



Produced by David Edwards, Louise Setzer, Mary Meehan and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net









                            BAT WING BOWLES

                            BY DANE COOLIDGE

               AUTHOR OF "HIDDEN WATER" AND "THE TEXICAN"

                     Illustrated by D. C. Hutchison


    NEW YORK
    FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
    PUBLISHERS

    COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY
    FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY

    COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY
    STREET & SMITH, NEW YORK

    _All rights reserved, including that of translation
    into foreign languages_

    _March, 1914_




[Illustration: "'WHY, HELLO THERE, COWBOY!' SHE CHALLENGED BLUNTLY"]




CONTENTS


I MR. BOWLES

II THE FAR WEST

III THE BAT WING RANCH

IV BRIGHAM

V WA-HA-LOTE

VI THE ROUND-UP

VII THE QUEEN AT HOME

VIII A COWBOY'S LIFE

IX REDUCED TO THE RANKS

X THE FIRST SMILE

XI CONEY ISLAND

XII PROMOTED

XIII A LETTER FROM THE POSTMISTRESS

XIV THE ENGLISH LORD

XV BURYING THE HATCHET

XVI THE STRAW-BOSS

XVII AND HIS SQUIRREL STORY

XVIII THE ROUGH-RIDERS

XIX A COMMON BRAWL

XX THE DEATH OF HAPPY JACK

XXI A CALL

XXII THE HORSE THAT KILLED DUNBAR

XXIII THE CUSTOM OF THE COUNTRY




ILLUSTRATIONS


"'Why, hello there, cowboy!' she challenged bluntly"

"Only Bowles, the man from the East, rose and took off his hat"

"'You want to be careful how you treat these Arizona girls!'"

"The man-killer charged at him through the dust"




BAT WING BOWLES




CHAPTER I

MR. BOWLES


It was a fine windy morning in March and Dixie Lee, of Chula Vista,
Arizona, was leaving staid New York at the gate marked "Western
Limited." A slight difference with the gatekeeper, who seemed to doubt
every word she said, cast no cloud upon her spirits, and she was
cheerfully searching for her ticket when a gentleman came up from
behind. At sight of the trim figure at the wicket, he too became
suddenly happy, and it looked as if the effete East was losing two of
its merriest citizens.

"Oh, good-morning, Miss Lee!" he said, bowing and smiling radiantly as
she glanced in his direction. "Are you going out on this train?"

"Why--yes," she replied, gazing into her handbag with a preoccupied
frown. "That is, if I can find my ticket!"

She found it on the instant, but the frown did not depart. She had
forgotten the young man's name. It was queer how those New York names
slipped her memory--but she remembered his face distinctly. She had met
him at some highbrow affair--it was a reception or some such social
maelstrom--and, yes, his name was Bowles!

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Bowles," she exclaimed as he gallantly took her bag;
but a furtive glance at his face left her suddenly transfixed with
doubts. Not that his expression changed--far from that--but a fleeting
twinkle in his eyes suggested some hidden joke.

"Oh, isn't your name Bowles?" she stammered. "I met you at the
Wordsworth Club, you know, and----"

"Oh, yes--quite right!" he assured her politely. "You have a wonderful
memory for names, Miss Lee. Shall we go on down to your car?"

Dixie Lee regarded the young man questioningly and with a certain
Western disfavor. He was one of those trim and proper creatures that
seemed to haunt Wordsworth societies, welfare meetings, and other
culture areas known only to the cognoscente and stern-eyed Eastern
aunts. In fact, he seemed to personify all those qualities of breeding
and education which a long winter of compulsory "finishing" had taught
her to despise; and yet--well, if it were not for his clothes and
manners and the way he dropped his "r's" he might almost pass for human.
But she knew his name wasn't Bowles.

There had been a person there by the name of Bowles, but the hostess had
mumbled when she presented this one--and they had talked quite a little,
too. She glanced at him again and a question trembled on her lips; but
names were nothing out where she came from, and she let it go for
Bowles.

The hypothetical Mr. Bowles was a tall and slender young man, of a type
that ordinarily maddened her beyond all reason and prompted her to say
cruel things which she was never sorry for afterward. He had a clear
complexion, a Cupid's bow mouth, and eyes as innocent as a girl's. They
were of a deep violet hue, very soft and soulful, and had a truly
cultured way of changing--when he talked--to mirror a thousand shades of
interest, courtesy and concern; but the way they had flickered when he
took over the name of Bowles suggested a real man behind the veil. His
manners, of course, were irreproachable; and not even a haberdasher
could take exception to his clothes. He was, in fact, attired strictly
according to the mode, in a close-fitting suit of striped gray, with
four-inch cuffs above his box-toed shoes, narrow shoulders, and a
low-crowned derby hat, now all the rage but affected for many years only
by Dutch comedians.

When he removed this hat, which he did whenever he stood in her
presence, he revealed a very fine head of hair which had been brushed
straight back from his forehead until each strand knew its separate
place; and yet, far from being pleased at this final evidence of
conscientious endeavor, Dixie May received him almost with a sniff.

"And are you really on your way to Arizona, Miss Lee?" he inquired,
carefully leaving the "r" out of "are" and putting the English on
"really." "Why, how fortunate! I am going West myself! Perhaps we can
renew our acquaintance on the way. Those were jolly stories you were
telling me at the Wordsworth Club--very improperly, to be sure, but all
the more interesting on that account. About the round-up cook, you know,
and the man who couldn't say 'No.' Nothing like that in California, I
suppose. I'm off for Los Angeles, myself."

"All right," answered Dixie Lee, waving California airily aside;
"Arizona is good enough for me! Say, I'm going to ask this man where my
section is."

She fished out her Pullman ticket and showed it to a waiting porter, who
motioned her down the train.

"The fourth car, lady," he said. "Car Number Four!"

"Car Four!" cried Bowles, setting down the suitcase with quite a
dramatic start. "Why--why, isn't this remarkable, Miss Lee? To think
that we should take the same train--on the same day--and then have the
very same car! But, don't you know, you never finished that last story
you were telling me--about the cowboy who went to the picnic--and now I
shall demand the end of it. Really, Miss Lee, I enjoyed your tales
immensely--but don't let me keep you waiting!"

He hurried on, still commenting upon the remarkable coincidence; and as
a memory of the reception came back to her and she recalled the avid way
in which this same young man had hung upon her words, a sudden doubt, a
shrewd questioning, came over the mind of Dixie Lee. Back in Arizona,
now, a man with any git-up-and-git to him might--but, pshaw, this was
not Arizona! And he was not that kind of man! No, indeed! The idea of
one of these New York Willies doing the sleuth act and tagging her to
the train!

At the same time Dixie Lee had her misgivings about this correct young
man, because she _knew_ his name was not Bowles. More than that, his
language displeased her, reminding her as it did of her long winter's
penance among the culturines. Three days more of highbrow conversation
would just about finish her off--she must be stern, very stern, if she
would avert the impending disaster! So she stabbed her neatly-trimmed
little sombrero with a hatpin and waited for Mr. Bowles.

"Lovely weather we've been having, isn't it?" he purled as he made bold
to sit down beside her.

"Yes, indeed," she answered, showing her white teeth in a simpering
smile. "Simply heavenly. Don't you know, it reminds me of those lines in
Wordsworth--you remember--I think it was in his 'Idiot Boy.' Oh, how do
they go?"

She knitted her brows and Mr. Bowles regarded her thoughtfully.

"Perhaps it was in his 'Lines Written in Early Spring,'" he suggested
guardedly.

"No," she insisted. "It was in 'The Idiot Boy'--either that or in 'Lines
Written to the Same Dog.' I forget which. Anyway, it told all about the
rain, you know, and the clouds--and all that. Don't you remember? I
thought you were full of Wordsworth."

This last, was thrown out for a bait, to get Mr. Bowles to extend
himself, but it failed of its effect. A somber smile took the place of
the expected frenzy and he muttered half to himself as he gazed out of
the window.

"What's that you say?" she questioned sharply.

"Oh, pardon me," he exclaimed, recovering himself with a sudden access
of manner; "I was talking to myself, don't you know? But, really, I _am_
pretty full of Wordsworth; so, if you don't mind, we'll talk about
something else. My aunt, you know, is a great devotee of all the nature
poets, and I attend the meetings to please her. It's an awful bore
sometimes, too, I assure you; that's why your face was so welcome to me
when I chanced to see you at the club-rooms. That lecturer was such a
conceited ass and those women were so besotted in their admiration of
him that I looked around to see if there was a single sane and
reasonable creature in the room--and there you were, as stern and
uncompromising as an angel and--oh, well, I formed a different
conception of angels, right there. You were so delightfully humorous
too, when Mrs. Melvine introduced us--and, well, really, Miss Lee, you
are partly responsible for my leaving New York. I never fully realized
before what our Western country must be like; I never dreamed that there
was a place to flee to when the conventions of society