Bar-20. Clarence E. Mulford
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Moses, I ain’t no bugologist! All kinds!”
But Hopalong got it at last. He had found tobacco and rolled a cigarette, and in reaching for a match exposed his shoulder to a shot that broke his collar bone. Skinny’s rifle cracked in reply and the offending brave rolled out from behind a rock. From the fuss emanating from Hopalong’s direction Skinny knew that his neighbor had been hit.
“Don’t yu care, Hoppy. I got th’ cuss,” he said consolingly. “Where’d he git yu?” he asked.
“In th’ heart, yu pie-faced nuisance. Come over here an’ corral this cussed bandage an’ gimme some water,” snapped the injured man.
Skinny wormed his way through the thorny chaparral and bound up the shoulder. “Anything else?” he asked.
“Yes. Shoot that bunch of warts an’ blow that tobacco-eyed Gila to Cheyenne. This here’s worse than the time we cleaned out th’ C-80 outfit!” Then he kicked the dead toad and swore at the sun.
“Close yore yap; yore worse than a kid! Anybody’d think yu never got plugged afore,” said Skinny indignantly.
“I can cuss all I wants,” replied Hopalong, proving his assertion as he grabbed his gun and fired at the dead Indian. A bullet whined above his head and Skinny fired at the smoke. He peeped out and saw that his friends were getting nearer to the knoll.
“They’s closin’ in now. We’ll soon be gittin’ home,” he reported.
Hopalong looked out in time to see Buck make a dash for a bowlder that lay ten yards in front of him, which he reached in safety. Lanky also ran in and Pete added five more yards to his advance. Buck made another dash, but leaped into the air, and, coming down as if from an intentional high jump, staggered and stumbled for a few paces and then fell flat, rolling over and over toward the shelter of a split rock, where he lay quiet. A leering red face peered over the rocks on the knoll, but the whoop of exultation was cut short, for Red’s rifle cracked and the warrior rolled down the steep bank, where another shot from the same gun settled him beyond question.
Hopalong choked and, turning his face away, angrily dashed his knuckles into his eyes. “Blast ‘em! Blast ‘em! They’ve got Buck! They’ve got Buck, blast ‘em! They’ve got Buck, Skinny! Good old Buck! They’ve got him! Jimmy’s gone, Johnny’s plugged, and now Buck’s gone! Come on!” he sobbed in a frenzy of vengeance. “Come on, Skinny! We’ll tear their cussed hides into a deeper red than they are now! Oh, blast it, I can’t see—where’s my gun?” He groped for the rifle and fought Skinny when the latter, red-eyed but cool, endeavored to restrain him. “Lemme go, curse yu! Don’t yu know they got Buck? Lemme go!”
“Down! Red’s got di’ skunk. Yu can’t do nothin’—they’d drop yu afore yu took five steps. Red’s got him, I tell yu! Do yu want me to lick yu? We’ll pay ‘em back with interest if yu’ll keep yore head!” exclaimed Skinny, throwing the crazed man heavily.
Musical tones, rising and falling in weird octaves, whining pityingly, diabolically, sobbing in a fascinating monotone and slobbering in ragged chords, calling as they swept over the plain, always calling and exhorting, they mingled in barbaric discord with the defiant barks of the six-shooters and the inquiring cracks of the Winchesters. High up in the air several specks sailed and drifted, more coming up rapidly from all directions. Buzzards know well where food can be found.
As Hopalong leaned back against a rock he was hit in the thigh by a ricochet that tore its way out, whirling like a circular saw, a span above where it entered. The wound was very nasty, being ripped twice the size made by an ordinary shot, and it bled profusely. Skinny crawled over and attended to it, making a tourniquet of his neckerchief and clumsily bandaging it with a strip torn from his shirt.
“Yore shore lucky, yu are,” he grumbled as he made his way back to his post, where he vented his rancor by emptying the semi-depleted magazine of his Winchester at the knoll.
Hopalong began to sing and shout and he talked of Jimmy and his childhood, interspersing the broken narrative with choice selections as sung in the music halls of Leavenworth and Abilene. He wound up by yelling and struggling, and Skinny had his hands full in holding him.
“Hopalong! Cassidy! Come out of that! Keep quiet—yu’ll shore git plugged if yu don’t stop that plungin’. For gosh sake, did yu hear that?” A bullet viciously hissed between them and flattened out on a near-by rock; others cut their way through the chaparral to the sound of falling twigs, and Skinny threw himself on the struggling man and strapped Hopalong with his belt to the base of a honey mesquite that grew at his side.
“Hold still, now, and let that bandage alone. Yu allus goes off di’ range when yu gets plugged,” he complained. He cut down a cactus and poured the sap over the wounded man’s face, causing him to gurgle and look around. His eyes had a sane look now and Skinny slid off his chest.
“Git that—belt loose; I ain’t—no cow,” brokenly blazed out the picketed Hopalong. Skinny did so, handed the irate man his Colts and returned to his own post, from where he fired twice, reporting the shots.
“I’m trying’ to get him on th’ glance’—th’ first one went high an’ th’ other fell flat,” he explained.
Hopalong listened eagerly, for this was shooting that he could appreciate. “Lemme see,” he commanded. Skinny dragged him over to a crack and settled down for another try.
“Where is he, Skinny?” Asked Hopalong.
“Behind that second big one. No, over on this here side. See that smooth granite? If I can get her there on th’ right spot he’ll shore know it.” He aimed carefully and fired.
Through Pete’s glasses Hopalong saw a leaden splotch appear on the rock and he notified the marksman that he was shooting high. “Put her on that bump closer down,” he suggested. Skinny did so and another yell reached their ears.
“That’s a dandy. Yore shore all right, yu old cuss,” complimented Hopalong, elated at the success of the experiment.
Skinny fired again and a brown arm flopped out into sight. Another shot struck it and it jerked as though it were lifeless.
“He’s cashed. See how she jumped? Like a rope,” remarked Skinny with a grin. The arm lay quiet.
Pete had gained his last cover and was all eyes and Colts. Lanky was also very close in and was intently watching one particular rock. Several shots echoed from the far side of the knoll and they knew that Red was all right. Billy was covering a cluster of rocks that protruded above the others and, as they looked, his rifle rang out and the last defender leaped down and disappeared in the chaparral. He wore yellow trousers and an old boiled shirt.
“By an’-by, by all that’s bad!” yelled Hopalong. “Th’ measly coyote! An’ me a-fillin’ his ornery hide with liquor. Well, they’ll have to find him all over again now,” he complained, astounded by the revelation. He fired into the chaparral to express his pugnacious disgust and scared out a huge tarantula, which alighted on Skinny’s chaps, crawling rapidly toward the unconscious man’s neck. Hopalong’s face hardened and he slowly covered the insect and fired, driving it into the sand, torn and lifeless. The bullet touched the leathern garment and Skinny remonstrated, knowing that Hopalong was in no condition for fancy shooting.
“Huh!” exclaimed Hopalong. “That was a tarantula what I plugged. He was headin’ for yore neck,” he explained, watching the chaparral with apprehension.
“Go ‘way, was it? Bully for yu!” exclaimed Skinny, tarantulas being placed at par with rattlesnakes, and he considered that he had been saved from a horrible death. “Thought yu said they wasn’t no bugs over here,” he added in an aggrieved tone.
“They wasn’t none. Yu brought ‘em. I only had th’ main show—Gilas, rattlers an’ toads,” he replied, and then added, “Ain’t it cussed hot up here?”
“She is. Yu won’t have no cinch ridin’ home with that leg. Yu