Book: Bar 20 Days

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




"Purty black in there at this end, but up at the other there's a light
from a hole in the roof, an' I could see boxes an' things like that. I
reckon it's the main cellar."

"If we could get out at the other end with that gun you've got we could
raise blazes for a while," suggested Johnny. "Anyhow, mebby they can
come at us that way when they find out what we've gone an' done."

"Yo're right," Hopalong replied, looking around. Seeing an iron bar
he procured it and, pushing it through the knot hole in the partition,
pulled. The board, splitting and cracking under the attack, finally
broke from its fastenings with a sharp report, and Hopalong, pulling it
aside, stepped out of sight of his companion. Johnny was grinning at the
success of his plan when he was interrupted.

"Ahoy, down there!" yelled a stentorian voice from above. "Mr. Wilkins!
What the devil are you doing so long?" and after a very short wait other
feet came into sight. Just then the second mate, having managed to slip
off the gag, shouted warning:

"Look out, Captain! They've got us and our guns! One of them has--" but
Johnny's knee thudded into his chest and ended the sentence as a bullet
sent a splinter flying from under the captain's foot.

"Hang these guns!" Johnny swore, and quickly turned to secure the gag
in the mouth of the offending second mate. "You make any more yaps like
that an' I'll wing you for keeps with yore own gun!" he snapped. "We're
caught in yore trap an' we'll fight to a finish. You'll be the first to
go under if you gets any smart."

"Ahoy, men!" roared the captain in a towering rage, dancing frantically
about on the deck and shouting for the crew to join him. He filled the
air with picturesque profanity and stamped and yelled in passion at such
rank mutiny.

"Hand grenades! Hand grenades!" he cried. Then he remembered that his
two mates were also below and would share in the mutineers' fate, and
his rage increased at his galling helplessness. When he had calmed
sufficiently to think clearly he realized that it was certain death for
any one to attempt going down the ladder, and that his must be a waiting
game. He glanced at his crew, thirteen good men, all armed with windlass
bars and belaying pins, and gave them orders. Two were to watch the
hatch and break the first head to appear, while the others returned to
work. Hunger and thirst would do the rest. And what joy would be his
when they were forced to surrender!

Hopalong groped his way slowly towards the patch of light, barking his
shins, stumbling and falling over the barrels and crates and finally,
losing his footing at a critical moment, tumbled down upon a box marked
"Cotton." There was a splintering crash and the very faint clink of
metal. Dazed and bruised, he sat up and felt of himself--and found that
he had lost his gun in the fall.

"Now, where in blazes did it fly to?" he muttered angrily, peering
about anxiously. His eyes suddenly opened their widest and he stared in
surprise at a field gun which covered him; and then he saw parts of two
more.

"Good Lord! Is this a gunboat?" he cried. "Are we up against bluejackets
an' Uncle Sam?" He glanced quickly back the way he had come when he
heard Johnny's shot, but he could see nothing. He figured that Johnny
had sense enough to call for help if he needed it, and put that
possibility out of his mind. "Naw, this ain't no gunboat--the Government
don't steal men; it enlists 'em. But it's a funny pile of junk, all the
same. Where in blazes is that toy gun? _Well_, I'll be hanged!" and he
plunged toward the "Cotton" box he had burst in his descent, and worked
at it frantically.

"Winchesters! Winchesters!" he cried, dragging out two of them. "Whoop!
Now for the cartridges--there shore must be some to go with these
guns!" He saw a keg marked "Nails," and managed to open it after great
labor--and found it full of army Colts. Forcing down the desire to turn
a handspring, he slipped one of the six-shooters in his empty holster
and patted it lovingly. "Old friend, I'm shore glad to see you, all
right. You've been used, but that don't make no difference." Searching
further, he opened a full box of _machetes_, and soon after found
cartridges of many kinds and calibres. It took him but a few minutes to
make his selection and cram his pockets with them. Then he filled two
Colts and two Winchesters--and executed a short jig to work off the
dangerous pressure of his exuberance.

"But what an unholy lot of weapons," he soliloquized on his way back to
Johnny. "An' they're all second-hand. Cannons, too--an' _machetes_!" he
exclaimed, suddenly understanding. "Jumping Jerusalem!--a filibustering
expedition bound for Cuba, or one of them wildcat republics down south!
Oh, ho, my friends; I see where you have bit off more'n you can chew."
In his haste to impart the joyous news to his companion, he barked his
shins shamefully.

"'Way down south in the land o' cotton, cinnamon seed an''--whoa, blast
you!" and Hopalong stuck his head through the opening in the partition
and grinned. "Heard you shoot, Kid; I reckoned you might need me--an'
these!" he finished, looking fondly upon the weapons as he shoved them
into the forecastle.

Johnny groaned and held his stomach, but his eyes lighted up when he saw
the guns, and he eagerly took one of each kind, a faint smile wreathing
his lips. "Now we'll show these water snakes what kind of men they
stole," he threatened.

Up on the deck the choleric captain still stamped and swore, and his
crew, with well-concealed mirth, went about their various duties as
if they were accustomed to have shanghaied men act this way. They
sympathized with the unfortunate pair, realizing how they themselves
would feel if shanghaied to break broncos.

Hogan, A. B., stated the feelings of his companions very well in his
remarks to the men who worked alongside: "In me hear-rt I'm dommed glad
av it, Yensen. I hope they bate the old man at his own game. 'T is a
shame in these days for honest men to be took in that unlawful way. I've
heard me father tell of the press gangs on the other side, an' 't is
small business."

Yensen looked up to reply, chanced to glance aft, and dropped his
calking iron in his astonishment. "Yumping Yimminy! Luk at dat fallar!"

Hogan looked. "The deuce! That's a man after me own heat-rt! Kape yore
pagan mouth shut! If ye take a hand agin 'em I'll swab up the deck wid
yez. G'wan wor-rking like a sane man, ye ijit!"

"Ay ent ban fight wit dat fallar! Luk at the gun!"

A man had climbed out of the after hatch and was walking rapidly towards
them, a rifle in his hands, while at his thigh swung a Colt. He watched
the two seamen closely and caught sight of Hogan's twinkling blue eyes,
and a smile quivered about his mouth. Hogan shut and opened one eye and
went on working.

As soon as Hopalong caught sight of the captain, the rifle went up and
he announced his presence without loss of time. "Throw up yore hands,
you pole-cat! I'm running this ranch from now on!"

The captain wheeled with a jerk and his mouth opened, and then clicked
shut as he started forward, his rage acting galvanically. But he stopped
quickly enough when he looked down the barrel of the Winchester and
glared at the cool man behind it.

"What the blank are you doing?" he yelled.

"Well, I ain't kidnapping cow-punchers to steal my boat," replied
Hopalong. "An' you fellers stand still or I'll drop you cold!" he
ordered to the assembled and restless crew. "Johnny!" he shouted, and
his companion popped up through the hatch like a jack-in-the-box.
"Good boy, Johnny. Tie this coyote foreman like you did the others," he
ordered. While Johnny obeyed, Hopalong looked around the circle, and
his eyes rested on Hogan's face, studying it, and found something there
which warmed his heart. "Friend, do you know the back trail? Can you
find that runt of a town we left?"

"Aye, aye."

"Shore, you; who'd you think I was talking to? Can you find the way
back, the way we came?"

"Shure an' I can that, if I'm made to."

"You'll swing for mutiny if you do, you bilge-wallering pirate!" roared
the trussed captain. "Take that gun away from him, d'ye hear!" he yelled
at the crew. "I'm captain of this ship, an' I'll hang every last one of
you if you don't obey orders! This is mutiny!"

"You won't do no hanging with that load of weapons below!" retorted
Hopalong. "Uncle Sam is looking for filibusters--this here gun is
'cotton,'" he said, grinning. He turned to the crew. "But you fellers
are due to get shot if you sees her through," he added.

"I'm captain of this ship--" began the helpless autocrat.

"You shore look like it, all right," Hopalong replied, smiling. "If
yo're the captain you order her turned around and headed over the back
trail, or I'll drop you overboard off yore own ship!" Then fierce anger
at the thought of the indignities and injuries he and his companion had
suffered swept over him and prompted a one-minute speech which left
no doubt as to what he would do if his demand was not complied with.
Johnny, now free to watch the crew, added a word or two of endorsement,
and he acted a little as if he rather hoped it would not be complied
with: he itched for an excuse.

The captain did some quick thinking; the true situation could not be
disguised, and with a final oath of rage he gave in. "'Bout ship, Hogan;
nor' by nor'west," he growled, and the seaman started away to execute
the command, but was quickly stopped by Hopalong.

"Hogan, is that right?" he demanded. "No funny business, or we'll clean
up the whole bunch, an' blamed quick, too!"

"That's the course, sor. That's the way back to town. I can navigate,
an' me orders are plain. Ye're Irish, by the way av ye, and 't is back
to town ye go, sor!" He turned to the crew: "Stand by, me boys." And in
a short time the course was nor' by nor'west.

The return journey was uneventful and at nightfall the ship lay at
anchor off the low Texas coast, and a boat loaded with men grounded on
the sandy beach. Four of them arose and leaped out into the mild surf
and dragged the boat as high up on the sand as it would go. Then the
two cow-punchers followed and one of them gave a low-spoken order to the
Irishman at his side.

"Yes, sor," replied Hogan, and hastened to help the captain out onto the
sand and to cut the ropes which bound him. "Do ye want the mates, too,
sor?" he asked, glancing at the trussed men in the boat.

"No; the foreman's enough," Hopalong responded, handing his weapons to
Johnny and turning to face the captain, who was looking into Johnny's
gun as he rubbed his arms to restore perfect circulation.

"Now, you flat-faced coyote, yo're going to get the beating of yore
life, an' I'm going to give it to you!" Hopalong cried, warily advancing
upon the man whom he held to be responsible for the miseries of the past
twenty-four hours. "You didn't give me a square deal, but I'm man enough
to give you one! When you drug an' steal any more cow-punchers--" action
stopped his words.

It was a great fight. A filibustering sea captain is no more peaceful
than a wild boar and about as dangerous; and while this one was not at
his best, neither was Hopalong. The latter luckily had acquired some
knowledge of the rudiments of the game and had the vigor of youth to
oppose to the captain's experience and his infuriated but well-timed
rushes. The seamen, for the honor of their calling and perhaps with a
mind to the future, cheered on the captain and danced up and down in
their delight and excitement. They had a lot of respect for the prowess
of their master, and for the man who could stand up against him in a
fair and square fist fight. To give assistance to either in a fair fight
was not to be thought of, and Johnny's gun was sufficient after-excuse
for non-interference.

The _sop! sop!_ of the punishing blows as they got home and the steady
circling of Hopalong in avoiding the dangerous attacks, went on minute
after minute. Slowly the captain's strength was giving out, and he
resorted to trickery as his last chance. Retreating, he half raised his
arms and lowered them as if weary, ready as a cat to strike with all
his weight if the other gave an opening. It ought to have worked--it had
worked before--but Hopalong was there to win, and without the momentary
hesitation of the suspicious fighter he followed the retreat and his
hard hand flashed in over the captain's guard a fraction of a second
sooner than that surprised gentleman anticipated. The ferocious frown
gave way to placid peace and the captain reclined at the feet of the
battered victor, who stood waiting for him to get up and fight. The
captain lay without a sign of movement and as Hopalong wondered, Hogan
was the first to speak.

"Fer the love av hiven, let him be! Ye needn't wait--he's done; I know
by the sound av it!" he exclaimed, stepping forward. "'T was a purty
blow, an' 't was a gr-rand foight ye put up, sor! A gr-rand foight, but
any more av that is murder! 'T is an Irishman's game, sor, an' ye did
yersilf proud. But now let him be--no man, least av all a Dootchman,
iver tuk more than that an' lived!"

Hopalong looked at him and slowly replied between swollen lips, "Yo're
right, Hogan; we're square now, I reckon."

"That's right, sor," Hogan replied, and turned to his companions. "Put
him in the boat; an' mind ye handle him gintly--we'll be sailing under
him soon. Now, sor, if it's yer pleasure, I'll be after saying good-bye
to ye, sor; an' to ye, too," he said, shaking hands with both punches.
"Fer a sick la-ad ye're a wonder, ye are that," he smiled at Johnny,
"but ye want to kape away from the water fronts. Good-bye to ye both,
an' a pleasant journey home. The town is tin miles to me right, over
beyant them hills."

"Good-bye, Hogan," mumbled Hopalong gratefully. "Yo're square all the
way through; an' if you ever get out of a job or in any kind of trouble
that I can help you out of, come up to the Bar-20 an' you won't have to
ask twice. Good luck!" And the two sore and aching punchers, wiser in
the ways of the world, plodded doggedly towards the town, ten miles
away.

The next morning found them in the saddle, bound for Dent's hotel and
store near the San Miguel Canyon. When they arrived at their destination
and Johnny found there was some hours to wait for Red, his restlessness
sent him roaming about the country, not so much "seeking what he might
devour" as hoping something might seek to devour him. He was so sore
over his recent kidnapping that he longed to find a salve. He faithfully
promised Hopalong that he would return at noon.



CHAPTER III

DICK MARTIN STARTS SOMETHING

Dick Martin slowly turned, leaned his back against the bar, and
languidly regarded a group of Mexicans at the other end of the room.
Singly, or in combinations of two or more, each was imparting all he
knew, or thought he knew about the ghost of San Miguel Canyon. Their
fellow-countryman, new to the locality, seemed properly impressed. That
it was the ghost of Carlos Martinez, murdered nearly one hundred years
before at the big bend in the canyon, was conceded by all; but there was
a dispute as to why it showed itself only on Friday nights, and why it
was never seen by any but a Mexican. Never had a Gringo seen it. The
Mexican stranger was appealed to: Did this not prove that the murder
had been committed by a Mexican? The stranger affected to consider the
question.

Martin surveyed them with outward impassiveness and inward contempt. A
realist, a cynic, and an absolute genius with a Colt .45, he was well
known along the border for his dare-devil exploits and reckless courage.
The brainiest men in the Secret Service, Lewis, Thomas, Sayre, and
even old Jim Lane, the local chief, whose fingers at El Paso felt every
vibration along the Rio Grande, were not as well known--except to those
who had seen the inside of Government penitentiaries--and they were
quite satisfied to be so eclipsed. But the Service knew of the ghost,
as it knew everything pertaining to the border, and gave it no serious
thought; if it took interest in all the ghosts and superstitions
peculiar to the Mexican temperament it would have no time for serious
work. Martin once, in a spirit of savage denial, had wasted the better
part of several successive Friday nights in the San Miguel, but to no
avail. When told that the ghost showed itself only to Mexicans he had
shrugged his shoulders eloquently and laughed, also eloquently.

"A Greaser," he replied, "is one-half fear and superstition, an' the
other half imagination. There ain't no ghosts, but I know the _Greasers_
have seen 'em, all right. A Greaser can see anything scary if he makes
up his mind to. If _I_ ever see one an' he keeps on being one after
I shoot, I'll either believe in ghosts, or quit drinking." His eyes
twinkled as he added: "An' of the two, I think I'd _prefer_ to see
ghosts!"

He was flushed and restless with deviltry. His fifth glass always
made him so; and to-night there was an added stimulus. He believed
the strange Mexican to be Juan Alvarez, who was so clever that the
Government had never been able to convict him. Alvarez was fearless to
recklessness and Martin, eager to test him, addressed the group with the
blunt terseness for which he was famed, and hated.

"Greasers are cowards," he asserted quietly, and with a smile which
invited excitement. He took a keen delight in analyzing the expressions
on the faces of those hit. It was one of his favorite pastimes when
feeling coltish.

The group was shocked into silence, quickly followed by great unrest and
hot, muttered words. Martin did not move a muscle, the smile was set,
but between the half-closed eyelids crouched Combat, on its toes. The
Mexicans knew it was there without looking for it--the tone of his
voice, the caressing purr of his words, and his unnatural languor were
signs well known to them. Not a criminal sneaking back from voluntary
banishment in Mexico who had seen those signs ever forgot them, if he
lived. Martin watched the group cat-like, keenly scrutinizing each face,
reading the changing emotions in every shifting expression; he had this
art down so well that he could tell when a man was debating the pull of
a gun, and beat him on the draw by a fraction of a second.

"De senor ees meestak," came the reply, as quiet and caressing as the
words which provoked it. The strange Mexican was standing proudly and
looking into the squinting eyes with only a grayness of face and a
tigerish litheness to tell what he felt.

"None go through the canyon after dark on Fridays," purred Martin.

"_I_ go tro' de canyon nex' Friday night. Eef I do, then you mak apology
to me?"

"I'll limit my remark to all but one Greaser."

The Mexican stepped forward. "I tak' thees gloove an' leave eet at
de Beeg Ben', for you to fin' in daylight," he said, tapping one of
Martin's gauntlets which lay on the bar. "You geev' me eet befo' I go?"

"Yes; at nine o'clock to-morrow night," Martin replied, hiding his
elation. He was sure that he knew the man now.

The Mexican, cool and smiling, bowed and left the room, his companions
hastening after him.

"Well, I'll bet twenty-five dollars he flunks!" breathed the bartender,
straightening up.

Martin turned languidly and smiled at him. "I'll take that, Charley," he
replied.



Johnny Nelson was always late, and on this occasion he was later than
usual. He was to have joined Hopalong and Red, if Red had arrived, at
Dent's at noon the day before, and now it was after nine o'clock at
night as he rode through San Felippe without pausing and struck east
for the canyon. The dropping trail down the canyon was serious enough
in broad daylight, but at night to attempt its passage was foolhardy,
unless one knew every turn and slant by heart, which Johnny did not. He
was thirty-three hours late now, and he was determined to make up what
he could in the next three.

When Johnny left Hopalong at Dent's he had given his word to be back on
time and not to keep his companions waiting, for Red might be on time
and he would chafe if he were delayed. But, alas for Johnny's good
intentions, his course took him through a small Mexican hamlet in which
lived a senorita of remarkable beauty and rebellious eyes; and Johnny
tarried in the town most of the day, riding up and down the streets,
practising the nice things he would say if he met her. She watched
him from the heavily draped window, and sighed as she wondered if her
dashing Americano would storm the house and carry her off like the
knights of old. Finally he had to turn away with heavy and reluctant
heart, promising himself that he would return when no petulant and
sarcastic companions were waiting for him. Then--ah! what dreams youth
knows.

Half an hour ahead of him on another trail rode Juan, smiling with
satisfaction. He had come to San Felippe to get a look at the canyon on
Friday nights, and Martin had given him an excuse entirely unexpected.
For this he was truly grateful, even while he knew that the American
had tried to pick a quarrel with him and thus rid the border of a man
entirely too clever for the good of customs receipts; and failing in
that, had hoped the treacherous canyon trail would gain that end in
another manner. Old Jim Lane's fingers touched wires not one whit more
sensitive than those which had sent Juan Alvarez to look over the San
Miguel--and Lane's wires had been slow this time. When Juan had left the
saloon the night before and had seen Manuel slip away from the group and
ride off into the north, he had known that the ghost would show itself
the following night.

But Juan was to be disappointed. He was still some distance from the
canyon when a snarling bulk landed on the haunches of his horse. He
jerked loose his gun and fired twice and then knew nothing. When he
opened his eyes he lay quietly, trying to figure it out with a head
throbbing with pain from his fall. The cougar must have been desperate
for food to attack a man. He moved his foot and struck something soft
and heavy. His shots had been lucky, but they had not saved him his
horse and a sprained arm and leg. There would be no gauntlet found at
the Big Bend at daylight.

When Johnny Nelson reached the twin boulders marking the beginning of
the sloping run where the trail pitched down, he grinned happily at
sight of the moon rising over the low hills and then grabbed at his
holster, while every hair in his head stood up curiously. A wild,
haunting, feminine scream arose to a quavering soprano and sobbed away
into silence. No words can adequately describe the unearthly wail in
that cry and it took a full half-minute for Johnny to become himself
again and to understand what it was. Once more it arose, nearer, and
Johnny peered into the shadows along a rough backbone of rock, his Colt
balanced in his half-raised hand.

"You come 'round me an' you'll get hurt," he muttered, straining his
eyes to peer into the blackness of the shadows. "Come on out, Soft-foot;
the moon's yore finish. You an' me will have it out right here an'
now--I don't want no cougar trailing me through that ink-black canyon on
a two-foot ledge--" he thought he saw a shadow glide across a dim patch
of moonlight, but when his smoke rifted he knew he had missed. "Damn
it! You've got a mate 'round here somewhere," he complained. "Well,
I'll have to chance it, anyhow. Come on, bronc! Yo're shaking like a
leaf--get out of this!"

When he began to descend into the canyon he allowed his horse to pick
its own way without any guidance from him, and gave all of his attention
to the trail behind him. The horse could get along better by itself in
the dark, and it was more than possible that one or two lithe cougars
might be slinking behind him on velvet paws. The horse scraped along
gingerly, feeling its way step by step, and sending stones rattling and
clattering down the precipice at his left to tinkle into the stream at
the bottom.

"Gee, but I wish I'd not wasted so much time," muttered the rider
uneasily. "This here canyon-cougar combination is the worst _I_ ever
butted up against. I'll never be late again, not never; not for all the
girls in the world. Easy, bronc," he cautioned, as he felt the animal
slip and quiver. "Won't this trail ever start going up again?" he
growled petulantly, taking his eyes off the black back trail, where no
amount of scrutiny showed him anything, and turned in the saddle to peer
ahead--and a yell of surprise and fear burst from him, while chills ran
up and down his spine. An unearthly, piercing shriek suddenly rang out
and filled the canyon with ear-splitting uproar and a glowing, sheeted
half-figure of a man floated and danced twenty feet from him and over
the chasm. He jerked his gun and fired, but only once, for his mount had
its own ideas about some things and this particular one easily headed
the list. The startled rider grabbed reins and pommel, his blood
congealed with fear of the precipice less than a foot from his side, and
he gave all his attention to the horse. But scared as he was he heard,
or thought that he heard, a peculiar sound when he fired, and he would
have sworn that he hit the mark--the striking of the bullet was not
drowned in the uproar and he would never forget the sound of that
impact. He rounded Big Bend as if he were coming up to the judge's
stand, and when he struck the upslant of the emerging trail he had made
a record. Cold sweat beaded his forehead and he was trembling from head
to foot when he again rode into the moonlight on the level plain, where
he tried to break another record.

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