Having sent Jimmy to the Bar-20 with a message for Buck Peters and seen
the tenderfeet start for Sharpsville on the right trail and under
escort, Bill Cassidy set out for the Crazy M ranch, by the way of Clay
Gulch. He was to report on the condition of some cattle that Buck had
been offered cheap and he was anxious to get back to the ranch. It was
in the early evening when he reached Clay Gulch and rode slowly down the
dusty, shack-lined street in search of a hotel. The town and the street
were hardly different from other towns and streets that he had seen all
over the cow-country, but nevertheless he felt uneasy. The air seemed
to be charged with danger, and it caused him to sit even more erect in
the saddle and assume his habit of indifferent alertness. The first man
he saw confirmed the feeling by staring at him insolently and sneering
in a veiled way at the low-hung, tied-down holsters that graced Bill's
thighs. The guns proclaimed the gun-man as surely as it would have been
proclaimed by a sign; and it appeared that gun-men were not at that time
held in high esteem by the citizens of Clay Gulch. Bill was growing
fretful and peevish when the man, with a knowing shake of his head,
turned away and entered the harness shop. "Trouble's brewin' somewheres
around," muttered Bill, as he went on. He had singled out the first of
two hotels when another citizen, turning the corner, stopped in his
tracks and looked Bill over with a deliberate scrutiny that left but
little to the imagination. He frowned and started away, but Bill
spurred forward, determined to make him speak.
"_Might_ I inquire if this is Clay Gulch?" he asked, in tones that made
the other wince.
"You might," was the reply. "It is," added the citizen, "an' th' Crazy
M lays fifteen mile west." Having complied with the requirements of
common politeness the citizen of Clay Gulch turned and walked into the
nearest saloon. Bill squinted after him and shook his head in
indecision.
"He wasn't guessin', neither. He shore knowed where I wants to go. I
reckon Oleson must 'a' said he was expectin' me." He would have been
somewhat surprised had he known that Mr. Oleson, foreman of the Crazy M,
had said nothing to anyone about the expected visitor, and that no one,
not even on the ranch, knew of it. Mr. Oleson was blessed with
taciturnity to a remarkable degree; and he had given up expecting to see
anyone from Mr. Peters.
As Bill dismounted in front of the "Victoria" he noticed that two men
further down the street had evidently changed their conversation and
were examining him with frank interest and discussing him earnestly. As
a matter of fact they had not changed the subject of their conversation,
but had simply fitted him in the place of a certain unknown. Before he
had arrived they discussed in the abstract; now they could talk in the
concrete. One of them laughed and called softly over his shoulder,
whereupon a third man appeared in the door, wiping his lips with the
back of a hairy, grimy hand, and focused evil eyes upon the innocent
stranger. He grunted contemptuously and, turning on his heel, went back
to his liquid pleasures. Bill covertly felt of his clothes and stole a
glance at his horse, but could see nothing wrong. He hesitated: should
he saunter over for information or wait until the matter was brought to
his attention? A sound inside the hotel made him choose the latter
course, for his stomach threatened to become estranged and it simply
howled for food. Pushing open the door he dropped his saddle in a
corner and leaned against the bar.
"Have one with me to get acquainted?" he invited. "Then I 'll eat, for
I 'm hungry. An' I 'll use one of yore beds to-night, too."
The man behind the bar nodded cheerfully and poured out his drink. As
he raised the liquor he noticed Bill's guns and carelessly let the glass
return to the bar.
"Sorry, sir," he said coldly. "I 'm hall out of grub, the fire 's hout,
_hand_ the beds are taken. But mebby 'Awley, down the strite, can tyke
care of you."
Bill was looking at him with an expression that said much and he slowly
extended his arm and pointed to the untasted liquor.
"Allus finish what you start, English," he said slowly and clearly.
"When a man goes to take a drink with me, and suddenly changes his mind,
why I gets riled. I don't know what ails this town, an' I don't care; I
don't give a cuss about yore grub an' your beds; but if you don't drink
that liquor you poured out _to_ drink, why I 'll natchurally shove it
down yore British throat so cussed hard it 'll strain yore neck. Get to
it!"
The proprietor glanced apprehensively from the glass to Bill, then on to
the business-like guns and back to the glass, and the liquor disappeared
at a gulp. "W'y," he explained, aggrieved. "There hain't no call for to
get riled hup like that, strainger. I bloody well forgot it."
"Then don't you go an' 'bloody well' forget this: Th' next time I drops
in here for grub an' a bed, you have 'em both, an' be plumb polite about
it. Do you get me?" he demanded icily.
The proprietor stared at the angry puncher as he gathered up his saddle
and rifle and started for the door. He turned to put away the bottle
and the sound came near being unfortunate for him. Bill leaped
sideways, turning while in the air and landed on his feet like a cat,
his left hand gripping a heavy Colt that covered the short ribs of the
frightened proprietor before that worthy could hardly realize the move.
"Oh, all right," growled Bill, appearing to be disappointed. "I
reckoned mebby you was gamblin' on a shore thing. I feels impelled to
offer you my sincere apology; you ain't th' kind as would even gamble
_on_ a shore thing. You 'll see me again," he promised. The sound of
his steps on the porch ended in a thud as he leaped to the ground and
then he passed the window leading his horse and scowling darkly. The
proprietor mopped his head and reached twice for the glass before he
found it. "Gawd, what a bloody 'eathen," he grunted. "_'E_ won't be as
easy as the lawst was, blime 'im."
Mr. Hawley looked up and frowned, but there was something in the
suspicious eyes that searched his face that made him cautious. Bill
dropped his load on the floor and spoke sharply. "I want supper an' a
bed. You ain't full up, an' you ain't out of grub. So I 'm goin' to
get 'em both right here. Yes?"
"You shore called th' turn, stranger," replied Mr. Hawley in his Sunday
voice. "That's what I 'm in business for. An' business is shore dull
these days."
He wondered at the sudden smile that illuminated Bill's face and half
guessed it; but he said nothing and went to work. When Bill pushed back
from the table he was more at peace with the world and he treated,
closely watching his companion. Mr. Hawley drank with a show of
pleasure and forthwith brought out cigars. He seated himself beside his
guest and sighed with relief.
"I 'm plumb tired out," he offered. "An' I ain't done much. You look
tired, too. Come a long way?"
"Logan," replied Bill. "Do _you_ know where I 'm goin'? An' why?" he
asked.
Mr. Hawley looked surprised and almost answered the first part of the
question correctly before he thought. "Well," he grinned, "if I could
tell where strangers was goin', an' why, I would n't never ask 'em where
they come from. An' I 'd shore hunt up a li'l game of faro, you bet!"
Bill smiled. "Well, that might be a good idea. But, say, what ails this
town, anyhow?"
"What ails it? Hum! Why, lack of money for one thing; scenery, for
another; wimmin, for another. Oh, h--l, I ain't got time to tell you
what ails it. Why?"
"Is there anything th' matter with me?"
"I don't know you well enough for to answer that kerrect."
"Well, would you turn around an' stare at me, an' seem pained an' hurt?
Do I look funny? Has anybody put a sign on my back?"
"You looks all right to me. What's th' matter?"
"Nothin', yet," reflected Bill slowly. "But there will be, mebby. You
was mentionin' faro. Here 's a turn you can call: somebody in this wart
of a two-by-nothin' town is goin' to run plumb into a big surprise.
There 'll mebby be a loud noise an' some smoke where it starts from; an'
a li'l round hole where it stops. When th' curious delegation now
holdin' forth on th' street slips in here after I 'm in bed, an' makes
inquiries about me, you can tell 'em that. An' if Mr.--Mr. Victoria
drops in casual, tell him I 'm cleanin' my guns. Now then, show me
where I 'm goin' to sleep."
Mr. Hawley very carefully led the way into the hall and turned into a
room opposite the bar. "Here she is, stranger," he said, stepping back.
But Bill was out in the hall listening. He looked into the room and
felt oppressed.
"No she ain't," he answered, backing his intuition. "She is upstairs,
where there is a li'l breeze. By th' Lord," he muttered under his
breath. "This is some puzzle." He mounted the stairs shaking his head
thoughtfully. "It shore is, it shore is."
The next morning when Bill whirled up to the Crazy M bunkhouse and
dismounted before the door a puncher was emerging. He started to say
something, noticed Bill's guns and went on without a word. Bill turned
around and looked after him in amazement. "Well, what th' devil!" he
growled. Before he could do anything, had he wished to, Mr. Oleson
stepped quickly from the house, nodded and hurried toward the ranch
house, motioning for Bill to follow. Entering the house, the foreman of
the Crazy M waited impatiently for Bill to get inside, and then
hurriedly closed the door.
"They 've got onto it some way," he said, his taciturnity gone; "but
that don't make no difference if you 've got th' sand. I 'll pay you
one hundred an' fifty a month, furnish yore cayuses an' feed you. I 'm
losin' more 'n two hundred cows every month an' can't get a trace of th'
thieves. Harris, Marshal of Clay Gulch, is stumped, too. _He_ can't
move without proof; _you_ can. Th' first man to get is George Thomas,
then his brother Art. By that time you 'll know how things lay. George
Thomas is keepin' out of Harris' way. He killed a man last week over in
Tuxedo an' Harris wants to take him over there. He 'll not help you, so
don't ask him to." Before Bill could reply or recover from his
astonishment Oleson continued and described several men. "Look out for
ambushes. It 'll be th' hardest game you ever went up ag'in, an' if you
ain't got th' sand to go through with it, say so."
Bill shook his head. "I got th' sand to go through with anythin' I
starts, but I don't start here. I reckon you got th' wrong man. I come
up here to look over a herd for Buck Peters; an' here you go shovin'
wages like that at me. When I tells Buck what I 've been offered he 'll
fall dead." He laughed. "Now I knows th' answer to a lot of things.
"Here, here!" he exclaimed as Oleson began to rave. "Don't you go an'
get all het up like that. I reckon I can keep my face shut. An' lemme
observe in yore hat-like ear that if th' rest of this gang is like th'
samples I seen in town, a good gun-man would shore be robbin' you to
take all that money for th' job. Fifty a month, for two months, would
be a-plenty."
Oleson's dismay was fading, and he accepted the situation with a grim
smile. "You don't know them fellers," he replied. "They 're a bad lot,
an' won't stop at nothin'."
"All right. Let's take a look at them cows. I want to get home soon as
I can."
Oleson shook his head. "I gave you up, an' when I got a better offer I
let 'em go. I 'm sorry you had th' ride for nothin', but I could n't
get word to you."
Bill led the way in silence back to the bunk house and mounted his
horse. "All right," he nodded. "I shore was late. Well, I 'll be
goin'."
"That gun-man is late, too," said Oleson. "Mebby he ain't comin'. You
want th' job at _my_ figgers?"
"Nope. I got a better job, though it don't pay so much money. It's
steady, an' a hull lot cleaner. So-long," and Bill loped away, closely
watched by Shorty Allen from the corral. And after an interval, Shorty
mounted and swung out of the other gate of the corral and rode along the
bottom of an arroyo until he felt it was safe to follow Bill's trail.
When Shorty turned back he was almost to town, and he would not have
been pleased had he known that Bill knew of the trailing for the last
ten miles. Bill had doubled back and was within a hundred yards of
Shorty when that person turned ranchward.
"Huh! I must be popular," grunted Bill. "I reckon I will stay in Clay
Gulch till t'morrow mornin'; an' at the Victoria," he grinned. Then he
laughed heartily. "Victoria! I got a better name for it than that, all
right."
When he pulled up before the Victoria and looked in the proprietor
scowled at him, which made Bill frown as he went on to Hawley's. Putting
his horse in the corral he carried his saddle and rifle into the barroom
and looked around. There was no one in sight, and he smiled. Putting
the saddle and rifle back in one corner under the bar and covering them
with gunny sacks he strolled to the Victoria and entered through the
rear door. The proprietor reached for his gun but reconsidered in time
and picked up a glass, which he polished with exaggerated care. There
was something about the stranger that obtruded upon his peace of mind
and confidence. He would let some one else try the stranger out.
Bill walked slowly forward, by force of will ironing out the humor in
his face and assuming his sternest expression. "I want supper an' a
bed, an' don't forget to be plumb polite," he rumbled, sitting down by
the side of a small table in such a manner that it did not in the least
interfere with the movement of his right hand. The observing proprietor
observed and gave strict attention to the preparation of the meal. The
gun-man, glancing around, slowly arose and walked carelessly to a chair
that had blank wall behind it, and from where he could watch windows and
doors.
When the meal was placed before him he glanced up. "Go over there an'
sit down," he ordered, motioning to a chair that stood close to the
rifle that leaned against the wall. "Loaded?" he demanded. The
proprietor could only nod. "Then sling it acrost yore knees an' keep
still. Well, start movin'."
The proprietor walked as though he were in a trance but when he seated
himself and reached for the weapon a sudden flash of understanding
illumined him and caused cold sweat to bead upon his wrinkled brow. He
put the weapon down again, but the noise made Bill look up.
"Acrost yore knees," growled the puncher, and the proprietor hastily
obeyed, but when it touched his legs he let loose of it as though it
were hot. He felt a great awe steal through his fear, for here was a
gun-man such as he had read about. This man gave him all the best of it
just to tempt him to make a break. The rifle had been in his hands, and
while it was there the gun-man was calmly eating with both hands on the
table and had not even looked up until the noise of the gun made him!
"My Gawd, 'e must be a wizard with 'em. I 'opes I don't forget!" With
the thought came a great itching of his kneecap; then his foot itched so
as to make him squirm and wear horrible expressions. Bill, chancing to
glance up carelessly, caught sight of the expressions and growled,
whereupon they became angelic. Fearing that he could no longer hold in
the laughter that tortured him, Bill arose.
"Shoulder, _arms_!" he ordered, crisply. The gun went up with trained
precision. "Been a sojer," thought Bill. "Carry, _arms_! About,
_face_! To a bedroom, _march_!" He followed, holding his sides, and
stopped before the room. "This th' best?" he demanded. "Well, it ain't
good enough for me. About, _face_! Forward, _march_! Column, _left_!
Ground, _arms_! Fall out." Tossing a coin on the floor as payment for
the supper Bill turned sharply and went out without even a backward
glance.
The proprietor wiped the perspiration from his face and walked
unsteadily to the bar, where he poured out a generous drink and gulped
it down. Peering out of the door to see if the coast was clear, he
scurried across the street and told his troubles to the harness-maker.
Bill leaned weakly against Hawley's and laughed until the tears rolled
down his cheeks. Pushing weakly from the building he returned to the
Victoria to play another joke on its proprietor. Finding it vacant he
slipped upstairs and hunted for a room to suit him. The bed was the
softest he had seen for a long time and it lured him into removing his
boots and chaps and guns, after he had propped a chair against the door
as a warning signal, and stretching out flat on his back, he prepared to
enjoy solid comfort. It was not yet dark, and as he was not sleepy he
lay there thinking over the events of the past twenty-four hours, often
laughing so hard as to shake the bed. What a reputation he would have in
the morning! The softness of the bed got in its work and he fell asleep,
for how long he did not know; but when he awakened it was dark and he
heard voices coming up from below. They came from the room he had
refused to take. One expression banished all thoughts of sleep from his
mind and he listened intently. "'Red-headed Irish gunman.' Why, they
means me! 'Make him hop into h--l.' I don't reckon I 'd do that for
anybody, even my friends."
"I tried to give 'im this room, but 'e would n't tyke it" protested the
proprietor, hurriedly. "'E says the bloody room was n't good enough for
'im, _hand_ 'e marches me out hand makes off. Likely 'e 's in
_'Awley's_."
"No, he ain't," growled a strange voice. "You 've gone an' bungled th'
whole thing."
"But I s'y I did n't, you know. I tries to give 'im this werry room,
George, but 'e would n't 'ave it. D'y think I wants 'im running haround
this blooming town? 'E 's worse nor the other, _hand_ Gawd knows 'e was
bad enough. 'E 's a cold-_blooded_ beggar, 'e is!"
"You missed yore chance," grunted the other. "Wish _I_ had that gun you
had."
"I was wishing to Gawd you did," retorted the proprietor. "It never
looked so bloody big before, d--n 'is _'ide_!"
"Well, his cayuse is in Hawley's corral," said the first speaker. "If I
ever finds Hawley kept him under cover I 'll blow his head off. Come
on; we 'll get Harris first. He ought to be gettin' close to town if he
got th' word I sent over to Tuxedo. He won't let us call him. He's a
man of his word."
"He 'll be here, all right. Fred an' Tom is watchin' his shack, an' we
better take th' other end of town--there 's no tellin' how he 'll come
in now," suggested Art Thomas. "But I wish I knowed where that cussed
gun-man is."
As they went out Bill, his chaps on and his boots in his hand, crept
down the stairs, and stopped as he neared the hall door. The proprietor
was coming back. The others were outside, going to their stations and
did not hear the choking gasp that the proprietor made as a pair of
strong hands reached out and throttled him. When he came to he was lying
face down on a bed, gagged and bound by a rope that cut into his flesh
with every movement. Bill, waiting a moment, slipped into the darkness
and was swallowed up. He was looking for Mr. Harris, and looking
eagerly.
The moon arose and bathed the dusty street and its crude shacks in
silver, cunningly and charitably hiding its ugliness; and passed on as
the skirmishing rays of the sun burst into the sky in close and eternal
pursuit. As the dawn spread swiftly and long, thin shadows sprang
across the sandy street, there arose from the dissipated darkness close
to the wall of a building an armed man, weary and slow from a tiresome
vigil. Another emerged from behind a pile of boards that faced the
marshal's abode, while down the street another crept over the edge of a
dried-out water course and swore softly as he stood up slowly to flex
away the stiffness of cramped limbs. Of vain speculation he was empty;
he had exhausted all the whys and hows long before and now only muttered
discontentedly as he reviewed the hours of fruitless waiting. And he
was uneasy; it was not like Harris to take a dare and swallow his own
threats without a struggle. He looked around apprehensively, shrugged
his shoulders and stalked behind the shacks across from the two hotels.
Another figure crept from the protection of Hawley's corral like a
slinking coyote, gun in hand and nervously alert. He was just in time
to escape the challenge that would have been hurled at him by Hawley,
himself, had that gentleman seen the skulker as he grouchily opened one
shutter and scowled sleepily at the kindling eastern sky. Mr. Hawley
was one of those who go to bed with regret and get up with remorse, and
his temper was always easily disturbed before breakfast. The skulker,
safe from the remorseful gentleman's eyes, and gun, kept close to the
building as he walked and was again fortunate, for he had passed when
Mr. Hawley strode heavily into his kitchen to curse the cold, rusty
stove, a rite he faithfully performed each morning. Across the street
George and Art Thomas walked to meet each other behind the row of shacks
and stopped near the harness shop to hold a consultation. The subject
was so interesting that for a few moments they were oblivious to all
else.
A man softly stepped to the door of the Victoria and watched the two
across the street with an expression on his face that showed his smiling
contempt for them and their kind. He was a small man, so far as
physical measurements go, but he was lithe, sinewy and compact. On his
opened vest, hanging slovenly and blinking in the growing light as if to
prepare itself for the blinding glare of midday, glinted a five-pointed
star of nickel, a lowly badge that every rural community knows and holds
in an awe far above the metal or design. Swinging low on his hip
gleamed the ivory butt of a silver-plated Colt, the one weakness that
his vanity seized upon. But under the silver and its engraving, above
and before the cracked and stained ivory handles, lay the power of a
great force; and under the casing of the marshal's small body lay a
virile manhood, strong in courage and determination. Toby Harris
watched, smilingly; he loved the dramatic and found keen enjoyment in
the situation. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a carelessly dressed
cowpuncher slouching indolently along close to the buildings on the
other side of the street with the misleading sluggishness of a panther.
The red hair, kissed by the slanting rays of the sun where it showed
beneath the soiled sombrero, seemed to be a flaming warning; the
half-closed eyes, squinting under the brim of the big hat, missed
nothing as they darted from point to point.
The marshal stepped silently to the porch and then on to the ground, his
back to the rear of the hotel, waiting to be discovered. He had been in
sight perhaps a minute. The cowpuncher made a sudden, eye-baffling
movement and smoke whirled about his hips. Fred, turning the corner
behind the marshal, dropped his gun with a scream of rage and pain and
crashed against the window in sudden sickness, his gunhand hanging by a
tendon from his wrist. The marshal stepped quickly forward at the shot
and for an instant gazed deeply into the eyes of the startled rustlers.
Then his Colt leaped out and crashed a fraction of a second before the
brothers fired. George Thomas reeled, caught sight of the puncher and
fired by instinct. Bill, leaving Harris to watch the other side of the
street, was watching the rear corner of the Victoria and was unprepared
for the shot. He crumpled and dropped and then the marshal, enraged,
ended the rustler's earthly career in a stream of flame and smoke. Tom,
turning into the street further down, wheeled and dashed for his horse,
and Art, having leaped behind the harness shop, turned and fled for his
life. He had nearly reached his horse and was going at top speed with
great leaps when the prostrate man in the street, raising on his elbow,
emptied his gun after him, the five shots sounding almost as one. Art
Thomas arose convulsively, steadied himself and managed to gain the
saddle. Harris looked hastily down the street and saw a cloud of dust
racing northward, and grunted. "Let them go--_they_ won't never come
back no more." Running to the cowpuncher he raised him after a hurried
examination of the wounded thigh. "Hop along, Cassidy," he smiled in
encouragement. "You 'll be a better man with one good laig than th'
whole gang was all put together."
The puncher smiled faintly as Hawley, running to them, helped him toward
his hotel. "Th' bone is plumb smashed. I reckon I 'll hop along
through life. It 'll be hop along, for me, all right. That's _my_
name, all right. Huh! Hopalong Cassidy! But I didn't hop into h--l,
did I, Harris?" he grinned bravely.
And thus was born a nickname that found honor and fame in the
cow-country--a name that stood for loyalty, courage and most amazing
gun-play. I have Red's word for this, and the endorsement of those who
knew him at the time. And from this on, up to the time he died, and
after, we will forsake "Bill" and speak of him as Hopalong Cassidy, a
cowpuncher who lived and worked in the days when the West was wild and
rough and lawless; and who, like others, through the medium of the only
court at hand, Judge Colt, enforced justice as he believed it should be
enforced.