Clarence E. Mulford_Hopalong Cassidy 04 (2 page)

The bartender, grasping the mallet even more firmly, arose on his toes
and peered over the bar, not quite sure of what he might discover. He
had read of infernal machines although he had never seen one. "What the
blazes!" he exclaimed in almost a whisper; and then his face went hard.
"You get out of here, quick! You've had too much already! I've seen
drunks, but—G'wan! Get out!"

"But we ain't begun yet," Hopalong interposed hastily. "You see—"

"Never mind what I see! I'd hate to see what you'll be seeing before
long. God help you when you finish!" rather impolitely interrupted the
bartender. He waved the mallet and made for the end of the counter with
no hesitancy and lots of purpose in his stride. "G'wan, now! Get out!"

"Come on, Johnny; I'd shoot him only we didn't put no powder with the
shot," Hopalong remarked sadly, leading the way out of the saloon and
towards the hardware store.

"You better get out!" shouted the man with the mallet, waving the weapon
defiantly. "An' don't you never come back again, neither," he warned.

"Hey, it leaked," Hopalong said pleasantly as he closed the door of the
hardware store behind him, whereupon the clerk jumped and reached for
the sawed-off shotgun behind the counter. Sawed-off shotguns are great
institutions for arguing at short range, almost as effective as dynamite
in clearing away obstacles.

"Don't you come no nearer!" he cried, white of face. "You git out, or
I'll let
this
leak, an' give you
all
shot, an' more than you can
carry!"

"Easy! Easy there, pardner; we want them wedges," Hopalong replied,
somewhat hurriedly. "The others ain't no good; I choked on the very
first screw. Why, I wouldn't hurt you for the world," Hopalong assured
him, gazing interestedly down the twin tunnels.

Johnny leaned over a nail keg and loosed the shot and screws into it,
smiling with childlike simplicity as he listened to the tintinnabulation
of the metal shower among the nails. "It
does
drop when you let go of
it," he observed.

"Didn't I tell you it would? I allus said so," replied Hopalong, looking
back to the clerk and the shotgun. "Didn't I, stranger?"

The clerk's reply was a guttural rumbling, ninety per cent profanity,
and Hopalong, nodding wisely, picked up two wedges. "Johnny, here's yore
gun. If this man will stop talking to hisself and drop that lead-sprayer
long enough to take our good money, we'll wear em."

He tossed a gold coin on the table, and the clerk, still holding tightly
to the shotgun, tossed the coin into the cash box and cautiously
slid the change across the counter. Hopalong picked up the money and,
emptying his holster into the nail keg, followed his companion to
the street, in turn followed slowly by the suspicious clerk. The door
slammed shut behind them, the bolt shot home, and the clerk sat down on
a box and cogitated.

Hopalong hooked his arm through Johnny's and started down the street. "I
wonder what that feller thinks about us, anyhow. I'm glad Buck sent Red
over to El Paso instead of us. Won't he be mad when we tell him all the
fun we've had?" he asked, grinning broadly.

They were to meet Red at Dent's store on the way back and ride home
together.

They were strangely clad for their surroundings, the chaps glaringly out
of place in the Seaman's Port, and winks were exchanged by the regular
habitues
when the two punchers entered the room and called for drinks.
They were very tired and a little under the weather, for they had made
the most of their time and spent almost all of their money; but any one
counting on robbing them would have found them sober enough to look out
for themselves. Night had found them ready to go to the hotel, but on
the way they felt that they must have one more bracer, and finish their
exploration of Jeremiah T. Jones' tabooed section. The town had begun to
grow wearisome and they were vastly relieved when they realized that the
rising sun would see them in the saddle and homeward bound, headed for
God's country, which was the only place for cow-punchers after all.

"Long way from the home port, ain't you, mates?" queried a tar of
Hopalong. Another seaman went to the bar to hold a short, whispered
consultation with the bartender, who at first frowned and then finally
nodded assent.

"Too far from home, if that's what yo're driving at," Hopalong replied.
"Blast these hard trails—my feet are shore on the prod. Ever meet my
side pardner? Johnny, here's a friend of mine, a salt-water puncher, an'
he's welcome to the job, too."

Johnny turned his head ponderously and nodded. "Pleased to meet you,
stranger. An' what'll you all have?"

"Old Holland, mate," replied the other, joining them.

"All up!" invited Hopalong, waving them forward. "Might as well do
things right or not at all. Them's my sentiments, which I holds
as proper. Plain rye, general, if you means me," he replied to the
bartender's look of inquiry.

He drained the glass and then made a grimace. "Tastes a little
off—reckon it's my mouth; nothing tastes right in this cussed town.
Now, up on our—" He stopped and caught at the bar. "Holy smoke! That's
shore alcohol!"

Johnny was relaxing and vainly trying to command his will power.
"Something's wrong; what's the matter?" he muttered sleepily.

"Guess you meant beer; you ain't used to drinking whiskey," grinned the
bartender, derisively, and watching him closely.

"I can—drink as much whiskey as—" and, muttering, Johnny slipped to
the floor.

"That wasn't whiskey!" cried Hopalong, sleepily, "that liquor was
fixed
!" he shouted, sudden anger bracing him. "An' I'm going to fix
you
, too!" he added, reaching for his gun, and drawing forth a wedge.
His sailor friend leaped at him, to go down like a log, and Hopalong,
seething with rage, wheeled and threw the weapon at the man behind the
bar, who also went down. The wedge, glancing from his skull, swept a row
of bottles and glasses from the shelf and, caroming, went through the
window.

In an instant Hopalong was the vortex of a mass of struggling men
and, handicapped as he was, fought valiantly, his rage for the time
neutralizing the effects of the drug. But at last, too sleepy to stand
or think, he, too, went down.

"By the Lord, that man's a fighter!" enthusiastically remarked the
leader, gently touching his swollen eye. "George must 'a' put an awful
dose in that grog."

"Lucky for us he didn't have no gun—the wedge was bad enough," groaned
a man on the floor, slowly sitting up. "Whoever swapped him that wedge
for his gun did us a good turn, all right."

A companion tentatively readjusted his lip. "I don't envy Wilkins his
job breaking in that man when he gets awake."

"Don't waste no time, mates," came the order. "Up with 'em an' aboard.
We've done our share; let the mate do his, an' be hanged. Hullo,
Portsmouth; coming around, eh?" he asked the man who had first felt the
wedge. "I was scared you was done for that time."

"No more shanghaiing hair pants for me, no more!" thickly replied
Portsmouth. "Oh, my head, it's bust open!"

"Never mind about the bartender—let him alone; we can't waste no time
with him now!" commanded the leader sharply. "Get these fellers on board
before we're caught with 'em. We want our money after that."

"All clear!" came a low call from the lookout at the door, and soon a
shadowy mass surged across the street and along a wharf. There was a
short pause as a boat emerged out of the gloom, some whispered orders,
and then the squeaking of oars grew steadily fainter in the direction of
a ship which lay indistinct in the darkness.

A man moaned and stirred restlessly in a bunk, muttering incoherently.
A stampeded herd was thundering over him, the grinding hoofs beating him
slowly to death. He saw one mad steer stop and lower its head to gore
him and just as the sharp horns touched his skin, he awakened. Slowly
opening his bloodshot eyes he squinted about him, sick, weak, racking
with pain where heavy shoes had struck him in the melee, his head
reverberating with roars which seemed almost to split it open. Slowly he
regained his full senses and began to make out his surroundings. He
was in a bunk which moved up and down, from side to side, and was never
still. There was a small, round window near his feet—thank heaven it
was open, for he was almost suffocated by the foul air and the heat.
Where was he? What had happened? Was there a salty odor in the air, or
was he still dreaming? Painfully raising himself on one elbow he looked
around and caught sight of a man in the bunk across. It was Johnny
Nelson! Then, bit by bit, the whole thing came to him and he cursed
heartily as he reviewed it and reached the only possible conclusion.
He was at sea! He, Hopalong Cassidy, the best fighting unit of a good
fighting outfit, shanghaied and at sea! Drugged, beaten, and stolen to
labor on a ship.

Johnny was muttering and moaning and Hopalong slowly climbed out of the
narrow bunk, unsteadily crossed the moving floor, and shook him. "Reckon
he's in a stampede, too!" he growled. "They shore raised h—l with us.
Oh, what a beating we got! But we'll pass it along with trimmings."

Johnny's eyes opened and he looked around in confusion. "Wha',
Hopalong!"

"Yes; it's me, the prize idiot of a blamed good pair of 'em. How'd you
feel?"

"Sleepy an' sick. My eyes ache an' my head's splitting. Where's Buck an'
the rest?"

Hopalong sat down on the edge of the bunk and sore luridly, eloquently,
beautifully, with a fervor and polish which left nothing to be desired
in that line, and caused his companion to gaze at him in astonishment.

"I had a mighty bad dream, but you must 'a' had one a whole lot worse,
to listen to you," Johnny remarked. "Gee, you're going some! What's the
matter with you. You sick, too?"

Thereupon Hopalong unfolded the tale of woe and when Johnny had
grasped its import and knew that his dream had been a stern reality, he
straightway loosed his vocabulary and earned a draw. "Well, I'm going
back again," he finished, with great decision, arising to make good his
assertion.

"Swim or walk?" asked Hopalong nonchalantly.

"Huh! Oh, Lord!"

"Well, I ain't going to either swim or walk," Hopalong soliloquized.
"I'm just going to stay right here in this one-by-nothing cellar an'
spoil the health an' good looks of any pirate that comes down that
ladder to get me out." He looked around, interested in life once more,
and his trained eye grasped the strategic worth of their position. "Only
one at a time, an' down that ladder," he mused, thoughtfully. "Why,
Johnny, we owns this range as long as we wants to. They can't get us
out. But, say, if only we had our guns!" he sighed, regretfully.

"You're right as far as you go; but you don't go to the eating part.
We'll starve, an' we ain't got no water. I can drink about a bucketful
right now," moodily replied his companion.

"Well, yo're right; but mebby we can find food an' water."

"Don't see no signs of none. Hey!" Johnny exclaimed, smiling faintly
in his misery. "Let's get busy an' burn the cussed thing up! Got any
matches?"

"First you want to drown yoreself swimming, an' now you want to roast
the pair of us to death," Hopalong retorted, eyeing the rear wall of the
room. "Wonder what's on the other side of that partition?"

Johnny looked. "Why, water; an' lots of it, too."

"Naw; the water is on the other sides."

"Then how do I know?—sh! I hear somebody coming on the roof."

"Tumble back in yore bunk—quick!" Hopalong hurriedly whispered. "Be
asleep—if he comes down here it'll be our deal."

The steps overhead stopped at the companionway and a shadow appeared
across the small patch of sunlight on the floor of the forecastle.
"Tumble up here, you blasted loafers!" roared a deep voice.

No reply came from the forecastle—the silence was unbroken.

"If I have to come down there I'll—" the first mate made promises in no
uncertain tones and in very impolite language. He listened for a moment,
and having very good ears and hearing nothing, made more promises and
came down the ladder quickly and nimbly.

"
I'll
bring you to," he muttered, reaching a brawny hand for
Hopalong's nose, and missing. But he made contact with his own face,
which stopped a short-arm blow from the owner of the aforesaid nose, a
jolt full of enthusiasm and purpose. Beautiful and dazzling flashes of
fire filled the air and just then something landed behind his ear and
prolonged the pyrotechnic display. When the skyrockets went up he lost
interest in the proceedings and dropped to the floor like a bag of meal.

Hopalong cut another piece from the rope in his hand and watched his
companion's busy fingers. "Tie him good, Johnny; he's the only ace we've
drawn in this game so far, an' we mustn't lose him."

Johnny tied an extra knot for luck and leaned forward, his eyes riveted
on the bump under the victim's coat. His darting hand brought into sight
that which pleased him greatly. "Oh, joy! Here, Hoppy; you take it."

Hopalong turned the weapon over in his hand, spun the cylinder and
gloated, the clicking sweet music to his ears. "Plumb full, too! I never
reckoned I'd ever be so tickled over a snub-nosed gun like this—but I
feel like singing!"

"An' I feel like dying," grunted Johnny, grabbing at his stomach. "If
the blamed shack would only stand still!" he groaned, gazing at the
floor with strong disgust. "I don't reckon I've ever been so blamed sick
in all my—" the sentence was unfinished, for the open porthole caught
his eye and he leaped forward to use it for a collar.

Hopalong gazed at him in astonishment and sudden pity took possession of
him as his pallid companion left the porthole and faced him.