Bar-20 Days by Clarence E. Mulford (best black authors TXT) đ
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BAR-20 DAYS
BY
CLARENCE E. MULFORD
AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED TO âM. D.â
BAR-20 DAYS
Two tired but happy punchers rode into the coast town and dismounted in front of the best hotel. Putting up their horses as quickly as possible they made arrangements for sleeping quarters and then hastened out to attend to business. Buck had been kind to delegate this mission to them and they would feel free to enjoy what pleasures the town might afford. While at that time the city was not what it is now, nevertheless it was capable of satisfying what demands might be made upon it by two very active and zealous cow-punchers. Their first experience began as they left the hotel.
âHey, you cow-wrastlers!â said a not unpleasant voice, and they turned suspiciously as it continued: âYouâve shore got to hang up them guns with the hotel clerk while you cavorts around on this range. This is fence country.â
They regarded the speakerâs smiling face and twinkling eyes and laughed. âWell, yoâre the foreman if you owns that badge,â grinned Hopalong, cheerfully. âWe donât need no guns, nohow, in this town, we donât. Plumb forgot we was toting them. But mebby you can tell us where lawyer Jeremiah T. Jones grazes in daylight?â
âRight over yonder, second floor,â replied the marshal. âAnâ come to think of it, mebby you better leave most of yore cash with the gunsâ somebodyâll take it away from you if you donât. Itâd be an awful temptation, anâ flesh is weak.â
âHuh!â laughed Johnny, moving back into the hotel to leave his gun, closely followed by Hopalong. âAnybody that can turn that little trick on me anâ Hoppy will shore earn every red cent; why, weâve been to Kansas City!â
As they emerged again Johnny slapped his pocket, from which sounded a musical jingling. âIf them weak people try anything on us, we may come between them and their money!â he boasted.
âFrom the bottom of my heart I pity you,â called the marshal, watching them depart, a broad smile illuminating his face. âIn about twenty-four hours theyâll put up a holler for me to go git it back for âem,â he muttered. âAnâ I almost believe Iâll do it, too. I ainât never seen none of that breed what ever left a town without empty pockets anâ aching headsâanâ the smarter they think they are the easier they fall.â A fleeting expression of discontent clouded the smile, for the lure of the open range is hard to resist when once a man has ridden free under its sky and watched its stars. âAnâ I wish I was one of âem again,â he muttered, sauntering on.
Jeremiah T. Jones, Esq., was busy when his door opened, but he leaned back in his chair and smiled pleasantly at their bow-legged entry, waving them towards two chairs. Hopalong hung his sombrero on a letter press and tipped his chair back against the wall; Johnny hung grimly to his hat, sat stiffly upright until he noticed his companionâs pose, and then, deciding that everything was all right, and that Hopalong was better up in etiquette than himself, pitched his sombrero dexterously over the water pitcher and also leaned against the wall. Nobody could lose him when it came to doing the right thing.
âWell, gentlemen, you look tired and thirsty. This is considered good for all human ailments of whatsoever nature, degree, or wheresoever located, in part or entirety, ab initio,â Mr. Jones remarked, filling glasses. There was no argument and when the glasses were empty, he continued: âNow what can I do for you? From the Bar-20? Ah, yes; I was expecting you. Weâll get right at it,â and they did. Half an hour later they emerged on the street, free to take in the town, or to have the town take them in,âwhich was usually the case.
âWhat was that he said for us to keep away from?â asked Johnny with keen interest.
âSh! Not so loud,â chuckled Hopalong, winking prodigiously.
Johnny pulled tentatively at his upper lip but before he could reply his companion had accosted a stranger.
âFriend, weâre pilgrims in a strange land, anâ we donïżœt know the trails. Can you tell us where the docks are?â
âCertainly; glad to. Youâll find them at the end of this street,â and he smilingly waved them towards the section of the town which Jeremiah T. Jones had specifically and earnestly warned them to avoid.
âWonder if youâre as thirsty as me?â solicitously inquired Hopalong of his companion.
âI was just wondering the same,â replied Johnny. âSay,â he confided in a lower voice, âblamed if I donât feel sort of lost without that Colt. Every time I lifts my right laig she goes too highâdonât feel natural, nohow.â
âSame here; Iâm allus feeling to see if I lost it,â Hopalong responded. âThere ainât no rubbing, no weight, nor nothing.â
âWish I had something to put in its place, blamed if I donât.â
âWhy, now yoâre talkingâmebby we can buy something,â grinned Hopalong, happily. âHereâs a hardware storeâcome on in.â
The clerk looked up and laid aside his novel. âGood-morning, gentlemen; what can I do for you? Weâve just got in some fine new rifles,â he suggested.
The customers exchanged looks and it was Hopalong who first found his voice. âNope, donât want no rifles,â he replied, glancing around. âTo tell the truth, I donât know just what we do want, but we want something, all rightâgot to have it. Itâs a funny thing, come to think of it; I canât never pass a hardware store without going in anâ buying something. Iâve been told my father was the same way, so I must inherit it. Itâs the same with my pardner, here, only he gets his weakness from his whole family, and itâs different from mine. He canât pass a saloon without going in anâ buying something.â
âYoâre a cheerful liar, anâ you know it,â retorted Johnny. âYou know the reason why I goes in saloons so muchâyouâd never leave âem if I didnât drag you out. He inherits that weakness from his grandfather, twice removed,â he confided to the astonished clerk, whose expression didnât know what to express.
âLetâs see: a saw?â soliloquized Hopalong. âNope; got lots of âem, anâ theyâre all genuine Colts,â he mused thoughtfully. âAxe? Nails? Augurs? Corkscrews? Can we use a corkscrew, Johnny? Ah, thought Iâd wake you up. Now, what was it Cookie said for us to bring him? Bacon? Got any bacon? Too badâoh, donât apologize; itâs all right. Cold chiselsâthatâs the thing if you ainât got no bacon. Let me see a three-pound cold chisel about as big as that,ââextending a huge and crooked forefinger,ââanâ with a big bulge at one end. Straight in the middle, circling off into a three-cornered wavy edge on the other side. What? Look here! You canât tell us nothing about saloons that we donât know. I want a three-pound cold chisel, any kind, so itâs cold.â
Johnny nudged him. âHow about them wedges?â
âTwenty-five cents a pound,â explained the clerk, groping for his bearings.
âThey might do,â Hopalong muttered, forcing the article mentioned into his holster. âWhy, theyâre quite hocus-pocus. You take the brother to mine, Johnny.â
âFeels good, but I dunno,â his companion muttered. âLittle wide at the sharp end. Hey, got any loose shot?â he suddenly asked, whereat Hopalong beamed and the clerk gasped. It didnât seem to matter whether they bought bacon, cold chisels, wedges, or shot; yet they looked sober.
âYes, sir; what size?â
âThree pounds of shot, I said!â Johnny rumbled in his throat. âNever mind what size.â
âWe never care about size when we buy shot,â Hopalong smiled. âBut, Johnny, wouldnât them little screws be better?â he asked, pointing eagerly.
âMebby; reckon we better get âem mixedâhalf of each,â Johnny gravely replied. âAnyhow, there ainât much difference.â
The clerk had been behind that counter for four years, and executing and filling orders had become a habit with him; else he would have given them six pounds of cold chisels and corkscrews, mixed. His mouth was still open when he weighed out the screws.
âMix âem! Mix âem!â roared Hopalong, and the stunned clerk complied, and charged them for the whole purchase at the rate set down for screws.
Hopalong started to pour his purchase into the holster which, being open at the bottom, gayly passed the first instalment through to the floor. He stopped and looked appealingly at Johnny, and Johnny, in pain from holding back screams of laughter, looked at him indignantly. Then a guileless smile crept over Hopalongâs face and he stopped the opening with a wad of wrapping paper and disposed of the shot and screws, Johnny following his laudable example. After haggling a moment over the bill they paid it and walked out, to the apparent joy of the clerk.
âDonât laugh, Kid; youâll spoil it all,â warned Hopalong, as he noted signs of distress on his companionâs face. âNow, then; what was it we said about thirst? Come on; I see one already.â
Having entered the saloon and ordered, Hopalong beamed upon the bartender and shoved his glass back again. âOne more, kind stranger; itâs good stuff.â
âYes, feels like a shore-enough gun,â remarked Johnny, combining two thoughts in one expression, which is brevity.
The bartender looked at him quickly and then stood quite still and listened, a puzzled expression on his face.
Ticâtickety-tickâtic-tic, came strange sounds from the other side of the bar. Hopalong was intently studying a chromo on the wall and Johnny gazed vacantly out of the window.
âWhatâs that? What in the deuce is that?â quickly demanded the man with the apron, swiftly reaching for his bung-starter.
Tickety-tic-tic-tic-tic-tic, the noise went on, and Hopalong, slowly rolling his eyes, looked at the floor. A screw rebounded and struck his foot, while shot were rolling recklessly.
âThemâs making the noise,â Johnny explained after critical survey.
âHang it! I knowed we ought to âaâ got them wedges!â Hopalong exclaimed, petulantly, closing the bottom of the sheath. âWhy, I wonât have no gun left soon âless I holds it in.â The complaint was plaintive.
âMust be filtering through the stopper,â Johnny remarked. âBut donât it sound nice, especially when it hits that brass cuspidor!â
The bartender, grasping the mallet even more firmly, arose on his toes and peered over the bar, not quite sure of what he might discover. He had read of infernal machines although he had never seen one. âWhat the blazes!â he exclaimed in almost a whisper; and then his face went hard. âYou get out of here, quick! Youâve had too much already! Iâve seen drunks, butâ Gâwan! Get out!â
âBut we ainât begun yet,â Hopalong interposed hastily. âYou seeââ
âNever mind what I see! Iâd hate to see what youâll be seeing before long. God help you when you finish!â rather impolitely interrupted the bartender. He waved the mallet and made for the end of the counter with no hesitancy and lots of purpose in his stride. âGâwan, now! Get out!â
âCome on, Johnny; Iâd shoot him only we didnât put no powder with the shot,â Hopalong remarked sadly, leading the way out of the saloon and towards the hardware store.
âYou better get out!â shouted the man with the mallet, waving the weapon defiantly. âAnâ donât you never come back again, neither,â he warned.
âHey, it leaked,â Hopalong said pleasantly
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