The Jimmyjohn Boss | Page 9

staring, much laughing went on--the rich brute laugh of the belly
untroubled by the brain. Sam, the Chinaman, rapid and noiseless,
served the dishes.
"What is it?" said a buccaroo.
"Can it bite?" said another.
"If you guess what it is, you can have it," said a third.
"It's meat," remarked Drake, incisively, helping himself; "and tougher
than it looks."
The brute laugh rose from the crowd and fell into surprised silence; but
no rejoinder came, and they ate their supper somewhat thoughtfully.
The Chinaman's quick, soft eye had glanced at Dean Drake when they

laughed. He served his dinner solicitously. In his kitchen that evening
he and Bolles unpacked the good things--the olives, the dried fruits, the
cigars--brought by the new superintendent for Christmas; and finding
Bolles harmless, like his gentle Asiatic self, Sam looked cautiously
about and spoke:
"You not know why they laugh," said he. "They not talk about my meat
then. They mean new boss, Misser Dlake. He velly young boss."
"I think," said Bolles, "Mr. Drake understood their meaning, Sam. I
have noticed that at times he expresses himself peculiarly. I also think
they understood his meaning."
The Oriental pondered. "Me like Misser Dlake," said he. And drawing
quite close, he observed, "They not nice man velly much."
Next day and every day "Misser Dlake" went gayly about his business,
at his desk or on his horse, vigilant, near and far, with no sign save a
steadier keenness in his eye. For the Christmas dinner he provided still
further sending to the Grande Ronde country for turkeys and other
things. He won the heart of Bolles by lending him a good horse; but the
buccaroos, though they were boisterous over the coming Christmas joy,
did not seem especially grateful. Drake, however, kept his worries to
himself.
"This thing happens anywhere," he said one night in the office to Bolles,
puffing a cigar. "I've seen a troop of cavalry demoralize itself by a sort
of contagion from two or three men."
"I think it was wicked to send you here by yourself," blurted Bolles.
"Poppycock! It's the chance of my life, and I'll jam her through or
bust."
"I think they have decided you are getting turkeys because you are
afraid of them," said Bolles.
"Why, of course! But d' you figure I'm the man to abandon my

Christmas turkey because my motives for eating it are misconstrued?"
Dean Drake smoked for a while; then a knock came at the door. Five
buccaroos entered and stood close, as is the way with the guilty who
feel uncertain.
"We were thinking as maybe you'd let us go over to town," said
Half-past Full, the spokesman.
"When?"
"Oh, any day along this week."
"Can't spare you till after Christmas."
"Maybe you'll not object to one of us goin'?"
"You'll each have your turn after this week."
A slight pause followed. Then Half-past Full said: "What would you do
if I went, anyway?"
"Can't imagine," Drake answered, easily. "Go, and I'll be in a position
to inform you."
The buccaroo dropped his stolid bull eyes, but raised them again and
grinned. "Well, I'm not particular about goin' this week, boss."
"That's not my name," said Drake, "but it's what I am."
They stood a moment. Then they shuffled out. It was an orderly
retreat--almost.
Drake winked over to Bolles. "That was a graze," said he, and smoked
for a while. "They'll not go this time. Question is, will they go next?"
III
Drake took a fresh cigar, and threw his legs over the chair arm.

"I think you smoke too much," said Bolles, whom three days had made
familiar and friendly.
"Yep. Have to just now. That's what! as Uncle Pasco would say. They
are a half-breed lot, though," the boy continued, returning to the
buccaroos and their recent visit. "Weaken in the face of a straight bluff,
you see, unless they get whiskey-courageous. And I've called 'em down
on that."
"Oh!" said Bolles, comprehending.
"Didn't you see that was their game? But he will not go after it."
"The flesh is all they seem to understand," murmured Bolles.
Half-past Full did not go to Harney City for the tabooed whiskey, nor
did any one. Drake read his buccaroos like the children that they were.
After the late encounter of grit, the atmosphere was relieved of storm.
The children, the primitive, pagan, dangerous children, forgot all about
whiskey, and lusted joyously for Christmas. Christmas was coming! No
work! A shooting-match! A big feed! Cheerfulness bubbled at the
Malheur Agency. The weather itself was in tune. Castle Rock seemed
no longer to frown, but rose into the shining air, a mass of friendly
strength. Except when a rare sledge or horseman passed, Mr. Bolles's
journeys to the school were all to show it