While Hopalong tried to find his horse, Ben Ferris pushed forward, circling steadily to the east and away from the direction of Hoyt's corners, which was as much a menace to his health and happiness as the town of Grant, twenty miles to his rear. If he could have been certain that no danger was nearer to him than these two towns, he would have felt vastly relieved, even if his horse was not fresh. During the last hour he had not urged it as hard as he had in the beginning of his flight and it had dropped to a walk for minutes at a stretch. This was not because he felt that he had plenty of time, but for the reason that he understood horses and could not afford to exhaust his mount so early in the chase. He glanced back from time to time as if fearing what might be on his trail, and well he might fear. According to all the traditions and customs of the range, both of which he knew well, somewhere between him and Grant was a posse of hard-riding cow-punchers, all anxious and eager for a glance at him over their sights. In his mind's eye he could see them, silent, grim, tenacious, reeling off the miles on that distance-eating lope. He had stolen a horse, and that meant death if they caught him. He loosened his gaudy kerchief and gulped in fear, not of what pursued, but of what was miles before him. His own saddle, strapped behind the one he sat in, bumped against him with each reach of the horse and had already made his back sore—but he must endure it for a time. Never in all his life had minutes been so precious.
Another hour passed and the horse seemed to be doing well, much better than he had hoped—he would rest it for a few minutes at the next water while he drank his fill and changed the bumping saddle. As he rounded a turn and entered a heavily grassed valley he saw a stream close at hand and, leaping off, fixed the saddle first. As he knelt to drink he caught a movement and jumped up to catch his mount. Time after time he almost touched it, but it evaded him and kept up the game, cropping a mouthful of grass during each respite.
“All right!” he muttered as he let it eat. “I'll get my drink while you eat an' then I'll get you!”
He knelt by the stream again and drank long and deep. As he paused for breath something made him leap up and to one side, reaching for his Colt at the same instant. His fingers found only leather and he swore fiercely as he remembered—he had sold the Colt for food and kept the rifle for defence. As he faced the rear a horseman rounded the turn and the fugitive, wheeling, dashed for the stolen horse forty yards away, where his rifle lay in its saddle sheath. But an angry command and the sharp hum of a bullet fired in front of him checked his flight and he stopped short and swore.
“I reckon the jig's up,” remarked Mr. Cassidy, balancing the up-raised Colt with nicety and indifference.
“Yea; I reckon so,” sullenly replied the other, tears running into his eyes.
“Well, I'm damned!” snorted Hopalong with cutting contempt. “Crying like a li'l baby! Got nerve enough to steal my cayuse, an' then go an' beller like a lost calf when I catch you. Yo're a fine specimen of a hoss-thief, I don't think!”
“Yo're a liar!” retorted the other, clenching his fists and growing red.
Mr. Cassidy's mouth opened and then clicked shut as his Colt swung down. But he did not shoot; something inside of him held his trigger finger and he swore instead. The idea of a man stealing his horse, being caught red-handed and unarmed, and still possessed of sufficient courage to call his captor a name never tolerated or overlooked in that country! And the idea that he, Hopalong Cassidy, of the Bar-20, could not shoot such a thief! “Damn that sky pilot! He's shore gone an' made me loco,” he muttered, savagely, and then addressed his prisoner. “Oh, you ain't crying? Wind got in yore eyes, I reckon, an' sort of made 'em leak a little—that it? Or mebby them unholy green roses an' yaller grass on that blasted fool neck-kerchief of yourn are too much foryoureyes, too!”
“Look ahere!” snapped the man on the ground, stepping forward, one fist upraised. “I came nigh onto licking you this noon in that gospel sharp's tent for making fun of that scarf, an' I'll do it yet if you get any smart about it! You mind yore own business an' close yore fool eyes if you don't like my clothes!”
“Say! You ain't no cry-baby after all. Hanged if I even think yo're a real genuine hoss-thief!” enthused Mr. Cassidy. “You act like a twin brother; but what the devil ever made you steal that cayuse, anyhow?”
“An' that's none of yore business, neither; but I'll tell you, just the same,” replied the thief. “I had to have it; that's why. I'll fight you rough-an'-tumble to see if I keep it, or if you take the cayuse an' shoot me besides: is it a go?”
Hopalong stared at him and then a grin struggled for life, got it, and spread slowly over his tanned countenance. “Yore gall is refreshing! Damned if it ain't worse than the scarf. Here, you tell me what made you take a chance like stealing a cayuse this noon—I'm getting to like you, bad as you are, hanged if I ain't!”
“Oh, what's the use?” demanded the other, tears again coming into his eyes. “You'll think I'm lying an' trying to crawl out—an' I won't do neither.”
“Ididn't sayyouwas a liar,” replied Hopalong. “It was the other way about. Reckon you can try me, anyhow; can't you?”
“Yes; I s'pose so,” responded the other, slowly, and in a milder tone of voice. “An' when I called you that I was mad and desperate. I was hasty—you see, my wife's dying, or dead, over in Winchester. I was riding hard to get to her before it was too late when my cayuse stepped into a hole just the other side of Grant—you know what happened. I shot the animal, stripped off my saddle an' hoofed it to town, an' dropped into that gospel dealer's layout to see if he could make me feel any better—which he could not. I just couldn't stand his palaver about death an' slipped out. I was going to lay for you an' lick you for the way you acted about this scarf—had to do something or go loco. But when I got outside there was yore cayuse, all saddled an' ready to go. I just up an' threw my saddle on it, followed suit with myself an' was ten miles out of town before I realized just what I'd done. But the realizing part of it didn't make no difference to me—I'd 'a' done it just the same if I had stopped to think it over. That's flat, an' straight. I've got to get to that li'l woman as quick as I can, an' I'd steal all the cayuses in the whole damned country if they'd do me any good. That's all of it—take it or leave it. I put it up to you. That's yore cayuse, but you ain't going to get it without fighting me for it! If you shoot me down without giving me a chance, all right! I'll cut a throat for that wore-out bronc!”
Hopalong was buried in thought and came to himself just in time to cover the other and stop him not six feet away. “Just a minute, before you make me shoot you! I want to think about it.”
“Damn that gun!” swore the fugitive, nervously shifting his feet and preparing to spring. “We'd 'a' been fighting by this time if it wasn't for that!”
“You stand still or I'll blow you apart,” retorted Hopalong, grimly. “A man's got a right to think, ain't he? An' if I had somebody here to mind these guns so you couldn't sneak 'em on me I'd fight you so blamed quick that you'd be licked before you knew you was at it. But we ain't going to fight—stand still! You ain't got no show at all when yo're dead!”
“Then you gimme that cayuse—my God, man! Do you know the hell I've been through for the last two days? Got the word up at Daly's Crossing an' ain't slept since. I'll go loco if the strain lasts much longer! She asking for me, begging to see me: an' me, like a damned idiot, wasting time out here talking to another. Ride with me, behind me—it's only forty miles more—tie me to the saddle an' blow me to pieces if you find I'm lying—do anything you wants; but let me get to Winchester before dark!”
Hopalong was watching him closely and at the end of the other's outburst threw back his head. “I reckon I'm a plain fool, a jackass; but I don't care. I'll rope that cayuse for you. You come along to save time,” Hopalong ordered, spurring forward. His borrowed rope sailed out, tightened, and in a moment he was working at the saddle. “Here, you; I'm going to swamp mounts with you—this one is fresher an' faster.” He had his own saddle off and the other on in record time, and stepped back. “There; don't stand there like a fool—wake up an' hustle! I might change my mind—that's the way to move! Gimme that neck-kerchief for a souveneer, an' get out. Send that cayuse back to Dave Wilkes, at Grant—it's hissn. Don't thank me; just gimme that scarf an' ride like the devil.”
The other, already mounted, tore the kerchief from his throat and handed it quickly to his benefactor. “If you ever want a man to take you out of hell, send to Winchester for Ben Ferris—that's me. So long!”
Mr. Cassidy sat on his saddle where he had dropped it after making the exchange and looked after the galloping horseman, and when a distant rise had shut him from sight, turned his eyes on the scarf in his hand and cogitated. Finally, with a long-drawn sigh he arose, and, placing the scarf on the ground, caught and saddled his horse. Riding gloomily back to where the riot of color fluttered on the grass he drew his Colt and sent six bullets through it with a great amount of satisfaction. Not content with the damage he had inflicted, he leaned over and swooped it up. Riding further he also swooped up a stone and tied the kerchief around it, and then stood up in his stirrups and drew back his arm with critical judgment. He sat quietly for a time after the gaudy missile had disappeared into the stream and then, wheeling, cantered away. But he did not return to the town of Grant—he lacked the nerve to face Dave Wilkes and tell his childish and improbable story. He would ride on and meet Red as they had agreed; a letter would do for Mr. Wilkes, and after he had broken the shock in that manner he could pay him a personal visit sometime soon. Dave would never believe the story and when it was told Hopalong wanted to have the value of the horse in his trousers pocket. Of course, Ben Ferrismighthave told the truth and he might return the horse according to directions. Hopalong emerged from his reverie long enough to appeal to his mount:
“Bronc, I've been thinking: am I or am I not a jackass?”
After a night spent on the plain and a cigarette for his breakfast, Hopalong, grouchy and hungry, rode slowly to the place appointed for his meeting with Red, but Mr. Connors was over two hours late. It was now mid-forenoon and Hopalong occupied his time for a while by riding out fancy designs on the sand; but he soon tired of this makeshift diversion and grew petulant. Red's tardiness was all the worse because the erring party to the agreement had turned in his saddle at Hoyt's Corners and loosed a flippant and entirely uncalled-for remark about his friend's ideas regarding appointments.
“Well, that red-headed Romeo is shore late this time,” Hopalong muttered. “Why don't he find a girl closer to home, anyhow? Thank the Lord I ain't got no use for shell games of any kind. Here I am, without anything to eat an' no prospects of anything, sitting up on this locoed layout like a sore thumb, an' can't move without hitting myself! An' it'll be late to-day before I can get any grub, too. Oh, well,” he sighed, “I ain't in love, so things might be a whole lot worse with me. An' he ain't in love, neither, only he won't listen to reason. He gets mad an' calls me a sage hen an' says I'm stuck on myself because some fool told me I had brains.”
He laughed as he pictured the object of his friend's affections. “Huh; anybody that got one good, square look at her wouldn't ever accuse him of having brains. But he'll forget her in a month. That was the life of his last hobbling fit an' it was the worst he ever had.”
Grinning at his friend's peculiarly human characteristics he leaned back in the saddle and felt for tobacco and papers. As he finished pouring the chopped alfalfa into the paper he glanced up and saw a mounted man top the sky-line of the distant hills and shoot down the slope at full speed.
“I knowed it: started three hours late an' now he's trying to make it up in the last mile,” Hopalong muttered, dexterously spreading the tobacco along the groove and quickly rolling the cigarette. Lighting it he looked up again and saw that the horseman was wildly waving a sombrero.
“Huh! Wigwagging for forgiveness,” laughed the man who waited. “Old son-of-a-gun, I'd wait a week if I had some grub, an' he knows it. Couldn't get mad at him if I tried.”
Mr. Connors' antics now became frantic and he shouted something at the top of his voice. His friend spurred his mount. “Come on, bronc; wake up. His girl said 'yes' an' now he wants me to get him out of his trouble.” Whereupon he jogged forward. “What's that?” he shouted, sitting up very straight. “What's that?”
Red energetically swept the sombrero behind him and pointed to the rear. “War-whoops! W-a-r w-h-o-o-p-s! Injuns, you chump!” Mr. Connors appeared to be mildly exasperated.
“Yes?” sarcastically rejoined Mr. Cassidy in his throat, and then shouted in reply: “Love an' liquor don't mix very well in you. Wake up! Come out of it!”
“That's straight—I mean it!” cried Mr. Connors, close enough now to save the remainder of his lungs. “It's a bunch of young bucks on their first war-trail, I reckon. 'T ain't Geronimo, all right; I wouldn't be here now if it was. Three of 'em chased me an' the two that are left are coming hot-foot somewhere the other side of them hills. They act sort of mad, too.”
“Mebby they ain't acting at all,” cheerily replied his companion. “An' then that's the way you got that graze?” pointing to a bloody furrow on Mr. Connors' cheek. “But just the same it looks like the trail left by a woman's finger nail.”
“Finger nail nothing,” retorted Mr. Connors, flushing a little. “But, for God's sake, are you going to sit here like a wart on a dead dog an' wait for 'em?” he demanded with a rising inflection. “Do you reckon yo're running a dance, or a party, or something like that?”
“How many?” placidly inquired Mr. Cassidy, gazing intently towards the high sky-line of the distant hills.
“Two—an' I won't tell you again, neither!” snapped the owner of the furrowed cheek. “The others are 'way behind now—but we're standingstill!”
“Why didn't you say there was others?” reproved Hopalong. “Naturally I didn't see no use of getting all het up just because two sprouted papooses feel like crowding us a bit; it wouldn't be none ofourfuneral, would it?” and the indignant Mr. Cassidy hurriedly dismounted and hid his horse in a nearby chaparral and returned to his companion at a run.
“Red, gimme yore Winchester an' then hustle on for a ways, have an accident, fall off yore cayuse, an' act scared to death, if you know how. It's that little trick Buck told us about, an' it shore ought to work fine here. We'll see if two infant feather-dusters can lick the Bar-20. Get a-going!”
They traded rifles, Hopalong taking the repeater in place of the single-shot gun he carried, and Red departed as bidden, his face gradually breaking into an enthusiastic grin as he ruminated upon the plan. “Level-headed old cuss; he's a wonder when it comes to planning or fighting. An' lucky,—well, I reckon!”
Hopalong ran forward for a short distance and slid down the steep bank of a narrow arroyo and waited, the repeater thrust out through the dense fringe of grass and shrubs which bordered the edge. When settled to his complete satisfaction and certain that he was effectually screened from the sight of any one in front of him, he arose on his toes and looked around for his companion, and laughed. Mr. Connors was bending very dejectedly apparently over his prostrate horse, but in reality was swearing heartily at the ignorant quadruped because it strove with might and main to get its master's foot off its head so it could arise. The man in the arroyo turned again and watched the hills and it was not long before he saw two Indians burst into view over the crest and gallop towards his friend. They were not to be blamed because they did not know the pursued had joined a friend, for the second trail was yet some distance in front of them.
“Pair of budding warriors, all right; an' awful important. Somebody must 'a' toldthemthey had brains,” Mr. Cassidy muttered. “They're just at the age when they knows it all an' have to go 'round raising hell all the time. Wonder when they jumped the reservation.”
The Indians, seeing Mr. Connors arguing with his prostrate horse, and taking it for granted that he was not stopping for pleasure or to view the scenery, let out a yell and dashed ahead at grater speed, at the same time separating so as to encircle him and attack him front and rear at the same time. They had a great amount of respect for cowboys.
This manoeuvre was entirely unexpected and clashed violently with Mr. Cassidy's plan of procedure, so two irate punchers swore heartily at their rank stupidity in not counting on it. Of course everybody that knew anything at all about such warfare knew that they would do just such a thing, which made it all the more bitter. But Red had cultivated the habit of thinking quickly and he saw at once that the remedy lay with him; he astonished the exultant savages by straddling his disgruntled horse as it scrambled to its feet and galloping away from them, bearing slightly to the south, because he wished to lure his pursuers to ride closer to his anxious and eager friend.
This action was a success, for the yelling warriors, slowing perceptibly because of their natural astonishment at the resurrection and speed of an animal regarded as dead or useless, spurred on again, drawing closer together, and along the chord of the arc made by Mr. Connors' trail. Evidently the fool white man was either crazy or had original and startling ideas about the way to rest a horse when hard pressed, which pleased them much, since he had lost so much time. The pleasures of the war-trail would be vastly greater if all white men had similar ideas.
Hopalong, the light of fighting burning strong in his eyes, watched them sweep nearer and nearer, splendid examples of their type and seeming to be a part of their mounts. Then two shots rang out in quick succession and a cloud of pungent smoke arose lazily from the edge of the arroyo as the warriors fell from their mounts not sixty yards from the hidden marksman.
Mr. Connors' rifle spat fire once to make assurance doubly sure and he hastily rejoined his friend as that person climbed out of the arroyo.
“Huh! They must have been half-breeds!” snorted Red in great disgust, watching his friend shed sand from his clothes. “I allus opined that 'Paches was too blamed slick to bite on a game like that.”
“Well, they are purty 'lusive animals, 'Paches; but there are exceptions,” replied Hopalong, smiling at the success of their scheme. “Them two ain't 'Paches—they're the exceptions. But let me tell you that's a good game, just the same. It is as long as they don't see the second trail in time. Didn't Buck and Skinny get two that way?”
“Yes, I reckon so. But what'll we do now? What's the next play?” asked Red, hurriedly, his eyes searching the sky-line of the hills. “The rest of the coyotes will be here purty soon, an' they'll be madder than ever now. An' you better gimme back that gun, too.”
“Take yore old gun—who wants the blamed thing, anyhow?” Hopalong demanded, throwing the weapon at his friend as he ran to bring up the hidden horse. When he returned he grinned pleasantly. “Why, we'll go on like we was greased for calamity, that's what we'll do. Did you reckon we was going to play leap-frog around here an' wait for the rest of them paint-shops, like a blamed fool pair of idiots?”
“I didn't know whatyoumight do, remembering how you acted when I met you,” retorted Red, shifting his cartridge belt so the empty loops were behind and out of the way. “But I shore knowed what we ought to do, all right.”
“Well, mebby you also know how many's headed this way; do you?”
“You've got me stumped there; but there's a round dozen, anyway,” Red replied. “You see, the three that chased me were out scouting ahead of the main bunch; an' I didn't have no time to take no blasted census.”
“Then we've got to hit the home trail, an' hit it hard. Wind up that four-laigged excuse of yourn, an' take my dust,” Hopalong responded, leading the way. “If we can get home there'll be a lot of disgusted braves hitting the high spots on the back trail trying to find a way out. Buck an' the rest of the boys will be a whole lot pleased, too. We can muster thirty men in two hours if we gets to Buckskin, an' that's twenty more than we'll need.”
“Tell you one thing, Hoppy; we can get as far as Powers' old ranch house, an' that's shore,” replied Red, thoughtfully.
“Yes!” exploded his companion in scorn and pity. “That old sieve of a shack ain't good enough formeto die in, no matter what you think about it. Why, it's as full of holes as a stiff hat in a melee. Yo're on the wrong trail; think again.”
Mr. Cassidy objected not because he believed that Powers' old ranch house was unworthy of serious consideration as a place of refuge and defence, but for the reason that he wished to reach Buckskin so his friends might all get in on the treat. Times were very dull on the ranch, and this was an occasion far too precious to let slip by. Besides, he then would have the pleasure of leading his friends against the enemy and battling on even terms. If he sought shelter he and Red would have to fight on the defensive, which was a game he hated cordially because it put him in a relatively subordinate position and thereby hurt his pride.
“Let me tell you that it's a whole lot better than thin air with a hard-working circle around us—an' you know what that means,” retorted Mr. Connors. “But if you don't want to take a chance in the shack, why mebby we can make Wallace's, or the Cross-O-Cross. That is, if we don't get turned out of our way.”
“We don't head for no Cross-O-Cross or Wallace's,” rejoined his friend with emphasis, “an' we won't waste no time in Powers' shack, neither; we'll push right through as hard as we can go for Buckskin. Let them fellers find their own hunting—our outfit comes first. An' besides that'll mean a detour in a country fine for ambushes. We'd never get through.”
“Well, have it yore own way, then!” snapped Red. “You allus was a hard-headed old mule, anyhow.” In his heart Red knew that Hopalong was right about Wallace's and the Cross-O-Cross.
Some time after the two punchers had quitted the scene of their trap, several Apaches loped up, read the story of the tragedy at a glance, and galloped on in pursuit. They had left the reservation a fortnight before under the able leadership of that veteran of many war-trails—Black Bear. Their leader, chafing at inaction and sick of the monotony of reservation life, had yielded to the entreaties of a score of restless young men and slipped away at their head, eager for the joys of raiding and plundering. But instead of stealing horses and murdering isolated whites as they had expected, they met with heavy repulses and were now without the mind of their leader. They had fled from one defeat to another and twice had barely eluded the cavalry which pursued them. Now two more of their dwindling force were dead and another had been found but an hour before. Rage and ferocity seethed in each savage heart and they determined to get the puncher they had chased, and that other whose trail they now saw for the first time. They would place at least one victory against the string of their defeats, and at any cost. Whips rose and fell and the war-party shot forward in a compact group, two scouts thrown ahead to feel the way.
Red and Hopalong rode on rejoicing, for there were three less Apaches loose in the Southwest for the inhabitants to swear about and fear, and there was an excellent chance of more to follow. The Southwest had no toleration for the Government's policy of dealing with Indians and derived a great amount of satisfaction every time an Apache was killed. It still clung to the time-honored belief that the only good Indian was a dead one. Mr. Cassidy voiced his elation and then rubbed an empty stomach in vain regret,—when a bullet shrilled past his head, so unexpectedly as to cause him to duck instinctively and then glance apologetically at his red-haired friend; and both spurred their mounts to greater speed. Next Mr. Connors grabbed frantically at his perforated sombrero and grew petulant and loquacious.
“Both them shots was lucky, Hoppy; the feller that fired at me did it on the dead run; but that won't help us none if one of 'em connects with us. You gimme that Sharps—got to show 'em that they're taking big chances crowding us this way.” He took the heavy rifle and turned in the saddle. “It's an even thousand, if it's a yard. He don't look very big, can't hardly tell him from his cayuse; an' the wind's puffy. Why don't you dirty or rust this gun? The sun glitters all along the barrel. Well, here goes.”
“Missed by a mile,” reproved Hopalong, who would have been stunned by such a thing as a hit under the circumstances, even if his good-shooting friend had made it.
“Yes! Missed the coyote I aimed for, but I got the cayuse of his off pardner; see it?”
“Talk about luck!”
“That's all right: it takes blamed good shooting to miss that close in this case. Look! It's slowed 'em up a bit, an' that's about all I hoped to do. Bet they think I'm a real, shore-'nuff medicine-man. Now gimme another cartridge.”
“I will not; no use wasting lead at this range. We'll need all the cartridges we got before we get out of this hole. You can't do nothing without stopping—an' that takes time.”
“Then I'll stop! The blazes with the time! Gimme another, d'ye hear?”
Mr. Cassidy heard, complied, and stopped beside his companion, who was very intent upon the matter at hand. It took some figuring to make a hit when the range was so great and the sun so blinding and the wind so capricious. He lowered the rifle and peered through the smoke at the confusion he had caused by dropping the nearest warrior. He was said to be the best rifle shot in the Southwest, which means a great deal, and his enemies did not deny it. But since the Sharps shot a special cartridge and was reliable up to the limit of its sight gauge, a matter of eighteen hundred yards, he did not regard the hit as anything worthy of especial mention. Not so his friend, who grinned joyously and loosed his admiration.
“Yo're a shore wonder with that gun, Red! Why don't you lose that repeater an' get a gun like mine? Lord, if I could use a rifle like you, I wouldn't have that gun of yourn for a gift. Just look at what you did with it! Please get one like it.”
“I'm plumb satisfied with the repeater,” replied Red. “I don't miss very often at eight hundred with it, an' that's long enough range for most anybody. An' if I do miss, I can send another that won't, an' right on the tail of the first, too.”
“Ah, the devil! You make me disgusted with yore fool talk about that carbine!” snapped his companion, and the subject was dropped.
The merits of their respective rifles had always been a bone of contention between them and one well chewed, at that. Red was very well satisfied with his Winchester, and he was a good judge.
“You did stop 'em a little,” asserted Mr. Cassidy some time later when he looked back. “You stopped 'em coming straight, but they're spreading out to work up around us. Now, if we had good cayuses instead of these wooden wonders, we could run away from 'em dead easy, draw their best mounted warriors to the front an' then close with 'em. Good thing their cayuses are well tired out, for as it is we've got to make a stand purty soon. Gee! They don't like you, Red; they're calling you names in the sign language. Just look at 'em cuss you!”
“How much water have you got?” inquired his friend with anxiety.
“Canteen plumb full. How're you fixed?”
“I got the same, less one drink. That gives us enough for a couple of days with some to spare, if we're careful,” Mr. Connors replied. New Mexican canteens are built on generous lines and are known as life-preservers.
“Look at that glory-hunter go!” exclaimed Red, watching a brave who was riding half a mile to their right and rapidly coming abreast of them. “Wonder how he got over there without us seeing him.”
“Here; stop him!” suggested Hopalong, holding out his Sharps. “We can't let him get ahead of us and lay in ambush—that's what he's playing to do.”
“My gun's good, and better, for me, at this range; but you know, I can't hit a jack-rabbit going over rough country as fast as that feller is,” replied his companion, standing up in his stirrups and firing.
“Huh! Never touched him! But he's edging off a-plenty. See him cuss you. What's he calling you, anyhow?”
“Aw, shut up! How the devil doIknow? I don't talk with my arms.”
“Are you superstitious, Red?”
“No! Shut up!”
“Well, I am. See that feller over there? If he gets in front of us it's a shore sign that somebody's going to get hurt. He'll have plenty of time to get cover an' pick us off as we come up.”
“Don't you worry—his cayuse is deader'n ours. They must 'a' been pushing on purty hard the last few days. See it stumble?—what'd I tell you!”
“Yes; but they're gaining on us slow but shore. We've got to make a stand purty soon—how much further do you reckon that infernal shack is, anyhow?” Hopalong asked sharply.
“'T ain't fur off—see it any minute now.”
“Here,” remarked Hopalong, holding out his rifle, “stencil yore mark on his hide; catch him just as he strikes the top of that little rise.”
“Ain't got time—that shack can't be much further.”
And it wasn't, for as they galloped over a rise they saw, half a mile ahead of them, an adobe building in poor state of preservation. It was Powers' old ranch house, and as they neared it, they saw that there was no doubt about the holes.
“Told you it was a sieve,” grunted Hopalong, swinging in on the tail of his companion. “Not worth a hang for anything,” he added bitterly.
“It'll answer, all right,” retorted Red grimly.
Mr. Cassidy dismounted and viewed the building with open disgust, walking around it to see what held it up, and when he finally realized that it was self-supporting his astonishment was profound. Undoubtedly there were shacks in the United States in worse condition, but he hoped their number was small. Of course he knew that the building was small. Of course he knew that the building would make a very good place of defence, but for the sake of argument he called to his companion and urged that they be satisfied with what defence they could extemporize in the open. Mr. Connors hotly and hastily dissented as he led the horses into the building, and straightway the subject was arbitrated with much feeling and snappy eloquence. Finally Hopalong thought that Red was a chump, and said so out loud, whereat Red said unpleasant things about his good friend's pedigree, attributes, intelligence, et al., even going so far as to prognosticate his friend's place of eternal abode. The remarks were fast getting to be somewhat personal in tenor when a whine in the air swept up the scale to a vicious shriek as it passed between them, dropped rapidly to a whine again and quickly died out in the distance, a flat report coming to their ears a few seconds later. Invisible bees seemed to be winging through the air, the angry and venomous droning becoming more pronounced each passing moment, and the irregular cracking of rifles grew louder rapidly. An angrys-p-a-t!told of where a stone behind them had launched the ricochet which hurled skyward with a wheezing scream. A handful of 'dobe dust sprang from the corner of the building and sifted down upon them, causing Red to cough.
“That ricochet was a Sharps!” exclaimed Hopalong, and they lost no time in getting into the building, where the discussion was renewed as they prepared for the final struggle. Red grunted his cheerful approval, for now he was out of the blazing sun and where he could better appreciate the musical tones of the flying bullets; but his companion, slamming shut the door and propping it with a fallen roof-beam, grumbled and finally gave rein to his rancor by sneering at the Winchester.
“It shore gets me that after all I have said about that gun you will tote it around with you and force yoreself into a suicide's grave,” quoth Mr. Cassidy, with exuberant pugnacity. “I ain't in no way objecting to the suicide part of it, but I can't see that it's at all fair to dragmeonto the edge of everlasting eternity with you. If you ain't got no regard for yore own life you shore ought to think a little about yore friend's. Now you'll waste all yore cartridges an' then come snooping around me to borrow my gun. Why don't you lose the damned thing?”
“What I pack ain't none of yore business, which same I'll uphold,” retorted Mr. Connors, at last able to make himself heard. “You get over on yore own side an' use yore Colt; I've wondered a whole lot where you ever got the sense to use a Colt—Iwouldn't be a heap surprised to see you toting a pearl-handled .22, like the kids use. Now you 'tend to yore grave-yard aspirants, an' lemme do the same with mine.”
“The Lord knows I've stood a whole lot from you because you just can't help being foolish, but I've got plumb weary and sick of it. It stops right here or you won't get no 'Paches,” snorted Hopalong, peering intently through a hole in the shack. The more they squabbled the better they liked it,—controversies had become so common that they were merely a habit; and they served to take the grimness out of desperate situations.
“Aw, you can't lick one side of me,” averred Red loftily. “You never did stop anybody that was anything,” he jeered as he fired from his window. “Why, you couldn't even hit the bottom of the Grand Canyon if you leaned over the edge.”
“You could, if you leaned too far, you red-headed wart of a half-breed,” snapped Hopalong. “But how about the Joneses, Tarantula Charley, Slim Travennes, an' all the rest? How about them, hey?”
“Huh! You couldn't 'a' got any of 'em if they had been sober,” and Mr. Connors shook so with mirth that the Indian at whom he had fired got away with a whole skin and cheerfully derided the marksman. “That 'Pache shore reckons it was you shooting at him, I missed him so far. Now, you shut up—I want to get some so we can go home. I don't want to stay out here all night an' the next day as well,” Red grumbled, his words dying slowly in his throat as he voiced other thoughts.
Hopalong caught sight of an Apache who moved cautiously through a chaparral lying about nine hundred yards away. As long as the distant enemy lay quietly he could not be discerned, but he was not content with assured safety and took a chance. Hopalong raised his rifle to his shoulder as the Indian fired and the latter's bullet, striking the edge of the hole through which Mr. Cassidy peered, kicked up a generous handful of dust, some of which found lodgment in that individual's eyes.
“Oh! Oh! Oh! Wow!” yelled the unfortunate, dancing blindly around the room in rage and pain, and dropping his rifle to grab at his eyes. “Oh! Oh! Oh!”
His companion wheeled like a flash and grabbed him as he stumbled past. “Are you plugged bad, Hoppy? Where did they get you? Are you hit bad?” and Red's heart was in his voice.
“No, I ain't plugged bad!” mimicked Hopalong. “I ain't plugged at all!” he blazed, kicking enthusiastically at his solicitous friend. “Get me some water, you jackass! Don't stand there like a fool! I ain't going to fall down. Don't you know my eyes are full of 'dobe?”
Red, avoiding another kick, hastily complied, and as hastily left Mr. Cassidy to wash out the dirt while he returned to his post by the window. “Anybody'd think you was full of red-eye, the way you act,” muttered Red peevishly.
Hopalong, rubbing his eyes of the dirt, went back to the hole in the wall and looked out. “Hey, Red! Come over here an' spill that brave's conceit. I can't keep my eyes open long enough to aim, an' it's a nice shot, too. It'd serve him right if you got him!”
Mr. Connors obeyed the summons and peered out cautiously. “I can't see him, nohow; where is the coyote?”
“Over there in that little chaparral; see him now?There!See him moving. Do you mean to tell me—”
“Yep; I see him, all right. You watch,” was the reply. “He's just over nine hundred—where's yore Sharps?” He took the weapon, glanced at the Buffington sight, which he found to be set right, and aimed carefully.
Hopalong blinked through another hole as his friend fired and saw the Indian flop down and crawl aimlessly about on hands and knees. “What's he doing now, Red?”
“Playing marbles, you chump; an' here goes for his agate,” replied the man with the Sharps, firing again. “There! Gee!” he exclaimed, as a bullet hummed in through the window he had quitted for the moment, and thudded into the wall, making the dry adobe fly. It had missed him by only a few inches and he now crept along the floor to the rear of the room and shoved his rifle out among the branches of a stunted mesquite which grew before a fissure in the wall. “You keep away from that windy for a minute, Hoppy,” he warned as he waited.
A terror-stricken lizard flashed out of the fissure and along the wall where the roof had fallen in and flitted into a hole, while a fly buzzed loudly and hovered persistently around Red's head, to the rage of that individual. “Ah, ha!” he grunted, lowering the rifle and peering through the smoke. A yell reached his ears and he forthwith returned to his window, whistling softly.
Evidently Mr. Cassidy's eyes were better and his temper sweeter, for he hummed “Dixie” and then jumped to “Yankee Doodle,” mixing the two airs with careless impartiality, which was a sign that he was thinking deeply. “Wonder what ever became of Powers, Red. Peculiar feller, he was.”
“In jail, I reckon, if drink hasn't killed him.”
“Yes; I reckon so,” and Mr. Cassidy continued his medley, which prompted his friend quickly to announce his unqualified disapproval.
“You can make more of a mess of them two songs than anybody I ever heard murder 'em!Shut up!”—and the concert stopped, the vocalist venting his feelings at an Indian, and killing the horse instead.
“Did you get him?” queried Red.
“Nope; but I got his cayuse,” Hopalong replied, shoving a fresh cartridge into the foul, greasy breech of the Sharps. “An' here's where I get him—got to square up for my eyes some way,” he muttered, firing. “Missed! Now what do you think of that!” he exclaimed.
“Better take my Winchester,” suggested Red, in a matter-of-fact way, but he chuckled softly and listened for the reply.
“Aw, you go to the devil!” snapped Mr. Cassidy, firing again. “Whoop! Got him that time!”
“Where?” asked his companion, with strong suspicion.
“None of yore business!”
“Aw, darn it! Who spilled the water?” yelled Red, staring blankly at the overturned canteen.
“Pshaw! Reckon I did, Red,” apologized his friend ruefully. “Now of all the cussed luck!”
“Oh, well; we've got another, an' you had to wash out yore eyes. Lucky we each had one—Holy smoke!It's most all gone! The top is loose!”
Heartfelt profanity filled the room and the two disgusted punchers went sullenly back to their posts. It was a calamity of no small magnitude, for, while food could be dispensed with for a long time if necessary, going without water was another question. It was as necessary as cartridges.
Then Hopalong laughed at the ludicrous side of the whole affair, thereby revealing one of the characteristics which endeared him to his friends. No matter how desperate a situation might be, he could always find in it something at which to laugh. He laughed going into danger and coming out of it, with a joke or a pleasantry always trembling on the end of his tongue.
“Red, did it ever strike you how cussed thirsty a feller gets just as soon as he knows he can't have no drink? But it don't make much difference, nohow. We'll get out of this little scrape just as we've allus got out of trouble. There's some mad war-whoops outside that are worse off than we are, because they are at the wrong end of yore gun. I feel sort of sorry for 'em.”
“Yo're shore a happy idiot,” grinned Red. “Hey! Listen!”
Galloping was heard and Hopalong, running to the door, looked out through a crack as sudden firing broke out around the rear of the shack, and fell to pulling away the props, crying, “It's a puncher, Red; he's riding this way! Come on an' help him in!”
“He's a blamed fool to ride this way! I'm with you!” replied Red, running to his side.
Half a mile from the house, coming across the open space as fast as he could urge his horse, rode a cowboy, and not far behind him raced about a dozen Apaches, yelling and firing.
Red picked up his companion's rifle, and steadying it against the jamb of the door, fired, dropping one of the foremost of the pursuers. Quickly reloading again, he fired and missed. The third shot struck another horse, and then taking up his own gun he began to fire rapidly, as rapidly as he could work the lever and yet make his shots tell. Hopalong drew his Colt and ran back to watch the rear of the house, and it was well that he did so, for an Apache in that direction, believing that the trapped punchers were so busily engaged with the new developments as to forget for the moment, sprinted towards the back window; and he had gotten within twenty paces of the goal when Hopalong's Colt cracked a protest. Seeing that the warrior was no longer a combatant, Mr. Cassidy ran back to the door just as the stranger fell from his horse and crawled past Red. The door slammed shut, the props fell against it, and the two friends turned to the work of driving back the second band, which, however, had given up all hope of rushing the house in the face of Red's telling fire, and had sought cover instead.
The stranger dragged himself to the canteens and drank what little water remained, and then turned to watch the two men moving from place to place, firing coolly and methodically. He thought he recognized one of them from the descriptions he had heard, but he was not sure.
“My name's Holden,” he whispered hoarsely, but the cracking of the rifles drowned his voice. During a lull he tried again. “My name's Holden,” he repeated weakly. “I'm from the Cross-O-Cross, an' can't get back there again.”
“Mine's Cassidy, an' that's Connors, of the Bar-20. Are you hurt very bad?”
“No; not very bad,” lied Holden, trying to smile. “Gee, but I'm glad I fell in with you two fellers,” he exclaimed. He was but little more than a boy, and to him Hopalong Cassidy and Red Connors were names with which to conjure. “But I'm plumb sorry I went an' brought you more trouble,” he added regretfully.
“Oh, pshaw! We had it before you came—you needn't do no worrying about that, Holden; besides, I reckon you couldn't help it,” Hopalong grinned facetiously. “But tell us how you came to mix up with that bunch,” he continued.
Holden shuddered and hesitated a moment, his companions alertly shifting from crack to crack, window to window, their rifles cracking at intervals. They appeared to him to act as if they had done nothing else all their lives but fight Indians from that shack, and he braced up a little at their example of coolness.
“It's an awful story, awful!” he began. “I was riding towards Hoyt's Corners an' when I got about half way there I topped a rise an' saw a nester's house about half a mile away. It wasn't there the last time I rode that way, an' it looked so peaceful an' home-like that I stopped an' looked at it a few minutes. I was just going to start again when that war-party rode out of a barranca close to the house an' went straight for it at top speed. It seemed like a dream, 'cause I thought Apaches never got so far east. They don't, do they? I thought not—these must 'a' got turned out of their way an' had to hustle for safety. Well, it was all over purty quick. I saw 'em drag out two women an'—an'—purty soon a man. He was fighting like fury, but he didn't last long. Then they set fire to the house an' threw the man's body up on the roof. I couldn't seem to move till the flames shot up, but then I must 'a' went sort of loco, because I emptied my gun at 'em, which was plumb foolish at that distance, for me. The next thing I knowed was that half of 'em was coming my way as hard as they could ride, an' I lit out instanter; an' here I am. I can't get that sight outen my head nohow—it'll drive me loco!” he screamed, sobbing like a child from the horror of it all.
His auditors still moved around the room, growing more and more vindictive all the while and more zealously endeavoring to create a still greater deficit in one Apache war-party. They knew what he had looked upon, for they themselves had become familiar with the work of Apaches in Arizona. They could picture it vividly in all its devilish horror. Neither of them paid any apparent attention to their companion, for they could not spare the time, and, also, they believed it best to let him fight out his own battles unassisted.
Holden sobbed and muttered as the minutes dragged along, at times acting so strangely as to draw a covert side-glance from one or both of the Bar-20 punchers. Then Mr. Connors saw his boon companion suddenly lean out of a window and immediately become the target for the hard-working enemy. He swore angrily at the criminal recklessness of it. “Hey, you! Come in out of that! Ain't you got no brains at all, you blasted idiot! Don't you know that we need every gun?”
“Yes; that's right. I sort of forgot,” grinned the reckless one, obeying with alacrity and looking sheepish. “But you know there's two thundering big tarantulas out there fighting like blazes. You ought to see 'em jump! It's a sort of a leap-frog fight, Red.”
“Fool!” snorted Mr. Connors belligerently. “You'd'a' jumped if one of them slugs had 'a' got you! Yo're the damnedest fool that ever walked on two laigs, you blasted sage-hen!” Mr. Connors was beginning to lose his temper and talk in his throat.
“Well, they didn't get me, did they? What you yelling about, anyhow?” growled Hopalong, trying to brazen it out.
“An'youtalking about suicide to me!” snapped Mr. Connors, determined to rub it in and have the last word.
Mr. Holden stared, open-mouthed, at the man who could enjoy a miserable spider fight under such distressing circumstances, and his shaken nerves became steadier as he gave thought to the fact that he was a companion of the two men about whose exploits he had heard so much. Evidently the stories had not been exaggerated. What must they think of him for giving way as he had? He rose to his feet in time to see a horse blunder into the open on Red's side of the house, and after it blundered its owner, who immediately lost all need of earthly conveyances. Holden laughed from the joy of being with a man who could shoot like that, and he took up his rifle and turned to a crack in the wall, filled with the determination to let his companions know that he was built of the right kind of timber after all, wounded as he was.
Red's only comment, as he pumped a fresh cartridge into the barrel, was, “He must 'a' thought he saw a spider fight, too.”
“Hey, Red,” called Hopalong. “The big one is dead.”
“What big one?”
“Why, don't you remember? That big tarantula I was watching. One was bigger than the other, but the little feller shore waded into him an'—”
“Go to the devil!” shouted Red, who had to grin, despite his anger.
“Presently, presently,” replied Hopalong, laughing.
So the day passed, and when darkness came upon them all of the defenders were wounded, Holden desperately so.
“Red, one of us has got to try to make the ranch,” Hopalong suddenly announced, and his friend knew he was right. Since Holden had appeared upon the scene they had known that they could not try a dash; one of them had to stay.
“We'll toss for it; heads, I go,” Red suggested, flipping a coin.
“Tails!” cried Hopalong. “It's only thirty miles to Buckskin, an' if I can get away from here I'm good to make it by eleven to-night. I'll stop at Cowan's an' have him send word to Lucas an' Bartlett, so there'll be enough in case any of our boys are out on the range in some line house. We can pick 'em up on the way back, so there won't be no time lost. If I get through you can expect excitement on the outside of this sieve by daylight. You an' Holden can hold her till then, because they never attack at night. It's the only way out of this for us—we ain't got cartridges or water enough to last another day.”
Red, knowing that Hopalong was taking a desperate chance in working through the cordon of Indians which surrounded them, and that the house was safe when compared to running such a gantlet, offered to go through the danger line with him. For several minutes a wordy war raged and finally Red accepted a compromise; he was to help, but not to work through the line.
“But what's the use of all this argument?” feebly demanded Holden. “Why don't you both go? I ain't a-going to live nohow, so there ain't no use of anybody staying here with me, to die with me. Put a bullet through me so them devils can't play with me like they do with others, an' then get away while you've got a chance. Two men can get through as easy as one.” He sank back, exhausted by the effort.
“No more of that!” cried Red, trying to be stern. “I'm going to stay with you an' see things through. I'd be a fine sort of a coyote to sneak off an' leave you for them fiends. An', besides, I can't get away; my cayuse is hit too hard an' yourn is dead,” he lied cheerfully. “An' yo're going to get well, all right. I've seen fellers hit harder than you are pull through.”
Hopalong walked over to the prostrate man and shook hands with him. “I'm awful glad I met you, Holden. Yo're pure grit all the way through, an' I like to tie to that kind of a man. Don't you worry about nothing; Red can handle this proposition, an' we'll have you in Buckskin by to-morrow night; you'll be riding again in two weeks. So long.”
He turned to Red and shook hands silently, led his horse out of the building and mounted, glad that the moon had not yet come up, for in the darkness he had a chance.
“Good luck, Hoppy!” cried Red, running to the door. “Good luck!”
“You bet—an' lots of it, too,” groaned Holden, but he was gone. Then Red wheeled. “Holden, keep yore eyes an' ears open. I'm going out to see that he gets off. He may run into a—” and he, too, was gone.
Holden watched the doors and windows, striving to resist the weak, giddy feeling in his head, and ten minutes later he heard a shot and then several more in quick succession. Shortly afterward Red called out, and almost immediately the Bar-20 puncher crawled in through a window.
“Well?” anxiously cried the man on the floor. “Did he make it?”
“I reckon so. He got away from the first crowd, anyhow. I wasn't very far behind him, an' by the time they woke up to what was going on he was through an' riding like blazes. I heard him call 'em half-breeds a moment later an' it sounded far off. They hit me,—fired at my flash, like I drilled one of them. But it ain't much, anyhow. How are you feeling now?”
“Fine!” lied the other. “That Cassidy is shore a wonder—he's all right, an' so are you. I'll never see him again, but I shore hope he gets through!”
“Don't be foolish. Here, you finish the water in yore canteen—I picked it up outside by yore cayuse. Then go to sleep,” ordered Red. “I'll do all the watching that's necessary.”
“I will if you'll call me when you get sleepy.”
“Why, shore I will. But don't you want the rest of the water? I ain't a bit thirsty—I had all I could hold just before you came,” Red remarked as his companion pushed the canteen against him in the dark. He was choking with thirst. “Well, then; all right,” and Red pretended to drink. “Now, then, you go to sleep; a good snooze will do you a world of good—it's just what you need.”