and cheerfully gave the information required.
They had started out more for the purpose of accompanying him for pleasure, but that had changed to an urgent necessity in the following manner:
While on the way from Denver to Santa Fe they had met Pete Willis of the Three Triangle, a ranch that adjoined their own, and they paused to pass the compliments of the season.
“Purty far from th’ grub wagon, Pie,” remarked Buck.
“Oh, I’m only goin’ to Denver,” responded Pie.
“Purty hot,” suggested Red.
“She shore is. Seen anybody yu knows?” Pie asked.
“One or two—Billy of th’ Star Crescent an’ Panhandle Lukins,” answered Buck.
“That so? Panhandle’s goin’ to punch for us next year. I’ll hunt him up. I heard down south of Albuquerque that Thirsty Jones an’ his brothers are lookin’ for trouble,” offered Pie.
“Yah! They ain’t lookin’ for no trouble—they just goes around blowin’ off. Trouble? Why, they don’t know what she is,” remarked Red contemptuously.
“Well, they’s been dodgin’ th’ sheriff purty lively lately, an’ if that ain’t trouble I don’t know what is,” said Pie.
“It shore is, an’ hard to dodge,” acquiesced Buck.
“Well, I has to amble. Is Panhandle in Denver? Yes? I calculates as how me an’ him’ll buck th’ tiger for a whirl—he’s shore lucky. Well, so long,” said Pie as he moved on.
“So long,” responded the two.
“Hey, wait a minute,” yelled Pie after he had ridden a hundred yards. “If yu sees Hopalong yu might tell him that th’ Joneses are goin’ to hunt him up when they gits to Albuquerque. They’s shore sore on him. ‘Tain’t none of my funeral, only they ain’t always a-carin’ how they goes after a feller. So long,” and soon he was a cloud of dust on the horizon.
“Trouble!” snorted Red; “well, between dodgin’ Harris an’ huntin’ Hopalong I reckons they’ll shore find her.” Then to himself he murmured, “Funny how everythin’ comes his way.”
“That’s gospel shore enough, but, as Pie said, they ain’t a whole lot particular as how they deal th’ cards. We better get a move on an’ find that ornery little cuss,” replied Buck.
“O. K., only I ain’t losin’ no sleep about Hoppy. His gun’s too lively for me to do any worryin’,” asserted Red.
“They’ll get lynched some time, shore,” declared Buck.
“Not if they find Hoppy,” grimly replied Red.
They tore through Santa Fe, only stopping long enough to wet their throats, and after several hours of hard riding entered Alameda, where they found Hopalong in the manner narrated.
After some time the three left the room and headed for Albuquerque, twelve miles to the south. At ten o’clock they dismounted before the Nugget and Rope, an unpainted wooden building supposed to be a clever combination of barroom, dance and gambling hall and hotel. The cleverness lay in the man who could find the hotel part.
Chapter VII.
The Open Door
The proprietor of the Nugget and Rope, a German named Baum, not being troubled with police rules, kept the door wide open for the purpose of inviting trade, a proceeding not to the liking of his patrons for obvious reasons. Probably not one man in ten was fortunate enough to have no one “looking for him,” and the lighted interior assured good hunting to any one in the dark street. He was continually opening the door, which every newcomer promptly and forcibly slammed shut. When he saw men walk across the room for the express purpose of slamming it he began to cherish the idea that there was a conspiracy on foot to anger him and thus force him to bring about his own death.
After the door had been slammed three times in one evening by one man, the last slam being so forcible as to shake two bottles from the shelf and to crack the door itself, he became positive that his suspicions were correct, and so was very careful to smile and take it as a joke. Finally, wearied by his vain efforts to keep it open and fearing for the door, he hit upon a scheme, the brilliancy of which inflated his chest and gave him the appearance of a prize-winning bantam. When his patrons strolled in that night there was no door to slam, as it lay behind the bar.
When Buck and Red entered, closely followed by Hopalong, they elbowed their way to the rear of the room, where they could see before being seen. As yet they had said nothing to Hopalong about Pie’s warning and were debating in their minds whether they should do so or not, when Hopalong interrupted their thoughts by laughing. They looked up and he nodded toward the front, where they saw that anxious eyes from all parts of the room were focused on the open door. Then they noticed that it had been removed.
The air of semi-hostile, semi-anxious inquiry of the patrons and the smile of satisfaction covering the face of Baum appealed to them as the most ludicrous sight their eyes had seen for months, and they leaned back and roared with laughter, thus calling forth sundry looks of disapproval from the innocent causes of their merriment. But they were too well known in Albuquerque to allow the disapproval to approach a serious end, and finally, as the humorous side of the situation dawned on the crowd, they joined in the laugh and all went merrily.
At the psychologic moment some one shouted for a dance and the suggestion met with uproarious approval. At that moment Harris, the sheriff, came in and volunteered to supply the necessary music if the crowd would pay the fine against a straying fiddler he had corraled the day before. A hat was quickly passed and a sum was realized which would pay several fines to come and Harris departed for the music.
A chair was placed on the bar for the musician and, to the tune of “Old Dan Tucker” and an assortment of similar airs, the board floor shook and trembled. It was a comical sight and Hopalong, the only wallflower besides Baum and the sheriff, laughed until he became weak. Cow punchers play as they work, hard and earnestly, and there was plenty of action. Sombreros flapped like huge wings and the baggy chaps looked like small, distorted balloons.
The Virginia reel was a marvel of supple, exaggerated grace and the quadrille looked like a free-for-all for unbroken colts. The honor of prompter was conferred upon the sheriff, and he gravely called the changes as they were usually called in that section of the country:
“Oh, th’ ladies trail in
An’ th’ gents trail out,
An’ all stampede down th’ middle.
If yu ain’t got th’ tin
Yu can dance an’ shout,
But yu must keep up with th’ fiddle.”
As the dance waxed faster and the dancers grew hotter Hopalong, feeling lonesome because he wouldn’t face ridicule, even if it was not expressed, went over and stood by the sheriff. He and Harris were good friends, for he had received the wound that crippled him in saving the sheriff from assassination. Harris killed the man who had fired that shot, and from this episode on the burning desert grew a friendship that was as strong as their own natures.
Harris was very well liked by the majority and feared by the rest, for he was a square man and the best sheriff the county had ever known. Quiet and unassuming, small of stature and with a kind word for every one, he was a universal favorite among the better class of citizens. Quick as a flash and unerring in his shooting, he was a nightmare to the “bad men.” No profane word had ever been known to leave his lips, and he was the possessor of a widespread reputation for generosity. His face was naturally frank and open; but when his eyes narrowed with determination it became blank and cold. When he saw his young friend sidle over to him he smiled and nodded a hearty