* * * *
Red, back at the Bar-20 wagon, inquired of Cookie the whereabouts of Hopalong. Cookie, still smarting under Jimmy’s galling fire of language, grunted ignorance and a wish. Ned looked at him, scowling. “You can talk to th’ kid like that, mebby; but you get a civil tongue in your head when any of us grown-ups ask questions.” He turned on his heel, looked searchingly around the plain and mounting, returned to the herd, perplexed and vexed. As he left the camp, Jimmy hobbled around the wagon and stared after him. “Kid!” he snorted. “Grown-ups!” he sneered. “Huh!” He turned and regarded Cookie evilly. “Yo’re gonna get a good lickin’ when I get so I can move better,” he promised. Cookie lifted the red flannel dish-rag out of the pan and regarded it thoughtfully. “You better wait,” he agreed pleasantly. “You can’t run now. I’m honin’ for to drape this mop all over your wall-eyed face; but I can wait.” He sighed and went back to work. “Wish Red would shove you in with th’ rest of th’ cripples back yonder, an’ get you off’n my frazzled nerves.”
Jimmy shook his head sorrowfully and limped around the wagon again, where he resumed his sun bath. He dozed off and was surprised to be called for dinner. As he arose, grunting and growling, he chanced to look westward, and his shout apprised his friends of the return of the missing redhead.
Hopalong dismounted at the wagon and grinned cheerfully, despite the suspicious marks on his face. Giving an account of events as they occurred at the Diamond Bar chuck wagon, he wound up with: “Needn’t push on so hard, Red. Crawford’s herd is due to stay right where it is an’ graze peaceful for a week. I heard Barnes give th’ order before I left. How’s things been out here while I was away?”
Red glared at him, ready to tell his opinion of reckless fools that went up against a gun-packing outfit alone when his friends had never been known to refuse to back up one of their outfit. The words hung on his lips as he waited for a chance to launch them. But when that chance came he had been disarmed by the cheerfulness of his happy friend. “Hoppy,” he said, trying to be severe, “yo’re nothin’ but a crazy damned fool. But what did they say when you started for huffy Sam like that?”
THIEVES OF BLACK ROCK DESERT, by Bill Anson
The freckled wagon-yard boy gave “Music” Stevens first warning that two guntoting hombres were looking longingly at his four buckskin cayuses, which were the last of a string of eight ponies brought to Saltville for sale.
“Them two gents were down at the corral examinin’ the buckskins and talkin’ low and sneaky-like,” said the snub-nosed boy in patched overalls. “Mebbe you remember ’em. One is tall and skinny, with checked pants and red silk shirt. The other is wearin’ a black shirt, chaps, and hat. He’s bald as an egg. They’re both wearin’ two guns and are tough.”
“They called theirselves Stick Wiley and Keno Strudder in the town cook shack last night,” Music said. “Thanks for lookin’ after me, Stubby. Here’s four-bits for your trouble.”
“I sure don’t want your slick buckskins to fall into bad hands,” Stubby remarked sourly. “I’m powerful glad you sold them other horses to the XYZ Ranch.”
“I only sell to men who know how to treat hossflesh,” Music remarked. “If Stick Wiley and Keno Strudder have got any strange ideas, they’ll have to ride fast and shoot straight. I’m leavin’ here right soon.”
“Wish I could go with you,” Stubby called as the horse raiser walked away.
For a year now Stubby had been hinting that he’d like to quit gathering wood and tending animals in the Saltville wagon yard. The boy’s mind was set on becoming a wild horse hunter and cutting bronc trainer like Music Stevens, who owned a valley back in the mountains. The kid was attending school in winter and keeping house for his uncle, who had charge of the Saltville stage-coaches and stock. Stubby was better off where he was, Music figured.
Crossing the busy wagon yard, where ranchers, drummers and emigrants slept, ate and gossiped while in town, Music unfastened the padlock on a small shed and went in to check his saddle and equipment. From his warbag he drew an oiled .45 and thumbed fresh loads into the six-gun’s cylinder from a new box of cartridges. He was taking no chances with those two hard-eyed strangers in the neighborhood.
Music was a stocky individual, with sky-blue eyes and an easy smile. He favored the color of tan in his frontier pants, shirt and skin vest—just as he favored buckskin coloring in brood mares and stallions. His light tan cayuses brought top money. He had just sold four quarter horses for a thousand dollars, which stake he had deposited in the Saltville Bank. He expected to get as much for the remaining four buckskins in War Cry, a prosperous mesa town some two hundred miles across the Black Rock Desert.
Before leaving Saltville, however, Music wanted to say good-by to a taffy-haired emigrant girl he had met about the campfire last night. He brushed his hair and out of the shed.
As he started across the wagon yard, heading for the big Conestoga wagons in the far corner, Music was hailed by a gruff voice. Turning, he saw “Stick” Wiley and “Keno” Strudder coming out of their bunk quarters. As Stubby had told him, both were wearing tied-down guns. There was a swagger to their gait as they came up.
“What you want for them buckskins, Music?” asked the black-shirted gunman, Keno Strudder.
“I’m not sellin’,” Music replied stiffly. “Meanin’ what?” the tall, thin Stick Wiley asked quickly. “Don’t you think we got enough cash?”
Music’s eyes chilled. “Mebbe you’ve got enough dinero to buy good bosses, but I ain’t got any to sell right now.”
Keno Strudder chuckled harshly. “Yuh mean some rancher has ordered them four hammerheads already? We could raise the ante. Then you won’t have to herd ’em through the desert.”
“Never said I was takin’ ’em anywheres,” Music replied, studying the pair shrewdly. “They’re not for sale.”
“Yuh takin’ ’em back to your outfit?” Stick Wiley asked.
“Excuse me,” Music said, turning away. “I’ve got an engagement.”
He felt their hard eyes upon his back as he rounded the first big canvas-topped wagon. Then the sight of Marian Ellis sitting in the shade of her father’s Conestoga made him forget the gunmen. Her sunbonnet was beside her and her lemon-colored hair was in two long plaits down her back. She was as pretty as a calendar as she sewed on a pink calico dress.
Her blue eyes lifted at Music’s approach.
“I was thinking about you,” she said. “We all enjoyed your playing last night.”
Music flushed deeply. His name had come from his skill with a violin, which instrument Wherever he went, somebody was always cracking out a fiddle for him. Men said that Music Stevens could make even the devil weep or dance when the bow was scraped across the strings.
“Thanks heaps,” Music said. He squatted