Bar-20 by Clarence E. Mulford (i want to read a book .txt) đź“•
"Th' wall-eyed piruts," he muttered, and then scratched his head for a way to "play hunk." As he gazed sorrowfully at the saloon he heard a snicker from behind him. He, thinking it was one of his late tormentors, paid no attention to it. Then a cynical, biting laugh stung him. He wheeled, to see Shorty leaning against a tree, a sneering leer on his flushed face. Shorty's right hand was suspended above his holster, hooked to his belt by the thumb--a favorite position of his when expecting trouble.
"One of yore reg'lar habits?" he drawled.
Jimmy began to dust himself in silence, but his lips were compressed to a thin white line.
"Does they hurt yu?" pursued the onlooker.
Jimmy looked up. "I heard tell that they make glue outen cayuses, sometimes," he remarked.
Shorty's eyes flashed. The loss of the horse had been rankling in his heart all day.
"Does they git yu frequent?" he asked. His voice sounded ha
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mean? Think I am a echo cliff? Yu slabsided doodlebug, yu!”
“G’way, yu crimson topknot, think my head’s a hunk of quartz? Fer a plugged
peso I’d strew yu all over th’ scenery!” shouted Billy, feigning anger and rubbing his head.
“There ain’t no scenery around here,” interposed Lanky. “This here be-utiful
prospect is a sublime conception of th’ devil.”
“Easy, boy! Them highfalutin’ words’ll give yu a cramp some day. Yu talk like a
newly-made sergeant,” remarked Skinny.
“He learned them words from the sky-pilot over at El Paso,” volunteered
Hopalong, winking at Red. “He used to amble down th’ aisle afore the lights was lit so’s
he could get a front seat. That was all hunky for a while, but every time he’d go out to
irrigate, that female organ-wrastler would seem to call th’ music off for his special
benefit. So in a month he’d sneak in an’ freeze to a chair by th’ door, an’ after a while he’d
shy like blazes every time he got within eye range of th’ church.”
“Shore. But do yu know what made him get religion all of a sudden? He used to
hang around on di’ outside after th’ joint let out an’ trail along behind di’ music-slinger,
lookin’ like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. Then when he got woozy one time
she up an’ told him that she had got a nice long letter from her hubby. Then Mr. Lanky
hit th’ trail for Santa Fe so hard that there wasn’t hardly none of it left. I didn’t see him for
a whole month,” supplied Red innocently.
“Yore shore funny, ain’t yu?” sarcastically grunted Lanky. “Why, I can tell things
on yu that’d make yu stand treat for a year.”
“I wouldn’t sneak off to Santa Fe an’ cheat yu out of them. Yu ought to be
ashamed of yoreself.”
“Yah!” snorted the aggrieved little man. “I had business over to Santa Fe!”
“Shore,” endorsed Hopalong. “We’ve all had business over to Santa Fe. Why,
about eight years ago I had business-”
“Choke up,” interposed Red. “About eight years ago yu was washin’ pans for
cookie, an’ askin’ me for cartridges. Buck used to larrup yu about four times a day eight
years ago.”
To their roars of laughter Hopalong dropped to the rear, where, red-faced and
quiet, he bent his thoughts on how to get square.
“We’ll have a pleasant time corralling that gang,” began Billy for the third time.
“For heaven’s sake get off that trail!” replied Lanky. “We ain’t goin’ to hold `em
up. De-plomacy’s th’ game.”
Billy looked dubious and said nothing. If he hadn’t proven that he was as nervy as
any man in the outfit they might have taken more stock in his grumbling.
“What’s the latest from Abilene way?” asked Buck of Frenchy.
“Nothin’ much `cept th’ barb-wire ruction,” replied the recruit.
“What’s that?” Asked Red, glancing apprehensively back at Hopalong.
“Why, th’ settlers put up barb-wire fence so’s the cattle wouldn’t get on their farms.
That would a been all right, for there wasn’t much of it. But some Britishers who own a
couple of big ranches out there got smart all of a sudden an’ strung wire all along their
lines. Punchers crossin’ th’ country would run plumb into a fence an’ would have to ride a
day an’ a half, mebbe, afore they found th’ corner. Well, naturally, when a man has been
used to ridin’ where he blame pleases an’ as straight as he pleases he ain’t goin’ to chase
along a five-foot fence to Trisco when he wants to get to Waco. So th’ punchers got to
totin’ wire-snips, an’ when they runs up agin a fence they cuts down half a mile or so.
Sometimes they’d tie their ropes to a strand an’ pull off a couple of miles an’ then go back
after th’ rest. Th’ ranch bosses sent out men to watch th’ fences an’ told `em to shoot any
festive puncher that monkeyed with th’ hardware. Well, yu know what happens when a
puncher gets shot at.”
“When fences grow in Texas there’ll be th’ devil to pay,” said Buck.
He hated to think that some day the freedom of the range would be annulled, for
he knew that it would be the first blow against the cowboys’ occupation. When a man’s
cattle couldn’t spread out all over the land he wouldn’t have to keep so many men. Farms
would spring up and the sun of the free-and-easy cowboy would slowly set.
“I reckons th’ cutters are classed th’ same as rustlers,” remarked Red with a gleam
of temper.
“By th’ owners, but not by th’ punchers; an’ it’s th’ punchers that count,” replied
Frenchy.
“Well, we’ll give them a fight,” interposed Hopalong, riding up.
“When it gets so I can’t go where I please I’ll start on th’ warpath. I won’t buck the
cavalry, but I’ll keep it busy huntin’ for me an’ I’ll have time to `tend to th’ wire-fence men,
too. Why, we’ll be told we can’t tote our guns!”
“They’re sayin’ that now,” replied Frenchy. “Up in Buffalo, Smith, who’s now
marshal, makes yu leave `em with th’ bartenders.”
“I’d like to see any two-laigged cuss get my guns If I didn’t want him to!” began
Hopalong, indignant at the idea.
“Easy, son,” cautioned Buck. “Yu would do what th’ rest did because yu are a
square man. I’m about as hard-headed a puncher as ever straddled leather an’ I’ve had to
use my guns purty considerable, but I reckons if any decent marshal asked me to cache
them in a decent way, why, I’d do it. An’ let me brand somethin’ on yore mind-I’ve heard
of Smith of Buffalo, an’ he’s mighty nifty with his hands. He don’t stand off an’ tell yu to
unload yore lead-ranch, but he ambles up close an’ taps yu on yore shirt; if yu makes a
gunplay he naturally knocks yu clean across th’ room an’ unloads yu afore yu gets yore
senses back. He weighs about a hundred an’ eighty an’ he’s shore got sand to burn.”
“Yah! When I makes a gun play she plays! I’d look nice in Abilene or Paso or
Albuquerque without my guns, wouldn’t I? Just because I totes them in plain sight I’ve
got to hand `em over to some liquor-wrastler? I reckons not! Some hip-pocket skunk
would plug me afore I could wink. I’d shore look nice loping around a keno layout
without my guns, in th’ same town with some cuss huntin’ me, wouldn’t I? A whole lot of
good a marshal would a done Jimmy, an’ didn’t Harris get his from a cur in th’ dark?”
shouted Hopalong, angered by the prospect.
“We’re talkin’ about Buffalo, where everybody has to hang up their guns,” replied
Buck. “An’ there’s th’ law-”
“To blazes with th’ law!” whooped Hopalong in Red’s ear as he unfastened the
cinch of Red’s saddle and at the same time stabbing that unfortunate’s mount with his
spurs, thereby causing a hasty separation of the two. When Red had picked himself up
and things had quieted down again the subject was changed, and several hours later they
rode into Muddy Wells, a town with a little more excuse for its existence than Buckskin.
The wells were in an arid valley west of Guadaloupe Pass, and were not only muddy but
more or less alkaline.
PEACE HATH ITS VICTORIES
As they neared the central group of buildings they
heard a hilarious and assertive song which sprang from the door
and windows of the main saloon. It was in jig time, rollicking and
boisterous, but the words had evidently been improvised for the
occasion, as they clashed immediately with those which sprang to the minds of the outfit,
although they could not be clearly distinguished. As they approached nearer and finally
dismounted, however, the words became recognizable and the visitors were at once
placed in harmony with the air of jovial recklessness by the roaring of the verses and the
stamping of the time.
Oh we’re red-hot cowpunchers playin’ on our luck,
An’ there ain’t a proposition that we won’t buck.
From sunrise to sunset we’ve ridden on the range,
But now we’re oft for a howlin’ change.
CHORUS
Laugh a little, sing a little, all th’ day;
Play a little, drink a little-we can pay;
Ride a little, dig a little an’ rich we’ll grow.
Oh, we’re that bunch from th’ O-Bar-O!
Oh, there was a little tenderfoot an’ he had a little gun,
An’ th’ gun an’ him went a-trailin’ up some fun.
They ambles up to Santa Fe’ to find a quiet game,
An’ now they’re planted with some more of th’ same!
As Hopalong, followed by the others, pushed open the door and entered he took
up the chorus with all the power of Texan lungs and even Billy joined in. The sight that
met their eyes was typical of the men and the mood and the place. Leaning along the
walls, lounging on the table and straddling chairs with their forearms crossed on the backs
were nine cowboys, ranging from old twenty to young fifty in years, and all were shouting
the song and keeping time with their hands and feet.
In the center of the room was a large man dancing a fair buck-and-wing to the
time so uproariously set by his companions.
Hatless, neck-kerchief loose, holsters flapping, chaps rippling out and close, spurs
clinking and perspiration streaming from his tanned face, danced Bigfoot Baker as though
his life depended on speed and noise. Bottles shook and the air was fogged with smoke
and dust.
Suddenly, his belt slipping and letting his chaps fall around his ankles, he tripped
and sat down heavily. Gasping for breath, he held out his hand and received a huge plug
of tobacco, for Bigfoot had won a contest.
Shouts of greeting were hurled at the newcomers and many questions were fired at
them regarding “th’ latest from th’ Hills.” Waffles made a rush for Hopalong, but fell over
Bigfoot’s feet and all three were piled up in a heap. All were beaming with good nature,
for they were as so many school boys playing truant. Prosaic cowpunching was
relegated to the rear and they looked eagerly forward to their several missions. Frenchy
told of the barb-wire fence war and of the new regulations of “Smith of Buffalo”
regarding cowpunchers’ guns, and from the caustic remarks explosively given it was
plain to be seen what a wire fence could expect, should one be met with, and there were
many imaginary Smiths put hors de combat.
Kid Morris, after vainly trying to slip a blue-bottle fly inside of Hopalong’s shirt,
gave it up and slammed his hand on Hopalong’s back instead, crying: “Well, I’ll be
doggoned if here ain’t Hopalong! How’s th’ missus an’ th’ deacon an’ all th’ folks to hum?
I hears yu an’ Frenchy’s reg’lar poker fiends!”
“Oh, we plays onct in a while, but we don’t want none of yore dust. Yu’ll shore
need it all afore th’ Hills get through with yu,” laughingly replied Hopalong.
“Oh, yore shore kind! But I was a sort of reckonin’ that we needs some more.
Perfesser P. D. Q. Waffles is our poker man an’ he shore can clean out anything I ever
saw. Mebbe yu fellers feel reckless-like an’ would like to make a pool,” he cried,
addressing the outfit of the Bar-20, “an’ back yore boss of th’ full house agin
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