Asked the sheriff as he looked himself over.
“None whatever,” answered Hopalong heartily. “I’m Hopalong Cassidy of th’ Bar 20, Texas.”
“You don’t surprise me—I’ve heard of you,” replied the sheriff wearily. “You are the man who killed Tamale Jose, whom I hunted for unceasingly. I found him when you had left and I got the reward. Come again some time and I’ll divide with you; two hundred and fifty dollars,” he added craftily.
“I shore will, but I don’t want no money,” replied Hopalong as he turned away. “Adios, senor,” he called back.
“Adios,” replied the sheriff as he kicked a nearby door for assistance.
The cow-pony tied itself up in knots as it pounded down the street toward the trail, and although he was fired on he swung into the dusty trail with a song on his lips. Several hours later he stood dripping wet on the American side of the Rio Grande and shouted advice to a score of Mexican cavalrymen on the opposite bank. Then he slowly picked his way toward El Paso for a game at Faro Dan’s.
The sheriff sat in his easy chair one night some three weeks later, gravely engaged in rolling a cigarette. His arms were practically well, the wounds being in the fleshy parts. He was a philosopher and was disposed to take things easy, which accounted for his being in his official position for fifteen years. A gentleman at the core, he was well educated and had visited a goodly portion of the world. A book of Horace lay open on his knees and on the table at his side lay a shining new revolver, Hopalong having carried off his former weapon. He read aloud several lines and in reaching for a light for his cigarette noticed the new six-shooter. His mind leaped from Horace to Hopalong, and he smiled grimly at the latter’s promise to call.
Glancing up, his eyes fell on a poster which conveyed the information in Spanish and in English that there was offered
+———————————————————+
| | FIVE HUNDRED PESOS | |
REWARD
For Hopalong Cassidy, of the Ranch
| | Known as the Bar-20, Texas, U. S. A. | |
+———————————————————+
and which gave a good description of that gentleman.
Sighing for the five hundred, he again took up his book and was lost in its pages when he heard a knock, rather low and timid. Wearily laying aside his reading, he strode to the door, expecting to hear a lengthy complaint from one of his townsmen. As he threw the door wide open the light streamed out and lighted up a revolver and behind it the beaming face of a cowboy, who grinned.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” ejaculated the sheriff, starting back in amazement.
“Don’t say that, sheriff; you’ve got lots of time to reform,” replied a humorous voice. “How’s th’ wings?”
“Almost well: you were considerate,” responded the sheriff. “Let’s go in—somebody might see me out here an’ get into trouble,” suggested the visitor, placing his foot on the sill.
“Certainly—pardon my discourtesy,” said the sheriff. “You see, I wasn’t expecting you to-night,” he explained, thinking of the elaborate preparations that he would have gone to if he had thought the irrepressible would call.
“Well, I was down this way, an’ seeing as how I had promised to drop in I just natchurally dropped,” replied Hopalong as he took the chair proffered by his host.
After talking awhile on everything and nothing the sheriff coughed and looked uneasily at his guest.
“Mr. Cassidy, I am sorry you called, for I like men of your energy and courage and I very much dislike to arrest you,” remarked the sheriff. “Of course you understand that you are under arrest,” he added with anxiety.
“Who, me?” Asked Hopalong with a rising inflection.
“Most assuredly,” breathed the sheriff.
“Why, this is the first time I ever heard anything about it,” replied the astonished cow-puncher. “I’m an American—don’t that make any difference?”
“Not in this case, I’m afraid. You see, it’s for manslaughter.”
“Well, don’t that beat th’ devil, now?” Said Hopalong. He felt sorry that a citizen of the glorious United States should be prey for troublesome sheriffs, but he was sure that his duty to Texas called upon him never to submit to arrest at the hands of a Mexican. Remembering the Alamo, and still behind his Colt, he reached over and took up the shining weapon from the table and snapped it open on his knee. After placing the cartridges in his pocket he tossed the gun over on the bed and, reaching inside his shirt, drew out another and threw it after the first.
“That’s yore gun; I forgot to leave it,” he said, apologetically. “Anyhow yu needs two,” he added.
Then he glanced around the room, noticed the poster and walked over and read it. A full swift sweep of his gloved hand tore it from its fastenings and crammed it under his belt. The glimmer of anger in his eyes gave way as he realized that his head was worth a definite price, and he smiled at what the boys would say when he showed it to them. Planting his feet far apart and placing his arms akimbo he faced his host in grim defiance.
“Got any more of these?” He inquired, placing his hand on the poster under his belt.
“Several,” replied the sheriff.
“Trot ‘em out,” ordered Hopalong shortly.
The sheriff sighed, stretched and went over to a shelf, from which he took a bundle of the articles in question. Turning slowly he looked at the puncher and handed them to him.
“I reckons they’s all over this here town,” remarked Hopalong.
“They are, and you may never see Texas again.”
“So? Well, yu tell yore most particular friends that the job is worth five thousand, and that it will take so many to do it that when th’ mazuma is divided up it won’t buy a meal. There’s only one man in this country tonight that can earn that money, an’ that’s me,” said the puncher. “An’ I don’t need it,” he added, smiling.
“But you are my prisoner—you are under arrest,” enlightened the sheriff, rolling another cigarette. The sheriff spoke as if asking a question. Never before had five hundred dollars been so close at hand and yet so unobtainable. It was like having a check-book but no bank account.
“I’m shore sorry to treat yu mean,” remarked Hopalong, “but I was paid a month in advance an’ I’ll have to go back an’ earn it.”
“You can—if you say that you will return,” replied the sheriff tentatively. The sheriff meant what he said and for the moment had forgotten that he was powerless and was not the one to make terms.
Hopalong was amazed and for a time his ideas of Mexicans staggered under the blow. Then he smiled sympathetically as he realized that he faced a white man.
“Never like to promise nothin’,” he replied. “I might get plugged, or something might happen that wouldn’t let me.” Then his face lighted up as a thought came to him. “Say, I’ll cut di’ cards with yu to see if I comes back or not.”
The sheriff leaned back and gazed at the cool youngster before him. A smile of satisfaction, partly at the self-reliance of his guest and partly at the novelty of his situation, spread over his face. He reached for a pack of Mexican cards and laughed. “Man! You’re a cool one—I’ll do it. What do you call?”
“Red,” answered Hopalong.
The sheriff slowly raised his hand and revealed the ace of hearts. Hopalong leaned back and laughed, at the same time taking from his pocket the six extracted