Bar-20 Days, Clarence E. Mulford [world best books to read .TXT] 📗

Fisher, wild with rage, returned to the Paradise and profanely unfolded the tale of his burning wrongs to the bartender and demanded the loan of his gun, which the bartender promptly refused. The present owner of the gun liked Fisher very much for being such a sport and sympathized with him deeply, but he did not want to have such a pleasing acquaintance killed.

“Now, see here: you cool down an’ I’ll lend you fifteen dollars on that saddle of yourn. You go up an’ get that cayuse out before the price goes up any higher—you don’t know that man like I do,” remarked the man behind the bar earnestly. “That feller Townsend can shoot the eyes out of a small dog at ten miles, purty nigh. Do you savvy my drift?”

“I won’t pay him a cussed cent, an’ when he goes to sell that piebald at auction, I’ll be on hand with a gun; I’ll get one somewhere, all right, even if I have to steal it. Then I’ll shoot out his eyes at ten paces. Why, he’s a two-laigged hold-up! That man would—” he stopped as a stranger entered the room. “Hey, stranger! Don’t you leave that cayuse of yourn outside all alone or that coyote of a marshal will steal it, shore. He’s the biggest thief I ever knowed. He’ll lift yore animal quick as a wink!” Fisher warned, excitedly.

The stranger looked at him in surprise and then smiled. “Is it usual for a marshal to steal cayuses? Somewhat out of line, ain’t it?” he asked Fisher, glancing at the bartender for light.

“I don’t care what’s the rule—that marshal just stole my cayuse; an’ he’ll take yourn, too, if you ain’t careful,” Fisher replied.

“Well,” drawled the stranger, smiling still more, “I reckon I ain’t going to stay out there an’ watch it, an’ I can’t bring it in here. But I reckon it’ll be all right. You see, I carry ‘big medicine’ agin hoss-thieves,” he replied, tapping his holster and smiling as he remembered the time, not long past, when he himself had been accused of being one. “I’ll take a chance if he will—what’ll you all have?”

“Little whiskey,” replied Fisher, uneasily, worrying because he could not stand for a return treat. “But, say; you keep yore eye on that animal, just the same,” he added, and then hurriedly gave his reasons. “An’ the worst part of the whole thing is that I ain’t got no gun, an’ can’t seem to borrow none, neither,” he added, wistfully eyeing the stranger’s Colt. “I gambled mine away to the bartender here an’ he won’t lemme borrow it for five minutes!”

“Why, I never heard tell of such a thing before!” exclaimed the stranger, hardly believing his ears, and aghast at the thought that such conditions could exist. “Friend,” he said, addressing the bartender, “how is it that this sort of thing can go on in this town?” When the bartender had explained at some length, his interested listener smote the bar with a heavy fist and voiced his outraged feelings. “I’ll shore be plumb happy to spread that coyote marshal all over his cussed pound! Say, come with me; I’m going down there right now an’ get that cayuse, an’ if the marshal opens his mouth to peep I’ll get him, too. I’m itching for a chance to tunnel a man like him. Come on an’ see the show!”

“Not much!” retorted Fisher. “While I am some pleased to meet a white man, an’ have a deep an’ abiding gratitude for yore noble offer, I can’t let you do it. He put it over on me, an’ I’m the one that’s got to shoot him up. He’s mine, my pudding; an’ I’m hogging him all to myself. That is one luxury I can indulge in even if I am broke; an’ I’m sorry, but I can’t give you cards. Seeing, however, as you are so friendly to the cause of liberty an’ justice, suppose you lend me yore gun for about three minutes by the watch. From what I’ve been told about this town such an act will win for you the eternal love an’ gratitude of a down-trodden people; yore gun will blaze the way to liberty an’ light, freedom an’ the right to own yore own property, an’ keep it. All I ask is that I be the undeserving medium.”

“A-men,” sighed the bartender. “Deacon Jones will now pass down the aisle an’ collect the buttons an’ tin money.”

“Stranger,” continued Fisher, warming up, when he saw that his words had not produced the desired result, “King James the Twelfth, on the memorable an’ blood-soaked field of Trafalgar, gave men their rights. On that great day he signed the Magnet Charter, and proved himself as great a liberator as the sainted Lincoln. You, on this most auspicious occasion, hold in yore strong hand the destiny of this town—the women an’ children in this cursed community will rise up an’ bless you forever an’ pass yore name down to their ancestors as a man of deeds an’ honor! Let us pause to consider this—”

“Hold that pause!” interrupted the astounded bartender hurriedly, and with shaking voice. “String it out till I get untangled! I ain’t up much on history, so I won’t take no chance with that; but I want to tell our eloquent guest that there ain’t no women or children in this town. An’ if there was, I sort of reckon their ancestors would be born first. What do you think about it—”

“Let us pause to consider the shameful an’ burning indignity perpetrated upon us to-day!” continued Fisher, unheeding the bartender’s words. “I, a peaceful, law-abiding citizen of this glorious Commonwealth, a free an’ equal member of a liberty-loving nation, a nation whose standard is, now and forever, ‘Gimme liberty or gimme det’, a nation that stands for all the conceivable benefits that mankind may enjoy, a nation_ that scintillates pyrotechnically over the prostitution of power—”

Bang! went the bartender’s fist on the counter. “Hey! Pause again! Wait a minute! Go back to ‘shameful an’ burning,’ and gimme a chance!”

“—that stands for an even break, I, Nathaniel G. Fisher, have been deprived of one of my inalienable rights, the right of locomotion to distant an’ other parts. An’ I say, right here an’ now, that I won’t allow no spavined individual with thieving prehensils to—”

“Has that pound-keeper got a rifle?” calmly interrupted the stranger, without a pang of remorse.

“He has. Thus has it allus been with tyrants—well armed, fortified by habit an’ tradition—”

“Then you won’t get my gun, savvy? We’ll find another way to get that cayuse as long as you feel that the marshal is yore hunting. Besides, this man’s gall deserves some respect; it is genius, an’ to pump genius full of cold lead is to act rash. Now, suppose you tell me when this auction is due to come off.”

“Oh, not for a week; he wants to run up the board an’ keep expenses. Tyrants, such as him—”

“Shore,” interposed the bartender, “he’ll make the expenses equal what he gets for the cayuse, no matter what it comes to. An’ he’s the whole town, an’ the justice of the peace, besides. What he says goes.”

“Well, I’m the Governor of the State an’ I’ve got the Supreme Court right here in my holster, so I reckon I can reverse his official acts an’ fill his legal opinions full of holes,” the stranger replied, laughing heartily. “Bartender, will you help me play a little joke on His Honore, the Town,—just a little harmless joke?”

“Well, that all depends whether the joke is harmless on me. You see, he can shoot like the devil—he allus knows when a man is going to draw, an’ gets his gun out first. I ain’t got no respect for him, but I take off my hat to his gunplay, all right.”

The stranger smiled. “Well, I can shoot a bit myself. But I shore wish he’d hold that auction quick—I’ve got to go on home without losing any more time. Fisher, suppose you go down to the pound and dare that tumble-bug to hold the auction this afternoon. Tell him that you’ll shoot him full of holes if he goes pulling off any auction to-day, an’ dare him to try it. I want it to come off before night, an’ I reckon that’ll hustle it along.”

“I’ll do anything to get the edge on that thief,” replied Fisher, quickly, “but don’t you reckon I’d better tote a gun, going down an’ bearding such a thief in his own den? You know I allus like to shoot when I’m being shot at.”

“Well, I don’t blame you; it’s only a petty weakness,” grinned the stranger, hanging onto his Colt as if fearing that the other would snatch it and run. “But you’ll do better without any gun—me an’ the bartender don’t want to have to go down there an’ bring you back on a plank.”

“All right, then,” sighed Fisher, reluctantly, “but he’ll jump the price again. He’ll fine me for contempt of court an’ make me pay money I ain’t got for disturbing him. But I’m game—so long.”

When he had gained the street, the stranger turned to the bartender. “Now, friend, you tell me if this man of gall, this Mr. Townsend, has got many friends in town—anybody that’ll be likely to pot shoot from the back when things get warm. I can’t watch both ends unless I know what I’m up against.”

“No! Every man in town hates him,” answered the bartender, hastily, and with emphasis.

“Ah, that’s good. Now, I wonder if you could see ‘most everybody that’s in town now an’ get ‘em to promise to help me by letting me run this all by myself. All I want them to do is not to say a word. It ain’t hard to keep still when you want to.”

“Why, I reckon I might see ‘em—there ain’t many here this time of day,” responded the bartender. “But what’s yore game, anyhow?” he asked, suddenly growing suspicious.

“It’s just a little scheme I figgered out,” the stranger replied, and then he confided in the bartender, who jigged a few fancy steps to show his appreciation of the other’s genius. His suspicions left him at once, and he hastened out to tell the inhabitants of the town to follow his instructions to the letter, and he knew they would obey, and be glad, hilariously glad, to do so. While he was hurrying around giving his instructions, the CG puncher returned to