The Hopalong Cassidy Novels 4-Book Bundle

by Louis L'Amour

  “Colonel Justin Tredway.”

  “Thanks,” Cassidy said dryly. “I’d say that for an outfit that don’t want trouble, you’re somewhat on the prod. Now, where would a man find this Tredway? On the Box T?”

  “When he’s not there, you’ll find him at the Mansion House in Kachina,” Carter said disagreeably, “but you’d do better not to try to run any blazers on him. He’s plumb salty!”

  Rig Taylor fell in unwillingly beside Hopalong. They rode that way, their backs to the watchers. Taylor was angry and his eyes blazed with resentment. “Don’t know’s I can blame you,” he said, “but I figured you’d back my play.”

  “Why?” Hopalong turned and smiled at him. “Why walk blind into a shooting match that would get you nowhere? Dead or wounded, you would be of no use to Miss Blair. Didn’t it seem obvious enough that it was what they wanted? To me they seemed just a little too much on the prod for honest ranch hands. Where I’ve been riding, hands swap yarns and tobacco when they meet on the open range, but these hombres had chips on their shoulders.”

  That was what he had been thinking, and Hopalong’s suspicions were aroused by the too-easy irritability of these men. If Pete Melford had said the PM was here, Pete was not wandering in his mind. He had always been a meticulous man when it came to directions, and if his range had been appropriated by the Box T, which seemed possible, then these men were wary of anyone examining the range.

  “You think this outfit shot at me?” Rig asked suddenly.

  “I doubt it. It could have been them, but more likely it was somebody else. If that bullet had hit you, it could be passed off as an accident. A stray bullet—a hunter who didn’t look at what he was shooting, or a dozen reasons.”

  He reined Topper over to avoid a gully cutting into the range. “Have you been looking around very much?”

  “Over a week. I can’t believe this setup. The peaks, the rivers, and the town are right. The only thing that’s missing is the ranch.”

  “Maybe that’s why they tried to kill you. Maybe they had this place rigged for any casual examination, but when you stayed around, it began to worry them.”

  “That’s logical enough, but who shot at me, that’s what I want to know.”

  Hopalong shook his head. “You’ve got me. There’s either two outfits mixed up in this or one with a mighty shrewd head behind it. I doubt if this bunch of Box T riders knew anything about that shot.”

  “You may be right.” Taylor indicated a tall cottonwood. “One thing is sure—the house never stood there. That tree is all of forty feet and it never grew that high in three years! I sure hate to go back to Cindy an’ tell her she ain’t got a ranch.”

  From the site where the ranch was supposed to be to the town of Kachina was all of ten miles, and the two rode it almost in silence, each busy with his own thoughts. For the first five miles the trail led across country through rangeland and scattered timber. Finally for a half mile it followed a high-walled canyon. Once on the main trail to town, the going was better, for it was a prairie road from which the rocks had been removed.

  “Freighters built this road,” Taylor commented. “They told me that in town.”

  Hopalong drew Topper to a halt and nodded to indicate a narrow, winding trail, long unused, that led back into the brush and up into the hills. “Where does that go?”

  “Heard about that,” Taylor admitted. “It goes back to an old mining camp beyond Chimney Creek Canyon. No way to get there now as the old freighter’s bridge across the canyon is down and nobody’s been up there in years. Beyond it there’s a big mesa. They call it Babylon Mesa or Babylon Pastures. It’s supposed to be haunted.”

  “Haunted?”

  “Yeah. Some sort of religious folk live up there. Folks in Kachina are scared of them. A few years back somebody did start up there—that was when the bridge was still in that led to that mining camp. He found some dead men lying around up there, dead of nobody knows what. Three or four were miners from the camp, and at least one was one of the Brothers from the mesa. He wore a brown robe, like one of them old-time priests. No marks on any of ’em. This feller got out, and right fast.”

  “And they say it is haunted?”

  “Uh-huh. Queer lights seen up there at times … That’s what they say. I hear the grass used to be mighty good up there.”

  Hopalong’s mind reverted to Pete Melford and his long-overdue letter. Obviously something had warned Pete of impending trouble, and fearing his niece would be left with nothing, he had written to Hopalong for help. But the letter had come too late to help Pete, and there was a big question if it had not come too late to help Cindy Blair. But it might be worth a try.

  What evidence did he have that anything was wrong? Pete himself was the best warranty of that, for Pete had been a practical, unimaginative man. If he said he had a ranch, then he had one. Nobody who knew him would ever doubt that. Furthermore, while such a man might be thrown from a horse, and any man might be, with Pete it was highly improbable. He was the soul of caution. As many horses as he had broken, and bad horses, he had never been hurt. And the horses he himself rode were always carefully trained and gentle.

  The facts were, however, that Hopalong knew very well that Pete had survived his return to the ranch. His own letter proved that. It also proved that the author of the letter to Cindy was a liar or else did not know what he was talking about.

  “Look,” Hopalong suggested, “you go to the Mansion House. Stand around the bar and keep your ears open for any gossip. Listen to anything you hear, for any of it may be important. In the meantime, spot this Colonel Tredway if you can. Don’t talk to him, just locate him and see who his friends are. He seems to be the one who has possession of the land; that’s as good a place to start as any.

  “Meanwhile, I’ll do some checking. I’ve an idea or two that will bear looking into.”

  Leaving Topper at the livery stable, Hopalong stepped outside and paused there, breathing the cool air of evening and studying the town.

  Kachina stood on the edge of a small flat among rolling chaparral-covered hills. The population might have been two hundred people, and most of the buildings were new. Obviously the biggest part of town had only been built in the past few years. There were older buildings, however, of which the livery stable was one. Behind the stable, which stood on the north side of the street, were the corrals. To the left of the stable was a narrow passage and then a general store, a lawyer’s office, the residence of the town’s one doctor. Farther on were two other homes, then another store, the Mansion House, and beyond it, the express office.

  On the south side of the street opposite the Mansion House was the Elk Horn Saloon, and east of it ran a row of false-fronted buildings, one of which was empty, then the assayer’s office, a harness- and shoe-repair shop, the town’s blacksmith, the Roundup Saloon, and opposite the livery stable, the Chuck Wagon Restaurant. Behind the Chuck Wagon was a long building of adobe that did duty for a bunkhouse, providing for those travelers who either could not afford the comparative luxury of the Mansion House or who preferred, for reasons of their own, a certain degree of anonymity.

  A lean-jawed man with stooped shoulders cared for the horses. When he finished, he came out into the street, lighting a pipe. “Not much of a town,” Hopalong said. “Been here long?”

  The oldster shook his head. “Ain’t nobody been here long. It’s a new town … grew up around Colonel Tredway’s freighting operation. Back in the old days there was a fair strike out past Chimney Creek Canyon, so they built that road and started freightin’ to ’em. The mine went bust and so did the town, but by then Tredway was doin’ business elsewhere and he started his own town right here. He built the Mansion House and a couple of other buildings.” The man gestured about, vaguely. “I come here when she opened up. Folks heard there was gold in the crick down the road about a half mile. A whole flock of us come a-runnin’. There was a mite o’ color, but not much. I had me a couple o’ horses, so I started renti
n’ ’em out. There’s been a lot of stuff that was freighted in that just passed through to other camps. They made a sight o’ money out of that freightin’.”

  Hopalong glanced at the stable. “This building looks mighty old,” he suggested.

  The old man nodded. “She was here when the town started. Folks say there was a bunch of outlaws hung out hereabouts. Don’t know nothin’ about it myself. They was two, three old deserted buildin’s aroun’ when I come in here.”

  “Ever hear of a man named Pete Melford? Or the PM Ranch?”

  “Melford? No, can’t say’s I have.” The old man pondered the question. “Nobody never lived in Kachina of that name. Leastways nobody who stayed aroun’ none.”

  “How about Sipapu?”

  “That’s it.… The strike I mentioned. Been nearly a ghost town for years. The stage used to stop for mail, but then the bridge got bad and they moved the route.”

  Hopalong watched the shadows gathering in the lee of the hills and along the east side of the buildings. It was cool and pleasant in the evening in this country, and there was good grass. No wonder Pete had liked it and had settled here. Leave it to such a canny rancher to pick a place like this. Somewhere around the country Pete would have left his sign, for he was a man with habits that stayed with him, and Hopalong Cassidy had known the man too long not to be aware of those habits. Pete had been naturally fastidious. He liked to see things cared for, and he liked things in their place. Also, he was a man who thought of eventualities and prepared for them. Perhaps he had even prepared for this one.

  Something else came to Hopalong’s mind. “What do you know about Babylon Pastures?” he asked suddenly.

  He was unprepared for the reaction. “Don’t know nothin’ about it!” The old man’s voice was suddenly harsh and ugly. “I don’t want to know nothin’ about it, now or never. That ain’t no place for man nor beast, an’ you’re better askin’ no questions about it!”

  “Just wondering,” Hopalong said casually. “I heard there was good grass up there.”

  “Good?” The old man looked up at him. “Mebby. There’s them as says it used to be good up there. She was long an’ tall one time, an’ she may be yet, but that country is evil, son. She’s downright evil, an’ no good can come of trekkin’ aroun’ up yonder. If you’re a good Christian, you’ll take an old man’s word for it an’ stay away!”

  Hopalong picked up his war bag and started up the street toward the Mansion House. He had learned a little, although none of it concerned Pete Melford except indirectly. However, there had been no mention of Kachina in Pete’s letters and it was possible he had never been known here. He knew how easy it was for a man, especially one set in his habits like Melford, to begin going to one town for supplies and keeping it up, year in, year out.

  The Mansion House was a large rectangular building, the lower floor built of stone, the upper of lumber. The wide front faced on the street, half of it given over to the hotel itself and half to the saloon that was under the same management. He went up the four steps to the porch, where several loafers sat waiting. They looked up at him, then away, apparently uninterested.

  The lobby was wide and shadowed now. There were several leather chairs and a black leather settee. A couple of good elk heads and one of a grizzly overlooked the room. The desk was high, and behind it was a board with a number of keys dangling from hooks. A register was spread out on the desk.

  Hopalong picked up the pen and signed the name Scot Cameron on the line below that of Cindy Blair. Her room number was fourteen and he noted the key was gone, so she was probably in her room.

  The clerk was a sallow-faced man with black eyes and a sly, knowing look. The sign on the desk said K. EVENAS, MANAGER. He got up, glanced at the register, then handed Hopalong a key. It was number eighteen. “That’ll be two dollars,” he said with a smirk. “Cash in advance.”

  Hopalong Cassidy handed over the two dollars and then asked, “How about grub? Is that place down the street the only place?”

  The clerk nodded. “It is, but the food is good. It’s quite a sight, noontime. Half the town comes out when they ring the triangle. Big social event of the day.”

  “Nice place you’ve got here,” Hopalong suggested. “Who owns it?”

  “Tredway,” the clerk said with a sour expression. “He owns most everything around here.”

  “Well,” Hopalong suggested, “when he landed here, there must have been land for the taking. A man could do all right then, if he was careful and used his head.”

  The clerk gave him a sly, sidelong glance. “Or if you were tough enough,” he said. “Believe me, it isn’t so easy anymore. Tredway owns everything around here that isn’t nailed down. I give him credit,” he added grudgingly. “He didn’t let nothing stop him.”

  “Some make it that way.” Hopalong Cassidy waited, hoping the clerk would continue to talk. “Maybe we’ll make ours someday.”

  The clerk straightened and his eyes hardened. “I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I got mine! All I got to do is collect!”

  He would say no more, and after a little while Hopalong picked up his war bag and started up the stairs. Glancing back, he saw the clerk was down on his knees in the empty corner behind the desk. Now, what was the man doing there? Had he dropped something?

  While he bathed and shaved, Hopalong considered the situation with care. He had learned little, but more and more he was becoming aware that this was Tredway’s town. It would pay a man to go easy here.

  He had parted company with Rig Taylor on the outskirts of Kachina and they had entered separately. Since then he had seen nothing more of the cowhand.

  Pete Melford’s ranch had vanished, and apparently into the greater mass of Tredway’s holdings. It was imperative to learn just when Tredway had come to Kachina and what he had done here. It also might be interesting to know where he came from. That was a question rarely asked in the West, but Hopalong had no intention of asking it. There were other means of finding out.

  He was an outsider in Kachina, having little excuse to remain in the area for long; however, if he had a riding job, it might give him a chance to learn a great deal. A riding job with Tredway’s own Box T. He grinned at the thought. And why not? He would then be in a position to hear any talk there might be and to ride the Box T range.

  At the corner of the hotel farthest from the street, the man known as Colonel Tredway was at that moment opening the door of his suite to his foreman.

  Bill Saxx was a big man, brawny and tough. Handsome in a hard, capable way, he was known locally as a gun handler. A gifted leader of men, he was brutal and cunning as well, entirely without mercy or conscience; he was a sharp instrument in the hands of Tredway. Moreover, the two men understood each other, and of those who knew what went on around Kachina, Saxx was the only one who realized the extent to which Tredway was involved or the part he played in it. But even Bill Saxx did not know the beginning of the story or all the motives that inspired or drove Justin Tredway.

  “Carter an’ some of the boys ran into two hombres over on the Picket Fork today.”

  Tredway received the information in silence. He had expected it ever since Cindy Blair and Rig Taylor had arrived in town, but two men?

  “Taylor was one of them. Who was the other?”

  “Don’t know yet. He was a stranger. Ridin’ a white horse. Finest horse he ever saw, accordin’ to Carter. Rig was set to make a fight of it, but this other hombre pulled Rig away. Taylor said he’d been shot at by somebody.”

  “Shot at? He was probably trying to stir up trouble.” Tredway’s voice was smooth. “Who would shoot at him?”

  Saxx scowled. “I was wonderin’ that myself. It fair had me worried. I like to know what’s goin’ on around.”

  “So do I.” Tredway’s voice was dry. “Find out who this newcomer is and what he is. I want to know right away. Meanwhile, don’t bother Taylor. If he starts anything or gives any of the boys a good excuse, that’s dif
ferent, but I want him to start it. Understand?”

  Saxx nodded. “Sure. I’ll tell Carter.” He hesitated. “Eckerman was over east last night. He seen a light over Brushy Knoll again. I’d sure like to take a pasear up thataway. That there Babylon Pastures always made me wonder.”

  “Saxx!” The big foreman was shocked at the paleness of Tredway’s face. “Stay away from there! Don’t you ever go near there! Understand?”

  “Sure, boss.”

  Bill Saxx stopped outside the door and rolled a smoke. Babylon Pastures. What was there about that to scare the old man out of his wits? For he had been frightened, he had been badly frightened, and in all their association Bill Saxx had never seen Tredway get that way about any other subject.

  What was there about Babylon Pastures to frighten the man?

  CHAPTER 2

  HOPALONG MAKES A DEAL

  Hopalong Cassidy was out of bed early on the following morning and ate a leisurely breakfast. He saw nothing of Rig Taylor. He indulged himself in casual conversation with various people, and in each case they were soon doing most of the talking and Hopalong was proving himself an excellent listener.

  The area around Kachina had been a stopover point for the early wagon trains, but those had ceased during the War Between the States. The freight line had been the beginning of its current rise to importance, that and the mines nearby. Although several minor gold booms and one find of silver ore had failed to produce anything but a couple of low-grade properties that barely paid for themselves and employed a few dozen men, supplying these mines had been the springboard that put Tredway into the shipping business.

  The mines to the north and one placer area were served by the town, which was also a supply point for the Box T outfit and a few smaller ranching ventures. Because the town had been mostly created by Tredway’s freighting operation, few of the townspeople had been in the area more than three years.

  Despite Hopalong’s leading remarks, no ranching ventures earlier than the Box T could be located, and nowhere did he hear any mention of Pete Melford. There had to be a lead somewhere. Among the people in the area there had to be somebody who knew of Pete Melford and his PM outfit.