"You lettin' him go?" Gillespie was incredulous.
"He talked, and I'm lettin' him go. If I ever see him again I'll start shooting on sight. Hear that, you coyote?"
"I hear it." Pod was sullen, still unbelieving of his luck.
"All right, get goin'!"
Pod sprang into the saddle and raced for the trail; then his hand dropped to the rifle scabbard, viciousness mounting within him. "I'll kill that sidewinder!" he growled. His hand struck emptiness. He grabbed again, but his Winchester was gone. Hopalong had quietly slipped it from the scabbard.
Swinging from the trail, Pod slapped the spurs into his
mount. There was still time. He might beat them to the herd and warn Jack Bolt. And when he did he would get a rifle and take care of that Cassidy. Make him talk, would they? All the innate viciousness within him surged to the fore. He had been forced to crawl, made to show that deep streak of yellow that lay within him, and the knowledge of his action brought out all the evil in his nature.
They would see. He was not through. Just wait until he got a gun!
Chapter 6
As the two riders raced for the holding ground Hopalong's thoughts were busy. Actually there was no substantial evidence against Jack Bolt--or the Aragons, for that matter. They were suspected, and Red Connors had found a trail that might have led to something definite, but he had been wounded and the trail lost. Pod had talked, but he was not a man who could be relied upon in any case. What was needed now was to catch them in the act or find some convincing evidence of their crookedness.
Even the trail Red had found did not begin at the 8 Boxed H, but back in the hills, and would not be accepted in any court. It was one thing to know an outfit was rustling, but quite another thing to prove it, and proof would be needed, for Jack Bolt was unsuspected by most of the cattlemen in the area. According to Red and what others he had found time to talk to, Bolt's herds had not been increasing at an unusual rate. Obviously the cattle were being speedily taken out of the country or held somewhere out of sight.
The moon was rising when they crossed the saddle at breakneck speed and drew up in the valley below. The air was
heavy with the smell of dust and of cattle, but there was not an animal in sight. Faintly, Hopalong could see the tracks of the herd moving off to the north. Walking his horse and leaning far over in the saddle to watch the trail, he led off.
After a few minutes he could see that the cattle were headed towards a break in the hills before them, and he slipped his rifle from the scabbard and drew up. "Frank," he asked quietly, "you know this country?"
"Most of it. That country north and west is bone-dry as far's I know. It sure ain't good cow country."
Hoppy nodded. "Bone-dry? Ever hear of High Rock Canyon?"
"Uh-huh, but never been there. That's a long way over west. This outfit's headed north. There's no water either way so far as I know."
"There's water in High Rock," Hopalong said. "Feller told me so some years back. The wagon outfits used to go through that way to Oregon and northern California. There's a few scattered streams over that way, too."
Gillespie agreed as far as the streams were concerned. "But they don't flow all year. You may be right about the High Rock. I dunno."
Hopalong headed along the trail of the missing cattle and took his time. It was true the farther they managed to travel before they were overtaken and recovered, the farther the cattle must be driven to get them back. On the other hand, the farther they went unmolested, the surer they would be of safety, and safety would lull their suspicions, cause them to grow less watchful.
"There's a place up there," Frank Gillespie offered suddenly, "called Agate. She ain't what a feller would call a town, but she's a place. To one side of the road is the hotel and
saloon, to the other side a livery stable with a few old crow-bait cayuses. Feller name of Sourdough runs the livery stable and another, name of Mormon John, runs the saloon.
"Only," Gillespie added, "Mormon John ain't no Mormon. He just talks about Mormon women all the time. Him and Sourdough been fightin' back an' forth for six or seven years. Maybe it's because they ain't nothin' else to do."
"Saloon, eh? Reckon those rustlers will stop there?"
"Might. He's got whiskey there, only it's his own make and mean enough to make a jack rabbit run a grizzly into his hole. Worse than Injun whiskey they used to peddle when I was a kid.
"She's just raw corn whisky that he soups up with a little Jimson weed, but it'll sure get you fightin' and climbin' if you're in a mood for it."
They rode on in silence, each occupied with his thoughts. The moon was floating lower in the sky, and occasionally Hopalong dismounted to study the trail. The cattle tracks were still plain, and he did not like the look of it. There was no sense to this trail. There had to be concealment somewhere. Either that or it was a trap. He said as much and they slowed down, advancing with extreme care. It was useless, for the trail led on into the mountain valleys, occasionally crossing a low saddle, but pushing on and on.
No rustler in his right mind would leave so obvious a trail. Yet this one was being left, and they were free to follow it. That meant one of two things: either a trap up ahead or something unusual in the way of disappearing cattle. Just before moonset the trail petered out.
"No use ridin' now," Hopalong said. "We'll camp here and move on come daybreak."
Morning found them in the saddle once more, but there
was no trail. Swinging wide, one to each side of the dim trail they had followed, they attempted to cut sign, but there was none. The herd they had followed had disappeared without a trace!
There was but one thing to do, Hopalong decided, and that was to turn back until they found the point where the herd had vanished. Seven miles back along the trail they again came upon the tracks of the herd. Yet even here they could not decide at exactly what point the cattle had vanished. Either the herd had dwindled bit by bit into the desert or it had vanished into thin air.
The sand of the desert was not hard-packed and laden with rocks or overgrown with desert brush and cacti; instead it was loose and gray, unbelievably fine for the most part, and in this surface the prints sank and were lost. The slightest shifting wind served to wipe out a track.
Gillespie reined in and stared disgustedly at the desert. "Look there, Hoppy! That's where we rode not over an hour ago, and the tracks are gone! Every durned breeze that can tilt a grass blade starts this sand a-blowin'. That herd walked off into the desert, and from there it might have gone anywhere!"
Hopalong stared through narrowed eyes at the mountains beyond the waste. Probably the cattle had gone over there, but those mountains stretched for seventy or eighty miles to the northward, and there was no telling how far the cattle had been driven. Yet there was a limit, too, and that limit was the distance they would go without dying of thirst.
"You might as well go back, Frank," he said at last. "This will be a mighty long job. You head back to the ranch and tell 'em where I am. Don't tell anybody else. Meanwhile I'll ride on
to this place called Agate. Whether I find the trail or not, I'll be in Agate the day after tomorrow. If there's any news, have somebody meet me there with it. I don't think I'll need any help yet, but they might need it back at the ranch."
Frank Gillespie hesitated and swore. "Durn it all, Hoppy, I wanted to be in on the showdown with them rustlers! I've come this far. Still"--he was disgusted--"as you say, they're gonna need me back there. We're mighty short-handed."
After the cowhand had gone, Hopalong sat his horse and studied the situation. The herd might have gone into that desert all right, and it might have only been walked in it a way and then driven back out on the same side. That would stand investigation before crossing the desert into the rough country beyond.
Speaking to the black, he started along the desert's edge. Whether he found the trail or not, he had every idea that the rustlers, or some of them, might stop at Agate, and there was a chanc
e he might get news of them there. In the meantime he would soon know whether the herd had been driven out of the sand again.
This was very rugged country; the timber of the region to the east here thinned out and most of the mountains were bare except for low brush and desert growth. Yet there was plenty of cover, and farther west there was both water and grass in the remote High Rock Canyon country. No matter who was directing the move, whether Jack Bolt or Sim Aragon, they would have a chance of holding the cattle for months in that rough country without being seen.
The tracks of the herd had not emerged from the desert but when the buildings of Agate were in sight, a lone rider came out of the sand and headed towards the town. Hopalong
slowed down and took his time. The rider might be somebody he had never seen, and somebody who had not seen him. The livery stable would be the first stop, and then the saloon.
The western saloon was always a clearing house for information. It was much more than a drinking establishment, for it was the center of all male social life. Here trail news was repeated, cattle were discussed as were all the varied topics of interest to western men. The saloon was at once a reception room, a social club, and a source of information. Sooner or later all news came to light around a saloon, and if a man had time and patience he could learn much by simply being around and listening. Hopalong knew this and if the strange rider had been one of the rustlers, he was sure he would find out before he had been long in Agate.
The livery stable was a rambling red-painted barn with a high-peaked roof over the center part and almost flat roofs over the two wings. There was an office with two lighted windows beside the big door of the stable, and the door was open. In the rectangle of lantern light a lean, hard-faced oldster sat, smoking a pipe. From what Gillespie had said, Cassidy knew that this was Sourdough. He looked up balefully as Hopalong swung down.
"Got an empty stall? And some corn?"
The old man took his pipe from his teeth. "Corn?" He was incredulous. "You gonna feed corn to that cayuse?"
"That cayuse is a mighty fine horse," Hopalong said calmly, "and any horse I ride gets the best."
The old man pointed with his pipe stem. "Third stall. Corn is in the feed bin. Watch out for that bay--he kicks mighty wicked."
When Hopalong had stripped the saddle from the black he fed it an ample supply of corn, then strolled outside, shoving
back his black wide-brimmed hat. The lamplight gleamed on his snowy hair.
Neither man spoke. The night was very still. Far out over the desert a coyote yapped in a shrill, complaining voice, and across the street at the saloon there was a shout of laughter, then the bang of a bottle on the bar. The night air was cool, and there was a vast spread of stars that looked amazingly bright and near. The livery had the good smells of a horse barn, of stored hay and feed, of horses and sweaty leather. In the distance the serrated ridge of mountains drew a ragged black line.
Darkness had come, and in the shadow of his hat the old man's face could not be seen. Only the glow of his pipe was visible. Beyond him the town's street, which was also the trail, showed white against the darker earth. Two cabins were lighted, but all other buildings loomed dark and sullen except for the saloon.
"Mighty restful," Hopalong suggested, squatting on his heels. "Does a man good to relax once in a while."
Sourdough grunted, drawing on his pipe. It seemed to have gone out, and he struck a match, then sucked to get it going better.
"See many riders through here?" Hopalong asked.
The old man merely grunted again, but made no further reply. Hopalong decided to use strategy. "Of course," he said, "you can't expect much in a place like this. Out of the way, like it is. A man might come through here once a week or ten days. I don't see how you keep alive."
"We do all right."
Encouraged, Hopalong shook his head. "Beats me how you do it. There aren't enough people. I'd bet there ain't five men in that saloon right now. And I'll bet all of them are from right here in town."
Sourdough glared at him through the darkness. "A lot you know!" he scoffed. "There's eight men over there right now, and only three of 'em are from right here!"
"Three?" Hopalong grinned. "You mean to say five strangers are in town at once?"
Sourdough bristled. "I didn't say nothin' about strangers. These here hombres ain't strangers. They just don't live right here in town. Peter Aragon has him a ranch back in the hills somewheres, and two of them fellers ride for him. What the others do I wouldn't say."
Hopalong rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Pete Aragon was one of the men in the saloon, and the others were his friends. The chances were these men were driving the herd and had come to town for a drink or two, after which they would return to the stolen cattle. It was doubtful that more than three men had been left behind as guards.
Jack Bolt had only six men of his own and the Aragon outfit numbered seven all told, which meant thirteen men at least were available. Some of these would be needed on the home ranch and some would be left in the hills to scout for Connors. Eight was probably a good guess at the number with the herd, and five were here in Agate.
Watching the lights of the saloon, he studied the situation with care. He hesitated to enter the saloon, yet knew that some of them had probably heard his horse when he arrived and if he did not come in they would be suspicious.
Sourdough knocked out his pipe, then stoked it with fresh tobacco. Hopalong gave him a sidelong glance, wondering how much he could get out of the old man. He knew the method of obtaining information now at least.
"A long time ago," he said, "I knew a man named Tedrue. He was a good friend to a fellow in my outfit. That Tedrue was
a woodsman and a hunter as well as a rider. He told me about a valley over west of here where there was plenty of grass and water, but from the look of this country he must've been mistaken. I'd say there wasn't a drop of water in miles of that country."
Sourdough took his pipe from his mouth. "And you'd be wrong!" he said flatly. "I knowed that there Tedrue, and he knowed this here country most as well as I do! He was sure a-tellin' of the truth!"
"Aw!" Cassidy protested. "Just look around. Black sand and bare hills. Not a sign of water. I'd bet you'd have to go nearly to the coast before you'd find water."
"Huh!" The old man grunted his disgust. "Sure wouldn't! I could name you fifty water holes, and even some lakes over thataway!" He drew deep and his pipe glowed. Somebody laughed loud in the saloon. The old man pointed towards a distant peak. "There's a water hole at the foot of that peak. The country west of here has plenty of hot springs, too.
"Why, there's one section over there a man has to walk mighty easy or he'll go through. The whole surface of the ground is underlaid by one big hot spring, boilin' water that'll take the hide right off a man if he should fall into it!
"There's water in High Rock all right, and in Little High Rock. Summit Lake is one of the prettiest lakes you ever laid eyes on. A mite farther west is the Massacre Lakes--mostly dry this time of year, though. Injun country, that is, and plenty of Modocs still around. Jesse Applegate went through there, and so did Lassen. There's lost mines, too. Me, I prospected all over that country. Tedrue, he come through there as a boy, and what he told was the truth, believe you me."
Hopalong got to his feet. "Well, I could be wrong," he said, "and it sure is good to find a man that knows the country. I like
to talk to an hombre who knows what he's talkin' about. I reckon I'll have a look around that saloon."
Somewhat mollified by Hopalong's flattery, Sourdough looked up at him. "You be mighty careful in yonder," he said. "Some of that bunch is plumb salty, and Pete Aragon ain't the worst of them!"
Chapter 7
Swift Gunplay.
Slowly Hopalong walked across the street and opened the door of the saloon. At once faces turned towards him. Hard-featured faces of roughly dressed men, and all were armed, several wearing two guns. Head and shoulders above them stood M
ormon John, a huge black-bearded man with thick eyebrows. The gaze of this towering giant met that of Hopalong over the crowd, and Cassidy was sure he saw a glint of sudden interest in the big man's eyes. What the others were thinking Hopalong could not guess. He walked to the bar and slowly looked around the room.
Long and low-ceilinged, it was only a third as wide as its length, and on the side opposite the door was a long bar. Hopalong nodded to Mormon John. "Howdy! I take it you're Mormon John?"
"You got it right, stranger. Somethin' for you?"
"Not right now," Hopalong said. "Just passing by and thought I'd drop in. I was talking to your friend Sourdough."
"My friend?" Mormon John exploded. "That old rawhider? That son of a sheepherder a friend of mine? You heard wrong, stranger, if you heard that."
"That right?" Hopalong looked amazed. "Well, now, what do you know about that? He didn't say anything bad about you, mister."
A heavy-faced man standing nearer to Hopalong than the others stared hard at Cassidy. "Where've I seen you before?" he demanded.
Hopalong looked the man over carefully. The face was unfamiliar, but the type was not. "Why, I don't reckon you have," he said quietly. "I know you don't look like anything I've ever seen before."
Somebody chuckled a little, and the man's face darkened. He straightened a little from the bar. "Too many of you grub-line riders around here," he said. "Why don't you drift north and git clear out of the country?"
Hopalong considered the question gravely. "I like it here," he said at last. "Fact is, I'm figuring on starting my own outfit. I am riding west right now and figure to find a place over in the High Rock country."
The hands holding drinks froze in position. He was looking down at the bar, but sensed all eyes were upon him.
"That there's a bad area." The new speaker was a narrow-faced man with black eyes. There was an ugly scar on his right cheek that looked as if it had been torn by claws. "Good country to stay shut of."
Hopalong shrugged. "Could be, but I like a place without fences and I hear there's both grass and water over there, and land for the taking."
the Riders Of High Rock (1993) Page 5
