Bar-20 Days by Clarence E. Mulford (best black authors TXT) đ
- Author: Clarence E. Mulford
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âSomewhat in the nature of a calamity, now ainât it?â smiled the stranger, enjoying his contributions to the success of the joke.
âYou bet yore life it is!â shouted Hopalong, growing red and then pale. âYou tell me who was leading him, understand?â
âWell, I couldnât see his face, honest I couldnât,â replied the stranger. âEvery time I tried it I was shore blinded by the most awful anâ horrible neck-kerchief Iâve ever had the hard luck to lay my eyes on. Of all the drunks I ever met, them there colors wasâ Hey! Wait a minute!â he shouted at Hopalongâs back.
âDave, gimme yore cayuse anâ a rifleâquick!â cried Hopalong from the middle of the street as he ran towards the store. âHypocrite son-of-a-hoss-thief went anâ run mine off. Might âaâ knowed nobody but a thief could wear such a kerchief!â
âIâm with you!â shouted Dave, leading the way on the run towards the corral in the rear of his store.
âNo, you ainât with me, neither!â replied Hopalong, deftly saddling. âThis ainât no plain hoss-thief caseâitâs a private grudge. See you later, mebby,â and he was pacing a cloud of dust towards the outskirts of the town.
Dave looked after him. âWell, that feller has shore got a big start on you, but he canât keep ahead of that Doll of mine for very long. She can out-run anything in these parts. âSides, Cassidyâs cayuse looked sort of done up, while mineâs as fresh as a bird. That thief will get whatâs coming to him, all right.â
While Hopalong tried to find his horse, Ben Ferris pushed forward, circling steadily to the east and away from the direction of Hoytâs corners, which was as much a menace to his health and happiness as the town of Grant, twenty miles to his rear. If he could have been certain that no danger was nearer to him than these two towns, he would have felt vastly relieved, even if his horse was not fresh. During the last hour he had not urged it as hard as he had in the beginning of his flight and it had dropped to a walk for minutes at a stretch. This was not because he felt that he had plenty of time, but for the reason that he understood horses and could not afford to exhaust his mount so early in the chase. He glanced back from time to time as if fearing what might be on his trail, and well he might fear. According to all the traditions and customs of the range, both of which he knew well, somewhere between him and Grant was a posse of hard-riding cow-punchers, all anxious and eager for a glance at him over their sights. In his mindâs eye he could see them, silent, grim, tenacious, reeling off the miles on that distance-eating lope. He had stolen a horse, and that meant death if they caught him. He loosened his gaudy kerchief and gulped in fear, not of what pursued, but of what was miles before him. His own saddle, strapped behind the one he sat in, bumped against him with each reach of the horse and had already made his back soreâ but he must endure it for a time. Never in all his life had minutes been so precious.
Another hour passed and the horse seemed to be doing well, much better than he had hopedâhe would rest it for a few minutes at the next water while he drank his fill and changed the bumping saddle. As he rounded a turn and entered a heavily grassed valley he saw a stream close at hand and, leaping off, fixed the saddle first. As he knelt to drink he caught a movement and jumped up to catch his mount. Time after time he almost touched it, but it evaded him and kept up the game, cropping a mouthful of grass during each respite.
âAll right!â he muttered as he let it eat. âIâll get my drink while you eat anâ then Iâll get you!â
He knelt by the stream again and drank long and deep. As he paused for breath something made him leap up and to one side, reaching for his Colt at the same instant. His fingers found only leather and he swore fiercely as he rememberedâhe had sold the Colt for food and kept the rifle for defence. As he faced the rear a horseman rounded the turn and the fugitive, wheeling, dashed for the stolen horse forty yards away, where his rifle lay in its saddle sheath. But an angry command and the sharp hum of a bullet fired in front of him checked his flight and he stopped short and swore.
âI reckon the jigâs up,â remarked Mr. Cassidy, balancing the upraised Colt with nicety and indifference.
âYea; I reckon so,â sullenly replied the other, tears running into his eyes.
âWell, Iâm damned!â snorted Hopalong with cutting contempt. âCrying like a liâl baby! Got nerve enough to steal my cayuse, anâ then go anâ beller like a lost calf when I catch you. Yoâre a fine specimen of a hoss-thief, I donât think!â
âYoâre a liar!â retorted the other, clenching his fists and growing red.
Mr. Cassidyâs mouth opened and then clicked shut as his Colt swung down. But he did not shoot; something inside of him held his trigger finger and he swore instead. The idea of a man stealing his horse, being caught red-handed and unarmed, and still possessed of sufficient courage to call his captor a name never tolerated or overlooked in that country! And the idea that he, Hopalong Cassidy, of the Bar-20, could not shoot such a thief! âDamn that sky pilot! Heâs shore gone anâ made me loco,â he muttered, savagely, and then addressed his prisoner. âOh, you ainât crying? Wind got in yore eyes, I reckon, anâ sort of made âem leak a littleâthat it? Or mebby them unholy green roses anâ yaller grass on that blasted fool neck-kerchief of yourn are too much for your eyes, too!â
âLook ahere!â snapped the man on the ground, stepping forward, one fist upraised. âI came nigh onto licking you this noon in that gospel sharpâs tent for making fun of that scarf, anâ Iâll do it yet if you get any smart about it! You mind yore own business anâ close yore fool eyes if you donât like my clothes!â
âSay! You ainât no cry-baby after all. Hanged if I even think yoâre a real genuine hoss-thief!â enthused Mr. Cassidy. âYou act like a twin brother; but what the devil ever made you steal that cayuse, anyhow?â
âAnâ thatâs none of yore business, neither; but Iâll tell you, just the same,â replied the thief. âI had to have it; thatâs why. Iâll fight you rough-anâ-tumble to see if I keep it, or if you take the cayuse anâ shoot me besides: is it a go?â
Hopalong stared at him and then a grin struggled for life, got it, and spread slowly over his tanned countenance. âYore gall is refreshing! Damned if it ainât worse than the scarf. Here, you tell me what made you take a chance like stealing a cayuse this noonâIâm getting to like you, bad as you are, hanged if I ainât!â
âOh, whatâs the use?â demanded the other, tears again coming into his eyes. âYouâll think Iâm lying anâ trying to crawl outâanâ I wonât do neither.â
âI didnât say you was a liar,â replied Hopalong. âIt was the other way about. Reckon you can try me, anyhow; canât you?â
âYes; I sâpose so,â responded the other, slowly, and in a milder tone of voice. âAnâ when I called you that I was mad and desperate. I was hastyâyou see, my wifeâs dying, or dead, over in Winchester. I was riding hard to get to her before it was too late when my cayuse stepped into a hole just the other side of Grantâyou know what happened. I shot the animal, stripped off my saddle anâ hoofed it to town, anâ dropped into that gospel dealerâs layout to see if he could make me feel any betterâwhich he could not. I just couldnât stand his palaver about death anâ slipped out. I was going to lay for you anâ lick you for the way you acted about this scarfâhad to do something or go loco. But when I got outside there was yore cayuse, all saddled anâ ready to go. I just up anâ threw my saddle on it, followed suit with myself anâ was ten miles out of town before I realized just what Iâd done. But the realizing part of it didnât make no difference to me âIâd âaâ done it just the same if I had stopped to think it over. Thatâs flat, anâ straight. Iâve got to get to that liâl woman as quick as I can, anâ Iâd steal all the cayuses in the whole damned country if theyâd do me any good. Thatâs all of itâtake it or leave it. I put it up to you. Thatâs yore cayuse, but you ainât going to get it without fighting me for it! If you shoot me down without giving me a chance, all right! Iâll cut a throat for that wore-out bronc!â
Hopalong was buried in thought and came to himself just in time to cover the other and stop him not six feet away. âJust a minute, before you make me shoot you! I want to think about it.â
âDamn that gun!â swore the fugitive, nervously shifting his feet and preparing to spring. âWeâd âaâ been fighting by this time if it wasnât for that!â
âYou stand still or Iâll blow you apart,â retorted Hopalong, grimly. âA manâs got a right to think, ainât he? Anâ if I had somebody here to mind these guns so you couldnât sneak âem on me Iâd fight you so blamed quick that youâd be licked before you knew you was at it. But we ainât going to fightâ_stand still_! You ainât got no show at all when yoâre dead!â
âThen you gimme that cayuseâmy God, man! Do you know the hell Iâve been through for the last two days? Got the word up at Dalyâs Crossing anâ ainât slept since. Iâll go loco if the strain lasts much longer! She asking for me, begging to see me: anâ me, like a damned idiot, wasting time out here talking to another. Ride with me, behind meâ itâs only forty miles moreâtie me to the saddle anâ blow me to pieces if you find Iâm lyingâdo anything you wants; but let me get to Winchester before dark!â
Hopalong was watching him closely and at the end of the otherâs outburst threw back his head. âI reckon Iâm a plain fool, a jackass; but I donât care. Iâll rope that cayuse for you. You come along to save time,â Hopalong ordered, spurring forward. His borrowed rope sailed out, tightened, and in a moment he was working at the saddle. âHere, you; Iâm going to swamp mounts with youâthis one is fresher anâ faster.â He had his own saddle off and the other on in record time, and stepped back. âThere; donât stand there like a foolâwake up anâ hustle! I might change my mindâthatâs the way to move! Gimme that neck-kerchief for a souveneer, anâ get out. Send that cayuse back to Dave Wilkes, at Grantâitâs hissn. Donât thank me; just gimme that scarf anâ ride like the devil.â
The other, already mounted, tore the kerchief from his throat and handed it quickly to his benefactor. âIf you ever want a man to take you out of hell, send to Winchester for Ben Ferrisâthatâs me. So long!â
Mr. Cassidy sat on his saddle where he had dropped it after making the
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