Louis L'Amour_Hopalong Cassidy 04

by Trouble Shooter

  “I thought he was the first rancher in here,” Hopalong suggested. “He was, wasn’t he?”

  “Him?” the old man scoffed. “Not by a durned sight! He was freightin’ before he was ranchin’! There was three in here before him!

  “Jim Turner settled on the lower Picket Fork with a bunch of cattle he brought over from Texas. Jim gave up his ranch an’ went back east. Sold out to Tredway.”

  Hopalong hesitated. “Ever hear of Pete Melford?”

  “Melford?” The old man scowled. “I do recall some such name. A Texas man, wasn’t he?”

  “That’s right. Where was his place?”

  “It was—” The old man’s voice broke off sharply and he was staring at the door as if he had seen a ghost.

  Hopalong turned quickly. Colonel Tredway was standing there. His face was graven as from stone, and his eyes were cold with fury. Fury, and something else—was it, could it be fear?

  “Peavey!” Tredway’s voice was sharp. “I’ve been wanting to see you. Fellow here last week said he was planning to kill you.”

  The old man was astonished. “Kill me? Why? I ain’t never harmed nobody. Never at all!”

  “Come with me,” Tredway said. “I’ll tell you about it.” He glanced over at Hopalong. “You’ll excuse us, Cameron?”

  The two disappeared out the back door, and Hopalong scowled. Tredway had appeared in a hurry. Had someone told him that Peavey was talking around town? Had he overheard anything of what Peavey had told Hopalong?

  Regardless of that, Peavey had known Melford, although apparently the memory was none too clear. Had Tredway come a few minutes later, the old man might have remembered.

  Hopalong turned to the door and went out. Before the Mansion House stood Cindy Blair. Automatically his feet turned that way. She saw him coming, and hesitated. “Have you seen Rig?” she asked anxiously. “I haven’t seen him in hours, and his horse isn’t in the barn.”

  “No, I haven’t. He may be out scouting around to see what he can find.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. Rig takes all this so much to heart. He feels that he has failed me, that somebody is deliberately trying to discourage us and get us out of the country, and he worries about my being so nearly broke. I’m afraid he’ll do something desperate.”

  “I doubt it,” Cassidy reassured her. “He’s mighty sensible, miss.” Despite his words, he was worried, remembering Rig’s urge to do battle on the previous day. “He hesitated yesterday when I suggested it. I hope he believes he can do more for you by staying out of trouble.”

  Her lips tightened and her eyes flashed. “Rig wasn’t doing any harm!”

  “I know what you mean,” Hopalong agreed, “but see it from their viewpoint. Some strangers come into the country and start looking over his choicest range with a view toward claiming it as their own. What would you do?”

  “It is the best range?”

  “It sure is! The PM, if it was there, lay between the Box T and the Picket Fork. That’s the best water around here, and there is lots of it. This has been a dry year, but the stream is flowing now with a fair head of water. Frankly, Miss Blair, the sale value of the Box T doesn’t amount to anything at all without that range.”

  He hesitated. “I’m going to work for him.”

  Her eyes widened, then narrowed suddenly. “For who? For Colonel Tredway?”

  “I’m going to get some steers out of the breaks across the Picket Fork. My outfit’s moving in there now, and I think before this business is over I may learn a lot more about him than he expects.”

  She was silent, thinking it over. Could she trust him? After all, what did they know about him? And why should he help?

  “Naturally,” she said, “you’ll do what is necessary for you. Maybe you can help us from there.” But there was no hope in her voice, and there was a coolness.

  Did she believe he had sold out? Hopalong Cassidy looked at her and shook his head. “Don’t get any foolish notions. I’ve taken this job to help you all right, but I need the money, too, and it’s a job I can do. If you come out that way, we’ll be camped north of the Picket Fork near the Chimney Butte trail.”

  They parted, and he walked down to the livery stable to visit Topper. The hostler looked up as he walked through the door. “Some horse you got there, mister. Sure purty.”

  “Topper’s the best,” Hopalong agreed. “I’ve never seen another like him.”

  “That’s what the Colonel said. He was just in here.”

  “Alone?” Hopalong asked quickly.

  “Yeah. He’s mostly alone. The Colonel’s all right, but he ain’t sociable.”

  What had become of Peavey? Swiftly Hopalong turned and left the stable. A quick look in the door of the Elk Horn proved the old prospector was not there. Nor was he at the Mansion House or the general store.

  “Ain’t seen him.” The swamper at the Mansion House was explicit. “Maybe he went to the Wells, Fargo office. He had a little gold on him.”

  He had not been seen at the Wells, Fargo office since the previous day.

  Worried now, Hopalong wheeled and started back along the street. And then he saw the crowd gathering at the back of the hotel. Dodging around a passing wagon, Hopalong ran down the alleyway between the buildings and stopped.

  Peavey lay on his back on the ground, and one glance was enough. He was quite dead.

  “Fell,” somebody said. “Seen him myself. I was cutting up a log when he came to the window. Had his hands on the sill an’ he leaned out a mite too far. Grabbed at the sill, but fell then an’ lit right on his head. Must’ve busted his neck.”

  Hopalong knelt beside the old man. There was a cut on his head, and Hopalong parted the old man’s gray hair so all could see. The blood around the wound was dried.

  Nobody said anything except the first speaker. “I don’t care. I seen him fall!” he insisted stubbornly.

  Hopalong got to his feet, saying nothing. The one man around who could have helped him was dead.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE PEAR FOREST

  WHEN THE DAWN came, the sky was a crimson glory slashed by the pale darts of cloud, gold-tipped from the rising sun. The mountains were purple still, and in their shadow darkness lay thick upon the land. Hopalong moved out, and beneath him he felt the coil and movement of Topper’s powerful muscles as the horse cantered, eager for the trail.

  The range lay wide before them and the road was good, for this was the way that led to the Box T. North of the T, the trail was rarely used except at roundup time when the chuck wagons crossed it. From there on to the Picket Fork, his way would be guided by the towering Chimney Butte that marked the canyon that lay on the far side of the pear forest.

  Here the range was already dry and parched, there was little grass, and the marks of cattle hooves were all over the land where the browsing animals had sought food in vain. A verse from Isaiah that he remembered from his childhood came now to his mind. The hay is withered away, the grass faileth, there is no green thing.

  But there was green. He had seen it when he first met Rig Taylor. There was green grass thick along the Picket Fork on the old PM range. Tredway needed that land badly. It would not be surprising if he would steal or kill to keep it. Pete Melford had disappeared and Hopalong was convinced, without knowing how it had been done, that Tredway was responsible for the death of Peavey. A man who falls from a window does not have the blood dried upon his scalp. The old man had been struck sometime before, then pushed from the darkening window within sight of witnesses.

  Topper shied at a dark bush and Hopalong slapped him playfully on the neck. “Cut it out, boy. You’re not fooling anybody.”

  The white horse bobbed his head and tugged at the bit. Hopalong’s eyes studied the wide range and saw in the distance the roofs of the Box T buildings. By now Pike Towne should be nearing the Picket Fork and well past the Tredway ranch.

  More and more his eyes studied the range. It had been badly overgrazed, overgrazed to
the point where a little more might ruin it for good. Now the cattle had evidently been moved north toward where the PM Ranch may have once stood, for he saw none at all on this dead or dying grass. Still, the land showed every sign of being overloaded, a condition not too uncommon in the early days of fencing, when cattlemen were still used to the old ways of free range.

  Just what was Tredway’s financial situation? It might be important to know that. Was he actually getting these cattle out of the brush because he had nothing else worth shipping? It would also be important to know what cattle the man had shipped in the past.

  Facing the end of the trail as he rode into the yard at the Box T was the ranch house, a long, low building with a wide veranda fronting it. To the right was the bunkhouse and to the left the stables, toolshed, and blacksmith shop. Behind the barn but in sight were the horse corrals.

  The only man in sight sat smoking on the steps of the bunkhouse. As the sound of the horse’s hooves came to him, he turned sharply, then got to his feet as he recognized Hopalong. He spoke sharply over his shoulder and moved slightly out of the way as Vin Carter showed in the doorway.

  Carter stared for a minute and then walked down the steps. “You huntin’ trouble?” he demanded. “I told you to stay off this place!”

  “Your boss thinks different,” Hopalong replied calmly. “I’m working on this spread.”

  Carter’s eyes glinted. “Well then, that puts you under my orders!”

  Hopalong smiled cheerfully, shoving his hat back from the faded white scar on his brow. Mildly amused, he looked at Carter. There was innate viciousness in the man, and if he avoided trouble with him, he would be fortunate. “Sorry, Carter, I’m under nobody’s orders. I’m contracting. I’m getting cattle out of the pear forest for Tredway.”

  Carter stared, then he laughed. “Why, you fool! Nobody can get them cows out of there! You ever tried to use a rope in brush so thick you can barely push a way through the thinnest parts? You ever tackled a sixteen-hundred-pound longhorn at close quarters? How many men you usin’?”

  “One,” Hopalong said, “besides myself. We’ll han-dle it.”

  Carter snorted and spat. “Why, I was aimin’ to take your scalp, but I’d be a fool to waste lead on a tinhorn that would tackle a job like that! You won’t last a week!” He laughed. “Go to it. If you get a hundred head out of there, I’ll eat my shirt an’ yours, too!”

  Hopalong chuckled. “I’ve got to get out more than that. I’ve got to get five hundred head out or no deal.”

  Vin Carter’s eyes glinted. “Yeah? This I gotta see!”

  “You will!” Hopalong was cheerful. He turned Topper to the north and followed out, riding along the tracks of the broad-tired wagon. Dust arose at each step the horse took. The Box T range was in bad shape. Very bad.

  From Carter’s attitude it was obvious that the Box T hands wanted no part of the forest of prickly pear and mesquite, and knowing such country, he could not find it in his heart to blame them. It was hell to work, and nobody knew that better than he.

  The sun was high, and he mopped his brow and rode on, the salt of the sweat smarting his eyes. The sun reflected from the barren range as from a desert or salt bed. The mountains were close now, and the towering finger of Chimney Butte was plain to see. Soon he should be sighting Brushy Knoll. His eyes swung eastward then, toward the strange, high mesa that was Babylon Pastures. The mystery of the place intrigued him. The bridge was down, they had said, on the trail that led that way, and that trail was miles away to the east, but suppose there was another way? A route that led to the vicinity of Brushy Knoll, where strange lights had been seen? What was it that was up there on the mesa to frighten a man like Tredway? What was up there that was strange?

  The landscape began a change that was only subtle at first, for the grass grew gray and then turned to pale green. They were nearing the Picket Fork now, although it was still miles away. Already, however, its effects were being felt. A coyote appeared, then vanished into an arroyo. The land grew more rolling, and the shallow valleys were greener and the grass grew taller. Now, for the first time, he began to see cattle, but they were painfully few.

  There might be more than one way for Cindy Blair to regain her ranch; Colonel Tredway might not be so secure as was generally imagined. He pushed on, and it was well past noon before he sighted the Picket Fork. He drew up on a long ridge, and standing in his stirrups, he searched the banks of the stream.

  After a moment his eyes caught a faint trail of smoke, and he swung the white horse toward it. Pike Towne was on his feet to welcome him when Hopalong rode into camp. His wife turned and smiled at Hopalong.

  “Glad to see you, Cameron!” Towne said. “I was afraid you might have had trouble in town.”

  “No trouble,” Hopalong said, “but I’ll have it with Vin Carter one of these days.”

  Towne nodded seriously. “Yeah, he’s a cantankerous cuss. Somethin’ eatin’ on him all the time.” He handed Hoppy a plate. “There’s somebody else around here it would pay to keep your eyes on. I spotted him in town the other day. His name is Tote Brown. Thin, stoop-shouldered hombre, never clean-shaved, an’ always packin’ a rifle. He’s a back shooter.

  “Up north,” he added, “some cattlemen hired him to clean out nesters an’ rustlers at so much a head. Nobody knows how many he got. I doubt if anybody around here knows him or even knows about him. He ain’t talkative, an’ he had to get out of that country before they hung him, so he ain’t exactly anxious to have folks know who he is.”

  Hopalong had stopped, listening intently, his mind back with the mysterious marksman who had taken a shot at Rig Taylor. His own shot had spoiled the man’s aim, and perhaps scratched him, but he had had a mere glimpse of the killer. Yet this might be the man, and it was such a man who had left the dun horse hitched around the corner of the Chuck Wagon Restaurant, and his Winchester had been fixed with an especially fine sight. “I think I’ve seen him,” Hopalong said. “Thanks for the tip.”

  Towne nodded, speared a chunk of beef, and began to ladle beans to his plate. “This here,” he added seriously, “is no country for a pilgrim. A man who expects to stay alive had better keep his eyes open. There’s plenty of folks around here with secrets they want to keep, an’ if they get an idea somebody is too curious, they’ll shoot, an’ shoot quick.”

  “Looked this country over yet?” Hopalong jerked his head toward the land beyond the Picket Fork.

  “Thought I’d wait for you. There was plenty to do, anyway. I had to cut a stock of wood for Sarah and rustle up some rocks for a fireplace. From here, though, she looks mighty mean.”

  The beans were excellent and the steak was broiled just as he liked it, thick and juicy. He ate more than he had planned, listening to the talk between Pike Towne and his wife. That there was a strong bond of affection between them was obvious.

  Shep had come up to Hopalong, and after sniffing inquisitively of his sleeve, he lay down beside him and rested his nose on his paws. Pike glanced at him and smiled. “Reckon Shep figures you are all right,” he said. “He’s mighty touchy about strangers as a rule.”

  “This afternoon,” Hopalong said, “we’ll scout a little. You go one way, I’ll take another. Make an estimate of the cattle you see, but mostly I want to find a large open space well back into the pear forest. I want a place that’s hard to find, with good grass, and water if possible.”

  Towne looked at him curiously. “Yeah,” he said. “I think we can find a place like that. I hear there’s clearings back in there that are hundreds of acres in extent. After we find it, what then?”

  “We’ll build a good-sized corral out here,” Hopalong said, “but we’ll also make a fair corral back in that clearing, mostly by working the limbs of the mesquite together. Probably we can find a place that will need only a little work to keep it safe so the cattle won’t stray.”

  Towne chuckled. “I get it. You’re figurin’ to keep most of the cattle back inside so nobody will kno
w how many you’re gettin’ out. Is that it?”

  Cassidy nodded. “It seems to me,” he said, “that a certain hombre might let us get out, say, four hundred head or better. Then someone might run them off before we could begin to collect. I don’t figure to let anybody know how we’re fixed.”

  “Good idea.” Towne started to speak, then said nothing further, but when he got up and wiped his hands on a handful of grass, he said, “I’ll head off toward Chimney Butte. I figure that might be a good place to look.”

  “Go ahead,” Hoppy said. “I’ll work farther east.”

  Hopalong got to his feet and glanced at Sarah Towne. “Thanks,” he said, smiling. “That was the best meal I’ve eaten in a long time. Pike sure found a good cook when he found you.”

  She flushed with pleasure. “Pike likes good food,” she said. “He’s a big eater, and I like that. It’s no pleasure to cook for a man who picks over his food. He’s like you—he never leaves anything on his plate.”

  Hopalong saddled Topper again and, putting the bit between his teeth, slipped the bridle over his ears. “It’s a long time since you’ve been in the brush, Topper,” he said, “but you’ll get a taste of it today.”

  He went down the bank and waded the horse through the ten-foot-wide Picket Fork and up the opposite bank. The trees were thick, but he rode through them and found himself facing an impenetrable wall of brush. As he skirted it, searching for an opening, he studied the varieties he saw. Before him were thousands of acres of black chaparral, dense thickets of mingled mesquite, towering prickly pear, low-growing catclaw with its dangerous thorns that hook into the hooves of cattle or horses, and colima with its spines. Everything here had a thorn, long and dangerous, some of them poisonous, all of them needle-pointed. Once within these close confines, there were no landmarks, nothing but a man’s own trail to guide him.

  Walls of jonco brush, all spines and ugly as sin, devil’s head, and yucca; it was all here in a dense tangle. And under it moved a myriad of life-forms: rattlesnakes, javelinas, and many varieties of birds and lizards. It was a morass without water, a maze without plan, a trap that could grip and hold a man for days. Once lost, only chance could help a man escape. Even when fairly cool where there was a breeze, within the black chaparral the air was close and sweat streamed down your body, soaking your clothing. Thorns snagged at the clothes and skin. You jerked free from one thorn to be stabbed by another. Only heavy leather, hot as Hades, offered protection. This was exactly like the dreaded monte of Mexico and Texas.