The Hopalong Cassidy Novels 4-Book Bundle

by Louis L'Amour

  “You mentioned girls?”

  Katie flashed Hopalong a glance. “I thought that would get you. Every cowhand in the country tries to get a job there, and everyone tries to dab a rope on one or the other of the girls, although Lenny seems to be the preferred one. Irene has a way about her that scares them a little. Anyway, she seems spoken for.”

  “Pretty, are they?”

  “No, not just pretty. They are beautiful.”

  Hopalong nodded seriously. He was not thinking of the Ronson sisters. He was trying to get a line on this town and the country around it. He wanted to know just what went on. Sheriff Hadley was a good man, he would gamble on that. How much imagination he would have was another guess.

  While he ate, Hopalong kept Katie Regan talking, and the community began to take shape in Hopalong’s mind. His keen blue eyes were thoughtful as he listened.

  The community was a combination of cattle and mining. The biggest cow outfit was Bob Ronson’s Rocking R; the only mine of any consequence was Harrington’s Gold Stake. Ronson had inherited the Rocking R from his father, who had been an old gray wolf from the high timber, a man who had teeth and used them on the least provocation. He had been honest in his dealings, but utterly ruthless. The Rocking R had made few friends and many enemies. When the old man died, rustlers hit the Rocking R high, low, and in the middle.

  Within a year two of the Rocking R hands had been dry-gulched and more than a thousand head of cattle run off.

  Small outfits that had heretofore scarcely made their way began to wax fat, their herds growing, their shipments getting larger. Their owners began to spend more money as the Rocking R spent less. New faces were seen around the country, too, and where the Rocking R hands under the firm leadership of Old Man Ronson had kept the town cleaned up, now there were many loafers and hangers-on, most of whom had money or seemed to know how to get it.

  The Gold Stake was booming and many restless eyes began to look thoughtfully toward the monthly gold shipments that went out by stage. Meanwhile, the Ronson cattle herds, while still vast, had thinned down. Rustlers took to fighting over them, and one night four known rustlers were killed on the Rocking R range by other rustlers.

  Small mines began to pay off, and two of them were looted after cleanups. In one case the owner was killed. In another, masked men had beaten two of the workers at the mine and taken gold from them. A prospector was murdered for his outfit. A freight wagon was looted on the outskirts of town and the teamster murdered. From a quiet community under the rough hand of Ronson, the area had become wild, lawless, and almost beyond handling. Sheriff Hadley had replaced the previous sheriff, who had been dry-gulched in the town itself.

  “There’s always a ringleader,” Hopalong suggested. “Who is it runs Seven Pines?”

  “Nobody, actually. The ranchers used to follow Ronson, but lately they have been listening more and more to Pony Harper.”

  “The horse trader?”

  “That’s the one, but he owns a small ranch, too, and he is a cattle buyer as well as owner of the livery stable. There’s also Sheriff Hadley, of course, and Dr. Marsh.”

  There were footsteps on the boardwalk and Katie glanced out the window. “This here’s Clarry Jacks coming in now,” she said, moving away from Hopalong. “He’s someone that the newer element around here have been following more and more.”

  Before he could ask what she meant, the door opened and two men walked into the room. The first was a black-browed, bowlegged man with a thick body and deep-set black eyes. Yet it was the man behind him who drew Hopalong’s attention.

  Clarry Jacks was handsome. Gray eyes and chestnut hair, a lithe, erect figure, and an easy, carefree walk made him the natural focus of attention. He wore two silver-plated, pearl-handled guns tied down in elaborate hand-carved holsters.

  “Howdy, Katie!” Jacks grinned widely. “Set ’em up for us, will you? Two cups of coffee and a half dozen of those sinkers of yours!”

  “You set down, Clarry,” Katie said severely, “and you’ll get waited on same as anybody else. The same for your friend”—she shot a glance at Hoppy—“Dud Leeman.”

  Hopalong glanced at Jacks, who had turned toward him. “Stranger?” Jacks asked.

  “Have you seen me around before?” Hopalong asked coolly.

  “No. That’s why I asked.”

  “If you haven’t seen me around before, I must be a stranger.” Hopalong smiled. Turning back toward Katie, he asked quietly, “How’s for another cup of java? You sure make good coffee.”

  Jacks was irritated at this flouting of his importance and he showed it. He started to say something more, then hesitated. Leeman was staring at Cassidy and frowning, seemingly puzzled, but he offered no comment. Ignoring the stranger, Jacks turned back to his coffee and doughnuts. He had not failed to notice Hopalong’s bone-handled, tied-down guns. Whoever the fellow was, he was no pilgrim.

  Hopalong finished his coffee and strolled outside. He had recognized Jacks at once, seeing beyond the easy laughter to the underlying hardness of the man. On the surface Jacks might seem gay and friendly to many, but he was the sort of man who could be utterly ruthless. Match that to gun skill, and it could mean a lot of trouble.

  The High-Grade Saloon showed down the street a few doors, and Hopalong drifted that way.

  * * *

  In the door of Katie Regan’s, Dud Leeman stared after him, watching the short, choppy horseman’s walk, the sloping but powerful shoulders, and the tied-down guns. He slammed the door and strode back to the counter. Clarry Jacks stared at him curiously. “What’s eatin’ you?” He grinned. “That hombre scare you?”

  “Scare, nothin’!” Leeman dropped to a stool and spooned sugar into his coffee. “Only he seems durned familiar. I’ve seen him somewhere but can’t remember where.”

  Clarry Jacks shrugged. “Just a driftin’ hand. He’ll move on.”

  “He’ll stick around.” Katie had come in from the kitchen. “At least for a while. The murder of that boy got under his skin.”

  “Does he think he can do better than the sheriff?” Jacks wanted to know.

  “I don’t know whether he can do better than Hadley or not,” she replied easily, “but if I was the killer I’d be feeling mighty uneasy.”

  * * *

  Circulating around through the various saloons and hangouts, Hopalong kept his eyes and ears open. Long ago he had learned to know the signs of a tough town, and he could see this one was seething. He heard of several killings, of a slugging and robbery the previous night, of another prospector found dead on his claim. The lid was off and the wolves were flocking to the fat herd.

  As long as he lived, Old Cattle Bob Ronson had kept the town under his thumb. It had been he and his hands who enforced the law, and now he was gone. Young Bob was admitted to be an excellent cowman but no fighter. The town was wide open and the trouble was only starting.

  Over a bottle, Hopalong talked to an old cowhand who nodded grimly toward Joe Turner, the fat, bald-pated man behind the bar whose gold watch chain crossed an imposing stomach. “He’s ridin’ high with Old Cattle Bob dead!” he sneered. “No sound out of him when the old man was around, but now he’s playin’ it mighty big!”

  Cassidy strolled on to the bar, recording in his memory the cowhand’s comment. Bill Harrington was standing there, and he turned, smiling, when he saw Cassidy. “Glad to see you, amigo,” he said quietly. “Changed your mind about ridin’ shotgun for me?”

  Hopalong shook his head. “Not yet. I’ll be stayin’ around awhile, but I’d prefer a ridin’ job. I may hit Ronson about it. Who is his foreman?”

  “Handles the job himself. He knows cows and he knows range. He don’t like trouble, though, and doesn’t have the backbone for this. You can see why.” Harrington gestured toward the room. “At least sixty men in here right now. I’d bet at least twenty of them have killed their man, some of them several. Probably more than that are cow thieves. Another ten would be crooked gamblers. It’s n
o job for a tenderfoot.

  “Over there”—he indicated Joe Turner—“is the man who would like to run the town. He isn’t big enough.”

  “Who is?”

  Harrington glanced at Cassidy and smiled. “That, my friend, is a good question. Some of them think I am, but I don’t want the job, believe me. I’d sooner ride shotgun on my own shipments.”

  He shook his head. “No, there’s no man big enough now. Doc Marsh has the brains and courage, but he doesn’t have either the leadership or the desire. His practice suits him. Hadley just can’t do it.”

  “What about Pony Harper?” Cassidy asked casually.

  Harrington hesitated. “There,” he said at last, “you may have something, but Harper’s not an easy man to understand.”

  Cassidy changed the subject. “What about that gold of yours? How will the thieves get rid of it? Gold isn’t the easiest thing to handle. Not in quantity.”

  “You’re right, and I’ve good reason to believe that not a single ounce of stolen gold has appeared on the market anywhere. My idea is, their plans were made before the gold was ever stolen, but it will take some managing.”

  Harrington shrugged, then waved a hand at the room. “And whom to suspect? Any of them! This room is filled with thieves! Believe me, Ben Lock will have his work cut out for him!”

  He glanced around as somebody shouted a welcome. “Here’s Young Bob Ronson now, if you want that job. Hit him up for it.”

  Ronson was a tall, well-made young man with a pleasant, friendly face. He walked to the bar, strolling over near Harrington. “How are you, Bill?” He shot a quick, measuring glance at Cassidy. “You’re the man who found Lock.”

  “That’s right,” Cassidy said, “and I was fixin’ to ask if you needed a hand.”

  Ronson laughed. “I need lots of them, friend. Lots of them! But I’d better warn you that being a hand for the Rocking R isn’t a popular occupation right now. Somebody seems to have decided to eliminate them.”

  “I’ve been shot at before,” Hopalong said.

  “All right. Come out in the morning.” He started to turn away and then hesitated. “By the way, what’s your handle?”

  “Cassidy. My friends call me Hopalong.”

  Harrington straightened up and stared. Ronson had stopped in mid-stride, and somebody, somewhere nearby, swore. Hopalong had not spoken loudly, yet there had been a sudden lull, and at least a dozen men had heard him. That the name meant nothing to some of them was obvious, but that it meant a great deal to Harrington, Ronson, and Dud Leeman was also obvious.

  “Hopalong Cassidy …” Ronson stared. “Man, I’ll say you’ve got a job! Come out in the morning, by all means!”

  Dud Leeman had turned swiftly. He strode from the room. Hopalong glanced after him curiously. The dark-skinned gunman had seemed unusually upset. Harrington had noticed it, too, but said nothing. Pony Harper stood nearby, but his back was toward them, and whether he had heard, neither man knew.

  “In the morning then.” Hopalong nodded to the men, then turned and moved through the crowd toward the door.

  * * *

  The Rocking R lay in a notch of the Antelopes, a rambling, Spanish-style house sprawling comfortably among the cottonwoods with a huge old log barn, a series of pole corrals, and a bunkhouse that trailed a lazy thread of smoke toward the sky. A great tank, almost a half acre in extent, was placid with crystal-clear water. Green moss showed at the edges, and a thin trickle dribbled into the tank from a pipe. After the trail Topper was ready for the water, and he sank his muzzle into it as Hopalong swung down. Sunlight reflected from the green leaves of the cottonwoods, and Hopalong heard a door slam from the house and looked across the saddle at the girl walking toward him.

  She walked as gracefully and easily as a fawn. Her hair was brown but red-tinged in the sunlight, and her face and throat were lightly, beautifully tanned. She was young, probably seventeen, but rounded and perfect. She was, as Katie Regan had said, beautiful.

  She smiled, her quick green eyes studying him. “Are you Cassidy? Bob said to tell you to locate a bunk, stow your gear, and then just look the place over. He’s off across the range and won’t be back until night. He said you’d want to get acquainted with the ranch.”

  “Thanks.” Hopalong smiled. “I reckon he’s right, at that. A man always feels better around a place once he knows the lay of the land. You run many cows?”

  Her smile disappeared. “We did—and when it comes to that, we still do. I expect there’s a good many thousand head on the place, but some of the boys around are a little on the rustle since Dad died.”

  “So I hear. Don’t the hands stop it?”

  “They tried, but the ones who tried didn’t last long. They were killed mighty fast.” She was bitter. “What this ranch needs is a fighting foreman! Somebody who would really run it!”

  “Well, maybe. And again maybe not. That sort of thing can lead to a lot of trouble unless your fightin’ foreman has judgment too.”

  “If Irene didn’t side with Bob all the time, we’d have one!” The girl’s eyes flashed. “I’ve tried to get Bob to hire Clarry Jacks! He’d be the man! They wouldn’t run over us then!”

  “Jacks?” Hopalong was surprised. He looked the girl over more carefully. “Maybe he would be the man, but he doesn’t size it up to me, ma’am. Of course I’m only a stranger here. What does this Jacks do?”

  “Do?” She looked at Hopalong, momentarily puzzled and, he thought, a little confused. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean what does he do for a livin’? Is he a puncher?”

  “Why, he has been. Right now he isn’t doing anything.”

  Hopalong nodded thoughtfully. “I see.” He slid the saddle from Topper. “That’s a right nice job, but it don’t pay much. A man can only do it so long and then he’s broke. Of course I expect Jacks doesn’t need much money. If you have friends around, a man can live off them.”

  Her eyes flashed. “Why! Why, that’s not fair! How can you say a thing like that?”

  Hopalong looked innocent. He was momentarily sorry he had spoken so and was not quite sure why he had. For all he knew, Clarry Jacks might be a pillar of society. Only if he were, then all Hopalong’s instincts were at fault.

  “Perhaps I was wrong, ma’am,” he said apologetically. “Only a man has to make a livin’ somehow. He rides for somebody, owns a ranch, prospects, works in a mine, tends bar, or something. Maybe Jacks has an income or something. I don’t know.”

  Lenny Ronson eyed him without pleasure. Her continued championing of Jacks had irritated her brother and worried her sister. Nevertheless, the dashing gunman appealed to her. He was so fearless, yet so gay. He was far from the cool, quiet man her brother was, and Lenny was full of fire herself and furious that the ranch could be stolen blind while her brother did nothing.

  The only solution for the Rocking R was to make Clarry Jacks foreman. Then the stealing would be ended in a hurry. Yet, although they possessed equal shares, her brother had been given complete control over the operation of the ranch. It had been so provided in Cattle Bob’s will. To make matters worse, from Lenny’s point of view, Irene almost always sided with Bob when they discussed matters of ranch policy.

  “That’s a beautiful horse,” Lenny said, changing the subject.

  Cassidy nodded with real pleasure. “He sure is! Best cutting horse I ever rode, an’ I’ve ridden some. Got more brains than most humans.”

  “Are you staying long? I mean, did Bob hire you just for the roundup?”

  “Don’t rightly know,” Hopalong mused. “Nothin’ was mentioned about what I was to do or the time I’d be here. I heard he needed hands, so hit him for the job.”

  “Did you hear that we had lost some hands?” Lenny demanded. “Did Bob tell you that?”

  “Yeah, he mentioned it, and some other folks did.” Hopalong let his eyes run over the sunlit hills and drew a deep breath of the fresh, dancing spring air. “I reckon every range has its trou
bles.”

  He carried the saddle under a shed and threw it across a pole kept for the purpose, hanging up the bridle and bit. “How many hands have you got now?”

  “Only five. We used to have anywhere from twelve to twenty on this place.” Lenny’s voice was bitter. “It’s the biggest ranch around here.”

  “They been workin’ here long?”

  “Only two of them. Frenchy Ruyters and Tex Milligan. Frenchy has been with us since I was a child. Tex hired on about four years ago.”

  “What about the others?”

  “You’d better decide for yourself. You’ll have to work with them. They are good hands, I think. Kid Newton has been with us about two weeks. The others hired on about a month ago. They are saddle partners, Joe Hartley and Dan Dusark.”

  She was silent for several minutes while Hopalong studied the ranch with careful, appraising eyes. The buildings and the grounds were well kept; the stock he had seen was in good shape. Whatever Bob Ronson might not be as a fighter, he was no rawhider as a rancher. He believed in running a good place, and he did. This, in good times, could be a fine place to work.

  “We’ll have trouble,” Lenny said soberly, “at the roundup. We’d be less than honest if we didn’t tell you. There’s an outfit east of here who are getting too big for their hats. Three brothers named Gore from over on Blue Mountain.”

  “What’s the trouble?”

  “They want range. Bob thinks they are a little on the rustle too. So does Tex. Anyway, they’ve been pushing our stock off land the Rocking R has used for twenty years. Tex braced them about it and they invited him to start something. All three of them were present, and they laughed at him, trying to egg him into going for a gun so they could kill him.

  “John is the worst, I think. But there’s little to choose. Windy and Con are almost as bad. They’ve boasted they’ll run the Rocking R off the range.”

  There was a rattle of horses’ hoofs, and glancing up, Hopalong saw Bob Ronson come riding into the place with three hands beside him. The dark, lean-faced man with the shrewd eyes would be Frenchy Ruyters; the narrow-hipped youngster could be nobody but Tex Milligan, for his state was written all over him. Bob Ronson introduced them by saying their names. The last was a big-bodied man with a round, sullen face. His name was Dan Dusark.