* * * * *
Coggswell was glad to see his visitors. Babson introduced him to Hopalong, and in a few minutes the cavvy, minus the two work horses for the wagon and one horse for each member of the outfit, was sold. The inevitable bottle was produced to seal the bargain, and after a few minutes’ desultory conversation the trail boss turned toward the door. Babson waved a finger at him.
“What’s your hurry, Cassidy?” he asked.
“Want to get back to my boys,” answered Hopalong, smiling. He would feel better back in camp with all that money.
“Well, all right; but you don’t mind if I stay and talk with Frank, do you?”
Hopalong laughed.
“No,” he said and then looked at the horse buyer. “I’ll see you in camp in th’ mornin’, then?”
“You shore will,” answered Coggswell. “Have another drink?”
Hopalong smiled, shook his head, and again swung toward the door. He hesitated a moment on the threshold, nodded, and stepped outside. The night was clear, the stars bright. To his left the rails stretched east and west, endlessly: to his right the main part of the town was dotted with lights. He was passing the recessed doorway of an unlighted shack when a sudden movement caught him unprepared, alert as he was. A gun came out of the darkness, pressed against his stomach, and a curt voice spoke sharply:
“Up with ’em! Quick!”
Hopalong stiffened and then relaxed as he took an involuntary backward step and looked into the eyes above the red bandanna handkerchief on the face of the man who moved with him. The handkerchief bulged out as a beard pressed against it. Thoughts raced through the mind of the trail boss, a welter of thoughts: Buck’s money, the loss of a trail herd; friends who trusted in him; Johnny Nelson, almost as naked as the day he was born, pulling the trigger of a harmless gun, and pulling it too late. Johnny had said that he had moved as swiftly as he could. Buck’s money—twenty thousand dollars!
His hands were up, upper arms horizontal, forearms vertical. A gust of rage—deadly, unreasoning rage—swept over him. Johnny was fast, as fast as any man alive—and the Kid would not lie to him, but whether he had told the truth or not made no difference in this present moment. Buck was the best friend a man ever had. Hopalong smiled into the menacing eyes above the handkerchief, and then his left hand swept down and across his stomach as its muscles drew it in. The gun was brushed aside and exploded futilely. Hopalong’s moving hand clamped onto its cylinder, locking it against a second shot, and his right hand smashed against the jaw behind the handkerchief with the strength of rage behind it.[2] The masked man went backward, full length on the ground, just as Pete, out of breath from running, reached the scene.
Pete bent over, grabbed the ankles of the prostrate highwayman, spread his feet, and swung halfway around as he straightened up. There was a box car on the siding, its sliding door half open. The human missile left Pete’s hands and, more by accident than from conscious aim, sailed through the narrow opening and crashed against the closed door on the other side of the car. For two days the bearded gentleman was among the missing—and then provided grounds for great argument among the members of the coroner’s jury. They finally brought in a verdict of death from misadventure.
Hopalong’s hands now held both guns, and he was crouched against the front of the shack, blazing with anger. Pete turned and looked at him, a gun in his own right hand. Pete then bent down, picked up the highwayman’s weapon, and tossed it under the box car. In his mind was the picture of a campfire and drying clothing. He chuckled, but there was awe in his voice:
“Th’ Kid was right, huh?”
Hopalong growled something in his throat and stood erect. He flashed a glance at the box car, ready guns balanced; and he took a step toward the track.
“You stay here!” snapped Pete, thinking of Buck’s twenty thousand. “I’ll take a look at our friend. He was goin’ head first when he went through that openin’, an’ I heard a hell of a crash when he stopped; but I’ll take a look, to make shore.”
In a few moments Pete was back again, and he waved a hand toward the hotel.
“Well?” asked the trail boss, sharply.
“Some folks shoot ’em,” said Pete. “I just bust their necks. Come on, an’ get that money to camp!”
And that is where the money went, quickly and without further excitement.
THE END
* * *
[2] NOTE BY AUTHOR: This was not a miracle: I, myself, have seen it done.
Trail Dust Page 24
