“That sounds like Hoppy. He’s no hand to kill a man unless he’s forced to it. Howsoever, from what I’ve heard of that Vila, I wished he had done the job on him.”
Gamble agreed. “He’s all bad. Not a good point in the man, and plenty of meanness an’ trouble down his back trail. Even outlaws can’t get along with him.”
Connors was studying the situation. “The cattle I follered,” he said, “came east, but that don’t mean all of ’em have. Fact is, I was some puzzled that I found no old tracks along the way. The herd I was tailin’ seemed to be blazin’ a trail.”
“Could be,” Gamble agreed. “It wouldn’t be easy to get cattle out of the country goin’ east. Not as a regular thing. Jack Bolt would know that, an’ so would the Aragons. West of here—well, you can ride that country for days and never see a man nor a cow. Wild horses in there, lots of antelope and coyotes, and nothing much else. If they wanted to drive west they could probably find a market in Oregon. Lots of folks settlin’ up that way, but most of those with cows are startin’ dairy stock. A man might do purty well with a herd of beef.”
“Sure.” Red nodded thoughtfully and then made a shrewd guess. “Or maybe he’s buildin’ his own spread in Oregon or California. Why not? If he never sold anythin’ off at all, in a few years the increase would give him a good-sized herd marked with his own brand an’ nothin’ to worry about.
“I’ve often figured that rustlers was mighty dumb for not thinkin’ of that. Not sellin’ the stolen cattle at all, only the steers. Keep the breedin’ stock an’ build a herd that has no burned-over brands in it.”
“Could be done,” Gamble agreed. “But you know how rustlers are. They aren’t tryin’ to get rich, only to get themselves a stake for a big blowout somewheres, or a few months of loafin’. That’s the Aragons all over. Jack Bolt, now, he’s the cagey one. That hombre is smart, and what he don’t know about that sort of thing ain’t been written yet. At least, that’s the way I figure it.
“Nobody’s ever had him tabbed for a rustler. That’s one reason I say he’s smart. Seein’ Bones with Sim Aragon got me to thinkin’, an’ their reaction to the fact that Cassidy was in the country puzzled me. Then I started puttin’ two and two together and she began to add up. Nothin’ big, you understand, but lots of little things. Grat’s killin’ a while back, 8 Boxed H riders seen in odd places—lots of small things that begin to make sense only if you take Bolt and his outfit for cattle thieves.”
Red Connors had been thinking on his own hook while following the trend of Gamble’s talk. “Hoppy wouldn’t take off on no goose chase,” he said thoughtfully. “If he started somewhere, it was because he’d been readin’ sign. That hombre don’t make many mistakes, believe me.”
“You fit to ride?” Gamble asked cautiously.
“Fit?” Red bristled. “Sure I’m fit! Been sittin’ here frettin’ all day.”
“Then let’s head west. That bunch Cassidy is follerin’ are right salty. He may need help.”
“It’ll be them that needs the help!” Red said emphatically. “But that’s no reason we shouldn’t ride. No use lettin’ him have all the fun. I got a score to settle with that bunch myself. They ran me all over these hills an’ just because I run out of cartridges. That Pod Griffin—he must have been the one who stripped my shells.”
Sided by Joe Gamble, Red Connors started down the mountain. An unholy joy mounted within him. Just let them try and run him now! With his beloved Winchester and plenty of ammunition he would make them hunt their holes fast! This Gamble seemed a good man. Together they could make a fight of it with anything they encountered, whether it was a rustling gang or a bunch of Modocs on the warpath.
Hopalong had been in Agate, so that was the place to pick up his sign. Their horses’ hoofs beat hard on the trail, then softened as they ran through a belt of sand. They rode hard and fast, going by way of Tascotal.
“Reckon we better avoid the town?” Gamble wondered.
“Not on your life!” Connors barked back. “This bunch is hunting trouble! We’ll ride right into town, have a drink, and then breeze on through. If anybody wants action, just let them start it!”
Gamble chuckled. “You sound plumb riled, Red. I reckon it must have gone hard with you to let those hombres run you.”
“It did,” Connors said, “and somebody’s goin’ to pay for it, too.”
Chapter 9
RED’S “CALLING CARD”
Hours later they rode into Tascotal. Their horses were weary now and they moved slowly. Red Connors studied the street with hard eyes, taking in the brands of the horses as they pushed into town and swung down at the hitch rack near the bank.
“Don’t see any of Bolt’s stock,” Gamble said, “nor any of the Aragon horses, although they might be ridin’ almost anything.”
A man walked from the saloon and leaned against the awning post, staring hard at them. Abel Garson was alive with curiosity. Red Connors and Joe Gamble together, and looking like trouble! This would be news for Bolt! And news that, no matter how he liked it, would still pay off. Garson idled on the street, smoking and watching.
“We’ll eat,” Connors suggested finally, “and then head out and locate Hoppy. I reckon we better ride for that place called Agate. You know the way?”
Gamble nodded, his eyes straying toward Garson. He frowned thoughtfully. He knew nothing good about the man, but little that was bad. Abel Garson was, so far as he knew, merely useless. Yet he was aware of some guarded watchfulness in the man, and made a vow to keep an eye open. They ate then, and from time to time Gamble looked out of the window. Garson had not moved. Yet a few minutes later when he glanced out, the loafer was gone. Still, there was no reason to be excited. So far as Gamble knew, the man had no connection with Bolt or any with Aragon.
Leaving town on the road to Agate, Gamble noted fresh tracks. The trail to the 8 Boxed H turned off from this road. If Garson was a messenger to Bolt, he would be turning off soon. Gamble dropped off his horse and studied the tracks, easily visible in the slanting light of late afternoon.
“Fresh,” he said. “Made since that wind went down, which was maybe an hour ago. In this soft sand they’d be almost or entirely wiped out by now if they had been made earlier.”
“You see anybody leave?” Connors asked.
“No, but a no-good loafer named Garson was hangin’ around. He was gone before we left the restaurant.”
Red Connors studied the country ahead. “Know another trail to Agate?”
“Sure, but it’s some longer.”
“Let’s try it, and ride careful.” They rode on in silence, and Red chewed thoughtfully. Suddenly he turned his head. “We far from the 8 Boxed H?”
“Three, four miles. There’s a horse trail turns off near that pinnacle up ahead.” Gamble looked at Red curiously. “What’s on your mind?”
Red grinned. “Why, I reckoned we should sort of leave our cards as we pass by. Sort of bed down and see how much fun we can have with our rifles. That bunch is livin’ too soft, looks like. Let’s stir ’em up a little.”
Gamble chuckled. “Let’s go!”
Threading down the little-used horse trail, Gamble took them into a position among some gigantic boulders on a rise overlooking the ranch. Red swung down, his eyes glinting.
“Joe,” he said grimly, “I’m goin’ to like this job!” Dropping to the ground he leveled his Winchester between two boulders. A horse was tied to the hitch rail. Even at this distance they could see the dark stains of sweat. That horse had been ridden within the past few minutes.
Carefully aiming at the hitch rail, Red fired. The sharp spang of the rifle sounded, and almost with the sound the horse reared sharply. Frightened by the bullet that smashed the hitch rail, the animal jerked back, snapping the rail off, and then the horse dashed off, carrying its head high.
A man rushed from the door of the house and started for the horse, and Red instantly put a bullet in the ground beside him. With a frightened yel
p, the man turned so swiftly that he lost balance and sprawled at full length on the ground. Red turned his rifle to the ranch house and proceeded to knock the glass out of a window. Joe Gamble joined the proceedings by firing two shots through the door, then shooting the windows out of the bunkhouse.
Aiming at the well rope, Red cut it near the wheel on the third shot, dropping the bucket into the well, from which it would have to be fished before the owner could get any more water. Gamble fired two bullets into the water trough in the corral, letting water out on the ground. He sent another searching bullet into the bunkhouse, and then together they hammered the door of the ranch house through which the running man had just gone. Another window was smashed out, and then they fired at the old chimney, ventilating it with holes.
A shot answered from a broken window, and both men let go at the spot as if on signal. The rifle barrel vanished instantly.
Grinning, Red drew back. “Let’s go on to Agate, Joe,” he said. “Those fellers ain’t so happy about now, believe you me!”
In the ranch house of the 8 Boxed H, Jack Bolt got up from the floor, his face dark with bitter fury. Angrily he glared at the smashed windows. A bullet had found his water bucket and rained it on the floor. His coffeepot had been knocked almost from his hand. A picture on the wall was splintered, the door punctured by bullets, and Grat, who had been talking with him, had a scratch on his face from a flying splinter.
Peering from the door, they glimpsed in the door of the bunkhouse the figure of Bones, also taking stock of the situation. “Maybe they are gone,” Grat suggested. “I thought I heard horses a minute ago.”
“They shot the windows out!” Bones yelled. “Who was that?”
Jack Bolt stepped outside and glared toward the ridge from which the firing had come. “How should I know?” he demanded. “There was more than one.”
“Fightin’ that outfit ain’t goin’ to be no fun,” Bones suggested suddenly. “Those hombres could shoot!”
“Cain’t be Cassidy,” Grat said. “He was in Agate the other night.”
Abel Garson showed his head in the door, glancing fearfully toward the ridge. “It was that Red Connors and Joe Gamble,” he said. “That was what I come out to tell you about.”
“Then why didn’t you?” Bolt whirled on the loafer, his eyes deadly. “Why didn’t you come out with it?”
“Well”—Garson rubbed his palms on his chaps—“I hadn’t eaten nothin’ and when I saw that grub I just sort of piled in. I was fixin’ to tell you when the shootin’ started.”
“You sure that was Connors in town?” Grat demanded.
“Know him anywheres,” Garson replied immediately, “and Joe Gamble was with him.”
“I thought you told me that Connors was dead?” Bolt demanded, glaring at Grat.
“I did figure he was,” Grat replied sullenly. “Last time anybody saw of him, he was ridin’ for that ridge. We put a flock of lead in the trees after him, and when we caught his cayuse there was blood on his withers.”
“Well, you’re an idiot! I didn’t send you out there for the exercise. And when I ask you for a report, I’m asking for what you know, not what you think!”
Jack Bolt stood still, studying the situation and finding nothing in it that pleased him. He had lived in security here, and now suddenly he had been fired upon. His toughs had been treated with contempt, his windows shot out, his whole ranch shot up, and the enemy had escaped without reprisal. Moreover, from their attitude, none of his boys seemed very eager to pursue. There had been no wild rush for horses, all of which was mute tribute to the shooting of the men who had fired on the ranch. He himself, he remembered, had been hugging the dusty floor only a few minutes ago while lead ricocheted about the room.
Now the two had gone off, probably on the road to Agate, hunting Hopalong Cassidy. If that outfit hadn’t taken care of Hopalong, and the three joined forces, the rustlers would really be in trouble. But there was no chance of them trailing the cattle. He had often tried it himself, knowing the way they had gone, and he had consistently failed.
Thoughtfully he considered the situation. The big raid would go ahead. A much bigger raid than the one currently under way. Moreover, if Hopalong, Red, and Joe had followed Aragon’s men with the cattle, they must never be allowed to return.
“Bones,” he said suddenly, “mount up and get into town. See Sim Aragon and tell him that Red and Gamble have started west after Hopalong. Tell him that none of them must come back. Get them—anyhow he wants to, but get them! I only ask that it be done west of the desert, so nobody will ever know. Understand?”
Bones nodded. “Yeah, I understand.” Three men murdered, he thought, even as he answered Bolt. Good men, too. Bones had little imagination and less ethics, but he did possess a certain code of his own, and that code went against shooting a man in the back. It also demanded that a man fight his own battles. Bolt was showing no inclination to do any fighting at all. “All right,” he agreed, “I’ll ride in.”
“I’ll go along,” Garson replied quickly. Ever since the shooting began he had been frightened, and the idea of riding back to Tascotal alone had frightened him even more. Besides, he would be more comfortable riding with Bones than with the others. The fat man was easygoing and not much inclined to run into trouble.
Bones started off toward the corral, and Bolt stared after Garson. He disliked the man even while he used him as a spy. There was nothing stable about Garson, nothing worth any kind of a gamble. It would never do to trust him, and Jack Bolt did not. As a matter of fact, he trusted no one but himself.
He watched the two ride off toward town in the twilight, and then he walked back to the house. A wind had started to blow and dust sifted in the broken window. Like a ghost house. Startled at the thought, he looked hastily around. He was not actually superstitious, he told himself, but such thoughts disturbed him. Gloomily he stared at the windows. He would have to get new ones in town, and that would mean questions. It would also excite comment from those he did business with, and in no time the story would be all over the country. Some suspicion that Red and Joe Gamble had just reason would be sure to remain.
Joe Gamble disturbed him.
Red Connors and Hopalong Cassidy were strangers in the country, and both had the reputation of being fighters. If such men were killed, there would be little surprise, nor would too many questions be asked; but Joe Gamble was a steady, serious cowhand with a good reputation—a hard-working man known to be honest and not a drinker.
Nevertheless, there was nothing else to be done. All three men must be killed, and the sooner the better. He walked the floor of his cabin restlessly, then gave it up. The very sight of the broken windows acted as a warning. He was now in danger himself. Courageous enough, he had allowed himself to let all that slip into the past, and for several years now he had been telling himself that he was the brains. Let others get shot at, not him.
“Boss?” It was Grat. “That outfit sure did us up brown. They clipped the rope on the well bucket and she’s stuck down there.”
“Well, get it out!” Bolt was impatient. “The fool who left the well hole so small should have been shot! Can’t you hook the bail?”
“We’re tryin’. Meanwhile there’s no water. Even the trough is run dry.”
Jack Bolt walked out into the ranch yard. It was growing late. He stared at the trail toward town, chewing at his underlip. Maybe he should ride over to see the Gibsons. How much, if anything, did they know? Pod had run off, but that had been caused by Hopalong, and the gunfighter might not have said anything about Bolt’s connection with the rustling—if he knew anything.
Sue Gibson— He scowled. She was a pretty girl, and they had danced together more than once. Maybe that was an easier way to get the cattle and the ranch—especially with her father laid up in bed. Anyway, he would ride over, be frank with them, and see what came of that. Frankness, he had learned, was disarming, and he might actually win Sue to his side. At least it was worth
the chance while he was waiting for Sim Aragon to handle Cassidy for him.
He mounted up and rode off while Grat glared after him. The Breed and Slim were working over the well. “Get busy, you two!” Grat snarled. “The boss has ridden off and left this to us. A lot he cares if we never get a drink!”
Surprised, the others looked at him, and made more angry, he stalked off across the yard. He saddled his own horse, then stopped. Where would he go?
To the creek. It was not far off, and he could at least get a bucket of water there and fill all their canteens. He hesitated again. “How’s it look, Slim?”
“Jammed up for fair. We’ll have to bust the bucket, I reckon.”
“Let it go till morning. Hitch up the team and load a couple of barrels. We’ll go to the creek after water. That blasted Connors! That was him, and I know it! Nobody else could cut a rope at that distance.”
Slim mopped the sweat from his face. “Don’t reckon they could. He missed a couple himself. There’s a bullet in the frame and the shiv wheel has been jimmied up. That Connors, he’s a whiz with a rifle.”
“Get the barrels loaded. I’m scoutin’ around a little. You head for the creek.”
Jack Bolt rode on, following the winding trail toward the wide range of the 3TL. The farther he rode, the more he wondered if this was not the best way after all. He did not hesitate to admit the truth to himself. The gunfire and the hum of lead had done something to him. Four years or so of absence from gunfighting and killing had changed his thinking. Cowering on the floor, hearing the bullets punch through the walls of his cabin, knowing that any one of them could mean death, had put something into him that had gone clear to the bottom of his mind and his stomach. He did not like being shot at. When he was younger he had been heedless. He had believed the bullet had not been made that would kill him. Death had seemed fantastically far away.
It was always that way when you were young. Well, he was older now and knew that death was no respecter of persons. There had to be an easier way. He had brains, and it was time to use them.
The Hopalong Cassidy Novels 4-Book Bundle Page 48