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

uncomfortable, entirely too present,” he whispered, sinking quietly to the ground.

“Which is unanimous,” remarked Fleming, with simple emphasis. “Ben, he ain’t sayin’ nothin’,” he added cheerfully.

An angry gurgle came from the bound figure and it rolled over to face them. Harrison grinned at it. “Under other circumstances I could enjoy this unusual situation,” he remarked softly.

“Face to face with Ben, an’ him not sayin I a word,” marveled Fleming, his eyes busy with the rock-strewn slope. “But I can almost hear him think. Twinkle, twinkle, little star wonder where Mr. Two-gun Nelson is located at this short, brief, an’ interestin’ second?”

Another gurgle slobbered from the bound man and his heels thumped the ground.

“Harkl” said Harrison, tensely. “I hears me a noise!”

“I hears me it, too,” said Fleming. “But not a word; not a soft, harsh, lovin’, long, short, or profane word. Not even a syllable. Not even th’ front end of a syllable. All is silent; all but that mysterious drummin’ noise. An’ if it was farther away I’d be quite restless.”

A coughing gurgle and a choked snort came from the base of the rock, and then a louder, more persistent drumming.

“An’ you said Benjamin had done snuk home,” accused Harrison. “I’m surprised at you. He’s been here all th’ time. How could he snuk when he’s hogtied, which is appropriate? Gurgle, gurgle, little man I’ll untie you if I can.” He bent over, cut loose the gag, slashed the belt from the trussed feet and severed the neckerchief from the crossed wrists. “There! There! Not so loud!” he gently chided.

“Blankety dashed blank blank!” said Ben Gates.

“Dashed blankety dashed blank blank! What th’ h—l you want to cut that belt for, you dashed dashed blankety blank of a dash! Three dollars done gone to th’ devil! Just because you got a blankety-blank knife do you have to slash every dashed-dashed thing you seel”

“Sh!” whispered Fleming. “We know yo’re grateful; but what happened?” he breathed, too busy to look around.

“Shut yore face!” ordered Harrison, trying in vain to stare through a great, black lava bowlder which lay on the other side of a small clearing.

“Dashed blank! “said Benjamin. “It’s been shut enough, you d–-d pie-faced doodle-bug! “

“Yes; yes; we know,” soothed Fleming; “but what happened?”

“Leaned over to get my blankety-blank hat and a dashed tree fell on my blank head!” He felt of the afore-mentioned head with a light and tender touch; and the generous bump made him swear again.

“It’s that prospectin’ rustler,” enlightened Fleming, gratis, as he peered into the shadows behind him.

“No!” said Gates. “I reckoned it was General Grant an’ th’ Army of th’ Potomac! Dead shore it wasn’t Columbus?” he sneered.

“It was not Columbus, Benjamin,” said Fleming. “Columbus discovered America in 1492 or 1942 —some time around there. Ain’t you heard about it yet? An’ somehow I feels like a calf bein’ drug to th’ brandin’ fire. I feels that I’m goin’ to get somethin’ soon; an’ I ain’t shore just what it’s goin’ to be.”

“You’ll get it, all right,” cheered Harrison, anger in his voice withal. “It’ll be a snub-nosed .45, if you don’t shut up yore trap. You ain’t openin’ no Fourth of July celebration, or runnin’ for Congress.”

Ben felt for his gun and cursed peevishly. “My guns are gone: lend me one of yourn! “he said.

“Th’ gentleman has quite a collection,” chuckled Harrison. “Three Colts an’ a Winchester. Good pickin’, says he. Good enough, says I. True, says he; but, he says, I have hopes of more. Ta-ta! jeers I.”

“Shut yore face!” growled Fleming, writhing.

“I want a gun, an’ I wants it now!” blazed Gates, pugnaciously.

“Fair sir, how many guns do you think we pack?” demanded Harrison.

“You got a rifle an’ a Colt!” snapped Gates. “I wants one of ‘em!”

“He only wants one of ‘em,” said Fleming.

“I was scared you’d be a hog,” said Harrison. “Here; take this Winchester, an’ keep it. Bein’ generous is all right; but it has its limits.”

Gates gripped the weapon affectionately and sat up. “No use of stayin’ here like we done took root,” he said, rising to his feet. “We wants to spread out. Mebby he’s still hangin’ around.”

“Yes; an’ shoot each other,” growled Harrison. “I’m goin’ to spread out, all right; an’ when I quits spreadin’ I’ll be in my little bunk. He’s a mile away by now; but if he ain’t, don’t you let him have that gun; he’s got enough now.”

He stopped suddenly, and their hair arose on their heads as a longdrawn, piercing scream rang out. It sounded like a woman in mortal agony and it came from the ridge above them. From the upper end of the rock-walled pasture below came a howl, deep, longdrawn, evil, threatening. They turned searching eyes toward the nearer sound and saw a crescent bulk silhouetted against the moon. It lay in the top of a blasted pine, and as they looked, it raised its chunky head and neck and screamed an answering challenge to the lobo wolf in the canyon.

Ben moved swiftly, and a spurt or flame split the night, crashing echoes returning in waves. The crescent silhouette in the treetop leaped convulsively and crashed to the ground, breaking off the dead limbs in its fall, and then there ensued a spitting, snarling, thrashing turmoil as the great panther scored the earth in its agony.

Ben’s friends forsook him as though he were a leper and melted into the shadows, cursing him from A to Z.

They wanted no ringing notice of their presence broadcasted, and the flash and roar of the heavy rifle had done just that.

As they faded into the darker shadows farther back a crashing sounded in the brush and they peered forth to see the great panther plunging and writhing through the bushes, smashing its way through the oak brush in desperate plunges. Reaching the edge of a small clearing it gave one convulsive leap, another harrowing scream and thudded against a bowlder, where it suddenly relaxed and lay quiet.

“There’s near a quart of corn juice up in my bunk, an’ I’m goin’ for it,” said Harrison, moving swiftly up the rough trail. “I need it, an’ I need it bad!”

“That cat’s mate ain’t fur away,” remarked Fleming thoughtfully. “It’s due hereabouts right soon. I’m stickin’ closer than a brother, Nat. Lead me to th’ fluid which consoleth, arouseth anger and dulleth pain; blaster of homes, causer of of headaches, d n it! Ben, he’s a great hunter, a wild, untamed, ferocious slayer of varmints; he can stay here an’ argue with th’ inquirin’ mate, if he wants, while we wafts yonder an’ hence. It won’t be draped up in no tree, neither; somehow I can just see it sniffin’ at th’ beloved dead an’ then soft-footin’ through th’ brush, over th’ ridges an’ around th’ bowlders, its whiskers bristlin’, its wicked little ears pointed back, an’ its long, generous tail goin’ jerk-jerk, tremble-tremble. Lovely picture. Fascinatin’ picture. It is lookin’ real hard for th’ misguided son-of-a-gun that killed its tuneful mate. Nice kitty; pretty kitty; lovely kitty! I votes, twice, for that whiskey. I votes three times for that whiskey. Lead th’ way, Nat; an’ for my sake keep yore eyes peeled.”

Quick, heavy steps behind them made them jump for cover, turning as they jumped, and to peer anxiously back along the trail.

Ben walked into sight, the rifle held loosely in front of him as he peered into the shadows. “You acts like you has springs in yore laigs,” he derisively remarked.

“An’ you acts like you had sour dough for brains,” courteously retorted Harrison. “An’ it’s so sour it’s moldy. Go away from here!”

“Yo’re a great little, two-laigged success,” sneered Fleming. “Reg’lar Dan’l Boone. I hopes if any gent ever trails me for my scalp it will be you. You wants to buy yoreself a big tin whistle an’ a bass drum when you go out ambushin’!”

“I claims that was a good shot,” complacently re’ plied Ben. “What with it bein’ near dark, an’ a strange gun, an’ my head most splittin’, I holds it was. Must ‘a’ been to make you long-winded ijuts so d–-d jealous.”

“Trouble is, yore head didn’t split enough,” grum-Wed Harrison pleasantly. “It should ‘a’ been split from topknot to chin. Next time I goes manhuntin’, you stays home with yore pretty picture books.”

“Suits me,” grunted Ben placidly. “Yore company hurts my ears, offends my nose, an’ shocks my eyes. An’ as for th’ excitement, why I done got enough of that to look out!” he yelled, firing without raising the gun to his shoulder.

An answering flash split the darkness between two bowlders further up the slope and Ben pitched sideways. His companions fired as if by magic; the instant return fire sent Harrison reeling backward. He tripped on a root and fell sprawling, the gun flying from his hand. Fleming leaped toward a huge rock, firing as he jumped, and slid behind the cover, where he sighed, and groped for his gun with trembling hands. Groans and muttered curses came from the trail, and Fleming, raising himself to a sitting position, his back against a rock, saw Harrison dragging himself toward his gun and a clump of brush.

“You stay where you are,” said an ominous voice, “an’ put up yore hands!”

Lying in a patch of moonlight, Harrison could do nothing bv’ obey; but Fleming nerved himself and picked up his gun, still able to fight and only waiting for his enemy to show himself. Several minutes passed and then a hand darted over the rock and wrenched Fleming’s gun out of the weak hand that held it.

“You ain’t goin’ to get hurt no more if you acts sensible,” said the new owner of the gun. “Where you hit?”

“Thigh an’ shoulder, I ‘ muttered Fleming weakly.

The stranger fell to work swiftly and deftly and in a short time he arose and moved toward the two men in the clearing. “You’ll be all right after yore friends get you home,” he said over his shoulder. Reaching the two figures on the trail he first took their guns and then looked them over.

“This feller with th’ lump on his head is my old friend, th’ smoker,” said Johnny. “He’s got a crease in his scalp. Barrin’ a little blood an’ a big headache, he’ll be all right after a while. Where’d I get you?” he demanded of Harrison.

“Arm,” grunted Harrison. “Through th’ flesh. I done tripped an’ fell must ‘a’ near busted a rock with my fool head when I lit,” he said, as if to explain his subsequent inaction. “We reckoned you’d left th’ country till we found th’ package you tied up an’ left.”

“I come back for th’ rest of my stuff,” replied Johnny. “I was scared to come up th’ valley.”

“You acts like you’d scare easy,” admitted Harrison. “I’m sorry you ain’t got more nerve,” he grinned despite the pain in his arm.

“Here,” said Johnny, squatting beside him, “lemme tie up that arm. I wasn’t aimin’ to shoot nobody till I was cornered,” he grinned. “I heard what you fellers said, back in th’ valley, an’ that’s why. I was plumb peaceful, tryin’ to slip away, when that gent up an’ let drive at me. Bein’ in a pocket made by them fool bowlders I couldn’t get out, so I had to cut down on you with both hands. Th’ dark shadows helped me a lot; you couldn’t see what you was shootin’ at. An’ anyhow, I owe him somethin’. I was under that tree when he up an’ dumped that pleasant cougar down on top of me, right in my arms. Never was more surprised in all my life. An’ to make matters