The Rashness Of Shorty

: Hopalong Cassidy's Rustler Round-up

Buckskin was very hot; in fact it was never anything else. Few people

were on the streets and the town was quiet. Over in the Houston hotel

a crowd of cowboys was lounging in the barroom. They were very quiet-a

condition as rare as it was ominous. Their mounts, twelve in all, were

switching flies from their quivering skins in the corral at the rear.

Eight of these had a large C 80 branded on their flanks; the other

four, a Double Arrow.



In the barroom a slim, wiry man was looking out of the dirty window

up the street at Cowan's saloon. Shorty was complaining, "They shore

oughter be here now. They rounded up last week." The man nearest

assured him that they would come. The man at the window turned and

said, "They's yer now.









In front of Cowan's a crowd of nine happy-go-lucky, daredevil

riders were sliding from their saddles. They threw their reins over

the heads of their mounts and filed in to the bar. Laughter issued

from the open door and the clink of glasses could be heard. They stood

in picturesque groups, strong, self-reliant, humorous, virile. Their

expensive sombreros were pushed far back on their heads and their

hairy chaps were covered with the alkali dust from their ride.



Cowan, bottle in hand, pushed out several more glasses. He kicked a

dog from under his feet and looked at Buck. "Rounded up yet?" he

inquired.



"Shore, day afore yisterday," came the reply. The rest were busy

removing the dust from their throats, and gradually drifted into

groups of two or three. One of these groups strolled over to the

solitary card table, and found Jimmy Price resting in a cheap chair,

his legs on the table.



"I wisht yu'd extricate yore delicate feet from off'n this hyar

table, James," humbly requested Lanky Smith, morally backed up by

those with him.



"Ya-as, they shore is delicate, Mr. Smith," responded Jimmy without

moving.



"We wants to play draw, Jimmy," explained Pete.



"Yore shore welcome to play if yu wants to. Didn't I tell yu when yu

growed that mustache that yu didn't have to ask me any more?" queried

the placid James, paternally.



"Call `em off, sonny. Pete sez he kin clean me out. Anyhow, yu kin

have the fust deal," compromised Lanky.



"I'm shore sorry fer Pete if he cayn't. Yu don't reckon I has to

have fust deal to beat yu fellers, do yu? Go way an' lemme alone; I

never seed such a bunch fer buttin' in as yu fellers."



Billy Williams returned to the bar. Then he walked along it until he

was behind the recalcitrant possessor of the table. While his

aggrieved friends shuffled their feet uneasily to cover his approach,

he tiptoed up behind Jimmy and, with a nod, grasped that indignant

individual firmly by the neck while the others grabbed his feet. They

carried him, twisting and bucking, to the middle of the street and

deposited him in the dust, returning to the now vacant table.



Jimmy rested quietly for a few seconds and then slowly arose,

dusting the alkali from him.



"Th' wall-eyed piruts," he muttered, and then scratched his head for a

way to "play hunk." As he gazed sorrowfully at the saloon he heard a

snicker from behind him. He, thinking it was one of his late

tormentors, paid no attention to it. Then a cynical, biting laugh

stung him. He wheeled, to see Shorty leaning against a tree, a

sneering leer on his flushed face. Shorty's right hand was suspended

above his holster, hooked to his belt by the thumb-a favorite position

of his when expecting trouble.



"One of yore reg'lar habits?" he drawled.



Jimmy began to dust himself in silence, but his lips were compressed

to a thin white line.



"Does they hurt yu?" pursued the onlooker.



Jimmy looked up. "I heard tell that they make glue outen cayuses,

sometimes," he remarked.



Shorty's eyes flashed. The loss of the horse had been rankling in

his heart all day.



"Does they git yu frequent?" he asked. His voice sounded hard.



"Oh, `bout as frequent as yu lose a cayuse, I reckon," replied Jimmy

hotly.



Shorty's hand streaked to his holster and Jimmy followed his lead.

Jimmy's Colt was caught. He had bucked too much. As he fell Shorty ran

for the Houston House.



Pistol shots were common, for they were the universal method of

expressing emotions. The poker players grinned, thinking their victim

was letting off his indignation. Lanky sized up his hand and remarked

half audibly, "He's a shore good kid."



The bartender, fearing for his new beveled, gilt-framed mirror, gave

a hasty glance out the window. He turned around, made change and

remarked to Buck, "Yore kid, Jimmy, is plugged." Several of the more

credulous craned their necks to see, Buck being the first. "Judas!" he

shouted, and ran out to where Jimmy lay coughing, his toes twitching.

The saloon was deserted and a crowd of angry cowboys surrounded their

chum-aboy. Buck had seen Shorty enter the door of the Houston House

and he swore. "Chase them C 80 and Arrow cayuses behind the saloon,

Pete, an' git under cover.



Jimmy was choking and he coughed up blood. "He's shore- got me. My-

gun stuck," he added apologetically. He tried to sit up, but was not

able and he looked surprised. "It's purty- damn hot-out here," he

suggested. Johnny and Billy carried him in the saloon and placed him

by the table, in the chair he had previously vacated. As they stood up

he fell across the table and died.



Billy placed the dead boy's sombrero on his head and laid the

refractory six-shooter on the table. "I wonder who th' dirty killer

was." He looked at the slim figure and started to go out, followed by

Johnny. As he reached the threshold a bullet zipped past him and

thudded into the frame of the door. He backed away and looked

surprised. "That's Shorty's shootin'-he allus misses `bout that much."

He looked out and saw Buck standing behind the live oak that Shorty

had leaned against, firing at the hotel. Turning around he made for

the rear, remarking to Johnny that "they's in th' Houston." Johnny

looked at the quiet figure in the chair and swore softly. He followed

Billy. Cowan, closing the door and taking a buffalo gun from under the

bar, went out also and slammed the rear door forcibly.



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