Manuel Aragon spun on his heel, dropping his rifle and grabbing for his Colt.
“Drop it!” Hopalong yelled.
Aragon snarled and his fingers closed on the gun butt. Behind Hopalong the door creaked, and he fired as Manuel jerked to lift his gun. The bullet hit Aragon and turned him halfway round, and instantly Hopalong wheeled, dropping to one knee. A dark figure loomed before him, bearded and wild. The man held a gun, a big Walker Colt, and both weapons flamed as one. Hopalong felt the shock of the bullet and heard a second report as he fired, a report that was not his own. His shot missed as the shock of the bearded man’s bullet turned him. Instantly he steadied and fired again, and the bearded man pitched forward on his face, mouthing curses.
Glancing down, Hopalong saw that the man’s bullet had hit his cartridge belt and had fired one of his own shells. There was a bloody tear in his jeans where the bullet had ripped its way down, burying itself in the floor. Manuel Aragon lay sprawled out on the floor, and Hopalong sprang across to him, seeing the movement of his lungs that betrayed the fact that he lived. Picking up both six-gun and rifle, Hopalong hurled them through the window, then did the same with the bearded man’s weapons. Outside there was more shooting, and he rushed for the door. Instantly a shot rang out and a bullet cut through the door within inches of his reaching hand.
Another bullet holed the door higher up. No chance to get out here. Wheeling, he ran down the hall to the back window, knowing the front must be under cover of a half-dozen rifles. The back window opened on a shed roof, and Hopalong took a quick look and stepped out. He had holstered his .45 and now carried the Winchester. Suddenly, not a block away, a man skylined himself on a rooftop and shot. Hopalong’s rifle came up, but he held his fire. The man was shooting at something in the street. There was something familiar about that man on the roof, something Hopalong could not quite place.
Dropping from the roof of the shed, Hopalong turned toward the street. Instantly a shot grooved the wood within an inch of his face. He sprang back, then circled toward the far side of the bank. At the corner he faced a street empty except for the body of Joe Gamble, who lay sprawled there. Dru Monaghan was nowhere in sight, nor was Red Connors.
Hopalong dropped his rifle suddenly and sprinted for the far side of the street. A bullet clipped past his head, another kicked up dust just short of him, and then with a long dive he hit the street rolling and ended up against the boardwalk. A bullet slammed the walk over his head, and he realized he was in an absolutely impossible position. Yet to rise meant death.
He turned his head and saw that the walk itself was raised about eight or nine inches from the ground at this point, and beyond it he could see the litter of bottles and refuse under the saloon. Edging under the walk, he crawled back under the saloon proper. Here there was at least two feet of clearance. Grasping his six-guns to assure himself that he had not lost them under the walk, he crawled toward the back of the hotel. After a quick look he crawled out and straightened up.
The rubbish pile was unchanged, but behind it lay the sprawled body of Bones. The fat outlaw was dead. A bullet had struck him over the ear and ranged downward through his skull. Evidently, the rifleman Cassidy had seen upon the roof. Hopalong opened the back door of the saloon and stepped in.
Two men were standing inside the front door, and both were armed. The bartender, his face pale, was standing near the bar, his shoulder trickling blood.
“Look out!” he whispered. “That’s Sim Aragon!” At the sound both men turned. The three men faced each other across the saloon. Sim Aragon smiled with thin, scarred lips. “So? This is Hopalong Cassidy? I have looked for you, amigo.”
“You’ve found me,” Hopalong replied shortly.
Aragon’s hand dropped, and Hopalong’s guns leaped from his holsters, blasting fire. Sim Aragon dropped his gun and spun, buckling at the knees. Then he fell, striking the man beside him and throwing him off balance. Hopalong held his fire.
“Don’t try it!” he warned. “Drop your gun!”
Pete Aragon glared. “You’ve killed my brother!”
“He asked for it. Drop your guns!”
For an instant Aragon hesitated. With a shrug he moved his hands carefully to his buckle and let go his belt. Then he stepped away. His black eyes never left Hopalong. “Can I look at him? Maybe he is not dead.”
“Go ahead—only don’t get any ideas.”
There was silence in the streets. Then, some distance away, a door slammed and there was a murmur of voices. Reassured by the end of the shooting, people were coming out into the streets. Red Connors was the first one through the door. His shirt was ripped and bloody.
“I ain’t hurt,” he protested as he saw Hopalong’s eyes. “Just split the hide and ruined my shirt.”
The door swung open, and both men looked around. In the door, grinning, was Mesquite Jenkins!
“Where did you spring from?” Hopalong demanded.
“Heard you were up here, so I headed north. When I found out about this trouble I figured I could learn more and do more by bein’ where I wasn’t known, so I stayed away from you.”
“Where’s Dru, Red? Was he hurt?”
“He caught two slugs, but he’ll live. Fact is, he was still on his feet when last I saw him. Gamble’s not dead either. He’s got him a broken leg and a slug through the shoulder, though.”
“How about them?”
“I don’t know. Let’s see.”
They started for the door, and Mesquite commented on Bones: “I spotted that place right off. He was holed up there where he could kill anyone who jumped between the buildings for shelter. They had ’em all laid out right to get you, Hoppy.”
Bones was dead. Manuel Aragon and the bearded outlaw were both living, but the bearded outlaw was in very bad shape. Manuel Aragon stared at Hopalong with hard eyes.
“Some day,” he muttered through lips twisted with pain, “I keel you!”
Four outlaws had been killed, three were badly wounded, two more slightly wounded. Pete Aragon had surrendered.
Of Jack Bolt and Grat there was no sign.
Chapter 22
UNFINISHED BUSINESS
It was plain that Red Connors was disgusted by the news.
“Got clean away,” Red Connors said bitterly. “And Bolt won’t head for California, because he knows the sheriff will be waiting for him there.”
“It looks to me,” Hopalong replied slowly, “like the smart thing to do would be to ride out to the 8 Boxed H and give the place a going over. We might find something there that would tip us off.”
Mesquite Jenkins suddenly scowled. “Say, where’s that other hombre? He said he worked for the 3TL. Tall, high cheekbones, brown hair.”
“Sounds like Gillespie.” Connors looked questioningly at Mesquite. “Where’d you know him?”
“Rode into town with him. We were going to meet at the corral, but I was late and he wasn’t there. Come to think of it, I think Gillespie was the name.”
“Let’s have a look.” Hastily the three men got to their feet and started for the door. Outside, people were gathered about in knots, talking and arguing. All eyes turned to the three, and although many admiring, interested glances went their way, there were a few that were hostile.
Despite their questions, they could find no one who had seen the 3TL hand. At the livery stable the man who had lent the palouse to Hopalong nodded to their question.
“Saw him last night,” he said. “He slept here. He was prowlin’ around most of the night, ugly as a grizzly with a sore paw. One thing I do know—he was some interested in Jack Bolt.”
Cassidy considered this, his eyes thoughtful. Shoving his hat back on his head, he dropped to his heels, chewing on a bit of hay. As he turned the situation over in his mind it began to clarify, in some respects at least. There was every chance that Gillespie had been most interested in Bolt. That he disliked the outlaw rancher he had already shown, and that he did not trust him. Their words of the da
y after the herd was recovered returned to mind. Gillespie was almost sure to concentrate on Bolt, of all the outlaws. The lean Scot was a stubborn man, and not one to relinquish a fight without adequate reason.
“I’ve a hunch,” Hopalong suggested, “that when we find Gillespie, our man Bolt won’t be far away. Chances are he followed Bolt and Grat when they slipped out of town.”
“Where would they go?” Red said irritably. “No use him going to the 8 Boxed H, and he would expect us to look there and at the 3TL. Anyway, he could gain nothing by going there. The 4H is watching for him, and so’s the 3F. Whatever he has done, he’s flown the coop.”
“He knows that country west of here,” Hopalong said.
“He knows it north, too.” The liveryman looked up. “I know he does because he used to come in here and hire horses from me to ride that way.”
“He tell you that was where he went?”
“No, Cassidy, he sure didn’t, but I don’t need to be told. Except in the Pine Forests, there’s no timber west of here, and from the needles I used to comb out of those horses’ tails, he went through thick timber. There’s timber northeast of here along the state line. And the fact is, that’s the only way he could have gone in the time he had.”
“Had he hired any horses lately?” Hopalong asked.
“No, not just lately. The last time was almost two months ago, but before that he was ridin’ that way right reg’lar. Two, three times a week. Carried some grub with him, I think.”
Studying the matter, Hopalong looked up at Mesquite. “How about you walkin’ over to the Emporium and asking a few questions? Red, drop in at the hardware store. See if Bolt bought any tools or other gear there, say a couple or three months back.”
When they had gone Hopalong considered the matter further. “Did he ever take a pack horse?”
“Not that I know of. He had some sizable packs behind his saddle nearly every time, though.”
“If a man rode north, where would he be apt to go?” Hopalong asked. “I don’t know that country up there.”
The liveryman shrugged. “There ain’t no place to go. Just range country, then some mountains and some scattered timber. There isn’t a ranch or even a prospector’s cabin anywhere to the north.”
He chewed a moment, then spat. “Tell you, though. You go by way of Agate. It’s out of your way a mite, but you talk to Sourdough. It seems to me he prospected that country a few years back.”
Red was coming back, walking rapidly, and Mesquite was coming from the other direction. Red was grinning. “Now what do you know?” he exclaimed. “You can sure read your sign, Hoppy! About three months back Bolt started buyin’ supplies. The stuff for his ranch always went out of here in a buckboard, but not this. He had sacks made up to tote behind his saddle, but not like a man would carry for an overnight or two-day camp. It was like he was layin’ in a stock.”
Mesquite nodded, his eyes bright with grim satisfaction. “That fits! About three, maybe four months ago Jack Bolt bought a hammer and some nails. Graves back there figured it was funny, because they had bought a big stock at the ranch not long before. Then he came in later and bought an axe, a shovel, and a pick. That was on the last day of March. Graves set it down in a book because he had to order some axes, that being his last one.
“Three weeks later Bolt came in and bought some hinges and a hasp, then a heavy padlock.”
“He could have used all that at his ranch,” Red said dubiously.
The liveryman nodded. “He could’ve, but I doubt it.”
“I’m betting he didn’t!” Mesquite replied shortly. “I’m betting Bolt played it safe. He built himself a cabin somewhere and stocked it with grub. Isn’t that right, Hoppy?”
Hopalong Cassidy nodded. “Bolt is a careful operator. It was only the fact that Red stumbled on some suspicious tracks that started all this trouble. Otherwise he might have gotten away with what he was doing. I think that Bolt was playing it very safe and had another hideout located if he needed it. Something he didn’t even want his own men to know about.”
“Makes sense, I guess,” Red agreed. “But how’re we goin’ to find it?”
“He’d want water,” Mesquite mused, “and, unless I miss my guess, a lookout from where he could keep an eye on his back trail. He might not care about that, but I’ve an idea he would.”
“Water, fuel, and shelter. With the tools he got he could build a shelter, yet he would have to have a place in which to build it.”
Hopalong turned to the liveryman. “About a horse, now,” he suggested. “Do you remember any time when Bolt had more than one horse? Or did he buy a horse from you at any time? My idea is that he would want an extra horse up there. Maybe a couple of them.”
“No.” The liveryman was positive. “He didn’t buy any horse in this town, or I’d have heard of it. But he might have picked one up anywhere. There’s an hombre over north of Paradise who runs a few horses. Folks say he does a right smart business with strangers who need horses in a hurry.”
“We’ll look him up,” Hopalong said, rising.
“Better go it with a loose gun,” the liveryman replied dryly. “He’s reported unfriendly.”
An hour later, assured that Joe Gamble was resting easily and that Monaghan was out of danger, the three riders saddled up and started back for the 3TL. They had gone no more than a mile when Sue Gibson overtook them. She flushed as she looked at Hopalong.
“I guess I was wrong about Jack Bolt,” she said. “I’ve heard about those messages.”
Cassidy smiled. “Forget it. I’ve been wrong a few times myself.”
Red Connors snorted, and Mesquite’s eyes twinkled. “Although,” Cassidy continued, “not so wrong as some others I could name!”
“You were wrong when you didn’t shoot down that no-account Griffin,” Connors said flatly. “I knowed that for certain!”
Hopalong Cassidy rode into the 3TL ranch yard beside Sue Gibson, but as he swung down from the saddle Gibson himself limped from the house, smiling widely. Beside him was the man who had brought Topper back to Hopalong. Sighting him, the horse neighed shrilly, and Hoppy turned toward the corral. The horse ran eagerly to the gate and thrust his head over the bars.
“How are you, boy?” Hoppy ran his fingers under the white gelding’s mane and scratched the horse’s neck. “Good to be back, isn’t it? How’s the leg?”
Tapping the horse’s foot gently, he lifted it and examined the leg. It looked as good as ever.
“We’ve got a trip to make, Topper. Let’s go?” The horse jerked his head with pleasure at being back with Hopalong. Hopalong turned to Red as he walked up. “We’ll stay here tonight, then start in the morning. We’ll ride to Agate and talk to Sourdough. From there we’ll probably have to check the trails north for tracks, but unless I miss my guess, this is one trail that will be hard to follow. He’ll have no idea of letting anybody trace him.”
Late the next day Sourdough told them what he could about the country. Then he added, “I ain’t seen none of that crowd around town, but Hanson, who has him a little place down on the crick, lost a horse the other night. Lost a horse, a shoulder of beef, and some beans. Stole off him. Also about two dozen 56 Spencer shells.”
“That might have been Slim,” Red said. “I recall he had him a Spencer carbine.”
The trail north led up the bottom of a wide canyon, its sides scattered with stubby timber and some undergrowth. There was no evidence of travel in a long time. They saw occasional deer, rabbits, and once a huge timber wolf who trotted unhurriedly off into the scrub growth on the mountainside.
“We’ll just have to work north, check the streams and water holes, and watch all the trails,” Hopalong told them. “It might be that Slim and the Breed know something, but I’m gambling they don’t. I doubt if even Grat knew about this hangout unless Bolt took him there.”
“If there is a hideout!” Connors said. He scanned the mountainside and looked on ahead to where the valley narr
owed. “What do you say we strike up the hill? We can see farther.”
“Good idea!” Hoppy turned his horse around a boulder and started him up through the underbrush, mostly manzanita or tobacco bush. A grove of quaking aspen made a white-and-green arrow pointing up a slight hollow in the mountain. Curving around it, they rode on, keeping their eyes alert for movement or tracks.
The mountain sloped back and up, and they rode on, climbing steadily. Now the scattered growth thickened into clumps of alder and white-barked pine. Pausing under the shade of a red fir and its neighboring hemlock, Hopalong scanned the country. Suddenly he stood in his stirrups. “Fire,” he said suddenly. “Out yonder.”
Without a word they moved out, and when they had gone no more than half a mile Red Connors lifted his hand. “Here’s a trail!” he called. “Two riders!”
Hopalong rode over. Neither track looked familiar now, but he would know them if he saw them again. Heading for the smoke once more, the three moved out. The tracks seemed to be going the same way.
“Must be an old camp,” Mesquite suggested. “These tracks were made last night.”
“Not by Bolt, I’ll gamble!” Connors said flatly. “He’ll play it smart from here on in!”
Chapter 23
DEADLY HALF-BREED
Advancing with extreme care, the three spread out, working their way through the timber toward the thin blue line of smoke. Ahead, it climbed vaguely through the trees and lost itself against the sky. Finally they drew up. The smoke came from a hollow in the woods that was not far away among some boulders. Red circled, his rifle in his hands.
Hopalong advanced, following the tracks, then straightened in his stirrups to look over the bush toward the circle of the camp and the dying fire, but there was no sign of anyone around. Cautiously he closed in, his Winchester ready.
Two men had camped here—two men who could have been gone less than an hour. They had prepared and eaten a meal, but not much of one. Hopalong was standing by the charred remains of the fire when Red and Mesquite closed in.
The Hopalong Cassidy Novels 4-Book Bundle Page 57