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

CHAPTER VIII

HOPALONG KEEPS HIS WORD

 

The waters of the Rio Grande slid

placidly toward the Gulf, the hot sun branding the sleepy waters with streaks of molten

fire. To the north arose from the gray sandy plain the Quitman Mountains, and beyond

them lay Bass Ca��on. From the latter emerged a solitary figure astride a bronco, and as

he ascended the topmost rise he glanced below him at the placid stream and beyond it

into Mexico. As he sat quietly in his saddle he smiled and laughed gently to himself.

 

The trail he had just followed had been replete with trouble which had suited the state of

his mind and he now felt humorous, having cleaned up a pressing debt with his six-shooter. Surely there ought to be a mild sort of excitement in the land he faced,

something picturesque and out of the ordinary. This was to be the finishing touch to his

trip, and he had left his two companions at Albuquerque in order that he might have to

himself all that he could find.

 

Not many miles to the south of him lay the town which had been the rendezvous

of Tamale Jose, whose weakness had been a liking for other people’s cattle. Well he

remembered his first man hunt: the discovery of the theft, the trail and pursuit and-the

ending. He was scarcely eighteen years of age when that event took place, and the

wisdom he had absorbed then had stood him in good stead many times since. He had

even now a touch of pride at the recollection how, when his older companions had failed

to get Tamale Jose, he with his undeveloped strategy had gained that end. The fight

would never be forgotten, as it was his first, and no sight of wounds would ever affect

him as did those of Red Connors as he lay huddled up in the dark corner of that old adobe

hut.

 

He came to himself and laughed again as he thought of Carmencita, the first girl

he had ever known-and the last. With a boy’s impetuosity he had wooed her in a manner

far different from that of the peons who sang beneath her window and talked to her

mother. He had boldly scaled the wall and did his courting in her house, trusting to luck

and to his own ability to avoid being seen. No hidden meaning lay in his words; he spoke

from his heart and with no concealment. And he remembered the treachery that had

forced him, fighting, to the camp of his outfit; and when he had returned with his friends

she had disappeared.

 

To this day he hated that mud-walled convent and those sisters who so easily

forgot how to talk. The fragrance of the old days wrapped themselves around him, and

although he had ceased to pine for his black-eyed Carmencita-well, it would be nice if he

chanced to see her again. Spurring his mount into an easy canter he swept down to and

across the river, fording it where he had crossed it when pursuing Tamale Jose.

The town lay indolent under the Mexican night, and the strumming of guitars and

the tinkle of spurs and tiny bells softly echoed from several houses. The convent of St.

 

Maria lay indistinct in its heavy shadows and the little church farther up the dusty street

showed dim lights in its stained windows. Off to the north became audible the rhythmic

beat of a horse and soon a cowboy swept past the convent with a mocking bow.

He clattered across the stone-paved plaza and threw his mount back on its

haunches as he stopped before a house. Glancing around and determining to find out a

few facts as soon as possible, he rode up to the low door and pounded upon it with the

butt of his Colt. After waiting for possibly half a minute and receiving no response he

hammered a tune upon it with two Colts and had the satisfaction of seeing half a score of

heads protrude from the windows in the nearby houses.

 

“If I could scare up another gun I might get th’ whole blamed town up,” he

grumbled whimsically, and fell on the door with another tune.

 

“Who is it?” came from within. The voice was distinctly feminine and Hopalong

winked to himself in congratulation.

 

“Me,” he replied, twirling his fingers from his nose at the curious, forgetting that

the darkness hid his actions from sight.

 

“Yes, I know; but who is `me’?” came from the house.

 

“Ain’t I a fool!” he complained to himself, and raising his voice lie replied

coaxingly, “Open th’ door a bit an’ see. Are yu Carmencita?”

 

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

 

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

 

“Carmencita who?” teasingly came from behind the door.

Hopalong scratched his head. “Gee, yu’ve roped me-I suppose she has got another

handle. Oh, yu know-she used to live here about seven years back. She had great big

black eyes, pretty cheeks an’ a mouth that `ud stampede anybody. Don’t yu know now?

She was about so high,” holding out his hands in the darkness.

 

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

 

“Ah, it is you, the brave Americano! You must go away quick or you will meet

with harm. Manuel is awfully jealous and he will kill you! Go at once, please!”

 

Hopalong pulled at the half-hearted down upon his lip and laughed softly. Then

he slid the guns back in their holsters and felt for his sombrero.

 

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

 

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

 

“I’d shore look nice hittin’ th’ trail because Manuel Somebody wants to get hurt,

wouldn’t I? Don’t yu remember how I used to shinny up this here wall an’ skin th’ cat

gettin’ through that hole up there what yu said was a window? Ah, come on an’ open th’

door-I’d shore like to see yu again!” pleaded the irrepressible.

 

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

 

Hopalong sighed audibly and turned his horse. As he did so he heard the door

open and a sigh reached his ears. He wheeled like a flash and found the door closed again

on its chain. A laugh of delight came from behind it.

 

“Come out, please!-just for a minute,” he begged, wishing that he was brave

enough to smash the door to splinters and grab her.

 

“If I do, will you go away?” Asked the girl. “Oh, what will Manuel say if he

comes? And all those people, they’ll tell him!”

 

“Hey, yu!” shouted Hopalong, brandishing his Colts at the protruding heads. “Git

scarce! I’ll shore plug th’ last one in!” Then he laughed at the sudden vanishing.

The door slowly opened and Carmencita, fat and drowsy, wobbled out to him.

 

Hopalong’s feelings were interfering with his breathing as he surveyed her.

 

“Oh, yu shore are mistaken, Mrs. Carmencita. I wants to see yore daughter!”

 

“Ah, you have forgotten the little Carmencita who used to look for you. Like all

the men, you have forgotten,” she cooed reproachfully.

 

Then her fear predominated again and she cried, “Oh, if my husband should see

me now!”

 

Hopalong mastered his astonishment and bowed. He had a desire to ride madly

into the Rio Grande and collect his senses.

 

“Yu are right-this is too dangerous-I’ll amble on some,” he replied hastily.

Under his breath he prayed that the outfit would never learn of this. He turned his

horse and rode slowly up the street as the door closed.

 

Rounding the corner he heard a soft footfall, and swerving in his saddle he turned

and struck with all his might in the face of a man who leaped at him, at the same time

grasping the uplifted wrist with his other hand. A curse and the tinkle of thin steel on the

pavement accompanied the fall of his opponent. Bending down from his saddle he

picked up the weapon and the next minute the enraged assassin was staring into the

unwavering and, to him, growing muzzle of a Colt’s .45.

 

“Yu shore had a bum teacher. Don’t yu know better’n to push it in?

An’ me a cowpuncher, too! I’m most grieved at yore conduct-it shows you don’t

appreciate cow-wrastlers. This is safer,” he remarked, throwing the stiletto through the

air and into a door, where it rang out angrily and quivered.

 

“I don’t know as I wants to ventilate yu; we mostly poisons coyotes up my way,”

he added. Then a thought struck him.

 

“Yu must be that dear Manuel I’ve been hearin’ so much about?”

 

A snarl was the only reply and Hopalong grinned.

 

“Yu shore ain’t got no call to go loco that way, none whatever. I don’t want yore

Carmencita. I only called to say hulloo,” responded Hopalong, his sympathies being

aroused for the wounded man before him from his vivid recollection of the woman who

had opened the door.

 

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

hair and your cursed swagger!”

 

The six-shooter tentatively expanded and stopped six inches from the Mexican’s

nose. “Yu wants to ride easy, hombre. I ain’t no angel, but I don’t poison no woman; an’

don’t yu amble off with th’ idea in yore head that she wants to be poisoned. Why, she

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