The Hopalong Cassidy Novels 4-Book Bundle

by Louis L'Amour

  Thinking of that, Hopalong kept well into the shadows and took his time considering the situation. Who would want to kill him? There were three possible chances. One of the Gore crowd, one of the holdup men who feared he might know something, or one of the rustler crowd who wanted to keep him out of the picture. Any one of the three was a good bet, but Hopalong was not interested in guessing. He wanted to know.

  Pausing on a corner, he drew in a deep breath. His muscles felt alert and ready, and there was rising in him a certain recklessness that he continually fought down. There was that in him that disliked being pushed, and while he knew it might be best to avoid the issue that was presenting itself, he was not the man to do it. He believed in taking the bull by the horns and tail, and this was one time he was going to do it.

  That the situation in the Seven Pines country was all set to blow off, he knew. Any action now might start trouble, but he had an idea that the rustlers were lurking around, stealing dribbles of cattle and waiting for the Gores to tangle with the Rocking R in an all-out battle.

  Hopalong glanced back once more, then walked on. Stepping off the boardwalk at the end of a building, he turned swiftly into the darkness of an alleyway. He ran a dozen steps, then halted and listened. Behind him he heard boot steps on the boardwalk, then silence. In his mind he could see the unknown follower waiting there, hesitating whether to follow, and probably wondering what Hopalong was up to.

  Footsteps sounded on the gravel, and Hopalong knew the man was walking toward him. He scowled thoughtfully, aware that whoever the man was, he was making no effort at concealment. When he was almost abreast of him, Cassidy spoke. “All right, friend, you’ve come far enough. Huntin’ trouble, or just huntin’?”

  “Cassidy?”

  “Right.” Cassidy moved a soundless step left as he spoke, his hands poised above his guns.

  “I want to talk. Peaceful talk, but we can’t be seen together.”

  “Lead the way.”

  The footsteps crunched on down the alley, and Hopalong followed, keeping well to one side. When the man stopped they were in a clump of willows on the edge of town. He turned and faced Hopalong, his hands out away from his sides. “This is peace talk,” he repeated. “I’m not honin’ for trouble with any of that Bar 20 outfit.”

  The use of the brand name was something. That meant that the man had probably known or known of Hoppy in the past. “I come to warn you,” the man continued. “You’re due to walk into a trap if you’re not careful.”

  “Why warn me? Who are you?”

  “Carp—from the Butte country.”

  “Carp?” The name had a familiar sound, but Cassidy could not quite place it.

  “Yeah. You and the Bar 20 riders cleaned out the rustlers down in the Butte country after Nevada and his crowd shot up Johnny Nelson, remember? Well, I was one of ’em.”

  “I remember. You were the one who sided Tex Ewalt when he was in a tight spot with ’em, and he promised you a break.”

  “That’s right. And what’s more, he lived up to his promise and so did you. You stood up and spoke for me at the trial and saved me gettin’ my neck stretched. Well, I ain’t no better than I used to be, Cassidy, but I know a square shooter when I see one. You see, a few nights ago I was over to Corn Patch and I heard some talk. I heard plans to ambush you and wipe you out.

  “Me, I may be a lot of things, but I ain’t a dry-gulcher. Nor am I standin’ by to see a square man shot down without a chance, not by that bunch of coyotes.”

  “Thanks, Carp. That’s square, and I ain’t forgettin’ it.” Cassidy would have liked to ask the outlaw questions about the holdup or the rustling, but, knowing his man, he knew it would be of no use. Carp had warned him only because of the favor Cassidy had done him before, and also because he was himself a brave man and it went against the grain to see murder done. But that would not allow him to betray his friends or to expose any of their schemes. If the time came when Carp believed it best to talk, he would make up his own mind.

  “How’s the shootin’ planned? You know that?”

  “Not exactly, only they’ll send word to you that one of your boys is hurt. It’ll be in some place where they can lay concealed, and I have an idea, from what was said, it will be over west in the Rosebud Canyon. They’ll have seven or eight men all ready to mow you down. They are scared you’ll end rustlin’ in this country.”

  “Thanks, Carp.” Hopalong hesitated. “What about you?”

  Carp chuckled dryly. “Me? I’m splittin’ the breeze out of here. I don’t mind admittin’ I’ve done a bit of rustlin’ myself, but when I heard you was in the country I knew the game was up. I’m headin’ for Montana come daybreak.”

  * * *

  A tight-riding bunch of horsemen were coming up the street when Hopalong Cassidy reached it, and he faded back against the building for a better look. Standing there in the shadow, he saw five men in the group, and one of the riders was Hank Boucher. Another was Windy Gore.

  There was a slight movement across the street, and Hopalong stared hard, straining his eyes to make out the man who was moving among the shadows. Then he saw—it was Shorty Montana.

  The puncher was moving after the Gores and following them into the High-Grade Saloon. Hopalong hesitated, then crossed the street and circled for the rear of the saloon.

  The High-Grade was more than a saloon, for it was also the town’s principal hotel. A two-story frame structure, it housed the bar with its gaming tables, and at the back of the room a stairway led to a narrow balcony. Along the balcony were curtained booths, but in the rear were the hotel rooms, some thirty of them, all small and each one equipped with a wooden bed. There was also a rear stairway to the second floor and a rear door to the first floor.

  Cassidy went up the rear stairway to the second floor and tiptoed along the hall to the balcony. Without attracting attention he managed to get into the first booth. There he drew the curtain, leaving it open just enough to enable him to watch the room without being seen.

  The Gore outfit was already in the saloon and lined up along the bar. Windy, tall and slack-jawed, Cassidy recognized at once. John he soon picked out by hearing him named, a burly man with thick shoulders and chest who wore a huge reddish mustache and had small, cruel eyes. Con was just as big, but he had none of the bulkiness that his brother showed. He was square-shouldered and muscular, his face clean-shaven and brutally boned. All three men looked tough and all three wore two guns each.

  Aside from Hank Boucher, his face bruised and swollen, Cassidy recognized none of them. Shorty Montana had come in and was now walking slowly past them. As he drew abreast of Boucher, he deliberately stopped and eyed his bruised face. Boucher turned, anger mounting within him.

  “What’s eatin’ you?” he demanded.

  “Nothin’.” Montana had his thumbs tucked behind his belt, and he was elaborately serious. “Just sort of wonderin’.”

  “About what?” Boucher demanded suspiciously.

  Shorty smiled innocently. “I was wonderin’ what sort of animal could step on a man’s face to make it look so messed up. Now if you were dragged by a horse, it would be more skinned and scratched-like.”

  “Shut up!” Boucher growled furiously. “Ain’t none of your business!”

  “That’s sure the truth,” Montana agreed pleasantly. “It’s none of my business. On the other hand, can’t a man express a friendly sort of interest? Can’t blame a body for bein’ curious, can you? I knew an hombre down to Tombstone who got him a face like that, but he was kicked by a mule.

  “Now that there eye,” Shorty continued, “it’s cut pretty deep. That might’ve been kicked by a mule, all right. And your mouth there, lips all puffed and swollen—don’t reckon that could be—”

  “Shut up!” Boucher turned on Montana. “Shut up or I’ll do it for you!”

  Shorty Montana backed off two steps in mock fear. “Hey! What’s the matter? I ain’t huntin’ trouble, Boucher! Just sort of wonderin’ what
happened.”

  “You’ve wondered enough!” Pony Harper spoke abruptly from the end of the bar. “We want no trouble in here, Montana. I won’t stand for it!”

  “Aw, cut it out, Pony!” Montana objected, grinning. “I was just a-funnin’, that’s all! Why, I come in to say goodby to the 3 G boys, seein’ as they are leavin’ the country.”

  Conversation stilled and all ears were listening. “Leavin’?” Harper was startled. He stared at John Gore. “You boys pullin’ your freight?”

  “No!” Gore exploded, astonished and angry. “Where’d you get a fool idea like that, Shorty?”

  “Why, I heard Hopalong Cassidy was fighting segundo out at the Rockin’ R now, so I figured you boys would be splittin’ the breeze out of here almost any time. I didn’t reckon,” he said seriously, “you’d be so plumb foolish as to stay around and buck him!”

  “Well, of all the gall!” John Gore slammed his glass on the bar. “When we pull out for any overrated gunfighter like him, you’ll know it, Shorty! We’re here to stay, and believe me, we’ll stay, Hopalong Cassidy or not!”

  Shorty nodded agreeably. “I’m settin’ ’em up, Slim,” he said to the bartender. “Drinks for the whole 3 G outfit on me!” He slammed a gold piece on the bar and waited while the bartender filled their glasses, then lifted his own. “To the 3 G outfit! A bunch that was game enough to stand their ground and die in their boots!”

  Pent-up rage spluttered from Windy Gore’s lips and he turned. “You think that’s funny, Montana?” He glared. “I’ve got a good notion to take you apart right now and see what makes you tick!”

  “Don’t try it, Windy!” Montana warned, his voice ringing with sudden sincerity. “You haven’t got what it takes! Besides”—he grinned suddenly—“Mr. Harper wouldn’t like it. He sure does hate to get blood on his floor.”

  John Gore was no fool. He was shrewd enough to know that a statement of purpose made now would be remembered by many of the listeners in the days to come, and he knew also that public opinion was important.

  “We aren’t lookin’ for trouble,” he said, phrasing his words with care. “It’s true that we are runnin’ cows on range relinquished by the Rockin’ R, and as long as the grazing between the Blues and the Antelopes has been abandoned I see nothing wrong with it.”

  This was untrue and he knew it, yet he also knew that few of the bystanders had ever actually ridden over that range since the death of Cattle Bob. They would be in no position to dispute his statement. He had made his own plans, and the arrival of Hopalong Cassidy might complicate things but would be allowed to change nothing. He wanted the Rocking R range for himself and intended to have it. He was a domineering man but far from a fool. He was ready and able to use force—not the thoughtless, sometimes reckless force Windy might use or the brutality of Con, but force. Hard, driving force that would take him at once to a victory.

  “Free range,” he continued, “is only held by an outfit so long as they keep it stocked.”

  Hopalong Cassidy had moved from his curtained booth and had come most of the way down the steps without attracting attention. All eyes had been centered on Montana and the Gore outfit. Now he spoke.

  “You’re mistaken,” he said quietly. “The Rockin’ R has relinquished nothing at all. Our cattle still run on that range, and they will continue to do so. Furthermore, you have been ordered to drive your cattle the other side of the Blues. I repeat that order now.”

  For an instant there was silence. John Gore was inwardly furious. Better than any of the others, he saw how Cassidy had turned the tables on him. Now any action of his that led to violence would certainly be considered his fault. He fixed his eyes on the bar, stared at it bitterly. Then, feeling eyes upon him, he looked around to meet the gaze of Pony Harper. He saw the slight inclination of Harper’s eyes toward the office of the hotel and frowned slightly.

  There had never been anything but a speaking acquaintance between himself and Harper. He did not like the man and saw no more reason for beginning to like him now. However, there was something in the gesture that interested him. After a moment or two he turned and started down the room toward the door. As he walked he did not feel another pair of cold blue eyes following him. Hopalong Cassidy had seen the gesture. What lay behind it he did not know, but it could scarcely mean anything except trouble for himself.

  Shorty Montana moved up beside him. “Looks like you hired yourself a hand, Cassidy,” he said. “All right if I show up in the mornin’?”

  “You just know it is!” Hopalong said emphatically.

  Montana said, “You know, of course, you were just talkin’ through your hat like Gore was? There isn’t goin’ to be any peace in this valley until that Gore outfit’s wiped out! And some more I’ve a hunch I could put a name to!”

  “You’re right, I’m thinkin’.” Hopalong stared at him thoughtfully. “Reckon I’ve a little ridin’ to do.”

  Shorty hesitated. “Hoppy,” he said seriously, “this don’t make any promises for me, does it, about that Dusark? I don’t cotton to that hombre.”

  “It makes no promises,” Cassidy agreed. “Only take it easy. Don’t push either him or Hartley.”

  Cassidy turned to leave the room, and Montana followed him. “If I’m not at the ranch in the mornin’,” Cassidy said, “you tell Bob Ronson I hired you, and go to work. You know what needs to be done on a cow outfit.”

  “Where you goin’?” Montana demanded.

  Hopalong hesitated. “Why, I reckon to Corn Patch. I think I’ll just take a pasear over there and see what goes on.”

  Montana shook his head. “Hoppy, you watch yourself. That bunch is poison. And don’t you trust that Poker Harris—not by a jugful! He’d kill a man as quick as he’d fry an egg!”

  Chapter 5

  EXTRA ACES

  * * *

  Poker Harris had been the guiding hand at Corn Patch for more years than even the oldest other inhabitant could remember. His background was unknown, except that it seemed more than probable that it had included a postgraduate course in the unrefined arts of murder, mayhem, and assorted varieties of robbery.

  Six feet and four inches in his sockless feet, Poker Harris was two hundred and sixty pounds of bone and muscle overlaid with a deceptive veneer of fat. His jowls were heavy, usually unshaven and flushed, and his lashless eyes peered from between folds of loose flesh. His hands were large, very thick and powerful, covered with reddish hair. His head was partially bald, and he made up for that lack of hirsute adornment by a surplus on his chest.

  Customarily he wore a six-shooter tucked behind the rope that did duty as a belt, but his favorite weapon, which he was almost never without, was a sawed-off shotgun fitted with a homemade pistol grip. It was this weapon, as much as anything else, that terrorized those close to him, for many a man will face a pistol with equanimity and yet shrink from the blasting of a shotgun at close range.

  A drifting miner some fifty years before, when prospectors in the region were extremely rare, had found a patch of corn growing on a flatland alongside a water hole. Evidently someone had planted this corn, cultivated it for a time, and then gone on about his business, or perhaps had died in the back country. Given a chance, the corn made good and grew rapidly; unharvested, it scattered its kernels about, and more corn had grown.

  Attracted by its presence, the miner had built a shack. He found some placer gold in a nearby wash, picked up a couple of cows lost by a wagon train, and soon found himself settled in an easy way of life. Other miners came, lived for a time, abandoned their shacks and diggings, then moved on. Then there was a brief boom during which a saloon was thrown together and a bunkhouse that passed as a hotel was built. The shacks exchanged owners nightly, weekly, or monthly, and without title beyond that of possession. Then Poker Harris came and stayed.

  The original inhabitant disappeared, and ownership of the cows, now grown to a herd of an even dozen, was transferred to Harris. By use of appropriate gestures with the
shotgun, Harris acquired title to the saloon and the shacks. He designated sleeping quarters as he wished, and if any sought to dispute possession they had a choice of leaving town fast or being assigned a permanent residence on Boot Hill.

  Some of this Hopalong Cassidy knew. Much he had yet to find out. What Poker Harris knew he kept to himself, and what his dealings were with those who came and went around Corn Patch he kept a secret. Like many pioneers of both good and bad vintage, Harris had a fine memory for names, faces, and descriptions. Newspapers were sadly lacking, but word-of-mouth descriptions were correspondingly accurate. Few men appeared at Corn Patch whose backgrounds were unknown to Poker Harris.

  Corn Patch itself lay in a canyon once called Eldorado by some optimist or humorist. A mountain ridge that towered nearly five thousand steep feet above the town divided it from the mining town of Unionville, some five miles south, and the immediate canyon in which Corn Patch lay was steep-sided and the sides lined with shacks. From his windows Poker Harris could see most of those shacks and watch the comings and goings of the inhabitants. Consequently he was his own espionage service, and little took place within the confines of the town that he did not know.

  The saloon, which was also his office and home, was a stone-and-frame structure, badly weathered and never painted. It backed up against the southeast wall of the canyon and looked right down the main and only street, which was also the canyon’s bottom. A store, the bunkhouse, a blacksmith shop, and a scattering of shacks completed the street, all easily seen from the stool where Poker usually sat.

  Behind him was a rack containing a Sharps .50, a Spencer .56, a Winchester .44, and two shotguns other than the sawed-off he usually carried. These were always loaded, the rack was locked, and he carried the only key. Under the bar, within grasp of his hand, was another Spencer .56, a weapon whose ventilating possibilities were scarcely exceeded by an artillery piece. In short, Poker Harris was monarch of all he surveyed and intended to remain so—against any one man or any gang of men.