Louis L'Amour_Hopalong Cassidy 01

by The Rustlers of West Fork

  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?”

  “Uh-huh. I ain’t worried about the Apaches t’night, but Sparr 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 Mimbreños 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-huh. 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?

  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 sl
ight 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. Unwittingly, 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 was best 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 sheer-walled area in which they had stopped. No outlet was visible. To all appearances they were trapped once more, only worse. Despite 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 followed 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 north 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 will 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, and with a crippled man—He pushed on, stopping only briefly at a spring on the hill near Iron Creek Mesa.