On the Cowboy's Trail: Western Boxed-Set. Coolidge Dane

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СКАЧАТЬ it with a nicely calculated bite, he bore it to the middle of the floor and laid it down, uninjured.

      “Ain’t he hell, though?” inquired Tex, rolling his eyes upon the spectators. The cat reached out cautiously and stirred it up with his paw; and once more, as his victim dashed for its hole, he caught it in full flight. But now the little mouse, its hair all wet and rumpled, crouched dumbly between the feet of its captor and would not run. Again and again the cat stirred it up, sniffing suspiciously to make sure it was not dead; then in a last effort to tempt it he deliberately lay over on his back and rolled, purring and closing his eyes luxuriously, until, despite its hurts, the mouse once more took to flight. Apparently unheeding, the cat lay inert, following its wobbly course with half-shut eyes –– then, lithe as a panther, he leaped up and took after it. There was a rush and a scramble against the wall, but just as he struck out his barbed claw a hand closed over the mouse and the little man on the bench whisked it dexterously away.

      Instantly the black cat leaped into the air, clamoring for his prey, and with a roar like a mountain bull Black Tex rushed out to intercede.

      “Put down that mouse, you freak!” he bellowed, charging across the room. “Put ’im down, I say, or I’ll break you in two!” He launched his heavy fist as he spoke, but the little man ducked it neatly and, stepping behind a table, stood at bay, still holding the mouse.

      “Put ’im down, I tell you!” shouted the barkeeper, panting with vexation. “What –– you won’t, eh? Well, I’ll learn you!” And with a wicked oath he drew his revolver and levelled it across the table.

      “Put –– down –– that –– mouse!” he said slowly and distinctly, but Hardy only shook his head. Every man in the room held his breath for the report; the poker players behind fell over tables and chairs to get out of range; and still they stood there, the barkeeper purple, the little man very pale, glaring at one another along the top of the barrel. In the hollow of his hand Hardy held the mouse, which tottered drunkenly; while the cat, still clamoring for his prize, raced about under the table, bewildered.

      “Hurry up, now,” said the barkeeper warningly, “I’ll give you five. One –– come on, now –– two –– ”

      At the first count the old defiance leaped back into Hardy’s eyes and he held the mouse to his bosom as a mother might shield her child; at the second he glanced down at it, a poor crushed thing trembling as with an ague from its wounds; then, smoothing it gently with his hand, he pinched its life out suddenly and dropped it on the floor.

      Instantly the cat pounced upon it, nosing the body eagerly, and Black Tex burst into a storm of oaths.

      “Well, dam’ your heart,” he yelled, raising his pistol in the air as if about to throw the muzzle against his breast and fire. “What –– in –– hell –– do you mean?”

      Baffled and evaded in every play the evil-eyed barkeeper suddenly sensed a conspiracy to show him up, and instantly the realization of his humiliation made him dangerous.

      “Perhaps you figure on makin’ a monkey out of me!” he suggested, hissing snakelike through his teeth; but Hardy made no answer whatever.

      “Well, say something, can’t you?” snapped the badman, his overwrought nerves jangled by the delay. “What d’ye mean by interferin’ with my cat?”

      For a minute the stranger regarded him intently, his sad, far-seeing eyes absolutely devoid of evil intent, yet baffling in their inscrutable reserve –– then he closed his lips again resolutely, as if denying expression to some secret that lay close to his heart, turning it with undue vehemence to the cause of those who suffer and cannot escape.

      “Well, f’r Gawd’s sake,” exclaimed Black Tex at last, lowering his gun in a pet, “don’t I git no satisfaction –– what’s your i-dee?”

      “There’s too much of this cat-and-mouse business going on,” answered the little man quietly, “and I don’t like it.”

      “Oh, you don’t, eh?” echoed the barkeeper sarcastically; “well, excuse me! I didn’t know that.” And with a bow of exaggerated politeness he retired to his place.

      “The drinks are on the house,” he announced, jauntily strewing the glasses along the bar. “Won’t drink, eh? All right. But lemme tell you, pardner,” he added, wagging his head impressively, “you’re goin’ to git hurt some day.”

      CHAPTER II

       THE MAN FROM CHERRYCOW

       Table of Contents

      After lashing the desert to a frazzle and finding the leaks in the Hotel Bender, the wind from Papaguería went howling out over the mesa, still big with rain for the Four Peaks country, and the sun came out gloriously from behind the clouds. Already the thirsty sands had sucked up the muddy pools of water, and the board walk which extended the length of the street, connecting saloon with saloon and ending with the New York Store, smoked with the steam of drying. Along the edge of the walk, drying out their boots in the sun, the casual residents of the town –– many of them held up there by the storm –– sat in pairs and groups, talking or smoking in friendly silence. A little apart from the rest, for such as he are a long time making friends in Arizona, Rufus Hardy sat leaning against a post, gazing gloomily out across the desert. For a quiet, retiring young man, interested in good literature and bearing malice toward no one, his day in the Bender barroom had been eventful out of all proportion to his deserts and wishes, and he was deep in somber meditation when the door opened and Judge Ware stepped out into the sunshine.

      In outward appearance the judge looked more like a large fresh-faced boy in glasses than one of San Francisco’s eminent jurists, and the similarity was enhanced by the troubled and deprecating glances with which he regarded his foreman, who towered above him like a mentor. There was a momentary conference between them at the doorway, and then, as Creede stumped away down the board walk, the judge turned and reluctantly approached Hardy.

      “I beg your pardon, sir,” he began, as the young man in some confusion rose to meet him, “but I should like a few words with you, on a matter of business. I am Mr. Ware, the owner of the Dos S Ranch –– perhaps you may have heard of it –– over in the Four Peaks country. Well –– I hardly know how to begin –– but my foreman, Mr. Creede, was highly impressed with your conduct a short time ago in the –– er –– affray with the barkeeper. I –– er –– really know very little as to the rights of the matter, but you showed a high degree of moral courage, I’m sure. Would you mind telling me what your business is in these parts, Mr. –– er –– ”

      “Hardy,” supplied the young man quietly, “Rufus Hardy. I am –– ”

      “Er –– what?” exclaimed the judge, hastily focussing his glasses. “Hardy –– Hardy –– where have I heard that name before?”

      “I suppose from your daughter, Miss Lucy,” replied the young man, smiling at his confusion. “Unless,” he added hastily, “she has forgotten about me.”

      “Why, Rufus Hardy!” exclaimed the judge, reaching out his hand. “Why, bless my heart –– to be sure. Why, where have you been for this last year and more? I am sure your father has been quite worried about you.”

      “Oh, I hope not,” answered СКАЧАТЬ