The Hopalong Cassidy Novels 4-Book Bundle

by Louis L'Amour

  Chapter 13

  BLOOD ON THE SNOW

  * * *

  If the gun hands of Avery Sparr could come west by relays of horses, Hopalong Cassidy could go east the same way. Doc Benton started him off with a powerful bay who had been too long in the stable and wanted to get out and go. The trail north from Alma went up the canyon of the San Francisco and through the Plaza. Hopalong pushed the bay hard, and he was working his way over the trail through the Kelley Mountains when he encountered a puncher headed south. The man was riding a fresh steeldust, and Hopalong swapped mounts with him, promising to leave the horse at the Plaza.

  At a ranch on the Negrito he swapped again, this time leaving on a fast black horse. And it was the black that took him through to Horse Springs. He had caught three hours’ sleep in the cabin on the Negrito, so he swept into Horse Springs early on the morning after leaving Alma.

  No horses stood at the hitch rail and the street was empty of tracks save a few from the night before. The Old Corral was open, but Teilhet himself was puttering around inside. He lifted his heavy head as Hopalong came in and nodded to him. His huge, pearlike body seemed to tremble visibly as Hopalong entered. He responded to Cassidy’s quick question.

  “Blowed town, I guess. They figgered there would be trouble.”

  “Where’s Connor?”

  “Gone.”

  Teilhet leaned his thick hands on the bar.

  “Look, Cassidy, I’m an old man. Don’t close me up or burn me out. I know how you are when you are on the prod. Leave me be, will you?”

  “All right, but stay out of it, understand? One sign that you are givin’ a hand to any of that Sparr crowd an’ you get what the Eagle got, hear me?”

  Hopalong looked up, freezing the frightened man with his glance.

  “Seen Mesquite an’ Johnny Nelson?”

  “Uh-huh. They are in town now. Over to Ma Baker’s eatin’ breakfast, I figger. If you ain’t et, that’s the best grub in town. Next to this place, that is, an’ my cook ain’t around yet.”

  Hopalong stepped to the door and glanced quickly up and down the street. Snow was falling lazily, but there was no one in sight. Under the thick blanket of snow the outlaw town looked almost beautiful. It was wrong to consider it an outlaw town, he reflected, for it was anything but that. The good people always outnumbered the bad, only they made less noise and attracted less attention. It was a good town, and would continue to be so.

  Mounting the black, he rode to the sign that indicated Ma Baker’s and pushed open the door. The first person he saw was Johnny, then Mesquite.

  Hopalong grinned widely. “Well, if it ain’t feather-headed Johnny!” he said. “Who’s your partner?”

  “Tumbleweed that blowed in. He don’t know much but he’s willin’ to learn. I been sort of showin’ him aroun’ some, but he gets into a sight of trouble.”

  The ghost of a smile came into Mesquite’s eyes. “Pay no attention to this pothole rider, Hoppy. He’s sore because Ma gave me the biggest hunk of apple pie.”

  “Pie for breakfast?” Hopalong inquired. “I’ll buy that. Nobody ever ate so foolish as a cowhand off the home ranch, but apple pie? I’ll tackle it anytime!” He glanced sidewise at them. “What’s been comin’ off down here?”

  They explained, first one talking, then the other. Hopalong nodded at the story of Turkey Springs Canyon.

  “I figgered somethin’ like that. Soper disappeared down that way one day but I had no time nor reason to trail him. Didn’t even know there was a canyon in there. Did you see him? Or Sparr?”

  “Didn’t see Soper after he left the ranch, an’ never have seen Sparr. I reckon he’ll be there by now, or close to it. Goin’ back?”

  “Uh-huh, an’ right away.”

  The door opened behind them and Hopalong looked up to see Johnny Rebb standing there. Rebb looked quickly from one to the other of them, then seated himself. Nobody said anything after their first greeting. Rebb ate silently and got up to leave.

  Hopalong lifted his eyes.

  “Rebb, yuh ridin’ for Sparr?”

  The buck-toothed gunman turned a little to face them. Instantly Hopalong heard a clang of an alarm bell in his subconscious. The man in the shabby vest and worn shirt was cool, completely cool, completely poised. “Yeah, I ride for him.”

  “If you’re driftin’ back to the Circle J, tell him I’ll be down soon. He can wait for me, or meet me on the trail.”

  “He’ll come.”

  Mesquite Jenkins lifted his cold eyes. “Where’ll you be?”

  “Anywhere you like,” Johnny Rebb said quietly. “Nobody is runnin’ me out of this country.”

  “See you at the ranch,” Mesquite said. “I must eat breakfast.”

  “I’ll see you there,” Johnny Rebb replied shortly. He turned his back to them and walked out, and the three exchanged glances.

  “Salty, that one.” Hopalong returned to his food. “There’s some tough men in this outfit. Leven Proctor is a cool head an’ he’s got a few brains. Anse Mowry is poison mean, a killer from away back. Ed Framson I don’t know, but he sizes up as a bad hombre—a stayer too.”

  “Six or eight of ’em?”

  “About that.”

  “Maybe we’ll have a scrap like those in the old days. Won’t Red throw a fit when he hears about it?” Johnny chuckled at the thought. “At that, we could use his rifle. I never saw a better man with one. Not even Cassidy here, an’ he’s one of the best.”

  Mesquite lifted his head and looked at Hopalong. “Say, you know a hombre named Goff?”

  “Met him at Clifton’s. What about him?”

  “He’s perambulatin’ around some. Can’t figger what for, unless he’s tied in with that Soper gent. He was talkin’ to Leeds the other day. Leeds an’ that kid of his had come to Horse Springs for grub. It seems folks down McClellan way don’t cotton to ’em very much.”

  “He’s tied in with the Sparr outfit.”

  “Yeah,” Johnny admitted, “but he done us a favor, an’ you too. Told us where yuh were, an’ that yuh might need help down to the Circle J. So we high-tailed it down there to find that you had hit for the mountains like somebody built a fire under yore tail.”

  As they talked Hopalong was thinking the situation out. Having such gun hands as Mesquite and Johnny, two of the fightingest cowhands that ever tied on with any outfit, made the situation some different. Instead of going it alone, he was to have two men with him who could more than carry their own weight.

  Usually Hopalong preferred to work alone, and did, but any of the old outfit who knew him well were fighters, and he knew when they were in the game they would understand what moves he would be liable to make and would act accordingly. Now, with these two, all the problems were much more simple. It was not enough to regain the ranch for Dick Jordan and his daughter, for all threat to it and to them must be removed. Rightly, Hopalong deduced the next actions of Avery Sparr. He nodded as he considered that angle.

  “Look at Hoppy,” Johnny said. “He’s figgerin’ out some devilment against that Sparr.”

  “More’n you could do,” Mesquite replied, grinning. “If you were sittin’ there noddin’ I’d just figger you were goin’ to sleep.”

  “Sleep!” Johnny roared. “Why, you no-account maverickin’ crow bait! Nobody sleeps less than I do! Nobody!”

  “Supposin’,” Hopalong said, to quiet the argument, “you were a rustler tryin’ to steal a ranch, an’ you failed. You knew you were blowed up. What would you do?”

  Mesquite considered the question. “Probably grab all the cows in sight an’ head for the border.”

  “Much as I hate to admit it,” Johnny agreed, “that’s probably right.”

  “The way I figger, I think our friend Sparr has a couple of chores he’ll want to do. He’ll want those cows, an’ he’ll want my scalp. Also, there may be another one or two that he’ll want. Take those four hombres you downed at Turkey Springs now. They weren’t his men any way you can
figger. If they weren’t, they must have been Soper’s.

  “You saw Soper headin’ that way, or trailed him. I did too. He lied to Sparr about how long he’d been away from Horse Springs, so he must have stopped with those hombres for a while. In other words, Soper was riggin’ a double-cross.”

  “We saw it that way,” Johnny agreed. “You think Sparr will go gunnin’ for him?”

  “Sure he will! I’d bet my shirt on it!” said Mesquite. “Might be a good idear for one of us to get on his trail an’ stay there.”

  “An’ it is time we were movin’, all of us.” Hopalong got to his feet. “Let’s go!”

  Leaving money on the table, they went out to their horses. There was plenty of snow on the ground, but the air was warmer. Nevertheless, it promised to continue cold, so Hopalong led the way to a store where they each bought sheepskin-lined coats and gloves. Hopalong restocked on .44’s, as did Johnny. Mesquite had thoughtfully appropriated all the shells on the two men he had killed at Turkey Springs, so he had plenty of ammunition.

  With a showdown imminent and no time to waste, Hopalong led the way straight across the plains, pointing for Coyote Peak and the pass. The black was a good horse and somewhat rested, and he moved right out on the trail. Mesquite and Johnny rode alongside, and three pairs of eyes swept the country from the high slopes of the mountains to the long, flat levels of the snow-covered plain.

  * * *

  South of them things were not standing still. Avery Sparr had returned to the Circle J in a driving fury. Framson, Byrn Lydon, Leven Proctor, and the Piute headed out at once and began rounding up cattle. All of them were pleased, although secretly. They were men of small imagination and the idea of stealing a ranch had been too big for them. Now that Sparr had relinquished the idea they all felt better because of it. Rustling was something they understood, and all were good hands when necessity forced them to be.

  Moreover, they knew where most of the cattle were to be found and within a matter of hours had bunched a herd of several hundred head. These they started south toward the crossing of the Gila. If they could get this herd to Mexico they would have a nice stake coming, regardless. Yet it was Anse Mowry, on the ranch with Sparr, who voiced another thought.

  “That Cassidy came out here to pay a debt, didn’t he?” he questioned suddenly. “Didn’t Bizco say something about fifteen thousand dollars?”

  Avery Sparr turned his head slowly. “Yeah,” he said thoughtfully, “he did, at that. But maybe he paid it to Jordan.”

  “Mebbe, but I doubt it.” Mowry grinned wolfishly. “Fifteen thousand. That’s a lot of money, Sparr.”

  The big gunman nodded. “Fifteen thousand!” he muttered. It was a lot of money. It was enough money to make him forget his failure here. And he wanted Cassidy, anyway. Suddenly he began to think.

  Hopalong Cassidy would come back to the Circle J. He would most certainly come here, and while Avery Sparr had no doubts about handling him alone, he had no idea of trying it. No, the thing to do was be careful, lay a trap for Hopalong and let him blunder into it. Mentally he checked off the men he would have, and began planning their placement. As he planned, he felt a sharp feeling of satisfaction.

  This time he would get Cassidy, and this time he would clean up all the loose cattle he could find without combing the breaks. But Hopalong Cassidy had upset his plans, and it was Hopalong he wanted.

  The plan when made was good. In fact, it was foolproof. When Hopalong rode into the yard at the Circle J he would be finished, and no matter from which direction he approached, the path would be bristling with rifles. “How yuh like it, Anse?” he said, with satisfaction.

  “Perfect!” Mowry’s eyes glinted. “Only one thing. If he’s still alive when they quit shootin’, I want to walk out an’ fire the last shot! And I want him to know it!”

  * * *

  An hour later, with the men gathered around him, Avery Sparr quietly laid out the whole plan for them and checked every man on his duties. As he talked, Leeds, a dozen yards away, was unloading supplies, bought several days ago, from a heavy wagon, carrying them into the storeroom under the eyes of the Mexican woman. Fixing a piece of broken harness was young Billy Leeds. Passing by the corner of the house, en route to the blacksmith shop for a punch to make a hole in the leather, Billy overheard a few words. Stopping near the porch, he listened quietly to the talk, and then walked on. When he returned, he was bubbling with excitement.

  To leave now would be to attract attention and suspicion, not only to himself but to his father. This was the last thing young Billy wanted; what he did want most of all was to warn the man who had killed the Apaches on that day east of the Canadian.

  He fidgeted and worried until his father noticed it and glared at him. “What the tarnation’s the matter?” he demanded angrily. “If you got nothin’ to do, help me with this stuff!”

  As Billy grabbed a box and started for the storeroom with it, Leeds glanced at the dispersing knot of men. What were they about now? Whatever it was, it was no good to know about it. The faster he got away from the Circle J the better he was going to like it. Yet from Billy’s actions and his suppressed excitement he knew the boy had something on his mind, so he hurried to get the wagon unloaded, and as they rolled out of the yard he turned to Billy.

  “Now what are you fussin’ about, kid? You got something on your mind.”

  He spoke not unkindly, and Billy looked quickly at him. He was never sure about this man who was his father. Old enough to know the mission of the men who came and went in the night around the ranch, he also knew that his father permitted it. He was aware that nothing his father could do would make them stop, and although ashamed of his father for not standing up to them, he understood how he must feel. To stand up to them meant to die or get beaten, and after that, what would have changed?

  “That bunch”—Billy was not sure how his father would take it—“they figger to kill Hopalong. I heard ’em talkin’ of it!”

  Leeds sat silent. Cassidy had come to them when they needed help, and he had asked no questions, nor hesitated. Besides, he had already taken a hand in this game. “You know what they planned?”

  “Uh-huh. I heard it all.”

  “They’ll be comin’ soon,” Leeds said. “I doubt if they’ll come by Injun Crick, although they may. We’ll stop at the cabin corral an’ I’ll git a horse for you. Then light out for that peak west o’ Cooney Tank. From there you can watch all three trails. When you spot ’em—an’ be sure it’s them—ride like blazes an’ head ’em off. But mind you, son, don’t rush up on ’em sudden. Not them kind of fellers. You’re liable to git your stomach full of lead.”

  “How will I see from up there?” Billy protested. “It’s too far!”

  “Not with this it ain’t.”

  Leeds drew a long marine telescope from under the seat.

  “Sparr give me this to watch for riders who might be needin’ horses fast, so I’d have ’em ready. Now we’ll put it to some good use. But mind you, son, watch out for any of Sparr’s fellers. They’d shoot you quicker’n a wink!”

  How does news travel in the range country? Men have tried to explain it with such terms as the “grapevine”—meaning that one man told another and he still others, and each of them told more, and so on, until the word was passing from mouth to mouth among thousands of people. Perhaps this is the explanation, but whatever it is, the range country knows, as does the veldt of South Africa, the bush of Australia, and the jungles of the Amazon, that once one man knows a thing, all know it. In all the far and secret places the news moves, or perhaps it is not news, but only a feeling of portent, a feeling of something imminent.

  For days the stories of the happenings at Alma, at Horse Springs, and on the Circle J had been going the rounds. How it traveled so swiftly no man could say, but Sim Thatcher knew all the stories, and on that day he gathered his hands on his home ranch. “If Hopalong needs help,” he said flatly, “we’ll give it to him!”

  �
�From what I hear,” the old-timer said dryly, “I don’t think he’ll need it. Not more’n those two lobos he has helpin’ him.”

  Alma remained quiet. Horse Springs remained quiet. Goff was missing from his old hangout at Clifton’s, although just where he had gone nobody knew.

  At the shack where Hopalong had made the crossing guard cook for him, Arnold Soper at last found Johnny Rebb. He found him sitting alone on the steps, whittling. Soper rode up and swung down. “Good man!” Soper said. “I’ve been hunting you!”

  Rebb looked up without comment. He had never liked Soper and never trusted him. Johnny Rebb was a man born out of his time. He was the perfect type of the feudal retainer of the old days in the Europe of castles and men at arms. If bravery is a virtue, then Rebb was not without it. If loyalty is a worthy thing, then Rebb was worthy, for he had loyalty, even if to the wrong man and at the wrong time.

  To Johnny Rebb the cause was nothing, the man everything. He was a born henchman, a born follower.

  Despite his utter cruelty, his coldness, his willingness to kill, Avery Sparr had a strain of free-handed generosity, and once in a casual and thoughtless moment he helped a woebegone youngster who had crossed the plains with an outfit of freighters. He fed him. He staked him to a horse (stolen), a saddle (likewise), a gun (the original owner had been too slow on the draw), and a few dollars. Sparr had gone his way, and Johnny Rebb had teamed up with an older man to collect buffalo bones. While hunting, Johnny practiced with the six-gun and proved to have a natural dexterity, which, coupled with unusual speed of hand and eye and days of practice, soon gave him considerable speed.

  Of this speed his partner knew nothing, hearing the shooting but not seeing it, as Johnny Rebb was self-conscious. When the bones were sold and the season was over, with ill-advised confidence the older man tried to gyp Johnny. Words led to words, and the wrong words led to guns. The older partner died suddenly, his shocked surprise mirrored in his eyes. He had never managed to start his draw.