The Man From Bar-20, Clarence E. Mulford [distant reading TXT] 📗
- Author: Clarence E. Mulford
- Performer: -
Book online «The Man From Bar-20, Clarence E. Mulford [distant reading TXT] 📗». Author Clarence E. Mulford
“Show ‘em to me!” begged Harrison.
Johnny stepped back for inspection and waved his hands at the trousers; and Harrison had to laugh at what he saw. What was left of them formed a very short kilt, and the underwear was torn into bloody strips.
Harrison wept.
“I’m pullin’ my stakes,” continued Johnny pleasantly. “This layout is too excitin’ for a man of my bashful an’ retirin’ disposition. You can tell Quigley he don’t have to set no more ambushes in that valley, an’ also that th’ first time I meet him I’m goin’ to smoke him up with both hands. I’m honin’ for to get a look at him, just a quick glance. Give my regards to yore friend Ackerman; his gun, an’ that other feller’s, is with Pop Hayes; but mebby they ought to wait till I leave th’ country before they go in for ‘em.”
He turned on his heel and walked slowly away, with a pronounced limp, a present from the cougar. When he reached the edge of the clearing he paused and faced about.
“You two fellers will be all right in a little while, an’ if you can’t get yore friend home, you can send them that can. I’ll take yore six-guns along with me so there won’t be no accidents; but I’ll leave this rifle over here on this rock, empty. Th’ cartridges are on th’ ground on th’ other side of th’ rock. That cougar’s mate is some het up about now, I reckons, an’ you may need it. Better not come for it for a couple of minutes. There’s been enough shootin’ already. Adios” and he was gone as silently as a shadow.
Harrison sat cross-legged and waited considerable more than two minutes and then walked slowly toward the rifle. As he picked it up there came a haunting scream and a rolling fusillade of shots from the south. Then a distant voice called faintly.
“I got th’ mate, an’ lost th’ rest of my pants. ‘Adios!’”
“I’ll be d–-d!” grunted Harrison, going toward his friend at the rock. “That feller is one cheerful hombre; an’ a white man, too. If I was Quigley, I’ll bet four bits I wouldn’t show my face in Hastings till he was a long way off. No, ma’am; not a-tall. Here, Art; you take th’ gun till I go back an’ see how Dan’l Boone is comin’ along. He’s a rip-snortin’, high-class success, he is! I’ll bet you he’ll brag about droppin’ that cougar, you just wait an’ see. Hello, you wild jackass! How you feel!”
“You can go to h—l” snorted the man with the creased scalp, sitting up. “An’ I don’t care a cuss when you starts, or how you goes. I’m fond of excitement, thrive on it an’ get fat; but I serves notice, here an’ now, that I’m quittin’. Any man that takes th’ trail with you two fools is a bigger fool. Great guns! I won’t have no head left after a while!”
“You never did have one that amounted to anythin’,” said Harrison cheerfully. “I admit that it’s a handy place to hang a hat, but when that is said, th’ story is ended. Amen. You set right where you are till you are able to walk, an’ then we’ll get Art home.”
“Takin’ Art home is what we should ‘a’ done long ago; we’re doin’ this thing backwards, th’ d—n fool!” moaned Ben. “We’d ‘a’ been home long ago if it wasn’t for him.”
“Huh?” muttered Harrison. “Well, I’ll be d–-d! Say! If it wasn’t for you pluggin’ that cat we’d ‘a’ been home, whole an’ happy, sleepin’ th’ sleep of th’ innercent, When you got that bright idea, you shore touched off a-plenty. He was pullin’ his stakes, aimin I to get out peaceful, when you dumped that panther right down plumb around his neck! Man! Man! But I wish I’d’ve seen that! Benjamin, if you only knowed what I’m thinkin’ about you! Words ain’t capable of revealin’ my thoughts; they fall far short; an’ if I used enough words I’d strain my vo vocabulary, till it never would be any good any more. An’ I can only swear in English, Spanish, Navajo, an’ Ute. An education must be a grand thing.”
“Th’ breaks was ag’in us,” explained Benjamin.
“Lord, please hold me back!” prayed Harrison.
Well to the south of them a limping cowpuncher, with no trousers at all now, and blood-soaked strips of underwear pasted to his torn and bleeding legs, pushed doggedly toward his horse, swearing at almost every painful step and avoiding all kinds of brush as he painstakingly held to the middle of the dried bed of the creek. His shirt tail, cut into ragged strips, flapped in the cold breeze where not held down by the weight of the sagging belts and holsters; and in his hands he carried the captured Colts.
Reaching his horse he fastened the extra weapons to his saddle, carefully drew on his chaps, coiled up the picket rope and climbed gingerly astride.
“Come on, Pepper!” he growled “Pull out of this. I got a pair of pants wrapped up in that tarpaulin at th’ mouth of th’ valley; an’ I wants ‘em bad. You shore missed somethin’ this evening you lucky old cow!”
When day broke it revealed a shivering, grumbling cowpuncher washing his cuts and gashes in the cold, pure water of Nelson’s creek. Retiring to the pebbly bank, he tore up a clean shirt and used it all for bandages, after which he carefully drew on a pair of clean underdrawers and covered them with a pair of wellworn trousers. The chaps came next as a protection against whipping branches and clinging brush. Rolling up the tarpaulin he fastened it behind his saddle and, mounting stiffly, started for Hastings.
Some hours later he lolled at ease and related to the grinning proprietor the strange and exciting occurrences of the night. Pop was swung from one extreme to the other as the tale unfolded, while Andrew Jackson chuckled, whistled, and laughed until the narrator’s scratching fingers lulled him into a deep and soul-stirring ecstasy.
“You shore started some fireworks,” chuckled Pop when the tale was finished. “An’ yo’re cussed lucky, too. When Ackerman showed his hand yesterday I knowed trouble was fixin’ to ride you to a frazzled finish. Now what d -d fool thing are you goin’ to do?” he demanded anxiously.
“I’m goin’ to keep out of that valley,” reluctantly answered Johnny. “It ain’t got no charms for me no more. They’ve burned my cabin, an’ I reckon I got all th’ gold there was, anyhow. When my legs get well I’m goin’ to try it again somewhere else. Twin Buttes are too unlucky for me.”
“Now yo’re shoutin’,” beamed Pop. “You just set around here an’ take things easy for a few days, while me an’ Charley fixes that tarp so it’ll be a pack cover an’ a tent that is one. No prospector wants to build a shack unless winter ketches him in th’ hills or he finds a rich strike. Me an’ you an’ Charley will go fishin’ a few days from now an’ have a reg’lar rest. I’m all tired out, too. Business is shore confinin’.” He looked Johnny over and chuckled. “Cussed if I wouldn’t ‘a’ give six pesos, U. S., to ‘a’ seen that cougar a-fannin’ you! He-he-he!”
JOHNNY, upon leaving Hastings, struck south from it and spent the night west of the Circle S after a journey of twenty miles on foot. Pepper was again a pack horse, and the diamond hitch which held the bulging tarpaulin in place would have dispelled any doubt as to Johnny’s abilities to cut loose from civilization and thrive in the lonely places. And he had cut loose when he placed a note under a rock behind a certain tree near the ford; for when “Hen” Crosby, riding for the mail, saw the agreed-upon sign on the tree, it would not be long before Logan had the note.
Following the line of least resistance, the second day found him bearing westerly, and the next three days found him crowding the pack on Pepper’s back and riding due north through a country broken, wild, and without a trail. The way was not as difficult as it might have been because the valleys joined one another, and through them all flowed creeks, which made a trail that left no tracks. To an experienced man who had plenty of time the difficulties were more often avoided than conquered.
At noon of the fifth day he drove Pepper slantingly up the wall of a crumbling butte, and, reaching the top, looked around for his bearings. They were easily found, for Twin Buttcs looked too much alike, even from the rear, to be easily mistaken; and they loomed too high to be overlooked. Almost on a direct line with the Twins lay Quigley’s cabins, a matter of fifteen miles from him; which he decided was too far. That distance covered twice daily would take up too much time. Returning to the valley he built a fire, had dinner, and, hanging the edible supplies on tree limbs for safety, whistled Pepper to him and departed toward the Twins.
Two hours later he left the horse in a deep draw and crawled up the eastern bank. Crossing a bowlder-strewn plateau he not long afterward wriggled to the edge of Quigley’s valley and looked down into it.
The size of the enclosed range amazed him, for it was fully thirteen miles long, eight miles across at its widest, the northern end, and three miles wide at the middle, where massive cliffs jutted far out from each side.
The more he saw of it the better he liked it. The grass was better and thicker than even that in the prized and fought-for valley of the old Bar-2O. He judged it to contain about eighty square miles and believed that it could feed two hundred cows to the mile. The main stream, which he named Rustler Creek, flowed through a deep ravine and was fed, in the valley alone, by six smaller creeks. There was a sizable swamp and six lakes, one of them nearly a mile long. It was singularly free from bowlders and rocks except at a place near the upper wall, where a great collection of them extended out from a broken cliff.
Except at three places the canyons which cut into the cliffs were blind alleys and he could see that two of them had narrow waterfalls at their upper ends. The three open canyons were the only places where cattle could leave the great “sink,” as Johnny called it; and they were strongly fenced. The first was the entrance canyon, near the houses; the second was a deep, steep walled defile at the northwest corner of the range, and it led into another, but smaller valley, also heavily grassed. Through it ran a small stream which joined Rustler Creek at the swamp. The third canyon, at the northeast corner of the valley, was wide enough to let Rustler Creek flow through it and leave room for the passing of cattle; and judging by the gates in the heavy fence which crossed it, Johnny knew this to be the exit through which the drive herds went. Where that drive trail led to he did not know, but he believed it to pass well to the west of Hope.
Taking it all in all, it was the most perfect range he ever had seen. Rich in grass so heavy and thick as to make him wonder at it, naturally irrigated, blessed with natural reservoirs, surrounded by a perpendicular wall of rock which at some places attained a height of three hundred feet, the
Comments (0)