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

“Oh, not for a week; he wants to run up the board an' keep expenses. Tyrants, such as him—”

“Shore,” interposed the bartender, “he'll make the expenses equal what he gets for the cayuse, no matter what it comes to. An' he's the whole town, an' the justice of the peace, besides. What he says goes.”

“Well, I'm the Governor of the State an' I've got the Supreme Court right here in my holster, so I reckon I can reverse his official acts an' fill his legal opinions full of holes,” the stranger replied, laughing heartily. “Bartender, will you help me play a little joke on His Honore, the Town,—just a little harmless joke?”

“Well, that all depends whether the joke is harmless on me. You see, he can shoot like the devil—he allus knows when a man is going to draw, an' gets his gun out first. I ain't got no respect for him, but I take off my hat to his gunplay, all right.”

The stranger smiled. “Well, I can shoot a bit myself. But I shore wish he'd hold that auction quick—I've got to go on home without losing any more time. Fisher, suppose you go down to the pound and dare that tumble-bug to hold the auction this afternoon. Tell him that you'll shoot him full of holes if he goes pulling off any auction to-day, an' dare him to try it. I want it to come off before night, an' I reckon that'll hustle it along.”

“I'll do anything to get the edge on that thief,” replied Fisher, quickly, “but don't you reckon I'd better tote a gun, going down an' bearding such a thief in his own den? You know I allus like to shoot when I'm being shot at.”

“Well, I don't blame you; it's only a petty weakness,” grinned the stranger, hanging onto his Colt as if fearing that the other would snatch it and run. “But you'll do better without any gun—me an' the bartender don't want to have to go down there an' bring you back on a plank.”

“All right, then,” sighed Fisher, reluctantly, “but he'll jump the price again. He'll fine me for contempt of court an' make me pay money I ain't got for disturbing him. But I'm game—so long.”

When he had gained the street, the stranger turned to the bartender. “Now, friend, you tell me if this man of gall, this Mr. Townsend, has got many friends in town—anybody that'll be likely to pot shoot from the back when things get warm. I can't watch both ends unless I know what I'm up against.”

“No! Every man in town hates him,” answered the bartender, hastily, and with emphasis.

“Ah, that's good. Now, I wonder if you could see 'most everybody that's in town now an' get 'em to promise to help me by letting me run this all by myself. All I want them to do is not to say a word. It ain't hard to keep still when you want to.”

“Why, I reckon I might see 'em—there ain't many here this time of day,” responded the bartender. “But what's yore game, anyhow?” he asked, suddenly growing suspicious.

“It's just a little scheme I figgered out,” the stranger replied, and then he confided in the bartender, who jigged a few fancy steps to show his appreciation of the other's genius. His suspicions left him at once, and he hastened out to tell the inhabitants of the town to follow his instructions to the letter, and he knew they would obey, and be glad, hilariously glad, to do so. While he was hurrying around giving his instructions, the CG puncher returned to the hotel and reported.

“Well, it worked, all right,” Fisher growled. “I told him what I'd do to him if he tried to auction that cayuse off an' he retorted that if I didn't shut up an' mind my own business, that he'd sell the horse this noon, at twelve o'clock, in the public square, wherever that is. I told him he was a coyote and dared him to do it. Told him I'd pump him full of air ducts if he didn't wait till next week. Said I had the promise of a gun an' that it'd give me great pleasure to use it on him if he tried any auctioneering at my expense this noon. Then he fined me five dollars more, swore that he'd show me what it meant to dare the marshal of Rawhide an' insult the dignity of the court an' town council, an' also that he'd shoot my liver all through my system if I didn't leave him to his reflections. Now, look here, stranger; noon is only two hours away an' I'm due to lose my outfit: what are you going to do to get me out of this mess?” he finished anxiously, hands on hips.

“You did real well, very fine, indeed,” replied the stranger, smiling with content. “An' don't you worry about that outfit—I'm going to get it back for you an' a little bit more. So, as long as you don't lose nothing, you ain't got no kick coming, have you? An' you ain't got no interest in what I'm going to do. Just sit tight an' keep yore eyes an' ears open at noon. Meantime, if you want something to do to keep you busy, practise making speeches—you ought to be ashamed to be punching cows an' working for a living when you could use yore talents an' get a lot of graft besides. Any man who can say as much on nothing as you can ought to be in the Senate representing some railroad company or waterpower steal—you don't have to work there, just loaf an' take easy money for cheating the people what put you there. Now, don't get mad—I'm only stringing you: I wouldn't be mean enough to call you a senator. To tell the truth, I think yo're too honest to even think of such a thing. But go ahead an' practise—I don't mind it a bit.”

“Huh! I couldn't go to Congress,” laughed Fisher. “I'd have to practise by getting elected mayor of some town an' then go to the Legislature for the finishing touches.”

“Mr. Townsend would beat you out,” murmured the stranger, looking out of the window and wishing for noon. He sauntered over to a chair, placed it where he could see his horse, and took things easy. The bartender returned with several men at his heels, and all were grinning and joking. They took up their places against the bar and indulged in frequent fits of chuckling, not letting their eyes stray from the man in the chair and the open street through the door, where the auction was to be held. They regarded the stranger in the light of a would-be public benefactor, a martyr, who was to provide the town with a little excitement before he followed his predecessors into the grave. Perhaps he would not be killed, perhaps he would shoot the pound-keeper and general public nuisance—but ah, this was the stuff of which dreams were made: the marshal would never be killed, he would thrive and outlive his fellow-townsmen, and die in bed at a ripe old age.

One of the citizens, dangling his legs from the card table, again looked closely at the man with the plan, and then turned to a companion beside him. “I've seen that there feller som'ers, sometime,” he whispered. “I know I have. But I'll be teetotally dod-blasted if I can place him.”

“Well, Jim; I never saw him afore, an' I don't know who he is,” replied