The Man From Bar-20 by Clarence E. Mulford (good romance books to read .txt) 📕

Nelson, shake han’s with Tom Quigley. Here’s luck.”

“Fill ‘em again,” grinned Johnny. “Not that I hankers for th’ kind of liquor you sells, but because we has to do th’ best we can with what’s pervided.”

“Pop’s sellin’ better liquor than he used to,” smiled Quigley. “Am I to thank you for th’ improvement?”

“I refuse to accept th’ responsibility,” laughed Johnny.

“Well, he had some waggin varnish last year, an’ for a long time we was puzzled to know what he did with it. One day, somebody said his whiskey tasted like a pine knot: an’ then we knew th’ answer.”

“You both can go to th’ devil,” grinned Pop.

“Aimin’ to make a long stay with us, Mr. Nelson?” asked Quigley.

“That all depends on how soon I gets all th’ gold out of this country.”

“Ah! Prospecting”

“Startin’ tomorrow, I am: if this varnish don’t kill me.”

“There ain’t never been none found around here, ‘though I never could understand why. There was a couple of prospectors here some years ago, an’ they worked harder for nothin’ than anybody I ever saw. They covered th’ ground purty well, but they was broke about th’ time they started south of town, an’ had to clear out. They claimed there was pay dirt down there, but they couldn’t get a grubstake on th’ strength of that, so they just had to quit.”

“That’s where it is if it’s any place,” said Pop hurriedly. “Th’ river’s workin’ day an’ night, pilin’ it ag’in them rock ledges above th’ ford; an’ it’s been doin’ it since th’ world began.”

Johnny shook his head. “Mebby; but there ain’t no way to get it, unless you can drain th’ river. I want shallow water little streams, where there’s sand an’ gravel bars an’ flats. I’m aimin’ to work north of here.”

Quigley forced a smile and shook his head. “I’m afraid you’ll waste yore time. I’ve been all through that section, in fact I live up there, an’ some of my men have fooled around lookin’ for color. There ain’t ft sign of it anywhere.”

“Well, I’m aimin’ to go back north when I get tired of prospectin’,” replied Johnny, grinning cheerfully; “an’ I figgers I can prospect around an’ gradually work up that way, toward Hope. I’ll drop in an’ see you if I run acrost yore place. I reckon prospectin I is a lonesome game.”

“Didn’t you ever try it before?” asked Quigley in surprise.

“This is my first whirl at it,” reluctantly admitted Johnny. “I’m a cowpuncher, got tired of th’ north ranges an’ drifted down here. An’ I might ‘a’ stayed a cowpuncher, only I got a job on th’ CL an’ worked there for th’ last two weeks; an’ I got a-plenty. It soured me of punchin’. Outside of bein’ cussed suspicious, that man Logan is loco. I don’t mind bein’ suspected a little at first; but I ain’t goin’ to work like a fool when there ain’t no call for it. I might ‘a’ stuck it out, at that, only for a fool notion of his. That’s where I cut loose.”

Quigley looked curious. “New notion?”

“Yes,” laughed Johnny contemptuously. “He got th’ idea that th’ night air, close to th’ river, ain’t healthy for th’ cows! Told us to drive all of ‘em back from th’ river every evenin’ before we rode in. I said as how we ought to blanket ‘em, an’ build fires under ‘em. I reckon mebby I was a mite sarcastic, at that. Well, anyhow; we had an argument, an’ I drew my pay an’ quit.”

Pop let out a howl. “Good Lord!” he snorted. “Evenin’ air too wet for cows! Drive ‘em back every night! An’ lemme tell you that outfit’s just foolish enough to do it, too. He-he-he!”

Quigley laughed, and then looked at the proprietor: “Pop, we ain’t forgettin’. We both has bought, an’ it usually goes th’ rounds before it stops.”

“Oh, I’ll set ‘em up,” growled Pop.

“You ranchin’, Mr. Quigley?” asked Johnny.

“Well, I am, an’ I ain’t,” answered Quigley. “I’m farmin’ an’ ranchin’ both, on a small scale. I got a few head, but not enough to give me much bother. We sort of let ‘em look after themselves.”

“Oh,” said Johnny regretfully. “I thought mebby if I got tired of prospectin’, an’ short of cash, that I might get a job with you.”

“I ain’t got cows enough to keep me busy,” explained Quigley. “We let ‘em wander, an’ get ‘em as we need ‘em. Well,” he said, turning as if to leave, “I’m sorry about that fool break of mine, Mr. Nelson; an’ to prove it I’m goin’ to give you some real good advice: Keep away from th’ Twin Buttes country. So long, boys.”

Johnny looked after him, and then faced Pop, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t quite get th’ drift of that,” he said slowly; “but he ought to know th’ country he lives in. I’ll try Devil’s Gap first; but I got a cussed strong notion not to!”

Pop sighed with relief. “Let’s go over an’ see what Charley’s got for yore kit,” he suggested.

Charley James was playing solitaire on a box laid across a nail keg and he smiled a welcome as they entered.

“Charley,” said Pop. “This cowpuncher’s aimin’ to change his spots. He’s a amatchure prospector an’ wants us to pick out his outfit.”

“I can believe that he’s an amatchure if he’s goin’ to try it in this part of th’ country,” smiled Charley. “Nobody’s ever tried it down here before.”

Johnny was about to mention the two prospectors referred to by Mr. Quigley, but thought better of it.

“Oh, it’s been tried,” said Pop casually. “But they didn’t stay long. What you got in that line, Charley?”

“I ain’t shore; but first you want an axe. Come on; well saunter aroun’ an’ pick things out as they hit our eye. Here’s th’ axe double bitted, six-pounder.”

“Too big,” chuckled Pop. “There ain’t none of them there redwood trees out here; they’re in Californy.”

“Huh!” grunted Charley. “Mebbyso; but that’s a good axe.”

“Pop’s right; it’s too heavy,” decided Johnny. “An’ I don’t want it double bitted because I may want to drive stakes with it.”

“All right,” said Charley, who had hoped to at last get rid of the big axe. “Here’s a threepounder ‘ Little Gem’ an’ it shore is. All right; now for th’ next article.”

In half an hour the outfit was assembled and they were turning to leave the store when Johnny suddenly grabbed his companions. “What about some fishhooks?” he demanded anxiously.

Charley rubbed his head reflectively. “I think mebby I got some; don’t remember throwin’ ‘em away. There was some with feathers, an’ some without; plain hooks, an’ flies. Brought ‘em with me when I first came out here, an’ never used ‘em. Ought to have some line, too; an’ a reel somewheres. I’ll hunt ‘em up an’ put ‘em with yore duffle. You can cut yoreself a pole. They’ll be a little present from me.”

“Thank you,” beamed Johnny, and forthwith Pop dragged them to his place of business.

Johnny left the following morning, and one week later he returned, trudging along beside his loaded horse, and he was the owner of a generous amount of gold, the treasure of a “pocket” upon which he had blundered. He determined to keep this a secret, for if he let it be known that he had found “color,” what excuse could he offer for leaving that field? It fit too well into his plans to be revealed.

Pop grinned a welcome: “Have any luck?”

“Fishin’, yes,” laughed Johnny. “Bet I moved ten acres of gravel. I wasted a week; now I’m goin’ north.”

Pop frowned. “I reckon you’ll have yore own way; but put in yore time fishin’ an’ prospectin’, an’ mind yore own business.”

“Shore,” said Johnny. “Look here,” unrolling a bundle and producing two of the gold sacks, which were heavy and bulging. Pop stared, speechless, until his new friend opened one of them and dumped four dressed trout on the bar.

“Slip ‘em in a fryin’ pan with some bacon,” grinned Johnny.

“Get ‘em in th’ river?” demanded Pop incredulously.

“You know that draw runnin’ east from th’ Gap th’ one with them two dead pines leanin’ against each other?”

“Yes; ‘tain’t more’n a mile from th’ ford! “

“I found ‘em up there, hidin’ in a bush.”

“Reckon you think that’s funny,” grunted Pop. “Why them’s brook trout! I ain’t had any since I was a boy. Th’ devil with business! I’m goin’ fishin’ one day a week. Now where you goin’?”

“Got some for Charley,” laughed Johnny from the door.

Charley looked up from his eternal solitaire: “Hello, Nelson!”

“Look what I got,” exulted Johnny, extending the bag.

“God help us!” exclaimed Charley. “Did you did you “

“I did. Brook trout, Pop says. Prospectin’ ain’t nothin’ compared to fishin’. Pop’s goin’ one day a week, an’ after you eat these mebby you’ll be with him.”

“Pop can’t put on no airs with me,” chuckled Charley. “If he can afford to close up, so can I. But you shouldn’t ‘a’ poked no bulgin’ gold sack at me like that! It was a shock. Come on; let’s take somethin’ for it.” He grabbed the fish and led the way across the street; and for the rest of the afternoon three happy men discussed prospecting and trout fishing, but the latter was by far the more important.