Hopalong Cassidy's Rustler Round-Up; Or, Bar-20 by Clarence Edward Mulford (positive books to read .TXT) 📖

“Phew! I'm shore hungry,” said Hopalong, as he and Red dismounted at the ranch the next morning for breakfast. “Wonder what's good for it?”

“They's three things that's good for famine,” said Red, leading the way to the bunk house. “Yu can pull in yore belt, yu can drink, an yu can eat. Yore getting as bad as Johnny—but he's young yet.”

The others met their entrance with a volley of good-humored banter, some of which was so personal and evoked such responses that it sounded like the preliminary skirmish to a fight. But under all was that soft accent, that drawl of humorous appreciation and eyes twinkling in suppressed merriment. Here they were thoroughly at home and the spirit of comradeship manifested itself in many subtle ways; the wit became more daring and sharp, Billy lost some of his pessimism, and the alertness disappeared from their manner.

Skinny left off romping with Red and yawned. “I wish that cook'ud wake up an' git breakfast. He's the cussedest hombre I ever saw—he kin go to sleep standin' up an' not know it. Johnny's th' boy that worries him—th' kid comes in an' whoops things up till he's gorged himself.”

“Johnny's got th' most appallin' feel for grub of anybody I knows,” added Red. “I wonder what's keepin' him—he's usually hangin' around here bawlin' for his grub like a spoiled calf, long afore cookie's got th' fire goin'.”

“Mebby he rustled some grub out with him—I saw him tip-toein' out of th' gallery this mornin' when I come back for my cigs,” remarked Hopalong, glancing at Billy.

Billy groaned and made for the gallery. Emerging half a minute later he blurted out his tale of woe: “Every time I blows myself an' don't drink it all in town some slab-sided maverick freezes to it. It's gone,” he added, dismally.

“Too bad, Billy—but what is it?” asked Skinny.

“What is it? Wha'd yu think it was, you emaciated match? Jewelry? Cayuses? It's whisky—two simoleons' worth. Some-thin's allus wrong. This here whole yearth's wrong, just like that cross-eyed sky pilot said over to—”

“Will yu let up?” Yelled Red, throwing a sombrero at the grumbling unfortunate. “Yu ask Buck where yore tanglefoot is.

“I'd shore look nice askin' th' boss if he'd rustled my whisky, wouldn't I? An' would yu mind throwin' somebody else's hat? I paid twenty wheels for that eight years ago, and I don't want it mussed none.”

“Gee, yore easy! Why, Ah Sing, over at Albuquerque, gives them away every time yu gits yore shirt washed,” gravely interposed Hopalong as he went out to cuss the cook.

“Well, what'd yu think of that?” Exclaimed Billy in an injured tone.

“Oh, yu needn't be hikin' for Albuquerque—WasheeWashee'ud charge yu double for washin' yore shirt. Yu ought to fall in di' river some day—then he might talk business,” called Hopalong over his shoulder as he heaved an old boot into the gallery. “Hey, yu hibernatin' son of morphine, if yu don't git them flapjacks in here pretty sudden-like I'll scatter yu all over di' landscape, sabe? Yu just wait till Johnny comes!”

“Wonder where th' kid is?” asked Lanky, rolling a cigarette. “Off somewhere lookin' at di' sun through di' bottom of my bottle,” grumbled Billy.

Hopalong started to go out, but halted on the sill and looked steadily off toward the northwest. “That's funny. Hey, fellows, here comes Buck an' Johnny ridin' double—on a walk, too!” he exclaimed. “Wonder what th'—thunder! Red, Buck's carryun' him! Somethin's busted!” he yelled, as he dashed for his pony and made for the newcomers.

“I told yu he was hittin' my bottle,” pertly remarked Billy, as he followed the rest outside.

“Did yu ever see Johnny drunk? Did yu ever see him drink more'n two glasses? Shut yore wailin' face—they's somethin' worse'n that in this here,” said Red, his temper rising. “Hopalong an' me took yore cheap liquor—it's under Pete's bunk,” he added.

The trio approached on a walk and Johnny, delirious and covered with blood, was carried into the bunk house. Buck waited until all had assembled again and then, his face dark with anger, spoke sharply and without the usual drawl: “Skragged from behind, blast them! Get some grub an' water an' be quick. We'll see who the gent with th' grudge is.”

At this point the expostulations of the indignant cook, who, not understanding the cause, regarded the invasion of china shop bulls as sacrilegious, came to his ears. Striding quickly to the door, he grabbed the pan the Mexican was about to throw and, turning the now frightened man around, thundered, “Keep quiet an' get 'em some grub.”

When rifles and ammunition had been secured they mounted and followed him at a hard gallop along the back trail. No words were spoken, for none were necessary. All knew that they would not return until they had found the man for whom they were looking, even if the chase led to Canada. They did not ask Buck for any of the particulars, for the foreman was not in the humor to talk, and all, save Hopalong, whose curiosity was always on edge, recognized only two facts and cared for nothing else: Johnny had been ambushed and they were going to get the one who was responsible.

They did not even conjecture as to who it might be, because the trail would lead them to the man himself, and it mattered nothing who or what he was—there was only one course to take with an assassin. So they said nothing,