The Man From Bar-20 by Clarence E. Mulford (good romance books to read .txt) 📕

CLEARING away the breakfast pans the following morning, Johnny did some soliloquizing.

“This is a nice little shack, but I ain’t stuck on it a whole lot. Now that I’ve built it, I’ve got to use it or tip off my hand; an’ as long as I use it they know where to find me. I’ve got to come back to it. At th’ worst I can hold it against them for five days; an’ then th’ outfit’ll be up here an’ drive ‘em off. But if it comes to trouble they won’t let me get to it; they’ll pick me off when I’m outside. They’re gettin’ more suspicious all th’ time, too, judgin’ from that missin’ rope an’ th’ smell of that cigar. Nope; I don’t like this shack a little bit. An’ some night when I’m sneakin’ back to it, suppose one of ‘em is in it, waitin’ for me? That wouldn’t be nice. First chance I get I’ll tote my tarpaulin an’ some supplies out of here an’ cache ‘em some place not too far away.”

Going into the little valley he was greatly surprised to see the rope hanging as he had left it, but he did not give it a second glance, and acted as though he was ignorant that it had been removed. He busied himself carrying firewood from the pile and heaping it up in the center of a cleared space, ready to be lit later on, and then removed the two saplings which made the gate to his rough fence and swung them aside so that they formed a V-shaped approach to the opening. Having performed these mysterious rites he passed the cabin, climbed up the crevice, recovered the rope, and returned. Carrying it into the house he carelessly closed the door behind him, went swiftly to the loose log in the rear wall and removed the things he had hidden behind it, rolling them up in the tarpaulin. Then he picked ravelings from an empty salt sack, tied them together and rolled them in the dirt on the floor until they matched it in color. After filling the water pails and chopping some firewood he took the gold pan and his rod and sought the creek, where he spent the rest of the day working and fishing.

Darkness found his supper dishes washed and put away, and, kneeling by the door, he stretched a string of weak ravelings across the opening, six inches above the sill. Cord not only would have been too prominent, but too strong; a foot would break the ravelings and never feel the contact. Whistling to Pepper, he took his saddle and the tarpaulin, stepped high over the door sill and in a few minutes was riding down the valley. Just before he came to the Hastings trail he threw the tarpaulin far into the brush without slowing the horse, and then, crossing the trail, plunged into the sloping draw which eventually became Little Canyon.

Pepper gingerly picked her way down the rough canyon trail without any directions from her rider, crossed the level, bowlder-strewn flat to the river, and stopped at the water’s edge.

The Deepwater gurgled and swished, cold, swift, deep, and black, and Johnny shivered in anticipation of the discomforts due to be his for the next few hours. Unbuckling his belts, he slung them around his neck, and in his hat he placed the contents of his pockets. Giving Pepper a friendly and encouraging slap, he urged her into the river, a task which she did not like; but she overcame her prejudices against ice water and plunged in, swimming with powerful strokes. Emerging on the other bank they cantered briskly to the faintly beaten trail where Billy Atwood spent so many hours, and along it until a small, isolated clump of trees loomed up. There was a stump among them and on this Johnny placed a stone. Then he waited, shivering, until the moon came up.

A black blot arose hastily from the earth and became a cow. Two more near it also arose, and the three lumbered off clumsily, driven in the right direction by a horse that knew her work. It was her firm belief that cows had been put on earth to be bossed by her, and no matter how quickly they swerved she was always at the right place at the right time and kept them going as her master wished. She neither hurried them too fast nor pressed them too closely, for she knew that when a range cow is pushed too hard it is likely to go “on the prod “and change instantly from an easy-going, docile victim to a stubborn, vicious quadruped with no sense whatever and a strong yearning to use its horns.

It did not take long to get six cows to the edge of the Deepwater; but it took two hours of careful but hard riding, perseverance and profuse profanity to get them into the water. It was no one-man job, and with a horse that had less training than Pepper it might have proved to be an impossibility; but at last one cow preferred the water to being made a fool of, and when it went in the others reluctantly followed. Scrambling out on the farther bank they doubtless were congratulating themselves upon having escaped a pest, when the pest itself emerged behind them and drove them slowly but steadily toward Little Canyon. In it they went, and up it; and as they paused on the main trail to determine which way to go, the pest arrived and decided the question for them, drove them across it and into a small valley; and as day broke, six unhurried, placid cows wandered slowly into thecrooked canyon and through the opening in the fence.

Having changed the brands from the original CL to an equally sprawling GB, he returned to the cabin, unsaddled, and entered, stepping high over the sill. No one was there and nothing had been disturbed, but when he looked for the thread he found it snapped and lying on the floor.

Starting a brisk fire he hung his wet clothes before it on crude tripods made of sticks, hastily ate a substantial breakfast, fastened the shutter of the window, hung the gold pan over the closed door to serve as an alarm if anyone should enter, and in a few minutes was asleep.

Across the creek, high up on the great ridge, a man lay behind a bowlder, a rifle in his hands, and he kept close watch on the cabin. Waiting a reasonable length of time, he finally arose, waved his hand and settled down again, the rifle covering the cabin door. In the pasture another man emerged from a thicket and hurried toward the canyon, swearing softly when he saw the changed brands. It took no second sight to tell him what the original brand had been. Emerging from the canyon he paused, glanced up at his friend, who made a significant sign, debated something in his mind, and then, pulling out a notebook, scrawled something in it and tore out the page. Creeping softly he reached the cabin door, stuck the page on it and then hurried away to join his friend.

They climbed the ridge and hastened northward, conversing with animation.

When they reached the canyon leading to their ranch a tall, rangy man advanced to meet them. “Well,” he said, smiling: “what did you find out about the rope? An’ what kept you so long?”

“We found out a-plenty,” growled Ackerman angrily. “That feller ain’t no prospector. I’ve said so all along. He don’t know enough about prospectin’ to earn a livin’ on th’ top of a pile of gold! “

His companion nodded quickly. “Jim’s right; he’s a rustler. Doin’ it single-handed, on a small scale.”

“I ain’t nowise shore that rustlin’ is his game, neither,” said Ackerman. “If he is he’s a new hand at it. I could rebrand them cows in just about half th’ time it took him, an’ do a better job. He’s dangerous; an’ he should ‘a’ been shot long before this. I can get him today,” he urged.

“I don’t doubt that; but I wouldn’t do it,” smiled Quigley. “An’ I hope yo’re shore he ain’t Logan.”

Jim swore. “Yes; but if he keeps on rustlin’ he’ll have Logan after him. An’ that’ll mean that we’ll have to look sharp, an’ mebby fight. You let me get him, Tom.”

Quigley shook his head. “‘Tain’t necessary. All we got to do is let him know he ain’t wanted. Steal his cows, bum his cabin; an’ shoot near him a couple of times, until he realizes how easy we can shoot through him. But I ain’t shore I want him drove away.”

“Huh!” ejaculated Ackerman.

“Huh!” repeated Fleming foolishly.

“Well,” drawled Quigley, “for one thing Logan’s purty shore to begin missin’ cows before long. What puzzles me is that he ain’t missed ‘em long ago. Then he’ll begin watchin’ his range nights.”

“But he won’t watch up there,” interrupted Fleming. “He don’t know about that ford.”

“There’s only two breaks in th’ Barrier,” continued Quigley, ignoring the interruption, “that are near Nelson’s valley; an’ they’re th’ first places Logan’ll watch. They’re Big an’ Little Canyons. Some fine