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

CHAPTER XI

HOLDING THE CLAIM

 

Oh, we’re that gang from th’ O-Bar-O,”

hummed Waffles, sinking the branding-iron in the flank of

a calf. The scene was one of great activity and hilarity.

 

Several fires were burning near the huge corral and in

them half a dozen irons were getting hot. Three calves

were being held down for the brand of the “Bar-20” and

two more were being dragged up on their sides by the

ropes of the cowboys, the proud cow-ponies showing off

their accomplishments at the expense of the calves’

feelings. In the corral the dust arose in steady clouds as calf after calf was “cut out” by

the ropers and dragged out to get “tagged.”

 

Angry cows fought valiantly for their terrorized offspring, but always to no avail,

for the hated rope of some perspiring and dust-grimed rider sent them crashing to earth.

 

Over the plain were herds of cattle and groups of madly riding cowboys, and two

cook wagons were stalled a short distance from the corral.

 

The round-up of the Bar-20 was taking place, and each of the two outfits tried to

outdo the other and each individual strove for a prize.

 

The man who cut out and dragged to the fire the most calves in three days could

leave for the Black Hills at the expiration of that time, the rest to follow as soon as they

could.

 

In this contest Hopalong Cassidy led his nearest rival, Red Connors, both of

whom were Bar-20 men, by twenty cut-outs, and there remained but half an hour more in

which to compete. As Red disappeared into the sea of tossing horns Hopalong dashed out

with a whoop.

 

“Hi, yu trellis-built rack of bones, come along there! Whoop!” he yelled, turning

the prisoner over to the squad by the fire.

 

“Chalk up this here insignificant wart of cross-eyed perversity: an’ how many?”

 

He called as he galloped back to the corral.

 

“One ninety-eight,” announced Buck, blowing the sand from the tally sheet.

 

“That’s shore goin’ some,” he remarked to himself.

 

When the calf sprang up it was filled with terror, rage and pain, and charged at

Billy from the rear as that pessimistic soul was leaning over and poking his finger at a

somber horned-toad. “Wow!” he yelled as his feet took huge steps up in the air, each one

strictly on its own course. “Woof!” he grunted in the hot sand as he arose on his hands

and knees and spat alkali.

 

“What’s s’matter?” he asked dazedly of Johnny Nelson.

 

“Ain’t it funny!” he yelled sarcastically as he beheld Johnny holding his sides with

laughter.

 

“Ain’t it funny!” he repeated belligerently.

 

“Of course that four-laigged, knock-kneed, wobblin’ son-of-a-Piute had to cut me

out. They wasn’t nobody in sight but Billy! Why didn’t yu say he was comin’? Think I

can see four ways to once? Why didn’t-” At this point Red cantered up with a calf, and by

a quick maneuver, drew the taut rope against the rear of Billy’s knees, causing that

unfortunate to sit down heavily. As he arose choking with broken-winded profanity Red

dragged the animal to the fire, and Billy forgot his grievances in the press of labor.

 

“How many, Buck?” Asked Red.

 

“One-eighty.”

 

“How does she stand?”

 

“Yore eighteen to th’ bad,” replied the foreman.

 

“Th’ son-of-a-gun!” marveled Red, riding off.

 

Another whoop interrupted them, and Billy quit watching out of the corner eye for

pugnacious calves as he prepared for Hopalong.

 

“Hey, Buck, this here cuss was with a Barred-Horseshoe cow,” he announced as

he turned it over to the branding man. Buck made a tally in a separate column and

released the animal.

 

“Hullo, Red! Workin’?” asked Hopalong of his rival.

 

“Some, yu little cuss,” answered Red with all the good nature in the world.

 

Hopalong was his particular “side partner,” and he could lose to him with the best of

feelings.

 

“Yu looks so nice an’ cool, an’ clean, I didn’t know,” responded Hopalong, eyeing

a streak of sweat and dust which ran from Red’s eyes to his chin and then on down his

neck.

 

“What yu been doin’? Plowin’ with yore nose?” returned Red, smiling blandly at

his friend’s appearance.

 

“Yah!” snorted Hopalong, wheeling toward the corral. “Come on, yu pie-eatin’

doodlebug; I’ll beat yu to th’ gate!”

 

The two ponies sent showers of sand all over Billy, who eyed them in pugnacious

disgust. “Of all th’ locoed imps that ever made life miserable fer a man, them’s th’ worst!

Is there any piece of fool nonsense they hain’t harnessed me with?” he beseeched of Buck.

 

“Is there anything they hain’t done to me? They hides my liquor; they stuffs th’ sweat

band of my hat with rope; they ties up my pants; they puts water in. My boots an’ toads in

my bunk-ain’t they never goin’ to get sane?”

 

“Oh, they’re only kids-they can’t help it,” offered Buck. “Didn’t they hobble my

cayuse when I was on him an’ near bust my neck?”

 

Hopalong interrupted the conversation by driving up another calf, and Buck,

glancing at his watch, declared the contest at an end.

 

“Yu wins,” he remarked to the newcomer. “An’ now yu get scarce or Billy will

shore straddle yore nerves. He said as how he was goin’ to get square on yu tonight.”

 

“I didn’t, neither, Hoppy!” earnestly contradicted Billy, who bad visions of a night

spent in torment as a reprisal for such a threat.

 

“Honest I didn’t, did I, Johnny?” he asked appealingly.

 

“Yu shore did,” lied Johnny, winking at Red, who had just ridden up.

 

“I don’t know what yore talkin’ about, but yu shore did,” replied Red.

“If yu did,” grinned Hopalong, “I’ll shore make yu hard to find.

 

Come on, fellows,” he said; “grub’s ready. Where’s Frenchy?”

 

“Over chewin’ th’ rag with Waffles about his hat-he’s lost it again,” answered Red.

 

“He needs a guardian fer that bonnet. Th’ Kid an’ Salvation has jammed it in th’ corral

fence an’ Waffles has to stand fer it.”

 

“Let’s put it in th’ grub wagon an see him cuss cookie,” suggested Hopalong.

 

“Shore,” indorsed Johnny; Cookie’ll feed him bum grub for a week to get square.

 

Hopalong and Johnny ambled over to the corral and after some trouble located the

missing sombrero, which they carried to the grub wagon and hid in the flour barrel. Then

they went over by the excited owner and dropped a few remarks about how strange the

cook was acting and how he was watching Frenchy.

 

Frenchy jumped at the bait and tore over to the wagon, where he and the cook

spent some time in mutual recrimination. Hopalong nosed around and finally dug up the

hat, white as new-fallen snow.

 

“Here’s a hat-found it in th’ dough barrel,” he announced, handing it over to

Frenchy, who received it in open-mouthed stupefaction.

 

“Yu pie-makin’ pirate! Yu didn’t know where my lid was, did yu! Yu cross-eyed

lump of hypocrisy!” yelled Frenchy, dusting off the flour with one full-armed swing on

the cook’s face, driving it into that unfortunate’s nose and eyes and mouth. “Yu white-washed Chink, yu-rub yore face with water an’ yu’ve got pancakes.”

 

“Hey! What you doin’!” yelled the cook, kicking the spot where he had last seen

Frenchy. “Don’t yu know better’n that!”

 

“Yu live close to yoreself or I’ll throw yu so high th’ sun’ll duck,“replied Frenchy,

a smile illuminating his face.

 

“Hey, cookie,” remarked Hopalong confidentially, “I know who put up this joke

on yu. Yu ask Billy who hid th’ hat,” suggested the tease.

 

“Here he comes now-see how queer he looks.”

 

“Th’ mournful Piute,” ejaculated the cook. “I’ll shore make him wish he’d kept on

his own trail. I’ll flavor his slush [coffee] with year-old dish-rags!”

 

At this juncture Billy ambled up, keeping his weather eye peeled for trouble.

 

“Who’s a dish-rag?” He queried. The cook mumbled something about crazy hens not

knowing when to quit cackling and climbed up in his wagon. And that night Billy swore

off drinking coffee.

 

When the dawn of the next day broke, Hopalong was riding toward the Black

Hills, leaving Billy to untie himself as best he might.

 

The trip was uneventful and several weeks later he entered Red Dog, a rambling

shanty town, one of those western mushrooms that sprang up in a night. He took up his

stand at the Miner’s Rest, and finally secured six claims at the cost of nine hundred hard-earned dollars, a fund subscribed by the outfits, as it was to be a partnership affair.

 

He rode out to a staked-off piece of hillside and surveyed his purchase, which

consisted of a patch of ground, six holes, six piles of dirt and a log hut. The holes

showed that the claims bad been tried and found wanting.

 

He dumped his pack of tools and provisions, which he had bought on the way up,

and lugged them into the cabin. After satisfying his curiosity he went outside and sat

down for a smoke, figuring up in his mind how much gold he could carry on a horse.

 

Then, as he realized that he could get a pack mule to carry the surplus, he became aware

of a strange presence near at hand and looked up into the muzzle of a Sharp’s rifle. He

grasped the situation in a flash and calmly blew several heavy smoke rings around the

frowning barrel.

 

“Well?” He asked slowly.

 

“Nice day, stranger,” replied the man with the rifle, “but don’t yu reckon yu’ve

made a mistake?”

 

Hopalong glanced at the number burned on a near-by stake and carelessly blew

another smoke ring. He was waiting for the gun to waver.

 

“No, I reckons not,” he answered. “Why?”

 

“Well, I’ll jest tell yu since yu asks. This yere claim’s mine an’ I’m a reg’lar terror,

I am. That’s why; an’ seein’ as it is, yu better amble some.”

 

Hopalong glanced down the street and saw an interested group watching him,

which only added to his rage for being in such a position. Then he started to say

something, faltered and stared with horror at a point several feet behind his opponent.

 

The “terror” sprang to one side in response to Hopalong’s expression, as if fearing that a

snake or some such danger threatened him. As he alighted in his new position he fell

forward and Hopalong slid a smoking Colt in its holster.

 

Several men left the distant group and ran toward the claim.

 

Hopalong reached his arm inside the door and brought forth his rifle, with which

he covered their advance.

 

“Anything yu want?” he shouted savagely.

 

The men stopped and two of them started to sidle in front of two others, but

Hopalong was not there for the purpose of permitting a move that would screen any gun

play and he stopped the game with a warning shout. Then the two held up their hands

and advanced.

 

“We wants to git Dan,” called out one of them, nodding at the prostrate figure.

 

“Come ahead,” replied Hopalong, substituting a Colt for the rifle.

 

They carried their badly wounded and insensible burden back to those whom they

had left, and several curses were hurled