For a torch.
Sudden fear shot through him! Once it was set aflame, Hopalong would be revealed stark and clear in the glare of light, and then one last easy shot would do the job!
Desperately, his heart pounding, his mouth dry, his hands reached out, feeling the rock wall to his left while still grasping the rawhide rope for life insurance. He stretched, striving to find something that would help him climb. He could be no more than fifteen feet from the rim, but how to get up there? Especially as the rim had, if he remembered right, shelved out a little from the wall.
Then he remembered something. Part of the old abutment was below him! The bridge that led to Sipapu had been built of heavy timber and was of the arch type of construction. The bridge itself had been gone for a long time, but some of the base timbers of the arch remained. Those of the lower part of the arch were set solidly in the rock wall, and these braces had appeared still strong when he had glanced at them from above. Yet how far down were they? Seconds seemed like hours as he thought, trying to imagine the amount of arch needed to bridge that space, and to calculate how far below him that arch might be. To lower himself down the cliff face would be to put him farther from the rim where safety lay. His guns were no solution, for he dared not risk removing a hand from the rope, and in this precarious position he could not turn to shoot.
If his estimation was correct, the arch timbers would be almost directly beneath him, and with great care he began to feel with his toe. He found nothing, and just then a match flared. The man held the match to his bundle of grass, but in that brief light Hopalong saw the bulky timbers below him. He took a deep breath and let go!
Down. He struck and grasped with both arms and found himself gripping the remnants of a big twelve-by-twelve timber that was set on an angle into the rock. Not more than a few feet away was another timber and there were lighter crosspieces. Carefully he pulled his body in behind the heavy timber even as the first of the brush torches fell down the canyon. The flare lit up the canyon like day for a brief instant and showed his rope hanging empty on the wall.
The unknown man was not satisfied. He had evidently made several torches, for he dropped another almost instantly. It fell, the light flaring upward, but apparently the watcher saw nothing. Hopalong reached back to his hip and released the thong on his six-gun. There was a chance he might shoot the other man, although, backed by trees as he was, his body formed no silhouette, and if he did not get him, he would most certainly give himself away.
He waited, deciding to use the gun only if he was seen. The mysterious man was not yet satisfied. He moved a few steps away and dropped another torch. Evidently he could not see a body upon the rocks below, so decided Hopalong was alive. However, after his fourth drop he must have decided that the body had gone under the water, for he dropped no more.
Bruised and battered, his hand cut by the rope and the other full of slivers from the timber, Hopalong waited. To sleep was to fall. To make a move was to be shot, so he clung to the timber and waited, helpless to do anything to better his situation.
Finally he heard the man leave. Heard the echo of his horse’s hooves, and then the long silence that followed. The stars waned at last, and heavy-lidded with sleep, Hopalong dozed slightly. He awakened with a jerk as his hands slipped and he clung there, his heart thudding sickeningly against his ribs. That was close, too close!
He forced himself to remain awake, and at long, long last the sky began to grow gray, and a coolness came down the canyon. Below him the waters rustled and chuckled over their stones. He turned his neck, stiff from its position, and stared downward. Far below was the silver of the stream with deep shadows still covering the rocks.
Hopalong craned his neck back and looked up, and there, no more than twenty feet above him, was the rim. Off to his left, for he now faced the stream and the opposite wall, hung the rope, out of his grasp.
Above, the wall was smooth; below, it was scarcely less so. He was trapped, trapped by his own means of escape, and now he was doomed to die slowly of thirst or exhaustion before anybody could find him.
Painstakingly, Hopalong began searching the cliff face again. Inch by inch he went over it, searching for any crack, any knob, any bulge that might help him. On his left hand the skin was broken and badly cut by the jerk of the rope when he fell, and his right was skinned from the wall and the timber. Despite their condition, he knew the longer he remained where he was, the less his chances of coming out alive.
The Brothers, or one of them, might come to see what the shooting had been about, but otherwise there was small chance of being found by anyone. He was alone here, and if he escaped, he must do it on his own initiative. And escape he must, for aside from his own problem, Topper would be needing water. If he called to the horse, Topper might pull his picket pin and be free, but he might then get it caught in the brush … his picket pin … picket rope!
The instant the idea came to him, Hopalong braced himself, his back to the cliff and his feet on the timber, and pushed himself upward. Balancing, with his feet on the broken top of the old bridge support and his back held as straight as possible, allowed him to reach within eight or nine feet of the rim. He took a deep breath and yelled to the horse. His voice might be lost in the canyon, but he was quite sure he was near enough to the rim to allow Topper to hear him. He yelled again and then again.
He heard the horse quite plainly then, heard him stomping about in the brush. If he could only get loose! If he would come to the edge of the cliff!
Hopalong yelled again and again, and then suddenly he heard a snort and running feet. His eyes riveted on the edge of the cliff, he yelled again. The horse peered over, ears pricked. “I’m in trouble, boy,” Hopalong said quietly. “You’ve got to help me.”
The horse looked at the canyon and snorted. He did not like standing on this rim. He did not like the empty space below him, but Hopalong was down there, so it must be all right. Hopalong called to him again. He could see the picket rope trailing back from the bridle, but how to get it over the cliff edge? If he could get hold of that rope, he might make Topper back up and pull him to the edge, and then, if he could get a grasp on the rim, he might get up. He might even be able to cling to the rope and be pulled over. The problem was to get hold of that rope, and from its position it obviously was trailed back between Topper’s legs.
“Topper,” he said suddenly, “say howdy! Come on, say it! Howdy!”
The white gelding hesitated, then bobbed his head, a trick that Red Connors had taught him as a joke. As he did so, the picket rope came forward a bit. Hopalong stared at it. Although there was now a little slack under Topper’s jaw, the rope was still far out of reach. That picket rope was all of twenty feet long, and if it could be gotten over the edge, it would be long enough. How to get it over was the real problem.
Topper was inquisitive and craned his neck, reaching down with his nose toward Hopalong, and although that slid the rope again, it moved it no more than a few inches. If only he had something with which to reach for it!
He stared around him, trying to find something he might use, but the only bush nearby was a bedraggled gray thing that offered little promise.
Where Hopalong now stood was on a brace that had supported the old bridge. This brace was set deep into the solid rock of the cliff and was joined by crosspieces to the adjoining brace. The bridge had been built with an eye toward future loads of machinery and supplies and so had been strongly constructed. He was safe enough where he stood as long as he made no attempt to move around, but there was nothing in the bridge itself that he could utilize for a means of escape.
He looked again at that gnarled and ancient gray bush that grew from the rock near the base of the abutment. Suddenly he dug into his jeans for his pocketknife, and carefully lowering himself to a squatting position, still holding his back against the rock, he cut three of the spreading branches. They were of that tough fiber common to desert woods, and from his belt he took several of the piggin�
� strings he always carried and lashed the branches one to the other until he had a stick all of nine feet long. To the top he fastened a forked branch with the fork opening downward. Then, careful not to lose balance, he straightened up.
The stick was too limber, but could be managed, and slowly, carefully, he lifted it up toward Topper. The horse drew back, and Hopalong spoke to him. “Steady, boy! Stand still, Topper!”
As if conscious of what his master planned, the white gelding stood still. The forked stick moved nearer, wavered, then the fork hooked over the picket rope and began to pull it downward, tugging on the loose end of the rope. As it forced a bight over the cliff edge, it became easier, and then, by reaching, Hopalong got his hand on the rope. Carefully he dropped his stick and it fell away into the gorge. Then he wrapped the rope around his body under his arms, tied a bowline so the knot would not tighten too much, and spoke to Topper. “All right, Topper, back up. Back! Easy, now! Back!”
Step by step the white gelding moved back until Hopalong could get his hand on the cliff edge, and then he crawled over. Unsteadily he got to his feet. “Saved my neck, Topper”—he rubbed the gelding’s neck and slapped his shoulder—“but it wasn’t the first time! Let’s go!”
Recovering his rope, Hopalong mounted and turned back through the chaparral, heading for the camp. He had not seen any of the members of his own group since breakfast on the previous morning.
He rode swiftly, and knowing they were headed for home, Topper was eager and kept tugging on the bit, wanting to go faster and still faster. When he appeared from the brush, he heard a yell and saw Pike Towne, rifle in hand, waving to him. The big man came down to meet him, and when he saw the blood on Hopalong’s hands and side, he looked up sharply. “What happened to you?” he demanded.
“Long story,” Hopalong replied briefly. “Where is everybody?”
“Sarah’s here, been keepin’ breakfast warm for you. Cindy went off to town, an’ Rig took off somewhere before I was up. He was sure you’d had a run-in with some of that Box T outfit. He was fit to be tied.”
“I can use some grub,” Hopalong admitted, “and about a gallon of water. Tell you all about it while we eat.”
Swiftly, as they ate, he told his story, leaving nothing out. He mentioned the Brother he had talked to, and then told of what he had said. As he talked Hopalong noticed that Pike Towne’s face grew more and more grim. Suddenly the big man got to his feet and nervously paced about. “Hoppy,” he said, “Fan Harlan’s in that outfit! Nobody but him ever planned thataway! I’d bet he rode that horse from the stage route to Sipapu, too!”
Watching him, Hopalong nodded. “Could be,” he agreed.
“Harlan was always one for that kind of plannin’,” Pike continued. “Figured it like clockwork. Fact is, he used to—” His voice broke off as he realized what he was saying, and his eyes swung back to Hopalong. His wife was staring from Pike to Hopalong, her face blank with fear.
Hopalong got to his feet and stretched. “I could sleep for a week,” he said, “but I only figure on a couple of hours. That’ll rest me up for what we’ve got ahead of us.” He picked up his hat. “How did Shep work out?”
“We doubled our catch.” Pike was still keeping his eyes on Hopalong Cassidy, puzzled by his ignoring of Pike’s remarks. “But look, I—”
“You know,” Hopalong said thoughtfully, holding out his cup for more coffee, “Fan Harlan was alive last we heard. Maybe you’re right and he is in this gang.”
Pike started to interrupt, but Hopalong continued in a mild voice, “We’re sure lucky you’d known him. I reckoned the only man who might know Fan Harlan was dead. You see,” he lied, “I heard that Ben Hardy was killed back in the Nation. Even if he isn’t dead, he might have reformed, and if a man has reformed, I’d have to judge him according to what he is now, but I’d advise him to keep his name to himself.”
Hopalong looked poignantly at Pike Towne, then turned and shook out his bedroll. Towne hesitated, letting out a long breath. He stepped up beside Hopalong. “That isn’t all,” he said in a choked voice. “Fan Harlan—is Justin Tredway!”
Cassidy examined the old outlaw carefully. “You know this? For a fact?”
“Yes. I saw him in Santa Fe months ago. I thought … I thought I was seein’ things, but there he was. People told me he was a respected businessman, a retired army officer.” Pike took off his hat and ran a shaky hand through his hair. “He used to make up stories all the time, tellin’ us about how he’d lived in this place and that.… I guess he’s still doing it.”
“So you followed him down here?” Hopalong asked.
“It took a while to convince Sarah. But I had to know. I had to know what he was up to. I had to know what had happened to Diego and Purdy—and the money.” Pike turned away for a moment. “Now we’re in it up to our necks”—he looked back and now his old eyes were hard—“and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I wish to God Sarah weren’t here, but she won’t let me send her away, so now we’re all in it … to whatever the end will be.”
Hopalong Cassidy looked long and hard at the man, then shook his head and clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, I’m glad you told me. I’ll get that sleep now. You wake me up in two hours. I hope,” he added, “that Rig hasn’t gone and jumped that Box T outfit by himself!”
Hopalong dropped to his blankets and was asleep as soon as he touched them.
Pike Towne looked over at his wife and their eyes met across the fire. “There,” the big man said reverently, “is a man to ride the river with! He’s one to tie to!”
Hopalong opened his eyes when Pike touched his shoulders and instantly got out of bed. As he pulled on his boots, his mind was already functioning. Rig was the first thing for even if a holdup was planned, they had no way of knowing its time.
“No sign of Taylor?” he asked quickly.
Pike turned from the fire. “No,” he said, “but this came. It was thrown into camp by a stone. Whoever threw it didn’t want to be seen and got away very fast. We didn’t see it thrown, but it fell right near where Sarah had been workin’, so it couldn’t have been there more’n a few minutes.”
It was a piece of coarse brown wrapping paper and written on it were these words:
TAGGART PAYROLL TO BE STOLEN. HOLDUP GANG TO HOLE UP IN SIPAPU OVERNIGHT. SHOULD HIT THERE ABOUT FIVE THIS EVENING. FOUR MEN. IF YOU RIDE WITHIN THE NEXT COUPLE OF HOURS YOU CAN STOP THEM AND THERE SHOULD BE A REWARD.
There was no signature. Hopalong studied the writing and the paper with care, then finally folded the note and put it in his pocket. “What’d you think?” he inquired, looking up at Pike.
Towne shifted uneasily and drew down his right eyebrow into a half frown. “We could do it,” he said reluctantly. “We could make Sipapu, an’ the two of us might take those boys over. If we were lucky.”
Cassidy agreed. “Well, there’s a couple of things about this that don’t look good to me. Whoever wrote this note could have written it to the mine boss and gotten the reward all for himself. Or he could have been waiting for these hombres and thrown down on them. But for some reason he wants us to do it.”
Pike’s eyes glinted shrewdly. “An’ both of us know those outlaws wouldn’t quit. They’d fight.”
“And somebody would get killed, maybe a lot of somebodies, including us.” Cassidy put down his cup and shucked his guns, checking their loads as he habitually did before starting anywhere. “But suppose one member of the gang knew we were going to show up? Suppose he could fall behind? Then, if they were wiped out, he would have all the money to himself.”
Pike came to his feet. “You mean Fan Harlan cooked this up? Is that it?”
Hopalong shrugged. “How can we know? But remember, the last time the gang was wiped out, he ended up with all the money. Why wouldn’t he try it again?”
Pike turned and paced the ground. “That skunk!” he said. “That dirty, lyin’ …” He spun around. “Are we goin’ to let this happen?”
&nbs
p; Hopalong chuckled and leaned back, smiling a little. “Pike,” he said, “we’re not going to have to let it happen. It’s too late now to stop the actual holdup. We couldn’t reach the scene of the crime until after it was over. We aren’t going to ride into any shooting match with those outlaws, either.
“Unless we’re guessing wrong, Harlan planned this to get the money for himself. That means he has to have it in his possession. It also means that he cannot be with the outlaws when they reach Sipapu. My bet is that he’ll take the money himself, cross the Picket Fork at the stage road bridge, and head for home.”
“So what is it we’re going to do?” Pike asked Hopalong.
Hopalong Cassidy got up and went to his horse. “Figure it out on the way. We won’t be in the area in time to do anything if we don’t get going!”
Over on Dead Horse Pass, that seasoned old fighter Tom Burnside did not look upon his job as a sinecure. He felt he was on the pass for a serious purpose and he took it seriously. Every day he was in position well before time for the stage and mounted to a platform built high in a tree. From there he surveyed the country in every direction through a pair of ancient field glasses.
This platform was known to none but himself, and concealed by the foliage of the tree, it had never been discovered. From this lookout he carefully studied the terrain and every possible place for a holdup. On days when there was no treasure on the stage, he rode around the country, and as a matter of fact, he knew of the old wash as well as Tredway did, recognizing its usefulness to outlaws.
Tredway had visited the place and so had Bill Saxx, and he found their tracks there, although he had no idea to whom they belonged. Sure that he was barking up the right tree, Tom Burnside kept careful watch on the place, and about an hour before time he saw a small party of horsemen come from the bed of the Picket Fork, ride up the bank, and vanish in the direction of the junction of the Picket Fork with Chimney Creek. Burnside was well aware that the old wash ended at the same place, so was not surprised when the riders did not again appear.
The Hopalong Cassidy Novels 4-Book Bundle Page 68