The Man From Bar-20 - Clarence E. Mulford (good books to read for beginners txt) 📗

that would be enough. He wouldn’t stay here day after day like a dead dog in a well.”

As the words died out in the distance Johnny started to slip out from between the bowlders, when a sharp spang! rang out at a rock near his waist, and a whining scream soared skyward. An opening made by a split in the bowlder had partly revealed his moving body to a pair of very keen eyes on the look-out for just such a sign. A second later the flat report of the shot cracked against his ears, but he was on the other side of the bowlders and leaping down the steep hillside when he heard it. As he cleared a big rock he landed almost upon a slinking coyote, which instantly destroyed distance at an unbelievable speed. It shot up the hill, over the crest, and sped like an arrow of haze across the open table-land. Another shot rang out and a laughing voice shouted greeting.

“Hi-yi! Who-o-p-e-e-e! Scoot, you streak of lightnin’, Cookie’s layin’ for you with nine buckshot in each barrel. But I’m a drunk Injun if you didn’t fool me.”

A peeved voice raised loudly in the twilight. “Hey I D—n you! Look out where yo’re shootinM That slug ricochetted plumb between our heads! Ain’t you got no sense a-tall?”

“That’s right! Start kickin’I” retorted Gates at the top of his voice. “Didn’t you ever hear a slug before? Don’t you know that th’ slug you can hear is past you?”

“That so? How’d you like to listen to one now?” angrily shouted the objector. “How do I know that th’ next one is goin’ past?”

“Ah, go to h—l!” jeered Gates. “Little things make big bumps on you, you sage hen!”

“Little things!” roared a second voice. “Little things! Would you lissen to him? It sounded like a train of cars to me, d–-d if it didn’t !”

“Thinks he’s treed another cougar,” laughed a third voice.

The three appeared upon the plateau and rode toward the disgruntled marksman, their hands up over their heads in mock anxiety and surrender. Down from the north rolled a swift, rhythmic drumming, and Harrison, eagerly alert, his rifle balanced in his hands, slid to a dusty stop.

“What is it?” he demanded.

“Reckon it was Cookie’s pet ki-yote,” grinned Gates. “There ain’t nothin’ with wings, even, can beat ‘em. He just melted.”

“Yo’re a d–-d fool! “swore Harrison angrily.

“Huh! I could ‘a’ told you that long ago,” observed Purdy. “You just catchin’ on?”

“I saw somethin’ move,” retorted Gates. “It slid past that crack an’ th’ sun caught it purty fair, so I let drive. How th’ devil do you suppose I knowed it was a ki-yote? Think I’m one of them mejums an’ has second sight?”

“Never!” chuckled Fleming. “People make mistakes, but th’ man don’t live, free an’ unrestrained, that would think you had second sight. He might even be doubtful about th’ first sight. You want to practice second look. Look twice, pray, an’ then count ten, Dan’l, old trapper.”

“He oughta be penned up nights,” growled Sanford. “He’s a cussed sight more dangerous than a plague.”

Another rider joined them from the south. “Dan’l Boone at it again?” he asked, grinning.

“He is!” snapped Purdy.

Harrison quieted his horse. “You fellers take him home with you, an’ keep him there. He shoots at anythin’ that moves! I’m goin’ to take root right here till he gets down below. Mebby he might take me for somethin’ suspicious.”

“If I’d ‘a’ got that chicken-thief,” placidly remarked Gates, “I’d ‘a’ slipped it into Cookie’s coop tonight, cussed if I wouldn’t!”

“You keep away from his coop,” warned Fleming, with a solemn shake of his head. “He’s another that shoots at anythin’ that moves.”

Holbrook looked at Harrison. “You takin’ th’ north end tonight?”

“Yes; but I’m stayin’ right here till Davy Crockett gets down on th’ range. Don’t you move, Frank; he’ll likely blow you apart if you do.”

“Glad he ain’t ridin’ in yore place. Good night, fellers.”

The group split up and four of the riders rode toward the canyon trail.

“Take th’ lead, Art,” said Purdy. “You know that ledge better’n we do.”

Holbrook and Harrison watched them disappear^ consulted a few moments and then separated.

At the bottom of the steep eastern bank of the plateau, Johnny, a vague blur in the fading light, has’ tened stealthily into the brush. When assured that he was safe from observation he swung north and made the best time possible in the darkness over such ground, eager to reach his horse, which was picketed more than a mile away.

“Huh!” he grunted. “So they’re combin’ th’ country an’ patrolin’. Hereafter an’ henceforth I’ve got to play Injun for all I’m worth. An’ if they comb th’ west side tomorrow I’ve got to move my camp at daylight.”

To the southwest of the rustlers’ ranch Ackerman and his new friend had sworn day after day, for they found no tracks to follow. After riding up several creeks to their head-waters they gave up such careful searching and went blindly ahead in the direction Ackerman thought their enemy would take; and the ashes of dead camp-fires from time to time told them that they had decided right.

At last they came to a point due west of the little valley of the burned cabin, and Ackerman did not choose to pass the stream which flowed from that direction. As the day was about done they camped on the bank of the little tributary and planned the next day’s work. Arising early the following morning Ackerman divided the supplies and gave part of them to Long Pete.

“Well,” he said, smiling grimly; “here’s where we separate. We’re north of Twin Buttes, an’ that means we are about even with th’ south end of our ranch. He could ‘a’ turned off any place from here on because when he got this far he had just about arrived.

“Now I reckon I better keep on follerin’ th’ big creek, for I got a feelin’ that I know purty well just about where he’s located. But we can’t overlook no bets. You foller this crick to th’ end, or till you see where he left it. An’ you meet me tonight, if you can, at th’ south end of that big butte up there, th’ one with th’ humpback.

“I’ve told you he’s dangerous, chain-lightnin’ with his guns; an’ I’m tellin’ you now to make shore you won’t forget it. If you run across him, shoot first, as soon as you see him. You can’t beat him on th’ draw; an’ while I don’t like to shoot a man that way, I’m swallerin’ my pride in this case because he’s a spy, or else he’d never ride up th’ cricks for forty miles. I never heard of anybody bein’ so cautious an’ patient all th’ time. We got to get him; if we don’t there’ll be h—l to pay.”

“Don’t you get no gray hair about me,” growled Long Pete. “I know what it means, d—n him! “A smile flitted across his face. “But I shore has to laugh at th’ son-of-a-gun! An’ me thinkin’ he was a prospector, an’ loco! I’d feel ashamed of myself if I really did think he was a prospector. You see, I’ve seen prospectors before. You mustn’t mind me makin’ a break like that once in a while; I’ve had to fool so many folks I can’t sort of get my bearin’s now. I’d be prouder of gettin’ a man like him than anythin’ I ever done. Did you gimme plenty of grub? All right; I’m movin’ on now. So long.”

“So long; an’ good luck,” replied Ackerman, going north along the creek.

Long Pete rode carefully up his own watery way, thoroughly alert and closely scrutinizing both banks.

“Settin’ on a cayuse, out here, don’t set well on my stummick,” he muttered uneasily. “I’d mebby be more prominent cavortin’ around on a mountain top, or ridin’ upside down on th’ under side of a cloud, but I ain’t hankerin’ after no prominence. Nope; I’m a shrinkin’ wiolet. An’ splash! splash! says th’ bronc. Splash! splash! reg’lar as a watch, for th’ whole wide world to hear, observe, an’ think about. Long Pete, yo’re a fool. Long Pete, yo’re several, all kinds of fools. What you should oughta do is picket th’ bronc an’ perceed with more caution, on yore belly like a silent worm, or at least on yore kneecaps an’ han’s, like a like a a who th’ h—l cares what? Day after day we been temptin’ Providence. ‘Hurry up!’ says he. ‘Hurry be d–-d!’ thought I. But we hurried. Yes sir. But it must be did. D—n th’ must. All my sinful life there was a must or a mustn’t. It’s a must-y world. He-he! That ain’t a bad one, or I’m a liar!”

“All serene. Both banks lovely. Lush grass an’ mosquitoes an’ flies. Splash! Splash! Ah-splash! Cr-splash! Slop inter it, bronc. Don’t mind my stummick. Keep lungin’ on, pluggin’ right ahead, stubborn as th’ workin’s of hell. Long Pete! Long Pete! Ker-splash! Here’s Long Pete! Tell him, bronc; grease th’ chute for yore boss. Even th’ frogs got more sense; they shut up when they hears us. It’s a gamble, bronc; a toss-up. Our friend, Mr. James Ackerman, says: ‘Here, Long Pete. We done reached th’ partin’ of th’ ways. He could ‘a’ left th’ crick any place, now. Over east yonder is where he was burned out. You take that way, an’ I’ll go on north where I reckon I know mebby where he oughta be.’ That’s what he said, bronc. But what he kept a damp, dark, deep secret was: ‘But I know he ain’t. He’s east, where he knows th’ lay of th’ land. Where he feels at home. An’ anyhow, Long Pete, you know too d–-d much about our affairs.’ He’s a friend of ours, bronc; we know that but he’s a better friend of hisself.

“We must watch both banks, bronc; watch ‘em close. All right; but this time we’ll just bust h—l out of Mr. Must. We’ll square up, right now, for th’ way Mr. Must has horned inter our affairs all our fool life. Come on; get out of this! That’s right. Now you stand there an’ drip. I’m going to travel humble an’ quiet. I don’t want no fife an’ drum to lead me to war; no ma’am; not a-tall.”

Long Pete’s low, muttered chatter ceased as he wriggled through the cover. Minutes passed as he went ahead, glancing continually at the banks of the small creek for the telltale signs. He wormed around some scattered bowlders and came to the edge of a small, rock-floored clearing, where he paused.

A movement half-way up on a mesa close by caught his eye, and he backed over his trail, wriggled around the little clearing and began to stalk that particular mesa ledge. Yard after yard was put behind him, nearer and nearer he approached the ledge and a nest of bowlders three hundred yards from it. The bowlders were his objective, for, once among them, he would have the view he wished. Leading to them was a brush-covered ridge and toward this he cautiously advanced, rifle at the ready and every sense alert. But he never reached it.

Behind him and two hundred yards to his right a man slowly arose from behind a rock and, resting a rifle on the bulwark, took slow and careful aim at the gray shirt crawling close to the ridge. There was a flash, a puff of smoke, a sharp report. Pete, a look of great surprise on his face, tried to rise and turn to pay his debt, crumpled suddenly and lay inert, sprawled grotesquely on the ground.

The man behind the rock mechanically reloaded