The Man from Bar 20. Clarence Edward Mulford
responded Johnny, comfortably seating himself in Pop's private chair. "I ain't leavin' th' country."
"You won't have to. There's other ranches, where they treats punchers better'n cows. There's another chair, over there."
"No more ranches for me," replied Johnny, ignoring the hint. "I'm through punchin', I tell you. I'm goin' to play a while for a change."
"Gamblin's bad business," replied Pop, turning to get the cards.
"Mebby some gamblin' is; but there's some as ain't," grinned Johnny. "I ain't meanin' cards."
"Oh," said Pop, disappointed. "What you mean—shootin' craps?"
"Nope; I'm goin' prospectin'; an' if that ain't gamblin' then I never saw anythin' that was."
Pop straightened up and stared. "Prospectin?" he demanded, incredulously. "Regular prospectin'? Well, I'll be cussed! If yo're goin' to do it around here, lemme tell you it won't be no gamble. It'll be a dead shore loss. A flea couldn't live on what you'll earn on that game in this country."
"Well, I ain't aimin' to support no flea, unless Andy leaves me one," laughed Johnny, again scratching the restless bird. "But I'm tired of cows, an' I might as well amuse myself prospectin' as any other way. I like this country an' I'm goin' to stay a while. Besides, when I was a kid I shore wanted to be a pirate; then when I got older I saw a prospector an' hankered to be one. I can't be a pirate, but I'm goin' to be a prospector. When my money is gone I'll guard cows again."
"Lord help us!" muttered Pop. "Yo're plumb loco."
"How can I be plumb an' loco at th' same time?"
"Andy!" snapped Pop. "Come away from there! Lord knows you ain't got no sense, but there ain't no use riskin' yore instinct!"
Johnny laughed. "Leavin' jokes aside, me an' Pepper are goin' off by ourselves an' poke around pannin' th' streams an' bustin' nuggets off th' rocks till we get a fortune or our grub runs out. We can have a good time, an'—hey! You got any fishhooks?"
"Fishhooks nothin'!" snorted Pop. "Lot of call I got for fishhooks. Why, I ain't heard th' word for ten years. Say!" he grinned sheepishly. "Mebby you'll get lonesome. Now, if we went off together, with some fishhooks—but, shucks! I can't leave this here business."
Johnny hid his relief. "That's th' worst of havin' a business. You certainly can't go off an' let everythin' go to smash."
"Cuss th' luck!" growled Pop. "Gosh, I'm all het up over it! I ain't done no fishin' since I was a kid, an' there must be lots of trout in these streams." Then he brightened a little. "But I dunno. You look too cussed much like Logan to be real comfortable company for me. I reckon I'll pay attention to business."
Johnny showed a little irritation. "There you go again! You do a lot of worryin' about my looks. If they don't suit you, start right in an' change 'em!"
"There you go!" snapped Pop disgustedly. "On th' prod th' first thing! You'd show more common sense if you did some of th' worryin'. But then, I reckon it'll be all right if you does yore prospectin' an' fishin' south of here."
"No, sir! I'm goin' to do it north of here, in th' Twin Buttes country."
Pop's expression baffled description, and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down like a monkey on a stick. "Good Lord! You stick to Devil's Gap, an' south of there!"
Johnny's eyes narrowed and he sat up very straight. "This is a free country an' I goes where I please. It's a habit of mine. I said north, an' that's where I'm goin'. I wasn't so set on it before; but now I'm as set as a Missouri mule."
Pop growled. "There ain't no chance of you havin' my company; an' you leave th' name an' address of yore next of kin before you starts."
Johnny laughed derisively. "I ain't worryin'. An' now let's figger out what a regular prospector needs. Bein' new at th' game I reckon I better get some advice. What I'm dubious about are th' proper things to pry th' nuggets loose with, an' hoist 'em on my cayuse," he grinned. "Ought to have a pick, shovel, gold pan for placer fussin'—'gold pan' sounds regular, don't it?—an' some sacks to tie it up in. A dozen'll do for a starter. I can allus come back for more."
"Or you can borrow a chuck waggin; that would be handy because it would make it easy to get yore body out, 'though I reckon they'll just bury you an' let it go that way."
"They? Meanin' who?"
"I ain't got a word to say."
"There's some consolation in that," jeered Johnny.
"Yo're a fool!" snorted Pop heatedly.
"An' so that's went an' follered me down here, too," sighed Johnny. "A man can't get away from some things. Well, let's get back on th' trail. All th' prospectors I ever saw wore cowhide boots, with low, flat heels. Somehow I can't see myself trampin' around with these I'm wearin'; an' they're too expensive to wear 'em out that way. What else? Need any blastin' powder?"
"Cussed if I wouldn't grub-stake you if you wasn't goin' up there," grinned Pop. "It takes a fool for luck; an' it'll be just like you to fall down a canyon an' butt th' dirt off'n a million dollar nugget. I got a notion to do it anyhow."
"You needn't get no notions!" retorted Johnny. "I'm goin' to hog it. Prospectors never get grub-staked unless they're busted; an' I ain't got there yet. Oh, yes; I got to get them fishhooks—you see, I ain't aimin' to cripple my back workin' hard all th' time. I'll fill a sack in th' mornin', eat my dinner an' rest all afternoon. Next day I'll fill another sack, an' so on. Now, what am I goin' to get for my outfit? I'll need a lot of things."
"Go see Charley James, acrost th' street. He keeps th' general store; an' he's got more trash than anybody I ever saw."
"Mebby he can tell me what I need," suggested Johnny, hopefully.
As Pop started to answer, the doorway darkened and a man stepped into the room. Pop's face paled and he swiftly moved to one side, out of range. The newcomer glanced at Johnny, swore under his breath and his hand streaked to his holster. It remained there, for he discovered that he was glaring squarely down a revolver barrel.
"Let loose of it!" snapped Johnny. "Now, then: What's eatin' you?"
"Why—why, I mistook you for somebody else!" muttered the other. "Comin' in from th' sunlight, sudden like, I couldn't see very well. My mistake, Stranger. What'll you have?"
Johnny grunted skeptically. "Yo're shore you can see all right now?"
"It's all right, Nelson," hastily interposed the anxious proprietor, nodding emphatic assurance. "It's all right!"
"My mistake, Mr. Nelson," smiled the stranger. "I shouldn't 'a' been so hasty—but I was fooled. Yore looks are shore misleadin'."
"They suits me. What's wrong about 'em?" demanded Johnny.
"There you go again!" snorted Pop in quick disgust. "A gent makes a mistake, says he didn't mean no harm in it, an' you goes on th' prod! Didn't I tell you that yore looks would get you into trouble? Didn't I?"
"Oh! Is that it?" He arose and slipped the gun back into its holster. "I'll take th' same, Stranger."
"Now yo're gettin' some sense," beamed Pop, smiling with relief. "Mr. 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.