Bar-20 - Clarence E. Mulford (best e books to read .txt) 📗
- Author: Clarence E. Mulford
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“Yore a reg’lar `tective, ain’t yu?” Thirsty asked ironically.
“I’ve got common sense,” responded Hopalong.
“Yu has? Yu better tell th’ rest that, too,” replied Thirsty.
“I know yu shot Harris, an’ yu can’t get out of it by makin’ funny remarks.
Anyhow, yu won’t be much loss, an’ th’ stage company’ll feel better, too.”
“Shoo! An’ suppose I did shoot him, I done a good job, didn’t I?”
“Yu did the worst job yu could do, yu highway robber,” softly said Hopalong, at
the same time moving nearer. “Harris knew yu stopped th’ stage last month, an’ that’s
why yu’ve been dodgin’ him.”
“Yore a liar!” shouted Thirsty, reaching for his gun.
The movement was fatal, for before he could draw, the Colt in Hopalong’s holster
leaped out and flashed from its owner’s hip and Thirsty fell sideways, face down in the
dust of the street.
Hopalong started toward the fallen man, but as he did so a shot rang out from
behind the store and he pitched forward, stumbled and rolled behind the bowlder. As he
stumbled his left hand streaked to his hip, and when he fell he had a gun in each hand.
As he disappeared from sight, Goodeye and Bill Jones stepped from behind the
store and started to run away. Not able to resist the temptation to look again, they
stopped and turned and Bill laughed.
“Easy as sin,” he said.
“Run, yu fool-Red an’ Buck’ll be here. Want to git plugged?” shouted Goodeye
angrily.
They turned and started for a group of ponies twenty yards away, and as they
leaped into the saddles two shots were fired from the street. As the reports died away
Buck and Red turned the corner of the store, Colts in hand, and, checking their rush as
they saw the saddles emptied, they turned toward the street and saw Hopalong, with blood
oozing from an abrasion on his cheek, sitting up cross-legged, with each hand holding a
gun, from which came thin wisps of smoke.
“Th’ son-of-a-gun!” cried Buck, proud and delighted.
“Th’ son-of-a-gun!” echoed Red, grinning.
HOPALONG KEEPS HIS WORD
The waters of the Rio Grande slid
placidly toward the Gulf, the hot sun branding the sleepy waters with streaks of molten
fire. To the north arose from the gray sandy plain the Quitman Mountains, and beyond
them lay Bass Ca��on. From the latter emerged a solitary figure astride a bronco, and as
he ascended the topmost rise he glanced below him at the placid stream and beyond it
into Mexico. As he sat quietly in his saddle he smiled and laughed gently to himself.
The trail he had just followed had been replete with trouble which had suited the state of
his mind and he now felt humorous, having cleaned up a pressing debt with his six-shooter. Surely there ought to be a mild sort of excitement in the land he faced,
something picturesque and out of the ordinary. This was to be the finishing touch to his
trip, and he had left his two companions at Albuquerque in order that he might have to
himself all that he could find.
Not many miles to the south of him lay the town which had been the rendezvous
of Tamale Jose, whose weakness had been a liking for other people’s cattle. Well he
remembered his first man hunt: the discovery of the theft, the trail and pursuit and-the
ending. He was scarcely eighteen years of age when that event took place, and the
wisdom he had absorbed then had stood him in good stead many times since. He had
even now a touch of pride at the recollection how, when his older companions had failed
to get Tamale Jose, he with his undeveloped strategy had gained that end. The fight
would never be forgotten, as it was his first, and no sight of wounds would ever affect
him as did those of Red Connors as he lay huddled up in the dark corner of that old adobe
hut.
He came to himself and laughed again as he thought of Carmencita, the first girl
he had ever known-and the last. With a boy’s impetuosity he had wooed her in a manner
far different from that of the peons who sang beneath her window and talked to her
mother. He had boldly scaled the wall and did his courting in her house, trusting to luck
and to his own ability to avoid being seen. No hidden meaning lay in his words; he spoke
from his heart and with no concealment. And he remembered the treachery that had
forced him, fighting, to the camp of his outfit; and when he had returned with his friends
she had disappeared.
To this day he hated that mud-walled convent and those sisters who so easily
forgot how to talk. The fragrance of the old days wrapped themselves around him, and
although he had ceased to pine for his black-eyed Carmencita-well, it would be nice if he
chanced to see her again. Spurring his mount into an easy canter he swept down to and
across the river, fording it where he had crossed it when pursuing Tamale Jose.
The town lay indolent under the Mexican night, and the strumming of guitars and
the tinkle of spurs and tiny bells softly echoed from several houses. The convent of St.
Maria lay indistinct in its heavy shadows and the little church farther up the dusty street
showed dim lights in its stained windows. Off to the north became audible the rhythmic
beat of a horse and soon a cowboy swept past the convent with a mocking bow.
He clattered across the stone-paved plaza and threw his mount back on its
haunches as he stopped before a house. Glancing around and determining to find out a
few facts as soon as possible, he rode up to the low door and pounded upon it with the
butt of his Colt. After waiting for possibly half a minute and receiving no response he
hammered a tune upon it with two Colts and had the satisfaction of seeing half a score of
heads protrude from the windows in the nearby houses.
“If I could scare up another gun I might get th’ whole blamed town up,” he
grumbled whimsically, and fell on the door with another tune.
“Who is it?” came from within. The voice was distinctly feminine and Hopalong
winked to himself in congratulation.
“Me,” he replied, twirling his fingers from his nose at the curious, forgetting that
the darkness hid his actions from sight.
“Yes, I know; but who is `me’?” came from the house.
“Ain’t I a fool!” he complained to himself, and raising his voice lie replied
coaxingly, “Open th’ door a bit an’ see. Are yu Carmencita?”
“O-o-o! but you must tell me who it is first.”
“Mr. Cassidy,” he replied, flushing at the `mister,’ “an’ I wants to see Carmencita.”
“Carmencita who?” teasingly came from behind the door.
Hopalong scratched his head. “Gee, yu’ve roped me-I suppose she has got another
handle. Oh, yu know-she used to live here about seven years back. She had great big
black eyes, pretty cheeks an’ a mouth that `ud stampede anybody. Don’t yu know now?
She was about so high,” holding out his hands in the darkness.
The door opened a trifle on a chain and Hopalong peered eagerly forward.
“Ah, it is you, the brave Americano! You must go away quick or you will meet
with harm. Manuel is awfully jealous and he will kill you! Go at once, please!”
Hopalong pulled at the half-hearted down upon his lip and laughed softly. Then
he slid the guns back in their holsters and felt for his sombrero.
“Manuel wants to see me first, Star Eyes.”
“No! no!” she replied, stamping upon the floor vehemently. “You must go now-at once!”
“I’d shore look nice hittin’ th’ trail because Manuel Somebody wants to get hurt,
wouldn’t I? Don’t yu remember how I used to shinny up this here wall an’ skin th’ cat
gettin’ through that hole up there what yu said was a window? Ah, come on an’ open th’
door-I’d shore like to see yu again!” pleaded the irrepressible.
“No! no! Go away. Oh, won’t you please go away!”
Hopalong sighed audibly and turned his horse. As he did so he heard the door
open and a sigh reached his ears. He wheeled like a flash and found the door closed again
on its chain. A laugh of delight came from behind it.
“Come out, please!-just for a minute,” he begged, wishing that he was brave
enough to smash the door to splinters and grab her.
“If I do, will you go away?” Asked the girl. “Oh, what will Manuel say if he
comes? And all those people, they’ll tell him!”
“Hey, yu!” shouted Hopalong, brandishing his Colts at the protruding heads. “Git
scarce! I’ll shore plug th’ last one in!” Then he laughed at the sudden vanishing.
The door slowly opened and Carmencita, fat and drowsy, wobbled out to him.
Hopalong’s feelings were interfering with his breathing as he surveyed her.
“Oh, yu shore are mistaken, Mrs. Carmencita. I wants to see yore daughter!”
“Ah, you have forgotten the little Carmencita who used to look for you. Like all
the men, you have forgotten,” she cooed reproachfully.
Then her fear predominated again and she cried, “Oh, if my husband should see
me now!”
Hopalong mastered his astonishment and bowed. He had a desire to ride madly
into the Rio Grande and collect his senses.
“Yu are right-this is too dangerous-I’ll amble on some,” he replied hastily.
Under his breath he prayed that the outfit would never learn of this. He turned his
horse and rode slowly up the street as the door closed.
Rounding the corner he heard a soft footfall, and swerving in his saddle he turned
and struck with all his might in the face of a man who leaped at him, at the same time
grasping the uplifted wrist with his other hand. A curse and the tinkle of thin steel on the
pavement accompanied the fall of his opponent. Bending down from his saddle he
picked up the weapon and the next minute the enraged assassin was staring into the
unwavering and, to him, growing muzzle of a Colt’s .45.
“Yu shore had a bum teacher. Don’t yu know better’n to push it in?
An’ me a cowpuncher, too! I’m most grieved at yore conduct-it shows you don’t
appreciate cow-wrastlers. This is safer,” he remarked, throwing the stiletto through the
air and into a door, where it rang out angrily and quivered.
“I don’t know as I wants to ventilate yu; we mostly poisons coyotes up my way,”
he added. Then a thought struck him.
“Yu must be that dear Manuel I’ve been hearin’ so much about?”
A snarl was the only reply and Hopalong grinned.
“Yu shore ain’t got no call to go loco that way, none whatever. I don’t want yore
Carmencita. I only called to say hulloo,” responded Hopalong, his sympathies being
aroused for the wounded man before him from his vivid recollection of the woman who
had opened the door.
“Yah!” snarled Manuel. “You wants to poison my little bird. You with your fair
hair and your cursed swagger!”
The six-shooter tentatively expanded and stopped six inches from the Mexican’s
nose. “Yu wants to ride easy, hombre. I ain’t no angel, but I don’t poison no woman; an’
don’t yu amble off with th’ idea in yore head that she wants to be poisoned. Why, she
near
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