Me Smith

“THAT LOOK IN YOUR EYES—THAT LOOK AS IF YOU HADN’T NOTHIN’ TO HIDE—IS IT TRUE?” Page 59
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    “ME-SMITH”
    BY
    CAROLINE LOCKHART
    WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
    GAYLE HOSKINS

    NEW YORK
    GROSSET & DUNLAP
    PUBLISHERS
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    Copyright 1911
    By J. B. Lippincott Company
    Published February 15, 1911
    Second printing, February 25, 1911
    Third printing, March 5, 1911
    Fourth printing, March 20, 1911
    Fifth Printing, June 5, 1911
    Sixth Printing, July 1, 1911
    Seventh Printing, August 17, 1911
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    CONTENTS
CHAPTER

PAGE
I.
“Me—Smith”
11
II.
On the Alkali Hill
18
III.
The Empty Chair
29
IV.
A Swap in Saddle Blankets
48
V.
Smith Makes Medicine with the Schoolmarm
58
VI.
The Great Secret
79
VII.
Cupid “Wings” a Deputy Sheriff
95
VIII.
The Bug-hunter Elucidates
110
IX.
Speaking Of Grasshoppers——
123
X.
Mother Love and Savage Passion Conflict
130
XI.
The Best Horse
142
XII.
Smith Gets “Hunks”
156
XIII.
Susie’s Indian Blood
162
XIV.
The Slayer of Mastodons
169
XV.
Where a Man Gets a Thirst
190
XVI.
Tinhorn Frank Smells Money
205
XVII.
Susie Humbles Herself to Smith
213
XVIII.
A Bad “Hombre”
228
XIX.
When The Clouds Played Wolf
240
XX.
The Love Medicine of the Sioux
248
XXI.
The Murderer of White Antelope
272
XXII.
A Mongolian Cupid
293
XXIII.
In Their Own Way
303
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    LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
“That Look in Your Eyes—That Look as if You Hadn’t Nothin’ to Hide—is it True?”
Frontispiece
“She’s a Game Kid, All Right,” Said Smith to Himself at the Top of the Hill.
22
It Meant Death—but it was Wet!—it was Water!
196
Smith Reached for the Trailing Rope and They Were Gone!
284
They Quirted Their Horses at Breakneck Speed In the Direction of the Bad Lands.
308
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    “ME—SMITH”
    I
“ME—SMITH”
    A man on a tired gray horse reined in where a dim cattle-trail dropped into a gulch, and looked behind him. Nothing was in sight. He half closed his eyes and searched the horizon. No, there was nothing—just the same old sand and sage-brush, hills, more sand and sage-brush, and then to the west and north the spur of the Rockies, whose jagged peaks were white with a fresh fall of snow. The wind was chill. He shivered, and looked to the eastward. For the last few hours he had felt snow in the air, and now he could see it in the dim, gray mist—still far off, but creeping toward him.
    For the thousandth time, he wondered where he was. He knew vaguely that he was “over the line”—that Montana was behind him—but he was riding an unfamiliar range, and the peaks and hills which are the guide-boards of the West meant nothing to him. So far as he knew, he was the only human being within a hundred miles. His lips drew back in a half-grin and exposed a row of upper teeth unusually white and slightly protruding. He was thinking of the meeting with the last person to whom he had spoken within twenty-four hours. He closed one eye and looked up at the sun. Yes, it was just about the same time yesterday that a dude from the English ranch, a dude in knee breeches and shiny-topped riding boots, had galloped confidently toward him. He had dismounted and pretended to be cinching his saddle. When the dude was close enough Smith had thrown down on him with his gun.
    “Feller,” he had said, “I guess I’ll have to trade horses with you. And fall off quick, for I’m in kind of a hurry.”
    The grin widened as he thought of the dude’s surprised eyes and the dude’s face as he dropped out of the saddle without a word. Smith had stood his victim with his hands above his head while he pulled the saddle from his horse and threw it upon his own. The dude rode a saddle with a double cinch, and the fact had awakened in the Westerner a kind of interest. He had even felt a certain friendliness for the man he was robbing.
    “Feller,” he had asked, “do you come from the Mañana country?”
    “From Chepstow, Monmouth County, Wales,” the dude had replied, in a shaking voice.
    “Where did you get that double-rigged saddle, then?”
    “Texas.”
    The answer had pleased Smith.
    “You ain’t losin’ none on this deal,” he had then volunteered. “This horse that you just traded for is a looker when he is rested, and he can run like hell. You can go your pile on him. Just burn out that lazy S brand and run on your own. You can hold him easy, then. I like a feller that rides a double-rigged saddle in a single-rigged country. S’long, and keep your hands up till I’m out of range.”
    “Thank