The old "yaller" shirt

Thad’s boyish face lit up with a slow smile, but he held his tongue. Like almost every other real knight of the leather, Thad was no orator. He did his daily broncho busting stunt silently, generally, and drew down his princely salary of $50 a week. But he never had much to say. Now, challenged directly on a rather personal matter by John O’Day himself, Thad had nothing to say.

“Gosh knows, Thaddy boy,” went on John O’Day, crisply, “yuh got most men skinned four miles from Sunday when it comes to lookin’ like th’ big he-man what yuh are. But, fer th’ love o’ Mike, get shet o’ that ol’ yaller shirt. It’s faded. It’s wored around th’ cuffs scandalously, too, an’ it ain’t th’ right color at all fer a bronk peeler doin’ professional rodeo actin’ in Colorado. ‘Yaller’ ain’t no popular color in Colorado. It might do well enough in Kansas, Nebraska, and Iowa, whar we was performin’---”

“It’s clean,” suggested the tall cowhand, gently.

“Sure, sure, but it ain’t showy enough no more,” said O’Day, getting angrier. “Yuh go buy yuhrself a new shirt, boy, mebbe a bright red one, or a dazzlin’ blue one. Yuh look jest like a ol’ withered cornstalk in a November field with that thing on.”

Thad flushed. He was slow to take offense, but O’Day was getting pretty roughshod, he thought. However, O’Day was the big boss, and O’Day was also the proud father of June O’Day, the prettiest little slip of a girl Thad had ever met. So Thad fidgeted with his hat and decided not to fling any “sass” back at O’Day.

“Sir,” said Thad, softly, “I--wal--I picked up this yaller shirt in--in Topeka, Kansas, th’ second week our show was on th’ road--an’ I--wal, I kinda got used to it, an’....”

O’Day grunted disdainfully.

“I’d be ashamed to admit that!” he snapped, authoritatively. “Now yuh git busy, right this minnit, an’ git yuhrself another shirt--a pink one, a green one, an orange one, but no yaller.”

“Sir, I’d rather not----” began Thad, solemnly.

“What?”

“I says I’d rather not--git no new shirt,” repeated Thad, lamely. “I like this ol’ yaller one, sir. Kinda got set on it....”

The proprietor of the John O’Day Traveling Rodeo Circus snorted. He had learned that snorting trick, perhaps, from the string of mean bronks he carried along with his show. When O’Day snorted, it meant a storm ahead. The teamsters all knew that; the canvasmen knew it; the other performers knew it; and Thad knew it, too.

“Yuh git a new shirt for this afternoon’s performance,” roared O’Day, loudly, “or yuh ain’t got no job here no more worth mentionin’, yuh understand? Juan Quijano, that Mex rider, kin take yuhr place easy enough, I figger! Why--why--say--my daughter--my gal June--I should think fer her sake, an’ fer th’ sake o’ th’ other wimmen o’ th’ troupe, that yuh’d spruce up a bit now and then!” Thad’s eyes lit up with a curious light. He swung on O’Day abruptly and seized the circus owner by the arm.

“June’s been makin’ some wise cracks about my shirt?” Thad demanded, swiftly. “Is that what yuh’re drivin’ at?”

O’Day, who had a sneaking suspicion that June’s name might turn the trick for him, hesitated. But the light in the big bronc peeler’s eyes awed him. The circusman coughed for time.

“No, not ’xactly,” explained O’Day. “But ef she thinks same way as I do--why, o’ course--I don’t know...”

Thad’s face grew suddenly dark.

“I don’t care who don’t like my yaller shirt...” he began, but John O’Day’s voice cut in on him. O’Day was as sore as Thad. The circusman shook a big fist under his star performer’s nose.

“_Yuh git yuhrself a new shirt, that’s all!_” roared O’Day, and he turned and strode off, muttering swear words that he didn’t dare fling into Thad’s teeth. Thad shrugged and sat down on a saddle. It was fairly cool in the big horse tent, but Thad felt like he was burning up with a fever.

He was. The nerve of O’Day to start a fight over a man’s yellow shirt. Thad looked at it earnestly. He stroked his left sleeve with a big hand. A nice shirt--a swell shirt--getting old, of course, but still serviceable. Then Thad thought of June O’Day and his brows puckered. Such a nice little girl....

“June couldn’t o’ said nuthin’,” moaned Thad, unhappily, and he shook his head. When Juan Quijano came in, whistling a tune from below the border, a few minutes later, there were tears in big Thad’s eyes. Juan wondered; but Thad said nothing. He sat there on the saddle and waited.

Minutes passed--an hour--two hours. Thad heard the dinner gong from the mess tent. He didn’t move. The gang returned from lunch and Thad still sat on the saddle. It was not until the GRAND OPENING PARADE for the afternoon performance was assembling that Thad stirred.

He got up and threw the saddle on the back of the big white-maned, cream-colored stallion he rode, and put on the fancy silver bridle. He mounted and rode out of the horse tent. Three minutes later he was heading the opening procession through the big exhibition tent, packed with anxious spectators.

John O’Day, mounted on a big bay horse, rode on Thad’s left, frowning. On Thad’s right rode a slim blonde girl of nineteen or so, June O’Day, the princess of the show. She was mounted on a pinto that danced to the band music. She smiled at Thad, and Thad smiled back. Then Thad heard a grunt from John O’Day.

“Still sportin’ that ol’ yaller shirt!” growled O’Day, from one corner of his mouth. “Wal, yuh know what I said--draw yuhr time!”

Thad tossed his head indifferently.

“Sure,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper, “but I ain’t dirty, boss. I’ll finish the afternoon program--give Juan a chance to be prepared. I’ll blow after th’ performance.”

“Good!”

“Agreed!”

With the parade over, Thad retired again to the horse tent. He was in low spirits. He hadn’t anticipated such a sudden dismissal even though he had been warned. But then.... He shrugged. It was all in a lifetime. Too bad to lose a show job over a yellow shirt, though!

Thad’s jaw set defiantly. The yellow shirt was his shirt. He’d wear it if he pleased--forever! He’d wear it in this last performance with the John O’Day outfit, too! Then he’d wear it away--away to a new job somewhere--he didn’t know just where.

His thoughts grew darker. He sat on the saddle and waited. Juan Quijano, the other bronk rider, swaggered in. He hailed Thad.

“Yuhr turn, Thad!” cried Juan. “Th’ big boss made me ride fust to-day, Thad. Yuh not bein’ on time fer th’ rides, I rode two o’ th’ string, too!” Juan’s voice swelled with pride. “Th’ big boss says as how yuh go away, Thad, an’ that I am to take yuhr place soon. That is news.”

Thad stood up and stretched lazily.

“Yuh’ll do well, Juan,” said Thad, softly. “Yuh got my best wishes, kid. But ef yuh’ve rode two o’ th’ show buckers already, what am I goin’ to ride? That ol’ sunfishin’, dead-like sorrel, I guess, or mebbe th’ trick mule. Or is thar some bird out thar with a hoss that kain’t be rid that wants to git----”

Juan grinned.

“That’s it, Thad,” said the Mexican lad. “Thar is a guy outside with a gray bronk. Says nobody ever rid it. Asked th’ boss to use it in th’ show--an’...”

“Why didn’t yuh try it, Juan?”

“Would have,” said the Mexican, readily, “but th’ guy no want me. He say he want big feller in yaller shirt to ride his hoss an’ wanted to bet $500 yuh couldn’t. Th’ boss wouldn’t take th’ bet, but he agreed to let yuh ride th’ hoss.”

Thad grunted. Canny old O’Day, taking no chances! Perhaps, thought Thad, O’Day figured he might throw the ride--let himself get tossed--just so O’Day would lose the bet. Thad straightened up suddenly. What if he was discharged--unjustly, too! He’d still retain his honor. He’d ride any horse and ride him to a finish, discharge or no discharge!