Hopalong played
either in great good luck or the contrary, while Frenchy played an
even, consistent game and usually left off richer than when he began,
and this decisive defeat bothered him more than he would admit, even
to himself.
The round-up season was at hand and the Bar-20 was short of ropers,
the rumors of fresh gold discoveries in the Black Hills having drawn
all the more restless men north. The outfit also had a slight touch of
the gold fever, and only their peculiar loyalty to the ranch and the
assurance of the foreman that when the work was over he would
accompany them, kept them from joining the rush of those who desired
sudden and much wealth as the necessary preliminary of painting some
cow town in all the "bang up" style such an event would call for.
Therefore they had been given orders to secure the required
assistance, and they intended to do so, and were prepared to kidnap,
if necessary, for the glamour of wealth and the hilarity of the
vacation made the hours falter in their speed.
As Frenchy leaned back in his chair in Cowan's saloon, Buckskin,
early the next morning, planning to get revenge on Hopalong and then
to recover his sombrero, he heard a medley of yells and whoops and
soon the door flew open before the strenuous and concentrated entry of
a mass of twisting and kicking arms and legs, which magically found
their respective owners and reverted to the established order of
things.
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