Besides Hopalong Cassidy, you will meet a few of Mulford’s original characters from the Bar 20 stories in this book. Buck Peters, whose money Hopalong is delivering to Dick Jordan, was the original foreman of the Bar 20 ranch. Tex Ewalt (who is only mentioned in this book) and Johnny Nelson are also characters that date back to the novel Bar 20 (1907). Johnny goes on to become the hero of both The Man from Bar 20 (1918) and Johnny Nelson (1920). He also appears, in a more minor way, in several of the other stories. Mesquite Jenkins first appeared as a character in Hopalong Cassidy Returns (1925), and continued in Hopalong Cassidy’s Protege (1926). Mesquite also appeared without Hopalong in his own novel, Mesquite Jenkins (1928).
Even though I discovered that the magazine version of this and the next Hopalong novel used the description of Cassidy that Dad had written originally, I decided to leave these stories the way Doubleday printed them—that is, with a Bill Boyd-like Hoppy. The reason is consistency. The last two magazine stories used the cleaned-up Hopalong and that’s the way that all four stories appeared in book form.
Looking back on all the trouble Dad went to to keep his association with the the Hopalong books a secret, there is surprisingly little difference between his original version and the “revised” one. Nothing but the physical description of the character, the occasional mention of his smoking, and the inclusion of the movie Hoppy’s horse, Topper, has been changed. These changes were plugged in with no alteration of the surrounding text. At times you can catch Dad trying to downplay the Bill Boyd image; he mentions that Hoppy’s silver guns were “worn”, or that Cassidy wore clothes that were “no different” than other Western men might wear. The most glaring example of this is that Hoppy manages to abandon Topper at Sim Thatcher’s ranch for almost the entire length of The Rustlers of West Fork.
It is my opinion that the reason for Louis’s continued and emotional denial of the books came more from irritation at himself for having started that process of denial to begin with, than his anger at being told to alter the character descriptions.
* * *
Lastly, a request to you, the reader. As my father was finishing Education of a Wandering Man (this was only a couple of days before his death) he mentioned that he wanted to include a note in that book asking each of his readers to plant a tree. At the time I felt that this was somewhat pretentious of him and I did not follow up on his wish. Since then I have changed my mind.
Dad wanted to ask you, whoever and wherever you are, to go out and plant a tree. He didn’t care what kind and he didn’t care where you put it. He only cared that thousands of trees are cut down every day and few are ever replaced. Trees are cut to build your home, to clear land to raise cattle or crops, trees are cut to make this book you hold in your hands. Cutting a tree for profit takes less than half an hour, whereas growing a new one will take half a century. Louis wanted you to do this for yourself, to do this for your future.
I feel better now. I wish I’d done that a couple of years ago when I was asked to, but better late than never.
* * *
I wish to extend thanks from Kathy L’Amour, Bantam Books, and myself to the many people who helped bring this book back to press after so many years and to those who supplied me with the information I used to write this afterword: David R. Hastings II and Peter G. Hastings, Trustees of the Clarence E. Mulford Trust, Michael Marsden of Bowling Green University, Gene Autry Museum, Sybil Brabner, and Violetta Volovnikov.
I think that’s it. I hope you had a good read.
December 4, 1990
THE TRAIL TO SEVEN PINES
A Bantam Book / August 2004
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam hardcover edition published June 1992
Bantam paperback edition / June 1993
Previously published as Hopalong Cassidy and the Trail to Seven Pines
by Louis L’Amour (writing as Tex Burns).
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1951, renewed © 1979 by Bantam Books.
Author’s Note copyright © 1992 by Beau L’Amour
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address:
Bantam Books New York, New York.
Bantam Books and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Please visit our website at www.bantamdell.com
eISBN: 978-0-553-90009-5
v3.0_r2
Contents
Master - Table of Contents
The Trail to Seven Pines
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Afterword
Chapter 1
TWO DEAD MEN
* * *
Hopalong Cassidy stopped his white gelding on the bald backbone of the ridge. No soil covered the windswept sandstone, only a few gnarled cedars that seemed, as is their way, to draw nourishment from the very rock itself. In this last hour before sunset the air was of startling clarity, so much so that objects upon the mountainside across the valley stood out, clearly defined as though but a few yards away instead of as many miles.
Where he sat the sun was bright, but in the west, which was his direction, towering masses of cumulus piled to majestic heights, dwarfing the mountains to insignificance. The crests of the mighty clouds were glorious with sunlight, but the flat undersides were sullen with impending rain. Hopalong squinted appraisingly at the sky and became no happier at what he saw.
Seven Pines, proudly claiming title as the toughest town west of anywhere, was a good twelve miles off, hidden in the mountains across the valley. Long before he could ride a third of that distance those clouds would be giving the valley a thorough drenching. What he needed now was shelter, and he needed it badly.
So it was that he sat in his saddle studying the country with careful eyes. The stage route was but a mile or so to the north, but he had heard of no shelter there and so far his information had been most accurate. Even as he watched, the gigantic cloud moved nearer, lightning stabbed through it, and the thunder rolled and grumbled.
To the south and west the valley narrowed before spewing out into the vast waste of Adobe Flat. Waterless most of the time, after a rain it would become a slippery, greasy surface that concealed unexpected sinks and mud traps. Close by, the mountainside was broken and serrated, carved by upheaval and erosion. There were notches among the rocks in some of the canyons, but they might well prove deathtraps in such a storm as this would be. Hopalong Cassidy had lived too long in the West not to realize the danger that lay in the bottoms of canyons and dry washes. It was such a sudden rush of water that had finally ended his feud with Tex Ewalt and brought them together as friends, but more often than not, it meant only death to the unwary traveler.
Suddenly, as he was about to ride on, a movement caught his eye and he drew up sharply. From the mouth of a canyon below and to the southwest a small group of riders had emerged. Something in their bunched way of riding warned Cassidy, and he kneed his mount to the partial concealment of a juniper. At this distance even his field glasses offered him no marks of identification, save a single white splotch on the flank of one horse and that same horse’s white nose. There were six riders, and they moved north at a rapid pace, keeping close to the mountain and choosing a route that offered cover from view.
He watched them until they disappeared, scowling slightly, for he knew this land in which he lived. Although a stranger in this area, he was far from strange to the West and western ways,
and it seemed these men were riding on a mission. A mission that demanded they remain hidden from anyone passing down the stage-coach road.
“All right, Topper,” Hopalong said quietly to the short-coupled gelding, “let’s ride along and see what happens. It’s a cinch they know where there’s shelter. They won’t like to get wet any more than we do.”
The white horse moved along, choosing its own trail, heading down and northward on a slant. With another appraising glance at the cloud, much nearer now, Hopalong Cassidy drew his six-shooters one after the other and carefully wiped them free of dust. They were worn silver-plated Colt .45’s, their bone handles networked with tiny cracks, their balance perfect. It had been weeks since he had drawn a gun for any reason, but he knew that the price of safety was unresting vigilance.
Seven Pines was his immediate destination, but actually he was just roving across the country. Somewhere to the north, an old friend of the cattle trails, Gibson of the old 3 T L, had a ranch where he lived with his widowed daughter. Hopalong planned to stop with them for a few days before swinging northeast into Montana.
The presence of the riders, even while it promised the proximity of shelter, disturbed him. He had no desire to walk into a range war or any trouble whatsoever. This ride of his was strictly a sightseeing trip, taken with money in his pocket and no feeling of hurry.
A few spattering drops of rain struck his hat brim, sweeping it with a hasty barrage. Hopalong frowned and dug for his slicker, donning it without slowing his pace. By now he was off the ridge and well into a stand of cedar, his eyes busy searching for shelter. Once he glimpsed an old mine dump, but the tunnel was long since caved in and the buildings had collapsed.
When he reached the vague trail skirting the foot of the mountain he found the tracks of the bunch ahead of him. He studied the tracks briefly, reading them as easily as another man might read a page of print. These were fresh horses, well shod, but one horse had the hoof trimmed too narrow, causing him to toe in somewhat. Another dash of rain came, gained impetus, and then proceeded in a downpour that drew a gray veil across the desert and mountains. The sky darkened and the rolling clouds closed out the sun, shutting down all the miles before him with darkness and slashing rain.
The gray streak of a trail led downward from the mine dump, offering a chance of speed, so he lifted the gelding into a canter and went down the mountain to the main road. Halting briefly, he again found the tracks of the riders. Not yet wiped out by the rain, they crossed the road and then ran along through the brush parallel to it.
The shower eased, and Hopalong smelled the old familiar odor that raindrops bring to long-dry dust. Then there was a crash of thunder and more rain, and behind the rain a roaring weight of wind. Now the darkness became absolute, without a chink of light anywhere except for the constant play of lightning. The wide valley was filled with sound, and the rain came down in solid sheets of water turned into a scythe driven by the fierce wind.
He turned onto the stage road, and Topper held to his canter. Then suddenly the storm lulled, and down this hallway of silence Hopalong heard the sudden crash of shots!
Two … three more, a light volley … and then one. The last was a lone, final shot. The ending of something.
Reining in, Hopalong strained his ears against the sudden silence, listening. There was nothing, and then the rain came again, whispering at first, then mounting in crescendo to new heights of fury. Pushing on, his hat brim pulled low, his slicker collar high around his ears, he wondered at the shots. A cold drop fell down the back of his neck and found a trail down his spine. He shivered and strained his eyes into the blackness ahead.
Riding suddenly onto the scene of a shooting was anything but smart, but this was new country to him, known only by hearsay, and if he got off the trail now he could easily wander out into the valley and become lost. Suddenly Hopalong felt the gelding’s muscles tense and in a flash of lightning he saw its head come up sharply. At the same time Hopalong saw, on the trail ahead, a dark shape sprawled in the mud!
Drawing up, he waited for lightning. It came, and he stared beyond the man’s body, but the trail was empty as far as he could see. Whatever had happened here was now over. Swinging down beside the fallen man, he turned him over. Rain splashed on a white, dead face and over a bullet-riddled body. One hole was in the head. Shielding a struck match, Hopalong’s lips compressed. This man had been downed by the other shots, but the last one had been fired by a gun held against his skull, burning with its muzzle blast the hair and skin. Of this man they had made sure.
Quickly he went through the man’s pockets, removing his wallet, papers, and what loose money he could find. These things should go to the man’s relatives, if any, and would help serve as identification. In this rain they would soon become soaked and illegible unless protected.
The dead man had made a try for his life. His pistol was gripped in his hand and one shot had been fired.
Standing over him, oblivious of the rain, Hopalong studied the situation. The man had been removed from the stage, for he lay to one side of the trail, and it looked as if he had been given his chance, had taken it, and lost. Cut deeply into the trail were the tracks of the stage. “Holdup,” Hoppy muttered. “This hombre either asked for a scrap or had it forced on him. One thing, he doesn’t size up like any pilgrim. He’d been to the wars before.”
Mounting, Hopalong rode up the trail a short distance, then stopped as a flash of lightning revealed yet another body. Swinging down, Hopalong bent to touch the man, and he groaned. Straightening up, Hopalong waited for another flash of light, then spotted a slight overhang in the rock of the cliff, an overhang that gave promise of growing deeper as the rock curved away from the trail.
Tying his horse to a juniper, Hopalong returned and picked the man up, carrying him deep into the sheltered cleft where no rain fell and where the sand was dry. Gathering dried sticks from the remains of a long:-dead tree, he built a fire. When it was burning briskly he put some water on and opened the wounded man’s coat and vest. A glance showed the man was hard hit.
The first hole was a flesh wound, low down on the left side. It had bled profusely, and the whole side of the fellow’s clothing was soaked with blood. Higher, there was yet another and more serious wound. This one was just over the heart, and Hopalong felt his skin tighten at the look of it.
When the water was hot he took his time bathing the wounds, then bandaged them tightly with a compress made of split and slightly roasted prickly-pear leaves. It was a remedy he had seen Indians and old-timers use for the removal of inflammation and he had nothing else at hand. Familiar as he was with bullet wounds, he knew the man’s chance of survival was small, yet the fellow was young, powerfully built, and obviously in excellent health.
Going back for more fuel, Hopalong led his white horse more deeply into the cut and stripped off the saddle. There was a bank of blown-up earth that had sprouted grass, and the gelding was quickly at home. Walking back, Hopalong saw that his patient’s eyes were open. The man was staring around him with uncomprehending wonder. Moving closer, Hopalong advised quietly, “Just take it easy, partner. You caught a couple of bad ones.”
The man stared at him, his brow puckering. “Who—who are you?”
“Driftin’ through. Heard some shootin’ ahead of me, and when I came up I found a dead man, and then you.”
“Then I nailed one of ’em?”
“Doubt it. This hombre wore a frock coat and a gray hat. Hard-lookin’, with a reddish mustache.”
“Oh. He was a passenger.” The man was quiet for a minute and his breathing was heavy. He was a clean-cut, rather handsome young man with cow country written all over him. He wore two guns and looked like a man who could use them.
“What happened?” Hopalong asked.
“Stickup. I was ridin’—ridin’ shotgun. They shot me first off but I stuck it out and figured I nailed one of ’em. Then they got me again and I fell off the stage. They were masked—like always
.”
“Always?”
“Fourth time in three months … This was my first trip. The other guards got it too.” A faint smile flickered across the wounded man’s face. “Whoever pulls these jobs doesn’t like shotgun messengers.”
Hopalong had put some broth, made from jerky and a handful of flour, on the fire. It was hot now, and he fed a little to the wounded man. He took his time, letting the man have plenty of time to breathe, hoping the broth would give him added strength. He seemed to have lost a lot of blood.
“What’s your name, amigo? I’d better know.”
The young fellow stared at him. “That bad? Well, I’m Jesse Lock. Don’t reckon anybody will miss me much. You might hunt up my brother and let him know. He’s got him a place up in the Roberts Mountains. Name of Ben Lock.”
The rain slowed until all that could be heard of it was a trickle of runoff and the slow dripping of the trees. Thankfully, the wounded man settled into a fitful sleep, but his ragged breathing had Hopalong worried. If the stage had made it to Seven Pines there should be a party sent out to look for the men downed in the robbery. But they might believe both men were dead, or that the trail was washed out. Hoppy went back and cinched up the saddle on Topper. He was afraid he would have to leave Jesse Lock and go for help, instead of waiting for it to come to them.
The Hopalong Cassidy Novels 4-Book Bundle Page 22