wrist with his other hand. A curse and the tinkle of thin steel on the pavement accompanied the fall of his opponent. Bending down from his saddle he picked up the weapon and the next minute the enraged assassin was staring into the unwavering and, to him, growing muzzle of a Colt’s .45.
“Yu shore had a bum teacher. Don’t yu know better’n to push it in? An’ me a cowpuncher, too! I’m most grieved at yore conduct—it shows you don’t appreciate cow-wrastlers. This is safer,” he remarked, throwing the stiletto through the air and into a door, where it rang out angrily and quivered. “I don’t know as I wants to ventilate yu; we mostly poisons coyotes up my way,” he added. Then a thought struck him. “Yu must be that dear Manuel I’ve been hearin’ so much about?”
A snarl was the only reply and Hopalong grinned.
“Yu shore ain’t got no call to go loco that way, none whatever. I don’t want yore Carmencita. I only called to say hulloo,” responded Hopalong, his sympathies being aroused for the wounded man before him from his vivid recollection of the woman who had opened the door.
“Yah!” snarled Manuel. “You wants to poison my little bird. You with your fair hair and your cursed swagger!”
The six-shooter tentatively expanded and stopped six inches from the Mexican’s nose. “Yu wants to ride easy, hombre. I ain’t no angel, but I don’t poison no woman; an’ don’t yu amble off with th’ idea in yore head that she wants to be poisoned. Why, she near stuck a knife in me!” he lied.
The Mexican’s face brightened somewhat, but it would take more than that to wipe out the insult of the blow. The horse became restless, and when Hopalong had effectively quieted it he spoke again.
“Did yu ever hear of Tamale Jose?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m th’ fellow that stopped him in th’ ‘dobe hut by th’ arroyo. I’m tellin’ yu this so yu won’t do nothin’ rash an’ leave Carmencita a widow. Sabe?”
The hate on the Mexican’s face redoubled and he took a short step forward, but stopped when the muzzle of the Colt kissed his nose. He was the brother of Tamale Jose. As he backed away from the cool touch of the weapon he thought out swiftly his revenge. Some of his brother’s old companions were at that moment drinking mescal in a saloon down the street, and they would be glad to see this Americano die. He glanced past his house at the saloon and Hopalong misconstrued his thoughts.
“Shore, go home. I’ll just circulate around some for exercise. No hard feelings, only yu better throw it next time,” he said as he backed away and rode off. Manuel went down the street and then ran into the saloon, where he caused an uproar.
Hopalong rode to the end of the plaza and tried to sing, but it was a dismal failure. Then he felt thirsty and wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before. Turning his horse and seeing the saloon he rode up to it and in, lying flat on the animal’s neck to avoid being swept off by the door frame. His entrance scared white some half a dozen loungers, who immediately sprang up in a decidedly hostile manner. Hopalong’s Colts peeped over the ears of his horse and he backed into a corner near the bar.
“One, two, three—now, altogether, breathe! Yu acts like yu never saw a real puncher afore. All th’ same,” he remarked, nodding at several of the crowd, “I’ve seen yu afore. Yu are th’ gents with th’ hot-foot get-a-way that vamoosed when we got Tamale.”
Curses were flung at him and only the humorous mood he was in saved trouble. One, bolder than the rest, spoke up: “The senor will not see any ‘hot-foot get-a-way,’ as he calls it, now! The senor was not wise to go so far away from his friends!”’
Hopalong looked at the speaker and a quizzical grin slowly spread over his face. “They’ll shore feel glad when I tells them yu was askin’ for ‘em. But didn’t yu see too much of ‘em once, or was yu poundin’ leather in the other direction? Yu don’t want to worry none about me—an’ if yu don’t get yore hands closter to yore neck they’ll be heck to pay! There, that’s more like home,” he remarked, nodding assurance.
Reaching over he grasped a bottle and poured out a drink, his Colt slipping from his hand and dangling from his wrist by a thong. As the weapon started to fall several of the audience involuntarily moved as if to pick it up. Hopalong noticed this and paused with the glass half way to his lips. “Don’t bother yoreselves none; I can git it again,” he said, tossing off the liquor.
“Wow! Holy smoke!” he yelled. “This ain’t drink! Sufferin’ coyotes, nobody can accuse yu of sellin’ liquor! Did yu make this all by yoreself?” He asked incredulously of the proprietor, who didn’t know whether to run or to pray. Then he noticed that the crowd was spreading out and his Colts again became the center of interest.
“Yu with th’ lovely face, sit down!” he ordered as the person addressed was gliding toward the door. “I ain’t a-goin’ to let yu pot me from th’ street. Th’ first man who tries to get scarce will stop somethin’ hot. An’ yu all better sit down,” he suggested, sweeping them with his guns. One man, more obdurate than the rest, was slow in complying and Hopalong sent a bullet through the top of his high sombrero, which had a most gratifying effect.
“You’ll regret this!” hissed a man in the rear, and a murmur of assent arose. Some one stirred slightly in searching for a weapon and immediately a blazing Colt froze him into a statue.
“Yu shore looks funny; eeny, meeny, miny, mo,” counted off the daring horseman; “move a bit an’ off yu go,” he finished. Then his face broke out in another grin as he thought of more enjoyment.
“That there gent on th’ left,” he said, pointing out with a gun the man he meant. “Yu sing us a song. Sing a nice little song.”
As the object of his remarks remained mute he let his thumb ostentatiously slide back with the hammer of the gun under it. “Sing! Quick!” The man sang.
As Hopalong leaned forward to say something a stiletto flashed past his neck and crashed into the bottle beside him. The echo of the crash was merged into a report as Hopalong fired from his waist. Then he backed out into the Street and, wheeling, galloped across the plaza and again faced the saloon. A flash split the darkness and a bullet hummed over his head and thudded into an adobe wall at his back. Another shot and he replied, aiming at the flash.
From down the Street came the sound of a window opening and he promptly caused it to close again. Several more windows opened and hastily closed, and he rode slowly toward the far end of the plaza. As he faced the saloon once more he heard a command to throw up his hands and saw the glint of a gun, held by a man who wore the insignia of sheriff. Hopalong complied, but as his hands went up two spurts of fire shot forth and the sheriff dropped his weapon, reeled and sat down. Hopalong rode over to him and swinging down, picked up the gun and looked the officer over.
“Shoo, yu’ll be all right soon—yore only plugged in th’ arms,” he remarked as he glanced up the street. Shadowy forms were gliding from cover to cover and he immediately caused consternation among them by his accuracy. “Ain’t it sad?” He complained to the wounded man. “I never starts out but what somebody makes me shoot ‘em. Came down here to see a girl an’ find she’s married. Then when I moves on peaceable—like her husband makes me hit him. Then I wants a drink an’ he goes an’ fans a knife at me, an’ me just teachin’ him how! Then yu has to come along an’ make more trouble”.
“Now look at them fools over there,” he said, pointing at a dark shadow some fifty paces off. “They’re pattin’ their backs because I don’t see ‘em, an’ if I hurts them they’ll git mad. Guess I’ll make ‘em dust along,” he added, shooting into the spot. A howl went up and two men ran away at top speed.
The sheriff nodded his sympathy and spoke. “I reckons you had better give up. You can’t get away. Every house, every corner and shadow holds a man. You are a brave man, but, as you say, unfortunate. Better help me up and come with me—they’ll tear you to pieces.”
“Shore I’ll help yu up—I