“Where did Sparr find him? They don’t fit together, somehow. Sparr’s western. Soper is not.”
“I don’t know. But Soper knows a lot. I think he is a college man. He talks very well when he wishes to, and he can be very much the gentleman.”
Hopalong got to his feet and went after the horses. When he came back Pamela had already put out the fire, and gathering those sticks only partly burned she carried them off a short distance and scraped sand over them, hiding them from sight. With care, Hopalong worked over the site of the campfire, spending precious time in concealing its remains as well as possible.
Jordan grinned at him when Hopalong came to get him. “Don’t worry about me,” he said stubbornly. “I’m good for fifty miles, easy. Just keep movin’. Feels good,” he added honestly, “to be in the saddle again. I’m no man to be cooped up. If time comes when I have to die, this would be the way I’d choose. Only I’d like to trigger a gun at Avery Sparr first.”
“You stay in that saddle,” Hopalong said seriously. “Leave the scrappin’ to me.”
Deliberately Hopalong turned south. Now he selected the roughest possible country. Great cliffs lifted about them, and they turned into a canyon so deep that it seemed night had come again. The somber columns of the pines ranged along the sides of the narrow trail to which they held and then fell away as they rode across a small park, belly high on the horses. The wall of the forest seemed solid, but Hopalong found a narrow space and pushed the buckskin into it, and they wound around among the trees, turning and twisting, but keeping steadily west of south. Suddenly emerging from the forest, they found themselves on the edge of a wide shelf of flat rock, wind-scoured and lonely. It stretched away ahead of them to the very rim of a vast crack in the earth. Riding out on the rock, Hoppy led the way across to the rim. The buckskin paused and peered over, ears forward, stretching its nose toward the sheer vastness of the space before them.
Then, turning the horse, Hopalong skirted the lip of the canyon until a path showed. Well down the path he saw hoofprints of unshod horses. For a full minute he stared down. A hundred yards from where he sat the trail vanished around a bulging shoulder of rock, yet those wild horses, or perhaps Indian horses, had gone that way. Abruptly he started the buckskin, and without hesitation the horse headed down the trail. Cassidy knew that if one horse started, the others would come, and come they did.
Far below them in a vast blue gulf he could make out the tops of the pines. Across from them lifted the sheer mass of a mountain. And then he was giving all his time to the problem at hand.
The trail was steep and the buckskin braced his feet and walked gingerly. At the turn in the trail it narrowed still more. Now there would be no turning back, for there would be no room to turn. Hopalong sat easy in the saddle and let the buckskin trust his own judgment, which Hopalong had come to respect most heartily. The buckskin was not hesitant. Steadily they went down, deeper and deeper into the vast gulf whose jaws closed slowly above them and around them.
After almost an hour they rode out suddenly into a wide, half-open valley dotted and fringed with clumps of trees. At a lope, to add distance, Hopalong led the way across. His blue eyes studied the terrain before them, and then, turning, he glanced back. He could see little of the trail down which they had come, for it merged into the wall of the canyon and was lost to sight. Slowing his horse, he dropped back beside the others.
Dick Jordan grinned at him. “That trail! Hoppy, if you told anybody about that trail they’d figger you lied! I wouldn’t have bet a squirrel could tackle it.”
Pamela glanced at the buckskin. “Your horse?”
“Sim Thatcher’s. I’d like to buy him, though. He’s the best horse in the mountains I ever sat.”
Dick Jordan asked, “You think that Mesquite they talked about back yonder was your friend?”
“Yeah. He an’ Johnny headed out this way sometime back. They went to Tombstone, but I didn’t know they had come north. Once they start somewhere you can’t tell where they’ll end up. Anyway, I hope it was him, an’ whether it is or not, this hombre got Bizco.”
“One more an’ one less.”
“Right. An’ they tell me he was one o’ those who killed Kitchen.”
Dick Jordan’s face hardened to bitterness. “Can’t figure how I got to be so trustin’!” His voice was angry. “I should have knowed Avery Sparr was up to somethin’, but he seemed like he only wanted to help, an’ when Kitchen got killed, I needed help. First time we smelled a rat was when Johnny Rebb an’ Bizco showed up at the ranch.”
A thought occurred to Hopalong. “Say, what do you know about Elk Mountain? I saw a rider—figgered it was Soper—who headed right at the wall of the mountain. I couldn’t figger where he was goin’. He was ridin’ at an angle, sort of southwest from the main trail to Horse Springs.”
“Sure. There’s a canyon in there. Mighty narrow, but she’s there. Turkey Spring Canyon. Can’t figger what he’d be goin’ there for.”
“Ranch in there?” Hopalong wanted to know. He had found an opening in the trees ahead and veered right, away from it.
“No. There’s a stone tower there, though. Cliff dwellers built it. Mostly fallen down now. I did hear there was some prospector usin’ it, though.”
Hopalong went steadily right, circled out into the grass, and then doubled back on their own tracks and went around a boulder and into the trees. If he could get Dick Jordan and his daughter to the comparative safety of Alma, secure from either the abuse or bullying of Avery Sparr, then he could come back. After that—his weather-beaten face was grim—after that would come the reckoning.
Ahead of them the country slanted down toward a valley floor visible through the scattered bunches of trees and the boulders. The grass was high here, and green, for it was irrigated by the runoff from the mountains. Ahead of them was a small stream, and Hopalong reined in to let the horses drink. Pamela heard his low exclamation and looked around quickly. Hopalong was on the ground staring at the tracks of some unshod ponies.
“Wild horses?” she asked.
“No.”
His answer told her all she needed to know. Dick Jordan slid the Winchester from his saddle scabbard. “How many of ’em?”
“Maybe six, eight. Can’t rightly make out.” Hopalong shoved his hat back on his head and swore softly. Outlaws behind them and Apaches ahead. The question was: which was the worse? The stream ahead of them was the West Fork, and it could not be very far to Turkeyfeather Creek. He studied the situation. As he had it, the tracks were not more than an hour old, at most. Were the Indians moving on? Or did they have a camp near? And how close behind him was Sparr?
At a rough guess, by the route they must take, they were not less than thirty miles from Alma, but the worst of their trip, even excepting the presence of Apaches, was still before them.
“We’ll gamble,” he said suddenly. “We’ll push on to the Turkeyfeather an’ make camp there. We all need rest, an’ so do the horses. We’ll take a chance on Sparr comin’ up with us.”
“What about the Injuns?” Dick demanded.
Hopalong grinned. “They’ll have to look out for themselves.” He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair, then replaced the hat, pulling it down firmly in front. “Maybe,” he said innocently, “they might run into grief. Never can tell what will happen when you go perambulatin’ around in the mountains like this!”
He mounted, and they moved forward cautiously. The tracks were apparent, and the Apaches had probably been following the same route. This might not be, but probably was, a war party, their destination the settlements and travelers in the vicinity of Alma and the mining camps clustered around Cooney.
Below them the green expanse of the valley looked inviting, small though it must be, but Hopalong left the trail and started off at right angles toward a sandstone cliff. It was pink with a white streak of quartz angling across the face and at the base some cottonwoods and sycamores promised water.
&
nbsp; Between the trees and the cliff face there was just room for riding single file, and Hopalong led off, every sense alert. From time to time he stopped again, listening. His mouth was dry and he was worried, more so than he would have cared to admit. Not far ahead, while still on the trail, he had seen a buzzard fly up as if disturbed by something moving nearby.
Rounding a projecting shoulder of cliff, Hopalong saw before him a long, narrow valley, or canyon. It headed up among some high bluffs that squeezed that end into a narrow space. On what seemed to be a small plateau were a number of trees and some huge rocks rolled down from the cliffs above. Moving off at a fast lope, Hopalong led the way. The last hundred yards was steep grade and in the open, but they made it to the shelter of the trees.
Hopalong reined in and they looked around quickly.
The plateau, if such it might be called, was scarcely more than an acre in extent, the edge of it fringed with a growth of mixed trees—pine, cedar, sycamore, and cottonwood and much manzanita. Behind that was a space, wide-open and grass-covered. Against the cliffs were other boulders, and a small fall cascaded from a crack in the rock higher up. To the left the canyon narrowed into a mere crack that looked dark and gloomy.
“We’ll spend the night here, Dick,” Hopalong said, “an’ maybe a day or so, dependin’ on how things look. I don’t aim to get you into any mess-up with Injuns if I can help it.”
At a protected spot near the foot of the cliff, with several large boulders and trees nearby, they made camp. Taking his rifle, Hopalong walked back across the open area and went into the trees. He had just reached the edge of the trees when he saw a brown movement in the forest from which they had come, and then several Indians rode into view.
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 hostiles. 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 gesture, and he saw her eyes widen at the sight of the Apaches. “Mimbreños,” 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 ’Pache 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 lightened 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 ain’t 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 durin’ 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. Hopalong 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 like 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 can. If I can’t, I’ll come a-runnin’.”
“Well”—she 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 whiff 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 Apache
s 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 added, “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.”
The Hopalong Cassidy Novels 4-Book Bundle Page 11
