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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 42441
   :PG.Title: The Coming of Cassidy—And the Others
   :PG.Released: 2013-03-30
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Clarence \E. Mulford
   :MARCREL.ill: Maynard Dixon
   :DC.Title: The Coming of Cassidy—And the Others
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1913
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE COMING OF CASSIDY--AND THE OTHERS
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      Cover

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   .. _`Suddenly a rope ... yanked him from the saddle`:

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      :alt: Suddenly a rope ... yanked him from the saddle Page 342

      Suddenly a rope ... yanked him from the saddle Page `342`_

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      The
      Coming of Cassidy—
      And the Others

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      BY
      CLARENCE E. MULFORD

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      Author of
      Hopalong Cassidy, Bar-20 Days, etc.

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      Illustrations by
      Maynard Dixon

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      CHICAGO
      A. C. McCLURG & CO.
      1913
 
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      Copyright 1908 by The Red Book Corporation
      Copyright 1911 by Field and Stream Publishing Co.
      Copyright 1912 by The Pearson Publishing Co.
      Copyright 1913 by The Pearson Publishing Co.

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      COPYRIGHT
      A. C. McCLURG & CO.
      1913

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      Published, October, 1913

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      Copyrighted in Great Britain

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      PRESS OF
      THE VAIL-BALLOU Co.
      BINGHAMTON, N. Y.

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   PREFACE

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It was on one of my annual visits to the ranch
that Red, whose welcome always seemed a little
warmer than that of the others, finally took me
back to the beginning.  My friendship with the
outfit did not begin until some years after the
fight at Buckskin, and, while I was familiar with
that affair and with the history of the outfit from
that time on, I had never seemed to make much
headway back of that encounter.  And I must
confess that if I had depended upon the rest of
the outfit for enlightenment I should have
learned very little of its earlier exploits.  A
more secretive and bashful crowd, when it came
to their own achievements, would be hard to find.
But Red, the big, smiling, under-foreman, at
last completely thawed and during the last few
weeks of my stay, told me story after story about
the earlier days of the ranch and the parts played
by each member of the outfit.  Names that I had
heard mentioned casually now meant something
to me; the characters stepped out of the obscurity
of the past to act their parts again.  To my
mind's eye came Jimmy Price, even more
mischievous than Johnny Nelson; "Butch" Lynch
and Charley James, who erred in judgment; the
coming and going of Sammy Porter, and why
"You-Bet" Somes never arrived; and others who
did their best, or worst, and went their way.
The tales will follow, as closely as possible, in
chronological order.  Between some of them the
interval is short; between others, long; the less
interesting stories that should fill those gaps may
well be omitted.

It was in the '70s, when the buffalo were fast
disappearing from the state, and the hunters
were beginning to turn to other ways of earning
a living, that Buck Peters stopped his wagon on
the banks of Snake Creek and built himself a
sod dugout in the heart of a country forbidding
and full of perils.  It was said that he was only
the agent for an eastern syndicate that, carried
away by the prospects of the cattle industry,
bought a "ranch," which later was found to be
entirely strange to cattle.  As a matter of fact
there were no cows within three hundred miles
of it, and there never had been.  Somehow the
syndicate got in touch with Buck and sent him
out to look things over and make a report to
them.  This he did, and in his report he stated
that the "ranch" was split in two parts by about
forty square miles of public land, which he
recommended that he be allowed to buy according
to his judgment.  When everything was settled
the syndicate found that they owned the west,
and best, bank of an unfailing river and both
banks of an unfailing creek for a distance of
about thirty miles.  The strip was not very wide
then, but it did not need to be, for it cut off the
back-lying range from water and rendered it
useless to anyone but his employers.  Westward
there was no water to amount to anything for
one hundred miles.  When this had been
digested thoroughly by the syndicate it caused
Buck's next pay check to be twice the size of
the first.

He managed to live through the winter, and
the following spring a herd of about two
thousand or more poor cattle was delivered to him,
and he noticed at once that fully half of them
were unbranded; but mavericks were cows, and in
those days it was not questionable to brand them.
Persuading two members of the drive outfit to
work for him he settled down to face the work
and perils of ranching in a wild country.  One
of these two men, George Travis, did not work
long; the other was the man who told me these
tales.  Red went back with the drive outfit, but
in Buck's wagon, to return in four weeks with it
heaped full of necessities, and to find that
troubles already had begun.  Buck's trust was not
misplaced.  It was during Red's absence that
Bill Cassidy, later to be known by a more
descriptive name, appeared upon the scene and
played his cards.

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   \C. \E. \M.

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   CONTENTS

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   I  `The Coming of Cassidy`_
   II  `The Weasel`_
   III  `Jimmy Price`_
   IV  `Jimmy Visits Sharpsville`_
   V  `The Luck of Fools`_
   VI  `Hopalong's Hop`_
   VII  `"Dealing the Odd"`_
   VIII  `The Norther`_
   IX  `The Drive`_
   X  `The Hold-Up`_
   XI  `Sammy Finds a Friend`_
   XII  `Sammy Knows the Game`_
   XIII  `His Code`_
   XIV  `Sammy Hunts a Job`_
   XV  `When Johnny Sloped`_

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   ILLUSTRATIONS

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   `Suddenly a rope ... yanked him from the saddle`_ . . . Frontispiece

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   `There was a sharp report`_

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   `"It's Injuns, close after us"`_

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   `Crawford's Colt tore loose from his fingers and dropped near the wheel of the wagon`_

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   `"Yo're a liar!" rang out the vibrant voice of the cowman`_

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.. _`THE COMING OF CASSIDY`:

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   THE COMING OF CASSIDY
   AND THE OTHERS

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   I

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   THE COMING OF CASSIDY

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The trail boss shook his fist after the
departing puncher and swore softly.  He hated
to lose a man at this time and he had been a little
reckless in threatening to "fire" him; but in a
gun-fighting outfit there was no room for a
hothead.  "Cimarron" was boss of the outfit that
was driving a large herd of cattle to California,
a feat that had been accomplished before, but
that no man cared to attempt the second time.
Had his soul been enriched by the gift of
prophecy he would have turned back.  As it was he
returned to the work ahead of him.  "Aw, let
him go," he growled.  "He 's wuss off 'n I am,
an' he 'll find it out quick.  I never did see
nobody what got crazy mad so quick as him."

"Bill" Cassidy, not yet of age, but a man in
stature and strength, rode north because it
promised him civilization quicker than any other way
except the back trail, and he was tired of the
coast range.  He had forgotten the trail-boss
during the last three days of his solitary
journeying and the fact that he was in the center of an
uninhabited country nearly as large as a
good-sized state gave him no concern; he was equipped
for two weeks, and fortified by youth's confidence.

All day long he rode, around mesas and
through draws, detouring to avoid canyons and
bearing steadily northward with a certainty that
was a heritage.  Gradually the great bulk of
mesas swung off to the west, and to the east the
range grew steadily more level as it swept
toward the peaceful river lying in the distant
valley like a carelessly flung rope of silver.  The
forest vegetation, so luxuriant along the rivers
and draws a day or two before, was now rarely
seen, while chaparrals and stunted mesquite
became more common.

He was more than twenty-five hundred feet
above the ocean, on a great plateau broken by
mesas that stretched away for miles in a vast sea
of grass.  There was just enough tang in the
dry April air to make riding a pleasure and he
did not mind the dryness of the season.  Twice
that day he detoured to ride around prairie-dog
towns and the sight of buffalo skeletons lying in
groups was not rare.  Alert and contemptuous
gray wolves gave him a passing glance, but the
coyotes, slinking a little farther off, watched him
with more interest.  Occasionally he had a shot
at antelope and once was successful.

Warned by the gathering dusk he was casting
about for the most favorable spot for his
blanket and fire when a horseman swung into sight
out of a draw and reined in quickly.  Bill's hand
fell carelessly to his side while he regarded the
stranger, who spoke first, and with a restrained
welcoming gladness in his voice.  "Howd'y,
Stranger!  You plumb surprised me."

Bill's examination told him that the other was
stocky, compactly built, with a pleasing face and
a "good eye."  His age was about thirty and the
surface indications were very favorable.  "Some
surprised myself," he replied.  "Ridin' my way?"

"Far's th' house," smiled the other.  "Better
join us.  Couple of buffalo hunters dropped in
awhile back."

"They 'll go a long way before they 'll find
buffalo," Bill responded, suspiciously.  Glancing
around he readily picked out the rectangular
blot in the valley, though it was no easy feat.
"Huntin' or ranchin'?" he inquired in tones
devoid of curiosity.

"Ranchin'," smiled the other.  "Hefty proposition,
up here, I reckon.  Th' wolves 'll walk in
under yore nose.  But I ain't seen no Injuns."

"You will," was the calm reply.  "You 'll see
a couple, first; an' then th' whole cussed tribe.
*They* ain't got no buffalo no more, neither."

Buck glanced at him sharply and thought of
the hunters, but he nodded.  "Yes.  But if that
couple don't go back?" he asked, referring to the Indians.

"Then you 'll save a little time."

"Well, let 'em come.  I 'm here to stay, one
way or th' other.  But, anyhow, I ain't got no
border ruffians like they have over in th'
Panhandle.  They 're worse 'n Injuns."

"Yes," agreed Bill.  "Th' war ain't ended yet
for some of them fellers.  Ex-guerrillas, lots of 'em."

When they reached the house the buffalo
hunters were arguing about their next day's ride
and the elder, looking up, appealed to Bill.
"Howd'y, Stranger.  Ain't come 'cross no
buffaler signs, hev ye?"

Bill smiled.  "Bones an' old chips.  But th'
gray wolves was headin' southwest."

"What 'd I tell you?" triumphantly exclaimed
the younger hunter.

"Well, they ain't much dif'rence, is they?"
growled his companion.

Bill missed nothing the hunters said or did and
during the silent meal had a good chance to study
their faces.  When the pipes were going and
the supper wreck cleaned away, Buck leaned
against the wall and looked across the room at
the latest arrival.  "Don't want a job, do you?"
he asked.

Bill shook his head slowly, wondering why the
hunters had frowned at a job being offered on
another man's ranch.  "I 'm headed north.  But
I 'll give you a hand for a week if you need me,"
he offered.

Buck smiled.  "Much obliged, friend; but
it 'll leave me worse off than before.  My other
puncher 'll be back in a few weeks with th'
supplies, but I need four men all year 'round.  I
got a thousand head to brand yet."

The elder hunter looked up.  "Drive 'em back
to cow-country an' sell 'em, or locate there," he
suggested.

Buck's glance was as sharp as his reply, for he
could n't believe that the hunter had so soon
forgotten what he had been told regarding the
ownership of the cattle.  "I don't own 'em.  This
range is bought an' paid for.  I won't lay down."

"I done forgot they ain't yourn," hastily
replied the hunter, smiling to himself.  Stolen
cattle cannot go back.

"If they was I 'd stay," crisply retorted Buck.
"I ain't quittin' nothin' I starts."

"How many 'll you have nex' spring?"
grinned the younger hunter.  He was surprised
by the sharpness of the response.  "More 'n I 've
got now, in spite of h—!"

Bill nodded approval.  He felt a sudden,
warm liking for this rugged man who would not
quit in the face of such handicaps.  He liked
game men, better if they were square, and he
believed this foreman was as square as he was
game.  "By th' Lord!" he ejaculated.  "For a
plugged peso I 'd stay with you!"

Buck smiled warmly.  "Would good money
do?  But don't you stay if you oughtn't, son."

When the light was out Bill lay awake for a
long time, his mind busy with his evening's
observations, and they pleased him so little that
he did not close his eyes until assured by the
breathing of the hunters that they were asleep.
His Colt, which should have been hanging in its
holster on the wall where he had left it, lay
unsheathed close to his thigh and he awakened
frequently during the night so keyed was he for
the slightest sound.  Up first in the morning, he
replaced the gun in its scabbard before the others
opened their eyes, and it was not until the
hunters had ridden out of sight into the southwest
that he entirely relaxed his vigilance.  Saying
good-by to the two cowmen was not without
regrets, but he shook hands heartily with them and
swung decisively northward.

He had been riding perhaps two hours,
thinking about the little ranch and the hunters, when
he stopped suddenly on the very brink of a sheer
drop of two hundred feet.  In his abstraction
he had ridden up the sloping southern face of
the mesa without noticing it.  "Bet there ain't
another like this for a hundred miles," he
laughed, and then ceased abruptly and started
with unbelieving eyes at the mouth of a draw not
far away.  A trotting line of gray wolves was
emerging from it and swinging toward the
south-west ten abreast.  He had never heard of such
a thing before and watched them in amazement.
"Well, I'm—!" he exclaimed, and his Colt
flashed rapidly at the pack.  Two or three
dropped, but the trotting line only swerved a
little without pause or a change of pace and soon
was lost in another draw.  "Why, they 're
single hunters," he muttered.  "Huh!  I won't
never tell this.  I can't hardly believe it myself.
How 'bout you, Ring-Bone?" he asked the horse.

Turning, he rode around a rugged pinnacle
of rock and stopped again, gazing steadily
along the back trail.  Far away in a valley two
black dots were crawling over a patch of sand
and he knew them to be horsemen.  His face
slowly reddened with anger at the espionage,
for he had not thought the cowmen could doubt
his good will and honesty.  Then suddenly he
swore and spurred forward to cover those miles
as speedily as possible.  "Come on, ol'
Hammer-Head!" he cried.  "We're goin' back!"

The hunters had finally decided they would
ride into the southwest and had ridden off in that
direction.  But they had detoured and swung
north to see him pass and be sure he was not in
their way.  Now, satisfied upon that point, they
were going back to that herd of cattle, easily
turned from skinning buffalo to cattle, and on
a large scale.  To do this they would have to
kill two men and then, waiting for the absent
puncher to return with the wagon, kill him and
load down the vehicle with skins.  "Like h—l
they will!" he gritted.  "Three or none, you
piruts.  Come on, White-Eye!  Don't sleep all
th' time; an' don't light often'r once every ten
yards, you saddle-galled, barrel-bellied runt!"

Into hollows, out again; shooting down
steep-banked draws and avoiding cacti and chaparral
with cat-like agility, the much-described little
pony butted the wind in front and left a
low-lying cloud of dust swirling behind as it whirred
at top speed with choppy, tied-in stride in a
winding circle for the humble sod hut on Snake
Creek.  The rider growled at the evident speed
of the two men ahead, for he had not gained
upon them despite his efforts.  "If I 'm too late
to stop it, I 'll clean th' slate, anyhow," he
snapped.  "Even if I has to ambush!  Will you
run?" he demanded, and the wild-eyed little
bundle of whalebone and steel found a little more
speed in its flashing legs.

The rider now began to accept what cover he
could find and when he neared the hut left the
shelter of the last, low hill for that afforded by
a draw leading to within a hundred yards of
the dugout's rear wall.  Dismounting, he ran
lightly forward on foot, alert and with every
sense strained for a warning.

Reaching the wall he peered around the
corner and stifled an exclamation.  Buck's puncher,
a knife in his back, lay head down the sloping
path.  Placing his ear to the wall he listened
intently for some moments and then suddenly
caught sight of a shadow slowly creeping past
his toes.  Quickly as he sprang aside he barely
missed the flashing knife and the bulk of the man
behind it, whose hand, outflung to save his
balance, accidentally knocked the Colt from Bill's
grasp and sent it spinning twenty feet away.

Without a word they leaped together, fighting
silently, both trying to gain the gun in the
hunter's holster and trying to keep the other
from it.  Bill, forcing the fighting in hopes that
his youth would stand a hot pace better than the
other's years, pushed his enemy back against the
low roof of the dugout; but as the hunter
tripped over it and fell backward, he pulled Bill
with him.  Fighting desperately they rolled
across the roof and dropped to the sloping earth
at the doorway, so tightly locked in each other's
arms that the jar did not separate them.  The
hunter, falling underneath, got the worst of the
fall but kept on fighting.  Crashing into
the door head first, they sent it swinging back
against the wall and followed it, bumping down
the two steps still locked together.

Bill possessed strength remarkable for his
years and build and he was hard as iron; but he
had met a man who had the sinewy strength of
the plainsman, whose greater age was offset by
greater weight and the youth was constantly so
close to defeat that a single false move would
have been fatal.  But luck favored him, for as
they surged around the room they crashed into
the heavy table and fell with it on top of them.
The hunter got its full weight and the gash in
his forehead filled his eyes with blood.  By a
desperate effort he pinned Bill's arm under his
knee and with his left hand secured a throat grip,
but the under man wriggled furiously and
bridged so suddenly as to throw the hunter off
him and Bill's freed hand, crashing full into the
other's stomach, flashed back to release the
weakened throat grip and jam the tensed fingers
between his teeth, holding them there with all the
power of his jaws.  The dazed and gasping
hunter, bending forward instinctively, felt his
own throat seized and was dragged underneath
his furious opponent.

In his Berserker rage Bill had forgotten
about the gun, his fury sweeping everything
from him but the primal desire to kill with his
hands, to rend and crush like an animal.  He
was brought to his senses very sharply by the
jarring, crashing roar of the six-shooter, the
powder blowing away part of his shirt and
burning his side.  Twisting sideways he grasped the
weapon with one hand, the wrist with the other
and bent the gun slowly back, forcing its
muzzle farther and farther from him.  The hunter,
at last managing to free his left hand from the
other's teeth, found it useless when he tried to
release the younger man's grip of the gun; and
the Colt, roaring again, dropped from its
owner's hand as he relaxed.

The victor leaned against the wall, his breath
coming in great, sobbing gulps, his knees
sagging and his head near bursting.  He reeled
across the wrecked room, gulped down a drink
of whisky from the bottle on the shelf and,
stumbling, groped his way to the outer air where
he flung himself down on the ground, dazed and
dizzy.  When he opened his eyes the air seemed
to be filled with flashes of fire and huge, black
fantastic blots that changed form with great
swiftness and the hut danced and shifted like a
thing of life.  Hot bands seemed to encircle his
throat and the throbbing in his temples was like
blows of a hammer.  While he writhed and
fought for breath a faint gunshot reached his
ears and found him apathetic.  But the second,
following closely upon the first, seemed clearer
and brought him to himself long enough to make
him arise and stumble to his horse, and claw his
way into the saddle.  The animal, maddened by
the steady thrust of the spurs, pitched viciously
and bolted; but the rider had learned his art in
the sternest school in the world, the "busting"
corrals of the great Southwest, and he not only
stuck to the saddle, but guided the fighting
animal through a barranca almost choked with obstructions.

Stretched full length in a crevice near the top
of a mesa lay the other hunter, his rifle trained
on a small bowlder several hundred yards down
and across the draw.  His first shot had been an
inexcusable blunder for a marksman like himself
and now he had a desperate man and a very
capable shot opposing him.  If Buck could hold
out until nightfall he could slip away in the
darkness and do some stalking on his own account.

For half an hour they had lain thus, neither
daring to take sight.  Buck could not leave the
shelter of the bowlder because the high ground
behind him offered no cover; but the hunter,
tiring of the fruitless wait, wriggled back into the
crevice, arose and slipped away, intending to
crawl to the edge of the mesa further down and
get in a shot from a new angle before his enemy
learned of the shift; and this shot would not be
a blunder.  He had just lowered himself down
a steep wall when the noise of rolling pebbles
caused him to look around, expecting to see his
friend.  Bill was just turning the corner of the
wall and their eyes met at the same instant.

"'Nds up!" snapped the youth, his Colt
glinting as it swung up.  The hunter, gripping
the rifle firmly, looked into the angry eyes of
the other, and slowly obeyed.  Bill, watching the
rifle intently, forthwith learned a lesson he never
forgot: never to watch a gun, but the eyes of
the man who has it.  The left hand of the
hunter seemed to melt into smoke, and Bill,
firing at the same instant, blundered into a hit
when his surprise and carelessness should have
cost him dearly.  His bullet, missing its
intended mark by inches, struck the still moving
Colt of the other, knocking it into the air and
numbing the hand that held it.  A searing pain
in his shoulder told him of the closeness of the
call and set his lips into a thin, white line.  The
hunter, needing no words to interpret the look
in the youth's eyes, swiftly raised his hands,
holding the rifle high above his head, but
neglected to take his finger from the trigger.

Bill was not overlooking anything now and he
noticed the crooked finger.  "Stick th' muzzle
*up*, an' pull that trigger," he commanded,
sharply.  "Now!" he grated.  The report came
crashing back from half a dozen points as he
nodded.  "Drop it, an' turn 'round."  As the
other obeyed he stepped cautiously forward,
jammed his Colt into the hunter's back and took
possession of a skinning knife.  A few moments
later the hunter, trussed securely by a forty-foot
lariat, lay cursing at the foot of the rock wall.

Bill, collecting the weapons, went off to cache
them and then peered over the mesa's edge to
look into the draw.  A leaden splotch appeared
on the rock almost under his nose and launched
a crescendo scream into the sky to whine into
silence.  He ducked and leaped back, grinning
foolishly as he realized Buck's error.  Turning
to approach the edge from another point he felt
his sombrero jerk at his head as another bullet,
screaming plaintively, followed the first.  He
dropped like a shot, and commented caustically
upon his paucity of brains as he gravely
examined the hole in his head gear.  "Huh!" he
grunted.  "I had a fool's luck three times in
twenty minutes,—d—d if I 'm goin' to risk th'
next turn.  *Three* of 'em," he repeated.  "I 'm
a' Injun from now on.  An' that foreman shore
can shoot!"

He wriggled to the edge and called out, careful
not to let any of his anatomy show above the
sky-line.  "Hey, Buck!  I ain't no buffalo
hunter!  This is Cassidy, who you wanted to
punch for you.  Savvy?"  He listened, and
grinned at the eloquent silence.  "You talk too
rapid," he laughed.  Repeating his statements
he listened again, with the same success.  "Now
I wonder is he stalkin' *me*?  Hey, *Buck*!" he
shouted.

"Stick yore hands up an' foller 'em with yore
face," said Buck's voice from below.  Bill raised
his arms and slowly stood up.  "Now what 'n
blazes do *you* want?" demanded the foreman,
belligerently.

"Nothin'.  Just got them hunters, one of 'em
alive.  I reckoned mebby you 'd sorta like to
know it."  He paused, cogitating.  "Reckon
we better turn him loose when we gets back to
th' hut," he suggested.  "I'll keep his guns," he
added, grinning.

The foreman stuck his head out in sight.
"Well, I'm d—d!" he exclaimed, and sank
weakly back against the bowlder.  "Can you
give me a hand?" he muttered.

The words did not carry to the youth on the
skyline, but he saw, understood, and, slipping
and bumping down the steep wall with more
speed than sense, dashed across the draw and up
the other side.  He nodded sagely as he
examined the wound and bound it carefully with the
sleeve of his own shirt.  "'T ain't much—loss of
blood, mostly.  Yo 're better off than Travis."

"Travis dead?" whispered Buck.  "In th'
back!  Pore feller, pore feller; didn't have no
show.  Tell me about it."  At the end of the
story he nodded.  "Yo 're all right, Cassidy;
yo 're a white man.  He 'd 'a' stood a good
chance of gettin' me, 'cept for you."  A frown
clouded his face and he looked weakly about him
as if for an answer to the question that bothered
him.  "Now what am I goin' to do up here with
all these cows?" he muttered.

Bill rolled the wounded man a cigarette and
lit it for him, after which he fell to tossing
pebbles at a rock further down the hill.

"I reckon it *will* be sorta tough," he replied,
slowly.  "But I sorta reckoned me an' you, an'
that other feller, can make a big ranch out of
yore little one.  Anyhow, I 'll bet we can have
a mighty big time tryin'.  A mighty fine time.
What you think?"

Buck smiled weakly and shoved out his hand
with a visible effort.  "We can!  Shake, Bill!"
he said, contentedly.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE WEASEL`:

.. class:: center large

   II


.. class:: center large

   THE WEASEL

.. vspace:: 2

The winter that followed the coming of
Bill Cassidy to the Bar-20 ranch was none
too mild to suit the little outfit in the cabin on
Snake Creek, but it was not severe enough to
cause complaint and they weathered it without
trouble to speak of.  Down on the big ranges
lying closer to the Gulf the winter was so mild
as to seem but a brief interruption of summer.
It was on this warm, southern range that Skinny
Thompson, one bright day of early spring, loped
along the trail to Scoria, where he hoped to find
his friend, Lanky Smith, and where he determined
to put an end to certain rumors that had
filtered down to him on the range and filled his
days with anger.

He was within sight of the little cow-town
when he met Frank Lewis, but recently returned
from a cattle drive.  Exchanging gossip of a
harmless nature, Skinny mildly scored his
missing friend and complained about his flea-like
ability to get scarce.  Lewis, laughing, told him
that Lanky had left town two days before bound
north.  Skinny gravely explained that he always
had to look after his missing friend, who was
childish, irresponsible and helpless when alone.
Lewis laughed heartily as he pictured the absent
puncher, and he laughed harder as he pictured
the two together.  Both lean as bean poles,
Skinny stood six feet four, while Lanky was
fortunate if he topped five feet by many inches.
Also they were inseparable, which made Lewis
ask a question.  "But how does it come you ain't
with him?"

"Well, we was punchin' down south an' has a
li'l run-in.  When I rid in that night I found
he had flitted.  What I want to know is what
business has he got, siftin' out like that an'
makin' me chase after him?"

"I dunno," replied Lewis, amused.  "You 're
sort of gardjean to him, hey?"

"Well, he gets sort of homesick if I ain't with
him, anyhow," replied Skinny, grinning broadly.
"An' who 's goin' to look after him when I ain't
around?"

"That puts me up a tree," replied Lewis.  "I
shore can't guess.  But you two should ought to
'a' been stuck together, like them other twins
was.  But if he 'd do a thing like that I 'd think
you would n't waste no time on him."

"Well, he *is* too ornery an' downright cussed
for any human bein' to worry about very much,
or 'sociate with steady an' reg'lar.  Why, lookit
him gettin' sore on me, an' for nothin'!  But
I 'm so used to bein' abused I get sort of lost
when he ain't around."

"Well," smiled Lewis, "he's went up north to
punch for Buck Peters on his li'l ranch on Snake
Creek.  If you want to go after him, this is th'
way I told him to go," and he gave instructions
hopelessly inadequate to anyone not a plainsman.
Skinny nodded, irritated by what he
regarded as the other's painful and unnecessary
details and wheeled to ride on.  He had started
for town when Lewis stopped him with a word.

"Hey," he called.  Skinny drew rein and looked
around.

"Better ride in cautious like," Lewis
remarked, casually.  "Somebody was in town
when I left—he shore was thirsty.  He ain't
drinkin' a drop, which has riled him considerable.
So-long."

"Huh!" grunted Skinny.  "Much obliged.
That's one of th' reasons I 'm goin' to town,"
and he started forward again, tight-lipped and
grim.

He rode slowly into Scoria, alert, watching
windows, doors and corners, and dismounted
before Quiggs' saloon, which was the really
"high-toned" thirst parlor in the town.  He noticed
that the proprietor had put black shades to the
windows and door and then, glancing quickly
around, entered.  He made straight for the
partition in the rear of the building, but the
proprietor's voice checked him.  "You needn't
bother, Skinny—there ain't nobody in there; an'
I locked th' back door an hour ago."  He
glanced around the room and added, with studied
carelessness: "You don't want to get any
reckless today."  He mopped the bar slowly and
coughed apologetically.  "Don't get careless."

"I won't—it's me that's doin' th' hunting
today," Skinny replied, meaningly.  "Him
a-hunting for me yesterday, when he shore
knowed I was n't in town, when he knowed he
could n't find me!  I was getting good an' tired
of him, an' so when Walt rode over to see me
last night an' told me what th' coyote was doing
yesterday, an' what he was yelling around, I
just natchurly had to straddle leather an' come
in.  I can't let him put that onto me.  Nobody
can call me a card cheat an' a coward an' a few
other choice things like he did without seeing me,
an' seeing me quick.  An' I shore hope he 's
sober.  Are both of 'em in town, Larry?"

"No; only Dick.  But he's making noise
enough for two.  He shore raised th' devil yesterday."

"Well, I 'm goin' North trailin' Lanky, but
before I leave I 'm shore goin' to sweeten things
around here.  If I go away without getting him
he 'll say he scared me out, so I 'll have to do it
when I come back, anyhow.  You see, it might
just as well be today.  But th' next time I sit
in a game with fellers that can't drop fifty
dollars without saying they was cheated I 'll be a
blamed sight bigger fool than I am right now.
I should n't 'a' taken cards with 'em after what
has passed.  Why didn't they say they was
cheated, then an' there, an' not wait till three
days after I left town?  All that's bothering
me is Sam: if I get his brother when he ain't
around, an' then goes North, he 'll say I had to
jump th' town to get away from him.  But I 'll
stop that by giving him his chance at me when I
get back."

"Say, why don't you wait a day an' get 'em
both before you go?" asked Quigg hopefully.

"Can't: Lanky 's got two days' start on me
an' I want to catch him soon as I can."

"I can't get it through my head, nohow,"
Quigg remarked.  "Everybody knows you play
square.  I reckon they're hard losers."

Skinny laughed shortly: "Why, can't you
see it?  Last year I beat Dick Bradley out with
a woman over in Ballard.  Then his fool brother
tried to cut in an' beat me out.  Cards?
H—l!" he snorted, walking towards the door.
"You an' everybody else knows—" he stopped
suddenly and jerked his gun loose as a shadow
fell across the doorsill.  Then he laughed and
slapped the newcomer on the shoulder: "Hullo,
Ace, my boy!  You had a narrow squeak then.
You want to make more noise when you turn
corners, unless somebody 's looking for you with a
gun.  How are you, anyhow?  An' how's yore
dad?  I 've been going over to see him
regular, right along, but I 've been so busy I kept
putting it off."

"Dad's better, Skinny; an' I'm feeling too
good to be true.  What 'll you have?"

"Reckon it's my treat; you wet last th' other
time.  Ain't that right, Quigg?  Shore, I
knowed it was."

"All right, here's luck," Ace smiled.
"Quigg, that's better stock; an' would you look
at th' style—real curtains!"

Quigg grinned.  "Got to have 'em.  I 'm on
th' sunny side of th' street."

"I hear yo 're goin' North," Ace remarked.

"Yes, I am; but how 'd you know about it?"

"Why, it ain't no secret, is it?" asked Ace in
surprise.  "If it is, you must 'a' told a woman.
I heard of it from th' crowd—everybody seems
to know about it.  Yo 're going up alone, too,
ain't you?"

"Well, no, it ain't no secret; an' I am going
alone," slowly replied Skinny.  "Here, have another."

"All right—this is on me.  Here's more luck."

"Where is th' crowd?"

"Keeping under cover for a while to give you
plenty of elbow room," Ace replied.  "He's
sober as a judge, Skinny, an' mad as a rattler.
Swears he 'll kill you on sight.  An' his brother
ain't with him; if he does come in too soon I 'll
see he don't make it two to one.  Good luck, an'
so-long," he said quickly, shaking hands and
walking towards the door.  He put one hand out
first and waved it, slowly stepping to the street
and then walking rapidly out of sight.

Skinny looked after him and smiled.  "Larry,
there 's a blamed fine youngster," he remarked,
reflectively.  "Well, he ought to be—he had th'
best mother God ever put breath into."  He
thought for a moment and then went slowly
towards the door.  "I 've heard so much about
Bradley's gun-play that I 'm some curious.
Reckon I 'll see if it's all true—" and he
had leaped through the doorway, gun in hand.
There was no shot, no sign of his enemy.  A
group of men lounged in the door of the "hash
house" farther down the street, all friends of his,
and he nodded to them.  One of them turned
quickly and looked down the intersecting street,
saying something that made his companions turn
and look with him.  The man who had been
standing quietly by the corner saloon had
disappeared.  Skinny smiling knowingly, moved
closer to Quigg's shack so as to be better able to
see around the indicated corner, and half drew
the Colt which he had just replaced in the
holster.  As he drew even with the corner of the
building he heard Quigg's warning shout and
dropped instantly, a bullet singing over him and
into a window of a near-by store.  He rolled
around the corner, scrambled to his feet and
dashed around the rear of the saloon and the
corral behind it, crossed the street in four bounds
and began to work up behind the buildings on
his enemy's side of the street, cold with anger.

"Pot shooting, hey!" he gritted, savagely.

"Says I 'm a-scared to face him, an' then tries
*that*.  *There*, d—n you!"  His Colt exploded
and a piece of wood sprang from the corner
board of Wright's store.  "Missed!" he swore.
"Anyhow, I 've notified you, you coyote."

He sprang forward, turned the corner of the
store and followed it to the street.  When he
came to the street end of the wall he leaped past
it, his Colt preceding him.  Finding no one to
dispute with him he moved cautiously towards the
other corner and stopped.  Giving a quick
glance around, he smiled suddenly, for the glass
in Quigg's half-open door, with the black curtain
behind it, made a fair mirror.  He could see the
reflection of Wright's corral and Ace leaning
against it, ready to handle the brother if he
should appear as a belligerent; and he could see
along the other side of the store, where Dick
Bradley, crouched, was half-way to the street
and coming nearer at each slow step.

Skinny, remembering the shot which he had
so narrowly escaped, resolved that he would n't
take chances with a man who would pot-shoot.
He wheeled, slipped back along his side of the
building, turned the rear corner and then,
spurting, sprang out beyond the other wall, crying:
"Here!"

Bradley, startled, fired under his arm as he
leaped aside.  Turning while in the air, his
half-raised Colt described a swift, short arc and
roared as he alighted.  As the bullet sang past
his enemy's ear he staggered and fell,—and
Skinny's smoking gun chocked into its holster.

"There, you coyote!" muttered the victor.
"Yore brother is next if he wants to take it up."

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1

As night fell Skinny rode into a small grove
and prepared to camp there.  Picketing his
horse, he removed the saddle and dropped it
where he would sleep, for a saddle makes a fair
pillow.  He threw his blanket after it and then
started a quick, hot fire for his coffee-making.
While gathering fuel for it he came across a
large log and determined to use it for his night
fire, and for that purpose carried it back to camp
with him.  It was not long before he had
reduced the provisions in his saddle-bags and
leaned back against a tree to enjoy a smoke.
Suddenly he knocked the ashes from his pipe and
grew thoughtful, finally slipping it into his
pocket and getting up.

"That coyote's brother will know I went North
an' all about it," he muttered.  "He knows I 've
got to camp tonight an' he can foller a trail as
good as th' next man.  An' he knows I shot his
brother.  I reckon, mebby, he 'll be some surprised."

An hour later a blanket-covered figure lay with
its carefully covered feet to the fire, and its head,
sheltered from the night air by a sombrero, lay
on the saddle.  A rifle barrel projected above
the saddle, the dim flickering light of the
green-wood fire and a stray beam or two from the moon
glinted from its rustless surface.  The fire was
badly constructed, giving almost no light, while
the leaves overhead shut out most of the moonlight.

Thirty yards away, in another clearing, a
horse moved about at the end of a lariat and
contentedly cropped the rich grass, enjoying a good
night's rest.  An hour passed, another, and a
third and fourth, and then the horse's ears flicked
forward as it turned its head to see what approached.

A crouched figure moved stealthily forward to
the edge of the clearing, paused to read the brand
on the animal's flank and then moved off towards
the fitful light of the smoking fire.  Closer and
closer it drew until it made out the indistinct
blanketed figure on the ground.  A glint from
the rifle barrel caused it to shrink back deeper
into the shadows and raise the weapon it carried.
For half a minute it stood thus and then, holding
back the trigger of the rifle so there would be
no warning clicks, drew the hammer to a full
cock and let the trigger fall into place, slowly
moving forward all the while.  A passing breeze
fanned the fire for an instant and threw the
grotesque shadow of a stump across the quiet figure
in the clearing.

The skulker raised his rifle and waited until he
had figured out the exact mark and then a burst
of fire and smoke leaped into the brush.  He
bent low to look under the smoke cloud and saw
that the figure had not moved.  Another flash
split the night and then, assured beyond a doubt,
he moved forward quickly.

"First shot!" he exclaimed with satisfaction.
"I reckons you won't do no boastin' 'bout killin'
Dick, d—n you!"

As he was about to drop to his knees to search
the body he started and sprang back, glancing
fearfully around as he drew his Colt.

"Han's up!" came the command from the edge
of the clearing as a man stepped into sight.  "I
reckon—"  Skinny leaped aside as the other's
gun roared out and fired from his hip; and Sam
Bradley plunged across the blanket-covered log
and leaves.

"There," Skinny soliloquized, moving
forward.  "I knowed they was coyotes, *both* of
'em.  Knowed it all th' time."

.. vspace:: 2

Two days north of Skinny on the bank of
Little Wind River a fire was burning itself out,
while four men lay on the sand or squatted on
their heels and watched it contentedly.  "Yes,
I got plumb sick of that country," Lanky Smith
was saying, "an' when Buck sent for me to go
up an' help him out, I pulls up, an' here I am."

"I never heard of th' Bar-20," replied a little,
wizened man, whose eyes were so bright they
seemed to be on fire.  "Did n't know there was
any ranches in that country."

"Buck 's got th' only one," responded Lanky,
packing his pipe.  "He's located on Snake
Creek, an' he 's got four thousand head.  Reckon
there ain't nobody within two hundred mile
of him.  Lewis said he 's got a fine range an' all
th' water he can use; but three men can't handle
all them cows in *that* country, so I 'm goin' up."

The little man's eyes seldom left Lanky's face,
and he seemed to be studying the stranger very
closely.  When Lanky had ridden upon their
noon-day camp the little man had not lost a
movement that the stranger made and the other
two, disappearing quietly, returned a little later
and nodded reassuringly to their leader.

The wizened leader glanced at one of his
companions, but spoke to Lanky.  "George, here,
said as how they finally got Butch Lynch.  You
did n't hear nothin' about it, did you?"

"They was a rumor down on Mesquite range
that Butch was got.  I heard his gang was wiped
out.  Well, it had to come sometime—he was
carryin' things with a purty high hand for a long
time.  But I 've done heard that before; more 'n
once, too.  I reckon Butch is a li'l too slick to get
hisself killed."

"Ever see him?" asked George carelessly.

"Never; an' don't want to.  If them fellers
can't clean their own range an' pertect their own
cows, I ain't got no call to edge in."

"He 's only a couple of inches taller 'n Jim,"
observed the third man, glancing at his leader,
"an' about th' same build.  But he 's h—l on
th' shoot.  I saw him twice, but I was mindin'
my own business."

Lanky nodded at the leader.  "That 'd make
him about as tall as me.  Size don't make no
dif'rence no more—King Colt makes 'em look
all alike."

Jim tossed away his cigarette and arose,
stretching and grunting.  "I shore ate too
much," he complained.  "Well, there's one
thing about yore friend's ranch: he ain't got no
rustlers to fight, so he ain't as bad off as he might
be.  I reckon he done named that crick hisself,
did n't he?  I never heard tell of it."

"Yes; so Lewis says.  He says *he 'd* called it
Split Mesa Crick, 'cause it empties into Mesa
River plumb acrost from a big mesa what's split
in two as clean as a knife could 'a' done it."

.. _`There was a sharp report`:

.. figure:: images/img-039.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: There was a sharp report

   There was a sharp report

"The Bar-20 expectin' you?" casually asked
Jim as he picked up his saddle.

"Shore; they done sent for me.  Me an' Buck
is old friends.  He was up in Montana ranchin'
with a pardner, but Slippery Trendley kills his
pardner's wife an' drove th' feller loco.  Buck
an' him hunted Slippery for two years an' finally
drifted back south again.  I dunno where
Frenchy is.  If it wasn't for me I reckon
Buck 'd still be on th' warpath.  You bet he 's
expectin' me!"  He turned and threw his saddle
on the evil-tempered horse he rode and, cinching
deftly, slung himself up by the stirrup.  As
he struck the saddle there was a sharp report
and he pitched off and sprawled grotesquely on
the sand.  The little man peered through the
smoke and slid his gun back into the holster.
He turned to his companions, who looked on idly
and with but little interest.  "Yo 're d—d
right Butch Lynch is too slick to get killed.  I
ain't takin' no chances with nobody that rides
over my trail these days.  An', boys, I got a
great scheme!  It comes to me like a flash when
he 's talkin'.  Come on, pull out; an' don't open
yore traps till I says so.  I want to figger this
thing out to th' last card.  George, shoot his
cayuse; an' not another sound."

"But that's a good cayuse; worth easy—"

"Shoot it!" shouted Jim, his eyes snapping.
It was unnecessary to add the alternative, for
George and his companion had great respect for
the lightning-like, deadly-accurate gun hands.
He started to draw, but was too late.  The
crashing report seemed to come from the leader's
holster, so quick had been the draw, and the horse
sank slowly down, but unobserved.  Two pairs
of eyes asked a question of the little man and he
sneered in reply as he lowered the gun.  "It
might 'a' been you.  Hereafter do what I say.
Now, go on ahead, an' keep quiet."

After riding along in silence for a little while
the leader looked at his companions and called
one of them to him.  "George, this job is too
big for the three of us; we can handle the ranch
end, but not the drive.  You know where Longhorn
an' his bunch are holdin' out on th' Tortilla?
All right; I 've got a proposition for 'em, an'
you are goin' up with it.  It won't take you so
long if you wake up an' don't loaf like you have
been.  Now you listen close, an' don't forget
a word": and the little man shared the plan he
had worked out, much to his companion's
delight.  Having made the messenger repeat it,
the little man waved him off: "Get a-goin';
you bust some records or I 'll bust you, savvy?
Charley 'll wait for you at that Split Mesa that
fool puncher was a-talkin' about.  An' don't you
ride nowheres near it goin' up—keep to th' east
of it.  So-long!"

He watched the departing horseman swing in
and pass Charley and saw the playful blow and
counter.  He smiled tolerantly as their words
came back to him, George's growing fainter and
fainter and Charley's louder and louder until
they rang in his ears.  The smile changed subtly
and cynicism touched his face and lingered for
a moment.  "Fine, big bodies—nothing else,"
he muttered.  "Big children, with children's
heads.  A little courage, if steadied; but what a
paucity of brains!  Good G—d, what a paucity
of brains; what a lack of original thought!"

.. vspace:: 2

Of some localities it is said their inhabitants
do not die, but dry up and blow away; this, so
far as appearances went, seemed true of the
horseman who loped along the north bank of
Snake Creek, only he had not arrived at the
"blow away" period.  No one would have
guessed his age as forty, for his leathery,
wrinkled skin, thin, sun-bleached hair and wizened
body justified a guess of sixty.  A shrewd
observer looking him over would find about the
man a subtle air of potential destruction, which
might have been caused by the way he wore his
guns.  A second look and the observer would
turn away oppressed by a disquieting feeling that
evaded analysis by lurking annoyingly just
beyond the horizon of thought.  But a man strong
in intuition would not have turned away; he
would have backed off, alert and tense.  Nearing
a corral which loomed up ahead, he pulled
rein and went on at a walk, his brilliant eyes
searching the surroundings with a thoroughness
that missed nothing.

Buck Peters was complaining as he loafed for
a precious half hour in front of the corral, but
Red Connors and Bill Cassidy, his "outfit,"
discussed the low prices cattle were selling for, the
over-stocked southern ranges and the crash that
would come to the more heavily mortgaged
ranches when the market broke.  This was a
golden opportunity to stock the little ranch, and
Buck was taking advantage of it.  But their
foreman persisted in telling his troubles and
finally, out of politeness, they listened.  The
burden of the foreman's plaint was the
non-appearance of one Lanky Smith, an old friend.
When the second herd had been delivered
several weeks before, Buck, failing to persuade one
of the drive outfit to remain, had asked the trail
boss to send up Lanky, and the trail boss had
promised.

Red stretched and yawned.  "Mebby he's
lost th' way."

The foreman snorted.  "He can foller a plain
trail, can't he?  An' if he can ride past Split
Mesa, he's a bigger fool than I ever heard of."

"Well, mebby he got drunk an—"

"He don't get that drunk."  Astonishment
killed whatever else he might have said, for a
stranger had ridden around the corral and sat
smiling at the surprise depicted on the faces of
the three.

Buck and Red, too surprised to speak, smiled
foolishly; Bill, also wordless, went upon his toes
and tensed himself for that speed which had
given to him hands never beaten on the draw.
The stranger glanced at him, but saw nothing
more than the level gaze that searched his
squinting eyes for the soul back of them.  The squint
increased and he made a mental note concerning
Bill Cassidy, which Bill Cassidy already had done
regarding him.

"I'm called Tom Jayne," drawled the
stranger.  "I 'm lookin' for Peters."

"Yes?" inquired Buck restlessly.  "I 'm him."

"Lewis sent me up to punch for you."

"You plumb surprised us," replied Buck.
"We don't see nobody up here."

"Reckon not," agreed Jayne smiling.  "I
ain't been pestered a hull lot by th' inhabitants
on my way up.  I reckon there 's more *buffalo*
than men in this country."

Buck nodded.  "An' blamed few buffalo, too.
But Lewis did n't say nothin' about Lanky
Smith, did he?"

"Yes; Smith, he goes up in th' Panhandle for
to be a foreman.  Lewis missed him.  Th'
Panhandle must be purty nigh as crowded as this
country, I reckon," he smiled.

"Well," replied Buck, "anybody Lewis sends
up is good enough for me.  I 'm payin' forty a
month.  Some day I 'll pay more, if I 'm able
to an' it's earned."

Jayne nodded.  "I 'm aimin' to be here when
th' pay is raised; an' I 'll earn it."

"Then shake han's with Red an' Bill, an' come
with me," said Buck.  He led the way to the
dugout, Bill and Red looking after him and
the little newcomer.  Red shook his head.  "I
dunno," he soliloquized, his eyes on the recruit's
guns.  They were worn low on the thighs, and
the lower ends of the holsters were securely tied
to the trousers.  They were low enough to have
the butts even with the swinging hands, so that
no time would have to be wasted in reaching for
them; and the sheaths were tied down, so they
would not cling to the guns and come up with
them on the draw.  Bill wore his guns the same
way for the same reasons.  Red glanced at his
friend.  "He 's a queer li'l cuss, Bill," he
suggested.  Receiving no reply, he grinned and tried
again.  "I said as how he 's a queer li'l cuss."  Bill
stirred.  "Huh?" he muttered.  Red
snorted.  "Why, I says he's a drunk Injun
mendin' socks.  What in blazes you reckon I 'd say!"

"Oh, somethin' like that; but; you should 'a'
said he's a—a weasel.  A cold-blooded, ferocious
li'l rat that 'd kill for th' joy of it," and
Bill moved leisurely to rope his horse.

Red looked after him, cogitating deeply.
"Cussed if I hadn't, too!  An' so he's a
two-gun man, like Bill.  Wears 'em plumb low an'
tied.  Yessir, he's a shore 'nuff weasel, all
right."  He turned and watched Bill riding
away and he grinned as two pictures came to his
mind.  In the first he saw a youth enveloped in
swirling clouds of acrid smoke as two Colts
flashed and roared with a speed incredible; in the
second there was no smoke, only the flashing of
hands and the cold glitter of steel, so quick as to
baffle the eye.  And even now Bill practiced the
draw, which pleased the foreman; cartridges were
hard to get and cost money.  Red roped his
horse and threw on the saddle.  As he swung off
toward his section of the range he shook his head
and scowled.

The Weasel had the eastern section, the wildest
part of the ranch.  It was cut and seared by
arroyos, barrancas and draws; covered with
mesquite and chaparral and broken by hills and
mesas.  The cattle on it were lost in the chaotic
roughness and heavy vegetation and only showed
themselves when they straggled down to the river
or the creek to drink.  A thousand head were
supposed to be under his charge, but ten times
that number would have been but a little more
noticeable.  He quickly learned ways of riding
from one end of the section to the other without
showing himself to anyone who might be a
hundred yards from any point of the ride; he learned
the best grazing portions and the safest trails
from them to the ford opposite Split Mesa.

He was very careful not to show any interest
in Split Hill Canyon and hardly even looked at
it for the first week; then George returned from
his journey and reported favorably.  He also,
with Longhorn's assistance, had picked out and
learned a good drive route, and it was decided
then and there to start things moving in earnest.

There were two thousand unbranded cattle on
the ranch, the entire second drive herd; most of
these were on the south section under Bill
Cassidy, and the remainder were along the river.
The Weasel learned that most of Bill's cows
preferred the river to the creek and crossed his
section to get there.  That few returned was due,
perhaps, to their preference for the eastern
pasture.  In a week the Weasel found the really
good grazing portions of his section feeding
more cows than they could keep on feeding; but
suddenly the numbers fell to the pastures'
capacity, without adding a head to Bill's herd.

Then came a day when Red had been riding so
near the Weasel's section that he decided to go
on down and meet him as he rode in for dinner.
When Red finally caught sight of him the Weasel
was riding slowly toward the bunkhouse, buried
in thought.  When his two men had returned
from their scouting trip and reported the best
way to drive, his and their work had begun in
earnest.  One small herd had been driven north
and turned over to friends not far away, who
took charge of the herd for the rest of the drive
while the Weasel's companions returned to Split Hill.

Day after day he had noticed the diminishing
number of cows on his sections, which was ideally
created by nature to hide such a deficit, but from
now on it would require all his cleverness and
luck to hide the losses and he would be so busy
shifting cattle that the rustling would have to
ease up.  One thing bothered him: Bill Cassidy
was getting very suspicious, and he was not
altogether satisfied that it was due to rivalry in
gun-play.  He was so deeply engrossed in this
phase of the situation that he did not hear Red
approaching over the soft sand and before Red
could make his presence known something
occurred that made him keep silent.

The Weasel, jarred by his horse, which shied
and reared with a vigor and suddenness its rider
believed entirely unwarranted under the
circumstances, grabbed the reins in his left hand and
jerked viciously, while his right, a blur of speed,
drew and fired the heavy Colt with such deadly
accuracy that the offending rattler's head
dropped under its writhing, glistening coils,
severed clean.

Red backed swiftly behind a chaparral and
cogitated, shaking his head slowly.  "Funny how
bashful these gun-artists are!" he muttered.
"Now has he been layin' for big bets, or was
he—?" the words ceased, but the thoughts ran
on and brought a scowl to Red's face as he
debated the question.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1

The following day, a little before noon, two
men stopped with sighs of relief at the corral and
looked around.  The little man riding the horse
smiled as he glanced at his tall companion.
"You won't have to hoof it no more, Skinny,"
he said gladly.  "It's been a' awful experience
for both of us, but you had th' worst end."

"Why, you stubborn li'l fool!" retorted
Skinny.  "I can walk back an' do it all over
again!" He helped his companion down,
stripped off the saddle and turned the animal
loose with a resounding slap.  "Huh!" he
grunted as it kicked up its heels.  "You oughta
feel frisky, after loafin' for two weeks an' walkin'
for another.  Come on, Lanky," he said, turning.
"There ain't nobody home, so we 'll get a fire
goin' an' rustle chuck for all han's."

They entered the dugout and looked around,
Lanky sitting down to rest.  His companion
glanced at the mussed bunks and started a fire
to get dinner for six.  "Mebby they don't ride in
at noon," suggested the convalescent.  "Then
we 'll eat it all," grinned the cook.  "It's comin'
to us by this time."

The Weasel, riding toward the rear wall of
the dugout, increased the pace when he saw the
smoke pouring out of the chimney, but as he
neared the hut he drew suddenly and listened,
his expression of incredulity followed by one of
amazement.

A hearty laugh and some shouted words sent
him spinning around and back to the chaparral.
As soon as he dared he swung north to the creek
and risked its quicksands to ride down its middle.
Reaching the river he still kept to the water
until he had crossed the ford and scrambled up the
further bank to become lost in the windings of the
canyon.

Very soon after the Weasel's departure Buck
dismounted at the corral and stopped to listen.
"Strangers," he muttered.  "Glad they got th'
fire goin', anyhow."  Walking to the hut he
entered and a yell met him at the instant recognition.

"Hullo, Buck!"

"Lanky!" he cried, leaping forward.

"Easy!" cautioned the convalescent, evading
the hand.  "I 've been all shot up an' I ain't
right yet."

"That so!  How 'd it happen?"

"Shake han's with Skinny Thompson, my fool
nurse," laughed Lanky.

"I 'm a fool, all right, helpin' *him*," grinned
Skinny, gripping the hand.  "But when I picks
him up down in th' Li'l Wind River country I
was a' angel.  Looked after him for two weeks
down there, an' put in another gettin' up here.
Served him right, too, for runnin' away from me."

"Little Wind River country!" exclaimed
Buck.  "Why, I thought you was a foreman in
th' Panhandle."

"Foreman nothin'," replied Lanky.  "I was
shot up by a li'l runt of a rustler an' left to die
two hundred mile from nowhere.  I was n't
expectin' no gun-play."

"He's ridin' up here," explained Skinny.
"Meets three fellers an' gets friendly.  They
learns his business, an' drops him sudden when
he's mountin'.  Butch Lynch did th' shootin'.
Butch got his name butcherin th' law.  He
could n't make a livin' at it.  Then he got chased
out of New Mexico for bein' mixed up in a
free-love sect, an' pulls for Chicago.  He reckoned
he owned th' West, so he drifts down here again
an' turns rustler.  I dunno why he plugs Lanky,
less 'n he thinks Lanky knows him an' might try
to hand him over.  I 'm honin' for to meet Butch."

Buck looked from one to the other in
amazement, suspicion raging in his mind.  "Why, I
heard you went to th' Panhandle!" he ejaculated.

Skinny grinned: "A fine foreman he'd
make, less 'n for a hawg ranch!"

"Who told you that?" demanded Lanky, with
sudden interest.

"Th' feller Lewis sent up in yore place."

"What?" shouted both in one voice, and Lanky
gave a terse description of Butch Lynch.
"That him?"

"That's him," answered Buck.  "But he was
alone.  He 'll be in soon, 'long with Bill an'
Red—which way did you come?" he demanded
eagerly.  "Why, that was through his
section—bet he saw you an' pulled out!"

Skinny reached for his rifle: "I'm goin' to
see," he remarked.

"I 'm with you," replied Buck.

"Me, too," asserted Lanky, but he was pushed back.

"You stay here," ordered Buck.  "He might
ride in.  An' you 've got to send Bill an' Red
after us."

Lanky growled, but obeyed, and trained his
rifle on the door.  But the only man he saw was
Red, whose exit was prompt when he had learned the facts.

Down on the south section Bill, unaware of the
trend of events, looked over the little pasture
that nestled between the hills and wondered
where the small herd was.  Up to within the last
few days he always had found it here, loath to
leave the heavy grass and the trickling spring,
and watched over by "Old Mosshead," a very
pugnacious steer.  He scowled as he looked east
and shook his head.  "Bet they 're crowdin' on
th' Weasel's section, too.  Reckon I 'll go over
and look into it.  He 'll be passin' remarks about
th' way I ride sign."  But he reached the river
without being rewarded by the sight of many of
the missing cows and he became pugnaciously
inquisitive.  He had searched in vain for awhile
when he paused and glanced up the river,
catching sight of a horseman who was pushing across
at the ford.  "Now, what's th' Weasel doin'
over there?" he growled.  "An' what's his hurry?
I never did put no trust in him an' I 'm going to
see what's up."

Not far behind him a tall, lean man peered
over the grass-fringed bank of a draw and
watched him cross the river and disappear over
the further bank.  "Huh!" muttered Skinny,
riding forward toward the river.  "That *might*
be one of Peters' punchers; but I 'll trail him to
make shore."

Down the river Red watched Bill cross the
stream and then saw a stranger follow.  "What
th' h—l!" he growled, pushing on.  "That's
one of 'em trailin' Bill!" and he, in turn, forded
the river, hot on the trail of the stranger.

Bill finally dismounted near the mesa, proceeded
on foot to the top of the nearest rise, and
looked down into the canyon at a point where it
widened into a circular basin half a mile across.
Dust was arising in thin clouds as the missing
cows, rounded up by three men, constantly
increased the rustlers' herd.  To the northwest lay
the mesa, where the canyon narrowed to wind its
tortuous way through; to the southeast lay the
narrow gateway, where the towering, perpendicular
cliffs began to melt into the sloping sides of
hills and changed the canyon into a swiftly
widening valley.  The sight sent the puncher
running toward the pass, for the herd had begun
to move toward that outlet, urged by the Weasel
and his nervous companions.

Back in the hills Skinny was disgusted and
called himself names.  To lose a man in less than
a minute after trailing him for an hour was more
than his sensitive soul could stand without
protest.  Bill had disappeared as completely as if
he had taken wings and flown away.  The
disgusted trailer, dropping to all-fours because of
his great height, went ahead, hoping to blunder
upon the man he had lost.

Back of him was Red, whose grin was not so
much caused by Skinny's dilemma, which he had
sensed instantly, as it was by the inartistic
spectacle Skinny's mode of locomotion presented to
the man behind.  There was humor a-plenty in
Red's make-up and the germ of mischief in his
soul was always alert and willing; his finger
itched to pull the trigger, and the grin spread as
he pondered over the probable antics of the man
ahead if he should be suddenly grazed by a bullet
from the rear.  "Bet he 'd go right up on his
head an' kick," Red chuckled—and it took all his
will power to keep from experimenting.  Then,
suddenly, Skinny disappeared, and Red's fretful
nature clawed at his tropical vocabulary with
great success.  It was only too true—Skinny
had become absolutely lost, and the angry Bar-20
puncher crawled furiously this way and that
without success, until Skinny gave him a hot
clew that stung his face with grit and pebbles.
He backed, sneezing, around a rock and wrestled
with his dignity.  Skinny, holed up not far from
the canyon's rim, was throwing a mental fit and
calling himself outrageous names.  "An' he's
been trailin' *me*!  H—l of a fine fool I am;
I 'm awful smart today, I am!  I done gave up
my teethin' ring too soon, I did."  He paused
and scratched his head reflectively.  "Huh!
*This* is some populous region, an' th' inhabitants
have pe-culiar ways.  Now I wonder who's
trailin' him?  I 'm due to get cross-eyed if I try
to stalk 'em both."

A bullet, fired from an unexpected direction,
removed the skin from the tip of Skinny's nose
and sent a shock jarring clean through him.  "Is
that him, th' other feller, or somebody else?" he
fretfully pondered, raising his hand to the
crimson spot in the center of his face.  He did not
rub it—he rubbed the air immediately in front of
it, and was careful to make no mistake in
distance.  The second bullet struck a rock just
outside the gully and caromed over his head with a
scream of baffled rage.  He shrunk, lengthwise
and sidewise, wishing he were not so long; but he
kept on wriggling, backward.  "Not enough
English," he muttered.  "Thank th' Lord he
can't massé!"

The firing put a different aspect on things
down in the basin.  The Weasel crowded the
herd into the gap too suddenly and caused a bad
jam, while his companions, slipping away among
the bowlders and thickets, worked swiftly but
cautiously up the cliff by taking advantage of
the crevices and seams that scored the wall.
Climbing like goats, they slipped over the top
and began a game of hide and seek over the
bowlder-strewn, chaparral-covered plateau to
cover the Weasel, who worked, without cover of
any kind, in the basin.

Red was deep in some fine calculations of
angles when his sombrero slid off his head and
displayed a new hole, which ogled at him with
Cyclopean ferocity.  He ducked, and shattered
all existing records for the crawl, stopping finally
when he had covered twenty yards and collected
many thorns and bruises.  He had worked close
to the edge of the cliff and as he turned to circle
back of his enemy he chanced to glance over the
rim, swore angrily and fired.  The Weasel,
saving himself from being pinned under his stricken
horse, leaped for the shelter of the cover near the
foot of the basin's wall.  Red was about to fire
again when he swayed and slipped down behind
a bowlder.  The rustler, twenty yards away,
began to maneuver for another shot when Skinny's
rifle cracked viciously and the cattle thief,
staggering to the edge of the cliff, stumbled, fought
for his balance, and plunged down into the basin.
His companion, crawling swiftly toward
Skinny's smoke, showed himself long enough for Red
to swing his rifle and shoot offhand.  At that
moment Skinny caught sight of him and believed he
understood the situation.  "You Conners or
Cassidy?" he demanded over the sights.  Red's
answer made him leap forward and in a few
moments the wounded man, bandaged and
supported by his new friend, hobbled to the rim of
the basin in time to see the last act of the tragedy.

The gateway, now free of cattle, lay open and
the Weasel dashed for it in an attempt to gain
the horses picketed on the other side.  He had
seen George plunge off the cliff and knew that
the game was up.  As he leaped from his cover
Skinny's head showed over the rim of the cliff
and his bullet sang shrilly over the rustler's head.
The second shot was closer, but before Skinny
could try again Red's warning cry made him
lower the rifle and stare at the gateway.

The Weasel saw it at the same time, slowed to
a rapid walk, but kept on for the pass, his eyes
riveted malevolently on the youth who had
suddenly arisen from behind a bowlder and started to
meet him.

"It's easy to get him now," growled Skinny,
starting to raise the rifle, a picture of Lanky's
narrow escape coming to his mind.

"Bill's right in line," whispered Red, leaning
forward tensely and robbing his other senses to
strengthen sight.  "They 're th' best in th'
Southwest," he breathed.

Below them Bill and the Weasel calmly
advanced, neither hurried nor touching a gun.
Sixty yards separated them—fifty—forty—thirty—"G—d
A'mighty!" whispered Skinny,
his nails cutting into his calloused palms.  Red
only quivered.  Twenty-five—twenty.  Then
the Weasel slowed down, crouching a little, and
his swinging hands kept closer to his thighs.
Bill, though moving slowly, stood erect and did
not change his pace.  Perspiration beaded the
faces of the watchers on the cliff and they almost
stopped breathing.  This was worse than they
had expected—forty yards would have been close
enough to start shooting.  "It's a pure case of
speed now," whispered Red, suddenly
understanding.  The promised lesson was due—the
lesson the Weasel had promised to give Bill on
the draw.  Accuracy deliberately was being
eliminated by that cold-blooded advance.
Fifteen yards—ten—eight—six—five—and a flurry
of smoke.  There had been no movement to the
eyes of the watchers—just smoke, and the flat
reports, that came to them like two beats of a
snare drum's roll.  Then they saw Bill step back
as the Weasel pitched forward.  He raised his
eyes to meet them and nodded.  "Come on, get
th' cayuses.  We gotta round up th' herd afore it
scatters," he shouted.

Red leaned against Skinny and laughed
senselessly.  "Ain't he a d—d fool?"

Skinny stirred and nodded.  "He shore is;
but come on.  I don't want no argument with *him*."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`JIMMY PRICE`:

.. class:: center large

   III


.. class:: center large

   JIMMY PRICE

.. vspace:: 2

On a range far to the north, Jimmy Price,
a youth as time measures age, followed
the barranca's edge and whistled cheerfully.  He
had never heard of the Bar-20, and would have
showed no interest if he had heard of it, so long
as it lay so far away.  He was abroad in search
of adventure and work, and while his finances
were almost at ebb tide he had youth, health,
courage and that temperament that laughs at
hard luck and believes in miracles.  The tide was
so low it must turn soon and work would be
forthcoming when he needed it.  Sitting in the
saddle with characteristic erectness he loped down
a hill and glanced at the faint trail that led into
the hills to the west.  Cogitating a moment he
followed it and soon saw a cow, and soon after others.

"I 'll round up th' ranch house, get a job for
awhile an' then drift on south again," he thought,
and the whistle rang out with renewed cheerfulness.

He noticed that the trail kept to the low
ground, skirting even little hills and showing
marked preference for arroyos and draws with
but little regard, apparently, for direction or
miles.  He had just begun to cross a small
pasture between two hills when a sharp voice asked
a question: "Where you goin'?"

He wheeled and saw a bewhiskered horseman
sitting quietly behind a thicket.  The stranger
held a rifle at the ready and was examining him
critically.  "Where you goin'?" repeated the
stranger, ominously.  "An' what's yore business?"

Jimmy bridled at the other's impudent curiosity
and the tones in which it was voiced, and
as he looked the stranger over a contemptuous
smile flickered about his thin lips.  "Why, I 'm
goin' west, an' I 'm lookin' for th' sunset," he
answered with an exasperating drawl.  "Ain't
seen it, have you?"

The other's expression remained unchanged,
as if he had not heard the flippant and
pugnacious answer.  "Where you goin' an' what for?"
he demanded again.

Jimmy turned further around in the saddle
and his eyes narrowed.  "I 'm goin' to mind my
own business, because it's healthy," he retorted.
"You th' President, or only a king?" he demanded,
sarcastically.

"I 'm boss of Tortilla range," came the even
reply.  "You answer my question."

"Then you can gimme a job an' save me a lot
of fool ridin'," smiled Jimmy.  "It 'll be some
experience workin' for a sour dough as ornery
as you are.  Fifty per', an' all th' rest of it.
Where do I eat an' sleep?"

The stranger gazed steadily at the cool,
impudent youngster, who returned the look with an
ironical smile.  "Who sent you out here?" he
demanded with blunt directness.

"Nobody," smiled Jimmy.  "Nobody sends
me nowhere, never, 'less 'n I want to go.  Purty
near time to eat, ain't it?"

"Come over here," commanded the Boss of
Tortilla range.

"It's closer from you to me than from me to you."

"Yo 're some sassy, now ain't you?  I 've got
a notion to drop you an' save somebody else th' job."

"He 'll be lucky if you do, 'cause when that
gent drifts along I 'm natchurally goin' to get
there first.  It's been tried already."

Anger glinted in the Boss's eyes, but slowly
faded as a grim smile fought its way into view.
"I 've a mind to give you a job just for th' great
pleasure of bustin' yore spirit."

"If yo 're bettin' on that card you wants to
have a copper handy," bantered Jimmy.  "It's
awful fatal when it's played to win."

"What's yore name, you cub?"

"Elijah—ain't I done prophesied?  When do
I start punchin' yore eight cows, Boss?"

"Right now!  I like yore infernal gall; an'
there's a pleasant time comin' when I starts
again' that spirit."

"Then my name's Jimmy, which is enough for
you to know.  Which cow do I punch first?"
he grinned.

"You ride ahead along th' trail.  I 'll show
you where you eat," smiled the Boss, riding
toward him.

Jimmy's face took on an expression of innocence
that was ludicrous.

"I allus let age go first," he slowly responded.
"I might get lost if I lead.  I 'm plumb polite, I am."

The Boss looked searchingly at him and the
smile faded.  "What you mean by that?"

"Just what I said.  I 'm plumb polite, an'
hereby provin' it.  I allus insist on bein' polite.
Otherwise, gimme my month's pay an' I 'll
resign.  But I 'm shore some puncher," he laughed.

"I observed yore politeness.  I 'm surprised
you even know th' term.  But are you shore you
won't get lost if you foller me?" asked the Boss
with great sarcasm.

"Oh, that's a chance I gotta take," Jimmy
replied as his new employer drew up alongside.
"Anyhow, yo 're better lookin' from behind."

"Jimmy, my lad," observed the Boss, sorrowfully
shaking his head, "I shore sympathize with
th' shortness of yore sweet, young life.
Somebody 's natchurally goin' to spread you all over
some dismal landscape one of these days."

"An' he 'll be a whole lot lucky if I ain't around
when he tries it," grinned Jimmy.  "I got a'
awful temper when I 'm riled, an' I reckons that
would rile me up quite a lot."

The Boss laughed softly and pushed on ahead,
Jimmy flushing a little from shame of his
suspicions.  But a hundred yards behind him,
riding noiselessly on the sand and grass, was a man
who had emerged from another thicket when he
saw the Boss go ahead; and he did not for one
instant remove his eyes from the new member of
the outfit.  Jimmy, due to an uncanny instinct,
soon realized it, though he did not look around.
"Huh!  Reckon I 'm th' meat in this sandwich.
Say, Boss, who's th' Injun ridin' behind me?"
he asked.

"That's Longhorn.  Look out or he 'll gore
you," replied the Boss.

"'That 'd be a bloody shame,' as th' Englishman
said.  Are all his habits as pleasant an' sociable?"

"They 're mostly worse; he's a two-gun man."

"Now ain't that lovely!  Wonder what he'd
do if I scratch my laig sudden?"

"Let me know ahead of time, so I can get out
of th' way.  If you do that it 'll save me fifty
dollars an' a lot of worry."

"Huh!  I won't save it for you.  But I wish
I could get out my smokin' what's in my hip
pocket, without Longhorn gamblin' on th' move."

The next day Jimmy rode the west section
harassed by many emotions.  He was weaponless,
much to his chagrin and rage.  He rode a horse
that was such a ludicrous excuse that it made
escape out of the question, and they even locked it
in the corral at night.  He was always under the
eyes of a man who believed him ignorant of the
surveillance.  He already knew that three
different brands of cattle "belonged" to the
"ranch," and his meager experience was sufficient
to acquaint him with a blotted brand when
the work had been carelessly done.  The Boss
was the foreman and his outfit, so far as Jimmy
knew, consisted of Brazo Charley and Longhorn,
both of whom worked nights.  The smiling
explanation of the Boss, when Jimmy's guns had
been locked up, he knew to be only part truth.
"Yo 're so plumb fighty we dass n't let you have
'em," the Boss had said.  "If we got to bust yore
high-strung, unlovely spirit without killin' you,
you can't have no guns.  An' th' corral gate is
shore padlocked, so keep th' cayuse I gave you."

Jimmy, enraged, sprang forward to grab at
his gun, but Longhorn, dexterously tripping
him, leaned against the wall and grinned evilly
as the angry youth scrambled to his feet.  "Easy,
Kid," remarked the gun-man, a Colt swinging
carelessly in his hand.  "You 'll get as you give,"
he grunted.  "Mind yore own affairs an' work,
an' we 'll treat you right.  Otherwise—" the
shrugging shoulders made further explanations
unnecessary.

Jimmy looked from one to the other and
silently wheeled, gained the decrepit horse and
rode out to his allotted range, where he saturated
the air with impotent profanity.  Chancing to
look back he saw a steer wheel and face the south;
and at other times during the day he saw that
repeated by other cattle—nor was this the only
signs of trailing.  Having nothing to do but ride
and observe the cattle, which showed no desire
to stray beyond the range allotted to them, he
observed very thoroughly; and when he rode
back to the bunkhouse that night he had
deciphered the original brand on his cows and also
the foundation for that worn by Brazo Charley's
herd on the section next to him.  "I dunno where
mine come from, but Charley's uster belong to
th' C I, over near Sagebrush basin.  That's a
good hundred miles from here, too.  Just wait
till I get a gun!  Trip me an' steal my guns,
huh?  If I had a good cayuse I 'd have that C
I bunch over here right quick!  I reckon they 'd
like to see this herd."

When he reached the bunkhouse all traces of
his anger had disappeared and he ate hungrily
during the silent meal.

When Longhorn and Brazo pushed away from
the table Jimmy followed suit and talked
pleasantly of things common to cowmen, until the two
picked up their saddles and rifles and departed
in the direction of the corral, the Boss staying
with Jimmy and effectually blocking the door.
But he could not block Jimmy's hearing so easily
and when the faint sound of hoofbeats rolled past
the bunkhouse Jimmy knew that there were
more than two men doing the riding.  He
concluded the number to be five, and perhaps six;
but his face gave no indication of his mind's
occupation.

"Play crib?" abruptly demanded the Boss,
taking a well-worn deck of cards from a shelf.
Jimmy nodded and the game was soon going on.
"Seventeen," grunted the Boss, pegging slowly.
"Pair of fools, they are," he growled.  "Both
plumb stuck on one gal an' they go courtin'
together.  She reminds *me* of a slab of bacon,
she 's that homely."

Jimmy laughed at the obvious lie.  "Well, a
gal's a gal out here," he replied.  "Twenty for
a pair," he remarked.  He wondered, as he
pegged, if it was necessary to take along an escort
when one went courting on the Tortilla.  The
idea of Brazo and Longhorn tolerating any rival
or any company when courting struck him as
ludicrous.  "An' which is goin' to win out, do
you reckon?"

"Longhorn—he 's bad; an' a better gun-man.
Twenty-three for six.  Got th' other tray?"
anxiously grinned the Boss.

"Nothin' but an eight—that's two for th' go.
My crib?"

The Boss nodded.  "Ugly as blazes," he
mused.  "*I* would n't court her, not even in th'
dark—huh!  Fifteen two an' a pair.  That's
bad goin', very bad goin'," he sighed as he
pegged.

"But you can't tell nothin' 'bout wimmen
from their looks," remarked Jimmy, with the
grave assurance of a man whose experience in
that line covered years instead of weeks.  "Now
I knowed a right purty gal once.  She was
plumb sweet an' tender an' clingin', she was.
An' she had high ideas, she did.  She went an'
told me she would n't have nothin' to do with no
man what wasn't honest, an' all that.  But
when a feller I knowed rid in to her place one
night she shore hid him under her bed for three
days an' nights.  He had got real popular with
a certain posse because he was careless with a
straight iron.  Folks fairly yearned for to get
a good look at him.  They rid up to her place
and she lied so sweet an' perfect they shore
apologized for even botherin' her.  Who 'd 'a'
thought to look under *her* bed, anyhow?  Some
day he 'll go back an' natchurally run off with
that li'l gal."  He scanned his hand and reached
for the pegs.  "Got eight here," he grunted.

The Boss regarded him closely.  "She stood
off a posse with her eyes an' mouth, eh?"

"Didn't have to stand 'em off.  They was
plumb ashamed th' minute they saw her blushes.
An' they was plumb sorry for her bein' even a
li'l interested in a no-account brand-blotter
like—him."  He turned the crib over and spread
it out with a sort of disgust.  "Come purty near
bein' somethin' in that crib," he growled.

"An' did you know that feller?" the Boss
asked carelessly.

Jimmy started a little.  "Why, yes; he was
once a pal of mine.  But he got so he could blot
a brand plumb clever.  Us cow-punchers shore
like to gamble.  We are plumb childish th' way
we bust into trouble.  I never seen one yet that
was worth anythin' that would n't take 'most any
kind of a fool chance just for th' devilment of it."

The Boss ruffled his cards reflectively.  "Yes;
we are a careless breed.  Sort of flighty an'
reckless.  Do you think that gal's still in love
with you?  Wimmin' is fickle," he laughed.

"*She* ain't," retorted Jimmy with spirit.
"She 'll wait all right—for him."

The Boss smiled cynically.  "You can't hide
it, Jimmy.  Yo 're th' man what got so popular
with th' sheriff.  Ain't you?"

Jimmy half arose, but the Boss waved him
to be seated again.  "Why, you ain't got nothin'
to fear out here," he assured him.  "We sorta
like fellers that 'll take a chance.  I reckon we
all have took th' short end one time or another.
An' I got th' idea mebby yo 're worth more 'n
fifty a month.  Take any chances for a hundred?"

Jimmy relaxed and grinned cheerfully.  "I
reckon I 'd do a whole lot for a hundred real
dollars every month."

"Yo 're on, fur 's I 'm concerned.  I 'll have
to speak to th' boys about it, first.  Well, I 'm
goin' to turn in.  You ride Brazo's an' yore own
range for th' next couple of days.  Good night."

Jimmy arose and sauntered carelessly to the
door, watched the Boss enter his own house, and
then sat down on the wash bench and gazed
contentedly across the moonlit range.  "Gosh," he
laughed as he went over his story of the beautiful
girl with the high ideals.  "I 'm gettin' to
be a sumptuous liar, I am.  It comes so easy I
gotta look out or I'll get th' habit.  I'd do
mor'n lie, too, to get my gun back, all right."

He stretched ecstatically and then sat up
straight.  The Boss was coming toward him and
something in his hand glittered in the soft
moonlight as it swung back and forth.  "Forget
somethin'?" called Jimmy.

"You better stop watchin' th' moonlight,"
laughed the Boss as he drew near.  "That's a
bad sign—'specially while that gal's waitin' for
you.  Here's yore gun an' belt—I reckoned
mebby you might need it."

Jimmy chuckled as he took the weapon.  "I
ain't so shore 'bout needin' it, but I was plumb
lost without it.  Kept feelin' for it all th' time
an' it was gettin' on my nerves."  He weighed
it critically and spun the cylinder, carelessly
feeling for the lead in the chambers as the
cylinder stopped.  Every one was loaded and a
thrill of fierce joy surged over him.  But he was
suspicious—the offer was too quick and
transparent.  Slipping on the belt he let the gun
slide into the blackened holster and grinned up
at the Boss.  "Much obliged.  It feels right,
now."  He drew the Colt again and emptied the
cartridges into his hand.  "Them 's th' only pills
as will cure troubles a doctor can't touch," he
observed, holding one up close to his face and
shaking it at the smiling Boss in the way of emphasis.
His quick ear caught the sound he strained to
hear, the soft swish inside the shell.  "Them 's
Law in this country," he soliloquized as he slid
the tested shell in one particular chamber and
filled all the others.  "Yessir," he remarked as
the cylinder slowly revolved until he had counted
the right number of clicks and knew that the
tested shell was in the right place.  "Yessir,
them's The Law."  The soft moonlight suddenly
kissed the leveled barrel and showed the
determination that marked the youthful face
behind it.  "An' it shore works both ways, Boss,"
he said harshly.  "Put up yore paws!"

As the Boss leaped forward the hammer fell
and caused a faint, cap-like report.  Then the
stars streamed across Jimmy's vision and became
blotted out by an inky-black curtain that
suddenly enveloped him.  The Boss picked up the
gun and, tossing it on the bench, waited
for the prostrate youth to regain his senses.

Jimmy stirred and looked around, his eyes
losing their look of vacancy and slowly filling
with murderous hatred as he saw the man above
him and remembered what had occurred.  "Sand
*sounds* like powder, my youthful friend," the
Boss was saying, "but it don't *work* like powder.
I purty near swallowed yore gal story; but I
sorta reckoned mebby I better make shore about
you.  Yo 're clever, Jimmy; so clever that I
dass n't take no chances with you.  I 'll just tie
you up till th' boys come back—we both know
what they 'll say.  I 'd 'a' done it then only I
like you; an' I wish you had been in earnest about
joinin' us.  Now get up."

Jimmy arose slowly and cautiously and then
moved like a flash, only to look down the barrel
of a Colt.  His clenched hands fell to his side
and he bowed his head; but the Boss was too wary
to be caught by any pretenses of a broken spirit.
"Turn 'round an' hol' up yore han's," he ordered.
"I 'll blow you apart if you even squirms."

Jimmy obeyed, seething with impotent fury,
but the steady pressure of the Colt on his back
told him how useless it was to resist.  Life was
good, even a few hours of it, for in those few
hours perhaps a chance would come to him.  The
rope that had hung on the wall passed over his
wrists and in a few moments he was helpless.
"Now sit down," came the order and the prisoner
obeyed sullenly.  The Boss went in the
bunkhouse and soon returned, picked up the captive
and, carrying him to the bunk prepared for him,
dumped him in it, tied a few more knots and,
closing the door, securely propped it shut and strode
toward his own quarters, swearing savagely
under his breath.

An hour later, while a string of horsemen rode
along the crooked, low-lying trail across the
Tortilla, plain in the moonlight, a figure at the
bunkhouse turned the corner, slipped to the door and
carefully removed the props.

Waiting a moment it opened the door slowly
and slipped into the black interior, and chuckled
at the sarcastic challenge from the bunk.
"Sneakin' back again, hey?" blazed Jimmy,
trying in vain to bridge on his head and heels and
turn over to face the intruder.  "Turn me loose
an' gimme a gun—I oughta have a chance!"

"All right," said a quiet, strange voice.
"That's what I'm here for; but don't talk so
loud."

"Who 're you?"

"My name 's Cassidy.  I 'm from th' Bar-20,
what owns them cows you been abusin'.
Huh! he shore tied some knots!  Wasn't takin' no
more chances with you, all right!"

"G'wan!  He never did take none."

"So I 've observed.  Get th' blood circulatin'
an' I 'll give you some war-medicine for that
useless gun of yourn what ain't sand."

"Good for you!  I'll sidle up agin' that
shack an' fill him so full of lead he won't know
what hit him!"

"Well, every man does things in his own way;
but I 've been thinkin' he oughta have a chance.
He shore gave you some.  Take it all in all, he 's
been purty white to you, Kid.  Longhorn 'd 'a'
shot you quick tonight."

"Yes; an' I 'm goin' to get him, too!"

"Now you ain't got no gratitude," sighed
Cassidy.  "You want to hog it all.  I was figgerin'
to clean out this place by myself, but now you
cut in an' want to freeze me out.  But, Kid,
mebby Longhorn won't come back no more.
My outfit's a-layin' for his li'l party.  I sent
'em down word to expect a call on our north
section; an' I reckon they got a purty good idea of
th' way up here, in case they don't receive
Longhorn an' his friends as per schedule."

"How long you been up here?" asked Jimmy
in surprise, pausing in his operation of starting
his blood to circulating.

"Long enough to know a lot about this layout.
For instance, I know yo 're honest.  That's why
I cut you loose tonight.  You see, my friends
might drop in here any minute an' if you was in
bad company they might make a mistake.  They
acts some hasty, at times.  I 'm also offerin' you
a good job if you wants it.  We need another man."

"I 'm yourn, all right.  An' I reckon I will
give th' Boss a chance.  He'll be more surprised,
that way."

Cassidy nodded in the dark.  "Yes, I reckon
so; he 'll have time to wonder a li'l.  Now you
tell me how yo 're goin' at this game."

But he didn't get a chance then, for his
companion, listening intently, whistled softly and
received an answer.  In another moment the room
was full of figures and the soft buzz of animated
conversation held his interest.  "All right," said
a deep voice.  "We 'll keep on an' get that herd
started back at daylight.  If Longhorn shows up
you can handle him; if you can't, there 's yore
friend Jimmy," and the soft laugh warmed
Jimmy's heart.  "Why, Buck," replied Jimmy's
friend, "he 's spoke for that job already."  The
foreman turned and paused as he stood in the
door.  "Don't forget; you ain't to wait for us.
Take Jimmy, if you wants, an' head for Oleson's.
I ain't shore that herd of hissn is good
enough for us.  We 'll handle this li'l
drive-herd easy.  So long."

Red Connors stuck his head through a small
window: "Hey, if Longhorn shows up, give
him my compliments.  I shore bungled that shot."

"'Tain't th' first," chuckled Cassidy.  But
Buck cut short the arguments and led the way to
Jimmy's pasture.

At daylight the Boss rolled out of his bunk,
started a fire and put on a kettle of water to get
hot.  Buckling on his gun he opened the door
and started toward the bunkhouse, where everything
appeared to be as he had left it the night
before.

"It's a cussed shame," he growled.  "But I
can't risk him bringin' a posse out here.  *What*
th' devil!" he shouted as he ducked.  A bullet
sang over his head, high above him, and he
glanced at the bunkhouse with renewed interest.

Having notified the Boss of his intentions and
of the change in the situation, Jimmy walked
around the corner of the house and sent one
dangerously close to strengthen the idea that sand
was no longer sand.  But the Boss had
surmised this instantly and was greatly shocked by
such miraculous happenings on his range.  He
nodded cheerfully at the nearing youth and as
cheerfully raised his gun.  "An' he gave me a
chance, too!  He could 'a' got me easy if he
didn't warn me!  Well, here goes, Kid," he
muttered, firing.

Jimmy promptly replied and scored a hit.  It
was not much of a hit, but it carried reflection
in its sting.  The Boss's heart hardened as he
flinched instinctively and he sent forth his shots
with cool deliberation.  Jimmy swayed and
stopped, which sent the Boss forward on the
jump.  But the youth was only further proving
his cleverness against a man whom he could not
beat at so long a range.  As the Boss stopped
again to get the work over with, a flash of smoke
spurted from Jimmy's hand and the rustler spun
half way around, stumbled and fell.  Jimmy
paused in indecision, a little suspicious of the
fall, but a noise behind him made him wheel
around to look.

A horseman, having topped the little hill just
behind the bunkhouse, was racing down the slope
as fast as his worn-out horse could carry him, and
in his upraised hand a Colt glittered as it swung
down to become lost in a spurt of smoke.
Longhorn, returning to warn his chief, felt savage
elation at this opportunity to unload quite a
cargo of accumulated grouches of various kinds
and sizes, which collection he had picked up from
the Bar-20 northward in a running fight of
twenty miles.  Only a lucky cross trail, that had
led him off at a tangent and somehow escaped the
eyes of his pursuers, had saved him from the fate
of his companions.

Jimmy swung his gun on the newcomer, but
it only clicked, and the vexed youth darted and
dodged and ducked with a speed and agility very
creditable as he jammed cartridges into the
empty chambers.  Jimmy's interest in the new
conditions made him forget that he had a gun
and he stared in rapt and delighted anticipation
at the cloud of dust that swirled suddenly from
behind the corral and raced toward the
disgruntled Mr. Longhorn, shouting Red's message
as it came.

Mr. Cassidy sat jauntily erect and guided his
fresh, gingery mount by the pressure of cunning
knees.  The brim of his big sombrero, pinned
back against the crown by the pressure of the
wind, revealed the determination and optimism
that struggled to show itself around his firmly
set lips; his neckerchief flapped and cracked
behind his head and the hairs of his snow-white
goatskin chaps rippled like a thing of life and caused
Jimmy, even in his fascinated interest, to covet them.

But Longhorn's soul held no reverence for
goatskin and he cursed harder when Red's
compliments struck his ear about the time one of
Cassidy's struck his shoulder.  He was firing
hastily against a man who shot as though the
devil had been his teacher.  The man from the
Bar-20 used two guns and they roared like the
roll of a drum and flashed through the heavy,
low-lying cloud of swirling smoke like the
darting tongue of an angry snake.

Longhorn, enveloped in the acrid smoke of
his own gun, which wrapped him like a gaseous
shroud, knew that his end had come.  He was
being shot to pieces by a two-gun man, the like
of whose skill he had never before seen or heard
of.  As the last note of the short, five second,
cracking tattoo died away Mr. Cassidy slipped
his empty guns in their holsters and turned his
pony's head toward the fascinated spectator,
whose mouth offered easy entry to smoke and
dust.  As Cassidy glanced carelessly back at the
late rustler Jimmy shut his mouth, gulped,
opened it to speak, shut it again and cleared his
dry throat.  Looking from Cassidy to Longhorn
and back again, he opened his mouth once more.
"You—you—what'd'ju pay for them chaps?"
he blurted, idiotically.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`JIMMY VISITS SHARPSVILLE`:

.. class:: center large

   IV


.. class:: center large

   JIMMY VISITS SHARPSVILLE

.. vspace:: 2

Bill Cassidy rode slowly into Sharpsville
and dismounted in front of Carter's
Emporium, nodding carelessly to the loungers
hugging the shade of the store.  "Howd'y," he
said.  "Seen anything of Jimmy Price—a kid,
but about my height, with brown hair and a
devilish disposition?"

Carter stretched and yawned, a signal for
a salvo of yawns.  "Nope, thank God.  You
need n't describe nothin' about that Price cub to
none of us.  *We* know him.  He spent three
days here about a year ago, an' th' town 's been
sorta restin' up ever since.  You don't mean for
to tell us he 's comin' here again!" he exclaimed,
sitting up with a jerk.

Bill laughed at the expression.  "As long as
you yearn for him so powerful hard, why I gotta
tell you he 's on his way, anyhow.  I had to go
east for a day's ride an' he headed this way.
He 's to meet me here."

Carter turned and looked at the others blankly.
Old Dad Johnson nervously stroked his chin.
"Well, then he 'll git here, all right," he
prophesied pessimistically.  "He usually gets where he
starts for; an' I 'm plumb glad I 'm goin' on to-morrow."

"Ha, ha!" laughed George Bruce.  "So 'm I
goin' on, by Scott!"

Grunts and envious looks came from the group
and Carter squirmed uneasily.  "That's just
like you fellers, runnin' away an' leavin' me to
face it.  An' it was you fellers what played most
of th' tricks on him last time he was here.  Huh! now
I gotta pay for 'em," he growled.

Bill glanced over the gloomy circle and
laughed heartily.  Two faces out of seven were
bright, Dad's particularly so.  "Well, he seems
to be quite a favorite around here," he grinned.

Carter snorted.  "Huh!  Seems to be nothin'."

"He ain't exactly a favorite," muttered Dawson.
"He 's a—a—an event; that's what he is!"

Carter nodded.  "Yep; that's what he is,
'though you just can't help likin' th' cub, he 's
that cheerful in his devilment."

Charley Logan stretched and yawned.
"Didn't hear nothin' about no Injuns, did you?
A feller rid through here yesterday an' said they
was out again."

Bill nodded.  "Yes; I did.  An' there 's a lot
of rumors goin' around.  They 've been over in
th' Crazy Butte country an' I heard they raided
through th' Little Mountain Valley last week.
Anyhow, th' Seventh is out after 'em, in four
sections."

"Th' Seventh is *a* regiment," asserted George
Bruce.  "Leastawise it was when I was in it.
It is th' best in th' Service."

Dad snorted.  "Listen to him!  It was when
he was in it!  Lordy, Lordy, Lordy!" he chuckled.

"There hain't no cavalry slick enough to ketch
Apaches," declared Hank, dogmatically.
"Troops has too many fixin's an' sech.  You
gotta travel light an' live without eatin' an'
drinkin' to ketch them Injuns; an' then you
never hardly sometimes see 'em, at that."

"Lemme tell you, Mosshead, th' Seventh can
lick all th' Injuns ever spawned!" asserted Bruce
with heat.  "It wiped out Black Kettle's camp,
in th' dead of winter, too!"

"That was Custer as did that," snorted Carter.

"Well, he was leadin' th' Seventh, same as he is now!"

Charley Logan shook his head.  "We are
talking about ketchin' 'em, not fightin' 'em.  An'
no cavalry in th' hull country can ketch 'Paches
in *this* country—it's too rough.  'Paches are
only scared of punchers."

"Shore," asserted Carter.  "Apaches laugh at
troops, less 'n it's a pitched battle, when they
don't.  Cavalry chases 'em so fur an' no farther;
punchers chase 'em inter h—l, out of it an' back again."

"They shore is 'lusive," cogitated Lefty
Dawson, carefully deluging a fly ten feet away and
shifting his cud for another shot.  "An' I, for
one, admits I ain't hankerin' for to chase 'em
close."

"Wish we could get that cub Jimmy to chase
some," exclaimed Carter.  "Afore he gits here,"
he explained, thoughtfully.

"Oh, he 's all right, Carter," spoke up Lefty.
"We was all of us young and playful onct."

"But we all war n't he-devils workin' day an'
night tryin' to make our betters miserable!"

"Oh, he 's a good kid," remarked Dad.  "I
sorta hates to miss him.  Anyhow, we got th'
best of him, last time."

Bill finished rolling a cigarette, lit it and
slowly addressed them.  "Well, all I got to say
is that he suits me right plumb down to th'
ground.  Now, just lemme tell you somethin'
about Jimmy," and he gave them the story of
Jimmy's part in the happenings on Tortilla
Range, to the great delight of his audience.

"By Scott, it's just like him!" chuckled George Bruce.

"That's shore Jimmy, all right," laughed Lefty.

"What did *I* tell you?" beamed Dad.  "He 's
a heller, he is.  He 's all right!"

"Then why don't you stay an' see him?"
demanded Carter.

"I gotta go on, or I would.  Yessir, I would!"

"Reckon them Injuns won't git so fur north
as here," suggested Carter hopefully, and harking
back to the subject which lay heaviest on his
mind.  "They 've only been here twict in ten years."

"Which was twice too often," asserted Lefty.

"Th' last time they was here," remarked Dad,
reminiscently, "they didn't stop long; though
where they went to I dunno.  We gave 'em
more 'n they could handle.  That was th' time
I just bought that new Sharps rifle, an' what I
done with that gun was turrible."  He paused to
gather the facts in the right order before he told
the story, and when he looked around again he
flushed and swore.  The audience had silently
faded away to escape the moth-eaten story they
knew by heart.  The fact that Dad usually
improved it and his part in it, each time he told it,
did not lure them.  "Cussed ingrates!" he swore,
turning to Bill.  "They 're plumb jealous!"

"They act like it, anyhow," agreed Bill soberly.
"I 'd like to hear it, but I 'm too thirsty.
Come in an' have one with me?"  The story was
indefinitely postponed.

An accordion wheezed down the street and a
mouth-organ tried desperately to join in from
the saloon next door, but, owing to a great
difference in memory, did not harmonize.  A roar
of laughter from Dawson's, and the loud clink
of glasses told where Dad's would-have-been
audience then was.  Carter walked around his
counter and seated himself in his favorite place
against the door jamb.  Bill, having eluded
Dad, sat on a keg of edibles and smoked in
silence and content, occasionally slapping at the
flies which buzzed persistently around his head.
Knocking the ashes from the cigarette he leaned
back lazily and looked at Carter.  "Wonder
where he is?" he muttered.

"Huh?" grunted the proprietor, glancing
around.  "Oh, you worryin' about that yearlin'?
Well, you needn't!  Nothin' never sidetracks
Jimmy."

A fusillade of shots made Bill stand up, and
Carter leaped to his feet and dashed toward the
counter.  But he paused and looked around
foolishly.  "That's his yell," he explained.
"Didn't I tell you?  He's arrove, same as usual."

The drumming of hoofs came rapidly nearer
and heads popped out of windows and doors,
each head flanked by a rifle barrel.  Above a
swirling cloud of dust glinted a spurting Colt
and thrust through the smudge was a hand
waving a strange collection of articles.

"Hullo, Kid!" shouted Dawson.  "What you
got?  See any Injuns?"

"It's a G-string an' a medicine-bag, by all
that's holy!" cried Dad from the harness shop.
"Where 'd you git 'em, Jimmy?"

Jimmy drew rein and slid to a stand, pricking
his nettlesome "Calico" until it pranced to suit
him.  Waving the Apache breech-cloth, the
medicine-bag and a stocking-shaped moccasin in
one hand, he proudly held up an old, dirty,
battered Winchester repeater in the other and
whooped a war-cry.

"Blame my hide!" shouted Dad, running out
into the street.  "It is a G-string!  He 's gone
an' got one of 'em!  He 's gone an' got a 'Pache!
Good boy, Kid!  An' how 'd you do it?"

Carter plodded through the dust with Bill
close behind.  "*Where'd* you do it?" demanded
the proprietor eagerly.  To Carter location
meant more than method.  He was plainly
nervous.  When he reached the crowd he, in turn,
examined the trophies.  They were genuine, and
on the G-string was a splotch of crimson, muddy
with dust.

"What's in the war-bag, Kid?" demanded
Lefty, preparing to see for himself.  Jimmy
snatched it from his hands.  "You never mind
what's in it, Freckle-face!" he snapped.
"That's my bag, *now*.  Want to spoil my luck?"

"How'd you do it?" demanded Dad breathlessly.

"*Where* 'd you do it?" snapped Carter.  He
glanced hurriedly around the horizon and
repeated the question with vehemence.  "Where 'd
you get him?"

"In th' groin, first.  Then through th'—"

"I don't mean where, I mean *where*—near
here?" interrupted Carter.

"Oh, fifteen mile east," answered Jimmy.
"He was crawlin' down on a bunch of cattle.  He
saw me just as I saw him.  But he missed an' I
did n't," he gloated proudly.  "I met a Pawnee
scout just afterward an' he near got shot before
he signaled.  He says hell's a-poppin'.  Th'
'Paches are raidin' all over th' country, down—"

"I knowed it!" shouted Carter.  "Yessir, I
knowed it!  I felt it all along!  Where you finds
one you finds a bunch!"

"We'll give 'em blazes, like th' last time!"
cried Dad, hurrying away to the harness shop
where he had left his rifle.

"I 've been needin' some excitement for a long
time," laughed Dawson.  "I shore hope they come."

Carter paused long enough to retort over his
shoulder: "An' I hopes you drop dead!  You
never did have no sense!  Not nohow!"

Bill smiled at the sudden awakening and
watched the scrambling for weapons.  "Why,
there 's enough men here to wipe out a tribe.  I
reckon we 'll stay an' see th' fun.  Anyhow, it 'll
be a whole lot safer here than fightin' by ourselves
out in th' open somewhere.  What you say?"

"You could n't drag me away from this town
right now with a cayuse," Jimmy replied, gravely
hanging the medicine-bag around his neck and
then stuffing the gory G-string in the folds of the
slicker he carried strapped behind the cantle of
the saddle.  "We 'll see it out right here.  But I
do wish that 'Pache owned a better gun than this
thing.  It's most fallin' apart an' ain't worth
nothin'."

Bill took it and examined the rifling and the
breech-block.  He laughed as he handed it back.
"You oughta be glad it was n't a better gun, Kid.
I don't reckon he could put two in the same place
at two hundred paces with this thing.  I ain't
even anxious to shoot it off on a bet."

Jimmy gasped suddenly and grinned until the
safety of his ears was threatened.  "Would you
look at Carter?" he chuckled, pointing.  Bill
turned and saw the proprietor of Carter's
Emporium carrying water into his store, and with a
speed that would lead one to infer that he was
doing it on a wager.  Emerging again he saw the
punchers looking at him and, dropping the
buckets, he wiped his face on his sleeve and shook
his head.  "I 'm fillin' everything," he called.
"I reckon we better stand 'em off from my store—th'
walls are thicker."

Bill smiled at the excuse and looked down the
street at the adobe buildings.  "What about th'
'dobes, Carter?" he asked.  The walls of some
of them were more than two feet thick.

Carter scowled, scratched his head and made a
gesture of impatience.  "They ain't big enough
to hold us all," he replied, with triumph.  "This
here store is th' best place.  An', besides, it's all
stocked with water an' grub, an' everything."

Jimmy nodded.  "Yo 're right, Carter; it's
th' best place."  To Bill he said in an aside,
"He 's plumb anxious to protect that shack, now
ain't he?"

Lefty Dawson came sauntering up.  "Wonder
if Carter 'll let us hold out in his store?"

"He 'll pay you to," laughed Bill.

"It's loop-holed.  Been so since th' last raid,"
explained Lefty.  "An' it's chock full of grub,"
he grinned.

They heard Dad's voice around the corner.
"Just like last time," he was saying.  "We
oughta put four men in Dick's 'dobe acrost th'
street.  Then we'd have a strategy position.
You see—oh, hullo," he said as he rounded the
corner ahead of George Bruce.  "Who 's goin'
on picket duty?" he demanded.

.. vspace:: 2

Under the blazing sun a yellow dog
wandered aimlessly down the deserted street, his
main interest in life centered on his skin, which he
frequently sat down to chew.  During the brief
respites he lounged in the doors of deserted
buildings, frequently exploring the quiet interiors for
food.  Emerging from the "hotel" he looked
across the street at the Emporium and barked
tentatively at the man sitting on its flat roof.
Wriggling apologetically, he slowly gained the
middle of the street and then sat down to
investigate a sharp attack.  A can sailed out of the
open door and a flurry of yellow streaked around
the corner of the "hotel" and vanished.

In the Emporium grave men played poker for
nails, Bill Cassidy having corralled all the
available cash long before this, and conversed in low
tones.  The walls, reinforced breast high by
boxes, barrels and bags, were divided into regular
intervals by the open loopholes, each opening
further indicated by a leaning rifle or two and
generous piles of cartridges.  Two tubs and half
a dozen buckets filled with water stood in the
center of the room, carefully covered over with
boards and wrapping paper.  Clouds of tobacco
smoke lay in filmy stratums in the heated air and
drifted up the resin-streaked sides of the building.
The shimmering, gray sand stretched away in a
glare of sunlight and seemed to writhe under the
heated air, while droning flies flitted lazily
through the windows and held caucuses on the
sugar barrel.  A slight, grating sound overhead
caused several of the more irritable or energetic
men to glance up lazily, grateful they were
not in Hank's place.  It was hot enough under
the roof, and they stretched ecstatically as they
thought of Hank.  Three days' vigil and anxiety
had become trying even to the most stolid.

John Carter fretfully damned solitaire and
pushed the cards away to pick up pencil and
paper and figure thoughtfully.  This seemed to
furnish him with even less amusement, for he
scowled and turned to watch the poker game.
"Huh," he sniffed, "playin' poker for nails!  An'
you don't even own th' nails," he grinned
facetiously, and glanced around to see if his point was
taken.  He suddenly stiffened when he noticed
the man who sat on his counter and labored
patiently and zealously with a pocket knife.
"Hey, you!" he exclaimed excitedly, his wrath
quickly aroused.  "Ain't you never had no
bringin' up?  If yo 're so plumb sot on whittlin', you
tackle that sugar barrel!"

Jimmy looked the barrel over critically and
then regarded the peeved proprietor, shaking his
head sorrowfully.  "This here is a better medjum
for the ex-position of my art," he replied gravely.
"An' as for bringin' up, lemme observe to these
gents here assembled that you ain't never had no
artistic trainin'.  Yore skimpy soul is dwarfed
an' narrowed by false weights and dented
measures.  You can look a sunset in th' face an'
not see it for countin' yore profits."  Carter
glanced instinctively at the figures as Jimmy
continued.  "An' you can't see no beauty in a daisy's
grace—which last is from a book.  I 'm here
carvin' th' very image of my cayuse an' givin' you
a work of art, free an' gratis.  I 'm timid an'
sensitive, I am; an' I 'll feel hurt if—"

"Stop that noise," snorted a man in the corner,
turning over to try again.  "Sensitive an' timid?
Yes; as a mule!  Shut up an' lemme get a little
sleep."

"A-men," sighed a poker-player.  "An' let
him sleep—he 's a cussed nuisance when he 's
awake."

"Two mules," amended the dealer.  "Which
is worse than one," he added thoughtfully.

"We oughta put four men in that 'dobe—"
began Dad persistently.

"An' will you shut up about that 'dobe an' yore
four men?" snapped Lefty.  "Can't you say
nothin' less 'n it's about that mud hut?"

Jimmy smiled maddeningly at the irritated
crowd.  "As I was sayin' before you all
interrupted me, I 'll feel hurt—"

"You *will*; an' quick!" snapped Carter.  "You
quit gougin' that counter!"

Bill craned his neck to examine the carving,
and forthwith held out a derisively pointing
forefinger.

"Cayuse?" he inquired sarcastically.  "Looks
more like th' map of th' United States, with some
almost necessary parts missin'.  Your geography
musta been different from mine."

The artist smiled brightly.  "Here 's a man
with imagination, th' emancipator of thought.
It's crude an' untrained, but it's there.  Imagination
is a hopeful sign, for it is only given to
human bein's.  From this we surmise an' must
conclude that Bill is human."

"Will somebody be liar enough to say th' same
of you?" politely inquired the dealer.

"Will you fools shut up?" demanded the man
who would sleep.  He had been on guard half
the night.

"But you oughta label it, Jimmy," said Bill.
"You 've got California bulgin' too high up, an'
Florida sticks out th' wrong way.  Th' Great
Lakes is *all* wrong—looks like a kidney slippin'
off of Canada.  An' where's Texas?"

"Huh!  It 'd have to be a cow to show Texas,"
grinned Dad Johnson, who, it appeared, also had
an imagination and wanted people to know it.

"You cuttin' in on this teet-a-teet?" demanded
Jimmy, dodging the compliments of the sleepy
individual.

"As a map it is no good," decided Bill decisively.

"It is no map," retorted Jimmy.  "I know
where California bulges an' how Florida sticks
out.  What you call California is th' south end
of th' cayuse, above which I 'm goin' to put th'
tail—"

"Not if I'm man enough, you ain't!" interposed
Carter, with no regard for politeness.

"—where I 'm goin' to put th' tail," repeated
Jimmy.  "Florida is one front laig raised off th'
ground—"

"Trick cayuse, by Scott!" grunted George
Bruce.  "No wonder it looks like a map."

"Th' Great Lakes is th' saddle, an' Maine is
where th' mane goes—*Ouch*!"

"Mangy pun," grinned Bill.

"Kentucky ought to be under th' saddle,"
laughed Dad, smacking his lips.  "Pass th'
bottle, John."

"You take too much an' we'll all be Ill-o'-noise,"
said Charley Logan alertly.

"Them Injuns can't come too soon to suit *me*,"
growled Fred Thomas.  "Who started this, anyhow?"

The sleepy man arose on one elbow, his eyes
glinting.  "After th' fight, you ask *me* th' same
thing!  Th' answer will be ME!" he snapped.
"I 'm goin' to clean house in about two minutes,
an' fire you all out in th' street!"

Jimmy smiled down at him.  "Well, you
needn't be so sweepin' an' extensive in yore
cleanin' operations," he retorted.  "All you gotta
do is go outside an' roll in th' dust like a chicken."

The crowd roared its appreciation and the
sleepy individual turned over again, growling
sweeping opinions.

"But if them Injuns are comin' I shore wish
they 'd hurry up an' do it," asserted Dad.  "I
ought to 'a' been home three days ago."

"Wish to G—d you was!" came from the floor.

Bill tossed away his half-smoked cigarette,
Carter promptly plunging into the sugar
barrel after it.  "They ain't comin'," Bill
asserted.  "Every time some drunk Injun gets in
a fight or beats his squaw th' rumor starts.  An'
by th' time it gets to us it says that all th' Apaches
are out follerin' old Geronimo on th' war trail.
He can be more places at once than anybody *I*
ever heard of.  I 'm ridin' on tomorrow morning,
'Paches or no 'Paches."

"Good!" exclaimed Jimmy, glancing at Carter.
"I 'll have this here carving all done by then."

There was a sudden scrambling and thumping
overhead and hot exclamations zephyred down
to them.  Carter dashed to the door, while the
others reached for rifles and began to take up
positions.

"See 'em, Hank?" cried Carter anxiously.

"See what?" came a growl from above.

"Injuns, of course, you d—d fool!"

"Naw," snorted Hank.  "There ain't no Injuns
out at all, not after Jimmy got that one."

"Then what's th' matter?"

"My dawg's lickin' yore dawg.  *Sic* him,
Pete!  Hi, there!  Don't you run!"

"My dawg still gettin' licked?" grinned Carter.

"I 'll swap you," offered Hank promptly.
"Mine can lick yourn, anyhow."

"In a race, mebby."

"H—l!" growled Hank, cautiously separating
himself from a patch of hot resin that had exuded
generously from a pine knot.  "I 'm purty nigh
cooked an' I 'm comin' down, Injuns or no
Injuns.  If they was comin' this way they'd 'a'
been here long afore this."

"But that Pawnee told Price they was out,"
objected Carter.  "Cassidy heard th' same thing,
too.  An' didn't Jimmy get one!" he finished
triumphantly.

"Th' Pawnee was drunk!" retorted Hank,
collecting splinters as he slipped a little down the
roof.  "Great Mavericks!  This here is awful!"  He
grabbed a protruding nail and checked himself.
"Price might 'a' shot a 'Pache, or he might
not.  I don't take him serious no more.  An'
that feller Cassidy can't help what scared folks
tells him.  Sufferin' *toads*, what a roof!"

Carter turned and looked back in the store.
"Jimmy, you shore they are out?  An' *will* you
quit cuttin' that counter!"

Jimmy slid off the counter and closed the
knife.  "That's what th' Pawnee said.  When
I told you fellers about it, you was so plumb
anxious to fight, an' eager to interrupt an' ask
fool questions that I shore hated to spoil it all.
What that scout says was that th' 'Paches was
out raidin' down Colby way, an' was headin'
south when last re—"

"*Colby*!" yelled Lefty Dawson, as the others
stared foolishly.  "*Colby*!  Why, that's three
hundred miles south of here!  An' you let us
make fools of ourselves for *three* days!  I 'll bust
you open!" and he arose to carry out his threat.
"Where 'd you git them trophies?" shouted Dad
angrily.  "Them was genuine!"  Jimmy slipped
through the door as Dawson leaped and he fled
at top speed to the corral, mounted in one bound
and dashed off a short distance.  "Why, I got
them trophies in a poker game from that same
Pawnee scout, you Mosshead!  He could n't play
th' game no better 'n you fellers.  An' th' blood
is snake's blood, fresh put on.  You *will* drive
me out of town, hey?" he jeered, and, wheeling,
forthwith rode for his life.  Back in the store
Bill knocked aside the rifle barrel that Carter
shoved through a loop hole.  "A joke 's a joke,
Carter," he said sternly.  "You don't aim to
hit him, but you might," and Carter, surprised at
the strength of the twist, grinned, muttered
something and went to the door without his rifle, which
Bill suddenly recognized.  It was the weapon
that had made up Jimmy's "trophies"!

"Blame his hide!" spluttered Lefty, not
knowing whether to shoot or laugh.  A queer noise
behind him made him turn, a movement imitated
by the rest.  They saw Bill rolling over and over
on the floor in an agony of mirth.  One by one
the enraged garrison caught the infection and one
by one lay down on the floor and wept.  Lefty,
propping himself against the sugar barrel,
swayed to and fro, senselessly gasping.  "They
*allus* are raidin' down Colby way!  Blame my
hide, *oh*, blame my hide!  Ha-ha-ha!  Ha-ha-ha!
They *allus* are raidin' down *Colby* way!"

"Three days, an' Hank *on* th' roof!" gurgled
George Bruce.  "*Three* days, by Scott!"

"Hank on th' roof," sobbed Carter, "settin'
on splinters an hot rosim!  Whee-hee-hee!
Three-hee-hee days hatchin' pine knots an'
rosim!"

"Gimme a drink!  Gimme a drink!" whispered
Dad, doubled up in a corner.  "Gimme a
ho-ho-ho!" he roared in a fresh paroxysm of
mirth.  "Lefty an' George settin' up nights
watchin' th' shadders!  Ho-ho-ho!"

"An' Carter boardin' us *free*!" yelled Baldy;
Martin.  "Oh, my G—d!  He'll never get over it!"

"Yessir!" squeaked Dad.  "*Free*; an' scared
we 'd let 'em burn his store.  'Better stand 'em
off in my place,' he says.  'It's full of grub,' he
says.  He-he-he!"

"An' did you see Hank squattin' on th' roof
like a horned toad waitin' for his dinner?"
shouted Dickinson.  "I'm goin' to die!  I'm
goin' to die!" he sobbed.

"No sich luck!" snorted Hank belligerently.
"I 'll skin him alive!  Yessir; *alive*!"

Carter paused in his calculations of his loss in
food and tobacco.  "Better let him alone, Hank,"
he warned earnestly.  "Anyhow, we pestered
him nigh to death las' time, an' he 's shore come
back at us.  Better let him alone!"

Up the street Jimmy stood beside his horse
and thumped and scratched the yellow dog until
its rolling eyes bespoke a bliss unutterable and
its tail could not wag because of sheer ecstasy.

"Purp," he said gravely, "never play jokes on
a pore unfortunate an' git careless.  Don't never
forget it.  Last time I was here they abused me
shameful.  Now that th' storm has busted an'
this is gettin' calm-like, you an' me 'll go back
an' get a good look at th' asylum," he suggested,
vaulting into the saddle and starting toward the
store.  No invitation was needed because the
dog had adopted him on the spot.  And the next
morning, when Jimmy and Bill, loaded with
poker-gained wealth, rode out of town and
headed south, the dog trotted along in the shadow
made by Jimmy's horse and glanced up from
time to time in hopeful expectancy and great
affection.

A distant, flat pistol shot made them turn
around in the saddle and look back.  A group
of the leading citizens of Sharpsville stood in
front of the Emporium and waved hats in one
last, and glad farewell.  Now that Jimmy had
left town, they altered their sudden plans and
decided to continue to populate the town of
Sharpsville.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE LUCK OF FOOLS`:

.. class:: center large

   V


.. class:: center large

   THE LUCK OF FOOLS

.. vspace:: 2

"Did you ever see a dog like Asylum?"
demanded Jimmy, looking fondly at the
mongrel as they rode slowly the second day
after leaving Sharpsville.

Bill shook his head emphatically.  "Never,
nowheres."

Jimmy turned reproachfully.  "Lookit how
he 's follered us."

"Follered *you*," hastily corrected Bill.  "He
ought to.  You feed an' scratch him, an' he 'll
go anywhere for that.  But he 's big," he conceded.

"Mostly wolf-hound," guessed Jimmy, proudly.

"He looks like a wolf—God help it—at th'
end of a hard winter."

"Well, he ain't yourn!"

"An' won't be, not if I can help it."

"He ain't no good, is he?" sneered Jimmy.

"I wouldn't say that, Kid," grunted Bill.
"You know there 's good *Injuns*; but he looks
purty healthy right now.  Why did n't you call
him Hank?  They look—Good G—d!" he
exclaimed as he glanced through an opening in the
hills.  The ring of ashes that had been a corral
still smoldered, and smoke arose fitfully from the
caved-in roof of the adobe bunkhouse, whose
beams, weakened by fire, had fallen under their
heavy load.

"Injuns!" whispered Jimmy.  "Not gone
long, neither.  Mebby they ain't all—ain't all—"
he faltered, thinking of what might lie under the
roof.  Bill, nodding, rode hurriedly to the ruins,
wheeled sharply and returned, shaking his head
slowly.  There was no need to explain Apache
methods to his companion, and he spoke of the
Indians instead.  "They split.  About a dozen
in th' big party an' about eight in th' other.  It
looks sorta serious, Kid."

Jimmy nodded.  "I reckon so.  An' they 're
usually where nobody wants 'em, anyhow.
Would n't Sharpsville be disgusted if they went
north?  But let's get out of here, 'less you got
some plan to bag a couple."

"I like you more all th' time," Bill smiled.
"But I ain't got no plan, except to move."

"Now, if they ain't funny," muttered Jimmy.
"If they only knowed what they was runnin' into!"

Bill turned in surprise.  "I reckon I 'm easy,
but I 'll bite: what are they runnin' into?"

"I don't mean th' Injuns; I mean that wagon,"
replied Jimmy, nodding to a canvas-covered
"schooner" on the opposite hill.  "Come here,
'Sylum!" he thundered.  Bill wheeled, and
smothered a curse when he saw the woman.
"Fools!" he snarled.  "Don't let *her* know," and
he was galloping toward the newcomers.

"They shore is innercent," soliloquized Jimmy,
following.  "Just like a baby chasin' a rattler
for to play with it."

Bill drew rein at the wagon and removed his
sombrero.  "Howd'y," he said.  "Where you
headin' for?" he asked pleasantly.

Tom French shifted the reins.  "Sharpsville.
And where in—thunder—is it?"

His brother stuck his head out through the
opening in the canvas.  "Yes; where?"

"You see, we are lost," explained the woman,
glancing from Bill to Jimmy, whose spectacular
sliding stop was purely for her benefit, though
she knew it not.  "We left Logan four days ago
and have been wandering about ever since."

"Well, you ain't a-goin' to wander no more,
ma'am," smiled Bill.  "We 're goin' to Logan
an' we 'll take you as far as th' Logan-Sharpsville
trail," he said, wondering where it was.
"You must 'a' crossed it without knowin' it."

"Then, thank goodness, everything is all right.
We are very fortunate in having met you gentlemen
and we will be very grateful to you," she smiled.

"You bet!" exclaimed Tom.  "But where is
Sharpsville?" he persisted.

"Sixty miles north," replied Jimmy, making
a great effort to stop with the reins what he was
causing with his shielded spur.  His horse could
cavort beautifully under persuasion.  "Logan,
ma'am," he said, indifferent to the antics of his
horse, "is about thirty miles east.  You must 'a'
sashayed some to get only this far in four days,"
he grinned.

"And we would be 'sashaying' yet, if I had n't
found this trail," grunted Tom.  There was a
sudden disturbance behind his shoulder and the
canvas was opened wider.  "*You* found it!"
snorted George.  "You mean, *I* found it.
Leave it to Mollie if I did n't!  And I told you
that you were going wrong.  Didn't I?" he demanded.

"Hush, George," chided his sister.

"But *did n't* I?  Did n't I say we should have
followed that moth-eaten road running—er—north?"

"Did you?" shouted Tom, turning savagely.
"You told me so many fool things I couldn't
pick out those having a flicker of intelligence
hovering around their outer edges.  *You* drove
two days out of the four, did n't you?"

"Tom!" pleaded Mollie, earnestly.

"Oh, let him rave, Sis," rejoined George, and
he turned to the punchers.  "Friends, I beg thee
to take charge of this itinerant asylum and its
charming nurse, for the good of our being and
the salvation of our souls.  Amen."

Tom found a weak grin.  "Yes, so be it.  We
place ourselves and guide under your orders,
though I reserve the right to beat him to a
pleasing pulp when he gets sober enough to feel it.
At present he reclines ungracefully within."

"You mean you got a drunk guide, in there?"
demanded Bill angrily.

"He feels the yearning right away," observed
George.  "We 'll have to take turns thrashing
Bacchus, I fear."

"How long's he been that way?" demanded Bill.

"I have n't known him long enough to answer
that," responded Tom.  "I doubt if he were ever
really sober.  He is a peripatetic distillery and
I believe he lived on blotters even as a child.
The first day—"

"—hour," inserted George.

"—he became anxious about the condition of
the rear axle and examined it so frequently that
by night he had slipped back into the Stone
Age—he was ossified and petrified.  He could
neither see, eat nor talk.  Strange creatures
peopled his imagination.  He shot at one before we
could get his gun away from him, and it was our
best skillet.  How the devil he could hit it is more
than I know.  At this moment he may be fleeing
from green tigers."

"Beg pardon," murmured George.  "At this
moment I have my foot on his large, unwashed face."

"Why, George!  You'll hurt him!" gasped Mollie.

"No such luck.  He 's beyond feeling."

"But you will!  It isn't right to—"

"Don't bother your head about him, Sis,"
interrupted Tom, savagely.

"Sure," grinned George.  "Save your sympathy
until he gets sober.  He'll need some then."

"Now, George, there is no use of having an
argument," she retorted, turning to face him.
And as she turned Bill took quick advantage.
One finger slipped around his scalp and ended in
a jerky, lifting motion that was horribly
suggestive.  His other hand and arm swept back and
around, the gesture taking in the hills; and at the
same time he nodded emphatically toward the
rear of the wagon, where Jimmy was slowly
going.  Across the faces of the brothers there
flashed in quick succession mystification,
apprehensive doubt, fear and again doubt.  But a
sudden backward jerk of Bill's head made them
glance at the ruined 'dobe and the doubt melted
into fear, and remained.  George was the first to
reply and he spoke to his sister.  "As long as
you fear for his facial beauty, Sis, I 'll look for
a better place for my foot," and he disappeared
behind the drooping canvas.  Jimmy's words
were powerful, if terse, and George returned to
the seat a very thoughtful man.  He took
instant advantage of his sister's conversation with
Bill and whispered hurriedly into his brother's
ear.  A faint furrow showed momentarily on
Tom's forehead, but swiftly disappeared, and he
calmly filled his pipe as he replied.  "Oh, he 'll
sober up," he said.  "We poured the last of it
out.  And I have a great deal of confidence in
these two gentlemen."

Bill smiled as he answered Mollie's question.
"Yes, we did have a bad fire," he said.  "It
plumb burned us out, ma'am."

"But *how* did it happen?" she insisted.

"Yes, yes; how did it happen—I mean it
happened like this, ma'am," he floundered.  "You
see, I—that is, *we—we* had some trouble, ma'am."

"So I surmised," she pleasantly replied.  "I
presume it was a fire, was it not?"

Bill squirmed at the sarcasm and hesitated, but
he was saved by Jimmy, who turned the corner
of the wagon and swung into the breach with
promptness and assurance.  "We fired a Greaser
yesterday," he explained.  "An' last night th'
Greaser slipped back an' fired us.  He got away,
this time, ma'am; but we 're shore comin' back
for him, all right."

"But is n't he far away by this time?" she asked
in surprise.

"Greasers, ma'am, is funny animals.  I could
tell you lots of funny things about 'em, if I had
time.  This particular coyote is nervy an'
graspin'.  I reckon he was a heap disappointed
when he found we got out alive, an' I reckon
he 's in these hills waitin' for us to go to Logan
for supplies.  When we do he 'll round up th'
cows an' run 'em off.  Savvy?  I means,
understand?" he hurriedly explained.

"But why don't you hunt him now?"

Jimmy shook his head hopelessly.  "You just
don't understand Greasers, ma'am," he asserted,
and looked around.  "Does she?" he demanded.

There was a chorus of negatives, and he
continued.  "You see, he's plannin' to steal our cows."

"That's what he 's doin'," cheerfully assented Bill.

"I believe you said that before," smiled Mollie.

"Ha, ha!" laughed Bill.  "He shore did!"

"Yes, I did!" snapped Jimmy, glaring at him.

"Then, for goodness' sake, are you going away
and let him do it?" demanded Mollie.

Jimmy grinned easily, and drawled effectively.
"We 're aimin' to stop him, ma'am.  You see,"
he half whispered, whereat Bill leaned forward
eagerly to learn the facts.  "He won't show
hisself an' we can't track him in th' hills without
gettin' picked off at long range.  It would be
us that 'd have to do th' movin', an' that ain't
healthy in rough country.  So we starts to
Logan, but circles back an' gets him when he 's
plumb wrapped up in them cows he 's honin' for."

"That's it," asserted Bill, promptly and
proudly.  Jimmy was the smoothest liar he had
ever listened to.  "An' th' plan is all Jimmy's,
too," he enthused, truthfully.

"Doubtless it is quite brilliant," she responded,
"but I certainly wish *I* were that 'Greaser'!"

"Sis!" exploded George, "I'm surprised!"

"Very well; you may remain so, if you wish.
But will someone tell me this: How can these
gentlemen take us to Logan if they are going
only part way and then returning after that
dense, but lucky, 'Greaser'?"

"I should 'a' told you, ma'am," replied Jimmy,
"that th' Logan-Sharpsville trail is about half
way.  We 'll put you on it an' turn back."

The strain was telling on Bill and he raised
his arm.  "Sorry to cut off this interestin'
conversation, but I reckon we better move.  Jimmy,
tie that wolf-hound to th' axle—it won't make
him drunk—an' then go ahead an' pick a new
trail to Logan.  Keep north of th' other, an'
stay down from sky-lines.  I 'll foller back
a ways.  Get a-goin'," and he was obeyed.

Jimmy rode a quarter of a mile in advance,
unjustly escaping the remarks that Mollie
was directing at him, her brothers, Bill, the dog
and the situation in general.  A backward glance
as he left the wagon apprised him that the
dangers of scouting were to be taken thankfully.
He rode carelessly up the side of a hill and
glanced over the top, ducked quickly and backed
down with undignified haste.  He fervently
endorsed Bill's wisdom in taking a different route
to Logan, for the Apaches certainly would strike
the other trail and follow hard; and to have run
into them would have been disastrous.  He
approached the wagon leisurely, swept off his
sombrero and grinned.  "Reckon you could hit any
game?" he inquired.  The brothers nodded
glumly.  "Well, get yore guns handy."  There
was really no need for the order.  "There 's lots
of it, an' fresh meat 'll come in good.  Don't
shoot till I says so," he warned, earnestly.

"O.K., Hawkeye," replied Tom coolly.

"We 'll wait for the whites of their eyes, *à la
Bunker Hill*," replied George, uneasily, "before
we wipe out the game of this large section of
God's accusing and forgotten wilderness.  Any
*big* game loose?"

Jimmy nodded emphatically.  "You bet!  I
just saw a bunch of copperhead snakes that 'd
give you chills."  The tones were very suggestive
and George stroked his rifle nervously and felt
little drops of cold water trickle from his
armpits.  Mollie instinctively drew her skirts tighter
around her and placed her feet on the edge of
the wagon box under the seat.  "They can't
climb into the wagon, can they?" she asked apprehensively.

"Oh, no, ma'am," reassured Jimmy.  "Anyhow,
th' dog will keep them away."  He turned
to the brothers.  "I ain't shore about th' way, so
I 'm goin' to see Bill.  Wait till I come back,"
and he was gone.  Tom gripped the reins more
firmly and waited.  Nothing short of an
earthquake would move that wagon until he had been
told to drive on.  George searched the surrounding
country with anxious eyes while his sister
gazed fascinatedly at the ground close to the
wagon.  She suddenly had remembered that the
dog was tied.

Bill drummed past, waving his arm, and swept
out of sight around a bend, the wagon lurching
and rocking after him.  Out of the little valley
and across a rocky plateau, down into an arroyo
and up its steep, further bank went the wagon
at an angle that forced a scream from Mollie.
The dog, having broken loose, ran with it, eyeing
it suspiciously from time to time.  Jeff Purdy,
the oblivious guide, slid swiftly from the front of
the wagon box and stopped suddenly with a
thump against the tailboard.  George, playing
rear guard, managed to hold on and then with a
sigh of relief sat upon the guide and jammed his
feet against the corners of the box.

"So he—went back for—his friend to—find
the way!" gasped Mollie in jerks.  "What a
pity—he did—it.  I could—do better myself.  I 'm
being jolted—into a thousand—pieces!"  Her
hair, loosening more with each jolt, uncoiled and
streamed behind her in a glorious flame of gold.
Suddenly the wagon stopped so quickly that she
gasped in dismay and almost left the seat.  Then
she screamed and jumped for the dashboard.
But it was only Mr. Purdy sliding back again.

Before them was the perpendicular wall of a
mesa and another lay several hundred yards
away.  Bill, careful of where he walked, led the
horses past a bowlder until the seat was even with
it.  "Step on nothing but rock," he quietly
ordered, and had lifted Mollie in his arms before
she knew it.  Despite her protests he swiftly
carried her to the wall and then slowly up its
scored face to a ledge that lay half way to the
top.  Back of the ledge was a horizontal fissure
that was almost screened from the sight of
anyone below.  Gaining the cave, he lowered
her gently to the floor and stood up.  "Do not
move," he ordered.

Her face was crimson, streaked with white
lanes of anger and her eyes snapped.  "What
does this mean?" she demanded.

He looked at her a moment, considering.
"Ma'am, I was n't goin' to tell you till I had to.
But it don't make no difference now.  It's
Injuns, close after us.  Don't show yoreself."

.. _`"It's Injuns, close after us"`:

.. figure:: images/img-133.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "It's Injuns, close after us"

   "It's Injuns, close after us"

She regarded him calmly.  "I beg your pardon—if
I had only known—is there great danger?"

He nodded.  "If you show yoreself.  There's
allus danger with Injuns, ma'am."

She pushed the hair back from her face.  "My
brothers?  Are they coming up?"

Her courage set him afire with rage for the
Apaches, but he replied calmly.  "Yes.  Mebby
th' Injuns won't know yo 're here, Ma'am.  Me
an' Jimmy 'll try to lead 'em past.  Just lay low
an' don't make no noise."

Her eyes glowed suddenly as she realized what
he would try to do.  "But yourself, and Jimmy?
Would n't it be better to stay up here?"

"Yo 're a thoroughbred, ma'am," he replied in
a low voice.  "Me an' Jimmy has staked our lives
more 'n onct out of pure devilment, with nothin'
to gain.  I reckon we got a reason this time, th'
best we ever had.  I 'm most proud, ma'am, to
play my cards as I get them."  He bent swiftly
and touched her head, and was gone.

Meeting the brothers as they toiled up with
supplies, he gave them a few terse orders and
went on.  Taking a handful of sand from behind
a bowlder and scattering it with judicious care,
he climbed to the wagon seat and waited, glancing
back at the faint line that marked the arroyo's
rim.  In a few minutes a figure popped over it
and whirled toward him in a high-flung, swirling
cloud of dust.  Overtaking the lurching wagon,
Jimmy shouted a query and kept on, his pony
picking its way with the agility and certainty of
a mountain cat.  The wagon, lurching this way
and that, first on the wheels of one side and then
on those of the other, bouncing and jumping at
such speed that it was a miracle it was not
smashed to splinters, careened after the hard-riding
horseman.  A rifle bounced over the tailboard,
followed swiftly by a box of cartridges and
an ebony-backed mirror, which settled on its back
and glared into the sky like an angry Cyclops.

Mr. Purdy, bruised from head to foot and
rapidly getting sober, emitted language in jerks
and grabbed at the tailboard as the wagon box
dropped two feet, leaving him in the air.  But it
met him half way and jolted him almost to the
canvas top.  He slid against the side and then
jammed against the tailboard again and reached
for it in desperation.  Another drop in the trail
made him miss it, and as the wagon arose again
like a steel spring Mr. Purdy, wondering what
caused all the earthquakes, arose on his hands and
knees in the dust and spat angrily after the
careening vehicle.  He scrambled unsteadily to his
feet and shook eager fists after the four-wheeled
jumping-jack, and gave the Recording Angel
great anguish of mind and writer's cramp.
Pausing as he caught sight of the objects on the
ground, he stared at them thoughtfully.  He had
seen many things during the past few days and
was not to be fooled again.  He looked at the
sky, and back to the rifle.  Then he examined
the mesa wall, and quickly looked back at the
weapon.  It was still there and had not moved.
He closed his eyes and opened them suddenly and
grunted.  "Huh, bet a ten spot it's real."  He
approached it cautiously, ready to pounce on it
if it moved, but it did not and he picked it up.
Seeing the cartridges, he secured them and then
gasped with fear at the glaring mirror.  After a
moment's thought he grabbed at it and put it in
his pocket just before a sudden, swirling cloud
of dust drove him, choking and gasping, to seek
the shelter of the bowlders close to the wall.
When he raised his head again and looked out
he caught sight of a sudden movement in
the open, and promptly ducked, and swore.
Apaches!  Twelve of them!

He had seen strange things during the last few
days, and just because the rifle and other objects
had turned out to be real was no reason that he
should absolutely trust his eyes in this particular
instance.  There was a limit, which in this case
was Apaches in full war dress; so he arose
swaggeringly and fired at the last, and saw the third
from the last slide limply from his horse.  As
the rest paused and half of them wheeled and
started back he rubbed his eyes in amazement,
damned himself for a fool and sprinted for
the mesa wall, up which he climbed with the
frantic speed of fear.  He was favored by
the proverbial luck of fools and squirmed over
a wide ledge without being hit.  There was but
one way to get him and he knew he could pick
them off as fast as they showed above the rim.
He rolled over and a look of mystification crept
across his face.  Digging into his pockets to see
what the bumps were, he produced the mirror and
a flask.  The former he placed carelessly against
the wall and the latter he raised hastily to his lips.
The mirror glared out over the plain, its rays
constantly interrupted by Mr. Purdy's cautious
movements as he settled himself more comfortably
for defense.

A bullet screamed up the face of the wall and
he flattened, intently watching the rim.  Chancing
to glance over the plain, he noticed that the
wagon was still moving, but slowly, while far to
the south two horsemen galloped back toward the
mesa on a wide circle, six Apaches tearing to
intercept them before they could gain cover.  "I
was shore wise to leave th' schooner," he grinned.
"I allus know when to jump," he said, and then
swung the rifle toward the rim as a faint sound
reached his ears.  Its smoke blotted out the
piercing black eyes that looked for an instant
over the edge and found eternity, and Mr. Purdy
grinned when the sound of impact floated up
from below.  "They won't try that no more," he
grunted, and forthwith dozed in a drunken
stupor.  A sober man might have been tempted
to try a shot over the rim, and would have been
dead before he could have pulled the trigger.
Mr. Purdy was again favored by luck.

Leaving two braves to watch him, the other
two searched for a better way up the wall.

The race over the plain was interesting but not
deadly or very dangerous for Bill and Jimmy.
Armed with Winchesters and wornout Spencer
carbines and not able to get close to the two
punchers, the Apaches did no harm, and suffered
because of Mr. Cassidy's use of a new, long-range
Sharps.  "You allus want to keep Injuns on
long range, Kid," Bill remarked as another fell
from its horse.  The shot was a lucky one, but
just as effective.  "They ain't worth a d—n
figurin' windage an' th' drift of a fast-movin'
target, 'specially when it's goin' over ground like
this.  It's a white man's weapon, Jimmy.
Them repeaters ain't no good for over five
hundred; they don't use enough powder.  An' I
reckon them Spencers was wore out long ago.
They ain't even shootin' close."  He whirled past
the projecting spur of the mesa and leaped from
his horse, Jimmy following quickly.  Three
hundred yards down the canyon two Apaches
showed themselves for a moment as they squirmed
around a projection high up on the wall and not
more than ten feet below the ledge.  The expressions
which they carried into eternity were those
of great surprise.  The two who kept Mr. Purdy
treed on his ledge saw their friends fall, and
squirmed swiftly toward their horses.  It could
only be cowpunchers entering the canyon at the
other end and they preferred the company of
their friends until they could determine numbers.
When half way to the animals they changed their
minds and crept toward the scene of action.
Mr. Purdy, feeling for his flask, knocked it over the
ledge and looked over after it in angry dismay.
Then he shouted and pointed down.  Bill and
Jimmy stared for a moment, nodded emphatically,
and separated hastily.  Mr. Purdy ducked
and hugged the ledge with renewed affection.
Glancing around, he was almost blinded
by the mirror and threw it angrily into the
canyon, and then rubbed his eyes again.  Far away
on the plain was a moving blot which he believed
to be horsemen.  He fired his rifle into the air
on a chance and turned again to the events taking
place close at hand.  "Other way, Hombre!" he
warned, and Jimmy, obeying, came upon the
Apache from the rear, and saved Bill's life.  At
hide and seek among rocks the Apache has no
equal, but here they did not have a chance with
Mr. Purdy calling the moves in a language they
did not well understand.  A bird's-eye view is a
distinct asset and Mr. Purdy was playing his
novel game with delighted interest and a
plainsman's instinct.  Consumed with rage, the
remaining Indian whirled around and sent the
guide reeling against the wall and then down in a
limp heap.  But Bill paid the debt and continued
to worm among the rocks.

There was a sudden report to the westward and
Jimmy staggered and dived behind a bowlder.
The other four, having discovered the trick that
had been played upon them on the other side of
the mesa, were anxious to pay for it.  Bill
hurriedly crawled to Jimmy's side as the youth
brushed the blood out of his eyes and picked up
his rifle.  "It's th' others, Kid," said Bill.  "An'
they 're gettin' close.  Don't move an inch, for
this is their game."  A roar above him made
him glance upward and swear angrily.  "Now
they 've gone an' done it!  After all we 've done
to hide 'em!"  Another shot from the ledge and
a hot, answering fire broke out from below.  "My
G—d!" said a voice, weakly.  Bill shook his
head.  "That was Tom," he muttered.  "Come
on, Kid," he growled.  "We got to drive 'em out,
d—n it!"  They were too interested in picking
their way in the direction of the Apaches to
glance at Mr. Purdy's elevated perch or they
would have seen him on his knees at the very
edge making frantic motions with his one good
arm.  He was facing the east and the plain.
Beaming with joy, he waved his arm toward Bill
and Jimmy, shouted instructions in a weak voice,
that barely carried to the canyon floor, and
collapsed, his duty done.

Bill was surprised fifteen minutes later to hear
strange voices calling to him from the rear and
he turned like a flash, his Colt swinging first.
"Well, I 'm d—d!" he ejaculated.  Four punchers
were crawling toward him.  "Glad to see
you," he said, foolishly.

"I reckon so," came the smiling reply.  "That
lookin' glass of yourn shore bothered us.  We
could n't read it, but we did n't have to.  Where
are they?"

"Plumb ahead, som'ers.  Four of 'em," Bill
replied.  "There 's two tender feet up on that
ledge, with their sister.  We was gettin' plumb
worried for 'em."

"Not them as hired Whiskey Jeff for to guide
'em?" asked Dickinson, the leader.

"Th' same.  But how 'n h—l did Logan ever
come to let 'em start?" demanded Bill, angrily.

"We did n't pay no attention to th' rumors that
has been flyin' around for th' last two months.
Nobody had seen no signs of 'em," answered the
Logan man.  "We did n't reckon there was no
danger till last night, when we learned they
had n't showed up in Sharpsville, nor been seen
anywheres near th' trail.  Then we remembers
Jeff's habits, an', while we debates it, we gets
word that th' Injuns was seen north of Cook's
ranch yesterday.  We moves sudden.  Here
comes th' boys back—I reckon th' job 's done.
They 're a fine crowd, a'right.  You should 'a'
seen 'em cut loose an' raise th' dust when we saw
that lookin' glass a-winkin'.  We could n't read
it none, but we didn't have to.  We just cut loose."

"Lookin' glass!" exclaimed Bill, staring.
"That's twice you 've mentioned it.  What
glass?  We didn't have no lookin' glass, nohow."

"Well, Whiskey Jeff had one, a'right.  An'
he shore keeps her a-talkin', too.  Ain't it a
cussed funny thing that a feller that's got a
hardboiled face like his'n would go an' tote a lookin'
glass around with him?  We never done reckoned
he was that vain."

Bill shook his head and gave it up.  He
glanced above him at the ledge and started for it
as Jimmy pushed up to him through the little
crowd.  "Hello, Kid," Bill smiled.  "Come on up
an' help me get her down," he invited.  Jimmy
shook his head and refused.  "Ah, what's th' use?
She 'll only gimme h—l for handin' her that
blamed Greaser lie," he snapped.  "An' you can
do it alone—didn't you tote her up th' cussed
wall?"  It had been a long-range view, but
Jimmy had seen it, just the same, and resented it.

Bill turned and looked at him.  "Well, I 'm
cussed!" he muttered, and forthwith climbed the
wall.  A few minutes later he stuck his head over
the rim of the ledge and looked down upon a
good-natured crowd that lounged in the shadow
of the wall and told each other all about it.
Jimmy was the important center of interest and
he was flushed with pride.  It would take a great
deal to make him cut short his hour of triumph
and take him away from the admiring circle that
hedged him in and listened intently to his words.
"Yessir, by G—d," he was saying, "just then
I looks over th' top of a li'l hill an' what I sees
makes me duck a-plenty.  There was a dozen of
'em, stringin' south.  I knowed they 'd shore hit
that—"

"Hey, Kid," said a humorous voice from above.
Jimmy glanced up, vexed at the interruption.
"Well, what?" he growled.  Bill grinned down
at him in a manner that bid fair to destroy the
dignity that Jimmy had striven so hard to build
up.  "She says all right for you.  She 's done
let you down easy for that whoppin' big Greaser
lie you went an' spun her.  She wants to know
ain't you comin' up so she can talk to you?  How
about it?"

"Go on, Kid," urged a low and friendly voice
at his elbow.

"Betcha!" grinned another.  "Wish it was
me!  I done seen her in Logan."

Jimmy loosed a throbbing phrase, but obeyed,
whereat Bill withdrew his grinning face from the
sight of the grinning faces below.  "He 's comin'
ma'am; but he's shore plumb bashful."  He
looked down the canyon and laughed.  "There
they go to get Purdy off 'n his perch.  I 'm
natchurally goin' to lick anybody as tries to thrash
that man," he muttered, glancing at George as he
passed Jimmy on the ledge.  George grinned
and shook his head.  "I 'm going to give him the
spree of his sinful, long life," he promised,
thoughtfully.

Far to the west, silhouetted for a moment
against the crimson sunset, appeared a row of
mounted figures.  It looked long and searchingly
at the mesa and slowly disappeared from view.
Bill saw it and pointed it out to Lefty Dickinson.
"There 's th' other eight," he said, smiling
cheerfully.  "If it was n't for Whiskey Jeff's lookin'
glass that eight 'd mean a whole lot to us.
We 've had the luck of fools!"





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.. _`HOPALONG'S HOP`:

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   VI


.. class:: center large

   HOPALONG'S HOP

.. vspace:: 2

Having sent Jimmy to the Bar-20 with a
message for Buck Peters and seen the
tenderfeet start for Sharpsville on the right trail
and under escort, Bill Cassidy set out for the
Crazy M ranch, by the way of Clay Gulch.  He
was to report on the condition of some cattle that
Buck had been offered cheap and he was anxious
to get back to the ranch.  It was in the early
evening when he reached Clay Gulch and rode
slowly down the dusty, shack-lined street in search
of a hotel.  The town and the street were hardly
different from other towns and streets that he
had seen all over the cow-country, but nevertheless
he felt uneasy.  The air seemed to be charged
with danger, and it caused him to sit even more
erect in the saddle and assume his habit of
indifferent alertness.  The first man he saw
confirmed the feeling by staring at him insolently
and sneering in a veiled way at the low-hung,
tied-down holsters that graced Bill's thighs.
The guns proclaimed the gun-man as surely as it
would have been proclaimed by a sign; and it
appeared that gun-men were not at that time held
in high esteem by the citizens of Clay Gulch.
Bill was growing fretful and peevish when the
man, with a knowing shake of his head, turned
away and entered the harness shop.  "Trouble's
brewin' somewheres around," muttered Bill, as
he went on.  He had singled out the first of two
hotels when another citizen, turning the corner,
stopped in his tracks and looked Bill over with a
deliberate scrutiny that left but little to the
imagination.  He frowned and started away, but Bill
spurred forward, determined to make him speak.

"*Might* I inquire if this is Clay Gulch?" he
asked, in tones that made the other wince.

"You might," was the reply.  "It is," added
the citizen, "an' th' Crazy M lays fifteen mile
west."  Having complied with the requirements
of common politeness the citizen of Clay Gulch
turned and walked into the nearest saloon.  Bill
squinted after him and shook his head in indecision.

"He wasn't guessin', neither.  He shore
knowed where I wants to go.  I reckon Oleson
must 'a' said he was expectin' me."  He would
have been somewhat surprised had he known that
Mr. Oleson, foreman of the Crazy M, had said
nothing to anyone about the expected visitor, and
that no one, not even on the ranch, knew of it.
Mr. Oleson was blessed with taciturnity to a
remarkable degree; and he had given up expecting
to see anyone from Mr. Peters.

As Bill dismounted in front of the "Victoria"
he noticed that two men further down the street
had evidently changed their conversation and
were examining him with frank interest and
discussing him earnestly.  As a matter of fact they
had not changed the subject of their conversation,
but had simply fitted him in the place of a certain
unknown.  Before he had arrived they discussed
in the abstract; now they could talk in the
concrete.  One of them laughed and called softly
over his shoulder, whereupon a third man
appeared in the door, wiping his lips with the back
of a hairy, grimy hand, and focused evil eyes
upon the innocent stranger.  He grunted
contemptuously and, turning on his heel, went back
to his liquid pleasures.  Bill covertly felt of his
clothes and stole a glance at his horse, but could
see nothing wrong.  He hesitated: should he
saunter over for information or wait until the
matter was brought to his attention?  A sound
inside the hotel made him choose the latter course,
for his stomach threatened to become estranged
and it simply howled for food.  Pushing open
the door he dropped his saddle in a corner and
leaned against the bar.

"Have one with me to get acquainted?" he
invited.  "Then I 'll eat, for I 'm hungry.  An'
I 'll use one of yore beds to-night, too."

The man behind the bar nodded cheerfully and
poured out his drink.  As he raised the liquor he
noticed Bill's guns and carelessly let the glass
return to the bar.

"Sorry, sir," he said coldly.  "I 'm hall out of
grub, the fire 's hout, *hand* the beds are taken.
But mebby 'Awley, down the strite, can tyke care
of you."

Bill was looking at him with an expression that
said much and he slowly extended his arm and
pointed to the untasted liquor.

"Allus finish what you start, English," he said
slowly and clearly.  "When a man goes to take
a drink with me, and suddenly changes his mind,
why I gets riled.  I don't know what ails this
town, an' I don't care; I don't give a cuss about
yore grub an' your beds; but if you don't drink
that liquor you poured out *to* drink, why I 'll
natchurally shove it down yore British throat so
cussed hard it 'll strain yore neck.  Get to it!"

The proprietor glanced apprehensively from
the glass to Bill, then on to the business-like guns
and back to the glass, and the liquor disappeared
at a gulp.  "W'y," he explained, aggrieved.
"There hain't no call for to get riled hup like that,
strainger.  I bloody well forgot it."

"Then don't you go an' 'bloody well' forget
this: Th' next time I drops in here for grub an' a
bed, you have 'em both, an' be plumb polite about
it.  Do you get me?" he demanded icily.

The proprietor stared at the angry puncher as
he gathered up his saddle and rifle and started
for the door.  He turned to put away the bottle
and the sound came near being unfortunate for
him.  Bill leaped sideways, turning while in the
air and landed on his feet like a cat, his left hand
gripping a heavy Colt that covered the short ribs
of the frightened proprietor before that worthy
could hardly realize the move.

"Oh, all right," growled Bill, appearing to be
disappointed.  "I reckoned mebby you was
gamblin' on a shore thing.  I feels impelled to
offer you my sincere apology; you ain't th' kind
as would even gamble *on* a shore thing.  You 'll
see me again," he promised.  The sound of his
steps on the porch ended in a thud as he leaped to
the ground and then he passed the window
leading his horse and scowling darkly.  The
proprietor mopped his head and reached twice for
the glass before he found it.  "Gawd, what a
bloody 'eathen," he grunted.  "*'E* won't be as
easy as the lawst was, blime 'im."

Mr. Hawley looked up and frowned, but there
was something in the suspicious eyes that
searched his face that made him cautious.  Bill
dropped his load on the floor and spoke sharply.
"I want supper an' a bed.  You ain't full up, an'
you ain't out of grub.  So I 'm goin' to get 'em
both right here.  Yes?"

"You shore called th' turn, stranger," replied
Mr. Hawley in his Sunday voice.  "That's what
I 'm in business for.  An' business is shore dull
these days."

He wondered at the sudden smile that illuminated
Bill's face and half guessed it; but he said
nothing and went to work.  When Bill pushed
back from the table he was more at peace with the
world and he treated, closely watching his
companion.  Mr. Hawley drank with a show of
pleasure and forthwith brought out cigars.  He
seated himself beside his guest and sighed with relief.

"I 'm plumb tired out," he offered.  "An' I
ain't done much.  You look tired, too.  Come a
long way?"

"Logan," replied Bill.  "Do *you* know where
I 'm goin'?  An' why?" he asked.

Mr. Hawley looked surprised and almost
answered the first part of the question correctly
before he thought.  "Well," he grinned, "if I
could tell where strangers was goin', an' why, I
would n't never ask 'em where they come from.
An' I 'd shore hunt up a li'l game of faro, you bet!"

Bill smiled.  "Well, that might be a good idea.
But, say, what ails this town, anyhow?"

"What ails it?  Hum!  Why, lack of money
for one thing; scenery, for another; wimmin, for
another.  Oh, h—l, I ain't got time to tell you
what ails it.  Why?"

"Is there anything th' matter with me?"

"I don't know you well enough for to answer
that kerrect."

"Well, would you turn around an' stare at me,
an' seem pained an' hurt?  Do I look funny?
Has anybody put a sign on my back?"

"You looks all right to me.  What's th' matter?"

"Nothin', yet," reflected Bill slowly.  "But
there will be, mebby.  You was mentionin' faro.
Here 's a turn you can call: somebody in this wart
of a two-by-nothin' town is goin' to run plumb
into a big surprise.  There 'll mebby be a loud
noise an' some smoke where it starts from; an' a
li'l round hole where it stops.  When th' curious
delegation now holdin' forth on th' street slips in
here after I 'm in bed, an' makes inquiries about
me, you can tell 'em that.  An' if Mr.—Mr. Victoria
drops in casual, tell him I 'm cleanin' my
guns.  Now then, show me where I 'm goin' to sleep."

Mr. Hawley very carefully led the way into
the hall and turned into a room opposite the bar.
"Here she is, stranger," he said, stepping back.
But Bill was out in the hall listening.  He looked
into the room and felt oppressed.

"No she ain't," he answered, backing his
intuition.  "She is upstairs, where there is a li'l
breeze.  By th' Lord," he muttered under his
breath.  "This is some puzzle."  He mounted
the stairs shaking his head thoughtfully.  "It
shore is, it shore is."

The next morning when Bill whirled up to the
Crazy M bunkhouse and dismounted before the
door a puncher was emerging.  He started to say
something, noticed Bill's guns and went on
without a word.  Bill turned around and looked after
him in amazement.  "Well, what th' devil!" he
growled.  Before he could do anything, had he
wished to, Mr. Oleson stepped quickly from the
house, nodded and hurried toward the ranch
house, motioning for Bill to follow.  Entering
the house, the foreman of the Crazy M waited
impatiently for Bill to get inside, and then
hurriedly closed the door.

"They 've got onto it some way," he said, his
taciturnity gone; "but that don't make no
difference if you 've got th' sand.  I 'll pay you one
hundred an' fifty a month, furnish yore cayuses
an' feed you.  I 'm losin' more 'n two hundred
cows every month an' can't get a trace of th'
thieves.  Harris, Marshal of Clay Gulch, is
stumped, too.  *He* can't move without proof;
*you* can.  Th' first man to get is George Thomas,
then his brother Art.  By that time you 'll know
how things lay.  George Thomas is keepin' out
of Harris' way.  He killed a man last week over
in Tuxedo an' Harris wants to take him over
there.  He 'll not help you, so don't ask him
to."  Before Bill could reply or recover from his
astonishment Oleson continued and described
several men.  "Look out for ambushes.  It 'll be
th' hardest game you ever went up ag'in, an' if
you ain't got th' sand to go through with it,
say so."

Bill shook his head.  "I got th' sand to go
through with anythin' I starts, but I don't start
here.  I reckon you got th' wrong man.  I come
up here to look over a herd for Buck Peters; an'
here you go shovin' wages like that at me.  When
I tells Buck what I 've been offered he 'll fall
dead."  He laughed.  "Now I knows th' answer
to a lot of things.

"Here, here!" he exclaimed as Oleson began to
rave.  "Don't you go an' get all het up like that.
I reckon I can keep my face shut.  An' lemme
observe in yore hat-like ear that if th' rest of this
gang is like th' samples I seen in town, a good
gun-man would shore be robbin' you to take all
that money for th' job.  Fifty a month, for two
months, would be a-plenty."

Oleson's dismay was fading, and he accepted
the situation with a grim smile.  "You don't
know them fellers," he replied.  "They 're a bad
lot, an' won't stop at nothin'."

"All right.  Let's take a look at them cows.
I want to get home soon as I can."

Oleson shook his head.  "I gave you up, an'
when I got a better offer I let 'em go.  I 'm sorry
you had th' ride for nothin', but I could n't get
word to you."

Bill led the way in silence back to the bunk
house and mounted his horse.  "All right," he
nodded.  "I shore was late.  Well, I 'll be goin'."

"That gun-man is late, too," said Oleson.
"Mebby he ain't comin'.  You want th' job at
*my* figgers?"

"Nope.  I got a better job, though it don't pay
so much money.  It's steady, an' a hull lot
cleaner.  So-long," and Bill loped away, closely
watched by Shorty Allen from the corral.  And
after an interval, Shorty mounted and swung out
of the other gate of the corral and rode along the
bottom of an arroyo until he felt it was safe to
follow Bill's trail.  When Shorty turned back he
was almost to town, and he would not have been
pleased had he known that Bill knew of the
trailing for the last ten miles.  Bill had doubled back
and was within a hundred yards of Shorty when
that person turned ranchward.

"Huh!  I must be popular," grunted Bill.  "I
reckon I will stay in Clay Gulch till t'morrow
mornin'; an' at the Victoria," he grinned.  Then
he laughed heartily.  "Victoria!  I got a better
name for it than that, all right."

When he pulled up before the Victoria and
looked in the proprietor scowled at him, which
made Bill frown as he went on to Hawley's.
Putting his horse in the corral he carried his
saddle and rifle into the barroom and looked around.
There was no one in sight, and he smiled.  Putting
the saddle and rifle back in one corner under
the bar and covering them with gunny sacks he
strolled to the Victoria and entered through the
rear door.  The proprietor reached for his gun
but reconsidered in time and picked up a glass,
which he polished with exaggerated care.  There
was something about the stranger that obtruded
upon his peace of mind and confidence.  He
would let some one else try the stranger out.

Bill walked slowly forward, by force of will
ironing out the humor in his face and assuming
his sternest expression.  "I want supper an' a
bed, an' don't forget to be plumb polite," he
rumbled, sitting down by the side of a small table
in such a manner that it did not in the least
interfere with the movement of his right hand.  The
observing proprietor observed and gave strict
attention to the preparation of the meal.  The
gun-man, glancing around, slowly arose and
walked carelessly to a chair that had blank wall
behind it, and from where he could watch
windows and doors.

When the meal was placed before him he
glanced up.  "Go over there an' sit down," he
ordered, motioning to a chair that stood close to
the rifle that leaned against the wall.  "Loaded?"
he demanded.  The proprietor could only nod.
"Then sling it acrost yore knees an' keep still.
Well, start movin'."

The proprietor walked as though he were in a
trance but when he seated himself and reached for
the weapon a sudden flash of understanding
illumined him and caused cold sweat to bead
upon his wrinkled brow.  He put the weapon
down again, but the noise made Bill look up.

"Acrost yore knees," growled the puncher, and
the proprietor hastily obeyed, but when it touched
his legs he let loose of it as though it were hot.
He felt a great awe steal through his fear, for
here was a gun-man such as he had read about.
This man gave him all the best of it just to tempt
him to make a break.  The rifle had been in his
hands, and while it was there the gun-man was
calmly eating with both hands on the table and
had not even looked up until the noise of the gun
made him!

"My Gawd, 'e must be a wizard with 'em.  I
'opes I don't forget!"  With the thought came
a great itching of his kneecap; then his foot itched
so as to make him squirm and wear horrible
expressions.  Bill, chancing to glance up carelessly,
caught sight of the expressions and growled,
whereupon they became angelic.  Fearing that
he could no longer hold in the laughter that
tortured him, Bill arose.

"Shoulder, *arms*!" he ordered, crisply.  The
gun went up with trained precision.  "Been a
sojer," thought Bill.  "Carry, *arms*!  About,
*face*!  To a bedroom, *march*!"  He followed,
holding his sides, and stopped before the room.
"This th' best?" he demanded.  "Well, it ain't
good enough for me.  About, *face*!  Forward,
*march*!  Column, *left*!  Ground, *arms*!  Fall
out."  Tossing a coin on the floor as payment for
the supper Bill turned sharply and went out
without even a backward glance.

The proprietor wiped the perspiration from his
face and walked unsteadily to the bar, where he
poured out a generous drink and gulped it down.
Peering out of the door to see if the coast was
clear, he scurried across the street and told his
troubles to the harness-maker.

Bill leaned weakly against Hawley's and
laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks.
Pushing weakly from the building he returned
to the Victoria to play another joke on its
proprietor.  Finding it vacant he slipped upstairs
and hunted for a room to suit him.  The bed was
the softest he had seen for a long time and it lured
him into removing his boots and chaps and guns,
after he had propped a chair against the door as
a warning signal, and stretching out flat on his
back, he prepared to enjoy solid comfort.  It was
not yet dark, and as he was not sleepy he lay there
thinking over the events of the past twenty-four
hours, often laughing so hard as to shake the bed.
What a reputation he would have in the morning!
The softness of the bed got in its work and he
fell asleep, for how long he did not know; but
when he awakened it was dark and he heard voices
coming up from below.  They came from the
room he had refused to take.  One expression
banished all thoughts of sleep from his mind and
he listened intently.  "'Red-headed Irish
gunman.'  Why, they means me!  'Make him hop
into h—l.'  I don't reckon I 'd do that for
anybody, even my friends."

"I tried to give 'im this room, but 'e would n't
tyke it" protested the proprietor, hurriedly.
"'E says the bloody room was n't good enough
for 'im, *hand* 'e marches me out hand makes off.
Likely 'e 's in *'Awley's*."

"No, he ain't," growled a strange voice.
"You 've gone an' bungled th' whole thing."

"But I s'y I did n't, you know.  I tries to give
'im this werry room, George, but 'e would n't 'ave
it.  D'y think I wants 'im running haround this
blooming town?  'E 's worse nor the other, *hand*
Gawd knows 'e was bad enough.  'E 's a
cold-*blooded* beggar, 'e is!"

"You missed yore chance," grunted the other.
"Wish *I* had that gun you had."

"I was wishing to Gawd you did," retorted the
proprietor.  "It never looked so bloody big
before, d—n 'is *'ide*!"

"Well, his cayuse is in Hawley's corral," said
the first speaker.  "If I ever finds Hawley kept
him under cover I 'll blow his head off.  Come
on; we 'll get Harris first.  He ought to be
gettin' close to town if he got th' word I sent over to
Tuxedo.  He won't let us call him.  He's a
man of his word."

"He 'll be here, all right.  Fred an' Tom is
watchin' his shack, an' we better take th' other
end of town—there 's no tellin' how he 'll come in
now," suggested Art Thomas.  "But I wish I
knowed where that cussed gun-man is."

As they went out Bill, his chaps on and his
boots in his hand, crept down the stairs, and
stopped as he neared the hall door.  The
proprietor was coming back.  The others were
outside, going to their stations and did not hear the
choking gasp that the proprietor made as a pair
of strong hands reached out and throttled him.
When he came to he was lying face down on a
bed, gagged and bound by a rope that cut into
his flesh with every movement.  Bill, waiting a
moment, slipped into the darkness and was
swallowed up.  He was looking for Mr. Harris,
and looking eagerly.

The moon arose and bathed the dusty street
and its crude shacks in silver, cunningly and
charitably hiding its ugliness; and passed on as
the skirmishing rays of the sun burst into the
sky in close and eternal pursuit.  As the dawn
spread swiftly and long, thin shadows sprang
across the sandy street, there arose from the
dissipated darkness close to the wall of a building
an armed man, weary and slow from a tiresome
vigil.  Another emerged from behind a pile of
boards that faced the marshal's abode, while
down the street another crept over the edge of
a dried-out water course and swore softly as he
stood up slowly to flex away the stiffness of
cramped limbs.  Of vain speculation he was
empty; he had exhausted all the whys and hows
long before and now only muttered discontentedly
as he reviewed the hours of fruitless
waiting.  And he was uneasy; it was not like Harris
to take a dare and swallow his own threats
without a struggle.  He looked around apprehensively,
shrugged his shoulders and stalked behind
the shacks across from the two hotels.

Another figure crept from the protection of
Hawley's corral like a slinking coyote, gun in
hand and nervously alert.  He was just in time
to escape the challenge that would have been
hurled at him by Hawley, himself, had that
gentleman seen the skulker as he grouchily opened
one shutter and scowled sleepily at the kindling
eastern sky.  Mr. Hawley was one of those who
go to bed with regret and get up with remorse,
and his temper was always easily disturbed
before breakfast.  The skulker, safe from the
remorseful gentleman's eyes, and gun, kept close
to the building as he walked and was again
fortunate, for he had passed when Mr. Hawley
strode heavily into his kitchen to curse the cold,
rusty stove, a rite he faithfully performed each
morning.  Across the street George and Art
Thomas walked to meet each other behind the
row of shacks and stopped near the harness shop
to hold a consultation.  The subject was so
interesting that for a few moments they were
oblivious to all else.

A man softly stepped to the door of the
Victoria and watched the two across the street with
an expression on his face that showed his
smiling contempt for them and their kind.  He was
a small man, so far as physical measurements
go, but he was lithe, sinewy and compact.  On
his opened vest, hanging slovenly and blinking
in the growing light as if to prepare itself for
the blinding glare of midday, glinted a
five-pointed star of nickel, a lowly badge that every
rural community knows and holds in an awe far
above the metal or design.  Swinging low on his
hip gleamed the ivory butt of a silver-plated
Colt, the one weakness that his vanity seized
upon.  But under the silver and its engraving,
above and before the cracked and stained ivory
handles, lay the power of a great force; and
under the casing of the marshal's small body lay a
virile manhood, strong in courage and
determination.  Toby Harris watched, smilingly; he
loved the dramatic and found keen enjoyment in
the situation.  Out of the corner of his eye he
saw a carelessly dressed cowpuncher slouching
indolently along close to the buildings on the
other side of the street with the misleading
sluggishness of a panther.  The red hair, kissed by
the slanting rays of the sun where it showed
beneath the soiled sombrero, seemed to be a
flaming warning; the half-closed eyes, squinting
under the brim of the big hat, missed nothing as
they darted from point to point.

The marshal stepped silently to the porch and
then on to the ground, his back to the rear of
the hotel, waiting to be discovered.  He had
been in sight perhaps a minute.  The
cowpuncher made a sudden, eye-baffling movement
and smoke whirled about his hips.  Fred,
turning the corner behind the marshal, dropped his
gun with a scream of rage and pain and crashed
against the window in sudden sickness, his
gunhand hanging by a tendon from his wrist.  The
marshal stepped quickly forward at the shot and
for an instant gazed deeply into the eyes of the
startled rustlers.  Then his Colt leaped out and
crashed a fraction of a second before the brothers
fired.  George Thomas reeled, caught sight of
the puncher and fired by instinct.  Bill, leaving
Harris to watch the other side of the street, was
watching the rear corner of the Victoria and
was unprepared for the shot.  He crumpled
and dropped and then the marshal, enraged,
ended the rustler's earthly career in a stream of
flame and smoke.  Tom, turning into the street
further down, wheeled and dashed for his horse,
and Art, having leaped behind the harness shop,
turned and fled for his life.  He had nearly
reached his horse and was going at top speed
with great leaps when the prostrate man in the
street, raising on his elbow, emptied his gun
after him, the five shots sounding almost as one.
Art Thomas arose convulsively, steadied
himself and managed to gain the saddle.  Harris
looked hastily down the street and saw a cloud
of dust racing northward, and grunted.  "Let
them go—*they* won't never come back no more."
Running to the cowpuncher he raised him after
a hurried examination of the wounded thigh.
"Hop along, Cassidy," he smiled in encouragement.
"You 'll be a better man with one good
laig than th' whole gang was all put together."

The puncher smiled faintly as Hawley,
running to them, helped him toward his hotel.  "Th'
bone is plumb smashed.  I reckon I 'll hop
along through life.  It 'll be hop along, for me,
all right.  That's *my* name, all right.  Huh!
Hopalong Cassidy!  But I didn't hop into
h—l, did I, Harris?" he grinned bravely.

And thus was born a nickname that found
honor and fame in the cow-country—a name
that stood for loyalty, courage and most
amazing gun-play.  I have Red's word for this, and
the endorsement of those who knew him at the
time.  And from this on, up to the time he died,
and after, we will forsake "Bill" and speak of him
as Hopalong Cassidy, a cowpuncher who lived
and worked in the days when the West was wild
and rough and lawless; and who, like others,
through the medium of the only court at hand,
Judge Colt, enforced justice as he believed it
should be enforced.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"DEALING THE ODD"`:

.. class:: center large

   VII


.. class:: center large

   "DEALING THE ODD"

.. vspace:: 2

Faro-bank is an expensive game when
luck turns a cold shoulder on any player,
and "going broke" is as easy as ruffling a deck.
When a man finds he has two dollars left out of
more than two months' pay and that it has taken
him less than thirty minutes to get down to that
mark, he cannot be censored much if he rails at
that Will-o'-the-wisp, the Goddess of Luck.
Put him a good ten days' ride from home,
acquaintances and money and perhaps he will be
justified in adding heat in plenty to his
denunciation.  He had played to win when he should
have coppered, coppered when he should have
played to win, he had backed both ends against
the middle and played the high card as well—but
only when his bets were small did the turn
show him what he wanted to see.  Perhaps the
case-keeper had hoodooed him, for he never did
have any luck at cards when a tow-headed man
had a finger in the game.

Fuming impotently at his helplessness, a man
limped across the main street in Colby,
constrained and a little awkward in his new store
clothes and new, squeaking boots that were
clumsy with stiffness.  The only things on him
that he could regard as old and tried friends were
the battered sombrero and the heavy, walnut-handled
Colt's .45 which rubbed comfortably
with each movement of his thigh.  The weapon,
to be sure, had a ready cash value—but he could
not afford to part with it.  The horse belonged
to his ranch, and the saddle must not be sold;
to part with it would be to lose his mark of caste
and become a walking man, which all good
punchers despised.

"Ten days from home, knowin' nobody, two
measly dollars in my pocket, an' luck dead agin
me," he growled with pugnacious pessimism.
"Oh, I 'm a wise old bird, I am!  A h—l of a
wise bird.  Real smart an' cute an' shiny, a
cache of wisdom, a real, bonyfied Smart Aleck
with a head full of spavined brains.  I copper
th' deuce an' th' deuce wins; I play th' King to
win for ten dollars when I ought to copper it.
I lay two-bits and it comes right—ten dollars
an' I see my guess go *loco*.  Reckon I better
slip these here twin bucks down in my kill-me-soon
boots afore some blind papoose takes 'em
away from me.  Wiser 'n Solomon, I am; I 've
got old Caesar climbin' a cactus for pleasure an'
joy.  S-u-c-k-e-r is my middle name—an' I 'm
busted."

He almost stumbled over a little tray of a
three-legged table on the corner of the street and
his face went hard as he saw the layout.  Three
halves of English walnut shells lay on the faded
and soiled green cloth and a blackened, shriveled
pea was still rolling from the shaking he had
given the table.  He stopped and regarded it
gravely, jingling his two dollars disconsolately.
"Don't this town do nothin' else besides gamble?"
he muttered, looking around.

"Howd'y, stranger!" cheerfully cried a man
who hastened up.  "Want to see me fool you?"

The puncher's anger was aroused to a thin,
licking flame; but it passed swiftly and a cold,
calculating look came into his eyes.  He glanced
around swiftly, trying to locate the cappers, but
they were not to be seen, which worried him a
little.  He always liked to have possible danger
where he could keep an eye on it.  Perhaps they
were eating or drinking—the thought stirred
him again to anger: two dollars would not feed
him very long, nor quench his thirst.

"Pick it out, stranger," invited the proprietor,
idly shifting the shells.  "It's easy if yo 're
right smart—but lots of folks just can't do it;
they can't seem to get th' hang of it, somehow.
That's why it's a bettin' proposition.  Here it
is, right before yore eyes!  One little pea, three
little shells, right here plumb in front of yore
eyes!  Th' little pea hides under one of th' little
shells, right in plain sight: But can you tell
which one?  That's th' whole game, right there.
See how it's done?" and the three little shells
moved swiftly but clumsily and the little pea
disappeared.  "Now, then; where would *you*
say it was?" demanded the hopeful operator,
genially.

The puncher gripped his two dollars firmly,
shifted his weight as much as possible on his
sound leg, and scowled: he knew where it was.
"Do I look like a kid?  Do you reckon you
have to coax like a fool to get me all primed up
to show how re-markably smart an' quick I
am?  You don't; I know how smart I am.
Say, you ain't, not by any kinda miracle, a blind
papoose, are you?" he demanded.

"What you mean?" asked the other, smiling
as he waited for the joke.  It did not come, so
he continued.  "Don't take no harm in my fool
wind-jammin', stranger.  It's in th' game.
It's a habit; I 've said it so much I just can't
help it no more—I up an' says it at a funeral
once; that is, part of it—th' first part.  That's
dead right!  But I reckon I 'm wastin' my
time—unless you happen to feel coltish an' hain't
got nothin' to do for an age.  I 've been playin'
in hard luck th' last week or so—you see, I ain't
as good as I uster be.  I ain't quite so quick, an'
a little bit off my quickness is a whole lot off my
chances.  But th' game's square—an' that's
a good deal more'n you can say about most of 'em."

The puncher hesitated, a grin flickering about
his thin lips and a calm joy warming him
comfortably.  He knew the operator.  He knew
that face, the peculiar, crescent-shaped scar over
one brow, and the big, blue eyes that years of
life had not entirely robbed of their baby-like
innocence.  The past, sorted thoroughly and
quickly by his memory, shoved out that face
before a crowd of others.  Five years is not a long
time to remember something unpleasant; he had
reasons to remember that countenance.  Knowing
the face he also knew that the man had been,
at one time, far from "square."  The associations
and means of livelihood during the past
five years, judging from the man's present
occupation, had not been the kind to correct any
evil tendency.  He laid a forefinger on the edge
of the tray.  "Start th' machinery—I 'll risk a
couple of dollars, anyhow.  That ain't much to
lose.  I bet two dollars I can call it right," he
said, watching closely.

He won, as he knew he would; and the result
told him that the gambler had not reformed.
The dexterous fingers shifting the shells were
slower than others he had seen operate and when
he had won again he stopped, as if to leave.
"When I hit town a short time ago I didn't
know I 'd be so lucky.  I went an' drawed two
months' pay when I left th' ranch: I shore don't
need it.  Shuffle 'em again—it's yore money,
anyhow," he laughed.  "You should 'a' quit th'
game before you got so slow."

"Goin' back to work purty soon?" queried the
shell-man, wondering how much this "sucker"
had left unspent.

"Not me!  I 've only just had a couple of
drinks since I hit town—an' *I* 'm due to celebrate."

The other's face gave no hint of his thoughts,
which were that the fool before him had about a
hundred dollars on his person.  "Well, luck's
with you today—you 've called it right twice.
I 'll bet you a cool hundred that you can't call
it th' third time.  It's th' quickness of my hands
agin yore eyes—an' you can't beat me three
straight.  Make it a hundred?  I hate to play all day."

"I 'll lay you my winnings an' have some more
of yore money," replied the puncher, feverishly.
"Ain't scared, are you?"

"Don't know what it means to be scared,"
laughed the other.  "But I ain't got no small
change, nothin' but tens.  Play a hundred an'
let's have some real excitement."

"Nope; eight or nothin'."

He won again.  "Now, sixteen even.  Come
on; I 've got you beat."

"But what's th' use of stringin' 'long like
that?" demanded the shell-man.

"Gimme a chance to get my hand in, won't
you?" retorted the puncher.

"Well, all right," replied the gambler, and he
lost the sixteen.

"Now thirty," suggested the puncher.  "Next
time all I 've got, every red cent.  Once more
to practice—then every red," he repeated, shifting
his feet nervously.  "I 'll clean you out an'
have a real, genuine blow-out on yore money.
Come on, I 'm in a hurry."

"I 'll fool you *this* time, by th' Lord!" swore
the gambler, angrily.  "You've got more luck
than sense.  An' I 'll fool you next time, too.
Yo 're quicker 'n most men I 've run up agin,
but I can beat you, shore as shootin'.  Th'
game's square, th' play fair—my hand agin
yore eye.  Ready?  Then watch me!"

He swore luridly and shoved the money across
the board to the winner, bewailing his slowness
and getting angrier every moment.  "Yo 're th'
cussedest man I ever bet agin!  But I'll get
you *this* time.  You can't guess right all th'
time, an' I know it."

"There she is; sixty-two bucks, three score an'
two simoleons; all I 've got, every cent.  Let's
see you take it away from me!"

The gambler frowned and choked back a
curse.  He had risked sixty dollars to win two,
and the fact that he had to let this fool play
again with the fire hurt his pride.  He had no
fear for his money—he knew he could win at
every throw—but to play that long for two
dollars!  And suppose the sucker had quit with the
sixty!

"Do you get a dollar a month?" he demanded,
sarcastically.  "Well, I reckon you earn it, at
that.  Thought you had money, thought you
drew down two months' pay an' hain't had
nothin' more'n two drinks?  Did you go an'
lose it on th' way?"

"Oh, I drew it a month ago," replied the
sucker, surprised.  "I 've only had two drinks
in this town, which I hit 'bout an hour ago.  But
I shore lost a wad playin' faro-bank agin a
towhead.  Come on—lemme take sixty more of
yore money, anyhow."

"Sixty-*two*!" snapped the proprietor, determined
to have those two miserable dollars and
break the sucker for revenge.  "Every cent, you
remember."

"*All* right; I don't care!  I ain't no tin-horn,"
grumbled the other.  "Think I care 'bout two
dollars?"  But he appeared to be very nervous,
nevertheless.

"Well, put it on th' table."

"After you put yourn down."

"There it is.  Now watch me close!"  A
gleam of joy flashed up in the angry man's eyes
as he played with the shells.  "Watch me close!
Mebby it is, an' mebby it ain't—th' game's
square, th' play 's fair.  It's my hand agin yore
eye.  Watch me close!"

"Oh, go ahead!  I'm watchin', all right.
Think I 'd go to sleep now!"

The shifting hands stopped, the shells lay
quiet, and the gambler gazed blankly down the
unsympathetic barrel of a Colt.

"Now, Thomas, old thimble-rigger," crisply
remarked the supposed sucker as he cautiously
slid the money off the table, to be picked up
later when conditions would be more favorable.
"Th' little pea ain't under *no* shell.  *Stop*!
Step back one pace an' elevate them paws.
Don't make no more funny motions with that
hand, savvy?  But you can drop th' pea if it
hurts them two fingers.  Now we 'll see if I
win; I allus like to be shore," and he cautiously
turned over the shells, revealing nothing but the
dirty green cloth.  "I win; it ain't there—just
like I thought."

"Who are you, an' how 'd you know my
name?" demanded the gambler, mentally cursing
his two missing cappers.  They were drinking
once too often and things were going to
happen in their vicinity, and very soon.

"Why, you took twenty-five dollars from me
up in Alameda onct, when I could n't afford to
lose it," grinned the puncher.  "I was something
of a kid then.  I remember you, all right.
My foreman told me about yore bang-up fight
agin th' Johnson brothers, who gave you that
scar.  I thought then that you were a great
man—now I know you ain't.  I would n't 'a' played
at all if I had n't knowed how crooked you was.
Take yore layout an' yore crookedness, find th'
pea an' yore cappers, an' clear out.  An' if
anybody asks you if you 've seen Hopalong Cassidy
you tell 'em I 'm up here in Colby makin' some
easy money beatin' crooked games.  So-long, an'
*don't* look back!"

Hopalong watched him go and then went to
the nearest place where he could get something
to eat.  In due time, having disposed of a square
meal, Hopalong called for a drink and a cigar,
and sat quietly smoking for nearly half an hour,
so lost in thought that his cigar went out
repeatedly.  As he reviewed his disastrous play at faro
many small details came to him and now he
found them interesting.  The dealer was not a
master at his trade and Hopalong had seen
many better; in fact the man was not even second
class, and this fact hurt his pride.  He had
played a careful game, and the great majority
of his small bets had won—it was only when he
risked twenty or thirty dollars that he lost.  The
only big bet that he had been at all lucky on was
one where doubles showed on the turn and he
had been split, losing half of his stake.  But
when he had played his last fifty dollars on the
Jack, open, the final blow fell and he had left
the table in disgust.

Why weren't there cue-cards, so the players
could keep their own tally of the cards instead
of having to depend on the cue-box kept by the
case-keeper?  This made him suspicious; a
crooked dealer and case-keeper can trim a big
bet at will, unless the players keep their own
cases or are exceptionally wise; and even then
a really good dealer will get away with his play
nine times out of ten.  While he seldom played
a system, he had backed one that morning; but
he was cured of that weakness now.  If the
game were square he figured he could get at least
an even break; if crooked, nothing but a gun
could beat it, and he had a very good gun.
When he thought of the gun, he reviewed the
arrangement of the room and estimated the
weight of the rough, deal table on which rested
the faro layout.  He smiled and turned to the
bartender.  "Hey, barkeeper!  Got any paper
an' a pencil?"

After some rummaging the taciturn dispenser
of liquid forget-it produced the articles
in question and Hopalong, drawing some
hurried lines, paid his bill, treated, kept the pencil
and headed for the faro game across the street.

When he entered the room the table was
deserted and he nodded to the dealer as he seated
himself at the right of the case-keeper, who now
took his place, and opposite the dealer and the
lookout.  He was not surprised to find no other
players in the room, for the hour was wrong;
later in the afternoon there would be many and
at night the place would be crowded.  This
suited him perfectly and he settled himself to
begin playing.

When the deck was shuffled and placed in the
deal box Hopalong put his ruled paper in front
of him on the table, tallied once against the King
for the soda card and started to play quarters
and half dollars.  He caught the fugitive look
that passed between the men as they saw his
cue-card but he gave no sign of having observed
it.  After that he never looked up from the cards
while his bets were small.  Two deals did not
alter his money much and he knew that so far
the game was straight.  If it were not to
remain straight the crookedness would not come
more than once in a deal if the frame-up was
"single-odd" and then not until the bet was large
enough to practically break him.  His
high-card play ran in his favor and kept him
gradually drawing ahead.  He lost twice in calling
the last turn and guessed it right once, at four
to one, which made him win in that department
of the game.

When the fifth deal began he was quite a
little ahead and his play became bolder, some of
the bets going as high as ten dollars.  He broke
even and then played heavier on the following
deal.  His first high bet, twenty dollars, was on
the eight, open, only one eight having shown.
Double eights showed on the next turn and he
was split, losing half the stake.

It was about this time that the look-out
discovered that Mr. Cassidy was getting a little
excited and several times had nearly forgotten
to keep his cases.  This information was cautiously
passed to the dealer and case-keeper and
from then on they evinced a little more interest
in the game.  Finally the player, after studying
his cue-card, placed fifty dollars on the Queen,
open, and coppered the deuce, a case-card, and
then put ten more on the high card.  This came
in the middle of the game and he was prepared
for trouble as the turn was made, but fortune
was kind to him and he raked in sixty dollars.
He was mildly surprised that he had won, but
explained it to himself by thinking that the
stakes were not yet high enough.  From then
on he was keenly alert, for the crookedness would
come soon if it ever did, but he strung small
sums on the next dozen turns and waited for a
new deal before plunging.

As the dealer shuffled the cards the door
opened and closed noisily and a surprised and
doubting voice exclaimed: "Ain't you
Hopalong Cassidy?  Cassidy, of th' Bar-20?"

Hopalong glanced up swiftly and back to the
cards again: "Yes; what of it?"

"Oh, nothin'.  I saw you onct an' I
wondered if I was right."

"Ain't got time now; see you later, mebby.
You might stick around outside so I can borrow
some money if I go broke."  The man who knew
Mr. Cassidy silently faded, but did not stick
around, thereby proving that the player knew
human nature and also how to get rid of a pest.

When the dealer heard the name he glanced
keenly at the owner of it, exchanged significant
looks with the case-keeper and faltered for an
instant as he shoved the cards together.  He
was not sure that he had shuffled them right, and
an anxious look came into his eyes as he realized
that the deal must go on.  It was far from
reassuring to set out to cheat a man so well known
for expert short-gun work as the Bar-20 puncher
and he wished he could be relieved.  There was
no other dealer around at that time of the day
and he had to go through with it.  He did not
dare to shuffle again and chance losing the card
beyond hope, and for the reason that the player
was watching him like a hawk.

A ten lay face up on the deck and Hopalong,
tallying against it on his sheet, began to play
small sums.  Luck was variable and remained
so until the first twenty dollar bet, when he
reached out excitedly and raked in his winnings,
his coat sleeve at the same time brushing the
cue-card off the table.  But he had forgotten all
about the tally sheet in his eagerness to win and
played several more cards before he noticed it
was missing and sought for it.  Smothering a
curse he glanced at the case-keeper's tally and
went on with the play.  He did not see the look
of relief that showed momentarily on the faces
of the dealer and his associates, but he guessed it.

He had no use for cue-cards when he felt like
doing without them; he liked to see them in use
by the players because it showed the game to be
more or less straight, and it also saved him from
over-heating his memory.  When he had
brushed his tally sheet off the table he knew
what he was doing, and he knew every card that
had been drawn out of the box.  So far he had
seen no signs of cheating and he wished to give
the dealer a chance.  There should now remain
in the deal box three cards, a deuce, five and a
four, with a Queen in sight as the last winner.
He knew this to be true because he had given all
his attention to memorizing the cards as they
showed in the deal box, and had made his bets
small so he would not have to bother about them.
As he had lost three times on a four he now
believed it was due to win.

Taking all his money he placed it on the four:
"Two hundred and seventy on th' four to win,"
he remarked, crisply.

The dealer sniffed almost inaudibly and the
case-keeper prepared to cover him on the
cue-rack under cover of the excitement of the turn.
If the four lay under the Queen, Cassidy lost;
if not he either won or was in hock.  The dealer
was unusually grave as he grasped the deal box
to make the turn and as the Queen slid off a
five-spot showed.

The dealer's hand trembled as he slid the five
off, showing a four, and a winner for Hopalong.
He went white—he had bungled the shuffle in
his indecision and now he did n't know what
might develop.  And in his agitation he exposed
the hock card before he realized what he was
doing, and showed another five.  He had made the
mistake of showing the "odd."

Hopalong, ready for trouble, was more
prepared than the others and he was well under way
before they started.  His left hand swung hard
against the case-keeper's jaw, his Colt roared at
the drawing bartender, crumpling the trouble-hunter
into a heap on the floor dazed from shock
of a ball that "creased" his head.  He had done
this as he sprang to his feet and his left hand,
dropping swiftly to the heavy table, threw it
over onto the lookout and the dealer at the
instant their hands found their guns.  Caught off
their balance they went down under it and
before they could move sufficiently to do any
damage, Hopalong vaulted the table and kicked
their guns out of their hands.  When they
realized just what had happened a still-smoking Colt
covered them.  Many of Hopalong's most
successful and spectacular plays had been less
carefully thought out beforehand than this one and
he laughed sneeringly as he looked at the men
who had been so greedy as to try to clean him out
the second time.

"Get up!" he snarled.

They crawled out of their trap and sullenly
obeyed his hand, backing against the wall.  The
case-keeper was still unconscious and Hopalong,
disarming him, dragged him to the wall with the
others.

"I wondered where that deuce had crawled to,"
Mr. Cassidy remarked, grimly, "an' I was goin'
to see, only it's plain now.  I knowed you was
clumsy, but my G—d!  Any man as can't deal
'single-odd' ought to quit th' business, or play
straight.  So you had five fives agin me, eh?
Instead of keepin' th' five under th' Queen, you
bungled th' deuce in its place.  When you went
to pull off th' Queen an' five like they was one
card, you had th' deuce under her.  You see, I
keep cases in my old red head an' I did n't have
to believe what th' cue-rack was all fixed to show
me.  An' I was waitin', all ready for th' play
that 'd make me lose.

"As long as this deal was framed up, we 'll
say it was this mornin'.  You cough up th'
hundred an' ten I lost then, an' another hundred an'
ten that I 'd won if it was n't crooked.  An'
don't forget that two-seventy I just pulled down,
neither.  Make it in double eagles an' don't be
slow 'bout it.  Money or lead—with *you* callin'
th' turn."  It was not a very large amount and
it took only a moment to count it out.  The
eleven double eagles representing the mornin's
play seemed to slide from the dealer's hand with
reluctance—but a man lives only once, and they
slid without stopping.

The winner, taking the money, picked up the
last money he had bet and, distributing it over
his person to equalize the weight, gathered up
the guns from the floor.  Backing toward the
door he noticed that the bartender moved and
a keen glance at that unfortunate assured him
that he would live.

When he reached the door he stopped a
moment to ask a question, the tenseness of his
expression relaxing into a broad, apologetic grin.
"Would you mind tellin' me where I can find
some more frame-ups?  I shore can use th' money."

The mumbled replies mentioned a locality not
to be found on any map of the surface of the
globe, and grinning still more broadly, Mr. Cassidy
side-stepped and disappeared to find his
horse and go on his way rejoicing.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE NORTHER`:

.. class:: center large

   VIII


.. class:: center large

   THE NORTHER

.. vspace:: 2

Johnny knew I had a notebook crammed
with the stories his friends had told me;
but Johnny, being a wise youth, also knew that
there was always room for one more.  Perhaps
that explains his sarcasm, for, as he calmly
turned his back on his fuming friend, he winked
at me and sauntered off, whistling cheerfully.

Red spread his feet apart, jammed his fists
against his thighs and stared after the youngster.
His expression was a study and his open mouth
struggled for a retort, but in vain.  After a
moment he shook his head and slowly turned to
me.  "Hear th' fool?  He 's from *Idyho*, he is.
It never gets cold nowhere else on earth.  Ain't
it terrible to be so ignorant?"  He glanced at
the bunkhouse, into which Johnny had gone for
dry clothing.  "So I ain't never seen no cold
weather?" he mused thoughtfully.  Snapping
his fingers irritably, he wheeled toward the
corral.  "I 'm goin' down to look at th' dam—there
's been lots of water leanin' ag'in it th' last
week.  Throw th' leather on Saint, if you wants,
an' come along.  I 'll tell you about some cold
weather that had th' *Idyho* brand faded.  *Cold*
weather!  Huh!"

As he swung past the bunkhouse we saw
Johnny and Billy Jordan leaning in the
doorway ragging each other, as cubs will.  Johnny
grinned at Red and executed a one-hand phrase
of the sign language that is universally known,
which Red returned with a chuckle.  "Wish he 'd
been here th' time God took a hand in a big game
on this ranch," he said.  "I 'm minus two toes
on each foot in consequence thereof.  They can't
scare me none by preachin' a red-hot hell.  No,
sir; not any."

He was silent a moment.  "Mebby it ain't
so bad when a feller is used to it; but we ain't.
An' it frequent hits us goin' over th' fence,
with both feet off th' ground.  Anyhow, that
Norther was n't no storm—it was th' attendant
agitation caused by th' North Pole visitin' th'
Gulf.

"Cowan had just put Buckskin on th' map
by buildin' th' first shack.  John Bartlett an'
Shorty Jones, d—n him, was startin' th' Double
Arrow with two hundred head.  When th'
aforementioned agitation was over they had
less 'n one hundred.  We lost a lot of cows, too;
but our range is sheltered good, an' that rock
wall down past Meeker's bunkhouse stopped our
drifts, though lots of th' cows died there.

"We 'd had a mild winter for two weeks, an'
a lot of rain.  We was chirpin' like li'l fool birds
about winter bein' over.  Ever notice how many
times winter is over before it is?  But Buck
did n't think so; an' he shore can smell weather.
We was also discussin' a certain campin' party
Jimmy had discovered across th' river.  Jimmy
was at th' bunkhouse that shift an' he was a great
hand for snoopin' around kickin' up trouble.
He reports there's twelve in th' party an'
they 're camped back of Split Hill.  Now, Split
Hill is no place for a camp, even in th' summer;
an' what got us was th' idea of campin' at all in
th' winter.  It riled Buck till he forgot to cross
off three days on th' calendar, which we later
discovered by help of th' almanac an' th' moon.
Buck sends Hoppy over to scout around Split
Hill.  You know Hoppy.  He scouted for two
days without bein' seen, an' without discoverin'
any lawful an' sane reason why twelve hard-lookin'
fellers should be campin' back of Split
Hill in th' winter time.  He also found they
had come from th' south, an' he swore there
was n't no cow tracks leadin' toward them from
our range.  But there was lots of hoss tracks
back and forth.  An' when he reports that th'
campers had left an' gone on north we all feel
better.  Then he adds they turned east below
th' Double Arrow an' went back south again.
That's different.  It's plain to some of us they
was lookin' us over for future use; learnin' our
ways an' th' lay of th' land.  There was seven
of us at th' time, but we could 'a' licked 'em in
a fair fight.

"In them days we only had two line houses.
Number One was near Big Coulee, with Cowan's
at th' far end of its fifteen miles of north line;
th' west line was a twenty-five-mile ride south
to Lookout Peak.  Number Two was where th'
Jumpin' Bear empties into th' river, now part
of Meeker's range.  From it th' riders went west
twenty-five miles to th' Peak an' north from it
twenty-five miles along th' east line.  There was
a hundred thousan' acres in Conroy Valley an'
thirty thousan' in th' Meeker triangle, which
made up Section Two.  At that time mebby ten
thousan' cows was on this section—two-thirds of
all of 'em.  When we built Number Three on
th' Peak this section was cut down to a reasonable
size.  Th' third headquarters then was th'
bunkhouse, with only th' east line to ride.  One
part, th' shortest, ran north to Cowan's; th' other
run about seventeen miles south to Li'l Timber,
where th' line went on as part of Number Two's.
We paired off an' had two weeks in each of 'em
in them days.

"When we shifted at th' end of that week
Jimmy Price an' Ace Fisher got Number One;
Skinny an' Lanky was in Number Two; an' me
an' Buck an' Hoppy took life easy in th'
bunkhouse, with th' cook to feed us.  Buck, he
scouted all over th' ranch between th' lines an'
worked harder than any of us, spendin' his nights
in th' nearest house.

"One mornin', about a week after th' campers
left, Buck looked out of th' bunkhouse door an'
cautions me an' Hoppy to ride prepared for cold
weather.  I can see he 's worried, an' to please
him we straps a blanket an' a buffalo robe
behind our saddles, cussin' th' size of 'em under
our breath.  I 've got th' short ride that day,
an' Buck says he 'll wait for me to come back,
after which we 'll scout around Medicine Bend.
He 's still worried about them campers.  In th'
Valley th' cows are thicker 'n th' other parts of
th' range, an' it would n't take no time to get a
big herd together.  He 's got a few things to
mend, so he says he 'll do th' work before I get
back.

"Down on Section Two things is happenin'
fast, like they mostly do out here.  Twelve
rustlers can do a lot if they have things planned,
an' 'most any fair plan will work once.  They
only wanted one day—after that it would be a
runnin' fight, with eight or nine of 'em layin'
back to hold us off while th' others drove th'
cows hard.  Why, Slippery Trendley an' Tamale
Jose was th' only ones that ever slid across
our lines with that many men.

"Three rustlers slipped up to Number Two
at night an' waited.  When Skinny opened th'
door in th' mornin' he was drove back with a hole
in his shoulder.  Then there was h—l a-poppin'
in that li'l mud shack.  But it did n't do no good,
for neither of 'em could get out alive until after
dark.  They learned that with sorrow, an' pain.
An' they shore was het up about it.  Ace Fisher,
ridin' along th' west line from Number One, was
dropped from ambush.  Two more rustlers lay
back of Medicine Bend lookin' for any of us that
might ride down from the bunkhouse.  An' they
sent two more over to Li'l Timber to lay under
that ledge of rock that sticks out of th' south side
of th' bluff like a porch roof.  Either me or
Hoppy would be ridin' that way.  They stacked
th' deck clever; but Providence cut it square.

"Th' first miss-cue comes when a pert gray
wolf lopes past ahead of Hoppy when he 's quite
some distance above Li'l Timber.  This gray
wolf was a whopper, an' Hoppy was all set to
get him.  He wanted that sassy devil more 'n
he wanted money just then, so he starts after it.
Mr. Gray Wolf leads him a long chase over th'
middle of th' range an' then suddenly disappears.
Hoppy hunts around quite a spell, an' then heads
back for th' line.  While he's huntin' for th'
wolf it gets cold, an' it keeps on gettin' colder fast.

"Me, I leaves later 'n usual that mornin'.  An'
I don't get to Cowan's until late.  I 'm there
when I notices how cussed cold it's got all of
a sudden.  Cowan looks at his thermometer,
which Jimmy later busts, an' says she has gone
down thirty degrees since daylight.  He gives
me a bottle of liquor Buck wanted, an' I ride
west along th' north line, hopin' to meet Jimmy
or Ace for a short talk.

"All at once I notice somebody 's pullin' a
slate-covered blanket over th' north sky, an' I
drag *my* blanket out an' wrap it around me.
I 'm gettin' blamed cold, an' also a li'l worried.
Shall I go back to Cowan's or head straight for
th' bunkhouse?  Cowan's the nearest by three
miles, but what's three miles out here?  It's got
a lot colder than it was when I was at Cowan's,
an' while I 'm debatin' about it th' wind dies out.
I look up an' see that th' slate-covered blanket
has traveled fast.  It's 'most over my head, an'
th' light is gettin' poor.  When I look down
again I notice my cayuses's ears movin' back an'
forth, an' he starts pawin' an' actin' restless.
That settles it.  I 'm backin' instinct just then,
an' I head for home.  I ain't cussin' that blanket
none now, an' I 'm glad I got th' robe handy;
an' that quart of liquor ain't bulky no more.

"All at once th' bottom falls out of that lead
sky, an' flakes as big as quarters sift down so fast
they hurts my eyes, an' so thick I can't see
twenty feet.  In ten minutes everythin' is white,
an' in ten more I 'm in a strange country.  My
hands an' feet ache with cold, an' I 'm drawin'
th' blanket closer, when there 's a puff of wind
so cold it cuts into my back like a knife.  It
passes quick, but it don't fool me.  I know
what's behind it.  I reach for th' robe an' has
it 'most unfastened when there 's a roar an' I 'm
'most unseated by th' wind before I can get set.
I did n't know then that it's goin' to blow that
hard for three days, an' it's just as well.  It's
full of ice—li'l slivers that are sharp as needles
an' cut an' sting till they make th' skin raw.  I
let loose of th' robe an' tie my bandanna around
my face, so my nose an' mouth is covered.  My
throat burns already almost to my lungs.  Good
Lord, but it *is* cold!  My hands are stiff when
I go back for th' robe, an' it's all I can do to keep
it from blowin' away from me.  It takes me a
long time to get it over th' blanket, an' my hands
are 'most froze when it's fastened.  That was a
good robe, but it did n't make much difference
that day.  Th' cold cuts through it an' into my
back as if it was n't there.  My feet are gettin'
worse all th' time, an' it ain't long before I ain't
got none, for th' achin' stops at th' ankles.
Purty soon only my knees ache, an' I know it
won't be long till they won't ache no more.

"I 'm squirmin' in my clothes tryin' to rub
myself warm when I remember that flask of
liquor.  Th' cork was out far enough for my
teeth to get at it, an' I drink a quarter of it quick.
It's an awful load—any other time it would 'a'
knocked me cold, for Cowan sold a lot worse
stuff then than he does now.  But it don't phase
me, except for takin' most of th' linin' out of
my mouth an' throat.  It warms me a li'l, an' it
makes my knees ache a li'l harder.  But it don't
last long—th' cold eats through me just as hard
as ever a li'l later, an' then I begin to see things
an' get sleepy.  Cows an' cayuses float around
in th' air, an' I 'm countin' money, piles of it.
I get warm an' drowsy an' find myself noddin'.
That scares me a li'l, an' I fight hard ag'in it.
If I go to sleep it's all over.  It keeps gettin'
worse, an' I finds my eyes shuttin' more an' more
frequent, an' more an' more frequent thinkin' I
don't care, anyhow.  An' so I drifts along
pullin' at th' bottle till it's empty.  That should
'a' killed me, then an' there—but it don't even
make me real drunk.  Mebby I spilled some of
it, my hands bein' nothin' but sticks.  I can't see
more 'n five feet now, an' my eyes water, which
freezes on 'em.  I 've given up all hope of
hearin' any shootin'.  So I close th' peekhole in
th' blanket an' robe, drawin' 'em tight to keep
out some of th' cold.  I am sittin' up stiff in th'
saddle, like a soldier, just from force of habit,
and after a li'l while I don't know nothin' more.
Pete says I was a corpse, froze stiff as a ramrod,
an' he calls me ghost for a long time in fun.
But Pete was n't none too clear in his head about
that time.

"Down at Li'l Timber, Hoppy managed to
get under th' shelter of that projectin' ledge of
rock on th' south side of th' bluff.  Th' snow an'
ice is whirlin' under it because of a sort of back
draft, but th' wind don't hit so hard.  He 's
fightin' that cayuse every foot, tryin' to get to
th' cave at th' west end, an' disputin' th' right of
way with th' cows that are packed under it.

There 's firewood under that ledge an' there 's
food on th' hoof, an' snow water for drink; so if
he can make th' cave he 's safe.  He 's more
worried about his supply of smokin' tobacco than
anythin' else, so far as he 's concerned.

"All at once he runs onto four men huddled
half-froze in a bunch right ahead of him.  He
knows in a flash who they are, an' he draws
fumblingly, an' holds th' gun in his two hands,
they are so cold.  One clean hit an' five clean
misses in twenty feet!  They're gropin' for
their guns when a sudden gust of wind whirls
down from th' top of th' hill, pilin' snow an' ice
on 'em till they can't see nor breathe.  An' a
couple of old trees come down to make things
nicer.  Hoppy is blinded, an' when he gets so
he can see again there's one rustler's arm
stickin' up out of th' snow, but no signs of th'
other three.  They blundered out into th' open
tryin' to get away from th' stuff comin' down on
'em, an' that means they won't be back no more.

"Hoppy manages to get to th' cave, tie his
cayuse to a fallen tree, an' gather enough
firewood for a good blaze, which he puts in front of
th' cave.  It takes him a long time to use up his
matches one by one, an' then he pulls th' lead
out of a cartridge with his teeth, shakes th'
powder loose in it an' along th' barrel.  Usin' his
cigarette papers for tinder he gets th' fire
started an' goin' good an' is feelin' some
cheerful when he remembers th' three rustlers driftin'
south.  They was bound to hit a big arroyo that
would lead 'em almost ag'in' Number Two's door.
With th' wind drivin' 'em straight for it, Hoppy
thinks it might mean trouble for Lanky or
Skinny.  He did n't think about 'em only havin'
wool-lined slickers on, or he 'd 'a' knowed they
couldn't live till they got halfway.  They left
their blankets in camp so they could work fast.

"People have called us clannish, an' said we
was a lovin' bunch' because we stick together so
tight.  We 've faced so much together that us
of th' old bunch has got th' same blood in our
veins.  We ain't eight men—we 're one man in
eight different kinds of bodies.  G—d help
anybody that tries to make us less!  It's one thing
to stand up an' swap shots with a gunman; but
it's another to turn yore back on a cave an' a
fire like that an' go out into what is purty nigh
shore death on a long chance of helpin' a couple
of friends that was able to take care of
themselves.  That's one of th' things that explains
why we made Shorty Jones an' his eleven men
pay with their lives for takin' Jimmy's life.
Twelve for one!  That fight at Buckskin ain't
generally understood, even by our friends.  An'
Hoppy crowns his courage twice in that one
storm.  Ain't he an old son-of-a-gun?

"He leaves that fire an' forces his cayuse to
take him out in th' storm again, finds that th'
arroyo is level full of snow, but has both banks
swept bare.  He passes them three rustlers in
th' next ten minutes—they won't do no more
cow-liftin'.  Then he tries to turn back, but
that's foolish.  So he drifts on, gettin' a li'l loco
by now.  He 's purty near asleep when he thinks
he hears a shot.  He fights his cayuse again, but
can't stop it, so he falls off an' lets it drift, an'
crawls an' fights his way back to where that shot
was fired from.  G—d only knows how he does
it, but he falls over a cow an' sees Lanky huggin'
its belly for th' li'l warmth in th' carcass.  An'
he ought to 'a' found him, after leavin' his cayuse
an' turnin' back on foot in that h—l storm!  Th'
drifts was beginnin' to make then—when th'
storm was over I saw drifts thirty feet high in
th' open; an' in th' valley there was some that
run 'most to th' top of th' bluffs, an' they're
near sixty feet high.

"Well, Lanky is as crazy as him, an' won't
let go of that cow, an' they have a fight, which
is good for both of 'em.  Finally Lanky gets
some sense in his head an' realizes what Hoppy
is tryin' to do for him, an' they go staggerin'
down wind, first one fallin' an' then th' other.
But they keep fightin' like th' game boys they
are, neither givin' a cuss for himself, but shore
obstinate that he 's goin' to get th' other out of
it.  That's *our* spirit; an' we 're proud of it, by
G—d!  Hoppy wraps th' robe around Lanky,
an' so they stagger on, neither one knowin' very
much by that time.  Th' Lord must 'a' pitied
that pair, an' admired th' stuff He 'd put in 'em,
for they bump into th' line house kerslam, an'
drop, all done an' exhausted.

"Meanwhile Skinny's hoppin' around inside,
prayin' an' cussin' by streaks, every five minutes
openin' th' door an' firm' off his Colt.  He has
tied th' two ropes together, an' frequent he ties
one end to th' door, th' other to hisself, an' goes
out pokin' around in th' snow, hopin' to stumble
over his pardner.  He 's plumb forgot his bad
shoulder long ago.  Purty soon he opens th'
door again to shoot off th' gun, an' in streaks
somethin' between his laigs.  He slams th' door
as he jumps aside, an' then looks scared at
Lanky's sombrero!  Mebby he's slow hoppin'
outside an' diggin' them out of th' drift that's
near covered 'em!  Now, don't think bad of
Skinny.  He dass n't leave th' house to search
any distance, even if he could 'a' seen anythin'.
His best play is to stick there an' shoot off his
gun—Lanky might drift past if he was not there
to signal.  Skinny thought more of Lanky any
time than he did of hisself, th' emaciated match!

"It don't take long to kick in a lot of snow
with that wind blowin' an' he rubs them two till
he 's got tears in his eyes.  Then he fills 'em with
hot stew an' whisky, rolls 'em up together an'
heaves 'em in th' same bunk.  It ain't warm
enough in that house, even with th' fire goin', to
make 'em lose no arms or laigs.

"It seems that Lanky, watchin' his chance as
soon as th' snow fell heavy enough to cover his
movements, slipped out of th' house an' started
to circle out around them festive rustlers that
held him an' his friend prisoners.  He made
Skinny stay behind to hold th' house an' keep a
gun poppin'.  Lanky has worked up behind
where th' rustlers was layin' when th' Norther
strikes full force.  It near blows him over, an',
not havin' on nothin' but an old army overcoat
that was wore out, th' cold gets him quick.  He
can't see, an' he can't hear Skinny's shots no
more!  He does th' best he can an' tries to fight
back along his trail, but in no time there ain't
no tracks to follow.  Then he loses his head an'
starts wanderin' until a cow blunders down on
him.  He shoots th' cow an' hugs its belly to
keep warm an' then he don't really remember
nothin' 'till he wakes up in th' bunk alongside of
Hoppy, both gettin' over an awful drunk.
Skinny kept feedin' liquor to 'em till it was gone,
an' he had a plenty when he began.

"Jimmy Price was at Number One when th'
blow started, an' Buck was in th' bunkhouse, an'
it was three weeks before they could get out an'
around, on account of th' snow fallin' so steady
an' hard they could n't see nothin'.

"Well, getting back to me explains how Pete
Wilson came to th' Bar-20.  He is migratin'
south, just havin' had th' pleasure of learnin'
that his wife sloped with a better-lookin' man.
He was scared she might get tired of th' other
feller an' sift back, so he sells out his li'l store,
loads a waggin with blankets, grub, an' firewood,
an' starts south, winter or no winter.  He moves
fast for a new range, where he can make a new
beginnin' an' start life fresh, with five years of
burnin' matrimonial experience as his valuablest
asset.  Pete says he reckoned mebby he
would n't have so many harness sores if he run
single th' rest of his life; heretofore he 'd been
so busy applyin' salve that he did n't have time
to find out just what was th' trouble with th'
double harness.  Lots of men feel that way, but
they ain't got Pete's unlovely outspoken habit
of thought.  We used to reckon mebby he
was n't as smart as th' rest of us, him bein' slow
an' blunderin' in his retorts.  We 've played that
with coppers lots of times since, though.  While
he ain't what you 'd call quick at retortin', his
retorts usually is heard by th' whole county.  It
ain't every collar-galled husband that's got th'
gumption or smartness to jump th' minute th'
hat is lifted.  Pete had.

"He's drivin' across our range, an' when th'
wind dies out sudden an' th' snow sifts down,
he 's just smart enough to get out his beddin' an'
wrap it around him till he looks like a bale of
cotton.  An' even at that he 's near froze an'
lookin' for a place to make a stand when he feels
a bump.  It's me, fallin' off my cayuse, against
his front wheel.  He emerges from his beddin',
lifts me into th' waggin, puts most of his
blankets around me, an' stops.  Knowin' he
can't save th' cayuses, he shoots 'em.  That
means grub for us, anyhow, if we run short of
th' good stuff.  Nobody but Pete could 'a' got
th' canvas off that waggin in such a gale, but he
did it.  He busts th' arches an' slats off th' top
of th' waggin an' uses 'em for firewood.  Th'
canvas he drapes over th' box, lettin' it hang
down on both sides to th' ground.  An' in about
five minutes th' whole thing was covered over
with snow.  Pete 's the strongest man we ever
saw, an' we 've seen some good ones.  Wrastlin'
that canvas with stiff hands was a whole lot more
than what he done to Big Sandy up there on
Thunder Mesa.

"Pete says I was dead when he grabbed me,
an' smellin' disgraceful of liquor.  But th' first
thing I know is lookin' up in th' gloom at a
ceilin' that's right close to my head, an' at a
sorta rafter.  That rafter gives me a shock.  It
don't even touch th' ceilin', but runs along 'most
a foot below it.  I close my eyes an' do a lot of
thinkin'.  I remember freezin' to death, but
that's all.  An' just then I hears a faint voice
say: 'He shore was dead.'  I don't know Pete
then, or that he talked to hisself sometimes.  An'
I reckon I was a li'l off in my head, at that.  I
begin to wonder if he means me, an' purty soon
I 'm shore of it.  An' don't I sympathize with
myself?  I 'm dead an' gone somewhere; but no
preacher I ever heard ever described no place
like this.  Then I smell smoke an' burnin'
meat—which gives me a clew to th' range I 'm on.
Mebby I 'm shelved in th' ice box, waitin' my
turn, or somethin'.  I knew I 'd led a sinful life.
But there wasn't no use of rubbin' it in—it's
awful to be dead an' know it.

"Th' next time I opens my eyes I can't see
nothin'; but I can feel somethin' layin' alongside
of me.  It's breathin' slow an' regular, an it
bothers me till I get th' idea all of a sudden.
It's another dead one, cut out of th' herd an'
shoved in my corral to wait for subsequent
events.  I felt sorry for him, an' lay there tryin'
to figger it out, an' I 'm still figgerin' when it
starts to get light.  Th' other feller grunts an'
sits up, bumpin' his head solid against that fool
rafter.  No dead man that was shoved in a herd
consigned to heaven ever used such language,
which makes me all the shorer of where I am.
But if hell's hot we 've still got a long way to go.

"He sits there rubbin' his head an' cussin'
steadily, an' I 'm so moved by it that I
compliments him.  He jumps an' bumps his head
again, an' looks at me close.  'D—d if you ain't
a husky corpse,' he says.  That settles it.  I
ain't crazy, like I was hopin', but I 'in dead.
'You an' me is on th' ragged edge of h—l,' he adds.

"'But who tipped *you* off?' I asks.  'They
just shoved me in here an' did n't tell me nothin'
at all.'

"'Crazy as th' devil,' he grunts, lookin' at me
harder.

"'Yo 're a liar,' I replies.  'I may be dead,
but d—d if I 'm crazy!'

"'An' I don't blame you, either,' he mused,
sorrowful.  'Now you keep quiet till I gets
somethin' to eat,' an' he crawls into a li'l round
hole at th' other end of th' room.

"Purty soon I smell smoke again, an' after a
long time he comes back with some hot coffee an'
burned meat.  I grab for th' grub, an' while
I 'm eatin' I demands to know where I am.

"He laughs, real cheerful, an' tells me.  I 'm
under his waggin, surrounded by canvas an' any
G—d's quantity of snow.  Th' drift over us is
fifteen foot high, th' wind has died down, an'
it's still snowin' so hard he can't see twenty feet.
It is also away down below freezin'.

"We stayed under that drift 'most three
weeks, livin' on raw meat after our firewood gave
out.  We didn't suffer none from th' cold,
though, under all that snow an' with all th'
blankets we had.  When it stopped snowin' we
discovered a drift shamefully high about a mile
northeast of us, an' from th' smoke comin' out
of it I knew it was th' bunkhouse.

"Well, to cut it short, it was.  An' mebby
Buck wasn't glad to see me!  He was worried
'most sick an' as soon as we could, we got cayuses
and started out to look for th' others, scared stiff
at what we expected to find."

He paused and was silent a moment.  "But
only Ace was missin'," he added.  "We found
him an' th' rustlers later, when th' snow went off."

He paused again and shook his head.  "It
shore was a miracle that we did n't go with 'em,
all of us, except Buck.  Pete was so plumb
disgusted with travelin' in th' winter, an' had lost
his cayuses, that when Buck offers him Ace's
bunk he stays.  An' he ain't never left us since.
Huh!  Cold?  That cub don't know nothin'—mebby
he will when he grows up, but I dunno,
at that.  *Idyho*!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE DRIVE`:

.. class:: center large

   IX


.. class:: center large

   THE DRIVE

.. vspace:: 2

The Norther was a thing of the past, but it
left its mark on Buck Peters, whose
grimness of face told what the winter had been to
him.  His daily rides over the range, the
reports of his men since that deadly storm had done
a great deal to lift the sagging weight that
rested on his shoulders; but he would not be sure
until the round-up supplied facts and figures.

That the losses had not been greater he gave
full credit to the valley with its arroyos, rock
walls, draws, heavily grassed range and groves
of timber; for the valley, checking the great
southward drift by its steep ridges of rock,
sheltered the herds in timber and arroyos and fed
them on the rich profusion of its grasses, which,
by some trick of the rushing winds, had been
whirled clean of snow.

But over the cow-country, north, east, south
and west, where vast ranges were unprotected
against the whistling blasts from the north, the
losses had been stupendous, appalling, stunning.
Outfits had been driven on and on before the
furious winds, sleepy and apathetic, drifting
steadily southward in the white, stinging shroud
to a drowsy death.  Whole herds, blindly
moving before the wind, left their weaker units in
constantly growing numbers to mark the trail,
and at last lay down to a sleep eternal.  And
astonishing and incredible were the distances
traveled by some of those herds.

Following the Norther came another menace
and one which easily might surpass the worst
efforts of the blizzard.  Warm winds blew
steadily, a hot sun glared down on the snow-covered
plain and then came torrents of rain which
continued for days, turning the range into a huge
expanse of water and mud and swelling the
water-courses with turgid floods that swirled and roared
above their banks.  Should this be quickly
followed by cold, even the splendid valley would
avail nothing.  Ice, forming over the grasses,
would prove as deadly as a pestilence; the cattle,
already weakened by the hardships of the
Norther, and not having the instinct to break
through the glassy sheet and feed on the grass
underneath, would search in vain for food, and
starve to death.  The week that followed the
cessation of the rains started gray hairs on the
foreman's head; but a warm, constant sun and
warm winds dried off the water before the return
of freezing weather.  The herds were saved.

Relieved, Buck reviewed the situation.  The
previous summer had seen such great northern
drives to the railroad shipping points in Kansas
that prices fell until the cattlemen refused to
sell.  Rather than drive home again, the great
herds were wintered on the Kansas ranges, ready
to be hurled on the market when Spring came
with better prices.  Many ranches, mortgaged
heavily to buy cattle, had been on the verge of
bankruptcy, hoping feverishly for better prices
the following year.  Buck had taken advantage
of the situation to stock his ranch at a cost far
less than he had dared to dream.  Then came
the Norther and in the three weeks of devastating
cold and high winds the Kansas ranges were
swept clean of cattle, and even the ranges in the
South were badly crippled.  Knowing this, Buck
also knew that the following Spring would show
record high prices.  If he had the cattle he could
clean up a fortune for his ranch; and if his herd
was the first big one to reach the railroad at
Sandy Creek it would practically mean a bonus
on every cow.

Under the long siege of uncertainty his
impatience smashed through and possessed him as a
fever and he ordered the calf round-up three
weeks earlier than it ever had been held on the
ranch.  There was no need of urging his men to
the task—they, like himself, sprang to the call
like springs freed from a restraining weight, and
the work went on in a fever of haste.  And he
took his place on the firing line and worked even
harder than his outfit of fanatics.

One day shortly after the work began a
stranger rode up to him and nodded cheerfully.
"Li'l early, ain't you?"  Buck grunted in reply
and sent Skinny off at top speed to close a threatened
gap in the lengthy driving line.  "Goin' to
git 'em on th' trail early this year?" persisted the
stranger.  Buck, swayed by some swift intuition,
changed his reply.  "Oh, I dunno; I 'm mainly
anxious to see just what that storm did.  An' I
hate th' calf burnin' so much I allus like to get
it over quick."  He shouted angrily at the cook
and waved his arms frantically to banish the
chuck wagon.  "He can make more trouble with
that waggin than anybody I ever saw," he
snorted.  "Get out of there, you fool!" he yelled,
dashing off to see his words obeyed.  The cook,
grinning cheerfully at his foreman's language
and heat, forthwith chose a spot that was not
destined to be the center of the cut-out herd.
And when Buck again thought of the stranger he
saw a black dot moving toward the eastern skyline.

The crowded days rolled on, measured full
from dawn to dark, each one of them a panting,
straining, trying ordeal.  Worn out, the horses
were turned back into the temporary corral or to
graze under the eyes of the horse wranglers, and
fresh ones took up their work; and woe unto the
wranglers if the supply fell below the demand.
For the tired men there was no relief, only a
shifting in the kind of work they did, and they drove
themselves with grave determination, their iron
wills overruling their aching bodies.  First came
the big herds in the valley; then, sweeping north,
they combed the range to the northern line in
one grand, mad fury of effort that lasted day
after day until the tally man joyously threw
away his chewed pencil and gladly surrendered
the last sheet to the foreman.  The first half of
the game was over.  Gone as if it were a
nightmare was the confusion of noise and dust and
cows that hid a remarkable certainty of method.
But as if to prove it not a dream, four thousand
cows were held in three herds on the great range,
in charge of the extra men.

Buck, leading the regular outfit from the north
line and toward the bunkhouse, added the figures
of the last tally sheet to the totals he had in a
little book, and smiled with content.  Behind
him, cheerful as fools, their bodies racking with
weariness, their faces drawn and gaunt, knowing
that their labors were not half over, rode the
outfit, exchanging chaff and banter in an effort to
fool themselves into the delusion that they were
fresh and "chipper."  Nearing the bunkhouse
they cheered lustily as they caught sight of the
hectic cook laboring profanely with two balking
pintos that had backed his wagon half over the
edge of a barranca and then refused to pull it
back again.  Cookie's reply, though not a cheer,
was loud and pregnant with feeling.  To think
that he had driven those two animals for the last
two weeks from one end of the ranch to the other
without a mishap, and then have them balance
him and his wagon on the crumbling edge of a
twenty-foot drop when not a half mile from the
bunkhouse, thus threatening the loss of the
wagon and all it contained and the mangling of
his sacred person!  And to make it worse, here
came a crowd of whooping idiots to feast upon
his discomfiture.

The outfit, slowing so as not to frighten the
devilish pintos and start them backing again,
drew near; and suddenly the air became filled
with darting ropes, one of which settled
affectionately around Cookie's apoplectic neck.  In
no time the strangling, furious dough-king was
beyond the menace of the crumbling bank, flat
on his back in the wagon, where he had managed
to throw himself to escape the whistling hoofs
that quickly turned the dashboard into
matchwood.  When he managed to get the rope from
his neck he arose, unsteady with rage, and
choked as he tried to speak before the grinning
and advising outfit.  Before he could get
command over his tongue the happy bunch wheeled
and sped on its way, shrieking with mirth
unholy.  They had saved him from probable death,
for Cookie was too obstinate to have jumped
from the wagon; but they not only forfeited all
right to thanks and gratitude, but deserved
horrible deaths for the conversation they had so
audibly carried on while they worked out the
cook's problem.  And their departing words and
gestures made homicide justifiable and a duty.
It was in this frame of mind that Cookie watched
them go.

Buck, emerging from the bunkhouse in time
to see the rescue, leaned against the door and
laughed as he had not laughed for one heart-breaking
winter.  Drying his eyes on the back of
his hand, he looked at the bouncing, happy crowd
tearing southward with an energy of arms and
legs and lungs that seemed a miracle after the
strain of the round-up.  Just then a strange
voice made him wheel like a flash, and he saw
Billy Williams sitting solemnly on his horse near
the corner of the house.

"Hullo, Williams," Buck grunted, with no
welcoming warmth in his voice.  "What th' devil
brings *you* up here?"

"I want a job," replied Billy.  The two, while
never enemies nor interested in any mutual
disagreements, had never been friends.  They never
denied a nodding acquaintance, nor boasted of it.
"That Norther shore raised h—l.  There 's ten
men for every job, where I came from."

The foreman, with that quick decision that was
his in his earlier days, replied crisply.  "It's
your'n.  Fifty a month, to start."

"Keno.  Lemme chuck my war-bag through
that door an' I'm ready," smiled Billy.  He
believed he would like this man when he knew him
better.  "I thought th' Diamond Bar, over east
a hundred mile, had weathered th' storm lucky.
You got 'em beat.  They 're movin' heaven an'
earth to get a herd on the trail, but they did n't
have no job for *me*," he laughed, flushing
slightly.  "Sam Crawford owns it," he explained
naïvely.

Buck laughed outright.  "I reckon you did n't
have much show with Sam, after that li'l trick
you worked on him in Fenton.  So Sam is in
this country?  How are they fixed?"

"They aims to shove three thousan' east right
soon.  It's fancy prices for th' first herd that
gets to Sandy Creek," he offered.  "I heard
they 're havin' lots of wet weather along th'
Comanchee; mebby Sam 'll have trouble a-plenty
gettin' his herd acrost.  Cows is plumb
aggervatin' when it comes to crossin' rivers," he
grinned.

Buck nodded.  "See that V openin' on th' sky
line?" he asked, pointing westward.  "Ride
for it till you see th' herd.  Help 'em with it.
We 'll pick it up t'morrow."  He turned on his
heel and entered the house, grave with a new
worry.  He had not known that there was a
ranch where Billy had said the Diamond Bar was
located; and a hundred miles handicap meant
much in a race to Sandy Creek.  Crawford was
sure to drive as fast as he dared.  He was glad
that Billy had mentioned it, and the wet weather
along the Comanchee—Billy already had earned
his first month's pay.

All that day and the next the consolidation of
the three herds and the preparation for the drive
went on.  Sweeping up from the valley the two
thousand three- and four-year-olds met and
joined the thousand that waited between Little
Timber and Three Rocks; and by nightfall the
three herds were one by the addition of the
thousand head from Big Coulee.  Four thousand
head of the best cattle on the ranch spent the
night within gunshot of the bunkhouse and
corrals on Snake Creek.

Buck, returning from the big herd, smiled as
he passed the chuck-wagon and heard Cookie's
snores, and went on, growing serious all too
quickly.  At the bunkhouse he held a short
consultation with his regular outfit and then
returned to the herd again while his drive crew
turned eagerly to their bunks.  Breakfast was
eaten by candle light and when the eastern sky
faded into a silver gray Skinny Thompson
vaulted into the saddle and loped eastward
without a backward glance.  The sounds of his
going scarcely had died out before Hopalong,
relieved of the responsibilities of trail boss,
shouldered others as weighty and rode into the
north-east with Lanky at his side.  Behind him, under
charge of Red, the herd started on its long and
weary journey to Sandy Creek, every man of
the outfit so imbued with the spirit of the race
that even with its hundred miles' advantage the
Diamond Bar could not afford to waste an hour
if it hoped to win.


Out of the side of a verdant hill, whispering
and purling, flowed a small stream and shyly
sought the crystal depths of a rock-bound pool
before gaining courage enough to flow gently
over the smooth granite lip and scurry down the
gentle slope of the arroyo.  To one side of it
towered a splinter of rock, slender and gray,
washed clean by the recent rains.  To the south
of it lay a baffling streak a little lighter than the
surrounding grass lands.  It was, perhaps, a
quarter of a mile wide and ended only at the
horizon.  This faint band was the Dunton trail,
not used enough to show the strong characteristics
of the depressed bands found in other parts
of the cow-country.  If followed it would lead
one to Dunton's Ford on the Comanchee, forty
miles above West Bend, where the Diamond Bar
aimed to cross the river.

The shadow of the pinnacle drew closer to its
base and had crossed the pool when Skinny
Thompson rode slowly up the near bank of the
ravine, his eyes fixed smilingly on the splinter of
rock.  He let his mount nuzzle and play with
the pool for a moment before stripping off the
saddle and turning the animal loose to graze.
Taking his rifle in the hope of seeing game, he
went up to the top of the hill, glanced westward
and then turned and gazed steadily into the
northeast, sweeping slowly over an arc of
thirty degrees.  He stood so for several
minutes and then grunted with satisfaction and
returned to the pool.  He had caught sight of a
black dot far away on the edge of the skyline
that split into two parts and showed a sidewise
drift.  Evidently his friends would be on time.
Of the herd he had seen no sign, which was what
he had expected.

When at last he heard hoofbeats he arose lazily
and stretched, chiding himself for falling asleep,
and met his friends as they turned into sight
around the bend of the hill.  "Reckoned you
might 'a' got lost," he grinned sleepily.

"G'wan!" snorted Lanky.

"What'd you find?" eagerly demanded Hopalong.

"Three thousan' head on th' West Bend trail
five days ahead of us," replied Skinny.  "Ol'
Sam is drivin' hard."  He paused a moment.
"Acts like he knows we 're after him.  Anyhow,
I saw that feller that visited us on th' third day
of th' round-up.  So I reckon Sam knows."

Lanky grinned.  "He won't drive so hard
later.  I 'd like to see him when he sees th'
Comanchee!  Bet it's a lake south of Dunton's
'cordin' to what we found.  But it ain't goin' to
bother us a whole lot."

Hopalong nodded, dismounted and drew a
crude map in the sand of the trail.  Skinny
watched it, grave and thoughtful until, all at
once, he understood.  His sudden burst of
laughter startled his companions and they
exchanged foolish grins.  It appeared that from
Dunton's Ford north, in a distance of forty miles,
the Comanchee was practically born.  So many
feeders, none of them formidable, poured into it
that in that distance it attained the dignity of a
river.  Hopalong's plan was to drive off at a
tangent running a little north from the regular
trail and thus cross numerous small streams in
preference to going on straight and facing the
swollen Comanchee at Dunton's Ford.  As the
regular trail turned northward when not far
from Sandy Creek they were not losing time.
Laughing gaily they mounted and started west
for the herd which toiled toward them many
miles away.  Thanks to the forethought that had
prompted their scouting expedition the new trail
was picked out in advance and there would be no
indecision on the drive.

Eighty miles to the south lay the fresh trail
of the Diamond Bar herd, and five days' drive
eastward on it, facing the water-covered lowlands
at West Bend, Sam Crawford held his herd,
certain that the river would fall rapidly in the next
two days.  It was the regular ford, and the best
on the river.  The water did fall, just enough to
lure him to stay; but, having given orders at
dark on the second night for an attempt at
crossing at daylight the next morning, he was amazed
when dawn showed him the river was back to its
first level.

Sam was American born, but affected things
English and delighted in spelling "labor" and
like words with a "u."  He hated hair chaps and
maintained that the gun-play of the West was
mythical and existed only in the minds of effete
Easterners.  Knowing that, it was startling to
hear him tell of Plummer, Hickock, Roberts,
Thompson and a host of other gunmen who had
splotched the West with blood.  Not only did
every man of that section pack a gun, but
Crawford, himself, packed one, thus proving himself
either a malicious liar or an imbecile.  He acted
as though the West belonged to him and that he
was the arbiter of its destiny and its chosen
historian—which made him troublesome on the
great, free ranges.  Only that his pretensions and
his crabbed, irascible, childish temper made him
ludicrous he might have been taken seriously, to
his sorrow.  Failing miserably at law, he fled
from such a precarious livelihood, beset with a
haunting fear that he had lost his grip, to an
inherited ranch.  This fear that pursued him
turned him into a carping critic of those who
excelled him in most things, except in fits of lying
about the West as it existed at that time.

When he found that the river was over the
lowlands again he became furious and, carried
away by rage, shouted down the wiser counsel of
his clear-headed night boss and ordered the herd
into the water.  Here and there desperate,
wild-eyed steers wheeled and dashed back through the
cordon of riders, their numbers constantly
growing as the panic spread.  The cattle in the front
ranks, forced into the swirling stream by the
pressure from the rear, swam with the current
and clambered out below, adding to the
confusion.  Steers fought throughout the press and
suddenly, out of the right wing of the herd, a
dozen crazed animals dashed out in a bunch for
the safety of the higher ground; and after them
came the herd, an irresistible avalanche of
maddened beef.  It was not before dark that they
were rounded up into a nervous, panicky herd
once more.  The next morning they were started
north along the river, to try again at
Dunton's Ford, which they reached in three days,
and where another attempt at crossing the river
proved in vain.

Meanwhile the Bar-20 herd pushed on steadily
with no confusion.  It crossed the West Run
one noon and the upper waters of the Little
Comanchee just before dark on the same day.
Next came East Run, Pawnee Creek and Ten
Mile Creek, none of them larger than the stream
the cattle were accustomed to back on the ranch.
Another day's drive brought them to the west
branch of the Comanchee itself, the largest of all
the rivers they would meet.  Here they were
handled cautiously and "nudged" across with
such care that a day was spent in the work.  The
following afternoon the east branch held them up
until the next day and then, with a clear trail,
they were sent along on the last part of the long
journey.

When Sam Crawford, forced to keep on driving
north along the Little Comanchee, saw that
wide, fresh trail, he barely escaped apoplexy and
added the finishing touches to the sullenness of
his outfit.  Seeing the herd across, he gave
orders for top speed and drove as he never had
driven before; and when the last river had been
left behind he put the night boss in charge of the
cattle and rode on ahead to locate his rivals of
the drive.  Three days later, when he returned
to his herd, he was in a towering fury and talked
constantly of his rights and an appeal to law,
and so nagged his men that mutiny stalked in
his shadow.

When the Bar-20 herd was passing to the
south of the little village of Depau, Hopalong
turned back along the trail to find the Diamond
Bar herd.  So hard had Sam pushed on that he
was only two days' drive behind Red and his
outfit when Hopalong rode smilingly into the
Diamond Bar camp.  He was talking pleasantly of
shop to some of the Diamond Bar punchers when
Sam dashed up and began upbraiding him and
threatening dire punishment.  Hopalong,
maintaining a grave countenance, took the lacing
meekly and humbly as he winked at the grinning
punchers.  Finally, after exasperating Sam to a
point but one degree removed from explosion,
he bowed cynically, said "so-long" to the friendly
outfit and loped away toward his friends.  Sam,
choking with rage, berated his punchers for
not having thrown out the insulting visitor and
commanded more speed, which was impossible.
Reporting to Red the proximity of their rivals,
Hopalong fell in line and helped drive the herd
a little faster.  The cattle were in such condition
from the easy traveling of the last week that
they could easily stand the pace if Crawford's
herd could.  So the race went on, Red keeping
the same distance ahead day after day.

Then came the night when Sandy Creek lay
but two days' drive away.  A storm had threatened
since morning and the first lightning of the
drive was seen.  The cattle were mildly restless
when Hopalong rode in at midnight and he was
cheerfully optimistic.  He was also very much
awake, and after trying in vain to get to sleep
he finally arose and rode back along the trail
toward the stragglers, which Jimmy and Lanky
were holding a mile away.  Red had pushed on
to the last minute of daylight and Lanky had
decided to hold the stragglers instead of driving
them up to the main herd so they would start
even with it the following morning.  It was
made up of the cattle that had found the drive
too much for them and was smaller than the
outfit had dared to hope for.

Hopalong had just begun to look around for
the herd when it passed him with sudden uproar.
Shouting to a horseman who rode furiously past,
he swung around and raced after him, desperately
anxious to get in front of the stampede to
try to check it before it struck the main herd and
made the disaster complete.  For the next hour
he was in a riot of maddened cattle and shaved
death many times by the breadth of a hand.  He
could hear Jimmy and Lanky shouting in the
black void, now close and now far away.  Then
the turmoil gradually ceased and the remnant of
the herd paused, undecided whether to stop or
go on.  He flung himself at it and by driving
cleverly managed to start a number of cows to
milling, which soon had the rest following suit.
The stampede was over.  A cursing blot emerged
from the darkness and hailed.  It was Lanky,
coldly ferocious.  He had not heard Jimmy for
a long time and feared that the boy might be
lying out on the black plain, trampled into a
shapeless mass of flesh.  One stumble in front of the
charging herd would have been sufficient.

Daylight disclosed the missing Jimmy
hobbling toward the breakfast fire at the cook
wagon.  He was bruised and bleeding and
covered with dirt, his clothes ripped and covered
with mud; and every bone and muscle in his body
was alive with pain.

The Diamond Bar's second squad had ridden
in to breakfast when a horseman was seen
approaching at a leisurely lope.  Sam, cursing
hotly, instinctively fumbled at the gun he wore
at his thigh in defiance to his belief concerning
the wearing of guns.  He blinked anxiously as
the puncher stopped at the wagon and smiled a
heavy-eyed salutation.  The night boss emerged
from the shelter of the wagon and grinned a
sheepish welcome.  "Well, Cassidy, you fellers
got th' trail somehow.  We was some surprised
when we hit yore trail.  How you makin' it?"

"All right, up to last night," replied
Hopalong, shaking hands with the night boss.  "Got
a match, Barnes?" he asked, holding up an
unlighted cigarette.  They talked of things
connected with the drive and Hopalong cautiously
swung the conversation around to mishaps,
mentioning several catastrophes of past years.
After telling of a certain stampede he had once
seen, he turned to Barnes and asked a blunt
question.  "What would you do to anybody as
stampeded yore stragglers within a mile of th'
main herd on a stormy night?"  The answer was
throaty and rumbling.  "Why, shoot him, I
reckon."  The others intruded their ideas and
Crawford squirmed, his hand seeking his gun
under the pretense of tightening his belt.

Hopalong arose and went to his horse, where
a large bundle of canvas was strapped behind the
saddle.  He loosened it and unrolled it on the
ground.  "Ever see this afore, boys?" he asked,
stepping back.  Barnes leaped to his feet with
an ejaculation of surprise and stared at the
canvas.  "Where'd you git it?" he demanded.
"That's our old wagon cover!"

Hopalong, ignoring Crawford, looked around
the little group and smiled grimly.  "Well, last
night our stragglers was stampeded.  Lanky
told me he saw somethin' gray blow past him in
th' darkness, an' then th' herd started.  We
managed to turn it from th' trail an' so it did n't set
off our main herd.  Jimmy was near killed—well,
you know what it is to ride afore stampeded
cows.  I found this cover blowed agin' a li'l
clump of trees, an' when I sees yore mark, I
reckoned I ought to bring it back."  He dug
into his pocket and brought out a heavy clasp
knife.  "I just happened to see this not far from
where th' herd started from, so I reckoned I 'd
return it, too."  He held it out to Barnes, who
took it with an oath and wheeled like a flash to
face his employer.

Crawford was backing toward the wagon, his
hand resting on the butt of his gun, and a
whiteness of face told of the fear that gripped him.
"I 'll take my time, right now," growled Barnes.
"D—d if I works another day for a low-lived
coyote that 'd do a thing like that!"  The
punchers behind him joined in and demanded their
wages.  Hopalong, still smiling, waved his hand
and spoke.  "Don't leave him with all these cows
on his hands, out here on th' range.  If you quits
him, wait till you get to Sandy Creek.  He ain't
no man, he ain't; he 's a nasty lil brat of a kid
that couldn't never grow up into a man.  So,
that bein' true, he ain't goin' to get handled like
a man.  I 'm goin' to lick him, 'stead of shootin'
him like he was a man.  You know," he smiled,
glancing around the little circle, "us cowpunchers
don't never carry guns.  We don't swear, nor
wear chaps, even if all of us has got 'em on right
now.  We say 'please' an' 'thank you' an' never
get mad.  Not never wearin' a gun I can't shoot
him; but, by G—d, I can lick him th' worst
he's ever been licked, an' I 'm goin' to do it right
now."  He wheeled to start after the still-backing
cowman, and leaped sideways as a cloud of
smoke swirled around his hips.  Crawford
screamed with fear and pain as his Colt tore loose
from his fingers and dropped near the wheel of
the wagon.  Terror gripped him and made him
incapable of flight.  Who was this man, *what*
was he, when he could draw and fire with such
speed and remarkable accuracy?  Crawford's
gun had been half raised before the other had
seen it.  And before his legs could perform one
of their most cherished functions the limping
cowpuncher was on him, doing his best to make good
his promise.  The other half of the Diamond Bar
drive crew, attracted by the commotion at the
chuck wagon, rode in with ready guns, saw their
friends making no attempt at interference, asked
a few terse questions and, putting up their guns,
forthwith joined the circle of interested and
pleased spectators to root for the limping redhead.

.. _`Crawford's Colt tore loose from his fingers and dropped near the wheel of the wagon`:

.. figure:: images/img-249.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: Crawford's Colt tore loose from his fingers and dropped near the wagon wheel

   Crawford's Colt tore loose from his fingers and dropped near the wagon wheel

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1

Red, back at the Bar-20 wagon, inquired of
Cookie the whereabouts of Hopalong.  Cookie,
still smarting under Jimmy's galling fire of
language, grunted ignorance and a wish.  Red
looked at him, scowling.  "You can talk to th'
Kid like that, mebby; but you get a civil tongue
in yore head when any of us grown-ups ask
questions."  He turned on his heel, looked
searchingly around the plain and mounting, returned
to the herd, perplexed and vexed.  As he left the
camp, Jimmy hobbled around the wagon and
stared after him.  "Kid!" he snorted.  "Grown-ups!"
he sneered.  "Huh!"  He turned and
regarded Cookie evilly.  "Yo 're gonna get a
good lickin' when I get so I can move better," he
promised.  Cookie lifted the red flannel dish-rag
out of the pan and regarded it thoughtfully.
"You better wait," he agreed pleasantly.  "You
can't run now.  I 'm honin' for to drape this mop
all over yore wall-eyed face; but I can wait."  He
sighed and went back to work.  "Wish Red
would shove you in with th' rest of th' cripples
back yonder, an' get you off'n my frazzled
nerves."

Jimmy shook his head sorrowfully and limped
around the wagon again, where he resumed his
sun bath.  He dozed off and was surprised to be
called for dinner.  As he arose, grunting and
growling, he chanced to look westward, and his
shout apprised his friends of the return of the
missing red-head.

Hopalong dismounted at the wagon and
grinned cheerfully, despite the suspicious marks
on his face.  Giving an account of events as they
occurred at the Diamond Bar chuck wagon, he
wound up with: "Needn't push on so hard,
Red.  Crawford's herd is due to stay right where
it is an' graze peaceful for a week.  I heard
Barnes give th' order before I left.  How's
things been out here while I was away?"

Red glared at him, ready to tell his opinion of
reckless fools that went up against a gun-packing
crowd alone when his friends had never been
known to refuse to back up one of their outfit.
The words hung on his lips as he waited for a
chance to launch them.  But when that chance
came he had been disarmed by the cheerfulness
of his happy friend.  "Hoppy," he said, trying
to be severe, "yo 're nothing' but a crazy, d—d
fool.  But what did they say when you started
for huffy Sam like that?"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE HOLD-UP`:

.. class:: center large

   X


.. class:: center large

   THE HOLD-UP

.. vspace:: 2

The herd delivered at Sandy Creek had
traveled only half way, for the remaining
part of the journey would be on the railroad.
The work of loading the cars was fast, furious
fun to anyone who could find humor enough in
his make-up to regard it so.  Then came a long,
wearying ride for the five men picked from the
drive outfit to attend to the cattle on the way
to the cattle pens of the city.  Their work at
last done, they "saw the sights" and were now
returning to Sandy Creek.

The baggage smoking-car reeked with strong
tobacco, the clouds of smoke shifting with the
air currents, and dimly through the haze could
be seen several men.  Three of these were
playing cards near the baggage-room door, while two
more lounged in a seat half way down the aisle
and on the other side of the car.  Across from
the card-players, reading a magazine, was a fat
man, and near the water cooler was a dyspeptic-looking
individual who was grumbling about the
country through which he was passing.

The first five, as their wearing apparel
proclaimed, were not of the kind usually found on
trains, not the drummer, the tourist, or the
farmer.  Their heads were covered with heavy
sombreros, their coats were of thick, black
woolens, and their shirts were also of wool.  Around
the throat of each was a large handkerchief,
knotted at the back; their trousers were
protected by "chaps," of which three were of
goatskin.  The boots were tight-fitting, narrow, and
with high heels, and to them were strapped
heavy spurs.  Around the waist, hanging
loosely from one hip, each wore a wide belt
containing fifty cartridges in the loops, and
supporting a huge Colt's revolver, which rested
against the thigh.

They were happy and were trying to sing but,
owing to different tastes, there was noticeable
a lack of harmony.  "Oh Susanna" never did
go well with "Annie Laurie," and as for
"Dixie," it was hopelessly at odds with the other
two.  But they were happy, exuberantly so, for
they had enjoyed their relaxation in the city
and now were returning to the station where
their horses were waiting to carry them over the
two hundred miles which lay between their ranch
and the nearest railroad-station.

For a change the city had been pleasant, but
after they had spent several days there it lost
its charm and would not have been acceptable
to them even as a place in which to die.  They
had spent their money, smoked "top-notcher"
cigars, seen the "shows" and feasted each as his
fancy dictated, and as behooved cowpunchers
with money in their pockets.  Now they were
glad that every hour reduced the time of their
stay in the smoky, jolting, rocking train, for
they did not like trains, and this train was
particularly bad.  So they passed the hours as best
they might and waited impatiently for the stop
at Sandy Creek, where they had left their
horses.  Their trip to the "fence country" was
now a memory, and they chafed to be again in
the saddle on the open, wind-swept range, where
miles were insignificant and the silence soothing.

The fat man, despairing of reading, watched
the card-players and smiled in good humor as he
listened to their conversation, while the dyspeptic,
nervously twisting his newspaper, wished that
he were at his destination.  The baggage-room
door opened and the conductor looked down on
the card-players and grinned.  Skinny moved
over in the seat to make room for the genial conductor.

"Sit down, Simms, an' take a hand," he
invited.  Laughter arose continually and the fat
man joined in it, leaning forward more closely
to watch the play.

Lanky tossed his cards face down on the board
and grinned at the onlooker.

"Billy shore bluffs more on a varigated flush
than any man I ever saw."

"Call him once in a while and he 'll get cured
of it," laughed the fat man, bracing himself as
the train swung around a sharp turn.

"He 's too smart," growled Billy Williams.
"He tried that an' found I did n't have no
varigated flushes.  Come on, Lanky, if yo 're
playing cards, put up."

Farther down the car, their feet resting easily
on the seat in front of them, Hopalong and Red
puffed slowly at their large, black cigars and
spoke infrequently, both idly watching the plain
flit by in wearying sameness, and both tired and
lazy from doing nothing but ride.

"Blast th' cars, anyhow," grunted Hopalong,
but he received no reply, for his companion was
too disgusted to say anything.

A startling, sudden increase in the roar of the
train and a gust of hot, sulphurous smoke
caused Hopalong to look up at the brakeman,
who came down the swaying aisle as the door slammed shut.

"Phew!" he exclaimed, genially.  "Why in
thunder don't you fellows smoke up?"

Hopalong blew a heavy ring, stretched
energetically and grinned: "Much farther to Sandy
Creek?"

"Oh, you don't get off for three hours yet,"
laughed the brakeman.

"That's shore a long time to ride this bronc
train," moodily complained Red as the singing
began again.  "She shore pitches a-plenty," he
added.

The train-hand smiled and seated himself on
the arm of the front seat:

"Oh, it might be worse."

"Not this side of hades," replied Red with
decision, watching his friend, who was slapping
the cushions to see the dust fly out: "Hey, let
up on that, will you!  There's dust a-plenty
without no help from you!"

The brakeman glanced at the card-players and
then at Hopalong.

"Do your friends always sing like that?" he
inquired.

"Mostly, but sometimes it's worse."

"On the level?"

"Shore enough; they're singing 'Dixie,' now.
It's their best song."

"That ain't 'Dixie!'"

"Yes it is: that is, most of it."

"Well, then, what's the rest of it?"

"Oh, them's variations of their own,"
remarked Red, yawning and stretching.  "Just
wait till they start something sentimental;
you 'll shore weep."

"I hope they stick to the variations.  Say, you
must be a pretty nifty gang on the shoot, ain't you?"

"Oh, some," answered Hopalong.

"I wish you fellers had been aboard with us
one day about a month ago.  We was the
wrong end of a hold-up, and we got cleaned out
proper, too."

"An' how many of 'em did you get?" asked
Hopalong quickly, sitting bolt upright.

The fat man suddenly lost his interest in the
card-game and turned an eager ear to the brakeman,
while the dyspeptic stopped punching holes
in his time-card and listened.  The card-players
glanced up and then returned to their game, but
they, too, were listening.

The brakeman was surprised: "How many
did we get!  Gosh! we didn't get none!  They
was six to our five."

"How many cards did you draw, you Piute?"
asked Lanky.

"None of yore business; I ain't dealing, an' I
would n't tell you if I was," retorted Billy.

"Well, I can ask, can't I?"

"Yes—you can, an' did."

"You didn't get none?" cried Hopalong,
doubting his ears.

"I should say not!"

"An' they owned th' whole train?"

"They did."

Red laughed.  "Th' cleaning-up must have
been sumptuous an' elevating."

"Every time I holds threes he allus has
better," growled Lanky to Simms.

"On th' level, we couldn't do a thing," the
brakeman ran on.  "There 's a water tank a little
farther on, and they must 'a' climbed aboard
there when we stopped to connect.  When we
got into the gulch the train slowed down and
stopped and I started to get up to go out and
see what was the matter; but I saw that when I
looked down a gun-barrel.  The man at the
throttle end of it told me to put up my hands,
but they were up as high then as I could get 'em
without climbin' on the top of the seat.

"Can't you listen and play at th' same time?"
Lanky asked Billy.

"I wasn't countin' on takin' the gun away
from him," the brakeman continued, "for I was
too busy watchin' for the slug to come out of
the hole.  Pretty soon somebody on the outside
whistled and then another feller come in the
car; he was the one that did the cleanin' up.
All this time there had been a lot of shootin'
outside, but now it got worse.  Then I heard
another whistle and the engine puffed up the track,
and about five minutes later there was a big
explosion, and then our two robbers backed out of
the car among the rocks shootin' back regardless.
They busted a lot of windows."

"An' you did n't git none," grumbled Hopalong,
regretfully.

"When we got to the express-car, what had
been pulled around the turn," continued the
brakeman, not heeding the interruption, "we
found a wreck.  And we found the engineer
and fireman standin' over the express-messenger,
too scared to know he would n't come back
no more.  The car had been blowed up with
dynamite, and his fighting soul went with it.
He never knowed he was licked."

"An' nobody tried to help him!" Hopalong
exclaimed, wrathfully now.

"Nobody wanted to die with him," replied the
brakeman.

"Well," cried the fat man, suddenly reaching
for his valise, "I 'd like to see anybody try
to hold me up!"  Saying which he brought forth
a small revolver.

"You 'd be praying out of your bald spot
about that time," muttered the brakeman.

Hopalong and Red turned, perceived the
weapon, and then exchanged winks.

"That's a fine shootin'-iron, stranger,"
gravely remarked Hopalong.

"You bet it is!" purred the owner, proudly.
"I paid six dollars for that gun."

Lanky smothered a laugh and his friend
grinned broadly: "I reckon that'd kill a
man—if you stuck it in his ear."

"Pshaw!" snorted the dyspeptic, scornfully.
"You wouldn't have time to get it out of that
grip.  Think a train-robber is going to let you
unpack?  Why don't you carry it in your
hip-pocket, where you can get at it quickly?"

There were smiles at the stranger's belief in
the hip-pocket fallacy but no one commented
upon it.

"Was n't there no passengers aboard when
you was stuck up?" Lanky asked the conductor.

"Yes, but you can't count passengers in on a
deal like that."

Hopalong looked around aggressively:
"We 're passengers, ain't we?"

"You certainly are."

"Well, if any misguided maverick gets it into
his fool head to stick *us* up, you see what
happens.  Don't you know th' fellers outside have
all th' worst o' th' deal?"

"They have not!" cried the brakeman.

"They 've got all the best of it," asserted the
conductor emphatically.  "I 've been inside, and
I know."

"Best nothing!" cried Hopalong.  "They are
on th' ground, watching a danger-line over a
hundred yards long, full of windows and doors.
Then they brace th' door of a car full of people.
While they climb up the steps they can't see
inside, an' then they go an' stick their heads in
plain sight.  It's an even break who sees th'
other first, with th' men inside training their
guns on th' glass in th' door!"

"Darned if you ain't right!" enthusiastically
cried the fat man.

Hopalong laughed: "It all depends on th'
men inside.  If they ain't used to handling guns,
'course they won't try to fight.  We 've been in
so many gun-festivals that we would n't stop to
think.  If any coin-collector went an' stuck his
ugly face against th' glass in that door he 'd turn
a back-flip off 'n th' platform before he knowed
he was hit.  Is there any chance for a stick-up
to-day, d'y think?"

"Can't tell," replied the brakeman.  "But
this is about the time we have the section-camps'
pay on board," he said, going into the baggage
end of the car.

Simms leaned over close to Skinny.  "It's on
this train now, and I 'm worried to death about
it.  I wish we were at Sandy Creek."

"Don't you go to worryin' none, then," the
puncher replied.  "It 'll get to Sandy Creek all
right."

Hopalong looked out of the window again and
saw that there was a gradual change in the
nature of the scenery, for the plain was becoming
more broken each succeeding mile.  Small
woods occasionally hurtled past and banks of
cuts flashed by like mottled yellow curtains,
shutting off the view.  Scrub timber stretched
away on both sides, a billowy sea of green, and
miniature valleys lay under the increasing
number of trestles twisting and winding toward a
high horizon.

Hopalong yawned again: "Well, it's none
o' our funeral.  If they let us alone I don't
reckon we 'll take a hand, not even to bust up
this monotony."

Red laughed derisively: "Oh, no!  Why,
you could n't sit still nohow with a fight going
on, an' you know it.  An' if it's a stick-up!  Wow!"

"Who gave you any say in this?" demanded
his friend.  "Anyhow, you ain't no angel o'
peace, not nohow!"

"Mebby they 'll plug yore new sombrero,"
laughed Red.

Hopalong felt of the article in question: "If
any two-laigged wolf plugs my war-bonnet he 'll
be some sorry, an' so 'll his folks," he asserted,
rising and going down the aisle for a drink.

Red turned to the brakeman, who had just
returned: "Say," he whispered, "get off at th'
next stop, shoot off a gun, an' yell, just for fun.
Go ahead, it 'll be better 'n a circus."

"Nix on the circus, says I," hastily replied
the other.  "I ain't looking for no excitement,
an' I ain't paid to amuse th' passengers.  I hope
we don't even run over a track-torpedo this side
of Sandy Creek."

Hopalong returned, and as he came even with
them the train slowed.

"What are we stopping for?" he asked, his
hand going to his holster.

"To take on water; the tank 's right ahead."

"What have you got?" asked Billy, ruffling his cards.

"None of yore business," replied Lanky.
"You call when you gets any curious."

"Oh, th' devil!" yawned Hopalong, leaning
back lazily.  "I shore wish I was on my cayuse
pounding leather on th' home trail."

"Me, too," grumbled Red, staring out of the
window.  "Well, we 're moving again.  It
won't be long now before we gets out of this."

The card-game continued, the low-spoken
terms being interspersed with casual comment;
Hopalong exchanged infrequent remarks with
Red, while the brakeman and conductor stared
out of the same window.  There was noticeable
an air of anxiety, and the fat man tried to read
his magazine with his thoughts far from the
printed page.  He read and re-read a single
paragraph several times without gaining the
slightest knowledge of what it meant, while the
dyspeptic passenger fidgeted more and more in
his seat, like one sitting on hot coals, anxious and
alert.

"We 're there now," suddenly remarked the
conductor, as the bank of a cut blanked out the
view.  "It was right here where it happened;
the turn's farther on."

"How many cards did you draw, Skinny?"
asked Lanky.

"Three; drawin' to a straight flush," laughed
the dealer.

"Here 's the turn!  We 're through all right,"
exclaimed the brakeman.

Suddenly there was a rumbling bump, a
screeching of air-brakes and the grinding and
rattle of couplings and pins as the train slowed
down and stopped with a suddenness that
snapped the passengers forward and back.  The
conductor and brakeman leaped to their feet,
where the latter stood quietly during a moment
of indecision.

A shot was heard and the conductor's hand,
raised quickly to the whistle-rope sent blast after
blast shrieking over the land.  A babel of
shouting burst from the other coaches and, as
the whistle shrieked without pause, a shot was
heard close at hand and the conductor reeled
suddenly and sank into a seat, limp and silent.

At the first jerk of the train the card-players
threw the board from across their knees, scattering
the cards over the floor, and crouching, gained
the center of the aisle, intently peering through
the windows, their Colts ready for instant use.
Hopalong and Red were also in the aisle, and
when the conductor had reeled Hopalong's Colt
exploded and the man outside threw up his arms
and pitched forward.

"Good boy, Hopalong!" cried Skinny, who
was fighting mad.

Hopalong wheeled and crouched, watching
the door, and it was not long before a masked
face appeared on the farther side of the glass.
Hopalong fired and a splotch of red stained the
white mask as the robber fell against the door
and slid to the platform.

"Hear that shooting?" cried the brakeman.
"They 're at the messenger.  They 'll blow him up!"

"Come on, fellers!" cried Hopalong, leaping
toward the door, closely followed by his friends.

They stepped over the obstruction on the
platform and jumped to the ground on the side of
the car farthest from the robbers.

"Shoot under the cars for legs," whispered
Skinny.  "That 'll bring 'em down where we can
get 'em."

"Which is a good idea," replied Red, dropping
quickly and looking under the car.

"Somebody's going to be surprised, all right,"
exulted Hopalong.

The firing on the other side of the train was
heavy, being for the purpose of terrifying the
passengers and to forestall concerted resistance.
The robbers could not distinguish between the
many reports and did not know they were being
opposed, or that two of their number were dead.

A whinny reached Hopalong's ears and he
located it in a small grove ahead of him: "Well,
we know where th' cayuses are in case they make
a break."

A white and scared face peered out of the
cab-window and Hopalong stopped his finger just
in time, for the inquisitive man wore the cap of fireman.

"You idiot!" muttered the gunman, angrily.
"Get back!" he ordered.

A pair of legs ran swiftly along the other
side of the car and Red and Skinny fired
instantly.  The legs bent, their owner falling
forward behind the rear truck, where he was screened
from sight.

"They had it their own way before!" gritted
Skinny.  "Now we 'll see if they can stand th' iron!"

By this time Hopalong and Red were
crawling under the express-car and were so preoccupied
that they did not notice the faint blue streak
of smoke immediately over their heads.  Then
Red glanced up to see what it was that sizzed,
saw the glowing end of a three-inch fuse, and
blanched.  It was death not to dare and his hand
shot up and back, and the dynamite cartridge
sailed far behind him to the edge of the
embankment, where it hung on a bush.

"Good!" panted Hopalong.  "We 'll pay 'em
for that!"

"They 're worse 'n rustlers!"

They could hear the messenger running about
over their heads, dragging and up-ending heavy
objects against the doors of the car, and
Hopalong laughed grimly:

"Luck's with this messenger, all right."

"It ought to be—he 's a fighter."

"Where are they?  Have they tumbled to our game?"

"They're waiting for the explosion, you chump."

"Stay where you are then.  Wait till they
come out to see what's th' matter with it."

Red snorted: "Wait nothing!"

"All right, then; I 'm with you.  Get out of
my way."

"I 've been in situations some peculiar, but this
beats 'em all," Red chuckled, crawling forward.

The robber by the car truck revived enough to
realize that something was radically wrong, and
shouted a warning as he raised himself on his
elbow to fire at Skinny but the alert puncher shot
first.

As Hopalong and Red emerged from beneath
the car and rose to their feet there was a terrific
explosion and they were knocked to the ground,
while a sudden, heavy shower of stones and earth
rained down over everything.  The two punchers
were not hurt and they arose to their feet in
time to see the engineer and fireman roll out of
the cab and crawl along the track on their hands
and knees, dazed and weakened by the concussion.

Suddenly, from one of the day-coaches, a
masked man looked out, saw the two punchers,
and cried:

"It's all up!  Save yourselves!"

As Hopalong and Red looked around, still
dazed, he fired at them, the bullet singing past
Hopalong's ear.  Red smothered a curse and
reeled as his friend grasped him.  A wound over
his right eye was bleeding profusely and Hopalong's
face cleared of its look of anxiety when
he realized that it was not serious.

"They creased you!  Blamed near got you for
keeps!" he cried, wiping away the blood with his
sleeve.

Red, slightly stunned, opened his eyes and
looked about confusedly.  "Who done that?
Where is he?"

"Don't know, but I'll shore find out," Hopalong
replied.  "Can you stand alone?"

Red pushed himself free and leaned against
the car for support: "Course I can!  Git that cuss!"

When Skinny heard the robber shout the warning
he wheeled and ran back, intently watching
the windows and doors of the car for trouble.

"We 'll finish yore tally right here!" he muttered.

When he reached the smoker he turned and
went towards the rear, where he found Lanky
and Billy lying under the platform.  Billy was
looking back and guarding their rear, while his
companion watched the clump of trees where the
second herd of horses was known to be.  Just
as they were joined by their foreman, they saw
two men run across the track, fifty yards
distant, and into the grove, both going so rapidly
as to give no chance for a shot at them.

"There they are!" shouted Skinny, opening
fire on the grove.

At that instant Hopalong turned the rear
platform and saw the brakeman leap out of the door
with a Winchester in his hands.  The puncher
sprang up the steps, wrenched the rifle from its
owner, and, tossing it to Skinny, cried: "Here,
this is better!"

"Too late," grunted the puncher, looking up,
but Hopalong had become lost to sight among
the rocks along the right of way.  "If I only
had this a minute ago!" he grumbled.

The men in the grove, now in the saddle,
turned and opened fire on the group by the train,
driving them back to shelter.  Skinny, taking
advantage of the cover afforded, ran towards the
grove, ordering his friends to spread out and
surround it; but it was too late, for at that minute
galloping was heard and it grew rapidly fainter.

Red appeared at the end of the train:
"Where's th' rest of the coyotes?"

"Two of 'em got away," Lanky replied.

"Ya-ho!" shouted Hopalong from the grove.
"Don't none of you fools shoot!  I'm coming
out.  They plumb got away!"

"They near got *you*, Red," Skinny cried.

"Nears don't count," Red laughed.

"Did you ever notice Hopalong when he 's
fighting mad?" asked Lanky, grinning at the
man who was leaving the woods.  "He allus
wears his sombrero hanging on one ear.  Look
at it now!"

"Who touched off that cannon some time
back?" asked Billy.

"I did.  It was an anti-gravity cartridge what
I found sizzling on a rod under th' floor of th'
express car," replied Red.

"Why did n't you pinch out th' fuse 'stead of
blowing everything up, you half-breed?" Lanky
asked.

"I reckon I was some hasty," grinned Red.

"It blowed me under th' car an' my lid through
a windy," cried Billy.  "An' Skinny, he went up
in th' air like a shore-'nough grasshopper."

Hopalong joined them, grinning broadly:
"Hey, reckon ridin' in th' cars ain't so bad after
all, is it?"

"Holy smoke!" cried Skinny.  "What's that
a-popping?"

Hopalong, Colt in hand, leaped to the side of
the train and looked along it, the others close
behind him, and saw the fat man with his head and
arm out of the window, blazing away into the air,
which increased the panic in the coaches.  Hopalong
grinned and fired into the ground, and the
fat man nearly dislocated parts of his anatomy
by his hasty disappearance.

"Reckon he plumb forgot all about his fine,
six-dollar gun till just now," Skinny laughed.

"Oh, he 's making good," Red replied.  "He
said he 'd take a hand if anything busted loose.
It's a good thing he did n't come to life while me
an' Hoppy was under his windy looking for laigs."

"Reckon some of us better go in th' cars an'
quiet th' stampede," Skinny remarked, mounting
the steps, followed by Hopalong.  "They're
shore *loco*."

The uproar in the coach ceased abruptly when
the two punchers stepped through the door, the
inmates shrinking into their seats, frightened
into silence.  Skinny and his companion did not
make a reassuring sight, for they were grimy
with burned powder and dust, and Hopalong's
sleeve was stained with Red's blood.

"Oh, my jewels, my pretty jewels," sobbed a
woman, staring at Skinny and wringing her hands.

"Ma'am, we shore don't want yore jewelry,"
replied Skinny, earnestly.  "Ca'm yoreself; we
don't want nothin'."

"*I* don't want that!" growled Hopalong,
pushing a wallet from him.  "How many times do
you want us to tell you we don't want nothin'?
We ain't robbers; we licked th' robbers."

Suddenly he stooped and, grasping a pair of
legs which protruded into the aisle obstructing
the passage, straightened up and backed towards
Red, who had just entered the car, dragging into
sight a portly gentleman, who kicked and
struggled and squealed, as he grabbed at the
stanchions of seats to stay his progress.  Red stepped
aside between two seats and let his friend pass,
and then leaned over and grasped the portly
gentleman's coat-collar.  He tugged energetically
and lifted the frightened man clear of the aisle
and deposited him across the back of a seat, face
down, where he hung balanced, yelling and kicking.

"Shut yore face, you cave-hunter!" cried Red
in disgust.  "Stop that infernal noise!  You fat
fellers make all yore noise after th' fighting is
all over!"

The man on the seat, suddenly realizing what
a sight he made, rolled off his perch and sat up,
now more angry than frightened.  He glared at
Red's grinning face and sputtered:

"It's an outrage!  It's an outrage!  I'll
have you hung for this day's work, young man!"

"That's right," grinned Hopalong.  "He
shore deserves it.  I told him more 'n once that
he 'd get strung up some day."

"Yes, and you, too!"

"Please don't," begged Hopalong.  "I don't
want t' die!"

Tense as the past quarter of an hour had been
a titter ran along the car and, fuming impotently,
the portly gentleman fled into the smoker.

"I 'll bet he had a six-dollar gun, too," laughed Red.

"I 'll bet he 's calling hisself names right about
now," Hopalong replied.  Then he turned to
reply to a woman: "Yes, ma'am, we did.  But
they was n't real badmen."

At this a young woman, who was about as
pretty as any young woman could be, arose and
ran to Hopalong and, impulsively throwing her
arms around his neck, cried: "You brave man!
You hero!  You dear!"

"Skinny!  Red!  Help!" cried the frightened
and embarrassed puncher, struggling to get free.

She kissed him on the cheek, which flamed even
more red as he made frantic efforts to keep his
head back.

"Ma'am!" he cried, desperately.  "Leggo,
ma'am!  Leggo!"

"Oh!  Ho!  Ho!" roared Red, weak from his
mirth and, not looking to see what he was doing,
he dropped into a seat beside another woman.
He was on his feet instantly; fearing that he
would have to go through the ordeal his friend
was going through, he fled down the aisle, closely
followed by Hopalong, who by this time had
managed to break away.  Skinny backed off
suspiciously and kept close watch on Hopalong's
admirer.

Just then the brakeman entered the car,
grinning, and Skinny asked about the condition of
the conductor.

"Oh, he 's all right now," the brakeman replied.
"They shot him through the arm, but he 's
repaired and out bossin' the job of clearin' the
rocks off the track.  He 's a little shaky yet, but
he 'll come around all right."

"That's good.  I 'm shore glad to hear it."

"Won't you wear this pin as a small token of
my gratitude?" asked a voice at Skinny's shoulder.

He wheeled and raised his sombrero, a flush
stealing over his face:

"Thank you, ma'am, but I don't want no pay.
We was plumb glad to do it."

"But this is not pay!  It's just a trifling token
of my appreciation of your courage, just something
to remind you of it.  I shall feel hurt if
you refuse."

Her quick fingers had pinned it to his shirt
while she spoke and he thanked her as well as his
embarrassment would permit.  Then there was
a rush toward him and, having visions of a shirt
looking like a jeweler's window, he turned and
fled from the car, crying: "Pin 'em on th'
brakeman!"

He found the outfit working at a pile of rocks
on the track, under the supervision of the
conductor, and Hopalong looked up apprehensively
at Skinny's approach.

"Lord!" he ejaculated, grinning sheepishly, "I
was some scairt you was a woman."

Red dropped the rock he was carrying and
laughed derisively.

"Oh, yo're a brave man, you are! scared to
death by a purty female girl!  If I 'd 'a' been
you I would n't 'a' run, not a step!"

Hopalong looked at him witheringly: "Oh,
no!  You wouldn't 'a' run!  You'd dropped
dead in your tracks, you would!"

"You was both of you a whole lot scared,"
Skinny laughed.  Then, turning to the
conductor: "How do you feel, Simms?"

"Oh, I 'm all right: but it took the starch out
of me for awhile."

"Well, I don't wonder, not a bit."

"You fellows certainly don't waste any time
getting busy," Simms laughed.

"That's the secret of gun-fightin'," replied Skinny.

"Well, you 're a fine crowd all right.  Any
time you want to go any place when you 're
broke, climb aboard my train and I 'll see't you
get there."

"Much obliged."

Simms turned to the express-car: "Hey,
Jackson!  You can open up now if you want to."

But the express-messenger was suspicious,
fearing that the conductor was talking with a
gun at his head: "You go to h—l!" he called back.

"Honest!" laughed Simms.  "Some cowboy
friends o' mine licked the gang.  Didn't you
hear that dynamite go off?  If they hadn't
fished it out from under your feet you 'd be
communing with the angels 'bout now."

For a moment there was no response, and then
Jackson could be heard dragging things away
from the door.  When he was told of the
cartridge and Red had been pointed out to him as
the man who had saved his life, he leaped to the
ground and ran to where that puncher was
engaged in carrying the ever-silenced robbers to
the baggage-car.  He shook hands with Red,
who laughed deprecatingly, and then turned and
assisted him.

Hopalong came up and grinned: "Say,
there 's some cayuses in that grove up th' track;
shall I go up an' get 'em?"

"Shore!  I 'll go an' get 'em with you," replied
Skinny.

In the grove they found seven horses picketed,
two of them being pack-animals, and they
led them forth and reached the train as the others
came up.

"Well, here 's five saddled cayuses, an' two
others," Skinny grinned.

"Then we can ride th' rest of th' way in th'
saddle instead of in that blamed train," Red
eagerly suggested.

"That's just what we can do," replied Skinny.
"Leather beats car-seats any time.  How far
are we from Sandy Creek, Simms?"

"About twenty miles."

"An' we can ride along th' track, too,"
suggested Hopalong.

"We shore can," laughed Skinny, shaking
hands with the train-crew: "We 're some glad
we rode with you this trip: we 've had a fine time."

"And we're glad you did," Simms replied,
"for that ain't no joke, either."

Hopalong and the others had mounted and
were busy waving their sombreros and bowing
to the heads and handkerchiefs which were
decorating the car-windows.

"All aboard!" shouted the conductor, and
cheers and good wishes rang out and were replied
to by bows and waving of sombreros.  Then
Hopalong jerked his gun loose and emptied it
into the air, his companions doing likewise.
Suddenly five reports rang out from the smoker and
they cheered the fat man as he waved at them.
They sat quietly and watched the train until the
last handkerchief became lost to sight around a
curve, but the screeching whistle could be heard
for a long time.

"Gee!" laughed Hopalong as they rode on
after the train, "won't th' fellers home on th'
ranch be a whole lot sore when they hears about
the good time what they missed!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`SAMMY FINDS A FRIEND`:

.. class:: center large

   XI


.. class:: center large

   SAMMY FINDS A FRIEND

.. vspace:: 2

The long train ride and the excitement were
over and the outfit, homeward bound, loped
along the trail, noisily discussing their exciting
and humorous experiences and laughingly
commented upon Hopalong's decision to follow them
later.  They could not understand why he should
be interested in a town like Sandy Creek after
a week spent in the city.

Back in the little cow-town their friend was
standing in the office of the hotel, gazing
abstractedly out of the window.  His eyes caught and
focused on a woman who was walking slowly
along the other side of the square and finally
paused before McCall's "Palace," a combination
saloon, dance and gambling hall.  He smiled
cynically as his memory ran back over those other
women he had seen in cow-towns and wondered
how it was that the men of the ranges could
rise to a chivalry that was famed.  At that
distance she was strikingly pretty.  Her complexion
was an alluring blend of color that the gold
of her hair crowned like a burst of sunshine.  He
noticed that her eyebrows were too prominent,
too black and heavy to be Nature's contribution.
And there was about her a certain forwardness, a
dash that bespoke no bashful Miss; and her
clothes, though well-fitting, somehow did not
please his untrained eye.  A sudden impulse seized
him and he strode to the door and crossed the
dusty square, avoiding the piles of rusted cans,
broken bottles and other rubbish that littered it.

She had become interested in a dingy window
but turned to greet him with a resplendent smile
as he stepped to the wooden walk.  He noted
with displeasure that the white teeth displayed
two shining panels of gold that drew his eyes
irresistibly; and then and there he hated gold
teeth.

"Hello," she laughed.  "I 'm glad to see
somebody that's alive in this town.  Ain't it awful?"

He instinctively removed his sombrero and was
conscious that his habitual bashfulness in the
presence of members of her sex was somehow
lacking.  "Why, I don't see nothin' extra dead
about it," he replied.  "Most of these towns are
this way in daylight.  Th' moths ain't out yet.
You should 'a' been here last night!"

"Yes?  But you 're out; an' you look like you
might be able to fly," she replied.

"Yes; I suppose so," he laughed.

"I see you wear *two* of 'em," she said, glancing
at his guns.  "Ain't one of them things
enough?"

"One usually is, mostly," he assented.  "But
I 'm pig-headed, so I wears two."

"Ain't it awrful hard to use two of 'em at once?"
she asked, her tone flattering.  "Then you 're
one of them two-gun men I 've heard about, ain't you?"

"An' seen?" he smiled.

"Yes, I 've seen a couple.  Where you goin'
so early?"

"Just lookin' th' town over," he answered,
glancing over her shoulder at a cub of a
cowpuncher who had opened the door of the
"Retreat," but stopped in his tracks when he saw the
couple in front of McCall's.  There was a look
of surprised interest on the cub's face, and it
swiftly changed to one of envious interest.
Hopalong's glance did not linger, but swept
carelessly along the row of shacks and back to his
companion's face without betraying his discovery.

"Well; you can look it over in about ten
seconds, from th' outside," she rejoined.  "An' it's
so dusty out here.  My throat is awful dry already."

He had n't noticed any dust in the air, but he
nodded.  "Yes; thirsty?"

"Well, it ain't polite or ladylike to say yes,"
she demurred, "but I really am."

He held open the door of the "Palace" and
preceded her to the dance hall, where she rippled
the keys of the old piano as she swept past it.
The order given and served, he sipped at his glass
and carried on his share of a light conversation
until, suddenly, he arose and made his apologies.
"I got to attend to something" he regretted as he
picked up his sombrero and turned.  "See you later."

"Why!" she exclaimed.  "I was just beginnin'
to get acquainted!"

"A moth without money ain't no good," he
smiled.  "I 'm goin' out to find th' money.
When I 'm in good company I like to spend.
See you later?"  He bowed as she nodded, and
departed.

Emerging from McCall's he glanced at the
"Retreat" and sauntered toward it.  When he
entered he found the cub resting his elbows on
the pine bar, arguing with the bartender about
the cigars sold in the establishment.  The cub
glanced up and appealed to the newcomer.
"Ain't they?" he demanded.

Hopalong nodded.  "I reckon so.  But what
is it about?"

"These cigars," explained the cub, ruefully.
"I was just sayin' there ain't a good one in town."

"You lose," replied Hopalong.  "Are you
shore you knows a good cigar when you smokes it?"

"I know it so well that I ain't found one since
I left Kansas City.  You said I lose.  Do you
know one well enough to be a judge?"

Hopalong reached to his vest pocket, extracted
a cigar and handed it to the cub, who took it
hesitatingly.  "Why, I'm much obliged.  I—I
did n't mean that—you know."

Hopalong nodded and rearranged the cigar's
twin-brothers in his pocket.  He would be
relieved when they were smoked, for they made
him nervous with their frailty.  The cub lighted
the cigar and an unaffected grin of delight
wreathed his features as the smoke issued from
his nostrils.  "Who sells 'em?" he demanded,
excitedly.

"Corson an' Lukins, up th' hill from th' depot,"
answered Hopalong.  "Like it?"

"Like it!  Why, stranger, I used to spend
most of my week's pocket money for these."  He
paused and stared at the smiling puncher.  "Did
you say Corson an' Lukins?" he demanded
incredulously.  "Well, I 'll be hanged!  When
was you there?"

"Last week.  Here, bartender; liquor for all hands."

The cub touched the glass to his lips and waved
his hand at a table.  Seated across from the
stranger with the heaven-sent cigars he ordered
the second round, and when he went to pay for
it he drew out a big roll of bills and peeled off
the one on the outside.

Hopalong frowned.  "Sonny," he said in a
low voice, "it ain't none of my affair, but you
oughta put that wad away an' forget you have
it when out in public.  You shouldn't tempt
yore feller men like that."

The cub laughed: "Oh, I had my eye teeth
cut long ago.  Play a little game?"

Hopalong was amused.  "Didn't I just tell
you not to tempt yore feller men?"

The cub grinned.  "I reckon it 'll fade quick,
anyhow; but it took me six months' hard work to
get it together.  It 'll last about six days, I suppose."

"Six hours, if you plays every man that comes
along," corrected Hopalong.

"Well, mebby," admitted the cub.  "Say:
that was one fine girl you was talkin' to, all
right," he grinned.

Hopalong studied him a moment.  "Not
meanin' no offense, what's yore name?"

"Sammy Porter; why?"

"Well, Sammy," remarked Hopalong as he
arose.  "I reckon we 'll meet again before I leave.
You was remarkin' she was a fine girl.  I admit
it; she was.  So long," and he started for the
door.

Sammy flushed.  "Why, I—I didn't mean
nothin'!" he exclaimed.  "I just happened to
think about her—that's all!  You know, I saw
you talkin' to her.  Of course, you saw her first,"
he explained.

Hopalong turned and smiled kindly.  "You
didn't say nothin' to offend me.  I was just
startin' when you spoke.  But as long as you
mentioned it I 'll say that my interest in th' lady
was only brief.  Her interest in me was th' same.
Beyond lettin' you know that I 'll add that I don't
generally discuss wimmin.  I 'll see you later,"
and, nodding cheerily, he went out and closed the
door behind him.

.. vspace:: 2

Hopalong leaned lazily against the hotel, out
of reach of the spring wind, which was still sharp,
and basked in the warmth of the timid sun.  He
regarded the little cow-town cynically but
smilingly and found no particular fault with it.
Existing because the railroad construction work
of the season before had chanced to stop on the
eastern bank of the deceptive creek, and because
of the nearness of three drive trails, one of them
important, the town had sprung up, mushroom-like,
almost in a night.  Facing on the square
were two general stores, the railroad station and
buildings, two restaurants, a dozen saloons where
gambling either was the main attraction or an
ambitious side-line, McCall's place and a barber
shop with a dingy, bullet-peppered red-and-white
pole set close to the door.  Between the barber
shop and McCall's was a narrow space, and the
windows of the two buildings, while not opposite,
opened on the little strip of ground separating them.

Rubbing a hand across his chin he regarded the
barber shop thoughtfully and finally pushed
away from the sun-warmed wall of the hotel and
started lazily toward the red-and-white pole.  As
he did so the tin-panny notes of a piano redoubled
and a woman's voice shrilly arose to a high note,
flatted, broke and swiftly dropped an octave.
He squirmed and looked speculatively along the
westward trail, wondering how far away his
outfit was and why he had not gone with them.
Another soaring note that did not flat and a
crashing chord from the piano were followed by a
burst of uproarious, reckless laughter.
Hopalong frowned, snapped his fingers in sudden
decision and stepped briskly toward the barber shop
as the piano began anew.

Entering quietly and closing the door softly,
he glanced appraisingly through the windows and
made known his wants in a low voice.  "I want
a shave, haircut, shampoo, an' anythin' else you
can think of.  I 'm tired an' don't want to talk.
Take yore own time an' do a good job; an' if I 'm
asleep when yo're through, don't wake me till
somebody else wants th' chair.  Savvy?  All
right—start in."

In McCall's a stolid bartender listened to the
snatches of conversation that filtered under the
door to the dance hall alongside and on his face
there at times flickered the suggestion of a
cynical smile.  A heavy, dark complexioned man
entered from the street and glanced at the closed
door of the dance hall.  The bartender nodded
and held up a staying hand, after which he shoved
a drink across the bar.  The heavy-set man
carefully wiped a few drops of spilled liquor from his
white, tapering hands and seated himself with a
sigh of relief, and became busy with his thoughts
until the time should come when he would be needed.

On the other side of that door a little comedy
was being enacted.  The musician, a woman,
toyed with the keys of the warped and scratched
piano, the dim light from the shaded windows
mercifully hiding the paint and the hardness of
her face and helping the jewelry, with which her
hands were covered, keep its tawdry secret.

"I don't see what makes you so touchy,"
grumbled Sammy in a pout.  "I ain't goin' to
hurt you if I touch yore arm."  He was flushed
and there was a suspicious unsteadiness in his voice.

She laughed.  "Why, I thought you wanted to talk?"

"I did," he admitted, sullenly; "but there's a
limit to most wants.  Oh, well: go ahead an'
play.  That last piece was all right; but give us
a gallop or a mazurka—anything lively.  Better
yet, a caprice: it's in keepin' with yore temperament.
If you was to try to interpert mine you 'd
have to dig it out of Verdi an' toll a funeral bell."

"Say; who told you so much about music?"
she demanded.

"Th' man that makes harmonicas," he grinned.
He arose and took a step toward her, but she
retreated swiftly, smiling.  "Now behave yourself,
for a little while, at least.  What's th' matter
with you, anyhow?  What makes you so silly?"

"You, of course.  I don't see no purty wimmin
out on th' range, an' you went to my head th'
minute I laid eyes on you.  *I* ain't in no hurry
to leave this town, now nohow."

"I 'm afraid you 're going to be awful when
you grow up.  But you 're a nice boy to say such
pretty things.  Here," she said, filling his glass
and handing it to him, "let's drink another
toast—you know such nice ones."

"Yes; an' if I don't run out of 'em purty soon
I 'll have to hunt a solid, immovable corner
somewheres; an' there ain't nothin' solid or immovable
about *this* room at present," he growled.  "What
you allus drinkin' to somethin' for?  Well, here's
a toast—I don't know any more fancy ones.
Here's to—*you*!"

"That's nicer than—oh, pshaw!" she
exclaimed, pouting.  "An' you would n't drink a
full glass to *that* one.  You must think I 'm nice,
when you renig like that!  Don't tell me any
more pretty things—an' stop right where you
are!  Think you can hang onto me after that?
Well, that's better; why didn't you do it th'
first time?  You can be a nice boy when you
want to."

He flushed angrily.  "Will you stop callin'
me a boy?" he demanded unsteadily.  "I ain't
no kid!  I do a man's work, earn a man's pay,
an' I spend it like a man."

"An' drink a boy's drink," she teased.
"You 'll grow up some day."  She reached
forward and filled his glass again, for an instant
letting her cheek touch his.  Swiftly evading
him she laughed and patted him on the head.
"Here, *man*," she taunted, "drink this if you dare!"

He frowned at her but gulped down the liquor.
"There, like a fool!" he grumbled, bitterly.
"You tryin' to get me drunk?" he demanded
suddenly in a heavy voice.

She threw back her head and regarded him
coldly.  "It will do me no good.  Why should I?
I merely wanted to see if you would take a dare,
if you were a man.  You are either not sober
now, or you are insultingly impolite.  I don't
care to waste any more words or time with you,"
and she turned haughtily toward the door.

He had leaned against the piano, but now he
lurched forward and cried out.  "I 'm sorry if
I hurt yore feelin's that way—I shore didn't
mean to.  Ain't we goin' to make up?" he asked,
anxiously.

"Do you mean that?" she demanded, pausing
and looking around.

"You know I do, Annie.  Le's make up—come
on; le's make up."

"Well; I'll try you, an' see."

"Play some more.  You play beautiful," he
assured her with heavy gravity.

"I'm tired of—but, say: Can you play
poker?" she asked, eagerly.

"Why, shore; who can't?"

"Well, I can't, for one.  I want to learn, so I
can win my money back from Jim.  He taught
me, but all I had time to learn was how to lose."

Sammy regarded her in puzzled surprise and
gradually the idea became plain.  "Did he teach
you, an' win money from you?  Did he keep
it?" he finally blurted, his face flushed a deeper
red from anger.

She nodded.  "Why, yes; why?"

He looked around for his sombrero, muttering
savagely.

"Where you goin'?" she asked in surprise.

"To get it back.  He ain't goin' to keep it, th'
coyote!"

"Why, he won't give it back to you if he
would n't to me.  Anyhow, he won it."

"*Won* it!" he snapped.  "He stole it, that's
how much he won it.  He 'll give it back or get
shot."

"Now look here," she said, quickly.  "You
ain't goin' gunnin' for no friend of mine.  If
you want to get that money for me, an' I certainly
can use it about now, you got to try some other
way.  Say!  Why don't you win it from him?"
she exulted.  "That's th' way—get it back th'
way it went."

He weighed her words and a grin slowly crept
across his face.  "Why, I reckon you called it,
that time, Annie.  That's th' way I 'll try first,
anyhow, Li'l Girl.  Where is this good friend of
yourn that steals yore money?  Where is this feller?"

As if in answer to his inquiry the heavy-set man
strolled in, humming cheerily.  And as he did
so the sleepy occupant of the barber's chair
slowly awoke, rubbed his eyes, stretched
luxuriously and, paying his bill, loafed out and lazily
sauntered down the street, swearing softly.

"Why, here he is now," laughed the woman.
"You must 'a' heard us talkin' about you, Jim.
I'm goin' to get my money back—this is
Mr. Porter, Jim, who 's goin' to do it."

The gambler smiled and held out his hand.
"Howd'y, Mr. Porter," he said.

Sammy glared at him: "Put yore paw down,"
he said, thickly.  "I ain't shakin' han's with no
dogs or tin-horns."

The gambler recoiled and flushed, fighting hard
to repress his anger.  "What you mean?" he
growled, furiously.

"What I said.  If you want revenge sit down
there an' play, if you 've got th' nerve to play
with a man.  I never let no coyote steal a
woman's money, an' I 'm goin' to get Annie her
twenty.  Savvy?"

The gambler's reply was a snarl.  "Play!" he
sneered.  "I'll play, all right.  It'll take
more 'n a sassy kid to get that money back, too.
I 'm goin' to take yore last red cent.  You can't
talk to me like that an' get it over.  An' don't
let me hear you call her 'Annie' no more, neither.
Yo 're too cussed familiar!"

Her hand on Sammy's arm stopped the draw
and he let the gun drop back into the holster.
"*No!*" she whispered.  "Make a fool of him,
Sammy!  Beat him at his own game."

Sammy nodded and scowled blackly.  "I call
th' names as suits me," he retorted.  "When I
see you on th' street I 'm goin' to call you some
that I 'm savin' up now because a lady 's present.
They 're hefty, too."

At first he won, but always small amounts.
Becoming reckless, he plunged heavily on a fair
hand and lost.  He plunged again on a better
hand and lost.  Then he steadied as much as his
befuddled brain would permit and played a
careful game, winning a small pot.  Another small
winning destroyed his caution and he plunged
again, losing heavily.  Steadying himself once
more he began a new deal with excess caution
and was bluffed out of the pot, the gambler
sneeringly showing his cards as he threw them
down.  Sammy glanced around to say something
to the woman, but found she had gone.  "Aw,
never mind her!" growled his opponent.  "She 'll
be back—she can't stay away from a kid like you."

The woman was passing through the barroom
and, winking at the bartender, opened the door
and stepped to the street.  She smiled as she
caught sight of the limping stranger coming
toward her.  He might have found money, but
she was certain he had found something else and
in generous quantities.  He removed his
sombrero with an exaggerated sweep of his hand and
hastened to meet her, walking with the conscious
erectness of a man whose feet are the last part
of him to succumb.  "Hullo, Sugar," he grinned.
"I found some, a'right.  Now we 'll have some
music.  Come long."

"There ain't no hurry," she answered.  "We 'll
take a little walk first."

"No, we won't.  We 'll have some music an'
somethin' to drink.  If you won't make th' music,
I will; or shoot up th' machine.  Come 'long,
Sugar," he leered, pushing open the door with a
resounding slam.  He nodded to the bartender
and apologized.  "No harm meant, Friend.  It
sorta slipped; jus' slipped, tha's all.  Th' young
lady an' me is goin' to have some music.  What?
All right for you, Sugar!  Then I'll make it
myself," and he paraded stiffly toward the inner
door.

The bartender leaned suddenly forward.
"Keep out of there!  You 'll bust that pianner!"

The puncher stopped with a jerk, swung
ponderously on his heel and leveled a forefinger at
the dispenser of drinks.  "I won't," he said.
"An' if I do, I 'll pay for it.  Come on, Sugar—le's
play th' old thing, jus' for spite."  Grasping
her arm he gently but firmly escorted her into
the dance hall and seated her at the piano.  As he
straightened up he noticed the card players and,
bowing low to her, turned and addressed them.

"Gents," he announced, bowing again, "we are
goin' to have a li'l music an' we hopes you won't
objec'.  Not that we gives a d—n, but we jus'
hopes you won't."  He laughed loudly at his
joke and leaned against the piano.  "Let 'er go,"
he cried, beating time.  "Allaman lef an' ladies
change!  Swing yore partner's gal—I mean,
swing some other gal: but what's th' difference?
All join han's an' hop to th' middle—nope!
It's all han's roun' an' swing 'em again.  But it
don't make no difference, does it, Lulu?"  He
whooped loudly and marched across the room,
executed a few fancy steps and marched back
again.  As he passed the card table Sammy
threw down his hand and arose with a curse.  The
marcher stopped, fiddled a bit with his feet until
obtaining his balance, and then regarded the
youth quizzically.  "S'matter, Sonny?" he inquired.

Sammy scowled, slowly recognized the owner
of the imported cigars and shook his head.  "Big
han's, but not big enough; an' I lost my
pile."  Staggering to the piano he plumped down on a
chair near it and watched the rippling fingers of
the player in drunken interest.

The hilarious cowpuncher, leaning backward
perilously, recovered his poise for a moment and
then lurched forward into the chair the youth had
just left.  "Come on, pardner," he grinned across
at the gambler.  "Le's gamble.  I been honin'
for a game, an' here she is."  He picked up the
cards, shuffled them clumsily and pushed them
out for the cut.  The gambler hesitated,
considered and then turned over a jack.  He lost
the deal and shoved out a quarter without interest.

The puncher leaned over, looked at it closely
and grinned.  "Two bits?  That ain't poker;
that's—that's dominoes!" he blurted, angrily,
with the quick change of mood of a man in his cups.

"I ain't anxious to play," replied the gambler.
"I 'll kill a li'l time at a two-bit game, though.
Otherwise I 'll quit."

"A'right," replied the dealer.  "I did n't
expec' nothin' else from a tin-horn, no-how.  I want
two cards after you get yourn."  The gambler
called on the second raise and smiled to himself
when he saw that his opponent had drawn to a
pair and an ace.  He won on his own deal and
on the one following.

The puncher increased the ante on the fourth
deal and looked up inquiringly, a grin on his face.
"Le's move out th' infant class," he suggested.

The gambler regarded him sharply.  "Well,
th' other *was* sorta tender," he admitted, nodding.

The puncher pulled out a handful of gold
coins and clumsily tried to stalk them, which he
succeeded in doing after three attempts.  He
was so busy that he did not notice the look in the
other's eyes.  Picking up his hand he winked
at it and discarded one.  "Goin' to raise th' ante
a few," he chuckled.  "I got a feelin' I 'm goin'
t' be lucky."  When the card was dealt to him
he let it lay and bet heavily.  The gambler saw
it and raised in turn, and the puncher, frowning
in indecision, nodded his head wisely and met it,
calling as he did so.  His four fives were just
two spots shy to win and he grumbled loudly at
his luck.  "Huh," he finished, "she 's a jack pot,
eh?"  He slid a double eagle out to the center
of the table and laughed recklessly.  The deals
went around rapidly, each one calling for a
ten-dollar sweetener and when the seventh hand was
dealt the puncher picked his cards and laughed.
"She 's open," he cried, "for fifty," and shoved
out the money with one hand while he dug up a
reserve pile from his pocket with the other.

The gambler saw the opener and raised it fifty,
smiling at his opponent's expression.  The
puncher grunted his surprise, studied his hand,
glanced at the pot and shrugging his shoulders,
saw the raise.  He drew two cards and chuckled
as he slid them into his hand; but before the dealer
could make his own draw the puncher's chuckle
died out and he stared over the gambler's
shoulder.  With an oath he jerked out his gun
and fired.  The gambler leaped to his feet and
whirled around to look behind.  Then he angrily
faced the frowning puncher.  "What you think
yo 're doin'?" he demanded, his hand resting
inside his coat, the thumb hooked over the edge of
the vest.

The puncher waved his hand apologetically.
"I never have no luck when I sees a cat," he
explained.  "A black cat is worse; but a yaller
one's bad enough.  I 'll bet that yaller devil
won't come back in a hurry—judgin' by th' way
it started.  I won't miss him, if he does."

The gambler, still frowning, glanced at the
deck suspiciously and saw that it lay as he had
dropped it.  The bartender, grinning at them
from the door, cracked a joke and went back to
the bar.  Sammy, after a wild look around,
settled back in his chair and soothed the pianist
a little before going back to sleep.

Drawing two cards the gambler shoved them
in his hand without a change in his expression—but
he was greatly puzzled.  It was seldom that
he bungled and he was not certain that he had.
The discard contained the right number of cards
and his opponent's face gave no hint to the
thoughts behind it.  He hesitated before he saw
the bet—ten dollars was not much, for the size
of the pot justified more.  He slowly saw it,
willing to lose the ten in order to see his opponent's
cards.  There was something he wished to know,
and he wanted to know it as soon as he could.
"I call that," he said.  The puncher's expression
of tenseness relaxed into one of great relief and
he hurriedly dropped his cards.  Three kings, an
eight, and a deuce was his offering.  The
gambler laid down a pair of queens, a ten, an eight
and a four, waved his hand and smiled.  "It's
just as well I did n't draw another queen," he
observed, calmly.  "I might 'a' raised once for luck."

The puncher raked in the pot and turned
around in his chair.  "I cleaned up that time,"
he exulted to the woman.  She had stopped
playing and was stroking Sammy's forehead.
Smiling at the exuberant winner she nodded.  "You
should have let the cat stay—I think it really
brought you luck."  He shook his head
emphatically.  "*No*, ma'am!  It was chasin' it away as
did that.  That's what did it, a'right."

The gambler glanced quickly at the two top
cards on the deck and was picking up those
scattered on the table when his opponent turned
around again.  How that queen and ten had got
two cards too deep puzzled him greatly—he was
willing to wager even money that he would not
look away again until the game was finished, not
if all the cats in the world were being slaughtered.
One hundred and ninety dollars was too much
money to pay for being caught off his guard, as
he was tempted to believe he had been.  He did
not know how much liquor the other had
consumed, but he seemed to be sobering rapidly.

The next few deals did not amount to much.
Then a jackpot came around and was pushed
hard.  The puncher was dealing and as he picked
up the deck after the cut he grinned and winked.
"Th' skirmishin' now bein' over, th' battle begins.
If that cat stays away long enough mebby I 'll
make a killin'."

"All right; but don't make no more gun-plays,"
warned the gambler, coldly.  "I allus get
excited when I smells gun-powder an' I do reckless
things sometimes," he added, significantly.

"Then I shore hopes you keep ca'm," laughed
the puncher, loud enough to be heard over the
noise of the piano, which was now going again.

The pot was sweetened three times and then
the gambler dealt his opponent openers.  The
puncher looked anxiously through the door,
grinning coltishly.  He slowly pushed out twenty
dollars.  "There's th' key," he grunted.
"A'right; see that an' raise you back.  Good for
you!  I'm stayin' an' boostin' same as ever.
Fine!  See it again, an' add this.  I 'm playin'
with yore money, so I c'n afford to be reckless.
All right; I'm satisfied, too.  Gimme one li'l
card.  I shore am glad I don't need th' king of
hearts—that was shore on th' bottom when th'
deal *begun*."

The gambler, having drawn, cursed and
reached swiftly toward his vest pocket; but he
stopped suddenly and contemplated the Colt that
peeked over the edge of the table.  It looked
squarely at his short ribs and was backed by a
sober, angry man who gazed steadily into his
eyes.  "Drop that hand," said the puncher in a
whisper just loud enough to be heard by the other
over the noise of the piano.  "I never did like
them shoulder holsters—I carry my irons where
everybody can see 'em."  Leaning forward
swiftly he reached out his left hand and cautiously
turned over the other's cards.  The fourth one
was the king of hearts.  "Don't move," he
whispered, not wishing to have the bartender take
a hand from behind.  "An' don't talk," he
warned as he leaned farther forward and shoved
his Colt against the other's vest and with his left
hand extracted a short-barreled gun from the
sheath under the gambler's armpit.  Sinking
back in his chair he listened a moment and, raking
in the pot, stowed it away with the other winnings
in his pockets.

The gambler stirred, but stopped as the Colt
leaped like a flash of light to the edge of the
table.  "Tin-horn," said the puncher, softly,
"you ain't slick enough.  I did n't stop you when
you wanted that queen an' ten because I wanted
you to go on with th' crookedness.  Yaller cats
is more unlucky to you than they are to me.  But
when I saw that last play I lost my temper; an'
I stopped you.  Now if you 'll cheat with me,
you 'll cheat with a drunk boy.  So, havin'
cheated him, you really stole his money away
from him.  That bein' so, you will dig up six
month's wages at about fifty per month.  I 'd
shoot you just as quick as I 'd shoot a snake; so
don't get no fool notions in yore head.  Dig it
right up."

The gambler studied the man across from him,
but after a moment he silently placed some
money on the table.  "It was only two forty,"
he observed, holding to three double eagles.
The puncher nodded: "I 'll take yore word for
that.  Now, in th' beginnin' I only wanted to
get th' boy his money; but when you started
cheatin' against me I changed my mind.  I
played fair.  Now here's your short-five," he said
as he slid the gun across the table.  "Mebby you
might want to use it sometime," he smiled.  "Now
you vamoose; an' if I see you in town after th'
next train leaves, I 'll *make* you use that shoulder
holster.  An' tell yore friends that Hopalong
Cassidy says, that for a country where men can
tote their hardware in plain sight, a shoulder
layout ain't no good: you gotta reach too high.
Adios."

He watched the silent, philosophical man-of-cards
walk slowly toward the door, upright,
dignified and calm.  Then he turned and
approached the piano.  "Sister," he said, politely,
"yore gamblin' friend is leavin' town on th' next
train.  He has pressin' business back east a
couple of stations an' wonders if you 'll join him
at th' depot in time for th' next train."

She had stopped playing and was staring at
him in amazement.  "Why didn't he come an'
tell me himself, 'stead of sneakin' away an'
sendin' you over?" she at last demanded, angrily.

"Well, he wanted to, but he saw a man an'
slipped out with his gun in his hand.  Mebby
there'll be trouble; but I dunno.  I'm just
tellin' you.  Gee," he laughed, looking at the
snoring youth in the chair, "he got *that* quick.
Why, I saw him less 'n two hours ago an' he was
sober as a judge.  Reckon I 'll take him over
to th' hotel an' put him to bed."  He went over
to the helpless Sammy, shook him and made him
get on his feet.  "Come along, Kid," he said,
slipping his arm under the sagging shoulder.
"We'll get along.  Good-by, Sugar," and,
supporting the feebly protesting cub, he slowly
made his way to the rear door and was gone, a
grin wreathing his face as he heard the chink of
gold coins in his several pockets.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`SAMMY KNOWS THE GAME`:

.. class:: center large

   XII


.. class:: center large

   SAMMY KNOWS THE GAME

.. vspace:: 2

A clean-cut, good-looking cowpuncher
limped slightly as he passed
the postoffice and found a seat on a box in
front of the store next door.  He sighed with
relief and gazed cheerfully at the littered square
as though it was something worth looking at.
The night had not been a pleasant one because
Sammy Porter had insisted upon either singing
or snoring; and when breakfast was announced
the youth almost had recovered his senses and
was full of remorse and a raging thirst.  Being
flatly denied the hair of the dog that bit him he
grew eloquently profane and very abusive.
Hence Mr. Cassidy's fondness for the box.

Sounds obtruded.  They were husky and had
dimensions and they came from the hotel bar.
After increasing in volume and carrying power
they were followed to the street by a disheveled
youth who kicked open the door and blinked in
the sunlight.  Espying the contented individual
on the box he shook an earnest fist at that person
and tried next door.  In a moment he followed
a new burst of noise to the street and shook the
other fist.  Trying the saloon on the other side
of the hotel without success he shook both fists
and once again tried the hotel bar, where he
proceeded along lines tactful, flattering and
diplomatic.  Only yesterday he had owned a gun,
horse and other personal belongings; he had
possessed plenty of money, a clear head and his sins
sat lightly on his youthful soul.  He still had the
sins, but they had grown in weight.  Tact
availed him nothing, flattery was futile and
diplomacy was in vain.  To all his arguments the
bartender sadly shook his head, not because
Sammy had no money, which was the reason he
gave, but because of vivid remembrance of the
grimness with which a certain red-haired,
straight-lipped, two-gun cowpuncher had made
known his request.  "Let him suffer," had said
the gunman.  "It 'll be a good lesson for him.
Understand; not a drop!"  And the bartender
had understood.  To the drink-dispenser's
refusal Sammy replied with a masterpiece of
eloquence and during its delivery the bartender
stood with his hand on a mallet, but too
spellbound to throw it.  Wheeling at the close of a
vivid, soaring climax, Sammy yanked open the
door again and stood transfixed with
amazement and hostile envy.  His new and officious
friend surely knew the right system with women.
To the burning indignities of the morning this
added the last straw and Sammy bitterly
resolved not to forget his wrongs.

Had Mr. Cassidy been a kitten he would have
purred with delight as he watched his youthful
friend's vain search for the hair of the dog, and
his grin was threatening to engulf his ears when
the Cub slammed into the hotel.  Hearing the
beating of hoofs he glanced around and saw a
trim, pretty young lady astride a trim,
high-spirited pony; and both were thoroughbreds if
he was any judge.  They bore down upon him
at a smart lope and stopped at the edge of the
walk.  The rider leaped from the saddle and
ran toward him with her hand outstretched and
her face aglow with a delighted surprise.  Her
eyes fairly danced with welcome and relief and
her cheeks, reddened by the thrust of the wind
for more than twenty miles, flamed a deeper red,
through which streaks of creamy white played
fascinatingly.  "Dick Ellsworth!" she cried.
"When did you get here?"

Mr. Cassidy stumbled to his feet, one hand
instinctively going out to the one held out to him,
the other fiercely gripping his sombrero.  His
face flamed under its tan and he mumbled an
incoherent reply.

"Don't you remember *me*?" she chided, a
roguish, half-serious expression flashing over her
countenance.  "Not little Annie, whom you
taught to ride?  I used to think I needed you
then, Dick; but oh, how I need you now.  It's
Providence, nothing else, that sent you.
Father's gone steadily worse and now all he
cares for is a bottle.  Joe, the new foreman, has
full charge of everything and he's not only
robbing us right and left, but he 's—he 's
bothering *me*!  When I complain to father of his
attentions all I get is a foolish grin.  If you only
knew how I have prayed for you to come back,
Dick!  Two bitter years of it.  But now everything
is all right.  Tell me about yourself while
I get the mail and then we 'll ride home together.
I suppose Joe will be waiting for me somewhere
on the trail; he usually does.  Did you ever hate
anyone so much you wanted to kill him?" she
demanded fiercely, beside herself for the moment.

Hopalong nodded.  "Well, yes; I have," he
answered.  "But you must n't.  What's his
name?  We 'll have to look into this."

"Joe Worth; but let's forget him for awhile,"
she smiled.  "I 'll get the mail while you go after
your horse."

He nodded and watched her enter the post-office
and then turned and walked thoughtfully
away.  She was mounted when he returned and
they swung out of the town at a lope.

"Where have you been, and what have you
been doing?" she asked as they pushed along the
firm, hard trail.

"Punchin' for th' Bar-20, southwest of here.
I wouldn't 'a' been here today only I let th'
outfit ride on without me.  We just got back
from Kansas City a couple of days back.  But
let's get at this here Joe Worth prop'sition.
I 'm plumb curious.  How long's he been
pesterin' you?"

"Nearly two years—I can't stand it much longer."

"An' th' outfit don't cut in?"

"They 're his friends, and they understand
that father wants it so.  You 'll not know father,
Dick: I never thought a man could change so.
Mother's death broke him as though he were a reed."

"Hum!" he grunted.  "You ain't carin' how
this coyote is stopped, just so he is?"

"No!" she flashed.

"An' he 'll be waitin' for you?"

"He usually is."

He grinned.  "Le 's hope he is this time."
He was silent a moment and looked at her
curiously.  "I don't know how you 'll take it, but
I got a surprise for you—a big one.  I 'm shore
sorry to admit it, but I ain't th' man you think.
I ain't Dick What 's-his-name, though it shore
ain't *my* fault.  I reckon I must look a heap like
him; an' I hope I can *act* like him in this here
matter.  I want to see it through like *he* would.
I can do as good a job, too.  But it ain't
no-wise fair nor right to pretend I 'm him.  I ain't."

She was staring at him in a way he did not
like.  "Not Dick Ellsworth!" she gasped.
"You are *not* Dick?"

"I 'm shore sorry—but I 'd like to play his
cards.  I 'm honin' for to see this here Joe
Worth," he nodded, cheerfully.

"And you let me believe you were?" she
demanded coldly.  "You deliberately led me to
talk as I did?"

"Well, now; I didn't just know what to do.
You shore was in trouble, which was bad.  I
reckoned mebby I could get you out of it an'
then go along 'bout my business.  You ain't
goin' to stop me a-doin' it, are you?" he asked
anxiously.

Her reply was a slow, contemptuous look that
missed nothing and that left nothing to be said.
Her horse did not like to stand, anyway, and
sprang eagerly forward in answer to the sudden
pressure of her knees.  She rode the high-strung
bay with superb art, angry, defiant, and erect as
a statue.  Hopalong, shaking his head slowly,
gazed after her and when she had become a speck
on the plain he growled a question to his horse
and turned sullenly toward the town.  Riding
straight to the hotel he held a short, low-voiced
conversation with the clerk and then sought his
friend, the Cub.  This youthful grouch was
glaring across the bar at the red-faced, angry man
behind it, and the atmosphere was not one of
peace.  The Cub turned to see who the
newcomer was and thereupon transferred his glare
to the smiling puncher.

"Hullo, Kid," breezed Hopalong.

"You go to h—l!" growled Sammy,
remembering to speak respectfully to his elders.  He
backed off cautiously until he could keep both
of his enemies under his eyes.

Hopalong's grin broadened.  He dug into his
pockets and produced a large sum of money.
"Here, Kid," said he, stepping forward and
thrusting it into Sammy's paralyzed hands.
"Take it an' buy all th' liquor you wants.  You
can get yore gun off 'n th' clerk, an' he 'll tell you
where to find yore cayuse an' other belongings.
I gotta leave town."

Sammy stared at the money in his hand.
"What's this?" he demanded, his face flushing
angrily.

"Money," replied Hopalong.  "It's that
shiny stuff you buys things with.  Spondulix,
cash, mazuma.  You spend it, you know."

Sammy sputtered.  He might have frothed
had his mouth not been so dry.  "Is it?" he
demanded with great sarcasm.  "I thought mebby
it was cows, or buttons.  What you handin' it
to me for?  I ain't no d—d beggar!"

Hopalong chuckled.  "That money's yourn.
I pried it loose from th' tin-horn that stole it
from you.  I also, besides, pried off a few
chunks more; but them 's mine.  I allus pays
myself good wages; an' th' aforesaid chunks is
plenty an' generous.  Amen."

Sammy regarded his smiling friend with a
frank suspicion that was brutal.  The pleasing
bulge of the pockets reassured him and he slowly
pocketed his rescued wealth.  He growled
something doubtless meant for thanks and turned to
the bar.  "A large chunk of th' Mojave Desert
slid down my throat las' night an' I 'm so dry
I rustles in th' breeze.  Let's wet down a
li'l."  Having extracted some of the rustle he eyed his
companion suspiciously.  "Thought you was a
stranger hereabouts?"

"You 've called it."

"Huh!  Then I 'm goin' to stick close to you
an get acquainted with th' female population of
th' towns we hit.  An' I had allus reckoned
lightnin' was quick!" he soliloquized, regretfully.
"How 'd you do it?" he demanded.

Hopalong was gazing over his friend's head at
a lurid chromo portraying the Battle of Bull
Run and he pursed his lips thoughtfully.
"That shore was some slaughter," he commented.
"Well, Kid," he said, holding out his hand,
"I 'm leavin'.  If you ever gets down my way
an' wants a good job, drop in an' see us.  Th'
clerk 'll tell you how to get there.  An' th' next
time you gambles, stay sober."

"Hey!  Wait a minute!" exclaimed Sammy.
"Goin' home now?"

"Can't say as I am, direct."

"Comin' back here before you do?"

"Can't say that, neither.  Life is plumb
oncertain an' gunplay 's even worse.  Mebby I will
if I 'm alive."

"Who you gunnin' for?  Can't I take a hand?"

"Reckon not, Sammy.  Why, I 'm cuttin' in
where I ain't wanted, even if I am needed.  But
it's my duty.  It's a h—l of a community as
waits for a total stranger to do its work for it.
If yo 're around an' I come back, why I 'll see
you again.  Meanwhile, look out for tin-horns."

Sammy followed him outside and grasped his
arm.  "I can hold up my end in an argument,"
he asserted fiercely.  "You went an' did me a
good turn—lemme do *you* one.  If it's anythin'
to do with that li'l girl you met to-day I won't
cut in—only on th' trouble end.  I'm particular
strong on th' trouble part.  Look here: Ain't
a friend got no rights?"

Hopalong warmed to the eager youngster—he
was so much like Jimmy; and Jimmy, be it
known, could bedevil Hopalong as much as any
man alive and not even get an unkind word for
it.  "I 'm scared to let you come, Kid; she 'd
fumigate th' ranch when you left.  Th' last
twenty-four hours has outlawed you, all right.
You keep to th' brush trails in th' draws—don't
cavort none on skylines till you lose that biled
owl look."  He laughed at the other's expression
and placed his hands on the youth's shoulders.
"That ain't it, Kid; I never apologizes, serious,
for th' looks of my friends.  They 're my friends,
drunk or sober, in h—l or out of it.  I just can't
see how you can cut in proper.  Better wait
for me here—I 'll turn up, all right.  Meanwhile,
as I says before, look out for tin-horns."

Sammy watched him ride away, and then
slammed his sombrero on the ground and jumped
on it, after which he felt relieved.  Procuring
his gun from the clerk he paused to cross-examine,
but after a fruitless half hour he
sauntered out, hiding his vexation, to wrestle with
the problem in the open.  Passing the window of
a general store he idly glanced at the meager
display behind the dusty glass and a sudden grin
transfigured his countenance.  He would find
out about the girl first and that would help him
solve the puzzle.  Thinking thus he wandered
in carelessly and he wandered out again gravely
clutching a small package.  Slipping behind the
next building he tore off the paper and carefully
crumpled and soiled with dust the purchase.
Then he went down to the depot and followed
the railroad tracks toward the other side of the
square.  Reaching the place where the south
trail crossed the tracks he left them and walked
slowly toward a small depression that was
surrounded by hoofprints.  He stooped quickly
and straightened up with a woman's handkerchief
dangling from his fingers.  He grinned
foolishly, examined it, sniffed at it and scratched
his head while he cogitated.  A decisive wave
of his hand apprised the two spectators that he
had arrived at a conclusion, which he bore out
by heading straight for the postoffice, which was
a part of the grocery store.  The postmaster
and grocer, in person one, watched his approach
with frank curiosity.

Sammy nodded and went in the store,
followed by the proprietor.  "Howd'y," he
remarked, producing the handkerchief.  "Just
picked this up over on th' trail.  Know who
dropped it?"

"Annie Allison, I reckon," replied the other.
"She came in that way from th' Bar-U.  Want
to leave it?"

Sammy considered.  "Why, I might as well
take it to her—I'm goin' down there purty soon.
Don't know any other ranch that might use a
broncho-buster, do you?"

The proprietor shook his head.  "No; most
folks 'round here bust their own.  Perfessional?"

Sammy nodded.  "Yes.  Here, gimme two-bits'
worth of them pep'mint lozengers.  Yes, it
shore is fine; but it 'll rain before long.  Well,
by-by."

The bartender of the "Retreat" sniffed
suspiciously and eyed the open door thoughtfully,
holding aloft the bar-mop while he considered.
Then he put the mop on the bar and went to the
door, where he peered out.  "Huh!" he grunted.
"Hogin' that?" he sarcastically inquired.
Sammy held out the bag and led the way to the
bar.  "Where's th' Bar-U?  Yes?  Do their
own broncho-bustin'?  Who, me?  Ain't nothin'
on laigs can throw me, includin' humans an'
bartenders.  What?  Well, what you want to get
all skinned up for, for nothin'?  Five dollars?
If you must lose it I might as well have it.  One
fall?  All right; come out here an' get it."

The bartender chuckled and vaulted the counter
as advance notice of his agility and physical
condition, and immediately there ensued a soft
shuffling.  Suddenly the building shook and
dusted itself and Sammy arose and stepped
back, smiling at his victim.  "Thanks," he
remarked.  "Good money was spent on part of my
education—boxin' bein' th' other half.  Now,
for five more, where can't I hit you?"

"Behind th' bar," grinned the other; "I got
deadly weapons there.  Look here!" he
exclaimed hurriedly as a great idea struck him.
"Everybody 'round here will back their wrastlin'
reckless; le 's team up an' make some easy money.
I 'll make th' bets an' you win 'em.  Split even.
What say?"

"Later on, mebby.  What'd you say that
Bar-U foreman's name was?"

The bartender's reply was supplemented by a
pious suggestion.  "An' if you wrastles *him*,
bust his cussed neck!"

"Why this friendship?" queried Sammy, laughing.

"Oh, just for general principles."

Sammy bought cigars, left some lozenges and
went out to search for his horse, which he duly
found.  Inwardly he was elated and he flexed
his muscles and made curious motions with his
arms, which caused the pie-bald to show the
whites of its eyes wickedly and flatten its ragged
ears.  Its actions were justified, for a left hand
darted out and slapped the wrinkling muzzle,
deftly escaping the clicking teeth.  Then the
warlike pie-bald reflected judiciously as it
chewed the lozenge.  The eyes showed less white
and the ears, moving forward and back,
compromised by one staying forward.  The candy
was old and stale and the sting of the mint was
negligible, but the sugar was much in evidence.
When the hand darted out again the answering
nip was playful and the ears were set rigidly
forward.  Sammy laughed, slipped several more
lozenges into the ready mouth, vaulted lightly
to the saddle and rode slowly toward the square.
The pie-bald kicked mildly and reached around
to nip at the stirrup, and then went on about its
business as any well-broken cow pony should.
Reaching the square Sammy drew rein
suddenly and watched a horseman who was riding
away from the "Retreat."  Waiting a few
minutes Sammy spurred forward to the saloon
and called the bartender out to him.  "Who was
that feller that just left?" he asked, curiously.

"Joe Worth, th' man yo 're goin' to strike for
that job.  Why don't you catch him now an'
mebby save yoreself a day's ride?"

"Good idea," endorsed Sammy.  "See you
later," and the youth wheeled and loped toward
the trail, but drew rein when hidden from the
"Retreat" by some buildings.  He watched the
distant horseman until he became a mere dot and
then Sammy pushed on after him.  There was
a satisfied look on his face and he chuckled as
he cogitated.  "I shore got th' drift of this; I
know th' game!  Wonder how Cassidy got onto
it?"  He laughed contentedly.  "Well, five
hundred ain't too little to split two ways; an' mebby
it is a two-man job.  Mr. Joe Worth, who was
once Mr. George Atkins, I would n't give a peso
for yore chances after I get th' lay of th' ground
an' find out yore habits.  Yo 're goin' back to
Willow Springs as shore as 'dogies' hang 'round
water holes.  An' you 'll shore dance their tune
when you gets there."

.. vspace:: 2

Mr. Cassidy, arriving at the Bar-U, asked for
the foreman and was told that the boss was in
town, but would be back sometime in the
afternoon.  The newcomer replied that he would
return later and, carefully keeping out of sight
of the ranch house as well as he could, he wheeled
and rode back the way he had come, being very
desirous to have a good look at the foreman
before they met.  Arriving at an arroyo several
miles north of the ranch he turned into it and,
leaving his horse picketed on good grass along the
bottom, he climbed to a position where he could
see the trail without being seen.  Having settled
himself comfortably he improved the wait by
trying to think out the best way to accomplish
the work he had set himself to do.  Shooting
was too common and hardly justifiable unless
Mr. Worth forced the issue with weapons of war.

The time passed slowly and he was relieved
when a horseman appeared far to the north and
jogged toward him, riding with the careless
grace of one at home in the saddle.  Being
thoroughly familiar with the trail and the surrounding
country the rider looked straight ahead as if
attention to the distance yet untraveled might
make it less.  He passed within twenty feet of
the watcher and went on his way undisturbed.
Hopalong waited until he was out of sight
around a hill and then, vaulting into the saddle,
rode after him, still puzzled as to how he would
proceed about the business in hand.  He
dismounted at the bunkhouse and nodded to those
who lingered near the wash bench awaiting their
turn.

"Just in time to feed," remarked one of the
punchers.  "Watch yore turn at th' basins—every
man for hisself 's th' rule."

"All right," Hopalong laughed.  "But is
there any chance to get a job here?" he asked,
anxiously.

"You 'll have to quiz th' Ol' Man—here he
comes now," and the puncher waved at the
approaching foreman.  "Hey, Joe!  Got a job for
this hombre?" he called.

The foreman keenly scrutinized the newcomer,
as he always examined strangers.  The two
guns swinging low on the hips caught his eyes
instantly but he showed no particular interest in
them, notwithstanding the fact that they
proclaimed a gunman.  "Why I reckon I got a job
for you," he said.  "I been waitin' to keep
somebody over on Cherokee Range.  But it's time to
eat: we'll talk later."

After the meal the outfit passed the time in
various ways until bed-time, the foreman
talking to the new member of his family.  During
the night the foreman awakened several times
and looked toward the newcomer's bunk but
found nothing suspicious.  After breakfast he
called Hopalong and one of the others to him.
"Ned," he said, "take Cassidy over to his range
and come right back.  Hey, Charley!  You an'
Jim take them poles down to th' ford an' fence
in that quicksand just south of it.  Ben says
he 's been doin' nothin' but pullin' cows outen
it.  All right, Tim; comin' right away."

Ned and the new puncher lost no time but
headed east at once with a packhorse carrying a
week's provisions for one man.  The country
grew rougher rapidly and when they finally
reached the divide a beautiful sight lay below
them, stretching as far as eye could see to the
east.  In the middle distance gleamed the
Cherokee, flowing toward the south through its
valley of rocks, canyons, cliffs, draws and timber.

"There 's th' hut," said Ned, pointing to a
small gray blot against the dead black of a
towering cliff.  "Th' spring's just south of it.
Bucket Hill, up north there, is th' north
boundary; Twin Spires, south yonder is th' other end;
an' th' Cherokee will stop you on th' east side.
You ride in every Sat'day if you wants.  Don't
get lonesome," he grinned and, wheeling
abruptly, went back the way they had come.

.. _`342`:

Hopalong shook his head in disgust.  To be
sidetracked like this was maddening.  It had
taken three hours of hard traveling over rough
country to get where he was and it would take as
long to return; and all for nothing!  He
regarded the pack animal with a grin, shrugged his
shoulders and led the way toward the hut, the
pack horse following obediently.  It was another
hour before he finally reached the little cabin,
for the way was strange and rough.  During this
time he had talked aloud, for he had the tricks
of his kind and when alone he talked to himself.
When he reached the hut he relieved the pack
horse of its load, carrying the stuff inside.
Closing the door and blocking it with a rock he
found the spring, drank his fill and then let the
horses do likewise.  Then he mounted and started
back over the rough trail, thinking out loud and
confiding to his horse and he entered a narrow
defile close to the top of the divide, promising
dire things to the foreman.  Suddenly a rope
settled over him, pinned his arms to his
sides and yanked him from the saddle before he
had time to think.  He landed on his head and
was dazed as he sat up and looked around.  The
foreman's rifle confronted him, and behind the
foreman's feet were his two Colts.

"You talks too much," sneered the man with
the drop.  "I suspicioned you th' minute I laid
eyes on you.  It 'll take a better man than you
to get that five hundred reward.  I reckon th'
Sheriff was too scared to come hisself."

Hopalong shook his head as if to clear it.
What was the man talking about?  Who was
the sheriff?  He gave it up, but would not
betray his ignorance.  Yes; he had talked too
much.  He felt of his head and was mildly
surprised to see his hand covered with blood when he
glanced at it.  "Five hundred 's a lot of money,"
he muttered.

"Blood money!" snapped the foreman.
"You had a gall tryin' to get me.  Why, I been
lookin' for somebody to try it for two years.
An' I was ready every minute of all that time."

Slowly it came to Hopalong and with it the
realization of how foolish it would be to deny
the part ascribed to himself.  The rope was
loose and his arms were practically free; the
foreman had dropped the lariat and was depending
upon his gun.  The captive felt of his head
again and, putting his hands behind him for
assistance in getting up, arose slowly to his feet.
In one of the hands was a small rock that it had
rested upon during the effort of rising.  At
the movement the foreman watched him closely
and ordered him not to take a step if he wanted
to live a little longer.

"I reckon I 'll have to shoot you," he
announced.  "I dass n't let you loose to foller
me all over th' country.  Anyhow, I 'd have to
do it sooner or later.  I wish you was Phelps,
d—n him; but he's a wise sheriff.  Better
stand up agin' that wall.  I gotta do it; an' you
deserve it, you Judas!"

"Meanin' yo're Christ?" sneered Hopalong.
"Did you kill th' other feller like that?  If I 'd
'a' knowed that I 'd 'a' slapped yore dawg's face
at th' bunkhouse an' made you take an even
break.  Shore you got nerve enough to shoot
straight if I looks at you while yo 're aimin'?"  He
laughed cynically.  "I don't want to close
my eyes."

The foreman's face went white and he half
lowered the rifle as he took a step forward.
Hopalong leaped sideways and his arm straightened
out, the other staggering under the blow
of the missile.  Leaping forward Hopalong ran
into a cloud of smoke and staggered as he jumped
to close quarters.  His hand smashed full in the
foreman's face and his knee sank in the
foreman's groin.  They went down, the foreman
weak from the kick and Hopalong sick and weak
from the bullet that had grazed the bone of his
bad thigh.  And lying on the ground they fought
in a daze, each incapable of inflicting serious
injury for awhile.  But the foreman grew stronger
as his enemy grew weaker from loss of blood
and, wriggling from under his furious
antagonist, he reached for his Colt.  Hopalong threw
himself forward and gripped the gun wrist
between his teeth and closed his jaws until they
ached.  But the foreman, pounding ceaselessly
on the other's face with his free hand, made the
jaws relax and drew the weapon.  Then he saw
all the stars in the heavens as Hopalong's head
crashed full against his jaw and before he could
recover the gun was pinned under his enemy's
knee.  Hopalong's head crashed again against
the foreman's jaw and his right hand gripped the
corded throat while the left, its thumb inside the
foreman's cheek and its fingers behind an ear,
tugged and strained at the distorted face.
Growling like wild beasts they strained and
panted, and then, suddenly, Hopalong's grip
relaxed and he made one last, desperate effort to
bring his strength back into one furious attack;
but in vain.  The battered foreman, quick to
sense the situation, wrestled his adversary to one
side long enough to grab the Colt from under
the shifting knee.  As he clutched it a shot rang
out and the weapon dropped from his nerveless
hand before he could pull the trigger.  An
exulting, savage yell roared in his ears and in the
next instant he seemed to leave the ground and
soar through space.  He dropped ten feet away
and lay dazed and helpless as a knee crashed
against his chest.  Sammy Porter, his face
working curiously with relief and rage, rolled him
against the wall of the defile and struck him over
the head with a rifle butt, first disarming him.

Hopalong opened his eyes and looked around,
dazed and sick.  The foreman, bound hand and
foot by a forty-five foot lariat, lay close to the
base of the wall and stared sullenly at the sky.
Sammy was coming up the trail with a dripping
sombrero held carefully in his hands and was
growling and talking it all over.  Hopalong
looked down at his thigh and saw a heavy,
blood-splotched bandage fastened clumsily in place.
Glancing at Sammy again he idly noted that part
of the youth's blue-flannel shirt was missing.
Curiously, it matched the bandage.  He closed
his eyes and tried to think what it was all about.

Sammy ambled up to him, threw some water
in the bruised face and then grinned cheerfully
at the language he evoked.  Producing a flask
and holding it up to the light, Sammy slid his
thumb to a certain level and then shoved the
bottle against his friend's teeth.  "Huh!" he
chuckled, yanking the bottle away.  "You'll be
all right in a couple of days.  But you shore are
one h—l of a sight—it's a toss-up between you
an' Atkins."

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1

It was night.  Hopalong stirred and arose on
one elbow and noticed that he was lying on a
blanket that covered a generous depth of leaves
and pine boughs.  The sap-filled firewood
crackled and popped and hissed and whistled under
the licking attack of the greedy flames, which
flared up and died down in endless alternation,
and which grotesquely revealed to Hopalong's
throbbing eyes a bound figure lying on another
blanket.  That, he decided, was the foreman.
Letting his gaze wander around the lighted circle
he made out a figure squatting on the other side
of the fire, and concluded it was Sammy Porter.
"What you doin', Kid?" he asked.

Sammy arose and walked over to him.  "Oh,
just watchin' a fool puncher an' five hundred
dollars," he grinned.  "How you feelin' now,
you ol' sage hen?"

"Good," replied the invalid, and, comparatively,
it was the truth.  "Fine an' strong," he
added, which was not the truth.

"That's the way to talk," cheered the Cub.
"You shore had one fine séance.  You earned
that five hundred, all right."

Hopalong reflected and then looked across at
the prisoner.  "He can fight like the devil," he
muttered.  "Why, I kicked him hard enough to
kill anybody else."  He turned again and looked
Sammy in the eyes, smiling as best he could.
"There ain't no five hundred for me, Kid.  I
did n't come for that, did n't know nothin' about
it.  An' it's blood money, besides.  We 'll turn
him loose if he 'll get out of the country, hey?
We 'll give him a chance; either that or you take
th' reward."

Sammy stared, grunted and stared again.
"What you ravin' about?" he demanded.  "An'
you didn't come after him for that money?" he
asked, sarcastically.

Hopalong nodded and smiled again.  "That's
right, Kid," he answered, thoughtfully.  "I
come down to make him get out of th' country.
You let him go after we get out of this.  I
reckon I got yore share of the reward right here
in my pocket; purty near that much, anyhow.
You take it an' let him vamoose.  What you say?"

Sammy rose, angry and disgusted.  His
anger spoke first.  "You go to h—l with yore
money!  I don't want it!"  Then, slowly and
wonderingly spoke his disgust.  "He 's yourn;
do what you want.  But I here remarks, frank
an' candid, open an' so all may hear, that yo 're
a large, puzzlin' d—d fool.  Now lay back on
that blanket an' go to sleep afore I changes my
mind!"

Sammy drifted past the prisoner and looked
down at him.  "Hear that?" he demanded.
There was no answer and he grunted.  "Huh!
You heard it, all right; an' it plumb stunned
you."  Passing on he grabbed the last blanket
in sight, it was on the foreman's horse, and rolled
up in it, feet to the fire.  His gun he placed
under the saddle he had leaned against, which
now made his pillow.  As he squirmed into the
most comfortable position he could find under
the circumstances he raised his head and glanced
across at his friend.  "Huh!" he growled
softly.  "That's th' worst of them sentimental
fellers.  That gal shore wrapped him 'round
her li'l finger all right.  Oh, well," he sighed.
"'Tain't none of my doin's, thank the Lord; I
got sense!"  And with the satisfaction of this
thought still warm upon him he closed his eyes
and went to sleep, confident that the slightest
sound would awaken him; and fully justified in
his confidence.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`HIS CODE`:

.. class:: center large

   XIII


.. class:: center large

   HIS CODE

.. vspace:: 2

Mr. "Youbet" Somes, erstwhile foreman
of the Two-X-Two ranch, in Arizona,
and now out of a job, rode gloomily toward
Kit, a town between him and his destination.

Needless to say, he was a cowman through
and through.  More than that, he was so
saturated with cowmen's traditions as to resent
pugnaciously anything which flouted them.

He was of the old school, and would not
submit quietly to two things, among others, which
an old-school cowman hated—wire fences and
sheep.  To this he owed his present ride, for he
hated wire fences cordially.  They meant the
passing of the free, open range, of straight trails
across country; they meant a great change, an
intolerable condition.

"Yessir, bronch!  Things are gettin' damnabler
every year, with th' railroads, tourists,
nesters, barb' wire, an' sheep.  Last year, it was a
windmill, that screeched till our hair riz up.  It
would n't work when we wanted it to, an' we
could n't stop it when it once got started.

"It gave us no sleep, no peace; an' it killed
Bob Cousins—swung round with th' wind an'
knocked him off 'n th' platform, sixty feet, to
th' ground.  Bob allus did like to monkey with
th' buzz saw.  I shore told him not to go up
there, because th' cussed thing was loaded; but,
bein' mule-headed, he knowed more 'n me.

"But this year!  Lord—but that was an awful
pile of wire, bronch!  Three strands high, an'
over a hundred an' fifty miles round that
pasture.  That was a' insult, bronch; an' I never
swaller 'em.  That's what put me an' you out
here, in th' middle of nowhere, tryin' to find a
way out.  G'wan, now!  You ain't goin' to rest
till I gets off you.  G'wan, I told you!"

Mr. Somes was riding east, bound for the
Bar-20, where he had friends.  For a year or two,
he had heard persistent rumors to the effect
that Buck Peters had more cows than he knew
what to do with; and he argued rightly that the
Bar-20 foreman could find a place for an old
friend, whose ability was unquestioned.  Of one
thing he was certain—there were no wire fences,
down there.

It was dusk when he dismounted in front of
Logan's, in Kit, and went inside.  The bartender
glanced up, reaching for a bottle on the
shelf beside him.

Youbet nodded.  "You got it first pop.  Have
one with me.  I 'm countin' on staying over in
town tonight.  Got a place for me?"

"Shore have—upstairs in th' attic.  Want
grub, too?"

"Well, I sorter hope to have somethin' to eat
afore I pull out.  Here's how!"  And when
Mr. Somes placed his empty glass on the bar, he
smiled good-naturedly.  "That's good stuff.
Much goin' on in town?"

"Reckon you can get a game most anywhere."

"Where do I get that grub?  Here?"

"No—down th' street.  Ridin' far?"

"Yes—a little.  Goin' down to th' Bar-20
for a job punchin'.  I hear Peters has got
more cows than he can handle.  Know anybody
down there you wants to send any word to?"

"I 'll be hanged if I know," laughed the
bartender.  "I know a lot of fellers, but they shift
so I can't keep track of 'em, nohow."

A man in a far corner pushed back his chair,
and approached the bar, scowling as he glanced
at Youbet.  "Gimme another," he ordered.

"Why, hullo, stranger!" exclaimed Youbet.
"I did n't see you before.  Have one with me."

The other looked him squarely in the eyes.
"Ex-cuse me, stranger—I 'm a sheepman, an' I
don't drink with cowmen."

"Well, ex-cuse *me*!" retorted Youbet, like a
flash.  "If I 'd 'a' knowed you was a sheepman,
I wouldn't 'a' asked you!"

The sheepman drank his liquor and, returning
to his corner, placed his elbows on the table, and
his chin in his hands, apparently paying no
further attention to the others.

"If I can't get a job with Peters, I can try th'
C-80 or Double Arrow," continued Youbet, as
he toyed with his glass.  "If I can't get on with
one of them, I reckons Waffles, of th' O-Bar-O,
will find a place for me, though I don't like that
country a whole lot."

The bartender hesitated for a moment.  "Do
you know Waffles?" he asked.

"Shore—know 'em all.  Why?  Do you know him, too?"

"No; but I 've heard of him."

"That so?  He 's a good feller, he is.  I 've
punched with both him an' Peters."

"I heard he wasn't," replied the bartender,
slowly but carelessly.

"Then you heard wrong, all right," rejoined
Youbet.  "He's one of us old fellers—hates
sheep, barb' wire, an' nesters as bad as I do; an'
sonny," he continued, warming as he went on.
"Th' cow country ain't what it used to be—not
no way.  I can remember when there war n't no
wire, no nesters, an' no sheep.  An', between
you and me, I don't know which is th' worst.
Every time I runs up agin' one of 'em, I says
it's th' worst; but I guess it's just about a even
break."

"I heard about yore friend Waffles through
sheep," replied the bartender.  "He chased a
sheep outfit out of a hill range near his ranch,
an' killed a couple of 'em, a-doin' it."

"Served 'em right—served 'em right,"
responded Youbet, turning and walking toward
the door.  "They ain't got no business on a
cattle range—not nohow."

The man in the corner started to follow, half
raising his hand, as though to emphasize
something he was about to say; but changed
his mind, and sullenly resumed his brooding
attitude.

"Reckon I 'll put my cayuse in yore corral,
an' look th' town over," Youbet remarked, over
his shoulder.  "Remember, yo 're savin' a bed for me."

As he stepped to the street, the man in the
corner lazily arose and looked out of the window,
swearing softly while he watched the man who
hated sheep.

"Well, there 's another friend of yore business,"
laughed the bartender, leaning back to
enjoy the other's discomfiture.  "*He* don't like
'em, neither."

"He 's a fool of a mossback, so far behind th'
times he don't know who 's President," retorted
the other, still staring down the street.

"Well, he don't know that this has got to be
a purty fair sheep town—that's shore."

"He 'll find out, if he makes many more talks
like that—an' that ain't no dream, neither!"
snapped the sheepman.  He wheeled, and
frowned at the man behind the bar.  "You see
what he gets, if he opens his cow mouth in here
tonight.  Th' boys hate this kind real fervent;
an' when they finds out that he 's a side pardner
of that coyote Waffles, they won't need much
excuse.  You wait—that's all!"

"Oh, what's th' use of gettin' all riled up
about it?" demanded the bartender easily.  "He
did n't know *you* was a sheepman, when he made
his first break.  An' lemme tell you somethin'
you want to remember—them old-time cowmen
can use a short gun somethin' slick.  They 've got
'em trained.  Bet *he* can work th' double roll
without shootin' hisself full of lead."  The
speaker grinned exasperatingly.

"Yes!" exploded the sheepman, who had tried
to roll two guns at once, and had spent ten days
in bed as a result of it.

The bartender laughed softly as he recalled
the incident.  "Have you tried it since?" he inquired.

"Go to th' devil!" grinned the other, heading
for the door.  "But he 'll get in trouble, if he
spouts about hatin' sheep, when th' boys come
in.  You better get him drunk an' lock him in th'
attic, before then."

"G'wan!  I ain't playin' guardian to nobody,"
rejoined the bartender.  "But remember what I
said—them old fellers can use 'em slick an'
rapid."

The sheepman went out as Youbet returned;
and the latter seated himself, crossing his legs
and drawing out his pipe.

The bartender perfunctorily drew a cloth
across the bar, and smiled.  "So you don't like
wire, sheep, or nesters," he remarked.

Mr. Somes looked up, in surprise, forgetting
that he held a lighted match between thumb and
finger.  "Like 'em!  Huh, I reckon not.  I 'm
lookin' for a job because of wire.  H—l!" he
exclaimed, dropping the match, and rubbing his
finger.  "That's twice I did that fool thing in
a week," he remarked, in apology and
self-condemnation, and struck another match.

"I was foreman of my ranch for nigh onto
ten years.  It was a good ranch, an' I was
satisfied till last year, when they made me put up
a windmill that did n't mill, but screeched awful.
I stood for that because I could get away from
it in th' daytime.

"But this year!  One day, not very long ago,
I got a letter from th' owners, an' it says for me
to build a wire fence around our range.  It went
on to say that there was two carloads of barb'
wire at Mesquite.  We was to tote that wire
home, an' start in.  If two carloads wasn't
enough, they 'd send us more.  We had one
busted-down grub waggin, an' Mesquite shore
was fifty miles away—which meant a whoppin'
long job totin'.

"When I saw th' boys, that night, I told 'em
that I 'd got orders to raise their pay five dollars
a month—which made 'em cheer.  Then I told
'em that was so providin' they helped me build
a barb' wire fence around th' range—which
did n't make 'em cheer.

"Th' boundary lines of th' range we was usin'
was close onto a hundred an' fifty miles long, an'
three strands of wire along a trail like that is
some job.  We was to put th' posts twelve feet
apart, an' they was to be five feet outen th'
ground an' four feet in it—which makes 'em
nine feet over all.

"There was n't no posts at Mesquite.  Them
posts was supposed to be growin' freelike on th'
range, just waitin' for us to cut 'em, skin 'em,
tote an' drop 'em every twelve feet along a line
a hundred an' fifty miles long.  An' then there
was to be a hole dug for every post, an' tampin',
staplin', an' stringin' that hell-wire.  An' don't
forget that lone, busted-down grub waggin that
was to do that totin'!

"There was some excitement on th' Two-X-Two
that night, an' a lot of figgerin'; us bein'
some curious about how many posts was needed,
an' how many holes we was to dig to fit th'
aforesaid posts.  We made it sixty-six thousand.
Think of it!  An' only eight of us to tackle a
job like that, an' ride range at th' same time!"

"Oh, ho!" roared the bartender, hugging himself,
and trying to carry a drink to the narrator
at the same time.  "Go on!  That's good!"

"Is, is it?" snorted Youbet.  "Huh!  You
wouldn't 'a' thought so, if you was one of us
eight.  Well, I set right down an' writ a long
letter—took six cents' worth of stamps—an'
gave our views regardin' wire fences in general
an' this one of ourn in particular.  I hated
fences, an' do yet; an' so 'd my boys hate 'em, an'
they do yet.

"In due time, I got a answer, which come for
two cents.  It says: 'Build that fence.'

"I sent Charley over to Mesquite to look
over them cars of wire.  He saw 'em, both of
'em.  An' th' agent saw him.

"Th' agent was a' important man, an' he grabs
Charley quick.  'Hey, you Two-X-Two puncher—you
get that wire home quick.  It went past
here three times before they switched it, an' I 've
been gettin' blazes from th' company ever since.
We needs th' cars.'

"'Don't belong to me,' says Charley.  'I
shore don't want it.  I 'm eatin' beans an' bacon
instead.'

"'You send for that wire!' yells th' agent, wild-like.

"Charley winks.  'Can't you keep it passin'
this station till it snows hard?  Have a drink.'

"Well, th' agent wouldn't drink, an' he
wouldn't send that pore wire out into a cold
world no more; an' so Charley comes home an'
reports, him lookin' wanlike.  When he told us,
he looked sort of funny, an' blurts out that his
mother went an' died up in Laramie, an' he must
shore 'nuff rustle up there an' bury her.  He went.

"Then Fred Ball begun to have pains in his
stomach, an' said it was appendix somethin', what
he had been readin' about in th' papers.  He had
to go to Denver, an' get a good doctor, or he 'd
shore die.  He went.

"Carson had to go to Santa Fé to keep some
of his numerous city lots from bein' sold off by
th' sheriff.  He went.

"Th' rest, bein' handicapped by th' good start
th' others had made in corrallin' all th' excuses,
said they 'd go for th' wire.  They went.

"I waited four days, an' then I went after
'em.  When I got to th' station, I sees th' agent
out sizin' up our wire; an' when I hails, he jumps
my way quick, an' grabs my laig tight.

"'You take that wire home!' he yells.

"'Shore,' says I soothingly.  'You looks mad,' I adds.

"'Mad!  Mad!' he shouts, hoppin' round, but
hangin' onto my laig like grim death.  'Mad!
I 'm goin' *loco*—crazy!  I can't sleep!  There 's
twenty letters an' messages on my table, tellin'
me to get that wire off'n th' cars an' send th'
empties back on th' next freight!  You've got to
take it—*got to*!'"

The bartender shocked his nervous system by
drinking plain water by mistake, but he listened
eagerly.  "Yes?  What then?"

"Well, then I asks him where I can find my
men, an' team, an' waggin'.  He tells me.  Th'
team an' waggin is in a corral down th' street,
but he don't know where th' men are.  They
held a gun to his head, an' said they 'd kill him
if he didn't flag th' next train for 'em.  Th'
next train was a through express, carryin' mail.
He was n't dead.

"He showed me ten more letters an' messages,
regardin' th' flaggin' of a contract-mail train for
four fares; an' some of them letters must 'a'
been written by a old-time cowman, they was
that eloquent an' God-fearin'.  Then I went.

"Why, Charley was twenty years old; an' we
figgered that, when th' last staple was drove in
th' last post, he 'd 'a' been dead ten years!
Where did I come in, the—?"

"Oh, Lord!" sighed the bartender, holding his
sides, and trying to straighten his face so that he
could talk out of the middle of it.  "That's th'
best ever!  Have another drink!"

"I ain't tellin' my troubles for liquor," snorted
Youbet.  "You have one with me.  Here comes
some customers down th' street, I reckon."

"Say!" exclaimed the bartender hurriedly.
"You keep mum about sheep.  This is a red-hot
sheep town, an' it hates Waffles an' all his
friends.  Hullo, boys!" he called to four men,
who filed into the room.  "Where 's th' rest of you?"

"Comin' in later.  Same thing, Jimmy," replied
Clayton, chief herder.  "An' give us th' cards."

"Have you seen Price?" asked Towne.

"Yes; he was in here a few minutes ago.
What 'd you say, Schultz?" the bartender asked,
turning to the man who pulled at his sleeve.

"I said dot you vas nod right aboud vat you
said de odder day.  Chust now I ask Clayton,
und he said you vas nod."

"All right, Dutchy—all right!" laughed the
bartender.  "Then it's on me this time, ain't it?"

Youbet walked to the bar.  "Say, where do I
get that grub?  It's about time for me to
mosey off an' feed."

"Next building—and you'll take mutton if
yo 're wise," replied the bartender, in a low voice.
"Th' hash is awful, an' the beef is tough," he
added, a little louder.

"Mutton be damned!" snorted Youbet, stamping
out.  "I eat what I punch!"  And his growls
became lost in the street.

Schultz glanced up.  "Yah!  Und he shoot
vat I eat, tarn him, ven he gan!"

"Oh, put yore ante in, an' don't talk so much!"
rejoined Towne.  "He ain't going to shoot *you*."

"It 'll cost you two bits to come in," remarked Clayton.

"An' two more," added Towne, raising the ante.

"Goot!  I blay mit you.  But binochle iss der game!"

"I 'll tell you a good story about a barb' wire
fence tomorrow, fellers," promised the
bartender, grinning.

.. vspace:: 2

The poker game had been going for some time
before further remarks were made about the
cowman who had left, and then it was Clayton who
spoke.

"Say, Jimmy!" he remarked, as Schultz dealt.
"Who is yore leather-pants friend who don't like
mutton?"

The bartender lifted a bottle, and replaced it
with great care.  "Oh, just a ranch foreman,
out of a job.  He's a funny old feller."

"So?  An' what's so funny about him?  Get
in there, Towne, if you wants to do any playin'
with us."

"Why, he was ordered to build a hundred an'
fifty miles of wire fence around his range, an' he
jumped ruther than do it."

"Yas—an' most of it government land, I
reckon," interposed Towne.

"Pshaw!  It's an old game with them,"
laughed Clayton.  "Th' law don't get to them;
an' if they 've got a good outfit, nobody has got
any chance agin 'em."

"Py Gott, dot's right!" grunted Schultz.

"Shore, it is," responded Towne, forgetting
the game.  "Take that Apache Hills run-in.
Waffles did n't have no more right to that range
than anybody else, but that did n't make no
difference.  He threw a couple of outfits in there,
penned us in th' cabin, killed MacKay, an'
shot th' rest of us up plenty.  Then he threatened
to slaughter our herd if we did n't pull out.
By God, I 'd like to get a cowman like him up
here, where th' tables are turned around on th'
friends proposition."

"Hullo, boys!" remarked the bartender to the
pair who came in.

"Just in time.  Get chairs, an' take hands,"
invited Clayton, moving over.

"Who's th' cowman yo're talkin' about?"
asked Baxter, as he leaned lazily against the
bar.

"Oh, all of 'em," rejoined Towne surlily.
"There 's one in town, now, who don't like sheep."

"That so?" queried Baxter slowly.  "I
reckon he better keep his mouth shut, then."

"Oh, he 's all right!  He 's a jolly old geezer,"
assured the bartender.  "He just talks to hear
hisself—one of them old-timers what can't get
right to th' way things has changed on th' range.
It was them boys that did great work when th'
range was wild."

"Yes, an' it's them bull-headed old fools what
are raisin' all th' hell with th' sheep," retorted
Towne, frowning darkly as he remembered some
of the indignities he had borne at the hands of cowmen.

"I wish his name was Waffles."  Clayton
smiled significantly.

"Rainin' again," remarked a man in the doorway,
stamping in.  "Reckon it ain't never goin' to stop."

"Where you been so long, Price?" asked Clayton,
as a salutation.

"Oh, just shiftin' about.  That cow wrastler
raised th' devil in th' hotel," Price replied.  "Old
fool!  They brought him mutton, an' he wanted
to clean out th' place.  Said he 'd as soon eat
barb' wire.  They 're feedin' him hash an' canned
stuff, now."

"He 'll get hurt, if he don't look out,"
remarked Clayton.  "Who is he, anyhow, Price?"

"Don't know his name; but he 's from Arizona,
on his way to th' Pecos country.  Says he 's a
friend of Buck Peters an' Waffles.  To use one
of his own expressions, he 's a old mosshead."

"Friend of Waffles, hey?" exclaimed Towne.

"Yumpin' Yimminy!" cried Oleson, in the same breath.

"Well, if he knows when he's well off, he 'll
stay away from here, an' keep his mouth closed,"
said Clayton.

"Aw, let him alone!  He's one agin' th' whole
town—an' a good old feller, at that," hastily
assured the bartender.  "It ain't his fault that
Waffles buffaloed you fellers out of th' Hills, is
it?  He's goin' on early tomorrow; so let him be."

"You 'll get yoreself in trouble, Jimmy, m'
boy, if you inserts yoreself in this," warned
Towne.  "It was us agin' a whole section, an'
we got ours.  Let him take his, if he talks too
much."

"Shore," replied Price.  "I heard him shoot
off his mouth, an hour ago, an' he's got
altogether too much to say.  You mind th' bar an'
yore own business, Jimmy.  We ain't kids."

"Go you two bits better," said Clayton,
shoving out a coin.  "Gimme some cards, Towne.
It 'll cost you a dollar to see our raises."

Baxter walked over to watch the play.  "I 'm
comin' in next game.  Who 's winnin', now?"

"Reckon I am; but we ain't much more 'n got
started," Clayton replied.  "Did you call,
Towne?  Why, I 've got three little tens.  You
got anythin' better?"

"Never saw such luck!" exclaimed Towne
disgustedly.  "Dutchy, yo 're a Jonah."

"Damn th' mutton, says I.  It was even in
that hash!" growled a voice, just outside the door.

A moment later, Youbet Somes entered,
swinging his sombrero energetically to shake off
the water.

"Damn th' rain, too, an' this wart of a town.
A man can't get nothin' fit to eat for love or
money, on a sheep range.  Gimme a drink,
sonny!  Mebby it 'll cut th' taste of that rank
tallow out 'n my mouth.  Th' reason there is
sheep on this earth of our'n is that th' devil
chased 'em out 'n his place—an' no blame to him."

He drank half his liquor, and, placing the
glass on the bar beside him, turned to watch the
game.  "Ah, strangers—that's th' only game,
after all.  I 've dabbled in 'em all from faro to
roulette, but that's th' boss of 'em all."

"See you an' call," remarked Clayton, ignoring
the newcomer.  "What you got, you Dutch pagan?"

"*Zwei Kaisers* und a bair of chackasses, mit a
deuce."

"Kings up!" exclaimed Clayton.  "Why, say—you
bet th' worst of anybody I ever knew!
You 'll balk on bettin' two bits on threes, and
plunge on a bluff.  I reckoned you did n't have
nothin'.  Why ain't you more consistent?" he
asked, winking at Towne.

"Gonsisdency iss no chewel in dis game—it
means go broke," placidly grunted Schultz,
raking in his winnings.

His friend Schneider smiled.

.. vspace:: 2

"Coyotes are gettin' too numerous, this year,"
Baxter remarked, shuffling.

Youbet pushed his sombrero back on his head.
"They don't get numerous on a cow range," he
said significantly.

"Huh!" snorted Baxter.  "They've got too
much respect to stay on one longer than they 've
got to."

"They'd ruther be with their woolly-coated
cousins," rejoined the cowman quietly.  It was
beneath his dignity as a cowman to pay much
attention to what sheepmen said, yet he could not
remain silent under such a remark.

He regarded sheep herders, those human
beings who walked at their work, as men who had
reached the lowest rung in the ladder of human
endeavors.  His belief was not original with him,
but was that of many of his school.  He was a
horseman, a mounted man, and one of the aristocracy
of the range; they were, to him, the rabble,
and almost beneath his contempt.

Besides, it was commonly believed by cowmen
that sheep destroyed the grass as far as cattle
grazing was concerned—and this was the chief
reason for the animosity against sheep and their
herders, which burned so strongly in the hearts
of cattle owners and their outfits.

Youbet drained his glass, and continued:
"The coyote leaves th' cattle range for th' same
good reason yore sheep leave it—because they are
chased out, or killed.  Naturally, blood kin will
hang together in banishment."

"You know a whole lot, don't you?" snorted
Clayton, with sarcasm.  "Yo 're shore wise, you are!"

"He is so vise as a—a gow," remarked Schultz, grinning.

"You 'll know more, when you get as old as
me," replied the ex-foreman, carefully placing
the empty glass on the bar.

"I don't want to get as old as you, if I have
to lose all my common sense," retorted Clayton
angrily.

"An' be a damned nuisance generally," observed Towne.

"I 've seen a lot of things in my life," Youbet
began, trying to ignore the tones of the others.
They were young men, and he knew that youth
grew unduly heated in argument.  "I saw th'
comin' of th' Texas drive herds, till th' range
was crowded where th' year before there was
nothin'.  I saw th' comin' of th' sheep—an'
barb' wire, I 'm sorry to say.  Th' sheep came
like locusts, leavin' a dyin' range behind 'em.
Thin, half-starved cattle showed which way they
went.  You can't tell me nothin' I don't know
about sheep."

"An' *I* 've seen sheep dyin' in piles on th'
open range," cried Clayton, his own wrongs
lashing him into a rage.  "*I* 've seen 'em dynamited,
an' drowned and driven hell-to-split over
canyons!  I 've had my men taunted, an' chased, an'
killed—*killed*, by God!—just because they tried
to make a' honest livin'!  Who did it all?  Who
killed my men an' my sheep?  *Who did it?*" he
shouted, taking a short step forward, while an
endorsing growl ran along the line of sheepmen
at his side.

"Cowpunchers—they did it!  They killed 'em—an'
why?  Because we tried to use th' grass
that we had as much right to as they had—*that 's*
why!"

"Th' cows was here first," replied Youbet,
keenly alert, but not one whit abashed by the
odds, long as they were.  "It was theirs because
they was there first."

"It was not theirs, no more'n th' sun was!"
cried Towne, unable to allow his chief to do all
the talking.

"You said you knowed Waffles," continued
Clayton loudly.  "Well, he 's another of you
old-time cowmen!  He killed MacKay—murdered
him—because we was usin' a hill range a day's
ride from his own grass!  He had twenty men
like hisself to back him up.  If we 'd been as
many as them, they would n't 'a' tried it—an'
you know it!"

"I don't know anything of th' kind, but I do
know—" began Youbet; but Schultz interrupted
him with a remark intended to contain humor.

"Ven you say you doand know anyt'ing, you
know somedings; ven you know dot you doand
know noddings, den you know somedings.  Und
das iss so—yah."

"Who th' devil told you to stick yore Dutch
mouth—" retorted Youbet; but Clayton cut
him short.

"So *yo 're* a old-timer, hey?" cried the
sheepman.  "Well, by God, yore old-time friend
Waffles is a coward, a murderer, an'—"

.. _`"Yo're a liar!" rang out the vibrant voice of the cowman`:

.. figure:: images/img-378.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "Yo're a liar!" rang out the vibrant voice of the cowman

   "Yo're a liar!" rang out the vibrant voice of the cowman

"Yo 're a liar!" rang out the vibrant voice of
the cowman, his gun out and leveled in a flash.
The seven had moved forward as one man,
actuated by the same impulse; and their hands were
moving toward their guns when the crashes of
Youbet's weapon reverberated in the small room,
the acrid smoke swirling around him as though to
shield him from the result of his folly—a result
which he had weighed and then ignored.

Clayton dropped, with his mouth still open.
Towne's gun chocked back in the scabbard as its
owner stumbled blindly over a chair and went
down, never to rise.  Schultz fired once, and fell
back across the table.

The three shots had followed one another with
incredible quickness; and the seven, not believing
that one man would dare attack so many, had not
expected his play.  Before the stunned sheepmen
could begin firing, three were dead.

Price, badly wounded, fired as he plunged to
the wall for support; and the other three were
now wrapped in their own smoke.

Wounded in several places, with his gun
empty, Youbet hurled the weapon at Price, and
missed by so narrow a margin that the sheepman's
aim was spoiled.  Youbet now sprang to the bar,
and tried to vault over it, to get to the gun which
he knew always lay on the shelf behind it.  As
his feet touched the upper edge of the counter,
he grunted and, collapsing like a jackknife,
loosed his hold, and fell to the floor.

"*Mein Gott!*" groaned Schneider, as he tried
to raise himself.  He looked around in a dazed
manner, hardly understanding just what had
happened.  "He vas mat; crazy mat!"

Oleson arose unsteadily to his feet, and groped
his way along, the wall to where Price lay.

The fallen man looked up, in response to the
touch on his shoulder; and he swore feebly:
"Damn that fool—that idiot!"

"Shut up, an' git out!" shouted the bartender,
standing rigidly upright, with a heavy Colt in his
upraised hand.  There were tears in his eyes,
and his voice broke from excitement.  "He
wouldn't swaller yore insults!  He knowed he
was a better man!  Get out of here, every
damned one of you, or I 'll begin where he
stopped.  G 'wan—*get out*!"

The four looked at him, befuddled and sorely
hurt; but they understood the attitude, if they
did not quite grasp the words—and they knew
that he meant what he looked.  Staggering and
hobbling, they finally found the door, and
plunged out to the street, to meet the crowd of
men who were running toward the building.

Jimmy, choking with anger and with respect
for the man who had preferred death to insults,
slammed shut the door and, dropping the bar
into place, turned and gazed at the quiet figure
huddled at the base of the counter.

"Old man," he muttered, "now I understands
why th' sheep don't stay long on a cattle range."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`SAMMY HUNTS A JOB`:

.. class:: center large

   XIV


.. class:: center large

   SAMMY HUNTS A JOB

.. vspace:: 2

Sammy Porter, detailed by Hopalong,
the trail-boss, rode into Truxton
three days before the herd was due, to notify the
agent that cars were wanted.  Three thousand
three-year-olds were on their way to the packing
houses and must be sent through speedily.
Sammy saw the agent and, leaving him much less
sweeter in temper than when he had found him,
rode down the dismal street kicking up a
prodigious amount of dust.  One other duty
demanded attention and its fulfillment was promised
by the sign over the faded pine front of the
first building.

"Restaurant," he read aloud.  "That's mine.
Beans, bacon an' biscuits for 'most a month!  But
now I 'm goin' to forget that Blinky Thompkins
ever bossed a trail wagon an' tried to cook."

Dismounting, he glanced in the window and
pulled at the downy fuzz trying to make a
showing on his upper lip.  "Purty, all right.  Brown
hair an' I reckon brown eyes.  Nice li'l girl.
Well, they don't make no dents on me no more,"
he congratulated himself, and entered.  His
twenty years fairly sagged with animosity
toward the fair sex, the intermittent smoke from
the ruins of his last love affair still painfully in
evidence at times.  But careless as he tried to be
he could not banish the swaggering mannerisms
of Youth in the presence of Maid, or change his
habit of speech under such conditions.

"Well, well," he smiled.  "Here I 'are' again.
Li'l Sammy in search of his grub.  An' if it's
as nice as you he 'll shore have to flag his outfit
an' keep this town all to hisself.  Got any
chicken?"

The maid's nose went up and Sammy noticed
that it tilted a trifle, and he cocked his head on
one side to see it better.  And the eyes were
brown, very big and very deep—they possessed
a melting quality he had never observed before.
The maid shrugged her shoulders and swung
around, the tip-tilt nose going a bit higher.

Sammy leaned back against the door and
nodded approval of the slender figure in
spic-and-span white.  "Li'l Sammy is a fer-o-cious
cow-punch from a chickenless land," he observed,
sorrowfully.  "There ain't *no* kinds of chickens.
Nothin' but men an' cattle an' misguided cooks;
an' beans, bacon an' biscuits.  Li'l Miss, have
you a chicken for me?"

"No!"  The head went around again, Sammy
bending to one side to see it as long as he could.
The pink, shell-like ear that flirted with him
through the loosely-gathered, rebellious hair
caught his attention and he leveled an accusing
finger at it.  "Naughty li'l ear, peekin' at
Sammy that-a-way!  Oh, you stingy girl!" he
chided as the back of her head confronted him.
"Well, Sammy don't like girls, no matter how
pink their ears are, or turned up their noses, or
wonderful their eyes.  He just wants chicken,
an' all th' fixin's.  He 'll be very humble an'
grateful to Li'l Miss if she 'll tell him what he
can have.  An' he 'll behave just like a
Sunday-school boy.

"Aw, you don't want to get mad at only me,"
he continued after she refused to answer.
"Got any chicken?  Got any—eggs?  Lucky
Sammy!  An' some nice ham?  Two lucky
Sammies.  An' some mashed potatoes?  Fried?
Good.  An' will Li'l Miss please make a brand
new cup of strong coffee?  Then he 'll go over
an' sit in that nice chair an' watch an' listen.
But you ought n't get mad at him.  Are you
really-an'-truly mad?"

She swept down the room, into the kitchen
partitioned off at the farther end and slammed
the door.  Sammy grinned, tugged at his
upper lip and fancy-stepped to the table.  He
smoothed his tumbled hair, retied his neck-kerchief
and dusted himself off with his red bandanna
handkerchief.  "Nice li'l town," he
soliloquized.  "*Fine* li'l town.  Dunno as I ought to
go back to th' herd—Hoppy did n't tell me to.
Reckon I 'll stick in town an' argue with th'
agent.  If I argue with th' agent I 'll be busy;
an' I can't leave while I 'm busy."  He leaned
back and chuckled.  "Lucky me!  If Hoppy
had gone an' picked Johnny to argue with th'
agent for three whole days where would *I* be?
But I gotta keep Johnny outa here, th' son-of-a-gun.
He ain't like me—he *likes* girls; an' he
ain't bashful."

He picked up a paper lying on a chair near
him and looked it over until the kitchen door
squeaked.  She carried a tray covered with a
snow-white napkin which looked like a
topographical map with its mountains and valleys
and plains.  His chuckle was infectious to the
extent of a smile and her eyes danced as she
placed his dinner before him.

"Betcha it's fine," he grinned, shoveling sugar
into the inky coffee.  "Blinky oughta have a
good look at *this* layout."

"Don't be too sure," she retorted.  "Mrs. Olmstead
is sick and I 'm taking charge of
things for her.  I 'm not a good cook."

"Nothin 's th' matter with this," he assured
her between bites.  "Lots better 'n most purty
girls can do.  If Hopalong goes up against this
he 'll offer you a hundred a month an' throw
Blinky in to wash th' dishes.  But he 'd have to
'point me guard, or you would n't have no time
to do no cookin'."

"You 'd make a fine guard," she retorted.

"Don't believe it, huh?  Jus' wait till you
know me better."

"How do you know I 'm going to?"

"I 'm a good guesser.  Jus' put a li'l pepper
right there on that yalla spot.  Say, any chance
to get a job in this town?"

"Why, I don't know."

"Goin' to stay long?"

"I can't say.  I won't go till Mrs. Olmstead
is well."

"Not meanin' no harm to Mrs. Olmstead, of
course—but you don't *have* to go, do you?"

"I do as I please."

"So I was thinkin'.  Now, 'bout that job: any
chance?  Any ranches near here?"

"Several.  But they want *men*.  Are you a
real cowboy?"

Sammy folded his hands and shook his head
sorrowfully.  "Huh!  Want *men*!  Now if I
only had whiskers like Blinky.  Why, 'course
I 'm a cowboy.  Regular one—but I can
outgrow it easy.  I 'm a sorta maverick an' I 'm
willin' to wear a nice brand.  My name's
Sammy Porter," he suggested.

"That's nice.  Mine is n't nice."

"Easy to change it.  Really like mine?"

"Coffee strong enough?"

"Sumptious.  How long's Mrs. Olmstead
going to be sick?"

Her face clouded.  "I don't know.  I hope
it will not be for long.  She 's had *so* much
trouble the past year.  Oh, wait!  I forgot the
toast!" and she sped lightly away to rescue the
burning bread.

The front door opened and slammed shut, the
newcomer dropping into the nearest chair.  He
pounded on the table.  "Hello, there!  I want
somethin' to eat, quick!"

Sammy turned and saw a portly, flashily
dressed drummer whose importance was written
large all over him.  "Hey!" barked the drummer,
"gimme something to eat.  I can't wait all day!"

A vicious clang in the kitchen told that his
presence was known and resented.

As Sammy turned from the stranger he caught
sight of a pretty flushed face disappearing
behind the door jamb, the brown eyes snapping and
the red lips straight and compressed.  His
glance, again traveling to the drummer, began
with the dusty patent leathers and went slowly
upward, resting boldly on the heavy face.
Sammy's expression told nothing and the newcomer,
glaring at him for an instant, looked over the
menu card and then stared at the partition,
fidgeting in his chair, thumping meanwhile on the
table with his fingers.

At a sound from the kitchen Sammy turned
back to his table and smiled reassuringly as the
toast was placed before him.  "I burned it and
had to make new," she said, the pink spots in her
cheeks a little deeper in color.

"Why, th' other was good enough for me," he
replied.  "Know Mrs. Olmstead a long time?"
he asked.

"Ever since I was a little girl.  She lived
near us in Clev—"

"Cleveland," he finished.  "State of Ohio," he
added, laughingly.  "I 'll get it all before I go."

"Indeed you won't!"

"Miss," interrupted the drummer, "if you ain't
too busy, would you mind gettin' me a steak an'
some coffee?"  The tones were weighted with
sarcasm and Sammy writhed in his chair.  The
girl flushed, turned abruptly and went slowly
into the kitchen, from where considerable noise
now emanated.  In a short time she emerged
with the drummer's order, placed it in front of
him and started back again.  But he stopped
her.  "I said I wanted it rare an' it's well done.
An' also that I wanted fried potatoes.  Take
it back."

The girl's eyes blazed: "You gave no
instructions," she retorted.

"Don't tell me that!  I know what I said!"
snapped the drummer.  "I won't eat it an' I
won't pay for it.  If you was n't so *busy* you 'd
heard what I said."

Sammy was arising before he saw the tears of
vexation in her eyes, but they settled it for him.
He placed his hand lightly on her shoulder.
"You get me some pie an' take a li'l walk.  Me
an' this here gent is goin' to hold a palaver.
Ain't we, stranger?"

The drummer glared at him.  "We ain't!" he retorted.

Sammy grinned ingratiatingly.  "Oh, my;
but we are."  He slung a leg over a chair back
and leaned forward, resting his elbow on his
knee.  "Yes, indeed we are—least-a-wise, *I* am."  His
tones became very soft and confiding.  "An'
I 'm shore goin' to watch you eat that steak."

"What's that you 're going to do?" the drummer
demanded, half rising.

"Sit down," begged Sammy, his gun swinging
at his knee.  He picked up a toothpick with his
left hand and chewed it reflectively.  "These
here Colts make a' awful muss, sometimes," he
remarked.  "'Specially at close range.  Why,"
he confided, "I once knowed a man what was shot
'most in two.  He was a moss-head an' would n't
do what he was told.  Better sorta lead off at
that steak, *hombre*," he suggested, chewing
evenly on the toothpick.  Noticing that the girl
still lingered, hypnotized by fear and curiosity,
he spoke to her over his shoulder.  "Won't you
please get me that pie, or somethin'?  Run out
an' borrow a pan, or somethin'," he pleaded.  "I
don't like to be handicapped when I 'm feedin'
cattle."

The drummer's red face paled a little and one
hand stole cautiously under his coat—and froze
there.  Sammy hardly had moved, but the Colt
was now horizontal and glowered at the gaudy
waistcoat.  He was between it and the girl and
she did not see the movement.  His smile was
placid and fixed and he spoke so that she should
get no inkling of what was going on.  "Never
drink on an empty stomach," he advised.  "After
you eat that meal, then you can fuss with yore
flask all you wants."  He glanced out of the
corner of his eye at the girl and nodded.  "Still
there!  Oh, I most forgot, stranger.  You take
off yore hat an' 'pologize, so she can go.  Jus'
say yo 're a dawg an never did have no manners.
*Say* it!" he ordered, softly.  The drummer
gulped and muttered something, but the Colt,
still hidden from the girl by its owner's body,
moved forward a little and Sammy's throaty
growl put an end to the muttering.  "Say it
plain," he ordered, the color fading from his face
and leaving pink spots against the white.
"That's better—now, Li'l Miss, you get me that
pie—please!" he begged.

When they were alone Sammy let the gun
swing at his knee again.  "I don't know how
they treats wimmin where you came from,
stranger; but out here we 're plumb polite.
'Course you did n't know that, an' that's why
you did n't get all mussed up.  Yo 're jus' plain
ignorant an' can't help yore bringin' up.  Now,
you eat that steak, *pronto*!"

"It's too cold, now," grumbled the drummer,
fidgeting in the chair.

The puncher's left hand moved to the table
again and when it returned to his side there was
a generous layer of red pepper on the meat.
"Easy to fix things when you know how," he
grinned.  "If it gets any colder I 'll fix it some
more."  His tones became sharper and the words
lost their drawled softness.  "You goin' to start
ag'in that by yoreself, or am I goin' to help
you?" he demanded, lifting his leg off the chair
and standing erect.  All the humor had left his
face and there was a grimness about the tight lips
and a menace in the squinting eyes that sent a
chill rippling down the drummer's spine.  He
tasted a forkful of the meat and gulped hastily,
tears welling into his eyes.  The puncher moved
a little nearer and watched the frantic gulps
with critical attention.  "'Course, you can eat
any way you wants—yo're payin' for it; but
boltin' like a coyote ain't good for th' stummick.
Howsomever, it's yore grub," he admitted.

A cup of cold coffee and a pitcher of water
followed the meat in the same gulping haste.
Tears streamed down the drummer's red face as
he arose and turned toward the door.  "Hol' on,
stranger!" snapped Sammy.  "That costs six
bits," he prompted.  The coins rang out on the
nearest table, the door slammed and the
agonized stranger ran madly down the street,
cursing at every jump.  Sammy sauntered to the
door and craned his neck.  "Somebody 's jus'
naturally goin' to bust him wide open one of
these days.  He ain't got no sense," he muttered,
turning back to get his pie.

.. vspace:: 2

A cloud of dust rolled up from the south,
causing Briggs a little uneasiness, and he scowled
through the door at the long empty siding and
the pens sprawled along it.

Steps clacked across the platform and a
grinning cowpuncher stopped at the open window.
"They're here," he announced.  "How 'bout
th' cars?"

Briggs looked around wearily.  For three days
his life had been made miserable by this pest,
who carried a laugh in his eyes, a sting on his
tongue and a chip on his shoulder.  "They 'll be
here soon," he replied, with little interest.  "But
there 's th' pens."

"Yes, there's th' pens," smiled Sammy.
"They'll hold 'bout one-tenth of that herd.
Ain't I been pesterin' you to get them cars?"

The agent sighed expressively and listened to
the instrument on his table.  When it ceased he
grabbed the key and asked a question.  Then he
smiled for the first time that day.  "They 're
passing Franklin.  Be here in two hours.  Now
get out of here or I 'll lick you."

"There 's a nice place in one of them pens,"
smiled Sammy.

"I see you 're eating at Olmstead's," parried
the agent.

"Yea."

"Nice girl.  Come up last summer when Mrs. Olmstead
petered out.  I ate there last winter."

Sammy grinned at him.  "Why 'd you stop?"

Briggs grew red and glanced at the nearing
cloud of dust.  "Better help your outfit, had n't
you?"

Sammy was thoughtful.  "Say, that's a
plumb favorite eatin' place, ain't it?"

Briggs laughed.  "Wait till Saturday when
th' boys come in.  There 's a dozen shinin' up to
that girl.  Tom Clarke is real persistent."

Sammy forsook the building as a prop.
"Who 's he?  Puncher?"

"Yes; an' bad," replied the agent.  "But I
reckon she don't know it."

Sammy looked at the dust cloud and turned to
ask one more question.  "What does this persistent
gent look like, an' where's he hang out?"  He
nodded at the verbose reply and strode to his
horse to ride toward the approaching herd.  He
espied Red first, and hailed.  "Cars here in two
hours.  Where 's Hoppy?"

"Back in th' dust.  But what happened to
*you*?" demanded Red, with virile interest.
Sammy ignored the challenge and loped along
the edge of the cloud until he found the trail boss.
"Them cars 'll be here in two hours," he reported.

"Take you three days to find it out?" snapped Hopalong.

"Took me three days to get 'em.  I just about
unraveled that agent.  He swears every time he
hears a noise, thinkin' it's me."

"Broke?" demanded Hopalong.

Sammy flushed.  "I ain't gambled a cent
since I hit town.  An' say, them pens won't hold
a tenth of 'em," he replied, looking over the dark
blur that heaved under the dust cloud like a
fog-covered, choppy sea.

"I 'm goin' to hold 'em on grass," replied the
trail boss.  "They ain't got enough cars on this
toy road to move all them cows in less 'n a week.
I ain't goin' to let 'em lose no weight in pens.
Wait a minute!  You 're on night herd for stayin' away."

When Sammy rode into camp the following
morning he scorned Blinky's food, much to the
open-mouthed amazement of that worthy and
Johnny Nelson.  Blinky thought of doctors and
death; but Johnny, noticing his bunkmate's
restlessness and the careful grooming of his
person, had grave suspicions.  "Good grub in this
town?" he asked, saddling to go on his shift.

Sammy wiped a fleck of dust off his boot and
looked up casually.  "Shore.  Best is at the
Dutchman's at th' far end of th' street."

Johnny mounted, nodded and departed for the
herd, where Red was pleasantly cursing his
tardiness.  Red would eat Blinky's grub and gladly.
Johnny was cogitating.  "There 's a girl in this
town, an' he 's got three days' head start.  No
wonder them cars just got here!"  Red's sarcastic
voice intruded.  "Think I eat grass, or my
stummick 's made of rubber?" he snapped.
"Think I feed onct a month like a snake?"

"No, Reddie," smiled Johnny, watching the
eyebrows lift at the name.  "More like a hawg."

.. vspace:: 2

Friday morning, a day ahead of the agent's
promise, the cars backed onto the siding and by
noon the last cow of the herd was taking its
first—and last—ride.  Sammy slipped away from
the outfit at the pens and approached the
restaurant from the rear.  He would sit behind the
partition this time and escape his friends.

The soft sand deadened his steps and when he
looked in at the door, a cheery greeting on the
tip of his tongue, he stopped and stared
unnoticed by the sobbing girl bent over the table.
One hand, outflung in dejected abandon, hung
over the side and Sammy's eyes, glancing at
it, narrowed as he looked.  His involuntary,
throaty exclamation sent the bowed head up with
a jerk, but the look of hate and fear quickly died
out of her eyes as she recognized him.

"An' all th' world tumbled down in a heap,"
he smiled.  "But it 'll be all right again, same as
it allus was," he assured her.  "Will Li'l Miss
tell Sammy all about it so he can put it together
again?"

She looked at him through tear-dimmed eyes,
the sobs slowly drying to a spasmodic catching
in the rounded throat.  She shook her head and
the tears welled up again in answer to his
sympathy.  He walked softly to the table and placed
a hand on her bowed head.  "Li'l Miss will tell
Sammy all about it when she dries her eyes an'
gets comfy.  Sammy will make things all right
again an' laugh with her.  Don't you mind him
a mite—jus' cry hard, an' when all th' tears are
used up, then you tell Sammy what it's all
about."  She shook her head and would not look
up.  He bent down carefully and examined the
bruised wrist—and his eyes glinted with rage; but
he did not speak.  The minutes passed in silence,
the girl ashamed to show her reddened and
tear-stained face; the boy stubbornly determined to
stay and learn the facts.  He heard his friends
tramp past, wondering where he was, but he did
not move.

Finally she brushed back her hair and looked
up at him and the misery in her eyes made him
catch his breath.  "Won't you go?" she pleaded.

He shook his head.

"Please!"

"Not till I finds out whose fingers made them
marks," he replied.  The look of fear flashed up
again, but he checked it with a smile he far from
felt.  "Nobody 's goin' to make you cry, an' get
away with it," he told her.  "Who was it?"

"I won't tell you.  I can't tell you!  I don't know!"

"Li'l Miss, look me in th' eyes an' say it again.
I thought so.  You mustn't say things that
ain't true.  Who did that?"

"What do you want to know for?"

"Oh, jus' because."

"What will you do?"

"Oh, I 'll sorta talk to him.  All I want to
know is his name."

"I won't tell you; you 'll fight with him."

He turned his sombrero over and looked
gravely into its crown.  "Well," he admitted,
"he *might* not like me talkin' 'bout it.  Of course,
you can't never tell."

"But he did n't mean to hurt me.  He 's only
rough and boisterous; and he wasn't himself,"
she pleaded, looking down.

"Uh-huh," grunted Sammy, cogitating.
"So 'm I.  *I 'm* awful rough an' boisterous, *I*
am; only I don't hurt wimmin.  What's his name?"

"I'll not tell you!"

"Well, all right; but if he ever comes in here
again an' gets rough an' boisterous he 'll lose a
hull lot of future.  I 'll naturally blow most of his
head off, which is frequent fatal.  What's that?
Oh, he's a bad man, is he?  Uh-huh; so 'm I.
Well, I 'm goin' to run along now an' see th' boss.
If you won't tell, you won't.  I 'll be back soon,"
and he sauntered to the street and headed for
Pete's saloon, where the agent had said
Mr. Clarke was wont to pass his fretful hours.

As he turned the corner he bumped into
Hopalong and Johnny, who grabbed at him, and
missed.  He backed off and rested on his toes,
gingery and alert.  "Keep yore dusty han's off'n
me," he said, quietly.  "I 'm goin' down to
palaver with a gent what I don't like."

Hopalong's shrewd glance looked him over.
"What did this gent do?" he asked, and he would
not be evaded.

"Oh, he insulted a nice li'l girl, an' I 'm in a
hurry."

"G'way!" exclaimed Johnny.  "That straight?"

"Too d—n straight," snapped Sammy.  "He
went an' bruised her wrists an' made her cry."

"Lead th' way, Kid," rejoined Johnny,
readjusting his belt.  "Mebby he 's got some friends,"
he suggested, hopefully.

"Yes," smiled Hopalong, "mebby he has.
An' anyhow, Sammy; you *know* yo're plumb
careless with that gun.  You might miss him.
Lead th' way."

As they started toward Pete's Johnny nudged
his bunkmate in the ribs: "Say; she ain't got no
sisters, has she?" he whispered.

.. vspace:: 2

One hour later Sammy, his face slightly
scratched, lounged into the kitchen and tossed his
sombrero on a chair, grinning cheerfully at the
flushed, saucy face that looked out from under a
mass of rebellious, brown hair.  "Well, I saw th'
boss, an' I come back to make everythin' well
again," he asserted, laughing softly.  "That
rough an' boisterous Mr. Clarke has sloped.  He
won't come back no more."

"Why, *Sammy*!" she cried, aghast.  "What
*have* you done?"

"Well, for one thing, I 've got you callin' me
Sammy," he chuckled, trying to sneak a hand
over hers.  "I told th' boss I 'm goin' to get a
job up here, so I 'll know Mr. Clarke won't come
back.  But you know, he only thought he was
bad.  I shore had to take his ol' gun away from
him so he would n't go an' shoot hisself, an' when
las' seen he was feelin' for his cayuse, intendin' to
leave these parts.  That's what I *done*," he
nodded, brightly.  "Now comes what I 'm goin'
to do.  Oh, Li'l Miss," he whispered, eagerly.
"I 'm jus' all mixed up an' millin'.  My own
feet plumb get in my way.  So I jus' gotta stick
aroun' an' change yore name, what you don't like.
Uh-huh; that's jus' what I gotta do," he smiled.

She tossed her head and the tip-tilt nose went
up indignantly.  "Indeed you 'll do nothing of
the kind, Sammy Porter!" she retorted.  "I'll
choose my own name when the time comes, and it
will not be Porter!"

He arose slowly and looked around.  Picking
up the pencil that lay on the shelf he lounged
over to the partition and printed his name three
times in large letters.  "All right, Li'l Miss,"
he agreed.  "I 'll jus' leave a list where you can
see it while you 're selectin'.  I 'm now goin' out
to get that job we spoke about.  You have th'
name all picked out when I get back," he
suggested, waving his hand at the wall.  "An' did
anybody ever tell you it was plumb risky to stick
yore li'l nose up thataway?"

"Sammy Porter!" she stormed, stamping in
vexation near the crying point.  "You get right
out of here!  I 'll *never* speak to you again!"

"You won't get a chance to talk much if you
don't sorta bring that snubby nose down a li'l
lower.  I 'm plumb weak at times."  He laughed
joyously and edged to the door.  "Don't forget
that list.  I 'm goin' after that job.  So-long,
Li'l Miss."

"Sammy!"

"Oh, all right; I'll go after it later on," he
laughed, returning.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`WHEN JOHNNY SLOPED`:

.. class:: center large

   XV


.. class:: center large

   WHEN JOHNNY SLOPED

.. vspace:: 2

Johnny Nelson hastened to the corner
of the bunkhouse and then changed his
pace until he seemed to ooze from there to the
cook shack door, where he lazily leaned against
the door jamb and ostentatiously picked his teeth
with the negative end of a match.  The cook
looked up calmly, and calmly went on with his
work; but if there was anything rasping enough
to cause his calloused soul to quiver it was the
aforesaid calisthenics executed by Johnny and the
match; for Cookie's blunt nature hated hints.  If
Johnny had demanded, even profanely and with
large personal animus, why meals were not ahead
of time, it would be a simple matter to heave
something and enlarge upon his short cut speech.
But the subtleties left the cook floundering in a
mire of rage—which he was very careful to
conceal from Johnny.  The youthful nuisance had
been evincing undue interest in early suppers for
nearly a month; and judging from the lightness
of his repasts he was entirely unjustified in
showing any interest at all in the evening meal.  So
Cookie strangled the biscuit in his hand, but
smiled blandly at his tormentor.

"Well, all through?" he pleasantly inquired,
glancing carelessly at Johnny's clothes.

"I 'm hopin' to begin," retorted Johnny, and
the toothpick moved rapidly up and down.

Cookie condensed another biscuit and gulped.
"That's shore some stone," he said, enviously,
eying the two-caret diamond in Johnny's new,
blue tie.  Johnny never had worn a tie before he
became owner of the diamond, but with the stone
came the keen realization of how lost it was in a
neck-kerchief, how often covered by the wind-blown
folds; so he had hastened to Buckskin and
spent a dollar that belonged to Red for the tie,
thus exhausting both the supply of ties and Red's
dollars.  The honor of wearing the only tie and
diamond in that section of the cow-country
brought responsibilities, for he had spoken hastily
to several humorous friends and stood a good
chance of being soundly thrashed therefor.

He threw away the match and scratched his
back ecstatically on the door jamb while he
strained his eyes trying to look under his chin.
Fixed chins and short ties are trials one must
learn to accept philosophically—and Johnny
might have been spared the effort were it not for
the fact that the tie had been made for a boy,
and was awesomely shortened by encircling a
sixteen-inch neck.  Evidently it had been made
for a boy violently inclined toward a sea-faring
life, as suggested by the anchors embroidered in
white down its middle.

"Lemme see it," urged Cookie, sighing because
its owner had resolutely refused to play
poker when he had no cash.  This had become a
blighting sorrow in the life of a naturally
exuberant and very fair cook.

"An' for how long?" demanded Johnny, a cold
and calculating light glinting in his eyes.

"Oh, till supper 's ready," replied Cookie with
great carelessness.

"Nix; but you can wear it twenty minutes if
you 'll get my grub quick," he replied.  "Got to
meet Lucas at half-past five."  He cautiously
dropped the match he had thoughtlessly produced.

The cook tried to look his belief and accepted
the offer.  Johnny's remarkably clean face,
plastered hair and general gala attire suggested
that Lucas was a woman—which Lucas
profanely would have denied.  Also, Johnny had
been seen washing Ginger, and when a puncher
washes a cayuse it's a sign of insanity.  Besides,
Ginger belonged to Red, who also had owned
that lone dollar.  Red's clothes did not fit
Johnny.

"Goin' to surprise Lucas?" inquired the cook.

"What you mean?"

Cookie glanced meaningly at the attire:
"Er—you ain't in th' habit of puttin' on war
paint for to see Lucas, are you?"

Johnny's mental faculties produced: "Oh,
we 're goin' to a dance."

"Where 'bouts?" exploded the cook.

"*Way* up north!"  One's mind needs to be
active as a flea to lie properly to a man like the
cook.  He had made a ghastly mistake.

"By golly!  I 'll give th' boys cold grub an'
go with you," and the cook began to save time.

Johnny gulped and shook his head: "Got a invite?"

Cookie caught the pan on his foot before it
struck the floor and gasped: "Invite?  Ain't
it free-fer-all?"

"No; this is a high-toned thing-a-bob.  Costs
a dollar a head, too."

"High-toned?" snorted the cook, derisively.
"Don't they know you?  An' I thought Red was
broke.  Show me that permit!"

"Lucas 's got it—that's why I 've got to catch him."

"Oh!  An' is *he* goin' all feathered up, too?"

"Shore, he 's got to."

"Huh!  He wouldn't dress like that to see a
*fight*.  Has she got any sisters?" Cookie finished,
hopefully.

"Now what you talkin' about?"

"Why, Lucas," answered the cook, placidly.
"Lemme tell you something.  When you want to
lose me have a invite to a water-drinkin' contest.
An' before you go, be shore to rub Hoppy's boots
some more; that's such a pasty shine it 'll look
like sand-paper before you get to th'—dance.
You want to make it hard an' slippery.  An' I 've
read som'ers that only wimmin ought to smell
like a drug-store.  You better let her do th'
fumigatin'."

Johnny surrendered and dolefully whiffed the
crushed violets he had paid two bits a pint for at
El Paso—it was not necessary to whiff them, but
he did so.

"You ought to hone yore razor, too," continued
the cook, critically.

"I told Buck it was dull, I ain't goin' to
sharpen it for him.  But, say, are you shore
about th' perfumery?"

"Why, of course."

"But how 'll I git it off?"

"Bury th' clothes," suggested Cookie, grinning.

"I like yore gall!  Which clothes are best,
Pete's or Billy's?"

"Pete's would fit you like th' wide, wide world.
You don't want blankets on when you go
courtin'.  Try Billy's.  An' I got a pair of
socks, though one 's green—but th' boots 'll hide it."

"I did n't put none on my socks, you chump!"

"How'd *I* know?  But, say!  Has she got any sisters?"

"No!" yelled Johnny, halfway through the
gallery in search of Billy's clothes.  When he
emerged Cookie looked him over.  "Ain't it
funny, Kid, how a pipe 'll stink up clothes?" he
smiled.  Johnny's retort was made over several
yards of ground and when he had mounted
Cookie yelled and waved him to return.  When
Johnny had obeyed and impatiently demanded
the reason, Cookie pleasantly remarked: "Now,
be shore an' give her my love, Kid."

Johnny's reply covered half a mile of trail.


Johnny rode alertly through Perry's Bend,
for Sheriff Nolan was no friend of his; and Nolan
was not only a discarded suitor of Miss Joyce,
but a warm personal friend of George Greener,
the one rival Johnny feared.  Greener was a
widower as wealthy as he was unscrupulous, and
a power on that range: when he said "jump,"
Nolan soared.

The sheriff was standing before the Palace
saloon when Johnny rode past, and he could
not keep quiet.  His comment was so judiciously
chosen as to bring white spots on Johnny's flushed
cheeks.  The Bar-20 puncher was not famed
for his self-control, and, wheeling in the saddle,
he pointed a quivering forefinger at Mr. Nolan's
badge of office, so conspicuously displayed:
"Better men than you have hid behind a badge
and banked on a man's regard for th' law savin'
'em from their just deserts.  Politics is a h—l
of a thing when it opens th' door to anything
that might roll in on th' wind.  You come down
across th' line tomorrow an' see me, without th'
nickel-plated ornament you disgraces," he
invited.  "Any dog can tell a lie in his kennel, but
it takes guts to bark outside th' yard."

Mr. Nolan flushed, went white, hesitated, and
walked away.  To fight in defense of the law was
his duty; but no sane man warred on the Bar-20
unless he must.  Mr. Nolan was a man whose
ideas of necessity followed strange curves, and
not to his credit.  One might censure Mr. Cassidy
or Mr. Connors, or pick a fight with some of the
others of that outfit and not get killed; but he
must not harm their protégé.  Mr. Nolan not
only walked away but he sought the darkest
shadows and held conversation with himself.  If
it were only possible to get the pugnacious and
very much spoiled Mr. Nelson to fracture, smash,
pulverize some law!  This, indeed, would be sweet.

Meanwhile Johnny, having watched the sheriff
slip away, loosed a few more words into the air
and went on his way, whistling cheerfully.
Reaching the Joyce cottage he was admitted by
Miss Joyce herself and at sight of her blushing
face his exuberant confidence melted and left him
timid.  This he was wont to rout by big words
and a dashing air he did not feel.

"Oh!  Come right in," she invited.  "But you
are late," she laughed, chidingly.

He critically regarded the dimples, while he
replied that he had drawn rein to slay the sheriff
but, knowing that it would cost him more
valuable time, he had consented with himself to
postpone the event.

"But you must not do that!" she cried.
"Why, that's terrible!  You shouldn't even
think of such things."

"Well, of course—if yo 're agin' it I wont."

"But what did he do?"

"Oh, I don't reckon I can tell that.  But do
you really want him to live?"

"Why, certainly!  What a foolish question."

"But why do you?  Do you—*like* him?"

"I like everybody."

"Yes; an' everybody likes you, too," he
growled, the smile fading.  "That's th' trouble.
Do you like him very much?"

"I wish you wouldn't ask such foolish questions."

"Yes; I know.  But do you?"

"I prefer not to answer."

"Huh!  That's an answer in itself.  You do."

"I don't think you 're very nice tonight," she
retorted, a little pout spoiling the bow in her
lips.  "You 're awfully jealous, and I don't like it."

"Gee!  Don't like it!  I should think you 'd
want me to be jealous.  I only wish you was
jealous of *me*.  Norah, I 've just got to say it
now, an' find out—"

"Yes; tell me," she interrupted eagerly.
"What *did* he do?"

"Who?"

"Mr. Nolan, of course."

"Nolan?" he demanded in surprise.

"Yes, yes; tell me."

"I ain't talkin' about him.  I was goin' to
tell you something that I 've—"

"That you 've done and now regret?  Have
you ever—ever killed a man?" she breathed.
"Have you?"

"No; *yes*!  Lots of 'em," he confessed,
remembering that once she had expressed admiration
for brave and daring men.  "Most half as many
as Hopalong; an' I ain't near as old as him,
neither."

"You mean Mr. Cassidy?  Why don't you
bring him with you some evening?  I 'd like to
meet him."

"Not *me*.  I went an' brought a friend along
once, an' had to lick him th' next day to keep
him away from here.  He 'd 'a' camped right
out there in front if I had n't.  No, ma'am; not any."

"Why, the idea!  But Mr. Greener's very
much like your friend, Mr. Cassidy.  He 's very
brave, and a wonderful shot.  He told me so
himself."

"What!  He told you so hisself!  Well, well.
Beggin' yore pardon, he ain't nowise like Hoppy,
not even in th' topics of his conversation.  Why,
he 's a child; an' blinks when he shoots off a gun.
Here—can he show a gun like mine?" and
forthwith he held out his Colt, butt foremost, and
indicated the notches he had cut that afternoon.  A
fleeting doubt went through his mind at what his
outfit would say when it saw those notches.
The Bar-20 cut no notches.  It wanted to forget.

She looked at them curiously and suddenly
drew back.  "Oh!  Are they—*are* they?" she
whispered.

He nodded: "They are.  There is plenty of
room for Nolan's, an' mebby his owner, too," he
suggested.  "Can't you see, Norah?" he asked
in a swift change of tone.  "Can't you see?
Don't you know how much I—"

"Yes.  It must be terrible to have such
remorse," she quickly interposed.  "And I
sympathize with you deeply, too."

"Remorse nothin'!  Them fellers was lookin'
for it, an' they got just what they deserved.  If
I had n't 'a' done it somebody else would."

"And *you* a murderer!  I never thought that
of *you*.  I can hardly believe it of you.  And
you calmly confess it to me as though it were
nothing!"

"Why, I—I—"

"Don't talk to me!  To think you have human
blood on your hands.  To think—"

"Norah!  Norah, listen; won't you?"

"—that you are that sort of a man!  How dare
you call here as you have?  How dare you?"

"But I tell you they were tryin' to get *me*!  I
just *had* to.  Why, I didn't do it for nothin'.
I 've got a right to defend myself, ain't I?"

"You *had* to?  Is that true?" she demanded.

"Why, shore!  Think I go 'round killin' men,
like Greener does, just for th' fun of it?"

"He doesn't do anything of the kind," she
retorted.  "You know he does n't!  Did n't you
just say he blinks when he shoots off a gun?"

"Yes; I did.  But I didn't want you to
think he was a murderer like Nolan," he
explained.  Even Cookie, he thought, would find
it hard to get around that neat little effort.

"I 'm so relieved," she laughed, delighted at
her success in twisting him.  "I am so glad he
does n't blink when he shoots.  I 'd hate a man
who was afraid to shoot."

Johnny's chest arose a little.  "Well, how
'bout me?"

"But you've killed men; you've shot down
your fellow men; and have ghastly marks on
your revolver to brag about."

"Well—say—but how can I shoot without
shootin' or kill without killin'?" he demanded.
"An' I don't brag about 'em, neither; it makes
me feel too sad to do any braggin'.  An'
Greener's killed 'em, too; an' he brags about it."

"Yes; but he doesn't blink!" she exclaimed
triumphantly.

"Neither do *I*."

"Yes; but you shoot to kill."

"Lord pity us—don't *he*?"

"Y-e-s, but that's different," she replied,
smiling brightly.

Johnny looked around the room, his eyes
finally resting on his hat.

"Yes, I see it's different.  Greener can kill,
an' blink!  I can't.  If he kills a man he's a
hero; I 'm a murderer.  I kinda reckon he 's got
th' trail.  But I love you, an' you 've got to pick
my trail—does it lead up or down?"

"Johnny Nelson!  What are you saying?" she
demanded, arising.

"Something turrible, mebby.  I don't know;
an' I don't care.  It's true—so there you are.
Norah, can't you see I do?" he pleaded, holding
out his hands.  "Won't you marry me?"

She looked down, her cheeks the color of fire,
and Johnny continued hurriedly: "I 've loved
you a whole month!  When I 'm ridin' around I
sorta' see you, an' hear you.  Why, I talk to
you lots when I 'm alone.  I 've saved up some
money, an' I had to work hard to save it, too.
I 've got some cows runnin' with our'n—in a little
while I 'll have a ranch of my own.  Buck 'll let
me use th' east part of th' ranch, an' there 's a
hill over there that 'd look fine with a house on
it.  I can't wait no longer, Norah, I 've got to
know.  Will you let me put this on yore finger?"  He
swiftly bent the pin into a ring and held it
out eagerly: "Can I?"

She pushed him away and yielded to a sudden
pricking of her conscience, speaking swiftly, as
if forcing herself to do a disagreeable duty, and
hating herself at the moment.  "Johnny, I 've
been a—a flirt!  When I saw you were
beginning to care too much for me I should have
stopped it; but I did n't.  I amused myself—but
I want you to believe one thing, to give me a
little credit for just one thing; I never thought
what it might mean to you.  It was carelessness
with me.  But I was flirting, just the same—and
it hurts to admit it.  I 'm not good enough for
you, Johnny Nelson; it's hard to say, but it's
true.  Can you, *will* you forgive me?"

He choked and stepped forward holding out
his hands imploringly, but she eluded him.
When he saw the shame in her face, the tears in
her eyes, he stopped and laughed gently: "But
we can begin right, now, can't we?  I don't care,
not if you 'll let me see you same as ever.  You
might get to care for me.  And, anyhow, it ain't
yore fault.  I reckon it's me that's to blame."

At that moment he was nearer to victory than
he had ever been; but he did not realize it and
opportunity died when he failed to press his advantage.

"I *am* to blame," she said, so low he could
hardly catch the words.  When she continued it
was with a rush: "I am not free—I haven't
been for a week.  I 'm not free any more—and
I 've been leading you on!"

His face hardened, for now the meaning of
Greener's sneering laugh came to him, and a
seething rage swept over him against the man
who had won.  He knew Greener, knew him
well—the meanness of the man's nature, his cold
cruelty; the many things to the man's discredit
loomed up large against the frailty of the woman
before him.

Norah stepped forward and laid a pleading
hand on his arm, for she knew the mettle of the
men who worked under Buck Peters: "What
are you thinking?  Tell me!"

"Why, I 'm thinking what Nolan said.  An',
Norah, listen.  You say you want me to forgive
you?  Well, I do, if there's anything to forgive.
But I want you to primise me that if Greener
don't treat you right you 'll tell me."

"What do you mean?"

"Only what I said.  Do you promise?"

"Perhaps you would better speak to him about
it!" she retorted.

"I will—an' plain.  But don't worry 'bout me.
It was my fault for bein' a tenderfoot.  I never
played this game before, an' don't know th' cards.
Good-by."

He rode away slowly, and made the rounds,
and by the time he reached Lacey's he was so
unsteady that he was refused a drink and told to go
home.  But he headed for the Palace instead,
and when he stepped high over the doorsill
Nolan was seated in a chair tipped back against
one of the side walls, and behind the bar on the
other side of the room Jed Terry drummed on the
counter and expressed his views on local matters.
The sheriff was listening in a bored way until
he saw Johnny enter and head his way, feet high
and chest out; and at that moment Nolan's
interest in local affairs flashed up brightly.

Johnny lost no time: "Nolan," he said, rocking
on his heels, "tell Greener I 'll kill him if he
marries that girl.  He killed his first wife by
abuse an' he don't kill no more.  Savvy?"

The sheriff warily arose, for here was the
opportunity he had sought.  The threat to kill had
a witness.

"An' if you opens yore toad's mouth about her
like you did tonight, I 'll kill you, too."  The
tones were dispassionate, the words deliberate.

"Hear that, Jed?" cried the sheriff, excitedly.
"Nelson, yo 're under ar—"

"Shut up!" snapped Johnny loudly, this time
with feeling.  "When yo 're betters are talkin'
you keep yore face closed.  Now, it ain't hardly
healthy to slander wimmin in this country,
'specially *good* wimmin.  You lied like a dog to
me tonight, an' I let you off; don't try it again."

"I told th' truth!" snapped Nolan, heatedly.
"I said she was a flirt, an' by th' great horned
spoon she is a flirt, an' you—"

The sheriff prided himself upon his quickness,
but the leaping gun was kicked out of his hand
before he knew what was coming; a chair glanced
off Jed's face and wrapped the front window
about itself in its passing, leaving the bar-tender
in the throbbing darkness of inter-planetary
space; and as the sheriff opened his eyes and
recovered from the hard swings his face had
stopped, a galloping horse drummed southward
toward the Bar-20; and the silence of the night
was shattered by lusty war-whoops and a spurting .45.

.. vspace:: 2

When the sheriff and his posse called at the
Bar-20 before breakfast the following morning
they found a grouchy outfit and learned some facts.

"Where 's Johnny?" repeated Hopalong, with
a rising inflection.  "Only wish I knowed!"

A murmur of wistful desire arose and Lanky
Smith restlessly explained it: "He rampages in
'bout midnight an' wakes us up with his racket.
When we asks what he 's doin' with *our*
possessions he suggests we go to h—l.  He takes *his*
rifle, Pete's rifle, Buck's brand new canteen,
'bout eighty pounds of catridges an' other useful
duffle, *all* th' tobacco, an' blows away quick."

"On my cayuse," murmured Red.

"Wearin' my *good* clothes," added Billy, sorrowfully.

"An' *my* boots," sighed Hopalong.

"I ain't got no field glasses no more," grumbled
Lanky.

"But he only got one laig of my new pants,"
chuckled Skinny.  "I was too strong for him."

"He yanked my blanket off'n me, which makes
me steal Red's," grinned Pete.

"Which you didn't keep very long!" retorted
Red, with derision.

"Which makes us all peevish," plaintively muttered Buck.

"Now ain't it a h—l of a note?" laughed
Cookie, loudly, forthwith getting scarce.  He
had nothing good enough to be taken.

"An' whichever was it run ag'in' yore face,
Sheriff?" sympathetically inquired Hopalong.
"Mighty good thing it stopped," he added
thoughtfully.

"Never mind my face!" snorted the peace
officer hotly as his deputies smoothed out their
grins.  "I want to know where Nelson is, an'
d—d quick!  We 'll search the house first."

"Hold on," responded Buck.  "North of Salt
Spring Creek yo 're a sheriff; down here yo 're
nothin'.  Don't search no house.  He ain't here."

"How do I know he ain't?" snapped Nolan.

"My word 's good; or there 'll be another
election stolen up in yore county," rejoined Buck
ominously.  "An' I would n't hunt him too hard,
neither.  We 'll punish him."

Nolan wheeled and rode toward the hills without
another word, his posse pressing close behind.
When they entered Apache Pass one of them
accidentally exploded his rifle, calling forth an
angry tirade from the sheriff.  Johnny heard it, and
cared little for the warning from his friend
Lucas; he waited and then rode down the rocky slope
of the pass on the trail of the posse, squinting
wickedly at the distant group as he caught
glimpses of them now and again, and with no
anxiety regarding backward glances.  "Lot's
wife 'll have nothing on them if they look back,"
he muttered, fingering his rifle lovingly.  At
nightfall he watched them depart and grinned at
the chase he would lead them when they returned.

But he did not see them again, although his
friends reported that they were turning the range
upside down to find him.  One of his outfit rode
out to him with supplies and information every
few days and it was Pete who told him that six
posses were in the hills.  "An' you can't leave,
'cause one of th' cordon would get you shore.  I
had a h—l of a time getting in today."  Red
reported that the sheriff had sworn to take him
dead or alive.  Then came the blow.  The
sheriff was at the point of death from lockjaw
caused by complete paralysis of the curea-frend
nerve just above the phlagmatic diaphragm,
which Johnny had fractured.  It was Hopalong
who imparted this sad news, and withered
Johnny's hope of returning to a comfortable
bunkhouse and square meals.  So the fugitive
clung to the hills, shunned sky-lines and
wondered if the sheriff would recover before snow
flew.  He was hungry most of the time now
because the outfit was getting stingy with the food
supplies—and he dared not shoot any game.

Four weeks passed, weeks of hunger and
nervous strain, and he was getting desperate.  He
had learned that Greener and his fiancée were
going down to Linnville soon, since Perry's Bend
had no parson; and his cup of bitterness,
overflowing, drove him to risk an attempt to leave
that part of the country.  He had seen none of
Pete's "cordon" although he had looked for them,
and he believed he could get away.  So he rode
cautiously down Apache Pass one noon, thoughtfully
planning his flight.  The sand, washed
down the rock walls by the last rain, deadened all
sounds of his progress, and as he turned a sharp
bend in the cut he almost bumped into Greener
and Norah Joyce.  They were laughing at how
they had eluded the crowd of friends who were
eager to accompany them—but the laughter froze
when Johnny's gun swung up.

"'Nds up, Greener!" he snapped, viciously,
remembering his promise to Sheriff Nolan.
"Miss Joyce, if you make any trouble it 'll cost
him his life."

"Turned highwayman, eh?" sneered Greener,
keenly alert for the necessary fraction of a
second's carelessness on the part of the other.  He
was gunman enough to need no more.

"Miss Joyce, will you please ride along?  I
want to talk to him alone," said Johnny, his eyes
fastened intently on those of his enemy.

"Yes, Norah; that's best.  I 'll join you in a
few minutes," urged Greener, smiling at her.

Johnny had a sudden thought and his warning
was grave and cold.  "Don't get very far away
an' don't make no sounds, or signals; if you do
it 'll be th' quickest way to *need* 'em.  He 'll pay
for any mistakes like that."

"You coward!" she cried, angrily, and then
delivered an impromptu lecture that sent the blood
surging into the fugitive's wan cheeks.  But she
obeyed, slowly, at Greener's signal, and when she
was out of sight Johnny spoke.

"Greener, yo 're not going to marry her.  You
know what you are, you know how yore first wife
died—an' I don't intend that Norah shall be
abused as the other was.  I 'm a fugitive, hard
pressed; I 'm weak from want of food, and from
hardships; all I have left is a slim chance of
gettin' away.  I 've reached the point where I
can't harm myself by shooting you, an' I 'm goin'
to do it rather than let any trouble come to her.
But you'll get an even break, because I ain't
never going to shoot a man when he 's helpless.
Got anything to say?"

"Yes; yo 're th' biggest fool I ever saw,"
replied Greener.  "Yo're locoed through an'
through; an' I 'm goin' to take great pleasure in
putting you away.  But I want to thank you for
one thing you did.  You were drunk at the time
an' may not remember it.  When you hit Nolan
for talking like he did I liked you for it, an' I 'm
goin' to tell you so.  Now we 'll get at th' matter
before us so I can move along."

Neither had paid any attention to Norah in
the earnestness and keen-eyed scrutiny of each
other and the first sign they had of her actions
was when she threw her arms around Greener's
neck and shielded him.  He was too much of a
man to fire from cover and Johnny realized it
while the other tried to get her to leave the scene.

"I won't leave you to be murdered—I *know*
what it means, I *know* it," she cried.  "My place
is here, and you can't deny your wife's first
request!  What will I do without you!  Oh, dear,
let me stay!  I *will* stay!  What woman ever
had such a wedding day before!  Dear, dear,
what can I do?  Tell me what to do!"

Johnny sniffled and wished the posse had taken
him.  This was a side he had never thought of.
His wife!  Greener's wife!  Then he was too
late, and to go on would be a greater evil than
the one he wished to eliminate.  When she
turned on him like a tigress and tore him to pieces
word by word, tears rolling down her pallid
cheeks and untold misery in her eyes, he shook
his head and held up his hand.

"Greener, you win; I can't stop what's happened,"
he said, slowly.  "But I 'll tell you this,
an' I mean every word: If you don't treat her
like she deserves, I 'll come back some of these
days and kill you *shore*.  Nolan got his because
he talked ill of her; an' you 'll get yours if I die
the next minute, if you ain't square with her."

"I don't need no instructions on how to treat
my wife," retorted the other.  "An' I 'm
beginnin' to see th' cause of yore insanity, and it
pardons you as nothing else will.  Put up yore
gun an' get back to th' ranch, where you
belong—an' *keep away from me*.  Savvy?"

"Not much danger of me gettin' in yore way,"
growled Johnny, "when I 'm hunted like a dog
for doing what any man would 'a' done.  When
th' sheriff gets well, if he ever does, mebby I 'll
come back an' take my medicine.  How was he,
anyhow, when you left?"

"Dead tired, an' some under th' influence of
liquor," replied Greener, a smile breaking over
his frown.  He knew the whole story well, as
did the whole range, and he had laughed over it
with the Bar-20 outfit.

"What's that?  Ain't he near dead?" cried
Johnny, amazed.

"Well, purty nigh dead of fatigue dancin' at
our weddin' last night; but I reckon he 'll be
driftin' home purty soon, an' all recovered."  Greener
suddenly gave way and roared with
laughter.  There was a large amount of humor
in his make-up and it took possession of him,
shaking him from head to foot.  He had always
liked Johnny, not because he ever wanted to but
because no one could know the Bar-20 protégé
and keep from it.  This climax was too much for
him, and his wife, gradually recovering herself,
caught the infection and joined in.

Johnny's eyes were staring and his mouth wide
open, but Greener's next words closed the eyes
to a squint and snapped shut the open mouth.

"That there paralysis of th' cure-a-friend nerve
did n't last; an' when I heard why you licked him
I said a few words that made him a wiser man.
He didn't hunt you after th' first day.
Now you go up an' shake han's with him.  He
knows he got what was coming to him and so
does everybody else know it.  Go home an' quit
playin' th' fool for th' whole blamed range to
laugh at."

Johnny stirred and came back to the scene
before him.  His face was livid with rage and he
could not speak at first.  Finally, however, he
mastered himself and looked up: "I 'm cured,
all right, but *they* ain't!  Wait till my turn
comes!  What a fool I was to believe 'em; but
they usually tell th' truth.  'Cura-a-friend nerve'!
They 'll pay me dollar for cent before I 'm
finished!"  He caught the sparkle of his diamond
pin, the pin he had won, when drunk, at El Paso,
and a sickly grin flickered over the black frown.
"I 'm a little late, I reckon; but I 'd like to give
th' bride a present to show there ain't no hard
feelin's on my part, an' to bring her luck.  This
here pin ain't no fit ornament for a fool like me,
so if it's all right, I 'll be plumb tickled to see
her have it.  How 'bout it, Greener?"

The happy pair exchanged glances and Mrs. Greener,
hesitating and blushing, accepted the
gift: "You can bend it into a ring easy," Johnny
hastily remarked, to cut off her thanks.

Greener extended his hand: "I reckon we
can be friends, at that, Nelson.  You squared up
with me when you licked Nolan.  Come up an'
see us when you can."

Johnny thanked him and shook hands and then
watched them ride slowly down the canyon, hand
in hand, happy as little children.  He sat
silently, lost in thought, his anger rising by leaps
and bounds against the men who had kept him on
the anxious seat for a month.  Straightening up
suddenly, he tore off the navy blue necktie and,
hurling it from him, fell into another reverie,
staring at the canyon wall, but seeing in his mind's eye
the outfit planning his punishment; and his eyes
grew redder and redder with fury.  But it was
a long way home and his temper cooled as he
rode; that is why no one knew of his return until
they saw him asleep in his bunk when they
awakened at daylight the following morning.  And
no one ever asked about the diamond, or made
any explanations—for some things are better
unmentioned.  But they paid for it all before
Johnny considered the matter closed.

.. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center medium

   THE END

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.. pgfooter::