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

“But the best shot won’t allus win in that game,” commented Elkins. “That’s one of the minor factors.”

“Yes, sir! It’s luck that counts there,” endorsed Bartlett, quickly. “Luck, nine times out of ten.”

“Best shot ought to win,” declared Skinny Thompson. “It ain’t all luck, nohow. Where’d I be against Hoppy, there?”

“Won’t neither!” cried Johnny, excitedly. “The man who sees the other first wins out. That’s wood-craft, an’ brains.”

“Aw! What do you know about it, anyhow?” demanded Lucas. “If he can’t shoot so good what chance has he got—if he misses the first try, what then?”

“What chance has he got! First chance, miss or no miss. If he can’t see the other first, where the devil does his good shooting come in?”

“Huh!” snorted Wood Wright, belligerently. “Any fool can see, but he can’t shoot! An’ it’s as much luck as wood-craft, too, an’ don’t you forget it!”

“The first shot don’t win, Johnny; not in a game like that, with all the dodging an’ ducking,” remarked Red. “You can’t put one where you want it when a feller’s slipping around in the brush. It’s the most that counts, an’ the best shot gets in the most. I wouldn’t want to have to stand up against Hoppy an’ a short gun, not in that game; no, sir!” and Red shook his head with decision.

The argument waxed hot. With the exception of Hopalong, who sat silently watchful, every one spoke his opinion and repeated it without regard to the others. It appeared that in this game, the man with the strongest lungs would eventually win out, and each man tried to show his superiority in that line. Finally, above the uproar, Cowan’s bellow was herd, and he kept it up until some notice was taken of it. “Shut up! Shut up! For God’s sake, quit! Never saw such a bunch of tinder—let somebody drop a cold, burned-out match in this gang, an’ hell’s to pay. Here, all of you, play cards an’ forget about cross-tag in the scrub. You’ll be arguing about playing marbles in the dark purty soon!”

“All right,” muttered Johnny, “but just the same, the man who—”

“Never mind about the man who! Did you hear me?” yelled Cowan, swiftly reaching for a bucket of water. “This is a game where I gets the most in, an’ don’t forget it!”

“Come on; play cards,” growled Lucas, who did not relish having his decision questioned on his own story. Undoubtedly somewhere in the wide, wide world there was such a thing as common courtesy, but none of it had ever strayed onto that range.

The chairs scraped on the rough floor as the men pulled up to a table. “I don’t care a hang,” came Elkins’ final comment as he shuffled the cards with careful attention. “I’m not any fancy Colt expert, but I’m damned if I won’t take a chance in that game with any man as totes a gun. Leastawise, of course, I wouldn’t take no such advantage of a lame man.”

The effect would have been ludicrous but for its deadly significance. Cowan, stooping to go under the bar, remained in that hunched-up attitude, his every faculty concentrated in his ears; the match on its way to the cigarette between Red’s lips was held until it burned his fingers, when it was dropped from mere reflex action, the hand still stiffly aloft; Lucas, half in and half out of his chair, seemed to have got just where he intended, making no effort to seat himself. Skinny Thompson, his hand on his gun, seemed paralyzed; his mouth was open to frame a reply that never was uttered and he stared through narrowed eyelids at the blunderer. The sole movement in the room was the slow rising of Hopalong and the markedly innocent shuffling of the cards by Elkins, who appeared to be entirely ignorant of the weight and effect of his words. He dropped the pack for the cut and then looked up and around as if surprised by the silence and the expressions he saw.

Hopalong stood facing him, leaning over with both hands on the table. His voice, when he spoke, rumbled up from his chest in a low growl. “You won’t have no advantage, Elkins. Take it from me, you’ve had yore last fling. I’m glad you made it plain, this time, so it’s something I can take hold of.” He straightened slowly and walked to the door, and an audible sigh sounded through the room as it was realized that trouble was not immediately imminent. At the door he paused and turned back around, looking back over his shoulder. “At noon to-morrow I’m going to hoof it north through the brush between the river an’ the river trail, starting at the old ford a mile down the river.” He waited expectantly.

“Me too—only the other way,” was the instant rejoinder. “Have it yore own way.”

Hopalong nodded and the closing door shut him out into the night. Without a word the Bar-20 men arose and followed him, the only hesitant being Johnny, who was torn between loyalty and new-found friendship; but with a sorrowful shake of the head, he turned away and passed out, not far behind the others.

“Clannish, ain’t they?” remarked Elkins, gravely.

Those remaining were regarding him sternly, questioningly, Cowan with a deep frown darkening his face. “You hadn’t ought to ‘a’ said that, Elkins.” The reproof was almost an accusation.

Elkins looked steadily at the speaker. “You hadn’t ought to ‘a’ let me say it,” he replied. “How did I know he was so touchy?” His gaze left Cowan and lingered in turn on each of the others. “Some of you ought to ‘a’ told me. I wouldn’t ‘a’ said it only for what I said just before, an’ I didn’t want him to think I was challenging him to no duel in the brush. So I says so, an’ then he goes an’ takes it up that I am challenging him. I ain’t got no call to fight with nobody. Ain’t I tried to keep out of trouble with him ever since I’ve been here? Ain’t I kept out of the poker games on his account? Ain’t I?” The grave, even tones were dispassionate, without a trace of animus and serenely sure of justice.

The faces around him cleared gradually and heads began to nod in comprehending consent.

“Yes, I reckon you have,” agreed Cowan, slowly, but the frown was not entirely gone. “Yes, I reckon—mebby—you have.”