Clarence Edward Mulford

"COMING EVENTS——"

Johnny entered the draw, found a small clearing, and let Pepper wander, watching her closely, while he went over his guns again, cleaning them thoroughly. The afternoon had half gone when he whistled her to him and rode her down to the rocky pool he had mentioned. Stripping himself, he removed the saddle and its blanket and, mounting bareback, rode her into the stream, where he found a place deep enough to swim her. Crossing and recrossing this several times, he took her out and started to dress; and no sooner was she free than she trotted to a dry, warm patch of sand and rolled to her heart's content, grunting with pleasure.

"Now look at what you've done," he grinned. "After me gettin' you all washed up, you go an' blot yoreself just like a common cayuse. I've been wastin' sympathy on you—there ain't nothin' th' matter with you. An' there's somethin' I want to ask you, before I forget it: Was you ever in a quicksand just like that one? I bet you wasn't. I've crossed some rivers in my time, an' had cattle bogged in several—but this was different, somehow. Mebby it's because it wasn't under water; but I don't know. I was scared we'd bust yore laigs; mebby we didn't because we pulled you sideways, an' you raised so much h—l when you felt th' rope tighten, an' heard me call you. Just th' same, I'm sayin' we had a close call. An' we mustn't forget it. Come here, now, an' let me throw this saddle on you. We're goin' to town, an' yore goin' to get robbed till you shines. I'm as stuck-up about you as a gal is over her first beau."

In a few minutes they were on their way to Gunsight, but they did not reach the town without incident. They had ridden to Pine Mountain and Johnny, wishing to see if Squint's saddle had been discovered, hid Pepper in a dump of brush and scrub timber well back from the trail and, taking his rifle, crossed the beaten road at a rocky place and worked his way into the brush on the mountain side. When he had climbed about eighty feet he reached a little rock shelf and rested a moment. As he was about to go on he heard hoofbeats down the trail and he flattened himself behind a tuft of grass growing in a crack. Looking down the trail he saw a horseman round into sight from the arroyo leading from East Canyon.

"Smitty," he muttered. "I don't think much of him, an' I reckon he'll scare. An' mebby if he's scared near to death a few times he'll figger he ain't wanted around here, an' hit th' trail out. Mebby I'm wrong, but here's where Mr. Smitty gets a jolt he won't forget. It will be Number One. Whether or not he gets any more will depend on how he takes this one. I'm bettin' he don't stalk me for it—here he comes, ridin' lazy an' tryin' to sing. I ought to be able to come awful close at this distance, with a rifle layin' on a rock rest."

Mr. Smith, of the Bar H, rode at a walk, singing a song, the words of which should never appear in print. He had a message to deliver to the Doc and was in no hurry. His hat, a Mexican sombrero with ultra-fancy band, and a high crown, which appeared to be even higher because of the vertical dents which pushed the top into a peak, was tilted rakishly off-center and looked rather ludicrous to the man on the mountain, who noted that there appeared to be plenty of hat and horse, but very little man. When just across a short stretch of rocky trail there rang out over the rider's head a roar such as only black powder can make, and the tilted sombrero flew into the air and struck the ground. The horse and its rider heard the roar at the same instant and each acted as their instincts prompted. The horse shot forward, clearing a dozen feet in the jump, sprang back, wheeling in the air, and bolted for the arroyo it had just left, where it quickly recovered its poise and stopped to search out succulent grass tufts. Mr. Smith's instincts seemed to have come to him through generations of acrobatic ancestors, although he was not aware that any of his family tree claimed any such accomplishments, at least since they had forsaken arboreal surroundings. Certainly he never boasted, even in his maddest sprees, of being in any way gifted in acrobatics. Nevertheless, he performed a creditable exhibition when the roar smashed against his ears. As the horse leaped, he grabbed at the pommel, missed it, and in his haste to jerk his head back from the screaming lead he lost his balance. His feet left the stirrups, and then came swiftly upward as he pivoted on the saddle. They swept up past the horse's neck, kept on and described a half-circle, the saddle as the center. As they went up Mr. Smith's head went down, and as the horse leaped back and whirled, he was jolted into a position rarely seen in horseback riding except in exhibitions. For a moment he stood on his shoulder against the cantle of the saddle and then turned a pretty, if unintentional, back flip onto the ground, landing squarely on his hat. The whole thing happened in a flash and the sound of the shot was still rumbling among the hills when, grabbing his sombrero, he started on a dead run for the horse and the ranch. When he reached the animal he leaped into the saddle without touching the stirrups, and urged a speedy departure, which his spurs obtained.

Johnny rolled over on his back and laughed heartily. Finally he sat up, put the empty shell in his pocket, reloaded the rifle and went up the mountain to hide Squint's saddle in a better place, for he now believed such a precaution necessary. It was more than probable that Pine Mountain would be searched as soon as the indignant puncher could lead his friends to the scene of his discomfiture. He found the saddle where he had left it and carried it to a narrow, shallow split in the mountain's rocky side and dropped it in, after which dead branches and grass and rocks covered it and hid it securely. Scrambling back to the trail he looked cautiously along it and then dashed across and made his way to his horse, stepping on rock whenever possible. Not long afterward he rode down the Juniper trail and went to the hotel shed, where he led Pepper inside and prepared to groom her. He hardly had begun work when Two-Spot sidled in, and there was wrath in his eyes.

"What you been doin' to that hoss?" he demanded, as his gaze swept over her. "She looks like she's been rolled in th' river."

"Mebby she has," replied Johnny, rubbing briskly. "She likes a swim as well as I do—an' we both had one, which is somethin' I can recommend to you."

"What did you do with them rifle cartridges of Polecat's you was goin' to give me?" asked Two-Spot, going to work on the other flank.

"I hid 'em," answered Johnny. "Look out she don't hand you a stomachful of hoof—she don't like strangers."

"Huh!" snorted Two-Spot, "what do I care about strangers? Where'd you hide 'em?"

"In them sweepin's, under th' manger," replied Johnny. "Wait till after dark."

"What you figger I'm goin' to do—show everybody that Two-Spot's startin' an arsenal?" He rubbed for a moment in silence, and then began to chuckle. "Ol' Chief Smell-Um-Strong had a plumb fine gun—I got a laugh comin'; you gave th' best one away."

"I'm satisfied," grunted Johnny.

"Dave was on th' prod this noon when I showed up," continued Two-Spot. "What did you say you was swimmin' in?" he demanded, curiously, examining one of Pepper's hocks.

"Water," answered Johnny. "What did he say?"

"Mebby it was," observed Two-Spot. "How'd you get out?"

"Swum."

"At th' end of a rope? Why, Dave, he wanted to know where th' this, that, an' th' other thing I was last night. Reckoned, mebby, I'd got full of berries an' hibernated. What was you doin' in th' SV valley?"

"What did you tell him?" asked Johnny, grinning.

"Told him that I was rustlin' a passel of cows an' that they went so fast I had to run to Juniper before I could head 'em off. You must 'a' had one h—l of a time gettin' out. Shore Pepper ain't hurt?"

"It ain't th' first bath she's had—she's a good swimmer, 'though for much of it I'd ruther have a cayuse with a bigger barrel. She won't shrink."

"Why in h—l don't Dave set out th' bottle, like he used to?" growled Two-Spot. "There ain't no sense in totin' it by th' glass to a crowd of blotters. They'll hold more liquor than a gopher hole—an' I've broke my back carryin' water to drown them fellers out when I was a kid. How long is your rope?"

"Dave's a friend of mine, that's why," answered Johnny. "My capacity is so limited that ol' Dailey could clean me out after my fourth drink. Them leather-bellies can drink me into a heap on th' floor, an' never know they'd been drinkin'."

"Shore," said Two-Spot, chuckling; "yo're a teethin' infant, a reg'lar suckin' calf—I've seen you put away a dozen an' not bat an eye. An' it's bad medicine; look at me. How long's that rope?"

"Eighty feet."

"Yo're another. There ain't a man livin' can throw such a rope an' ketch anythin'. I've seen some good uns, but I've never seen even a sixty-foot rope. Who fastened to you?"

"Yo're loco—plumb loco," said Johnny. "You want to forget them hallucernations—somebody might believe 'em."

"'Hallerlucinations'—humph! I'll have to remember that an' throw it at Dave. Where was you today?"

"Mindin' my own business," retorted Johnny. "What ever put you hangin' 'round a saloon, emptyin' boxes?"

"Whiskey," said Two-Spot "I was smart, like you, an' liked to hold up my end, drink for drink. Here's some more of that water you swum in—looks familiar."

"I'm goin' to drag you out to a ranch some of these days," threatened Johnny, "an' give you a job—an' whale th' skin from yore bones th' first time I see you takin' a drink. You got brains an' that ranch needs 'em."

"You can't learn an old dog new tricks," grunted Two-Spot, and then burst out laughing; "but you can change a wolf inter a skunk if you goes about it right. He! He! He!" In a few minutes he threw down the brush and went to the door. "Seein' as how yo're playin' fresh-water clam, do it yoreself!" he snorted and, dodging the other brush, he scurried around to Dave's.

Down on the Bar H, Smitty's arrival made a ripple of excitement. Big Tom was mending a shirt and cursing the clumsiness of his fingers and the sharpness of the needle, when there came the clatter of hoofs outside and he looked up to see Smitty leap from the saddle and jump through the doorway, holding a much-abused Mexican sombrero out at arm's length. It was trampled and soiled and there was a fuzzy-edged rip an inch long in the brim where a 550-grain bullet had ploughed before passing through. Eight years before Smitty had paid twenty-five dollars for the hat, perhaps entirely too much, and next to his saddle it was his most prized possession. It had seen hard service, but he fondly regarded it as being as good as new.

"Lookit my hat!" he cried, jabbing it under the foreman's nose, which caused the needle to find the finger again.

"D—n th' hat!" growled Big Tom. "Take it away from my nose!"

"Lookit it!" insisted Smitty. "Some coyote shot at me from up on Pine Mountain an' plumb ruined it! He came so close I could feel th' slug—cuss it, I smelled it! It fair grazed by nose. Lookit it!"

Big Tom threw the shirt away and took the hat, turning it over in his hands. "I'd say it was close—plumb close," he admitted. "How far off was he?"

"Right over my head—couple dozen feet," answered Smitty. "Here! Don't poke yore blasted finger in it like that! Cuss it, it's bad enough now! That's more like it. I could feel th' concussion an' smell th' smoke. I was ridin' along at a walk, when whango! It near stunned me, it was so close. An' lookit what he done to that hat! There ain't another hat like that on th' whole range!"

"Yo're right, they throw 'em away long before that," retorted Big Tom, an idea coming into his head. "Did you pick up his trail?"

"How could I?" indignantly demanded Smitty. "My cayuse fair went wild, an' before I could get him under control he was clean out of th' canyon—I tell you I did some highfalutin' riding stickin' to a crazy hoss among all them rocks."

"How'd you get yore hat? Didn't it go off yore head?"

"Shore it did! I scooped it up as my cayuse wheeled—an' talk about turnin' on a saddle blanket—that jack rabbit can wheel on a postage stamp if he's prodded enough. He just simply climbed up straight an' swapped ends."

"You should 'a' gone back an' stalked that feller," said Big Tom, using plenty of salt on what he heard. "Or at least rustled to Gunsight to see who might come ridin' in. Where did all this happen?"

"Right on them benches on th' east end of th' mountain—at that rocky hump in th' trail. How he ever missed at such close range is more'n I can understand—why, a kid oughta be able to make a hit, every time, as close as that. An' it was a rifle; th' roar was deafenin'."

"He missed because he wanted to miss," said Big Tom. "One of th' boys is playin' a joke on you—you know what they've said about that tent. He come closer than he reckoned on—I'll bet you rocked forward in th' saddle as he shot."

"Yes, I reckon I did—you know what ridin' is over that hump," Smitty said. "I remember that when I jerked back as it passed my nose I went quite a ways—my neck is sore from th' jerk. But I'm tellin' you I ain't nowise shore it was any joke. An' I says, if it was, it was a cussed pore one. I'll nat'rally skin any fool I ketches playin' any more jokes like that on me. Cuss it, it skun my nose!"

"A skin fur a skin, huh?" chuckled the foreman. He handed the hat back to its owner. "There ain't no man on th' range that would miss yore head, hat or no hat, from them benches. It ain't more than seventy-five or eighty feet from up there. They aimed to miss you; an' they shaved it a little too fine, not allowin' for you bobbin' forward. I says it was one of th' boys. You lay low an' use yore eyes an' ears, an' if you find out who it was I'll give that fool a dressin' down he won't forget. A joke's a joke—we all play 'em; but there's such a thing as ridin' 'em too hard. Did you give th' Doc my message?"

"What message?"

The foreman stared at him and slowly raised his hands. "I'll be cussed—it was more of a joke than I thought. Didn't I tell you to ride up there an' tell th' Doc that we wanted to see him tonight? Didn't you leave here to tell him that, an' for nothin' else?" he demanded, his voice rising.

"Yeah, I reckon mebby you did," admitted the puncher, uneasily. "You want to see him tonight, shore."

"I do. Now you fork that cayuse an' get goin'. Good Lord! That bullet must 'a' hit yore mem'ry." He glanced at his puncher's thigh. "An' where's yore six-shooter? Did you forget that, somewhere?"

Smitty's hand went to the holster and he cursed heartily. "D—n these open sheaths! It must 'a' fell out when that jack rabbit did th' fancy swappin' of ends. Now I got to go get it, but I'm borrowin' a gun to wear, or I stays here. Somethin' tells me it's unhealthy to go ridin' around this God-forsaken country without no six-gun."

"Take that spare one of mine, hangin' up over my bunk," offered the foreman. "She's in good shape. Now, yo're plumb shore you didn't lose nothin' else, more valuable than earthly belongin's?" he grinned. "Yo're shore yo're goin' back for yore gun?"

"Shore I am; what you mean?" replied Smitty, suspiciously.

"Nothin' worth mentionin'," smiled Big Tom. "I reckoned mebby you'd take th' over-mountain trail, seein' as it's shorter."

"Then how could I get my gun?"

"That's what I was wonderin'."

"I'll get it," Smitty assured him. "I'll get it unless yore fool joker picked it up. Mebby he's a-settin' on it, waitin' to hand it to me, an' 'pologize for missin' me."

"He won't be within miles of here by this time," said Big Tom. "He dusted quick. If he was jokin' he'd get away pronto, an' if he wasn't, he'd do it quicker. I reckon you'd better climb up on that bench an' see what you can find—an' empty shell might help us a lot. But don't forget to see th' Doc, this time. After that you can go to town an' find out what you can learn. Now get started. An' take good care of that hat—that ain't no way to treat it, nohow."

Smitty growled, took down the six-shooter, strode out to his horse and swung into the saddle. "Hope nobody picked it up," he said. "Twenty dollars is twenty dollars, an' I ain't got th' twenty. Anyway, it's a better gun than they're makin' nowadays."

"Don't lose that one while yo're pickin' up th' other," laughed the foreman.

When he was out of sight of the ranch Smitty wheeled sharply and rode eastward. "I got to get it," he muttered, "or I'll never hear th' last of it; but there ain't no reason for ridin' through th' canyon an' th' arroyo, along th' side of th' mountain for no four miles. It was too cussed close for a joke. An' mebby he aimed to spatter me all over th' trail. I just can't figger it, nohow. But I'm free to remark that any more of them jokes will send Smitty dustin' along th' trail, no matter what way he's pointin' at th' time, an' he won't never come back no more. Somehow, I just can't help thinkin' of pore Squint. Cuss it, I can feel it yet!"

Getting near the scene of his discomfiture, Smitty dismounted and went on a reconnaissance, viewing the benches from every angle, and after some time he located his gun lying in the grass near the trail. Returning to his horse he mounted and rode forward, striking into a dead run as he approached the rocky hump in the trail and, leaning down, he picked up the weapon as he swept past, no mean feat when the grass is considered. In a few minutes he pulled his mount to a lope and soon drew rein at the Doc's door, where he delivered the message, gossiped for a few minutes, and then went on to town.

The first person he saw was Two-Spot, leaning against the front of the Palace and who accepted, with alacrity, Smitty's invitation to drink. Two-Spot saw the condition of the hat before its wearer had dismounted, and his curiosity burned strongly within him. The puncher engaged him and Dave in conversation but his efforts at these sources of information were futile. What knowledge he gained had no bearing on Johnny. Two-Spot casually remarked that Johnny had been loafing around most of the afternoon, pestering him and said that he was a nuisance. Buying another round Smitty sauntered into Dailey's, where he learned nothing at all. Having taken the census and found that everyone had been rooted in town all day, he began to accept his foreman's view of the mystery, and set out for home, burning for an opportunity to observe his bosom friends and listen to their careless conversation. But if he had not received any information, he had not given any, and Two-Spot's curiosity about the hole in the hat was still raging.

"The' doin's on this here range are scandalous," observed Dave's factotum to Dave, himself. "They're gettin' worse an' worse, an' somebody's goin' to get hurt afore long. Now I wonder how th' devil Smitty's hat got abused like that?"

"What makes you think things is gettin' worse?" asked Dave.

"That Greaser tent never come by that hole from bein' used; an' Smitty was shore askin' a lot of questions; an' Nelson ain't swimmin' hisself an' that hoss for fun—I know I wouldn't."

"Which is an abidin' sorrer to all them as gets down wind of you," said Dave. "Was Nelson's saddle wet?"

"No-o; I reckon it was dry," grudgingly admitted the other.

"Was his clothes wet?" continued Dave.

"No-o-o," more reluctantly admitted Two-Spot.

"You got a head like a toad," contemptuously rejoined the proprietor. "Trouble with you is, yore imagination is on th' rampage. You got too much time on yore hands—suppose you 'tend to th' sand boxes? They ain't been touched in three days."

Two-Spot sighed and obeyed. "Huh!" he grunted, emptying a box into the road. "Mebby; but I saw somethin' about that hole that reminded me of some gosh-awful ca'tridges I seen lately. Cuss it—I'd bet on it!"

He chuckled, set down the box, slipped around the side of the saloon and poked his head in the hotel shed. "Don't she shine, though?" he remarked in congratulatory tones.

"She does," admitted Johnny, finishing the job.

"Say," said his visitor, "gimme an empty rifle shell."

"What for?"

"I want to keep matches in it. I'll get a cork from Dave an' have a waterproof matchbox."

"You need it," countered Johnny. "Aimin' to fall in th' crick? You need that, too."

Two-Spot ignored the insult, the second on that topic within five minutes. Evidently there must be some real or fancied foundation for it. "Got one?" he asked.

"I'll save you one," replied Johnny; "but mebby you'll have to wait quite a spell. I still got them I loaded," he said, truthfully.

"Well there ain't no hurry," admitted Two-Spot. "Thought mebby you had one in yore clothes."

"I might go out an' shoot one off; but I reckon I won't, seein' that it ain't goin' to rain for a day or two."

"Don't shoot none for that," replied Two-Spot. "Smitty was in town a few minutes ago."

"Yes?"

"Uh-huh, he was. He was projectin' around tryin' to find out who spoiled his twenty-year-old Mex. sun-shade. He was het up about it."

"Don't blame him. Was it spoiled bad?"

"Plumb sufficient. Looks like th' railroad thought it was a tunnel. He acts like he's got hal—hallerlucerations," grinned Two-Spot.

"But you can't wear them on a hat," reproved Johnny. "That is, not till after you open th' can, anyhow."

"Huh?" Two-Spot scratched his frowsy head, "mebby not, but that's th' safest place to tote 'em—on th' outside, leastawise. Did you think they was like a—a shirt?" he demanded with great sarcasm.

"Mebby; they covers a lot of ignorance. Yo're not goin' out, are you?" asked Johnny.

"I am," retorted his companion, shuffling toward the door. "You think yo're d—d smart, don't you? You an' yore hullercations? Well, you can go plumb to h—l!" and Two-Spot made haste to get around in front of the saloon, where he refilled the box and carried it inside.

"Cuss it, Dave," he complained, "nobody 'round here treats me like I deserve!"

"An it's d—d lucky for you that they don't," retorted Dave. "You 'tend to them boxes, or I'll make a start at treatin' you like you deserves. What's th' matter with you, anyhow? You've been chucklin' all day like you've lost what little sense you had. You ought to take somethin' for them spasms—they're too frequent to do you any good."

Two-Spot sighed and carried out another box. He dropped it and shook his head. "I don't care a cuss; I'm still bettin' that hole was made by a Sharp's Special. But what gets me is, how could he perforate th' brim while that there pinched-up peak waves defiance, an' courts destruction? You gimme a shot at it, and I'd blow th' hull top off'n it. But I dassn't think about that, now that I've got a gun; it's so fascinatin' I'll be takin' a shot at it some of these days—an' I reckon I'd get more'n a hat. Shucks! that'd be all right; it's only Smitty." He leaned up against the building and laughed until Dave came out to see if he could get in one healthy kick, but Two-Spot avoided him and went back to the box. "Polecat is near Highbank now," he muttered. "I'd give his gun to read his thoughts! He! He! He!"