Hopalong Cassidy's Rustler Round-Up; Or, Bar-20 by Clarence Edward Mulford (summer reading list txt) 📕

he watched it he saw something wave and it was a sombrero! Shortly afterward a real cowboy yell reached his ears. He grinned and slid another cartridge in the greasy, smoking barrel of the Sharp's and fired again at the cloud in his rear. Some few minutes later a whooping, bunched crowd of madly riding cowboys thundered past him and he was recognized.

“Hullo, Frenchy!” yelled the nearest one. “Comin' back?”

“Come on, McAllister!” shouted another; “we'll give 'em blazes!” In response the straining broncho suddenly stiffened, bunched and slid on its haunches, wheeled and retraced its course. The rear cloud suddenly scattered into many smaller ones and all swept off to the east. The rescuing band overtook them and, several hours later, when seated around a table in Tom Lee's saloon, Muddy Wells, a count was taken of them, which was pleasing in its facts.

“We was huntin' coyotes when we saw yu,” said a smiling puncher who was known as Salvation Carroll chiefly because he wasn't.

“Yep! They've been stalkin' Tom's chickens,” supplied Waffles, the champion poker player of the outfit. Tom Lee's chickens could whip anything of their kind for miles around and were reverenced accordingly.

“Sho! Is that so?” Asked Frenchy with mild incredulity, such a state of affairs being deplorable.

“She shore is!” answered Tex Le Blanc, and then, as an afterthought, he added, “Where'd yu hit th' War-whoops?”

“'Bout four hours back. This here's th' second time I've headed for this place—last time they chased me to Las Cruces.”

“That so?” Asked Bigfoot Baker, a giant. “Ain't they allus interferin', now? Anyhow, they're better'n coyotes.”

“They was purty well heeled,” suggested Tex, glancing at a bunch of repeating Winchesters of late model which lay stacked in a corner. “Charley here said he thought they was from th' way yore cayuse looked, didn't yu, Charley?” Charley nodded and filled his pipe.

“'Pears like a feller can't amble around much nowadays without havin' to fight,” grumbled Lefty Allen, who usually went out of his way hunting up trouble.

“We're goin' to th' Hills as soon as our cookie turns up,” volunteered Tenspot Davis, looking inquiringly at Frenchy. “Heard any more news?”

“Nope. Same old story—lots of gold. Shucks, I've bit on so many of them rumors that they don't feaze me no more. One man who don't know nothin' about prospectin' goes an' stumbles over a fortune an' those who know it from A to Izzard goes 'round pullin' in their belts.”

“We don't pull in no belts—we knows just where to look, don't we, Tenspot?” Remarked Tex, looking very wise.

“Ya-as we do,” answered Tenspot, “if yu hasn't dreamed about it, we do.”

“Yu wait; I wasn't dreamin', none whatever,” assured Tex.

“I saw it!”

“Ya-as, I saw it too onct,” replied Frenchy with sarcasm. “Went and lugged fifty pound of it all th' way to th' assay office—took me two days! an' that there four-eyed cuss looks at it and snickers. Then he takes me by di' arm an' leads me to th' window. 'See that pile, my friend? That's all like yourn,' sez he. 'It's worth about one simoleon a ton at th' coast. They use it for ballast.'”

“Aw! But this what I saw was gold!” exploded Tex.

“So was mine, for a while!” laughed Frenchy, nodding to the bartender for another round.

“Well, we're tired of punchin' cows! Ride sixteen hours a day, year in an' year out, an' what do we get? Fifty a month an' no chance to spend it, an' grub that'd make a coyote sniffle! I'm for a vacation, 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 to-morrow, 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 cow-puncher, 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