Clarence E. Mulford_Hopalong Cassidy 04 (26 page)

"Don't you worry about us dying with thirst; that ain't worrying us
none."

"I heard different," replied Hopalong, smiling. "Them fellers in the
corral drank a quart apiece. See here, Boggs; you can't win, an' you
know it. Yo're not bucking me, but the whole range, the whole country.
It's a fight between conditions—the fence idea agin the open range
idea, an' open trails. The fence will lose. You closed a drive trail
that's 'most as old as cow-raising. Will the punchers of this part of
the country stand for it? Suppose you lick us,—which you won't—can
you lick all the rest of us, the JD, Wallace's, Double-Arrow, C-80,
Cross-O-Cross, an' the others! That's just what it amounts to, an' you
better stop right now, before somebody gets killed. You know what that
means in this section. Yo're six to our eight, you ain't got a drink in
that shack, an' you dasn't try to get one. You can't do a thing agin us,
an' you know it."

Boggs rested his hands on his hips and considered, Hopalong waiting
for him to reply. He knew that the Bar-20 man was right but he hated to
admit it, he hated to say he was whipped.

"Are any of them six hurt?" he finally asked.

"Only scratches an' sore heads," responded Hopalong, smiling. "We ain't
tried to kill anybody, yet. I'm putting that up to you."

Boggs made no reply and Hopalong continued: "I got six of yore twelve
men prisoners, an' all yore cayuses are in my han's. I'll shoot every
animal before I'll leave 'em for you to use against me, an' I'll take
enough of yore cows to make up for what I lost by that fence. You've got
to pay for them dead cows, anyhow. If I do let you out you'll have to
road-brand me two hundred, or pay cash. My herd ain't worrying me—it's
moving all the time. It's through that other fence by now. An' if I have
to keep my outfit here to pen you in or shoot you off I can send to the
JD for a gang to push the herd. Don't make no mistake: yo're getting off
easy. Suppose one of my men had been killed at the fence—what then?"

"Well, what do you want me to do?"

"Stop this foolishness an' take down them fences for a mile each side
of the trail. If Buck has to come up here the whole thing'll go down.
Road-brand me two hundred of yore three-year-olds. Now as soon as you
agree, an' say that the fight's over, it will be. You can't win out; an'
what's the use of having yore men killed off?"

"I hate to quit," replied the other, gloomily.

"I know how that is; but yo're wrong on this question, dead wrong. You
don't own this range or the trail. You ain't got no right to close that
old drive trail. Honest, now; have you?"

"You say them six ain't hurt?"

"No more'n I said."

"An' if I give in will you treat my men right?"

"Shore."

"When will you leave."

"Just as soon as I get them two hundred three-year-olds."

"Well, I hate a quitter; but I can't do nothing, nohow," mused the 4X
foreman. He cleared his throat and turned to look at the house. "All
right; when you get them cows you get out of here, an' don't never come
back!"

Hopalong flung his arm with a shout to his men and the other kicked
savagely at an inoffensive stick and slouched back to his bunk house, a
beaten man.

Not more than a few weeks after the Bar-20 drive outfit returned to the
ranch a solitary horseman pushed on towards the trail they had followed,
bound for Buckskin and the Bar-20 range. His name was Tex Ewalt and he
cordially hated all of the Bar-20 outfit and Hopalong in particular. He
had nursed a grudge for several years and now, as he rode south to rid
himself of it and to pay a long-standing debt, it grew stronger until he
thrilled with anticipation and the sauce of danger. This grudge had been
acquired when he and Slim Travennes had enjoyed a duel with Hopalong
Cassidy up in Santa Fe, and had been worsted; it had increased when he
learned of Slim's death at Cactus Springs at the hands of Hopalong; and,
some time later, hearing that two friends of his, "Slippery" Trendley
and "Deacon" Rankin, with their gang, had "gone out" in the Panhandle
with the same man and his friends responsible for it, Tex hastened to
Muddy Wells to even the score and clean his slate. Even now his face
burned when he remembered his experiences on that never-to-be-forgotten
occasion. He had been played with, ridiculed, and shamed, until he fled
from the town as a place accursed, hating everything and everybody. It
galled him to think that he had allowed Buck Peters' momentary sympathy
to turn him from his purpose, even though he was convinced that the
foreman's action had saved his life. And now Tex was returning, not to
Muddy Wells, but to the range where the Bar-20 outfit held sway.

Several years of clean living had improved Tex, morally and physically.
The liquor he had once been in the habit of consuming had been reduced
to a negligible quantity; he spent the money on cartridges instead,
and his pistol work showed the results of careful and dogged practice,
particularly in the quickness of the draw. Punching cows on a remote
northern range had repaid him in health far more than his old game of
living on his wits and other people's lack of them, as proved by his
clear eye and the pink showing through the tan above his beard; while
his somber, steady gaze, due to long-held fixity of purpose, indicated
the resourcefulness of a perfectly reliable set of nerves. His low-hung
holster tied securely to his trousers leg to assure smoothness in
drawing, the restrained swing of his right hand, never far from the
well-worn scabbard which sheathed a triggerless Colt's "Frontier"—these
showed the confident and ready gun-man, the man who seldom missed.
"Frontiers" left the factory with triggers attached, but the absence of
that part did not always incapacitate a weapon. Some men found that the
regular method was too slow, and painstakingly cultivated the art of
thumbing the hammer. "Thumbing" was believed to save the split second
so valuable to a man in argument with his peers. Tex was riding with the
set purpose of picking a fair fight with the best six-shooter expert it
had ever been his misfortune to meet, and he needed that split second.
He knew that he needed it and the knowledge thrilled him with a peculiar
elation; he had changed greatly in the past year and now he wanted an
"even break" where once he would have called all his wits into play to
avoid it. He had found himself and now he acknowledged no superior in
anything.

On his way south he met and talked with men who had known him, the old
Tex, in the days when he had made his living precariously. They did not
recognize him behind his beard, and he was content to let the oversight
pass. But from these few he learned what he wished to know, and he was
glad that Hopalong Cassidy was where he had always been, and that his
gun-work had improved rather than depreciated with the passing of time.
He wished to prove himself master of The Master, and to be hailed as
such by those who had jeered and laughed at his ignominy several years
before. So he rode on day after day, smiling and content, neither
under-rating nor over-rating his enemy's ability with one weapon, but
trying to think of him as he really was. He knew that if there was any
difference between Hopalong Cassidy and himself that it must be very
slight—perhaps so slight as to result fatally to both; but if that were
so then it would have to work out as it saw fit—he at least would have
accomplished what many, many others had failed in.

In the little town of Buckskin, known hardly more than locally, and
never thought of by outsiders except as the place where the Bar-20
spent their spare time and money, and neutral ground for the surrounding
ranches, was Cowan's saloon, in the dozen years of its existence the
scene of good stories, boisterous fun, and quick deaths. Put together
roughly, of crude materials, sticking up in inartistic prominence on the
dusty edge of a dustier street; warped, bleached by the sun, and patched
with boards ripped from packing cases and with the flattened sides of
tin cans; low of ceiling, the floor one huge brown discoloration of
spring, creaking boards, knotted and split and worn into hollows, the
unpretentious building offered its hospitality to all who might be
tempted by the scrawled, sprawled lettering of its sign. The walls were
smoke-blackened, pitted with numerous small and clear-cut holes, and
decorated with initials carelessly cut by men who had come and gone.

Such was Cowan's, the best patronized place in many hot and dusty miles
and the Mecca of the cowboys from the surrounding ranches. Often at
night these riders of the range gathered in the humble building and told
tales of exceeding interest; and on these occasions one might see a
row of ponies standing before the building, heads down and quiet. It is
strange how alike cow-ponies look in the dim light of the stars. On the
south side of the saloon, weak, yellow lamp light filtered through the
dirt on the window panes and fell in distorted patches on the plain,
blotched in places by the shadows of the wooden substitutes for glass.

It was a moonlight night late in the fall, after the last beef round-up
was over and the last drive outfit home again, that two cow-ponies stood
in front of Cowan's while their owners lolled against the bar and talked
over the latest sensation—the fencing in of the West Valley range,
and the way Hopalong Cassidy and his trail outfit had opened up the old
drive trail across it. The news was a month old, but it was the last
event of any importance and was still good to laugh over.

"Boys," remarked the proprietor, "I want you to meet Mr. Elkins. He came
down that trail last week, an' he didn't see no fence across it." The
man at the table arose slowly. "Mr. Elkins, this is Sandy Lucas, an'
Wood Wright, of the C-80. Mr. Elkins here has been a-looking over the
country, sizing up what the beef prospects will be for next year; an'
he knows all about wire fences. Here's how," he smiled, treating on the
house.

Mr. Elkins touched the glass to his bearded lips and set it down
untasted while he joked over the sharp rebuff so lately administered to
wire fences in that part of the country. While he was an ex-cow-puncher
he believed that he was above allowing prejudice to sway his judgment,
and it was his opinion, after careful thought, that barb wire was
harmful to the best interests of the range. He had ridden over a great
part of the cattle country in the last few yeas, and after reviewing
the existing conditions as he understood them, his verdict must go as
stated, and emphatically. He launched gracefully into a slowly
delivered and lengthy discourse upon the subject, which proved to be
so entertaining that his companions were content to listen and nod with
comprehension. They had never met any one who was so well qualified
to discuss the pros and cons of the barb-wire fence question, and they
learned many things which they had never heard before. This was very
gratifying to Mr. Elkins, who drew largely upon hearsay, his own vivid
imagination, and a healthy logic. He was very glad to talk to men who
had the welfare of the range at heart, and he hoped soon to meet the
man who had taken the initiative in giving barb wire its first serious
setback on that rich and magnificent southern range.

"You shore ought to meet Cassidy—he's a fine man," remarked Lucas with
enthusiasm. "You'll not find any better, no matter where you look. But
you ain't touched yore liquor," he finished with surprise.

"You'll have to excuse me, gentlemen," replied Mr. Elkins, smiling
deprecatingly. "When a man likes it as much as I do it ain't very easy
to foller instructions an' let it alone. Sometimes I almost break loose
an' indulge, regardless of whether it kills me or not. I reckon it'll
get me yet." He struck the bar a resounding blow with his clenched hand.
"But I ain't going to cave in till I has to!"

"That's purty tough," sympathized Wood Wright, reflectively. "I ain't
so very much taken with it, but I know I would be if I knowed I couldn't
have any."

"Yes, that's human nature, all right," laughed Lucas. "That reminds me
of a little thing that happened to me once—"

"Listen!" exclaimed Cowan, holding up his hand for silence. "I reckon
that's the Bar-20 now, or some of it—sounds like them when they're
feeling frisky. There's allus something happening when them fellers are
around."

The proprietor was right, as proved a moment later when Johnny Nelson,
continuing his argument, pushed open the door and entered the room. "I
didn't neither; an' you know it!" he flung over his shoulder.

"Then who did?" demanded Hopalong, chuckling. "Why, hullo, boys," he
said, nodding to his friends at the bar. "Nobody else would do a fool
thing like that; nobody but you, Kid," he added, turning to Johnny.

"I don't care a hang what you think; I say I didn't an'—"

"He shore did, all right; I seen him just afterward," laughed Billy
Williams, pressing close upon Hopalong's heels. "Howdy, Lucas; an'
there's that ol' coyote, Wood Wright. How's everybody feeling?"

"Where's the rest of you fellers?" inquired Cowan.

"Stayed home to-night," replied Hopalong.

"Got any loose money, you two?" asked Billy, grinning at Lucas and
Wright.

"I reckon we have—an' our credit's good if we ain't. We're good for a
dollar or two, ain't we, Cowan?" replied Lucas.

"Two dollars an' four bits," corrected Cowan. "I'll raise it to three
dollars even when you pay me that 'leven cents you owe me."

"'Leven cents? What 'leven cents?"

"Postage stamps an' envelope for that love letter you writ."

"Go to blazes; that wasn't no love letter!" snorted Lucas, indignantly.
"That was my quarterly report. I never did write no love letters,
nohow."

"We'll trim you fellers to-night, if you've got the nerve to play us,"
grinned Johnny, expectantly.