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
Waffles pushed back his chair, stood up and stretched. At the finish of a yawn he grinned at his late adversary. “I'm all in, yu old son-of-a-gun. Yu shore can play draw. I'm goin' to try yu again some time. I was beat fair an' square an' I ain't got no kick comin', none whatever,” he remarked, as he shook hands with Hopalong.
“Oh, we're that gang from th' O-Bar-O,” hummed the Kid as he sauntered in. One cheek was slightly swollen and his clothes shed dust at every step. “Who wins?” he inquired, not having heard Waffles.
“They did, blast it!” exploded Bigfoot.
One of the Kid's peculiarities was revealed in the unreasoning and hasty conclusions he arrived at. From no desire to imply unfairness, but rather because of his bitterness against failure of any kind and his loyalty to Waffles, came his next words:
“Mebby they skinned yu.”
Like a flash Waffles sprang before him, his hand held up, palm out. “He don't mean nothin'—he's only a ignorant kid!” he cried.
Buck smiled and wrested the Colt from Johnny's ever-ready hand. “Here's another,” he said. Red laughed softly and rolled Johnny on the floor. “Yu jackass,” he whispered, “don't yu know better'n to make a gun-play when we needs them all?”
“What are we goin' to do?” Asked Tex, glancing at the bulging pockets of Hopalong's chaps.
“We're goin' to punch cows again, that's what we're to do,” answered Bigfoot dismally.
“An' whose are we goin' to punch? We can't go back to the old man,” grumbled Tex.
Salvation looked askance at Buck and then at the others. “Mebby,” he began, “Mebby we kin git a job on th' Bar-20.” Then turning to Buck again he bluntly asked, “Are yu short of punchers?”
“Well, I might use some,” answered the foreman, hesitating. “But I ain't got only one cook, an'——”“We'll git yu th' cook all O.K.,” interrupted Charley Lane vehemently. “Hi, yu cook!” he shouted, “amble in here an' git a rustle on!”
There was no reply, and after waiting for a minute he and Waffles went into the rear room, from which there immediately issued great chunks of profanity and noise. They returned looking pugnacious and disgusted, with a wildly fighting man who was more full of liquor than was the bottle which he belligerently waved.
“This here animated distillery what yu sees is our cook,” said Waffles. “We eats his grub, nobody else. If he gits drunk that's our funeral; but he won't get drunk! If yu wants us to punch for yu say so an' we does; if yu don't, we don't.”
“Well,” replied Buck thoughtfully, “mebby I can use yu.” Then with a burst of recklessness he added, “Yes, if I lose my job! But yu might sober that Mexican up if yu let him fall in th' horse trough.”
As the procession wended its way on its mission of wet charity, carrying the cook in any manner at all, Frenchy waved his long lost sombrero at Buck, who stood in the door, and shouted, “Yu old son-of-a-gun, I'm proud to know yu!”
Buck smiled and snapped his watch shut “Time to amble,” he said.
CHAPTER XI. Holding the Claim
“Oh, we're that gang from th' O-Bar-O,” hummed Waffles, sinking the branding-iron in the flank of a calf. The scene was one of great activity and hilarity. Several fires were burning near the huge corral and in them half a dozen irons were getting hot. Three calves were being held down for the brand of the “Bar-20” and two more were being dragged up on their sides by the ropes of the cowboys, the proud cow-ponies showing off their accomplishments at the expense of the calves' feelings. In the corral the dust arose in steady clouds as calf after calf was “cut out” by the ropers and dragged out to get “tagged.” Angry cows fought valiantly for their terrorized offspring, but always to no avail, for the hated rope of some perspiring and dust-grimed rider sent them crashing to earth. Over the plain were herds of cattle and groups of madly riding cowboys, and two cook wagons were stalled a short distance from the corral. The round-up of the Bar-20 was taking place, and each of the two outfits tried to outdo the other and each individual strove for a prize. The man who cut out and dragged to the fire the most calves in three days could leave for the Black Hills at the expiration of that time, the rest to follow as soon as they could.
In this contest Hopalong Cassidy led his nearest rival, Red Connors, both of whom were Bar-20 men, by twenty cut-outs, and there remained but half an hour more in which to compete. As Red disappeared into the sea of tossing horns Hopalong dashed out with a whoop. “Hi, yu trellis-built rack of bones, come along there! Whoop!” he yelled, turning the prisoner over to the squad by the fire.“Chalk up this here insignificant wart of cross-eyed perversity: an' how many?” He called as he galloped back to the corral.
“One ninety-eight,” announced Buck, blowing the sand from the tally sheet. “That's shore goin' some,” he remarked to himself.
When the calf sprang up it was filled with terror, rage and pain, and charged at Billy from the rear as that pessimistic soul was leaning over and poking his finger at a somber horned-toad. “Wow!” he yelled as his feet took huge steps up in the air, each one strictly on its own course. “Woof!” he grunted in the hot sand as he arose on his hands and knees and spat alkali.
“What's s'matter?” He asked dazedly of Johnny Nelson. “Ain't it funny!” he yelled sarcastically as he beheld Johnny holding his sides with laughter. “Ain't it funny!” he repeated belligerently. “Of course that four-laigged, knock-kneed, wobblin' son-of-a-Piute had to cut me out. They wasn't nobody in sight but Billy! Why didn't yu say he was comin'? Think I can see four ways to once? Why didn't—” At this point Red cantered up with a calf, and by a quick maneuver, drew the taut rope against the rear of Billy's knees, causing that unfortunate to sit down heavily. As he arose choking with broken-winded profanity Red dragged the animal to the fire, and Billy forgot his grievances in the press of labor.
“How many, Buck?” Asked Red.
“One-eighty.”
“How does she stand?”
“Yore eighteen to th' bad,” replied the foreman. “Th' son-of-a-gun!” marveled Red, riding off.
Another whoop interrupted them, and Billy quit watching out of the corner eye for pugnacious calves as he prepared for Hopalong.
“Hey, Buck, this here cuss was with a Barred-Horseshoe cow,” he announced as he turned it over to the branding man. Buck made a tally in a separate column and released the animal. “Hullo, Red! Workin'?” Asked Hopalong of his rival.
“Some, yu little cuss,” answered Red with all the good nature in the world. Hopalong was his particular “side partner,” and he could lose to
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