She looked from one to the other. “Men are so dense!” she flared suddenly. “Why should you think Jack Bolt a rustler?”
Bolt was nearing them, and suddenly he realized who the man with Sue and Red Connors must be. He stopped only an instant. Then, his face a shade whiter, he walked toward them, smiling. Hopalong could see the sudden wariness in the rancher’s eyes.
“Well, this is a surprise,” Bolt said. “You must be Cassidy. We heard you’d been killed. Glad to see you’re back and feeling all right.”
Hopalong smiled. “Thanks, Mr. Bolt. I appreciate that. Mind telling me where you heard it?”
Bolt hesitated, seeing the trap. With careful fingers he drew out a small black cigar. “I can’t”—his brow puckered thoughtfully—“recall. Everybody has been talking about it. I doubt,” he added, “whether anybody actually knew anything. They probably surmised from your long absence that something had happened.”
“Heard you had a fight yourself,” Connors suggested.
“I?” Bolt waited, feeling his stomach tighten. “When was this?”
“With Pod Griffin. Heard you killed him.”
Bolt hesitated. So one of his own men had talked? His eyes darkened, but he shrugged. “Oh, that? Yes, we had a fight. Something gave him an idea he was fast. I think”—he was growing more confident—“I think he must have been the one who shot at you, Cassidy. I think he thought he had killed you, and the idea gave him an exalted opinion of his ability. He forced a fight on me, and I killed him.”
This was news to Sue Gibson. She looked again at Bolt. He had killed a man only a few hours before and had to be reminded of the fact. Could Cassidy be right? Was he a rustler? Her father disliked him; Frank disliked him. She shivered slightly, listening to their voices.
“If you remember who told you I was shot,” Hopalong replied casually, “let me know. Only two people could know that. Myself and the man who shot me. I haven’t told anybody until this conversation began with Sue. Wherever your story started, it started with the man who shot me.”
“Then it must have been Griffin,” Bolt replied shortly. “You don’t suspect me, do you?”
“I don’t suspect anything,” Hopalong said, but the tone of his voice and that slight underlining of the word suspect worried Bolt. What did they know? What could they know?
Abel Garson was not far away, trying to signal him. Bolt nodded, then said, “Well, I’ve got to get around a little. See you. Adios, Sue.”
Garson had turned away and walked toward his horse, which was tied at the corral. Bolt paused, lighted his cigar, which had gone out, and then started casually toward his own horse. Garson was tightening his cinch.
“Cassidy’s up to somethin’,” Garson said. “When they rode in they went right to the station. Don’t know what they did, but I figure they sent a wire.”
Jack Bolt absorbed that, his mind working coolly. He stood there in the dust with the smell of the horse’s sweaty flanks in his nostrils. What could they have discovered, and where had the wires gone? He considered going to the station, then dismissed that as unlikely of success; yet see those messages he must. His whole future might well hang upon them.
He was leaving his horse when he saw a man loafing in the shadows in back of the livery stable. The man motioned, and Bolt walked over to him. Manuel Aragon’s eyes glittered.
“We lose thees cows, sí?” Aragon shrugged. “Well, another time, maybe.”
“Where’s Sim?”
“They come soon. Seem ver’ angree.” Manuel spat. “Thees Cassidy—I would not want to be heem.”
Bolt considered the situation and considered Manuel. He was the half-brother of Pete and Sim and had spent most of his life in Mexico. He was an able, deadly fighter, although he lacked Sim’s gun skill. But no plan came to him. His head felt thick and for the first time he was genuinely worried. Before there had always seemed so many chances of victory, so few of failure. Now Hopalong Cassidy was in town, some of Sim’s men had been taken prisoner, and their big drive had fizzled out to nothing.
His mind would not clear. The things that usually came so easily to his conniving brain now failed him. He had no plan, no idea of what to do. The feeling of disaster in the atmosphere increased and Jack Bolt felt as if the weather itself was expressing his feelings of doom. The air was sultry, heavy with heat, its usual dryness gone. The sky was vast and brassy, with no distinguishable features.
If he could get access to the telegraph station and check the messages …
He turned away, tossing a “See you later!” over his shoulder at Manuel. It would be a good idea to leave town, yet he hated to be away, for fear something would develop that he needed to know. Instead of going to the hills and awaiting darkness and a chance to force a way into the telegraph office, he would stay right here in town.
Crossing the street, he entered the saloon. Dru Monaghan was at the bar with Joe Gamble. Neither of them turned his head or appeared to notice Bolt. Walking to a table in the rear, Bolt picked up a greasy deck of cards and began thumbing through them, laying out a game of solitaire.
Common sense, as well as a certain inner and deep-laid panic, warned him to run, to grab a horse and go, to get as far away from this country as possible. His little world was falling about his ears, and all because of two men. One, actually; for without the arrival of Hopalong Cassidy, Red Connors would now be dead and forgotten. One man.
He threw down the cards and got up in disgust and walked to the bar. “Rye!” he snapped, slapping his hand flat upon the bar. He was suddenly filled with ugly rage. “Rye, damn it!”
The bartender complied, avoiding his eyes. Jack Bolt downed the drink and took another, then turned and slammed through the twin doors. Joe Gamble looked after him.
“Mad,” he said shortly. “What’s he got to be mad about?”
“He’ll have plenty if we get the deadwood on him,” Monaghan said. “If I knew for sure that he was the rustler, I’d—”
“You’d better get ready, then. He’s our man.” Gamble looked at his own drink. “Hoppy sent a wire off somewhere, and unless I’m much mistaken, when he gets an answer things are going to pop. Red Connors did some prospectin’ out there, and I figure he got the proof, or something anyway. Those two hombres could trail a snake through a thick fog, believe me.”
Jack Bolt stood on the boardwalk in the sunlight. He stared one way and then another. All eyes avoided him. More than anything else this told him his stack of chips had run out and he was down to the boards. He spat viciously and stared fiercely at a man sitting on the boardwalk. He felt like kicking the man, like striking him, killing him. And he did not even know him.
Striding down the walk, his boot steps rang hard on the boards, but no head turned. It was like being dead, as if he moved through a world where he could not be seen. Already the story had gone the rounds. And people believed him a rustler. All right! Let them believe it! He’d show them! Cassidy had been the cause of his misfortunes, so Cassidy would die!
Griffin! Why, that poor, egotistical fool! To believe he could kill a man like Hopalong! To kill such a man you had to plan carefully or take a great chance. You could never do it in the haphazard way Pod Griffin had tried it. Nor could you do it from too great a distance.
Jack Bolt stopped suddenly, his eyes straying up and down the street, his brain suddenly sharp with calculation. That upstairs window over the bank—it had been an office, but the lawyer had left town. It was empty now. A man up there with a rifle … He nodded to himself. That was it.
But why take a chance on just one man? A man there with a rifle, but another up the street in the loft of the livery stable. Another on the bluff over the town. Swiftly he chose his positions and considered the situation. It was all or nothing now. He would have to hit hard and suddenly. He must kill so completely and wipe out his enemies so well that never again would a hand be lifted against him in this town.
Suppose—just suppose he could get Connors, Cassidy, Monag
han, and Gamble all at once? Then ride on to the 3TL and take care of Gibson and Gillespie? Suppose he could catch them in the street, down them quickly? Suppose a message was delivered to them by some stranger, somebody who would call them all together in plain view of his unseen marksmen? A volley of shots—and then he could appear and be all sorrow and sadness.
Sim Aragon would soon be in town, and with him would be Pete and some of the boys. It would be enough. Once the leaders were dead, the others could suspect all they wanted to! Let them suspect; it would put fear in them, destroy their ability to organize against him.
Passing Manuel on the street, he whispered, “At the bar down by the creek, in two hours. Get Sim.”
Chapter 19
HOPPY GROWS SUSPICIOUS
Hopalong Cassidy walked into the restaurant and sat down. Red Connors strolled after him and seated himself nearby, where he could keep an eye on the back door to the kitchen. Whatever was going to happen would happen tonight. And if Jack Bolt suspected they were pinning this on him, he would be sure to start something.
Hopalong stretched his legs under the table and reached for the egg- and coffee-stained menu, which was written on the back of an old show-card advertising East Lynne. His eyes looked over it at the street. Bolt was standing on a corner as if deep in thought.
Dru Monaghan came in—a tall, grim-looking man, neat in cattleman’s clothes, looking every inch the rancher. He nodded at Hopalong and dropped into a chair. Joe Gamble joined him, and the four men were silent.
“Grub’s good here,” Red said finally. “Be a relief to get away from my own cookin’.”
“Your cooking?” Hopalong chuckled. “Joe did all the cooking. You couldn’t boil the hide off a steer!”
“Huh! You talk about your own cookin’, not mine.” Red eyed the back door suspiciously. Bolt was a little too obvious out there on the corner.
“How long will it take to hear from that sheriff?” Monaghan wanted to know.
Hopalong shrugged. “Maybe a few hours, maybe a few days. It’s hard to tell. The message doesn’t go straight through. It has to be re-sent a couple of times. There may be delays.”
“Hope Bolt won’t leave town.”
“He won’t.”
Jack Bolt waited in the shade of a store awning and watched the street. A buckboard drawn by a pair of half-broken mustangs clattered and rattled down the street, and then a heavy freighter’s wagon, drawn by a long string of mules. A barefooted boy walked by with a stick in his hand and a nondescript dog at his side. After a while Grat and Bones turned the corner near the livery stable and started toward him. Again his eyes surveyed the street. Slim was down at the Picket Pin, a small bar just around the corner and off the one street of the town.
The Picket Pin had long been a hangout for his boys. It faced the creek and a row of huge old cottonwoods. Beyond the creek, which was shallow, gravel-bottomed, and only about six feet wide, was a corral where several of the townspeople held their saddle horses. Probably the Breed was down there, too. A showdown was coming, and they all knew it.
Grat swung down from his horse, a big, rough-dressed man, hard-bitten and tough. He had acquired new respect for his boss since the killing of Pod Griffin. How fast Griffin had been, Grat did not know, although he had always talked a good fight—but one thing he did understand and no mistake about it. The boss was much, much faster.
“What’s up, boss?” he asked. “Anything doin’?”
“There will be.” Bolt looked up at him, then over at Bones. “See Slim and the Breed and tell them to stay close to the Picket Pin. Cassidy’s in town.”
Grat’s mouth opened to speak, then closed. Cassidy was not dead. Pod had been mistaken. Grat’s jaw set hard. That silly fool! Couldn’t he do anything right? Grat turned impatiently and strode down the street, and after a moment’s hesitation Bones followed.
Hopalong Cassidy alive! Grat did not like it. He liked no part of it. And Red Connors, too. He recalled his own conversation with Cassidy on the trail when they were chasing Red. He had warned Cassidy then of what he would do if he saw him around again. Did Hopalong recall that warning? Grat hoped not. He was a fighter, but he wanted no shootouts with a man of that caliber. Life was short enough, and if by some miracle he should beat Hopalong, like as not he would only be downed by some half-smart kid with a desire for a reputation. Like Pod Griffin.
Grat’s cigarette suddenly tasted bad, and he hurled it into the dust. Then he turned the corner and pushed into the Picket Pin. The interior was cool and dark. Slim sat at a table playing cards with Manuel Aragon and two other men, both Aragon riders. The Breed stood at the bar, drinking. Grat walked up beside him. “Go easy on that stuff,” he warned. “Bolt won’t like it.”
The Breed turned his yellowish eyes on Grat. He smiled, and his teeth were even and white. He had beautiful teeth, but there was nothing else beautiful about him. His boots were down at the heel and long unpolished. His trousers were stained and soiled. A stubble of hairs grew on his chin and upper lip—thick hairs that he shaved once every few weeks. Grat could see that telling the Breed to stop now would be a waste of time. Grat called for a drink and felt Bones take his place alongside him. Suddenly Grat was impatient with Bones. The man was his shadow. He was never without him, he—
“Grat!”
He turned to see that Bolt had come into the room and was motioning to him. Grat tossed off his drink and crossed to the table. Then Bolt called to Bones and the Breed. Manuel Aragon moved over, and Sim suddenly walked into the room from the rear. One of the men with Manuel got up from the table and walked to the door, where he sat down on a bench from which he could see anyone who approached.
A half hour later, when Grat left the Picket Pin, it was to walk toward the livery barn. He went up the street first and mounted his horse, riding it to a place in the shade of the stable, where he could reach it easily. Careful that he was not seen, Grat slipped his rifle from the scabbard and, entering the livery stable, climbed to the loft. Once there, he bellied down in the hay to the left of the wide second-floor door, through which hay was thrown into the loft. From this point he could cover all the far side of the street and most of the street itself. He jacked a shell into the chamber. The payoff was coming, and he was relieved. He hoped it would not be long. His mouth was already dry.
In the deserted office above the bank Manuel Aragon placed his rifle carefully beside the window. Grat was in the stable, and what Grat could not see of the street Manuel could. In another window of the same office was Slim, with a Spencer 56.
Bones plodded up behind the building and walked to the back of the hardware store. He left his horse there in the mouth of the draw that opened to the hills beyond. He had the best getaway of them all, the very best. But he would have to take his place behind some rubbish at the rear of the store.
From there he could prevent anyone taking shelter in the space between the saloon and the hardware store and could see a part of the street. Other men were carefully disposed about town so that no getaway would be possible. Caught by fire in the middle of the street, their instinctive action would be a jump for shelter in a gap between buildings. And now a rifleman covered each gap, ready for just such a move.
Jack Bolt considered his situation and the dispersal of his men. Four rifles would cover the group in the street, and they would open fire simultaneously. If their guns did not get the men they sought, some of the other ambushing riflemen would. And with that lot out of the way the countryside would be in the hands of Bolt and the Aragons. The few remaining, like Gibson, could be taken care of very easily.
Suddenly Bolt’s spirits rose. This was a time when Hopalong could not get away. He was closed in from every approach, as were the others. For Hopalong alone was not enough now. This had to be sudden, terrifying, and complete. Hopalong Cassidy, Red Connors, Joe Gamble, and Dru Monaghan were the four marked for murder.
Jack Bolt walked slowly down the street toward the saloon. There was no sense wait
ing. He would get this started now. And if any of them should try to get back into the saloon he would, if necessary, take care of them himself. The messenger should arrive within the half hour, and that would be the end. He stepped into the saloon and sauntered across to the bar.
Hopalong Cassidy had walked over from the restaurant and was seated at a table with Red Connors. He looked up as Bolt walked in. Instantly he was alert. Every line of the man exuded confidence and readiness. Red’s eyes followed Hopalong’s.
“Now what’s got into him?” Red demanded. “He looks like he’s the cat that’s been eatin’ the canaries.”
Hopalong got to his feet. “Trouble coming—I can smell it. That hombre has got something up his sleeve.”
Dru Monaghan and Joe Gamble looked at the two men curiously. “What is it? What do you think?”
“What would please him most?”
“Most? Why, to see the four of us dead,” Monaghan suggested. “Why?”
“Then we’d better look sharp,” Hopalong replied dryly. “He looks mighty happy to me!”
Chapter 20
COLD-BLOODED KILLING
Despite the tension, night drew near without any break in the ordered calm of the day. Men drifted reluctantly home, and others went to the saloon and stood along the bar, drinking a little, talking, and listening. Rumors were still rife, and it was noticed that neither Hopalong Cassidy nor Red Connors showed any evidence of leaving town. Moreover, about dusk Frank Gillespie rode in and stripped the saddle from his horse. With him was a well-set-up young man with cold gray eyes. He was dressed in almost-new clothes that seemed to have been carefully brushed only minutes before.
“You think Cassidy is dead, then?”
Gillespie shrugged. “All I know is the rumor. You can’t keep a thing like that quiet. Anyway, what I hear now came to me from a 4H cowhand. He heard it from somebody else. This Pod Griffin killed Hopalong and was killed later by his own boss, Jack Bolt.”
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