The Vagrant Sioux

: Hopalong Cassidy's Rustler Round-up

Buckskin gradually readjusted itself to the conditions which had

existed before its sudden leap into the limelight as a town which did

things. The soiree at the Houston House had drifted into the past, and

was now substantially established as an epoch in the history of the

town. Exuberant joy gave way to dignity and deprecation, and to solid

satisfaction; and the conversations across the bar brought forth

parallels o
the affair to be judged impartially -and the impartial

judgment was, unanimously, that while there had undoubtedly been good

fights before Perry's Bend had disturbed the local quiet, they were

not quite up to the new standard of strenuous hospitality. Finally the

heat blistered everything back into the old state, and the shadows

continued to be in demand.



One afternoon, a month after the reception of the honorable

delegation from Perry's Bend, the town of Buckskin seemed desolated,

and the earth and the buildings thereon were as huge furnaces

radiating a visible heat, but when the blazing sun had begun to settle

in the west it awoke with a clamor which might have been laid to the

efforts of a zealous Satan. At this time it became the Mecca of two

score or more joyous cowboys from the neighboring ranches, who livened

things as those knights of the saddle could.



In the scant but heavy shadow of Cowan's saloon sat a picturesque

figure from whom came guttural, resonant rumblings which mingled in a

spirit of loneliness with the fretful sighs of a flea-tormented dog.

Both dog and master were vagrants, and they were tolerated because it

was a matter of supreme indifference as to who came or how long they

stayed as long as the ethics and the unwritten law of the cow country

were inviolate. And the breaking of these caused no unnecessary

anxiety, for justice was both speedy and sure.



When the outcast Sioux and his yellow dog had drifted into town some

few months before they had caused neither expostulation nor inquiry,

as the cardinal virtue of that whole broad land was to ask a man no

questions which might prove embarrassing to all concerned; judgment

was of observation, not of history, and a man's past would reveal

itself through actions. It mattered little whether he was an embezzler

or the wild chip from some prosperous eastern block, as men came to

the range to forget and to lose touch with the pampered East; and the

range absorbed them as its own.







A man was only a man as his skin contained the qualities necessary; and the

illiterate who could ride

and shoot and live to himself was far more esteemed than the educated

who could not do those things. The more a man depends upon himself and

the closer is his contact to a quick judgment the more laconic and

even-poised he becomes. And the knowledge that he is himself a judge

tends to create caution and judgment. He has no court to uphold his

honor and to offer him protection, so he must be quick to protect

himself and to maintain his own standing. His nature saved him, or it

executed; and the range absolved him of all unpaid penalties of a

careless past.



He became a man born again and he took up his burden,

the exactions of a new environment, and he lived as long as those

exactions gave him the right to live. He must tolerate no restrictions

of his natural rights, and he must not restrict; for the one would

proclaim him a coward, the other a bully; and both received short

shrifts in that land of the self-protected. The basic law of nature is

the survival of the fittest.



So, when the wanderers found their level in Buckskin they were not

even asked by what name men knew them. Not caring to hear a name which

might not harmonize with their idea of the fitness of things, the

cowboys of the Bar-20 had, with a freedom born of excellent livers and

fearless temperaments, bestowed names befitting their sense of humor

and adaptability. The official title of the Sioux was By-and-by; the

dog was known as Fleas. Never had names more clearly described the

objects to be represented, for they were excellent examples of cowboy

discernment and aptitude.



In their eyes By-and-by was a man. He could feel and he could resent

insults. They did not class him as one of themselves, because he did

not have energy enough to demand and justify such classification. With

them he had a right to enjoy his life as he saw fit so long as he did

not trespass on or restrict the rights of others. They were not

analytic in temperament, neither were they moralists. He was not a

menace to society, because society had superb defenses. So they

vaguely recognized his many poor qualities and clearly saw his few

good ones. He could shoot, when permitted, with the best; no horse,

however refractory, had ever been known to throw him; he was an adept

at following the trails left by rustlers, and that was an asset; he

became of value to the community; he was an economic factor.



His ability to consume liquor with indifferent effects raised him another

notch in their estimation. He was not always talking when some one

else wished to-another count. There remained about him that stoical

indifference to the petty; that observant nonchalance of the Indian;

and there was a suggestion, faint, it was true, of a dignity common to

chieftains. He was a log of grave deference which tossed on their sea

of mischievous hilarity.



He wore a pair of corduroy trousers, known to the care-free as

"pants," which were held together by numerous patches of what had once

been brilliantly colored calico. A pair of suspenders, torn into two

separate straps, made a belt for himself and a collar for his dog. The

trousers had probably been secured during a fit of absent-mindedness

on his part when their former owner had not been looking. Tucked at

intervals in the top of the corduroys (the exceptions making

convenient shelves for alkali dust) was what at one time had been a

stiff-bosomed shirt. This was open down the front and back, the weight

of the trousers on the belt holding it firmly on the square shoulders

of the wearer, thus precluding the necessity of collar buttons. A pair

of moccasins, beautifully worked with wampum, protected his feet from

the onslaughts of cacti and the inquisitive and pugnacious sand flies;

and lying across his lap was a repeating Winchester rifle, not

dangerous because it was empty, a condition due to the wisdom of the

citizens in forbidding any one to sell, trade or give to him those

tubes of concentrated trouble, because he could get drunk.



The two were contented and happy. They had no cares nor duties, and

their pleasures were simple and easily secured, as they consisted of

sleep and a proneness to avoid moving. Like the untrammeled coyote,

their bed was where sleep overtook them; their food, what the night

wrapped in a sense of security, or the generosity of the cowboys of

the Bar-20. No tub-ridden Diogenes ever knew so little of

responsibility or as much unadulterated content. There is a penalty

even to civilization and ambition.



When the sun had cast its shadows beyond By-and-by's feet the air

became charged with noise; shouts, shots and the rolling thunder of

madly pounding hoofs echoed flatly throughout the town. By-and-by

yawned, stretched and leaned back, reveling in the semi-conscious

ecstasy of the knowledge that he did not have to immediately get up.

Fleas opened one eye and cocked an ear in inquiry, and then rolled

over on his back, squirmed and sighed contentedly and long. The outfit

of the Bar-20 had come to town.



The noise came rapidly nearer and increased in volume as the riders

turned the corner and drew rein suddenly, causing their mounts to

slide on their haunches in ankle-deep dust.



"Hullo, old Buck-with-th'-pants, how's yore liver?"



"Come up an irrigate, old tank!"



"Chase th' flea ranch an' trail along!"



These were a few of the salutations discernible among the medley of

playful yells, the safety valves of supercharged good-nature.



"Skr-e-e!" yelled Hopalong Cassidy, letting off a fusillade of shots.

in the vicinity of Fleas, who rapidly retreated around the corner,

where he wagged his tail in eager expectation. He was not

disappointed, for a cow pony tore around in pursuit and Hopalong

leaned over and scratched the yellow back, thumping it heartily, and,

tossing a chunk of beef into the open jaws of the delighted dog,

departed as he had come. The advent of the outfit meant a square meal,

and the dog knew it.



In Cowan's, lined up against the bar, the others were earnestly and

assiduously endeavoring, with a promise of success, to get By-and-by

drunk, which endeavors coincided perfectly with By-and-by's idea of

the fitness of things. The fellowship and the liquor combined to thaw

out his reserve and to loosen his tongue. After gazing with an air of

injured surprise at the genial loosening of his knees he gravely

handed his rifle with an exaggerated sweep of his arm, to the cowboy

nearest him, and wrapped his arms around the recipient to insure his

balance. The rifle was passed from hand to hand until it came to Buck

Peters, who gravely presented it to its owner as a new gun.



By-and-by threw out his stomach in an endeavor to keep his head in

line with his heels, and grasping the weapon with both hands turned to

Cowan, to whom he gave it.



"Yu hab this un. Me got two. Me keep new un, mebby so. "Then he

loosened his belt and drank long and deep.



A shadow darkened the doorway and Hopalong limped in. Spying By-and-

by pushing the bottle into his mouth, while Red Connors propped him,

he grinned and took out five silver dollars, which he jingled under

By-and-by's eyes, causing that worthy to lay aside the liquor and

erratically grab for the tantalizing fortune.



"Not yet, sabe?" said Hopalong, changing the position of the money.

"If yu wants to corral this here herd of simoleons yu has to ride a

cayuse what Red bet me yu can't ride. Yu has got to grow on that there

saddle and stayed growed for five whole minutes by Buck's ticker. I

ain't a-goin' to tell yu he's any saw-horse, for yu'd know better, as

yu reckons Red wouldn't bet on no losin' proposition if he knowed

better, which same he don't. Yu straddles that four-laigged cloudburst

an' yu gets these, sabe? I ain't seen th' cayuse yet that yu couldn't

freeze to, an' I'm backin' my opinions with my moral support an' one

month's pay.



By-and-by's eyes began to glitter as the meaning of the words sifted

through his befuddled mind. Ride a horse-five dollars- ride a five-

dollars horse-horses ride dollars-then he straightened up and began to

speak in an incoherent jumble of Sioux and bad English. He, the mighty

rider of the Sioux; he, the bravest warrior and the greatest hunter;

could he ride a horse for five dollars? Well, he rather thought he

could. Grasping Red by the shoulder, he tacked for the door and

narrowly missed hitting the bottom step first, landing, as it

happened, in the soft dust with Red's leg around his neck. Somewhat

sobered by the jar, he stood up and apologized to the crowd for Red

getting in the way, declaring that Red was a "Heap good un," and that

he didn't mean to do it.



The outfit of the Bar-20 was, perhaps, the most famous of all from

Canada to the Rio Grande. The foreman, Buck Peters, controlled a crowd

of men (who had all the instincts of boys) that had shown no quarter

to many rustlers, and who, while always carefree and easy-going (even

fighting with great good humor and carelessness), had established the

reputation of being the most reckless gang of daredevil gun-fighters

that ever pounded leather. Crooked gaming houses, from El Paso to

Cheyenne and from Phoenix to Leavenworth, unanimously and

enthusiastically damned them from their boots to their sombreros, and

the sheriffs and marshals of many localities had received from their

hands most timely assistance-and some trouble. Wiry, indomitable,

boyish and generous, they were splendid examples of virile manhood;

and, surrounded as they were with great dangers and a unique

civilization, they should not, in justice, be judged by opinions born

of the commonplace.



They were real cowboys, which means, public opinion to the contrary

notwithstanding, that they were not lawless, nor drunken, shooting

bullies who held life cheaply, as their kin has been unjustly

pictured; but while these men were naturally peaceable they had to

continually rub elbows with men who were not. Gamblers, criminals,

bullies and the riffraff that fled from the protected East had drifted

among them in great numbers, and it was this class that caused the

trouble.



The hardworking "cow-punchers" lived according to the law of

the land, and they obeyed that greatest of all laws, that of self-

preservation. Their fun was boisterous, but they paid for all the

damage they inflicted; their work was one continual hardship, and the

reaction of one extreme swings far toward the limit of its antithesis.

Go back to the Apple if you would trace the beginning of self-

preservation and the need.



Buck Peters was a man of mild appearance, somewhat slow of speech

and correspondingly quick of action, who never became flurried. His

was the master hand that controlled, and his Colts enjoyed the

reputation of never missing when a hit could have been expected with

reason. Many floods, stampedes and blizzards had assailed his nerves,

but he yet could pour a glass of liquor, held at arm's length, through

a knothole in the floor without wetting the wood.



Next in age came Lanky Smith, a small, undersized man of retiring

disposition. Then came Skinny Thompson, six feet four on his bared

soles, and true to his name; Hopalong described him as "th' shadow of

a chalk mark." Pete Wilson, the slow-witted and very taciturn, and

Billy Williams, the wavering pessimist, were of ordinary height and

appearance. Red Connors, with hair that shamed the name, was the

possessor of a temper which was as dry as tinder; his greatest

weakness was his regard for the rifle as a means of preserving peace.

Johnny Nelson was the protege, and he could do no wrong.



The last, Hopalong Cassidy, was a combination of irresponsibility, humor, good

nature, love of fighting, and nonchalance when face to face with

danger. His most prominent attribute was that of always getting into

trouble without any intention of so doing; in fact, he was much

aggrieved and surprised when it came. It seemed as though when any

"bad man" desired to add to his reputation he invariably selected

Hopalong as the means (a fact due, perhaps, to the perversity of

things in general). Bad men became scarce soon after Hopalong became a

fixture in any locality. He had been crippled some years before in a

successful attempt to prevent the assassination of a friend, Sheriff

Harris, of Albuquerque, and he still possessed a limp.



When Red had relieved his feelings and had dug the alkali out of his

ears and eyes, he led the Sioux to the rear of the saloon, where a

"pinto" was busily engaged in endeavoring to pitch a saddle from his

back, employing the intervals in trying to see how much of the picket

rope he could wrap around his legs.



When By-and-by saw what he was expected to ride he felt somewhat

relieved, for the pony did not appear to have more than the ordinary

amount of cussedness. He waved his hand, and Johnny and Red bandaged

the animal's eyes, which quieted him at once, and then they untangled

the rope from around his legs and saw that the cinches were secure.

Motioning to By-and-by that all was ready, they jerked the bandage off

as the Indian settled himself in the saddle.



Had By-and-by been really sober he would have taken the conceit out

of that pony in chunks, and as it was he experienced no great

difficulty in holding his seat; but in his addled state of mind he

grasped the end of the cinch strap in such a way that when the pony

jumped forward in its last desperate effort the buckle slipped and the

cinch became unfastened; and By-and-by, still seated in the saddle,

flew head foremost into the horse trough, where he spilled much water.



As this happened Cowan turned the corner, and when he saw the wasted

water (which he had to carry, bucketful at a time, from the wells a

good quarter of a mile away) his anger blazed forth, and yelling, he

ran for the drenched Sioux, who was just crawling out of his bath.

When the unfortunate saw the irate man bearing down on him he

sputtered in rage and fear, and, turning, he ran down the street, with

Cowan thundering flatfootedly behind on a fat man's gallop, to the

hysterical cheers of the delighted outfit, who saw in it nothing but a

good joke.



When Cowan returned from his hopeless task, blowing and wheezing, he

heard sundry remarks, sotto voce, which were not calculated to

increase his opinion of his physical condition.



"Seems to me," remarked the irrepressible Hopalong, "that one of

those cayuses has got th' heaves."



"It shore sounds like it," acquiesced Johnny, red in the face from

holding in his laughter, "an' say, somebody interferes."



"All knock-kneed animals do, yu heathen," supplied Red.



`Hey, yu, let up on that and have a drink on th' house," invited

Cowan. "If I gits that durn war whoop I'll make yu think there's been a

cyclone. I'll see how long that bum hangs around this here burg, I

will."



Red's eyes narrowed and his temper got the upper hand. "He ain't no

bum when yu gives him rotgut at a quarter of a dollar a glass, is he?

Any time that `bum' gits razzled out for nothin' more'n this, why, I

goes too; an' I ain't sayin' nothin' about goin' peaceable-like,

neither."



"I knowed somethin' like this `ud happen," dolefully sang out Billy

Williams, strong on the side of his pessimism.



"For th' Lord's sake, have you broke out?" asked Red, disgustedly.

"I'm goin' to hit the trail-but just keep this afore yore mind: if By-

and-by gits in any accidents or ain't in sight when I comes to town

again, this here climate'll be a heep sight hotter'n it is now. No

hard feelings, sabe? It's just a casual bit of advice. Come on,

fellows, let's amble -I'm hungry."



As they raced across the plain toward the ranch a pair of beady

eyes, snapping with a drunken rage, watched them from an arroyo; and

when Cowan entered the saloon the next morning he could not find By-

and-by's rifle, which he had placed behind the bar. He also missed a

handful of cartridges from the box near the cash drawer; and had he

looked closely at his bottled whisky he would have noticed a loss

there. A horse was missing from a Mexican's corral and there were

rumors that several Indians had been seen far out on the plain.



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