Sourdough glared at him through the darkness. “A lot you know!” he scoffed. “There’s eight men over there right now, and only three of ’em are from right here!”
“Three?” Hopalong grinned. “You mean to say five strangers are in town at once?”
Sourdough bristled. “I didn’t say nothin’ about strangers. These here hombres ain’t strangers. They just don’t live right here in town. Peter Aragon has him a ranch back in the hills somewheres, and two of them fellers ride for him. What the others do I wouldn’t say.”
Hopalong rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Pete Aragon was one of the men in the saloon, and the others were his friends. The chances were these men were driving the herd and had come to town for a drink or two, after which they would return to the stolen cattle. It was doubtful that more than three men had been left behind as guards.
Jack Bolt had only six men of his own and the Aragon outfit numbered seven all told, which meant thirteen men at least were available. Some of these would be needed on the home ranch and some would be left in the hills to scout for Connors. Eight was probably a good guess at the number with the herd, and five were here in Agate.
Watching the lights of the saloon, he studied the situation with care. He hesitated to enter the saloon, yet knew that some of them had probably heard his horse when he arrived and if he did not come in they would be suspicious.
Sourdough knocked out his pipe, then stoked it with fresh tobacco. Hopalong gave him a sidelong glance, wondering how much he could get out of the old man. He knew the method of obtaining information now at least.
“A long time ago,” he said, “I knew a man named Tedrue. He was a good friend to a fellow in my outfit. That Tedrue was a woodsman and a hunter as well as a rider. He told me about a valley over west of here where there was plenty of grass and water, but from the look of this country he must’ve been mistaken. I’d say there wasn’t a drop of water in miles of that country.”
Sourdough took his pipe from his mouth. “And you’d be wrong!” he said flatly. “I knowed that there Tedrue, and he knowed this here country most as well as I do! He was sure a-tellin’ of the truth!”
“Aw!” Cassidy protested. “Just look around. Black sand and bare hills. Not a sign of water. I’d bet you’d have to go nearly to the coast before you’d find water.”
“Huh!” The old man grunted his disgust. “Sure wouldn’t! I could name you fifty water holes, and even some lakes over thataway!” He drew deep and his pipe glowed. Somebody laughed loud in the saloon. The old man pointed toward a distant peak. “There’s a water hole at the foot of that peak. The country west of here has plenty of hot springs, too.
“Why, there’s one section over there a man has to walk mighty easy or he’ll go through. The whole surface of the ground is underlaid by one big hot spring, boilin’ water that’ll take the hide right off a man if he should fall into it!
“There’s water in High Rock all right, and in Little High Rock. Summit Lake is one of the prettiest lakes you ever laid eyes on. A mite farther west is the Massacre Lakes—mostly dry this time of year, though. Injun country, that is, and plenty of Modocs still around. Jesse Applegate went through there, and so did Lassen. There’s lost mines, too. Me, I prospected all over that country. Tedrue, he come through there as a boy, and what he told was the truth, believe you me.”
Hopalong got to his feet. “Well, I could be wrong,” he said, “and it sure is good to find a man that knows the country. I like to talk to an hombre who knows what he’s talkin’ about. I reckon I’ll have a look around that saloon.”
Somewhat mollified by Hopalong’s flattery, Sourdough looked up at him. “You be mighty careful in yonder,” he said. “Some of that bunch is plumb salty, and Pete Aragon ain’t the worst of them!”
Chapter 7
SWIFT GUNPLAY
Slowly Hopalong walked across the street and opened the door of the saloon. At once faces turned toward him. Hard-featured faces of roughly dressed men, and all were armed, several wearing two guns. Head and shoulders above them stood Mormon John, a huge black-bearded man with thick eyebrows. The gaze of this towering giant met that of Hopalong over the crowd, and Cassidy was sure he saw a glint of sudden interest in the big man’s eyes. What the others were thinking Hopalong could not guess. He walked to the bar and slowly looked around the room.
Long and low-ceilinged, it was only a third as wide as its length, and on the side opposite the door was a long bar. Hopalong nodded to Mormon John. “Howdy! I take it you’re Mormon John?”
“You got it right, stranger. Somethin’ for you?”
“Not right now,” Hopalong said. “Just passing by and thought I’d drop in. I was talking to your friend Sourdough.”
“My friend?” Mormon John exploded. “That old rawhider? That son of a sheepherder a friend of mine? You heard wrong, stranger, if you heard that.”
“That right?” Hopalong looked amazed. “Well, now, what do you know about that? He didn’t say anything bad about you, mister.”
A heavy-faced man standing nearer to Hopalong than the others stared hard at Cassidy. “Where’ve I seen you before?” he demanded.
Hopalong looked the man over carefully. The face was unfamiliar, but the type was not. “Why, I don’t reckon you have,” he said quietly. “I know you don’t look like anything I’ve ever seen before.”
Somebody chuckled a little, and the man’s face darkened. He straightened a little from the bar. “Too many of you grub-line riders around here,” he said. “Why don’t you drift north and git clear out of the country?”
Hopalong considered the question gravely. “I like it here,” he said at last. “Fact is, I’m figuring on starting my own outfit. I am riding west right now and figure to find a place over in the High Rock country.”
The hands holding drinks froze in position. He was looking down at the bar, but sensed all eyes were upon him.
“That there’s a bad area.” The new speaker was a narrow-faced man with black eyes. There was an ugly scar on his right cheek that looked as if it had been torn by claws. “Good country to stay shut of.”
Hopalong shrugged. “Could be, but I like a place without fences and I hear there’s both grass and water over there, and land for the taking.”
One by one the men downed their drinks. The man with the scar on his face turned to one of those beside him. “Reckon we better go, Vila.”
“Sure, Pete.”
Vila turned and walked to the door, pausing there. Pete had not moved, yet from some unseen gesture one of the men nearest him straightened, placed his glass on the bar, walked across to the window, and stopped there with his back to it.
The big man who had started hunting trouble spoke softly. “You stay out of that High Rock country. Folks over thataway don’t cotton to strangers.”
Hopalong Cassidy said nothing at all. He knew the value of suspense, of waiting. He also knew his own nerves, and now he stood very still and let his eyes go from one face to another. Slowly the seconds passed, and the tension grew. Somebody swallowed and the sound was plain to them all. Then Vila shifted his feet slightly. Hopalong’s eyes moved on to Pete Aragon and stopped there. Pete was the boss—and was less charged with killing tension than Vila.
“That right?” Hopalong said gently. “Now that’s too bad, isn’t it?”
Hopalong was not looking for trouble. He had wanted information and he had wanted to see these men, for the more of them he knew by sight, the better off he would be. Furthermore, if anything did begin, he wanted them to begin it.
“Yeah,” he continued, “that is too bad. It would be a nice country to locate in, but me, I’m a peace-loving man.” He pulled his hat down on his head. As he started to turn from the bar he perceived, by the sudden stiffening of the watchers, that he was not going to get away without trouble. Some signal had evidently passed from Pete Aragon which he had overlooked, yet he continued his turn and brought his foot down hard on the big man’s toe. The man cried out
and jumped back. Instantly Hopalong grabbed iron.
His move had been abrupt and unexpected, and although they had planned to take him, Aragon’s men were caught by surprise. Hopalong’s seeming unawareness of the situation had put them off guard. Moreover, they had covered the doors and windows through which he might escape, but there was nobody behind him. Hopalong’s sudden move put the big man between him and the others, and now he held, by virtue of that flashing draw, two six-guns.
“Move back.” He indicated the big fellow. “You fall back with your partners. You, Pete, tell your boys not to start anything they can’t finish. The first person I nail will be you.”
Vila was glaring, his tongue touching his lips. This was the man to watch; Hopalong Cassidy had seen gunmen too many times not to realize that the Mexican was dangerous. He was tightly strung and had that kind of nervous energy that builds up to an explosive pitch.
Pete Aragon was worried. He knew Vila, and knew the Mexican was quite capable of attempting a draw even when covered—if the slightest chance offered itself. “No use to get upset,” Pete said carefully. “We just mentioned that was bad country up there. We weren’t huntin’ trouble.”
“Take it easy, then,” Hopalong replied easily. “I’m driftin’. If you get trouble, it will be because you start it.” He let his eyes wander over the faces of the watching men and then swung his back to the door and in three steps felt the edge of the door against his shoulder. Nobody had moved.
“Better drift on out of the country,” Pete suggested quietly. “It ain’t healthy around here for gunslingers.”
Hopalong’s cold features relaxed in an ironic smile. “No? Then suppose you boys take that advice. You drift—I’m stickin’. In fact, I may take a job ridin’ for the 3TL.”
Aragon stiffened, and Vila’s clawlike fingers tensed. Both men glared at him. Holstering a gun, Hopalong dropped his left hand to the doorknob, and turning it, he stepped out into the night. Crossing to the stable, he stepped quickly into the darkness. His horse was unsaddled and needed rest. It would take minutes to saddle it, and by that time they could be out and have all trails covered. He would have to shoot his way through. The best and safest place was right here. He turned, looking around for the old miner.
Sourdough’s dry voice came out of the darkness. “Surprised,” he said. “I never figured you’d get back here alive. Figured that horse of Dan Keating’s would be left here for me.”
“You know that horse?”
“Knowed Keating hisself. Mighty fine man. Always figured I’d like to get my sights on the hombre what shot him.”
“Don’t blame me for that,” Cassidy said shortly. “I got this horse in Tascotal to replace my own.”
“Yeah,” Sourdough said, “I guessed as much. You couldn’t get a hand on him unless Letsinger figured you to be all right.” He stared across the street as the door opened and men poured into the street. “What now?”
“I’m crawling into the hay in your loft,” Hopalong said. “I don’t feel like running.” So saying, he swung and went up the ladder. In an instant he was lost in darkness. Sourdough struck a match and lighted up his pipe, then returned to the worn chair by the door.
Pete Aragon’s voice sounded suddenly, and Hopalong heard his every word. “Sourdough? You see an hombre come out here a minute ago?”
“Reckon somebody did come out. I was back inside gettin’ matches, but I heard the door close.”
“You didn’t see anybody in the street? Or on the trail?”
“Yeah, a while back I did. Feller went into the saloon yonder. Anybody,” he added truthfully, “comin’ into the stable would’ve had to pass right by me. This hombre might have left his cayuse outside of town. He might be headed back thataway.” Which, he reflected, was nothing less than true. Hopalong could have left his horse outside of town. The fact that he had not was quite another thing.
Aragon turned and spoke rapidly to two of his men. Both mounted and rode rapidly down the trail. Sourdough puffed contentedly at his pipe. The truth, Hoppy decided, could be a very pliable thing.
After a while the rest of them saddled up and left town, and Hopalong relaxed contentedly into the hay. It smelled fresh and good. He was very tired.
It was daylight when he awakened to see Sourdough bending over him. “Fixed you some grub,” the old man said. “Better eat and get. This here town ain’t safe for you.”
Hopalong got quickly to his feet and brushed off the hay. Descending the ladder, he walked into the old man’s living quarters. He grinned widely when he saw the eggs and ham. Quickly he washed up and combed his hair, then drew up a chair and started in. Sourdough chuckled when he saw him eat.
“Now that’s the way a man should eat! I like to see a real appetite, not one of these here picky kind of fellers who muddle over their grub and never eat up. Never seen a cowhand nor any kind of workin’ or fightin’ man who ever left grub on his plate!”
Hopalong chuckled. “You’re right, old-timer. Do I smell hot cakes?”
“You just wait! I got a stack comin’ up for you.”
Hopalong glanced out of the window. Mormon John was standing on his steps, looking across the street. There was nobody else in sight. The tracks of the horses could be plainly seen from where he sat, and all were going out of town, none coming back.
Mormon John looked curiously up the street toward the trail out of town. He scowled, then turned and walked back inside. Hopalong considered the action and looked up. Casually he asked, “I recall a couple of buildings between here and the edge of town. Is there anyone living over there?”
“Uh-uh. Just a couple of empty shacks and the old Gold Strike Saloon. Ain’t been anybody in ’em for years.”
Watching the saloon, Cassidy saw Mormon John come outside again. Obviously the big man was curious and trying to conceal his curiosity. He came out now and began sweeping the porch before the saloon, pausing from time to time to look around, but his attention centered itself on the trail toward the west or something in that direction.
Sourdough brought the pot and filled Hopalong’s cup once more. He seemed oblivious of Hopalong’s interest in what was happening outside. After a minute or so Hopalong got up, stretched, and changed his seat. He tried the fresh cup of coffee. From the new position he had taken he could see down the trail. The faded sign on the Gold Strike indicated that building. In the rear corner there was a window. Could Mormon John have seen something in that window?
As he sipped coffee Hopalong listened to the idle rambling of Sourdough’s conversation. Once started, the old man was ready enough to talk, and his talking concerned the trail west and the country that lay out thataway, as he phrased it.
“Applegate done started that trail,” Sourdough advised, “and Pete Lassen used part of it on his own cutoff. Folks in them days was in a powerful hurry to get rich. They figured once they was in Californy they would have no trouble pickin’ up plenty of gold, so when that Humboldt Trail swung south they didn’t like it much.
“Them that tackled the Applegate and Lassen routes, they cussed the livin’ daylights out of both men for startin’ it. Mighty scarce grass and less water, unless you knowed exactly where to look, and them days nobody knowed but the Injuns. But what Injuns they was wasn’t friendly.
“Rabbit Hole Springs they found because of rabbit tracks. Why, even the Humboldt didn’t have much water in it. There was a young feller named Clemens workin’ on a paper down in Virginny City who says a feller could tire himself jumpin’ back and forth across the river and then drink it dry when he got himself thirsty.
“Lots of hot springs over west. Lassen got hisself killed over there, huntin’ silver. Clapper Crick’s right back up thataway. Clapper was killed with Lassen. Maybe by Injuns, maybe by a partner. Nobody ever rightly knowed. North of there you’ll find water at Soldier Meadows, and there’s plenty of water and grass up Mud Lake Valley.”
He paused for breath, and Hopalong finished the last of his coffee, only
lukewarm now. He stretched his muscles.
“Reckon I’ll leave now, Sourdough,” he said. “Wish you’d go to the stable and saddle up for me. I’ve got a little job to do first.”
The old man looked at him quickly, struck by some tone in Hopalong’s voice. “Somebody stayed behind.” Cassidy nodded. “There’s a man in that old saloon. I’d lay a month’s wages on it.”
He waited after the old man went out, watching the saloon. Then he went swiftly to the back of the livery stable and out a door into the corrals. For an instant he stood there, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the glare of the bright morning sun. It was pleasant just to stand there and feel the warmth and brightness, to smell the rich barnyard smells, and over them the faint yet tangible odor of the sage-clad hills. Then he crossed to the corral fence and slid between the bars.
He stood now at the corner of the barn. Removing his hat, he peered around the edge, studying the situation.
The nearest house was some thirty feet away across a gravel alleyway. From where he stood only a corner of the saloon could be seen, and the merest edge of the saloon window. The unseen gunman’s only chance of seeing him would be if he was pressed tightly against that edge of the window, and in any event he would have no chance to fire. Hopalong pulled his hat on, took a step back, then launched himself in a swift run to the back wall of the house. He drew up and stood still, listening.
There was no sound. The boards of the old house were brown with age and they smelled of the heat. Edging along behind the building, he peered through a window that allowed him to see through the empty house and watch the front of the saloon. As he watched he saw a shadow slip by a window opposite to his. He had been right, then. Someone had been left behind in case he had hidden in the town.
On tiptoe, placing each foot down gently, Hopalong worked his way to the corner of the building. The neighboring house, which was the last in town, jutted at least ten feet farther toward the road than his present hiding place. To cross to its shelter he would have to allow himself in full view of the saloon for at least three steps. Time enough to drop him if the watcher was ready.
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