?—Carolyn J.'

Hell-fire! Skinny said, what'll we do?

No answer. Chuck went moodily out to attend to his horse, and the meal was finished in silence. Even Sing Pete seemed deeply depressed. After supper Old Heck straightened up and in a do-or-die tone said:

We'll all go out where it's cool and hold a caucus and figure what ought to be done.

There ain't nothing we can do but surrender, as far as I can see, Parker observed gloomily as they gathered on the porch in front of the house. They seem plumb determined to arrive—

I've already give up hope, Old Heck answered, but what will we do with them when they get here? We can't just brand 'em and turn them loose on the range.

I make a motion we elect Skinny to ride herd on 'em! Bert Lilly suggested.

Damned if I do! Skinny exclaimed uneasily.

It's a good idea, Parker said. From all accounts the young one expects to be made love to and if she ain't she'll probably be weeping around all the time—

Well, I can't stand sobbin'! Old Heck declared. "Any female is hard enough to endure and one that gets to mourning is plumb distasteful!

That's probably the best thing to do, he continued, "just appoint

Skinny to be official love-maker to Carolyn June while she's at the

Quarter Circle KT. It will probably save confusion—"

I brought the telegram telling about them coming and I've done my share, Skinny protested; somebody else can be delegated to do the love-making!

That's just the reason it ought to be your job, Old Heck argued; you went and got the telegram in the first place and are sort of responsible for them being here.

Aw, let th' Ramblin' Kid do it, Skinny pleaded, he's an easy talker and everything—

The Ramblin' Kid straightened up and started for the gate.

Where you going?

To catch Capt'n Jack, he drawled; after that for a little ride down to th' Pecos or over in Chihuahua somewhere a couple hundred miles. I decline with enthusiasm to fall in love on th' spur of th' moment for any damned outfit!

You come on back, Parker called, Skinny'll have to do it. He can have all his time for it and just pretend he's in love and sort of entertain her. He don't need to go and do it in earnest. Come on back, you darned chump, I need you on the beef hunt!

What'll I have to do? Skinny asked cautiously.

Just set on the front porch with her at night and make your eyes roll up like a calf's that's being branded and kind of sigh heart-broken once in a while, Bert volunteered. It'll be easy when you get used to it—

If you know so much about it why don't you enlist yourself? Skinny asked irritably. Some of you fellows go on and volunteer, he pleaded dolefully.

I would in a minute, Chuck chipped in, "if I was good-looking like

Skinny and had a white shirt—"

What's a white shirt got to do with it?

Listen to the innocent child, Chuck laughed, "as if