Bar-20 Days by Clarence Edward Mulford (new reading TXT) 📗
- Author: Clarence Edward Mulford
Book online «Bar-20 Days by Clarence Edward Mulford (new reading TXT) 📗». Author Clarence Edward Mulford
“You did stop 'em a little,” asserted Mr. Cassidy some time later when he looked back. “You stopped 'em coming straight, but they're spreading out to work up around us. Now, if we had good cayuses instead of these wooden wonders, we could run away from 'em dead easy, draw their best mounted warriors to the front an' then close with 'em. Good thing their cayuses are well tired out, for as it is we've got to make a stand purty soon. Gee! They don't like you, Red; they're calling you names in the sign language. Just look at 'em cuss you!”
“How much water have you got?” inquired his friend with anxiety.
“Canteen plumb full. How're you fixed?”
“I got the same, less one drink. That gives us enough for a couple of days with some to spare, if we're careful,” Mr. Connors replied. New Mexican canteens are built on generous lines and are known as life-preservers.
“Look at that glory-hunter go!” exclaimed Red, watching a brave who was riding half a mile to their right and rapidly coming abreast of them. “Wonder how he got over there without us seeing him.”
“Here; stop him!” suggested Hopalong, holding out his Sharps. “We can't let him get ahead of us and lay in ambush—that's what he's playing to do.”
“My gun's good, and better, for me, at this range; but you know, I can't hit a jack-rabbit going over rough country as fast as that feller is,” replied his companion, standing up in his stirrups and firing.
“Huh! Never touched him! But he's edging off a-plenty. See him cuss you. What's he calling you, anyhow?”
“Aw, shut up! How the devil do I know? I don't talk with my arms.”
“Are you superstitious, Red?”
“No! Shut up!”
“Well, I am. See that feller over there? If he gets in front of us it's a shore sign that somebody's going to get hurt. He'll have plenty of time to get cover an' pick us off as we come up.”
“Don't you worry—his cayuse is deader'n ours. They must 'a' been pushing on purty hard the last few days. See it stumble?—what'd I tell you!”
“Yes; but they're gaining on us slow but shore. We've got to make a stand purty soon—how much further do you reckon that infernal shack is, anyhow?” Hopalong asked sharply.
“'T ain't fur off—see it any minute now.”
“Here,” remarked Hopalong, holding out his rifle, “stencil yore mark on his hide; catch him just as he strikes the top of that little rise.”
“Ain't got time—that shack can't be much further.”
And it wasn't, for as they galloped over a rise they saw, half a mile ahead of them, an adobe building in poor state of preservation. It was Powers' old ranch house, and as they neared it, they saw that there was no doubt about the holes.
“Told you it was a sieve,” grunted Hopalong, swinging in on the tail of his companion. “Not worth a hang for anything,” he added bitterly.
“It'll answer, all right,” retorted Red grimly.
CHAPTER IX MR. HOLDEN DROPS IN
Mr. Cassidy dismounted and viewed the building with open disgust, walking around it to see what held it up, and when he finally realized that it was self-supporting his astonishment was profound. Undoubtedly there were shacks in the United States in worse condition, but he hoped their number was small. Of course he knew that the building was small. Of course he knew that the building would make a very good place of defence, but for the sake of argument he called to his companion and urged that they be satisfied with what defence they could extemporize in the open. Mr. Connors hotly and hastily dissented as he led the horses into the building, and straightway the subject was arbitrated with much feeling and snappy eloquence. Finally Hopalong thought that Red was a chump, and said so out loud, whereat Red said unpleasant things about his good friend's pedigree, attributes, intelligence, et al., even going so far as to prognosticate his friend's place of eternal abode. The remarks were fast getting to be somewhat personal in tenor when a whine in the air swept up the scale to a vicious shriek as it passed between them, dropped rapidly to a whine again and quickly died out in the distance, a flat report coming to their ears a few seconds later. Invisible bees seemed to be winging through the air, the angry and venomous droning becoming more pronounced each passing moment, and the irregular cracking of rifles grew louder rapidly. An angry s-p-a-t! told of where a stone behind them had launched the ricochet which hurled skyward with a wheezing scream. A handful of 'dobe dust sprang from the corner of the building and sifted down upon them, causing Red to cough.
“That ricochet was a Sharps!” exclaimed Hopalong, and they lost no time in getting into the building, where the discussion was renewed as they prepared for the final struggle. Red grunted his cheerful approval, for now he was out of the blazing sun and where he could better appreciate the musical tones of the flying bullets; but his companion, slamming shut the door and propping it with a fallen roof-beam, grumbled and finally gave rein to his rancor by sneering at the Winchester.
“It shore gets me that after all I have said about that gun you will tote it around with you and force yoreself into a suicide's grave,” quoth Mr. Cassidy, with exuberant pugnacity. “I ain't in no way objecting to the suicide part of it, but I can't see that it's at all fair to drag me onto the edge of everlasting eternity with you. If you ain't got no regard for yore own life you shore ought to think a little about yore friend's. Now you'll waste all yore cartridges an' then come snooping around me to borrow my gun. Why don't you lose the damned thing?”
“What I pack ain't none of yore business, which same I'll uphold,” retorted Mr. Connors, at last able to make himself heard. “You get over on yore own side an' use yore Colt; I've wondered a whole lot where you ever got the sense to use a Colt—I wouldn't be a heap surprised to see you toting a pearl-handled .22, like the kids use. Now you 'tend to yore grave-yard aspirants, an' lemme do the same with mine.”
“The Lord knows I've stood a whole lot from you because you just can't help being foolish, but I've got plumb weary and sick of it. It stops right here or you won't get no 'Paches,” snorted Hopalong, peering intently through a hole in the shack. The more they squabbled the better they liked it,—controversies had become so common that they were merely a habit; and they served to take the grimness out of desperate situations.
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