The Man From Bar-20 - Clarence E. Mulford (good books to read for beginners txt) 📗

Where lived my darlin’ N el-lie Gr-a-ay! came floating faintly from far below him.

He peered in the direction of the singing and barely made out a moving blot well out in the valley. As it came steadily nearer, the blot resolved itself into several dots, and the chorus had greater volume. It appeared that the group was harmonizing.

“You’ll be doin’ somethin’ more than sittin’ an I singin’ at yore little cottage door one of these days,” grunted Johnny savagely. It was his rebuff to the thought which came to him of how long it had been since he had ruined the silence in company with his friends. “That first feller is purty good; but one of ‘em shore warbles like a sick calf.”

Several other dots arose suddenly from the earth and lumbered sleepily away as the horsemen ap’ preached them.

“There’s some of Logan’s cows, I reckon,” grunted the watcher grimly. “Wish I could see better. I’ve got to do my prospectin’ in daylight; an’ I got to find some way to ride over here waste too much time on foot.”

More squealing came from the corral and grew in volume as other horses joined in it. From the noise it appeared to be turning into a free-for-all. A door in one of the distant houses suddenly opened and framed a rectangular patch of light, dull and yellow; and from it emerged a bright little light which swung in short, jerky arcs close to the ground and went rapidly toward the corral. Soon thereafter the squealing ceased and a moment later the little light went bobbing back again, blotted out in rhythmic dashes by the swinging legs beside it.

“Big Jerry fightin’ again,” laughed one of the horsemen during a pause in the singing. Johnny barely was able to hear him.

Oh my darlin Nellie Gra-a-y, they have taken her awa-a-y; An I’ll never see my darlin’ any more ANY MORE! rumbled the harmonizers, bursting into a thundering perpetration on the repetition of the last two words.

“Th’ farther off they get th’better they sound,” growled Johnny as the harmonizers were swallowed up in the darkness near the opposite cliff. “They’d sound better at about ten miles.”

Lying comfortably on his stomach, his head out over the rim of the wall, he was lost in thought when a sudden, startled snort behind him nearly caused him to go over the edge. A contortionist hardly could have changed ends quicker than he did; he simply went up in the air and when he came down again he was on hands and knees, one foot where his head had been. But he did not stop there; indeed, he did not even pause there, for he kept on moving until he was on his feet, his knees bent and his head thrust forward, and each hand, without conscious direction, held a gun. And almost instantly they chocked back into the holsters.

A gray shape was backing slowly into the shadows of a bowlder, two green eyes boring through the gloom, and Johnny’s hair became ambitious.

“I dassn’t shoot, I dassn’t run, an’ I can’t back up I All right; when in doubt try a bluff; but I shore hopes it’s th’ bluffin’ kind!”

He emitted a throaty, ferocious snarl, dropped the tips of his fingers to the earth and started for the bowlder and the green eyes, on a series of back-humping, awkward jumps, like a weak-kneed calf cavorting playfully. Another snort, curious, incredulous, frightened, came from the bowlder and a great gray wolf backed off hastily, but with a hesitating uncertainty which was not as reassuring as might be hoped for.

Johnny let out another snarl, more terrifying than the first, humped his back energetically, waved his legs, and then with a low-toned but blood-curdling shriek, leaped at the wavering cow-killer. The gray silhouette lengthened and vanished, simply melting into the darkness as though it had urgent business elsewhere.

Johnny arose, a rock in his hand, and sighed with relief; and his ambitious hair settled back again into its accustomed place while the prickling along his spine died out.

“Holy smoke! What if it had been half-starved, or a grizzly! Blast you!” he growled, shaking a vengeful fist at the presumed locality of the wolf.

“You just come snortin’ around my valley! I’ll shoot yore insides all over th’ landscape!”

Hanging onto the rock, he readjusted his belts and went nearer the entrance canyon to get a closer view of the houses and surroundings. When again he looked over the edge of the precipice he was directly over the corral and across from the houses, which the rays of the moon, slanting through a break in the opposite cliff, now faintly revealed.

There were three houses and they were low, long and narrow, and built of stone, with the customary adobe roofs; and they were built in echelon, the three end walls appearing as one from the canyon. He nodded appreciatively, for it required no great imagination to see, in his mind’s eye, the loopholes which undoubtedly ornamented that end of the houses. The narrow canyon, straight as an arrow and fully half a mile long, lay at almost perfect right angles to the three walls. A handful of determined men, cool and accurate, in those houses could hold the canyon against great odds while their food, water and ammunition held out. Moving his head, he caught a sudden glint, and peered intently to discover what had caused it. He moved again until he saw it the second time, and then he knew. A small trickle of water flowed from a spring back near the great wall, and it passed under one corner of each house.

“That’s purty good!” he ejaculated in ungrudging admiration. He was something of a strategist himself and he was not slow to pay respect to the handiwork of genius when he saw it. “Built ‘em like steps so as to cover th’ canyon from all three houses; an’ diverted that little stream so they could get water without showing themselves. No matter which side of them houses is rushed, there is allus three walls to face. Th’ only weak spots are th’ north an’ south corners. If they ain’t loopholed a good man could sneak right up to th’ corner of th’ end houses; but what he’d do after he got there, I don’t know.”

He studied the problem in silence and then nodded his head: “Huh! Them walls don’t overhang, an’ so they can’t shoot down close to ‘em. Mebby I’ve found th’ weak spot but I’ll have to get a whole lot closer than I am now before I’m shore of it. An’ that can wait.”

He wriggled back from the wall and arose. “Seen all I can at night. Don’t even know if these fellers are rustlin’. Bein’ suspicious an’ bein’ shore ain’t th’ same. But th’ next time I come up here I won’t leave until I am shore, not if it takes all summer. Logan said to be shore to find out how many there are, their trail from his ranch an’ th’ place where they operates on th’ CL. Says he’s got to get ‘em actually stealin’ his cows on his ranch. Says he ain’t got no friends out here and that th’ other ranches acts like they was sort of on th’ side of th’ thieves. That’s a h—l of a note, that is! Buck, an’ Hoppy, an’ us: we never gave a whoop where we found rustlers if they had our cows; an’ we never gave two whoops in h—l what th’ rest of th’ country thought about it. Times have changed. Imagine us askin’ anybody if we could shoot rustlers! Huh!”

He started back the way he had come up, and reached his own valley without incident; but when he wriggled toward the wall he was puzzled, and worried. There was the clump of pines up above him, ghostly in the faint moonlight; but he could see no rope. Thankful that he had been cautious in crossing the valley, he wriggled a little closer and then started back over his trail, recrossed the valley, climbed the other wall in the shelter offered by a crevice and slipped along the great ridge. All he cared about now was to get back into the cabin without being seen. All kinds of conjectures ran through his head concerning the absence of the rope, and while he thrashed them out he kept going ahead, careful to take full advantage of the wealth of cover at hand.

His senses were keyed to their highest pitch of efficiency and at times he concentrated on one of them at the expense of the others. While he used his eyes constantly, it was in his ears that he placed the most confidence. The man who does the moving about is at a disadvantage, which he keenly realized.

He did not mind so much being away from the cabin if he could make it appear to be innocent; and to that end he moved steadily toward the Hastings trail. His horse was not to be seen, and that worried him. It could have strayed, for he had neither picketed nor hobbled it, but he feared that it had not strayed.

Passing his old camp site he heard a noise, and flattened himself on the ground. It came again and from the edge of the clearing where he had spent his first few nights in the valley. Anyone foolish enough to make a noise, under the circumstances, was foolish enough to be stalked by any man who had good sense; and he proceeded to do the stalking.

It took him quite a while to get around back of the place where his tent had stood, but when he finally got there he was repaid for his time and trouble. It was not the direction from which he would be expected, if the rustlers’ suspicions were aroused; and there was a certain twisting path through the brush which was devoid of twigs and sticks.

Foot by foot he crept forward until he could see the big bowlder in the clearing, and then he paused as the sound was heard again, and he tried to classify it. A twig snapped, and then another sound made him nod quickly. It was a horse; that was certain; but could it be Pepper? While he pondered and listened to the slow, interrupted steps, a dark shape moved out from the deep shadows of the trees, pricked its ears, stretched out its head toward him, nickered softly and slowly advanced.

He stared in amazement, for while it was Pepper, the saddle was on her back; and when he had left the cabin the saddle was inside. But, was it, though? In a moment his-mind had, marshaled in review before him all his acts of the previous day; all but one. Had he unsaddled the horse when he had ridden back from the upper end of his little valley? Of course he had; why should he have neglected to do such a thing as that? But, perhaps he hadn’t. He swore under his breath and backed away, for the horse was coming nearer all the time. It was his saddle; he could tell that easily. And then all of his doubts cleared in a flash. When he had ridden in from the pasture he had started to remove the saddle, but when he thought of his boiling pots he had pushed the end of the cinch strap back under the little holding strap, and he had not shoved it home. Right now that cinch end should be sticking out in a loop. Craning his neck and shifting silently he managed to see it; and a chuckle escaped from him. He whistled softly, so softly that anyone a hundred feet away could not have heard it;