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

young yet.”

 

The others met their entrance with a volley of good-humored banter, some of

which was so personal and evoked such responses that it sounded like the preliminary

skirmish to a fight. But under all was that soft accent, that drawl of humorous

appreciation and eyes twinkling in suppressed merriment. Here they were thoroughly at

home and the spirit of comradeship manifested itself in many subtle ways; the wit became

more daring and sharp, Billy lost some of his pessimism, and the alertness disappeared

from their manner.

 

Skinny left off romping with Red and yawned. “I wish that cook’ud wake up an’

git breakfast. He’s the cussedest hombre I ever saw -he kin go to sleep standin’ up an’ not

know it. Johnny’s th’ boy that worries him-th’ kid comes in an’ whoops things up till he’s

gorged himself.”

 

“Johnny’s got th’ most appallin’ feel for grub of anybody I knows,“added Red. “I

wonder what’s keepin’ him-he’s usually hangin’ around here bawlin’ for his grub like a

spoiled calf, long afore cookie’s got th’ fire goin’.”

 

“Mebby he rustled some grub out with him-I saw him tip-toein’ out of th’ gallery

this mornin’ when I come back for my cigs,” remarked Hopalong, glancing at Billy.

 

Billy groaned and made for the gallery. Emerging half a minute later he blurted

out his tale of woe: “Every time I blows myself an’ don’t drink it all in town some slabsided maverick freezes to it. It’s gone,” he added, dismally.

 

“Too bad, Billy-but what is it?” asked Skinny.

 

“What is it? Wha’d yu think it was, you emaciated match? Jewelry? Cayuses?

It’s whisky-two simoleons’ worth. Somethin’s allus wrong. This here whole yearth’s

wrong, just like that cross-eyed sky pilot said over to-”

 

“Will yu let up?” Yelled Red, throwing a sombrero at the grumbling unfortunate.

 

“Yu ask Buck where yore tanglefoot is.

 

“I’d shore look nice askin’ th’ boss if he’d rustled my whisky, wouldn’t 1? An’

would yu mind throwin’ somebody else’s hat? I paid twenty wheels for that eight years

ago, and I don’t want it mussed none.”

 

“Gee, yore easy! Why, Ah Sing, over at Albuquerque, gives them away every

time yu gits yore shirt washed,” gravely interposed Hopalong as he went out to cuss the

cook.

 

“Well, what’d yu think of that?” Exclaimed Billy in an injured tone.

 

“Oh, yu needn’t be hikin’ for Albuquerque-Washee Washee’ud charge yu double

for washin’ yore shirt. Yu ought to fall in di’ river some day-then he might talk business,”

called Hopalong over his shoulder as he heaved an old boot into the gallery. “Hey, yu

hibernatin’ son of morphine, if yu don’t git them flapjacks in here pretty sudden-like I’ll

scatter yu all over di’ landscape, sabe? Yu just wait till Johnny comes!”

 

“Wonder where th’ kid is?” asked Lanky, rolling a cigarette. “Off somewhere

lookin’ at di’ sun through di’ bottom of my bottle,” grumbled Billy.

 

Hopalong started to go out, but halted on the sill and looked steadily off toward

the northwest. “That’s funny. Hey, fellows, here comes Buck an’ Johnny ridin’ double-on

a walk, too!” he exclaimed.

 

“Wonder what th’-thunder! Red, Buck’s carryun’ him! Somethin’s busted!” he

yelled, as he dashed for his pony and made for the newcomers.

 

“I told yu he was hittin’ my bottle,” pertly remarked Billy, as he followed the rest

outside.

 

“Did yu ever see Johnny drunk? Did yu ever see him drink more’n two glasses?

Shut yore wailin’ face-they’s somethin’ worse’n that in this here,” said Red, his temper

rising. “Hopalong an’ me took yore cheap liquor-it’s under Pete’s bunk,” he added.

 

The trio approached on a walk and Johnny, delirious and covered with blood, was

carried into the bunk house. Buck waited until all had assembled again and then, his face

dark with anger, spoke sharply and without the usual drawl: “Skragged from behind, blast

them! Get some grub an’ water an’ be quick. We’ll see who the gent with th’ grudge is.”

 

At this point the expostulations of the indignant cook, who, not understanding the

cause, regarded the invasion of china shop bulls as sacrilegious, came to his ears.

 

Striding quickly to the door, he grabbed the pan the Mexican was about to throw and,

turning the now frightened man around, thundered, “Keep quiet an’ get `em some grub.”

 

When rifles and ammunition had been secured they mounted and followed him at

a hard gallop along the back trail. No words were spoken, for none were necessary. All

knew that they would not return until they had found the man for whom they were

looking, even if the chase led to Canada. They did not ask Buck for any of the

particulars, for the foreman was not in the humor to talk, and all, save Hopalong, whose

curiosity was always on edge, recognized only two facts and cared for nothing else:

Johnny had been ambushed and they were going to get the one who was responsible.

 

They did not even conjecture as to who it might be, because the trail would lead

them to the man himself, and it mattered nothing who or what he was-there was only one

course to take with an assassin.

 

So they said nothing, but rode on with squared jaws and set lips, the seven ponies

breast to breast in a close arc.

 

Soon they came to an arroyo which they took at a leap. As they approached it

they saw signs in the dust which told them that a body had lain there huddled up; and

there were brown spots on the baked alkali. The trail they followed was now single, Buck

having ridden along the bank of the arroyo when hunting for Johnny, for whom he had

orders. This trail was very irregular, as if the horse had wandered at will. Suddenly they

came upon five tracks, all pointing one way, and four of these turned abruptly and

disappeared in the northwest. Half a mile beyond the point of separation was a chaparral,

which was an important factor to them.

Each man knew just what had taken place as if he had been an eyewitness, for the

trail was plain. The assassins had waited in the chaparral for Johnny to pass, probably

having seen him riding that way. When he had passed and his back had been turned to

them they had fired and wounded him severely at the first volley, for Johnny was of the

stuff that fights back and his revolvers had showed full chambers and clean barrels when

Red had examined them in the bunk house. Then they had given chase for a short

distance and, from some inexplicable motive, probably fear, they had turned and ridden

off without knowing how bad he was hit. It was this trail that led to the northwest, and it

was this trail that they followed without pausing.

 

When they had covered fifty miles they sighted the Cross Bar O ranch where they

hoped to secure fresh mounts. As they rode up to the ranch house the owner, Bud

Wallace, came around the corner and saw them.

 

“Hullo, boys! What deviltry are yu up to now?” he asked. Buck leaped from his

mount, followed by the others, and shoved his sombrero back on his head as he started to

remove the saddle.

 

“We’re trailin’ a bunch of murderers. They ambushed Johnny an’ blame near

killed him. I stopped here to get fresh cayuses.”

 

“Yu did right!” replied Wallace heartily. Then raising his voice he shouted to

some of his men who were near the corral to bring up the seven best horses they could

rope. Then he told the cook to bring out plenty of food and drink.

 

“I got four punchers what ain’t doin’ nothin’ but eat,” he suggested.

 

“Much obliged, Wallace, but there’s only four of `em, an’ we’d rather get `em

ourselves-Johnny’ud feel better,” replied Buck, throwing his saddle on the horse that was

led up to him.

 

“How’s yore cartridges-got plenty?” persisted Wallace.

 

“Two hundred apiece,” responded Buck, springing into his saddle and riding off.

 

“So long,” he called.

 

“So long, an’ plug blazes out of them,” shouted Wallace as the dust swept over

him.

 

At five in the afternoon they forded the Black River at a point where it crossed the

state line from New Mexico, and at dusk camped at the base of the Guadalupe Mountains.

 

At daybreak they took up the chase, grim and merciless, and shortly afterward they passed

the smoldering remains of a camp fire, showing that the pursued had been in a great

hurry, for it should have been put out and masked. At noon they left the mountains to the

rear and sighted the Barred Horeshoe, which they approached.

 

The owner of the ranch saw them coming, and from their appearance surmised

that something was wrong.

 

“What is it?” he shouted. “Rustlers?”

 

“Nope. Murderers. I wants to swap cayuses quick,” answered Buck.

 

“There they are. Th’ boys just brought `em in. Anything else I can let yu have?”

 

“Nope,” shouted Buck as they galloped off.

 

“Somebody’s goin’ to get plugged full of holes,” murmured the ranch owner as he

watched them kicking up the dust in huge clouds.

After they had forded a tributary of the Rio Penasco near the Sacramento

Mountains and had surmounted the opposite bank, Hopalong spurred his horse to the top

of a hummock and swept the plain with Pete’s field glasses, which he had borrowed for

the occasion, and returned to the rest, who had kept on without slacking the pace. As he

took up his former position he grunted, “War-whoops,” and unslung his rifle, an example

followed by the others.

 

The ponies were now running at top speed, and as they shot over a rise their riders

saw their quarry a mile and a half in advance. One of the Indians looked back and

discharged his rifle in defiance, and it now became a race worthy of the name-Death fled

from Death. The fresher mounts of the cowboys steadily cut down the distance and, as

the rifles of the pursuers began to speak, the hard-pressed Indians made for the smaller of

two knolls, the plain leading to the larger one being too heavily strewn with boulders to

permit speed.

 

As the fugitives settled down behind the rocks which fringed the edge of their

elevation a shot from one of them disabled Billy’s arm, but had no other effect than to

increase the score to be settled. The pursuers rode behind a rise and dismounted, from

where, leaving their mounts protected, they scattered out to surround the knoll.

 

Hopalong, true to his curiosity, finally turned up on the highest point of the other

knoll, a spur of the range in the west, for he always wanted to see all he could. Skinny,

due to his fighting instinct, settled one hundred yards to the north and on the same spur.

 

Buck lay hidden behind an enormous bowlder eight hundred yards to the northeast

of Skinny, and the same distance southeast of Buck was Red Connors, who was crawling

up the bed of an arroyo. Billy, nursing his arm, lay in front of the horses, and Pete, from

his position between Billy and Hopalong, was crawling from rock to rock in an endeavor

to get near enough to use his Colts, his favorite and most effective weapons. Intermittent

puffs of smoke arising from a point between Skinny and Buck showed where Lanky

Smith was improving each shining hour.

 

There had been no directions given, each man choosing his own position, yet each

was of strategic worth. Billy protected the horses, Hopalong and Skinny swept the knoll

with a plunging fire, and Lanky