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

an’ fifty miles long. An’ then there was to be a hole dug for every post, an’ tampin’, staplin’, an’ stringin’ that hell-wire. An’ don’t forget that lone, busted-down grub waggin that was to do that totinM

“There was some excitement on th’ Two-X- Two that night, an’ a lot of figgerin’; us bein’ some curious about how many posts was needed, an’ how many holes we was to dig to fit th’ aforesaid posts. We made it sixty-six thousand. Think of it! An’ only eight of us to tackle a job like that, an’ ride range at th’ same time!”

“Oh, ho!” roared the bartender, hugging himself, and trying to carry a drink to the narrator at the same time. “Go on! That’s good!”

“Is, is it?” snorted Youbet. “Huh! You wouldn’t ‘a’ thought so, if you was one of us eight. Well, I set right down an’ writ a long letter took six cents’ worth of stamps an’ gave our views regardin’ wire fences in general an’ this one of ourn in particular. I hated fences, an’ do yet; an’ so’d my boys hate ‘em, an’ they do yet.

“In due time, I got a answer, which come for two cents. It says: ‘Build that fence.’

“I sent Charley over to Mesquite to look over them cars of wire. He saw ‘em, both of ‘em. An’ th’ agent saw him.

“Th’ agent was a’ important man, an’ he grabs Charley quick. ‘Hey, you Two-X-Two puncher you get that wire home quick. It went past here three times before they switched it, an’ I’ve been gettin’ blazes from th’ company ever since. We needs th’ cars.’

“‘Don’t belong to me,’ says Charley. ‘I shore don’t want it. I’m eatin’ beans an’ bacon instead.’

“‘You send for that wire!’ yells th’ agent, wild-like.

“Charley winks. ‘Can’t you keep it passin’ this station till it snows hard? Have a drink.’

“Well, th’ agent wouldn’t drink, an’ he wouldn’t send that pore wire out into a cold world no more; an’ so Charley comes home an’ reports, him lookin’ wanlike. When he told us, he looked sort of funny, an’ blurts out that his mother went an’ died up in Laramie, an’ he must shore ‘miff rustle up there an’ bury her. He went.

“Then Fred Ball begun to have pains in his stomach, an’ said it was appendix something what he had been readin’ about in th’ papers. He had to go to Denver, an’ get a good doctor, or he’d shore die. He went.

“Carson had to go to Santa Fe to keep some of his numerous city lots from bein’ sold off by th’ sheriff. He went.

“Th’ rest, bein’ handicapped by th’ good start th’ others had made in corrallin’ all th’ excuses, said they’d go for th’ wire. They went.

“I waited four days, an’ then I went after ‘em. When I got to th’ station, I sees th’ agent out sizin’ up our wire; an’ when I hails, he jumps my way quick, an’ grabs my laig tight.

“‘You take that wire home!’ he yells.

“‘Shore,’ says I soothingly. ‘You looks mad,’ I adds.

“‘Mad! Mad!’ he shouts, hoppin’ round, but hangin’ onto my laig like grim death. ‘Mad! I’m goin’ loco crazy! I can’t sleep! There’s twenty letters an’ messages on my table, tellin’ me to get that wire off ‘n th’ cars an’ send th’ empties back on th’ next freight! You’ve got to take it—got to!”

The bartender shocked his nervous system by drinking plain water by mistake, but he listened eagerly. “Yes? What then?”

“Well, then I asks him where I can find my men, an’ team, an’ waggin’. He tells me. Th’ team an’ waggin is in a corral down th’ street, but he don’t know where th’ men are. They held a gun to his head, an’ said they’d kill him if he didn’t flag th’ next train for ‘em. Th’ next train was a through express, carryin’ mail. He wasn’t dead.

“He showed me ten more letters an’ messages, regardin’ th’ flaggin’ of a contract-mail train for four fares; an’ some of them letters must ‘a’ been written by a oldtime cowman, they was that eloquent an’ God-fearin’. Then I went.

“Why, Charley was twenty years old; an’ we figgered that, when th’ last staple was drove in th’ last post, he’d ‘a’ been dead ten years! Where did I come in, the?”

“Oh, Lord!” sighed the bartender, holding his sides, and trying to straighten his face so that he could talk out of the middle of it. “That’s th’ best ever! Have another drink!”

“I ain’t tellin’ my troubles for liquor,” snorted Youbet. “You have one with me. Here comes some customers down th’ street, I reckon.”

“Say!” exclaimed the bartender hurriedly. “You keep mum about sheep. This is a red-hot sheep town, an’ it hates Waffles an’ all his friends. Hullo, boys!” he called to four men, who filed into the room. “Where’s th’ rest of you?”

“Comin’ in later. Same thing, Jimmy,” replied Clayton, chief herder. “An’ give us th’ cards.”

“Have you seen Price?” asked Towne.

“Yes; he was in here a few minutes ago. What’d you say, Schultz?” the bartender asked, turning to the man who pulled at his sleeve.

“I said dot you vas nod right aboud vat you said de odder day. Chust now I ask Clayton, und he said you vas nod.”

“All right, Dutchy all right!” laughed the bartender. “Then it’s on me this time, ain’t it?”

Youbet walked to the bar. “Say, where do I get that grub? It’s about time for me to mosey off an’ feed.”

“Next building and you’ll take mutton if yo’re wise,” replied the bartender, in a low voice. “Th’ hash is awful, an’ the beef is tough,” he added, a little louder.

“Mutton be damned!” snorted Youbet, stamping out. “I eat what I punch!” And his growls became lost in the street.

Schultz glanced up. “Yah! Und he shoot vat I eat, tarn him, ven he gan!”

“Oh, put yore ante in, an’ don’t talk so much!” rejoined Towne. “He ain’t going to shoot you!”

“It’ll cost you two bits to come in,” remarked Clayton.

“An’ two more,” added Towne, raising the ante.

“Goot! I blay mit you. But binochle iss der game!”

“I’ll tell you a good story about a barb’ wire fence tomorrow, fellers,” promised the bartender, grinning

The poker game had been going for some time before further remarks were made about the cowman who had left, and then it was Clayton who spoke.

“Say, Jimmy!” he remarked, as Schultz dealt. “Who is yore leather-pants friend who don’t like mutton?”

The bartender lifted a bottle, and replaced it with great care. “Oh, just a ranch foreman, out of a job. He’s a funny old feller.”

“So? An’ what’s so funny about him? Get in there, Towne, if you wants to do any playin’ with us.”

“Why, he was ordered to build a hundred an’ fifty miles of wire fence around his range, an’ he jumped ruther than do it.”

“Yas an’ most of it government land, I reckon,” interposed Towne.

“Pshaw! It’s an old game with them,” laughed Clayton. “Th’ law don’t get to them; an’ if they Ve got a good outfit, nobody has got any chance agin ‘em.”

“Py Gott, dot’s right!” grunted Schultz.

“Shore, it is,” responded Towne, forgetting the game. “Take that Apache Hills run-in. Waffles didn’t have no more right to that range than anybody else, but that didn’t make no difference. He threw a couple of outfits in there, penned us in th’ cabin, killed MacKay, an’ shot th’ rest of us up plenty. Then he threatened to slaughter our herd if we didn’t pull out. By God, I’d like to get a cowman like him up here, where th’ tables are turned around on th’ friends proposition.”

“Hullo, boys!” remarked the bartender to the pair who came in.

“Just in time. Get chairs, an’ take hands,” invited Clayton, moving over.

“Who’s th’ cowman yo’re talkin’ about?” asked Baxter, as he leaned lazily against the bar.

“Oh, all of ‘em,” rejoined Towne surlily. “There’s one in town, now, who don’t like sheep.”

“That so?” queried Baxter slowly. “I reckon he better keep his mouth shut, then.”

“Oh, he’s all right! He’s a jolly old geezer,” assured the bartender. “He just talks to hear hisself one of them old-timers what can’t get right to th’ way things has changed on th’ range. It was them boys that did great work when th’ range was wild.”

“Yes, an’ it’s them bull-headed old fools what are raisin’ all th’ hell with th’ sheep,” retorted Towne, frowning darkly as he remembered some of the indignities he had borne at the hands of cowmen.

“I wish his name was Waffles.” Clayton smiled significantly.

“Rainin’ again,” remarked a man in the doorway, stamping in. “Reckon it ain’t never goin’ to stop.”

“Where you been so long, Price?” asked Clayton, as a salutation.

“Oh, just shiftin’ about. That cow wrastler raised th’ devil in th’ hotel,” Price replied. “Old fool! They brought him mutton, an’ he wanted to clean out th’ place. Said he’d as soon eat barb’ wire. They’re f eedin’ him hash an’ canned stuff, now.”

“He’ll get Hurt, if he don’t look out,” remarked Clayton. “Who is he, anyhow, Price?”

“Don’t know his name; but he’s from Arizona, on his way to th’ Pecos country. Says he’s a friend of Buck Peters an’ Waffles. To use one of his own expressions, he’s a old mosshead.”

“Friend of Waffles, hey?” exclaimed Towne.

“Yumpin’ Yimminy!” cried Oleson, in the same breath.

“Well, if he knows when he’s well off, he’ll stay away from here, an’ keep his mouth closed,” said Clayton.

“Aw, let him alone! He’s one agin’ th’ whole town an’ a good old feller, at that,” hastily assured the bartender. “It ain’t his fault that Waffles buffaloed you fellers out of th’ Hills, is it? He’s goin’ on early tomorrow; so let him be.”

“You’ll get yoreself in trouble, Jimmy, m’ boy, if you inserts yoreself in this,” warned

Towne. “It was us agin’ a whole section, an’ we got ours. Let him take his, if he talks too much.”

“Shore,” replied Price. “I heard him shoot off his mouth, an hour ago, an’ he’s got altogether too much to say. You mind th’ bar an’ yore own business, Jimmy. We ain’t kids.”

“Go you two bits better,” said Clayton, shoving out a coin. “Gimme some cards, Towne. It’ll cost you a dollar to see our raises.”

Baxter walked over to watch the play. “I’m comin’ in next game. Who’s winnin’, now?”

“Reckon I am; but we ain’t much more ‘n got started,” Clayton replied. “Did you call, Towne? Why, I’ve got three little tens. You got anythin’ better?”

“Never saw such luck!” exclaimed Towne disgustedly. “Dutchy, yo’re a Jonah.”

“Damn th’ mutton, says I. It was even in that hash!” growled a voice, just outside the door.

A moment later, Youbet Somes entered, swinging his sombrero energetically to shake off the water.

“Damn th’ rain, too, an’ this wart of a town. A man can’t get nothin’ fit to eat for love or money, on a sheep range. Gimme a drink, sonny! Mebby it’ll cut th’ taste of that rank tallow out ‘n my mouth. Th’ reason there is sheep on this earth of our’n is that th’ devil chased ‘em out ‘n his place an’ no blame to him.”

He drank half his liquor, and, placing the glass on the bar beside him, turned to watch the game. “Ah, strangers that’s th’ only game, after all. I’ve dabbled in ‘em all from faro to roulette, but that’s th’ boss of ‘em all.”

“See you an’ call,” remarked Clayton, ignoring the newcomer. “What you got, you Dutch pagan?”

“Zwei Kaisers und a bair of chackasses, mit a