Bar-20 Days by Clarence E. Mulford (best black authors TXT) đ
- Author: Clarence E. Mulford
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âDonât you come no nearer!â he cried, white of face. âYou git out, or Iâll let this leak, anâ give you all shot, anâ more than you can carry!â
âEasy! Easy there, pardner; we want them wedges,â Hopalong replied, somewhat hurriedly. âThe others ainât no good; I choked on the very first screw. Why, I wouldnât hurt you for the world,â Hopalong assured him, gazing interestedly down the twin tunnels.
Johnny leaned over a nail keg and loosed the shot and screws into it, smiling with childlike simplicity as he listened to the tintinnabulation of the metal shower among the nails. âIt does drop when you let go of it,â he observed.
âDidnât I tell you it would? I allus said so,â replied Hopalong, looking back to the clerk and the shotgun. âDidnât I, stranger?â
The clerkâs reply was a guttural rumbling, ninety per cent profanity, and Hopalong, nodding wisely, picked up two wedges. âJohnny, hereâs yore gun. If this man will stop talking to hisself and drop that lead-sprayer long enough to take our good money, weâll wear em.â
He tossed a gold coin on the table, and the clerk, still holding tightly to the shotgun, tossed the coin into the cash box and cautiously slid the change across the counter. Hopalong picked up the money and, emptying his holster into the nail keg, followed his companion to the street, in turn followed slowly by the suspicious clerk. The door slammed shut behind them, the bolt shot home, and the clerk sat down on a box and cogitated.
Hopalong hooked his arm through Johnnyâs and started down the street. âI wonder what that feller thinks about us, anyhow. Iâm glad Buck sent Red over to El Paso instead of us. Wonât he be mad when we tell him all the fun weâve had?â he asked, grinning broadly.
They were to meet Red at Dentâs store on the way back and ride home together.
They were strangely clad for their surroundings, the chaps glaringly out of place in the Seamanâs Port, and winks were exchanged by the regular habitues when the two punchers entered the room and called for drinks. They were very tired and a little under the weather, for they had made the most of their time and spent almost all of their money; but any one counting on robbing them would have found them sober enough to look out for themselves. Night had found them ready to go to the hotel, but on the way they felt that they must have one more bracer, and finish their exploration of Jeremiah T. Jonesâ tabooed section. The town had begun to grow wearisome and they were vastly relieved when they realized that the rising sun would see them in the saddle and homeward bound, headed for Godâs country, which was the only place for cow-punchers after all.
âLong way from the home port, ainât you, mates?â queried a tar of Hopalong. Another seaman went to the bar to hold a short, whispered consultation with the bartender, who at first frowned and then finally nodded assent.
âToo far from home, if thatâs what yoâre driving at,â Hopalong replied. âBlast these hard trailsâmy feet are shore on the prod. Ever meet my side pardner? Johnny, hereâs a friend of mine, a salt-water puncher, anâ heâs welcome to the job, too.â
Johnny turned his head ponderously and nodded. âPleased to meet you, stranger. Anâ whatâll you all have?â
âOld Holland, mate,â replied the other, joining them.
âAll up!â invited Hopalong, waving them forward. âMight as well do things right or not at all. Themâs my sentiments, which I holds as proper. Plain rye, general, if you means me,â he replied to the bartenderâs look of inquiry.
He drained the glass and then made a grimace. âTastes a little offâ reckon itâs my mouth; nothing tastes right in this cussed town. Now, up on ourââ He stopped and caught at the bar. âHoly smoke! Thatâs shore alcohol!â
Johnny was relaxing and vainly trying to command his will power. âSomethingâs wrong; whatâs the matter?â he muttered sleepily.
âGuess you meant beer; you ainât used to drinking whiskey,â grinned the bartender, derisively, and watching him closely.
âI canâdrink as much whiskey asââ and, muttering, Johnny slipped to the floor.
âThat wasnât whiskey!â cried Hopalong, sleepily. âthat liquor was fixed!â he shouted, sudden anger bracing him. âAnâ Iâm going to fix you, too!â he added, reaching for his gun, and drawing forth a wedge. His sailor friend leaped at him, to go down like a log, and Hopalong, seething with rage, wheeled and threw the weapon at the man behind the bar, who also went down. The wedge, glancing from his skull, swept a row of bottles and glasses from the shelf and, caroming, went through the window.
In an instant Hopalong was the vortex of a mass of struggling men and, handicapped as he was, fought valiantly, his rage for the time neutralizing the effects of the drug. But at last, too sleepy to stand or think, he, too, went down.
âBy the Lord, that manâs a fighter!â enthusiastically remarked the leader, gently touching his swollen eye. âGeorge must âaâ put an awful dose in that grog.â
âLucky for us he didnât have no gunâthe wedge was bad enough,â groaned a man on the floor, slowly sitting up. âWhoever swapped him that wedge for his gun did us a good turn, all right.â
A companion tentatively readjusted his lip. âI donât envy Wilkins his job breaking in that man when he gets awake.â
âDonât waste no time, mates,â came the order. âUp with âem anâ aboard. Weâve done our share; let the mate do his, anâ be hanged. Hullo, Portsmouth; coming around, eh?â he asked the man who had first felt the wedge. âI was scared you was done for that time.â
âNo more shanghaiing hair pants for me, no more!â thickly replied Portsmouth. âOh, my head, itâs bust open!â
âNever mind about the bartenderâlet him alone; we canât waste no time with him now!â commanded the leader sharply. âGet these fellers on board before weâre caught with âem. We want our money after that.â
âAll clear!â came a low call from the lookout at the door, and soon a shadowy mass surged across the street and along a wharf. There was a short pause as a boat emerged out of the gloom, some whispered orders, and then the squeaking of oars grew steadily fainter in the direction of a ship which lay indistinct in the darkness.
A man moaned and stirred restlessly in a bunk, muttering incoherently. A stampeded herd was thundering over him, the grinding hoofs beating him slowly to death. He saw one mad steer stop and lower its head to gore him and just as the sharp horns touched his skin, he awakened. Slowly opening his bloodshot eyes he squinted about him, sick, weak, racking with pain where heavy shoes had struck him in the melee, his head reverberating with roars which seemed almost to split it open. Slowly he regained his full senses and began to make out his surroundings. He was in a bunk which moved up and down, from side to side, and was never still. There was a small, round window near his feetâthank heaven it was open, for he was almost suffocated by the foul air and the heat. Where was he? What had happened? Was there a salty odor in the air, or was he still dreaming? Painfully raising himself on one elbow he looked around and caught sight of a man in the bunk across. It was Johnny Nelson! Then, bit by bit, the whole thing came to him and he cursed heartily as he reviewed it and reached the only possible conclusion. He was at sea! He, Hopalong Cassidy, the best fighting unit of a good fighting outfit, shanghaied and at sea! Drugged, beaten, and stolen to labor on a ship.
Johnny was muttering and moaning and Hopalong slowly climbed out of the narrow bunk, unsteadily crossed the moving floor, and shook him. âReckon heâs in a stampede, too!â he growled. âThey shore raised hâl with us. Oh, what a beating we got! But weâll pass it along with trimmings.â
Johnnyâs eyes opened and he looked around in confusion. âWhaâ, Hopalong!â
âYes; itâs me, the prize idiot of a blamed good pair of âem. Howâd you feel?â
âSleepy anâ sick. My eyes ache anâ my headâs splitting. Whereâs Buck anâ the rest?â
Hopalong sat down on the edge of the bunk and sore luridly, eloquently, beautifully, with a fervor and polish which left nothing to be desired in that line, and caused his companion to gaze at him in astonishment.
âI had a mighty bad dream, but you must âaâ had one a whole lot worse, to listen to you,â Johnny remarked. âGee, youâre going some! Whatâs the matter with you. You sick, too?â
Thereupon Hopalong unfolded the tale of woe and when Johnny had grasped its import and knew that his dream had been a stern reality, he straightway loosed his vocabulary and earned a draw. âWell, Iâm going back again,â he finished, with great decision, arising to make good his assertion.
âSwim or walk?â asked Hopalong nonchalantly.
âHuh! Oh, Lord!â
âWell, I ainât going to either swim or walk,â Hopalong soliloquized. âIâm just going to stay right here in this one-by-nothing cellar anâ spoil the health anâ good looks of any pirate that comes down that ladder to get me out.â He looked around, interested in life once more, and his trained eye grasped the strategic worth of their position. âOnly one at a time, anâ down that ladder,â he mused, thoughtfully. âWhy, Johnny, we owns this range as long as we wants to. They canât get us out. But, say, if only we had our guns!â he sighed, regretfully.
âYouâre right as far as you go; but you donât go to the eating part. Weâll starve, anâ we ainât got no water. I can drink about a bucketful right now,â moodily replied his companion.
âWell, yoâre right; but mebby we can find food anâ water.â
âDonât see no signs of none. Hey!â Johnny exclaimed, smiling faintly in his misery. âLetâs get busy anâ burn the cussed thing up! Got any matches?â
âFirst you want to drown yoreself swimming, anâ now you want to roast the pair of us to death,â Hopalong retorted, eyeing the rear wall of the room. âWonder whatâs on the other side of that partition?â
Johnny looked. âWhy, water; anâ lots of it, too.â
âNaw; the water is on the other sides.â
âThen how do I know?âsh! I hear somebody coming on the roof.â
âTumble back in yore bunkâquick!â Hopalong hurriedly whispered. âBe asleepâif he comes down here itâll be our deal.â
The steps overhead stopped at the companionway and a shadow appeared across the small patch of sunlight on the floor of the forecastle. âTumble up here, you blasted loafers!â roared a deep voice.
No reply came from the forecastleâthe silence was unbroken.
âIf I have to come down there Iâllââ the first mate made promises in no uncertain tones and in very impolite language. He listened for a moment, and having very good ears and hearing nothing, made more promises and came down the ladder quickly and nimbly.
âIâll bring you to,â he muttered, reaching a brawny hand for Hopalongâs nose, and missing. But he made contact with his own face, which stopped a short-arm blow from the owner of the aforesaid nose, a jolt full of enthusiasm and purpose. Beautiful and dazzling flashes of fire filled
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