Book: Bar 20 Days

C >> Clarence E. Mulford >> Bar 20 Days




"Boys," remarked the proprietor, "I want you to meet Mr. Elkins. He came
down that trail last week, an' he didn't see no fence across it." The
man at the table arose slowly. "Mr. Elkins, this is Sandy Lucas, an'
Wood Wright, of the C-80. Mr. Elkins here has been a-looking over the
country, sizing up what the beef prospects will be for next year; an'
he knows all about wire fences. Here's how," he smiled, treating on the
house.

Mr. Elkins touched the glass to his bearded lips and set it down
untasted while he joked over the sharp rebuff so lately administered to
wire fences in that part of the country. While he was an ex-cow-puncher
he believed that he was above allowing prejudice to sway his judgment,
and it was his opinion, after careful thought, that barb wire was
harmful to the best interests of the range. He had ridden over a great
part of the cattle country in the last few yeas, and after reviewing
the existing conditions as he understood them, his verdict must go as
stated, and emphatically. He launched gracefully into a slowly
delivered and lengthy discourse upon the subject, which proved to be
so entertaining that his companions were content to listen and nod with
comprehension. They had never met any one who was so well qualified
to discuss the pros and cons of the barb-wire fence question, and they
learned many things which they had never heard before. This was very
gratifying to Mr. Elkins, who drew largely upon hearsay, his own vivid
imagination, and a healthy logic. He was very glad to talk to men who
had the welfare of the range at heart, and he hoped soon to meet the
man who had taken the initiative in giving barb wire its first serious
setback on that rich and magnificent southern range.

"You shore ought to meet Cassidy--he's a fine man," remarked Lucas with
enthusiasm. "You'll not find any better, no matter where you look. But
you ain't touched yore liquor," he finished with surprise.

"You'll have to excuse me, gentlemen," replied Mr. Elkins, smiling
deprecatingly. "When a man likes it as much as I do it ain't very easy
to foller instructions an' let it alone. Sometimes I almost break loose
an' indulge, regardless of whether it kills me or not. I reckon it'll
get me yet." He struck the bar a resounding blow with his clenched hand.
"But I ain't going to cave in till I has to!"

"That's purty tough," sympathized Wood Wright, reflectively. "I ain't
so very much taken with it, but I know I would be if I knowed I couldn't
have any."

"Yes, that's human nature, all right," laughed Lucas. "That reminds me
of a little thing that happened to me once--"

"Listen!" exclaimed Cowan, holding up his hand for silence. "I reckon
that's the Bar-20 now, or some of it--sounds like them when they're
feeling frisky. There's allus something happening when them fellers are
around."

The proprietor was right, as proved a moment later when Johnny Nelson,
continuing his argument, pushed open the door and entered the room. "I
didn't neither; an' you know it!" he flung over his shoulder.

"Then who did?" demanded Hopalong, chuckling. "Why, hullo, boys," he
said, nodding to his friends at the bar. "Nobody else would do a fool
thing like that; nobody but you, Kid," he added, turning to Johnny.

"I don't care a hang what you think; I say I didn't an'--"

"He shore did, all right; I seen him just afterward," laughed Billy
Williams, pressing close upon Hopalong's heels. "Howdy, Lucas; an'
there's that ol' coyote, Wood Wright. How's everybody feeling?"

"Where's the rest of you fellers?" inquired Cowan.

"Stayed home to-night," replied Hopalong.

"Got any loose money, you two?" asked Billy, grinning at Lucas and
Wright.

"I reckon we have--an' our credit's good if we ain't. We're good for a
dollar or two, ain't we, Cowan?" replied Lucas.

"Two dollars an' four bits," corrected Cowan. "I'll raise it to three
dollars even when you pay me that 'leven cents you owe me."

"'Leven cents? What 'leven cents?"

"Postage stamps an' envelope for that love letter you writ."

"Go to blazes; that wasn't no love letter!" snorted Lucas, indignantly.
"That was my quarterly report. I never did write no love letters,
nohow."

"We'll trim you fellers to-night, if you've got the nerve to play us,"
grinned Johnny, expectantly.

"Yes; an' we've got that, too. Give us the cards, Cowan," requested Wood
Wright, turning. "They won't give us no peace till we take all their
money away from 'em."

"Open game," prompted Cowan, glancing meaningly at Elkins, who stood by
idly looking on, and without showing much interest in the scene.

"Shore! Everybody can come in what wants to," replied Lucas, heartily,
leading the others to the table. "I allus did like a six-handed game
best--all the cards are out an' there's some excitement in it."

When the deal began Elkins was seated across the table from Hopalong,
facing him for the first time since that day over in Muddy Wells, and
studying him closely. He found no changes, for the few years had left
no trace of their passing on the Bar-20 puncher. The sensation of facing
the man he had come south expressly to kill did not interfere with
Elkins' card-playing ability for he played a good game; and as if the
Fates were with him it was Hopalong's night off as far as poker was
concerned, for his customary good luck was not in evidence. That
instinctive feeling which singles out two duellists in a card game
was soon experienced by the others, who were careful, as became good
players, to avoid being caught between them; in consequence, when the
game broke up, Elkins had most of Hopalong's money. At one period of his
life Elkins had lived on poker for five years, and lived well. But he
gained more than money in this game, for he had made friends with the
players and placed the first wire of his trap. Of those in the room
Hopalong alone treated him with reserve, and this was cleverly swung so
that it appeared to be caused by a temporary grouch due to the sting of
defeat. As the Bar-20 man was known to be given to moods at times this
was accepted as the true explanation and gave promise of hotly contested
games for revenge later on. The banter which the defeated puncher had to
endure stirred him and strengthened the reserve, although he was careful
not to show it.

When the last man rode off, Elkins and the proprietor sought their bunks
without delay, the former to lie awake a long time, thinking deeply.
He was vexed at himself for failing to work out an acceptable plan
of action, one that would show him to be in the right. He would gain
nothing more than glory, and pay too dearly for it, if he killed
Hopalong and was in turn killed by the dead man's friends--and
he believed that he had become acquainted with the quality of the
friendship which bound the units of the Bar-20 outfit into a smooth,
firm whole. They were like brothers, like one man. Cassidy must do the
forcing as far as appearances went, and be clearly in the wrong before
the matter could be settled.

The next week was a busy one for Elkins, every day finding him in the
saddle and riding over some one of the surrounding ranches with one or
more of its punchers for company. In this way he became acquainted with
the men who might be called on to act as his jury when the showdown
came, and he proceeded to make friends of them in a manner that promised
success. And some of his suggestions for the improvement of certain
conditions on the range, while they might not work out right in the
long run, compelled thought and showed his interest. His remarks on the
condition and numbers of cattle were the same in substance in all cases
and showed that he knew what he was talking about, for the punchers were
all very optimistic about the next year's showing in cattle.

"If you fellers don't break all records for drive herds of quality next
year I don't know nothing about cows; an' I shore don't know nothing
else," he told the foreman of the Bar-20, as they rode homeward after an
inspection of that ranch. "There'll be more dust hanging over the
drive trails leading from this section next year when spring drops
the barriers than ever before. You needn't fear for the market,
neither--prices will stand. The north an' central ranges ain't doing
what they ought to this year--it'll be up to you fellers down south,
here, to make that up; an' you can do it." This was not a guess, but the
result of thought and study based on the observations he had made on his
ride south, and from what he had learned from others along the way.
It paralleled Buck's own private opinion, especially in regard to
the southern range; and the vague suspicions in the foreman's mind
disappeared for good and all.

Needless to say Elkins was a welcome visitor at the ranch houses and was
regarded as a good fellow. At the Bar-20 he found only two men who
would not thaw to him, and he was possessed of too much tact to try
any persuasive measures. One was Hopalong, whose original cold reserve
seemed to be growing steadily, the Bar-20 puncher finding in Elkins
a personality that charged the atmosphere with hostility and quietly
rubbed him the wrong way. Whenever he was in the presence of the
newcomer he felt the tugging of an irritating and insistent antagonism
and he did not always fully conceal it. John Bartlett, Lucas, and one
or two of the more observing had noticed it and they began to prophesy
future trouble between the two. The other man who disliked Elkins was
Red Connors; but what was more natural? Red, being Hopalong's closest
companion, would be very apt to share his friend's antipathy. On the
other hand, as if to prove Hopalong's dislike to be unwarranted, Johnny
Nelson swung far to the other extreme and was frankly enthusiastic in
his liking for the cattle scout. And Johnny did not pour oil on the
waters when he laughingly twitted Hopalong for allowing "a licking
at cards to make him sore." This was the idea that Elkins was quietly
striving to have generally accepted.

The affair thus hung fire, Elkins chafing at the delay and cautiously
working for an opening, which at last presented itself, to be promptly
seized. By a sort of mutual, unspoken agreement, the men in Cowan's that
night passed up the cards and sat swapping stories. Cowan, swearing at a
smoking lamp, looked up with a grin and burned his fingers as a roar of
laughter marked the point of a droll reminiscence told by Bartlett.

"That's a good story, Bartlett," Elkins remarked, slowing refilling
his pipe. "Reminds me of the lame Greaser, Hippy Joe, an' the canned
oysters. They was both bad, an' neither of 'em knew it till they came
together. It was like this. . . ." The malicious side glance went unseen
by all but Hopalong, who stiffened with the raging suspicion of being
twitted on his own deformity. The humor of the tale failed to appeal
to him, and when his full senses returned Lucas was in the midst of
the story of the deadly game of tag played in a ten-acre lot of dense
underbrush by two of his old-time friends. It was a tale of gripping
interest and his auditors were leaning forward in their eagerness not to
miss a word. "An' Pierce won," finished Lucas; "some shot up, but able
to get about. He was all right in a couple of weeks. But he was bound to
win; he could shoot all around Sam Hopkins."

"But the best shot won't allus win in that game," commented Elkins.
"That's one of the minor factors."

"Yes, sir! It's _luck_ that counts there," endorsed Bartlett, quickly.
"Luck, nine times out of ten."

"Best shot ought to win," declared Skinny Thompson. "It ain't all luck,
nohow. Where'd I be against Hoppy, there?"

"Won't neither!" cried Johnny, excitedly. "The man who sees the other
first wins out. That's wood-craft, an' brains."

"Aw! What do you know about it, anyhow?" demanded Lucas. "If he can't
shoot so good what chance has he got--if he misses the first try, what
then?"

"What chance has he got! First chance, miss or no miss. If he can't see
the other first, where the devil does his good shooting come in?"

"Huh!" snorted Wood Wright, belligerently. "Any fool can _see_, but he
can't _shoot_! An' it's as much luck as wood-craft, too, an' don't you
forget it!"

"The first shot don't win, Johnny; not in a game like that, with all the
dodging an' ducking," remarked Red. "You can't put one where you want it
when a feller's slipping around in the brush. It's the most that counts,
an' the best shot gets in the most. I wouldn't want to have to stand up
against Hoppy an' a short gun, not in that game; no, sir!" and Red shook
his head with decision.

The argument waxed hot. With the exception of Hopalong, who sat silently
watchful, every one spoke his opinion and repeated it without regard to
the others. It appeared that in this game, the man with the strongest
lungs would eventually win out, and each man tried to show his
superiority in that line. Finally, above the uproar, Cowan's bellow was
herd, and he kept it up until some notice was taken of it. "Shut up!
_Shut up_! For God's sake, _quit_! Never saw such a bunch of tinder--let
somebody drop a cold, burned-out match in this gang, an' hell's to pay.
Here, _all_ of you, play cards an' forget about cross-tag in the scrub.
You'll be arguing about playing marbles in the dark purty soon!"

"All right," muttered Johnny, "but just the same, the man who--"

"Never mind about the man who! Did you hear _me_?" yelled Cowan, swiftly
reaching for a bucket of water. "_This_ is a game where _I_ gets the
most in, an' don't forget it!"

"Come on; play cards," growled Lucas, who did not relish having his
decision questioned on his own story. Undoubtedly somewhere in the wide,
wide world there was such a thing as common courtesy, but none of it had
ever strayed onto that range.

The chairs scraped on the rough floor as the men pulled up to a table.
"I don't care a hang," came Elkins' final comment as he shuffled the
cards with careful attention. "I'm not any fancy Colt expert, but I'm
damned if I won't take a chance in that game with any man as totes a
gun. Leastawise, of _course_, I wouldn't take no such advantage of a
lame man."

The effect would have been ludicrous but for its deadly significance.
Cowan, stooping to go under the bar, remained in that hunched-up
attitude, his every faculty concentrated in his ears; the match on its
way to the cigarette between Red's lips was held until it burned his
fingers, when it was dropped from mere reflex action, the hand still
stiffly aloft; Lucas, half in and half out of his chair, seemed to have
got just where he intended, making no effort to seat himself. Skinny
Thompson, his hand on his gun, seemed paralyzed; his mouth was open
to frame a reply that never was uttered and he stared through narrowed
eyelids at the blunderer. The sole movement in the room was the slow
rising of Hopalong and the markedly innocent shuffling of the cards by
Elkins, who appeared to be entirely ignorant of the weight and effect of
his words. He dropped the pack for the cut and then looked up and around
as if surprised by the silence and the expressions he saw.

Hopalong stood facing him, leaning over with both hands on the table.
His voice, when he spoke, rumbled up from his chest in a low growl. "You
won't _have_ no advantage, Elkins. Take it from me, you've had yore last
fling. I'm glad you made it plain, this time, so it's something I can
take hold of." He straightened slowly and walked to the door, and an
audible sigh sounded through the room as it was realized that trouble
was not immediately imminent. At the door he paused and turned back
around, looking back over his shoulder. "At noon to-morrow I'm going to
hoof it north through the brush between the river an' the river trail,
starting at the old ford a mile down the river." He waited expectantly.

"Me too--only the other way," was the instant rejoinder. "Have it yore
own way."

Hopalong nodded and the closing door shut him out into the night.
Without a word the Bar-20 men arose and followed him, the only hesitant
being Johnny, who was torn between loyalty and new-found friendship; but
with a sorrowful shake of the head, he turned away and passed out, not
far behind the others.

"Clannish, ain't they?" remarked Elkins, gravely.

Those remaining were regarding him sternly, questioningly, Cowan with
a deep frown darkening his face. "You hadn't ought to 'a' said that,
Elkins." The reproof was almost an accusation.

Elkins looked steadily at the speaker. "You hadn't ought to 'a' let me
say it," he replied. "How did I know he was so touchy?" His gaze left
Cowan and lingered in turn on each of the others. "Some of you ought to
'a' told me. I wouldn't 'a' said it only for what I said just before,
an' I didn't want him to think I was challenging him to no duel in
the brush. So I says so, an' then he goes an' takes it up that I _am_
challenging him. I ain't got no call to fight with nobody. Ain't I tried
to keep out of trouble with him ever since I've been here? Ain't I kept
out of the poker games on his account? Ain't I?" The grave, even tones
were dispassionate, without a trace of animus and serenely sure of
justice.

The faces around him cleared gradually and heads began to nod in
comprehending consent.

"Yes, I reckon you have," agreed Cowan, slowly, but the frown was not
entirely gone. "Yes, I reckon--mebby--you have."



CHAPTER XXIV

THE MASTER

It was noon by the sun when Hopalong and Red shook hands south of the
old ford and the former turned to enter the brush. Hopalong was cool
and ominously calm while his companion was the opposite. Red was frankly
suspicious of the whole affair and nursed the private opinion that Mr.
Elkins would lay in ambush and shoot his enemy down like a dog. And Red
had promised himself a dozen times that he would study the signs around
the scene of action if Hopalong should not come back, and take a keen
delight, if warranted, in shooting Mr. Elkins full of holes with no
regard for an even break. He was thinking the matter over as his friend
breasted the first line of brush and could not refrain from giving a
slight warning. "Get him, Hoppy," he called, earnestly; "get him good.
Let _him_ do some of the moving about. I'll be here waiting for you."

Hopalong smiled in reply and sprang forward, the leaves and branches
quickly shutting him from Red's sight. He had worked out his plan of
action the night before when he was alone and the world was still, and
as soon as he had it to his satisfaction he had dropped off to sleep as
easily as a child--it took more than gun-play to disturb his nerves.
He glanced about him to make sure of his bearings and then struck on a
curving line for the river. The first hundred yards were covered with
speed and then he began to move more slowly and with greater regard for
caution, keeping close to the earth and showing a marked preference for
low ground. Sky-lines were all right in times of peace, but under the
present conditions they promised to become unhealthy. His eyes and ears
told him nothing for a quarter of an hour, and then he suddenly stopped
short and crouched as he saw the plain trail of a man crossing his own
direction at a right angle. From the bottom of one of the heel prints
a crushed leaf was slowly rising back towards its original position,
telling him how new the trail was; and as if this were not enough for
his trained mind he heard a twig snap sharply as he glanced along the
line of prints. It sounded very close, and he dropped instantly to one
knee and thought quickly. Why had the other left so plain a trail, why
had he reached up and broken twigs that projected above his head as he
passed? Why had he kicked aside a small stone, leaving a patch of moist,
bleached grass to tell where it had lain? Elkins had stumbled here, but
there were no toe marks to tell of it. Hopalong would not track, for he
was no assassin; but he knew that he would do if he were, and careless.
The answer leaped to his suspicious mind like a flash, and he did not
care to waste any time in trying to determine whether or not Elkins was
capable of such a trick. He acted on the presumption that the trail
had been made plain for a good reason, and that not far ahead at some
suitable place,--and there were any number of such within a hundred
yards,--the maker of the plain trail lay in wait. Smiling savagely
he worked backward and turning, struck off in a circle. He had no
compunctions whatever now about shooting the other player of the game.
It was not long before he came upon the same trail again and he started
another circle. A bullet _zipped_ past his ear and cut a twig not two
inches from his head. He fired at the smoke as he dropped, and then
wriggled rapidly backward, keeping as flat to the earth as he could.
Elkins had taken up his position in a thicket which stood in the centre
of a level patch of sand in the old bed of the river,--the bed it had
used five years before and forsaken at the time of the big flood when it
cut itself a new channel and made the U-bend which now surrounded this
piece of land on three sides. Even now, during the rainy season,
the thicket which sheltered Mr. Elkins was frequently an island in a
sluggish, shallow overflow.

"Hole up, blast you!" jeered Hopalong, hugging the ground. The second
bullet from Mr. Elkins' gun cut another twig, this one just over his
head, and he laughed insolently. "I ain't ascared to do the moving,
even if you are. Judging from the way you keep out o' sight the canned
oysters are in the can again. _I_ never did no ambushing, you coyote."

"You can't make remarks like that an' get away with 'em--I've knowed you
too long," retorted Elkins, shifting quickly, and none too soon. "You
went an' got Slim afore he was wide awake. I know _you_, all right."

Hopalong's surprise was but momentary, and his mind raced back over the
years. Who was this man Elkins, that he knew Slim Travennes? "Yo're a
liar, Elkins, an' so was the man who told you that!"

"Call me Ewalt," jeered the other, nastily. "Nobody'll hear it, an'
you'll not live to tell it. Ewalt, Tex Ewalt; call me that."

"So you've come back after all this time to make me get you, have you?
Well, I ain't a-going to shoot no buttons off you _this_ time. I allus
reckoned you learned something at Muddy Wells--but you'll learn it
here," Hopalong rejoined, sliding into a depression, and working with
great caution towards the dry river bed, where fallen trees and hillocks
of sand provided good cover in plenty. Everything was clear now and
despite the seriousness of the situation he could not repress a smile
as he remembered vividly that day at the carnival when Tex Ewalt came to
town with the determination to kill him and show him up as an imitation.
His grievance against Elkins was petty when compared to that against
Ewalt, and he began to force the issue. As he peered over a stranded
log he caught sight of his enemy disappearing into another part of the
thicket, and two of his three shots went home. Elkins groaned with pain
and fear as he realized that his right knee-cap was broken and would
make him slow in his movements. He was lamed for life, even if he did
come out of the duel alive; lamed in the same way that Hopalong was--the
affliction he had made cruel sport of had come to him. But he had plenty
of courage and he returned the fire with remarkable quickness, his two
shots sounding almost as one.

Hopalong wiped the blood from his cheek and wormed his way to a
new place; when half way there he called out again, "How's yore
health--Tex?" in mock sympathy.

Elkins lied manfully and when he looked to get in another shot his enemy
was on the farther bank, moving up to get behind him. He did not know
Hopalong's new position until he raised his head to glance down over the
dried river bed, and was informed by a bullet that nicked his ear. As
he ducked, another grazed his head, the third going wild. He hazarded a
return shot, and heard Hopalong's laugh ring out again.

"Like the story Lucas told, the best shot is going to win out this time,
too," the Bar-20 man remarked, grimly. "You thought a game like this
would give you some chance against a better shot, didn't you? You are a
fool."

"It ain't over yet, not by a damned sight!" came the retort.

"An' you thought you had a little the best of it if you stayed still an'
let me do the moving, didn't you? You'll learn something before I get
through with you: but it'll be too late to do you any good," Hopalong
called, crouched below a hillock of sand so the other could not take
advantage of the words and single him out for a shot.

"You can't learn me nothing, you assassin; I've got my eyes open, this
time." He knew that he had had them open before, and that Hopalong was
in no way an assassin; but if he could enrage his enemy and sting him
into some reflex carelessness he might have the last laugh.

Elkins' retort was wasted, for the sudden and unusual, although a
familiar sound, had caught Hopalong's ear and he was giving all his
attention to it. While he weighed it, his incredulity holding back
the decision his common sense was striving to give him, the noise grew
louder rapidly and common sense won out in a cry of warning an instant
before a five-foot wall of brown water burst upon his sight, sweeping
swiftly down the old, dry river bed; and behind it towered another and
greater wall. Tree trunks were dancing end over end in it as if they
were straws.

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