Bar-20 Days by Clarence Edward Mulford (new reading TXT) 📗
- Author: Clarence Edward Mulford
Book online «Bar-20 Days by Clarence Edward Mulford (new reading TXT) 📗». Author Clarence Edward Mulford
“They'll be in a cross fire purty soon,” promised Pete, grimly.
Hopalong and Red reached the edge of the arroyo first and plunged over the bank into the yellow storm-water swirling along the bottom like a miniature flood. After them came Buck, Neal, and the others, the water shooting up in sheets as each successive horse plunged in. Out again on the farther side they strung out into single file along the narrow foot-hold between water and bank and raced towards the sharp bend some hundreds of yards ahead, the point in the arroyo's course nearest the town. The dripping horses scrambled up the slippery incline and then, under the goading of spurs and quirts, leaped forward as fast as they could go across the level, soggy plain.
A quarter of a mile ahead of them lay the scattered shacks of the town, and as they drew nearer to it the riders could see the flashes of guns and the smoke-fog lying close to the ground. Fire spat from Jackson's store and a cloud of smoke still lingered around a window in Lacey's saloon. Then a yell reached their ears, a yell of rage, consternation and warning. Figures scurried to seek cover and the firing from Jackson's and Lacey's grew more rapid.
A mounted man emerged from a corral and tore away, others following his example, and the outfit separated to take up the chase individually. Harlan, wounded hard, was trying to run to where he had left his horse, and after him fled Slivers Lowe. Hopalong was gaining on them when he saw Slivers raise his arm and fire deliberately into the back of the proprietor of the Oasis, leap over the falling body, vault into the saddle of Harlan's horse and gallop for safety. Hopalong's shots went wide and the last view any one had of Slivers in that part of the country was when he dropped into an arroyo to follow it for safety. Laramie Joe fled before Red Connors and Red's rage was so great that it spoiled his accuracy, and he had the sorrow of seeing the pursued grow faint in the mist and fog. Pursuit was tried until the pursuers realized that their mounts were too worn out to stand a show against the fresh animals ridden by the survivors of the Oasis crowd.
Red circled and joined Hopalong. “Blasted coyotes,” he growled. “Killed Jackson an' Edwards, an' wanted the Kid! He's shore showed 'em what fighting is, all right. But I wonder what got into 'em all at once to give 'em nerve enough to start things?”
“Edwards paid his way, all right,” replied Hopalong. “If I do as well when my time comes I won't do no kicking.”
“Yore time ain't coming that way,” responded Red, grinning. “You'll die a natural death in bed, unless you gets to cussing me.”
“Shore there ain't no more, Buck?” Hopalong called.
“Yes. There was only five, I reckon, an' they was purty well shot up when we took a hand. You know, Johnny was in it all the time,” replied the foreman, smiling. “This town's had the cleaning up it's needed for some time,” he added.
They were at Jackson's store now, and hurriedly dismounted and ran in to see Johnny. They found him lying across some boxes, which brought him almost to the level of a window sill. He was too weak to stand, while near him in similar condition lay Barr, too weak from loss of blood to do more than look his welcome.
“How are you, Kid?” cried Buck anxiously, bending over him, while others looked to Barr's injuries.
“Tired, Buck, awful tired; an' all shot up,” Johnny slowly replied. “When I saw you fellers—streak past this windy—I sort of went flat—something seemed to break inside me,” he said, faintly and with an effort, and the foreman ordered him not to talk. Deft fingers, schooled by practice in rough and ready surgery, were busy over him and in half an hour he lay on Jackson's cot, covered with bandages.
“Why, hullo, Lacey!” exclaimed Hopalong, leaping forward to shake hands with the man Red and Billy had gone to help. “Purty well scratched up, but lively yet, hey?”
“I'm able to hobble over here an' shake han's with these scrappers—they're shore wonders,” Lacey replied. “Fought like a whole regiment! Hullo, Johnny!” and his hand-clasp told much.
“Yore cross fire did it, Lacey; that was the whole thing,” Johnny smiled. “Yo're all right!”
Red turned and looked out of the window toward the Oasis and then glanced at Buck. “Reckon we better burn Harlan's place—it's all that's left of that gang now,” he suggested.
“Why, yes; I reckon so,” replied the foreman. “That's as—”
“No, we won't!” Hopalong interposed quickly. “That stands till Johnny sets it off. It's the Kid's celebration—he was shot in it.”
Johnny smiled.
CHAPTER XX BARB WIRE
After the flurry at Perry's Bend the Bar-20 settled down to the calm routine work and sent several drive herds to their destination without any unusual incidents. Buck thought that the last herd had been driven when, late in the summer, he received an order that he made haste to fill. The outfit was told to get busy and soon rounded up the necessary number of three-year-olds. Then came the road branding, the final step except inspection, and this was done not far from the ranch house, where the facilities were best for speedy work.
Entirely recovered from all ill effects of his afternoon in Jackson's store up in Perry's bend, Johnny Nelson waited with Red Connors on the platform of the branding chute and growled petulantly at the sun, the dust, but most of all at the choking, smarting odor of burned hair which filled their throats and caused them to rub the backs of grimy hands across their eyes. Chute-branding robbed them of the excitement, the leaven of fun and frolic, which they always took from open or corral branding—and the work of a day in the corral or open was condensed into an hour or two by the chute. This was one cow wide, narrow at the bottom and flared out as it went up, so the animal could not turn, and when filled was, to use Johnny's graphic phrase, “like a chain of cows in a ditch.” Eight of the wondering and crowded animals, guided into the pen by men who knew their work to the smallest detail and lost no time in its performance, filed into the pen after those branded had filed out. As the first to enter reached the farther end a stout bar dropped into place, just missing the animal's nose; and as the last cow discovered that it could go no farther and made up its mind to back out, it was stopped by another bar, which fell behind it. The iron heaters tossed a hot iron each to Red and Johnny and the eight were marked in short order, making about two hundred and fifty they had branded in three hours. This number compared very favorably with that of the second chute where Lanky Smith and Frenchy McAlister waved cold irons and sarcastically asked their iron men if the sun was supposed to provide the heat; whereat the down-trodden heaters provided heat
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