The Coming of Cassidy by Clarence E. Mulford (romantic novels in english TXT) 📕

“Broke?” demanded Hopalong.

Sammy flushed. “I ain’t gambled a cent since I hit town. An’ say, them pens won’t hold a tenth of ‘em,” he replied, looking over the dark blur that heaved under the dust cloud like a fogcovered, choppy sea.

“I’m goin’ to hold ‘em on grass,” replied the trail boss. “They ain’t got enough cars on this toy road to move all them cows in less ‘n a week. I ain’t goin’ to let ‘em lose no weight in pens. Wait a minute! You’re on night herd for stayin’ away.”

When Sammy rode into camp the following morning he scorned Blinky’s food, much to the open-mouthed amazement of that worthy and Johnny Nelson. Blinky thought of doctors and death; but Johnny, noticing his bunkmate’s restlessness and the careful grooming of his person, had grave suspicions. “Good grub in this town?” he asked, saddling to go on his shift.

Sammy wiped a fleck of dust off his boot and looked up casually. “Shore. Best is at the Dutchman’s at th’ far end of th’ street.”

Johnny mounted, nodded and departed for the herd, where Red was pleasantly cursing his tardiness. Red would eat Blinky’s grub and gladly. Johnny was cogitating. “There’s a girl in this town, an’ he’s got three days’ head start. No wonder them cars just got here!” Red’s sarcastic voice intruded. “Think I eat grass, or my stummick’s made of rubber?” he snapped. “Think I feed onct a month like a snake?”

“No, Reddie,” smiled Johnny, watching the eyebrows lift at the name. “More like a hawg.”

Friday morning, a day ahead of the agent’s promise, the cars backed onto the siding and by noon the last cow of the herd was taking its first and last ride. Sammy slipped away from the outfit at the pens and approached the restaurant from the rear. He would sit behind the partition this time and escape his friends.

The soft sand deadened his steps and when he looked in at the door, a cheery greeting on the tip of his tongue, he stopped and stared unnoticed by the sobbing girl bent over the table. One hand, outflung in dejected abandon, hung over the side and Sammy’s eyes, glancing at it, narrowed as he looked. His involuntary, throaty exclamation sent the bowed head up with a jerk, but the look of hate and fear quickly died out of her eyes as she recognized him.

“An’ all th’ world tumbled down in a heap,” he smiled. “But it’ll be all right again, same as it allus was,” he assured her. “Will Li’l Miss tell Sammy all about it so he can put it together again?”

She looked at him through tear-dimmed eyes, the sobs slowly drying to a spasmodic catching in the rounded throat. She shook her head and the tears welled up again in answer to his sympathy. He walked softly to the table and placed a hand on her bowed head. “Li’l Miss will tell Sammy all about it when she dries her eyes an’ gets comfy. Sammy will make things all right again an’ laugh with her. Don’t you mind him a mite jus’ cry hard, an’ when all th’ tears are used up, then you tell Sammy what it’s all about.” She shook her head and would not look up. He bent down carefully and examined the bruised wrist and his eyes glinted with rage; but he did not speak. The minutes passed in silence, the girl ashamed to show her reddened and tearstained face; the boy stubbornly determined to stay and learn the facts. He heard his friends tramp past, wondering where he was, but he did not move.

Finally she brushed back her hair and looked up at him and the misery in her eyes made him catch his breath. “Won’t you go?” she pleaded.

He shook his head.

“Please!”

“Not till I finds out whose fingers made them marks,” he replied. The look of fear flashed up again, but he checked it with a smile he far from felt. “Nobody’s goin’ to make you cry, an’ get away with it,” he told her. “Who was it?”

“I won’t tell you. I can’t tell you! I don’t know!”

“Li’l Miss, look me in th’ eyes an’ say it again. I thought so. You mustn’t say things that ain’t true. Who did that?”

“What do you want to know for?”

“Oh, jus’ because.”

“What will you do?”

“Oh, I’ll sorta talk to him. All I want to know is his name.”

“I won’t teU you; you’ll fight with him.”

He turned his sombrero over and looked gravely into its crown. “Well,” he admitted, “he might not like me talkin’ ‘bout it. Of course, you can’t never tell.”

“But he didn’t mean to hurt me. He’s only rough and boisterous; and he wasn’t himself,” she pleaded, looking down.

“Uh-huh,” grunted Sammy, cogitating. “So’m I. ,“m awful rough an’ boisterous, I am; only I don’t hurt wimmin. What’s his name?”

“I’ll not tell you!”

“Well, all right; but if he ever comes in here again an’ gets rough an’ boisterous he’ll lose a hull lot of future. I’ll naturally blow most of his head off, which is frequent fatal. What’s that? Oh, he’s a bad man, is he? Uh-huh; so’m I. Well, I’m goin’ to run along now an’ see th’ boss. If you won’t tell, you won’t. I’ll be back soon,” and he sauntered to the street and headed for Pete’s saloon, where the agent had said Mr. Clarke was wont to pass his fretful hours.

As he turned the corner he bumped into Hopalong and Johnny, who grabbed at him, and missed. He backed off and rested on his toes, gingery and alert. “Keep yore dusty ban’s off’n me,” he said, quietly. “I’m goin’ down to palaver with a gent what I don’t like.”

Hopalong’s shrewd glance looked him over. “What did this gent do?” he asked, and he would not be evaded.

“Oh, he insulted a nice li’l girl, an’ I’m in a hurry.”

“G’way!” exclaimed Johnny, “That straight?”

“Too d—n straight,” snapped Sammy. “He went an’ bruised her wrists an’ made her cry.”

“Lead th’ way, Kid,” rejoined Johnny, readjusting his belt. “Mebby he’s got some friends,” he suggested, hopefully.

“Yes,” smiled Hopalong, “mebby he has. An’ anyhow, Sammy; you know yo’re plumb careless with that gun. You might miss him. Lead th’ way.”

As they started toward Pete’s Johnny nudged his bunkmate in the ribs: “Say; she ain’t got no sisters, has she?” he whispered.

One hour later Sammy, his face slightly scratched, lounged into the kitchen and tossed his sombrero on a chair, grinning cheerfully at the flushed, saucy face that looked out from under a mass of rebellious, brown hair. “Well, I saw th’ boss, an’ I come back to make everythin’ well again,” he asserted, laughing softly. “That rough an’ boisterous Mr. Clarke has sloped. He won’t come back no more.”

“Why, Sammy!” she cried, aghast. “What have you done?”

“Well, for one thing, I’ve got you callin’ me Sammy,” he chuckled, trying to sneak a hand over hers. “I told th’ boss I’m goin’ to get a job up here, so I’ll know Mr. Clarke won’t come back. But you know, he only thought he was bad. I shore had to take his ol’ gun away from him so he wouldn’t go an’ shoot hisself, an’ when las’ seen he was feelin’ for his cayuse, intendin’ to leave these parts. That’s what I done” he nodded, brightly. “Now comes what I’m goin’ to do. Oh, Li’l Miss,” he whispered, eagerly. “I’m jus’ all mixed up an’ millin’. My own feet plumb get in my way. So I jus’ gotta stick aroun’ an’ change yore name, what you don’t like. Uh-huh; that’s jus’ what I gotta do,” he smiled.

She tossed her head and the tip-tilt nose went up indignantly. “Indeed you’ll do nothing of the kind, Sammy Porter!” she retorted. “I’ll choose my own name when the time comes, and it will not be Porter!”

He arose slowly and looked around. Picking up the pencil that lay on the shelf he lounged over to the partition and printed his name three times in large letters. “All right, Li’l Miss,” he agreed. “I’ll jus’ leave a list where you can see it while you’re selectin’. I’m now goin’ out to get that job we spoke about. You have th’ name all picked out when I get back,” he suggested, waving his hand at the wall. “An’ did anybody ever tell you it was plumb risky to stick yore li’l nose up thataway?”

“Sammy Porter!” she stormed, stamping in vexation near the crying point. “You get right out of here! I’ll never speak to you again!”

“You won’t get a chance to talk much if you don’t sorta bring that snubby nose down a li’l lower. I’m plumb weak at times.” He laughed joyously and edged to the door. “Don’t forget that list. I’m goin’ after that job. So-long, Li’l Miss.”

“Sammy!”

“Oh, all right; I’ll go after it later on,” he laughed, returning.

JOHNNY NELSON hastened to the corner of the bunkhouse and then changed his pace until he seemed to ooze from there to the cook shack door, where he lazily leaned against the door jamb and ostentatiously picked his teeth with the negative end of a match. The cook looked up calmly, and calmly went on with his work; but if there was anything rasping enough to cause his calloused soul to quiver it was the aforesaid calisthenics executed by Johnny and the match; for Cookie’s blunt nature hated hints. If Johnny had demanded, even profanely and with large personal animus, why meals were not ahead of time, it would be a simple matter to heave something and enlarge upon his short cut speech. But the subtleties left the cook floundering in a mire of rage which he was very careful to conceal from Johnny. The youthful nuisance had been evincing undue interest in early suppers for nearly a month; and judging from the lightness of his repasts he was entirely unjustified in showing any interest at all in the evening meal. So Cookie strangled the biscuit in his hand, but smiled blandly at his tormentor.

“Well, all through?” he pleasantly inquired, glancing carelessly at Johnny’s clothes.

“I’m hopin’ to begin,” retorted Johnny, and the toothpick moved rapidly up and down.

Cookie condensed another biscuit and gulped. “That’s shore some stone,” he said, enviously, eying the two-caret diamond in Johnny’s new, blue tie. Johnny never had worn a tie before he became owner of the diamond, but with the stone came the keen realization of how lost it was in a neck-kerchief, how often covered by the windblown folds; so he had hastened to Buckskin and spent a dollar that belonged to Red for the tie, thus exhausting both the supply of ties and Red’s dollars. The honor of wearing the only tie and diamond in that section of the cow-country brought responsibilities, for he had spoken hastily to several humorous friends and stood a good chance of being soundly thrashed therefor.

He threw away the match and scratched his back ecstatically on the door jamb while he strained his eyes trying to look under his chin. Fixed chins and short ties are trials one must learn to accept philosophically and Johnny might have been spared the effort were it not for the fact that the tie had been made for a boy, and was awesomely shortened by encircling a sixteen-inch neck. Evidently it had been made for a boy violently inclined toward a sea-faring life, as suggested by the anchors embroidered in white down its middle.

“Lemme see it,” urged Cookie, sighing because its owner