His voice broke off sharply, and he touched his lips with a nervous tongue.
“Unless what?”
Cassidy was walking his horse alongside the man as they started for the wagon.
“Nothin’.” The man avoided his eyes. “But thanks again. You probably kept us alive back yonder. Won’t ferget it, neither.” He looked up. “My name’s Leeds. My brand’s the Circle L, six mile out of McClellan. Look me up.”
Hopalong was intrigued by the man’s comments on the Mogollons. “Headin’ for Clifton’s. Might’s well tag along, I guess. That’s my spot for tonight.”
“Good grub,” Leeds said, committing himself to nothing.
Asking questions was the worst way to get information in this country, as Cassidy well knew. He was reticent himself, but most Westerners were inclined to be even more so. Especially in some neighborhoods where it paid to know nothing and say nothing. Yet in hopes of breaking down the man’s resistance and of leading him into some admission or comment, Hopalong talked from time to time on cattle, range conditions, the nutritive value of grama grass, and the probable chance of water from deep wells.
It was the boy who finally interrupted him. “You got a fine horse there,” the boy said, “mighty fine! He shore don’t size up like no mustang to me.”
“He’s not,” Cassidy explained. “Hombre north of here has him a horse ranch. Good friend of mine. He gave me this horse for a favor I once done him. Topper is a cross between an Arab mare an’ a big Irish stallion this friend of mine owns. He’ll walk faster’n most horses trot.”
“I’d like to get me a horse like that!” The boy was all admiration. “I seen him comin’ down the hill, runnin’ like the wind!” He looked up at Hoppy. “My name’s Billy. What’s yourn?”
At the question, Hopalong saw the driver turn his head slightly. His interest was obvious, although he knew the West well enough to ask no questions. “My name,” Hopalong replied genially, “is Tuck. Most folks call me Ben.”
They talked quietly until the wagon drew up before Clifton House. Hopalong had already taken in the situation. Four saddled horses stood at the hitch rail, and this was obviously a busy place. A wagon stood nearby with mules hitched to it, and several men loafed about. Their eyes went from Leeds to Cassidy and back again.
One of the men, a rawboned fellow in a torn shirt and dirty gray sombrero, walked over to speak to Leeds as the mule skinner swung down. The fellow had buck teeth and a tied-down gun.
A Mexican stable hand walked toward Cassidy. “Got any corn?” Hopalong inquired. “Give him a bait of it if you have. I’ll be movin’ on tomorrow.”
“Si, señor.” The Mexican also noticed the tied-down guns and the rifle, which Hopalong took from the scabbard.
Leeds and the man with buck teeth were watching him, and Cassidy ignored them as he went by and entered the long, low-raftered room of Clifton House. Two men stood at the bar and several were gathered about a table playing draw. Hopalong eyed the group with interest. Draw poker was his game, and this looked like a chance to sit in.
“See any Injuns?” The speaker was a big, dark-faced man who needed a shave.
“Uh-huh.” Hopalong jerked his head toward the door. “Leeds an’ me had a brush with ’em. Mebbe six or eight. Don’t know for sure.”
“Git any?”
“Four, mebbe five.”
Leeds had come in with his companion.
“That was good shootin’, Leeds,” the big man said. “Didn’t know you was that good.”
“I ain’t. Tuck got three of ’em. He’s good with his guns. They’d of had us shore, me with that old single-shot Sharps. I got one, but they’d of been all over us afore I could git loaded up. The boy was down, pinned under his horse.”
“Looks like you come along at the right time,” the big man said. “Tuck, your name is? Mine’s Sim Thatcher. I’m ranchin’ west of here.”
“You picked yourself a rough country, from all I hear,” Cassidy said.
“Figurin’ to stick around?” Thatcher asked. “If you’re huntin’ a ridin’ job, drop around to the T Bar. I could use a good hand.”
“Mebbe later.” He grinned. “I ain’t broke yet.”
They all chuckled. “I’d be careful of that horse o’ yours,” Thatcher said. “This is a country where good horses disappear mighty fast.”
The room was suddenly still. Leeds’s companion straightened slowly and turned his head to stare at the big rancher. If Thatcher noticed the stare, he gave no evidence of it. His attention centered, Hopalong listened an instant, judging the silence. Then he said, “Horse thieves? Where I come from they use a rope to stop that.”
“What some of us aim to do here.” Thatcher was talking, but not to Hopalong alone. He was talking to the room, and he had an attentive audience, even if they did not appear so.
“Somebody in this country?” Hopalong suggested casually. “Or is it somebody driftin’ them to Mexico?”
“Both,” Thatcher replied. He tucked his thumbs behind his belt and Hopalong noted that he wore one gun, belted too high. “Mostly right here in this country. I reckon those Texas range detectives for the Association could find plenty of missin’ stock back in the mountain meadows. It’s about time the ranchers got together an’ put a stop to this rustlin’ of stock. Hunt”—Cassidy saw one of the card players look up—“you with me on this?”
Hunt looked from Thatcher to the bartender. Then he swallowed. “I ain’t lost no stock. Well,” he added, as if agreeing to an understood fact, “not much, anyway.”
Sim Thatcher stared at him, his face stiffening. “So that’s the way it is? Well, there’s plenty around that don’t feel that way, and once the shootin’ starts it’ll be either with us or against us!”
A slim, cool-eyed man with a thin black mustache looked up gravely and seriously. “You’d do better, Sim, to talk quietly to the men you speak of. If Sparr hears of this talk, he might not like it.”
Thatcher stood his ground stubbornly. “I didn’t accuse Sparr. I haven’t accused anybody, but when the time comes, I’ll name names.”
“That wouldn’t be Avery Sparr now, would it?” Hopalong asked casually. “Seems I’ve heard of an Avery Sparr.”
“Heard of him?” It was the buck-toothed man. “He’s the slickest, fastest gunman around this country! Or any other, if’n y’ ask me! I’d say he’d make Hardin or any of them back water if it came to that!”
“What’s he doin’? Ranchin’?” Hopalong asked casually. “Seems whenever I heard of him he was a town marshal with a careless gun, or backin’ some gamblers.”
“He’s ranchin’,” Sim Thatcher replied; “partners with a Montana man name of Jordan. This Jordan, he come out here an’ shortly after, this Sparr hooked up with him.”
Leeds turned toward the door. He seemed anxious to get out and away. Sim Thatcher stared at him and started to speak, but the door closed after Leeds and they heard his rapidly retreating footsteps on the hard-packed ground. Nobody spoke for an instant, and then Sim nodded after him. “He keeps some good stock around.”
The buck-toothed man turned slowly. “Meanin’?” There was a menace in the question. “Leeds is a friend of mine.”
The room was suddenly still again, and judging the two, Cassidy was suddenly worried for the big rancher. Yet it was not his place to interfere, nor would he.
It was the rancher himself who used judgment where Hopalong had expected none. “Why, nothin’,” Thatcher said quietly. “I was thinkin’ o’ those mules he drove up. Mighty fine! Best mules I’ve seen this side o’ Missouri!”
Coolly he ignored the gunman, his broad back turned to him.
After a minute the door closed, and Hopalong noted the man had left. Quietly he said, “That hombre’s a friend of Leeds. Looks like he might be gun handy.”
“He is.” Thatcher’s voice was dry. “That’s Johnny Rebb. He’s a gunslinger all right. He rides for Jordan’s outfit.”
“Johnny Rebb, is
it? Where’d he get the name?”
Thatcher’s chuckle was dry. “Like most of that crowd. Names come easy to them.”
“How’s the trail to Horse Springs?” he asked. “I’m ridin’ that way.”
“ ’Bout like it has been.” Thatcher measured him. “That job’s open, friend.” He nodded toward the guns. “Especially if you use those like I figure you do.”
Hopalong shook his head. “Maybe later.”
Sim Thatcher turned to go. “Well,” he said quietly, “if you go to Horse Springs you better watch both your horse an’ money.”
Hopalong watched him go, then drifted across to the poker game. He was aware of the cool eyes of the gambler on his face, but he paid no attention. Cassidy’s shrewd blue eyes watched the dealing of the cards. This gambler was smart, and he had clever fingers. He was winning, but very slightly, and he would emerge from this game some few dollars ahead. Too many would-be card sharks went all out for a big killing and either frightened off other suckers or got themselves shot.
This man would win and win again and again, not taking too much at any time, but always keeping ahead of the game. Such men often leave games with the other players not even aware the gambler was among the winners.
Finally he heard one of the players call the man Goff. Cassidy filed that bit of knowledge away and drifted down the hall and into the room he had taken for the night.
A quick inspection of the room showed him a crudely made bunk with a cowhide bottom. He would be using his own bedroll. There was one window that looked out toward the barn, and it was small, yet a man could get through it if need be. The door had a bolt on the inside, and he shot it home, then unbuckled his gun belts and placed them on the chair near his bed. He took one gun from the holster and put it down under the blankets, where it would lie alongside his leg. He had known of men being murdered in their beds because they could not lift a hand as far as their pillow.
He slipped off his boots and was ruefully studying a hole in the toe of his sock when there was a light tap at the door. He slid the remaining gun from its holster to his waistband and moved swiftly to the door. “Who is it?”
“Goff.” The voice was low. “Figured we might have a talk.”
Hopalong shot back the bolt and opened the door with his left hand. Goff stepped in. He glanced at the gun in Hopalong’s waistband, then smiled. “This is a friendly visit.”
“Sure it is,” Cassidy agreed, “an’ it’ll stay friendly. You can sit on the foot of the bed.”
Goff moved across and seated himself, crossing his legs. His trousers were carefully brushed, his boots polished like mirrors. He drew up one trouser leg lightly, then hung his hat over his knee. “Just meet Leeds during that Apache battle?”
“Uh-huh.”
Goff had come on his own initiative, so he could do the talking. Hopalong waited.
“Nice country west of here—if you know the right people.”
“Uh-huh. Most country is like that.”
“From Texas?”
“From a lot of places. What’s on your mind, Goff? You’ve opened, an’ I called you. Now what have you got?”
Goff laughed. “Smart!” he said, smiling. “I like that. Men who don’t tell all they know are few and far between.”
“When I was a boy,” Hopalong said quietly, “I used to hear that a fool’s tongue was long enough to cut his throat.”
“True.” Goff hesitated, studying the end of his cheroot. He watched Hopalong; then he said, “I should know you, friend. I know most men who wear guns the way you do, but somehow I don’t quite place you.”
“Then maybe there’s one you don’t know.”
“Probably there are many, although if anybody suggested that, I’d not believe him. I’ve known most of them, Doc Holliday, Ben Thompson, Hickok, Hardin, the Earps—many more.”
Goff frowned. “Thatcher offered you a job. Taking it?”
“You heard me tell him. I’ve still got money.”
“He would pay well.”
“Where one man,” Hopalong said quietly, “will pay well for a gun handler, there’s always somebody else who will pay well—or better.”
Goff chuckled. “And you want the best price for your work?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“I would.” Goff studied him carefully. “But sometimes a man doesn’t take everything at face value. Sometimes a man wants to know what he’s hiring. Four-flushers have been known to carry two guns, and carry them like you do.”
Hopalong’s eyes were frosty. “Meanin’?”
Goff suddenly felt chilled. His tongue touched his lips, and the nervous gesture angered him. This man was either dangerous as a poised rattler or he was making a good bluff of it. “Meaning nothing!” he said irritably. “Man, you should know a man can’t buy something without knowing what he’s getting. Can you produce?”
Hopalong Cassidy leaned forward slightly, his hands resting on his knees. His eyes at that moment were utterly cold and hard. “If a man says he can play a piano,” he said quietly, “you got to have a piano handy to prove he’s a liar. If a man says he’s a bronc peeler, you got to get him in the saddle to find out if he can back up his brag, but if a man walks like a fighter an’ carries guns like a fighter, then all you got to do to find out if he’s a windbag is start somethin’.”
The eyes of the two men held, and it was Goff’s that wavered first. It infuriated him, but he was too much the gambler to show it. “You’ve got something there, my friend. Any man who says he’s a fighter and is not, is a fool. He’s asking for it.” He hesitated, staring at his cheroot. “Are you suggesting that I try you?”
Hopalong’s laugh was genuinely pleasant. “Why, no,” he said, “because I don’t figure you’re the man who hires gunslingers. But if you, or anybody, wanted to find out for sure, that would be the way, wouldn’t it? Call a man’s bluff and see what he’s holding. You’re a poker player. You understand that.”
Goff nodded, his mind leaping ahead. “Yes,” he agreed, “I do. And something tells me that the man who calls you would find you holding a full house.”
“Maybe. So what then?”
“Why, then,” Goff spoke carefully, “I would say that if you want Sim Thatcher’s money, hire out to him. If you want to talk to somebody who might pay more, ride on to Horse Springs and tell Mark, who tends bar in the Old Corral, that Goff sent you, and you’re looking for work.”
“Thanks.” Hopalong stood up. “I may just do that.”
“If you don’t,” Goff added as he reached the door, “you might like it better south or west. This country can be very unhealthy for unattached strangers.”
“Or strangers who make the wrong attachments?” Hopalong suggested.
Goff smiled. “I see we understand each other.” His eyes warmed somewhat. “It pays to learn the customs of a country before taking any permanent stand. The casualties are high for those who make mistakes, and you look like a man who might find the right attachments very profitable.”
He opened the door. “If you stay in this part of the country,” he added, “we might get together in a game of draw some night.”
Hopalong nodded. “We might.” His opaque blue eyes lifted. “Ever hear of Tex Ewalt?”
“Who?” Goff stiffened, his eyes suddenly sharp with attention. That he knew the name was obvious, and there were few gentlemen of the green cloth who did not, for Ewalt was one of the cleverest card handlers in the business. A man who knew every trick of the pasteboards ever invented, and a few he invented himself.
“Tex Ewalt,” Hopalong said innocently. “I thought you might like to know—what I hadn’t learned for myself, he taught me.”
Chapter 3
HORSE SPRINGS
* * *
There are towns that are born hot from the ferment of hell, towns blasted into being on the edge of a cattle trail, the end of a railroad, or the site of a gold or silver strike. Not often do these towns last. They are like some evil pla
nt startled into quick growth by the sin that spawns it, and dying when the price of the sin can no longer be paid. The West has known many such towns, and many a sun-blasted hillside preserves their foundations and ruined walls.
Some towns came to stay, to grow from raw adolescence and become adult, to lose the hard, stark lines of ruthless utility and grow green grass lawns, hedges, and tree-shaded dooryards. Before long old men sit on porches, rocking placidly and talking of the old days. And where once thundering hoofs roared down the dusty streets a child plays with a ball or a dog lies in the dust and sun, sleeping away the warm summer hours.
And there are other towns that are born neither to grow nor to die, but to linger on, fed from some sparse vein of humanity or interest or evil. Such a town was Horse Springs.
First, there had been the spring. A wagon broke down on the site and a man named Teilhet made some Indian whisky of spring water, two gallons of alcohol, a bar of soap, two plugs of tobacco, and an ounce of carbolic acid. It made a full barrel, and it went fast. With his profits he purchased odds and ends from passers-by that could be converted into what he sold as whisky. Sometimes the ingredients were one thing, sometimes another, but the quantity was unlimited and the liquor was potent. Moreover, it was all there was, so nobody complained.
Horse Springs acquired a second citizen who helped Teilhet at the bar, did odd jobs, and stole whatever he could lay his hands on from passing wagons. Surprised in his stealing, he ran to Teilhet for help, and the saloonkeeper, if such he could be called, killed the pursuer with a shotgun blast. The wagon, team, and contents he kept for himself. Johnson, the bedraggled handyman, dug the first grave in Horse Springs’s Boot Hill and planted the teamster.
Time passed. The saloon grew to a stage station and fort. It resisted Apache attacks and harbored more rustlers and thieves. A claim or two was filed but came to nothing; the store Teilhet put in did good business with travelers and with the few ranchers beginning to come into the country. It outfitted prospectors, and on occasion provided the murderers who stalked the prospectors in the hills and murdered to recover the outfit. In short, Horse Springs was a place of evil. A place of treachery.
The Hopalong Cassidy Novels 4-Book Bundle Page 3