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Hopalong Cassidy's Rustler Round-Up; Or, Bar-20

by Clarence Edward Mulford · English · Gutenberg #2546 · 382,836 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Hopalong Cassidy's Rustler Round-Up; Or, Bar-20

Author: Clarence Edward Mulford


        
Release date: March 1, 2001 [eBook #2546]
                Most recently updated: March 16, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2546

Credits: Produced by Andrew Heath, and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOPALONG CASSIDY'S RUSTLER ROUND-UP; OR, BAR-20 ***




Produced by Andrew Heath





HOPALONG CASSIDY'S RUSTLER ROUND-UP

or

BAR-20


By Clarence Edward Mulford



1906




CHAPTER I. Buckskin

The town lay sprawled over half a square mile of alkali plain, its main
Street depressing in its width, for those who were responsible for its
inception had worked with a generosity born of the knowledge that they
had at their immediate and unchallenged disposal the broad lands of
Texas and New Mexico on which to assemble a grand total of twenty
buildings, four of which were of wood. As this material was scarce, and
had to be brought from where the waters of the Gulf lapped against the
flat coast, the last-mentioned buildings were a matter of local pride,
as indicating the progressiveness of their owners.

These creations of hammer and saw were of one story, crude and
unpainted; their cheap weather sheathing, warped and shrunken by the
pitiless sun, curled back on itself and allowed unrestricted entrance to
alkali dust and air. The other shacks were of adobe, and reposed in that
magnificent squalor dear to their owners, Indians and Mexicans.

It was an incident of the Cattle Trail, that most unique and stupendous
of all modern migrations, and its founders must have been inspired with
a malicious desire to perpetrate a crime against geography, or else they
reveled in a perverse cussedness, for within a mile on every side lay
broad prairies, and two miles to the east flowed the indolent waters of
the Rio Pecos itself. The distance separating the town from the river
was excusable, for at certain seasons of the year the placid stream
swelled mightily and swept down in a broad expanse of turbulent, yellow
flood.

Buckskin was a town of one hundred inhabitants, located in the valley of
the Rio Pecos fifty miles south of the Texas-New Mexico line. The
census claimed two hundred, but it was a well-known fact that it was
exaggerated. One instance of this is shown by the name of Tom Flynn.
Those who once knew Tom Flynn, alias Johnny Redmond, alias Bill Sweeney,
alias Chuck Mullen, by all four names, could find them in the census
list. Furthermore, he had been shot and killed in the March of the
year preceding the census, and now occupied a grave in the young but
flourishing cemetery. Perry's Bend, twenty miles up the river, was
cognizant of this and other facts, and, laughing in open derision at
the padded list, claimed to be the better town in all ways, including
marksmanship.

One year before this tale opens, Buck Peters, an example for the more
recent Billy the Kid, had paid Perry's Bend a short but busy visit. He
had ridden in at the north end of Main Street and out at the south. As
he came in he was fired at by a group of ugly cowboys from a ranch known
as the C 80. He was hit twice, but he unlimbered his artillery, and
before his horse had carried him, half dead, out on the prairie, he had
killed one of the group. Several citizens had joined the cowboys
and added their bullets against Buck. The deceased had been the best
bartender in the country, and the rage of the suffering citizens can
well be imagined. They swore vengeance on Buck, his ranch, and his
stamping ground.

The difference between Buck and Billy the Kid is that the former never
shot a man who was not trying to shoot him, or who had not been warned
by some action against Buck that would call for it. He minded his own
business, never picked a quarrel, and was quiet and pacific up to
a certain point. After that had been passed he became like a raging
cyclone in a tenement house, and storm-cellars were much in demand.

“Fanning” is the name of a certain style of gun play not unknown among
the bad men of the West. While Buck was not a bad man, he had to rub
elbows with them frequently, and he believed that the sauce for the
goose was the sauce for the gander. So be bad removed the trigger of his
revolver and worked the hammer with the thumb of the “gun hand” or the
heel of the unencumbered hand. The speed thus acquired was greater than
that of the more modern double-action weapon. Six shots in a few seconds
was his average speed when that number was required, and when it is
thoroughly understood that at least some of them found their intended
bullets it is not difficult to realize that fanning was an operation of
danger when Buck was doing it.

He was a good rider, as all cowboys are, and was not afraid of anything
that lived. At one time he and his chums, Red Connors and Hopalong
Cassidy, had successfully routed a band of fifteen Apaches who wanted
their scalps. Of these, twelve never hunted scalps again, nor anything
else on this earth, and the other three returned to their tribe with
the report that three evil Spirits had chased them with “wheel guns”
 (cannons).

So now, since his visit to Perry's Bend, the rivalry of the two towns
had turned to hatred and an alert and eager readiness to increase the
inhabitants of each other's graveyard. A state of war existed, which for
a time resulted in nothing worse than acrimonious suggestions. But the
time came when the score was settled to the satisfaction of one side, at
least.

Four ranches were also concerned in the trouble. Buckskin was surrounded
by two, the Bar 20 and the Three Triangle. Perry's Bend was the
common point for the C 80 and the Double Arrow. Each of the two ranch
contingents accepted the feud as a matter of course, and as a matter
of course took sides with their respective towns. As no better class of
fighters ever lived, the trouble assumed Homeric proportions and insured
a danger zone well worth watching.

Bar-2's northern line was C 80's southern one, and Skinny Thompson took
his turn at outriding one morning after the season's round-up. He was to
follow the boundary and turn back stray cattle. When he had covered the
greater part of his journey he saw Shorty Jones riding toward him on a
course parallel to his own and about long revolver range away. Shorty
and he had “crossed trails” the year before and the best of feelings did
not exist between them.

Shorty stopped and stared at Skinny, who did likewise at Shorty. Shorty
turned his mount around and applied the spurs, thereby causing his
indignant horse to raise both heels at Skinny. The latter took it all
in gravely and, as Shorty faced him again, placed his left thumb to his
nose, wiggling his fingers suggestively. Shorty took no apparent notice
of this but began to shout:

“Yu wants to keep yore busted-down cows on yore own side. They was all
over us day afore yisterday. I'm goin' to salt any more what comes over,
and don't yu fergit it, neither.”

Thompson wigwagged with his fingers again and shouted in reply: “Yu c'n
salt all yu wants to, but if I ketch yu adoin' it yu won't have to work
no more. An' I kin say right here thet they's more C 80 cows over here
than they's Bar-20's over there.”

Shorty reached for his revolver and yelled, “Yore a liar!”

Among the cowboys in particular and the Westerners in general at that
time, the three suicidal terms, unless one was an expert in drawing
quick and shooting straight with one movement, were the words “liar,”
 “coward,” and “thief.” Any man who was called one of these in earnest,
and he was the judge, was expected to shoot if he could and save his
life, for the words were seldom used without a gun coming with them. The
movement of Shorty's hand toward his belt before the appellation reached
him was enough for Skinny, who let go at long range--and missed.


The two reports were as one. Both urged their horses nearer and fired
again. This time Skinny's sombrero gave a sharp jerk and a hole appeared
in the crown. The third shot of Skinny's sent the horse of the other to
its knees and then over on its side. Shorty very promptly crawled behind
it and, as he did so, Skinny began a wide circle, firing at intervals as
Shorty's smoke cleared away.

Shorty had the best position for defense, as he was in a shallow coule,
but he knew that he could not leave it until his opponent had either
grown tired of the affair or had used up his ammunition. Skinny knew it,
too. Skinny also knew that he could get back to the ranch house and lay
in a supply of food and ammunition and return before Shorty could cover
the twelve miles he had to go on foot.

Finally Thompson began to head for home. He had carried the matter as
far as he could without it being murder. Too much time had elapsed now,
and, besides, it was before breakfast and he was hungry. He would go
away and settle the score at some time when they would be on equal
terms.

He rode along the line for a mile and chanced to look back. Two C 80
punchers were riding after him, and as they saw him turn and discover
them they fired at him and yelled. He rode on for some distance and
cautiously drew his rifle out of its long holster at his right leg.
Suddenly he turned around in the saddle and fired twice. One of his
pursuers fell forward on the neck of his horse, and his comrade turned
to help him. Thompson wig-wagged again and rode on, reaching the ranch
as the others were finishing their breakfast.

At the table Red Connors remarked that the tardy one had a hole in his
sombrero, and asked its owner how and where he had received it.

“Had a argument with C 80 out'n th' line.”

“Go 'way! Ventilate enny?”

“One.”

“Good boy, sonny! Hey, Hopalong, Skinny perforated C 80 this mawnin'!”

Hopalong Cassidy was struggling with a mouthful of beef. He turned his
eyes toward Red without ceasing, and grinning as well as he could under
the circumstances managed to grunt out “Gu--,” which was as near to
“Good” as the beef would allow.

Lanky Smith now chimed in as he repeatedly stuck his knife into a
reluctant boiled potato, “How'd yu do it, Skinny?”

“Bet he sneaked up on him,” joshed Buck Peters; “did yu ask his pardin,
Skinny?”

“Ask nuthin',” remarked Red, “he jest nachurly walks up to C 80 an' sez,
'Kin I have the pleasure of ventilatin' yu?' an' C So he sez, 'If yu do
it easy like,' sez he. Didn't he, Thompson?”

“They'll be some ventilatin' under th' table if yu fellows don't lemme
alone; I'm hungry,” complained Skinny.

“Say, Hopalong, I bets yu I kin clean up C 80 all by my lonesome,”
 announced Buck, winking at Red.

“Yah! Yu onct tried to clean up the Bend, Buckie, an' if Pete an' Billy
hadn't afound yu when they come by Eagle Pass that night yu wouldn't be
here eatin' beef by th' pound,” glancing at the hard-working Hopalong.
“It was plum lucky fer yu that they was acourtin' that time, wasn't it,
Hopalong?” suddenly asked Red. Hopalong nearly strangled in his efforts
to speak. He gave it up and nodded his head.

“Why can't yu git it straight, Connors? I wasn't doin' no courtin', it
was Pete. I runned into him on th' other side o' th' pass. I'd look fine
acourtin', wouldn't I?” asked the downtrodden Williams.

Pete Wilson skillfully flipped a potato into that worthy's coffee,
spilling the beverage of the questionable name over a large expanse of
blue flannel shirt. “Yu's all right, yu are. Why, when I meets yu, yu
was lost in th' arms of yore ladylove. All I could see was yore feet. Go
an' git tangled up with a two hundred and forty pound half-breed squaw
an' then try to lay it onter me! When I proposed drownin' yore
troubles over at Cowan's, yu went an' got mad over what yu called th'
insinooation. An' yu shore didn't look any too blamed fine, neither.”

“All th' same,” volunteered Thompson, who had taken the edge from his
appetite, “we better go over an' pay C 80 a call. I don't like what
Shorty said about saltin' our cattle. He'll shore do it, unless I camps
on th' line, which same I hain't hankerin' after.”

“Oh, he wouldn't stop th' cows that way, Skinny; he was only afoolin',”
 exclaimed Connors meekly.

“Foolin' yore gran'mother! That there bunch'll do anything if we wasn't
lookin',” hotly replied Skinny.

“That's shore nuff gospel, Thomp. They's sore fer mor'n one thing. They
got aplenty when Buck went on th' warpath, an they's hankerin' to git
square,” remarked Johnny Nelson, stealing the pie, a rare treat, of his
neighbor when that unfortunate individual was not looking. He had
it halfway to his mouth when its former owner, Jimmy Price, a boy of
eighteen, turned his head and saw it going.

“Hi-yi! Yu clay-bank coyote, drap thet pie! Did yu ever see such a
son-of-a-gun fer pie?” he plaintively asked Red Connors, as he grabbed
a mighty handful of apples and crust. “Pie'll kill yu some day, yu
bob-tailed jack! I had an uncle that died onct. He et too much pie an'
he went an' turned green, an so'll yu if yu don't let it alone.”

“Yu ought'r seed th' pie Johnny had down in Eagle Flat,” murmured Lanky
Smith reminiscently. “She had feet that'd stop a stampede. Johnny
was shore loco about her. Swore she was the finest blossom that
ever growed.” Here he choked and tears of laughter coursed down his
weather-beaten face as he pictured her. “She was a dainty Mexican, about
fifteen han's high an' about sixteen han's around. Johnny used to chalk
off when he hugged her, usen't yu, Johnny? One night when he had got
purty well around on th' second lap he run inter a feller jest startin'
out on his fust. They hain't caught that Mexican yet.”

Nelson was pelted with everything in sight. He slowly wiped off the
pie crust and bread and potatoes. “Anybody'd think I was a busted grub
wagon,” he grumbled. When he had fished the last piece of beef out of
his ear he went out and offered to stand treat. As the round-up was
over, they slid into their saddles and raced for Cowan's saloon at
Buckskin.



CHAPTER II. The Rashness of Shorty

Buckskin was very hot; in fact it was never anything else. Few people
were on the streets and the town was quiet. Over in the Houston hotel
a crowd of cowboys was lounging in the barroom. They were very quiet--a
condition as rare as it was ominous. Their mounts, twelve in all, were
switching flies from their quivering skins in the corral at the rear.
Eight of these had a large C 80 branded on their flanks; the other four,
a Double Arrow.

In the barroom a slim, wiry man was looking out of the dirty window
up the street at Cowan's saloon. Shorty was complaining, “They shore
oughter be here now. They rounded up last week.” The man nearest assured
him that they would come. The man at the window turned and said, “They's
yer now.”


In front of Cowan's a crowd of nine happy-go-lucky, daredevil riders
were sliding from their saddles. They threw their reins over the heads
of their mounts and filed in to the bar. Laughter issued from the open
door and the clink of glasses could be heard. They stood in picturesque
groups, strong, self-reliant, humorous, virile. Their expensive
sombreros were pushed far back on their heads and their hairy chaps were
covered with the alkali dust from their ride.

Cowan, bottle in hand, pushed out several more glasses. He kicked a dog
from under his feet and looked at Buck. “Rounded up yet?” he inquired.

“Shore, day afore yisterday,” came the reply. The rest were busy
removing the dust from their throats, and gradually drifted into groups
of two or three. One of these groups strolled over to the solitary card
table, and found Jimmy Price resting in a cheap chair, his legs on the
table.

“I wisht yu'd extricate yore delicate feet from off'n this hyar table,
James,” humbly requested Lanky Smith, morally backed up by those with
him.

“Ya-as, they shore is delicate, Mr. Smith,” responded Jimmy without
moving.

“We wants to play draw, Jimmy,” explained Pete.

“Yore shore welcome to play if yu wants to. Didn't I tell yu when yu
growed that mustache that yu didn't have to ask me any more?” queried
the placid James, paternally.

“Call 'em off, sonny. Pete sez he kin clean me out. Anyhow, yu kin have
the fust deal,” compromised Lanky.

“I'm shore sorry fer Pete if he cayn't. Yu don't reckon I has to have
fust deal to beat yu fellers, do yu? Go way an' lemme alone; I never
seed such a bunch fer buttin' in as yu fellers.”

Billy Williams returned to the bar. Then he walked along it until he
was behind the recalcitrant possessor of the table. While his aggrieved
friends shuffled their feet uneasily to cover his approach, he tiptoed
up behind Jimmy and, with a nod, grasped that indignant individual
firmly by the neck while the others grabbed his feet. They carried him,
twisting and bucking, to the middle of the street and deposited him in
the dust, returning to the now vacant table.

Jimmy rested quietly for a few seconds and then slowly arose, dusting
the alkali from him.

“Th' wall-eyed piruts,” he muttered, and then scratched his head for
a way to “play hunk.” As he gazed sorrowfully at the saloon he heard a
snicker from behind him. He, thinking it was one of his late tormentors,
paid no attention to it. Then a cynical, biting laugh stung him. He
wheeled, to see Shorty leaning against a tree, a sneering leer on his
flushed face. Shorty's right hand was suspended above his holster,
hooked to his belt by the thumb--a favorite position of his when
expecting trouble.

“One of yore reg'lar habits?” he drawled.

Jimmy began to dust himself in silence, but his lips were compressed to
a thin white line.

“Does they hurt yu?” pursued the onlooker.

Jimmy looked up. “I heard tell that they make glue outen cayuses,
sometimes,” he remarked.

Shorty's eyes flashed. The loss of the horse had been rankling in his
heart all day.

“Does they git yu frequent?” he asked. His voice sounded hard.

“Oh, 'bout as frequent as yu lose a cayuse, I reckon,” replied Jimmy
hotly.

Shorty's hand streaked to his holster and Jimmy followed his lead.
Jimmy's Colt was caught. He had bucked too much. As he fell Shorty ran
for the Houston House.

Pistol shots were common, for they were the universal method of
expressing emotions. The poker players grinned, thinking their victim
was letting off his indignation. Lanky sized up his hand and remarked
half audibly, “He's a shore good kid.”

The bartender, fearing for his new beveled, gilt-framed mirror, gave a
hasty glance out the window. He turned around, made change and remarked
to Buck, “Yore kid, Jimmy, is plugged.” Several of the more credulous
craned their necks to see, Buck being the first. “Judas!” he shouted,
and ran out to where Jimmy lay coughing, his toes twitching. The saloon
was deserted and a crowd of angry cowboys surrounded their chum-aboy.
Buck had seen Shorty enter the door of the Houston House and he swore.
“Chase them C 80 and Arrow cayuses behind the saloon, Pete, an' git
under cover.”

Jimmy was choking and he coughed up blood. “He's shore--got me. My--gun
stuck,” he added apologetically. He tried to sit up, but was not able
and he looked surprised. “It's purty-damn hot-out here,” he suggested.
Johnny and Billy carried him in the saloon and placed him by the table,
in the chair he had previously vacated. As they stood up he fell across
the table and died.

Billy placed the dead boy's sombrero on his head and laid the refractory
six-shooter on the table. “I wonder who th' dirty killer was.” He looked
at the slim figure and started to go out, followed by Johnny. As he
reached the threshold a bullet zipped past him and thudded into the
frame of the door. He backed away and looked surprised. “That's Shorty's
shootin'--he allus misses 'bout that much.” He looked out and saw Buck
standing behind the live oak that Shorty had leaned against, firing at
the hotel. Turning around he made for the rear, remarking to Johnny that
“they's in th' Houston.” Johnny looked at the quiet figure in the chair
and swore softly. He followed Billy. Cowan, closing the door and taking
a buffalo gun from under the bar, went out also and slammed the rear
door forcibly.



CHAPTER III. The Argument

Up the street two hundred yards from the Houston House Skinny and Pete
lay hidden behind a bowlder. Three hundred yards on the other side of
the hotel Johnny and Billy were stretched out in an arroyo. Buck was
lying down now, and Hopalong, from his position in the barn belonging to
the hotel, was methodically dropping the horses of the besieged, a job
he hated as much as he hated poison. The corral was their death trap.
Red and Lanky were emitting clouds of smoke from behind the store,
immediately across the street from the barroom. A buffalo gun roared
down by the plaza and several Sharps cracked a protest from different
points. The town had awakened and the shots were dropping steadily.

Strange noises filled the air. They grew in tone and volume and then
dwindled away to nothing. The hum of the buffalo gun and the sobbing
pi-in-in-ing of the Winchesters were liberally mixed with the sharp
whines of the revolvers.

There were no windows in the hotel now. Raw furrows in the bleached wood
showed yellow, and splinters mysteriously sprang from the casings. The
panels of the door were producing cracks and the cheap door handle
flew many ways at once. An empty whisky keg on the stoop boomed out
mournfully at intervals and finally rolled down the steps with a
rumbling protest. Wisps of smoke slowly climbed up the walls and seemed
to be waving defiance to the curling wisps in the open.


Pete raised his shoulder to refill the magazine of his smoking rifle and
dropped the cartridges all over his lap. He looked sheepishly at Skinny
and began to load with his other hand.

“Yore plum loco, yu are. Don't yu reckon they kin hit a blue shirt
at two hundred?” Skinny cynically inquired. “Got one that time,” he
announced a second later.

“I wonder who's got th' buffalo,” grunted Pete. “Mus' be Cowan,” he
replied to his own question and settled himself to use his left hand.

“Don't yu git Shorty; he's my meat,” suggested Skinny.

“Yu better tell Buck--he ain't got no love fer Shorty,” replied Pete,
aiming carefully.

The panic in the corral ceased and Hopalong was now sending his regrets
against the panels of the rear door. He had cut his last initial in the
near panel and was starting a wobbly “H” in its neighbor. He was in a
good position. There were no windows in the rear wall, and as the door
was a very dangerous place he was not fired at.

He began to get tired of this one-sided business and crawled up on the
window ledge, dangling his feet on the outside. He occasionally sent a
bullet at a different part of the door, but amused himself by annoying
Buck.

“Plenty hot down there?” he pleasantly inquired, and as he received no
answer he tried again. “Better save some of them cartridges fer some
other time, Buck.”

Buck was sending 45-70's into the shattered window with a precision that
presaged evil to any of the defenders who were rash enough to try to
gain the other end of the room.

Hopalong bit off a chew of tobacco and drowned a green fly that was
crawling up the side of the barn. The yellow liquid streaked downward a
short distance and was eagerly sucked up by the warped boards.

A spurt of smoke leaped from the battered door and the bored Hopalong
promptly tumbled back inside. He felt of his arm, and then, delighted
at the notice taken of his artistic efforts, shot several times from
a crack on his right. “This yer's shore gittin' like home,” he gravely
remarked to the splinter that whizzed past his head. He shot again at
the door and it sagged outward, accompanied by the thud of a falling
body. “Pies like mother used to make,” he announced to the loft as he
slipped the magazine full of .45-70's. “An' pills like popper used to
take,” he continued when he had lowered the level of the water in his
flask.

He rolled a cigarette and tossed the match into the air, extinguishing
it by a shot from his Colt.

“Got any cigarettes, Hoppy?” said a voice from below.

“Shore,” replied the joyous puncher, recognizing Pete; “how'd yu git
here?”

“Like a cow. Busy?”

“None whatever. Comin' up?”

“Nope. Skinny wants a smoke too.”

Hopalong handed tobacco and papers down the hole. “So long.”

“So long,” replied the daring Pete, who risked death twice for a smoke.

The hot afternoon dragged along and about three o'clock Buck held up an
empty cartridge belt to the gaze of the curious Hopalong. That observant
worthy nodded and threw a double handful of cartridges, one by one, to
the patient and unrelenting Buck, who filled his gun and piled the few
remaining ones up at his side. “Th' lives of mice and men gang aft all
wrong,” he remarked at random.

“Th' son-of-a-gun's talkin' Shakespeare,” marveled Hopalong. “Satiate
any, Buck?” he asked as that worthy settled down to await his chance.

“Two,” he replied, “Shorty an' another. Plenty damn hot down here,” he
complained. A spurt of alkali dust stung his face, but the hand that
made it never made another. “Three,” he called. “How many, Hoppy?”

 “One. That's four.  Wonder if th' others got any?”

“Pete said Skinny got one,” replied the intent Buck.

“Th' son-of-a-gun, he never said nothin' about it, an' me a fillin' his
ornery paws with smokin'.” Hopalong was indignant.

“Bet yu ten we don't git 'em afore dark,” he announced.

“Got yu. Go yu ten more I gits another,” promptly responded Buck.

“That's a shore cinch. Make her twenty.”

“She is.”

“Yu'll have to square it with Skinny, he shore wanted Shorty plum' bad,”
 Hopalong informed the unerring marksman.

“Why didn't he say suthin' about it? Anyhow, Jimmy was my bunkie.”

Hopalong's cigarette disintegrated and the board at his left received
a hole. He promptly disappeared and Buck laughed. He sat up in the loft
and angrily spat the soaked paper out from between his lips.

“All that trouble fer nothin', th' white-eyed coyote,” he muttered.
Then he crawled around to one side and fired at the center of his “C.”
 Another shot hurtled at him and his left arm fell to his side. “That's
funny--wonder where th' damn pirut is?” He looked out cautiously and saw
a cloud of smoke over a knothole which was situated close up under the
eaves of the barroom; and it was being agitated. Some one was blowing at
it to make it disappear. He aimed very carefully at the knot and fired.
He heard a sound between a curse and a squawk and was not molested any
further from that point.

“I knowed he'd git hurt,” he explained to the bandage, torn from the
edge of his kerchief, which he carefully bound around his last wound.

Down in the arroyo Johnny was complaining.

“This yer's a no good bunk,” he plaintively remarked.

“It shore ain't--but it's th' best we kin find,” apologized Billy.

“That's th' sixth that feller sent up there. He's a damn poor shot,”
 observed Johnny; “must be Shorty.”

“Shorty kin shoot plum' good--tain't him,” contradicted Billy.

“Yas--with a six-shooter. He's off'n his feed with a rifle,” explained
Johnny.

“Yu wants to stay down from up there, yu ijit,” warned Billy as the
disgusted Johnny crawled up the bank. He slid down again with a welt on
his neck.

“That's somebody else now. He oughter a done better'n that,” he said.

Billy had fired as Johnny started to slide and he smoothed his aggrieved
chum. “He could onct, yu means.”

“Did yu git him?” asked the anxious Johnny, rubbing his welt. “Plum'
center,” responded the business-like Billy. “Go up agin, mebby I kin git
another,” he suggested tentatively.

“Mebby you kin go to blazes. I ain't no gallery,” grinned the now
exuberant owner of the welt.

“Who's got the buffalo?” he inquired as the great gun roared.

“Mus' be Cowan. He's shore all right. Sounds like a bloomin' cannon,”
 replied Billy. “Lemme alone with yore fool questions, I'm busy,” he
complained as his talkative partner started to ask another. “Go an' git
me some water--I'm alkalied. An' git some .45's, mine's purty near gone.”

Johnny crawled down the arroyo and reappeared at Hopalong's barn.

As he entered the door a handful of empty shells fell on his hat and
dropped to the floor. He shook his head and remarked, “That mus' be that
fool Hopalong.”

“Yore shore right. How's business?” inquired the festive Cassidy.

“Purty fair. Billy's got one. How many's gone?”

“Buck's got three, I got two and Skinny's got one. That's six, an' Billy
is seven. They's five more,” he replied.

“How'd yu know?” queried Johnny as he filled his flask at the horse
trough.

“Because they's twelve cayuses behind the hotel. That's why.”

“They might git away on 'em,” suggested the practical Johnny.

“Can't. They's all cashed in.”

“Yu said that they's five left,” ejaculated the puzzled water carrier.

“Yah; yore a smart cuss, ain't yu?”

Johnny grinned and then said, “Got any smokin'?” Hopalong looked
grieved. “I ain't no store. Why don't yu git generous and buy some?”

He partially filled Johnny's hand, and as he put the sadly depleted bag
away he inquired, “Got any papers?”

“Nope.”

“Got any matches?” he asked cynically.

“Nope.”

“Kin yu smoke 'em?” he yelled, indignantly.

“Shore nuff,” placidly replied the unruffled Johnny. “Billy wants some
.45-70's.”

Hopalong gasped. “Don't he want my gun, too?”

“Nope. Got a better one. Hurry up, he'll git mad.” Hopalong was a very
methodical person. He was the only one of his crowd to carry a second
cartridge strap. It hung over his right shoulder and rested on his
left hip. His waist belt held thirty cartridges for the revolvers. He
extracted twenty from that part of the shoulder strap hardest to get at,
the back, by simply pulling it over his shoulder and plucking out the
bullets as they came into reach.

“That's all yu kin have. I'm Buck's ammernition jackass,” he explained.
“Bet yu ten we gits 'em afore dark”--he was hedging.

“Any fool knows that. I'll take yu if yu bets th' other way,” responded
Johnny, grinning. He knew Hopalong's weak spot.

“Yore on,” promptly responded Hopalong, who would bet on anything.


“Well, so long,” said Johnny as he crawled away.

“Hey, yu, Johnny!” called out Hopalong, “don't yu go an' tell anybody I
got any pills left. I ain't no ars'nal.”

Johnny replied by elevating one foot and waving it. Then he disappeared.

Behind the store, the most precarious position among the besiegers,
Red Connors and Lanky Smith were ensconced and commanded a view of the
entire length of the barroom. They could see the dark mass they knew to
be the rear door and derived a great amount of amusement from the spots
of light which were appearing in it.

They watched the “C” (reversed to them) appear and be completed. When
the wobbly “H” grew to completion they laughed heartily. Then the
hardwood bar had been dragged across the field of vision and up to the
front windows, and they could only see the indiscriminate holes which
appeared in the upper panels at frequent intervals.

Every time they fired they had to expose a part of themselves to a
return shot, with the result that Lanky's forearm was seared its entire
length. Red had been more fortunate and only had a bruised ear.

They laboriously rolled several large rocks out in the open, pushing
them beyond the shelter of the store with their rifles. When they had
crawled behind them they each had another wound. From their new position
they could see Hopalong sitting in his window. He promptly waved his
sombrero and grinned.

They were the most experienced fighters of all except Buck, and were
saving their shots. When they did shoot they always had some portion of
a man's body to aim at, and the damage they inflicted was considerable.
They said nothing, being older than the rest and more taciturn, and
they were not reckless. Although Hopalong's antics made them laugh, they
grumbled at his recklessness and were not tempted to emulate him. It was
noticeable, too, that they shoved their rifles out simultaneously and,
although both were aiming, only one fired. Lanky's gun cracked so close
to the enemy's that the whirr of the bullet over Red's head was merged
in the crack of his partner's reply.

When Hopalong saw the rocks roll out from behind the store he grew very
curious. Then he saw a flash, followed instantly by another from the
second rifle. He saw several of these follow shots and could sit in
silence no longer. He waved his hat to attract attention and then
shouted, “How many?” A shot was sent straight up in the air and he
notified Buck that there were only four left.

The fire of these four grew less rapid--they were saving their
ammunition. A pot shot at Hopalong sent that gentleman's rifle hurtling
to the ground. Another tore through his hat, removing a neat amount of
skin and hair and giving him a lifelong part. He fell back inside
and proceeded to shoot fast and straight with his revolvers, his head
burning as though on fire. When he had vented the dangerous pressure
of his anger he went below and tried to fish the rifle in with a long
stick. It was obdurate, so he sent three more shots into the door, and,
receiving no reply, ran out around the corner of his shelter and grasped
the weapon. When half way back he sank to the ground. Before another
shot could be fired at him with any judgment a ripping, spitting rifle
was being frantically worked from the barn. The bullets tore the door
into seams and gaps; the lowest panel, the one having the “H” in it,
fell inward in chunks. Johnny had returned for another smoke.

Hopalong, still grasping the rifle, rolled rapidly around the corner of
the barn. He endeavored to stand, but could not. Johnny, hearing rapid
and fluent swearing, came out.

“Where'd they git yu?” he asked.

 “In th' off leg.  Hurts like blazes.  Did yu git him?”

“Nope. I jest come fer another cig; got any left?”

“Up above. Yore gall is shore apallin'. Help me in, yu two-laigged
jackass.”

“Shore. We'll shore pay our 'tentions to that door. She'll go purty
soon--she's as full of holes as th' Bad Lan's,” replied Johnny. “Git
aholt an' hop along, Hopalong.”

He helped the swearing Hopalong inside, and then the lead they pumped
into the wrecked door was scandalous. Another panel fell in and
Hopalong's “C” was destroyed. A wide crack appeared in the one above it
and grew rapidly. Its mate began to gape and finally both were driven
in. The increase in the light caused by these openings allowed Red and
Lanky to secure better aim and soon the fire of the defenders died out.

Johnny dropped his rifle and, drawing his six-shooter, ran out and
dashed for the dilapidated door, while Hopalong covered that opening
with a fusilade.

As Johnny's shoulder sent the framework flying inward he narrowly missed
sudden death. As it was he staggered to the side, out of range, and
dropped full length to the ground, flat on his face. Hopalong's rifle
cracked incessantly, but to no avail. The man who had fired the shot was
dead. Buck got him immediately after he had shot Johnny.

Calling to Skinny and Red to cover him, Buck sprinted to where Johnny
lay gasping. The bullet had struck his shoulder. Buck, Colt in hand,
leaped through the door, but met with no resistance. He signaled to
Hopalong, who yelled, “They's none left.”

The trees and rocks and gullies and buildings yielded men who soon
crowded around the hotel. A young doctor, lately graduated, appeared. It
was his first case, but he eased Johnny. Then he went over to Hopalong,
who was now raving, and attended to him. The others were patched up
as well as possible and the struggling young physician had his pockets
crammed full of gold and silver coins.

The scene of the wrecked barroom was indescribable. Holes, furrows,
shattered glass and bottles, the liquor oozing down the walls of the
shelves and running over the floor; the ruined furniture, a wrecked bar,
seared and shattered and covered with blood; bodies as they had been
piled in the corners; ropes, shells, hats; and liquor everywhere, over
everything, met the gaze of those who had caused the chaos.

Perry's Bend had failed to wipe out the score.



CHAPTER IV. The Vagrant Sioux


Buckskin gradually readjusted itself to the conditions which had existed
before its sudden leap into the limelight as a town which did things.
The soiree at the Houston House had drifted into the past, and was
now substantially established as an epoch in the history of the
town. Exuberant joy gave way to dignity and deprecation, and to solid
satisfaction; and the conversations across the bar brought forth
parallels of the affair to be judged impartially--and the impartial
judgment was, unanimously, that while there had undoubtedly been good
fights before Perry's Bend had disturbed the local quiet, they were not
quite up to the new standard of strenuous hospitality. Finally the heat
blistered everything back into the old state, and the shadows continued
to be in demand.

One afternoon, a month after the reception of the honorable delegation
from Perry's Bend, the town of Buckskin seemed desolated, and the earth
and the buildings thereon were as huge furnaces radiating a visible
heat, but when the blazing sun had begun to settle in the west it awoke
with a clamor which might have been laid to the efforts of a zealous
Satan. At this time it became the Mecca of two score or more joyous
cowboys from the neighboring ranches, who livened things as those
knights of the saddle could.

In the scant but heavy shadow of Cowan's saloon sat a picturesque figure
from whom came guttural, resonant rumblings which mingled in a spirit of
loneliness with the fretful sighs of a flea-tormented dog. Both dog and
master were vagrants, and they were tolerated because it was a matter of
supreme indifference as to who came or how long they stayed as long as
the ethics and the unwritten law of the cow country were inviolate. And
the breaking of these caused no unnecessary anxiety, for justice was
both speedy and sure.

When the outcast Sioux and his yellow dog had drifted into town some few
months before they had caused neither expostulation nor inquiry, as the
cardinal virtue of that whole broad land was to ask a man no questions
which might prove embarrassing to all concerned; judgment was of
observation, not of history, and a man's past would reveal itself
through actions. It mattered little whether he was an embezzler or the
wild chip from some prosperous eastern block, as men came to the range
to forget and to lose touch with the pampered East; and the range
absorbed them as its own.



A man was only a man as his skin contained the qualities necessary; and
the illiterate who could ride and shoot and live to himself was far more
esteemed than the educated who could not do those things. The more a man
depends upon himself and the closer is his contact to a quick judgment
the more laconic and even-poised he becomes. And the knowledge that he
is himself a judge tends to create caution and judgment. He has no court
to uphold his honor and to offer him protection, so he must be quick to
protect himself and to maintain his own standing. His nature saved him,
or it executed; and the range absolved him of all unpaid penalties of a
careless past.

He became a man born again and he took up his burden, the exactions of
a new environment, and he lived as long as those exactions gave him the
right to live. He must tolerate no restrictions of his natural rights,
and he must not restrict; for the one would proclaim him a coward,
the other a bully; and both received short shrifts in that land of the
self-protected. The basic law of nature is the survival of the fittest.

So, when the wanderers found their level in Buckskin they were not even
asked by what name men knew them. Not caring to hear a name which might
not harmonize with their idea of the fitness of things, the cowboys of
the Bar-20 had, with a freedom born of excellent livers and fearless
temperaments, bestowed names befitting their sense of humor and
adaptability. The official title of the Sioux was By-and-by; the dog was
known as Fleas. Never had names more clearly described the objects to be
represented, for they were excellent examples of cowboy discernment and
aptitude.

In their eyes By-and-by was a man. He could feel and he could resent
insults. They did not class him as one of themselves, because he did not
have energy enough to demand and justify such classification. With them
he had a right to enjoy his life as he saw fit so long as he did not
trespass on or restrict the rights of others. They were not analytic
in temperament, neither were they moralists. He was not a menace to
society, because society had superb defenses. So they vaguely recognized
his many poor qualities and clearly saw his few good ones. He could
shoot, when permitted, with the best; no horse, however refractory, had
ever been known to throw him; he was an adept at following the trails
left by rustlers, and that was an asset; he became of value to the
community; he was an economic factor.

His ability to consume liquor with indifferent effects raised him
another notch in their estimation. He was not always talking when some
one else wished to--another count. There remained about him that stoical
indifference to the petty; that observant nonchalance of the Indian;
and there was a suggestion, faint, it was true, of a dignity common to
chieftains. He was a log of grave deference which tossed on their sea of
mischievous hilarity.

He wore a pair of corduroy trousers, known to the care-free as “pants,”
 which were held together by numerous patches of what had once been
brilliantly colored calico. A pair of suspenders, torn into two separate
straps, made a belt for himself and a collar for his dog. The trousers
had probably been secured during a fit of absent-mindedness on his part
when their former owner had not been looking. Tucked at intervals in
the top of the corduroys (the exceptions making convenient shelves for
alkali dust) was what at one time had been a stiff-bosomed shirt. This
was open down the front and back, the weight of the trousers on the belt
holding it firmly on the square shoulders of the wearer, thus precluding
the necessity of collar buttons. A pair of moccasins, beautifully worked
with wampum, protected his feet from the onslaughts of cacti and the
inquisitive and pugnacious sand flies; and lying across his lap was
a repeating Winchester rifle, not dangerous because it was empty, a
condition due to the wisdom of the citizens in forbidding any one to
sell, trade or give to him those tubes of concentrated trouble, because
he could get drunk.

The two were contented and happy. They had no cares nor duties, and
their pleasures were simple and easily secured, as they consisted of
sleep and a proneness to avoid moving. Like the untrammeled coyote,
their bed was where sleep overtook them; their food, what the night
wrapped in a sense of security, or the generosity of the cowboys of the
Bar-20. No tub-ridden Diogenes ever knew so little of responsibility or
as much unadulterated content. There is a penalty even to civilization
and ambition.

When the sun had cast its shadows beyond By-and-by's feet the air became
charged with noise; shouts, shots and the rolling thunder of madly
pounding hoofs echoed flatly throughout the town. By-and-by yawned,
stretched and leaned back, reveling in the semi-conscious ecstasy of the
knowledge that he did not have to immediately get up. Fleas opened one
eye and cocked an ear in inquiry, and then rolled over on his back,
squirmed and sighed contentedly and long. The outfit of the Bar-20 had
come to town.

The noise came rapidly nearer and increased in volume as the riders
turned the corner and drew rein suddenly, causing their mounts to slide
on their haunches in ankle-deep dust.

“Hullo, old Buck-with-th'-pants, how's yore liver?”

“Come up an irrigate, old tank!”

“Chase th' flea ranch an' trail along!”

These were a few of the salutations discernible among the medley of
playful yells, the safety valves of supercharged good-nature.

“Skr-e-e!” yelled Hopalong Cassidy, letting off a fusillade of shots in
the vicinity of Fleas, who rapidly retreated around the corner, where he
wagged his tail in eager expectation. He was not disappointed, for a cow
pony tore around in pursuit and Hopalong leaned over and scratched the
yellow back, thumping it heartily, and, tossing a chunk of beef into the
open jaws of the delighted dog, departed as he had come. The advent of
the outfit meant a square meal, and the dog knew it.

In Cowan's, lined up against the bar, the others were earnestly and
assiduously endeavoring, with a promise of success, to get By-and-by
drunk, which endeavors coincided perfectly with By-and-by's idea of the
fitness of things. The fellowship and the liquor combined to thaw
out his reserve and to loosen his tongue. After gazing with an air of
injured surprise at the genial loosening of his knees he gravely handed
his rifle with an exaggerated sweep of his arm, to the cowboy nearest
him, and wrapped his arms around the recipient to insure his balance.
The rifle was passed from hand to hand until it came to Buck Peters, who
gravely presented it to its owner as a new gun.

By-and-by threw out his stomach in an endeavor to keep his head in line
with his heels, and grasping the weapon with both hands turned to Cowan,
to whom he gave it.

“Yu hab this un. Me got two. Me keep new un, mebby so.” Then he loosened
his belt and drank long and deep.

A shadow darkened the doorway and Hopalong limped in. Spying By-and-by
pushing the bottle into his mouth, while Red Connors propped him,
he grinned and took out five silver dollars, which he jingled under
By-and-by's eyes, causing that worthy to lay aside the liquor and
erratically grab for the tantalizing fortune.

“Not yet, sabe?” said Hopalong, changing the position of the money. “If
yu wants to corral this here herd of simoleons yu has to ride a cayuse
what Red bet me yu can't ride. Yu has got to grow on that there saddle
and stayed growed for five whole minutes by Buck's ticker. I ain't
a-goin' to tell yu he's any saw-horse, for yu'd know better, as yu
reckons Red wouldn't bet on no losin' proposition if he knowed better,
which same he don't. Yu straddles that four-laigged cloudburst an' yu
gets these, sabe? I ain't seen th' cayuse yet that yu couldn't freeze
to, an' I'm backin' my opinions with my moral support an' one month's
pay.”

By-and-by's eyes began to glitter as the meaning of the words
sifted through his befuddled mind. Ride a horse--five dollars--ride a
five-dollars horse--horses ride dollars--then he straightened up and
began to speak in an incoherent jumble of Sioux and bad English. He,
the mighty rider of the Sioux; he, the bravest warrior and the greatest
hunter; could he ride a horse for five dollars? Well, he rather thought
he could. Grasping Red by the shoulder, he tacked for the door and
narrowly missed hitting the bottom step first, landing, as it happened,
in the soft dust with Red's leg around his neck. Somewhat sobered by the
jar, he stood up and apologized to the crowd for Red getting in the way,
declaring that Red was a “Heap good un,” and that he didn't mean to do
it.

The outfit of the Bar-20 was, perhaps, the most famous of all from
Canada to the Rio Grande. The foreman, Buck Peters, controlled a crowd
of men (who had all the instincts of boys) that had shown no quarter
to many rustlers, and who, while always carefree and easy-going (even
fighting with great good humor and carelessness), had established the
reputation of being the most reckless gang of daredevil gun-fighters
that ever pounded leather. Crooked gaming houses, from El Paso
to Cheyenne and from Phoenix to Leavenworth, unanimously and
enthusiastically damned them from their boots to their sombreros, and
the sheriffs and marshals of many localities had received from their
hands most timely assistance--and some trouble. Wiry, indomitable,
boyish and generous, they were splendid examples of virile manhood; and,
surrounded as they were with great dangers and a unique civilization,
they should not, in justice, be judged by opinions born of the
commonplace.

They were real cowboys, which means, public opinion to the contrary
notwithstanding, that they were not lawless, nor drunken, shooting
bullies who held life cheaply, as their kin has been unjustly pictured;
but while these men were naturally peaceable they had to continually
rub elbows with men who were not. Gamblers, criminals, bullies and the
riffraff that fled from the protected East had drifted among them in
great numbers, and it was this class that caused the trouble.

The hardworking “cow-punchers” lived according to the law of the land,
and they obeyed that greatest of all laws, that of self-preservation.
Their fun was boisterous, but they paid for all the damage they
inflicted; their work was one continual hardship, and the reaction of
one extreme swings far toward the limit of its antithesis. Go back to
the Apple if you would trace the beginning of self-preservation and the
need.

Buck Peters was a man of mild appearance, somewhat slow of speech and
correspondingly quick of action, who never became flurried. His was the
master hand that controlled, and his Colts enjoyed the reputation of
never missing when a hit could have been expected with reason. Many
floods, stampedes and blizzards had assailed his nerves, but he yet
could pour a glass of liquor, held at arm's length, through a knothole
in the floor without wetting the wood.

Next in age came Lanky Smith, a small, undersized man of retiring
disposition. Then came Skinny Thompson, six feet four on his bared
soles, and true to his name; Hopalong described him as “th' shadow of a
chalk mark.” Pete Wilson, the slow-witted and very taciturn, and
Billy Williams, the wavering pessimist, were of ordinary height and
appearance. Red Connors, with hair that shamed the name, was the
possessor of a temper which was as dry as tinder; his greatest weakness
was his regard for the rifle as a means of preserving peace. Johnny
Nelson was the protege, and he could do no wrong.

The last, Hopalong Cassidy, was a combination of irresponsibility,
humor, good nature, love of fighting, and nonchalance when face to face
with danger. His most prominent attribute was that of always getting
into trouble without any intention of so doing; in fact, he was much
aggrieved and surprised when it came. It seemed as though when any “bad
man” desired to add to his reputation he invariably selected Hopalong as
the means (a fact due, perhaps, to the perversity of things in general).
Bad men became scarce soon after Hopalong became a fixture in any
locality. He had been crippled some years before in a successful
attempt to prevent the assassination of a friend, Sheriff Harris, of
Albuquerque, and he still possessed a limp.

When Red had relieved his feelings and had dug the alkali out of his
ears and eyes, he led the Sioux to the rear of the saloon, where a
“pinto” was busily engaged in endeavoring to pitch a saddle from his
back, employing the intervals in trying to see how much of the picket
rope he could wrap around his legs.

When By-and-by saw what he was expected to ride he felt somewhat
relieved, for the pony did not appear to have more than the ordinary
amount of cussedness. He waved his hand, and Johnny and Red bandaged the
animal's eyes, which quieted him at once, and then they untangled
the rope from around his legs and saw that the cinches were secure.
Motioning to By-and-by that all was ready, they jerked the bandage off
as the Indian settled himself in the saddle.

Had By-and-by been really sober he would have taken the conceit out of
that pony in chunks, and as it was he experienced no great difficulty in
holding his seat; but in his addled state of mind he grasped the end of
the cinch strap in such a way that when the pony jumped forward in
its last desperate effort the buckle slipped and the cinch became
unfastened; and By-and-by, still seated in the saddle, flew head
foremost into the horse trough, where he spilled much water.

As this happened Cowan turned the corner, and when he saw the wasted
water (which he had to carry, bucketful at a time, from the wells a good
quarter of a mile away) his anger blazed forth, and yelling, he ran
for the drenched Sioux, who was just crawling out of his bath. When the
unfortunate saw the irate man bearing down on him he sputtered in rage
and fear, and, turning, he ran down the street, with Cowan thundering
flatfootedly behind on a fat man's gallop, to the hysterical cheers of
the delighted outfit, who saw in it nothing but a good joke.

When Cowan returned from his hopeless task, blowing and wheezing, he
heard sundry remarks, sotto voce, which were not calculated to increase
his opinion of his physical condition.

“Seems to me,” remarked the irrepressible Hopalong, “that one of those
cayuses has got th' heaves.”

“It shore sounds like it,” acquiesced Johnny, red in the face from
holding in his laughter, “an' say, somebody interferes.”

“All knock-kneed animals do, yu heathen,” supplied Red.

“Hey, yu, let up on that and have a drink on th' house,” invited
Cowan. “If I gits that durn war whoop I'll make yu think there's been
a cyclone. I'll see how long that bum hangs around this here burg, I
will.”

Red's eyes narrowed and his temper got the upper hand. “He ain't no bum
when yu gives him rotgut at a quarter of a dollar a glass, is he? Any
time that 'bum' gits razzled out for nothin' more'n this, why, I goes
too; an' I ain't sayin' nothin' about goin' peaceable--like, neither.”

“I knowed somethin' like this 'ud happen,” dolefully sang out Billy
Williams, strong on the side of his pessimism.

“For th' Lord's sake, have you broke out?” asked Red, disgustedly. “I'm
goin' to hit the trail--but just keep this afore yore mind: if By-and-by
gits in any accidents or ain't in sight when I comes to town again, this
here climate'll be a heep sight hotter'n it is now. No hard feelings,
sabe? It's just a casual bit of advice. Come on, fellows, let's
amble--I'm hungry.”

As they raced across the plain toward the ranch a pair of beady eyes,
snapping with a drunken rage, watched them from an arroyo; and when
Cowan entered the saloon the next morning he could not find By-and-by's
rifle, which he had placed behind the bar. He also missed a handful of
cartridges from the box near the cash drawer; and had he looked closely
at his bottled whisky he would have noticed a loss there. A horse was
missing from a Mexican's corral and there were rumors that several
Indians had been seen far out on the plain.



CHAPTER V. The Law of the Range


“Phew! I'm shore hungry,” said Hopalong, as he and Red dismounted at the
ranch the next morning for breakfast. “Wonder what's good for it?”

“They's three things that's good for famine,” said Red, leading the way
to the bunk house. “Yu can pull in yore belt, yu can drink, an yu can
eat. Yore getting as bad as Johnny--but he's young yet.”

The others met their entrance with a volley of good-humored banter, some
of which was so personal and evoked such responses that it sounded like
the preliminary skirmish to a fight. But under all was that soft accent,
that drawl of humorous appreciation and eyes twinkling in suppressed
merriment. Here they were thoroughly at home and the spirit of
comradeship manifested itself in many subtle ways; the wit became more
daring and sharp, Billy lost some of his pessimism, and the alertness
disappeared from their manner.

Skinny left off romping with Red and yawned. “I wish that cook'ud wake
up an' git breakfast. He's the cussedest hombre I ever saw--he kin go to
sleep standin' up an' not know it. Johnny's th' boy that worries him--th'
kid comes in an' whoops things up till he's gorged himself.”

“Johnny's got th' most appallin' feel for grub of anybody I knows,”
 added Red. “I wonder what's keepin' him--he's usually hangin' around here
bawlin' for his grub like a spoiled calf, long afore cookie's got th'
fire goin'.”

“Mebby he rustled some grub out with him--I saw him tip-toein' out of th'
gallery this mornin' when I come back for my cigs,” remarked Hopalong,
glancing at Billy.

Billy groaned and made for the gallery. Emerging half a minute later he
blurted out his tale of woe: “Every time I blows myself an' don't drink
it all in town some slab-sided maverick freezes to it. It's gone,” he
added, dismally.

“Too bad, Billy--but what is it?” asked Skinny.

“What is it? Wha'd yu think it was, you emaciated match? Jewelry?
Cayuses? It's whisky--two simoleons' worth. Some-thin's allus wrong. This
here whole yearth's wrong, just like that cross-eyed sky pilot said over
to--”

“Will yu let up?” Yelled Red, throwing a sombrero at the grumbling
unfortunate. “Yu ask Buck where yore tanglefoot is.

“I'd shore look nice askin' th' boss if he'd rustled my whisky, wouldn't
I? An' would yu mind throwin' somebody else's hat? I paid twenty wheels
for that eight years ago, and I don't want it mussed none.”

“Gee, yore easy! Why, Ah Sing, over at Albuquerque, gives them away
every time yu gits yore shirt washed,” gravely interposed Hopalong as he
went out to cuss the cook.

“Well, what'd yu think of that?” Exclaimed Billy in an injured tone.

“Oh, yu needn't be hikin' for Albuquerque--WasheeWashee'ud charge yu
double for washin' yore shirt. Yu ought to fall in di' river some
day--then he might talk business,” called Hopalong over his shoulder
as he heaved an old boot into the gallery. “Hey, yu hibernatin' son of
morphine, if yu don't git them flapjacks in here pretty sudden-like
I'll scatter yu all over di' landscape, sabe? Yu just wait till Johnny
comes!”

“Wonder where th' kid is?” asked Lanky, rolling a cigarette. “Off
somewhere lookin' at di' sun through di' bottom of my bottle,” grumbled
Billy.

Hopalong started to go out, but halted on the sill and looked steadily
off toward the northwest. “That's funny. Hey, fellows, here comes Buck
an' Johnny ridin' double--on a walk, too!” he exclaimed. “Wonder what
th'--thunder! Red, Buck's carryun' him! Somethin's busted!” he yelled, as
he dashed for his pony and made for the newcomers.

“I told yu he was hittin' my bottle,” pertly remarked Billy, as he
followed the rest outside.

“Did yu ever see Johnny drunk? Did yu ever see him drink more'n two
glasses? Shut yore wailin' face--they's somethin' worse'n that in this
here,” said Red, his temper rising. “Hopalong an' me took yore cheap
liquor--it's under Pete's bunk,” he added.

The trio approached on a walk and Johnny, delirious and covered with
blood, was carried into the bunk house. Buck waited until all had
assembled again and then, his face dark with anger, spoke sharply and
without the usual drawl: “Skragged from behind, blast them! Get some
grub an' water an' be quick. We'll see who the gent with th' grudge is.”

At this point the expostulations of the indignant cook, who, not
understanding the cause, regarded the invasion of china shop bulls as
sacrilegious, came to his ears. Striding quickly to the door, he grabbed
the pan the Mexican was about to throw and, turning the now frightened
man around, thundered, “Keep quiet an' get 'em some grub.”

When rifles and ammunition had been secured they mounted and followed
him at a hard gallop along the back trail. No words were spoken, for
none were necessary. All knew that they would not return until they
had found the man for whom they were looking, even if the chase led
to Canada. They did not ask Buck for any of the particulars, for the
foreman was not in the humor to talk, and all, save Hopalong, whose
curiosity was always on edge, recognized only two facts and cared for
nothing else: Johnny had been ambushed and they were going to get the
one who was responsible.

They did not even conjecture as to who it might be, because the trail
would lead them to the man himself, and it mattered nothing who or what
he was--there was only one course to take with an assassin. So they said
nothing, but rode on with squared jaws and set lips, the seven ponies
breast to breast in a close arc.

Soon they came to an arroyo which they took at a leap. As they
approached it they saw signs in the dust which told them that a body had
lain there huddled up; and there were brown spots on the baked alkali.
The trail they followed was now single, Buck having ridden along the
bank of the arroyo when hunting for Johnny, for whom he had orders. This
trail was very irregular, as if the horse had wandered at will. Suddenly
they came upon five tracks, all pointing one way, and four of these
turned abruptly and disappeared in the northwest. Half a mile beyond the
point of separation was a chaparral, which was an important factor to
them.

Each man knew just what had taken place as if he had been an eyewitness,
for the trail was plain. The assassins had waited in the chaparral for
Johnny to pass, probably having seen him riding that way. When he had
passed and his back had been turned to them they had fired and wounded
him severely at the first volley, for Johnny was of the stuff that
fights back and his revolvers had showed full chambers and clean barrels
when Red had examined them in the bunk house. Then they had given chase
for a short distance and, from some inexplicable motive, probably fear,
they had turned and ridden off without knowing how bad he was hit. It
was this trail that led to the northwest, and it was this trail that
they followed without pausing.

When they had covered fifty miles they sighted the Cross Bar O ranch
where they hoped to secure fresh mounts. As they rode up to the ranch
house the owner, Bud Wallace, came around the corner and saw them.

 “Hullo, boys! What deviltry are yu up to now?” he asked.  Buck
leaped from his mount, followed by the others, and shoved his sombrero
back on his head as he started to remove the saddle.

“We're trailin' a bunch of murderers. They ambushed Johnny an' blame
near killed him. I stopped here to get fresh cayuses.”

“Yu did right!” replied Wallace heartily. Then raising his voice he
shouted to some of his men who were near the corral to bring up the
seven best horses they could rope. Then he told the cook to bring out
plenty of food and drink.

“I got four punchers what ain't doin' nothin' but eat,” he suggested.

“Much obliged, Wallace, but there's only four of 'em, an' we'd rather
get 'em ourselves--Johnny'ud feel better,” replied Buck, throwing his
saddle on the horse that was led up to him.

“How's yore cartridges--got plenty?” Persisted Wallace.

“Two hundred apiece,” responded Buck, springing into his saddle and
riding off. “So long,” he called.

“So long, an' plug blazes out of them,” shouted Wallace as the dust
swept over him.

At five in the afternoon they forded the Black River at a point where it
crossed the state line from New Mexico, and at dusk camped at the base
of the Guadalupe Mountains. At daybreak they took up the chase, grim and
merciless, and shortly afterward they passed the smoldering remains of
a camp fire, showing that the pursued had been in a great hurry, for it
should have been put out and masked. At noon they left the mountains to
the rear and sighted the Barred Horeshoe, which they approached.

The owner of the ranch saw them coming, and from their appearance
surmised that something was wrong.

“What is it?” He shouted. “Rustlers?”

“Nope. Murderers. I wants to swap cayuses quick,” answered Buck.

“There they are. Th' boys just brought 'em in. Anything else I can let
yu have?”

“Nope,” shouted Buck as they galloped off.

“Somebody's goin' to get plugged full of holes,” murmured the ranch
owner as he watched them kicking up the dust in huge clouds.

After they had forded a tributary of the Rio Penasco near the Sacramento
Mountains and had surmounted the opposite bank, Hopalong spurred his
horse to the top of a hummock and swept the plain with Pete's field
glasses, which he had borrowed for the occasion, and returned to the
rest, who had kept on without slacking the pace. As he took up his
former position he grunted, “War-whoops,” and unslung his rifle, an
example followed by the others.

The ponies were now running at top speed, and as they shot over a rise
their riders saw their quarry a mile and a half in advance. One of the
Indians looked back and discharged his rifle in defiance, and it now
became a race worthy of the name--Death fled from Death. The fresher
mounts of the cowboys steadily cut down the distance and, as the rifles
of the pursuers began to speak, the hard-pressed Indians made for the
smaller of two knolls, the plain leading to the larger one being too
heavily strewn with bowlders to permit speed.

As the fugitives settled down behind the rocks which fringed the edge of
their elevation a shot from one of them disabled Billy's arm, but had no
other effect than to increase the score to be settled. The pursuers
rode behind a rise and dismounted, from where, leaving their mounts
protected, they scattered out to surround the knoll.

Hopalong, true to his curiosity, finally turned up on the highest point
of the other knoll, a spur of the range in the west, for he always
wanted to see all he could. Skinny, due to his fighting instinct,
settled one hundred yards to the north and on the same spur. Buck lay
hidden behind an enormous bowlder eight hundred yards to the northeast
of Skinny, and the same distance southeast of Buck was Red Connors, who
was crawling up the bed of an arroyo. Billy, nursing his arm, lay in
front of the horses, and Pete, from his position between Billy and
Hopalong, was crawling from rock to rock in an endeavor to get near
enough to use his Colts, his favorite and most effective weapons.
Intermittent puffs of smoke arising from a point between Skinny and Buck
showed where Lanky Smith was improving each shining hour.

There had been no directions given, each man choosing his own position,
yet each was of strategic worth. Billy protected the horses, Hopalong
and Skinny swept the knoll with a plunging fire, and Lanky and Buck lay
in the course the besieged would most likely take if they tried a dash.
Off to the east Red barred them from creeping down the arroyo, and from
where Pete was he could creep up to within sixty yards if he chose the
right rocks. The ranges varied from four hundred yards for Buck to sixty
for Pete, and the others averaged close to three hundred, which allowed
very good shooting on both sides.

Hopalong and Skinny gradually moved nearer to each other for
companionship, and as the former raised his head to see what the others
were doing he received a graze on the ear.

“Wow!” he yelled, rubbing the tingling member.

Two puffs of smoke floated up from the knoll, and Skinny swore.

“Where'd he get yu, Fat?” asked Hopalong.

“G'wan, don't get funny, son,” replied Skinny.


Jets of smoke arose from the north and east, where Buck and Red were
stationed, and Pete was half way to the knoll. So far he hadn't been hit
as he dodged in and out, and, emboldened by his luck, he made a run of
five yards and his sombrero was shot from his head. Another dash and his
empty holster was ripped from its support. As he crouched behind a rock
he heard a yell from Hopalong, and saw that interested individual waving
his sombrero to cheer him on. An angry pang! from the knoll caused that
enthusiastic rooter to drop for safety.

“Locoed son-of-a-gun,” complained Pete. “He'll shore git potted.” Then
he glanced at Billy, who was the center of several successive spurts of
dust.

“How's business, Billy?” he called pleasantly.

“Oh, they'll git me yet,” responded the pessimist. “Yu needn't git
anxious. If that off buck wasn't so green he'd 'a' had me long ago.”

“Ya-hoo! Pete! Oh, Pete!” called Hopalong, sticking his head out at one
side and grinning as the wondering object of his hail craned his neck to
see what the matter was.

“Huh?” grunted Pete, and then remembering the distance he shouted,
“What's th' matter?”

“Got any cigarettes?” asked Hopalong.

“Yu poor sheep!” said Pete, and turning back to work he drove a .45 into
a yellow moccasin.

Hopalong began to itch and he saw that he was near an ant hill. Then the
cactus at his right boomed out mournfully and a hole appeared in it. He
fired at the smoke and a yell informed him that he had made a hit.
“Go 'way!” he complained as a green fly buzzed past his nose. Then he
scratched each leg with the foot of the other and squirmed incessantly,
kicking out with both feet at once. A warning metallic whir-r-r! on his
left caused to yank them in again, and turning his head quickly he the
pleasure of lopping off the head of a rattlesnake with his Colt's.

“Glad yu wasn't a copperhead,” he exclaimed. “Somebody had ought 'a'
shot that fool Noah. Blast the ants!” He drowned with a jet of tobacco
juice a Gila monster that was staring at him and took a savage delight
in its frantic efforts to bury itself.

Soon he heard Skinny swear and he sung out: “What's the matter, Skinny?
Git plugged again?”

“Naw, bugs--ain't they mean?” Plaintively asked his friend. “They ain't
none over here. What kind of bugs?”

“Sufferin' Moses, I ain't no bugologist! All kinds!”

But Hopalong got it at last. He had found tobacco and rolled a
cigarette, and in reaching for a match exposed his shoulder to a shot
that broke his collar bone. Skinny's rifle cracked in reply and the
offending brave rolled out from behind a rock. From the fuss emanating
from Hopalong's direction Skinny knew that his neighbor had been hit.

“Don't yu care, Hoppy. I got th' cuss,” he said consolingly. “Where'd he
git yu?” he asked.

“In di' heart, yu pie-faced nuisance. Come over here an' corral this
cussed bandage an' gimme some water,” snapped the injured man.

Skinny wormed his way through the thorny chaparral and bound up the
shoulder. “Anything else?” he asked.

“Yes. Shoot that bunch of warts an' blow that tobacco-eyed Gila to
Cheyenne. This here's worse than the time we cleaned out th' C 80
outfit!” Then he kicked the dead toad and swore at the sun.

“Close yore yap; yore worse than a kid! Anybody'd think yu never got
plugged afore,” said Skinny indignantly.

“I can cuss all I wants,” replied Hopalong, proving his assertion as he
grabbed his gun and fired at the dead Indian. A bullet whined above
his head and Skinny fired at the smoke. He peeped out and saw that his
friends were getting nearer to the knoll.

“They's closin' in now. We'll soon be gittin' home,” he reported.

Hopalong looked out in time to see Buck make a dash for a bowlder that
lay ten yards in front of him, which he reached in safety. Lanky also
ran in and Pete added five more yards to his advance. Buck made
another dash, but leaped into the air, and, coming down as if from an
intentional high jump, staggered and stumbled for a few paces and then
fell flat, rolling over and over toward the shelter of a split rock,
where he lay quiet. A leering red face peered over the rocks on the
knoll, but the whoop of exultation was cut short, for Red's rifle
cracked and the warrior rolled down the steep bank, where another shot
from the same gun settled him beyond question.

Hopalong choked and, turning his face away, angrily dashed his knuckles
into his eyes. “Blast 'em! Blast 'em! They've got Buck! They've got
Buck, blast 'em! They've got Buck, Skinny! Good old Buck! They've got
him! Jimmy's gone, Johnny's plugged, and now Buck's gone! Come on!”
 he sobbed in a frenzy of vengeance. “Come on, Skinny! We'll tear their
cussed hides into a deeper red than they are now! Oh, blast it, I can't
see--where's my gun?” He groped for the rifle and fought Skinny when the
latter, red-eyed but cool, endeavored to restrain him. “Lemme go, curse
yu! Don't yu know they got Buck? Lemme go!”

“Down! Red's got di' skunk. Yu can't do nothin'--they'd drop yu afore
yu took five steps. Red's got him, I tell yu! Do yu want me to lick yu?
We'll pay 'em back with interest if yu'll keep yore head!” exclaimed
Skinny, throwing the crazed man heavily.

Musical tones, rising and falling in weird octaves, whining pityingly,
diabolically, sobbing in a fascinating monotone and slobbering in
ragged chords, calling as they swept over the plain, always calling and
exhorting, they mingled in barbaric discord with the defiant barks of
the six-shooters and the inquiring cracks of the Winchesters. High up in
the air several specks sailed and drifted, more coming up rapidly from
all directions. Buzzards know well where food can be found.

As Hopalong leaned back against a rock he was hit in the thigh by a
ricochet that tore its way out, whirling like a circular saw, a span
above where it entered. The wound was very nasty, being ripped twice
the size made by an ordinary shot, and it bled profusely. Skinny crawled
over and attended to it, making a tourniquet of his neckerchief and
clumsily bandaging it with a strip torn from his shirt.

“Yore shore lucky, yu are,” he grumbled as he made his way back to his
post, where he vented his rancor by emptying the semi-depleted magazine
of his Winchester at the knoll.

Hopalong began to sing and shout and he talked of Jimmy and his
childhood, interspersing the broken narrative with choice selections
as sung in the music halls of Leavenworth and Abilene. He wound up by
yelling and struggling, and Skinny had his hands full in holding him.

“Hopalong! Cassidy! Come out of that! Keep quiet--yu'll shore git plugged
if yu don't stop that plungin'. For gosh sake, did yu hear that?” A
bullet viciously hissed between them and flattened out on a near-by
rock; others cut their way through the chaparral to the sound of falling
twigs, and Skinny threw himself on the struggling man and strapped
Hopalong with his belt to the base of a honey mesquite that grew at his
side.

“Hold still, now, and let that bandage alone. Yu allus goes off di'
range when yu gets plugged,” he complained. He cut down a cactus and
poured the sap over the wounded man's face, causing him to gurgle and
look around. His eyes had a sane look now and Skinny slid off his chest.

“Git that--belt loose; I ain't--no cow,” brokenly blazed out the picketed
Hopalong. Skinny did so, handed the irate man his Colts and returned to
his own post, from where he fired twice, reporting the shots.

“I'm tryin' to get him on th' glance' first one went high an' th' other
fell flat,” he explained.

Hopalong listened eagerly, for this was shooting that he could
appreciate. “Lemme see,” he commanded. Skinny dragged him over to a
crack and settled down for another try.

“Where is he, Skinny?” Asked Hopalong.

“Behind that second big one. No, over on this here side. See that smooth
granite? If I can get her there on th' right spot he'll shore know it.”
 He aimed carefully and fired.

Through Pete's glasses Hopalong saw a leaden splotch appear on the rock
and he notified the marksman that he was shooting high. “Put her on that
bump closer down,” he suggested. Skinny did so and another yell reached
their ears.

“That's a dandy. Yore shore all right, yu old cuss,” complimented
Hopalong, elated at the success of the experiment.

Skinny fired again and a brown arm flopped out into sight. Another shot
struck it and it jerked as though it were lifeless.

“He's cashed. See how she jumped? Like a rope,” remarked Skinny with a
grin. The arm lay quiet.

Pete had gained his last cover and was all eyes and Colts. Lanky was
also very close in and was intently watching one particular rock.
Several shots echoed from the far side of the knoll and they knew that
Red was all right. Billy was covering a cluster of rocks that protruded
above the others and, as they looked, his rifle rang out and the last
defender leaped down and disappeared in the chaparral. He wore yellow
trousers and an old boiled shirt.

“By an'-by, by all that's bad!” yelled Hopalong. “Th' measly coyote! An'
me a-fillin' his ornery hide with liquor. Well, they'll have to find
him all over again now,” he complained, astounded by the revelation. He
fired into the chaparral to express his pugnacious disgust and scared
out a huge tarantula, which alighted on Skinny's chaps, crawling rapidly
toward the unconscious man's neck. Hopalong's face hardened and he
slowly covered the insect and fired, driving it into the sand, torn
and lifeless. The bullet touched the leathern garment and Skinny
remonstrated, knowing that Hopalong was in no condition for fancy
shooting.

“Huh!” exclaimed Hopalong. “That was a tarantula what I plugged. He
was headin' for yore neck,” he explained, watching the chaparral with
apprehension.

“Go 'way, was it? Bully for yu!” exclaimed Skinny, tarantulas being
placed at par with rattlesnakes, and he considered that he had been
saved from a horrible death. “Thought yu said they wasn't no bugs over
here,” he added in an aggrieved tone.

“They wasn't none. Yu brought 'em. I only had th' main show--Gilas,
rattlers an' toads,” he replied, and then added, “Ain't it cussed hot up
here?”

“She is. Yu won't have no cinch ridin' home with that leg. Yu better
take my cayuse--he's busted more'n yourn,” responded Skinny.

“Yore cayuse is at th' Cross Bar O, yu wall-eyed pirute.”

“Shore 'nuff. Funny how a feller forgets sometimes. Lemme alone now,
they's goin' to git By-an'-by. Pete an' Lanky has just went in after
him.”

That was what had occurred. The two impatient punchers, had grown tired
of waiting, and risked what might easily have been death in order to
hasten matters. The others kept up a rapid fire, directed at the far end
of the chaparral on the knoll, in order to mask the movements of their
venturesome friends, intending also to drive By-and-by toward them so
that he would be the one to get picked off as he advanced.

Several shots rang out in quick succession on the knoll and the
chaparral became agitated. Several more shots sounded from the depth
of the thicket and a mounted Indian dashed out of the northern edge and
headed in Buck's direction. His course would take him close to Buck,
whom he had seen fall, and would let him escape at a point midway
between Red and Skinny, as Lanky was on the knoll and the range was very
far to allow effective shooting by these two.

Red saw him leave the chaparral and in his haste to reload jammed the
cartridge, and By-and-by swept on toward temporary safety, with Red
dancing in a paroxysm of rage, swelling his vocabulary with words he had
forgotten existed.

By-and-by, rising to his full height in the saddle, turned and wiggled
his fingers at the frenzied Red and made several other signs that the
cowboy was in the humor to appreciate to the fullest extent. Then he
turned and shook his rifle at the marksmen on the larger knoll, whose
best shots kicked up the dust fully fifty yards too short. The pony was
sweeping toward the reservation and friends only fifteen miles away,
and By-and-by knew that once among the mountains he would be on equal
footing at least with his enemies.

As he passed the rock behind which Buck lay sprawled on his face he
uttered a piercing whoop of triumph and leaned forward on his pony's
neck. Twenty leaps farther and the spiteful crack of a rifle echoed from
where the foreman was painfully supporting himself on his elbows. The
pony swept on in a spurt of nerve-racking speed, but alone. By-and-by
shrieked again and crashed heavily to the ground, where he rolled
inertly and then lay still. Men like Buck are dangerous until their
hearts have ceased to beat.



CHAPTER VI. Trials of the Convalescent


The days at the ranch passed in irritating idleness for those who
had obstructed the flight of hostile lead, and worse than any of the
patients was Hopalong, who fretted and fumed at his helplessness, which
retarded his recovery. But at last the day came when he was fit for
the saddle again, and he gave notice of his joy in whoops and forthwith
announced that he was entitled to a holiday; and Buck had not the heart
to refuse him.

So he started forth in his quest of peace and pleasure, but instead had
found only trouble and had been forced to leave his card at almost every
place he had visited.

There was that affair in Red Hot Gulch, Colorado, where, under pressure,
he had invested sundry pieces of lead in the persons of several
obstreperous citizens and then had paced the zealous and excitable
sheriff to the state line.

He next was noticed in Cheyenne, where his deformity was vividly
dwelt upon, to the extent of six words, by one Tarantula Charley, the
aforesaid Charley not being able to proceed to greater length on account
of heart failure. As Charley had been a ubiquitous nuisance, those
present availed themselves of the opportunity offered by Hopalong to
indulge in a free drink.

Laramie was his next stopping place, and shortly after his arrival he
was requested to sing and dance by a local terror, who informed all
present that he was the only seventeen-buttoned rattlesnake in the cow
country. Hopalong, hurt and indignant at being treated like a common
tenderfoot, promptly knocked the terror down. After he had irrigated
several square feet of parched throats belonging to the audience he
again took up his journey and spent a day at Denver, where he managed to
avoid any further trouble.

Santa Fe loomed up before him several days later and he entered it
shortly before noon. At this time the old Spanish city was a bundle of
high-strung nerves, and certain parts of it were calculated to furnish
any and all kinds of excitement except revival meetings and church
fairs. Hopalong straddled a lively nerve before he had been in the city
an hour. Two local bad men, Slim Travennes and Tex Ewalt, desiring to
establish the fact that they were roaring prairie fires, attempted to
consume the placid and innocent stranger as he limped across the plaza
in search of a game of draw poker at the Black Hills Emporium, with the
result that they needed repairs, to the chagrin and disgust of their
immediate acquaintances, who endeavored to drown their mortification
and sorrow in rapid but somewhat wild gun play, and soon remembered that
they had pressing engagements elsewhere.

Hopalong reloaded his guns and proceeded to the Emporium, where he found
a game all prepared for him in every sense of the word. On the third
deal he objected to the way in which the dealer manipulated the cards,
and when the smoke cleared away he was the only occupant of the room,
except a dog belonging to the bartender that had intercepted a stray
bullet.

Hunting up the owner of the hound, he apologized for being the indirect
cause of the animal's death, deposited a sum of Mexican dollars in
that gentleman's palm and went on his way to Alameda, which he entered
shortly after dark, and where an insult, simmering in its uncalled-for
venom, met him as he limped across the floor of the local dispensary on
his way to the bar. There was no time for verbal argument and precedent
had established the manner of his reply, and his repartee was as quick
as light and most effective. Having resented the epithets he gave his
attention to the occupants of the room.

Smoke drifted over the table in an agitated cloud and dribbled lazily
upward from the muzzle of his six-shooter, while he looked searchingly
at those around him. Strained and eager faces peered at his opponent,
who was sliding slowly forward in his chair, and for the length of a
minute no sound but the guarded breathing of the onlookers could be
heard. This was broken by a nervous cough from the rear of the room, and
the faces assumed their ordinary nonchalant expressions, their rugged
lines heavily shadowed in the light of the flickering oil lamps, while
the shuffling of cards and the clink of silver became audible. Hopalong
Cassidy had objected to insulting remarks about his affliction.

Hopalong was very sensitive about his crippled leg and was always
prompt to resent any scorn or curiosity directed at it, especially
when emanating from strangers. A young man of twenty-three years, when
surrounded by nearly perfect specimens of physical manhood, is apt to
be painfully self-conscious of any such defect, and it reacted on his
nature at times, even though he was well-known for his happy-go-lucky
disposition and playfulness. He consoled himself with the knowledge
that what he lost in symmetry was more than balanced by the celerity
and certainty of his gun hand, which was right or left, or both, as the
occasion demanded.

Several hours later, as his luck was vacillating, he felt a heavy hand
on his shoulder, and was overjoyed at seeing Buck and Red, the latter
grinning as only Red could grin, and he withdrew from the game to enjoy
his good fortune.

While Hopalong had been wandering over the country the two friends had
been hunting for him and had traced him successfully, that being due
to the trail he had blazed with his six-shooters. This they had
accomplished without harm to themselves, as those of whom they inquired
thought that they must want Hopalong “bad,” and cheerfully gave the
information required.

They had started out more for the purpose of accompanying him for
pleasure, but that had changed to an urgent necessity in the following
manner:

While on the way from Denver to Santa Fe they had met Pete Willis of the
Three Triangle, a ranch that adjoined their own, and they paused to pass
the compliments of the season.

“Purty far from th' grub wagon, Pie,” remarked Buck.

“Oh, I'm only goin' to Denver,” responded Pie.

“Purty hot,” suggested Red.

“She shore is. Seen anybody yu knows?” Pie asked.

“One or two--Billy of th' Star Crescent an' Panhandle Lukins,” answered
Buck.

“That so? Panhandle's goin' to punch for us next year. I'll hunt him up.
I heard down south of Albuquerque that Thirsty Jones an' his brothers
are lookin' for trouble,” offered Pie.

“Yah! They ain't lookin' for no trouble--they just goes around
blowin' off. Trouble? Why, they don't know what she is,” remarked Red
contemptuously.

“Well, they's been dodgin' th' sheriff purty lively lately, an' if that
ain't trouble I don't know what is,” said Pie.

“It shore is, an' hard to dodge,” acquiesced Buck.

“Well, I has to amble. Is Panhandle in Denver? Yes? I calculates as
how me an' him'll buck th' tiger for a whirl--he's shore lucky. Well, so
long,” said Pie as he moved on.

“So long,” responded the two.

“Hey, wait a minute,” yelled Pie after he had ridden a hundred yards.
“If yu sees Hopalong yu might tell him that th' Joneses are goin' to
hunt him up when they gits to Albuquerque. They's shore sore on him.
'Tain't none of my funeral, only they ain't always a-carin' how they
goes after a feller. So long,” and soon he was a cloud of dust on the
horizon.

“Trouble!” snorted Red; “well, between dodgin' Harris an' huntin'
Hopalong I reckons they'll shore find her.” Then to himself he murmured,
“Funny how everythin' comes his way.”

“That's gospel shore enough, but, as Pie said, they ain't a whole lot
particular as how they deal th' cards. We better get a move on an' find
that ornery little cuss,” replied Buck.

“O. K., only I ain't losin' no sleep about Hoppy. His gun's too lively
for me to do any worryin',” asserted Red.

“They'll get lynched some time, shore,” declared Buck.

“Not if they find Hoppy,” grimly replied Red.

They tore through Santa Fe, only stopping long enough to wet their
throats, and after several hours of hard riding entered Alameda, where
they found Hopalong in the manner narrated.

After some time the three left the room and headed for Albuquerque,
twelve miles to the south. At ten o'clock they dismounted before the
Nugget and Rope, an unpainted wooden building supposed to be a
clever combination of barroom, dance and gambling hall and hotel. The
cleverness lay in the man who could find the hotel part.



CHAPTER VII. The Open Door


The proprietor of the Nugget and Rope, a German named Baum, not being
troubled with police rules, kept the door wide open for the purpose
of inviting trade, a proceeding not to the liking of his patrons for
obvious reasons. Probably not one man in ten was fortunate enough to
have no one “looking for him,” and the lighted interior assured good
hunting to any one in the dark street. He was continually opening the
door, which every newcomer promptly and forcibly slammed shut. When he
saw men walk across the room for the express purpose of slamming it he
began to cherish the idea that there was a conspiracy on foot to anger
him and thus force him to bring about his own death.

After the door had been slammed three times in one evening by one man,
the last slam being so forcible as to shake two bottles from the shelf
and to crack the door itself, he became positive that his suspicions
were correct, and so was very careful to smile and take it as a joke.
Finally, wearied by his vain efforts to keep it open and fearing for the
door, he hit upon a scheme, the brilliancy of which inflated his chest
and gave him the appearance of a prize-winning bantam. When his patrons
strolled in that night there was no door to slam, as it lay behind the
bar.

When Buck and Red entered, closely followed by Hopalong, they elbowed
their way to the rear of the room, where they could see before being
seen. As yet they had said nothing to Hopalong about Pie's warning and
were debating in their minds whether they should do so or not, when
Hopalong interrupted their thoughts by laughing. They looked up and he
nodded toward the front, where they saw that anxious eyes from all parts
of the room were focused on the open door. Then they noticed that it had
been removed.

The air of semi-hostile, semi-anxious inquiry of the patrons and the
smile of satisfaction covering the face of Baum appealed to them as the
most ludicrous sight their eyes had seen for months, and they leaned
back and roared with laughter, thus calling forth sundry looks of
disapproval from the innocent causes of their merriment. But they were
too well known in Albuquerque to allow the disapproval to approach a
serious end, and finally, as the humorous side of the situation dawned
on the crowd, they joined in the laugh and all went merrily.


At the psychologic moment some one shouted for a dance and the
suggestion met with uproarious approval. At that moment Harris, the
sheriff, came in and volunteered to supply the necessary music if the
crowd would pay the fine against a straying fiddler he had corraled the
day before. A hat was quickly passed and a sum was realized which would
pay several fines to come and Harris departed for the music.

A chair was placed on the bar for the musician and, to the tune of “Old
Dan Tucker” and an assortment of similar airs, the board floor shook
and trembled. It was a comical sight and Hopalong, the only wallflower
besides Baum and the sheriff, laughed until he became weak. Cow punchers
play as they work, hard and earnestly, and there was plenty of action.
Sombreros flapped like huge wings and the baggy chaps looked like small,
distorted balloons.

The Virginia reel was a marvel of supple, exaggerated grace and the
quadrille looked like a free-for-all for unbroken colts. The honor
of prompter was conferred upon the sheriff, and he gravely called the
changes as they were usually called in that section of the country:

   “Oh, th' ladies trail in
      An' th' gents trail out,
   An' all stampede down th' middle.
      If yu ain't got th' tin
         Yu can dance an' shout,
   But yu must keep up with th' fiddle.”


As the dance waxed faster and the dancers grew hotter Hopalong,
feeling lonesome because he wouldn't face ridicule, even if it was not
expressed, went over and stood by the sheriff. He and Harris were good
friends, for he had received the wound that crippled him in saving the
sheriff from assassination. Harris killed the man who had fired that
shot, and from this episode on the burning desert grew a friendship that
was as strong as their own natures.

Harris was very well liked by the majority and feared by the rest, for
he was a square man and the best sheriff the county had ever known.
Quiet and unassuming, small of stature and with a kind word for every
one, he was a universal favorite among the better class of citizens.
Quick as a flash and unerring in his shooting, he was a nightmare to the
“bad men.” No profane word had ever been known to leave his lips, and
he was the possessor of a widespread reputation for generosity. His
face was naturally frank and open; but when his eyes narrowed with
determination it became blank and cold. When he saw his young friend
sidle over to him he smiled and nodded a hearty welcome.



“They's shore cuttin' her loose,” remarked Hopalong.

“First two pairs forward an' back!--they shore is,” responded the
prompter.

“Who's th' gent playin' lady to Buck?” Queried Hopalong.

“Forward again an' ladies change!--Billy Jordan.”

Hopalong watched the couple until they swung around and then he laughed
silently. “Buck's got too many feet,” he seriously remarked to his
friend.

“Swing th' girl yu loves th' best!--he ain't lonesome, look at that--”

Two shots rang out in quick succession and Harris stumbled, wheeled and
pitched forward on his face as Hopalong's sombrero spun across his
body. For a second there was an intense silence, heavy, strained
and sickening. Then a roar broke forth and the crowd of frenzied
merry-makers, headed by Hopalong, poured out into the street and spread
out to search the town. As daylight dawned the searchers began to
straggle back with the same report of failure. Buck and Red met on the
street near the door and each looked questioningly at the other. Each
shook his head and looked around, their fingers toying absentmindedly at
their belts. Finally Buck cleared his throat and remarked casually,

“Mebby he's following 'em.”

Red nodded and they went over toward their horses. As they were
hesitating which route to take, Billy Jordan came up.

“Mebby yu'd like to see yore pardner--he's out by Buzzard's Spring. We'll
take care of him,” jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward the saloon
where Harris's body lay. “And we'll all git th' others later. They
cain't git away for long.”

Buck and Red nodded and headed for Buzzard's Spring. As they neared the
water hole they saw Hopalong sitting on a rock, his head resting in one
hand while the other hung loosely from his knee. He did not notice
them when they arrived, and with a ready tact they sat quietly on their
horses and looked in every direction except toward him. The sun became
a ball of molten fire and the sand flies annoyed them incessantly, but
still they sat and waited, silent and apologetic.

Hopalong finally arose, reached for his sombrero, and, finding it gone,
swore long and earnestly at the scene its loss brought before him. He
walked over to his horse and, leaping into the saddle, turned and faced
his friends. “Yu old sons-of-guns,” he said. They looked sheepish and
nodded negatively in answer to the look of inquiry in his eyes. “They
ain't got 'em yet,” remarked Red slowly. Hopalong straightened up, his
eyes narrowed and his face became hard and resolute as he led the way
back toward the town.

Buck rode up beside him and, wiping his face with his shirt sleeve,
began to speak to Red. “We might look up th' Joneses, Red. They had been
dodgin' th' sheriff purty lively lately, an' they was huntin' Hopalong.
Ever since we had to kill their brother in Buckskin they has been
yappin' as how they was goin' to wipe us out. Hopalong an' Harris was
standin' clost together an' they tried for both. They shot twice, one
for Harris an' one for Hopalong, an' what more do yu want?”

“It shore looks thataway, Buck,” replied Red, biting into a huge plug of
tobacco which he produced from his chaps. “Anyhow, they wouldn't be no
loss if they didn't. Member what Pie said?”

Hopalong looked straight ahead, and when he spoke the words sounded as
though he had bitten them off: “Yore right, Buck, but I gits first try
at Thirsty. He's my meat an' I'll plug th' fellow what says he ain't.
Damn him!”

The others replied by applying their spurs, and in a short time they
dismounted before the Nugget and Rope. Thirsty wouldn't have a chance to
not care how he dealt the cards.

Buck and Red moved quickly through the crowd, speaking fast and
earnestly. When they returned to where they had left their friend they
saw him half a block away and they followed slowly, one on either side
of the street. There would be no bullets in his back if they knew what
they were about, and they usually did.

As Hopalong neared the corner, Thirsty and his two brothers turned it
and saw him. Thirsty said something in a low voice, and the other two
walked across the street and disappeared behind the store. When assured
that they were secure, Thirsty walked up to a huge boulder on the side
of the street farthest from the store and turned and faced his enemy,
who approached rapidly until about five paces away, when he slowed up
and finally stopped.

For a number of seconds they sized each other up, Hopalong quiet
and deliberate with a deadly hatred; Thirsty pale and furtive with a
sensation hitherto unknown to him. It was Right meeting Wrong, and Wrong
lost confidence. Often had Thirsty Jones looked death in the face and
laughed, but there was something in Hopalong's eyes that made his flesh
creep.

He glanced quickly past his foe and took in the scene with one flash of
his eyes. There was the crowd, eager, expectant, scowling. There were
Buck and Red, each lounging against a boulder, Buck on his right, Red
on his left. Before him stood the only man he had ever feared. Hopalong
shifted his feet and Thirsty, coming to himself with a start, smiled.
His nerve had been shaken, but he was master of himself once more.

“Well!” he snarled, scowling.

Hopalong made no response, but stared him in the eyes.

Thirsty expected action, and the deadly quiet of his enemy oppressed
him. He stared in turn, but the insistent searching of his opponent's
eyes scorched him and he shifted his gaze to Hopalong's neck.

“Well!” he repeated uneasily.

“Did yu have a nice time at th' dance last night?” Asked Hopalong, still
searching the face before him.

“Was there a dance? I was over in Alameda,” replied Thirsty shortly.

“Ya-as, there was a dance, an' yu can shoot purty durn far if yu was in
Alameda,” responded Hopalong, his voice low and monotonous.

Thirsty shifted his feet and glanced around. Buck and Red were still
lounging against their bowlders and apparently were not paying any
attention to the proceedings. His fickle nerve came back again, for
he knew he would receive fair play. So he faced Hopalong once more and
regarded him with a cynical smile.

“Yu seems to worry a whole lot about me. Is it because yu has a
tender feelin', or because it's none of yore blame business?” He asked
aggressively.

Hopalong paled with sudden anger, but controlled himself.

“It's because yu murdered Harris,” he replied.

“Shoo! An' how does yu figger it out?” Asked Thirsty, jauntily.

“He was huntin' yu hard an' yu thought yu'd stop it, so yu came in to
lay for him. When yu saw me an' him together yu saw di' chance to
wipe out another score. That's how I figger it out,” replied Hopalong
quietly.

“Yore a reg'lar 'tective, ain't yu?” Thirsty asked ironically.

“I've got common sense,” responded Hopalong.

“Yu has? Yu better tell th' rest that, too,” replied Thirsty.

“I know yu shot Harris, an' yu can't get out of it by makin' funny
remarks. Anyhow, yu won't be much loss, an' th' stage company'll feel
better, too.”

“Shoo! An' suppose I did shoot him, I done a good job, didn't I?”

“Yu did the worst job yu could do, yu highway robber,” softly said
Hopalong, at the same time moving nearer. “Harris knew yu stopped th'
stage last month, an' that's why yu've been dodgin' him.”

“Yore a liar!” shouted Thirsty, reaching for his gun.

The movement was fatal, for before he could draw, the Colt in Hopalong's
holster leaped out and flashed from its owner's hip and Thirsty fell
sideways, face down in the dust of the street.

Hopalong started toward the fallen man, but as he did so a shot rang out
from behind the store and he pitched forward, stumbled and rolled behind
the bowlder. As he stumbled his left hand streaked to his hip, and when
he fell he had a gun in each hand.

As he disappeared from sight Goodeye and Bill Jones stepped from behind
the store and started to run away. Not able to resist the temptation to
look again, they stopped and turned and Bill laughed.

“Easy as sin,” he said.

“Run, yu fool--Red an' Buck'll be here. Want to git plugged?” shouted
Goodeye angrily.

They turned and started for a group of ponies twenty yards away, and as
they leaped into the saddles two shots were fired from the street. As
the reports died away Buck and Red turned the corner of the store, Colts
in hand, and, checking their rush as they saw the saddles emptied, they
turned toward the street and saw Hopalong, with blood oozing from an
abrasion on his cheek, sitting up cross-legged, with each hand holding a
gun, from which came thin wisps of smoke.

“Th' son-of-a-gun!” cried Buck, proud and delighted.

“Th' son-of-a-gun!” echoed Red, grinning.



CHAPTER VIII. Hopalong Keeps His Word

The waters of the Rio Grande slid placidly toward the Gulf, the hot sun
branding the sleepy waters with streaks of molten fire. To the north
arose from the gray sandy plain the Quitman Mountains, and beyond them
lay Bass Ca on. From the latter emerged a solitary figure astride a
broncho, and as he ascended the topmost rise he glanced below him at the
placid stream and beyond it into Mexico. As he sat quietly in his saddle
he smiled and laughed gently to himself. The trail he had just followed
had been replete with trouble which had suited the state of his mind
and he now felt humorous, having cleaned up a pressing debt with his
six-shooter. Surely there ought to be a mild sort of excitement in the
land he faced, something picturesque and out of the ordinary. This
was to be the finishing touch to his trip, and he had left his two
companions at Albuquerque in order that he might have to himself all
that he could find.

Not many miles to the south of him lay the town which had been the
rendezvous of Tamale Jose, whose weakness had been a liking for other
people's cattle. Well he remembered his first man hunt: the discovery
of the theft, the trail and pursuit and--the ending. He was scarcely
eighteen years of age when that event took place, and the wisdom he had
absorbed then had stood him in good stead many times since. He had even
now a touch of pride at the recollection how, when his older companions
had failed to get Tamale Jose, he with his undeveloped strategy had
gained that end. The fight would never be forgotten, as it was his
first, and no sight of wounds would ever affect him as did those of Red
Connors as he lay huddled up in the dark corner of that old adobe hut.

He came to himself and laughed again as he thought of Carmencita, the
first girl he had ever known--and the last. With a boy's impetuosity he
had wooed her in a manner far different from that of the peons who sang
beneath her window and talked to her mother. He had boldly scaled the
wall and did his courting in her house, trusting to luck and to his
own ability to avoid being seen. No hidden meaning lay in his words;
he spoke from his heart and with no concealment. And he remembered the
treachery that had forced him, fighting, to the camp of his outfit; and
when he had returned with his friends she had disappeared.

To this day he hated that mud-walled convent and those sisters who
so easily forgot how to talk. The fragrance of the old days wrapped
themselves around him, and although he had ceased to pine for his
black-eyed Carmencita-well, it would be nice if he chanced to see her
again. Spurring his mount into an easy canter he swept down to and
across the river, fording it where he had crossed it when pursuing
Tamale Jose.

The town lay indolent under the Mexican night, and the strumming of
guitars and the tinkle of spurs and tiny bells softly echoed from
several houses. The convent of St. Maria lay indistinct in its heavy
shadows and the little church farther up the dusty street showed dim
lights in its stained windows. Off to the north became audible the
rhythmic beat of a horse and soon a cowboy swept past the convent with a
mocking bow.

He clattered across the stone-paved plaza and threw his mount back
on its haunches as he stopped before a house. Glancing around and
determining to find out a few facts as soon as possible, he rode up
to the low door and pounded upon it with the butt of his Colt. After
waiting for possibly half a minute and receiving no response he hammered
a tune upon it with two Colts and had the satisfaction of seeing half a
score of heads protrude from the windows in the nearby houses.

“If I could scare up another gun I might get th' whole blamed town up,”
 he grumbled whimsically, and fell on the door with another tune.

“Who is it?” came from within. The voice was distinctly feminine and
Hopalong winked to himself in congratulation.

“Me,” he replied, twirling his fingers from his nose at the curious,
forgetting that the darkness hid his actions from sight.

“Yes, I know; but who is 'me'?” Came from the house.

“Ain't I a fool!” he complained to himself, and raising his voice he
replied coaxingly, “Open th' door a bit an' see. Are yu Carmencita?”

“O-o-o! but you must tell me who it is first.”

“Mr. Cassidy,” he replied, flushing at the 'mister,' “an' I wants to see
Carmencita.”

“Carmencita who?” teasingly came from behind the door. Hopalong
scratched his head. “Gee, yu've roped me--I suppose she has got another
handle. Oh, yu know--she used to live here about seven years back. She
had great big black eyes, pretty cheeks an' a mouth that 'ud stampede
anybody. Don't yu know now? She was about so high,” holding out his
hands in the darkness.

The door opened a trifle on a chain and Hopalong peered eagerly forward.

“Ah, it is you, the brave Americano! You must go away quick or you will
meet with harm. Manuel is awfully jealous and he will kill you! Go at
once, please!”

Hopalong pulled at the half-hearted down upon his lip and laughed
softly. Then he slid the guns back in their holsters and felt for his
sombrero.

“Manuel wants to see me first, Star Eyes.”

“No! no!” she replied, stamping upon the floor vehemently. “You must go
now--at once!”

“I'd shore look nice hittin' th' trail because Manuel Somebody wants
to get hurt, wouldn't I? Don't yu remember how I used to shinny up this
here wall an' skin th' cat gettin' through that hole up there what yu
said was a window? Ah, come on an' open th' door--I'd shore like to see
yu again!” pleaded the irrepressible.

“No! no! Go away. Oh, won't you please go away!”

Hopalong sighed audibly and turned his horse. As he did so he heard the
door open and a sigh reached his ears. He wheeled like a flash and found
the door closed again on its chain. A laugh of delight came from behind
it.

“Come out, please!--just for a minute,” he begged, wishing that he was
brave enough to smash the door to splinters and grab her.

“If I do, will you go away?” Asked the girl. “Oh, what will Manuel say
if he comes? And all those people, they'll tell him!”

“Hey, yu!” shouted Hopalong, brandishing his Colts at the protruding
heads. “Git scarce! I'll shore plug th' last one in!” Then he laughed at
the sudden vanishing.

The door slowly opened and Carmencita, fat and drowsy, wobbled out
to him. Hopalong's feelings were interfering with his breathing as he
surveyed her. “Oh, yu shore are mistaken, Mrs. Carmencita. I wants to
see yore daughter!”

“Ah, you have forgotten the little Carmencita who used to look for you.
Like all the men, you have forgotten,” she cooed reproachfully. Then her
fear predominated again and she cried, “Oh, if my husband should see me
now!”

Hopalong mastered his astonishment and bowed. He had a desire to ride
madly into the Rio Grande and collect his senses.

“Yu are right--this is too dangerous--I'll amble on some,” he replied
hastily. Under his breath he prayed that the outfit would never learn
of this. He turned his horse and rode slowly up the street as the door
closed.

Rounding the corner he heard a soft footfall, and swerving in his saddle
he turned and struck with all his might in the face of a man who leaped
at him, at the same time grasping the uplifted wrist with his other
hand. A curse and the tinkle of thin steel on the pavement accompanied
the fall of his opponent. Bending down from his saddle he picked up the
weapon and the next minute the enraged assassin was staring into the
unwavering and, to him, growing muzzle of a Colt's .45.

“Yu shore had a bum teacher. Don't yu know better'n to push it in? An'
me a cowpuncher, too! I'm most grieved at yore conduct--it shows you
don't appreciate cow-wrastlers. This is safer,” he remarked, throwing
the stiletto through the air and into a door, where it rang out angrily
and quivered. “I don't know as I wants to ventilate yu; we mostly
poisons coyotes up my way,” he added. Then a thought struck him. “Yu
must be that dear Manuel I've been hearin' so much about?”

A snarl was the only reply and Hopalong grinned.

“Yu shore ain't got no call to go loco that way, none whatever. I don't
want yore Carmencita. I only called to say hulloo,” responded Hopalong,
his sympathies being aroused for the wounded man before him from his
vivid recollection of the woman who had opened the door.

“Yah!” snarled Manuel. “You wants to poison my little bird. You with
your fair hair and your cursed swagger!”

The six-shooter tentatively expanded and stopped six inches from the
Mexican's nose. “Yu wants to ride easy, hombre. I ain't no angel, but I
don't poison no woman; an' don't yu amble off with th' idea in yore head
that she wants to be poisoned. Why, she near stuck a knife in me!” he
lied.

The Mexican's face brightened somewhat, but it would take more than that
to wipe out the insult of the blow. The horse became restless, and when
Hopalong had effectively quieted it he spoke again.

“Did yu ever hear of Tamale Jose?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I'm th' fellow that stopped him in th' 'dobe hut by th' arroyo.
I'm tellin' yu this so yu won't do nothin' rash an' leave Carmencita a
widow. Sabe?”

The hate on the Mexican's face redoubled and he took a short step
forward, but stopped when the muzzle of the Colt kissed his nose. He was
the brother of Tamale Jose. As he backed away from the cool touch of
the weapon he thought out swiftly his revenge. Some of his brother's
old companions were at that moment drinking mescal in a saloon down the
street, and they would be glad to see this Americano die. He glanced
past his house at the saloon and Hopalong misconstrued his thoughts.

“Shore, go home. I'll just circulate around some for exercise. No hard
feelings, only yu better throw it next time,” he said as he backed away
and rode off. Manuel went down the street and then ran into the saloon,
where he caused an uproar.

Hopalong rode to the end of the plaza and tried to sing, but it was a
dismal failure. Then he felt thirsty and wondered why he hadn't thought
of it before. Turning his horse and seeing the saloon he rode up to it
and in, lying flat on the animal's neck to avoid being swept off by the
door frame. His entrance scared white some half a dozen loungers, who
immediately sprang up in a decidedly hostile manner. Hopalong's Colts
peeped over the ears of his horse and he backed into a corner near the
bar.

“One, two, three--now, altogether, breathe! Yu acts like yu never saw a
real puncher afore. All th' same,” he remarked, nodding at several
of the crowd, “I've seen yu afore. Yu are th' gents with th' hot-foot
get-a-way that vamoosed when we got Tamale.”

Curses were flung at him and only the humorous mood he was in saved
trouble. One, bolder than the rest, spoke up: “The senor will not see
any 'hot-foot get-a-way,' as he calls it, now! The senor was not wise to
go so far away from his friends!”'

Hopalong looked at the speaker and a quizzical grin slowly spread over
his face. “They'll shore feel glad when I tells them yu was askin' for
'em. But didn't yu see too much of 'em once, or was yu poundin' leather
in the other direction? Yu don't want to worry none about me--an' if yu
don't get yore hands closter to yore neck they'll be heck to pay! There,
that's more like home,” he remarked, nodding assurance.

Reaching over he grasped a bottle and poured out a drink, his Colt
slipping from his hand and dangling from his wrist by a thong. As the
weapon started to fall several of the audience involuntarily moved as if
to pick it up. Hopalong noticed this and paused with the glass half
way to his lips. “Don't bother yoreselves none; I can git it again,” he
said, tossing off the liquor.

“Wow! Holy smoke!” he yelled. “This ain't drink! Sufferin' coyotes,
nobody can accuse yu of sellin' liquor! Did yu make this all by
yoreself?” He asked incredulously of the proprietor, who didn't know
whether to run or to pray. Then he noticed that the crowd was spreading
out and his Colts again became the center of interest.

“Yu with th' lovely face, sit down!” he ordered as the person addressed
was gliding toward the door. “I ain't a-goin' to let yu pot me from th'
street. Th' first man who tries to get scarce will stop somethin' hot.
An' yu all better sit down,” he suggested, sweeping them with his guns.
One man, more obdurate than the rest, was slow in complying and Hopalong
sent a bullet through the top of his high sombrero, which had a most
gratifying effect.

“You'll regret this!” hissed a man in the rear, and a murmur of
assent arose. Some one stirred slightly in searching for a weapon and
immediately a blazing Colt froze him into a statue.

“Yu shore looks funny; eeny, meeny, miny, mo,” counted off the daring
horseman; “move a bit an' off yu go,” he finished. Then his face broke
out in another grin as he thought of more enjoyment.

“That there gent on th' left,” he said, pointing out with a gun the man
he meant. “Yu sing us a song. Sing a nice little song.”

As the object of his remarks remained mute he let his thumb
ostentatiously slide back with the hammer of the gun under it. “Sing!
Quick!” The man sang.

As Hopalong leaned forward to say something a stiletto flashed past his
neck and crashed into the bottle beside him. The echo of the crash was
merged into a report as Hopalong fired from his waist. Then he backed
out into the Street and, wheeling, galloped across the plaza and again
faced the saloon. A flash split the darkness and a bullet hummed over
his head and thudded into an adobe wall at his back. Another shot and he
replied, aiming at the flash.

From down the Street came the sound of a window opening and he promptly
caused it to close again. Several more windows opened and hastily
closed, and he rode slowly toward the far end of the plaza. As he faced
the saloon once more he heard a command to throw up his hands and saw
the glint of a gun, held by a man who wore the insignia of sheriff.
Hopalong complied, but as his hands went up two spurts of fire shot
forth and the sheriff dropped his weapon, reeled and sat down. Hopalong
rode over to him and swinging down, picked up the gun and looked the
officer over.



“Shoo, yu'll be all right soon--yore only plugged in th' arms,” he
remarked as he glanced up the street. Shadowy forms were gliding from
cover to cover and he immediately caused consternation among them by
his accuracy. “Ain't it sad?” He complained to the wounded man. “I never
starts out but what somebody makes me shoot 'em. Came down here to see
a girl an' find she's married. Then when I moves on peaceable--like her
husband makes me hit him. Then I wants a drink an' he goes an' fans a
knife at me, an' me just teachin' him how! Then yu has to come along an'
make more trouble”.

“Now look at them fools over there,” he said, pointing at a dark shadow
some fifty paces off. “They're pattin' their backs because I don't
see 'em, an' if I hurts them they'll git mad. Guess I'll make 'em dust
along,” he added, shooting into the spot. A howl went up and two men ran
away at top speed.

The sheriff nodded his sympathy and spoke. “I reckons you had better
give up. You can't get away. Every house, every corner and shadow holds
a man. You are a brave man, but, as you say, unfortunate. Better help me
up and come with me--they'll tear you to pieces.”

“Shore I'll help yu up--I ain't got no grudge against nobody. But my
friends know where I am an' they'll come down here an' raise a ruction
if I don't show up. So, if it's all th' same to you, I'll be ambling
right along,” he said as he helped the sheriff to his feet.

“Have you any objections to telling me your name?” Asked the sheriff as
he looked himself over.

“None whatever,” answered Hopalong heartily. “I'm Hopalong Cassidy of
th' Bar 20, Texas.”

“You don't surprise me--I've heard of you,” replied the sheriff wearily.
“You are the man who killed Tamale Jose, whom I hunted for unceasingly.
I found him when you had left and I got the reward. Come again some
time and I'll divide with you; two hundred and fifty dollars,” he added
craftily.

“I shore will, but I don't want no money,” replied Hopalong as he turned
away. “Adios, senor,” he called back.

“Adios,” replied the sheriff as he kicked a nearby door for assistance.

The cow-pony tied itself up in knots as it pounded down the street
toward the trail, and although he was fired on he swung into the dusty
trail with a song on his lips. Several hours later he stood dripping wet
on the American side of the Rio Grande and shouted advice to a score of
Mexican cavalrymen on the opposite bank. Then he slowly picked his way
toward El Paso for a game at Faro Dan's.

The sheriff sat in his easy chair one night some three weeks later,
gravely engaged in rolling a cigarette. His arms were practically well,
the wounds being in the fleshy parts. He was a philosopher and was
disposed to take things easy, which accounted for his being in his
official position for fifteen years. A gentleman at the core, he was
well educated and had visited a goodly portion of the world. A book of
Horace lay open on his knees and on the table at his side lay a shining
new revolver, Hopalong having carried off his former weapon. He read
aloud several lines and in reaching for a light for his cigarette
noticed the new six-shooter. His mind leaped from Horace to Hopalong,
and he smiled grimly at the latter's promise to call.

Glancing up, his eyes fell on a poster which conveyed the information in
Spanish and in English that there was offered

      +--------------------------------------+
           | |  FIVE HUNDRED PESOS | |

                    REWARD

         For Hopalong Cassidy, of the Ranch

      | | Known as the Bar-20, Texas, U. S. A. | |

      +--------------------------------------+

and which gave a good description of that gentleman.

Sighing for the five hundred, he again took up his book and was lost in
its pages when he heard a knock, rather low and timid. Wearily laying
aside his reading, he strode to the door, expecting to hear a lengthy
complaint from one of his townsmen. As he threw the door wide open the
light streamed out and lighted up a revolver and behind it the beaming
face of a cowboy, who grinned.

“Well, I'll be damned!” ejaculated the sheriff, starting back in
amazement.

“Don't say that, sheriff; you've got lots of time to reform,” replied a
humorous voice. “How's th' wings?”

“Almost well: you were considerate,” responded the sheriff. “Let's go
in--somebody might see me out here an' get into trouble,” suggested the
visitor, placing his foot on the sill.

“Certainly--pardon my discourtesy,” said the sheriff. “You see, I
wasn't expecting you to-night,” he explained, thinking of the
elaborate preparations that he would have gone to if he had thought the
irrepressible would call.

“Well, I was down this way, an' seeing as how I had promised to drop
in I just natchurally dropped,” replied Hopalong as he took the chair
proffered by his host.

After talking awhile on everything and nothing the sheriff coughed and
looked uneasily at his guest.

“Mr. Cassidy, I am sorry you called, for I like men of your energy and
courage and I very much dislike to arrest you,” remarked the sheriff.
“Of course you understand that you are under arrest,” he added with
anxiety.

“Who, me?” Asked Hopalong with a rising inflection.

“Most assuredly,” breathed the sheriff.

“Why, this is the first time I ever heard anything about it,” replied
the astonished cow-puncher. “I'm an American--don't that make any
difference?”

“Not in this case, I'm afraid. You see, it's for manslaughter.”

“Well, don't that beat th' devil, now?” Said Hopalong. He felt sorry
that a citizen of the glorious United States should be prey for
troublesome sheriffs, but he was sure that his duty to Texas called upon
him never to submit to arrest at the hands of a Mexican. Remembering
the Alamo, and still behind his Colt, he reached over and took up the
shining weapon from the table and snapped it open on his knee. After
placing the cartridges in his pocket he tossed the gun over on the bed
and, reaching inside his shirt, drew out another and threw it after the
first.

“That's yore gun; I forgot to leave it,” he said, apologetically.
“Anyhow yu needs two,” he added.

Then he glanced around the room, noticed the poster and walked over
and read it. A full swift sweep of his gloved hand tore it from its
fastenings and crammed it under his belt. The glimmer of anger in his
eyes gave way as he realized that his head was worth a definite price,
and he smiled at what the boys would say when he showed it to them.
Planting his feet far apart and placing his arms akimbo he faced his
host in grim defiance.

“Got any more of these?” He inquired, placing his hand on the poster
under his belt.

“Several,” replied the sheriff.

“Trot 'em out,” ordered Hopalong shortly.

The sheriff sighed, stretched and went over to a shelf, from which he
took a bundle of the articles in question. Turning slowly he looked at
the puncher and handed them to him.

“I reckons they's all over this here town,” remarked Hopalong.

“They are, and you may never see Texas again.”

“So? Well, yu tell yore most particular friends that the job is worth
five thousand, and that it will take so many to do it that when th'
mazuma is divided up it won't buy a meal. There's only one man in this
country tonight that can earn that money, an' that's me,” said the
puncher. “An' I don't need it,” he added, smiling.

“But you are my prisoner--you are under arrest,” enlightened the sheriff,
rolling another cigarette. The sheriff spoke as if asking a question.
Never before had five hundred dollars been so close at hand and yet so
unobtainable. It was like having a check-book but no bank account.

“I'm shore sorry to treat yu mean,” remarked Hopalong, “but I was paid a
month in advance an' I'll have to go back an' earn it.”

“You can--if you say that you will return,” replied the sheriff
tentatively. The sheriff meant what he said and for the moment had
forgotten that he was powerless and was not the one to make terms.

Hopalong was amazed and for a time his ideas of Mexicans staggered under
the blow. Then he smiled sympathetically as he realized that he faced a
white man.

“Never like to promise nothin',” he replied. “I might get plugged, or
something might happen that wouldn't let me.” Then his face lighted up
as a thought came to him. “Say, I'll cut di' cards with yu to see if I
comes back or not.”

The sheriff leaned back and gazed at the cool youngster before him.
A smile of satisfaction, partly at the self-reliance of his guest and
partly at the novelty of his situation, spread over his face. He reached
for a pack of Mexican cards and laughed. “Man! You're a cool one--I'll do
it. What do you call?”

“Red,” answered Hopalong.

The sheriff slowly raised his hand and revealed the ace of hearts.
Hopalong leaned back and laughed, at the same time taking from his
pocket the six extracted cartridges. Arising and going over to the
bed he slipped them in the chambers of the new gun and then placed the
loaded weapon at the sheriff's elbow.

“Well, I reckon I'll amble, sheriff,” he said as he opened the door. “If
yu ever sifts up my way drop in an' see me--th' boys'll give yu a good
time.”

“Thanks; I will be glad to,” replied the sheriff. “You'll take your
pitcher to the well once too often some day, my friend. This courtesy,”
 glancing at the restored revolver, “might have cost you dearly.”

“Shoo! I did that once an' th' feller tried to use it,” replied
the cowboy as he backed through the door. “Some people are awfully
careless,” he added. “So long--”

“So long,” replied the sheriff, wondering what sort of a man he had been
entertaining.

The door closed softly and soon after a joyous whoop floated in from
the Street. The sheriff toyed with the new gun and listened to the low
caress of a distant guitar.

“Well, don't that beat all?” He ejaculated.



CHAPTER IX. The Advent of McAllister


The blazing sun shone pitilessly on an arid plain which was spotted
with dust-gray clumps of mesquite and thorny chaparral. Basking in the
burning sand and alkali lay several Gila monsters, which raised their
heads and hissed with wide-open jaws as several faint, whip-like reports
echoed flatly over the desolate plain, showing that even they had
learned that danger was associated with such sounds.

Off to the north there became visible a cloud of dust and at intervals
something swayed in it, something that rose and fell and then became
hidden again. Out of that cloud came sharp, splitting sounds, which were
faintly responded to by another and larger cloud in its rear. As it came
nearer and finally swept past, the Gilas, to their terror, saw a madly
pounding horse, and it carried a man. The latter turned in his saddle
and raised a gun to his shoulder and the thunder that issued from it
caused the creeping audience to throw up their tails in sudden panic and
bury themselves out of sight in the sand.

The horse was only a broncho, its sides covered with hideous yellow
spots, and on its near flank was a peculiar scar, the brand. Foam
flecked from its crimsoned jaws and found a resting place on its sides
and on the hairy chaps of its rider. Sweat rolled and streamed from its
heaving flanks and was greedily sucked up by the drought-cursed alkali.
Close to the rider's knee a bloody furrow ran forward and one of the
broncho's ears was torn and limp. The broncho was doing its best--it
could run at that pace until it dropped dead. Every ounce of strength it
possessed was put forth to bring those hind hoofs well in front of
the forward ones and to send them pushing the sand behind in streaming
clouds. The horse had done this same thing many times--when would its
master learn sense?

The man was typical in appearance with many of that broad land. Lithe,
sinewy and bronzed by hard riding and hot suns, he sat in his Cheyenne
saddle like a centaur, all his weight on the heavy, leather-guarded
stirrups, his body rising in one magnificent straight line. A bleached
moustache hid the thin lips, and a gray sombrero threw a heavy shadow
across his eyes. Around his neck and over his open, blue flannel
shirt lay loosely a knotted silk kerchief, and on his thighs a pair of
open-flapped holsters swung uneasily with their ivory handled burdens.
He turned abruptly, raised his gun to his shoulder and fired, then
he laughed recklessly and patted his mount, which responded to
the confident caress by lying flatter to the earth in a spurt of
heart-breaking speed.

“I'll show 'em who they're trailin'. This is th' second time I've
started for Muddy Wells, an' I'm goin' to git there, too, for all th'
Apaches out of Hades!”

To the south another cloud of dust rapidly approached and the rider
scanned it closely, for it was directly in his path. As he watched it
he saw something wave and it was a sombrero! Shortly afterward a real
cowboy yell reached his ears. He grinned and slid another cartridge in
the greasy, smoking barrel of the Sharp's and fired again at the cloud
in his rear. Some few minutes later a whooping, bunched crowd of madly
riding cowboys thundered past him and he was recognized.

“Hullo, Frenchy!” yelled the nearest one. “Comin' back?”

“Come on, McAllister!” shouted another; “we'll give 'em blazes!” In
response the straining broncho suddenly stiffened, bunched and slid on
its haunches, wheeled and retraced its course. The rear cloud suddenly
scattered into many smaller ones and all swept off to the east. The
rescuing band overtook them and, several hours later, when seated around
a table in Tom Lee's saloon, Muddy Wells, a count was taken of them,
which was pleasing in its facts.

“We was huntin' coyotes when we saw yu,” said a smiling puncher who was
known as Salvation Carroll chiefly because he wasn't.

“Yep! They've been stalkin' Tom's chickens,” supplied Waffles, the
champion poker player of the outfit. Tom Lee's chickens could whip
anything of their kind for miles around and were reverenced accordingly.

“Sho! Is that so?” Asked Frenchy with mild incredulity, such a state of
affairs being deplorable.

“She shore is!” answered Tex Le Blanc, and then, as an afterthought, he
added, “Where'd yu hit th' War-whoops?”

“'Bout four hours back. This here's th' second time I've headed for this
place--last time they chased me to Las Cruces.”

“That so?” Asked Bigfoot Baker, a giant. “Ain't they allus interferin',
now? Anyhow, they're better'n coyotes.”

“They was purty well heeled,” suggested Tex, glancing at a bunch of
repeating Winchesters of late model which lay stacked in a corner.
“Charley here said he thought they was from th' way yore cayuse looked,
didn't yu, Charley?” Charley nodded and filled his pipe.

“'Pears like a feller can't amble around much nowadays without havin' to
fight,” grumbled Lefty Allen, who usually went out of his way hunting up
trouble.

“We're goin' to th' Hills as soon as our cookie turns up,” volunteered
Tenspot Davis, looking inquiringly at Frenchy. “Heard any more news?”

“Nope. Same old story--lots of gold. Shucks, I've bit on so many of them
rumors that they don't feaze me no more. One man who don't know nothin'
about prospectin' goes an' stumbles over a fortune an' those who know it
from A to Izzard goes 'round pullin' in their belts.”

“We don't pull in no belts--we knows just where to look, don't we,
Tenspot?” Remarked Tex, looking very wise.

“Ya-as we do,” answered Tenspot, “if yu hasn't dreamed about it, we do.”

“Yu wait; I wasn't dreamin', none whatever,” assured Tex.

“I saw it!”

“Ya-as, I saw it too onct,” replied Frenchy with sarcasm. “Went and
lugged fifty pound of it all th' way to th' assay office--took me two
days! an' that there four-eyed cuss looks at it and snickers. Then
he takes me by di' arm an' leads me to th' window. 'See that pile, my
friend? That's all like yourn,' sez he. 'It's worth about one simoleon a
ton at th' coast. They use it for ballast.'”

“Aw! But this what I saw was gold!” exploded Tex.

“So was mine, for a while!” laughed Frenchy, nodding to the bartender
for another round.

“Well, we're tired of punchin' cows! Ride sixteen hours a day, year in
an' year out, an' what do we get? Fifty a month an' no chance to spend
it, an' grub that'd make a coyote sniffle! I'm for a vacation, an' if I
goes broke, why, I'll punch again!” asserted Waffles, the foreman, thus
revealing the real purpose of the trip.

“What'd yore boss say?” Asked Frenchy.

“Whoop! What didn't he say! Honest, I never thought he had it in him.
It was fine. He cussed an hour frontways an' then trailed back on a dead
gallop, with us a-laughin' fit to bust. Then he rustles for his gun an'
we rustles for town,” answered Waffles, laughing at his remembrance of
it.

As Frenchy was about to reply his sombrero was snatched from his
head and disappeared. If he “got mad” he was to be regarded as not
sufficiently well acquainted for banter and he was at once in hot water;
if he took it good-naturedly he was one of the crowd in spirit; but in
either case he didn't get his hat without begging or fighting for
it. This was a recognized custom among the O-Bar-O outfit and was not
intended as an insult.

Frenchy grabbed at the empty air and arose. Punching Lefty playfully in
the ribs he passed his hands behind that person's back. Not finding the
lost head-gear he laughed and, tripping Lefty up, fell with him and,
reaching up on the table for his glass, poured the contents down Lefty's
back and arose.

“Yu son-of-a-gun!” indignantly wailed that unfortunate. “Gee, it feels
funny,” he added, grinning as he pulled the wet shirt away from his
spine.

“Well, I've got to be amblin',” said Frenchy, totally ignoring the
loss of his hat. “Goin' down to Buckskin,” he offered, and then asked,
“When's yore cook comin'?”

“Day after to-morrow, if he don't get loaded,” replied Tex.

“Who is he?”

“A one-eyed Mexican--Quiensabe Antonio.”

“I used to know him. He's a heck of a cook. Dished up th' grub one
season when I was punchin' for th' Tin-Cup up in Montana,” replied
Frenchy.

“Oh, he kin cook now, all right.” replied Waffles.

“That's about all he can cook. Useter wash his knives in th' coffee pot
an' blow on di' tins. I chased him a mile one night for leavin' sand in
th' skillet. Yu can have him--I don't envy yu none whatever.

“He don't sand no skillet when little Tenspot's around,” assured that
person, slapping his holster. “Does he, Lefty?”

“If he does, yu oughter be lynched,” consoled Lefty.

“Well, so long,” remarked Frenchy, riding off to a small store, where he
bought a cheap sombrero.

Frenchy was a jack-of-all-trades, having been cow-puncher, prospector,
proprietor of a “hotel” in Albuquerque, foreman of a ranch, sheriff,
and at one time had played angel to a venturesome but poor show troupe.
Beside his versatility he was well known as the man who took the stage
through the Sioux country when no one else volunteered. He could shoot
with the best, but his one pride was the brand of poker he handed out.
Furthermore, he had never been known to take an unjust advantage over
any man and, on the contrary, had frequently voluntarily handicapped
himself to make the event more interesting. But he must not be classed
as being hampered with self-restraint.

His reasons for making this trip were two-fold: he wished to see Buck
Peters, the foreman of the Bar-20 outfit, as he and Buck had punched
cows together twenty years before and were firm friends; the other was
that he wished to get square with Hopalong Cassidy, who had decisively
cleaned him out the year before at poker. Hopalong played either
in great good luck or the contrary, while Frenchy played an even,
consistent game and usually left off richer than when he began, and this
decisive defeat bothered him more than he would admit, even to himself.

The round-up season was at hand and the Bar-20 was short of ropers, the
rumors of fresh gold discoveries in the Black Hills having drawn all the
more restless men north. The outfit also had a slight touch of the gold
fever, and only their peculiar loyalty to the ranch and the assurance
of the foreman that when the work was over he would accompany them, kept
them from joining the rush of those who desired sudden and much wealth
as the necessary preliminary of painting some cow town in all the “bang
up” style such an event would call for. Therefore they had been given
orders to secure the required assistance, and they intended to do so,
and were prepared to kidnap, if necessary, for the glamour of wealth and
the hilarity of the vacation made the hours falter in their speed.

As Frenchy leaned back in his chair in Cowan's saloon, Buckskin, early
the next morning, planning to get revenge on Hopalong and then to
recover his sombrero, he heard a medley of yells and whoops and soon the
door flew open before the strenuous and concentrated entry of a mass
of twisting and kicking arms and legs, which magically found their
respective owners and reverted to the established order of things.

When the alkali dust had thinned he saw seven cow-punchers sitting on
the prostrate form of another, who was earnestly engaged in trying to
push Johnny Nelson's head out in the street with one foot as he voiced
his lucid opinion of things in general and the seven in particular.
After Red Connors had been stabbed in the back several times by the
victim's energetic elbow he ran out of the room and presently returned
with a pleased expression and a sombrero full of water, his finger
plugging an old bullet hole in the crown.

“Is he any better, Buck?” Anxiously inquired the man with the reservoir.

“About a dollar's worth,” replied the foreman. “Jest put a little right
here,” he drawled as he pulled back the collar of the unfortunate's
shirt.

“Ow! wow! WOW!” wailed the recipient, heaving and straining. The
unengaged leg was suddenly wrested loose, and as it shot up and out
Billy Williams, with his pessimism aroused to a blue-ribbon pitch, sat
down forcibly in an adjacent part of the room, from where he lectured
between gasps on the follies of mankind and the attributes of army
mules.

Red tiptoed around the squirming bunch, looking for an opening, his
pleased expression now having added a grin.

“Seems to be gittin' violent-like,” he soliloquized, as he aimed a
stream at Hopalong's ear, which showed for a second as Pete Wilson
strove for a half-nelson, and he managed to include Johnny and Pete in
his effort.

Several minutes later, when the storm had subsided, the woeful crowd
enthusiastically urged Hopalong to the bar, where he “bought.”

“Of all th' ornery outfits I ever saw--” began the man at the table,
grinning from ear to ear at the spectacle he had just witnessed.

“Why, hullo, Frenchy! Glad to see yu, yu old son-of-a-gun! What's th'
news from th' Hills?” Shouted Hopalong.

“Rather locoed, an' there's a locoed gang that's headin' that way. Goin'
up?” he asked.

“Shore, after round-up. Seen any punchers trailin' around loose?”

“Ya-as,” drawled Frenchy, delving into the possibilities suddenly opened
to him and determining to utilize to the fullest extent the opportunity
that had come to him unsought. “There's nine over to Muddy Wells that yu
might git if yu wants them bad enough. They've got a sombrero of mine,”
 he added deprecatingly.

“Nine! Twisted Jerusalem, Buck! Nine whole cow-punchers a-pinin' for
work,” he shouted, but then added thoughtfully, “Mebby they's engaged,”
 it being one of the courtesies of the land not to take another man's
help.

“Nope. They've stampeded for th' Hills an' left their boss all alone,”
 replied Frenchy, well knowing that such desertion would not, in the
minds of the Bar-20 men, add any merits to the case of the distant
outfit.

“Th' sons-of-guns,” said Hopalong, “let's go an' get 'em,” he suggested,
turning to Buck, who nodded a smiling assent.

“Oh, what's the hurry?” Asked Frenchy, seeing his projected game
slipping away into the uncertain future and happy in the thought that he
would be avenged on the O-Bar-O outfit.

“They'll be there till to-morrow noon--they's waitin' for their cookie,
who's goin' with them.”

“A cook! A cook! Oh, joy, a cook!” exulted Johnny, not for one instant
doubting Buck's ability to capture the whole outfit and seeing a whirl
of excitement in the effort.

“Anybody we knows?” Inquired Skinny Thompson.

“Shore. Tenspot Davis, Waffles, Salvation Carroll, Bigfoot Baker,
Charley Lane, Lefty Allen, Kid Morris, Curley Tate an' Tex Le Blanc,”
 responded Frenchy.

“Umm-m. Might as well rope a blizzard,” grumbled Billy. “Might as well
try to git th' Seventh Cavalry. We'll have a pious time corralling that
bunch. Them's th' fellows that hit that bunch of inquirin' Crow braves
that time up in th' Bad Lands an' then said by-bye to th' Ninth.”

“Aw, shut up! They's only two that's very much, an' Buck an' Hopalong
can sing 'em to sleep,” interposed Johnny, afraid that the expedition
would fall through.

“How about Curley and Tex?” Pugnaciously asked Billy.

“Huh, jest because they buffaloed yu over to Las Vegas yu needn't think
they's dangerous. Salvation an' Tenspot are only ones who can shoot,”
 stoutly maintained Johnny.

“Here yu, get mum,” ordered Buck to the pair. “When this outfit goes
after anything it generally gets it. All in favor of kidnappin' that
outfit signify di' same by kickin' Billy,” whereupon Bill swore.

“Do yu want yore hat?” Asked Buck, turning to Frenchy.

“I shore do,” answered that individual.

“If yu helps us at th' round-up we'll get it for yu. Fifty a month an'
grub,” offered the foreman.

“O.K.” replied Frenchy, anxious to even matters.

Buck looked at his watch. “Seven o'clock--we ought to get there by five
if we relays at th' Barred-Horseshoe. Come on.”

“How are we goin' to git them?” Asked Billy.

“Yu leave that to me, son. Hopalong an' Frenchy'll tend to that part of
it,” replied Buck, making for his horse and swinging into the saddle, an
example which was followed by the others, including Frenchy.

As they swung off Buck noticed the condition of Frenchy's mount and
halted. “Yu take that cayuse back an' get Cowan's,” he ordered.

“That cayuse is good for Cheyenne--she eats work, an' besides I wants my
own,” laughed Frenchy.

“Yu must had a reg'lar picnic from th' looks of that crease,”
 volunteered Hopalong, whose curiosity was mastering him. “Shoo! I had
a little argument with some feather dusters--th' O-Bar-O crowd cleaned
them up.”

“That so?” Asked Buck.

“Yep! They sorter got into th' habit of chasin' me to Las Cruces an'
forgot to stop.”

“How many'd yu get?” Asked Lanky Smith.

“Twelve. Two got away. I got two before th' crowd showed up--that makes
fo'teen.”

“Now th' cavalry'll be huntin' yu,” croaked Billy.

“Hunt nothin'! They was in war-paint-think I was a target?--Think I was
goin' to call off their shots for 'em?”

They relayed at the Barred-Horseshoe and went on their way at the same
pace. Shortly after leaving the last-named ranch Buck turned to Frenchy
and asked, “Any of that outfit think they can play poker?”

“Shore. Waffles.”

“Does th' reverend Mr. Waffles think so very hard?”

“He shore does.”

“Do th' rest of them mavericks think so too?”

“They'd bet their shirts on him.”

At this juncture all were startled by a sudden eruption from Billy.
“Haw! Haw! Haw!” he roared as the drift of Buck's intentions struck him.
“Haw! Haw! Haw!”

“Here, yu long-winded coyote,” yelled Red, banging him over the head
with his quirt, “If yu don't 'Haw! Haw!' away from my ear I'll make it
a Wow! Wow! What d'yu mean? Think I am a echo cliff? Yu slabsided
doodle-bug, yu!”

“G'way, yu crimson topknot, think my head's a hunk of quartz? Fer a
plugged peso I'd strew yu all over th' scenery!” shouted Billy, feigning
anger and rubbing his head.

“There ain't no scenery around here,” interposed Lanky. “This here
be-utiful prospect is a sublime conception of th' devil.”

“Easy, boy! Them highfalutin' words'il give yu a cramp some day. Yu talk
like a newly-made sergeant,” remarked Skinny.

“He learned them words from the sky-pilot over at El Paso,” volunteered
Hopalong, winking at Red. “He used to amble down th' aisle afore the
lights was lit so's he could get a front seat. That was all hunky for
a while, but every time he'd go out to irrigate, that female
organ-wrastler would seem to call th' music off for his special benefit.
So in a month he'd sneak in an' freeze to a chair by th' door, an' after
a while he'd shy like blazes every time he got within eye range of th'
church.”

“Shore. But do yu know what made him get religion all of a sudden? He
used to hang around on di' outside after th' joint let out an' trail
along behind di' music-slinger, lookin' like he didn't know what to do
with his hands. Then when he got woozy one time she up an' told him that
she had got a nice long letter from her hubby. Then Mr. Lanky hit th'
trail for Santa Fe so hard that there wasn't hardly none of it left. I
didn't see him for a whole month,” supplied Red innocently.

“Yore shore funny, ain't yu?” sarcastically grunted Lanky. “Why, I can
tell things on yu that'd make yu stand treat for a year.”

“I wouldn't sneak off to Santa Fe an' cheat yu out of them. Yu ought to
be ashamed of yoreself.”

“Yah!” snorted the aggrieved little man. “I had business over to Santa
Fe!”

“Shore,” endorsed Hopalong. “We've all had business over to Santa Fe.
Why, about eight years ago I had business--”

“Choke up,” interposed Red. “About eight years ago yu was washin' pans
for cookie, an' askin' me for cartridges. Buck used to larrup yu about
four times a day eight years ago.”

To their roars of laughter Hopalong dropped to the rear, where,
red-faced and quiet, he bent his thoughts on how to get square.

“We'll have a pleasant time corralling that gang,” began Billy for the
third time.

“For heaven's sake get off that trail!” replied Lanky. “We aint goin' to
hold 'em up. De-plomacy's th' game.”

Billy looked dubious and said nothing. If he hadn't proven that he was
as nervy as any man in the outfit they might have taken more stock in
his grumbling.

“What's the latest from Abilene way?” Asked Buck of Frenchy.

“Nothin' much 'cept th' barb-wire ruction,” replied the recruit.

“What's that?” Asked Red, glancing apprehensively back at Hopalong.

“Why, th' settlers put up barb-wire fence so's the cattle wouldn't get
on their farms. That would a been all right, for there wasn't much of
it. But some Britishers who own a couple of big ranches out there got
smart all of a sudden an' strung wire all along their lines. Punchers
crossin' th' country would run plumb into a fence an' would have to ride
a day an' a half, mebbe, afore they found th' corner. Well, naturally,
when a man has been used to ridin' where he blame pleases an' as
straight as he pleases he ain't goin' to chase along a five-foot fence
to Trisco when he wants to get to Waco. So th' punchers got to totin'
wire-snips, an' when they runs up agin a fence they cuts down half a
mile or so. Sometimes they'd tie their ropes to a strand an' pull off a
couple of miles an' then go back after th' rest. Th' ranch bosses sent
out men to watch th' fences an' told 'em to shoot any festive puncher
that monkeyed with th' hardware. Well, yu know what happens when a
puncher gets shot at.”

“When fences grow in Texas there'll be th' devil to pay,” said Buck. He
hated to think that some day the freedom of the range would be annulled,
for he knew that it would be the first blow against the cowboys'
occupation. When a man's cattle couldn't spread out all over the land he
wouldn't have to keep so many men. Farms would spring up and the sun of
the free-and-easy cowboy would slowly set.

“I reckons th' cutters are classed th' same as rustlers,” remarked Red
with a gleam of temper.

“By th' owners, but not by th' punchers; an' it's th' punchers that
count,” replied Frenchy.

“Well, we'll give them a fight,” interposed Hopalong, riding up. “When
it gets so I can't go where I please I'll start on th' warpath. I won't
buck the cavalry, but I'll keep it busy huntin' for me an' I'll have
time to 'tend to th' wire-fence men, too. Why, we'll be told we can't
tote our guns!”

“They're sayin' that now,” replied Frenchy. “Up in Buffalo, Smith, who's
now marshal, makes yu leave 'em with th' bartenders.”

“I'd like to see any two-laigged cuss get my guns If I didn't want him
to!” began Hopalong, indignant at the idea.

“Easy, son,” cautioned Buck. “Yu would do what th' rest did because yu
are a square man. I'm about as hard-headed a puncher as ever straddled
leather an' I've had to use my guns purty considerable, but I reckons if
any decent marshal asked me to cache them in a decent way, why, I'd
do it. An' let me brand somethin' on yore mind--I've heard of Smith of
Buffalo, an' he's mighty nifty with his hands. He don't stand off an'
tell yu to unload yore lead-ranch, but he ambles up close an' taps yu
on yore shirt; if yu makes a gunplay he naturally knocks yu clean across
th' room an' unloads yu afore yu gets yore senses back. He weighs about
a hundred an' eighty an' he's shore got sand to burn.”

“Yah! When I makes a gun play she plays! I'd look nice in Abilene or
Paso or Albuquerque without my guns, wouldn't I? Just because I totes
them in plain sight I've got to hand 'em over to some liquor-wrastler? I
reckons not! Some hip-pocket skunk would plug me afore I could wink. I'd
shore look nice loping around a keno layout without my guns, in th'
same town with some cuss huntin' me, wouldn't I? A whole lot of good a
marshal would a done Jimmy, an' didn't Harris get his from a cur in th'
dark?” shouted Hopalong, angered by the prospect.

“We're talkin' about Buffalo, where everybody has to hang up their
guns,” replied Buck. “An' there's th' law--”

“To blazes with th' law!” whooped Hopalong in Red's ear as he
unfastened the cinch of Red's saddle and at the same time stabbing that
unfortunate's mount with his spurs, thereby causing a hasty separation
of the two. When Red had picked himself up and things had quieted down
again the subject was changed, and several hours later they rode into
Muddy Wells, a town with a little more excuse for its existence than
Buckskin. The wells were in an arid valley west of Guadaloupe Pass, and
were not only muddy but more or less alkaline.



CHAPTER. X. Peace Hath its Victories


As they neared the central group of buildings they heard a hilarious
and assertive song which sprang from the door and windows of the main
saloon. It was in jig time, rollicking and boisterous, but the words had
evidently been improvised for the occasion, as they clashed immediately
with those which sprang to the minds of the outfit, although they could
not be clearly distinguished. As they approached nearer and finally
dismounted, however, the words became recognizable and the visitors were
at once placed in harmony with the air of jovial recklessness by the
roaring of the verses and the stamping of the time.

     Oh we're red-hot cow-punchers playin' on our luck,
     An' there ain't a proposition that we won't buck:
     From sunrise to sunset we've ridden on the range,
     But now we're oft for a howlin' change.

CHORUS

     Laugh a little, sing a little, all th' day;
     Play a little, drink a little--we can pay;
     Ride a little, dig a little an' rich we'll grow.
     Oh, we're that bunch from th' O-Bar-O!

     Oh, there was a little tenderfoot an' he had a little gun,
     An' th' gun an' him went a-trailin' up some fun.
     They ambles up to Santa Fe' to find a quiet game,
     An' now they're planted with some more of th' same!

As Hopalong, followed by the others, pushed open the door and entered
he took up the chorus with all the power of Texan lungs and even Billy
joined in. The sight that met their eyes was typical of the men and the
mood and the place. Leaning along the walls, lounging on the table and
straddling chairs with their forearms crossed on the backs were nine
cowboys, ranging from old twenty to young fifty in years, and all were
shouting the song and keeping time with their hands and feet.

In the center of the room was a large man dancing a fair buck-and-wing
to the time so uproariously set by his companions. Hatless,
neck-kerchief loose, holsters flapping, chaps rippling out and close,
spurs clinking and perspiration streaming from his tanned face, danced
Bigfoot Baker as though his life depended on speed and noise. Bottles
shook and the air was fogged with smoke and dust. Suddenly, his belt
slipping and letting his chaps fall around his ankles, he tripped and
sat down heavily. Gasping for breath, he held out his hand and received
a huge plug of tobacco, for Bigfoot had won a contest.

Shouts of greeting were hurled at the newcomers and many questions were
fired at them regarding “th' latest from th' Hills.” Waffles made a rush
for Hopalong, but fell over Big-foot's feet and all three were piled up
in a heap. All were beaming with good nature, for they were as so many
school boys playing truant. Prosaic cow-punching was relegated to the
rear and they looked eagerly forward to their several missions. Frenchy
told of the barb-wire fence war and of the new regulations of “Smith
of Buffalo” regarding cow-punchers' guns, and from the caustic remarks
explosively given it was plain to be seen what a wire fence could
expect, should one be met with, and there were many imaginary Smiths put
hors de combat.

Kid Morris, after vainly trying to slip a blue-bottle fly inside of
Hopalong's shirt, gave it up and slammed his hand on Hopalong's back
instead, crying: “Well, I'll be doggoned if here ain't Hopalong! How's
th' missus an' th' deacon an' all th' folks to hum? I hears yu an'
Frenchy's reg'lar poker fiends!”

“Oh, we plays onct in a while, but we don't want none of yore dust.
Yu'll shore need it all afore th' Hills get through with yu,” laughingly
replied Hopalong.

“Oh, yore shore kind! But I was a sort of reckonin' that we needs some
more. Perfesser P. D. Q. Waffles is our poker man an' he shore can clean
out anything I ever saw. Mebbe yu fellers feel reckless-like an' would
like to make a pool,” he cried, addressing the outfit of the Bar-20,
“an' back yore boss of th' full house agin ourn?”

Red turned slowly around and took a full minute in which to size the Kid
up. Then he snorted and turned his back again.

The Kid stared at him in outraged dignity. “Well, what say!” he softly
murmured. Then he leaped forward and walloped Red on the back.
“Hey, yore royal highness!” he shouted. “Yu-yu-yu-oh, hang it-yu! Yu
slab-sided, ring-boned, saddle-galled shade of a coyote, do yu think I'm
only meanderin' in th' misty vales of-of--”

Suggestions intruded from various sources. “Hades?” offered Hopalong.
“Cheyenne?” Murmured Johnny. “Misty mistiness of misty?” tentatively
supplied Waffles.

Red turned around again. “Better come up an' have somethin',” he
sympathetically invited, wiping away an imaginary tear.

“An' he's so young!” sobbed Frenchy.

“An' so fair!” wailed Tex.

“An' so ornery!” howled Lefty, throwing his arms around the discomfited
youngster. Other arms went around him, and out of the sobbing mob could
be heard earnest and heart-felt cussing, interspersed with imperative
commands, which were gradually obeyed.

The Kid straightened up his wearing apparel. “Come on, yu locoed--”

“Angels?” Queried Charley Lane, interrupting him. “Sweet things?”
 breathed Hopalong in hopeful expectancy.

“Oh, blast it!” yelled the Kid as he ran out into the street to escape
the persecution.

“Good Kid, all right,” remarked Waffles. “He'll go around an' lick some
Mexican an' come back sweet as honey.”

“Did somebody say poker?” Asked Bigfoot, digressing from the Kid.

“Oh, yu fellows don't want no poker. Of course yu don't. Poker's mighty
uncertain,” replied Red.

“Yah!” exclaimed Tex Le Blanc, pushing forward. “I'll just bet yu to
a standstill that Waffles an' Salvation'll round up all th' festive
simoleons yu can get together! An' I'll throw in Frenchy's hat as an
inducement.”

“Well, if yore shore set on it make her a pool,” replied Red, “an' th'
winners divide with their outfit. Here's a starter,” he added, tossing a
buckskin bag on the table. “Come on, pile 'em up.”

The crowd divided as the players seated themselves at the table, the
O-Bar-O crowd grouping themselves behind their representatives; the
Bar-20 behind theirs. A deck of cards was brought and the game was on.

Red, true to his nature, leaned back in a corner, where, hands on hips,
he awaited any hostile demonstration on the part of the O-Bar-O; then,
suddenly remembering, he looked half ashamed of his warlike position and
became a peaceful citizen again. Buck leaned with his broad back against
the bar, talking over his shoulder to the bartender, but watching
Tenspot Davis, who was assiduously engaged in juggling a handful of
Mexican dollars.

Up by the door Bigfoot Baker, elated at winning the buck-and-wing
contest, was endeavoring to learn a new step, while his late rival was
drowning his defeat at Buck's elbow. Lefty Allen was softly singing a
Mexican love song, humming when the words would not come. At the
table could be heard low-spoken card terms and good-natured banter,
interspersed with the clink of gold and silver and the soft pat-pat
of the onlookers' feet unconsciously keeping time to Lefty's song.
Notwithstanding the grim assertiveness of belts full of .45's and the
peeping handles of long-barreled Colts, set off with picturesque chaps,
sombreros and tinkling spurs, the scene was one of peaceful content and
good-fellowship.

“Ugh!” grunted Johnny, walking over to Red and informing that person
that he, Red, was a worm-eaten prune and that for half a wink he,
Johnny, would prove it. Red grabbed him by the seat of his corduroys
and the collar of his shirt and helped him outside, where they strolled
about, taking pot shots at whatever their fancy suggested.

Down the street in a cloud of dust rumbled the Las Cruces-El Paso stage
and the two punchers went up to meet it. Raw furrows showed in the
woodwork, one mule was missing and the driver and guard wore fresh
bandages. A tired tenderfoot leaped out with a sigh of relief and hunted
for his baggage, which he found to be generously perforated. Swearing
at the God-forsaken land where a man had to fight highwaymen and
Indians inside of half a day he grumblingly lugged his valise toward a
forbidding-looking shack which was called a hotel.

The driver released his teams and then turned to Red. “Hullo, old hoss,
how's th' gang?” he asked genially. “We've had a heck of a time this
yere trip,” he went on without waiting for Red to reply. “Five miles out
of Las Cruces we stood off a son-of-a-gun that wanted th' dude's wealth.
Then just this side of the San Andre foothills we runs into a bunch of
young bucks who turned us off this yere way an' gave us a runnin' fight
purty near all th' way. I'm a whole lot farther from Paso now than I
was when I started, an seem as I lost a jack I'll be some time gittin'
there. Yu don't happen to sabe a jack I can borrow, do yu?”

“I don't know about no jack, but I'll rope yu a bronch,” offered Red,
winking at Johnny.

“I'll pull her myself before I'll put dynamite in di' traces,” replied
the driver. “Yu fellers might amble back a ways with me--them buddin'
warriors'll be layin' for me.”

“We shore will,” responded Johnny eagerly. “There's nine of us now an'
there'll be nine more an' a cook to-morrow, mebby.”

“Gosh, yu grows some,” replied the guard. “Eighteen'll be a plenty for
them glory hunters.”

“We won't be able to,” contradicted Red, “for things are peculiar.”

At this moment the conversation was interrupted by the tenderfoot, who
sported a new and cheap sombrero and also a belt and holster complete.

“Will you gentlemen join me?” He asked, turning to Red and nodding at
the saloon. “I am very dry and much averse to drinking alone.”

“Why, shore,” responded Red heartily, wishing to put the stranger at
ease.

The game was running about even as they entered and Lefty Allen was
singing “The Insult,” the rich tenor softening the harshness of the
surroundings.


   I've swum th' Colorado where she's almost lost to view, I've braced
        th' Jaro layouts in Cheyenne;

   I've fought for muddy water with a howlin' bunch of Sioux, An'
        swallowed hot tamales, an' cayenne.

   I've rid a pitchin' broncho 'till th' sky was underneath, I've
        tackled every desert in th' land;

   I've sampled XXXX whiskey 'till I couldn't hardly see, An' dallied
        with th' quicksands of the Grande.

   I've argued with th' marshals of a half-a-dozen burgs, I've been
        dragged free an' fancy by a cow;

   I've had three years' campaignin' with th' fightin', bitin' Ninth,
        An' never lost my temper 'till right now.

   I've had the yaller fever an I've been shot full of holes, I've
        grabbed an army mule plumb by its tail;

   I've never been so snortin', really highfalutin' mad As when y'u up
        an' hands me ginger ale!

Hopalong laughed joyously at a remark made by Waffles and the stranger
glanced quickly at him. His merry, boyish face, underlined by a
jaw showing great firmness and set with an expression of aggressive
self-reliance, impressed the stranger and he remarked to Red, who
lounged lazily near him, that he was surprised to see such a face on so
young a man and he asked who the player was.

“Oh, his name's Hopalong Cassidy,” answered Red. “He's di' cuss that
raised that ruction down in Mexico last spring. Rode his cayuse in a
saloon and played with the loungers and had to shoot one before he got
out. When he did get out he had to fight a whole bunch of Mexicans an'
even potted their marshal, who had di' drop on him. Then he returned and
visited the marshal about a month later, took his gun away from him
an' then cut th' cards to see if he was a prisoner or not. He's a shore
funny cuss.”

The tenderfoot gasped his amazement. “Are you not fooling with me?” He
asked.

“Tell him yu came after that five hundred dollars reward and see,”
 answered Red goodnaturedly.

“Holy smoke!” shouted Waffles as Hopalong won his sixth consecutive pot.
“Did yu ever see such luck?” Frenchy grinned and some time later raked
in his third. Salvation then staked his last cent against Hopalong's
flush and dropped out.

Tenspot flipped to Waffles the money he had been juggling and Lefty
searched his clothes for wealth. Buck, still leaning against the bar,
grinned and winked at Johnny, who was pouring hair-raising tales into
the receptive ears of the stranger. Thereupon Johnny confided to his
newly found acquaintance the facts about the game, nearly causing that
person to explode with delight.

Waffles pushed back his chair, stood up and stretched. At the finish
of a yawn he grinned at his late adversary. “I'm all in, yu old
son-of-a-gun. Yu shore can play draw. I'm goin' to try yu again some
time. I was beat fair an' square an' I ain't got no kick comin', none
whatever,” he remarked, as he shook hands with Hopalong.

“Oh, we're that gang from th' O-Bar-O,” hummed the Kid as he sauntered
in. One cheek was slightly swollen and his clothes shed dust at every
step. “Who wins?” he inquired, not having heard Waffles.

“They did, blast it!” exploded Bigfoot.

One of the Kid's peculiarities was revealed in the unreasoning and
hasty conclusions he arrived at. From no desire to imply unfairness,
but rather because of his bitterness against failure of any kind and his
loyalty to Waffles, came his next words:

“Mebby they skinned yu.”

Like a flash Waffles sprang before him, his hand held up, palm out. “He
don't mean nothin'--he's only a ignorant kid!” he cried.

Buck smiled and wrested the Colt from Johnny's ever-ready hand. “Here's
another,” he said. Red laughed softly and rolled Johnny on the floor.
“Yu jackass,” he whispered, “don't yu know better'n to make a gun-play
when we needs them all?”

“What are we goin' to do?” Asked Tex, glancing at the bulging pockets of
Hopalong's chaps.

“We're goin' to punch cows again, that's what we're to do,” answered
Bigfoot dismally.

“An' whose are we goin' to punch? We can't go back to the old man,”
 grumbled Tex.

Salvation looked askance at Buck and then at the others. “Mebby,” he
began, “Mebby we kin git a job on th' Bar-20.” Then turning to Buck
again he bluntly asked, “Are yu short of punchers?”

“Well, I might use some,” answered the foreman, hesitating. “But
 I ain't got only one cook, an'----”

“We'll git yu th' cook all O.K.,” interrupted Charley Lane vehemently.
“Hi, yu cook!” he shouted, “amble in here an' git a rustle on!”

There was no reply, and after waiting for a minute he and Waffles went
into the rear room, from which there immediately issued great chunks
of profanity and noise. They returned looking pugnacious and disgusted,
with a wildly fighting man who was more full of liquor than was the
bottle which he belligerently waved.

“This here animated distillery what yu sees is our cook,” said Waffles.
“We eats his grub, nobody else. If he gits drunk that's our funeral; but
he won't get drunk! If yu wants us to punch for yu say so an' we does;
if yu don't, we don't.”

“Well,” replied Buck thoughtfully, “mebby I can use yu.” Then with a
burst of recklessness he added, “Yes, if I lose my job! But yu might
sober that Mexican up if yu let him fall in th' horse trough.”

As the procession wended its way on its mission of wet charity, carrying
the cook in any manner at all, Frenchy waved his long lost sombrero
at Buck, who stood in the door, and shouted, “Yu old son-of-a-gun, I'm
proud to know yu!”

Buck smiled and snapped his watch shut “Time to amble,” he said.



CHAPTER XI. Holding the Claim


“Oh, we're that gang from th' O-Bar-O,” hummed Waffles, sinking the
branding-iron in the flank of a calf. The scene was one of great
activity and hilarity. Several fires were burning near the huge corral
and in them half a dozen irons were getting hot. Three calves were being
held down for the brand of the “Bar-20” and two more were being dragged
up on their sides by the ropes of the cowboys, the proud cow-ponies
showing off their accomplishments at the expense of the calves'
feelings. In the corral the dust arose in steady clouds as calf after
calf was “cut out” by the ropers and dragged out to get “tagged.” Angry
cows fought valiantly for their terrorized offspring, but always to no
avail, for the hated rope of some perspiring and dust-grimed rider sent
them crashing to earth. Over the plain were herds of cattle and groups
of madly riding cowboys, and two cook wagons were stalled a short
distance from the corral. The round-up of the Bar-20 was taking place,
and each of the two outfits tried to outdo the other and each individual
strove for a prize. The man who cut out and dragged to the fire the most
calves in three days could leave for the Black Hills at the expiration
of that time, the rest to follow as soon as they could.

In this contest Hopalong Cassidy led his nearest rival, Red Connors,
both of whom were Bar-20 men, by twenty cut-outs, and there remained but
half an hour more in which to compete. As Red disappeared into the sea
of tossing horns Hopalong dashed out with a whoop.

 “Hi, yu trellis-built rack of bones, come along there! Whoop!” he
yelled, turning the prisoner over to the squad by the fire.

“Chalk up this here insignificant wart of cross-eyed perversity: an' how
many?” He called as he galloped back to the corral.

“One ninety-eight,” announced Buck, blowing the sand from the tally
sheet. “That's shore goin' some,” he remarked to himself.

When the calf sprang up it was filled with terror, rage and pain, and
charged at Billy from the rear as that pessimistic soul was leaning over
and poking his finger at a somber horned-toad. “Wow!” he yelled as his
feet took huge steps up in the air, each one strictly on its own course.
“Woof!” he grunted in the hot sand as he arose on his hands and knees
and spat alkali.

“What's s'matter?” He asked dazedly of Johnny Nelson. “Ain't it funny!”
 he yelled sarcastically as he beheld Johnny holding his sides with
laughter. “Ain't it funny!” he repeated belligerently. “Of course that
four-laigged, knock-kneed, wobblin' son-of-a-Piute had to cut me out.
They wasn't nobody in sight but Billy! Why didn't yu say he was comin'?
Think I can see four ways to once? Why didn't--” At this point Red
cantered up with a calf, and by a quick maneuver, drew the taut rope
against the rear of Billy's knees, causing that unfortunate to sit down
heavily. As he arose choking with broken-winded profanity Red dragged
the animal to the fire, and Billy forgot his grievances in the press of
labor.

“How many, Buck?” Asked Red.

“One-eighty.”

“How does she stand?”

“Yore eighteen to th' bad,” replied the foreman. “Th' son-of-a-gun!”
 marveled Red, riding off.

Another whoop interrupted them, and Billy quit watching out of the
corner eye for pugnacious calves as he prepared for Hopalong.

“Hey, Buck, this here cuss was with a Barred-Horseshoe cow,” he
announced as he turned it over to the branding man. Buck made a tally in
a separate column and released the animal. “Hullo, Red! Workin'?” Asked
Hopalong of his rival.

“Some, yu little cuss,” answered Red with all the good nature in the
world. Hopalong was his particular “side partner,” and he could lose to
him with the best of feelings.

“Yu looks so nice an' cool, an' clean, I didn't know,” responded
Hopalong, eyeing a streak of sweat and dust which ran from Red's eyes to
his chin and then on down his neck.

“What yu been doin'? Plowin' with yore nose?” Returned Red, smiling
blandly at his friend's appearance.

“Yah!” snorted Hopalong, wheeling toward the corral. “Come on, yu
pie-eatin' doodle-bug; I'll beat yu to th' gate!”

The two ponies sent showers of sand all over Billy, who eyed them
in pugnacious disgust. “Of all th' locoed imps that ever made life
miserable fer a man, them's th' worst! Is there any piece of fool
nonsense they hain't harnessed me with?” He beseeched of Buck. “Is there
anything they hain't done to me? They hides my liquor; they stuffs th'
sweat band of my hat with rope; they ties up my pants; they puts water
in. My boots an' toads in my bunk--ain't they never goin' to get sane?”

“Oh, they're only kids--they can't help it,” offered Buck. “Didn't they
hobble my cayuse when I was on him an' near bust my neck?”

Hopalong interrupted the conversation by driving up another calf, and
Buck, glancing at his watch, declared the contest at an end.

“Yu wins,” he remarked to the newcomer. “An' now yu get scarce or Billy
will shore straddle yore nerves. He said as how he was goin' to get
square on yu to-night.”

“I didn't, neither, Hoppy!” earnestly contradicted Billy, who bad
visions of a night spent in torment as a reprisal for such a threat.
“Honest I didn't, did I, Johnny?” He asked appealingly.

“Yu shore did,” lied Johnny, winking at Red, who had just ridden up.

“I don't know what yore talkin' about, but yu shore did,” replied Red.

“If yu did,” grinned Hopalong, “I'll shore make yu hard to find. Come
on, fellows,” he said; “grub's ready. Where's Frenchy?”

“Over chewin' th' rag with Waffles about his hat--he's lost it again,”
 answered Red. “He needs a guardian fer that bonnet. Th' Kid an'
Salvation has jammed it in th' corral fence an' Waffles has to stand fer
it.”

“Let's put it in th' grub wagon an see him cuss cookie,” suggested
Hopalong.

“Shore,” indorsed Johnny; Cookie'll feed him bum grub for a week to get
square.

Hopalong and Johnny ambled over to the corral and after some trouble
located the missing sombrero, which they carried to the grub wagon and
hid in the flour barrel. Then they went over by the excited owner and
dropped a few remarks about how strange the cook was acting and how he
was watching Frenchy.

Frenchy jumped at the bait and tore over to the wagon, where he and the
cook spent some time in mutual recrimination. Hopalong nosed around and
finally dug up the hat, white as new-fallen snow.

“Here's a hat--found it in th' dough barrel,” he announced, handing it
over to Frenchy, who received it in open-mouthed stupefaction.

“Yu pie-makin' pirate! Yu didn't know where my lid was, did yu! Yu
cross-eyed lump of hypocrisy!” yelled Frenchy, dusting off the flour
with one full-armed swing on the cook's face, driving it into that
unfortunate's nose and eyes and mouth. “Yu white-washed Chink, yu--rub
yore face with water an' yu've got pancakes.”

“Hey! What you doin'!” yelled the cook, kicking the spot where he had
last seen Frenchy. “Don't yu know better'n that!”

“Yu live close to yoreself or I'll throw yu so high th' sun'll duck,”
 replied Frenchy, a smile illuminating his face.

“Hey, cookie,” remarked Hopalong confidentially, “I know who put up this
joke on yu. Yu ask Billy who hid th' hat,” suggested the tease. “Here he
comes now--see how queer he looks.”

“Th' mournful Piute,” ejaculated the cook. “I'll shore make him wish
he'd kept on his own trail. I'll flavor his slush [coffee] with year-old
dish-rags!”

At this juncture Billy ambled up, keeping his weather eye peeled for
trouble. “Who's a dish-rag?” He queried. The cook mumbled something
about crazy hens not knowing when to quit cackling and climbed up in his
wagon. And that night Billy swore off drinking coffee.

When the dawn of the next day broke, Hopalong was riding toward the
Black Hills, leaving Billy to untie himself as best he might.

The trip was uneventful and several weeks later he entered Red Dog, a
rambling shanty town, one of those western mushrooms that sprang up in a
night. He took up his stand at the Miner's Rest, and finally secured
six claims at the cost of nine hundred hard-earned dollars, a fund
subscribed by the outfits, as it was to be a partnership affair.

He rode out to a staked-off piece of hillside and surveyed his purchase,
which consisted of a patch of ground, six holes, six piles of dirt and
a log hut. The holes showed that the claims bad been tried and found
wanting.

He dumped his pack of tools and provisions, which he had bought on the
way up, and lugged them into the cabin. After satisfying his curiosity
he went outside and sat down for a smoke, figuring up in his mind how
much gold he could carry on a horse. Then, as he realized that he could
get a pack mule to carry the surplus, he became aware of a strange
presence near at hand and looked up into the muzzle of a Sharp's rifle.
He grasped the situation in a flash and calmly blew several heavy smoke
rings around the frowning barrel.

“Well?” He asked slowly.

“Nice day, stranger,” replied the man with the rifle, “but don't yu
reckon yu've made a mistake?”

Hopalong glanced at the number burned on a near-by stake and carelessly
blew another smoke ring. He was waiting for the gun to waver.

“No, I reckons not,” he answered. “Why?”

“Well, I'll jest tell yu since yu asks. This yere claim's mine an' I'm
a reg'lar terror, I am. That's why; an' seein' as it is, yu better amble
some.”

Hopalong glanced down the street and saw an interested group watching
him, which only added to his rage for being in such a position. Then
he started to say something, faltered and stared with horror at a point
several feet behind his opponent. The “terror” sprang to one side in
response to Hop-along's expression, as if fearing that a snake or some
such danger threatened him. As he alighted in his new position he fell
forward and Hopalong slid a smoking Colt in its holster.

Several men left the distant group and ran toward the claim. Hopalong
reached his arm inside the door and brought forth his rifle, with which
he covered their advance.

“Anything yu want?” he shouted savagely.

The men stopped and two of them started to sidle in front of two others,
but Hopalong was not there for the purpose of permitting a move that
would screen any gun play and he stopped the game with a warning shout.
Then the two held up their hands and advanced.

“We wants to git Dan,” called out one of them, nodding at the prostrate
figure.

“Come ahead,” replied Hopalong, substituting a Colt for the rifle.


They carried their badly wounded and insensible burden back to those
whom they had left, and several curses were hurled at the cowboy, who
only smiled grimly and entered the hut to place things ready for a
siege, should one come. He had one hundred rounds of ammunition and
provisions enough for two weeks, with the assurance of reinforcements
long before that time would expire. He cut several rough loopholes and
laid out his weapons for quick handling. He knew that he could stop any
advance during the day and planned only for night attacks. How long
he could go without sleep did not bother him, because he gave it no
thought, as he was accustomed to short naps and could awaken at will or
at the slightest sound.

As dusk merged into dark he crept forth and collected several handfuls
of dry twigs, which he scattered around the hut, as the cracking of
these would warn him of an approach. Then he went in and went to sleep.

He awoke at daylight after a good night's rest, and feasted on canned
beans and peaches. Then he tossed the cans out of the door and shoved
his hat out. Receiving no response he walked out and surveyed the town
at his feet. A sheepish grin spread over his face as he realized that
there was no danger. Several red-shirted men passed by him on their way
to town, and one, a grizzled veteran of many gold camps, stopped and
sauntered up to him.

“Mornin',” said Hopalong.

“Mornin',” replied the stranger. “I thought I'd drop in an' say that I
saw that gun-play of yourn yesterday. Yu ain't got no reason to look fer
a rush. This camp is half white men an' half bullies, an' th' white men
won't stand fer no play like that. Them fellers that jest passed are
neighbors of yourn, an' they won't lay abed if yu needs them. But yu
wants to look out fer th' joints in th' town. Guess this business is out
of yore line,” he finished as he sized Hopalong up.

“She shore is, but I'm here to stay. Got tired of punchin' an' reckoned
I'd get rich.” Here he smiled and glanced at the hole. “How're yu makin'
out?” He asked.

“'Bout five dollars a day apiece, but that ain't nothin' when grub's so
high. Got reckless th' other day an' had a egg at fifty cents.”

Hopalong whistled and glanced at the empty cans at his feet. “Any
marshal in this burg?”

“Yep. But he's one of th' gang. No good, an' drunk half th' time an'
half drunk th' rest. Better come down an' have something,” invited the
miner.

“I'd shore like to, but I can't let no gang get in that door,” replied
the puncher.

“Oh, that's all right; I'll call my pardner down to keep house till yu
gits back. He can hold her all right. Hey, Jake!” he called to a man who
was some hundred paces distant; “Come down here an' keep house till we
gits back, will yu?”

The man lumbered down to them and took possession as Hopalong and his
newly found friend started for the town.

They entered the “Miner's Rest” and Hopalong fixed the room in his mind
with one swift glance. Three men--and they looked like the crowd he had
stopped before--were playing poker at a table near the window. Hopalong
leaned with his back to the bar and talked, with the players always in
sight.

Soon the door opened and a bewhiskered, heavy-set man tramped in, and
walking up to Hopalong, looked him over.

“Huh,” he sneered, “Yu are th' gent with th' festive guns that plugged
Dan, ain't yu?”

Hopalong looked at him in the eyes and quietly replied:

“An' who th' deuce are yu?”

The stranger's eyes blazed and his face wrinkled with rage as he
aggressively shoved his jaw close to Hopalong's face.

“Yu runt, I'm a better man than yu even if yu do wear hair pants,”
 referring to Hopalong's chaps. “Yu cow-wrastlers make me tired, an' I'm
goin' to show yu that this town is too good for you. Yu can say it right
now that yu are a ornery, game-leg--”

Hopalong smashed his insulter squarely between the eyes with all the
power of his sinewy body behind the blow, knocking him in a heap under
the table. Then he quickly glanced at the card players and saw a hostile
movement. His gun was out in a flash and he covered the trio as he
walked up to them. Never in all his life had he felt such a desire to
kill. His eyes were diamond points of accumulated fury, and those whom
he faced quailed before him.

“Yu scum! Draw, please draw! Pull yore guns an' gimme my chance! Three
to one, an' I'll lay my guns here,” he said, placing them on the bar and
removing his hands. “'Nearer My God to Thee' is purty appropriate fer
yu just now! Yu seem to be a-scared of yore own guns. Git down on yore
dirty knees an' say good an' loud that yu eats dirt! Shout out that
yu are too currish to live with decent men,” he said, even-toned and
distinct, his voice vibrant with passion as he took up his Colts. “Get
down!” he repeated, shoving the weapons forward and pulling back the
hammers.

The trio glanced at each other, and all three dropped to their knees and
repeated in venomous hatred the words Hopalong said for them.

“Now git! An' if I sees yu when I leaves I'll send yu after yore friend.
I'll shoot on sight now. Git!” He escorted them to the door and kicked
the last one out.

His miner friend still leaned against the bar and looked his approval.

“Well done, youngster! But yu wants to look out--that man,” pointing to
the now groping victim of Hopalong's blow, “is th' marshal of this town.
He or his pals will get yu if yu don't watch th' corners.”

Hopalong walked over to the marshal, jerked him to his feet and slammed
him against the bar. Then he tore the cheap badge from its place and
threw it on the floor. Reaching down, he drew the marshal's revolver
from its holster and shoved it in its owner's hand.

“Yore th' marshal of this place an' it's too good for me, but yore gain'
to pick up that tin lie,” pointing at the badge, “an' yore goin' to do
it right now. Then yore gain' to get kicked out of that door, an' if
yu stops runnin' while I can see yu I'll fill yu so full of holes yu'll
catch cold. Yore a sumptious marshal, yu are! Yore th' snortingest ki-yi
that ever stuck its tail atween its laigs, yu are. Yu pop-eyed wall
flower, yu wants to peep to yoreself or some papoose'll slide yu over
th' Divide so fast yu won't have time to grease yore pants. Pick up that
license-tag an' let me see you perculate so lively that yore back'll
look like a ten-cent piece in five seconds. Flit!”

The marshal, dazed and bewildered, stooped and fumbled for the badge.
Then he stood up and glanced at the gun in his hand and at the eager man
before him. He slid the weapon in his belt and drew his hand across his
fast-closing eyes. Cursing streaks of profanity, he staggered to the
door and landed in a heap in the street from the force of Hopalong's
kick. Struggling to his feet, he ran unsteadily down the block and
disappeared around a corner.

The bartender, cool and unperturbed, pushed out three glasses on his
treat: “I've seen yu afore, up in Cheyenne--'member? How's yore friend
Red?” He asked as he filled the glasses with the best the house
afforded.

“Well, shore 'nuff! Glad to see yu, Jimmy! What yu doin' away off here?”
 Asked Hopalong, beginning to feel at home.

“Oh, jest filterin' round like. I'm awful glad to see yu--this yere wart
of a town needs siftin' out. It was only last week I was wishin' one of
yore bunch 'ud show up--that ornament yu jest buffaloed shore raised th'
devil in here, an' I wished I had somebody to prospect his anatomy for a
lead mine. But he's got a tough gang circulating with him. Ever hear of
Dutch Shannon or Blinky Neary? They's with him.”

“Dutch Shannon? Nope,” he replied.

“Bad eggs, an' not a-carin' how they gits square. Th' feller yu' salted
yesterday was a bosom friend of th' marshal's, an' he passed in his
chips last night.”

“So?”

“Yep. Bought a bottle of ready-made nerve an' went to his own funeral.
Aristotle Smith was lookin' fer him up in Cheyenne last year. Aristotle
said he'd give a century fer five minutes' palaver with him, but he
shied th' town an' didn't come back. Yu know Aristotle, don't yu? He's
th' geezer that made fame up to Poison Knob three years ago. He used to
go to town ridin' astride a log on th' lumber flume. Made four miles in
six minutes with th' promise of a ruction when he stopped. Once when
he was loaded he tried to ride back th' same way he came, an' th'
first thing he knowed he was three miles farther from his supper an'
a-slippin' down that valley like he wanted to go somewhere. He swum out
at Potter's Dam an' it took him a day to walk back. But he didn't make
that play again, because he was frequently sober, an' when he wasn't
he'd only stand off an' swear at th' slide.”

“That's Aristotle, all hunk. He's th' chap that used to play checkers
with Deacon Rawlins. They used empty an' loaded shells for men, an' when
they got a king they'd lay one on its side. Sometimes they'd jar th'
board an' they'd all be kings an' then they'd have a cussin' match,”
 replied Hopalong, once more restored to good humor.

“Why,” responded Jimmy, “he counted his wealth over twice by mistake an'
shore raised a howl when he went to blow it--thought he's been robbed,
an' laid behind th' houses fer a week lookin' fer th' feller that done
it.”

“I've heard of that cuss--he shore was th' limit. What become of him?”
 Asked the miner.

“He ambled up to Laramie an' stuck his head in th' window of that joint
by th' plaza an' hollered 'Fire,' an' they did. He was shore a good
feller, all th' same,” answered the bartender. Hopalong laughed and
started for the door. Turning around he looked at his miner friend and
asked: “Comin' along? I'm goin' back now.”

“Nope. Reckon I'll hit th' tiger a whirl. I'll stop in when I passes.”

“All right. So long,” replied Hopalong, slipping out of the door and
watching for trouble. There was no opposition shown him, and he arrived
at his claim to find Jake in a heated argument with another of the gang.

“Here he comes now,” he said as Hopalong walked up. “Tell him what yu
said to me.”

“I said yu made a mistake,” said the other, turning to the cowboy in a
half apologetic manner.

“An' what else?” Insisted Jake.

“Why, ain't that all?” Asked the claim-jumper's friend in feigned
surprise, wishing that he had kept quiet.

“Well I reckons it is if yu can't back up yore words,” responded Jake in
open contempt.

Hopalong grabbed the intruder by the collar of his shirt and hauled him
off the claim. “Yu keep off this, understand? I just kicked yore marshal
out in th' street, an' I'll pay yu th' next call. If yu rambles in range
of my guns yu'll shore get in th' way of a slug. Yu an' yore gang wants
to browse on th' far side of th' range or yu'll miss a sunrise some
mornin'. Scoot!”

Hopalong turned to his companion and smiled. “What'd he say?” He asked
genially.

“Oh, he jest shot off his mouth a little. They's all no good. I've
collided with lots of them all over this country. They can't face a good
man an' keep their nerve. What'd yu say to th' marshal?”

“I told him what he was an' threw him outen th' street,” replied
Hopalong. “In about two weeks we'll have a new marshal an' he'll shore
be a dandy.”

“Yes? Why don't yu take th' job yoreself? We're with yu.”

“Better man comin'. Ever hear of Buck Peters or Red Connors of th'
Bar-20, Texas?”

“Buck Peters? Seems to me I have. Did he punch fer th' Tin-Cup up in
Montana, 'bout twenty years back?”

“Shore! Him and Frenchy McAllister punched all over that country an'
they used to paint Cheyenne, too,” replied Hopalong, eagerly.

“I knows him, then. I used to know Frenchy, too. Are they comin' up
here?”

“Yes,” responded Hopalong, struggling with another can while waiting for
the fire to catch up. “Better have some grub with me--don't like to eat
alone,” invited the cowboy, the reaction of his late rage swinging him
to the other extreme.

When their tobacco had got well started at the close of the meal and
content had taken possession of them Hopalong laughed quietly and
finally spoke:

“Did yu ever know Aristotle Smith when yu was up in Montana?”

“Did I! Well, me an' Aristotle prospected all through that country till
he got so locoed I had to watch him fer fear he'd blow us both up. He
greased th' fryin' pan with dynamite one night, an' we shore had to eat
jerked meat an' canned stuff all th' rest of that trip. What made yu
ask? Is he comin' up too?”

“No, I reckons not. Jimmy, th' bartender, said that he cashed in up
at Laramie. Wasn't he th' cuss that built that boat out there on th'
Arizona desert because he was scared that a flood might come? Th' sun
shore warped that punt till it wasn't even good for a hencoop.”

“Nope. That was Sister--Annie Tompkins. He was purty near as bad as
Aristotle, though. He roped a puma up on th' Sacramentos, an' didn't
punch no more fer three weeks. Well, here comes my pardner an' I reckons
I'll amble right along. If yu needs any referee or a side pardner in any
ruction yu has only got to warble up my way. So long.”

The next ten days passed quietly, and on the afternoon of the eleventh
Hopalong's miner friend paid him a visit.

“Jake recommends yore peaches,” he laughed as he shook Hopalong's hand.
“He says yu boosted another of that crowd. That bein' so I thought I
would drop in an' say that they're comin' after yu to-night, shore. Just
heard of it from yore friend Jimmy. Yu can count on us when th' rush
comes. But why didn't yu say yu was a pard of Buck Peters'? Me an' him
used to shoot up Laramie together. From what yore friend James says, yu
can handle this gang by yore lonesome, but if yu needs any encouragement
yu make some sign an' we'll help th' event along some. They's eight of
us that'll be waitin' up to get th' returns an' we're shore goin' to be
in range.”

“Gee, it's nice to run across a friend of Buck's! Ain't he a
son-of-a-gun?” Asked Hopalong, delighted at the news. Then, without
waiting for a reply, he went on: “Yore shore square, all right, an' I
hates to refuse yore offer, but I got eighteen friends comin' up an'
they ought to get here by tomorrow. Yu tell Jimmy to head them this way
when they shows up an' I'll have th' claim for them. There ain't no
use of yu fellers gettin' mixed up in this. Th' bunch that's comin' can
clean out any gang this side of sunup, an' I expects they'll shore be
anxious to begin when they finds me eatin' peaches an' wastin' my time
shootin' bums. Yu pass th' word along to yore friends, an' tell them to
lay low an' see th' Arory Boerallis hit this town with its tail up. Tell
Jimmy to do it up good when he speaks about me holdin' th' claim--I likes
to see Buck an' Red fight when they're good an' mad.”

The miner laughed and slapped Hopalong on the shoulder. “Yore all right,
youngster! Yore just like Buck was at yore age. Say now, I reckons he
wasn't a reg'lar terror on wheels! Why, I've seen him do more foolish
things than any man I knows of, an' I calculate that if Buck pals
with yu there ain't no water in yore sand. My name's Tom Halloway,” he
suggested.

“An' mine's Hopalong Cassidy,” was the reply. “I've heard Buck speak of
yu.”

“Has yu? Well, don't it beat all how little this world is? Somebody
allus turnin' up that knows somebody yu knows. I'll just amble along,
Mr. Cassidy, an' don't yu be none bashful about callin' if yu needs me.
Any pal of Buck's is my friend. Well, so long,” said the visitor as he
strode off. Then he stopped and turned around. “Hey, mister!” he
called. “They are goin' to roll a fire barrel down agin yu from behind,”
 indicating by an outstretched arm the point from where it would start.
“If it burns yu out I'm goin' to take a band from up there,” pointing to
a cluster of rocks well to the rear of where the crowd would work from,
“an' I don't care whether yu likes it or not,” he added to himself.

Hopalong scratched his head and then laughed. Taking up a pick and
shovel, he went out behind the cabin and dug a trench parallel with and
about twenty paces away from the rear wall. Heaping the excavated dirt
up on the near side of the cut, he stepped back and surveyed his labor
with open satisfaction. “Roll yore fire barrel an' be dogged,” he
muttered. “Mebby she won't make a bully light for pot shots, though,” he
added, grinning at the execution he would do.

Taking up his tools, he went up to the place from where the gang would
roll the barrel, and made half a dozen mounds of twigs, being careful to
make them very flimsy. Then he covered them with earth and packed
them gently. The mounds looked very tempting from the view-point of a
marksman in search of earth-works, and appeared capable of stopping any
rifle ball that could be fired against them. Hopalong looked them over
critically and stepped back.

“I'd like to see th' look on th' face of th' son-of-a-gun that uses them
for cover--won't he be surprised” and he grinned gleefully as he pictured
his shots boring through them. Then he placed in the center of each a
chip or a pebble or something that he thought would show up well in the
firelight.

Returning to the cabin, he banked it up well with dirt and gravel,
and tossed a few shovelfuls up on the roof as a safety valve to his
exuberance. When he entered the door he had another idea, and fell to
work scooping out a shallow cellar, deep enough to shelter him when
lying at full length. Then he stuck his head out of the window and
grinned at the false covers with their prominent bull's-eyes.

“When that prize-winnin' gang of ossified idiots runs up agin' these
fortifications they shore will be disgusted. I'll bet four dollars an'
seven cents they'll think their medicine-man's no good. I hopes that
puff-eyed marshal will pick out that hump with th' chip on it,” and he
hugged himself in anticipation.

He then cut down a sapling and fastened it to the roof and on it he
tied his neckerchief, which fluttered valiantly and with defiance in
the light breeze. “I shore hopes they appreciates that,” he remarked
whimsically, as he went inside the hut and closed the door.

The early part of the evening passed in peace, and Hopalong, tired of
watching in vain, wished for action. Midnight came, and it was not until
half an hour before dawn that he was attacked. Then a noise sent him to
a loophole, where he fired two shots at skulking figures some distance
off. A fusillade of bullets replied; one of them ripped through the door
at a weak spot and drilled a hole in a can of the everlasting peaches.
Hopalong set the can in the frying pan and then flitted from loophole to
loophole, shooting quick and straight. Several curses told him that he
had not missed, and he scooped up a finger of peach juice. Shots thudded
into the walls of his fort in an unceasing stream, and, as it grew
lighter, several whizzed through the loopholes. He kept close to the
earth and waited for the rush, and when it came sent it back, minus two
of its members.

As he reloaded his Colts a bullet passed through his shirt sleeve and he
promptly nailed the marksman. He looked out of a crack in the rear wall
and saw the top of an adjoining hill crowned with spectators, all of
whom were armed. Some time later he repulsed another attack and heard a
faint cheer from his friends on the hill. Then he saw a barrel, blazing
from end to end, roll out from the place he had so carefully covered
with mounds. It gathered speed and bounded over the rough ground,
flashed between two rocks and leaped into the trench, where it crackled
and roared in vain.

“Now,” said Hopalong, blazing at the mounds as fast as he could fire his
rifle, “we'll just see what yu thinks of yore nice little covers.”

Yells of consternation and pain rang out in a swelling chorus, and legs
and arms jerked and flopped, one man, in his astonishment at the shot
that tore open his cheek, sitting up in plain sight of the marksman.
Roars of rage floated up from the main body of the besiegers, and the
discomfited remnant of barrel-rollers broke for real cover.

Then he stopped another rush from the front, made upon the supposition
that he was thinking only of the second detachment. A hearty cheer arose
from Tom Halloway and his friends, ensconced in their rocky position,
and it was taken up by those on the hill, who danced and yelled their
delight at the battle, to them more humorous than otherwise.

This recognition of his prowess from men of the caliber of his audience
made him feel good, and he grinned: “Gee, I'll bet Halloway an' his
friends is shore itchin' to get in this,” he murmured, firing at a head
that was shown for an instant. “Wonder what Red'll say when Jimmy tells
him--bet he'll plow dust like a cyclone,” and Hopalong laughed, picturing
to himself the satiation of Red's anger. “Old red-headed son-of-a-gun,”
 murmured the cowboy affectionately, “he shore can fight.”

As he squinted over the sights of his rifle his eye caught sight of a
moving body of men as they cantered over the flats about two miles away.
In his eagerness he forgot to shoot and carefully counted them. “Nine,”
 he grumbled. “Wonder what's th' matter?” Fearing that they were not
his friends. Then a second body numbering eight cantered into sight and
followed the first.

“Whoop! There's th' Red-head!” he shouted, dancing in his joy. “Now,”
 he shouted at the peach can joyously, “yu wait about thirty minutes an'
yu'll shore reckon Hades has busted loose!”

He grabbed up his Colts, which he kept loaded for repelling rushes, and
recklessly emptied them into the bushes and between the rocks and trees,
searching every likely place for a human target. Then he slipped his
rifle in a loophole and waited for good shots, having worked off the
dangerous pressure of his exuberance.

Soon he heard a yell from the direction of the “Miner's Rest,” and fell
to jamming cartridges into his revolvers so that he could sally out and
join in the fray by the side of Red.

The thunder of madly pounding hoofs rolled up the trail, and soon a
horse and rider shot around the corner and headed for the copse. Three
more raced close behind and then a bunch of six, followed by the rest,
spread out and searched for trouble.

Red, a Colt in each hand and hatless, stood up in his stirrups and
sent shot after shot into the fleeing mob, which he could not follow on
account of the nature of the ground. Buck wheeled and dashed down the
trail again with Red a close second, the others packed in a solid mass
and after them. At the first level stretch the newcomers swept down
and hit their enemies, going through them like a knife through cheese.
Hopalong danced up and down with rage when he could not find his horse,
and had to stand and yell, a spectator.

The fight drifted in among the buildings, where it became a series of
isolated duels, and soon Hopalong saw panic-stricken horses carrying
their riders out of the other side of the town. Then he went gunning for
the man who had rustled his horse. He was unsuccessful and returned to
his peaches.

Soon the riders came up, and when they saw Hopalong shove a peach into
his powder-grimed mouth they yelled their delight.

“Yu old maverick! Eatin' peaches like yu was afraid we'd git some!”
 shouted Red indignantly, leaping down and running up to his pal as
though to thrash him.

Hopalong grinned pleasantly and fired a peach against Red's eye. “I
was savin' that one for yu, Reddie,” he remarked, as he avoided Buck's
playful kick. “Yu fellers git to work an' dig up some wealth--I'm
hungry.” Then he turned to Buck: “Yore th' marshal of this town, an' any
son-of-a-gun what don't like it had better write. Oh, yes, here comes
Tom Halloway--'member him?”

Buck turned and faced the miner and his hand went out with a jerk.

“Well, I'll be locoed if I didn't punch with yu on th' Tin-Cup!” he
said.

“Yu shore did an' yu was purty devilish, but that there Cassidy of yourn
beats anything I ever seen.”

“He's a good kid,” replied Buck, glancing to where Red and Hopalong were
quarreling as to who had eaten the most pie in a contest held some years
before.

Johnny, nosing around, came upon the perforated and partially scattered
piles of earth and twigs, and vented his disgust of them by kicking them
to pi

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