At three o'clock the next morning a long line of men slowly filed into the cottonwood grove, being silently swallowed up by the dark. Dismounting, they left their horses in the care of three of their number and disappeared into the brush. Ten minutes later forty of the force were distributed along the edge of the grove fringing on the bank of the river and twenty more minutes gave ample time for a detachment of twenty to cross the stream and find concealment in the edge of the woods which ran from the river to where the corral made an effective barrier on the south.
Eight crept down on the western side of the camp and worked their way close to Mr. Trendley's cabin door, and the seven who followed this detachment continued and took up their positions at the rear of the corral, where, it was hoped, some of the rustlers would endeavor to escape into the woods by working their way through the cattle in the corral and then scaling the stockade wall. These seven were from the Three Triangle and the Double Arrow, and they were positive that any such attempt would not be a success from the view-point of the rustlers.
Two of those who awaited the pleasure of Mr. Trendley crept forward, and a rope swished through the air and settled over the stump which lay most convenient on the other side of the cabin door. Then the slack moved toward the woods, raised from the ground as it grew taut and, with the stump for its axis, swung toward the door, where it rubbed gently against the rough logs. It was made of braided horsehair, was half an inch in diameter and was stretched eight inches above the ground.
As it touched the door, Lanky Smith, Hopalong and Red stepped out of the shelter of the woods and took up their positions behind the cabin, Lanky behind the northeast corner where he would be permitted to swing his right arm. In his gloved right hand he held the carefully arranged coils of a fifty-foot lariat, and should the chief of the rustlers escape tripping he would have to avoid the cast of the best roper in the southwest.
The two others took the northwest corner and one of them leaned slightly forward and gently twitched the tripping-rope. The man at the other end felt the signal and whispered to a companion, who quietly disappeared in the direction of the river and shortly afterward the mournful cry of a whip-poor-will dirged out on the early morning air. It had hardly died away when the quiet was broken by one terrific crash of rifles, and the two camp guards asleep at the fire awoke in another world.
Mr. Trendley, sleeping unusually well for the unjust, leaped from his bed to the middle of the floor and alighted on his feet and wide awake. Fearing that a plot was being consummated to deprive him of his leadership, he grasped the Winchester which leaned at the head of his bed and, tearing open the door, crashed headlong to the earth. As he touched the ground, two shadows sped out from the shelter of the cabin wall and pounced upon him. Men who can rope, throw and tie a wild steer in thirty seconds flat do not waste time in trussing operations, and before a minute had elapsed he was being carried into the woods, bound and helpless. Lanky sighed, threw the rope over one shoulder and departed after his friends.
When Mr. Trendley came to his senses he found himself bound to a tree in the grove near the horses. A man sat on a stump not far from him, three others were seated around a small fire some distance to the north, and four others, one of whom carried a rope, made their way into the brush. He strained at his bonds, decided that the effort was useless and watched the man on the stump, who struck a match and lit a pipe. The prisoner watched the light flicker up and go out and there was left in his mind a picture that he could never forget. The face which had been so cruelly, so grotesquely revealed was that of Frenchy McAllister, and across his knees lay a heavy caliber Winchester. A curse escaped from the lips of the outlaw; the man on the stump spat at a firefly and smiled.
From the south came the crack of rifles, incessant and sharp. The reports rolled from one end of the clearing to the other and seemed to sweep in waves from the center of the line to the ends. Faintly in the infrequent lulls in the firing came an occasional report from the rear of the corral, where some desperate rustler paid for his venture.
Buck went along the line and spoke to the riflemen, and after some time had passed and the light had become stronger, he collected the men into groups of five and six. Taking one group and watching it closely, it could be seen that there was a world of meaning in this maneuver. One man started firing at a particular window in an opposite hut and then laid aside his empty gun and waited. When the muzzle of his enemy's gun came into sight and lowered until it had nearly gained its sight level, the rifles of the remainder of the group crashed out in a volley and usually one of the bullets, at least, found its intended billet. This volley firing became universal among the besiegers and the effect was marked.
Two men sprinted from the edge of the woods near Mr. Trendley's cabin and gained the shelter of the storehouse, which soon broke out in flames. The burning brands fell over the main collection of huts, where there was much confusion and swearing. The early hour at which the attack had been delivered at first led the besieged to believe that it was an Indian affair, but this impression was soon corrected by the volley firing, which turned hope into despair. It was no great matter to fight Indians, that they had done many times and found more or less enjoyment in it; but there was a vast difference between brave and puncher, and the chances of their salvation became very small. They surmised that it was the work of the cow-men on whom they had preyed and that vengeful punchers lay hidden behind that death-fringe of green willow and hazel.
Red, assisted by his inseparable companion, Hopalong, laboriously climbed up among the branches of a black walnut and hooked one leg over a convenient limb. Then he lowered his rope and drew up the Winchester which his accommodating friend fastened to it. Settling himself in a comfortable position and sheltering his body somewhat by the tree, he shaded his eyes by a hand and peered into the windows of the distant cabins.
“How is she, Red?” Anxiously inquired the man on the ground.
“Bully: want to come up?”
“Nope. I'm goin' to catch yu when yu lets go,” replied Hopalong with a grin.
“Which same I ain't goin' to,” responded the man in the tree.
He swung his rifle out over a forked limb and let it settle in the crotch. Then he slew his head around until he gained the bead he wished. Five minutes passed before he caught sight of his man and then he fired. Jerking out the empty shell he smiled and called out to his friend: “One.”
Hopalong grinned and went off to tell Buck to put all the men in trees.
Night came on and still the firing continued. Then an explosion shook the woods. The storehouse had blown up and a sky full of burning timber fell on the cabins and soon three were half consumed, their occupants dropping as they gained the open air. One hundred paces makes fine pot-shooting, as Deacon Rankin discovered when evacuation was the choice necessary to avoid cremation. He never moved after he touched the ground and Red called out: “Two,” not knowing that his companion had departed.
The morning of the next day found a wearied and hopeless garrison, and shortly before noon a soiled white shirt was flung from a window in the nearest cabin. Buck ran along the line and ordered the firing to cease and caused to be raised an answering flag of truce. A full minute passed and then the door slowly opened and a leg protruded, more slowly followed by the rest of the man, and Cheyenne Charley strode out to the bank of the river and sat down. His example was followed by several others and then an unexpected event occurred. Those in the cabins who preferred to die fighting, angered at this desertion, opened fire on their former comrades, who barely escaped by rolling down the slightly inclined bank into the river. Red fired again and laughed to himself. Then the fugitives swam down the river and landed under the guns of the last squad. They were taken to the rear and, after being bound, were placed under a guard. There were seven in the party and they looked worn out.
When the huts were burning the fiercest the uproar in the corral arose to such a pitch as to drown all other sounds. There were left within its walls a few hundred cattle whose brands had not yet been blotted out, and these, maddened to frenzy by the shooting and the flames, tore from one end of the enclosure to the other, crashing against the alternate walls with a noise which could be heard far out on the plain. Scores were trampled to death on each charge and finally the uproar subsided in sheer want of cattle left with energy enough to continue. When the corral was investigated the next day there were found the bodies of four rustlers, but recognition was impossible.
Several of the defenders were housed in cabins having windows in the rear walls, which the occupants considered fortunate. This opinion was revised, however, after several had endeavored to escape by these openings. The first thing that occurred when a man put his head out was the hum of a bullet, and in two cases the experimenters lost all need of escape.
The volley firing had the desired effect, and at dusk there remained only one cabin from which came opposition. Such a fire was concentrated on it that before an hour had passed the door fell in and the firing ceased. There was a rush from the side, and the Barred Horseshoe men who swarmed through the cabins emerged without firing a shot. The organization that had stirred up the Pecos Valley ranches had ceased to exist.
A fire burned briskly in front of Mr. Trendley's cabin that night and several punchers sat around it occupied in various ways. Two men leaned against the wall and sang softly of the joys of the trail and the range. One of them, Lefty Allen, of the O-Bar-O, sang in his sweet tenor, and other men gradually strolled up and seated themselves on the ground, where the fitful gleam of responsive pipes and cigarettes showed like fireflies. The songs followed one after another, first a lover's plea in soft Spanish and then a rollicking tale of the cow-towns and men. Supper had long since been enjoyed and all felt that life was, indeed, well worth living.
A shadow loomed against the cabin wall and a procession slowly made its way toward the open door. The leader, Hopalong, disappeared within and was followed by Mr. Trendley, bound and hobbled and tied to Red, the rear being brought up by Frenchy, whose rifle lolled easily in the crotch of his elbow. The singing went on uninterrupted and the hum of voices between the selections remained unchanged. Buck left the crowd around the fire and went into the cabin, where his voice was heard assenting to something. Hopalong emerged and took a seat at the fire, sending two punchers to take his place. He was joined by Frenchy and Red, the former very quiet.
In the center of a distant group were seven men who were not armed. Their belts, half full of cartridges, supported empty holsters. They sat and talked to the men around them, swapping notes and experiences, and in several instances found former friends and acquaintances. These men were not bound and were apparently members of Buck's force. Then one of them broke down, but quickly regained his nerve and proposed a game of cards. A fire was started and several games were immediately in progress. These seven men were to die at daybreak.
As the night grew older man after man rolled himself in his blanket and lay down where he sat, sinking off to sleep with a swiftness that bespoke tired muscles and weariness. All through the night, however, there were twelve men on guard, of whom three were in the cabin.
At daybreak a shot from one of the guards awakened every man within hearing, and soon they romped and scampered down to the river's edge to indulge in the luxury of a morning plunge. After an hour's horseplay they trooped back to the cabin and soon had breakfast out of the way.
Waffles, foreman of the O-Bar-O, and You-bet Somes strolled over to the seven unfortunates who had just completed a choking breakfast and nodded a hearty “Good morning.” Then others came up and finally all moved off toward the river. Crossing it, they disappeared into the grove and all sounds of their advance grew into silence.
Mr. Trendley, escorted outside for the air, saw the procession as it became lost to sight in the brush. He sneered and asked for a smoke, which was granted. Then his guards were changed and the men began to straggle back from the grove.
Mr. Trendley, with his back to the cabin, scowled defiantly at the crowd that hemmed him in. The coolest, most damnable murderer in the West was not now going to beg for mercy. When he had taken up crime as a means of livelihood he had decided that if the price to be paid for his course was death, he would pay like a man. He glanced at the cottonwood grove, wherein were many ghastly secrets, and smiled. His hairless eyebrows looked like livid scars and his lips quivered in scorn and anger.
As he sneered at Buck there was a movement in the crowd before him and a pathway opened for Frenchy, who stepped forward slowly and deliberately, as if on his way to some bar for a drink. There was something different about the man who had searched the Staked Plain with Hopalong and Red: he was not the same puncher who had arrived from Montana three weeks before. There was lacking a certain air of carelessness and he chilled his friends, who looked upon him as if they had never really known him. He walked up to Mr. Trendley and gazed deeply into the evil eyes.
Twenty years before, Frenchy McAllister had changed his identity from a happy-go-lucky, devil-may-care cow-puncher and became a machine. The grief that had torn his soul was not of the kind which seeks its outlet in tears and wailing; it had turned and struck inward, and now his deliberate ferocity was icy and devilish. Only a glint in his eyes told of exultation, and his words were sharp and incisive; one could well imagine one heard the click of his teeth as they bit off the consonants: every letter was clear-cut, every syllable startling in its clearness.
“Twenty years and two months ago to-day,” he began, “you arrived at the ranchhouse of the Double Y, up near the Montana-Wyoming line. Everything was quiet, except, perhaps, a woman's voice, singing. You entered, and before you left you pinned a note to that woman's dress. I found it, and it is due.”
The air of carelessness disappeared from the members of the crowd and the silence became oppressive. Most of those present knew parts of Frenchy's story, and all were in hearty accord with anything he might do. He reached within his vest and brought forth a deerskin bag. Opening it, he drew out a package of oiled silk and from that he took a paper. Carefully replacing the silk and the bag, he slowly unfolded the sheet in his hand and handed it to Buck, whose face hardened. Two decades had passed since the foreman of the Bar-20 had seen that precious sheet, but the scene of its finding would never fade from his memory. He stood as if carved from stone, with a look on his face that made the crowd shift uneasily and glance at Trendley.
Frenchy turned to the rustler and regarded him evilly. “You are the hellish brute that wrote that note,” pointing to the paper in the hand of his friend. Then, turning again, he spoke: “Buck, read that paper.”
The foreman cleared his throat and read distinctly:
“McAllister: Yore wife is too blame good to live.
There was a shuffling sound, but Buck and Frenchy, silently backed up by Hopalong and Red, intervened, and the crowd fell back, where it surged in indecision.
“Gentlemen,” said Frenchy, “I want you to vote on whether any man here has more right to do with Slippery Trendley as he sees fit than myself. Any one who thinks so, or that he should be treated like the others, step forward. Majority rules.”
There was no advance and he spoke again: “Is there any one here who objects to this man dying?”
Hopalong and Red awkwardly bumped their knuckles against their guns and there was no response.
The prisoner was bound with cowhide to the wall of the cabin and four men sat near and facing him. The noonday meal was eaten in silence, and the punchers rode off to see about rounding up the cattle that grazed over the plain as far as eye could see. Supper-time came and passed, and busy men rode away in all directions. Others came and relieved the guards, and at midnight another squad took up the vigil.
Day broke and the thunder of hoofs as the punchers rounded up the cattle became very noticeable. One herd swept past toward the south, guarded and guided by fifteen men. Two hours later and another followed, taking a slightly different trail so as to avoid the close-cropped grass left by the first. At irregular intervals during the day other herds swept by, until six had passed and denuded the plain of cattle.
Buck, perspiring and dusty, accompanied by Hopalong and Red, rode up to where the guards smoked and joked. Frenchy came out of the cabin and smiled at his friends. Swinging in his left hand was a newly filled Colt's .45, which was recognized by his friends as the one found in the cabin and it bore a rough “T” gouged in the butt.
Buck looked around and cleared his throat: “We've got th' cows on th' home trail, Frenchy,” he suggested.
“Yas?” Inquired Frenchy. “Are there many?”
“Yas,” replied Buck, waving his hand at the guards, ordering them to follow their friends. “It's a good deal for us: we've done right smart this hand. An' it's a good thing we've got so many punchers: we got a lot of cattle to drive.”
“About five times th' size of th' herd that blamed near made angels out'en me an' yu,” responded Frenchy with a smile.
“I hope almighty hard that we don't have no stampedes on this here drive. If th' last herds go wild they'll pick up th' others, an' then there'll be th' devil to pay.”
Frenchy smiled again and shot a glance at where Mr. Trendley was bound to the cabin wall.
Buck looked steadily southward for some time and then flecked a foam-sud from the flank of his horse. “We are goin' south along th' Creek until we gets to Big Spring, where we'll turn right smart to th' west. We won't be able to average more'n twelve miles a day, 'though I'm goin' to drive them hard. How's yore grub?”
“Grub to burn.”
“Got yore rope?” Asked the foreman of the Bar-20, speaking as if the question had no especial meaning.
Frenchy smiled: “Yes.”
Hopalong absent-mindedly jabbed his spurs into his mount with the result that when the storm had subsided the spell was broken and he said “So long,” and rode south, followed by Buck and Red. As they swept out of sight behind a grove Red turned in his saddle and waved his hat. Buck discussed with assiduity the prospects of a rainfall and was very cheerful about the recovery of the stolen cattle. Red could see a tall, broad-shouldered man standing with his feet spread far apart, swinging a Colt's .45, and Hopalong swore at everything under the sun. Dust arose in streaming clouds far to the south and they spurred forward to overtake the outfits.
Buck Peters, riding over the starlit plain, in his desire to reach the first herd, which slept somewhere to the west of him under the care of Waffles, thought of the events of the past few weeks and gradually became lost in the memories of twenty years before, which crowded up before his mind like the notes of a half-forgotten song. His nature, tempered by two decades of a harsh existence, softened as he lived again the years that had passed and as he thought of the things which had been. He was so completely lost in his reverie that he failed to hear the muffled hoofbeats of a horse that steadily gained upon him, and when Frenchy McAllister placed a friendly hand on his shoulder he started as if from a deep sleep.
The two looked at each other and their hands met. The question which sprang into Buck's eyes found a silent answer in those of his friend. They rode on side by side through the clear night and together drifted back to the days of the Double Y.
After an hour had passed, the foreman of the Bar-20 turned to his companion and then hesitated:
“Did, did—was he a cur?”
Frenchy looked off toward the south and, after an interval, replied: “Yas.” Then, as an after thought, he added, “Yu see, he never reckoned it would be that way.”
Buck nodded, although he did not fully understand, and the subject was forever closed.
The work of separating the cattle into herds of the different brands was not a big contract, and with so many men it took but a comparatively short time, and in two days all signs of the rustlers had faded. It was then that good news went the rounds and the men looked forward to a week of pleasure, which was all the sharper accentuated by the grim mercilessness of the expedition into the Panhandle. Here was a chance for unlimited hilarity and a whole week in which to give strict attention to celebrating the recent victory.
So one day Mr. Hopalong Cassidy rode rapidly over the plain, thinking about the joys and excitement promised by the carnival to be held at Muddy Wells. With that rivalry so common to Western towns the inhabitants maintained that the carnival was to break all records, this because it was to be held in their town. Perry's Bend and Buckskin had each promoted a similar affair, and if this year's festivities were to be an improvement on those which had gone before, they would most certainly be worth riding miles to see. Perry's Bend had been unfortunate m being the first to hold a carnival, inasmuch as it only set a mark to be improved upon, and Buckskin had taken advantage of this and had added a brass band, and now in turn was to be eclipsed.
The events slated were numerous and varied, the most important being those which dealt directly with the everyday occupations of the inhabitants of that section of the country. Broncho busting, steer-roping and tying, rifle and revolver shooting, trick riding and fancy roping made up the main features of the programme and were to be set off by horse and foot racing and other county fair necessities. Altogether, the proud citizens of the town looked forward with keen anticipation to the coming excitements, and were prone to swagger a bit and to rub their hands in condescending egoism, while the crowded gambling halls and saloons, and the three-card-monte men on the street corners enriched themselves at the cost of venturesome know-it-ails.
Hopalong was firmly convinced that his day of hard riding was well worth while, for the Bar-20 was to be represented in strength. Probably a clearer insight into his idea of a carnival can be gained by his definition, grouchily expressed to Red Connors on the day following the last affair: “Raise cain, go broke, wake up an' begin punching cows all over again.” But that was the day after and the day after is always filled with remorse.
Hopalong and Red, having twice in succession won the revolver and rifle competitions, respectively, hoped to make it 'Three straight.' Lanky Smith, the Bar-20 rope expert, had taken first prize in the only contest he had entered. Skinny Thompson had lost and drawn with Lefty Allen, of the O-Bar-O, in the broncho-busting event, but as Skinny had improved greatly in the interval, his friends confidently expected him to “yank first place” for the honor of his ranch. These expectations were backed with all the available Bar-20 money, and, if they were not realized, something in the nature of a calamity would swoop down upon and wrap that ranch in gloom. Since the O-Bar-O was aggressively optimistic the betting was at even money, hats and guns, and the losers would begin life anew so far as earthly possessions were concerned. No other competitors were considered in this event, as Skinny and Lefty had so far outclassed all others that the honor was believed to lie between these two.
Hopalong, blissfully figuring out the chances of the different contestants, galloped around a clump of mesquite only fifteen miles from Muddy Wells and stiffened in his saddle, for twenty rods ahead of him on the trail was a woman. As she heard him approach she turned and waited for him to overtake her, and when she smiled he raised his sombrero and bowed.
“Will you please tell me where I am?” She asked.
“Yu are fifteen miles southeast of Muddy Wells,” he replied.
“But which is southeast?”
“Right behind yu,” he answered. “Th' town lies right ahead.”
“Are you going there?” She asked.
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Then you will not care if I ride with you?” She asked. “I am a trifle frightened.”
“Why, I'd be some pleased if yu do, 'though there ain't nothing out here to be afraid of now.”
“I had no intention of getting lost,” she assured him, “but I dismounted to pick flowers and cactus leaves and after a while I had no conception of where I was.”
“How is it yu are out here?” He asked. “Yu shouldn't get so far from town.”
“Why, papa is an invalid and doesn't like to leave his room, and the town is so dull, although the carnival is waking it up somewhat. Having nothing to do I procured a horse and determined to explore the country. Why, this is like Stanley and Livingstone, isn't it? You rescued the explorer!” And she laughed heartily. He wondered who in thunder Stanley and Livingstone were, but said nothing.
“I like the West, it is so big and free,” she continued. “But it is very monotonous at times, especially when compared with New York. Papa swears dreadfully at the hotel and declares that the food will drive him insane, but I notice that he eats much more heartily than he did when in the city. And the service!—it is awful. But when one leaves the town behind it is splendid, and I can appreciate it because I had such a hard season in the city last winter—so many balls, parties and theaters that I simply wore myself out.”
“I never hankered much for them things,” Hopalong replied. “An' I don't like th' towns much, either. Once or twice a year I gets as far as Kansas City, but I soon tires of it an' hits th' back trail. Yu see, I don't like a fence country—I wants lots of room an' air.”
She regarded him intently: “I know that you will think me very forward.”
He smiled and slowly replied: “I think yu are all O. K.”
“There do not appear to be many women in this country,” she suggested.
“No, there ain't many,” he replied, thinking of the kind to be found in all of the cow-towns. “They don't seem to hanker for this kind of life—they wants parties an' lots of dancin' an' them kind of things. I reckon there ain't a whole lot to tempt em to come.
“You evidently regard women as being very frivolous,” she replied.
“Well, I'm speakin' from there not being any out here,” he responded, “although I don't know much about them, to tell th' truth. Them what are out here can't be counted.” Then he flushed and looked away.
She ignored the remark and placed her hand to her hair:
“Goodness! My hair must look terrible!”
He turned and looked: “Yore hair is pretty—I allus did like brown hair.”
She laughed and put back the straggling locks: “It is terrible! Just look at it! Isn't it awful?”
“Why, no: I reckons not,” he replied critically. “It looks sort of free an' easy thataway.”
“Well, it's no matter, it cannot be helped,” she laughed. “Let's race!” she cried and was off like a shot.
He humored her until he saw that her mount was getting unmanageable, when he quietly overtook her and closed her pony's nostrils with his hand, the operation having a most gratifying effect.
“Joe hadn't oughter let yu had this cayuse,” he said.
“Why, how do you know of whom I procured it?” She asked. “By th' brand: it's a O-Bar-O, canceled, with J. H. over it. He buys all of his cayuses from th' O-Bar-O.”
She found out his name, and, after an interval of silence, she turned to him with eyes full of inquiry: “What is that thorny shrub just ahead?” She asked.
“That's mesquite,” he replied eagerly.
“Tell me all about it,” she commanded.
“Why, there ain't much to tell,” he replied, “only it's a valuable tree out here. Th' Apaches use it a whole lot of ways. They get honey from th' blossoms an' glue an' gum, an' they use th' bark for tannin' hide. Th' dried pods an' leaves are used to feed their cattle, an' th' wood makes corrals to keep 'em in. They use th' wood for making other things, too, an' it is of two colors. Th' sap makes a dye what won't wash out, an' th' beans make a bread what won't sour or get hard. Then it makes a barrier that shore is a dandy-coyotes an' men can't get through it, an' it protects a whole lot of birds an' things. Th' snakes hate it like poison, for th' thorns get under their scales an' whoops things up for 'em. It keeps th' sand from shiftin', too. Down South where there is plenty of water, it often grows forty feet high, but up here it squats close to th' ground so it can save th' moisture. In th' night th' temperature sometimes falls thirty degrees, an' that helps it, too.”
“How can it live without water?” She asked.
“It gets all th' water it wants,” he replied, smiling. “Th' tap roots go straight down 'til they find it, sometimes fifty feet. That's why it don't shrivel up in th' sun. Then there are a lot of little roots right under it an' they protects th' tap roots. Th' shade it gives is th' coolest out here, for th' leaves turn with th' wind an' lets th' breeze through-they're hung on little stems.”
“How splendid!” she exclaimed. “Oh! Look there!” she cried, pointing ahead of them. A chaparral cock strutted from its decapitated enemy, a rattlesnake, and disappeared in the chaparral.
Hopalong laughed: “Mr. Scissors-bill Road-runner has great fun with snakes. He runs along th' sand-an' he can run, too—an' sees a snake takin' a siesta. Snip! goes his bill an' th' snake slides over th' Divide. Our fighting friend may stop some coyote's appetite before morning, though, unless he stays where he is.”
Just then a gray wolf blundered in sight a few rods ahead of them, and Hopalong fired instantly. His companion shrunk from him and looked at him reproachfully.
“Why did you do that!” she demanded.
“Why, because they costs us big money every year,” he replied. “There's a bounty on them because they pull down calves, an' sometimes full grown cows. I'm shore wonderin' why he got so close—they're usually just out of range, where they stays.”
“Promise me that you will shoot no more while I am with you.
“Why, shore: I didn't think yu'd care,” he replied. “Yu are like that sky-pilot over to Las Cruces—he preached agin killin' things, which is all right for him, who didn't have no cows.”
“Do you go to the missions?” She asked.
He replied that he did, sometimes, but forgot to add that it was usually for the purpose of hilarity, for he regarded sky-pilots with humorous toleration.
“Tell me all about yourself—what you do for enjoyment and all about your work,” she requested.
He explained in minute detail the art of punching cows, and told her more of the West in half an hour than she could have learned from a year's experience. She showed such keen interest in his words that it was a pleasure to talk to her, and he monopolized the conversation until the town intruded its sprawling collection of unpainted shacks and adobe huts in their field of vision.
Hopalong and his companion rode into Muddy Wells at noon, and Red Connors, who leaned with Buck Peters against the side of Tom Lee's saloon, gasped his astonishment. Buck looked twice to be sure, and then muttered incredulously: “What th' heck!” Red repeated the phrase and retreated within the saloon, while Buck stood his ground, having had much experience with women, inasmuch as he had narrowly escaped marrying. He thought that he might as well get all the information possible, and waited for an introduction. It was in vain, however, for the two rode past without noticing him.
Buck watched them turn the corner and then called for Red to come out, but that person, fearing an ordeal, made no reply and the foreman went in after him. The timorous one was corraling bracers at the bar and nearly swallowed down the wrong channel when Buck placed a heavy hand on his broad shoulder.
“G'way!” remarked Red. “I don't want no introduction, none whatever,” he asserted. “G'way!” he repeated, backing off suspiciously.
“Better wait 'til yu are asked,” suggested Buck. “Better wait 'til yu sees th' rope afore yu duck.” Then he laughed: “Yu bashful fellers make me plumb disgusted. Why, I've seen yu face a bunch of guns an never turn a hair, an' here yore all in because yu fear yu'll have to stand around an' hide yore hands. She won't bite yu. Anyway, from what I saw, Hopalong is due to be her grub—he never saw me at all, th' chump.”
“He shore didn't see me, none,” replied Red with distinct relief. “Are they gone?”
“Shore,” answered Buck. “An' if they wasn't they wouldn't see us, not if we stood in front of them an' yelled. She's a hummer-stands two hands under him an' is a whole lot prettier than that picture Cowan has got over his bar. There's nothing th' matter with his eyesight, but he's plumb locoed, all th' same. He'll go an' get stuck on her an' then she'll hit th' trail for home an' mamma, an' he won't be worth his feed for a year.” Then he paused in consternation: “Thunder, Red: he's got to shoot to-morrow!”
“Well, suppose he has?” Responded Red. “I don't reckon she'll stampede his gun-play none.
“Yu don't reckon, eh?” Queried Buck with much irony. “No, an' that's what's th' matter with yu. Why, do yu expect to see him to-morrow? Yu won't if I knows him an' I reckon I do. Nope, he'll be follerin' her all around.”
“He's got sand to burn,” remarked Red in awe. “Wonder how he got to know her?”
“Yu can gamble she did th' introducing part—he ain't got th' nerve to do it himself. He saved her life, or she thinks he did, or some romantic nonsense like that. So yu better go around an' get him away, an' keep him away, too.”
“Who, me?” Inquired Red in indignation. “Me go around an' tote him off? I ain't no wagon: yu go, or send Johnny.”
“Johnny would say something real pert an' get knocked into th' middle of next week for it. He won't do, so I reckon yu better go yoreself,” responded Buck, smiling broadly and moving off.
“Hey, yu! Wait a minute!” cried Red in consternation. Buck paused and Red groped for an excuse: “Why don't you send Billy?” He blurted in desperation.
The foreman's smile assumed alarming proportions and he slapped his thigh in joy: “Good boy!” he laughed. “Billy's th' man—good Lord, but won't he give Cupid cold feet! Rustle around an' send th' pessimistic soul to me.”
Red, grinning and happy, rapidly visited door after door, shouted, “Hey, Billy!” and proceeded to the next one. He was getting pugnacious at his lack of success when he espied Mr. Billy Williams tacking along the accidental street as if he owned it. Mr. Williams was executing fancy steps and was trying to sing many songs at once.
Red stopped and grabbed his bibulous friend as that person veered to starboard: “Yore a peach of a life-preserver, yu are!” he exclaimed.
Billy balanced himself, swayed back and forth and frowned his displeasure at this unwarranted action: “I ain't no wife-deserter!” he shouted. “Unrope me an' give me th' trail! No tenderfoot can ride me!” Then he recognized his friend and grinned joyously: “Shore I will, but only one. Jus' one more, jus' one more. Yu see, m'friend, it was all Jimmy's fault. He—”
Red secured a chancery hold and dragged his wailing and remonstrating friend to Buck, who frowned with displeasure.
“This yere,” said Red in belligerent disgust, “is th' dod-blasted hero what's a-goin' to save Hopalong from a mournful future. What are we a-goin' to do?”
Buck slipped the Colt's from Billy's holster and yanked the erring one to his feet: “Fill him full of sweet oil, source him in th' trough, walk him around for awhile an' see what it does,” he ordered.
Two hours later Billy walked up to his foreman and weakly asked what was wanted. He looked as though he had just been released from a six-months' stay in a hospital.
“Yu go over to th' hotel an' find Hopalong,” said the foreman sternly. “Stay with him all th' time, for there is a plot on foot to wing him on th' sly. If yu ain't mighty spry he'll be dead by night.”
Having delivered the above instructions and prevarications, Buck throttled the laugh which threatened to injure him and scowled at Red, who again fled into the saloon for fear of spoiling it all with revealed mirth.
The convalescent stared in open-mouthed astonishment:
“What's he doin' in th' hotel, an' who's goin' to plug him?” He asked.
“Yu leave that to me,” replied Buck, “All yu has to do is to get on th' job with yore gun,” handing the weapon to him, “an' freeze to him like a flea on a cow. Mebby there'll be a woman in th' game, but that ain't none of yore funeral—yu do what I said.”
“Blast th' women!” exploded Billy, moving off. When he had entered the hotel Buck went in to Red.
“For Pete's sake!” moaned that person in senseless reiteration. “Th' Lord help Billy! Holy Mackinaw!” he shouted. “Gimme a drink an' let me tell th' boys.”
The members of the outfit were told of the plot and they gave their uproarious sanction, all needing bracers to sustain them.
Billy found the clerk swapping lies with the bartender and, procuring the desired information, climbed the stairs and hunted for room No. 6. Discovering it, he dispensed with formality, pushed open the door and entered.
He found his friend engaged in conversation with a pretty young woman, and on a couch at the far side of the room lay an elderly white-whiskered gentleman who was reading a magazine. Billy felt like a criminal for a few seconds and then there came to him the thought that his was a mission of great import and he braced himself to face any ordeal. “Anyway,” he thought, “th' prettier they are th' more dust they can raise.”
“What are yu doing here?” Cried Hopalong in amazement.
“That's all right,” averred the protector, confidentially.
“What's all right?”
“Why, everything,” replied Billy, feeling uncomfortable.
The elderly man hastily sat up and dropped his magazine when he saw the armed intruder, his eyes as wide open as his mouth. He felt for his spectacles, but did not need them, for he could see nothing but the Colt's which Billy jabbed at him.
“None of that!” snapped Billy. “'ands up!” he ordered, and the hands went up so quick that when they stopped the jerk shook the room. Peering over the gentleman's leg, Billy saw the spectacles and backed to the wall as he apologized: “It's shore on me, Stranger—I reckoned yu was contemplatin' some gun-play.”
Hopalong, blazing with wrath, arose and shoved Billy toward the hail, when Mr. Johnny Nelson, oozing fight and importance, intruded his person into the zone of action.
“Lord!” ejaculated the newcomer, staring at the vision of female loveliness which so suddenly greeted him. “Mamma,” he added under his breath. Then he tore off his sombrero: “Come out of this, Billy, yu chump!” he exploded, backing toward the door, being followed by the protector.
Hopalong slammed the door and turned to his hostess, apologizing for the disturbance.
“Who are they?” Palpitated Miss Deane.
“What the deuce are they doing up here!” blazed her father. Hopalong disclaimed any knowledge of them and just then Billy opened the door and looked in.
“There he is again!” cried Miss Deane, and her father gasped. Hopalong ran out into the hall and narrowly missed kicking Billy into Kingdom Come as that person slid down the stairs, surprised and indignant.
Mr. Billy Williams, who sat at the top of the stairs, was feeling hungry and thirsty when he saw his friend, Mr. Pete Wilson, the slow witted, approaching.
“Hey, Pete,” he called, “come up here an' watch this door while I rustles some grub. Keep yore eyes open,” he cautioned.
As Pete began to feel restless the door opened and a dignified gentleman with white whiskers came out into the hall and then retreated with great haste and no dignity. Pete got the drop on the door and waited. Hopalong yanked it open and kissed the muzzle of the weapon before he could stop, and Pete grinned.
“Coming to th' fight?” He loudly asked. “It's going to be a shore 'nough sumptious scrap—just th' kind yu allus like. Come on, th' boys are waitin' for yu.”
“Keep quiet!” hissed Hopalong.
“What for?” Asked Pete in surprise. “Didn't yu say yu shore wanted to see that scrap?”
“Shut yore face an' get scarce, or yu'll go home in cans!”
As Hopalong seated himself once more Red strolled up to the door and knocked. Hopalong ripped it open and Red, looking as fierce and worried as he could, asked Hopalong if he was all right. Upon being assured by smoking adjectives that he was, the caller looked relieved and turned thoughtfully away.
“Hey, yu! Come here!” called Hopalong.
Red waved his hand and said that he had to meet a man and clattered down the stairs. Hopalong thought that he, also, had to meet a man and, excusing himself, hastened after his friend and overtook him in the Street, where he forced a confession. Returning to his hostess he told her of the whole outrage, and she was angry at first, but seeing the humorous side of it, she became convulsed with laughter. Her father re-read his paragraph for the thirteenth time and then, slamming the magazine on the floor, asked how many times he was expected to read ten lines before he knew what was in them, and went down to the bar.
Miss Deane regarded her companion with laughing eyes and then became suddenly sober as he came toward her.
“Go to your foreman and tell him that you will shoot to-morrow, for I will see that you do, and I will bring luck to the Bar-20. Be sure to call for me at one o'clock: I will be ready.”
He hesitated, bowed, and slowly departed, making his way to Tom Lee's, where his entrance hushed the hilarity which had reigned. Striding to where Buck stood, he placed his hands on his hips and searched the foreman's eyes.
Buck smiled: “Yu ain't mad, are yu?” He asked.
Hopalong relaxed: “No, but blame near it.”
Red and the others grabbed him from the rear, and when he had been “buffaloed” into good humor he threw them from him, laughed and waved his hand toward the bar:
“Come up, yu sons-of-guns. Yore a cussed nuisance sometimes, but yore a bully gang all th' same.”