Dusark chuckled. “I always was a big eater.” He bit off a chew of tobacco. “Hoppy, Joe Hartley wasn’t in this with me. He knew I was spottin’ a few herds, but he took no hand in it. I just wanted you to know.”
“Thanks.” Hopalong turned his horse toward a draw. “See you at chow.”
Dan Dusark stared after the black-clad rider and chewed slowly. His thick-fingered hand pushed back the hat on his head, and he turned once and glanced back of him. “Horse,” he said quietly, “there goes a good man. I reckon you and I are holed up for some months to come.”
The horse flipped his tail in acknowledgment, and Dan Dusark moved on behind his cattle. It had been a long time since he had felt loyalty to anyone or anything. It wasn’t, he decided, the way for a man to be. A man needed to belong to something, to somebody or some way of thinking. What Hoppy had said was true. A lot of good men had rustled a few head of stock, but they hadn’t stayed rustlers.
Remembering the cool, careful look in John Gore’s eyes, he let himself think for a minute and remember that a man could die in the battle for another as well as for himself. And from the depths of his sordid years there was wisdom in Dan Dusark. John Gore was the one to be feared. Windy was the loudmouth, Con the fighter, the strong man. John was the planner, cold, ruthless, utterly relentless—and he came of feudal stock, men who felt the ties of blood and tribe as more binding than any other.
Dusark remembered Newton, and he frowned with curious consideration. “That was a surprise,” he said aloud. “I’d have made the same mistake Windy did. The Kid’s got sand, and he’s more than half gun-slick. More than I am. I reckon Windy knew he was dead even as he dragged steel. There was something about that spindlin’ youngster that made him look mighty big right then.”
Nothing stopped the work now. As if by some secret order from John, even Con Gore seemed to have forgotten the killing. They worked hard and long, and dust and profanity hung in a cloud above the hot fires. There was the smell of sweaty bodies, singed hair, and cattle hanging over the branding ground. Day by day the tallies added up in Bob Ronson’s black book, and as they did, his face became more careworn and watchful.
* * *
John Gore rode to town on the third day. He rode only after careful thinking, and he said nothing of his plans to anyone, not even to Con. When he got to town he rode directly to the Nevada Saloon. Glancing around quickly, he saw at once that the man he sought was not in. Rawhide was. Harper’s gunman lounged against the bar, watching Gore with careful eyes. Gore noted the glance, considered the man with distaste, then crossed to him.
“Seen Jacks or Leeman around?” Gore demanded.
Rawhide hesitated, his mind working swiftly. Then he nodded. “Yeah, just saw ’em both go over to Katie’s. They haven’t come out that I know of.”
John Gore strode from the saloon and crossed the street, little puffs of dust rising from each step. Rawhide turned on his heel and walked swiftly down the room to the back office. He rapped lightly, then stepped in.
“Boss,” he said excitedly, “John Gore’s in town. He asked where Jacks and Dud were. I reckon this is it.”
Pony Harper got up instantly, his eyes suddenly ugly with cold triumph. “Could be,” he agreed. “Jacks, is it? Clarry Jacks against Hopalong Cassidy! Now won’t that be somethin’ to see?”
“That isn’t all.” Rawhide chuckled. “They’ll be mighty busy fightin’ each other. There’s a lot of good stock on both ranges.”
“All right.” Harper bit off the end of his cigar. “Ride out that way, but keep out of sight until you see Dan. Tell him I want to see him.”
* * *
John Gore had crossed the street to the restaurant. The place was empty but for Clarry Jacks and Dud Leeman. The two were loafing over coffee and pie. Jacks glanced up with a nod; then his casualness vanished as Gore approached him. “You afraid of Cassidy?” Gore demanded.
In the kitchen Katie suddenly froze, her flour-covered hands poised above the piecrust she was kneading.
Clarry’s eyes blinked; then he laughed. “Cassidy? Now why would I be afraid of him?”
“If you aren’t, you’ve got a job. Kid Newton killed my brother.”
“Heard about it,” Clarry admitted. “Didn’t think the Kid had it in him. Windy,” he added, “always did run off at the mouth too much.”
John Gore’s lips tightened. It was no more than he believed himself, but he did not like others to say it.
“I’ll give you two hundred,” Gore said coolly. “And a bonus for Newton, Cassidy, or Ronson.”
Jacks sipped his coffee, his eyes coldly alert and pleased. “What about Dud? He’s a handy man.”
“Figured on him. A hundred. The bonus deal works with him, too.”
Clarry nodded. “All right. We’ll ride out tomorrow.”
Katie worked quietly in the kitchen, but she was thinking swiftly. This meant that the rumors had been true. There would be war on the range, bloody war. In her mind’s eye she reviewed the situation thoughtfully. The Rocking R would be alone, and they had few men. She needed no one to tell her where the rustlers from Corn Patch would be, and her instinct told her that Pony Harper and his influence would definitely be thrown into the balance on the side of Gore. The old bull of the herd was dead, and the wolves were closing in for the slaughter.
Remembering Hopalong Cassidy, she was not so sure they would succeed, and she was glad that Shorty Montana had joined them. Shorty would be in to visit soon and through him she would be able to send word to Hopalong about the deal between Gore and Clarry Jacks. Suddenly she thought of something else. There was another man. A good man. A man for whom Katie had made her own plans.
* * *
As if some secret wind whispered the news across the range, the coming war became the only subject of conversation at every lonely cabin, in every crowded saloon. Men here had known the Lincoln County War, the Graham-Tewksbury feud, and other bloody battles that made western history a page of violence, victory, and challenge.
The men who profited by lawlessness were drawing together, aware suddenly that, under the hand of Hopalong Cassidy, the Rocking R might again become the power for law and order that it had once been. Poker Harris had made his own plans, and in his saloon Pony Harper was doing some careful thinking. He did not believe that Cassidy would stop what had been started, and intended to see that he didn’t.
Clarry Jacks, idling about town, his smile quick to come, his eyes always cold behind their amusement, heard the news and listened. He had his own reasons for accepting the bid of John Gore when it came and his own ideas for making the most of the coming war.
John Gore arrived at Corn Patch alone. He went to Poker Harris, and they talked quietly and for a long time. When Gore left he was accompanied by three men: Drennan, Hankins, and Troy. All were heavily armed. John Gore was not a man who did things by halves. He had made his decision and intended to act quickly.
* * *
On the fourth day after the killing of Windy Gore, Ben Lock rode into town and went at once to Katie’s for a meal. He did not stop to think that only a short time before he had eaten a big meal at a sheep camp. Whenever he was in town these days he found himself going again and again to Katie’s.
The place was empty when he came in, and almost before he was on his stool a cup of coffee had been placed before him. He looked up from the coffee. “Katie, you’re a jewel. It’s a lucky man who’ll get you.”
It was like her that she only smiled, then grew serious. “Ben, there’s a war on. Windy Gore tackled Kid Newton at the roundup and was killed. The whole country is taking sides for or against the Rocking R.”
Ben Lock considered the news. Hopalong Cassidy had tried to save his brother—any final doubt he might have had was now gone. Doc Marsh would not have lied.
“Hopalong’s a good man,” he suggested.
“He is that,” Katie said. “And Ronson is and Shorty.”
“You think a lot of Shorty, don’t
you?”
Their eyes met briefly. “I do that. He’s pure gold. I do think a lot of him.”
For the first time Ben Lock knew jealousy. Montana had hung around here a good deal; he always came to Katie’s when he was drunk, and she had always taken care of him. There had been some gossip, but Ben put the idea aside, although it rankled. He was on his second cup of coffee when Clarry Jacks came in.
Their eyes met and passed, but each man felt a little cold prickling run over him.
“You’re Lock, aren’t you?” Jacks said.
Ben turned his head and nodded.
“Heard you were huntin’ your brother’s killer. Luck to you.”
“Thanks. I’ll find him.”
“It may take quite a while.”
Lock shrugged. “Looks like I’m good for thirty, forty more years yet. That should be more than enough.”
Jacks considered Lock anew. This man was not boasting. He was quite capable of staying with it just that long, and Clarry Jacks felt a faint touch of uneasiness. “Talked to Cassidy?” Jacks paused. “You should, you know. He was the last one to see him alive and might have been told something he’s not tellin’.”
“Could be.”
“He told you nothing new?”
Why, he did not know, but Lock was suddenly alert. Coldly he began to consider the situation. Could Jacks himself be involved? The man was a killer—and he was without doubt a man who kept many of his actions secret.
“Not much that was new.” Lock picked up a doughnut. “Looks like he’ll have his hands full now.”
Jacks’s lip curled. “He will that. You better talk to him again—while he’s alive.”
“He’ll be around awhile. He might,” Ben added, “win this fight. Suppose he sent for the old Bar 20 outfit?”
Clarry Jacks felt a distinct shock. The point was one he had not considered. When John Gore had come to him with the offer to join him and kill Cassidy, he had been more than pleased. Sure that the Rocking R could not win, he saw a lot of his own plans maturing. The war promised the weakening of both parties. Yet he knew the stories of the far-famed Bar 20 outfit. He had heard from Carp of their coming to Snake Buttes after the wounding of Johnny Nelson, and of the fight they had made there.
“Nothin’ to that Bar 20 stuff,” Jacks said, rising from the table. “This fight is local and, if you ask me, my guess would be the whole thing will be finished before any help could come to him.”
“Maybe, but Hopalong knows what he’s about. He gets around, you know. Heard he killed an outlaw named Frazer at some hideout in the hills. Frazer was one of the men in the outfit that held up the stage when my brother was killed.”
Clarry Jacks stood very still. That Frazer was dead, he knew. That Hopalong Cassidy had killed him, he also knew. But how did they know Frazer was one of the stage robbers?
He turned abruptly and crossed the street to the rooms he kept. Taking down a beautifully mounted Winchester, he said quietly, “I think it’s time I played my own hand—no tellin’ what Cassidy might uncover!” He went out, closing the door softly behind him.
Chapter 9
OPEN WARFARE
* * *
John Gore in action was a coldly efficient man. The ranch house of the Rocking R was open to attack once the riders were on the range, yet two men might make such an attack extremely costly, and it was not in his plans to make one. Irene and Lenny were at the ranch, and not even Seven Pines would countenance an attack that endangered good women.
His plan was to hit the riders while on the range, to knock them down one or two at a time with a hard-riding bunch of horsemen. With this in mind he calculated where the riders were likely to be and arranged for several bunches of fresh horses to be concealed at various points so his own horsemen could make rapid changes. His plan was to win the war in one swift, hard-riding day. That he himself was only a cog in the wheel of another man’s plans, he did not guess.
Dan Dusark, riding with Hartley, saw the smoke signal that called him to Corn Patch. Knowing at once what it portended, he hesitated as to his course of action. “I’m goin’ over, Joe,” he said finally. “I’m not goin’ to do what they want but may learn somethin’ that would help Mr. Cassidy.”
“Better stay away,” Hartley warned him. “That Harris is a sidewinder, and you know it.”
“He’ll never guess I’ve switched sides,” Dusark insisted. He scowled. “He isn’t the big duck in this pond, either. I wish I knew who it was. Poker gets orders from somebody, and I figure whoever it is knows plenty about the holdups.”
Joe Hartley touched his tongue to his cigarette and let his eyes sweep the range before them. “Could be,” he said. “But my advice is to stay away from that sinkhole.”
* * *
Corn Patch was silent when Dusark rode up the street to the saloon. The place was empty as he walked in, and he strode to the bar. Harris gave him a nod of greeting.
“Kind of quiet, isn’t it?” Dusark asked. “Where’s everybody?”
“Where do you think?” Poker shrugged his huge shoulders. “This here’s the chance we been waitin’ for, Dan. The war between the 3 G and the Rockin’ R will tear this range wide open. Most of the boys have gone over to Gore, and once that Rockin’ R bunch is busted, we’ll sweep the range of cattle.”
“Maybe the 3 G won’t win.”
“Huh?” Harris stared at his henchman with heavy-lidded eyes. “You crazy? Gore’s got his own men, to say nothing of Clarry Jacks, Leeman, Drennan, Hankins, Troy, and a half-dozen more. They’ll mop up fast, and do it in one day. We aim to finish that outfit this time, Dan—finish ’em complete. Nobody alive to make a kick or a comeback.”
“Where do I fit in?”
The office door opened, and John Gore stepped into the room. Dusark felt himself stiffen slightly, knowing this had been prearranged.
“You spot Cassidy for us.” Gore was speaking. “You bring him to us at Poker Gap.”
Dusark stared at Gore. For the first time he found himself resenting their certainty of his agreement. He had stolen cattle, he had robbed a few people, but he had never led a brave man into a deathtrap. Suddenly a strange feeling came over him, a feeling that the sands had run out, that he had forked his last bronc. It was a silly feeling to have, but he could not shake off the premonition. He threw away his cigarette and rolled another. “Cassidy,” he said then, “makes up his own mind. He ain’t a man to be led by me or anybody.”
“Try it,” Harris insisted. “We’ll have it all set up. All you got to do is get him into the Gap.”
“Not a chance!” Dusark straightened slowly. His thick-fingered hand was on the bar. His heavy features hardened. “He isn’t that foolish.” His eyes turned to Harris. “Why, he outslicked you at poker, somethin’ nobody ever did, and he’s met up with the Gores twice and come off best each time! Believe me, he’ll do the same this time. I couldn’t get him into a trap if I wanted to. And I don’t want to!”
Satisfaction and triumph flooded him. He saw Gore’s face redden with anger, and the features of Poker Harris seemed hewn from stone. “You fools!” Dusark’s voice was hoarse now. “You haven’t got a chance of winnin’! You’re buckin’ a man now who is tougher and smarter than Old Cattle Bob ever was!”
When he finished speaking, silence hung heavy in the room. Outside, a cicada sang in the greasewood, and a bluebottle fly buzzed fretfully against the dingy window.
John Gore clamped the cigar between his teeth and looked past it to Harris. “I thought you said this man was reliable. Sounds to me like he’s gone over to Cassidy.”
“Does sound thataway,” Harris agreed. “How about it, Dan? Where do you stand?”
Dan Dusark had taken a lot of orders in his time, from good men and bad. Suddenly he realized that, any way you looked at it, his life had been a pretty shabby, second-rate thing. He could wiggle out of this. He knew that. He could apologize for popping off, fall in with their plans, then get away and carry the news to Cass
idy. Or he could face them both here and now.
If these two men were dead, the war might end. If these two men were out of it, if it did not end, certainly it would be much easier. Well, why not?
He looked up. He was a big man, almost as big as Harris, and he was unshaven and untidy, yet in that moment he felt good. He felt better than he had ever felt.
“Why, I’ll take my stand with Cassidy,” he said calmly, “with the Rockin’ R.
“It’s been a long time,” he added, “since I’ve had a chance to ride with men like that over there, and I sort of find that I like it. I like it a lot. You always were a kingsized rat, Harris, and as for Gore here, he’s a penny-ante wolf who lets coyotes do his killin’ for him. I don’t think either of you got a streak of decent blood in you.”
He expected them to draw, and they did not. He expected anger, and none came. They sat very still for a long minute, and then Gore got to his feet. “Reckon that settles that, Poker. Let me know what you decide to do.” He turned abruptly toward the office door, and for a fleeting instant Dusark thought the man would leave. His eyes followed him and then with a shock of realization, swung back to Harris. He was just in time to see both barrels of Harris’s shotgun blossom with crimson, to feel the heavy thud of the double charge in his midsection, and then he was falling.
He was drawing as he fell, and he fired rapidly three times. They were not aimed shots. They could not be aimed shots. The first broke a bottle on the shelf behind Harris. The second grooved the edge of the bar, and the third caught the big man in the throat, smashed against his spinal column, and carried most of it away.
John Gore, his lips white and compressed, beads of sweat on his forehead, stared at the two men. Harris had fallen full length behind the bar, and that he was dead was instantly obvious. Dusark lay sprawled on his back on the sawdusted floor, his body a vast reddening stain.
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