The Hopalong Cassidy Novels 4-Book Bundle

by Louis L'Amour

  “Or been killed,” Grat replied dryly. He liked none of this. It was scarcely an hour to daylight now, and they could never get the herd out of the desert in time. They could never round them up, let alone get them over the pass and into California. Within an hour riders from the 3F and the other spreads would be coming. Reluctantly he turned to the others.

  “We’d better clear out,” he said bitterly. “If we don’t we’ll be caught red-handed.”

  “And leave these cattle?” Pod was incredulous. “You’re crazy, man!”

  “Crazy?” Grat glared at him. “I’d be crazy if I stuck here tryin’ to round up this herd until a search party came up on me. You think I want to stretch hemp? You can have it, if you want! Me, I’m takin’ out!”

  “What’ll Bolt say?”

  “What he says won’t save my neck if those boys get a rope on it!” Grat said emphatically. “Let’s go!” Wheeling their horses, they started away at a rapid trot.

  From the crest of the ridge behind them Hopalong saw the dark line of riders moving out. The distance was great, but he slid his Winchester from the scabbard for a parting shot, then gave it up. He had done enough. He had broken up the biggest mass cattle steal he had ever seen attempted. The cattle would drift back toward their own water, for there was none on the desert where they had been abandoned. And they had not far to go.

  Pod Griffin’s head ached abominably, and he was furious. Suddenly he slowed. “Grat, Hopalong Cassidy is back there somewhere. I’m goin’ huntin’ him.”

  “Don’t be a fool!” Grat said angrily. “That curly wolf would have your hide on the fence before you knew what hit you!”

  “Like blazes!” Pod’s face was white with repressed fury. Grat could see the ugly look of hatred on him and suddenly made up his mind.

  “Go ahead,” he said, “but be careful. Take your time.”

  After all, why not? Hopalong needed killing. In fact, he had to be killed or they were through. Obviously, Pod Griffin was crazy with the desire for it—and there was just a chance he might succeed. Let him have his try. Feeling as he did, he was apt to do something reckless, and the farther away he was, the better for the rest of them.

  Griffin turned and rode back toward the hills, and Hopalong, who had swung his own horse only a minute before, did not see him start back.

  A few scattered cattle remained in the arm of the Black Rock that lay at the foot of Pahute. Hopalong was tired, and for the first time he realized how tired. Yet he started the cattle, and picking up more as he pressed on, headed them southward.

  The sun lifted and grew warm. His muscles sagging with weariness and his hat pulled low, he dozed in the saddle, his body soaking up the heat. The palouse was tired and he walked wearily, little puffs of dust arising from each step. The strays, now augmented to some thirty head, moved placidly before him. Hopalong straightened up and blinked his eyes. Slowly his gaze circled the hills, then the empty desert, but there was nothing in sight. The weariness crept over him again, aided by the early warmth of the morning sun. He dozed.

  Far back, not yet to the edge of Soldier Meadows, Pod Griffin rode. He rode like an Indian, well forward in the saddle, every sense alert. His mouth felt dry and there was a queer jumpy sensation in his stomach. Hopalong Cassidy might be anywhere, anywhere at all!

  What was the matter? Was he afraid? Was he getting like some silly kid? After all, what was there to Hopalong Cassidy that was different from any other man? He had killed men. He had faced men with guns before. Why let this worry him?

  Suppose Grat was scared. All of them were, for that matter. But Hopalong could be just an overrated reputation. Pod knew how those things grew. People already said he himself had killed more than twice the number he had actually slain. Not that Pod ever denied it, for he had no intention of denying it now or any other time. He liked the reputation of being a gunfighter, and if he killed Cassidy—his eyes suddenly brightened with determination—why, he would be the biggest man around!

  And why take a chance? Why not just let him have it whenever he saw him? He could go up afterward and put Cassidy’s gun in his hand. He could even fire a shot from it. He could make people believe he had killed the great Cassidy in a stand-up gun fight!

  He was alone and so was Cassidy. Who would ever know the difference? For an instant he hesitated over the thought. Hopalong had friends. Red Connors, Mesquite Jenkins, some of the greatest fighting names of the West. Suppose they took it up?

  Well, he reflected, suppose they did. He could watch, he could be careful. Then he could add their scalps to Hopalong’s. Soon they would be talking of Wild Bill Hickok, John Wesley Hardin, and Pod Griffin!

  His chest swelled and he saw himself striding down the street, pointed out in saloons, talked about, envied, and the interested object of attention for all the girls.

  The sun was warm, and his horse stumbled and jerked him out of his dream. He had better ride with care or he would never get a chance. Thinking Hopalong Cassidy dead and actually killing him were two vastly different things. And the man might be anywhere. There was something to what Grat had said. A man did not get the reputation Hopalong had by doing nothing. And what had he told him? He had warned him out of the country!

  If they met now—

  Pod Griffin drew up and touched his lips with his tongue. Still, he had to go on now. What would they say if he came back with some wild story? Would they believe him? They would not. Only Cassidy dead would convince them.

  The tracks of the cattle covered the sand. Here and there he could find the tracks of horses. Where was it Hopalong had struck him? His head ached and he could scarcely focus his eyes. His horse slowed and pulled toward the spring, and Pod let him walk there. After they drank they moved on, and emerged at last into the middle of Soldier Meadows with a clean sweep of the valley before them. Pod Griffin stiffened.

  A herd of cattle, far off now, and moving ahead of a lone rider!

  Cassidy!

  Quickly he studied the situation. Hopalong Cassidy was alone. He was driving cattle. Soon he would be turning east after passing Pahute Peak, and a man with a rifle atop that ridge could have him in easy range. Furthermore, Hopalong would be unable to get up the ridge after him if he should miss. But he did not plan on missing. Slapping the spurs to his cayuse, he raced along the trail, taking a short cut over the ridge and back of Pahute Peak that would put him ahead of Cassidy in much less the distance the gun fighter would have to follow.

  Hopalong Cassidy blinked his eyes open and stared ahead. All was quiet. The cattle walked placidly, content in the knowledge they were headed toward home. He looked around and saw nothing. Pahute Peak was behind him now, and a steep ridge lifted on his left. He watched the cattle walk, but his weariness, the warmth, and the rhythm of the walking horse had their way and he was dozing again.

  High upon the ridge Pod Griffin wiped the sweat from his hands and took a new grip on the rifle. Hopalong Cassidy was less than four hundred yards away and coming nearer. Griffin swallowed and waited, his heart pounding, his mouth dry. As the palouse walked closer, following the gather of cattle, Pod Griffin lifted the rifle and cradled the heavy butt against his shoulder. He took a deep breath, put the sights on Hopalong’s temple, held his breath, then fired!

  Hopalong Cassidy slumped suddenly, then slid from the saddle and fell into the sand. Startled, the palouse backed away, and Hoppy’s boot toe hung in a stirrup, then slipped free. The horse backed away, looked around uneasily, and then lowered his head to nose at the fallen man. The sickish-sweet smell of blood made the horse snort and back off. The bunched cattle had not stopped. They plodded on. The horse looked after them wishfully, then stood still. His bridle reins had fallen, and he knew his duty.

  Overhead the sun blazed upon the black shirt of the fallen man. A buzzard wheeled in the brassy sky. Pod Griffin got to his feet. He was trembling like a leaf. “Got him!” he gasped. “I’ve killed Hopalong Cassidy!”

  Chapter 16

  POD
GRIFFIN’S BLUNDER

  Jack Bolt’s visit to the 3TL had not been made entirely because of his awakening interest in Sue Gibson and the possibilities presented by marriage to her. His presence either in the house or just leaving in the opposite direction would remove him from any possibility of suspicion.

  This was the big raid and the last one, utilizing his own men and a few rough characters who would take their pay and drift on out of the country. His connections kept him in touch with such men, and they were often useful.

  It was with high good humor that Bolt heard of the raid. Frank Gillespie could do nothing alone, and Bolt correctly surmised that Sue would not allow him to leave the headquarters. The 3F was too far from that part of the range to get men on the ground at once, and his men had their orders and could reach an adequate place of concealment before pursuit could be successfully organized.

  Bolt arose the following morning in fine fettle. As he prepared breakfast he made further plans. He would ride over to the 3TL and complain about losing cattle; he would learn of their raid, then offer to use his men to ride after the cattle. He would fail to recover the herd, and he would be very regretful. This would place him in a good light with Sue. Later, after the marriage, he could restock the depleted range.

  The first drive had by now reached Surprise Valley, and unless something very surprising had happened, Hopalong Cassidy and his friends were now dead or cornered and fighting for their lives. The second drive was well on its way, and by now their trail had vanished in the loose sand of the desert or the hard rock of the passes. No matter what happened, he was in the clear.

  Sunlight bathed the trail as he started for the 3TL. When he came to the main road he was surprised to see a rider a short distance ahead, leading a magnificent white horse. The rider was a stubby man, grizzled and homely.

  Riding alongside, Jack Bolt slowed his pace, unable to take his eyes from the led horse. “That’s quite a horse,” he said. “Who owns it?”

  “This horse? Why, this here’s Topper, Hopalong Cassidy’s horse.”

  “I’ll buy him,” Bolt said. “I’ll make you a good price.”

  “You crazy? There ain’t enough money in the world to buy this horse from Cassidy.”

  “Well”—Bolt was reluctant to give up—“if anything happens to Hopalong, you bring that horse to me.”

  The stubby man chuckled. “Don’t hold your breath. Hopalong doesn’t let things happen to him. Why, if all the lead that had been shot at him was loaded on a ship, she’d sink right to the bottom.”

  Jack Bolt smiled uneasily. The man’s confidence irritated him. What if the Aragons did fail to get Cassidy? What if he did come back? No matter how well a trail was covered it was never so well done that a clever man could not unravel the skein and find out where all the threads began and ended. Jack Bolt knew—he had left Texas just a few jumps ahead of a Ranger who was some shakes at unraveling crooked trails.

  Shaking off his doubts, he rode on ahead and soon came in sight of the 3TL. There was no sign of life, and then just as he was growing puzzled he saw Sue come out of the house dressed for riding. Gillespie led her horse from the barn. Bolt scowled. Was she going to town or was she going to scout around herself? That was something he did not want, and yet—why not?

  Riding together, he might advance his case much faster than in any other way. His eyes narrowed and he began to smile. That was just the ticket! To ride together!

  Sue looked up as he rode into the yard. Her face was pale with worry. “We were raided last night, Mr. Bolt. I don’t know how many head they got. Frank said it looked like they had stripped the range.”

  “Stripped it?” Bolt allowed just the right note of incredulity to creep into his voice. “Oh, no! It can’t be that bad, Miss Sue! I’m sure it can’t! I was just about to tell you that I lost cattle last night, too. But not over fifty head at most.”

  Gillespie stared hard at Bolt. “We lost plenty!” he said. “And when I can get free of this ranch I’m goin’ huntin’!”

  “Don’t blame you,” Bolt agreed affably. “I’m feeling the same way.”

  He turned to Sue. “You’re riding—were you going to look over the ground?”

  “Yes. I don’t want Frank to go. He’d keep on going and maybe get killed for his pains. After all, he’s the only friend we have here now.”

  Bolt looked offended. “Now, Miss Sue, I don’t take that kindly. I’ve always thought myself a friend of yours, and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

  She was contrite. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  Gillespie turned away with disgust written in every line of him. He watched them ride off with narrowed eyes. Maybe, he reflected, he was a fool, but if Jack Bolt was an honest man, he was next in line to be Emperor of China!

  Some miles to the west Joe Gamble was moping along behind two captured outlaws—the still angry cook and Cardoza with his broken leg. The leg was now in splints, and Cardoza, despite the anguish it caused him, rode with infinite patience. Once, some years back, he had been an honest cowhand. Right now he was wishing he had known when he was well off.

  Gamble brought up the rear, his rifle across the saddle in front of him. He rode warily, although taking plenty of time because of Cardoza’s leg and the jolting caused by a faster pace. Gamble knew very well what his chances would be if he was caught with his prisoners. The Aragons were not noted for their mercy. All were killers.

  The night before, he had heard distant shots, and that worried him, as they came from the direction Cassidy had taken. After a while he cut Cassidy’s trail, but his own route for Tascotal was to the south, and he did not want to ride around with his prisoners. Almost three hours later he topped a rise and halted. Before him, drifting slowly toward the east, was a huge herd of cattle!

  “What in blazes!” He stared, puzzled. No riders accompanied the cattle, and they were pushing across the desert, apparently following some course of their own.

  “What do you make of that, Cardoza?” he asked wonderingly.

  Cardoza spat. “Looks like somebody messed things up proper—or else they run into plenty of trouble.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Cardoza made no reply, and the cook stared sullenly at the big herd. Gamble spoke to his horse and they started on. Rapidly they overtook the slow-moving herd, and the first brand Gamble saw was his own ranch, the 3F. Within a few minutes he had spotted cattle from the 4H and the 3TL. Apparently rustlers had tried a big drive and something had interrupted them. Remembering the shooting of the previous night, Gamble tightened his lips. Hopalong Cassidy must have encountered this herd. There had been a fight, but where was Hoppy now?

  Cardoza was doing some thinking on his own. This was the boasted big drive, come to nothing. Something or somebody had stopped it and started the cattle back home; but if so, where were Grat and the others? Where was Cassidy? Had they killed each other in the shootout?

  Gamble fell in behind the herd and urged them to a faster pace. Cardoza’s broken leg was tied in place and he could ride fairly well. He swung out to one side and helped, as did the cook. Both were cattlemen first, and these things were almost second nature for them.

  Suddenly, as they neared the edge of the desert, a group of riders topped the crest of the pass before them. Almost at once Gamble recognized the black horse his boss always rode, and beside him was Sue Gibson. His eyes narrowed. Jack Bolt was there, too. Bolt’s eyes flashed as they recognized Joe Gamble’s two prisoners.

  “Joe!” Dru Monaghan reined in his black. “What happened? Where did you get this herd?”

  Sitting his horse, Joe Gamble told the story, only leaving out the present whereabouts of Red Connors. Seeing Jack Bolt there made up his mind on that. When Sue asked about the men, Joe shrugged.

  “Don’t know, ma’am. I reckon they tangled with the rustlers who were drivin’ this herd. They either got killed or kept chasin’ ’em, because this herd was sure enough alone and headed for home w
hen I found ’em.”

  Another horseman had come quietly down the hill behind them, and now he spoke. Frank Gillespie had taken the arrival of the rider with Hopalong’s horse as an excuse to ride out himself, leaving that tired cowhand to take care of Gibson.

  “You said you lost cows, Bolt. I don’t see any 8 Boxed H stock here.”

  Voices stilled suddenly. A horse stamped, but even the herd seemed willing to be silent. Jack Bolt turned cold inside, then looked over the heads of the men between them. “What do you mean by that?” he demanded.

  “Nothin’.” Gillespie was relaxed and easy, but his right hand lay on his thigh inches from his gun. “Only if you lost cows, it’s mighty funny they ain’t here. These are all 3F, 3TL, and 4H stock.”

  “Some of mine are there, probably. Anyway,” Bolt objected, “we’ve no proof this is the whole herd. I sure lost cows last night.”

  Dru Monaghan looked at Gamble and saw his eyes on Bolt. For the first time suspicion came to the 3F owner. He looked Bolt over carefully. “Seems funny if you didn’t,” he said quietly. “This drive would have passed the corner of your place.”

  “What are you implying?” Bolt demanded.

  “Nothin’.” Dru Monaghan was short. “Nothin’ at all. Only I’m curious.”

  “So am I,” Gillespie persisted. He could see Jack Bolt’s face hardening and the tension building up, but he was reckless of consequences. “I’m mighty curious. I reckon a few of us had better backtrack this herd and see just where these cows were driven and who was driving them.”

  Sue Gibson looked from one to the other, seeing the suspicion in their faces. She was suddenly angry.

  “Why, what are you thinking of?” she demanded. “If you think that Jack had anything to do with this, you are as wrong as you can be. He was visiting at my home shortly before the raid, and he left in the opposite direction. You all know that country. He couldn’t have circled around!”