The Hopalong Cassidy Novels 4-Book Bundle

by Louis L'Amour

  “What do you mean by that?” Saxx demanded sharply.

  “As a matter of fact,” Hopalong said loudly as he rode up, “Saxx was here when Melford was killed.”

  Saxx turned sharply, staring at Hopalong, then from him to the others. It was obvious that he liked none of this. He had not expected to find them in, and if so, not more than two men.

  “Saxx wasn’t foreman of the Box T, though,” Hopalong continued easily. “He was ramrodding Tredway’s freight outfit for him. When the Colonel went to ranching, he took Saxx with him.”

  “You seem to know a lot!” Saxx sneered.

  “I just keep my ears open.” Hopalong smiled reassuringly at Sarah Towne, who stood wide-eyed and fearful beyond the fire.

  Bill Saxx was watching Hopalong, making no effort to conceal the dislike in his eyes. “What business is all this to you?” he said sharply. “What you stickin’ your nose in for?”

  Hopalong Cassidy looked around at him. “Aside from the fact that I want to help Miss Blair, it so happens that Pete Melford was a friend of mine.”

  Cindy stared at Hopalong, frowning a little. Rig was suddenly alert, and Pike Towne was smiling mysteriously. Saxx was astonished, and then his face seemed to go still and tight. His mind was moving swiftly. Tredway should know this. He had not suspected—or had he? There was no telling about the Colonel.

  “I didn’t know you’d been in this country before.”

  “I never was,” Cassidy admitted, accepting the cup Sarah offered him. “I knew Pete in Texas. He wrote a letter to me, asking me to come by, but that letter was years late being delivered. It begins to look like I was quite a bit too late to help him. But I’m not too late to help Cindy Blair.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?” Rig demanded irritably.

  “No need to,” Hopalong said. “I figured it might be a good thing just to be around and be busy. There would be plenty of time later.”

  “Well,” Bill Saxx snapped, “it’s time wasted! There never was any Pete Melford in this country! If anybody would know, I would.”

  Hopalong smiled, and the smile infuriated Saxx. His eyes narrowed and he glared at Cassidy. “You huntin’ trouble?” he demanded harshly.

  “Me?” Hopalong’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “I should say not! I’m just a quiet hombre myself. But”—he tried the coffee and found it too hot—“I am going to locate Miss Blair’s ranch, and it will be in her hands when I leave.

  “No trail,” he added, “is so well covered that it cannot be uncovered.”

  Pike Towne had walked away to the wagon, but now he was back. He was wearing two guns, tied down, and it was the first time Hopalong had seen him wear a pistol. Suddenly Hoppy’s eyes sparked. Pike Towne was ready to stand his ground, that was obvious.

  That the Box T hands saw the guns and recognized what they meant was also obvious. None of the other hands had spoken, although Carter had been staring with hatred in his eyes, mostly at Hopalong.

  Bill Saxx looked the situation over and decided it was time to pull out. He knew he must contact Tredway at once with this latest information, but before he did that Saxx wanted to do some thinking on his own. Just where this left him was important to know; for the first time he was becoming wary of Tredway’s plans.

  Right now any move might be disastrous to their plans for the holdup of the Taggart payroll only three days away. Saxx motioned to the other hands to come along and turned away. “Well”—he forced himself to smile—“regardless of trails, lots of luck with the cattle. You’ve got a tough job!”

  “Oh, I was never so glad to see anybody in my life!” Cindy exclaimed as Saxx and his men disappeared into the distance. “They acted so strange! That man called Carter. He was asking all sorts of questions and looking around, and all the time Bill Saxx talked to us, the others were out at the corral looking at the cattle, reading their brands.”

  “Saxx seemed to think you should have more done,” Sarah said. “He should try it himself!”

  Pike grinned slyly at Hopalong. “Or have a look back in the brush.”

  “I didn’t know you were a friend of Pete Melford’s,” Rig protested. “I had no idea you knew him.”

  Pike leaned against the rock and speared a chunk of beef from the pot and listened carefully.

  “Well, he had to be careful. Rig,” Cindy said. “Too much talk might have given him away.”

  “Given what away? What do you mean?”

  “Uncle Pete always used to tell us stories about his neighbors in Texas.” She was smiling at Hopalong. “Anybody who heard them would know who Mr. Cameron was.” She looked to Rig, waiting for him to understand. “Most of those stories were about one ranch, the Bar-20.”

  “The Bar-20?” Rig Taylor stared at Hopalong. “Then—then you’re Hopalong Cassidy!”

  Pike chuckled. “Sure he is! I guessed it right off!”

  A dark figure rose suddenly from the tall grass under the poplars and glided swiftly back into even deeper shadows. Tote Brown had been planning for a shot at Rig Taylor, but now he knew that he had something infinitely more important for the man who hired him. He was not sure how soon the news would get to him, but he wanted it to be soon.

  As he rode, his mind worked swiftly. Suppose his deductions were correct and the mysterious messages came from Tredway? And who else stood to gain by the death of Taylor? Or of any of them, for that matter?

  He would take a chance. He would take a big chance. He would see that Tredway got the news of Cassidy’s presence at once. If Tredway was his man, then all would be well. If not, what harm could it possibly do? And it might earn him a fat bonus.

  Justin Tredway sat at his desk in the huge ranch house studying a carefully drawn map. Had Bill Saxx seen that map, he would have been amazed, for it was a map, drawn in meticulous detail, of the area from Dead Horse Pass to the wash east of the stage route. On the map was marked every depression, every boulder and tree in the area, and Tredway was studying it and thinking.

  Once the pattern of a man’s life is established, it is rarely, if ever, changed. The character of a man is not a variable thing, but it follows in certain grooves cut long ago in youth. So it was with the man known as Tredway. He had begun by living ruthlessly, caring for none but himself, without loyalty, without honor, and with only a fierce pride in his own skill, intelligence, and personality.

  Just as he had left behind him all sympathy for anyone or anything, so he had left behind him all respect for courage. The idea did not interest him, for so many brave men so easily become dead men. He prided himself on his efficiency. That there were blind spots in himself he did not see. Like most men of criminal tendency, he saw only his own viewpoint and had nothing but contempt for the minds of others. He could play any role; in fact, taking on false lives and personalities appealed to him in such a way that he sometimes forgot who he had been for days or even weeks at a time.

  It had been a long time since he had come down that trail from Chimney Butte, a long time since things happened there. That he was here at all was, he understood himself well enough, an act involved to show his contempt.

  That trail from Chimney Butte had carried him a long way, but he had come back, and he had found the old buildings at the settler’s stopover deserted as he had known he would. The new mines opened were crying for freight, and he gave it to them, and more. He built a freight and stage station and called it Kachina; the town started from that beginning. He had opened a general store and made Kachina the supply point for the mines and ranches. His teams fed on hay from his own ranches, and quiet and safe years had passed.

  But lately there had been trouble. A heavily loaded freight wagon had gone off a cliff, killing the team and the driver. The load had been dumped into the creek and he had been liable for it. A hard winter caught most of the cattle in high country, and an unexpected snowstorm prevented their removal. Many of them failed to survive the bitter season that followed, and it was a winter Tredway had spent in El Paso and San An
tonio. He returned to find himself nearly broke. A fiercely hot and very dry summer followed and more cattle died and feed ran short.

  His bank accounts depleted, bills for feed, three new teams, and wagons coming due as well as various other bills, Tredway turned first to the idea of getting the cattle out of the chaparral. Saxx’s suggestion as to grabbing the Taggart payroll had come at just the right time for him. Actually, he had known about the payroll long before Saxx approached him, and at the time he had been wondering how to suggest it to him.

  He had no money with which to pay Cameron for the cattle, but neither had he any intention of paying it. Cameron was a stranger, and he was not going to win any friends around this town while he was getting cattle out of the brush. Moreover, the vague suspicion that he might have had something to do with the death of old Peavey might be worked into something, if necessary.

  Cindy Blair was more of a problem. Western men were notoriously particular about how a woman was treated, and Cindy, slim, erect, and attractive, had made more than a few friends around—friends she did not even know about herself. Her frank friendliness, good cheer, and willingness to ride at all hours and over all kinds of country appealed to these men. Even Bill Saxx had said something about her being pretty.

  From what he had been told, both she and Rig Taylor were now at the cattle-hunting camp on the Picket Fork. He scowled and went back to his work. Maybe he had been a fool ever to suggest getting those cattle out.

  With the map before him, he was studying the layout of the holdup situation. Bill Saxx was to flee northeast, then circle, passing near Babylon Mesa and meeting him at Sipapu. If all was well, they could then return to the ranch. It was at that point that Justin Tredway thought of an alternative. His eyes narrowed with thought, he leaned back in his chair, considering every possibility. Yes, he decided, it might be done. With planning, it could be done.

  At just that instant a rock sailed through the open window, struck his desk, skidded along it, and fell into his lap.

  Springing to his feet, he whipped out his gun and stepped away from the light, staring out of the open window from a position well back inside the room.

  There was no sound, and he waited a long minute, then another. To his ears came faintly, the distant beating of a horse’s hooves, then silence. Curious, he walked back to his desk and picked up the rock.

  It was flat and quite heavy, and it had been tossed rather than thrown into the room. Tied to it was a piece of brown wrapping paper such as was used at the general store in Kachina. Untying it, he unfolded the paper. The message was crudely printed but explicit enough.

  CAMERON IS HOPALONG CASSIDY, FRIEND OF PM

  For several long minutes Justin Tredway did not move, and when finally he became aware of his surroundings, the first thing he noticed was the ticking of the clock. In the empty room the sound was loud and clear. He shook himself and stared again at the brown paper.

  Hopalong Cassidy.

  Hopalong Cassidy was here, he had been in Kachina. He was even now hunting cattle for the Box T. It seemed incredible, impossible, but there it was. It was not in Tredway to doubt, for once the name was mentioned, he realized how obvious it had been. Melford was from Texas and had a long association with the Bar-20 Ranch, an operation where, for many years, Bill “Hopalong” Cassidy had been foreman.

  How had he come here? Why had he come here? What was happening that he, Tredway, did not know?

  In the light of this information, all plans would have to be reconsidered, for Cassidy had always been on the side of the law, and the man was no fool. He had proved before this that he was uncommonly shrewd, that he read sign well, and certainly that he could handle a gun.

  Suddenly a chill went over Tredway. Suppose—suppose Cassidy found what had stayed hidden for so many years back there in the chaparral? Tredway forced himself to sit down and think coolly. Suppose he did? Nobody in town knew anything. Cassidy had talked to Peavey, but Peavey was dead and buried now, and he had known little, in any event. Would Cassidy wait for evidence? Tredway did not know.

  But suppose—suppose the fleeing bandits happened to run into Hopalong?

  Suppose Bill Saxx, Vin Carter, and the others encountered Hopalong as they fled the holdup scene? Carter would not hesitate to kill, and for that matter, neither would the others. Five men against Cassidy, especially when one of them was Bill Saxx? Tredway smiled.

  It could be arranged, of course, but that meant that he, Tredway, must get his hands on the money first or it would be of no use. If the loot was still in the hands of the outlaws and anything went wrong, it might be lost to him, for they might leave the country with his share, or someone might hear the shots and get to the scene before he could.

  Of course, he reflected, if it did come to shooting, it was possible that all might be wiped out, all or most of them. And it could be arranged that none survived. The more he considered that possibility, the better it seemed. Thirty thousand was much better than ten, and suppose when the shooting started, he himself were bedded down nearby with a rifle?

  The rifle had always been a favorite weapon with him, and he had been a dead shot since boyhood. During a fight nobody would know where the bullets all came from, and if there were any survivors … Well, there would be no survivors.

  Drawing the light nearer, he carefully burned the note and then began to study the map. He had been working over it for twenty minutes before he received his next jolt, and he was shocked that he had not thought of it before.

  Who had thrown the note through the window? Who knew that he would want to know that Cameron was Cassidy?

  Suppose it was Cassidy himself? He considered that, then dismissed the idea. Hopalong Cassidy would have nothing to gain by such an action. Who else, then?

  Definitely worried, he got up and began to pace the floor. His own men would have come to him at once. The man who worked with Cassidy? He had never seen the man—a married man with a wagon, they said, a passing stranger.

  Cindy Blair? It was an outside chance. The girl was clever, she had shown that by her businesslike attitude. She was dangerous, too, because she made friends.

  Tote Brown? He puzzled over that possibility, then dismissed it. Regardless of who had supplied the information, he had to come up with a plan and he had to pull it off in a place where he would be free of interference.

  Sipapu. The ghost town occurred to him at once. That was the logical place. All thought of the unknown messenger dismissed from his mind, he began at once to study the methods he might use if Sipapu was to be the scene of a fight between Cassidy and Saxx.

  It was logical enough, for Saxx would be taking his men that way on the day of the holdup. An anonymous note could get Cassidy and his friends there also, and with no love lost between them, Saxx would be sure to believe they had been discovered. Vin Carter hated Cassidy and had a hair-trigger temper. Shooting was inevitable, and he knew just the place he could hole up to handle the survivors.

  The following day Cindy Blair mounted her horse, determined to do some looking for the site of the PM without interference. Hopalong would be working in the brush with Rig and Pike and they would be safely out of the way, giving her a chance to have a look for the site of the ranch.

  Rig had given her a complete account of his experiences when he had first encountered Hopalong Cassidy on what he had believed was the site of the PM Ranch, so now Cindy turned her mare in that direction and in a short time was riding down the slope along which Hopalong had ridden after taking his shot at Tote Brown.

  The valley was green and lovely, for despite the dryness of the year, the waters of the Picket Fork all drained into this area, and there were several small brooks that started from springs back in the trees and rocks. With Pete Melford’s letter in her hand, she drew up and looked about. On the letter was a crude sketch, and turning her horse, she turned the sketch until it was oriented with the landmarks on the ground. Brushy Knoll and Chimney Butte were exactly as he had said, and the Pi
cket Fork cut across the range just as on the map. Right now she should be sitting her horse not more than two hundred yards from the ranch house.

  Turning her mare again, she studied the terrain where the ranch was supposed to be if her sketch was correct. To her left was a lightning-blasted stump, and that, too, was on her sketch, but nothing else was the same. Where the ranch house should have been was a tall cottonwood, and where the barns should be there was a small grove of pines.

  The pines were young, but they were not that young. They could be no less than eight or nine years old. Puzzled, she rode forward and swung down from her horse. Standing under the spreading limbs of the cottonwood, she looked back where the corrals should have been, then paced off the distance.

  With a long branch she found lying nearby, Cindy began to probe the ground. If there had been a corral, there had been postholes, and when filled, these are rarely packed down. She worked steadily but without success. Grass had grown over everything, and the trees … Suddenly her stick sank through soft earth, and with a little cry Cindy dropped to her knees. In an instant she was digging earth from a round hole, its edges firm and hard with ancient sod. She had found a posthole! It was the first definite clue.

  To work brush a man not only had to be an excellent rider but a superb hand with a rope. There was no chance to build a loop. Often all a man saw was a fleeting glimpse of a hoof, and it was a short rope, a quick throw, or nothing.

  Leather tapaderas housing the stirrup were an essential. A stiff branch might run through an open stirrup, leaving the cowhand with a torn or broken leg, a lost stirrup, or a badly gouged horse. At the very least he could have his saddle torn from under him in full flight. Brush cattle were usually larger than on open range, for they might go years and never see a cowhand, and usually they knew places where water and grass were plentiful.

  More often than not, there were no holes in the brush and a cowhand hit it flat and hard, tearing an opening by sheer drive. He went through with thorns ripping his clothes, branches slapping or stabbing at him, and literally forced a way through. Brutally hard work, it required a brand of riding and toughness demanded by no other craft.