In the Bad Lands
“Bad Land” Bill, the new rider, was a likable kid, but he was amystery to the bunch at the Wineglass range. And when anotherstrange individual stumbled into the light of the camp fire onenight, the mystery deepened.
Against a window that faced the west bank of Plentywater, CharlieShaw flattened his nose for a minute. April showers bring Mayflowers. Charlie grinned—because the April shower had become asnowstorm. The morning rain had turned into wet flakes the size of athumb nail, eddying out of a darkened air. Now the ground lay sixinches under a coat of arctic down. Tough on the sheepmen withlambing in full swing. Charlie grinned again. Cattle could stand it.The tougher the better. Sheep were a thorn in the rangeman’stenderest side. They were becoming too plentiful for cow outfits toregard them with indifference. Shaw was not vindictive—but the lesslambs the more grass for cattle.
Most of the stuff floating through his brain was idle thought. Buthis looking was not idle. The Benton trail skirted the rim of theplateau that flowed up to the hollow of Plentywater, and one of hisriders was due from the stage road with mail. Bad weather had pennedCharlie close for days. He was bored. Lacking action, he cravedsomething to read. There might be letters. He stared through a brieflet-up in the ballet of the snowflakes. Then the white curtainclosed so that looking was vain. Charlie went back to the fireplaceand yawned over a cigarette.
Boots thumped on the porch. Jerry Smith came in with the mail,cursed the water, clanked his spurs out again. Charlie looked over aletter or two, and buried himself in a Fort Benton newspaper untilthe cook called him to supper.
He marked a new face at the long table. A slim, dark youngster, thinfaced, thin lipped, neatly dressed. He had white, even teeth thatshone when he opened his mouth. But he only opened it for thepurpose of stowing food. Charlie looked him over once. Riders cameand went at all seasons. In the spring they drifted, and restlessones, from one range to another, looking for a job, looking forvariety, looking for horses—genial nomads.
But as he sat before his fireplace, toasting his stockinged feet andstudying a letter from the Sutherland range boss, a knock sounded athis door.
“Come in,” he grunted.
The slim, dark stranger faced him. His words were as spare as hisframe.
“Full handed?” he asked.
Now Charlie Shaw had a full crew of able riders—the only kindsuffered on the Wineglass pay roll. Ordinarily, he would have said:“Yeah. Full up, unless somebody breaks his neck.” That would haveended it. But something about this youngster caught Charlie’s fancy.Neat, but not gaudy. Slender and keen—like a new sword. So he askeda question.
“Where you from?”
“Bad Lands.”
“That’s a lot of territory,” Charlie remarked. “All kinds of peopleuse it.”
The boy smiled slightly.
“Oh, I’m no outlaw. My folks has a one-horse outfit down on a forkof Sand Coulee. Nothin’ much for me at home, so I ride round-up. Ibeen up in the Sun River Basin breakin’ horses all winter.”
“Sand Coulee, eh.” Charlie glanced at the letter in his hand. It wasa friendly suggestion from the Block S that the Wineglass come downand work with them and the Picador, a