LITMIR.BIZ

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and realizing the value of personal training, I’ve come here, instead of writing.”

      “Comes higher this way,” Wintergreen says hopeful. “Fifty dollars in advance.”

      “Cheap enough,” Omaha says, pulling out a wad of bills and peeling off fifty without batting a eye.

      Recovering from shock, Wintergreen stuffs the money into a pocket. “Load Omaha on behind your saddle, Lywell,” he says husky, “an’ leave us go home.”

      * * * *

      “Omaha,” Wintergreen says that evening, “the first thing a cowboy learns is to wash dishes.”

      Omaha blinks unhappy at the dirty dishes, but he wants to become a cowboy something furious. So he sets to work.

      “Wintergreen,” I say in a whisper, “leave us not crowd our pupil too much. He might get discouraged and pull out.”

      “Who cares?” Wintergreen smiles. “We got his money.”

      This is a point, indeed, so I say nothing further.

      Later, Wintergreen says, “Omaha, lesson number two is learning to play poker.”

      “Poker?” the dude says, blinking. “What is that?”

      “Get out your money, an’ I’ll show you,” Wintergreen says.

      Omaha digs out his roll, and Wintergreen runs down a deck.

      “Oh, a card game,” the dude says, looking pleased. “Back home I held the ‘flinch’ championship. But you’ll have to tell me about these cards. What’s this funny-looking fellow?”

      “That’s a jack,” Wintergreen explains. Then he tells Omaha about pairs, straights, flushes, and so on.

      “Dear me,” the dude says, shaking his head. “Sounds frightfully difficult; I hope I can catch on.”

      “You’ll catch on,” Wintergreen says, dealing.

      * * * *

      Wintergreen is right about that, and the way the aces keep turning up in Omaha’s hand beats anything you ever saw. When Wintergreen has lost ten dollars, he sighs deep and says, “I reckon you’ve learnt enough cowboy stuff for one day, Omaha.”

      After the dude has gone to his room, Wintergreen stares at the cards with a deep frown. “Lywell,” he murmurs, “you don’t reckon this jasper knows more’n he lets on?”

      “No,” I say positive. “He’s too dumb to come in out of the rain. He just had a run of beginner’s luck tonight.”

      Wintergreen looks some relieved. “I got thirty ringers left. Maybe tomorrow—”

      * * * *

      The next day, we teach Omaha how to ride a horse by himself. The first time, he gets into the saddle backwards. The second try, he kind of gets the hang of it and rides around the corral.

      “What do you know!” he says, looking surprised. “Won’t be long until I’ll be a cowboy.”

      “Sure,” Wintergreen says. “With us learnin’ you, you can’t miss.”

      Omaha smiles happy. “Certainly glad I came out West and happened to see your ad. Always wanted to be a—”

      “Time to learn to shoot,” Wintergreen cuts in, not caring to listen to Omaha run off at the mouth.

      The dude has never shot a gun. He takes my six in both hands like he is chopping wood with a ax, squeezes the trigger and blasts a hole through Wintergreen’s hat-brim. I grab the gun before he can take a second shot, and Wintergreen, his face pale, says, “That’s enough six-gun practice for one time.”

      * * * *

      That evening, Omaha wins another ten dollars at poker. For about half the night, Wintergreen lays in his bunk, cussing.

      “Lywell,” he says, “that hombre’s beginner’s luck is bound to run out. Tomorrow, I’ll win back my money, or my name ain’t—”

      “Shut up and go to sleep,” I growl. “Teachin’ that nitwit to handle a lariat has wore me to a nubbin’.”

      * * * *

      The next day is somewhat like the others, only worse. The dude just don’t have what it takes to be a cowboy. Once, he throws a loop at a fence post, gets Wintergreen by the neck instead, and likes to choke him to death. Later, when we are showing him how to brand a calf, he takes a red-hot iron and puts it against the seat of Wintergreen’s pants. Wintergreen lets out a howl and jumps over a six-foot gate.

      The dude looks like he is about to cry. “Seems like I never will learn this cowboy business,” he says in a quavery voice.

      That same afternoon, the Paschal brothers ride up, bringing along this beady-eyed gent they call Curly.

      “Heard there was a stranger in the country,” Orv says belligerent.

      “Yeah,” Neff says. “Always like to look strangers over.”

      “Is that him?” Curly asks, pointing at Omaha who is all tangled up in a lariat.

      “Omaha,” Wintergreen says, “meet Orv and Neff Paschal. They own the Double-X, first ranch south of us.”

      “Howdy, Dude,” Orv says scornful. “Hey, be careful—”

      But Omaha’s lariat settles about Orv’s neck and shuts off his wind. The next thing we know, Orv hits the dust with a thud and a bounce. Cussing, he untangles his throat and stands up.

      “Sorry,” Omaha croaks, “but I’m not very adept at roping.”

      “Mebbe you’re better at dancin’!” Orv bellows.

      He pulls his six and begins to blast away at the dude’s feet, and Omaha does a Highland Fling like nobody’s business.

      * * * *

      After the Double-X outfit rides away, Wintergreen says, “Omaha, them boys ain’t to be fooled with. After this, be careful.”

      Omaha says nothing. He just wipes the clammy sweat off his bony face and stares where the bullets chewed up the ground.

      That night, Wintergreen loses his last ten dollars. “Blast it, Omaha!” he yells. “That’s no way to play poker!”

      “You mean I don’t play the game right?”

      Cussing, Wintergreen climbs into bed and pulls the covers over his head.

      The next day, we are showing Omaha how to shoot a rifle when a cowboy rides up and tells us the Putantake Bank has been robbed.

      “Three masked men did it,” he says, all excited. “Headed straight for the badlands. Reckon the posse won’t be able to find ’em once they get into that country. Five hundred reward offered for ’em, dead or alive!”

      “Goodness me!” the dude hollers. “Such excitement!” And he cuts loose with a blast of the rifle that likes to scare the cowboy out of his pants.

      “Hold that feller while I get outa here,” he yells, and spurs his horse into a dead run.

      Looking discouraged, Omaha hands the rifle to Wintergreen. “Seems like I never do anything right,” he says and ambles unhappy-like into the house.

      “No use talkin’,” Wintergreen growls, “that idiot ain’t cut out to be a cowboy; maybe we ought to get rid of him before he kills somebody.”

      While we are pondering this question, Omaha comes out, all shaved and powdered up as pretty as a field of daisies.

      “Now,” he says, “I wish to continue my riding lessons.”

      “Hop to it,” Wintergreen grunts. “But don’t get lost.”

      After

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