The Coming of Cassidy by Clarence E. Mulford (romantic novels in english TXT) 📕

The Coming of Cassidy—And the Others

Author of Hopalong Cassidy, Bar-20 Days, etc.

Illustrations by Maynard Dixon

Copyright 1908 by The Red Book Corporation

Copyright 19ll by Field and Stream Publishing Co.

Copyright 1912 by The Pearson Publishing Co.

Copyright 1913 by The Pearson Publishing Co.

Published, October, 1913 Copyrighted in Great Britain

It was on one of my annual visits to the ranch that Red, whose welcome always seemed a little warmer than that of the others, finally took me back to the beginning. My friendship with the outfit did not begin until some years after the fight at Buckskin, and, while I was familiar with that aff air and with the history of the outfit from that time on, I had never seemed to make much headway back of that encounter. And I must confess that if I had depended upon the rest of the outfit for enlightenment I should have learned very little of its earlier exploits. A more secretive and bashful crowd, when it came to their own achievements, would be hard to find. But Red, the big, smiling, under-foreman, at last completely thawed and during the last few weeks of my stay, told me story after story about the earlier days of the ranch and the parts played by each member of the outfit. Names that I had heard mentioned casually now meant something to me; the characters stepped out of the obscurity of the past to act their parts again. To my mind’s eye came Jimmy Price, even more mischievous than Johnny Nelson; “Butch” Lynch and Charley James, who erred in judgment; the coming and going of Sammy Porter, and why “You-Bet” Somes never arrived; and others who did their best, or worst, and went their way. The tales will follow, as closely as possible, in chronological order. Between some of them the interval is short; between others, long; the less interesting stories that should fill those gaps may well be omitted.

It was in the ’70s, when the buffalo were fast disappearing from the state, and the hunters were beginning to turn to other ways of earning a living, that Buck Peters stopped his wagon on the banks of Snake Creek and built himself a sod dugout in the heart of a country forbidding and full of perils. It was said that he was only the agent for an eastern syndicate that, carried away by the prospects of the cattle industry, bought a “ranch,” which later was found to be entirely strange to cattle. As a matter of fact there were no cows within three hundred miles of it, and there never had been. Somehow the syndicate got in touch with Buck and sent him out to look things over and make a report to them. This he did, and in his report he stated that the “ranch” was split in two parts by about forty square miles of public land, which he recommended that he be allowed to buy according to his judgment. When everything was settled the syndicate found that they owned the west, and best, bank of an unfailing river and both banks of an unfailing creek for a distance of about thirty miles. The strip was not very wide then, but it did not need to be, for it cut off the back-lying range from water and rendered it useless to anyone but his employers. Westward there was no water to amount to anything for one hundred miles. When this had been digested thoroughly by the syndicate it caused Buck’s next pay check to be twice the size of the first.

He managed to live through the winter, and the following spring a herd of about two thousand or more poor cattle was delivered to him, and he noticed at once that fully half of them were unbranded; but mavericks were cows, and in those days it was not questionable to brand them. Persuading two members of the drive outfit to work for him he settled down to face the work and perils of ranching in a wild country. One of these two men, George Travis, did not work long; the other was the man who told me these tales. Red went back with the drive outfit, but in Buck’s wagon, to return in four weeks with it heaped full of necessities, and to find that troubles already had begun. Buck’s trust was not misplaced. It was during Red’s absence that Bill Cassidy, later to be known by a more descriptive name, appeared upon the scene and played his cards.

C. E. M.

VI HOPALONG’S HOP

VII “DEALING THE ODD”

THE COMING OF CASSIDY AND THE OTHERS

THE trail boss shook his fist after the departing puncher and swore softly. He hated to lose a man at this time and he had been a little reckless in threatening to “fire” him; but in a gun-fighting outfit there was no room for a hothead. “Cimarron” was boss of the outfit that was driving a large herd of cattle to California, a feat that had been accomplished before, but that no man cared to attempt the second time. Had his soul been enriched by the gift of prophecy he would have turned back. As it was he returned to the work ahead of him. “Aw, let him go,” he growled. “He’s wuss off ‘n I am, an’ he’ll find it out quick. I never did see nobody what got crazy mad so quick as him.”

“Bill” Cassidy, not yet of age, but a man in stature and strength, rode north because it promised him civilization quicker than any other way except the back trail, and he was tired of the coast range. He had forgotten the trail-boss during the last three days of his solitary journeying and the fact that he was in the center of an uninhabited country nearly as large as a goodsized state gave him no concern; he was equipped for two weeks, and fortified by youth’s confidence.

All day long he rode, around mesas and through draws, detouring to avoid canyons and bearing steadily northward with a certainty that was a heritage. Gradually the great bulk of mesas swung off to the west, and to the east the range grew steadily more level as it swept toward the peaceful river lying in the distant valley like a carelessly flung rope of silver. The forest vegetation, so luxuriant along the rivers and draws a day or two before, was now rarely seen, while chaparrals and stunted mesquite became more common.

He was more than twenty-five hundred feet above the ocean, on a great plateau broken by mesas that stretched away for miles in a vast sea of grass. There was just enough tang in the dry April air to make riding a pleasure and he did not mind the dryness of the season. Twice that day he detoured to ride around prairie-dog towns and the sight of buffalo skeletons lying in groups was not rare. Alert and contemptuous gray wolves gave him a passing glance, but the coyotes, slinking a little farther off, watched him with more interest. Occasionally he had a shot at antelope and once was successful.

Warned by the gathering dusk he was casting about for the most favorable spot for his blanket and fire when a horseman swung into sight out of a draw and reined in quickly. Bill’s hand fell carelessly to his side while he regarded the stranger, who spoke first, and with a restrained welcoming gladness in his voice. “Howd’y, Stranger! You plumb surprised me.”

Bill’s examination told him that the other was stocky, compactly built, with a pleasing face and a “good eye.” His age was about thirty and the surface indications were very favorable. “Some surprised myself,” he replied. “Ridin’ my way?”

“Far’s th’ house,” smiled the other. “Better join us. Couple of buffalo hunters dropped in awhile back.”

“They’ll go a long way before they’ll find buffalo,” Bill responded, suspiciously. Glancing around he readily picked out the rectangular blot in the valley, though it was no easy feat. “Huntin’ or ranchin’?” he inquired in tones devoid of curiosity.

“Ranchin’,” smiled the other. “Hefty proposition, up here, I reckon. Th’ wolves’ll walk in under yore nose. But I ain’t seen no Injuns.”

“You will,” was the calm reply. “You’ll see a couple, first; an’ then th’ whole cussed tribe. They ain’t got no buffalo no more, neither.”

Buck glanced at him sharply and thought of the hunters, but he nodded. “Yes. But if that couple don’t go back?” he asked, referring to the Indians.

“Then you’ll save a little time.”

“Well, let ‘em come. I’m here to stay, one way or th’ other. But, anyhow, I ain’t got no border ruffians like they have over in th’ Panhandle. They’re worse ‘n Injuns.”

“Yes,” agreed Bill. “Th’ war ain’t ended yet for some of them fellers. Ex-guerrillas, lots of ‘em.”

When they reached the house the buffalo hunters were arguing about their next day’s ride and the elder, looking up, appealed to Bill. “Howd’y, Stranger. Ain’t come ‘cross no buffaler signs, hev ye?”

Bill smiled. “Bones an’ old chips. But th’ gray wolves was headin’ southwest.”

“What’d I tell you?” triumphantly exclaimed the younger hunter.

“Well, they ain’t much difrence, is they?” growled his companion.

Bill missed nothing the hunters said or did and during the silent meal had a good chance to study their faces. When the pipes were going and the supper wreck cleaned away, Buck leaned against the wall and looked across the room at the latest arrival. “Don’t want a job, do you?” he asked.

Bill shook his head slowly, wondering why the hunters had frowned at a job being offered on another man’s ranch. “I’m headed north. But I’ll give you a hand for a week if you need me,” he offered.

Buck smiled. “Much obliged, friend; but it’ll leave me worse off than before. My other puncher’ll be back in a few weeks with th’ supplies, but I need four men all year ‘round. I got a thousand head to brand yet.”

The elder hunter looked up. “Drive ‘em back to cow-country an’ sell ‘em, or locate there,” he suggested.

Buck’s glance was as sharp as his reply, for he couldn’t believe that the hunter had so soon forgotten what he had been told regarding the ownership of the cattle. “I don’t own ‘em. This range is bought an’ paid for. I won’t lay down.”

“I done forgot they ain’t yourn,” hastily replied the hunter, smiling to