The Hopalong Cassidy Novels 4-Book Bundle

by Louis L'Amour

  “Gone,” he said. “Maybe an hour ago, probably less. And they haven’t much grub. They took the grounds out of the coffeepot.”

  Red prowled restlessly. “Two of them,” he agreed. “It looks like the Breed and Slim.”

  “They saddled up in a hurry,” Mesquite added, “and lit out like the devil was after ’em.”

  Cassidy nodded. “They must have spotted us back down the trail. All right.” He gathered up his reins. “Let’s get on after them.”

  They moved out swiftly, the trail plain to see. It went straight away into the scrub pine, then mounted a slope through saddle-high manzanita and wandered among some boulders. Twice they lost the trail, but each time Hopalong picked it up. Suddenly, far ahead, they sighted a rider.

  “Take it easy,” Hopalong said. “I think that hombre meant to be seen. Maybe the other one is lying along the trail somewhere.”

  They rode on. The day warmed and a slight breeze stirred the grass. Over the distant mountains thunderheads began to build their castles in the sky. The heat increased, the breeze died out, and the afternoon became sultry. They pushed on. Suddenly a rifle shot sounded and a bullet snarled past Hopalong’s head. Red fired as if on signal and then dusted the clump of brush again. A horse’s hoofs rattled on stone and were gone. The three pushed on, taking their time, aware that precipitate action could mean death.

  The thunderheads built higher and turned darker, flattening out on the underside. Off in the far canyons thunder grumbled and muttered without humor. A gust of wind came and went. Another rifle shot sounded, but the marksman was too far away and they saw his bullet strike far ahead of them.

  “Hot!” Connors mopped his face and neck, removing his hat to wipe off the band. “Sure is hot and sultry.”

  “It’ll storm,” Jenkins agreed.

  “Wish I knew this country,” Hopalong complained. “That storm is going to wipe out all the tracks.”

  “The answer to that is easy,” Mesquite suggested. “Let’s run ’em!”

  “Not yet.” Hopalong indicated their trail, the tracks wider-spaced now. “Let them do the running. They’ll kill their horses if they don’t stop soon.”

  Relentlessly the three riders pushed on. Sweat darkened the flanks and shoulders of their horses and the backs of their shirts. Time and again they wiped the hands that held their rifles. An hour passed, and then another. The mountain they were crossing spilled over into a deep green valley. A fresh bear track crossed the trail, and off to the left they saw a deer. Twice Hopalong pointed out tracks where horses had stumbled. The hunt was drawing to a close now. Once a bullet smashed through the branches over their heads, a feeling, tentative shot that lost itself in the forest.

  Hesitating, to let the horses catch their breath, Hopalong voiced the thought that was troubling all of them. “The worst of it is, this isn’t getting us any closer to Jack Bolt. He’s the one we really want.”

  “It may be,” Red said sullenly. “I was up this way the first week I was in this country. There’s a valley north of here that runs east and west. We might be able to cut across country and then hunt for smoke. That’s our best chance.”

  “There won’t be any smoke,” Mesquite objected. “Not if Bolt is smart.” They were silent, agreeing. Jack Bolt would be found by no such obvious method.

  The mountains grew taller, the canyons deeper and narrower. The growth along their flanks thickened, and the heat in the canyon bottoms was close and intense. Topper walked on tirelessly, seemingly untouched by the heat. Suddenly the narrow canyon up which they were riding ended against a dry waterfall, but over the rise on their right they could see an opening in the mountains. Cautiously they mounted the ridge. Before them was a low saddle, a gap in the hills that showed a beautiful green valley that might be three or four miles long and almost a half-mile wide.

  Halfway down the valley was a log cabin and some crude pole corrals, and at the corral two men were dismounting. Hopalong leveled his glasses.

  “That’s it!” he said grimly. “But we’d better hurry. There’s fresh horses in that corral!”

  What happened then, they all saw. Riding down the gap, they plunged into the valley, pushing their horses. Topper was leading by at least a length, and they were still higher than the cabin and corrals. They saw a man come from the woods some distance back of the house. He was carrying an axe, and he was beyond the house, with it between himself and the outlaws. Suddenly a shot rang out. The man hesitated, then broke into a run for the house.

  The three riders had covered a good mile and were closing down on the ranch, well scattered, when that shot sounded. At almost the same instant there was a piercing scream from a horse and a choked cry from a man. All were close enough to see a huge red stallion wheel on the man in the corral and rush for him. The outlaw turned, grabbed wildly for the top bar of the corral, and threw his leg up. The leg never got there, for the enraged stallion seized the man in his teeth and jerked back.

  The outlaw fell—it was the Breed—then lunged to his feet. Before any of them could act, it was all over. The stallion rushed him, reared, and struck out. A flying hoof caught the Breed and struck him down, and instantly the horse went into a pitching, striking fury. The animal was fiendish, striking again and again at the silent, sprawled-out figure.

  White of face, Hopalong turned away from the corral. Mesquite, tough as he was, was drawing back, looking sick. Then a man rushed from the house, belting on his guns. He slowed when he saw the three.

  Sprawled in the open, outside the corral, was Slim. He had been shot through the body, but he was still alive.

  “Only one good horse,” he muttered. “When the Breed saw that, he just grabbed iron. I never had a chance.”

  The rancher was puzzled. “What’s goin’ on?” he said, his brows furrowed. “Why were they fighting over my horse?”

  Hopalong motioned to the outlaws’ sagging mounts. “Ran their own almost to death,” he said quietly. “We were right behind ’em. A couple of rustlers. I guess the Breed aimed to have that horse for himself.”

  “He got him,” Red said, “and though I hate to see any horse kill a man, that one had it comin’.”

  The rancher looked relieved. “I was afraid he was a friend of you boys,” he said. “I was afraid there would be trouble. That stallion’s a killer, all right. But he’s the best stud around here. He don’t bother me none,” he added, “because I feed him and I always move slow around him. But he’s afraid of a rope. Scared to death of one.”

  Hopalong was still kneeling by Slim. He had seen at once there was nothing that could be done. The man was dying. Slim’s eyes lifted to Hopalong’s.

  “Gave you a run for your money,” he said. “Wish I could have died in better company than that Breed. He wasn’t … he wasn’t fit for no man. The Injuns wouldn’t have him around; neither would the Mexicans. He was mean—awful … mean.”

  Slim lay quiet, breathing raggedly for several minutes, then started to speak. His lips formed the words, then failed; he was no longer living.

  The rancher stared down at him, then looked up, his eyes going from one to the other of the three men. “Don’t believe I know you,” he said carefully. “Who might you be?”

  Hopalong turned to him. “Hopalong Cassidy,” he said, “and this is Red Connors, and Mesquite Jenkins. Those men were rustlers robbing the ranches around Tascotal.”

  The man grinned at Hopalong. “Heard of you,” he admitted.

  All through the remainder of the afternoon they rode on, keeping to the east and following a series of broken valleys and cuts that gave them a route through the north-and-south-running ranges of mountains. Toward the evening it grew cool, and darkness came suddenly. They made camp in a grove of fir clustered in a fold among the hills. At daylight they were again riding.

  Hopalong pointed suddenly. “Something lying over there. Let’s have a look.”

  Loping their horses through the grass, they drew up on the hillside where the grass thin
ned down among the rocks. What Hopalong had seen was a mule deer. It had been dead for some time.

  Red swung down and turned the animal over. “Shot,” he said. “Died sometime yesterday or the day before.”

  All knew who might have fired the shot, and knew there was every chance that Jack Bolt was in the vicinity. The rancher had known nothing of Bolt, nor of any cabin recently built. He had, several days past, while hunting far to the east, heard a rifle shot. He had believed it to be somebody riding through the country, or a prospector.

  Since leaving him the three had cut old trails, but nothing that indicated any recent signs of travel. The dead deer was the first indication of life in the area that was anything but animal. Red looked speculatively at the deer. “What d’yuh think, Hoppy? Would he come far?”

  “No more than a couple of miles with that wound.”

  “Then the best place to look,” Mesquite suggested, “would be over that ridge?”

  Hopalong nodded, studying it with no liking. “That’s it,” he agreed. He looked around at them. “And be careful. Bolt will probably shoot on sight. We’ll scatter out to cross that ridge and look for trail sign.” He indicated a towering, lightning-blasted pine on the crest of the ridge. “We’ll meet at sundown right below that pine. If shooting starts, we all know what to do.”

  Chapter 24

  OUTLAW AT BAY

  When he was alone Hopalong got down and tightened his cinch. He had elected to follow the path of the deer. The hunter who had shot it might be miles from home, but he knew that there were many deer in this country and very few hunters, so it was unlikely that any hunter would have to go far to kill a deer, nor would he be likely to kill one far from home and so have to pack it back. In most of these mountain cabins a man could step out almost any morning and kill his deer within a matter of minutes.

  “If I had to guess,” he murmured, “I’d say within three miles of here. And it would be a good guess.”

  Water—shelter—fuel.

  The first thing when he was over the rise would be to hunt a watercourse or possible spring.

  It would be in good timber, and in a locality not easily seen from a distance.

  There would be signs of woodcutting, without a doubt. Though probably there would be little cut within the immediate vicinity. The cabin would be in deep woods or in some fold of the hills. He mounted, spoke softly to Topper, and started up the slope. The trail of the deer was dim, but visible. It led upward at an angle toward the ridge.

  The actual crest was heavily forested with fir, and between the rocks were splashes of squaw mat, but only a few of the brilliant blue flowers remained. Here and there was an immense sugar pine, giving way as he climbed higher to mountain hemlock and red fir. The deer had fallen and struggled erect twice on that slope, for he had been weakening fast here, and all sense of locality must have long since been gone. At both places the gravel and squaw mat were stained dark by lost blood.

  Turning away from the trail, Hopalong bent his head and rode into a thick, dark section of fir. Here he sat right atop the ridge and could see over a wide stretch of country, but he could see no smoke or suggestion of it; all he could see were treetops. The valley beyond the mountain was high but heavily forested. Returning to the deer trail, Hopalong followed it over the ridge.

  Within a few minutes he had found the nest where the deer had bedded down. Evidently it had used this place a great deal, and apparently the hunter had either stumbled upon it or had deliberately hunted it down. After a careful study of the country brought no reward, Hopalong swung out from the deer’s nest until he was a good fifty feet away from it and then began a slow, watchful circle of the spot. Almost sixty yards from the nest he came upon the trail. A man in high-heeled boots had stood here and had fired twice. He found both shells among the needles. They were from a Winchester .44–40.

  He turned abruptly and swung into the leather, turning the white gelding down the slope into the trees. For a short distance he followed the trail, then halted abruptly. Clear and sharp against the air he heard the sound of an axe. Rising in the stirrups he looked through the trees and for the first time saw the cabin.

  Set back in a notch among the hills, it was screened by trees, and he could see behind it the line of a watercourse he had noticed several minutes before. As he watched, a man stopped chopping and gathered an armful of wood, walking toward the house. Even from this distance he could see it was Grat. The man turned at the step and took a last look around, then went inside.

  Hopalong did not hesitate. He could wait until sundown and then return with the others, but he decided against it. Mesquite was impetuous, and if he found the cabin he would barge right in. It would be better to go ahead. There was just a chance he might take them both alive, although even as the thought passed through his mind he knew the chances were slight.

  He rode the horse downhill for three hundred yards, then concealed him among the trees and brush in a little hollow near a leaning slab of rock. Leaving his Winchester behind, he started down the slope through the trees.

  The cabin was backed against the mountain and could be approached from only one direction—straight in front. To the left of the avenue before him were the corrals; to the right, flowing between the house and himself, was the stream. It was only a few inches deep, but about four or five feet wide.

  It was growing late. The afternoon sun was already down over the mountain in the west. Long shadows were gathering, although the sky overhead was still bright and the few scattered clouds were faintly pink. The storm that had been threatening for the last two days was piling up clouds again, and in the distance there was thunder.

  There was only one way to approach the cabin, and Hopalong hesitated, disliking the look of the situation. Suddenly Bolt came from the house and walked with quick, nervous strides down toward the horses. He wore two guns and had a third thrust in his waistband. As he walked, his eyes probed restlessly at the woods and the ridges.

  Abruptly, when not over forty yards from Hopalong, he stopped. Nervously he looked around. Hopalong’s intent gaze might have warned him, or he believed he had heard something. He looked around, and as his eyes went past the place where Hopalong waited, Hopalong stepped into the open. Instantly the eyes swung back to him, and the two men faced each other across the clearing.

  “Cassidy?” Bolt asked. “Is that you?”

  Hopalong took a step toward the gunman. “It’s me, all right. Expect me?”

  Bolt watched him, his eyes intent. “Sort of. I hoped you’d come. You’re the one who caused all this for me! You butted in where you had no business. If you’d stayed out, why, I’d have my ranch now and be in California enjoying it.”

  “And some good honest people would have lost most of their cattle,” Hopalong said. “I think this way is better.”

  “You won’t think it long.” Bolt was almost pleasant. Hopalong started toward him, walking slowly, narrowing the distance.

  The gunman’s face was haggard, and his eyes seemed wild. His face was unshaven and his clothes untidy. He seemed to have become ragged of nerve and irritable to an extent he had never been before. He was facing Hopalong, but suddenly he turned his right side toward him, his hand suspended over his gun. “Looking for it, Cassidy? I’m not Pod Griffin, you know.”

  Hopalong said nothing, bearing suddenly to the left. This maneuver confused Bolt, as he could not see the sense in it. Actually, its purpose was to confuse the gunman and to make him turn; also to get out of the line of a possible shot from the cabin door. Suddenly, Hopalong stopped. He was now within thirty yards of the outlaw, and Bolt was glaring at him, wide-eyed with hate. “If I had been sure you wouldn’t go back to bother those people,” Hopalong said, “I’d not have come after you.”

  Bolt chuckled, and the sound was dry. Somewhere in the distance thunder rumbled. “You can just bet I was going back! I was going back after the rest of their cattle and to burn them out! Sim will catch up to me—”

 
“Sim’s dead.”

  “There’s his brothers, the Breed, Slim—”

  “Slim was killed by the Breed in a fight over a horse. The horse killed the Breed. As for the Aragons, Manuel is badly wounded and Pete in jail.”

  Jack Bolt stared at him. “So? There are others.” He looked more closely at Hopalong. “You killed Sim Aragon?”

  Hopalong nodded.

  Jack Bolt shrugged, and then as his shoulders lifted in the shrug both hands grabbed gun butts. His face twisted in a wolfish snarl and the guns leaped from the leather. Hopalong ran two quick steps, stopped, and his guns bucked as his heels braced. Bolt’s body jerked, he half-turned, then swung a gun on Hopalong and fired!

  Hopalong felt the tug at his shirt sleeve and he shot again and again. Each bullet knocked Bolt back a step as it struck, and he stood swaying at the end, his eyes still ugly with hatred.

  “You’re fast, Cassidy!” he said. “But—” His voice ended and his mouth opened, gasping for words. Then he was dropping, falling face downward into the dirt.

  Thunder rumbled again and there were a few spattering drops of rain. Hopalong turned his eyes toward the cabin. Grat stood on the steps, his hands empty. For a long minute their eyes held over the distance between them.

  “I ain’t fightin’, Cassidy. I’ve had enough. If you won’t let them lynch me, I’ll come along willin’.”

  “All right,” Hopalong replied. “I’ll make sure you get a fair trial.”

  Just then Mesquite Jenkins rode into the clearing, leading Topper. A moment behind him was Red Connors. Both men looked at Bolt, then at Hopalong. “You hurt?” Mesquite asked.

  “No.” Cassidy looked down at Bolt, his face strangely white in the fading light. “Bring him up to the barn, will you, Red? It’s going to rain.”

  Grat was standing at the table with a steaming coffeepot when they came in. He had put four plates on the table. “Chuck’s ready,” he said. “Set and eat.”