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Updated: May 10, 2025
"I allus did like a six-handed game best all the cards are out an' there's some excitement in it." When the deal began Elkins was seated across the table from Hopalong, facing him for the first time since that day over in Muddy Wells, and studying him closely. He found no changes, for the few years had left no trace of their passing on the Bar-20 puncher.
As under-foreman of the ranch he regarded himself as spokesman. And at that instant catching sight of the rope, he swore savagely under his breath. "Nothing, Tom; nothing now," responded Mr. Ferris. "They was going to hang my friend there, Mr. Hopalong Cassidy, of the Bar-20. He's the feller that lent me his cayuse to get home on when Molly was sick.
Slim Travennes, with whom Mr. Cassidy had participated in an extemporaneous exchange of Colt's courtesies in Santa Fe the year before, was the head of the organization and was also chairman of the committee on arrivals, and the two gentlemen of the Bar-20 had not been in town an hour before he knew of it.
When Frenchy had first been approached by Buck as to his going in search of the rustlers he had asked to go alone. This had been denied by the foreman of the Bar-20 because the men whom he had selected to accompany the scout were of such caliber that their presence could not possibly form a hindrance.
Two decades had passed since the foreman of the Bar-20 had seen that precious sheet, but the scene of its finding would never fade from his memory. He stood as if carved from stone, with a look on his face that made the crowd shift uneasily and glance at Trendley. Frenchy turned to the rustler and regarded him evilly.
"Yo're square all the way through; an' if you ever get out of a job or in any kind of trouble that I can help you out of, come up to the Bar-20 an' you won't have to ask twice. Good luck!" And the two sore and aching punchers, wiser in the ways of the world, plodded doggedly towards the town, ten miles away.
"Did yu see Slim?" Casually inquired Mr. Connors, looking off to the south. Mr. Cassidy sat upright in his saddle and felt of his Colts. "Yes," he replied, "I saw him." Mr. Connors thereupon galloped on in silence. The affair at Cactus Springs had more effect on the life at the Bar-20 than was realized by the foreman.
"In about two weeks we'll have a new marshal an' he'll shore be a dandy." "Yes? Why don't yu take th' job yoreself? We're with yu." "Better man comin'. Ever hear of Buck Peters or Red Connors of th' Bar-20, Texas?" "Buck Peters? Seems to me I have. Did he punch fer th' Tin-Cup up in Montana, 'bout twenty years back?" "Shore!
"We are goin' south along th' Creek until we gets to Big Spring, where we'll turn right smart to th' west. We won't be able to average more'n twelve miles a day, 'though I'm goin' to drive them hard. How's yore grub?" "Grub to burn." "Got yore rope?" Asked the foreman of the Bar-20, speaking as if the question had no especial meaning. Frenchy smiled: "Yes."
His name was Tex Ewalt and he cordially hated all of the Bar-20 outfit and Hopalong in particular. He had nursed a grudge for several years and now, as he rode south to rid himself of it and to pay a long-standing debt, it grew stronger until he thrilled with anticipation and the sauce of danger.
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