The Hopalong Cassidy Novels 4-Book Bundle

by Louis L'Amour

  “Cassidy,” he continued, “is ridin’ the country. So’s Ben Lock, and from all I hear, it was Lock who killed Laramie. Yesterday, from the top of the ridge, I watched Lock for two hours with a glass. He was on a trail. Maybe it was yours—I don’t know. Anyway, he lost it down in the valley, but every so often he’d look up and see these mountains and study ’em like he figured on scoutin’ around. I tell you, Clarry, Lock isn’t quittin’!”

  Jacks’s eyes were somber with hatred. “What’s the matter, Dud?” he sneered. “Gettin’ yellow? I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Bale here, but you!”

  He turned on his heel and walked to the door, but when he looked back he said, low-voiced and tense with emotion: “Nobody leaves me! Get that? Nobody!”

  He stalked outside, and they heard his steps receding down the trail. White-faced, Bale glanced at Dud. “He sure has changed.”

  Leeman nodded worriedly. “There’s no sense in stayin’, Duck! None at all! I tell you, that Lock is like a bloodhound. He’ll never leave that trail! That hombre worries me, stickin’ at it the way he does. He’s lost weight, he’s slept out for days, but he keeps goin’. He’ll never quit. As for Hopalong, I’d sooner tackle a catamount in his own cave than that hombre. The only reason Clarry is alive today is because of that quake.”

  “What you goin’ to do?” Bale inquired cautiously.

  Dud Leeman said nothing. He got swiftly and silently to his feet and peered outside, then sat down. “Do?” he said loudly. “I’m stickin’ with the boss. What else? It’s just a matter of how we can get that Cassidy hombre!”

  Bale looked at him quickly, then at the window, and nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “the first thing is to get him, then that gold from Harper.”

  Clarry Jacks stalked into the room suddenly and glared sullenly first at one, then at the other. That he had gone down the trail, then dodged back to listen, they both knew. Jacks lighted a cigarette, drew impatiently on it, then stalked again to the door, muttering to himself.

  Dud Leeman looked at his broad back, then shot a quick glance at Duck. It was not in him to shoot a man in the back, but at that moment he wondered if it would not be best. It was beginning to look like the only choice they had was to kill or be killed.

  Clarry Jacks turned around and stared at them, his eyes malevolent and evil, and behind that there was something else that Dud Leeman glimpsed for the first time and recognized with a chill. Clarry Jacks was insane.

  Chapter 12

  FURTIVE ENEMY

  * * *

  A week later Hopalong rode into town, accompanied by Tex and Shorty. They had searched the ruins of Star City and found nothing. What might have been the remains of a campfire had been scattered, and it was impossible to tell if the charred sticks found on the spot were a few days or a few months old. Nobody had seen either Dud Leeman or Duck Bale.

  Pony Harper was never alone. Rawhide haunted his vicinity; his dark eyes with their yellowish whites were always busy, searching, staring, watching windows, doorways, and alleys. Harper had grown noticeably thin. His jowls, which had been plump, now sagged over his heavy jawbones. He was irritable and seldom in the High-Grade during rush hours.

  Ben Lock had returned to town and, despite Katie’s objections, had bought supplies and started out again. He had admitted that he was having no luck but was working systematically now, searching each section of country as though hunting strays or prospecting. Rumors got around. Clarry Jacks was alive—somebody who knew somebody else was told by his cousin that Jacks had been seen. Jacks, according to another story, was dead. He had been buried by moonlight in Poker Gap, dying of wounds.

  Ben Lock met Hoppy in the livery stable at Seven Pines. Hopalong had just come in and Lock was leaving. “Cut any sign, Ben?”

  Lock shrugged. “Not lately. He’s alive, though. I got a feelin’.”

  “Yeah.” Hopalong sat down on a bale of hay and struck a match with his thumbnail. “A man’s got to figure this thing with his head. No real trail. You just got to think it out.”

  “Never was much good at that,” Ben said. “I can read trail sign as good as most men, and I can follow a color upstream, but that about lets me out.” He looked at Hopalong thoughtfully. “What do you reckon he’ll do, Hoppy?”

  “Hard to say,” Cassidy admitted. “But let’s take it for granted that Duck and Leeman are with him. That means three men. They have to have food, water, ammunition, and concealment. Ammunition they probably have without buyin’ more. Maybe not, but we’ll figure it that way. Now that still means they have to have food, water, and a hideout.

  “He’s not in Seven Pines—you can bank on that. North of here the country is nearly all Rockin’ R, with the only water on our range. We’ve rebuilt the cabin at Willow Springs and the boys are there every other day or so. Mandalay, Haystack, and the Rabbithole likewise are visited. Corn Patch was burned to the ground and would be too risky for ’em.

  “Clarry has enemies in Unionville, so he’ll stay away from there. Poker Gap in the daytime is wide open. What does that leave us?”

  “Not much,” Ben admitted, scowling. He looked around quickly at the sound of a step and saw Tex Milligan and Shorty Montana. Both were looking at the map sketched in the dirt of the floor.

  Shorty dropped to his haunches. “Say, Ben,” he asked, “when you were lookin’ around Star City, did you go to the High Card Mine?”

  “Where’s that?”

  Shorty indicated on the map. “Deep canyon back in there. If you didn’t know she was there, you could sure miss it.”

  “No,” Ben admitted. “I reckon that’s one I missed. Water there?”

  “Uh-huh. Not very good, but water.”

  Ben nodded seriously. “Then that could be it. I’m headin’ that way.” He turned to look at Hopalong. “Want to come along, Cassidy?”

  Cassidy shook his head regretfully. “Sorry. I got to get out to the ranch and see Ronson. Anyway,” he added, “I’ve had my trouble with Clarry Jacks. As long as he leaves the R alone, I’ll leave him alone, unless he starts something.”

  Nevertheless, he was worried. Knowing something of the caliber of man Clarry Jacks was, he realized that so long as the man was alive and in the Seven Pines country there would be trouble. It was time he himself moved on. He was restless and wanted to head north for Gibson’s spread. There was only a little business with Ronson to hold him now. Yet somehow he hesitated to go, and itching with irritation, he paused on the street and studied it without seeing anything before him.

  It was a long time since anything had bothered him this much, for usually he was a man immune to petty irritations and not one inclined to pay attention to hunches, but right now he had a feeling that trouble was headed his way. Gloomily he watched Ben Lock saddle up and strike out across the valley toward Poker Gap and the hills beyond. Shorty and Tex were in the High-Grade enjoying a drink, and he sat down on the edge of the boardwalk.

  Hopalong was scowling at his own uncertainty, and it was not like him to feel as he did. Yet he knew the kind of man Clarry Jacks was, and it worried him that the man was still at large. His eyes drifted along the boardwalk across the street where two old men sat in the sun, spinning yarns of the old days in the Mother Lode country. Beyond them, in the door of the High-Grade, Pony Harper stood, his coat hanging a little slack these days. Rawhide came to the door and reported something to Harper.

  Hopalong’s eyes keened as they saw the reaction. Harper stiffened, then leaned forward, asking a question. Rawhide replied, then gestured off to the west, and the two talked excitedly. Watching with interest, Hopalong wondered what could have them so excited. Then they left the porch and went around to the side of the saloon, where they examined the ground and the window ledge. Suddenly noticing him, Harper straightened and said something in a low tone to Rawhide, who immediately glanced over at Hopalong Cassidy. Then both men walked inside.

  Thoroughly interested now, Hopalong waited until they were out of sight. Then he cro
ssed the street and examined the ground under the window. The tracks were plain enough, for here a man with small booted feet had stood and tried to force up a window. The marks on the ledge of the window and its frame were obvious enough. That he had not succeeded was equally obvious.

  Clarry Jacks had been in town!

  If he had tried to force a way in through the office window of the High-Grade, it must have been after hours, for the saloon was open until two o’clock almost every night. Where, then, had he gone? And why had he tried to get into the High-Grade?

  Returning to his horse, Hopalong stood for a while with his hand on the pommel, studying the matter. And then another idea came to him and his eyes shifted. He stared thoughtfully at Jaeger’s store, which was separated from the High-Grade by only a few feet. Old Fritz Jaeger, a thin, cantankerous man, slept in the back of his store. Had he heard anything? Hopalong dropped the reins over the hitch rack again and tied a slipknot. Then he turned and walked across to the store.

  Jaeger looked up at Hopalong, then came toward him. “Something for you?”

  “Yeah. Some .44s. Give me two boxes.” While the old man went back of the counter for the shells, Hopalong looked around. It was the typical western store. Down the center was a counter covered with merchandise, mostly clothing of various types for both men and women. A counter ran around the store on three sides, and the walls behind were shelved to the ceiling and lined with goods—all that a man might need or think of needing for living on the range. Tools, nails, rifles, ammunition, knives, rope, buckets, tubs, and all manner of food supplies.

  Jaeger placed the two boxes of shells on the counter before Hopalong and then looked up at him. Something in the cold eyes made him vaguely uneasy. “You sleep in the back of the store?” Hopalong inquired casually.

  Jaeger stiffened. “Yeah. Anything more? If not, I got work to do.”

  “It can wait.” Hopalong’s eyes had chilled slightly. “Hear anything last night after you went to bed? Or this morning, say after two?”

  “What would I hear?” Jaeger asked impatiently. His eyes avoided Hoppy’s. “High-Grade closes up at two sharp. By the end of thirty minutes this here town is like a grave.”

  Hopalong’s eyes roved about the store, then fell on a box filled with chisels. He picked one up and studied it carefully. Unless he was much mistaken, it was such a chisel that had been used to try to force the window of the High-Grade office. The width was the same, the—He glanced up suddenly and caught the wary, fearful expression in Jaeger’s eyes. “Sold a chisel like this lately?”

  “No.” Jaeger fumbled for words. “Can’t remember as I have.”

  “Sell one last night? Or have one taken from you?”

  “No! I was closed last night! I close early! If I had, don’t you figure I’d tell you?”

  “You might, and then again maybe you mightn’t. If you did, you’d better tell me.”

  Jaeger was silent, his eyes narrowing, his jaw set stubbornly. “If I did,” he said irritably, “it would be my own business! Now, if you aren’t wantin’ anythin’ else, I’ll go.”

  “Jaeger”—Hopalong’s voice chilled—“I’m a right friendly man. I’d like to stay that way if you let me. From now on, the Rockin’ R and the mines will be your big customers, as they used to be. The Gores are goin’ to talk mighty small now, and Clarry Jacks is through. You’d better make up your mind where you stand.”

  “And get shot for it?” Jaeger snarled.

  “Possibly. That’s a chance an honest man has to take sometimes. I’ll tell you something, Jaeger. If you had a visitor last night, I’m goin’ to know it. If you don’t tell me, Jaeger, and if you don’t side with honest folks, then you better figure on closin’ up shop and leavin’.”

  Jaeger hesitated, his eyes ugly with hatred. “All right,” he said bitterly. “Jacks was here last night. He woke me up, bought ammunition and a new rifle. Then he picked up one of those chisels and told me if I knew what was good for me I’d keep shut about what I heard and saw. Then he tried to bust open a window on the High-Grade but she was nailed shut, so he gave up when some riders came into the street.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “No, there was two hombres with him. Maybe more. Only one I saw was Dud Leeman. He come in with Jacks and stood by the front window watchin’ the street.”

  “What else did he get?”

  “Grub and stuff. Quite a lot of it.” Jaeger stared at Hopalong. “That all you want to know?”

  “Where did he go when he left here?”

  “How should I know?” Jaeger demanded angrily. “I don’t watch folks that come here. I don’t know where he went, and I don’t want to know. As long as he leaves me alone, I don’t care what he does.”

  Hopalong Cassidy walked outside and dropped to a seat on the edge of the walk. Scowling, his hat shoved back on his head, he studied the situation. Wherever Jacks had been, he was evidently on the move now and had something in mind. It was not likely he would leave the country, for he was not the sort to run away. Defeat would rankle, and he would need to win at least a minor victory before leaving, if he left at all.

  Yet the fact that he had tried to force an entry into the office of the saloon meant that he was not on friendly terms with Pony Harper, and that could account for Harper’s very obvious worry. However, what Jacks would need now would be a hiding place, and a new one.

  Hopalong looked up as a shadow fell across him. It was Katie. Her face was white and worried. “Hoppy, Con Gore’s up at the restaurant. He wants to talk to you.”

  “All right.” Hopalong hitched his guns around under his hands. “How’d he act?”

  “Well, all right, I guess,” Katie replied. “At least he didn’t seem to be looking for trouble. When I told him I wanted no trouble in my place, he said that was why he chose it, because he didn’t think you’d start anything there.”

  Hopalong Cassidy fell in beside the girl, and they walked toward the café. Stopping on the walk before the restaurant, Hopalong opened the door carefully with his left hand. He stepped swiftly through the door and faced Gore, who sat at the opposite end of the room. The big hard-faced ex-convict nodded. “Howdy, Cassidy! Come and sit!”

  Cassidy walked slowly across the room, then drew back a chair and dropped astride of it. “What is it, Con?”

  The big man hesitated, then looked up, his face flushed with embarrassment. “This here don’t set so well some ways, Cassidy,” he said, “but I’m makin’ peace talk. I don’t want any more trouble.”

  “That makes sense,” Hopalong agreed. “I don’t want any either.”

  Gore was relieved. “You figure that’ll go with Ronson?” he asked. “I reckon we were wrong. Windy talked John and me into this scrap. Not that I’m blamin’ him. I was just as bad. We figured that, with the Old Man dead, Ronson would quit. He had more sand than we figured on. We asked for trouble and we got it—more than we wanted.”

  “What about your outfit? What about Troy? He’s a bad one, Con.”

  “Yeah.” Con’s lips tightened. “I guess you needn’t worry about him. He’s out of it.” Gore hesitated, then added, “I’m not so much. I’ve done time, and I’ve killed my man, but when Hank and I had that trouble, Troy had no call to butt in an’ shoot him in the back.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, I give him his choice. To hit the saddle and slope it, or reach for a gun. He was mighty nasty, but he went and saddled up. Then he grabbed iron when he figured my back was turned. I was watchin’ him and—well, I beat him to it.”

  “All right,” Hopalong said briefly. “I’ve talked this over with Ronson. Your cattle can run east of the Blues—and west of them, as long as you acknowledge that they are on Rockin’ R range. The only thing we don’t go for, Con, is somebody tryin’ to shove us off. There’s water and grass for all, but it’s got to be for all. That clear?”

  Gore was relieved. “Sure is, an’ mighty fair. I always did hear you was fair and square.” H
e shoved back his chair and got up.

  Hopalong watched as Gore walked away. That was an issue well closed, but there was still Clarry Jacks, and he was the worst of them all—the man really to be feared. That such was the case was obvious from the actions of Pony Harper. If ever Hopalong had seen a man driven by worry and fear, it was Harper.

  The man had no stamina, no real courage. He was a big, smooth, easy-talking man, the kind who could plan, think, and weave a plot, and one who would not hesitate at murder if it could be done without danger to himself, but there was no real bottom to the man. He was an empty shell. Behind him Clarry Jacks loomed like something bigger, stronger, more dangerous. In gun skill the fellow definitely ranked among the best, but there was that something else about him that disturbed Hoppy.

  That Jacks was insane, he had not guessed, although he had wondered a little. That Jacks had no plan to leave the country was obvious from his actions, for he could have been long gone by now. Hoppy went to the kitchen and refilled his cup of coffee and took it to a table where Harrington sat.

  The mining man looked up. “Howdy, Hoppy! Sit down, will you?”

  “Yeah.” Hoppy tried his coffee and placed the cup back on the table. “Clarry Jacks was in town last night.”

  Harrington’s eyes were startled. “In town? Here?”

  “Uh-huh. You know this country well?”

  “Sure. Lived here as a kid, then went back east to school. I worked around the country, then finally came back. What’s on your mind?”

  “Jacks. Nobody’ll be safe as long as he’s around. I don’t like huntin’ a man, but he’s mean and he isn’t leavin’ the country.”

  “Lock will find him.”

  “In time, but there isn’t much time. Harper’s scared of every movement now. He jumps when he sees his shadow. Rawhide walks like he was on eggshells. What I want to know, where could a man hide? He’s got grub, he’s got ammunition, but he’ll need water and a place where he can’t be stumbled into. My guess would be he isn’t far from here.”