Hopalong Cassidys Rustler Round-Up | Page 7

to ask me any more?" queried
the placid James, paternally.
"Call `em off, sonny. Pete sez he kin clean me out. Anyhow, yu kin
have the fust deal," compromised Lanky.
"I'm shore sorry fer Pete if he cayn't. Yu don't reckon I has to have fust
deal to beat yu fellers, do yu? Go way an' lemme alone; I never seed
such a bunch fer buttin' in as yu fellers."
Billy Williams returned to the bar. Then he walked along it until he was
behind the recalcitrant possessor of the table. While his aggrieved
friends shuffled their feet uneasily to cover his approach, he tiptoed up
behind Jimmy and, with a nod, grasped that indignant individual firmly
by the neck while the others grabbed his feet. They carried him,
twisting and bucking, to the middle of the street and deposited him in
the dust, returning to the now vacant table.
Jimmy rested quietly for a few seconds and then slowly arose, dusting
the alkali from him.
"Th' wall-eyed piruts," he muttered, and then scratched his head for a

way to "play hunk." As he gazed sorrowfully at the saloon he heard a
snicker from behind him. He, thinking it was one of his late tormentors,
paid no attention to it. Then a cynical, biting laugh stung him. He
wheeled, to see Shorty leaning against a tree, a sneering leer on his
flushed face. Shorty's right hand was suspended above his holster,
hooked to his belt by the thumb-a favorite position of his when
expecting trouble.
"One of yore reg'lar habits?" he drawled.
Jimmy began to dust himself in silence, but his lips were compressed to
a thin white line.
"Does they hurt yu?" pursued the onlooker.
Jimmy looked up. "I heard tell that they make glue outen cayuses,
sometimes," he remarked.
Shorty's eyes flashed. The loss of the horse had been rankling in his
heart all day.
"Does they git yu frequent?" he asked. His voice sounded hard.
"Oh, `bout as frequent as yu lose a cayuse, I reckon," replied Jimmy
hotly.
Shorty's hand streaked to his holster and Jimmy followed his lead.
Jimmy's Colt was caught. He had bucked too much. As he fell Shorty
ran for the Houston House.
Pistol shots were common, for they were the universal method of
expressing emotions. The poker players grinned, thinking their victim
was letting off his indignation. Lanky sized up his hand and remarked
half audibly, "He's a shore good kid."
The bartender, fearing for his new beveled, gilt-framed mirror, gave a
hasty glance out the window. He turned around, made change and
remarked to Buck, "Yore kid, Jimmy, is plugged." Several of the more
credulous craned their necks to see, Buck being the first. "Judas!" he
shouted, and ran out to where Jimmy lay coughing, his toes twitching.
The saloon was deserted and a crowd of angry cowboys surrounded
their chum-aboy. Buck had seen Shorty enter the door of the Houston
House and he swore. "Chase them C 80 and Arrow cayuses behind the
saloon, Pete, an' git under cover.
Jimmy was choking and he coughed up blood. "He's shore- got me.
My- gun stuck," he added apologetically. He tried to sit up, but was not
able and he looked surprised. "It's purty- damn hot-out here," he

suggested. Johnny and Billy carried him in the saloon and placed him
by the table, in the chair he had previously vacated. As they stood up he
fell across the table and died.
Billy placed the dead boy's sombrero on his head and laid the refractory
six-shooter on the table. "I wonder who th' dirty killer was." He looked
at the slim figure and started to go out, followed by Johnny. As he
reached the threshold a bullet zipped past him and thudded into the
frame of the door. He backed away and looked surprised. "That's
Shorty's shootin'-he allus misses `bout that much." He looked out and
saw Buck standing behind the live oak that Shorty had leaned against,
firing at the hotel. Turning around he made for the rear, remarking to
Johnny that "they's in th' Houston." Johnny looked at the quiet figure in
the chair and swore softly. He followed Billy. Cowan, closing the door
and taking a buffalo gun from under the bar, went out also and
slammed the rear door forcibly.


CHAPTER III
The Argument
Up the street two hundred yards from the Houston House Skinny and
Pete lay hidden behind a bowlder. Three hundred yards on the other
side of the hotel Johnny and Billy were stretched out in an arroyo. Buck
was lying down now, and Hopalong, from his position in the barn
belonging to the hotel, was methodically dropping the horses of the
besieged, a job he hated as much as he hated poison. The corral