The Hopalong Cassidy Novels 4-Book Bundle

by Louis L'Amour

  The sun’s rays beat down upon them, and Cassidy saw Red’s shirt growing dark with sweat. He grinned at the older man. “Hot!” he said.

  Red snorted. “You call this hot? And you been in Sonora? Why, one time I saw a coyote chasin’ a jackrabbit down in Texas and it was so hot they were both walkin’!” Red mopped his brow. “Although this here climate is sort of warmish now and again.”

  Several minutes passed when there was no sound but the clop-clopping of their horses’ hoofs, and then Red continued, “Speakin’ of that coyote and the rabbit he was chasin’, I do recall they were both packin’ canteens. There’s dry lakes down thataway where even the fish hibernate durin’ dry weather. They bury themselves in the mud and sleep until it rains enough to get swimmin’ water.”

  Joe Gamble lit a cigarette and looked patiently at Hopalong, who grinned. “Sometime you want to get Red to tell you about the rifle he had that would shoot around hills.”

  “I’d like to hear it,” Gamble agreed, sober-faced. “I have heard tell of rifles like that, but I never did come up to one. They might be good to have against some of those grizzlies we have in these mountains over in California. They grow bears over there that will outweigh a longhorn bull. Gibson killed one a few years back and they made a hide mattress for the whole roundup crew. They would just spread out the hide and the whole outfit bedded down on it. Finally had to give it up, though.”

  Red Connors turned, narrow-eyed with suspicion, but knowing that it was his role to ask. “Why?” he demanded.

  “Well, we got to havin’ our roundups in rougher country, and the trail wound around so much we couldn’t get the two wagons over ’em. It took,” he continued, looking off across the plateau, “two wagons hitched tandem and six head of oxen to haul that hide!”

  Red snorted his disgust at such a story, but before he could speak, Gamble added, “That was the bear that durned near shot me.”

  “Shot you?” Red played along. “How’s that?”

  “Well, I was out at the line cabin on Forty Mile and it was about daylight when I heard something snufflin’ outside the cabin door. Ever’ time that bear snuffled, the suction drawed the carpet two inches under the door!”

  “Anyway, I seen I was in for trouble, so I got down my old Spencer and jacked a shell into the chamber. I didn’t have any idea of goin’ out where he was, but if that bear turned the cabin over to see what was under it, I aimed to get one good shot, anyway. Those bears turn cabins over lookin’ for food just like any other bear would turn over a dead log lookin’ for grubs.

  “Mebbe this here bear wasn’t hungry. Anyway, he soon started off, and I opened the door mighty careful. For a while I had a hard time figurin’ which was him and which was the barn, the light bein’ dim like it was. Then I spotted him. I could tell the difference because he was movin’.

  “Now, big as they are, those bears are the quickest-movin’ things that live, an’ I knowed I had to make that first shot count. But that bear was headin’ straight away from me, so I just throwed down on his tail and squeezed off my shot.

  “You see, Red, that bear turned so quick that the bullet come out the front end of him an’ hit the door-jamb right over my head! Yessir! Right over my head! I always have wondered whether he really meant it that way or if he was just stung by the bullet. Took me a couple of hours to get the splinters out of my hair.”

  Red glared. “I was tellin’ the truth,” he growled. “Not no windy story.”

  Joe Gamble’s eyes widened with innocence. “Why, you don’t doubt me, do you?”

  Red’s eyes suddenly gleamed. “You said at first that Gibson killed that bear! Now you say you shot him!”

  “Sure”—Gamble was undisturbed—“he did kill him. That shot that I fired just put a hole through him.” He yawned. “Fact is, that bear kept us in meat and honey all one winter.”

  “Honey?” Red was bewildered. He came from a country of tall stories, but the possibilities of this one seemed endless. “What d’you mean—honey?”

  “Sure. You see, that was a Spencer fifty-six I shot into that bear. Well, yuh know how big a hole one of them fifty-six caliber cartridges makes in a bear or anything it hits? This hole was so big that a bunch of swarmin’ bees hived up in it, and when Gibson finally killed that bear the hole was stuffed full of honey!”

  Hopalong chuckled and Red spat. “I wished you could meet Lanky,” Red said grimly. “I’d like to hear you tell him that story.”

  “Tell you all about that bear sometime,” Gamble said. “It’s a long story.”

  Hopalong drew up suddenly. From where he sat he could see past the brink of the cliff that divided them from the valley of Duck Flat. Far below them they could see scattered black dots on the endless gray-green carpet of the valley. “There’s some cattle,” he said with satisfaction, “and it’s my bet they’re ours!”

  Their eyes searched the rim for some way down, but there was no possible way that they could see. “Might as well keep ridin’,” Red suggested. “And hope this path comes down off here somehow or other.”

  Hopalong nodded, and they started on. Scarcely a mile farther the trail dipped down into a hollow and then descended swiftly. “This is it!” Gamble suddenly exclaimed exultantly. “Look!”

  The trail they were following led to the bottom of a canyon several hundred feet lower, and from the east another trail joined it, and on that trail, even at this distance, they could see evidence of recent travel. The grass was plastered down in a manner such as could only mean a considerable herd of cattle.

  It was almost an hour before they reached the bottom of the canyon. Now there was no possible doubt—the trail here was well marked and plain for all to see. A large herd had gone through here, coming over the saddle from the east.

  “Sure as shootin’!” Red exclaimed with satisfaction. “Pinto Springs is northeast of here! That bunch took the herd right through Yellow Rock, like you figured, and brought ’em across here.”

  “They weren’t the first, either,” Hopalong added. “There’s plenty of sign. I’d say a good many herds have been brought in this way.”

  “Then we better pin our ears back and ride quiet,” Connors said, lowering his voice as he spoke. “Those outlaws can be anywhere along here now.”

  Hopalong shucked his guns and checked both, rolling the cylinders and fitting an extra cartridge into the two normally empty chambers. Red had his Winchester across his saddle before him, as did Joe Gamble. All rode with wary attention.

  In the canyon’s bottom there was shadow along the walls. No wind stirred here, no slightest cooling breath of air. It was hot, close, and utterly still. Hopalong’s mouth felt dry and he looked carefully from right to left, his eyes never still, studying every fold in the rock, every boulder, every possible hiding place.

  “How far do you reckon it is to the valley?” Gamble asked suddenly.

  “Five miles,” Red said, “or about that.”

  “Just about,” Hopalong agreed.

  “Ridin’ out of here tonight?” Red studied Hopalong thoughtfully. Much as he argued with his friend, he knew his judgment was excellent in such cases. He had never yet seen a situation Hopalong got into that he couldn’t get out of. Although never for the world would he have admitted it, he relied very much on the younger man’s judgment and knew it was safe to do so.

  “No,” Hopalong said finally. “Not unless we slip out under cover of darkness. We hole up right here in the canyon.”

  “I’ve heard of this canyon,” Gamble said. “There’s two branch canyons right opposite to each other. They should be close by. We can take the one on the north. It branches back at the end, and in either of those branches we’ll be safe from observation.”

  “Suppose we’re bein’ followed?” Red asked suddenly. “I got an uneasy feelin’.”

  Cassidy shot a keen glance at his friend.

  “Could be,” Hopalong agreed. “By this time they should have heard that I had a run-in with the rust
lers at Agate. Vila would have told them.”

  “You know that means trouble,” Red said glumly. “They’ll figure this is just the place to get rid of you. Nobody ever rides out here. There hasn’t been anybody in this country in years. Nobody but those rustlers and a few wanderin’ Modocs.”

  “There! A little ahead,” Joe said, “the canyon branches.”

  They studied the ground. Although night was still an hour away, the shadows were growing in these gorges along the mountainside. Yet here, opening to the setting sun, the earth under them could easily be seen. No tracks turned into either of the branch canyons. After a mile the side canyon branched again, and they took the turn to the left and followed it back. The walls drew close and high. The canyon was cool here, and where a shelf of rock provided the shelter of an overhang, Hopalong drew up and swung down.

  Suddenly he realized how tired he was. For days, it seemed, he had been riding endless hours, and now that riding was catching up to him. Red stumbled a little as he reached the ground. Then all three men stripped saddles and bridles from their horses and picketed them on the grass that grew plentifully here in the shadows. Hopalong gathered an armful of dry wood and carried it to where Gamble was digging out the grub. Joe looked blankly at it. “Not much coffee, and enough flour for a thin bit of bread. One sage hen.”

  Red shrugged. “We’ve had less, a few times. We’ll make out.”

  Chapter 13

  SLANDERS

  Pensively, Sue Gibson stood on the porch, watching the sun’s last rays over the mountains in the west. A door slammed at the bunkhouse, and she looked up to see Frank Gillespie coming toward her. The one loyal hand who remained on the ranch shook his head ruefully.

  “No news may be good news,” he said, “but it’s still no news. I wish we could hear something.”

  “Yes,” she said, “if we could hear anything! Anything at all!”

  Frank hesitated, then shoved his hat back on his head. “I saw you had a caller the other night.”

  “Yes, it was Jack Bolt. He was very friendly.”

  “He always is.” Gillespie’s opinion of Bolt’s friendship was obvious.

  “I believe we’ve made a mistake about him, Frank. He was very nice. He offered to help any way he could.”

  Gillespie stopped chewing, then spat. “Ma’am, don’t you be taken in by him. You can’t trust him.”

  “What is there against him?” Sue protested. “He offered to protect our herds. Said he could send some of the boys over to watch them. He said that if he failed I could have enough of his own cows to make up my losses.”

  “He said that?” Gillespie was incredulous. “I wouldn’t trust him.”

  Sue Gibson was silent, but irritated, too. After all, what was there against Bolt? Only the flimsiest suspicion, that was all. Her eyes drifted to the trail. He was coming over again tonight. Maybe he would have some news of Hopalong. Inside, she heard her father calling.

  “How is he?” Gillespie asked quickly.

  “Better. He’s sure he could be out and around now, and that it is absurd for him to be in bed. He’s never been ill, you know, and he can’t get used to the idea.”

  A horse sounded on the trail. Gillespie looked around quickly. His hand dropped to his gun, but Sue shook her head. “It’s nothing to worry about. It’s Jack Bolt.”

  Frank Gillespie stiffened and his face went hard. “I reckon,” he said bitterly, as he turned away, “that’s plenty to worry about!”

  Bolt trotted his horse to the hitch rail and then slid down. “How are you, Sue? It’s good to see you again.”

  “Thanks, Jack. Shall we go in?”

  “Wait!” he protested. “Why can’t we go for a walk? It’s hot, and we could talk better.”

  “My father’s calling, Jack. I couldn’t leave him.”

  Concealing his irritation, Jack Bolt removed his hat and followed Sue into the house. After all, he told himself, there was no hurry. Sim Aragon would take care of Cassidy, and then he, Bolt, would have a free hand here and a lot of time. Gibson could stay out of the way or he would put him out of the way. This sudden change of plans suited him. There was no reason why he should not marry, and who could he find more attractive than Sue Gibson? And also she had a big ranch. Or would have when her father died.

  The shooting that had taken place when Connors and Gamble raided the 8 Boxed H had done something to him. He was too smart to relish getting shot at. After all, why take chances when everything could be had without them? He had been a top gunman, and still was when it came to that, but what did anyone get by being a gunman? All one became was a target for every cheap reputation hunter who drifted through the country. It was a position he did not relish.

  He had his own spread in California, but why not get the 3TL, too? It could be had, and easily. Sue Gibson would welcome his attentions, he was sure. A smooth-talking man, he found her alert and suspicious, but an evening of quiet, friendly talk had removed most of it, or so it seemed. Gibson had not liked his being there, he could see that, but the old man had said little, and he had been polite enough.

  Gibson looked up as he entered, and Bolt saw a coldness come into his eyes. Nevertheless, Bolt smiled and spoke genially. “How are you tonight, Mr. Gibson? I thought I’d ride over and pay you two a visit. I am afraid I haven’t always been a good neighbor, but when a man is down I like to help all I can.”

  “Thanks.” Gibson spoke shortly, his eyes going to Sue. He was puzzled. What did his daughter see in this man?

  “Heard anything of Hopalong?” Sue asked. “We’ve been worried.”

  “No”—Bolt measured his words with care—“I’ve heard nothing. You mustn’t be worried, though. After all, both he and Red are drifters, and they are fighting men. It gets into the blood of such men and they never stop drifting and fighting. That Bar 20 outfit have always been troublemakers.”

  Gibson bristled. “Trouble for rustlers and thieves!” he retorted. “They’ve always been on the side of the law!”

  Bolt shrugged. “You know them better than I do,” he admitted. “Nevertheless, nobody can know if they have always been on the side of the law. And there has been plenty of killing, regardless. Some people say it has been needless killing.”

  “That ain’t so!” Gibson exploded. “I won’t have you comin’ here runnin’ down my friends!”

  “I’m sorry. Perhaps I spoke too hastily.” Nevertheless, Bolt saw a faint line of worry between Sue’s eyes and realized that he had obtained the result he wanted. If he could undermine their trust in Hopalong he would be going far toward getting rid of the two—or, at least, in creating a doubt as to their intentions and actions. Such a doubt was enough to build on, he knew. Jack Bolt did not hope to convert Gibson, although he might make the older man waver in his loyalty. It was Sue of whom he was thinking.

  Far from a handsome man, he was somehow attractive, and he was clever enough to give himself an air of quietness and to listen with respect when Sue talked. There was more flattery in his attitude than in any of his speeches. Jack Bolt had learned that it sometimes pays to be subtle.

  Sue made coffee and they talked. He led her to speak of things close to her, and listened with attention and interested comment. When the opportunity offered, he did his own talking. “This country is growing, Sue, and it is becoming civilized. The old law of the gun and the noose must go. We need homes, schools, churches here, and we can have them, but before we can have peace we must be rid of those men who cling to the old way of doing things. Take Cassidy, for example; I have no doubt that he is, or has been, a fine man. I have no doubt that he has done a lot of good, but this is a time for due process of law, for order. Once a man establishes a pattern of action like Cassidy, he cannot change. Frankly, I admire the man, but he is a relic, a relic of a day that is gone. We must have peace on the range.”

  Despite herself, Sue listened and found her doubts growing. How could such a man as Bolt be in league with rustlers? Hating the thought of gu
ns and killing, she was all too ready to be convinced. Several times she stole a look at the man’s profile. There was something about him that repelled her, and yet, she told herself, that was unfair. Every man deserved a chance.

  “I’ll never believe any bad of Hoppy,” she said. “I’ve known of him for too long a time. I’ve known too many good things he did.”

  “No doubt he has done good things, and no doubt he is, in his own way, a good man, but they say this Missouri outlaw Jesse James has done some good things, too. That didn’t keep him from shooting down a schoolboy during a bank robbery. Shooting him down when he was carrying books and doing no more than trying to get out of the street.

  “I know nothing against Cassidy,” he continued smoothly, “but he is too free with his fists, too free with a gun. Right now he is off in the hills chasing men and hunting for trouble. He believes they are cattle thieves. But are they? Will they ever have a trial? Or will he shoot them down when they try to defend themselves?”

  A cool wind stirred across the veranda, and Jack Bolt got to his feet. “You deserve the best, Sue. You could be anything you wish, and in this country there will be need of fine women as well as strong men. We need such people if we are to build the kind of world we want here.”

  Long after he was gone she heard his words in her ears, and she walked restlessly in the ranch yard, or sat on the porch and worried. Hopalong remained in her mind, as he always had, but now her doubts had increased and she was no longer sure of herself.

  Where was Hopalong? Gone somewhere with an idea of finding their missing cattle. That was what she knew and what she had heard. Would he find the cattle? And would there be killing?

  She looked again toward the west. She had never gone far in that direction. Her father had often told her of the wild country beyond the mountains and along the California line and she had heard many stories of the earlier days here when the wagon trains had gone over the Applegate Cut-Off. How could Hopalong Cassidy hope to find any cattle driven into that wilderness of mountain and desert?