Читать книгу The Bar 20 Rides Again - Clarence E. Mulford - Страница 4

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Dave Green finished mopping off the bar and waddled sideways along it toward the big chair at its open end. Dave, to his utter disgust, was fat; he was very fat, and growing fatter. His mid-section bulk was such that he found himself knocking things from the shelves under the long counter unless he kept this possibility in mind and moved with due caution. Having made this particular trip to the chair without accident, he lowered his bulk to the firm seat and sighed gratefully. The sigh was no more than uttered before the sound of loping horses made him frown. More customers were about to bother him.

The horses stopped, and soon the riders stepped into the big room.

"Sit still, Dave," said the younger of the two. "Sit right there; I know where to find it." The speaker vaulted over the counter and took up the duties of bartender. "What'll you have, Dad?"

Arnold pointed to the bottle already in his son-in-law's hand, and caught the spinning glass before it slid over the edge. He filled two glasses, pushed the bottle back again and waited until his companion, depositing the price of the drinks in an old cigar box, vaulted over the bar again and joined him.

"Thanks, Johnny," grunted Dave, placidly. "Yo're a comfortable man to have around. How's everythin' on th' SV?"

"Placid an' prosperous," replied Johnny Nelson, pushing the glass from him. "Goin' to have a nice big drive herd right soon. Th' boys are roundin' up to-morrow. Figger on three, four hundred beeves, all in th' SV mark. Sherwood come in yet?" He was referring to Lin Sherwood, foreman of the Double X, over west of town, whose range gradually blended into the desert farther west. He and Sherwood had agreed between them to make up a specified number of steers for the season's first trail herd of Twitchell and Carpenter, which would be due in about a week. This was a pleasant arrangement all around, and saved both of the ranches from making drives on their own account. They received a fair price for their cattle, and were saved the responsiblility and trouble of driving over the trail.

"This was th' day he was to come in," answered Dave, "but he ain't got here yet. You keep yore new job, tendin' bar, when he does. Heard anythin' from Cassidy an' Connors, or that Tex Ewalt feller an' his bride?"

"Never hear nothin' from th' first two," said Johnny, straddling a chair at a table. "Never hear nothin' from Tex, neither; but his wife wrote to my wife that he was all snug up north. Foreman of a big cattle outfit, an' makin' good money. Gets some kind of a cut out of th' profits, too. They got a good man, if they only know it. What's th' matter with th' boys?"

"If you mean Dailey an' Fannin', I reckon they can be found if you holler out of th' back door. Itchin' for a game?"

"Not particular," answered Johnny. "Just wonderin' how they are. It's been all of three days since I was here." He grinned cheerfully. "How's Doc?"

"Doc's first rate," answered Dave. "Went down to th' Triangle little while ago. One of them boys got shied into some barb wire."

Dave nodded. He was picturing Doctor Reed as that person had been at the time Johnny Nelson had drifted into Gunsight and gracefully if somewhat energetically inserted himself into local affairs. Times had changed greatly since that momentous day. At that time the doctor had been a puzzle to Dave and the rest of the inhabitants roundabout; a nervous, irritable, white-skinned individual with alternate periods of marked depression and cheerfulness. He also had been on the wrong side of local affairs. Now, thanks to the shock administered by this same smiling Johnny Nelson, the doctor looked healthy, always had a man's appetite, and was no longer irritable, pasty white, or nervous. He had made a man's fight against the abuse of drugs, won it, and was now a new person.

"Knowed they'd wander into th' chute for their brandin' if I just set patient," said a pleasant voice outside the front door. Ben Dailey stood leaning against the frame, mopping his bald head and grinning happily. "Now for the brandin'. If you ain't got much in yore pockets, yore credit's good with me."

"Hello, Ben," chuckled Johnny. "Wait till Lin an' me gets through with business. I'll buy you a drink an' hand it to you myself." He went behind the bar and made good the promise, Dave beaming upon him. "Nope—you'll have to drink alone. I've already had mine."

"Here's to bachelorhood," said Ben, reverently raising the glass. "Since you got married yo're shore failin' fast. My G——d! One drink a day! Well, here's my third—an' it'll move along for th' fourth."

Johnny did not answer the friendly taunt. Let them think it was married life that had brought him to a maximum of one drink a day. They might honestly believe that he was foolish if they knew the real reason for his temperance. Two-Spot had been a drunken bum who had died like a man, died with his mouth shut, and because he refused to tell things which well might mean death to his friend Nelson. Two-Spot had worried about Johnny's drinking. Alive, Johnny had paid no attention to his pleas; dead, Johnny paid his memory this tribute.

A clatter of hoofs drew near the building, and Dave groaned again.

"More customers," he growled. "Sounds like a hull passel of 'em, too."

The riders stopped in front of the saloon, dismounted and stamped in, shedding dust with every movement. There were fourteen of them, and every man wore a grin of anticipation. Dave lifted himself out of his chair and moved carefully along the bar. The bottles slid from hand to hand, glasses clattered, and the dust moved upward from the shifting, shuffling feet. The leader of the strangers looked about the room and gestured invitingly, took the smiling refusals in good nature, and turned to his glass. Laughter and noisy conversation rang out along the counter as the bottles moved back again, and the leader left his companions to go toward the little table.

"Howdy, friends," he said, pleasantly. "Ridin's dusty work."

"Shore is," said Arnold, moving a chair and waving at it. "Sit down."

The stranger complied and leaned back.

"Accordin' to what we was told, this town must be Gunsight," he said.

"Bull's-eye," said Johnny, nodding.

"Well, we're that far along, anyhow," replied the stranger. "My name's Perdue, from up Colorado way. Half of them fellers belong to my outfit; th' other half are from another ranch. We're all ridin' down to trail a couple of herds north."

"Glad to meet you," said Johnny. "My name's Nelson, of th' SV. This is Mr. Arnold, owner of th' same ranch; an' this is Mr. Dailey, th' storekeeper next door. How come yo're goin' down after th' herds? Won't they trail 'em up for you?"

"Buyin' from some relatives, which is poor business," explained Mr. Perdue, who was paying Johnny close attention. "They wrote that they had all their crews on th' trail. If I wanted th' cattle before fall I'd have to come an' get 'em. Seein' we want to summer-graze 'em, we're on our way. Been a long time since any of us drove over th' trail, an' we reckoned we'd like to give it a whirl for old time's sake." He drew out a pipe and filled it. "Can we make th' next town by dark?"

"If you push right steady," answered Dailey. "Fanning will be sorry to lose so much trade," he said, smiling. "'Tain't often he gets fourteen hungry fellers in a bunch."

"Fannin' bein' th' hotel keeper," explained Arnold.

Mr. Perdue laughed and lit his pipe. Then he turned to Johnny again.

"Foreman of that SV ranch, Mr. Nelson?" he asked.

Johnny nodded, trying to appear cordial and unrestrained. This little man affected him strangely. The cold gray eyes were hard and searching; the lean, stubble-covered face was grim even when it smiled, for the smiles were like those of a wolf. The thirteen men at the bar, idling, talking, and drinking their second round slowly, did not seem at ease; and when Johnny had introduced himself, their gazes sought him out. He never had seen any of them before, but he found himself unaccountably alert, and was a little vexed with himself for it. The crowd at the bar broke up, some straying to the tables and asking for cards; others going out into the street to loaf and to wander about. Dailey excused himself to attend to whatever customers might need his services.

"You was askin' if you could make th' next town before dark," said Johnny to the stranger. "Come to think of it, I wouldn't hardly advise it, if you've come far."

"Left Juniper this mornin'," said Mr. Perdue. "How long a ride is it to th' next place?"

"Too far—forty miles, an' some of 'em dry an' mean. Better stay here to-night an' get a fresh start in th' mornin'."

"Reckon we had better," soliloquized Mr. Perdue, critically studying the face in front of him. "Where is this hotel man, so I can tell him what's goin' to drop on to his cookin' an' beds?"

"Tell him for you," offered Johnny, arising. He looked about. "Fourteen?"

"Fourteen," echoed Mr. Perdue, thinking that his companion had counted the men before some of them had strayed away. He arose. "Go along with you." He turned to the men in the room. "Stoppin' here overnight, boys; we'll put up th' hosses." He chuckled at the happy grins and turned to his companion.

"Right around back," said Johnny, waving his hand, and led the stranger out of the rear door.

Jim Fanning met them with a smile, heard the demands that were to be made on his hospitality, and frankly scratched his head.

"Of course, I can feed you all," he said; "but I'll have to pack some of you three in a bed; or rig up somethin' on th' floor. Only got five beds."

"That's three more'n they had at th' last place," laughed Mr. Perdue. "My boys can sleep on cactus."

While they discussed the arrangements, Johnny strolled to the door and looked out. A horseman was coming along the west trail, and he knew it to be Lin Sherwood. He stepped into the street and waited for Lin to approach, and was there joined by the stranger. Johnny felt a little crowded, but concealed it, telling himself that he was too touchy, too imaginative.

"Some of this country around here is right fine," said Mr. Perdue, who was able to catch sight of parts of Green Valley where the road crossed the stream. "Cattle oughta do right smart well; but there ain't nothin' like a Northern range to harden 'em an' put weight on to 'em."

"Yes," replied Johnny. "I put in a couple years punchin' up in Montany. Fine country up there, but most teetotal damned cold in th' winter."

"We get it purty cold up our way, we're so high in th' air," replied the stranger.

Lin Sherwood turned from the narrow trail into the dusty street and soon drew up alongside the two.

"Howdy, Johnny," he said, and nodded to the other.

"Meet Mr. Sherwood, Mr——" Johnny hesitated, from choice, and regarded the stranger calmly.

"Perdue, sir—Perdue," offered the stranger, without hesitation. "Glad to meet you, Mr. Sherwood. I was just tellin' Mr. Nelson, here, what a fine country this is. I allus had th' idear that you fellers was a lot of sand hogs, down this way. Thought it was mostly desert."

Lin laughed and pointed over his shoulder, his broad thumb indicating the west.

"Th' desert's not so very far off yonder," he said; "an' it ain't so very far off east of here, neither. You buyin' cattle?"

"I done bought 'em; goin' after 'em now, me an' th' boys," said Mr. Perdue. "Join me in a drink?"

"Take one with you to wash away th' dust," said Sherwood, genially.

"Mr. Nelson wouldn't drink with me, little while back," said Mr. Perdue, smiling a little. He was tensed to get the reaction from this careless statement and when it came it greatly reassured him.

"Oh, then Nelson already had one," chuckled Sherwood. "He's a married man, an' one a day's his ration. Has been for couple of years. Never saw him vary from it." He chuckled again. "I ain't wearin' no hobbles, Mr. Perdue; an' I admit I'm right thirsty."

"One a day is cuttin' it purty fine," laughed the stranger, turning; "but it's playin' on th' right side. Mebby he'll give us his moral support an' have a seegar."

"Shore will," replied Johnny. "When I start drinkin', I can't stop, after I've had two or three; an' likker allus makes me helpless."

Sherwood snorted and then guffawed.

"Yeah! You shore are a helpless hombre, you are!"

Laughing and chatting, they went to the saloon and found the visiting punchers enjoying themselves. Dailey had done a good day's business in his store and was now playing cards with one crowd, keeping continual grins on their faces with his sallies and his unfailing good nature. They were playing to pass away the time, and the stakes were small. Laughter boomed out frequently, and a general air of good fellowship prevailed, yet Johnny found his eyes narrowing at times, and the feeling of vague mistrust bothered him. Why should he find eyes on him all the time, and eyes that quickly looked elsewhere whenever he turned his head unexpectedly? After a few minutes, he signalled his father-in-law, caught Sherwood's eye, and moved toward the door.

Mr. Perdue, standing at the side of one of his men, looked up in surprise at the movement.

"Goin' so soon, Mr. Nelson?" he asked, stepping forward.

Johnny caught himself going into a crouch, checked the movement, smiled and held out his hand.

"Yes, I reckon I'll be ridin' home ag'in," he answered. "Got to talk a little business with Sherwood, first. Glad to have met you, Mr.——" again he hesitated, frowning in vexation.

"Perdue—Perdue's th' name," supplied that person promptly, as he met Johnny's grip with just the right pressure.

"I'm ashamed of myself, Mr. Perdue," apologized Johnny. "I never did have much of a mem'ry for names; an' to-day it shore is makin' a damn fool out o' me. Hope to meet you when you come back with th' herd; an' I'll bet you eight bits I'll remember yore name then."

"Perdue's a sorta unusual name in some parts of th' country," said its owner, smiling. "Won't bet you, for I'm dead shore you'll remember it; an' I shore will see you ag'in."

With the last words Johnny grabbed hold of his lifting suspicions and held them down by main force; but there did seem to be a grim, mocking gleam in the cold gray eyes when those two last remarks were made. He fought down the distrust and laughed to hide it.

"If I see yore sign in th' sky early enough on that day, I'll save up my one drink an' have you join me in it."

"Good enough! Good-bye, Mr. Arnold; good-bye, Mr. Sherwood, if I don't see you ag'in."

"Oh, you'll see me," chuckled Sherwood. "It's Nelson that's a one-drink man; I'm aimin' to help you change a dry an' dusty afternoon into somethin' a lot better."

"Good news, plumb good news," said Mr. Perdue, genially, and turned away to take part in the careless conversation of some of his men.

Johnny and Sherwood agreed on the time for the round-ups and delivery of their cattle to the already moving herd of Twitchell and Carpenter. They arranged minor details and parted, Sherwood to return to entertain Mr. Perdue, and Johnny and Arnold to ride toward the ranch.

Half a mile had been covered when Arnold glanced sidewise at his quiet companion.

"What's makin' you so thoughtful, Johnny?"

Johnny came out of the reverie and shook his head. Instead of answering the question, he asked one.

"What do you think of Mr. Perdue?" His eyes were on his father-in-law's face.

"Pleasant, affable gentleman; a little worried, mebby, by havin' that baker's dozen to keep sober and out of mischief; but a pleasant, engagin' gentleman. Why?"

"Reckon mebby he is all of that," said Johnny, thoughtfully. "An' havin' that bunch of boys to hold down has mebby made him a little unnatural." He rode on, silently weighing things, and then grinned a little shamefacedly. "I shore got a suspicious nature. Found myself tryin' to read Mr. Perdue; an' forgettin' his name so as to see if he had any trouble rememberin' it. Didn't have none, a-tall. Answered right on th' jump. I felt like somethin' was in th' air, an' caught myself gettin' riled because I couldn't put a name to it. But you tell me this: Why was they all stealin' looks at me? Every time I turned my head quick somebody looked away. Why was that?"

Arnold chuckled proudly.

"Boy, why wouldn't they look at you?" he demanded with spirit. "You don't think folks haven't heard about you and that old Bar 20 gang, do you? Hah! More folks know you by name an' reputation than you know. Lots more."

"But what makes me so suspicious?"

"How was you raised?"

Johnny nodded.

"Reckon so," he said, and laughed gently, affectionately. "Anybody raised on that old ranch, with Hopalong an' Red an' th' rest of 'em, shore was filled plumb full of suspicion." His eyes glowed and softened. "Well, we had to be that way. Trouble is, times have changed, an' I ain't changed with 'em."

"No, Johnny; some things have changed, but not all. Conditions have, and this particular part of th' country has, after you did th' changin'; but human beings are just th' same, averagin' 'em up."

Johnny did not answer, and in a few moments he turned to other thoughts.

"Lin will be ready when we are," he said, and for the rest of the way to the ranch they talked of cattle. They did not know it, but if they had continued to discuss Mr. Perdue and his men, they still would have been talking of cattle. Could they have heard the conversations going on in Gunsight they would have been much disturbed and might have been forewarned somewhat against calamity.