Bar-20 Days by Clarence E. Mulford (best black authors TXT) đ
- Author: Clarence E. Mulford
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âWell, mebby you also know how manyâs headed this way; do you?â
âYouâve got me stumped there; but thereâs a round dozen, anyway,â Red replied. âYou see, the three that chased me were out scouting ahead of the main bunch; anâ I didnât have no time to take no blasted census.â
âThen weâve got to hit the home trail, anâ hit it hard. Wind up that four-laigged excuse of yourn, anâ take my dust,â Hopalong responded, leading the way. âIf we can get home thereâll be a lot of disgusted braves hitting the high spots on the back trail trying to find a way out. Buck anâ the rest of the boys will be a whole lot pleased, too. We can muster thirty men in two hours if we gets to Buckskin, anâ thatâs twenty more than weâll need.â
âTell you one thing, Hoppy; we can get as far as Powersâ old ranch house, anâ thatâs shore,â replied Red, thoughtfully.
âYes!â exploded his companion in scorn and pity. âThat old sieve of a shack ainât good enough for me to die in, no matter what you think about it. Why, itâs as full of holes as a stiff hat in a melee. Yoâre on the wrong trail; think again.â
Mr. Cassidy objected not because he believed that Powersâ old ranch house was unworthy of serious consideration as a place of refuge and defence, but for the reason that he wished to reach Buckskin so his friends might all get in on the treat. Times were very dull on the ranch, and this was an occasion far too precious to let slip by. Besides, he then would have the pleasure of leading his friends against the enemy and battling on even terms. If he sought shelter he and Red would have to fight on the defensive, which was a game he hated cordially because it put him in a relatively subordinate position and thereby hurt his pride.
âLet me tell you that itâs a whole lot better than thin air with a hard-working circle around usâanâ you know what that means,â retorted Mr. Connors. âBut if you donât want to take a chance in the shack, why mebby we can make Wallaceâs, or the Cross-O-Cross. That is, if we donât get turned out of our way.â
âWe donât head for no Cross-O-Cross or Wallaceâs,â rejoined his friend with emphasis, âanâ we wonât waste no time in Powersâ shack, neither; weâll push right through as hard as we can go for Buckskin. Let them fellers find their own huntingâour outfit comes first. Anâ besides thatâll mean a detour in a country fine for ambushes. Weâd never get through.â
âWell, have it yore own way, then!â snapped Red. âYou allus was a hard-headed old mule, anyhow.â In his heart Red knew that Hopalong was right about Wallaceâs and the Cross-O-Cross.
Some time after the two punchers had quitted the scene of their trap, several Apaches loped up, read the story of the tragedy at a glance, and galloped on in pursuit. They had left the reservation a fortnight before under the able leadership of that veteran of many war-trailsâ Black Bear. Their leader, chafing at inaction and sick of the monotony of reservation life, had yielded to the entreaties of a score of restless young men and slipped away at their head, eager for the joys of raiding and plundering. But instead of stealing horses and murdering isolated whites as they had expected, they met with heavy repulses and were now without the mind of their leader. They had fled from one defeat to another and twice had barely eluded the cavalry which pursued them. Now two more of their dwindling force were dead and another had been found but an hour before. Rage and ferocity seethed in each savage heart and they determined to get the puncher they had chased, and that other whose trail they now saw for the first time. They would place at least one victory against the string of their defeats, and at any cost. Whips rose and fell and the war-party shot forward in a compact group, two scouts thrown ahead to feel the way.
Red and Hopalong rode on rejoicing, for there were three less Apaches loose in the Southwest for the inhabitants to swear about and fear, and there was an excellent chance of more to follow. The Southwest had no toleration for the Governmentâs policy of dealing with Indians and derived a great amount of satisfaction every time an Apache was killed. It still clung to the time-honored belief that the only good Indian was a dead one. Mr. Cassidy voiced his elation and then rubbed an empty stomach in vain regret,âwhen a bullet shrilled past his head, so unexpectedly as to cause him to duck instinctively and then glance apologetically at his red-haired friend; and both spurred their mounts to greater speed. Next Mr. Connors grabbed frantically at his perforated sombrero and grew petulant and loquacious.
âBoth them shots was lucky, Hoppy; the feller that fired at me did it on the dead run; but that wonât help us none if one of âem connects with us. You gimme that Sharpsâgot to show âem that theyâre taking big chances crowding us this way.â He took the heavy rifle and turned in the saddle. âItâs an even thousand, if itâs a yard. He donât look very big, canât hardly tell him from his cayuse; anâ the windâs puffy. Why donât you dirty or rust this gun? The sun glitters all along the barrel. Well, here goes.â
âMissed by a mile,â reproved Hopalong, who would have been stunned by such a thing as a hit under the circumstances, even if his good-shooting friend had made it.
âYes! Missed the coyote I aimed for, but I got the cayuse of his off pardner; see it?â
âTalk about luck!â
âThatâs all right: it takes blamed good shooting to miss that close in this case. Look! Itâs slowed âem up a bit, anâ thatâs about all I hoped to do. Bet they think Iâm a real, shore-ânuff medicine-man. Now gimme another cartridge.â
âI will not; no use wasting lead at this range. Weâll need all the cartridges we got before we get out of this hole. You canât do nothing without stoppingâanâ that takes time.â
âThen Iâll stop! The blazes with the time! Gimme another, dâye hear?â
Mr. Cassidy heard, complied, and stopped beside his companion, who was very intent upon the matter at hand. It took some figuring to make a hit when the range was so great and the sun so blinding and the wind so capricious. He lowered the rifle and peered through the smoke at the confusion he had caused by dropping the nearest warrior. He was said to be the best rifle shot in the Southwest, which means a great deal, and his enemies did not deny it. But since the Sharps shot a special cartridge and was reliable up to the limit of its sight gauge, a matter of eighteen hundred yards, he did not regard the hit as anything worthy of especial mention. Not so his friend, who grinned joyously and loosed his admiration.
âYoâre a shore wonder with that gun, Red! Why donât you lose that repeater anâ get a gun like mine? Lord, if I could use a rifle like you, I wouldnât have that gun of yourn for a gift. Just look at what you did with it! Please get one like it.â
âIâm plumb satisfied with the repeater,â replied Red. âI donât miss very often at eight hundred with it, anâ thatâs long enough range for most anybody. Anâ if I do miss, I can send another that wonât, anâ right on the tail of the first, too.â
âAh, the devil! You make me disgusted with yore fool talk about that carbine!â snapped his companion, and the subject was dropped.
The merits of their respective rifles had always been a bone of contention between them and one well chewed, at that. Red was very well satisfied with his Winchester, and he was a good judge.
âYou did stop âem a little,â asserted Mr. Cassidy some time later when he looked back. âYou stopped âem coming straight, but theyâre spreading out to work up around us. Now, if we had good cayuses instead of these wooden wonders, we could run away from âem dead easy, draw their best mounted warriors to the front anâ then close with âem. Good thing their cayuses are well tired out, for as it is weâve got to make a stand purty soon. Gee! They donât like you, Red; theyâre calling you names in the sign language. Just look at âem cuss you!â
âHow much water have you got?â inquired his friend with anxiety.
âCanteen plumb full. Howâre you fixed?â
âI got the same, less one drink. That gives us enough for a couple of days with some to spare, if weâre careful,â Mr. Connors replied. New Mexican canteens are built on generous lines and are known as life-preservers.
âLook at that glory-hunter go!â exclaimed Red, watching a brave who was riding half a mile to their right and rapidly coming abreast of them. âWonder how he got over there without us seeing him.â
âHere; stop him!â suggested Hopalong, holding out his Sharps. âWe canât let him get ahead of us and lay in ambushâthatâs what heâs playing to do.â
âMy gunâs good, and better, for me, at this range; but you know, I canât hit a jack-rabbit going over rough country as fast as that feller is,â replied his companion, standing up in his stirrups and firing.
âHuh! Never touched him! But heâs edging off aplenty. See him cuss you. Whatâs he calling you, anyhow?â
âAw, shut up! How the devil do I know? I donât talk with my arms.â
âAre you superstitious, Red?â
âNo! Shut up!â
âWell, I am. See that feller over there? If he gets in front of us itâs a shore sign that somebodyâs going to get hurt. Heâll have plenty of time to get cover anâ pick us off as we come up.â
âDonât you worryâhis cayuse is deaderân ours. They must âaâ been pushing on purty hard the last few days. See it stumble?âwhatâd I tell you!â
âYes; but theyâre gaining on us slow but shore. Weâve got to make a stand purty soonâhow much further do you reckon that infernal shack is, anyhow?â Hopalong asked sharply.
ââT ainât fur offâsee it any minute now.â
âHere,â remarked Hopalong, holding out his rifle, âstencil yore mark on his hide; catch him just as he strikes the top of that little rise.â
âAinât got timeâthat shack canât be much further.â
And it wasnât, for as they galloped over a rise they saw, half a mile ahead of them, an adobe building in poor state of preservation. It was Powersâ old ranch house, and as they neared it, they saw that there was no doubt about the holes.
âTold you it was a sieve,â grunted Hopalong, swinging in on the tail of his companion. âNot worth a hang for anything,â he added bitterly.
âItâll answer, all right,â retorted Red grimly.
Mr. Cassidy dismounted and viewed the building with open disgust, walking around it to see what held it up, and when he finally realized that it was self-supporting his astonishment was profound. Undoubtedly there were shacks in the United States in worse condition, but he hoped their number was small. Of course he knew that the building was small. Of course he knew that the building would make a very good place of defence, but for the sake of argument he called to his companion and urged that they be satisfied with what defence
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