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The cowboys took no notice of him. Jim was bandaging a leg of his horse; Bludsoe was wearily gathering up his saddle and trappings; Lem was giving his tired mustang a parting slap that meant much. Moore evidently awaited a fresh mount. A Mexican lad had come in out of the pasture leading several horses, one of which was the mottled white mustang that Moore rode most of the time.
They're half starved." "Wal, thet's worried me more'n you'll guess," declared Belllounds, with irritation. "What do a lot of cow-punchin' fellars know about dogs? Why, they nearly ate Bludsoe up. He wouldn't feed 'em. An' Wils, who seemed good with dogs, was taken off bad hurt the other day. Lem's been tryin' to rustle feed fer them.
Couldn't stand him. This hyar son of Belllounds is a son-of-a-gun! Me an' pards of mine, Montana an' Bludsoe, are stickin' on wal, fer reasons thet ain't egzactly love fer the boss. But Old Bill's the best of bosses.... Now the hunch is thet if you git on hyar you'll hev to do two or three men's work." "Much obliged," replied Wade. "I don't shy at that."
"Bent Wade, did you come over calkilated to git skinned?" queried Bludsoe. "Boys, I was playin' poker tolerable well in Missouri when you all was nursin'," replied Wade, imperturbably. "I heerd he was a card-sharp," said Jim. "Wal, grab a box or a chair to set on an' let's start. Come along, Jack; you don't look as keen to play as usual."
Lem gaped at him; Montana kicked a box forward to sit upon, and his action was expressive; Bludsoe slammed the cards down on the table and favored Wade with a comprehending look. Belllounds pulled a chair up to the table. "What'll we make the limit?" asked Jim. "Two bits," replied Lem, quickly. Then began an argument. Belllounds was for a dollar limit. The cowboys objected.
"Ain't you tired, Wils?" queried Bludsoe, a squat, bow-legged cowpuncher who appeared to be crippled or very lame. "Me? Naw!" grunted Moore, derisively. "Blud, you sure ask fool questions.... Why, you mahogany-colored, stump-legged, biped of a cowpuncher, I've had three hours' sleep in four nights!" "What's a biped?" asked Bludsoe, dubiously. Nobody enlightened him.
He simply saw his duty a dead sure thing, and, like Jim Bludsoe on the burning boat, 'He went for it there and then. It turned up trumps, but no one knew how heavy were the odds against it save those who went through the stress and the strain of that testing and trying time by his side." In the summer of 1845 Mr. Gladstone proposed to his intimate friend, Mr.
The cowboys and the rancher's son were about to engage in a game of poker when Wade entered the dimly lighted, smoke-hazed room. Montana Jim was sticking tallow candles in the middle of a rude table; Lem was searching his clothes, manifestly for money; Bludsoe shuffled a greasy deck of cards, and Jack Belllounds was filling his pipe before a fire of blazing logs on the hearth. "Dog-gone it!
But I said I'd quit already. We both kept getting sorer and I called him Buster Jack.... He hit me first. Then we fought. I reckon I was getting the best of him when he made a dive for Bludsoe's gun. And that's all." "Boss, as sure as I'm a born cowman," put in Bludsoe, "he'd hev plugged Wils if he'd got my gun. At thet he damn near got it!"
"This letter may be written by an attorney in Edinburgh; but there are rascally lawyers there as well as elsewhere. Bludsoe had correspondents in London. They may be able to inform him regarding the firm of solicitors, Kellam & Blake, if the firm really is entered at the Scotch bar." "Oh! But won't that mean delay?" murmured Nan.
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