Soper inspired confidence and friendship wherever he went, and the steel-trap brain beneath the smooth, friendly surface was not at all evident to those who did business with him or knew him but slightly. The two made a combination that was difficult to touch, and where the loophole would be found Jordan could not guess.
Had he been on his feet and able when Sparr first began his plan to take over the vast holdings of the Circle J, much might have been avoided. Crippled, and in the shadows between life and death, he had been helpless.
Avery Sparr had come to the Circle J as a drifting rider, and, as all such, he was granted the hospitality of the ranch. He came to spend the night, asked to stay on for some hunting, then helped with the roundup. Hands were few and hard to get in this Apache-ridden country, so his help had been gratefully accepted.
Sparr’s reputation was known to him, but the man was quiet and friendly without pushing himself forward. Then Charley Kitchen, Jordan’s experienced and able foreman, was killed in a gun battle at Horse Springs. Nobody at the time thought to connect it with Sparr’s presence, for the two had apparently no connection. Johnny Rebb and Bizco had been the killers, and how the fight started nobody knew, but Kitchen had been caught in a cross fire and killed instantly.
Three days afterward four of the oldest hands on the ranch had been ambushed, supposedly by Apaches. Avery Sparr’s presence then had seemed a favorable thing, and he had stayed on, refusing wages, but doing a cowhand’s work. Then had come Jordan’s accident, and almost without realizing it, Jordan had transmitted orders to the men through Sparr.
While Jordan hovered between life and death, and while Pamela was worried sick and busy with nursing him, Avery Sparr had quietly taken over. On the flimsy basis that Jordan had given him orders for the crew, he declared himself foreman, stated that Jordan had made him foreman, and defied anyone to call him a liar. Among the crew of the Circle J were some hard hands, but the toughest of them had been killed in the ambush and none of those left dared challenge the truth of Sparr’s statement.
At first he had been merely efficient. He had come to Pamela time and again to ask about her father and offer to help in any way. The distraught girl thought him only friendly until too late. Her first realization of what was happening came when she found that both Bizco and Johnny Rebb had been employed by Sparr. She ordered them fired, and Sparr protested. When she insisted, he agreed, and she had seen no more of them for several days. In those days three of the older men quit. They were paid off by Sparr and sent on their way. One of them talked loudly at Horse Springs and was found dead in an alley a few hours later.
Quiet hung over the ranch. Jordan was better, but he was now aware, for the first time, that he was to be crippled for the remainder of his life. Only then, weeks after Sparr’s plan for controlling the ranch had been conceived, did Jordan become aware of what had happened. And he was helpless to do anything. He tried sending a message to the sheriff, and it never left the ranch. Pamela tried to go herself, and found the house guarded, and was not allowed to leave.
Prisoners in their own home, with a half-dozen more of Sparr’s tough hands on the ranch, Avery Sparr came to them himself and in a quiet tone told them the situation.
He was in the saddle. If they did what he asked them and obeyed orders without question, they would live. If not, they could die. Alone, he hinted to Pamela that her help in his plan would insure her father’s safety. To Jordan, Sparr promised protection for Pamela if he would agree to everything.
Yet Sparr was well aware that Jordan had powerful friends. At first he considered merely selling off the stock and taking the money, but the ranch tempted him, and he decided gradually to take over the whole place. But he wanted no investigation later. He wanted to give the whole procedure the appearance of legality so his future ownership could never be questioned.
He let word go out that Jordan was giving him a working partnership and might later sell out to him. He kept reports of Jordan’s poor health circulating in the right quarters, and holding off carefully, he wore Jordan down with threats, pressure, and bullying until the man was almost willing to agree, just to be free once more.
It was a lonely country with few white men about. All was serene and smiling on the surface at the Circle J. Few passers-by noticed anything unusual about the place. Dick Jordan was very ill and not seeing visitors. His daughter was nursing him and rarely left his side.
* * *
Avery Sparr walked back into the main room of the ranch house and seated himself. Cassidy would surely come by Clifton House, and Goff would spot him at once. Still, he had better get word to Goff.
Johnny Rebb drifted back to the ranch at noon and hung up his saddle. He was thinking of the man named Tuck. Sparr had some tough jobs planned, for Sparr wanted money. Rebb gathered that Sparr intended to buy the ranch, or a larger piece of it than he was said to have. He wanted to do this for a reason. Maybe this man Tuck would be a help.
Avery Sparr looked up when the buck-toothed gunman came into the room. “Boss,” he said, “hombre sprung one on me t’day. I figger he was feelin’ aroun’ to suggest the two of us stick up the McClellan Bank. Tough-lookin’ blister, packin’ two guns.”
Sparr shook his head. “We don’t need any more men.” An idea came to him, and he looked up sharply, his eyes pinpoints of steel. “What was his name? What did he look like?”
“His name was Tuck,” he said. “Silver hair, blue eyes that git so cold you figger they’d bore right through you if you looked at him long, an’—”
Sparr was on his feet. “Did you say silver hair? A slope-shouldered hombre?” Sparr’s eyes narrowed at Rebb’s puzzled nod. Then he said swiftly, “Get Bizco, an’ keep him out of sight, but let him git a look at this hombre! An’ do it right now!”
“Sure, boss.” Rebb shifted his hat in his fingers. “You figger he’s the law?”
“Law?” Avery Sparr spun on his heel. “I only wished he was. I figger that hombre is Hopalong Cassidy!”
Chapter 4
HOPALONG GOES WHOLE HOG
* * *
The gelding was feeling the corn Hopalong had fed him and wanted to get out and go. With Horse Springs behind him before the first light began to gray the eastern rim of the mountains, Hopalong had taken a dim trail north, then cut over to the old Mangas Trail, and after a careful check to see if he was followed, he headed south until he reached the old stage road.
Careful study of that trail for several minutes of riding found an outcropping of sandstone in the middle of the trail, and Hopalong used this as a bridge to cross without leaving tracks. Once beyond the stage road he let Topper out to a fast trot and worked his way swiftly through the rocks and trees.
The ride to the Circle J was a long one, and he hoped to make it without discovery, yet he had an idea that Avery Sparr welcomed no visitors and had the trails carefully watched. The route across the wide plain south of Horse Springs would have been much easier and faster going, but Hopalong preferred the relative security of the mountainside, where his passage would be sheltered by the towering trees.
The morning air was clear and pleasant, and every breath was like a long swallow of fresh, cool mountain water. As he rode, there returned to his mind fragmentary bits of lore and casual comments about the country. Without maps or books of information, the western man became a skilled observer of detail, and his descriptions of people and places were extraordinary in their clarity and attention to particulars.
A cowhand from Texas might know the exact appearance of a town marshal in Montana, or of a rancher. A rider might see some twenty head of cattle during a morning’s ride and remember each one in detail much later. Not only did such men without books develop remarkable powers of memory, but of description as well.
After a short rest at midmorning, Hopalong saddled up again and pushed on toward the south. Crossing the shoulder of a mountain that headed a deep, wide canyon, he looked down the canyon to see a thin plume of dust on the plain,
some two thousand feet below and several miles off. Fishing his glasses from his saddlebag, Hopalong studied the figure with care. The rider was much too far away for any detail, or even to distinguish the color of his horse, but it was definitely a man, and he was headed south at a direction that, if unchanged, might intersect his own. In other words, there was every chance the rider was headed for the Circle J.
Had his own absence from town been noted? Was this rider heading for the ranch to apprise Sparr of the fact? Yet apparently nobody in Horse Springs had guessed the rider named Tuck was Hopalong Cassidy, so why would they go to such trouble? Nor could they know he was headed south. Cassidy started the gelding again and moved on under cover of a fine stand of ponderosa pine, but now he allowed his route to angle deliberately toward the east and the other rider. It would be a good idea to know just who was on the trail, and why.
From descriptions given him long ago by Jordan himself, he knew the trail to the Circle J, so a few hours later he was surprised to discover the rider he had observed earlier was not holding to the trail. Leaving it shortly after he must have passed Coyote Tanks, the strange rider was crossing the wide canyon north of Elk Mountain at an angle that would lead him right to the mountain itself, instead of following a trail east to Elk Peak.
Thoughtfully Hopalong studied the man, who was riding a horse with a nice swinging gait, from his position on the flank of a mountain north of the canyon. Then, riding farther east, he cut the rider’s trail and swung down. The shoes of the horse were obviously new. It was a hoofprint he would remember, as a bank cashier might remember the signature of a depositor. He got back into the leather and headed south and slightly east. Sometime later he would investigate that rider and discover where he went. For the moment it could wait.
Elk Mountain, he recalled, formed a long wall that was the north line of the Circle J holdings. They were bounded on the south by the West Fork of the Gila and on the east by the Gila’s main stream. The headquarters house lay in a forest park between the West and Middle Forks of the Gila, a position easy to defend from Apaches, and scenically beautiful.
He was on a wide flat north of Cooney Canyon when he glimpsed several steers and, riding closer, saw they were all Circle J stock. Yet scarcely a mile farther along he came upon a heifer, freshly branded with a Circle S!
S, for Sparr? Hopalong scowled thoughtfully. He rode east toward the main stream of the Gila and crossed the northeast corner of Black Mountain Mesa, then struck a well-traveled trail heading south. From time to time he checked the cattle he encountered, and soon the picture was growing plain. The older stock was all Circle J; the younger stuff was Circle S. Changing a J to an S would be no real problem, and apparently Sparr had figured on that, but for the time being he was simply branding all the new stock with his own brand. In that way he would have no altered brands to worry or be questioned about. It was simple, it was big, and it could be successful, given the situation that apparently existed.
Hopalong crossed the Beaver, leaving Circle J range behind. The day had been long and the travel rough, although Topper was a fast-walking horse and excellent on mountain trails. He made a quick and cold camp in a circle of boulders off Corduroy Canyon and, up at daylight, headed south once more. He had been riding for scarcely an hour when he spotted a horseman ahead. They were fairly close and Hopalong lifted a hand. The rider drew up and waited, his Winchester across his knees. The man was Sim Thatcher, the owner of the T Bar ranch, who had dared to express himself freely about horse thieves at the Clifton House.
“You got here, I see.” Thatcher was level-eyed and careful. “Headin’ south or huntin’ a job?”
Hopalong chuckled. “I’ve still got that money, ’spite of Horse Springs. Looks a bit more private here,” he said. “Mebbe we can talk a mite.”
“Mebbe.”
Thatcher reined his horse off the trail. His eyes were steady, and they missed no move of Hopalong’s.
“Touchy folks in this country,” Cassidy suggested. “You havin’ much trouble with those rustlers an’ hoss thieves?”
“Some.”
“All since Sparr come into the country?”
Thatcher studied him coolly. “If you want me to call Sparr a hoss thief, you ain’t goin’ to have no luck,” Thatcher said quietly. “If I ever feel like doin’ that, it’ll be to his face—with a gun in my hand.”
Cassidy chuckled. “From what I hear that might be a good idea.” His eyes scanned the peak of Black Mountain opposite them. “Ever have any trouble when Jordan was on the Circle J alone?”
“Not a bit!” Thatcher said positively. “Dick Jordan shaped up like a good neighbor. I liked him, an’ I liked that foreman o’ his, Charley Kitchen. Too bad he got killed.”
“Kitchen dead?” If that was so, it explained much.
“Gun battle. He was killed down to Horse Springs. Got in a mixup with a squint-eyed rider named Bizco, and when the shootin’ started it was mostly done by Johnny Rebb. That’s a trick o’ theirs, to start trouble an’ have some hombre stationed to one side cut in.”
“I’ll remember that. So Kitchen is dead? Was that after Sparr came on the ranch?”
“Uh-huh, shortly after. The four of their boys, the oldest an’ toughest hands on the ranch, got themselves ambushed down on the Little Turkey. Story was the ’Paches got ’em. It could be true.”
“But you don’t think it is?”
Thatcher shrugged. “I got my own ideas. I keep my own advice.”
Hopalong nodded to himself. It all added up. But what about Dick Jordan? He framed the question.
“Jordan? He was hurt bad in an accident, crippled up, I hear. Nobody seen him or that purty daughter of his for a couple o’ months.”
Hopalong started his horse suddenly. “Let’s move. I don’t like settin’ still too long. How far to your headquarters?”
“Mebbe five mile by trail. I’m back o’ the Diamond.” Thatcher studied Cassidy. “You seem to know this country.”
Hopalong shrugged. “Rode through north o’ here once, some time back. But I’ve heard about it. After Dick got the Circle J he told me about the ranch an’ the lay o’ the land.”
“Then you know Dick Jordan?” Thatcher demanded sharply.
“I should smile!” He turned his head. “Time and again I’ve been workin’ for his old neighbor Buck Peters. I’m Cassidy.”
“Hopalong Cassidy?” Thatcher stared at him. “You don’t say! Well, now. Come to look at you an’ I should have knowed! I’ve heard stories about you, dozens o’ them from Jordan an’ that daughter o’ his. They set a lot of store by you.”
“That’s why I’m here. Partly that. I figured they were in trouble.”
Thatcher’s face grew solemn. “Maybe. An’ maybe makin’ trouble for other folks. I never believed bad o’ Dick until just recent, but takin’ in that Avery Sparr was mighty bad.”
“Know this hombre called Soper?”
“Arnie Soper? Sure do! Nice young feller. He never gives anybody trouble. Nice-lookin’ too. Never packs a gun, but even on that hard-case outfit they leave him alone.”
“What’s he look like?”
The description was perfect for the man who had been in the dining room at Horse Springs. Cassidy nodded. “I’ve seen him.” He scowled. Bizco had linked Soper and Sparr closely together, and so had the dying gunman. Who was right? The dying man had even implied that Soper was the more to be feared of the two, and such men do not fear lightly.
Suddenly a half-dozen riders cut down from the trees and reined in, facing Cassidy and Thatcher with the road barred. Sim Thatcher’s face was dead white. Hopalong noted this from the corners of his eyes and surmised the riders were enemies. They were a tough-looking crowd, and his eyes slid from one to the other in swift appraisal.
“Howdy, Sim!” The speaker was a big, broad-chested man in a faded blue-checked shirt, his heavy jowls unshaven. “You don’t look pleased t’ meet us!”
“Should I be?” Thatcher’s voi
ce was cool. “I know you, Barker.”
“ ‘Should I be?’ he says!” Barker laughed. “An’ he says he knows me! Well, now! Seems like a good time to git better acquainted, don’t it? Thatcher”—Barker leaned forward—“you been told to mind your talk! You been warned before to keep your nose out o’ business that ain’t yourn! Now you git taught a lesson!”
“Howdy, Barker,” Hopalong said quietly.
The big man glared at him suspiciously. “Who’re you?” His little eyes gleamed. “A new hand, Thatcher?”
“Not of mine,” Thatcher said quietly. “He’s a drifter. He’s not in this.”
Hopalong felt a sudden warmth for the big rancher. Frightened the man obviously was, for they were badly outnumbered and outgunned, yet he still tried to keep Cassidy out of a fight that was not his.
“Well, he’s along, so he might’s well see it, unless he wants to buy in. Do you?”
Hopalong’s opaque blue eyes shadowed a little and he kneed the gelding a step forward. “Buy in?” His voice was suddenly soft and deadly. “Sure! I want to buy in, Barker! I want not only a piece of it, I want all of it!” He pushed his horse forward.
Barker’s face turned dark with angry blood. “You talk that way to me?” he demanded, astonished. “Mowry, get hold of this hombre.”
A thin, hatchet-faced man started his horse forward. Hopalong’s blue eyes flared. “Stay where you are!”
“Tough, ain’t you?” Barker sneered. “Well, by the—” His hand dropped for his gun butt, and Hopalong’s pistols sprang to his hands. Both guns thundered, and Barker’s half-drawn pistol slipped back into the holster. Slowly, like a great, limp sack of meal, Barker slid from the saddle and hit the ground. Mowry stared at a bloody hand furrowed deep by Hopalong’s second bullet. Mowry’s pistol lay in the dust. The other men sat still, their faces shocked and astonished.
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