Bar-20 by Clarence E. Mulford (black books to read .TXT) 📖

CHAPTER I

BUCKSKIN

 

The town lay sprawled over half a square

mile of alkali plain, its main Street depressing in its width, for those who were

responsible for its inception had worked with a generosity born of the knowledge that

they had at their immediate and unchallenged disposal the broad lands of Texas and New

Mexico on which to assemble a grand total of twenty buildings, four of which were of

wood. As this material was scarce, and had to be brought from where the waters of the

Gulf lapped against the flat coast, the last-mentioned buildings were a matter of local

pride, as indicating the progressiveness of their owners. These creations of hammer and

saw were of one story, crude and unpainted; their

cheap weather sheathing, warped and shrunken by the pitiless sun, curled back on itself

and allowed unrestricted entrance to alkali dust and air. The other shacks were of adobe,

and reposed in that magnificent squalor dear to their owners, Indians and Mexicans.

 

It was an incident of the Cattle Trail, that most unique and stupendous of all

modern migrations, and its founders must have been inspired with a malicious desire to

perpetrate a crime against geography, or else they reveled in a perverse cussedness, for

within a mile on every side lay broad prairies, and two miles to the east flowed the

indolent waters of the Rio Pecos itself. The distance separating the town from the river

was excusable, for at certain seasons of the year the placid stream swelled mightily and

swept down in a broad expanse of turbulent, yellow flood.

 

Buckskin was a town of one hundred inhabitants, located in the valley of the Rio

Pecos fifty miles south of the Texas-New Mexico line. The census claimed two hundred,

but it was a well-known fact that it was exaggerated. One instance of this is shown by the

name of Tom Flynn. Those who once knew Tom Flynn, alias Johnny Redmond, alias Bill

Sweeney, alias Chuck Mullen, by all four names, could find them in the census list.

 

Furthermore, he had been shot and killed in the March of the year preceding the census,

and now occupied a grave in the young but flourishing cemetery. Perry’s Bend, twenty

miles up the river, was cognizant of this and other facts, and, laughing in open derision at

the padded list, claimed to be the better town in all ways, including marksmanship.

 

One year before this tale opens, Buck Peters, an example for the more recent Billy

the Kid, had paid Perry’s Bend a short but busy visit. He had ridden in at the north end of

Main Street and out at the south. As he came in he was fired at by a group of ugly

cowboys from a ranch known as the C 80. He was hit twice, but he unlimbered his

artillery, and before his horse had carried him, half dead, out on the prairie, he had killed

one of the group. Several citizens had joined the cowboys and added their bullets against

Buck. The deceased had been the best bartender in the country, and the rage of the

suffering citizens can well be imagined. They swore vengeance on Buck, his ranch, and

his stamping ground.

 

The difference between Buck and Billy the Kid is that the former never shot a

man who was not trying to shoot him, or who had not been warned by some action

against Buck that would call for it. He minded his own business, never picked a quarrel,

and was quiet and pacific up to a certain point. After that had been passed he became like

a raging cyclone in a tenement house, and storm-cellars were much in demand.

 

“Fanning” is the name of a certain style of gun play not unknown among the bad

men of the West. While Buck was not a bad man, he had to rub elbows with them

frequently, and he believed that the sauce for the goose was the sauce for the gander. So

he had removed the trigger of his revolver and worked the hammer with the thumb of the

“gun hand” or the heel of the unencumbered hand. The speed thus acquired was greater

than that of the more modern double-action weapon. Six shots in a few seconds was his

average speed when that number was required, and when it is thoroughly understood that

at least some of them found their intended bullets it is not difficult to realize that fanning

was an operation of danger when Buck was doing it.

 

He was a good rider, as all cowboys are, and was not afraid of anything that lived.

At one time he and his chums, Red Connors and Hopalong Cassidy, had successfully

routed a band of fifteen Apaches who wanted their scalps. Of these, twelve never hunted

scalps again, nor anything else on this earth, and the other three returned to their tribe

with the report that three evil Spirits had chased them with “wheel guns” (cannons).

 

So now, since his visit to Perry’s Bend, the rivalry of the two towns had turned to

hatred and an alert and eager readiness to increase the inhabitants of each other’s

graveyard. A state of war existed, which for a time resulted in nothing worse than

acrimonious suggestions. But the time came when the score was settled to the

satisfaction of one side, at least.

 

Four ranches were also concerned in the trouble. Buckskin was surrounded by

two, the Bar 20 and the Three Triangle. Perry’s Bend was the common point for the C 80

and the Double Arrow. Each of the two ranch contingents accepted the feud as a matter

of course, and as a matter of course took sides with their respective towns. As no better

class of fighters ever lived, the trouble assumed Homeric proportions and insured a

danger zone well worth watching.

 

Bar-20’s northern line was C 80’s southern one, and Skinny Thompson took his

turn at outriding one morning after the season’s round-up. He was to follow the boundary

and turn back stray cattle. When he had covered the greater part of his journey he saw

Shorty Jones riding toward him on a course parallel to his own and about long revolver

range away. Shorty and he had “crossed trails” the year before and the best of feelings did

not exist between them.

 

Shorty stopped and stared at Skinny, who did likewise at Shorty.

 

Shorty turned his mount around and applied the spurs, thereby causing his

indignant horse to raise both heels at Skinny. The latter took it all in gravely and, as

Shorty faced him again, placed his left thumb to his nose, wiggling his fingers

suggestively. Shorty took no apparent notice of this but began to shout

“Yu wants to keep yore busted-down cows on yore own side. They was all over

us day afore yisterday. I’m goin’ to salt any more what comes over, and don’t yu fergit it,

neither.”

 

Thompson wigwagged with his fingers again and shouted in reply: “Yu c’n salt all

yu wants to, but if I ketch yu adoin’ it yu won’t have to work no more. An’ I kin say right

here thet they’s more C 80 cows over here than they’s Bar-20’s over there.”

 

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

 

Among the cowboys in particular and the Westerners in general at that time, the

three suicidal terms, unless one was an expert in drawing quick and shooting straight with

one movement, were the words “liar,” “coward,” and “thief.” Any man who was called

one of these in earnest, and he was the judge, was expected to shoot if he could and save

his life, for the words were seldom used without a gun coming with them. The movement

of Shorty’s hand toward his belt before the appellation reached him was enough for

Skinny, who let go at long range-and missed.

 

The two reports were as one. Both urged their horses nearer and fired again. This

time Skinny’s sombrero gave a sharp jerk and a hole appeared in the crown. The third

shot of Skinny’s sent the horse of the other to its knees and then over on its side. Shorty

very promptly crawled behind it and, as he did so, Skinny began a wide circle, firing at

intervals as Shorty’s smoke cleared away.

 

Shorty had the best position for defense, as he was in a shallow coule, but he

knew that he could not leave it until his opponent had either grown tired of the affair or

had used up his ammunition. Skinny knew it, too. Skinny also knew that he could get

back to the ranch house and lay in a supply of food and ammunition and return before

Shorty could cover the twelve miles he had to go on foot.

 

Finally Thompson began to head for home. He had carried the matter as far as he

could without it being murder. Too much time had elapsed now, and, besides, it was

before breakfast and he was hungry. He would go away and settle the score at some time

when they would be on equal terms.

 

He rode along the line for a mile and chanced to look back. Two C 80 punchers

were riding after him, and as they saw him turn and discover them they fired at him and

yelled. He rode on for some distance and cautiously drew his rifle out of its long holster

at his right leg.

 

Suddenly he turned around in the saddle and fired twice. One of his pursuers fell

forward on the neck of his horse, and his comrade turned to help him. Thompson wigwagged again and rode on, reaching the ranch as the others were finishing their breakfast.

 

At the table Red Connors remarked that the tardy one had a hole in his sombrero,

and asked its owner how and where he had received it.

 

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

 

“Go `way! Ventilate enny?”

 

“One.”

 

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

 

Hopalong Cassidy was struggling with a mouthful of beef. He turned his eyes

toward Red without ceasing, and grinning as well as he could under the circumstances

managed to grunt out “Gu-,” which was as near to “Good” as the beef would allow.

 

Lanky Smith now chimed in as he repeatedly stuck his knife into a reluctant

boiled potato, “How’d yu do it, Skinny?”

 

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

 

“Ask nuthin’,” remarked Red, “he jest nachurly walks up to C 80 an’ sez, `Kin I

have the pleasure of ventilatin’ yu?’ an’ C So he sez, `If yu do it easy like,’ sez he. Didn’t

he, Thompson?”

 

“They’ll be some ventilatin’ under th’ table if yu fellows don’t lemme alone; I’m

hungry,” complained Skinny.

 

“Say, Hopalong, I bets yu I kin clean up C 80 all by my lonesome,” announced

Buck, winking at Red.

 

“Yah! Yu onct tried to clean up the Bend, Buckie,