The Hopalong Cassidy Novels 4-Book Bundle

by Louis L'Amour

  “Checking the register,” Hopalong replied quietly.

  “Yeah?” Saxx had his hands on his hips, and he stared hard at Hopalong. “Wonder what the marshal will think of that? He’s huntin’ you for that holdup.”

  Cassidy never moved his eyes from Saxx. He was in for trouble and he could see no way to avoid it, although right now trouble was the very last thing he wanted.

  “Whatever you got back there,” Saxx said coolly, “I want it. Hand it over.”

  Hopalong smiled easily. “Now, that’s foolish talk,” he said, “for if I got anything, it is something I want and intend to keep.”

  Saxx swung from the hip, balling his fist as his hand shot out. The punch was hard and fast, thrown with all of his great strength. It was wrong only in one thing. It was a swing, and the straightest line is just that, a straight line, not a curved one. Hoppy’s left leaped out in a stiff jab that caught Bill Saxx on the mouth and set him back on his heels. Instantly Hopalong stepped in and smashed a heavy right to the ribs and, rolling, hooked a hard left to the midsection. Hurt, Saxx staggered and hit the steps leading to the second floor. He came up with a lunge, swinging hard. Hopalong threw a right, missed, and the two men fell into a clinch. His left hand on Saxx’s biceps, Hopalong caught the back of Saxx’s right elbow and thrust his leg quickly behind the legs of the larger man and threw him to the floor. He hit with a thud that shook the building.

  Furious, he lunged to his feet and hurled himself at Hopalong, who met him coming in with a smashing left. Saxx was a powerful man and he had been hurt, and suddenly all his innate viciousness came to the fore. Toe to toe they stood in the dim light of the lobby and slugged it out. Hopalong was lighter but faster, and he hit with the jarring force of a trip-hammer. Saxx took the punches coming in and smashed back, his heavy fists rocking Hopalong’s head and jarring him clear to his heels. Slipping a wicked right, Hopalong smashed a left to the teeth, then whipped a right to the midsection and then slammed both hands to the head. Saxx ducked lower and bored in, but Hopalong uppercut hard and straightened him. Trying with a left for the face, Hopalong missed and fell into a right to the chin.

  Lights seemed to explode, and the room spun. He felt himself falling, felt the smashing of blows to the head and body, and then he went down hard and rolled over. Hurt though he was, he knew he had to get to his feet, that on the floor he would be helpless before the boots of the big ranch foreman. Rolling over, Hopalong lunged to get up and moved just in time to miss the full force of Saxx’s first kick. He went down again, however, and Saxx came after him. Helpless to rise fast enough, Hopalong rolled up to his shoulders, bracing his hips with both hands, and kicked out with both spurred heels. The first one raked Saxx across the face and the second ripped his shirt and drew blood on his arm. Saxx sprang back, cursing with pain, and Hopalong rolled over and came to his feet. Saxx charged, and Hopalong Cassidy met him with a left fist that loosened four front teeth. The foreman stopped in his tracks, and Hopalong whipped over a right that laid open the bigger man’s face for three inches.

  Shouts and inquiring yells rang out from all over the hotel and footsteps pounded on the hall floor upstairs. Hopalong was desperate. To be found here now meant arrest. He saw Bill Saxx boring in, his eyes ugly with pain and fury, and then Saxx swung hard with his left. Catching the blow on his forearm, Hopalong chopped wickedly at the Box T foreman’s jaw. It was a short, vicious punch, and it hurt. Stopped in his tracks, half off balance, Saxx shook his head and started to lift his hands when Hopalong hit him, one-two on the chin. He went back, and Hopalong followed up with a looping, lifting bolo punch to the wind. With a grunt, Saxx folded and Hopalong uppercut hard with both hands. Footsteps sounded on the steps. Hopalong glanced once at the fallen man, then went through the door with a jump.

  Disregarding the steps, he hit the street running, went between the buildings across the street, and gasping for breath, his lungs stabbing with pain, he raced for his horse. Behind him came yells and much loud talk. Slowly he eased his pace. His heart was pounding, his chest heaving. Somehow he had managed to grab up his hat, although he had no memory of it, and both guns were still in place. Glancing back, he saw no pursuit, and walked on, stones rolling under his boots occasionally. Sweat trickled into his eyes and they smarted with the salt.

  His shirt was torn, his face bloody. His lip must have been split inside, for he could taste blood. He stopped once to mop the sweat from his face, and his breathing slowed down, his heart eased in its pounding. Evidently he had not been seen.

  A few minutes later he had reached Topper and was in the saddle. He walked the horse back into the trees and, avoiding open places, moved over the ridge and to the lower ground beyond. It was a long ride to the camp on the Picket Fork, and he was suddenly very, very tired. He sagged in the saddle, his body moving with the easy rhythm of Topper’s walking. His fingers strayed to his waistband. He still had the papers. If he swung wide of his trail, he could be at Burnside’s before daybreak. It would increase the time taken to get to the camp, but no matter. These papers, whatever they were, should be in the hands of the old lawman. He turned Topper toward the ranch at Dead Horse Pass, then dozed in the saddle.

  It was almost midafternoon before Hopalong neared the camp on the Picket Fork.

  Almost at once he saw that the Box T hands had found the cattle. They were there, and with them several unknown Mexican riders. Vin Carter seemed to be in charge and they were moving the cattle out, gathering them on the south bank of the Picket Fork near the site of the old camp, ready to drive them on.

  Alone, Hopalong rode from the timber. Vin Carter had gone back into the brush toward the drag end of the herd. Pres was the first to see him coming, and the cowhand cast one quick glance toward where Vin Carter had gone, then waited to meet Hopalong. Another Box T rider, Krug, had faced around also, and both men got down from their horses.

  “Where you going with those cattle?” Hopalong demanded.

  “Drivin’ to the Box T,” Pres said. “What did you expect?”

  “You’ve no right to move them,” Hopalong said. “They are our gather and will be moved when we’re ready.”

  Pres shrugged insolently. “That’s your worry. My orders are to move ’em. If you don’t like that, talk to Vin. He’ll straighten you out. In fact,” the cowhand added, “I can’t think of anything he might like better.”

  Hopalong dismounted, keeping Topper between them. Then he walked around the horse. A glance had told him the Mexican riders were holding aloof, watching with interest, but apparently with no idea of interference. “If you move them,” Hopalong said, “I’ll want a tally.”

  Pres shrugged again. “Then make your own tally. We got no such orders.”

  “All right.” Hopalong was agreeable. “I’ll do it.” He hooked his thumbs in his belt. “If I were in your shoes, I’d be doing some serious thinking. Tredway’s through. He can’t protect you any longer.”

  “Yeah?” Pres stared at Hopalong. “Where did you get the idea that I needed any protection?”

  “Just telling you.” Hopalong shrugged. “Burnside didn’t stop when he killed two of your boys. He’s on the trail of the outlaws and he’s got a good lead. You’re trailing with the wrong crowd, Pres.”

  Unknown to Hopalong, Vin Carter had come from the chaparral behind him. Sighting Cassidy, the Box T segundo narrowed his eyes with calculation. Swinging from his horse, he took his rifle and worked his way around behind Hopalong. His eyes glued to the broad shoulders of the silver-haired rider, he was giving no thought to any danger to himself. Separated from the herd and standing half-hidden in the brush was a big black steer that had previously given Hopalong trouble. He was one of three who had fought hardest against capture, and now free, he stood in the mesquite, glaring red-eyed at the man slipping through the brush. His head came down and he pawed at the leaves.

  Carter heard the sound and hesitated, listening. Behind him the black steer moved with all the silence of the stalking
wild creature it had become. With Cassidy not fifty yards from him, Carter lifted his rifle and drew a careful bead on Hopalong’s back. Nestling the rifle against his cheek, taking aim, Vin heard a faint rustle behind him. His head came around, and he glanced over his shoulder.

  Whatever else he might be, Vin Carter was a cattleman, and no fool when it came to range stock. One glance at the big steer and he knew exactly how much danger he was facing. Yet in the crucial instant he froze, torn between the instinctive realization of his danger and his lust to kill Cassidy. And it was that hesitation which was to prove fatal.

  The black steer weighed more than two thousand pounds and it was raw power, all mighty muscle and bone. The creature was scarcely ten yards from Vin Carter when the outlaw turned, and in that instant the big steer bunched his muscles and lunged, his great head of horns lowered.

  With a cry, Vin swung his rifle and fired point-blank. Even had the bullet hit, nothing on earth could have stopped him, for the beast had every ounce of his strength gathered in this lunge at the hated man-thing that had driven him from his brushy stronghold, subjected him to the rope and the corral. Vin’s rifle bellowed, and he tried to work the lever. One fleeting instant he jerked down on it and then the lowered head struck him.

  He went flying back, his body striking a tree, then rebounding. The steer hooked low and hard, and Vin Carter screamed wildly as the horn tore into him.

  The shot and the scream had followed one on the other. Wheeling, Hopalong saw the steer goring the man; he ran three quick steps to the left, his hand lifting iron. The steer lunged toward the fallen man again and Hopalong fired!

  The big steer stumbled and went to his knees. Walking swiftly forward, Hopalong fired again. That bullet struck the beast in the eye and he went over on his side, his legs kicking out in the throes of death.

  Pres and Krug had rushed forward, followed by the Mexicans. Hopalong dropped beside the fallen man. He needed no telling as to what Vin Carter had planned here; the rifle was evidence enough.

  Carter lay sprawled on the leaves, alive but dying. He looked up, no recognition in his eyes. “Never seen him!” he gasped. “He was right on me afore I …” His voice trailed away.

  The Mexicans glanced at one another and crossed themselves. One picked up the rifle curiously and glanced at the situation, then inquiringly at Hopalong Cassidy. None of them spoke.

  Hoppy got to his feet, his face grave. “Well, he asked for it,” he said quietly.

  Pres said nothing, and Krug only shifted his feet. Both men were obviously upset by the sudden death of the Box T segundo, and another thing that disturbed them was the flashing speed of Hopalong’s draw. That draw could have been against them as well as this steer, and it would have meant death for one or both of them. It was a sobering thought. Both men were courageous enough, but it is one thing to face risk of death and quite another to face certainty of death. Pres was suddenly aware that there was nothing in Kachina that made him want to die.

  “What happens now?” Krug asked suddenly, staring at Cassidy. “You said Tredway was through. Was that straight?”

  “It is. Last night,” Hopalong said quietly, “I got the only evidence that was needed. I put it in the hands of the man who will use it. By now Tredway may be in jail.”

  “Where’s Saxx?”

  Hopalong shrugged. “How should I know? I saw him last night, and we had it out in the Mansion House lobby. I whipped him.”

  Pres scowled his disbelief. “You whipped Saxx?” He was incredulous. “That’s never been done.”

  “It’s been done now,” Hopalong said dryly, “and for all I know, he may be in jail, too. What you do is up to you. But I’d turn those cattle into that big corral where we made our first gather, then I’d either give myself up or light out of the country. I’ve nothing,” he added, “against you hombres. My quarrel’s with Tredway.”

  Pres looked at Krug. The Mexicans had drawn away from them and were talking among themselves. Backing up, Hopalong swung into the saddle and turned the white horse toward Kachina.

  Tom Burnside was nervously pacing the earthen floor of the livery stable and he strode to the doors as Hopalong swung down from Topper. “Man,” he exclaimed excitedly, “am I glad to see you! There’s strange doin’s about.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Somebody claims they seen a ghost the last couple of nights. Sensible folks, too. They claim they seen a white-lookin’ thing floatin’ near the back of the Mansion House. When Tredway heard that, he was some upset. Some other folks claim they run into three of the Brothers dressed in those robes crossing the trail near Dead Horse Pass. Been some strangers in town, too. Two, three hombres, all with beards.”

  Hopalong nodded. “Now that makes some sense,” he said. “It’s the Brothers, from Babylon Mesa.”

  “Suppose they knowed him?” Burnside asked keenly. “If they did, what do they want with him?”

  “No telling,” Hopalong said. “About those papers. Did you look them over? Is there anything there?”

  “Anything?” Burnside laughed. “I’ll say there is! Some of the papers belonged to Pete Melford. Letters from the government about his land. Then there was other papers, an’ among them a poster showin’ John ‘Fan’ Harlan wanted for murder an’ robbery. Evenas sure enough had the deadwood on Tredway. What beats me is why Tredway didn’t get the papers from him before he killed Evenas.”

  “My idea is that he intended to, and Evenas made a break for it. On the way into town to get the papers, he made a break to get away and Tredway shot him.”

  “All right,” Burnside said, “here comes Buck Lewis. Let’s go face Tredway.”

  Lewis looked at Hopalong, then accepted the papers Burnside handed him. He nodded from time to time as he glanced over them. Finally he looked up. “This proves it as far as I’m concerned. I’ve dug up a few things m’self. That track you showed me, Tom, fit a pair of boots that belong to Tredway. The one down near the wagon. I figure you were right in guessin’ that he planted that money on the Townes.”

  “If we look close,” Hopalong said, “I think we’ll find that he killed old man Peavey to keep him from talking. I think he was killed in the hotel, then dropped from the window sometime later.”

  Buck Lewis nodded. “That makes sense. Well, I don’t mind sayin’, boys, this here’s the first time I ever arrested a man when it gave me pleasure. I’m an hombre that believes in live an’ let live, but he’s been a hard man about this town, hard on those as owed him. Let’s go!”

  They went, three tall Western men walking side by side, Hopalong Cassidy and the two pioneer lawmen. As they reached the door to the Mansion House, a bearded man across the street got to his feet. Then, casually, he drifted into the hotel entrance after them.

  At Tredway’s shout they opened the door and walked into his room. He looked quickly from one to the other, his lips thinning down, his face suddenly gaunt. “Well, what is it?”

  “I’m arrestin’ you, Tredway. Arrestin’ you for murder, robbery, an’ a few other charges.”

  Tredway leaned back in his chair. “What kind of nonsense is that?” he demanded. “You’ve no evidence.”

  Coolly Buck Lewis named off the papers he had, and slowly the older man’s face turned gray and bitter. Perhaps not even he knew how Evenas had managed to get possession of these papers. Some of them obviously had been stolen from this office where the Colonel now sat. Others, like the affidavits, he must have ridden miles to get. Foolish as Evenas had been at the end, he had prepared his case well. There was evidence enough here to hang Tredway, or to send him up for life. From these papers a dozen charges could be built.

  “Also,” Lewis went on to say, “we tracked you to the Towne folks’ wagon. We know you planted that unsigned an’ stolen money on them. We also figure you killed old man Peavey. We may prove that an’ may not. We can,” he added, “prove that you killed Evenas.

  “These here papers show he tried to blackmail you. Also, we f
ound a smashed lamp in your house, an’ spilled oil. That fits with the burns on the dead man. We’ve got you dead to rights.”

  Tredway sat silent for several minutes before replying. When he looked up, his eyes fastened on Cassidy. “It’s you I have to thank for this,” he said. “My trouble started when you came into this country. It was you I should have killed.”

  His eyes flickered to those of Lewis and Burnside. “I’m not through,” he said, low-voiced. “I’m not through at all. I’ll get out of this, or I’ll get away. I can still beat you. And when I do,” he said viciously, “I’ll nail all your hides on the fence.”

  “You’re just lucky,” Hopalong said quietly, “that we got you first. There are others who want you.”

  Fear flickered in the hard eyes. Tredway’s tongue touched his lips. He started to get to his feet, then sat back, looking nervously at Lewis. “All right,” he said bitterly, “take me to your jail. I’ll not stay there long!”

  As Buck Lewis and Burnside started to leave with their prisoner, Hopalong called after them: “When you turn Pike and Rig loose, tell them to meet me across the street, will you?”

  He walked over to the Chuck Wagon and sat down, accepting the cup of coffee that was put before him. Several men drifted in and sat down nearby. All were silent but friendly.

  Suddenly the door opened and Pike stepped in with Tom Burnside behind him. “They got him, Hoppy!”

  Cassidy came to his feet. “Who got who?”

  “The Brothers. They got Tredway.”

  “What?”

  All eyes were on Pike Towne. “Yeah, Lewis came in an’ unlocked the door. He was puttin’ him into the cell where I’d been when all of a sudden there’s two men standin’ in the door behind the marshal holdin’ double-barrel shotguns. Then another gent comes in the back. All three are wearin’ these homespun robes with hoods.

  “One of them is lookin’ at the marshal, an’ he says, ‘We have a prior claim on this man. He is wanted by us for murder and robbery. I regret to say he was once one of our own and we handle our own affairs.”