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Hopalong Cassidy's Rustler Round-Up

<h2> CHAPTER IX. The Advent of McAllister </h2> The blazing sun shone pitilessly on an arid plain which was spotted with dust-gray clumps of mesquite and thorny chaparral. Basking in the burning sand and alkali lay several Gila monsters, which raised their heads and hissed with wide-open jaws as several faint, whip-like reports echoed flatly over the desolate plain, showing that even they had learned that danger was associated with such sounds. Off to the north there became visible a cloud of dust and at intervals something swayed in it, something that rose and fell and then became hidden again. Out of that cloud came sharp, splitting sounds, which were faintly responded to by another and larger cloud in its rear. As it came nearer and finally swept past, the Gilas, to their terror, saw a madly pounding horse, and it carried a man. The latter turned in his saddle and raised a gun to his shoulder and the thunder that issued from it caused the creeping audience to throw up their tails in sudden panic and bury themselves out of sight in the sand. The horse was only a broncho, its sides covered with hideous yellow spots, and on its near flank was a peculiar scar, the brand. Foam flecked from its crimsoned jaws and found a resting place on its sides and on the hairy chaps of its rider. Sweat rolled and streamed from its heaving flanks and was greedily sucked up by the drought-cursed alkali. Close to the rider's knee a bloody furrow ran forward and one of the broncho's ears was torn and limp. The broncho was doing its best—it could run at that pace until it dropped dead. Every ounce of strength it possessed was put forth to bring those hind hoofs well in front of the forward ones and to send them pushing the sand behind in streaming clouds. The horse had done this same thing many times—when would its master learn sense? The man was typical in appearance with many of that broad land. Lithe, sinewy and bronzed by hard riding and hot suns, he sat in his Cheyenne saddle like a centaur, all his weight on the heavy, leather-guarded stirrups, his body rising in one magnificent straight line. A bleached moustache hid the thin lips, and a gray sombrero threw a heavy shadow across his eyes. Around his neck and over his open, blue flannel shirt lay loosely a knotted silk kerchief, and on his thighs a pair of open-flapped holsters swung uneasily with their ivory handled burdens. He turned abruptly, raised his gun to his shoulder and fired, then he laughed recklessly and patted his mount, which responded to the confident caress by lying flatter to the earth in a spurt of heart-breaking speed. “I'll show 'em who they're trailin'. This is th' second time I've started for Muddy Wells, an' I'm goin' to git there, too, for all th' Apaches out of Hades!” To the south another cloud of dust rapidly approached and the rider scanned it closely, for it was directly in his path. As he watched it he saw something wave and it was a sombrero! Shortly afterward a real cowboy yell reached his ears. He grinned and slid another cartridge in the greasy, smoking barrel of the Sharp's and fired again at the cloud in his rear. Some few minutes later a whooping, bunched crowd of madly riding cowboys thundered past him and he was recognized. “Hullo, Frenchy!” yelled the nearest one. “Comin' back?” “Come on, McAllister!” shouted another; “we'll give 'em blazes!” In response the straining broncho suddenly stiffened, bunched and slid on its haunches, wheeled and retraced its course. The rear cloud suddenly scattered into many smaller ones and all swept off to the east. The rescuing band overtook them and, several hours later, when seated around a table in Tom Lee's saloon, Muddy Wells, a count was taken of them, which was pleasing in its facts. “We was huntin' coyotes when we saw yu,” said a smiling puncher who was known as Salvation Carroll chiefly because he wasn't. “Yep! They've been stalkin' Tom's chickens,” supplied Waffles, the champion poker player of the outfit. Tom Lee's chickens could whip anything of their kind for miles around and were reverenced accordingly. “Sho! Is that so?” Asked Frenchy with mild incredulity, such a state of affairs being deplorable. “She shore is!” answered Tex Le Blanc, and then, as an afterthought, he added, “Where'd yu hit th' War-whoops?” “'Bout four hours back. This here's th' second time I've headed for this place—last time they chased me to Las Cruces.” “That so?” Asked Bigfoot Baker, a giant. “Ain't they allus interferin', now? Anyhow, they're better'n coyotes.” “They was purty well heeled,” suggested Tex, glancing at a bunch of repeating Winchesters of late model which lay stacked in a corner. “Charley here said he thought they was from th' way yore cayuse looked, didn't yu, Charley?” Charley nodded and filled his pipe. “'Pears like a feller can't amble around much nowadays without havin' to fight,” grumbled Lefty Allen, who usually went out of his way hunting up trouble. “We're goin' to th' Hills as soon as our cookie turns up,” volunteered Tenspot Davis, looking inquiringly at Frenchy. “Heard any more news?” “Nope. Same old story—lots of gold. Shucks, I've bit on so many of them rumors that they don't feaze me no more. One man who don't know nothin' about prospectin' goes an' stumbles over a fortune an' those who know it from A to Izzard goes 'round pullin' in their belts.” “We don't pull in no belts—we knows just where to look, don't we, Tenspot?” Remarked Tex, looking very wise. “Ya-as we do,” answered Tenspot, “if yu hasn't dreamed about it, we do.” “Yu wait; I wasn't dreamin', none whatever,” assured Tex. “I saw it!” “Ya-as, I saw it too onct,” replied Frenchy with sarcasm. “Went and lugged fifty pound of it all th' way to th' assay office—took me two days! an' that there four-eyed cuss looks at it and snickers. Then he takes me by di' arm an' leads me to th' window. 'See that pile, my friend? That's all like yourn,' sez he. 'It's worth about one simoleon a ton at th' coast. They use it for ballast.'” “Aw! But this what I saw was gold!” exploded Tex. “So was mine, for a while!” laughed Frenchy, nodding to the bartender for another round. “Well, we're tired of punchin' cows! Ride sixteen hours a day, year in an' year out, an' what do we get? Fifty a month an' no chance to spend it, an' grub that'd make a coyote sniffle! I'm for a vacation, an' if I goes broke, why, I'll punch again!” asserted Waffles, the foreman, thus revealing the real purpose of the trip. “What'd yore boss say?” Asked Frenchy. “Whoop! What didn't he say! Honest, I never thought he had it in him. It was fine. He cussed an hour frontways an' then trailed back on a dead gallop, with us a-laughin' fit to bust. Then he rustles for his gun an' we rustles for town,” answered Waffles, laughing at his remembrance of it. As Frenchy was about to reply his sombrero was snatched from his head and disappeared. If he “got mad” he was to be regarded as not sufficiently well acquainted for banter and he was at once in hot water; if he took it good-naturedly he was one of the crowd in spirit; but in either case he didn't get his hat without begging or fighting for it. This was a recognized custom among the O-Bar-O outfit and was not intended as an insult. Frenchy grabbed at the empty air and arose. Punching Lefty playfully in the ribs he passed his hands behind that person's back. Not finding the lost head-gear he laughed and, tripping Lefty up, fell with him and, reaching up on the table for his glass, poured the contents down Lefty's back and arose. “Yu son-of-a-gun!” indignantly wailed that unfortunate. “Gee, it feels funny,” he added, grinning as he pulled the wet shirt away from his spine. “Well, I've got to be amblin',” said Frenchy, totally ignoring the loss of his hat. “Goin' down to Buckskin,” he offered, and then asked, “When's yore cook comin'?” “Day after to-morrow, if he don't get loaded,” replied Tex. “Who is he?” “A one-eyed Mexican—Quiensabe Antonio.” “I used to know him. He's a heck of a cook. Dished up th' grub one season when I was punchin' for th' Tin-Cup up in Montana,” replied Frenchy. “Oh, he kin cook now, all right.” replied Waffles. “That's about all he can cook. Useter wash his knives in th' coffee pot an' blow on di' tins. I chased him a mile one night for leavin' sand in th' skillet. Yu can have him—I don't envy yu none whatever. “He don't sand no skillet when little Tenspot's around,” assured that person, slapping his holster. “Does he, Lefty?” “If he does, yu oughter be lynched,” consoled Lefty. “Well, so long,” remarked Frenchy, riding off to a small store, where he bought a cheap sombrero. Frenchy was a jack-of-all-trades, having been cow-puncher, prospector, proprietor of a “hotel” in Albuquerque, foreman of a ranch, sheriff, and at one time had played angel to a venturesome but poor show troupe. Beside his versatility he was well known as the man who took the stage through the Sioux country when no one else volunteered. He could shoot with the best, but his one pride was the brand of poker he handed out. Furthermore, he had never been known to take an unjust advantage over any man and, on the contrary, had frequently voluntarily handicapped himself to make the event more interesting. But he must not be classed as being hampered with self-restraint. His reasons for making this trip were two-fold: he wished to see Buck Peters, the foreman of the Bar-20 outfit, as he and Buck had punched cows together twenty years before and were firm friends; the other was that he wished to get square with Hopalong Cassidy, who had decisively cleaned him out the year before at poker. Hopalong played either in great good luck or the contrary, while Frenchy played an even, consistent game and usually left off richer than when he began, and this decisive defeat bothered him more than he would admit, even to himself. The round-up season was at hand and the Bar-20 was short of ropers, the rumors of fresh gold discoveries in the Black Hills having drawn all the more restless men north. The outfit also had a slight touch of the gold fever, and only their peculiar loyalty to the ranch and the assurance of the foreman that when the work was over he would accompany them, kept them from joining the rush of those who desired sudden and much wealth as the necessary preliminary of painting some cow town in all the “bang up” style such an event would call for. Therefore they had been given orders to secure the required assistance, and they intended to do so, and were prepared to kidnap, if necessary, for the glamour of wealth and the hilarity of the vacation made the hours falter in their speed. As Frenchy leaned back in his chair in Cowan's saloon, Buckskin, early the next morning, planning to get revenge on Hopalong and then to recover his sombrero, he heard a medley of yells and whoops and soon the door flew open before the strenuous and concentrated entry of a mass of twisting and kicking arms and legs, which magically found their respective owners and reverted to the established order of things. When the alkali dust had thinned he saw seven cow-punchers sitting on the prostrate form of another, who was earnestly engaged in trying to push Johnny Nelson's head out in the street with one foot as he voiced his lucid opinion of things in general and the seven in particular. After Red Connors had been stabbed in the back several times by the victim's energetic elbow he ran out of the room and presently returned with a pleased expression and a sombrero full of water, his finger plugging an old bullet hole in the crown. “Is he any better, Buck?” Anxiously inquired the man with the reservoir. “About a dollar's worth,” replied the foreman. “Jest put a little right here,” he drawled as he pulled back the collar of the unfortunate's shirt. “Ow! wow! WOW!” wailed the recipient, heaving and straining. The unengaged leg was suddenly wrested loose, and as it shot up and out Billy Williams, with his pessimism aroused to a blue-ribbon pitch, sat down forcibly in an adjacent part of the room, from where he lectured between gasps on the follies of mankind and the attributes of army mules. Red tiptoed around the squirming bunch, looking for an opening, his pleased expression now having added a grin. “Seems to be gittin' violent-like,” he soliloquized, as he aimed a stream at Hopalong's ear, which showed for a second as Pete Wilson strove for a half-nelson, and he managed to include Johnny and Pete in his effort. Several minutes later, when the storm had subsided, the woeful crowd enthusiastically urged Hopalong to the bar, where he “bought.” “Of all th' ornery outfits I ever saw—” began the man at the table, grinning from ear to ear at the spectacle he had just witnessed. “Why, hullo, Frenchy! Glad to see yu, yu old son-of-a-gun! What's th' news from th' Hills?” Shouted Hopalong. “Rather locoed, an' there's a locoed gang that's headin' that way. Goin' up?” he asked. “Shore, after round-up. Seen any punchers trailin' around loose?” “Ya-as,” drawled Frenchy, delving into the possibilities suddenly opened to him and determining to utilize to the fullest extent the opportunity that had come to him unsought. “There's nine over to Muddy Wells that yu might git if yu wants them bad enough. They've got a sombrero of mine,” he added deprecatingly. “Nine! Twisted Jerusalem, Buck! Nine whole cow-punchers a-pinin' for work,” he shouted, but then added thoughtfully, “Mebby they's engaged,” it being one of the courtesies of the land not to take another man's help. “Nope. They've stampeded for th' Hills an' left their boss all alone,” replied Frenchy, well knowing that such desertion would not, in the minds of the Bar-20 men, add any merits to the case of the distant outfit. “Th' sons-of-guns,” said Hopalong, “let's go an' get 'em,” he suggested, turning to Buck, who nodded a smiling assent. “Oh, what's the hurry?” Asked Frenchy, seeing his projected game slipping away into the uncertain future and happy in the thought that he would be avenged on the O-Bar-O outfit. “They'll be there till to-morrow noon—they's waitin' for their cookie, who's goin' with them.” “A cook! A cook! Oh, joy, a cook!” exulted Johnny, not for one instant doubting Buck's ability to capture the whole outfit and seeing a whirl of excitement in the effort. “Anybody we knows?” Inquired Skinny Thompson. “Shore. Tenspot Davis, Waffles, Salvation Carroll, Bigfoot Baker, Charley Lane, Lefty Allen, Kid Morris, Curley Tate an' Tex Le Blanc,” responded Frenchy. “Umm-m. Might as well rope a blizzard,” grumbled Billy. “Might as well try to git th' Seventh Cavalry. We'll have a pious time corralling that bunch. Them's th' fellows that hit that bunch of inquirin' Crow braves that time up in th' Bad Lands an' then said by-bye to th' Ninth.” “Aw, shut up! They's only two that's very much, an' Buck an' Hopalong can sing 'em to sleep,” interposed Johnny, afraid that the expedition would fall through. “How about Curley and Tex?” Pugnaciously asked Billy. “Huh, jest because they buffaloed yu over to Las Vegas yu needn't think they's dangerous. Salvation an' Tenspot are only ones who can shoot,” stoutly maintained Johnny. “Here yu, get mum,” ordered Buck to the pair. “When this outfit goes after anything it generally gets it. All in favor of kidnappin' that outfit signify di' same by kickin' Billy,” whereupon Bill swore. “Do yu want yore hat?” Asked Buck, turning to Frenchy. “I shore do,” answered that individual. “If yu helps us at th' round-up we'll get it for yu. Fifty a month an' grub,” offered the foreman. “O.K.” replied Frenchy, anxious to even matters. Buck looked at his watch. “Seven o'clock—we ought to get there by five if we relays at th' Barred-Horseshoe. Come on.” “How are we goin' to git them?” Asked Billy. “Yu leave that to me, son. Hopalong an' Frenchy'll tend to that part of it,” replied Buck, making for his horse and swinging into the saddle, an example which was followed by the others, including Frenchy. As they swung off Buck noticed the condition of Frenchy's mount and halted. “Yu take that cayuse back an' get Cowan's,” he ordered. “That cayuse is good for Cheyenne—she eats work, an' besides I wants my own,” laughed Frenchy. “Yu must had a reg'lar picnic from th' looks of that crease,” volunteered Hopalong, whose curiosity was mastering him. “Shoo! I had a little argument with some feather dusters—th' O-Bar-O crowd cleaned them up.” “That so?” Asked Buck. “Yep! They sorter got into th' habit of chasin' me to Las Cruces an' forgot to stop.” “How many'd yu get?” Asked Lanky Smith. “Twelve. Two got away. I got two before th' crowd showed up—that makes fo'teen.” “Now th' cavalry'll be huntin' yu,” croaked Billy. “Hunt nothin'! They was in war-paint-think I was a target?—Think I was goin' to call off their shots for 'em?” They relayed at the Barred-Horseshoe and went on their way at the same pace. Shortly after leaving the last-named ranch Buck turned to Frenchy and asked, “Any of that outfit think they can play poker?” “Shore. Waffles.” “Does th' reverend Mr. Waffles think so very hard?” “He shore does.” “Do th' rest of them mavericks think so too?” “They'd bet their shirts on him.” At this juncture all were startled by a sudden eruption from Billy. “Haw! Haw! Haw!” he roared as the drift of Buck's intentions struck him. “Haw! Haw! Haw!” “Here, yu long-winded coyote,” yelled Red, banging him over the head with his quirt, “If yu don't 'Haw! Haw!' away from my ear I'll make it a Wow! Wow! What d'yu mean? Think I am a echo cliff? Yu slabsided doodle-bug, yu!” “G'way, yu crimson topknot, think my head's a hunk of quartz? Fer a plugged peso I'd strew yu all over th' scenery!” shouted Billy, feigning anger and rubbing his head. “There ain't no scenery around here,” interposed Lanky. “This here be-utiful prospect is a sublime conception of th' devil.” “Easy, boy! Them highfalutin' words'il give yu a cramp some day. Yu talk like a newly-made sergeant,” remarked Skinny. “He learned them words from the sky-pilot over at El Paso,” volunteered Hopalong, winking at Red. “He used to amble down th' aisle afore the lights was lit so's he could get a front seat. That was all hunky for a while, but every time he'd go out to irrigate, that female organ-wrastler would seem to call th' music off for his special benefit. So in a month he'd sneak in an' freeze to a chair by th' door, an' after a while he'd shy like blazes every time he got within eye range of th' church.” “Shore. But do yu know what made him get religion all of a sudden? He used to hang around on di' outside after th' joint let out an' trail along behind di' music-slinger, lookin' like he didn't know what to do with his hands. Then when he got woozy one time she up an' told him that she had got a nice long letter from her hubby. Then Mr. Lanky hit th' trail for Santa Fe so hard that there wasn't hardly none of it left. I didn't see him for a whole month,” supplied Red innocently. “Yore shore funny, ain't yu?” sarcastically grunted Lanky. “Why, I can tell things on yu that'd make yu stand treat for a year.” “I wouldn't sneak off to Santa Fe an' cheat yu out of them. Yu ought to be ashamed of yoreself.” “Yah!” snorted the aggrieved little man. “I had business over to Santa Fe!” “Shore,” endorsed Hopalong. “We've all had business over to Santa Fe. Why, about eight years ago I had business—” “Choke up,” interposed Red. “About eight years ago yu was washin' pans for cookie, an' askin' me for cartridges. Buck used to larrup yu about four times a day eight years ago.” To their roars of laughter Hopalong dropped to the rear, where, red-faced and quiet, he bent his thoughts on how to get square. “We'll have a pleasant time corralling that gang,” began Billy for the third time. “For heaven's sake get off that trail!” replied Lanky. “We aint goin' to hold 'em up. De-plomacy's th' game.” Billy looked dubious and said nothing. If he hadn't proven that he was as nervy as any man in the outfit they might have taken more stock in his grumbling. “What's the latest from Abilene way?” Asked Buck of Frenchy. “Nothin' much 'cept th' barb-wire ruction,” replied the recruit. “What's that?” Asked Red, glancing apprehensively back at Hopalong. “Why, th' settlers put up barb-wire fence so's the cattle wouldn't get on their farms. That would a been all right, for there wasn't much of it. But some Britishers who own a couple of big ranches out there got smart all of a sudden an' strung wire all along their lines. Punchers crossin' th' country would run plumb into a fence an' would have to ride a day an' a half, mebbe, afore they found th' corner. Well, naturally, when a man has been used to ridin' where he blame pleases an' as straight as he pleases he ain't goin' to chase along a five-foot fence to Trisco when he wants to get to Waco. So th' punchers got to totin' wire-snips, an' when they runs up agin a fence they cuts down half a mile or so. Sometimes they'd tie their ropes to a strand an' pull off a couple of miles an' then go back after th' rest. Th' ranch bosses sent out men to watch th' fences an' told 'em to shoot any festive puncher that monkeyed with th' hardware. Well, yu know what happens when a puncher gets shot at.” “When fences grow in Texas there'll be th' devil to pay,” said Buck. He hated to think that some day the freedom of the range would be annulled, for he knew that it would be the first blow against the cowboys' occupation. When a man's cattle couldn't spread out all over the land he wouldn't have to keep so many men. Farms would spring up and the sun of the free-and-easy cowboy would slowly set. “I reckons th' cutters are classed th' same as rustlers,” remarked Red with a gleam of temper. “By th' owners, but not by th' punchers; an' it's th' punchers that count,” replied Frenchy. “Well, we'll give them a fight,” interposed Hopalong, riding up. “When it gets so I can't go where I please I'll start on th' warpath. I won't buck the cavalry, but I'll keep it busy huntin' for me an' I'll have time to 'tend to th' wire-fence men, too. Why, we'll be told we can't tote our guns!” “They're sayin' that now,” replied Frenchy. “Up in Buffalo, Smith, who's now marshal, makes yu leave 'em with th' bartenders.” “I'd like to see any two-laigged cuss get my guns If I didn't want him to!” began Hopalong, indignant at the idea. “Easy, son,” cautioned Buck. “Yu would do what th' rest did because yu are a square man. I'm about as hard-headed a puncher as ever straddled leather an' I've had to use my guns purty considerable, but I reckons if any decent marshal asked me to cache them in a decent way, why, I'd do it. An' let me brand somethin' on yore mind—I've heard of Smith of Buffalo, an' he's mighty nifty with his hands. He don't stand off an' tell yu to unload yore lead-ranch, but he ambles up close an' taps yu on yore shirt; if yu makes a gunplay he naturally knocks yu clean across th' room an' unloads yu afore yu gets yore senses back. He weighs about a hundred an' eighty an' he's shore got sand to burn.” “Yah! When I makes a gun play she plays! I'd look nice in Abilene or Paso or Albuquerque without my guns, wouldn't I? Just because I totes them in plain sight I've got to hand 'em over to some liquor-wrastler? I reckons not! Some hip-pocket skunk would plug me afore I could wink. I'd shore look nice loping around a keno layout without my guns, in th' same town with some cuss huntin' me, wouldn't I? A whole lot of good a marshal would a done Jimmy, an' didn't Harris get his from a cur in th' dark?” shouted Hopalong, angered by the prospect. “We're talkin' about Buffalo, where everybody has to hang up their guns,” replied Buck. “An' there's th' law—” “To blazes with th' law!” whooped Hopalong in Red's ear as he unfastened the cinch of Red's saddle and at the same time stabbing that unfortunate's mount with his spurs, thereby causing a hasty separation of the two. When Red had picked himself up and things had quieted down again the subject was changed, and several hours later they rode into Muddy Wells, a town with a little more excuse for its existence than Buckskin. The wells were in an arid valley west of Guadaloupe Pass, and were not only muddy but more or less alkaline. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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