Clarence E. Mulford_Hopalong Cassidy 04 (10 page)

"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 for
me
to 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 do
I
know? 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 angry
s-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 drag
me
onto 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—
I
wouldn'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.