The Coming of Cassidy, Clarence E. Mulford [best free novels .txt] 📗

The time passed slowly and he was relieved when a horseman appeared far to the north and jogged toward him, riding with the careless grace of one at home in the saddle. Being thoroughly familiar with the trail and the surrounding country the rider looked straight ahead as if attention to the distance yet untraveled might make it less. He passed within twenty feet of the watcher and went on his way undisturbed. Hopalong waited until he was out of sight around a hill and then, vaulting into the saddle, rode after him, still puzzled as to how he would proceed about the business in hand. He dismounted at the bunkhouse and nodded to those who lingered near the wash bench awaiting their turn.

“Just in time to feed,” remarked one of the punchers. “Watch yore turn at th’ basins every man for hisself’s th’ rule.”

“All right,” Hopalong laughed. “But is there any chance to get a job here?” he asked, anxiously.

“You’ll have to quiz th’ OF Man here he comes now,” and the puncher waved at the appreaching foreman. “Hey, Joe! Got a job for this hombre?” he called.

The foreman keenly scrutinized the newcomer, as he always examined strangers. The two guns swinging low on the hips caught his eyes instantly but he showed no particular interest in them, notwithstanding the fact that they proclaimed a gunman. “Why I reckon I got a job for you,” he said. “I been waitin’ to keep somebody over on Cherokee Range. But it’s time to eat: we’ll talk later.”

After the meal the outfit passed the time in various ways until bed-time, the foreman talking to the new member of his family. During the night the foreman awakened several times and looked toward the newcomer’s bunk but found nothing suspicious. After breakfast he called Hopalong and one of the others to him. “Ned,” he said, “take Cassidy over to his range and come right back. Hey, Charley! You an’ Jim take them poles down to th’ ford an’ fence in that quicksand just south of it. Ben says he’s been doin’ nothin’ but pullin’ cows outen it. All right, Tim; comin’ right away.”

Ned and the new puncher lost no time but headed east at once with a packhorse carrying a week’s provisions for one man. The country grew rougher rapidly and when they finally reached the divide a beautiful sight lay below them, stretching as far as eye could see to the east. In the middle distance gleamed the Cherokee, flowing toward the south through its valley of rocks, canyons, cliffs, draws and timber.

“There’s th’ hut,” said Ned, pointing to a small gray blot against the dead black of a towering cliff. “Th’ spring’s just south of it. Bucket Hill, up north there, is th’ north boundary; Twin Spires, south yonder is th’ other end; an’ th’ Cherokee will stop you on th’ east side. You ride in every Sat’day if you wants. Don’t get lonesome,” he grinned and, wheeling abruptly, went back the way they had come.

Hopalong shook his head in disgust. To be sidetracked like this was maddening. It had taken three hours of hard traveling over rough country to get where he was and it would take as long to return; and all for nothing! He regarded the pack animal with a grin, shrugged his shoulders and led the way toward the hut, the pack horse following obediently. It was another hour before he finally reached the little cabin, for the way was strange and rough. During this time he had talked aloud, for he had the tricks of his kind and when alone he talked to himself. When he reached the hut he relieved the pack horse of its load, carrying the stuff inside. Closing the door and blocking it with a rock he found the spring, drank his fill and then let the horses do likewise. Then he mounted and started back over the rough trail, thinking out loud and confiding to his horse and he entered a narrow defile close to the top of the divide, promising dire things to the foreman. Suddenly a rope settled over him, pinned his arms to his sides and yanked him from the saddle before he had time to think. He landed on his head and was dazed as he sat up and looked around. The foreman’s rifle confronted him, and behind the foreman’s feet were his two Colts.

“You talks too much,” sneered the man with the drop. “I suspicioned you th’ minute I laid eyes on you. It’ll take a better man than you to get that five hundred reward. I reckon th’ Sheriff was too scared to come hisself.”

Hopalong shook his head as if to clear it. What was the man talking about? Who was the sheriff? He gave it up, but would not betray his ignorance. Yes; he had talked too much. He felt of his head and was mildly surprised to see his hand covered with blood when he glanced at it. “Five hundred’s a lot of money,” he muttered.

“Blood money!” snapped the foreman. “You had a gall tryin’ to get me. Why, I been lookin’ for somebody to try it for two years. An’ I was ready every minute of all that time.”

Slowly it came to Hopalong and with it the realization of how foolish it would be to deny the part ascribed to himself. The rope was loose and his arms were practically free; the foreman had dropped the lariat and was depending upon his gun. The captive felt of his head again and, putting his hands behind him for assistance in getting up, arose slowly to his feet. In one of the hands was a small rock that it had rested upon during the effort of rising. At the movement the foreman watched him closely and ordered him not to take a step if he wanted to live a little longer.

“I reckon I’ll have to shoot you,” he announced. “I dassn’t let you loose to f oiler me all over th’ country. Anyhow, I’d have to do it sooner or later. I wish you was Phelps, d n him; but he’s a wise sheriff. Better stand up agin’ that wall. I gotta do it; an’ you deserve it, you Judas!”

“Meanin’ yo’re Christ?” sneered Hopalong. “Did you kill th’ other feller like that? If I’d ‘a’ knowed that I’d ‘a’ slapped yore dawg’s face at th’ bunkhouse an’ made you take an even break. Shore you got nerve enough to shoot straight if I looks at you while yo’re aimin’? “

He laughed cynically. “I don’t want to close my eyes.”

The foreman’s face went white and he half lowered the rifle as he took a step forward. Hopalong leaped sideways and his arm straightened out, the other staggering under the blow of the missile. Leaping forward Hopalong ran into a cloud of smoke and staggered as he jumped to close quarters. His hand smashed full in the foreman’s face and his knee sank in the foreman’s groin. They went down, the foreman weak from the kick and Hopalong sick and weak from the bullet that had grazed the bone of his bad thigh. And lying on the ground they fought in a daze, each incapable of inflicting serious injury for awhile. But the foreman grew stronger as his enemy grew weaker from loss of blood and, wriggling from under his furious antagonist, he reached for his Colt. Hopalong threw himself forward and gripped the gun wrist between his teeth and closed his jaws until they ached. But the foreman, pounding ceaselessly on the other’s face with his free hand, made the jaws relax and drew the weapon. Then he saw all the stars in the heavens as Hopalong’s head crashed full against his jaw and before he could recover the gun was pinned under his enemy’s knee. Hopalong’s head crashed again against the foreman’s jaw and his right hand gripped the corded throat while the left, its thumb inside the foreman’s cheek and its fingers behind an ear, tugged and strained at the distorted face. Growling like wild beasts they strained and panted, and then, suddenly, Hopalong’s grip relaxed and he made one last, desperate effort to bring his strength back into one furious attack; but in vain. The battered foreman, quick to sense the situation, wrestled his adversary to one side long enough to grab the Colt from under the shifting knee. As he clutched it a shot rang out and the weapon dropped from his nerveless hand before he could pull the trigger. An exulting, savage yell roared in his ears and in the next instant he seemed to leave the ground and soar through space. He dropped ten feet away and lay dazed and helpless as a knee crashed against his chest. Sammy Porter, his face working curiously with relief and rage, rolled him against the wall of the defile and struck him over the head with a rifle butt, first disarming him.

Hopalong opened his eyes and looked around, dazed and sick. The foreman, bound hand and foot by a forty-five foot lariat, lay close to the base of the wall and stared sullenly at the sky. Sammy was coming up the trail with a dripping sombrero held carefully in his hands and was growling and talking it all over. Hopalong looked down at his thigh and saw a heavy, bloodsplotched bandage fastened clumsily in place. Glancing at Sammy again he idly noted that part of the youth’s blue-flannel shirt was missing. Curiously, it matched the bandage. He closed his eyes and tried to think what it was all about.

Sammy ambled up to him, threw some water in the bruised face and then grinned cheerfully at the language he evoked. Producing a flask and holding it up to the light, Sammy slid his thumb to a certain level and then shoved the bottle against his friend’s teeth. “Huh!” he chuckled, yanking the bottle away. You’ll be all right in a couple of days. But you shore are one h—l of a sight it’s a toss-up between you an’ Atkins.”

It was night. Hopalong stirred and arose on one elbow and noticed that he was lying on a blanket that covered a generous depth of leaves and pine boughs. The sap-filled firewood crackled and popped and hissed and whistled under the licking attack of the greedy flames, which flared up and died down in endless alternation, and which grotesquely revealed to Hopalong’s throbbing eyes a bound figure lying on another blanket. That, he decided, was the foreman. Letting his gaze wander around the lighted circle he made out a figure squatting on the other side of the fire, and concluded it was Sammy Porter. “What you doin’, Kid?” he asked.

Sammy arose and walked over to him. “Oh, just watchin’ a fool puncher an’ five hundred dollars,” he grinned. “How you feelin’ now, you ol’ sage hen?”

“Good,” replied the invalid, and, comparatively, it was the truth. “Fine an’ strong,” he added, which was not the truth.

“That’s the way to talk,” cheered the Cub. “You shore had one fine seance. You earned that five hundred, all right.”

Hopalong reflected and then looked across at the prisoner. “He can fight like the devil,” he muttered. “Why, I kicked him hard enough to kill anybody else.” He turned again and looked Sammy in the eyes, smiling as best he could. “There ain’t no five hundred for me, Kid. I didn’t come for that, didn’t know nothin’ about it. An’ it’s blood money, besides. We’ll turn him loose if he’ll get out of the country, hey? We’ll give him a chance; either that or you take th’ reward.”

Sammy stared, grunted and stared again. “What you ravin’ about?” he demanded. “An’ you didn’t come after him for that money?” he asked, sarcastically.

Hopalong