Cassidy, Hopalong (Fictitious character) -- Fiction; Western stories
The hum around the fire suffered no diminution by his departure, but
the words were not audible to the listeners above. Soon Corwin angrily
arose and left the circle, his blankets under his arm. His course also
was marked. Then the two Mexicans went off, and the eager watchers
chuckled softly as they saw the precious pair take lariats from the
saddles of two picketed horses and slip noiselessly toward the feeding
caviya. Roping fresh mounts, and the pick of the lot, they made the
ropes fast and went back to the other horses. Soon they returned with
their riding equipment and blankets, saddled the fresh mounts and,
spreading the blankets a few feet beyond the radius of the picket
ropes, they rolled up and soon were asleep.
"Sensitive to danger as hounds," muttered Johnny.
"Cunnin' as coyotes," growled Hopalong, glancing at the clear-cut,
rocky rim across the valley, where Red by this time lay ensconced. "I
hope he remembers to drop their cayuses first--Miguel's worth more to
us alive."
"An' easier to take back," whispered Johnny. "We want 'em _all_
alive--an' we'd never get 'em that way if they wasn't so played out.
They'll sleep like they are dead--luck is with us."
Down at the dying camp fire Kane, his back to the hut, talked with
Trask in tones which seemed more friendly, but the deputy was in no
way lulled by the change. He sensed a flaming animosity in the fallen
boss, who blamed him for the wreck of his plans and the organization.
Muttering a careless good night, Trask picked up his blankets and went
off, leaving the bitter man alone with his bitterness.
Tired to the marrow of his bones, so sleepy that to remain awake was a
torture, the boss dared not sleep. In the company of five men who were
no longer loyal, whose greed exceeded his own, and each of whom nursed
a real or fancied grudge against him and who searched into the past,
into the days of his contemptuous treatment of them for fuel and yet
more fuel to feed the fires of their resentment, he dared not close his
eyes. On his person was a modest fortune compacted by the size of the
bills and so well distributed that unknowing eyes would not suspect its
presence; but these men knew that he would not leave his wealth behind
him, to be perhaps salvaged from a hot and warped safe in the smoking
ruins of his gambling-house.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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