Bar-20 - Clarence E. Mulford (best e books to read .txt) 📗
- Author: Clarence E. Mulford
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“Now,” he shouted at the peach can joyously, “yu wait about thirty minutes an’
yu’ll shore reckon Hades has busted loose!”
He grabbed up his Colts, which he kept loaded for repelling rushes, and recklessly
emptied them into the bushes and between the rocks and trees, searching every likely
place for a human target . Then he slipped his rifle in a loophole and waited for good
shots, having worked off the dangerous pressure of his exuberance.
Soon he heard a yell from the direction of the “Miner’s Rest,” and fell to jamming
cartridges into his revolvers so that he could sally out and join in the fray by the side of
Red.
The thunder of madly pounding hoofs rolled up the trail, and soon a horse and
rider shot around the corner and headed for the copse. Three more raced close behind and
then a bunch of six, followed by the rest, spread out and searched for trouble.
Red, a Colt in each hand and hatless, stood up in his stirrups and sent shot after
shot into the fleeing mob, which he could not follow on account of the nature of the
ground. Buck wheeled and dashed down the trail again with Red a close second, the
others packed in a solid mass and after them. At the first level stretch the newcomers
swept down and hit their enemies, going through them like a knife through cheese.
Hopalong danced up and down with rage when he could not find his horse, and had to
stand and yell, a spectator.
The fight drifted in among the buildings, where it became a series of isolated
duels, and soon Hopalong saw panic-stricken horses carrying their riders out of the other
side of the town. Then he went gunning for the man who had rustled his horse. He was
unsuccessful and returned to his peaches.
Soon the riders came up, and when they saw Hopalong shove a peach into his
powder-grimed mouth they yelled their delight.
“Yu old maverick! Eatin’ peaches like yu was afraid we’d git some!“shouted Red
indignantly, leaping down and running up to his pal as though to thrash him.
Hopalong grinned pleasantly and fired a peach against Red’s eye. “I was savin’
that one for yu, Reddie,” he remarked, as he avoided Buck’s playful kick. “Yu fellers git
to work an’ dig up some wealth-I’m hungry.” Then he turned to Buck: “Yore th’ marshal
of this town, an’ any son-of-a-gun what don’t like it had better write. Oh, yes, here comes
Tom Halloway-‘member him?”
Buck turned and faced the miner and his hand went out with a jerk.
“Well, I’ll be locoed if I didn’t punch with yu on th’ Tin-Cup!” he said.
“Yu shore did an’ yu was purty devilish, but that there Cassidy of yourn beats
anything I ever seen.”
“He’s a good kid,” replied Buck, glancing to where Red and Hopalong were
quarreling as to who had eaten the most pie in a contest held some years before.
Johnny, nosing around, came upon the perforated and partially scattered piles of
earth and twigs, and vented his disgust of them by kicking them to pieces. “Hey! Hoppy!
Oh, Hoppy!” he called, “what are these things?”
Hopalong jammed Red’s hat over that person’s eyes and replied: “Oh, them’s some
loaded dice I fixed for them.”
“Yu son-of-a-gun!” sputtered Red, as he wrestled with his friend in the
exuberance of his pride. “Yu son-of-a-gun! Yu shore ought to be ashamed to treat `em
that way!”
“Shore,” replied Hopalong. “But I ain’t!”
THE HOSPITALITY OF TRAVENNES
Mr. Buck Peters rode into Alkaline one bright September
morning and sought refreshment at the Emporium. Mr. Peters had just
finished some business for his employer and felt the satisfaction that
comes with the knowledge of work well done. He expected to remain
in Alkaline for several days, where he was to be joined by two of his
friends and punchers, Mr. Hopalong Cassidy and Mr. Red Connors,
both of whom were at Cactus Springs, seventy miles to the east. Mr.
Cassidy and his friend had just finished a nocturnal tour of Santa Fe and felt somewhat
peevish and dull in consequence, not to mention the sadness occasioned by the
expenditure of the greater part of their combined capital on such foolishness as faro,
roulette and wet-goods.
Mr. Peters and his friends had sought wealth in the Black Hills, where they had
enthusiastically disfigured the earth in the fond expectation of uncovering vast stores of
virgin gold. Their hopes were of an optimistic brand and had existed until the last
canister of cornmeal flour had been emptied by Mr. Cassidy’s burro, which waited not
upon it’s master’s pleasure nor upon the ethics of the case. When Mr. Cassidy had
returned from exercising the animal and himself over two miles of rocky hillside in the
vain endeavor to give it his opinion of burros and sundry chastisements, he was
requested, as owner of the beast, to give his counsel as to the best way of securing
eighteen breakfasts.
Remembering that the animal was headed north when he last saw it and that it was
too old to eat, anyway, he suggested a plan which had worked successfully at other times
for other ends, namely, poker. Mr. McAllister, an expert at the great American game,
volunteered his service in accordance with the spirit of the occasion and, half an hour
later, he and Mr. Cassidy drifted into Pell’s poker parlors, which were located in the rear
of a Chinese laundry, where they gathered unto themselves the wherewithal for the
required breakfasts. An hour spent in the card room of the “Hurrah” convinced its
proprietor that they had wasted their talents for the past six weeks in digging for gold.
The proof of this permitted the departure of the outfits with their customary elan.
At Santa Fe the various individuals had gone their respective ways, to reassemble
at the ranch in the near future, and for several days they had been drifting south in groups
of twos and threes and, like chaff upon a stream, had eddied into Alkaline, where Mr.
Peters had found them arduously engaged in postponing the final journey. After he had
gladdened their hearts and soothed their throats by making several pithy remarks to the
bartender, with whom he established their credit, he cautioned them against letting any
one harm them and, smiling at the humor of his warning, left abruptly.
Cactus Springs was burdened with a zealous and initiative organization known as
vigilantes, whose duty it was to extend the courtesies of the land to cattle thieves and the
like. This organization boasted of the name of Travennes’ Terrors and of a muster roll of
twenty. There was also a boast that no one had ever escaped them which, if true, was in
many cases unfortunate. Mr. Slim Travennes, with whom Mr. Cassidy had participated in
an extemporaneous exchange of Colt’s courtesies in Santa Fe the year before, was the
head of the organization and was also chairman of the committee on arrivals, and the two
gentlemen of the Bar-20 had not been in town an hour before he knew of it.
Being anxious to show the strangers every attention and having a keen
recollection of the brand of gunplay commanded by Mr. Cassidy, he planned a smoother
method of procedure and one calculated to permit him to enjoy the pleasures of a good
old age. Mr. Travennes knew that horse thieves were regarded as social enemies, that the
necessary proof of their guilt was the finding of stolen animals in their possession, that
death was the penalty and that every man, whether directly concerned or not, regarded,
himself as judge, jury and executioner.
He had several acquaintances who were bound to him by his knowledge of crimes
they had committed and would could not refuse his slightest wish.
Even if they had been free agents they were not above causing the death of an
innocent man. Mr. Travennes, feeling very self-satisfied at his cleverness, arranged to
have the proof placed where it would do the most harm and intended to take care of the
rest by himself.
Mr. Connors, feeling much refreshed and very hungry, arose at daylight the next
morning, and dressing quickly, started off to feed and water the horses. After having
several tilts with the landlord about the bucket he took his departure toward the corral at
the rear.
Peering through the gate, he could hardly believe his eyes. He climbed over it and
inspected the animals at close range, and found that those which he and his friend had
ridden for the last two months were not to be seen, but in their places were two better
animals, which concerned him greatly. Being fair and square himself, he could not
understand the change and sought enlightenment of his more imaginative and suspicious
friend.
“Hey, Hopalong!” he called, “come out here an’ see what th’ blazes has happened!”
Mr. Cassidy stuck his auburn head out of the wounded shutter and complacently
surveyed his companion. Then he saw the horses and looked hard.
“Quit yore foolin’, yu old cuss,” he remarked pleasantly, as he groped around
behind him with his feet, searching for his boots.
“Anybody would think yu was a little boy with yore fool jokes. Ain’t yu ever goin’
to grow up?”
“They’ve got our bronc,” replied Mr. Connors in an injured tone.
Honest, I ain’t kiddin’ yu,” he added for the sake of peace.
“Who has?” Came from the window, followed immediately by, “Yu’ve got my
boots!”
“I ain’t-they’re under th’ bunk,” contradicted and explained Mr. Connors.
Then, turning to the matter in his mind he replied, “I don’t know who’s got them.
If I did do yu think I’d be holdin’ hands with myself?”
“Nobody’d accuse yu of anything like that,” came from the window, accompanied
by an overdone snicker.
Mr. Connors flushed under his accumulated tan as he remembered the varied
pleasures of Santa Fe, and he regarded the broncos in anything but a pleasant state of
mind.
Mr. Cassidy slid through the window and approached his friend, looking as
serious as he could.
“Any tracks?” He inquired, as he glanced quickly over the ground to see for
himself.
“Not after that wind we had last night. They might have growed there for all I can
see,” growled Mr. Connors.
“I reckon we better hold a pow-wow with th’ foreman of this shack an’ find out
what he knows,” suggested Mr. Cassidy. “This looks too good to be a swap.”
Mr. Connors looked his disgust at the idea and then a light broke in upon him.
“Mebby they was hard pushed an’ wanted fresh cayuses,” he said. “A whole lot of people
get hard pushed in this country. Anyhow, we’ll prospect th’ boss.”
They found the proprietor in his stocking feet, getting the breakfast, and Mr.
Cassidy regarded the preparations with open approval. He counted the tin plates and
found only three, and, thinking that there would be more plates if there were others to
feed, glanced into the landlord’s room. Not finding signs of other guests, on whom to lay
the blame for the loss of his horse, he began to ask questions.
“Much trade?” He inquired solicitously.
“Yep,” replied the landlord.
Mr. Cassidy looked at the three tins and wondered if there had ever been any more
with which to supply his trade.
“Been out this morning?“he pursued.
“Nope.”
“Talks purty nigh as much as Buck,” thought Mr. Cassidy, and then said aloud,
“Anybody else here?”
“Nope.”
Mr. Cassidy
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