Hopalong Cassidy's Rustler Round-Up (BAR-20)
by
Clarence Edward Mulford
Part 1 out of 4
Etext prepared by
Andrew Heath
Hopalong Cassidy's Rustler Round-Up (BAR-20)
by Clarence Edward Mulford
1906
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
coul e, 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 twoIaigged
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 1? 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!"
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