THE NEW SIX-GUN
Independence was alive all over, humming with business, its muddy
streets filled with all kinds of vehicles drawn by various kinds and
numbers of animals. Here a three-yoke ox team pulled stolidly, there a
four-mule team balked on a turn, and around them skittish or dispirited
horses carried riders or drew high-seated carriages. The motley crowd on
foot picked its way as best it could. Indians in savage garb passed
Indians in civilization's clothes, or mixtures of both; gamblers rubbed
elbows with emigrants and made overtures to buckskin-covered trappers
and hunters just in from the prairies and mountains, many of whom were
going up to Westport, their main rendezvous. Traders came into and went
from Aull and Company's big store, wherein was everything the frontier
needed. Behind it were corrals filled with draft animals and sheds full
of carts and wagons.
Boisterous traders and trappers, in all stages of drunkenness, who
thought nothing of spending their season's profits in a single week if
the mood struck them, were still coming in from the western foothills,
valleys, and mountains, their loud conversations replete with rough
phrases and such names as the South Park, Bent's Fort, The Pueblo, Fort
Laramie, Bayou Salade, Brown's Hole, and others. Many of them so much
resembled Indians as to leave a careless observer in doubt. Some were
driving mules almost buried under their two packs, each pack weighing
about one hundred pounds and containing eighty-odd beaver skins,
sixty-odd otter pelts or the equivalent number in other skins. Usually
they arrived in small parties, but here and there was a solitary
trapper. The skins would be sold to the outfitting merchants and would
establish a credit on which the trapper could draw until time to outfit
and go off on the fall hunt. Had he sold them to some far, outlying post
he would have received considerably less for them and have paid from two
hundred to six hundred per cent more for the articles he bought. As long
as there was nothing for him to do in his line until fall set in, he
might just as well spend some of the time on the long march to the
frontier, risking the loss of his goods, animals, and perhaps his life
in order to get better prices and enjoy a change of scene.
The county seat looked good to him after his long stay in the solitudes.
Pack and wagon trains were coming and going, some of the wagons drawn by
as many as a dozen or fifteen yokes of oxen. All was noise, confusion,
life at high pressure, and made a fit surrounding for his coming
carousal; and here was all the liquor he could hope to drink, of better
quality and at better prices, guarantees of which, in the persons of
numerous passers-by, he saw on many sides.
Rumors of all kinds were afloat, most of them concerning hostile Indians
lying in wait at certain known danger spots along the trails, and of the
hostile acts of the Mormons; but the Mormons were behind and the trail
was ahead, and the rumors of its dangers easily took precedence. It was
reported that the first caravan, already on the trail and pressing hard
on the heels of spring, was being escorted by a force of two hundred
United States dragoons, the third time in the history of the Santa Fe
trade that a United States military escort had been provided. Dangers
were magnified, dangers were scorned, dangers were courted, depending
upon the nature of the men relating them. There were many noisy
fire-eaters who took their innings now, in the security of the town, who
would become as wordless, later on, as some of the tight-lipped and
taciturn frontiersmen were now. Greenhorns from the far-distant East
were proving their greenness by buying all kinds of useless articles,
which later they would throw away one by one, and were armed in a manner
befitting buccaneers of the Spanish Main. To them, easiest of all, were
old and heavy oxen sold, animals certain to grow footsore and useless by
the time they had covered a few hundred miles. They bought anything and
everything that any wag suggested, and there were plenty of wags on
hand. The less they knew the more they talked; and experienced caravan
travelers shook their heads at sight of them, recognizing in them the
most prolific and hardest working trouble-makers in the whole, long
wagon train. Here and there an invalid was seen, hoping that the long
trip in the open would restore health, and in many cases the hopes
became realizations.
Joseph Cooper installed his niece in the best hotel the town afforded
and went off to see about his wagons and goods, while Tom Boyd hurried
to a trapper's retreat to find his partner and his friends. The retreat
was crowded with frontiersmen and traders, among whom he recognized
many acquaintances. He no sooner had entered the place than he was
soundly slapped on the shoulder and turned to exchange grins with his
best friend, Hank Marshall, who forthwith led him to a corner where a
small group was seated around a table, and where he found Jim Ogden and
Zeb Houghton, two trapper friends of his who were going out to Bent's
trading post on the Arkansas; Enoch Birdsall and Alonzo Webb, two
veteran traders, and several others who would be identified with the
next caravan to leave.
"Thar's one of them danged contraptions, now!" exclaimed Birdsall,
pointing to the holster swinging from Tom's broad belt. "I don't think
much o' these hyar newfangled weapons we're seein' more an' more every
year. An' cussed if he ain't got a double-bar'l rifle, too! Dang it,
Tom, don't put all yer aigs in one basket; ain't ye keepin' no weapons
ye kin be shore on?"
"Thar both good, Enoch," replied Tom, smiling broadly.
"Shore they air," grunted Birdsall's partner. "Enoch don't reckon
nothin's no good less'n it war foaled in th' Revolutionary War, an' has
got whiskers like a Mormon bishop. Fust he war dead sot ag'in
steamboats; said they war flyin' in th' face o' Providence an' wouldn't
work, nohow. Then he said it war plumb foolish ter try ter take waggins
inter Santer Fe. Next he war dead sot ag'in mules fer anythin' but
packin'. Now he's cold ter caps an' says flints war made 'special by th'
Lord fer ter strike fire with--_but_, he rides on th' steamboats when he
gits th' chanct; he's taken waggins clean ter Chihuahua, drivin' mules
ter 'em; an' he's sorter hankerin' fer ter use caps, though he won't
admit it open. Let him alone an' watch him try ter borrer yer new
pistol when th' Injuns try ter stampede th' animals. He's a danged old
fool in his talk, but you jest keep an eye on him. Thar, I've said my
say."
"An' a danged long say it war!" snorted Enoch, belligerently. "It stands
ter reason that thar pistol can't shoot 'em out o' one bar'l plumb down
the dead center of another _every_ time! An' suppose ye want ter use a
double charge o' powder, whar ye goin' ter put it in them danged little
holes? Suppose yer caps hang fire--what then, I want ter know?"
"S'posin' th' wind blows th' primin' out o' yer pan?" queried Zeb.
"S'posin' ye lose your flint? S'posin' yer powder ain't no good?
S'posin' ye ram down th' ball fust, like ye did that time them Crows
tried ter lift our cache. Fine mess ye nigh made o' that! Onct ye start
thar ain't no end o' s'posin', nohow. Caps is all right, _I_ use 'em!"
"_He_ uses 'em!" chuckled Enoch. "Ain't that a sensible answer? Caps is
all right, if _he_ uses 'em! Danged if he don't make me laugh: but he's
a good ol' beaver, at that, Zeb is. As fur rammin' down th' ball fust,
that time; he never told ye about how he swallered a hull mouthful o'
balls when Singin' Fox sent a arrer through his cap, did he?"
Zeb looked a little self-conscious. "Beaver's shore gittin' scarce," he
said.
"Thar's a passel o' Oregoners rendyvouin' out ter Round Grove," said
Hank. "If we're goin' with 'em we better jine 'em purty quick."
Tom shook his head. "I'm aimin' fer th' Arkansas this trip. Goin' ter
try it onct more."
Hank's jaw dropped. "Thar!" he snorted. "Kin ye beat that?"
"Glad ter hear it," said Jim Ogden. "We'll be with ye fur's th'
Crossin'; but ain't ye gamblin', Tom?"
"Armijo shore will run up th' flags an' order out his barefoot army,"
said Hank, grimly, "if he larns o' it. An' he'll mebby need th' army,
too."
"He'll larn o' it," declared Birdsall. "Thar's a passel o' greasers
goin' over th' trail with us--an' shore as shootin' some o' 'em will go
ahead with th' news arter we reach th' Cimarron. Don't be a danged fool,
Tom; you better go 'long th' Platte with th' emigrants."
"Can't do it," replied Tom. "I've give my word an' I'm goin' through ter
Santa Fe. Armijo'll larn o' it, all right. I've seen signs o' that
already. Some greaser fanned a knife at me on th' boat; but I couldn't
larn nothin' more about it."
"Dang my hide if I ain't got a good notion ter let ye go alone!" snorted
Hank, whereat a roar of laughter arose. It seemed that he was very well
known.
"I'll see how things bust," said Ogden. "I war aimin' fer Bent's, but
thar ain't no use o' gittin' thar much afore fall." He thought a moment,
and then slammed his hand on the table. "I'm goin' with ye, Tom!"
"Talkin' like a blind fool!" growled Zeb Houghton, his inseparable
companion. "I'm startin' fer th' fort, an' I'm goin' thar! If you ain't
got no sense, _I_ has!"
Hank laughed and winked at the others. "I'll go with ye, Zeb. Me an'
you'll go thar together an' let these two fools git stood up ag'in a
wall. Sarve 'em right if he cuts 'em up alive. We'll ask him ter send us
thar ears, fer ter remember 'em by."
Zeb's remarks about the Governor of New Mexico caused every head in the
room to turn his way, and called forth a running fire of sympathetic
endorsements. He banged the table with his fists. "Hank Marshall, ye got
more brains nor I has, but I got ter go 'long an' keep that pore critter
out o' trouble. If I don't he'll lose hoss _an'_ beaver!"
A stranger sauntered over, grinned at them and slid a revolving Colt
pistol on the table. "Thar, boys," he said. "Thar's what ye need if yer
goin' ter Santer Fe. I'm headin' fer home, back east. What'll ye give me
fer it, tradin' in yer old pistol? Had a run o' cussed bad luck last
night, an' I need boat fare. Who wants it?"
Enoch Birdsall and Hank Marshall both reached for it, but Hank was the
quicker. He looked it over carefully and then passed it to his partner.
"What ye think o' her, Tom?" he asked.
After a moment's scrutiny Tom nodded and gave it back. "Looks brand new,
Hank. Good pistol. I tried mine out on th' boat comin' up. They shoot
hard an' straight."
Hank looked up at the stranger and shook his head deprecatingly,
starting the preliminary to a long, hard-driven barter; but he hadn't
reckoned on Birdsall, the skeptic.
"Ten dollars an' this hyar pistol," said Enoch quickly.
"Wall!" exclaimed Hank, staring at him. "Dang ye! Eleven dollars an'
_this_ pistol!"
"Twelve," placidly said Enoch.
"Twelve an' a half!" snapped Hank.
"An' three quarters."
"Thirteen!" growled Hank, trying to hide his misery.
Enoch raised again and, a quarter at a time, they ran the price up to
sixteen dollars, Enoch bidding with Yankee caution and reluctance, Hank
with a stubborn determination not to let his friend get ahead of him.
One was a trader, shrewd and thrifty; the other, a trapper, which made
it a game between a canny barterer on one side and a reckless spender on
the other. At twenty-three dollars Birdsall quit, spat angrily at a box,
and scowled at his excited companion, who was counting the money onto
the table. Hank glared at Enoch, jammed the Colt in his belt and bit
savagely into a plug of tobacco, while the stranger, hiding his smile,
bowed ironically and left them; and in a moment he was back again with
another Colt.
"I knowed it!" mourned Hank. "Dang ye, Enoch!"
"Boys," said the stranger, sadly, "my friend is in th' same fix that I
am. He is willin' ter part with his Colt for th' same money an' another
old fashioned pistol. His mother's dyin' in St. Louie an' he's got ter
git back ter her."
"Too danged bad it ain't him, an' you," snorted Hank.
Jim Ogden held out his hand, took the weapon and studied it. Quietly
handing over his own pistol and the money, he held out his other hand,
empty. "Whar's th' mold; an' some caps?"
"Wall," drawled the stranger, rubbing his chin. "They don't go with th'
weapons--they're separate. Cost ye three dollars fer th' mold; an' th'
caps air two dollars a box o' two hundred."
"Then hand her back ag'in an' take th' Colt," said Ogden, slowly
arising. "Think I'm goin' ter whittle, or chew bullets fer it? Neither
one of them guns has even been used. Thar bran' new, an' with 'em goes
th' mold. Jest because I've spent a lot o' my days up on Green River
ain't sayin' I'm green. They named it that because I left my greenness
thar."
"Th' caps air extry," said the vendor of Colt pistols.
"Ain't said nothin' about no caps, yit," retorted Ogden. "I'm talkin'
molds. Gimme one, an' give Hank one; or ye'll both shore as hell miss
his mother's funeral."
The stranger complied, sold some caps and left the saloon in good humor;
but he had not been gone two minutes before Enoch hastily arose and
pleaded that he had to meet a man; and when they saw him again he had a
newfangled contraption in a holster at his belt.
Hank carelessly opened his mold and glanced at it. "Pinted!" he
exclaimed.
Tom explained swiftly and reassured his friends, and then suggested that
they go down to a smithy owned by a mutual friend, and run some bullets.
"We better do it while we're thinkin' about it, an' have th' time," he
added.
"Got lots o' time," said Ogden. "Be three weeks afore th' second caravan
starts. Thar's two goin' out this year. If 'twarn't fer th' early warm
weather on th' prairies th' fust wouldn't 'a' left yet. Th' grass is
comin' up fast."
"Thar's some waggins o' th' second game out ter Council Grove already,"
said Alonzo Webb. "They wanted me an' Enoch ter go 'long with 'em, but
we couldn't see th' sense o' leavin' town so fur ahead o' time, an'
totin' that much more grub. 'Sides, th' roads'll be better, mebby, later
on."
The smith welcomed them and they used his fire during the lulls in his
business.
"Hear Zachary Woodson's goin' out with eight waggins this year," he told
them. "Missed th' fust caravan. Says he'll be tetotally cussed if he's
goin' ter be captain ag'in this year."
"That's what he says every year," grunted Alonzo.
"He'll be captain if we has th' say-so," replied Hank. "Only thing, he's
a mite too easy with th' fools; but thar's goin' ter be less squabblin'
about obeyin' orders this trip than ever afore. We'll see ter that."
While they discussed matters pertaining to the caravan, and ran bullets,
listening to the gossip of the smith's customers, they saw Uncle Joe and
his two wagoners driving his mules toward the shop to have them re-shod.
They shook hands all around and soon Uncle Joe, grinning from ear to
ear, told them that he was going out with the caravan. He was as tickled
as a boy with a new knife.
"Just as I feared," he said in explanation. "I couldn't find any trader
that was takin' any of his women folks along; so there was only one way
out of it. I got to go. An' I don't mind tellin' you boys that it suits
me clean down to th' ground. Anyhow, all I wanted was an excuse. I got a
light wagon for Patience an' me an' our personal belongings, an' I'm
goin' to drive it myself. Bein' th' only woman in th' caravan, fur as I
know, it'll mebby be a little mite hard on her. Reckon she'll git
lonesome, 'specially since she's so danged purty."
When the laughter died down Hank Marshall, shifting his cud to the other
cheek, looked from Uncle Joe to Tom and back again.
"Wall," he drawled, "I war puzzled a little at fust, but now I reckon
I'm gittin' th' hang o' this hyar thing. Tom war shore hell-bent fer ter
go out ter Oregon this year." He paused, scratched his head, and
grinned. "Reckon I kin drive them mules all by myself. 'Twon't be as
though it war th' fust time I've done it."
After a little good-natured banter Tom and Hank left the smithy to look
after their affairs, for there was quite a lot to be done. The next few
days would be busy ones for them both, but especially so for Tom, who
was expected to share his company between Patience, Hank, and Uncle Joe.
As they swung up the street Hank edged to cross it, pointing to
Schoolcraft's corral. "Might as well be gittin' th' mules afore thar all
run over an' th' best took. If he kin skin me in a mule deal I'm willin'
ter abide by it."
"Not there," objected Tom. "I've had some trouble with him. I'll play
pack animal myself before I'll buy a single critter from him."
Hank shook with silent laughter. "_That's_ whar he got it, huh?" he
exulted. "Cussed if he warn't trimmed proper. I might 'a' knowed it war
you as done it by th' way it looked." He shook again and then became
alert "Thar he is now; an' his friends air with him. Keep yer primin'
dry, boy."
"I reckoned I could shake a laig," said a voice behind them, and they
looked over their shoulders to see Jim Ogden at their heels, and close
behind him came his partner; "but you two kiyotes plumb made me hoof it.
What's yer hurry, anyhow?"
The little group in front of the corral gate shifted in indecision and
looked inquiringly at the horse-dealer. There was a difference between
stirring up trouble between themselves and Tom Boyd for the purpose of
manhandling _him_, and stirring it up between themselves and the four
trappers.
Schoolcraft said something out of the corner of his mouth and the group
melted away into the little shack at the corral gate. He remained where
he was, scowling frankly at his enemy.
"Looks like they war a-fixin' ter try it on us," growled Hank, returning
the scowl with interest. "Let's go over an' say how-de-do ter 'em. This
here town's been too peaceable, _anyhow_."
"What's th' trouble?" asked Ogden, curiously, his partner pressing
against him to hear the answer.
"Ain't none," answered Tom. "Thar might 'a' been, but it's blowed over."
"Wall," drawled Ogden. "Ye never kin tell about these hyar frontier
winds. Yer th' partisan o' this hyar expedition, Tom. We'll foller yer
lead. It's all one ter us whar ye go; we're with ye."
Schoolcraft, knowing that trouble with these plainsmen would almost
certainly end in serious bloodshed, shrugged his shoulders and entered
the shack; and after him, from behind the corral wall darted the slender
Mexican.
"Thar!" exclaimed Tom, pointing. "See that greaser? Keep yer eyes
skinned fer him. He's bad medicine."
"Looks like he war fixin' fer ambushin' us, hidin' behind that wall,"
growled Hank.
"He's got a fine head o' hair ter peel," snorted Zeb Houghton, whose
reputation in regard to scalp lifting was anything but to his credit.
The fingers of his left hand closed involuntarily with a curling motion
and the wrist turned suggestively; and the Mexican, well back from the
dirty window of the shack, felt a rising of his stomach and was poor
company for the rest of the day.
The four swung on again, Ogden and his partner soon leaving the party to
go to their quarters, while Tom and Hank went on along the street and
stopped at another horse-dealer's, where they bought two riding horses
and eight broken-in mules, the latter covered with scars. The horses
were broken to saddle and would carry them over the trail; two of the
mules were to carry their necessaries and the other six their small
stock of merchandise, which they now set out to obtain. In procuring the
latter they were very fortunate, for they found a greenhorn who had paid
too much attention to rumors and had decided at the last moment that
trail life and trading in the far west did not impress him very
favorably; and he sold his stock to them almost at their own terms, glad
to get out of his venture so easily. They took what they wanted of it
and then sold the remainder at a price which nearly paid for their own
goods. Leaving their purchases at Uncle Joe's wagons under the care of
his teamsters, they went to his hotel to spend the night.
After supper Hank, who had shown a restlessness very foreign to him,
said that he was going out to take a walk and would return soon. When
Tom offered to go with him he shook his head, grinned, and departed.
The evening passed very pleasantly for Tom, who needed nothing more than
Patience's presence to make him content, and after she had said good
night he accompanied her uncle to the bar for a night-cap. As he
entered the room he thought he saw a movement outside the window, down
in one corner of the sash, and he slipped to the door and peered out. As
he cogitated about scouting around outside he heard Uncle Joe's voice
calling to him over the noise of the crowd and he made his way back to
the bar, drank to the success of the coming expedition, and engaged in
small talk with his companion and those around them. But his thoughts
were elsewhere, for Hank had been gone a long time.
"Uncle Joe, how long have you known your wagoners?" he asked.
"Long enough to know 'em well." The trader regarded him quizzically.
"Not worryin' about your merchandise, are you?"
"I'm wondering where Hank is."
"In some trapper's rendezvous; he'll show up in th' mornin' with nothin'
worse than a headache."
"I'm not treating him right," soliloquized Tom. "A man shouldn't forget
his friends, especially when they're as close as Hank is. I'm goin'
lookin' for him. Good night."
Uncle Joe watched him push his way directly through the crowd, leaving a
few scowls in his wake, and pop out of the door; and the older man
nodded with satisfaction. "A man shouldn't, Tom, my boy," he muttered.
"Stick to them that's stuck to you--always--forever--in spite of hell.
That's good medicine."
A tour of the places where trappers congregated was barren of results
until he had reached the last of such resorts that he knew, and here he
found Enoch Birdsall and Alonzo Webb, who welcomed him with such
vociferous greetings that he knew they had nearly reached the
quarrelsome stage. To his inquiries as to the whereabouts of his partner
they made boisterous replies, their laughter rattling the windows.
"Ol' beaver's settin' a-top his house--no, 'tain't no house. Settin'
a-top yer pile o' goods cached with Cooper's--you tell 'im," yelled
Alonzo, slapping Enoch across the back and nearly knocking him out of
the chair. "You tell 'im, Ol' Buff'ler!"
"Prairie hen on his nest is more like _him_," shouted Enoch, returning
his friend's love tap with interest, whereupon Alonzo missed twice and
fell to the floor.
"Prairie hen on yer nose!" yelled the prostrate trader, trying to swim
toward his partner. "Thar ain't no prairie beaver as kin knock me down
an' _keep_ me thar! Stan' up like a man, ye polecat! An' I kin lick
_you_, too!" he yelled, as Tom avoided his sweeping arm and hastened
toward the door. "Better run! Better run! Git 'im Enoch, ye fool!"
Tom did not reach the front door, for with astonishing speed and agility
for one so far in his cups Enoch, taking up the quarrel of his friend,
whom he presently would be fighting, leaped from the table, vaulted over
a chair, and by some miracle of drunken equilibrium landed on his feet
with his back to the door and swung both fists at the surprised
plainsman. Tom's eyes glinted, and then twinkled. He had few better
friends than these two quarrelsome traders and, stepping back, he leaped
over the prostrate and anything but silent Alonzo and darted out through
the back door, laughing at the furious squabbling he left behind.
Reaching the corner of the building, he fell into his habitual softness
of tread and slipped along the rear of the shacks on a direct course
for the place where his and Cooper's merchandise was stored.
Schoolcraft's corral loomed up in front of him and he skirted it
silently. He almost had reached its far corner when a Mexican's voice,
raised in altercation inside the inclosure, caught his ear and checked
him, balanced on one foot.
"For why he do eet?" demanded the Mexican, excitedly. "I tol' heem that
he mus' leeve Tomaz tr-rade goods by themselves. He ees goin' to Santa
Fe weethout for-rce; an' now eet ees all spoil! For what he do eet? Bah!
For hees revenge he say. What ees hees revenge like Armijo's?"
"Oh, shut yer mouth an' stop yer yowlin'," growled a gruff voice. "Eph
allus knows what he's a-doin'."
The poised listener outside the corral paused to hear no more but was
off like a shadow, his stride a long, swinging lope, for he was too wise
to dash at full speed and waste fighting breath for the sake of gaining
a few seconds. He made his devious way across a plain studded with
wagons, piles of freight and heaps of debris, and before he reached his
objective the sounds of conflict singled it out for him had he been in
any doubt.
The open wagon-shed loomed suddenly before him and he made out a
struggling mass on the ground before it, his partner's grunted curses
and the growls of Cooper's wagoner saving them from his attack. He went
into the mass feet first, landing with all his weight and the momentum
of his run on a crouched man whose upraised arm was only waiting for a
sure opening. The knife user grunted as he went down, and his head
struck the edge of a wagon-wheel with such force that he no longer was
a combatant. Tom had fallen to his knees after his catapulting impact
and when he arose he held a squirming halfbreed over his head at the
height of his upraised arms. One heave of his powerful body and the
human missile flew through the air and struck two of the half-breed's
friends as they sprang to their feet in sudden alarm. They went down
like tenpins and before they could gain their feet again Tom dropped on
one of them, his knees squarely in the pit of the man's stomach, his
right hand on the throat of the other, while his left gripped his
adversary's knife hand and bent it steadily and inexorably back toward
the wrist.
"Th' little bobcat's j'ined us," panted Hank, crawling onto the man he
now rolled under him. "Tom Boyd, Armijo's pet, with his fangs bared an'
his claws out. Take _this_, you----!" he grunted as his shoulder set
itself behind the smashing blow. "How ye makin' out with yer friend,
Abe?" he asked of the other rolling pair.
It seemed that Abe was not making out according to Hank's
specifications, so he crawled over to help him, and reached out a hand.
It fastened onto a skinny neck and clamped shut, whereupon Abe rolled
victoriously free and paused to glower at his victim. His surprise,
while genuine, was of short duration, and he shook his head at the
cheerful Hank and then pounced onto the man who had been used as a
missile, and pinned him to the ground. In a few moments the fight was
over, and the victors grinned sheepishly at each other in the
semi-darkness and re-arranged various parts of their clothing.
"I saw somethin' smash inter th' waggin wheel an' sorta reckoned you
war some'rs 'round," panted Hank. "Then I saw somethin' else sail inter
th' air an' knock over two o' th' thieves. Then I knowed ye war hyar. Me
an' Abe war doin' our best, but we war beginnin' ter slip, like fur at
th' end o' winter."
"Ye mebbe war sheddin' a little," laughed Tom, "but you'd 'a' shed them
thieves afore ye petered out. Tell me about it."
"Thar ain't nothin' ter tell," replied Hank. "I'm nat'rally suspicious
by bein' up in th' Crow country so much o' my time, an' I got ter
thinkin' 'bout Schoolcraft. I'm mostly stronger on hindsight than I am
on foresight, but this hyar's onct I sorta lined 'em both up an' got a
good bead. I snuk up ter his shanty an' heard him an' that thar greaser
chawin' tough meat with each other. So I come down hyar, expectin' ter
lay fer 'em with Abe; but danged if him an' them warn't at it already! I
only got two feet, two han's an' one mouth, an' I had ter waste one foot
a-standin' on it; but th' rest o' me jined th' dance. Then you come.
That's all."
"How long war you two holdin' off th' six o' 'em?" demanded Tom of Abe
with great interest, and thinking that Cooper's trust was well placed.
"'Twarn't long; two comets an' about six hundred stars, I reckon,"
mumbled the shrinking hero between swollen lips. "I war jest gittin' mad
enough to go fur my knife when Hank gits in step with th' music, an'
jines han's with us. What we goin' ter do with 'em?"
"Oh, give 'em a kick apiece an' turn 'em loose without thar weapons,"
suggested Hank.
Tom shook his head. "They come from Schoolcraft; let's take 'em back to
him," he suggested.
"Go ahead!" enthused Abe. Then he scratched his head. "But who's goin'
ter watch th' goods while we're gone? Jake ain't due fer couple o' hours
yet."
"You air!" snorted Hank. "You need a rest, an' us two is shore enough."
He prodded the figures on the ground with the toe of his moccasin. "Git
up, you squaw dogs!" he ordered.
In a moment five thoroughly cowed men were plodding before their guards.
The sixth, who was still wandering about on the far side of the boundary
of consciousness, was across Tom's shoulder. Reaching the horse-dealer's
shanty, the prisoners opened the door by the simple expedient of surging
against it as they shrunk from the pricks of Hank's skinning knife. The
two men inside escaped the crashing door by vaulting over a small table,
and before they could recover their wits in the face of this amazing
return of their friends they were looking down the barrels of two
six-shooters.
Tom dumped his burden onto the table, kicked a chair through a closed
window, swept an open ink bottle onto Schoolcraft's manly stomach, and
made a horrible face at the pop-eyed Mexican. "Hyar they air, polecat,"
he growled. "Any more raids on our goods an' I trail ye an' shoot on
sight. Don't give a cuss who does it, or why; _I'll git you_. If I miss,
Hank won't; an' we both got good friends. Come on, Hank, it stinks in
here."
Tom turned and stalked out, but not so Hank. He backed out behind his
newfangled weapon, pleasantly thinking of its six ready shots, slid
along the outside of the shack and then waited with great hope for a
head to pop out of the door. Having had no chance to try out the Colt he
was curious regarding its accuracy. No head popped, however, and after
a moment he sighed, slipped along the corral wall and crossed the street
when far enough away to be covered by the darkness. Hank had no faith in
hostile humans and did not believe in showing off. The thieving,
treacherous Crows agreed that the brave who took Hank Marshall's scalp
would be entitled to high honors; with the mournful reflection that by
the time it was taken, if ever, the tribe would have paid a very high
price for it.