Hopalong Cassidys Rustler Round-Up | Page 9

"Three," he called. "How many, Hoppy?"
"One. That's four. Wonder if th' others got any?"
"Pete said Skinny got one," replied the intent Buck.
"Th' son-of-a-gun, he never said nothin' about it, an' me a fillin' his
ornery paws with smokin'." Hopalong was indignant.
"Bet yu ten we don't git `em afore dark," he announced.
"Got yu. Go yu ten more I gits another," promptly responded Buck.
"That's a shore cinch. Make her twenty."
"She is."
"Yu'll have to square it with Skinny, he shore wanted Shorty plum' bad,
"Hopalong informed the unerring marksman.
"Why didn't he say suthin' about it? Anyhow, Jimmy was my bunkie."
Hopalong's cigarette disintegrated and the board at his left received a
hole. He promptly disappeared and Buck laughed. He sat up in the loft
and angrily spat the soaked paper out from between his lips.

"All that trouble fer nothin', th' white-eyed coyote," he muttered. Then
he crawled around to one side and fired at the center of his "C."
Another shot hurtled at him and his left arm fell to his side. "That's
funny-wonder where th' damn pirut is? "He looked out cautiously and
saw a cloud of smoke over a knothole which was situated close up
under the eaves of the barroom; and it was being agitated. Some one
was blowing at it to make it disappear. He aimed very carefully at the
knot and fired. He heard a sound between a curse and a squawk and
was not molested any further from that point.
"I knowed he'd git hurt," he explained to the bandage, torn from the
edge of his kerchief, which he carefully bound around his last wound.
Down in the arroyo Johnny was complaining.
"This yer's a no good bunk," he plaintively remarked.
"It shore ain't-but it's th' best we kin find," apologized Billy.
"That's th' sixth that feller sent up there. He's a damn poor shot,"
observed Johnny; "must be Shorty."
"Shorty kin shoot plum' good-tain't him," contradicted Billy.
"Yas-with a six-shooter. He's off'n his feed with a rifle," explained
Johnny.
"Yu wants to stay down from up there, yu ijit," warned Billy as the
disgusted Johnny crawled up the bank. He slid down again with a welt
on his neck.
"That's somebody else now. He oughter a done better'n that, "he said.
Billy had fired as Johnny started to slide and he smoothed his aggrieved
chum. "He could onct, yu means."
"Did yu git him?" asked the anxious Johnny, rubbing his welt. "Plum'
center," responded the business-like Billy. "Go up agin, mebby I kin git
another," he suggested tentatively.

"Mebby you kin go to blazes. I ain't no gallery," grinned the now
exuberant owner of the welt.
"Who's got the buffalo?" he inquired as the great gun roared.
"Mus' be Cowan. He's shore all right. Sounds like a bloomin' cannon,"
replied Billy. "Lemme alone with yore fool questions, I'm busy," he
complained as his talkative partner started to ask another. "Go an' git
me some water-I'm alkalied. An' git some .45's, mine's purty near
gone."
Johnny crawled down the arroyo and reappeared at Hopalong's barn.
As he entered the door a handful of empty shells fell on his hat and
dropped to the floor. He shook his head and remarked, "That mus' be
that fool Hopalong."
"Yore shore right. How's business?" inquired the festive Cassidy.
"Purty fair. Billy's got one. How many's gone?"
"Buck's got three, I got two and Skinny's got one. That's six, an' Billy is
seven. They's five more," he replied.
"How'd yu know?" queried Johnny as he filled his flask at the horse
trough.
"Because they's twelve cayuses behind the hotel. That's why."
"They might git away on `em," suggested the practical Johnny.
"Can't. They's all cashed in."
"Yu said that they's five left," ejaculated the puzzled water carrier.
"Yah; yore a smart cuss, ain't yu?"
Johnny grinned and then said, "Got any smokin'? "Hopalong looked
grieved. "I ain't no store. Why don't yu git generous and buy some?"

He partially filled Johnny's hand, and as he put the sadly depleted bag
away he inquired, "Got any papers?"
"Nope."
"Got any matches? "he asked cynically.
"Nope."
"Kin yu smoke `em?" he yelled, indignantly.
"Shore nuff," placidly replied the unruffled Johnny. "Billy wants
some .45-70's."
Hopalong gasped. "Don't he want my gun, too?"
"Nope. Got a better one. Hurry up, he'll git mad." Hopalong was a very
methodical person. He was the only one of his crowd to carry a second
cartridge strap. It hung over his right shoulder and rested on his left hip.
His waist belt held thirty cartridges for the revolvers. He extracted
twenty from that part of the shoulder strap hardest to get at, the back,
by simply pulling it over his shoulder and plucking out the bullets as
they came into reach.