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My notion is we'd better make a bee-line for Malapi right away," proposed Bob. "We'll travel all night. No use wastin' any more time." Dug Doble received their decision sourly. "It don't tickle me a heap to be left short-handed because you two boys have got an excuse to get to town quicker." Hart looked him straight in the eye. "Call it an excuse if you want to.
"You know how vaqueros are always comin' in and chargin' goods against the boss. I give out the word they was to quit it. Sanders he gets a pair of eighteen-dollar boots, then jumps the town before I find out about it." Crawford started to speak, but Doble finished his story. "I took out after him, but my bronc went lame from a stone in its hoof. You'll never see that eighteen plunks, Em.
He was loyal to the hand that paid him, he stood by his pals, and he believed in and after his own fashion loved cattle and the life of which they were the central fact. To destroy the range feed wantonly was a crime so nefarious that he could not believe Doble guilty of it. And yet He could not let the matter lie in doubt. He left the tendejon and rode to Steelman's house.
I told him to buy the boots and have 'em charged to my account. And the blamed little rooster never told you, eh?" Doble choked for words with which to express himself. He glared at his employer as though Crawford had actually insulted him. In an easy, conversational tone the cattleman continued, but now there was a touch of frost in his eyes. "It was thisaway, Dug.
Honest, I thought they was goin' to mix it yesterday. I breezed up wit' a bottle an' they kinda cooled off." "Doble drunk?" "Nope. Fact is, they'd trimmed a Greeley boob and was rowin' about the split. Miller he claimed Doble held out on him. I'll bet he did too." Dave did not care how much they quarreled or how soon they parted after he had got back his horse.
Presently he was stretched in a chair, his boots thrown across the foot rest in front of him. The barber lathered his face and murmured gossip in his ear. "George Doble and Miller claim they're goin' to Denver to run some skin game at a street fair. They're sure slick guys." Dave offered no comment. "You notice they didn't steal any of Em Crawford's stock. No, sirree! They knew better.
It is only the Tartuffes and the Holy Willies who, whilst they persist in their guilt, talk of leaving the issue to the Divine Providence of God. Doble has also pointed out to me in the first edition of the Spectator the following passage at the end of No. 14: 'On the first of April will be performed at the Play-house in the Hay-market an opera call'd The Cruelty of Atreus.
In the haggard, unshaven face of the cattleman Dave read the ghastly fear of his own soul. Doble was capable of terrible evil. His hatred, jealousy, and passion would work together to poison his mind. The corners of his brain had always been full of lust and obscenity. There was this difference between him and Shorty. The squat cowpuncher was a clean scoundrel.
"When?" "This evenin', I understand." "Where'd he go?" "He didn't leave any address. Called away on sudden business." "Did he mention the business?" "Not to me." Bob turned to his friend. "Did he say anything to you about that, Dave?" In the silence one might have heard a watch tick, Doble leaned forward, his body rigid, danger written large in his burning eyes and clenched fist.
Often these were not cashed for months later. "We'll see what the old man says about that," retorted Dave hotly. It was in his mind to say that he did not intend to be robbed by both the Doble brothers, but he wisely repressed the impulse. Dug would as soon fight as eat, and the young rider knew he would not have a chance in the world against him. "All right," sneered the foreman.
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