Cowboy Short Stories, November 1939 — page 51: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

52 COWBOY SHORT STORIES heard of Red; ne was a pug. A good one, too; or so they said. He was still good. Good enough to be cock-o’-the-walk in any ordinary bunkhouse. Well, Dan was kneeling over Reddy al- most before he hit the floor. “I’m sorry, Red. I didn’t mean— You all right, keed ?” Reddy sat up and laid the heel of his glove against his jaw and pushed it careful. The jaw waggled and Red nodded. “I reckon so. All in one piece, anyway... . Dog-gone you, Dan! In spite of all I’ve taught you, you will leave yourself wide open for a left hook—and every time I try to land one and cure you of it, you land that right! It just ain’t right!’ Pop Turner chuckled. “Make up yo’ mind, Reddy. Either it is a right, or it ain't one, Whichever it is, it’s poison, ain’t it? ... Y'know, Dan, after seein’ that fancy shootin’ act you done this afternoon, and seein’ you battle Reddy here this eve- nin’, it's plumb surprisin’ to me that a man with yo’ gifts—” He stopped talking suddenly and his face got red, as if he’d choked on something. And he had. He'd choked on Dan Coward's reputation. What he'd started out to say, and what everybody listening knew he'd started to say, was, “It’s plumb surprisin’ that you'd let Spade Malone make a door- mat out o you!” Which was exactly what a lot of folks were wondering. Dan Coward had been there in the Twin Rivers country for ten years or better, and folks liked him. He was big, and he was a likable cuss, and he could do a man’s work afoot or a-horse- back, and nobody stopped to figure whether he was a fighting man or not because he'd never had any trouble. Some men draw trouble the way a sorghum-can draws flies. Others go through life without ever a riffle, yet nobody that knows them ever doubts theic courage. You just figure if trouble happened to hit them they'd face it, and you let it go at that. It was that way with Dan ... until Spade Malone got there. It seems those two had known each other as kids, and Spade no sooner laid eyes on Dan than he started riding him. Did it deliberate, Spade did; and did it mean. Made it real plain that he figured Dan’s name was more than just a handle: that it was descriptive. Coward ... And Dan took it. Well, you know how things like that take hold. Folks saw Spade bearing down on Dan, and Dan sidestepping him, and they got to thinking how Dan had side- stepped other times. Before, they'd figured Dan just wasn’t quatrelsome and was will- ing to let his head save his knuckles. Now, they began to wonder if maybe Spade was right. Dan could toss bottles into the air and bust them with a six-gun; and he could lick Reddy Curran with the gloves on—but could he fight barefisted, and did he have the ‘guts to sling lead at a target that could Shoot back at him? That was what folks were asking, and the more Spade rode him the nearer they came to arriving at an answet. Pop Turner coughed. “Humph! ... Well . . . I better go. “ Dance’s been goin’ most an hour and if I ain’t there t’ call them square-dances June’ll scalp me. . Well—so-long . . .” He ducked, and made his getaway. The rest of the bunch followed him, and that left Dan and Reddy to dress by their lone- somes. And Red was sore. He said, “He’s right, at that! It beats all hell how a man like you lets a loud- mouthed four-flusher like Malone bluff him! It ain't a lack o guts, Dan; I know that. I thought it was, at first—until that mornin’ you snapped that rattler out o’ my blankets by the tail, and you bare-handed. . . . What is it, anyway, you jughead?” ‘Maybe I’m just livin’ up to my name, Reddy. Like Spade says.” Dan was under the shower now—they had those things at the Ninety-seven now that it was a dude ranch—and his voice was sort of muffled. Reddy looked at him, but Dan’s eyes were closed and his face was all screwed up and Reddy couldn’t tell whether it was on ac- count of the water being cold, or what. “Give a dog a bad name, you know... ‘‘Horse-feathers!’’ Reddy said disgustedly. “Don’t be a fool!” But maybe Dan was right, at that. You hang a name like Coward on a kid, and add to it something a lot of young hellions are sure to find out and jeer at—a thing the kid himself can’t understand, or help, but hates—and you got the makings of a first-class phobia, all right. You just imagine it about yourself ! Dan finished dressing finally and dies outside. It was dark there in the shadow of the bunkhouse and Dan leaned back against the ‘dobe wall, rolling a cigarette. The main house yonder was brilliant with lights, swatming with people, noisy with GOMmIGIOO S (C@