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

CHAPTER VI

TRIALS OF THE CONVALESCENT

 

The days at the ranch passed in irritating idleness for

those who had obstructed the flight of hostile lead, and worse than

any of the patients was Hopalong, who fretted and fumed at his

helplessness, which retarded his recovery. But at last the day

came when he was fit for the saddle again, and he gave notice of

his joy in whoops and forthwith announced that he was entitled to

a holiday; and Buck had not the heart to refuse him

So he started forth in his quest of peace and pleasure, but instead had found only

trouble and had been forced to leave his card at almost every place he had visited.

 

There was that affair in Red Hot Gulch, Colorado, where, under pressure, he had

invested sundry pieces of lead in the persons of several obstreperous citizens and then had

paced the zealous and excitable sheriff to the state line.

 

He next was noticed in Cheyenne, where his deformity was vividly dwelt upon, to

the extent of six words, by one Tarantula Charley, the aforesaid Charley not being able to

proceed to greater length on account of heart failure. As Charley had been a ubiquitous

nuisance, those present availed themselves of the opportunity offered by Hopalong to

indulge in a free drink.

 

Laramie was his next stopping place, and shortly after his arrival he was requested

to sing and dance by a local terror, who informed all present that he was the only

seventeen-buttoned rattlesnake in the cow country. Hopalong, hurt and indignant at being

treated like a common tenderfoot, promptly knocked the terror down.

 

After he had irrigated several square feet of parched throats belonging to the

audience he again took up his journey and spent a day at Denver, where he managed to

avoid any further trouble.

 

Santa Fe loomed up before him several days later and he entered it shortly before

noon. At this time the old Spanish city was a bundle of high-strung nerves, and certain

parts of it were calculated to furnish any and all kinds of excitement except revival

meetings and church fairs. Hopalong straddled a lively nerve before he had been in the

city an hour. Two local bad men, Slim Travennes and Tex Ewalt, desiring to establish

the fact that they were roaring prairie fires, attempted to consume the placid and innocent

stranger as he limped across the plaza in search of a game of draw poker at the Black

Hills Emporium, with the result that they needed repairs, to the chagrin and disgust of

their immediate acquaintances, who endeavored to drown their mortification and sorrow

in rapid but somewhat wild gun play, and soon remembered that they had pressing

engagements elsewhere.

 

Hopalong reloaded his guns and proceeded to the Emporium, where he found a

game all prepared for him in every sense of the word. On the third deal he objected to the

way in which the dealer manipulated the cards, and when the smoke cleared away he was

the only occupant of the room, except a dog belonging to the bartender that had

intercepted a stray bullet.

Hunting up the owner of the hound, he apologized for being the indirect cause of

the animal’s death, deposited a sum of Mexican dollars in that gentleman’s palm and went

on his way to Alameda, which he entered shortly after dark, and where an insult,

simmering in its uncalled-for venom, met him as he limped across the floor of the local

dispensary on his way to the bar. There was no time for verbal argument and precedent

had established the manner of his reply, and his repartee was as quick as light and most

effective. Having resented the epithets he gave his attention to the occupants of the room.

 

Smoke drifted over the table in an agitated cloud and dribbled lazily upward from

the muzzle of his six-shooter, while he looked searchingly at those around him. Strained

and eager faces peered at his opponent, who was sliding slowly forward in his chair, and

for the length of a minute no sound but the guarded breathing of the onlookers could be

heard. This was broken by a nervous cough from the rear of the room, and the faces

assumed their ordinary nonchalant expressions, their rugged lines heavily shadowed in

the light of the flickering oil lamps, while the shuffling of cards and the clink of silver

became audible. Hopalong Cassidy had objected to insulting remarks about his affliction.

 

Hopalong was very sensitive about his crippled leg and was always prompt to

resent any scorn or curiosity directed at it, especially when emanating from strangers. A

young man of twenty-three years, when surrounded by nearly perfect specimens of

physical manhood, is apt to be painfully self-conscious of any such defect, and it reacted

on his nature at times, even though he was well-known for his happy-go-lucky disposition

and playfulness. He consoled himself with the knowledge that what he lost in symmetry

was more than balanced by the celerity and certainty of his gun hand, which was right or

left, or both, as the occasion demanded.

 

Several hours later, as his luck was vacillating, he felt a heavy hand on his

shoulder, and was overjoyed at seeing Buck and Red, the latter grinning as only Red

could grin, and he withdrew from the game to enjoy his good fortune.

 

While Hopalong had been wandering over the country the two friends had been

hunting for him and had traced him successfully, that being due to the trail he had blazed

with his six-shooters. This they had accomplished without harm to themselves, as those

of whom they inquired thought that they must want Hopalong “bad,” and cheerfully gave

the information required.

 

They had started out more for the purpose of accompanying him for pleasure, but

that had changed to an urgent necessity in the following manner

While on the way from Denver to Santa Fe they had met Pete Willis of the Three

Triangle, a ranch that adjoined their own, and they paused to pass the compliments of the

season.

 

“Purty far from th’ grub wagon, Pie,” remarked Buck.

 

“Oh, I’m only goin’ to Denver,” responded Pie.

 

“Purty hot,” suggested Red.

 

“She shore is. Seen anybody yu knows?” Pie asked.

 

“One or two-Billy of th’ Star Crescent an’ Panhandle Lukins,” answered Buck.

 

“That so? Panhandle’s goin’ to punch for us next year. I’ll hunt him up. I heard

down south of Albuquerque that Thirsty Jones an’ his brothers are lookin’ for trouble,”

offered Pie.

“Yah! They ain’t lookin’ for no trouble-they just goes around blowin’ off.

 

Trouble? Why, they don’t know what she is,” remarked Red contemptuously.

 

“Well, they’s been dodgin’ th’ sheriff purty lively lately, an’ if that ain’t trouble I

don’t know what is,” said Pie.

 

“It shore is, an’ hard to dodge,” acquiesced Buck.

 

“Well, I has to amble. Is Panhandle in Denver? Yes? I calculates as how me an’

him’ll buck th’ tiger for a whirl-he’s shore lucky. Well, so long,” said Pie as he moved on.

 

“So long,” responded the two.

 

“Hey, wait a minute,” yelled Pie after he had ridden a hundred yards. “If yu sees

Hopalong yu might tell him that th’ Joneses are goin’ to hunt him up when they gits to

Albuquerque. They’s shore sore on him. `Tain’t none of my funeral, only they ain’t

always a-carin’ how they goes after a feller. So long,” and soon he was a cloud of dust on

the horizon.

 

“Trouble!” snorted Red; “well, between dodgin’ Harris an’ huntin’ Hopalong I

reckons they’ll shore find her. “Then to himself he murmured, “Funny how everythin’

comes his way.”

 

“That’s gospel shore enough, but, as Pie said, they ain’t a whole lot particular as

how they deal th’ cards. We better get a move on an’ find that ornery little cuss,” replied

Buck.

 

“O. K., only I ain’t losin’ no sleep about Hoppy. His gun’s too lively for me to do

any worryin’,” asserted Red.

 

“They’ll get lynched some time, shore,” declared Buck.

 

“Not if they find Hoppy,” grimly replied Red.

 

They tore through Santa Fe, only stopping long enough to wet their throats, and

after several hours of hard riding entered Alameda, where they found Hopalong in the

manner narrated.

 

After some time the three left the room and headed for Albuquerque, twelve miles

to the south. At ten o’clock they dismounted before the Nugget and Rope, an unpainted

wooden building supposed to be a clever combination of barroom, dance and gambling

hall and hotel. The cleverness lay in the man who could find the hotel part.