"Grub's good here," Red said f&nally. "Be a relief to get away from my own cookin'."
"Your cooking?" Hopalong chucksled. "Joe did all the cook-ng' 3OU couldn't boil the hide off a steer!"
Huh! You talk about your own_ cookin', not mine." Red
eyed the back door suspiciously. Bolt was a little too obvious out there on the corner.
"How long will it take to hear from that sheriff?" Monaghan wanted to know.
Hopalong shrugged. "Maybe a few hours, maybe a few days. It's hard to tell. The message doesn't go straight through. It has to be re-sent a couple of times. There may be delays."
"Hope Bolt won't leave town."
"He won't."
Jack Bolt waited in the shade of a store awning and watched the street. A buckboard drawn by a pair of half-broken mustangs clattered and rattled down the street, and then a heavy freighter's wagon, drawn by a long string of mules. A barefooted boy walked by with a stick in his hand and a nondescript dog at his side. After a while Grat and Bones turned the corner near the livery stable and started towards him. Again his eyes surveyed the street. Slim was down at the Picket Pin, a small bar just around the corner and off the one street of the
town.
The Picket Pin had long been a hangout for his boys. It faced the creek and a row of huge old cottonwoods. Beyond the creek, which was shallow, gravel-bottomed, and only about six feet wide, was a corral where several of the townspeople held their saddle horses. Probably the Breed was down there, too. A showdown was coming, and they all knew it.
Grat swung down from his horse, a big, rough-dressed man, hard-bitten and tough. He had acquired new respect for his boss since the killing of Pod Griffin. How fast Griffin had been, Grat did not know, although he had always talked a good
fight--but one thing he did understand and no mistake about it. The boss was much, much faster.
"What's up, boss?" he asked. "Anything doin'?"
"There will be." Bolt looked up at him, then over at Bones. "See Slim and the Breed and tell them to stay close to the Picket Pin. Cassidy's in town."
Grafs mouth opened to speak, then closed. Cassidy was not dead. Pod had been mistaken. Grafs jaw set hard. That silly fool! Couldn't he do anything right? Grat turned impatiently and strode down the street, and after a moment's hesitation Bones followed.
Hopalong Cassidy alive! Grat did not like it. He liked no part of it. And Red Connors, too. He recalled his own conversation with Cassidy on the trail when they were chasing Red. He had warned Cassidy then of what he would do if he saw him around again. Did Hopalong recall that warning? Grat hoped not. He was a fighter, but he wanted no shootouts with a man of that caliber. Life was short enough, and if by some miracle he should beat Hopalong, like as not he would only be downed by some half-smart kid with a desire for a reputation. Like Pod Griffin.
Grafs cigarette suddenly tasted bad, and he hurled it into the dust. Then he turned the corner and pushed into the Picket Pin. The interior was cool and dark. Slim sat at a table playing cards with Manuel Aragon and two other men, both Aragon riders. The Breed stood at the bar, drinking. Grat walked up beside him. "Go easy on that stuff," he warned. "Bolt won't like it."
The Breed turned his yellowish eyes on Grat. He smiled, and his teeth were even and white. He had beautiful teeth, but there was nothing else beautiful about him. His boots were down at the heel and long unpolished. His trousers were
stained and soiled. A stubble of hairs grew on his chin and upper lip--thick hairs that he shaved once every few weeks. Grat could see that telling the Breed to stop now would be a waste of time. Grat called for a drink and felt Bones take his place alongside him. Suddenly Grat was impatient with Bones. The man was his shadow. He was never without him, he--
"Grat!"
He turned to see that Bolt had come into the room and was motioning to him. Grat tossed off his drink and crossed to the table. Then Bolt called to Bones and the Breed. Manuel Aragon moved over, and Sim suddenly walked into the room from the rear. One of the men with Manuel got up from the table and walked to the door, where he sat down on a bench from which he could see anyone who approached.
A half hour later, when Grat left the Picket Pin, it was to walk towards the livery barn. He went up the street first and mounted his horse, riding it to a place in the shade of the stable, where he could reach it easily. Careful that he was not seen, Grat slipped his rifle from the scabbard and, entering the livery stable, climbed to the loft. Once there, he bellied down in the hay to the left of the wide second-floor door, through which hay was thrown into the loft. From this point he could cover all the far side of the street and most of the street itself. He jacked a shell into the chamber. The payoff was coming, and he was relieved. He hoped it would not be long. His mouth was already dry.
In the deserted office above the bank Manuel Aragon placed his rifle carefully beside the window. Grat was in the stable, and what Grat could not see of the street Manuel could. In another window of the same office was Slim, with a Spencer 56.
Bones plodded up behind the building and walked to the
back of the hardware store. He left his horse there in the mouth of the draw that opened to the hills beyond. He had the best getaway of them all, the very best. But he would have to take his place behind some rubbish at the rear of the store. From there he could prevent anyone taking shelter in the space between the saloon and the hardware store and could see a part of the street. Other men were carefully disposed about town so that no getaway would be possible. Caught by fire in the middle of the street, their instinctive action would be a jump for shelter in a gap between buildings. And now a rifleman covered each gap, ready for just such a move.
Jack Bolt considered his situation and the dispersal of his men. Four rifles would cover the group in the street, and they would open fire simultaneously. If their guns did not get the men they sought, some of the other ambushing riflemen would. And with that lot out of the way the countryside would be in the hands of Bolt and the Aragons. The few remaining, like Gibson, could be taken care of very easily.
Suddenly Bolt's spirits rose. This was a time when Hopa-long could not get away. He was closed in from every approach, as were the others. For Hopalong alone was not enough now. This had to be sudden, terrifying, and complete. Hopalong Cassidy, Red Connors, Joe Gamble, and Dru Monaghan were the four marked for murder.
Jack Bolt walked slowly down the street towards the saloon. There was no sense waiting. He would get this started now. And if any of them should try to get back into the saloon he would, if necessary, take care of them himself. The messenger should arrive vithin the half hour, and that would be the
end. He stepped into the saloon and sauntered across to the bar.
Hopalong Cassidy had walked over from the restaurant and was seated at a table with Red Connors. He looked up as Bolt walked in. Instantly he was alert. Every line of the man exuded confidence and readiness. Red's eyes followed Hopa-long's.
"Now what's got into him?" Red demanded. "He looks like he's the cat that's been eatin' the canaries."
Hopalong got to his feet. "Trouble coming--I can smell it. That hombre has got something up his sleeve."
Dru Monaghan and Joe Gamble looked at the two men curiously. "What is it? What do you think?"
"What would please him most?"
"Most? Why, to see the four of us dead," Monaghan suggested. "Why?"
"Then we'd better look sharp," Hopalong replied dryly. "He looks mighty happy to me!"
Chapter 20
Cold-blooded Killing.
Despite the tension, night drew near without any break in the ordered calm of the day. Men drifted reluctantly home, and others went to the saloon and stood along the bar, drinking a little, talking, and listening. Rumors were still rife, and it was noticed that neither Hopalong Cassidy nor Red Connors showed any evidence of leaving town. Moreover, about dusk Frank Gillespie rode in and stripped the saddle from his horse. With him was a well-set-up young man with cold gra
y eyes. He was dressed in almost-new clothes that seemed to have been carefully brushed only minutes before.
"You think Cassidy is dead, then?"
Gillespie shrugged. "All I know is the rumor. You can't keep a thing like that quiet. Anyway, what I hear now came to me from a 4H cowhand. He heard it from somebody else. This Pod Griffin killed Hopalong and was killed later by his own boss, Jack Bolt."
"Bolt a friend of Cassidy's?"
"Not so's you'd know it. Bolt is ramroddin' that rustler outfit or I miss my guess. He killed Pod because he got too big for his breeches, that's all."
Gillespie looked at the stranger again. They had met onthe trail, and he was beginning to realize that he had done all the talking himself. He knew no more about this man now than when they had met. Nevertheless there was something about him he liked, although the two tied-down guns spoke of a man who understood trouble.
Simply and directly as possible he explained the situation as it now stood in the country around Tascotal, ending with the return of the cattle and the capture of Cardoza and the cook. Then he added, "About sundown I took a pasear aroun' the hills near our range. Some distance off I spotted a party of riders. I didn't have no glasses with me, but I spotted a horse I knowed. It was Sim Aragon's."
"Headed for town?"
"Uh-huh. Well, I knowed that Monaghan and Gamble had come in here, and that Red Connors would come to town if he was alive, so I figured the big payoff was due. I grabbed my rifle and headed on over."
"Good man. I'm in this, too."
Gillespie searched the young man's face. "How's that? I don't place you."
"Why, I was down country, sort of ambulatin' this way, when I heard a rumor that Cassidy was in a knock-down and drag-out range war, so I hit the trail for Tascotal. Hoppy's a friend of mine. My name's Jenkins. Mesquite Jenkins."
Frank Gillespie stared. This, then, was the holy terror of whom Red had talked almost as much as he had talked of Hopalong! He swallowed.
"Say! That's great!" An idea occurred to him. "Look, nobody here knows you. I'll take a look around town, and we'll meet back here in an hour if nothin' starts. All right?"
Mesquite nodded. "Where does this outfit hang out?"
"Right around that corner. Place called the Picket Pin. Better watch your step if you go there."
"I'll watch it. Back here, in an hour."
Mesquite Jenkins turned swiftly towards the Picket Pin. He had arrived too late to help Hopalong, but not too late to settle the crowd that had done him in. If Red was in town--all right, the two of them would go through this bunch like soup through a tall Swede. He sauntered around the corner and met the eye of the man on the bench. He kept going, and the man stood up.
"Goin' somewhere?" The watchman was elaborately casual.
"Inside," Mesquite said briefly, "for a drink. They sell it, don't they?"
"Sure, but right now there's folks busy inside."
"I reckon the door still opens both ways. All your saloons keep a sentry outside? Or is that a special courtesy?"
The outlaw's face darkened. He decided he did not like this cold-faced youngster. It might be a good time to teach him a lesson.
"It's special," he said. "Now beat it!"
Mesquite Jenkins had long been a disciple of the idea that once the point of battle is reached, no good can result from continued conversation or argument. The guard had told him what to do. He turned on his heel with a shrug, but suddenly, as he turned, his right hand shot up, grasped the man's rifle by the middle, and shoved. The guard staggered, the bench caught him behind the knees, and his heels flew up, his head down. His head tunked dully on the butt end of a log, and the guard blanked out.
Jenkins picked up the rifle and shucked the shells from it,then tossed them away. Shoving open the door, he strode into the saloon and to the bar.
Sim Aragon looked up angrily. Most of his men were already placed, but he did not relish interruptions. Nevertheless the man was a stranger and he walked to the bar without apparent interest. Two or three habitues of the place loafed there in low-voiced conversation, so Sim ignored the visitor.
Mesquite remained at the bar for several minutes, and in those minutes he heard several interesting things. Leaving his drink unfinished, Mesquite walked out. The first thing he saw was the guard struggling to his feet. Calmly Mesquite hung a pistol barrel over his skull and walked on. What he had heard was important. Hopalong Cassidy was alive. He was with Red at the saloon in the hotel. And something was in the wind.
Jack Bolt had made his own decision after seeing Cassidy and the others. He had decided suddenly to stop his messenger and to let the whole thing ride until morning. In the bright morning sunlight, when men were relieved of the fears of the night, the messenger could arrive and they would believe the rustlers had struck again, elsewhere. It was the best plan. And when the four men congregated in the street there would be an end to it.
Among the things he did not count upon was a cat-footed young man who watched Manuel Aragon come down the back stairs of the bank building and steal softly away. That same young man saw Bones rise from behind a rubbish pile and begin idly working over his harness. Mesquite nodded grimly. The attack had been called off. He would avoid his friends and stay on the outskirts to watch.
The hours of darkness marched solemnly past, like groups of dark-robed monks proceeding to a morning mass. A few desultory card games whiled the evening away, and a few loiterers lingered long at the bars, but nothing broke the stillness of the evening; the night was serene, starlit, and cool.
At the Picket Pin only a few men gathered. Others came and went about their various activities, having a drink, speaking in low-voiced conversation with each other, hearing guarded messages from the bartender or Bolt himself, then drifting out again.
Only one thing happened during the night, and that not discovered until daybreak. It was the operator at the telegraph station who discovered it--a man was murdered.
Old Dave Wills had been the town's handyman for longer than most people could remember. He worked at odd jobs, and his one steady task was handling freight at the railroad station. He had been in the station's freight-storage room when the operator closed up. He was still there, dead from a knife wound, when he was found. The weapon had been carried away. Nothing was missing.
It had been after midnight when Jack Bolt decided to see what was in the message or messages sent by Hopalong Cassidy. The greater part of Tascotal was in darkness, and Bolt slipped quietly from his room and down the back alleys of the town towards the station. Behind the hardware store he thought he detected a shadow, but a fifteen-minute wait developed nothing, so he went on, determined not to be seen even if he failed in his effort.
The station was fifty yards from the nearest building, and
across the tracks were the stockyards from which cattle were shipped. From the last building in the street he made a short dash to a blasted boulder, removed from the right of way when the railroad was put through. Then he moved forward in the low shadow of the railroad grade.
The station platform was dark and still, but opening a window was a small task for one so long expert in crime. Inside, he hastily rifled through the stack of messages. There were not many, most of them having to do with shipments or invoices of freight received. Suddenly he stopped.
JACK BRONSON REPORTED BUYING STOCK IN WYOMING AND NEVADA. MET HERD OUTSIDE GOOSE LAKE. BRANDS CHECK WITH YOUR MESSAGE. HOLDING CATTLE AND HANDS FOR INVESTIGATION.
GEORGE CUYLER, SHERIFF.
Jack Bolt stared at the message as if hoping the words would change before his eyes, but they did not. This was worse, much worse, than he had expected! This was the end, then. His dream of having a ranch and security, of having a vast herd of his own--it was all at an end.
Alone in the dark room, long after his match went out, he stood there holding the message in his hands. Then he struck another match and shifted the page. Beneath it lay another.
ANSWERS DESCRIPTION OF M
OBEETIE JACK BIRCHEN, WANTED HERE FOR RUSTLING, MURDER, AND STAGE ROBBERY. HOLD FOR INVESTIGATION.
JONES, MAJOR, TEXAS RANGERS.
A sudden movement startled him, and he glanced up. Old Dave stood in the doorway to the storage room where he slept.
"Who's there? What do you want?"
The old man came on into the room, striking a match. "Oh? It's you, Mr. Bolt? Why, I'd-- Uh, uh-h-h." Writhing, the old man sank to the floor. The hard-driven knife had gone deep. Bitterly Bolt stared down at him.
"You old fool!" he snarled. "Why didn't you stay where you belonged?"
Returning the messages to the pigeonhole, he slipped out the window and returned to his room. Now, more than ever, only one thing remained. To kill Cassidy and get out of the country, and fast.
He paused an instant, undressing. Those messages! They had not been delivered! Surely, if they had been, Hopalong would already have been after him. Yet the ones he had seen were copies--the real messages must be at the hotel and somehow had not yet come into Hopalong's hands! For an instant he was moved to go at once and try to get ahold of them, but that was useless. Cuyler would be checking soon, and would wire again. He would have to destroy the copies as well, and he was glad he had not done so, for they would have been a clue to the new killing--that of Dave Wills.
Dawn found him wide awake, but tired. He had slept, but he had not rested. He stared up the street, his hatred a living, breathing thing within him. "All right, you fool!" He muttered the words half aloud. "You'll get yours within the next couple of hours, and when you do, it will be good!"
He dressed hurriedly and went at once to the Picket Pin.
Hopalong Cassidy awakened from a sound sleep to find the messages tucked under his door. After they had arrived the night before, Dave Wills had taken them to deliver, but had wandered off on business of his own and had only delivered the messages after Hopalong was asleep. Once he had read them, Hopalong woke Red Connors.
the Riders Of High Rock (1993) Page 15
