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

soliloquized the foreman. “It shore beats me.”

 

“Think it was Tamale Jose’s old gang?” asked Hopalong.

 

“If it was they took th’ wrong trail home—that ain’t th’ way to Mexico.”

 

Hopalong tossed aside his half-smoked cigarette. “Well, come on home; what’s

th’ use stewin’ over it? It’ll come out all O.K. in th’ wash.” Then he laughed: “There

won’t be no piebald waitin’ for it.”

 

Evading Buck’s playful blow he led the way to the door, and soon they were a

cloud of dust on the plain. The proprietor, despairing of customers under the

circumstances, absentmindedly wiped oil on the bar, and sought his chair for a nap,

grumbling about the way his trade had fallen off, for there were few customers, and those

who did call were heavy with loss of sleep, and with anxiety, and only paused long

enough to toss off their drink. On the ranges there were occurrences which tried men’s

souls.

 

For several weeks cattle had been disappearing from the ranges and the losses had

long since passed the magnitude of those suffered when Tamale Jose and his men had

crossed the Rio Grande and repeatedly levied heavy toll on the sleek herds of the Pecos

Valley. Tamale Jose had raided once too often, and prosperity and plenty had followed

on the ranches and the losses had been forgotten until the fall round-ups clearly showed

that rustlers were again at work.

 

Despite the ingenuity of the ranch owners and the unceasing vigilance and night

rides of the cowpunchers, the losses steadily increased until there was promised a

shortage which would permit no drive to the western terminals of the railroad that year.

 

For two weeks the banks of the Rio Grande had been patrolled and sharp-eyed men

searched daily for trails leading southward, for it was not strange to think that the old

raiders were again at work, notwithstanding the fact that they had paid dearly for their

former depredations.

 

The patrols failed to discover anything out of the ordinary and the searchers found

no trails. Then it was that the owners and foremen of the four central ranches met in

Cowan’s saloon and sat closeted together for all of one hot afternoon.

 

The conference resulted in riders being dispatched from all the ranches

represented, and one of the couriers, Mr. Red Connors, rode north, his destination being

far-away Montana. All the ranches within a radius of a hundred miles received letters and

blanks and one week later the Pecos Valley Cattle-Thief Elimination Association was

organized and working, with Buck as Chief Ranger.

 

One of the outcomes of Buck’s appointment was a sudden and marked

immigration into the affected territory. Mr. Connors returned from Montana with Mr.

Frenchy McAllister, the foreman of the Tin-Cup, who was accompanied by six of his best

and most trusted men. Mr. McAllister and party were followed by Mr. You-bet Somes,

foreman of the Two-X-Two of Arizona, and five of his punchers, and later on the same

day Mr. Pie Willis, accompanied by Mr. Billy Jordan and his two brothers, arrived from

the Panhandle. The O-Bar-O, situated close to the town of Muddy Wells, increased its

payroll by the addition of nine men, each of whom bore the written recommendation of

the foreman of the Bar-20. The C-80, Double Arrow and the Three Triangle also

received heavy reinforcements, and even Carter, owner of the Barred Horseshoe, far

removed from the zone of the depredations, increased his outfits by half their regular

strength.

 

Buck believed that if a thing was worth doing at all that it was worth doing very

well, and his acquaintances were numerous and loyal.

 

The collection of individuals that responded to the call were noteworthy examples

of “gunplay” and their aggregate value was at par with twice their numbers in cavalry.

 

Each ranch had one large ranch-house and numerous line-houses scattered along

the boundaries. These latter, while intended as camps for the outriders, had been erected

in the days, none too remote, when Apaches, Arrapahoes, and even Cheyennes raided

southward, and they had been constructed with the idea of defense paramount. Upon

more than one occasion a solitary line-rider had retreated within their adobe walls and had

successfully resisted all the cunning and ferocity of a score of paint-bedaubed warriors

and, when his outfit had rescued him, emerged none the worse for his ordeal.

 

On the Bar-20, Buck placed these houses in condition to withstand siege. Twin

barrels of water stood in opposite corners, provisions were stored on the hanging shelves

and the bunks once again reveled in untidiness. Spare rifles, in pattern ranging from

long-range Sharp’s and buffalo guns to repeating rifles, leaned against the walls, and

unbroken boxes of cartridges were piled above the bunks. Instead of the lonesome

outrider, he placed four men to each house, two of whom were to remain at home and

hold the house while their companions rode side by side on their multi-mile beat.

 

There were six of these houses and, instead of returning each night to the same

line-house, the outriders kept on and made the circuit, thus keeping every one well

informed and breaking the monotony. These measures were expected to cause the

rustling operations to cease at once, but the effect was to shift the losses to the Double

Arrow, the line-houses of which boasted only one puncher each. Unreasonable economy

usually defeats its object.

 

The Double Arrow was restricted on the north by the Staked Plain, which in itself

was considered a superb defense. The White Sand Hills formed its eastern boundary and

were thought to be second only to the northern protection. The only reason that could be

given for the hitherto comparative immunity from the attacks of the rustlers was that its

cattle clung to the southern confines where there were numerous springs, thus making

imperative the crossing of its territory to gain the herds.

 

It was in line-house No. 3, most remote of all, that Johnny Redmond fought his

last fight and was found face down in the half ruined house with a hole in the back of his

head, which proved that one man was incapable of watching all the loop holes in four

walls at once. There must have been some casualties on the other side, for Johnny was

reputed to be very painstaking in his “gunplay,” and the empty shells which lay scattered

on the floor did not stand for as many ciphers, of that his foreman was positive.

 

He was buried the day he was found, and the news of his death ran quickly from

ranch to ranch and made more than one careless puncher arise and pace the floor in anger.

 

More men came to the Double Arrow and its sentries were doubled. The depredations

continued, however, and one night a week later Frank Swift reeled into the ranch-house

and fell exhausted across the supper table. Rolling hoofbeats echoed flatly and died

away on the plain, but the men who pursued them returned empty handed. The wounds

of the unfortunate were roughly dressed and in his delirium he recounted the fight. His

companion was found literally shot to pieces twenty paces from the door. One wall was

found blown in, and this episode, when coupled with the use of dynamite, was more than

could be tolerated.

 

When Buck had been informed of this he called to him Hopalong Cassidy, Red

Connors and Frenchy McAllister, and the next day the three men rode north and the

contingents of the ranches represented in the Association were divided into two squads,

one of which was to remain at home and guard the ranches; the other, to sleep fully

dressed and armed and never to stray far from their ranch-houses and horses. These latter

would be called upon to ride swiftly and far when the word came.