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

“Cortez panatella—two for a simoleon,” Chancy replied. “But, seein' that it's you, I'll throw off a dollar on a dozen. They're a fool notion of the old man, for we can't sell one in a month.”

Hopalong dug up a handful and threw one on the counter, lighting another: “Yu light a Cortez panatella with me,” he said, pocketing the remainder. “That's five simoleons she didn't get. So long.”

He journeyed to Tom Lee's and found his outfit making merry. Passing around his cigars he leaned against the bar and delighted in the first really good smoke he had since he came home from Kansas City.

Johnny Nelson blew a cloud of smoke at the ceiling and paused with a pleased expression on his face:

“This is a lalapoloosa of a cigar,” he cried. “Where'd yu get it, an' how many's left?”

“I got it from Charley, an' there's more than yu can buy at fifty a shot.”

“Well, I'll just take a few for luck,” Johnny responded, running out into the street. Returning in five minutes with both hands full of cigars he passed them around and grinned: “They're birds, all right!”

Hopalong smiled, turned to Buck and related his conversation with Chancy. “What do yu think of that?” He asked as he finished.

“I think Charley oughter be yore guardian,” replied the foreman.

“He was,” replied Hopalong.

“If we sees Tex we'll all grin hard,” laughed Red, making for the door. “Come on to th' contests—Lanky's gone already.”

Muddy Wells streamed to the carnival grounds and relieved itself of its enthusiasm and money at the booths on the way. Cow-punchers rubbed elbows with Indians and Mexicans, and the few tourists that were present were delighted with the picturesque scene. The town was full of fakirs and before one of them stood a group of cow-punchers, apparently drinking in the words of a barker.

“Right this way, gents, and see the woman who don't eat. Lived for two years without food, gents. Right this way, gents. Only a quarter of a dollar. Get your tickets, gents, and see—”

Red pushed forward:

“What did yu say, pard?” He asked. “I'm a little off in my near ear. What's that about eatin' a woman for two years?”

“The greatest wonder of the age, gents. The wom—”

“Any discount for th' gang?” Asked Buck, gawking.

“Why don't yu quit smokin' an' buy th' lady a meal?” Asked Johnny from the center of the group.

“Th' cane yu ring th' cane yu get!” came from the other side of the street and Hopalong purchased rings for the outfit. Twenty-four rings got one cane, and it was divided between them as they wended their way toward the grounds.

“That makes six wheels she didn't get,” murmured Hopalong. As they passed the snake charmer's booth they saw Tex and his companion ahead of them in the crowd, and they grinned broadly. “I like th' front row in th' balcony,” remarked Johnny, who had been to Kansas City. “Don't cry in th' second act—it ain't real,” laughed Red. “We'll hang John Brown on a sour appletree—in th' Panhandle,” sang Skinny as they passed them.

Arriving at the grounds they hunted up the registration committee and entered in the contests. As Hopalong signed for the revolver competition he was rudely pushed aside and Tex wrote his name under that of his enemy. Hopalong was about to show quick resentment for the insult, but thought of what Charley had said, and he grinned sympathetically. The seats were filling rapidly, and the outfit went along the ground looking for friends. A bugle sounded and a hush swept over the crowd as the announcement was made for the first event.

“Broncho-busting-Red Devil, never ridden: Frenchy McAllister, Tin-Cup, Montana; Meteor, killed his man: Skinny Thompson, Bar-20, Texas; Vixen, never ridden: Lefty Allen, O-Bar-O, Texas.”

All eyes were focused on the plain where the horse was being led out for the first trial. After the usual preliminaries had been gone through Frenchy walked over to it, vaulted in the saddle and the bandage was torn from the animal's eyes. For ten minutes the onlookers were held spellbound by the fight before them, and then the horse kicked and galloped away and Frenchy was picked up and carried from the field.

“Too bad!” cried Buck, running from the outfit.

“Did yu see it?” asked Johnny excitedly, “Th' cinch busted.” Another horse was led out and Skinny Thompson vaulted to the saddle, and after a fight of half an hour rode the animal from the enclosure to the clamorous shouts of his friends. Lefty Allen also rode his mount from the same gate, but took ten minutes more in which to do it.

The announcer conferred with the timekeepers and then stepped forward: “First, Skinny Thompson, Bar-20, thirty minutes and ten seconds; second, Lefty Allen, O-Bar-O, forty minutes and seven seconds.”

Skinny returned to his friends shamefacedly and did not look as if he had just won a championship. They made way for him, and Johnny, who could not restrain his enthusiasm pounded him on the back and cried: “Yu old son-of-a-gun!”

The announcer again came forward and gave out the competitors for the next contest, steer-roping and tying. Lanky Smith arose and, coiling his rope carefully, disappeared into the crowd. The fun was not so great in this, but when he returned to his outfit with the phenomenal time of six minutes and eight seconds for his string of ten steers, with twenty-two seconds for one of them, they gave him vociferous greeting. Three of his steers had gotten up after he had leaped from his saddle to tie them, but his horse had taken care of that. His nearest rival was one minute over him and Lanky retained the championship.

Red Connors shot with such accuracy in the rifle contest as to run his points twenty per cent higher than Waffles, of the O-Bar-O, and won the new rifle.

The main interest centered in the revolver contest, for it was known that the present champion was to defend his title against an enemy and fears were expressed in the crowd that there would be an “accident.” Buck Peters and Red stood just behind the firing line with their hands on hips, and Tex, seeing the precautions, smiled grimly as he advanced to the line.

Six bottles, with their necks an inch above a board, stood twenty paces from him, and he broke them all in as many shots, taking twelve seconds in which to do it. Hopalong followed him and tied the score. Three tin balls rolling erratically in a blanket supported by two men were sent flying into the air in four shots, Tex taking six seconds. His competitor sent them from the blanket in three shots and in the same time. In slow shooting from sights Tex passed his rival in points and stood to win. There was but one more event to be contested and in it Hopalong found his joy.

Shooting from the hip when the draw is timed is not the sport of even good shots, and when Tex made sixty points out of a possible hundred, he felt that