The Coming of Cassidy—And the OthersMulford, Clarence Edward
General
The Coming of Cassidy—And the Others
Mulford, Clarence Edward
Cassidy, Hopalong (Fictitious character) -- Fiction; Western stories
"Miss," interrupted the drummer, "if you ain’t too busy, would you mind
gettin’ me a steak an’ some coffee?" The tones were weighted with
sarcasm and Sammy writhed in his chair. The girl flushed, turned
abruptly and went slowly into the kitchen, from where considerable noise
now emanated. In a short time she emerged with the drummer’s order,
placed it in front of him and started back again. But he stopped her.
"I said I wanted it rare an’ it’s well done. An’ also that I wanted
fried potatoes. Take it back."
The girl’s eyes blazed: "You gave no instructions," she retorted.
"Don’t tell me that! I know what I said!" snapped the drummer. "I
won’t eat it an’ I won’t pay for it. If you was n’t so _busy_ you ’d
heard what I said."
Sammy was arising before he saw the tears of vexation in her eyes, but
they settled it for him. He placed his hand lightly on her shoulder.
"You get me some pie an’ take a li’l walk. Me an’ this here gent is
goin’ to hold a palaver. Ain’t we, stranger?"
The drummer glared at him. "We ain’t!" he retorted.
Sammy grinned ingratiatingly. "Oh, my; but we are." He slung a leg
over a chair back and leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knee.
"Yes, indeed we are—least-a-wise, _I_ am." His tones became very soft
and confiding. "An’ I ’m shore goin’ to watch you eat that steak."
"What’s that you ’re going to do?" the drummer demanded, half rising.
"Sit down," begged Sammy, his gun swinging at his knee. He picked up a
toothpick with his left hand and chewed it reflectively. "These here
Colts make a’ awful muss, sometimes," he remarked. "’Specially at close
range. Why," he confided, "I once knowed a man what was shot ’most in
two. He was a moss-head an’ would n’t do what he was told. Better
sorta lead off at that steak, _hombre_," he suggested, chewing evenly on
the toothpick. Noticing that the girl still lingered, hypnotized by
fear and curiosity, he spoke to her over his shoulder. "Won’t you
please get me that pie, or somethin’? Run out an’ borrow a pan, or
somethin’," he pleaded. "I don’t like to be handicapped when I ’m
feedin’ cattle."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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