on your mind?"
Red grinned. "Why, I reckoned we should sort of leave our cards as we pass by. Sort of bed down and see how much fun we can have with our rifles. That bunch is livin' too soft, looks like. Let's stir 'em up a little."
Gamble chuckled. "Let's go!"
Threading down the little-used horse trail, Gamble took them into a position among some gigantic boulders on a rise overlooking the ranch. Red swung down, his eyes glinting.
"Joe," he said grimly, "I'm goin' to like this job!" Dropping to the ground he leveled his Winchester between two boulders. A horse was tied to the hitch rail. Even at this distance they could see the dark stains of sweat. That horse had been ridden within the past few minutes.
Carefully aiming at the hitch rail, Red fired. The sharp spang of the rifle sounded, and almost with the sound the horse reared sharply. Frightened by the bullet that smashed the hitch rail, the animal jerked back, snapping the rail off, and then the horse dashed off, carrying its head high.
A man rushed from the door of the house and started for the horse, and Red instantly put a bullet in the ground beside him. With a frightened yelp, the man turned so swiftly that he lost balance and sprawled at full length on the ground. Red turned his rifle to the ranch house and proceeded to knock the glass out of a window. Joe Gamble joined the proceedings by firing two shots through the door, then shooting the windows
out of the bunkhouse.
Aiming at the well rope, Red cut it near the wheel on the third shot, dropping the bucket into the well, from which it would have to be fished before the owner could get any more water. Gamble fired two bullets into the water trough in the corral, letting water out on the ground. He sent another searching bullet into the bunkhouse, and then together they hammered the door of the ranch house through which the running man had just gone. Another window was smashed out, and then they fired at the old chimney, ventilating it with holes.
A shot answered from a broken window, and both men let go at the spot as if on signal. The rifle barrel vanished instantly.
Grinning, Red drew back. "Let's go on to Agate, Joe," he said. "Those fellers ain't so happy about now, believe you me!"
In the ranch house of the 8 Boxed H, Jack Bolt got up from the floor, his face dark with bitter fury. Angrily he glared at the smashed windows. A bullet had found his water bucket and rained it on the floor. His coffeepot had been knocked almost from his hand. A picture on the wall was splintered, the door punctured by bullets, and Grat, who had been talking with him, had a scratch on his face from a flying splinter.
Peering from the door, they glimpsed in the door of the bunkhouse the figure of Bones, also taking stock of the situation. "Maybe they are gone," Grat suggested. "I thought I heard horses a minute ago."
"They shot the windows out!" Bones yelled. "Who was that?"
Jack Bolt stepped outside and glared towards the ridge from which the firing had come. "How should I know?" he demanded. "There was more than one."
"Fightin' that outfit ain't goin' to be no fun," Bones suggested suddenly. "Those hombres could shoot!"
"Cain't be Cassidy," Grat said. "He was in Agate the other night."
Abel Garson showed his head in the door, glancing fearfully towards the ridge. "It was that Red Connors and Joe Gamble," he said. "That was what I come out to tell you about."
"Then why didn't you?" Bolt whirled on the loafer, his eyes deadly. "Why didn't you come out with it?"
"Well"--Garson rubbed his palms on his chaps--"I hadn't
eaten nothin' and when I saw that grub I just sort of piled in. I was fixin' to tell you when the shootin' started."
"You sure that was Connors in town?" Grat demanded.
"Know him anywheres," Garson replied immediately, "and Joe Gamble was with him."
"I thought you told me that Connors was dead?" Bolt demanded, glaring at Grat.
"I did figure he was," Grat replied sullenly. "Last time anybody saw of him, he was ridin' for that ridge. We put a flock of lead in the trees after him, and when we caught his cayuse there was blood on his withers."
"Well, you're an idiot! I didn't send you out there for the exercise. And when I ask you for a report, I'm asking for what you know, not what you think!"
Jack Bolt stood still, studying the situation and finding nothing in it that pleased him. He had lived in security here, and now suddenly he had been fired upon. His toughs had been treated with contempt, his windows shot out, his whole ranch shot up, and the enemy had escaped without reprisal. Moreover, from their attitude, none of his boys seemed very eager to pursue. There had been no wild rush for horses, all of which was mute tribute to the shooting of the men who had fired on the ranch. He himself, he remembered, had been hugging the dusty floor only a few minutes ago while lead ricocheted about the room.
Now the two had gone off, probably on the road to Agate, hunting Hopalong Cassidy. If that outfit hadn't taken care of Hopalong, and the three joined forces, the rustlers would really be in trouble. But there was no chance of them trailing the cattle. He had often tried it himself, knowing the way they had gone, and he had consistently failed.
Thoughtfully he considered the situation. The big raid
would go ahead. A much bigger raid than the one currently under way. Moreover, if Hopalong, Red, and Joe had followed Aragon's men with the cattle, they must never be allowed to return.
"Bones," he said suddenly, "mount up and get into town. See Sim Aragon and tell him that Red and Gamble have started west after Hopalong. Tell him that none of them must come back. Get them--anyhow he wants to, but get them! I only ask that it be done west of the desert, so nobody will ever know. Understand?"
Bones nodded. "Yeah, I understand." Three men murdered, he thought, even as he answered Bolt. Good men, too. Bones had little imagination and less ethics, but he did possess a certain code of his own, and that code went against shooting a man in the back. It also demanded that a man fight his own battles. Bolt was showing no inclination to do any fighting at all. "All right," he agreed, "I'll ride in."
"I'll go along," Garson replied quickly. Ever since the shooting began he had been frightened, and the idea of riding back to Tascotal alone had frightened him even more. Besides, he would be more comfortable riding with Bones than with the others. The fat man was easygoing and not much inclined to run into trouble.
Bones started off towards the corral, and Bolt stared after Garson. He disliked the man even while he used him as a spy. There was nothing stable about Garson, nothing worth any kind of a gamble. It would never do to trust him, and Jack Bolt did not. As a matter of fact, he trusted no one but himself.
He watched the two ride off towards town in the twilight, and then he walked back to the house. A wind had started to blow and dust sifted in the broken window. Like a ghost house. Startled at the thought, he looked hastily around. He was not
actually superstitious, he told himself, but such thoughts disturbed him. Gloomily he stared at the windows. He would have to get new ones in town, and that would mean questions. It would also excite comment from those he did business with, and in no time the story would be all over the country. Some suspicion that Red and Joe Gamble had just reason would be sure to remain.
Joe Gamble disturbed him.
Red Connors and Hopalong Cassidy were strangers in the country, and both had the reputation of being fighters. If such men were killed, there would be little surprise, nor would too many questions be asked; but Joe Gamble was a steady, serious cowhand with a good reputation--a hard-working man known to be honest and not a drinker.
Nevertheless, there was nothing else to be done. All three men must be killed, and the sooner the better. He walked the floor of his cabin restlessly, then gave it up. The very sight of the broken windows acted as a warning. He was now in danger himself. Courageous enough, he had allowed himself to let all that slip into the past, and for several years now he had been telling himself that he was the brains. Let others get shot at, not him.
&nb
sp; "Boss?" It was Grat. "That outfit sure did us up brown. They clipped the rope on the well bucket and she's stuck down there."
"Well, get it out!" Bolt was impatient. "The fool who left the well hole so small should have been shot! Can't you hook the bail?"
"We're tryin'. Meanwhile there's no water. Even the trough is run dry."
Jack Bolt walked out into the ranch yard. It was growing late. He stared at the trail towards town, chewing at his under--
lip. Maybe he should ride over to see the Gibsons. How much, if anything, did they know? Pod had run off, but that had been caused by Hopalong, and the gunfighter might not have said anything about Bolt's connection with the rustling--if he knew anything.
Sue Gibson-- He scowled. She was a pretty girl, and they had danced together more than once. Maybe that was an easier way to get the cattle and the ranch--especially with her father laid up in bed. Anyway, he would ride over, be frank with them, and see what came of that. Frankness, he had learned, was disarming, and he might actually win Sue to his side. At least it was worth the chance while he was waiting for Sim Aragon to handle Cassidy for him.
He mounted up and rode off while Grat glared after him. The Breed and Slim were working over the well. "Get busy, you two!" Grat snarled. "The boss has ridden off and left this to us. A lot he cares if we never get a drink!"
Surprised, the others looked at him, and made more angry, he stalked off across the yard. He saddled his own horse, then stopped. Where would he go?
To the creek. It was not far off, and he could at least get a bucket of water there and fill all their canteens. He hesitated again. "How's it look, Slim?"
"Jammed up for fair. We'll have to bust the bucket, I reckon."
"Let it go till morning. Hitch up the team and load a couple of barrels. We'll go to the creek after water. That blasted Connors! That was him, and I know it! Nobody else could cut a rope at that distance."
Slim mopped the sweat from his face. "Don't reckon they could. He missed a couple himself. There's a bullet in the
frame and the shiv wheel has been jimmied up. That Connors, he's a whiz with a rifle."
"Get the barrels loaded. I'm scoutin' around a little. You head for the creek."
Jack Bolt rode on, following the winding trail towards the wide range of the 3TL. The farther he rode, the more he wondered if this was not the best way after all. He did not hesitate to admit the truth to himself. The gunfire and the hum of lead had done something to him. Four years or so of absence from gunfighting and killing had changed his thinking. Cowering on the floor, hearing the bullets punch through the walls of his cabin, knowing that any one of them could mean death, had put something into him that had gone clear to the bottom of his mind and his stomach. He did not like being shot at. When he was younger he had been heedless. He had believed the bullet had not been made that would kill him. Death had seemed fantastically far away.
It was always that way when you were young. Well, he was older now and knew that death was no respecter of persons. There had to be an easier way. He had brains, and it was time to use them.
The moon was rising when he came within sight of the 3TL buildings.
Chapter 10
Fight in the Badlands.
Circling the hot springs, Hopalong Cassidy walked the pa-louse back into the hills, keeping close watch on the country as he approached it. That an ambush might await him at any point, he was well aware. The horse he rode was one of the best he had ever ridden, but they had been on the move constantly now for some days, and he found himself wishing he was riding his favorite mount, the white gelding Topper.
The morning sun was bright and only beginning to grow warm. The tracks of the cattle were plainer now, and it was obvious that Pete and his men had caught up with the herd. Here and there a cow track partly obliterated one of the tracks Hopalong had memorized farther back along the trail.
Now the herd was in High Rock with its sheer walls towering four to five hundred feet above the trail. Rye grass grew along the floor of the canyon, which was narrow through much of its length but widening at intervals. Occasionally there were pools of water. Twice Hopalong allowed the palouse to crop the grass and drink while he scouted ahead on foot, alert for a trap. Here and there the old tracks of covered wagons were plainly visible, and in places had been gutted out and cut deeper by
rains. Suddenly, in a wide-open space overgrown with tall grass, Hopalong found that the trail had petered out.
Puzzled, he circled around. Here and there he found the tracks of a single animal or, in a few cases, of two or three, but the herd seemed to have vanished into the tall grass, growing saddle-high to the horse he rode. Suddenly Hopalong heard the sound of a calf bawling nearby!
Searching around, Hopalong first found an 8 Box H steer, and if the brand was worked over, it was an excellent job. When he found it, the calf was standing with its mother near a tangle of brush that grew against the canyon wall. The brand on the full-grown cow was freshly burned, but the work had been so carefully done that it would be impossible to tell, without killing and skinning her, if it had been worked over. He pressed on, and although he found a few other scattered cattle, the trail of the main body of the herd had vanished.
Carefully he scouted the edges of the canyon but could find no trail out. Yellow Rock Canyon showed the trail of only one steer. Hopalong scowled and rode back to a spring in a cleft of the rocky wall. It was already growing dark, for he had spent most of the afternoon looking for the trail. Picking dry wood from a nest around the roots of a shrub, Hopalong built his fire and made supper. As he ate he considered the entire situation and what had happened.
Despite his search he could find no exact place where the trail began to peter out. It was as if the herd had gradually dwindled until the few remaining cattle had been scattered here in the upper reaches of the High Rock.
Daylight found him pushing on, and disregarding the dwindling herd and the missing cattle, he pushed on towards Coyote Springs. One horseman had come this far, the man riding the slue-gaited mustang. There was water in the springs,
although nearby Massacre Lakes were only vast dry beds. He had seen no tracks of cattle this far north, but after a while he made camp on the sand near the springs. In the morning he would head back towards the south.
Red Connors stared through the dimming light. "You sure this is the way? Those tracks look like Hoppy's, all right, but he's sure doin' a lot of wanderin' around."
"Perhaps he's lost their trail," Gamble suggested. "We lost it miles back. A while back one of our boys struck the trail of a herd up here once and then lost it completely, just like it vanished into thin air."
The two rode on, and then Gamble drew up suddenly. "Fire ahead. Off there to the right."
Swinging their horses, both men rode towards the fire, but were still some thirty yards from it and could see nothing of its builder when a cool voice said, "Ride right up to the fire and get down facing it, so I can see your faces."
"Hoppy!" Red said. "Found yuh!"
"How are you, Red? You two get down. I'll put on the coffee. What are you doing up this far?"
"Followin' you. What did you think?" Red grinned. "We were afraid you'd get caught by these rustlers."
"Did you see Frank Gillespie? I sent him back to the 3TL They were alone back there."
"No, we didn't see him, but then we didn't stop at the ranch either. We stopped only a few minutes in Agate. Talked with an old fossil named Sourdough. From what he said, you turned plumb salty in that town, Hoppy."
"I'm in more trouble now," Hopalong replied, then explained. "And the way things now look," he finished, "I've lost the trail. My idea was to head south down Long Valley and try to cut their trail on the west. They didn't come north, and they certainly wouldn't turn back towards the east--not unless they cross the border into Idaho."
Hopalong studied Connors thoughtfully. "Are you sure you are in shape for this kind of a ride? You lost a lot of blood."
&nbs
p; "In shape?" Red Connors snorted. "I could outride you the best day you ever saw, and without half tryin'. As far as that lost blood is concerned, I could lose twice that much and still lock horns with this outfit you are chasin'."
Cassidy chuckled. "You hear that?" he asked Gamble. "This souwegian is so hardheaded he wouldn't move camp for a prairie fire. Like Lanky used to say, he's full-grown in the body, but kind of puny in the head."
"A lot you got to say," Red growled. "I could name some times you were sure glad to see me around!"
"You can bet your life on that," Hopalong agreed.
Daylight found all three men in the saddle. Hopalong led off, the palouse seeming none the worse for his days of hard riding. If ever a horse had a love for moving, it was this one. Several miles to the west, beyond Massacre Creek and looming above the dry lakes of the same name, was Painted Point, a landmark that stood out boldly against the sky, marking the opening into Long Valley.
"We'll head for that Point," Hopalong suggested, "and then we'll fan out and scout for sign to see if we can find any tracks this far north. If we can't, we'll ride south until we do. It's a cinch that herd had to come west or north, and if we keep moving we'll cut their sign."
"What beats me," Red exclaimed, "is how they got out of
High Rock. That herd just seemed to peter out. We saw the tracks and we followed them a ways. Of course we never scouted that country as thoroughly as you did, but we could see the tracks just fadin' out."
The sun was hot, and they headed west. "That hombre seems to be heading the same way," Hopalong said, indicating the tracks. "He was with the herd."
Yet scarcely a mile farther the mysterious rider turned north across the vast expanse of the dry lakes, pointing toward distant Yellow Peak. Hopalong hesitated, then shook his head. "Let him go. We'll ride south as we planned."
Yet he was growing worried. He did not like the idea of being away from the 3TL for so long a time with the country in the mess it was. Frank Gillespie was there, but he was not enough. But to return now meant a long ride back, and if they could locate the herd or even find the trail they had taken after leaving High Rock, they would be much better off.
the Riders Of High Rock (1993) Page 8
