The Man From Bar-20 by Clarence E. Mulford (best books to read for young adults .txt) đ
- Author: Clarence E. Mulford
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âLogan,â mused the stranger. âDidnât you say something about him before?â he asked curiously.
âI did,â grunted Pop. âYouâve got a memâry near as bad as OP Hiram Jones. Hiram, he onceââ
âI thought so,â interposed the cowpuncher hastily, âWhat kind of a ranch is thâ CL?â
âWell, it was thâ fust to locate in these parts, anâ had its pick; anâ, natârally, it picked thâ valley of thâ Deepwater. Funny Logan ainât found no way to make thâ river work; it wouldnât have to sleep at all, âcept once in a while in thâ winter, when it freezes over for a spell. Itâd be a total loss then; mebby thatâs why he ainât never tried.
âBut takinâ a second holt,â he continued, frowning with deep thought; âI dunno as Iâd work for him, if I was you. You looks too much like him; anâ you got a long life of piety anâ bad whiskey ahead of you, mebby. Anâ, come to think of it, I dunno as Iâd stay very long around these parts, neither; anâ for thâ same reason. Now you have a drink with me. It shore is thâ hottest spring Iâve seen in fifty year,â he remarked, thereoy quoting himself for about that period of time. Each succeeding spring and summer was to him hotter than any which had gone before, which had moved Billy Atwood to remark that if Pop only lived long enough he would find hell a cool place, by comparison, when he eventually arrived there.
âSic âem, Towser!â shrilled a falsetto voice from somewhere. âIâll eat his black heart!â Then followed whistling, clucking, and a string of expletives classical in its completeness. âAndy wants a drink! Quick!â
A green object dropped past the strangerâs face, thumped solidly on the pine bar, hooked a viciouslooking beak on the edge of the counter, and swore luridly as its crafty nip missed the strangerâs thumb.
The puncher swiftly bent his sinewy forefinger, touched it with his thumb, and let it snap forward. The parrot got it on an eye and staggered, squawking a protest.
Pop was surprised and disappointed, for most strangers showed some signs of being startled, and often bought the drinks to further prove that the joke was on them. This capable young man carelessly dropped his great sombrero over Andrew Jackson and went right on talking as though nothing unusual had occurred. It appeared that the bird was also surprised and disappointed. The great hat heaved and rocked, bobbed forward, backward, and sideways, and then slid jerkily along the bar, its hidden locomotive force too deeply buried in thought and darkness to utter even a single curse. Reaching the edge of the bar the big hat pushed out over it, teetered a moment and then fell to the floor, where Andrew Jackson, recovering his breath and vocabulary at the same instant, filled the room with shrill and clamorous profanity.
The conversation finished to his satisfaction, the stranger glanced down at his boot, where the ruffled bird was delivering tentative frontal and flank attacks upon the glittering, sharp-toothed spur, whose revolving rowel had the better of the argument Andrew sensed the movement, side-stepped clumsily and cocked an evil eye upward.
âYou shouldâve taught him to swear in thâ deaf anâ dumb alphabet,â commented the puncher, grinning at the birdâs gravity. âDoes he drink?â he asked
âTry him, anâ see,â suggested Pop, chuckling. He reached for a bottle and clucked loudly.
Andrew shook himself energetically, and then proceeded to go up the puncherâs chaps by making diligent use of beak and claws. Reaching the low-hung belt, he hooked his claws into it and then looked evilly and suspiciously at the strange, suddenly extended forefinger. Deciding to forego hostilities, he swung himself upon it and was slowly lifted up to the bar.
Pop was disappointed again, for it was the birdâs invariable custom to deftly remove a portion of strange forefingers so trustingly offered. He could crack nuts in his crooked beak. Andy shook himself violently, craned his neck and hastened to bend it over the rim of the glass.
The stranger watched him in frank disgust and shrugged his shoulders eloquently. âSo all you could teach him was vile cuss words anâ to like whiskey, huh?â he muttered. âHeâs got less sense than I thought he had,â he growled, and, turning abruptly, went swiftly out to his horse.
Pop stared after him angrily and slapped the bird savagely. Emptying the liquor upon the floor, he shuffled quickly to the door and shook his fist at the departing horseman.
âDonât you tell Logan that I sent you!â he shouted belligerently.
The stranger turned in his saddle, grinning cheerfully, and favored his late host with a well-known, twohanded nose signal. Then he slapped the black horse and shot down the street without another backward glance.
Pop, arms akimbo, watched him sweep out of sight around a bend.
âHuh!â he snorted. âWonder what yoâre doinâ down here? Galivantinâ around thâ country, insultinâ honest, hard-workinâ folks, anâ wearinâ two guns, low down anâ tied! I reckon when you learns thâ lay of thâ country, if you stays long enough, youâll wind up by joininâ that gang up in thâ Twin Buttes country. I allus like to see triggers on sixshooters, I do.â He had not noticed the triggers, but that was no bar to his healthy imagination. Shuffling back to his seat, he watched the indignant Andy pecking at a wet spot on the floor.
âSo you didnât chaw his finger, huh?â he demanded, in open and frank admiration of the birdâs astuteness. âStrikes me you got a hull lot of wisdom, my boy. Some folks says a bird ainât got no brains; but lemme tell you that youâve got a danged good instinct.â
MEANWHILE the stranger was loping steadily eastward, and he arrived at the corral of the CL ranch before sundown, nodding pleasantly to the man who emerged from it: âHowdây,â he said. âIâm lookinâ for Logan.â
The CL man casually let his right hand lay loosely near the butt of his Colt: âHowdây,â he nodded. âYoâre lookinâ right at him.â
âDo you need any more punchers?â asked the stranger.
âHâm,â muttered the foreman. âMight use one. If itâs you, weâll talk money on pay-day. Iâll know more about you then.â
A puncher, passing the corral, noticed the two guns, frowned slightly and entered the enclosure, and leaned alertly against the palisade, where a crack between two logs served him as a loophole.
The two-gun man laughed with genuine enjoyment at the foremanâs way of hiring men. âThatâs fair,â he replied; âbut whatâs thâ high anâ low figgers? I like to know thâ limit of any game I sets in.â
Logan shrugged his shoulders. âForty is thâ lowest Iâd offer a white man; anâ he wouldnât draw that moreân a month. Any man as ainât worth more is in our way. Itâs a waste of grub to feed him. Thâ sky is thâ high limit but youâve got to work like hâl to pass thâ clouds.â
âIâm some balloon,â laughed the stranger. âWhereâs the grub shack?â
âHold on, young man! We ainât got that far, yet. Where are you from, anâ what have you been doinâ with yore sweet young life?â
The strangerâs face grew grave and his eyes narrowed a trifle.
âSome folks allow thatâs a leadinâ question. It ainât polite.â
âI allow that, too. Anâ Iâm aiminâ to make it a leadinâ question, âthough I ainât lackinâ in politeness, nor tryinâ to rile you. You donât have to answer. Thâ wide world, full of jobs, is all around you.â
The newcomer regarded him calmly for a moment, and suddenly smiled.
âYore gall is refreshinâ,â he grinned. âIâm from thâ Bar-20, Texas. Iâm five feet ten; weigh a hundred anâ sixty; blue eyes, brown hair; single anâ sober, now anâ always. I writes left-handed; eat anâ shoot with both; wears pants, smokes tobacco, anâ Iâm as handy a cowpuncher as ever threw a rope. Oh, yes; modesty is one of my glarinâ faults; you might say my only glarinâ fault. Some people call me âDearly Belovedâ; others, other things; but I answer to any old handle at grub pile. My name is Johnny Nelson anâ I never had no other, âcept âKid,â to my friends. Iâm thirty years old, minus some. Anâ oh, yes; Iâm from thâ Tin Cup, Montanny. I get things twisted at times, anâ this shore looks like one of âem.â
âOf course,â grunted Logan, his eyes twinkling. âThatâs easy. Thâ two ranches, beinâ so close together, would bother a man. Sorta wander off one onto thâ other, anâ have to stop to think which one yoâre workinâ for. They should mark thâ boundaries plainer or put up a fence.â
Johnny flushed. âI allus say Bar-2O when I speaks off-hand anâ have more on my mind than my hair. That man in thâ corral divides my attention. He flusters me. You see, I was cussed near born on thâ old Bar-2O âworked there ever since I was a boy. That crack in thâ wall is big enough for two men to use. Thank you, friend: you near scared me to death,â he chuckled as the suspicious watcher emerged and started for the bunk-house.
âYou look so much like thâ boss, I couldnât help watchinâ you,â grinned the puncher over his shoulder.
Logan grunted something, and then nodded at the stranger.
âCut it loose,â he encouraged. âI donât get a chance like this every day, my observant friend. I allus reckoned I could cover ground purty well, but Iâll be hanged if I can spread myself so I can work in Texas anâ Montanny at thâ same time. You got me beat from soda to hock. Yoâre goinâ to be a real valuable man, which I can see plain. Cominâ down to cases, you ainât really a cowpuncher; yoâre a whole cussed outfit, barrinâ thâ chuck waggin anâ thâ cook. I have great hopes for you. Tell me about it.â
Johnny swung a leg over the pommel and smiled down at the man who was grinning up at him.
âOf course,â he replied, âit ainât none of yore business, which we both admits. We just canât do any business on any other understandinâ. But I waives that: anâ here goes.
âI worked with the Bar-2O till Buck went up to run thâ Tin Cup. Cow-thieves kept him
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