A clean-cut, good-looking cowpuncher limped slightly as he passed the
postoffice and found a seat on a box in front of the store next door.
He sighed with relief and gazed cheerfully at the littered square as
though it was something worth looking at. The night had not been a
pleasant one because Sammy Porter had insisted upon either singing or
snoring; and when breakfast was announced the youth almost had recovered
his senses and was full of remorse and a raging thirst. Being flatly
denied the hair of the dog that bit him he grew eloquently profane and
very abusive. Hence Mr. Cassidy's fondness for the box.
Sounds obtruded. They were husky and had dimensions and they came from
the hotel bar. After increasing in volume and carrying power they were
followed to the street by a disheveled youth who kicked open the door
and blinked in the sunlight. Espying the contented individual on the
box he shook an earnest fist at that person and tried next door. In a
moment he followed a new burst of noise to the street and shook the
other fist. Trying the saloon on the other side of the hotel without
success he shook both fists and once again tried the hotel bar, where he
proceeded along lines tactful, flattering and diplomatic. Only
yesterday he had owned a gun, horse and other personal belongings; he
had possessed plenty of money, a clear head and his sins sat lightly on
his youthful soul. He still had the sins, but they had grown in weight.
Tact availed him nothing, flattery was futile and diplomacy was in vain.
To all his arguments the bartender sadly shook his head, not because
Sammy had no money, which was the reason he gave, but because of vivid
remembrance of the grimness with which a certain red-haired,
straight-lipped, two-gun cowpuncher had made known his request. "Let
him suffer," had said the gunman. "It 'll be a good lesson for him.
Understand; not a drop!" And the bartender had understood. To the
drink-dispenser's refusal Sammy replied with a masterpiece of eloquence
and during its delivery the bartender stood with his hand on a mallet,
but too spellbound to throw it. Wheeling at the close of a vivid,
soaring climax, Sammy yanked open the door again and stood transfixed
with amazement and hostile envy. His new and officious friend surely
knew the right system with women. To the burning indignities of the
morning this added the last straw and Sammy bitterly resolved not to
forget his wrongs.
Had Mr. Cassidy been a kitten he would have purred with delight as he
watched his youthful friend's vain search for the hair of the dog, and
his grin was threatening to engulf his ears when the Cub slammed into
the hotel. Hearing the beating of hoofs he glanced around and saw a
trim, pretty young lady astride a trim, high-spirited pony; and both
were thoroughbreds if he was any judge. They bore down upon him at a
smart lope and stopped at the edge of the walk. The rider leaped from
the saddle and ran toward him with her hand outstretched and her face
aglow with a delighted surprise. Her eyes fairly danced with welcome
and relief and her cheeks, reddened by the thrust of the wind for more
than twenty miles, flamed a deeper red, through which streaks of creamy
white played fascinatingly. "Dick Ellsworth!" she cried. "When did you
get here?"
Mr. Cassidy stumbled to his feet, one hand instinctively going out to
the one held out to him, the other fiercely gripping his sombrero. His
face flamed under its tan and he mumbled an incoherent reply.
"Don't you remember _me_?" she chided, a roguish, half-serious
expression flashing over her countenance. "Not little Annie, whom you
taught to ride? I used to think I needed you then, Dick; but oh, how I
need you now. It's Providence, nothing else, that sent you. Father's
gone steadily worse and now all he cares for is a bottle. Joe, the new
foreman, has full charge of everything and he's not only robbing us
right and left, but he 's--he 's bothering _me_! When I complain to
father of his attentions all I get is a foolish grin. If you only knew
how I have prayed for you to come back, Dick! Two bitter years of it.
But now everything is all right. Tell me about yourself while I get the
mail and then we 'll ride home together. I suppose Joe will be waiting
for me somewhere on the trail; he usually does. Did you ever hate
anyone so much you wanted to kill him?" she demanded fiercely, beside
herself for the moment.
Hopalong nodded. "Well, yes; I have," he answered. "But you must n't.
What's his name? We 'll have to look into this."
"Joe Worth; but let's forget him for awhile," she smiled. "I 'll get
the mail while you go after your horse."
He nodded and watched her enter the post-office and then turned and
walked thoughtfully away. She was mounted when he returned and they
swung out of the town at a lope.
"Where have you been, and what have you been doing?" she asked as they
pushed along the firm, hard trail.
"Punchin' for th' Bar-20, southwest of here. I wouldn't 'a' been here
today only I let th' outfit ride on without me. We just got back from
Kansas City a couple of days back. But let's get at this here Joe Worth
prop'sition. I 'm plumb curious. How long's he been pesterin' you?"
"Nearly two years--I can't stand it much longer."
"An' th' outfit don't cut in?"
"They 're his friends, and they understand that father wants it so. You
'll not know father, Dick: I never thought a man could change so.
Mother's death broke him as though he were a reed."
"Hum!" he grunted. "You ain't carin' how this coyote is stopped, just
so he is?"
"No!" she flashed.
"An' he 'll be waitin' for you?"
"He usually is."
He grinned. "Le 's hope he is this time." He was silent a moment and
looked at her curiously. "I don't know how you 'll take it, but I got a
surprise for you--a big one. I 'm shore sorry to admit it, but I ain't
th' man you think. I ain't Dick What 's-his-name, though it shore ain't
_my_ fault. I reckon I must look a heap like him; an' I hope I can
_act_ like him in this here matter. I want to see it through like _he_
would. I can do as good a job, too. But it ain't no-wise fair nor right
to pretend I 'm him. I ain't."
She was staring at him in a way he did not like. "Not Dick Ellsworth!"
she gasped. "You are _not_ Dick?"
"I 'm shore sorry--but I 'd like to play his cards. I 'm honin' for to
see this here Joe Worth," he nodded, cheerfully.
"And you let me believe you were?" she demanded coldly. "You
deliberately led me to talk as I did?"
"Well, now; I didn't just know what to do. You shore was in trouble,
which was bad. I reckoned mebby I could get you out of it an' then go
along 'bout my business. You ain't goin' to stop me a-doin' it, are
you?" he asked anxiously.
Her reply was a slow, contemptuous look that missed nothing and that
left nothing to be said. Her horse did not like to stand, anyway, and
sprang eagerly forward in answer to the sudden pressure of her knees.
She rode the high-strung bay with superb art, angry, defiant, and erect
as a statue. Hopalong, shaking his head slowly, gazed after her and
when she had become a speck on the plain he growled a question to his
horse and turned sullenly toward the town. Riding straight to the hotel
he held a short, low-voiced conversation with the clerk and then sought
his friend, the Cub. This youthful grouch was glaring across the bar at
the red-faced, angry man behind it, and the atmosphere was not one of
peace. The Cub turned to see who the newcomer was and thereupon
transferred his glare to the smiling puncher.
"Hullo, Kid," breezed Hopalong.
"You go to h--l!" growled Sammy, remembering to speak respectfully to
his elders. He backed off cautiously until he could keep both of his
enemies under his eyes.
Hopalong's grin broadened. He dug into his pockets and produced a large
sum of money. "Here, Kid," said he, stepping forward and thrusting it
into Sammy's paralyzed hands. "Take it an' buy all th' liquor you wants.
You can get yore gun off 'n th' clerk, an' he 'll tell you where to find
yore cayuse an' other belongings. I gotta leave town."
Sammy stared at the money in his hand. "What's this?" he demanded, his
face flushing angrily.
"Money," replied Hopalong. "It's that shiny stuff you buys things with.
Spondulix, cash, mazuma. You spend it, you know."
Sammy sputtered. He might have frothed had his mouth not been so dry.
"Is it?" he demanded with great sarcasm. "I thought mebby it was cows,
or buttons. What you handin' it to me for? I ain't no d--d beggar!"
Hopalong chuckled. "That money's yourn. I pried it loose from th'
tin-horn that stole it from you. I also, besides, pried off a few
chunks more; but them 's mine. I allus pays myself good wages; an' th'
aforesaid chunks is plenty an' generous. Amen."
Sammy regarded his smiling friend with a frank suspicion that was
brutal. The pleasing bulge of the pockets reassured him and he slowly
pocketed his rescued wealth. He growled something doubtless meant for
thanks and turned to the bar. "A large chunk of th' Mojave Desert slid
down my throat las' night an' I 'm so dry I rustles in th' breeze.
Let's wet down a li'l." Having extracted some of the rustle he eyed his
companion suspiciously. "Thought you was a stranger hereabouts?"
"You 've called it."
"Huh! Then I 'm goin' to stick close to you an get acquainted with th'
female population of th' towns we hit. An' I had allus reckoned
lightnin' was quick!" he soliloquized, regretfully. "How 'd you do it?"
he demanded.
Hopalong was gazing over his friend's head at a lurid chromo portraying
the Battle of Bull Run and he pursed his lips thoughtfully. "That shore
was some slaughter," he commented. "Well, Kid," he said, holding out his
hand, "I 'm leavin'. If you ever gets down my way an' wants a good job,
drop in an' see us. Th' clerk 'll tell you how to get there. An' th'
next time you gambles, stay sober."
"Hey! Wait a minute!" exclaimed Sammy. "Goin' home now?"
"Can't say as I am, direct."
"Comin' back here before you do?"
"Can't say that, neither. Life is plumb oncertain an' gunplay 's even
worse. Mebby I will if I 'm alive."
"Who you gunnin' for? Can't I take a hand?"
"Reckon not, Sammy. Why, I 'm cuttin' in where I ain't wanted, even if
I am needed. But it's my duty. It's a h--l of a community as waits for
a total stranger to do its work for it. If yo 're around an' I come
back, why I 'll see you again. Meanwhile, look out for tin-horns."
Sammy followed him outside and grasped his arm. "I can hold up my end
in an argument," he asserted fiercely. "You went an' did me a good
turn--lemme do _you_ one. If it's anythin' to do with that li'l girl
you met to-day I won't cut in--only on th' trouble end. I'm particular
strong on th' trouble part. Look here: Ain't a friend got no rights?"
Hopalong warmed to the eager youngster--he was so much like Jimmy; and
Jimmy, be it known, could bedevil Hopalong as much as any man alive and
not even get an unkind word for it. "I 'm scared to let you come, Kid;
she 'd fumigate th' ranch when you left. Th' last twenty-four hours has
outlawed you, all right. You keep to th' brush trails in th'
draws--don't cavort none on skylines till you lose that biled owl look."
He laughed at the other's expression and placed his hands on the youth's
shoulders. "That ain't it, Kid; I never apologizes, serious, for th'
looks of my friends. They 're my friends, drunk or sober, in h--l or
out of it. I just can't see how you can cut in proper. Better wait for
me here--I 'll turn up, all right. Meanwhile, as I says before, look
out for tin-horns."
Sammy watched him ride away, and then slammed his sombrero on the ground
and jumped on it, after which he felt relieved. Procuring his gun from
the clerk he paused to cross-examine, but after a fruitless half hour he
sauntered out, hiding his vexation, to wrestle with the problem in the
open. Passing the window of a general store he idly glanced at the
meager display behind the dusty glass and a sudden grin transfigured his
countenance. He would find out about the girl first and that would help
him solve the puzzle. Thinking thus he wandered in carelessly and he
wandered out again gravely clutching a small package. Slipping behind
the next building he tore off the paper and carefully crumpled and
soiled with dust the purchase. Then he went down to the depot and
followed the railroad tracks toward the other side of the square.
Reaching the place where the south trail crossed the tracks he left them
and walked slowly toward a small depression that was surrounded by
hoofprints. He stooped quickly and straightened up with a woman's
handkerchief dangling from his fingers. He grinned foolishly, examined
it, sniffed at it and scratched his head while he cogitated. A decisive
wave of his hand apprised the two spectators that he had arrived at a
conclusion, which he bore out by heading straight for the postoffice,
which was a part of the grocery store. The postmaster and grocer, in
person one, watched his approach with frank curiosity.
Sammy nodded and went in the store, followed by the proprietor.
"Howd'y," he remarked, producing the handkerchief. "Just picked this up
over on th' trail. Know who dropped it?"
"Annie Allison, I reckon," replied the other. "She came in that way from
th' Bar-U. Want to leave it?"
Sammy considered. "Why, I might as well take it to her--I'm goin' down
there purty soon. Don't know any other ranch that might use a
broncho-buster, do you?"
The proprietor shook his head. "No; most folks 'round here bust their
own. Perfessional?"
Sammy nodded. "Yes. Here, gimme two-bits' worth of them pep'mint
lozengers. Yes, it shore is fine; but it 'll rain before long. Well,
by-by."
The bartender of the "Retreat" sniffed suspiciously and eyed the open
door thoughtfully, holding aloft the bar-mop while he considered. Then
he put the mop on the bar and went to the door, where he peered out.
"Huh!" he grunted. "Hogin' that?" he sarcastically inquired. Sammy held
out the bag and led the way to the bar. "Where's th' Bar-U? Yes? Do
their own broncho-bustin'? Who, me? Ain't nothin' on laigs can throw
me, includin' humans an' bartenders. What? Well, what you want to get
all skinned up for, for nothin'? Five dollars? If you must lose it I
might as well have it. One fall? All right; come out here an' get it."
The bartender chuckled and vaulted the counter as advance notice of his
agility and physical condition, and immediately there ensued a soft
shuffling. Suddenly the building shook and dusted itself and Sammy
arose and stepped back, smiling at his victim. "Thanks," he remarked.
"Good money was spent on part of my education--boxin' bein' th' other
half. Now, for five more, where can't I hit you?"
"Behind th' bar," grinned the other; "I got deadly weapons there. Look
here!" he exclaimed hurriedly as a great idea struck him. "Everybody
'round here will back their wrastlin' reckless; le 's team up an' make
some easy money. I 'll make th' bets an' you win 'em. Split even. What
say?"
"Later on, mebby. What'd you say that Bar-U foreman's name was?"
The bartender's reply was supplemented by a pious suggestion. "An' if
you wrastles _him_, bust his cussed neck!"
"Why this friendship?" queried Sammy, laughing.
"Oh, just for general principles."
Sammy bought cigars, left some lozenges and went out to search for his
horse, which he duly found. Inwardly he was elated and he flexed his
muscles and made curious motions with his arms, which caused the
pie-bald to show the whites of its eyes wickedly and flatten its ragged
ears. Its actions were justified, for a left hand darted out and
slapped the wrinkling muzzle, deftly escaping the clicking teeth. Then
the warlike pie-bald reflected judiciously as it chewed the lozenge.
The eyes showed less white and the ears, moving forward and back,
compromised by one staying forward. The candy was old and stale and the
sting of the mint was negligible, but the sugar was much in evidence.
When the hand darted out again the answering nip was playful and the
ears were set rigidly forward. Sammy laughed, slipped several more
lozenges into the ready mouth, vaulted lightly to the saddle and rode
slowly toward the square. The pie-bald kicked mildly and reached around
to nip at the stirrup, and then went on about its business as any
well-broken cow pony should. Reaching the square Sammy drew rein
suddenly and watched a horseman who was riding away from the "Retreat."
Waiting a few minutes Sammy spurred forward to the saloon and called the
bartender out to him. "Who was that feller that just left?" he asked,
curiously.
"Joe Worth, th' man yo 're goin' to strike for that job. Why don't you
catch him now an' mebby save yoreself a day's ride?"
"Good idea," endorsed Sammy. "See you later," and the youth wheeled and
loped toward the trail, but drew rein when hidden from the "Retreat" by
some buildings. He watched the distant horseman until he became a mere
dot and then Sammy pushed on after him. There was a satisfied look on
his face and he chuckled as he cogitated. "I shore got th' drift of
this; I know th' game! Wonder how Cassidy got onto it?" He laughed
contentedly. "Well, five hundred ain't too little to split two ways;
an' mebby it is a two-man job. Mr. Joe Worth, who was once Mr. George
Atkins, I would n't give a peso for yore chances after I get th' lay of
th' ground an' find out yore habits. Yo 're goin' back to Willow
Springs as shore as 'dogies' hang 'round water holes. An' you 'll shore
dance their tune when you gets there."
Mr. Cassidy, arriving at the Bar-U, asked for the foreman and was told
that the boss was in town, but would be back sometime in the afternoon.
The newcomer replied that he would return later and, carefully keeping
out of sight of the ranch house as well as he could, he wheeled and rode
back the way he had come, being very desirous to have a good look at the
foreman before they met. Arriving at an arroyo several miles north of
the ranch he turned into it and, leaving his horse picketed on good
grass along the bottom, he climbed to a position where he could see the
trail without being seen. Having settled himself comfortably he
improved the wait by trying to think out the best way to accomplish the
work he had set himself to do. Shooting was too common and hardly
justifiable unless Mr. Worth forced the issue with weapons of war.
The time passed slowly and he was relieved when a horseman appeared far
to the north and jogged toward him, riding with the careless grace of
one at home in the saddle. Being thoroughly familiar with the trail and
the surrounding country the rider looked straight ahead as if attention
to the distance yet untraveled might make it less. He passed within
twenty feet of the watcher and went on his way undisturbed. Hopalong
waited until he was out of sight around a hill and then, vaulting into
the saddle, rode after him, still puzzled as to how he would proceed
about the business in hand. He dismounted at the bunkhouse and nodded
to those who lingered near the wash bench awaiting their turn.
"Just in time to feed," remarked one of the punchers. "Watch yore turn
at th' basins--every man for hisself 's th' rule."
"All right," Hopalong laughed. "But is there any chance to get a job
here?" he asked, anxiously.
"You 'll have to quiz th' Ol' Man--here he comes now," and the puncher
waved at the approaching foreman. "Hey, Joe! Got a job for this
hombre?" he called.
The foreman keenly scrutinized the newcomer, as he always examined
strangers. The two guns swinging low on the hips caught his eyes
instantly but he showed no particular interest in them, notwithstanding
the fact that they proclaimed a gunman. "Why I reckon I got a job for
you," he said. "I been waitin' to keep somebody over on Cherokee Range.
But it's time to eat: we'll talk later."
After the meal the outfit passed the time in various ways until
bed-time, the foreman talking to the new member of his family. During
the night the foreman awakened several times and looked toward the
newcomer's bunk but found nothing suspicious. After breakfast he called
Hopalong and one of the others to him. "Ned," he said, "take Cassidy
over to his range and come right back. Hey, Charley! You an' Jim take
them poles down to th' ford an' fence in that quicksand just south of
it. Ben says he 's been doin' nothin' but pullin' cows outen it. All
right, Tim; comin' right away."
Ned and the new puncher lost no time but headed east at once with a
packhorse carrying a week's provisions for one man. The country grew
rougher rapidly and when they finally reached the divide a beautiful
sight lay below them, stretching as far as eye could see to the east.
In the middle distance gleamed the Cherokee, flowing toward the south
through its valley of rocks, canyons, cliffs, draws and timber.
"There 's th' hut," said Ned, pointing to a small gray blot against the
dead black of a towering cliff. "Th' spring's just south of it. Bucket
Hill, up north there, is th' north boundary; Twin Spires, south yonder
is th' other end; an' th' Cherokee will stop you on th' east side. You
ride in every Sat'day if you wants. Don't get lonesome," he grinned
and, wheeling abruptly, went back the way they had come.
Hopalong shook his head in disgust. To be sidetracked like this was
maddening. It had taken three hours of hard traveling over rough
country to get where he was and it would take as long to return; and all
for nothing! He regarded the pack animal with a grin, shrugged his
shoulders and led the way toward the hut, the pack horse following
obediently. It was another hour before he finally reached the little
cabin, for the way was strange and rough. During this time he had
talked aloud, for he had the tricks of his kind and when alone he talked
to himself. When he reached the hut he relieved the pack horse of its
load, carrying the stuff inside. Closing the door and blocking it with a
rock he found the spring, drank his fill and then let the horses do
likewise. Then he mounted and started back over the rough trail,
thinking out loud and confiding to his horse and he entered a narrow
defile close to the top of the divide, promising dire things to the
foreman. Suddenly a rope settled over him, pinned his arms to his sides
and yanked him from the saddle before he had time to think. He landed
on his head and was dazed as he sat up and looked around. The foreman's
rifle confronted him, and behind the foreman's feet were his two Colts.
"You talks too much," sneered the man with the drop. "I suspicioned you
th' minute I laid eyes on you. It 'll take a better man than you to get
that five hundred reward. I reckon th' Sheriff was too scared to come
hisself."
Hopalong shook his head as if to clear it. What was the man talking
about? Who was the sheriff? He gave it up, but would not betray his
ignorance. Yes; he had talked too much. He felt of his head and was
mildly surprised to see his hand covered with blood when he glanced at
it. "Five hundred 's a lot of money," he muttered.
"Blood money!" snapped the foreman. "You had a gall tryin' to get me.
Why, I been lookin' for somebody to try it for two years. An' I was
ready every minute of all that time."
Slowly it came to Hopalong and with it the realization of how foolish it
would be to deny the part ascribed to himself. The rope was loose and
his arms were practically free; the foreman had dropped the lariat and
was depending upon his gun. The captive felt of his head again and,
putting his hands behind him for assistance in getting up, arose slowly
to his feet. In one of the hands was a small rock that it had rested
upon during the effort of rising. At the movement the foreman watched
him closely and ordered him not to take a step if he wanted to live a
little longer.
"I reckon I 'll have to shoot you," he announced. "I dass n't let you
loose to foller me all over th' country. Anyhow, I 'd have to do it
sooner or later. I wish you was Phelps, d--n him; but he's a wise
sheriff. Better stand up agin' that wall. I gotta do it; an' you
deserve it, you Judas!"
"Meanin' yo're Christ?" sneered Hopalong. "Did you kill th' other feller
like that? If I 'd 'a' knowed that I 'd 'a' slapped yore dawg's face at
th' bunkhouse an' made you take an even break. Shore you got nerve
enough to shoot straight if I looks at you while yo 're aimin'?" He
laughed cynically. "I don't want to close my eyes."
The foreman's face went white and he half lowered the rifle as he took a
step forward. Hopalong leaped sideways and his arm straightened out, the
other staggering under the blow of the missile. Leaping forward
Hopalong ran into a cloud of smoke and staggered as he jumped to close
quarters. His hand smashed full in the foreman's face and his knee sank
in the foreman's groin. They went down, the foreman weak from the kick
and Hopalong sick and weak from the bullet that had grazed the bone of
his bad thigh. And lying on the ground they fought in a daze, each
incapable of inflicting serious injury for awhile. But the foreman grew
stronger as his enemy grew weaker from loss of blood and, wriggling from
under his furious antagonist, he reached for his Colt. Hopalong threw
himself forward and gripped the gun wrist between his teeth and closed
his jaws until they ached. But the foreman, pounding ceaselessly on the
other's face with his free hand, made the jaws relax and drew the
weapon. Then he saw all the stars in the heavens as Hopalong's head
crashed full against his jaw and before he could recover the gun was
pinned under his enemy's knee. Hopalong's head crashed again against
the foreman's jaw and his right hand gripped the corded throat while the
left, its thumb inside the foreman's cheek and its fingers behind an
ear, tugged and strained at the distorted face. Growling like wild
beasts they strained and panted, and then, suddenly, Hopalong's grip
relaxed and he made one last, desperate effort to bring his strength
back into one furious attack; but in vain. The battered foreman, quick
to sense the situation, wrestled his adversary to one side long enough
to grab the Colt from under the shifting knee. As he clutched it a shot
rang out and the weapon dropped from his nerveless hand before he could
pull the trigger. An exulting, savage yell roared in his ears and in
the next instant he seemed to leave the ground and soar through space.
He dropped ten feet away and lay dazed and helpless as a knee crashed
against his chest. Sammy Porter, his face working curiously with relief
and rage, rolled him against the wall of the defile and struck him over
the head with a rifle butt, first disarming him.
Hopalong opened his eyes and looked around, dazed and sick. The
foreman, bound hand and foot by a forty-five foot lariat, lay close to
the base of the wall and stared sullenly at the sky. Sammy was coming up
the trail with a dripping sombrero held carefully in his hands and was
growling and talking it all over. Hopalong looked down at his thigh and
saw a heavy, blood-splotched bandage fastened clumsily in place.
Glancing at Sammy again he idly noted that part of the youth's
blue-flannel shirt was missing. Curiously, it matched the bandage. He
closed his eyes and tried to think what it was all about.
Sammy ambled up to him, threw some water in the bruised face and then
grinned cheerfully at the language he evoked. Producing a flask and
holding it up to the light, Sammy slid his thumb to a certain level and
then shoved the bottle against his friend's teeth. "Huh!" he chuckled,
yanking the bottle away. "You'll be all right in a couple of days. But
you shore are one h--l of a sight--it's a toss-up between you an'
Atkins."
* * * * *
It was night. Hopalong stirred and arose on one elbow and noticed that
he was lying on a blanket that covered a generous depth of leaves and
pine boughs. The sap-filled firewood crackled and popped and hissed and
whistled under the licking attack of the greedy flames, which flared up
and died down in endless alternation, and which grotesquely revealed to
Hopalong's throbbing eyes a bound figure lying on another blanket.
That, he decided, was the foreman. Letting his gaze wander around the
lighted circle he made out a figure squatting on the other side of the
fire, and concluded it was Sammy Porter. "What you doin', Kid?" he
asked.
Sammy arose and walked over to him. "Oh, just watchin' a fool puncher
an' five hundred dollars," he grinned. "How you feelin' now, you ol'
sage hen?"
"Good," replied the invalid, and, comparatively, it was the truth.
"Fine an' strong," he added, which was not the truth.
"That's the way to talk," cheered the Cub. "You shore had one fine
seance. You earned that five hundred, all right."
Hopalong reflected and then looked across at the prisoner. "He can
fight like the devil," he muttered. "Why, I kicked him hard enough to
kill anybody else." He turned again and looked Sammy in the eyes,
smiling as best he could. "There ain't no five hundred for me, Kid. I
did n't come for that, did n't know nothin' about it. An' it's blood
money, besides. We 'll turn him loose if he 'll get out of the country,
hey? We 'll give him a chance; either that or you take th' reward."
Sammy stared, grunted and stared again. "What you ravin' about?" he
demanded. "An' you didn't come after him for that money?" he asked,
sarcastically.
Hopalong nodded and smiled again. "That's right, Kid," he answered,
thoughtfully. "I come down to make him get out of th' country. You let
him go after we get out of this. I reckon I got yore share of the
reward right here in my pocket; purty near that much, anyhow. You take
it an' let him vamoose. What you say?"
Sammy rose, angry and disgusted. His anger spoke first. "You go to
h--l with yore money! I don't want it!" Then, slowly and wonderingly
spoke his disgust. "He 's yourn; do what you want. But I here remarks,
frank an' candid, open an' so all may hear, that yo 're a large,
puzzlin' d--d fool. Now lay back on that blanket an' go to sleep afore
I changes my mind!"
Sammy drifted past the prisoner and looked down at him. "Hear that?" he
demanded. There was no answer and he grunted. "Huh! You heard it, all
right; an' it plumb stunned you." Passing on he grabbed the last
blanket in sight, it was on the foreman's horse, and rolled up in it,
feet to the fire. His gun he placed under the saddle he had leaned
against, which now made his pillow. As he squirmed into the most
comfortable position he could find under the circumstances he raised his
head and glanced across at his friend. "Huh!" he growled softly.
"That's th' worst of them sentimental fellers. That gal shore wrapped
him 'round her li'l finger all right. Oh, well," he sighed. "'Tain't
none of my doin's, thank the Lord; I got sense!" And with the
satisfaction of this thought still warm upon him he closed his eyes and
went to sleep, confident that the slightest sound would awaken him; and
fully justified in his confidence.