The Man From Bar-20, Clarence E. Mulford [distant reading TXT] 📗

Logan, worried and preoccupied as he was, could not keep from smiling at the old man’s patient labor.

“Luke, you waste more time an’ elbow grease on that worn-out old relic than most people do with real guns. Th’ whole outfit, put together, don’t pamper their six-guns th’ way you do that contraption. Why don’t you throw it away an’ get a good gun?”

Luke snorted, and screwed the walnut butt-plates into place. Then he slipped the cylinder into position, slid the pin through it, swung up the old ramrod lever and snapped it into its catch under the barrel. Spinning the cylinder, he weighed the heavy weapon affectionately, and looked up.

Luke grunted. “Huh! Mebby that’s why old Betsy is a better gun today than any in this outfit. Why should I get a new one? This old Rem. has been a cussed good friend of mine. She’s never balked nor laid down, an’ she puts ‘em where she’s pointed. An old friend like her ain’t goin’ to rust if I can help it.”

“Rust?” inquired Logan, chuckling. “Why, there ain’t been enough moisture in th’ air lately to rust anything, let alone any gun that’s as full of grease an’ oil as that contraption. Wait till th’ rainy season hits us before you worry about rust. An’ what arc you all dressed up for? When I saw you this mornin I you was th’ dirtiest man on th’ ranch; an’ now you fair shines! Ain’t aimin’ to go an’ hitch up with no female, are you?”

Luke shoved home the last greasy cartridge, snapped shut the hinged flange, laid the gun aside, and pointed to a pile of wet clothing on the floor near his bunk.

“There ain’t no female livin’ can put a rope on me no more,” he grinned. “See them clothes? I done fell in th’ crick. Some slab-sided nuisance shifted th’ planks an’ was too lazy to put ‘em back right They tip sideways. I got half way acrost an’ up she turns. Lost my balance an’ lit belly-whopper. But I put ‘em back just like I found ‘em.”

“An’ you’ll get an innercent man.”

“There ain’t none in this outfit,” grunted Luke. He searched the foreman’s face with shrewd eyes. “John, worryin’ never did help a man. Get shet of it, or it’ll get shet of you.”

“Easy said, OF Timer; but it ain’t so easy done,” replied Logan.

Luke kicked his wet holster toward the clothes and took down one belonging to someone else, and calmly appropriated it, belt and all.

“Two most generally splits a load about in half,” he observed, shoving the gun into the sheath. “An’ it allus helps a lot to talk things over with somebody.”

“Well, I ain’t heard a word from Nelson since he left that note tellin’ me where he was goin’ an I for me not to bother about our five-day arrangement; an’ he shore started off to wrastle with trouble.”

“Huh!” snorted Luke grimly. “Dunno as I’d do much worryin’ about him. Real active, capable hombre, he is. Chain lightnin’, an’ an eye like a hawk. A few years more an’ he’ll steady down an’ get sensible. Lord, what a fool I was at his age! Beats all how young men ever live long enough to become old ones.”

“But he’s been gone a month,” replied Logan. “It’s been two weeks since I heard from him, an’ longer. He’s playin’ a lone hand ag’in them fellers, an’ it ain’t no one-man job, not by a d–-d sight! He was to find out certain things an I then come back here an’ report. Why ain’t he got back?”

“Busy, mebby,” grunted Luke. “I have an idea th’ job would keep one man purty tolerable busy, with one thing an’ another turning up. He don’t want to get seen an’ tip off his hand; an’ keepin’ under cover takes time.”

“I should ‘a’ taken th’ outfit up there an’ combed th’ hills, regardless what anybody said about squarin’ up old scores.”

“What you should ‘a’ done, an’ what you did do don’t track,” replied Luke. “An’ I ain’t shore that you oughta ‘a’ busted loose like that a-tall. It’s a good thing most generally to know where yo’re goin’ to light before you jump. What you should ‘a’ done was to ‘a’ sent me up there, either alone or with him. ‘Tain’t too late to deal me a hand. Where’d he say he was goin’?”

“West of Twin Buttes. But if you go it’ll be a oneman job again, an’ I don’t like it.”

“Uh-huh!” chuckled Luke. “That’s just what it is; an’ I do like it. I drove stage, carried dispatches through Injun country, an’ was th’ boss scout for th’ two best army officers that ever fit Injuns. Reckon mebby if th’ Injuns couldn’t lift my scalp, no gang of thievin’ cowpunchers can skin it off. An’ I’m cussed tired of punchin’ cows. I ain’t no puncher by nature, hopes, or inclinations. I’m a scout, I am; an’ I’m goin’ up there somewhere west of th’ Twins an’ find Nelson, if he’s still alive, get them facts an’ bring ‘em back.”

“I don’t like th’ idea,” muttered Logan.

“Huh I I ain’t got them fool notions that Nelson has. I ain’t no Christian when I’m on a war trail. He worries about givin’ th’ other feller an even break; but I worries if I lets him have it. Greasers, thieves, an’ Injuns they’re all alike; an’ they don’t get no even break from me if I can help it. I puts th’ worryin’ right up to them. I’ll bet he’s alive, an’ workin’ all th’ time; but he ain’t got no chance to get quick results; an’ it’s his own handicappin’, too. When a man’s scoutin’ around a whole passel of rustlers, a gun has got its limits. Gimme a pair of moccasins an’ ol’ Colonel Bowie.”

“I likes you purty much; but d–-d if I thinks much of any man that uses a knife!”

Luke laughed grimly and got the knife from his bunk. “There he is. He don’t make a man no deader than a bullet; an’ he don’t make no noise. There ain’t nothin’ handier in a mix-up an’ a good man can drive it straight as any bullet, too. I’m gettin’ het up considerable about all this palaver about this knife an’ me; an’ I’m goin’ to lick th’ next man that rides me about it. It’s a’ honest weapon. It was ground out of a two-inch hoof file, an’ when it cuts through th’ air it takes considerable to stop it. When I was younger I could send it so far into a two-inch plank that you could feel th’ pint of it on th’ other side. Just feel th’ heft an’ balance of that blade!”

“Feel it yoreself!” snapped Logan. “That ain’t fair fightin’; an’ if you don’t like that, you can start in here an’ now an’ lick me.”

“I never said I was a fair fighter,” grinned Luke, slipping the weapon into a scabbard sewed to the inside of his boot; “but old as I am, I can put yore shoulders in th’ dust. We’ll argue instead. Them fellers ain’t fair fighters; they dassn’t be even if they wanted to be; an’ when I’m tanglin’ up with ‘em I ain’t polite a-tall. I just fights, knife, gun, teeth, hands, feet, an’ head, any way as comes handy. That’s why I’m still alive, too. Now I’m goin’ up somewhere west of th’ Buttes an’ look around from there; an’ Colonel Bowie goes with me, right where he is. Tell th’ cook to give me what grub I wants. An’ I reckon I better take Nelson some ca’tridges an’ tobacco.”

“Tell him yoreself; an’ if he won’t do it, I’ll tell you who moved th’ planks,” grinned Logan. “But I hate to see you go alone.”

“An’ I’d hate to have anybody along,” grunted Luke. “I’ll be busy enough takin’ care of myself without botherin’ with a fool puncher.”

The old scout sauntered into the kitchen. “Mat, you sage hen; th’ next time you shifts them planks, put a stone under th’ edges that don’t touch th’ ground. You near drownded me in three inches of water an’ a foot of mud. Now you gimme a chunk of bacon, couple pounds of flour, three pounds of beans, couple of pounds of that rice, ‘though I ain’t real fascinated by it, couple handfuls of coffee, handful of salt, an’ a pound of tobacco. I may be gone a couple of months an’ get real hungry. Nope; no canned grub. I want this fryin’ pan, that tin cup, an’ a fork.”

He sniffed eagerly and strode to a covered pan. “Beans, ready cooked! Mat, you was hidin’ them! Dump some of ‘em into a cloth now I won’t have to cook my first couple of meals. Stick all th’ stuff in a sack, them on top,” and he hurried out.

Fifteen minutes later Logan entered Mat’s domain. “Where’s Luke? What, already? Must ‘a’ been scared I’d change my mind. Why, he left his pipe an’ smokin’ behind,” pointing at the table.

Mat grinned. “He says a smoker can’t smell, an’ gets smelled. An’ he says for somebody to go up to Little Canyon for his bronc. He’s leavin’ it there tonight, hobbled. An’ take that pipe out of here; I don’t want them beans ruined.”

Luke was crossing the CL range at a gallop, anxious to cross the river and get past the Hope-Hastings trail before dark. Reaching the Deepwater he forced his indignant horse into it and emerged, chilled, on the farther bank. Hobbling the animal, he put his boots on the saddle, slipped on a pair of moccasins, fastened the pack on his back and swung into the canyon, his mind busily forming a mental map of the country.

Placing Hope at one end and Hastings at the other, he connected them by the trail, putting in the Deepwater, the Barrier, and Twin Buttes.

“They comes to Hastings ‘stead of Hope, which says Hastings is nearest. He said west of Twin Buttes. Then I’ll start at th’ Buttes an’ go west till I find his trail; an I if I don’t find it, I’ll circle ‘round till I finds something! I’d know that black cayuse’s tracks in a hundred.

“Logan sent Nelson up here because nobody knowed him an’ that he was workin’ for us. Huh! What good will it do ‘em to know a man if they never see him? An’ they won’t see me, ‘less I wants ‘em to. That water feels colder than it ought to reckon I’m gettin’ old. I shore ain’t as young as I uster be. Got to move lively to get thawed out an’ dry these clothes.”

Crossing the main trail after due observation, he saw an old and wellworn trail leading westward into a deep valley.

“Huh! Hit it first shot. You just can’t beat luck!”

Choosing the cover along one side of the smaller trail, he melted into it and plunged westward, swinging along with easy, lazy strides that covered ground amazingly and with a minimum of effort. His long legs swung free from his hips, the hips rolling into the movement; his knees were rather stiff and as his feet neared the ground at the end of each stride he pushed them ahead a little more before they touched. This was where the swaying hips gave him an added thrust of inches. And like all natural, sensible walkers, his toes turned in.

Night was coming on when he neared Twin Buttes and a rifle shot in their direction drew a chuckle from him. Throwing off the pack he ate his fill of Mat’s cooked beans, shoved the wrapped-up remainder into his shirt, hid the pack and slipped into the deeper shadows, his rifle