but he won't keep it for long, damn him!" he remarked.

"Quit cussing!" tersely ordered Hopalong. "An' for God's sake, throw out
that damned cigarette! Ain't you got no manners?"

Red listened intently and then grinned. "Hear that? They're playing
dominoes in there--come on!"

"Aw, you chump! 'Dominee' means 'mother' in Latin, which is what they
speaks."

"How do you know?"

"Hanged if I can tell--I've heard it somewhere, that's all."

"Well, I don't care what it means. This is a frame-up so that coyote
can get away. I'll bet they gave him a cayuse an' started him off
while we've been losing time in here. I'm going inside an' ask some
questions."

Before he could put his plan into execution, Hopalong nudged him and he
turned to see his friend staring at one of the doors. There had been no
sound, but he would swear that a monk stood gravely regarding them,
and he rubbed his eyes. He stepped back suspiciously and then started
forward again.

"Look here, stranger," he remarked, with quiet emphasis, "we're after
that cow-lifter, an' we mean to get him. Savvy?"

The monk did not appear to hear him, so he tried another tack. "_Habla
Espanola?_" he asked, experimentally.

"You have ridden far?" replied the monk in perfect English.

"All the way from the Bend," Red replied, relieved. "We're after Jerry
Brown. He tried to kill Johnny, an' near made good. An' I reckon we've
treed him, judging from the tracks."

"And if you capture him?"

"He won't have no more use for no side pocket shooting."

"I see; you will kill him."

"Shore's it's wet outside."

"I'm afraid you are doomed to disappointment."

"Ya-as?" asked Red with a rising inflection.

"You will not want him now," replied the monk.

Red laughed sarcastically and Hopalong smiled.

"There ain't a-going to be no argument about it. Trot him out," ordered
Red, grimly.

The monk turned to Hopalong. "Do you, too, want him?"

Hopalong nodded.

"My friends, he is safe from your punishment."

Red wheeled instantly and ran outside, returning in a few moments,
smiling triumphantly. "There are tracks coming in, but there ain't none
going away. He's here. If you don't lead us to him we'll shore have to
rummage around an' poke him out for ourselves: which is it?"

"You are right--he is here, and he is not here."

"We're waiting," Red replied, grinning.

"When I tell you that you will not want him, do you still insist on
seeing him?"

"We'll see him, an' we'll want him, too."

As the rain poured down again the sound of approaching horses was heard,
and Hopalong ran to the door in time to see Buck Peters swing off his
mount and step forward to enter the building. Hopalong stopped him and
briefly outlined the situation, begging him to keep the men outside. The
monk met his return with a grateful smile and, stepping forward, opened
the chapel door, saying, "Follow me."

The unpretentious chapel was small and nearly dark, for the usual
dimness was increased by the lowering clouds outside. The deep, narrow
window openings, fitted with stained glass, ran almost to the rough-hewn
rafters supporting the steep-pitched roof, upon which the heavy rain
beat again with a sound like that of distant drums. Gusts of rain
and the water from the roof beat against the south windows, while the
wailing wind played its mournful cadences about the eaves, and the
stanch timbers added their creaking notes to swell the dirge-like
chorus.

At the farther end of the room two figures knelt and moved before the
white altar, the soft light of flickering candles playing fitfully upon
them and glinting from the altar ornaments, while before a rough coffin,
which rested upon two pedestals, stood a third, whose rich, sonorous
Latin filled the chapel with impressive sadness. "Give eternal rest
to them, O Lord,"--the words seeming to become a part of the room. The
ineffably sad, haunting melody of the mass whispered back from the room
between the assaults of the enraged wind, while from the altar came the
responses in a low, Gregorian chant, and through it all the clinking of
the censer chains added intermittent notes. Aloft streamed the vapor
of the incense, wavering with the air currents, now lost in the deep
twilight of the sanctuary, and now faintly revealed by the glow of the
candles, perfuming the air with its aromatic odor.

As the last deep-toned words died away the celebrant moved slowly around
the coffin, swinging the censer over it and then, sprinkling the body
and making the sign of the cross above its head, solemnly withdrew.

From the shadows along the side walls other figures silently emerged and
grouped around the coffin. Raising it they turned it slowly around and
carried it down the dim aisle in measured tread, moving silently as
ghosts.

"He is with God, Who will punish according to his sins," said a low
voice, and Hopalong started, for he had forgotten the presence of the
guide. "God be with you, and may you die as he died--repentant and in
peace."

Buck chafed impatiently before the chapel door leading to a small,
well-kept graveyard, wondering what it was that kept quiet for so long
a time his two most assertive men, when he had momentarily expected to
hear more or less turmoil and confusion.

_C-r-e-a-k!_ He glanced up, gun in hand and raised as the door swung
slowly open. His hand dropped suddenly and he took a short step forward;
six black-robed figures shouldering a long box stepped slowly past
him, and his nostrils were assailed by the pungent odor of the incense.
Behind them came his fighting punchers, humble, awed, reverent, their
sombreros in their hands, and their heads bowed.

"What in blazes!" exclaimed Buck, wonder and surprise struggling for the
mastery as the others cantered up.

"He's cashed," Red replied, putting on his sombrero and nodding toward
the procession.

Buck turned like a flash and spoke sharply: "Skinny! Lanky! Follow that
glory-outfit, an' see what's in that box!"

Billy Williams grinned at Red. "Yo're shore pious, Red."

"Shut up!" snapped Red, anger glinting in his eyes, and Billy subsided.

Lanky and Skinny soon returned from accompanying the procession.

"I had to look twice to be shore it was him. His face was plumb happy,
like a baby. But he's gone, all right," Lanky reported.

"Deader'n hell," remarked Skinny, looking around curiously. "This here
is some shack, ain't it?" he finished.

"All right--he knowed how he'd finish when he began. Now for that dear
Mr. Harlan," Buck replied, vaulting into the saddle. He turned and
looked at Hopalong, and his wonder grew. "Hey, _you_! Yes, _you_! Come
out of that an' put on yore lid! Straddle leather--we can't stay here
all night."

Hopalong started, looked at his sombrero and silently obeyed. As they
rode down the trail and around a corner he turned in his saddle and
looked back; and then rode on, buried in thought.

Billy, grinning, turned and playfully punched him in the ribs. "Getting
glory, Hoppy?"

Hopalong raised his head and looked him steadily in the eyes; and Billy,
losing his curiosity and the grin at the same instant, looked ahead,
whistling softly.

CHAPTER XVII

EDWARDS' ULTIMATUM

Edwards slid off the counter in Jackson's store and glowered at the
pelting rain outside, perturbed and grouchy. The wounded man in the
corner stirred and looked at him without interest and forthwith renewed
his profane monologue, while the proprietor, finishing his task, leaned
back against the shelves and swore softly. It was a lovely atmosphere.

"Seems to me they've been gone a long time," grumbled the wounded man.
"Reckon he led 'em a long chase--had six hours' start, the toad." He
paused and then as an afterthought said with conviction: "But they'll
get him--they allus do when they make up their minds to it."

Edwards nodded moodily and Jackson replied with a monosyllable.

"Wish I could 'a' gone with 'em," Johnny growled. "I like to square my
own accounts. It's allus that way. I get plugged an' my friends clean
the slate. There was that time Bye-an'-Bye went an' ambushed me--ah,
the devil! But I tell you one thing: when I get well I'm going down to
Harlan's an' clean house proper."

"Yo're in hard luck again: that'll be done as soon as yore friends get
back," Jackson replied, carefully selecting a dried apricot from a
box on the counter and glancing at the marshal to see how he took the
remark.

"That'll be done before then," Edwards said crisply, with the air of
a man who has just settled a doubt. "They won't be back much before
to-morrow if he headed for the country I think he did. I'm going down
to the Oasis an' tell that gang to clear out of this town. They've been
here too long now. I never had 'em dead to rights before, but I've got
it on 'em this time. I'd 'a' sent 'em packing yesterday only I sort
of hated to take a man's business away from him an' make him lose his
belongings. But I've wrastled it all out an' they've got to go." He
buttoned his coat about him and pulled his sombrero more firmly on
his head, starting for the door. "I'll be back soon," he said over his
shoulder as he grasped the handle.

"You better wait till you get help--there's too many down there for one
man to watch an' handle," Jackson hastily remarked. "Here, I'll go with
you," he offered, looking for his hat.

Edwards laughed shortly. "You stay here. I do my own work by myself when
I can--that's what I'm here for, an' I can do this, all right. If I took
any help they'd reckon I was scared," and the door slammed shut behind
him.

"He's got sand a plenty," Jackson remarked. "He'd try to push back a
stampede by main strength if he reckoned it was his duty. It's his good
luck that he wasn't killed long ago--_I'd_ 'a' been."

"They're a bunch of cowards," replied Johnny. "As long as you ain't
afraid of 'em, none of 'em wants to start anything. Bunch of sheep!" he
snorted. "Didn't Jerry shoot me through his pocket?"

"Yes; an' yo're another lucky dog," Jackson responded, having in mind
that at first Johnny had been thought to be desperately wounded. "Why,
yore friends have got the worst of this game; they're worse off than you
are--out all day an' night in this cussed storm."

While they talked Edwards made his way through the cold downpour to
Harlan's saloon, alone and unafraid, and greatly pleased by the order
he would give. At last he had proof enough to work on, to satisfy his
conscience, for the inevitable had come as the culmination of continued
and clever defiance of law and order.

He deliberately approached the front door of the Oasis and, opening it,
stepped inside, his hands resting on his guns--he had packed two Colts
for the last twenty-four hours. His appearance caused a ripple of
excitement to run around the room. After what had taken place, a
visit from him could mean only one thing--trouble. And it was entirely
possible that he had others within call to help him out if necessary.

Harlan knew that he would be the one held responsible and he ceased
wiping a glass and held the cloth suspended in one hand and the glass in
the other. "Well?" he snapped, angrily, his eyes smouldering with fixed
hatred.

"Mebby you think it's well, but it's going to be a blamed sight better
before sundown to-morrow night," evenly replied the marshal. "I just
dropped in sort of free-like to tell you to pack up an' get out of town
before dark--load yore wagon an' vamoose; an' take yore friends with
you, too. If you don't--" he did not finish in words, for his tightening
lips made them unnecessary.

"_What!_" yelled Harlan, red with anger. He placed his hands on the bar
and leaned over it as if to give emphasis to his words. "_Me_ pack up
an' git! _Me_ leave this shack! Who's going to pay me for it, hey? _Me_
leave town! You drop out again an' go back to Kansas where you come
from--they're easier back there!"

"Well, so far I ain't found nothing very craggy 'round here," retorted
Edwards, closely watching the muttering crowd by the bar. "Takes more
than a loud voice an' a pack of sneaking coyotes to send me looking
for something easier. An' let me tell you this: _You_ stay away from
Kansas--they hangs people like you back there. That's whatever. You pack
up an' git out of this town or I'll start a burying plot with you on
yore own land."

The low, angry buzz of Harlan's friends and their savage, scowling faces
would have deterred a less determined man; but Edwards knew they were
afraid of him, and the men on whom he could call to back him up. And he
knew that there must always be a start, there must be one man to show
the way; and each of the men he faced was waiting for some one else to
lead.

"You all slip over the horizon before dark to-night, an' it's dark early
these days," he continued. "_Don't get restless with yore hands!_" he
snapped ominously at the crowd. "I means what I say--you shake the mud
from this town off yore boots before dark--before that Bar-20 outfit
gets back," he finished meaningly.

Questions, imprecations, and threats filled the room, and the crowd
began to spread out slowly. His guns came out like a flash and he
laughed with the elation that comes with impending battle. "The first
man to start it'll drop," he said evenly. "Who's going to be the
martyr?"

"I _won't_ leave town!" shouted Harlan. "I'll stay here if I'm killed
for it!"

"I admire yore loyalty to principle, but you've got damned little
sense," retorted the marshal. "You ain't no practical man. _Keep yore
hands where they are!_"--his vibrant voice turned the shifting crowd to
stone-like rigidity and he backed slowly toward the door, the poor
light gleaming dully from the polished blue steel of his Colts.
Rugged, lion-like, charged to the finger tips with reckless courage and
dare-devil self-confidence, his personality overflowed and dominated the
room, almost hypnotic in its effect. He was but one against many, but
he was the master, and they knew it; they had known it long enough
to accept it without question, and the training now stood him in good
stead.

For a moment he stood in the open doorway, keenly scrutinizing them for
signs of danger, his unwavering guns charged with certain death and
his strong face made stronger by the shadows in its hollows. "Before
dark!"--and he was gone.

He left behind him deep silence, which endured for several moments.

"By the Lord, I _won't_!" cried Harlan, still staring at the door.

The spell was broken and a babel of voices filled the room, threats
mingling with excuses, hot, vibrant, profane. These men were not cowards
all the way through, but only when face to face with the master. They
had flourished in a way by their wits alone on the same range with the
outfits of the C-80 and the Double-Arrow, for individually they were
"bad," and collectively they made a force of no mean strength. Edwards
had landed among them like a thunderbolt and had proved his prowess, and
they still held him in awesome respect. His reckless audacity and grim
singleness of purpose had saved him on more than one occasion, for
had he wavered once he would have been shot down without mercy. But
gradually his enforcement of hampering laws became more and more
intolerable, and their subordinated spirits were nearly on the point
of revolt. When he faced them they resumed their former positions in
relation to him--but once out of his sight they plotted to destroy
him. Here was the crisis: it was now or never. They could not evade his
ultimatum--it was obey or fight.

Submission was not to be thought of, for to flee would be to lose caste,
and the story of such an act would follow them wherever they went, and
brand them as cowards. Here they had lived, and here they would stay if
possible, and to this end they discussed ways and means.

"Harlan's right!" emphatically announced Laramie Joe. "We can't pull out
and have this foller us."

"We should have started it with a rush when he was in here," remarked
Boston, regretfully.

Harlan stopped his pacing and faced them, shoving out a bottle of
whiskey as an aid to his logic.

"That chance is past, an' I don't know but what it is a good thing," he
began. "He was primed an' looking fer trouble, an' he'd shore got a few
of us afore he went under. What we want is strategy--that's the game.
You fellers have got as much brains as him, an' if we thrash this thing
out we can find a way to call his play--an' get him! No use of any of us
getting plugged 'less we have to. But whatever we do we've got to start
it right quick an' have it over before that Bar-20 gang comes back.
Harper, you an' Quinn go scouting--an' don't take no guns with you,
neither. Act like you was hitting the long trail out, an' work back here
on a circle. See how many of his friends are in town. While you are gone
the rest of us will hold a pow-wow an' take the kinks out of this game.
Chase along, an' don't waste no time."

"Good!" cried Slivers Lowe emphatically. "There's blamed few fellers
in town now that have any use for him, for most of them are off on the
ranges. Bet we won't have more than six to fight, an' there's that many
of us here."

The scouts departed at once and the remaining four drew close in
consultation.

"One more drink around and then no more till this trouble is over,"
Harlan said, passing the bottle. The drinks, in view of the coming
drought and the thirsty work ahead, were long and deep, and new courage
and vindictiveness crept through their veins.

"Now here's the way it looks to me," Harlan continued, placing the
bottle, untasted by himself, on the floor behind him. "We've got to work
a surprise an' take Edwards an' his friends off their guard. That'll be
easy if we're careful, because they think we ain't looking for fight.
When we get them out of the way we can take Jackson's store an' use one
of the other shacks and wait for the Bar-20 to ride in. They'll canter
right in, like they allus do, an' when they get close enough we'll open
the game with a volley an' make every shot tell. 'T won't last long,
'cause every one of us will have his man named before they get here.
Then the few straddlers in town, seeing how easy we've gone an' handled
it'll join us. We've got four men to come in yet, an' by the time the
C-80 an' Double-Arrow hears about it we'll be fixed to drive 'em back
home. We ought to be over a dozen strong by dark."

"That sounds good, all right," remarked Slivers, thoughtfully, "but can
we do it that easy?"

"Course we can! We ain't fools, an' we all can shoot as well as them,"
snapped Laramie Joe, the most courageous of the lot. Laramie had taken
only one drink, and that a small one, for he was wise enough to realize
that he needed his wits as keen as he could have them.

"We can do it easy, if Edwards goes under first," hastily replied
Harlan. "An' me an' Laramie will see to that part of it. If we don't get
him, you all can hit the trail an' we won't be sore about it. That is,
unless you are made of the stuff that stands up an' fights 'stead of
running away. I reckon I ain't none mistaken in any of you. You'll all
be there when things get hot."

"You can bet the shack _I_ won't do no trail-hitting," growled Boston,
glancing at Slivers, who squirmed a little under the hint.

"Well, I'm glued to the crowd; you can't lose me, fellers," Slivers
remarked, re-crossing his legs uneasily. "Are we going to begin it from
here?"

"We ought to spread out cautions and surround Jackson's, or wherever
Edwards is," Laramie Joe suggested. "That's my--"

"Yo're right! Now you've hit it plumb on the head!" interrupted Harlan,
slapping Laramie heartily across the back. "What did I tell you about
our brains?" he cried, enthusiastically. He had been on the point of
suggesting that plan of operations when Laramie took the words out
of his mouth. "I'd never thought of that, Laramie," he lied, his face
beaming. "Why, we've got 'em licked to a finish right now!"

"This _is_ a hummer of a game," laughed Slivers. "But how about the
Bar-20 crowd?"

"I've told you that already," replied the proprietor.

"You bet it's a hummer," cried Boston, reaching for the whiskey bottle
under cover of the excitement and enthusiasm.

Harlan pushed it away with his foot and raised his clenched fist. "Do
you wonder I didn't think of that plan?" he demanded. "Ain't I been too
mad to think at all? Hain't I seen my friends treated like dogs, an'
made to swaller insults when I couldn't raise my hand to stop it? Didn't
I see Jerry Brown chased out of my place like a wild beast? If we are
what we've been called, then we'll sneak out of town with our tails
atween our laigs; but if we're men we'll stay right here an' cram the
insults down the throats of them that made 'em! If we're _men_ let's
prove it an' make them liars swaller our lead."

"My sentiments an' allus was!" roared Slivers, slapping Harlan's
shoulder.

"We're men, all right, an' we'll show 'em it, too!"

At that instant the door opened and four guns covered it before it had
swung a foot.

"Put 'em down--it's Quinn!" exclaimed the man in the doorway, flinching
a bit. "All right, Jed," he called over his shoulder to the man who
crowded him. After Quinn came Big Jed and Harper brought up the rear.
They had no more than shaken the water from their sombreros when the
back door let in Charley Rich and his two companions, Frank and Tom
Nolan. While greetings were being exchanged and the existing conditions
explained to the newcomers, Harper and Quinn led Harlan to one side and
reported, the proprietor smiling and nodding his head wisely. And while
he listened, Slivers surreptitiously corralled the whiskey bottle and
when the last man finished with it there was nothing in it but air.

"Well, boys," exclaimed Harlan, "things are our way. Quinn, here, met
Joe Barr, of the C-80, who said Converse an' four other fellers, all
friends of Edwards, stopped at the ranch an' won't be back home till the
storm stops. Harper saw Fred Neil going back to his ranch, so all we've
got to figger on is the marshal, Barr, an' Jackson, an' they're all in
Jackson's store. Lacey might cut in, since he'd sell more liquor if I
went under, but he can't do very much if he does take a hand. Now
we'll get right at it." The whole thing was gone over thoroughly and in
detail, positions assigned and a signal agreed upon. Seeing that weapons
were in good condition after their long storage in the cellar, and that
cartridge belts were full, the ten men left the room one at a time or
in pairs, Harlan and Laramie Joe being the last. And both Harlan and
Laramie delayed long enough to take the precaution of placing horses
where they would be handy in case of need.

CHAPTER XVIII

HARLAN STRIKES

Joe Barr laughingly replied to Johnny Nelson's growled remarks about the
condition of things in general and tried to soothe him, but Johnny was
unsoothable.

"An' I've been telling him right along that he's got the best of it,"
complained Jackson in a weary voice. "Got a measly hole through his
shoulder--good Lord! if it had gone a little lower!" he finished with a
show of exasperation.

"An' ain't I been telling you all along that it ain't the measly hole
in my shoulder that's got me on the prod?" retorted Johnny, with more
earnestness than politeness. "But why couldn't I go with my friends
after Jerry an' get shot later if I had to get it at all? Look what I'm
missing, roped an' throwed in this cussed ten-by-ten shack while they're
having a little excitement."

"Yo're missing some blamed nasty weather, Kid," replied the marshal.
"You ain't got no kick coming at all. Why, I got soaked clean through
just going down to the Oasis."

"Well, I'm kicking, just the same," snapped Johnny. "An' furthermore, I
don't see nobody big enough to stop me, neither--did you all get that?"

The rear door opened and Fred Neal looked in. "Hey, Barr; come out an'
gimme a hand in the corral. Busted my cinch all to pieces half a mile
out--an' how the devil it ever busted like that is--" the door slammed
shut and softened his monologue.

"Would you listen to that!" snorted Barr in an injured tone. "Didn't I
go an' tell him near a month ago that his cussed cinch wouldn't hold no
better'n a piece of wet paper?" His complaint added materially to the
atmosphere of sullen discontent pervading the room. "An' now I gotter
go out in this rain an'--" the slam of the door surpassed anything yet
attempted in that line of endeavor. Jackson grabbed a can of corn as it
jarred off the shelf behind him and directed a pleasing phrase after the
peevish Barr.

"Say, won't somebody please smile?" gravely asked Edwards. "I never saw
such a happy, cheerful bunch before."

"I might smile if I wasn't so blamed hungry," retorted Johnny. "Doesn't
anybody ever eat in this town?" he asked in great sarcasm. "Mebby a good
feed won't do me no good, but I'm going to fill myself regardless. An'
after that, if the grub don't shock me to death, I'm shore going to trim
somebody at Ol' Sledge--for two bits a hand."

"If I could play you enough hands at that price I could sell out an'
live high without working," grinned Jackson, preparing to give the
reckless invalid all he could eat. "That's purty high, Kid; but I just
feel real devilish, an' I'm coming in."

"An' I'll go over to my shack, get some money, an' bust the pair of
you," laughed Edwards, again buttoning his coat and going towards
the door. "Holy Cats! A log must 'a' got jammed in the sluice-gate
up there," he muttered, scowling at the black sky. "It's coming down
harder'n ever, but here goes," and he stepped quickly into the storm.

Jackson paused with a frying pan in his hands and looked through
the window after the departing marshal, and saw him stagger, stumble
forward, then jerk out his guns and begin firing. Hard firing now burst
out in front and Jackson, cursing angrily, dropped the pan and reached
for his rifle--to drop it also and sink down, struck by the bullet which
drilled through the window. Johnny let out a yell of rage, grabbed his
Colt, and ran to the door in time to see Edwards slowly raise up on one
elbow, fire his last shot, and fall back riddled by bullets.

Jackson crawled to his rifle and then to the side window, where he
propped his back against a box and prepared to do his best. "It was
shore a surprise," he swore. "An' they went an' got Edwards before he
could do anything."

"They did not!" retorted Johnny. "He--" the glass in the door vibrated
sharply and the speaker, stepping to one side out of sight, with a new
and superficial wound, opened fire on the building down the street.
Two men were lying on the ground across the street--these Edwards
had shot--and another was trying to drag himself to the shelter of a
building. A man sprinted from an old corral close by in a brave and
foolhardy attempt to save his friend, and Johnny swore because he had to
fire twice at the same mark.

The rear door crashed open and shut as Barr, closely followed by Neal,
ran in. They had been caught in the corral but, thanks to Harlan's
whiskey, had managed to hold their own until they had a chance to make a
rush for the store.

"Where's the marshal?" cried Barr, catching sight of Jackson. "Are you
plugged bad?" he asked, anxiously.

"Well, I ain't plugged a whole lot _good_!" snapped Jackson. "An'
Edwards is dead. They shot him down without warning. We're going to get
ours, too--these walls don't stop them bullets. How many out there?"

"Must be a dozen," hastily replied Neal, who had not remained idle. Both
he and Barr were working like mad men moving boxes and barrels against
the walls to make a breastwork capable of stopping the bullets which
came through the boards.

"I reckon--I'm bleeding inside," Jackson muttered, wearily and without
hope. "Wonder how--long we--can hold out?"

"We'll hold out till we're good an' dead!" replied Johnny, hotly. "They
ain't got us yet an' they'll pay for it before they do. If we can hold
'em off till Buck an' the rest come back we'll have the pleasure of
seeing 'em buried."

"Oh, I'll get you next time!" assured Barr to an enemy, slipping a fresh
cartridge into the Sharps and peering intently at a slight rise on the
muddy plain. "You shoot like yo're drunk," he mumbled.

"But what is it all about, anyhow?" asked Neal, finding time for an
immaterial question. "Who are they?--can't see nothing but blurs through
this rain!"

"Yes; what's the game?" asked Barr, mildly surprised that he had not
thought of it before.

"It's that Oasis gang," Johnny responded. He fired, and growled with
disappointment. "Harlan's at the head of it," he added.

"Edwards--told Harlan to--get out of--town," Jackson began.

"An' to take his gang with him," Johnny interposed quickly to save
Jackson from the strain. "They had till dark. Guess the rest. Oh, you
_coyote_!" he shouted, staggering back. There was a report farther down
the barricade and Neal called out, "I got him, Nelson; he's done. How
are you?"

"Mad! Mad!" yelled Johnny, touching his twice-wounded shoulder and
dancing with rage and pain. "Right in the same place! Oh, wait! _Wait!_
Hey, gimme a rifle--I can't do nothing with a Colt at this range; my
name ain't Hopalong," and he went slamming around the room in hot search
of what he wanted.

"There ain't--no more--Johnny," feebly called Jackson, raising slightly
to ease himself. "You can have--my gun purty--soon. I won't be able--to
use it--much longer."

"Why don't Buck an' Hoppy hurry up!" snarled Johnny.

"Be a long time--mebby," mumbled Jackson, his trembling hands trying
to steady the rifle. "They're all--around us. _Ah_, missed!" he intoned
hoarsely, trying to pump the lever with unobeying hands. "I can't
last--much--" the words ceased abruptly and the clatter of the rifle on
the floor told the story.

Johnny stumbled over to him and dragged him aside, covering the upturned
face with his own sombrero, and picked up the rifle. Rolling a barrel of
flour against the wall below the window he fixed himself as comfortably
as possible and threw a shell into the chamber.

"Now, you coyotes; you pay _me_ for _that_!" he gritted, resting the gun
on the window sill and holding it so he could work it with one hand and
shoulder.

"Wonder how them pups ever pumped up enough courage to cut loose like
this?" queried Neal from behind his flour barrel.

"Whiskey," hazarded Barr. "Harlan must 'a' got 'em drunk. An' that's
three times I've missed that snake. Wish it would stop raining so I
could see better."

"Why don't you wish they'd all drop dead? Wish good when you wish
at all: got as much chance of having it come true," responded Neal,
sarcastically. He smothered a curse and looked curiously at his left
arm, and from it to the new, yellow-splintered hole in the wall, which
was already turning dark from the water soaking into it. "Hey, Joe; we
need some more boxes!" he exclaimed, again looking at his arm.

"Yes," came Johnny's voice. "Three of 'em--five of 'em, an' about six
feet long an' a foot deep. But if my outfit gets here in time we'll want
more'n a dozen."

"Say! Lacey's firing now!" suddenly cried Barr. "He's shooting out
of his windy. That'll stop 'em from rushing us! Good boy, Lacey!" he
shouted, but Lacey did not hear him in the uproar.

"An' he's worse off than we are, being alone," commented Neal. "Hey! One
of us better make a break for help--my ranch's the nearest. What d'ye
say?"

"It's suicide; they'll get you before you get ten feet," Barr replied
with conviction.

"No; they won't--the corral hides the back door, an' all the firing
is on this side. I can sneak along the back wall an' by keeping the
buildings atween me an' them, get a long ways off before they know
anything about it. Then it's a dash--an' they can't catch me. But can
you fellers hold out if I do?"

"Two can hold out as good as three--go ahead," Johnny replied. "Leave me
some of yore Colt cartridges, though. You can't use 'em all before you
get home."

"Don't stop fer that; there's a shelfful of all kinds behind the
counter," Barr interposed.

"Well, so long an' good luck," and the rear door closed, and softly this
time.

"Two hours is some wait under the present circumstances," Barr muttered,
shifting his position behind his barricade. "He can't do it in less,
nohow."

Johnny ducked and looked foolish. "Missed me by a foot," he explained.
"He can't do it in two--not there an' back," he replied. "The trail is
mud over the fetlocks. Give him three at the least."

"They ain't shooting as much as they was before."

"Waiting till they gets sober, I reckon," Johnny replied.

"If we don't hear no ruction in a few minutes we'll know he got away all
right," Barr soliloquized. "An' he's got a fine cayuse for mud, too."

"Hey, why can't you do the same thing if he makes it?" Johnny suddenly
asked. "I can hold her alone, all right."

"Yo're a cheerful liar, you are," laughed Barr. "But can _you_ ride?"

"Reckon so, but I ain't a-going to."

"Why, we _both_ can go--it's a cinch!" Barr cried. "Come on!"

"Lord!--an' I never even thought of that! Reckon I was too mad," Johnny
replied. "But I sort of hates to leave Jackson an' Edwards," he added,
sullenly.

"But they're gone! You can't do them no good by staying."

"Yes; I know. An' how about Lacey chipping in on our fight?" demanded
Johnny. "I ain't a-going to leave him to take it all. You go, Barr; it
wasn't yore fight, nohow. You didn't even know what you was fighting
for!"

"Huh! When anybody shoots at me it's my fight, all right," replied Barr,
seating himself on the floor behind the breastwork. "I forgot all about
Lacey," he apologized. At that instant a tomato can went _spang!_ and
fell off the shelf. "An' it's too late, anyhow; they ain't a-going to
let nobody else get away on that side."

"An' they're tuning up again, too," Johnny replied, preparing for
trouble. "Look out for a rush, Barr."

CHAPTER XIX

THE BAR-20 RETURNS.

Hopalong Cassidy stopped swearing at the weather and looked up and along
the trail in front of him, seeing a hard-riding man approach. He
turned his head and spoke to Buck Peters, who rode close behind him.
"Somebody's shore in a hurry--why, it's Fred Neal."

It was. Mr. Neal was making his arms move and was also shouting
something at the top of his voice. The noise of the rain and of the
horses' hoofs splashing in the mud and water at first made his words
unintelligible, but it was not long before Hopalong heard something
which made him sit up even straighter. In a moment Neal was near enough
to be heard distinctly and the outfit shook itself out of its weariness
and physical misery and followed its leader at reckless speed. As they
rode, bunched close together, Neal briefly and graphically outlined the
relative positions of the combatants, and while Buck's more cautious
mind was debating the best way to proceed against the enemy, Hopalong
cried out the plan to be followed. There would be no strategy--Johnny,
wounded and desperate, was fighting for his life. The simplest way was
the best--a dash regardless of consequences to those making it, for time
was a big factor to the two men in Jackson's store.

"Ride right at 'em!" Hopalong cried. "I know that bunch. They'll be too
scared to shoot straight. Paralyze 'em! Three or four are gone now--an'
the whole crowd wasn't worth one of the men they went out to get. The
quicker it's over the better."

"Right you are," came from the rear.

"Ride up the arroyo as close as we can get, an' then over the edge an'
straight at 'em," Buck ordered. "Their shooting an' the rain will cover
what noise we make on the soft ground. An' boys, _no quarter_!"

"Reckon _not_!" gritted Red, savagely. "Not with Edwards an' Jackson
dead, an' the Kid fighting for his life!"

"They're still at it!" cried Lanky Smith, as the faint and intermittent
sound of firing was heard; the driving wind was blowing from the town,
and this, also, would deaden the noise of their approach.

"Thank the Lord! That means that there's somebody left to fight 'em,"
exclaimed Red. "Hope it's the Kid," he muttered.

"They can't rush the store till they get Lacey, an' they can't rush him
till they get the store," shouted Neal over his shoulder. "They'd be in
a cross fire if they tried either--an' that's what licks 'em."

"They'll be in a cross fire purty soon," promised Pete, grimly.

Hopalong and Red reached the edge of the arroyo first and plunged over
the bank into the yellow storm-water swirling along the bottom like a
miniature flood. After them came Buck, Neal, and the others, the water
shooting up in sheets as each successive horse plunged in. Out again
on the farther side they strung out into single file along the narrow
foot-hold between water and bank and raced towards the sharp bend some
hundreds of yards ahead, the point in the arroyo's course nearest the
town. The dripping horses scrambled up the slippery incline and then,
under the goading of spurs and quirts, leaped forward as fast as they
could go across the level, soggy plain.

A quarter of a mile ahead of them lay the scattered shacks of the town,
and as they drew nearer to it the riders could see the flashes of guns
and the smoke-fog lying close to the ground. Fire spat from Jackson's
store and a cloud of smoke still lingered around a window in Lacey's
saloon. Then a yell reached their ears, a yell of rage, consternation
and warning. Figures scurried to seek cover and the firing from
Jackson's and Lacey's grew more rapid.

A mounted man emerged from a corral and tore away, others following his
example, and the outfit separated to take up the chase individually.
Harlan, wounded hard, was trying to run to where he had left his horse,
and after him fled Slivers Lowe. Hopalong was gaining on them when he
saw Slivers raise his arm and fire deliberately into the back of the
proprietor of the Oasis, leap over the falling body, vault into the
saddle of Harlan's horse and gallop for safety. Hopalong's shots went
wide and the last view any one had of Slivers in that part of the
country was when he dropped into an arroyo to follow it for safety.
Laramie Joe fled before Red Connors and Red's rage was so great that it
spoiled his accuracy, and he had the sorrow of seeing the pursued grow
faint in the mist and fog. Pursuit was tried until the pursuers realized
that their mounts were too worn out to stand a show against the fresh
animals ridden by the survivors of the Oasis crowd.

Red circled and joined Hopalong. "Blasted coyotes," he growled. "Killed
Jackson an' Edwards, an' wanted the Kid! He's shore showed 'em what
fighting is, all right. But I wonder what got into 'em all at once to
give 'em nerve enough to start things?"

"Edwards paid his way, all right," replied Hopalong. "If I do as well
when my time comes I won't do no kicking."

"Yore time ain't coming that way," responded Red, grinning. "You'll die
a natural death in bed, unless you gets to cussing me."

"Shore there ain't no more, Buck?" Hopalong called.

"Yes. There was only five, I reckon, an' they was purty well shot up
when we took a hand. You know, Johnny was in it all the time," replied
the foreman, smiling. "This town's had the cleaning up it's needed for
some time," he added.

They were at Jackson's store now, and hurriedly dismounted and ran in
to see Johnny. They found him lying across some boxes, which brought him
almost to the level of a window sill. He was too weak to stand, while
near him in similar condition lay Barr, too weak from loss of blood to
do more than look his welcome.

"How are you, Kid?" cried Buck anxiously, bending over him, while others
looked to Barr's injuries.

"Tired, Buck, awful tired; an' all shot up," Johnny slowly replied.
"When I saw you fellers--streak past this windy--I sort of went
flat--something seemed to break inside me," he said, faintly and with an
effort, and the foreman ordered him not to talk. Deft fingers, schooled
by practice in rough and ready surgery, were busy over him and in half
an hour he lay on Jackson's cot, covered with bandages.

"Why, hullo, Lacey!" exclaimed Hopalong, leaping forward to shake hands
with the man Red and Billy had gone to help. "Purty well scratched up,
but lively yet, hey?"

"I'm able to hobble over here an' shake han's with these
scrappers--they're shore wonders," Lacey replied. "Fought like a whole
regiment! Hullo, Johnny!" and his hand-clasp told much.

"Yore cross fire did it, Lacey; that was the whole thing," Johnny
smiled. "Yo're all right!"

Red turned and looked out of the window toward the Oasis and then
glanced at Buck. "Reckon we better burn Harlan's place--it's all that's
left of that gang now," he suggested.

"Why, yes; I reckon so," replied the foreman. "That's as--"

"No, we won't!" Hopalong interposed quickly. "That stands till Johnny
sets it off. It's the Kid's celebration--he was shot in it."

Johnny smiled.

CHAPTER XX

BARB WIRE

After the flurry at Perry's Bend the Bar-20 settled down to the calm
routine work and sent several drive herds to their destination without
any unusual incidents. Buck thought that the last herd had been driven
when, late in the summer, he received an order that he made haste to
fill. The outfit was told to get busy and soon rounded up the necessary
number of three-year-olds. Then came the road branding, the final step
except inspection, and this was done not far from the ranch house, where
the facilities were best for speedy work.

Entirely recovered from all ill effects of his afternoon in Jackson's
store up in Perry's bend, Johnny Nelson waited with Red Connors on the
platform of the branding chute and growled petulantly at the sun, the
dust, but most of all at the choking, smarting odor of burned hair which
filled their throats and caused them to rub the backs of grimy hands
across their eyes. Chute-branding robbed them of the excitement, the
leaven of fun and frolic, which they always took from open or corral
branding--and the work of a day in the corral or open was condensed into
an hour or two by the chute. This was one cow wide, narrow at the bottom
and flared out as it went up, so the animal could not turn, and when
filled was, to use Johnny's graphic phrase, "like a chain of cows in a
ditch." Eight of the wondering and crowded animals, guided into the pen
by men who knew their work to the smallest detail and lost no time in
its performance, filed into the pen after those branded had filed out.
As the first to enter reached the farther end a stout bar dropped into
place, just missing the animal's nose; and as the last cow discovered
that it could go no farther and made up its mind to back out, it was
stopped by another bar, which fell behind it. The iron heaters tossed
a hot iron each to Red and Johnny and the eight were marked in short
order, making about two hundred and fifty they had branded in three
hours. This number compared very favorably with that of the second
chute where Lanky Smith and Frenchy McAlister waved cold irons and
sarcastically asked their iron men if the sun was supposed to provide
the heat; whereat the down-trodden heaters provided heat with great
generosity in their caustic retorts.

"Oh, Susanna, don't you cry for me," sang Billy Williams, one of the
feeders. "But why in Jericho don't you fellers get a move on you? You
ain't no good on the platform--you ought to be mixing biscuits for
Cookie. Frenchy and Lanky are the boys to turn 'em out," he offered,
gratis.

Red's weary air bespoke a vast and settled contempt for such inanities
and his iron descended against the side of the victim below him--he
would not deign to reply. Not so with Johnny, who could not refrain from
hot retort.

"Don't be a fool _all_ the time," snapped Johnny. "Mind yore own
business, you shorthorn. Big-mouthed old woman, that's what--" his tone
dropped and the words sank into vague mutterings which a strangling
cough cut short. "Blasted idiot," he whispered, tears coming into his
eyes at the effort. Burning hair is bad for throat and temper alike.

Red deftly knocked his companion's iron up and spoke sharply. "You mind
yourn better--that makes the third you've tried to brand twice. Why
don't you look what yo're doing? Hot iron! Hot iron! What're you fellers
doing?" he shouted down at the heaters. "This ain't no time to go
to sleep. How d'ye expect us to do any work when you ain't doing any
yoreselves!" Red's temper was also on the ragged edge.

"You've got one in yore other hand, you sheep!" snorted one of the iron
heaters with restless pugnacity. "Go tearing into us when you--" he
growled the rest and kicked viciously at the fire.

"Lovely bunch," grinned Billy who, followed by Pete Wilson, mounted the
platform to relieve the branders. "Chase yoreselves--me an' Pete are
shore going to show you cranky bugs how to do a hundred an hour. Ain't
we, Pete? An' look here, you," he remarked to the heaters, "don't you
fellers keep _us_ waiting for hot irons!"

"That's right! Make a fool out of yoreself first thing!" snapped one of
the pair on the ground.

"Billy, I never loved you as much as I do this minute," grinned Johnny
wearily. "Wish you'd 'a' come along to show us how to do it an hour
ago."

"I would, only--"

"Quit chinning an' get busy," remarked Red, climbing down. "The chute's
full; an' it's all yourn."

Billy caught the iron, gave it a preliminary flourish, and started to
work with a speed that would not endure for long. He branded five out of
the eight and jeered at his companion for being so slow.

"Have yore fun now, Billy," Pete replied with placid good nature.
"Before we're through with this job you'll be lucky if you can do two of
the string, if you keep up that pace."

"He'll be missing every other one," growled his heater with overflowing
malice. "That iron ain't cold, you Chinaman!"

"Too cold for me--don't miss none," chuckled Billy sweetly. "Fill the
chute! Fill the chute! Don't keep us waiting!" he cried to the guiders,
hopping around with feigned eagerness and impatience.

Hopalong Cassidy rode up and stopped as Red returned to take the place
of one of the iron heaters. "How they coming, Red?" he inquired.

"Fast. You can sic that inspector on 'em the first thing to-morrow
morning, if he gets here on time. Bet he's off som'ers getting full of
redeye. Who're going with you on this drive?"

"The inspector is all right--he's here now an' is going to spend the
night with us so as to be on hand the first thing to-morrow," replied
Hopalong, grinning at the hard-working pair on the platform. "Why, I
reckon I'll take you, Johnny, Lanky, Billy, Pete, an' Skinny, an'
we'll have two hoss-wranglers an' a cook, of course. We'll drive up
the right-hand trail through West Valley this time. It's longer, but
there'll be more water that way at this time of the year. Besides, I
don't want no more foot-sore cattle to nurse along. Even the West Valley
trail will be dry enough before we strike Bennett's Creek."

"Yes; we'll have to drive 'em purty hard till we reach the creek,"
replied Red, thoughtfully. "Say; we're going to have three thousand of
the finest three-year-old steers ever sent north out of these parts. An'
we ought to do it in a month an' deliver 'em fat an' frisky. We can feed
'em good for the last week."

"I just sent some of the boys out to drive in the cayuses," Hopalong
remarked, "an' when they get here you fellers match for choice an' pick
yore remuda. No use taking too few. About eight apiece'll do us nice. I
shore like a good cavvieyeh."

"Hullo, Hoppy!" came from the platform as Billy grinned his welcome
through the dust on his face. "Want a job?"

"Hullo yoreself," growled Pete. "Stick yore iron on that fourth steer
before he gets out, an' talk less with yore mouth."

"Pete's still rabid," called Billy, performing the duty Pete suggested.

"That may be the polite name for it," snorted one of the iron heaters,
testing an iron, "but that ain't what I'd say. Might as well cover the
subject thoroughly while yo're on it."

"Yes, verily," endorsed his companion.

"Here comes the last of 'em," smiled Pete, watching several cattle being
driven towards the chute. "We'll have to brand 'em on the move, Billy;
there ain't enough to fill the chute."

"All right; hot iron, you!"

Early the next morning the inspector looked them over and made his
count, the herd was started north and at nightfall had covered twelve
miles. For the next week everything went smoothly, but after that, water
began to be scarce and the herd was pushed harder, and became harder to
handle.

On the night of the twelfth day out four men sat around the fire in
West Valley at a point a dozen miles south of Bennett's Creek, and ate
heartily. The night was black--not a star could be seen and the south
wind hardly stirred the trampled and burned grass. They were thoroughly
tired out and their tempers were not in the sweetest state imaginable,
for the heat during the last four days had been almost unbearable even
to them and they had had their hands full with the cranky herd. They ate
silently, hungrily--there would be time enough for the few words they
had to say when the pipes were going for a short smoke before turning
in.

"I feel like hell," growled Red, reaching for another cup of coffee, but
there was no reply; he had voiced the feelings of all.

Hopalong listened intently and looked up, staring into the darkness, and
soon a horseman was seen approaching the fire. Hopalong nodded welcome
and waved his hand towards the food, and the stranger, dismounting,
picketed his horse and joined the circle. When the pipes were lighted he
sighed with satisfaction and looked around the group. "Driving north, I
see."

"Yes; an' blamed glad to get off this dry range," Hopalong replied.
"The herd's getting cranky an' hard to hold--but when we pass the creek
everything'll be all right again. An' ain't it hot! When you hear us
kick about the heat it means something."

"I'm going yore way," remarked the stranger. "I came down this trail
about two weeks ago. Reckon I was the last to ride through before the
fence went up. Damned outrage, says I, an' I told 'em so, too. They
couldn't see it that way an' we had a little disagreement about it. They
said as how they was going to patrol it."

"Fence! What fence?" exclaimed Red.

"Where's there any fence?" demanded Hopalong sharply.

"Twenty mile north of the creek," replied the stranger, carefully
packing his pipe.

"What? Twenty miles north of the creek?" cried Hopalong. "What creek?"

"Bennett's. The 4X has strung three strands of barb wire from Coyote
Pass to the North Arm. Thirty mile long, without a gate, so they says."

"But it don't close this trail!" cried Hopalong in blank astonishment.

"It shore does. They say they owns that range an' can fence it in all
they wants. I told 'em different, but naturally they didn't listen to
me. An' they'll fight about it, too."

"But they _can't_ shut off this trail!" exclaimed Billy, with angry
emphasis. "They don't own it no more'n we do!"

"I know all about that--you heard me tell you what they said."

"But how can we get past it?" demanded Hopalong.

"Around it, over the hills. You'll lose about three days doing it, too."

"I can't take no sand-range herd over them rocks, an' I ain't going to
drive 'round no North Arm or Coyote Pass if I could," Hopalong replied
with quiet emphasis. "There's poison springs on the east an' nothing but
rocks on the west. We go straight through."

"I'm afraid that you'll have to fight if you do," remarked the stranger.

"Then we'll fight!" cried Johnny, leaning forward. "Blasted coyotes!
What right have they got to block a drive trail that's as old as
cattle-raising in these parts! That trail was here before I was born,
it's allus been open, an' it's going to stay open! You watch us go
through!"

"Yo're dead right, Kid; we'll cut that fence an' stick to this trail,
an' fight if we has to," endorsed Red. "The Bar-20 ain't crawling out of
no hole that it can walk out of. They're bluffing; that's all."

"I don't think they are; an' there's twelve men in that outfit,"
suggested the stranger, offhand.

"We ain't got time to count odds; we never do down our way when we know
we're right. An' we're right enough in this game," retorted Hopalong,
quickly. "For the last twelve days we've had good luck, barring the few
on this dry range; an' now we're in for the other kind. By the Lord,
I wish we was here without the cows to take care of--we'd show 'em
something about blocking drive trails that ain't in their little book!"

"Blast it all! Wire fences coming down this way now," mused Johnny,
sullenly. He hated them by training as much as he hated horse-thieves
and sheep; and his companions had been brought up in the same school.
Barb wire, the death-knell to the old-time punching, the bar to riding
at will, a steel insult to fire the blood--it had come at last.

"We've shore got to cut it, Red,--" began Hopalong, but the cook had to
rid himself of some of his indignation and interrupted with heat.

"Shore we have!" came explosively from the tail board of the chuck
wagon. "Got to lay it agin my li'l axe an' swat it with my big ol'
monkey wrench! An' won't them posts save me a lot of trouble hunting
chips an' firewood!"

"We've shore got to cut it, Red," Hopalong repeated slowly. "You an'
Johnny an' me'll ride ahead after we cross the creek to-morrow an' do
it. I don't hanker after no fight with all these cows on my han's, but
we've got to risk one."

"Shore!" cried Johnny, hotly. "I can't get over the gall of them fellers
closing up the West Valley drive trail. Why, I never heard tell of such
a thing afore!"

"We're short-handed; we ought to have more'n we have to guard the
herd if there's a fight. If it stampedes--oh, well, that'll work out
to-morrow. The creek's only about twelve miles away an' we'll start at
daylight, so tumble in," Hopalong said as he arose. "Red, I'm going out
to take my shift--I'll send Pete in. Stranger," he added, turning, "I'm
much obliged to you for the warning. They might 'a' caught us with our
hands tied."

"Oh, that's all right," hastily replied the stranger, who was in hearty
accord with the plans, such as they were. "My name's Hawkins, an' I
don't like range fences no more'n you do. I used to hunt buffalo all
over this part of the country before they was all killed off, an' I
allus rode where I pleased. I'm purty old, but I can still see an'
shoot; an' I'm going to stick right along with you fellers an' see it
through. Every man counts in this game."

"Well, that's blamed white of you," Hopalong replied, greatly pleased by
the other's offer. "But I can't let you do it. I don't want to drag you
into no trouble, an'--"

"You ain't dragging me none; I'm doing it myself. I'm about as mad as
you are over it. I ain't good for much no more, an' if I shuffles off
fighting barb wire I'll be doing my duty. First it was nesters, then
railroads an' more nesters, then sheep, an' now it's wire--won't it
never stop? By the Lord, it's got to stop, or this country will go
to the devil an' won't be fit to live in. Besides, I've heard of your
fellers before--I'll tie to the Bar-20 any day."

"Well, I reckon you must if you must; yo're welcome enough," laughed
Hopalong, and he strode off to his picketed horse, leaving the others to
discuss the fence, with the assistance of the cook, until Pete rode in.

CHAPTER XXI

THE FENCE

When Hopalong rode in at midnight to arouse the others and send them out
to relieve Skinny and his two companions, the cattle were quieter than
he had expected to leave them, and he could see no change of weather
threatening. He was asleep when the others turned in, or he would have
been further assured in that direction.

Out on the plain where the herd was being held, Red and the three other
guards had been optimistic until half of their shift was over and it was
only then that they began to worry. The knowledge that running water was
only twelve miles away had the opposite effect than the one expected,
for instead of making them cheerful, it caused them to be beset with
worry and fear. Water was all right, and they could not have got along
without it for another day; but it was, in this case, filled with the
possibility of grave danger.

Johnny was thinking hard about it as he rode around the now restless
herd, and then pulled up suddenly, peered into the darkness and went
on again. "Damn that disreputable li'l rounder! Why the devil can't
he behave, 'stead of stirring things up when they're ticklish?" he
muttered, but he had to grin despite himself. A lumbering form had
blundered past him from the direction of the camp and was swallowed up
by the night as it sought the herd, annoying and arousing the thirsty
and irritable cattle along its trail, throwing challenges right and left
and stirring up trouble as it passed. The fact that the challenges were
bluffs made no difference to the pawing steers, for they were anxious to
have things out with the rounder.

This frisky disturber of bovine peace was a yearling that had
slipped into the herd before it left the ranch and had kept quiet and
respectable and out of sight in the middle of the mass for the first
few days and nights. But keeping quiet and respectable had been an awful
strain, and his mischievous deviltry grew constantly harder to hold in
check. Finally he could stand the repression no longer, and when he gave
way to his accumulated energy it had the snap and ginger of a tightly
stretched rubber band recoiling on itself. On the fourth night out he
had thrown off his mask and announced his presence in his true light
by butting a sleepy steer out of its bed, which bed he straightway
proceeded to appropriate for himself. This was folly, for the ground was
not cold and he had no excuse for stealing a body-warmed place to lie
down; it was pure cussedness, and retribution followed hard upon the
act. In about half a minute he had discovered the great difference
between bullying poor, miserable, defenceless dogies and trying to bully
a healthy, fully developed, and pugnacious steer. After assimilating
the preliminary punishment of what promised to be the most thorough and
workmanlike thrashing he had ever known, the indignant and frightened
bummer wheeled and fled incontinently with the aroused steer in angry
pursuit. The best way out was the most puzzling to the vengeful steer,
so the bummer cavorted recklessly through the herd, turning and twisting
and doubling, stepping on any steer that happened to be lying down in
his path, butting others, and leavening things with great success. Under
other conditions he would have relished the effect of his efforts,
for the herd had arisen as one animal and seemed to be debating the
advisability of stampeding; but he was in no mood to relish anything and
thought only of getting away. Finally escaping from his pursuer, that
had paused to fight with a belligerent brother, he rambled off into the
darkness to figure it all out and to maintain a sullen and chastened
demeanor for the rest of the night. This was the first time a brick had
been under the hat.

But the spirits of youth recover quickly--his recovered so quickly that
he was banished from the herd the very next night, which banishment, not
being at all to his liking, was enforced only by rigid watchfulness and
hard riding; and he was roundly cursed from dark to dawn by the
worried men, most of whom disliked the bumming youngster less than they
pretended. He was only a cub, a wild youth having his fling, and there
was something irresistibly likable and comical in his awkward antics and
eternal persistence, even though he was a pest. Johnny saw more in him
than his companions could find, and had quite a little sport with him:
he made fine practice for roping, for he was about as elusive as a
grasshopper and uncertain as a flea. Johnny was in the same general
class and he could sympathize with the irrepressible nuisance in its
efforts to stir up a little life and excitement in so dull a crowd;
Johnny hoped to be as successful in his mischievous deviltry when he
reached the town at the end of the drive.

But to-night it was dark, and the bummer gained his coveted goal with
ridiculous ease, after which he started right in to work off the high
pressure of the energy he had accumulated during the last two nights.
He had desisted in his efforts to gain the herd early in the evening and
had rambled off and rested during the first part of the night, and the
herders breathed softly lest they should stir him to renewed trials. But
now he had succeeded, and although only Johnny had seen him lumber past,
the other three guards were aware of it immediately by the results and
swore in their throats, for the cattle were now on their feet, snorting
and moving about restlessly, and the rattling of horns grew slowly
louder.

"Ain't he having a devil of a good time!" grinned Johnny. But it was not
long before he realized the possibilities of the bummer's efforts and
he lost his grin. "If we get through the night without trouble I'll see
that you are picketed if it takes me all day to get you," he muttered.
"Fun is fun, but it's getting a little too serious for comfort."

Sometime after the middle of the second shift the herd, already
irritable, nervous, and cranky because of the thirst they were enduring,
and worked up to the fever pitch by the devilish manoeuvres of the
exuberant and hard-working bummer, wanted only the flimsiest kind of
an excuse to stampede, and they might go without an excuse. A flash
of lightning, a crash of thunder, a wind-blown paper, a flapping wagon
cover, the sudden and unheralded approach of a careless rider, the
cracking and flare of a match, or the scent of a wolf or coyote--or
water, would send an avalanche of three thousand crazed steers crashing
its irresistible way over a pitch-black plain.

Red had warned Pete and Billy, and now he rode to find Johnny and send
him to camp for the others. As he got halfway around the circle he heard
Johnny singing a mournful lay, and soon a black bulk loomed up in the
dark ahead of him. "That you, Kid?" he asked. "That you, Johnny?" he
repeated, a little louder.

The song stopped abruptly. "Shore," replied Johnny. "We're going to
have trouble aplenty to-night. Glad daylight ain't so very far off. That
cussed li'l rake of a bummer got by me an' into the herd. He's shore
raising Ned to-night, the li'l monkey: it's getting serious, Red."

"I'll shoot that yearling at daylight, damn him!" retorted Red. "I
should 'a' done it a week ago. He's picked the worst time for his cussed
devilment! You ride right in an' get the boys, an' get 'em out here
quick. The whole herd's on its toes waiting for the signal; an' the wink
of an eye'll send 'em off. God only knows what'll happen between now
and daylight! If the wind should change an' blow down from the north,
they'll be off as shore as shooting. One whiff of Bennett's Creek is all
that's needed, Kid; an'--"

"Oh, pshaw!" interposed Johnny. "There ain't no wind at all now. It's
been quiet for an hour."

"Yes; an' that's one of the things that's worrying me. It means a
change, shore."

"Not always; we'll come out of this all right," assured Johnny, but he
spoke without his usual confidence. "There ain't no use--" he paused
as he felt the air stir, and he was conscious of Red's heavy breathing.
There was a peculiar hush in the air that he did not like, a closeness
that sent his heart up in his throat, and as he was about to continue
a sudden gust snapped his neck-kerchief out straight. He felt that
refreshing coolness which so often precedes a storm and as he weighed it
in his mind a low rumble of thunder rolled in the north and sent a chill
down his back.

"Good God! Get the boys!" cried Red, wheeling. "It's _changed_! An'
Pete an' Billy out there in front of--_there they go_!" he shouted as a
sudden tremor shook the earth and a roaring sound filled the air. He was
instantly lost to ear and eye, swallowed by the oppressive darkness as
he spurred and quirted into a great, choking cloud of dust which swept
down from the north, unseen in the night. The deep thunder of hoofs and
the faint and occasional flash of a six-shooter told him the direction,
and he hurled his mount after the uproar with no thought of the death
which lurked in every hole and rock and gully on the uneven and unseen
plain beneath him. His mouth and nose were lined with dust, his throat
choked with it, and he opened his burning eyes only at intervals, and
then only to a slit, to catch a fleeting glance of--nothing. He realized
vaguely that he was riding north, because the cattle would head for
water, but that was all, save that he was animated by a desperate
eagerness to gain the firing line, to join Pete and Billy, the two
men who rode before that crazed mass of horns and hoofs and who were
pleading and swearing and yelling in vain only a few feet ahead
of annihilation--if they were still alive. A stumble, a moment's
indecision, and the avalanche would roll over them as if they were
straws and trample them flat beneath the pounding hoofs, a modern
Juggernaut. If he, or they, managed to escape with life, it would make
a good tale for the bunk house some night; if they were killed it was in
doing their duty--it was all in a day's work.

Johnny shouted after him and then wheeled and raced towards the camp,
emptying his Colt in the air as a warning. He saw figures scurrying
across the lighted place, and before he had gained it his friends raced
past him and gave him hard work catching up to them. And just behind
him rode the stranger, to do what he could for his new friends, and as
reckless of consequences as they.

It seemed an age before they caught up to the stragglers, and when they
realized how true they had ridden in the dark they believed that at last
their luck was turning for the better, and pushed on with renewed hope.
Hopalong shouted to those nearest him that Bennett's Creek could not be
far away and hazarded the belief that the steers would slow up and stop
when they found the water they craved; but his words were lost to all
but himself.

Suddenly the punchers were almost trapped and their escape made
miraculous, for without warning the herd swerved and turned sharply to
the right, crossing the path of the riders and forcing them to the east,
showing Hopalong their silhouettes against the streak of pale gray low
down in the eastern sky. When free from the sudden press of cattle they
slowed perceptibly, and Hopalong did likewise to avoid running them
down. At that instant the uproar took on a new note and increased
threefold. He could hear the shock of impact, whip-like reports, the
bellowing of cattle in pain, and he arose in his stirrups to peer ahead
for the reason, seeing, as he did so, the silhouettes of his friends
arise and then drop from his sight. Without additional warning his horse
pitched forward and crashed to the earth, sending him over its head.
Slight as was the warning it served to ease his fall, for instinct freed
his feet from the stirrups, and when he struck the ground it was feet
first, and although he fell flat at the next instant, the shock had been
broken. Even as it was, he was partly stunned, and groped as he arose
on his hands and knees. Arising painfully he took a short step forward,
tripped and fell again; and felt a sharp pain shoot through his hand as
it went first to break the fall. Perhaps it was ten seconds before he
knew what it was that had thrown him, and when he learned that he also
learned the reason for the whole calamity--in his torn and bleeding hand
he held a piece of barb wire.

"Barb wire!" he muttered, amazed. "Barb wire! Why, what the--_Damn
that ranch_!" he shouted, sudden rage sweeping over him as the situation
flashed through his mind and banished all the mental effects of the
fall. "They've gone an' strung it south of the creek as well! Red!
Johnny! Lanky!" he shouted at the top of his voice, hoping to be heard
over the groaning of injured cattle and the general confusion. "Good
Lord! _are they killed_!"

They were not, thanks to the forced slowing up, and to the pool of water
and mud which formed an arm of the creek, a back-water away from the
pull of the current. They had pitched into the mud and water up to their
waists, some head first, some feet first, and others as they would go
into a chair. Those who had been fortunate enough to strike feet first
pulled out the divers, and the others gained their feet as best they
might and with varying degrees of haste, but all mixed profanity and
thankfulness equally well; and were equally and effectually disguised.

Hopalong, expecting the silence of death or at least the groaning of
injured and dying, was taken aback by the fluent stream of profanity
which greeted his ears. But all efforts in that line were eclipsed when
the drive foreman tersely explained about the wire, and the providential
mud bath was forgotten in the new idea. They forthwith clamored for war,
and the sooner it came the better they would like it.

"Not now, boys; we've got work to do first," replied Hopalong, who,
nevertheless, was troubled grievously by the same itching trigger
finger. They subsided--as a steel spring subsides when held down by a
weight--and went off in search of their mounts. Daylight had won the
skirmish in the east and was now attacking in force, and revealed a
sight which, stilling the profanity for the moment, caused it to flow
again with renewed energy. The plain was a shambles near the creek, and
dead and dying steers showed where the fence had stood. The rest of the
herd had passed over these. The wounded cattle and three horses were
put out of their misery as the first duty. The horse that Hopalong had
ridden had a broken back; the other two, broken legs. When this work was
out of the way the bruised and shaken men gave their attention to the
scattered cattle on the other side of the creek, and when Hawkins rode
up after wasting time in hunting for the trail in the dark, he saw
four men with the herd, which was still scattered; four others near the
creek, of whom only Johnny was mounted, and a group of six strangers
riding towards them from the west and along the fence, or what was left
of that portion of it.

"That's awful!" he cried, stopping his limping horse near Hopalong. "An'
here come the fools that done it."

"Yes," replied Johnny, his voice breaking from rage, "but they won't go
back again! I don't care if I'm killed if I can get one or two of that
crowd--"

"Shut up, Kid!" snapped Hopalong as the 4X outfit drew near. "I know
just how you feel about it; feel that way myself. But there ain't
a-going to be no fighting while I've got these cows on my han's. That
gang'll be here when we come back, all right."

"Mebby one or two of 'em won't," remarked Hawkins, as he looked again
over the carnage along the fence. "I never did much pot-shooting, 'cept
agin Injuns; but I dunno--" He did not finish, for the strangers were
almost at his elbow.

Cranky Joe led the 4X contingent and he did the talking for it
without waste of time. "Who the hell busted that fence?" he demanded,
belligerently, looking around savagely. Johnny's hand twitched at the
words and the way they were spoken.

"I did; did you think somebody leaned agin it?" replied Hopalong, very
calmly,--so calmly that it was about one step short of an explosion.

"Well, why didn't you go around?"

"Three thousand stampeding cattle don't go 'round wire fences in the
dark."

"Well, that's not our fault. Reckon you better dig down an' settle up
for the damages, an' half a cent a head for water; an' then go 'round.
You can't stampede through the other fence."

"That so?" asked Hopalong.

"Reckon it is."

"Yo're real shore it is?"

"Well there's only six of us here, but there's six more that we can get
blamed quick if we need 'em. It's so, all right."

"Well, coming down to figures, there's eight here, with two
hoss-wranglers an' a cook to come," retorted Hopalong, kicking the
belligerent Johnny on the shins. "We're just about mad enough to tackle
anything: ever feel that way?"

"Oh, no use getting all het up," rejoined Cranky Joe. "We ain't a-going
to fight 'less we has to. Better pay up."

"Send yore bills to the ranch--if they're O. K., Buck'll pay 'em."

"Nix; I take it when I can get it."

"I ain't got no money with me that I can spare."

"Then you can leave enough cows to buy back again."

"I'm not going to pay you one damned cent, an' the only cows I'll leave
are the dead ones--an' if I could take them with me I'd do it. An' I'm
not going around the fence, neither."

"Oh, yes; you are. An' yo're going to pay," snapped Cranky Joe.

"Take it out of the price of two hundred dead cows an' gimme what's
left," Hopalong retorted. "It'll cost you nine of them twelve men to pry
it out'n me."

"You won't pay?" demanded the other, coldly.

"Not a plugged peso."

"Well, as I said before, I don't want to fight nobody 'less I has to,"
replied Cranky Joe. "I'll give you a chance to change yore mind.
We'll be out here after it to-morrow, cash or cows. That'll give you
twenty-four hours to rest yore herd an' get ready to drive. Then you
pay, an' go back, 'round the fence."

"All right; to-morrow suits me," responded Hopalong, who was boiling
with rage and felt constrained to hold it back. If it wasn't for the
cows--!

Red and three companions swept up and stopped in a swirl of dust and
asked questions until Hopalong shut them up. Their arrival and the
manner of their speech riled Cranky Joe, who turned around and loosed
one more remark; and he never knew how near to death he was at that
moment.

"You fellers must own the earth, the way you act," he said to Red and
his three companions.

"We ain't fencing it in to prove it," rejoined Hopalong, his hand on
Red's arm.

Cranky Joe wheeled to rejoin his friends. "To-morrow," he said,
significantly.

Hopalong and his men watched the six ride away, too enraged to speak for
a moment. Then the drive foreman mastered himself and turned to Hawkins.
"Where's their ranch house?" he demanded, sharply. "There must be some
way out of this, an' we've got to find it; an' before to-morrow."

"West; three hours' ride along the fence. I could find 'em the darkest
night what ever happened; I was out there once," Hawkins replied.

"Describe 'em as exact as you can," demanded Hopalong, and when Hawkins
had done so the Bar-20 drive foreman slapped his thigh and laughed
nastily. "One house with one door an' only two windows--are you shore?
Good! Where's the corrals? Good again! So they'll take pay for their
blasted fence, eh? Cash or cows, hey! Don't want no fight 'less it's
necessary, but they're going to make us pay for the fence that killed
two hundred head, an' blamed nigh got us, too. An' half a cent a head
for drinking water! I've paid that more'n once--some of the poor devils
squatting on the range ain't got nothing to sell but water, but I don't
buy none out of Bennett's Creek! Pete, you mounted fellers round up a
little--bunch the herd a little closer, an' drive straight along the
trail towards that other fence. We'll all help you as soon as the
wranglers bring us up something to ride. Push 'em hard, limp or no limp,
till dark. They'll be too tired to go crow-hopping 'round any in the
dark to-night. An' say! When you see that bummer, if he wasn't got by
the fence, drop him clean. So they've got twelve men, hey! Huh!"

"What you going to do?" asked Red, beginning to cool down, and very
curious.

"Yes; tell us," urged Johnny.

"Why, I'm going to cut that fence, an' cut it all to hell. Then I'm
going to push the herd through it as far out of danger as I can. When
they're all right Cookie an' the hoss-wranglers will have to hold 'em
during the night while we do the rest."

"What's the rest?" demanded Johnny.

"Oh, I'll tell you that later; it can wait," replied Hopalong.
"Meanwhile, you get out there with Pete an' help get the herd in shape.
We'll be with you soon--here comes the wranglers an' the cavvieyeh.
'Bout time, too."

CHAPTER XXII

MR. BOGGS IS DISGUSTED

The herd gained twelve miles by dark and would pass through the northern
fence by noon of the next day, for Cook's axe and monkey wrench had been
put to good use. For quite a distance there was no fence: about a mile
of barb wire had been pulled loose and was tangled up into several large
piles, while rings of burned grass and ashes surrounded what was left
of the posts. The cook had embraced this opportunity to lay in a good
supply of firewood and was the happiest man in the outfit.

At ten o'clock that night eight figures loped westward along the
southern fence and three hours later dismounted near the first corral
of the 4X ranch. They put their horses in a depression on the plain and
then hastened to seek cover, being careful to make no noise.

At dawn the door of the bunk house opened quickly and as quickly slammed
shut again, three bullets in it being the reason. An uproar ensued and
guns spat from the two windows in the general direction of the
unseen besiegers, who did not bother about replying; they had given
notification of their presence and until it was necessary to shoot there
was no earthly use of wasting ammunition. Besides, the drive outfit
had cooled down rapidly when it found that its herd was in no immediate
danger and was not anxious to kill any one unless there was need. The
situation was conducive to humor rather than anger. But every time the
door moved it collected more lead, and it finally remained shut.

The noise in the bunk house continued and finally a sombrero was waved
frantically at the south window and a moment later Nat Boggs, foreman
of the incarcerated 4X outfit, stuck his head out very cautiously and
yelled questions which bore directly on the situation and were to the
point. He appeared to be excited and unduly heated, if one might judge
from his words and voice. There was no reply, which still further added
to his heat and excitement. Becoming bolder and a little angrier
he allowed his impetuous nature to get the upper hand and forthwith
attempted the feat of getting through that same window; but a sharp
_pat!_ sounded on a board not a foot from him, and he reconsidered
hastily. His sombrero again waved to insist on a truce, and collected
two holes, causing him much mental anguish and threatening the loss of
his worthy soul. He danced up and down with great agility and no grace
and made remarks, thereby leading a full-voiced chorus.

"Ain't that a hell of a note?" he demanded plaintively as he paused for
breath. "Stick _yore_ hat out, Cranky, an' see what _you_ can do," he
suggested, irritably.

Cranky Joe regarded him with pity and reproach, and moved back towards
the other end of the room, muttering softly to himself. "I know it ain't
much of a bonnet, but he needn't rub it in," he growled, peevishly.

"Try again; mebby they didn't see you," suggested Jim Larkin, who had a
reputation for never making a joke. He escaped with his life and
checked himself at the side of Cranky Joe, with whom he conferred on the
harshness of the world towards unfortunates.

The rest of the morning was spent in snipe-shooting at random, trusting
to luck to hit some one, and trusting in vain. At noon Cranky Joe could
stand the strain no longer and opened the door just a little to relive
the monotony. He succeeded, being blessed with a smashed shoulder, and
immediately became a general nuisance, adding greatly to the prevailing
atmosphere. Boggs called him a few kinds of fools and hastened to nail
the door shut; he hit his thumb and his heart became filled with venom.

"_Now_ look at what they went an' done!" he yelled, running around in a
circle. "Damned outrage!"

"Huh!" snorted Cranky Joe with maddening superiority. "That ain't
nothing--just look at me!"

Boggs looked, very fixedly, and showed signs of apoplexy, and Cranky Joe
returned to his end of the room to resume his soliloquy.

"Why don't you come out an' take them cows!" inquired an unkind voice
from without. "Ain't changed yore mind, have you?"

"We'll give you a drink for half a cent a head--that's the regular price
for watering cows," called another.

The faint ripple of mirth which ran around the plain was lost in
opinions loudly expressed within the room; and Boggs, tears of rage
in his eyes, flung himself down on a chair and invented new terms for
describing human beings.

John Terry was observing. He had been fluttering around the north
window, constantly getting bolder, and had not been disturbed. When he
withdrew his sombrero and found that it was intact he smiled to himself
and leaned his elbows on the sill, looking carefully around the plain.
The discovery that there was no cover on the north side cheered him
greatly and he called to Boggs, outlining a plan of action.

Boggs listened intently and then smiled for the first time since dawn.
"Bully for you, Terry!" he enthused. "Wait till dark--we'll fool 'em."

A bullet chipped the 'dobe at Terry's side and he ducked as he leaped
back. "From an angle--what did I tell you?" he laughed. "We'll drop
out here an' sneak behind the house after dark. They'll be watching the
door--an' they won't be able to see us, anyhow."

Boggs sucked his thumb tenderly and grinned. "After which--," he elated.

"After which--," gravely repeated Terry, the others echoing it with
unrestrained joy.

"Then, mebby, I can get a drink," chuckled Larkin, brightening under the
thought.

"The moon comes up at ten," warned a voice. "It'll be full to-night--an'
there ain't many clouds in sight."

"_Ol' King Cole was a merry ol' soul_," hummed McQuade, lightly.

"An'--a--merry--ol'--soul--was--he!--was--he!" thundered the chorus,
deep-toned and strong. "_He had a wife for every toe, an' some toes
counted three!_"

"Listen!" cried Meade, holding up his hand.

"_An' every wife had sixteen dogs, an' every dog a flea!_" shouted a
voice from the besiegers, followed by a roar of laughter.

The hilarity continued until dark, only stopping when John Terry slipped
out of the window, dropped to all-fours and stuck his head around the
corner of the rear wall. He saw many stars and was silently handed to
Pete Wilson.

"What was that noise?" exclaimed Boggs in a low tone. "Are you all
right, Terry?" he asked, anxiously.

Three knocks on the wall replied to his question and then McQuade went
out, and three more knocks were heard.

"Wonder why they make that funny noise," muttered Boggs.

"Bumped inter something, I reckon," replied Jim Larkin. "Get out of my
way--I'm next."

Boggs listened intently and then pushed Duke Lane back. "Don't like
that--sounds like a crack on the head. Hey, Jim! _Say_ something!" he
called softly. The three knocks were repeated, but Boggs was suspicious
and he shook his head decisively. "To 'ell with the knocking--_say_
something!"

"Still got them twelve men?" asked a strange voice, pleasantly.

"_An' every dog a flea_," hummed another around the corner.

"Hell!" shouted Boggs. "To the door, fellers! To the door--quick!"

A whistle shrilled from behind the house and a leaden tattoo began
on the door. "Other window!" whispered O'Neill. The foreman got there
before him and, shoving his Colt out first to clear the way, yelled with
rage and pain as a pole hit his wrist and knocked the weapon out of his
hand. He was still commenting when Duke Lane pried open the door and,
dropping quickly on his stomach, wriggled out, followed closely by
Charley Beal and Tim. At that instant the tattoo drummed with greater
vigor and such a hail of lead poured in through the opening that the
door was promptly closed, leaving the three men outside to shift for
themselves with the darkness their only cover.

Duke and his companions whispered together as they lay flat and agreed
upon a plan of action. Going around the ends of the house was suicide
and no better than waiting for the rising moon to show them to the
enemy; but there was no reason why the roof could not be utilized. Tim
and Charley boosted Duke up, then Tim followed, and the pair on the roof
pulled Charley to their side. Flat roofs were great institutions they
decided as they crawled cautiously towards the other side. This roof was
of hard, sun-baked adobe, over two feet thick, and they did not care if
their friends shot up on a gamble.

"Fine place, all right," thought Charley, grinning broadly. Then he
turned an agonized face to Tim, his chest rising. "_Hitch! Hitch!_"
he choked, fighting with all his will to master it. "_Hitch-chew!
Hitch-chew! Hitch-chew!_" he sneezed, loudly. There was a scramble below
and a ripple of mirth floated up to them.

"_Hitch-chew_?" jeered a voice. "What do we want to hit you for?"

"Look us over, children," invited another.

"Wait until the moon comes up," chuckled the third. "Be like knocking
the nigger baby down for Red an' the others. Ladies and gents: We'll now
have a little sketch entitled 'Shooting snipe by moonlight.'"

"Jack-snipe, too," laughed Pete. "Will somebody please hold the bag?"

The silence on the roof was profound and the three on the ground tried
again.

"Let me call yore attention to the trained coyotes, ladies an' gents,"
remarked Johnny in a deep, solemn voice. "Coyotes are not birds; they do
not roost on roofs as a general thing; but they are some intelligent an'
can be trained to do lots of foolish tricks. These ani-mules were--"

"Step this way, people; on-ly ten cents, two nickels," interrupted Pete.
"They bark like dogs, an' howl like hell."

"Shut up!" snapped Tim, angrily.

"After the moon comes up," said Hopalong, "when you fellers get tired
dodging, you can chuck us yore guns an' come down. An' don't forget that
this side of the house is much the safest," he warned.

"Go to hell!" snarled Duke, bitterly.

"Won't; they're laying for me down there."

Johnny crawled to the north end of the wall and, looking cautiously
around the corner, funnelled his hands: "On the roof, Red! On the roof!"

"Yes, dear," was the reply, followed by gun-shots.

"Hey! Move over!" snapped Tim, working towards the edge furthest from
the cheerful Red, whose bullets were not as accurate in the dark as they
promised to become in a few minutes when the moon should come up.

"Want to shove me off?" snarled Charley, angrily. "For heaven's sake,
Duke, do you want the whole earth?" he demanded of his second companion.

"You just bet yore shirt I do! An' I want a hole in it, too!"

"Ain't you got no sense?"

"Would I be up here if I had?"

"It's going to be hot as blazes up here when the sun gets high,"
cheerfully prophesied Tim: "an' dry, too," he added for a finishing
touch.

"We'll be lucky if we're live enough to worry about the sun's
heat--_say_, that was a _close_ one!" exclaimed Duke, frantically trying
to flatten a little more. "Ah, thought so--there's that blamed moon!"

"Wish I'd gone out the window instead," growled Charley, worming behind
Duke, to the latter's prompt displeasure.

"You fellers better come down, one at a time," came from below. "Send
yore guns down first, too. Red's a blamed good shot."

"Hope he croaks," muttered Duke. "_That's_ closer yet!"

Tim's hand raised and a flash of fire singed Charley's hair. "Got to do
something, anyhow," he explained, lowering the Colt and peering across
the plain.

"You damned near succeeded!" shouted Charley, grabbing at his head.
"Why, they're three hundred, an' you trying for 'em with a--_oh!_" he
moaned, writhing.

"Locoed fool!" swore Duke, "showing 'em where we are! They're doing good
enough as it is! You ought--got _you_, too!"

"_I'm_ going down--that blamed fool out there ain't caring what he
hits," mumbled Charley, clenching his hands from pain. He slid over the
edge and Pete grabbed him.

"Next," suggested Pete, expectantly.

Tim tossed his Colt over the edge. "Here's another," he swore, following
the weapon. He was grabbed and bound in a trice.

"When may we expect you, Mr. Duke?" asked Johnny, looking up.

"Presently, friend, presently. I want to--_wow_!" he finished, and
lost no time in his descent, which was meteoric. "That feller'll _kill_
somebody if he ain't careful!" he complained as Pete tied his hands
behind his back.

"You wait till daylight an' see," cheerily replied Pete as the three
were led off to join their friends in the corral.

There was no further action until the sun arose and then Hopalong
hailed the house and demanded a parley, and soon he and Boggs met midway
between the shack and the line.

"What d'you want?" asked Boggs, sullenly.

"Want you to stop this farce so I can go on with my drive."

"Well, I ain't holding you!" exploded the 4X foreman.

"Oh, yes; but you are. I can't let you an' yore men out to hang on our
flanks an' worry us; an' I don't want to hold you in that shack till you
all die of thirst, or come out to be all shot up. Besides, I can't fool
around here for a week; I got business to look after."

"Don't you worry about us dying with thirst; that ain't worrying us
none."

"I heard different," replied Hopalong, smiling. "Them fellers in the
corral drank a quart apiece. See here, Boggs; you can't win, an' you
know it. Yo're not bucking me, but the whole range, the whole country.
It's a fight between conditions--the fence idea agin the open range
idea, an' open trails. The fence will lose. You closed a drive trail
that's 'most as old as cow-raising. Will the punchers of this part of
the country stand for it? Suppose you lick us,--which you won't--can
you lick all the rest of us, the JD, Wallace's, Double-Arrow, C-80,
Cross-O-Cross, an' the others! That's just what it amounts to, an' you
better stop right now, before somebody gets killed. You know what that
means in this section. Yo're six to our eight, you ain't got a drink in
that shack, an' you dasn't try to get one. You can't do a thing agin us,
an' you know it."

Boggs rested his hands on his hips and considered, Hopalong waiting
for him to reply. He knew that the Bar-20 man was right but he hated to
admit it, he hated to say he was whipped.

"Are any of them six hurt?" he finally asked.

"Only scratches an' sore heads," responded Hopalong, smiling. "We ain't
tried to kill anybody, yet. I'm putting that up to you."

Boggs made no reply and Hopalong continued: "I got six of yore twelve
men prisoners, an' all yore cayuses are in my han's. I'll shoot every
animal before I'll leave 'em for you to use against me, an' I'll take
enough of yore cows to make up for what I lost by that fence. You've got
to pay for them dead cows, anyhow. If I do let you out you'll have to
road-brand me two hundred, or pay cash. My herd ain't worrying me--it's
moving all the time. It's through that other fence by now. An' if I have
to keep my outfit here to pen you in or shoot you off I can send to the
JD for a gang to push the herd. Don't make no mistake: yo're getting off
easy. Suppose one of my men had been killed at the fence--what then?"

"Well, what do you want me to do?"

"Stop this foolishness an' take down them fences for a mile each side
of the trail. If Buck has to come up here the whole thing'll go down.
Road-brand me two hundred of yore three-year-olds. Now as soon as you
agree, an' say that the fight's over, it will be. You can't win out; an'
what's the use of having yore men killed off?"

"I hate to quit," replied the other, gloomily.

"I know how that is; but yo're wrong on this question, dead wrong. You
don't own this range or the trail. You ain't got no right to close that
old drive trail. Honest, now; have you?"

"You say them six ain't hurt?"

"No more'n I said."

"An' if I give in will you treat my men right?"

"Shore."

"When will you leave."

"Just as soon as I get them two hundred three-year-olds."

"Well, I hate a quitter; but I can't do nothing, nohow," mused the 4X
foreman. He cleared his throat and turned to look at the house. "All
right; when you get them cows you get out of here, an' don't never come
back!"

Hopalong flung his arm with a shout to his men and the other kicked
savagely at an inoffensive stick and slouched back to his bunk house, a
beaten man.

CHAPTER XXIII

TEX EWALT HUNTS TROUBLE

Not more than a few weeks after the Bar-20 drive outfit returned to the
ranch a solitary horseman pushed on towards the trail they had followed,
bound for Buckskin and the Bar-20 range. His name was Tex Ewalt and he
cordially hated all of the Bar-20 outfit and Hopalong in particular. He
had nursed a grudge for several years and now, as he rode south to rid
himself of it and to pay a long-standing debt, it grew stronger until he
thrilled with anticipation and the sauce of danger. This grudge had been
acquired when he and Slim Travennes had enjoyed a duel with Hopalong
Cassidy up in Santa Fe, and had been worsted; it had increased when he
learned of Slim's death at Cactus Springs at the hands of Hopalong; and,
some time later, hearing that two friends of his, "Slippery" Trendley
and "Deacon" Rankin, with their gang, had "gone out" in the Panhandle
with the same man and his friends responsible for it, Tex hastened to
Muddy Wells to even the score and clean his slate. Even now his face
burned when he remembered his experiences on that never-to-be-forgotten
occasion. He had been played with, ridiculed, and shamed, until he fled
from the town as a place accursed, hating everything and everybody. It
galled him to think that he had allowed Buck Peters' momentary sympathy
to turn him from his purpose, even though he was convinced that the
foreman's action had saved his life. And now Tex was returning, not to
Muddy Wells, but to the range where the Bar-20 outfit held sway.

Several years of clean living had improved Tex, morally and physically.
The liquor he had once been in the habit of consuming had been reduced
to a negligible quantity; he spent the money on cartridges instead,
and his pistol work showed the results of careful and dogged practice,
particularly in the quickness of the draw. Punching cows on a remote
northern range had repaid him in health far more than his old game of
living on his wits and other people's lack of them, as proved by his
clear eye and the pink showing through the tan above his beard; while
his somber, steady gaze, due to long-held fixity of purpose, indicated
the resourcefulness of a perfectly reliable set of nerves. His low-hung
holster tied securely to his trousers leg to assure smoothness in
drawing, the restrained swing of his right hand, never far from the
well-worn scabbard which sheathed a triggerless Colt's "Frontier"--these
showed the confident and ready gun-man, the man who seldom missed.
"Frontiers" left the factory with triggers attached, but the absence of
that part did not always incapacitate a weapon. Some men found that the
regular method was too slow, and painstakingly cultivated the art of
thumbing the hammer. "Thumbing" was believed to save the split second
so valuable to a man in argument with his peers. Tex was riding with the
set purpose of picking a fair fight with the best six-shooter expert it
had ever been his misfortune to meet, and he needed that split second.
He knew that he needed it and the knowledge thrilled him with a peculiar
elation; he had changed greatly in the past year and now he wanted an
"even break" where once he would have called all his wits into play to
avoid it. He had found himself and now he acknowledged no superior in
anything.

On his way south he met and talked with men who had known him, the old
Tex, in the days when he had made his living precariously. They did not
recognize him behind his beard, and he was content to let the oversight
pass. But from these few he learned what he wished to know, and he was
glad that Hopalong Cassidy was where he had always been, and that his
gun-work had improved rather than depreciated with the passing of time.
He wished to prove himself master of The Master, and to be hailed as
such by those who had jeered and laughed at his ignominy several years
before. So he rode on day after day, smiling and content, neither
under-rating nor over-rating his enemy's ability with one weapon, but
trying to think of him as he really was. He knew that if there was any
difference between Hopalong Cassidy and himself that it must be very
slight--perhaps so slight as to result fatally to both; but if that were
so then it would have to work out as it saw fit--he at least would have
accomplished what many, many others had failed in.

In the little town of Buckskin, known hardly more than locally, and
never thought of by outsiders except as the place where the Bar-20
spent their spare time and money, and neutral ground for the surrounding
ranches, was Cowan's saloon, in the dozen years of its existence the
scene of good stories, boisterous fun, and quick deaths. Put together
roughly, of crude materials, sticking up in inartistic prominence on the
dusty edge of a dustier street; warped, bleached by the sun, and patched
with boards ripped from packing cases and with the flattened sides of
tin cans; low of ceiling, the floor one huge brown discoloration of
spring, creaking boards, knotted and split and worn into hollows, the
unpretentious building offered its hospitality to all who might be
tempted by the scrawled, sprawled lettering of its sign. The walls were
smoke-blackened, pitted with numerous small and clear-cut holes, and
decorated with initials carelessly cut by men who had come and gone.

Such was Cowan's, the best patronized place in many hot and dusty miles
and the Mecca of the cowboys from the surrounding ranches. Often at
night these riders of the range gathered in the humble building and told
tales of exceeding interest; and on these occasions one might see a
row of ponies standing before the building, heads down and quiet. It is
strange how alike cow-ponies look in the dim light of the stars. On the
south side of the saloon, weak, yellow lamp light filtered through the
dirt on the window panes and fell in distorted patches on the plain,
blotched in places by the shadows of the wooden substitutes for glass.

It was a moonlight night late in the fall, after the last beef round-up
was over and the last drive outfit home again, that two cow-ponies stood
in front of Cowan's while their owners lolled against the bar and talked
over the latest sensation--the fencing in of the West Valley range,
and the way Hopalong Cassidy and his trail outfit had opened up the old
drive trail across it. The news was a month old, but it was the last
event of any importance and was still good to laugh over.

"Boys," remarked the proprietor, "I want you to meet Mr. Elkins. He came
down that trail last week, an' he didn't see no fence across it." The
man at the table arose slowly. "Mr. Elkins, this is Sandy Lucas, an'
Wood Wright, of the C-80. Mr. Elkins here has been a-looking over the
country, sizing up what the beef prospects will be for next year; an'
he knows all about wire fences. Here's how," he smiled, treating on the
house.

Mr. Elkins touched the glass to his bearded lips and set it down
untasted while he joked over the sharp rebuff so lately administered to
wire fences in that part of the country. While he was an ex-cow-puncher
he believed that he was above allowing prejudice to sway his judgment,
and it was his opinion, after careful thought, that barb wire was
harmful to the best interests of the range. He had ridden over a great
part of the cattle country in the last few yeas, and after reviewing
the existing conditions as he understood them, his verdict must go as
stated, and emphatically. He launched gracefully into a slowly
delivered and lengthy discourse upon the subject, which proved to be
so entertaining that his companions were content to listen and nod with
comprehension. They had never met any one who was so well qualified
to discuss the pros and cons of the barb-wire fence question, and they
learned many things which they had never heard before. This was very
gratifying to Mr. Elkins, who drew largely upon hearsay, his own vivid
imagination, and a healthy logic. He was very glad to talk to men who
had the welfare of the range at heart, and he hoped soon to meet the
man who had taken the initiative in giving barb wire its first serious
setback on that rich and magnificent southern range.

"You shore ought to meet Cassidy--he's a fine man," remarked Lucas with
enthusiasm. "You'll not find any better, no matter where you look. But
you ain't touched yore liquor," he finished with surprise.

"You'll have to excuse me, gentlemen," replied Mr. Elkins, smiling
deprecatingly. "When a man likes it as much as I do it ain't very easy
to foller instructions an' let it alone. Sometimes I almost break loose
an' indulge, regardless of whether it kills me or not. I reckon it'll
get me yet." He struck the bar a resounding blow with his clenched hand.
"But I ain't going to cave in till I has to!"

"That's purty tough," sympathized Wood Wright, reflectively. "I ain't
so very much taken with it, but I know I would be if I knowed I couldn't
have any."

"Yes, that's human nature, all right," laughed Lucas. "That reminds me
of a little thing that happened to me once--"

"Listen!" exclaimed Cowan, holding up his hand for silence. "I reckon
that's the Bar-20 now, or some of it--sounds like them when they're
feeling frisky. There's allus something happening when them fellers are
around."

The proprietor was right, as proved a moment later when Johnny Nelson,
continuing his argument, pushed open the door and entered the room. "I
didn't neither; an' you know it!" he flung over his shoulder.

"Then who did?" demanded Hopalong, chuckling. "Why, hullo, boys," he
said, nodding to his friends at the bar. "Nobody else would do a fool
thing like that; nobody but you, Kid," he added, turning to Johnny.

"I don't care a hang what you think; I say I didn't an'--"

"He shore did, all right; I seen him just afterward," laughed Billy
Williams, pressing close upon Hopalong's heels. "Howdy, Lucas; an'
there's that ol' coyote, Wood Wright. How's everybody feeling?"

"Where's the rest of you fellers?" inquired Cowan.

"Stayed home to-night," replied Hopalong.

"Got any loose money, you two?" asked Billy, grinning at Lucas and
Wright.

"I reckon we have--an' our credit's good if we ain't. We're good for a
dollar or two, ain't we, Cowan?" replied Lucas.

"Two dollars an' four bits," corrected Cowan. "I'll raise it to three
dollars even when you pay me that 'leven cents you owe me."

"'Leven cents? What 'leven cents?"

"Postage stamps an' envelope for that love letter you writ."

"Go to blazes; that wasn't no love letter!" snorted Lucas, indignantly.
"That was my quarterly report. I never did write no love letters,
nohow."

"We'll trim you fellers to-night, if you've got the nerve to play us,"
grinned Johnny, expectantly.

"Yes; an' we've got that, too. Give us the cards, Cowan," requested Wood
Wright, turning. "They won't give us no peace till we take all their
money away from 'em."

"Open game," prompted Cowan, glancing meaningly at Elkins, who stood by
idly looking on, and without showing much interest in the scene.

"Shore! Everybody can come in what wants to," replied Lucas, heartily,
leading the others to the table. "I allus did like a six-handed game
best--all the cards are out an' there's some excitement in it."

When the deal began Elkins was seated across the table from Hopalong,
facing him for the first time since that day over in Muddy Wells, and
studying him closely. He found no changes, for the few years had left
no trace of their passing on the Bar-20 puncher. The sensation of facing
the man he had come south expressly to kill did not interfere with
Elkins' card-playing ability for he played a good game; and as if the
Fates were with him it was Hopalong's night off as far as poker was
concerned, for his customary good luck was not in evidence. That
instinctive feeling which singles out two duellists in a card game
was soon experienced by the others, who were careful, as became good
players, to avoid being caught between them; in consequence, when the
game broke up, Elkins had most of Hopalong's money. At one period of his
life Elkins had lived on poker for five years, and lived well. But he
gained more than money in this game, for he had made friends with the
players and placed the first wire of his trap. Of those in the room
Hopalong alone treated him with reserve, and this was cleverly swung so
that it appeared to be caused by a temporary grouch due to the sting of
defeat. As the Bar-20 man was known to be given to moods at times this
was accepted as the true explanation and gave promise of hotly contested
games for revenge later on. The banter which the defeated puncher had to
endure stirred him and strengthened the reserve, although he was careful
not to show it.

When the last man rode off, Elkins and the proprietor sought their bunks
without delay, the former to lie awake a long time, thinking deeply.
He was vexed at himself for failing to work out an acceptable plan
of action, one that would show him to be in the right. He would gain
nothing more than glory, and pay too dearly for it, if he killed
Hopalong and was in turn killed by the dead man's friends--and
he believed that he had become acquainted with the quality of the
friendship which bound the units of the Bar-20 outfit into a smooth,
firm whole. They were like brothers, like one man. Cassidy must do the
forcing as far as appearances went, and be clearly in the wrong before
the matter could be settled.

The next week was a busy one for Elkins, every day finding him in the
saddle and riding over some one of the surrounding ranches with one or
more of its punchers for company. In this way he became acquainted with
the men who might be called on to act as his jury when the showdown
came, and he proceeded to make friends of them in a manner that promised
success. And some of his suggestions for the improvement of certain
conditions on the range, while they might not work out right in the
long run, compelled thought and showed his interest. His remarks on the
condition and numbers of cattle were the same in substance in all cases
and showed that he knew what he was talking about, for the punchers were
all very optimistic about the next year's showing in cattle.

"If you fellers don't break all records for drive herds of quality next
year I don't know nothing about cows; an' I shore don't know nothing
else," he told the foreman of the Bar-20, as they rode homeward after an
inspection of that ranch. "There'll be more dust hanging over the
drive trails leading from this section next year when spring drops
the barriers than ever before. You needn't fear for the market,
neither--prices will stand. The north an' central ranges ain't doing
what they ought to this year--it'll be up to you fellers down south,
here, to make that up; an' you can do it." This was not a guess, but the
result of thought and study based on the observations he had made on his
ride south, and from what he had learned from others along the way.
It paralleled Buck's own private opinion, especially in regard to
the southern range; and the vague suspicions in the foreman's mind
disappeared for good and all.

Needless to say Elkins was a welcome visitor at the ranch houses and was
regarded as a good fellow. At the Bar-20 he found only two men who
would not thaw to him, and he was possessed of too much tact to try
any persuasive measures. One was Hopalong, whose original cold reserve
seemed to be growing steadily, the Bar-20 puncher finding in Elkins
a personality that charged the atmosphere with hostility and quietly
rubbed him the wrong way. Whenever he was in the presence of the
newcomer he felt the tugging of an irritating and insistent antagonism
and he did not always fully conceal it. John Bartlett, Lucas, and one
or two of the more observing had noticed it and they began to prophesy
future trouble between the two. The other man who disliked Elkins was
Red Connors; but what was more natural? Red, being Hopalong's closest
companion, would be very apt to share his friend's antipathy. On the
other hand, as if to prove Hopalong's dislike to be unwarranted, Johnny
Nelson swung far to the other extreme and was frankly enthusiastic in
his liking for the cattle scout. And Johnny did not pour oil on the
waters when he laughingly twitted Hopalong for allowing "a licking
at cards to make him sore." This was the idea that Elkins was quietly
striving to have generally accepted.

The affair thus hung fire, Elkins chafing at the delay and cautiously
working for an opening, which at last presented itself, to be promptly
seized. By a sort of mutual, unspoken agreement, the men in Cowan's that
night passed up the cards and sat swapping stories. Cowan, swearing at a
smoking lamp, looked up with a grin and burned his fingers as a roar of
laughter marked the point of a droll reminiscence told by Bartlett.

"That's a good story, Bartlett," Elkins remarked, slowing refilling
his pipe. "Reminds me of the lame Greaser, Hippy Joe, an' the canned
oysters. They was both bad, an' neither of 'em knew it till they came
together. It was like this. . . ." The malicious side glance went unseen
by all but Hopalong, who stiffened with the raging suspicion of being
twitted on his own deformity. The humor of the tale failed to appeal
to him, and when his full senses returned Lucas was in the midst of
the story of the deadly game of tag played in a ten-acre lot of dense
underbrush by two of his old-time friends. It was a tale of gripping
interest and his auditors were leaning forward in their eagerness not to
miss a word. "An' Pierce won," finished Lucas; "some shot up, but able
to get about. He was all right in a couple of weeks. But he was bound to
win; he could shoot all around Sam Hopkins."

"But the best shot won't allus win in that game," commented Elkins.
"That's one of the minor factors."

"Yes, sir! It's _luck_ that counts there," endorsed Bartlett, quickly.
"Luck, nine times out of ten."

"Best shot ought to win," declared Skinny Thompson. "It ain't all luck,
nohow. Where'd I be against Hoppy, there?"

"Won't neither!" cried Johnny, excitedly. "The man who sees the other
first wins out. That's wood-craft, an' brains."

"Aw! What do you know about it, anyhow?" demanded Lucas. "If he can't
shoot so good what chance has he got--if he misses the first try, what
then?"

"What chance has he got! First chance, miss or no miss. If he can't see
the other first, where the devil does his good shooting come in?"

"Huh!" snorted Wood Wright, belligerently. "Any fool can _see_, but he
can't _shoot_! An' it's as much luck as wood-craft, too, an' don't you
forget it!"

"The first shot don't win, Johnny; not in a game like that, with all the
dodging an' ducking," remarked Red. "You can't put one where you want it
when a feller's slipping around in the brush. It's the most that counts,
an' the best shot gets in the most. I wouldn't want to have to stand up
against Hoppy an' a short gun, not in that game; no, sir!" and Red shook
his head with decision.

The argument waxed hot. With the exception of Hopalong, who sat silently
watchful, every one spoke his opinion and repeated it without regard to
the others. It appeared that in this game, the man with the strongest
lungs would eventually win out, and each man tried to show his
superiority in that line. Finally, above the uproar, Cowan's bellow was
herd, and he kept it up until some notice was taken of it. "Shut up!
_Shut up_! For God's sake, _quit_! Never saw such a bunch of tinder--let
somebody drop a cold, burned-out match in this gang, an' hell's to pay.
Here, _all_ of you, play cards an' forget about cross-tag in the scrub.
You'll be arguing about playing marbles in the dark purty soon!"

"All right," muttered Johnny, "but just the same, the man who--"

"Never mind about the man who! Did you hear _me_?" yelled Cowan, swiftly
reaching for a bucket of water. "_This_ is a game where _I_ gets the
most in, an' don't forget it!"

"Come on; play cards," growled Lucas, who did not relish having his
decision questioned on his own story. Undoubtedly somewhere in the wide,
wide world there was such a thing as common courtesy, but none of it had
ever strayed onto that range.

The chairs scraped on the rough floor as the men pulled up to a table.
"I don't care a hang," came Elkins' final comment as he shuffled the
cards with careful attention. "I'm not any fancy Colt expert, but I'm
damned if I won't take a chance in that game with any man as totes a
gun. Leastawise, of _course_, I wouldn't take no such advantage of a
lame man."

The effect would have been ludicrous but for its deadly significance.
Cowan, stooping to go under the bar, remained in that hunched-up
attitude, his every faculty concentrated in his ears; the match on its
way to the cigarette between Red's lips was held until it burned his
fingers, when it was dropped from mere reflex action, the hand still
stiffly aloft; Lucas, half in and half out of his chair, seemed to have
got just where he intended, making no effort to seat himself. Skinny
Thompson, his hand on his gun, seemed paralyzed; his mouth was open
to frame a reply that never was uttered and he stared through narrowed
eyelids at the blunderer. The sole movement in the room was the slow
rising of Hopalong and the markedly innocent shuffling of the cards by
Elkins, who appeared to be entirely ignorant of the weight and effect of
his words. He dropped the pack for the cut and then looked up and around
as if surprised by the silence and the expressions he saw.

Hopalong stood facing him, leaning over with both hands on the table.
His voice, when he spoke, rumbled up from his chest in a low growl. "You
won't _have_ no advantage, Elkins. Take it from me, you've had yore last
fling. I'm glad you made it plain, this time, so it's something I can
take hold of." He straightened slowly and walked to the door, and an
audible sigh sounded through the room as it was realized that trouble
was not immediately imminent. At the door he paused and turned back
around, looking back over his shoulder. "At noon to-morrow I'm going to
hoof it north through the brush between the river an' the river trail,
starting at the old ford a mile down the river." He waited expectantly.

"Me too--only the other way," was the instant rejoinder. "Have it yore
own way."

Hopalong nodded and the closing door shut him out into the night.
Without a word the Bar-20 men arose and followed him, the only hesitant
being Johnny, who was torn between loyalty and new-found friendship; but
with a sorrowful shake of the head, he turned away and passed out, not
far behind the others.

"Clannish, ain't they?" remarked Elkins, gravely.

Those remaining were regarding him sternly, questioningly, Cowan with
a deep frown darkening his face. "You hadn't ought to 'a' said that,
Elkins." The reproof was almost an accusation.

Elkins looked steadily at the speaker. "You hadn't ought to 'a' let me
say it," he replied. "How did I know he was so touchy?" His gaze left
Cowan and lingered in turn on each of the others. "Some of you ought to
'a' told me. I wouldn't 'a' said it only for what I said just before,
an' I didn't want him to think I was challenging him to no duel in
the brush. So I says so, an' then he goes an' takes it up that I _am_
challenging him. I ain't got no call to fight with nobody. Ain't I tried
to keep out of trouble with him ever since I've been here? Ain't I kept
out of the poker games on his account? Ain't I?" The grave, even tones
were dispassionate, without a trace of animus and serenely sure of
justice.

The faces around him cleared gradually and heads began to nod in
comprehending consent.

"Yes, I reckon you have," agreed Cowan, slowly, but the frown was not
entirely gone. "Yes, I reckon--mebby--you have."

CHAPTER XXIV

THE MASTER

It was noon by the sun when Hopalong and Red shook hands south of the
old ford and the former turned to enter the brush. Hopalong was cool
and ominously calm while his companion was the opposite. Red was frankly
suspicious of the whole affair and nursed the private opinion that Mr.
Elkins would lay in ambush and shoot his enemy down like a dog. And Red
had promised himself a dozen times that he would study the signs around
the scene of action if Hopalong should not come back, and take a keen
delight, if warranted, in shooting Mr. Elkins full of holes with no
regard for an even break. He was thinking the matter over as his friend
breasted the first line of brush and could not refrain from giving a
slight warning. "Get him, Hoppy," he called, earnestly; "get him good.
Let _him_ do some of the moving about. I'll be here waiting for you."

Hopalong smiled in reply and sprang forward, the leaves and branches
quickly shutting him from Red's sight. He had worked out his plan of
action the night before when he was alone and the world was still, and
as soon as he had it to his satisfaction he had dropped off to sleep as
easily as a child--it took more than gun-play to disturb his nerves.
He glanced about him to make sure of his bearings and then struck on a
curving line for the river. The first hundred yards were covered with
speed and then he began to move more slowly and with greater regard for
caution, keeping close to the earth and showing a marked preference for
low ground. Sky-lines were all right in times of peace, but under the
present conditions they promised to become unhealthy. His eyes and ears
told him nothing for a quarter of an hour, and then he suddenly stopped
short and crouched as he saw the plain trail of a man crossing his own
direction at a right angle. From the bottom of one of the heel prints
a crushed leaf was slowly rising back towards its original position,
telling him how new the trail was; and as if this were not enough for
his trained mind he heard a twig snap sharply as he glanced along the
line of prints. It sounded very close, and he dropped instantly to one
knee and thought quickly. Why had the other left so plain a trail, why
had he reached up and broken twigs that projected above his head as he
passed? Why had he kicked aside a small stone, leaving a patch of moist,
bleached grass to tell where it had lain? Elkins had stumbled here, but
there were no toe marks to tell of it. Hopalong would not track, for he
was no assassin; but he knew that he would do if he were, and careless.
The answer leaped to his suspicious mind like a flash, and he did not
care to waste any time in trying to determine whether or not Elkins was
capable of such a trick. He acted on the presumption that the trail
had been made plain for a good reason, and that not far ahead at some
suitable place,--and there were any number of such within a hundred
yards,--the maker of the plain trail lay in wait. Smiling savagely
he worked backward and turning, struck off in a circle. He had no
compunctions whatever now about shooting the other player of the game.
It was not long before he came upon the same trail again and he started
another circle. A bullet _zipped_ past his ear and cut a twig not two
inches from his head. He fired at the smoke as he dropped, and then
wriggled rapidly backward, keeping as flat to the earth as he could.
Elkins had taken up his position in a thicket which stood in the centre
of a level patch of sand in the old bed of the river,--the bed it had
used five years before and forsaken at the time of the big flood when it
cut itself a new channel and made the U-bend which now surrounded this
piece of land on three sides. Even now, during the rainy season,
the thicket which sheltered Mr. Elkins was frequently an island in a
sluggish, shallow overflow.

"Hole up, blast you!" jeered Hopalong, hugging the ground. The second
bullet from Mr. Elkins' gun cut another twig, this one just over his
head, and he laughed insolently. "I ain't ascared to do the moving,
even if you are. Judging from the way you keep out o' sight the canned
oysters are in the can again. _I_ never did no ambushing, you coyote."

"You can't make remarks like that an' get away with 'em--I've knowed you
too long," retorted Elkins, shifting quickly, and none too soon. "You
went an' got Slim afore he was wide awake. I know _you_, all right."

Hopalong's surprise was but momentary, and his mind raced back over the
years. Who was this man Elkins, that he knew Slim Travennes? "Yo're a
liar, Elkins, an' so was the man who told you that!"

"Call me Ewalt," jeered the other, nastily. "Nobody'll hear it, an'
you'll not live to tell it. Ewalt, Tex Ewalt; call me that."

"So you've come back after all this time to make me get you, have you?
Well, I ain't a-going to shoot no buttons off you _this_ time. I allus
reckoned you learned something at Muddy Wells--but you'll learn it
here," Hopalong rejoined, sliding into a depression, and working with
great caution towards the dry river bed, where fallen trees and hillocks
of sand provided good cover in plenty. Everything was clear now and
despite the seriousness of the situation he could not repress a smile
as he remembered vividly that day at the carnival when Tex Ewalt came to
town with the determination to kill him and show him up as an imitation.
His grievance against Elkins was petty when compared to that against
Ewalt, and he began to force the issue. As he peered over a stranded
log he caught sight of his enemy disappearing into another part of the
thicket, and two of his three shots went home. Elkins groaned with pain
and fear as he realized that his right knee-cap was broken and would
make him slow in his movements. He was lamed for life, even if he did
come out of the duel alive; lamed in the same way that Hopalong was--the
affliction he had made cruel sport of had come to him. But he had plenty
of courage and he returned the fire with remarkable quickness, his two
shots sounding almost as one.

Hopalong wiped the blood from his cheek and wormed his way to a
new place; when half way there he called out again, "How's yore
health--Tex?" in mock sympathy.

Elkins lied manfully and when he looked to get in another shot his enemy
was on the farther bank, moving up to get behind him. He did not know
Hopalong's new position until he raised his head to glance down over the
dried river bed, and was informed by a bullet that nicked his ear. As
he ducked, another grazed his head, the third going wild. He hazarded a
return shot, and heard Hopalong's laugh ring out again.

"Like the story Lucas told, the best shot is going to win out this time,
too," the Bar-20 man remarked, grimly. "You thought a game like this
would give you some chance against a better shot, didn't you? You are a
fool."

"It ain't over yet, not by a damned sight!" came the retort.

"An' you thought you had a little the best of it if you stayed still an'
let me do the moving, didn't you? You'll learn something before I get
through with you: but it'll be too late to do you any good," Hopalong
called, crouched below a hillock of sand so the other could not take
advantage of the words and single him out for a shot.

"You can't learn me nothing, you assassin; I've got my eyes open, this
time." He knew that he had had them open before, and that Hopalong was
in no way an assassin; but if he could enrage his enemy and sting him
into some reflex carelessness he might have the last laugh.

Elkins' retort was wasted, for the sudden and unusual, although a
familiar sound, had caught Hopalong's ear and he was giving all his
attention to it. While he weighed it, his incredulity holding back
the decision his common sense was striving to give him, the noise grew
louder rapidly and common sense won out in a cry of warning an instant
before a five-foot wall of brown water burst upon his sight, sweeping
swiftly down the old, dry river bed; and behind it towered another and
greater wall. Tree trunks were dancing end over end in it as if they
were straws.

"Cloud-burst!" he yelled. "Run, Tex! Run for yore life! Cloud-burst up
the valley! Run, you fool; _Run_!"

Tex's sarcastic retort was cut short as he instinctively glanced north,
and his agonized curse lashed Hopalong forward. "Can't run--knee cap's
busted! Can't swim, can't do--ah, hell--!"

Hopalong saw him torn from his shelter and whisked down the raging
torrent like an arrow from a bow. The Bar-20 puncher leaped from the
bank, shot under the yellow flood and arose, gasping and choking many
yards downstream, fighting madly to get the muddy water out of his
throat and eyes. As he struck out with all his strength down the
current, he caught sight of Tex being torn from a jutting tree limb, and
he shouted encouragement and swam all the harder, if such a thing
were possible. Tex's course was checked for a moment by a boiling
back-current and as he again felt the pull of the rushing stream
Hopalong's hand gripped his collar and the fight for safety began.
Whirled against logs and stumps, drawn down by the weight of his clothes
and the frantic efforts of Tex to grasp him--fighting the water and
the man he was trying to save at the same time, his head under water
as often as it was out of it, and Tex's vise-like fingers threatening
him--he headed for the west shore against powerful cross-currents that
made his efforts seem useless. He seemed to get the worst of every
break. Once, when caught by a friendly current, they were swung under
an overhanging branch, but as Hopalong's hand shot up to grasp it
a submerged bush caught his feet and pulled him under, and Tex's
steel-like arms around his throat almost suffocated him before he
managed to beat the other into insensibility and break the hold.

"I'll let you go!" he threatened; but his hand grasped the other's
collar all the tighter and his fighting jaw was set with greater
determination than ever.

They shot out into the main stream, where the U-bend channel joined the
short-cut, and it looked miles wide to the exhausted puncher. He was
fighting only on his will now. He would not give up, though he scarce
could lift an arm, and his lungs seemed on fire. He did not know whether
Tex was dead or alive, but he would get the body ashore with him, or
go down trying. He bumped into a log and instinctively grasped it. It
turned, and when he came up again it was bobbing five feet ahead of him.
Ages seemed to pass before he flung his numb arm over it and floated
with it. He was not alone in the flood; a coyote was pushing steadily
across his path towards the nearer bank, and on a gliding tree trunk
crouched a frightened cougar, its ears flattened and its sharp claws
dug solidly through the bark. Here and there were cattle and a snake
wriggled smoothly past him, apparently as much at home in the water as
out of it. The log turned again and he just managed to catch hold of it
as he came up for the second time.

Things were growing black before his eyes and strange, weird ideas and
images floated through his brain. When he regained some part of his
senses he saw ahead of him a long, curling crest of yellow water and
foam, and he knew, vaguely, that it was pouring over a bar. The next
instant his feet struck bottom and he fought his way blindly and slowly,
with the stubborn determination of his kind, towards the brush-covered
point twenty feet away.

When he opened his eyes and looked around he became conscious of
excruciating pains and he closed them again to rest. His outflung hand
struck something that made him look around again, and he saw Tex Ewalt,
face down at his side. He released his grasp on the other's collar and
slowly the whole thing came to him, and then the necessity for action,
unless he wished to lose what he had fought so hard to save.

Anything short of the iron man Tex had become would have been dead
before this or have been finished by the mauling he now got from
Hopalong. But Tex groaned, gurgled a curse, and finally opened his eyes
upon his rescuer, who sank back with a grunt of satisfaction. Slowly his
intelligence returned as he looked steadily into Hopalong's eyes, and