The Man From Bar-20, Clarence E. Mulford [distant reading TXT] 📗
- Author: Clarence E. Mulford
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To the left a bush trembled slightly and he covered a rain-worn crease which cut through the top of a ditch bank. To the right a pebble clicked and behind him came the faint snapping of a twig.
“Three of ‘em stalkin’ me!” he muttered angrily, “I got to shoot on sight an’ not waste a shot. An’ they knowed where I was, judgin’ from th’ way they’re closin’ in on that crevice.”
In front of him a red line showed and, rising steadily into view, became the back of a bare head. Then, very slowly, a brown neck pushed up, followed by the shoulders. Johnny picked up a small rock and arose to a squatting position.
Sanford was now on his toes, crouching, the tips of his left hand fingers on the ground, while in his other hand, held shoulder high, poised a Colt, ready for that quick, chopping motion which many men affected.
Johnny took careful aim and threw the stone. Sanford jumped when the missile struck near him, and wheeled like a flash, the Colt swinging down. He saw a squatting figure, a dull glint of metal and a spurt of flame. Johnny wriggled swiftly back among the rocks and awaited developments.
“They don’t know who fired,” he mused, “an’ they dassn’t ask.”
If it had been a miss the silence would have been unbroken, as before, until a second shot shattered it; and if it had killed the rustler the silence also would remain unbroken; but if Sanford had scored a kill he instantly would have made it known. Being uncertain they were sure to investigate.
“Cuss it, there’s at least two left; an’ there may be four or five,” grumbled Johnny. “I stay right here till dark.”
Suddenly he heard a soft, rubbing sound, and he guessed that someone wearing leather chaps was crawling along the rocky ground behind the pile of bowlders which sheltered him. The sound grew softer and died out, and a panic-stricken lizard flitted around a rock, stopped instantly as it caught sight of him, wheeled and darted between two stones. Johnny smiled grimly and waited, the gun poised in his hand. Again the rubbing sounded, this time a little nearer, and he softly pushed himself further back among the bowlders. Something struck his left hand holster and he glanced quickly backward, and paled suddenly as he saw the copperhead wrestling to get its fangs loose. He drew in his breath sharply and his hand darted back and down, gripping behind the vicious, triangular, burnished head; and instantly a three-foot, golden-brown, blotched band writhed around his wrist and arm, seeming to flow beneath its skin. Jerking his hand forward again he broke the reptile’s neck, tore it from his arm, shoved it back among the rocks, picked up the Colt again, and waited.
There sounded, clear and sharp, a sudden whirring rattle and the rubbing sound grew instantly louder. Again the fear-inspiring warning sounded and he heard pebbles rolling, where a creeping rustler made frantic efforts to get back where he suddenly felt that he belonged. A rattlesnake ready for war is not a pleasant thing to crawl onto.
“This is a devil of a place! n muttered Johnny, cold chills running along his spine. “It’s a reg’lar den! As soon as that cow-thief gets far enough away, that rattler will slip in among these rocks an’ my laigs ain’t goin’ to be back there when he arrives!”
He wriggled softly out of the narrow opening and found more comfort on a wider patch of ground, where he could sit on his feet. As he settled back he saw the rattler slipping among the stones at his left.
“It all belongs to you an’ yore friends,” muttered Johnny, getting off his feet. “I’ll risk th’ bullets, cussed if I won’t!” And he forthwith crawled toward the side where he had heard the rubbing sounds.
The shadows were gone, merged into the dusk which was rapidly settling over the plateau, and he had to wait only a little longer to be covered by darkness; but he preferred to do his waiting at a point distant from a snakes’ den. Creeping along the edge of the bowlder pile, alert both for snakes and rustlers, he at last reached the southern end and stopped suddenly. A leather-covered leg was disappearing around a dense thicket, and he darted to the shelter of a gully to wait until darkness would hide him on his return to camp.
JOHNNY awakened at the shot and softly rolled out of his blanket. The fire was nearly out, but an occasional burst of flame from the end of the last stick served to show him the outlines of the little tent and the glistening hobnails in the soles of the protruding boots. A bush stirred and a careless step snapped a twig with a report startlingly loud in the night. A voice some distance behind him called out to a figure which appeared like a ghost upon the edge of the little clearing.
“Get him, Purdy?”
Boots scraped on stone at his right and another voice raised out of the dark. “If he didn’t, there’d be some cussed rapid shootin’ about now!”
“Course I got him!” snorted Purdy.
Johnny cautiously backed out of the thicket while the men behind him crashed through the brush and swore at the density of the growth.
The man at the end of the clearing stopped and stood quietly regarding the vague boots, his rifle at the ready. Somehow he did not feel that everything was as it should be. The boots appeared to be in the same position as when he had espied them a moment before. He must have made a lucky brain or heart shot, or . He raised his hand swiftly and backed into the oak brush again, where Mexican locust in the high grass stabbed him mercilessly. Again his rifle spoke. The boots did not move.
;< You got him th’ first time,” laughed Fleming, walking rapidly toward the tent; but he was not confident enough in his claim to put up his Colt.
“Shore,” endorsed Holbrook. “It was good judgment, an’ good luck.”
Fleming, Colt ready, leaned swiftly over, grasped a boot and gave a strong pull and went down on his back, the Colt exploding and flying one way while the boot, showering pebbles and small bits of rock, soared aloft and went the other way.
“D—n him!” swore Purdy, diving back into the brush and giving no thought to the thorns. “Cover, fellers! Quick!” he cried.
His warning was hardly needed, for Holbrook had dived headfirst into a matted thicket and landed on some locust with but little more that passing knowledge of its presence. Fleming bounded to his feet, scooped up his Colt on the run and jumped into another thicket, unmindful at first of the peculiar odor which assailed his nostrils. He had no time, then, to think about skunks, or whether or not they were hydrophobia.
The silence was deep and unbroken, except for an occasional faint swish or scrape, for three men had settled down where they had landed, there to remain until daylight, not far off, came to help them.
Out of the clearing a small, striped animal moved leisurely and defiantly, tainting the air, and entered the tent. It instantly became the cynosure of three pairs of anxious eyes, for while August was a long way off, three worried punchers found small satisfaction in that. They would sooner face an angry silver-tip, or a cougar with young, than to intrude upon the vision of that insignificant but odorous “‘phoby cat.” Each of them knew of instances, related by others, where men bitten by a skunk had gone raving mad; but none of them, personally, ever had seen any such case; and none of them had any intention of letting the other two see any such a shocking spectacle in the immediate future.
The little animal emerged from the tent and appeared to be undecided as to which way to go; and no roulette ball ever possessed the fascination nor furnished the thrills that took hold of the three staring watchers. It took a few steps one way and a few steps the other, and then started straight for the thicket where Art Fleming shuddered and swore under his breath. Two sighs arose on the air concurrent with the cursing.
“Just my cussed luck!” gritted Fleming. “Get out of here, cuss you!” he whispered fiercely, and raised his Colt. No sane man, with his firm beliefs regarding skunks, would hesitate when forced to choose between probable death from a bullet or certain and horrible death from hydrophobia. The skunk reached the edge of the thicket, five feet from the perspiring puncher, and was blown into a mass of reeking flesh.
Fleming groaned miserably. “They shore dies game!” he swore, half-nauseated. “They’re cussed strong finishers! Why couldn’t he ‘a’ headed for one of th’ others? I got to move, right now.”
He did so, slowly, cautiously, painfully; but the scent moved with him. He stopped, mopped his face, and then held his hand away from him. His sleeve, vest, and ‘sombrero proclaimed their presence with an enthusiastic strength and persistence.
“Cussed if he didn’t hit me! An’ I might just as well go back to th’ ranch, so far’s huntin’ Nelson is concerned. He could smell me a day before he caught sight of me!” A sickly grin slipped over his face, for he was blessed with a keen sense of humor. “Won’t Gates an’ Quigley be indignant when I odors in upon ‘em!”
Purdy rolled his head in silent mirth, one hand over his nose; and Holbrook alternately chuckled and swore, wishing that the soft wind would shift and spare him.
“Laugh!” blazed Fleming, angry, ashamed, and disgusted, removing his vest and throwing it into the clearing. His sombrero followed it and then there was a ripping sound and a red flannel shirt sleeve joined the other cast-offs. The little, persistent flame on the stick blazed higher and revealed the collection of personal effects.
“If he peels off th’ rest of his shirt an’ shucks his pants, he’ll smell near as bad,” chuckled Purdy gleefully.
“Dan’l Boone Number Two!” said Holbrook, tears in his eyes. “But I shore wish he had enticed it off aways before he shot it!”
Dawn stole from the east and the magnificent sunrise passed unnoticed. Fleming, sullen, angry, odorous, trudged doggedly to his horse, which regarded him with evil eyes, mounted and rode away at a gallop in his desire to create a breeze; and in this the horse needed no urging. Back in the canyon Purdy and Holbrook scouted diligently, but with caution, covering ground slowly and thoroughly as they advanced.
Under a tangled thicket near the camp there was a sudden movement, and Johnny, hands and face covered with blood from the scratches of thorns, slowly emerged and followed the scouting rustlers at a distance. Satisfied that they would not return he circled swiftly to the south of the camp and caught a glimpse of Fleming as that unfortunate plodded dejectedly over a distant ridge on his way to his horse.
Johnny watched for a moment, and then, turning hastily, slipped back to the camp, where he collected what he could carry, packed it into blankets, put on the wellworn, heavy boots, fastened the pack on his back and dashed into the cover again, desperately anxious to gain his objective.
He knew what would happen. As soon as Fleming reached the ranchhouses he would reclothe himself and return with those of his friends who
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