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

>“Oh, Susanna, don’t you cry for me,” sang Billy Williams, one of the feeders. “But why in Jericho don’t you fellers get a move on you? You ain’t no good on the platform—you ought to be mixing biscuits for Cookie. Frenchy and Lanky are the boys to turn ‘em out,” he offered, gratis.

Red’s weary air bespoke a vast and settled contempt for such inanities and his iron descended against the side of the victim below him—he would not deign to reply. Not so with Johnny, who could not refrain from hot retort.

“Don’t be a fool all the time,” snapped Johnny. “Mind yore own business, you shorthorn. Big-mouthed old woman, that’s what—” his tone dropped and the words sank into vague mutterings which a strangling cough cut short. “Blasted idiot,” he whispered, tears coming into his eyes at the effort. Burning hair is bad for throat and temper alike.

Red deftly knocked his companion’s iron up and spoke sharply. “You mind yourn better—that makes the third you’ve tried to brand twice. Why don’t you look what yo’re doing? Hot iron! Hot iron! What’re you fellers doing?” he shouted down at the heaters. “This ain’t no time to go to sleep. How d’ye expect us to do any work when you ain’t doing any yoreselves!” Red’s temper was also on the ragged edge.

“You’ve got one in yore other hand, you sheep!” snorted one of the iron heaters with restless pugnacity. “Go tearing into us when you—” he growled the rest and kicked viciously at the fire.

“Lovely bunch,” grinned Billy who, followed by Pete Wilson, mounted the platform to relieve the branders. “Chase yoreselves—me an’ Pete are shore going to show you cranky bugs how to do a hundred an hour. Ain’t we, Pete? An’ look here, you,” he remarked to the heaters, “don’t you fellers keep us waiting for hot irons!”

“That’s right! Make a fool out of yoreself first thing!” snapped one of the pair on the ground.

“Billy, I never loved you as much as I do this minute,” grinned Johnny wearily. “Wish you’d ‘a’ come along to show us how to do it an hour ago.”

“I would, only—”

“Quit chinning an’ get busy,” remarked Red, climbing down. “The chute’s full; an’ it’s all yourn.”

Billy caught the iron, gave it a preliminary flourish, and started to work with a speed that would not endure for long. He branded five out of the eight and jeered at his companion for being so slow.

“Have yore fun now, Billy,” Pete replied with placid good nature. “Before we’re through with this job you’ll be lucky if you can do two of the string, if you keep up that pace.”

“He’ll be missing every other one,” growled his heater with overflowing malice. “That iron ain’t cold, you Chinaman!”

“Too cold for me—don’t miss none,” chuckled Billy sweetly. “Fill the chute! Fill the chute! Don’t keep us waiting!” he cried to the guiders, hopping around with feigned eagerness and impatience.

Hopalong Cassidy rode up and stopped as Red returned to take the place of one of the iron heaters. “How they coming, Red?” he inquired.

“Fast. You can sic that inspector on ‘em the first thing to-morrow morning, if he gets here on time. Bet he’s off som’ers getting full of redeye. Who’re going with you on this drive?”

“The inspector is all right—he’s here now an’ is going to spend the night with us so as to be on hand the first thing to-morrow,” replied Hopalong, grinning at the hard-working pair on the platform. “Why, I reckon I’ll take you, Johnny, Lanky, Billy, Pete, an’ Skinny, an’ we’ll have two hoss-wranglers an’ a cook, of course. We’ll drive up the right-hand trail through West Valley this time. It’s longer, but there’ll be more water that way at this time of the year. Besides, I don’t want no more foot-sore cattle to nurse along. Even the West Valley trail will be dry enough before we strike Bennett’s Creek.”

“Yes; we’ll have to drive ‘em purty hard till we reach the creek,” replied Red, thoughtfully. “Say; we’re going to have three thousand of the finest three-year-old steers ever sent north out of these parts. An’ we ought to do it in a month an’ deliver ‘em fat an’ frisky. We can feed ‘em good for the last week.”

“I just sent some of the boys out to drive in the cayuses,” Hopalong remarked, “an’ when they get here you fellers match for choice an’ pick yore remuda. No use taking too few. About eight apiece’ll do us nice. I shore like a good cavvieyeh.”

“Hullo, Hoppy!” came from the platform as Billy grinned his welcome through the dust on his face. “Want a job?”

“Hullo yoreself,” growled Pete. “Stick yore iron on that fourth steer before he gets out, an’ talk less with yore mouth.”

“Pete’s still rabid,” called Billy, performing the duty Pete suggested.

“That may be the polite name for it,” snorted one of the iron heaters, testing an iron, “but that ain’t what I’d say. Might as well cover the subject thoroughly while yo’re on it.”

“Yes, verily,” endorsed his companion.

“Here comes the last of ‘em,” smiled Pete, watching several cattle being driven towards the chute. “We’ll have to brand ‘em on the move, Billy; there ain’t enough to fill the chute.”

“All right; hot iron, you!”

Early the next morning the inspector looked them over and made his count, the herd was started north and at nightfall had covered twelve miles. For the next week everything went smoothly, but after that, water began to be scarce and the herd was pushed harder, and became harder to handle.

On the night of the twelfth day out four men sat around the fire in West Valley at a point a dozen miles south of Bennett’s Creek, and ate heartily. The night was black—not a star could be seen and the south wind hardly stirred the trampled and burned grass. They were thoroughly tired out and their tempers were not in the sweetest state imaginable, for the heat during the last four days had been almost unbearable even to them and they had had their hands full with the cranky herd. They ate silently, hungrily—there would be time enough for the few words they had to say when the pipes were going for a short smoke before turning in.

“I feel like hell,” growled Red, reaching for another cup of coffee, but there was no reply; he had voiced the feelings of all.

Hopalong listened intently and looked up, staring into the darkness, and soon a horseman was seen approaching the fire. Hopalong nodded welcome and waved his hand towards the food, and the stranger, dismounting, picketed his horse and joined the circle. When the pipes were lighted he sighed with satisfaction and looked around the group. “Driving north, I see.”

“Yes; an’ blamed glad to get off this dry range,” Hopalong replied. “The herd’s getting cranky an’ hard to hold—but when we pass the creek everything’ll be all right again. An’ ain’t it hot! When you hear us kick about the heat it means something.”

“I’m going yore way,” remarked the stranger. “I came down this trail about two weeks ago. Reckon I was the last to ride through before the fence went up. Damned outrage, says I, an’ I told ‘em so, too. They couldn’t see it that way an’ we had a little disagreement about it. They said as how they was going to patrol it.”

“Fence! What fence?” exclaimed Red.

“Where’s there any fence?” demanded Hopalong sharply.

“Twenty mile north of the creek,” replied the stranger, carefully packing his pipe.

“What? Twenty miles north of the creek?” cried Hopalong. “What creek?”

“Bennett’s. The 4X has strung three strands of barb wire from Coyote Pass to the North Arm. Thirty mile long, without a gate, so they says.”

“But it don’t close this trail!” cried Hopalong in blank astonishment.

“It shore does. They say they owns that range an’ can fence it in all they wants. I told ‘em different, but naturally they didn’t listen to me. An’ they’ll fight about it, too.”

“But they can’t shut off this trail!” exclaimed Billy, with angry emphasis. “They don’t own it no more’n we do!”

“I know all about that—you heard me tell you what they said.”

“But how can we get past it?” demanded Hopalong.

“Around it, over the hills. You’ll lose about three days doing it, too.”

“I can’t take no sand-range herd over them rocks, an’ I ain’t going to drive ‘round no North Arm or Coyote Pass if I could,” Hopalong replied with quiet emphasis. “There’s poison springs on the east an’ nothing but rocks on the west. We go straight through.”

“I’m afraid that you’ll have to fight if you do,” remarked the stranger.

“Then we’ll fight!” cried Johnny, leaning forward. “Blasted coyotes! What right have they got to block a drive trail that’s as old as cattle-raising in these parts! That trail was here before I was born, it’s allus been open, an’ it’s going to stay open! You watch us go through!”

“Yo’re dead right, Kid; we’ll cut that fence an’ stick to this trail, an’ fight if we has to,” endorsed Red. “The Bar-20 ain’t crawling out of no hole that it can walk out of. They’re bluffing; that’s all.”

“I don’t think they are; an’ there’s twelve men in that outfit,” suggested the stranger, offhand.

“We ain’t got time to count odds; we never do down our way when we know we’re right. An’ we’re right enough in this game,” retorted Hopalong, quickly. “For the last twelve days we’ve had good luck, barring the few on this dry range; an’ now we’re in for the other kind. By the Lord, I wish we was here without the cows to take care of —we’d show ‘em something about blocking drive trails that ain’t in their little book!”

“Blast it all! Wire fences coming down this way now,” mused Johnny, sullenly. He hated them by training as much as he hated horse-thieves and sheep; and his companions had been brought up in the same school. Barb wire, the death-knell to the old-time punching, the bar to riding at will, a steel insult to fire the blood—it had come at last.

“We’ve shore got to cut it, Red,—” began Hopalong, but the cook had to rid himself of some of his indignation and interrupted with heat.

“Shore we have!” came explosively from the tail board of the chuck wagon. “Got to lay it agin my li’l axe an’ swat it with my big ol’ monkey wrench! An’ won’t them posts save me a lot of trouble hunting chips an’ firewood!”

“We’ve shore got to cut it, Red,” Hopalong repeated slowly. “You an’ Johnny an’ me’ll ride ahead after we cross the creek to-morrow an’ do it. I don’t hanker after no fight with all these cows on my han’s, but we’ve got to risk one.”

“Shore!” cried Johnny, hotly. “I can’t get over the gall of them fellers closing up the West Valley drive trail. Why, I never heard tell of such a thing afore!”

“We’re short-handed; we ought to have more’n we have to guard the herd if there’s a fight. If it stampedes—oh, well, that’ll work out to-morrow. The creek’s only about twelve miles away an’ we’ll start at daylight, so tumble in,” Hopalong said as he arose. “Red, I’m going out to take my shift—I’ll send Pete in. Stranger,” he added, turning, “I’m much obliged to you for the warning. They might ‘a’ caught us with our hands tied.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” hastily replied the stranger, who was in hearty accord with the plans, such as they were. “My name’s Hawkins, an’ I don’t like range fences no more’n you do. I used to hunt buffalo all over this part of the country before