The Hopalong Cassidy Novels 4-Book Bundle

by Louis L'Amour

  After a while he started on, and he walked softly, as if fearful of attracting attention. Was he going crazy? Or was his imagination playing tricks on him? As he neared the place where his horse had been left, he began to hurry. Rounding the last clump of rocks and brush, he was almost running. He slid to a halt, staring, wild-eyed, suddenly frightened. His horse was not there!

  Dragged its picket pin? Hurrying forward, Tote looked at the ground. He could track the … There were no tracks. There was no evidence that a horse had ever been here.

  It was the wrong place, that was it! He hurried on, but an hour of searching brought him nothing. Panting, he stopped and mopped the sweat from his brow. Gone! They had taken his horse, then. But who were they? What were they?

  He was thirsty and wanted a drink. He should never have left his canteen on his horse. Thinking swiftly, he made up his mind. There was no use looking further. He would start for Chimney Creek. By keeping the cliff at his back, he could go right to the stream, and it could not be far off. Yet even as he started to retrace his steps he began remembering that cliff. Nowhere in all the length of the canyon he had examined had he seen where a man might get to the bottom!

  But there would be a way. There had to be a way.

  In a flash it came to him. The place to go would be Sipapu! Why had he not considered that? Bill Saxx would be there with his men and he could give them some cock-and-bull story about being thrown. It would be simple enough. He started off, walking rapidly. It might be four or five miles. It could not be more than that.

  The region between Chimney Creek Canyon and the mesa was not a dense thicket of brush but rather scattered clumps of trees, thick groves of aspen, and much grass. He walked rapidly, but the heavy rifle began to tire him. Finally he made a sling with a strip of rawhide and hung it over his shoulders. He could carry it more easily then, but it gouged into his back from time to time, and he kept shifting it as he walked.

  It was very hot. His mouth felt dry and his brow was fevered. He touched his tongue to his lips and walked on. The clumps of trees kept him walking around them, and several times he had to stop and correct himself, for he was walking out of his course. His face felt hot, but he slowed now to conserve energy. Dusk was nearing when at last he sighted the town. Barely able to restrain himself from running, he hurried toward the place. Earlier, as he followed Hopalong and his friends, he had seen Saxx there, and so he went at once to the camp.

  It was deserted and still. The ashes of the fire were cold. They were gone—gone!

  But there was water—there had to be water! Yet a hurried search netted him none. The well that had once supplied the town was caved in. A trip to the creek found him standing on the old abutment of the bridge, but below him it was a sheer drop of hundreds of feet down to the water.

  Slowly he got to his feet. How far it was to a place where he could descend to the river he did not know. Nor did he know in which direction to start. Frightened, he took what seemed the best chance and started downstream. He no longer even thought of his missing horse. His problem now was water, and he knew of no nearer chance to get water than the bridge on the stage road.

  It was very hot. He slowed his pace and shifted the heavy rifle. Suddenly he realized for the first time that he might not get out of this alive. He started to walk again. Once he stumbled, and a dozen yards farther he stumbled again. He would have to take his time, he would have to be careful of his strength.

  Hopalong Cassidy rode in silence, considering the situation. The thing to do, he realized now more than ever, was to see the Brothers. They might actually know something, and they might give evidence. And now was the time to find out. That there was a trail to the top of the mesa in the vicinity of Brushy Knoll had long been rumored. The one Brother he had talked to knew of Pete Melford and he was hoping to enlist their aid in proving the guilt of Tredway and establishing Cindy Blair’s claim to the PM range.

  “Look,” Pike suggested suddenly. “I’m worried about Sary. If you don’t think you’ll need me, I’ll head back for town. I want to be sure they are all right.”

  Hopalong drew up. “No, I won’t need you, and it would be better if I went alone. Rig, you might as well go with him unless you want to come along. He may need help, and I surely won’t. Also,” he added, “you will be headed back where that shot came from, and two can watch out better than one.”

  “You sure?” Rig asked. “I’d sure like to see atop that mesa, but I’m worried, like Pike is. No telling what may happen with the womenfolks by themselves.”

  “See you then!” Hopalong turned Topper back into the trail. “No gunplay if you can avoid it, but watch out for Saxx. He’s bad.”

  After they had started back, Hopalong pushed on down the old trail. It showed no evidence of recent use. The only tracks he saw were those of deer or smaller game. At his right the wall of the mesa loomed high, and already the hour was growing late and it was nearing dusk. Several times he cast curious looks at Brushy Knoll, but it loomed up, dark and ominous, with the shadows gathering under the leaves of trees and brush, and gave no sign of light or life.

  The trail branched suddenly, and here he dismounted and examined the dusty earth carefully. There were tracks here, tracks of men wearing sandals. The trail they had taken was that leading from Brushy Knoll to the mesa, and the latter wound by a switchback route up the steep rock wall. Hopalong glanced up at the wall and could dimly see the line of the path. “Let’s try it, Topper,” he whispered. “You’re a good mountain horse.”

  Topper moved willingly into the path, his ears pricked forward inquiringly. There was no sound but the creak of the saddle leather and the soft thud of Topper’s hooves in the dust of the trail. Long twilight shadows fell across his path and trees loomed on both sides. Once Hopalong half believed he glimpsed someone or something moving far back in the brush, but the movement faded and he rode on. And then the trail started up the slope.

  It was just wide enough for a man on a horse and it was bare rock. Topper started up the trail, a slight incline that became steeper, then rounded an elbow and started back. Slowly they mounted, and when Hopalong looked out over the wide country below them, he could see the vast miles of the chaparral and pear, stretching away in every direction from the foot of Babylon Mesa.

  Then, at last, he rode out in the clear, high air of Babylon Mesa. Immediately before him the mesa was flat and grass-covered. Hopalong spotted several head of cattle who looked up curiously.

  Beyond the grassy level was the darkness of a pine forest, and Hopalong rode toward it. Topper walked steadily. Something moved along the edge of the pines on his left. Without changing pace, Hopalong let his eyes shift along the front of the trees and saw another movement on his right. They knew he was here, then. And they were letting him come.

  The stars came out and hung so close overhead in the clear air that it looked as if they could be knocked down with a stick. The path entered the forest and he moved on, and then suddenly men closed in from the right and the left. Not one man, but a dozen. They walked, six men to a side, and they said nothing, nothing at all.

  Suddenly the trail turned; a man was standing there with a lantern. He was a big man and he wore a beard. He said nothing, but stepped into the path ahead of Hopalong. They emerged from the trees and Hopalong could see the dark lines of row crops, acres of them, he could see lights glowing from the windows of low adobe structures, and somewhere he heard a woman singing.

  There was the smell of damp earth, and in one of the fields he saw water between the rows. So they irrigated. A good water supply, then. It would not be suspected above this wall of rock.

  The guide with the lantern paused before an open door and one of the men moved up to Hopalong’s stirrup. “You may get down,” he said.

  Hopalong Cassidy swung down and stripped off his gloves, tucking them into his belt. He smelled the rich sweetness of honeysuckle. They walked down a path and through the door. Within the room all was light, and three men sat
behind a table on a raised dais at the end. Arranged along the walls on benches were two dozen other men. Most of them were bearded. All were dressed in rough homespun robes of some sort.

  The man in the center behind the table had a gray beard, but he was a man still strong and of massive build. He looked down at Hopalong. “Why do you come to this place?”

  Briefly Hopalong Cassidy explained, beginning with his arrival to see his friend, the shot Tote Brown fired at Taylor, the discovery that Taylor and Cindy Blair had come to claim the ranch left by his friend. He told them briefly and concisely all he knew, and then he stated his reason for coming.

  “It has been said that you keep watch from this mesa,” he said. “It seemed to me that some of you might have seen something related to the robbery that might help us. If this is the case, it would be necessary that whoever saw it happen come down and testify in court.”

  The elder listened, then shook his head. “That we cannot do. We have committed ourselves to a good life. We take no part in the disputes or altercations of those who live around us. We do keep such a lookout as you describe, but only to preserve our own peace.

  “Here”—he gestured around him—“we have all we need. Indeed, from observation, we know that we live much better than most of those on the ranches below. We have sheep, goats, and cattle. We have vegetables, grain, and fruit. We raise what we need and we use what we raise, and we keep a granary supplied against the bad years. We have no need to traffic with others.”

  “Nevertheless,” Hopalong replied, “you are men of justice. Would you see a relative of Pete Melford robbed, a girl who has done no harm to any man?”

  “We know, of course, that the PM range was settled by Melford. We do not know what happened after his death, and even had we suspected anything was wrong, it still would not have been our place to interfere. We handle our own affairs, dispense our own justice, our own punishments.”

  “The man we know as Colonel Justin Tredway,” Hopalong said, “came to this country after the breaking up of the Ben Hardy gang. We know now that most of that gang were killed down in the chaparral. Ben Hardy escaped, and Fan Harlan was the killer. Justin Tredway has been positively identified as Fan Harlan.”

  The elder’s head came up sharply, and Hopalong heard a mutter of startled sound run through the room. The three men behind the table bent their heads together and talked in low whispers. There was much talk in undertones among the others. “You have reasons for what you have said? Explain, please.”

  Hopalong repeated his suspicions to them, adding what he had learned from Pike and from Burnside. The atmosphere of the room underwent a change as he spoke. They questioned him at length about the finding of the skeletons of the outlaws, then about events in Kachina surrounding their arrival and events concerning the Box T. They asked many questions about Tredway and Saxx and seemed interested in Tote Brown. They asked questions about the physical description of the men, their actions and background. Particularly they asked about the opening of Kachina, the beginning of the freight line, and then more about Tredway.

  Finally Hopalong arose to go, and the elder leaned over the table. “We may be able to help you,” he said, “and we will do what we can. We can send a man who will testify to the fact that Melford lived on and developed what was known as the PM Ranch. Beyond that we can make no promises.”

  The guide with the lantern appeared once more and led Hopalong to the trail, this time escorting him all the way to the bottom of the cliff. “I have been requested,” he said, at the foot of the trail, “to ask you to say nothing of what you have seen. We do not welcome visitors.”

  A few miles away from the trail Hopalong turned into the brush and made a dry camp, more than a little mystified by what he had heard. What was it about Tredway that interested them so much? For despite the fact that they had been careful to ask seemingly casual questions, he was the one subject to which they continually returned.

  Twice during the night he awakened, and each time there were lights on Brushy Knoll that could have been nothing but signals—to whom?

  Evenas watched the last guest climb the stairs to his room in the hotel. His mind was made up. His statement to Hopalong that he would be wealthy, and soon, would wait no longer for results. Tonight was the night.

  Glancing around, he dropped to his knees in front of his hiding place, then hesitated. No, better not. Tonight he would make his play, but he would make it on nerve and the knowledge of what he possessed. Removing his green eyeshade and placing it on the desk behind the counter, he took from a drawer a double-barrel derringer and thrust it into his coat pocket.

  He stepped outside and the wind whipped his coat, and he dropped his head and walked around the hotel toward the stable. As he saddled his horse he felt his first moments of doubt. The Colonel could be hard as nails—his whole past proved it—and any man who bucked him would be asking for trouble. Yet did Tredway dare take a chance now? Cassidy was around, and Cindy Blair.

  If Tredway was the man he thought him, he was fast with a gun, and he might not hesitate to shoot. Evenas knew he could not hope to compete with any slightly handy gunman, so he hit upon a clever scheme. In the lobby of the hotel he had picked up an old newspaper and rolled it carefully. Then he cut a hole in the side of the flattened tube for his finger. Unrolling the paper, he inserted the derringer in the center of it and rolled it once more. Now he could carry the innocent newspaper in his hand while his finger would be on the trigger at all times.

  Despite his precautions, much of his confidence began to ebb away. Memories of the stern jawline of Tredway and his harshness returned. And Evenas had no illusions. He was not a brave man.

  The road at that hour was deserted and he saw no one. He rode at a canter, his head bowed against a stiff wind. The lights of the Box T appeared and he stared at them, holding his hat to his head with one hand. Lights in the bunkhouse, too. He had hoped the hands would be away from the ranch. Yet, as he watched, the lights in the bunkhouse dimmed and went out, a man walked to the barn, mounted a horse, and rode swiftly away.

  Evenas stared at the lights in the house, his mouth dry. This was it. For more than a year he had been building toward this moment. One swift reach for wealth, then escape and the freedom to enjoy it. He would need all his nerve to face Tredway. Setting his jaw, he started forward, the newspaper clutched in his right hand, his finger on the trigger of the gun. He had promised himself wealth and the time had come to make good that promise. He started his horse down the hill, watching the ranch house with no goodwill. He dismounted and tied his horse to the hitch rail, then went up to the door. He hesitated briefly, his hand lifted to knock. Through the lighted window he could see Tredway seated at his desk, writing. Evenas waited for a lull in the wind, then dropped his hand to the knob and tried it gently. Slowly it opened under his hand and he stepped in, away from the sound of the wind.

  His boots made no sound on the beautifully woven Navajo rug as he crossed the hall to the study door. He paused in the open doorway. Warned by the sense of some presence, Tredway looked up.

  For an instant he was startled, and then he recognized the sallow-faced, black-eyed clerk. “What do you want here? Who let you in?”

  “I walked in. I thought you wouldn’t want to be disturbed.” Evenas stared at the quiet-faced man sitting before him. It was a strong, authoritative face, and only a closer look would bring out the tiny lines of acquisitiveness about the eyes or show the cruel mouth below the mustache. Hate mounted within Evenas, hate for this crisp, sure man who sat there at the table. Tredway was a thief and a murderer, yet he sat there so calm, so sure of himself!

  Well, he would destroy that calm. From now on he, Evenas, would be boss. The feeling filled him with triumph. He took a step into the room, the rolled-up paper in his right hand. “Tredway,” he said, “I want five thousand dollars tonight and twenty thousand before the week is out.”

  Tredway’s eyes narrowed. Ever since he had realized the identity of
his visitor, he had been puzzled. He knew the man, knew him for a sneak who if not watched would filch coins from the till, who would even steal small things from the rooms. He had never suspected that the man might try blackmail. A momentary smile touched his lips. It was an ironic smile, for Tredway was thinking that aside from the stolen, unsigned bills, he had less than three hundred dollars on the place.

  The smile disconcerted Evenas and made him angry. The newspaper lifted slightly, and for the first time Tredway’s eyes went to that paper. Instantly he realized his danger. Evenas was a growing kitten playing with an old alley tomcat. Tredway no sooner noticed the paper than he realized that no man would have carried a paper in his hand through all that wind outside. Therefore the paper was either some evidence with which Evenas planned to confront him or it concealed a weapon. Tredway had ridden with the wolves too long to be deceived.

  “I mean it!” Evenas’s hatred made him bold. He stepped farther into the room. “I didn’t come out here to talk! I want five thousand dollars and I want it now!”

  “You’ve neglected to tell me,” Tredway said smoothly, his cold eyes never leaving those of Evenas, “what I’m supposed to get for the five thousand, or why I should give it to you. Is this a shakedown?”

  “Call it whatever you like.” Evenas sneered a little. “I know who you are. I know about Melford and the PM. I know enough to hang you. I don’t care what you’ve done, all I want is money.”

  “I see.” Tredway studied Evenas with contempt. The petty fool! Did he think he could get away with this? That the man should even carry such an idea angered Tredway. “And for that money, what do I get?”

  Evenas shrugged. “I won’t go to Lewis with what I know. Nor to Hopalong Cassidy.”