Pike Towne grinned. “You take him. I ain’t as young as I once was.”
Topper moved forward, carrying his head low and looking the belligerent steer right in the eye. The steer didn’t like it. He shook his heavy horns and pawed dust with a tentative hoof. He backed up a step, and then, suddenly, he dodged. Instantly Topper was there to meet him, cutting him back toward the open. Then, as the steer wheeled to run, Hopalong’s rope shot out like a bullet and whipped around the big horns. The steer hit the end of the rope with a lunge and was jerked from his feet and flopped hard.
He took a minute to get shakily to his feet, but when he got up, the fight was gone out of him. Hopalong turned Topper toward the narrow passage from the clearing, and as the rope tightened, the steer moved forward, hesitantly, wary of the rope.
Halfway down the passage he decided suddenly that he didn’t like it. Hopalong, watching over his shoulder, saw the steer gather himself for a sudden charge. There was no chance to maneuver, so he slapped Topper, and the white horse sprang into swift flight with the steer charging after. Topper reached a turn and whipped around it, spinning the steer into the brush. The black steer scrambled to his feet and lunged again, but closing in from behind, Pike nailed him with a second rope and his horse braced himself. The black steer was astonished. Nothing like this had ever happened before, and he found himself pulled from both directions. It took a half hour to get him to the corral, where they turned him loose.
Rig Taylor was loafing at camp when they got there. He looked at Hopalong and grinned. “Can you use another hand?” he asked. “A volunteer? I’d like to see if I’ve forgotten how to use a rope. Miss Blair has some riding around to do and I think she’s getting tired of me.”
“We sure could!” Hopalong admitted. “That’s tough work. After you catch ’em, they have to be taken through those alleys to the corral. It isn’t easy.”
“You had a visitor today,” Rig commented. “He didn’t come down to camp, but he rode along the hillside up there and he looked the place over.”
“I was expecting that,” Hopalong confessed. He picked up a deep pan and dumped water into it with a gourd dipper and began to splash water on his face and hands. As he washed he considered the unknown watcher. It was probably a hand from the Box T, but it also could have been the man who first shot at Rig.
LEAVING RIG TAYLOR to work at the wide northern part of the chaparral, Hopalong took a winding opening in the brush that led to the east. Pike and Rig could work together, and he would move out by himself. He was well started before he sighted Shep. The dog loped up to him, grinning happily and wagging his tail, fairly begging not to be sent back.
“All right, Shep, we’ll work together. First we’ll get an idea where this goes. That will be something to know. Plenty of cow tracks, anyway.”
The tangle grew fiercer, and several times Shep yipped when stabbed by thorns he inadvertently brushed against. At points the wall of the pear forest closed in so tightly that the ugly spines thrust out with barely space enough to work a way through.
Rounding a tight corner in the alley between the prickly pear, a big, mouse-colored steer suddenly loomed not a dozen yards ahead of them. Had their appearance been a moment less instantaneous than it was, it might have been dangerous. As it happened, their sudden appearance so startled the animal that he threw up his head and, rearing, turned almost completely around on his hind feet, and led off in a lunging run.
Aware that he might stop at any moment and decide to fight, Hopalong took a chance. If he could keep the steer running! Topper saw only a running steer and it was his job to chase and round them up, and he knew his job. Springing from a standing start, Topper darted after the steer. A branch—luckily it was only mesquite—slapped Cassidy across the face, and then they rounded a bend and the steer wheeled off the narrowing track and hurled himself squarely at the wall of brush!
Surprisingly, it gave with his weight and he plunged through. Topper waited for no orders. Turning so sharply that Hopalong might have touched the ground with his foot, he dashed after the steer. The lunge carried them through whipping branches, and something slashed Hopalong along the arm, and then they were through and into what a few years before must have been a clearing but was now covered by a beginning growth of chaparral.
The mouse-colored steer was heading across it, tail up and running. Hopalong swung Topper to avoid a bristling barrel cactus and then the steer was running full tilt at the wall of brush. Yet here, too, he must have known where he was going, for he plunged through into a still-larger clearing. Shep dashed on ahead, circling to get ahead of the steer, and then, past the head of the horse, beyond the running steer, Hopalong saw something else. It was a low cabin or shelter!
Reining in the eager horse, he stood in his stirrups and looked over the tops of the young brush. Here where he now was there had not long ago been a large clearing, but already the chaparral was claiming it. Yet the cabin, old as it was, still stood.
The steer ran on and away, but Hopalong called back the dog and then moved cautiously forward. His hand went back to his pistol and slid off the leather thong that bound it in place while brush-riding.
Several times he drew to a halt, listening. There was no sound but the low wind, scarcely discernible in the thick brush. On the edges of the clearing, giant pear stood up eight or nine feet, a fierce entanglement denying all entry or exit to the clearing for most of its circumference. There was no path, no trail.
The shelter itself was built of logs and had a pole roof, heavily thatched. The lower walls, however, had been piled high with rock, obviously for defense. Somewhere Hopalong Cassidy heard water running.
Suddenly he stopped dead still.
An old corral had fallen away, only the posts and a few rotting poles left, but on the ground where the gate must have been was a whitening skull!
Hopalong moved nearer and saw the skull was only a few feet from the scattered remains of a skeleton. The leather gun belt was stiff as iron, the heavy guns rusted. One bony hand was still clasped to a gun that had never been drawn. The hole through the skull was adequate explanation.
Hopalong swung down and bent over the body. A leather scabbard, dried and stiff with age, was affixed to the belt. There was no knife in the scabbard. This man had been shot from behind, the small hole in the back of the head and the smashed frontal bone of the head proved that. The walnut butt plates on the six-shooters were carved with a large letter D.
Turning away from the skeleton, Hopalong moved toward the dark opening of the cabin. The door had long since fallen from its crude leather hinges and it lay flat upon the ground. Evidently it had been left ajar.
Stepping to the door, Hopalong peered in, then froze, startled at what he saw. Another skeleton lay collapsed against the far wall!
His face pale, Hopalong struck a match. Within was a table with a candle stuck in the neck of a bottle. Its sides were covered with tallow from the candle drippings, and obviously it had seen much use. Hopalong touched his match to the wick and as the flame sprang up, lighting again after so long a time, he looked around.
There was a heavy stone fireplace, a table, two crude benches, hastily and awkwardly made, and two tiers of bunks, enough for four men at least. Then he turned his eyes to the skeleton.
It lay with its back to the door, one bony hand clutching a rusty rifle. Moving closer, Hopalong saw a long-bladed knife had gone in through its left side right below the fifth rib and slanting slightly upward. Examining the log wall, he could see where the point of the knife had sunk in at least two inches before the weight of the corpse had pulled it free!
For an hour Hopalong wandered about, studying the room, examining everything in it. Some ancient burlap in a corner, stiff now, but still holding its former shape, completed the picture. Unless all his conclusions were wrong, Hopalong Cassidy knew that this was the final scene in the long-ago robbery of a shipment from the mines. The gold bars had been wrapped in that burlap, and three men had
come here, to this place, before their greed had played its final hand.
No doubt each of these men was thirsting for possession of all the gold. Black John lay dead back at the scene of the robbery. Probably they thought Ben Hardy was also, for the story was that he had been badly wounded and they had probably seen him shot. That meant sixty thousand to split three ways, but without doubt each was thinking—why not only one way?
Possibly this conclusion maligned the man whose skeleton lay there against the wall. Maybe he had wanted to await the possible return of Ben Hardy. Maybe he had merely been the unfortunate one to die. The knife was carved with the name Diego, and it was the knife from the scabbard of the skeleton outside.
The three had come here, and Diego had awaited his chance. A hard-thrown knife had done the work as soon as the man turned his back. Perhaps he was placing his rifle on those nails, perhaps he was taking it down. In any event, the knife had settled that. And then Diego had gone to the corral after horses, and he, in turn, had been shot. The survivor had ridden away with sixty thousand dollars in gold!
A stiff leather wallet, fallen from rat-gnawed clothing, identified the second man. The first part of the name was obliterated, but the last name was Purdy.
Then the missing man with the sixty thousand dollars and the murder of his friends on his soul was Fan Harlan!
Hopalong Cassidy walked outside. A faint breeze somehow found the clearing and dried the sweat on his face. He looked around, and Topper nickered. The white horse was standing over a pool of water and Shep was panting contentedly beside him, lying on the hard-packed earth.
Crossing to them, he found a pool all of twenty feet across, the water flowing from a crack in the rocks of an ancient outcropping, evidently part of the same ledge by which Hopalong had originally found entrance to the chaparral. There was plenty of water for cattle, and their tracks proved that they came here often. There were deer tracks, too, and one track that might have been a mountain lion. This was somewhat smudged, however.
Measuring with a stick, Hopalong found the pool to be all of five feet deep and the water quite clear. This, then, was an all-year water hole, but was patronized by only a small portion of the wild cattle. That indicated there was water elsewhere, either easier of access or greater in extent.
No sound came to him but the slight trickling of water and the panting of the dog. Hopalong Cassidy walked back to the house and looked around. Without doubt the killer had never returned to this spot; if so, he had touched nothing. No doubt he was long gone from the country with his ill-gotten gains. But was he? Was he still around or had he just returned?
Suddenly he heard a voice!
Stepping back into the deep shadow under a gnarled old pin oak, he stared toward the opening in the brush through which he had come. Waiting, he touched his tongue to his lips. Shep was on his feet and then, wagging his tail, dashed into the brush.
He heard the voice again, then a reply, and over the tops of the pear and chaparral he saw two riders.
Rig Taylor and Pike Towne. He heard Towne greet the dog and then the two men pushed through the brush into the clearing. As Hopalong Cassidy stepped out to meet them he suddenly realized that he very much wanted to watch Pike’s face when he looked around.
The two men rode forward. Suddenly Rig Taylor pointed. “Blazes, man! Look at that!” He was pointing toward the skeleton of Diego.
Pike slid from the saddle no more than sixty feet from Hopalong and stood staring down at the remains. When he looked up, he started at once for the cabin. His face was cold and ugly.
“No need to look, Pike. I can tell you. The one who came out alive was Fan Harlan.”
Shocked, he stared at Cassidy, his face drawn. “How … ? How do you know that?”
“Figured it out. They came here after that holdup. Had some kind of a mix-up. Diego threw a knife into Purdy and nailed him to the wall inside. He’s still there. When he came outside a third man it seems would’ve had to have been Fan Harlan shot him in the back of the head. You saw the skull.”
“Yeah.” Pike Towne’s face was cold and hard. “Guess you got it figured. I—I all us had an idea the three were wiped out by the law, or maybe they took out all together.”
Rig Taylor stared from one to the other, puzzled and curious. “I don’t get this,” he said. “Who were these guys?”
Hopalong Cassidy replied. “Outlaws. Pike and I were talking about it earlier. The Ben Hardy gang; they robbed a gold shipment from a mine. They got shot up, but three of them disappeared. Now we know they were killed … or two of them were.”
Taylor relaxed slowly, his searching eyes on Hopalong’s face. “So this Fan Harlan is the only one who survived?”
“No, Ben Hardy was wounded and sent to prison,” Hopalong said casually. “No one knows where he is now.”
CHAPTER 5
GHOST TOWN TRAIL
THERE WAS LITTLE talk during the ride back as each of the three was occupied with his own thoughts. What they were thinking Hopalong had no idea, nor was he wondering. He was busy with the problem of the two living outlaws. One of them had gotten away with sixty thousand dollars, the other was alive somewhere and by now might know exactly what had happened. All of which did not spell happiness for Fan Harlan or his sixty thousand, if he still had it.
Riding out of the chaparral, the first thing Hopalong saw was Bill Saxx. The big foreman wore a dark blue shirt and black jeans. His hat was off, and his heavy shock of blond hair identified him at first glance. He was standing across the fire from Cindy Blair.
“No,” he was saying, “you’re on the wrong track. There was never any Pete Melford in this country. The old man must have been yarnin’ or else you got your directions wrong.”
“We’ve got visitors,” Hopalong whispered, just loud enough for the others to hear.
“How can you be so sure?” Cindy’s voice sounded irritated. “You didn’t come into this country until shortly after my uncle was killed—or I don’t believe you did.”
“What do you mean by that?” Saxx demanded sharply.
“As a matter of fact,” Hopalong said loudly as he rode up, “Saxx was here when Melford was killed.”
Saxx turned sharply, staring at Hopalong, then from him to the others. It was obvious that he liked none of this. He had not expected to find them in, and if so, not more than two men.
“Saxx wasn’t foreman of the Box T, though,” Hopalong continued easily. “He was ramrodding Tredway’s freight outfit for him. When the Colonel went to ranching, he took Saxx with him.”
“You seem to know a lot!” Saxx sneered.
“I just keep my ears open.” Hopalong smiled reassuringly at Sarah Towne, who stood wide-eyed and fearful beyond the fire.
Bill Saxx was watching Hopalong, making no effort to conceal the dislike in his eyes. “What business is all this to you?” he said sharply. “What you stickin’ your nose in for?”
Hopalong Cassidy looked around at him. “Aside from the fact that I want to help Miss Blair, it so happens that Pete Melford was a friend of mine.”
Cindy stared at Hopalong, frowning a little. Rig was suddenly alert, and Pike Towne was smiling mysteriously. Saxx was astonished, and then his face seemed to go still and tight. His mind was moving swiftly. Tredway should know this. He had not suspected—or had he? There was no telling about the Colonel.
“I didn’t know you’d been in this country before.”
“I never was,” Cassidy admitted, accepting the cup Sarah offered him. “I knew Pete in Texas. He wrote a letter to me, asking me to come by, but that letter was years late being delivered. It begins to look like I was quite a bit too late to help him. But I’m not too late to help Cindy Blair.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” Rig demanded irritably.
“No need to,” Hopalong said. “I figured it might be a good thing just to be around and be busy. There would be plenty of time later.”
“Well,” Bill Saxx snapped, “it’s time wasted!
There never was any Pete Melford in this country! If anybody would know, I would.”
Hopalong smiled, and the smile infuriated Saxx. His eyes narrowed and he glared at Cassidy. “You huntin’ trouble?” he demanded harshly.
“Me?” Hopalong’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “I should say not! I’m just a quiet hombre myself. But”—he tried the coffee and found it too hot—“I am going to locate Miss Blair’s ranch, and it will be in her hands when I leave.
“No trail,” he added, “is so well covered that it cannot be uncovered.”
Pike Towne had walked away to the wagon, but now he was back. He was wearing two guns, tied down, and it was the first time Hopalong had seen him wear a pistol. Suddenly Hoppy’s eyes sparked. Pike Towne was ready to stand his ground, that was obvious.
That the Box T hands saw the guns and recognized what they meant was also obvious. None of the other hands had spoken, although Carter had been staring with hatred in his eyes, mostly at Hopalong.
Bill Saxx looked the situation over and decided it was time to pull out. He knew he must contact Tredway at once with this latest information, but before he did that Saxx wanted to do some thinking on his own. Just where this left him was important to know; for the first time he was becoming wary of Tredway’s plans.
Right now any move might be disastrous to their plans for the holdup of the Taggart payroll only three days away. Saxx motioned to the other hands to come along and turned away. “Well”—he forced himself to smile—“regardless of trails, lots of luck with the cattle. You’ve got a tough job!”
“Oh, I was never so glad to see anybody in my life!” Cindy exclaimed as Saxx and his men disappeared into the distance. “They acted so strange! That man called Carter. He was asking all sorts of questions and looking around, and all the time Bill Saxx talked to us, the others were out at the corral looking at the cattle, reading their brands.”
“Saxx seemed to think you should have more done,” Sarah said. “He should try it himself!”
Pike grinned slyly at Hopalong. “Or have a look back in the brush.”
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