Читать книгу The Bar-20 Trilogy (Complete Wild West Series) - Mulford Clarence Edward - Страница 19

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While Mr. Travennes had been entertained in the manner narrated, Mr. Connors had passed the time by relating stale jokes to the uproarious laughter of his extremely bored audience, who had heard the aged efforts many times since they had first seen the light of day, and most of whom earnestly longed for a drink. The landlord, hearing the hilarity, had taken advantage of the opportunity offered to see a free show. Not being able to see what the occasion was for the mirth, he had pulled on his boots and made his way to the show with a flapjack in the skillets which, in his haste, he had forgotten to put down. He felt sure that he would be entertained, and he was not disappointed. He rounded the corner and was enthusiastically welcomed by the hungry Mr. Connors, whose ubiquitous guns coaxed from the skillet its dyspeptic wad.

“Th’ saints be praised!” ejaculated Mr. Connors as a matter of form, not having a very clear idea of just what saints were, but he knew what flapjacks were and greedily overcame the heroic resistance of the one provided by chance and his own guns. As he rolled his eyes in ecstatic content the very man Mr. Cassidy had warned him against suddenly arose and in great haste disappeared around the corner of the corral, from which point of vantage he vented his displeasure at the treatment he had received by wasting six shots at the mortified Mr. Connors.

“Steady!” sang out that gentleman as the line-up wavered. “He’s a precedent to hell for yu fellers! Don’t yu get ambitious, none whatever.” Then he wondered how long it would take the fugitive to secure a rifle and return to release the others by drilling him at long range.

His thoughts were interrupted by the vision of a red head that climbed into view over a rise a short distance off and he grinned his delight as Mr. Cassidy loomed up, jaunty and triumphant. Mr. Cassidy was executing calisthenics with a Colt in the rear of Mr. Travennes’ neck and was leading the horses.

Mr. Connors waved the skillet and his friend grinned his congratulations at what the token signified.

“I see yu got some more,” said Mr. Cassidy, as he went down the line-up from the rear and collected nineteen weapons of various makes and conditions, this number being explained by the fact that all but one of the prisoners wore two. Then he added the five that had kicked against his ribs ever since he had left the hut, and carefully threaded the end of his lariat through the trigger guards.

“Looks like we stuck up a government supply mule, Red,” he remarked, as he fastened the whole collection to his saddle. “Fourteen colts, six Merwin-Hulbert’s, three Prescott, an’ one puzzle,” he added, examining the puzzle. “Made in Germany, it says, and it shore looks like it. It’s got little pins stickin’ out of th’ cylinder, like you had to swat it with a hammer or a rock, or somethin’ to make it go off. Must be damn dangerous, to most anybody around. Looks more like a cactus than a six-shooter-gosh, it’s a ten-shooter! I allus said them Dutchmen was bloody-minded cusses. Think of bein’ able to shoot yoreself ten times before th’ blame thing stops!” Then looking at the line-up for the owner of the weapon, he laughed at the woeful countenances displayed. “Did they sidle in by companies or squads?” He asked.

“By twos, mostly. Then they parade-rested an’ got discharged from duty. I had eleven, but one got homesick, or disgusted, or something, an’ deserted. It was that cussed flapjack,” confessed and explained Mr. Connors.

“What!” said Mr. Cassidy in a loud voice. “Got away! Well, we’ll have to make our get-away plumb sudden or we’ll never go.”

At this instant the escaped man again began his bombardment from the corner of the corral and Mr. Cassidy paused, indignant at the fusillade which tore up the dust at his feet. He looked reproachfully at Mr. Connors and then circled out on the plain until he caught a glimpse of a fleeing cow-puncher, whose back rapidly grew smaller in the fast-increasing distance.

“That’s yore friend, Red,” said Mr. Cassidy as he returned from his reconnaissance. “He’s that short-horn yearling. Mebby he’ll come back again,” he added hopefully. “Anyhow, we’ve got to move. He’ll collect reinforcements an’ mebby they all won’t shoot like him. Get up on yore Clarinda an’ hold th’ fort for me,” he ordered, pushing the farther horse over to his friend. Mr. Connors proved that an agile man can mount a restless horse and not lose the drop, and backed off three hundred yards, deftly substituting his Winchester for the Colts. Then Mr. Cassidy likewise mounted with his attention riveted elsewhere and backed off to the side of his companion.

The bombardment commenced again from the corral, but this time Mr. Connors’ rifle slid around in his lap and exploded twice. The bellicose gentleman of the corral yelled in pain and surprise and vanished.

“Purty good for a Winchester,” said Mr. Cassidy in doubtful congratulation.

“That’s why I got him,” snapped Mr. Connors in brief reply, and then he laughed. “Is them th’ vigilantes what never let a man get away?” He scornfully asked, backing down the street and patting his Winchester.

“Well, Red, they wasn’t all there. They was only twelve all told,” excused Mr. Cassidy. “An’ then we was two,” he explained, as he wished the collection of six-shooters was on Mr. Connors’ horse so they wouldn’t bark his shin.

“An we still are,” corrected Mr. Connors, as they wheeled and galloped for Alkaline.

As the sun sank low on the horizon Mr. Peters finished ordering provisions at the general store, the only one Alkaline boasted, and sauntered to the saloon where he had left his men. He found diem a few dollars richer, as they had borrowed ten dollars from the bartender on their reputations as poker players and had used the money to stake Mr. McAllister in a game against the local poker champion.

“Has Hopalong an’ Red showed up yet?” Asked Mr. Peters, frowning at the delay already caused.

“Nope,” replied Johnny Nelson, as he paused from tormenting Billy Williams.

At that minute the doorway was darkened and Mr. Cassidy and Mr. Connors entered and called for refreshments. Mr. Cassidy dropped a huge bundle of six-shooters on the floor, making caustic remarks regarding their utility.

“What’s th’ matter?” Inquired Mr. Peters of Mr. Cassidy. “Yu looks mad an’ anxious. An’ where in blazes did yu corral them guns?”

Mr. Cassidy drank deep and then reported with much heat what had occurred at Cactus Springs and added that he wanted to go back and wipe out the town, said desire being luridly endorsed by Mr. Connors.

“Why, shore,” said Mr. Peters, “we’ll all go. Such doings must be stopped instanter.” Then he turned to the assembled outfits and asked for a vote, which was unanimous for war.

Shortly afterward eighteen angry cowpunchers rode to the east, two red-haired gentlemen well in front and urging speed. It was 8 P.M. when they left Alkaline, and the cool of the night was so delightful that the feeling of ease which came upon them made them lax and they lost three hours in straying from the dim trail. At eight o’clock the next morning they came in sight of their destination and separated into two squads, Mr. Cassidy leading the northern division and Mr. Connors the one which circled to the south. The intention was to attack from two directions, thus taking the town from front and rear.

Cactus Springs lay gasping in the excessive heat and the vigilantes who had toed Mr. Connors’ line the day before were lounging in the shade of the “Palace” saloon, telling what they would do if they ever faced the same man again. Half a dozen sympathizers offered gratuitous condolence and advice and all were positive that they knew where Mr. Cassidy and Mr. Connors would go when they died.

The rolling thunder of madly pounding hoofs disturbed their post-mortem and they arose in a body to flee from half their number, who, guns in hands, charged down upon them through clouds of sickly white smoke. Travennes’ Terrors were minus many weapons and they could not be expected to give a glorious account of themselves. Windows rattled and fell in and doors and walls gave off peculiar sounds as they grew full of holes. Above the riot rattled the incessant crack of Colt’s and Winchester, emphasized at close intervals by the assertive roar of buffalo guns. Off to the south came another rumble of hoofs and Mr. Connors, leading the second squad,—arrived to participate in the payment of the debt.

Smoke spurted from windows and other points of vantage and hung wavering in the heated air. The shattering of woodwork told of heavy slugs finding their rest, and the whines that grew and diminished in the air sang the course of .45s.

While the fight raged hottest Mr. Nelson sprang from his horse and ran to the “Palace,” where he collected and piled a heap of tinder like wood, and soon the building burst out in flames, which, spreading, swept the town from end to end.

Mr. Cassidy fired slowly and seemed to be waiting for something. Mr. Connors laid aside his hot Winchester and devoted his attention to his Colts. A spurt of flame and smoke leaped from the window of a ‘dobe hut and Mr. Connors sat down, firing as he went. A howl from the window informed him that he had made a hit, and Mr. Cassidy ran out and dragged him to the shelter of a near-by bowlder and asked how much he was hurt.

“Not much—in the calf,” grunted Mr. Connors. “He was a bad shot—must have been the cuss that got away yesterday,” speculated the injured man as he slowly arose to his feet. Mr. Cassidy dissented from force of habit and returned to his station. Mr. Travennes, who was sleeping late that morning, coughed and fought for air in his sleep, awakened in smoke, rubbed his eyes to make sure and, scorning trousers and shirt, ran clad in his red woolen undergarments to the corral, where he mounted his scared horse and rode for the desert and safety.

Mr. Cassidy, swearing at the marksmanship of a man who fired at his head and perforated his sombrero, saw a crimson rider sweep down upon him, said rider being heralded by a blazing .44.

“Gosh!” ejaculated Mr. Cassidy, scarcely believing his eyes. “Oh, it’s my friend Slim going to hades,” he remarked to himself in audible and relieved explanation. Mr. Cassidy’s Colts cracked a protest and then he joined Mr. Peters and the others and with them fought his way out of the flame-swept town of Cactus Springs.

An hour later Mr. Connors glanced behind him at the smoke silhouetted on the horizon and pushed his way to where Mr. Cassidy rode in silence. Mr. Connors grinned at his friend of the red hair, who responded in the same manner.

“Did yu see Slim?” Casually inquired Mr. Connors, looking off to the south.

Mr. Cassidy sat upright in his saddle and felt of his Colts. “Yes,” he replied, “I saw him.”

Mr. Connors thereupon galloped on in silence.