Diving for the brush, he heard a second shot and hit the trees running, then skidded to a halt. The shots had come from his own side of the canyon, and from the rim. Leaving Topper, he slipped his rifle from the boot and started out, skirting the rim of the canyon, then swinging wide to encircle the unknown antagonist. Almost instantly a shot clipped leaves near his head and he hit the dirt on hands and knees.
His tactics had been surmised and the man was ready for him. Hoppy lay still, studying the situation. Unless the marksman had moved, he was not more than fifty yards away and in a cluster of rocks that formed a rugged natural tower on the canyon rim. And that place presented problems for an attacker. Yet Hopalong moved forward at once, weaving back and forth in the brush. Once he picked up a rock and tossed it to one side, but it drew no answering fire.
He studied an open space that ran between the clumps of brush, an open space that had grass all of a foot high in it. The grass might have been a trifle higher, he decided. He looked down at his own clothes. They were now covered with dust and streaked with sweat. They would, he decided, fade into the grass and rocks very easily. Moreover, the open alley between the lines of brush could not be overlooked by the watcher. He could see along it but could not look down upon it. Hoppy decided to take the risk of advancing along that open space. The chances were that his enemy would be searching the brush for movement and would not guess that Hopalong was approaching by the one place that seemingly offered no concealment at all.
Dropping to his stomach, Hopalong wormed his way out of the brush and headed toward the chimney of rocks. For an instant he lay still in a cold sweat. If he was seen here, he was cold turkey, and the worst of it was the man might wait until he was fairly close, deliberately letting him advance to his death.
Hopalong started forward, inching his way along the ground but keeping his head low. The man might be shrewd enough to watch that particular place, for any soldier or Indian fighter would know that it takes only a few inches of cover to hide a man if he lies still. And Hoppy was gambling that his movements would be slow enough to offer almost the same effect.
No sound came from the rocks. Hopalong’s cheek was pressed to the earth to keep his head lower, and he tried to keep his body in a logical place for a rock to lie if the watcher happened to look that way. Whoever the man was he had been left behind to prevent Hopalong’s following the party, and Cassidy was confident that the hideout was someplace near, possibly even in the bottom of the canyon itself.
He inched on, waiting for a long time at each stopping point. Having the patience of an Indian, he knew that haste is more often death than otherwise under these circumstances. Once, where the grass grew taller, he turned his head and peered forward. He was right out in the open now, none of the taller brush was anywhere close to him, and the rocks were not many yards away.
He lowered his head and crept on, making for an outcropping of chaparral that stood between him and the rocks. When he made it, he found the brush concealed a pile of rocks, and he rested there, studying the tower before him. On his side it was sheer, rising at least twenty feet above the terrain, but even though it could not be scaled from this side, neither could it offer any good spot for observation. He had managed to work his way halfway around the tower so that he was well on the other side from where he had last drawn fire.
Worming his way on, he finally took a chance, braced his toes in the sod, and came up with a rush that carried him into the shadow of the tower. If he had been seen, there was no evidence of it from the watcher.
Yet that man knew Hopalong was down here somewhere, and as long as he was out of sight, the watcher would grow increasingly nervous. Hopalong worked his way through the rocks around the tower toward the rim of the canyon. Hearing a slight noise, he froze in position, his Winchester at his hip. For an instant he stood still, then heard a second noise and at once he relaxed. Easing around a rock, he saw a small hollow, scarcely larger than a box stall, and there, cropping grass, was the bandit’s horse, a fine-looking gray, dappled over the shoulders and hips.
Crossing the hollow with a low word to the horse, who merely looked curious and went back to cropping grass, Hopalong found himself looking up a notch in the rock. Yet almost as he glanced up the watcher above dropped into the crack and started scrambling down. Evidently he had no desire to wait and be trapped.
Drawing back, Hopalong waited. The man was Krug, and he came out of the crack almost at a trot. He was starting for his horse when Hopalong spoke. “Let go your gun belt, Krug.”
The man’s shoulders hunched as from a blow, and slowly he turned. Bitterly he glared at Hopalong. “I was a durned fool! Should have kept goin’ when I had the chance!”
“That’s right,” Cassidy agreed. “Now drop your guns.”
Reluctantly, but with careful hands, Krug unbuckled his belt and stepped back. “Believe it if you want to,” he said, “but I was fixin’ to slope. I’d been settin’ up there watchin’ for you, an’ thinkin’. Then I saw you were out there, an’ until I lost you, I figured to make a fight of it. All I wanted when I started for my horse was to get up an’ get out.”
“Sorry.” Hopalong was stern. “You had your chance.”
Turning the man around, Hopalong tied his hands, then tripped him up and bound his feet, rolling him into the shade of a boulder. “What if you don’t come back?” he pleaded. “Suppose they get you?”
Hopalong did not relent. “Then I’d say you were in a bad spot.”
He squatted on his haunches. “Where are they? You’re going to be tried for that stage holdup, but if you tell me, I’ll put in a good word. I can’t do more than that now.”
“Reckon you can’t.” Krug was silent. “They got that Blair girl. She rode right into us. I don’t hold with that. She’s a fine person, but I knew better than tryin’ to reason with Saxx or Tredway.” He was silent again. “I never been to the place. All I know is that a canyon branches off Chimney Creek a ways up. No water in it most of the time, but a mile or so up, there’s a good spring an’ a water hole. There’s shelvin’ cliffs all along there an’ plenty of shelter. I think they mean to hole up there while decidin’ what to do next.”
An hour later Hopalong and Topper had reached the bottom of Chimney Creek Canyon and were slowly moving up the canyon. At this point it was no more than two hundred feet deep and could be climbed at almost any point by a man on foot. He glimpsed no trails that would allow a horse to travel. The tracks of the outlaws were only occasionally to be glimpsed, but there was now no way for them to escape from the canyon.
He eased up and let Topper drink from a small pool of water that had gathered in the shade of the slope. From here on he must proceed with the utmost caution, for the men he pursued could be waiting around any rock or turn in the narrow canyon. He shoved his hat back and wiped his forehead with his bandanna. As he looked at the slope above the pool he saw something strange.
A boot.
It was hanging over the edge of a large rock just thirty feet away and the way that the heel stuck out indicated that there was a foot in it!
Moving slowly so as not to betray his alarm, Hopalong dismounted and slipped the thongs off of his six-guns. His mind racing, he walked to the shallow place where the water had collected. There was no cover! The rock with the man on top of it was near, very near. No doubt if the ambusher had moved to peer over the rock edge, Hopalong would have seen him immediately; it was only his protruding foot that had offered a warning. If he continued on either up or down the canyon, it was certain that he would end up shot in the back; it was only the hidden man’s unwillingness to take on a man who was approaching his position that had saved him so far.
Unable to think of a better plan, Hopalong took a deep breath and shucked one of his guns. “All right, Topper,” he said clearly and loudly, “let’s move on.”
Then he whirled, and hit the slope running as fast as he could! Rocks and dirt slid as he scrambled up, his gun held in front of him in one ha
nd, the other grasping at brush and boulders for handholds as he climbed. As he came up over the edge of the rock where the unseen man was bedded down, he knew that fast as he was he had climbed too slowly and made far too much noise. He thumbed back the hammer of his gun and braced himself to take a bullet.
The man lay sprawled on the rock ledge, facedown. He had not moved. Hoppy straightened and stood over him, sucking deep breaths and trying to steady himself. The man he had thought was a hidden ambusher was already dead!
Torn brush and furrowed earth on the slope above showed that he had fallen while making his way down into the canyon. The angle of his neck to his shoulders was so extreme that it must have been broken when he hit the rock ledge. Hopalong holstered the gun and turned the man over. It was the man he had seen in Kachina, the man Pike had told him was Tote Brown. Dried blood on his jaw indicated that he had been dead for many hours, if not days.
Hopalong Cassidy sat on the edge of the rock looking down at Topper. He waited until his pulse had returned to normal before sliding back down to the pool, mounting his horse, and continuing his cautious way up the canyon.
He heard them before he saw them. It was a sound of voices and the sharp crack of a breaking stick. Looking hurriedly about him, he saw a gap in a mass of mountain mahogany that covered one area near the north wall of the canyon. Leading Topper back into the gap, he found a space some dozen feet across with a little grass and plenty of cover. Tying Topper, Hopalong switched his boots for a pair of moccasins he always carried, and taking his rifle and canteen, he slipped out and started up the canyon wall.
When he could overlook their camp, he saw at once that they had an almost impregnable position. The country above the canyon walls was wild and lonely, a region of jumbled boulders, scattered juniper, and that look an untrammeled country has. He was now, he could see, west of Brushy Knoll. Babylon Mesa was behind him and ran off to the north, a towering wall of rock; this country was wild, uninhabited, and virtually unknown.
The canyon deepened and narrowed, and the walls grew steeper. If there was any way into that canyon but the way he had come, it was not visible, nor was there any indication of an entrance. Almost below him was the camp. He could smell the smoke, he could dimly hear the voices, but he could see nothing from where he lay. Below him there was the sound of running water and a freshness that comes only from the presence of water and vegetation.
As he lay there he began to plan, searching every corner of his mind for an idea. To face the lot of them would be useless and would only mean failure and death. Neither Tredway nor Saxx would hesitate to take a chance, and while he might get one of them, he would not get the other. And there were still three men down there, dangerous, hunted men, at least two of them killers.
He moved closer to the rim, listening. Voices came to him faintly at first, then clearer.
Cindy Blair was thoroughly frightened. She was courageous, used to the harshness of Western life; she understood her own situation better than most women could have. She knew the manner of men who held her prisoner, and knew none of them was to be trusted. If there was any hope, it lay in Pres, but he was the least forceful of the lot and the least likely to help her even if he wished. Krug had remained to kill Hopalong Cassidy. The fact that several shots had been heard disturbed the outlaws.
“Aw, he’ll get him!” Saxx protested to Tredway. “He was probably just finishing Cassidy off.”
Tredway’s face seemed to have thinned down and grown more hawklike. His eyes were bitter and lighted by something else, something wild and dangerous. “Then where is he? One shot’s all you need!” he snapped angrily. “I should have stayed there myself!”
Pres looked from one to the other. “What’ll them Brothers do?” he asked cautiously.
Tredway advanced on him, his eyes vicious. “Do? What do you think they’ll do? They’ll come out of their holes like a pack of wolves, that’s what! And make up your minds to this! If they get us now, it will be all of us, not just me!”
“What did they want you for?” Saxx asked.
“None of your business!” Tredway wheeled on him, half-crouched. “When I want questions from you, I’ll ask for them!”
Bill Saxx gave Tredway a cold, measuring glance. “That’s no way to talk,” he said calmly. “We’re all in this together. I don’t aim to take that kind of talk. I don’t work for you any longer, an’ I didn’t spring you from the Brothers to start taking orders again.”
The eyes of the two men held. That weird look in Tredway’s eyes disturbed Saxx, but he did not show it. The men glared at each other, and then Pres spoke up. “Aw, forget it! Why start fightin’ among ourselves? We got troubles enough!”
Tredway relaxed slowly, then shrugged. “That’s right. Sorry, Bill.”
Saxx watched him as he turned away, and he was puzzled. He had never seen Tredway flash a gun on anybody, although he had seen him shoot, and he was good. Very good. But right then he would have sworn the boss was a gunman. That quick turn, the poised right hand, the left … He scowled. That left hand had been across in front of Tredway, poised palm down.
It came to him suddenly. He had seen such a pose once before. The man using it had been a gun fanner.
Cindy Blair had seen it, too, and she also had recognized it for what it was. From Rig and Pike she had heard the stories of the Ben Hardy gang, and suddenly she was looking at Tredway with new, attentive eyes. She added more fuel to the fire, and when the coffee started to bubble, she dished up the rest of the food they had forced her to prepare.
Tredway had walked some fifty feet away and was staring down the canyon. Under her breath Cindy said to Bill Saxx, “Be careful, he’s killed a dozen men.”
Saxx turned sharply and stared at her. “How do you know? You know more about my own boss than I do.”
“I think I do. Hopalong Cassidy told me. Tredway used to run with the Hardy gang.”
Bill Saxx’s eyes narrowed to slits as he considered that.
Tredway came striding back to the fire. “Might as well eat,” he said. “No sign of Krug. He must be all right. Cassidy couldn’t get at him if he stayed in those rocks.”
The hours dragged by and Tredway grew increasingly restless. Bill Saxx watched him with care, even while eating. Pres looked haunted and his eyes kept searching the rim of the canyon. He swore under his breath, smoked endless cigarettes, and paced nervously.
Saxx finally lay down and slept a little, and when he awakened it was night and the stars were out. Pres sat sullenly over the fire, but Tredway was gone.
Saxx sat up quickly. “Where is he?”
Pres nodded downcanyon. “Went to have a look. He’s some worked up. He ain’t near so worried about Cassidy as he is about the Brothers. He says they’ve got trackers among them who could follow an Apache upstream through a dust storm.”
Saxx glanced at Cindy. She looked tired, although she had combed out her hair and made some effort to tidy up. “What did you tip me off about him for?”
She turned toward him. “Because you can be reasoned with. He can’t be talked to now. He’s crazy.”
“Crazy?”
“Haven’t you noticed his eyes? I think it was something about the Brothers Penitentes. They wanted him very badly for something that happened long ago, and he’s afraid of them—deathly afraid. And right now he’s in a killing mood.”
“I’m not afraid of him. If he wants trouble, let him start it. I’m fed up with him pushing me around.” Saxx was surly. “Thanks, though. You tipped me off. I won’t forget that.”
“He’ll kill me.” Cindy knew she was telling the truth. “He’s mean. He’s trapped now and he knows it, so he’ll strike out at anything near him.”
“Trapped?” Saxx was impatient. “What kind of talk is that? We’re not trapped.”
“Aren’t you? You can’t go downcanyon. They will be looking for you. By now the Brothers will be out in force, and Buck Lewis will have a posse. You can go on up the canyon, but you onl
y have food for a few days. One man or two men might make it. Four never could. If you want to get away, you have to turn me loose.”
Saxx grinned at her. “Smart, ain’t you?” His eyes were speculative. “Get rid of another man, too? Ain’t that what you said? Who’ll it be?” He glanced at the sullen Pres. “This cowhand or Tredway?”
“It will be you or Tredway,” Cindy replied quietly, “and you know it. You can get along with Pres. He’s loyal and easygoing. He’s used to working with you. Neither of you could get along with Tredway.”
Saxx started to speak, and then the words froze on his lips. Justin Tredway stood across the fire, just on the edge of darkness. His eyes were on Bill Saxx, but he took in the whole camp as he spoke. “Get rid of me? Is that the idea? I’m crazy, am I?” He smiled, his lips breaking back over his teeth. “I’ll give you cause to regret that, Miss Blair!” The voice was low and ugly, and the “Miss” was faintly emphasized with a sneer.
Saxx had not taken his eyes from Tredway, but now his former boss turned away with a shrug. He turned, and then there was a blast of fire from in front of him and Bill Saxx turned halfway around and felt blood covering his side.
Tredway looked at him, still holding the smoking derringer. “I was as fast as he was,” he said quietly, “I think. But why gamble?”
Pres had remained sitting on the rock, too astonished to move. He looked down at the gun in Tredway’s hand and remained riveted to his place, knowing a movement would mean certain death. Tredway turned his eyes then and looked at Cindy. Thinking to distract him, she spoke quickly. “You did take my ranch. The PM.”
The remark made him frown, then he laughed shortly. “Of course. That old fool was in my way. I knew somebody would come looking for it, so I moved all the buildings down to the Box T, piece by piece, with my freight wagons. I had several drivers and outfits here from Virginia City right then and they did the work. Then I had a big cottonwood dug up and transplanted to the exact site of the house, and all the postholes filled, every sign of habitation removed, and even sod moved to cover some of the worn spots. The hardest thing was getting water to that tree and cutting back the branches.”
The Hopalong Cassidy Novels 4-Book Bundle Page 76