Yet it did grow. A few decent people came, as a few always will, and they stayed, avoiding the hangers-on around Teilhet’s saloon. They worked at cultivating gardens, mule skinning, driving stage, or running a few cattle or sheep.
As Teilhet grew older he hired a drifter named Mark Connor to tend bar, and, if anything, Mark was even more evil than his boss, but Mark had learned early what Teilhet learned only at the last. He learned to be his own counsel, to listen much and talk little. Mark became the first agent in Horse Springs for Avery Sparr, whom he had known in Montana.
Horse Springs had grown to a population of a hundred and fifty persons of whom at least fifty were rustlers, thieves, murderers, and others treading the downward path that would end in a hangman’s noose, legal or otherwise. Of this town Teilhet was the official king, but behind his back Mark Connor had grown into the power and the command, a fact generally understood but not mentioned. Also understood was the fact that Mark Connor himself took orders, and he took them from Avery Sparr, or from Soper.
Into this town men drifted, and some passed on; some remained. Most of those who remained were thieves or worse; some of them were honest cowhands who went to work on the few scattered ranches in the vicinity. Some were murdered on the trail after leaving town; some were killed in the town itself, although these were relatively few and they died in what, to all intents and purposes, were fair battles.
After a time the town acquired a routine for such matters as strangers with gun skill. Spotted at once, they were divided quickly into three kinds: the few who might be valuable to Sparr, the bluffers and brawlers, and the third element, the officers of the law.
But not even Mark Connor could make up his mind about Hopalong Cassidy.
Tuck, as he called himself, might be the first or the last. He was not the quarrelsome type, although he carried with him an air of wary readiness for trouble that was in itself warning enough.
On that sunny afternoon when first he walked into the Old Corral Saloon he wore a sun-faded red shirt, a battered hat, and worn jeans. His weather-beaten face revealed nothing; his blue eyes were opaque, hard, and casually aware.
Mark waited, his own white, still face unrevealing. He waited, but the newcomer revealed nothing, offered no comment. “Stayin’?” Mark asked finally.
“Mebbe. How’s the grub?”
“The best.” Mark Connor liked good food and allowed himself a little enthusiasm. “We got a cook!”
“Then mebbe I’ll be around a while.”
“Huntin’ a job?”
“Mebbe. Not patic’lar.” Hopalong’s blue eyes strayed to meet Mark’s black, cool glance. “You Mark?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m Tuck. Hombre back at Clifton’s mentioned you. Goff, his name was.”
Mark permitted himself a nod. If Goff vouched for this man he must be all right, for Goff was careful. He was usually careful. It paid to avoid mistakes when you worked for Avery Sparr. “Known him long?”
“Don’t know him at all. We talked a little.”
The door opened and a man walked in. The back-bar mirror revealed Johnny Rebb. The buck-toothed gunman sauntered to the bar. “Howdy.” He nodded to Cassidy. “Rye,” he said.
Cassidy glanced at Mark. “Grub?”
The bartender pointed with the hand that held the bar towel. “Through there. It’s beef an’ beans, but best beans a man ever ate.”
“Creosote fire?”
“Uh-huh.” Mark’s lips stirred in the shadow of a smile. This man knew good food. “You bet! He wouldn’t bake ’em any other way.”
Cassidy turned and walked through the wide door into what passed for a dining room. There were two potbellied stoves there, both glowing, for while evening was just drawing near, the altitude was a little more than seven thousand feet and the air quickly grew chill.
A dozen tables were in the room, and only one of them was occupied. The man at the table was wearing a gray tweed suit with a heavy gold watch chain across the dove-gray vest, immaculate boots, and a black flat-crowned hat. He was clean-shaven except for a small beard on his chin and a thread of black mustache. His black eyes lifted and glanced at Cassidy, then returned to his dinner.
After a few minutes a small, quick-moving girl came into the room. Hopalong gave her his order, then let his head turn as Johnny Rebb came in and sat down. If Rebb knew the man at the other table, he gave no sign of it.
Cassidy glanced over at Rebb. “This much of a cattle country?”
Rebb shrugged. “The best, if y’ can keep peace with the Apaches.”
“Any big outfits around?”
“A few. Mostly small stuff.”
“What about this Circle J outfit?” Hopalong was aware that the man in the gray suit had looked up casually, indifferently, and was listening without appearing to. “Hear it’s big. They run a lot of cows?”
“Some.” Rebb did not appear anxious to talk.
“From what I hear,” Cassidy continued, “this Dick Jordan is plumb salty. Don’t expect the rustlers make much trouble for him.”
The room was still for several minutes and then Johnny Rebb said with emphasis: “Rustlers don’t make any trouble for the Circle J!”
There was more to that remark than appeared, and Hopalong turned it over in his mind. It could mean that Jordan was around and able to handle rustlers, as he had in the past, and it could also mean that the ranch was protected. The man in the tweed suit was interesting, and Hopalong wanted to know who he was.
Meanwhile, as he ate he studied the situation. The Circle J lay well to the south, and the sooner he rode down there and got in touch with Pamela or her father, the better he would feel. Yet it did not pay to ride blind in a country like this, and he knew the hours spent around Horse Springs would not be wasted.
Ignoring Rebb and the stranger in the tweed suit, he sat long over his coffee and did a lot of careful thinking. Then he went to the livery barn to see how his horse was being cared for. Here and there he made comments about the weather and did much listening. He knew how to fit facts together and how to make a complete picture of isolated bits of information. This he was doing now, and the final result was not reassuring.
He had no hope that he would remain long unknown. In the first place, Bizco would be somewhere around, and might even now be reporting to Avery Sparr that Hopalong Cassidy had started West with fifteen thousand dollars for Dick Jordan. Certainly, if he had not already done so, he soon would, and if not, they were sure to meet sooner or later if Bizco had continued on West.
The draw poker session was on when he returned to the saloon, but for once he had no desire to sit in. Johnny Rebb was loafing about, and Cassidy drifted toward him and dropped into a seat nearby. “Leeds go home?”
“Yeah.” Rebb looked up, grinning slightly. “He shore was proud o’ you. Said you saved his bacon—an’ no mistake.”
“Got him a good place?”
“Fair to middlin’. He does all right.”
“What’s McClellan like?”
“Cowtown. Some minin’. Used to be soldiers around.”
“Money in town?”
Rebb shrugged. “Sometimes. One big mine over thataway. Big for this country, anyway, and when the ranches pay off, she’s loaded.”
“Bank held up over there, they tell me.”
Rebb’s eyes lifted. They were suddenly veiled. “Who tells you?”
“Hombre back down the line.” Hopalong jerked his head over his shoulder in the direction of Texas. “Had a letter from there.”
“Yeah, there was a holdup.”
“Catch anybody?”
Rebb chuckled. “Why, they couldn’t catch cold, not that outfit! An’, again, maybe they didn’t want to.”
“Friendly sheriff?”
Rebb was uneasy. He did not like leading questions, but he thought he saw a kindred spirit in this stranger calling himself Tuck. “Not exactly, but he might be gun-shy.”
Hopalong chuckled. “Towns with l
oaded banks shouldn’t have gun-shy sheriffs.”
“That bank,” Hopalong suggested after a minute, “may have more trouble.”
Johnny Rebb glanced up. “What d’you mean?”
Hopalong shrugged. “Can’t tell. Some fellers might figure”—he hesitated, then let his eyes meet Rebb’s—“that now’d be a good time to cash in a six-shooter over there. Right after the one holdup they’d not be lookin’ for another.”
Rebb scowled. It was a good idea. Was this stranger feeling him out? Who was he? He glanced up and caught Mark Connor’s eye, and suddenly he did not feel so good. “Got to light a shuck,” he said.
“See you.” Hopalong let Rebb rise to his feet before he spoke again. “Come around someday an’ we’ll talk about this again. Might be right interestin’.”
Rebb hesitated, then shook his head. “I don’t rightly figger you, amigo,” he said quietly, “but in this country you better not get any ideas. Local folks take care of local business.”
Cassidy let his blue eyes show their steel. “Meanin’ you?” There was a hint of challenge in the tone of his voice that stiffened and angered Rebb.
“No,” he said, “meanin’ other folks, who don’t take to buttin’ in!”
Hopalong went to his room. Once inside he dropped on the bed and pulled off a boot. It dropped on the floor. After a few minutes he pulled off the other and let it fall. Then he took off his hat and leaned back on the bed. He did not go to sleep.
* * *
Miles to the south, at the Circle J, Avery Sparr sat on a cowhide-covered divan and stared at the man who was talking. He was a slim, dark-faced young man with one lowered eyelid.
“An’ he’s got that fifteen thousand on him! He’s comin’ right out here with it!”
Sparr was a tall, spare man with shoulders narrower than his hips, but rounded and bowed with muscle. He stared at Bizco with shrewd eyes. “An’ he got the boys? Both of ’em?”
Bizco was nervous. “Yeah.” He touched his dry lips with his tongue tip. “Jumped me from behind, then called the Kid. You know he was green. When he started the ball rollin’ it took in the whole street.”
“You get this hombre’s name?”
Bizco nodded. “He’s a two-bit cowpoke from out on some ranch near town.”
“What was his name?” Sparr’s voice showed his irritation.
“Hopalong Cassidy.”
“Who?” Avery Sparr sat up straight. “Did you say Hopalong Casssdy?”
“Yeah.” Bizco was surprised at the reaction. “You know him?”
Sparr snorted. “Know him? Why, he’s one of that crazy Bar 20 outfit! The worst one o’ the lot, an’ poison with any kind of a gun! Sure, I know him! Know of him, anyway. I never had a run-in with him, although some friends of mine did. Those friends,” he added, “are in Boot Hill.”
Bizco stood silent, but mentally he was congratulating himself on escaping as easily as he had. If Cassidy’s name drew that kind of reaction from Avery Sparr, then he, Bizco, had no business fooling with him. Bizco was a shrewd and cunning young man. It had been said that what he couldn’t do with a running iron just simply couldn’t be done. He knew how to use a cinch ring effectively, too, and had profited by the coming of wire to the plains country by using it also to make convenient designs for branding. A hot wire could burn a brand as well as an iron and could be twisted and shaped into any kind of a brand.
He was adept in his own way. He could read sign, too, and he knew a lot of unusual things about driving cattle by night. But he had no illusions about himself. Nor did he have any urge to die by a gun. He had long discovered that the difference between living and dying was a fast horse—and he made sure his horses were always fast.
Sparr got to his feet. Standing, he towered above Bizco. He was three inches over six feet and heavier than his lean, hard body indicated. Turning impatiently, he strode toward the door across the room.
He was a gray-eyed man with a haggard face, drawn cheeks, and hard, prominent cheek and jawbones. His hair was brown, thin, and always clung tightly to his long skull. Without another thought for Bizco he opened the door, went through, and closed it behind him. Then, crossing the room beyond, he tapped on another door, from under which a thread of light showed.
A girl’s apprehensive voice replied, “Who is it?”
“Sparr. Open up.”
There was the sound of a bar being removed, and then the door opened and the girl stepped back.
The room was large and pleasantly furnished. A fire burned on the hearth, but the place was always heated by a potbellied stove. There were books and papers lying about but no sign of a weapon anywhere. The two occupants of the room were the girl and a huge old man, who sat in a chair with his legs wrapped in a blanket.
Dick Jordan was not old as men go, but in the past few months he had aged a dozen years. It had started with the frightening of his team and the plunge they took over a steep bank. He had been thrown free and had fallen among the jagged boulders down the hillside. His pelvis, both thighs, and a collarbone had been broken. The bones had been set, but during the period when he was slowly regaining strength, Avery Sparr had moved in and taken over.
Jordan was a mere shell of his former self. It had been a bitter thing when he realized the accident had left him a hopeless cripple, that he could do nothing to aid either his daughter or himself. Pamela was a slender, beautiful girl of eighteen, and there was no love in her eyes as she looked at Avery Sparr.
“What would Hopalong Cassidy be comin’ here for?” Sparr demanded.
Jordan’s old eyes fired. “Cassidy? Comin’ here?” He grinned suddenly. “Want to say good-bye now, Sparr? Or are you goin’ to wait an’ eat lead?”
“Don’t be an old fool!” Sparr snapped. “He owe you any money?”
“Him? Lord, no! Buck Peters did, though,” he added thoughtfully. “Could be he’s bringin’ that money from Buck.”
Avery Sparr turned to Pamela. In her eyes he caught the glow of triumph. He stared at her suspiciously, his crafty mind studying the situation. He had allowed the girl to write from time to time, not wishing suspicion aroused until he had the ranch in his possession, for his own plans were deep and well laid. In his mind he reviewed the letters she had written, for he had read every one of them. There had been nothing suspicious. Yet he was no fool, and realized that Cassidy’s visit might be more than mere chance.
“Don’t put any hopes on his gettin’ here,” he warned them. “And don’t make any fool moves. Nobody even approaches this here ranch without me knowin’. Why”—there was pride in the statement—“when a man gits within seventy mile of here in any direction, I know it. We’ll know as soon as Hopalong shows up.”
“Then he isn’t here yet?” Pamela asked. At the first question she had decided at once that Hopalong was in the vicinity.
“Him?” Sparr shook his head, dropping into a chair. “No, he ain’t around. That fool Bizco an’ a couple of the boys saw him gettin’ fifteen thousand dollars from the banker back there in his hometown. They figured to make an easy touch, not knowin’ Cassidy.”
“Bizco’s dead?” Jordan said, grinning widely.
Sparr stared at him irritably. Jordan retained altogether too much spunk for a man in his position, a man crippled and helpless in the hands of outlaws who would strip him of everything. “No, he ain’t dead,” he replied carelessly, “but he’s got him a sore jaw. Only gettin’ now so he can eat proper. The other two didn’t make out so good.”
Dick Jordan chuckled. “I’d like to see Cassidy an’ that old crowd ride in here about now! Or just Hoppy an’ Johnny Nelson! Why, the two of them alone would make this bunch eat dirt, an’ mighty quick!”
Sparr snorted his contempt. “Don’t be a fool! Cassidy never bucked a setup like this in his life. He does all right against two-bit horse thieves an’ rustlers.”
He got to his feet. “Jordan, I’ll have some papers for you to sign come noon tomorrow. Better get your mind m
ade up.”
“I won’t sign ’em!” Jordan said, but his tone lacked conviction.
Sparr shrugged. He had heard these protests before and knew how to handle them. “You’ll sign ’em,” he said confidently; “you’ll sign anything away rather than have something happen to your girl.”
“How do I know you’ll play straight when everythin’s gone?” Jordan protested. “I should stop now.”
“You don’t know.” Sparr was casual. “You don’t know at all. You do know that if you don’t do as I say, I take Pamela myself or turn her over to the Gleasons. The longer you delay that happenin’ the better chance you got.”
He went out and closed the door behind him, and Pamela listened until she heard his footsteps cross the other room and the door close. Then she went swiftly to her father. “Daddy, I sent for Hoppy!”
Jordan stared. “You what? But how?”
“In that last letter. Remember how he used to teach me to read trail sign, and how we played games with codes? I used one of them!”
“But how do you know he even thought of readin’ it thataway?” Jordan said doubtfully. Hope was rising within him. One man against all of Sparr’s outfit was not much, but Hopalong—Well, he had done many things that seemed impossible for one man.
“It was a chance, and I took it. But even if he didn’t know, when he brings that money here he will guess something is wrong.”
“If he gets here.”
Dick Jordan was worried now. Secretly, it had been Cassidy who remained in his mind all through his struggle to stay alive and to delay as much as possible the seizure of his ranch by Sparr. Hopalong Cassidy had a penchant for wandering, Jordan knew. Also, the time was approaching when the money Buck owed him was due, and who more likely to bring it West than Hopalong himself? There was every chance that he would come, and he was shrewd. He saw much that other men missed. He would, Jordan was sure, immediately realize that all was not well on the Circle J.
Yet, why hope for the impossible? Hopalong was only a man, even if trail-wise and Indian-crafty. As much as Dick Jordan hated the man who had moved in on him when he was sick and helpless, he did not sell that man short. Avery Sparr had learned his lessons in a hard, fierce school. He coupled the shrewdness of a cunning lawyer with the utter ruthlessness of an Apache. On every hand Jordan saw evidences of his careful planning. And with him was the immaculate, intelligent, and attractive Soper, the man who fronted for Sparr in most of his contacts with outside people.
The Hopalong Cassidy Novels 4-Book Bundle Page 4