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class="calibre1">chunk of sandstone the size of a quail. “Draw in yore laigs an’ buck,” was his God-speed

to the missile.

 

“Hey, yu!” indignantly yowled Mr. Travennes from his defective storm cellar.

 

“Don’t yu know any better’n to heave things thataway?”

 

“Hi-le, hi-lo,” sang Mr. Cassidy, as another stone soared aloft in the direction of

the complainant. Then he stood erect and awaited results with a Colt’s in his hand leveled

at the rim of the hole. A hat waved and an excited voice bit off chunks of expostulation

and asked for an armistice. Then two hands shot up and Mr. Travennes, sore and

disgusted and desperate, popped his head up an blinked at Mr. Cassidy’s gun.

 

“Yu was fillin’ th’ hole up,” remarked Mr. Travennes in an accusing tone, hiding

the real reason for his evacuation. “In a little while I’d a been th’ top of a pile instead of

th’ bottom of a hole,” he announced, crawling out and rubbing his head.

 

Mr. Cassidy grinned and ordered his prisoner to one side while be secured the

weapon which lay in the hole. Having obtained it as quickly as possible be slid it in his

open shirt and clambered out again.

 

“Yu remind me of a feller I used to know,” remarked Mr. Travennes, as he led the

way to the hut, trying not to limp. “Only he throwed dynamite. That was th’ way he

cleared off chaparral-blowed it off. He got so used to heaving away everything he lit that

he spoiled three pipes in two days.”

 

Mr. Cassidy laughed at the fiction and then became grave as he pictured Mr.

Connors sitting on the rock and facing down a line of men, any one of whom was capable

of his destruction if given the interval of a second.

 

When they arrived at the hut Mr. Cassidy observed that the prisoners had moved

considerably. There was a cleanly swept trail four yards long where they had dragged

themselves, and they sat in the end nearer the guns. Mr. Cassidy smiled and fired close to

the Mexican’s ear, who lost in one frightened jump a little of what he had so laboriously

gained.

 

“Yu’ll wear out yore pants,” said Mr. Cassidy, and then added grimly, “an’ my

patience.”

 

Mr. Travennes smiled and thought of the man who so ably seconded Mr. Cassidy’s

efforts and who was probably shot by this time. The outfit of the Bar-20 was so well

known throughout the land that he was aware the name of the other was Red Connors.

 

An unreasoning streak of sarcasm swept over him and he could not resist the opportunity

to get in a stab at his captor.

 

“Mebby yore pard has wore out somebody’s patience, too,” said Mr. Travennes,

suggestively and with venom.

 

His captor wheeled toward him, his face white with passion, and Mr. Travennes

shrank back and regretted the words.

 

“I ain’t shootin’ dogs this here trip,” said Mr. Cassidy, trembling with scorn and

anger, “so yu can pull yourself together. I’ll give yu another chance, but yu wants to hope

almighty hard that Red is O. K.

 

If he ain’t, I’ll blow yu so many ways at once that if yu sprouts yu’ll make a good

acre of weeds. If he is all right yu’d better vamoose this range, for there won’t be no hole

for yu to crawl into next time. What friends yu have left will have to tote yu off an’ plant

yu,” he finished with emphasis. He drove the horses outside, and, after severing the

bonds on his prisoners, lined them up.

 

“Yu,” he began, indicating all but Mr. Travennes, “yu amble right smart toward

Canada,” pointing to the north. “Keep a-going till yu gets far enough away so a Colt

won’t find yu.” Here he grinned with delight as he saw his Sharp’s rifle in its sheath on his

saddle and, drawing it forth, he put away his Colts and glanced at the trio, who were

already industriously plodding northward. “Hey!” he shouted, and when they sullenly

turned to see what new idea he had found he gleefully waved his rifle at them and warned

them further: “This is a Sharp’s an’ it’s good for half a mile, so don’t stop none too soon.

 

Having sent them directly away from their friends so they could not have him

“potted” on the way back, he mounted his bronco and indicated to Mr. Travennes that he,

too, was to ride, watching that that person did not make use of the Winchester which Mr.

Connors was foolish enough to carry around on his saddle. Winchesters were Mr.

Cassidy’s pet aversion and Mr. Connors’ most prized possession, this difference of

opinion having upon many occasions caused hasty words between them. Mr. Connors,

being better with his Winchester than Mr. Cassidy was with his Sharp’s, had frequently

proved that his choice was the wiser, but Mr. Cassidy was loyal to the Sharp’s and refused

to be convinced. Now, however, the Winchester became pregnant with possibilities and,

therefore, Mr. Travennes rode a few yards to the left and in advance, where the rifle was

in plain sight, hanging as it did on the right of Mr. Connors’ saddle, which Mr. Travennes

graced so well.

 

The journey back to town was made in good time and when they came to the

buildings Mr. Cassidy dismounted and bade his companion do likewise, there being too

many corners that a fleeing rider could take advantage of. Mr. Travennes felt of his

bumps and did so, wishing hard things about Mr. Cassidy.

CHAPTER XV

THE PENALTY

 

While Mr. Travennes had been entertained in the

manner narrated, Mr. Connors had passed the time by relating

stale jokes to the uproarious laughter of his extremely bored

audience, who had heard the aged efforts many times since they

had first seen the light of day, and most of whom earnestly longed for a drink. The

landlord, hearing the hilarity, had taken advantage of the opportunity offered to see a free

show. Not being able to see what the occasion was for the mirth, he had pulled on his

boots and made his way to the show with a flapjack in the skillets which, in his haste, he

had forgotten to put down. He felt sure that he would be entertained, and he was not

disappointed.

 

He rounded the corner and was enthusiastically welcomed by the hungry Mr.

Connors, whose ubiquitous guns coaxed from the skillet its dyspeptic wad.

 

“Th’ saints be praised!” ejaculated Mr. Connors as a matter of form, not having a

very clear idea of just what saints were, but he knew what flapjacks were and greedily

overcame the heroic resistance of the one provided by chance and his own guns. As he

rolled his eyes in ecstatic content the very man Mr. Cassidy had warned him against

suddenly arose and in great haste disappeared around the corner of the corral, from which

point of vantage he vented his displeasure at the treatment he had received by wasting six

shots at the mortified Mr. Connors.

 

“Steady!” sang out that gentleman as the line-up wavered. “He’s a precedent to

hell for yu fellers! Don’t yu get ambitious, none whatever.” Then he wondered how long

it would take the fugitive to secure a rifle and return to release the others by drilling him

at long range.

 

His thoughts were interrupted by the vision of a red head that climbed into view

over a rise a short distance off and he grinned his delight as Mr. Cassidy loomed up,

jaunty and triumphant. Mr. Cassidy was executing calisthenics with a Colt in the rear of

Mr. Travennes’ neck and was leading the horses.

 

Mr. Connors waved the skillet and his friend grinned his congratulations at what

the token signified.

 

“I see yu got some more,” said Mr. Cassidy, as he went down the line-up from the

rear and collected nineteen weapons of various makes and conditions, this number being

explained by the fact that all but one of the prisoners wore two. Then he added the five

that had kicked against his ribs ever since he had left the hut, and carefully threaded the

end of his lariat through the trigger guards.

 

“Looks like we stuck up a government supply mule, Red,” he remarked, as he

fastened the whole collection to his saddle. “Fourteen colts, six Merwin-Hulbert’s, three

Prescott, an’ one puzzle,” he added, examining the puzzle. “Made in Germany, it says,

and it shore looks like it. It’s got little pins stickin’ out of th’ cylinder, like you had to swat

it with a hammer or a rock, or somethin’ to make it go off. Must be damn dangerous, to

most anybody around. Looks more like a cactus than a six-shooter-gosh, it’s a ten-shooter! I allus said them Dutchmen was bloody-minded cusses. Think of bein’ able to

shoot yoreself ten times before th’ blame thing stops!” Then looking at the line-up for the

owner of the weapon, he laughed at the woeful countenances displayed.

 

“Did they sidle in by companies or squads?” he asked.

 

“By twos, mostly. Then they parade-rested an’ got discharged from duty. I had

eleven, but one got homesick, or disgusted, or something, an’ deserted. It was that cussed

flapjack,” confessed and explained Mr. Connors.

 

“What!” said Mr. Cassidy in a loud voice. “Got away! Well, we’ll have to make

our get-away plumb sudden or we’ll never go.

 

At this instant the escaped man again began his bombardment from the corner of

the corral and Mr. Cassidy paused, indignant at the fusillade which tore up the dust at his

feet. He looked reproachfully at Mr. Connors and then circled out on the plain until he

caught a glimpse of a fleeing cowpuncher, whose back rapidly grew smaller in the fast-increasing distance.

 

“That’s yore friend, Red,” said Mr. Cassidy as he returned from his

reconnaissance. “He’s that shorthorn yearling. Mebby he’ll come back again,” he added

hopefully. “Anyhow, we’ve got to move. He’ll collect reinforcements an’ mebby they all

won’t shoot like him. Get up on yore Clarinda an’ hold th’ fort for me,” he ordered,

pushing the farther horse over to his friend.

Mr. Connors proved that an agile man can mount a restless horse and not lose the

drop, and backed off three hundred yards, deftly substituting his Winchester for the Colts.

 

Then Mr. Cassidy likewise mounted with his attention riveted elsewhere and backed off

to the side of his companion.

 

The bombardment commenced again from the corral, but this time Mr. Connors’

rifle slid around in his lap and exploded twice. The bellicose gentleman of the corral

yelled in pain and surprise and vanished.

 

“Purty good for a Winchester,” said Mr. Cassidy in doubtful congratulation.

 

“That’s why I got him,” snapped Mr. Connors in brief reply, and then he laughed.

 

“Is them th’ vigilantes what never let a man get away?” he scornfully asked, backing down

the street and patting his Winchester.

 

“Well, Red, they wasn’t all there. They was only twelve all told,” excused Mr.

Cassidy. “An’ then we was two,” he explained, as he wished the collection of six-shooters was on Mr. Connors’ horse so they wouldn’t bark his shin.

 

“An we still are,” corrected Mr. Connors, as they wheeled and galloped for

Alkaline.

 

As the sun sank low on the horizon Mr. Peters finished ordering provisions at the

general store, the only one Alkaline boasted, and sauntered to the saloon where he had

left his men. He found diem a few dollars richer, as they had borrowed ten dollars from

the bartender on their reputations as poker players and had used the money to stake Mr.

McAllister in a game against the local poker champion.

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