The Coming of Cassidy - Clarence E. Mulford (books to read to be successful TXT) 📗

she had become a speck on the plain he growled a question to his horse and turned sullenly toward the town. Riding straight to the hotel he held a short, low-voiced conversation with the clerk and then sought his friend, the Cub. This youthful grouch was glaring across the bar at the red-faced, angry man behind it, and the atmosphere was not one of peace. The Cub turned to see who the newcomer was and thereupon transferred his glare to the smiling puncher.

“Hullo, Kid,” breezed Hopalong.

“You go to h—l!” growled Sammy, remembering to speak respectfully to his elders. He backed off cautiously until he could keep both of his enemies under his eyes.

Hopalong’s grin broadened. He dug into his pockets and produced a large sum of money. “Here, Kid,” said he, stepping forward and thrusting it into Sammy’s paralyzed hands. “Take it an’ buy all th’ liquor you wants. You can get yore gun off ‘n th’ clerk, an’ he’ll tell you where to find yore cayuse an’ other belongings. I gotta leave town.”

Sammy stared at the money in his hand. “What’s this?” he demanded, his face flushing angrily.

“Money,” replied Hopalong. “It’s that shiny stuff you buys things with. Spondulix, cash, mazuma. You spend it, you know.”

Sammy sputtered. He might have frothed had his mouth not been so dry. “Is it?” he demanded with great sarcasm. “I thought mebby it was cows, or buttons. What you handin’ it to me for? I ain’t no d—d beggar!”

Hopalong chuckled. “That money’s yourn. I pried it loose from th’ tin-horn that stole it from you. I also, besides, pried off a few chunks more; but them’s mine. I allus pays myself good wages; an’ th’ aforesaid chunks is plenty an’ generous. Amen.”

Sammy regarded his smiling friend with a frank suspicion that was brutal. The pleasing bulge of the pockets reassured him and he slowly pocketed his rescued wealth. He growled something doubtless meant for thanks and turned to the bar. “A large chunk of th’ Mojave Desert slid down my throat las’ night an’ I’m so dry I rustles in th’ breeze. Let’s wet down a li’l.” Having extracted some of the rustle he eyed his companion suspiciously, “Thought you was a stranger hereabouts?”

“You’ve called it.”

“Huh! Then I’m goin’ to stick close to you an get acquainted with th’ female population of th’ towns we hit. An’ I had allus reckoned lightnin’ was quick!” he soliloquized, regretfully. “How’d you do it?” he demanded.

Hopalong was gazing over his friend’s head at a lurid chromo portraying the Battle of Bull Run and he pursed his lips thoughtfully. “That shore was some slaughter,” he commented. “Well, Kid,” he said, holding out his hand, “I’m leavin’. If you ever gets down my way an’ wants a good job, drop in an’ see us. Th’ clerk’ll tell you how to get there. An’ th’ next time you gambles, stay sober.”

“Hey! Wait a minute!” exclaimed Sammy. “Goin’ home now?”

“Can’t say as I am, direct.”

“Comin’ back here before you do?”

“Can’t say that, neither. Life is plumb oncertain an’ gunplay’s even worse. Mebby I will if I’m alive.”

“Who you gunnin’ for? Can’t I take a hand?”

“Reckon not, Sammy. Why, I’m cuttin’ in where I ain’t wanted, even if I am needed. But it’s my duty. It’s a h—l of a community as waits for a total stranger to do its work for it. If yo’re around an’ I come back, why I’ll see you again. Meanwhile, look out for tin-horns.”

Sammy followed him outside and grasped his arm. “I can hold up my end in an argument,” he asserted fiercely. “You went an’ did me a good turn lemme do you one. If it’s anythin’ to do with that li’l girl you met to-day I won’t cut in only on th’ trouble end. I’m particular strong on th’ trouble part. Look here: Ain’t a friend got no rights?”

Hopalong warmed to the eager youngster he was so much like Jimmy; and Jimmy, be it known, could bedevil Hopalong as much as any man alive and not even get an unkind word for it. “I’m scared to let you come, Kid; she’d fumigate th’ ranch when you left. Th? last twenty-four hours has outlawed you, all right. You keep to th’ brush trails in th’ draws don’t cavort none on skylines till you lose that biled owl look.” He laughed at the other’s expression and placed his hands on the youth’s shoulders. “That ain’t it, Kid; I never apologizes, serious, for th’ looks of my friends. They’re my friends, drunk or sober, in h—l or out of it. I just can’t see how you can cut in proper. Better wait for me here I’ll turn up, all right. Meanwhile, as I says before, look out for tin-horns.”

Sammy watched him ride away, and then slammed his sombrero on the ground and jumped on it, after which he felt relieved. Procuring his gun from the clerk he paused to crossexamine, but after a fruitless half hour he sauntered out, hiding his vexation, to wrestle with the problem in the open. Passing the window of a general store he idly glanced at the meager display behind the dusty glass and a sudden grin transfigured his countenance. He would find out about the girl first and that would help him solve the puzzle. Thinking thus he wandered in carelessly and he wandered out again gravely clutching a small package. Slipping behind the next building he tore off the paper and carefully crumpled and soiled with dust the purchase. Then he went down to the depot and followed the railroad tracks toward the other side of the square. Reaching the place where the south trail crossed the tracks he left them and walked slowly toward a small depression that was surrounded by hoofprints. He stooped quickly and straightened up with a woman’s handkerchief dangling from his fingers. He grinned foolishly, examined it, sniff ed at it and scratched his head while he cogitated. A decisive wave of his hand apprised the two spectators that he had arrived at a conclusion, which he bore out by heading straight for the postoffice, which was a part of the grocery store. The postmaster and grocer, in person one, watched his approach with frank curiosity.

Sammy nodded and went in the store, followed by the proprietor. “Howd’y,” he remarked, producing the handkerchief. “Just picked this up over on th’ trail. Know who dropped it?”

“Annie Allison, I reckon,” replied the other. “She came in that way from th’ Bar-U. Want to leave it?”

Sammy considered. “Why, I might as well take it to her I’m goin’ down there purty soon. Don’t know any other ranch that might use a broncho-buster, do you?”

The proprietor shook his head. “No; most folks ‘round here bust their own. Perfessional?”

Sammy nodded. “Yes. Here, gimme twobits’ worth of them pep ‘mint lozengers. Yes, it shore is fine; but it’ll rain before long. Well, by-by.”

The bartender of the “Retreat” sniffed suspiciously and eyed the open door thoughtfully, holding aloft the bar-mop while he considered. Then he put the mop on the bar and went to the door, where he peered out. “Huh!” le grunted. “Hogin’ that?” he sarcastically inquired. Sammy held out the bag and led the way to the bar. “Where’s th’ Bar-U? Yes? Do their own broncho-bustin’? Who, me? Ain’t nothin’ on laigs can throw me, includin’ humans an’ bartenders. What? Well, what you want to get all skinned up for, for nothin’? Five dollars? If you must lose it I might as well have it. One fall? All right; come out here an’ get it.”

The bartender chuckled and vaulted the counter as advance notice of his agility and physical condition, and immediately there ensued a soft shuffling. Suddenly the building shook and dusted itself and Sammy arose and stepped back, smiling at his victim. “Thanks,” he remarked. “Good money was spent on part of my education boxin’ bein’ th’ other half. Now, for five more, where can’t I hit you?”

“Behind th’ bar,” grinned the other; “I got deadly weapons there. Look here!” he exclaimed hurriedly as a great idea struck him. “Everybody ‘round here will back their wrastlin’ reckless; le’s team up an’ make some easy money. I’ll make th’ bets an’ you win ‘em. Split even. What say?”

“Later on, mebby. What’d you say that Bar-U foreman’s name was?”

The bartender’s reply was supplemented by a pious suggestion. “An’ if you wrastles him, bust his cussed neck!”

“Why this friendship?” queried Sammy, laughing.

“Oh, just for general principles.”

Sammy bought cigars, left some lozenges and went out to search for his horse, which he duly found. Inwardly he was elated and he flexed his muscles and made curious motions with his arms, which caused the pie-bald to show the whites of its eyes wickedly and flatten its ragged ears. Its actions were justified, for a left hand darted out and slapped the wrinkling muzzle, deftly escaping the clicking teeth. Then the warlike pie-bald reflected judiciously as it chewed the lozenge. The eyes showed less white and the ears, moving forward and back, compromised by one staying forward. The candy was old and stale and the sting of the mint was negligible, but the sugar was much in evidence. When the hand darted out again the answering nip was playful and the ears were set rigidly forward. Sammy laughed, slipped several more lozenges into the ready mouth, vaulted lightly to the saddle and rode slowly toward the square. The pie-bald kicked mildly and reached around to nip at the stirrup, and then went on about its business as any well-broken cow pony should. Reaching the square Sammy drew rein suddenly and watched a horseman who was riding away from the “Retreat.” Waiting a few minutes Sammy spurred forward to the saloon and called the bartender out to him. “Who was that feller that just left?” he asked, curiously.

“Joe Worth, th’ man yo’re goin’ to strike for that job. Why don’t you catch him now an’ mebby save yoreself a day’s ride?”

“Good idea,” endorsed Sammy. “See you later,” and the youth wheeled and loped toward the trail, but drew rein when hidden from the “Retreat” by some buildings. He watched the distant horseman until he became a mere dot and then Sammy pushed on after him. There was a satisfied look on his face and he chuckled as he cogitated. “I shore got th’ drift of this; I know th’ game! Wonder how Cassidy got onto it?” He laughed contentedly. “Well, five hundred ain’t too little to split two ways; an’ mebby it is a two-man job. Mr. Joe Worth, who was once Mr. George Atkins, I wouldn’t give a peso for yore chances after I get th’ lay of th’ ground an’ find out yore habits. Yo’re goin’ back to

Willow Springs as shore as ‘dogies’ hang ‘round water holes. An’ you’ll shore dance their tune when you gets there.”

Mr. Cassidy, arriving at the Bar-U, asked for the foreman and was told that the boss was in town, but would be back sometime in the afternoon. The newcomer replied that he would return later and, carefully keeping out of sight of the ranch house as well as he could, he wheeled and rode back the way he had come, being very desirous to have a good look at the foreman before they met. Arriving at an arroyo several miles north of the ranch he turned into it and, leaving his horse picketed on good grass along the bottom, he climbed to a position where he could see the trail without being seen. Having settled himself comfortably he improved the wait by trying to think out the best way to accomplish the work he had set himself to do. Shooting was too common and hardly justifiable unless Mr. Worth forced