Hopalong Cassidy Part 51

"We was talking to Billy an' Curtis," Skinny remarked. "They're anxious to have it over. They've been spelling each other an' getting some sleep. We saw Doc's saddle piled on top of th' grub when we got to camp. It wasn't there when we all left th' other night. Billy says Doc came running past last night, saddled up an' rode off. He got back this afternoon wearing a bandage around his head. He didn't say where he had been, but now he is at th' bottom of th' trail waiting for a shot, so Billy says. Pete reckons he went after somebody that got down last night, one of them fellers that left their rifles up here by th' ropes."

"Mebby yo're right," replied Buck, hurriedly. "Get ready to fight. I ain't going to wait for daylight when this moonlight will answer.

Pete, Skinny, Chick--you get settled out on th' east end, where me an'

Frenchy will join you. We'll have this game over before long."

He strode away and returned with Hopalong and Meeker, who hastily ate and drank and, filling their belts with cartridges and taking their own rifles from the pile Chick had brought, departed toward the cut with orders for Red to come in.

Pete and his companions moved away as Frenchy, shortly followed by Red, came in and reported.

"Eat an' drink, lively. Red, you get back to yore place an' take care of th' cut," Buck ordered. "Frenchy, you come out east with th' rest.

There's cartridges for you both an' there's yore own rifle, Frenchy."

"Glad yo're going to start things," chewed Red through a mouthful of food. "It's about time we show them fellers we can live up to our reputations. Any of 'em coming my way won't go far."

Frenchy filled his pipe and lighted it from a stick he took out of the fire and as it began to draw well he stepped quickly forward and held out his hand. "Good luck, Red. They can't fight long."

"Same to you, Frenchy," Red cried, grasping the hand. "Yo're right, there. You look plumb wide awake, like Buck--how'd you do it?"

Frenchy laughed and strode after his foreman, Red watching him. "He's acting funny--reckon it's th' sleep he's missed. Well, here goes," and he, too, went off to the firing line.

--An' aching thoughts pour in on me, Of Whiskey Bill,

came Johnny's song from the hut--and the fight began again.

CHAPTER x.x.xVII

THEIR LAST FIGHT

A figure suddenly appeared on the top of the flanking ridge, outlined against the sky, and flashes of flame spurted from its hands, while kneeling beside it was another, rapidly working a rifle, the roar of the guns deafening because of the silence which preceded it. Shouts, curses, and a few random, futile shots replied from the breastworks, its defenders, panic-stricken by the surprise and the deadly accuracy of the two marksmen, scurrying around the bend in their fortifications, so busy in seeking shelter that they failed to make their shots tell. Two men, riddled by bullets, lay where they had fallen and the remaining three, each of them wounded more than once, crouched under cover and turned their weapons against the new factors; but these had already slid down the face of the ridge and were crawling along the breastwork, alert and cautious.

In front of the rustlers heavy firing burst out along the cowmen's line and Red Connors, from his old position above the cut, swung part way around and turned his rifle against the remnant of the defenders at another angle, and fired at every mark, whether it was hand, foot, or head; while Johnny, tumbling out of the south window of the hut, followed in the wake of Hopalong and Meeker. The east end of the line was wrapped in smoke, where Buck and his companions labored zealously.

Along the narrow trail up the mesa's face a man toiled heavily and it was not long before Doc Riley opened fire from the rear. The three rustlers, besieged from all sides, found their positions to be most desperate and knew then that only a few minutes intervened between them and eternity. They had three choices--to surrender, to die fighting, or to leap from the mesa to instant death below.

Shaw, to his credit, chose the second and like a cornered wolf goaded to despair leaped up and forward to take a gambler's chance of gaining the hut. Before him were Hopalong, Meeker, Johnny, and Doc. Doc was hastily reloading his Colt, Johnny was temporarily out of sight as he crawled around a bowlder, and Hopalong was greatly worried by ricochettes and wild shots from the rifles of his friends which threatened to end his career. Meeker alone was watching at that moment but his attention was held by the rustler near the edge of the mesa who was trying to shrink himself to fit the small rock in front of him and to use his gun at the same time.

Shaw sprang from his cover and straight at the H2 foreman, his foot slipping slightly as he fired. The bullet grazed Meeker's waist, but the second, fired as the rustler was recovering his balance, bored through Meeker's shoulder. The H2 foreman, bending forward for a shot at the man behind the small rock, was caught unawares and his balance, already strained, was destroyed by the shock of the second bullet, and he flopped down to all fours. Shaw sprang over him just as Hopalong and Johnny caught sight of him and he swung his revolver on Hopalong at the moment when the latter's bullet crashed through his brain.

Buck Peters, trying for a better position, slipped on the rock which had been the cause of the death of George Cross and before he could gain his feet a figure leaped down in front of him and raised a Colt in his defence, but spun half way around and fell, shot through the head. A cry of rage went up at this and a rush was made against the breastworks from front and side. Frenchy McAllister's forebodings had come true.

Sanchez, finding his revolver empty and with no time to reload, held up his hands. Frisco, blinded by blood, wounded in half a dozen places, desperate, snarling, and still unbeaten, wheeled viciously, but before he could pull his trigger, Hopalong grasped him and hurled him down, Johnny going with them. Doc, a second too late, waved his sombrero. "Come on, it's all over!"

In another second the rushing punchers from the front slid and rolled and plunged over the breastwork and eyed the results of their fire.

Meeker staggered around the corner and leaned against Buck for support. "My G-d! This is awful! I didn't think we were doing so much damage."

"I did!" retorted Buck. "I know what happens when my outfit burns powder. Where's Red?" he asked anxiously.

"Here I am," replied a voice behind him.

"All right; take that Greaser to th' hut, somebody," the foreman ordered. "Johnny, you an' Pete take this feller there, too," pointing to Frisco. "He's th' one that killed Frenchy. Hopalong, take Red, an'

bring in that feller me an' Meeker tied up in that crevice, if he ain't got away."

Hopalong and Red went off to bring in Hall and Buck turned to the others. "You fellers doctor yore wounds. Meeker, yo're hard hit," he remarked, more closely looking at the H2 foreman.

"Yes. I know it--loss of blood, mostly," Meeker replied. "An' if it hadn't been for Ca.s.sidy I'd been hit a d----d sight harder. Where's Doc? He knows what to do--_Doc_!"

"Coming," replied a voice and Doc turned the corner. He had a limited knowledge of the work he was called upon to do, and practice, though infrequent, had kept it more or less fresh.

"Reckon yo're named about right, Doc," Buck remarked as he pa.s.sed the busy man. "You got me beat an' I ain't no slouch."

"I'd 'a been a real Doc if I hadn't left college like a fool to punch cows,--you've got to keep still, Jim," he chided.

"Hey, Buck," remarked Hopalong, joining the crowd and grinning at the injured, "we've got that feller in th' shack. When th' feller I grabbed out here saw him he called him Hall. Th' other is Frisco an'

th' Greaser ain't got no name, I reckon. How you feeling, Meeker? That was Shaw plugged you."

"Feeling better'n him," Meeker growled. "Yo're a good man to work with, Ca.s.sidy."

"Well, Ca.s.sidy, got any slugs in you?" affably asked Doc, the man Hopalong had wounded on the line a few weeks before. Doc brandished a knife and cleaning rod and appeared to be anxious to use them on somebody else.

"No; but what do you do with them things?" Hopalong rejoined, feeling of his bandage.

"Take out bullets," Doc grinned.

"Oh, I see; you cut a hole in th' back an' then push 'em right through," Hopalong laughed. "Reckon I'd ruther have 'em go right through without stopping. Who's that calling?"

"Billy an' Curtis. Tell 'em to come up," Buck replied, walking towards the place where Frenchy's body lay.

Hopalong went to the edge and replied to the shouts and it was not long before they appeared. When Doc saw them he grinned pleasantly and drew them aside, trying to coax them to let him repair them. But Billy, eying the implements, sidestepped and declined with alacrity; Curtis was the victim.

"After _him_ th' undertaker," Billy growled, going towards the hut.

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII

A DISAGREEABLE TASK

Two men, Hall and Frisco, sat with their backs against the wall of the hut, weaponless, wounded, nervous, one sullen and enraged, the other growling querulously to himself about his numerous wounds. The third prisoner, the Mexican, was pacing to and fro with restless strides, vicious and defiant, his burning eyes quick, searching, calculating.

It seemed as though he was filled with a tremendous amount of energy which would not let him remain quiet. When his companions spoke to him he flashed them a quick glance but did not answer; thinking, scheming, plotting, he missed not the slightest movement of those about him.

Wounded as he was he did not appear to know it, so intent was he upon his thoughts.