Making Good for Muley
If there’s a word of truth in that old saying about beauty being onlyskin deep, Susie Abernathy was the thinnest-skinned person I ever saw.I may not be a judge of womanly beauty, and the poetry of my soul mayhave been shook loose by pitching broncos, and buried deep under acoating of alkali dust, but I sure do sabe when a woman is hard tolook at.
Seems to me like it’s human nature for a feller with squirrel-teeth,no jaw to speak about and a physique like a corn cultivator to marry abeautiful female, and vice versa—not that “Muley” Bowles qualifies inthe beauty division, but at that I reckon he shaded Susie a little.
Muley was a poetical puncher, of considerable avoirdupois, and hefound Susie a thing of beauty and a joy forever. Susie was a niece ofZeb Abernathy, who owned a sheep outfit on Willow Creek, and a grouchtoward all cowmen—and Muley punched cows for the Cross J outfit, anddrew forty a month from old man Whittaker.
I’m not belittling Muley’s salary, ’cause I drew the same, and so did“Telescope” Tolliver and “Chuck” Warner. Back in the dim and distantpast, when cows first come into style, the old-timers got together andsettled the pay of the average cow-hand.
They figured that any normal puncher—if there is such an animal—wouldtry at least three turns of the roulette wheel, at ten dollars perturn. That left him ten dollars. He’d buy some tobacco, some redneckties and perfume, and what was left, at two-bits a drink forhooch, would just carry him a few inches short of the murder andsudden death stage.
I’ve just been up to the house to draw my stipend from the old man,and am on my way back to the bunk-house, when Muley rides in. He’shumped over in his saddle, like Misery going to a cemetery, and if youcan stamp despair on a full-sized milk-cheese he had it on his face.
He slips his saddle off, turns his bronc into the corral, leansagainst the fence and cuts loose the granddaddy of all sighs. Thereain’t many men that you can hear sigh at pointblank range for a.30-30, but you could with Muley. It was like releasing the air on afreight train.
I wanders down there and passes the time of day with him, but he don’trespond. He exhausts deep into his soul once more, and hangs up hissaddle.
“Some of your relatives die, Muley?” I asks.
“Hello, Hen,” says he, sad-like, “I ain’t got no relatives—except oneaunt. I don’t know whether she’s alive or not.”
“Name of Bowles?”
“Nope. Name’s Allender. Maw’s name was Allender, and that’s why I wasnamed Lemule Allender, and—what do you want to know for?”
“You sighed a couple of times,” I reminds him, and he nods and looksoff across the range.
“Henry, how can I make some money? Regular money. I can’t get along onforty a month—no more.”
“You aim to marry Susie Abernathy?” I asks.
Muley digs a little trench with the toe of his boot, and shakes hishead, sad-like—
“No-o-o, I reckon not, Hen.”
“Just come from there?” I asks.
“Uh-huh. Listen, Hen: can you keep a secret? I know danged well thatyou can’t, but I got to talk to somebody. Me and Susie’s got it allframed up to get married, but she argues that I got to see Zeb. Susieain’t of age yet, and Zeb is her guardian, Sabe?