Bar-20 Days by Clarence E. Mulford (best black authors TXT) đ
- Author: Clarence E. Mulford
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âYou wonât do no hanging with that load of weapons below!â retorted Hopalong. âUncle Sam is looking for filibustersâthis here gun is âcotton,ââ he said, grinning. He turned to the crew. âBut you fellers are due to get shot if you sees her through,â he added.
âIâm captain of this shipââ began the helpless autocrat.
âYou shore look like it, all right,â Hopalong replied, smiling. âIf yoâre the captain you order her turned around and headed over the back trail, or Iâll drop you overboard off yore own ship!â Then fierce anger at the thought of the indignities and injuries he and his companion had suffered swept over him and prompted a one-minute speech which left no doubt as to what he would do if his demand was not complied with. Johnny, now free to watch the crew, added a word or two of endorsement, and he acted a little as if he rather hoped it would not be complied with: he itched for an excuse.
The captain did some quick thinking; the true situation could not be disguised, and with a final oath of rage he gave in. ââBout ship, Hogan; norâ by norâwest,â he growled, and the seaman started away to execute the command, but was quickly stopped by Hopalong.
âHogan, is that right?â he demanded. âNo funny business, or weâll clean up the whole bunch, anâ blamed quick, too!â
âThatâs the course, sor. Thatâs the way back to town. I can navigate, anâ me orders are plain. Yeâre Irish, by the way av ye, and ât is back to town ye go, sor!â He turned to the crew: âStand by, me boys.â And in a short time the course was norâ by norâwest.
The return journey was uneventful and at nightfall the ship lay at anchor off the low Texas coast, and a boat loaded with men grounded on the sandy beach. Four of them arose and leaped out into the mild surf and dragged the boat as high up on the sand as it would go. Then the two cow-punchers followed and one of them gave a low-spoken order to the Irishman at his side.
âYes, sor,â replied Hogan, and hastened to help the captain out onto the sand and to cut the ropes which bound him. âDo ye want the mates, too, sor?â he asked, glancing at the trussed men in the boat.
âNo; the foremanâs enough,â Hopalong responded, handing his weapons to Johnny and turning to face the captain, who was looking into Johnnyâs gun as he rubbed his arms to restore perfect circulation.
âNow, you flat-faced coyote, yoâre going to get the beating of yore life, anâ Iâm going to give it to you!â Hopalong cried, warily advancing upon the man whom he held to be responsible for the miseries of the past twenty-four hours. âYou didnât give me a square deal, but Iâm man enough to give you one! When you drug anâ steal any more cow-punchersââ action stopped his words.
It was a great fight. A filibustering sea captain is no more peaceful than a wild boar and about as dangerous; and while this one was not at his best, neither was Hopalong. The latter luckily had acquired some knowledge of the rudiments of the game and had the vigor of youth to oppose to the captainâs experience and his infuriated but well-timed rushes. The seamen, for the honor of their calling and perhaps with a mind to the future, cheered on the captain and danced up and down in their delight and excitement. They had a lot of respect for the prowess of their master, and for the man who could stand up against him in a fair and square fist fight. To give assistance to either in a fair fight was not to be thought of, and Johnnyâs gun was sufficient after-excuse for non-interference.
The sop! sop! of the punishing blows as they got home and the steady circling of Hopalong in avoiding the dangerous attacks, went on minute after minute. Slowly the captainâs strength was giving out, and he resorted to trickery as his last chance. Retreating, he half raised his arms and lowered them as if weary, ready as a cat to strike with all his weight if the other gave an opening. It ought to have workedâ it had worked beforeâbut Hopalong was there to win, and without the momentary hesitation of the suspicious fighter he followed the retreat and his hard hand flashed in over the captainâs guard a fraction of a second sooner than that surprised gentleman anticipated. The ferocious frown gave way to placid peace and the captain reclined at the feet of the battered victor, who stood waiting for him to get up and fight. The captain lay without a sign of movement and as Hopalong wondered, Hogan was the first to speak.
âFer the love av hiven, let him be! Ye neednât waitâheâs done; I know by the sound av it!â he exclaimed, stepping forward. ââT was a purty blow, anâ ât was a gr-rand foight ye put up, sor! A gr-rand foight, but any more av that is murder! âT is an Irishmanâs game, sor, anâ ye did yersilf proud. But now let him beâno man, least av all a Dootchman, iver tuk more than that anâ lived!â
Hopalong looked at him and slowly replied between swollen lips, âYoâre right, Hogan; weâre square now, I reckon.â
âThatâs right, sor,â Hogan replied, and turned to his companions. âPut him in the boat; anâ mind ye handle him gintlyâweâll be sailing under him soon. Now, sor, if itâs yer pleasure, Iâll be after saying good-bye to ye, sor; anâ to ye, too,â he said, shaking hands with both punches. âFer a sick la-ad yeâre a wonder, ye are that,â he smiled at Johnny, âbut ye want to kape away from the water fronts. Good-bye to ye both, anâ a pleasant journey home. The town is tin miles to me right, over beyant them hills.â
âGood-bye, Hogan,â mumbled Hopalong gratefully. âYoâre square all the way through; anâ if you ever get out of a job or in any kind of trouble that I can help you out of, come up to the Bar-20 anâ you wonât have to ask twice. Good luck!â And the two sore and aching punchers, wiser in the ways of the world, plodded doggedly towards the town, ten miles away.
The next morning found them in the saddle, bound for Dentâs hotel and store near the San Miguel Canyon. When they arrived at their destination and Johnny found there was some hours to wait for Red, his restlessness sent him roaming about the country, not so much âseeking what he might devourâ as hoping something might seek to devour him. He was so sore over his recent kidnapping that he longed to find a salve. He faithfully promised Hopalong that he would return at noon.
Dick Martin slowly turned, leaned his back against the bar, and languidly regarded a group of Mexicans at the other end of the room. Singly, or in combinations of two or more, each was imparting all he knew, or thought he knew about the ghost of San Miguel Canyon. Their fellow-countryman, new to the locality, seemed properly impressed. That it was the ghost of Carlos Martinez, murdered nearly one hundred years before at the big bend in the canyon, was conceded by all; but there was a dispute as to why it showed itself only on Friday nights, and why it was never seen by any but a Mexican. Never had a Gringo seen it. The Mexican stranger was appealed to: Did this not prove that the murder had been committed by a Mexican? The stranger affected to consider the question.
Martin surveyed them with outward impassiveness and inward contempt. A realist, a cynic, and an absolute genius with a Colt .45, he was well known along the border for his dare-devil exploits and reckless courage. The brainiest men in the Secret Service, Lewis, Thomas, Sayre, and even old Jim Lane, the local chief, whose fingers at El Paso felt every vibration along the Rio Grande, were not as well known âexcept to those who had seen the inside of Government penitentiaries âand they were quite satisfied to be so eclipsed. But the Service knew of the ghost, as it knew everything pertaining to the border, and gave it no serious thought; if it took interest in all the ghosts and superstitions peculiar to the Mexican temperament it would have no time for serious work. Martin once, in a spirit of savage denial, had wasted the better part of several successive Friday nights in the San Miguel, but to no avail. When told that the ghost showed itself only to Mexicans he had shrugged his shoulders eloquently and laughed, also eloquently.
âA Greaser,â he replied, âis one-half fear and superstition, anâ the other half imagination. There ainât no ghosts, but I know the Greasers have seen âem, all right. A Greaser can see anything scary if he makes up his mind to. If I ever see one anâ he keeps on being one after I shoot, Iâll either believe in ghosts, or quit drinking.â His eyes twinkled as he added: âAnâ of the two, I think Iâd prefer to see ghosts!â
He was flushed and restless with deviltry. His fifth glass always made him so; and to-night there was an added stimulus. He believed the strange Mexican to be Juan Alvarez, who was so clever that the Government had never been able to convict him. Alvarez was fearless to recklessness and Martin, eager to test him, addressed the group with the blunt terseness for which he was famed, and hated.
âGreasers are cowards,â he asserted quietly, and with a smile which invited excitement. He took a keen delight in analyzing the expressions on the faces of those hit. It was one of his favorite pastimes when feeling coltish.
The group was shocked into silence, quickly followed by great unrest and hot, muttered words. Martin did not move a muscle, the smile was set, but between the half-closed eyelids crouched Combat, on its toes. The Mexicans knew it was there without looking for itâthe tone of his voice, the caressing purr of his words, and his unnatural languor were signs well known to them. Not a criminal sneaking back from voluntary banishment in Mexico who had seen those signs ever forgot them, if he lived. Martin watched the group cat-like, keenly scrutinizing each face, reading the changing emotions in every shifting expression; he had this art down so well that he could tell when a man was debating the pull of a gun, and beat him on the draw by a fraction of a second.
âDe senor ees meestak,â came the reply, as quiet and caressing as the words which provoked it. The strange Mexican was standing proudly and looking into the squinting eyes with only a grayness of face and a tigerish litheness to tell what he felt.
âNone go through the canyon after dark on Fridays,â purred Martin.
âI go troâ de canyon nexâ Friday night. Eef I do, then you mak apology to me?â
âIâll limit my remark to all but one Greaser.â
The Mexican stepped forward. âI takâ thees gloove anâ leave eet at de Beeg Benâ, for you to finâ in daylight,â he said, tapping one of Martinâs gauntlets which lay on the bar. âYou geevâ me eet befoâ I go?â
âYes; at nine oâclock to-morrow night,â Martin replied, hiding his elation. He was sure that he knew the man now.
The Mexican, cool and smiling, bowed and left the room, his companions hastening after him.
âWell, Iâll bet twenty-five dollars he flunks!â breathed the bartender, straightening up.
Martin turned languidly and smiled at him. âIâll take that, Charley,â he replied.
Johnny Nelson
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