the Riders Of High Rock (1993)

by L'amour, Louis - Hopalong 01

  Hopalong shook his head, his eyes cold. "You aren't killing anybody. Haul him back in the shade, Red. We'll leave him here. If we remember him we'll come back and pick him up when the show is over."

  "Hey!" The cook's voice turned anxious. "You ain't leavin' me here? What if a catamount shows up?"

  "No panther or mountain lion would bother you," Hopalong replied shortly. "They're particular about what they eat!" He turned to Red. "Take his canteen. There's water here, and in time he'll get loose. He can drink then, but he can't travel without a canteen."

  Rounding up the two pack mules, the three headed off for the mountains. Behind them the sound of curses, yells, and finally pleading died away.

  Returning to the hills, the riders split up the food into three packs, which they divided among themselves. Then they cached the remainder, including ammunition and a considerable length of wire.

  Gamble nodded at it. "What's that for, I wonder?"

  Hopalong chuckled. "You haven't been in Texas, Joe. That's baling wire, but they use it for changing brands. It's better than a running iron, and all you have to do is twist it into the shape you want. You can alter brands so perfectly there's no way to tell, short of killing and skinning the animal. That accounts for the smooth brands we've seen."

  "What now?" Connors demanded. "Those hombres will be already movin' that herd through the gap."

  "Let 'em move it," Hoppy said briefly. "We'll ride along and watch."

  "I wish I knew how things were back at the ranch," Red said worriedly. "Jack Bolt ain't in this outfit, nor any of that bunch of his. Did you see Grat or Bones?"

  "No sign of 'em," Gamble agreed.

  Topping a low rise, they could see the dust of the herd up ahead, and it was moving steadily through the gap into Surprise Valley. Hopalong studied them briefly, then turned to the others.

  "No use all three of us being here," he said. "I'm riding back to the 3TL Red, you are good on a trail; you keep after this herd and see what happens to them. Joe, why don't you head back, pick up that hombre we tied, and then get him to lend you a hand with that Cardoza--the one we bedded down with the broken leg. He may be in bad shape by now, and he should be back where a doctor can work on him. I'll hit it out at top speed for the ranch."

  "Good idea," Connors said. "I'll follow the cattle. Don't you worry none about that."

  "How about you, Gamble?"

  The cowhand hesitated, then grinned ruefully. "All right, but I'll probably miss out on the fightin'. What do you want me to do after I get those hombres back to Tascotal?"

  "Better check with your boss, then hightail for the 3TL If I am not there I'll leave word for you. Now I'm going to rattle my hocks out of here."

  With a wave of his hand Cassidy was gone, putting the palouse into a canter that rapidly took him back down the trail. He rode steadily, stopping only to give the horse a brief rest, a taste of water and grass, then moving on. It was a good distance, and he wanted to keep moving.

  By nightfall he was on the edge of Soldier Meadows, and, crossing, he made a quick camp in a notch among the rocks and close under the rise of the first bluff of the mountains. He was only a short distance from the hot springs, and he used one of them to provide water for coffee and cooking. Finally, when darkness was well fallen, he went to sleep.

  He awakened with a start. By the look of the stars, the night was already far advanced and he had been sleeping for some time, but what had awakened him he could not imagine. The air was cool, almost cold, and the stars were very bright. He could smell the faint steamy odor of the hot springs and the freshness of grass. For a long time he lay with his eyes wide open, and then he caught the shadow of his horse's head etched sharply against the night. The palouse was standing with head erect, ears up, peering off into the night down the valley.

  Hastily, Hopalong reached for his gun belts and buckled them on. Then he drew his Winchester close and hurriedly pulled on his boots. By the time he was on his feet and had his Winchester ready, only a few minutes had passed. On cat feet he crept down the little draw towards the open valley and paused there, looking out into the darkness, where he could discern nothing, could hear nothing. A cricket chirped with determination; somewhere a nighthawk called. And then he heard--cattle!

  He stiffened. Cattle, here? Now? Scowling, he walked out a few steps from the rock and listened again. Then he heard the sound of the hoofs--a large herd, moving steadily up the valley towards him. It was unbelievable, but they were coming! Had the rustlers struck again? But the Aragons, or two of them at least, were already far over to the west. Suddenly his skin tightened.

  If a herd was moving now, and nothing but a stolen herd would move at this hour, then Bolt's own men must be moving it! Here was all the evidence he would need--if Bolt himself was driving them!

  Wheeling about, he ran for his camp and hastily saddled up, then threw together the few loose parts of his gear and tied them on behind his saddle. He was in the saddle and moving out across the meadows towards the herd when he saw the broad hat of the point man going by. The man did not see him, and despite the chance that he might be Bolt himself, Hopa-long allowed him to continue. First he wanted a look at the cattle. This was a large herd, and if it had been stolen tonight, the brands would be unchanged.

  Working his way into the outer edge of the herd, Hopa-long bent low and struck a match, shielding it with his hands. Holding it against the animal's flanks, he saw the brand. Only an instant before the light flickered out.

  3TL!

  This, then, was a stolen herd, and there was no sense in allowing them to move it farther. Hopalong pushed out of the herd and then heard a yell up ahead:

  "Slim! What you lightin' a match for? Durn you, don't you know you can see a match for miles on a night like this?"

  "Aw, forget it!" Hopalong said. He made his voice sound ugly. "If you don't like it, go hang yourself!"

  The point rider whipped around with a snarl. "You say that to me?" He pushed his horse forward. "You want trouble, you can have--" He gasped then. "Hey! You aren't Slim! You--" Hopalong struck swiftly with the barrel of his Colt, and the rustler grunted, then slid from the saddle.

  Stooping and grabbing his collar, Hopalong dragged the unconscious man to the side and out of the way of the herd.

  Then, deliberately, he took the point himself and began to work, turning the cattle ever so slightly from the trail they should have taken, turning the point of the herd due north and then northeast. Knowing the ways of cowhands, he knew that it might be some distance ahead before anyone rode up to ask any questions.

  There was a good trail this way, and it would lead over a ridge and past the ruins of an old army camp and then back into the desert. By that time he hoped to have them headed due east and right back to the 3TL. Grinning despite the danger, he kept the herd moving, leading at times and talking to the cattle, but at times falling back to urge them on faster and faster.

  Chapter 15

  Treacherous Attack.

  The rustled cows were over six miles on their way before there was a sudden clatter of hoofs and Hopalong heard two racing horses coming up on the flank of the herd. There was no time for talking. If two men were coming, it meant that something was wrong, and it was always possible the man he had knocked out had come to and caught up with them. Turning hard right, he pointed the herd down the mountain and then raced down the opposite flank, wheeling at times to urge the herd on with shouts and blows of his hat. The cattle were nervous at the unexpected night move and they began to trot, then to run. With a thunder of hoofs they raced down the far side of the mountain toward the desert. There were frantic shots as men tried to turn them, but they had little effect.

  Swinging into the drag of the herd, Hopalong saw one lone rustler bringing up the rear. Instantly, Hopalong let out a long Texas yell and fired two quick shots. The running herd broke into a wild stampede, and the startled rustler wheeled with a curse of rage and raced toward Hopalong. Holding his gun low, Hopalong w
aited. The rider jerked up his pistol and Hopalong fired. The rustler cursed and Hopalong charged at him. The

  man swung away and raced off. In the brief moment of passing, Hopalong saw that the man's hand was bloody.

  The herd was running now, and he fired again and again; then, swinging his horse around, he reloaded his gun. Hopalong drew off, riding into the hills and cutting across the direction the herd had taken.

  The two riders who had raced toward the point of the herd had been Grat and the Breed.

  Neither had noticed the herd's change of direction for some time, and then it was the half-breed who grew uneasy. Finally he called Grafs attention to it, and after a few minutes of observation Grat saw that Pahute Peak was almost straight south of them. Furious at what he believed was Slim's negligence, he raced his horse toward the front of the herd and the Breed had followed. Then came the shots that stampeded the herd, and both men were swept along by the onrush of cattle. Neither was able to stop or escape from it, and they were carried on until the herd reached the desert on the far side, when the thick sand began to slow them down.

  Black with fury, Grat started riding this way and that, trying to gather in his men. It was then that Pod came up, blood trickling from his lacerated scalp, and explained what had happened.

  "Who was it?" Grat demanded hoarsely.

  "I didn't get a look at him," Slim said, "only I noticed some spots on the horse, black against white."

  "Hopalong Cassidy!" Pod Griffin exploded. "That was him! I had me a chance and I muffed it!" Furiously he slammed his hat to the sand. "And to think I could have killed him!"

  "Or been killed," Grat replied dryly. He liked none of this. It was scarcely an hour to daylight now, and they could never get the herd out of the desert in time. They could never round them up, let alone get them over the pass and into California. Within an hour riders from the 3F and the other spreads would be coming. Reluctantly he turned to the others.

  "We'd better clear out," he said bitterly. "If we don't we'll be caught red-handed."

  "And leave these cattle?" Pod was incredulous. "You're crazy, man!"

  "Crazy?" Grat glared at him. "I'd be crazy if I stuck here tryin' to round up this herd until a search party came up on me. You think I want to stretch hemp? You can have it, if you want! Me, I'm takin' out!"

  "What'll Bolt say?"

  "What he says won't save my neck if those boys get a rope on it!" Grat said emphatically. "Let's go!" Wheeling their horses, they started away at a rapid trot.

  From the crest of the ridge behind them Hopalong saw the dark line of riders moving out. The distance was great, but he slid his Winchester from the scabbard for a parting shot, then gave it up. He had done enough. He had broken up the biggest mass cattle steal he had ever seen attempted. The cattle would drift back toward their own water, for there was none on the desert where they had been abandoned. And they had not far to go.

  Pod Griffin's head ached abominably, and he was furious. Suddenly he slowed. "Grat, Hopalong Cassidy is back there somewhere. I'm goin' huntin' him."

  "Don't be a fool!" Grat said angrily. "That curly wolf would have your hide on the fence before you knew what hit you!"

  "Like blazes!" Pod's face was white with repressed fury. Grat could see the ugly look of hatred on him and suddenly made up his mind.

  "Go ahead," he said, "but be careful. Take your time."

  After all, why not? Hopalong needed killing. In fact, he had to be killed or they were through. Obviously, Pod Griffin was crazy with the desire for it--and there was just a chance he might succeed. Let him have his try. Feeling as he did, he was apt to do something reckless, and the farther away he was, the better for the rest of them.

  Griffin turned and rode back toward the hills, and Hopalong, who had swung his own horse only a minute before, did not see him start back.

  A few scattered cattle remained in the arm of the Black Rock that lay at the foot of Pahute. Hopalong was tired, and for the first time he realized how tired. Yet he started the cattle, and picking up more as he pressed on, headed them southward.

  The sun lifted and grew warm. His muscles sagging with weariness and his hat pulled low, he dozed in the saddle, his body soaking up the heat. The palouse was tired and he walked wearily, little puffs of dust arising from each step. The strays, now augmented to some thirty head, moved placidly before him. Hopalong straightened up and blinked his eyes. Slowly his gaze circled the hills, then the empty desert, but there was nothing in sight. The weariness crept over him again, aided by the early warmth of the morning sun. He dozed.

  Far back, not yet to the edge of Soldier Meadows, Pod Griffin rode. He rode like an Indian, well forward in the saddle, every sense alert. His mouth felt dry and there was a queer jumpy sensation in his stomach. Hopalong Cassidy might be anywhere, anywhere at all!

  What was the matter? Was he afraid? Was he getting like some silly kid? After all, what was there to Hopalong Cassidy that was different from any other man? He had killed men. He had faced men with guns before. Why let this worry him?

  Suppose Grat was scared. All of them were, for that matter. But Hopalong could be just an overrated reputation. Pod knew how those things grew. People already said he himself had killed more than twice the number he had actually slain. Not that Pod ever denied it, for he had no intention of denying it now or any other time. He liked the reputation of being a gunfighter, and if he killed Cassidy--his eyes suddenly brightened with determination--why, he would be the biggest man around!

  And why take a chance? Why not just let him have it whenever he saw him? He could go up afterward and put Cassidy's gun in his hand. He could even fire a shot from it. He could make people believe he had killed the great Cassidy in a stand-up gun fight!

  He was alone and so was Cassidy. Who would ever know the difference? For an instant he hesitated over the thought. Hopalong had friends. Red Connors, Mesquite Jenkins, some of the greatest fighting names of the West. Suppose they took it up?

  Well, he reflected, suppose they did. He could watch, he could be careful. Then he could add their scalps to Hopalong's. Soon they would be talking of Wild Bill Hickok, John Wesley Hardin, and Pod Griffin!

  His chest swelled and he saw himself striding down the street, pointed out in saloons, talked about, envied, and the interested object of attention for all the girls.

  The sun was warm, and his horse stumbled and jerked him out of his dream. He had better ride with care or he would never get a chance. Thinking Hopalong Cassidy dead and actually killing him were two vastly different things. And the man might be anywhere. There was something to what Grat had said. A man did not get the reputation Hopalong had by doing nothing. And what had he told him? He had warned him out of the country!

  If they met now--

  Pod Griffin drew up and touched his lips with his tongue. Still, he had to go on now. What would they say if he came back with some wild story? Would they believe him? They would not. Only Cassidy dead would convince them.

  The tracks of the cattle covered the sand. Here and there he could find the tracks of horses. Where was it Hopalong had struck him? His head ached and he could scarcely focus his eyes. His horse slowed and pulled toward the spring, and Pod let him walk there. After they drank they moved on, and emerged at last into the middle of Soldier Meadows with a clean sweep of the valley before them. Pod Griffin stiffened.

  A herd of cattle, far off now, and moving ahead of a lone rider!

  Cassidy!

  Quickly he studied the situation. Hopalong Cassidy was alone. He was driving cattle. Soon he would be turning east after passing Pahute Peak, and a man with a rifle atop that ridge could have him in easy range. Furthermore, Hopalong would be unable to get up the ridge after him if he should miss. But he did not plan on missing. Slapping the spurs to his cayuse, he raced along the trail, taking a short cut over the ridge and back of Pahute Peak that would put him ahead of Cassidy in much less the distance the gun fighter would have to follow.

&nbs
p; Hopalong Cassidy blinked his eyes open and stared ahead. All was quiet. The cattle walked placidly, content in the knowledge they were headed toward home. He looked around and saw nothing. Pahute Peak was behind him now, and a steep ridge lifted on his left. He watched the cattle walk, but his weariness, the warmth, and the rhythm of the walking horse had their way and he was dozing again.

  High upon the ridge Pod Griffin wiped the sweat from his hands and took a new grip on the rifle. Hopalong Cassidy was less than four hundred yards away and coming nearer. Griffin swallowed and waited, his heart pounding, his mouth dry. As the palouse walked closer, following the gather of cattle, Pod Griffin lifted the rifle and cradled the heavy butt against his shoulder. He took a deep breath, put the sights on Hopalong's temple, held his breath, then fired!

  Hopalong Cassidy slumped suddenly, then slid from the saddle and fell into the sand. Startled, the palouse backed away, and Hoppy's boot toe hung in a stirrup, then slipped free. The horse backed away, looked around uneasily, and then lowered his head to nose at the fallen man. The sickish-sweet smell of blood made the horse snort and back off. The bunched cattle had not stopped. They plodded on. The horse

  looked after them wishfully, then stood still. His bridle reins had fallen, and he knew his duty.

  Overhead the sun blazed upon the black shirt of the fallen man. A buzzard wheeled in the brassy sky. Pod Griffin got to his feet. He was trembling like a leaf. "Got him!" he gasped. "I've killed Hopalong Cassidy!"

  Chapter 16

  Pod Griffins Blunder.

  Black Bolt's visit to the 3TL had not been made entirely because of his awakening interest in Sue Gibson and the possibilities presented by marriage to her. His presence either in the house or just leaving in the opposite direction would remove him from any possibility of suspicion.

  This was the big raid and the last one, utilizing his own men and a few rough characters who would take their pay and drift on out of the country. His connections kept him in touch with such men, and they were often useful.