The Hopalong Cassidy Novels 4-Book Bundle

by Louis L'Amour

  Exactly one hour after he left, two riders drifted into the canyon on his trail and were immediately seen by the Coyote Kid. His call brought the others. “Know ’em?” he asked.

  “Looks like the two he mentioned,” Dave Hardy said, “an’ they are on the list.”

  “But not important,” his brother protested. “Pay no attention.”

  Oklahoma Tom shrugged. “Why wait?” he asked. “We might as well take ’em while we got ’em. Anyway, they are trailin’ Soper.”

  He hitched his guns into position and walked toward the corrals.

  The Coyote Kid had his rifle in his hand. He walked to one side and dropped on a bench at the cabin door, the rifle across his knees. In the past he had found it an unexpected position for shooting, and with practice he had acquired a skill that enabled him to empty the gun into a water bucket without lifting the rifle from his knees. The Hardy boys, ten feet apart, lounged in the open, waiting for Mesquite and Johnny.

  Mesquite noticed the man idling by the corral and the somewhat suggestive rifle. “Well, what d’ you know?” he said to Johnny. “These hombres are all set up for trouble.”

  “Must be friends of Soper.”

  “That means they ain’t friends of ours.”

  “Let’s talk to ’em first. Hopalong always advised me against shootin’ too quick.”

  Mesquite drew in his horse and looked down at the Hardy boys, then slid from the saddle. He liked to work with the ground under him, even if it was snow.

  “Huntin’ somebody?” Dave Hardy demanded.

  “Not necessarily. Have we found anybody?” Johnny stayed in the saddle, his eyes alert and eager.

  “Funny feller!” Dave sneered. “Where you headin’?”

  “Sort of lookin’ after that hombre up ahead. Right curious about his friends.”

  “Meanin’ us?”

  Johnny examined them thoughtfully. “Nope. Don’t reckon any of you was ever friendly to anybody unless you was paid for it. This here looks like a renegade outfit if ever I saw one.”

  “You talk mighty free, stranger.”

  “Folks have said that afore, haven’t they, Mesquite?” Johnny watched the Coyote Kid. “You know, that hombre on the bench could get hisself shot mighty easy, playin’ around with that rifle like he is.”

  “Who would shoot him?” Dave Hardy demanded. He wanted to get on with it now it had started.

  “Why, most anybody who didn’t like to have a gun pointed at him.”

  Johnny reined his sorrel away and although he could not immediately shift the rifle, he left the Kid without a target.

  “I figger you hombres better drift. Yore on Circle J range.”

  “We got a right to be.”

  Dave Hardy was wondering. He had heard of the Double Y. It was a tough outfit.

  “Jordan give you the right?” Johnny asked.

  “Jordan?” Hardy laughed harshly. “Why, that ol’ fool ain’t got no say about anythin’! He’s through!”

  “Not the way we see it.”

  Johnny let his horse take three steps forward, which placed him right between the Coyote Kid and Oklahoma Tom. Both could fire on him, but every shot would be an equal danger for the man beyond.

  Mesquite was standing free of his horse now, his hands at his sides. Both of the former Double Y hands knew what sort of position they were in and what to do about it. Mesquite, a lone wolf until recently, found his heart warming anew to Johnny Nelson, whom he had learned to like next-best to Hopalong himself.

  Mesquite was a fighter, and he knew little else, and Johnny’s generalship in getting between the other two amused him. He knew just what it could mean in such a fight. Each of the gunmen would have to exercise very great care to keep from shooting his partner, and that instant of deliberation would be all Johnny would need. Mesquite chuckled, and the Hardy boys looked at him suspiciously.

  “Looks like you are fixin’ to go someplace,” Mesquite suggested. “Get your orders from Soper?”

  “Don’t know him.” Dave Hardy was nervous. He didn’t like Johnny’s position at all, for in addition to putting himself between the two on the bench and at the corral, his position flanked their own. “Who’s he?”

  “The hombre who left his horse right there”—Mesquite Jenkins pointed at the spot where the tracks were plainly visible—“while he went inside to talk. He spent some little time too.”

  “Smart feller, aren’t you?” Dave replied, unable to find the exact words to start trouble and no longer sure how much he wanted it. “You huntin’ trouble?”

  “Uh-huh.” Mesquite took another step forward and paused. “You got any? Whether you have or not, I’m suggestin’ you give an account of yourselves or drift.”

  The Coyote Kid was getting nervous, and Oklahoma Tom, full of fight, was tired of talking. He stepped clear of his corral corner and yelled at the Hardys. “What’s the matter? We want to kill ’em, don’t we? Then have at it!”

  His own gun swung up, and Johnny’s draw was a flashing, instant thing. In that moment the still, wintry peace of the snow-covered canyon was shattered by crashing guns. A thunder of shots, a pause, and then another shot, and then a final one.

  Mesquite had drawn the instant the Hardys moved, and both guns came up spouting lead. Utterly cold, he was one of those men, like Billy the Kid, who have no nerves when under fire. He took a step forward, and as his guns bellowed he saw Jim Hardy back up and sit down suddenly, then grab his stomach and roll over in the snow, moaning and whining.

  Dave Hardy had taken the first shot and it had been a near miss, hitting Johnny on the gun belt near the right hip and spinning him half around and off balance. Not only off balance, but out of the shooting for the split second it took Mesquite to get a bullet into Jim.

  As Dave started to swing back, Mesquite nailed him with his second shot, and then walked in, hammering lead into both falling men.

  Johnny’s first shot had clipped splinters from the corral corner, and the second hit Oklahoma Tom in the chest. The bullet smashed through his lung and nicked a rib, staggering Tom, who stood flat-footed and got off a shot that killed Johnny’s sorrel but saved his life, for as Johnny sprang clear of the falling horse, rifle bullets roared past his ears from the bench where the Kid sat.

  Johnny sprang around, planting his foot as he completed the turn and slip-shot three fast ones at the Kid. The Coyote Kid felt one bullet go past his face, and he lost his enthusiasm for murder. Leaping to his feet, he sprang toward the end of the house, and as he rounded the corner he whirled and caught Johnny’s bullet in his throat. The shooting was over as suddenly as it began. Mesquite had a bullet-burned shoulder and Johnny a dead horse.

  The two Hardys lay within inches of each other, both sprawled out and dead. Oklahoma Tom sat against the corral fence coughing blood and dying slowly, while the Coyote Kid was already dead, his rifle lying on the ground a few feet away. Both Mesquite and Johnny walked toward Tom.

  Blood trickled over his chin, and he stared at them gloomily. “Never figgered on this,” he said, “but I guess I had it comin’.” He coughed and spat blood, and his lips fumbled for words. “Wished I knew somebody to tell good-bye, but I reckon there ain’t anybody, ’less it’s Mabel up at Horse Springs. If you see her, give her my watch, will you? She was—she was—good scout.”

  “Sure,” Johnny said. “I’ll make it a point.”

  Oklahoma Tom’s eyes glazed, then sharpened. “No—no hard feelin’s?”

  “No,” Johnny said. “All in the game.”

  “Yeah.”

  Oklahoma Tom looked puzzled.

  “I guess I throwed a loop over the wrong life somewheres back down the line.”

  He coughed again, and then coughed harder, and died coughing, with his head against the poles of the corral.

  * * *

  Arnold Soper did not get to Horse Springs. For some reason he was worried, and he disliked to think of what might be happening at the Circle J. His curiosity and nee
d for knowledge were so great that he turned around at Coyote Tanks and started back, heading through Turkey Springs Canyon once more. Thus it was that he missed Mesquite and Johnny by minutes but walked right into the shambles they had left behind.

  One look was enough to start him retching, and he turned away. Yet after a few minutes he straightened up with a start and a sudden sinking feeling. His ace in the hole was gone. These four men on whom he had expended so much, and upon whom he had depended so much, were gone. What would he do now?

  Swiftly he surveyed the field of possibilities. He himself had no stomach for shooting. He could shoot and was a good shot, but the risk was something he did not wish to consider. Bizco and Barker were dead, and when all was said and done, only two men remained who might be able to help him, and of those two he was not at all certain, and with neither of them had he been friendly. They were Anse Mowry and Johnny Rebb.

  Rebb was fairly close to Sparr, he knew. On the other hand, it was Soper’s belief that all men had a price, and in this Johnny Rebb was included. He decided at once that Johnny Rebb was the man he must see. And where Rebb was he did not know, but he must surely be en route to the ranch. Arnold Soper, disgusted and more worried than he would have cared to admit even to himself, mounted his horse and started back over the trail to the Circle J. Three times in the ensuing hour he drew up, and three times he had almost decided to leave, to run out, to get away, but three times he shook his head and continued.

  It was dark when he paused for the fourth time. There was sense in this. Already there had been too much killing. The chance of a quiet steal was gone, and there would surely be many questions asked now. It would be better to throw in his cards and leave. There was nothing belonging to him at the ranch that was really important. It was silly to go back there, actually. Sparr must be back by now, and somehow Soper felt a foreboding about meeting the big gunman. No, he would go back to Horse Springs, ride outside of town, and catch the first stage west.

  He had turned his horse to start back to town when he remembered the watch. It was a keepsake, the sort of thing a person carries around with him for years. It had been given to him for writing an essay on the causes of the War of the Revolution when he was fourteen years old, and although it was not a good watch, he had kept it for a long time. He hesitated, then turned back. Upon such decisions do men’s lives rest, for in turning back to get the useless watch he was turning back to his death.

  * * *

  Along the length and the breadth of the Gila River country there was a sort of hushed waiting. Even in areas of the upper river, where nothing was known of events around the Circle J, vague rumors were being bandied about. The Eagle Saloon in Alma was closed. There had been killings in Horse Springs and on the T Bar. Armed men were riding the country, and it was rumored that a cattle war was in the making.

  Yet all through the upper Gila country people were aware that a change was taking place. Mesquite Jenkins and Johnny Nelson had come into Horse Springs only a few hours behind Hank Lydon, and Hank had told his story well. The appearance of the two and the death of Tony Cuyas were now the latest topics of conversation, also the Circle J’s brief but bitter battle with the Apaches in the high basin country. And in Horse Springs the disgruntled rustler who had left his treasured .45 on the floor of the Eagle was talking.

  “Yeah,” he said bitterly, “it was Cassidy all right. Dead? That hombre ain’t anywhere close to bein’ dead! He’s the livest corpse I ever did see, an’ b’lieve me I’ve seen a few! He closed the Eagle up tighter’n a drum. Yeah, left the country. Chet just took right out. Said he knowed Cassidy from away back.” He shook his head and turned to listen to a query.

  “Uh-huh,” he said, “the two on Silver Crick got it. They went up to that miner’s cabin, an’ they was holed up there when Cassidy come in on ’em. They tried to make a scrap of it. They hadn’t no luck. Both of ’em drawed black deuces in that game.”

  Teilhet slowly got up from his heavy chair and walked along the bar to where Mark Connor was wiping a glass. “You better slope, Mark. Stage will be in purty soon, an’ you better get your duffel an’ hit the road.”

  “Me?” Connor was shocked. “You firin’ me?”

  “If you like.” Teilhet shook his head. “You been a good man, Mark, saved me lots of headaches, but if you stay, you will be a bigger one. I’m too old a man to close up an’ start somewheres else, an’ I know what Cassidy an’ his crowd are like when they start to unwind.

  “You heard him”—the old man gestured toward the rustler—that is the way Cassidy works. I never figgered Sparr would get him.”

  “An’ if he does?” Connor demanded harshly.

  “Come back an’ go to work. I’ve nothin’ against you, but this were place is all I got. I can’t afford to lose her. You better take my advice an’ slope.”

  “I got money comin’ from Sparr.”

  “Forget it. It ain’t worth stayin’ for. I’ll pay you what you got comin’ here. The stage is due in just a few minutes. Don’t miss it.”

  Frightened by the old man’s sincerity, Mark Connor stripped off his apron and headed for the back room where he lived. It would be only a few minutes until the stage arrived—ample time in which to pack. He had scarcely closed the door when Mesquite Jenkins and Johnny Nelson came in through the front. There was blood on Mesquite’s shoulder and it was noticed at once. Leeds saw it first. “Hurt?” he asked.

  Mesquite turned and, recognizing Leeds from his friendly warning, replied, “Burn. Had us a battle.”

  Sensing the curiosity of the crowd, he added, “Four hombres in Turkey Crick Canyon. Two of ’em the Hardy brothers.”

  “All dead?”

  “We’re here, ain’t we? They started it.” Then Johnny added, “Figger they had a deal with Soper. He visited ’em before we got there. They had a list of fellers to kill an’ we were on it. They started right then. It was a bad start.”

  Teilhet leaned his big hands on the bar. He felt very old now, and wished he had closed the place early. Luckily, Mark was ready to leave. He would not be getting out of town too soon. Too much killing. Maybe he was getting soft in his old age. He had known the Hardy boys—tough lads they were too. But not tough enough for these two, and Cassidy was somewhere around, probably heading this way now. If he made up his mind to it, he might burn the Old Corral over their heads. He was right sudden, that Cassidy, and had a way of making things stick.

  * * *

  West of the Jerky Mountains, Avery Sparr and his weary riders were on the last leg of their homeward trek. Sparr was in the lead, as yet unaware of how badly all his plans had failed and how they were folding up around him. It was getting late, and as he rode he turned over in his mind the various angles. He felt a vague sense of defeat, for he had wanted to get his hands on Cassidy and had wanted to keep the Jordans a little longer. In fact, he had never made up his mind to killing that girl. She was something, when you thought about it. But women had a way of making trouble for a man.

  Ed Framson pulled up alongside him. Framson was a hard case and one of the few whom Sparr trusted implicitly. That was partly because Framson was in every sense a reliable man. Rustler he might be, but his word was good, and he was loyal. He was also tough.

  “Never could figger why you let Soper register his brand,” he began suddenly. “That puzzles me some, although I ain’t long on figgerin’.”

  Avery Sparr’s head came around sharply. “What? Soper’s brand?”

  “Uh-huh. The Circle S.”

  “That’s my brand, not Soper’s. He registered it for me.”

  “Reckon he lied, Avery. I seen the books. Soper registered that brand in his own name.”

  Avery Sparr’s gimlet eyes went cold and ugly. He had been wrong to trust that smooth-faced rat! He should have guessed there was no good in the man, but Goff had spoken well of him, and Goff was a good solid fellow. Or was he? Maybe the two were working together! “Thanks, Ed,” he said quietly. “I reckon I’ll
have to start cleanin’ out the skunks in this outfit.”

  “There’s a few need it.” Framson was quiet. “Soper, he’s the worst. I figgered it was somethin’ you planned yourself. Never figgered he would take a chance on crossin’ you. He’s right keerful o’ that hide of his’n.”

  They rode for some distance without speaking, and then they saw a rider approaching. It was Sim Thatcher.

  Sparr’s innate viciousness rushed to the fore. “Why, there’s that T Bar coyote now!” he said. “I reckon this is as good a time as any!”

  Thatcher drew up, facing the tight group of riders, his face white. “You had better save that,” he advised, seeing Sparr’s hand on his gun. “You’ll need it!”

  “What’s that?” Sparr’s hard face chilled. “What you mean?”

  Sim Thatcher was smiling. “Your show blowed up, Sparr. Tony Cuyas tried to throw a gun on those two partners of Hopalong an’ got killed. Hank Lydon lit out of the country. There’s four dead men in Turkey Springs Canyon that were friends of Soper. Hopalong made it over the mountain safe with the Jordans, an’ then he closed the Eagle an’ run that whole outfit out of the country. They are scatterin’ like rats ahead of a bull snake!”

  “You’re lyin’!” Sparr’s face was a mask of fury.

  “No, I ain’t. Hoppy killed two of your men on the Silver. He’s headed back this way, gunnin’ for you. The Jordans are safe in Alma.”

  Avery Sparr stared bitterly at his big hands. So this was the end! Well, one thing remained. He would kill Soper, and then he would round up all the cattle in sight and drive them over the border. Maybe he was only a cow rustler, anyway!

  Yes, there was one other thing he could do. He could kill Hopalong Cassidy, the cause of all his trouble. Yes, that was just what he would do. And he would do it tomorrow.