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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hand.
“Who owns a mosaic bronc, Chinee flag on th’ near side, Skillet brand?” asked
Mr. Connors.
“Quien sabe?”
“Gosh, he can nearly keep still in two lingoes,” thought Mr. Cassidy.
“Who owns a bob-tailed pinto, saddle-galled, cast in th’ near eye, Star Diamond
brand, white stockin’ on th’ off front prop, with a habit of scratchin’ itself every other
minute?” went on Mr. Connors.
“Slim Travennes,” replied the proprietor, flopping a flapjack.
Mr. Cassidy reflectively scratched the back of his hand and looked innocent, but
his mind was working overtime.
“Who’s Slim Travennes?” Asked Mr. Connors, never having heard of that person,
owing to the reticence of his friend.
“Captain of th’ vigilantes.”
“What does he look like on th’ general run?” Blandly inquired Mr. Cassidy,
wishing to verify his suspicions. He thought of the trouble he had with Mr. Travennes up
in Santa Fe and of the reputation that gentleman possessed. Then the fact that Mr.
Travennes was the leader of the local vigilantes came to his assistance and he was sure
that the captain had a hand in the change. All these points existed in misty groups in his
mind, but the next remark of the landlord caused them to rush together and reveal the
plot.
“Good,” said the landlord, flopping another flapjack, “and a warnin’ to hoss
thieves.
“Ahem,” coughed Mr. Cassidy and then continued, “is he a tall, lanky, yaller-headed son-of-a-gun, with a big nose an’ lots of ears?”
“Mebby so,” answered the host.
“Urn, slopping over into bad Sioux,” thought Mr. Cassidy, and then said aloud,
“How long has he hung around this here layout?” At the same time passing a warning
glance at his companion.
The landlord straightened up. “Look here, stranger, if yu hankers after his
pedigree so all-fired hard yu had best pump him.”
“I told yu this here feller wasn’t a man what would give away all he knowed,” lied
Mr. Connors, turning to his friend and indicating the host. “He ain’t got time for that.
Anybody can see that he is a powerful busy man. An’ then he ain’t no child.”
Mr. Cassidy thought that the landlord could tell all he knew in about five minutes
and then not break any speed records for conversation, but he looked properly awed and
impressed. “Well, yu needn’t go an’ get mad about it! I didn’t know, did I?”
“Who’s gettin’ mad?” Pugnaciously asked Mr. Connors. After his injured feelings
had been soothed by Mr. Cassidy’s sullen silence he again turned to the landlord.
“What did this Travennes look like when yu saw him last?” Coaxed Mr. Connors.
“Th’ same as he does now, as yu can see by lookin’ out of th’ window. That’s him
down th’ street,” enlightened the host, thawing to the pleasant Mr. Connors.
Mr. Cassidy adopted the suggestion and frowned. Mr. Travennes and two
companions were walking toward the corral and Mr. Cassidy once again slid out of the
window, his friend going by the door.
TRAVENNES’ DISCOMFITURE
When Mr. Travennes looked over the corral fence he
was much chagrined to see a man and a Colt both paying strict
attention to his nose.
“Mornin’, Duke,” said the man with the gun. “Lose
anything?”
Mr. Travennes looked back at his friends and saw Mr.
Connors sitting on a rock holding two guns. Mr. Travennes’ right and left wings were the
targets and they pitted their frowns against Mr. Connors’ smile.
“Not that I knows of,” replied Mr. Travennes, shifting his feet uneasily.
“Find anything?” Came from Mr. Cassidy as he sidled out of the gate.
“Nope,” replied the captain of the Terrors, eying the Colt. “Are yu in the habit of
payin’ early mornin’ calls to this here corral?” persisted Mr. Cassidy, playing with the gun.
“Ya-as. That’s my business-I’m th’ captain of the vigilantes.”
“That’s too bad,” sympathized Mr. Cassidy, moving forward a step.
Mr. Travennes looked put out and backed off. “What yu mean, stickin’ me up
this-away?” He asked indignantly.
“Yu needn’t go an’ get mad,” responded Mr. Cassidy. “Just business. Yore cayuse
an’ another shore climbed this corral fence last night an’ ate up our broncs, an’ I just
nachurly want to know about it.”
Mr. Travennes looked his surprise and incredulity and craned his neck to see for
himself. When he saw his horse peacefully scratching itself he swore and looked angrily
up the street. Mr. Connors, behind the shack, was hidden to the view of those on the
street, and when two men ran up at a signal from Mr. Travennes, intending to insert
themselves in the misunderstanding, they were promptly lined up with the first two by the
man on the rock.
“Sit down,” invited Mr. Connors, pushing a chunk of air out of the way with his
guns. The last two felt a desire to talk and to argue the case on its merits, but refrained as
the black holes in Mr. Connors’ guns hinted at eruption.
“Every time yu opens yore mouths yu gets closer to th’ Great Divide,” enlightened
that person, and they were childlike in their belief.
Mr. Travennes acted as though he would like to scratch his thigh where his Colt’s
chafed him, but postponed the event and listened to Mr. Cassidy, who was asking
questions.
“Where’s our cayuses, General?”
Mr. Travennes replied that he didn’t know. He was worried, for he feared that his
captor didn’t have a secure hold on the hammer of the ubiquitous Colt’s.
“Where’s my cayuse?” Persisted Mr. Cassidy.
“I don’t know, but I wants to ask yu how yu got mine,” replied Mr. Travennes.
“Yu tell me how mine got out an’ I’ll tell yu how yourn got in,” countered Mr.
Cassidy.
Mr. Connors added another to his collection before the captain replied.
“Out in this country people get in trouble when they’re found with other folks’
cayuses,” Mr. Travennes suggested.
Mr. Cassidy looked interested and replied: “Yu shore ought to borrow some
experience, an’ there’s lots floating around. More than one man has smoked in a powder
mill, an’ th’ number of them planted who looked in th’ muzzle of a empty gun is
scandalous. If my remarks don’t perculate right smart I’ll explain.”
Mr. Travennes looked down the street again, saw number five added to the line-up, and coughed up chunks of broken profanity, grieving his host by his lack of courtesy.
“Time,” announced Mr. Cassidy, interrupting the round. “I wants them cayuses
an’ I wants `em right now. Yu an’ me will amble off an’ get `em. I won’t bore yu with
tellin’ yu what’ll happen if yu gets skittish. Slope along an’ don’t be scared; I’m with yu,”
assured Mr. Cassidy as he looked over at Mr. Connors, whose ascetic soul pined for the
flapjacks of which his olfactories caught intermittent whiffs.
“Well, Red, I reckons yu has got plenty of room out here for all yu may corral;
anyhow there ain’t a whole lot more. My friend Slim an’ I are shore going to have a devil
of a time if we can t find them cussed broncs. Whew, them flapjacks smell like a plain
trail to payday. Just think of th’ nice maple juice we used to get up to Cheyenne on them
frosty mornings.”
“Get out of here an’ lemme alone! `What do yu allus want to go an’ make a feller
unhappy for? Can’t yu keep still about grub when yu knows I ain’t had my morning’s feed
yet?” asked Mr. Connors, much aggrieved.
“Well, I’ll be back directly an’ I’ll have them cayuses or a scalp. Yu tend to
business an’ watch th’ herd. That shorthorn yearling at th’ end of th’ line”-pointing to a
young man who looked capable of taking risks-“he looks like he might take a chance an’
gamble with yu,“remarked Mr. Cassidy, placing Mr. Travennes in front of him and
pushing back his own sombrero. “Don’t put too much maple juice on them flapjacks,
Red,” he warned as he poked his captive in the back of the neck as a hint to get along.
Fortunately Mr. Connors’ closing remarks are lost to history.
Observing that Mr. Travennes headed south on the quest, Mr. Cassidy reasoned
that the missing broncos ought to be somewhere in the north, and he postponed the
southern trip until such time when they would have more leisure at their disposal. Mr.
Travennes showed a strong inclination to shy at this arrangement, but quieted down under
persuasion, and they started off toward where Mr. Cassidy firmly believed the North Pole
and the cayuses to be.
“Yu has got quite a metropolis here,” pleasantly remarked Mr. Cassidy as under
his direction they made for a distant corral. “I can see four different types of architecture,
two of `em on one residence,” he continued as they passed a wood and adobe hut. “No
doubt the railroad will put a branch down here some day an’ then yu can hire their old cars
for yore public buildings. Then when yu gets a post-office yu will shore make Chicago
hustle some to keep her end up. Let’s assay that hollow for horse-hide; it looks promisin’.”
The hollow was investigated but showed nothing other than cactus and baked
alkali. The corral came next, and there too was emptiness. For an hour the search was
unavailing, but at the end of that time Mr. Cassidy began to notice signs of nervousness
on the part of his guest, which grew less as they proceeded. Then Mr. Cassidy retraced
their steps to the place where the nervousness first developed and tried another way and
once more returned to the starting point.
“Yu seems to hanker for this fool exercise,” quoth Mr. Trayennes with much
sarcasm. “If yu reckons I’m fond of this locoed ramblin’ yu shore needs enlightenment.”
“Sometimes I do get these fits,” confessed Mr. Cassidy, “an’ when I do I’m dead
sore on objections. Let’s peek in that there hut,” he suggested.
“Huh; yore ideas of cayuses are mighty peculiar. Why don’t you look for `em up
on those cactuses or behind that mesquite? I wouldn’t be a heap surprised if they was
roostin’ on th’ roof. They are mighty knowing animals, cayuses. I once saw one that
could figger like a schoolmarm,” remarked Mr. Travennes, beginning sarcastically and
toning it down as he proceeded, out of respect for his companion’s gun.
“Well, they might be in th’ shack,” replied Mr. Cassidy. “Cayuses know so much
that it takes a month to unlearn them. I wouldn’t like to bet they ain’t in that hut, though.”
Mr. Travennes snickered in a manner decidedly uncomplimentary and began to
whistle, softly at first. The gentleman from the Bar-20 noticed that his companion was a
musician; that when he came to a strong part he increased the tones until they bid to be
heard at several hundred yards. When Mr. Travennes had reached a most passionate part
in “Juanita” and was expanding his lungs to do it justice he was rudely stopped by the
insistent pressure of his guard’s Colt’s on the most ticklish part of his ear.
“I shore wish yu wouldn’t strain yoreself thataway,” said Mr. Cassidy, thinking
that Mr. Travennes might be endeavoring to call assistance. “I went an’ promised my
mother on her deathbed that I wouldn’t let nobody whistle out loud like that, an’ th’ opery
is hereby stopped. Besides, somebody might hear them mournful tones an’ think that
something is th’ matter, which it ain’t.”
Mr. Travennes substituted heartfelt cursing, all of which was heavily
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