Her father was asleep when she returned to the house, and she looked at him for a long time. These were trying days for him. He was a man who had lived in the saddle, and he was now chained to a bed. Yet he was better, and soon he would be riding again. Knowing how many cattle seemed to be gone, she wondered how he would feel when he began to ride over the hills.
Faint and far off she heard a shot, then another, and several in a bunch. Running to the door, she stared off toward the northwest from where the shots had come. A hinge creaked and she saw Gillespie standing in the door of the bunkhouse, his face pointed toward the distant shots. He turned suddenly and went back inside. In a minute he was out, rifle in hand.
“What is it, Frank?” she asked quickly. “Where are you going?”
“Going?” His face was savage. “We’re losin’ more cows, that’s what it is! They are runnin’ ’em off now!”
“But what can you do, Frank? One man alone?”
“I can kill at least one of the dirty thieves!” he said bitterly.
“Don’t go, Frank. Don’t leave us alone. I’m afraid.”
He hesitated, looking longingly toward the north-west. But in the vague light of the stars and the reflected light from the door Sue’s face was drawn and pale.
“All right,” he said reluctantly, “but we’re losing cows.”
It was noon the following day before they knew the worst. The range had been swept clean. Not only on the 3TL but on the 3F and the 4H spreads as well. Some time during the night a carefully planned raid had hit the three ranches and started what must have been a thousand head of cattle moving—and by daylight they had completely disappeared.
Chapter 14
CHANGE OF ROUTE
From the ridge above their camp Hopalong Cassidy scouted the wide plain of Duck Flat by means of his glasses. At a rough estimate, no less than six hundred head of cattle were grazing in the range of his vision, yet the sparse grass could not possibly feed such a herd for long. Obviously this was but a way station on the drive, and the cattle would be moved before long.
To the south the flat widened out into a broad valley, but in that direction Hopalong could see what appeared to be riders who moved ceaselessly to prevent any cattle from drifting south. To the north the flat narrowed to a channel that was scarcely a half-mile wide, and through that channel the cattle would be driven. From what Gamble and Sourdough had told him, north of there lay Surprise Valley, and the California state line. For a long time Hopalong Cassidy studied that channel and its rocky walls. He took the glasses from his eyes and considered the situation with care.
He was a thoughtful man and knew very well that a few minutes of thinking often saved no end of trouble. An intelligent man never took an unnecessary risk, and Hopalong had long since learned the foolishness of moving without careful consideration.
It was not enough merely to recover this herd. The real necessity was to discover where the previous cattle had been taken and who was behind the stealing. Yet there was no reason to allow all these cattle to get away. His problem now was to discover how to save part of the cattle while letting the remainder of the herd go through so it could be followed.
Somewhere nearby would be the ranch that was the destination of the cattle. Watching the distant, faint blue smoke that marked the rustlers’ camp, Hopalong was suddenly startled to see a bunch of horsemen emerge from the mouth of the very canyon down which they had come on the previous night. These riders pushed on across the valley, and Hopalong turned his field glasses upon them.
The riders were closer than the camp, and while he could make out no features, he could see the men were heavily armed. This would probably be Sim Aragon.
Hopalong’s eyes narrowed with speculation. Then Aragon had followed, and had undoubtedly seen their tracks. Had he discovered their turnoff into the branch canyon? It was improbable, as the floor of the canyon at that point was rock washed bare of sand. Hence he probably believed them somewhere in the valley. Only by the good fortune of taking the branch canyon had they avoided being set upon by Sim and his riders.
Now the rustlers outnumbered them by at least three to one, too great odds to meet in any open combat. If they fought at all, it must be from shelter and with a good getaway planned. Yet fighting in that way could only delay the end, not change it. The arrival of Sim Aragon and his riders altered the whole situation. The best thing, then, was to let the herd go through and follow it.
The sun was rising, although it was not over the mountains behind him as yet. The rocks on which he lay had lost most of their nightly chill, and the sky was growing clearer. Shielding the glass to forbid any possible reflection, Hopalong again studied the distant camp. Within a half hour the riders would reach the camp. Give them another half hour of conversation, mutual recriminations, and argument, and it would be at least an hour before they were in the saddle and moving.
Sliding off the rock where he had been watching, Hopalong descended the steep path he had found and in a few minutes was beside the fire.
Red Connors grinned as he approached. “Better grab your cup, Hoppy; this is the best coffee I’ve had in months!”
“And the last you’ll have on this trip!” Gamble said grimly. “This is the end of our grub.”
“We’ll find some,” Hopalong said. “In fact I was thinking about that very thing.”
He explained then what he had seen from above, outlining the lay of the land and the probable line of departure to be taken by the cattle and the rustlers. He also told them of the arrival of the other riders and his conviction that these were Sim Aragon and his men.
“We could stop the herd at that channel,” Hoppy said. “We might hold it there, though if they stampeded it through we’d have to give up. That’s probably what they would try. They’ve enough men to keep that herd moving while some of them scouted around and shot it out with us. We’ll not gain that way.”
“How about the grub?” Red interrupted. “We can’t go on without it.”
Hopalong explained briefly, and as he talked the other two men began to grin. Hurriedly completing their light breakfast, they broke camp and mounted up. Hopalong led off, taking the route by which they had come, retracing their ride back up the canyon and to the plateau across which they had advanced to the canyon.
“There’s a high red butte,” Hopalong explained, “that stands out by itself. We can find their camp by that.”
The red butte kept showing itself from time to time as they headed south. By the time they reached the cliff opposite it, Red had sighted his glasses on the camp beyond.
“The bunch is gone,” he said gleefully. “Only one man there, breakin’ camp. We’ll have to hurry.”
Gamble had scouted ahead. “Looks like a deer trail here,” he called softly. “Let’s go.”
Riding down the steep trail, they looked up the valley. From the dust it was evident that the rustlers had already started the cattle moving. Hopalong turned south, and describing a narrow half circle, keeping to low ground and washes, he led the way across the flat toward the camp. As they came out of the wash they saw the cook about to put his foot in the stirrup. He was scarcely fifty yards away.
Walking their horses for silence, the three riders rode up on him, fanning out a little to prevent escape. “All right!” Hopalong spoke sharply. “Up with your hands! Reach for your gun and you’re a dead man!”
Joe Gamble had shaken out a loop, and as the rustler spun his horse the loop shot out. With a surprised yelp the rustler grabbed for his gun, but the noose dropped and whipped tight. He left his saddle and hit the dust with a bounce. Instantly Red Connors was on the ground and racing for him. The man struggled to his feet, but Gamble tightened up on the rope, and in the space of half a minute the rustler was hog-tied and helpless, but not silent. He cursed them bitterly.
“I’ll kill you for this!” he shouted. “I’ll kill you!”
Hopalong shook his head, his eyes cold. “You aren’t killing anybody. Haul him
back in the shade, Red. We’ll leave him here. If we remember him we’ll come back and pick him up when the show is over.”
“Hey!” The cook’s voice turned anxious. “You ain’t leavin’ me here? What if a catamount shows up?”
“No panther or mountain lion would bother you,” Hopalong replied shortly. “They’re particular about what they eat!” He turned to Red. “Take his canteen. There’s water here, and in time he’ll get loose. He can drink then, but he can’t travel without a canteen.”
Rounding up the two pack mules, the three headed off for the mountains. Behind them the sound of curses, yells, and finally pleading died away.
Returning to the hills, the riders split up the food into three packs, which they divided among themselves. Then they cached the remainder, including ammunition and a considerable length of wire.
Gamble nodded at it. “What’s that for, I wonder?”
Hopalong chuckled. “You haven’t been in Texas, Joe. That’s baling wire, but they use it for changing brands. It’s better than a running iron, and all you have to do is twist it into the shape you want. You can alter brands so perfectly there’s no way to tell, short of killing and skinning the animal. That accounts for the smooth brands we’ve seen.”
“What now?” Connors demanded. “Those hombres will be already movin’ that herd through the gap.”
“Let ’em move it,” Hoppy said briefly. “We’ll ride along and watch.”
“I wish I knew how things were back at the ranch,” Red said worriedly. “Jack Bolt ain’t in this outfit, nor any of that bunch of his. Did you see Grat or Bones?”
“No sign of ’em,” Gamble agreed.
Topping a low rise, they could see the dust of the herd up ahead, and it was moving steadily through the gap into Surprise Valley. Hopalong studied them briefly, then turned to the others.
“No use all three of us being here,” he said. “I’m riding back to the 3TL. Red, you are good on a trail; you keep after this herd and see what happens to them. Joe, why don’t you head back, pick up that hombre we tied, and then get him to lend you a hand with that Cardoza—the one we bedded down with the broken leg. He may be in bad shape by now, and he should be back where a doctor can work on him. I’ll hit it out at top speed for the ranch.”
“Good idea,” Connors said. “I’ll follow the cattle. Don’t you worry none about that.”
“How about you, Gamble?”
The cowhand hesitated, then grinned ruefully. “All right, but I’ll probably miss out on the fightin’. What do you want me to do after I get those hombres back to Tascotal?”
“Better check with your boss, then hightail for the 3TL. If I am not there I’ll leave word for you. Now I’m going to rattle my hocks out of here.”
With a wave of his hand Cassidy was gone, putting the palouse into a canter that rapidly took him back down the trail. He rode steadily, stopping only to give the horse a brief rest, a taste of water and grass, then moving on. It was a good distance, and he wanted to keep moving.
By nightfall he was on the edge of Soldier Meadows, and, crossing, he made a quick camp in a notch among the rocks and close under the rise of the first bluff of the mountains. He was only a short distance from the hot springs, and he used one of them to provide water for coffee and cooking. Finally, when darkness was well fallen, he went to sleep.
He awakened with a start. By the look of the stars, the night was already far advanced and he had been sleeping for some time, but what had awakened him he could not imagine. The air was cool, almost cold, and the stars were very bright. He could smell the faint steamy odor of the hot springs and the freshness of grass. For a long time he lay with his eyes wide open, and then he caught the shadow of his horse’s head etched sharply against the night. The palouse was standing with head erect, ears up, peering off into the night down the valley.
Hastily, Hopalong reached for his gun belts and buckled them on. Then he drew his Winchester close and hurriedly pulled on his boots. By the time he was on his feet and had his Winchester ready, only a few minutes had passed. On cat feet he crept down the little draw toward the open valley and paused there, looking out into the darkness, where he could discern nothing, could hear nothing. A cricket chirped with determination; somewhere a nighthawk called. And then he heard—cattle!
He stiffened. Cattle, here? Now? Scowling, he walked out a few steps from the rock and listened again. Then he heard the sound of the hoofs—a large herd, moving steadily up the valley toward him. It was unbelievable, but they were coming! Had the rustlers struck again? But the Aragons, or two of them at least, were already far over to the west. Suddenly his skin tightened.
If a herd was moving now, and nothing but a stolen herd would move at this hour, then Bolt’s own men must be moving it! Here was all the evidence he would need—if Bolt himself was driving them!
Wheeling about, he ran for his camp and hastily saddled up, then threw together the few loose parts of his gear and tied them on behind his saddle. He was in the saddle and moving out across the meadows toward the herd when he saw the broad hat of the point man going by. The man did not see him, and despite the chance that he might be Bolt himself, Hopalong allowed him to continue. First he wanted a look at the cattle. This was a large herd, and if it had been stolen tonight, the brands would be unchanged.
Working his way into the outer edge of the herd, Hopalong bent low and struck a match, shielding it with his hands. Holding it against the animal’s flanks, he saw the brand. Only an instant before the light flickered out.
3TL!
This, then, was a stolen herd, and there was no sense in allowing them to move it farther. Hopalong pushed out of the herd and then heard a yell up ahead:
“Slim! What you lightin’ a match for? Durn you, don’t you know you can see a match for miles on a night like this?”
“Aw, forget it!” Hopalong said. He made his voice sound ugly. “If you don’t like it, go hang yourself!”
The point rider whipped around with a snarl. “You say that to me?” He pushed his horse forward. “You want trouble, you can have—” He gasped then. “Hey! You aren’t Slim! You—” Hopalong struck swiftly with the barrel of his Colt, and the rustler grunted, then slid from the saddle.
Stooping and grabbing his collar, Hopalong dragged the unconscious man to the side and out of the way of the herd. Then, deliberately, he took the point himself and began to work, turning the cattle ever so slightly from the trail they should have taken, turning the point of the herd due north and then northeast. Knowing the ways of cowhands, he knew that it might be some distance ahead before anyone rode up to ask any questions.
There was a good trail this way, and it would lead over a ridge and past the ruins of an old army camp and then back into the desert. By that time he hoped to have them headed due east and right back to the 3TL. Grinning despite the danger, he kept the herd moving, leading at times and talking to the cattle, but at times falling back to urge them on faster and faster.
Chapter 15
TREACHEROUS ATTACK
The rustled cows were over six miles on their way before there was a sudden clatter of hoofs and Hopalong heard two racing horses coming up on the flank of the herd. There was no time for talking. If two men were coming, it meant that something was wrong, and it was always possible the man he had knocked out had come to and caught up with them. Turning hard right, he pointed the herd down the mountain and then raced down the opposite flank, wheeling at times to urge the herd on with shouts and blows of his hat. The cattle were nervous at the unexpected night move and they began to trot, then to run. With a thunder of hoofs they raced down the far side of the mountain toward the desert. There were frantic shots as men tried to turn them, but they had little effect.
Swinging into the drag of the herd, Hopalong saw one lone rustler bringing up the rear. Instantly, Hopalong let out a long Texas yell and fired two quick shots. The running herd broke into a wild stampede, and the startled rustler wheeled with a curs
e of rage and raced toward Hopalong. Holding his gun low, Hopalong waited. The rider jerked up his pistol and Hopalong fired. The rustler cursed and Hopalong charged at him. The man swung away and raced off. In the brief moment of passing, Hopalong saw that the man’s hand was bloody.
The herd was running now, and he fired again and again; then, swinging his horse around, he reloaded his gun. Hopalong drew off, riding into the hills and cutting across the direction the herd had taken.
The two riders who had raced toward the point of the herd had been Grat and the Breed.
Neither had noticed the herd’s change of direction for some time, and then it was the half-breed who grew uneasy. Finally he called Grat’s attention to it, and after a few minutes of observation Grat saw that Pahute Peak was almost straight south of them. Furious at what he believed was Slim’s negligence, he raced his horse toward the front of the herd and the Breed had followed. Then came the shots that stampeded the herd, and both men were swept along by the onrush of cattle. Neither was able to stop or escape from it, and they were carried on until the herd reached the desert on the far side, when the thick sand began to slow them down.
Black with fury, Grat started riding this way and that, trying to gather in his men. It was then that Pod came up, blood trickling from his lacerated scalp, and explained what had happened.
“Who was it?” Grat demanded hoarsely.
“I didn’t get a look at him,” Slim said, “only I noticed some spots on the horse, black against white.”
“Hopalong Cassidy!” Pod Griffin exploded. “That was him! I had me a chance and I muffed it!” Furiously he slammed his hat to the sand. “And to think I could have killed him!”
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