The waters of the Rio Grande slid placidly toward the Gulf, the hot sun
branding the sleepy waters with streaks of molten fire. To the north
arose from the gray sandy plain the Quitman Mountains, and beyond them
lay Bass Ca on. From the latter emerged a solitary figure astride a
broncho, and as he ascended the topmost rise he glanced below him at the
placid stream and beyond it into Mexico. As he sat quietly in his saddle
he smiled and laughed gently to himself. The trail he had just followed
had been replete with trouble which had suited the state of his mind
and he now felt humorous, having cleaned up a pressing debt with his
six-shooter. Surely there ought to be a mild sort of excitement in the
land he faced, something picturesque and out of the ordinary. This
was to be the finishing touch to his trip, and he had left his two
companions at Albuquerque in order that he might have to himself all
that he could find.
Not many miles to the south of him lay the town which had been the
rendezvous of Tamale Jose, whose weakness had been a liking for other
people's cattle. Well he remembered his first man hunt: the discovery
of the theft, the trail and pursuit and--the ending. He was scarcely
eighteen years of age when that event took place, and the wisdom he had
absorbed then had stood him in good stead many times since. He had even
now a touch of pride at the recollection how, when his older companions
had failed to get Tamale Jose, he with his undeveloped strategy had
gained that end. The fight would never be forgotten, as it was his
first, and no sight of wounds would ever affect him as did those of Red
Connors as he lay huddled up in the dark corner of that old adobe hut.
He came to himself and laughed again as he thought of Carmencita, the
first girl he had ever known--and the last. With a boy's impetuosity he
had wooed her in a manner far different from that of the peons who sang
beneath her window and talked to her mother. He had boldly scaled the
wall and did his courting in her house, trusting to luck and to his
own ability to avoid being seen. No hidden meaning lay in his words;
he spoke from his heart and with no concealment. And he remembered the
treachery that had forced him, fighting, to the camp of his outfit; and
when he had returned with his friends she had disappeared.
To this day he hated that mud-walled convent and those sisters who
so easily forgot how to talk. The fragrance of the old days wrapped
themselves around him, and although he had ceased to pine for his
black-eyed Carmencita-well, it would be nice if he chanced to see her
again. Spurring his mount into an easy canter he swept down to and
across the river, fording it where he had crossed it when pursuing
Tamale Jose.
The town lay indolent under the Mexican night, and the strumming of
guitars and the tinkle of spurs and tiny bells softly echoed from
several houses. The convent of St. Maria lay indistinct in its heavy
shadows and the little church farther up the dusty street showed dim
lights in its stained windows. Off to the north became audible the
rhythmic beat of a horse and soon a cowboy swept past the convent with a
mocking bow.
He clattered across the stone-paved plaza and threw his mount back
on its haunches as he stopped before a house. Glancing around and
determining to find out a few facts as soon as possible, he rode up
to the low door and pounded upon it with the butt of his Colt. After
waiting for possibly half a minute and receiving no response he hammered
a tune upon it with two Colts and had the satisfaction of seeing half a
score of heads protrude from the windows in the nearby houses.
“If I could scare up another gun I might get th' whole blamed town up,”
he grumbled whimsically, and fell on the door with another tune.
“Who is it?” came from within. The voice was distinctly feminine and
Hopalong winked to himself in congratulation.
“Me,” he replied, twirling his fingers from his nose at the curious,
forgetting that the darkness hid his actions from sight.
“Yes, I know; but who is 'me'?” Came from the house.
“Ain't I a fool!” he complained to himself, and raising his voice he
replied coaxingly, “Open th' door a bit an' see. Are yu Carmencita?”
“O-o-o! but you must tell me who it is first.”
“Mr. Cassidy,” he replied, flushing at the 'mister,' “an' I wants to see
Carmencita.”
“Carmencita who?” teasingly came from behind the door. Hopalong
scratched his head. “Gee, yu've roped me--I suppose she has got another
handle. Oh, yu know--she used to live here about seven years back. She
had great big black eyes, pretty cheeks an' a mouth that 'ud stampede
anybody. Don't yu know now? She was about so high,” holding out his
hands in the darkness.
The door opened a trifle on a chain and Hopalong peered eagerly forward.
“Ah, it is you, the brave Americano! You must go away quick or you will
meet with harm. Manuel is awfully jealous and he will kill you! Go at
once, please!”
Hopalong pulled at the half-hearted down upon his lip and laughed
softly. Then he slid the guns back in their holsters and felt for his
sombrero.
“Manuel wants to see me first, Star Eyes.”
“No! no!” she replied, stamping upon the floor vehemently. “You must go
now--at once!”
“I'd shore look nice hittin' th' trail because Manuel Somebody wants
to get hurt, wouldn't I? Don't yu remember how I used to shinny up this
here wall an' skin th' cat gettin' through that hole up there what yu
said was a window? Ah, come on an' open th' door--I'd shore like to see
yu again!” pleaded the irrepressible.
“No! no! Go away. Oh, won't you please go away!”
Hopalong sighed audibly and turned his horse. As he did so he heard the
door open and a sigh reached his ears. He wheeled like a flash and found
the door closed again on its chain. A laugh of delight came from behind
it.
“Come out, please!--just for a minute,” he begged, wishing that he was
brave enough to smash the door to splinters and grab her.
“If I do, will you go away?” Asked the girl. “Oh, what will Manuel say
if he comes? And all those people, they'll tell him!”
“Hey, yu!” shouted Hopalong, brandishing his Colts at the protruding
heads. “Git scarce! I'll shore plug th' last one in!” Then he laughed at
the sudden vanishing.
The door slowly opened and Carmencita, fat and drowsy, wobbled out
to him. Hopalong's feelings were interfering with his breathing as he
surveyed her. “Oh, yu shore are mistaken, Mrs. Carmencita. I wants to
see yore daughter!”
“Ah, you have forgotten the little Carmencita who used to look for you.
Like all the men, you have forgotten,” she cooed reproachfully. Then her
fear predominated again and she cried, “Oh, if my husband should see me
now!”
Hopalong mastered his astonishment and bowed. He had a desire to ride
madly into the Rio Grande and collect his senses.
“Yu are right--this is too dangerous--I'll amble on some,” he replied
hastily. Under his breath he prayed that the outfit would never learn
of this. He turned his horse and rode slowly up the street as the door
closed.
Rounding the corner he heard a soft footfall, and swerving in his saddle
he turned and struck with all his might in the face of a man who leaped
at him, at the same time grasping the uplifted wrist with his other
hand. A curse and the tinkle of thin steel on the pavement accompanied
the fall of his opponent. Bending down from his saddle he picked up the
weapon and the next minute the enraged assassin was staring into the
unwavering and, to him, growing muzzle of a Colt's .45.
“Yu shore had a bum teacher. Don't yu know better'n to push it in? An'
me a cowpuncher, too! I'm most grieved at yore conduct--it shows you
don't appreciate cow-wrastlers. This is safer,” he remarked, throwing
the stiletto through the air and into a door, where it rang out angrily
and quivered. “I don't know as I wants to ventilate yu; we mostly
poisons coyotes up my way,” he added. Then a thought struck him. “Yu
must be that dear Manuel I've been hearin' so much about?”
A snarl was the only reply and Hopalong grinned.
“Yu shore ain't got no call to go loco that way, none whatever. I don't
want yore Carmencita. I only called to say hulloo,” responded Hopalong,
his sympathies being aroused for the wounded man before him from his
vivid recollection of the woman who had opened the door.
“Yah!” snarled Manuel. “You wants to poison my little bird. You with
your fair hair and your cursed swagger!”
The six-shooter tentatively expanded and stopped six inches from the
Mexican's nose. “Yu wants to ride easy, hombre. I ain't no angel, but I
don't poison no woman; an' don't yu amble off with th' idea in yore head
that she wants to be poisoned. Why, she near stuck a knife in me!” he
lied.
The Mexican's face brightened somewhat, but it would take more than that
to wipe out the insult of the blow. The horse became restless, and when
Hopalong had effectively quieted it he spoke again.
“Did yu ever hear of Tamale Jose?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I'm th' fellow that stopped him in th' 'dobe hut by th' arroyo.
I'm tellin' yu this so yu won't do nothin' rash an' leave Carmencita a
widow. Sabe?”
The hate on the Mexican's face redoubled and he took a short step
forward, but stopped when the muzzle of the Colt kissed his nose. He was
the brother of Tamale Jose. As he backed away from the cool touch of
the weapon he thought out swiftly his revenge. Some of his brother's
old companions were at that moment drinking mescal in a saloon down the
street, and they would be glad to see this Americano die. He glanced
past his house at the saloon and Hopalong misconstrued his thoughts.
“Shore, go home. I'll just circulate around some for exercise. No hard
feelings, only yu better throw it next time,” he said as he backed away
and rode off. Manuel went down the street and then ran into the saloon,
where he caused an uproar.
Hopalong rode to the end of the plaza and tried to sing, but it was a
dismal failure. Then he felt thirsty and wondered why he hadn't thought
of it before. Turning his horse and seeing the saloon he rode up to it
and in, lying flat on the animal's neck to avoid being swept off by the
door frame. His entrance scared white some half a dozen loungers, who
immediately sprang up in a decidedly hostile manner. Hopalong's Colts
peeped over the ears of his horse and he backed into a corner near the
bar.
“One, two, three--now, altogether, breathe! Yu acts like yu never saw a
real puncher afore. All th' same,” he remarked, nodding at several
of the crowd, “I've seen yu afore. Yu are th' gents with th' hot-foot
get-a-way that vamoosed when we got Tamale.”
Curses were flung at him and only the humorous mood he was in saved
trouble. One, bolder than the rest, spoke up: “The senor will not see
any 'hot-foot get-a-way,' as he calls it, now! The senor was not wise to
go so far away from his friends!”'
Hopalong looked at the speaker and a quizzical grin slowly spread over
his face. “They'll shore feel glad when I tells them yu was askin' for
'em. But didn't yu see too much of 'em once, or was yu poundin' leather
in the other direction? Yu don't want to worry none about me--an' if yu
don't get yore hands closter to yore neck they'll be heck to pay! There,
that's more like home,” he remarked, nodding assurance.
Reaching over he grasped a bottle and poured out a drink, his Colt
slipping from his hand and dangling from his wrist by a thong. As the
weapon started to fall several of the audience involuntarily moved as if
to pick it up. Hopalong noticed this and paused with the glass half
way to his lips. “Don't bother yoreselves none; I can git it again,” he
said, tossing off the liquor.
“Wow! Holy smoke!” he yelled. “This ain't drink! Sufferin' coyotes,
nobody can accuse yu of sellin' liquor! Did yu make this all by
yoreself?” He asked incredulously of the proprietor, who didn't know
whether to run or to pray. Then he noticed that the crowd was spreading
out and his Colts again became the center of interest.
“Yu with th' lovely face, sit down!” he ordered as the person addressed
was gliding toward the door. “I ain't a-goin' to let yu pot me from th'
street. Th' first man who tries to get scarce will stop somethin' hot.
An' yu all better sit down,” he suggested, sweeping them with his guns.
One man, more obdurate than the rest, was slow in complying and Hopalong
sent a bullet through the top of his high sombrero, which had a most
gratifying effect.
“You'll regret this!” hissed a man in the rear, and a murmur of
assent arose. Some one stirred slightly in searching for a weapon and
immediately a blazing Colt froze him into a statue.
“Yu shore looks funny; eeny, meeny, miny, mo,” counted off the daring
horseman; “move a bit an' off yu go,” he finished. Then his face broke
out in another grin as he thought of more enjoyment.
“That there gent on th' left,” he said, pointing out with a gun the man
he meant. “Yu sing us a song. Sing a nice little song.”
As the object of his remarks remained mute he let his thumb
ostentatiously slide back with the hammer of the gun under it. “Sing!
Quick!” The man sang.
As Hopalong leaned forward to say something a stiletto flashed past his
neck and crashed into the bottle beside him. The echo of the crash was
merged into a report as Hopalong fired from his waist. Then he backed
out into the Street and, wheeling, galloped across the plaza and again
faced the saloon. A flash split the darkness and a bullet hummed over
his head and thudded into an adobe wall at his back. Another shot and he
replied, aiming at the flash.
From down the Street came the sound of a window opening and he promptly
caused it to close again. Several more windows opened and hastily
closed, and he rode slowly toward the far end of the plaza. As he faced
the saloon once more he heard a command to throw up his hands and saw
the glint of a gun, held by a man who wore the insignia of sheriff.
Hopalong complied, but as his hands went up two spurts of fire shot
forth and the sheriff dropped his weapon, reeled and sat down. Hopalong
rode over to him and swinging down, picked up the gun and looked the
officer over.
“Shoo, yu'll be all right soon--yore only plugged in th' arms,” he
remarked as he glanced up the street. Shadowy forms were gliding from
cover to cover and he immediately caused consternation among them by
his accuracy. “Ain't it sad?” He complained to the wounded man. “I never
starts out but what somebody makes me shoot 'em. Came down here to see
a girl an' find she's married. Then when I moves on peaceable--like her
husband makes me hit him. Then I wants a drink an' he goes an' fans a
knife at me, an' me just teachin' him how! Then yu has to come along an'
make more trouble”.
“Now look at them fools over there,” he said, pointing at a dark shadow
some fifty paces off. “They're pattin' their backs because I don't
see 'em, an' if I hurts them they'll git mad. Guess I'll make 'em dust
along,” he added, shooting into the spot. A howl went up and two men ran
away at top speed.
The sheriff nodded his sympathy and spoke. “I reckons you had better
give up. You can't get away. Every house, every corner and shadow holds
a man. You are a brave man, but, as you say, unfortunate. Better help me
up and come with me--they'll tear you to pieces.”
“Shore I'll help yu up--I ain't got no grudge against nobody. But my
friends know where I am an' they'll come down here an' raise a ruction
if I don't show up. So, if it's all th' same to you, I'll be ambling
right along,” he said as he helped the sheriff to his feet.
“Have you any objections to telling me your name?” Asked the sheriff as
he looked himself over.
“None whatever,” answered Hopalong heartily. “I'm Hopalong Cassidy of
th' Bar 20, Texas.”
“You don't surprise me--I've heard of you,” replied the sheriff wearily.
“You are the man who killed Tamale Jose, whom I hunted for unceasingly.
I found him when you had left and I got the reward. Come again some
time and I'll divide with you; two hundred and fifty dollars,” he added
craftily.
“I shore will, but I don't want no money,” replied Hopalong as he turned
away. “Adios, senor,” he called back.
“Adios,” replied the sheriff as he kicked a nearby door for assistance.
The cow-pony tied itself up in knots as it pounded down the street
toward the trail, and although he was fired on he swung into the dusty
trail with a song on his lips. Several hours later he stood dripping wet
on the American side of the Rio Grande and shouted advice to a score of
Mexican cavalrymen on the opposite bank. Then he slowly picked his way
toward El Paso for a game at Faro Dan's.
The sheriff sat in his easy chair one night some three weeks later,
gravely engaged in rolling a cigarette. His arms were practically well,
the wounds being in the fleshy parts. He was a philosopher and was
disposed to take things easy, which accounted for his being in his
official position for fifteen years. A gentleman at the core, he was
well educated and had visited a goodly portion of the world. A book of
Horace lay open on his knees and on the table at his side lay a shining
new revolver, Hopalong having carried off his former weapon. He read
aloud several lines and in reaching for a light for his cigarette
noticed the new six-shooter. His mind leaped from Horace to Hopalong,
and he smiled grimly at the latter's promise to call.
Glancing up, his eyes fell on a poster which conveyed the information in
Spanish and in English that there was offered
+--------------------------------------+
| | FIVE HUNDRED PESOS | |
REWARD
For Hopalong Cassidy, of the Ranch
| | Known as the Bar-20, Texas, U. S. A. | |
+--------------------------------------+
and which gave a good description of that gentleman.
Sighing for the five hundred, he again took up his book and was lost in
its pages when he heard a knock, rather low and timid. Wearily laying
aside his reading, he strode to the door, expecting to hear a lengthy
complaint from one of his townsmen. As he threw the door wide open the
light streamed out and lighted up a revolver and behind it the beaming
face of a cowboy, who grinned.
“Well, I'll be damned!” ejaculated the sheriff, starting back in
amazement.
“Don't say that, sheriff; you've got lots of time to reform,” replied a
humorous voice. “How's th' wings?”
“Almost well: you were considerate,” responded the sheriff. “Let's go
in--somebody might see me out here an' get into trouble,” suggested the
visitor, placing his foot on the sill.
“Certainly--pardon my discourtesy,” said the sheriff. “You see, I
wasn't expecting you to-night,” he explained, thinking of the
elaborate preparations that he would have gone to if he had thought the
irrepressible would call.
“Well, I was down this way, an' seeing as how I had promised to drop
in I just natchurally dropped,” replied Hopalong as he took the chair
proffered by his host.
After talking awhile on everything and nothing the sheriff coughed and
looked uneasily at his guest.
“Mr. Cassidy, I am sorry you called, for I like men of your energy and
courage and I very much dislike to arrest you,” remarked the sheriff.
“Of course you understand that you are under arrest,” he added with
anxiety.
“Who, me?” Asked Hopalong with a rising inflection.
“Most assuredly,” breathed the sheriff.
“Why, this is the first time I ever heard anything about it,” replied
the astonished cow-puncher. “I'm an American--don't that make any
difference?”
“Not in this case, I'm afraid. You see, it's for manslaughter.”
“Well, don't that beat th' devil, now?” Said Hopalong. He felt sorry
that a citizen of the glorious United States should be prey for
troublesome sheriffs, but he was sure that his duty to Texas called upon
him never to submit to arrest at the hands of a Mexican. Remembering
the Alamo, and still behind his Colt, he reached over and took up the
shining weapon from the table and snapped it open on his knee. After
placing the cartridges in his pocket he tossed the gun over on the bed
and, reaching inside his shirt, drew out another and threw it after the
first.
“That's yore gun; I forgot to leave it,” he said, apologetically.
“Anyhow yu needs two,” he added.
Then he glanced around the room, noticed the poster and walked over
and read it. A full swift sweep of his gloved hand tore it from its
fastenings and crammed it under his belt. The glimmer of anger in his
eyes gave way as he realized that his head was worth a definite price,
and he smiled at what the boys would say when he showed it to them.
Planting his feet far apart and placing his arms akimbo he faced his
host in grim defiance.
“Got any more of these?” He inquired, placing his hand on the poster
under his belt.
“Several,” replied the sheriff.
“Trot 'em out,” ordered Hopalong shortly.
The sheriff sighed, stretched and went over to a shelf, from which he
took a bundle of the articles in question. Turning slowly he looked at
the puncher and handed them to him.
“I reckons they's all over this here town,” remarked Hopalong.
“They are, and you may never see Texas again.”
“So? Well, yu tell yore most particular friends that the job is worth
five thousand, and that it will take so many to do it that when th'
mazuma is divided up it won't buy a meal. There's only one man in this
country tonight that can earn that money, an' that's me,” said the
puncher. “An' I don't need it,” he added, smiling.
“But you are my prisoner--you are under arrest,” enlightened the sheriff,
rolling another cigarette. The sheriff spoke as if asking a question.
Never before had five hundred dollars been so close at hand and yet so
unobtainable. It was like having a check-book but no bank account.
“I'm shore sorry to treat yu mean,” remarked Hopalong, “but I was paid a
month in advance an' I'll have to go back an' earn it.”
“You can--if you say that you will return,” replied the sheriff
tentatively. The sheriff meant what he said and for the moment had
forgotten that he was powerless and was not the one to make terms.
Hopalong was amazed and for a time his ideas of Mexicans staggered under
the blow. Then he smiled sympathetically as he realized that he faced a
white man.
“Never like to promise nothin',” he replied. “I might get plugged, or
something might happen that wouldn't let me.” Then his face lighted up
as a thought came to him. “Say, I'll cut di' cards with yu to see if I
comes back or not.”
The sheriff leaned back and gazed at the cool youngster before him.
A smile of satisfaction, partly at the self-reliance of his guest and
partly at the novelty of his situation, spread over his face. He reached
for a pack of Mexican cards and laughed. “Man! You're a cool one--I'll do
it. What do you call?”
“Red,” answered Hopalong.
The sheriff slowly raised his hand and revealed the ace of hearts.
Hopalong leaned back and laughed, at the same time taking from his
pocket the six extracted cartridges. Arising and going over to the
bed he slipped them in the chambers of the new gun and then placed the
loaded weapon at the sheriff's elbow.
“Well, I reckon I'll amble, sheriff,” he said as he opened the door. “If
yu ever sifts up my way drop in an' see me--th' boys'll give yu a good
time.”
“Thanks; I will be glad to,” replied the sheriff. “You'll take your
pitcher to the well once too often some day, my friend. This courtesy,”
glancing at the restored revolver, “might have cost you dearly.”
“Shoo! I did that once an' th' feller tried to use it,” replied
the cowboy as he backed through the door. “Some people are awfully
careless,” he added. “So long--”
“So long,” replied the sheriff, wondering what sort of a man he had been
entertaining.
The door closed softly and soon after a joyous whoop floated in from
the Street. The sheriff toyed with the new gun and listened to the low
caress of a distant guitar.
“Well, don't that beat all?” He ejaculated.