Bar-20 Days by Clarence E. Mulford (read the beginning after the end novel .TXT) 📕

next day, for Cook’s axe and monkey wrench had been put to good use. For quite a distance there was no fence: about a mile of barb wire had been pulled loose and was tangled up into several large piles, while rings of burned grass and ashes surrounded what was left of the posts. The cook had embraced this opportunity to lay in a good supply of firewood and was the happiest man in the outfit.

At ten o’clock that night eight figures loped westward along the southern fence and three hours later dismounted near the first corral of the 4X ranch. They put their horses in a depression on the plain and then hastened to seek cover, being careful to make no noise.

At dawn the door of the bunk house opened quickly and as quickly slammed shut again, three bullets in it being the reason. An uproar ensued and guns spat from the two windows in the general direction of the unseen besiegers, who did not bother about replying; they had given notification of their presence and until it was necessary to shoot there was no earthly use of wasting ammunition. Besides, the drive outfit had cooled down rapidly when it found that its herd was in no immediate danger and was not anxious to kill any one unless there was need. The situation was conducive to humor rather than anger. But every time the door moved it collected more lead, and it finally remained shut.

The noise in the bunk house continued and finally a sombrero was waved frantically at the south window and a moment later Nat Boggs, foreman of the incarcerated 4X outfit, stuck his head out very cautiously and yelled questions which bore directly on the situation and were to the point. He appeared to be excited and unduly heated, if one might judge from his words and voice. There was no reply, which still further added to his heat and excitement. Becoming bolder and a little angrier he allowed his impetuous nature to get the upper hand and forthwith attempted the feat of getting through that same window; but a sharp pat! sounded on a board not a foot from him, and he reconsidered hastily. His sombrero again waved to insist on a truce, and collected two holes, causing him much mental anguish and threatening the loss of his worthy soul. He danced up and down with great agility and no grace and made remarks, thereby leading a full-voiced chorus.

“Ain’t that a hell of a note?” he demanded plaintively as he paused for breath. “Stick yore hat out, Cranky, an’ see what you can do,” he suggested, irritably.

Cranky Joe regarded him with pity and reproach, and moved back towards the other end of the room, muttering softly to himself. “I know it ain’t much of a bonnet, but he needn’t rub it in,” he growled, peevishly.

“Try again; mebby they didn’t see you,” suggested Jim Larkin, who had a reputation for never making a joke. He escaped with his life and checked himself at the side of Cranky Joe, with whom he conferred on the harshness of the world towards unfortunates.

The rest of the morning was spent in snipe-shooting at random, trusting to luck to hit some one, and trusting in vain. At noon Cranky Joe could stand the strain no longer and opened the door just a little to relive the monotony. He succeeded, being blessed with a smashed shoulder, and immediately became a general nuisance, adding greatly to the prevailing atmosphere. Boggs called him a few kinds of fools and hastened to nail the door shut; he hit his thumb and his heart became filled with venom.

“Now look at what they went an’ done!” he yelled, running around in a circle. “Damned outrage!”

“Huh!” snorted Cranky Joe with maddening superiority. “That ain’t nothing—just look at me!”

Boggs looked, very fixedly, and showed signs of apoplexy, and Cranky Joe returned to his end of the room to resume his soliloquy.

“Why don’t you come out an’ take them cows!” inquired an unkind voice from without. “Ain’t changed yore mind, have you?”

“We’ll give you a drink for half a cent a head—that’s the regular price for watering cows,” called another.

The faint ripple of mirth which ran around the plain was lost in opinions loudly expressed within the room; and Boggs, tears of rage in his eyes, flung himself down on a chair and invented new terms for describing human beings.

John Terry was observing. He had been fluttering around the north window, constantly getting bolder, and had not been disturbed. When he withdrew his sombrero and found that it was intact he smiled to himself and leaned his elbows on the sill, looking carefully around the plain. The discovery that there was no cover on the north side cheered him greatly and he called to Boggs, outlining a plan of action.

Boggs listened intently and then smiled for the first time since dawn. “Bully for you, Terry!” he enthused. “Wait till dark—we’ll fool ‘em.”

A bullet chipped the ‘dobe at Terry’s side and he ducked as he leaped back. “From an angle—what did I tell you?” he laughed. “We’ll drop out here an’ sneak behind the house after dark. They’ll be watching the door—an’ they won’t be able to see us, anyhow.”

Boggs sucked his thumb tenderly and grinned. “After which—,” he elated.

“After which—,” gravely repeated Terry, the others echoing it with unrestrained joy.

“Then, mebby, I can get a drink,” chuckled Larkin, brightening under the thought.

“The moon comes up at ten,” warned a voice. “It’ll be full to-night— an’ there ain’t many clouds in sight.”

“Ol’ King Cole was a merry ol’ soul,” hummed McQuade, lightly.

“An’—a—merry—ol’—soul—was—he!—was—he!” thundered the chorus, deep-toned and strong. “He had a wife for every toe, an’ some toes counted three!”

“Listen!” cried Meade, holding up his hand.

“An’ every wife had sixteen dogs, an’ every dog a flea!” shouted a voice from the besiegers, followed by a roar of laughter.

The hilarity continued until dark, only stopping when John Terry slipped out of the window, dropped to all-fours and stuck his head around the corner of the rear wall. He saw many stars and was silently handed to Pete Wilson.

“What was that noise?” exclaimed Boggs in a low tone. “Are you all right, Terry?” he asked, anxiously.

Three knocks on the wall replied to his question and then McQuade went out, and three more knocks were heard.

“Wonder why they make that funny noise,” muttered Boggs.

“Bumped inter something, I reckon,” replied Jim Larkin. “Get out of my way—I’m next.”

Boggs listened intently and then pushed Duke Lane back. “Don’t like that—sounds like a crack on the head. Hey, Jim! Say something!” he called softly. The three knocks were repeated, but Boggs was suspicious and he shook his head decisively. “To ‘ell with the knocking—say something!”

“Still got them twelve men?” asked a strange voice, pleasantly.

“An’ every dog a flea,” hummed another around the corner.

“Hell!” shouted Boggs. “To the door, fellers! To the door—quick!”

A whistle shrilled from behind the house and a leaden tattoo began on the door. “Other window!” whispered O’Neill. The foreman got there before him and, shoving his Colt out first to clear the way, yelled with rage and pain as a pole hit his wrist and knocked the weapon out of his hand. He was still commenting when Duke Lane pried open the door and, dropping quickly on his stomach, wriggled out, followed closely by Charley Beal and Tim. At that instant the tattoo drummed with greater vigor and such a hail of lead poured in through the opening that the door was promptly closed, leaving the three men outside to shift for themselves with the darkness their only cover.

Duke and his companions whispered together as they lay flat and agreed upon a plan of action. Going around the ends of the house was suicide and no better than waiting for the rising moon to show them to the enemy; but there was no reason why the roof could not be utilized. Tim and Charley boosted Duke up, then Tim followed, and the pair on the roof pulled Charley to their side. Flat roofs were great institutions they decided as they crawled cautiously towards the other side. This roof was of hard, sun-baked adobe, over two feet thick, and they did not care if their friends shot up on a gamble.

“Fine place, all right,” thought Charley, grinning broadly. Then he turned an agonized face to Tim, his chest rising. “Hitch! Hitch!” he choked, fighting with all his will to master it. “Hitch-chew! Hitch-chew! Hitch-chew!” he sneezed, loudly. There was a scramble below and a ripple of mirth floated up to them.

“Hitch-chew?” jeered a voice. “What do we want to hit you for?”

“Look us over, children,” invited another.

“Wait until the moon comes up,” chuckled the third. “Be like knocking the nigger baby down for Red an’ the others. Ladies and gents: We’ll now have a little sketch entitled ‘Shooting snipe by moonlight.’”

“Jack-snipe, too,” laughed Pete. “Will somebody please hold the bag?”

The silence on the roof was profound and the three on the ground tried again.

“Let me call yore attention to the trained coyotes, ladies an’ gents,” remarked Johnny in a deep, solemn voice. “Coyotes are not birds; they do not roost on roofs as a general thing; but they are some intelligent an’ can be trained to do lots of foolish tricks. These animules were—”

“Step this way, people; on-ly ten cents, two nickels,” interrupted Pete. “They bark like dogs, an’ howl like hell.”

“Shut up!” snapped Tim, angrily.

“After the moon comes up,” said Hopalong, “when you fellers get tired dodging, you can chuck us yore guns an’ come down. An’ don’t forget that this side of the house is much the safest,” he warned.

“Go to hell!” snarled Duke, bitterly.

“Won’t; they’re laying for me down there.”

Johnny crawled to the north end of the wall and, looking cautiously around the corner, funnelled his hands: “On the roof, Red! On the roof!”

“Yes, dear,” was the reply, followed by gun-shots.

“Hey! Move over!” snapped Tim, working towards the edge furthest from the cheerful Red, whose bullets were not as accurate in the dark as they promised to become in a few minutes when the moon should come up.

“Want to shove me off?” snarled Charley, angrily. “For heaven’s sake, Duke, do you want the whole earth?” he demanded of his second companion.

“You just bet yore shirt I do! An’ I want a hole in it, too!”

“Ain’t you got no sense?”

“Would I be up here if I had?”

“It’s going to be hot as blazes up here when the sun gets high,” cheerfully prophesied Tim: “an’ dry, too,” he added for a finishing touch.

“We’ll be lucky if we’re live enough to worry about the sun’s heat— say, that was a close one!” exclaimed Duke, frantically trying to flatten a little more. “Ah, thought so—there’s that blamed moon!”

“Wish I’d gone out the window instead,” growled Charley, worming behind Duke, to the latter’s prompt displeasure.

“You fellers better come down, one at a time,” came from below. “Send yore guns down first, too. Red’s a blamed good shot.”

“Hope he croaks,” muttered Duke. “That’s closer yet!”

Tim’s hand raised and a flash of fire singed Charley’s hair. “Got to do something, anyhow,” he explained, lowering the Colt and peering across the plain.

“You damned near succeeded!” shouted Charley, grabbing at his head. “Why, they’re three hundred, an’ you trying for ‘em with a—_oh!_” he moaned, writhing.

“Locoed fool!” swore Duke, “showing ‘em where we are! They’re doing good enough as it is! You ought—got you, too!”

“I’m going down—that blamed fool out