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
The members of the outfit were told of the plot and they gave their uproarious sanction, all needing bracers to sustain them.
Billy found the clerk swapping lies with the bartender and, procuring the desired information, climbed the stairs and hunted for room No. 6. Discovering it, he dispensed with formality, pushed open the door and entered.
He found his friend engaged in conversation with a pretty young woman, and on a couch at the far side of the room lay an elderly white-whiskered gentleman who was reading a magazine. Billy felt like a criminal for a few seconds and then there came to him the thought that his was a mission of great import and he braced himself to face any ordeal. “Anyway,” he thought, “th' prettier they are th' more dust they can raise.”
“What are yu doing here?” Cried Hopalong in amazement.
“That's all right,” averred the protector, confidentially.
“What's all right?”
“Why, everything,” replied Billy, feeling uncomfortable.
The elderly man hastily sat up and dropped his magazine when he saw the armed intruder, his eyes as wide open as his mouth. He felt for his spectacles, but did not need them, for he could see nothing but the Colt's which Billy jabbed at him.
“None of that!” snapped Billy. “'ands up!” he ordered, and the hands went up so quick that when they stopped the jerk shook the room. Peering over the gentleman's leg, Billy saw the spectacles and backed to the wall as he apologized: “It's shore on me, Stranger—I reckoned yu was contemplatin' some gun-play.”
Hopalong, blazing with wrath, arose and shoved Billy toward the hail, when Mr. Johnny Nelson, oozing fight and importance, intruded his person into the zone of action.
“Lord!” ejaculated the newcomer, staring at the vision of female loveliness which so suddenly greeted him. “Mamma,” he added under his breath. Then he tore off his sombrero: “Come out of this, Billy, yu chump!” he exploded, backing toward the door, being followed by the protector.
Hopalong slammed the door and turned to his hostess, apologizing for the disturbance.
“Who are they?” Palpitated Miss Deane.
“What the deuce are they doing up here!” blazed her father. Hopalong disclaimed any knowledge of them and just then Billy opened the door and looked in.
“There he is again!” cried Miss Deane, and her father gasped. Hopalong ran out into the hall and narrowly missed kicking Billy into Kingdom Come as that person slid down the stairs, surprised and indignant.
Mr. Billy Williams, who sat at the top of the stairs, was feeling hungry and thirsty when he saw his friend, Mr. Pete Wilson, the slow witted, approaching.
“Hey, Pete,” he called, “come up here an' watch this door while I rustles some grub. Keep yore eyes open,” he cautioned.
As Pete began to feel restless the door opened and a dignified gentleman with white whiskers came out into the hall and then retreated with great haste and no dignity. Pete got the drop on the door and waited. Hopalong yanked it open and kissed the muzzle of the weapon before he could stop, and Pete grinned.
“Coming to th' fight?” He loudly asked. “It's going to be a shore 'nough sumptious scrap—just th' kind yu allus like. Come on, th' boys are waitin' for yu.”
“Keep quiet!” hissed Hopalong.
“What for?” Asked Pete in surprise. “Didn't yu say yu shore wanted to see that scrap?”
“Shut yore face an' get scarce, or yu'll go home in cans!”
As Hopalong seated himself once more Red strolled up to the door and knocked. Hopalong ripped it open and Red, looking as fierce and worried as he could, asked Hopalong if he was all right. Upon being assured by smoking adjectives that he was, the caller looked relieved and turned thoughtfully away.
“Hey, yu! Come here!” called Hopalong.
Red waved his hand and said that he had to meet a man and clattered down the stairs. Hopalong thought that he, also, had to meet a man and, excusing himself, hastened after his friend and overtook him in the Street, where he forced a confession. Returning to his hostess he told her of the whole outrage, and she was angry at first, but seeing the humorous side of it, she became convulsed with laughter. Her father re-read his paragraph for the thirteenth time and then, slamming the magazine on the floor, asked how many times he was expected to read ten lines before he knew what was in them, and went down to the bar.
Miss Deane regarded her companion with laughing eyes and then became suddenly sober as he came toward her.
“Go to your foreman and tell him that you will shoot to-morrow, for I will see that you do, and I will bring luck to the Bar-20. Be sure to call for me at one o'clock: I will be ready.”
He hesitated, bowed, and slowly departed, making his way to Tom Lee's, where his entrance hushed the hilarity which had reigned. Striding to where Buck stood, he placed his hands on his hips and searched the foreman's eyes.
Buck smiled: “Yu ain't mad, are yu?” He asked.
Hopalong relaxed: “No, but blame near it.”
Red and the others grabbed him from the rear, and when he had been “buffaloed” into good humor he threw them from him, laughed and waved his hand toward the bar:
“Come up, yu sons-of-guns. Yore a cussed nuisance sometimes, but yore a bully gang all th' same.”
CHAPTER XXV. Mr. Ewalt Draws Cards
Tex Ewalt, cow-puncher, prospector, sometimes a rustler, but always a dude, rode from El Paso in deep disgust at his steady losses at faro and monte. The pecuniary side of these caused him no worry, for he was flush. This pleasing opulence was due to his business ability, for he had recently sold a claim for several thousand dollars. The first operation was simple, being known in Western phraseology as “jumping”; and the second, somewhat more complicated, was known as “salting.”
The first of the money spent went for a complete new outfit, and he had parted with just three hundred and seventy dollars to feed his vanity. He desired something contrasty and he procured it. His sombrero, of gray felt a quarter of an inch thick, flaunted a band of black leather, on which was conspicuously displayed a solid silver buckle. His neck was protected by a crimson kerchief of the finest, heaviest silk. His shirt, in pattern the same as those commonly worn in the cow country, was of buckskin, soft as a
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