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

three whole days where would I be? But I gotta keep Johnny outa here, th’ son-ofa-gun. He ain’t like me he likes girls; an’ he ain’t bashful.”

He picked up a paper lying on a chair near him and looked it over until the kitchen door squeaked. She carried a tray covered with a snow-white napkin which looked like a topographical map with its mountains and valleys and plains. His chuckle was infectious to the extent of a smile and her eyes danced as she placed his dinner before him.

“Betcha it’s fine,” he grinned, shoveling sugar into the inky coffee. “Blinky oughta have a good look at this layout.”

“Don’t be too sure,” she retorted. “Mrs. Olmstead is sick and I’m taking charge of things for her. I’m not a good cook.”

“Nothin’s th’ matter with this,” he assured her between bites. “Lots better ‘n most purty girls can do. If Hopalong goes up against this he’ll offer you a hundred a month an’ throw Blinky in to wash th’ dishes. But he’d have to ‘point me guard, or you wouldn’t have no time to do no cookin’.”

“You’d make a fine guard,” she retorted.

“Don’t believe it, huh? Jus’ wait till you know me better.”

“How do you know I’m going to?”

“I’m a good guesser. Jus’ put a li’l pepper right there on that yalla spot. Say, any chance to get a job in this town?”

“Why, I don’t know.”

“Goin’ to stay long?”

“I can’t say. I won’t go till Mra. Olmstead is well.”

“Not meanin’ no harm to Mrs. Olmstead, of course but you don’t have to go, do you?”

“I do as I please.”

“So I was thinkin’. Now, ‘bout that job: any chance? Any ranches near here?”

“Several. But they want men. Are you a real cowboy?”

Sammy folded his hands and shook his head sorrowfully. “Huh! Want men! Now if I only had whiskers like Blinky. Why, ‘course I’m a cowboy. Regular one—but I can outgrow it easy. I’m a sorta maverick an’ I’m willin’ to wear a nice brand. My name’s Sammy Porter,” he suggested.

“That’s nice. Mine isn’t nice.”

“Easy to change it. Really like mine?”

“Coffee strong enough?”

“Sumptious. How long’s Mrs. Olmstead going to be sick?”

Her face clouded. “I don’t know. I hope it will not be for long. She’s had so much trouble the past year. Oh, wait! I forgot the toast!” and she sped lightly away to rescue the burning bread.

The front door opened and slammed shut, the newcomer dropping into the nearest chair. He pounded on the table. “Hello, there! I want somethin’ to eat, quick!”

Sammy turned and saw a portly, flashily dressed drummer whose importance was written large all over him. “Hey!” barked the drummer, “gimme something to eat. I can’t wait all day!”

A vicious clang in the kitchen told that his presence was known and resented.

As Sammy turned from the stranger he caught sight of a pretty flushed face disappearing behind the door jamb, the brown eyes snapping and the red lips straight and compressed. His glance, again traveling to the drummer, began with the dusty patent leathers and went slowly upward, resting boldly on the heavy face. Sammy’s expression told nothing and the newcomer, glaring at him for an instant, looked over the menu card and then stared at the partition, fidgeting in his chair, thumping meanwhile on the table with his fingers.

At a sound from the kitchen Sammy turned back to his table and smiled reassuringly as the toast was placed before him. “I burned it and had to make new,” she said, the pink spots in her cheeks a little deeper in color.

“Why, th’ other was good enough for me,” he replied. “Know Mrs. Olmstead a long time?” he asked.

“Ever since I was a little girl. She lived near us in Clev—”

“Cleveland,” he finished. “State of Ohio,” he added, laughingly. “I’ll get it all before I go.”

“Indeed you won’t!”

“Miss,” interrupted the drummer, “if you ain’t too busy, would you mind gettin’ me a steak an’ some coffee?” The tones were weighted with sarcasm and Sammy writhed in his chair. The girl flushed, turned abruptly and went slowly into the kitchen, from where considerable noise now emanated. In a short time she emerged with the drummer’s order, placed it in front of him and started back again. But he stopped her. “I said I wanted it rare an’ it’s well done. An’ also that I wanted fried potatoes. Take it back.”

The girl’s eyes blazed: “You gave no instructions,” she retorted.

“Don’t tell me that! I know what I said!” snapped the drummer. “I won’t eat it an’ I won’t pay for it. If you wasn’t so busy you’d heard what I said.”

Sammy was arising before he saw the tears of vexation in her eyes, but they settled it for him. He placed his hand lightly on her shoulder. “You get me some pie an’ take a li’l walk. Me an’ this here gent is goin’ to hold a palaver. Ain’t we, stranger?”

The drummer glared at him. “We ain’t!” he retorted.

Sammy grinned ingratiatingly. “Oh, my; but we are.” He slung a leg over a chair back and leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knee. “Yes, indeed we are—least-a-wise, I am.” His tones became very soft and confiding. “An’ I’m shore goin’ to watch you eat that steak.”

“What’s that you’re going to do?” the drummer demanded, half rising.

“Sit down,” begged Sammy, his gun swinging at his knee. He picked up a toothpick with his left hand and chewed it reflectively. “These here Colts make a’ awful muss, sometimes,” he remarked. “‘Specially at close range. Why,” he confided, “I once knowed a man what was shot ‘most in two. He was a mosshead an’ wouldn’t do what he was told. Better sorta lead off at that steak, hombre” he suggested, chewing evenly on the toothpick. Noticing that the girl still lingered, hypnotized by fear and curiosity, he spoke to her over his shoulder. “Won’t you please get me that pie, or somethin’? Run out an’ borrow a pan, or somethin’,” he pleaded. “I don’t like to be handicapped when I’m feedin’ cattle.”

The drummer’s red face paled a little and one hand stole cautiously under his coat and froze there. Sammy hardly had moved, but the Colt was now horizontal and glowered at the gaudy waistcoat. He was between it and the girl and she did not see the movement. His smile was placid and fixed and he spoke so that she should get no inkling of what was going on. “Never drink on an empty stomach,” he advised. “After you eat that meal, then you can fuss with yore flask all you wants.” He glanced out of the corner of his eye at the girl and nodded. “Still 0……………. there! Oh, I most forgot, stranger. You take off yore hat an’ Apologize, so she can go. Jus’ say yo’re a dawg an never did have no manners. Say it!” he ordered, softly. The drummer gulped and muttered something, but the Colt, still hidden from the girl by its owner’s body, moved forward a little and Sammy’s throaty growl put an end to the muttering. “Say it plain,” he ordered, the color fading from his face and leaving pink spots against the white. “That’s better now, Li’l Miss, you get me that pie please!” he begged.

When they were alone Sammy let the gun swing at his knee again. “I don’t know how they treats wimmin where you came from, stranger; but out here we’re plumb polite. ‘Course you didn’t know that, an’ that’s why you didn’t get all mussed up. Yo’re jus’ plain ignorant an’ can’t help yore bringin’ up. Now, you eat that steak, pronto!”

“It’s too cold, now,” grumbled the drummer, fidgeting in the chair.

The puncher’s left hand moved to the table again and when it returned to his side there was a generous layer of red pepper on the meat. “Easy to fix things when you know how,” he grinned. “If it gets any colder I’ll fix it some more.” His tones became sharper and the words lost their drawled softness. “You goin’ to start ag’in that by yoreself, or am I goin’ to help you?” he demanded, lifting his leg off the chair and standing erect. All the humor had left his face and there was a grimness about the tight lips and a menace in the squinting eyes that sent a chill rippling down the drummer’s spine. He tasted a forkful of the meat and gulped hastily, tears welling into his eyes. The puncher moved a little nearer and watched the frantic gulps with critical attention. “‘Course, you can eat any way you wants—yo’re payin’ for it; but boltin’ like a coyote ain’t good for th’ stummick. Howsomever, it’s yore grub,” he admitted.

A cup of cold coffee and a pitcher of water followed the meat in the same gulping haste. Tears streamed down the drummer’s red face as he arose and turned toward the door. “Hol’ on, stranger!” snapped Sammy. “That costs six bits,” he prompted. The coins rang out on the nearest table, the door slammed and the agonized stranger ran madly down the street, cursing at every jump. Sammy sauntered to the door and craned his neck. “Somebody’s jus’ naturally goin’ to bust him wide open one of these days. He ain’t got no sense,” he muttered, turning back to get his pie.

*

A cloud of dust rolled up from the south, causing Briggs a little uneasiness, and he scowled through the door at the long empty siding and the pens sprawled along it.

Steps clacked across the platform and a grinning cowpuncher stopped at the open window. “They’re here,” he announced. “How ‘bout th’ cars?”

Briggs looked around wearily. For three days his life had been made miserable by this pest, who carried a laugh in his eyes, a sting on his tongue and a chip on his shoulder. “They’ll be here soon,” he replied, with little interest. “But there’s th’ pens.”

“Yes, there’s th’ pens,” smiled Sammy. “They’ll hold ‘bout one-tenth of that herd. Ain’t I been pesterin’ you to get them cars?”

The agent sighed expressively and listened to the instrument on his table. When it ceased he grabbed the key and asked a question. Then he smiled for the first time that day. “They’re passing Franklin. Be here in two hours. Now get out of here or I’ll lick you.”

“There’s a nice place in one of them pens,” smiled Sammy.

“I see you’re eating at Olmstead’s,” parried the agent.

“Yea.”

“Nice girl. Come up last summer when Mrs. Olmstead petered out. I ate there last winter.”

Sammy grinned at him. “Why’d you stop?”

Briggs grew red and glanced at the nearing cloud of dust. “Better help your outfit, hadn’t you?”

Sammy was thoughtful. “Say, that’s a plumb favorite eatin’ place, ain’t it?”

Briggs laughed. “Wait till Saturday when th’ boys come in. There’s a dozen shinin’ up to that girl. Tom Clarke is real persistent.”

Sammy forsook the building as a prop. “Who ‘she? Puncher?”

“Yes; an’ bad,” replied the agent. “But I reckon she don’t know it.”

Sammy looked at the dust cloud and turned to ask one more question. “What does this persistent gent look like, an’ where’s he hang out?” He nodded at the verbose reply and strode to his horse to ride toward the approaching herd. He espied Red first, and hailed. “Cars here in two hours. Where’s Hoppy?”

“Back in th’ dust. But what happened to you?” demanded Red, with virile interest. Sammy ignored the challenge and loped along the edge of the cloud until he found the trail boss. “Them cars’ll be here in two hours,” he reported.

“Take you three days to find it out?” snapped Hopalong.

“Took me three