The Hopalong Cassidy Novels 4-Book Bundle

by Louis L'Amour

  Listening, Hopalong Cassidy heard a horse walking in the gravel in front of the livery stable. Evidently Sourdough had led the black outside for water. That would certainly attract the watcher’s eyes. In three quick steps Hopalong made the back of the neighboring house, but even as he leaped behind it, a gun bellowed and he heard the angry thud of a bullet!

  Swinging around the corner of the house, he dropped flat at its corner and edged forward. The Gold Strike’s swing doors had been enclosed inside the heavy outer doors put up when the saloon was closed. Now the outer door stood partly open, and Hopalong thought he saw the blackness of a boot. He lifted his pistol and took a snap shot past the corner.

  Instantly a gun boomed and a heavy slug ripped through the corner of the house just inches over his head, showering him with splinters. Another shot came through higher, and then one lower that almost nicked him! Jerking back, he lay still, waiting. His shot must have been wasted. Whoever the watcher was, he was using a rifle—probably, by the sound, a Spencer.

  He groaned suddenly, then again, and softer in tone. The air was still, and he was sure the sound would reach the gunman. Whether he would be taken in by the ruse was quite another thing, but it was worth trying. Hopalong waited while a man might have counted ten and then moaned softly, as if in pain.

  There was no sound within the saloon. The air was warm and very still. A door slammed down the street; then all was silent once more. A lizard eased itself from under the porch and peered, bright-eyed and curious, at Hopalong. He waited, heard a faint creak of boards from within the saloon, then no other sound.

  A hat appeared, and he waited. The hat was withdrawn and there were sounds of movement within the saloon. Drawing back, Hopalong tiptoed around the house and peered from the back corner. The door was partly open now, as if the gunman were looking toward the corner at which he had fired. Unexpectedly, the man emerged. It was Vila.

  Gun in hand, but a pistol this time, for close work, the desperado stepped off the porch into the street. Instantly Hopalong stepped into the open.

  “Vila!” he shouted. “Drop it!”

  The outlaw whirled as if touched by a spark, and dropping into a half-crouch, he fired. Despite the speed of his turn, the bullet flicked dangerously near Hopalong’s cheek. Cassidy thumbed the hammer of his gun. The outlaw sprang back, his pistol sliding from his fingers, a red gash across the back of his hand. With his left he grabbed for his other gun, but a bullet cut between belt and gun butt and he jerked his hand clear, blood dripping from a thumb knuckle. Slowly he lifted his hands.

  “That’s better,” Hopalong said quietly, “much better. My advice then is to get out of this country, and fast!”

  “Not me!” Vila’s face was vicious. “I’ll kill you for this.”

  Chapter 8

  DANGEROUS COUNTRY

  In some secret place among the canyons west of the desert the stolen herds would be held, and it was to that country now that Hopalong Cassidy turned the palouse. Hopalong allowed the horse to set its own gait, and despite the heat of the day, they moved swiftly.

  Now there was a definite trail, and studying the tracks of the various horses, Hopalong picked out, one by one, the hoofprints of each. Soon some of them might turn off, and he wanted to know who he was following. Without doubt one of the leaders would be Pete Aragon—which he hoped to discover before long, for Aragon was one man of whom he wished to keep track. The horse on the left front was peculiarly gaited; the toes of the hoofs pointing out somewhat, the buttresses inward. Another of the group had bar shoes. Studying the tracks as they moved along proved other things to Hopalong. One of the horses kept fighting the bit. More often than any of the others it broke the formation in which they rode and had to be forced back alongside his mate.

  The trail now left the greasewood-covered sandhills and emerged upon the sand of the desert itself. Hopalong drew up and studied the situation carefully. Although the desert gave every appearance of openness, there was actually room to conceal an army if it was properly disposed. Yet he knew that to investigate every hummock, every hill, would take much too long. He would have to keep his eyes open and gamble.

  Several times he saw dust ahead of him, but at no time did he see the riders. They were heading for a canyon that seemed to cut deep into the range of mountains that lay ahead. From what Sourdough had said, in this direction might lie the Pahute Meadows, and if so, it offered a possible route through and over the mountains into the arm of the desert that lay beyond them, and at the base of Pahute Peak there was water. Somewhere in the vicinity would be Clapper Creek.

  Sweat coursed down his face and thick dust lifted and settled over him and over the black shining coat of the palouse. He pulled his hat brim lower and let his eyes seek out every bit of available cover as he came toward it, ever alert for movement, the glisten of sun on a rifle barrel, or any other indication that an enemy was near. Whether they would trust only to Vila he did not know. In any event, he must push on.

  The mountains were now a solid wall before him, and their blackness changed and showed streaks of brown and gray, and there was considerable growth on their rugged slopes. The green of Pahute Meadows showed, and Hopalong slowed the palouse despite the horse’s anxious tuggings at the bit.

  The black knew there was water ahead, and grass. Of the men with rifles who rode before him he knew nothing. Yet Hopalong saw that the man with the slue-gaited horse had fallen back and another ridden ahead. The chances were that Pete was riding ahead and on the right, for he was the only one who held to his position. Hopalong studied the track in particular.

  When he came to the meadows they were deserted, yet here there was green grass, and Hopalong swung down. After watering the palouse he picketed the horse, and while it cropped at the rich green grass he walked about. His search was soon rewarded, for he stumbled upon the tracks of the cattle almost at once. Here the group led by Pete Aragon had fallen in with the trail of the cattle he had followed earlier, proving his gamble—that some of the riders would leave the herd for a drink in Agate—had paid off.

  After thirty minutes Hopalong tightened his girth and swung back into the saddle. Now the canyon narrowed and the rocky walls towered above him. There were trees here and there, and more brush. The cattle had been several hours ahead of the other riders at this point, but the riders would move faster and should soon overtake the herd.

  It was not enough to find them. Not enough even to have recovered the herd, if that was possible. What he wanted most was to find where the cattle were being taken—hence, where the others had gone before. Comradeships of the cattle trails were often thicker than blood itself, and Hopalong liked Gibson. Moreover, the man was a part of the memories he loved best, of the old days of the Bar 20. And these men had attacked and tried to kill his friend Red Connors.

  The desert sun blistered the flat, reflecting rocks, and in the canyon it was like an oven. Hopalong’s shirt turned dark with sweat, and his horse walked slower, feeling the heat. The way widened at last and the tracks of the cattle were plain, leading onward and over a flat, high plateau. Here the air was clear, and the heat seemed less. Hopalong’s eyes and ears were alert now, for he knew that soon he should be coming up to the moving herd.

  Then suddenly the world broke off before him; the plateau ended and slid off in a series of ledges, making in all a gigantic declivity, an enormous stair that led down by devious trails to a meadow far below. Hopalong mopped his face and studied the rocky descent with careful eyes. If a man was shot here he could roll or fall a long way, and every foot of the trail now was filled with increasing danger. Then he spoke to the horse and moved on. Ears pricked up, the palouse chose his own path, following the trail of the cattle and the riders.

  Suddenly, far below, Hopalong saw a moving black dot. Instantly he drew up. After a moment he saw that one moving thing was followed by others. The herd!

  There was a man riding point, then the cattle flanked and followed by riders. Studying the situation
, he saw nothing in it to like. From here on much of his trail would keep him hopelessly in the open, and having just traversed that trail, nobody would know it better than Aragon and his riders. As Vila had not caught up to them, they might guess that something had happened to him. If there were some of the Jack Bolt hands with the cattle, they would know about Cassidy and would surely tell Aragon.

  To descend that steep trail now would be to ask for trouble. Most of it led over bare rock faces, and the only possible shelter was from occasional boulders, which could just as easily offer an ambush by one of the riders he was following. Regretfully, Hopalong turned the black towards a cluster of rocks near the foot of the first ledge.

  Swinging down, he stripped the saddle from the palouse and then, getting a handful of dry grass, he rubbed the big horse down. The palouse stood quietly, gratefully accepting his attentions.

  “That boss of yours,” Hopalong said, “knew how to care for a horse. I can tell by the way you act, old-timer. Only a horse that’s been treated right would stand as quietly as you do.”

  He sponged out the horse’s mouth with some water from his canteen, and only then did he take a drink himself. Afterward he poured some water in his hat and let the horse drink it. Then he seated himself in the shade of a boulder and waited, studying with his glasses the country that lay before him.

  Going down that mountain in the dark would be no picnic. Moreover, it was probable the tracks would give out on those ledges. The droppings of the cattle might help, but they would leave no hoofprints on those flat rocks.

  The slow afternoon drew on, and the sun stared him in the face. Then shadows began to gather on the eastern side of the mountains. The canyons filled with darkness, brimful and mysterious in the late afternoon, and then there was the blue stillness of twilight. He mounted, and the horse walked on, eager to be moving. The evening air smelled of sage and the faint memory of the cattle that had passed. The palouse found a way down to the next long ledge and descended. Here Hopalong had to scout for a way off the flat, and it was full dark before he found it—a thin, winding trail among boulders and then across the bald, open face of the mountain.

  The moon came up, and its light changed the landscape below him—an eerie greenish glow lay over the bald peaks and the great shoulders of rock. They loomed up, deathly still and lonely as he wove his way down among them until at last he smelled the good fresh smell of green grass and the dampness of land overgrown. Suddenly his nostrils detected something else. He drew up, head forward, sniffing the night. The smell brought no recognition to his mind, only a faintly disturbing sense. After a minute he spoke to the horse and started on. A hoof clicked on stone, and the stone tumbled down the steep path before him, a fall that ended in a splash. At the same time the horse stopped abruptly, shying from something ahead.

  As he swung down, Hopalong’s boot sounded hollowly on the rock, and he hesitated, peering around. And then it came to him! He smelled steam.

  Steam!

  He picked up a rock and tossed it down the hill. It chunked into water with a thick gulp, and taking a step forward, he heard again that hollowness under his feet. At the same instant something cracked and rock gave way under him!

  He sprang, scrambled wildly over the crumbling rock, and managed to get a hand on a stirrup as the palouse swung around. When he felt solid ground under his feet he stopped, sweat breaking out on his face. He knew then what had happened. He had almost fallen into a hot spring! Sourdough had told him of those boiling springs that lay in this country, and how in places they underlay large areas. Once a heavy wagon had broken through the crust, and pioneers had boiled eggs in the water and cooked fish in it.

  “We’ll camp right here, boy,” he said quietly. “No sense in taking any chances.”

  With the first gray of dawn he was up, and what he saw made his eyes glint with anger. The crust had been carefully broken through—broken right across the trail so that a rider could scarcely avoid going right into it! It was a deadly trap, which he had escaped only by the accident of a splashing stone and the good sense of his horse. Yet it was a warning of what he might expect from the men he was following. They would hesitate at nothing to stop him. A step farther last night, or less luck in escaping the crumbling rock, and he might have been horribly burned or even boiled alive.

  Back at the headquarters of the 8 Boxed H, Jack Bolt was nervously pacing the floor. The news that Hopalong Cassidy, as well as Connors, was in the vicinity worried him. This might be too good to last, and with men of that type coming into the country, it began to look as if it had reached the end. The only thing was to complete the cleanup they had planned and then sit tight.

  He had talked with Grat, and had heard Sim Aragon’s statement that he would take care of Cassidy. Yet Bolt was too shrewd to put all his eggs in one basket, especially when those eggs depended on the outwitting and killing of a man as salty and gun-slick as Hopalong Cassidy. Nothing had been seen of Cassidy, and that worried him even more. Nor of Connors. But the chances were great that Connors was dead. Yet Connors dead might be a greater damage than alive, for he might be a rallying point for all of the old Bar 20 crowd.

  Something had to be done, and whatever it was, it had to be done fast. Abel Garson drifted into the ranch yard just at that time. Garson was a man of no importance. He was a hanger-on and a loafer, a man who drank but never was drunk, who lived by knowing things and telling the right people what he knew. He also rustled a few cows from time to time, and one way and another kept soul and body together. Now he dropped from his saddle and slouched toward Bolt.

  Bolt stopped, chewed a moment, then spat. “What’s on your mind?” he demanded, resting his sharp eyes on Garson.

  The man took his cigarette from his mouth. “Just come from Tascotal. There’s talk goin’ around, Jack. Folks saw Sim Aragon with some of your boys yesterday. That Joe Gamble of the 3F. He’s been askin’ questions around.”

  Bolt swore viciously. “I told that fool Grat not to let Bones come into town with Sim!” he declared. “Where’s Gamble now?”

  Garson shrugged. “Slipped out of town. He was askin’ about Red Connors, too, and askin’ various folks if they had lost cows.”

  “I was afraid of that.” Bolt went into his pocket and came out with ten dollars. “Stick that in your kick, Abel. Anything you hear, let me know.”

  Garson nodded. “Trouble last night up at Agate. Pete Aragon and some of his boys had a run-in with a white-headed feller carrying a plated pair of Colts. He backed ’em down. Vila rode in this mornin’ to see the Doc—he had a bad hand. Tim and Pod was talkin’ some. This same white-headed gent run Pod off the 3TL. Pod is rantin’ around that he’ll kill him. Says he’s that Hopalong Cassidy, from down Texas way.”

  “He is.” Jack Bolt had been the first person Pod had told. Fury mounted within him. Aragon at Agate! When would they learn to play it safe and smart? They should never have left the cattle. Now Vila was wounded and Pod swearing vengeance. This last item held his interest. If Hopalong was killed now, it would be very easy to place the blame on Pod, angry because he had been fired. Nevertheless, even if that was accomplished, things were piling up. Too many things were going wrong, and they had started with the arrival of Red Connors in the country.

  “Go back to town,” Bolt said, “and talk it around that you heard Pod had a run-in with Cassidy. And keep your ears open. I want to know everything that 3TL outfit does.”

  It might be time to go all out. He didn’t want it that way, but this might be the time. Kill Cassidy, Connors, and Gamble—out of town, if possible, and make a grand cleanup on the cattle, then sit tight and see what happened.

  High on the slope of Copper Mountain, Red Connors was feeling better. Plenty to eat and drink, the high, pure air, and rest had done marvels for him. His wound was healing rapidly, and he was growing restless with inactivity. Somewhere down below, Hopalong was busy and might be needing him. There was still plenty of grub and his horse was in fine shape, but
Red was growing restless. Moreover, he had been shot at too often without a chance to return the courtesy.

  “That Hoppy!” he growled half-aloud. “He’s stealin’ all the fun!”

  Sitting at the mouth of the cave with the glass in his hand, he could study the terrain below him by picking holes in the green belt of the trees that surrounded the cave entrance. He was studying this countryside when he saw a rider on a tobiano riding along a trail some distance off. The man was moving slowly and studying the country. This rider was Joe Gamble, far off his own grounds and trying to pick up some sign of either Connors or the stolen cattle. Yet the distance was too great for Red to see the 3F brand on the horse Gamble was riding.

  Watching the rider, Red decided that he had without doubt lost the trail. “Now that there’s a positive shame,” Red muttered to his horse. “That hombre ain’t goin’ to find me, an’ if he don’t, I miss out on what might be a good scrap. Maybe I’d better lend him a hand.”

  Getting his gear, Red saddled the horse and then, with his rifle in hand, he mounted up. Once under cover of the trees, he worked his way through the timber until he came upon the rider’s trail. He was just starting down it when he saw Gamble returning and immediately recognized both the man and the brand. Stepping from the brush, he held up a hand.

  “Red Connors!” Gamble grinned. “Sure and I was huntin’ you.”

  “What’s happenin’ below? Hoppy around?”

  “He’s off somewhere, an’ busy. I reckon he hit a hot trail and follered it.”

  Joe tugged a bag of tobacco from his pocket and while they smoked, he brought Red Connors up to date on the situation as he knew it, including the rumors of the fight at Agate and the arrival of Vila with one hand deeply grazed by a bullet and a thumb knuckle skinned to the bone.