The Coming of Cassidy by Clarence E. Mulford (romantic novels in english TXT) 📕

Then came the night when Sandy Creek lay but two days’ drive away. A storm had threatened since morning and the first lightning of the drive was seen. The cattle were mildly restless when Hopalong rode in at midnight and he was cheerfully optimistic. He was also very much awake, and after trying in vain to get to sleep he finally arose and rode back along the trail toward the stragglers, which Jimmy and Lanky were holding a mile away. Red had pushed on to the last minute of daylight and Lanky had decided to hold the stragglers instead of driving them up to the main herd so they would start even with it the following morning. It was made up of the cattle that had found the drive too much for them and was smaller than the outfit had dared to hope for.

Hopalong had just begun to look around for the herd when it passed him with sudden uproar. Shouting to a horseman who rode furiously past, he swung around and raced after him, desperately anxious to get in front of the stampede to try to check it before it struck the main herd and made the disaster complete. For the next hour he was in a riot of maddened cattle and shaved death many times by the breadth of a hand. He could hear Jimmy and Lanky shouting in the black void, now close and now far away. Then the turmoil gradually ceased and the remnant of the herd paused, undecided whether to stop or go on. He flung himself at it and by driving cleverly managed to start a number of cows to milling, which soon had the rest following suit. The stampede was over. A cursing blot emerged from the darkness and hailed. It was Lanky, coldly ferocious. He had not heard Jimmy for a long time and feared that the boy might be lying out on the black plain, trampled into a shapeless mass of flesh. One stumble in front of the charging herd would have been sufficient.

Daylight disclosed the missing Jimmy hobbling toward the breakfast fire at the cook wagon. He was bruised and bleeding and covered with dirt, his clothes ripped and covered with mud; and every bone and muscle in his body was alive with pain.

The Diamond Bar’s second squad had ridden in to breakfast when a horseman was seen approaching at a leisurely lope. Sam, cursing hotly, instinctively fumbled at the gun he wore at his thigh in defiance to his belief concerning the wearing of guns. He blinked anxiously as the puncher stopped at the wagon and smiled a heavy-eyed salutation. The night boss emerged from the shelter of the wagon and grinned a sheepish welcome. “Well, Cassidy, you fellers got th’ trail somehow. We was some surprised when we hit yore trail. How you makin’ it?”

“All right, up to last night,” replied Hopalong, shaking hands with the night boss. “Got a match, Barnes?” he asked, holding up an unlighted cigarette. They talked of things connected with the drive and Hopalong cautiously swung the conversation around to mishaps, mentioning several catastrophes of past years. After telling of a certain stampede he had once seen, he turned to Barnes and asked a blunt question. “What would you do to anybody as stampeded yore stragglers within a mile of th’ main herd on a stormy night?” The answer was throaty and rumbling. “Why, shoot him, I reckon.” The others intruded their ideas and Crawford squirmed, his hand seeking his gun under the pretense of tightening his belt.

Hopalong arose and went to his horse, where a large bundle of canvas was strapped behind the saddle. He loosened it and unrolled it on the ground. “Ever see this afore, boys?” he asked, stepping back. Barnes leaped to his feet with an ejaculation of surprise and stared at the canvas. “Where’d you git it?” he demanded. “That’s our old wagon cover!”

Hopalong, ignoring Crawford, looked around the little group and smiled grimly. “Well, last night our stragglers was stampeded. Lanky told me he saw somethin’ gray blow past him in th’ darkness, an’ then th’ herd started. We managed to turn it from th’ trail an’ so it didn’t set off our main herd. Jimmy was near killed well, you know what it is to ride afore stampeded cows. I found this cover blowed agin’ a li’l clump of trees, an’ when I sees yore mark, I reckoned I ought to bring it back.” He dug into his pocket and brought out a heavy clasp knife. “I just happened to see this not far from where th’ herd started from, so I reckoned I’d return it, too.” He held it out to Barnes, who took it with an oath and wheeled like a flash to face his employer.

Crawford was backing toward the wagon, his hand resting on the butt his gun, and a whiteness of face told of the fear that gripped him. “I’ll take my time, right now,” growled Barnes. “D d if I works another day for a low-lived coyote that’d do a thing like that!” The punchers behind him joined in and demanded their wages. Hopalong, still smiling, waved his hand and spoke. “Don’t leave him with all these cows on his hands, out here on th’ range. If you quits him, wait till you get to Sandy Creek. He ain’t no man, he ain’t; he’s a nasty li’l brat of a kid that couldn’t never grow up into a man. So, that bein’ true, he ain’t goin’ to get handled like a man. I’m goin’ to lick him, ‘stead of shootin’ him like he was a man. You know,” he smiled, glancing around the little circle, “us cowpunchers don’t never carry guns. We don’t swear, nor wear chaps, even if all of us has got ‘em on right now. We say ‘please’ an’ ‘thank you’ an’ never get mad. Not never wearin’a gun I can’t shoot him; but, by G-d, I can lick him th’ worst he’s ever been licked, an’ I’m goin’ to do it right now.” He wheeled to start after the still-backing cowman, and leaped sideways as a cloud of smoke swirled around his hips. Crawford screamed with fear and pain as his Colt tore loose from his fingers and dropped near the wheel of the wagon. Terror gripped him and made him incapable of flight. Who was this man, what was he, when he could draw and fire with such speed and remarkable accuracy? Crawford’s gun had been half raised before the other had seen it. And before his legs could perform one of their most cherished functions the limping cowpuncher was on him, doing his best to make good his promise. The other half of the Diamond Bar drive crew, attracted by the commotion at the chuck wagon, rode in with ready guns, saw their friends making no attempt at interference, asked a few terse questions and, putting up their guns, forthwith joined the circle of interested and pleased spectators to root for the limping redhead.

Red, back at the Bar-20 wagon, inquired of Cookie the whereabouts of Hopalong. Cookie, still smarting under Jimmy’s galling fire of language, grunted ignorance and a wish. Red looked at him, scowling. “You can talk to th’ Kid like that, mebby; but you get a civil tongue in yore head when any of us grown-ups ask questions.” He turned on his heel, looked searchingly around the plain and mounting, returned to the herd, perplexed and vexed. As he left the camp, Jimmy hobbled around the wagon and stared after him. “Kid!” he snorted. “Grownups!” he sneered. “Huh!” He turned and regarded Cookie evilly. “Yo’re gonna get a good lickin’ when I get so I can move better,” he promised. Cookie lifted the red flannel dish-rag out of the pan and regarded it thoughtfully. “You better wait,” he agreed pleasantly. “You can’t run now. I’m honin’ for to drape this mop all over yore wall-eyed face; but I can wait.” He sighed and went back to work. “Wish Red would shove you in with th’ rest of th’ cripples back yonder, an’ get you off ‘n my frazzled nerves.”

Jimmy shook his head sorrowfully and limped around the wagon again, where he resumed his sun bath. He dozed off and was surprised to be called for dinner. As he arose, grunting and growling, he chanced to look westward, and his shout apprised his friends of the return of the missing redhead.

Hopalong dismounted at the wagon and grinned cheerfully, despite the suspicious marks on his face. Giving an account of events as they occurred at the Diamond Bar chuck wagon, he wound up with: “Needn’t push on so hard, Red. Crawford’s herd is due to stay right where it is an’ graze peaceful for a week. I heard Barnes give th’ order before I left. How’s things been out here while I was away?”

Red glared at him, ready to tell his opinion of reckless fools that went up against a gun-packing crowd alone when his friends had never been known to refuse to back up one of their outfit. The words hung on his lips as he waited for a chance to launch them. But when that chance came he had been disarmed by the cheerfulness of his happy friend. “Hoppy,” he said, trying to be severe, “yo’re nothing’ but a crazy, d—d fool. But what did they say when you started for huffy Sam like that?”

THE herd delivered at Sandy Creek had traveled only half way, for the remaining part of the journey would be on the railroad. The work of loading the cars was fast, furious fun to anyone who could find humor enough in his make-up to regard it so. Then came a long, wearying ride for the five men picked from the drive outfit to attend to the cattle on the way to the cattle pens of the city. Their work at last done, they “saw the sights” and were now returning to Sandy Creek.

The baggage smoking-car reeked with strong tobacco, the clouds of smoke shifting with the air currents, and dimly through the haze could be seen several men. Three of these were playing cards near the baggage-room door, while two more lounged in a seat half way down the aisle and on the other side of the car. Across from the card-players, reading a magazine, was a fat man, and near the water cooler was a dyspepticlooking individual who was grumbling about the country through which he was passing.

The first five, as their wearing apparel proclaimed, were not of the kind usually found on trains, not the drummer, the tourist, or the farmer. Their heads were covered with heavy sombreros, their coats were of thick, black woolens, and their shirts were also of wool. Around the throat of each was a large handkerchief, knotted at the back; their trousers were protected by “chaps,” of which three were of goatskin. The boots were tight-fitting, narrow, and with high heels, and to them were strapped heavy spurs. Around the waist, hanging loosely from one hip, each wore a wide belt containing fifty cartridges in the loops, and supporting a huge Colt’s revolver, which rested against the thigh.

They were happy and were trying to sing but, owing to different tastes, there was noticeable a lack of harmony. “Oh Susanna” never did go well with “Annie Laurie,” and as for “Dixie,” it was hopelessly at odds with the other two. But they were happy, exuberantly so, for they had enjoyed their relaxation in