Hopalong Cassidy's Rustler Round-Up; Or, Bar-20, Clarence Edward Mulford [book series for 10 year olds .TXT] 📗
- Author: Clarence Edward Mulford
Book online «Hopalong Cassidy's Rustler Round-Up; Or, Bar-20, Clarence Edward Mulford [book series for 10 year olds .TXT] 📗». Author Clarence Edward Mulford
Then he glanced around the room, noticed the poster and walked over and read it. A full swift sweep of his gloved hand tore it from its fastenings and crammed it under his belt. The glimmer of anger in his eyes gave way as he realized that his head was worth a definite price, and he smiled at what the boys would say when he showed it to them. Planting his feet far apart and placing his arms akimbo he faced his host in grim defiance.
“Got any more of these?” He inquired, placing his hand on the poster under his belt.
“Several,” replied the sheriff.
“Trot 'em out,” ordered Hopalong shortly.
The sheriff sighed, stretched and went over to a shelf, from which he took a bundle of the articles in question. Turning slowly he looked at the puncher and handed them to him.
“I reckons they's all over this here town,” remarked Hopalong.
“They are, and you may never see Texas again.”
“So? Well, yu tell yore most particular friends that the job is worth five thousand, and that it will take so many to do it that when th' mazuma is divided up it won't buy a meal. There's only one man in this country tonight that can earn that money, an' that's me,” said the puncher. “An' I don't need it,” he added, smiling.
“But you are my prisoner—you are under arrest,” enlightened the sheriff, rolling another cigarette. The sheriff spoke as if asking a question. Never before had five hundred dollars been so close at hand and yet so unobtainable. It was like having a check-book but no bank account.
“I'm shore sorry to treat yu mean,” remarked Hopalong, “but I was paid a month in advance an' I'll have to go back an' earn it.”
“You can—if you say that you will return,” replied the sheriff tentatively. The sheriff meant what he said and for the moment had forgotten that he was powerless and was not the one to make terms.
Hopalong was amazed and for a time his ideas of Mexicans staggered under the blow. Then he smiled sympathetically as he realized that he faced a white man.
“Never like to promise nothin',” he replied. “I might get plugged, or something might happen that wouldn't let me.” Then his face lighted up as a thought came to him. “Say, I'll cut di' cards with yu to see if I comes back or not.”
The sheriff leaned back and gazed at the cool youngster before him. A smile of satisfaction, partly at the self-reliance of his guest and partly at the novelty of his situation, spread over his face. He reached for a pack of Mexican cards and laughed. “Man! You're a cool one—I'll do it. What do you call?”
“Red,” answered Hopalong.
The sheriff slowly raised his hand and revealed the ace of hearts. Hopalong leaned back and laughed, at the same time taking from his pocket the six extracted cartridges. Arising and going over to the bed he slipped them in the chambers of the new gun and then placed the loaded weapon at the sheriff's elbow.
“Well, I reckon I'll amble, sheriff,” he said as he opened the door. “If yu ever sifts up my way drop in an' see me—th' boys'll give yu a good time.”
“Thanks; I will be glad to,” replied the sheriff. “You'll take your pitcher to the well once too often some day, my friend. This courtesy,” glancing at the restored revolver, “might have cost you dearly.”
“Shoo! I did that once an' th' feller tried to use it,” replied the cowboy as he backed through the door. “Some people are awfully careless,” he added. “So long—”
“So long,” replied the sheriff, wondering what sort of a man he had been entertaining.
The door closed softly and soon after a joyous whoop floated in from the Street. The sheriff toyed with the new gun and listened to the low caress of a distant guitar.
“Well, don't that beat all?” He ejaculated.
CHAPTER IX. The Advent of McAllister
The blazing sun shone pitilessly on an arid plain which was spotted with dust-gray clumps of mesquite and thorny chaparral. Basking in the burning sand and alkali lay several Gila monsters, which raised their heads and hissed with wide-open jaws as several faint, whip-like reports echoed flatly over the desolate plain, showing that even they had learned that danger was associated with such sounds.
Off to the north there became visible a cloud of dust and at intervals something swayed in it, something that rose and fell and then became hidden again. Out of that cloud came sharp, splitting sounds, which were faintly responded to by another and larger cloud in its rear. As it came nearer and finally swept past, the Gilas, to their terror, saw a madly pounding horse, and it carried a man. The latter turned in his saddle and raised a gun to his shoulder and the thunder that issued from it caused the creeping audience to throw up their tails in sudden panic and bury themselves out of sight in the sand.
The horse was only a broncho, its sides covered with hideous yellow spots, and on its near flank was a peculiar scar, the brand. Foam flecked from its crimsoned jaws and found a resting place on its sides and on the hairy chaps of its rider. Sweat rolled and streamed from its heaving flanks and was greedily sucked up by the drought-cursed alkali. Close to the rider's knee a bloody furrow ran forward and one of the broncho's ears was torn and limp. The broncho was doing its best—it could run at that pace until it dropped dead. Every ounce of strength it possessed was put forth to bring those hind hoofs well in front of the forward ones and to send them pushing the sand behind in streaming clouds. The horse had done this same thing many times—when would its master learn sense?
The man was typical in appearance with many of that broad land. Lithe, sinewy and bronzed by hard riding and hot suns, he sat in his Cheyenne saddle like a centaur, all his weight on the heavy, leather-guarded stirrups, his body rising in one magnificent straight line. A bleached moustache hid the thin lips, and a gray sombrero threw a heavy shadow across his eyes. Around his neck and over his open, blue flannel shirt lay loosely a knotted silk kerchief, and on his thighs a pair of open-flapped holsters swung uneasily with their ivory handled burdens. He turned abruptly, raised his gun to his shoulder and fired, then he laughed recklessly and patted his mount, which responded to the confident caress by lying flatter to the earth in a spurt of heart-breaking speed.
“I'll show 'em who they're trailin'. This is th' second time I've started for Muddy Wells, an' I'm goin' to git there, too, for all th' Apaches out of Hades!”
To the south another cloud of dust rapidly approached and the rider scanned it closely, for it was directly in his path. As
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