They identified him by his boots and some letters in his leather jacket.
"Nobody seems to have thought anything about that, including Gibson. Lately, however, he's been wonderin' if that feller Newcombe wasn't followed away and killed.
"Bolt went to ranchin' an' stayed away from town most of the first year. When he started comin' around, it was just to buy supplies, and he acted like a quiet, peaceful rancher. Then two rough-looking hombres hit town askin' for him, and they went to work as hands. One of them was this Grat, who's with him now. The other was Bones. Bolt, he got mighty friendly with that tough Springer outfit, but trouble didn't start until Grat pulled in.
"It was about that time folks began to miss a few cows. Bolt complained, too, but not until there had been some talk by others. Then Bolt went to the sheriff an' told him he was missin' stock. For a while the sheriff investigated, but nobody lost any stuff for several weeks, and then Fielding of the 3F came up with a lot of stock missin'."
"That 3F would make an 8 Boxed H, too," Hopalong commented. "How about the other brands?"
"It will cover more than half the brands in this neck of the woods," Red said emphatically. "And you wonder why somebody ain't pointed it out? A feller named Brown sure tried it. He said it right out in meeting before Grat, and Grat told him if he said the Bolt outfit were thieves, he was a liar!"
"And Brown grabbed iron?"
"Don't reckon he meant to. I just heard about it. He said somethin', and I figure he aimed to claim he was just men-tionin' the fact, but Grat called him a liar again, and that time he reached. He never got his gun clear. Grat downed him."
"And since then no comment, huh?"
"That's right, Hoppy. Bolt's kept a good reputation somehow, and there's only a few who think he's anythin' but honest. None of them cotton to his outfit too much, but nobody will come out and call 'em thieves."
Jack Bolt had every reason to feel satisfied. In the seven months of rustling, his hands had stolen over a thousand head of cattle from ranches within a day's ride of his 8 Boxed H. All but fifty head of those cattle were safely out of the country, transferred to another ranch he now owned in northern California.
With only six hands doing the rustling, the split was small, and not one of the six had any idea how he disposed of the cattle. At a certain point on the trail the herds were turned over to other men, who drove them north, then west. Only one herd had followed the trail discovered by Red Connors and that had gone to the mining camps of Western Montana for the purpose of immediate cash. Most of the returns had gone to the six cowhands.
Bolt sat in a hide-bound armchair on his veranda and contemplated the situation. Gibson was down with a broken leg but would be out and around soon. If a big strike was to be made, it should be now. With Red Connors out of the way, the one man who knew anything definite had been eliminated, and
the chances were, people would believe he had drifted out of the country as he had come in.
Bolt was very well pleased. The whole job had been handled simply but effectively and without any suspicion being directed towards him. There had been a little talk when Grat killed Brown, but Grat was only considered overhasty and was not otherwise under suspicion. Bolt had been careful to report small losses of cattle from time to time and, while making the usual complaints, had suggested the losses could also have been from straying, varmints, or lack of water.
Jack Bolt was a tall man, well over six feet, and slightly stooped. His shoulders were narrow and rounded, his face long and saturnine, narrow through the cheekbones but wide at the jaw. His hide was browned like saddle leather, and his large nose jutted from between close-set black eyes. The hand that held his pipe was large, with prominent knuckles.
Although he gave little evidence of it, he was a man of some education and he had begun life with large ideas, which expanded into grandiose plans, but plans that always waited for the lucky strike he expected to make, the big killing. At forty he was an embittered man who blamed the world for the success that had never come to him, failing to understand that the fault was his own. He was one of those who had always wanted to start at the top, and the idea of consistent effort to get there had seemed futile to him.
His first break with the law had come when he was twenty-six and traveling with two hard-case hands. They convinced him that a stage holdup would net them all a stake, and he had fallen in with the plan. He had been badly frightened, nervous, and jumpy. He had fired the shot that killed a passenger with his hands in the air.
The dispute with his partners that followed angered him
because of their contempt, and while one of them was away from camp he had murdered the other and fled with the money. Attempting to build the six hundred dollars taken from the stage into a big stake, he had lost it all.
In the following years he had been a stage driver, buffalo hunter, and livestock buyer, occasionally rustling small bunches of cattle and still hoping for the big break when somebody would recognize his sterling qualities and present him with a top job and much money, or someone would fall dead after making him the heir to millions. None of it ever happened, as it never does to those who expect and hope for it, and at last he had settled down to real effort.
By that time he had the reputation of a hard man to handle. The killings that began his criminal career had been only two of many. There had been a man he killed in Caldwell, and another in Denver. In a poker game he won a few thousand dollars and had moved into the country where he now was and bought a small ranch and some cattle. With extreme care, for he now had his big plan started, he rustled a few cows, never letting his herd grow large, keeping his sale herds small but fat. By the same methods he was using, even without the rustling, he could in a few years have become honestly prosperous. But he had no such intention.
On a trip north he had swung off the main trail and, in the mountains of California, had found a valley, built a cabin, and hired a couple of cowhands who wanted nothing so much as plenty to eat and a place to sleep. In the neighborhood he purchased a few cattle and a half-dozen horses.
By the time he was ready to branch out he was well known around Tascotal, but nobody knew of the California ranch. He had picked up six cowhands whom he had carefully watched and tested, and then he began operations. At the end of seven
months his own ranch showed only the natural increase, but the ranch in California was running a thousand head and he had acquired four more hands on that end.
It was his nature to grow impatient. Thus far he had been slow, painstaking, and careful in the extreme. The plan had worked without a flaw. Until the coming of Red Connors, a cattle- and trail-wise veteran of many rustler campaigns, there had been no suspicion, and the losses had been so carefully scattered that many were still not convinced any rustling was taking place. Now he wanted to clean up fast. He wanted San Francisco, the bright lights and an easier life. And the quickest way was a sudden wholesale steal of cattle from the 3TL.
Grat drifted into the yard and swung down from a weary horse. Stripping the saddle from the animal, he turned it into the corral and then stamped up to the porch, beating the dust from his hat against one leg of his chaps.
"Ain't found him," Grat said. "Durned fool dropped plumb out of sight."
"That country closed up yet?" Bolt demanded sharply.
"Sure is! We used them Aragon boys, like you said, and bottled up every trail, watched every water hole." Grat had decided not to mention that he and the others had spent most of the afternoon chasing down horses that had mysteriously wandered off or the fact that some unknown person had hung a knot on the back of the Breed's head. The men were still out looking and he hoped they'd have Connors pinned down or dead by tomorrow at the latest.
"We found that sorrel he was ridin', and there was blood on the horse's withers. He's bad hurt and the boys are closing in on him. Only thing that worries me: a man could lose himself back in there and die and might never be found."
Jack Bolt scowled. "You m
ake sure you find him, or his
body. He was from that old Bar 20 outfit, and they were plumb salty. I want to know he's dead, no maybes!"
Grat nodded. He was in complete agreement with that idea. So far this whole affair had gone off smoothly, increasing his respect for Bolt. His own inclinations had been to start rustling big, but now he realized that the other man's idea had been much the best.
"See anybody out on the trail?" Bolt asked. "Anybody from Tascotal?"
"Nary a soul." Grat leaned back and rolled a smoke, staring out over the dancing heat-waves in the valley. "You figurin' on a drive?"
"Uh-huh. Gibson's still got that fat stock back in the canyon. There must be three hundred head there."
Grat grinned. "Now you're talkin'! Let's get after some big herds! We could have a thousand head of cattle out of here in three weeks with the right kind of breaks, and another thousand before they could get organized to try stoppin' us."
"All right. Figure on it for night after tomorrow. Call a couple of men in and get them rested up. We'll head right north and make a straight drive of thirty miles before we stop. A few hours' rest, then twenty more. If they are tired they'll be easier to handle."
Grat got to his feet. "All right." He hesitated. "Say, Bones wanted me to ask if it would be all right for him to ride into town. Him and Sim Aragon--"
"No!" Jack Bolt's face hardened with irritation. "You know better than that! I don't want any of you seen with those Aragon boys, do you hear? They got a bad rep around here. I want to keep you boys clean in this country. If he wants to go to town, he can go alone, but not with Sim. And if he does go, he's to hobble his lip. He talks too much when he's drinkin'."
Grat shrugged. "Don't blame me! He said to ask."
"You've asked. If we start perambulatin' around town with that no-account Aragon outfit, the first thing people will be findin' us about as welcome as a polecat at a picnic! The Aragons are plumb mean. Sim killed a man in Tascotal only about a month ago, and for durned little reason, from all I hear."
Grat walked out and roped and saddled a horse. Bones would not like it, but the boss was right, nevertheless. This had been the most peaceful rustling he had ever done; not a shot fired, not a doubt raised. Why, it could go on for years, maybe!
For years? He suddenly realized he was already tired of it. Too much like regular work. It was time to make a big clean-up and get out, and apparently that was what the boss thought, too.
Tascotal drowsed in the warmth of a noonday sun. Flies buzzed lazily and the horses stamped in the dust. The sound of boots on the boardwalk was pleasant to hear, and the lazy voices of men making cow-town conversation, casual shoptalk, and easy jokes that drew smiles rather than laughter.
A buckboard's wheels creaked as it slowed before the hitch rail in Higgins' Emporium. Sue Gibson got down, and the men looked up with the interest always drawn by a pretty girl stepping out of a vehicle.
"Howdy, ma'am! How's your pa?" One of the men drawled a polite, lazy question.
She looked around with a quick smile. Her red-gold hair accompanied a ready, friendly expression and there were a few freckles over her nose.
"He's better," she replied, "but more trouble to me! He thinks he should be out looking after his cattle. He's worried about rustlers."
"Aw! That's all talk, Miss Sue! Come late spring they always start to head back in the hills like this! Tell him not to worry none."
"Is Red Connors around town?" she asked. "He left suddenly and we haven't seen him."
"We ain't seen him neither," another man spoke up, his eyes alert with interest. "We figured he'd be around awhile, the way he talked."
Sue hesitated. "If you see him, let us know. He left his horse at the ranch and took off riding a sorrel of Dad's. Most of his outfit is there, too."
Grat was lounging in front of the saloon, a big, hard-faced man, waiting for Bones to get into town with Sim so he could warn him of what the boss had said. He had given Bones his permission to come on in, thinking it would be all right with Bolt. Now he was worried, for Jack Bolt meant what he said, and Grat could see the sense in the order.
He walked down the boardwalk towards Sue Gibson. "Howdy, ma'am! Heard you speakin' about that Connors feller. I reckon he sloped it. One of the boys met him 'way east of here, and he said he was headin' for Montany."
"Montana?" Sue frowned. "But he wouldn't do that! I know one of his old outfit has a ranch up there, but he'd not leave when he knew Hopalong was coming!"
Grat stiffened. It took him a minute to get his voice calm so he could speak. "Did you say Hopalong? You mean Hopalong Cassidy?"
"Why, yes! I suppose you've heard of him." Sue looked at Grat, somewhat surprised at the reaction to her statement. "He
and Red rode together for a long time. They were to meet here."
At once Grat knew panic. If Hopalong was coming this way, Bolt should know it at once. Notorious for his willingness to do battle on any and all occasions, Cassidy had a wide reputation for disliking rustlers. It was no time to rustle that herd of Gibson's.
"When was he supposed to arrive?" he asked casually.
"Why, he's overdue, and Dad wanted to see him very much. I thought maybe he and Red had gotten together here in town and were having a good time before they came to the ranch."
Grat shoved his hat on the back of his head and rubbed his unshaven jaw as he stared down the street. For once he did not turn to watch Sue walk into the store. He was worried and angry. This would have to happen just when they were about to make a clean-up so he could get out of the country! Now everything would be delayed!
But would it? Suppose Hopalong never got here? Suppose he was dry-gulched on the way? If Aragon heard about it, then it would not be his fault if Sim took it on himself to kill Hopalong, and there was nothing that he would like better, Grat knew. That was it--he would tell Sim. And Aragon was due in town at any minute.
Somewhat relieved by the decision, Grat leaned against the awning pole and waited, smoking two cigarettes before he saw them ride into town: the rotund Bones and the lean-featured, tigerlike Aragon.
Both men swung down in front of the saloon, and Grat stepped between the horses and passed on his information. Sim Aragon's eyes lighted with excitement. A vicious killer he might be, but he was not a coward. A vain man, he could see
how people would fear him if he killed the famous gunslinger of the Bar 20. Bones's face had gone blank with shock, and Grat was struck by something in his expression.
"What's the matter?" he demanded sharply.
"Grat"--Bones's lips fumbled with the words--"that hom-bre Hopalong Cassidy was a friend of Red Connors. Cassidy will be plenty sore if Connors is dead."
Sim Aragon laughed. "Why be worried? He's only one man! I'll take care of him!"
"You can have him!" Bones whispered fervently. "I want nothin' to do with that hombre!"
Grat had forgotten what Bolt had advised, and the three trooped into the saloon together. One of the men who had spoken to Sue Gibson looked after them, his brow furrowed. "Now, that's funny!" he said to the man beside him. "I'd never figure any of Bolt's boys to be hangin' out with a thief like Aragon!"
"Aw, just rode in with him, maybe. I did it myself, few days back." He spat. "Can't say I liked it, neither."
"Yeah, that could be it." The tall puncher got to his feet. "Think I'll have a drink." He scowled. There had been something furtive about them as they talked, and he had heard Grat swearing. Now what was that about? Stopping short, he went into the Emporium.
"Miss Sue," he said apologetically, "could I ask you some-thin'?"
She turned quickly, a surprised smile on her face. These men were always most polite, but few of them had ever gone out of their way to address her. "Why, certainly, Joe. What is it?"
"Seems sort of strange to me, and it sure ain't none of my business, but what did you tell Grat just now?"
"Grat? Oh! Why, not much of anything! He just said he thought Red had gone
on out of the country, and I told him that wouldn't be true because Red knew Hopalong Cassidy was coming up to meet him."
"Cassidy?" Joe stared at her, an idea slowly forming in his brain. "Now what do you know about that?"
"Why do you ask, Joe? What happened?"
"Why, Grat seemed plumb upset about something, and then that Bones feller come in ridin' with Sim Aragon, and he couldn't get to them fast enough to tell 'em. Then Bones told Grat somethin' and he fell to cussin' somethin' awful. I reckon," he added, "I'm makin' a lot out of nothin', but it doesn't look right, and them with Aragon, too."
"No," Sue replied slowly, "it doesn't."
Sue looked at Joe. She knew the man by sight and had even danced with him once at a social. Joe Gamble rode for the 3F outfit. He was an honest, hard-working man and a top hand. "Joe," she asked suddenly, "have you lost any cattle lately?"
It was his turn to look sharply at her, his eyes suddenly alert. "We sure have, ma'am. Hard to say how many, but some."
"So have we. Red thought he had found a trail that morning he rode off. He said nothing to anyone else and told me not to tell Dad--it might worry him. He said he would follow it up, then come back. That was days ago, and there has been no sign of him since."
Joe Gamble absorbed that slowly. He frowned at his boot toes. It was all vague and made no sense. None of them really knew they had lost cattle, and it might be they were heading into higher country where there was more water and the grass was greener. It could be. Still, when a man has been on the range for years he comes to the point where he can judge the
number of cattle very well, and he was positive they were losing stock. Now Sue Gibson said Red had had the same suspicion. How about the others? It would do no harm to ask
around.
"May be nothin' to it," he commented then, "but if this here Hopalong shows up, let me know, will you? I may," he added, "scout around and try to pick up Red's trail. He seemed like a right nice feller."
"We--Dad, I mean--have known Red Connors for a long time, and Hopalong, too. They drove herds over the trail together. They were together when my husband was killed."
the Riders Of High Rock (1993) Page 3