Tex Ewalt, cow-puncher, prospector, sometimes a rustler, but always a
dude, rode from El Paso in deep disgust at his steady losses at faro
and monte. The pecuniary side of these caused him no worry, for he was
flush. This pleasing opulence was due to his business ability, for
he had recently sold a claim for several thousand dollars. The first
operation was simple, being known in Western phraseology as “jumping”;
and the second, somewhat more complicated, was known as “salting.”
The first of the money spent went for a complete new outfit, and he had
parted with just three hundred and seventy dollars to feed his vanity.
He desired something contrasty and he procured it. His sombrero, of gray
felt a quarter of an inch thick, flaunted a band of black leather, on
which was conspicuously displayed a solid silver buckle. His neck was
protected by a crimson kerchief of the finest, heaviest silk. His shirt,
in pattern the same as those commonly worn in the cow country, was of
buckskin, soft as a baby's cheek and impervious to water, and the Angora
goatskin chaps, with the long silken hair worn outside, were as white
as snow. Around his waist ran loosely a broad, black leather belt
supporting a heavy black holster, in which lay its walnut-handled
burden, a .44 caliber six-shooter; and thirty center-fire cartridges
peeked from their loops, fifteen on a side. His boots, the soles thin
and narrow and the heels high, were black and of the finest leather.
Huge spurs, having two-inch rowels, were held in place by buckskin
straps, on which, also, were silver buckles. Protecting his hands were
heavy buckskin gloves, also waterproof, having wide, black gauntlets.
Each dainty hock of his dainty eight-hundred-pound buckskin pony was
black, and a black star graced its forehead. Well groomed, with
flowing mane and tail, and with the brand on its flank being almost
imperceptible, the animal was far different in appearance from most of
the cow-ponies. Vicious and high-spirited, it cavorted just enough to
show its lines to the best advantage.
The saddle, a famous Cheyenne and forty pounds in weight, was black,
richly embossed, and decorated with bits of beaten silver which flashed
back the sunlight. At the pommel hung a thirty-foot coil of braided
horsehair rope, and at the rear was a Sharp's .50-caliber, breech-loading
rifle, its owner having small use for any other make. The color of the
bridle was the same as the saddle and it supported a heavy U bit which
was capable of a leverage sufficient to break the animal's jaw.
Tex was proud of his outfit, but his face wore a frown--not there only on
acount of his losses, but also by reason of his mission, for under all
his finery beat a heart as black as any in the cow country. For months
he had smothered hot hatred and he was now on his way to ease himself of
it.
He and Slim Travennes had once exchanged shots with Hopalong in Santa
Fe, and the month which he had spent in bed was not pleasing, and from
that encounter had sprung the hatred. That he had been in the wrong made
no difference with him. Some months later he had learned of the death
of Slim, and it was due to the same man. That Slim had again been in
the wrong also made no difference, for he realized the fact and nothing
else.
Lately he had been told of the death of Slippery Trendley and Deacon
Rankin, and he accepted their passing as a personal affront. That they
had been caught red-handed in cattle stealing of huge proportions and
received only what was customary under the conditions formed no excuse
in his mind for their passing. He was now on his way to attend the
carnival at Muddy Wells, knowing that his enemy would be sure to be
there.
While passing through Las Cruces he met Porous Johnson and Silent Somes,
who were thirsty and who proclaimed that fact, whereupon he relieved
them of their torment and, looking forward to more treatment of a
similar nature, they gladly accompanied him without asking why or where.
As they left the town in their rear Tex turned in his saddle and
surveyed them with a cynical smile.
“Have yu heard anything of Trendley?” He asked.
They shook their heads.
“Him an' th' Deacon was killed over in th' Panhandle,” he said.
“What!” chorused the pair.
“Jack Dorman, Shorty Danvers, Charley Teale, Stiffhat Bailey, Billy
Jackson, Terry Nolan an' Sailor Carson was lynched.”
“What!” they shouted.
“Fish O'Brien, Pinochle Schmidt, Tom Wilkins, Apache Gordon, Charley of
th' Bar Y, Penobscot Hughes an' about twenty others died fightin'.”
Porous looked his astonishment: “Cavalry?”
“An' I'm going after th' dogs who did it,” he continued, ignoring the
question. “Are yu with me?--Yu used to pal with some of them, didn't
yu?”
“We did, an' we're shore with yu!” cried Porous.
“Yore right,” endorsed Silent. “But who done it?”
“That gang what's punchin' for th' Bar-20-Hopalong Cassidy is th' one
I'm pining for. Yu fellers can take care of Peters an' Connors.”
The two stiffened and exchanged glances of uncertainty and apprehension.
The outfit of the Bar-20 was too well known to cause exuberant joy to
spring from the idea of war with it, and well in the center of all the
tales concerning it were the persons Tex had named. To deliberately
set forth with the avowed intention of planting these was not at all
calculated to induce sweet dreams.
Tex sneered his contempt.
“Yore shore uneasy: yu ain't a-scared, are yu?” He drawled. Porous
relaxed and made a show of subduing his horse: “I reckon I ain't scared
plumb to death. Yu can deal me a hand,” he asserted.
“I'll draw cards too,” hastily announced Silent, buttoning his vest.
“Tell us about that jamboree over in th' Panhandle.”
Tex repeated the story as he had heard it from a bibulous member of the
Barred Horseshoe, and then added a little of torture as a sauce to whet
their appetites for revenge.
“How did Trendley cash in?” Asked Porous.
“Nobody knows except that bum from th' Tin-Cup. I'll get him later. I'd
a got Cassidy up in Santa Fe, too, if it wasn't for th' sun in my eyes.
Me an' Slim loosened up on him in th' Plaza, but we couldn't see nothing
with him a-standin' against th' sun.”
“Where's Slim now?” Asked Porous. “I ain't seen him for some time.”
“Slim's with Trendley,” replied Tex. “Cassidy handed him over to St.
Pete at Cactus Springs. Him an' Connors sicked their outfit on him an'
his vigilantes, bein helped some by th' O-Bar-O. They wiped th' town
plumb off th' earth, an' now I'm going to do some wipin' of my own
account. I'll prune that gang of some of its blossoms afore long. It's
cost me seventeen friends so far, an' I'm going to stop th' leak, or
make another.”
They entered Muddy Wells at sunrise on the day of the carnival and,
eating a hearty breakfast, sallied forth to do their share toward making
the festivities a success.
The first step considered necessary for the acquirement of case and
polish was begun at the nearest bar, and Tex, being the host, was so
liberal that his friends had reached a most auspicious state when they
followed him to Tom Lee's.
Tex was too wise to lose his head through drink and had taken only
enough to make him careless of consequences. Porous was determined to
sing “Annie Laurie,” although he hung on the last word of the first
line until out of breath and then began anew. Silent, not wishing to be
outdone, bawled at the top of his lungs a medley of music-hall words to
the air of a hymn.
Tex, walking as awkwardly as any cow-puncher, approached Tom Lee's, his
two friends trailing erratically, arm in arm, in his rear. Swinging his
arm he struck the door a resounding blow and entered, hand on gun, as it
crashed back. Porous and Silent stood in the doorway and quarreled as
to what each should drink and, compromising, lurched in and seated
themselves on a table and resumed their vocal perpetrations.
Tex swaggered over to the bar and tossed a quarter upon it: “Corn
juice,” he laconically exclaimed. Tossing off the liquor and glancing
at his howling friends, he shrugged his shoulders and strode out by the
rear door, slamming it after him. Porous and Silent, recounting friends
who had “cashed in” fell to weeping and they were thus occupied when
Hopalong and Buck entered, closely followed by the rest of the outfit.
Buck walked to the bar and was followed by Hopalong, who declined his
foreman's offer to treat. Tom Lee set a bottle at Buck's elbow and
placed his hands against the bar.
“Friend of yourn just hit the back trail,” he remarked to Hopalong. “He
was primed some for trouble, too,” he added.
“Yaas?” Drawled Hopalong with little interest.
The proprietor restacked the few glasses and wiped off the bar. “Them's
his pardners,” he said, indicating the pair on the table.
Hopalong turned his head and gravely scrutinized them. Porous was
bemoaning the death of Slim Travennes and Hopalong frowned.
“Don't reckon he's no relation of mine,” he grunted.
“Well, he ain't yore sister,” replied Tom Lee, grinning.
“What's his brand?” Asked the puncher.
“I reckon he's a maverick, 'though yu put yore brand on him up to Santa
Fe a couple of years back. Since he's throwed back on yore range I
reckon he's yourn if yu wants him.”
“I reckon Tex is some sore,” remarked Hopalong, rolling a cigarette.
“I reckon he is,” replied the proprietor, tossing Buck's quarter in the
cash box. “But, say, you should oughter see his rig.”
“Yaas?”
“He's shore a cow-punch dude--my, but he's some sumptious an'
highfalutin'. An' bad? Why, he reckons th' Lord never brewed a more
high-toned brand of cussedness than his'n. He shore reckons he's the
baddest man that ever simmered.”
“How'd he look as th' leadin' man in a necktie festival?” Blazed Johnny
from across the room, feeling called upon to help the conversation.
“He'd be a howlin' success, son,” replied Skinny Thompson, “judgin' by
his friends what we elevated over in th' Panhandle.”
Lanky Smith leaned forward with his elbow on the table, resting his chin
in the palm of his hand: “Is Ewalt still a-layin' for yu, Hopalong?” He
asked.
Hopalong turned wearily and tossed his half-consumed cigarette into the
box of sand which did duty as a cuspidore: “I reckon so; an' he shore
can hatch whenever he gets good an ready, too.”
“He's probably a-broodin' over past grievances,” offered Johnny, as
he suddenly pushed Lanky's elbow from the table, nearly causing a
catastrophe.
“Yu'll be broodin' over present grievances if yu don't look out, yu
everlastin' nuisance yu,” growled Lanky, planting his elbow in its
former position with an emphasis which conveyed a warning.
“These bantams ruflle my feathers,” remarked Red. “They go around
braggin' about th' egg they're goin' to lay an' do enough cacklin'
to furnish music for a dozen. Then when th' affair comes off yu'll
generally find they's been settin' on a door-knob.”
“Did yu ever see a hen leave th' walks of peace an' bugs an' rustle
hell-bent across th' trail plumb in front of a cayuse?” Asked Buck.
“They'll leave off rustlin' grub an' become candidates for th' graveyard
just for cussedness. Well, a whole lot of men are th' same way. How many
times have I seen them swagger into a gin shop an' try to run things
sudden an' hard, an' that with half a dozen better men in th' same room?
There's shore a-plenty of trouble a-comin' to every man without rustlin'
around for more.
“'Member that time yu an' Frenchy tried to run th' little town of Frozen
Nose, up in Montana?” Asked Johnny, winking at the rest.
“An' we did run it, for a while,” responded Buck. “But that only goes to
show that most young men are chumps--we were just about yore age then.”
Red laughed at the youngster's discomfiture: “That little squib of yourn
shore touched her off--I reckon we irrigates on yu this time, don't we?”
“Th' more th' Kid talks, th' more money he needs,” remarked Lanky,
placing his glass on the bar. “He had to blow me an' Skinny twice last
night.”
“I got two more after yu left,” added Skinny “He shore oughter practice
keeping still.”
At one o'clock sharp Hopalong walked up to the clerk of the hotel and
grinned. The clerk looked up:
“Hullo, Cassidy?” He exclaimed, genially. “What was all that fuss
about this mornin' when I was away? I haven't seen you for a long time,
have I? How are you?”
“That fuss was a fool joke of Buck's, an' I wish they had been throwed
out,” Hopalong replied. “What I want to know is if Miss Deane is in her
room. Yu see, I have a date with her.”
The clerk grinned:
“So she's roped you, too, has she?”
“What do yu mean?” Asked Hopalong in surprise. “Well, well,” laughed the
clerk. “You punchers are easy. Any third-rate actress that looks good to
eat can rope you fellows, all right. Now look here, Laura, you keep shy
of her corral, or you'll be broke so quick you won't believe you ever
had a cent: that's straight. This is the third year that she's been here
and I know what I'm talking about. How did you come to meet her?”
Hopalong explained the meeting and his friend laughed again:
“Why, she knows this country like a book. She can't get lost anywhere
around here. But she's blame clever at catching punchers.”
“Well, I reckon I'd better take her, go broke or not,” replied Hopalong.
“Is she in her room?”
“She is, but she is not alone,” responded the clerk. “There is a
dude puncher up there with her and she left word here that she was
indisposed, which means that you are outlawed.”
“Who is he?” Asked Hopalong, having his suspicions. “That friend of
yours: Ewalt. He sported a wad this morning when she passed him, and she
let him make her acquaintance. He's another easy mark. He'll be busted
wide open to-night.”
“I reckon I'll see Tex,” suggested Hopalong, starting for the stairs.
“Come back, you chump!” cried the clerk. “I don't want any shooting
here. What do you care about it? Let her have him, for it's an easy way
out of it for you. Let him think he's cut you out, for he'll spend all
the more freely. Get your crowd and enlighten them--it'll be better than
a circus. This may sound like a steer, but it's straight.”
Hopalong thought for a minute and then leaned on the cigar case:
“I reckon I'll take about a dozen of yore very best cigars, Charley. Got
any real high-toned brands?”
“Cortez panatella--two for a simoleon,” Chancy replied. “But, seein' that
it's you, I'll throw off a dollar on a dozen. They're a fool notion of
the old man, for we can't sell one in a month.”
Hopalong dug up a handful and threw one on the counter, lighting
another: “Yu light a Cortez panatella with me,” he said, pocketing the
remainder. “That's five simoleons she didn't get. So long.”
He journeyed to Tom Lee's and found his outfit making merry. Passing
around his cigars he leaned against the bar and delighted in the first
really good smoke he had since he came home from Kansas City.
Johnny Nelson blew a cloud of smoke at the ceiling and paused with a
pleased expression on his face:
“This is a lalapoloosa of a cigar,” he cried. “Where'd yu get it, an'
how many's left?”
“I got it from Charley, an' there's more than yu can buy at fifty a
shot.”
“Well, I'll just take a few for luck,” Johnny responded, running out
into the street. Returning in five minutes with both hands full of
cigars he passed them around and grinned: “They're birds, all right!”
Hopalong smiled, turned to Buck and related his conversation with
Chancy. “What do yu think of that?” He asked as he finished.
“I think Charley oughter be yore guardian,” replied the foreman.
“He was,” replied Hopalong.
“If we sees Tex we'll all grin hard,” laughed Red, making for the door.
“Come on to th' contests--Lanky's gone already.”
Muddy Wells streamed to the carnival grounds and relieved itself of
its enthusiasm and money at the booths on the way. Cow-punchers rubbed
elbows with Indians and Mexicans, and the few tourists that were present
were delighted with the picturesque scene. The town was full of fakirs
and before one of them stood a group of cow-punchers, apparently
drinking in the words of a barker.
“Right this way, gents, and see the woman who don't eat. Lived for two
years without food, gents. Right this way, gents. Only a quarter of a
dollar. Get your tickets, gents, and see--”
Red pushed forward:
“What did yu say, pard?” He asked. “I'm a little off in my near ear.
What's that about eatin' a woman for two years?”
“The greatest wonder of the age, gents. The wom--”
“Any discount for th' gang?” Asked Buck, gawking.
“Why don't yu quit smokin' an' buy th' lady a meal?” Asked Johnny from
the center of the group.
“Th' cane yu ring th' cane yu get!” came from the other side of the
street and Hopalong purchased rings for the outfit. Twenty-four rings
got one cane, and it was divided between them as they wended their way
toward the grounds.
“That makes six wheels she didn't get,” murmured Hopalong. As they
passed the snake charmer's booth they saw Tex and his companion ahead
of them in the crowd, and they grinned broadly. “I like th' front row in
th' balcony,” remarked Johnny, who had been to Kansas City. “Don't cry
in th' second act--it ain't real,” laughed Red. “We'll hang John Brown on
a sour appletree--in th' Panhandle,” sang Skinny as they passed them.
Arriving at the grounds they hunted up the registration committee and
entered in the contests. As Hopalong signed for the revolver competition
he was rudely pushed aside and Tex wrote his name under that of his
enemy. Hopalong was about to show quick resentment for the insult, but
thought of what Charley had said, and he grinned sympathetically. The
seats were filling rapidly, and the outfit went along the ground looking
for friends. A bugle sounded and a hush swept over the crowd as the
announcement was made for the first event.
“Broncho-busting-Red Devil, never ridden: Frenchy McAllister, Tin-Cup,
Montana; Meteor, killed his man: Skinny Thompson, Bar-20, Texas; Vixen,
never ridden: Lefty Allen, O-Bar-O, Texas.”
All eyes were focused on the plain where the horse was being led out
for the first trial. After the usual preliminaries had been gone through
Frenchy walked over to it, vaulted in the saddle and the bandage was
torn from the animal's eyes. For ten minutes the onlookers were held
spellbound by the fight before them, and then the horse kicked and
galloped away and Frenchy was picked up and carried from the field.
“Too bad!” cried Buck, running from the outfit.
“Did yu see it?” asked Johnny excitedly, “Th' cinch busted.” Another
horse was led out and Skinny Thompson vaulted to the saddle, and after
a fight of half an hour rode the animal from the enclosure to the
clamorous shouts of his friends. Lefty Allen also rode his mount from
the same gate, but took ten minutes more in which to do it.
The announcer conferred with the timekeepers and then stepped forward:
“First, Skinny Thompson, Bar-20, thirty minutes and ten seconds; second,
Lefty Allen, O-Bar-O, forty minutes and seven seconds.”
Skinny returned to his friends shamefacedly and did not look as if he
had just won a championship. They made way for him, and Johnny, who
could not restrain his enthusiasm pounded him on the back and cried: “Yu
old son-of-a-gun!”
The announcer again came forward and gave out the competitors for the
next contest, steer-roping and tying. Lanky Smith arose and, coiling his
rope carefully, disappeared into the crowd. The fun was not so great in
this, but when he returned to his outfit with the phenomenal time of six
minutes and eight seconds for his string of ten steers, with twenty-two
seconds for one of them, they gave him vociferous greeting. Three of his
steers had gotten up after he had leaped from his saddle to tie them,
but his horse had taken care of that. His nearest rival was one minute
over him and Lanky retained the championship.
Red Connors shot with such accuracy in the rifle contest as to run his
points twenty per cent higher than Waffles, of the O-Bar-O, and won the
new rifle.
The main interest centered in the revolver contest, for it was known
that the present champion was to defend his title against an enemy and
fears were expressed in the crowd that there would be an “accident.”
Buck Peters and Red stood just behind the firing line with their hands
on hips, and Tex, seeing the precautions, smiled grimly as he advanced
to the line.
Six bottles, with their necks an inch above a board, stood twenty paces
from him, and he broke them all in as many shots, taking twelve seconds
in which to do it. Hopalong followed him and tied the score. Three tin
balls rolling erratically in a blanket supported by two men were
sent flying into the air in four shots, Tex taking six seconds. His
competitor sent them from the blanket in three shots and in the same
time. In slow shooting from sights Tex passed his rival in points and
stood to win. There was but one more event to be contested and in it
Hopalong found his joy.
Shooting from the hip when the draw is timed is not the sport of even
good shots, and when Tex made sixty points out of a possible hundred, he
felt that he had shot well. When Hopalong went to the line his
friends knew that they would now see shooting such as would be almost
unbelievable, that the best draw-and-shoot marksman in their State was
the man who limped slightly as he advanced and who chewed reflectively
on his fifty-cent cigar. He wore two guns and he stepped with confidence
before the marshal of the town, who was also judge of the contest.
The iron ball which lay on the ground was small enough for the use of a
rifle and could hardly be seen from the rear seats of the amphitheater.
There was a word spoken by the timekeeper, and a gloved hand flashed
down and up, and the ball danced and spun and leaped and rolled as shot
after shot followed it with a precision and speed which brought the
audience to a heavy silence. Taking the gun which Buck tossed to him
and throwing it into the empty holster, he awaited the signal, and then
smoke poured from his hips and the ball jumped continuously. Both guns
emptied in the two-hand shooting, he wheeled and jerked loose the guns
which the marshal wore, spinning around without a pause, the target
hardly ceasing in its rolling. Under his arms he shot, backward and
between his legs; leaping from side to side, ducking and dodging,
following the ball wherever it went. Reloading the weapons quickly,
he stepped forward and followed the ball until once more his guns
were empty. Then he turned and walked back to the side of the marshal,
smiling a little. His friends, and there were many in the crowd, torn
from their affected nonchalance by shooting the like of which they had
not attributed even to him, roared and shouted and danced in a frenzy of
delight.
Red also threw his guns to Hopalong, who caught them in the air and
turning, faced Tex, who stood white of face and completely lost in the
forgetfulness of admiration and amazement. The guns jerked again and a
button flew from the buckskin shirt of his enemy; another tore a flower
from his breast and another drove it into the ground at his feet as
others stirred his hair and cut the buckle off his pretty sombrero. Tex,
dazed, but wise enough to stand quiet, felt his belt tear loose and drop
to his feet, felt a spur rip from its strap and saw his cigarette leap
from his lips. Throwing the guns to Red, Hopalong laughed and abruptly
turned and was lost in the crowd.
For several seconds there was silence, but when the dazed minds realized
what their eyes had seen, there arose a roar which shook the houses in
the town. Roar after roar thundered forth and was sent crashing back
again by the distant walls, sweeping down on the discomfited dude and
causing him to slink into the crowd to find a place less conspicuous. He
was white yet and keen fear gripped his heart as he realized that he had
come to the carnival with the expressed purpose of killing his enemy in
fair combat. The whole town knew it, for he had taken pains to spread
the news.
The woman he had been with knew it from words which she had overheard
while on her way to the grounds with him. His friends knew it and would
laugh him into forgetfulness as the fool who boasted. Now he understood
why he had lost so many friends: they had attempted what he had sworn to
attempt. Look where he would he could see only a smoke-wrapped demon who
moved and shot with a speed incredible. There was reason why Slim had
died. There was reason why Porous and Silent had paled when they learned
of their mission.
He hated his conspicuous clothes and his pretty broncho, and the
woman who had gotten him to squander his money, and who was doubtless
convulsed with laughter at his expense. He worked himself into a passion
which knew no fear and he ran for the streets of the town, there to
make good his boast or to die. When he found his enemy he felt himself
grasped with a grip of steel and Buck Peters swung him around and
grinned maliciously in his face:
“You plaything!” hoarsely whispered the foreman. “Why don't yu get away
while yu can? Why do yu want to throw yoreself against certain death? I
don't want my pleasure marred by a murder, an' that is what it will
be if yu makes a gun-play at Hopalong. He'll shoot yu as he did yore
buttons. Take yore pretty clothes an' yore pretty cayuse an' go where
this is not known, an' if ever again yu feels like killing Hopalong, get
drunk an' forget it.”