In the little town of Buckskin, known hardly more than locally, andnever thought of by outsiders except as the place where the Bar-20spent their spare time and money, and neutral ground for the surroundingranches, was Cowan's saloon, in the dozen years of its existence thescene of good stories, boisterous fun, and quick deaths. Put togetherroughly, of crude materials, sticking up in inartistic prominence on thedusty edge of a dustier street; warped, bleached by the sun, and patchedwith boards ripped from packing cases and with the flattened sides oftin cans; low of ceiling, the floor one huge brown discoloration ofspring, creaking boards, knotted and split and worn into hollows, theunpretentious building offered its hospitality to all who might betempted by the scrawled, sprawled lettering of its sign. The walls weresmoke-blackened, pitted with numerous small and clear-cut holes, anddecorated with initials carelessly cut by men who had come and gone.
Such was Cowan's, the best patronized place in many hot and dusty milesand the Mecca of the cowboys from the surrounding ranches. Often atnight these riders of the range gathered in the humble building and toldtales of exceeding interest; and on these occasions one might see arow of ponies standing before the building, heads down and quiet. It isstrange how alike cow-ponies look in the dim light of the stars. On thesouth side of the saloon, weak, yellow lamp light filtered through thedirt 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-upwas over and the last drive outfit home again, that two cow-ponies stoodin front of Cowan's while their owners lolled against the bar and talkedover the latest sensation--the fencing in of the West Valley range,and the way Hopalong Cassidy and his trail outfit had opened up the olddrive trail across it. The news was a month old, but it was the lastevent of any importance and was still good to laugh over.
"Boys," remarked the proprietor, "I want you to meet Mr. Elkins. He camedown that trail last week, an' he didn't see no fence across it." Theman 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 thecountry, 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 thehouse.
Mr. Elkins touched the glass to his bearded lips and set it downuntasted while he joked over the sharp rebuff so lately administered towire fences in that part of the country. While he was an ex-cow-puncherhe believed that he was above allowing prejudice to sway his judgment,and it was his opinion, after careful thought, that barb wire washarmful to the best interests of the range. He had ridden over a greatpart of the cattle country in the last few yeas, and after reviewingthe existing conditions as he understood them, his verdict must go asstated, and emphatically. He launched gracefully into a slowlydelivered and lengthy discourse upon the subject, which proved to beso entertaining that his companions were content to listen and nod withcomprehension. They had never met any one who was so well qualifiedto discuss the pros and cons of the barb-wire fence question, and theylearned many things which they had never heard before. This was verygratifying to Mr. Elkins, who drew largely upon hearsay, his own vividimagination, and a healthy logic. He was very glad to talk to men whohad the welfare of the range at heart, and he hoped soon to meet theman who had taken the initiative in giving barb wire its first serioussetback on that rich and magnificent southern range.
"You shore ought to meet Cassidy--he's a fine man," remarked Lucas withenthusiasm. "You'll not find any better, no matter where you look. Butyou ain't touched yore liquor," he finished with surprise.
"You'll have to excuse me, gentlemen," replied Mr. Elkins, smilingdeprecatingly. "When a man likes it as much as I do it ain't very easyto foller instructions an' let it alone. Sometimes I almost break loosean' indulge, regardless of whether it kills me or not. I reckon it'llget 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'tso very much taken with it, but I know I would be if I knowed I couldn'thave any."
"Yes, that's human nature, all right," laughed Lucas. "That reminds meof a little thing that happened to me once--"
"Listen!" exclaimed Cowan, holding up his hand for silence. "I reckonthat's the Bar-20 now, or some of it--sounds like them when they'refeeling frisky. There's allus something happening when them fellers arearound."
The proprietor was right, as proved a moment later when Johnny Nelson,continuing his argument, pushed open the door and entered the room. "Ididn't neither; an' you know it!" he flung over his shoulder.
"Then who did?" demanded Hopalong, chuckling. "Why, hullo, boys," hesaid, nodding to his friends at the bar. "Nobody else would do a foolthing 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 BillyWilliams, 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 andWright.
"I reckon we have--an' our credit's good if we ain't. We're good for adollar or two, ain't we, Cowan?" replied Lucas.
"Two dollars an' four bits," corrected Cowan. "I'll raise it to threedollars 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 WoodWright, turning. "They won't give us no peace till we take all theirmoney away from 'em."
"Open game," prompted Cowan, glancing meaningly at Elkins, who stood byidly 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 gamebest--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, andstudying him closely. He found no changes, for the few years had leftno trace of their passing on the Bar-20 puncher. The sensation of facingthe man he had come south expressly to kill did not interfere withElkins' card-playing ability for he played a good game; and as if theFates were with him it was Hopalong's night off as far as poker wasconcerned, for his customary good luck was not in evidence. Thatinstinctive feeling which singles out two duellists in a card gamewas soon experienced by the others, who were careful, as became goodplayers, to avoid being caught between them; in consequence, when thegame broke up, Elkins had most of Hopalong's money. At one period of hislife Elkins had lived on poker for five years, and lived well. But hegained more than money in this game, for he had made friends with theplayers and placed the first wire of his trap. Of those in the roomHopalong alone treated him with reserve, and this was cleverly swung sothat it appeared to be caused by a temporary grouch due to the sting ofdefeat. As the Bar-20 man was known to be given to moods at times thiswas accepted as the true explanation and gave promise of hotly contestedgames for revenge later on. The banter which the defeated puncher had toendure stirred him and strengthened the reserve, although he was carefulnot to show it.
When the last man rode off, Elkins and the proprietor sought their bunkswithout delay, the former to lie awake a long time, thinking deeply.He was vexed at himself for failing to work out an acceptable planof action, one th
at would show him to be in the right. He would gainnothing more than glory, and pay too dearly for it, if he killedHopalong and was in turn killed by the dead man's friends--andhe believed that he had become acquainted with the quality of thefriendship which bound the units of the Bar-20 outfit into a smooth,firm whole. They were like brothers, like one man. Cassidy must do theforcing as far as appearances went, and be clearly in the wrong beforethe matter could be settled.
The next week was a busy one for Elkins, every day finding him in thesaddle and riding over some one of the surrounding ranches with one ormore of its punchers for company. In this way he became acquainted withthe men who might be called on to act as his jury when the showdowncame, and he proceeded to make friends of them in a manner that promisedsuccess. And some of his suggestions for the improvement of certainconditions on the range, while they might not work out right in thelong run, compelled thought and showed his interest. His remarks on thecondition and numbers of cattle were the same in substance in all casesand showed that he knew what he was talking about, for the punchers wereall very optimistic about the next year's showing in cattle.
"If you fellers don't break all records for drive herds of quality nextyear I don't know nothing about cows; an' I shore don't know nothingelse," he told the foreman of the Bar-20, as they rode homeward after aninspection of that ranch. "There'll be more dust hanging over thedrive trails leading from this section next year when spring dropsthe barriers than ever before. You needn't fear for the market,neither--prices will stand. The north an' central ranges ain't doingwhat 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 theresult of thought and study based on the observations he had made on hisride south, and from what he had learned from others along the way.It paralleled Buck's own private opinion, especially in regard tothe southern range; and the vague suspicions in the foreman's minddisappeared for good and all.
Needless to say Elkins was a welcome visitor at the ranch houses and wasregarded as a good fellow. At the Bar-20 he found only two men whowould not thaw to him, and he was possessed of too much tact to tryany persuasive measures. One was Hopalong, whose original cold reserveseemed to be growing steadily, the Bar-20 puncher finding in Elkinsa personality that charged the atmosphere with hostility and quietlyrubbed him the wrong way. Whenever he was in the presence of thenewcomer he felt the tugging of an irritating and insistent antagonismand he did not always fully conceal it. John Bartlett, Lucas, and oneor two of the more observing had noticed it and they began to prophesyfuture trouble between the two. The other man who disliked Elkins wasRed Connors; but what was more natural? Red, being Hopalong's closestcompanion, would be very apt to share his friend's antipathy. On theother hand, as if to prove Hopalong's dislike to be unwarranted, JohnnyNelson swung far to the other extreme and was frankly enthusiastic inhis liking for the cattle scout. And Johnny did not pour oil on thewaters when he laughingly twitted Hopalong for allowing "a lickingat cards to make him sore." This was the idea that Elkins was quietlystriving to have generally accepted.
The affair thus hung fire, Elkins chafing at the delay and cautiouslyworking for an opening, which at last presented itself, to be promptlyseized. By a sort of mutual, unspoken agreement, the men in Cowan's thatnight passed up the cards and sat swapping stories. Cowan, swearing at asmoking lamp, looked up with a grin and burned his fingers as a roar oflaughter marked the point of a droll reminiscence told by Bartlett.
"That's a good story, Bartlett," Elkins remarked, slowing refillinghis pipe. "Reminds me of the lame Greaser, Hippy Joe, an' the cannedoysters. They was both bad, an' neither of 'em knew it till they cametogether. It was like this. . . ." The malicious side glance went unseenby all but Hopalong, who stiffened with the raging suspicion of beingtwitted on his own deformity. The humor of the tale failed to appealto him, and when his full senses returned Lucas was in the midst ofthe story of the deadly game of tag played in a ten-acre lot of denseunderbrush by two of his old-time friends. It was a tale of grippinginterest and his auditors were leaning forward in their eagerness not tomiss a word. "An' Pierce won," finished Lucas; "some shot up, but ableto get about. He was all right in a couple of weeks. But he was bound towin; 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 otherfirst wins out. That's wood-craft, an' brains."
"Aw! What do you know about it, anyhow?" demanded Lucas. "If he can'tshoot so good what chance has he got--if he misses the first try, whatthen?"
"What chance has he got! First chance, miss or no miss. If he can't seethe other first, where the devil does his good shooting come in?"
"Huh!" snorted Wood Wright, belligerently. "Any fool can _see_, but hecan't _shoot_! An' it's as much luck as wood-craft, too, an' don't youforget it!"
"The first shot don't win, Johnny; not in a game like that, with all thedodging an' ducking," remarked Red. "You can't put one where you want itwhen 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 upagainst Hoppy an' a short gun, not in that game; no, sir!" and Red shookhis head with decision.
The argument waxed hot. With the exception of Hopalong, who sat silentlywatchful, every one spoke his opinion and repeated it without regard tothe others. It appeared that in this game, the man with the strongestlungs would eventually win out, and each man tried to show hissuperiority in that line. Finally, above the uproar, Cowan's bellow washerd, 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--letsomebody 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, swiftlyreaching for a bucket of water. "_This_ is a game where _I_ gets themost in, an' don't forget it!"
"Come on; play cards," growled Lucas, who did not relish having hisdecision questioned on his own story. Undoubtedly somewhere in the wide,wide world there was such a thing as common courtesy, but none of it hadever 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 thecards with careful attention. "I'm not any fancy Colt expert, but I'mdamned if I won't take a chance in that game with any man as totes agun. Leastawise, of _course_, I wouldn't take no such advantage of alame man."
The effect would have been ludicrous but for its deadly significance.Cowan, stooping to go under the bar, remained in that hunched-upattitude, his every faculty concentrated in his ears; the match on itsway to the cigarette between Red's lips was held until it burned hisfingers, when it was dropped from mere reflex action, the hand stillstiffly aloft; Lucas, half in and half out of his chair, seemed to havegot just where he intended, making no effort to seat himself. SkinnyThompson, his hand on his gun, seemed paralyzed; his mouth was opento frame a reply that never was uttered and he stared through narrowedeyelids at the blunderer. The sole movement in the room was the slowrising of Hopalong and the markedly innocent shuffling of the cards byElkins, who appeared to be entirely ignorant of the weight and effect ofhis words. He dropped the pack for the cut and then looked up and aroundas 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. "Youwon't _have_ no advantage, Elkin
s. Take it from me, you've had yore lastfling. I'm glad you made it plain, this time, so it's something I cantake hold of." He straightened slowly and walked to the door, and anaudible sigh sounded through the room as it was realized that troublewas not immediately imminent. At the door he paused and turned backaround, looking back over his shoulder. "At noon to-morrow I'm going tohoof 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 yoreown 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 hesitantbeing Johnny, who was torn between loyalty and new-found friendship; butwith a sorrowful shake of the head, he turned away and passed out, notfar behind the others.
"Clannish, ain't they?" remarked Elkins, gravely.
Those remaining were regarding him sternly, questioningly, Cowan witha 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 mesay it," he replied. "How did I know he was so touchy?" His gaze leftCowan 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 inthe 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 triedto keep out of trouble with him ever since I've been here? Ain't I keptout of the poker games on his account? Ain't I?" The grave, even toneswere dispassionate, without a trace of animus and serenely sure ofjustice.
The faces around him cleared gradually and heads began to nod incomprehending consent.
"Yes, I reckon you have," agreed Cowan, slowly, but the frown was notentirely gone. "Yes, I reckon--mebby--you have."