Bar-20 Days - Clarence E. Mulford (read a book .TXT) 📗
- Author: Clarence E. Mulford
- Performer: -
Book online «Bar-20 Days - Clarence E. Mulford (read a book .TXT) 📗». Author Clarence E. Mulford
But the man at the far end of the line was unlike the proprietor and he prefaced his remarks with a curse. “I know what’s up! They want Jerry Brown, that’s what! An’ I hopes they don’t get him, the bullies!”
“What did he do? Why do they want him?” asked the man who had wanted trust.
“Skinning. He was careless or crazy, working so close to their ranch houses. Nobody that had any sense would take a chance like that,” replied Boston, adept at sleight-of-hand with cards and very much in demand when a frame-up was to be rung in on some unsuspecting stranger. His one great fault in the eyes of his partners was that he hated to divvy his winnings and at times had to be coerced into sharing equally.
“Aw, them big ranches make me mad,” announced the first speaker. “Ten years ago there was a lot of little ranchers, an’ every one of ‘em had his own herd, an’ plenty of free grass an’ water for it. Where are the little herds now? Where are the cows that we used to own?” he cried, hotly. “What happens to a maverick-hunter now-a-days? By God, if a man helps hisself to a pore, sick dogie he’s hunted down! It can’t go on much longer, an’ that’s shore.”
Cries of approbation arose on all sides, for his auditors ignored the fact that their kind, by avarice and thievery, had forever killed the occupation of maverick-hunting. That belonged to the old days, before the demand for cows and their easy and cheap transportation had boosted the prices and made them valuable.
Slivers Lowe leaped up from his chair. “Yo’re right, Harper! Dead right! I was a little cattle owner once, so was you, an’ Jerry, an’ most of us!” Slivers found it convenient to forget that fully half of his small herd had perished in the bitter and long winter of five years before, and that the remainder had either flowed down his parched throat or been lost across the big round table near the bar. Not a few of his cows were banked in the east under Harlan’s name.
The rear door opened slightly and one of the loungers looked up and nodded. “It’s all right, Jerry. But get a move on!”
“Here, you!” called Harlan, quickly bending over the trap door, “Lively!”
Jerry was half way to the proprietor when the front door swung open and Hopalong, closely followed by the marshal, leaped into the room, and immediately thereafter the back door banged open and admitted Johnny. Jerry’s right hand was in his side coat pocket and Johnny, young and self-confident, and with a lot to learn, was certain that he could beat the fugitive on the draw.
“I reckon you won’t blot no more brands!” he cried, triumphantly, watching both Jerry and Harlan.
The card-players had leaped to their feet and at a signal from Harlan they surged forward to the bar and formed a barrier between Johnny and his friends; and as they did so that puncher jerked at his gun, twisting to half face the crowd. At that instant fire and smoke spurted from Jerry’s side coat pocket and the odor of burning cloth arose. As Johnny fell, the rustler ducked low and sprang for the door. A gun roared twice in the front of the room and Jerry staggered a little and cursed as he gained the opening, but he plunged into the darkness and threw himself into the saddle on the first horse he found in the small corral.
When the crowd massed, Hopalong leaped at it and strove to tear his way to the opening at the end of the bar, while the marshal covered Harlan and the others. Finding that he could not get through. Hopalong sprang on the shoulder of the nearest man and succeeded in winging the fugitive at the first shot, the other going wild. Then, frantic with rage and anxiety, he beat his way through the crowd, hammering mercilessly at heads with the butt of his Colt, and knelt at his friend’s side.
Edwards, angered almost to the point of killing, ordered the crowd to stand against the wall, and laughed viciously when he saw two men senseless on the floor. “Hope he beat in yore heads!” he gritted, savagely. “Harlan, put yore paws up in sight or I’ll drill you clean! Now climb over an’ get in line—quick!”
Johnny moaned and opened his eyes. “Did—did I—get him?”
“No; but he gimleted you, all right,” Hopalong replied. “You’ll come ‘round if you keep quiet.” He arose, his face hard with the desire to kill. “I’m coming back for you, Harlan, after I get yore friend! An’ all the rest of you pups, too!”
“Get me out of here,” whispered Johnny.
“Shore enough, Kid; but keep quiet,” replied Hopalong, picking him up in his arms and moving carefully towards the door. “We’ll get him, Johnny; an’ all the rest, too, when–-” The voice died out in the direction of Jackson’s and the marshal, backing to the front door, slipped out and to one side, running backward, his eyes on the saloon.
“Yore day’s about over, Harlan,” he muttered. “There’s going to be some few funerals around here before many hours pass.”
When he reached the store he found the owner and two Double-Arrow punchers taking care of Johnny. “Where’s Hopalong?” he asked.
“Gone to tell his foreman,” replied Jackson. “Hey, youngster, you let them bandages alone! Hear me?”
“Hullo, Kansas,” remarked John Bartlett, foreman of the Double-Arrow. “I come nigh getting yore man; somebody rode past me like a streak in the dark, so I just ups an’ lets drive for luck, an’ so did he. I heard him cuss an’ I emptied my gun after him.”
“The rest was a-passing the word along to ride in when I left the line,” remarked one of the other punchers. “How you feeling now, Johnny?”
The rain slanted down in sheets and the broken plain, thoroughly saturated, held the water in pools or sent it down the steep sides of the arroyo, to feed the turbulent flood which swept along the bottom, foam-flecked and covered with swiftly moving driftwood. Around a bend in the arroyo, where the angry water flung itself against the ragged bulwark of rock and flashed away in a gleaming line of foam, a horseman appeared bending low in the saddle for better protection against the storm. He rode along the edge of the stream on the farther bank, opposite the steep bluff on the northern side, forcing his wounded and jaded horse to keep fetlock deep in the water which swirled and sucked about its legs. He was trying his hardest to hide his trail. Lower down the hard, rocky ground extended to the water’s edge, and if he could delay his pursuers for an hour or so, he felt that, even with his tired horse, he would have more than an even chance.
But they had gained more than he knew. Suddenly above him on the top of the steep bluff across the torrent a man loomed up against the clouds, peered intently into the arroyo, and then waved his sombrero to an unseen companion. A puff of smoke flashed from his shoulder and streaked away, the report of the shot lost in the gale. The fugitive’s horse reared and plunged into the deep water and with its rider was swept rapidly towards the bend, the way they had come.
“That makes the fourth time I’ve missed that coyote!” angrily exclaimed Hopalong as Red Connors joined him.
The other quickly raised his rifle and fired; and the horse, spilling its rider out of the saddle, floated away tail first. The fugitive, gripping his rifle, bobbed and whirled at the whim of the greedy water as shots struck near him. Making a desperate effort, he staggered up the bank and fell exhausted behind a boulder.
“Well, the coyote is afoot, anyhow,” said Red, with great satisfaction.
“Yes; but how are we going to get to him?” asked Hopalong. “We can’t get the cayuses down here, an’ we can’t swim that water without them. An’ if we could, he’d pot us easy.”
“There’s a way out of it somewhere,” Red replied, disappearing over the edge of the bluff to gamble with Fate.
“Hey! Come back here, you chump!” cried Hopalong, running forward. “He’ll get you, shore!”
“That’s a chance I’ve got to take if I get him,” was the reply.
A puff of smoke sailed from behind the boulder on the other bank and Hopalong, kneeling for steadier aim, fired and then followed his friend. Red was downstream casting at a rock across the torrent but the wind toyed with the heavy, water-soaked reata as though it were a string. As Hopalong reached his side a piece of driftwood ducked under the water and an angry humming sound died away downstream. As the report reached their ears a jet of water spurted up into Red’s face and he stepped back involuntarily.
“He’s so shaky,” Hopalong remarked, looking back at the wreath of smoke above the boulder. “I reckon I must have hit him harder than I thought in Harlan’s. Gee! He’s wild as blazes!” he yelled as a bullet hummed high above his head and struck sharply against the rock wall.
“Yes,” Red replied, coiling the rope. “I was trying to rope that rock over there. If I could anchor to that, the current would push us over quick. But it’s too far with this wind blowing.”
“We can’t do nothing here ‘cept get plugged. He’ll be getting steadier as he rests from his fight with the water,” Hopalong remarked, and added quickly, “Say, remember that meadow back there a ways? We can make her from there, all right.”
“Yo’re right; that’s what we’ve got to do. He’s sending ‘em nearer every shot—Gee! I could ‘most feel the wind of that one. An’ blamed if it ain’t stopped raining. Come on.”
They clambered up the slippery, muddy bank to where they had left their horses, and cantered back over their trail. Minute after minute passed before the cautious skulker among the rocks across the stream could believe in his good fortune. When he at last decided that he was alone again he left his shelter and started away, with slowly weakening stride, over cleanly washed rock where he left no trail.
It was late in the afternoon before the two irate punchers appeared upon the scene, and their comments, as they hunted slowly over the hard ground, were numerous and bitter. Deciding that it was hopeless in that vicinity, they began casting in great circles on the chance of crossing the trail further back from the river. But they had little faith in their success. As Red remarked, snorting like a horse in his disgust, “I’ll bet four dollars an’ a match he’s swum down the river clean to hell just to have the laugh on us.” Red had long since given it up as a bad job, though continuing to search, when a shout from the distant Hopalong sent him forward on a run.
“Hey, Red!” cried Hopalong, pointing ahead of them. “Look there! Ain’t that a house?”
“Naw; course not! It’s a—it’s a ship!” Red snorted sarcastically. “What did you think it might be?”
“G’wan!” retorted his companion. “It’s a mission.”
“Ah, g’wan yoreself! What’s a mission doing up here?” Red snapped.
“What do you think they do? What do they do anywhere?” hotly rejoined Hopalong, thinking about Johnny. “There! See the cross?”
“Shore enough!”
“An’ there’s tracks
Comments (0)