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

it ain't the measly hole in my shoulder that's got me on the prod?” retorted Johnny, with more earnestness than politeness. “But why couldn't I go with my friends after Jerry an' get shot later if I had to get it at all? Look what I'm missing, roped an' throwed in this cussed ten-by-ten shack while they're having a little excitement.”

“Yo're missing some blamed nasty weather, Kid,” replied the marshal. “You ain't got no kick coming at all. Why, I got soaked clean through just going down to the Oasis.”

“Well, I'm kicking, just the same,” snapped Johnny. “An' furthermore, I don't see nobody big enough to stop me, neither—did you all get that?”

The rear door opened and Fred Neal looked in. “Hey, Barr; come out an' gimme a hand in the corral. Busted my cinch all to pieces half a mile out—an' how the devil it ever busted like that is—” the door slammed shut and softened his monologue.

“Would you listen to that!” snorted Barr in an injured tone. “Didn't I go an' tell him near a month ago that his cussed cinch wouldn't hold no better'n a piece of wet paper?” His complaint added materially to the atmosphere of sullen discontent pervading the room. “An' now I gotter go out in this rain an'—” the slam of the door surpassed anything yet attempted in that line of endeavor. Jackson grabbed a can of corn as it jarred off the shelf behind him and directed a pleasing phrase after the peevish Barr.

“Say, won't somebody please smile?” gravely asked Edwards. “I never saw such a happy, cheerful bunch before.”

“I might smile if I wasn't so blamed hungry,” retorted Johnny. “Doesn't anybody ever eat in this town?” he asked in great sarcasm. “Mebby a good feed won't do me no good, but I'm going to fill myself regardless. An' after that, if the grub don't shock me to death, I'm shore going to trim somebody at Ol' Sledge—for two bits a hand.”

“If I could play you enough hands at that price I could sell out an' live high without working,” grinned Jackson, preparing to give the reckless invalid all he could eat. “That's purty high, Kid; but I just feel real devilish, an' I'm coming in.”

“An' I'll go over to my shack, get some money, an' bust the pair of you,” laughed Edwards, again buttoning his coat and going towards the door. “Holy Cats! A log must 'a' got jammed in the sluice-gate up there,” he muttered, scowling at the black sky. “It's coming down harder'n ever, but here goes,” and he stepped quickly into the storm.

Jackson paused with a frying pan in his hands and looked through the window after the departing marshal, and saw him stagger, stumble forward, then jerk out his guns and begin firing. Hard firing now burst out in front and Jackson, cursing angrily, dropped the pan and reached for his rifle—to drop it also and sink down, struck by the bullet which drilled through the window. Johnny let out a yell of rage, grabbed his Colt, and ran to the door in time to see Edwards slowly raise up on one elbow, fire his last shot, and fall back riddled by bullets.

Jackson crawled to his rifle and then to the side window, where he propped his back against a box and prepared to do his best. “It was shore a surprise,” he swore. “An' they went an' got Edwards before he could do anything.”

“They did not!” retorted Johnny. “He—” the glass in the door vibrated sharply and the speaker, stepping to one side out of sight, with a new and superficial wound, opened fire on the building down the street. Two men were lying on the ground across the street—these Edwards had shot—and another was trying to drag himself to the shelter of a building. A man sprinted from an old corral close by in a brave and foolhardy attempt to save his friend, and Johnny swore because he had to fire twice at the same mark.

The rear door crashed open and shut as Barr, closely followed by Neal, ran in. They had been caught in the corral but, thanks to Harlan's whiskey, had managed to hold their own until they had a chance to make a rush for the store.

“Where's the marshal?” cried Barr, catching sight of Jackson. “Are you plugged bad?” he asked, anxiously.

“Well, I ain't plugged a whole lot good!” snapped Jackson. “An' Edwards is dead. They shot him down without warning. We're going to get ours, too—these walls don't stop them bullets. How many out there?”

“Must be a dozen,” hastily replied Neal, who had not remained idle. Both he and Barr were working like mad men moving boxes and barrels against the walls to make a breastwork capable of stopping the bullets which came through the boards.

“I reckon—I'm bleeding inside,” Jackson muttered, wearily and without hope. “Wonder how—long we—can hold out?”

“We'll hold out till we're good an' dead!” replied Johnny, hotly. “They ain't got us yet an' they'll pay for it before they do. If we can hold 'em off till Buck an' the rest come back we'll have the pleasure of seeing 'em buried.”

“Oh, I'll get you next time!” assured Barr to an enemy, slipping a fresh cartridge into the Sharps and peering intently at a slight rise on the muddy plain. “You shoot like yo're drunk,” he mumbled.

“But what is it all about, anyhow?” asked Neal, finding time for an immaterial question. “Who are they?—can't see nothing but blurs through this rain!”

“Yes; what's the game?” asked Barr, mildly surprised that he had not thought of it before.

“It's that Oasis gang,” Johnny responded. He fired, and growled with disappointment. “Harlan's at the head of it,” he added.

“Edwards—told Harlan to—get out of—town,” Jackson began.

“An' to take his gang with him,” Johnny interposed quickly to save Jackson from the strain. “They had till dark. Guess the rest. Oh, you coyote!” he shouted, staggering back. There was a report farther down the barricade and Neal called out, “I got him, Nelson; he's done. How are you?”

“Mad! Mad!” yelled Johnny, touching his twice-wounded shoulder and dancing with rage and pain. “Right in the same place! Oh, wait! Wait! Hey, gimme a rifle—I can't do nothing with a Colt at this range; my name ain't Hopalong,” and he went slamming around the room in hot search of what he wanted.

“There ain't—no more—Johnny,” feebly called Jackson, raising slightly to ease himself. “You can have—my gun purty—soon. I won't be able—to use it—much longer.”

“Why don't Buck an' Hoppy hurry up!” snarled Johnny.

“Be a long time—mebby,” mumbled Jackson, his trembling hands trying to steady the rifle. “They're all—around us. Ah, missed!” he intoned hoarsely, trying to pump the lever with unobeying hands. “I can't last—much—” the words ceased abruptly and the clatter of the rifle on the floor told the story.

Johnny stumbled over to him and dragged him aside, covering the upturned face with his own sombrero, and picked up the rifle. Rolling a barrel of flour against the wall below the window he fixed himself as comfortably as