The Coming of Cassidy - Clarence E. Mulford (books to read to be successful TXT) 📗

doors, each head flanked by a rifle barrel. Above a swirling cloud of dust glinted a spurting Colt and thrust through the smudge was a hand waving a strange collection of articles.

“Hullo, Kid!” shouted Dawson. “What you got? See any Injuns?”

“It’s a G-string an’ a medicine-bag, by all that’s holy!” cried Dad from the harness shop. “Where’d you git ‘em, Jimmy?”

Jimmy drew rein and slid to a stand, pricking his nettlesome “Calico” until it pranced to suit him. Waving the Apache breech-cloth, the medicine-bag and a stocking-shaped moccasin in one hand, he proudly held up an old, dirty, battered Winchester repeater in the other and [whooped a war-cry.

“Blame my hide!” shouted Dad, running out into the street. “It is a G-string! He’s gone an’ got one of ‘em! He’s gone an’ got a ‘Pache! Good boy, Kid! An’ how’d you do it?”

Carter plodded through the dust with Bill close behind. “Where’d you do it?” demanded the proprietor eagerly. To Carter location meant more than method. He was plainly nervous. When he reached the crowd he, in turn, examined the trophies. They were genuine, and on the G-string was a splotch of crimson, muddy with dust.

“What’s in the war-bag, Kid?” demanded Lefty, preparing to see for himself. Jimmy snatched it from his hands. “You never mind what’s in it, Freckle-face!” he snapped. “That’s my bag, now. Want to spoil my luck?”

“How’d you do it?” demanded Dad breathlessly.

“Where’d you do it?” snapped Carter. He glanced hurriedly around the horizon and repeated the question with vehemence. “Where’d you get him?”

“In th’ groin, first. Then through th’ “

“I don’t mean where, I mean where near here?” interrupted Carter.

“Oh, fifteen mile east,” answered Jimmy. “He was crawlin’ down on a bunch of cattle. He saw me just as I saw him. But he missed an’ I did n’t,” he gloated proudly. “I met a Pawnee scout just afterward an’ he near got shot before he signaled. He says hell’s a-poppin’. Th’ ‘Paches are raidin’ all over th’ country, down—”

“I knowed it!” shouted Carter. “Yessir, I knowed it! I felt it all along! Where you finds one you finds a bunch!”

“We’ll give ‘em blazes, like th’ last time!” cried Dad, hurrying away to the harness shop where he had left his rifle.

“I’ve been needin’ some excitement for a long time,” laughed Dawson. “I shore hope they come.”

Carter paused long enough to retort over his shoulder: “An’ I hopes you drop dead! You never did have no sense! Not nohow!”

Bill smiled at the sudden awakening and watched the scrambling for weapons. “Why, there’s enough men here to wipe out a tribe. I reckon we’ll stay an’ see th’ fun. Anyhow, it’ll be a whole lot safer here than fightin’ by ourselves out in th’ open somewhere. What you say?”

“You couldn’t drag me away from this town right now with a cayuse,” Jimmy replied, gravely hanging the medicine-bag around his neck and then stuffing the gory G-string in the folds of the slicker he carried strapped behind the cantle of the saddle. “We’ll see it out right here. But I do wish that ‘Pache owned a better gun than this thing. It’s most fallin’ apart an’ ain’t worth nothin’.”

Bill took it and examined the rifling and the breech-block. He laughed as he handed it back. “You oughta be glad it wasn’t a better gun, Kid. I don’t reckon he could put two in the same place at two hundred paces with this thing. I ain’t even anxious to shoot it off on a bet.”

Jimmy gasped suddenly and grinned until the safety of his ears was threatened. “Would you look at Carter?” he chuckled, pointing. Bill turned and saw the proprietor of Carter’s Emporium carrying water into his store, and with a speed that would lead one to infer that he was doing it on a wager. Emerging again he saw the punchers looking at him and, dropping the buckets, he wiped his face on his sleeve and shook his head. “I’m fillin’ everything,” he called. “I reckon we better stand ‘em off from my store - th’ walls are thicker.”

“Bill smiled at the excuse and looked down the street at the adobe buildings. “What about th’ ‘dobes, Carter?” he asked. The walls of some of them were more than two feet thick.

Carter scowled, scratched his head and made a gesture of impatience. “They ain’t big enough to hold us all,” he replied, with triumph. “This here store is th’ best place. An’, besides, it’s all stocked with water an’ grub, an’ everything.”

Jimmy nodded. “Yo’re right, Carter; it’s th’ best place.” To Bill he said in an aside.

“He’s plumb anxious to protect that shack, now ain’t he?”

Lefty Dawson came sauntering up. “Wonder if Carter’ll let us hold out in his store?”

“He’ll pay you to,” laughed Bill.

“It’s loopholed. Been so since th’ last raid,” explained Lefty. “An’ it’s chock full of grub,” he grinned.

They heard Dad’s voice around the corner. “Just like last time,” he was saying. “We oughta put four men in Dick’s ‘dobe acrost th’ street. Then we’d have a strategy position. You see oh, hullo,” he said as he rounded the corner ahead of George Bruce. “Who’s goin’ on picket duty?” he demanded.

Under the blazing sun a yellow dog wandered aimlessly down the deserted street, his main interest in life centered on his skin, which he frequently sat down to chew. During the brief respites he lounged in the doors of deserted buildings, frequently exploring the quiet interiors for food. Emerging from the “hotel” he looked across the street at the Emporium and barked tentatively at the man sitting on its flat roof. Wriggling apologetically, he slowly gained the middle of the street and then sat down to investigate a sharp attack. A can sailed out of the open door and a flurry of yellow streaked around the corner of the “hotel” and vanished.

In the Emporium grave men played poker for nails, Bill Cassidy having corralled all the available cash long before this, and conversed in low tones. The walls, reinforced breast high by boxes, barrels and bags, were divided into regular intervals by the open loopholes, each opening further indicated by a leaning rifle or two and generous piles of cartridges. Two tubs and half a dozen buckets filled with water stood in the center of the room, carefully covered over with boards and wrapping paper. Clouds of tobacco smoke lay in filmy stratums in the heated air and drifted up the resin-streaked sides of the building. The shimmering, gray sand stretched away in a glare of sunlight and seemed to writhe under the heated air, while droning flies flitted lazily through the windows and held caucuses on the sugar barrel. A slight, grating sound overhead caused several of the more irritable or energetic men to glance up lazily, grateful they were not in Hank’s place. It was hot enough under the roof, and they stretched ecstatically as they thought of Hank. Three days’ vigil and anxiety had become trying even to the most stolid.

John Carter fretfully damned solitaire and pushed the cards away to pick up pencil and paper and figure thoughtfully. This seemed to furnish him with even less amusement, for he scowled and turned to watch the poker game. “Huh,” he sniffed, “playin’ poker for nails! An’ you don’t even own th’ nails,” he grinned facetiously, and glanced around to see if his point was taken. He suddenly stiffened when he noticed the man who sat on his counter and labored patiently and zealously with a pocket knife. “Hey, you!” he exclaimed excitedly, his wrath quickly aroused. “Ain’t you never had no bringin’ up? If yo’re so plumb sot on whittlin’, you tackle that sugar barrel!”

Jimmy looked the barrel over critically and then regarded the peeved proprietor, shaking his head sorrowfully. “This here is a better medjum for the ex-position of my art,” he replied gravely. “An’ as for bringin’ up, lemme observe to these gents here assembled that you ain’t never had no artistic trainin’. Yore skimpy soul is dwarfed an’ narrowed by false weights and dented measures. You can look a sunset in th’ face an’ not see it for countin’ yore profits.” Carter glanced instinctively at the figures as Jimmy continued. “An’ you can’t see no beauty in a daisy’s grace which last is from a book. I’m here carvin’ th’ very image of my cayuse an’ givin’ you a work of art, free an’ gratis. I’m timid an’ sensitive, I am; an’ I’ll feel hurt if—”

“Stop that noise,” snorted a man in the corner, turning over to try again. “Sensitive an’ timid? Yes; as a mule! Shut up an’ lemme get a little sleep.”

“A-men,” sighed a poker-player. “An’ let him sleep he’s a cussed nuisance when he’s awake.”

“Two mules,” amended the dealer. “Which is worse than one,” he added thoughtfully.

“We oughta put four men in that ‘dobe—” began Dad persistently.

“An’ will you shut up about that ‘dobe an’ yore four men?” snapped Lefty. “Can’t you say nothin’ less ‘n it’s about that mud hut?”

Jimmy smiled maddeningly at the irritated crowd. “As I was sayin’ before you all interrupted me, I’ll feel hurt—”

“You will; an’ quick!” snapped Carter. “You quit gougin’ that counter!”

Bill craned his neck to examine the carving, and forthwith held out a derisively pointing forefinger.

“Cayuse?” he inquired sarcastically. “Looks more like th’ map of th’ United States, with some almost necessary parts missin’. Your geography musta been different from mine.”

The artist smiled brightly. “Here’s a man with imagination, th’ emancipator of thought. It’s crude an’ untrained, but it’s there. Imagination is a hopeful sign, for it is only given to human bein’s. From this we surmise an’ must conclude that Bill is human.”

“Will somebody be liar enough to say th’ same of you?” politely inquired the dealer.

“Will you fools shut up?” demanded the man who would sleep. He had been on guard half the night.

“But you oughta label it, Jimmy,” said Bill. “You’ve got California bulgin’ too high up, an’ Florida sticks out th’ wrong way. Th’ Great Lakes is all wrong looks like a kidney slippin’ off of Canada. An’ where’s Texas?”

“Huh! It’d have to be a cow to show Texas,” grinned Dad Johnson, who, it appeared, also had an imagination and wanted people to know it.

“You cuttin’ in on this teet-a-teet?” demanded Jimmy, dodging the compliments of the sleepy individual.

“As a map it is no good,” decided Bill decisively.

“It is no map,” retorted Jimmy. “I know where California bulges an’ how Florida sticks out. What you call California is th’ south end of th’ cayuse, above which I’m goin’ to put th’ tail”

“Not if I’m man enough, you ain’t!” interposed Carter, with no regard for politeness.

“where I’m goin’ to put th’ tail,” repeated Jimmy. “Florida is one front laig raised off th’ ground—”

“Trick cayuse, by Scott!” grunted George Bruce. “No wonder it looks like a map.”

“Th’ Great Lakes is th’ saddle, an’ Maine is where th’ mane goes Ouch!”

“Mangy pun,” grinned Bill.

“Kentucky ought to be under th’ saddle,” laughed Dad, smacking his lips. “Pass th’ bottle, John.”

“You take too much an’ we’ll all be Ill-o’- noise,” said Charley Logan alertly.

“Them Injuns can’t come too soon to suit me,” growled Fred Thomas. “Who started this, anyhow?”

The sleepy man arose on one elbow, his eyes glinting. “After th’ fight, you ask me th’ same thing! Th’ answer will be ME!” he snapped.

“I’m goin’ to clean house in about two minutes, an’ fire you all out in th’ street!”

Jimmy smiled down at him. “Well, you needn’t be so sweepin’ an’ extensive in yore cleanin’ operations,” he retorted. “All you gotta do is go outside an’ roll in th’ dust