Free Clarence E. Mulford_Hopalong Cassidy 04 by Bar-20 Days

him?"
    "Nobody at all."
    "What do you mean?"
    "He wasn't being rid when I saw him."
    "Hang it, man; that cayuse was stole from me!"
    "Somewhat in the nature of a calamity, now ain't it?" smiled the
stranger, enjoying his contributions to the success of the joke.
    "You bet yore life it is!" shouted Hopalong, growing red and then pale.
"You tell me who was leading him, understand?"
    "Well, I couldn't see his face, honest I couldn't," replied the
stranger. "Every time I tried it I was shore blinded by the most awful
an' horrible neck-kerchief I've ever had the hard luck to lay my eyes
on. Of all the drunks I ever met, them there colors was—Hey! Wait a
minute!" he shouted at Hopalong's back.
    "Dave, gimme yore cayuse an' a rifle—quick!" cried Hopalong from
the middle of the street as he ran towards the store. "Hypocrite
son-of-a-hoss-thief went an' run mine off. Might 'a' knowed nobody but a
thief could wear such a kerchief!"
    "I'm with you!" shouted Dave, leading the way on the run towards the
corral in the rear of his store.
    "No, you ain't with me, neither!" replied Hopalong, deftly saddling.
"This ain't no plain hoss-thief case—it's a private grudge. See you
later, mebby," and he was pacing a cloud of dust towards the outskirts
of the town.
    Dave looked after him. "Well, that feller has shore got a big start on
you, but he can't keep ahead of that Doll of mine for very long. She can
out-run anything in these parts. 'Sides, Cassidy's cayuse looked sort
of done up, while mine's as fresh as a bird. That thief will get what's
coming to him, all right."

Chapter VII - Mr. Cassidy Cogitates
*
    While Hopalong tried to find his horse, Ben Ferris pushed forward,
circling steadily to the east and away from the direction of Hoyt's
corners, which was as much a menace to his health and happiness as the
town of Grant, twenty miles to his rear. If he could have been certain
that no danger was nearer to him than these two towns, he would have
felt vastly relieved, even if his horse was not fresh. During the last
hour he had not urged it as hard as he had in the beginning of his
flight and it had dropped to a walk for minutes at a stretch. This was
not because he felt that he had plenty of time, but for the reason that
he understood horses and could not afford to exhaust his mount so early
in the chase. He glanced back from time to time as if fearing what might
be on his trail, and well he might fear. According to all the traditions
and customs of the range, both of which he knew well, somewhere between
him and Grant was a posse of hard-riding cow-punchers, all anxious and
eager for a glance at him over their sights. In his mind's eye he
could see them, silent, grim, tenacious, reeling off the miles on that
distance-eating lope. He had stolen a horse, and that meant death if
they caught him. He loosened his gaudy kerchief and gulped in fear,
not of what pursued, but of what was miles before him. His own saddle,
strapped behind the one he sat in, bumped against him with each reach of
the horse and had already made his back sore—but he must endure it for
a time. Never in all his life had minutes been so precious.
    Another hour passed and the horse seemed to be doing well, much better
than he had hoped—he would rest it for a few minutes at the next water
while he drank his fill and changed the bumping saddle. As he rounded a
turn and entered a heavily grassed valley he saw a stream close at hand
and, leaping off, fixed the saddle first. As he knelt to drink he caught
a movement and jumped up to catch his mount. Time after time he almost
touched it, but it evaded him and kept up the game, cropping a mouthful
of grass during each respite.
    "All right!" he muttered as he let it eat. "I'll get my drink while you
eat an' then I'll get you!"
    He knelt by the stream again and drank long and deep. As he paused for
breath something made him leap up and to one side, reaching for his
Colt at the same instant. His fingers found only leather and he