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

quarter of an inch thick,

flaunted a band of black leather, on which was conspicuously displayed a solid silver

buckle. His neck was protected by a crimson kerchief of the finest, heaviest silk. His

shirt, in pattern the same as those commonly worn in the cow country, was of buckskin,

soft as a baby’s cheek and impervious to water, and the Angora goatskin chaps, with the

long silken hair worn outside, were as white as snow. Around his waist ran loosely a

broad, black leather belt supporting a heavy black holster, in which lay its walnut-handled

burden, a .44 caliber six-shooter; and thirty center-fire cartridges peeked from their loops,

fifteen on a side. His boots, the soles thin and narrow and the heels high, were black and

of the finest leather. Huge spurs, having two-inch rowels, were held in place by buckskin

straps, on which, also, were silver buckles. Protecting his hands were heavy buckskin

gloves, also waterproof, having wide, black gauntlets.

 

Each dainty hock of his dainty eight-hundred-pound buckskin pony was black,

and a black star graced its forehead. Well groomed, with flowing mane and tail, and with

the brand on its flank being almost imperceptible, the animal was far different in

appearance from most of the cow-ponies. Vicious and high-spirited, it cavorted just

enough to show its lines to the best advantage.

 

The saddle, a famous Cheyenne and forty pounds in weight, was black, richly

embossed, and decorated with bits of beaten silver which flashed back the sunlight. At

the pommel hung a thirty-foot coil of braided horsehair rope, and at the rear was a Sharp’s

.50-caliber, breech-loading rifle, its owner having small use for any other make.

 

The color of the bridle was the same as the saddle and it supported a heavy U bit

which was capable of a leverage sufficient to break the animal’s jaw.

 

Tex was proud of his outfit, but his face wore a frown-not there only on account

of his losses, but also by reason of his mission, for under all his finery beat a heart as

black as any in the cow country.

 

For months he had smothered hot hatred and he was now on his way to ease

himself of it.

 

He and Slim Travennes had once exchanged shots with Hopalong in Santa Fe, and

the month which he had spent in bed was not pleasing, and from that encounter had

sprung the hatred. That he had been in the wrong made no difference with him. Some

months later he had learned of the death of Slim, and it was due to the same man. That

Slim had again been in the wrong also made no difference, for he realized the fact and

nothing else.

 

Lately he had been told of the death of Slippery Trendley and Deacon Rankin, and

he accepted their passing as a personal affront. That they had been caught red-handed in

cattle stealing of huge proportions and received only what was customary under the

conditions formed no excuse in his mind for their passing.

 

He was now on his way to attend the carnival at Muddy Wells, knowing that his

enemy would be sure to be there.

 

While passing through Las Cruces he met Porous Johnson and Silent Somes, who

were thirsty and who proclaimed that fact, whereupon he relieved them of their torment

and, looking forward to more treatment of a similar nature, they gladly accompanied him

without asking why or where.

 

As they left the town in their rear Tex turned in his saddle and surveyed them with

a cynical smile.

 

“Have yu heard anything of Trendley?” he asked.

 

They shook their heads.

 

“Him an’ th’ Deacon was killed over in th’ Panhandle,” he said.

 

“What!” chorused the pair.

 

“Jack Dorman, Shorty Danvers, Charley Teale, Stiffhat Bailey, Billy Jackson,

Terry Nolan an’ Sailor Carson was lynched.”

 

“What!” they shouted.

 

“Fish O’Brien, Pinochle Schmidt, Tom Wilkins, Apache Gordon, Charley of th’

Bar Y, Penobscot Hughes an’ about twenty others died fightin’.”

 

Porous looked his astonishment: “Cavalry?”

 

“An’ I’m going after th’ dogs who did it,” he continued, ignoring the question.

 

“Are yu with me ?—Yu used to pal with some of them, didn’t yu?”

 

“We did, an’ we’re shore with yu!” cried Porous.

 

“Yore right,” endorsed Silent. “But who done it?”

 

“That gang what’s punchin’ for th’ Bar-20-Hopalong Cassidy is th’ one I’m pining

for. Yu fellers can take care of Peters an’ Connors.”

 

The two stiffened and exchanged glances of uncertainty and apprehension. The

outfit of the Bar-20 was too well known to cause exuberant joy to spring from the idea of

war with it, and well in the center of all the tales concerning it were the persons Tex had

named. To deliberately set forth with the avowed intention of planting these was not at

all calculated to induce sweet dreams.

 

Tex sneered his contempt.

 

“Yore shore uneasy: yu ain’t a-scared, are yu?” he drawled.

Porous relaxed and made a show of subduing his horse: “I reckon I ain’t scared

plumb to death. Yu can deal me a hand,” he asserted.

 

“I’ll draw cards too,” hastily announced Silent, buttoning his vest.

 

“Tell us about that jamboree over in th’ Panhandle.”

Tex repeated the story as he had heard it from a bibulous member of the Barred

Horseshoe, and then added a little of torture as a sauce to whet their appetites for revenge.

 

“How did Trendley cash in?” asked Porous.

 

“Nobody knows except that bum from th’ Tin-Cup. I’ll get him later. I’d a got

Cassidy up in Santa Fe, too, if it wasn’t for th’ sun in my eyes. Me an’ Slim loosened up

on him in th’ Plaza, but we couldn’t see nothing with him a-standin’ against th’ sun.”

 

“Where’s Slim now?” asked Porous. “I ain’t seen him for some time.”

 

“Slim’s with Trendley,” replied Tex. “Cassidy handed him over to St. Pete at

Cactus Springs. Him an’ Connors sicked their outfit on him an’ his vigilantes, bein helped

some by th’ O-Bar-O. They wiped th’ town plumb off th’ earth, an’ now I’m going to do

some wipin’ of my own account. I’ll prune that gang of some of its blossoms afore long.

 

It’s cost me seventeen friends so far, an’ I’m going to stop th’ leak, or make another.”

 

They entered Muddy Wells at sunrise on the day of the carnival and, eating a

hearty breakfast, sallied forth to do their share toward making the festivities a success.

 

The first step considered necessary for the acquirement of case and polish was

begun at the nearest bar, and Tex, being the host, was so liberal that his friends had

reached a most auspicious state when they followed him to Tom Lee’s.

 

Tex was too wise to lose his head through drink and had taken only enough to

make him careless of consequences. Porous was determined to sing “Annie Laurie,”

although he hung on the last word of the first line until out of breath and then began

anew. Silent, not wishing to be outdone, bawled at the top of his lungs a medley of

music-hall words to the air of a hymn.

 

Tex, walking as awkwardly as any cowpuncher, approached Tom Lee’s, his two

friends trailing erratically, arm in arm, in his rear. Swinging his arm he struck the door a

resounding blow and entered, hand on gun, as it crashed back. Porous and Silent stood in

the doorway and quarreled as to what each should drink and, compromising, lurched in

and seated themselves on a table and resumed their vocal perpetrations.

 

Tex swaggered over to the bar and tossed a quarter upon it: “Corn juice,” he

laconically exclaimed. Tossing off the liquor and glancing at his howling friends, he

shrugged his shoulders and strode out by the rear door, slamming it after him. Porous and

Silent, recounting friends who had “cashed in” fell to weeping and they were thus

occupied when Hopalong and Buck entered, closely followed by the rest of the outfit.

 

Buck walked to the bar and was followed by Hopalong, who declined his

foreman’s offer to treat. Tom Lee set a bottle at Buck’s elbow and placed his hands

against the bar.

 

“Friend of yourn just hit the back trail,” he remarked to Hopalong.

 

“He was primed some for trouble, too,” he added.

 

“Yaas?” drawled Hopalong with little interest.

 

The proprietor restacked the few glasses and wiped off the bar.

 

“Them’s his pardners,” he said, indicating the pair on the table.

 

Hopalong turned his head and gravely scrutinized them. Porous was bemoaning

the death of Slim Travennes and Hopalong frowned.

 

“Don’t reckon he’s no relation of mine,” he grunted.

 

“Well, he ain’t yore sister,” replied Tom Lee, grinning.

“What’s his brand?” asked the puncher.

 

“I reckon he’s a maverick, `though yu put yore brand on him up to Santa Fe a

couple of years back. Since he’s throwed back on yore range I reckon he’s yourn if yu

wants him.”

 

“I reckon Tex is some sore,” remarked Hopalong, rolling a cigarette.

 

“I reckon he is,” replied the proprietor, tossing Buck’s quarter in the cash box.

 

“But, say, you should oughter see his rig.”

 

“Yaas?”

 

“He’s shore a cowpunch dude-my, but he’s some sumptious an’ highfalutin’. An’

bad? Why, he reckons th’ Lord never brewed a more high-toned brand of cussedness than

his’n. He shore reckons he’s the baddest man that ever simmered.”

 

“How’d he look as th’ leadin’ man in a necktie festival?” blazed Johnny from

across the room, feeling called upon to help the conversation.

 

“He’d be a howlin’ success, son,” replied Skinny Thompson, “judgin’ by his friends

what we elevated over in th’ Panhandle.”

 

Lanky Smith leaned forward with his elbow on the table, resting his chin in the

palm of his hand: “Is Ewalt still a-layin’ for yu, Hopalong?” he asked.

 

Hopalong turned wearily and tossed his half-consumed cigarette into the box of

sand which did duty as a cuspidore: “I reckon so; an’ he shore can hatch whenever he gets

good an ready, too.”

 

“He’s probably a-broodin’ over past grievances,” offered Johnny, as he suddenly

pushed Lanky’s elbow from the table, nearly causing a catastrophe.

 

“Yu’ll be broodin’ over present grievances if yu don’t look out, yu everlastin’

nuisance yu,” growled Lanky, planting his elbow in its former position with an emphasis

which conveyed a warning.

 

“These bantams ruffle my feathers,” remarked Red. “They go around braggin’

about th’ egg they’re goin’ to lay an’ do enough cacklin’ to furnish music for a dozen.

 

Then when th’ affair comes off yu’ll generally find they’s been settin’ on a door-knob.”

 

“Did yu ever see a hen leave th’ walks of peace an’ bugs an’ rustle hell-bent across

th’ trail plumb in front of a cayuse?” asked Buck.

 

“They’ll leave off rustlin’ grub an’ become candidates for th’ graveyard just for

cussedness. Well, a whole lot of men are th’ same way. How many times have I seen

them swagger into a gin shop an’ try to run things sudden an’ hard, an’ that with half a

dozen better men in th’ same room? There’s shore aplenty of trouble a-comin’ to every

man without rustlin’ around for more.”

 

“‘Member that time yu an’ Frenchy tried to run th’ little town of Frozen Nose, up in

Montana?” asked Johnny, winking at the rest.

 

“An’ we did run it, for a while,” responded Buck. “But that only goes to show that

most young men are chumps-we were just about yore age then.”

 

Red laughed at the youngster’s discomfiture: “That little squib of yourn shore

touched her off-I reckon we irrigates