The Penalty

: Hopalong Cassidy's Rustler Round-up

While Mr. Travennes had been entertained in the manner narrated, Mr.

Connors had passed the time by relating stale jokes to the uproarious

laughter of his extremely bored audience, who had heard the aged

efforts many times since they had first seen the light of day, and

most of whom earnestly longed for a drink. The landlord, hearing the

hilarity, had taken advantage of the opportunity offered to see a free

show. Not
eing able to see what the occasion was for the mirth, he

had pulled on his boots and made his way to the show with a flapjack

in the skillets which, in his haste, he had forgotten to put down. He

felt sure that he would be entertained, and he was not disappointed.

He rounded the corner and was enthusiastically welcomed by the hungry

Mr. Connors, whose ubiquitous guns coaxed from the skillet its

dyspeptic wad.



"Th' saints be praised!" ejaculated Mr. Connors as a matter of form,

not having a very clear idea of just what saints were, but he knew

what flapjacks were and greedily overcame the heroic resistance of the

one provided by chance and his own guns. As he rolled his eyes in

ecstatic content the very man Mr. Cassidy had warned him against

suddenly arose and in great haste disappeared around the corner of the

corral, from which point of vantage he vented his displeasure at the

treatment he had received by wasting six shots at the mortified Mr.

Connors.



"Steady!" sang out that gentleman as the line-up wavered. "He's a

precedent to hell for yu fellers! Don't yu get ambitious, none

whatever." Then he wondered how long it would take the fugitive to

secure a rifle and return to release the others by drilling him at

long range.



His thoughts were interrupted by the vision of a red head that

climbed into view over a rise a short distance off and he grinned his

delight as Mr. Cassidy loomed up, jaunty and triumphant. Mr. Cassidy

was executing calisthenics with a Colt in the rear of Mr. Travennes'

neck and was leading the horses.



Mr. Connors waved the skillet and his friend grinned his

congratulations at what the token signified.



"I see yu got some more," said Mr. Cassidy, as he went down the

line-up from the rear and collected nineteen weapons of various makes

and conditions, this number being explained by the fact that all but

one of the prisoners wore two. Then he added the five that had kicked

against his ribs ever since he had left the hut, and carefully

threaded the end of his lariat through the trigger guards.



"Looks like we stuck up a government supply mule, Red," he remarked,

as he fastened the whole collection to his saddle. "Fourteen colts,

six Merwin-Hulbert's, three Prescott, an' one puzzle," he added,

examining the puzzle. "Made in Germany, it says, and it shore looks

like it. It's got little pins stickin' out of th' cylinder, like you

had to swat it with a hammer or a rock, or somethin' to make it go

off. Must be damn dangerous, to most anybody around. Looks more like a

cactus than a six-shooter-gosh, it's a ten-shooter! I allus said them

Dutchmen was bloody-minded cusses. Think of bein' able to shoot

yoreself ten times before th' blame thing stops!" Then looking at the

line-up for the owner of the weapon, he laughed at the woeful

countenances displayed. "Did they sidle in by companies or squads?" He

asked.



"By twos, mostly. Then they parade-rested an' got discharged from

duty. I had eleven, but one got homesick, or disgusted, or something,

an' deserted. It was that cussed flapjack," confessed and explained

Mr. Connors.



"What!" said Mr. Cassidy in a loud voice. "Got away! Well, we'll

have to make our get-away plumb sudden or we'll never go.



At this instant the escaped man again began his bombardment from the

corner of the corral and Mr. Cassidy paused, indignant at the

fusillade which tore up the dust at his feet. He looked reproachfully

at Mr. Connors and then circled out on the plain until he caught a

glimpse of a fleeing cow-puncher, whose back rapidly grew smaller in

the fast-increasing distance.



"That's yore friend, Red," said Mr. Cassidy as he returned from his

reconnaissance. "He's that short-horn yearling. Mebby he'll come back

again," he added hopefully. "Anyhow, we've got to move. He'll collect

reinforcements an' mebby they all won't shoot like him. Get up on yore

Clarinda an' hold th' fort for me," he ordered, pushing the farther

horse over to his friend. Mr. Connors proved that an agile man can

mount a restless horse and not lose the drop, and backed off three

hundred yards, deftly substituting his Winchester for the Colts. Then

Mr. Cassidy likewise mounted with his attention riveted elsewhere and

backed off to the side of his companion.



The bombardment commenced again from the corral, but this time Mr.

Connors' rifle slid around in his lap and exploded twice. The

bellicose gentleman of the corral yelled in pain and surprise and

vanished.



"Purty good for a Winchester," said Mr. Cassidy in doubtful

congratulation.



"That's why I got him," snapped Mr. Connors in brief reply, and then

he laughed. "Is them th' vigilantes what never let a man get away?" He

scornfully asked, backing down the street and patting his Winchester.



"Well, Red, they wasn't all there. They was only twelve all told,"

excused Mr. Cassidy. "An' then we was two," he explained, as he wished

the collection of six-shooters was on Mr. Connors' horse so they

wouldn't bark his shin.



"An we still are," corrected Mr. Connors, as they wheeled and

galloped for Alkaline.



As the sun sank low on the horizon Mr. Peters finished ordering

provisions at the general store, the only one Alkaline boasted, and

sauntered to the saloon where he had left his men. He found diem a few

dollars richer, as they had borrowed ten dollars from the bartender on

their reputations as poker players and had used the money to stake Mr.

McAllister in a game against the local poker champion.



"Has Hopalong an' Red showed up yet?" Asked Mr. Peters, frowning at

the delay already caused.



"Nope," replied Johnny Nelson, as he paused from tormenting Billy

Williams.





At that minute the doorway was darkened and Mr. Cassidy and Mr.

Connors entered and called for refreshments. Mr. Cassidy dropped a

huge bundle of six-shooters on the floor, making caustic remarks

regarding their utility.



"What's th' matter?" Inquired Mr. Peters of Mr. Cassidy. "Yu looks

mad an' anxious. An' where in blazes did yu corral them guns?"



Mr. Cassidy drank deep and then reported with much heat what had

occurred at Cactus Springs and added that he wanted to go back and

wipe out the town, said desire being luridly endorsed by Mr. Connors.



"Why, shore," said Mr. Peters, "we'll all go. Such doings must be

stopped instanter." Then he turned to the assembled outfits and asked

for a vote, which was unanimous for war.



Shortly afterward eighteen angry cowpunchers rode to the east, two

red-haired gentlemen well in front and urging speed. It was 8 P.M.

when they left Alkaline, and the cool of the night was so delightful

that the feeling of ease which came upon them made them lax and they

lost three hours in straying from the dim trail. At eight o'clock the

next morning they came in sight of their destination and separated

into two squads, Mr. Cassidy leading the northern division and Mr.

Connors the one which circled to the south. The intention was to

attack from two directions, thus taking the town from front and rear.



Cactus Springs lay gasping in the excessive heat and the vigilantes

who had toed Mr. Connors' line the day before were lounging in the

shade of the "Palace" saloon, telling what they would do if they ever

faced the same man again. Half a dozen sympathizers offered gratuitous

condolence and advice and all were positive that they knew where Mr.

Cassidy and Mr. Connors would go when they died.



The rolling thunder of madly pounding hoofs disturbed their

post-mortem and they arose in a body to flee from half their number,

who, guns in hands, charged down upon them through clouds of sickly

white smoke. Travennes' Terrors were minus many weapons and they

could not be expected to give a glorious account of themselves. Windows

rattled and fell in and doors and walls gave off peculiar sounds as

they grew full of holes. Above the riot rattled the incessant crack of

Colt's and Winchester, emphasized at close intervals by the assertive

roar of buffalo guns. Off to the south came another rumble of hoofs

and Mr. Connors, leading the second squad, - arrived to participate

in the payment of the debt.



Smoke spurted from windows and other points of vantage and hung

wavering in the heated air. The shattering of woodwork told of heavy

slugs finding their rest, and the whines that grew and diminished in

the air sang the course of .45s.



While the fight raged hottest Mr. Nelson sprang from his horse and

ran to the "Palace," where he collected and piled a heap of tinder like

wood, and soon the building burst out in flames, which, spreading,

swept the town from end to end.



Mr. Cassidy fired slowly and seemed to be waiting for something. Mr.

Connors laid aside his hot Winchester and devoted his attention to his

Colts. A spurt of flame and smoke leaped from the window of a `dobe

hut and Mr. Connors sat down, firing as he went. A howl from the

window informed him that he had made a hit, and Mr. Cassidy ran out

and dragged him to the shelter of a near-by bowlder and asked how much

he was hurt.



"Not much-in the calf," grunted Mr. Connors. "He was a bad shot-must

have been the cuss that got away yesterday," speculated the injured

man as he slowly arose to his feet. Mr. Cassidy dissented from force

of habit and returned to his station.

Mr. Travennes, who was sleeping late that morning, coughed and

fought for air in his sleep, awakened in smoke, rubbed his eyes to

make sure and, scorning trousers and shirt, ran clad in his red woolen

undergarments to the corral, where he mounted his scared horse and

rode for the desert and safety.



Mr. Cassidy, swearing at the marksmanship of a man who fired at his

head and perforated his sombrero, saw a crimson rider sweep down upon

him, said rider being heralded by a blazing .44.



"Gosh!" ejaculated Mr. Cassidy, scarcely believing his eyes. "Oh,

it's my friend Slim going to hades," he remarked to himself in audible

and relieved explanation. Mr. Cassidy's Colts cracked a protest and

then he joined Mr. Peters and the others and with them fought his way

out of the flame-swept town of Cactus Springs.



An hour later Mr. Connors glanced behind him at the smoke

silhouetted on the horizon and pushed his way to where Mr. Cassidy

rode in silence. Mr. Connors grinned at his friend of the red hair,

who responded in the same manner.



"Did yu see Slim?" Casually inquired Mr. Connors, looking off to the

south.



Mr. Cassidy sat upright in his saddle and felt of his Colts. "Yes,"

he replied, "I saw him."



Mr. Connors thereupon galloped on in silence.



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