The Hopalong Cassidy Novels 4-Book Bundle

by Louis L'Amour

“Everybody in town talkin’ about it, I suppose?”

  “I haven’t been to town. But certainly they all will be hearing about it! And they will all be saying that we hired a killer!”

  “Could be.” Cassidy filled his cup once more. “But I thought you wanted your brother to hire Clarry Jacks. Isn’t he a killer?”

  Her face flushed with anger. “He is not!” she protested. “He has shot men, but he’s not a—” She hesitated, flushed and Angry, yet suddenly realizing the absurdity of what she was saying. An essentially honest person, she had to admit to herself that Clarry had killed men. Moreover, some of his reasons had been very flimsy. She had accused him of it herself, and he had laughed at her. It had been a pleasant laugh, but one that seemed to express tolerance rather than respect for her.

  “Anyway,” she said, “even if he has, that is no excuse; I don’t believe in a lot of heedless killing.”

  “Neither do I, Lenny,” Hopalong replied quietly. “But there’s no sense in the good people layin’ down weapons when the others won’t. Peace talk has to come from both sides.

  “Your dad built him a fine ranch. He kept peace here, sometimes the hard way, but he kept it and other folks lived comfortably because of it. He didn’t bother anybody except those who took the law into their own hands.

  “Your brother feels like you. He’s against killing, but what happens? Do other folks agree that he’s right and start helpin’ him? No, they rob him blind! That’s what I mean by not layin’ down your gun until the other feller has. Now your brother has hired me, and with luck, this place will be peaceful as a sewin’ circle in about a month. The time between may be sort of roughlike in spots.”

  Lenny eyed him thoughtfully as he returned to his meal. Despite her irritation at her brother’s hiring of Cassidy instead of Jacks, she liked this blue-eyed gunman. He inspired confidence and trust, and in him she found something of a kindred spirit too.

  “You don’t like Clarry, do you?” she asked suddenly.

  Cassidy hesitated, knowing he was on dangerous ground. “Lenny,” he said slowly, “I don’t know him, but what I know of him don’t appeal very much. I could be wrong. I have been plenty of times. You’ve brains enough of your own. You do know him, so set what you know up against what you think a man should be, and then be honest about it.”

  Lenny Ronson got to her feet, her face sober. “I guess I’ve misjudged you. I’ve been a fool.”

  He grinned at her, his blue eyes flickering with humor. “Not a bit of it,” he said. “Nobody’s got any corner on bein’ foolish. Why, I bought a blind mule once when I was a youngster, paid all my savings for it, and you know, it was three months after I learned he was blind before I’d admit it to anybody else!”

  Later, as he started out the door, he hesitated. “By the way,” he asked, “did you happen to see Dan Dusark come in this afternoon?”

  She turned. “Why, no,” she replied thoughtfully, “I don’t believe I’ve seen him in two days. Has he gone somewhere?”

  “No, just wondered if he got back all right.” Hopalong went outside and paused on the step to roll a smoke. So Dan had not told her about the killing of Bud Frazer? Who, then, had given her that news? And who let her believe it had happened at Corn Patch?

  * * *

  Dusark was in his bunk, but he was awake and thinking. The day had been a busy one for him, a day full of worry. All his doubts were crowding him close tonight, and he failed to cut any one of them out of the herd long enough to dab a rope on it. They crowded in a confused snarl in his brain, and long after the others were snoring peaceably he lay awake.

  How much did Hopalong know? How could he know of the secret hideout of the stage robbers? The rustlers knew of the other group, but who or what they were, none of them knew unless it was Poker Harris. Yet this calm-faced gunfighter who had been in the country but a few days did know. And how had he known of that trail today? Or of the rustlers’ trail through High Rock? And had he avoided the trail through Rosebud Canyon on purpose or by accident?

  He was awake when Hopalong came in, and he lay quiet in his bunk, watching the glow of the other man’s cigarette in the dark. He heard the jingle of his spurs when he removed his boots, the slap of leather from his belts, and then the rustle of blankets as he crawled into bed. For a long time Dusark watched the cigarette burning, then saw it rubbed out.

  Dan Dusark suddenly realized that he was afraid. It was a shocking thing to admit, but he was afraid, bitterly afraid.

  He had never feared death before, except remotely in the back of his mind. Death by the gun, by stampede or maddened steer had never frightened him. He had never worried when his horse swam bad rivers. Only one kind of death frightened him, and that was death by the rope. Long ago he had seen a man hanged, and the fear had come to him then, a deep, throbbing, aching fear that was mounting these days, mounting in his throat, running in his veins.

  Dusark had lived all his life in cow country. He knew the justice of the frontier. Sudden, harsh, and honest in its intentions, but unrelenting. If he was caught rustling, he would be hanged.

  It was time he left the country. More than time. He would say nothing at all to anyone. He would just drift out. Let Harris rustle his own cows. The difference between the money he was making and an honest wage was not great enough to cover the fear that was eating at him. A fear that had grown, doubled, intensified with the coming of Hopalong Cassidy.

  Brutal and harsh in his own way, Dan Dusark did not have it in him to hate Cassidy for what he was or what he was doing.

  In the morning, Dusark decided, he would saddle up and slip away. He would head for Oregon.

  Chapter 8

  DUSARK TAKES A NEW TRAIL

  * * *

  Under the rules as established, the roundup organized by Bob Ronson and Hopalong was a strictly local affair. Essentially it was an effort to ascertain just how much stock was being carried, the shape it was in, and to brand all unbranded stock that belonged to the Rocking R. As much of the range was free, or partly so, neighboring ranches had been invited to send reps to check the branding.

  All through the previous week stock had been drifted from the far boundaries of the ranch toward the holding ground. Short-handed as they were, this seemed the best procedure, and the roundup itself would be handled in bunches of a few at a time.

  It was hot within an hour after daylight. Dust clouds lifted slowly from the hoofs of the cattle. Among these greater clouds the thin trail of dry wood smoke from the chuck-wagon fire was lost. In the rush of work Dusark had found no chance to get away, and now he was deep in the labor around the branding fire where there would be no chance for escape until he was relieved.

  Tex Milligan cut the first cow and calf from the herd and shook out a loop. The rope streaked like a bullet for the calf, and the little white-face was spilled to the ground. Milligan’s pony squatted suddenly as the rope fell into place, then straightened as Tex took a turn of the rope around the horn of the saddle and dragged the bawling curly-faced calf to the fire.

  Dusark and Joe Hartley were working the fire, and Dusark grabbed the calf by the ears, twisting its head around and sitting on it. Joe cast the rope loose and, grabbing the hind legs, forced one forward and one back. Held so, the calf could do nothing but bawl helplessly while Weaver, one of the small ranchers, came up with the Rocking R iron. The red-hot iron hissed in the morning air; then, as Weaver stamped the iron onto the calf, there arose an evil-smelling smoke from the burning hair. Weaver looked up toward Bob Ronson. “Tally one, Rockin’ R!” he yelled. With quick cuts of the knife he put the Rocking R notches on the ear, and then the calf was freed.

  Hopalong was riding Topper this morning. Frenchy Ruyters, Kid Newton, and Shorty Montana were all working with cattle, and the roundup proceeded swiftly.

  At the chuck wagon John Gore watched with a dark and irritated eye. For once he was uncertain as to what course to take. Con was in no such quandary. He wanted trouble and was ready for it, but
he had joined in the work with a will. A roughly energetic man, he could no more have stood on the sidelines than he could have avoided a fight. Windy was helping, too, as was Hank Boucher and several of the smaller ranchers. A few 3 G cattle had been found, and a J A Connected and a Bar L U. Dust arose in a thickening cloud, and the men’s faces became gray with dust streaked with sweat.

  “Bar L U, one calf!” Weaver yelled.

  “Come on, you souwegians!” Hartley shouted. “Rustle some stock! We’re coolin’ off, waitin’!”

  As a matter of fact, the roundup was clicking smoothly and fast. Hopalong, his wide black hat pulled low, was in the midst of the work, doing his and more. A calf bolted from the herd before the white gelding’s outstretched nose, then dodged back and raced for a hole in the mass of cattle. The gelding spun on a dime, cut the calf out again. The white-face ducked, but Topper was ahead of it again, and the calf was forced away from the herd while the bawling cow raced wide-eyed with apprehension to see what would happen to its offspring. Hopalong’s rope streaked, and the calf tumbled, then was dragged to the fire.

  The heat increased with the day, and the dust cloud climbed. Frenchy came in with Kid Newton, hazing a fresh bunch of young stuff into the herd on the holding ground. Bob Ronson watched thoughtfully and sharpened his pencil before turning another page on the tally book.

  The clanging of the triangle at the chuck wagon stopped Hopalong as he was shaking out a loop to go after a yearling. He drew up and slapped the dust from his hat.

  “Let it go, boys!” he yelled. “Chuck!”

  Kid Newton reined his bay in sharply, turning the pony on both hind feet, and raced for the wagon, rid-ing neck-and-neck with Tex. Right behind them was Frenchy. Dusark straightened from the fire, where he had been handling irons for the last hour, and grinned, red-faced, at Hopalong.

  “Gettin’ her done,” he said. “But wait until you get into that bunch of ladinos up by Sugarloaf.”

  “Bad?”

  “Pear eaters. Every durned one of ’em! Wild as deer, and they crawl around in that brush on their knees! Fact! I seen one about a month back, and the hair was all worn off his knees, and his nozzle was stuck full of pear thorns like he’d had a tangle with a porcupine!”

  “The old ones are smarter,” Cassidy agreed. “They get most of the prickly pear without thorns. Used to see ’em down in Texas, around the Bend country. They go for months without gettin’ near a water hole sometimes. Live off the pear, which runs up to eighty percent water in good seasons.”

  “That’s a ropin’ job,” John Gore agreed, looking up from his tin cup of coffee. “You can’t herd them. You got to go in and drag ’em out one at a time. She’s man-killin’, that job.”

  “Ever rope cows at night?” Frenchy asked. “Now there’s a creep job! I’ve done it down in Texas. The wild ones, old mossy-horns from way back in the brush, they’d come out at night sometimes and head for the water holes. We’d ease up on ’em and then let go a yell and charge right into ’em!

  “Out there at night nobody could see well, and any black bunch you saw might be a critter. I heard tell one time of a Mex who roped a bear. Fact.”

  “Don’t doubt it,” Dusark said. “Out in California the vaqueros used to rope ’em for fun. Sometimes they’d fight ’em against a big longhorn bull.”

  “Aw,” Windy Gore interrupted, “a bull wouldn’t have a chance with a grizzly!”

  “That’s what you say,” Kid Newton objected. “One time I came on a big longhorn standin’ head down in the brush, his hide all blood and dirt. One eye was gone and he’d been chewed up, but he was on his feet. I hunted around some, and just when I was about to give up I found the carcass of an old grizzly. Big one, too.

  “Week or so later I was down thataway again, and that longhorn was sure on the prod. I figure he was huntin’ him another grizzly.”

  Windy Gore stared at Newton. “That’s a likely story!” he sneered. “Just the sort of a story some kid would tell a bunch of full-grown men!”

  There was sudden silence, and Hopalong’s eyes went to John Gore. The big rancher was head up and alert. As if by magic, the men had spread out, leaving Kid Newton facing Windy Gore across the chuck fire. Gore was full of himself now, confident and contemptuous.

  Newton was slender and quiet. His narrow-brimmed hat was battered and old. His boy’s face was beardless, but his eyes were old with the ways of time and the West. Hopalong suddenly knew that Windy was a fool.

  “I reckon,” Newton said slowly, “that my tracks are as big as yours, Windy. And if you want to call me a liar for that story, you can start your callin’—but when you do, start reachin’.”

  Windy was astonished and furious. “Why, you fool!” His hand dropped for his gun butt, and Kid Newton drew left-handed and shot him through the mouth.

  Windy Gore took a half step forward and fell facedown at the edge of the fire, blood all over the back of his head and neck where the bullet had emerged.

  For an instant all was still. Then Con Gore stepped into the circle by the fire, his hard face brutal with passion. “You low-down skunk. You’ve killed my brother!”

  Newton held his drawn gun level. His voice was cool. “He asked for it,” he said calmly. “He was always loose-jawed and you know it. He never would have started it unless he figured he had the edge on me. I don’t hold to killin’,” he added, “and I got nothin’ against you Gores if you stay on your own range, but Windy run his blazer and he had hard luck. Would you be out in that circle yellin’ now if it had been me who fell? I don’t reckon!”

  “The boy’s right,” Ronson said quietly. “Windy made his play and he was too slow.”

  “Maybe there’ll be another time!” Con shouted furiously. “Maybe I won’t be slow!”

  “Maybe.” Newton was pale but calm. “I’m not huntin’ feuds nor fights. You have it your way.” Calmly he holstered the gun and turned his back. At the wagon he picked up his cup and filled it with coffee. Only then did his eyes return to Con Gore and his brother. He did not look at the dead man as he lifted the cup.

  Hopalong moved easily to the side of the fire. “We’ve work to do, and we won’t get it done if we’re fightin’.

  “We all saw what happened. Windy was your brother and you’re some wrought up. Best thing you can do is forget it.”

  “We’ll forget nothin’!” Con blazed.

  “Then remember that the Kid rides for the Rocking R!” It was Bob Ronson speaking, and his voice suddenly rang with challenge. “Remember that, Con Gore! You boys started this fuss, but the man don’t live that can ride a Rocking R hand when I’m alive. If you want fight, get started now or any time!”

  Hopalong felt a little thrill run through him, and he was aware of the astonishment on the faces of the others. There had been doubts as to whether young Bob would go along if it came to an all-out battle, and Hoppy was sure that the Gores had doubted it, as well as some of his own men. Now Ronson had definitely declared himself. John Gore for one was amazed and discomfited. He stared, frowning, at the young cowman.

  “I realize,” Ronson added more quietly, “that some false ideas have developed concerning my personal courage and my willingness to back a fight. I freely admit they came from my dislike of bloodshed and my own knowledge that I am not a leader. That last has been well taken care of. In Hopalong Cassidy I hired a fighting man who will fight if he must, but who knows also how to keep peace and when to stop fighting.

  “Here and now I am serving notice that if war is started we’ll fight it to the last dollar, and the last drop of blood if need be.” He paused. “Let’s get back to work.”

  Hopalong glanced at Frenchy and saw grim approval on the rider’s face. Ruyters put down his cup and moved over to Newton. He spoke clearly. “We’ll ride together this afternoon, Kid.”

  “No ridin’ for either of you,” Cassidy interrupted. “You’ll tend irons, Kid. Frenchy, you’ll work around the fire. You’ll take the places of Dusark and Hartley
.”

  Through all the altercation John Gore had not spoken, nor did he speak now. He had glanced only once at the body of his brother. Now, when he looked across the fire at Hopalong, his eyes studied that man with a cool, detached interest. Kid Newton he seemed to ignore, as if the Kid already fitted into some category in his mind. Then he spoke loudly. “We’ll finish the roundup, boys, and no trouble! Understand? No trouble!”

  Abruptly he turned away. Riders drifted back to their horses or roped fresh stock from the remuda. Few had anything to say, but as Hopalong swung to the saddle Bob Ronson walked up to him. “Hoppy, you think John’s going to lay off? Or is he figuring on something?”

  “My guess would be that we are in for a war,” Cassidy said quickly. “I believe he meant what he said about finishing the roundup, but I think we can expect trouble. I’m glad you’ve got some of the boys you have got.”

  Dusark closed in with him almost an hour later. The big man was hazing a half-dozen head back toward the main holding ground. “Don’t trust that Gore,” he volunteered suddenly. “He comes of feudin’ stock. They’ll never rest now until the Kid’s dead, and most of the rest of us.”

  Hopalong glanced curiously at the big man. “You said ‘us,’ Dan. I take it that means you’re stayin’?”

  Dusark’s face turned dull red. “What give you the idea I was leavin’?”

  “Sort of figured it. Last night you looked mighty skittish. Glad to have you, if you figure you can stay.”

  Dusark drew up. His small eyes stared at Hopalong for an instant, and then he said, “I’ve been workin’ with the rustlers.”

  “I knew that. Many a good man’s rustled a few head in his time. It’s what he does when the chips are down that counts. Take it now, Dan. This range is goin’ to be split wide open. We’ll have war, and unless I’m much mistaken the Rocking R will be fightin’ alone.”

  “That’s about it I reckon. All right if I stay?”

  Cassidy smiled suddenly. “Why, sure! Only if you keep on eatin’ like you do, we’ll have to start killin’ a steer every day!”