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Updated: May 10, 2025
Cassidy hurriedly dismounted and hid his horse in a nearby chaparral and returned to his companion at a run. "Red, gimme yore Winchester an' then hustle on for a ways, have an accident, fall off yore cayuse, an' act scared to death, if you know how. It's that little trick Buck told us about, an' it shore ought to work fine here. We'll see if two infant feather-dusters can lick the Bar-20.
It paralleled Buck's own private opinion, especially in regard to the southern range; and the vague suspicions in the foreman's mind disappeared for good and all. Needless to say Elkins was a welcome visitor at the ranch houses and was regarded as a good fellow. At the Bar-20 he found only two men who would not thaw to him, and he was possessed of too much tact to try any persuasive measures.
Buck Peters, foreman of Bar-20 Ranch had many cowboys; Pete Wilson, Red Connors, Billy Williams, Johnny Nelson, and a goodly number more, but chief among them was Hopalong Cassidy. Many interesting stories are told about him in "Bar-20 Days" but none of his thrilling experiences ever ended as did the one recited in this most unusual story, "The End of the Trail."
He did that to make us lose time; that's what he did it for. An' he couldn't tell what bronc he took last night it was too dark. He must 'a' struck a match an' seen where that Bar-20 cayuse was an' then took the first one nearest that wasn't it.
Asked Tex, glancing at the bulging pockets of Hopalong's chaps. "We're goin' to punch cows again, that's what we're to do," answered Bigfoot dismally. "An' whose are we goin' to punch? We can't go back to the old man," grumbled Tex. Salvation looked askance at Buck and then at the others. "Mebby," he began, "Mebby we kin git a job on th' Bar-20."
Without a word the Bar-20 men arose and followed him, the only hesitant being Johnny, who was torn between loyalty and new-found friendship; but with a sorrowful shake of the head, he turned away and passed out, not far behind the others. "Clannish, ain't they?" remarked Elkins, gravely. Those remaining were regarding him sternly, questioningly, Cowan with a deep frown darkening his face.
The door had crashed open and a blood-stained man staggered in and towards the bar, crying, "Buck! Red's hemmed in by 'Paches!" "Good God!" roared the foreman of the Bar-20, leaping forward, the cigars falling to the floor to be crushed and ground into powder by careless feet.
In the little town of Buckskin, known hardly more than locally, and never thought of by outsiders except as the place where the Bar-20 spent their spare time and money, and neutral ground for the surrounding ranches, was Cowan's saloon, in the dozen years of its existence the scene of good stories, boisterous fun, and quick deaths.
The outfit of the Bar-20 was, perhaps, the most famous of all from Canada to the Rio Grande. Crooked gaming houses, from El Paso to Cheyenne and from Phoenix to Leavenworth, unanimously and enthusiastically damned them from their boots to their sombreros, and the sheriffs and marshals of many localities had received from their hands most timely assistance and some trouble.
"What did I tell you about our brains?" he cried, enthusiastically. He had been on the point of suggesting that plan of operations when Laramie took the words out of his mouth. "I'd never thought of that, Laramie," he lied, his face beaming. "Why, we've got 'em licked to a finish right now!" "This is a hummer of a game," laughed Slivers. "But how about the Bar-20 crowd?"
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