Bar-20 by Clarence E. Mulford (black books to read .TXT) đź“–
- Author: Clarence E. Mulford
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“Has Hopalong an’ Red showed up yet?” asked Mr. Peters, frowning at the delay
already caused.
“Nope,” replied Johnny Nelson, as he paused from tormenting Billy Williams.
At that minute the doorway was darkened and Mr. Cassidy and Mr. Connors
entered and called for refreshments. Mr. Cassidy dropped a huge bundle of six-shooters
on the floor, making caustic remarks regarding their utility.
“What’s th’ matter?” Inquired Mr. Peters of Mr. Cassidy. “Yu looks mad an’
anxious. An’ where in blazes did yu corral them guns?”
Mr. Cassidy drank deep and then reported with much heat what had occurred at
Cactus Springs and added that he wanted to go back and wipe out the town, said desire
being luridly endorsed by Mr. Connors.
“Why, shore,” said Mr. Peters, “we’ll all go. Such doings must be stopped
instanter.” Then he turned to the assembled outfits and asked for a vote, which was
unanimous for war.
Shortly afterward eighteen angry cowpunchers rode to the east, two red-haired
gentlemen well in front and urging speed. It was 8 P.M. when they left Alkaline, and the
cool of the night was so delightful that the feeling of ease which came upon them made
them lax and they lost three hours in straying from the dim trail. At eight o’clock the next
morning they came in sight of their destination and separated into two squads, Mr.
Cassidy leading the northern division and Mr. Connors the one which circled to the south.
The intention was to attack from two directions, thus taking the town from front and rear.
Cactus Springs lay gasping in the excessive heat and the vigilantes who had toed
Mr. Connors’ line the day before were lounging in the shade of the “Palace” saloon,
telling what they would do if they ever faced the same man again. Half a dozen
sympathizers offered gratuitous condolence and advice and all were positive that they
knew where Mr. Cassidy and Mr. Connors would go when they died.
The rolling thunder of madly pounding hoofs disturbed their post-mortem and
they arose in a body to flee from half their number, who, guns in hands, charged down
upon them through clouds of sickly white smoke. Travennes’ Terrors were minus many
weapons and they could not be expected to give a glorious account of themselves.
Windows rattled and fell in and doors and walls gave off peculiar sounds as they grew
full of holes. Above the riot rattled the incessant crack of Colt’s and Winchester,
emphasized at close intervals by the assertive roar of buffalo guns. Off to the south came
another rumble of hoofs and Mr. Connors, leading the second squad, - arrived to
participate in the payment of the debt.
Smoke spurted from windows and other points of vantage and hung wavering in
the heated air. The shattering of woodwork told of heavy slugs finding their rest, and the
whines that grew and diminished in the air sang the course of .45s.
While the fight raged hottest Mr. Nelson sprang from his horse and ran to the
“Palace,” where he collected and piled a heap of tinder like wood, and soon the building
burst out in flames, which, spreading, swept the town from end to end.
Mr. Cassidy fired slowly and seemed to be waiting for something. Mr. Connors
laid aside his hot Winchester and devoted his attention to his Colts. A spurt of flame and
smoke leaped from the window of a `dobe hut and Mr. Connors sat down, firing as he
went. A howl from the window informed him that he had made a hit, and Mr. Cassidy
ran out and dragged him to the shelter of a near-by bowlder and asked how much he was
hurt.
“Not much-in the calf,” grunted Mr. Connors. “He was a bad shot-must have been
the cuss that got away yesterday,” speculated the injured man as he slowly arose to his
feet. Mr. Cassidy dissented from force of habit and returned to his station.
Mr. Travennes, who was sleeping late that morning, coughed and fought for air in
his sleep, awakened in smoke, rubbed his eyes to make sure and, scorning trousers and
shirt, ran clad in his red woolen undergarments to the corral, where he mounted his scared
horse and rode for the desert and safety.
Mr. Cassidy, swearing at the marksmanship of a man who fired at his head and
perforated his sombrero, saw a crimson rider sweep down upon him, said rider being
heralded by a blazing .44.
“Gosh!” ejaculated Mr. Cassidy, scarcely believing his eyes. “Oh, it’s my friend
Slim going to hades,” he remarked to himself in audible and relieved explanation.
Mr. Cassidy’s Colts cracked a protest and then he joined Mr. Peters and the others
and with them fought his way out of the flame-swept town of Cactus Springs.
An hour later Mr. Connors glanced behind him at the smoke silhouetted on the
horizon and pushed his way to where Mr. Cassidy rode in silence. Mr. Connors grinned
at his friend of the red hair, who responded in the same manner.
“Did yu see Slim?” Casually inquired Mr. Connors, looking off to the south.
Mr. Cassidy sat upright in his saddle and felt of his Colts. “Yes,” he replied, “I
saw him.”
Mr. Connors thereupon galloped on in silence.
RUSTLERS ON THE RANGE
The affair at Cactus Springs had more effect on
the life at the Bar-20 than was realized by the foreman.
News travels rapidly, and certain men, whose attributes
were not of the sweetest, heard of it and swore vengeance,
for Slim Travennes had many friends, and the result of his
passing began to show itself. Outlaws have as their
strongest defense the fear which they inspire, and little
time was lost in making reprisals, and these caused Buck
Peters to ride into Buckskin one bright October morning
and then out the other side of the town. Coming to himself with a start he looked around
shamefacedly and retraced his course. He was very much troubled, for, as foreman of the
Bar-20, he had many responsibilities, and when things ceased to go aright he was
expected not only to find the cause of the evil, but also the remedy.
That was what he was paid seventy dollars a month for and that was what he had
been endeavoring to do. As yet, however, he had only accomplished what the meanest
cook’s assistant had done. He knew the cause of his present woes to be rustlers (cattle
thieves), and that was all.
Riding down the wide, quiet street, he stopped and dismounted before the ever-open door of a ramshackle, one-story frame building. Tossing the reins over the flattened
ears of his vicious pinto he strode into the building and leaned easily against the bar,
where he drummed with his fingers and sank into a reverie.
A shining bald pate, bowed over an open box, turned around and revealed a florid
face, set with two small, twinkling blue eyes, as the proprietor, wiping his hands on his
trousers, made his way to Buck’s end of the bar.
“Mornin’, Buck. How’s things?”
The foreman, lost in his reverie, continued to stare out the door.
“Mornin’,” repeated the man behind the bar. “How’s things?”
“Oh!” ejaculated the foreman, smiling, “purty cussed.”
“Anything flew?”
“Th’ C-80 lost another herd last night.”
His companion swore and placed a bottle at the foreman’s elbow, but the latter
shook his head. “Not this mornin’—I’ll try one of them vile cigars, however.”
“Them cigars are th’ very best that-” began the proprietor, executing the order.
“Oh, heck!” exclaimed Buck with weary disgust . “Yu don’t have to palaver none:
I shore knows all that by heart.”
“Them cigars—” repeated the proprietor.
“Yas, yas; them cigars—I know all about them cigars. Yu gets them for twenty
dollars a thousand an’ hypnotizes us into payin’ yu a hundred,” replied the foreman, biting
off the end `of his weed. Then he stared moodily and frowned. “I wonder why it is?” He
asked. “We punchers like good stuff an’ we pays good prices with good money. What do
we get? Why, cabbage leaves an’ leather for our smokin’ an’ alcohol an’ extract for our
drink. Now, up in Kansas City we goes to a sumptious layout, pays less an’ gets bang-up
stuff. If yu smelled one of them K. C. cigars yu’d shore have to ask what it was, an’ as
for the liquor, why, yu’d think St. Peter asked yu to have one with him. It’s shore wrong
somewhere.”
“They have more trade in K. C.,” suggested the proprietor.
“An’ help, an’ taxes, an’ a license, an’ rent, an’ brass, cut glass, mahogany an’
French mirrors,” countered the foreman.
“They have more trade,” reiterated the man with the cigars.
“Forty men spend thirty dollars apiece with yu every month. “The proprietor
busied himself under the bar. “Yu’ll feel better tomorrow.
Anyway, what do yu care, yu won’t lose yore job,” he said, emerging.
Buck looked at him and frowned, holding back the words which formed in anger.
What was the use, he thought, when every man judged the world in his own way.
“Have yu seen any of th’ boys?” He asked, smiling again.
“Nary a boy. Who do yu reckon’s doin’ all this rustlin’?”
“I’m reckonin’, not shoutin’,” responded the foreman.
The proprietor looked out the window and grinned: “Here comes one of yourn
now.”
The newcomer stopped his horse in a cloud of dust, playfully kicked the animal in
the ribs and entered, dusting the alkali from him with a huge sombrero. Then he
straightened up and sniffed: “What’s burnin’?” he asked, simulating alarm. Then he
noticed the cigar between the teeth of his foreman and grinned: “Gee, but yore a brave
man, Buck.”
“Hullo, Hopalong,” said the foreman. “Want a smoke?” Waving his hand toward
the box on the bar.
Mr. Hopalong Cassidy side-stepped and began to roll a cigarette “Shore, but I’ll
burn my own—I know what it is.”
“What was yu doin’ to my cayuse afore yu come in?” Asked Buck.
“Nothin’,” replied the newcomer. “That was mine what I kicked in th’
corrugations.”
“How is it yore ridin’ the calico?” Asked the foreman. “I thought yu was dead
stuck on that piebald.”
“That piebald’s a goat; he’s been livin’ off my pants lately,” responded Hopalong.
“Every time I looks th’ other way he ambles over and takes a bite at me. Yu just wait `til
this rustler business is roped, an’ branded, an’ yu’ll see me eddicate that blessed scrapheap
into eatin’ grass again. He swiped Billy’s shirt th’ other day—took it right off th’ corral
wall, where Billy’s left it to dry.”
Then, seeing Buck raise his eyebrows, he explained: “Shore, he washed it again.
That makes three times since last fall.”
The proprietor laughed and pushed out the ever-ready bottle, but Hopalong shoved
it aside and told the reason: “Ever since I was up to K. C. I’ve been spoiled. I’m drinkin’
water an’ slush.”
“For Pete’s sake, has any more of yu fellers been up to K. C.?” queried the
proprietor in alarm.
“Shore, Red an’ Billy was up there, too.” responded Hopalong. “Red’s got a few
remarks to shout to yu about yore pain-killer. Yu better send for some decent stuff afore
he comes to town,” he warned.
Buck swung away from the bar and looked at his dead cigar. Then he turned to
Hopalong.
“What did you find?” He asked.
“Same old story: nice wide trail up to th’ Staked Plain-then nothin’.”
“It shore beats me,”
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