* * *
Riding fresh horses borrowed from the remudas left by the 3 G, Hopalong Cassidy led his men into a rocky defile. Overhead the stars were bright in the narrow alley of sky they could see. Before and behind was darkness, and there was no sound but the click of hoofs on rock, the creak of saddle leather, and the occasional blowing of a horse.
Long experienced in range-land warfare, Hopalong was too shrewd to ride straight into Poker Gap. He was circling through Rocky Canyon, planning to cross a saddle into the Gap so any watchers at the openings would be unlikely to see them. An hour later he made his own camp.
Frenchy scouted ahead, then returned. He was worried. “Hoppy, there’s two camps. We can look right down on ’em. The one in the Gap is right out in the middle by the spring. It’s a fair-sized fire but that same hombre has another fire hid in the rocks, back maybe thirty feet from it.”
They crawled up to the edge of the steep slope and looked down. It was as Frenchy had said. Hopalong stared, then nodded. “Plain as print, Frenchy. Look at the reflection from that small fire. Reflects off rocks around it. I’ll bet nobody could see that fire unless they were above it like we are. That hombre has built him a regular campfire for folks to see, but he don’t want himself spotlighted over any fire. He’s got him a concealed fire back in the rocks where he can cook a meal without bein’ seen. Same time, he can watch the bigger fire.”
“Well, I’ll be hanged!” Ruyters nodded. “Sure as rain, that’s it. Wonder who he is?”
“Let’s have a look at the other fire.”
This was a small fire, by which they could see the shadows of a number of men. “There they are, sure as shootin’!” Milligan whispered. “There’s nine, ten men down there!”
Hopalong studied the situation. They could all see that these men had chosen a position carefully concealed, and it was probable that lone camper by the spring did not know of their existence, nor they of his, although the last was less probable. To start a fight in this darkness would mean danger for friends as well as enemies, and he had no intention of forcing a battle now if he could help it.
Sliding back off the ridge, he hunkered down behind a boulder out of sight and rolled a smoke. “Now down there is a passel of trouble,” he said, “and the question is, how to handle it without too many of us gettin’ shot up.”
Shorty Montana snorted. “Just ride in on ’em, shootin’ with both hands. They’d be so plumb surprised they’d never get a shot off.”
“Maybe,” Hopalong admitted, “but I’ve got another idea. Isn’t much as ideas come, but perhaps she’ll do.”
Quietly he explained, and as he explained, the men began to chuckle. Battle-loving as the four were, and ready enough to run every last doubter of the Rocking R out of the country, they also had a rough sense of humor and the zest for practical jokes no cowhand ever outgrows. That the joke, if such it could be called, would be coupled with disaster to the enemy was all the better.
“First off,” Hopalong asked, “who’s the best Indian in the crowd? Two of ’em, in fact.”
“Me,” Newton said promptly. “I was raised up with Utes. I could steal the hide off a longhorn calf without the cow even knowin’ I was near.”
“Aw!” Tex interrupted. “Don’t you believe him, Hoppy. He couldn’t find a barn in the daytime even if he had a rope tied to it. Besides, he’s too young. He’s just outgrown his rattle!”
“Huh!” Kid Newton grunted. “Leastways I outgrew mine. Yours is in your head!”
“All right, you can both go. I want you to slip down and get those fresh horses out of there. Don’t bother with the beat-up ones. You can tell ’em easy enough because if they aren’t still wet, the hair on ’em will be dried an’ stiff.”
“And don’t get your head kicked off,” Shorty advised, flattening his shoulders back against a boulder. “Although why either of you needs a head beats me.”
Muttering their replies, the two slipped off. Frenchy Ruyters rolled over and nodded after them. “Fact is, the Kid’s pretty slick,” he said. “Tex, he does all right, but he cain’t hold a candle to that Kid.”
He watched Hopalong getting to his feet. “Where are you aimin’ to go, Hoppy?”
“Scoutin’. I figure I’d like to know who that hombre is down there by himself. You two stick here and get set to cover those boys if they need it. When I come back we’ll take up the rest of the action.”
The steep hillside before Cassidy was covered with gravel dotted with bunch grass and occasional grease-wood. A few scattered juniper added to the growth and offered some vague shelter as he started down. Nevertheless, because of the danger of sound caused by rattling gravel, it was a painstaking task to work one’s way across that steep slope in darkness.
Already the second of the two fires was almost out, but the former had been replenished in the last few minutes. Only a few coals shone where the stranger had camped. Hopalong Cassidy circled around and came up on the fires warily. He was within a dozen yards of them when he heard a soft whisper of sound. Tensely he waited, listening. Then he heard it again! The sound of rough clothing moving through grass or brush! Someone else was crawling not a dozen feet away, and in the same direction! Still listening, Hopalong heard another movement on his left and realized that several men were crawling alongside him, all of them bound for the campfire up ahead. But had they seen the smaller fire? He doubted it, doubted that it could be seen from anywhere but overhead. Hopalong edged himself nearer the crawling man, caught his head outlined momentarily against the starlit sky, and slammed down with his six-shooter. With a grunt the man subsided where he lay.
Silence.
Suddenly a wild yell rent the night, and on the signal the men arose and charged the fire. They charged, then slid to a stop, looking foolishly about. Where the sleeping man had seemed to be lying was only a double row of stones covered with a blanket.
“Gone!” Hankins swore. “That durned Cassidy’s out-smarted us!”
Hopalong grinned in the darkness. Straining his eyes and shifting his head from right to left because of the boulders, he soon saw and was able to identify several of the men: Con Gore, Dud Leeman, Drennan, Hankins, Rawhide!
“Hey! Where’s Troy?” Hankins yelled. “What happened to him?”
“He was with us a while back. “What’s he doin’? Hidin’ out?”
Hopalong slid hastily back into the darkness and moved for the slope. He still did not know who the stranger was, but the man must have been close by. There had been no chance for him to have escaped without being seen or heard by Hopalong himself.
A startled yell warned him that Troy had been found. And he could see the darker blotch where the men had gathered. Then he moved on up the hill and returned to his own men. He was surprised to find Kid Newton and Tex Milligan arriving, too. Both were stifling laughter.
“Got all their horses!” Tex whispered. “They are sure enough afoot now.”
“You know,” Hopalong said suddenly, “I didn’t see Jacks, but his sidekick Leeman was there.”
“Then it must have been Jacks!” Newton leaned forward. “We found one horse missin’. His picket rope had been left lyin’ on the ground, but he was gone. I felt in the ground for tracks and found where a man in fairly new high-heeled boots had mounted that horse!”
“Where would he be goin’?” Ruyters asked.
Hopalong knew that Kid Newton was thinking the same thing he was: that Clarry might have gone to meet Lenny Ronson. Then another thought came to him. Suppose he had gone to the hideout? It was not too far from here, and if he knew of it he might go there. Perhaps he was the leader!
The man who had killed Thacker had been a fast hand with a gun, and Clarry was that. Instantly, Hoppy knew what he had to do.
“We’ve set ’em afoot, boys,” Hopalong said suddenly, “and it’s a good thirty miles to the 3 G. Unless they gamble and take a roundabout route, they won’t get there until tomorrow night sometime. You might’s well head for home.
”
“What about you?” Ruyters asked.
“Why, I’ve got a little job to do,” Cassidy said, “down the trail a ways. You boys head for home. I’ll be along tomorrow or the next day.” He yawned. “Come to think of it, we all need sleep. Daybreak will be soon enough to move.”
But at daybreak they did not move, for they were scarcely on their feet when they heard a wild yell from the valley and then a storm of curses. Saddling up, Hopalong grinned at Frenchy. “Now what do you suppose those rannies are so all-fired upset about?”
Kid Newton was grinning as he slouched toward them. He wore his left-hand gun with the butt back, but the right-hand one with the butt to the fore. Both guns ready for a left-hand draw. “Might as well have some coffee, Hoppy,” he said. “I sort of figure on stickin’ around long enough to see those hombres on the hike.”
“Don’t get too close,” Milligan warned, “or they’ll have that bronc of yours and you’ll be walkin’! They’ve still got guns.”
Shorty Montana had walked to the edge of the bin and was standing in plain sight, looking down upon them. “Hey!” he bellowed suddenly. “Hey, you fellers!”
As one man, they wheeled and stared upward at him. “Get movin’!” he yelled. “It’s not more than thirty miles or so! If you’re lucky, you make it tonight. That is—if your feet hold out!”
Con Gore swore viciously and grabbed his rifle. Instantly Shorty dropped to his knees, then rolled back away from the rim of the canyon. When he got up he was laughing, but he was careful to avoid the edge of the hill, where he could be skylined.
Saddling up, Hopalong Cassidy started east once more, but now he was riding with a definite purpose, for ahead of him was a gunman the equal, if not the superior, of any he had ever faced.
Before him the tracks lined out, easily identified as those of the horse who had been picketed where Newton indicated the man had mounted. There was a chance he was mistaken, but all the signs pointed this way, and Hopalong Cassidy was sure he knew where the outlaw was riding.
And then into the trail came another set of tracks. These were those of an unshod horse, but the rider was no Indian.
Who was he then? The mysterious camper in the canyon?
Another rider on a gun trail?
A friend or an enemy?
Chapter 10
A SHOOT-OUT
* * *
Recent events had Pony Harper worried. By now there should have been news. However, the few riders who drifted into town reported they had seen neither movement nor shadow on the range of either the 3 G or Rocking R.
It was uncanny and unreasonable. Knowing the rough-and-ready violence of range war, he found this silence nerve-shattering. By rights plenty of trouble should have been popping, and while one cowhand did admit to hearing gunfire, he had seen nothing. A Harper scout, riding around by the 3 G, found a deathlike silence, empty corrals, and no visible life.
Having depended upon this range war to rid him of his rivals, Harper was now thinking less of the Ronsons than of one or two others. Ever since Thacker had been found dead and his pockets empty of all papers and money, Harper had been worried. If Thacker had carried anything incriminating, that evidence might now be in the hands of his killer—and Pony Harper knew exactly who that killer was.
Four hands, he finally learned, had returned to the Rocking R, but Hopalong Cassidy was absent on some mission of his own. What if he had gone again to the hideout? What might he uncover there? Or at the mine near Star City?
Harper had a feeling that fate was closing in around him. He ran a finger around his collar and swore bitterly. Just when everything was going right! Of course if anything happened to the Gore outfit, Clarry Jacks was riding with them and the gunman might be killed. That possibility pleased him, but a lurking doubt remained, for Jacks had shown an unerring instinct for staying alive. There had been that other time, when Dakota Jack’s gang was wiped out. Uncomfortably, Harper recalled what had happened to Dakota Jack. Clarry was definitely dangerous.
Joe Turner crossed to him at the bar. Turner jerked a thumb at Harrington, who stood nearby. “He was askin’ for you.”
Harrington was smiling when Harper stopped beside him. Harper mopped his face. “Hot,” he said.
“Uh-huh.” Harrington was cheerful. “And getting hotter. They found Poker Harris and Dan Dusark, both dead, and they said it looked like a shoot-out.”
“I figured they worked together.”
“Maybe. Can’t tell where a man stands these days.”
“Anybody else around Corn Patch?”
“Deserted.”
“If John Gore’s dead,” Harper suggested thoughtfully, “that fight may be over.”
If Gore was dead, the fight would be over. Harper mopped his face again. Then Cassidy might help Lock in uncovering the killer of Jesse, and that the two might fail, he doubted. His mouth felt dry and he scowled, glaring at his reflection in the bar mirror. That trail might uncover a lot of things, and suddenly he felt tired and afraid. All his plans would go for nothing—nothing!
Another worry was the gold. It had been taken to the mine at Star City. Rawhide was not available to watch over it, for Harper had foolishly allowed him to join the 3 G with Jacks. Rawhide could keep an eye on him there but had no excuse to follow when the big gunfighter went off on his own. Always before he had been positive that he could control Clarry Jacks, yet uneasily he began to recall that such had never been the case. Jacks had gone his own way, always listening to Pony with apparent respect but then doing much as he pleased.
Harris dead. The king of Corn Patch had seemed invulnerable. Somehow he had been a symbol, for not even the domination of Cattle Bob had been able to shake his control of that corner of the mountains. Weakened, yes. His area of control narrowed, but nevertheless existent. And now Harris, who had seemed as immune as the mountains themselves, was gone, puffed out like smoke. Pony Harper licked his dry lips.
He had slept little and looked it. His nerves were fine-drawn and he was irritable. He walked to the door and stared up the street toward the livery stable, where the arrivals stopped first.
“Wish we’d hear somethin’!” he said angrily. “This silence gets on my nerves!”
Harrington looked at him thoughtfully. “What stake have you got in this? You aren’t with the Gores, and the only other bunch that suffers will be the rustlers. Unless,” he added carefully, “unless it’s the stage robbers.”
“You implyin’ I had anything to do with them?”
“You?” he asked innocently. “Who would think a thing like that?” He paused. “Jacks? Now that’s another story. He always did have money, but where he got it I could never guess.” He lighted a cigar. “See you around, Pony.”
Harper stared after him, his lips compressed. He must watch himself.
Joe Turner watched him and smiled secretly. If Harper was out of the picture, Turner stood to gain more than he would lose. Ever since Hopalong Cassidy arrived, Turner had been glad he was a small man, a man unnoticed and usually out of sight. He liked it that way. It was better to be a small man and a live one.
* * *
John Gore finally caught a horse. Not the one he had chased earlier, but another horse freed from somewhere and wandering to the only home he had known. Mounted once more, Gore raced for the 3 G, arriving to find empty corrals and silence. There was neither food nor ammunition, nor any sign of his brother or the men. Wild with worry, he ran to the crest of a nearby hill and searched the desert with his field glasses. At first he saw nothing, and then only a thin dark line that seemed to move.
Squinting, he could not make out what or who it was. It might be cattle heading for a water hole. Actually, it was his own men, lips cracked from heat and thirst, dust-covered and evil-tempered. A half-dozen killers, bitter, vengeful, and hair-triggered of temper. Most vicious now, if not the toughest, was Troy, his normally vile temper aggravated by the blow from Hopalong’s gun.
John Gore did some fast
thinking. Most of all he needed a horse, but there were none on the ranch now, Cassidy having driven them far out onto the range. Nor would there be any at Willow Springs. The closest horses he knew of were at Mandalay. Unknown to him, these, too, had been driven off.
He returned to the battered mustang he had ridden to the ranch and swung into the saddle. The little horse started off gamely, and then Gore’s mind suddenly leaped to the Rocking R.
It was nearer than Mandalay Springs. Their riders should be all gone; there should be plenty of horses. He made a decision and altered his course due west. In such little decisions are the courses of men laid out. For John Gore had taken the trail to death.
Had he gone to Mandalay he would have arrived on a spent horse, with no fresh animal to be had and nothing to do but wait until the horse recovered or somebody came along. He would have been safely out of the fight until it was over. Taking the road to what he believed would be an almost deserted ranch, he took the road to a ranch where everybody was home but two men. Hopalong Cassidy was riding to the outlaw hideout, and Shorty Montana had slipped away from the others and was trailing Hopalong, wanting to be on hand if he needed assistance, and knowing that where Hopalong was, trouble would be.
* * *
Under the flat hot sun Hopalong drifted due east, then swung south. South of him loomed the sprawling foothills and first peaks of the Trinity range, and from under the brim of his wide hat his hard blue eyes searched the sweep of desert before him, starting near and then reaching out, sweeping the sagebrush levels with a careful, searching gaze that left no hummock, no boulder, no suggestion of movement unseen or unstudied. Sweat trickled down his neck. Fine white dust lifted with each footstep of his horse and settled in a film over Topper’s sleek white coat and over Hopalong.
Greasewood mingled with the sagebrush and occasional patches of prickly pear, or even cat’s-claw. He saw the curious twin tracks of a walking antelope, the hindfoot placed precisely back of the forefoot. Running, the track would be different. The tracks were narrower and tapered more than those of a deer.
The Hopalong Cassidy Novels 4-Book Bundle Page 35