It was not enough to find them. Not enough even to have recovered the herd, if that was possible. What he wanted most was to find where the cattle were being taken--hence, where the others had gone before. Comradeships of the cattle trails were often thicker than blood itself, and Hopalong liked Gibson. Moreover, the man was a part of the memories he loved best, of the old days of the Bar 20. And these men had attacked and tried to kill his friend Red Connors.
The desert sun blistered the flat, reflecting rocks, and in the canyon it was like an oven. Hopalong's shirt turned dark with sweat, and his horse walked slower, feeling the heat. The way widened at last and the tracks of the cattle were plain, leading onward and over a flat, high plateau. Here the air was clear, and the heat seemed less. Hopalong's eyes and ears were alert now, for he knew that soon he should be coming up to the moving herd.
Then suddenly the world broke off before him; the plateau
ended and slid off in a series of ledges, making in all a gigantic declivity, an enormous stair that led down by devious trails to a meadow far below. Hopalong mopped his face and studied the rocky descent with careful eyes. If a man was shot here he could roll or fall a long way, and every foot of the trail now was filled with increasing danger. Then he spoke to the horse and moved on. Ears pricked up, the palouse chose his own path, following the trail of the cattle and the riders.
Suddenly, far below, Hopalong saw a moving black dot. Instantly he drew up. After a moment he saw that one moving thing was followed by others. The herd!
There was a man riding point, then the cattle flanked and followed by riders. Studying the situation, he saw nothing in it to like. From here on much of his trail would keep him hopelessly in the open, and having just traversed that trail, nobody would know it better than Aragon and his riders. As Vila had not caught up to them, they might guess that something had happened to him. If there were some of the Jack Bolt hands with the cattle, they would know about Cassidy and would surely tell Aragon.
To descend that steep trail now would be to ask for trouble. Most of it led over bare rock faces, and the only possible shelter was from occasional boulders, which could just as easily offer an ambush by one of the riders he was following. Regretfully, Hopalong turned the black towards a cluster of rocks near the foot of the first ledge.
Swinging down, he stripped the saddle from the palouse and then, getting a handful of dry grass, he rubbed the big horse down. The palouse stood quietly, gratefully accepting his attentions.
"That boss of yours," Hopalong said, "knew how to care for a horse. I can tell by the way you act, old-timer. Only a
horse that's been treated right would stand as quietly as you do."
He sponged out the horse's mouth with some water from his canteen, and only then did he take a drink himself. Afterwards he poured some water in his hat and let the horse drink it. Then he seated himself in the shade of a boulder and waited, studying with his glasses the country that lay before him.
Going down that mountain in the dark would be no picnic. Moreover, it was probable the tracks would give out on those ledges. The droppings of the cattle might help, but they would leave no hoofprints on those flat rocks.
The slow afternoon drew on, and the sun stared him in the face. Then shadows began to gather on the eastern side of the mountains. The canyons filled with darkness, brimful and mysterious in the late afternoon, and then there was the blue stillness of twilight. He mounted, and the horse walked on, eager to be moving. The evening air smelled of sage and the faint memory of the cattle that had passed. The palouse found a way down to the next long ledge and descended. Here Hopalong had to scout for a way off the flat, and it was full dark before he found it--a thin, winding trail among boulders and then across the bald, open face of the mountain.
The moon came up, and its light changed the landscape below him--an eerie greenish glow lay over the bald peaks and the great shoulders of rock. They loomed up, deathly still and lonely as he wove his way down among them until at last he smelled the good fresh smell of green grass and the dampness of land overgrown. Suddenly his nostrils detected something else. He drew up, head forward, sniffing the night. The smell brought no recognition to his mind, only a faintly disturbing sense. After a minute he spoke to the horse and started on. A hoof clicked on stone, and the stone tumbled down the steep
path before him, a fall that ended in a splash. At the same time the horse stopped abruptly, shying from something ahead.
As he swung down, Hopalong's boot sounded hollowly on the rock, and he hesitated, peering around. And then it came to him! He smelled steam.
Steam!
He picked up a rock and tossed it down the hill. It chunked into water with a thick gulp, and taking a step forward, he heard again that hollowness under his feet. At the same instant something cracked and rock gave way under him!
He sprang, scrambled wildly over the crumbling rock, and managed to get a hand on a stirrup as the palouse swung around. When he felt solid ground under his feet he stopped, sweat breaking out on his face. He knew then what had happened. He had almost fallen into a hot spring! Sourdough had told him of those boiling springs that lay in this country, and how in places they underlay large areas. Once a heavy wagon had broken through the crust, and pioneers had boiled eggs in the water and cooked fish in it.
"We'll camp right here, boy," he said quietly. "No sense in taking any chances."
With the first gray of dawn he was up, and what he saw made his eyes glint with anger. The crust had been carefully broken through--broken right across the trail so that a rider could scarcely avoid going right into it! It was a deadly trap, which he had escaped only by the accident of a splashing stone and the good sense of his horse. Yet it was a warning of what he might expect from the men he was following. They would hesitate at nothing to stop him. A step farther last night, or less luck in escaping the crumbling rock, and he might have been horribly burned or even boiled alive.
Back at the headquarters of the 8 Boxed H, Jack Bolt was nervously pacing the floor. The news that Hopalong Cassidy, as well as Connors, was in the vicinity worried him. This might be too good to last, and with men of that type coming into the country, it began to look as if it had reached the end. The only thing was to complete the cleanup they had planned and then sit tight.
He had talked with Grat, and had heard Sim Aragon's statement that he would take care of Cassidy. Yet Bolt was too shrewd to put all his eggs in one basket, especially when those eggs depended on the outwitting and killing of a man as salty and gun-slick as Hopalong Cassidy. Nothing had been seen of Cassidy, and that worried him even more. Nor of Connors. But the chances were great that Connors was dead. Yet Connors dead might be a greater damage than alive, for he might be a rallying point for all of the old Bar 20 crowd.
Something had to be done, and whatever it was, it had to be done fast. Abel Garson drifted into the ranch yard just at that time. Gafson was a man of no importance. He was a hanger-on and a loafer, a man who drank but never was drunk, who lived by knowing things and telling the right people what he knew. He also rustled a few cows from time to time, and one way and another kept soul and body together. Now he dropped from his saddle and slouched towards Bolt.
Bolt stopped, chewed a moment, then spat. "What's on your mind?" he demanded, resting his sharp eyes on Garson.
The man took his cigarette from his mouth. "Just come from Tascotal. There's talk goin' around, Jack. Folks saw Sim
J.
Aragon with some of your boys yesterday. That Joe Gamble of the 3F. He's been askin' questions around."
Bolt swore viciously. "I told that fool Grat not to let Bones come into town with Sim!" he declared. "Where's Gamble now?"
Garson shrugged. "Slipped out of town. He was askin' about Red Connors, too, and askin' various folks if they had lost cows."
"I was afraid of that." Bolt went into his pocket and came out with ten dollars. "Stick that in your kick, Abel. Anything you hear, let me know."
&
nbsp; Garson nodded. "Trouble last night up at Agate. Pete Aragon and some of his boys had a run-in with a white-headed feller carrying a plated pair of Colts. He backed 'em down. Vila rode in this mornin' to see the Doc--he had a bad hand. Tim and Pod was talkin' some. This same white-headed gent run Pod off the 3TL. Pod is rantin' around that he'll kill him. Says he's that Hopalong Cassidy, from down Texas way."
"He is." Jack Bolt had been the first person Pod had told. Fury mounted within him. Aragon at Agate! When would they learn to play it safe and smart? They should never have left the cattle. Now Vila was wounded and Pod swearing vengeance. This last item held his interest. If Hopalong was killed now, it would be very easy to place the blame on Pod, angry because he had been fired. Nevertheless, even if that was accomplished, things were piling up. Too many things were going wrong, and they had started with the arrival of Red Connors in the country. .
"Go back to town," Bolt said, "and talk it around that you heard Pod had a run-in with Cassidy. And keep your ears open. I want to know everything that 3TL outfit does."
It might be time to go all out. He didn't want it that way,
but this might be the time. Kill Cassidy, Connors, and Gamble --out of town, if possible, and make a grand cleanup on the cattle, then sit tight and see what happened.
High on the slope of Copper Mountain, Red Connors was feeling better. Plenty to eat and drink, the high, pure air, and rest had done marvels for him. His wound was healing rapidly, and he was growing restless with inactivity. Somewhere down below, Hopalong was busy and might be needing him. There was still plenty of grub and his horse was in fine shape, but Red was growing restless. Moreover, he had been shot at too often without a chance to return the courtesy.
"That Hoppy!" he growled half-aloud. "He's stealin' all the fun!"
Sitting at the mouth of the cave with the glass in his hand, he could study the terrain below him by picking holes in the green belt of the trees that surrounded the cave entrance. He was studying this countryside when he saw a rider on a tobiano riding along a trail some distance off. The man was moving slowly and studying the country. This rider was Joe Gamble, far off his own grounds and trying to pick up some sign of either Connors or the stolen cattle. Yet the distance was too great for Red to see the 3F brand on the horse Gamble was riding.
Watching the rider, Red decided that he had without doubt lost the trail. "Now that there's a positive shame," Red muttered to his horse. "That hombre ain't goin' to find me, an' if he don't, I miss out on what might be a good scrap. Maybe I'd better lend him a hand."
Getting his gear, Red saddled the horse and then, with his
rifle in hand, he mounted up. Once under cover of the trees, he worked his way through the timber until he came upon the rider's trail. He was just starting down it when he saw Gamble returning and immediately recognized both the man and the brand. Stepping from the brush, he held up a hand.
"Red Connors!" Gamble grinned. "Sure and I was huntin' you."
"What's happenin' below? Hoppy around?"
"He's off somewhere, an' busy. I reckon he hit a hot trail and follered it."
Joe tugged a bag of tobacco from his pocket and while they smoked, he brought Red Connors up to date on the situation as he knew it, including the rumors of the fight at Agate and the arrival of Vila with one hand deeply grazed by a bullet and a thumb knuckle skinned to the bone.
"That sounds like Hoppy. He's no hand to kill a man unless he's forced to it. Howsoever, from what I've heard of that Vila, I wished he had done the job on him."
Gamble agreed. "He's all bad. Not a good point in the man, and plenty of meanness an' trouble down his back trail. Even outlaws can't get along with him."
Connors was studying the situation. "The cattle I follered," he said, "came east, but that don't mean all of 'em have. Fact is, I was some puzzled that I found no old tracks along the way. The herd I was tailin' seemed to be blazin' a trail."
"Could be," Gamble agreed. "It wouldn't be easy to get cattle out of the country goin' east. Not as a regular thing. Jack Bolt would know that, an' so would the Aragons. West of here --well, you can ride that country for days and never see a man nor a cow. Wild horses in there, lots of antelope and coyotes, and nothing much else. If they wanted to drive west they could probably find a market in Oregon. Lots of folks settlin' up that
way, but most of those with cows are startin' dairy stock. A man might do purty well with a herd of beef."
"Sure." Red nodded thoughtfully and then made a shrewd guess. "Or maybe he's buildin' his own spread in Oregon or California. Why not? If he never sold anythin' off at all, in a few years the increase would give him a good-sized herd marked with his own brand an' nothin' to worry about.
"I've often figured that rustlers was mighty dumb for not thinkin' of that. Not sellin' the stolen cattle at all, only the steers. Keep the breedin' stock an' build a herd that has no burned-over brands in it."
"Could be done," Gamble agreed. "But you know how rustlers are. They aren't tryin' to get rich, only to get themselves a stake for a big blowout somewheres, or a few months of loafin'. That's the Aragons all over. Jack Bolt, now, he's the cagey one. That hombre is smart, and what he don't know about that sort of thing ain't been written yet. At least, that's the way I figure it.
"Nobody's ever had him tabbed for a rustler. That's one reason I say he's smart. Seein' Bones with Sim Aragon got me to thinkin', an' their reaction to the fact that Cassidy was in the country puzzled me. Then I started puttin' two and two together and she began to add up. Nothin' big, you understand, but lots of little things. Grafs killin' a while back, 8 Boxed H riders seen in odd places--lots of small things that begin to make sense only if you take Bolt and his outfit for cattle thieves."
Red Connors had been thinking on his own hook while following the trend of Gamble's talk. "Hoppy wouldn't take off on no goose chase," he said thoughtfully. "If he started somewhere, it was because he'd been readin' sign. That hombre don't make many mistakes, believe me."
"You fit to ride?" Gamble asked cautiously.
"Fit?" Red bristled. "Sure I'm fit! Been sittin' here frettin' all day."
"Then let's head west. That bunch Cassidy is follerin' are right salty. He may need help."
"It'll be them that needs the help!" Red said emphatically. "But that's no reason we shouldn't ride. No use lettin' him have all the fun. I got a score to settle with that bunch myself. They ran me all over these hills an' just because I run out of cartridges. That Pod Griffin--he must have been the one who stripped my shells."
Sided by Joe Gamble, Red Connors started down the mountain. An unholy joy mounted within him. Just let them try and run him now! With his beloved Winchester and plenty of ammunition he would make them hunt their holes fast! This Gamble seemed a good man. Together they could make a fight of it with anything they encountered, whether it was a rustling gang or a bunch of Modocs on the warpath.
Hopalong had been in Agate, so that was the place to pick up his sign. Their horses' hoofs beat hard on the trail, then softened as they ran through a belt of sand. They rode hard and fast, going by way of Tascotal.
"Reckon we better avoid the town?" Gamble wondered.
"Not on your life!" Connors barked back. "This bunch is hunting trouble! We'll ride right into town, have a drink, and then breeze on through. If anybody wants action, just let them start it!"
Gamble chuckled. "You sound plumb riled, Red. I reckon it must have gone hard with you to let those hombres run you."
"It did," Connors said, "and somebody's goin' to pay for it, too."
Chapter 9
Red's "Calling Card"
Hours later they rode into Tascotal. Their horses were weary now and they moved slowly. Red Connors studied the street with hard eyes, taking in the brands of the horses as they pushed into town and swung down at the hitch rack near the bank.
"Don't see any of Bolt's stock," Gamble said, "nor any of the Aragon horses, although they might be ridin' almost anything."
<
br /> A man walked from the saloon and leaned against the awning post, staring hard at them. Abel Garson was alive with curiosity. Red Connors and Joe Gamble together, and looking like trouble! This would be news for Bolt! And news that, no matter how he liked it, would still pay off. Garson idled on the street, smoking and watching.
"We'll eat," Connors suggested finally, "and then head out and locate Hoppy. I reckon we better ride for that place called Agate. You know the way?"
Gamble nodded, his eyes straying toward Garson. He frowned thoughtfully. He knew nothing good about the man, but little that was bad. Abel Garson was, so far as he knew,
merely useless. Yet he was aware of some guarded watchfulness in the man, and made a vow to keep an eye open. They ate then, and from time to time Gamble looked out of the window. Garson had not moved. Yet a few minutes later when he glanced out, the loafer was gone. Still, there was no reason to be excited. So far as Gamble knew, the man had no connection with Bolt or any with Aragon.
Leaving town on the road to Agate, Gamble noted fresh tracks. The trail to the 8 Boxed H turned off from this road. If Garson was a messenger to Bolt, he would be turning off soon. Gamble dropped off his horse and studied the tracks, easily visible in the slanting light of late afternoon.
"Fresh," he said. "Made since that wind went down, which was maybe an hour ago. In this soft sand they'd be almost or entirely wiped out by now if they had been made earlier."
"You see anybody leave?" Connors asked.
"No, but a no-good loafer named Garson was hangin' around. He was gone before we left the restaurant."
Red Connors studied the country ahead. "Know another
trail to Agate?"
"Sure, but it's some longer."
"Let's try it, and ride careful." They rode on in silence, and Red chewed thoughtfully. Suddenly he turned his head. "We far from the 8 Boxed H?"
"Three, four miles. There's a horse trail turns off near that pinnacle up ahead." Gamble looked at Red curiously. "What's
the Riders Of High Rock (1993) Page 7
