While Mr. Travennes had been entertained in the manner narrated, Mr.
Connors had passed the time by relating stale jokes to the uproarious
laughter of his extremely bored audience, who had heard the aged efforts
many times since they had first seen the light of day, and most of whom
earnestly longed for a drink. The landlord, hearing the hilarity, had
taken advantage of the opportunity offered to see a free show. Not being
able to see what the occasion was for the mirth, he had pulled on his
boots and made his way to the show with a flapjack in the skillets
which, in his haste, he had forgotten to put down. He felt sure that he
would be entertained, and he was not disappointed. He rounded the corner
and was enthusiastically welcomed by the hungry Mr. Connors, whose
ubiquitous guns coaxed from the skillet its dyspeptic wad.
“Th' saints be praised!” ejaculated Mr. Connors as a matter of form,
not having a very clear idea of just what saints were, but he knew what
flapjacks were and greedily overcame the heroic resistance of the one
provided by chance and his own guns. As he rolled his eyes in ecstatic
content the very man Mr. Cassidy had warned him against suddenly arose
and in great haste disappeared around the corner of the corral, from
which point of vantage he vented his displeasure at the treatment he had
received by wasting six shots at the mortified Mr. Connors.
“Steady!” sang out that gentleman as the line-up wavered. “He's
a precedent to hell for yu fellers! Don't yu get ambitious, none
whatever.” Then he wondered how long it would take the fugitive to
secure a rifle and return to release the others by drilling him at long
range.
His thoughts were interrupted by the vision of a red head that climbed
into view over a rise a short distance off and he grinned his delight as
Mr. Cassidy loomed up, jaunty and triumphant. Mr. Cassidy was executing
calisthenics with a Colt in the rear of Mr. Travennes' neck and was
leading the horses.
Mr. Connors waved the skillet and his friend grinned his congratulations
at what the token signified.
“I see yu got some more,” said Mr. Cassidy, as he went down the line-up
from the rear and collected nineteen weapons of various makes and
conditions, this number being explained by the fact that all but one of
the prisoners wore two. Then he added the five that had kicked against
his ribs ever since he had left the hut, and carefully threaded the end
of his lariat through the trigger guards.
“Looks like we stuck up a government supply mule, Red,” he remarked,
as he fastened the whole collection to his saddle. “Fourteen colts, six
Merwin-Hulbert's, three Prescott, an' one puzzle,” he added, examining
the puzzle. “Made in Germany, it says, and it shore looks like it. It's
got little pins stickin' out of th' cylinder, like you had to swat it
with a hammer or a rock, or somethin' to make it go off. Must be damn
dangerous, to most anybody around. Looks more like a cactus than a
six-shooter-gosh, it's a ten-shooter! I allus said them Dutchmen was
bloody-minded cusses. Think of bein' able to shoot yoreself ten times
before th' blame thing stops!” Then looking at the line-up for the owner
of the weapon, he laughed at the woeful countenances displayed. “Did
they sidle in by companies or squads?” He asked.
“By twos, mostly. Then they parade-rested an' got discharged from duty.
I had eleven, but one got homesick, or disgusted, or something, an'
deserted. It was that cussed flapjack,” confessed and explained Mr.
Connors.
“What!” said Mr. Cassidy in a loud voice. “Got away! Well, we'll have to
make our get-away plumb sudden or we'll never go.”
At this instant the escaped man again began his bombardment from the
corner of the corral and Mr. Cassidy paused, indignant at the fusillade
which tore up the dust at his feet. He looked reproachfully at Mr.
Connors and then circled out on the plain until he caught a glimpse of
a fleeing cow-puncher, whose back rapidly grew smaller in the
fast-increasing distance.
“That's yore friend, Red,” said Mr. Cassidy as he returned from his
reconnaissance. “He's that short-horn yearling. Mebby he'll come back
again,” he added hopefully. “Anyhow, we've got to move. He'll collect
reinforcements an' mebby they all won't shoot like him. Get up on yore
Clarinda an' hold th' fort for me,” he ordered, pushing the farther
horse over to his friend. Mr. Connors proved that an agile man can mount
a restless horse and not lose the drop, and backed off three hundred
yards, deftly substituting his Winchester for the Colts. Then Mr.
Cassidy likewise mounted with his attention riveted elsewhere and backed
off to the side of his companion.
The bombardment commenced again from the corral, but this time Mr.
Connors' rifle slid around in his lap and exploded twice. The bellicose
gentleman of the corral yelled in pain and surprise and vanished.
“Purty good for a Winchester,” said Mr. Cassidy in doubtful
congratulation.
“That's why I got him,” snapped Mr. Connors in brief reply, and then
he laughed. “Is them th' vigilantes what never let a man get away?” He
scornfully asked, backing down the street and patting his Winchester.
“Well, Red, they wasn't all there. They was only twelve all told,”
excused Mr. Cassidy. “An' then we was two,” he explained, as he wished
the collection of six-shooters was on Mr. Connors' horse so they
wouldn't bark his shin.
“An we still are,” corrected Mr. Connors, as they wheeled and galloped
for Alkaline.
As the sun sank low on the horizon Mr. Peters finished ordering
provisions at the general store, the only one Alkaline boasted, and
sauntered to the saloon where he had left his men. He found diem a few
dollars richer, as they had borrowed ten dollars from the bartender on
their reputations as poker players and had used the money to stake Mr.
McAllister in a game against the local poker champion.
“Has Hopalong an' Red showed up yet?” Asked Mr. Peters, frowning at the
delay already caused.
“Nope,” replied Johnny Nelson, as he paused from tormenting Billy
Williams.
At that minute the doorway was darkened and Mr. Cassidy and Mr. Connors
entered and called for refreshments. Mr. Cassidy dropped a huge bundle
of six-shooters on the floor, making caustic remarks regarding their
utility.
“What's th' matter?” Inquired Mr. Peters of Mr. Cassidy. “Yu looks mad
an' anxious. An' where in blazes did yu corral them guns?”
Mr. Cassidy drank deep and then reported with much heat what had
occurred at Cactus Springs and added that he wanted to go back and wipe
out the town, said desire being luridly endorsed by Mr. Connors.
“Why, shore,” said Mr. Peters, “we'll all go. Such doings must be
stopped instanter.” Then he turned to the assembled outfits and asked
for a vote, which was unanimous for war.
Shortly afterward eighteen angry cowpunchers rode to the east, two
red-haired gentlemen well in front and urging speed. It was 8 P.M. when
they left Alkaline, and the cool of the night was so delightful that the
feeling of ease which came upon them made them lax and they lost three
hours in straying from the dim trail. At eight o'clock the next morning
they came in sight of their destination and separated into two squads,
Mr. Cassidy leading the northern division and Mr. Connors the one which
circled to the south. The intention was to attack from two directions,
thus taking the town from front and rear.
Cactus Springs lay gasping in the excessive heat and the vigilantes who
had toed Mr. Connors' line the day before were lounging in the shade of
the “Palace” saloon, telling what they would do if they ever faced the
same man again. Half a dozen sympathizers offered gratuitous condolence
and advice and all were positive that they knew where Mr. Cassidy and
Mr. Connors would go when they died.
The rolling thunder of madly pounding hoofs disturbed their post-mortem
and they arose in a body to flee from half their number, who, guns in
hands, charged down upon them through clouds of sickly white smoke.
Travennes' Terrors were minus many weapons and they could not be
expected to give a glorious account of themselves. Windows rattled and
fell in and doors and walls gave off peculiar sounds as they grew full
of holes. Above the riot rattled the incessant crack of Colt's and
Winchester, emphasized at close intervals by the assertive roar of
buffalo guns. Off to the south came another rumble of hoofs and Mr.
Connors, leading the second squad,--arrived to participate in the
payment of the debt.
Smoke spurted from windows and other points of vantage and hung wavering
in the heated air. The shattering of woodwork told of heavy slugs
finding their rest, and the whines that grew and diminished in the air
sang the course of .45s.
While the fight raged hottest Mr. Nelson sprang from his horse and ran
to the “Palace,” where he collected and piled a heap of tinder like
wood, and soon the building burst out in flames, which, spreading, swept
the town from end to end.
Mr. Cassidy fired slowly and seemed to be waiting for something. Mr.
Connors laid aside his hot Winchester and devoted his attention to his
Colts. A spurt of flame and smoke leaped from the window of a 'dobe
hut and Mr. Connors sat down, firing as he went. A howl from the window
informed him that he had made a hit, and Mr. Cassidy ran out and dragged
him to the shelter of a near-by bowlder and asked how much he was hurt.
“Not much--in the calf,” grunted Mr. Connors. “He was a bad shot--must
have been the cuss that got away yesterday,” speculated the injured
man as he slowly arose to his feet. Mr. Cassidy dissented from force of
habit and returned to his station. Mr. Travennes, who was sleeping
late that morning, coughed and fought for air in his sleep, awakened in
smoke, rubbed his eyes to make sure and, scorning trousers and shirt,
ran clad in his red woolen undergarments to the corral, where he mounted
his scared horse and rode for the desert and safety.
Mr. Cassidy, swearing at the marksmanship of a man who fired at his head
and perforated his sombrero, saw a crimson rider sweep down upon him,
said rider being heralded by a blazing .44.
“Gosh!” ejaculated Mr. Cassidy, scarcely believing his eyes. “Oh, it's
my friend Slim going to hades,” he remarked to himself in audible and
relieved explanation. Mr. Cassidy's Colts cracked a protest and then he
joined Mr. Peters and the others and with them fought his way out of the
flame-swept town of Cactus Springs.
An hour later Mr. Connors glanced behind him at the smoke silhouetted on
the horizon and pushed his way to where Mr. Cassidy rode in silence. Mr.
Connors grinned at his friend of the red hair, who responded in the same
manner.
“Did yu see Slim?” Casually inquired Mr. Connors, looking off to the
south.
Mr. Cassidy sat upright in his saddle and felt of his Colts. “Yes,” he
replied, “I saw him.”
Mr. Connors thereupon galloped on in silence.