Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 09 - Sudden Makes War(1942) by Oliver Strange Page B

darn dictionary.”
                 The
evening of the dance arrived and found the Circle Dot bunkhouse in a state of
feverish activity. Shirts had been washed, boots polished, and war-bags were
being searched for a hoarded neckerchief or cherished tie, which was not always
found in the possession of its rightful owner.
                 “Hi,
who’s rustled my red silk wipe?” Lidgett wanted to know, and then, detecting
Noisy in the act of slipping the missing article out of sight, pounced upon it.
                 “Why,
you gave it me,” protested the silent one.
                 “It
was on’y lent, you chatterin’ son of a cock-eyed coyote,” Lid retorted. “Think
I got nothin’ to do with my earnin’s but keep you in
clothes?”
                 “You
don’t earn a cent—what Dan gives you is part o’ our pay,” Noisy grinned. “We do
the work.”
                 Paddy,
the cook, pestered by demands for hot irons to take the creases from
seldom-worn coats, and the loan of his razor, which was known to possess an
edge, energetically damned the dance and the fools who were going to it. He was
remaining at the ranch.
                 “An’,
thank Hiven, it’s a peaceful night I’ll be enjoyin’ for once in me loife.”
                 “It’s
a mercy you ain’t comin’—there’d be no space for anybody else,” Slim unwisely
told him.
                 “Shure
an’ there wud for you if the room was full, ye slice o’ nothin’,” the fat man
retorted. “Yer partner’ll think she’s dancin’ wi ’ a
flag-pole.”
                 Before
Slim, who really did justify his name, could hit upon an adequate reply,
Blister cut in. “They say the Trenton dame is awful pretty; wonder if she’ll
take a turn with any of us?”
                 “Zeb’ll
‘tend to that,” Tiny said. “I’m told the banker’s girl ain’t exactly a grief to
look at.
                 I’ve
most near forgot how to waltz; let’s try her out,
Blister.”
                 It
was an unfortunate rehearsal—for someone else. The two wash-basins were in
great demand, and Slocombe, despairing of getting one, had brought in a bucket
of water, and, stripped to the waist, was bending over it, sluicing his face,
when the disciples of Terpsichore collided heavily with his rear. Head jammed
in the bucket, the outraged victim rose to his feet, the soapy contents
cascading down his person, and literally drowning the muffled maledictions
which came from the interior of the utensil. Tiny, eager to make amends, tore
the strange headgear from the wearer’s head. The effort was well-meant, but Tiny was a tall man, his snatch was upward, and he forgot
the dangling handle. With an agonized yell, Slocombe grabbed the offending
pail, hurled it with a crash of glass through a window, and clutching his
almost fractured jaw with both hands, capered around the room spitting out
lather and profanity with every leap. The paralysed outfit fought its mirth—one
laugh might have turned the comedy into a tragedy. Tiny broke the silence:
                 “Which
I’m damn sorry, Slow ,” he said, and his voice
contained no hint of the laughter bubbling within him. “We didn’t go for to do
it; we never saw you.”
                 “Sorry?”
Slocombe cried. “You lumberin’, club-footed elephant—they oughta hang a bell on
you to tell folks when yo’re movin’ around; yo’re a danger to the c’munity, an’
why in hell did you try to slice the face off’n me with that sanguinary
handle?”
                 “I
acted for the best, Slow, honest I did,” the big man replied, but his contrite
expression was too much for the audience and a storm of merriment broke out.
                 Slow
looked murder for a moment, and then—being a good sport—joined in. The
appearance of Sudden stilled