Hopalong Cassidy's Rustler Round-Up; Or, Bar-20, Clarence Edward Mulford [book series for 10 year olds .TXT] 📗

on a table and resumed their vocal perpetrations.

Tex swaggered over to the bar and tossed a quarter upon it: “Corn juice,” he laconically exclaimed. Tossing off the liquor and glancing at his howling friends, he shrugged his shoulders and strode out by the rear door, slamming it after him. Porous and Silent, recounting friends who had “cashed in” fell to weeping and they were thus occupied when Hopalong and Buck entered, closely followed by the rest of the outfit.

Buck walked to the bar and was followed by Hopalong, who declined his foreman's offer to treat. Tom Lee set a bottle at Buck's elbow and placed his hands against the bar.

“Friend of yourn just hit the back trail,” he remarked to Hopalong. “He was primed some for trouble, too,” he added.

“Yaas?” Drawled Hopalong with little interest.

The proprietor restacked the few glasses and wiped off the bar. “Them's his pardners,” he said, indicating the pair on the table.

Hopalong turned his head and gravely scrutinized them. Porous was bemoaning the death of Slim Travennes and Hopalong frowned.

“Don't reckon he's no relation of mine,” he grunted.

“Well, he ain't yore sister,” replied Tom Lee, grinning.

“What's his brand?” Asked the puncher.

“I reckon he's a maverick, 'though yu put yore brand on him up to Santa Fe a couple of years back. Since he's throwed back on yore range I reckon he's yourn if yu wants him.”

“I reckon Tex is some sore,” remarked Hopalong, rolling a cigarette.

“I reckon he is,” replied the proprietor, tossing Buck's quarter in the cash box. “But, say, you should oughter see his rig.”

“Yaas?”

“He's shore a cow-punch dude—my, but he's some sumptious an' highfalutin'. An' bad? Why, he reckons th' Lord never brewed a more high-toned brand of cussedness than his'n. He shore reckons he's the baddest man that ever simmered.”

“How'd he look as th' leadin' man in a necktie festival?” Blazed Johnny from across the room, feeling called upon to help the conversation.

“He'd be a howlin' success, son,” replied Skinny Thompson, “judgin' by his friends what we elevated over in th' Panhandle.”

Lanky Smith leaned forward with his elbow on the table, resting his chin in the palm of his hand: “Is Ewalt still a-layin' for yu, Hopalong?” He asked.

Hopalong turned wearily and tossed his half-consumed cigarette into the box of sand which did duty as a cuspidore: “I reckon so; an' he shore can hatch whenever he gets good an ready, too.”

“He's probably a-broodin' over past grievances,” offered Johnny, as he suddenly pushed Lanky's elbow from the table, nearly causing a catastrophe.

“Yu'll be broodin' over present grievances if yu don't look out, yu everlastin' nuisance yu,” growled Lanky, planting his elbow in its former position with an emphasis which conveyed a warning.

“These bantams ruflle my feathers,” remarked Red. “They go around braggin' about th' egg they're goin' to lay an' do enough cacklin' to furnish music for a dozen. Then when th' affair comes off yu'll generally find they's been settin' on a door-knob.”

“Did yu ever see a hen leave th' walks of peace an' bugs an' rustle hell-bent across th' trail plumb in front of a cayuse?” Asked Buck. “They'll leave off rustlin' grub an' become candidates for th' graveyard just for cussedness. Well, a whole lot of men are th' same way. How many times have I seen them swagger into a gin shop an' try to run things sudden an' hard, an' that with half a dozen better men in th' same room? There's shore a-plenty of trouble a-comin' to every man without rustlin' around for more.

“'Member that time yu an' Frenchy tried to run th' little town of Frozen Nose, up in Montana?” Asked Johnny, winking at the rest.

“An' we did run it, for a while,” responded Buck. “But that only goes to show that most young men are chumps—we were just about yore age then.”

Red laughed at the youngster's discomfiture: “That little squib of yourn shore touched her off—I reckon we irrigates on yu this time, don't we?”

“Th' more th' Kid talks, th' more money he needs,” remarked Lanky, placing his glass on the bar. “He had to blow me an' Skinny twice last night.”

“I got two more after yu left,” added Skinny “He shore oughter practice keeping still.”

At one o'clock sharp Hopalong walked up to the clerk of the hotel and grinned. The clerk looked up: “Hullo, Cassidy?” He exclaimed, genially. “What was all that fuss about this mornin' when I was away? I haven't seen you for a long time, have I? How are you?”

“That fuss was a fool joke of Buck's, an' I wish they had been throwed out,” Hopalong replied. “What I want to know is if Miss Deane is in her room. Yu see, I have a date with her.”

The clerk grinned:

“So she's roped you, too, has she?”

“What do yu mean?” Asked Hopalong in surprise. “Well, well,” laughed the clerk. “You punchers are easy. Any third-rate actress that looks good to eat can rope you fellows, all right. Now look here, Laura, you keep shy of her corral, or you'll be broke so quick you won't believe you ever had a cent: that's straight. This is the third year that she's been here and I know what I'm talking about. How did you come to meet her?”

Hopalong explained the meeting and his friend laughed again:

“Why, she knows this country like a book. She can't get lost anywhere around here. But she's blame clever at catching punchers.”

“Well, I reckon I'd better take her, go broke or not,” replied Hopalong. “Is she in her room?”

“She is, but she is not alone,” responded the clerk. “There is a dude puncher up there with her and she left word here that she was indisposed, which means that you are outlawed.”

“Who is he?” Asked Hopalong, having his suspicions. “That friend of yours: Ewalt. He sported a wad this morning when she passed him, and she let him make her acquaintance. He's another easy mark. He'll be busted wide open to-night.”

“I reckon I'll see Tex,” suggested Hopalong, starting for the stairs.

“Come back, you chump!” cried the clerk. “I don't want any shooting here. What do you care about it? Let her have him, for it's an easy way out of it for you. Let him think he's cut you out, for he'll spend all the more freely. Get your crowd and enlighten them—it'll be better than a circus. This may sound like a steer, but it's straight.”

Hopalong thought for a minute and then leaned on the cigar case:

“I reckon I'll take about a dozen of yore very best cigars, Charley. Got any real high-toned brands?”