Day came at last to the little camp by the water hole, and Hopalong was up and getting the breakfast fire started before Rig rolled out. “You’re sure an energetic cuss,” Rig commented. “I figured I was an early riser, but you beat me.”
“We’ll get across the canyon today,” Hopalong said, “and we may look around Sipapu a little. Mostly I want to see what we can find up that Chimney Butte trail.”
Finally they found a place about six miles above Sipapu where the creek canyon might be bridged, and in a short time, by using an ax they had brought with them from the wagon, they managed to fell logs across the creek from among the bigger trees that grew along the rim. Following that, they built pole rails for each side and led the horses across.
“We’ll ride to Sipapu,” Hopalong said. “I’d like a talk with Bill Saxx.”
They turned their horses down the grass-grown trail and cantered toward the town. As they drew up they detected the slight trail of smoke from the bunkhouse and turned toward it. The men were camped outside and all three looked up in shocked surprise.
Carter reached for his gun, but Saxx dropped a hand to his wrist. “Howdy.” The big blond man got carefully to his feet. “Heard you were on the dodge.”
“That’s funny,” Hopalong replied. “I heard you were!”
Saxx studied him without pleasure, not liking the remark or the man. His eyes went beyond Cassidy to Rig Taylor and Pike Towne. The latter had come down from the brush and had fallen in behind Hopalong. Now he moved up beside him, but wide of him. “No visitors,” he whispered as he moved past, “but they’ve been waitin’.”
“What do you want here?” Saxx demanded.
“Us?” Hopalong shrugged, looking surprised. “Why, we’re rounding up cattle for the Box T. You even visited our camp!”
“I don’t mean that!” Saxx snapped impatiently. “What are you doin’ over this side of the canyon?”
“Explorin’,” Pike Towne said. “We’ve been seein’ lights on that mesa.”
“Lights?” Pres didn’t like that. He glanced over his shoulder at the dark looming mesa. “Lights up there?”
“Sure. Right above this town. More of ’em over near Brushy Knoll.” He looked at them seriously. “You think it’s hanted?”
Pres shifted and glanced at Vin Carter, who spat with disgust. “I ain’t seen no hants.” He sneered. “It’s those Brothers … the monks.”
“Yeah, what do you think they’re doin’ up there?”
“I don’t know, and as long as they don’t come down here, I don’t care!”
Cassidy dismounted and walked toward them. “How’s the coffee?” he asked pleasantly. “Being on the dodge must be rough. I heard the marshal was huntin’ you.”
“Huntin’ us?” Carter demanded angrily. “What would they be huntin’ us for? We’ve got no posse on our trail!”
Bill Saxx narrowed his eyes and stared at Hopalong. Cassidy seemed casual, unconcerned. If he was being pursued, would he act so? Suppose they were being tailed and Tredway knew it but did not tell them. Suppose he was too busy trying to save his own skin.
“Maybe he just wants to ask questions,” Hopalong suggested innocently. “Maybe he just wants to know where you were on the day of the holdup.”
“If it’s any of your business,” Saxx replied shortly, “we were on the Box T, right at the house. We left there that night.”
Rig Taylor’s saddle creaked, but fearing he might speak and give away their knowledge of the foreman’s lie, Hopalong said, “Well, then, you’ve got an alibi. Where was your boss?”
Saxx glared. “You ask a lot of questions!” he snapped. “If you ain’t got any business, you better ride on.”
Hopalong’s blue eyes twinkled over the frost in their depths. “We might argue that question,” he said, “but we won’t right now.”
As he turned to his horse Pike stepped forward. Looking straight at Saxx, he said, “Ask Tredway whatever became of Ben Hardy, will you? Just to see what he says.”
Hopalong grinned as he mounted up. “Well, be sure the marshal doesn’t catch you,” he said, “or the ghosts.”
Bill Saxx watched the three ride off the way they had come, and he scowled. Vin Carter moved up beside him. “I’d like to kill that hombre!” he snarled.
“When you try it,” Saxx replied dryly, “be sure you’ve got an edge. That hombre’s gun slick. An’ those two with him are not pigeons, neither! That big one, he bothers me. I’m bankin’ he’s a mean one. Notice his eyes? The way he looks at you?”
“Skeered?” Carter sneered.
Saxx turned sharply around, his gray eyes flat and ugly. “When you ask that question,” he said, “you’d better have your hand on your gun!”
Carter drew back warily. “No offense,” he said irritably, “but I’m fed up with layin’ around. I want action.”
“You’ll get it, but don’t try to tree those boys unless you want to go all the way. They won’t run or back down, not that crowd. We’ll tangle someday, but when we do, four or five of the six will be dead when it’s over. You figure on that, unless”—he smiled—“unless we take a page from Tredway’s book an’ play it smart.”
“You got any ideas?” Carter squinted up at him.
“Yeah,” Saxx said, “I got a few. We got to split that bunch up. Take ’em one at a time. Me, I want Cameron.”
Hopalong rode swiftly for half a mile, then slowed to listen, but hearing no sounds of pursuit, they continued on. Neither Saxx nor Carter had the balance and cunning of Tredway, and their conversation with Cassidy might stampede them into some hasty and thoughtless action. While such action might give them away, it would be fraught with danger for Hopalong himself and all his friends, particularly for Cindy Blair, at whom they might decide to strike.
Around them the woods grew thicker, and high above them towered the wall of the mesa. Before them, still some distance off, was Brushy Knoll. The air was very still and quiet. Not a breath of wind, not a sound, and there was the smell of dried pine needles, leaves, and hot earth. Hopalong mopped the sweat from his face and dried his hands. His blue eyes were restlessly watching the woods around him and the trail ahead. Despite his common sense, the quiet of the place and the strange stories told of the inhabitants of the mesa worked on his nerves.
“Hoppy.” Rig’s voice was low and it was worried. “I don’t like this! It’s too durned quiet!”
“There’s no sound but the wind off in the chaparral,” Pike agreed, “no sound but the wind.”
“Probably,” Rig half whispered, “there ain’t a soul in miles.”
The wind was a low, far-off sound, almost no sound at all, but a background more silent than silence. Rig’s eyes shifted to the mesa’s rim, then to the trees. He dried his palm on his chap leather and touched his gun.
Two pairs of eyes watched their progress. One pair was high on Brushy Knoll behind an ancient field glass, another was in the chaparral three hundred yards away, and this man held a rifle. Colonel Justin Tredway had succeeded in contacting Tote Brown, and Brown was ready to do his job. His narrow eyes on the trail below, he watched the riders and steadied the rifle in the crotch of a tree.
CHAPTER 8
BABYLON MESA
At the very moment when Hopalong Cassidy talked to Bill Saxx, Sarah Towne was standing at the counter of the general store in Kachina, her face pale and sick. Before her, his hands flat on the counter, was Ira Arnold, the storekeeper. Beside Sarah herself was Buck Lewis, the marshal who had been called back as he was about to leave town. In his hand he held a twenty-dollar bill, a bill that was brand spanking new.
“You’re right, Iry,” he said dubiously, “this here is sure an unsigned bill, an’ as such ain’t legal tender, but I don’t reckon Missus Towne knowed it or she wouldn’t have tried to spend it.”
Ira Arnold had never been noted for graciousness. “Ain’t necessarily so,” he snapped irritably. “Folks try to get away with anything these days, just to keep from pa
yin’ their just dues.”
Sarah Towne lifted her chin. She looked tired, and now she was frightened. She had found the money in the pocket of Pike’s spare pants—had he been implicated in that holdup? The thought had scared her, and while she refused to believe it, there remained a tiny lingering doubt. “Everything I ever bought,” she said firmly, “I paid for. I don’t owe you anything, do I?”
“No, an’ you ain’t likely to!” Arnold sniffed. “I know your kind! Traipsin’ about the country, no good to nobody!”
“If my Pike was here, you wouldn’t say that!” Sarah Towne was suddenly angry.
“That ain’t no way to talk, Iry,” Lewis interrupted gently. “After all, none of us was born here, an’ we’n our folks been movin’ for years. That goes for you, too, Iry. Remember I knowed your pa in St. Louis, an’ you, too, an’ them days neither of you had nothin’.”
Arnold glared at him, furious beyond words. Before he could think of anything to say, Lewis turned to the woman. “Where’d you get this bill, ma’am? Ain’t no call to be frightened. We here in Kachina don’t aim to make trouble for no women.”
Ignoring Ira Arnold’s sniff of contempt, he continued, “Just tell us where you got it.”
“It was in Pike’s other pants!” she returned quickly. “And wherever it came from, Marshal, it’s honest money!”
“Lady, it’s unsigned.” Arnold sneered. “Honest money! We all know it came from the stage robbery.”
Buck Lewis looked at the storekeeper with ill-concealed irritation. He held his job as a result of selection by a half-dozen men, of whom Ira was one; nevertheless, he disliked the man intensely and admired this quiet, courageous woman in her threadbare garments and with her work-worn hands. She had a quality of courage and an innate fineness that he understood and could appreciate.
“May I see the bill?” Lewis turned at the voice. He knew that voice at once and was relieved. The authority of Colonel Tredway counted for much and far out-weighed any opinion held by Ira Arnold.
Lewis handed him the bill, and Tredway glanced at it, then turned it over. “It is unsigned,” he commented. “Does anybody have a description of the money taken from the stage? I can imagine no other way in which an unsigned bill could get into circulation.”
“What did I tell you?” Arnold was triumphant. “This woman’s husband’s being hunted right now. He along with that Cameron or whatever his name is. They are a bad lot! Too bad they didn’t shoot all of them!”
“I know nothing about it, of course,” Tredway said gently, “and without doubt this good woman is innocent of any wrongdoing, but I suggest, Marshal, that you get in touch with the stage company and ask for some information on the nature of the money being shipped. If they were unsigned bills, as now seems logical, this could be a very important clue.
“As I’ve said, I see no reason for disturbing this woman, but if this money came from her husband’s trousers, then no doubt our suspicions are correct and he is one of the outlaws we seek.”
“I’ll check on that,” Lewis agreed, “right away.”
Sarah Towne glanced once toward the piled-up groceries, then turned away from the counter, her heart beating rapidly. Something was wrong about this, very wrong! Pike had promised her and he couldn’t have … Or could he? Then she shook her head decidedly. Pike might have been many things, but he was a man of his word, and furthermore, he loved her too much. Nothing would ever shake her faith in that love.
Colonel Tredway’s face was grave, but inwardly he was glowing. Nothing could have worked out better! Not only was suspicion thrown right where he wanted it thrown, but he had appeared as a friendly witness and would never be suspected of having planted that bill himself. This was one more step in the elimination of the Cassidy-Taylor-Towne combination, and with them out of the way, he was safe.
That the bills had been unsigned he discovered upon opening the package. That did not trouble him, for among other things he was a skilled penman, and upon occasion could do a good job of forging. Also, he smiled slightly, this would keep the money in his hands and keep him in control of the situation.
Sarah Towne returned to the wagon to find Cindy Blair had returned from her ride. Quickly she told her story.
“It’s absurd!” Cindy flared. “Something is wrong! They had no chance to rob any stage even if they had been the kind to do it! I’m going to see Marshal Lewis!”
On second thought she changed her mind. It would do no good to go to him and lodge a protest, none at all. Before they could do that, they must have evidence.
“If they didn’t have that money, and we know they didn’t, then how could it have been there for you to find?” she asked, speaking more to herself than to Sarah Towne. “There’s only one answer. Somebody had to put it there!”
She started for the wagon. “Sarah, show me where those pants were hanging.”
Sarah pointed at the hand-carved wooden hook inside the covered wagon. Inside, but within easy reach of a man who got up on the back of the wagon. Getting down, she looked carefully around. Their own footprints were all over everything. Despairing of finding anything, she nevertheless began to scout around. Her eyes suddenly fell on a pair of boots, and looking up, she saw a quizzical pair of gray eyes looking from a seamed brown face. The man was old, but stalwart and strong, and his mustache was white except for a slight yellowing from tobacco stains.
“Huntin’ somethin’, ma’am?”
She hesitated, uncertain whether to be friendly or not, but the old man looked pleasant enough. “I’m hunting some tracks,” she said then, and went on to repeat the story of the morning’s happenings. He watched her as she talked and glanced from time to time at Sarah Towne, who had joined them.
“My name’s Tom Burnside,” he said quietly. “I used to be some shakes at trackin’. Suppose you let me have the job?”
Turning away from them, he began a careful examination of the ground, swinging in a slowly widening circle about the area in which the wagon stood. Suddenly he knelt, examining a sharply delineated track.
It was the print of a new boot, the toe pointing toward the wagon, part of it obliterated by grass on which the walker had stepped, part in soft loam. But the overall impression was excellent, better than he had hoped for.
Two hours of careful work took him back to the rocks at the edge of the little stream that flowed by the town. On those rocks the walker might have come from anywhere, gone to anywhere. You had only to come out of the back door of one whole side of the town and walk down to the stream. The worn boulders held no mark of any kind. Yet he was impressed by what he had found. Without doubt somebody had circled around and crept up close to the wagons. That somebody might have planted the bills. It was then he made up his mind to go to Buck Lewis.
On the trail near Brushy Knoll, Tote Brown suddenly had Hopalong Cassidy in his sights. He disliked firing on one man when there were others with him, but his orders were explicit and the price better than usual. He squeezed off his shot.
No one has ever recorded the place of little things in the chain of history. On this occasion it was a big horsefly that buzzed near Topper’s ear, and Topper shied slightly. Something stung Hopalong sharply across the top of the ear, and the sharp report of a rifle rang out, echoing against the face of the cliff.
Racing their horses for the trees, Hopalong put one hand to his ear and it came away bloody. He stared at his fingers, then looked at Rig with disgust. “A half inch closer and that would have blown the top of my head off!”
Too wise to start charging up the side of the tree-covered slope that lay below the precipice, the three waited and listened, but there was no sound. “Now, who d’you suppose fired that? One of those Brothers?”
Cassidy shook his head. “What about that hombre who shot at you, Rig? It could be the same one.”
“Where does he fit into this?” Taylor demanded. “I don’t get it.”
“If my guess is right, he’s working for Tredway. He may have
been trying to keep you from discovering Pete Melford’s place, but now I guess he’s after all of us.”
“Either of you want to go back there in the brush after him?” Hopalong touched his bloody ear and looked from one to the other, grinning. “Well, neither do I. Let’s Injun out of here and push on.”
Tote Brown had retreated from his position but only to a better one selected earlier. He had hit Cassidy; even if the bullet had not killed him, it had hit him. He had seen that much. Now, if they came after him, he could get one of them and maybe all. From his present position they could not see him, and to get at him they must dismount and come up the slope toward him. His own horse was across a narrow gap and beyond a rocky area that could not be crossed by a horse. His chances of getting one man and maybe more were excellent, and his own chance of being hit was slight.
He waited and waited, but nothing happened. Were they lying below him, watching from under cover? He dared not approach the trail now. He must wait or retreat. He swore softly. It had been too much to expect, of course. But if they had come! His eyes gleamed with malice and he got to his feet, but as he straightened up and turned a queer feeling came over him, a feeling of being watched. His rifle at the ready, he looked around very carefully, then started down the rocks in the direction of his horse.
Suddenly there was a rustling in the brush ahead of him. Frozen in place, he listened. Behind him a twig snapped. He peered through the leaves but could see nothing. He thought he could feel the weight of unseen eyes upon him. He took a long slow breath and stepped forward. He sensed movement all around him, just out of sight, on the lowest threshold of his hearing.… A shadow shifted on his left, a whispering in the branches to his right. Behind him … He whirled for an instant and saw … A cloak? A hooded figure in the trees?
Tote Brown was not, or he had never considered himself, a superstitious man, yet all around him the brush seemed to have come to life. He had heard of ghosts around Sipapu and had sneered at such stories. He had heard bizarre tales about the inhabitants of Babylon Mesa, but he had believed none of them. He stood frozen, looking around and trying to locate the origin of the movement, but he could find nothing. All was very still, and there was no other sound.
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