Hopalong Cassidy's Rustler Round-Up; Or, Bar-20 by Clarence Edward Mulford (spanish books to read TXT) 📗
- Author: Clarence Edward Mulford
Book online «Hopalong Cassidy's Rustler Round-Up; Or, Bar-20 by Clarence Edward Mulford (spanish books to read TXT) 📗». Author Clarence Edward Mulford
Mr. Cassidy fired slowly and seemed to be waiting for something. Mr. Connors laid aside his hot Winchester and devoted his attention to his Colts. A spurt of flame and smoke leaped from the window of a 'dobe hut and Mr. Connors sat down, firing as he went. A howl from the window informed him that he had made a hit, and Mr. Cassidy ran out and dragged him to the shelter of a near-by bowlder and asked how much he was hurt.
“Not much—in the calf,” grunted Mr. Connors. “He was a bad shot—must have been the cuss that got away yesterday,” speculated the injured man as he slowly arose to his feet. Mr. Cassidy dissented from force of habit and returned to his station. Mr. Travennes, who was sleeping late that morning, coughed and fought for air in his sleep, awakened in smoke, rubbed his eyes to make sure and, scorning trousers and shirt, ran clad in his red woolen undergarments to the corral, where he mounted his scared horse and rode for the desert and safety.
Mr. Cassidy, swearing at the marksmanship of a man who fired at his head and perforated his sombrero, saw a crimson rider sweep down upon him, said rider being heralded by a blazing .44.
“Gosh!” ejaculated Mr. Cassidy, scarcely believing his eyes. “Oh, it's my friend Slim going to hades,” he remarked to himself in audible and relieved explanation. Mr. Cassidy's Colts cracked a protest and then he joined Mr. Peters and the others and with them fought his way out of the flame-swept town of Cactus Springs.
An hour later Mr. Connors glanced behind him at the smoke silhouetted on the horizon and pushed his way to where Mr. Cassidy rode in silence. Mr. Connors grinned at his friend of the red hair, who responded in the same manner.
“Did yu see Slim?” Casually inquired Mr. Connors, looking off to the south.
Mr. Cassidy sat upright in his saddle and felt of his Colts. “Yes,” he replied, “I saw him.”
Mr. Connors thereupon galloped on in silence.
CHAPTER XVI. Rustlers on the Range
The affair at Cactus Springs had more effect on the life at the Bar-20 than was realized by the foreman. News travels rapidly, and certain men, whose attributes were not of the sweetest, heard of it and swore vengeance, for Slim Travennes had many friends, and the result of his passing began to show itself. Outlaws have as their strongest defense the fear which they inspire, and little time was lost in making reprisals, and these caused Buck Peters to ride into Buckskin one bright October morning and then out the other side of the town. Coming to himself with a start he looked around shamefacedly and retraced his course. He was very much troubled, for, as foreman of the Bar-20, he had many responsibilities, and when things ceased to go aright he was expected not only to find the cause of the evil, but also the remedy. That was what he was paid seventy dollars a month for and that was what he had been endeavoring to do. As yet, however, he had only accomplished what the meanest cook's assistant had done. He knew the cause of his present woes to be rustlers (cattle thieves), and that was all.
Riding down the wide, quiet street, he stopped and dismounted before the ever-open door of a ramshackle, one-story frame building. Tossing the reins over the flattened ears of his vicious pinto he strode into the building and leaned easily against the bar, where he drummed with his fingers and sank into a reverie.
A shining bald pate, bowed over an open box, turned around and revealed a florid face, set with two small, twinkling blue eyes, as the proprietor, wiping his hands on his trousers, made his way to Buck's end of the bar.
“Mornin', Buck. How's things?”
The foreman, lost in his reverie, continued to stare out the door.
“Mornin',” repeated the man behind the bar. “How's things?”
“Oh!” ejaculated the foreman, smiling, “purty cussed.”
“Anything flew?”
“Th' C-80 lost another herd last night.”
His companion swore and placed a bottle at the foreman's elbow, but the latter shook his head. “Not this mornin'—I'll try one of them vile cigars, however.”
“Them cigars are th' very best that—” began the proprietor, executing the order.
“Oh, heck!” exclaimed Buck with weary disgust. “Yu don't have to palaver none: I shore knows all that by heart.”
“Them cigars—” repeated the proprietor.
“Yas, yas; them cigars—I know all about them cigars. Yu gets them for twenty dollars a thousand an' hypnotizes us into payin' yu a hundred,” replied the foreman, biting off the end 'of his weed. Then he stared moodily and frowned. “I wonder why it is?” He asked. “We punchers like good stuff an' we pays good prices with good money. What do we get? Why, cabbage leaves an' leather for our smokin' an' alcohol an' extract for our drink. Now, up in Kansas City we goes to a sumptious layout, pays less an' gets bang-up stuff. If yu smelled one of them K. C. cigars yu'd shore have to ask what it was, an' as for the liquor, why, yu'd think St. Peter asked yu to have one with him. It's shore wrong somewhere.”
“They have more trade in K. C.,” suggested the proprietor.
“An' help, an' taxes, an' a license, an' rent, an' brass, cut glass, mahogany an' French mirrors,” countered the foreman.
“They have more trade,” reiterated the man with the cigars.
“Forty men spend thirty dollars apiece with yu every month.” The proprietor busied himself under the bar. “Yu'll feel better to-morrow. Anyway, what do yu care, yu won't lose yore job,” he said, emerging.
Buck looked at him and frowned, holding back the words which formed in anger. What was the use, he thought, when every man judged the world in his own way.
“Have yu seen any of th' boys?” He asked, smiling again.
“Nary a boy. Who do yu reckon's doin' all this rustlin'?”
“I'm reckonin', not shoutin',” responded the foreman.
The proprietor looked out the window and grinned: “Here comes one of yourn now.”
The newcomer stopped his horse in a cloud of dust, playfully kicked the animal in the ribs and entered, dusting the alkali from him with a huge sombrero. Then he straightened up and sniffed: “What's burnin'?” he asked, simulating alarm. Then he noticed the cigar between the teeth of his foreman and grinned: “Gee, but yore a brave man, Buck.”
“Hullo, Hopalong,” said the foreman. “Want a smoke?” Waving his hand toward the box on the bar.
Mr. Hopalong
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