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
Then he stopped another rush from the front, made upon the supposition that he was thinking only of the second detachment. A hearty cheer arose from Tom Halloway and his friends, ensconced in their rocky position, and it was taken up by those on the hill, who danced and yelled their delight at the battle, to them more humorous than otherwise.
This recognition of his prowess from men of the caliber of his audience made him feel good, and he grinned: “Gee, I'll bet Halloway an' his friends is shore itchin' to get in this,” he murmured, firing at a head that was shown for an instant. “Wonder what Red'll say when Jimmy tells him—bet he'll plow dust like a cyclone,” and Hopalong laughed, picturing to himself the satiation of Red's anger. “Old red-headed son-of-a-gun,” murmured the cowboy affectionately, “he shore can fight.”
As he squinted over the sights of his rifle his eye caught sight of a moving body of men as they cantered over the flats about two miles away. In his eagerness he forgot to shoot and carefully counted them. “Nine,” he grumbled. “Wonder what's th' matter?” Fearing that they were not his friends. Then a second body numbering eight cantered into sight and followed the first.
“Whoop! There's th' Red-head!” he shouted, dancing in his joy. “Now,” he shouted at the peach can joyously, “yu wait about thirty minutes an' yu'll shore reckon Hades has busted loose!”
He grabbed up his Colts, which he kept loaded for repelling rushes, and recklessly emptied them into the bushes and between the rocks and trees, searching every likely place for a human target. Then he slipped his rifle in a loophole and waited for good shots, having worked off the dangerous pressure of his exuberance.
Soon he heard a yell from the direction of the “Miner's Rest,” and fell to jamming cartridges into his revolvers so that he could sally out and join in the fray by the side of Red.
The thunder of madly pounding hoofs rolled up the trail, and soon a horse and rider shot around the corner and headed for the copse. Three more raced close behind and then a bunch of six, followed by the rest, spread out and searched for trouble.
Red, a Colt in each hand and hatless, stood up in his stirrups and sent shot after shot into the fleeing mob, which he could not follow on account of the nature of the ground. Buck wheeled and dashed down the trail again with Red a close second, the others packed in a solid mass and after them. At the first level stretch the newcomers swept down and hit their enemies, going through them like a knife through cheese. Hopalong danced up and down with rage when he could not find his horse, and had to stand and yell, a spectator.
The fight drifted in among the buildings, where it became a series of isolated duels, and soon Hopalong saw panic-stricken horses carrying their riders out of the other side of the town. Then he went gunning for the man who had rustled his horse. He was unsuccessful and returned to his peaches.
Soon the riders came up, and when they saw Hopalong shove a peach into his powder-grimed mouth they yelled their delight.
“Yu old maverick! Eatin' peaches like yu was afraid we'd git some!” shouted Red indignantly, leaping down and running up to his pal as though to thrash him.
Hopalong grinned pleasantly and fired a peach against Red's eye. “I was savin' that one for yu, Reddie,” he remarked, as he avoided Buck's playful kick. “Yu fellers git to work an' dig up some wealth—I'm hungry.” Then he turned to Buck: “Yore th' marshal of this town, an' any son-of-a-gun what don't like it had better write. Oh, yes, here comes Tom Halloway—'member him?”
Buck turned and faced the miner and his hand went out with a jerk.
“Well, I'll be locoed if I didn't punch with yu on th' Tin-Cup!” he said.
“Yu shore did an' yu was purty devilish, but that there Cassidy of yourn beats anything I ever seen.”
“He's a good kid,” replied Buck, glancing to where Red and Hopalong were quarreling as to who had eaten the most pie in a contest held some years before.
Johnny, nosing around, came upon the perforated and partially scattered piles of earth and twigs, and vented his disgust of them by kicking them to pieces. “Hey! Hoppy! Oh, Hoppy!” he called, “what are these things?”
Hopalong jammed Red's hat over that person's eyes and replied: “Oh, them's some loaded dice I fixed for them.”
“Yu son-of-a-gun!” sputtered Red, as he wrestled with his friend in the exuberance of his pride. “Yu son-of-a-gun! Yu shore ought to be ashamed to treat 'em that way!”
“Shore,” replied Hopalong. “But I ain't!”
CHAPTER XII. The Hospitality of Travennes
Mr. Buck Peters rode into Alkaline one bright September morning and sought refreshment at the Emporium. Mr. Peters had just finished some business for his employer and felt the satisfaction that comes with the knowledge of work well done. He expected to remain in Alkaline for several days, where he was to be joined by two of his friends and punchers, Mr. Hopalong Cassidy and Mr. Red Connors, both of whom were at Cactus Springs, seventy miles to the east. Mr. Cassidy and his friend had just finished a nocturnal tour of Santa Fe and felt somewhat peevish and dull in consequence, not to mention the sadness occasioned by the expenditure of the greater part of their combined capital on such foolishness as faro, roulette and wet-goods.
Mr. Peters and his friends had sought wealth in the Black Hills, where they had enthusiastically disfigured the earth in the fond expectation of uncovering vast stores of virgin gold. Their hopes were of an optimistic brand and had existed until the last canister of cornmeal flour had been emptied by Mr. Cassidy's burro, which waited not upon it's master's pleasure nor upon the ethics of the case. When Mr. Cassidy had returned from exercising the animal and himself over two miles of rocky hillside in the vain endeavor to give it his opinion of burros and sundry chastisements, he was requested, as owner of the beast, to give his counsel as to the best way of securing eighteen breakfasts. Remembering that the animal was headed north when he last saw it and that it was too old to eat, anyway, he suggested a plan which had worked successfully at other times for other ends, namely, poker. Mr. McAllister, an expert at the great American game, volunteered his service in accordance with the spirit of the occasion and, half an hour later, he and Mr. Cassidy drifted into Pell's poker parlors, which were located in the rear of a Chinese laundry, where they gathered unto themselves the wherewithal for the required breakfasts. An hour spent in the card room of the “Hurrah” convinced its proprietor that they had wasted their talents for the past six weeks in digging for gold. The proof of this permitted the departure of the outfits with their customary elan.
At Santa Fe the various individuals had gone their respective ways,
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