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  CHAPTER SIX: THE YOUNG EAGLE MUST FLY

  "You're of age," said Bob Birnie, sucking hard at his pipe. "You've hadyour schooling as your mother wished that you should have it. You'vegot the music in your head and your fingers and your toes, and that's asyour mother wished that you should have.

  "Your mother would have you be all for music, and make tunes out of yourown head. She tells me that you have made tunes and written them down onpaper, and that there are those who would buy them and print copies tosell, with your name at the top of the page. I'll not say what I thinkof that--your mother is an angel among women, and she has taught you thethings she loves herself.

  "But my business is with the cattle, and I've had you out with me sinceyou could climb on the back of a horse. I've watched you, with the ropeand the irons and in the saddle and all. You've been in tight placesthat would try the mettle of a man grown--I mind the time ye escapedColorou's band, and we thought ye dead 'til ye came to us in Laramie.You've showed that you're able to hold your own on the range, lad. Yourmother's all for the music--but I leave it to you.

  "Ten thousand dollars I'll give ye, if that's your wish, and you can goto Europe as she wishes and study and make tunes for others to play. Orif ye prefer it, I'll brand you a herd of she stock and let ye go yourways. No son of mine can take orders from his father after he's a mangrown, and I'm not to the age where I can sit with the pipe from morningto night and let another run my outfit. I've talked it over with yourmother, and she'll bide by your decision, as I shall do.

  "So I put it in a nutshell, Robert. You're twenty-one to-day; a mangrown, and husky as they're made. 'Tis time you faced the world andlived your life. You've been a good lad--as lads go." He stopped thereto rub his jaw thoughtfully, perhaps remembering certain incidentsin Buddy's full-flavored past. Buddy--grown to plain Bud among hisfellows--turned red without losing the line of hardness that had come tohis lips.

  "You're of legal age to be called a man, and the future's before ye.I'll give ye five hundred cows with their calves beside them--you canchoose them yourself, for you've a sharp eye for stock--and you can gowhere ye will. Or I'll give ye ten thousand dollars and ye can go toEurope and make tunes if you're a mind to. And whatever ye choose it'llbe make or break with ye. Ye can sleep on the decision, for I've no wishthat ye should choose hastily and be sorry after."

  Buddy--grown to Bud--lifted a booted foot and laid it across his otherknee and with his forefinger absently whirled the long-pointed rower onhis spur. The hardness at his lips somehow spread to his eyes, that werebent on the whirring rower. It was the look that had come into the faceof the baby down on the Staked Plains when Ezra called and called afterhe had been answered twice; the look that had held firm the lips of theboy who had lain very flat on his stomach in the roof of the dugout andhad watched the Utes burning the cabin.

  "There's no need to sleep on it," he said after a minute. "You've raisedme, and spent some money on me--but I've saved you a man's wages eversince I was ten. If you think I've evened things up, all right. If youdon't, make out your bill and I'll pay it when I can. There's no reasonwhy you should give me anything I haven't earned, just because you're myfather. You earned all you've got, and I guess I can do the same. As yousay, I'm a man. I'll go at the future man fashion. And," he added with aslight flare of the nostrils, "I'll start in the morning."

  "And is it to make tunes for other folks to play?" Bob Birnie asked aftera silence, covertly eyeing him.

  "No, sir. There's more money in cattle. I'll make my stake in thecow-country, same as you've done." He looked up and grinned a little."To the devil with your money and your she-stock! I'll get out allright--but I'll make my own way."

  "You're a stubborn fool, Robert. The Scotch now and then shows itselflike that in a man. I got my start from my father and I'm not ashamed ofit. A thousand pounds--and I brought it to America and to Texas, and gotcattle."

  Bud laughed and got up, hiding how the talk had struck deep into thesoul of him. "Then I'll go you one better, dad. I'll get my own start."

  "You'll be back home in six months, lad, saying you've changed yourmind," Bob Birnie predicted sharply, stung by the tone of young Bud."That," he added grimly, "or for a full belly and a clean bed to crawlinto."

  Bud stood licking the cigarette he had rolled to hide an unaccountabletrembling of his fingers. "When I come back I'll be in a position to buyyou out! I'll borrow Skate and Maverick, if you don't mind, till I getlocated somewhere." He paused while he lighted the cigarette. "It's thecustom," He reminded his father unnecessarily, "to furnish a man a horseto ride and one to pack his bed, when he's fired."

  "Ye've horses of yer own," Bob Birnie retorted, "and you've no need toborrow."

  Bud stood looking down at his father, plainly undecided. "I don't knowwhether they're mine or not," he said after a minute. "I don't know whatit cost you to raise me. Figure it up, if you haven't already, and countthe time I've worked for you. Since you've put me on a business basis,like raising a calf to shipping age, let's be businesslike about it. Youare good at figuring your profits--I'll leave it to you. And if you findI've anything coming to me besides my riding outfit and the clothes I'vegot, all right; I'll take horses for the balance."

  He walked off with the swing to his shoulders that had always betrayedhim when he was angry, and Bob Birnie gathered his beard into a handfuland held it while he stared after him. It had been no part of his planto set his son adrift on the range without a dollar, but since Bud'stemper was up, it might be a good thing to let him go.

  So Bob Birnie went away to confer with his wife, and Bud was left aloneto nurse his hurt while he packed his few belongings. It did hurt him tobe told in that calm, cold-blooded manner that, now he was of legal age,he would not be expected to stay on at the Tomahawk. Until his fatherhad spoken to him about it, Bud had not thought much about what he woulddo when his school days were over. He had taken life as it was presentedto him week by week, month by month. He had fulfilled his mother's hopesand had learned to make music. He had lived up to his father's unspokenstandards of a cowman. He had made a "Hand" ever since his legs werelong enough to reach the stirrups of a saddle. There was not a betterrider, not a better roper on the range than Bud Birnie. Morally hewas cleaner than most young fellows of his age. He hated trickery, hereverenced all good women; the bad ones he pitied because he believedthat they sorrowed secretly because they were not good, because theyhad missed somehow their real purpose in life, which was to be wife andmother. He had, in fact grown up clean and true to type. He was Buddy,grown to be Bud.

  And Buddy, now that he was a man, had been told that he was not expectedto stay at home and help his father, and be a comfort to his mother. Hewas like a young eagle which, having grown wing-feathers that will bearthe strain of high air currents, has been pecked out of the nest. Nodoubt the young eagle resents his unexpected banishment, although intime he would have felt within himself the urge to go. Leave Bud alone,and soon or late he would have gone--perhaps with compunctions againstleaving home, and the feeling that he was somehow a disappointment tohis parents. He would have explained to his father, apologized to hismother. As it was, he resented the alacrity with which his father waspushing him out.

  So he packed his clothes that night, and pushed his guitar into its caseand buckled the strap with a vicious yank, and went off to the bunkhouseto eat supper with the boys instead of sitting down to the table wherehis mother had placed certain dishes which Buddy loved best--wanting toshow in true woman fashion her love and sympathy for him.

  Later--it was after Bud had gone to bed--mother came and had a long talkwith him. She was very sweet and sensible, and Bud was very tender withher. But she could not budge him from his determination to go and makehis way without a Birnie dollar to ease the beginning. Other men hadstarted with nothing and had made a stake, and there was no reason whyhe could not do so.

  "Dad put it straight enough, and it's no good arguing. I'd starve beforeI'd take anything from him. I'm entitle
d to my clothes, and maybe ahorse or two for the work I've done for him while I was growing up. I'vefigured out pretty close what it cost to put me through the University,and what I was worth to him during the summers. Father's Scotch--buthe isn't a darned bit more Scotch than I am, mother. Putting it allin dollars and cents, I think I've earned more than I cost him. In thewinters, I know I earned my board doing chores and riding line. Many alittle bunch of stock I've saved for him by getting out in the foothillsand driving them down below heavy snowline before a storm. You rememberthe bunch of horses I found by watching the magpies--the time we tiedhay in canvas and took it up to them 'til they got strength enough tofollow the trail I trampled in the snow? I earned my board and more,every winter since I was ten. So I don't believe I owe dad a cent, whenit's all figured out.

  "But you've done for me what money can't repay, mother. I'll always bein debt to you--and I'll square it by being the kind of a man you'vetried to teach me to be. I will, mother. Dad and the dollars are adifferent matter. The debt I owe you will never be paid, but I'm goingto make you glad I know there's a debt. I believe there's a God, becauseI know there must have been one to make you! And no matter how far awayI may drift in miles, your Buddy is going to be here with you always,mother, learning from you all there is of goodness and sweetness." Heheld her two hands against his face, and she felt his cheeks wet beneathher palms. Then he took them away and kissed them many times, like alover.

  "If I ever have a wife, she's going to have her work cut out for her,"He laughed unsteadily. "She'll have to live up to you, mother, if shewants me to love her."

  "If you have a wife she'll be well-spoiled, young man! Perhaps it iswise that you should go--but don't you forget your music, Buddy--and bea good boy, and remember, mother's going to follow you with her love andher faith in you, and her prayers."

  It may have been that Buddy's baby memory of going north whenever thetrail herd started remained to send Bud instinctively northward when heleft the Tomahawk next morning. It had been a case of stubborn fatherand stubborn son dickering politely over the net earnings of the sonfrom the time when he was old enough to leave his mother's lap and climbinto a saddle to ride with his father. Three horses and his personalbelongings had been agreed upon between them as the balance in Bud'sfavor; and at that, Bob Birnie dryly remarked, he had been a betterinvestment as a son than most young fellows, who cost more than theywere worth to raise.

  Bud did not answer the implied praise, but roped the Tomahawk's bestthree horses out of the REMUDA corralled for him by his father's riders.You should have seen the sidelong glances among the boys when theylearned that Bud, just home from the University, was going somewherewith all his earthly possessions and a look in his face that meanttrouble!

  Two big valises and his blankets he packed on Sunfish, a deceptivelyraw-boned young buckskin with much white showing in his eyes--an ornerylooking brute if ever there was one. Bud's guitar and a mandolin intheir cases he tied securely on top of the pack. Smoky, the secondhorse, a deep-chested "mouse" with a face almost human in itsexpression, he saddled, and put a lead rope on the third, a bayfour-year-old called Stopper, which was the Tomahawk's best rope-horseand one that would be missed when fast work was wanted in branding.

  "He sure as hell picked himself three top hawses," a tall punchermurmured to another. "Wonder where he's headed for? Not repping--thislate in the season."

  Bud overheard them, and gave no sign. Had they asked him directly hecould not have told them, for he did not know, except that somehowhe felt that he was going to head north. Why north, he could not haveexplained, since cow-country lay all around him; nor how far north,--forcow-country extended to the upper boundary of the States, and beyondinto Canada.

  He left his horses standing by the corral while he went to the house totell his mother good-by, and to send a farewell message to Dulcie,who had been married a year and lived in Laramie. He did not expect tostrike Laramie, he told his mother when she asked him.

  "I'm going till I stop," He explained, with a squeeze of her shouldersto reassure her. "I guess it's the way you felt, mother, when you leftTexas behind. You couldn't tell where you folks would wind up. Neithercan I. My trail herd is kinda small, right now; a lot smaller than itwill be later on. But such as it is, it's going to hit the right rangebefore it stops for good. And I'll write."

  He took a doughnut in his hand and a package of lunch to slip in hispocket, kissed her with much cheerfulness in his manner and hurried out,his big-rowelled spurs burring on the porch just twice before he steppedoff on the gravel. Telling mother good-by had been the one ordeal hedreaded, and he was glad to have it over with.

  Old Step-and-a-Half hailed him as he went past the chuck-house, and camelimping out, wiping his hands on his apron before he shook hands andwished him good luck. Ezra, pottering around the tool shed, ambled upwith the eyes of a dog that has been sent back home by his master."Ah shoah do wish yo' all good fawtune an' health, Marse Buddy," Ezraquavered. "Ah shoah do. It ain' goin' seem lak de same place--and Ahshoah do hopes yo' all writes frequent lettahs to yo' mothah, boy!"

  Bud promised that he would, and managed to break away from Ezra withoutbetraying himself. How, he wondered, did everyone seem to know that hewas going for good, this time? He had believed that no one knew of itsave himself, his father and his mother; yet everyone else behaved asif they never expected to see him again. It was disconcerting, and Budhastily untied the two led horses and mounted Smoky, the mouse-coloredhorse he himself had broken two years before.

  His father came slowly up to him, straight-backed and with the gait ofthe man who has ridden astride a horse more than he has walked on hisown feet. He put up his hand, gloved for riding, and Bud changed thelead-ropes from his right hand to his left, and shook hands ratherformally.

  "Ye've good weather for travelling," said Bob Birnie tentatively. "Ihave not said it before, lad, but when ye own yourself a fool to takethis way of making your fortune, ten thousand dollars will still beready to start ye right. I've no wish to shirk a duty to my family."

  Bud pressed his lips together while he listened. "If you keep your tenthousand till it's called for, you'll be drawing interest a long time onit," He said. "It's going to be hot to-day. I'll be getting along."

  He lifted the reins, glanced back to see that the two horses wereshowing the proper disposition to follow, and rode off down thedeep-rutted road that followed up the creek to the pass where he hadwatched the Utes dancing the war dance one night that he rememberedwell. If he winced a little at the familiar landmarks he passed,he still held fast to the determination to go, and to find fortunesomewhere along the trail of his own making; and to ask help from noman, least of all his father who had told him to go.