The Man From Bar-20, Clarence E. Mulford [distant reading TXT] 📗

“Who was that?” asked Pop, indignant because he had not been told about it before.

“Yo’re a reg’lar old woman,” jeered Charley. “You can guess it.”

“Funny he didn’t tell me,” sighed Pop.

“Mebby he reckoned it was his own business,” retorted Charley. “Mebby he knowed you’d blurt it out to everybody you saw.”

“I keep things under my belt!”

“Yes; food an’ likker,” chuckled Charley, enjoying himself. “If nobody come around for you to tell yore gossip to, cussed if you wouldn’t tell it to th’ sky, night an’ mornin’, like a ki-yote.”

“So he’s still prospectin’,” laughed Ackerman. “He’ll starve to death.”

“I ain’t so shore about that,” said Charley. “He Weighed his gold on my scales an’ it was one pound an’ eleven ounces. It was all gold, too; I saw it.”

“He-he-he!” chuckled Pop. “If yore scales said one eleven he only had about half a pound. Them scales are worse than a cold deck.”

“That’s a lie; an’ you know it! Them scales are honest!”

“Then they ain’t ‘pervious to their ‘sociations,” grinned Pop. He reached behind him, picked up a package and turned to Ackerman. “Did you say you was goin’ near th’ Circle S?” he inquired.

“He did not,” said Charley gleefully. “Didn’t I say you was an old woman?”

Ackerman laughed, winked at Charley and went out; and the two cronies listened to the rapidly dying hoofbeats.

Pop wheeled and glared at his friend. “Now you’ve done it! Ain’t you got no sense, tellin’ him where Nelson is?”

“If I had much I wouldn’t hang out with you,” grinned Charley. “But I got a little; an’ if he crosses th’ river he won’t find Nelson. A Circle S puncher saw him hoofin’ it into th’ southwest. Quien sabe?”

“Sometimes you do have a spark of common sense,” said Pop. “Sort of a glimmer. It’s real noticeable in you when it shows at all, just like a match looks prominent in th’ dark. Pick up them cards an’ don’t do no more fancy countin’.”

“Countin’ wouldn’t do me no good while yo’re multiplyin’. Get agoin’; I got to get my four bits back before I go home.”

Well to the south of the two friends in Hastings, Jim Ackerman loped steadily ahead, debating several things; and as he neared the Circle S range a man suddenly arose from behind a rock. There was nothing threatening about this gentleman except, perhaps, his sudden and unexpected appearance; but Ackerman’s gun had him covered as soon as his head showed.

“Turn it off me, I said the man behind the rock, a note of pained injury in his voice. “My intentions are honorable; an’ plumb peaceful. Yo’re most scandalous suspicious.”

Ackerman smiled grimly. “Mebby I am; but habit is strong. An’ one of my worst habits is suspicion. What’s th’ idea of this jack-in-th’-box proceedin’ of yourn? You’ve shore got funny ways; an’ plumb dangerous ones.”

“Reckon mebby it does look that way,” said the man behind the rock. “I neglects caution. I should’ve covered you first an’ then popped up. That shows how plumb innercent an’ peaceful I am. Yore name’s Jim Ackerman, ain’t it?”

“You can’t allus tell,” replied Ackerman.

“That’s where yo’re figgerin’ wrong. I can allus tell. Havin’ told me yore name, I’ll tell you mine. I’m Pete Carson, known hereabouts an’ elsewhere as Long Pete. Some calls me Long-winded Pete; but it’s all th’ same to me. Pint that a little mite more to th’ sky; thank you, sir. I was punchin’ for th’ Circle S, but th’ Circle S punched me; then it fired me. I’ve got to eat, so I got to work. Th’ Long T ain’t hirin’; an’ I’d starve before I’d work for Logan. I ain’t no slave, not me.

“I’m settin’ there in th’ sun whittlin’ a stick an’ arguin’ with myself. I was gettin’ th’ worst of it when I hears yore noble cayuse. Not bein’ curious I riz up instanter an’ looked plumb into yore gun just a little mite higher; ah, much obliged.”

“What’s all this to me?” demanded Ackerman impatiently.

“That’s what I’m aimin’ to find out. I saw you comin’ up a little more; thank you. Then I think I got a new chance. I want a job an’ I want it bad. Hold it in yore left hand: yore right hand is tired, an’ saggin I . Any chance for a close-mouthed man up yore way? One that does as he’s told, asks no questions, an’ ain’t particular what kind of a job it is? Better let me hold that; I can see yo’re gettin’ tired. Thank you, sir. I’m desperate, an’ I’m hungry. What you say? Speak right out I’m a grand listener.”

Ackerman grunted. “Huh! I ain’t got nothin’ to say about hirin’ th’ men where I work. As a matter of fact we ain’t got work enough for another man. An’ I reckon you don’t understand nothin’ about farmin’, even in a small way; but if yo’re hungry, why, I can fix that right soon. Got a cayuse?”

Pete nodded emphatically. “I allus manage to keep a cayuse, no matter how bad things busts; a cayuse, my saddle, an’ a gun. Why?”

“Climb onto it an’ come along with me. I’m aimin’ to make camp as soon as I run across water. That’s a purty good animal you got.”

“Yes; looks good,” grunted Long Pete; “but it ain’t. It’s a deceivin’ critter. I’m yore scout. There” a crick half a mile west of here. I’m that famished I’m faint. Just a little more an’ I’d ‘a’ cooked me a square meal off of one of th’ yearlin’s that wander on th’ edge of th’ range. That was what I was thinkin’ over when I heard you.”

“You shouldn’t do a thing like that!” exclaimed Ackerman severely. “Besides, you shouldn’t talk about it. An’ if you do it you’ll get shot or lynched.”

“A man does lots of things he shouldn’t. An’ ‘s for talkin’, I’m th’ most safe talker you ever met I allus know where I’m talkin’, what I’m talkin’ about, an’ who I’m talkin’ to. Now, as I figger it, I’d rather get shot or lynched than starve in a land of beef. What do I care about killin’ another man’s cows? I’m plumb sick of workin’ on a string that some bullheaded foreman can break; an’ I’m most awful sick of workin’ for wages. I ain’t no hired man, d—n it! What I wants is an equal share in what I earns. An’ you can believe me, Mister Man, I ain’t noways particular what th’ work is. I never did have no respect for a man that gambled for pennies. No tinhorn never amounted to nothin’. He can’t lose much; but yo’re cussed right he can’t win much, neither. If th’ stakes are high an’ th’ breaks anywhere near equal, I’ll risk my last dollar or my last breath.

“As to what I am, you lissen to me: When I’m sober I stays strictly sober, for months at a time; an’ when I’m drunk I likeways stays drunk for days at a time. I ain’t like some I knows of, half drunk most of th’ time an’ never really sober. Me, I just serves notice that I’m goin’ off on a bender, an’ I goes. An’ when I comes back I’m sober all th’ way through. Here’s th’ crick. An’ I never get drunk when there’s work to be did. You can put up that Colt now an’ watch me get a fire goin’ that won’t show a light for any distance or throw much smoke. I tell you I know my business.”

Ackerman unpacked and turned the horses loose to graze, and by the time he was ready to start cooking, Long Pete had a fire going in a little hollow near the water.

“Now you just set down an’ watch me cavort an’ prance,” quoth Long Pete pleasantly. “Reckon mebby you might not move fast enough for my empty belly. Chuck me that flour bag I’m a reg’lar cook, I am. You just set there an’ keep right on thinkin’ about me; weigh me calm an I judicial.”

Ackerman smiled, leaned back against his saddle and obeyed his verbose companion, pondering over what his deft guest had said. He knew of Long Pete by hearsay, and he now marshaled the knowledge in slow and orderly review before his mind.

The cook handed him a pan, a tin cup, and a knife, fork, and spoon. Then he waved at the pan. “Take all you want of this grub, an I take it now. This bein’ a one-man outfit I’ll eat off th’ cookin’ utensils utensils sounds misleading don’t it? somethin’ like tonsils or a disease. Now I warn you: dig in deep an’ take all you kin eat, for there won’t be no second helpin’ after I gets my holt. Want yore coffee now?”

“Later, I reckon,” smiled Ackerman. “You shore can cook. Better take th’ cup first if you wants yore coffee now. I’ll use it later.”

“Soon as we open one of them cans I’ll have a cup of my own, an’ we’re goin’ to open one tomorrow,” grinned Long Pete, opening his pocketknife and attacking the frying pan. When the pan had been cleaned of the last morsel Pete emptied the cup, washed it in the creek, refilled it and handed it to his companion. Rolling a cigarette with one hand, he lit it, inhaled deeply and blew a cloud of smoke toward the sky.

“Cuss me if that don’t hit me plumb center,” he chuckled. “An’ plumb center is th’ place for it. I’d ruther eat my own cookin’ in th’ open, than feed in th’ house after some dirty cook got through messin I with th’ grub. At first I thought you was another prospector; but when I looked close I saw that you didn’t have th’ rest of th’ outfit. Now don’t you say nothin’. I ain’t lookin’ for no information; I’m givin’ it. You see, I shoots off my mouth regardless, for I’m a great talker when I’m sober; an’ tight as a freshwater clam when I’m drunk. A whiskered old ram of a sky-pilot once told me that I was th’ most garrulous man he’d ever met up with. After I let him up he explained what garrulous means; an’ th’ word sort of stuck in my memory. I know it stuck in his; he’ll never forget it.”

Ackerman coughed up some coffee. “He won’t,” he gasped. “But what made you think I might be prospectin’?”

“Just a little superstition of mine,” explained Long Pete. “There’s some coffee runnin’ down yore neck. You never ought to laugh when yo’re drinkin’. Good thing it wasn’t whiskey. Things allus comes in bunches. That purty near allus holds good, as mcbby you’ve noticed. I have. I saw one prospector, a cowpuncher gone loco, hoofin’ it in th’ dirt alongside his loaded cayuse. Of th’ two I thinks most of th’ cayuse. It was a black, of thoroughbred strain, steppin’ high an’ disdainful, with more intelligence blazin’ out of its big eyes than its master ever had. So when I sees you ridin’ along with a big pack I reckoned mebby that you must ‘a’ eat some of th’ same weed an’ had got th’ same kind of hallucernations. They’s different kinds, you know. But this is once th’ rule fails. There won’t be no bunch of prospectors, an’ I know why; but that’s a secret. There won’t be no third.”

Ackerman looked keenly at him through narrowed lids, speculating, wondering, puzzled. Then he leaned back and yawned. “Is there a prospector down here?” he asked incredulously. “You don’t mean it.”

Long Pete coolly looked him over from boots to sombrero. “I’m duly grateful for this sumptious feed, an’