Bar-20 by Clarence E. Mulford (i want to read a book .txt) 📕

an’ if I goes broke, why, I’ll punch again!” asserted Waffles,

the foreman, thus revealing the real purpose of the trip.

 

“What’d yore boss say?” Asked Frenchy.

 

“Whoop! What didn’t he say! Honest, I never thought he had it in him. It was

fine. He cussed an hour frontways an’ then trailed back on a dead gallop, with us a-laughin’ fit to bust. Then he rustles for his gun an’ we rustles for town,” answered

Waffles, laughing at his remembrance of it.

 

As Frenchy was about to reply his sombrero was snatched from his head and

disappeared. If he “got mad” he was to be regarded as not sufficiently well acquainted for

banter and he was at once in hot water; if he took it good-naturedly he was one of the

crowd in spirit; but in either case he didn’t get his hat without begging or fighting for it.

 

This was a recognized custom among the O-Bar-O outfit and was not intended as an

insult.

 

Frenchy grabbed at the empty air and arose. Punching Lefty playfully in the ribs

he passed his hands behind that person’s back. Not finding the lost head-gear he laughed

and, tripping Lefty up, fell with him and, reaching up on the table for his glass, poured the

contents down Lefty’s back and arose.

 

“Yu son-of-a-gun!” indignantly wailed that unfortunate. “Gee, it feels funny,” he

added, grinning as he pulled the wet shirt away from his spine.

 

“Well, I’ve got to be amblin’,” said Frenchy, totally ignoring the loss of his hat.

 

“Goin’ down to Buckskin,” he offered, and then asked, “When’s yore cook comin’?”

 

“Day after tomorrow, if he don’t get loaded,” replied Tex.

 

“Who is he?”

 

“A one-eyed Mexican-Quiensabe Antonio.”

 

“I used to know him. He’s a heck of a cook. Dished up th’ grub one season when

I was punchin’ for th’ Tin-Cup up in Montana,” replied Frenchy.

 

“Oh, he kin cook now, all right.” replied Waffles.

 

“That’s about all he can cook. Useter wash his knives in th’ coffee pot an’ blow on

di’ tins. I chased him a mile one night for leavin’ sand in th’ skillet. Yu can have him-I

don’t envy yu none whatever.

 

“He don’t sand no skillet when little Tenspot’s around,” assured that person,

slapping his holster. “Does he, Lefty?”

 

“If he does, yu oughter be lynched,” consoled Lefty.

 

“Well, so long,” remarked Frenchy, riding off to a small store, where he bought a

cheap sombrero.

 

Frenchy was a jack-of-all-trades, having been cowpuncher, prospector, proprietor

of a “hotel” in Albuquerque, foreman of a ranch, sheriff, and at one time had played angel

to a venturesome but poor show troupe. Beside his versatility he was well known as the

man who took the stage through the Sioux country when no one else volunteered. He

could shoot with the best, but his one pride was the brand of poker he handed out.

 

Furthermore, he had never been known to take an unjust advantage over any man and, on

the contrary, had frequently voluntarily handicapped himself to make the event more

interesting. But he must not be classed as being hampered with self-restraint.

 

His reasons for making this trip were two-fold: he wished to see Buck Peters, the

foreman of the Bar-20 outfit, as he and Buck had punched cows together twenty years

before and were firm friends; the other was that he wished to get square with Hopalong

Cassidy, who had decisively cleaned him out the year before at poker. Hopalong played

either in great good luck or the contrary, while Frenchy played an even, consistent game

and usually left off richer than when he began, and this decisive defeat bothered him more

than he would admit, even to himself.

 

The round-up season was at hand and the Bar-20 was short of ropers, the rumors

of fresh gold discoveries in the Black Hills having drawn all the more restless men north.

 

The outfit also had a slight touch of the gold fever, and only their peculiar loyalty to the

ranch and the assurance of the foreman that when the work was over he would

accompany them, kept them from joining the rush of those who desired sudden and much

wealth as the necessary preliminary of painting some cow town in all the “bang up” style

such an event would call for.

 

Therefore they had been given orders to secure the required assistance, and they

intended to do so, and were prepared to kidnap, if necessary, for the glamour of wealth

and the hilarity of the vacation made the hours falter in their speed.

 

As Frenchy leaned back in his chair in Cowan’s saloon, Buckskin, early the next

morning, planning to get revenge on Hopalong and then to recover his sombrero, he heard

a medley of yells and whoops and soon the door flew open before the strenuous and

concentrated entry of a mass of twisting and kicking arms and legs, which magically

found their respective owners and reverted to the established order of things.

 

When the alkali dust had thinned he saw seven cowpunchers sitting on the

prostrate form of another, who was earnestly engaged in trying to push Johnny Nelson’s

head out in the street with one foot as he voiced his lucid opinion of things in general and

the seven in particular. After Red Connors had been stabbed in the back several times by

the victim’s energetic elbow he ran out of the room and presently returned with a pleased

expression and a sombrero full of water, his finger plugging an old bullet hole in the

crown.

 

“Is he any better, Buck?” Anxiously inquired the man with the reservoir.

 

“About a dollar’s worth,” replied the foreman. “Jest put a little right here,” he

drawled as he pulled back the collar of the unfortunate’s shirt.

 

“Ow! wow! WOW!” wailed the recipient, heaving and straining. The unengaged

leg was suddenly wrested loose, and as it shot up and out Billy Williams, with his

pessimism aroused to a blue-ribbon pitch, sat down forcibly in an adjacent part of the

room, from where he lectured between gasps on the follies of mankind and the attributes

of army mules.

Red tiptoed around the squirming bunch, looking for an opening, his pleased

expression now having added a grin.

 

“Seems to be gittin’ violent-like,” he soliloquized, as he aimed a stream at

Hopalong’s ear, which showed for a second as Pete Wilson strove for a half-nelson, and

he managed to include Johnny and Pete in his effort.

 

Several minutes later, when the storm had subsided, the woeful crowd

enthusiastically urged Hopalong to the bar, where he “bought.”

 

“Of all th’ ornery outfits I ever saw-” began the man at the table, grinning from ear

to ear at the spectacle he had just witnessed.

 

“Why, hullo, Frenchy! Glad to see yu, yu old son-of-a-gun! What’s th’ news from

th’ Hills?” shouted Hopalong.

 

“Rather locoed, an’ there’s a locoed gang that’s headin’ that way. Goin’ up?” he

asked.

 

“Shore, after round-up. Seen any punchers trailin’ around loose?”

 

“Ya-as,” drawled Frenchy, delving into the possibilities suddenly opened to him

and determining to utilize to the fullest extent the opportunity that had come to him

unsought. “There’s nine over to Muddy Wells that yu might git if yu wants them bad

enough. They’ve got a sombrero of mine,” he added deprecatingly.

 

“Nine! Twisted Jerusalem, Buck! Nine whole cowpunchers a-pinin’ for work,”

he shouted, but then added thoughtfully, “Mebby they’s engaged,” it being one of the

courtesies of the land not to take another man’s help.

 

“Nope. They’ve stampeded for th’ Hills an’ left their boss all alone,” replied

Frenchy, well knowing that such desertion would not, in the minds of the Bar-20 men,

add any merits to the case of the distant outfit.

 

“Th’ sons-of-guns,” said Hopalong, “let’s go an’ get `em,” he suggested, turning to

Buck, who nodded a smiling assent.

 

“Oh, what’s the hurry?” asked Frenchy, seeing his projected game slipping away

into the uncertain future and happy in the thought that he would be avenged on the O-Bar-O outfit.

 

“They’ll be there till tomorrow noon-they’s waitin’ for their cookie, who’s goin’

with them.”

 

“A cook! A cook! Oh, joy, a cook!” exulted Johnny, not for one instant doubting

Buck’s ability to capture the whole outfit and seeing a whirl of excitement in the effort.

 

“Anybody we knows?” Inquired Skinny Thompson.

 

“Shore. Tenspot Davis, Waffles, Salvation Carroll, Bigfoot Baker, Charley Lane,

Lefty Allen, Kid Morris, Curley Tate an’ Tex Le Blanc,” responded Frenchy.

 

“Umm-m. Might as well rope a blizzard,” grumbled Billy. “Might as well try to

git th’ Seventh Cavalry. We’ll have a pious time corralling that bunch. Them’s th’ fellows

that hit that bunch of inquirin’ Crow braves that time up in th’ Bad Lands an’ then said by-bye to th’ Ninth.”

 

“Aw, shut up! They’s only two that’s very much, an’ Buck an’ Hopalong can sing

`em to sleep,” interposed Johnny, afraid that the expedition would fall through.

 

“How about Curley and Tex?” Pugnaciously asked Billy.

“Huh, jest because they buffaloed yu over to Las Vegas yu needn’t think they’s

dangerous. Salvation an’ Tenspot are only ones who can shoot,” stoutly maintained

Johnny.

 

“Here yu, get mum,” ordered Buck to the pair. “When this outfit goes after

anything it generally gets it. All in favor of kidnappin’ that outfit signify di’ same by

kickin’ Billy,” whereupon Bill swore.

 

“Do yu want yore hat?” asked Buck, turning to Frenchy.

 

“I shore do,” answered that individual.

 

“If yu helps us at th’ round-up we’ll get it for yu. Fifty a month an’ grub,” offered

the foreman.

 

“O.K.” replied Frenchy, anxious to even matters.

 

Buck looked at his watch.

 

“Seven o’clock-we ought to get there by five if we relays at th’ Barred-Horseshoe.

 

Come on.”

 

“How are we goin’ to git them?” Asked Billy.

 

“Yu leave that to me, son. Hopalong an’ Frenchy’ll tend to that part of it,” replied

Buck, making for his horse and swinging into the saddle, an example which was followed

by the others, including Frenchy.

 

As they swung off Buck noticed the condition of Frenchy’s mount and halted.

 

“Yu take that cayuse back an’ get Cowan’s,” he ordered.

 

“That cayuse is good for Cheyenne-she eats work, an’ besides I wants my own,”

laughed Frenchy.

 

“Yu must had a reg’lar picnic from th’ looks of that crease,“volunteered Hopalong,

whose curiosity was mastering him. “Shoo! I had a little argument with some feather

dusters-th’ O-Bar-O crowd cleaned them up.”

 

“That so?” Asked Buck.

 

“Yep! They sorter got into th’ habit of chasin’ me to Las Cruces an’ forgot to

stop.”

 

“How many’d yu get?” Asked Lanky Smith.

 

“Twelve. Two got away. I got two before th’ crowd showed up-that makes

fo’teen.”

 

“Now th’ cavalry’ll be huntin’ yu,” croaked Billy.

 

“Hunt nothin’! They was in war-paint-think I was a target?-Think I was goin’ to

call off their shots for `em?”

 

They relayed at the Barred-Horseshoe and went on their way at the same pace.

 

Shortly after leaving the last-named ranch Buck turned to Frenchy and asked, “Any of

that outfit think they can play poker?”

 

“Shore. Waffles.”

 

“Does th’ reverend Mr. Waffles think so very hard?”

 

“He shore does.”

 

“Do th’ rest of them mavericks think so too?”

 

“They’d bet their shirts on him.”

 

At this juncture all were startled by a sudden eruption from Billy.

“Haw! Haw! Haw!’ he roared as the drift of Buck’s intentions struck him. “Haw!

Haw! Haw!”

 

“Here, yu long-winded coyote,” yelled Red, banging him over the head with his

quirt, “If yu don’t