the Riders Of High Rock (1993)

by L'amour, Louis - Hopalong 01

  The horse's ears came up and he moved nearer, relieved that he was not alone.

  Memory returned slowly, flowing like thick molasses into all the convolutions of Cassidy's brain. He had been driving a bunch of strays toward the 3TL. They were recovered cattle, recovered from rustlers. Then there had been a blow on the head. His fingers stirred and felt for his skull. There was blood on his forehead, and then he realized what had happened. The

  bullet had grazed the skin along his brow from side to side, striking a glancing blow as it struck, then skidding around. He squinted one eye then the other. Each could focus on the ground nearby and the horizon. . . . Maybe he was not badly hurt.

  Was the ambusher watching now? Cassidy considered that, his wits sharpening. The chances were the man had gone on; hours must have passed since the shot was fired, as it was now quite late.

  Carefully, testing his strength, Hopalong drew back and got his hands under him, pushing himself up, then to his knees. His head swam, and he looked around him. After an interval he caught the stirrup of his saddle and pulled himself erect. When he was on the horse he started south.

  As he rode, his thoughts began to add up. Whoever had shot him believed him dead. He had fallen; he had not moved. Had they come near him they must not have examined him, or the job would have been finished. Hence he was believed to be dead.

  There was a seep near the end of the rocks not a mile away, he recalled, and he headed for it. When there, he dismounted, stripped the saddle from the palouse, and picketed it. He built a very small fire, heated water, and bathed his head. Then he made coffee and fixed something to eat. It was almost ten by the time he could get into his blankets.

  He awakened in the cold light of dawn and he was much refreshed. The ache in his head remained, and as he sat up it began to throb. He got up, fixed breakfast while keeping a sharp lookout, and just when he was breaking camp he saw a rider. Even at the distance he recognized Red Connors.

  Connors rode up, stared at the broken skin across his brow, and chuckled. "That thick skull saved you again, did it?"

  he said. "I reckon you couldn't drive a bullet into it no more than you could an idea."

  "What did you find out?" Hopalong demanded. "Stop complaining and tell me that."

  Red swung down and rescued the last of the coffee before Hopalong could throw it out. He drank from the pot. "Plenty! That Aragon outfit turned the cows over to some riders who were waitin' for 'em in Surprise Valley. Seven cowhands, their horses all wearin' Rafter D brands. The Aragon outfit turned around and headed back this way. I took to the hills and followed the cows. They went north and then west. They finally wound up in a little valley near Goose Lake. Fine range, good-lookin' outfit. None of these hombres looked familiar, so I took a chance and drifted down on 'em from the north."

  Red drained the coffeepot and rinsed it out with hot water from a nearby spring. He dried the pot with a handful of grass, deliberately waiting.

  "All right, you spavined, broken-down cow nurse," Hopalong growled good-naturedly. "Give me the information. That is, if you learned anything."

  "Seems," Connors said, building a smoke, "that a gent name of Jack Bronson owns the Rafter D. He is stockin' up on cows, which he is buyin' in Wyomin' and drivin' across Nevada. The spread has added fifteen hundred head this year, almost that much last year--and the old stuff has been sold off. This Bronson figures on movin' in there to stay right soon. He has been driftin' around buyin' cattle in the last few years."

  Red Connors drew deep on his cigarette.

  "It sort of seemed to me that I remembered a man named Bronson from Colorado. They didn't think so, but they described him."

  "Jack Bolt?"

  "Uh-huh."

  Both men were silent, then Cassidy asked, "How about these Rafter D hands? Were they rustlers?"

  "Nope. I'd say they didn't know anything at all. One of them may suspect. He's a slim, gray-faced hombre with blue eyes. He just listened to them talk to me and said nothing. But once or twice I had the feelin' that he was smilin' and had figured a lot of things out."

  Hopalong Cassidy swung into the saddle. "All right, Red. I guess we know all we need to know now. There's evidence to be had, and I guess we'd better head for Tascotal and the telegraph station."

  "Why there?"

  "Wire the sheriff over there near Goose Lake. We'll get him to hold those cattle for evidence. Let's go!"

  "I reckon," Red said briefly, "it's all over but the shootin'!"

  "Well, let's hope we can do it without much of that."

  Red Connors snorted. "All right, you hope! I'll keep my gun ready! If you get through this without shootin', you'll be mighty lucky! Mighty lucky!"

  Chapter 18

  Crumbling Ambitions.

  Tascotal drowsed in the sun of a bright morning with one eye open for trouble. Even those less perceptive than the inhabitants of the cow town would have noted the air of tension that hung over the streets. Tascotal had no theater and no carnival. Aside from the weekly dances or occasional ranch parties, the town was without entertainment except in the occasional outbursts of violence.

  Some of the boys had drifted in from even such outlying spots as Sod House Point and Bottle Hill. Cowhands from the neighboring ranches found excuses to head for town. Hopa-long Cassidy was dead--that story had gone the rounds. Pod Griffin had killed him, and the stories of how it was done were many.

  The story had also reached town somehow that Griffin himself was dead, slain in a gun battle with his boss, Jack Bolt.

  Old hands who knew the background of Cassidy began to wonder if any of the Bar 20 outfit would show up, and they recalled that Red Connors was still unaccounted for. So the town waited, talked low, and kept their ears tuned for the

  slightest sound. Meanwhile, other rumors added fuel to the growing blaze.

  There had been a gun battle west of town, and several men had been killed. Cardoza had a broken leg. A couple of the others of Sim Aragon's outfit had been wounded. A large herd of cattle had been found drifting, and much was being thought of the fact that no 8 Boxed H cattle were included.

  Shortly before noon two riders appeared and rode swiftly down the street to the telegraph office at the railroad station, yet as they passed, men looked startled. Hopalong Cassidy and Red Connors! Abel Garson was leaning against an awning post before the express office. He stiffened, then mulled this new information over in his mind. If Cassidy was not dead, trouble was coming. He turned from the porch and ducked back for his saddle horse. This was news!

  After sending his wire, Hopalong turned back to the street and stood there studying it for a long time. None of the outfit from the 8 Boxed H was in sight, and he could not see any of their horses. Nor were any of the Aragon crowd among the men along the street.

  Sue Gibson came out of a store up the street, and Hopalong stepped down on the boardwalk and started toward her. It was an old walk, the boards gray and silvery, yet worn wherever a man might find a place to sit. Sue was walking slowly, watching the street, and at first she did not see Hopalong. When she did she stopped abruptly, then gave a glad cry and ran toward him.

  "Hoppy!" she cried. "We were afraid you'd been killed!"

  "Not me." He smiled at her excitement. "That must have been somebody else. How's your dad?"

  "He's up. He's been walking with a cane. Just a few steps,

  of course, but nevertheless he is up, and he's fretting to see you. Where have you been?"

  "Chasing rustlers. Is Bolt in town?"

  "You mean Jack?" Her face suddenly sobered. "Don't tell me you are like the others, Hoppy? That you think him a rustler?"

  "I'm afraid I do," Hopalong replied carefully. "I'm afraid there isn't much doubt of it!"

  "Oh, I don't believe that!" Her eyes flashed. "You're all too ready to accuse people. He seems so nice!"

  Hopalong chuckled. "Ma'am, no man is all bad, nor is he bad all the time. There's nothing about being dishonest that has anything to do with po
liteness. Some of the worst men unhanged are polite, and they can carry on a conversation that no lady would ever take offense at. But that doesn't make them honest."

  "Well," she retorted, "I don't believe he's guilty. Frank does, I know, and after we found the herd without any 8 Boxed H cattle, more of them were suspicious."

  "You found the herd, then? Good. We started it back but didn't manage to stay with it. Red was off on another job, and-- well, I got shot."

  "Shot?" Sue was horrified. "How? Were you hurt? I mean--"

  Carefully he removed his hat, and she stared at the crude bandage that covered the wound across his forehead at the roots of his hair. "It was a close thing," he said.

  Red Connors had moved up beside him. "Hoppy," he said guardedly, "here comes Bolt now!"

  "Don't say anything," Cassidy replied quickly. "Not until after we've heard from over there. I want to be sure all that evidence is safe."

  She looked from one to the other. "Men are so dense!" she flared suddenly. "Why should you think Jack Bolt a rustler?"

  Bolt was nearing them, and suddenly he realized who the man with Sue and Red Connors must be. He stopped only an instant. Then, his face a shade whiter, he walked towards them, smiling. Hopalong could see the sudden wariness in the rancher's eyes.

  "Well, this is a surprise," Bolt said. "You must be Cassidy. We heard you'd been killed. Glad to see you're back and feeling all right."

  Hopalong smiled. "Thanks, Mr. Bolt. I appreciate that. Mind telling me where you heard it?"

  Bolt hesitated, seeing the trap. With careful fingers he drew out a small black cigar. "I can't"--his brow puckered thoughtfully--"recall. Everybody has been talking about it. I doubt," he added, "whether anybody actually knew anything. They probably surmised from your long absence that something had happened."

  "Heard you had a fight yourself," Connors suggested.

  "I?" Bolt waited, feeling his stomach tighten. "When was this?"

  "With Pod Griffin. Heard you killed him."

  Bolt hesitated. So one of his own men had talked? His eyes darkened, but he shrugged. "Oh, that? Yes, we had a fight. Something gave him an idea he was fast. I think"--he was growing more confident--"I think he must have been the one who shot at you, Cassidy. I think he thought he had killed you, and the idea gave him an exalted opinion of his ability. He forced a fight on me, and I killed him."

  This was news to Sue Gibson. She looked again at Bolt. He had killed a man only a few hours before and had to be re--

  minded of the fact. Could Cassidy be right? Was he a rustler? Her father disliked him; Frank disliked him. She shivered slightly, listening to their voices.

  "If you remember who told you I was shot," Hopalong replied casually, "let me know. Only two people could know that. Myself and the man who shot me. I haven't told anybody until this conversation began with Sue. Wherever your story started, it started with the man who shot me."

  "Then it must have been Griffin," Bolt replied shortly. "You don't suspect me, do you?"

  "I don't suspect anything," Hopalong said, but the tone of his voice and that slight underlining of the word suspect worried Bolt. What did they know? What could they know?

  Abel Garson was not far away, trying to signal him. Bolt nodded, then said, "Well, I've got to get around a little. See you. Adios, Sue."

  Garson had turned away and walked towards his horse, which was tied at the corral. Bolt paused, lighted his cigarette, which had gone out, and then started casually towards his own horse. Garson was tightening his cinch.

  "Cassidy's up to somethin'," Garson said. "When they rode in they went right to the station. Don't know what they did, but I figure they sent a wire."

  Jack Bolt absorbed that, his mind working coolly. He stood there in the dust with the smell of the horse's sweaty flanks in his nostrils. What could they have discovered, and where had the wires gone? He considered going to the station, then dismissed that as unlikely of success; yet see those messages he must. His whole future might well hang upon them.

  He was leaving his horse when he saw a man loafing in the shadows in back of the livery stable. The man motioned, and Bolt walked over to him. Manuel Aragon's eyes glittered.

  "We lose thees cows, si?" Aragon shrugged. "Well, another time, maybe."

  "Where's Sim?"

  "They come soon. Seem ver' angree." Manuel spat. "Thees Cassidy--I would not want to be heem."

  Bolt considered the situation and considered Manuel. He was the half-brother of Pete and Sim and had spent most of his life in Mexico. He was an able, deadly fighter, although he lacked Sim's gun skill. But no plan came to him. His head felt thick and for the first time he was genuinely worried. Before there had always seemed so many chances of victory, so few of failure. Now Hopalong Cassidy was in town, some of Sim's men had been taken prisoner, and their big drive had fizzled out to nothing.

  His mind would not clear. The things that usually came so easily to his conniving brain now failed him. He had no plan, no idea of what to do. The feeling of disaster in the atmosphere increased and Jack Bolt felt as if the weather itself was expressing his feelings of doom. The air was sultry, heavy with heat, its usual dryness gone. The sky was vast and brassy, with no distinguishable features.

  If he could get access to the telegraph station and check the messages . . .

  He turned away, tossing a "See you later!" over his shoulder at Manuel. It would be a good idea to leave town, yet he hated to be away, for fear something would develop that he needed to know. Instead of going to the hills and awaiting darkness and a chance to force a way into the telegraph office, he would stay right here in town.

  Crossing the street, he entered the saloon. Dru Monaghan was at the bar with Joe Gamble. Neither of them turned his head or appeared to notice Bolt. Walking to a table in the rear,

  Bolt picked up a greasy deck of cards and began thumbing through them, laying out a game of solitaire.

  Common sense, as well as a certain inner and deep-laid panic, warned him to run, to grab a horse and go, to get as far away from this country as possible. His little world was falling about his ears, and all because of two men. One, actually; for without the arrival of Hopalong Cassidy, Red Connors would now be dead and forgotten. One man.

  He threw down the cards and got up in disgust and walked to the bar. "Rye!" he snapped, slapping his hand flat upon the bar. He was suddenly filled with ugly rage. "Rye, damn it!"

  The bartender complied, avoiding his eyes. Jack Bolt downed the drink and took another, then turned and slammed through the twin doors. Joe Gamble looked after him.

  "Mad," he said shortly. "What's he got to be mad about?"

  "He'll have plenty if we get the deadwood on him," Monaghan said. "If I knew for sure that he was the rustler, I'd--"

  "You'd better get ready, then. He's our man." Gamble looked at his own drink. "Hoppy sent a wire off somewhere, and unless I'm much mistaken, when he gets an answer things are going to pop. Red Connors did some prospectin' out there, and I figure he got the proof, or something anyway. Those two hombres could trail a snake through a thick fog, believe me."

  Jack Bolt stood on the boardwalk in the sunlight. He stared one way and then another. All eyes avoided him. More than anything else this told him his stack of chips had run out and he was down to the boards. He spat viciously and stared fiercely at a man sitting on the boardwalk. He felt like kicking

  the man, like striking him, killing him. And he did not even know him.

  Striding down the walk, his boot steps rang hard on the boards, but no head turned. It was like being dead, as if he moved through a world where he could not be seen. Already the story had gone the rounds. And people believed him a rustler. All right! Let them believe it! He'd show them! Cassidy had been the cause of his misfortunes, so Cassidy would die!

  Griffin! Why, that poor, egotistical fool! To believe he could kill a man like Hopalong! To kill such a man you had to plan carefully or take a great chance. You could never do it in the haph
azard way Pod Griffin had tried it. Nor could you do it from too great a distance.

  Jack Bolt stopped suddenly, his eyes straying up and down the street, his brain suddenly sharp with calculation. That upstairs window over the bank--it had been an office, but the lawyer had left town. It was empty now. A man up there with a rifle ... He nodded to himself. That was it.

  But why take a chance on just one man? A man there with a rifle, but another up the street in the loft of the livery stable. Another on the bluff over the town. Swiftly he chose his positions and considered the situation. It was all or nothing now. He would have to hit hard and suddenly. He must kill so completely and wipe out his enemies so well that never again would a hand be lifted against him in this town.

  Suppose--just suppose he could get Connors, Cassidy, Monaghan, and Gamble all at once? Then ride on to the 3TL and take care of Gibson and Gillespie? Suppose he could catch them in the street, down them quickly? Suppose a message was delivered to them by some stranger, somebody who would call them all together in plain view of his unseen marksmen? A

  volley of shots--and then he could appear and be all sorrow and sadness.

  Sim Aragon would soon be in town, and with him would be Pete and some of the boys. It would be enough. Once the leaders were dead, the others could suspect all they wanted to! Let them suspect; it would put fear in them, destroy their ability to organize against him.

  Passing Manuel on the street, he whispered, "At the bar down by the creek, in two hours. Get Sim."

  Hopalong Cassidy walked into the restaurant and sat down. Red Connors strolled after him and* seated himself nearby, where he could keep an eye on the tDack door to the kitchen. Whatever was going to happen woul>>
  Hopalong stretched his legs und_er the table and reached for the egg- and coffee-stained menu, which was written on the back of an old show-card advertising East Lynne. His eyes looked over it at the street. Bolt was standing on a corner as if deep in thought.

  Dru Monaghan came in--a tall, ^rim-looking man, neat in cattleman's clothes, looking every iimch the rancher. He nodded at Hopalong and dropped into a chair. Joe Gamble joined hlm, and the four men were silent.