Hopalong Cassidy Sees Red

'I was near raised on it. Bill Long is Hopalong Cassidy, an' Red Thompson is Red Connors, th' whitest men that ever set a saddle. Rob a bank, an' shoot a man from behind! Did Bill Long act like a man that had to shoot in th' back when he made Thorpe climb his own wall, with his own crowd lookin' on? Most of their lives has been spent fightin' Kane's kind; an' no breed of pups can hold 'em while I'm drawin' my breath. It's only how to do it th' best way that's botherin' me. I've slipped 'em a pair of guns, so I got a little time to think. Why, cuss it: Hoppy knows th' skunk that got Ridley! An' before we're through we'll know who robbed th' bank, an' hand 'em over to Mac. That's what's keepin' th' three of us here!'

'Bless my gran'mother's old gray cat!' breathed Idaho. 'No wonder they pulled th' string! I'm sayin' Kane's got hard ridin' ahead. Say, can I tell th' boys at th' ranch?'

'Tell 'em nothin' that you wouldn't know except for me tellin' you,' replied Johnny. 'I know they're good boys; but they might let it slip. Me an' Hoppy an' Red are aimin' for them rewards—an' we're goin' to get 'em both.'

'It's a plumb lovely night,' muttered Idaho. 'Nicest night I think I ever saw. I don't want no rewards, but I just got to get my itchin' paws into what's goin' on around this town. An' it's a lovely town. Nicest town I think I ever was in. That 'dobe shack ain't what it once was. I know, because, not bein' friendly with th' sheriff, an' not bein' able to look all directions at once, I figgered I might be in it, myself, some day. So I've looked it over good, inside an' out. Th' walls are crumbly, an' th' bars in th' window are old. There's a waggin tongue in Pete Jarvis' freight waggin that's near twelve foot long, an' a-plenty thick. Ash, I think it is; that or oak. Either's good enough. If it was shoved between th' bars an' then pushed sideways that jail wouldn't be a jail no more. If Pete ain't taken th' waggin to bed with him, bein' so proud of it, we can crack that little hazelnut. I'm goin' back an' see how many are still hangin' around.'

'I'm goin' back to th' hotel, so I'll be seen there,' said Johnny.

'I'll do th' same, later,' replied his friend as they separated.

Quayle was getting rid of some of his accumulated anger, which reflection had caused to soar up near the danger point. 'Tom Ridley wasn't killed by no strangers!' he growled, banging the table with his fist. 'I can name th' man that done it by callin' th' roll av Kane's litter; an' I'll be namin' th' bank robbers in th' same breath.' He looked around as Johnny entered the room. 'An' what did ye find, lad?'

'Idaho was right. They've got 'em in th' jail.'

'An' if I was as young a man as you,' said the proprietor, 'they wouldn't kape 'em there. As ut is I'm timpted to go up an' bust in th' dommed door, before th' sheriff comes back from his ride. Tom Ridley's murderer? Bah!'

'Back from his ride?' questioned Johnny, quickly and eagerly.

'Shure. He just wint down th' trail. Tellin' Mac, I don't doubt that he's got th' men Twitchell wants. I was lookin' around when he wint past. This is th' time, lad. I'll help ye by settin' fire to Red Frank's corral if th' jail's watched. It'll take their attention. Or I'll lug me rifle up an' cover ye while ye. work.' He arose and went into the office for the weapon, Johnny following him. 'There she is—full to th' ind. An' I know her purty ways.'

'Tim,' said Johnny's low voice over his shoulder. 'Yo're white, clean through. I don't need yore help, anyhow, not right now. An' because you are white I'm goin' to tell you somethin' that'll please you, an' give me one more good friend in this rotten town. Bill Long an' Red Thompson are friends of mine. They did not rob th' bank, nor shoot Ridley; but Bill knows who did shoot Ridley. He saw him climbin' out of Kane's south stable while th' smoke was still comin' from th' gun that shot yore friend. I can put my hand on th' coyote in five minutes. Th' three of us are stayin' here to get that man, th' man who robbed th' bank, an' Pecos Kane. I'm tellin' you this because I may need a good friend in Mesquite before we're through.'

Quayle had wheeled and gripped his shoulder with convulsive force. 'Ah!' he breathed. 'Come on, lad; point him out! Point him out for Tim Quayle, like th' good lad ye are!'

'Do you want him so bad that yo're willin' to let th' real killer get away?' asked Johnny. 'You only have to wait an' we'll get both.'

'What d'ye mean?'

'You don't believe he shot Ridley without bein' told to do it, do you?'

'Kane told him; I know it as plain as I know my name.'

'Knowin' ain't provin' it, an' provin' it is what we got to do.'

''Tis th' curse av th' Irish, jumpin' first an' thinkin' after,' growled Quayle. 'Go wan!'

'Yo're friends with McCullough,' said Johnny. 'Mac knows a little; an' I'm near certain he's heard of Hopalong Cassidy an' Red Connors, of th' Bar-20. Don't forget th' names: Hopalong Cassidy an' Red Connors, of th' old Bar-20 in th' Pecos Valley. Buck Peters was foreman. I want you to go down an' pay him a friendly visit, and tell him this,' and Quayle listened intently to the message.

'Bye,' chuckled the proprietor, 'ye leave Mac to me. We been friends for years, an' Tom Ridley was th' friend of us both. But, lad, ye may die; an' Bill Long may die—life is uncertain annywhere, an' more so in Mesquite, these days. If yer a friend av Tim Quayle, slip me th' name av th' man that murdered Ridley. I promise ye to kape han's off—an' I want no reward. But it fair sickens me to think his name may be lost. Tom was like a brother.'

'If you knew th' man you couldn't hold back,' replied Johnny. 'Here: I'll tell Idaho, an' Ed Doane. If Bill an' I go under they'll give you his description. I don't know his name.'

'Th' offer is a good wan; but Tim Quayle never broke his word to anny man—an' there's nothin' on earth or in hiven I want so much as to know who murdered Tom Ridley. I pass ye my word with th' sign av th' cross, on th' witness of th' Holy Virgin, an' on th' mem'ry av Tom Ridley—I'll stay me hand accordin' to me promise.'

Johnny looked deeply into the faded blue eyes through the tears which filmed them. He gripped the proprietor's hand and leaned closer. 'A Mexican with a pock-marked face, an' a crescent-shaped scar over his right eye. He is about my height an' drags one foot slightly when he walks.'

'Aye, from th' ball an' chain!' muttered Quayle. 'I know th' scut! Thank ye, lad: I can sleep better nights. An' I can wait as no Irishman ever waited before. Annythin' Tim Quayle has is yourn; yourn an' yore friends. I'll see Mac tomorrow. Good night.' He cuddled the rifle and went toward the stairs, but as he put his foot on the first step he stopped, turned, and went to a chair in a corner. 'I'm forgettin',' he said, simply. 'Ye may need me,' and he leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes, an expression of peace on his wrinkled face.

CHAPTER XIII

OUT AND AWAY

IDAHO slipped out of the darkness of the kitchen and appeared in the door. 'All right, Nelson,' he called. 'There's two on guard an' th' rest have left. They ain't takin' their job any too serious, neither. Just one apiece,' he chuckled.

Johnny looked at the proprietor. 'Got any rope, Tim?' he asked.

'Plenty,' answered Quayle, arising hastily and leading the way toward the kitchen. Supplying their need he stood in the door and peered into the darkness after them. 'Good luck, byes,' he muttered.

Pete Jarvis was proud of his new sixteen-foot freighter and he must have turned in his sleep when two figures, masked to the eyes by handkerchiefs, stole into his yard and went off with the heavy wagon tongue. They carried it up to the old wagon near the jail, where they put it down, removed their boots, and went on without it, reaching the rear wall of the jail without incident, where they crouched, one at each corner, and smiled at the conversation going on.

'I'm hopin' for a look at yore faces,' said Red's voice, 'to see what they looked like before I get through with 'em, if I ever get my chance. Come in, an' be sociable.'

'Yo're doin' a lot of talkin' now, you red-headed coyote,' came the jeering reply. 'But how are you goin' to talk to th' judge?'

'Bring some clean straw in th' mornin',' said Bill Long, 'or we'll bust yore necks. Manure's all right for Injuns, an' you, but we're white men. Hear me chirp, you mangy pups?'

'It's good enough for you!' snapped a guard. 'I was goin' to get you some, but now you can rot, for all I care!'

Johnny backed under the window, raised up and pressed his face against the rusty bars. 'It's th' Kid,' he whispered. 'Are you untied yet?'