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

of wasting ammunition. Besides, the drive outfit had cooled down rapidly when it found that its herd was in no immediate danger and was not anxious to kill any one unless there was need. The situation was conducive to humor rather than anger. But every time the door moved it collected more lead, and it finally remained shut.

The noise in the bunk house continued and finally a sombrero was waved frantically at the south window and a moment later Nat Boggs, foreman of the incarcerated 4X outfit, stuck his head out very cautiously and yelled questions which bore directly on the situation and were to the point. He appeared to be excited and unduly heated, if one might judge from his words and voice. There was no reply, which still further added to his heat and excitement. Becoming bolder and a little angrier he allowed his impetuous nature to get the upper hand and forthwith attempted the feat of getting through that same window; but a sharp pat! sounded on a board not a foot from him, and he reconsidered hastily. His sombrero again waved to insist on a truce, and collected two holes, causing him much mental anguish and threatening the loss of his worthy soul. He danced up and down with great agility and no grace and made remarks, thereby leading a full-voiced chorus.

“Ain't that a hell of a note?” he demanded plaintively as he paused for breath. “Stick yore hat out, Cranky, an' see what you can do,” he suggested, irritably.

Cranky Joe regarded him with pity and reproach, and moved back towards the other end of the room, muttering softly to himself. “I know it ain't much of a bonnet, but he needn't rub it in,” he growled, peevishly.

“Try again; mebby they didn't see you,” suggested Jim Larkin, who had a reputation for never making a joke. He escaped with his life and checked himself at the side of Cranky Joe, with whom he conferred on the harshness of the world towards unfortunates.

The rest of the morning was spent in snipe-shooting at random, trusting to luck to hit some one, and trusting in vain. At noon Cranky Joe could stand the strain no longer and opened the door just a little to relive the monotony. He succeeded, being blessed with a smashed shoulder, and immediately became a general nuisance, adding greatly to the prevailing atmosphere. Boggs called him a few kinds of fools and hastened to nail the door shut; he hit his thumb and his heart became filled with venom.

“Now look at what they went an' done!” he yelled, running around in a circle. “Damned outrage!”

“Huh!” snorted Cranky Joe with maddening superiority. “That ain't nothing—just look at me!”

Boggs looked, very fixedly, and showed signs of apoplexy, and Cranky Joe returned to his end of the room to resume his soliloquy.

“Why don't you come out an' take them cows!” inquired an unkind voice from without. “Ain't changed yore mind, have you?”

“We'll give you a drink for half a cent a head—that's the regular price for watering cows,” called another.

The faint ripple of mirth which ran around the plain was lost in opinions loudly expressed within the room; and Boggs, tears of rage in his eyes, flung himself down on a chair and invented new terms for describing human beings.

John Terry was observing. He had been fluttering around the north window, constantly getting bolder, and had not been disturbed. When he withdrew his sombrero and found that it was intact he smiled to himself and leaned his elbows on the sill, looking carefully around the plain. The discovery that there was no cover on the north side cheered him greatly and he called to Boggs, outlining a plan of action.

Boggs listened intently and then smiled for the first time since dawn. “Bully for you, Terry!” he enthused. “Wait till dark—we'll fool 'em.”

A bullet chipped the 'dobe at Terry's side and he ducked as he leaped back. “From an angle—what did I tell you?” he laughed. “We'll drop out here an' sneak behind the house after dark. They'll be watching the door—an' they won't be able to see us, anyhow.”

Boggs sucked his thumb tenderly and grinned. “After which—,” he elated.

“After which—,” gravely repeated Terry, the others echoing it with unrestrained joy.

“Then, mebby, I can get a drink,” chuckled Larkin, brightening under the thought.

“The moon comes up at ten,” warned a voice. “It'll be full to-night—an' there ain't many clouds in sight.”

“Ol' King Cole was a merry ol' soul,” hummed McQuade, lightly.

“An'—a—merry—ol'—soul—was—he!—was—he!” thundered the chorus, deep-toned and strong. “He had a wife for every toe, an' some toes counted three!”

“Listen!” cried Meade, holding up his hand.

“An' every wife had sixteen dogs, an' every dog a flea!” shouted a voice from the besiegers, followed by a roar of laughter.

The hilarity continued until dark, only stopping when John Terry slipped out of the window, dropped to all-fours and stuck his head around the corner of the rear wall. He saw many stars and was silently handed to Pete Wilson.

“What was that noise?” exclaimed Boggs in a low tone. “Are you all right, Terry?” he asked, anxiously.

Three knocks on the wall replied to his question and then McQuade went out, and three more knocks were heard.

“Wonder why they make that funny noise,” muttered Boggs.

“Bumped inter something, I reckon,” replied Jim Larkin. “Get out of my way—I'm next.”

Boggs listened intently and then pushed Duke Lane back. “Don't like that—sounds like a crack on the head. Hey, Jim! Say something!” he called softly. The three knocks were repeated, but Boggs was suspicious and he shook his head decisively. “To 'ell with the knocking—say something!”

“Still got them twelve men?” asked a strange voice, pleasantly.

“An' every dog a flea,” hummed another around the corner.

“Hell!” shouted Boggs. “To the door, fellers! To the door—quick!”

A whistle shrilled from behind the house and a leaden tattoo began on the door. “Other window!” whispered O'Neill. The foreman got there before him and, shoving his Colt out first to clear the way, yelled with rage and pain as a pole hit his wrist and knocked the weapon out of his hand. He was still commenting when Duke Lane pried open the door and, dropping quickly on his stomach, wriggled out, followed closely by Charley Beal and Tim. At that instant the tattoo drummed with greater vigor and such a hail of lead poured in through the opening that the door was promptly closed, leaving the three men outside to shift for themselves with the darkness their only cover.

Duke and his companions whispered together as they lay flat and agreed upon a plan of action. Going around the ends of the house was suicide and no better than waiting for the rising moon to show them to the enemy; but there was no reason why the roof could not be utilized. Tim and Charley