“Now look at them fools over there,” he said, pointing at a dark shadow some fifty paces off. “They're pattin' their backs because I don't see 'em, an' if I hurts them they'll git mad. Guess I'll make 'em dust along,” he added, shooting into the spot. A howl went up and two men ran away at top speed.
The sheriff nodded his sympathy and spoke. “I reckons you had better give up. You can't get away. Every house, every corner and shadow holds a man. You are a brave man, but, as you say, unfortunate. Better help me up and come with me—they'll tear you to pieces.”
“Shore I'll help yu up—I ain't got no grudge against nobody. But my friends know where I am an' they'll come down here an' raise a ruction if I don't show up. So, if it's all th' same to you, I'll be ambling right along,” he said as he helped the sheriff to his feet.
“Have you any objections to telling me your name?” Asked the sheriff as he looked himself over.
“None whatever,” answered Hopalong heartily. “I'm Hopalong Cassidy of th' Bar 20, Texas.”
“You don't surprise me—I've heard of you,” replied the sheriff wearily. “You are the man who killed Tamale Jose, whom I hunted for unceasingly. I found him when you had left and I got the reward. Come again some time and I'll divide with you; two hundred and fifty dollars,” he added craftily.
“I shore will, but I don't want no money,” replied Hopalong as he turned away. “Adios, senor,” he called back.
“Adios,” replied the sheriff as he kicked a nearby door for assistance.
The cow-pony tied itself up in knots as it pounded down the street toward the trail, and although he was fired on he swung into the dusty trail with a song on his lips. Several hours later he stood dripping wet on the American side of the Rio Grande and shouted advice to a score of Mexican cavalrymen on the opposite bank. Then he slowly picked his way toward El Paso for a game at Faro Dan's.
The sheriff sat in his easy chair one night some three weeks later, gravely engaged in rolling a cigarette. His arms were practically well, the wounds being in the fleshy parts. He was a philosopher and was disposed to take things easy, which accounted for his being in his official position for fifteen years. A gentleman at the core, he was well educated and had visited a goodly portion of the world. A book of Horace lay open on his knees and on the table at his side lay a shining new revolver, Hopalong having carried off his former weapon. He read aloud several lines and in reaching for a light for his cigarette noticed the new six-shooter. His mind leaped from Horace to Hopalong, and he smiled grimly at the latter's promise to call.