"No." Hopalong's gaze was frosty. "The killer was the last to see him." He nodded back along the trail. "There's another one back there. Big fellow in a frock coat."
Hopalong was getting the men placed. The man who had driven the buckboard was Harrington, the mine super and part owner. It was on his shoulders the loss would fall. The big red-faced man was Pony Harper. He was a horse trader who owned the livery stable and corrals in Seven Pines and supplied beef to the mines and a railroad contracting outfit some thirty miles away. There was another man, hollow-cheeked, with yellow eyes and a tied-down gun; they called him Rawhide. He was searching the body in the road.
"Somebody cleaned him out!"
"What did you expect?" Hadley asked dryly. "This here was a robbery." Grimly, Hopalong said nothing. After what had happened to Jesse Lock, he wanted a chance to look over the contents of the man's wallet privately before he handed it over to anyone.
Another rider was coming up the trail from town. He was a well-built, pleasant-looking man of forty. "Howdy, Ronson!" Hadley nodded toward the dead man. "Anybody ever seen this hombre before?"
"I've seen him." Rawhide touched his tongue to a cigarette. "This man's Sim Thacker, the gunfighter."
"Thacker!" Ronson stared at the dead man. "Dead! Who did it?"
"That would answer a lot of other questions," Hadley said. "Looks like whoever did it gave him his chance, then drilled him."
"And put on the finishing touches with a bullet in the head,"
Hopalong said dryly. "That outfit seems to have an urge to leave no witnesses behind.
They must figure folks might get to know them."
Nobody said anything for a while. Dr. Marsh examined Thacker, then got to his feet.
"There's nothing more here for me," he said. "How about you, Harrington?"
The mine super shook his head. "Let's load them up and start back."
Hadley turned to Hopalong. "Stayin" around? Better be in Seven Pines for the inquest.
It will be tomorrow."
"I'll be there. I'm ridin' in."
There was little talk as they headed toward Seven Pines, but what there was concerned the holdup gang and their previous work. The series of stage holdups had netted the gang just over a hundred thousand in gold, all of it in heavy bars. There was some talk of how it could be disposed of, for all possible places of sale had been alerted.
Harrington had been studying Cassidy. 'You wear those guns like you understood 'em.
I'll need a man to take Jesse's place as shotgun."
Hopalong chuckled. "From what I hear, that is not goin' to be a popular job. I hear your messengers die off mighty fast."
Harrington nodded soberly. "They do. I'll not deny that. I'd want a man who didn't scare easily. Jesse was gun-handy, all right. And too sure of himself. I always figured he had some ideas of his own about who the thieves were, but he wasn't talkative.
Now he isn't able to do any talking to anybody."
"He said he had a brother in the Roberts range. Wanted him notified."
'Yeah. Ben Lock." Harrington shook his head. "He'll take it hard, and unless I miss my guess, the killers had better start worryin'. Ben's not the sort to take the death of his brother lyin' down."
The valley fell behind them and the buckboard led the way into a narrow canyon. Scattered mine dumps and shacks began to appear, and then the trail ended in a narrow street flanked by false-fronted buildings. Behind these buildings, which stretched for a quarter of a mile along the sides of the canyon, the mountains sloped steeply back, both sides covered with houses, claim shacks, and ramshackle huts of one kind or another.
The express office faced the livery stable across the street, and beside the express office a saloon stared bright-eyed at a general store. Up the street Hopalong noticed a saddle shop, bootmaker, blacksmith, barber and dentist, a lawyer's office, the jail, a hotel, a boardinghouse, and an assortment of other stores and gambling joints.
He counted the signs of nine saloons. At the far end of the street was the assayer's office.
Hopalong turned his horse toward the livery stable, and Harrington looked after him.
"Don't forget! That job's open!"
Pony Harper and Rawhide had also turned off. Harper glanced at Hopalong curiously but said nothing. Rawhide swung from his saddle, and when Harper went into the livery stable office he said quietly, "I'd figure a long time before I took that messenger job. They seem to die awful easy."
"Maybe," Hopalong agreed, "somebody wants 'em to die."
"A feller could get into trouble stickin' around this town," Rawhide continued. "Montana's a good state. Ever been there?"
"Perhaps. I've been to a lot of places."
Rawhide kicked his boot toe into the earth and watched Hopalong stripping the saddle from Topper. "You sort of look familiar."
"That right?"
"Like somebody I seen in Montana. Or maybe it was Texas?"
"Never can tell."
Rawhide chewed that over, but he didn't like it. Locally he was known as a hard character, and he fancied the reputation. He did not like his questions being avoided. Besides, he had an uneasy feeling that this was a man whom he should know. Whom it was important to know. He rolled a smoke and shot an uneasy glance at Hopalong, who was placidly giving his horse a rubdown with a handful of hay.
"Lock have much to say?" he ventured.
"Said he had a brother," Hopalong ^admitted. "I'm goin' to look him up."
"Mister, you better slope it. This here ain't a friendly town."
"Well"-Hopalong Cassidy's eyes twinkled a little-"I'm not huntin' trouble with anybody."
He turned and started for the door. "So long."
"Hold up there!" Rawhide was angry now. "I asked you a question and I want an answer!"
Cassidy stopped and turned slowly, facing the man in the half-light of the livery stable.
"What did Lock have to say?" Rawhide repeated. "I could beat it out of you!"
Instantly he knew he had said the wrong thing. Hopalong Cassidy took a step toward him. "All right," he agreed, "you beat it out of me. But start now. I'm in no mood for waitin'."
Rawhide swallowed, touched his dry lips with his tongue, and his face became somber.
Suddenly he realized this man would not bluff and he would not scare. Fairly called, Rawhide found he did not want trouble. Not now, not here.
"Oh, shucks!" he said. "I was just funnin'! It don't make any difference, only I figured maybe he talked and said something interestin'. I'm not huntin' for trouble. You're plumb on the prod."
Hopalong watched him without speaking, waiting. Rawhide shifted his feet nervously, wanting to stride up to this man and strike him, to threaten him with a gun, anything.
He wanted to, but a deep-seated judgment warned him it would not be advisable to try.
Hopalong gave him one more look and turned on his heel. Coolly, without a backward glance, he walked out into the sunlit street.
Rawhide stared after him, his eyes ugly. "You'll see," he whispered. "I give you twenty-four hours in this town!"
Chapter 2
Ramrod of the Rocking R.
Hopalong vanished through the wide-mouthed door Pony Harper stepped from the deep shadows of a stall. As he strode up to Rawhide his face was dark with irritation.
"You fool!" he said. "Why brace him about what Lock said? What difference does it make what he said, or whether he said anything at all? If he did say anything, this hombre will tell it, and if he didn't, there's no use makin' the man suspicious."
"Aw, shucks!" Rawhide replied sullenly. "Who's he to get suspicious?"
"Who he is," Harper said unpleasantly, "I don't know, but don't you push trouble with that hombre unless you want to throw lead. That's one gent who's not bluffin'!"
Harper turned on his heel and left the fuming gunman behind him. Despite his words, he was worried. That Jesse Lock had talked before he died was obvious. He had taken time to tell this stranger about his
brother, and he might have said more. Still, what could he have seen on such a night? What would he have to tell? It was barely possible he had recognized someone, but that chance was small. The best course was to sit tight and see what would develop . . . give this stranger time to drift out of the country.
Worst of all, Thacker was dead, and the manner of his death sent a cold chill up Harper's spine. Had they guessed his mission? Or had Thacker himself spoken?
Hopalong Cassidy headed for the nearest saloon, then changed his course. A sign down the street advertised: katie regan for steak, eggs, and pie. He went up the boardwalk and pushed open the door. Except for a cowhand in run-down boots and a ragged hat who slept with his head pillowed on his arms, the place seemed to be empty.
The bell that tinkled to warn of his coming did not disturb the cowhand but brought a girl with a very pretty face from the kitchen. Her black hair was gathered atop a beautifully shaped head, and her blue eyes were flecked with darker color. She inspected him curiously, and he grinned response. "Howdy! I'll take the steak, eggs, and pie."
She came into the room holding a large ladle and pushing up a strand of hair. "Don't give me that!" she said severely. " It's steak and pie, or eggs and pie, and either will cost you two bits!"
"Bring me both of 'em," Hopalong said seriously. "The biggest, thickest, juiciest steak you've got, and make that four eggs instead of two! If you've got some beans, throw in a mess of them."
"The beans go with either order, but that order will cost you six bits. Have you got that much?"
"If I haven't," he said, grinning, "I'll wash dishes!"
"Oh, no, you don't!" she flashed. "Every cowhand this side of Dakota has tried that! And then when they get into the kitchen it isn't washing dishes they think of! You'll pay-and cash!"
Hopalong's dollar rang on the tabletop. "All right, Katie! Feed me!"
Swiftly she scooped up the dollar and dropped it in her apron pocket. "Sit down and I'll be right back." She turned. "How do you want that steak?"
"Just dehorn it and run it in, Katie. I'll take it from there."
Frying steak spluttered, and then she reappeared with a steaming cup of coffee. She was a tall girl with a superb figure, and Hopalong had no trouble imagining that many drifting cowhands had tried that dishwashing trick. "You're new here?" she ventured.
"Are you the one who found Jesse Lock?"
He nodded. "News gets around. Did you know him?"
"I knew him. There's not a hand this side of Texas that's his equal. And good with a gun, too, although in that they say he can't hold a candle to his brother Ben."
Hopalong waited, wanting her to go on talking. There were times when listening paid off. He intended to look around a bit before leaving. The murder of Jesse Lock had become a personal matter now. Had Lock died from the original shots, Cassidy would not have considered it any of his affair, but to have the man so foully murdered while Hopalong was doing his best to save him was quite something else. He would like to have a look at the man who would do such a thing.
"What will Harrington do for a shotgun rider now?" he queried.
Katie Regan looked down at him. "They do say he offered the job to you."
"Uh-huh. I'm not job huntin', and if I take a job, it will be ridin'."
Katie returned to the kitchen and came back with the steak and eggs. While he ate, Katie talked. "Nobody hiring much now. Ronson needs riders. He can never keep any around with those two sisters of his."
"Bob Ronson?" Hopalong looked up. "He was out there today with Hadley and Harper."
"That was the one. He owns the Rocking R, and it's a good ranch, although it's said that he's hard-pressed for money."
"You mentioned girls?"
Katie flashed Hopalong a glance. "I thought that would get you. Every cowhand in the country tries to get a job there, and everyone tries to dab a rope on one or the other of the girls, although Lenny seems to be the preferred one. Irene has a way about her that scares them a little. Anyway, she seems spoken for."
"Pretty, are they?"
"No, not just pretty. They are beautiful."
Hopalong nodded seriously. He was not thinking of the Ronson sisters. He was trying to get a line on this town and the country around it. He wanted to know just what went on. Sheriff Hadley was a good man, he would gamble on that. How much imagination he would have was another guess.
While he ate, Hopalong kept Katie Regan talking, and the community began to take shape in Hopalong's mind. His keen blue eyes were thoughtful as he listened.
The community was a combination of cattle and mining. The biggest cow outfit was Bob Ronson's Rocking R; the only mine of any consequence was Harrington's Gold Stake.
Ronson had inherited the Rocking R from his father, who had been an old gray wolf from the high timber, a man who had teeth and used them on the least provocation.
He had been honest in his dealings, but utterly ruthless. The Rocking R had made few friends and many enemies. When the old man died, rustlers hit the Rocking R high, low, and in the middle.
Within a year two of the Rocking R hands had been dry-gulched and more than a thousand head of cattle run off.
Small outfits that had heretofore scarcely made their way began to wax fat, their herds growing, their shipments getting larger. Their owners began to spend more money as the Rocking R spent less. New faces were seen around the country, too, and where the Rocking R hands under the firm leadership of Old Man Ronson had kept the town cleaned up, now there were many loafers and hangers-on, most of whom had money or seemed to know how to get it.
The Gold Stake was booming and many restless eyes began to look thoughtfully toward the monthly gold shipments that went out by stage. Meanwhile, the Ronson cattle herds, while still vast, had thinned down. Rustlers took to fighting over them, and one night four known rustlers were killed on the Rocking R range by other rustlers.
Small mines began to pay off, and two of them were looted after cleanups. In one case the owner was killed. In another, masked men had beaten two of the workers at the mine and taken gold from them. A prospector was murdered for his outfit. A freight wagon was looted on the outskirts of town and the teamster murdered. From a quiet community under the rough hand of Ronson, the area had become wild, lawless, and almost beyond handling. Sheriff Hadley had replaced the previous sheriff, who had been dry-gulched in the town itself.
"There's always a ringleader," Hopalong suggested. "Who is it runs Seven Pines?"
"Nobody, actually. The ranchers used to follow Ronson, but lately they have been listening more and more to Pony Harper."
"The horse trader?"
"That's the one, but he owns a small ranch, too, and he is a cattle buyer as well as owner of the livery stable. There's also Sheriff Hadley, of course, and Dr. Marsh."
There were footsteps on the boardwalk and Katie glanced out the window. "This here's Clarry Jacks coming in now," she said, moving away from Hopalong. "He's someone that the newer element around here have been following more and more."
Before he could ask what she meant, the door opened and two men walked into the room.
The first was a black-browed, bowlegged man with a thick body and deep-set black eyes. Yet it was the man behind him who drew Hopalong's attention.
Clarry Jacks was handsome. Gray eyes and chestnut hair, a lithe, erect figure, and an easy, carefree walk made him the natural focus of attention. He wore two silver-plated, pearl-handled guns tied down in elaborate hand-carved holsters.
"Howdy, Katie!" Jacks grinned widely. "Set 'em up for us, will you? Two cups of coffee and a half dozen of those sinkers of yours!"
"You set down, Clarry," Katie said severely, "and you'll get waited on same as anybody else. The same for your friend"she shot a glance at Hoppy-"Dud Leeman."
Hopalong glanced at Jacks, who had turned toward him. "Stranger?" Jacks asked.
"Have you seen me around before?" Hopalong asked coolly.
"No. That's why I asked."
> "If you haven't seen me around before, I must be a stranger." Hopalong smiled. Turning back toward Katie, he asked quietly, "How's for another cup of Java? You sure make good coffee."
Jacks was irritated at this flouting of his importance and he showed it. He started to say something more, then hesitated.
Leeman was staring at Cassidy and frowning, seemingly puzzled, but he offered no comment. Ignoring the stranger, Jacks turned back to his coffee and doughnuts. He had not failed to notice Hopalong's bone-handled, tied-down guns. Whoever the fellow was, he was no pilgrim.
Hopalong finished his coffee and strolled outside. He had recognized Jacks at once, seeing beyond the easy laughter to the underlying hardness of the man. On the surface Jacks might seem gay and friendly to many, but he was the sort of man who could be utterly ruthless. Match that to gun skill, and it could mean a lot of trouble.
The High-Grade Saloon showed down the street a few doors, and Hopalong drifted that way.
In the door of Katie Regan's, Dud Leeman stared after him, watching the short, choppy horseman's walk, the sloping but powerful shoulders, and the tied-down guns. He slammed the door and strode back to the counter. Clarry Jacks stared at him curiously. "What's eatin' you?" He grinned. "That hombre scare you?"
"Scare, nothin'!" Leeman dropped to a stool and spooned sugar into his coffee. "Only he seems durned familiar. I've seen him somewhere but can't remember where."
Clarry Jacks shrugged. "Just a driftin' hand. He'll move on."
"He'll stick around." Katie had come in from the kitchen. "At least for a while.
The murder of that boy got under his skin."
"Does he think he can do better than the sheriff?" Jacks wanted to know.
"I don't know whether he can do better than Hadley or not," she replied easily, "but if I was the killer I'd be feeling mighty uneasy."
Circulating around through the various saloons and hangouts, Hopalong kept his eyes and ears open. Long ago he had learned to know the signs of a tough town, and he could see this one was seething. He heard of several killings, of a slugging and robbery the previous night, of another prospector found dead on his claim. The lid was off and the wolves were flocking to the fat herd.
the Trail to Seven Pines (1972) Page 2