Hopalong Cassidy's Rustler Round-Up; Or, Bar-20 by Clarence Edward Mulford (spanish books to read TXT) 📗

screen any gun play and he stopped the game with a warning shout. Then the two held up their hands and advanced.

“We wants to git Dan,” called out one of them, nodding at the prostrate figure.

“Come ahead,” replied Hopalong, substituting a Colt for the rifle.

They carried their badly wounded and insensible burden back to those whom they had left, and several curses were hurled at the cowboy, who only smiled grimly and entered the hut to place things ready for a siege, should one come. He had one hundred rounds of ammunition and provisions enough for two weeks, with the assurance of reinforcements long before that time would expire. He cut several rough loopholes and laid out his weapons for quick handling. He knew that he could stop any advance during the day and planned only for night attacks. How long he could go without sleep did not bother him, because he gave it no thought, as he was accustomed to short naps and could awaken at will or at the slightest sound.

As dusk merged into dark he crept forth and collected several handfuls of dry twigs, which he scattered around the hut, as the cracking of these would warn him of an approach. Then he went in and went to sleep.

He awoke at daylight after a good night's rest, and feasted on canned beans and peaches. Then he tossed the cans out of the door and shoved his hat out. Receiving no response he walked out and surveyed the town at his feet. A sheepish grin spread over his face as he realized that there was no danger. Several red-shirted men passed by him on their way to town, and one, a grizzled veteran of many gold camps, stopped and sauntered up to him.

“Mornin',” said Hopalong.

“Mornin',” replied the stranger. “I thought I'd drop in an' say that I saw that gun-play of yourn yesterday. Yu ain't got no reason to look fer a rush. This camp is half white men an' half bullies, an' th' white men won't stand fer no play like that. Them fellers that jest passed are neighbors of yourn, an' they won't lay abed if yu needs them. But yu wants to look out fer th' joints in th' town. Guess this business is out of yore line,” he finished as he sized Hopalong up.

“She shore is, but I'm here to stay. Got tired of punchin' an' reckoned I'd get rich.” Here he smiled and glanced at the hole. “How're yu makin' out?” He asked.

“'Bout five dollars a day apiece, but that ain't nothin' when grub's so high. Got reckless th' other day an' had a egg at fifty cents.”

Hopalong whistled and glanced at the empty cans at his feet. “Any marshal in this burg?”

“Yep. But he's one of th' gang. No good, an' drunk half th' time an' half drunk th' rest. Better come down an' have something,” invited the miner.

“I'd shore like to, but I can't let no gang get in that door,” replied the puncher.

“Oh, that's all right; I'll call my pardner down to keep house till yu gits back. He can hold her all right. Hey, Jake!” he called to a man who was some hundred paces distant; “Come down here an' keep house till we gits back, will yu?”

The man lumbered down to them and took possession as Hopalong and his newly found friend started for the town.

They entered the “Miner's Rest” and Hopalong fixed the room in his mind with one swift glance. Three men—and they looked like the crowd he had stopped before—were playing poker at a table near the window. Hopalong leaned with his back to the bar and talked, with the players always in sight.

Soon the door opened and a bewhiskered, heavy-set man tramped in, and walking up to Hopalong, looked him over.

“Huh,” he sneered, “Yu are th' gent with th' festive guns that plugged Dan, ain't yu?”

Hopalong looked at him in the eyes and quietly replied:

“An' who th' deuce are yu?”

The stranger's eyes blazed and his face wrinkled with rage as he aggressively shoved his jaw close to Hopalong's face.

“Yu runt, I'm a better man than yu even if yu do wear hair pants,” referring to Hopalong's chaps. “Yu cow-wrastlers make me tired, an' I'm goin' to show yu that this town is too good for you. Yu can say it right now that yu are a ornery, game-leg—”

Hopalong smashed his insulter squarely between the eyes with all the power of his sinewy body behind the blow, knocking him in a heap under the table. Then he quickly glanced at the card players and saw a hostile movement. His gun was out in a flash and he covered the trio as he walked up to them. Never in all his life had he felt such a desire to kill. His eyes were diamond points of accumulated fury, and those whom he faced quailed before him.

“Yu scum! Draw, please draw! Pull yore guns an' gimme my chance! Three to one, an' I'll lay my guns here,” he said, placing them on the bar and removing his hands. “'Nearer My God to Thee' is purty appropriate fer yu just now! Yu seem to be a-scared of yore own guns. Git down on yore dirty knees an' say good an' loud that yu eats dirt! Shout out that yu are too currish to live with decent men,” he said, even-toned and distinct, his voice vibrant with passion as he took up his Colts. “Get down!” he repeated, shoving the weapons forward and pulling back the hammers.

The trio glanced at each other, and all three dropped to their knees and repeated in venomous hatred the words Hopalong said for them.

“Now git! An' if I sees yu when I leaves I'll send yu after yore friend. I'll shoot on sight now. Git!” He escorted them to the door and kicked the last one out.

His miner friend still leaned against the bar and looked his approval.

“Well done, youngster! But yu wants to look out—that man,” pointing to the now groping victim of Hopalong's blow, “is th' marshal of this town. He or his pals will get yu if yu don't watch th' corners.”

Hopalong walked over to the marshal, jerked him to his feet and slammed him against the bar. Then he tore the cheap badge from its place and threw it on the floor. Reaching down, he drew the marshal's revolver from its holster and shoved it in its owner's hand.

“Yore th' marshal of this place an' it's too good for me, but yore gain' to pick up that tin lie,” pointing at the badge, “an' yore goin' to do it right now. Then yore gain' to get kicked out of that door, an' if yu stops runnin' while I can see yu I'll fill yu so full of holes yu'll catch cold. Yore a sumptious marshal, yu are! Yore th' snortingest ki-yi that ever stuck its tail atween its laigs, yu are. Yu pop-eyed wall flower, yu wants to peep to yoreself or some papoose'll slide yu over th' Divide so fast yu won't have time to grease yore pants. Pick up that license-tag an' let me see you perculate so lively that yore back'll look like a ten-cent piece