Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 640
“Shore he is,” interposed Enoch. “Wal, now listen, all you buckaroos. I’ll work along with Tuck this mawnin’. It’s only fair to break him in. Then after the noon-hour rest we’ll have the race. Cuttin’ up the field once, one row, an’ back heah again one row. An’ I’ll be jedge. Is that satisfactory, Wess?”
“Reckon it’s fair,” replied Wess.
“Wal, then, let’s go to work,” said Enoch, getting up. “Tuck, you come alongside me an’ do what I do.”
Thereupon they advanced to the western side of the field, and each taking a row of sorghum to himself, they bent their long bodies to the labors of harvesting.
The method of procedure was simple. The sorghum stalks grew about a foot apart. They were slender but tough. A knife had to be sharp and the hand strong. When the stalk was cut it was shifted into the hollow of the left arm, or laid on the ground, according to the cutter’s particular way of working. The field was nearly a mile long and the rows of sorghum ran the whole length.
At once the line of advance grew irregular. Wess took the lead, without any apparent effort, and he just stalked and stooped along as if he were picking up apples. He forged ahead, and the other boys advanced according to their capacity and inclination. Enoch did not lose much time or get far behind, even though he was instructing Tuck. Some of the boys kept even with each other, and some gradually straggled out behind. Of these Cal Thurman and Tim Matthews were two, for the reason that Cal never had shown any great ability as a sorghum-harvester, and Tim, who was a rider, hated the work. Cal, however, kept quite far in advance of Tim.
Thus this group of harvesters cut down the field. Notwithstanding the fun and play they made of it, assuredly it was a man’s game. Wess reached the starting-point ahead of all his followers, and the time was one hour and a quarter for the round trip. His blue shirt was as wet with sweat as if it had been soaked in water. His hands were grimy. His face was black with dust and streaked with lines where the sweat ran down. He started on a new row before his comrades got back to the starting-point. As soon as they arrived they moved over, as had Wess, and started again.
Toward noon the sun shone down hot. A breeze blew the clouds of dust from the dry field. Hundreds of crows, attracted by the grain, flocked around the field, cawing until the air was full of din. The harvesters grew weary with their exertions and ceased to sing and banter, and slowed up on their return.
Serge Thurman had left off after the first trip, and by the time the others straggled back he had a noonday meal almost ready. One by one they trooped in after Wess, to drink copiously and wash their dirty hands, and then fall down gratefully in the shade. But their spirits soon revived.
Cal beat Tim in by a dozen rods or more, and he made way for his covert design by casting reflections upon Tim’s lax ambitions as a harvester. Even the least word from Cal could stir Tim’s temper, especially since Tim had fallen into the black looks of Miss Georgiana Stockwell, and Cal had apparently gained favor.
“Say, I’m a cowman,” retorted Tim, testily. “I’m used to ridin’ where there wasn’t any fence, let alone cornfields. I ain’t no farmhand.”
“Huh! I don’t see any medals on you as a cowman,” retorted Cal, in return.
“You don’t, hey?” queried Tim, with a frown. “Strikes me yore gettin’ orful fresh lately.”
“An’ come to think of it, I can’t see any medals on you for ridin’ or ropin’ — or makin’ up to the ladies — or even fightin’,” returned Cal, cheerfully.
Everybody except Tim roared with laughter. He appeared divided between a consternation of amaze and an awakened resentment.
“Cal, if you hed any sense, you’d be a good jedge of thet last,” he said, with dark meaning. Still he appeared dubious about this new character of Cal’s and undecided how to take it.
“Tim, I was never even impressed with your way of fightin’,” continued Cal, loquaciously. “You don’t hit hard. Your footwork is rotten. You can’t stand punishment.”
“But I licked you four times — four times, my ridin’ Romeo — an’ done it without half tryin’,” shouted Tim, growing red in the face.
“Tim, you only think you licked me,” observed Cal. “Wait till after grub-time.”
Tim stared his further wonderment, and stalked among his cronies, grumbling: “Say, fellars, what the hell’s got into him? — Footwork rotten!”
“Aw, Cal’s only feelin’ his oats,” replied one.
“Talks like he was rarin’ to go,” observed another.
“Shore Cal’s out of his haid sence he gave thet pinto away. Plumb loco!” asserted a third.
But Cal made no more sallies. He sat to the meal with a sense of exciting anticipation. The event he had longed for was primed for consummation. He saw it in Tuck Merry’s slight superior smile of knowledge of mirth held in abeyance.
“Wal,” drawled Enoch, when he had eaten the last morsel on his tin plate, “which one of these heah two entertainin’ stunts are we goin’ to see first?”
“Two?” asked his father. “What airy one besides the cuttin’ race between Wess an’ my man?”
“Didn’t you heah Cal say to Tim, ‘Wait till after grub-time’?”
“Reckon I did. An’ what was Cal meanin’ by thet?”
“Wal, Cal’s got to lick Tim sometime this year or lose his best hoss,” observed Enoch.
“Son, you shore make fool bets,” replied Henry.
“Dad, this one is not so foolish as you think,” said Cal, with open cheerfulness.
“Cal Thurman,” spoke up Tim, with asperity, “I’m regardin’ thet hoss of yorn as my property.”
“Boys, you cain’t spend all day like a lot of bettin’ Indians,” put in Henry. “Reckon I don’t mind if you do the work.”
“We won’t lose any time on Wess an’ Merry,” said Enoch. “We’ll march right along with them, an’ after we’re through Tim an’ Cal can beat each other up.”
Whereupon they returned to the harvest-work as before, only Enoch started Wess and Merry ahead of them. And it was noticeable that every time a harvester would straighten up he would take a moment of keen interest in the rivals, working so furiously ahead. Wess forged to the front and gradually drew away from Merry. They made the dust fly, and scattered the crows. The lusty calls of the workers in the rear pealed out in the hot still air. The burros brayed in raucous stentorian hee-haws, as if they too were much interested in the race. Wess’s dog ran alongside him, barking encouragement. Almost all of the workers’ cheers were for the benefit of Merry.
“Stay with him, boy,” called one.
“He’s a-rarin’, Tuck, but he won’t last,” yelled another.
“Josh Wess aboot his gurl,” shouted another. “Thet always makes him step on his feet.”
“Yore warmin’ up fer the home stretch. Yore gainin’, Tuck,” called another.
Indeed, this appeared to be true. The lengthy tenderfoot had begun to close the gap between him and the seasoned harvester. Wess had been pushing himself too hard or was slowing up to gain breath for the finish. But he made the end of the field in record time, and was several rods on the return trip when Merry reached the turn. Here Enoch left off working and went back with the rivals. His men, however, were not long in getting their faces toward the home stretch. Wess kept his lead, and finished far enough ahead of Merry to prove his very considerable superiority. The others trooped back in due time to begin an animated discussion over gains and losses.
“Reckon it ain’t decided yet,” declared Enoch. “Wess wins the cuttin’? Now let’s see who can pack the most sorghum.”
Thereupon Wess began to walk along a row of cut sorghum, raking portions of it into a pile. When he had arranged a number to his liking, he took a bundle of stalks in his arms and then went on to the next, until he had collected an enormous quantity. He was completely hidden under a huge shock of sorghum. While he held it Enoch measured its girth with a string. Then Wess set the immense bundle on the ground, with the stalks upright, and it stood there like a shock of corn.
“Wal, Tuck, it’s your turn,” said Enoch. “An’ between you an’ me, I think you can beat him.”
Thus encouraged, Tuck Merry began to rake the cut sorghum into piles, somewhat after the manner of Wess, though not so neatly. Measured by lengths of rows he piled up much more than Wess.
“Yore a gone gizzard, Wess,” remarked Henry.
“If he packs all thet I’m licked,” replied Wess. “But he cain’t do it.”
Cal went along with Tuck and encouraged him. The lanky tenderfoot began to pick up the piles he had collected, and it soon became evident that he could have saved himself much strenuous labor if he had made larger and fewer portions. For when he got a great bundle in his arms he had difficulty picking up another portion. He had to feel for it with his feet, then drop his burden on it, and absorb it with wider stretch of arms. He grew to be a walking stack of sorghum, a most interesting and amusing sight to the watchers. Wess’s dirty face began to express his astonishment.
“Son-of-a-gun has me licked now!” he ejaculated, in admiration.
But Tuck Merry went on picking up portions until he had lifted the enormous amount he had piled. From somewhere under the burden sounded a smothered voice.
“I — can — pack — more,” he called, hoarsely.
“T’ain’t necessary,” replied Henry. “You win by a heap, I reckon.”
“Wal, let’s see,” added Enoch as he threw his cord over the great bundle, and then sprawled on the ground to find the end. Rising then, he circled the pack and got the measurement.
“I’m a son-of-a-gun,” he exclaimed, with a grin. “He’s beat Wess by a whole foot.”
“Aw, I’m beat, but not thet bad,” declared Wess.
“There you are, Wess. Measure it yourself,” replied Enoch.
“Nope. I guess you’re right. Let go Merry — an’ shake hands.”
Tuck dropped the rustling shock of sorghum, or rather emerged from under it, a dust-encumbered, ludicrous figure. Wess met his outstretched hand and shook it as a man who had respect for his better.
“You win thet heat,” he said. “Now let’s measure arms. I’m sorta curious how you done what nobody else ever done.”
The two tall harvesters stood facing each other with right arms extended, and the remarkable fact became plain to all that Merry’s arm was six inches longer than Wess’s.
“Wal, thet tells the story,” concluded Enoch. “All bets off, boys. It shore was a draw.... An’ now let’s go back to work.”
When the harvest was over for that day, one-third of the great sorghum-field had been cut — a showing which Henry Thurman viewed with simple delight.
“By golly! thet ‘air’s a fine day’s work,” he exclaimed. “You all done well, ‘cept Tim, who hates work, an’ Cal, who’ll never be no sorghum-rastler.”
“Wal, I reckon them two was savin’ up,” drawled Enoch. “They shore was slow.”
“Now I forgot all aboot thet,” returned Henry. “I’ll shore enjoy seein’ Tim lick Cal again. — Say, Tim, air you a-goin’ to do it before supper or after?”
“Seein’ you tax me, I’ll say I’d like what little exercise it’d take before I clean up fer supper,” retorted Tim.
Thus the issue came up squarely on the moment when Serge was busy at the camp fire and the others were grouped around in restful postures.
It found Cal more than ready. His keen eye had caught sight of Georgiana and her sister Mary out on the road. They were returning from school, where Georgiana had spent the day, and on the moment were approaching the gate under the walnut trees a little distance from the camp. No one, save Cal, apparently had observed them.
“Ahuh!” exclaimed Cal, with a cheerfulness wholly reflected in Tuck Merry’s cadaverous image. He leaped to his feet. “I forgot all about that.... Come on, Tim — you bow-legged little hop-a-long bronco-buster. I’m hungry an’ I want to get this over before supper.”
The crowd greeted Cal’s speech with both amaze and delight. But Tim shared only the former. Slowly he got to his feet, his red face, from which he had wiped the dust, showing a dubious contempt. He squinted at Cal. He was not so sure that there existed perfect justification for his contempt.
“Come an’ take it,” cried Cal, banteringly. “Come out here. I don’t want to pile you up on Serge’s supper. — Tim, you’ve had the fun of lickin’ me four times, an’ you ought to be sport enough to take your medicine like I took mine.”
“You make me mad, Cal Thurman,” growled Tim. “You’re too fresh. An’ I’m gonna lick you fer the fifth time — which’ll be all you’ll ever want.”
He slouched out onto the grassy plot away from the group under the tree, and certainly in plain sight from the road. This was what Cal wanted. He had not the slightest doubt of the outcome. Tuck Merry had assured him that Tim could not last three minutes.
Suddenly Cal extended his hands, still wearing his old gloves, and he began to dance around Tim with the quickness of footwork that had been a part of the painful education imparted by Tuck Merry. Tim, rough-and-tumble fighter that he was, crouched close in on Cal, but could not find an opening. Cal increased his dancing steps, and began to feint with his fists, and saw instantly how Tim was bewildered by such tactics.
“Boys, don’t miss this,” called Cal, piercingly. “You all know how Tim hates to have any one hit his big ugly nose. Now watch.”
Manifestly the watchers were intensely absorbed and thrillingly expectant. Dancing round, Cal kept shooting out his left at Tim, just to bewilder him and make him dodge and swing until the favorable instant came. Then with his right Cal flashed a hard cutting blow to Tim’s nose. No doubt about the effect!
“Tim, that’s a nose-jab,” called out Cal, gleefully, as he avoided Tim’s heavy rush, and danced round; and then, quicker than before, he shot his left to the same sensitive spot. This time the blood started.
“I’ll nose-jab you!” shouted Tim, hoarse with pain, as wildly he swung. But it was only to encounter a still stiffer blow.
“Aw!” bawled Tim.
“Holler, you boob!” returned Cal, with the fun of the thing giving way to the heat of action and sight of blood and thought of just revenge. Tim had hurt him many a time and had crowed over it. This was retribution and there was Georgiana Stockwell sitting on top of the high gate.
But Tim did not cry out any more. He was too much in earnest now, too furious. All the yelling came from the onlookers.
Then, just as suddenly, Cal changed his footwork so that instead of dancing around Tim he jumped toward him and then away. Tim did not do any backing. He followed, and always appeared at a disadvantage, too slow to reach Cal. All at once, Cal beat down Tim’s waving fists, and pushed his left into Tim’s face, not hard, but once, twice, three times; and then as Tim lost something of his poise, Cal swung a right powerfully into the pit of Tim’s stomach. It made a deep sound. And then Tim gasped out his propelled breath.
“That’s the belly-wham!” called Cal. “Look out now — here comes the tooth-rattler!”
Tim, with terribly distorted face, eyes starting, mouth agape, jaw falling, seemed to be standing motionless, helpless, silent except for a singular gasping sound. Precisely as Tuck Merry had done to Bloom, so Cal had done to Tim. How ridiculously easy! Tim’s breath had been expelled and he could not get any back. Then Cal ended the matter with a hard swing to the jaw. Tim went down in a heap and stayed down.
In the silence of astonishment that ensued, Cal stood over Tim, scarcely panting from his exertions, and looked down at his fallen adversary.
“Get up, Tim — before I cool off,” he called.
But poor Tim had just begun to be able to draw a little air into his lungs. He could not get up. He could not lift his dizzy head. Whereupon the other boys suddenly recovered from their astonishment and began to give vent to wild and whirling mirth. They howled and rolled and roared, and not for several moments could Cal distinguish a word they said.
“Wal, I’m a locoed rustler if Cal didn’t knock Tim out!” ejaculated Enoch, in absolute astonishment.
They were all amazed, and some were skeptical at Cal’s queer dancing around, and several were incredulous, especially old Henry.
Most feeling of all, however, was Tim Matthews, when he recovered far enough to be able to talk.
“Aw! — Wot run — over me?” he panted.
They all had a name for it, from a mule to an elephant, and loud haw-haws accompanied each especial epithet.
“Wot’d — he hev — in them gloves?” huskily demanded Tim as Enoch helped him sit up.
“Just my fists,” replied Cal, taking off the gloves and throwing them at Tim.
The vanquished rider pathetically pawed over the gloves.
“Aw — he had — rocks in them,” wailed Tim.
“No, Tim, he hadn’t nothin’,” said Enoch, kindly, as with his scarf he began to wipe the blood from Tim’s face. “He just licked you damn quick an’ good.”
Cal dropped to one knee beside Tim and held out his hand.
“Do you want to shake on it?” he asked.
Tim sat up and gazed wonderingly at his assailant. He could not believe his eyes, but he had been convinced of what had happened. It was a hard moment for him. Slowly he held out a shaking hand.
“Cal, you shore — licked me,” he replied, with a gulp, “an’ I’m sayin’ I got what was comin’ to me.... But how’d you do it? A hoss-kick is bad enough, but aw! — when you hit me, it was orful.”
CHAPTER IX
SATURDAY, THE LAST day of the October round-up, was the date of the principal dance of the season. Whereupon Mary Stockwell observed that late in the afternoon two processions were noticeable — one of the riders trooping wearily back to the ranch, and the other of a stream of vehicles on the road toward the school-house, where the big dance was to be held.
“We’ll dance you-all down tonight,” merrily called a girl from a car, as Boyd Thurman, dusty and ragged, rode by.
“How do you get that idee?” queried Boyd.
