CHAPTER V.
NATURE'S NOBLEMAN.
Frank found the Twin Star Ranch a pleasant place. The house was largeand well furnished, everything being in far better taste than he hadexpected.
Merry knew something of ranches and ranch life which, however, he saidnothing about. He was supposed to be a very tender tenderfoot. Nobodydreamed he had ever handled a lariat, ridden a bucking broncho, or takenpart in a round-up.
Gallup roamed about the ranch, inspecting everything, and he was asource of constant amusement to the "punchers," as the cowboys werecalled.
After one of these tours of inspection, he came back to the room whereFrank and Bart were sitting, filled with amazement.
"Vermont farms are different from this one," smiled Merry.
"Waal, naow yeou're talkin'! I'd like ter know haow they ever do themilkin' here. I don't b'lieve all ther men they've got kin milk so mennycaows. Why, I saw a hull drove of more'n five hundred cattle about hereon the farm, an' they told me them warn't a pinch of what Mr. Carsonowns. Gosh all hemlock! but he must be rich!"
"Mr. Carson seems to be pretty well fixed," said Merry.
"That's so. He's got a fine place here, only it's too gol-dingedmernoternous."
"Monotonous? How?"
"The graound's too flat. Ain't any hills to rest a feller's eyesag'inst. I tell yeou it does a man good to go aout where he kin seesomethin' besides a lot of flatness an' sky. There ain't northin' in theworld purtier than the Varmount hills. In summer they're all green an'covered with grass an' trees, an' daown in the valleys is the streamsan' rivers runnin' along, sometimes swift an' foamin', sometimes slowan' smooth, like glars. An' ther cattle are feedin' on ther hills, an'ther folks are to work on their farms, an' ther farm haouses, allpainted white, are somethin' purty ter see. They jest do a man's heartan' soul good. An' then when it is good summer weather in Varmount, I bedad-bimmed if there's any better weather nowhere! Ther sun jest shinesright daown as if it was glad to git a look at sech a purty country, an'ther sky's as blue as Elsie Bellwood's eyes. Ther birds are singin' inther trees, an' ther bees go hummin' in ther clover fields, an' there'ssich a gol-durn good feelin' gits inter a feller that he jest wants terlarf an' shaout all ther time. Aout here there ain't no trees fer therbirds ter sing in, an' there don't seem ter be northin' but flat graoundan' cattle an' sky."
Frank had been listening with interest to the words of the country boy.A lover of nature himself, Merry realized that Gallup's soul had beendeeply impressed by the fair features of nature around his country home.
"Yes, Ephraim," he said, "Vermont is very picturesque and beautiful. TheVermont hills are something once seen never to be forgotten."
Gallup was warmed up over his subject.
"But when it comes to daownright purtiness," he went on, "there ain'tnorthing like Varmount in the fall fer that. Then ev'ry day yeou kin seether purtiest sights human eyes ever saw. Then is the time them hills iswuth seein'. First the leaves on ther maples, an' beeches, an' oaks theybegin ter turn yaller an' red a little bit. Then ther frost comes more,an' them leaves turn red an' gold till it seems that ther hull sides ofthem hills is jest like a purty painted picter. The green of the cedarsan' furs jest orfsets the yaller an' gold. Where there is rocks on thehills, they seem to turn purple an' blue in the fall, an' they lookpurty, too--purtier'n they do at any other time. I uster jest go aoutan' set right daown an' look at them air hills by the hour, an' I ustersay to myself I didn't see haow heaven could be any purtier than theVarmount hills in ther fall.
"But there was folks," he went on, whut lived right there where all thempurty sights was an' never saw um. They warn't blind, neither. I knowsome folks I spoke to abaout how purty the hills looked told me theyhedn't noticed um! Naow, what du yeou think of that? I've even hed folkstell me they couldn't see northin' purty abaout um! Naow whut do yeouthink of that? I ruther guess them folks missed half ther fun of livin'.They was born with somethin' ther matter with um.
"It uster do me good ter take my old muzzle-loadin' gun an' go aout inthe woods trampin' in the fall. I uster like ter walk where the leaveshed fell jest to hear um rustle. I'd give a dollar this minute ter walkthrough the fallen leaves in the Varmount woods! I didn't go out tershoot things so much as I did to see things. There was plenty ofsquirrels, but I never shot but one red squirrel in my life. He comeaout on the end of a limb clost to me an' chittered at me in a realjolly way, same's to say, 'Hello, young feller! Ain't this a fine day?Ain't yeou glad yeou're livin'?' An' then I up an' shot him, like agol-durn pirut!"
Ephraim stopped and choked a little. Bart was looking at him now with astrange expression on his face. Frank did not speak, but he was fully insympathy with the tender-hearted country youth.
Bart rose to his feet, heaving a deep sigh.
"I'm afraid I missed some things when I was a boy," he said. "There wereplenty of woods for me, but I never found any pleasure in them. I usedto think it fun to shoot squirrels; but now I believe it would have beengreater pleasure for me if I had not shot them. I never listened to themusic of the woods, for I didn't know there was any music in them.Gallup, you have shown me that I was a fool."
Then, with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, he walked out of theroom.
Because Ephraim was very verdant the cowboys on the Twin Star fanciedthat Mr. Carson's other visitors must be equally as accustomed toWestern ways.
Frank was hard at work on his play, and that caused him to stick prettyclose to the house. However, he was a person who believed in exercisewhen he could find it, and so, on the afternoon of the second day, hewent out and asked one of the punchers if he could have a pony.
The man looked him over without being able to wholly conceal hiscontempt.
"Kin you ride?" he asked.
"Yes," answered Frank, quietly.
"Hawse or kaow?" asked the cowboy.
"If you have a good saddle horse, I'd like to have him," said Merry."And be good enough to restrain your sarcasm. I don't like it."
The puncher gasped. He was angry. The idea of a tenderfoot speaking tohim in such a way!
"All right," he muttered. "I'll git ye a critter, but our Western hawsesain't like your Eastern ladies' hawses."
He departed.
Hodge had overheard all this, and he came up.
"You want to look out, Merry," he said. "That chap didn't like the wayyou called him down, and he'll bring you a vicious animal."
"I know it," nodded Merry, pulling on a pair of heavy gloves. "It iswhat I expect."
Bart said no more. He had seen Merry ride, and he knew Frank was anatural horse breaker.
The puncher returned in a short time, leading a little, wiry, evil-eyedbroncho. He was followed by several other cowboys, and Merry heard oneof them say:
"Better not let him try it, Hough. He'll be killed, and Carson will fireyou."
"I'll warn him," returned the one called Hough, "an' then I won't be terblame. He wants ter ride; let him ride--if he kin."
Frank looked the broncho over.
"Is this the best saddle horse you have?" he asked.
"Waal, he's the only one handy now," was the sullen answer. "He's a bitonreliable at times, an' you'd better look out fer him. I wouldn'trecommend him for a lady ter ride."
"By that I presume you mean he is a bucker?"
"Waal, he may buck some!" admitted the puncher, surprised that Frankshould ask such a question.
"You haven't anything but a hackamore on him," said Merry. "Why didn'tyou put a bit in his mouth? Do people usually ride with hackamores outhere?"
"He kinder objects to a bit," confessed the cowboy, his surpriseincreasing. "People out here ride with any old thing. Mebbe you hadn'tbetter try him."
"Has he ever been ridden?"
"Certainly."
"You give your word to that?"
"Yep."
"All right. Then I'll ride him."
Frank went into the saddle before the puncher was aware that hecontemplated such
a thing. He yanked the halter out of the man's hand,who leaped aside, with a cry of surprise and fear, barely escaping beinghit by the broncho's heels, for the creature wheeled and kicked, with ashrill scream.
Frank was entirely undisturbed. He had put on a pair of spurred ridingboots which he found in the house, and now the broncho felt the prick ofthe spurs.
Then the broncho began to buck. Down went his head, and up into the airwent his heels; down came his heels, and up went his head. Then he camedown on all fours, and his entire body shot into the air. He came downstiff-legged, his back humped. Again and again he did this, with hisnose between his knees, but still the tenderfoot remained in the saddle.
"Good Lord!" cried the wondering cowboys.
Bart Hodge stood at one side, his hands in his pockets, a look of quietconfidence on his face.
From an upper window of the ranch a pretty, sad-faced girl looked out,seeing everything. Frank had noticed her just before mounting thebroncho. He wondered not a little, for up to that moment he had knownnothing of such a girl being there. He had not seen her before sincecoming to the ranch.
All at once the broncho began to "pitch a-plunging," jumping forward ashe bucked. He stopped short and whirled end-for-end, bringing his nosewhere his tail was a moment before. He did that as he leaped into theair. Then he began to go up and down fore and aft with a decidedly nastymotion. He screamed his rage. He pitched first on one side and then onthe other, letting his shoulders alternately jerk up and droop downalmost to the ground.
"Good Lord!" cried the cowboys again, for through all this FrankMerriwell sat firmly in the saddle.
"Is this yere your tenderfoot what yer told us ye was goin' ter learn alesson, Hough?" they asked.
"Waal, I'll be blowed!" was all the reply Hough made.
The broncho pitched "fence-cornered," but even that had no effect on therider.
Hough told the truth when he said the animal had been ridden before.Realizing at last the fruitlessness of its efforts, it suddenly ceasedall attempts to unseat Frank. Two minutes later Merriwell was ridingaway on the creature's back, and Hough, the discomfited cowboy, was thelaughing-stock of the Twin Star Ranch.