Читать книгу The Bar-20 Trilogy (Complete Wild West Series) - Mulford Clarence Edward - Страница 15

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“Oh, we’re that gang from th’ O-Bar-O,” hummed Waffles, sinking the branding-iron in the flank of a calf. The scene was one of great activity and hilarity. Several fires were burning near the huge corral and in them half a dozen irons were getting hot. Three calves were being held down for the brand of the “Bar-20” and two more were being dragged up on their sides by the ropes of the cowboys, the proud cow-ponies showing off their accomplishments at the expense of the calves’ feelings. In the corral the dust arose in steady clouds as calf after calf was “cut out” by the ropers and dragged out to get “tagged.” Angry cows fought valiantly for their terrorized offspring, but always to no avail, for the hated rope of some perspiring and dust-grimed rider sent them crashing to earth. Over the plain were herds of cattle and groups of madly riding cowboys, and two cook wagons were stalled a short distance from the corral. The round-up of the Bar-20 was taking place, and each of the two outfits tried to outdo the other and each individual strove for a prize. The man who cut out and dragged to the fire the most calves in three days could leave for the Black Hills at the expiration of that time, the rest to follow as soon as they could.

In this contest Hopalong Cassidy led his nearest rival, Red Connors, both of whom were Bar-20 men, by twenty cut-outs, and there remained but half an hour more in which to compete. As Red disappeared into the sea of tossing horns Hopalong dashed out with a whoop.

“Hi, yu trellis-built rack of bones, come along there! Whoop!” he yelled, turning the prisoner over to the squad by the fire.

“Chalk up this here insignificant wart of cross-eyed perversity: an’ how many?” He called as he galloped back to the corral.

“One ninety-eight,” announced Buck, blowing the sand from the tally sheet. “That’s shore goin’ some,” he remarked to himself.

When the calf sprang up it was filled with terror, rage and pain, and charged at Billy from the rear as that pessimistic soul was leaning over and poking his finger at a somber horned-toad. “Wow!” he yelled as his feet took huge steps up in the air, each one strictly on its own course. “Woof!” he grunted in the hot sand as he arose on his hands and knees and spat alkali.

“What’s s’matter?” He asked dazedly of Johnny Nelson. “Ain’t it funny!” he yelled sarcastically as he beheld Johnny holding his sides with laughter. “Ain’t it funny!” he repeated belligerently. “Of course that four-laigged, knock-kneed, wobblin’ son-of-a-Piute had to cut me out. They wasn’t nobody in sight but Billy! Why didn’t yu say he was comin’? Think I can see four ways to once? Why didn’t—” At this point Red cantered up with a calf, and by a quick maneuver, drew the taut rope against the rear of Billy’s knees, causing that unfortunate to sit down heavily. As he arose choking with broken-winded profanity Red dragged the animal to the fire, and Billy forgot his grievances in the press of labor.

“How many, Buck?” Asked Red.

“One-eighty.”

“How does she stand?”

“Yore eighteen to th’ bad,” replied the foreman. “Th’ son-of-a-gun!” marveled Red, riding off.

Another whoop interrupted them, and Billy quit watching out of the corner eye for pugnacious calves as he prepared for Hopalong.

“Hey, Buck, this here cuss was with a Barred-Horseshoe cow,” he announced as he turned it over to the branding man. Buck made a tally in a separate column and released the animal. “Hullo, Red! Workin’?” Asked Hopalong of his rival.

“Some, yu little cuss,” answered Red with all the good nature in the world. Hopalong was his particular “side partner,” and he could lose to him with the best of feelings.

“Yu looks so nice an’ cool, an’ clean, I didn’t know,” responded Hopalong, eyeing a streak of sweat and dust which ran from Red’s eyes to his chin and then on down his neck.

“What yu been doin’? Plowin’ with yore nose?” Returned Red, smiling blandly at his friend’s appearance.

“Yah!” snorted Hopalong, wheeling toward the corral. “Come on, yu pie-eatin’ doodle-bug; I’ll beat yu to th’ gate!”

The two ponies sent showers of sand all over Billy, who eyed them in pugnacious disgust. “Of all th’ locoed imps that ever made life miserable fer a man, them’s th’ worst! Is there any piece of fool nonsense they hain’t harnessed me with?” He beseeched of Buck. “Is there anything they hain’t done to me? They hides my liquor; they stuffs th’ sweat band of my hat with rope; they ties up my pants; they puts water in. My boots an’ toads in my bunk—ain’t they never goin’ to get sane?”

“Oh, they’re only kids—they can’t help it,” offered Buck. “Didn’t they hobble my cayuse when I was on him an’ near bust my neck?”

Hopalong interrupted the conversation by driving up another calf, and Buck, glancing at his watch, declared the contest at an end.

“Yu wins,” he remarked to the newcomer. “An’ now yu get scarce or Billy will shore straddle yore nerves. He said as how he was goin’ to get square on yu to-night.”

“I didn’t, neither, Hoppy!” earnestly contradicted Billy, who bad visions of a night spent in torment as a reprisal for such a threat. “Honest I didn’t, did I, Johnny?” He asked appealingly.

“Yu shore did,” lied Johnny, winking at Red, who had just ridden up.

“I don’t know what yore talkin’ about, but yu shore did,” replied Red.

“If yu did,” grinned Hopalong, “I’ll shore make yu hard to find. Come on, fellows,” he said; “grub’s ready. Where’s Frenchy?”

“Over chewin’ th’ rag with Waffles about his hat—he’s lost it again,” answered Red. “He needs a guardian fer that bonnet. Th’ Kid an’ Salvation has jammed it in th’ corral fence an’ Waffles has to stand fer it.”

“Let’s put it in th’ grub wagon an see him cuss cookie,” suggested Hopalong.

“Shore,” indorsed Johnny; Cookie’ll feed him bum grub for a week to get square.

Hopalong and Johnny ambled over to the corral and after some trouble located the missing sombrero, which they carried to the grub wagon and hid in the flour barrel. Then they went over by the excited owner and dropped a few remarks about how strange the cook was acting and how he was watching Frenchy.

Frenchy jumped at the bait and tore over to the wagon, where he and the cook spent some time in mutual recrimination. Hopalong nosed around and finally dug up the hat, white as new-fallen snow.

“Here’s a hat—found it in th’ dough barrel,” he announced, handing it over to Frenchy, who received it in open-mouthed stupefaction.

“Yu pie-makin’ pirate! Yu didn’t know where my lid was, did yu! Yu cross-eyed lump of hypocrisy!” yelled Frenchy, dusting off the flour with one full-armed swing on the cook’s face, driving it into that unfortunate’s nose and eyes and mouth. “Yu white-washed Chink, yu—rub yore face with water an’ yu’ve got pancakes.”

“Hey! What you doin’!” yelled the cook, kicking the spot where he had last seen Frenchy. “Don’t yu know better’n that!”

“Yu live close to yoreself or I’ll throw yu so high th’ sun’ll duck,” replied Frenchy, a smile illuminating his face.

“Hey, cookie,” remarked Hopalong confidentially, “I know who put up this joke on yu. Yu ask Billy who hid th’ hat,” suggested the tease. “Here he comes now—see how queer he looks.”

“Th’ mournful Piute,” ejaculated the cook. “I’ll shore make him wish he’d kept on his own trail. I’ll flavor his slush [coffee] with year-old dish-rags!”

At this juncture Billy ambled up, keeping his weather eye peeled for trouble. “Who’s a dish-rag?” He queried. The cook mumbled something about crazy hens not knowing when to quit cackling and climbed up in his wagon. And that night Billy swore off drinking coffee.

When the dawn of the next day broke, Hopalong was riding toward the Black Hills, leaving Billy to untie himself as best he might.

The trip was uneventful and several weeks later he entered Red Dog, a rambling shanty town, one of those western mushrooms that sprang up in a night. He took up his stand at the Miner’s Rest, and finally secured six claims at the cost of nine hundred hard-earned dollars, a fund subscribed by the outfits, as it was to be a partnership affair.

He rode out to a staked-off piece of hillside and surveyed his purchase, which consisted of a patch of ground, six holes, six piles of dirt and a log hut. The holes showed that the claims bad been tried and found wanting.

He dumped his pack of tools and provisions, which he had bought on the way up, and lugged them into the cabin. After satisfying his curiosity he went outside and sat down for a smoke, figuring up in his mind how much gold he could carry on a horse. Then, as he realized that he could get a pack mule to carry the surplus, he became aware of a strange presence near at hand and looked up into the muzzle of a Sharp’s rifle. He grasped the situation in a flash and calmly blew several heavy smoke rings around the frowning barrel.

“Well?” He asked slowly.

“Nice day, stranger,” replied the man with the rifle, “but don’t yu reckon yu’ve made a mistake?”

Hopalong glanced at the number burned on a near-by stake and carelessly blew another smoke ring. He was waiting for the gun to waver.

“No, I reckons not,” he answered. “Why?”

“Well, I’ll jest tell yu since yu asks. This yere claim’s mine an’ I’m a reg’lar terror, I am. That’s why; an’ seein’ as it is, yu better amble some.”

Hopalong glanced down the street and saw an interested group watching him, which only added to his rage for being in such a position. Then he started to say something, faltered and stared with horror at a point several feet behind his opponent. The “terror” sprang to one side in response to Hop-along’s expression, as if fearing that a snake or some such danger threatened him. As he alighted in his new position he fell forward and Hopalong slid a smoking Colt in its holster.

Several men left the distant group and ran toward the claim. Hopalong reached his arm inside the door and brought forth his rifle, with which he covered their advance.

“Anything yu want?” he shouted savagely.

The men stopped and two of them started to sidle in front of two others, but Hopalong was not there for the purpose of permitting a move that would screen any gun play and he stopped the game with a warning shout. Then the two held up their hands and advanced.

“We wants to git Dan,” called out one of them, nodding at the prostrate figure.

“Come ahead,” replied Hopalong, substituting a Colt for the rifle.

They carried their badly wounded and insensible burden back to those whom they had left, and several curses were hurled at the cowboy, who only smiled grimly and entered the hut to place things ready for a siege, should one come. He had one hundred rounds of ammunition and provisions enough for two weeks, with the assurance of reinforcements long before that time would expire. He cut several rough loopholes and laid out his weapons for quick handling. He knew that he could stop any advance during the day and planned only for night attacks. How long he could go without sleep did not bother him, because he gave it no thought, as he was accustomed to short naps and could awaken at will or at the slightest sound.

As dusk merged into dark he crept forth and collected several handfuls of dry twigs, which he scattered around the hut, as the cracking of these would warn him of an approach. Then he went in and went to sleep.

He awoke at daylight after a good night’s rest, and feasted on canned beans and peaches. Then he tossed the cans out of the door and shoved his hat out. Receiving no response he walked out and surveyed the town at his feet. A sheepish grin spread over his face as he realized that there was no danger. Several red-shirted men passed by him on their way to town, and one, a grizzled veteran of many gold camps, stopped and sauntered up to him.

“Mornin’,” said Hopalong.

“Mornin’,” replied the stranger. “I thought I’d drop in an’ say that I saw that gun-play of yourn yesterday. Yu ain’t got no reason to look fer a rush. This camp is half white men an’ half bullies, an’ th’ white men won’t stand fer no play like that. Them fellers that jest passed are neighbors of yourn, an’ they won’t lay abed if yu needs them. But yu wants to look out fer th’ joints in th’ town. Guess this business is out of yore line,” he finished as he sized Hopalong up.

“She shore is, but I’m here to stay. Got tired of punchin’ an’ reckoned I’d get rich.” Here he smiled and glanced at the hole. “How’re yu makin’ out?” He asked.

“‘Bout five dollars a day apiece, but that ain’t nothin’ when grub’s so high. Got reckless th’ other day an’ had a egg at fifty cents.”

Hopalong whistled and glanced at the empty cans at his feet. “Any marshal in this burg?”

“Yep. But he’s one of th’ gang. No good, an’ drunk half th’ time an’ half drunk th’ rest. Better come down an’ have something,” invited the miner.

“I’d shore like to, but I can’t let no gang get in that door,” replied the puncher.

“Oh, that’s all right; I’ll call my pardner down to keep house till yu gits back. He can hold her all right. Hey, Jake!” he called to a man who was some hundred paces distant; “Come down here an’ keep house till we gits back, will yu?”

The man lumbered down to them and took possession as Hopalong and his newly found friend started for the town.

They entered the “Miner’s Rest” and Hopalong fixed the room in his mind with one swift glance. Three men—and they looked like the crowd he had stopped before—were playing poker at a table near the window. Hopalong leaned with his back to the bar and talked, with the players always in sight.

Soon the door opened and a bewhiskered, heavy-set man tramped in, and walking up to Hopalong, looked him over.

“Huh,” he sneered, “Yu are th’ gent with th’ festive guns that plugged Dan, ain’t yu?”

Hopalong looked at him in the eyes and quietly replied:

“An’ who th’ deuce are yu?”

The stranger’s eyes blazed and his face wrinkled with rage as he aggressively shoved his jaw close to Hopalong’s face.

“Yu runt, I’m a better man than yu even if yu do wear hair pants,” referring to Hopalong’s chaps. “Yu cow-wrastlers make me tired, an’ I’m goin’ to show yu that this town is too good for you. Yu can say it right now that yu are a ornery, game-leg—”

Hopalong smashed his insulter squarely between the eyes with all the power of his sinewy body behind the blow, knocking him in a heap under the table. Then he quickly glanced at the card players and saw a hostile movement. His gun was out in a flash and he covered the trio as he walked up to them. Never in all his life had he felt such a desire to kill. His eyes were diamond points of accumulated fury, and those whom he faced quailed before him.

“Yu scum! Draw, please draw! Pull yore guns an’ gimme my chance! Three to one, an’ I’ll lay my guns here,” he said, placing them on the bar and removing his hands. “‘Nearer My God to Thee’ is purty appropriate fer yu just now! Yu seem to be a-scared of yore own guns. Git down on yore dirty knees an’ say good an’ loud that yu eats dirt! Shout out that yu are too currish to live with decent men,” he said, even-toned and distinct, his voice vibrant with passion as he took up his Colts. “Get down!” he repeated, shoving the weapons forward and pulling back the hammers.

The trio glanced at each other, and all three dropped to their knees and repeated in venomous hatred the words Hopalong said for them.

“Now git! An’ if I sees yu when I leaves I’ll send yu after yore friend. I’ll shoot on sight now. Git!” He escorted them to the door and kicked the last one out.

His miner friend still leaned against the bar and looked his approval.

“Well done, youngster! But yu wants to look out—that man,” pointing to the now groping victim of Hopalong’s blow, “is th’ marshal of this town. He or his pals will get yu if yu don’t watch th’ corners.”

Hopalong walked over to the marshal, jerked him to his feet and slammed him against the bar. Then he tore the cheap badge from its place and threw it on the floor. Reaching down, he drew the marshal’s revolver from its holster and shoved it in its owner’s hand.

“Yore th’ marshal of this place an’ it’s too good for me, but yore gain’ to pick up that tin lie,” pointing at the badge, “an’ yore goin’ to do it right now. Then yore gain’ to get kicked out of that door, an’ if yu stops runnin’ while I can see yu I’ll fill yu so full of holes yu’ll catch cold. Yore a sumptious marshal, yu are! Yore th’ snortingest ki-yi that ever stuck its tail atween its laigs, yu are. Yu pop-eyed wall flower, yu wants to peep to yoreself or some papoose’ll slide yu over th’ Divide so fast yu won’t have time to grease yore pants. Pick up that license-tag an’ let me see you perculate so lively that yore back’ll look like a ten-cent piece in five seconds. Flit!”

The marshal, dazed and bewildered, stooped and fumbled for the badge. Then he stood up and glanced at the gun in his hand and at the eager man before him. He slid the weapon in his belt and drew his hand across his fast-closing eyes. Cursing streaks of profanity, he staggered to the door and landed in a heap in the street from the force of Hopalong’s kick. Struggling to his feet, he ran unsteadily down the block and disappeared around a corner.

The bartender, cool and unperturbed, pushed out three glasses on his treat: “I’ve seen yu afore, up in Cheyenne—‘member? How’s yore friend Red?” He asked as he filled the glasses with the best the house afforded.

“Well, shore ‘nuff! Glad to see yu, Jimmy! What yu doin’ away off here?” Asked Hopalong, beginning to feel at home.

“Oh, jest filterin’ round like. I’m awful glad to see yu—this yere wart of a town needs siftin’ out. It was only last week I was wishin’ one of yore bunch ‘ud show up—that ornament yu jest buffaloed shore raised th’ devil in here, an’ I wished I had somebody to prospect his anatomy for a lead mine. But he’s got a tough gang circulating with him. Ever hear of Dutch Shannon or Blinky Neary? They’s with him.”

“Dutch Shannon? Nope,” he replied.

“Bad eggs, an’ not a-carin’ how they gits square. Th’ feller yu’ salted yesterday was a bosom friend of th’ marshal’s, an’ he passed in his chips last night.”

“So?”

“Yep. Bought a bottle of ready-made nerve an’ went to his own funeral. Aristotle Smith was lookin’ fer him up in Cheyenne last year. Aristotle said he’d give a century fer five minutes’ palaver with him, but he shied th’ town an’ didn’t come back. Yu know Aristotle, don’t yu? He’s th’ geezer that made fame up to Poison Knob three years ago. He used to go to town ridin’ astride a log on th’ lumber flume. Made four miles in six minutes with th’ promise of a ruction when he stopped. Once when he was loaded he tried to ride back th’ same way he came, an’ th’ first thing he knowed he was three miles farther from his supper an’ a-slippin’ down that valley like he wanted to go somewhere. He swum out at Potter’s Dam an’ it took him a day to walk back. But he didn’t make that play again, because he was frequently sober, an’ when he wasn’t he’d only stand off an’ swear at th’ slide.”

“That’s Aristotle, all hunk. He’s th’ chap that used to play checkers with Deacon Rawlins. They used empty an’ loaded shells for men, an’ when they got a king they’d lay one on its side. Sometimes they’d jar th’ board an’ they’d all be kings an’ then they’d have a cussin’ match,” replied Hopalong, once more restored to good humor.

“Why,” responded Jimmy, “he counted his wealth over twice by mistake an’ shore raised a howl when he went to blow it—thought he’s been robbed, an’ laid behind th’ houses fer a week lookin’ fer th’ feller that done it.”

“I’ve heard of that cuss—he shore was th’ limit. What become of him?” Asked the miner.

“He ambled up to Laramie an’ stuck his head in th’ window of that joint by th’ plaza an’ hollered ‘Fire,’ an’ they did. He was shore a good feller, all th’ same,” answered the bartender. Hopalong laughed and started for the door. Turning around he looked at his miner friend and asked: “Comin’ along? I’m goin’ back now.”

“Nope. Reckon I’ll hit th’ tiger a whirl. I’ll stop in when I passes.”

“All right. So long,” replied Hopalong, slipping out of the door and watching for trouble. There was no opposition shown him, and he arrived at his claim to find Jake in a heated argument with another of the gang.

“Here he comes now,” he said as Hopalong walked up. “Tell him what yu said to me.”

“I said yu made a mistake,” said the other, turning to the cowboy in a half apologetic manner.

“An’ what else?” Insisted Jake.

“Why, ain’t that all?” Asked the claim-jumper’s friend in feigned surprise, wishing that he had kept quiet.

“Well I reckons it is if yu can’t back up yore words,” responded Jake in open contempt.

Hopalong grabbed the intruder by the collar of his shirt and hauled him off the claim. “Yu keep off this, understand? I just kicked yore marshal out in th’ street, an’ I’ll pay yu th’ next call. If yu rambles in range of my guns yu’ll shore get in th’ way of a slug. Yu an’ yore gang wants to browse on th’ far side of th’ range or yu’ll miss a sunrise some mornin’. Scoot!”

Hopalong turned to his companion and smiled. “What’d he say?” He asked genially.

“Oh, he jest shot off his mouth a little. They’s all no good. I’ve collided with lots of them all over this country. They can’t face a good man an’ keep their nerve. What’d yu say to th’ marshal?”

“I told him what he was an’ threw him outen th’ street,” replied Hopalong. “In about two weeks we’ll have a new marshal an’ he’ll shore be a dandy.”

“Yes? Why don’t yu take th’ job yoreself? We’re with yu.”

“Better man comin’. Ever hear of Buck Peters or Red Connors of th’ Bar-20, Texas?”

“Buck Peters? Seems to me I have. Did he punch fer th’ Tin-Cup up in Montana, ‘bout twenty years back?”

“Shore! Him and Frenchy McAllister punched all over that country an’ they used to paint Cheyenne, too,” replied Hopalong, eagerly.

“I knows him, then. I used to know Frenchy, too. Are they comin’ up here?”

“Yes,” responded Hopalong, struggling with another can while waiting for the fire to catch up. “Better have some grub with me—don’t like to eat alone,” invited the cowboy, the reaction of his late rage swinging him to the other extreme.

When their tobacco had got well started at the close of the meal and content had taken possession of them Hopalong laughed quietly and finally spoke:

“Did yu ever know Aristotle Smith when yu was up in Montana?”

“Did I! Well, me an’ Aristotle prospected all through that country till he got so locoed I had to watch him fer fear he’d blow us both up. He greased th’ fryin’ pan with dynamite one night, an’ we shore had to eat jerked meat an’ canned stuff all th’ rest of that trip. What made yu ask? Is he comin’ up too?”

“No, I reckons not. Jimmy, th’ bartender, said that he cashed in up at Laramie. Wasn’t he th’ cuss that built that boat out there on th’ Arizona desert because he was scared that a flood might come? Th’ sun shore warped that punt till it wasn’t even good for a hencoop.”

“Nope. That was Sister—Annie Tompkins. He was purty near as bad as Aristotle, though. He roped a puma up on th’ Sacramentos, an’ didn’t punch no more fer three weeks. Well, here comes my pardner an’ I reckons I’ll amble right along. If yu needs any referee or a side pardner in any ruction yu has only got to warble up my way. So long.”

The next ten days passed quietly, and on the afternoon of the eleventh Hopalong’s miner friend paid him a visit.

“Jake recommends yore peaches,” he laughed as he shook Hopalong’s hand. “He says yu boosted another of that crowd. That bein’ so I thought I would drop in an’ say that they’re comin’ after yu to-night, shore. Just heard of it from yore friend Jimmy. Yu can count on us when th’ rush comes. But why didn’t yu say yu was a pard of Buck Peters’? Me an’ him used to shoot up Laramie together. From what yore friend James says, yu can handle this gang by yore lonesome, but if yu needs any encouragement yu make some sign an’ we’ll help th’ event along some. They’s eight of us that’ll be waitin’ up to get th’ returns an’ we’re shore goin’ to be in range.”

“Gee, it’s nice to run across a friend of Buck’s! Ain’t he a son-of-a-gun?” Asked Hopalong, delighted at the news. Then, without waiting for a reply, he went on: “Yore shore square, all right, an’ I hates to refuse yore offer, but I got eighteen friends comin’ up an’ they ought to get here by tomorrow. Yu tell Jimmy to head them this way when they shows up an’ I’ll have th’ claim for them. There ain’t no use of yu fellers gettin’ mixed up in this. Th’ bunch that’s comin’ can clean out any gang this side of sunup, an’ I expects they’ll shore be anxious to begin when they finds me eatin’ peaches an’ wastin’ my time shootin’ bums. Yu pass th’ word along to yore friends, an’ tell them to lay low an’ see th’ Arory Boerallis hit this town with its tail up. Tell Jimmy to do it up good when he speaks about me holdin’ th’ claim—I likes to see Buck an’ Red fight when they’re good an’ mad.”

The miner laughed and slapped Hopalong on the shoulder. “Yore all right, youngster! Yore just like Buck was at yore age. Say now, I reckons he wasn’t a reg’lar terror on wheels! Why, I’ve seen him do more foolish things than any man I knows of, an’ I calculate that if Buck pals with yu there ain’t no water in yore sand. My name’s Tom Halloway,” he suggested.

“An’ mine’s Hopalong Cassidy,” was the reply. “I’ve heard Buck speak of yu.”

“Has yu? Well, don’t it beat all how little this world is? Somebody allus turnin’ up that knows somebody yu knows. I’ll just amble along, Mr. Cassidy, an’ don’t yu be none bashful about callin’ if yu needs me. Any pal of Buck’s is my friend. Well, so long,” said the visitor as he strode off. Then he stopped and turned around. “Hey, mister!” he called. “They are goin’ to roll a fire barrel down agin yu from behind,” indicating by an outstretched arm the point from where it would start. “If it burns yu out I’m goin’ to take a band from up there,” pointing to a cluster of rocks well to the rear of where the crowd would work from, “an’ I don’t care whether yu likes it or not,” he added to himself.

Hopalong scratched his head and then laughed. Taking up a pick and shovel, he went out behind the cabin and dug a trench parallel with and about twenty paces away from the rear wall. Heaping the excavated dirt up on the near side of the cut, he stepped back and surveyed his labor with open satisfaction. “Roll yore fire barrel an’ be dogged,” he muttered. “Mebby she won’t make a bully light for pot shots, though,” he added, grinning at the execution he would do.

Taking up his tools, he went up to the place from where the gang would roll the barrel, and made half a dozen mounds of twigs, being careful to make them very flimsy. Then he covered them with earth and packed them gently. The mounds looked very tempting from the view-point of a marksman in search of earth-works, and appeared capable of stopping any rifle ball that could be fired against them. Hopalong looked them over critically and stepped back.

“I’d like to see th’ look on th’ face of th’ son-of-a-gun that uses them for cover—won’t he be surprised” and he grinned gleefully as he pictured his shots boring through them. Then he placed in the center of each a chip or a pebble or something that he thought would show up well in the firelight.

Returning to the cabin, he banked it up well with dirt and gravel, and tossed a few shovelfuls up on the roof as a safety valve to his exuberance. When he entered the door he had another idea, and fell to work scooping out a shallow cellar, deep enough to shelter him when lying at full length. Then he stuck his head out of the window and grinned at the false covers with their prominent bull’s-eyes.

“When that prize-winnin’ gang of ossified idiots runs up agin’ these fortifications they shore will be disgusted. I’ll bet four dollars an’ seven cents they’ll think their medicine-man’s no good. I hopes that puff-eyed marshal will pick out that hump with th’ chip on it,” and he hugged himself in anticipation.

He then cut down a sapling and fastened it to the roof and on it he tied his neckerchief, which fluttered valiantly and with defiance in the light breeze. “I shore hopes they appreciates that,” he remarked whimsically, as he went inside the hut and closed the door.

The early part of the evening passed in peace, and Hopalong, tired of watching in vain, wished for action. Midnight came, and it was not until half an hour before dawn that he was attacked. Then a noise sent him to a loophole, where he fired two shots at skulking figures some distance off. A fusillade of bullets replied; one of them ripped through the door at a weak spot and drilled a hole in a can of the everlasting peaches. Hopalong set the can in the frying pan and then flitted from loophole to loophole, shooting quick and straight. Several curses told him that he had not missed, and he scooped up a finger of peach juice. Shots thudded into the walls of his fort in an unceasing stream, and, as it grew lighter, several whizzed through the loopholes. He kept close to the earth and waited for the rush, and when it came sent it back, minus two of its members.

As he reloaded his Colts a bullet passed through his shirt sleeve and he promptly nailed the marksman. He looked out of a crack in the rear wall and saw the top of an adjoining hill crowned with spectators, all of whom were armed. Some time later he repulsed another attack and heard a faint cheer from his friends on the hill. Then he saw a barrel, blazing from end to end, roll out from the place he had so carefully covered with mounds. It gathered speed and bounded over the rough ground, flashed between two rocks and leaped into the trench, where it crackled and roared in vain.

“Now,” said Hopalong, blazing at the mounds as fast as he could fire his rifle, “we’ll just see what yu thinks of yore nice little covers.”

Yells of consternation and pain rang out in a swelling chorus, and legs and arms jerked and flopped, one man, in his astonishment at the shot that tore open his cheek, sitting up in plain sight of the marksman. Roars of rage floated up from the main body of the besiegers, and the discomfited remnant of barrel-rollers broke for real cover.

Then he stopped another rush from the front, made upon the supposition that he was thinking only of the second detachment. A hearty cheer arose from Tom Halloway and his friends, ensconced in their rocky position, and it was taken up by those on the hill, who danced and yelled their delight at the battle, to them more humorous than otherwise.

This recognition of his prowess from men of the caliber of his audience made him feel good, and he grinned: “Gee, I’ll bet Halloway an’ his friends is shore itchin’ to get in this,” he murmured, firing at a head that was shown for an instant. “Wonder what Red’ll say when Jimmy tells him—bet he’ll plow dust like a cyclone,” and Hopalong laughed, picturing to himself the satiation of Red’s anger. “Old red-headed son-of-a-gun,” murmured the cowboy affectionately, “he shore can fight.”

As he squinted over the sights of his rifle his eye caught sight of a moving body of men as they cantered over the flats about two miles away. In his eagerness he forgot to shoot and carefully counted them. “Nine,” he grumbled. “Wonder what’s th’ matter?” Fearing that they were not his friends. Then a second body numbering eight cantered into sight and followed the first.

“Whoop! There’s th’ Red-head!” he shouted, dancing in his joy. “Now,” he shouted at the peach can joyously, “yu wait about thirty minutes an’ yu’ll shore reckon Hades has busted loose!”

He grabbed up his Colts, which he kept loaded for repelling rushes, and recklessly emptied them into the bushes and between the rocks and trees, searching every likely place for a human target. Then he slipped his rifle in a loophole and waited for good shots, having worked off the dangerous pressure of his exuberance.

Soon he heard a yell from the direction of the “Miner’s Rest,” and fell to jamming cartridges into his revolvers so that he could sally out and join in the fray by the side of Red.

The thunder of madly pounding hoofs rolled up the trail, and soon a horse and rider shot around the corner and headed for the copse. Three more raced close behind and then a bunch of six, followed by the rest, spread out and searched for trouble.

Red, a Colt in each hand and hatless, stood up in his stirrups and sent shot after shot into the fleeing mob, which he could not follow on account of the nature of the ground. Buck wheeled and dashed down the trail again with Red a close second, the others packed in a solid mass and after them. At the first level stretch the newcomers swept down and hit their enemies, going through them like a knife through cheese. Hopalong danced up and down with rage when he could not find his horse, and had to stand and yell, a spectator.

The fight drifted in among the buildings, where it became a series of isolated duels, and soon Hopalong saw panic-stricken horses carrying their riders out of the other side of the town. Then he went gunning for the man who had rustled his horse. He was unsuccessful and returned to his peaches.

Soon the riders came up, and when they saw Hopalong shove a peach into his powder-grimed mouth they yelled their delight.

“Yu old maverick! Eatin’ peaches like yu was afraid we’d git some!” shouted Red indignantly, leaping down and running up to his pal as though to thrash him.

Hopalong grinned pleasantly and fired a peach against Red’s eye. “I was savin’ that one for yu, Reddie,” he remarked, as he avoided Buck’s playful kick. “Yu fellers git to work an’ dig up some wealth—I’m hungry.” Then he turned to Buck: “Yore th’ marshal of this town, an’ any son-of-a-gun what don’t like it had better write. Oh, yes, here comes Tom Halloway—‘member him?”

Buck turned and faced the miner and his hand went out with a jerk.

“Well, I’ll be locoed if I didn’t punch with yu on th’ Tin-Cup!” he said.

“Yu shore did an’ yu was purty devilish, but that there Cassidy of yourn beats anything I ever seen.”

“He’s a good kid,” replied Buck, glancing to where Red and Hopalong were quarreling as to who had eaten the most pie in a contest held some years before.

Johnny, nosing around, came upon the perforated and partially scattered piles of earth and twigs, and vented his disgust of them by kicking them to pieces. “Hey! Hoppy! Oh, Hoppy!” he called, “what are these things?”

Hopalong jammed Red’s hat over that person’s eyes and replied: “Oh, them’s some loaded dice I fixed for them.”

“Yu son-of-a-gun!” sputtered Red, as he wrestled with his friend in the exuberance of his pride. “Yu son-of-a-gun! Yu shore ought to be ashamed to treat ‘em that way!”

“Shore,” replied Hopalong. “But I ain’t!”