Bar-20 Days by Clarence Edward Mulford (inspiring books for teens txt) 📕

him, 'cause that's what he deserves, an' what we're here for, but I'm damned if I'll stand for any more mauling. I don't blame him for fighting, an' they didn't have no right to kick him in the beginning.”

“Didn't kick him in the beginning,” grinned Bill. “Kicked him in the ending. Anyhow,” he continued seriously, “I didn't hit him hard—didn't have to. Just let him go an' shoved him quick.”

“I'm just naturally going to clean house,” muttered the prisoner, sitting up and glaring around. “Untie my han's an' gimme a gun or a club or anything, an' watch yoreselves get licked. Called me a thief! What are you fellers, then?—sticking me up an' busting me for a few measly dollars. Why didn't you take my money an' lemme sleep, 'stead of waking me up an' kicking me? I wouldn't 'a' cared then.”

“Come on, now; get up. We ain't through with you yet, not by a whole lot,” growled Bill, helping him to his feet and steadying him. “I'm plumb glad you kicked 'em; it was coming to 'em.”

“No, you ain't; you can't fool me,” gravely assured Hopalong. “Yo're lying, an' you know it. What you going to do now? Ain't I got money enough? Wish I had an even break with you fellers! Wish my outfit was here!”

Stevenson, on his feet again, walked painfully up and shook his fist at the captive, from the side. “You'll find out what we want of you, you damned hoss-thief!” he cried. “We're going to tie you to that there limb so yore feet'll swing above the grass, that's what we're going to do.”

Bill and Jed had their hands full for a moment and as they finally mastered the puncher, Charley came up with a rope. “Hurry up—no use dragging it out this way. I want to get back to the ranch some time before next week.”

“Why I ain't no hoss-thief, you liar!” Hopalong yelled. “My name's Hopalong Cassidy of the Bar-20, an' when I tell my friends about what you've gone an' done they'll make you hard to find! You gimme any kind of a chance an' I'll do it all by myself, sick as I am, you yaller dogs!”

“Is that yore cayuse?” demanded Charley, pointing.

Hopalong squinted towards the animal indicated. “Which one?”

“There's only one there, you fool!”

“That so?” replied Hopalong, surprised. “Well, I never seen it afore. My cayuse is—is—where the devil is it?” he asked, looking around anxiously.

“How'd you get that one, then, if it ain't yours?”

“Never had it—'t ain't mine, nohow,” replied Hopalong, with strong conviction. “Mine was a hoss.”

“You stole that cayuse last night outen Stevenson's corral,” continued Charley, merely as a matter of form. Charley believed that a man had the right to be heard before he died—it wouldn't change the result and so could not do any harm.

“Did I? Why—” his forehead became furrowed again, but the events of the night before were vague in his memory and he only stumbled in his soliloquy. “But I wouldn't swap my cayuse for that spavined, saddle-galled, ring-boned bone-yard! Why, it interferes, an' it's got the heaves something awful!” he finished triumphantly, as if an appeal to common sense would clinch things. But he made no headway against them, for the rope went around his neck almost before he had finished talking and a flurry of excitement ensued. When the dust settled he was on his back again and the rope was being tossed over the limb.

The crowd had been too busily occupied to notice anything away from the scene of their strife and were greatly surprised when they heard a hail and saw a stranger sliding to a stand not twenty feet from them. “What's this?” demanded the newcomer, angrily.

Charley's gun glinted as it swung up and the stranger swore again. “What you doing?” he shouted. “Take that gun off'n me or I'll blow you apart!”

“Mind yore business an' sit still!” Charley snapped. “You ain't in no position to blow anything apart. We've got a hoss-thief an' we're shore going to hang him regardless.”

“An' if there's any trouble about it we can hang two as well as we can one,” suggested Stevenson, placidly. “You sit tight an' mind yore own affairs, stranger,” he warned.

Hopalong turned his head slowly. “He's a liar, stranger; just a plain, squaw's dog of a liar. An' I'll be much obliged if you'll lick hell outen 'em an' let—why, hullo, hoss-thief!” he shouted, at once recognizing the other. It was the man he had met in the gospel tent, the man he had chased for a horse-thief and then swapped mounts with. “Stole any more cayuses?” he asked, grinning, believing that everything was all right now. “Did you take that cayuse back to Grant?” he finished.

“Han's up!” roared Stevenson, also covering the stranger. “So yo're another one of 'em, hey? We're in luck to-day. Watch him, boys, till I get his gun. If he moves, drop him quick.”

“You damned fool!” cried Ferris, white with rage. “He ain't no thief, an' neither am I! My name's Ben Ferris an' I live in Winchester. Why, that man you've got is Hopalong Cassidy—Cassidy, of the Bar-20!”

“Sit still—you can talk later, mebby,” replied Stevenson, warily approaching him. “Watch him, boys!”

“Hold on!” shouted Ferris, murder in his eyes. “Don't you try that on me! I'll get one of you before I go; I'll shore get one! You can listen a minute, an' I can't get away.”

“All right; talk quick.”

Ferris pleaded as hard as he knew how and called attention to the condition of the prisoner. “If he did take the wrong cayuse he was too blind drunk to know it! Can't you see he was!” he cried.

“Yep; through yet?” asked Stevenson, quietly.

“No! I ain't started yet!” Ferris yelled. “He did me a good turn once, one that I can't never repay, an' I'm going to stop this murder or go with him. If I go I'll take one of you with me, an' my friends an' outfit'll get the rest.”

“Wait till Old John gets here,” suggested Jed to Charley. “He ought to know this feller.”

“For the Lord's sake!” snorted Charley. “He won't show up for a week. Did you hear that, fellers?” he laughed, turning to the others.

“Stranger,” began Stevenson, moving slowly ahead again. “You give us yore guns an' sit quiet till we gets this feller out of the way. We'll wait till Old John Ferris comes before doing anything with you. He ought to know you.”

“He knows me all right; an' he'd like to see me hung,” replied the stranger. “I won't give up my guns, an' you won't lynch Hopalong Cassidy while I can pull a trigger. That's flat!” He began to talk feverishly to gain time and his eyes lighted suddenly. Seeing that Jed White was wavering, Stevenson ordered them to go on with the work they had come to perform, and he watched Ferris as a cat watches a mouse, knowing that he