The Coming of Cassidy—And the Others
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Title: The Coming of Cassidy—And the Others
Creator: Clarence Edward Mulford
Illustrator: Maynard Dixon
Release date: March 30, 2013 [eBook #42441]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/42441
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COMING OF CASSIDY—AND THE OTHERS ***
Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover]
[Illustration: Suddenly a rope ... yanked him from the saddle Page 342]
The
Coming of Cassidy--
And the Others
BY
CLARENCE E. MULFORD
Author of
Hopalong Cassidy, Bar-20 Days, etc.
Illustrations by
Maynard Dixon
CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1913
Copyright 1908 by The Red Book Corporation
Copyright 1911 by Field and Stream Publishing Co.
Copyright 1912 by The Pearson Publishing Co.
Copyright 1913 by The Pearson Publishing Co.
COPYRIGHT
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1913
Published, October, 1913
Copyrighted in Great Britain
PRESS OF
THE VAIL-BALLOU Co.
BINGHAMTON, N. Y.
PREFACE
It was on one of my annual visits to the ranch that Red, whose welcome
always seemed a little warmer than that of the others, finally took me
back to the beginning. My friendship with the outfit did not begin
until some years after the fight at Buckskin, and, while I was familiar
with that affair and with the history of the outfit from that time on, I
had never seemed to make much headway back of that encounter. And I
must confess that if I had depended upon the rest of the outfit for
enlightenment I should have learned very little of its earlier exploits.
A more secretive and bashful crowd, when it came to their own
achievements, would be hard to find. But Red, the big, smiling,
under-foreman, at last completely thawed and during the last few weeks
of my stay, told me story after story about the earlier days of the
ranch and the parts played by each member of the outfit. Names that I
had heard mentioned casually now meant something to me; the characters
stepped out of the obscurity of the past to act their parts again. To
my mind's eye came Jimmy Price, even more mischievous than Johnny
Nelson; "Butch" Lynch and Charley James, who erred in judgment; the
coming and going of Sammy Porter, and why "You-Bet" Somes never arrived;
and others who did their best, or worst, and went their way. The tales
will follow, as closely as possible, in chronological order. Between
some of them the interval is short; between others, long; the less
interesting stories that should fill those gaps may well be omitted.
It was in the '70s, when the buffalo were fast disappearing from the
state, and the hunters were beginning to turn to other ways of earning a
living, that Buck Peters stopped his wagon on the banks of Snake Creek
and built himself a sod dugout in the heart of a country forbidding and
full of perils. It was said that he was only the agent for an eastern
syndicate that, carried away by the prospects of the cattle industry,
bought a "ranch," which later was found to be entirely strange to
cattle. As a matter of fact there were no cows within three hundred
miles of it, and there never had been. Somehow the syndicate got in
touch with Buck and sent him out to look things over and make a report
to them. This he did, and in his report he stated that the "ranch" was
split in two parts by about forty square miles of public land, which he
recommended that he be allowed to buy according to his judgment. When
everything was settled the syndicate found that they owned the west, and
best, bank of an unfailing river and both banks of an unfailing creek
for a distance of about thirty miles. The strip was not very wide then,
but it did not need to be, for it cut off the back-lying range from
water and rendered it useless to anyone but his employers. Westward
there was no water to amount to anything for one hundred miles. When
this had been digested thoroughly by the syndicate it caused Buck's next
pay check to be twice the size of the first.
He managed to live through the winter, and the following spring a herd
of about two thousand or more poor cattle was delivered to him, and he
noticed at once that fully half of them were unbranded; but mavericks
were cows, and in those days it was not questionable to brand them.
Persuading two members of the drive outfit to work for him he settled
down to face the work and perils of ranching in a wild country. One of
these two men, George Travis, did not work long; the other was the man
who told me these tales. Red went back with the drive outfit, but in
Buck's wagon, to return in four weeks with it heaped full of
necessities, and to find that troubles already had begun. Buck's trust
was not misplaced. It was during Red's absence that Bill Cassidy, later
to be known by a more descriptive name, appeared upon the scene and
played his cards.
C. E. M.
CONTENTS
I The Coming of Cassidy
II The Weasel
III Jimmy Price
IV Jimmy Visits Sharpsville
V The Luck of Fools
VI Hopalong's Hop
VII "Dealing the Odd"
VIII The Norther
IX The Drive
X The Hold-Up
XI Sammy Finds a Friend
XII Sammy Knows the Game
XIII His Code
XIV Sammy Hunts a Job
XV When Johnny Sloped
ILLUSTRATIONS
Suddenly a rope ... yanked him from the saddle . . . Frontispiece
There was a sharp report
"It's Injuns, close after us"
Crawford's Colt tore loose from his fingers and dropped near the wheel
of the wagon
"Yo're a liar!" rang out the vibrant voice of the cowman
THE COMING OF CASSIDY
AND THE OTHERS
I
THE COMING OF CASSIDY
The trail boss shook his fist after the departing puncher and swore
softly. He hated to lose a man at this time and he had been a little
reckless in threatening to "fire" him; but in a gun-fighting outfit
there was no room for a hothead. "Cimarron" was boss of the outfit that
was driving a large herd of cattle to California, a feat that had been
accomplished before, but that no man cared to attempt the second time.
Had his soul been enriched by the gift of prophecy he would have turned
back. As it was he returned to the work ahead of him. "Aw, let him
go," he growled. "He 's wuss off 'n I am, an' he 'll find it out quick.
I never did see nobody what got crazy mad so quick as him."
"Bill" Cassidy, not yet of age, but a man in stature and strength, rode
north because it promised him civilization quicker than any other way
except the back trail, and he was tired of the coast range. He had
forgotten the trail-boss during the last three days of his solitary
journeying and the fact that he was in the center of an uninhabited
country nearly as large as a good-sized state gave him no concern; he
was equipped for two weeks, and fortified by youth's confidence.
All day long he rode, around mesas and through draws, detouring to avoid
canyons and bearing steadily northward with a certainty that was a
heritage. Gradually the great bulk of mesas swung off to the west, and
to the east the range grew steadily more level as it swept toward the
peaceful river lying in the distant valley like a carelessly flung rope
of silver. The forest vegetation, so luxuriant along the rivers and
draws a day or two before, was now rarely seen, while chaparrals and
stunted mesquite became more common.
He was more than twenty-five hundred feet above the ocean, on a great
plateau broken by mesas that stretched away for miles in a vast sea of
grass. There was just enough tang in the dry April air to make riding a
pleasure and he did not mind the dryness of the season. Twice that day
he detoured to ride around prairie-dog towns and the sight of buffalo
skeletons lying in groups was not rare. Alert and contemptuous gray
wolves gave him a passing glance, but the coyotes, slinking a little
farther off, watched him with more interest. Occasionally he had a shot
at antelope and once was successful.
Warned by the gathering dusk he was casting about for the most favorable
spot for his blanket and fire when a horseman swung into sight out of a
draw and reined in quickly. Bill's hand fell carelessly to his side
while he regarded the stranger, who spoke first, and with a restrained
welcoming gladness in his voice. "Howd'y, Stranger! You plumb
surprised me."
Bill's examination told him that the other was stocky, compactly built,
with a pleasing face and a "good eye." His age was about thirty and the
surface indications were very favorable. "Some surprised myself," he
replied. "Ridin' my way?"
"Far's th' house," smiled the other. "Better join us. Couple of
buffalo hunters dropped in awhile back."
"They 'll go a long way before they 'll find buffalo," Bill responded,
suspiciously. Glancing around he readily picked out the rectangular
blot in the valley, though it was no easy feat. "Huntin' or ranchin'?"
he inquired in tones devoid of curiosity.
"Ranchin'," smiled the other. "Hefty proposition, up here, I reckon.
Th' wolves 'll walk in under yore nose. But I ain't seen no Injuns."
"You will," was the calm reply. "You 'll see a couple, first; an' then
th' whole cussed tribe. _They_ ain't got no buffalo no more, neither."
Buck glanced at him sharply and thought of the hunters, but he nodded.
"Yes. But if that couple don't go back?" he asked, referring to the
Indians.
"Then you 'll save a little time."
"Well, let 'em come. I 'm here to stay, one way or th' other. But,
anyhow, I ain't got no border ruffians like they have over in th'
Panhandle. They 're worse 'n Injuns."
"Yes," agreed Bill. "Th' war ain't ended yet for some of them fellers.
Ex-guerrillas, lots of 'em."
When they reached the house the buffalo hunters were arguing about their
next day's ride and the elder, looking up, appealed to Bill. "Howd'y,
Stranger. Ain't come 'cross no buffaler signs, hev ye?"
Bill smiled. "Bones an' old chips. But th' gray wolves was headin'
southwest."
"What 'd I tell you?" triumphantly exclaimed the younger hunter.
"Well, they ain't much dif'rence, is they?" growled his companion.
Bill missed nothing the hunters said or did and during the silent meal
had a good chance to study their faces. When the pipes were going and
the supper wreck cleaned away, Buck leaned against the wall and looked
across the room at the latest arrival. "Don't want a job, do you?" he
asked.
Bill shook his head slowly, wondering why the hunters had frowned at a
job being offered on another man's ranch. "I 'm headed north. But I
'll give you a hand for a week if you need me," he offered.
Buck smiled. "Much obliged, friend; but it 'll leave me worse off than
before. My other puncher 'll be back in a few weeks with th' supplies,
but I need four men all year 'round. I got a thousand head to brand
yet."
The elder hunter looked up. "Drive 'em back to cow-country an' sell
'em, or locate there," he suggested.
Buck's glance was as sharp as his reply, for he could n't believe that
the hunter had so soon forgotten what he had been told regarding the
ownership of the cattle. "I don't own 'em. This range is bought an'
paid for. I won't lay down."
"I done forgot they ain't yourn," hastily replied the hunter, smiling to
himself. Stolen cattle cannot go back.
"If they was I 'd stay," crisply retorted Buck. "I ain't quittin'
nothin' I starts."
"How many 'll you have nex' spring?" grinned the younger hunter. He was
surprised by the sharpness of the response. "More 'n I 've got now, in
spite of h--!"
Bill nodded approval. He felt a sudden, warm liking for this rugged man
who would not quit in the face of such handicaps. He liked game men,
better if they were square, and he believed this foreman was as square
as he was game. "By th' Lord!" he ejaculated. "For a plugged peso I 'd
stay with you!"
Buck smiled warmly. "Would good money do? But don't you stay if you
oughtn't, son."
When the light was out Bill lay awake for a long time, his mind busy
with his evening's observations, and they pleased him so little that he
did not close his eyes until assured by the breathing of the hunters
that they were asleep. His Colt, which should have been hanging in its
holster on the wall where he had left it, lay unsheathed close to his
thigh and he awakened frequently during the night so keyed was he for
the slightest sound. Up first in the morning, he replaced the gun in
its scabbard before the others opened their eyes, and it was not until
the hunters had ridden out of sight into the southwest that he entirely
relaxed his vigilance. Saying good-by to the two cowmen was not without
regrets, but he shook hands heartily with them and swung decisively
northward.
He had been riding perhaps two hours, thinking about the little ranch
and the hunters, when he stopped suddenly on the very brink of a sheer
drop of two hundred feet. In his abstraction he had ridden up the
sloping southern face of the mesa without noticing it. "Bet there ain't
another like this for a hundred miles," he laughed, and then ceased
abruptly and started with unbelieving eyes at the mouth of a draw not
far away. A trotting line of gray wolves was emerging from it and
swinging toward the south-west ten abreast. He had never heard of such
a thing before and watched them in amazement. "Well, I'm--!" he
exclaimed, and his Colt flashed rapidly at the pack. Two or three
dropped, but the trotting line only swerved a little without pause or a
change of pace and soon was lost in another draw. "Why, they 're single
hunters," he muttered. "Huh! I won't never tell this. I can't hardly
believe it myself. How 'bout you, Ring-Bone?" he asked the horse.
Turning, he rode around a rugged pinnacle of rock and stopped again,
gazing steadily along the back trail. Far away in a valley two black
dots were crawling over a patch of sand and he knew them to be horsemen.
His face slowly reddened with anger at the espionage, for he had not
thought the cowmen could doubt his good will and honesty. Then suddenly
he swore and spurred forward to cover those miles as speedily as
possible. "Come on, ol' Hammer-Head!" he cried. "We're goin' back!"
The hunters had finally decided they would ride into the southwest and
had ridden off in that direction. But they had detoured and swung north
to see him pass and be sure he was not in their way. Now, satisfied
upon that point, they were going back to that herd of cattle, easily
turned from skinning buffalo to cattle, and on a large scale. To do
this they would have to kill two men and then, waiting for the absent
puncher to return with the wagon, kill him and load down the vehicle
with skins. "Like h--l they will!" he gritted. "Three or none, you
piruts. Come on, White-Eye! Don't sleep all th' time; an' don't light
often'r once every ten yards, you saddle-galled, barrel-bellied runt!"
Into hollows, out again; shooting down steep-banked draws and avoiding
cacti and chaparral with cat-like agility, the much-described little
pony butted the wind in front and left a low-lying cloud of dust
swirling behind as it whirred at top speed with choppy, tied-in stride
in a winding circle for the humble sod hut on Snake Creek. The rider
growled at the evident speed of the two men ahead, for he had not gained
upon them despite his efforts. "If I 'm too late to stop it, I 'll
clean th' slate, anyhow," he snapped. "Even if I has to ambush! Will
you run?" he demanded, and the wild-eyed little bundle of whalebone and
steel found a little more speed in its flashing legs.
The rider now began to accept what cover he could find and when he
neared the hut left the shelter of the last, low hill for that afforded
by a draw leading to within a hundred yards of the dugout's rear wall.
Dismounting, he ran lightly forward on foot, alert and with every sense
strained for a warning.
Reaching the wall he peered around the corner and stifled an
exclamation. Buck's puncher, a knife in his back, lay head down the
sloping path. Placing his ear to the wall he listened intently for some
moments and then suddenly caught sight of a shadow slowly creeping past
his toes. Quickly as he sprang aside he barely missed the flashing
knife and the bulk of the man behind it, whose hand, outflung to save
his balance, accidentally knocked the Colt from Bill's grasp and sent it
spinning twenty feet away.
Without a word they leaped together, fighting silently, both trying to
gain the gun in the hunter's holster and trying to keep the other from
it. Bill, forcing the fighting in hopes that his youth would stand a
hot pace better than the other's years, pushed his enemy back against
the low roof of the dugout; but as the hunter tripped over it and fell
backward, he pulled Bill with him. Fighting desperately they rolled
across the roof and dropped to the sloping earth at the doorway, so
tightly locked in each other's arms that the jar did not separate them.
The hunter, falling underneath, got the worst of the fall but kept on
fighting. Crashing into the door head first, they sent it swinging back
against the wall and followed it, bumping down the two steps still
locked together.
Bill possessed strength remarkable for his years and build and he was
hard as iron; but he had met a man who had the sinewy strength of the
plainsman, whose greater age was offset by greater weight and the youth
was constantly so close to defeat that a single false move would have
been fatal. But luck favored him, for as they surged around the room
they crashed into the heavy table and fell with it on top of them. The
hunter got its full weight and the gash in his forehead filled his eyes
with blood. By a desperate effort he pinned Bill's arm under his knee
and with his left hand secured a throat grip, but the under man wriggled
furiously and bridged so suddenly as to throw the hunter off him and
Bill's freed hand, crashing full into the other's stomach, flashed back
to release the weakened throat grip and jam the tensed fingers between
his teeth, holding them there with all the power of his jaws. The dazed
and gasping hunter, bending forward instinctively, felt his own throat
seized and was dragged underneath his furious opponent.
In his Berserker rage Bill had forgotten about the gun, his fury
sweeping everything from him but the primal desire to kill with his
hands, to rend and crush like an animal. He was brought to his senses
very sharply by the jarring, crashing roar of the six-shooter, the
powder blowing away part of his shirt and burning his side. Twisting
sideways he grasped the weapon with one hand, the wrist with the other
and bent the gun slowly back, forcing its muzzle farther and farther
from him. The hunter, at last managing to free his left hand from the
other's teeth, found it useless when he tried to release the younger
man's grip of the gun; and the Colt, roaring again, dropped from its
owner's hand as he relaxed.
The victor leaned against the wall, his breath coming in great, sobbing
gulps, his knees sagging and his head near bursting. He reeled across
the wrecked room, gulped down a drink of whisky from the bottle on the
shelf and, stumbling, groped his way to the outer air where he flung
himself down on the ground, dazed and dizzy. When he opened his eyes
the air seemed to be filled with flashes of fire and huge, black
fantastic blots that changed form with great swiftness and the hut
danced and shifted like a thing of life. Hot bands seemed to encircle
his throat and the throbbing in his temples was like blows of a hammer.
While he writhed and fought for breath a faint gunshot reached his ears
and found him apathetic. But the second, following closely upon the
first, seemed clearer and brought him to himself long enough to make him
arise and stumble to his horse, and claw his way into the saddle. The
animal, maddened by the steady thrust of the spurs, pitched viciously
and bolted; but the rider had learned his art in the sternest school in
the world, the "busting" corrals of the great Southwest, and he not only
stuck to the saddle, but guided the fighting animal through a barranca
almost choked with obstructions.
Stretched full length in a crevice near the top of a mesa lay the other
hunter, his rifle trained on a small bowlder several hundred yards down
and across the draw. His first shot had been an inexcusable blunder for
a marksman like himself and now he had a desperate man and a very
capable shot opposing him. If Buck could hold out until nightfall he
could slip away in the darkness and do some stalking on his own account.
For half an hour they had lain thus, neither daring to take sight. Buck
could not leave the shelter of the bowlder because the high ground
behind him offered no cover; but the hunter, tiring of the fruitless
wait, wriggled back into the crevice, arose and slipped away, intending
to crawl to the edge of the mesa further down and get in a shot from a
new angle before his enemy learned of the shift; and this shot would not
be a blunder. He had just lowered himself down a steep wall when the
noise of rolling pebbles caused him to look around, expecting to see his
friend. Bill was just turning the corner of the wall and their eyes met
at the same instant.
"'Nds up!" snapped the youth, his Colt glinting as it swung up. The
hunter, gripping the rifle firmly, looked into the angry eyes of the
other, and slowly obeyed. Bill, watching the rifle intently, forthwith
learned a lesson he never forgot: never to watch a gun, but the eyes of
the man who has it. The left hand of the hunter seemed to melt into
smoke, and Bill, firing at the same instant, blundered into a hit when
his surprise and carelessness should have cost him dearly. His bullet,
missing its intended mark by inches, struck the still moving Colt of the
other, knocking it into the air and numbing the hand that held it. A
searing pain in his shoulder told him of the closeness of the call and
set his lips into a thin, white line. The hunter, needing no words to
interpret the look in the youth's eyes, swiftly raised his hands,
holding the rifle high above his head, but neglected to take his finger
from the trigger.
Bill was not overlooking anything now and he noticed the crooked finger.
"Stick th' muzzle _up_, an' pull that trigger," he commanded, sharply.
"Now!" he grated. The report came crashing back from half a dozen
points as he nodded. "Drop it, an' turn 'round." As the other obeyed
he stepped cautiously forward, jammed his Colt into the hunter's back
and took possession of a skinning knife. A few moments later the
hunter, trussed securely by a forty-foot lariat, lay cursing at the foot
of the rock wall.
Bill, collecting the weapons, went off to cache them and then peered
over the mesa's edge to look into the draw. A leaden splotch appeared
on the rock almost under his nose and launched a crescendo scream into
the sky to whine into silence. He ducked and leaped back, grinning
foolishly as he realized Buck's error. Turning to approach the edge
from another point he felt his sombrero jerk at his head as another
bullet, screaming plaintively, followed the first. He dropped like a
shot, and commented caustically upon his paucity of brains as he gravely
examined the hole in his head gear. "Huh!" he grunted. "I had a fool's
luck three times in twenty minutes,--d--d if I 'm goin' to risk th' next
turn. _Three_ of 'em," he repeated. "I 'm a' Injun from now on. An'
that foreman shore can shoot!"
He wriggled to the edge and called out, careful not to let any of his
anatomy show above the sky-line. "Hey, Buck! I ain't no buffalo
hunter! This is Cassidy, who you wanted to punch for you. Savvy?" He
listened, and grinned at the eloquent silence. "You talk too rapid," he
laughed. Repeating his statements he listened again, with the same
success. "Now I wonder is he stalkin' _me_? Hey, _Buck_!" he shouted.
"Stick yore hands up an' foller 'em with yore face," said Buck's voice
from below. Bill raised his arms and slowly stood up. "Now what 'n
blazes do _you_ want?" demanded the foreman, belligerently.
"Nothin'. Just got them hunters, one of 'em alive. I reckoned mebby
you 'd sorta like to know it." He paused, cogitating. "Reckon we
better turn him loose when we gets back to th' hut," he suggested.
"I'll keep his guns," he added, grinning.
The foreman stuck his head out in sight. "Well, I'm d--d!" he exclaimed,
and sank weakly back against the bowlder. "Can you give me a hand?" he
muttered.
The words did not carry to the youth on the skyline, but he saw,
understood, and, slipping and bumping down the steep wall with more
speed than sense, dashed across the draw and up the other side. He
nodded sagely as he examined the wound and bound it carefully with the
sleeve of his own shirt. "'T ain't much--loss of blood, mostly. Yo 're
better off than Travis."
"Travis dead?" whispered Buck. "In th' back! Pore feller, pore feller;
didn't have no show. Tell me about it." At the end of the story he
nodded. "Yo 're all right, Cassidy; yo 're a white man. He 'd 'a'
stood a good chance of gettin' me, 'cept for you." A frown clouded his
face and he looked weakly about him as if for an answer to the question
that bothered him. "Now what am I goin' to do up here with all these
cows?" he muttered.
Bill rolled the wounded man a cigarette and lit it for him, after which
he fell to tossing pebbles at a rock further down the hill.
"I reckon it _will_ be sorta tough," he replied, slowly. "But I sorta
reckoned me an' you, an' that other feller, can make a big ranch out of
yore little one. Anyhow, I 'll bet we can have a mighty big time
tryin'. A mighty fine time. What you think?"
Buck smiled weakly and shoved out his hand with a visible effort. "We
can! Shake, Bill!" he said, contentedly.
II
THE WEASEL
The winter that followed the coming of Bill Cassidy to the Bar-20 ranch
was none too mild to suit the little outfit in the cabin on Snake Creek,
but it was not severe enough to cause complaint and they weathered it
without trouble to speak of. Down on the big ranges lying closer to the
Gulf the winter was so mild as to seem but a brief interruption of
summer. It was on this warm, southern range that Skinny Thompson, one
bright day of early spring, loped along the trail to Scoria, where he
hoped to find his friend, Lanky Smith, and where he determined to put an
end to certain rumors that had filtered down to him on the range and
filled his days with anger.
He was within sight of the little cow-town when he met Frank Lewis, but
recently returned from a cattle drive. Exchanging gossip of a harmless
nature, Skinny mildly scored his missing friend and complained about his
flea-like ability to get scarce. Lewis, laughing, told him that Lanky
had left town two days before bound north. Skinny gravely explained
that he always had to look after his missing friend, who was childish,
irresponsible and helpless when alone. Lewis laughed heartily as he
pictured the absent puncher, and he laughed harder as he pictured the
two together. Both lean as bean poles, Skinny stood six feet four,
while Lanky was fortunate if he topped five feet by many inches. Also
they were inseparable, which made Lewis ask a question. "But how does
it come you ain't with him?"
"Well, we was punchin' down south an' has a li'l run-in. When I rid in
that night I found he had flitted. What I want to know is what business
has he got, siftin' out like that an' makin' me chase after him?"
"I dunno," replied Lewis, amused. "You 're sort of gardjean to him,
hey?"
"Well, he gets sort of homesick if I ain't with him, anyhow," replied
Skinny, grinning broadly. "An' who 's goin' to look after him when I
ain't around?"
"That puts me up a tree," replied Lewis. "I shore can't guess. But you
two should ought to 'a' been stuck together, like them other twins was.
But if he 'd do a thing like that I 'd think you would n't waste no time
on him."
"Well, he _is_ too ornery an' downright cussed for any human bein' to
worry about very much, or 'sociate with steady an' reg'lar. Why, lookit
him gettin' sore on me, an' for nothin'! But I 'm so used to bein'
abused I get sort of lost when he ain't around."
"Well," smiled Lewis, "he's went up north to punch for Buck Peters on
his li'l ranch on Snake Creek. If you want to go after him, this is th'
way I told him to go," and he gave instructions hopelessly inadequate to
anyone not a plainsman. Skinny nodded, irritated by what he regarded as
the other's painful and unnecessary details and wheeled to ride on. He
had started for town when Lewis stopped him with a word.
"Hey," he called. Skinny drew rein and looked around.
"Better ride in cautious like," Lewis remarked, casually. "Somebody was
in town when I left--he shore was thirsty. He ain't drinkin' a drop,
which has riled him considerable. So-long."
"Huh!" grunted Skinny. "Much obliged. That's one of th' reasons I 'm
goin' to town," and he started forward again, tight-lipped and grim.
He rode slowly into Scoria, alert, watching windows, doors and corners,
and dismounted before Quiggs' saloon, which was the really "high-toned"
thirst parlor in the town. He noticed that the proprietor had put black
shades to the windows and door and then, glancing quickly around,
entered. He made straight for the partition in the rear of the
building, but the proprietor's voice checked him. "You needn't bother,
Skinny--there ain't nobody in there; an' I locked th' back door an hour
ago." He glanced around the room and added, with studied carelessness:
"You don't want to get any reckless today." He mopped the bar slowly
and coughed apologetically. "Don't get careless."
"I won't--it's me that's doin' th' hunting today," Skinny replied,
meaningly. "Him a-hunting for me yesterday, when he shore knowed I was
n't in town, when he knowed he could n't find me! I was getting good
an' tired of him, an' so when Walt rode over to see me last night an'
told me what th' coyote was doing yesterday, an' what he was yelling
around, I just natchurly had to straddle leather an' come in. I can't
let him put that onto me. Nobody can call me a card cheat an' a coward
an' a few other choice things like he did without seeing me, an' seeing
me quick. An' I shore hope he 's sober. Are both of 'em in town,
Larry?"
"No; only Dick. But he's making noise enough for two. He shore raised
th' devil yesterday."
"Well, I 'm goin' North trailin' Lanky, but before I leave I 'm shore
goin' to sweeten things around here. If I go away without getting him
he 'll say he scared me out, so I 'll have to do it when I come back,
anyhow. You see, it might just as well be today. But th' next time I
sit in a game with fellers that can't drop fifty dollars without saying
they was cheated I 'll be a blamed sight bigger fool than I am right
now. I should n't 'a' taken cards with 'em after what has passed. Why
didn't they say they was cheated, then an' there, an' not wait till
three days after I left town? All that's bothering me is Sam: if I get
his brother when he ain't around, an' then goes North, he 'll say I had
to jump th' town to get away from him. But I 'll stop that by giving
him his chance at me when I get back."
"Say, why don't you wait a day an' get 'em both before you go?" asked
Quigg hopefully.
"Can't: Lanky 's got two days' start on me an' I want to catch him soon
as I can."
"I can't get it through my head, nohow," Quigg remarked. "Everybody
knows you play square. I reckon they're hard losers."
Skinny laughed shortly: "Why, can't you see it? Last year I beat Dick
Bradley out with a woman over in Ballard. Then his fool brother tried
to cut in an' beat me out. Cards? H--l!" he snorted, walking towards
the door. "You an' everybody else knows--" he stopped suddenly and
jerked his gun loose as a shadow fell across the doorsill. Then he
laughed and slapped the newcomer on the shoulder: "Hullo, Ace, my boy!
You had a narrow squeak then. You want to make more noise when you turn
corners, unless somebody 's looking for you with a gun. How are you,
anyhow? An' how's yore dad? I 've been going over to see him regular,
right along, but I 've been so busy I kept putting it off."
"Dad's better, Skinny; an' I'm feeling too good to be true. What 'll
you have?"
"Reckon it's my treat; you wet last th' other time. Ain't that right,
Quigg? Shore, I knowed it was."
"All right, here's luck," Ace smiled. "Quigg, that's better stock; an'
would you look at th' style--real curtains!"
Quigg grinned. "Got to have 'em. I 'm on th' sunny side of th'
street."
"I hear yo 're goin' North," Ace remarked.
"Yes, I am; but how 'd you know about it?"
"Why, it ain't no secret, is it?" asked Ace in surprise. "If it is, you
must 'a' told a woman. I heard of it from th' crowd--everybody seems to
know about it. Yo 're going up alone, too, ain't you?"
"Well, no, it ain't no secret; an' I am going alone," slowly replied
Skinny. "Here, have another."
"All right--this is on me. Here's more luck."
"Where is th' crowd?"
"Keeping under cover for a while to give you plenty of elbow room," Ace
replied. "He's sober as a judge, Skinny, an' mad as a rattler. Swears
he 'll kill you on sight. An' his brother ain't with him; if he does
come in too soon I 'll see he don't make it two to one. Good luck, an'
so-long," he said quickly, shaking hands and walking towards the door.
He put one hand out first and waved it, slowly stepping to the street
and then walking rapidly out of sight.
Skinny looked after him and smiled. "Larry, there 's a blamed fine
youngster," he remarked, reflectively. "Well, he ought to be--he had
th' best mother God ever put breath into." He thought for a moment and
then went slowly towards the door. "I 've heard so much about Bradley's
gun-play that I 'm some curious. Reckon I 'll see if it's all true--"
and he had leaped through the doorway, gun in hand. There was no shot,
no sign of his enemy. A group of men lounged in the door of the "hash
house" farther down the street, all friends of his, and he nodded to
them. One of them turned quickly and looked down the intersecting
street, saying something that made his companions turn and look with
him. The man who had been standing quietly by the corner saloon had
disappeared. Skinny smiling knowingly, moved closer to Quigg's shack so
as to be better able to see around the indicated corner, and half drew
the Colt which he had just replaced in the holster. As he drew even
with the corner of the building he heard Quigg's warning shout and
dropped instantly, a bullet singing over him and into a window of a
near-by store. He rolled around the corner, scrambled to his feet and
dashed around the rear of the saloon and the corral behind it, crossed
the street in four bounds and began to work up behind the buildings on
his enemy's side of the street, cold with anger.
"Pot shooting, hey!" he gritted, savagely.
"Says I 'm a-scared to face him, an' then tries _that_. _There_, d--n
you!" His Colt exploded and a piece of wood sprang from the corner
board of Wright's store. "Missed!" he swore. "Anyhow, I 've notified
you, you coyote."
He sprang forward, turned the corner of the store and followed it to the
street. When he came to the street end of the wall he leaped past it,
his Colt preceding him. Finding no one to dispute with him he moved
cautiously towards the other corner and stopped. Giving a quick glance
around, he smiled suddenly, for the glass in Quigg's half-open door,
with the black curtain behind it, made a fair mirror. He could see the
reflection of Wright's corral and Ace leaning against it, ready to
handle the brother if he should appear as a belligerent; and he could
see along the other side of the store, where Dick Bradley, crouched, was
half-way to the street and coming nearer at each slow step.
Skinny, remembering the shot which he had so narrowly escaped, resolved
that he would n't take chances with a man who would pot-shoot. He
wheeled, slipped back along his side of the building, turned the rear
corner and then, spurting, sprang out beyond the other wall, crying:
"Here!"
Bradley, startled, fired under his arm as he leaped aside. Turning
while in the air, his half-raised Colt described a swift, short arc and
roared as he alighted. As the bullet sang past his enemy's ear he
staggered and fell,--and Skinny's smoking gun chocked into its holster.
"There, you coyote!" muttered the victor. "Yore brother is next if he
wants to take it up."
* * * * *
As night fell Skinny rode into a small grove and prepared to camp there.
Picketing his horse, he removed the saddle and dropped it where he would
sleep, for a saddle makes a fair pillow. He threw his blanket after it
and then started a quick, hot fire for his coffee-making. While
gathering fuel for it he came across a large log and determined to use
it for his night fire, and for that purpose carried it back to camp with
him. It was not long before he had reduced the provisions in his
saddle-bags and leaned back against a tree to enjoy a smoke. Suddenly he
knocked the ashes from his pipe and grew thoughtful, finally slipping it
into his pocket and getting up.
"That coyote's brother will know I went North an' all about it," he
muttered. "He knows I 've got to camp tonight an' he can foller a trail
as good as th' next man. An' he knows I shot his brother. I reckon,
mebby, he 'll be some surprised."
An hour later a blanket-covered figure lay with its carefully covered
feet to the fire, and its head, sheltered from the night air by a
sombrero, lay on the saddle. A rifle barrel projected above the saddle,
the dim flickering light of the green-wood fire and a stray beam or two
from the moon glinted from its rustless surface. The fire was badly
constructed, giving almost no light, while the leaves overhead shut out
most of the moonlight.
Thirty yards away, in another clearing, a horse moved about at the end
of a lariat and contentedly cropped the rich grass, enjoying a good
night's rest. An hour passed, another, and a third and fourth, and then
the horse's ears flicked forward as it turned its head to see what
approached.
A crouched figure moved stealthily forward to the edge of the clearing,
paused to read the brand on the animal's flank and then moved off
towards the fitful light of the smoking fire. Closer and closer it drew
until it made out the indistinct blanketed figure on the ground. A
glint from the rifle barrel caused it to shrink back deeper into the
shadows and raise the weapon it carried. For half a minute it stood thus
and then, holding back the trigger of the rifle so there would be no
warning clicks, drew the hammer to a full cock and let the trigger fall
into place, slowly moving forward all the while. A passing breeze
fanned the fire for an instant and threw the grotesque shadow of a stump
across the quiet figure in the clearing.
The skulker raised his rifle and waited until he had figured out the
exact mark and then a burst of fire and smoke leaped into the brush. He
bent low to look under the smoke cloud and saw that the figure had not
moved. Another flash split the night and then, assured beyond a doubt,
he moved forward quickly.
"First shot!" he exclaimed with satisfaction. "I reckons you won't do no
boastin' 'bout killin' Dick, d--n you!"
As he was about to drop to his knees to search the body he started and
sprang back, glancing fearfully around as he drew his Colt.
"Han's up!" came the command from the edge of the clearing as a man
stepped into sight. "I reckon--" Skinny leaped aside as the other's
gun roared out and fired from his hip; and Sam Bradley plunged across
the blanket-covered log and leaves.
"There," Skinny soliloquized, moving forward. "I knowed they was
coyotes, _both_ of 'em. Knowed it all th' time."
Two days north of Skinny on the bank of Little Wind River a fire was
burning itself out, while four men lay on the sand or squatted on their
heels and watched it contentedly. "Yes, I got plumb sick of that
country," Lanky Smith was saying, "an' when Buck sent for me to go up
an' help him out, I pulls up, an' here I am."
"I never heard of th' Bar-20," replied a little, wizened man, whose eyes
were so bright they seemed to be on fire. "Did n't know there was any
ranches in that country."
"Buck 's got th' only one," responded Lanky, packing his pipe. "He's
located on Snake Creek, an' he 's got four thousand head. Reckon there
ain't nobody within two hundred mile of him. Lewis said he 's got a
fine range an' all th' water he can use; but three men can't handle all
them cows in _that_ country, so I 'm goin' up."
The little man's eyes seldom left Lanky's face, and he seemed to be
studying the stranger very closely. When Lanky had ridden upon their
noon-day camp the little man had not lost a movement that the stranger
made and the other two, disappearing quietly, returned a little later
and nodded reassuringly to their leader.
The wizened leader glanced at one of his companions, but spoke to Lanky.
"George, here, said as how they finally got Butch Lynch. You did n't
hear nothin' about it, did you?"
"They was a rumor down on Mesquite range that Butch was got. I heard
his gang was wiped out. Well, it had to come sometime--he was carryin'
things with a purty high hand for a long time. But I 've done heard
that before; more 'n once, too. I reckon Butch is a li'l too slick to
get hisself killed."
"Ever see him?" asked George carelessly.
"Never; an' don't want to. If them fellers can't clean their own range
an' pertect their own cows, I ain't got no call to edge in."
"He 's only a couple of inches taller 'n Jim," observed the third man,
glancing at his leader, "an' about th' same build. But he 's h--l on
th' shoot. I saw him twice, but I was mindin' my own business."
Lanky nodded at the leader. "That 'd make him about as tall as me.
Size don't make no dif'rence no more--King Colt makes 'em look all
alike."
Jim tossed away his cigarette and arose, stretching and grunting. "I
shore ate too much," he complained. "Well, there's one thing about yore
friend's ranch: he ain't got no rustlers to fight, so he ain't as bad
off as he might be. I reckon he done named that crick hisself, did n't
he? I never heard tell of it."
"Yes; so Lewis says. He says _he 'd_ called it Split Mesa Crick, 'cause
it empties into Mesa River plumb acrost from a big mesa what's split in
two as clean as a knife could 'a' done it."
[Illustration: There was a sharp report]
"The Bar-20 expectin' you?" casually asked Jim as he picked up his
saddle.
"Shore; they done sent for me. Me an' Buck is old friends. He was up
in Montana ranchin' with a pardner, but Slippery Trendley kills his
pardner's wife an' drove th' feller loco. Buck an' him hunted Slippery
for two years an' finally drifted back south again. I dunno where
Frenchy is. If it wasn't for me I reckon Buck 'd still be on th'
warpath. You bet he 's expectin' me!" He turned and threw his saddle
on the evil-tempered horse he rode and, cinching deftly, slung himself
up by the stirrup. As he struck the saddle there was a sharp report and
he pitched off and sprawled grotesquely on the sand. The little man
peered through the smoke and slid his gun back into the holster. He
turned to his companions, who looked on idly and with but little
interest. "Yo 're d--d right Butch Lynch is too slick to get killed. I
ain't takin' no chances with nobody that rides over my trail these days.
An', boys, I got a great scheme! It comes to me like a flash when he 's
talkin'. Come on, pull out; an' don't open yore traps till I says so.
I want to figger this thing out to th' last card. George, shoot his
cayuse; an' not another sound."
"But that's a good cayuse; worth easy--"
"Shoot it!" shouted Jim, his eyes snapping. It was unnecessary to add
the alternative, for George and his companion had great respect for the
lightning-like, deadly-accurate gun hands. He started to draw, but was
too late. The crashing report seemed to come from the leader's holster,
so quick had been the draw, and the horse sank slowly down, but
unobserved. Two pairs of eyes asked a question of the little man and he
sneered in reply as he lowered the gun. "It might 'a' been you.
Hereafter do what I say. Now, go on ahead, an' keep quiet."
After riding along in silence for a little while the leader looked at
his companions and called one of them to him. "George, this job is too
big for the three of us; we can handle the ranch end, but not the drive.
You know where Longhorn an' his bunch are holdin' out on th' Tortilla?
All right; I 've got a proposition for 'em, an' you are goin' up with
it. It won't take you so long if you wake up an' don't loaf like you
have been. Now you listen close, an' don't forget a word": and the
little man shared the plan he had worked out, much to his companion's
delight. Having made the messenger repeat it, the little man waved him
off: "Get a-goin'; you bust some records or I 'll bust you, savvy?
Charley 'll wait for you at that Split Mesa that fool puncher was
a-talkin' about. An' don't you ride nowheres near it goin' up--keep to
th' east of it. So-long!"
He watched the departing horseman swing in and pass Charley and saw the
playful blow and counter. He smiled tolerantly as their words came back
to him, George's growing fainter and fainter and Charley's louder and
louder until they rang in his ears. The smile changed subtly and
cynicism touched his face and lingered for a moment. "Fine, big
bodies--nothing else," he muttered. "Big children, with children's
heads. A little courage, if steadied; but what a paucity of brains!
Good G--d, what a paucity of brains; what a lack of original thought!"
Of some localities it is said their inhabitants do not die, but dry up
and blow away; this, so far as appearances went, seemed true of the
horseman who loped along the north bank of Snake Creek, only he had not
arrived at the "blow away" period. No one would have guessed his age as
forty, for his leathery, wrinkled skin, thin, sun-bleached hair and
wizened body justified a guess of sixty. A shrewd observer looking him
over would find about the man a subtle air of potential destruction,
which might have been caused by the way he wore his guns. A second look
and the observer would turn away oppressed by a disquieting feeling that
evaded analysis by lurking annoyingly just beyond the horizon of
thought. But a man strong in intuition would not have turned away; he
would have backed off, alert and tense. Nearing a corral which loomed
up ahead, he pulled rein and went on at a walk, his brilliant eyes
searching the surroundings with a thoroughness that missed nothing.
Buck Peters was complaining as he loafed for a precious half hour in
front of the corral, but Red Connors and Bill Cassidy, his "outfit,"
discussed the low prices cattle were selling for, the over-stocked
southern ranges and the crash that would come to the more heavily
mortgaged ranches when the market broke. This was a golden opportunity
to stock the little ranch, and Buck was taking advantage of it. But
their foreman persisted in telling his troubles and finally, out of
politeness, they listened. The burden of the foreman's plaint was the
non-appearance of one Lanky Smith, an old friend. When the second herd
had been delivered several weeks before, Buck, failing to persuade one
of the drive outfit to remain, had asked the trail boss to send up
Lanky, and the trail boss had promised.
Red stretched and yawned. "Mebby he's lost th' way."
The foreman snorted. "He can foller a plain trail, can't he? An' if he
can ride past Split Mesa, he's a bigger fool than I ever heard of."
"Well, mebby he got drunk an--"
"He don't get that drunk." Astonishment killed whatever else he might
have said, for a stranger had ridden around the corral and sat smiling
at the surprise depicted on the faces of the three.
Buck and Red, too surprised to speak, smiled foolishly; Bill, also
wordless, went upon his toes and tensed himself for that speed which had
given to him hands never beaten on the draw. The stranger glanced at
him, but saw nothing more than the level gaze that searched his
squinting eyes for the soul back of them. The squint increased and he
made a mental note concerning Bill Cassidy, which Bill Cassidy already
had done regarding him.
"I'm called Tom Jayne," drawled the stranger. "I 'm lookin' for
Peters."
"Yes?" inquired Buck restlessly. "I 'm him."
"Lewis sent me up to punch for you."
"You plumb surprised us," replied Buck. "We don't see nobody up here."
"Reckon not," agreed Jayne smiling. "I ain't been pestered a hull lot
by th' inhabitants on my way up. I reckon there 's more _buffalo_ than
men in this country."
Buck nodded. "An' blamed few buffalo, too. But Lewis did n't say
nothin' about Lanky Smith, did he?"
"Yes; Smith, he goes up in th' Panhandle for to be a foreman. Lewis
missed him. Th' Panhandle must be purty nigh as crowded as this
country, I reckon," he smiled.
"Well," replied Buck, "anybody Lewis sends up is good enough for me. I
'm payin' forty a month. Some day I 'll pay more, if I 'm able to an'
it's earned."
Jayne nodded. "I 'm aimin' to be here when th' pay is raised; an' I 'll
earn it."
"Then shake han's with Red an' Bill, an' come with me," said Buck. He
led the way to the dugout, Bill and Red looking after him and the little
newcomer. Red shook his head. "I dunno," he soliloquized, his eyes on
the recruit's guns. They were worn low on the thighs, and the lower
ends of the holsters were securely tied to the trousers. They were low
enough to have the butts even with the swinging hands, so that no time
would have to be wasted in reaching for them; and the sheaths were tied
down, so they would not cling to the guns and come up with them on the
draw. Bill wore his guns the same way for the same reasons. Red
glanced at his friend. "He 's a queer li'l cuss, Bill," he suggested.
Receiving no reply, he grinned and tried again. "I said as how he 's a
queer li'l cuss." Bill stirred. "Huh?" he muttered. Red snorted.
"Why, I says he's a drunk Injun mendin' socks. What in blazes you
reckon I 'd say!"
"Oh, somethin' like that; but; you should 'a' said he's a--a weasel. A
cold-blooded, ferocious li'l rat that 'd kill for th' joy of it," and
Bill moved leisurely to rope his horse.
Red looked after him, cogitating deeply. "Cussed if I hadn't, too! An'
so he's a two-gun man, like Bill. Wears 'em plumb low an' tied.
Yessir, he's a shore 'nuff weasel, all right." He turned and watched
Bill riding away and he grinned as two pictures came to his mind. In
the first he saw a youth enveloped in swirling clouds of acrid smoke as
two Colts flashed and roared with a speed incredible; in the second
there was no smoke, only the flashing of hands and the cold glitter of
steel, so quick as to baffle the eye. And even now Bill practiced the
draw, which pleased the foreman; cartridges were hard to get and cost
money. Red roped his horse and threw on the saddle. As he swung off
toward his section of the range he shook his head and scowled.
The Weasel had the eastern section, the wildest part of the ranch. It
was cut and seared by arroyos, barrancas and draws; covered with
mesquite and chaparral and broken by hills and mesas. The cattle on it
were lost in the chaotic roughness and heavy vegetation and only showed
themselves when they straggled down to the river or the creek to drink.
A thousand head were supposed to be under his charge, but ten times that
number would have been but a little more noticeable. He quickly learned
ways of riding from one end of the section to the other without showing
himself to anyone who might be a hundred yards from any point of the
ride; he learned the best grazing portions and the safest trails from
them to the ford opposite Split Mesa.
He was very careful not to show any interest in Split Hill Canyon and
hardly even looked at it for the first week; then George returned from
his journey and reported favorably. He also, with Longhorn's
assistance, had picked out and learned a good drive route, and it was
decided then and there to start things moving in earnest.
There were two thousand unbranded cattle on the ranch, the entire second
drive herd; most of these were on the south section under Bill Cassidy,
and the remainder were along the river. The Weasel learned that most of
Bill's cows preferred the river to the creek and crossed his section to
get there. That few returned was due, perhaps, to their preference for
the eastern pasture. In a week the Weasel found the really good grazing
portions of his section feeding more cows than they could keep on
feeding; but suddenly the numbers fell to the pastures' capacity,
without adding a head to Bill's herd.
Then came a day when Red had been riding so near the Weasel's section
that he decided to go on down and meet him as he rode in for dinner.
When Red finally caught sight of him the Weasel was riding slowly toward
the bunkhouse, buried in thought. When his two men had returned from
their scouting trip and reported the best way to drive, his and their
work had begun in earnest. One small herd had been driven north and
turned over to friends not far away, who took charge of the herd for the
rest of the drive while the Weasel's companions returned to Split Hill.
Day after day he had noticed the diminishing number of cows on his
sections, which was ideally created by nature to hide such a deficit,
but from now on it would require all his cleverness and luck to hide the
losses and he would be so busy shifting cattle that the rustling would
have to ease up. One thing bothered him: Bill Cassidy was getting very
suspicious, and he was not altogether satisfied that it was due to
rivalry in gun-play. He was so deeply engrossed in this phase of the
situation that he did not hear Red approaching over the soft sand and
before Red could make his presence known something occurred that made
him keep silent.
The Weasel, jarred by his horse, which shied and reared with a vigor and
suddenness its rider believed entirely unwarranted under the
circumstances, grabbed the reins in his left hand and jerked viciously,
while his right, a blur of speed, drew and fired the heavy Colt with
such deadly accuracy that the offending rattler's head dropped under its
writhing, glistening coils, severed clean.
Red backed swiftly behind a chaparral and cogitated, shaking his head
slowly. "Funny how bashful these gun-artists are!" he muttered. "Now
has he been layin' for big bets, or was he--?" the words ceased, but the
thoughts ran on and brought a scowl to Red's face as he debated the
question.
* * * * *
The following day, a little before noon, two men stopped with sighs of
relief at the corral and looked around. The little man riding the horse
smiled as he glanced at his tall companion. "You won't have to hoof it
no more, Skinny," he said gladly. "It's been a' awful experience for
both of us, but you had th' worst end."
"Why, you stubborn li'l fool!" retorted Skinny. "I can walk back an' do
it all over again!" He helped his companion down, stripped off the
saddle and turned the animal loose with a resounding slap. "Huh!" he
grunted as it kicked up its heels. "You oughta feel frisky, after
loafin' for two weeks an' walkin' for another. Come on, Lanky," he
said, turning. "There ain't nobody home, so we 'll get a fire goin' an'
rustle chuck for all han's."
They entered the dugout and looked around, Lanky sitting down to rest.
His companion glanced at the mussed bunks and started a fire to get
dinner for six. "Mebby they don't ride in at noon," suggested the
convalescent. "Then we 'll eat it all," grinned the cook. "It's comin'
to us by this time."
The Weasel, riding toward the rear wall of the dugout, increased the
pace when he saw the smoke pouring out of the chimney, but as he neared
the hut he drew suddenly and listened, his expression of incredulity
followed by one of amazement.
A hearty laugh and some shouted words sent him spinning around and back
to the chaparral. As soon as he dared he swung north to the creek and
risked its quicksands to ride down its middle. Reaching the river he
still kept to the water until he had crossed the ford and scrambled up
the further bank to become lost in the windings of the canyon.
Very soon after the Weasel's departure Buck dismounted at the corral and
stopped to listen. "Strangers," he muttered. "Glad they got th' fire
goin', anyhow." Walking to the hut he entered and a yell met him at the
instant recognition.
"Hullo, Buck!"
"Lanky!" he cried, leaping forward.
"Easy!" cautioned the convalescent, evading the hand. "I 've been all
shot up an' I ain't right yet."
"That so! How 'd it happen?"
"Shake han's with Skinny Thompson, my fool nurse," laughed Lanky.
"I 'm a fool, all right, helpin' _him_," grinned Skinny, gripping the
hand. "But when I picks him up down in th' Li'l Wind River country I
was a' angel. Looked after him for two weeks down there, an' put in
another gettin' up here. Served him right, too, for runnin' away from
me."
"Little Wind River country!" exclaimed Buck. "Why, I thought you was a
foreman in th' Panhandle."
"Foreman nothin'," replied Lanky. "I was shot up by a li'l runt of a
rustler an' left to die two hundred mile from nowhere. I was n't
expectin' no gun-play."
"He's ridin' up here," explained Skinny. "Meets three fellers an' gets
friendly. They learns his business, an' drops him sudden when he's
mountin'. Butch Lynch did th' shootin'. Butch got his name butcherin
th' law. He could n't make a livin' at it. Then he got chased out of
New Mexico for bein' mixed up in a free-love sect, an' pulls for
Chicago. He reckoned he owned th' West, so he drifts down here again
an' turns rustler. I dunno why he plugs Lanky, less 'n he thinks Lanky
knows him an' might try to hand him over. I 'm honin' for to meet
Butch."
Buck looked from one to the other in amazement, suspicion raging in his
mind. "Why, I heard you went to th' Panhandle!" he ejaculated.
Skinny grinned: "A fine foreman he'd make, less 'n for a hawg ranch!"
"Who told you that?" demanded Lanky, with sudden interest.
"Th' feller Lewis sent up in yore place."
"What?" shouted both in one voice, and Lanky gave a terse description of
Butch Lynch. "That him?"
"That's him," answered Buck. "But he was alone. He 'll be in soon,
'long with Bill an' Red--which way did you come?" he demanded eagerly.
"Why, that was through his section--bet he saw you an' pulled out!"
Skinny reached for his rifle: "I'm goin' to see," he remarked.
"I 'm with you," replied Buck.
"Me, too," asserted Lanky, but he was pushed back.
"You stay here," ordered Buck. "He might ride in. An' you 've got to
send Bill an' Red after us."
Lanky growled, but obeyed, and trained his rifle on the door. But the
only man he saw was Red, whose exit was prompt when he had learned the
facts.
Down on the south section Bill, unaware of the trend of events, looked
over the little pasture that nestled between the hills and wondered
where the small herd was. Up to within the last few days he always had
found it here, loath to leave the heavy grass and the trickling spring,
and watched over by "Old Mosshead," a very pugnacious steer. He scowled
as he looked east and shook his head. "Bet they 're crowdin' on th'
Weasel's section, too. Reckon I 'll go over and look into it. He 'll
be passin' remarks about th' way I ride sign." But he reached the river
without being rewarded by the sight of many of the missing cows and he
became pugnaciously inquisitive. He had searched in vain for awhile
when he paused and glanced up the river, catching sight of a horseman
who was pushing across at the ford. "Now, what's th' Weasel doin' over
there?" he growled. "An' what's his hurry? I never did put no trust in
him an' I 'm going to see what's up."
Not far behind him a tall, lean man peered over the grass-fringed bank
of a draw and watched him cross the river and disappear over the further
bank. "Huh!" muttered Skinny, riding forward toward the river. "That
_might_ be one of Peters' punchers; but I 'll trail him to make shore."
Down the river Red watched Bill cross the stream and then saw a stranger
follow. "What th' h--l!" he growled, pushing on. "That's one of 'em
trailin' Bill!" and he, in turn, forded the river, hot on the trail of
the stranger.
Bill finally dismounted near the mesa, proceeded on foot to the top of
the nearest rise, and looked down into the canyon at a point where it
widened into a circular basin half a mile across. Dust was arising in
thin clouds as the missing cows, rounded up by three men, constantly
increased the rustlers' herd. To the northwest lay the mesa, where the
canyon narrowed to wind its tortuous way through; to the southeast lay
the narrow gateway, where the towering, perpendicular cliffs began to
melt into the sloping sides of hills and changed the canyon into a
swiftly widening valley. The sight sent the puncher running toward the
pass, for the herd had begun to move toward that outlet, urged by the
Weasel and his nervous companions.
Back in the hills Skinny was disgusted and called himself names. To
lose a man in less than a minute after trailing him for an hour was more
than his sensitive soul could stand without protest. Bill had
disappeared as completely as if he had taken wings and flown away. The
disgusted trailer, dropping to all-fours because of his great height,
went ahead, hoping to blunder upon the man he had lost.
Back of him was Red, whose grin was not so much caused by Skinny's
dilemma, which he had sensed instantly, as it was by the inartistic
spectacle Skinny's mode of locomotion presented to the man behind.
There was humor a-plenty in Red's make-up and the germ of mischief in
his soul was always alert and willing; his finger itched to pull the
trigger, and the grin spread as he pondered over the probable antics of
the man ahead if he should be suddenly grazed by a bullet from the rear.
"Bet he 'd go right up on his head an' kick," Red chuckled--and it took
all his will power to keep from experimenting. Then, suddenly, Skinny
disappeared, and Red's fretful nature clawed at his tropical vocabulary
with great success. It was only too true--Skinny had become absolutely
lost, and the angry Bar-20 puncher crawled furiously this way and that
without success, until Skinny gave him a hot clew that stung his face
with grit and pebbles. He backed, sneezing, around a rock and wrestled
with his dignity. Skinny, holed up not far from the canyon's rim, was
throwing a mental fit and calling himself outrageous names. "An' he's
been trailin' _me_! H--l of a fine fool I am; I 'm awful smart today, I
am! I done gave up my teethin' ring too soon, I did." He paused and
scratched his head reflectively. "Huh! _This_ is some populous region,
an' th' inhabitants have pe-culiar ways. Now I wonder who's trailin'
him? I 'm due to get cross-eyed if I try to stalk 'em both."
A bullet, fired from an unexpected direction, removed the skin from the
tip of Skinny's nose and sent a shock jarring clean through him. "Is
that him, th' other feller, or somebody else?" he fretfully pondered,
raising his hand to the crimson spot in the center of his face. He did
not rub it--he rubbed the air immediately in front of it, and was
careful to make no mistake in distance. The second bullet struck a rock
just outside the gully and caromed over his head with a scream of
baffled rage. He shrunk, lengthwise and sidewise, wishing he were not
so long; but he kept on wriggling, backward. "Not enough English," he
muttered. "Thank th' Lord he can't masse!"
The firing put a different aspect on things down in the basin. The
Weasel crowded the herd into the gap too suddenly and caused a bad jam,
while his companions, slipping away among the bowlders and thickets,
worked swiftly but cautiously up the cliff by taking advantage of the
crevices and seams that scored the wall. Climbing like goats, they
slipped over the top and began a game of hide and seek over the
bowlder-strewn, chaparral-covered plateau to cover the Weasel, who
worked, without cover of any kind, in the basin.
Red was deep in some fine calculations of angles when his sombrero slid
off his head and displayed a new hole, which ogled at him with Cyclopean
ferocity. He ducked, and shattered all existing records for the crawl,
stopping finally when he had covered twenty yards and collected many
thorns and bruises. He had worked close to the edge of the cliff and as
he turned to circle back of his enemy he chanced to glance over the rim,
swore angrily and fired. The Weasel, saving himself from being pinned
under his stricken horse, leaped for the shelter of the cover near the
foot of the basin's wall. Red was about to fire again when he swayed
and slipped down behind a bowlder. The rustler, twenty yards away,
began to maneuver for another shot when Skinny's rifle cracked viciously
and the cattle thief, staggering to the edge of the cliff, stumbled,
fought for his balance, and plunged down into the basin. His companion,
crawling swiftly toward Skinny's smoke, showed himself long enough for
Red to swing his rifle and shoot offhand. At that moment Skinny caught
sight of him and believed he understood the situation. "You Conners or
Cassidy?" he demanded over the sights. Red's answer made him leap
forward and in a few moments the wounded man, bandaged and supported by
his new friend, hobbled to the rim of the basin in time to see the last
act of the tragedy.
The gateway, now free of cattle, lay open and the Weasel dashed for it
in an attempt to gain the horses picketed on the other side. He had
seen George plunge off the cliff and knew that the game was up. As he
leaped from his cover Skinny's head showed over the rim of the cliff and
his bullet sang shrilly over the rustler's head. The second shot was
closer, but before Skinny could try again Red's warning cry made him
lower the rifle and stare at the gateway.
The Weasel saw it at the same time, slowed to a rapid walk, but kept on
for the pass, his eyes riveted malevolently on the youth who had
suddenly arisen from behind a bowlder and started to meet him.
"It's easy to get him now," growled Skinny, starting to raise the rifle,
a picture of Lanky's narrow escape coming to his mind.
"Bill's right in line," whispered Red, leaning forward tensely and
robbing his other senses to strengthen sight. "They 're th' best in th'
Southwest," he breathed.
Below them Bill and the Weasel calmly advanced, neither hurried nor
touching a gun. Sixty yards separated them--fifty--forty--thirty--"G--d
A'mighty!" whispered Skinny, his nails cutting into his calloused palms.
Red only quivered. Twenty-five--twenty. Then the Weasel slowed down,
crouching a little, and his swinging hands kept closer to his thighs.
Bill, though moving slowly, stood erect and did not change his pace.
Perspiration beaded the faces of the watchers on the cliff and they
almost stopped breathing. This was worse than they had expected--forty
yards would have been close enough to start shooting. "It's a pure case
of speed now," whispered Red, suddenly understanding. The promised
lesson was due--the lesson the Weasel had promised to give Bill on the
draw. Accuracy deliberately was being eliminated by that cold-blooded
advance. Fifteen yards--ten--eight--six--five--and a flurry of smoke.
There had been no movement to the eyes of the watchers--just smoke, and
the flat reports, that came to them like two beats of a snare drum's
roll. Then they saw Bill step back as the Weasel pitched forward. He
raised his eyes to meet them and nodded. "Come on, get th' cayuses. We
gotta round up th' herd afore it scatters," he shouted.
Red leaned against Skinny and laughed senselessly. "Ain't he a d--d
fool?"
Skinny stirred and nodded. "He shore is; but come on. I don't want no
argument with _him_."
III
JIMMY PRICE
On a range far to the north, Jimmy Price, a youth as time measures age,
followed the barranca's edge and whistled cheerfully. He had never
heard of the Bar-20, and would have showed no interest if he had heard
of it, so long as it lay so far away. He was abroad in search of
adventure and work, and while his finances were almost at ebb tide he
had youth, health, courage and that temperament that laughs at hard luck
and believes in miracles. The tide was so low it must turn soon and
work would be forthcoming when he needed it. Sitting in the saddle with
characteristic erectness he loped down a hill and glanced at the faint
trail that led into the hills to the west. Cogitating a moment he
followed it and soon saw a cow, and soon after others.
"I 'll round up th' ranch house, get a job for awhile an' then drift on
south again," he thought, and the whistle rang out with renewed
cheerfulness.
He noticed that the trail kept to the low ground, skirting even little
hills and showing marked preference for arroyos and draws with but
little regard, apparently, for direction or miles. He had just begun to
cross a small pasture between two hills when a sharp voice asked a
question: "Where you goin'?"
He wheeled and saw a bewhiskered horseman sitting quietly behind a
thicket. The stranger held a rifle at the ready and was examining him
critically. "Where you goin'?" repeated the stranger, ominously. "An'
what's yore business?"
Jimmy bridled at the other's impudent curiosity and the tones in which
it was voiced, and as he looked the stranger over a contemptuous smile
flickered about his thin lips. "Why, I 'm goin' west, an' I 'm lookin'
for th' sunset," he answered with an exasperating drawl. "Ain't seen
it, have you?"
The other's expression remained unchanged, as if he had not heard the
flippant and pugnacious answer. "Where you goin' an' what for?" he
demanded again.
Jimmy turned further around in the saddle and his eyes narrowed. "I 'm
goin' to mind my own business, because it's healthy," he retorted. "You
th' President, or only a king?" he demanded, sarcastically.
"I 'm boss of Tortilla range," came the even reply. "You answer my
question."
"Then you can gimme a job an' save me a lot of fool ridin'," smiled
Jimmy. "It 'll be some experience workin' for a sour dough as ornery as
you are. Fifty per', an' all th' rest of it. Where do I eat an' sleep?"
The stranger gazed steadily at the cool, impudent youngster, who
returned the look with an ironical smile. "Who sent you out here?" he
demanded with blunt directness.
"Nobody," smiled Jimmy. "Nobody sends me nowhere, never, 'less 'n I
want to go. Purty near time to eat, ain't it?"
"Come over here," commanded the Boss of Tortilla range.
"It's closer from you to me than from me to you."
"Yo 're some sassy, now ain't you? I 've got a notion to drop you an'
save somebody else th' job."
"He 'll be lucky if you do, 'cause when that gent drifts along I 'm
natchurally goin' to get there first. It's been tried already."
Anger glinted in the Boss's eyes, but slowly faded as a grim smile
fought its way into view. "I 've a mind to give you a job just for th'
great pleasure of bustin' yore spirit."
"If yo 're bettin' on that card you wants to have a copper handy,"
bantered Jimmy. "It's awful fatal when it's played to win."
"What's yore name, you cub?"
"Elijah--ain't I done prophesied? When do I start punchin' yore eight
cows, Boss?"
"Right now! I like yore infernal gall; an' there's a pleasant time
comin' when I starts again' that spirit."
"Then my name's Jimmy, which is enough for you to know. Which cow do I
punch first?" he grinned.
"You ride ahead along th' trail. I 'll show you where you eat," smiled
the Boss, riding toward him.
Jimmy's face took on an expression of innocence that was ludicrous.
"I allus let age go first," he slowly responded. "I might get lost if I
lead. I 'm plumb polite, I am."
The Boss looked searchingly at him and the smile faded. "What you mean
by that?"
"Just what I said. I 'm plumb polite, an' hereby provin' it. I allus
insist on bein' polite. Otherwise, gimme my month's pay an' I 'll
resign. But I 'm shore some puncher," he laughed.
"I observed yore politeness. I 'm surprised you even know th' term.
But are you shore you won't get lost if you foller me?" asked the Boss
with great sarcasm.
"Oh, that's a chance I gotta take," Jimmy replied as his new employer
drew up alongside. "Anyhow, yo 're better lookin' from behind."
"Jimmy, my lad," observed the Boss, sorrowfully shaking his head, "I
shore sympathize with th' shortness of yore sweet, young life. Somebody
's natchurally goin' to spread you all over some dismal landscape one of
these days."
"An' he 'll be a whole lot lucky if I ain't around when he tries it,"
grinned Jimmy. "I got a' awful temper when I 'm riled, an' I reckons
that would rile me up quite a lot."
The Boss laughed softly and pushed on ahead, Jimmy flushing a little
from shame of his suspicions. But a hundred yards behind him, riding
noiselessly on the sand and grass, was a man who had emerged from
another thicket when he saw the Boss go ahead; and he did not for one
instant remove his eyes from the new member of the outfit. Jimmy, due
to an uncanny instinct, soon realized it, though he did not look around.
"Huh! Reckon I 'm th' meat in this sandwich. Say, Boss, who's th' Injun
ridin' behind me?" he asked.
"That's Longhorn. Look out or he 'll gore you," replied the Boss.
"'That 'd be a bloody shame,' as th' Englishman said. Are all his
habits as pleasant an' sociable?"
"They 're mostly worse; he's a two-gun man."
"Now ain't that lovely! Wonder what he'd do if I scratch my laig
sudden?"
"Let me know ahead of time, so I can get out of th' way. If you do that
it 'll save me fifty dollars an' a lot of worry."
"Huh! I won't save it for you. But I wish I could get out my smokin'
what's in my hip pocket, without Longhorn gamblin' on th' move."
The next day Jimmy rode the west section harassed by many emotions. He
was weaponless, much to his chagrin and rage. He rode a horse that was
such a ludicrous excuse that it made escape out of the question, and
they even locked it in the corral at night. He was always under the
eyes of a man who believed him ignorant of the surveillance. He already
knew that three different brands of cattle "belonged" to the "ranch,"
and his meager experience was sufficient to acquaint him with a blotted
brand when the work had been carelessly done. The Boss was the foreman
and his outfit, so far as Jimmy knew, consisted of Brazo Charley and
Longhorn, both of whom worked nights. The smiling explanation of the
Boss, when Jimmy's guns had been locked up, he knew to be only part
truth. "Yo 're so plumb fighty we dass n't let you have 'em," the Boss
had said. "If we got to bust yore high-strung, unlovely spirit without
killin' you, you can't have no guns. An' th' corral gate is shore
padlocked, so keep th' cayuse I gave you."
Jimmy, enraged, sprang forward to grab at his gun, but Longhorn,
dexterously tripping him, leaned against the wall and grinned evilly as
the angry youth scrambled to his feet. "Easy, Kid," remarked the
gun-man, a Colt swinging carelessly in his hand. "You 'll get as you
give," he grunted. "Mind yore own affairs an' work, an' we 'll treat
you right. Otherwise--" the shrugging shoulders made further
explanations unnecessary.
Jimmy looked from one to the other and silently wheeled, gained the
decrepit horse and rode out to his allotted range, where he saturated
the air with impotent profanity. Chancing to look back he saw a steer
wheel and face the south; and at other times during the day he saw that
repeated by other cattle--nor was this the only signs of trailing.
Having nothing to do but ride and observe the cattle, which showed no
desire to stray beyond the range allotted to them, he observed very
thoroughly; and when he rode back to the bunkhouse that night he had
deciphered the original brand on his cows and also the foundation for
that worn by Brazo Charley's herd on the section next to him. "I dunno
where mine come from, but Charley's uster belong to th' C I, over near
Sagebrush basin. That's a good hundred miles from here, too. Just wait
till I get a gun! Trip me an' steal my guns, huh? If I had a good
cayuse I 'd have that C I bunch over here right quick! I reckon they 'd
like to see this herd."
When he reached the bunkhouse all traces of his anger had disappeared
and he ate hungrily during the silent meal.
When Longhorn and Brazo pushed away from the table Jimmy followed suit
and talked pleasantly of things common to cowmen, until the two picked
up their saddles and rifles and departed in the direction of the corral,
the Boss staying with Jimmy and effectually blocking the door. But he
could not block Jimmy's hearing so easily and when the faint sound of
hoofbeats rolled past the bunkhouse Jimmy knew that there were more than
two men doing the riding. He concluded the number to be five, and
perhaps six; but his face gave no indication of his mind's occupation.
"Play crib?" abruptly demanded the Boss, taking a well-worn deck of
cards from a shelf. Jimmy nodded and the game was soon going on.
"Seventeen," grunted the Boss, pegging slowly. "Pair of fools, they
are," he growled. "Both plumb stuck on one gal an' they go courtin'
together. She reminds _me_ of a slab of bacon, she 's that homely."
Jimmy laughed at the obvious lie. "Well, a gal's a gal out here," he
replied. "Twenty for a pair," he remarked. He wondered, as he pegged,
if it was necessary to take along an escort when one went courting on
the Tortilla. The idea of Brazo and Longhorn tolerating any rival or
any company when courting struck him as ludicrous. "An' which is goin'
to win out, do you reckon?"
"Longhorn--he 's bad; an' a better gun-man. Twenty-three for six. Got
th' other tray?" anxiously grinned the Boss.
"Nothin' but an eight--that's two for th' go. My crib?"
The Boss nodded. "Ugly as blazes," he mused. "_I_ would n't court her,
not even in th' dark--huh! Fifteen two an' a pair. That's bad goin',
very bad goin'," he sighed as he pegged.
"But you can't tell nothin' 'bout wimmen from their looks," remarked
Jimmy, with the grave assurance of a man whose experience in that line
covered years instead of weeks. "Now I knowed a right purty gal once.
She was plumb sweet an' tender an' clingin', she was. An' she had high
ideas, she did. She went an' told me she would n't have nothin' to do
with no man what wasn't honest, an' all that. But when a feller I
knowed rid in to her place one night she shore hid him under her bed for
three days an' nights. He had got real popular with a certain posse
because he was careless with a straight iron. Folks fairly yearned for
to get a good look at him. They rid up to her place and she lied so
sweet an' perfect they shore apologized for even botherin' her. Who 'd
'a' thought to look under _her_ bed, anyhow? Some day he 'll go back
an' natchurally run off with that li'l gal." He scanned his hand and
reached for the pegs. "Got eight here," he grunted.
The Boss regarded him closely. "She stood off a posse with her eyes an'
mouth, eh?"
"Didn't have to stand 'em off. They was plumb ashamed th' minute they
saw her blushes. An' they was plumb sorry for her bein' even a li'l
interested in a no-account brand-blotter like--him." He turned the crib
over and spread it out with a sort of disgust. "Come purty near bein'
somethin' in that crib," he growled.
"An' did you know that feller?" the Boss asked carelessly.
Jimmy started a little. "Why, yes; he was once a pal of mine. But he
got so he could blot a brand plumb clever. Us cow-punchers shore like
to gamble. We are plumb childish th' way we bust into trouble. I never
seen one yet that was worth anythin' that would n't take 'most any kind
of a fool chance just for th' devilment of it."
The Boss ruffled his cards reflectively. "Yes; we are a careless breed.
Sort of flighty an' reckless. Do you think that gal's still in love
with you? Wimmin' is fickle," he laughed.
"_She_ ain't," retorted Jimmy with spirit. "She 'll wait all right--for
him."
The Boss smiled cynically. "You can't hide it, Jimmy. Yo 're th' man
what got so popular with th' sheriff. Ain't you?"
Jimmy half arose, but the Boss waved him to be seated again. "Why, you
ain't got nothin' to fear out here," he assured him. "We sorta like
fellers that 'll take a chance. I reckon we all have took th' short end
one time or another. An' I got th' idea mebby yo 're worth more 'n fifty
a month. Take any chances for a hundred?"
Jimmy relaxed and grinned cheerfully. "I reckon I 'd do a whole lot for
a hundred real dollars every month."
"Yo 're on, fur 's I 'm concerned. I 'll have to speak to th' boys
about it, first. Well, I 'm goin' to turn in. You ride Brazo's an'
yore own range for th' next couple of days. Good night."
Jimmy arose and sauntered carelessly to the door, watched the Boss enter
his own house, and then sat down on the wash bench and gazed contentedly
across the moonlit range. "Gosh," he laughed as he went over his story
of the beautiful girl with the high ideals. "I 'm gettin' to be a
sumptuous liar, I am. It comes so easy I gotta look out or I'll get th'
habit. I'd do mor'n lie, too, to get my gun back, all right."
He stretched ecstatically and then sat up straight. The Boss was coming
toward him and something in his hand glittered in the soft moonlight as
it swung back and forth. "Forget somethin'?" called Jimmy.
"You better stop watchin' th' moonlight," laughed the Boss as he drew
near. "That's a bad sign--'specially while that gal's waitin' for you.
Here's yore gun an' belt--I reckoned mebby you might need it."
Jimmy chuckled as he took the weapon. "I ain't so shore 'bout needin'
it, but I was plumb lost without it. Kept feelin' for it all th' time
an' it was gettin' on my nerves." He weighed it critically and spun the
cylinder, carelessly feeling for the lead in the chambers as the
cylinder stopped. Every one was loaded and a thrill of fierce joy
surged over him. But he was suspicious--the offer was too quick and
transparent. Slipping on the belt he let the gun slide into the
blackened holster and grinned up at the Boss. "Much obliged. It feels
right, now." He drew the Colt again and emptied the cartridges into his
hand. "Them 's th' only pills as will cure troubles a doctor can't
touch," he observed, holding one up close to his face and shaking it at
the smiling Boss in the way of emphasis. His quick ear caught the sound
he strained to hear, the soft swish inside the shell. "Them 's Law in
this country," he soliloquized as he slid the tested shell in one
particular chamber and filled all the others. "Yessir," he remarked as
the cylinder slowly revolved until he had counted the right number of
clicks and knew that the tested shell was in the right place. "Yessir,
them's The Law." The soft moonlight suddenly kissed the leveled barrel
and showed the determination that marked the youthful face behind it.
"An' it shore works both ways, Boss," he said harshly. "Put up yore
paws!"
As the Boss leaped forward the hammer fell and caused a faint, cap-like
report. Then the stars streamed across Jimmy's vision and became
blotted out by an inky-black curtain that suddenly enveloped him. The
Boss picked up the gun and, tossing it on the bench, waited for the
prostrate youth to regain his senses.
Jimmy stirred and looked around, his eyes losing their look of vacancy
and slowly filling with murderous hatred as he saw the man above him and
remembered what had occurred. "Sand _sounds_ like powder, my youthful
friend," the Boss was saying, "but it don't _work_ like powder. I purty
near swallowed yore gal story; but I sorta reckoned mebby I better make
shore about you. Yo 're clever, Jimmy; so clever that I dass n't take
no chances with you. I 'll just tie you up till th' boys come back--we
both know what they 'll say. I 'd 'a' done it then only I like you; an'
I wish you had been in earnest about joinin' us. Now get up."
Jimmy arose slowly and cautiously and then moved like a flash, only to
look down the barrel of a Colt. His clenched hands fell to his side and
he bowed his head; but the Boss was too wary to be caught by any
pretenses of a broken spirit. "Turn 'round an' hol' up yore han's," he
ordered. "I 'll blow you apart if you even squirms."
Jimmy obeyed, seething with impotent fury, but the steady pressure of
the Colt on his back told him how useless it was to resist. Life was
good, even a few hours of it, for in those few hours perhaps a chance
would come to him. The rope that had hung on the wall passed over his
wrists and in a few moments he was helpless. "Now sit down," came the
order and the prisoner obeyed sullenly. The Boss went in the bunkhouse
and soon returned, picked up the captive and, carrying him to the bunk
prepared for him, dumped him in it, tied a few more knots and, closing
the door, securely propped it shut and strode toward his own quarters,
swearing savagely under his breath.
An hour later, while a string of horsemen rode along the crooked,
low-lying trail across the Tortilla, plain in the moonlight, a figure at
the bunkhouse turned the corner, slipped to the door and carefully
removed the props.
Waiting a moment it opened the door slowly and slipped into the black
interior, and chuckled at the sarcastic challenge from the bunk.
"Sneakin' back again, hey?" blazed Jimmy, trying in vain to bridge on
his head and heels and turn over to face the intruder. "Turn me loose
an' gimme a gun--I oughta have a chance!"
"All right," said a quiet, strange voice. "That's what I'm here for; but
don't talk so loud."
"Who 're you?"
"My name 's Cassidy. I 'm from th' Bar-20, what owns them cows you been
abusin'. Huh! he shore tied some knots! Wasn't takin' no more chances
with you, all right!"
"G'wan! He never did take none."
"So I 've observed. Get th' blood circulatin' an' I 'll give you some
war-medicine for that useless gun of yourn what ain't sand."
"Good for you! I'll sidle up agin' that shack an' fill him so full of
lead he won't know what hit him!"
"Well, every man does things in his own way; but I 've been thinkin' he
oughta have a chance. He shore gave you some. Take it all in all, he 's
been purty white to you, Kid. Longhorn 'd 'a' shot you quick tonight."
"Yes; an' I 'm goin' to get him, too!"
"Now you ain't got no gratitude," sighed Cassidy. "You want to hog it
all. I was figgerin' to clean out this place by myself, but now you cut
in an' want to freeze me out. But, Kid, mebby Longhorn won't come back
no more. My outfit's a-layin' for his li'l party. I sent 'em down word
to expect a call on our north section; an' I reckon they got a purty
good idea of th' way up here, in case they don't receive Longhorn an'
his friends as per schedule."
"How long you been up here?" asked Jimmy in surprise, pausing in his
operation of starting his blood to circulating.
"Long enough to know a lot about this layout. For instance, I know yo
're honest. That's why I cut you loose tonight. You see, my friends
might drop in here any minute an' if you was in bad company they might
make a mistake. They acts some hasty, at times. I 'm also offerin' you
a good job if you wants it. We need another man."
"I 'm yourn, all right. An' I reckon I will give th' Boss a chance.
He'll be more surprised, that way."
Cassidy nodded in the dark. "Yes, I reckon so; he 'll have time to
wonder a li'l. Now you tell me how yo 're goin' at this game."
But he didn't get a chance then, for his companion, listening intently,
whistled softly and received an answer. In another moment the room was
full of figures and the soft buzz of animated conversation held his
interest. "All right," said a deep voice. "We 'll keep on an' get that
herd started back at daylight. If Longhorn shows up you can handle him;
if you can't, there 's yore friend Jimmy," and the soft laugh warmed
Jimmy's heart. "Why, Buck," replied Jimmy's friend, "he 's spoke for
that job already." The foreman turned and paused as he stood in the
door. "Don't forget; you ain't to wait for us. Take Jimmy, if you
wants, an' head for Oleson's. I ain't shore that herd of hissn is good
enough for us. We 'll handle this li'l drive-herd easy. So long."
Red Connors stuck his head through a small window: "Hey, if Longhorn
shows up, give him my compliments. I shore bungled that shot."
"'Tain't th' first," chuckled Cassidy. But Buck cut short the arguments
and led the way to Jimmy's pasture.
At daylight the Boss rolled out of his bunk, started a fire and put on a
kettle of water to get hot. Buckling on his gun he opened the door and
started toward the bunkhouse, where everything appeared to be as he had
left it the night before.
"It's a cussed shame," he growled. "But I can't risk him bringin' a
posse out here. _What_ th' devil!" he shouted as he ducked. A bullet
sang over his head, high above him, and he glanced at the bunkhouse with
renewed interest.
Having notified the Boss of his intentions and of the change in the
situation, Jimmy walked around the corner of the house and sent one
dangerously close to strengthen the idea that sand was no longer sand.
But the Boss had surmised this instantly and was greatly shocked by such
miraculous happenings on his range. He nodded cheerfully at the nearing
youth and as cheerfully raised his gun. "An' he gave me a chance, too!
He could 'a' got me easy if he didn't warn me! Well, here goes, Kid,"
he muttered, firing.
Jimmy promptly replied and scored a hit. It was not much of a hit, but
it carried reflection in its sting. The Boss's heart hardened as he
flinched instinctively and he sent forth his shots with cool
deliberation. Jimmy swayed and stopped, which sent the Boss forward on
the jump. But the youth was only further proving his cleverness against
a man whom he could not beat at so long a range. As the Boss stopped
again to get the work over with, a flash of smoke spurted from Jimmy's
hand and the rustler spun half way around, stumbled and fell. Jimmy
paused in indecision, a little suspicious of the fall, but a noise
behind him made him wheel around to look.
A horseman, having topped the little hill just behind the bunkhouse, was
racing down the slope as fast as his worn-out horse could carry him, and
in his upraised hand a Colt glittered as it swung down to become lost in
a spurt of smoke. Longhorn, returning to warn his chief, felt savage
elation at this opportunity to unload quite a cargo of accumulated
grouches of various kinds and sizes, which collection he had picked up
from the Bar-20 northward in a running fight of twenty miles. Only a
lucky cross trail, that had led him off at a tangent and somehow escaped
the eyes of his pursuers, had saved him from the fate of his companions.
Jimmy swung his gun on the newcomer, but it only clicked, and the vexed
youth darted and dodged and ducked with a speed and agility very
creditable as he jammed cartridges into the empty chambers. Jimmy's
interest in the new conditions made him forget that he had a gun and he
stared in rapt and delighted anticipation at the cloud of dust that
swirled suddenly from behind the corral and raced toward the disgruntled
Mr. Longhorn, shouting Red's message as it came.
Mr. Cassidy sat jauntily erect and guided his fresh, gingery mount by
the pressure of cunning knees. The brim of his big sombrero, pinned
back against the crown by the pressure of the wind, revealed the
determination and optimism that struggled to show itself around his
firmly set lips; his neckerchief flapped and cracked behind his head and
the hairs of his snow-white goatskin chaps rippled like a thing of life
and caused Jimmy, even in his fascinated interest, to covet them.
But Longhorn's soul held no reverence for goatskin and he cursed harder
when Red's compliments struck his ear about the time one of Cassidy's
struck his shoulder. He was firing hastily against a man who shot as
though the devil had been his teacher. The man from the Bar-20 used two
guns and they roared like the roll of a drum and flashed through the
heavy, low-lying cloud of swirling smoke like the darting tongue of an
angry snake.
Longhorn, enveloped in the acrid smoke of his own gun, which wrapped him
like a gaseous shroud, knew that his end had come. He was being shot to
pieces by a two-gun man, the like of whose skill he had never before
seen or heard of. As the last note of the short, five second, cracking
tattoo died away Mr. Cassidy slipped his empty guns in their holsters
and turned his pony's head toward the fascinated spectator, whose mouth
offered easy entry to smoke and dust. As Cassidy glanced carelessly
back at the late rustler Jimmy shut his mouth, gulped, opened it to
speak, shut it again and cleared his dry throat. Looking from Cassidy
to Longhorn and back again, he opened his mouth once more.
"You--you--what'd'ju pay for them chaps?" he blurted, idiotically.
IV
JIMMY VISITS SHARPSVILLE
Bill Cassidy rode slowly into Sharpsville and dismounted in front of
Carter's Emporium, nodding carelessly to the loungers hugging the shade
of the store. "Howd'y," he said. "Seen anything of Jimmy Price--a kid,
but about my height, with brown hair and a devilish disposition?"
Carter stretched and yawned, a signal for a salvo of yawns. "Nope,
thank God. You need n't describe nothin' about that Price cub to none
of us. _We_ know him. He spent three days here about a year ago, an'
th' town 's been sorta restin' up ever since. You don't mean for to
tell us he 's comin' here again!" he exclaimed, sitting up with a jerk.
Bill laughed at the expression. "As long as you yearn for him so
powerful hard, why I gotta tell you he 's on his way, anyhow. I had to
go east for a day's ride an' he headed this way. He 's to meet me here."
Carter turned and looked at the others blankly. Old Dad Johnson
nervously stroked his chin. "Well, then he 'll git here, all right," he
prophesied pessimistically. "He usually gets where he starts for; an' I
'm plumb glad I 'm goin' on to-morrow."
"Ha, ha!" laughed George Bruce. "So 'm I goin' on, by Scott!"
Grunts and envious looks came from the group and Carter squirmed
uneasily. "That's just like you fellers, runnin' away an' leavin' me to
face it. An' it was you fellers what played most of th' tricks on him
last time he was here. Huh! now I gotta pay for 'em," he growled.
Bill glanced over the gloomy circle and laughed heartily. Two faces out
of seven were bright, Dad's particularly so. "Well, he seems to be
quite a favorite around here," he grinned.
Carter snorted. "Huh! Seems to be nothin'."
"He ain't exactly a favorite," muttered Dawson. "He 's a--a--an event;
that's what he is!"
Carter nodded. "Yep; that's what he is, 'though you just can't help
likin' th' cub, he 's that cheerful in his devilment."
Charley Logan stretched and yawned. "Didn't hear nothin' about no
Injuns, did you? A feller rid through here yesterday an' said they was
out again."
Bill nodded. "Yes; I did. An' there 's a lot of rumors goin' around.
They 've been over in th' Crazy Butte country an' I heard they raided
through th' Little Mountain Valley last week. Anyhow, th' Seventh is out
after 'em, in four sections."
"Th' Seventh is _a_ regiment," asserted George Bruce. "Leastawise it
was when I was in it. It is th' best in th' Service."
Dad snorted. "Listen to him! It was when he was in it! Lordy, Lordy,
Lordy!" he chuckled.
"There hain't no cavalry slick enough to ketch Apaches," declared Hank,
dogmatically. "Troops has too many fixin's an' sech. You gotta travel
light an' live without eatin' an' drinkin' to ketch them Injuns; an'
then you never hardly sometimes see 'em, at that."
"Lemme tell you, Mosshead, th' Seventh can lick all th' Injuns ever
spawned!" asserted Bruce with heat. "It wiped out Black Kettle's camp,
in th' dead of winter, too!"
"That was Custer as did that," snorted Carter.
"Well, he was leadin' th' Seventh, same as he is now!"
Charley Logan shook his head. "We are talking about ketchin' 'em, not
fightin' 'em. An' no cavalry in th' hull country can ketch 'Paches in
_this_ country--it's too rough. 'Paches are only scared of punchers."
"Shore," asserted Carter. "Apaches laugh at troops, less 'n it's a
pitched battle, when they don't. Cavalry chases 'em so fur an' no
farther; punchers chase 'em inter h--l, out of it an' back again."
"They shore is 'lusive," cogitated Lefty Dawson, carefully deluging a
fly ten feet away and shifting his cud for another shot. "An' I, for
one, admits I ain't hankerin' for to chase 'em close."
"Wish we could get that cub Jimmy to chase some," exclaimed Carter.
"Afore he gits here," he explained, thoughtfully.
"Oh, he 's all right, Carter," spoke up Lefty. "We was all of us young
and playful onct."
"But we all war n't he-devils workin' day an' night tryin' to make our
betters miserable!"
"Oh, he 's a good kid," remarked Dad. "I sorta hates to miss him.
Anyhow, we got th' best of him, last time."
Bill finished rolling a cigarette, lit it and slowly addressed them.
"Well, all I got to say is that he suits me right plumb down to th'
ground. Now, just lemme tell you somethin' about Jimmy," and he gave
them the story of Jimmy's part in the happenings on Tortilla Range, to
the great delight of his audience.
"By Scott, it's just like him!" chuckled George Bruce.
"That's shore Jimmy, all right," laughed Lefty.
"What did _I_ tell you?" beamed Dad. "He 's a heller, he is. He 's all
right!"
"Then why don't you stay an' see him?" demanded Carter.
"I gotta go on, or I would. Yessir, I would!"
"Reckon them Injuns won't git so fur north as here," suggested Carter
hopefully, and harking back to the subject which lay heaviest on his
mind. "They 've only been here twict in ten years."
"Which was twice too often," asserted Lefty.
"Th' last time they was here," remarked Dad, reminiscently, "they didn't
stop long; though where they went to I dunno. We gave 'em more 'n they
could handle. That was th' time I just bought that new Sharps rifle,
an' what I done with that gun was turrible." He paused to gather the
facts in the right order before he told the story, and when he looked
around again he flushed and swore. The audience had silently faded away
to escape the moth-eaten story they knew by heart. The fact that Dad
usually improved it and his part in it, each time he told it, did not
lure them. "Cussed ingrates!" he swore, turning to Bill. "They 're
plumb jealous!"
"They act like it, anyhow," agreed Bill soberly. "I 'd like to hear it,
but I 'm too thirsty. Come in an' have one with me?" The story was
indefinitely postponed.
An accordion wheezed down the street and a mouth-organ tried desperately
to join in from the saloon next door, but, owing to a great difference
in memory, did not harmonize. A roar of laughter from Dawson's, and the
loud clink of glasses told where Dad's would-have-been audience then
was. Carter walked around his counter and seated himself in his
favorite place against the door jamb. Bill, having eluded Dad, sat on a
keg of edibles and smoked in silence and content, occasionally slapping
at the flies which buzzed persistently around his head. Knocking the
ashes from the cigarette he leaned back lazily and looked at Carter.
"Wonder where he is?" he muttered.
"Huh?" grunted the proprietor, glancing around. "Oh, you worryin' about
that yearlin'? Well, you needn't! Nothin' never sidetracks Jimmy."
A fusillade of shots made Bill stand up, and Carter leaped to his feet
and dashed toward the counter. But he paused and looked around
foolishly. "That's his yell," he explained. "Didn't I tell you? He's
arrove, same as usual."
The drumming of hoofs came rapidly nearer and heads popped out of
windows and doors, each head flanked by a rifle barrel. Above a
swirling cloud of dust glinted a spurting Colt and thrust through the
smudge was a hand waving a strange collection of articles.
"Hullo, Kid!" shouted Dawson. "What you got? See any Injuns?"
"It's a G-string an' a medicine-bag, by all that's holy!" cried Dad from
the harness shop. "Where 'd you git 'em, Jimmy?"
Jimmy drew rein and slid to a stand, pricking his nettlesome "Calico"
until it pranced to suit him. Waving the Apache breech-cloth, the
medicine-bag and a stocking-shaped moccasin in one hand, he proudly held
up an old, dirty, battered Winchester repeater in the other and whooped
a war-cry.
"Blame my hide!" shouted Dad, running out into the street. "It is a
G-string! He 's gone an' got one of 'em! He 's gone an' got a 'Pache!
Good boy, Kid! An' how 'd you do it?"
Carter plodded through the dust with Bill close behind. "_Where'd_ you
do it?" demanded the proprietor eagerly. To Carter location meant more
than method. He was plainly nervous. When he reached the crowd he, in
turn, examined the trophies. They were genuine, and on the G-string was
a splotch of crimson, muddy with dust.
"What's in the war-bag, Kid?" demanded Lefty, preparing to see for
himself. Jimmy snatched it from his hands. "You never mind what's in
it, Freckle-face!" he snapped. "That's my bag, _now_. Want to spoil my
luck?"
"How'd you do it?" demanded Dad breathlessly.
"_Where_ 'd you do it?" snapped Carter. He glanced hurriedly around the
horizon and repeated the question with vehemence. "Where 'd you get
him?"
"In th' groin, first. Then through th'--"
"I don't mean where, I mean _where_--near here?" interrupted Carter.
"Oh, fifteen mile east," answered Jimmy. "He was crawlin' down on a
bunch of cattle. He saw me just as I saw him. But he missed an' I did
n't," he gloated proudly. "I met a Pawnee scout just afterward an' he
near got shot before he signaled. He says hell's a-poppin'. Th'
'Paches are raidin' all over th' country, down--"
"I knowed it!" shouted Carter. "Yessir, I knowed it! I felt it all
along! Where you finds one you finds a bunch!"
"We'll give 'em blazes, like th' last time!" cried Dad, hurrying away to
the harness shop where he had left his rifle.
"I 've been needin' some excitement for a long time," laughed Dawson.
"I shore hope they come."
Carter paused long enough to retort over his shoulder: "An' I hopes you
drop dead! You never did have no sense! Not nohow!"
Bill smiled at the sudden awakening and watched the scrambling for
weapons. "Why, there 's enough men here to wipe out a tribe. I reckon
we 'll stay an' see th' fun. Anyhow, it 'll be a whole lot safer here
than fightin' by ourselves out in th' open somewhere. What you say?"
"You could n't drag me away from this town right now with a cayuse,"
Jimmy replied, gravely hanging the medicine-bag around his neck and then
stuffing the gory G-string in the folds of the slicker he carried
strapped behind the cantle of the saddle. "We 'll see it out right
here. But I do wish that 'Pache owned a better gun than this thing.
It's most fallin' apart an' ain't worth nothin'."
Bill took it and examined the rifling and the breech-block. He laughed
as he handed it back. "You oughta be glad it was n't a better gun, Kid.
I don't reckon he could put two in the same place at two hundred paces
with this thing. I ain't even anxious to shoot it off on a bet."
Jimmy gasped suddenly and grinned until the safety of his ears was
threatened. "Would you look at Carter?" he chuckled, pointing. Bill
turned and saw the proprietor of Carter's Emporium carrying water into
his store, and with a speed that would lead one to infer that he was
doing it on a wager. Emerging again he saw the punchers looking at him
and, dropping the buckets, he wiped his face on his sleeve and shook his
head. "I 'm fillin' everything," he called. "I reckon we better stand
'em off from my store--th' walls are thicker."
Bill smiled at the excuse and looked down the street at the adobe
buildings. "What about th' 'dobes, Carter?" he asked. The walls of
some of them were more than two feet thick.
Carter scowled, scratched his head and made a gesture of impatience.
"They ain't big enough to hold us all," he replied, with triumph. "This
here store is th' best place. An', besides, it's all stocked with water
an' grub, an' everything."
Jimmy nodded. "Yo 're right, Carter; it's th' best place." To Bill he
said in an aside, "He 's plumb anxious to protect that shack, now ain't
he?"
Lefty Dawson came sauntering up. "Wonder if Carter 'll let us hold out
in his store?"
"He 'll pay you to," laughed Bill.
"It's loop-holed. Been so since th' last raid," explained Lefty. "An'
it's chock full of grub," he grinned.
They heard Dad's voice around the corner. "Just like last time," he was
saying. "We oughta put four men in Dick's 'dobe acrost th' street.
Then we'd have a strategy position. You see--oh, hullo," he said as he
rounded the corner ahead of George Bruce. "Who 's goin' on picket
duty?" he demanded.
Under the blazing sun a yellow dog wandered aimlessly down the deserted
street, his main interest in life centered on his skin, which he
frequently sat down to chew. During the brief respites he lounged in
the doors of deserted buildings, frequently exploring the quiet
interiors for food. Emerging from the "hotel" he looked across the
street at the Emporium and barked tentatively at the man sitting on its
flat roof. Wriggling apologetically, he slowly gained the middle of the
street and then sat down to investigate a sharp attack. A can sailed
out of the open door and a flurry of yellow streaked around the corner
of the "hotel" and vanished.
In the Emporium grave men played poker for nails, Bill Cassidy having
corralled all the available cash long before this, and conversed in low
tones. The walls, reinforced breast high by boxes, barrels and bags,
were divided into regular intervals by the open loopholes, each opening
further indicated by a leaning rifle or two and generous piles of
cartridges. Two tubs and half a dozen buckets filled with water stood
in the center of the room, carefully covered over with boards and
wrapping paper. Clouds of tobacco smoke lay in filmy stratums in the
heated air and drifted up the resin-streaked sides of the building. The
shimmering, gray sand stretched away in a glare of sunlight and seemed
to writhe under the heated air, while droning flies flitted lazily
through the windows and held caucuses on the sugar barrel. A slight,
grating sound overhead caused several of the more irritable or energetic
men to glance up lazily, grateful they were not in Hank's place. It was
hot enough under the roof, and they stretched ecstatically as they
thought of Hank. Three days' vigil and anxiety had become trying even
to the most stolid.
John Carter fretfully damned solitaire and pushed the cards away to pick
up pencil and paper and figure thoughtfully. This seemed to furnish him
with even less amusement, for he scowled and turned to watch the poker
game. "Huh," he sniffed, "playin' poker for nails! An' you don't even
own th' nails," he grinned facetiously, and glanced around to see if his
point was taken. He suddenly stiffened when he noticed the man who sat
on his counter and labored patiently and zealously with a pocket knife.
"Hey, you!" he exclaimed excitedly, his wrath quickly aroused. "Ain't
you never had no bringin' up? If yo 're so plumb sot on whittlin', you
tackle that sugar barrel!"
Jimmy looked the barrel over critically and then regarded the peeved
proprietor, shaking his head sorrowfully. "This here is a better medjum
for the ex-position of my art," he replied gravely. "An' as for bringin'
up, lemme observe to these gents here assembled that you ain't never had
no artistic trainin'. Yore skimpy soul is dwarfed an' narrowed by false
weights and dented measures. You can look a sunset in th' face an' not
see it for countin' yore profits." Carter glanced instinctively at the
figures as Jimmy continued. "An' you can't see no beauty in a daisy's
grace--which last is from a book. I 'm here carvin' th' very image of
my cayuse an' givin' you a work of art, free an' gratis. I 'm timid an'
sensitive, I am; an' I 'll feel hurt if--"
"Stop that noise," snorted a man in the corner, turning over to try
again. "Sensitive an' timid? Yes; as a mule! Shut up an' lemme get a
little sleep."
"A-men," sighed a poker-player. "An' let him sleep--he 's a cussed
nuisance when he 's awake."
"Two mules," amended the dealer. "Which is worse than one," he added
thoughtfully.
"We oughta put four men in that 'dobe--" began Dad persistently.
"An' will you shut up about that 'dobe an' yore four men?" snapped
Lefty. "Can't you say nothin' less 'n it's about that mud hut?"
Jimmy smiled maddeningly at the irritated crowd. "As I was sayin'
before you all interrupted me, I 'll feel hurt--"
"You _will_; an' quick!" snapped Carter. "You quit gougin' that
counter!"
Bill craned his neck to examine the carving, and forthwith held out a
derisively pointing forefinger.
"Cayuse?" he inquired sarcastically. "Looks more like th' map of th'
United States, with some almost necessary parts missin'. Your geography
musta been different from mine."
The artist smiled brightly. "Here 's a man with imagination, th'
emancipator of thought. It's crude an' untrained, but it's there.
Imagination is a hopeful sign, for it is only given to human bein's.
From this we surmise an' must conclude that Bill is human."
"Will somebody be liar enough to say th' same of you?" politely inquired
the dealer.
"Will you fools shut up?" demanded the man who would sleep. He had been
on guard half the night.
"But you oughta label it, Jimmy," said Bill. "You 've got California
bulgin' too high up, an' Florida sticks out th' wrong way. Th' Great
Lakes is _all_ wrong--looks like a kidney slippin' off of Canada. An'
where's Texas?"
"Huh! It 'd have to be a cow to show Texas," grinned Dad Johnson, who,
it appeared, also had an imagination and wanted people to know it.
"You cuttin' in on this teet-a-teet?" demanded Jimmy, dodging the
compliments of the sleepy individual.
"As a map it is no good," decided Bill decisively.
"It is no map," retorted Jimmy. "I know where California bulges an' how
Florida sticks out. What you call California is th' south end of th'
cayuse, above which I 'm goin' to put th' tail--"
"Not if I'm man enough, you ain't!" interposed Carter, with no regard
for politeness.
"--where I 'm goin' to put th' tail," repeated Jimmy. "Florida is one
front laig raised off th' ground--"
"Trick cayuse, by Scott!" grunted George Bruce. "No wonder it looks
like a map."
"Th' Great Lakes is th' saddle, an' Maine is where th' mane
goes--_Ouch_!"
"Mangy pun," grinned Bill.
"Kentucky ought to be under th' saddle," laughed Dad, smacking his lips.
"Pass th' bottle, John."
"You take too much an' we'll all be Ill-o'-noise," said Charley Logan
alertly.
"Them Injuns can't come too soon to suit _me_," growled Fred Thomas.
"Who started this, anyhow?"
The sleepy man arose on one elbow, his eyes glinting. "After th' fight,
you ask _me_ th' same thing! Th' answer will be ME!" he snapped. "I 'm
goin' to clean house in about two minutes, an' fire you all out in th'
street!"
Jimmy smiled down at him. "Well, you needn't be so sweepin' an'
extensive in yore cleanin' operations," he retorted. "All you gotta do
is go outside an' roll in th' dust like a chicken."
The crowd roared its appreciation and the sleepy individual turned over
again, growling sweeping opinions.
"But if them Injuns are comin' I shore wish they 'd hurry up an' do it,"
asserted Dad. "I ought to 'a' been home three days ago."
"Wish to G--d you was!" came from the floor.
Bill tossed away his half-smoked cigarette, Carter promptly plunging
into the sugar barrel after it. "They ain't comin'," Bill asserted.
"Every time some drunk Injun gets in a fight or beats his squaw th'
rumor starts. An' by th' time it gets to us it says that all th'
Apaches are out follerin' old Geronimo on th' war trail. He can be more
places at once than anybody _I_ ever heard of. I 'm ridin' on tomorrow
morning, 'Paches or no 'Paches."
"Good!" exclaimed Jimmy, glancing at Carter. "I 'll have this here
carving all done by then."
There was a sudden scrambling and thumping overhead and hot exclamations
zephyred down to them. Carter dashed to the door, while the others
reached for rifles and began to take up positions.
"See 'em, Hank?" cried Carter anxiously.
"See what?" came a growl from above.
"Injuns, of course, you d--d fool!"
"Naw," snorted Hank. "There ain't no Injuns out at all, not after Jimmy
got that one."
"Then what's th' matter?"
"My dawg's lickin' yore dawg. _Sic_ him, Pete! Hi, there! Don't you
run!"
"My dawg still gettin' licked?" grinned Carter.
"I 'll swap you," offered Hank promptly. "Mine can lick yourn, anyhow."
"In a race, mebby."
"H--l!" growled Hank, cautiously separating himself from a patch of hot
resin that had exuded generously from a pine knot. "I 'm purty nigh
cooked an' I 'm comin' down, Injuns or no Injuns. If they was comin'
this way they'd 'a' been here long afore this."
"But that Pawnee told Price they was out," objected Carter. "Cassidy
heard th' same thing, too. An' didn't Jimmy get one!" he finished
triumphantly.
"Th' Pawnee was drunk!" retorted Hank, collecting splinters as he
slipped a little down the roof. "Great Mavericks! This here is awful!"
He grabbed a protruding nail and checked himself. "Price might 'a' shot
a 'Pache, or he might not. I don't take him serious no more. An' that
feller Cassidy can't help what scared folks tells him. Sufferin'
_toads_, what a roof!"
Carter turned and looked back in the store. "Jimmy, you shore they are
out? An' _will_ you quit cuttin' that counter!"
Jimmy slid off the counter and closed the knife. "That's what th'
Pawnee said. When I told you fellers about it, you was so plumb anxious
to fight, an' eager to interrupt an' ask fool questions that I shore
hated to spoil it all. What that scout says was that th' 'Paches was out
raidin' down Colby way, an' was headin' south when last re--"
"_Colby_!" yelled Lefty Dawson, as the others stared foolishly.
"_Colby_! Why, that's three hundred miles south of here! An' you let
us make fools of ourselves for _three_ days! I 'll bust you open!" and
he arose to carry out his threat. "Where 'd you git them trophies?"
shouted Dad angrily. "Them was genuine!" Jimmy slipped through the
door as Dawson leaped and he fled at top speed to the corral, mounted in
one bound and dashed off a short distance. "Why, I got them trophies in
a poker game from that same Pawnee scout, you Mosshead! He could n't
play th' game no better 'n you fellers. An' th' blood is snake's blood,
fresh put on. You _will_ drive me out of town, hey?" he jeered, and,
wheeling, forthwith rode for his life. Back in the store Bill knocked
aside the rifle barrel that Carter shoved through a loop hole. "A joke
's a joke, Carter," he said sternly. "You don't aim to hit him, but you
might," and Carter, surprised at the strength of the twist, grinned,
muttered something and went to the door without his rifle, which Bill
suddenly recognized. It was the weapon that had made up Jimmy's
"trophies"!
"Blame his hide!" spluttered Lefty, not knowing whether to shoot or
laugh. A queer noise behind him made him turn, a movement imitated by
the rest. They saw Bill rolling over and over on the floor in an agony
of mirth. One by one the enraged garrison caught the infection and one
by one lay down on the floor and wept. Lefty, propping himself against
the sugar barrel, swayed to and fro, senselessly gasping. "They _allus_
are raidin' down Colby way! Blame my hide, _oh_, blame my hide!
Ha-ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha! They _allus_ are raidin' down _Colby_ way!"
"Three days, an' Hank _on_ th' roof!" gurgled George Bruce. "_Three_
days, by Scott!"
"Hank on th' roof," sobbed Carter, "settin' on splinters an hot rosim!
Whee-hee-hee! Three-hee-hee days hatchin' pine knots an' rosim!"
"Gimme a drink! Gimme a drink!" whispered Dad, doubled up in a corner.
"Gimme a ho-ho-ho!" he roared in a fresh paroxysm of mirth. "Lefty an'
George settin' up nights watchin' th' shadders! Ho-ho-ho!"
"An' Carter boardin' us _free_!" yelled Baldy; Martin. "Oh, my G--d!
He'll never get over it!"
"Yessir!" squeaked Dad. "_Free_; an' scared we 'd let 'em burn his
store. 'Better stand 'em off in my place,' he says. 'It's full of
grub,' he says. He-he-he!"
"An' did you see Hank squattin' on th' roof like a horned toad waitin'
for his dinner?" shouted Dickinson. "I'm goin' to die! I'm goin' to
die!" he sobbed.
"No sich luck!" snorted Hank belligerently. "I 'll skin him alive!
Yessir; _alive_!"
Carter paused in his calculations of his loss in food and tobacco.
"Better let him alone, Hank," he warned earnestly. "Anyhow, we pestered
him nigh to death las' time, an' he 's shore come back at us. Better
let him alone!"
Up the street Jimmy stood beside his horse and thumped and scratched the
yellow dog until its rolling eyes bespoke a bliss unutterable and its
tail could not wag because of sheer ecstasy.
"Purp," he said gravely, "never play jokes on a pore unfortunate an' git
careless. Don't never forget it. Last time I was here they abused me
shameful. Now that th' storm has busted an' this is gettin' calm-like,
you an' me 'll go back an' get a good look at th' asylum," he suggested,
vaulting into the saddle and starting toward the store. No invitation
was needed because the dog had adopted him on the spot. And the next
morning, when Jimmy and Bill, loaded with poker-gained wealth, rode out
of town and headed south, the dog trotted along in the shadow made by
Jimmy's horse and glanced up from time to time in hopeful expectancy and
great affection.
A distant, flat pistol shot made them turn around in the saddle and look
back. A group of the leading citizens of Sharpsville stood in front of
the Emporium and waved hats in one last, and glad farewell. Now that
Jimmy had left town, they altered their sudden plans and decided to
continue to populate the town of Sharpsville.
V
THE LUCK OF FOOLS
"Did you ever see a dog like Asylum?" demanded Jimmy, looking fondly at
the mongrel as they rode slowly the second day after leaving
Sharpsville.
Bill shook his head emphatically. "Never, nowheres."
Jimmy turned reproachfully. "Lookit how he 's follered us."
"Follered _you_," hastily corrected Bill. "He ought to. You feed an'
scratch him, an' he 'll go anywhere for that. But he 's big," he
conceded.
"Mostly wolf-hound," guessed Jimmy, proudly.
"He looks like a wolf--God help it--at th' end of a hard winter."
"Well, he ain't yourn!"
"An' won't be, not if I can help it."
"He ain't no good, is he?" sneered Jimmy.
"I wouldn't say that, Kid," grunted Bill. "You know there 's good
_Injuns_; but he looks purty healthy right now. Why did n't you call
him Hank? They look--Good G--d!" he exclaimed as he glanced through an
opening in the hills. The ring of ashes that had been a corral still
smoldered, and smoke arose fitfully from the caved-in roof of the adobe
bunkhouse, whose beams, weakened by fire, had fallen under their heavy
load.
"Injuns!" whispered Jimmy. "Not gone long, neither. Mebby they ain't
all--ain't all--" he faltered, thinking of what might lie under the
roof. Bill, nodding, rode hurriedly to the ruins, wheeled sharply and
returned, shaking his head slowly. There was no need to explain Apache
methods to his companion, and he spoke of the Indians instead. "They
split. About a dozen in th' big party an' about eight in th' other. It
looks sorta serious, Kid."
Jimmy nodded. "I reckon so. An' they 're usually where nobody wants
'em, anyhow. Would n't Sharpsville be disgusted if they went north? But
let's get out of here, 'less you got some plan to bag a couple."
"I like you more all th' time," Bill smiled. "But I ain't got no plan,
except to move."
"Now, if they ain't funny," muttered Jimmy. "If they only knowed what
they was runnin' into!"
Bill turned in surprise. "I reckon I 'm easy, but I 'll bite: what are
they runnin' into?"
"I don't mean th' Injuns; I mean that wagon," replied Jimmy, nodding to
a canvas-covered "schooner" on the opposite hill. "Come here, 'Sylum!"
he thundered. Bill wheeled, and smothered a curse when he saw the
woman. "Fools!" he snarled. "Don't let _her_ know," and he was
galloping toward the newcomers.
"They shore is innercent," soliloquized Jimmy, following. "Just like a
baby chasin' a rattler for to play with it."
Bill drew rein at the wagon and removed his sombrero. "Howd'y," he
said. "Where you headin' for?" he asked pleasantly.
Tom French shifted the reins. "Sharpsville. And where in--thunder--is
it?"
His brother stuck his head out through the opening in the canvas. "Yes;
where?"
"You see, we are lost," explained the woman, glancing from Bill to
Jimmy, whose spectacular sliding stop was purely for her benefit, though
she knew it not. "We left Logan four days ago and have been wandering
about ever since."
"Well, you ain't a-goin' to wander no more, ma'am," smiled Bill. "We
're goin' to Logan an' we 'll take you as far as th' Logan-Sharpsville
trail," he said, wondering where it was. "You must 'a' crossed it
without knowin' it."
"Then, thank goodness, everything is all right. We are very fortunate in
having met you gentlemen and we will be very grateful to you," she
smiled.
"You bet!" exclaimed Tom. "But where is Sharpsville?" he persisted.
"Sixty miles north," replied Jimmy, making a great effort to stop with
the reins what he was causing with his shielded spur. His horse could
cavort beautifully under persuasion. "Logan, ma'am," he said,
indifferent to the antics of his horse, "is about thirty miles east.
You must 'a' sashayed some to get only this far in four days," he
grinned.
"And we would be 'sashaying' yet, if I had n't found this trail,"
grunted Tom. There was a sudden disturbance behind his shoulder and the
canvas was opened wider. "_You_ found it!" snorted George. "You mean,
_I_ found it. Leave it to Mollie if I did n't! And I told you that you
were going wrong. Didn't I?" he demanded.
"Hush, George," chided his sister.
"But _did n't_ I? Did n't I say we should have followed that moth-eaten
road running--er--north?"
"Did you?" shouted Tom, turning savagely. "You told me so many fool
things I couldn't pick out those having a flicker of intelligence
hovering around their outer edges. _You_ drove two days out of the
four, did n't you?"
"Tom!" pleaded Mollie, earnestly.
"Oh, let him rave, Sis," rejoined George, and he turned to the punchers.
"Friends, I beg thee to take charge of this itinerant asylum and its
charming nurse, for the good of our being and the salvation of our
souls. Amen."
Tom found a weak grin. "Yes, so be it. We place ourselves and guide
under your orders, though I reserve the right to beat him to a pleasing
pulp when he gets sober enough to feel it. At present he reclines
ungracefully within."
"You mean you got a drunk guide, in there?" demanded Bill angrily.
"He feels the yearning right away," observed George. "We 'll have to
take turns thrashing Bacchus, I fear."
"How long's he been that way?" demanded Bill.
"I have n't known him long enough to answer that," responded Tom. "I
doubt if he were ever really sober. He is a peripatetic distillery and
I believe he lived on blotters even as a child. The first day--"
"--hour," inserted George.
"--he became anxious about the condition of the rear axle and examined
it so frequently that by night he had slipped back into the Stone
Age--he was ossified and petrified. He could neither see, eat nor talk.
Strange creatures peopled his imagination. He shot at one before we
could get his gun away from him, and it was our best skillet. How the
devil he could hit it is more than I know. At this moment he may be
fleeing from green tigers."
"Beg pardon," murmured George. "At this moment I have my foot on his
large, unwashed face."
"Why, George! You'll hurt him!" gasped Mollie.
"No such luck. He 's beyond feeling."
"But you will! It isn't right to--"
"Don't bother your head about him, Sis," interrupted Tom, savagely.
"Sure," grinned George. "Save your sympathy until he gets sober. He'll
need some then."
"Now, George, there is no use of having an argument," she retorted,
turning to face him. And as she turned Bill took quick advantage. One
finger slipped around his scalp and ended in a jerky, lifting motion
that was horribly suggestive. His other hand and arm swept back and
around, the gesture taking in the hills; and at the same time he nodded
emphatically toward the rear of the wagon, where Jimmy was slowly going.
Across the faces of the brothers there flashed in quick succession
mystification, apprehensive doubt, fear and again doubt. But a sudden
backward jerk of Bill's head made them glance at the ruined 'dobe and
the doubt melted into fear, and remained. George was the first to reply
and he spoke to his sister. "As long as you fear for his facial beauty,
Sis, I 'll look for a better place for my foot," and he disappeared
behind the drooping canvas. Jimmy's words were powerful, if terse, and
George returned to the seat a very thoughtful man. He took instant
advantage of his sister's conversation with Bill and whispered hurriedly
into his brother's ear. A faint furrow showed momentarily on Tom's
forehead, but swiftly disappeared, and he calmly filled his pipe as he
replied. "Oh, he 'll sober up," he said. "We poured the last of it
out. And I have a great deal of confidence in these two gentlemen."
Bill smiled as he answered Mollie's question. "Yes, we did have a bad
fire," he said. "It plumb burned us out, ma'am."
"But _how_ did it happen?" she insisted.
"Yes, yes; how did it happen--I mean it happened like this, ma'am," he
floundered. "You see, I--that is, _we--we_ had some trouble, ma'am."
"So I surmised," she pleasantly replied. "I presume it was a fire, was
it not?"
Bill squirmed at the sarcasm and hesitated, but he was saved by Jimmy,
who turned the corner of the wagon and swung into the breach with
promptness and assurance. "We fired a Greaser yesterday," he explained.
"An' last night th' Greaser slipped back an' fired us. He got away,
this time, ma'am; but we 're shore comin' back for him, all right."
"But is n't he far away by this time?" she asked in surprise.
"Greasers, ma'am, is funny animals. I could tell you lots of funny
things about 'em, if I had time. This particular coyote is nervy an'
graspin'. I reckon he was a heap disappointed when he found we got out
alive, an' I reckon he 's in these hills waitin' for us to go to Logan
for supplies. When we do he 'll round up th' cows an' run 'em off.
Savvy? I means, understand?" he hurriedly explained.
"But why don't you hunt him now?"
Jimmy shook his head hopelessly. "You just don't understand Greasers,
ma'am," he asserted, and looked around. "Does she?" he demanded.
There was a chorus of negatives, and he continued. "You see, he's
plannin' to steal our cows."
"That's what he 's doin'," cheerfully assented Bill.
"I believe you said that before," smiled Mollie.
"Ha, ha!" laughed Bill. "He shore did!"
"Yes, I did!" snapped Jimmy, glaring at him.
"Then, for goodness' sake, are you going away and let him do it?"
demanded Mollie.
Jimmy grinned easily, and drawled effectively. "We 're aimin' to stop
him, ma'am. You see," he half whispered, whereat Bill leaned forward
eagerly to learn the facts. "He won't show hisself an' we can't track
him in th' hills without gettin' picked off at long range. It would be
us that 'd have to do th' movin', an' that ain't healthy in rough
country. So we starts to Logan, but circles back an' gets him when he
's plumb wrapped up in them cows he 's honin' for."
"That's it," asserted Bill, promptly and proudly. Jimmy was the
smoothest liar he had ever listened to. "An' th' plan is all Jimmy's,
too," he enthused, truthfully.
"Doubtless it is quite brilliant," she responded, "but I certainly wish
_I_ were that 'Greaser'!"
"Sis!" exploded George, "I'm surprised!"
"Very well; you may remain so, if you wish. But will someone tell me
this: How can these gentlemen take us to Logan if they are going only
part way and then returning after that dense, but lucky, 'Greaser'?"
"I should 'a' told you, ma'am," replied Jimmy, "that th'
Logan-Sharpsville trail is about half way. We 'll put you on it an'
turn back."
The strain was telling on Bill and he raised his arm. "Sorry to cut off
this interestin' conversation, but I reckon we better move. Jimmy, tie
that wolf-hound to th' axle--it won't make him drunk--an' then go ahead
an' pick a new trail to Logan. Keep north of th' other, an' stay down
from sky-lines. I 'll foller back a ways. Get a-goin'," and he was
obeyed.
Jimmy rode a quarter of a mile in advance, unjustly escaping the remarks
that Mollie was directing at him, her brothers, Bill, the dog and the
situation in general. A backward glance as he left the wagon apprised
him that the dangers of scouting were to be taken thankfully. He rode
carelessly up the side of a hill and glanced over the top, ducked
quickly and backed down with undignified haste. He fervently endorsed
Bill's wisdom in taking a different route to Logan, for the Apaches
certainly would strike the other trail and follow hard; and to have run
into them would have been disastrous. He approached the wagon
leisurely, swept off his sombrero and grinned. "Reckon you could hit
any game?" he inquired. The brothers nodded glumly. "Well, get yore
guns handy." There was really no need for the order. "There 's lots of
it, an' fresh meat 'll come in good. Don't shoot till I says so," he
warned, earnestly.
"O.K., Hawkeye," replied Tom coolly.
"We 'll wait for the whites of their eyes, _a la Bunker Hill_," replied
George, uneasily, "before we wipe out the game of this large section of
God's accusing and forgotten wilderness. Any _big_ game loose?"
Jimmy nodded emphatically. "You bet! I just saw a bunch of copperhead
snakes that 'd give you chills." The tones were very suggestive and
George stroked his rifle nervously and felt little drops of cold water
trickle from his armpits. Mollie instinctively drew her skirts tighter
around her and placed her feet on the edge of the wagon box under the
seat. "They can't climb into the wagon, can they?" she asked
apprehensively.
"Oh, no, ma'am," reassured Jimmy. "Anyhow, th' dog will keep them
away." He turned to the brothers. "I ain't shore about th' way, so I
'm goin' to see Bill. Wait till I come back," and he was gone. Tom
gripped the reins more firmly and waited. Nothing short of an
earthquake would move that wagon until he had been told to drive on.
George searched the surrounding country with anxious eyes while his
sister gazed fascinatedly at the ground close to the wagon. She
suddenly had remembered that the dog was tied.
Bill drummed past, waving his arm, and swept out of sight around a bend,
the wagon lurching and rocking after him. Out of the little valley and
across a rocky plateau, down into an arroyo and up its steep, further
bank went the wagon at an angle that forced a scream from Mollie. The
dog, having broken loose, ran with it, eyeing it suspiciously from time
to time. Jeff Purdy, the oblivious guide, slid swiftly from the front
of the wagon box and stopped suddenly with a thump against the
tailboard. George, playing rear guard, managed to hold on and then with
a sigh of relief sat upon the guide and jammed his feet against the
corners of the box.
"So he--went back for--his friend to--find the way!" gasped Mollie in
jerks. "What a pity--he did--it. I could--do better myself. I 'm
being jolted--into a thousand--pieces!" Her hair, loosening more with
each jolt, uncoiled and streamed behind her in a glorious flame of gold.
Suddenly the wagon stopped so quickly that she gasped in dismay and
almost left the seat. Then she screamed and jumped for the dashboard.
But it was only Mr. Purdy sliding back again.
Before them was the perpendicular wall of a mesa and another lay several
hundred yards away. Bill, careful of where he walked, led the horses
past a bowlder until the seat was even with it. "Step on nothing but
rock," he quietly ordered, and had lifted Mollie in his arms before she
knew it. Despite her protests he swiftly carried her to the wall and
then slowly up its scored face to a ledge that lay half way to the top.
Back of the ledge was a horizontal fissure that was almost screened from
the sight of anyone below. Gaining the cave, he lowered her gently to
the floor and stood up. "Do not move," he ordered.
Her face was crimson, streaked with white lanes of anger and her eyes
snapped. "What does this mean?" she demanded.
He looked at her a moment, considering. "Ma'am, I was n't goin' to tell
you till I had to. But it don't make no difference now. It's Injuns,
close after us. Don't show yoreself."
[Illustration: "It's Injuns, close after us"]
She regarded him calmly. "I beg your pardon--if I had only known--is
there great danger?"
He nodded. "If you show yoreself. There's allus danger with Injuns,
ma'am."
She pushed the hair back from her face. "My brothers? Are they coming
up?"
Her courage set him afire with rage for the Apaches, but he replied
calmly. "Yes. Mebby th' Injuns won't know yo 're here, Ma'am. Me an'
Jimmy 'll try to lead 'em past. Just lay low an' don't make no noise."
Her eyes glowed suddenly as she realized what he would try to do. "But
yourself, and Jimmy? Would n't it be better to stay up here?"
"Yo 're a thoroughbred, ma'am," he replied in a low voice. "Me an'
Jimmy has staked our lives more 'n onct out of pure devilment, with
nothin' to gain. I reckon we got a reason this time, th' best we ever
had. I 'm most proud, ma'am, to play my cards as I get them." He bent
swiftly and touched her head, and was gone.
Meeting the brothers as they toiled up with supplies, he gave them a few
terse orders and went on. Taking a handful of sand from behind a
bowlder and scattering it with judicious care, he climbed to the wagon
seat and waited, glancing back at the faint line that marked the
arroyo's rim. In a few minutes a figure popped over it and whirled
toward him in a high-flung, swirling cloud of dust. Overtaking the
lurching wagon, Jimmy shouted a query and kept on, his pony picking its
way with the agility and certainty of a mountain cat. The wagon,
lurching this way and that, first on the wheels of one side and then on
those of the other, bouncing and jumping at such speed that it was a
miracle it was not smashed to splinters, careened after the hard-riding
horseman. A rifle bounced over the tailboard, followed swiftly by a box
of cartridges and an ebony-backed mirror, which settled on its back and
glared into the sky like an angry Cyclops.
Mr. Purdy, bruised from head to foot and rapidly getting sober, emitted
language in jerks and grabbed at the tailboard as the wagon box dropped
two feet, leaving him in the air. But it met him half way and jolted
him almost to the canvas top. He slid against the side and then jammed
against the tailboard again and reached for it in desperation. Another
drop in the trail made him miss it, and as the wagon arose again like a
steel spring Mr. Purdy, wondering what caused all the earthquakes, arose
on his hands and knees in the dust and spat angrily after the careening
vehicle. He scrambled unsteadily to his feet and shook eager fists
after the four-wheeled jumping-jack, and gave the Recording Angel great
anguish of mind and writer's cramp. Pausing as he caught sight of the
objects on the ground, he stared at them thoughtfully. He had seen many
things during the past few days and was not to be fooled again. He
looked at the sky, and back to the rifle. Then he examined the mesa
wall, and quickly looked back at the weapon. It was still there and had
not moved. He closed his eyes and opened them suddenly and grunted.
"Huh, bet a ten spot it's real." He approached it cautiously, ready to
pounce on it if it moved, but it did not and he picked it up. Seeing the
cartridges, he secured them and then gasped with fear at the glaring
mirror. After a moment's thought he grabbed at it and put it in his
pocket just before a sudden, swirling cloud of dust drove him, choking
and gasping, to seek the shelter of the bowlders close to the wall. When
he raised his head again and looked out he caught sight of a sudden
movement in the open, and promptly ducked, and swore. Apaches! Twelve
of them!
He had seen strange things during the last few days, and just because
the rifle and other objects had turned out to be real was no reason that
he should absolutely trust his eyes in this particular instance. There
was a limit, which in this case was Apaches in full war dress; so he
arose swaggeringly and fired at the last, and saw the third from the
last slide limply from his horse. As the rest paused and half of them
wheeled and started back he rubbed his eyes in amazement, damned himself
for a fool and sprinted for the mesa wall, up which he climbed with the
frantic speed of fear. He was favored by the proverbial luck of fools
and squirmed over a wide ledge without being hit. There was but one way
to get him and he knew he could pick them off as fast as they showed
above the rim. He rolled over and a look of mystification crept across
his face. Digging into his pockets to see what the bumps were, he
produced the mirror and a flask. The former he placed carelessly
against the wall and the latter he raised hastily to his lips. The
mirror glared out over the plain, its rays constantly interrupted by Mr.
Purdy's cautious movements as he settled himself more comfortably for
defense.
A bullet screamed up the face of the wall and he flattened, intently
watching the rim. Chancing to glance over the plain, he noticed that
the wagon was still moving, but slowly, while far to the south two
horsemen galloped back toward the mesa on a wide circle, six Apaches
tearing to intercept them before they could gain cover. "I was shore
wise to leave th' schooner," he grinned. "I allus know when to jump," he
said, and then swung the rifle toward the rim as a faint sound reached
his ears. Its smoke blotted out the piercing black eyes that looked for
an instant over the edge and found eternity, and Mr. Purdy grinned when
the sound of impact floated up from below. "They won't try that no
more," he grunted, and forthwith dozed in a drunken stupor. A sober man
might have been tempted to try a shot over the rim, and would have been
dead before he could have pulled the trigger. Mr. Purdy was again
favored by luck.
Leaving two braves to watch him, the other two searched for a better way
up the wall.
The race over the plain was interesting but not deadly or very dangerous
for Bill and Jimmy. Armed with Winchesters and wornout Spencer carbines
and not able to get close to the two punchers, the Apaches did no harm,
and suffered because of Mr. Cassidy's use of a new, long-range Sharps.
"You allus want to keep Injuns on long range, Kid," Bill remarked as
another fell from its horse. The shot was a lucky one, but just as
effective. "They ain't worth a d--n figurin' windage an' th' drift of a
fast-movin' target, 'specially when it's goin' over ground like this.
It's a white man's weapon, Jimmy. Them repeaters ain't no good for over
five hundred; they don't use enough powder. An' I reckon them Spencers
was wore out long ago. They ain't even shootin' close." He whirled past
the projecting spur of the mesa and leaped from his horse, Jimmy
following quickly. Three hundred yards down the canyon two Apaches
showed themselves for a moment as they squirmed around a projection high
up on the wall and not more than ten feet below the ledge. The
expressions which they carried into eternity were those of great
surprise. The two who kept Mr. Purdy treed on his ledge saw their
friends fall, and squirmed swiftly toward their horses. It could only
be cowpunchers entering the canyon at the other end and they preferred
the company of their friends until they could determine numbers. When
half way to the animals they changed their minds and crept toward the
scene of action. Mr. Purdy, feeling for his flask, knocked it over the
ledge and looked over after it in angry dismay. Then he shouted and
pointed down. Bill and Jimmy stared for a moment, nodded emphatically,
and separated hastily. Mr. Purdy ducked and hugged the ledge with
renewed affection. Glancing around, he was almost blinded by the mirror
and threw it angrily into the canyon, and then rubbed his eyes again.
Far away on the plain was a moving blot which he believed to be
horsemen. He fired his rifle into the air on a chance and turned again
to the events taking place close at hand. "Other way, Hombre!" he
warned, and Jimmy, obeying, came upon the Apache from the rear, and
saved Bill's life. At hide and seek among rocks the Apache has no
equal, but here they did not have a chance with Mr. Purdy calling the
moves in a language they did not well understand. A bird's-eye view is
a distinct asset and Mr. Purdy was playing his novel game with delighted
interest and a plainsman's instinct. Consumed with rage, the remaining
Indian whirled around and sent the guide reeling against the wall and
then down in a limp heap. But Bill paid the debt and continued to worm
among the rocks.
There was a sudden report to the westward and Jimmy staggered and dived
behind a bowlder. The other four, having discovered the trick that had
been played upon them on the other side of the mesa, were anxious to pay
for it. Bill hurriedly crawled to Jimmy's side as the youth brushed the
blood out of his eyes and picked up his rifle. "It's th' others, Kid,"
said Bill. "An' they 're gettin' close. Don't move an inch, for this
is their game." A roar above him made him glance upward and swear
angrily. "Now they 've gone an' done it! After all we 've done to hide
'em!" Another shot from the ledge and a hot, answering fire broke out
from below. "My G--d!" said a voice, weakly. Bill shook his head.
"That was Tom," he muttered. "Come on, Kid," he growled. "We got to
drive 'em out, d--n it!" They were too interested in picking their way
in the direction of the Apaches to glance at Mr. Purdy's elevated perch
or they would have seen him on his knees at the very edge making frantic
motions with his one good arm. He was facing the east and the plain.
Beaming with joy, he waved his arm toward Bill and Jimmy, shouted
instructions in a weak voice, that barely carried to the canyon floor,
and collapsed, his duty done.
Bill was surprised fifteen minutes later to hear strange voices calling
to him from the rear and he turned like a flash, his Colt swinging
first. "Well, I 'm d--d!" he ejaculated. Four punchers were crawling
toward him. "Glad to see you," he said, foolishly.
"I reckon so," came the smiling reply. "That lookin' glass of yourn
shore bothered us. We could n't read it, but we did n't have to. Where
are they?"
"Plumb ahead, som'ers. Four of 'em," Bill replied. "There 's two
tender feet up on that ledge, with their sister. We was gettin' plumb
worried for 'em."
"Not them as hired Whiskey Jeff for to guide 'em?" asked Dickinson, the
leader.
"Th' same. But how 'n h--l did Logan ever come to let 'em start?"
demanded Bill, angrily.
"We did n't pay no attention to th' rumors that has been flyin' around
for th' last two months. Nobody had seen no signs of 'em," answered the
Logan man. "We did n't reckon there was no danger till last night, when
we learned they had n't showed up in Sharpsville, nor been seen
anywheres near th' trail. Then we remembers Jeff's habits, an', while
we debates it, we gets word that th' Injuns was seen north of Cook's
ranch yesterday. We moves sudden. Here comes th' boys back--I reckon
th' job 's done. They 're a fine crowd, a'right. You should 'a' seen
'em cut loose an' raise th' dust when we saw that lookin' glass
a-winkin'. We could n't read it none, but we didn't have to. We just
cut loose."
"Lookin' glass!" exclaimed Bill, staring. "That's twice you 've
mentioned it. What glass? We didn't have no lookin' glass, nohow."
"Well, Whiskey Jeff had one, a'right. An' he shore keeps her a-talkin',
too. Ain't it a cussed funny thing that a feller that's got a
hardboiled face like his'n would go an' tote a lookin' glass around with
him? We never done reckoned he was that vain."
Bill shook his head and gave it up. He glanced above him at the ledge
and started for it as Jimmy pushed up to him through the little crowd.
"Hello, Kid," Bill smiled. "Come on up an' help me get her down," he
invited. Jimmy shook his head and refused. "Ah, what's th' use? She
'll only gimme h--l for handin' her that blamed Greaser lie," he
snapped. "An' you can do it alone--didn't you tote her up th' cussed
wall?" It had been a long-range view, but Jimmy had seen it, just the
same, and resented it.
Bill turned and looked at him. "Well, I 'm cussed!" he muttered, and
forthwith climbed the wall. A few minutes later he stuck his head over
the rim of the ledge and looked down upon a good-natured crowd that
lounged in the shadow of the wall and told each other all about it.
Jimmy was the important center of interest and he was flushed with
pride. It would take a great deal to make him cut short his hour of
triumph and take him away from the admiring circle that hedged him in
and listened intently to his words. "Yessir, by G--d," he was saying,
"just then I looks over th' top of a li'l hill an' what I sees makes me
duck a-plenty. There was a dozen of 'em, stringin' south. I knowed
they 'd shore hit that--"
"Hey, Kid," said a humorous voice from above. Jimmy glanced up, vexed at
the interruption. "Well, what?" he growled. Bill grinned down at him in
a manner that bid fair to destroy the dignity that Jimmy had striven so
hard to build up. "She says all right for you. She 's done let you
down easy for that whoppin' big Greaser lie you went an' spun her. She
wants to know ain't you comin' up so she can talk to you? How about
it?"
"Go on, Kid," urged a low and friendly voice at his elbow.
"Betcha!" grinned another. "Wish it was me! I done seen her in Logan."
Jimmy loosed a throbbing phrase, but obeyed, whereat Bill withdrew his
grinning face from the sight of the grinning faces below. "He 's comin'
ma'am; but he's shore plumb bashful." He looked down the canyon and
laughed. "There they go to get Purdy off 'n his perch. I 'm
natchurally goin' to lick anybody as tries to thrash that man," he
muttered, glancing at George as he passed Jimmy on the ledge. George
grinned and shook his head. "I 'm going to give him the spree of his
sinful, long life," he promised, thoughtfully.
Far to the west, silhouetted for a moment against the crimson sunset,
appeared a row of mounted figures. It looked long and searchingly at
the mesa and slowly disappeared from view. Bill saw it and pointed it
out to Lefty Dickinson. "There 's th' other eight," he said, smiling
cheerfully. "If it was n't for Whiskey Jeff's lookin' glass that eight
'd mean a whole lot to us. We 've had the luck of fools!"
VI
HOPALONG'S HOP
Having sent Jimmy to the Bar-20 with a message for Buck Peters and seen
the tenderfeet start for Sharpsville on the right trail and under
escort, Bill Cassidy set out for the Crazy M ranch, by the way of Clay
Gulch. He was to report on the condition of some cattle that Buck had
been offered cheap and he was anxious to get back to the ranch. It was
in the early evening when he reached Clay Gulch and rode slowly down the
dusty, shack-lined street in search of a hotel. The town and the street
were hardly different from other towns and streets that he had seen all
over the cow-country, but nevertheless he felt uneasy. The air seemed
to be charged with danger, and it caused him to sit even more erect in
the saddle and assume his habit of indifferent alertness. The first man
he saw confirmed the feeling by staring at him insolently and sneering
in a veiled way at the low-hung, tied-down holsters that graced Bill's
thighs. The guns proclaimed the gun-man as surely as it would have been
proclaimed by a sign; and it appeared that gun-men were not at that time
held in high esteem by the citizens of Clay Gulch. Bill was growing
fretful and peevish when the man, with a knowing shake of his head,
turned away and entered the harness shop. "Trouble's brewin' somewheres
around," muttered Bill, as he went on. He had singled out the first of
two hotels when another citizen, turning the corner, stopped in his
tracks and looked Bill over with a deliberate scrutiny that left but
little to the imagination. He frowned and started away, but Bill
spurred forward, determined to make him speak.
"_Might_ I inquire if this is Clay Gulch?" he asked, in tones that made
the other wince.
"You might," was the reply. "It is," added the citizen, "an' th' Crazy
M lays fifteen mile west." Having complied with the requirements of
common politeness the citizen of Clay Gulch turned and walked into the
nearest saloon. Bill squinted after him and shook his head in
indecision.
"He wasn't guessin', neither. He shore knowed where I wants to go. I
reckon Oleson must 'a' said he was expectin' me." He would have been
somewhat surprised had he known that Mr. Oleson, foreman of the Crazy M,
had said nothing to anyone about the expected visitor, and that no one,
not even on the ranch, knew of it. Mr. Oleson was blessed with
taciturnity to a remarkable degree; and he had given up expecting to see
anyone from Mr. Peters.
As Bill dismounted in front of the "Victoria" he noticed that two men
further down the street had evidently changed their conversation and
were examining him with frank interest and discussing him earnestly. As
a matter of fact they had not changed the subject of their conversation,
but had simply fitted him in the place of a certain unknown. Before he
had arrived they discussed in the abstract; now they could talk in the
concrete. One of them laughed and called softly over his shoulder,
whereupon a third man appeared in the door, wiping his lips with the
back of a hairy, grimy hand, and focused evil eyes upon the innocent
stranger. He grunted contemptuously and, turning on his heel, went back
to his liquid pleasures. Bill covertly felt of his clothes and stole a
glance at his horse, but could see nothing wrong. He hesitated: should
he saunter over for information or wait until the matter was brought to
his attention? A sound inside the hotel made him choose the latter
course, for his stomach threatened to become estranged and it simply
howled for food. Pushing open the door he dropped his saddle in a
corner and leaned against the bar.
"Have one with me to get acquainted?" he invited. "Then I 'll eat, for
I 'm hungry. An' I 'll use one of yore beds to-night, too."
The man behind the bar nodded cheerfully and poured out his drink. As
he raised the liquor he noticed Bill's guns and carelessly let the glass
return to the bar.
"Sorry, sir," he said coldly. "I 'm hall out of grub, the fire 's hout,
_hand_ the beds are taken. But mebby 'Awley, down the strite, can tyke
care of you."
Bill was looking at him with an expression that said much and he slowly
extended his arm and pointed to the untasted liquor.
"Allus finish what you start, English," he said slowly and clearly.
"When a man goes to take a drink with me, and suddenly changes his mind,
why I gets riled. I don't know what ails this town, an' I don't care; I
don't give a cuss about yore grub an' your beds; but if you don't drink
that liquor you poured out _to_ drink, why I 'll natchurally shove it
down yore British throat so cussed hard it 'll strain yore neck. Get to
it!"
The proprietor glanced apprehensively from the glass to Bill, then on to
the business-like guns and back to the glass, and the liquor disappeared
at a gulp. "W'y," he explained, aggrieved. "There hain't no call for to
get riled hup like that, strainger. I bloody well forgot it."
"Then don't you go an' 'bloody well' forget this: Th' next time I drops
in here for grub an' a bed, you have 'em both, an' be plumb polite about
it. Do you get me?" he demanded icily.
The proprietor stared at the angry puncher as he gathered up his saddle
and rifle and started for the door. He turned to put away the bottle
and the sound came near being unfortunate for him. Bill leaped
sideways, turning while in the air and landed on his feet like a cat,
his left hand gripping a heavy Colt that covered the short ribs of the
frightened proprietor before that worthy could hardly realize the move.
"Oh, all right," growled Bill, appearing to be disappointed. "I
reckoned mebby you was gamblin' on a shore thing. I feels impelled to
offer you my sincere apology; you ain't th' kind as would even gamble
_on_ a shore thing. You 'll see me again," he promised. The sound of
his steps on the porch ended in a thud as he leaped to the ground and
then he passed the window leading his horse and scowling darkly. The
proprietor mopped his head and reached twice for the glass before he
found it. "Gawd, what a bloody 'eathen," he grunted. "_'E_ won't be as
easy as the lawst was, blime 'im."
Mr. Hawley looked up and frowned, but there was something in the
suspicious eyes that searched his face that made him cautious. Bill
dropped his load on the floor and spoke sharply. "I want supper an' a
bed. You ain't full up, an' you ain't out of grub. So I 'm goin' to
get 'em both right here. Yes?"
"You shore called th' turn, stranger," replied Mr. Hawley in his Sunday
voice. "That's what I 'm in business for. An' business is shore dull
these days."
He wondered at the sudden smile that illuminated Bill's face and half
guessed it; but he said nothing and went to work. When Bill pushed back
from the table he was more at peace with the world and he treated,
closely watching his companion. Mr. Hawley drank with a show of
pleasure and forthwith brought out cigars. He seated himself beside his
guest and sighed with relief.
"I 'm plumb tired out," he offered. "An' I ain't done much. You look
tired, too. Come a long way?"
"Logan," replied Bill. "Do _you_ know where I 'm goin'? An' why?" he
asked.
Mr. Hawley looked surprised and almost answered the first part of the
question correctly before he thought. "Well," he grinned, "if I could
tell where strangers was goin', an' why, I would n't never ask 'em where
they come from. An' I 'd shore hunt up a li'l game of faro, you bet!"
Bill smiled. "Well, that might be a good idea. But, say, what ails this
town, anyhow?"
"What ails it? Hum! Why, lack of money for one thing; scenery, for
another; wimmin, for another. Oh, h--l, I ain't got time to tell you
what ails it. Why?"
"Is there anything th' matter with me?"
"I don't know you well enough for to answer that kerrect."
"Well, would you turn around an' stare at me, an' seem pained an' hurt?
Do I look funny? Has anybody put a sign on my back?"
"You looks all right to me. What's th' matter?"
"Nothin', yet," reflected Bill slowly. "But there will be, mebby. You
was mentionin' faro. Here 's a turn you can call: somebody in this wart
of a two-by-nothin' town is goin' to run plumb into a big surprise.
There 'll mebby be a loud noise an' some smoke where it starts from; an'
a li'l round hole where it stops. When th' curious delegation now
holdin' forth on th' street slips in here after I 'm in bed, an' makes
inquiries about me, you can tell 'em that. An' if Mr.--Mr. Victoria
drops in casual, tell him I 'm cleanin' my guns. Now then, show me
where I 'm goin' to sleep."
Mr. Hawley very carefully led the way into the hall and turned into a
room opposite the bar. "Here she is, stranger," he said, stepping back.
But Bill was out in the hall listening. He looked into the room and
felt oppressed.
"No she ain't," he answered, backing his intuition. "She is upstairs,
where there is a li'l breeze. By th' Lord," he muttered under his
breath. "This is some puzzle." He mounted the stairs shaking his head
thoughtfully. "It shore is, it shore is."
The next morning when Bill whirled up to the Crazy M bunkhouse and
dismounted before the door a puncher was emerging. He started to say
something, noticed Bill's guns and went on without a word. Bill turned
around and looked after him in amazement. "Well, what th' devil!" he
growled. Before he could do anything, had he wished to, Mr. Oleson
stepped quickly from the house, nodded and hurried toward the ranch
house, motioning for Bill to follow. Entering the house, the foreman of
the Crazy M waited impatiently for Bill to get inside, and then
hurriedly closed the door.
"They 've got onto it some way," he said, his taciturnity gone; "but
that don't make no difference if you 've got th' sand. I 'll pay you
one hundred an' fifty a month, furnish yore cayuses an' feed you. I 'm
losin' more 'n two hundred cows every month an' can't get a trace of th'
thieves. Harris, Marshal of Clay Gulch, is stumped, too. _He_ can't
move without proof; _you_ can. Th' first man to get is George Thomas,
then his brother Art. By that time you 'll know how things lay. George
Thomas is keepin' out of Harris' way. He killed a man last week over in
Tuxedo an' Harris wants to take him over there. He 'll not help you, so
don't ask him to." Before Bill could reply or recover from his
astonishment Oleson continued and described several men. "Look out for
ambushes. It 'll be th' hardest game you ever went up ag'in, an' if you
ain't got th' sand to go through with it, say so."
Bill shook his head. "I got th' sand to go through with anythin' I
starts, but I don't start here. I reckon you got th' wrong man. I come
up here to look over a herd for Buck Peters; an' here you go shovin'
wages like that at me. When I tells Buck what I 've been offered he 'll
fall dead." He laughed. "Now I knows th' answer to a lot of things.
"Here, here!" he exclaimed as Oleson began to rave. "Don't you go an'
get all het up like that. I reckon I can keep my face shut. An' lemme
observe in yore hat-like ear that if th' rest of this gang is like th'
samples I seen in town, a good gun-man would shore be robbin' you to
take all that money for th' job. Fifty a month, for two months, would
be a-plenty."
Oleson's dismay was fading, and he accepted the situation with a grim
smile. "You don't know them fellers," he replied. "They 're a bad lot,
an' won't stop at nothin'."
"All right. Let's take a look at them cows. I want to get home soon as
I can."
Oleson shook his head. "I gave you up, an' when I got a better offer I
let 'em go. I 'm sorry you had th' ride for nothin', but I could n't
get word to you."
Bill led the way in silence back to the bunk house and mounted his
horse. "All right," he nodded. "I shore was late. Well, I 'll be
goin'."
"That gun-man is late, too," said Oleson. "Mebby he ain't comin'. You
want th' job at _my_ figgers?"
"Nope. I got a better job, though it don't pay so much money. It's
steady, an' a hull lot cleaner. So-long," and Bill loped away, closely
watched by Shorty Allen from the corral. And after an interval, Shorty
mounted and swung out of the other gate of the corral and rode along the
bottom of an arroyo until he felt it was safe to follow Bill's trail.
When Shorty turned back he was almost to town, and he would not have
been pleased had he known that Bill knew of the trailing for the last
ten miles. Bill had doubled back and was within a hundred yards of
Shorty when that person turned ranchward.
"Huh! I must be popular," grunted Bill. "I reckon I will stay in Clay
Gulch till t'morrow mornin'; an' at the Victoria," he grinned. Then he
laughed heartily. "Victoria! I got a better name for it than that, all
right."
When he pulled up before the Victoria and looked in the proprietor
scowled at him, which made Bill frown as he went on to Hawley's. Putting
his horse in the corral he carried his saddle and rifle into the barroom
and looked around. There was no one in sight, and he smiled. Putting
the saddle and rifle back in one corner under the bar and covering them
with gunny sacks he strolled to the Victoria and entered through the
rear door. The proprietor reached for his gun but reconsidered in time
and picked up a glass, which he polished with exaggerated care. There
was something about the stranger that obtruded upon his peace of mind
and confidence. He would let some one else try the stranger out.
Bill walked slowly forward, by force of will ironing out the humor in
his face and assuming his sternest expression. "I want supper an' a
bed, an' don't forget to be plumb polite," he rumbled, sitting down by
the side of a small table in such a manner that it did not in the least
interfere with the movement of his right hand. The observing proprietor
observed and gave strict attention to the preparation of the meal. The
gun-man, glancing around, slowly arose and walked carelessly to a chair
that had blank wall behind it, and from where he could watch windows and
doors.
When the meal was placed before him he glanced up. "Go over there an'
sit down," he ordered, motioning to a chair that stood close to the
rifle that leaned against the wall. "Loaded?" he demanded. The
proprietor could only nod. "Then sling it acrost yore knees an' keep
still. Well, start movin'."
The proprietor walked as though he were in a trance but when he seated
himself and reached for the weapon a sudden flash of understanding
illumined him and caused cold sweat to bead upon his wrinkled brow. He
put the weapon down again, but the noise made Bill look up.
"Acrost yore knees," growled the puncher, and the proprietor hastily
obeyed, but when it touched his legs he let loose of it as though it
were hot. He felt a great awe steal through his fear, for here was a
gun-man such as he had read about. This man gave him all the best of it
just to tempt him to make a break. The rifle had been in his hands, and
while it was there the gun-man was calmly eating with both hands on the
table and had not even looked up until the noise of the gun made him!
"My Gawd, 'e must be a wizard with 'em. I 'opes I don't forget!" With
the thought came a great itching of his kneecap; then his foot itched so
as to make him squirm and wear horrible expressions. Bill, chancing to
glance up carelessly, caught sight of the expressions and growled,
whereupon they became angelic. Fearing that he could no longer hold in
the laughter that tortured him, Bill arose.
"Shoulder, _arms_!" he ordered, crisply. The gun went up with trained
precision. "Been a sojer," thought Bill. "Carry, _arms_! About,
_face_! To a bedroom, _march_!" He followed, holding his sides, and
stopped before the room. "This th' best?" he demanded. "Well, it ain't
good enough for me. About, _face_! Forward, _march_! Column, _left_!
Ground, _arms_! Fall out." Tossing a coin on the floor as payment for
the supper Bill turned sharply and went out without even a backward
glance.
The proprietor wiped the perspiration from his face and walked
unsteadily to the bar, where he poured out a generous drink and gulped
it down. Peering out of the door to see if the coast was clear, he
scurried across the street and told his troubles to the harness-maker.
Bill leaned weakly against Hawley's and laughed until the tears rolled
down his cheeks. Pushing weakly from the building he returned to the
Victoria to play another joke on its proprietor. Finding it vacant he
slipped upstairs and hunted for a room to suit him. The bed was the
softest he had seen for a long time and it lured him into removing his
boots and chaps and guns, after he had propped a chair against the door
as a warning signal, and stretching out flat on his back, he prepared to
enjoy solid comfort. It was not yet dark, and as he was not sleepy he
lay there thinking over the events of the past twenty-four hours, often
laughing so hard as to shake the bed. What a reputation he would have in
the morning! The softness of the bed got in its work and he fell asleep,
for how long he did not know; but when he awakened it was dark and he
heard voices coming up from below. They came from the room he had
refused to take. One expression banished all thoughts of sleep from his
mind and he listened intently. "'Red-headed Irish gunman.' Why, they
means me! 'Make him hop into h--l.' I don't reckon I 'd do that for
anybody, even my friends."
"I tried to give 'im this room, but 'e would n't tyke it" protested the
proprietor, hurriedly. "'E says the bloody room was n't good enough for
'im, _hand_ 'e marches me out hand makes off. Likely 'e 's in
_'Awley's_."
"No, he ain't," growled a strange voice. "You 've gone an' bungled th'
whole thing."
"But I s'y I did n't, you know. I tries to give 'im this werry room,
George, but 'e would n't 'ave it. D'y think I wants 'im running haround
this blooming town? 'E 's worse nor the other, _hand_ Gawd knows 'e was
bad enough. 'E 's a cold-_blooded_ beggar, 'e is!"
"You missed yore chance," grunted the other. "Wish _I_ had that gun you
had."
"I was wishing to Gawd you did," retorted the proprietor. "It never
looked so bloody big before, d--n 'is _'ide_!"
"Well, his cayuse is in Hawley's corral," said the first speaker. "If I
ever finds Hawley kept him under cover I 'll blow his head off. Come
on; we 'll get Harris first. He ought to be gettin' close to town if he
got th' word I sent over to Tuxedo. He won't let us call him. He's a
man of his word."
"He 'll be here, all right. Fred an' Tom is watchin' his shack, an' we
better take th' other end of town--there 's no tellin' how he 'll come
in now," suggested Art Thomas. "But I wish I knowed where that cussed
gun-man is."
As they went out Bill, his chaps on and his boots in his hand, crept
down the stairs, and stopped as he neared the hall door. The proprietor
was coming back. The others were outside, going to their stations and
did not hear the choking gasp that the proprietor made as a pair of
strong hands reached out and throttled him. When he came to he was lying
face down on a bed, gagged and bound by a rope that cut into his flesh
with every movement. Bill, waiting a moment, slipped into the darkness
and was swallowed up. He was looking for Mr. Harris, and looking
eagerly.
The moon arose and bathed the dusty street and its crude shacks in
silver, cunningly and charitably hiding its ugliness; and passed on as
the skirmishing rays of the sun burst into the sky in close and eternal
pursuit. As the dawn spread swiftly and long, thin shadows sprang
across the sandy street, there arose from the dissipated darkness close
to the wall of a building an armed man, weary and slow from a tiresome
vigil. Another emerged from behind a pile of boards that faced the
marshal's abode, while down the street another crept over the edge of a
dried-out water course and swore softly as he stood up slowly to flex
away the stiffness of cramped limbs. Of vain speculation he was empty;
he had exhausted all the whys and hows long before and now only muttered
discontentedly as he reviewed the hours of fruitless waiting. And he
was uneasy; it was not like Harris to take a dare and swallow his own
threats without a struggle. He looked around apprehensively, shrugged
his shoulders and stalked behind the shacks across from the two hotels.
Another figure crept from the protection of Hawley's corral like a
slinking coyote, gun in hand and nervously alert. He was just in time
to escape the challenge that would have been hurled at him by Hawley,
himself, had that gentleman seen the skulker as he grouchily opened one
shutter and scowled sleepily at the kindling eastern sky. Mr. Hawley
was one of those who go to bed with regret and get up with remorse, and
his temper was always easily disturbed before breakfast. The skulker,
safe from the remorseful gentleman's eyes, and gun, kept close to the
building as he walked and was again fortunate, for he had passed when
Mr. Hawley strode heavily into his kitchen to curse the cold, rusty
stove, a rite he faithfully performed each morning. Across the street
George and Art Thomas walked to meet each other behind the row of shacks
and stopped near the harness shop to hold a consultation. The subject
was so interesting that for a few moments they were oblivious to all
else.
A man softly stepped to the door of the Victoria and watched the two
across the street with an expression on his face that showed his smiling
contempt for them and their kind. He was a small man, so far as
physical measurements go, but he was lithe, sinewy and compact. On his
opened vest, hanging slovenly and blinking in the growing light as if to
prepare itself for the blinding glare of midday, glinted a five-pointed
star of nickel, a lowly badge that every rural community knows and holds
in an awe far above the metal or design. Swinging low on his hip
gleamed the ivory butt of a silver-plated Colt, the one weakness that
his vanity seized upon. But under the silver and its engraving, above
and before the cracked and stained ivory handles, lay the power of a
great force; and under the casing of the marshal's small body lay a
virile manhood, strong in courage and determination. Toby Harris
watched, smilingly; he loved the dramatic and found keen enjoyment in
the situation. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a carelessly dressed
cowpuncher slouching indolently along close to the buildings on the
other side of the street with the misleading sluggishness of a panther.
The red hair, kissed by the slanting rays of the sun where it showed
beneath the soiled sombrero, seemed to be a flaming warning; the
half-closed eyes, squinting under the brim of the big hat, missed
nothing as they darted from point to point.
The marshal stepped silently to the porch and then on to the ground, his
back to the rear of the hotel, waiting to be discovered. He had been in
sight perhaps a minute. The cowpuncher made a sudden, eye-baffling
movement and smoke whirled about his hips. Fred, turning the corner
behind the marshal, dropped his gun with a scream of rage and pain and
crashed against the window in sudden sickness, his gunhand hanging by a
tendon from his wrist. The marshal stepped quickly forward at the shot
and for an instant gazed deeply into the eyes of the startled rustlers.
Then his Colt leaped out and crashed a fraction of a second before the
brothers fired. George Thomas reeled, caught sight of the puncher and
fired by instinct. Bill, leaving Harris to watch the other side of the
street, was watching the rear corner of the Victoria and was unprepared
for the shot. He crumpled and dropped and then the marshal, enraged,
ended the rustler's earthly career in a stream of flame and smoke. Tom,
turning into the street further down, wheeled and dashed for his horse,
and Art, having leaped behind the harness shop, turned and fled for his
life. He had nearly reached his horse and was going at top speed with
great leaps when the prostrate man in the street, raising on his elbow,
emptied his gun after him, the five shots sounding almost as one. Art
Thomas arose convulsively, steadied himself and managed to gain the
saddle. Harris looked hastily down the street and saw a cloud of dust
racing northward, and grunted. "Let them go--_they_ won't never come
back no more." Running to the cowpuncher he raised him after a hurried
examination of the wounded thigh. "Hop along, Cassidy," he smiled in
encouragement. "You 'll be a better man with one good laig than th'
whole gang was all put together."
The puncher smiled faintly as Hawley, running to them, helped him toward
his hotel. "Th' bone is plumb smashed. I reckon I 'll hop along
through life. It 'll be hop along, for me, all right. That's _my_
name, all right. Huh! Hopalong Cassidy! But I didn't hop into h--l,
did I, Harris?" he grinned bravely.
And thus was born a nickname that found honor and fame in the
cow-country--a name that stood for loyalty, courage and most amazing
gun-play. I have Red's word for this, and the endorsement of those who
knew him at the time. And from this on, up to the time he died, and
after, we will forsake "Bill" and speak of him as Hopalong Cassidy, a
cowpuncher who lived and worked in the days when the West was wild and
rough and lawless; and who, like others, through the medium of the only
court at hand, Judge Colt, enforced justice as he believed it should be
enforced.
VII
"DEALING THE ODD"
Faro-bank is an expensive game when luck turns a cold shoulder on any
player, and "going broke" is as easy as ruffling a deck. When a man
finds he has two dollars left out of more than two months' pay and that
it has taken him less than thirty minutes to get down to that mark, he
cannot be censored much if he rails at that Will-o'-the-wisp, the
Goddess of Luck. Put him a good ten days' ride from home, acquaintances
and money and perhaps he will be justified in adding heat in plenty to
his denunciation. He had played to win when he should have coppered,
coppered when he should have played to win, he had backed both ends
against the middle and played the high card as well--but only when his
bets were small did the turn show him what he wanted to see. Perhaps
the case-keeper had hoodooed him, for he never did have any luck at
cards when a tow-headed man had a finger in the game.
Fuming impotently at his helplessness, a man limped across the main
street in Colby, constrained and a little awkward in his new store
clothes and new, squeaking boots that were clumsy with stiffness. The
only things on him that he could regard as old and tried friends were
the battered sombrero and the heavy, walnut-handled Colt's .45 which
rubbed comfortably with each movement of his thigh. The weapon, to be
sure, had a ready cash value--but he could not afford to part with it.
The horse belonged to his ranch, and the saddle must not be sold; to
part with it would be to lose his mark of caste and become a walking
man, which all good punchers despised.
"Ten days from home, knowin' nobody, two measly dollars in my pocket,
an' luck dead agin me," he growled with pugnacious pessimism. "Oh, I 'm
a wise old bird, I am! A h--l of a wise bird. Real smart an' cute an'
shiny, a cache of wisdom, a real, bonyfied Smart Aleck with a head full
of spavined brains. I copper th' deuce an' th' deuce wins; I play th'
King to win for ten dollars when I ought to copper it. I lay two-bits
and it comes right--ten dollars an' I see my guess go _loco_. Reckon I
better slip these here twin bucks down in my kill-me-soon boots afore
some blind papoose takes 'em away from me. Wiser 'n Solomon, I am; I
've got old Caesar climbin' a cactus for pleasure an' joy. S-u-c-k-e-r
is my middle name--an' I 'm busted."
He almost stumbled over a little tray of a three-legged table on the
corner of the street and his face went hard as he saw the layout. Three
halves of English walnut shells lay on the faded and soiled green cloth
and a blackened, shriveled pea was still rolling from the shaking he had
given the table. He stopped and regarded it gravely, jingling his two
dollars disconsolately. "Don't this town do nothin' else besides
gamble?" he muttered, looking around.
"Howd'y, stranger!" cheerfully cried a man who hastened up. "Want to
see me fool you?"
The puncher's anger was aroused to a thin, licking flame; but it passed
swiftly and a cold, calculating look came into his eyes. He glanced
around swiftly, trying to locate the cappers, but they were not to be
seen, which worried him a little. He always liked to have possible
danger where he could keep an eye on it. Perhaps they were eating or
drinking--the thought stirred him again to anger: two dollars would not
feed him very long, nor quench his thirst.
"Pick it out, stranger," invited the proprietor, idly shifting the
shells. "It's easy if yo 're right smart--but lots of folks just can't
do it; they can't seem to get th' hang of it, somehow. That's why it's a
bettin' proposition. Here it is, right before yore eyes! One little
pea, three little shells, right here plumb in front of yore eyes! Th'
little pea hides under one of th' little shells, right in plain sight:
But can you tell which one? That's th' whole game, right there. See how
it's done?" and the three little shells moved swiftly but clumsily and
the little pea disappeared. "Now, then; where would _you_ say it was?"
demanded the hopeful operator, genially.
The puncher gripped his two dollars firmly, shifted his weight as much
as possible on his sound leg, and scowled: he knew where it was. "Do I
look like a kid? Do you reckon you have to coax like a fool to get me
all primed up to show how re-markably smart an' quick I am? You don't;
I know how smart I am. Say, you ain't, not by any kinda miracle, a blind
papoose, are you?" he demanded.
"What you mean?" asked the other, smiling as he waited for the joke. It
did not come, so he continued. "Don't take no harm in my fool
wind-jammin', stranger. It's in th' game. It's a habit; I 've said it
so much I just can't help it no more--I up an' says it at a funeral
once; that is, part of it--th' first part. That's dead right! But I
reckon I 'm wastin' my time--unless you happen to feel coltish an'
hain't got nothin' to do for an age. I 've been playin' in hard luck
th' last week or so--you see, I ain't as good as I uster be. I ain't
quite so quick, an' a little bit off my quickness is a whole lot off my
chances. But th' game's square--an' that's a good deal more'n you can
say about most of 'em."
The puncher hesitated, a grin flickering about his thin lips and a calm
joy warming him comfortably. He knew the operator. He knew that face,
the peculiar, crescent-shaped scar over one brow, and the big, blue eyes
that years of life had not entirely robbed of their baby-like innocence.
The past, sorted thoroughly and quickly by his memory, shoved out that
face before a crowd of others. Five years is not a long time to
remember something unpleasant; he had reasons to remember that
countenance. Knowing the face he also knew that the man had been, at
one time, far from "square." The associations and means of livelihood
during the past five years, judging from the man's present occupation,
had not been the kind to correct any evil tendency. He laid a
forefinger on the edge of the tray. "Start th' machinery--I 'll risk a
couple of dollars, anyhow. That ain't much to lose. I bet two dollars
I can call it right," he said, watching closely.
He won, as he knew he would; and the result told him that the gambler
had not reformed. The dexterous fingers shifting the shells were slower
than others he had seen operate and when he had won again he stopped, as
if to leave. "When I hit town a short time ago I didn't know I 'd be so
lucky. I went an' drawed two months' pay when I left th' ranch: I shore
don't need it. Shuffle 'em again--it's yore money, anyhow," he laughed.
"You should 'a' quit th' game before you got so slow."
"Goin' back to work purty soon?" queried the shell-man, wondering how
much this "sucker" had left unspent.
"Not me! I 've only just had a couple of drinks since I hit town--an'
_I_ 'm due to celebrate."
The other's face gave no hint of his thoughts, which were that the fool
before him had about a hundred dollars on his person. "Well, luck's
with you today--you 've called it right twice. I 'll bet you a cool
hundred that you can't call it th' third time. It's th' quickness of my
hands agin yore eyes--an' you can't beat me three straight. Make it a
hundred? I hate to play all day."
"I 'll lay you my winnings an' have some more of yore money," replied
the puncher, feverishly. "Ain't scared, are you?"
"Don't know what it means to be scared," laughed the other. "But I
ain't got no small change, nothin' but tens. Play a hundred an' let's
have some real excitement."
"Nope; eight or nothin'."
He won again. "Now, sixteen even. Come on; I 've got you beat."
"But what's th' use of stringin' 'long like that?" demanded the
shell-man.
"Gimme a chance to get my hand in, won't you?" retorted the puncher.
"Well, all right," replied the gambler, and he lost the sixteen.
"Now thirty," suggested the puncher. "Next time all I 've got, every
red cent. Once more to practice--then every red," he repeated, shifting
his feet nervously. "I 'll clean you out an' have a real, genuine
blow-out on yore money. Come on, I 'm in a hurry."
"I 'll fool you _this_ time, by th' Lord!" swore the gambler, angrily.
"You've got more luck than sense. An' I 'll fool you next time, too. Yo
're quicker 'n most men I 've run up agin, but I can beat you, shore as
shootin'. Th' game's square, th' play fair--my hand agin yore eye.
Ready? Then watch me!"
He swore luridly and shoved the money across the board to the winner,
bewailing his slowness and getting angrier every moment. "Yo 're th'
cussedest man I ever bet agin! But I'll get you _this_ time. You can't
guess right all th' time, an' I know it."
"There she is; sixty-two bucks, three score an' two simoleons; all I 've
got, every cent. Let's see you take it away from me!"
The gambler frowned and choked back a curse. He had risked sixty
dollars to win two, and the fact that he had to let this fool play again
with the fire hurt his pride. He had no fear for his money--he knew he
could win at every throw--but to play that long for two dollars! And
suppose the sucker had quit with the sixty!
"Do you get a dollar a month?" he demanded, sarcastically. "Well, I
reckon you earn it, at that. Thought you had money, thought you drew
down two months' pay an' hain't had nothin' more'n two drinks? Did you
go an' lose it on th' way?"
"Oh, I drew it a month ago," replied the sucker, surprised. "I 've only
had two drinks in this town, which I hit 'bout an hour ago. But I shore
lost a wad playin' faro-bank agin a towhead. Come on--lemme take sixty
more of yore money, anyhow."
"Sixty-_two_!" snapped the proprietor, determined to have those two
miserable dollars and break the sucker for revenge. "Every cent, you
remember."
"_All_ right; I don't care! I ain't no tin-horn," grumbled the other.
"Think I care 'bout two dollars?" But he appeared to be very nervous,
nevertheless.
"Well, put it on th' table."
"After you put yourn down."
"There it is. Now watch me close!" A gleam of joy flashed up in the
angry man's eyes as he played with the shells. "Watch me close! Mebby
it is, an' mebby it ain't--th' game's square, th' play 's fair. It's my
hand agin yore eye. Watch me close!"
"Oh, go ahead! I'm watchin', all right. Think I 'd go to sleep now!"
The shifting hands stopped, the shells lay quiet, and the gambler gazed
blankly down the unsympathetic barrel of a Colt.
"Now, Thomas, old thimble-rigger," crisply remarked the supposed sucker
as he cautiously slid the money off the table, to be picked up later
when conditions would be more favorable. "Th' little pea ain't under
_no_ shell. _Stop_! Step back one pace an' elevate them paws. Don't
make no more funny motions with that hand, savvy? But you can drop th'
pea if it hurts them two fingers. Now we 'll see if I win; I allus like
to be shore," and he cautiously turned over the shells, revealing
nothing but the dirty green cloth. "I win; it ain't there--just like I
thought."
"Who are you, an' how 'd you know my name?" demanded the gambler,
mentally cursing his two missing cappers. They were drinking once too
often and things were going to happen in their vicinity, and very soon.
"Why, you took twenty-five dollars from me up in Alameda onct, when I
could n't afford to lose it," grinned the puncher. "I was something of
a kid then. I remember you, all right. My foreman told me about yore
bang-up fight agin th' Johnson brothers, who gave you that scar. I
thought then that you were a great man--now I know you ain't. I would
n't 'a' played at all if I had n't knowed how crooked you was. Take yore
layout an' yore crookedness, find th' pea an' yore cappers, an' clear
out. An' if anybody asks you if you 've seen Hopalong Cassidy you tell
'em I 'm up here in Colby makin' some easy money beatin' crooked games.
So-long, an' _don't_ look back!"
Hopalong watched him go and then went to the nearest place where he
could get something to eat. In due time, having disposed of a square
meal, Hopalong called for a drink and a cigar, and sat quietly smoking
for nearly half an hour, so lost in thought that his cigar went out
repeatedly. As he reviewed his disastrous play at faro many small
details came to him and now he found them interesting. The dealer was
not a master at his trade and Hopalong had seen many better; in fact the
man was not even second class, and this fact hurt his pride. He had
played a careful game, and the great majority of his small bets had
won--it was only when he risked twenty or thirty dollars that he lost.
The only big bet that he had been at all lucky on was one where doubles
showed on the turn and he had been split, losing half of his stake. But
when he had played his last fifty dollars on the Jack, open, the final
blow fell and he had left the table in disgust.
Why weren't there cue-cards, so the players could keep their own tally
of the cards instead of having to depend on the cue-box kept by the
case-keeper? This made him suspicious; a crooked dealer and case-keeper
can trim a big bet at will, unless the players keep their own cases or
are exceptionally wise; and even then a really good dealer will get away
with his play nine times out of ten. While he seldom played a system,
he had backed one that morning; but he was cured of that weakness now.
If the game were square he figured he could get at least an even break;
if crooked, nothing but a gun could beat it, and he had a very good gun.
When he thought of the gun, he reviewed the arrangement of the room and
estimated the weight of the rough, deal table on which rested the faro
layout. He smiled and turned to the bartender. "Hey, barkeeper! Got
any paper an' a pencil?"
After some rummaging the taciturn dispenser of liquid forget-it produced
the articles in question and Hopalong, drawing some hurried lines, paid
his bill, treated, kept the pencil and headed for the faro game across
the street.
When he entered the room the table was deserted and he nodded to the
dealer as he seated himself at the right of the case-keeper, who now
took his place, and opposite the dealer and the lookout. He was not
surprised to find no other players in the room, for the hour was wrong;
later in the afternoon there would be many and at night the place would
be crowded. This suited him perfectly and he settled himself to begin
playing.
When the deck was shuffled and placed in the deal box Hopalong put his
ruled paper in front of him on the table, tallied once against the King
for the soda card and started to play quarters and half dollars. He
caught the fugitive look that passed between the men as they saw his
cue-card but he gave no sign of having observed it. After that he never
looked up from the cards while his bets were small. Two deals did not
alter his money much and he knew that so far the game was straight. If
it were not to remain straight the crookedness would not come more than
once in a deal if the frame-up was "single-odd" and then not until the
bet was large enough to practically break him. His high-card play ran
in his favor and kept him gradually drawing ahead. He lost twice in
calling the last turn and guessed it right once, at four to one, which
made him win in that department of the game.
When the fifth deal began he was quite a little ahead and his play
became bolder, some of the bets going as high as ten dollars. He broke
even and then played heavier on the following deal. His first high bet,
twenty dollars, was on the eight, open, only one eight having shown.
Double eights showed on the next turn and he was split, losing half the
stake.
It was about this time that the look-out discovered that Mr. Cassidy was
getting a little excited and several times had nearly forgotten to keep
his cases. This information was cautiously passed to the dealer and
case-keeper and from then on they evinced a little more interest in the
game. Finally the player, after studying his cue-card, placed fifty
dollars on the Queen, open, and coppered the deuce, a case-card, and
then put ten more on the high card. This came in the middle of the game
and he was prepared for trouble as the turn was made, but fortune was
kind to him and he raked in sixty dollars. He was mildly surprised that
he had won, but explained it to himself by thinking that the stakes were
not yet high enough. From then on he was keenly alert, for the
crookedness would come soon if it ever did, but he strung small sums on
the next dozen turns and waited for a new deal before plunging.
As the dealer shuffled the cards the door opened and closed noisily and
a surprised and doubting voice exclaimed: "Ain't you Hopalong Cassidy?
Cassidy, of th' Bar-20?"
Hopalong glanced up swiftly and back to the cards again: "Yes; what of
it?"
"Oh, nothin'. I saw you onct an' I wondered if I was right."
"Ain't got time now; see you later, mebby. You might stick around
outside so I can borrow some money if I go broke." The man who knew Mr.
Cassidy silently faded, but did not stick around, thereby proving that
the player knew human nature and also how to get rid of a pest.
When the dealer heard the name he glanced keenly at the owner of it,
exchanged significant looks with the case-keeper and faltered for an
instant as he shoved the cards together. He was not sure that he had
shuffled them right, and an anxious look came into his eyes as he
realized that the deal must go on. It was far from reassuring to set
out to cheat a man so well known for expert short-gun work as the Bar-20
puncher and he wished he could be relieved. There was no other dealer
around at that time of the day and he had to go through with it. He did
not dare to shuffle again and chance losing the card beyond hope, and
for the reason that the player was watching him like a hawk.
A ten lay face up on the deck and Hopalong, tallying against it on his
sheet, began to play small sums. Luck was variable and remained so
until the first twenty dollar bet, when he reached out excitedly and
raked in his winnings, his coat sleeve at the same time brushing the
cue-card off the table. But he had forgotten all about the tally sheet
in his eagerness to win and played several more cards before he noticed
it was missing and sought for it. Smothering a curse he glanced at the
case-keeper's tally and went on with the play. He did not see the look
of relief that showed momentarily on the faces of the dealer and his
associates, but he guessed it.
He had no use for cue-cards when he felt like doing without them; he
liked to see them in use by the players because it showed the game to be
more or less straight, and it also saved him from over-heating his
memory. When he had brushed his tally sheet off the table he knew what
he was doing, and he knew every card that had been drawn out of the box.
So far he had seen no signs of cheating and he wished to give the dealer
a chance. There should now remain in the deal box three cards, a deuce,
five and a four, with a Queen in sight as the last winner. He knew this
to be true because he had given all his attention to memorizing the
cards as they showed in the deal box, and had made his bets small so he
would not have to bother about them. As he had lost three times on a
four he now believed it was due to win.
Taking all his money he placed it on the four: "Two hundred and seventy
on th' four to win," he remarked, crisply.
The dealer sniffed almost inaudibly and the case-keeper prepared to
cover him on the cue-rack under cover of the excitement of the turn. If
the four lay under the Queen, Cassidy lost; if not he either won or was
in hock. The dealer was unusually grave as he grasped the deal box to
make the turn and as the Queen slid off a five-spot showed.
The dealer's hand trembled as he slid the five off, showing a four, and
a winner for Hopalong. He went white--he had bungled the shuffle in his
indecision and now he did n't know what might develop. And in his
agitation he exposed the hock card before he realized what he was doing,
and showed another five. He had made the mistake of showing the "odd."
Hopalong, ready for trouble, was more prepared than the others and he
was well under way before they started. His left hand swung hard
against the case-keeper's jaw, his Colt roared at the drawing bartender,
crumpling the trouble-hunter into a heap on the floor dazed from shock
of a ball that "creased" his head. He had done this as he sprang to his
feet and his left hand, dropping swiftly to the heavy table, threw it
over onto the lookout and the dealer at the instant their hands found
their guns. Caught off their balance they went down under it and before
they could move sufficiently to do any damage, Hopalong vaulted the
table and kicked their guns out of their hands. When they realized just
what had happened a still-smoking Colt covered them. Many of Hopalong's
most successful and spectacular plays had been less carefully thought
out beforehand than this one and he laughed sneeringly as he looked at
the men who had been so greedy as to try to clean him out the second
time.
"Get up!" he snarled.
They crawled out of their trap and sullenly obeyed his hand, backing
against the wall. The case-keeper was still unconscious and Hopalong,
disarming him, dragged him to the wall with the others.
"I wondered where that deuce had crawled to," Mr. Cassidy remarked,
grimly, "an' I was goin' to see, only it's plain now. I knowed you was
clumsy, but my G--d! Any man as can't deal 'single-odd' ought to quit
th' business, or play straight. So you had five fives agin me, eh?
Instead of keepin' th' five under th' Queen, you bungled th' deuce in
its place. When you went to pull off th' Queen an' five like they was
one card, you had th' deuce under her. You see, I keep cases in my old
red head an' I did n't have to believe what th' cue-rack was all fixed
to show me. An' I was waitin', all ready for th' play that 'd make me
lose.
"As long as this deal was framed up, we 'll say it was this mornin'.
You cough up th' hundred an' ten I lost then, an' another hundred an'
ten that I 'd won if it was n't crooked. An' don't forget that
two-seventy I just pulled down, neither. Make it in double eagles an'
don't be slow 'bout it. Money or lead--with _you_ callin' th' turn."
It was not a very large amount and it took only a moment to count it
out. The eleven double eagles representing the mornin's play seemed to
slide from the dealer's hand with reluctance--but a man lives only once,
and they slid without stopping.
The winner, taking the money, picked up the last money he had bet and,
distributing it over his person to equalize the weight, gathered up the
guns from the floor. Backing toward the door he noticed that the
bartender moved and a keen glance at that unfortunate assured him that
he would live.
When he reached the door he stopped a moment to ask a question, the
tenseness of his expression relaxing into a broad, apologetic grin.
"Would you mind tellin' me where I can find some more frame-ups? I
shore can use th' money."
The mumbled replies mentioned a locality not to be found on any map of
the surface of the globe, and grinning still more broadly, Mr. Cassidy
side-stepped and disappeared to find his horse and go on his way
rejoicing.
VIII
THE NORTHER
Johnny knew I had a notebook crammed with the stories his friends had
told me; but Johnny, being a wise youth, also knew that there was always
room for one more. Perhaps that explains his sarcasm, for, as he calmly
turned his back on his fuming friend, he winked at me and sauntered off,
whistling cheerfully.
Red spread his feet apart, jammed his fists against his thighs and
stared after the youngster. His expression was a study and his open
mouth struggled for a retort, but in vain. After a moment he shook his
head and slowly turned to me. "Hear th' fool? He 's from _Idyho_, he
is. It never gets cold nowhere else on earth. Ain't it terrible to be
so ignorant?" He glanced at the bunkhouse, into which Johnny had gone
for dry clothing. "So I ain't never seen no cold weather?" he mused
thoughtfully. Snapping his fingers irritably, he wheeled toward the
corral. "I 'm goin' down to look at th' dam--there 's been lots of
water leanin' ag'in it th' last week. Throw th' leather on Saint, if
you wants, an' come along. I 'll tell you about some cold weather that
had th' _Idyho_ brand faded. _Cold_ weather! Huh!"
As he swung past the bunkhouse we saw Johnny and Billy Jordan leaning in
the doorway ragging each other, as cubs will. Johnny grinned at Red and
executed a one-hand phrase of the sign language that is universally
known, which Red returned with a chuckle.
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