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“Has Hopalong an’ Red showed up yet?” asked Mr. Peters, frowning at the delay

already caused.

 

“Nope,” replied Johnny Nelson, as he paused from tormenting Billy Williams.

At that minute the doorway was darkened and Mr. Cassidy and Mr. Connors

entered and called for refreshments. Mr. Cassidy dropped a huge bundle of six-shooters

on the floor, making caustic remarks regarding their utility.

 

“What’s th’ matter?” Inquired Mr. Peters of Mr. Cassidy. “Yu looks mad an’

anxious. An’ where in blazes did yu corral them guns?”

 

Mr. Cassidy drank deep and then reported with much heat what had occurred at

Cactus Springs and added that he wanted to go back and wipe out the town, said desire

being luridly endorsed by Mr. Connors.

 

“Why, shore,” said Mr. Peters, “we’ll all go. Such doings must be stopped

instanter.” Then he turned to the assembled outfits and asked for a vote, which was

unanimous for war.

 

Shortly afterward eighteen angry cowpunchers rode to the east, two red-haired

gentlemen well in front and urging speed. It was 8 P.M. when they left Alkaline, and the

cool of the night was so delightful that the feeling of ease which came upon them made

them lax and they lost three hours in straying from the dim trail. At eight o’clock the next

morning they came in sight of their destination and separated into two squads, Mr.

Cassidy leading the northern division and Mr. Connors the one which circled to the south.

 

The intention was to attack from two directions, thus taking the town from front and rear.

 

Cactus Springs lay gasping in the excessive heat and the vigilantes who had toed

Mr. Connors’ line the day before were lounging in the shade of the “Palace” saloon,

telling what they would do if they ever faced the same man again. Half a dozen

sympathizers offered gratuitous condolence and advice and all were positive that they

knew where Mr. Cassidy and Mr. Connors would go when they died.

 

The rolling thunder of madly pounding hoofs disturbed their post-mortem and

they arose in a body to flee from half their number, who, guns in hands, charged down

upon them through clouds of sickly white smoke. Travennes’ Terrors were minus many

weapons and they could not be expected to give a glorious account of themselves.

 

Windows rattled and fell in and doors and walls gave off peculiar sounds as they grew

full of holes. Above the riot rattled the incessant crack of Colt’s and Winchester,

emphasized at close intervals by the assertive roar of buffalo guns. Off to the south came

another rumble of hoofs and Mr. Connors, leading the second squad, - arrived to

participate in the payment of the debt.

 

Smoke spurted from windows and other points of vantage and hung wavering in

the heated air. The shattering of woodwork told of heavy slugs finding their rest, and the

whines that grew and diminished in the air sang the course of .45s.

 

While the fight raged hottest Mr. Nelson sprang from his horse and ran to the

“Palace,” where he collected and piled a heap of tinder like wood, and soon the building

burst out in flames, which, spreading, swept the town from end to end.

 

Mr. Cassidy fired slowly and seemed to be waiting for something. Mr. Connors

laid aside his hot Winchester and devoted his attention to his Colts. A spurt of flame and

smoke leaped from the window of a `dobe hut and Mr. Connors sat down, firing as he

went. A howl from the window informed him that he had made a hit, and Mr. Cassidy

ran out and dragged him to the shelter of a near-by bowlder and asked how much he was

hurt.

“Not much-in the calf,” grunted Mr. Connors. “He was a bad shot-must have been

the cuss that got away yesterday,” speculated the injured man as he slowly arose to his

feet. Mr. Cassidy dissented from force of habit and returned to his station.

 

Mr. Travennes, who was sleeping late that morning, coughed and fought for air in

his sleep, awakened in smoke, rubbed his eyes to make sure and, scorning trousers and

shirt, ran clad in his red woolen undergarments to the corral, where he mounted his scared

horse and rode for the desert and safety.

 

Mr. Cassidy, swearing at the marksmanship of a man who fired at his head and

perforated his sombrero, saw a crimson rider sweep down upon him, said rider being

heralded by a blazing .44.

 

“Gosh!” ejaculated Mr. Cassidy, scarcely believing his eyes. “Oh, it’s my friend

Slim going to hades,” he remarked to himself in audible and relieved explanation.

Mr. Cassidy’s Colts cracked a protest and then he joined Mr. Peters and the others

and with them fought his way out of the flame-swept town of Cactus Springs.

 

An hour later Mr. Connors glanced behind him at the smoke silhouetted on the

horizon and pushed his way to where Mr. Cassidy rode in silence. Mr. Connors grinned

at his friend of the red hair, who responded in the same manner.

 

“Did yu see Slim?” Casually inquired Mr. Connors, looking off to the south.

 

Mr. Cassidy sat upright in his saddle and felt of his Colts. “Yes,” he replied, “I

saw him.”

 

Mr. Connors thereupon galloped on in silence.

CHAPTER XVI

RUSTLERS ON THE RANGE

 

The affair at Cactus Springs had more effect on

the life at the Bar-20 than was realized by the foreman.

 

News travels rapidly, and certain men, whose attributes

were not of the sweetest, heard of it and swore vengeance,

for Slim Travennes had many friends, and the result of his

passing began to show itself. Outlaws have as their

strongest defense the fear which they inspire, and little

time was lost in making reprisals, and these caused Buck

Peters to ride into Buckskin one bright October morning

and then out the other side of the town. Coming to himself with a start he looked around

shamefacedly and retraced his course. He was very much troubled, for, as foreman of the

Bar-20, he had many responsibilities, and when things ceased to go aright he was

expected not only to find the cause of the evil, but also the remedy.

 

That was what he was paid seventy dollars a month for and that was what he had

been endeavoring to do. As yet, however, he had only accomplished what the meanest

cook’s assistant had done. He knew the cause of his present woes to be rustlers (cattle

thieves), and that was all.

 

Riding down the wide, quiet street, he stopped and dismounted before the ever-open door of a ramshackle, one-story frame building. Tossing the reins over the flattened

ears of his vicious pinto he strode into the building and leaned easily against the bar,

where he drummed with his fingers and sank into a reverie.

 

A shining bald pate, bowed over an open box, turned around and revealed a florid

face, set with two small, twinkling blue eyes, as the proprietor, wiping his hands on his

trousers, made his way to Buck’s end of the bar.

 

“Mornin’, Buck. How’s things?”

 

The foreman, lost in his reverie, continued to stare out the door.

 

“Mornin’,” repeated the man behind the bar. “How’s things?”

 

“Oh!” ejaculated the foreman, smiling, “purty cussed.”

 

“Anything flew?”

 

“Th’ C-80 lost another herd last night.”

 

His companion swore and placed a bottle at the foreman’s elbow, but the latter

shook his head. “Not this mornin’—I’ll try one of them vile cigars, however.”

 

“Them cigars are th’ very best that-” began the proprietor, executing the order.

 

“Oh, heck!” exclaimed Buck with weary disgust . “Yu don’t have to palaver none:

I shore knows all that by heart.”

 

“Them cigars—” repeated the proprietor.

 

“Yas, yas; them cigars—I know all about them cigars. Yu gets them for twenty

dollars a thousand an’ hypnotizes us into payin’ yu a hundred,” replied the foreman, biting

off the end `of his weed. Then he stared moodily and frowned. “I wonder why it is?” He

asked. “We punchers like good stuff an’ we pays good prices with good money. What do

we get? Why, cabbage leaves an’ leather for our smokin’ an’ alcohol an’ extract for our

drink. Now, up in Kansas City we goes to a sumptious layout, pays less an’ gets bang-up

stuff. If yu smelled one of them K. C. cigars yu’d shore have to ask what it was, an’ as

for the liquor, why, yu’d think St. Peter asked yu to have one with him. It’s shore wrong

somewhere.”

 

“They have more trade in K. C.,” suggested the proprietor.

 

“An’ help, an’ taxes, an’ a license, an’ rent, an’ brass, cut glass, mahogany an’

French mirrors,” countered the foreman.

 

“They have more trade,” reiterated the man with the cigars.

 

“Forty men spend thirty dollars apiece with yu every month. “The proprietor

busied himself under the bar. “Yu’ll feel better tomorrow.

 

Anyway, what do yu care, yu won’t lose yore job,” he said, emerging.

 

Buck looked at him and frowned, holding back the words which formed in anger.

 

What was the use, he thought, when every man judged the world in his own way.

 

“Have yu seen any of th’ boys?” He asked, smiling again.

 

“Nary a boy. Who do yu reckon’s doin’ all this rustlin’?”

 

“I’m reckonin’, not shoutin’,” responded the foreman.

 

The proprietor looked out the window and grinned: “Here comes one of yourn

now.”

 

The newcomer stopped his horse in a cloud of dust, playfully kicked the animal in

the ribs and entered, dusting the alkali from him with a huge sombrero. Then he

straightened up and sniffed: “What’s burnin’?” he asked, simulating alarm. Then he

noticed the cigar between the teeth of his foreman and grinned: “Gee, but yore a brave

man, Buck.”

 

“Hullo, Hopalong,” said the foreman. “Want a smoke?” Waving his hand toward

the box on the bar.

 

Mr. Hopalong Cassidy side-stepped and began to roll a cigarette “Shore, but I’ll

burn my own—I know what it is.”

 

“What was yu doin’ to my cayuse afore yu come in?” Asked Buck.

 

“Nothin’,” replied the newcomer. “That was mine what I kicked in th’

corrugations.”

 

“How is it yore ridin’ the calico?” Asked the foreman. “I thought yu was dead

stuck on that piebald.”

 

“That piebald’s a goat; he’s been livin’ off my pants lately,” responded Hopalong.

“Every time I looks th’ other way he ambles over and takes a bite at me. Yu just wait `til

this rustler business is roped, an’ branded, an’ yu’ll see me eddicate that blessed scrapheap

into eatin’ grass again. He swiped Billy’s shirt th’ other day—took it right off th’ corral

wall, where Billy’s left it to dry.”

 

Then, seeing Buck raise his eyebrows, he explained: “Shore, he washed it again.

That makes three times since last fall.”

 

The proprietor laughed and pushed out the ever-ready bottle, but Hopalong shoved

it aside and told the reason: “Ever since I was up to K. C. I’ve been spoiled. I’m drinkin’

water an’ slush.”

 

“For Pete’s sake, has any more of yu fellers been up to K. C.?” queried the

proprietor in alarm.

 

“Shore, Red an’ Billy was up there, too.” responded Hopalong. “Red’s got a few

remarks to shout to yu about yore pain-killer. Yu better send for some decent stuff afore

he comes to town,” he warned.

 

Buck swung away from the bar and looked at his dead cigar. Then he turned to

Hopalong.

 

“What did you find?” He asked.

 

“Same old story: nice wide trail up to th’ Staked Plain-then nothin’.”

 

“It shore beats me,”

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