Bar-20. Clarence E. Mulford
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of the welt.
“Who’s got the buffalo?” he inquired as the great gun roared.
“Mus’ be Cowan. He’s shore all right. Sounds like a bloomin’ cannon,” replied Billy. “Lemme alone with yore fool questions, I’m busy,” he complained as his talkative partner started to ask another. “Go an’ git me some water—I’m alkalied. An’ git some .45’s, mine’s purty near gone.”
Johnny crawled down the arroyo and reappeared at Hopalong’s barn.
As he entered the door a handful of empty shells fell on his hat and dropped to the floor. He shook his head and remarked, “That mus’ be that fool Hopalong.”
“Yore shore right. How’s business?” inquired the festive Cassidy.
“Purty fair. Billy’s got one. How many’s gone?”
“Buck’s got three, I got two and Skinny’s got one. That’s six, an’ Billy is seven. They’s five more,” he replied.
“How’d yu know?” queried Johnny as he filled his flask at the horse trough.
“Because they’s twelve cayuses behind th’ hotel. That’s why.”
“They might git away on ‘em,” suggested the practical Johnny.
“Can’t. They’s all cashed in.”
“Yu said that they’s five left,” ejaculated the puzzled water carrier.
“Yah; yore a smart cuss, ain’t yu?”
Johnny grinned and then said, “Got any smokin’?” Hopalong looked grieved. “I ain’t no store. Why don’t yu git generous and buy some?”
He partially filled Johnny’s hand, and as he put the sadly depleted bag away he inquired, “Got any papers?”
“Nope.”
“Got any matches?” he asked cynically.
“Nope.”
“Kin yu smoke ‘em?” he yelled, indignantly.
“Shore nuff,” placidly replied the unruffled Johnny. “Billy wants some .45s.”
Hopalong gasped. “Don’t he want my gun, too?”
“Nope. Got a better one. Hurry up, he’ll git mad.” Hopalong was a very methodical person. He was the only one of his crowd to carry a second cartridge strap. It hung over his right shoulder and rested on his left hip. His waist belt held thirty cartridges for the revolvers. He extracted twenty from that part of the shoulder strap hardest to get at, the back, by simply pulling it over his shoulder and plucking out the bullets as they came into reach.
“That’s all yu kin have. I’m Buck’s ammernition jackass,” he explained. “Bet yu ten we gits ‘em afore dark”—he was hedging.
“Any fool knows that. I’ll take yu if yu bets th’ other way,” responded Johnny, grinning. He knew Hopalong’s weak spot.
“Yore on,” promptly responded Hopalong, who would bet on anything.
“Well, so long,” said Johnny as he crawled away.
“Hey, yu, Johnny!” called out Hopalong, “don’t yu go an’ tell anybody I got any pills left. I ain’t no ars’nal.”
Johnny replied by elevating one foot and waving it. Then he disappeared.
Behind the store, the most precarious position among the besiegers, Red Connors and Lanky Smith were ensconced and commanded a view of the entire length of the barroom. They could see the dark mass they knew to be the rear door and derived a great amount of amusement from the spots of light which were appearing in it.
They watched the “C” (reversed to them) appear and be completed. When the wobbly “H” grew to completion they laughed heartily. Then the hardwood bar had been dragged across the field of vision and up to the front windows, and they could only see the indiscriminate holes which appeared in the upper panels at frequent intervals.
Every time they fired they had to expose a part of themselves to a return shot, with the result that Lanky’s forearm was seared its entire length. Red had been more fortunate and only had a bruised ear.
They laboriously rolled several large rocks out in the open, pushing them beyond the shelter of the store with their rifles. When they had crawled behind them they each had another wound. From their new position they could see Hopalong sitting in his window. He promptly waved his sombrero and grinned.
They were the most experienced fighters of all except Buck, and were saving their shots. When they did shoot they always had some portion of a man’s body to aim at, and the damage they inflicted was considerable. They said nothing, being older than the rest and more taciturn, and they were not reckless. Although Hopalong’s antics made them laugh, they grumbled at his recklessness and were not tempted to emulate him. It was noticeable, too, that they shoved their rifles out simultaneously and, although both were aiming, only one fired. Lanky’s gun cracked so close to the enemy’s that the whirr of the bullet over Red’s head was merged in the crack of his partner’s reply.
When Hopalong saw the rocks roll out from behind the store he grew very curious. Then he saw a flash, followed instantly by another from the second rifle. He saw several of these follow shots and could sit in silence no longer. He waved his hat to attract attention and then shouted, “How many?” A shot was sent straight up in the air and he notified Buck that there were only four left.
The fire of these four grew less rapid—they were saving their ammunition. A pot shot at Hopalong sent that gentleman’s rifle hurtling to the ground. Another tore through his hat, removing a neat amount of skin and hair and giving him a lifelong part. He fell back inside and proceeded to shoot fast and straight with his revolvers, his head burning as though on fire. When he had vented the dangerous pressure of his anger he went below and tried to fish the rifle in with a long stick. It was obdurate, so he sent three more shots into the door, and, receiving no reply, ran out around the corner of his shelter and grasped the weapon. When half way back he sank to the ground. Before another shot could be fired at him with any judgment a ripping, spitting rifle was being frantically worked from the barn. The bullets tore the door into seams and gaps; the lowest panel, the one having the “H” in it, fell inward in chunks. Johnny had returned for another smoke.
Hopalong, still grasping the rifle, rolled rapidly around the corner of the barn. He endeavored to stand, but could not. Johnny, hearing rapid and fluent swearing, came out.
“Where’d they git yu?” he asked.
“In th’ off leg. Hurts like blazes. Did yu git him?”
“Nope. I jest come fer another cig; got any left?”
“Up above. Yore gall is shore apallin’. Help me in, yu two-laigged jackass.”
“Shore. We’ll shore pay our ‘tentions to that door. She’ll go purty soon—she’s as full of holes as th’ Bad Lan’s,” replied Johnny. “Git aholt an’ hop along, Hopalong.”
He helped the swearing Hopalong inside, and then the lead they pumped into the wrecked door was scandalous. Another panel fell in and Hopalong’s “C” was destroyed. A wide crack appeared in the one above it and grew rapidly. Its mate began to gape and finally both were driven in. The increase in the light caused by these openings allowed Red and Lanky to secure better aim and soon the fire of the defenders died out.
Johnny dropped his rifle and, drawing his six-shooter, ran out and dashed for the dilapidated door, while Hopalong covered that opening with a fusilade.
As Johnny’s shoulder sent the framework flying inward he narrowly missed sudden death. As it was he staggered to the side, out of range, and dropped full length to the ground, flat on his face. Hopalong’s rifle cracked incessantly, but to no avail. The man who had fired the shot was dead. Buck got him immediately after he had shot