The Man From Bar-20 by Clarence E. Mulford (best books to read for young adults .txt) 📖

he was going straight up wind and toward his cabin. Stopping a moment to con’ sider, he turned sharply to his left and went on again, a Colt swinging loosely in his left hand. Anything close enough to be seen plainly would be near enough for the Colt, and in such poor light the sixshooter was more accurate in his hands than a rifle.

The only things about him which he could hear were the holsters, which rubbed very softly as he walked, but the sound would not carry for any distance. Having gone around the little valley near his cabin, he crawled along below the ragged skyline of the ridge and reached a point close to the cabin, when he suddenly dropped to his stomach and flattened him’ self to the earth.

Some restless, gambling soul could not do without a cigarette and he had detected its faint odor in time. Turning his head slowly, he sniffed deeply and swore under his breath, for he was going partly with the wind, which meant that the smoker must be somewhere behind him. Then a gentle breeze, creeping along the ridge in a back-draft, brought to him the strong and pungent odor of the fire; and he nodded in quick understanding.

The back-draft told him that the smoker was in front of him and cleared up one danger; but it also had blotted out the odor of the cigarette, and as he started forward again he put his faith in his eyes and ears. Slowly he moved along, a few feet at a time, and then he caught the brief and fragrant odor again. Worming around a great, up-thrust slab of lava he stopped suddenly and held his breath. A speck of fire, faint through the clinging ashes, moved in a swift, short arc, became brighter and moved back again, a gleaming dot of red. He could see the hand and part of the arm of the man who had just knocked the ashes from a cigarette in a characteristic and thoughtless gesture. He was sitting just around the corner of a huge bowlder not far away, his back to it, and a dull gleam of reflected moonlight revealed the end of his rifle.

From where he now lay Johnny could see the smoldering ruins of his cabin, where the flames were low and the flying sparks but few. A little current of air fanned the ashes for a few minutes and sent the sparks swirling and dancing, and the flickering, ghostly flames licking upward with renewed life. The increased light, fitful as it had been, brought a smile to his face; for he had caught sight of a pair of spurred boots projecting beyond a rock not far from the glowing embers.

“Ah, th’ devil!” muttered the man near him. “I’m gow’n home. He’s scared out.”

The speaker arose and stretched, and grumblingly leaned over to pick up his sombrero, the moon lighting his hair; and he suddenly crumpled forward and sprawled out without a groan as Johnny’s Colt struck his head.

The owner of the spurred boots, down behind the rock near the cabin, wriggled backward and looked up to see what had made the noise, caught sight of a dim, ghostly figure moving past a bowlder and called up to it.

“Come on, Ben; let’s get goin’. Where’s Fleming?”

“Thanks to my fool idea of strategy,” said a peeved voice high above the cabin, “which I borrowed from our doughty friend, Mr. Ackerman, I’m up here, smoked up like a ham. I ain’t stuck on this. Shootin’ a good man from ambush never did set well on my stummick. Reckon Ben’s asleep, like a reg’lar sentry; he didn’t have th’ cussed smoke to make things interestin’ for him. Hey, Ben!” he called, wearily.

“No use yellinV warned Spurred Boots earnestly. “He ain’t asleep. I just saw him move. Up to some of his fool jokes, I reckon; an’ it’s a d–-d poor time to play ‘em. I’m a little nervous, an’ might shoot without askin’ any questions. Comin’ down?”

“Yo’re just whistlin’ I am,” growled Fleming. “It’s all fool nonsense, us three watchin’ an’ waitin’ to shoot that feller. When he finds his shack burned an’ his rustlin’ business busted up, he’ll move out without us pluggin’ him. D—n it! Didn’t he say he was done? But you just listen to th’ mockin’ bird: If there’s any shootin’ to be done, he’ll do his little, twohanded share. I’ve been eddicated today; done had a superstition knocked sprawlin’. An’ so did Jim get eddicated. He made his play for that feller’s right hand, when d–-d if he ain’t left-handed. It made Jim near sick; for a minute I was scared he’d lose his dinner. An’ I allus believed left-handed men came in third by two lengths; but lawsy me! What? I’m insulted! I said lawsy.”

“You shore can talk!” admired Spurred Boots. “Sometimes a cussed lot too much. What in blazes is Ben doin’?” he asked petulantly, stiffly arising and working his arms and legs.

“Fixin’ to jump out on us from behind a rock, an’ yell ‘Boo!’” grunted Fleming. “Ben, he’s an original felJer; allus was, even as a kid. D–n these thorns.” A thin stream of profanity came from the crevice and Fleming slid down the rest of the way and rolled out into the circle of illumination. “Just like water down a chute, or a merry-hearted bowlder down a hill. Roll, Jordan, roll. Was you askin’ about Benjamin, th’ catcher of lightning? Benjamin Franklin Gates, his name is; an’ he’s done gone home. He’s a sensible feller, B. F. G. is; but only in spots, little spots, widely spaced.”

“You talk as much as Jim Howard’s wife,” grumbled Spurred Boots. “Jim he said “

“Of course he did! wasn’t it awful?” interposed Fleming. “It was just like a man. But I thinfe it was me that told you that story; so we’ll let it keep its secret. As I was sayin’, getting in my words edgeways like, but shore gettin’ ‘em in: Ben has pulled th’ picket stake, an’ like th’ Arabs, done went.”

“You mean Arapahoes.”

“Did I? I allus call ‘em that for short. Have mercy, Jehovah!”

“I saw him move just before I spoke,” replied Spurred Boots positively. “But that was a long time ago, before th’ deluge, of words,” he jabbed ironically.

“Cease; spare thy whacks. An’ where th’ h—l did you ever hear of th’ deluge? Some Old Timer tell you about it?” responded Fleming. “I been seein’ things, too. All kinds of things. Some had tails but no legs; some had legs but no tails; an’ to make a short tale shorter, that was a ghost what you saw. A wild, woopin’, woppin’ ghost. Come on, Nat; let’s flit.”

“Then my ghost lit a cigarette a long time back,” retorted Nat Harrison. “An’ then it said ‘flop.’ Do they smoke cigarettes?” he demanded with great sarcasm.

“Some does; an’ some smokes hops; an’ some smokes dried loco weed,” grinned Fleming. “That was a spark what you saw, an’ th’ musical flop was a trout fish turnin’ cartwheels on th’ water. One of them sparks plumb lit on th’ back of my neck, an’ I cussed near jumped over th’ edge an’ made a ‘flop’ of my own for myself. An’ it’s a blamed long walk home,” he sighed.

“There’s th’ lightnin’s play-fellow now! See him, up there?” demanded Harrison. “Must ‘a’ been off scoutin’. Hey, Ben! Wait for us be right up.”

Fleming glanced up as another vagrant breeze fanned the embers, and he forthwith did several things at once, and did them quite well. Sending Harrison plunging down behind a rock by one great shove, he jumped for another and fired as he moved. “Ben h—l!” he shouted, firing again. “I’ve seen that hombre before today. Keep yore head down, an’ get busy!”

Two alert and attentive young men gave keen scrutiny to the ridge and wondered what would happen next. Thirty minutes went by, and then Harrison rolled over and over, laughing uproariously.

“Cussed if it ain’t funny!” he gurgled. “‘Some smoke cigarettes, some smokes hops, an’ some smokes dried loco weed! Ha-ha-ha! An’ I reckon yo’re still seein’ them woopin’ woops.”

“You’ll see somethin’ worse if you moves out into sight,” retorted Fleming. “That ghost that I just saw was a human that ain’t got to th’ ghost state yet. If you don’t believe me, you ask Ackerman, if you’ve got th’ nerve.”

Harrison rose nonchalantly and sauntered over toward the embers. “Come on, Art; I’m cussed near asleep,” he yawned.

“You acts like you was plumb asleep, an’ walkin’ in it,” snapped Fleming angrily. “But it’s a good idea,” he admitted ironically. “You stay right there an’ draw his fire, an’ I’ll pull at his flash. You make a good decoy, naturally; it comes easy to you. A decoy is an imitation. Stand still, now, so he can line up his sights on you. ,“m all ready.”

Harrison grinned and waved his hand airily. “There ain’t no human up there,” he placidly remarked. “An’ I don’t care if Benjamin F. is there: she goes as she lays. What you saw was a bear or a lobo or a cougar come up to see th’ fire, an’ hear you orate from th’ mountain top. They’ll go long ways to see curious things. In th’ book, on page eighteen, it says that they has great streaks of humor, an’ a fittin’ sense of th’ ridiculous. Animals are awful curious about little things. An’ on page thirty-one it says they has a powerful sense of smell; an’ you know you was up purty high. An’ I ain’t lookin’ forward with joy unconfmed to gropin’ along no moonlit trail with th’ boss of th’ wolf tribe, or other big varmits sneakin’ around. I might step on a tail an’ loosen things up considerable. They’re hell on wheels when you steps on their tails, poor things.”

“La! La!” said Fleming sympathetically. “Just because you have got yore head out of th’ window it don’t say you ain’t goin’ to get no cinder in yore eye. A lead cinder. Lemme tell you that animal wore pants an’ a big sombrero. I tell you I saw him!”

“It was one of them sparks,” grunted the other, enjoying himself. “One of ‘em that plumb lit on th’ back of yore neck. A spark is a little piece of burnin’ wood which soars like th’ eagle, an’ when it comes down makes sores like th’ devil. Te-de-dum-dum I Howsomeever, if yo’re goin’ with me, yo’re goin’ to start right now I’ve done it already,” and he walked slowly toward the creek.

Fleming arose and hesitated, scanning the ridge with searching eyes. Then he stepped out and followed his friend, who already was across the creek and climbing the steep bank.

After reaching the top of the steep part of the ridge he glanced about over the great slope and then paused for breath and reflection, peering curiously toward the tree-shaded hollow where he had seen the much-debated movement. Obeying a sudden impulse he drew his gun and went cautiously forward, bent low and taking full advantage of the cover. A deep groan at his side made him jump and step back. Cautiously peering over a large rock he started in sudden surprise, swearing under his breath. Benjamin Franklin Gates, neatly trussed and gagged, lay against the rock on its far side, and his baleful eyes spoke volumes. There came a soft step behind Fleming and he wheeled like a flash, his upraised gun cutting down swiftly, and came within an ace of pulling the trigger at Harrison, who writhed sideways and snarled at him. Then Harrison also saw the bound figure on the ground and swore with depth, feeling, and vigor.

“Smokes dried loco weed!” he jeered sarcastically, his voice barely audible. “I feels