CHAPTER XVII
HOPALONG'S NIGHT RIDE
Hopalong, passing the bunk-house on his way to the stable, paused tolisten. Through the open window Pickles' voice had reached him quiteclearly: "I don't guess I 'll ever get him, Whit, but if I do, it 'll befor keeps, you betcher."
Hopalong was interested. The death of Gottleib Gerken was an old storyand so many things of pressing moment having occurred about the time ofHopalong's arrival, he had not been told of this. The finality ofdecision in Pickles' murderous intention was so evident that Hopalongwondered how the boy came to conceive so deadly a hatred. He stepped tothe window and stood looking at the two figures within. They neithersaw nor heard him.
Both were deep in thought. Whitby's inherent regard for due process oflaw had received numerous shocks since he left Chicago. Like manyanother square man finding his niche in a raw country, he was beginningto see that right must be enforced by might, until such time as wrongbecame subdued by the steady march of the older civilization. And thisface-about in opinion is not accomplished in a day, even when on thespot and a personal sufferer. It was this new feeling that led him tolisten with respect to Pickles' confidences, boy though he was. Boysimbibed men's ideas early in this country; too early, thought Whitby,recalling his own play-time at this lad's age. He stole a look at theglum face beside him and began to draw circles with the point of theswitch he held in his hand--he was never without one. "It's a pity," hesaid, "a pity."
"What's a pity?" asked Pickles, a note of indignation in his voice atthe implied suggestion.
Whitby ignored the tone. "It's a pity you never heard of the Witch'sSpell," he explained, reminiscently.
"What's that?"
"But then, of course," reasoned Whitby, "if you can't find a Witch'sRing, you can't work the Spell; and I rather fancy there is n't aWitch's Ring in all the world outside of Yorkshire."
"What's it like?" demanded Pickles, with the practical insistence ofYoung America.
"Why, the Old Witch makes it, you know. She runs around in a ring andblows on the grass and it never grows any more. Inside the Ring andoutside, the grass is just the same, but the Ring is always bare."
Pickles was silent. He was picturing to himself the process of the Ringin the making. So was Hopalong. It seemed very matter-of-fact as Whitbytold it; still, there was something--
"What's she do that for?" asked Pickles--the very question Hopalong wasasking himself.
"It's the bad fairies, you know, and Wizards, and that sort of thing;she 's afraid of them. But they can't pass the Ring, no matter how deepthey dig, so the Witch is quite safe, you know. They 're a bad lot,those others, no end. But the Old Witch is quite a decent sort. Shelives inside the Ring, under the ground, and that's where you go to getyour wish."
Pickles pondered. His eyes began to glow. "Any wish?" he questioned,in subdued excitement.
"All sorts," declared Whitby. "There was Jimmie Pickering: he alwaysgot his wish; he told me so, himself; and Arthur Cooper: he wished to bea minister and he got his wish; and George Hick: he wished to see theworld and he 's always travelling up and down the earth; and AllenRamsey, who wished to be an athlete, strong, you know: he got his wish;then there was Maggie Sheffield, who wished to marry a soldier: shemarried a soldier; and Vi Glades, who wished to be a singer: she cansing tears into your heart, lad, so sweet you 're glad to have themthere; so she got her wish. And ever so many more: they all got theirwishes. She was a rare good one, that Witch."
"Did you get yore wish, Whit?"
"I could only count to seven," explained Whitby.
Pickles' lips moved silently. "How many do you have to count?" heasked, dubiously.
"Nine," said Whitby, with a regretful sigh. "You run around the Ringnine times, holding your breath and saying your wish to yourself overand over again. Then you run into the middle and lie down. You must n'tbreathe until you lie down. When you put your ear to the ground you canhear the Old Witch churning out your wish. 'Ka-Chug! Ka-Chug!Ka-Chug!' goes the churn, away down in the earth. Then you know youwill get your wish."
Pickles straightened up and looked fixedly at Whitby. His voice wasvery solemn: "Whit, I take my oath there's a Witch's Ring right here onthe range!"
"Nonsense!"
"Hope I may die! I 'll show you, to-morrow. An' I 'm a-goin' towish--"
"I say! You must n't tell your wish, you know. That breaks the Spell.If ever you tell your wish, it does n't come true."
"Jiggers!--I won't tell. Nine times 'round the Ring an' hol' yorebreath an' say yore wish fast an' then to th' middle--"
Hopalong lost the rest as he continued on his way to the stable.Pickles' Ring puzzled him only for a moment, for as he turned away fromthe window, he was chuckling. "Means some place where th' Injuns usedto war-dance, I reckon," was his conclusion. "But that Britisher seemslike he believed it himself."
Two minutes later and he was in the saddle and riding south, edging overtoward Big Moose trail. He melted into the surrounding darkness like ashadow, silence having been the evident aim of his unusual preparationsearlier in the evening. Not a leather creaked; an impatient toss of hispony's head betrayed no clink of metal on teeth; the velvety padding ofthe hoofs made as little noise as the passing of one of the larger cats,in a hurry. Hopalong meant to quarter the section of range allotted himlike a restless ghost and, if the others did as well, he had a strongconviction that night-deviltry would lose its attractions in thisparticular part of the country.
It was not long before he began to test his memory. To a man of hisexperience this guard duty would have presented but little difficulty inany case, but Hopalong had been careful to make a very complete mentalmap of this section when riding it by daylight. He went on now like aman in his own house.
He turned abruptly to the left, heading for the Jill and taking the lowground between two huge buttes. Just short of the Big Moose trail hehalted, listening intently for five minutes, and then, turning westagain, began to quarter the ground like a hound, gradually workingsouth. With the plainsman's certainty of direction his course followeda series of obliques, fairly regular, though he chose the low ground,winding about the buttes, to the top of which he lent a keen scrutiny.He stopped for minutes at a time to listen and then went on again.
It was during one of these pauses that he espied a dark shape at restnot far from him. He eyed it with suspicion. It should be a cow butthere was something not quite normal in its attitude. He rode forwardcautiously, being in no way desirous of disturbing the brute. Circlingit at a walk a similar object loomed up, some little distance from theother. "Calf!" he decided. A few steps nearer and he changed his mind."No, another cow. I don't know as I ever see cattle look like that.'Pears like they was shore enough tuckered out--an' I bet they ain'tdrifted a mile in twenty-four hours." They were very still. There wasno reason why they should not be and yet--the wind being right, hehazarded a few steps nearer.
And then there came to his ears a sound that stiffened him in hissaddle. His pony turned its head and gazed inquiringly into thedarkness. "Injuns!" breathed Hopalong, doubt struggling withconviction. He slipped to earth and ran noiselessly to the nearestrecumbent figure. A single touch told him: it was a dead cow; warm, butunquestionably dead.
With his horse under him once more, Hoppy crept forward. Carefulbefore, his progress now had all the stealth of a stalking tiger. Thereit came again: the unmistakable twang of a bow-string. The pony veeredto the left in response to the pressure of Hoppy's knee, when theresounded a movement to the right and he straightened his course to ridebetween the two. His spirits began to rise with the old-time zest atthe imminence of a fight to the death. Mary, back yonder in the ranchhouse, with her new proud hope, Buck and his anxieties, Tex in hisindefatigable hunt for evidence, the far-distant Bar-20 with its dutiesand its band of loyal friends, all were forgotten in the completeabsorption of the coming duel. Indians! Rebe
llious and treacherouspunchers were foemen to beware of, but these red wolves, savage from thecurb of the reservation and hungry with a blood lust long denied--a grinof pure delight spread over his features as he foresaw the instanttransformation from cattle-killing thieves to strategic assassins at thefirst crack of his Colt.
The odds could not be great and he expected to reduce them at theopening of hostilities. Warily he glanced about him as he moved slowlyforward, casting, at the last, a searching look off to the right. Hesaw that which brought him up standing, his breath caught in hisdistended lungs; it escaped in a long sigh of pleased wonder: "GreatLand of Freedom! Please look at that," he pleaded to his unresponsivecountry.
Broadside on, head up and facing him with ears pricked forward, alertyet waiting, stood a horse that filled Hopalong's soul with the sin ofcovetousness. So near that the obscurity failed to hide a line, thepowerful quarters and grand forehand betrayed to Hopalong's discerningeyes a latent force a little superior to the best he had ever looked on."An' a' Injun's!" sighed Hoppy, in measureless disgust. "But not if Isees th' Injun," he added hopefully. Wishing that he might, his thoughtback-somersaulted to Pickles and Whitby and the Witch's Spell. Awhimsical smile wrinkled the corners of his mouth and at this verymoment the thing happened.
A nerve-racking screech, the like of which no Indian ever made, liftedthe hair on Hoppy's head, and his pony immediately entered upon a seriesof amazing calisthenics, an enthusiastic rendering no doubt enhanced bythe inch or two of arrow-head in his rump. Hopalong caught one glimpseof a squat, mis-shapen figure that went past him with a rush and let goat it, more from habit than with the expectation of hitting. When he hadsubdued his horse to the exercise of some little equine sense, therapidly decreasing sound of the fleeing marauder told him that only onehad been at work and with grim hopelessness he set after him. "Might aswell try to catch a comet," he growled, sinking his spurs into thepony's side and momentarily distracting its attention from the bitinganguish of the lengthier spur behind.
The pony was running less silently than when he left the ranch.Portions of unaccustomed equipment, loosened in his mad flurry, weredropping from him at every jump. This, and the straining of Hopalong'shearing after the chase, allowed to pass unnoticed the coming up of athird horseman, riding at an angle to intercept the pursuit. The firstintimation of his presence Hopalong received was the whine of a bullet,too close for comfort, and Hopalong was off and behind his pony towelcome the crack of the rifle when it reached him. "Shootin' atrandom, d--n his fool hide!" snorted Hoppy; "an' shootin' good too," heconceded, as a second bullet sped eagerly after the first. Hoppyreleased a bellow of angry protest: "Hey! What 'n h--l do you reckon yo're doin'?"
There was an interval of silence and then a voice from the darkness:"Show a laig, there: who is it?"
"Show you a boot, you locoed bummer! It's Cassidy." He mountedresignedly and waited for the other to ride up. "Could n't 'a' caughthim, nohow," he reflected. "Never see such a horse in my life, never.Hope to th' Lord it don't rain. Be just like it."
The unknown rode up full of apologies. Hopalong cut him short. "Whatd' they call you?" he asked, curtly.
"Slow Jack," was the answer.
Hoppy grunted. "Well, you camp down right here," he ordered, "an' don'tlet nobody blot that sign. I 'm a-goin' to be here at daylight an'foller that screech-owl th' limit. Good-night."
He headed for the ranch house, satisfied that his section of range wouldremain undisturbed during the next few hours, at the least.
* * * * *
"Sweet birds-o'-paradise! Would you--would you oblige me by squintin'at that!"
Straight north, from the few dead carcasses where the trail started itled to the creek bank, east of the ranch house; and like hounds withnose to scent, Hopalong, Buck, and Ned had followed it from the pointwhere Slow Jack had been found doing sentry-go and sent, in profanerelief, to breakfast and sleep. Hoppy was in the lead and as he came tothe creek he raised his eyes to look across at the other bank for signsof the quarry's exit from the water. It was the sign on the north bank,coupled with that on the somewhat higher bank where they stood, that hadmade him exclaim.
Ned Monroe's face cleared of the frowning perplexity that had darkenedit at first sight of the hoof prints they tracked. "Must be astranger," he affirmed. "Dunno th' country or he 'd never jump when hecould ride through."
"Jump!" exclaimed Buck, startled. "Why, of course," he conceded."Hoppy, that's shore one scrumptious jump"; and the dawning admirationgrew to wonder as he mentally measured the distance.
Hoppy nodded his head. "_I_ never see th' horse could do it right now;an' that bird flew over there last night. He was right on it afore heknew an' he did n't stop to remember how deep it was; he just dug in aspur an' lifted him at sight of th' breakin' bubbles: they 'd show purtynigh white last night--an' th' horse, he does n't know how much he hasto jump, so he jumps a good one--a d--n good one, though Ned, here,don't think it so much. Mebby you know a horse as could do it righteasy, eh, Ned?"
With Hopalong's sharp eyes on his face, Ned shook his head in denial,gazing stolidly at the sign. "Too good for any in these parts; wouldn't be no disgrace for a thoroughbred."
Buck glanced quickly at Ned and then, pulling his hat low over his eyes,struck up the brim with two snappy blows of the back of his hand.
"Well, Buck, I reckon I 'll leave you an' Ned to foller this. I got afeelin' I 'm wanted at th' ranch. So long." Hopalong rode off inobedience to one of the signals that had helped to simplify affairsamong the Bar-20 punchers.
Buck had signified his desire for Hoppy's absence. He pushed Allday tothe creek and set off at a lope. "Easy as follerin' a wagon, Ned," heremarked.
"Yep," agreed Ned.
"Stopped here," observed Buck. "Listenin', I reckon. Goin' slower,now."
"Some," replied Ned.
"Right smart jump acrost that creek," said Buck, questioningly.
"Uh-huh!" consented Ned, with non-committal brevity.
They rode a couple of miles before Buck hazarded another remark. "Seemslike I oughta know that hoof," he complained. "Keeps a-lookin' more 'nmore like I knowed it. Durn thing purty nigh talks."
Ned threw him a startled glance and then gazed steadily ahead. "Be atth' Jill in a minute," he announced.
"Yeah. Thought he was driftin' that-away. Lay you ten to two he don't_jump_ th' Jill, Ned."
"Here 's Charley," was the irrelevant response. The Indian was awelcome diversion. Buck slowed to a walk, raised his eyes and wavedCharley an amiable salute. The Cheyenne promptly left the trail androde to join them.
"Hey, Charley, whose horse is that?" asked Buck, pointing to the hoofprints.
The Indian barely glanced at them. "French Rose," he declared. "Crosstrail, swim river before sun. Heap good horse."
"Where goin', Charley--ranch?" asked Buck, evenly. He did not questionthe Cheyenne's conclusions. _He knew_. Buck was satisfied of that.
Charley grinned sheepishly and shifted uneasily under Buck's stare."That's all right," assured Buck, "tell Jake to give you--no, wait forme. I 'll be there as soon as you are." He turned away and Charleyaccepted his dismissal in high good humor, riding off with cheeringvisions of a cupful of the "old man's" whiskey, which was very differentfrom that dispensed over the bar in Twin River.
"Well, Ned," said Buck.
"Well, Buck," returned Ned.
"You knew it was Rose's horse."
"I was a-feared."
"You knew it, you durn ol' grizzly."
"Look a-here, Buck. You ain't goin' to tell me as how Rose--"
"Not by a jugful! That's a flower without a stain, Ned, an' I backs herwith my whole pile."
"Here, too," coincided Ned, in hearty accord.
"We lost th' trail, Ned."
"You bet!"
"In th' Jill."
"Took a boat," suggested Ned, solemnly.
Buck concealed his amus
ement. "Or a balloon," he offered.
"Mebby," assented Ned. "Could n't pick her up agin, nohow."
"Not if we 'd had a dog," declared Buck.
"Or a' Injun," supplemented Ned. They gazed at one another for a secondand, of one mind, spun their horses around and off for the ranch likethoroughbreds at the drop of the flag.
"I just thought o' Charley," explained Buck.
"Here, too," grunted Ned.
"Might talk," said Buck.
"You bet."
Charley heard them coming. When he saw them, the explanation to hisuntutored mind was a race. Determined to be in at the finish, he laidthe quirt to his pony with enthusiastic zeal, casting a rapid glanceover his shoulder, now and then, to see if he were holding his own. Itwas a sight to see the tireless little pony wake up under punishment.He had covered twenty miles that day and over forty the day before, buthe shot forward on his wiry legs like a startled jack-rabbit and inone-two-three order they thundered up to the ranch house with a noisethat brought Mary to the door.
"Well, Buck Peters!" she exclaimed, "ain't you _never_ goin' to grow up?Yo're worse'n that loco husband o' mine, right now."
Buck grinned at the abashed Ned and winked knowingly at Mary. He andMary were very good friends, Buck long ago having gauged her sterlingworth and become aware of her mischievous propensity for teasing. As heled Charley indoors he asked for Hopalong and learned that he had setoff for Twin River soon after his arrival at the ranch house.
* * * * *
Hopalong had taken his cue from Buck without question but not withoutcuriosity. On his way to the house he decided, not without a longingthought in the direction of Red Connors, foreman _pro tem_ of theBar-20, that Tex Ewalt would be all the better for a knowledge of recentevents. Therefore he paused only long enough to inform Mary of hisintention before starting in search of him. At Twin River he pulled upat the Why-Not and went in for a drink. Tex was standing at the bar andten minutes after Hopalong left, Tex had overtaken him on the Waybacktrail. They struck off through the undergrowth until secure fromobservation, and Tex was soon acquainted with the latest attempt atstock reduction.
He listened silently until Hopalong mentioned the kind of man who haddone the killing. "Big Saxe," he exclaimed. "So, that's his game.Well, we got 'em now, Hopalong. I can lay my hands on that cow-killerright soon, an' he 'll squeal, you bet. An' I got a long way to go._Adios_."
"Blamed grasshopper!" grumbled Hopalong. "Never even guessed where thathorse come from. If Big Saxe is on him yet, you shore got a longjourney, Tex."
Buck Peters, Ranchman Page 17
