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

CHAPTER XII

THE HOSPITALITY OF TRAVENNES

 

Mr. Buck Peters rode into Alkaline one bright September

morning and sought refreshment at the Emporium. Mr. Peters had just

finished some business for his employer and felt the satisfaction that

comes with the knowledge of work well done. He expected to remain

in Alkaline for several days, where he was to be joined by two of his

friends and punchers, Mr. Hopalong Cassidy and Mr. Red Connors,

both of whom were at Cactus Springs, seventy miles to the east. Mr.

Cassidy and his friend had just finished a nocturnal tour of Santa Fe and felt somewhat

peevish and dull in consequence, not to mention the sadness occasioned by the

expenditure of the greater part of their combined capital on such foolishness as faro,

roulette and wet-goods.

 

Mr. Peters and his friends had sought wealth in the Black Hills, where they had

enthusiastically disfigured the earth in the fond expectation of uncovering vast stores of

virgin gold. Their hopes were of an optimistic brand and had existed until the last

canister of cornmeal flour had been emptied by Mr. Cassidy’s burro, which waited not

upon it’s master’s pleasure nor upon the ethics of the case. When Mr. Cassidy had

returned from exercising the animal and himself over two miles of rocky hillside in the

vain endeavor to give it his opinion of burros and sundry chastisements, he was

requested, as owner of the beast, to give his counsel as to the best way of securing

eighteen breakfasts.

 

Remembering that the animal was headed north when he last saw it and that it was

too old to eat, anyway, he suggested a plan which had worked successfully at other times

for other ends, namely, poker. Mr. McAllister, an expert at the great American game,

volunteered his service in accordance with the spirit of the occasion and, half an hour

later, he and Mr. Cassidy drifted into Pell’s poker parlors, which were located in the rear

of a Chinese laundry, where they gathered unto themselves the wherewithal for the

required breakfasts. An hour spent in the card room of the “Hurrah” convinced its

proprietor that they had wasted their talents for the past six weeks in digging for gold.

 

The proof of this permitted the departure of the outfits with their customary elan.

 

At Santa Fe the various individuals had gone their respective ways, to reassemble

at the ranch in the near future, and for several days they had been drifting south in groups

of twos and threes and, like chaff upon a stream, had eddied into Alkaline, where Mr.

Peters had found them arduously engaged in postponing the final journey. After he had

gladdened their hearts and soothed their throats by making several pithy remarks to the

bartender, with whom he established their credit, he cautioned them against letting any

one harm them and, smiling at the humor of his warning, left abruptly.

 

Cactus Springs was burdened with a zealous and initiative organization known as

vigilantes, whose duty it was to extend the courtesies of the land to cattle thieves and the

like. This organization boasted of the name of Travennes’ Terrors and of a muster roll of

twenty. There was also a boast that no one had ever escaped them which, if true, was in

many cases unfortunate. Mr. Slim Travennes, with whom Mr. Cassidy had participated in

an extemporaneous exchange of Colt’s courtesies in Santa Fe the year before, was the

head of the organization and was also chairman of the committee on arrivals, and the two

gentlemen of the Bar-20 had not been in town an hour before he knew of it.

 

Being anxious to show the strangers every attention and having a keen

recollection of the brand of gunplay commanded by Mr. Cassidy, he planned a smoother

method of procedure and one calculated to permit him to enjoy the pleasures of a good

old age. Mr. Travennes knew that horse thieves were regarded as social enemies, that the

necessary proof of their guilt was the finding of stolen animals in their possession, that

death was the penalty and that every man, whether directly concerned or not, regarded,

himself as judge, jury and executioner.

 

He had several acquaintances who were bound to him by his knowledge of crimes

they had committed and would could not refuse his slightest wish.

 

Even if they had been free agents they were not above causing the death of an

innocent man. Mr. Travennes, feeling very self-satisfied at his cleverness, arranged to

have the proof placed where it would do the most harm and intended to take care of the

rest by himself.

 

Mr. Connors, feeling much refreshed and very hungry, arose at daylight the next

morning, and dressing quickly, started off to feed and water the horses. After having

several tilts with the landlord about the bucket he took his departure toward the corral at

the rear.

 

Peering through the gate, he could hardly believe his eyes. He climbed over it and

inspected the animals at close range, and found that those which he and his friend had

ridden for the last two months were not to be seen, but in their places were two better

animals, which concerned him greatly. Being fair and square himself, he could not

understand the change and sought enlightenment of his more imaginative and suspicious

friend.

 

“Hey, Hopalong!” he called, “come out here an’ see what th’ blazes has happened!”

 

Mr. Cassidy stuck his auburn head out of the wounded shutter and complacently

surveyed his companion. Then he saw the horses and looked hard.

 

“Quit yore foolin’, yu old cuss,” he remarked pleasantly, as he groped around

behind him with his feet, searching for his boots.

 

“Anybody would think yu was a little boy with yore fool jokes. Ain’t yu ever goin’

to grow up?”

 

“They’ve got our bronc,” replied Mr. Connors in an injured tone.

 

Honest, I ain’t kiddin’ yu,” he added for the sake of peace.

 

“Who has?” Came from the window, followed immediately by, “Yu’ve got my

boots!”

 

“I ain’t-they’re under th’ bunk,” contradicted and explained Mr. Connors.

Then, turning to the matter in his mind he replied, “I don’t know who’s got them.

 

If I did do yu think I’d be holdin’ hands with myself?”

 

“Nobody’d accuse yu of anything like that,” came from the window, accompanied

by an overdone snicker.

Mr. Connors flushed under his accumulated tan as he remembered the varied

pleasures of Santa Fe, and he regarded the broncos in anything but a pleasant state of

mind.

 

Mr. Cassidy slid through the window and approached his friend, looking as

serious as he could.

 

“Any tracks?” He inquired, as he glanced quickly over the ground to see for

himself.

 

“Not after that wind we had last night. They might have growed there for all I can

see,” growled Mr. Connors.

 

“I reckon we better hold a pow-wow with th’ foreman of this shack an’ find out

what he knows,” suggested Mr. Cassidy. “This looks too good to be a swap.”

 

Mr. Connors looked his disgust at the idea and then a light broke in upon him.

 

“Mebby they was hard pushed an’ wanted fresh cayuses,” he said. “A whole lot of people

get hard pushed in this country. Anyhow, we’ll prospect th’ boss.”

 

They found the proprietor in his stocking feet, getting the breakfast, and Mr.

Cassidy regarded the preparations with open approval. He counted the tin plates and

found only three, and, thinking that there would be more plates if there were others to

feed, glanced into the landlord’s room. Not finding signs of other guests, on whom to lay

the blame for the loss of his horse, he began to ask questions.

 

“Much trade?” He inquired solicitously.

 

“Yep,” replied the landlord.

 

Mr. Cassidy looked at the three tins and wondered if there had ever been any more

with which to supply his trade.

 

“Been out this morning?“he pursued.

 

“Nope.”

 

“Talks purty nigh as much as Buck,” thought Mr. Cassidy, and then said aloud,

“Anybody else here?”

 

“Nope.”

 

Mr. Cassidy