028-The Sign Of The Crooked Arrow by Franklin W. Dixon

Author:Franklin W. Dixon [Dixon, Franklin W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-08-07T14:26:53+00:00

A Suspicious Foreman 109

ward the bunkhouse. A group of cowboys, whom the Easterners had not seen the day before, were making ready for their day's work.

"I'd like you to meet my two cousins Frank and Joe and their friend, Chet," the widow said pleasantly, approaching the cowboys. "They're from Bayport and are spending a little vacation with us."

"Howdy," said the men, shaking hands with the trio.

Ruth Hardy introduced them one by one. Presently she stopped beside a little fellow with shiny, black braids falling over each shoulder. His leathery face was as weather-beaten as a mountain rock, but the crinkly expression around his eyes indicated a keen sense of humor.

"I know you'll like Crowhead's Pye," their cousin said, turning to the boys.

"Pie?" Chet said enthusiastically. "Are we going to have pie for breakfast?"

A few of the cowboys laughed. The others registered a look of disgust.

"No." The woman smiled. "This is Pye. P-Y-E. His real name is Pymatuno, and he's the best Indian in all of New Mexico!"

A broad smile forced Pye's eyes into little slits as he shook hands with the boys. Then Cousin Ruth looked around, as if she had missed somebody.

"Where's Hank?" she asked. Turning to her 110 The Sign of the Crooked Arrow visitors, Mrs. Hardy said, "He's my foreman."

As she spoke, the bunkhouse door slammed and a tall man emerged. He had a thin nose and jutting jaw.

The cowboy was the mysterious rider of the night before! As he approached the group, Ruth Hardy introduced him.

"Howdy," he said, extending a long, bony hand and showing no enthusiasm at the meeting.

"Up purty early for city kids, ain't yo'?" he commented, looking at the trio with a poker face.

The boys resented the cutting remark, especially Joe, who wasn't endowed with the same even temper as his older brother.

"It seems to me," he came back pointedly, "that certain cowboys as well as city folks stay out late at night!"

Hank tensed. The muscles in his lean cheeks bulged in and out.

"Sometimes," he snapped, "a cowboy has to run coyotes off the place."

Just then the mellow strum of a guitar eased the situation. A pint-sized cowboy, wearing a bright red-and-yellow shirt, walked from the bunkhouse.

"That's Terry," Ruth Hardy said.

"He's mighty fleet-fingered with the gee-tar," one of the men spoke up.

"I don't know what I'd do without Terry."

A Suspicious Foreman 111

Cousin Ruth smiled. "He's a joy, but an awful tease."

The singing cowboy grinned, showing a straight set of white teeth. He strummed a few chords, then said, looking directly at the visitors from Bayport: "Howdy, howdy, all o' you," then broke into song.

Ef yo' wanna be a cowman, Tippee, yippee-yay, Yo' gotta ride to beat the band Every single day.

But take a soft guy from the city Ah, how his hoss will play, It shore will be a pity When his rider hits the sand!

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