the Rustlers Of West Fork (1951)

by L'amour, Louis - Hopalong 03

  There were four of them, and from the direction they must have been following, instead of ahead of him, so they were obviously another group. While he watched, other Indians came from the opposite direction, and in this bunch there were eleven. He wanted very much to warn Dick and Pamela, but he dared not go back. In any event, it would have meant little. These were hos- tiles. They had seen his tracks. They knew about where he was. A moment later he looked around and saw Pamela coming toward him. She dropped on her stomach and crawled at his ges- tore, and he saw her eyes widen at the sight of the Apaches. "Mimbrenos," he whispered. "We'll have trouble."

  There was no protest in her and no complaint. She accepted the situation and watched the Indians quietly. Evidently there was some dispute going on among them, perhaps as to whether to attack now or later.

  Yet sundown was not far off, and no Apache will fight at night.

  "Do you believe they will attack now?" she asked him. He shrugged. "No tellin' what's in the mind of an Injun," he said. "They might. The way I figger, some o' them want to an' some don't.

  Anyway, we've got as good a position as we could find. I only wish we had more food." Her glance was quick, startled. "You think we'll be trapped here?"

  "Could be." He chuckled suddenly. "Some ways I don't know as I would mind. Let Sparr catch up to us an' fight Injuns. He should make a good "Padre fighter." He watched them thoughtfully, then asked, "How's your father?" "Very tired, Hoppy. He wouldn't admit it for the world, and he's been sticking it out, but I don't believe he could have gone another mile. He just sagged when we left him against the wall. He's still not recovered, regardless of what he says."

  They watched the Apaches in silence, and then Pamela said suddenly, "How far away are they?

  Could we shoot them from here?" Cassidy glanced at her from his hard blue eyes, now fghtened by wry humor. "I reckon," he said. "But no use to ask for trouble. Let 'em start it. Maybe they'll decide to go on an" leave us alone."

  He studied them again. "They aint over three hundred yards off."

  "Do they shoot well, Hoppy?"

  He glanced at her. "Take it from me, some of "em do. A while back seventy Mexicans surrounded one lone Apache an" he stood off the whole seventy and got away. He killed seven Mexicans durm' the fight and everyone was drilled right through the skull.

  That's shootin'! I don't blame the Mexicans for givin' up an' goin' home."

  The grass smelled good, and his body was tired.

  Hopaknmg let his muscles relax and ease deeper into the grass and earth. "You better get back, Pam," he said gently. "Fix us some grub. This looks lice a long wait."

  "What will you do?" She looked at him worriedly. "Wait. If they start comin' this way, I'll stop "em if I comc. If I can't, I'll come a-runnin"."

  "Well"--comshe was reluctant to leave-"take care of yourself. You take too many chances."

  "Not me." He shook his head. "Only a fool takes chances. That isn't bravery, not one bit.

  The good fightin' man never takes a chance he can avoid. You have to take plenty you can't help, an' only a fool would go to gamblin' with his life.

  "There's only two kinds of fightin' men, Pam. Good ones an' dead ones. You either learn, or you die. When I was a kid they told me I was scared for not walkin' a small log over a high canyon. The other kids all did it, but not me.

  Now if there had been somethin' on the other side I wanted, I would have gone over after it if there was no other way to get it. I never did see any sense in takin' chances that weren't necessary." He smiled.

  ""there's a sight of difference between bein" brave an' bein' a dang fool."

  When she had gone Hopalong wiped his hands dry on his shirt front and watched the woods where the Apaches had disappeared. Suddenly they appeared once more. This time they had made up their minds. They were coming now, all fifteen of them.

  Hopalong felt his stomach go empty. He let them come, let them cut distance for him.

  From three hundred yards they advanced, loping their ponies, until they were two hundred yards, one-fifty, one hundred yards away. He fired, holding the rifle well down, his sights on the stomach of the nearest Indian. The gun bellowed and leaped in his hands, and instantly he swung the muzzle, held briefly, then fired again. An Indian hit the grass and rolled over; then a second. He fired three times more, and then came to his feet running. It was all of fifty yards to the circle of boulders and trees near the cliff face. Behind him there was a shrill Indian yell, and he felt the whit of a rifle bullet, and heard the cracking sound as it passed him, and then two rifles spoke from the circle of rocks and he swung around, firing his rifle twice from the hip. Both shots were hits, one knocking a horse rolling, the second taking an Indian in the knee. He turned then and ran for the rocks, thumbing shells into his rifle.

  He dropped behind the trunk of a tree and rolled over into firing position. He stared. The grassy area was empty of life and still. There was a dead horse out there and the tumbled body of a dead man, but no sign of anything else.

  Pamela glanced at him, her face strangely white and frightened. Dick Jordan was chuckling.

  "Got one!" he said cheerfully, more alive than at any time Hopalong had seen him since coming to New Mexico. "Think we've stopped "em?"

  "Maybe for a while."

  Hopalong turned his head to look out past the towering cliff and the trees toward the way from which they had come.

  "They'll come again in the mornin". We can figger on that. However, there's fewer of them now."

  Pamela had turned back to the fire.

  "Coffee's ready," she said quietly. "Shall I bring yours to you?"

  Hopalong turned his head. She was frightened, he knew. Anybody would be frightened in such a spot.

  But she was not letting it interfere. She was doing her job. Stirred, he rolled over again and looked out into the gathering dusk. It wasn't often you found a girl like that. They were few, mighty few!

  He took the cup she offered him, and for an instant their eyes met. Then she quickly looked away. He hastily lifted the cup and managed to burn his lips on the hot coffee. It was no time to be thinking of a girl. The Apaches would be waiting for them. In the morning they would be coming, and probably more of them. So they were not safe; they had only gained a stay of execution. Hopalong Cassidy lifted the cup and tried the coffee again. It tasted very good.

  Chapter 9

  CASSIDY SETS A TRAP

  Firelight flickered on the rock wall and on the trees whose limbs arched above them. A night wind whispered among the leaves, stirring the silvery grass in long, moonlit billows. On the far edge of the firelit area lay Dick Jordan, his face gaunt now and sagging with weariness. Sleep had robbed him of the bold face with which he had accepted his sufferings and the vitality-sapping effort of riding.

  Hopalong spoke to Pamela. "He's about all in. I don't know whether we dare risk the ride out of here or not."

  "Will it be bad?"

  "Worse than we've had it so far, an' today was rough for a healthy man." "Could we hold out here for a day? Long enough to rest him from the saddle?"

  "We may have to," Hopalong admitted, "but I'd rather not. Anyway, he won't get any rest here. He'll be wrought up an' worried.

  Moreover, a few hours won't help him much.

  Some way or other we've got to get to a safer place. Worst of it is, if we run they've got us."

  "What about Sparr? How far behind do you think he is?"

  "Not far." Hopalong edged the unburned ends of the sticks deeper into the coals. "Our trail will puzzle "em some but it won't lose 'em.

  Anyway, I'd not mind seein" him show up tomorrow."

  "You don't mean it!" Pamela shuddered. "Now that I'm away, the thought of falling into their hands again frightens me. I'd kill myself first." "No, I mean it. I sure do! You see, if Sparr rides into this valley now he'll run into those Apaches. That means they'll fight. Whatever happens then will be good for us, an' I've a plan in mind if it does happen. Fact is," he a
dded, "I've an idea where he is right now. I could guess it within a mile or two!" He scowled. "I wished I knew for shore that was Mesquite an' Johnny back yonder."

  "I remember Johnny. He liked a fight."

  "He ain't changed. An' Mesquite, he reads sign like an Injun." Hopalong chuckled. "That's a trick you learn livin' in Apache country. It's a school where the Apaches conduct the examinations an if you flunk you lose your hair."

  "Dad used to say they were like brown ghosts. You saw them and then you didn't, for they just seemed to merge into the landscape."

  "It's true. It's gospel, b'lieve me.

  They know every trick in the books an' if they need more they invent more. I've known of fifteen or sixteen of "em lyin" not a dozen yards from a man, and him never knowin' they were near until too late.

  Moreover," he continued, "this is their country. They know it an' we don't."

  After a while Hopalong got to his feet, a shadow of an idea stirring in his mind. Avoiding the firelight even in this sheltered spot, he worked around through the boulders and brush and into the tall grass. The Apaches would be camped not more than a half mile away and might be closer.

  With infinite care he worked nearer and nearer to where he was sure they were. Shortly before dark he had noticed a number of crows hanging about in one area, and he was sure they had been drawn by the encampment.

  When he was fairly close to where he believed their camp to be and directly between their camp and his own, he ceased to be careful with his trail, and turned at right angles and started off in the direction of the cliff trail. Once away from the vicinity of the camp he moved swiftly, his mind working as he moved.

  Riding into the valley, his quick eye had observed every bit of the terrain, and he remembered a wide shelf of rock bordering a small mountain stream near the foot of the trail. There was a nest of boulders at the trail's end, and he let his tracks go directly to them In the shelter of the boulders and well out of sight he built a small fire, and when it was going well he added a few sticks of slow-burning wood, and then left it. Now he took to the shelf of rock, careful to ease his feet down and to make no telltale movements as he crossed the rock to the stream. There he waded for some distance, climbed among the trees, and started back. It had taken him all of two hours, but the effort would be worth it, he knew. He did not return directly to the camp but bore off toward the split in the mountain they had seen earlier. When he drew near he saw the mountain was skirted by a dense growth of trees and brush. He made his way through this to the foot of a talus slope of broken rocks.

  Mounting it, he found himself directly before the cleft in the wall, and felt a faint stirring of air on his face. The opening was abysmally black and he could form no estimate of its depth by looking.

  Finally, picking up a pebble, he tossed it out before him. He estimated the fall at about thirty feet, and scowled. Yet working his way along the crest of the talus slope, his foot suddenly touched another sort of surface. Instantly he dropped to a crouch and put out exploratory fingers.

  They encountered a shallow depression, free of rocks and smooth-a trail!

  Whether it was made by game or Indians he could not guess, but there was nowhere for it to go except to the cleft he had found, and so, without attempting to follow it, he straightened to full height and started off in the opposite direction and camp. There had been a cool dampness in the air from the cleft, and that might mean a cave.

  Hopalong was close to the camp before he could see any sign of the fire, for he had chosen the spot well. He stopped close by and spoke. Pamela got up from behind a rock on the far side of the fire, rifle in hand. Her face showed her relief.

  "What happened? I was afraid you were lost or killed." Her eyes searched his. "Did you find anything?"

  "Maybe."

  He lowered himself to the ground well out of the small glow of the fire. "Better sleep. I'll call you in an hour."

  "You mean to keep watch?"

  "Ut-huh. I ain't worried about the Apaches t'night, but Span has no objections to night fighting. I ain't at all shore but what I prefer the Apaches to him. You get some sleep. You must be dead beat."

  Avery Sparr would not so easily relinquish a victory that had been practically in his fingers. A shrewd tracker and trailer himself, Hopalong was not inclined to underrate the big outlaw. Utterly ruthless, the man was also relentless, and he would track them like a lobo wolf. Above all, there were men with him driven by personal feelings, men who hated Hopalong so much their feelings would drive them on even when better sense indicated a halt.

  Putting himself in Sparr's place, he knew the man must be puzzled. If Hopalong had headed either north or south the gunman would not have been puzzled, but to head directly into the highest peaks of the range, an area without known trails, with steep cliffs and towering peaks, with deep canyons and thick forests, seemed to ask for a trap. Hopalong would have doubted there was a trail through here had he not heard the stories of the old cowhand on the T Bar. Yet it was possible that such a trail existed, and he had been told to keep north of Whitewater Baldy. That peak, snow-covered now, gleamed brightly off to the southeast, and almost dead ahead was another peak he had been told was called Willow Mountain.

  Sooner or later he was coming to a showdown with Sparr. Tucking another stick into the fire, Hopalong considered that. Fear was no part of him.

  He disliked killing and avoided it when possible, but there were times when no man could avoid it, and he knew that even if he tried to, Avery Sparr would seek him out. The battle had been joined now, and when this game of hunting and hunted was over, they would settle it with lead. Finally he awakened Pamela, and was instantly asleep. He slept soundly, yet the slightest sound that did not belong to the night would have awakened him.

  Four times during the previous day Avery Sparr's Piute tracker had lost Hopalong Cassidy's trail. Four times he had found it again. Night found them on the lip of the cliff down which Hopalong's buckskin had led the party. Sparr stared at it and swore softly, bitterly. "He's got nerve," he admitted ruefully. "I'd not have gambled on such a trail without knowin' it."

  There were eight men with Sparr, some of the toughest in his outfit. Anson Mowry, despite his wounded hand and aching head, had profanely refused to remain behind The tall puncher whom Hopalong had bound and gagged was along. His name was Leven Proctor, and he was wanted in three states for cattle theft, bank robbery, and one sheriff killing. The others were Ed Framson, Tony Cuyas, the three Lydon boys from Animas, and the Piute tracker.

  "You sure he went down there?"

  Framson furrowed his brow, staring dubiously over the cliff. He was a stocky man, solid of chest and shoulder.

  "I wouldn't figger a self-respectin' goat would tackle it."

  "Cassidy would," Proctor said.

  The Indian nodded. "Sure. He go down. Old Mimbrefios trail."

  "He ain't far ahead then," Mowry said, with satisfaction. "All I want is one shot!"

  "Want to tackle that trail now, Anse?"

  Sparr gestured at the eyebrow of rock clinging to the cliff's face. In the dusk of evening it was no more than a dark line along the face of the rock.

  "You can go now, if you like. Get first chance at him."

  Mowry stared suspiciously at Sparr. "I'll wait," he said stubbornly. "We'll get him tomorrow."

  Avery Sparr was confident. His study of the mountains ahead showed him no break that might include a trail out of the basin. "He's trapped himself."

  .

  Ed Framson walked to the cliff edge and stared over interestedly. Hopalong Cassidy did not worry him. For a long time he had believed the stories of him were much exaggerated. What he wanted no part of was a mix-up with Apaches. He had seen what they did to a man when they caught him. This was their country, and he had followed Sparr into it with growing uneasiness.

  "See for yourself." Sparr waved a hand over the basin below. "He's got into a hole without any other outlet. He's boxed in for fair."

 
; He pointed to the line of massive mountains that barred the way westward. Across the darkening sky ranged granite shoulders of five great peaks, all towering toward eleven thousand feet. Farther north were as many more that approached ten thousand.

  "That's rugged country," Sparr said, "an' she's late in the season. There's snow on the peaks already, and any day now snow can block every pass west."

  "There are passes then?"

  "Uh-uh. Not through here. Farther north there is, but they're boxed in now. We'll get them tomorrow."

  "Maybe." Proctor looked over his shoulder from the fire he had built while the others were talking.

  "That Cassidy sized up to me like a man who knowed where he was goin'. He wasn't runnin' wild an' free. He was goin' someplace?"

  "He's there," Sparr replied grimly.

  Nevertheless, Proctor's remark unsettled him.

  Suppose there was a way out? After all, Cassidy would never have gone into a hole like that unless he believed there was. Sparr contemplated the view from the rim with lessening satisfaction. There was already darkness down there, an utter blackness that showed nothing at all. Stars hung like lamps in a sky that shaded to gray and faint violet at the mountain crests.

  Suddenly Sparr's eyes sharpened. Far out over that vast bowl of darkness was a tiny gleam, the gleam of a distant campfire. That, then, was where Cassidy and the Jordans were. Then he scowled. There was another vague and indefinite glow farther south. Was it a campfire? He could not make it out. If so, who could it be?

  Unknown to Avery Sparr he was now looking upon the small fire of the Apaches which was concealed from everywhere but the heights. Later, long after he had eaten and when most of them had already rolled in their blankets, Sparr returned to the cliff edge. The fire to the south had vanished and there was a faint glow at the foot of the very cliff on which he stood! This was the fire Hopalong had started and left behind him on his night foray. Sparr shook his head, suddenly worried. Who else was down there?