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

his lap. He looked sheepishly at Skinny and began to load with his

other hand.

 

“Yore plum loco, yu are. Don’t yu reckon they kin hit a blue shirt at two

hundred?” Skinny cynically inquired. “Got one that time,” he announced a second later.

 

“I wonder who’s got th’ buffalo,” grunted Pete. “Mus’ be Cowan,” he replied to his

own question and settled himself to use his left hand.

 

“Don’t yu git Shorty; he’s my meat,” suggested Skinny.

 

“Yu better tell Buck—he ain’t got no love fer Shorty,” replied Pete, aiming

carefully.

 

The panic in the corral ceased and Hopalong was now sending his regrets against

the panels of the rear door. He had cut his last initial in the near panel and was starting a

wobbly “H” in its neighbor. He was in a good position. There were no windows in the

rear wall, and as the door was a very dangerous place he was not fired at.

 

He began to get tired of this one-sided business and crawled up on the window

ledge, dangling his feet on the outside. He occasionally sent a bullet at a different part of

the door, but amused himself by annoying Buck.

 

“Plenty hot down there?” he pleasantly inquired, and as he received no answer he

tried again. “Better save some of them cartridges fer some other time, Buck.”

Buck was sending 45-70’s into the shattered window with a precision that

presaged evil to any of the defenders who were rash enough to try to gain the other end of

the room.

 

Hopalong bit off a chew of tobacco and drowned a green fly that was crawling up

the side of the barn. The yellow liquid streaked downward a short distance and was

eagerly sucked up by the warped boards.

 

A spurt of smoke leaped from the battered door and the bored Hopalong promptly

tumbled back inside. He felt of his arm, and then, delighted at the notice taken of his

artistic efforts, shot several times from a crack on his right. “This yer’s shore gittin’ like

home,” he gravely remarked to the splinter that whizzed past his head. He shot again at

the door and it sagged outward, accompanied by the thud of a falling body. “Pies like

mother used to make,” he announced to the loft as he slipped the magazine full of .45-70’S. “An’ pills like popper used to take,” he continued when he had lowered the level of

the water in his flask.

 

He rolled a cigarette and tossed the match into the air, extinguishing it by a shot

from his Colt.

 

“Got any cigarettes, Hoppy?” said a voice from below.

 

“Shore,” replied the joyous puncher, recognizing Pete; “how’d yu git here?”

 

“Like a cow. Busy?”

 

“None whatever. Comin’ up?”

 

“Nope. Skinny wants a smoke too.”

 

Hopalong handed tobacco and papers down the hole. “So long.”

 

“So long,” replied the daring Pete, who risked death twice for a smoke.

 

The hot afternoon dragged along and about three o’clock Buck held up an empty

cartridge belt to the gaze of the curious Hopalong. That observant worthy nodded and

threw a double handful of cartridges, one by one, to the patient and unrelenting Buck,

who filled his gun and piled the few remaining ones up at his side. “Th’ lives of mice and

men gang aft all wrong,” he remarked at random.

 

“Th’ son-of-a-gun’s talkin’ Shakespeare,” marveled Hopalong.

 

“Satiate any, Buck?” he asked as that worthy settled down to await his chance.

 

“Two,” he replied, “Shorty an’ another. Plenty damn hot down here,” he

complained. A spurt of alkali dust stung his face, but the hand that made it never made

another. “Three,” he called. “How many, Hoppy?”

 

“One. That’s four. Wonder if th’ others got any?”

 

“Pete said Skinny got one,” replied the intent Buck.

 

“Th’ son-of-a-gun, he never said nothin’ about it, an’ me a fillin’ his ornery paws

with smokin’.” Hopalong was indignant.

 

“Bet yu ten we don’t git `em afore dark,” he announced.

 

“Got yu. Go yu ten more I gits another,” promptly responded Buck.

 

“That’s a shore cinch. Make her twenty.”

 

“She is.”

 

“Yu’ll have to square it with Skinny, he shore wanted Shorty plum’ bad,

“Hopalong informed the unerring marksman.

 

“Why didn’t he say suthin’ about it? Anyhow, Jimmy was my bunkie.”

Hopalong’s cigarette disintegrated and the board at his left received a hole. He

promptly disappeared and Buck laughed. He sat up in the loft and angrily spat the soaked

paper out from between his lips.

 

“All that trouble fer nothin’, th’ white-eyed coyote,” he muttered.

 

Then he crawled around to one side and fired at the center of his “C.”

 

Another shot hurtled at him and his left arm fell to his side.

 

“That’s funny-wonder where th’ damn pirut is?”

 

He looked out cautiously and saw a cloud of smoke over a knothole which was

situated close up under the eaves of the barroom; and it was being agitated. Some one

was blowing at it to make it disappear. He aimed very carefully at the knot and fired. He

heard a sound between a curse and a squawk and was not molested any further from that

point.

 

“I knowed he’d git hurt,” he explained to the bandage, torn from the edge of his

kerchief, which he carefully bound around his last wound.

 

Down in the arroyo Johnny was complaining.

 

“This yer’s a no good bunk,” he plaintively remarked.

 

“It shore ain’t-but it’s th’ best we kin find,” apologized Billy.

 

“That’s th’ sixth that feller sent up there. He’s a damn poor shot,” observed

Johnny; “must be Shorty.”

 

“Shorty kin shoot plum’ good-tain’t him,” contradicted Billy.

 

“Yas-with a six-shooter. He’s off’n his feed with a rifle,” explained Johnny.

 

“Yu wants to stay down from up there, yu ijit,” warned Billy as the disgusted

Johnny crawled up the bank. He slid down again with a welt on his neck.

 

“That’s somebody else now. He oughter a done better’n that, “he said.

 

Billy had fired as Johnny started to slide and he smoothed his aggrieved chum.

 

“He could onct, yu means.”

 

“Did yu git him?” asked the anxious Johnny, rubbing his welt. “Plum’ center,”

responded the business-like Billy. “Go up agin, mebby I kin git another,” he suggested

tentatively.

 

“Mebby you kin go to blazes. I ain’t no gallery,” grinned the now exuberant owner

of the welt.

 

“Who’s got the buffalo?” he inquired as the great gun roared.

 

“Mus’ be Cowan. He’s shore all right. Sounds like a bloomin’ cannon,” replied

Billy. “Lemme alone with yore fool questions, I’m busy,” he complained as his talkative

partner started to ask another.

 

“Go an’ git me some water—I’m alkalied. An’ git some .45’s, mine’s purty near

gone.”

 

Johnny crawled down the arroyo and reappeared at Hopalong’s barn.

 

As he entered the door a handful of empty shells fell on his hat and dropped to the

floor. He shook his head and remarked, “That mus’ be that fool Hopalong.”

 

“Yore shore right. How’s business?” inquired the festive Cassidy.

 

“Purty fair. Billy’s got one. How many’s gone?”

 

“Buck’s got three, I got two and Skinny’s got one. That’s six, an’ Billy is seven.

They’s five more,” he replied.

 

“How’d yu know?” queried Johnny as he filled his flask at the horse trough.

 

“Because they’s twelve cayuses behind the hotel. That’s why.”

 

“They might git away on `em,” suggested the practical Johnny.

 

“Can’t. They’s all cashed in.”

 

“Yu said that they’s five left,” ejaculated the puzzled water carrier.

 

“Yah; yore a smart cuss, ain’t yu?”

 

Johnny grinned and then said, “Got any smokin’?” Hopalong looked grieved. “I

ain’t no store. Why don’t yu git generous and buy some?”

 

He partially filled Johnny’s hand, and as he put the sadly depleted bag away he

inquired, “Got any papers?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Got any matches?” he asked cynically.

 

“Nope.”

 

“Kin yu smoke `em?” he yelled, indignantly.

 

“Shore nuff,” placidly replied the unruffled Johnny.

 

“Billy wants some .45-70’s.” Hopalong gasped. “Don’t he want my gun, too?”

 

“Nope. Got a better one. Hurry up, he’ll git mad.” Hopalong was a very

methodical person. He was the only one of his crowd to carry a second cartridge strap. It

hung over his right shoulder and rested on his left hip. His waist belt held thirty

cartridges for the revolvers.

 

He extracted twenty from that part of the shoulder strap hardest to get at, the back,

by simply pulling it over his shoulder and plucking out the bullets as they came into

reach.

 

“That’s all yu kin have. I’m Buck’s ammernition jackass,” he explained. “Bet yu

ten we gits `em afore dark”—he was hedging.

 

“Any fool knows that. I’ll take yu if yu bets th’ other way,” responded Johnny,

grinning. He knew Hopalong’s weak spot.

 

“Yore on,” promptly responded Hopalong, who would bet on anything.

 

“Well, so long,” said Johnny as he crawled away.

 

“Hey, yu, Johnny!” called out Hopalong, “don’t yu go an’ tell anybody I got any

pills left. I ain’t no ars’nal.”

 

Johnny replied by elevating one foot and waving it. Then he disappeared.

 

Behind the store, the most precarious position among the besiegers, Red Connors

and Lanky Smith were ensconced and commanded a view of the entire length of the

barroom. They could see the dark mass they knew to be the rear door and derived a great

amount of amusement from the spots of light which were appearing in it.

 

They watched the “C” (reversed to them) appear and be completed.

 

When the wobbly “H” grew to completion they laughed heartily. Then the

hardwood bar had been dragged across the field of vision and up to the front windows,

and they could only see the indiscriminate holes which appeared in the upper panels at

frequent intervals.

 

Every time they fired they had to expose a part of themselves to a return shot, with

the result that Lanky’s forearm was seared its entire length. Red had been more fortunate

and only had a bruised ear.

 

They laboriously rolled several large rocks out in the open, pushing them beyond

the shelter of the store with their rifles. When they had crawled behind them they each

had another wound. From their new position they could see Hopalong sitting in his

window. He promptly waved his sombrero and grinned.

 

They were the most experienced fighters of all except Buck, and were saving their

shots. When they did shoot they always had some portion of a man’s body to aim at, and

the damage they inflicted was considerable. They said nothing, being older than the rest

and more taciturn, and they were not reckless. Although Hopalong’s antics made them

laugh, they grumbled at his recklessness and were not tempted to emulate him. It was

noticeable, too, that they shoved their rifles out simultaneously and, although both were

aiming, only one fired. Lanky’s gun cracked so close to the enemy’s that the whirr of the

bullet over Red’s head was merged in the crack of his partner’s reply.

 

When Hopalong saw the rocks roll out from behind the store he grew very

curious. Then he saw a flash, followed instantly by another from the second rifle. He

saw several of these follow shots and could sit in silence no longer. He waved his hat to

attract attention and then shouted, “How many?” A shot was sent straight up in the air and

he notified Buck that there were only four left.

 

The fire of these four grew less rapid-they were saving their ammunition. A