trip Abe. Harry Needles stood beside me. Before I
could move he dashed forward and hit that feller
in the middle of his forehead and knocked him
flat. Harry had hit Bap McNoll the cock fighter. I
got up next to the kettle then and took the scum
off it. Fetched one of them devils a slap with the
side of my hand that took the skin off his face
and rolled him over and over. When I looked again
Armstrong was going limp. His mouth was open and
his tongue out. With one hand fastened to his
right leg and the other on the nape of his neck
Abe lifted him at arm's length and gave him a toss
in the air. Armstrong fell about ten feet from
where Abe stood and lay there for a minute. The
fight was all out of him and he was kind of dazed
and sick. Abe stood up like a giant and his face
looked awful solemn.
"'Boys, if there's any more o' you that want
trouble you can have some off the same piece,' he
said.
"They hung their heads and not one of them made a
move or said a word. Abe went to Armstrong and
helped him up.
"'Jack, I'm sorry that I had to hurt you,' he
said. 'You get on to your horse and go home.'
"'Abe, you're a better man than me,' said the
bully, as he offered his hand to Abe. 'I'll do
anything you say.'"
So the Clary's Grove gang was conquered. They were to make more trouble
but not again were they to imperil the foundations of law and order in
the little community of New Salem.
FOOTNOTE:
[7] From _A Man For the Ages_. Copyright, 1919, by the Bobbs-Merrill
Company. Used by special permission of the publishers.
[Illustration]
VIII.--The End of the Trail[8]
_By Clarence E. Mulford_
_Buck Peters, foreman of Bar-20 Ranch had many
cowboys; Pete Wilson, Red Connors, Billy Williams,
Johnny Nelson, and a goodly number more, but chief
among them was Hopalong Cassidy. Many interesting
stories are told about him in "Bar-20 Days" but
none of his thrilling experiences ever ended as
did the one recited in this most unusual story,
"The End of the Trail."_--THE EDITOR.
WHEN one finds on his ranch the carcasses of two cows on the same day,
and both are skinned, there can be only one conclusion. The killing and
skinning of two cows out of herds that are numbered by thousands need
not, in themselves, bring lines of worry to any foreman's brow; but
there is the sting of being cheated, the possibility of the losses going
higher unless a sharp lesson be given upon the folly of fooling with a
very keen and active buzz-saw,--and it was the determination of the
outfit of the Bar-20 to teach that lesson, and as quickly as
circumstances would permit.
It was common knowledge that there was a more or less organized band of
shiftless malcontents making its headquarters in and near Perry's Bend,
some distance up the river, and the deduction in this case was easy. The
Bar-20 cared very little about what went on at Perry's Bend--that was a
matter which concerned only the ranches near that town--so long as no
vexatious happenings sifted too far south. But they had so sifted, and
Perry's Bend, or rather the undesirable class hanging out there, was due
to receive a shock before long.
About a week after the finding of the first skinned cows, Pete Wilson
tornadoed up to the bunk house with a perforated arm. Pete was on foot,
having lost his horse at the first exchange of shots, which accounts for
the expression describing his arrival. Pete hated to walk, he hated
still more to get shot, and most of all he hated to have to admit that
his rifle-shooting was so far below par. He had seen the thief at work
and, too eager to work up close to the cattle skinner before announcing
his displeasure, had missed the first shot. When he dragged himself out
from under his deceased horse the scenery was undisturbed save for a
small cloud of dust hovering over a distant rise to the north of him.
After delivering a short and bitter monologue he struck out for the
ranch and arrived in a very hot and wrathful condition. It was
contagious, that condition, and before long the entire outfit was in
the saddle and pounding north, Pete overjoyed because his wound was so
slight as not to bar him from the chase. The shock was on the way, and
as events proved, was to be one long to linger in the minds of the
inhabitants of Perry's Bend and the surrounding range.
* * * * *
The patrons of the Oasis liked their tobacco strong. The pungent smoke
drifted in sluggish clouds along the low, black ceiling, following its
upward slant toward the east wall and away from the high bar at the
other end. This bar, rough and strong, ran from the north wall to within
a scant two feet of the south wall, the opening bridged by a hinged
board which served as an extension to the counter. Behind the bar was a
rear door, low and double, the upper part barred securely--the lower
part was used most. In front of and near the bar was a large round
table, at which four men played cards silently, while two smaller tables
were located along the north wall. Besides dilapidated chairs there were
half a dozen low wooden boxes partly filled with sand, and attention was
directed to the existence and purpose of these by a roughly lettered
sign on the wall, reading: "Gents will look for a box first," which the
"gents" sometimes did. The majority of the "gents" preferred to aim at
various knotholes in the floor and bet on the result, chancing the
outpouring of the proprietor's wrath if they missed.
On the wall behind the bar was a smaller and neater request: "Leave your
guns with the bartender.--Edwards." This, although a month old, still
called forth caustic and profane remarks from the regular frequenters of
the saloon, for hitherto restraint in the matter of carrying weapons had
been unknown. They forthwith evaded the order in a manner consistent
with their characteristics--by carrying smaller guns where they could
not be seen. The majority had simply sawed off a generous part of the
long barrels of their Colts and Remingtons, which did not improve their
accuracy.
Edwards, the new marshal of Perry's Bend, had come direct from Kansas
and his reputation as a fighter had preceded him. When he took up his
first day's work he was kept busy proving that he was the rightful owner
of it and that it had not been exaggerated in any manner or degree. With
the exception of one instance the proof had been bloodless, for he
reasoned that gun-play should give way, whenever possible, to a crushing
"right" or "left" to the point of the jaw or the pit of the stomach. His
proficiency in the manly art was polished and thorough and bespoke
earnest application. The last doubting Thomas to be convinced came to
five minutes after his diaphragm had been rudely and suddenly raised
several inches by a low right hook, and as he groped for his bearings
and got his wind back again he asked, very feebly, where "Kansas" was;
and the name stuck.
The marshal did not like the Oasis; indeed, he went further and
cordially hated it. Harlan's saloon was a thorn in his side and he was
only waiting for a good excuse to wipe it off the local map. He was the
Law, and behind him were the range riders, who would be only too glad to
have the nest of rustlers wiped out and its gang of ne'er-do-wells
scattered to the four winds. Indeed, he had been given to understand in
a most polite and diplomatic way that if this were not done lawfully,
they would try to do it themselves, and they had great faith in their
ability to handle the situation in a thorough and workmanlike manner.
This would not do in a law-abiding community, as he called the town, and
so he had replied that the work was his, and that it would be performed
as soon as he believed himself justified to act. Harlan and his friends
were fully conversant with the feeling against them and had become a
little more cautious, alertly watching out for trouble.
On the evening of the day which saw Pete Wilson's discomfiture most of
the _habitues_ had assembled in the Oasis where, besides the
card-players already mentioned, eight men lounged against the bar. There
was some laughter, much subdued talking, and a little whispering. More
whispering went on under that roof than in all the other places in town
put together; for here rustling was planned, wayfaring strangers were
"trimmed" in "frame-up" at cards, and a hunted man was certain to find
assistance. Harlan had once boasted that no fugitive had ever been
taken from his saloon, and he was behind the bar and standing on the
trap door which led to the six-by-six cellar when he made the assertion.
It was true, for only those in his confidence knew of the place of
refuge under the floor: it had been dug at night and the dirt carefully
disposed of.
It had not been dark very long before talking ceased and card-playing
was suspended while all looked up as the front door crashed open and two
punchers entered, looking the crowd over with critical care.
"Stay here, Johnny," Hopalong told his youthful companion, and then
walked forward, scrutinizing each scowling face in turn, while Johnny
stood with his back to the door, keenly alert, his right hand resting
lightly on his belt not far from the holster.
Harlan's thick neck grew crimson and his eyes hard. "Lookin' fer
something?" he asked with bitter sarcasm, his hands under the bar.
Johnny grinned hopefully and a sudden tenseness took possession of him
as he watched for the first hostile move.
"Yes," Hopalong replied coolly, appraising Harlan's attitude and look in
one swift glance, "but it ain't here, now. Johnny, get out," he ordered,
backing after his companion, and safely outside, the two walked towards
Jackson's store, Johnny complaining about the little time spent in the
Oasis.
As they entered the store they saw Edwards, whose eyes asked a
question.
"No; he ain't in there yet," Hopalong replied.
"Did you look all over? Behind th' bar?" Edwards asked, slowly. "He
can't get out of town through that cordon you've got strung around it,
an' he ain't nowhere else. Leastwise, I couldn't find him."
"Come on back!" excitedly exclaimed Johnny, turning towards the door.
"You didn't look behind th' bar! Come on--bet you ten dollars that's
where he is!"
"Mebby yo're right, Kid," replied Hopalong, and the marshal's nodding
head decided it.
In the saloon there was strong language, and Jack Quinn, expert skinner
of other men's cows, looked inquiringly at the proprietor. "What's up
now, Harlan?"
The proprietor laughed harshly but said nothing--taciturnity was his one
redeeming trait. "Did you say cigars?" he asked, pushing a box across
the bar to an impatient customer. Another beckoned to him and he leaned
over to hear the whispered request, a frown struggling to show itself on
his face. "Nix; you know my rule. No trust in here."
But the man at the far end of the line was unlike the proprietor and he
prefaced his remarks with a curse. "_I_ know what's up! They want Jerry
Brown, that's what! An' I hopes they don't get him, th' bullies!"
"What did he do? Why do they want him?" asked the man who had wanted
trust.
"Skinning. He was careless or crazy, working so close to their ranch
houses. Nobody that had any sense would take a chance like that,"
replied Boston, adept at sleight-of-hand with cards and very much in
demand when a frame-up was to be rung in on some unsuspecting stranger.
His one great fault in the eyes of his partners was that he hated to
divvy his winnings and at times had to be coerced into sharing equally.
"Aw, them big ranches make me mad," announced the first speaker. "Ten
years ago there was a lot of little ranchers, an' every one of 'em had
his own herd, an' plenty of free grass an' water fer it. Where are th'
little herds now? Where are th' cows that we used to own?" he cried,
hotly. "What happens to a maverick-hunter, nowadays? If a man helps
hisself to a pore, sick dogie he's hunted down! It can't go on much
longer, an' that's shore."
Slivers Lowe leaped up from his chair. "Yo're right, Harper! Dead right!
_I_ was a little cattle owner onct, so was you, an' Jerry, an' most of
us!" Slivers found it convenient to forget that fully half of his small
herd had perished in the bitter and long winter of five years before,
and that the remainder had either flowed down his parched throat or been
lost across the big round table near the bar. Not a few of his cows were
banked in the East under Harlan's name.
The rear door opened slightly and one of the loungers looked up and
nodded. "It's all right Jerry. But get a move on!"
"Here, _you_!" called Harlan, quickly bending over the trap door,
"_Lively!_"
Jerry was halfway to the proprietor when the front door swung open and
Hopalong, closely followed by the marshal, leaped into the room, and
immediately thereafter the back door banged open and admitted Johnny.
Jerry's right hand was in his side coat pocket and Johnny, young and
self-confident, and with a lot to learn, was certain that he could beat
the fugitive on the draw.
"I reckon you won't blot no more brands!" he cried, triumphantly,
watching both Jerry and Harlan.
The card-players had leaped to their feet and at a signal from Harlan
they surged forward to the bar and formed a barrier between Johnny and
his friends; and as they did so that puncher jerked at his gun, twisting
to half face the crowd. At that instant fire and smoke spurted from
Jerry's side coat pocket and the odor of burning cloth arose. As Johnny
fell, the rustler ducked low and sprang for the door. A gun roared twice
in the front of the room and Jerry staggered a little and cursed as he
gained the opening, but he plunged into the darkness and threw himself
into the saddle on the first horse he found in the small corral.
When the crowd massed, Hopalong leaped at it and strove to tear his way
to the opening at the end of the bar, while the marshal covered Harlan
and the others. Finding that he could not get through, Hopalong sprang
on the shoulder of the nearest man and succeeded in winging the fugitive
at the first shot, the other going wild. Then, frantic with rage and
anxiety, he beat his way through the crowd, hammering mercilessly at
heads with the butt of his Colt, and knelt at his friend's side.
Edwards, angered almost to the point of killing, ordered the crowd to
stand against the wall, and laughed viciously when he saw two men
senseless on the floor. "Hope he beat in yore heads!" he gritted,
savagely. "Harlan, put yore paws up in sight or I'll drill you clean!
Now climb over an' get in line--quick!"
Johnny moaned and opened his eyes. "Did--did I--get him?"
"No; but he gimleted you, all right," Hopalong replied. "You'll come
'round if you keep quiet." He arose, his face hard with the desire to
kill. "I'm coming back for _you_, Harlan, after I get yore friend! An'
all th' rest of you pups, too!"
"Get me out of here," whispered Johnny.
"Shore enough, Kid; but keep quiet," replied Hopalong, picking him up in
his arms and moving carefully towards the door. "We'll get him, Johnny;
an' all th' rest, too, when"--the voice died out in the direction of
Jackson's and the marshal, backing to the front door, slipped out and to
one side, running backward, his eyes on the saloon.
"Yore day's about over, Harlan," he muttered.
"There's going to be some few funerals around here before many hours
pass."
When he reached the store he found the owner and two Double-Arrow
punchers taking care of Johnny. "Where's Hopalong?" he asked.
"Gone to tell his foreman," replied Jackson. "Hey, youngster, you let
them bandages alone! Hear me?"
"Hullo, Kansas," remarked John Bartlett, foreman of the Double-Arrow. "I
come nigh getting yore man; somebody rode past me like a streak in th'
dark, so I just ups an' lets drive for luck, an' so did he. I heard him
cuss an' I emptied my gun after him."
* * * * *
The rain slanted down in sheets and the broken plain, thoroughly
saturated, held the water in pools or sent it down the steep side of the
cliff to feed the turbulent flood which swept along the bottom,
foam-flecked and covered with swiftly moving driftwood. Around a bend
where the angry water flung itself against the ragged bulwark of rock
and flashed away in a gleaming line of foam, a horseman appeared,
bending low in the saddle for better protection against the storm. He
rode along the edge of the stream on the farther bank, opposite the
steep bluff on the northern side, forcing his wounded and jaded horse to
keep fetlock deep in the water which swirled and sucked about its legs.
He was trying his hardest to hide his trail. Lower down the hard, rocky
ground extended to the water's edge, and if he could delay his pursuers
for an hour or so, he felt that, even with his tired horse, he would
have more than an even chance.
But they had gained more than he knew. Suddenly above him on the top of
the steep bluff across the torrent a man loomed up against the clouds,
peered intently and then waved his sombrero to an unseen companion. A
puff of smoke flashed from his shoulder and streaked away, the report of
the shot lost in the gale. The fugitive's horse reared and plunged into
the deep water and with its rider was swept rapidly towards the bend,
the way they had come.
"That makes th' fourth time I've missed that coyote!" angrily exclaimed
Hopalong as Red Connors joined him.
The other quickly raised his rifle and fired; and the horse, spilling
its rider out of the saddle, floated away tail first. The fugitive,
gripping his rifle, bobbed and whirled at the whim of the greedy water
as shots struck near him. Making a desperate effort, he staggered up the
bank and fell exhausted behind a bowlder.
"Well, th' coyote is afoot, anyhow," said Red, with great satisfaction.
"Yes; but how are we going to get to him?" asked Hopalong. "We can't get
th' cayuses down here, an' we can't swim _that_ water without them. And
if we could, he'd pot us easy."
"There's a way out of it somewhere," Red replied, disappearing over the
edge of the bluff to gamble with Fate.
"Hey! Come back here, you chump!" cried Hopalong, running forward.
"He'll get you, shore!"
"That's a chance I've got to take if I get him," was the reply.
A puff of smoke sailed from behind the bowlder on the other bank and
Hopalong, kneeling for steadier aim, fired and then followed his friend.
Red was downstream casting at a rock across the torrent but the wind
toyed with the heavy, water-soaked _reata_ as though it were a string.
As Hopalong reached his side a piece of driftwood ducked under the water
and an angry humming sound died away downstream. As the report reached
their ears a jet of water spurted up into Red's face and he stepped back
involuntarily.
"He's some shaky," Hopalong remarked, looking back at the wreath of
smoke above the bowlder. "I reckon I must have hit him harder than I
thought in Harlan's. Gee! he's wild as blazes!" he ejaculated as a
bullet hummed high above his head and struck sharply against the rock
wall.
"Yes," Red replied, coiling the rope. "I was trying to rope that rock
over there. If I could anchor to that, th' current would push us over
quick. But it's too far with this wind blowing."
"We can't do nothing here 'cept get plugged. He'll be getting steadier
as he rests from his fight with th' water," Hopalong remarked, and added
quickly, "Say, remember that meadow back there a ways? We can make her
from there, all right."
"Yo're right; that's what we've got to do. He's sending 'em nearer every
shot--Gee! I could 'most feel th' wind of that one. An' blamed if it
ain't stopped raining. Come on."
They clambered up the slippery, muddy bank to where they had left their
horses, and cantered back over their trail. Minute after minute passed
before the cautious skulker among the rocks across the stream could
believe in his good fortune. When he at last decided that he was alone
again he left his shelter and started away, with slowly weakening
stride, over cleanly washed rock where he left no trail.
It was late in the afternoon before the two irate punchers appeared upon
the scene, and their comments, as they hunted slowly over the hard
ground, were numerous and bitter. Deciding that it was hopeless in that
vicinity, they began casting in great circles on the chance of crossing
the trail further back from the river. But they had little faith in
their success. As Red remarked, snorting like a horse in his disgust,
"I'll bet four dollars an' a match he's swum down th' river just to have
th' laugh on us." Red had long since given it up as a bad job, though
continuing to search, when a shout from the distant Hopalong sent him
forward on a run.
"Hey, Red!" cried Hopalong, pointing ahead of them. "Look there! Ain't
that a house?"
"Naw; course not! It's a--it's a ship!" Red snorted sarcastically. "What
did you think it might be?"
"G'wan!" retorted his companion. "It's a mission."
"Ah, g'wan yorself! What's a mission doing up here?" Red snapped.
"What do you think they do? What do they do anywhere?" hotly rejoined
Hopalong, thinking about Johnny. "There! See th' cross?"
"Shore enough!"
"An' there's tracks at last--mighty wobbly, but tracks just th' same.
Them rocks couldn't go on forever. Red, I'll bet he's cashed in by this
time."
"Cashed nothing! Them fellers don't."
"Well, if he's in that joint we might as well go back home. We won't get
him, not nohow," declared Hopalong.
"Huh! You wait an' see!" replied Red, pugnaciously.
"Reckon you never run up agin' a mission real hard," Hopalong responded,
his memory harking back to the time he had disagreed with a convent, and
they both meant about the same to him as far as winning out was
concerned.
"Think I'm a fool kid?" snapped Red, aggressively.
"Well, you ain't no _kid_."
"You let _me_ do th' talking; _I'll_ get him."
"All right; an' I'll do th' laughing," snickered Hopalong, at the door.
"Sic 'em, Red!"
The other boldly stepped into a small vestibule, Hopalong close at his
heels. Red hitched his holster and walked heavily into a room at his
left. With the exception of a bench, a table, and a small altar, the
room was devoid of furnishings, and the effect of these was lost in the
dim light from the narrow windows. The peculiar, not unpleasant odor of
burning incense and the dim light awakened a latent reverence and awe in
Hopalong, and he sneaked off his sombrero, an inexplicable feeling of
guilt stealing over him. There were three doors in the walls, deeply
shrouded in the dusk of the room, and it was very hard to watch all
three at once. . . .
Red listened intently and then grinned. "Hear that? They're playing
dominoes in there--come on!"
"Aw, you chump! 'Dominee' means 'mother' in Latin, which is what they
speaks."
"How do you know?"
"Hanged if I can tell--I've heard it somewhere, that's all."
"Well, I don't care what it means. This is a frame-up so that coyote can
get away. I'll bet they gave him a cayuse an' started him off while
we've been losing time in here. I'm going inside an' ask some
questions."
Before he could put his plan into execution, Hopalong nudged him and he
turned to see his friend staring at one of the doors. There had been no
sound, but he would swear that a monk stood gravely regarding them, and
he rubbed his eyes. He stepped back suspiciously and then started
forward again.
"Look here, stranger," he remarked, with quiet emphasis, "we're after
that cow-lifter, an' we mean to get him. Savvy?"
The monk did not appear to hear him, so he tried another trick. "_Habla
espanola?_" he asked, experimentally.
"You have ridden far?" replied the monk in perfect English.
"All th' way from th' Bend," Red replied, relieved. "We're after Jerry
Brown. He tried to kill Johnny, judgin' from th' tracks."
"And if you capture him?"
"He won't have no more use for no side pocket shooting."
"I see; you will kill him."
"Shore's it's wet outside."
"I'm afraid you are doomed to disappointment."
"Ya-as?" asked Red with a rising inflection.
"You will not want him now," replied the monk.
Red laughed sarcastically and Hopalong smiled.
"There ain't a-going to be no argument about it. Trot him out," ordered
Red, grimly.
The monk turned to Hopalong. "Do you, too, want him?"
Hopalong nodded.
"My friends, he is safe from your punishment."
Red wheeled instantly and ran outside, returning in a few moments,
smiling triumphantly. "There are tracks coming in, but there ain't none
going away. He's here. If you don't lead us to him we'll shore have to
rummage around an' poke him out for ourselves: which is it?"
"You are right--he is here, and he is not here."
"We're waiting," Red replied, grinning.
"When I tell you that you will not want him, do you still insist on
seeing him?"
"We'll see him, an' we'll want him, too."
As the rain poured down again the sound of approaching horses was heard,
and Hopalong ran to the door in time to see Buck Peters swing off his
mount and step forward to enter the building. Hopalong stopped him and
briefly outlined the situation, begging him to keep the men outside. The
monk met his return with a grateful smile and, stepping forward, opened
the chapel door, saying, "Follow me."