The Flying U Ranch | Page 9

the way. "What's his style, anyway? Mouthy, or what?"
With four willing tongues to enlighten him, it would be strange, indeed,
if one so acute as Andy Green failed at last to have a very fair mental
picture of Miguel. He gazed thoughtfully at his boots, laughed suddenly,
and slapped Irish quite painfully upon the back.
"Come on up and introduce me, boys," he said. "We'll make this Native

Son so hungry for home--you watch me put it on the gentleman. Only it
does seem a shame to do it."
"No, it ain't. If you'd been around him for two weeks, you'd want to kill
him just to make him take notice," Irish assured him.
"What gets me," Andy mused, "is why you fellows come crying to me
for help. I should think the bunch of you ought to be able to handle one
lone Native Son."
"Aw, you're the biggest liar and faker in the bunch, is why," Happy
Jack blurted.
"Oh, I see." Andy hummed a little tune and pushed his hands deep into
his pockets, and at the corners of his lips there flickered a smile.
The Native Son sat with his hat tilted slightly back upon his head and a
cigarette between his lips, and was reaching lazily for the trick which
made the fourth game his, when the group invaded the bunk-house. He
looked up indifferently, swept Andy's face and figure with a glance too
impersonal to hold even a shade of curiosity, and began rapidly
shuffling his cards to count the points he had made.
Andy stopped short, just inside the door, and stared hard at Miguel,
who gave no sign. He turned his honest, gray eyes upon Pink and Irish
accusingly--whereat they wondered greatly.
"Your deal--if you want to play," drawled Miguel, and shoved his cards
toward Big Medicine. But the boys were already uptilting chairs to
grasp the quicker the outstretched hand of the prodigal, so that Miguel
gathered up the cards, evened their edges mechanically, and deigned
another glance at this stranger who was being welcomed so
vociferously. Also he sighed a bit-- for even a languid-eyed stoic of a
Native Son may feel the twinge of loneliness. Andy shook hands all
round, swore amiably at Weary, and advanced finally upon Miguel.
"You don't know me from Adam's off ox," he began genially, "but I
know you, all right, all right. I hollered my head off with the rest of 'em

when you played merry hell in that bull-ring, last Christmas. Also, I
was part of your bodyguard when them greasers were trying to tickle
you in the ribs with their knives in that dark alley. Shake, old-timer!
You done yourself proud, and I'm glad to know yuh!"
Miguel, for the first time in two weeks, permitted himself the luxury of
an expressive countenance. He gave Andy Green one quick, grateful
look--and a smile, the like of which made the Happy Family quiver
inwardly with instinctive sympathy.
"So you were there, too, eh?" Miguel exclaimed softly, and rose to
greet him. "And that scrap in the alley--we sure had a hell of a time
there for a few minutes, didn't we? Are you that tall fellow who kicked
that squint-eyed greaser in the stomach? Muchos gracios, senor! They
were piling on me three deep, right then, and I always believed they'd
have got me, only for a tall vaquero I couldn't locate afterward." He
smiled again that wonderful smile, which lighted the darkness of his
eyes as with a flame, and murmured a sentence or two in Spanish.
"Did you get the spurs me and my friends sent you afterward?" asked
Andy eagerly. "We heard about the Arizona boys giving you the
saddle--and we raked high and low for them spurs. And, by gracious,
they were beauts, too--did yuh get 'em?"
"I wear them every day I ride," answered Miguel, a peculiar, caressing
note in his voice.
"I didn't know--we heard you had disappeared off the earth. Why--"
Miguel laughed outright. "To fight a bull with bare hands is one thing,
amigo," he said. "To take a chance on getting a knife stuck in your back
is another. Those Mexicans--they don't love the man who crosses the
river and makes of their bull-fights a plaything."
"That's right; only I thought, you being a--"
"Not a Mexican." Miguel's voice sharpened a trifle. "My father was
Spanish, yes. My mother"--his eyes flashed briefly at the faces of the

gaping Happy Family--"my mother was born in Ireland."
"And that sure makes a hard combination to beat," cried Andy heartily.
He looked at the others--at all, that is, save Pink and Irish, who had
disappeared. "Well, boys, I never thought I'd come home and find--"
"Miguel Rapponi," supplied the Native Son quickly. "As well forget
that other name.