the Rustlers Of West Fork (1951)

by L'amour, Louis - Hopalong 03

  He halted, stopping abruptly. Then he smiled. Of course! It was a trick to confuse him.

  Trust a trailwise hombre like Cassidy to think of that!

  Dawn found Hopalong lying, not behind the larger rocks that offered the greatest protection, but among some smaller rocks almost concealed by the tall grass and brush. The place apparently offered no shelter at all, yet visibility was good from where he lay and the field of fire extended across the whole of the open area before him. Moreover, he had no need to thrust his head up or around a rock, where the Indians would more than likely be expecting him.

  Behind him Pamela was busy over a fire of dry wood, making coffee and warming up a little of the food they had left. Dick Jordan was sitting up, and he had a rifle across his knees. His cheeks looked hollow and his eyes were sunken, but the spirit within him was strong. Almost with the coffee came the first movement from down in the trees. Only a slight stir of grass, but Hopalong knew that an Indian had started toward him. Action had begun, or would soon begin.

  He glanced warily toward the mountain trail, bathed now in the bright morning sun that had cleared the ridge to warm the crest but had not yet reached the basin where he lay. There was no movement on the trail. Unknown to him, Avery Sparr and his men were already in the basin.

  Light had touched the trail before it reached the basin at all, and their descent had begun at once.

  Pamela picked up her own rifle and joined them near the rocks. Hopalong glanced back at the camp. The horses were saddled and out of sight in the trees and rocks, the gear all packed and ready.

  If they had to run for it they could. Hopalong nestled his rifle stock against his cheek and fitted it well back into the hollow of his shoulder. His eyes were cold and blue as they glinted along the rifle barrel.

  Long before Hopalong had gone into position with his rifle, four Apaches had found the tracks made the previous night. Rightly, they had deduced they had been made during darkness, and so figured one of the three they had attacked was trying to escape. After a muttered conference the four moved off swiftly, following that trail. Before long they sighted the ghostly wisp of smoke rising from the slow-burning wood of Hoppy's decoying campfire.

  Warily the Apaches halted. Instinctively they sensed something was wrong. Had the three riders they pursued come this far they must surely have gone up the trail. And while they waited, puzzling out this strange occurrence, nine horsemen were riding to the basin bottom and gathering at the trail's end before moving around the trees into sight.

  The Apaches moved forward carefully. Avery Sparr, on the other side of the fire in a little hollow, also sighted the smoke. This was one of the fires he had seen the previous night, the last of the three. He swung from his horse and walked slowly forward, flanked by one of the Lydon boys. From around a tree he slowly moved his head, and his eyes caught the barest movement, a flash of brown moving flesh. An Apache!

  His hand flashed for his Colt even as the Indian thrust forward his rifle, but the Colt came up spouting flame and the Indian died moving. Instantly there was a crash of guns, and Jake Lydon went down, clawing at his chest and coughing blood from a ruined lung.

  At the burst of fire Hopalong, knowing his stratagem had worked, riveted his eyes on the nearest movement he had seen. With the crash of gunfire there had been a sudden end to the movement, and Hopalong gambled. Holding his rifle low, he fired into the grass. He heard the fleshy thud of the bullet, saw the Apache's head lift, and nailed it with a second shot. Two shots answered him, and instantly Pamela and Dick Jordan fired. Unwit- tingly, they had taken the same target, and the Indian died where he lay. The firing continued, and Hopalong faded back to the horses.

  "Come on!" he called in a low voice. "In the saddle! You first, Dick!" Springing his horse into the lead, he led them at a lope down through the trees toward the trail he had found. Whether or not the cleft in the rock was an outlet to the basin he did not know, but they were in no position to wait. Behind him the gunfire continued, but at a slower rate. The buckskin scrambled up the talus slope, then over the ridge and into the slight hollow behind. Without hesitation the horse turned into the narrow space in the rock and Hopalong slowed it down.

  The opening into which he had ridden was no more than twelve feet wide and the rock on each side was smooth as glass. At one time water had roared through here, polishing these walls until not even an ant could have found a foothold on their sheer expanse.

  The floor of the cleft was hard-packed sand after the first hundred yards or so, and the passage through which they rode widened a few feet, then narrowed until their boots brushed the wall on either side. Then it widened again, and here there was an open space of perhaps an acre in extent with some grass and one lone tree.

  Hopalong drew up and turned in the saddle, looking at Dick Jordan. "How you makin' it, old-timer?" he asked, grinning. Yet even as he grinned his eyes inspected the older man carefully.

  The limits of the crippled man's endurance must soon be reached, for, tough as he was, he could not stand much of this. Even staying in the saddle was an effort.

  Now firing could not be heard. A stalemate, or the end of the fight? "I'm all right." Jordan glared at him. "How you makin' it? Don't worry about Pam an' me. Long as you can sit in a saddle, I can, b'lieve me! No Bar 20 or Double y hand was ever as tough as a Circle J rider!"

  Hopalong chuckled. "Why, you wall-eyed galoot! The best man you ever had wouldn't have been fit to drive a Bar 20 calf wagon!"

  "Huh!" Jordan snorted. "Lanky waseabest hand, an' we taught him all he knowed on the Circle J!"

  Hopalong chuckled. "Why, Lanky always said he left the J because that bunch of gristle-heeled old-timers was so lazy they wouldn't move camp for a prairie fire! He got tired of doin' all the work over there, so he came to a good outfit!"

  "When you two stop fussing, you might tell me where we go from here." Pamela gestured at the steep-walled bowl in which they stood. "Maybe we've lost them, but we can't stay here always."

  Hopalong had been letting his own eyes search the sheerwalled area in which they had stopped. No outlet was visible. To all appearances they were trapped once more, only worse. De- spite the looks of the place, he did not believe it, for the trail down which they had come had been well used, even if long since. There were no evidences here of anyone who had stopped for long. And there was no reason for coming to such a place. Whoever had come in had gone out, and by another route.

  "Give your horses a rest," he said quietly. "Just let "em browse for a while, but don't get down."

  He walked his horse around the bowl, finding no tracks here that could be followed until he reached the far side near the lone aspen tree and a huge clump of manzanita. The tree was scarred and torn, the bark ripped, and even some of the wood torn from the trunk. Claw marks on the tree reached as high as eight feet above the ground On the lower part of the tree it was plastered with mud and hair.

  Attracted by his examination, Pamela had fol- lowed him to the tree.

  "What is it, Hoppy?" She spoke softly, as though awed by the silence of the lonely place or by the height of the towering walls. "Bear tree. No bear will ever pass it without signin" his mark on it.

  Generations of "em go to the same tree, an" they reach as high up as they can reach. This bunch has been mostly grizzlies."

  "How can you tell?"

  "Size, for one thing." He indicated a track on the ground. "Claw marks for another. Grizzly has longer claws than any other bear. All five toes plainly marked too. That ain't usual with black bears."

  He turned and walked away slowly, scanning the ground. Finally he pointed at a dark tunnel into the manzanita. "There's our trail. Let's go."

  A double-rutted track pointed the way into the brush, and they followed, bending low in the saddle to stay under the branches and leaves. What they found then was a continuation of the cleft from which they had come, but this one started back into the mountain, trending southwest, while the former cleft had run due nort
h and south and they had followed it going north. Yet before they had gone many yards the trail made an elbow and they started back, now riding northwest. The cleft widened suddenly into a high-walled canyon and on one side there was a mound of talus at the foot of the cliff.

  The grass thickened and there was brush, but by following the double-rutted bear track they traveled swiftly. Obviously an ancient, long-used trail, it wound around boulders and fallen logs but kept a fairly general direction. Twice they found fallen trees ripped open by bears hunting for grubs. Then suddenly the narrow canyon ended and they emerged in the open with a creek lying across their trail at least a half mile ahead.

  Side by side they started across it. Dick Jordan was not talking, but his face was grim as he sat his saddle. Once he permitted himself a faint grin. "I ain't pullin' leather, Hoppy, so keep movin'. Whoever won that scrap back there will be on our trail."

  "This is the Turkeyfeather, the way I've got it figured," Hoppy said, "an' north of us is supposed to lay Iron Creek. We'll head that way an' try to follow it for a while. Then we cross some canyons an' hit the Snow Creek trail somewhere beyond."

  Dick Jordan glanced around, studying the sky shrewdly. "We got another reason to hurry," he said quietly. "It's goin' to snow."

  Hopalong felt a chill within him. All day he had felt it coming, but had hoped that he was mistaken.

  It was early for snow, yet they were very high here, and they must go yet higher in crossing the top of the Mogollons. All day he had been trying to convince himself that he was mistaken about that feeling in the air.

  He took the lead now and moved on rapidly across uneven, tree-dotted terrain. Then into a dark forest, out of it, and they were on the edge of Iron Creek. Fording the creek, they struck a dim trail. "This meets the Snow Creek trail," he told them. "It wilt be faster goin' now."

  Now he was watching the back trail again, for he knew they would be pursued, and he was only uncertain as to when that pursuit would catch up. The trail was climbing now, and steadily. The sun that had greeted them shortly after daybreak had disappeared while they were following the trail through the cleft, and now the sky was a dull, even expanse of gray. A cool wind touched his cheek, and he scowled, suddenly worried. If a storm was coming, their situation could not be worse. They still had high mountains and a ride that would take them the better part of another day at least.

  As the crow flies it was probably less than thirty miles; by trail it was considerably farther, andwitha crippled man- He pushed on, stopping only briefly at a spring on the hill near Iron Creek Mesa. Something touched his cheek, and he glanced up quickly. Snowflakes! His whole body seemed stilled by apprehension. They had more than thirty miles to go without heavy coats over a high mountain pass in the face of a snowstorm. And neither food nor shelter anywhere along the trail!

  Chapter 10

  APACHE BAIT HITS CIRCLE J

  The fight in the basin had not ended quickly, but had dragged on indecisively until the Apaches abandoned the field. Just when this took place Avery Sparr did not know. There had been eight Apaches alive when the fighting started and Sparr had nine men including himself. However, Sparr did not know the number of Indians he faced, and he fought, after a fast start, with considerable caution. Sparr had killed the first Indian he had seen, but in almost the same instant had lost Jake Lydon.

  Hopalong's stratagem was apparent at once. The mystery of the unused fire was explained, and Sparr guessed correctly that a trail had been laid out by Cassidy to lead the Apaches toward him. Knowing that while they fought, Hopalong was making his getaway in safety, Sparr was furious. Outgeneraled, he nevertheless settled down to whipping the Apaches, and finally succeeded. At least three more Indians had gone down, but he had two wounded men of his own.

  It was then that he showed his own generalship.

  "Tony," he said, turning to Cuyas, who had suffered a flesh wound, "take Hank an' start back. Push your horses, kill "em if necessary, but get to the Circle J an" to Soper. Tell him to rush men to Alma to head off Cassidy an' the Jordans. By usin' relays of horses from the ranches along the way they can make it.

  "When they get to Alma they can get more men there from Moralles, an' make a quick check to see if Hopalong's got to town. If he hasn't, cover every trail out of the mountains, but concentrate on Deep River an' the Silver Creek trail. I don't think he could get to the last, but he might, so take no chances. Tell him to get all three-no nonsense. Get rid of "em! The men doin" the actual killin' get a hundred extra each, an' five hundred for Cassidy."

  "Five hundred?" Tony Cuyas grinned.

  "I'll go myself, ergo!"

  "What if they've got to Alma?" Hank Lydon demanded. Avery Sparr scowled. "Then get "em! Get 'em out of town! Do it smooth an" quiet, but get "em-and then get rid of them where they won't be found." When they had gone, Sparr stood for an instant in thought, then turned to his men.

  "All right, scatter out and find their trail. I'll give twenty dollars on the spot to the man who finds it!"

  He stared up at the bleak sky and swore irritably. It would be tough to get caught in the mountains now, and every mile was a mile of added danger. If it started to snow- Suddenly his eyes glinted.

  Snow! What a break that would be! Caught in those high mountains in a snowstorm, Cassidy would never get through. Why, it would be spring before they could be found, and even if they found a place to hole up, they would certainly starve if they did not freeze.

  Such a solution would solve all his problems and be infinitely the best thing. Yet, even if there was no snow, the chances were fifty-fifty that his men would beat them to Alma. The distance was all of twice as great, but the trails were good and there were fast horses at the ranches the outlaws had been using. Cassidy would be burdened by a rapidly failing crippled man and a girl.

  Suppose they did make it? Suppose they got to the law? The deputy sheriff at Alma right now was notoriously inefficient. He would act slowly, and Sparr could always deny their stories and say that Jordan had been affected by his fall and was no longer right mentally. Pamela, he could say, was merely hysterical. Yet while some might believe him, many would not. While with Soper's help he might brazen it out, there was a risk in that which he did not choose to take.

  The Piute was coming up the trail. He halted when he saw Sparr and lifted a hand. "Got trail," he said shortly. "You come?"

  Sparr's long halloo brought instant response from the other riders, and they closed in around him swiftly. Avery Sparr halted at the cleft and looked into the deep shadows without enthusiasm. "A good place to die," he thought aloud, "if he wants to chance it."

  "Not him." Proctor was positive. "He won't gamble on it with that old man on his hands, an" in this weather. He'll head for Alma fast as he can roll."

  "That's probably right," Sparr agreed, "but we'll go slow."

  Despite the tracks left by Hopalong, Sparr and his men were even longer finding the hidden trail from the bowl than Hopalong had been, and by the time they reached the crossing of Iron Creek snow was falling fast and hard. For the last few miles his men had been looking at him expectantly, and at last Avery Sparr conceded that to push on farther was to take an unnecessary risk. It was time now to go back. If they went farther they might be caught in the same snowy trap he was wishing for Hopalong and the Jordans.

  Now it was up to the men from Anna and the snow.

  "We'll go back," he said. "I think they are high in the peaks now." "If they are," Ed Framson said, "they'll never get through! Drifts will be over all the trails within another hour or so.

  They are just far enough along to get trapped."

  Leven Proctor stared at the peaks, gloomy now and black against the dull gray sky. A little chill went through him as he thought of the three riding into those icy peaks--a crippled man, rapidly tiring, a young girl, and Hopalong. Remembering Hopalong Cassidy's cold blue eyes, he was not so sure.

  "If any man alive can get through," he said, "that gun slick will do it." Sparr no
dded "He's tough," he conceded "One of the toughest."

  Proctor stared uncomfortably at the peaks.

  What had happened to him, anyway? How did it happen that he, a top hand in any man's outfit, was riding with such men as these? He looked around him unhappily. The memory of the girl and her father stayed with him. For Hopalong he was not concerned. He was a tough man in a tough game, and he knew what his chances were. But old men and girls? Leven Proctor suddenly realized that he was not the sort of man he had hoped to be. Money was all right.

  Escaping the brutal work of roundups and line riding was all right, but he had never intended to go so far as this.

  Mesquite Jenkins and Johnny Nelson rode down the trail to the Circle J almost without interruption. Yet they had fortunately missed the trail with the guarded crossing and found the Indian Creek crossing. They came up to the ranch and halted in the edge of the timber. Nothing could have been more peaceful. A half equals dozen horses lazed in the corral, the warm sunshine gleaming on their polished bodies. No one moved about the place, although a slow trickle of smoke drifted skyward from the ranch-house kitchen.

  Mesquite started his horse, and the two rode quietly down the trail to the house. They were drawing up before the step when Soper spoke. Until that instant neither man had seen him. "How do you do, gentlemen? Have you had breakfast?"

  Mesquite strained his eyes to see into the shadowed porch after facing the bright glare of the sun. He was glad that the speaker, whoever he was, was not shooting.

  "We had coffee," he admitted, "but we could sure eat." Soper stepped out on the porch, neat in his gray suit, his smile pleasant. "Get down, then! Get down! Glad to have company.,, He gestured toward the bunkhouse.

  "Most of the hands are gone, and so are the others. Will you come in?" Soper's eyes measured them quickly.

  He knew of the death of Bizco, and immediately placed Mesquite as the killer. It seemed impossible that this young cowhand could be so fast. Yet when Mesquite drew nearer and he looked into those icy eyes and that cold face he felt a momentary chi" chill that removed all doubts. Johnny Nelson, he guessed, was merely a happy-go-lucky cowhand.