Bar-20 Days by Clarence Edward Mulford (new reading TXT) 📗

Fisher, wild with rage, returned to the Paradise and profanely unfolded the tale of his burning wrongs to the bartender and demanded the loan of his gun, which the bartender promptly refused. The present owner of the gun liked Fisher very much for being such a sport and sympathized with him deeply, but he did not want to have such a pleasing acquaintance killed.

“Now, see here: you cool down an' I'll lend you fifteen dollars on that saddle of yourn. You go up an' get that cayuse out before the price goes up any higher—you don't know that man like I do,” remarked the man behind the bar earnestly. “That feller Townsend can shoot the eyes out of a small dog at ten miles, purty nigh. Do you savvy my drift?”

“I won't pay him a cussed cent, an' when he goes to sell that piebald at auction, I'll be on hand with a gun; I'll get one somewhere, all right, even if I have to steal it. Then I'll shoot out his eyes at ten paces. Why, he's a two-laigged hold-up! That man would—” he stopped as a stranger entered the room. “Hey, stranger! Don't you leave that cayuse of yourn outside all alone or that coyote of a marshal will steal it, shore. He's the biggest thief I ever knowed. He'll lift yore animal quick as a wink!” Fisher warned, excitedly.

The stranger looked at him in surprise and then smiled. “Is it usual for a marshal to steal cayuses? Somewhat out of line, ain't it?” he asked Fisher, glancing at the bartender for light.

“I don't care what's the rule—that marshal just stole my cayuse; an' he'll take yourn, too, if you ain't careful,” Fisher replied.

“Well,” drawled the stranger, smiling still more, “I reckon I ain't going to stay out there an' watch it, an' I can't bring it in here. But I reckon it'll be all right. You see, I carry 'big medicine' agin hoss-thieves,” he replied, tapping his holster and smiling as he remembered the time, not long past, when he himself had been accused of being one. “I'll take a chance if he will—what'll you all have?”

“Little whiskey,” replied Fisher, uneasily, worrying because he could not stand for a return treat. “But, say; you keep yore eye on that animal, just the same,” he added, and then hurriedly gave his reasons. “An' the worst part of the whole thing is that I ain't got no gun, an' can't seem to borrow none, neither,” he added, wistfully eyeing the stranger's Colt. “I gambled mine away to the bartender here an' he won't lemme borrow it for five minutes!”

“Why, I never heard tell of such a thing before!” exclaimed the stranger, hardly believing his ears, and aghast at the thought that such conditions could exist. “Friend,” he said, addressing the bartender, “how is it that this sort of thing can go on in this town?” When the bartender had explained at some length, his interested listener smote the bar with a heavy fist and voiced his outraged feelings. “I'll shore be plumb happy to spread that coyote marshal all over his cussed pound! Say, come with me; I'm going down there right now an' get that cayuse, an' if the marshal opens his mouth to peep I'll get him, too. I'm itching for a chance to tunnel a man like him. Come on an' see the show!”

“Not much!” retorted Fisher. “While I am some pleased to meet a white man, an' have a deep an' abiding gratitude for yore noble offer, I can't let you do it. He put it over on me, an' I'm the one that's got to shoot him up. He's mine, my pudding; an' I'm hogging him all to myself. That is one luxury I can indulge in even if I am broke; an' I'm sorry, but I can't give you cards. Seeing, however, as you are so friendly to the cause of liberty an' justice, suppose you lend me yore gun for about three minutes by the watch. From what I've been told about this town such an act will win for you the eternal love an' gratitude of a down-trodden people; yore gun will blaze the way to liberty an' light, freedom an' the right to own yore own property, an' keep it. All I ask is that I be the undeserving medium.”

“A-men,” sighed the bartender. “Deacon Jones will now pass down the aisle an' collect the buttons an' tin money.”

“Stranger,” continued Fisher, warming up, when he saw that his words had not produced the desired result, “King James the Twelfth, on the memorable an' blood-soaked field of Trafalgar, gave men their rights. On that great day he signed the Magnet Charter, and proved himself as great a liberator as the sainted Lincoln. You, on this most auspicious occasion, hold in yore strong hand the destiny of this town—the women an' children in this cursed community will rise up an' bless you forever an' pass yore name down to their ancestors as a man of deeds an' honor! Let us pause to consider this—”

“Hold that pause!” interrupted the astounded bartender hurriedly, and with shaking voice. “String it out till I get untangled! I ain't up much on history, so I won't take no chance with that; but I want to tell our eloquent guest that there ain't no women or children in this town. An' if there was, I sort of reckon their ancestors would be born first. What do you think about it—”

“Let us pause to consider the shameful an' burning indignity perpetrated upon us to-day!” continued Fisher, unheeding the bartender's words. “I, a peaceful, law-abiding citizen of this glorious Commonwealth, a free an' equal member of a liberty-loving nation, a nation whose standard is, now and forever, 'Gimme liberty or gimme det', a nation that stands for all the conceivable benefits that mankind may enjoy, a nation that scintillates pyrotechnically over the prostitution of power—”

Bang! went the bartender's fist on the counter. “Hey! Pause again! Wait a minute! Go back to 'shameful an' burning,' and gimme a chance!”

“—that stands for an even break, I, Nathaniel G. Fisher, have been deprived of one of my inalienable rights, the right of locomotion to distant an' other parts. An'' I say, right here an' now, that I won't allow no spavined individual with thieving prehensils to—”

“Has that pound-keeper got a rifle?” calmly interrupted the stranger, without a pang of remorse.

“He has. Thus has it allus been with tyrants—well armed, fortified by habit an' tradition—”

“Then you won't get my gun, savvy? We'll find another way to get that cayuse as long as you feel that the marshal is yore hunting. Besides, this man's gall deserves some respect; it is genius, an' to pump genius full of cold lead is