Bar-20 Days by Clarence Edward Mulford (reading fiction .TXT) 📖

the other, refilling his pipe with elaborate care, “but if he can kill Townsend to-day, I'll be so plumb joyous I won't know what to do with m'self.”

“I'm afraid he won't, though,” remarked another, lolling back against the bar. “The marshal was born to hang—nobody can beat him on the draw. But, anyhow, we're going to see some fun.”

The first speaker, still straining his memory for a clue to the stranger's identity, pulled out a handful of silver and placed it on the table. “I'll bet that he makes good,” he offered, but there were no takers.

The stranger now lazily arose and stepped into the doorway, leaning against the jamb and shaking his holster sharply to loosen the gun for action. He glanced quickly behind him and spoke curtly: “Remember, now—I am to do all the talking at this auction; you fellers just look on.”

A mumble of assent replied to him, and the townsmen craned their necks to look out. A procession slowly wended its way up the street, led by the marshal, astride a piebald horse bearing the crude brand of the CG. Three men followed him and numerous dogs of several colors, sizes, and ages roamed at will, in a listless, bored way, between the horse and the men. The dust arose sluggishly and slowly dissipated in the hot, shimmering air, and a fly buzzed with wearying persistence against the dirty glass in the front window.

The marshal, peering out from under the pulled-down brim of his Stetson, looked critically at the sleepy horse standing near the open door of the Paradise and sought its brand, but in vain, for it was standing with the wrong side towards him. Then he glanced at the man in the door, a puzzled expression stealing over his face. He had known that man once, but time and events had wiped him nearly out of his memory and he could not place him. He decided that the other horse could wait until he had sold the one he was on, and, stopping before the door of the Paradise, he raised his left arm, his right arm lying close to his side, not far from the holster on his thigh.

“Gentlemen an' feller-citizens,” he began: “As marshal of this booming city, I am about to offer for sale to the highest bidder this A Number 1 piebald, pursooant to the decree of the local court an' with the sanction of the town council an' the mayor. This same sale is for to pay the town for the board an' keep of this animal, an' to square the fine in such cases made an' provided. It's sound in wind an' limb, fourteen han's high, an' in all ways a beautiful piece of hoss-flesh. Now, gentlemen, how much am I bid for this cayuse? Remember, before you make me any offer, that this animal is broke to punching cows an' is a first-class cayuse.”

The crowd in the Paradise had flocked out into the street and oozed along the front of the building, while the stranger now leaned carelessly against his own horse, critically looking over the one on sale. Fisher, uneasy and worried, squirmed close at hand and glanced covertly from his horse and saddle to the guns in the belts on the members of the crowd.

It was the stranger who broke the silence: “Two bits I bid—two bits,” he said, very quietly, whereat the crowd indulged in a faint snicker and a few nudges.

The marshal looked at him and then ignored him. “How much, gentlemen?” he asked, facing the crowd again.

“Two bits,” repeated the stranger, as the crowd remained silent.

“Two bits!” yelled the marshal, glaring at him angrily: “Two bits! Why, the look in this cayuse's eyes is worth four! Look at the spirit in them eyes, look at the intelligence! The saddle alone is worth a clean forty dollars of any man's money. I am out here to sell this animal to the highest bidder; the sale's begun, an' I want bids, not jokes. Now, who'll start it off?” he demanded, glancing around; but no one had anything to say except the terse stranger, who appeared to be getting irritated.

“You've got a starter—I've given you a bid. I bid two bits—t-w-o b-i-t-s, twenty-five cents. Now go ahead with yore auction.”

The marshal thought he saw an attempt at humor, and since he was feeling quite happy, and since he knew that good humor is conducive to good bidding, he smiled, all the time, however, racking his memory for the name of the humorist. So he accepted the bid: “All right, this gentleman bids two bits. Two bits I am bid—two bits. Twenty-five cents. Who'll make it twenty-five dollars? Two bits—who says twenty-five dollars? Ah, did you say twenty-five dollars?” he snapped, leveling an accusing and threatening fore-finger at the man nearest him, who squirmed restlessly and glanced at the stranger. “Did you say twenty-five dollars?” he shouted.

The stranger came to the rescue. “He did not. He hasn't opened his mouth. But I said twenty-five cents,” quietly observed the humorist.

“Who'll gimme thirty? Who'll gimme thirty dollars? Did I hear thirty dollars? Did I hear twenty-five dollars bid? Who said thirty dollars? Did you say twenty-five dollars?”

“How could he when he was talking politics to the man behind him?” asked the stranger. “I said two bits,” he added complacently, as he watched the auctioneer closely.

“I want twenty-five dollars—an' you shut yore blasted mouth!” snapped the marshal at the persistent twenty-five-cent man. He did not see the fire smouldering in the squinting eyes so alertly watching him. “Twenty-five dollars—not a cent less takes the cayuse. Why, gentlemen, he's worth twenty in cans! Gimme twenty-five dollars, somebody. I bid twenty-five. I want thirty. I want thirty, gentlemen; you must gimme thirty. I bid twenty-five dollars—who's going to make it thirty?”

“Show us yore twenty-five an' she's yourn,” remarked the stranger, with exasperating assurance, while Fisher grew pale with excitement. The stranger was standing clear of his horse now, and alert readiness was stamped all over him. “You accepted my bid—show yore twenty-five dollars or take my two bits.”

“You close that face of yourn!” exploded the marshal, angrily. “I don't mind a little fun, but you've got altogether too damned much to say. You've queered the bidding, an' now you shut up!”

“I said two bits an' I mean just that. You show yore twenty-five or gimme that cayuse on my bid,” retorted the stranger.

“By the pans of Julius Caesar!” shouted the marshal. “I'll put you to sleep so you'll never wake up if I hears any more about you an' yore two bits!”

“Show me, Rednose,” snapped the other, his gun out in a flash. “I want that cayuse, an' I want it quick. You show me twenty-five dollars or I'll take it out from under you on my bid, you yaller dog! Stop it! Shut up! That's suicide, that is. Others have tried it an' failed, an' yo're no sleight-of-hand gun-man. This is the first time I ever paid a hoss-thief in silver, or bought stolen goods, but everything has to have a beginning. You get nervous with that hand of yourn an' I'll cure you of it! Git off that piebald, an' quick!”

The marshal felt stunned and groped for a way out, but the gun under his nose was as steady as a rock. He sat there stupidly, not knowing