Hopalong Cassidy's Rustler Round-Up; Or, Bar-20 by Clarence Edward Mulford (summer reading list txt) 📕

Shortly after noon, Hopalong, who had ridden with his head bowed low in meditation, looked up and slapped his thigh. Then he looked at Red and grinned.

“Look ahere, Red,” he began, “there ain't no rustlers with their headquarters on this God-forsaken sand heap, an' there never was. They have to have water an' lots of it, too, an' th' nearest of any account is th' Pecos, or some of them streams over in th' Panhandle. Th' Panhandle is th' best place. There are lots of streams an' lakes over there an' they're right in a good grass country. Why, an' army could hide over there an' never be found unless it was hunted for blamed good. Then, again, it's close to the railroad. Up north aways is th' south branch of th' Santa Fe Trail an' it's far enough away not to bother anybody in th' middle Panhandle. Then there's Fort Worth purty near, an' other trails. Didn't Buck say he had all th' rest of th' country searched? He meant th' Pecos Valley an th' Davis Mountains country. All th' rustlers would have to do if they were in th' Panhandle would be to cross th' Canadian an th' Cimarron an' hit th' trail for th' railroad. Good fords, good grass an' water all th' way, cattle fat when they are delivered an plenty of room. Th' more I thinks about it th' more I cottons to the Panhandle.”

“Well, it shore does sound good,” replied Red, reflectively.

“Do yu mean th' Cunningham Lake region or farther north?”

“Just th' other side of this blasted desert: anywhere where there's water,” responded Hopalong, enthusiastically. “I've been doin' some hot reckonin' for th' last two hours an' this is th' way it looks to me: they drives th' cows up on this skillet for a ways, then turns east an' hits th' trail for home an' water. They can get around th' ca on near Thatcher's Lake by a swing of th' north. I tell yu that's th' only way out'n this. Who could tell where they turned with th' wind raisin' th' deuce with the trail? Didn't we follow a trail for a ways, an' then what? Why, there wasn't none to follow. We can ride north 'till we walk behind ourselves an' never get a peek at them. I am in favor of headin' for th' Sulphur Spring Creek district. We can spend a couple of weeks, if we has to, an' prospect that whole region without havin' to cut our' water down to a smell an' a taste an live on jerked beef. If we investigates that country we'll find something else than sand storms, poisoned water holes an' blisters.”

“Ain't th' Panhandle full of nesters (farmers)?” Inquired Red, doubtfully.

“Along th' Canadian an' th' edges, yas; in th' middle, no,” explained Hopalong. “They hang close together on account of th' war-whoops, an' they like th' trails purty well because of there allus bein' somebody passin'.”

“Buck ought to send some of th' Panhandle boys up there,” suggested Red. “There's Pie Willis an' th' Jordans—they knows th' Panhandle like yu knows poker.”

Frenchy had paid no apparent attention to the conversation up to this point, but now he declared himself. “Yu heard what Buck said, didn't yu?” He asked. “We were told to search th' Staked Plains from one end to th' other an' I'm goin' to do it if I can hold out long enough. I ain't goin' to palaver with yu because what yu say can't be denied as far as wisdom is concerned. Yu may have hit it plumb center, but I knows what I was ordered to do, an' yu can't get me to go over there if you shouts all night. When Buck says anything, she goes. He wants to know where th' cards are stacked an' why he can't holler 'Keno,' an' I'm goin' to find out if I can. Yu can go to Patagonia if yu wants to, but yu go alone as far as I am concerned.”

“Well, it's better if yu don't go with us,” replied Hopalong, taking it for granted that Red would accompany him. “Yu can prospect this end of th' game an' we'll be takin' care of th' other. It's two chances now where we only had one afore.”

“Yu go east an' I'll hunt around as ordered,” responded Frenchy.

“East nothin',” replied Hopalong. “Yu don't get me to wallow in hot alkali an' lose time ridin' in ankle-deep sand when I can hit th' south trail, skirt th' White Sand Hills an' be in God's country again. I ain't goin' to wrastle with no ca on this