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

was heard assenting to

something. Hopalong emerged and took a seat at the fire, sending two punchers to take

his place. He was joined by Frenchy and Red, the former very quiet.

 

In the center of a distant group were seven men who were not armed. Their belts,

half full of cartridges, supported empty holsters. They sat and talked to the men around

them, swapping notes and experiences, and in several instances found former friends and

acquaintances. These men were not bound and were apparently members of Buck’s force.

 

Then one of them broke down, but quickly regained his nerve and proposed a game of

cards. A fire was started and several games were immediately in progress. These seven

men were to die at daybreak.

 

As the night grew older man after man rolled himself in his blanket and lay down

where he sat, sinking off to sleep with a swiftness that bespoke tired muscles and

weariness. All through the night, however, there were twelve men on guard, of whom

three were in the cabin.

 

At daybreak a shot from one of the guards awakened every man within hearing,

and soon they romped and scampered down to the river’s edge to indulge in the luxury of

a morning plunge. After an hour’s horseplay they trooped back to the cabin and soon had

breakfast out of the way.

 

Waffles, foreman of the O-Bar-O, and You-bet Somes strolled over to the seven

unfortunates who had just completed a choking breakfast and nodded a hearty “Good

morning.” Then others came up and finally all moved off toward the river. Crossing it,

they disappeared into the grove and all sounds of their advance grew into silence.

 

Mr. Trendley, escorted outside for the air, saw the procession as it became lost to

sight in the brush. He sneered and asked for a smoke, which was granted. Then his

guards were changed and the men began to straggle back from the grove.

Mr. Trendley, with his back to the cabin, scowled defiantly at the crowd that

hemmed him in. The coolest, most damnable murderer in the West was not now going to

beg for mercy. When he had taken up crime as a means of livelihood he had decided that

if the price to be paid for his course was death, he would pay like a man. He glanced at

the cottonwood grove, wherein were many ghastly secrets, and smiled. His hairless

eyebrows looked like livid scars and his lips quivered in scorn and anger.

 

As he sneered at Buck there was a movement in the crowd before him and a

pathway opened for Frenchy, who stepped forward slowly and deliberately, as if on his

way to some bar for a drink. There was something different about the man who had

searched the Staked Plain with Hopalong and Red: he was not the same puncher who had

arrived from Montana three weeks before. There was lacking a certain air of carelessness

and he chilled his friends, who looked upon him as if they had never really known him.

 

He walked up to Mr. Trendley and gazed deeply into the evil eyes.

 

Twenty years before, Frenchy McAllister had changed his identity from a happy-go-lucky, devil-may-care cowpuncher and became a machine. The grief that had torn his

soul was not of the kind which seeks its outlet in tears and wailing; it had turned and

struck inward, and now his deliberate ferocity was icy and devilish. Only a glint in his

eyes told of exultation, and his words were sharp and incisive; one could well imagine

one heard the click of his teeth as they bit off the consonants: every letter was clear-cut,

every syllable startling in its clearness.

 

“Twenty years and two months ago to-day,” he began, “you arrived at the ranch

house of the Double Y, up near the Montana-Wyoming line. Everything was quiet,

except, perhaps, a woman’s voice, singing. You entered, and before you left you pinned a

note to that woman’s dress. I found it, and it is due.”

 

The air of carelessness disappeared from the members of the crowd and the

silence became oppressive. Most of those present knew parts of Frenchy’s story, and all

were in hearty accord with anything he might do. He reached within his vest and brought

forth a deerskin bag.

 

Opening it, he drew out a package of oiled silk and from that he took a paper.

 

Carefully replacing the silk and the bag, he slowly unfolded the sheet in his hand and

handed it to Buck, whose face hardened. Two decades had passed since the foreman of

the Bar-20 had seen that precious sheet, but the scene of its finding would never fade

from his memory. He stood as if carved from stone, with a look on his face that made the

crowd shift uneasily and glance at Trendley.

 

Frenchy turned to the rustler and regarded him evilly. “You are the hellish brute

that wrote that note,” pointing to the paper in the hand of his friend. Then, turning again,

he spoke: “Buck, read that paper.”

 

The foreman cleared his throat and read distinctly

 

“McAllister:

 

Yore wife is too blame good to live.

 

TRENDLEY.”

 

There was a shuffling sound, but Buck and Frenchy, silently backed up by

Hopalong and Red, intervened, and the crowd fell back, where it surged in indecision.

 

“Gentlemen,” said Frenchy, “I want you to vote on whether any man here has

more right to do with Slippery Trendley as he sees fit than myself. Any one who thinks

so, or that he should be treated like the others, step forward. Majority rules.”

 

There was no advance and he spoke again: “Is there any one here who objects to

this man dying?”

 

Hopalong and Red awkwardly bumped their knuckles against their guns and there

was no response.

 

The prisoner was bound with cowhide to the wall of the cabin and four men sat

near and facing him. The noonday meal was eaten in silence, and the punchers rode off

to see about rounding up the cattle that grazed over the plain as far as eye could see.

 

Supper-time came and passed, and busy men rode away in all directions. Others came

and relieved the guards, and at midnight another squad took up the vigil.

 

Day broke and the thunder of hoofs as the punchers rounded up the cattle became

very noticeable. One herd swept past toward the south, guarded and guided by fifteen

men. Two hours later and another followed, taking a slightly different trail so as to avoid

the close-cropped grass left by the first. At irregular intervals during the day other herds

swept by, until six had passed and denuded the plain of cattle.

 

Buck, perspiring and dusty, accompanied by Hopalong and Red, rode up to where

the guards smoked and joked. Frenchy came out of the cabin and smiled at his friends.

 

Swinging in his left hand was a newly filled Colt’s .45, which was recognized by his

friends as the one found in the cabin and it bore a rough “T” gouged in the butt.

 

Buck looked around and cleared his throat: “We’ve got th’ cows on th’ home trail,

Frenchy,” he suggested.

 

“Yas?” inquired Frenchy. “Are there many?”

 

“Yas,” replied Buck, waving his hand at the guards, ordering them to follow their

friends. “It’s a good deal for us: we’ve done right smart this hand. An’ it’s a good thing

we’ve got so many punchers: we got a lot of cattle to drive.”

 

“About five times th’ size of th’ herd that blamed near made angels out’en me an’

yu,” responded Frenchy with a smile.

 

“I hope almighty hard that we don’t have no stampedes on this here drive. If th’

last herds go wild they’ll pick up th’ others, an’ then there’ll be th’ devil to pay.”

 

Frenchy smiled again and shot a glance at where Mr. Trendley was bound to the

cabin wall.

 

Buck looked steadily southward for some time and then flecked a foam-sud from

the flank of his horse.

 

“We are goin’ south along th’ Creek until we gets to Big Spring, where we’ll turn

right smart to th’ west. We won’t be able to average more’n twelve miles a day, `though

I’m goin’ to drive them hard. How’s yore grub?”

 

“Grub to burn.”

 

“Got yore rope?” asked the foreman of the Bar-20, speaking as if the question had

no especial meaning.

 

Frenchy smiled: “Yes.”

Hopalong absentmindedly jabbed his spurs into his mount with the result that

when the storm had subsided the spell was broken and he said “So long,” and rode south,

followed by Buck and Red. As they swept out of sight behind a grove Red turned in his

saddle and waved his hat. Buck discussed with assiduity the prospects of a rainfall and

was very cheerful about the recovery of the stolen cattle. Red could see a tall, broad-shouldered man standing with his feet spread far apart, swinging a Colt’s .45, and

Hopalong swore at everything under the sun. Dust arose in streaming clouds far to the

south and they spurred forward to overtake the outfits.

 

Buck Peters, riding over the starlit plain, in his desire to reach the first herd, which

slept somewhere to the west of him under the care of Waffles, thought of the events of the

past few weeks and gradually became lost in the memories of twenty years before, which

crowded up before his mind like the notes of a half-forgotten song.

 

His nature, tempered by two decades of a harsh existence, softened as he lived

again the years that had passed and as he thought of the things which had been. He was

so completely lost in his reverie that he failed to hear the muffled hoofbeats of a horse

that steadily gained upon him, and when Frenchy McAllister placed a friendly hand on his

shoulder he started as if from a deep sleep. The two looked at each other and their hands

met. The question which sprang into Buck’s eyes found a silent answer in those of his

friend. They rode on side by side through the clear night and together drifted back to the

days of the Double Y.

 

After an hour had passed, the foreman of the Bar-20 turned to his companion and

then hesitated

“Did, did-was he a cur?”

 

Frenchy looked off toward the south and, after an interval, replied “Yas.”

Then, as an after thought, he added, “Yu see, he never reckoned it would be that

way.”

 

Buck nodded, although he did not fully understand, and the subject was forever

closed.