Bar-20. Clarence E. Mulford

Johnny was of the stuff that fights back and his revolvers had showed full chambers and clean barrels when Red had examined them in the bunk house. Then they had given chase for a short distance and, from some inexplicable motive, probably fear, they had turned and ridden off without knowing how bad he was hit. It was this trail that led to the northwest, and it was this trail that they followed without pausing.

       When they had covered fifty miles they sighted the Cross Bar O ranch where they hoped to secure fresh mounts. As they rode up to the ranch house the owner, Bud Wallace, came around the corner and saw them.

       “Hullo, boys! What deviltry are yu up to now?” he asked. Buck leaped from his mount, followed by the others, and shoved his sombrero back on his head as he started to remove the saddle.

      “We’re trailin’ a bunch of murderers. They ambushed Johnny an’ d—n near killed him. I stopped here to get fresh cayuses.”

      “Yu did right!” replied Wallace heartily. Then raising his voice he shouted to some of his men who were near the corral to bring up the seven best horses they could rope. Then he told the cook to bring out plenty of food and drink.

      “I got four punchers what ain’t doin’ nothin’ but eat,” he suggested.

      “Much obliged, Wallace, but there’s only four of ‘em, an’ we’d rather get ‘em ourselves—Johnny’ud feel better,” replied Buck, throwing his saddle on the horse that was led up to him.

      “How’s yore cartridges—got plenty?” Persisted Wallace.

      “Two hundred apiece,” responded Buck, springing into his saddle and riding off. “So long,” he called.

      “So long, an’ plug blazes out of them,” shouted Wallace as the dust swept over him.

      At five in the afternoon they forded the Black River at a point where it crossed the state line from New Mexico, and at dusk camped at the base of the Guadalupe Mountains. At daybreak they took up the chase, grim and merciless, and shortly afterward they passed the smoldering remains of a camp fire, showing that the pursued had been in a great hurry, for it should have been put out and masked. At noon they left the mountains to the rear and sighted the Barred Horeshoe, which they approached.

      The owner of the ranch saw them coming, and from their appearance surmised that something was wrong.

      “What is it?” He shouted. “Rustlers?”

      “Nope. Murderers. I wants to swap cayuses quick,” answered Buck.

      “There they are. Th’ boys just brought ‘em in. Anything else I can let yu have?”

      “Nope,” shouted Buck as they galloped off.

      “Somebody’s goin’ to get plugged full of holes,” murmured the ranch owner as he watched them kicking up the dust in huge clouds.

      After they had forded a tributary of the Rio Penasco near the Sacramento Mountains and had surmounted the opposite bank, Hopalong spurred his horse to the top of a hummock and swept the plain with Pete’s field glasses, which he had borrowed for the occasion, and returned to the rest, who had kept on without slacking the pace. As he took up his former position he grunted, “War-whoops,” and unslung his rifle, an example followed by the others.

      The ponies were now running at top speed, and as they shot over a rise their riders saw their quarry a mile and a half in advance. One of the Indians looked back and discharged his rifle in defiance, and it now became a race worthy of the name—Death fled from Death. The fresher mounts of the cowboys steadily cut down the distance and, as the rifles of the pursuers began to speak, the hard-pressed Indians made for the smaller of two knolls, the plain leading to the larger one being too heavily strewn with bowlders to permit speed.

      As the fugitives settled down behind the rocks which fringed the edge of their elevation a shot from one of them disabled Billy’s arm, but had no other effect than to increase the score to be settled. The pursuers rode behind a rise and dismounted, from where, leaving their mounts protected, they scattered out to surround the knoll.

      Hopalong, true to his curiosity, finally turned up on the highest point of the other knoll, a spur of the range in the west, for he always wanted to see all he could. Skinny, due to his fighting instinct, settled one hundred yards to the north and on the same spur. Buck lay hidden behind an enormous bowlder eight hundred yards to the northeast of Skinny, and the same distance southeast of Buck was Red Connors, who was crawling up the bed of an arroyo. Billy, nursing his arm, lay in front of the horses, and Pete, from his position between Billy and Hopalong, was crawling from rock to rock in an endeavor to get near enough to use his Colts, his favorite and most effective weapons. Intermittent puffs of smoke arising from a point between Skinny and Buck showed where Lanky Smith was improving each shining hour.

      There had been no directions given, each man choosing his own position, yet each was of strategic worth. Billy protected the horses, Hopalong and Skinny swept the knoll with a plunging fire, and Lanky and Buck lay in the course the besieged would most likely take if they tried a dash. Off to the east Red barred them from creeping down the arroyo, and from where Pete was he could creep up to within sixty yards if he chose the right rocks. The ranges varied from four hundred yards for Buck to sixty for Pete, and the others averaged close to three hundred, which allowed very good shooting on both sides.

      Hopalong and Skinny gradually moved nearer to each other for companionship, and as the former raised his head to see what the others were doing he received a graze on the ear.

      “Wow!” he yelled, rubbing the tingling member.

      Two puffs of smoke floated up from the knoll, and Skinny swore.

      “Where’d he get yu, Fat?” asked Hopalong.

      “G’wan, don’t get funny, son,” replied Skinny.

      Jets of smoke arose from the north and east, where Buck and Red were stationed, and Pete was half way to the knoll. So far he hadn’t been hit as he dodged in and out, and, emboldened by his luck, he made a run of five yards and his sombrero was shot from his head. Another dash and his empty holster was ripped from its support. As he crouched behind a rock he heard a yell from Hopalong, and saw that interested individual waving his sombrero to cheer him on. An angry pang! from the knoll caused that enthusiastic rooter to drop for safety.

      “Locoed son-of-a-gun,” complained Pete. “He’ll shore git potted.” Then he glanced at Billy, who was the center of several successive spurts of dust.

      “How’s business, Billy?” he called pleasantly.

      “Oh, they’ll git me yet,” responded the pessimist. “Yu needn’t git anxious. If that off buck wasn’t so green he’d ‘a’ had me long ago.”

      “Ya-hoo! Pete! Oh, Pete!” called Hopalong, sticking his head out at one side and grinning as the wondering object of his hail craned his neck to see what the matter was.

      “Huh?” grunted Pete, and then remembering the distance he shouted, “What’s th’ matter?”

      “Got any cigarettes?” asked Hopalong.

      “Yu poor sheep!” said Pete, and turning back to work he drove a .45 into a yellow moccasin.

      Hopalong began to itch and he saw that he was near an ant hill. Then the cactus at his right boomed out mournfully and a hole appeared in it. He fired at the smoke and a yell informed him that he had made a hit. “Go ‘way!” he complained as a green fly buzzed past his nose. Then he scratched each leg with the foot of the other and squirmed incessantly, kicking out with both feet at once. A warning metallic whir-r-r! on his left caused to yank them in again, and turning his head quickly he the pleasure of lopping off the head of a rattlesnake with his Colt’s.

      “Glad yu wasn’t a copperhead,” he exclaimed. “Somebody had ought ‘a’ shot that fool Noah. Blast the ants!” He drowned with a jet of tobacco juice a Gila monster that was staring at him and took a savage delight in its frantic efforts to bury itself.

      Soon