The Hopalong Cassidy Novels 4-Book Bundle

by Louis L'Amour

  The moon was rising when he came within sight of the 3TL buildings.

  Chapter 10

  FIGHT IN THE BADLANDS

  Circling the hot springs, Hopalong Cassidy walked the palouse back into the hills, keeping close watch on the country as he approached it. That an ambush might await him at any point, he was well aware. The horse he rode was one of the best he had ever ridden, but they had been on the move constantly now for some days, and he found himself wishing he was riding his favorite mount, the white gelding Topper.

  The morning sun was bright and only beginning to grow warm. The tracks of the cattle were plainer now, and it was obvious that Pete and his men had caught up with the herd. Here and there a cow track partly obliterated one of the tracks Hopalong had memorized farther back along the trail.

  Now the herd was in High Rock with its sheer walls towering four to five hundred feet above the trail. Rye grass grew along the floor of the canyon, which was narrow through much of its length but widening at intervals. Occasionally there were pools of water. Twice Hopalong allowed the palouse to crop the grass and drink while he scouted ahead on foot, alert for a trap. Here and there the old tracks of covered wagons were plainly visible, and in places had been gutted out and cut deeper by rains. Suddenly, in a wide-open space overgrown with tall grass, Hopalong found that the trail had petered out.

  Puzzled, he circled around. Here and there he found the tracks of a single animal or, in a few cases, of two or three, but the herd seemed to have vanished into the tall grass, growing saddle-high to the horse he rode. Suddenly Hopalong heard the sound of a calf bawling nearby!

  Searching around, Hopalong first found an 8 Boxed H steer, and if the brand was worked over, it was an excellent job. When he found it, the calf was standing with its mother near a tangle of brush that grew against the canyon wall. The brand on the full-grown cow was freshly burned, but the work had been so carefully done that it would be impossible to tell, without killing and skinning her, if it had been worked over. He pressed on, and although he found a few other scattered cattle, the trail of the main body of the herd had vanished.

  Carefully he scouted the edges of the canyon but could find no trail out. Yellow Rock Canyon showed the trail of only one steer. Hopalong scowled and rode back to a spring in a cleft of the rocky wall. It was already growing dark, for he had spent most of the afternoon looking for the trail. Picking dry wood from a nest around the roots of a shrub, Hopalong built his fire and made supper. As he ate he considered the entire situation and what had happened.

  Despite his search he could find no exact place where the trail began to peter out. It was as if the herd had gradually dwindled until the few remaining cattle had been scattered here in the upper reaches of the High Rock.

  Daylight found him pushing on, and disregarding the dwindling herd and the missing cattle, he pushed on toward Coyote Springs. One horseman had come this far, the man riding the slue-gaited mustang. There was water in the springs, although nearby Massacre Lakes were only vast dry beds. He had seen no tracks of cattle this far north, but after a while he made camp on the sand near the springs. In the morning he would head back toward the south.

  Red Connors stared through the dimming light. “You sure this is the way? Those tracks look like Hoppy’s, all right, but he’s sure doin’ a lot of wanderin’ around.”

  “Perhaps he’s lost their trail,” Gamble suggested. “We lost it miles back. A while back one of our boys struck the trail of a herd up here once and then lost it completely, just like it vanished into thin air.”

  The two rode on, and then Gamble drew up suddenly. “Fire ahead. Off there to the right.”

  Swinging their horses, both men rode toward the fire, but were still some thirty yards from it and could see nothing of its builder when a cool voice said, “Ride right up to the fire and get down facing it, so I can see your faces.”

  “Hoppy!” Red said. “Found yuh!”

  “How are you, Red? You two get down. I’ll put on the coffee. What are you doing up this far?”

  “Followin’ you. What did you think?” Red grinned. “We were afraid you’d get caught by these rustlers.”

  “Did you see Frank Gillespie? I sent him back to the 3TL. They were alone back there.”

  “No, we didn’t see him, but then we didn’t stop at the ranch either. We stopped only a few minutes in Agate. Talked with an old fossil named Sourdough. From what he said, you turned plumb salty in that town, Hoppy.”

  “I’m in more trouble now,” Hopalong replied, then explained. “And the way things now look,” he finished, “I’ve lost the trail. My idea was to head south down Long Valley and try to cut their trail on the west. They didn’t come north, and they certainly wouldn’t turn back toward the east—not unless they cross the border into Idaho.”

  Hopalong studied Connors thoughtfully. “Are you sure you are in shape for this kind of a ride? You lost a lot of blood.”

  “In shape?” Red Connors snorted. “I could outride you the best day you ever saw, and without half tryin’. As far as that lost blood is concerned, I could lose twice that much and still lock horns with this outfit you are chasin’.”

  Cassidy chuckled. “You hear that?” he asked Gamble. “This souwegian is so hardheaded he wouldn’t move camp for a prairie fire. Like Lanky used to say, he’s full-grown in the body, but kind of puny in the head.”

  “A lot you got to say,” Red growled. “I could name some times you were sure glad to see me around!”

  “You can bet your life on that,” Hopalong agreed.

  Daylight found all three men in the saddle. Hopalong led off, the palouse seeming none the worse for his days of hard riding. If ever a horse had a love for moving, it was this one. Several miles to the west, beyond Massacre Creek and looming above the dry lakes of the same name, was Painted Point, a landmark that stood out boldly against the sky, marking the opening into Long Valley.

  “We’ll head for that Point,” Hopalong suggested, “and then we’ll fan out and scout for sign to see if we can find any tracks this far north. If we can’t, we’ll ride south until we do. It’s a cinch that herd had to come west or north, and if we keep moving we’ll cut their sign.”

  “What beats me,” Red exclaimed, “is how they got out of High Rock. That herd just seemed to peter out. We saw the tracks and we followed them a ways. Of course we never scouted that country as thoroughly as you did, but we could see the tracks just fadin’ out.”

  The sun was hot, and they headed west. “That hombre seems to be heading the same way,” Hopalong said, indicating the tracks. “He was with the herd.”

  Yet scarcely a mile farther the mysterious rider turned north across the vast expanse of the dry lakes, pointing toward distant Yellow Peak. Hopalong hesitated, then shook his head. “Let him go. We’ll ride south as we planned.”

  Yet he was growing worried. He did not like the idea of being away from the 3TL for so long a time with the country in the mess it was. Frank Gillespie was there, but he was not enough. But to return now meant a long ride back, and if they could locate the herd or even find the trail they had taken after leaving High Rock, they would be much better off.

  Rounding the Point, they faced the wide expanse of Long Valley. At this point it looked to be all of nine or ten miles to the far side—not an easy distance for three men to cover and keep in touch with each other. The only possible way was to ride diagonally across the valley, and when upon the other side to cut back, checking all water holes and any tracks they encountered.

  Hours later Red Connors joined Hopalong at a butte in the valley’s center. “Gamble’s comin’ up,” he said. “We didn’t find a thing.”

  “No luck for me, either.” Hopalong rubbed his jaw. “Our best bet’s right ahead, at Pinto Springs. There’s water there, enough for a herd. I’ve seen some cattle tracks headed that way, too. Mostly strays, I guess.”

  “It’s bad,” Gamble explained, worried. “The springs lie close to a butte, but
they can’t be seen from this direction until we are mighty close. I don’t like it even a little.”

  “Yes, I see what you mean. If they have a man atop that butte or the long mesa this side of there, he could have been watching us for the last hour or so, if he had a glass.”

  Red squinted at the towering buttes before them. The air danced with heat waves, and he mopped his face, then pulled his hat low to enable him to see clearer. The two buttes rose high above the level of the plain. “A man with a rifle up there could sure make it mean for us,” he agreed. “You got any water left, Hoppy?”

  “I filled up at the last water hole. I’ve still got about two thirds of a canteen.”

  “Mine’s nearly empty,” Gamble said ruefully. “There wasn’t anything but alkali over where I was. How about you, Red?”

  “About half,” he said grimly. “A man with a rifle could hold us off, keep us away from that water hole for a long time.”

  “He’ll have to fight if he does!” Hopalong replied shortly. “Let’s go!”

  They rode on, accompanied by a little dust cloud of their own making. More and more Hopalong was sure that wherever the missing herd had been taken, it had not been to this valley. At least, not to remain here. Grass was scarce and water scarcer, and while in a wetter year this might be and probably was good grazing land, it was far from that now. A few cattle might eke out a precarious existence, but no large herd would do so. Yet if the herd had come through Long Valley’s lower end, Pinto Springs would be the most likely spot to water.

  They rounded a corner of the butte and suddenly Red yelled, “Look out!”

  Swinging his horse to the left as he did so, Hopalong got a fleeting glimpse of sunlight on a rifle barrel and then something whipped by his head, and an instant later he heard the bark of the rifle. Racing for the rocks, Hopalong kept going straight ahead. He knew that he would soon be so close to the butte that any rifleman atop it would have to rise from concealment to get him in his sights, and unless he was badly mistaken, that would be the end of things for him.

  The rifle bellowed again, the shot coming from high up on the butte, but now Hopalong was closer and racing for the water hole. Off to one side Joe Gamble had swung behind a low hill and Red had vanished in the rocks. There was another shot and Red’s rifle spoke from behind him, and then Cassidy was in the shadow of the butte. A volley of shots rang out ahead of him, and his palouse stumbled and went headlong, throwing Hopalong to the ground!

  Even as he hit, a shot struck near him, and Hoppy continued to roll until he lay flat against the side of a boulder. Bitterly he stared back at the palouse, fearing the horse was dead. But after a moment the horse started to get up, and he saw a red streak along the animal’s neck. Evidently the bullet had stung the horse and it had made a misstep. Another bullet spanged against the rock where he lay, and another ricocheted near him. Helpless to return the fire, he lay still.

  His rifle was in the scabbard on the palouse, who had struggled erect and walked off, stopping in the shade of some rocks where some bunch grass remained green. The horse was about thirty yards off, but an immeasurable distance when faced with the thought of an expert marksman less than two hundred yards away.

  The sun was blazing down and Hopalong studied the terrain with a thoughtful eye. The boulder behind which he lay was only barely high enough to offer cover for him, and the position could easily be rendered impossible if one of the riflemen should work his way to the left, for then Hopalong would be within sight and it would be only one more shot and Hopalong would be out of the picture, and for good.

  He winked the trickling sweat from his eyes and turned his head carefully to the left. The nearest cover in that direction was the boulder where the palouse was sheltered—a veritable nest of rocks and brush where a dozen men might easily conceal themselves—yet that thirty yards of interval was almost certain suicide. On the other side the rocks were small and scattered, but not twenty yards away there was a shallow depression.

  Hesitating, Hopalong decided that he must take a chance. Unquestionably, the riflemen who were sniping at them would realize that he could be outflanked, and if he was to move, it must be now. Gun in hand, he squirmed along the sand and managed to move to the next rock. Here he had no more than an inch of clearance above his head. A bullet splintered the rock and tugged at his sombrero. Gathering himself, he lunged in a crouching run for three steps, then dived. He landed in a cloud of sand and dust, bullets raining around him.

  Grimly he checked his position and found himself scarcely better off, but the shallow place was much closer now. From between two rocks he studied the situation where the riflemen were concealed. Suddenly a boot heel showed. Under no misapprehensions as to the range of his pistol, he knew it could easily carry that far, even though it was of uncertain accuracy at the range. Holding the Colt high, he fired. Sand splashed inches short, but the rustler jerked his foot back.

  Behind him Red’s rifle bellowed and a man cried out. Then the yell died away into a burst of sullen cursing. Red fired again and the curses ended in a yelp of surprise and fury. Hopalong crawled along the sand, made the shallow place, and rolled into it. Here he was safe from rifle fire, and he checked his Colts, thumbing shells into the one fired.

  Carefully he took stock of his position. Red was still shooting, so he was all right. But there had been no sign of life from Joe Gamble, and he might have been injured. On the other hand, he might be just scouting for a good position.

  The rustlers were apparently gathered in a cluster of rocks at the foot of the four-hundred-foot cliffs to the butte. There were ways up those cliffs, for here and there were steep or completely vertical chimneys that seemed to offer access to the top, but these would be in direct line of fire from Red. Somewhere behind those rocks, and probably around the turn of the butte, would be the outlaws’ horses. Getting to his feet, Hopalong started moving swiftly down the shallow place in which he now found himself.

  This depression was evidently an old wash that somehow had been closed off to water and gradually filled in by wind-blown sand mingled with drift and fallen rock. It ran past the butte pointing down the valley, but at one place it seemed to come within a few yards of the butte’s shoulder. If he could get there without being noticed, Hopalong Cassidy would then find himself behind the attackers and probably in the vicinity of their horses.

  Moving swiftly, and listening to the methodical boom of Red’s rifle, Hopalong followed the filled-in draw, safe from either observation or fire. It took him all of fifteen minutes to reach his goal, and as he neared it he slowed his pace. Mopping sweat from his face, he listened attentively for any sound, but there was nothing. Peering through a clump of greasewood, he studied the lay of the land.

  Here, as elsewhere, the foot of the cliff was piled with slabs of broken rock, yet there was no sign of the horses or of any tracks here. In a quick dash Hopalong made the shelter of the cliff and stopped to catch his breath. The boom of Red’s rifle and the occasional rattle of the outlaws’ guns sounded faintly here, partly cut off by the shoulder of the butte. Now Hopalong moved forward, holding close against the cliff and so avoiding the worst of the rocks. He had been climbing slightly and was now probably above the outlaws, but still there was no sign of their horses.

  Suddenly, below him and some distance ahead, he saw a man dash from a cluster of rocks and dart toward him. Instantly Hopalong grabbed his gun and fired from the hip. The bullet caught the man in the knee evidently, for his leg buckled under him and he fell, plunging face downward in the sand, his rifle sliding ahead of him.

  Wildly he grabbed for the gun but Hopalong put a bullet in the sand almost at his fingertips. The man jerked back his hand as if stung.

  “You can get hurt,” Cassidy commented dryly. “Better toss your pistols down there with your rifle, and don’t try anything funny. You’re out of this fight now, if you play it smart.”

  The man looked up at Hopalong, his swarthy face dark with fury. “You’ll get
killed,” he promised. “They got too many for you.”

  Hopalong shrugged. “Toss your guns down here,” he said, “and let me worry about getting killed. If we have to start a Boot Hill here, don’t let yours be the first grave.”

  Sullenly the man unbuckled his belt and tossed his guns down beside his rifle. “My leg’s busted,” he said then. “You sure nailed me.” His eyes rolled off to his right, and Hopalong was instantly all attention. He was aware that all firing had ceased. That this was due to his own shots he did not doubt. Both Red Connors and the outlaws would be in doubt as to what course to adopt.

  The outlaws made up their minds first.…

  Chapter 11

  HOPALONG’S RUSE

  Quick movement showed among the rocks, and a bullet spattered stone near Hoppy’s face. He fired instantly, and the outlaw ducked with an oath. Hopalong fired again, then backed up, dropped to all fours, and scrambled for the gun belts and rifle. The wounded outlaw stared at him with reluctant admiration.

  “You sure picked a dilly of a scrap,” he said. “What happened to Vila?”

  “He’ll be all right. He laid for me and stopped some lead.”

  “He’ll kill you,” the outlaw promised matter-of-factly. “You got a match?”

  Hopalong reached into his shirt pocket for his matches and tossed them to the wounded man. “I’ll take those back,” he said, “but light up.”

  The outlaw returned the matches. There was still no sound. The afternoon was hot and still. Sweat trickled down Hopalong’s face. “You better fix up that bad leg,” he said, “right now.”

  “Yeah.” The dark-faced man straightened up a little. “Looks like I’m ridin’ out of the money in this show.”

  A tentative shot clipped the greasewood over their heads, but Hopalong waited, taking his time. Soon a man would be sent to investigate. Hopalong wondered again about the horses of the rustlers and considered asking, then realized he could not expect a truthful answer, if any at all. Yet there was always a way, even if a devious one.