Читать книгу The Bar-20 Trilogy (Complete Wild West Series) - Mulford Clarence Edward - Страница 16

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Mr. Buck Peters rode into Alkaline one bright September morning and sought refreshment at the Emporium. Mr. Peters had just finished some business for his employer and felt the satisfaction that comes with the knowledge of work well done. He expected to remain in Alkaline for several days, where he was to be joined by two of his friends and punchers, Mr. Hopalong Cassidy and Mr. Red Connors, both of whom were at Cactus Springs, seventy miles to the east. Mr. Cassidy and his friend had just finished a nocturnal tour of Santa Fe and felt somewhat peevish and dull in consequence, not to mention the sadness occasioned by the expenditure of the greater part of their combined capital on such foolishness as faro, roulette and wet-goods.

Mr. Peters and his friends had sought wealth in the Black Hills, where they had enthusiastically disfigured the earth in the fond expectation of uncovering vast stores of virgin gold. Their hopes were of an optimistic brand and had existed until the last canister of cornmeal flour had been emptied by Mr. Cassidy’s burro, which waited not upon it’s master’s pleasure nor upon the ethics of the case. When Mr. Cassidy had returned from exercising the animal and himself over two miles of rocky hillside in the vain endeavor to give it his opinion of burros and sundry chastisements, he was requested, as owner of the beast, to give his counsel as to the best way of securing eighteen breakfasts. Remembering that the animal was headed north when he last saw it and that it was too old to eat, anyway, he suggested a plan which had worked successfully at other times for other ends, namely, poker. Mr. McAllister, an expert at the great American game, volunteered his service in accordance with the spirit of the occasion and, half an hour later, he and Mr. Cassidy drifted into Pell’s poker parlors, which were located in the rear of a Chinese laundry, where they gathered unto themselves the wherewithal for the required breakfasts. An hour spent in the card room of the “Hurrah” convinced its proprietor that they had wasted their talents for the past six weeks in digging for gold. The proof of this permitted the departure of the outfits with their customary elan.

At Santa Fe the various individuals had gone their respective ways, to reassemble at the ranch in the near future, and for several days they had been drifting south in groups of twos and threes and, like chaff upon a stream, had eddied into Alkaline, where Mr. Peters had found them arduously engaged in postponing the final journey. After he had gladdened their hearts and soothed their throats by making several pithy remarks to the bartender, with whom he established their credit, he cautioned them against letting any one harm them and, smiling at the humor of his warning, left abruptly.

Cactus Springs was burdened with a zealous and initiative organization known as vigilantes, whose duty it was to extend the courtesies of the land to cattle thieves and the like. This organization boasted of the name of Travennes’ Terrors and of a muster roll of twenty. There was also a boast that no one had ever escaped them which, if true, was in many cases unfortunate. Mr. Slim Travennes, with whom Mr. Cassidy had participated in an extemporaneous exchange of Colt’s courtesies in Santa Fe the year before, was the head of the organization and was also chairman of the committee on arrivals, and the two gentlemen of the Bar-20 had not been in town an hour before he knew of it.

Being anxious to show the strangers every attention and having a keen recollection of the brand of gun-play commanded by Mr. Cassidy, he planned a smoother method of procedure and one calculated to permit him to enjoy the pleasures of a good old age. Mr. Travennes knew that horse thieves were regarded as social enemies, that the necessary proof of their guilt was the finding of stolen animals in their possession, that death was the penalty and that every man, whether directly concerned or not, regarded, himself as judge, jury and executioner.

He had several acquaintances who were bound to him by his knowledge of crimes they had committed and would could not refuse his slightest wish. Even if they had been free agents they were not above causing the death of an innocent man. Mr. Travennes, feeling very self-satisfied at his cleverness, arranged to have the proof placed where it would do the most harm and intended to take care of the rest by himself.

Mr. Connors, feeling much refreshed and very hungry, arose at daylight the next morning, and dressing quickly, started off to feed and water the horses. After having several tilts with the landlord about the bucket he took his departure toward the corral at the rear. Peering through the gate, he could hardly believe his eyes. He climbed over it and inspected the animals at close range, and found that those which he and his friend had ridden for the last two months were not to be seen, but in their places were two better animals, which concerned him greatly. Being fair and square himself, he could not understand the change and sought enlightenment of his more imaginative and suspicious friend.

“Hey, Hopalong!” he called, “come out here an’ see what th’ blazes has happened!”

Mr. Cassidy stuck his auburn head out of the wounded shutter and complacently surveyed his companion. Then he saw the horses and looked hard.

“Quit yore foolin’, yu old cuss,” he remarked pleasantly, as he groped around behind him with his feet, searching for his boots. “Anybody would think yu was a little boy with yore fool jokes. Ain’t yu ever goin’ to grow up?”

“They’ve got our bronch,” replied Mr. Connors in an injured tone. “Honest, I ain’t kiddin’ yu,” he added for the sake of peace.

“Who has?” Came from the window, followed immediately by, “Yu’ve got my boots!”

“I ain’t—they’re under th’ bunk,” contradicted and explained Mr. Connors. Then, turning to the matter in his mind he replied, “I don’t know who’s got them. If I did do yu think I’d be holdin’ hands with myself?”

“Nobody’d accuse yu of anything like that,” came from the window, accompanied by an overdone snicker.

Mr. Connors flushed under his accumulated tan as he remembered the varied pleasures of Santa Fe, and he regarded the bronchos in anything but a pleasant state of mind.

Mr. Cassidy slid through the window and approached his friend, looking as serious as he could.

“Any tracks?” He inquired, as he glanced quickly over the ground to see for himself.

“Not after that wind we had last night. They might have growed there for all I can see,” growled Mr. Connors.

“I reckon we better hold a pow-wow with th’ foreman of this shack an’ find out what he knows,” suggested Mr. Cassidy. “This looks too good to be a swap.”

Mr. Connors looked his disgust at the idea and then a light broke in upon him. “Mebby they was hard pushed an’ wanted fresh cayuses,” he said. “A whole lot of people get hard pushed in this country. Anyhow, we’ll prospect th’ boss.”

They found the proprietor in his stocking feet, getting the breakfast, and Mr. Cassidy regarded the preparations with open approval. He counted the tin plates and found only three, and, thinking that there would be more plates if there were others to feed, glanced into the landlord’s room. Not finding signs of other guests, on whom to lay the blame for the loss of his horse, he began to ask questions.

“Much trade?” He inquired solicitously.

“Yep,” replied the landlord.

Mr. Cassidy looked at the three tins and wondered if there had ever been any more with which to supply his trade. “Been out this morning?” he pursued.

“Nope.”

“Talks purty nigh as much as Buck,” thought Mr. Cassidy, and then said aloud, “Anybody else here?”

“Nope.”

Mr. Cassidy lapsed into a painful and disgusted silence and his friend tried his hand.

“Who owns a mosaic bronch, Chinee flag on th’ near side, Skillet brand?” asked Mr. Connors.

“Quien sabe?”

“Gosh, he can nearly keep still in two lingoes,” thought Mr. Cassidy.

“Who owns a bob-tailed pinto, saddle-galled, cast in th’ near eye, Star Diamond brand, white stockin’ on th’ off front prop, with a habit of scratchin’ itself every other minute?” went on Mr. Connors.

“Slim Travennes,” replied the proprietor, flopping a flapjack. Mr. Cassidy reflectively scratched the back of his hand and looked innocent, but his mind was working overtime.

“Who’s Slim Travennes?” Asked Mr. Connors, never having heard of that person, owing to the reticence of his friend.

“Captain of th’ vigilantes.”

“What does he look like on th’ general run?” Blandly inquired Mr. Cassidy, wishing to verify his suspicions. He thought of the trouble he had with Mr. Travennes up in Santa Fe and of the reputation that gentleman possessed. Then the fact that Mr. Travennes was the leader of the local vigilantes came to his assistance and he was sure that the captain had a hand in the change. All these points existed in misty groups in his mind, but the next remark of the landlord caused them to rush together and reveal the plot.

“Good,” said the landlord, flopping another flapjack, “and a warnin’ to hoss thieves.

“Ahem,” coughed Mr. Cassidy and then continued, “is he a tall, lanky, yaller-headed son-of-a-gun, with a big nose an’ lots of ears?”

“Mebby so,” answered the host.

“Urn, slopping over into bad Sioux,” thought Mr. Cassidy, and then said aloud, “How long has he hung around this here layout?” At the same time passing a warning glance at his companion.

The landlord straightened up. “Look here, stranger, if yu hankers after his pedigree so all-fired hard yu had best pump him.”

“I told yu this here feller wasn’t a man what would give away all he knowed,” lied Mr. Connors, turning to his friend and indicating the host. “He ain’t got time for that. Anybody can see that he is a powerful busy man. An’ then he ain’t no child.”

Mr. Cassidy thought that the landlord could tell all he knew in about five minutes and then not break any speed records for conversation, but he looked properly awed and impressed. “Well, yu needn’t go an’ get mad about it! I didn’t know, did I?”

“Who’s gettin’ mad?” Pugnaciously asked Mr. Connors. After his injured feelings had been soothed by Mr. Cassidy’s sullen silence he again turned to the landlord.

“What did this Travennes look like when yu saw him last?” Coaxed Mr. Connors.

“Th’ same as he does now, as yu can see by lookin’ out of th’ window. That’s him down th’ street,” enlightened the host, thawing to the pleasant Mr. Connors.

Mr. Cassidy adopted the suggestion and frowned. Mr. Travennes and two companions were walking toward the corral and Mr. Cassidy once again slid out of the window, his friend going by the door.