Part 45

“Stewart’s orders!” echoed Madeline. Her friends were suddenly silent.

“I reckon he won’t take no chances on the boys bein’ surprised sudden by raiders. An’ there’s raiders operatin’ in from the Guadalupes. That’s all. Nothin’ to worry over. I was just explainin’.”

Madeline, with several of her party, expressed relief, but Helen showed excitement and then disappointment.

“Oh, I want something to happen!” she cried.

Sixteen pairs of keen cowboy eyes fastened intently upon her pretty, petulant face; and Madeline divined, if Helen did not, that the desired consummation was not far off.

“So do I,” said Dot Coombs. “It would be perfectly lovely to have a real adventure.”

The gaze of the sixteen cowboys shifted and sought the demure face of this other discontented girl. Madeline laughed, and Stillwell wore his strange, moving smile.

“Wal, I reckon you ladies sure won’t have to go home unhappy,” he said. “Why, as boss of this heah outfit I’d feel myself disgraced forever if you didn’t have your wish. Just wait. An’ now, ladies, the matter on hand may not be amusin’ or excitin’ to you; but to this heah cowboy outfit it’s powerful important. An’ all the help you can give us will sure be thankfully received. Take a look across the links. Do you-all see them two apologies for human bein’s prancin’ like a couple of hobbled broncs? Wal, you’re gazin’ at Monty Price an’ Link Stevens, who have of a sudden got too swell to associate with their old bunkies. They’re practisin’ for the toornament. They don’t want my boys to see how they handle them crooked clubs.”

“Have you picked your team?” inquired Madeline.

Stillwell mopped his red face with an immense bandana, and showed something of confusion and perplexity.

“I’ve sixteen boys, an’ they all want to play,” he replied. “Pickin’ the team ain’t goin’ to be an easy job. Mebbe it won’t be healthy, either. There’s Nels and Nick. They just stated cheerful-like that if they didn’t play we won’t have any game at all. Nick never tried before, an’ Nels, all he wants is to get a crack at Monty with one of them crooked clubs.”

“I suggest you let all your boys drive from the tee and choose the two who drive the farthest,” said Madeline.

Stillwell’s perplexed face lighted up.

“Wal, that’s a plumb good idee. The boys’ll stand for that.”

Wherewith he broke up the admiring circle of cowboys round the ladies.

“Grap a rope—I mean a club—all you cow-punchers, an’ march over hyar an’ take a swipe at this little white bean.”

The cowboys obeyed with alacrity. There was considerable difficulty over the choice of clubs and who should try first. The latter question had to be adjusted by lot. However, after Frankie Slade made several ineffectual attempts to hit the ball from the teeing-ground, at last to send it only a few yards, the other players were not so eager to follow. Stillwell had to push Booly forward, and Booly executed a most miserable shot and retired to the laughing comments of his comrades. The efforts of several succeeding cowboys attested to the extreme difficulty of making a good drive.

“Wal, Nick, it’s your turn,” said Stillwell.

“Bill, I ain’t so all-fired particular about playin’,” replied Nick.

“Why? You was roarin’ about it a little while ago. Afraid to show how bad you’ll play?”

“Nope, jest plain consideration for my feller cow-punchers,” answered Nick, with spirit. “I’m appreciatin’ how bad they play, an’ I’m not mean enough to show them up.”

“Wal, you’ve got to show me,” said Stillwell. “I know you never seen a gol-lof stick in your life. What’s more, I’ll bet you can’t hit that little ball square—not in a dozen cracks at it.”

“Bill, I’m also too much of a gent to take your money. But you know I’m from Missouri. Gimme a club.”

Nick’s angry confidence seemed to evaporate as one after another he took up and handled the clubs. It was plain that he had never before wielded one. But, also, it was plain that he was not the kind of a man to give in. Finally he selected a driver, looked doubtfully at the small knob, and then stepped into position on the teeing-ground.

Nick Steele stood six feet four inches in height. He had the rider’s wiry slenderness, yet he was broad of shoulder. His arms were long. Manifestly he was an exceedingly powerful man. He swung the driver aloft and whirled it down with a tremendous swing. Crack! The white ball disappeared, and from where it had been rose a tiny cloud of dust.

Madeline’s quick sight caught the ball as it lined somewhat to the right. It was shooting low and level with the speed of a bullet. It went up and up in swift, beautiful flight, then lost its speed and began to sail, to curve, to drop; and it fell out of sight beyond the rim of the mesa. Madeline had never seen a drive that approached this one. It was magnificent, beyond belief except for actual evidence of her own eyes.

The yelling of the cowboys probably brought Nick Steele out of the astounding spell with which he beheld his shot. Then Nick, suddenly alive to the situation, recovered from his trance and, resting nonchalantly upon his club, he surveyed Stillwell and the boys. After their first surprised outburst they were dumb.

“You-all seen thet?” Nick grandly waved his hand. “Thaught I was joshin’, didn’t you? Why, I used to go to St. Louis an’ Kansas City to play this here game. There was some talk of the golf clubs takin’ me down East to play the champions. But I never cared fer the game. Too easy fer me! Them fellers back in Missouri were a lot of cheap dubs, anyhow, always kickin’ because whenever I hit a ball hard I always lost it. Why, I hed to hit sort of left-handed to let ’em stay in my class. Now you-all can go ahead an’ play Monty an’ Link. I could beat ’em both, playin’ with one hand, if I wanted to. But I ain’t interested. I jest hit thet ball off the mesa to show you. I sure wouldn’t be seen playin’ on your team.”