The Cowboy MEGAPACK ®. Owen Wister

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СКАЧАТЬ gradually ceased and the remnant of the herd paused, undecided whether to stop or go on. He flung himself at it and by driving cleverly managed to start a number of cows to milling, which soon had the rest following suit. The stampede was over. A cursing blot emerged from the darkness and hailed. It was Lanky, coldly ferocious. He had not heard Jimmy for a long time and feared that the boy might be lying out on the black plain, trampled into a shapeless mass of flesh. One stumble in front of the charging herd would have been sufficient.

      Daylight disclosed the missing Jimmy hobbling toward the breakfast fire at the cook wagon. He was bruised and bleeding and covered with dirt, his clothes ripped and covered with mud; and every bone and muscle in his body was alive with pain.

      The Diamond Bar’s second squad had ridden in to breakfast when a horseman was seen approaching at a leisurely lope. Sam, cursing hotly, instinctively fumbled at the gun he wore at his thigh in defiance to his belief concerning the wearing of guns. He blinked anxiously as the puncher stopped at the wagon and smiled a heavy-eyed salutation. The night boss emerged from the shelter of the wagon and grinned a sheepish welcome. “Well, Cassidy, you fellers got th’ trail somehow. We was some surprised when we hit your trail. How you makin’ it?”

      “All right, up to last night,” replied Hopalong, shaking hands with the night boss. “Got a match, Barnes?” he asked, holding up an unlighted cigarette. They talked of things connected with the drive and Hopalong cautiously swung the conversation around to mishaps, mentioning several catastrophes of past years. After telling of a certain stampede he had once seen, he turned to Barnes and asked a blunt question. “What would you do to anybody as stampeded your stragglers within a mile of th’ main herd on a stormy night?” The answer was throaty and rumbling. “Why, shoot him, I reckon.” The others intruded their ideas and Crawford squirmed, his hand seeking his gun under the pretense of tightening his belt.

      * * * *

      Hopalong arose and went to his horse, where a large bundle of canvas was strapped behind the saddle. He loosened it and unrolled it on the ground. “Ever see this afore, boys?” he asked, stepping back. Barnes leaped to his feet with an ejaculation of surprise and stared at the canvas. “Where’d you git it?” he demanded. “That’s our old wagon cover!”

      Hopalong, ignoring Crawford, looked around the little group and smiled grimly. “Well, last night our stragglers was stampeded. Lanky told me he saw somethin’ gray blow past him in th’ darkness, an’ then th’ herd started. We managed to turn it from th’ trail an’ so it didn’t set off our main herd. Jimmy was near killed—well, you know what it is to ride afore stampeded cows. I found this cover blowed agin’ a li’l clump of trees, an’ when I sees your mark, I reckoned I ought to bring it back.” He dug into his pocket and brought out a heavy clasp knife. “I just happened to see this not far from where th’ herd started from, so I reckoned I’d return it, too.” He held it out to Barnes, who took it with an oath and wheeled like a flash to face his employer.

      Crawford was backing toward the wagon, his hand resting on the butt of his gun, and a whiteness of face told of the fear that gripped him. “I’ll take my time, right now,” growled Barnes. “Damned if I works another day for a low-lived coyote that’d do a thing like that!” The punchers behind him joined in and demanded their wages. Hopalong, still smiling, waved his hand and spoke. “Don’t leave him with all these cows on his hands, out here on the range. If you quits him, wait till you get to Sandy Creek. He ain’t no man, he ain’t; he’s a nasty li’l brat of a kid that couldn’t never grow up into a man. So, that bein’ true, he ain’t goin’ to get handled like a man. I’m goin’ to lick him, ’stead of shootin’ him like he was a man. You know,” he smiled, glancing around the little circle, “us cow-punchers don’t never carry guns. We don’t swear, nor wear chaps, even if all of us has got ’em on right now. We say ‘please’ an’ ‘thank you’ an’ never get mad. Not never wearin’ a gun I can’t shoot him; but, by God, I can lick him th’ worst he’s ever been licked, an’ I’m goin’ to do it right now.” He wheeled to start after the still-backing cow-man, and leaped sideways as a cloud of smoke swirled around his hips. Crawford screamed with fear and pain as his Colt tore loose from his fingers and dropped near the wheel of the wagon. Terror gripped him and made him incapable of flight. Who was this man, what was he, when he could draw and fire with such speed and remarkable accuracy? Crawford’s gun had been half raised before the other had seen it. And before his legs could perform one of their most cherished functions the limping cow-puncher was on him, doing his best to make good his promise. The other half of the Diamond Bar drive crew, attracted by the commotion at the chuck wagon, rode in with ready guns, saw their friends making no attempt at interference, asked a few terse questions and, putting up their guns, forthwith joined the circle of interested and pleased spectators to root with them for the limping redhead.

      * * * *

      Red, back at the Bar-20 wagon, inquired of Cookie the whereabouts of Hopalong. Cookie, still smarting under Jimmy’s galling fire of language, grunted ignorance and a wish. Ned looked at him, scowling. “You can talk to th’ kid like that, mebby; but you get a civil tongue in your head when any of us grown-ups ask questions.” He turned on his heel, looked searchingly around the plain and mounting, returned to the herd, perplexed and vexed. As he left the camp, Jimmy hobbled around the wagon and stared after him. “Kid!” he snorted. “Grown-ups!” he sneered. “Huh!” He turned and regarded Cookie evilly. “Yo’re gonna get a good lickin’ when I get so I can move better,” he promised. Cookie lifted the red flannel dish-rag out of the pan and regarded it thoughtfully. “You better wait,” he agreed pleasantly. “You can’t run now. I’m honin’ for to drape this mop all over your wall-eyed face; but I can wait.” He sighed and went back to work. “Wish Red would shove you in with th’ rest of th’ cripples back yonder, an’ get you off’n my frazzled nerves.”

      Jimmy shook his head sorrowfully and limped around the wagon again, where he resumed his sun bath. He dozed off and was surprised to be called for dinner. As he arose, grunting and growling, he chanced to look westward, and his shout apprised his friends of the return of the missing redhead.

      Hopalong dismounted at the wagon and grinned cheerfully, despite the suspicious marks on his face. Giving an account of events as they occurred at the Diamond Bar chuck wagon, he wound up with: “Needn’t push on so hard, Red. Crawford’s herd is due to stay right where it is an’ graze peaceful for a week. I heard Barnes give th’ order before I left. How’s things been out here while I was away?”

      Red glared at him, ready to tell his opinion of reckless fools that went up against a gun-packing outfit alone when his friends had never been known to refuse to back up one of their outfit. The words hung on his lips as he waited for a chance to launch them. But when that chance came he had been disarmed by the cheerfulness of his happy friend. “Hoppy,” he said, trying to be severe, “yo’re nothin’ but a crazy damned fool. But what did they say when you started for huffy Sam like that?”

      THIEVES OF BLACK ROCK DESERT, by Bill Anson

      The freckled wagon-yard boy gave “Music” Stevens first warning that two guntoting hombres were looking longingly at his four buckskin cayuses, which were the last of a string of eight ponies brought to Saltville for sale.

      “Them two gents were down at the corral examinin’ the buckskins and talkin’ low and sneaky-like,” said the snub-nosed boy in patched overalls. “Mebbe you remember ’em. One is tall and skinny, with checked pants and red silk shirt. The other is wearin’ a black shirt, chaps, and hat. He’s bald as an egg. They’re both wearin’ two guns and are tough.”

      “They called theirselves Stick Wiley and Keno Strudder in the town cook shack last night,” Music said. “Thanks for lookin’ after me, Stubby. Here’s four-bits for your trouble.”

      “I СКАЧАТЬ