HOPALONG CASSIDY'S RUSTLER ROUND-UP
or
BAR-20
By Clarence Edward Mulford
1906
CONTENTS
[ CHAPTER I. ] Buckskin
[ CHAPTER II. ] The Rashness of Shorty
[ CHAPTER III. ] The Argument
[ CHAPTER IV. ] The Vagrant Sioux
[ CHAPTER V. ] The Law of the Range
[ CHAPTER VI. ] Trials of the Convalescent
[ CHAPTER VII. ] The Open Door
[ CHAPTER VIII. ] Hopalong Keeps His Word
[ CHAPTER IX. ] The Advent of McAllister
[ CHAPTER X.] Peace Hath its Victories
[ CHAPTER XI. ] Holding the Claim
[ CHAPTER XII. ] The Hospitality of Travennes
[ CHAPTER XIII. ] Travennes' Discomfiture
[ CHAPTER XIV. ] The Tale of a Cigarette
[ CHAPTER XV. ] The Penalty
[ CHAPTER XVI. ] Rustlers on the Range
[ CHAPTER XVII. ] Mr. Trendley Assumes Added Importance
[ CHAPTER XVIII. ] The Search Begins
[ CHAPTER XIX. ] Hopalong's Decision
[ CHAPTER XX. ] A Problem Solved
[ CHAPTER XXI. ] The Call
[ CHAPTER XXII. ] The Showdown
[ CHAPTER XXIII. ] Mr. Cassidy Meets a Woman
[ CHAPTER XXIV. ] The Strategy of Mr. Peters
[ CHAPTER XXV. ] Mr. Ewalt Draws Cards
CHAPTER I. Buckskin
The town lay sprawled over half a square mile of alkali plain, its main Street depressing in its width, for those who were responsible for its inception had worked with a generosity born of the knowledge that they had at their immediate and unchallenged disposal the broad lands of Texas and New Mexico on which to assemble a grand total of twenty buildings, four of which were of wood. As this material was scarce, and had to be brought from where the waters of the Gulf lapped against the flat coast, the last-mentioned buildings were a matter of local pride, as indicating the progressiveness of their owners.
These creations of hammer and saw were of one story, crude and unpainted; their cheap weather sheathing, warped and shrunken by the pitiless sun, curled back on itself and allowed unrestricted entrance to alkali dust and air. The other shacks were of adobe, and reposed in that magnificent squalor dear to their owners, Indians and Mexicans.
It was an incident of the Cattle Trail, that most unique and stupendous of all modern migrations, and its founders must have been inspired with a malicious desire to perpetrate a crime against geography, or else they reveled in a perverse cussedness, for within a mile on every side lay broad prairies, and two miles to the east flowed the indolent waters of the Rio Pecos itself. The distance separating the town from the river was excusable, for at certain seasons of the year the placid stream swelled mightily and swept down in a broad expanse of turbulent, yellow flood.
Buckskin was a town of one hundred inhabitants, located in the valley of the Rio Pecos fifty miles south of the Texas-New Mexico line. The census claimed two hundred, but it was a well-known fact that it was exaggerated. One instance of this is shown by the name of Tom Flynn. Those who once knew Tom Flynn, alias Johnny Redmond, alias Bill Sweeney, alias Chuck Mullen, by all four names, could find them in the census list. Furthermore, he had been shot and killed in the March of the year preceding the census, and now occupied a grave in the young but flourishing cemetery. Perry's Bend, twenty miles up the river, was cognizant of this and other facts, and, laughing in open derision at the padded list, claimed to be the better town in all ways, including marksmanship.
One year before this tale opens, Buck Peters, an example for the more recent Billy the Kid, had paid Perry's Bend a short but busy visit. He had ridden in at the north end of Main Street and out at the south. As he came in he was fired at by a group of ugly cowboys from a ranch known as the C 80. He was hit twice, but he unlimbered his artillery, and before his horse had carried him, half dead, out on the prairie, he had killed one of the group. Several citizens had joined the cowboys and added their bullets against Buck. The deceased had been the best bartender in the country, and the rage of the suffering citizens can well be imagined. They swore vengeance on Buck, his ranch, and his stamping ground.
The difference between Buck and Billy the Kid is that the former never shot a man who was not trying to shoot him, or who had not been warned by some action against Buck that would call for it. He minded his own business, never picked a quarrel, and was quiet and pacific up to a certain point. After that had been passed he became like a raging cyclone in a tenement house, and storm-cellars were much in demand.
“Fanning” is the name of a certain style of gun play not unknown among the bad men of the West. While Buck was not a bad man, he had to rub elbows with them frequently, and he believed that the sauce for the goose was the sauce for the gander. So be bad removed the trigger of his revolver and worked the hammer with the thumb of the “gun hand” or the heel of the unencumbered hand. The speed thus acquired was greater than that of the more modern double-action weapon. Six shots in a few seconds was his average speed when that number was required, and when it is thoroughly understood that at least some of them found their intended bullets it is not difficult to realize that fanning was an operation of danger when Buck was doing it.
He was a good rider, as all cowboys are, and was not afraid of anything that lived. At one time he and his chums, Red Connors and Hopalong Cassidy, had successfully routed a band of fifteen Apaches who wanted their scalps. Of these, twelve never hunted scalps again, nor anything else on this earth, and the other three returned to their tribe with the report that three evil Spirits had chased them with “wheel guns” (cannons).
So now, since his visit to Perry's Bend, the rivalry of the two towns had turned to hatred and an alert and eager readiness to increase the inhabitants of each other's graveyard. A state of war existed, which for a time resulted in nothing worse than acrimonious suggestions. But the time came when the score was settled to the satisfaction of one side, at least.
Four ranches were also concerned in the trouble. Buckskin was surrounded by two, the Bar 20 and the Three Triangle. Perry's Bend was the common point for the C 80 and the Double Arrow. Each of the two ranch contingents accepted the feud as a matter of course, and as a matter of course took sides with their respective towns. As no better class of fighters ever lived, the trouble assumed Homeric proportions and insured a danger zone well worth watching.
Bar-20's northern line was C 80's southern one, and Skinny Thompson took his turn at outriding one morning after the season's round-up. He was to follow the boundary and turn back stray cattle. When he had covered the greater part of his journey he saw Shorty Jones riding toward him on a course parallel to his own and about long revolver range away. Shorty and he had “crossed trails” the year before and the best of feelings did not exist between them.
Shorty stopped and stared at Skinny, who did likewise at Shorty. Shorty turned his mount around and applied the spurs, thereby causing his indignant horse to raise both heels at Skinny. The latter took it all in gravely and, as Shorty faced him again, placed his left thumb to his nose, wiggling his fingers suggestively. Shorty took no apparent notice of this but began to shout:
“Yu wants to keep yore busted-down cows on yore own side. They was all over us day afore yisterday. I'm goin' to salt any more what comes over, and don't yu fergit it, neither.”
Thompson wigwagged with his fingers again and shouted in reply: “Yu c'n salt all yu wants to, but if I ketch yu adoin' it yu won't have to work no more. An' I kin say right here thet they's more C 80 cows over here than they's Bar-20's over there.”
Shorty reached for his revolver and yelled, “Yore a liar!”
Among the cowboys in particular and the Westerners in general at that time, the three suicidal terms, unless one was an expert in drawing quick and shooting straight with one movement, were the words “liar,” “coward,” and “thief.” Any man who was called one of these in earnest, and he was the judge, was expected to shoot if he could and save his life, for the words were seldom used without a gun coming with them. The movement of Shorty's hand toward his belt before the appellation reached him was enough for Skinny, who let go at long range—and missed.
The two reports were as one. Both urged their horses nearer and fired again. This time Skinny's sombrero gave a sharp jerk and a hole appeared in the crown. The third shot of Skinny's sent the horse of the other to its knees and then over on its side. Shorty very promptly crawled behind it and, as he did so, Skinny began a wide circle, firing at intervals as Shorty's smoke cleared away.
Shorty had the best position for defense, as he was in a shallow coule, but he knew that he could not leave it until his opponent had either grown tired of the affair or had used up his ammunition. Skinny knew it, too. Skinny also knew that he could get back to the ranch house and lay in a supply of food and ammunition and return before Shorty could cover the twelve miles he had to go on foot.
Finally Thompson began to head for home. He had carried the matter as far as he could without it being murder. Too much time had elapsed now, and, besides, it was before breakfast and he was hungry. He would go away and settle the score at some time when they would be on equal terms.
He rode along the line for a mile and chanced to look back. Two C 80 punchers were riding after him, and as they saw him turn and discover them they fired at him and yelled. He rode on for some distance and cautiously drew his rifle out of its long holster at his right leg. Suddenly he turned around in the saddle and fired twice. One of his pursuers fell forward on the neck of his horse, and his comrade turned to help him. Thompson wig-wagged again and rode on, reaching the ranch as the others were finishing their breakfast.
At the table Red Connors remarked that the tardy one had a hole in his sombrero, and asked its owner how and where he had received it.
“Had a argument with C 80 out'n th' line.”
“Go 'way! Ventilate enny?”
“One.”
“Good boy, sonny! Hey, Hopalong, Skinny perforated C 80 this mawnin'!”
Hopalong Cassidy was struggling with a mouthful of beef. He turned his eyes toward Red without ceasing, and grinning as well as he could under the circumstances managed to grunt out “Gu—,” which was as near to “Good” as the beef would allow.
Lanky Smith now chimed in as he repeatedly stuck his knife into a reluctant boiled potato, “How'd yu do it, Skinny?”
“Bet he sneaked up on him,” joshed Buck Peters; “did yu ask his pardin, Skinny?”
“Ask nuthin',” remarked Red, “he jest nachurly walks up to C 80 an' sez, 'Kin I have the pleasure of ventilatin' yu?' an' C So he sez, 'If yu do it easy like,' sez he. Didn't he, Thompson?”
“They'll be some ventilatin' under th' table if yu fellows don't lemme alone; I'm hungry,” complained Skinny.
“Say, Hopalong, I bets yu I kin clean up C 80 all by my lonesome,” announced Buck, winking at Red.
“Yah! Yu onct tried to clean up the Bend, Buckie, an' if Pete an' Billy hadn't afound yu when they come by Eagle Pass that night yu wouldn't be here eatin' beef by th' pound,” glancing at the hard-working Hopalong. “It was plum lucky fer yu that they was acourtin' that time, wasn't it, Hopalong?” suddenly asked Red. Hopalong nearly strangled in his efforts to speak. He gave it up and nodded his head.
“Why can't yu git it straight, Connors? I wasn't doin' no courtin', it was Pete. I runned into him on th' other side o' th' pass. I'd look fine acourtin', wouldn't I?” asked the downtrodden Williams.
Pete Wilson skillfully flipped a potato into that worthy's coffee, spilling the beverage of the questionable name over a large expanse of blue flannel shirt. “Yu's all right, yu are. Why, when I meets yu, yu was lost in th' arms of yore ladylove. All I could see was yore feet. Go an' git tangled up with a two hundred and forty pound half-breed squaw an' then try to lay it onter me! When I proposed drownin' yore troubles over at Cowan's, yu went an' got mad over what yu called th' insinooation. An' yu shore didn't look any too blamed fine, neither.”
“All th' same,” volunteered Thompson, who had taken the edge from his appetite, “we better go over an' pay C 80 a call. I don't like what Shorty said about saltin' our cattle. He'll shore do it, unless I camps on th' line, which same I hain't hankerin' after.”
“Oh, he wouldn't stop th' cows that way, Skinny; he was only afoolin',” exclaimed Connors meekly.
“Foolin' yore gran'mother! That there bunch'll do anything if we wasn't lookin',” hotly replied Skinny.
“That's shore nuff gospel, Thomp. They's sore fer mor'n one thing. They got aplenty when Buck went on th' warpath, an they's hankerin' to git square,” remarked Johnny Nelson, stealing the pie, a rare treat, of his neighbor when that unfortunate individual was not looking. He had it halfway to his mouth when its former owner, Jimmy Price, a boy of eighteen, turned his head and saw it going.
“Hi-yi! Yu clay-bank coyote, drap thet pie! Did yu ever see such a son-of-a-gun fer pie?” he plaintively asked Red Connors, as he grabbed a mighty handful of apples and crust. “Pie'll kill yu some day, yu bob-tailed jack! I had an uncle that died onct. He et too much pie an' he went an' turned green, an so'll yu if yu don't let it alone.”
“Yu ought'r seed th' pie Johnny had down in Eagle Flat,” murmured Lanky Smith reminiscently. “She had feet that'd stop a stampede. Johnny was shore loco about her. Swore she was the finest blossom that ever growed.” Here he choked and tears of laughter coursed down his weather-beaten face as he pictured her. “She was a dainty Mexican, about fifteen han's high an' about sixteen han's around. Johnny used to chalk off when he hugged her, usen't yu, Johnny? One night when he had got purty well around on th' second lap he run inter a feller jest startin' out on his fust. They hain't caught that Mexican yet.”
Nelson was pelted with everything in sight. He slowly wiped off the pie crust and bread and potatoes. “Anybody'd think I was a busted grub wagon,” he grumbled. When he had fished the last piece of beef out of his ear he went out and offered to stand treat. As the round-up was over, they slid into their saddles and raced for Cowan's saloon at Buckskin.
CHAPTER II. The Rashness of Shorty
Buckskin was very hot; in fact it was never anything else. Few people were on the streets and the town was quiet. Over in the Houston hotel a crowd of cowboys was lounging in the barroom. They were very quiet—a condition as rare as it was ominous. Their mounts, twelve in all, were switching flies from their quivering skins in the corral at the rear. Eight of these had a large C 80 branded on their flanks; the other four, a Double Arrow.
In the barroom a slim, wiry man was looking out of the dirty window up the street at Cowan's saloon. Shorty was complaining, “They shore oughter be here now. They rounded up last week.” The man nearest assured him that they would come. The man at the window turned and said, “They's yer now.”
In front of Cowan's a crowd of nine happy-go-lucky, daredevil riders were sliding from their saddles. They threw their reins over the heads of their mounts and filed in to the bar. Laughter issued from the open door and the clink of glasses could be heard. They stood in picturesque groups, strong, self-reliant, humorous, virile. Their expensive sombreros were pushed far back on their heads and their hairy chaps were covered with the alkali dust from their ride.
Cowan, bottle in hand, pushed out several more glasses. He kicked a dog from under his feet and looked at Buck. “Rounded up yet?” he inquired.
“Shore, day afore yisterday,” came the reply. The rest were busy removing the dust from their throats, and gradually drifted into groups of two or three. One of these groups strolled over to the solitary card table, and found Jimmy Price resting in a cheap chair, his legs on the table.
“I wisht yu'd extricate yore delicate feet from off'n this hyar table, James,” humbly requested Lanky Smith, morally backed up by those with him.
“Ya-as, they shore is delicate, Mr. Smith,” responded Jimmy without moving.
“We wants to play draw, Jimmy,” explained Pete.
“Yore shore welcome to play if yu wants to. Didn't I tell yu when yu growed that mustache that yu didn't have to ask me any more?” queried the placid James, paternally.
“Call 'em off, sonny. Pete sez he kin clean me out. Anyhow, yu kin have the fust deal,” compromised Lanky.
“I'm shore sorry fer Pete if he cayn't. Yu don't reckon I has to have fust deal to beat yu fellers, do yu? Go way an' lemme alone; I never seed such a bunch fer buttin' in as yu fellers.”
Billy Williams returned to the bar. Then he walked along it until he was behind the recalcitrant possessor of the table. While his aggrieved friends shuffled their feet uneasily to cover his approach, he tiptoed up behind Jimmy and, with a nod, grasped that indignant individual firmly by the neck while the others grabbed his feet. They carried him, twisting and bucking, to the middle of the street and deposited him in the dust, returning to the now vacant table.
Jimmy rested quietly for a few seconds and then slowly arose, dusting the alkali from him.
“Th' wall-eyed piruts,” he muttered, and then scratched his head for a way to “play hunk.” As he gazed sorrowfully at the saloon he heard a snicker from behind him. He, thinking it was one of his late tormentors, paid no attention to it. Then a cynical, biting laugh stung him. He wheeled, to see Shorty leaning against a tree, a sneering leer on his flushed face. Shorty's right hand was suspended above his holster, hooked to his belt by the thumb—a favorite position of his when expecting trouble.
“One of yore reg'lar habits?” he drawled.
Jimmy began to dust himself in silence, but his lips were compressed to a thin white line.
“Does they hurt yu?” pursued the onlooker.
Jimmy looked up. “I heard tell that they make glue outen cayuses, sometimes,” he remarked.
Shorty's eyes flashed. The loss of the horse had been rankling in his heart all day.
“Does they git yu frequent?” he asked. His voice sounded hard.
“Oh, 'bout as frequent as yu lose a cayuse, I reckon,” replied Jimmy hotly.
Shorty's hand streaked to his holster and Jimmy followed his lead. Jimmy's Colt was caught. He had bucked too much. As he fell Shorty ran for the Houston House.
Pistol shots were common, for they were the universal method of expressing emotions. The poker players grinned, thinking their victim was letting off his indignation. Lanky sized up his hand and remarked half audibly, “He's a shore good kid.”
The bartender, fearing for his new beveled, gilt-framed mirror, gave a hasty glance out the window. He turned around, made change and remarked to Buck, “Yore kid, Jimmy, is plugged.” Several of the more credulous craned their necks to see, Buck being the first. “Judas!” he shouted, and ran out to where Jimmy lay coughing, his toes twitching. The saloon was deserted and a crowd of angry cowboys surrounded their chum-aboy. Buck had seen Shorty enter the door of the Houston House and he swore. “Chase them C 80 and Arrow cayuses behind the saloon, Pete, an' git under cover.”
Jimmy was choking and he coughed up blood. “He's shore—got me. My—gun stuck,” he added apologetically. He tried to sit up, but was not able and he looked surprised. “It's purty-damn hot-out here,” he suggested. Johnny and Billy carried him in the saloon and placed him by the table, in the chair he had previously vacated. As they stood up he fell across the table and died.
Billy placed the dead boy's sombrero on his head and laid the refractory six-shooter on the table. “I wonder who th' dirty killer was.” He looked at the slim figure and started to go out, followed by Johnny. As he reached the threshold a bullet zipped past him and thudded into the frame of the door. He backed away and looked surprised. “That's Shorty's shootin'—he allus misses 'bout that much.” He looked out and saw Buck standing behind the live oak that Shorty had leaned against, firing at the hotel. Turning around he made for the rear, remarking to Johnny that “they's in th' Houston.” Johnny looked at the quiet figure in the chair and swore softly. He followed Billy. Cowan, closing the door and taking a buffalo gun from under the bar, went out also and slammed the rear door forcibly.
CHAPTER III. The Argument
Up the street two hundred yards from the Houston House Skinny and Pete lay hidden behind a bowlder. Three hundred yards on the other side of the hotel Johnny and Billy were stretched out in an arroyo. Buck was lying down now, and Hopalong, from his position in the barn belonging to the hotel, was methodically dropping the horses of the besieged, a job he hated as much as he hated poison. The corral was their death trap. Red and Lanky were emitting clouds of smoke from behind the store, immediately across the street from the barroom. A buffalo gun roared down by the plaza and several Sharps cracked a protest from different points. The town had awakened and the shots were dropping steadily.
Strange noises filled the air. They grew in tone and volume and then dwindled away to nothing. The hum of the buffalo gun and the sobbing pi-in-in-ing of the Winchesters were liberally mixed with the sharp whines of the revolvers.
There were no windows in the hotel now. Raw furrows in the bleached wood showed yellow, and splinters mysteriously sprang from the casings. The panels of the door were producing cracks and the cheap door handle flew many ways at once. An empty whisky keg on the stoop boomed out mournfully at intervals and finally rolled down the steps with a rumbling protest. Wisps of smoke slowly climbed up the walls and seemed to be waving defiance to the curling wisps in the open.
Pete raised his shoulder to refill the magazine of his smoking rifle and dropped the cartridges all over his lap. He looked sheepishly at Skinny and began to load with his other hand.
“Yore plum loco, yu are. Don't yu reckon they kin hit a blue shirt at two hundred?” Skinny cynically inquired. “Got one that time,” he announced a second later.
“I wonder who's got th' buffalo,” grunted Pete. “Mus' be Cowan,” he replied to his own question and settled himself to use his left hand.
“Don't yu git Shorty; he's my meat,” suggested Skinny.
“Yu better tell Buck—he ain't got no love fer Shorty,” replied Pete, aiming carefully.
The panic in the corral ceased and Hopalong was now sending his regrets against the panels of the rear door. He had cut his last initial in the near panel and was starting a wobbly “H” in its neighbor. He was in a good position. There were no windows in the rear wall, and as the door was a very dangerous place he was not fired at.
He began to get tired of this one-sided business and crawled up on the window ledge, dangling his feet on the outside. He occasionally sent a bullet at a different part of the door, but amused himself by annoying Buck.
“Plenty hot down there?” he pleasantly inquired, and as he received no answer he tried again. “Better save some of them cartridges fer some other time, Buck.”
Buck was sending 45-70's into the shattered window with a precision that presaged evil to any of the defenders who were rash enough to try to gain the other end of the room.
Hopalong bit off a chew of tobacco and drowned a green fly that was crawling up the side of the barn. The yellow liquid streaked downward a short distance and was eagerly sucked up by the warped boards.
A spurt of smoke leaped from the battered door and the bored Hopalong promptly tumbled back inside. He felt of his arm, and then, delighted at the notice taken of his artistic efforts, shot several times from a crack on his right. “This yer's shore gittin' like home,” he gravely remarked to the splinter that whizzed past his head. He shot again at the door and it sagged outward, accompanied by the thud of a falling body. “Pies like mother used to make,” he announced to the loft as he slipped the magazine full of .45-70's. “An' pills like popper used to take,” he continued when he had lowered the level of the water in his flask.
He rolled a cigarette and tossed the match into the air, extinguishing it by a shot from his Colt.
“Got any cigarettes, Hoppy?” said a voice from below.
“Shore,” replied the joyous puncher, recognizing Pete; “how'd yu git here?”
“Like a cow. Busy?”
“None whatever. Comin' up?”
“Nope. Skinny wants a smoke too.”
Hopalong handed tobacco and papers down the hole. “So long.”
“So long,” replied the daring Pete, who risked death twice for a smoke.
The hot afternoon dragged along and about three o'clock Buck held up an empty cartridge belt to the gaze of the curious Hopalong. That observant worthy nodded and threw a double handful of cartridges, one by one, to the patient and unrelenting Buck, who filled his gun and piled the few remaining ones up at his side. “Th' lives of mice and men gang aft all wrong,” he remarked at random.
“Th' son-of-a-gun's talkin' Shakespeare,” marveled Hopalong. “Satiate any, Buck?” he asked as that worthy settled down to await his chance.
“Two,” he replied, “Shorty an' another. Plenty damn hot down here,” he complained. A spurt of alkali dust stung his face, but the hand that made it never made another. “Three,” he called. “How many, Hoppy?”
“One. That's four. Wonder if th' others got any?”
“Pete said Skinny got one,” replied the intent Buck.
“Th' son-of-a-gun, he never said nothin' about it, an' me a fillin' his ornery paws with smokin'.” Hopalong was indignant.
“Bet yu ten we don't git 'em afore dark,” he announced.
“Got yu. Go yu ten more I gits another,” promptly responded Buck.
“That's a shore cinch. Make her twenty.”
“She is.”
“Yu'll have to square it with Skinny, he shore wanted Shorty plum' bad,” Hopalong informed the unerring marksman.
“Why didn't he say suthin' about it? Anyhow, Jimmy was my bunkie.”
Hopalong's cigarette disintegrated and the board at his left received a hole. He promptly disappeared and Buck laughed. He sat up in the loft and angrily spat the soaked paper out from between his lips.
“All that trouble fer nothin', th' white-eyed coyote,” he muttered. Then he crawled around to one side and fired at the center of his “C.” Another shot hurtled at him and his left arm fell to his side. “That's funny—wonder where th' damn pirut is?” He looked out cautiously and saw a cloud of smoke over a knothole which was situated close up under the eaves of the barroom; and it was being agitated. Some one was blowing at it to make it disappear. He aimed very carefully at the knot and fired. He heard a sound between a curse and a squawk and was not molested any further from that point.
“I knowed he'd git hurt,” he explained to the bandage, torn from the edge of his kerchief, which he carefully bound around his last wound.
Down in the arroyo Johnny was complaining.
“This yer's a no good bunk,” he plaintively remarked.
“It shore ain't—but it's th' best we kin find,” apologized Billy.
“That's th' sixth that feller sent up there. He's a damn poor shot,” observed Johnny; “must be Shorty.”
“Shorty kin shoot plum' good—tain't him,” contradicted Billy.
“Yas—with a six-shooter. He's off'n his feed with a rifle,” explained Johnny.
“Yu wants to stay down from up there, yu ijit,” warned Billy as the disgusted Johnny crawled up the bank. He slid down again with a welt on his neck.
“That's somebody else now. He oughter a done better'n that,” he said.
Billy had fired as Johnny started to slide and he smoothed his aggrieved chum. “He could onct, yu means.”
“Did yu git him?” asked the anxious Johnny, rubbing his welt. “Plum' center,” responded the business-like Billy. “Go up agin, mebby I kin git another,” he suggested tentatively.
“Mebby you kin go to blazes. I ain't no gallery,” grinned the now exuberant owner of the welt.
“Who's got the buffalo?” he inquired as the great gun roared.
“Mus' be Cowan. He's shore all right. Sounds like a bloomin' cannon,” replied Billy. “Lemme alone with yore fool questions, I'm busy,” he complained as his talkative partner started to ask another. “Go an' git me some water—I'm alkalied. An' git some .45's, mine's purty near gone.”
Johnny crawled down the arroyo and reappeared at Hopalong's barn.
As he entered the door a handful of empty shells fell on his hat and dropped to the floor. He shook his head and remarked, “That mus' be that fool Hopalong.”
“Yore shore right. How's business?” inquired the festive Cassidy.
“Purty fair. Billy's got one. How many's gone?”
“Buck's got three, I got two and Skinny's got one. That's six, an' Billy is seven. They's five more,” he replied.
“How'd yu know?” queried Johnny as he filled his flask at the horse trough.
“Because they's twelve cayuses behind the hotel. That's why.”
“They might git away on 'em,” suggested the practical Johnny.
“Can't. They's all cashed in.”
“Yu said that they's five left,” ejaculated the puzzled water carrier.
“Yah; yore a smart cuss, ain't yu?”
Johnny grinned and then said, “Got any smokin'?” Hopalong looked grieved. “I ain't no store. Why don't yu git generous and buy some?”
He partially filled Johnny's hand, and as he put the sadly depleted bag away he inquired, “Got any papers?”
“Nope.”
“Got any matches?” he asked cynically.
“Nope.”
“Kin yu smoke 'em?” he yelled, indignantly.
“Shore nuff,” placidly replied the unruffled Johnny. “Billy wants some .45-70's.”
Hopalong gasped. “Don't he want my gun, too?”
“Nope. Got a better one. Hurry up, he'll git mad.” Hopalong was a very methodical person. He was the only one of his crowd to carry a second cartridge strap. It hung over his right shoulder and rested on his left hip. His waist belt held thirty cartridges for the revolvers. He extracted twenty from that part of the shoulder strap hardest to get at, the back, by simply pulling it over his shoulder and plucking out the bullets as they came into reach.
“That's all yu kin have. I'm Buck's ammernition jackass,” he explained. “Bet yu ten we gits 'em afore dark”—he was hedging.
“Any fool knows that. I'll take yu if yu bets th' other way,” responded Johnny, grinning. He knew Hopalong's weak spot.
“Yore on,” promptly responded Hopalong, who would bet on anything.
“Well, so long,” said Johnny as he crawled away.
“Hey, yu, Johnny!” called out Hopalong, “don't yu go an' tell anybody I got any pills left. I ain't no ars'nal.”
Johnny replied by elevating one foot and waving it. Then he disappeared.
Behind the store, the most precarious position among the besiegers, Red Connors and Lanky Smith were ensconced and commanded a view of the entire length of the barroom. They could see the dark mass they knew to be the rear door and derived a great amount of amusement from the spots of light which were appearing in it.
They watched the “C” (reversed to them) appear and be completed. When the wobbly “H” grew to completion they laughed heartily. Then the hardwood bar had been dragged across the field of vision and up to the front windows, and they could only see the indiscriminate holes which appeared in the upper panels at frequent intervals.
Every time they fired they had to expose a part of themselves to a return shot, with the result that Lanky's forearm was seared its entire length. Red had been more fortunate and only had a bruised ear.
They laboriously rolled several large rocks out in the open, pushing them beyond the shelter of the store with their rifles. When they had crawled behind them they each had another wound. From their new position they could see Hopalong sitting in his window. He promptly waved his sombrero and grinned.
They were the most experienced fighters of all except Buck, and were saving their shots. When they did shoot they always had some portion of a man's body to aim at, and the damage they inflicted was considerable. They said nothing, being older than the rest and more taciturn, and they were not reckless. Although Hopalong's antics made them laugh, they grumbled at his recklessness and were not tempted to emulate him. It was noticeable, too, that they shoved their rifles out simultaneously and, although both were aiming, only one fired. Lanky's gun cracked so close to the enemy's that the whirr of the bullet over Red's head was merged in the crack of his partner's reply.
When Hopalong saw the rocks roll out from behind the store he grew very curious. Then he saw a flash, followed instantly by another from the second rifle. He saw several of these follow shots and could sit in silence no longer. He waved his hat to attract attention and then shouted, “How many?” A shot was sent straight up in the air and he notified Buck that there were only four left.
The fire of these four grew less rapid—they were saving their ammunition. A pot shot at Hopalong sent that gentleman's rifle hurtling to the ground. Another tore through his hat, removing a neat amount of skin and hair and giving him a lifelong part. He fell back inside and proceeded to shoot fast and straight with his revolvers, his head burning as though on fire. When he had vented the dangerous pressure of his anger he went below and tried to fish the rifle in with a long stick. It was obdurate, so he sent three more shots into the door, and, receiving no reply, ran out around the corner of his shelter and grasped the weapon. When half way back he sank to the ground. Before another shot could be fired at him with any judgment a ripping, spitting rifle was being frantically worked from the barn. The bullets tore the door into seams and gaps; the lowest panel, the one having the “H” in it, fell inward in chunks. Johnny had returned for another smoke.
Hopalong, still grasping the rifle, rolled rapidly around the corner of the barn. He endeavored to stand, but could not. Johnny, hearing rapid and fluent swearing, came out.
“Where'd they git yu?” he asked.
“In th' off leg. Hurts like blazes. Did yu git him?”
“Nope. I jest come fer another cig; got any left?”
“Up above. Yore gall is shore apallin'. Help me in, yu two-laigged jackass.”
“Shore. We'll shore pay our 'tentions to that door. She'll go purty soon—she's as full of holes as th' Bad Lan's,” replied Johnny. “Git aholt an' hop along, Hopalong.”
He helped the swearing Hopalong inside, and then the lead they pumped into the wrecked door was scandalous. Another panel fell in and Hopalong's “C” was destroyed. A wide crack appeared in the one above it and grew rapidly. Its mate began to gape and finally both were driven in. The increase in the light caused by these openings allowed Red and Lanky to secure better aim and soon the fire of the defenders died out.
Johnny dropped his rifle and, drawing his six-shooter, ran out and dashed for the dilapidated door, while Hopalong covered that opening with a fusilade.
As Johnny's shoulder sent the framework flying inward he narrowly missed sudden death. As it was he staggered to the side, out of range, and dropped full length to the ground, flat on his face. Hopalong's rifle cracked incessantly, but to no avail. The man who had fired the shot was dead. Buck got him immediately after he had shot Johnny.
Calling to Skinny and Red to cover him, Buck sprinted to where Johnny lay gasping. The bullet had struck his shoulder. Buck, Colt in hand, leaped through the door, but met with no resistance. He signaled to Hopalong, who yelled, “They's none left.”
The trees and rocks and gullies and buildings yielded men who soon crowded around the hotel. A young doctor, lately graduated, appeared. It was his first case, but he eased Johnny. Then he went over to Hopalong, who was now raving, and attended to him. The others were patched up as well as possible and the struggling young physician had his pockets crammed full of gold and silver coins.
The scene of the wrecked barroom was indescribable. Holes, furrows, shattered glass and bottles, the liquor oozing down the walls of the shelves and running over the floor; the ruined furniture, a wrecked bar, seared and shattered and covered with blood; bodies as they had been piled in the corners; ropes, shells, hats; and liquor everywhere, over everything, met the gaze of those who had caused the chaos.
Perry's Bend had failed to wipe out the score.
CHAPTER IV. The Vagrant Sioux
Buckskin gradually readjusted itself to the conditions which had existed before its sudden leap into the limelight as a town which did things. The soiree at the Houston House had drifted into the past, and was now substantially established as an epoch in the history of the town. Exuberant joy gave way to dignity and deprecation, and to solid satisfaction; and the conversations across the bar brought forth parallels of the affair to be judged impartially—and the impartial judgment was, unanimously, that while there had undoubtedly been good fights before Perry's Bend had disturbed the local quiet, they were not quite up to the new standard of strenuous hospitality. Finally the heat blistered everything back into the old state, and the shadows continued to be in demand.
One afternoon, a month after the reception of the honorable delegation from Perry's Bend, the town of Buckskin seemed desolated, and the earth and the buildings thereon were as huge furnaces radiating a visible heat, but when the blazing sun had begun to settle in the west it awoke with a clamor which might have been laid to the efforts of a zealous Satan. At this time it became the Mecca of two score or more joyous cowboys from the neighboring ranches, who livened things as those knights of the saddle could.
In the scant but heavy shadow of Cowan's saloon sat a picturesque figure from whom came guttural, resonant rumblings which mingled in a spirit of loneliness with the fretful sighs of a flea-tormented dog. Both dog and master were vagrants, and they were tolerated because it was a matter of supreme indifference as to who came or how long they stayed as long as the ethics and the unwritten law of the cow country were inviolate. And the breaking of these caused no unnecessary anxiety, for justice was both speedy and sure.
When the outcast Sioux and his yellow dog had drifted into town some few months before they had caused neither expostulation nor inquiry, as the cardinal virtue of that whole broad land was to ask a man no questions which might prove embarrassing to all concerned; judgment was of observation, not of history, and a man's past would reveal itself through actions. It mattered little whether he was an embezzler or the wild chip from some prosperous eastern block, as men came to the range to forget and to lose touch with the pampered East; and the range absorbed them as its own.
A man was only a man as his skin contained the qualities necessary; and the illiterate who could ride and shoot and live to himself was far more esteemed than the educated who could not do those things. The more a man depends upon himself and the closer is his contact to a quick judgment the more laconic and even-poised he becomes. And the knowledge that he is himself a judge tends to create caution and judgment. He has no court to uphold his honor and to offer him protection, so he must be quick to protect himself and to maintain his own standing. His nature saved him, or it executed; and the range absolved him of all unpaid penalties of a careless past.
He became a man born again and he took up his burden, the exactions of a new environment, and he lived as long as those exactions gave him the right to live. He must tolerate no restrictions of his natural rights, and he must not restrict; for the one would proclaim him a coward, the other a bully; and both received short shrifts in that land of the self-protected. The basic law of nature is the survival of the fittest.
So, when the wanderers found their level in Buckskin they were not even asked by what name men knew them. Not caring to hear a name which might not harmonize with their idea of the fitness of things, the cowboys of the Bar-20 had, with a freedom born of excellent livers and fearless temperaments, bestowed names befitting their sense of humor and adaptability. The official title of the Sioux was By-and-by; the dog was known as Fleas. Never had names more clearly described the objects to be represented, for they were excellent examples of cowboy discernment and aptitude.
In their eyes By-and-by was a man. He could feel and he could resent insults. They did not class him as one of themselves, because he did not have energy enough to demand and justify such classification. With them he had a right to enjoy his life as he saw fit so long as he did not trespass on or restrict the rights of others. They were not analytic in temperament, neither were they moralists. He was not a menace to society, because society had superb defenses. So they vaguely recognized his many poor qualities and clearly saw his few good ones. He could shoot, when permitted, with the best; no horse, however refractory, had ever been known to throw him; he was an adept at following the trails left by rustlers, and that was an asset; he became of value to the community; he was an economic factor.
His ability to consume liquor with indifferent effects raised him another notch in their estimation. He was not always talking when some one else wished to—another count. There remained about him that stoical indifference to the petty; that observant nonchalance of the Indian; and there was a suggestion, faint, it was true, of a dignity common to chieftains. He was a log of grave deference which tossed on their sea of mischievous hilarity.
He wore a pair of corduroy trousers, known to the care-free as “pants,” which were held together by numerous patches of what had once been brilliantly colored calico. A pair of suspenders, torn into two separate straps, made a belt for himself and a collar for his dog. The trousers had probably been secured during a fit of absent-mindedness on his part when their former owner had not been looking. Tucked at intervals in the top of the corduroys (the exceptions making convenient shelves for alkali dust) was what at one time had been a stiff-bosomed shirt. This was open down the front and back, the weight of the trousers on the belt holding it firmly on the square shoulders of the wearer, thus precluding the necessity of collar buttons. A pair of moccasins, beautifully worked with wampum, protected his feet from the onslaughts of cacti and the inquisitive and pugnacious sand flies; and lying across his lap was a repeating Winchester rifle, not dangerous because it was empty, a condition due to the wisdom of the citizens in forbidding any one to sell, trade or give to him those tubes of concentrated trouble, because he could get drunk.
The two were contented and happy. They had no cares nor duties, and their pleasures were simple and easily secured, as they consisted of sleep and a proneness to avoid moving. Like the untrammeled coyote, their bed was where sleep overtook them; their food, what the night wrapped in a sense of security, or the generosity of the cowboys of the Bar-20. No tub-ridden Diogenes ever knew so little of responsibility or as much unadulterated content. There is a penalty even to civilization and ambition.
When the sun had cast its shadows beyond By-and-by's feet the air became charged with noise; shouts, shots and the rolling thunder of madly pounding hoofs echoed flatly throughout the town. By-and-by yawned, stretched and leaned back, reveling in the semi-conscious ecstasy of the knowledge that he did not have to immediately get up. Fleas opened one eye and cocked an ear in inquiry, and then rolled over on his back, squirmed and sighed contentedly and long. The outfit of the Bar-20 had come to town.
The noise came rapidly nearer and increased in volume as the riders turned the corner and drew rein suddenly, causing their mounts to slide on their haunches in ankle-deep dust.
“Hullo, old Buck-with-th'-pants, how's yore liver?”
“Come up an irrigate, old tank!”
“Chase th' flea ranch an' trail along!”
These were a few of the salutations discernible among the medley of playful yells, the safety valves of supercharged good-nature.
“Skr-e-e!” yelled Hopalong Cassidy, letting off a fusillade of shots in the vicinity of Fleas, who rapidly retreated around the corner, where he wagged his tail in eager expectation. He was not disappointed, for a cow pony tore around in pursuit and Hopalong leaned over and scratched the yellow back, thumping it heartily, and, tossing a chunk of beef into the open jaws of the delighted dog, departed as he had come. The advent of the outfit meant a square meal, and the dog knew it.
In Cowan's, lined up against the bar, the others were earnestly and assiduously endeavoring, with a promise of success, to get By-and-by drunk, which endeavors coincided perfectly with By-and-by's idea of the fitness of things. The fellowship and the liquor combined to thaw out his reserve and to loosen his tongue. After gazing with an air of injured surprise at the genial loosening of his knees he gravely handed his rifle with an exaggerated sweep of his arm, to the cowboy nearest him, and wrapped his arms around the recipient to insure his balance. The rifle was passed from hand to hand until it came to Buck Peters, who gravely presented it to its owner as a new gun.
By-and-by threw out his stomach in an endeavor to keep his head in line with his heels, and grasping the weapon with both hands turned to Cowan, to whom he gave it.
“Yu hab this un. Me got two. Me keep new un, mebby so.” Then he loosened his belt and drank long and deep.
A shadow darkened the doorway and Hopalong limped in. Spying By-and-by pushing the bottle into his mouth, while Red Connors propped him, he grinned and took out five silver dollars, which he jingled under By-and-by's eyes, causing that worthy to lay aside the liquor and erratically grab for the tantalizing fortune.
“Not yet, sabe?” said Hopalong, changing the position of the money. “If yu wants to corral this here herd of simoleons yu has to ride a cayuse what Red bet me yu can't ride. Yu has got to grow on that there saddle and stayed growed for five whole minutes by Buck's ticker. I ain't a-goin' to tell yu he's any saw-horse, for yu'd know better, as yu reckons Red wouldn't bet on no losin' proposition if he knowed better, which same he don't. Yu straddles that four-laigged cloudburst an' yu gets these, sabe? I ain't seen th' cayuse yet that yu couldn't freeze to, an' I'm backin' my opinions with my moral support an' one month's pay.”
By-and-by's eyes began to glitter as the meaning of the words sifted through his befuddled mind. Ride a horse—five dollars—ride a five-dollars horse—horses ride dollars—then he straightened up and began to speak in an incoherent jumble of Sioux and bad English. He, the mighty rider of the Sioux; he, the bravest warrior and the greatest hunter; could he ride a horse for five dollars? Well, he rather thought he could. Grasping Red by the shoulder, he tacked for the door and narrowly missed hitting the bottom step first, landing, as it happened, in the soft dust with Red's leg around his neck. Somewhat sobered by the jar, he stood up and apologized to the crowd for Red getting in the way, declaring that Red was a “Heap good un,” and that he didn't mean to do it.
The outfit of the Bar-20 was, perhaps, the most famous of all from Canada to the Rio Grande. The foreman, Buck Peters, controlled a crowd of men (who had all the instincts of boys) that had shown no quarter to many rustlers, and who, while always carefree and easy-going (even fighting with great good humor and carelessness), had established the reputation of being the most reckless gang of daredevil gun-fighters that ever pounded leather. Crooked gaming houses, from El Paso to Cheyenne and from Phoenix to Leavenworth, unanimously and enthusiastically damned them from their boots to their sombreros, and the sheriffs and marshals of many localities had received from their hands most timely assistance—and some trouble. Wiry, indomitable, boyish and generous, they were splendid examples of virile manhood; and, surrounded as they were with great dangers and a unique civilization, they should not, in justice, be judged by opinions born of the commonplace.
They were real cowboys, which means, public opinion to the contrary notwithstanding, that they were not lawless, nor drunken, shooting bullies who held life cheaply, as their kin has been unjustly pictured; but while these men were naturally peaceable they had to continually rub elbows with men who were not. Gamblers, criminals, bullies and the riffraff that fled from the protected East had drifted among them in great numbers, and it was this class that caused the trouble.
The hardworking “cow-punchers” lived according to the law of the land, and they obeyed that greatest of all laws, that of self-preservation. Their fun was boisterous, but they paid for all the damage they inflicted; their work was one continual hardship, and the reaction of one extreme swings far toward the limit of its antithesis. Go back to the Apple if you would trace the beginning of self-preservation and the need.
Buck Peters was a man of mild appearance, somewhat slow of speech and correspondingly quick of action, who never became flurried. His was the master hand that controlled, and his Colts enjoyed the reputation of never missing when a hit could have been expected with reason. Many floods, stampedes and blizzards had assailed his nerves, but he yet could pour a glass of liquor, held at arm's length, through a knothole in the floor without wetting the wood.
Next in age came Lanky Smith, a small, undersized man of retiring disposition. Then came Skinny Thompson, six feet four on his bared soles, and true to his name; Hopalong described him as “th' shadow of a chalk mark.” Pete Wilson, the slow-witted and very taciturn, and Billy Williams, the wavering pessimist, were of ordinary height and appearance. Red Connors, with hair that shamed the name, was the possessor of a temper which was as dry as tinder; his greatest weakness was his regard for the rifle as a means of preserving peace. Johnny Nelson was the protege, and he could do no wrong.
The last, Hopalong Cassidy, was a combination of irresponsibility, humor, good nature, love of fighting, and nonchalance when face to face with danger. His most prominent attribute was that of always getting into trouble without any intention of so doing; in fact, he was much aggrieved and surprised when it came. It seemed as though when any “bad man” desired to add to his reputation he invariably selected Hopalong as the means (a fact due, perhaps, to the perversity of things in general). Bad men became scarce soon after Hopalong became a fixture in any locality. He had been crippled some years before in a successful attempt to prevent the assassination of a friend, Sheriff Harris, of Albuquerque, and he still possessed a limp.
When Red had relieved his feelings and had dug the alkali out of his ears and eyes, he led the Sioux to the rear of the saloon, where a “pinto” was busily engaged in endeavoring to pitch a saddle from his back, employing the intervals in trying to see how much of the picket rope he could wrap around his legs.
When By-and-by saw what he was expected to ride he felt somewhat relieved, for the pony did not appear to have more than the ordinary amount of cussedness. He waved his hand, and Johnny and Red bandaged the animal's eyes, which quieted him at once, and then they untangled the rope from around his legs and saw that the cinches were secure. Motioning to By-and-by that all was ready, they jerked the bandage off as the Indian settled himself in the saddle.
Had By-and-by been really sober he would have taken the conceit out of that pony in chunks, and as it was he experienced no great difficulty in holding his seat; but in his addled state of mind he grasped the end of the cinch strap in such a way that when the pony jumped forward in its last desperate effort the buckle slipped and the cinch became unfastened; and By-and-by, still seated in the saddle, flew head foremost into the horse trough, where he spilled much water.
As this happened Cowan turned the corner, and when he saw the wasted water (which he had to carry, bucketful at a time, from the wells a good quarter of a mile away) his anger blazed forth, and yelling, he ran for the drenched Sioux, who was just crawling out of his bath. When the unfortunate saw the irate man bearing down on him he sputtered in rage and fear, and, turning, he ran down the street, with Cowan thundering flatfootedly behind on a fat man's gallop, to the hysterical cheers of the delighted outfit, who saw in it nothing but a good joke.
When Cowan returned from his hopeless task, blowing and wheezing, he heard sundry remarks, sotto voce, which were not calculated to increase his opinion of his physical condition.
“Seems to me,” remarked the irrepressible Hopalong, “that one of those cayuses has got th' heaves.”
“It shore sounds like it,” acquiesced Johnny, red in the face from holding in his laughter, “an' say, somebody interferes.”
“All knock-kneed animals do, yu heathen,” supplied Red.
“Hey, yu, let up on that and have a drink on th' house,” invited Cowan. “If I gits that durn war whoop I'll make yu think there's been a cyclone. I'll see how long that bum hangs around this here burg, I will.”
Red's eyes narrowed and his temper got the upper hand. “He ain't no bum when yu gives him rotgut at a quarter of a dollar a glass, is he? Any time that 'bum' gits razzled out for nothin' more'n this, why, I goes too; an' I ain't sayin' nothin' about goin' peaceable—like, neither.”
“I knowed somethin' like this 'ud happen,” dolefully sang out Billy Williams, strong on the side of his pessimism.
“For th' Lord's sake, have you broke out?” asked Red, disgustedly. “I'm goin' to hit the trail—but just keep this afore yore mind: if By-and-by gits in any accidents or ain't in sight when I comes to town again, this here climate'll be a heep sight hotter'n it is now. No hard feelings, sabe? It's just a casual bit of advice. Come on, fellows, let's amble—I'm hungry.”
As they raced across the plain toward the ranch a pair of beady eyes, snapping with a drunken rage, watched them from an arroyo; and when Cowan entered the saloon the next morning he could not find By-and-by's rifle, which he had placed behind the bar. He also missed a handful of cartridges from the box near the cash drawer; and had he looked closely at his bottled whisky he would have noticed a loss there. A horse was missing from a Mexican's corral and there were rumors that several Indians had been seen far out on the plain.
CHAPTER V. The Law of the Range
“Phew! I'm shore hungry,” said Hopalong, as he and Red dismounted at the ranch the next morning for breakfast. “Wonder what's good for it?”
“They's three things that's good for famine,” said Red, leading the way to the bunk house. “Yu can pull in yore belt, yu can drink, an yu can eat. Yore getting as bad as Johnny—but he's young yet.”
The others met their entrance with a volley of good-humored banter, some of which was so personal and evoked such responses that it sounded like the preliminary skirmish to a fight. But under all was that soft accent, that drawl of humorous appreciation and eyes twinkling in suppressed merriment. Here they were thoroughly at home and the spirit of comradeship manifested itself in many subtle ways; the wit became more daring and sharp, Billy lost some of his pessimism, and the alertness disappeared from their manner.
Skinny left off romping with Red and yawned. “I wish that cook'ud wake up an' git breakfast. He's the cussedest hombre I ever saw—he kin go to sleep standin' up an' not know it. Johnny's th' boy that worries him—th' kid comes in an' whoops things up till he's gorged himself.”
“Johnny's got th' most appallin' feel for grub of anybody I knows,” added Red. “I wonder what's keepin' him—he's usually hangin' around here bawlin' for his grub like a spoiled calf, long afore cookie's got th' fire goin'.”
“Mebby he rustled some grub out with him—I saw him tip-toein' out of th' gallery this mornin' when I come back for my cigs,” remarked Hopalong, glancing at Billy.
Billy groaned and made for the gallery. Emerging half a minute later he blurted out his tale of woe: “Every time I blows myself an' don't drink it all in town some slab-sided maverick freezes to it. It's gone,” he added, dismally.
“Too bad, Billy—but what is it?” asked Skinny.
“What is it? Wha'd yu think it was, you emaciated match? Jewelry? Cayuses? It's whisky—two simoleons' worth. Some-thin's allus wrong. This here whole yearth's wrong, just like that cross-eyed sky pilot said over to—”
“Will yu let up?” Yelled Red, throwing a sombrero at the grumbling unfortunate. “Yu ask Buck where yore tanglefoot is.
“I'd shore look nice askin' th' boss if he'd rustled my whisky, wouldn't I? An' would yu mind throwin' somebody else's hat? I paid twenty wheels for that eight years ago, and I don't want it mussed none.”
“Gee, yore easy! Why, Ah Sing, over at Albuquerque, gives them away every time yu gits yore shirt washed,” gravely interposed Hopalong as he went out to cuss the cook.
“Well, what'd yu think of that?” Exclaimed Billy in an injured tone.
“Oh, yu needn't be hikin' for Albuquerque—WasheeWashee'ud charge yu double for washin' yore shirt. Yu ought to fall in di' river some day—then he might talk business,” called Hopalong over his shoulder as he heaved an old boot into the gallery. “Hey, yu hibernatin' son of morphine, if yu don't git them flapjacks in here pretty sudden-like I'll scatter yu all over di' landscape, sabe? Yu just wait till Johnny comes!”
“Wonder where th' kid is?” asked Lanky, rolling a cigarette. “Off somewhere lookin' at di' sun through di' bottom of my bottle,” grumbled Billy.
Hopalong started to go out, but halted on the sill and looked steadily off toward the northwest. “That's funny. Hey, fellows, here comes Buck an' Johnny ridin' double—on a walk, too!” he exclaimed. “Wonder what th'—thunder! Red, Buck's carryun' him! Somethin's busted!” he yelled, as he dashed for his pony and made for the newcomers.
“I told yu he was hittin' my bottle,” pertly remarked Billy, as he followed the rest outside.
“Did yu ever see Johnny drunk? Did yu ever see him drink more'n two glasses? Shut yore wailin' face—they's somethin' worse'n that in this here,” said Red, his temper rising. “Hopalong an' me took yore cheap liquor—it's under Pete's bunk,” he added.
The trio approached on a walk and Johnny, delirious and covered with blood, was carried into the bunk house. Buck waited until all had assembled again and then, his face dark with anger, spoke sharply and without the usual drawl: “Skragged from behind, blast them! Get some grub an' water an' be quick. We'll see who the gent with th' grudge is.”
At this point the expostulations of the indignant cook, who, not understanding the cause, regarded the invasion of china shop bulls as sacrilegious, came to his ears. Striding quickly to the door, he grabbed the pan the Mexican was about to throw and, turning the now frightened man around, thundered, “Keep quiet an' get 'em some grub.”
When rifles and ammunition had been secured they mounted and followed him at a hard gallop along the back trail. No words were spoken, for none were necessary. All knew that they would not return until they had found the man for whom they were looking, even if the chase led to Canada. They did not ask Buck for any of the particulars, for the foreman was not in the humor to talk, and all, save Hopalong, whose curiosity was always on edge, recognized only two facts and cared for nothing else: Johnny had been ambushed and they were going to get the one who was responsible.
They did not even conjecture as to who it might be, because the trail would lead them to the man himself, and it mattered nothing who or what he was—there was only one course to take with an assassin. So they said nothing, but rode on with squared jaws and set lips, the seven ponies breast to breast in a close arc.
Soon they came to an arroyo which they took at a leap. As they approached it they saw signs in the dust which told them that a body had lain there huddled up; and there were brown spots on the baked alkali. The trail they followed was now single, Buck having ridden along the bank of the arroyo when hunting for Johnny, for whom he had orders. This trail was very irregular, as if the horse had wandered at will. Suddenly they came upon five tracks, all pointing one way, and four of these turned abruptly and disappeared in the northwest. Half a mile beyond the point of separation was a chaparral, which was an important factor to them.
Each man knew just what had taken place as if he had been an eyewitness, for the trail was plain. The assassins had waited in the chaparral for Johnny to pass, probably having seen him riding that way. When he had passed and his back had been turned to them they had fired and wounded him severely at the first volley, for Johnny was of the stuff that fights back and his revolvers had showed full chambers and clean barrels when Red had examined them in the bunk house. Then they had given chase for a short distance and, from some inexplicable motive, probably fear, they had turned and ridden off without knowing how bad he was hit. It was this trail that led to the northwest, and it was this trail that they followed without pausing.
When they had covered fifty miles they sighted the Cross Bar O ranch
where they hoped to secure fresh mounts. As they rode up to the ranch
house the owner, Bud Wallace, came around the corner and saw them.
“Hullo, boys! What deviltry are yu up to now?” he asked. Buck
leaped from his mount, followed by the others, and shoved his sombrero
back on his head as he started to remove the saddle.
“We're trailin' a bunch of murderers. They ambushed Johnny an' blame near killed him. I stopped here to get fresh cayuses.”
“Yu did right!” replied Wallace heartily. Then raising his voice he shouted to some of his men who were near the corral to bring up the seven best horses they could rope. Then he told the cook to bring out plenty of food and drink.
“I got four punchers what ain't doin' nothin' but eat,” he suggested.
“Much obliged, Wallace, but there's only four of 'em, an' we'd rather get 'em ourselves—Johnny'ud feel better,” replied Buck, throwing his saddle on the horse that was led up to him.
“How's yore cartridges—got plenty?” Persisted Wallace.
“Two hundred apiece,” responded Buck, springing into his saddle and riding off. “So long,” he called.
“So long, an' plug blazes out of them,” shouted Wallace as the dust swept over him.
At five in the afternoon they forded the Black River at a point where it crossed the state line from New Mexico, and at dusk camped at the base of the Guadalupe Mountains. At daybreak they took up the chase, grim and merciless, and shortly afterward they passed the smoldering remains of a camp fire, showing that the pursued had been in a great hurry, for it should have been put out and masked. At noon they left the mountains to the rear and sighted the Barred Horeshoe, which they approached.
The owner of the ranch saw them coming, and from their appearance surmised that something was wrong.
“What is it?” He shouted. “Rustlers?”
“Nope. Murderers. I wants to swap cayuses quick,” answered Buck.
“There they are. Th' boys just brought 'em in. Anything else I can let yu have?”
“Nope,” shouted Buck as they galloped off.
“Somebody's goin' to get plugged full of holes,” murmured the ranch owner as he watched them kicking up the dust in huge clouds.
After they had forded a tributary of the Rio Penasco near the Sacramento Mountains and had surmounted the opposite bank, Hopalong spurred his horse to the top of a hummock and swept the plain with Pete's field glasses, which he had borrowed for the occasion, and returned to the rest, who had kept on without slacking the pace. As he took up his former position he grunted, “War-whoops,” and unslung his rifle, an example followed by the others.
The ponies were now running at top speed, and as they shot over a rise their riders saw their quarry a mile and a half in advance. One of the Indians looked back and discharged his rifle in defiance, and it now became a race worthy of the name—Death fled from Death. The fresher mounts of the cowboys steadily cut down the distance and, as the rifles of the pursuers began to speak, the hard-pressed Indians made for the smaller of two knolls, the plain leading to the larger one being too heavily strewn with bowlders to permit speed.
As the fugitives settled down behind the rocks which fringed the edge of their elevation a shot from one of them disabled Billy's arm, but had no other effect than to increase the score to be settled. The pursuers rode behind a rise and dismounted, from where, leaving their mounts protected, they scattered out to surround the knoll.
Hopalong, true to his curiosity, finally turned up on the highest point of the other knoll, a spur of the range in the west, for he always wanted to see all he could. Skinny, due to his fighting instinct, settled one hundred yards to the north and on the same spur. Buck lay hidden behind an enormous bowlder eight hundred yards to the northeast of Skinny, and the same distance southeast of Buck was Red Connors, who was crawling up the bed of an arroyo. Billy, nursing his arm, lay in front of the horses, and Pete, from his position between Billy and Hopalong, was crawling from rock to rock in an endeavor to get near enough to use his Colts, his favorite and most effective weapons. Intermittent puffs of smoke arising from a point between Skinny and Buck showed where Lanky Smith was improving each shining hour.
There had been no directions given, each man choosing his own position, yet each was of strategic worth. Billy protected the horses, Hopalong and Skinny swept the knoll with a plunging fire, and Lanky and Buck lay in the course the besieged would most likely take if they tried a dash. Off to the east Red barred them from creeping down the arroyo, and from where Pete was he could creep up to within sixty yards if he chose the right rocks. The ranges varied from four hundred yards for Buck to sixty for Pete, and the others averaged close to three hundred, which allowed very good shooting on both sides.
Hopalong and Skinny gradually moved nearer to each other for companionship, and as the former raised his head to see what the others were doing he received a graze on the ear.
“Wow!” he yelled, rubbing the tingling member.
Two puffs of smoke floated up from the knoll, and Skinny swore.
“Where'd he get yu, Fat?” asked Hopalong.
“G'wan, don't get funny, son,” replied Skinny.
Jets of smoke arose from the north and east, where Buck and Red were stationed, and Pete was half way to the knoll. So far he hadn't been hit as he dodged in and out, and, emboldened by his luck, he made a run of five yards and his sombrero was shot from his head. Another dash and his empty holster was ripped from its support. As he crouched behind a rock he heard a yell from Hopalong, and saw that interested individual waving his sombrero to cheer him on. An angry pang! from the knoll caused that enthusiastic rooter to drop for safety.
“Locoed son-of-a-gun,” complained Pete. “He'll shore git potted.” Then he glanced at Billy, who was the center of several successive spurts of dust.
“How's business, Billy?” he called pleasantly.
“Oh, they'll git me yet,” responded the pessimist. “Yu needn't git anxious. If that off buck wasn't so green he'd 'a' had me long ago.”
“Ya-hoo! Pete! Oh, Pete!” called Hopalong, sticking his head out at one side and grinning as the wondering object of his hail craned his neck to see what the matter was.
“Huh?” grunted Pete, and then remembering the distance he shouted, “What's th' matter?”
“Got any cigarettes?” asked Hopalong.
“Yu poor sheep!” said Pete, and turning back to work he drove a .45 into a yellow moccasin.
Hopalong began to itch and he saw that he was near an ant hill. Then the cactus at his right boomed out mournfully and a hole appeared in it. He fired at the smoke and a yell informed him that he had made a hit. “Go 'way!” he complained as a green fly buzzed past his nose. Then he scratched each leg with the foot of the other and squirmed incessantly, kicking out with both feet at once. A warning metallic whir-r-r! on his left caused to yank them in again, and turning his head quickly he the pleasure of lopping off the head of a rattlesnake with his Colt's.
“Glad yu wasn't a copperhead,” he exclaimed. “Somebody had ought 'a' shot that fool Noah. Blast the ants!” He drowned with a jet of tobacco juice a Gila monster that was staring at him and took a savage delight in its frantic efforts to bury itself.
Soon he heard Skinny swear and he sung out: “What's the matter, Skinny? Git plugged again?”
“Naw, bugs—ain't they mean?” Plaintively asked his friend. “They ain't none over here. What kind of bugs?”
“Sufferin' Moses, I ain't no bugologist! All kinds!”
But Hopalong got it at last. He had found tobacco and rolled a cigarette, and in reaching for a match exposed his shoulder to a shot that broke his collar bone. Skinny's rifle cracked in reply and the offending brave rolled out from behind a rock. From the fuss emanating from Hopalong's direction Skinny knew that his neighbor had been hit.
“Don't yu care, Hoppy. I got th' cuss,” he said consolingly. “Where'd he git yu?” he asked.
“In di' heart, yu pie-faced nuisance. Come over here an' corral this cussed bandage an' gimme some water,” snapped the injured man.
Skinny wormed his way through the thorny chaparral and bound up the shoulder. “Anything else?” he asked.
“Yes. Shoot that bunch of warts an' blow that tobacco-eyed Gila to Cheyenne. This here's worse than the time we cleaned out th' C 80 outfit!” Then he kicked the dead toad and swore at the sun.
“Close yore yap; yore worse than a kid! Anybody'd think yu never got plugged afore,” said Skinny indignantly.
“I can cuss all I wants,” replied Hopalong, proving his assertion as he grabbed his gun and fired at the dead Indian. A bullet whined above his head and Skinny fired at the smoke. He peeped out and saw that his friends were getting nearer to the knoll.
“They's closin' in now. We'll soon be gittin' home,” he reported.
Hopalong looked out in time to see Buck make a dash for a bowlder that lay ten yards in front of him, which he reached in safety. Lanky also ran in and Pete added five more yards to his advance. Buck made another dash, but leaped into the air, and, coming down as if from an intentional high jump, staggered and stumbled for a few paces and then fell flat, rolling over and over toward the shelter of a split rock, where he lay quiet. A leering red face peered over the rocks on the knoll, but the whoop of exultation was cut short, for Red's rifle cracked and the warrior rolled down the steep bank, where another shot from the same gun settled him beyond question.
Hopalong choked and, turning his face away, angrily dashed his knuckles into his eyes. “Blast 'em! Blast 'em! They've got Buck! They've got Buck, blast 'em! They've got Buck, Skinny! Good old Buck! They've got him! Jimmy's gone, Johnny's plugged, and now Buck's gone! Come on!” he sobbed in a frenzy of vengeance. “Come on, Skinny! We'll tear their cussed hides into a deeper red than they are now! Oh, blast it, I can't see—where's my gun?” He groped for the rifle and fought Skinny when the latter, red-eyed but cool, endeavored to restrain him. “Lemme go, curse yu! Don't yu know they got Buck? Lemme go!”
“Down! Red's got di' skunk. Yu can't do nothin'—they'd drop yu afore yu took five steps. Red's got him, I tell yu! Do yu want me to lick yu? We'll pay 'em back with interest if yu'll keep yore head!” exclaimed Skinny, throwing the crazed man heavily.
Musical tones, rising and falling in weird octaves, whining pityingly, diabolically, sobbing in a fascinating monotone and slobbering in ragged chords, calling as they swept over the plain, always calling and exhorting, they mingled in barbaric discord with the defiant barks of the six-shooters and the inquiring cracks of the Winchesters. High up in the air several specks sailed and drifted, more coming up rapidly from all directions. Buzzards know well where food can be found.
As Hopalong leaned back against a rock he was hit in the thigh by a ricochet that tore its way out, whirling like a circular saw, a span above where it entered. The wound was very nasty, being ripped twice the size made by an ordinary shot, and it bled profusely. Skinny crawled over and attended to it, making a tourniquet of his neckerchief and clumsily bandaging it with a strip torn from his shirt.
“Yore shore lucky, yu are,” he grumbled as he made his way back to his post, where he vented his rancor by emptying the semi-depleted magazine of his Winchester at the knoll.
Hopalong began to sing and shout and he talked of Jimmy and his childhood, interspersing the broken narrative with choice selections as sung in the music halls of Leavenworth and Abilene. He wound up by yelling and struggling, and Skinny had his hands full in holding him.
“Hopalong! Cassidy! Come out of that! Keep quiet—yu'll shore git plugged if yu don't stop that plungin'. For gosh sake, did yu hear that?” A bullet viciously hissed between them and flattened out on a near-by rock; others cut their way through the chaparral to the sound of falling twigs, and Skinny threw himself on the struggling man and strapped Hopalong with his belt to the base of a honey mesquite that grew at his side.
“Hold still, now, and let that bandage alone. Yu allus goes off di' range when yu gets plugged,” he complained. He cut down a cactus and poured the sap over the wounded man's face, causing him to gurgle and look around. His eyes had a sane look now and Skinny slid off his chest.
“Git that—belt loose; I ain't—no cow,” brokenly blazed out the picketed Hopalong. Skinny did so, handed the irate man his Colts and returned to his own post, from where he fired twice, reporting the shots.
“I'm tryin' to get him on th' glance' first one went high an' th' other fell flat,” he explained.
Hopalong listened eagerly, for this was shooting that he could appreciate. “Lemme see,” he commanded. Skinny dragged him over to a crack and settled down for another try.
“Where is he, Skinny?” Asked Hopalong.
“Behind that second big one. No, over on this here side. See that smooth granite? If I can get her there on th' right spot he'll shore know it.” He aimed carefully and fired.
Through Pete's glasses Hopalong saw a leaden splotch appear on the rock and he notified the marksman that he was shooting high. “Put her on that bump closer down,” he suggested. Skinny did so and another yell reached their ears.
“That's a dandy. Yore shore all right, yu old cuss,” complimented Hopalong, elated at the success of the experiment.
Skinny fired again and a brown arm flopped out into sight. Another shot struck it and it jerked as though it were lifeless.
“He's cashed. See how she jumped? Like a rope,” remarked Skinny with a grin. The arm lay quiet.
Pete had gained his last cover and was all eyes and Colts. Lanky was also very close in and was intently watching one particular rock. Several shots echoed from the far side of the knoll and they knew that Red was all right. Billy was covering a cluster of rocks that protruded above the others and, as they looked, his rifle rang out and the last defender leaped down and disappeared in the chaparral. He wore yellow trousers and an old boiled shirt.
“By an'-by, by all that's bad!” yelled Hopalong. “Th' measly coyote! An' me a-fillin' his ornery hide with liquor. Well, they'll have to find him all over again now,” he complained, astounded by the revelation. He fired into the chaparral to express his pugnacious disgust and scared out a huge tarantula, which alighted on Skinny's chaps, crawling rapidly toward the unconscious man's neck. Hopalong's face hardened and he slowly covered the insect and fired, driving it into the sand, torn and lifeless. The bullet touched the leathern garment and Skinny remonstrated, knowing that Hopalong was in no condition for fancy shooting.
“Huh!” exclaimed Hopalong. “That was a tarantula what I plugged. He was headin' for yore neck,” he explained, watching the chaparral with apprehension.
“Go 'way, was it? Bully for yu!” exclaimed Skinny, tarantulas being placed at par with rattlesnakes, and he considered that he had been saved from a horrible death. “Thought yu said they wasn't no bugs over here,” he added in an aggrieved tone.
“They wasn't none. Yu brought 'em. I only had th' main show—Gilas, rattlers an' toads,” he replied, and then added, “Ain't it cussed hot up here?”
“She is. Yu won't have no cinch ridin' home with that leg. Yu better take my cayuse—he's busted more'n yourn,” responded Skinny.
“Yore cayuse is at th' Cross Bar O, yu wall-eyed pirute.”
“Shore 'nuff. Funny how a feller forgets sometimes. Lemme alone now, they's goin' to git By-an'-by. Pete an' Lanky has just went in after him.”
That was what had occurred. The two impatient punchers, had grown tired of waiting, and risked what might easily have been death in order to hasten matters. The others kept up a rapid fire, directed at the far end of the chaparral on the knoll, in order to mask the movements of their venturesome friends, intending also to drive By-and-by toward them so that he would be the one to get picked off as he advanced.
Several shots rang out in quick succession on the knoll and the chaparral became agitated. Several more shots sounded from the depth of the thicket and a mounted Indian dashed out of the northern edge and headed in Buck's direction. His course would take him close to Buck, whom he had seen fall, and would let him escape at a point midway between Red and Skinny, as Lanky was on the knoll and the range was very far to allow effective shooting by these two.
Red saw him leave the chaparral and in his haste to reload jammed the cartridge, and By-and-by swept on toward temporary safety, with Red dancing in a paroxysm of rage, swelling his vocabulary with words he had forgotten existed.
By-and-by, rising to his full height in the saddle, turned and wiggled his fingers at the frenzied Red and made several other signs that the cowboy was in the humor to appreciate to the fullest extent. Then he turned and shook his rifle at the marksmen on the larger knoll, whose best shots kicked up the dust fully fifty yards too short. The pony was sweeping toward the reservation and friends only fifteen miles away, and By-and-by knew that once among the mountains he would be on equal footing at least with his enemies.
As he passed the rock behind which Buck lay sprawled on his face he uttered a piercing whoop of triumph and leaned forward on his pony's neck. Twenty leaps farther and the spiteful crack of a rifle echoed from where the foreman was painfully supporting himself on his elbows. The pony swept on in a spurt of nerve-racking speed, but alone. By-and-by shrieked again and crashed heavily to the ground, where he rolled inertly and then lay still. Men like Buck are dangerous until their hearts have ceased to beat.
CHAPTER VI. Trials of the Convalescent
The days at the ranch passed in irritating idleness for those who had obstructed the flight of hostile lead, and worse than any of the patients was Hopalong, who fretted and fumed at his helplessness, which retarded his recovery. But at last the day came when he was fit for the saddle again, and he gave notice of his joy in whoops and forthwith announced that he was entitled to a holiday; and Buck had not the heart to refuse him.
So he started forth in his quest of peace and pleasure, but instead had found only trouble and had been forced to leave his card at almost every place he had visited.
There was that affair in Red Hot Gulch, Colorado, where, under pressure, he had invested sundry pieces of lead in the persons of several obstreperous citizens and then had paced the zealous and excitable sheriff to the state line.
He next was noticed in Cheyenne, where his deformity was vividly dwelt upon, to the extent of six words, by one Tarantula Charley, the aforesaid Charley not being able to proceed to greater length on account of heart failure. As Charley had been a ubiquitous nuisance, those present availed themselves of the opportunity offered by Hopalong to indulge in a free drink.
Laramie was his next stopping place, and shortly after his arrival he was requested to sing and dance by a local terror, who informed all present that he was the only seventeen-buttoned rattlesnake in the cow country. Hopalong, hurt and indignant at being treated like a common tenderfoot, promptly knocked the terror down. After he had irrigated several square feet of parched throats belonging to the audience he again took up his journey and spent a day at Denver, where he managed to avoid any further trouble.
Santa Fe loomed up before him several days later and he entered it shortly before noon. At this time the old Spanish city was a bundle of high-strung nerves, and certain parts of it were calculated to furnish any and all kinds of excitement except revival meetings and church fairs. Hopalong straddled a lively nerve before he had been in the city an hour. Two local bad men, Slim Travennes and Tex Ewalt, desiring to establish the fact that they were roaring prairie fires, attempted to consume the placid and innocent stranger as he limped across the plaza in search of a game of draw poker at the Black Hills Emporium, with the result that they needed repairs, to the chagrin and disgust of their immediate acquaintances, who endeavored to drown their mortification and sorrow in rapid but somewhat wild gun play, and soon remembered that they had pressing engagements elsewhere.
Hopalong reloaded his guns and proceeded to the Emporium, where he found a game all prepared for him in every sense of the word. On the third deal he objected to the way in which the dealer manipulated the cards, and when the smoke cleared away he was the only occupant of the room, except a dog belonging to the bartender that had intercepted a stray bullet.
Hunting up the owner of the hound, he apologized for being the indirect cause of the animal's death, deposited a sum of Mexican dollars in that gentleman's palm and went on his way to Alameda, which he entered shortly after dark, and where an insult, simmering in its uncalled-for venom, met him as he limped across the floor of the local dispensary on his way to the bar. There was no time for verbal argument and precedent had established the manner of his reply, and his repartee was as quick as light and most effective. Having resented the epithets he gave his attention to the occupants of the room.
Smoke drifted over the table in an agitated cloud and dribbled lazily upward from the muzzle of his six-shooter, while he looked searchingly at those around him. Strained and eager faces peered at his opponent, who was sliding slowly forward in his chair, and for the length of a minute no sound but the guarded breathing of the onlookers could be heard. This was broken by a nervous cough from the rear of the room, and the faces assumed their ordinary nonchalant expressions, their rugged lines heavily shadowed in the light of the flickering oil lamps, while the shuffling of cards and the clink of silver became audible. Hopalong Cassidy had objected to insulting remarks about his affliction.
Hopalong was very sensitive about his crippled leg and was always prompt to resent any scorn or curiosity directed at it, especially when emanating from strangers. A young man of twenty-three years, when surrounded by nearly perfect specimens of physical manhood, is apt to be painfully self-conscious of any such defect, and it reacted on his nature at times, even though he was well-known for his happy-go-lucky disposition and playfulness. He consoled himself with the knowledge that what he lost in symmetry was more than balanced by the celerity and certainty of his gun hand, which was right or left, or both, as the occasion demanded.
Several hours later, as his luck was vacillating, he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and was overjoyed at seeing Buck and Red, the latter grinning as only Red could grin, and he withdrew from the game to enjoy his good fortune.
While Hopalong had been wandering over the country the two friends had been hunting for him and had traced him successfully, that being due to the trail he had blazed with his six-shooters. This they had accomplished without harm to themselves, as those of whom they inquired thought that they must want Hopalong “bad,” and cheerfully gave the information required.
They had started out more for the purpose of accompanying him for pleasure, but that had changed to an urgent necessity in the following manner:
While on the way from Denver to Santa Fe they had met Pete Willis of the Three Triangle, a ranch that adjoined their own, and they paused to pass the compliments of the season.
“Purty far from th' grub wagon, Pie,” remarked Buck.
“Oh, I'm only goin' to Denver,” responded Pie.
“Purty hot,” suggested Red.
“She shore is. Seen anybody yu knows?” Pie asked.
“One or two—Billy of th' Star Crescent an' Panhandle Lukins,” answered Buck.
“That so? Panhandle's goin' to punch for us next year. I'll hunt him up. I heard down south of Albuquerque that Thirsty Jones an' his brothers are lookin' for trouble,” offered Pie.
“Yah! They ain't lookin' for no trouble—they just goes around blowin' off. Trouble? Why, they don't know what she is,” remarked Red contemptuously.
“Well, they's been dodgin' th' sheriff purty lively lately, an' if that ain't trouble I don't know what is,” said Pie.
“It shore is, an' hard to dodge,” acquiesced Buck.
“Well, I has to amble. Is Panhandle in Denver? Yes? I calculates as how me an' him'll buck th' tiger for a whirl—he's shore lucky. Well, so long,” said Pie as he moved on.
“So long,” responded the two.
“Hey, wait a minute,” yelled Pie after he had ridden a hundred yards. “If yu sees Hopalong yu might tell him that th' Joneses are goin' to hunt him up when they gits to Albuquerque. They's shore sore on him. 'Tain't none of my funeral, only they ain't always a-carin' how they goes after a feller. So long,” and soon he was a cloud of dust on the horizon.
“Trouble!” snorted Red; “well, between dodgin' Harris an' huntin' Hopalong I reckons they'll shore find her.” Then to himself he murmured, “Funny how everythin' comes his way.”
“That's gospel shore enough, but, as Pie said, they ain't a whole lot particular as how they deal th' cards. We better get a move on an' find that ornery little cuss,” replied Buck.
“O. K., only I ain't losin' no sleep about Hoppy. His gun's too lively for me to do any worryin',” asserted Red.
“They'll get lynched some time, shore,” declared Buck.
“Not if they find Hoppy,” grimly replied Red.
They tore through Santa Fe, only stopping long enough to wet their throats, and after several hours of hard riding entered Alameda, where they found Hopalong in the manner narrated.
After some time the three left the room and headed for Albuquerque, twelve miles to the south. At ten o'clock they dismounted before the Nugget and Rope, an unpainted wooden building supposed to be a clever combination of barroom, dance and gambling hall and hotel. The cleverness lay in the man who could find the hotel part.
CHAPTER VII. The Open Door
The proprietor of the Nugget and Rope, a German named Baum, not being troubled with police rules, kept the door wide open for the purpose of inviting trade, a proceeding not to the liking of his patrons for obvious reasons. Probably not one man in ten was fortunate enough to have no one “looking for him,” and the lighted interior assured good hunting to any one in the dark street. He was continually opening the door, which every newcomer promptly and forcibly slammed shut. When he saw men walk across the room for the express purpose of slamming it he began to cherish the idea that there was a conspiracy on foot to anger him and thus force him to bring about his own death.
After the door had been slammed three times in one evening by one man, the last slam being so forcible as to shake two bottles from the shelf and to crack the door itself, he became positive that his suspicions were correct, and so was very careful to smile and take it as a joke. Finally, wearied by his vain efforts to keep it open and fearing for the door, he hit upon a scheme, the brilliancy of which inflated his chest and gave him the appearance of a prize-winning bantam. When his patrons strolled in that night there was no door to slam, as it lay behind the bar.
When Buck and Red entered, closely followed by Hopalong, they elbowed their way to the rear of the room, where they could see before being seen. As yet they had said nothing to Hopalong about Pie's warning and were debating in their minds whether they should do so or not, when Hopalong interrupted their thoughts by laughing. They looked up and he nodded toward the front, where they saw that anxious eyes from all parts of the room were focused on the open door. Then they noticed that it had been removed.
The air of semi-hostile, semi-anxious inquiry of the patrons and the smile of satisfaction covering the face of Baum appealed to them as the most ludicrous sight their eyes had seen for months, and they leaned back and roared with laughter, thus calling forth sundry looks of disapproval from the innocent causes of their merriment. But they were too well known in Albuquerque to allow the disapproval to approach a serious end, and finally, as the humorous side of the situation dawned on the crowd, they joined in the laugh and all went merrily.
At the psychologic moment some one shouted for a dance and the suggestion met with uproarious approval. At that moment Harris, the sheriff, came in and volunteered to supply the necessary music if the crowd would pay the fine against a straying fiddler he had corraled the day before. A hat was quickly passed and a sum was realized which would pay several fines to come and Harris departed for the music.
A chair was placed on the bar for the musician and, to the tune of “Old Dan Tucker” and an assortment of similar airs, the board floor shook and trembled. It was a comical sight and Hopalong, the only wallflower besides Baum and the sheriff, laughed until he became weak. Cow punchers play as they work, hard and earnestly, and there was plenty of action. Sombreros flapped like huge wings and the baggy chaps looked like small, distorted balloons.
The Virginia reel was a marvel of supple, exaggerated grace and the quadrille looked like a free-for-all for unbroken colts. The honor of prompter was conferred upon the sheriff, and he gravely called the changes as they were usually called in that section of the country:
“Oh, th' ladies trail in
An' th' gents trail out,
An' all stampede down th' middle.
If yu ain't got th' tin
Yu can dance an' shout,
But yu must keep up with th' fiddle.”
As the dance waxed faster and the dancers grew hotter Hopalong, feeling lonesome because he wouldn't face ridicule, even if it was not expressed, went over and stood by the sheriff. He and Harris were good friends, for he had received the wound that crippled him in saving the sheriff from assassination. Harris killed the man who had fired that shot, and from this episode on the burning desert grew a friendship that was as strong as their own natures.
Harris was very well liked by the majority and feared by the rest, for he was a square man and the best sheriff the county had ever known. Quiet and unassuming, small of stature and with a kind word for every one, he was a universal favorite among the better class of citizens. Quick as a flash and unerring in his shooting, he was a nightmare to the “bad men.” No profane word had ever been known to leave his lips, and he was the possessor of a widespread reputation for generosity. His face was naturally frank and open; but when his eyes narrowed with determination it became blank and cold. When he saw his young friend sidle over to him he smiled and nodded a hearty welcome.
“They's shore cuttin' her loose,” remarked Hopalong.
“First two pairs forward an' back!—they shore is,” responded the prompter.
“Who's th' gent playin' lady to Buck?” Queried Hopalong.
“Forward again an' ladies change!—Billy Jordan.”
Hopalong watched the couple until they swung around and then he laughed silently. “Buck's got too many feet,” he seriously remarked to his friend.
“Swing th' girl yu loves th' best!—he ain't lonesome, look at that—”
Two shots rang out in quick succession and Harris stumbled, wheeled and pitched forward on his face as Hopalong's sombrero spun across his body. For a second there was an intense silence, heavy, strained and sickening. Then a roar broke forth and the crowd of frenzied merry-makers, headed by Hopalong, poured out into the street and spread out to search the town. As daylight dawned the searchers began to straggle back with the same report of failure. Buck and Red met on the street near the door and each looked questioningly at the other. Each shook his head and looked around, their fingers toying absentmindedly at their belts. Finally Buck cleared his throat and remarked casually,
“Mebby he's following 'em.”
Red nodded and they went over toward their horses. As they were hesitating which route to take, Billy Jordan came up.
“Mebby yu'd like to see yore pardner—he's out by Buzzard's Spring. We'll take care of him,” jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward the saloon where Harris's body lay. “And we'll all git th' others later. They cain't git away for long.”
Buck and Red nodded and headed for Buzzard's Spring. As they neared the water hole they saw Hopalong sitting on a rock, his head resting in one hand while the other hung loosely from his knee. He did not notice them when they arrived, and with a ready tact they sat quietly on their horses and looked in every direction except toward him. The sun became a ball of molten fire and the sand flies annoyed them incessantly, but still they sat and waited, silent and apologetic.
Hopalong finally arose, reached for his sombrero, and, finding it gone, swore long and earnestly at the scene its loss brought before him. He walked over to his horse and, leaping into the saddle, turned and faced his friends. “Yu old sons-of-guns,” he said. They looked sheepish and nodded negatively in answer to the look of inquiry in his eyes. “They ain't got 'em yet,” remarked Red slowly. Hopalong straightened up, his eyes narrowed and his face became hard and resolute as he led the way back toward the town.
Buck rode up beside him and, wiping his face with his shirt sleeve, began to speak to Red. “We might look up th' Joneses, Red. They had been dodgin' th' sheriff purty lively lately, an' they was huntin' Hopalong. Ever since we had to kill their brother in Buckskin they has been yappin' as how they was goin' to wipe us out. Hopalong an' Harris was standin' clost together an' they tried for both. They shot twice, one for Harris an' one for Hopalong, an' what more do yu want?”
“It shore looks thataway, Buck,” replied Red, biting into a huge plug of tobacco which he produced from his chaps. “Anyhow, they wouldn't be no loss if they didn't. Member what Pie said?”
Hopalong looked straight ahead, and when he spoke the words sounded as though he had bitten them off: “Yore right, Buck, but I gits first try at Thirsty. He's my meat an' I'll plug th' fellow what says he ain't. Damn him!”
The others replied by applying their spurs, and in a short time they dismounted before the Nugget and Rope. Thirsty wouldn't have a chance to not care how he dealt the cards.
Buck and Red moved quickly through the crowd, speaking fast and earnestly. When they returned to where they had left their friend they saw him half a block away and they followed slowly, one on either side of the street. There would be no bullets in his back if they knew what they were about, and they usually did.
As Hopalong neared the corner, Thirsty and his two brothers turned it and saw him. Thirsty said something in a low voice, and the other two walked across the street and disappeared behind the store. When assured that they were secure, Thirsty walked up to a huge boulder on the side of the street farthest from the store and turned and faced his enemy, who approached rapidly until about five paces away, when he slowed up and finally stopped.
For a number of seconds they sized each other up, Hopalong quiet and deliberate with a deadly hatred; Thirsty pale and furtive with a sensation hitherto unknown to him. It was Right meeting Wrong, and Wrong lost confidence. Often had Thirsty Jones looked death in the face and laughed, but there was something in Hopalong's eyes that made his flesh creep.
He glanced quickly past his foe and took in the scene with one flash of his eyes. There was the crowd, eager, expectant, scowling. There were Buck and Red, each lounging against a boulder, Buck on his right, Red on his left. Before him stood the only man he had ever feared. Hopalong shifted his feet and Thirsty, coming to himself with a start, smiled. His nerve had been shaken, but he was master of himself once more.
“Well!” he snarled, scowling.
Hopalong made no response, but stared him in the eyes.
Thirsty expected action, and the deadly quiet of his enemy oppressed him. He stared in turn, but the insistent searching of his opponent's eyes scorched him and he shifted his gaze to Hopalong's neck.
“Well!” he repeated uneasily.
“Did yu have a nice time at th' dance last night?” Asked Hopalong, still searching the face before him.
“Was there a dance? I was over in Alameda,” replied Thirsty shortly.
“Ya-as, there was a dance, an' yu can shoot purty durn far if yu was in Alameda,” responded Hopalong, his voice low and monotonous.
Thirsty shifted his feet and glanced around. Buck and Red were still lounging against their bowlders and apparently were not paying any attention to the proceedings. His fickle nerve came back again, for he knew he would receive fair play. So he faced Hopalong once more and regarded him with a cynical smile.
“Yu seems to worry a whole lot about me. Is it because yu has a tender feelin', or because it's none of yore blame business?” He asked aggressively.
Hopalong paled with sudden anger, but controlled himself.
“It's because yu murdered Harris,” he replied.
“Shoo! An' how does yu figger it out?” Asked Thirsty, jauntily.
“He was huntin' yu hard an' yu thought yu'd stop it, so yu came in to lay for him. When yu saw me an' him together yu saw di' chance to wipe out another score. That's how I figger it out,” replied Hopalong quietly.
“Yore a reg'lar 'tective, ain't yu?” Thirsty asked ironically.
“I've got common sense,” responded Hopalong.
“Yu has? Yu better tell th' rest that, too,” replied Thirsty.
“I know yu shot Harris, an' yu can't get out of it by makin' funny remarks. Anyhow, yu won't be much loss, an' th' stage company'll feel better, too.”
“Shoo! An' suppose I did shoot him, I done a good job, didn't I?”
“Yu did the worst job yu could do, yu highway robber,” softly said Hopalong, at the same time moving nearer. “Harris knew yu stopped th' stage last month, an' that's why yu've been dodgin' him.”
“Yore a liar!” shouted Thirsty, reaching for his gun.
The movement was fatal, for before he could draw, the Colt in Hopalong's holster leaped out and flashed from its owner's hip and Thirsty fell sideways, face down in the dust of the street.
Hopalong started toward the fallen man, but as he did so a shot rang out from behind the store and he pitched forward, stumbled and rolled behind the bowlder. As he stumbled his left hand streaked to his hip, and when he fell he had a gun in each hand.
As he disappeared from sight Goodeye and Bill Jones stepped from behind the store and started to run away. Not able to resist the temptation to look again, they stopped and turned and Bill laughed.
“Easy as sin,” he said.
“Run, yu fool—Red an' Buck'll be here. Want to git plugged?” shouted Goodeye angrily.
They turned and started for a group of ponies twenty yards away, and as they leaped into the saddles two shots were fired from the street. As the reports died away Buck and Red turned the corner of the store, Colts in hand, and, checking their rush as they saw the saddles emptied, they turned toward the street and saw Hopalong, with blood oozing from an abrasion on his cheek, sitting up cross-legged, with each hand holding a gun, from which came thin wisps of smoke.
“Th' son-of-a-gun!” cried Buck, proud and delighted.
“Th' son-of-a-gun!” echoed Red, grinning.
CHAPTER VIII. Hopalong Keeps His Word
The waters of the Rio Grande slid placidly toward the Gulf, the hot sun branding the sleepy waters with streaks of molten fire. To the north arose from the gray sandy plain the Quitman Mountains, and beyond them lay Bass Ca on. From the latter emerged a solitary figure astride a broncho, and as he ascended the topmost rise he glanced below him at the placid stream and beyond it into Mexico. As he sat quietly in his saddle he smiled and laughed gently to himself. The trail he had just followed had been replete with trouble which had suited the state of his mind and he now felt humorous, having cleaned up a pressing debt with his six-shooter. Surely there ought to be a mild sort of excitement in the land he faced, something picturesque and out of the ordinary. This was to be the finishing touch to his trip, and he had left his two companions at Albuquerque in order that he might have to himself all that he could find.
Not many miles to the south of him lay the town which had been the rendezvous of Tamale Jose, whose weakness had been a liking for other people's cattle. Well he remembered his first man hunt: the discovery of the theft, the trail and pursuit and—the ending. He was scarcely eighteen years of age when that event took place, and the wisdom he had absorbed then had stood him in good stead many times since. He had even now a touch of pride at the recollection how, when his older companions had failed to get Tamale Jose, he with his undeveloped strategy had gained that end. The fight would never be forgotten, as it was his first, and no sight of wounds would ever affect him as did those of Red Connors as he lay huddled up in the dark corner of that old adobe hut.
He came to himself and laughed again as he thought of Carmencita, the first girl he had ever known—and the last. With a boy's impetuosity he had wooed her in a manner far different from that of the peons who sang beneath her window and talked to her mother. He had boldly scaled the wall and did his courting in her house, trusting to luck and to his own ability to avoid being seen. No hidden meaning lay in his words; he spoke from his heart and with no concealment. And he remembered the treachery that had forced him, fighting, to the camp of his outfit; and when he had returned with his friends she had disappeared.
To this day he hated that mud-walled convent and those sisters who so easily forgot how to talk. The fragrance of the old days wrapped themselves around him, and although he had ceased to pine for his black-eyed Carmencita-well, it would be nice if he chanced to see her again. Spurring his mount into an easy canter he swept down to and across the river, fording it where he had crossed it when pursuing Tamale Jose.
The town lay indolent under the Mexican night, and the strumming of guitars and the tinkle of spurs and tiny bells softly echoed from several houses. The convent of St. Maria lay indistinct in its heavy shadows and the little church farther up the dusty street showed dim lights in its stained windows. Off to the north became audible the rhythmic beat of a horse and soon a cowboy swept past the convent with a mocking bow.
He clattered across the stone-paved plaza and threw his mount back on its haunches as he stopped before a house. Glancing around and determining to find out a few facts as soon as possible, he rode up to the low door and pounded upon it with the butt of his Colt. After waiting for possibly half a minute and receiving no response he hammered a tune upon it with two Colts and had the satisfaction of seeing half a score of heads protrude from the windows in the nearby houses.
“If I could scare up another gun I might get th' whole blamed town up,” he grumbled whimsically, and fell on the door with another tune.
“Who is it?” came from within. The voice was distinctly feminine and Hopalong winked to himself in congratulation.
“Me,” he replied, twirling his fingers from his nose at the curious, forgetting that the darkness hid his actions from sight.
“Yes, I know; but who is 'me'?” Came from the house.
“Ain't I a fool!” he complained to himself, and raising his voice he replied coaxingly, “Open th' door a bit an' see. Are yu Carmencita?”
“O-o-o! but you must tell me who it is first.”
“Mr. Cassidy,” he replied, flushing at the 'mister,' “an' I wants to see Carmencita.”
“Carmencita who?” teasingly came from behind the door. Hopalong scratched his head. “Gee, yu've roped me—I suppose she has got another handle. Oh, yu know—she used to live here about seven years back. She had great big black eyes, pretty cheeks an' a mouth that 'ud stampede anybody. Don't yu know now? She was about so high,” holding out his hands in the darkness.
The door opened a trifle on a chain and Hopalong peered eagerly forward.
“Ah, it is you, the brave Americano! You must go away quick or you will meet with harm. Manuel is awfully jealous and he will kill you! Go at once, please!”
Hopalong pulled at the half-hearted down upon his lip and laughed softly. Then he slid the guns back in their holsters and felt for his sombrero.
“Manuel wants to see me first, Star Eyes.”
“No! no!” she replied, stamping upon the floor vehemently. “You must go now—at once!”
“I'd shore look nice hittin' th' trail because Manuel Somebody wants to get hurt, wouldn't I? Don't yu remember how I used to shinny up this here wall an' skin th' cat gettin' through that hole up there what yu said was a window? Ah, come on an' open th' door—I'd shore like to see yu again!” pleaded the irrepressible.
“No! no! Go away. Oh, won't you please go away!”
Hopalong sighed audibly and turned his horse. As he did so he heard the door open and a sigh reached his ears. He wheeled like a flash and found the door closed again on its chain. A laugh of delight came from behind it.
“Come out, please!—just for a minute,” he begged, wishing that he was brave enough to smash the door to splinters and grab her.
“If I do, will you go away?” Asked the girl. “Oh, what will Manuel say if he comes? And all those people, they'll tell him!”
“Hey, yu!” shouted Hopalong, brandishing his Colts at the protruding heads. “Git scarce! I'll shore plug th' last one in!” Then he laughed at the sudden vanishing.
The door slowly opened and Carmencita, fat and drowsy, wobbled out to him. Hopalong's feelings were interfering with his breathing as he surveyed her. “Oh, yu shore are mistaken, Mrs. Carmencita. I wants to see yore daughter!”
“Ah, you have forgotten the little Carmencita who used to look for you. Like all the men, you have forgotten,” she cooed reproachfully. Then her fear predominated again and she cried, “Oh, if my husband should see me now!”
Hopalong mastered his astonishment and bowed. He had a desire to ride madly into the Rio Grande and collect his senses.
“Yu are right—this is too dangerous—I'll amble on some,” he replied hastily. Under his breath he prayed that the outfit would never learn of this. He turned his horse and rode slowly up the street as the door closed.
Rounding the corner he heard a soft footfall, and swerving in his saddle he turned and struck with all his might in the face of a man who leaped at him, at the same time grasping the uplifted wrist with his other hand. A curse and the tinkle of thin steel on the pavement accompanied the fall of his opponent. Bending down from his saddle he picked up the weapon and the next minute the enraged assassin was staring into the unwavering and, to him, growing muzzle of a Colt's .45.
“Yu shore had a bum teacher. Don't yu know better'n to push it in? An' me a cowpuncher, too! I'm most grieved at yore conduct—it shows you don't appreciate cow-wrastlers. This is safer,” he remarked, throwing the stiletto through the air and into a door, where it rang out angrily and quivered. “I don't know as I wants to ventilate yu; we mostly poisons coyotes up my way,” he added. Then a thought struck him. “Yu must be that dear Manuel I've been hearin' so much about?”
A snarl was the only reply and Hopalong grinned.
“Yu shore ain't got no call to go loco that way, none whatever. I don't want yore Carmencita. I only called to say hulloo,” responded Hopalong, his sympathies being aroused for the wounded man before him from his vivid recollection of the woman who had opened the door.
“Yah!” snarled Manuel. “You wants to poison my little bird. You with your fair hair and your cursed swagger!”
The six-shooter tentatively expanded and stopped six inches from the Mexican's nose. “Yu wants to ride easy, hombre. I ain't no angel, but I don't poison no woman; an' don't yu amble off with th' idea in yore head that she wants to be poisoned. Why, she near stuck a knife in me!” he lied.
The Mexican's face brightened somewhat, but it would take more than that to wipe out the insult of the blow. The horse became restless, and when Hopalong had effectively quieted it he spoke again.
“Did yu ever hear of Tamale Jose?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I'm th' fellow that stopped him in th' 'dobe hut by th' arroyo. I'm tellin' yu this so yu won't do nothin' rash an' leave Carmencita a widow. Sabe?”
The hate on the Mexican's face redoubled and he took a short step forward, but stopped when the muzzle of the Colt kissed his nose. He was the brother of Tamale Jose. As he backed away from the cool touch of the weapon he thought out swiftly his revenge. Some of his brother's old companions were at that moment drinking mescal in a saloon down the street, and they would be glad to see this Americano die. He glanced past his house at the saloon and Hopalong misconstrued his thoughts.
“Shore, go home. I'll just circulate around some for exercise. No hard feelings, only yu better throw it next time,” he said as he backed away and rode off. Manuel went down the street and then ran into the saloon, where he caused an uproar.
Hopalong rode to the end of the plaza and tried to sing, but it was a dismal failure. Then he felt thirsty and wondered why he hadn't thought of it before. Turning his horse and seeing the saloon he rode up to it and in, lying flat on the animal's neck to avoid being swept off by the door frame. His entrance scared white some half a dozen loungers, who immediately sprang up in a decidedly hostile manner. Hopalong's Colts peeped over the ears of his horse and he backed into a corner near the bar.
“One, two, three—now, altogether, breathe! Yu acts like yu never saw a real puncher afore. All th' same,” he remarked, nodding at several of the crowd, “I've seen yu afore. Yu are th' gents with th' hot-foot get-a-way that vamoosed when we got Tamale.”
Curses were flung at him and only the humorous mood he was in saved trouble. One, bolder than the rest, spoke up: “The senor will not see any 'hot-foot get-a-way,' as he calls it, now! The senor was not wise to go so far away from his friends!”'
Hopalong looked at the speaker and a quizzical grin slowly spread over his face. “They'll shore feel glad when I tells them yu was askin' for 'em. But didn't yu see too much of 'em once, or was yu poundin' leather in the other direction? Yu don't want to worry none about me—an' if yu don't get yore hands closter to yore neck they'll be heck to pay! There, that's more like home,” he remarked, nodding assurance.
Reaching over he grasped a bottle and poured out a drink, his Colt slipping from his hand and dangling from his wrist by a thong. As the weapon started to fall several of the audience involuntarily moved as if to pick it up. Hopalong noticed this and paused with the glass half way to his lips. “Don't bother yoreselves none; I can git it again,” he said, tossing off the liquor.
“Wow! Holy smoke!” he yelled. “This ain't drink! Sufferin' coyotes, nobody can accuse yu of sellin' liquor! Did yu make this all by yoreself?” He asked incredulously of the proprietor, who didn't know whether to run or to pray. Then he noticed that the crowd was spreading out and his Colts again became the center of interest.
“Yu with th' lovely face, sit down!” he ordered as the person addressed was gliding toward the door. “I ain't a-goin' to let yu pot me from th' street. Th' first man who tries to get scarce will stop somethin' hot. An' yu all better sit down,” he suggested, sweeping them with his guns. One man, more obdurate than the rest, was slow in complying and Hopalong sent a bullet through the top of his high sombrero, which had a most gratifying effect.
“You'll regret this!” hissed a man in the rear, and a murmur of assent arose. Some one stirred slightly in searching for a weapon and immediately a blazing Colt froze him into a statue.
“Yu shore looks funny; eeny, meeny, miny, mo,” counted off the daring horseman; “move a bit an' off yu go,” he finished. Then his face broke out in another grin as he thought of more enjoyment.
“That there gent on th' left,” he said, pointing out with a gun the man he meant. “Yu sing us a song. Sing a nice little song.”
As the object of his remarks remained mute he let his thumb ostentatiously slide back with the hammer of the gun under it. “Sing! Quick!” The man sang.
As Hopalong leaned forward to say something a stiletto flashed past his neck and crashed into the bottle beside him. The echo of the crash was merged into a report as Hopalong fired from his waist. Then he backed out into the Street and, wheeling, galloped across the plaza and again faced the saloon. A flash split the darkness and a bullet hummed over his head and thudded into an adobe wall at his back. Another shot and he replied, aiming at the flash.
From down the Street came the sound of a window opening and he promptly caused it to close again. Several more windows opened and hastily closed, and he rode slowly toward the far end of the plaza. As he faced the saloon once more he heard a command to throw up his hands and saw the glint of a gun, held by a man who wore the insignia of sheriff. Hopalong complied, but as his hands went up two spurts of fire shot forth and the sheriff dropped his weapon, reeled and sat down. Hopalong rode over to him and swinging down, picked up the gun and looked the officer over.
“Shoo, yu'll be all right soon—yore only plugged in th' arms,” he remarked as he glanced up the street. Shadowy forms were gliding from cover to cover and he immediately caused consternation among them by his accuracy. “Ain't it sad?” He complained to the wounded man. “I never starts out but what somebody makes me shoot 'em. Came down here to see a girl an' find she's married. Then when I moves on peaceable—like her husband makes me hit him. Then I wants a drink an' he goes an' fans a knife at me, an' me just teachin' him how! Then yu has to come along an' make more trouble”.
“Now look at them fools over there,” he said, pointing at a dark shadow some fifty paces off. “They're pattin' their backs because I don't see 'em, an' if I hurts them they'll git mad. Guess I'll make 'em dust along,” he added, shooting into the spot. A howl went up and two men ran away at top speed.
The sheriff nodded his sympathy and spoke. “I reckons you had better give up. You can't get away. Every house, every corner and shadow holds a man. You are a brave man, but, as you say, unfortunate. Better help me up and come with me—they'll tear you to pieces.”
“Shore I'll help yu up—I ain't got no grudge against nobody. But my friends know where I am an' they'll come down here an' raise a ruction if I don't show up. So, if it's all th' same to you, I'll be ambling right along,” he said as he helped the sheriff to his feet.
“Have you any objections to telling me your name?” Asked the sheriff as he looked himself over.
“None whatever,” answered Hopalong heartily. “I'm Hopalong Cassidy of th' Bar 20, Texas.”
“You don't surprise me—I've heard of you,” replied the sheriff wearily. “You are the man who killed Tamale Jose, whom I hunted for unceasingly. I found him when you had left and I got the reward. Come again some time and I'll divide with you; two hundred and fifty dollars,” he added craftily.
“I shore will, but I don't want no money,” replied Hopalong as he turned away. “Adios, senor,” he called back.
“Adios,” replied the sheriff as he kicked a nearby door for assistance.
The cow-pony tied itself up in knots as it pounded down the street toward the trail, and although he was fired on he swung into the dusty trail with a song on his lips. Several hours later he stood dripping wet on the American side of the Rio Grande and shouted advice to a score of Mexican cavalrymen on the opposite bank. Then he slowly picked his way toward El Paso for a game at Faro Dan's.
The sheriff sat in his easy chair one night some three weeks later, gravely engaged in rolling a cigarette. His arms were practically well, the wounds being in the fleshy parts. He was a philosopher and was disposed to take things easy, which accounted for his being in his official position for fifteen years. A gentleman at the core, he was well educated and had visited a goodly portion of the world. A book of Horace lay open on his knees and on the table at his side lay a shining new revolver, Hopalong having carried off his former weapon. He read aloud several lines and in reaching for a light for his cigarette noticed the new six-shooter. His mind leaped from Horace to Hopalong, and he smiled grimly at the latter's promise to call.
Glancing up, his eyes fell on a poster which conveyed the information in
Spanish and in English that there was offered
+———————————————————+
| | FIVE HUNDRED PESOS | |
REWARD
For Hopalong Cassidy, of the Ranch
| | Known as the Bar-20, Texas, U. S. A. | |
+———————————————————+
and which gave a good description of that gentleman.
Sighing for the five hundred, he again took up his book and was lost in its pages when he heard a knock, rather low and timid. Wearily laying aside his reading, he strode to the door, expecting to hear a lengthy complaint from one of his townsmen. As he threw the door wide open the light streamed out and lighted up a revolver and behind it the beaming face of a cowboy, who grinned.
“Well, I'll be damned!” ejaculated the sheriff, starting back in amazement.
“Don't say that, sheriff; you've got lots of time to reform,” replied a humorous voice. “How's th' wings?”
“Almost well: you were considerate,” responded the sheriff. “Let's go in—somebody might see me out here an' get into trouble,” suggested the visitor, placing his foot on the sill.
“Certainly—pardon my discourtesy,” said the sheriff. “You see, I wasn't expecting you to-night,” he explained, thinking of the elaborate preparations that he would have gone to if he had thought the irrepressible would call.
“Well, I was down this way, an' seeing as how I had promised to drop in I just natchurally dropped,” replied Hopalong as he took the chair proffered by his host.
After talking awhile on everything and nothing the sheriff coughed and looked uneasily at his guest.
“Mr. Cassidy, I am sorry you called, for I like men of your energy and courage and I very much dislike to arrest you,” remarked the sheriff. “Of course you understand that you are under arrest,” he added with anxiety.
“Who, me?” Asked Hopalong with a rising inflection.
“Most assuredly,” breathed the sheriff.
“Why, this is the first time I ever heard anything about it,” replied the astonished cow-puncher. “I'm an American—don't that make any difference?”
“Not in this case, I'm afraid. You see, it's for manslaughter.”
“Well, don't that beat th' devil, now?” Said Hopalong. He felt sorry that a citizen of the glorious United States should be prey for troublesome sheriffs, but he was sure that his duty to Texas called upon him never to submit to arrest at the hands of a Mexican. Remembering the Alamo, and still behind his Colt, he reached over and took up the shining weapon from the table and snapped it open on his knee. After placing the cartridges in his pocket he tossed the gun over on the bed and, reaching inside his shirt, drew out another and threw it after the first.
“That's yore gun; I forgot to leave it,” he said, apologetically. “Anyhow yu needs two,” he added.
Then he glanced around the room, noticed the poster and walked over and read it. A full swift sweep of his gloved hand tore it from its fastenings and crammed it under his belt. The glimmer of anger in his eyes gave way as he realized that his head was worth a definite price, and he smiled at what the boys would say when he showed it to them. Planting his feet far apart and placing his arms akimbo he faced his host in grim defiance.
“Got any more of these?” He inquired, placing his hand on the poster under his belt.
“Several,” replied the sheriff.
“Trot 'em out,” ordered Hopalong shortly.
The sheriff sighed, stretched and went over to a shelf, from which he took a bundle of the articles in question. Turning slowly he looked at the puncher and handed them to him.
“I reckons they's all over this here town,” remarked Hopalong.
“They are, and you may never see Texas again.”
“So? Well, yu tell yore most particular friends that the job is worth five thousand, and that it will take so many to do it that when th' mazuma is divided up it won't buy a meal. There's only one man in this country tonight that can earn that money, an' that's me,” said the puncher. “An' I don't need it,” he added, smiling.
“But you are my prisoner—you are under arrest,” enlightened the sheriff, rolling another cigarette. The sheriff spoke as if asking a question. Never before had five hundred dollars been so close at hand and yet so unobtainable. It was like having a check-book but no bank account.
“I'm shore sorry to treat yu mean,” remarked Hopalong, “but I was paid a month in advance an' I'll have to go back an' earn it.”
“You can—if you say that you will return,” replied the sheriff tentatively. The sheriff meant what he said and for the moment had forgotten that he was powerless and was not the one to make terms.
Hopalong was amazed and for a time his ideas of Mexicans staggered under the blow. Then he smiled sympathetically as he realized that he faced a white man.
“Never like to promise nothin',” he replied. “I might get plugged, or something might happen that wouldn't let me.” Then his face lighted up as a thought came to him. “Say, I'll cut di' cards with yu to see if I comes back or not.”
The sheriff leaned back and gazed at the cool youngster before him. A smile of satisfaction, partly at the self-reliance of his guest and partly at the novelty of his situation, spread over his face. He reached for a pack of Mexican cards and laughed. “Man! You're a cool one—I'll do it. What do you call?”
“Red,” answered Hopalong.
The sheriff slowly raised his hand and revealed the ace of hearts. Hopalong leaned back and laughed, at the same time taking from his pocket the six extracted cartridges. Arising and going over to the bed he slipped them in the chambers of the new gun and then placed the loaded weapon at the sheriff's elbow.
“Well, I reckon I'll amble, sheriff,” he said as he opened the door. “If yu ever sifts up my way drop in an' see me—th' boys'll give yu a good time.”
“Thanks; I will be glad to,” replied the sheriff. “You'll take your pitcher to the well once too often some day, my friend. This courtesy,” glancing at the restored revolver, “might have cost you dearly.”
“Shoo! I did that once an' th' feller tried to use it,” replied the cowboy as he backed through the door. “Some people are awfully careless,” he added. “So long—”
“So long,” replied the sheriff, wondering what sort of a man he had been entertaining.
The door closed softly and soon after a joyous whoop floated in from the Street. The sheriff toyed with the new gun and listened to the low caress of a distant guitar.
“Well, don't that beat all?” He ejaculated.
CHAPTER IX. The Advent of McAllister
The blazing sun shone pitilessly on an arid plain which was spotted with dust-gray clumps of mesquite and thorny chaparral. Basking in the burning sand and alkali lay several Gila monsters, which raised their heads and hissed with wide-open jaws as several faint, whip-like reports echoed flatly over the desolate plain, showing that even they had learned that danger was associated with such sounds.
Off to the north there became visible a cloud of dust and at intervals something swayed in it, something that rose and fell and then became hidden again. Out of that cloud came sharp, splitting sounds, which were faintly responded to by another and larger cloud in its rear. As it came nearer and finally swept past, the Gilas, to their terror, saw a madly pounding horse, and it carried a man. The latter turned in his saddle and raised a gun to his shoulder and the thunder that issued from it caused the creeping audience to throw up their tails in sudden panic and bury themselves out of sight in the sand.
The horse was only a broncho, its sides covered with hideous yellow spots, and on its near flank was a peculiar scar, the brand. Foam flecked from its crimsoned jaws and found a resting place on its sides and on the hairy chaps of its rider. Sweat rolled and streamed from its heaving flanks and was greedily sucked up by the drought-cursed alkali. Close to the rider's knee a bloody furrow ran forward and one of the broncho's ears was torn and limp. The broncho was doing its best—it could run at that pace until it dropped dead. Every ounce of strength it possessed was put forth to bring those hind hoofs well in front of the forward ones and to send them pushing the sand behind in streaming clouds. The horse had done this same thing many times—when would its master learn sense?
The man was typical in appearance with many of that broad land. Lithe, sinewy and bronzed by hard riding and hot suns, he sat in his Cheyenne saddle like a centaur, all his weight on the heavy, leather-guarded stirrups, his body rising in one magnificent straight line. A bleached moustache hid the thin lips, and a gray sombrero threw a heavy shadow across his eyes. Around his neck and over his open, blue flannel shirt lay loosely a knotted silk kerchief, and on his thighs a pair of open-flapped holsters swung uneasily with their ivory handled burdens. He turned abruptly, raised his gun to his shoulder and fired, then he laughed recklessly and patted his mount, which responded to the confident caress by lying flatter to the earth in a spurt of heart-breaking speed.
“I'll show 'em who they're trailin'. This is th' second time I've started for Muddy Wells, an' I'm goin' to git there, too, for all th' Apaches out of Hades!”
To the south another cloud of dust rapidly approached and the rider scanned it closely, for it was directly in his path. As he watched it he saw something wave and it was a sombrero! Shortly afterward a real cowboy yell reached his ears. He grinned and slid another cartridge in the greasy, smoking barrel of the Sharp's and fired again at the cloud in his rear. Some few minutes later a whooping, bunched crowd of madly riding cowboys thundered past him and he was recognized.
“Hullo, Frenchy!” yelled the nearest one. “Comin' back?”
“Come on, McAllister!” shouted another; “we'll give 'em blazes!” In response the straining broncho suddenly stiffened, bunched and slid on its haunches, wheeled and retraced its course. The rear cloud suddenly scattered into many smaller ones and all swept off to the east. The rescuing band overtook them and, several hours later, when seated around a table in Tom Lee's saloon, Muddy Wells, a count was taken of them, which was pleasing in its facts.
“We was huntin' coyotes when we saw yu,” said a smiling puncher who was known as Salvation Carroll chiefly because he wasn't.
“Yep! They've been stalkin' Tom's chickens,” supplied Waffles, the champion poker player of the outfit. Tom Lee's chickens could whip anything of their kind for miles around and were reverenced accordingly.
“Sho! Is that so?” Asked Frenchy with mild incredulity, such a state of affairs being deplorable.
“She shore is!” answered Tex Le Blanc, and then, as an afterthought, he added, “Where'd yu hit th' War-whoops?”
“'Bout four hours back. This here's th' second time I've headed for this place—last time they chased me to Las Cruces.”
“That so?” Asked Bigfoot Baker, a giant. “Ain't they allus interferin', now? Anyhow, they're better'n coyotes.”
“They was purty well heeled,” suggested Tex, glancing at a bunch of repeating Winchesters of late model which lay stacked in a corner. “Charley here said he thought they was from th' way yore cayuse looked, didn't yu, Charley?” Charley nodded and filled his pipe.
“'Pears like a feller can't amble around much nowadays without havin' to fight,” grumbled Lefty Allen, who usually went out of his way hunting up trouble.
“We're goin' to th' Hills as soon as our cookie turns up,” volunteered Tenspot Davis, looking inquiringly at Frenchy. “Heard any more news?”
“Nope. Same old story—lots of gold. Shucks, I've bit on so many of them rumors that they don't feaze me no more. One man who don't know nothin' about prospectin' goes an' stumbles over a fortune an' those who know it from A to Izzard goes 'round pullin' in their belts.”
“We don't pull in no belts—we knows just where to look, don't we, Tenspot?” Remarked Tex, looking very wise.
“Ya-as we do,” answered Tenspot, “if yu hasn't dreamed about it, we do.”
“Yu wait; I wasn't dreamin', none whatever,” assured Tex.
“I saw it!”
“Ya-as, I saw it too onct,” replied Frenchy with sarcasm. “Went and lugged fifty pound of it all th' way to th' assay office—took me two days! an' that there four-eyed cuss looks at it and snickers. Then he takes me by di' arm an' leads me to th' window. 'See that pile, my friend? That's all like yourn,' sez he. 'It's worth about one simoleon a ton at th' coast. They use it for ballast.'”
“Aw! But this what I saw was gold!” exploded Tex.
“So was mine, for a while!” laughed Frenchy, nodding to the bartender for another round.
“Well, we're tired of punchin' cows! Ride sixteen hours a day, year in an' year out, an' what do we get? Fifty a month an' no chance to spend it, an' grub that'd make a coyote sniffle! I'm for a vacation, an' if I goes broke, why, I'll punch again!” asserted Waffles, the foreman, thus revealing the real purpose of the trip.
“What'd yore boss say?” Asked Frenchy.
“Whoop! What didn't he say! Honest, I never thought he had it in him. It was fine. He cussed an hour frontways an' then trailed back on a dead gallop, with us a-laughin' fit to bust. Then he rustles for his gun an' we rustles for town,” answered Waffles, laughing at his remembrance of it.
As Frenchy was about to reply his sombrero was snatched from his head and disappeared. If he “got mad” he was to be regarded as not sufficiently well acquainted for banter and he was at once in hot water; if he took it good-naturedly he was one of the crowd in spirit; but in either case he didn't get his hat without begging or fighting for it. This was a recognized custom among the O-Bar-O outfit and was not intended as an insult.
Frenchy grabbed at the empty air and arose. Punching Lefty playfully in the ribs he passed his hands behind that person's back. Not finding the lost head-gear he laughed and, tripping Lefty up, fell with him and, reaching up on the table for his glass, poured the contents down Lefty's back and arose.
“Yu son-of-a-gun!” indignantly wailed that unfortunate. “Gee, it feels funny,” he added, grinning as he pulled the wet shirt away from his spine.
“Well, I've got to be amblin',” said Frenchy, totally ignoring the loss of his hat. “Goin' down to Buckskin,” he offered, and then asked, “When's yore cook comin'?”
“Day after to-morrow, if he don't get loaded,” replied Tex.
“Who is he?”
“A one-eyed Mexican—Quiensabe Antonio.”
“I used to know him. He's a heck of a cook. Dished up th' grub one season when I was punchin' for th' Tin-Cup up in Montana,” replied Frenchy.
“Oh, he kin cook now, all right.” replied Waffles.
“That's about all he can cook. Useter wash his knives in th' coffee pot an' blow on di' tins. I chased him a mile one night for leavin' sand in th' skillet. Yu can have him—I don't envy yu none whatever.
“He don't sand no skillet when little Tenspot's around,” assured that person, slapping his holster. “Does he, Lefty?”
“If he does, yu oughter be lynched,” consoled Lefty.
“Well, so long,” remarked Frenchy, riding off to a small store, where he bought a cheap sombrero.
Frenchy was a jack-of-all-trades, having been cow-puncher, prospector, proprietor of a “hotel” in Albuquerque, foreman of a ranch, sheriff, and at one time had played angel to a venturesome but poor show troupe. Beside his versatility he was well known as the man who took the stage through the Sioux country when no one else volunteered. He could shoot with the best, but his one pride was the brand of poker he handed out. Furthermore, he had never been known to take an unjust advantage over any man and, on the contrary, had frequently voluntarily handicapped himself to make the event more interesting. But he must not be classed as being hampered with self-restraint.
His reasons for making this trip were two-fold: he wished to see Buck Peters, the foreman of the Bar-20 outfit, as he and Buck had punched cows together twenty years before and were firm friends; the other was that he wished to get square with Hopalong Cassidy, who had decisively cleaned him out the year before at poker. Hopalong played either in great good luck or the contrary, while Frenchy played an even, consistent game and usually left off richer than when he began, and this decisive defeat bothered him more than he would admit, even to himself.
The round-up season was at hand and the Bar-20 was short of ropers, the rumors of fresh gold discoveries in the Black Hills having drawn all the more restless men north. The outfit also had a slight touch of the gold fever, and only their peculiar loyalty to the ranch and the assurance of the foreman that when the work was over he would accompany them, kept them from joining the rush of those who desired sudden and much wealth as the necessary preliminary of painting some cow town in all the “bang up” style such an event would call for. Therefore they had been given orders to secure the required assistance, and they intended to do so, and were prepared to kidnap, if necessary, for the glamour of wealth and the hilarity of the vacation made the hours falter in their speed.
As Frenchy leaned back in his chair in Cowan's saloon, Buckskin, early the next morning, planning to get revenge on Hopalong and then to recover his sombrero, he heard a medley of yells and whoops and soon the door flew open before the strenuous and concentrated entry of a mass of twisting and kicking arms and legs, which magically found their respective owners and reverted to the established order of things.
When the alkali dust had thinned he saw seven cow-punchers sitting on the prostrate form of another, who was earnestly engaged in trying to push Johnny Nelson's head out in the street with one foot as he voiced his lucid opinion of things in general and the seven in particular. After Red Connors had been stabbed in the back several times by the victim's energetic elbow he ran out of the room and presently returned with a pleased expression and a sombrero full of water, his finger plugging an old bullet hole in the crown.
“Is he any better, Buck?” Anxiously inquired the man with the reservoir.
“About a dollar's worth,” replied the foreman. “Jest put a little right here,” he drawled as he pulled back the collar of the unfortunate's shirt.
“Ow! wow! WOW!” wailed the recipient, heaving and straining. The unengaged leg was suddenly wrested loose, and as it shot up and out Billy Williams, with his pessimism aroused to a blue-ribbon pitch, sat down forcibly in an adjacent part of the room, from where he lectured between gasps on the follies of mankind and the attributes of army mules.
Red tiptoed around the squirming bunch, looking for an opening, his pleased expression now having added a grin.
“Seems to be gittin' violent-like,” he soliloquized, as he aimed a stream at Hopalong's ear, which showed for a second as Pete Wilson strove for a half-nelson, and he managed to include Johnny and Pete in his effort.
Several minutes later, when the storm had subsided, the woeful crowd enthusiastically urged Hopalong to the bar, where he “bought.”
“Of all th' ornery outfits I ever saw—” began the man at the table, grinning from ear to ear at the spectacle he had just witnessed.
“Why, hullo, Frenchy! Glad to see yu, yu old son-of-a-gun! What's th' news from th' Hills?” Shouted Hopalong.
“Rather locoed, an' there's a locoed gang that's headin' that way. Goin' up?” he asked.
“Shore, after round-up. Seen any punchers trailin' around loose?”
“Ya-as,” drawled Frenchy, delving into the possibilities suddenly opened to him and determining to utilize to the fullest extent the opportunity that had come to him unsought. “There's nine over to Muddy Wells that yu might git if yu wants them bad enough. They've got a sombrero of mine,” he added deprecatingly.
“Nine! Twisted Jerusalem, Buck! Nine whole cow-punchers a-pinin' for work,” he shouted, but then added thoughtfully, “Mebby they's engaged,” it being one of the courtesies of the land not to take another man's help.
“Nope. They've stampeded for th' Hills an' left their boss all alone,” replied Frenchy, well knowing that such desertion would not, in the minds of the Bar-20 men, add any merits to the case of the distant outfit.
“Th' sons-of-guns,” said Hopalong, “let's go an' get 'em,” he suggested, turning to Buck, who nodded a smiling assent.
“Oh, what's the hurry?” Asked Frenchy, seeing his projected game slipping away into the uncertain future and happy in the thought that he would be avenged on the O-Bar-O outfit.
“They'll be there till to-morrow noon—they's waitin' for their cookie, who's goin' with them.”
“A cook! A cook! Oh, joy, a cook!” exulted Johnny, not for one instant doubting Buck's ability to capture the whole outfit and seeing a whirl of excitement in the effort.
“Anybody we knows?” Inquired Skinny Thompson.
“Shore. Tenspot Davis, Waffles, Salvation Carroll, Bigfoot Baker, Charley Lane, Lefty Allen, Kid Morris, Curley Tate an' Tex Le Blanc,” responded Frenchy.
“Umm-m. Might as well rope a blizzard,” grumbled Billy. “Might as well try to git th' Seventh Cavalry. We'll have a pious time corralling that bunch. Them's th' fellows that hit that bunch of inquirin' Crow braves that time up in th' Bad Lands an' then said by-bye to th' Ninth.”
“Aw, shut up! They's only two that's very much, an' Buck an' Hopalong can sing 'em to sleep,” interposed Johnny, afraid that the expedition would fall through.
“How about Curley and Tex?” Pugnaciously asked Billy.
“Huh, jest because they buffaloed yu over to Las Vegas yu needn't think they's dangerous. Salvation an' Tenspot are only ones who can shoot,” stoutly maintained Johnny.
“Here yu, get mum,” ordered Buck to the pair. “When this outfit goes after anything it generally gets it. All in favor of kidnappin' that outfit signify di' same by kickin' Billy,” whereupon Bill swore.
“Do yu want yore hat?” Asked Buck, turning to Frenchy.
“I shore do,” answered that individual.
“If yu helps us at th' round-up we'll get it for yu. Fifty a month an' grub,” offered the foreman.
“O.K.” replied Frenchy, anxious to even matters.
Buck looked at his watch. “Seven o'clock—we ought to get there by five if we relays at th' Barred-Horseshoe. Come on.”
“How are we goin' to git them?” Asked Billy.
“Yu leave that to me, son. Hopalong an' Frenchy'll tend to that part of it,” replied Buck, making for his horse and swinging into the saddle, an example which was followed by the others, including Frenchy.
As they swung off Buck noticed the condition of Frenchy's mount and halted. “Yu take that cayuse back an' get Cowan's,” he ordered.
“That cayuse is good for Cheyenne—she eats work, an' besides I wants my own,” laughed Frenchy.
“Yu must had a reg'lar picnic from th' looks of that crease,” volunteered Hopalong, whose curiosity was mastering him. “Shoo! I had a little argument with some feather dusters—th' O-Bar-O crowd cleaned them up.”
“That so?” Asked Buck.
“Yep! They sorter got into th' habit of chasin' me to Las Cruces an' forgot to stop.”
“How many'd yu get?” Asked Lanky Smith.
“Twelve. Two got away. I got two before th' crowd showed up—that makes fo'teen.”
“Now th' cavalry'll be huntin' yu,” croaked Billy.
“Hunt nothin'! They was in war-paint-think I was a target?—Think I was goin' to call off their shots for 'em?”
They relayed at the Barred-Horseshoe and went on their way at the same pace. Shortly after leaving the last-named ranch Buck turned to Frenchy and asked, “Any of that outfit think they can play poker?”
“Shore. Waffles.”
“Does th' reverend Mr. Waffles think so very hard?”
“He shore does.”
“Do th' rest of them mavericks think so too?”
“They'd bet their shirts on him.”
At this juncture all were startled by a sudden eruption from Billy. “Haw! Haw! Haw!” he roared as the drift of Buck's intentions struck him. “Haw! Haw! Haw!”
“Here, yu long-winded coyote,” yelled Red, banging him over the head with his quirt, “If yu don't 'Haw! Haw!' away from my ear I'll make it a Wow! Wow! What d'yu mean? Think I am a echo cliff? Yu slabsided doodle-bug, yu!”
“G'way, yu crimson topknot, think my head's a hunk of quartz? Fer a plugged peso I'd strew yu all over th' scenery!” shouted Billy, feigning anger and rubbing his head.
“There ain't no scenery around here,” interposed Lanky. “This here be-utiful prospect is a sublime conception of th' devil.”
“Easy, boy! Them highfalutin' words'il give yu a cramp some day. Yu talk like a newly-made sergeant,” remarked Skinny.
“He learned them words from the sky-pilot over at El Paso,” volunteered Hopalong, winking at Red. “He used to amble down th' aisle afore the lights was lit so's he could get a front seat. That was all hunky for a while, but every time he'd go out to irrigate, that female organ-wrastler would seem to call th' music off for his special benefit. So in a month he'd sneak in an' freeze to a chair by th' door, an' after a while he'd shy like blazes every time he got within eye range of th' church.”
“Shore. But do yu know what made him get religion all of a sudden? He used to hang around on di' outside after th' joint let out an' trail along behind di' music-slinger, lookin' like he didn't know what to do with his hands. Then when he got woozy one time she up an' told him that she had got a nice long letter from her hubby. Then Mr. Lanky hit th' trail for Santa Fe so hard that there wasn't hardly none of it left. I didn't see him for a whole month,” supplied Red innocently.
“Yore shore funny, ain't yu?” sarcastically grunted Lanky. “Why, I can tell things on yu that'd make yu stand treat for a year.”
“I wouldn't sneak off to Santa Fe an' cheat yu out of them. Yu ought to be ashamed of yoreself.”
“Yah!” snorted the aggrieved little man. “I had business over to Santa Fe!”
“Shore,” endorsed Hopalong. “We've all had business over to Santa Fe. Why, about eight years ago I had business—”
“Choke up,” interposed Red. “About eight years ago yu was washin' pans for cookie, an' askin' me for cartridges. Buck used to larrup yu about four times a day eight years ago.”
To their roars of laughter Hopalong dropped to the rear, where, red-faced and quiet, he bent his thoughts on how to get square.
“We'll have a pleasant time corralling that gang,” began Billy for the third time.
“For heaven's sake get off that trail!” replied Lanky. “We aint goin' to hold 'em up. De-plomacy's th' game.”
Billy looked dubious and said nothing. If he hadn't proven that he was as nervy as any man in the outfit they might have taken more stock in his grumbling.
“What's the latest from Abilene way?” Asked Buck of Frenchy.
“Nothin' much 'cept th' barb-wire ruction,” replied the recruit.
“What's that?” Asked Red, glancing apprehensively back at Hopalong.
“Why, th' settlers put up barb-wire fence so's the cattle wouldn't get on their farms. That would a been all right, for there wasn't much of it. But some Britishers who own a couple of big ranches out there got smart all of a sudden an' strung wire all along their lines. Punchers crossin' th' country would run plumb into a fence an' would have to ride a day an' a half, mebbe, afore they found th' corner. Well, naturally, when a man has been used to ridin' where he blame pleases an' as straight as he pleases he ain't goin' to chase along a five-foot fence to Trisco when he wants to get to Waco. So th' punchers got to totin' wire-snips, an' when they runs up agin a fence they cuts down half a mile or so. Sometimes they'd tie their ropes to a strand an' pull off a couple of miles an' then go back after th' rest. Th' ranch bosses sent out men to watch th' fences an' told 'em to shoot any festive puncher that monkeyed with th' hardware. Well, yu know what happens when a puncher gets shot at.”
“When fences grow in Texas there'll be th' devil to pay,” said Buck. He hated to think that some day the freedom of the range would be annulled, for he knew that it would be the first blow against the cowboys' occupation. When a man's cattle couldn't spread out all over the land he wouldn't have to keep so many men. Farms would spring up and the sun of the free-and-easy cowboy would slowly set.
“I reckons th' cutters are classed th' same as rustlers,” remarked Red with a gleam of temper.
“By th' owners, but not by th' punchers; an' it's th' punchers that count,” replied Frenchy.
“Well, we'll give them a fight,” interposed Hopalong, riding up. “When it gets so I can't go where I please I'll start on th' warpath. I won't buck the cavalry, but I'll keep it busy huntin' for me an' I'll have time to 'tend to th' wire-fence men, too. Why, we'll be told we can't tote our guns!”
“They're sayin' that now,” replied Frenchy. “Up in Buffalo, Smith, who's now marshal, makes yu leave 'em with th' bartenders.”
“I'd like to see any two-laigged cuss get my guns If I didn't want him to!” began Hopalong, indignant at the idea.
“Easy, son,” cautioned Buck. “Yu would do what th' rest did because yu are a square man. I'm about as hard-headed a puncher as ever straddled leather an' I've had to use my guns purty considerable, but I reckons if any decent marshal asked me to cache them in a decent way, why, I'd do it. An' let me brand somethin' on yore mind—I've heard of Smith of Buffalo, an' he's mighty nifty with his hands. He don't stand off an' tell yu to unload yore lead-ranch, but he ambles up close an' taps yu on yore shirt; if yu makes a gunplay he naturally knocks yu clean across th' room an' unloads yu afore yu gets yore senses back. He weighs about a hundred an' eighty an' he's shore got sand to burn.”
“Yah! When I makes a gun play she plays! I'd look nice in Abilene or Paso or Albuquerque without my guns, wouldn't I? Just because I totes them in plain sight I've got to hand 'em over to some liquor-wrastler? I reckons not! Some hip-pocket skunk would plug me afore I could wink. I'd shore look nice loping around a keno layout without my guns, in th' same town with some cuss huntin' me, wouldn't I? A whole lot of good a marshal would a done Jimmy, an' didn't Harris get his from a cur in th' dark?” shouted Hopalong, angered by the prospect.
“We're talkin' about Buffalo, where everybody has to hang up their guns,” replied Buck. “An' there's th' law—”
“To blazes with th' law!” whooped Hopalong in Red's ear as he unfastened the cinch of Red's saddle and at the same time stabbing that unfortunate's mount with his spurs, thereby causing a hasty separation of the two. When Red had picked himself up and things had quieted down again the subject was changed, and several hours later they rode into Muddy Wells, a town with a little more excuse for its existence than Buckskin. The wells were in an arid valley west of Guadaloupe Pass, and were not only muddy but more or less alkaline.
CHAPTER. X. Peace Hath its Victories
As they neared the central group of buildings they heard a hilarious and assertive song which sprang from the door and windows of the main saloon. It was in jig time, rollicking and boisterous, but the words had evidently been improvised for the occasion, as they clashed immediately with those which sprang to the minds of the outfit, although they could not be clearly distinguished. As they approached nearer and finally dismounted, however, the words became recognizable and the visitors were at once placed in harmony with the air of jovial recklessness by the roaring of the verses and the stamping of the time.
Oh we're red-hot cow-punchers playin' on our luck,
An' there ain't a proposition that we won't buck:
From sunrise to sunset we've ridden on the range,
But now we're oft for a howlin' change.
CHORUS
Laugh a little, sing a little, all th' day;
Play a little, drink a little—we can pay;
Ride a little, dig a little an' rich we'll grow.
Oh, we're that bunch from th' O-Bar-O!
Oh, there was a little tenderfoot an' he had a little gun,
An' th' gun an' him went a-trailin' up some fun.
They ambles up to Santa Fe' to find a quiet game,
An' now they're planted with some more of th' same!
As Hopalong, followed by the others, pushed open the door and entered he took up the chorus with all the power of Texan lungs and even Billy joined in. The sight that met their eyes was typical of the men and the mood and the place. Leaning along the walls, lounging on the table and straddling chairs with their forearms crossed on the backs were nine cowboys, ranging from old twenty to young fifty in years, and all were shouting the song and keeping time with their hands and feet.
In the center of the room was a large man dancing a fair buck-and-wing to the time so uproariously set by his companions. Hatless, neck-kerchief loose, holsters flapping, chaps rippling out and close, spurs clinking and perspiration streaming from his tanned face, danced Bigfoot Baker as though his life depended on speed and noise. Bottles shook and the air was fogged with smoke and dust. Suddenly, his belt slipping and letting his chaps fall around his ankles, he tripped and sat down heavily. Gasping for breath, he held out his hand and received a huge plug of tobacco, for Bigfoot had won a contest.
Shouts of greeting were hurled at the newcomers and many questions were fired at them regarding “th' latest from th' Hills.” Waffles made a rush for Hopalong, but fell over Big-foot's feet and all three were piled up in a heap. All were beaming with good nature, for they were as so many school boys playing truant. Prosaic cow-punching was relegated to the rear and they looked eagerly forward to their several missions. Frenchy told of the barb-wire fence war and of the new regulations of “Smith of Buffalo” regarding cow-punchers' guns, and from the caustic remarks explosively given it was plain to be seen what a wire fence could expect, should one be met with, and there were many imaginary Smiths put hors de combat.
Kid Morris, after vainly trying to slip a blue-bottle fly inside of Hopalong's shirt, gave it up and slammed his hand on Hopalong's back instead, crying: “Well, I'll be doggoned if here ain't Hopalong! How's th' missus an' th' deacon an' all th' folks to hum? I hears yu an' Frenchy's reg'lar poker fiends!”
“Oh, we plays onct in a while, but we don't want none of yore dust. Yu'll shore need it all afore th' Hills get through with yu,” laughingly replied Hopalong.
“Oh, yore shore kind! But I was a sort of reckonin' that we needs some more. Perfesser P. D. Q. Waffles is our poker man an' he shore can clean out anything I ever saw. Mebbe yu fellers feel reckless-like an' would like to make a pool,” he cried, addressing the outfit of the Bar-20, “an' back yore boss of th' full house agin ourn?”
Red turned slowly around and took a full minute in which to size the Kid up. Then he snorted and turned his back again.
The Kid stared at him in outraged dignity. “Well, what say!” he softly murmured. Then he leaped forward and walloped Red on the back. “Hey, yore royal highness!” he shouted. “Yu-yu-yu-oh, hang it-yu! Yu slab-sided, ring-boned, saddle-galled shade of a coyote, do yu think I'm only meanderin' in th' misty vales of-of—”
Suggestions intruded from various sources. “Hades?” offered Hopalong. “Cheyenne?” Murmured Johnny. “Misty mistiness of misty?” tentatively supplied Waffles.
Red turned around again. “Better come up an' have somethin',” he sympathetically invited, wiping away an imaginary tear.
“An' he's so young!” sobbed Frenchy.
“An' so fair!” wailed Tex.
“An' so ornery!” howled Lefty, throwing his arms around the discomfited youngster. Other arms went around him, and out of the sobbing mob could be heard earnest and heart-felt cussing, interspersed with imperative commands, which were gradually obeyed.
The Kid straightened up his wearing apparel. “Come on, yu locoed—”
“Angels?” Queried Charley Lane, interrupting him. “Sweet things?” breathed Hopalong in hopeful expectancy.
“Oh, blast it!” yelled the Kid as he ran out into the street to escape the persecution.
“Good Kid, all right,” remarked Waffles. “He'll go around an' lick some Mexican an' come back sweet as honey.”
“Did somebody say poker?” Asked Bigfoot, digressing from the Kid.
“Oh, yu fellows don't want no poker. Of course yu don't. Poker's mighty uncertain,” replied Red.
“Yah!” exclaimed Tex Le Blanc, pushing forward. “I'll just bet yu to a standstill that Waffles an' Salvation'll round up all th' festive simoleons yu can get together! An' I'll throw in Frenchy's hat as an inducement.”
“Well, if yore shore set on it make her a pool,” replied Red, “an' th' winners divide with their outfit. Here's a starter,” he added, tossing a buckskin bag on the table. “Come on, pile 'em up.”
The crowd divided as the players seated themselves at the table, the O-Bar-O crowd grouping themselves behind their representatives; the Bar-20 behind theirs. A deck of cards was brought and the game was on.
Red, true to his nature, leaned back in a corner, where, hands on hips, he awaited any hostile demonstration on the part of the O-Bar-O; then, suddenly remembering, he looked half ashamed of his warlike position and became a peaceful citizen again. Buck leaned with his broad back against the bar, talking over his shoulder to the bartender, but watching Tenspot Davis, who was assiduously engaged in juggling a handful of Mexican dollars.
Up by the door Bigfoot Baker, elated at winning the buck-and-wing contest, was endeavoring to learn a new step, while his late rival was drowning his defeat at Buck's elbow. Lefty Allen was softly singing a Mexican love song, humming when the words would not come. At the table could be heard low-spoken card terms and good-natured banter, interspersed with the clink of gold and silver and the soft pat-pat of the onlookers' feet unconsciously keeping time to Lefty's song. Notwithstanding the grim assertiveness of belts full of .45's and the peeping handles of long-barreled Colts, set off with picturesque chaps, sombreros and tinkling spurs, the scene was one of peaceful content and good-fellowship.
“Ugh!” grunted Johnny, walking over to Red and informing that person that he, Red, was a worm-eaten prune and that for half a wink he, Johnny, would prove it. Red grabbed him by the seat of his corduroys and the collar of his shirt and helped him outside, where they strolled about, taking pot shots at whatever their fancy suggested.
Down the street in a cloud of dust rumbled the Las Cruces-El Paso stage and the two punchers went up to meet it. Raw furrows showed in the woodwork, one mule was missing and the driver and guard wore fresh bandages. A tired tenderfoot leaped out with a sigh of relief and hunted for his baggage, which he found to be generously perforated. Swearing at the God-forsaken land where a man had to fight highwaymen and Indians inside of half a day he grumblingly lugged his valise toward a forbidding-looking shack which was called a hotel.
The driver released his teams and then turned to Red. “Hullo, old hoss, how's th' gang?” he asked genially. “We've had a heck of a time this yere trip,” he went on without waiting for Red to reply. “Five miles out of Las Cruces we stood off a son-of-a-gun that wanted th' dude's wealth. Then just this side of the San Andre foothills we runs into a bunch of young bucks who turned us off this yere way an' gave us a runnin' fight purty near all th' way. I'm a whole lot farther from Paso now than I was when I started, an seem as I lost a jack I'll be some time gittin' there. Yu don't happen to sabe a jack I can borrow, do yu?”
“I don't know about no jack, but I'll rope yu a bronch,” offered Red, winking at Johnny.
“I'll pull her myself before I'll put dynamite in di' traces,” replied the driver. “Yu fellers might amble back a ways with me—them buddin' warriors'll be layin' for me.”
“We shore will,” responded Johnny eagerly. “There's nine of us now an' there'll be nine more an' a cook to-morrow, mebby.”
“Gosh, yu grows some,” replied the guard. “Eighteen'll be a plenty for them glory hunters.”
“We won't be able to,” contradicted Red, “for things are peculiar.”
At this moment the conversation was interrupted by the tenderfoot, who sported a new and cheap sombrero and also a belt and holster complete.
“Will you gentlemen join me?” He asked, turning to Red and nodding at the saloon. “I am very dry and much averse to drinking alone.”
“Why, shore,” responded Red heartily, wishing to put the stranger at ease.
The game was running about even as they entered and Lefty Allen was singing “The Insult,” the rich tenor softening the harshness of the surroundings.
I've swum th' Colorado where she's almost lost to view, I've braced
th' Jaro layouts in Cheyenne;
I've fought for muddy water with a howlin' bunch of Sioux, An'
swallowed hot tamales, an' cayenne.
I've rid a pitchin' broncho 'till th' sky was underneath, I've
tackled every desert in th' land;
I've sampled XXXX whiskey 'till I couldn't hardly see, An' dallied
with th' quicksands of the Grande.
I've argued with th' marshals of a half-a-dozen burgs, I've been
dragged free an' fancy by a cow;
I've had three years' campaignin' with th' fightin', bitin' Ninth,
An' never lost my temper 'till right now.
I've had the yaller fever an I've been shot full of holes, I've
grabbed an army mule plumb by its tail;
I've never been so snortin', really highfalutin' mad As when y'u up
an' hands me ginger ale!
Hopalong laughed joyously at a remark made by Waffles and the stranger glanced quickly at him. His merry, boyish face, underlined by a jaw showing great firmness and set with an expression of aggressive self-reliance, impressed the stranger and he remarked to Red, who lounged lazily near him, that he was surprised to see such a face on so young a man and he asked who the player was.
“Oh, his name's Hopalong Cassidy,” answered Red. “He's di' cuss that raised that ruction down in Mexico last spring. Rode his cayuse in a saloon and played with the loungers and had to shoot one before he got out. When he did get out he had to fight a whole bunch of Mexicans an' even potted their marshal, who had di' drop on him. Then he returned and visited the marshal about a month later, took his gun away from him an' then cut th' cards to see if he was a prisoner or not. He's a shore funny cuss.”
The tenderfoot gasped his amazement. “Are you not fooling with me?” He asked.
“Tell him yu came after that five hundred dollars reward and see,” answered Red goodnaturedly.
“Holy smoke!” shouted Waffles as Hopalong won his sixth consecutive pot. “Did yu ever see such luck?” Frenchy grinned and some time later raked in his third. Salvation then staked his last cent against Hopalong's flush and dropped out.
Tenspot flipped to Waffles the money he had been juggling and Lefty searched his clothes for wealth. Buck, still leaning against the bar, grinned and winked at Johnny, who was pouring hair-raising tales into the receptive ears of the stranger. Thereupon Johnny confided to his newly found acquaintance the facts about the game, nearly causing that person to explode with delight.
Waffles pushed back his chair, stood up and stretched. At the finish of a yawn he grinned at his late adversary. “I'm all in, yu old son-of-a-gun. Yu shore can play draw. I'm goin' to try yu again some time. I was beat fair an' square an' I ain't got no kick comin', none whatever,” he remarked, as he shook hands with Hopalong.
“Oh, we're that gang from th' O-Bar-O,” hummed the Kid as he sauntered in. One cheek was slightly swollen and his clothes shed dust at every step. “Who wins?” he inquired, not having heard Waffles.
“They did, blast it!” exploded Bigfoot.
One of the Kid's peculiarities was revealed in the unreasoning and hasty conclusions he arrived at. From no desire to imply unfairness, but rather because of his bitterness against failure of any kind and his loyalty to Waffles, came his next words:
“Mebby they skinned yu.”
Like a flash Waffles sprang before him, his hand held up, palm out. “He don't mean nothin'—he's only a ignorant kid!” he cried.
Buck smiled and wrested the Colt from Johnny's ever-ready hand. “Here's another,” he said. Red laughed softly and rolled Johnny on the floor. “Yu jackass,” he whispered, “don't yu know better'n to make a gun-play when we needs them all?”
“What are we goin' to do?” Asked Tex, glancing at the bulging pockets of Hopalong's chaps.
“We're goin' to punch cows again, that's what we're to do,” answered Bigfoot dismally.
“An' whose are we goin' to punch? We can't go back to the old man,” grumbled Tex.
Salvation looked askance at Buck and then at the others. “Mebby,” he began, “Mebby we kin git a job on th' Bar-20.” Then turning to Buck again he bluntly asked, “Are yu short of punchers?”
“Well, I might use some,” answered the foreman, hesitating. “But
I ain't got only one cook, an'——”
“We'll git yu th' cook all O.K.,” interrupted Charley Lane vehemently. “Hi, yu cook!” he shouted, “amble in here an' git a rustle on!”
There was no reply, and after waiting for a minute he and Waffles went into the rear room, from which there immediately issued great chunks of profanity and noise. They returned looking pugnacious and disgusted, with a wildly fighting man who was more full of liquor than was the bottle which he belligerently waved.
“This here animated distillery what yu sees is our cook,” said Waffles. “We eats his grub, nobody else. If he gits drunk that's our funeral; but he won't get drunk! If yu wants us to punch for yu say so an' we does; if yu don't, we don't.”
“Well,” replied Buck thoughtfully, “mebby I can use yu.” Then with a burst of recklessness he added, “Yes, if I lose my job! But yu might sober that Mexican up if yu let him fall in th' horse trough.”
As the procession wended its way on its mission of wet charity, carrying the cook in any manner at all, Frenchy waved his long lost sombrero at Buck, who stood in the door, and shouted, “Yu old son-of-a-gun, I'm proud to know yu!”
Buck smiled and snapped his watch shut “Time to amble,” he said.
CHAPTER XI. Holding the Claim
“Oh, we're that gang from th' O-Bar-O,” hummed Waffles, sinking the branding-iron in the flank of a calf. The scene was one of great activity and hilarity. Several fires were burning near the huge corral and in them half a dozen irons were getting hot. Three calves were being held down for the brand of the “Bar-20” and two more were being dragged up on their sides by the ropes of the cowboys, the proud cow-ponies showing off their accomplishments at the expense of the calves' feelings. In the corral the dust arose in steady clouds as calf after calf was “cut out” by the ropers and dragged out to get “tagged.” Angry cows fought valiantly for their terrorized offspring, but always to no avail, for the hated rope of some perspiring and dust-grimed rider sent them crashing to earth. Over the plain were herds of cattle and groups of madly riding cowboys, and two cook wagons were stalled a short distance from the corral. The round-up of the Bar-20 was taking place, and each of the two outfits tried to outdo the other and each individual strove for a prize. The man who cut out and dragged to the fire the most calves in three days could leave for the Black Hills at the expiration of that time, the rest to follow as soon as they could.
In this contest Hopalong Cassidy led his nearest rival, Red Connors,
both of whom were Bar-20 men, by twenty cut-outs, and there remained but
half an hour more in which to compete. As Red disappeared into the sea
of tossing horns Hopalong dashed out with a whoop.
“Hi, yu trellis-built rack of bones, come along there! Whoop!” he
yelled, turning the prisoner over to the squad by the fire.
“Chalk up this here insignificant wart of cross-eyed perversity: an' how many?” He called as he galloped back to the corral.
“One ninety-eight,” announced Buck, blowing the sand from the tally sheet. “That's shore goin' some,” he remarked to himself.
When the calf sprang up it was filled with terror, rage and pain, and charged at Billy from the rear as that pessimistic soul was leaning over and poking his finger at a somber horned-toad. “Wow!” he yelled as his feet took huge steps up in the air, each one strictly on its own course. “Woof!” he grunted in the hot sand as he arose on his hands and knees and spat alkali.
“What's s'matter?” He asked dazedly of Johnny Nelson. “Ain't it funny!” he yelled sarcastically as he beheld Johnny holding his sides with laughter. “Ain't it funny!” he repeated belligerently. “Of course that four-laigged, knock-kneed, wobblin' son-of-a-Piute had to cut me out. They wasn't nobody in sight but Billy! Why didn't yu say he was comin'? Think I can see four ways to once? Why didn't—” At this point Red cantered up with a calf, and by a quick maneuver, drew the taut rope against the rear of Billy's knees, causing that unfortunate to sit down heavily. As he arose choking with broken-winded profanity Red dragged the animal to the fire, and Billy forgot his grievances in the press of labor.
“How many, Buck?” Asked Red.
“One-eighty.”
“How does she stand?”
“Yore eighteen to th' bad,” replied the foreman. “Th' son-of-a-gun!” marveled Red, riding off.
Another whoop interrupted them, and Billy quit watching out of the corner eye for pugnacious calves as he prepared for Hopalong.
“Hey, Buck, this here cuss was with a Barred-Horseshoe cow,” he announced as he turned it over to the branding man. Buck made a tally in a separate column and released the animal. “Hullo, Red! Workin'?” Asked Hopalong of his rival.
“Some, yu little cuss,” answered Red with all the good nature in the world. Hopalong was his particular “side partner,” and he could lose to him with the best of feelings.
“Yu looks so nice an' cool, an' clean, I didn't know,” responded Hopalong, eyeing a streak of sweat and dust which ran from Red's eyes to his chin and then on down his neck.
“What yu been doin'? Plowin' with yore nose?” Returned Red, smiling blandly at his friend's appearance.
“Yah!” snorted Hopalong, wheeling toward the corral. “Come on, yu pie-eatin' doodle-bug; I'll beat yu to th' gate!”
The two ponies sent showers of sand all over Billy, who eyed them in pugnacious disgust. “Of all th' locoed imps that ever made life miserable fer a man, them's th' worst! Is there any piece of fool nonsense they hain't harnessed me with?” He beseeched of Buck. “Is there anything they hain't done to me? They hides my liquor; they stuffs th' sweat band of my hat with rope; they ties up my pants; they puts water in. My boots an' toads in my bunk—ain't they never goin' to get sane?”
“Oh, they're only kids—they can't help it,” offered Buck. “Didn't they hobble my cayuse when I was on him an' near bust my neck?”
Hopalong interrupted the conversation by driving up another calf, and Buck, glancing at his watch, declared the contest at an end.
“Yu wins,” he remarked to the newcomer. “An' now yu get scarce or Billy will shore straddle yore nerves. He said as how he was goin' to get square on yu to-night.”
“I didn't, neither, Hoppy!” earnestly contradicted Billy, who bad visions of a night spent in torment as a reprisal for such a threat. “Honest I didn't, did I, Johnny?” He asked appealingly.
“Yu shore did,” lied Johnny, winking at Red, who had just ridden up.
“I don't know what yore talkin' about, but yu shore did,” replied Red.
“If yu did,” grinned Hopalong, “I'll shore make yu hard to find. Come on, fellows,” he said; “grub's ready. Where's Frenchy?”
“Over chewin' th' rag with Waffles about his hat—he's lost it again,” answered Red. “He needs a guardian fer that bonnet. Th' Kid an' Salvation has jammed it in th' corral fence an' Waffles has to stand fer it.”
“Let's put it in th' grub wagon an see him cuss cookie,” suggested Hopalong.
“Shore,” indorsed Johnny; Cookie'll feed him bum grub for a week to get square.
Hopalong and Johnny ambled over to the corral and after some trouble located the missing sombrero, which they carried to the grub wagon and hid in the flour barrel. Then they went over by the excited owner and dropped a few remarks about how strange the cook was acting and how he was watching Frenchy.
Frenchy jumped at the bait and tore over to the wagon, where he and the cook spent some time in mutual recrimination. Hopalong nosed around and finally dug up the hat, white as new-fallen snow.
“Here's a hat—found it in th' dough barrel,” he announced, handing it over to Frenchy, who received it in open-mouthed stupefaction.
“Yu pie-makin' pirate! Yu didn't know where my lid was, did yu! Yu cross-eyed lump of hypocrisy!” yelled Frenchy, dusting off the flour with one full-armed swing on the cook's face, driving it into that unfortunate's nose and eyes and mouth. “Yu white-washed Chink, yu—rub yore face with water an' yu've got pancakes.”
“Hey! What you doin'!” yelled the cook, kicking the spot where he had last seen Frenchy. “Don't yu know better'n that!”
“Yu live close to yoreself or I'll throw yu so high th' sun'll duck,” replied Frenchy, a smile illuminating his face.
“Hey, cookie,” remarked Hopalong confidentially, “I know who put up this joke on yu. Yu ask Billy who hid th' hat,” suggested the tease. “Here he comes now—see how queer he looks.”
“Th' mournful Piute,” ejaculated the cook. “I'll shore make him wish he'd kept on his own trail. I'll flavor his slush [coffee] with year-old dish-rags!”
At this juncture Billy ambled up, keeping his weather eye peeled for trouble. “Who's a dish-rag?” He queried. The cook mumbled something about crazy hens not knowing when to quit cackling and climbed up in his wagon. And that night Billy swore off drinking coffee.
When the dawn of the next day broke, Hopalong was riding toward the Black Hills, leaving Billy to untie himself as best he might.
The trip was uneventful and several weeks later he entered Red Dog, a rambling shanty town, one of those western mushrooms that sprang up in a night. He took up his stand at the Miner's Rest, and finally secured six claims at the cost of nine hundred hard-earned dollars, a fund subscribed by the outfits, as it was to be a partnership affair.
He rode out to a staked-off piece of hillside and surveyed his purchase, which consisted of a patch of ground, six holes, six piles of dirt and a log hut. The holes showed that the claims bad been tried and found wanting.
He dumped his pack of tools and provisions, which he had bought on the way up, and lugged them into the cabin. After satisfying his curiosity he went outside and sat down for a smoke, figuring up in his mind how much gold he could carry on a horse. Then, as he realized that he could get a pack mule to carry the surplus, he became aware of a strange presence near at hand and looked up into the muzzle of a Sharp's rifle. He grasped the situation in a flash and calmly blew several heavy smoke rings around the frowning barrel.
“Well?” He asked slowly.
“Nice day, stranger,” replied the man with the rifle, “but don't yu reckon yu've made a mistake?”
Hopalong glanced at the number burned on a near-by stake and carelessly blew another smoke ring. He was waiting for the gun to waver.
“No, I reckons not,” he answered. “Why?”
“Well, I'll jest tell yu since yu asks. This yere claim's mine an' I'm a reg'lar terror, I am. That's why; an' seein' as it is, yu better amble some.”
Hopalong glanced down the street and saw an interested group watching him, which only added to his rage for being in such a position. Then he started to say something, faltered and stared with horror at a point several feet behind his opponent. The “terror” sprang to one side in response to Hop-along's expression, as if fearing that a snake or some such danger threatened him. As he alighted in his new position he fell forward and Hopalong slid a smoking Colt in its holster.
Several men left the distant group and ran toward the claim. Hopalong reached his arm inside the door and brought forth his rifle, with which he covered their advance.
“Anything yu want?” he shouted savagely.
The men stopped and two of them started to sidle in front of two others, but Hopalong was not there for the purpose of permitting a move that would screen any gun play and he stopped the game with a warning shout. Then the two held up their hands and advanced.
“We wants to git Dan,” called out one of them, nodding at the prostrate figure.
“Come ahead,” replied Hopalong, substituting a Colt for the rifle.
They carried their badly wounded and insensible burden back to those whom they had left, and several curses were hurled at the cowboy, who only smiled grimly and entered the hut to place things ready for a siege, should one come. He had one hundred rounds of ammunition and provisions enough for two weeks, with the assurance of reinforcements long before that time would expire. He cut several rough loopholes and laid out his weapons for quick handling. He knew that he could stop any advance during the day and planned only for night attacks. How long he could go without sleep did not bother him, because he gave it no thought, as he was accustomed to short naps and could awaken at will or at the slightest sound.
As dusk merged into dark he crept forth and collected several handfuls of dry twigs, which he scattered around the hut, as the cracking of these would warn him of an approach. Then he went in and went to sleep.
He awoke at daylight after a good night's rest, and feasted on canned beans and peaches. Then he tossed the cans out of the door and shoved his hat out. Receiving no response he walked out and surveyed the town at his feet. A sheepish grin spread over his face as he realized that there was no danger. Several red-shirted men passed by him on their way to town, and one, a grizzled veteran of many gold camps, stopped and sauntered up to him.
“Mornin',” said Hopalong.
“Mornin',” replied the stranger. “I thought I'd drop in an' say that I saw that gun-play of yourn yesterday. Yu ain't got no reason to look fer a rush. This camp is half white men an' half bullies, an' th' white men won't stand fer no play like that. Them fellers that jest passed are neighbors of yourn, an' they won't lay abed if yu needs them. But yu wants to look out fer th' joints in th' town. Guess this business is out of yore line,” he finished as he sized Hopalong up.
“She shore is, but I'm here to stay. Got tired of punchin' an' reckoned I'd get rich.” Here he smiled and glanced at the hole. “How're yu makin' out?” He asked.
“'Bout five dollars a day apiece, but that ain't nothin' when grub's so high. Got reckless th' other day an' had a egg at fifty cents.”
Hopalong whistled and glanced at the empty cans at his feet. “Any marshal in this burg?”
“Yep. But he's one of th' gang. No good, an' drunk half th' time an' half drunk th' rest. Better come down an' have something,” invited the miner.
“I'd shore like to, but I can't let no gang get in that door,” replied the puncher.
“Oh, that's all right; I'll call my pardner down to keep house till yu gits back. He can hold her all right. Hey, Jake!” he called to a man who was some hundred paces distant; “Come down here an' keep house till we gits back, will yu?”
The man lumbered down to them and took possession as Hopalong and his newly found friend started for the town.
They entered the “Miner's Rest” and Hopalong fixed the room in his mind with one swift glance. Three men—and they looked like the crowd he had stopped before—were playing poker at a table near the window. Hopalong leaned with his back to the bar and talked, with the players always in sight.
Soon the door opened and a bewhiskered, heavy-set man tramped in, and walking up to Hopalong, looked him over.
“Huh,” he sneered, “Yu are th' gent with th' festive guns that plugged Dan, ain't yu?”
Hopalong looked at him in the eyes and quietly replied:
“An' who th' deuce are yu?”
The stranger's eyes blazed and his face wrinkled with rage as he aggressively shoved his jaw close to Hopalong's face.
“Yu runt, I'm a better man than yu even if yu do wear hair pants,” referring to Hopalong's chaps. “Yu cow-wrastlers make me tired, an' I'm goin' to show yu that this town is too good for you. Yu can say it right now that yu are a ornery, game-leg—”
Hopalong smashed his insulter squarely between the eyes with all the power of his sinewy body behind the blow, knocking him in a heap under the table. Then he quickly glanced at the card players and saw a hostile movement. His gun was out in a flash and he covered the trio as he walked up to them. Never in all his life had he felt such a desire to kill. His eyes were diamond points of accumulated fury, and those whom he faced quailed before him.
“Yu scum! Draw, please draw! Pull yore guns an' gimme my chance! Three to one, an' I'll lay my guns here,” he said, placing them on the bar and removing his hands. “'Nearer My God to Thee' is purty appropriate fer yu just now! Yu seem to be a-scared of yore own guns. Git down on yore dirty knees an' say good an' loud that yu eats dirt! Shout out that yu are too currish to live with decent men,” he said, even-toned and distinct, his voice vibrant with passion as he took up his Colts. “Get down!” he repeated, shoving the weapons forward and pulling back the hammers.
The trio glanced at each other, and all three dropped to their knees and repeated in venomous hatred the words Hopalong said for them.
“Now git! An' if I sees yu when I leaves I'll send yu after yore friend. I'll shoot on sight now. Git!” He escorted them to the door and kicked the last one out.
His miner friend still leaned against the bar and looked his approval.
“Well done, youngster! But yu wants to look out—that man,” pointing to the now groping victim of Hopalong's blow, “is th' marshal of this town. He or his pals will get yu if yu don't watch th' corners.”
Hopalong walked over to the marshal, jerked him to his feet and slammed him against the bar. Then he tore the cheap badge from its place and threw it on the floor. Reaching down, he drew the marshal's revolver from its holster and shoved it in its owner's hand.
“Yore th' marshal of this place an' it's too good for me, but yore gain' to pick up that tin lie,” pointing at the badge, “an' yore goin' to do it right now. Then yore gain' to get kicked out of that door, an' if yu stops runnin' while I can see yu I'll fill yu so full of holes yu'll catch cold. Yore a sumptious marshal, yu are! Yore th' snortingest ki-yi that ever stuck its tail atween its laigs, yu are. Yu pop-eyed wall flower, yu wants to peep to yoreself or some papoose'll slide yu over th' Divide so fast yu won't have time to grease yore pants. Pick up that license-tag an' let me see you perculate so lively that yore back'll look like a ten-cent piece in five seconds. Flit!”
The marshal, dazed and bewildered, stooped and fumbled for the badge. Then he stood up and glanced at the gun in his hand and at the eager man before him. He slid the weapon in his belt and drew his hand across his fast-closing eyes. Cursing streaks of profanity, he staggered to the door and landed in a heap in the street from the force of Hopalong's kick. Struggling to his feet, he ran unsteadily down the block and disappeared around a corner.
The bartender, cool and unperturbed, pushed out three glasses on his treat: “I've seen yu afore, up in Cheyenne—'member? How's yore friend Red?” He asked as he filled the glasses with the best the house afforded.
“Well, shore 'nuff! Glad to see yu, Jimmy! What yu doin' away off here?” Asked Hopalong, beginning to feel at home.
“Oh, jest filterin' round like. I'm awful glad to see yu—this yere wart of a town needs siftin' out. It was only last week I was wishin' one of yore bunch 'ud show up—that ornament yu jest buffaloed shore raised th' devil in here, an' I wished I had somebody to prospect his anatomy for a lead mine. But he's got a tough gang circulating with him. Ever hear of Dutch Shannon or Blinky Neary? They's with him.”
“Dutch Shannon? Nope,” he replied.
“Bad eggs, an' not a-carin' how they gits square. Th' feller yu' salted yesterday was a bosom friend of th' marshal's, an' he passed in his chips last night.”
“So?”
“Yep. Bought a bottle of ready-made nerve an' went to his own funeral. Aristotle Smith was lookin' fer him up in Cheyenne last year. Aristotle said he'd give a century fer five minutes' palaver with him, but he shied th' town an' didn't come back. Yu know Aristotle, don't yu? He's th' geezer that made fame up to Poison Knob three years ago. He used to go to town ridin' astride a log on th' lumber flume. Made four miles in six minutes with th' promise of a ruction when he stopped. Once when he was loaded he tried to ride back th' same way he came, an' th' first thing he knowed he was three miles farther from his supper an' a-slippin' down that valley like he wanted to go somewhere. He swum out at Potter's Dam an' it took him a day to walk back. But he didn't make that play again, because he was frequently sober, an' when he wasn't he'd only stand off an' swear at th' slide.”
“That's Aristotle, all hunk. He's th' chap that used to play checkers with Deacon Rawlins. They used empty an' loaded shells for men, an' when they got a king they'd lay one on its side. Sometimes they'd jar th' board an' they'd all be kings an' then they'd have a cussin' match,” replied Hopalong, once more restored to good humor.
“Why,” responded Jimmy, “he counted his wealth over twice by mistake an' shore raised a howl when he went to blow it—thought he's been robbed, an' laid behind th' houses fer a week lookin' fer th' feller that done it.”
“I've heard of that cuss—he shore was th' limit. What become of him?” Asked the miner.
“He ambled up to Laramie an' stuck his head in th' window of that joint by th' plaza an' hollered 'Fire,' an' they did. He was shore a good feller, all th' same,” answered the bartender. Hopalong laughed and started for the door. Turning around he looked at his miner friend and asked: “Comin' along? I'm goin' back now.”
“Nope. Reckon I'll hit th' tiger a whirl. I'll stop in when I passes.”
“All right. So long,” replied Hopalong, slipping out of the door and watching for trouble. There was no opposition shown him, and he arrived at his claim to find Jake in a heated argument with another of the gang.
“Here he comes now,” he said as Hopalong walked up. “Tell him what yu said to me.”
“I said yu made a mistake,” said the other, turning to the cowboy in a half apologetic manner.
“An' what else?” Insisted Jake.
“Why, ain't that all?” Asked the claim-jumper's friend in feigned surprise, wishing that he had kept quiet.
“Well I reckons it is if yu can't back up yore words,” responded Jake in open contempt.
Hopalong grabbed the intruder by the collar of his shirt and hauled him off the claim. “Yu keep off this, understand? I just kicked yore marshal out in th' street, an' I'll pay yu th' next call. If yu rambles in range of my guns yu'll shore get in th' way of a slug. Yu an' yore gang wants to browse on th' far side of th' range or yu'll miss a sunrise some mornin'. Scoot!”
Hopalong turned to his companion and smiled. “What'd he say?” He asked genially.
“Oh, he jest shot off his mouth a little. They's all no good. I've collided with lots of them all over this country. They can't face a good man an' keep their nerve. What'd yu say to th' marshal?”
“I told him what he was an' threw him outen th' street,” replied Hopalong. “In about two weeks we'll have a new marshal an' he'll shore be a dandy.”
“Yes? Why don't yu take th' job yoreself? We're with yu.”
“Better man comin'. Ever hear of Buck Peters or Red Connors of th' Bar-20, Texas?”
“Buck Peters? Seems to me I have. Did he punch fer th' Tin-Cup up in Montana, 'bout twenty years back?”
“Shore! Him and Frenchy McAllister punched all over that country an' they used to paint Cheyenne, too,” replied Hopalong, eagerly.
“I knows him, then. I used to know Frenchy, too. Are they comin' up here?”
“Yes,” responded Hopalong, struggling with another can while waiting for the fire to catch up. “Better have some grub with me—don't like to eat alone,” invited the cowboy, the reaction of his late rage swinging him to the other extreme.
When their tobacco had got well started at the close of the meal and content had taken possession of them Hopalong laughed quietly and finally spoke:
“Did yu ever know Aristotle Smith when yu was up in Montana?”
“Did I! Well, me an' Aristotle prospected all through that country till he got so locoed I had to watch him fer fear he'd blow us both up. He greased th' fryin' pan with dynamite one night, an' we shore had to eat jerked meat an' canned stuff all th' rest of that trip. What made yu ask? Is he comin' up too?”
“No, I reckons not. Jimmy, th' bartender, said that he cashed in up at Laramie. Wasn't he th' cuss that built that boat out there on th' Arizona desert because he was scared that a flood might come? Th' sun shore warped that punt till it wasn't even good for a hencoop.”
“Nope. That was Sister—Annie Tompkins. He was purty near as bad as Aristotle, though. He roped a puma up on th' Sacramentos, an' didn't punch no more fer three weeks. Well, here comes my pardner an' I reckons I'll amble right along. If yu needs any referee or a side pardner in any ruction yu has only got to warble up my way. So long.”
The next ten days passed quietly, and on the afternoon of the eleventh Hopalong's miner friend paid him a visit.
“Jake recommends yore peaches,” he laughed as he shook Hopalong's hand. “He says yu boosted another of that crowd. That bein' so I thought I would drop in an' say that they're comin' after yu to-night, shore. Just heard of it from yore friend Jimmy. Yu can count on us when th' rush comes. But why didn't yu say yu was a pard of Buck Peters'? Me an' him used to shoot up Laramie together. From what yore friend James says, yu can handle this gang by yore lonesome, but if yu needs any encouragement yu make some sign an' we'll help th' event along some. They's eight of us that'll be waitin' up to get th' returns an' we're shore goin' to be in range.”
“Gee, it's nice to run across a friend of Buck's! Ain't he a son-of-a-gun?” Asked Hopalong, delighted at the news. Then, without waiting for a reply, he went on: “Yore shore square, all right, an' I hates to refuse yore offer, but I got eighteen friends comin' up an' they ought to get here by tomorrow. Yu tell Jimmy to head them this way when they shows up an' I'll have th' claim for them. There ain't no use of yu fellers gettin' mixed up in this. Th' bunch that's comin' can clean out any gang this side of sunup, an' I expects they'll shore be anxious to begin when they finds me eatin' peaches an' wastin' my time shootin' bums. Yu pass th' word along to yore friends, an' tell them to lay low an' see th' Arory Boerallis hit this town with its tail up. Tell Jimmy to do it up good when he speaks about me holdin' th' claim—I likes to see Buck an' Red fight when they're good an' mad.”
The miner laughed and slapped Hopalong on the shoulder. “Yore all right, youngster! Yore just like Buck was at yore age. Say now, I reckons he wasn't a reg'lar terror on wheels! Why, I've seen him do more foolish things than any man I knows of, an' I calculate that if Buck pals with yu there ain't no water in yore sand. My name's Tom Halloway,” he suggested.
“An' mine's Hopalong Cassidy,” was the reply. “I've heard Buck speak of yu.”
“Has yu? Well, don't it beat all how little this world is? Somebody allus turnin' up that knows somebody yu knows. I'll just amble along, Mr. Cassidy, an' don't yu be none bashful about callin' if yu needs me. Any pal of Buck's is my friend. Well, so long,” said the visitor as he strode off. Then he stopped and turned around. “Hey, mister!” he called. “They are goin' to roll a fire barrel down agin yu from behind,” indicating by an outstretched arm the point from where it would start. “If it burns yu out I'm goin' to take a band from up there,” pointing to a cluster of rocks well to the rear of where the crowd would work from, “an' I don't care whether yu likes it or not,” he added to himself.
Hopalong scratched his head and then laughed. Taking up a pick and shovel, he went out behind the cabin and dug a trench parallel with and about twenty paces away from the rear wall. Heaping the excavated dirt up on the near side of the cut, he stepped back and surveyed his labor with open satisfaction. “Roll yore fire barrel an' be dogged,” he muttered. “Mebby she won't make a bully light for pot shots, though,” he added, grinning at the execution he would do.
Taking up his tools, he went up to the place from where the gang would roll the barrel, and made half a dozen mounds of twigs, being careful to make them very flimsy. Then he covered them with earth and packed them gently. The mounds looked very tempting from the view-point of a marksman in search of earth-works, and appeared capable of stopping any rifle ball that could be fired against them. Hopalong looked them over critically and stepped back.
“I'd like to see th' look on th' face of th' son-of-a-gun that uses them for cover—won't he be surprised” and he grinned gleefully as he pictured his shots boring through them. Then he placed in the center of each a chip or a pebble or something that he thought would show up well in the firelight.
Returning to the cabin, he banked it up well with dirt and gravel, and tossed a few shovelfuls up on the roof as a safety valve to his exuberance. When he entered the door he had another idea, and fell to work scooping out a shallow cellar, deep enough to shelter him when lying at full length. Then he stuck his head out of the window and grinned at the false covers with their prominent bull's-eyes.
“When that prize-winnin' gang of ossified idiots runs up agin' these fortifications they shore will be disgusted. I'll bet four dollars an' seven cents they'll think their medicine-man's no good. I hopes that puff-eyed marshal will pick out that hump with th' chip on it,” and he hugged himself in anticipation.
He then cut down a sapling and fastened it to the roof and on it he tied his neckerchief, which fluttered valiantly and with defiance in the light breeze. “I shore hopes they appreciates that,” he remarked whimsically, as he went inside the hut and closed the door.
The early part of the evening passed in peace, and Hopalong, tired of watching in vain, wished for action. Midnight came, and it was not until half an hour before dawn that he was attacked. Then a noise sent him to a loophole, where he fired two shots at skulking figures some distance off. A fusillade of bullets replied; one of them ripped through the door at a weak spot and drilled a hole in a can of the everlasting peaches. Hopalong set the can in the frying pan and then flitted from loophole to loophole, shooting quick and straight. Several curses told him that he had not missed, and he scooped up a finger of peach juice. Shots thudded into the walls of his fort in an unceasing stream, and, as it grew lighter, several whizzed through the loopholes. He kept close to the earth and waited for the rush, and when it came sent it back, minus two of its members.
As he reloaded his Colts a bullet passed through his shirt sleeve and he promptly nailed the marksman. He looked out of a crack in the rear wall and saw the top of an adjoining hill crowned with spectators, all of whom were armed. Some time later he repulsed another attack and heard a faint cheer from his friends on the hill. Then he saw a barrel, blazing from end to end, roll out from the place he had so carefully covered with mounds. It gathered speed and bounded over the rough ground, flashed between two rocks and leaped into the trench, where it crackled and roared in vain.
“Now,” said Hopalong, blazing at the mounds as fast as he could fire his rifle, “we'll just see what yu thinks of yore nice little covers.”
Yells of consternation and pain rang out in a swelling chorus, and legs and arms jerked and flopped, one man, in his astonishment at the shot that tore open his cheek, sitting up in plain sight of the marksman. Roars of rage floated up from the main body of the besiegers, and the discomfited remnant of barrel-rollers broke for real cover.
Then he stopped another rush from the front, made upon the supposition that he was thinking only of the second detachment. A hearty cheer arose from Tom Halloway and his friends, ensconced in their rocky position, and it was taken up by those on the hill, who danced and yelled their delight at the battle, to them more humorous than otherwise.
This recognition of his prowess from men of the caliber of his audience made him feel good, and he grinned: “Gee, I'll bet Halloway an' his friends is shore itchin' to get in this,” he murmured, firing at a head that was shown for an instant. “Wonder what Red'll say when Jimmy tells him—bet he'll plow dust like a cyclone,” and Hopalong laughed, picturing to himself the satiation of Red's anger. “Old red-headed son-of-a-gun,” murmured the cowboy affectionately, “he shore can fight.”
As he squinted over the sights of his rifle his eye caught sight of a moving body of men as they cantered over the flats about two miles away. In his eagerness he forgot to shoot and carefully counted them. “Nine,” he grumbled. “Wonder what's th' matter?” Fearing that they were not his friends. Then a second body numbering eight cantered into sight and followed the first.
“Whoop! There's th' Red-head!” he shouted, dancing in his joy. “Now,” he shouted at the peach can joyously, “yu wait about thirty minutes an' yu'll shore reckon Hades has busted loose!”
He grabbed up his Colts, which he kept loaded for repelling rushes, and recklessly emptied them into the bushes and between the rocks and trees, searching every likely place for a human target. Then he slipped his rifle in a loophole and waited for good shots, having worked off the dangerous pressure of his exuberance.
Soon he heard a yell from the direction of the “Miner's Rest,” and fell to jamming cartridges into his revolvers so that he could sally out and join in the fray by the side of Red.
The thunder of madly pounding hoofs rolled up the trail, and soon a horse and rider shot around the corner and headed for the copse. Three more raced close behind and then a bunch of six, followed by the rest, spread out and searched for trouble.
Red, a Colt in each hand and hatless, stood up in his stirrups and sent shot after shot into the fleeing mob, which he could not follow on account of the nature of the ground. Buck wheeled and dashed down the trail again with Red a close second, the others packed in a solid mass and after them. At the first level stretch the newcomers swept down and hit their enemies, going through them like a knife through cheese. Hopalong danced up and down with rage when he could not find his horse, and had to stand and yell, a spectator.
The fight drifted in among the buildings, where it became a series of isolated duels, and soon Hopalong saw panic-stricken horses carrying their riders out of the other side of the town. Then he went gunning for the man who had rustled his horse. He was unsuccessful and returned to his peaches.
Soon the riders came up, and when they saw Hopalong shove a peach into his powder-grimed mouth they yelled their delight.
“Yu old maverick! Eatin' peaches like yu was afraid we'd git some!” shouted Red indignantly, leaping down and running up to his pal as though to thrash him.
Hopalong grinned pleasantly and fired a peach against Red's eye. “I was savin' that one for yu, Reddie,” he remarked, as he avoided Buck's playful kick. “Yu fellers git to work an' dig up some wealth—I'm hungry.” Then he turned to Buck: “Yore th' marshal of this town, an' any son-of-a-gun what don't like it had better write. Oh, yes, here comes Tom Halloway—'member him?”
Buck turned and faced the miner and his hand went out with a jerk.
“Well, I'll be locoed if I didn't punch with yu on th' Tin-Cup!” he said.
“Yu shore did an' yu was purty devilish, but that there Cassidy of yourn beats anything I ever seen.”
“He's a good kid,” replied Buck, glancing to where Red and Hopalong were quarreling as to who had eaten the most pie in a contest held some years before.
Johnny, nosing around, came upon the perforated and partially scattered piles of earth and twigs, and vented his disgust of them by kicking them to pieces. “Hey! Hoppy! Oh, Hoppy!” he called, “what are these things?”
Hopalong jammed Red's hat over that person's eyes and replied: “Oh, them's some loaded dice I fixed for them.”
“Yu son-of-a-gun!” sputtered Red, as he wrestled with his friend in the exuberance of his pride. “Yu son-of-a-gun! Yu shore ought to be ashamed to treat 'em that way!”
“Shore,” replied Hopalong. “But I ain't!”
CHAPTER XII. The Hospitality of Travennes
Mr. Buck Peters rode into Alkaline one bright September morning and sought refreshment at the Emporium. Mr. Peters had just finished some business for his employer and felt the satisfaction that comes with the knowledge of work well done. He expected to remain in Alkaline for several days, where he was to be joined by two of his friends and punchers, Mr. Hopalong Cassidy and Mr. Red Connors, both of whom were at Cactus Springs, seventy miles to the east. Mr. Cassidy and his friend had just finished a nocturnal tour of Santa Fe and felt somewhat peevish and dull in consequence, not to mention the sadness occasioned by the expenditure of the greater part of their combined capital on such foolishness as faro, roulette and wet-goods.
Mr. Peters and his friends had sought wealth in the Black Hills, where they had enthusiastically disfigured the earth in the fond expectation of uncovering vast stores of virgin gold. Their hopes were of an optimistic brand and had existed until the last canister of cornmeal flour had been emptied by Mr. Cassidy's burro, which waited not upon it's master's pleasure nor upon the ethics of the case. When Mr. Cassidy had returned from exercising the animal and himself over two miles of rocky hillside in the vain endeavor to give it his opinion of burros and sundry chastisements, he was requested, as owner of the beast, to give his counsel as to the best way of securing eighteen breakfasts. Remembering that the animal was headed north when he last saw it and that it was too old to eat, anyway, he suggested a plan which had worked successfully at other times for other ends, namely, poker. Mr. McAllister, an expert at the great American game, volunteered his service in accordance with the spirit of the occasion and, half an hour later, he and Mr. Cassidy drifted into Pell's poker parlors, which were located in the rear of a Chinese laundry, where they gathered unto themselves the wherewithal for the required breakfasts. An hour spent in the card room of the “Hurrah” convinced its proprietor that they had wasted their talents for the past six weeks in digging for gold. The proof of this permitted the departure of the outfits with their customary elan.
At Santa Fe the various individuals had gone their respective ways, to reassemble at the ranch in the near future, and for several days they had been drifting south in groups of twos and threes and, like chaff upon a stream, had eddied into Alkaline, where Mr. Peters had found them arduously engaged in postponing the final journey. After he had gladdened their hearts and soothed their throats by making several pithy remarks to the bartender, with whom he established their credit, he cautioned them against letting any one harm them and, smiling at the humor of his warning, left abruptly.
Cactus Springs was burdened with a zealous and initiative organization known as vigilantes, whose duty it was to extend the courtesies of the land to cattle thieves and the like. This organization boasted of the name of Travennes' Terrors and of a muster roll of twenty. There was also a boast that no one had ever escaped them which, if true, was in many cases unfortunate. Mr. Slim Travennes, with whom Mr. Cassidy had participated in an extemporaneous exchange of Colt's courtesies in Santa Fe the year before, was the head of the organization and was also chairman of the committee on arrivals, and the two gentlemen of the Bar-20 had not been in town an hour before he knew of it.
Being anxious to show the strangers every attention and having a keen recollection of the brand of gun-play commanded by Mr. Cassidy, he planned a smoother method of procedure and one calculated to permit him to enjoy the pleasures of a good old age. Mr. Travennes knew that horse thieves were regarded as social enemies, that the necessary proof of their guilt was the finding of stolen animals in their possession, that death was the penalty and that every man, whether directly concerned or not, regarded, himself as judge, jury and executioner.
He had several acquaintances who were bound to him by his knowledge of crimes they had committed and would could not refuse his slightest wish. Even if they had been free agents they were not above causing the death of an innocent man. Mr. Travennes, feeling very self-satisfied at his cleverness, arranged to have the proof placed where it would do the most harm and intended to take care of the rest by himself.
Mr. Connors, feeling much refreshed and very hungry, arose at daylight the next morning, and dressing quickly, started off to feed and water the horses. After having several tilts with the landlord about the bucket he took his departure toward the corral at the rear. Peering through the gate, he could hardly believe his eyes. He climbed over it and inspected the animals at close range, and found that those which he and his friend had ridden for the last two months were not to be seen, but in their places were two better animals, which concerned him greatly. Being fair and square himself, he could not understand the change and sought enlightenment of his more imaginative and suspicious friend.
“Hey, Hopalong!” he called, “come out here an' see what th' blazes has happened!”
Mr. Cassidy stuck his auburn head out of the wounded shutter and complacently surveyed his companion. Then he saw the horses and looked hard.
“Quit yore foolin', yu old cuss,” he remarked pleasantly, as he groped around behind him with his feet, searching for his boots. “Anybody would think yu was a little boy with yore fool jokes. Ain't yu ever goin' to grow up?”
“They've got our bronch,” replied Mr. Connors in an injured tone. “Honest, I ain't kiddin' yu,” he added for the sake of peace.
“Who has?” Came from the window, followed immediately by, “Yu've got my boots!”
“I ain't—they're under th' bunk,” contradicted and explained Mr. Connors. Then, turning to the matter in his mind he replied, “I don't know who's got them. If I did do yu think I'd be holdin' hands with myself?”
“Nobody'd accuse yu of anything like that,” came from the window, accompanied by an overdone snicker.
Mr. Connors flushed under his accumulated tan as he remembered the varied pleasures of Santa Fe, and he regarded the bronchos in anything but a pleasant state of mind.
Mr. Cassidy slid through the window and approached his friend, looking as serious as he could.
“Any tracks?” He inquired, as he glanced quickly over the ground to see for himself.
“Not after that wind we had last night. They might have growed there for all I can see,” growled Mr. Connors.
“I reckon we better hold a pow-wow with th' foreman of this shack an' find out what he knows,” suggested Mr. Cassidy. “This looks too good to be a swap.”
Mr. Connors looked his disgust at the idea and then a light broke in upon him. “Mebby they was hard pushed an' wanted fresh cayuses,” he said. “A whole lot of people get hard pushed in this country. Anyhow, we'll prospect th' boss.”
They found the proprietor in his stocking feet, getting the breakfast, and Mr. Cassidy regarded the preparations with open approval. He counted the tin plates and found only three, and, thinking that there would be more plates if there were others to feed, glanced into the landlord's room. Not finding signs of other guests, on whom to lay the blame for the loss of his horse, he began to ask questions.
“Much trade?” He inquired solicitously.
“Yep,” replied the landlord.
Mr. Cassidy looked at the three tins and wondered if there had ever been any more with which to supply his trade. “Been out this morning?” he pursued.
“Nope.”
“Talks purty nigh as much as Buck,” thought Mr. Cassidy, and then said aloud, “Anybody else here?”
“Nope.”
Mr. Cassidy lapsed into a painful and disgusted silence and his friend tried his hand.
“Who owns a mosaic bronch, Chinee flag on th' near side, Skillet brand?” asked Mr. Connors.
“Quien sabe?”
“Gosh, he can nearly keep still in two lingoes,” thought Mr. Cassidy.
“Who owns a bob-tailed pinto, saddle-galled, cast in th' near eye, Star Diamond brand, white stockin' on th' off front prop, with a habit of scratchin' itself every other minute?” went on Mr. Connors.
“Slim Travennes,” replied the proprietor, flopping a flapjack. Mr. Cassidy reflectively scratched the back of his hand and looked innocent, but his mind was working overtime.
“Who's Slim Travennes?” Asked Mr. Connors, never having heard of that person, owing to the reticence of his friend.
“Captain of th' vigilantes.”
“What does he look like on th' general run?” Blandly inquired Mr. Cassidy, wishing to verify his suspicions. He thought of the trouble he had with Mr. Travennes up in Santa Fe and of the reputation that gentleman possessed. Then the fact that Mr. Travennes was the leader of the local vigilantes came to his assistance and he was sure that the captain had a hand in the change. All these points existed in misty groups in his mind, but the next remark of the landlord caused them to rush together and reveal the plot.
“Good,” said the landlord, flopping another flapjack, “and a warnin' to hoss thieves.
“Ahem,” coughed Mr. Cassidy and then continued, “is he a tall, lanky, yaller-headed son-of-a-gun, with a big nose an' lots of ears?”
“Mebby so,” answered the host.
“Urn, slopping over into bad Sioux,” thought Mr. Cassidy, and then said aloud, “How long has he hung around this here layout?” At the same time passing a warning glance at his companion.
The landlord straightened up. “Look here, stranger, if yu hankers after his pedigree so all-fired hard yu had best pump him.”
“I told yu this here feller wasn't a man what would give away all he knowed,” lied Mr. Connors, turning to his friend and indicating the host. “He ain't got time for that. Anybody can see that he is a powerful busy man. An' then he ain't no child.”
Mr. Cassidy thought that the landlord could tell all he knew in about five minutes and then not break any speed records for conversation, but he looked properly awed and impressed. “Well, yu needn't go an' get mad about it! I didn't know, did I?”
“Who's gettin' mad?” Pugnaciously asked Mr. Connors. After his injured feelings had been soothed by Mr. Cassidy's sullen silence he again turned to the landlord.
“What did this Travennes look like when yu saw him last?” Coaxed Mr. Connors.
“Th' same as he does now, as yu can see by lookin' out of th' window. That's him down th' street,” enlightened the host, thawing to the pleasant Mr. Connors.
Mr. Cassidy adopted the suggestion and frowned. Mr. Travennes and two companions were walking toward the corral and Mr. Cassidy once again slid out of the window, his friend going by the door.
CHAPTER XIII. Travennes' Discomfiture
When Mr. Travennes looked over the corral fence he was much chagrined to see a man and a Colt both paying strict attention to his nose.
“Mornin', Duke,” said the man with the gun. “Lose anything?”
Mr. Travennes looked back at his friends and saw Mr. Connors sitting on a rock holding two guns. Mr. Travennes' right and left wings were the targets and they pitted their frowns against Mr. Connors' smile.
“Not that I knows of,” replied Mr. Travennes, shifting his feet uneasily.
“Find anything?” Came from Mr. Cassidy as he sidled out of the gate.
“Nope,” replied the captain of the Terrors, eying the Colt. “Are yu in the habit of payin' early mornin' calls to this here corral?” persisted Mr. Cassidy, playing with the gun.
“Ya-as. That's my business—I'm th' captain of the vigilantes.”
“That's too bad,” sympathized Mr. Cassidy, moving forward a step.
Mr. Travennes looked put out and backed off. “What yu mean, stickin' me up this-away?” He asked indignantly.
“Yu needn't go an' get mad,” responded Mr. Cassidy. “Just business. Yore cayuse an' another shore climbed this corral fence last night an' ate up our bronchs, an' I just nachurly want to know about it.”
Mr. Travennes looked his surprise and incredulity and craned his neck to see for himself. When he saw his horse peacefully scratching itself he swore and looked angrily up the street. Mr. Connors, behind the shack, was hidden to the view of those on the street, and when two men ran up at a signal from Mr. Travennes, intending to insert themselves in the misunderstanding, they were promptly lined up with the first two by the man on the rock.
“Sit down,” invited Mr. Connors, pushing a chunk of air out of the way with his guns. The last two felt a desire to talk and to argue the case on its merits, but refrained as the black holes in Mr. Connors' guns hinted at eruption. “Every time yu opens yore mouths yu gets closer to th' Great Divide,” enlightened that person, and they were childlike in their belief.
Mr. Travennes acted as though he would like to scratch his thigh where his Colt's chafed him, but postponed the event and listened to Mr. Cassidy, who was asking questions.
“Where's our cayuses, General?”
Mr. Travennes replied that he didn't know. He was worried, for he feared that his captor didn't have a secure hold on the hammer of the ubiquitous Colt's.
“Where's my cayuse?” Persisted Mr. Cassidy.
“I don't know, but I wants to ask yu how yu got mine,” replied Mr. Travennes.
“Yu tell me how mine got out an' I'll tell yu how yourn got in,” countered Mr. Cassidy.
Mr. Connors added another to his collection before the captain replied.
“Out in this country people get in trouble when they're found with other folks' cayuses,” Mr. Travennes suggested.
Mr. Cassidy looked interested and replied: “Yu shore ought to borrow some experience, an' there's lots floating around. More than one man has smoked in a powder mill, an' th' number of them planted who looked in th' muzzle of a empty gun is scandalous. If my remarks don't perculate right smart I'll explain.”
Mr. Travennes looked down the street again, saw number five added to the line-up, and coughed up chunks of broken profanity, grieving his host by his lack of courtesy.
“Time,” announced Mr. Cassidy, interrupting the round. “I wants them cayuses an' I wants 'em right now. Yu an' me will amble off an' get 'em. I won't bore yu with tellin' yu what'll happen if yu gets skittish. Slope along an' don't be scared; I'm with yu,” assured Mr. Cassidy as he looked over at Mr. Connors, whose ascetic soul pined for the flapjacks of which his olfactories caught intermittent whiffs.
“Well, Red, I reckons yu has got plenty of room out here for all yu may corral; anyhow there ain't a whole lot more. My friend Slim an' I are shore going to have a devil of a time if we can t find them cussed bronchs. Whew, them flapjacks smell like a plain trail to payday. Just think of th' nice maple juice we used to get up to Cheyenne on them frosty mornings.”
“Get out of here an' lemme alone! 'What do yu allus want to go an' make a feller unhappy for? Can't yu keep still about grub when yu knows I ain't had my morning's feed yet?” Asked Mr. Connors, much aggrieved.
“Well, I'll be back directly an' I'll have them cayuses or a scalp. Yu tend to business an' watch th' herd. That shorthorn yearling at th' end of th' line”—pointing to a young man who looked capable of taking risks—“he looks like he might take a chance an' gamble with yu,” remarked Mr. Cassidy, placing Mr. Travennes in front of him and pushing back his own sombrero. “Don't put too much maple juice on them flapjacks, Red,” he warned as he poked his captive in the back of the neck as a hint to get along. Fortunately Mr. Connors' closing remarks are lost to history.
Observing that Mr. Travennes headed south on the quest, Mr. Cassidy reasoned that the missing bronchos ought to be somewhere in the north, and he postponed the southern trip until such time when they would have more leisure at their disposal. Mr. Travennes showed a strong inclination to shy at this arrangement, but quieted down under persuasion, and they started off toward where Mr. Cassidy firmly believed the North Pole and the cayuses to be.
“Yu has got quite a metropolis here,” pleasantly remarked Mr. Cassidy as under his direction they made for a distant corral. “I can see four different types of architecture, two of 'em on one residence,” he continued as they passed a wood and adobe hut. “No doubt the railroad will put a branch down here some day an' then yu can hire their old cars for yore public buildings. Then when yu gets a post-office yu will shore make Chicago hustle some to keep her end up. Let's assay that hollow for horse-hide; it looks promisin'.”
The hollow was investigated but showed nothing other than cactus and baked alkali. The corral came next, and there too was emptiness. For an hour the search was unavailing, but at the end of that time Mr. Cassidy began to notice signs of nervousness on the part of his guest, which grew less as they proceeded. Then Mr. Cassidy retraced their steps to the place where the nervousness first developed and tried another way and once more returned to the starting point.
“Yu seems to hanker for this fool exercise,” quoth Mr. Trayennes with much sarcasm. “If yu reckons I'm fond of this locoed ramblin' yu shore needs enlightenment.”
“Sometimes I do get these fits,” confessed Mr. Cassidy, “an' when I do I'm dead sore on objections. Let's peek in that there hut,” he suggested.
“Huh; yore ideas of cayuses are mighty peculiar. Why don't you look for 'em up on those cactuses or behind that mesquite? I wouldn't be a heap surprised if they was roostin' on th' roof. They are mighty knowing animals, cayuses. I once saw one that could figger like a schoolmarm,” remarked Mr. Travennes, beginning sarcastically and toning it down as he proceeded, out of respect for his companion's gun.
“Well, they might be in th' shack,” replied Mr. Cassidy. “Cayuses know so much that it takes a month to unlearn them. I wouldn't like to bet they ain't in that hut, though.”
Mr. Travennes snickered in a manner decidedly uncomplimentary and began to whistle, softly at first. The gentleman from the Bar-20 noticed that his companion was a musician; that when he came to a strong part he increased the tones until they bid to be heard at several hundred yards. When Mr. Travennes had reached a most passionate part in “Juanita” and was expanding his lungs to do it justice he was rudely stopped by the insistent pressure of his guard's Colt's on the most ticklish part of his ear.
“I shore wish yu wouldn't strain yoreself thataway,” said Mr. Cassidy, thinking that Mr. Travennes might be endeavoring to call assistance. “I went an' promised my mother on her deathbed that I wouldn't let nobody whistle out loud like that, an' th' opery is hereby stopped. Besides, somebody might hear them mournful tones an' think that something is th' matter, which it ain't.”
Mr. Travennes substituted heartfelt cursing, all of which was heavily accented.
As they approached the hut Mr. Cassidy again tickled his prisoner and insisted that he be very quiet, as his cayuse was very sensitive to noise and it might be there. Mr. Cassidy still thought Mr. Travennes might have friends in the hut and wouldn't for the world disturb them, as he would present a splendid target as he approached the building.
CHAPTER XIV. The Tale of a Cigarette
The open door revealed three men asleep on the earthen floor, two of whom were Mexicans. Mr. Cassidy then for the first time felt called upon to relieve his companion of the Colt's which so sorely itched that gentleman's thigh and then disarmed the sleeping guards.
“One man an' a half,” murmured Mr. Cassidy, it being in his creed that it took four Mexicans to make one Texan.
In the far corner of the room were two bronchos, one of which tried in vain to kick Mr. Cassidy, not realizing that he was ten feet away. The noise awakened the sleepers, who sat up and then sprang to their feet, their hands instinctively streaking to their thighs for the weapons which peeked contentedly from the bosom of Mr. Cassidy's open shirt. One of the Mexicans made a lightning-like grab for the back of his neck for the knife which lay along his spine and was shot in the front of his neck for his trouble. The shot spoiled his aim, as the knife flashed past Mr. Cassidy's arm, wide by two feet, and thudded into the door frame, where it hummed angrily.
“The only man who could do that right was th' man who invented it, Mr. Bowie, of Texas,” explained Mr. Cassidy to the other Mexican. Then he glanced at the broncho, that was squealing in rage and fear at the shot, which sounded like a cannon in the small room, and laughed.
“That's my cayuse, all right, an' he wasn't up no cactus nor roostin' on th' roof, neither. He's th' most affectionate beast I ever saw. It took me nigh onto six months afore I could ride him without fighting him to a standstill,” said Mr. Cassidy to his guest. Then he turned to the horse and looked it over. “Come here! What d'yu mean, acting thataway? Yu ragged end of nothin' wobbling in space! Yu wall-eyed, ornery, locoed guide to Hades! Yu won't be so frisky when yu've made them seventy hot miles between here an' Alkaline in five hours,” he promised, as he made his way toward the animal.
Mr. Travennes walked over to the opposite wall and took down a pouch of tobacco which hung from a peg. He did this in a manner suggesting ownership, and after he had deftly rolled a cigarette with one hand he put the pouch in his pocket and, lighting up, inhaled deeply and with much satisfaction. Mr. Cassidy turned around and glanced the group over, wondering if the tobacco had been left in the hut on a former call.
“Did yu find yore makings?” He asked, with a note of congratulations in his voice.
“Yep. Want one?” Asked Mr. Travennes.
Mr. Cassidy ignored the offer and turned to the guard whom he had found asleep.
“Is that his tobacco?” He asked, and the guard, anxious to make everything run smoothly, told the truth and answered:
“Shore. He left it here last night,” whereupon Mr. Travennes swore and Mr. Cassidy smiled grimly.
“Then yu knows how yore cayuse got in an' how mine got out,” said the latter. “I wish yu would explain,” he added, fondling his Colts.
Mr. Travennes frowned and remained silent.
“I can tell yu, anyhow,” continued Mr. Cassidy, still smiling, but his eyes and jaw belied the smile. “Yu took them cayuses out because yu wanted yourn to be found in their places. Yu remembered Santa Fe an' it rankled in yu. Not being man enough to notify me that yu'd shoot on sight an' being afraid my friends would get yu if yu plugged me on th' sly, yu tried to make out that me an' Red rustled yore cayuses. That meant a lynching with me an' Red in th' places of honor. Yu never saw Red afore, but yu didn't care if he went with me. Yu don't deserve fair play, but I'm going to give it to yu because I don't want anybody to say that any of th' Bar-20 ever murdered a man, not even a skunk like yu. My friends have treated me too square for that. Yu can take this gun an yu can do one of three things with it, which are: walk out in th' open a hundred paces an' then turn an walk toward me—after you face me yu can set it a-going whenever yu want to; the second is, put it under yore hat an' I'll put mine an' th' others back by the cayuses. Then we'll toss up an' th' lucky man gets it to use as he wants. Th' third is, shoot yourself.”
Mr. Cassidy punctuated the close of his ultimatum by handing the weapon, muzzle first, and, because the other might be an adept at “twirling,” he kept its recipient covered during the operation. Then, placing his second Colt's with the captured weapons, he threw them through the door, being very careful not to lose the drop on his now armed prisoner.
Mr. Travennes looked around and wiped the sweat from his forehead, and being an observant gentleman, took the proffered weapon and walked to the east, directly toward the sun, which at this time was halfway to the meridian. The glare of its straight rays and those reflected from the shining sand would, in a measure, bother Mr. Cassidy and interfere with the accuracy of his aim, and he was always thankful for small favors.
Mr. Travennes was the possessor of accurate knowledge regarding the lay of the land, and the thought came to him that there was a small but deep hole out toward the east and that it was about the required distance away. This had been dug by a man who had labored all day in the burning sun to make an oven so that he could cook mesquite root in the manner he had seen the Apaches cook it. Mr. Travennes blessed hobbies, specific and general, stumbled thoughtlessly and disappeared from sight as the surprised Mr. Cassidy started forward to offer his assistance.
Upon emphatic notification from the man in the hole that his help was not needed, Mr. Cassidy wheeled around and in great haste covered the distance separating him from the hut, whereupon Mr. Travennes swore in self-congratulation and regret. Mr. Cassidy's shots barked a cactus which leaned near Mr. Travennes' head and flecked several clouds of alkali near that person's nose, causing him to sneeze, duck, and grin.
“It's his own gun,” grumbled Mr. Cassidy as a bullet passed through his sombrero, having in mind the fact that his opponent had a whole belt full of .44's. If it had been Mr. Cassidy's gun that had been handed over he would have enjoyed the joke on Mr. Travennes, who would have had five cartridges between himself and the promised eternity, as he would have been unable to use the .44's in Mr. Cassidy's .45, while the latter would have gladly consented to the change, having as he did an extra .45. Never before had Mr. Cassidy looked with reproach upon his .45 caliber Colt's, and he sighed as he used it to notify Mr. Travennes that arbitration was not to be considered, which that person indorsed, said indorsement passing so close to Mr. Cassidy's ear that he felt the breeze made by it.
“He's been practicin' since I plugged him up in Santa Fe,” thought Mr. Cassidy, as he retired around the hut to formulate a plan of campaign.
Mr. Travennes sang “Hi-le, hi-lo,” and other selections, principally others, and wondered how Mr. Cassidy could hoist him out. The slack of his belt informed him that he was in the middle of a fast, and suggested starvation as the derrick that his honorable and disgusted adversary might employ.
Mr. Cassidy, while figuring out his method of procedure, absent-mindedly jabbed a finger in his eye, and the ensuing tears floated an idea to him. He had always had great respect for ricochet shots since his friend Skinny Thompson had proved their worth on the hides of Sioux. If he could disturb the sand and convey several grains of it to Mr. Travennes' eyes the game would be much simplified. While planning for the proposed excavation, a la Colt's, he noticed several stones lying near at hand, and a new and better scheme presented itself for his consideration. If Mr. Travennes could be persuaded to get out of—well, it was worth trying.
Mr. Cassidy lined up his gloomy collection and tersely ordered them to turn their backs to him and to stay in that position, the suggestion being that if they looked around they wouldn't be able to dodge quickly enough. He then slipped bits of his lariat over their wrists and ankles, tying wrists to ankles and each man to his neighbor. That finished to his satisfaction, he dragged them in the hut to save them from the burning rays of the sun.
Having performed this act of kindness, he crept along the hot sand, taking advantage of every bit of cover afforded, and at last he reached a point within a hundred feet of the besieged. During the trip Mr. Travennes sang to his heart's content, some of the words being improvised for the occasion and were not calculated to increase Mr. Cassidy's respect for his own wisdom if he should hear them. Mr. Cassidy heard, however, and several fragments so forcibly intruded on his peace of mind that he determined to put on the last verse himself and to suit himself.
Suddenly Mr. Travennes poked his head up and glanced at the hut. He was down again so quickly that there was no chance for a shot at him and he believed that his enemy was still sojourning in the rear of the building, which caused him to fear that he was expected to live on nothing as long as he could and then give himself up. Just to show his defiance he stretched himself out on his back and sang with all his might, his sombrero over his face to keep the glare of the sun out of his eyes.
He was interrupted, however, forgot to finish a verse as he had intended, and jumped to one side as a stone bounced off his leg. Looking up, he saw another missile curve into his patch of sky and swiftly bear down on him. He avoided it by a hair's breadth and wondered what had happened. Then what Mr. Travennes thought was a balloon, being unsophisticated in matters pertaining to aerial navigation, swooped down upon him and smote him on the shoulder and also bounced off.
Mr. Travennes hastily laid music aside and took up elocution as he dodged another stone and wished that the mesquite-loving crank had put on a roof. In evading the projectile he let his sombrero appear on a level with the desert, and the hum of a bullet as it passed through his head-gear and into the opposite wall made him wish that there had been constructed a cellar, also.
“Hi-le, hi-lo” intruded upon his ear, as Mr. Cassidy got rid of the surplus of his heart's joy. Another stone the size of a man's foot shaved Mr. Travennes' ear and he hugged the side of the hole nearest his enemy.
“Hibernate, blank yu!” derisively shouted the human catapult as he released a chunk of sandstone the size of a quail. “Draw in yore laigs an' buck,” was his God-speed to the missile.
“Hey, yu!” indignantly yowled Mr. Travennes from his defective storm cellar. “Don't yu know any better'n to heave things thataway?”
“Hi-le, hi-lo,” sang Mr. Cassidy, as another stone soared aloft in the direction of the complainant. Then he stood erect and awaited results with a Colt's in his hand leveled at the rim of the hole. A hat waved and an excited voice bit off chunks of expostulation and asked for an armistice. Then two hands shot up and Mr. Travennes, sore and disgusted and desperate, popped his head up an blinked at Mr. Cassidy's gun.
“Yu was fillin' th' hole up,” remarked Mr. Travennes in an accusing tone, hiding the real reason for his evacuation. “In a little while I'd a been th' top of a pile instead of th' bottom of a hole,” he announced, crawling out and rubbing his head.
Mr. Cassidy grinned and ordered his prisoner to one side while be secured the weapon which lay in the hole. Having obtained it as quickly as possible be slid it in his open shirt and clambered out again.
“Yu remind me of a feller I used to know,” remarked Mr. Travennes, as he led the way to the hut, trying not to limp. “Only he throwed dynamite. That was th' way he cleared off chaparral—blowed it off. He got so used to heaving away everything he lit that he spoiled three pipes in two days.”
Mr. Cassidy laughed at the fiction and then became grave as he pictured Mr. Connors sitting on the rock and facing down a line of men, any one of whom was capable of his destruction if given the interval of a second.
When they arrived at the hut Mr. Cassidy observed that the prisoners had moved considerably. There was a cleanly swepttrail four yards long where they had dragged themselves, and they sat in the end nearer the guns. Mr. Cassidy smiled and fired close to the Mexican's ear, who lost in one frightened jump a little of what he had so laboriously gained.
“Yu'll wear out yore pants,” said Mr. Cassidy, and then added grimly, “an' my patience.”
Mr. Travennes smiled and thought of the man who so ably seconded Mr. Cassidy's efforts and who was probably shot by this time. The outfit of the Bar-20 was so well known throughout the land that he was aware the name of the other was Red Connors. An unreasoning streak of sarcasm swept over him and he could not resist the opportunity to get in a stab at his captor.
“Mebby yore pard has wore out somebody's patience, too,” said Mr. Travennes, suggestively and with venom.
His captor wheeled toward him, his face white with passion, and Mr. Travennes shrank back and regretted the words.
“I ain't shootin' dogs this here trip,” said Mr. Cassidy, trembling with scorn and anger, “so yu can pull yourself together. I'll give yu another chance, but yu wants to hope almighty hard that Red is O. K. If he ain't, I'll blow yu so many ways at once that if yu sprouts yu'll make a good acre of weeds. If he is all right yu'd better vamoose this range, for there won't be no hole for yu to crawl into next time. What friends yu have left will have to tote yu off an' plant yu,” he finished with emphasis. He drove the horses outside, and, after severing the bonds on his prisoners, lined them up.
“Yu,” he began, indicating all but Mr. Travennes, “yu amble right smart toward Canada,” pointing to the north. “Keep a-going till yu gets far enough away so a Colt won't find yu.” Here he grinned with delight as he saw his Sharp's rifle in its sheath on his saddle and, drawing it forth, he put away his Colts and glanced at the trio, who were already industriously plodding northward. “Hey!” he shouted, and when they sullenly turned to see what new idea he had found he gleefully waved his rifle at them and warned them further: “This is a Sharp's an' it's good for half a mile, so don't stop none too soon.”