L'Amour, Louis - Hopalong 03 - The Trail To Seven Pines

by The Trail To Seven Pines (lit)

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  68 THE TRAIL TO SEVEN PINES turned the tables on him. Now any action of his that led to violence would certainly be considered his fault. He fixed his eyes on the bar, stared at it bitterly. Then, feeling eyes upon him, he looked around to meet the gaze of Pony Harper. He saw the slight inclination of Harper's eyes toward the office of the hotel and frowned slightly. There had never been anything but a speaking acquaintance between himself and Harper. He did not like the man and saw n o more reason for beginning to like him now. However, there was something in the gesture that interested him. After a moment or two he turned and started down the room toward the door. As he walked he did not feel another pair of cold blue eyes following him. Hopalong Cassidy had seen the gesture. What lay behind it he did not know, but it could scarcely mean anything except trouble for himself. Shorty Montana moved up beside him. "Looks like you hired yourself a hand, Cassidy," he said. "All right if I show up in the mornin?" "You just know it is!" Hopalong said emphatically. Montana said, "You know, of course, you were just talkin' through your hat like Gore was? There isn't goin' to be any peace in this valley until that Gore outfit's wiped out! And some more I've a hunch I could put a name to!" "You're right, I'm thinkin'." Hopalong stared at him thoughtfully. "Reckon I've a little ridin' to do." Shorty hesitated. "Hoppy," he said seriously, "this don't make any promises for me, does it, about that Dusark? I don't cotton to that hombre." "It makes no promises," Cassidy agreed. "Only take it easy. Don't push either him or Hartley." Cassidy turned to leave the room, and Montana followed him. "If I'm not at the ranch in the mornin'," Cassidy said, "you

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  69 LOUIS L'AMOUR tell Bob Ronson I hired you, and go to work. You know what needs to be done on a cow outfit." "Where you goin?" Montana demanded. Hopalong hesitated. "Why, I reckon to Corn Patch. I think I'll just take a pasear over there and see what goes on." Montana shook his head. "Hoppy, you watch yourself. That bunch is poison. And don't you trust that Poker Harris-not by a jugful! He'd kill a man as quick as he'd fry an egg!"

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  70 CHAPTER 5 Extra Aces

  71 ±oker Harris had been the guiding hand at Corn Patch for more years than even the oldest other inhabitant could remember. His background was unknown, except that it seemed more than probable that it had included a postgraduate course in the unrefined arts of murder, mayhem, and assorted varieties of robbery. Six feet and four inches in his sockless feet, Poker Harris was two hundred and sixty pounds of bone and muscle overlaid with a deceptive veneer of fat. His jowls were heavy, usually unshaven and flushed, and his lashless eyes peered from between folds of loose flesh. His hands were large, very thick and powerful, covered with reddish hair. His head was partially bald, and he made up for that lack of hirsute adornment by a surplus on his chest. Customarily he wore a six-shooter tucked behind the rope that did duty as a belt, but his favorite weapon, which he was almost never without, was a sawed-off shotgun fitted with a homemade pistol grip. It was this weapon, as much as anything else, that terrorized those close to him, for many a man will face

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  72 THE TRAIL TO SEVEN PINES a pistol with equanimity and yet shrink from the blasting of a shotgun at close range. A drifting miner some fifty years before, when prospectors in the region were extremely rare, had found a patch of corn growing on a flatland alongside a water hole. Evidently someone had planted this corn, cultivated it for a time, and then gone on about his business, or perhaps had died in the back country. Given a chance, the corn made good and grew rapidly; un-harvested, it scattered its kernels about, and more corn had grown. Attracted by its presence, the miner had built a shack. He found some placer gold in a nearby wash, picked up a couple of cows lost by a wagon train, and soon found himself settled in an easy way of life. Other miners came, lived for a time, abandoned their shacks and diggings, then moved on. Then there was a brief boom during which a saloon was thrown together and a bunkhouse that passed as a hotel was built. The shacks exchanged owners nightly, weekly, or monthly, and without title beyond that of possession. Then Poker Harris came and stayed. The original inhabitant disappeared, and ownership of the cows, now grown to a herd of an even dozen, was transferred to Harris. By use of appropriate gestures with the shotgun, Harris acquired title to the saloon and the shacks. He designated sleeping quarters as he wished, and if any sought to dispute possession they had a choice of leaving town fast or being assigned a permanent residence on Boot Hill. Some of this Hopalong Cassidy knew. Much he had yet to find out. What Poker Harris knew he kept to himself, and what his dealings were with those who came and went around Corn Patch he kept a secret. Like many pioneers of both good and

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  73 LOUIS L'AMOUR bad vintage, Harris had a fine memory for names, faces, and descriptions. Newspapers were sadly lacking, but word-of-mouth descriptions were correspondingly accurate. Few men appeared at Corn Patch whose backgrounds were unknown to Poker Harris. Corn Patch itself lay in a canyon once called Eldorado by some optimist or humorist. A mountain ridge that towered nearly five thousand steep feet above the town divided it from the mining town of Unionville, some five miles south, and the immediate canyon in which Corn Patch lay was steep-sided and the sides lined with shacks. From his windows Poker Harris could see most of those shacks and watch the comings and goings of the inhabitants. Consequently he was his own espionage service, and little took place within the confines of the town that he did not know. The saloon, which was also his office and home, was a stone-and-frame structure, badly weathered and never painted. It backed up against the southeast wall of the canyon and looked right down the main and only street, which was also the canyon's bottom. A store, the bunkhouse, a blacksmith shop, and a scattering of shacks completed the street, all easily seen from the stool where Poker usually sat. Behind him was a rack containing a Sharps .50, a Spencer .56, a Winchester .44, and two shotguns other than the sawed-off he usually carried. These were always loaded, the rack was locked, and he carried the only key. Under the bar, within grasp of his hand, was another Spencer .56, a weapon whose ventilating possibilities were scarcely exceeded by an artillery piece. In short, Poker Harris was monarch of all he surveyed and intended to remain so-against any one man or any gang of men. Both attempts had been made. The first had been tried four

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  74 THE TRAIL TO SEVEN PINES times, accounting for four of the graves on his private Boot Hill, and the last had been tried twice, accounting for seven more graves. At least four other graves were filled by itinerants who seemed doubtful to Poker, who settled his doubts with lead. A dozen men idled about the saloon playing desultory poker. Harris dozed at the bar. It was during one of the intervals of wakefulness that he glanced past the bottom of his stein to see a rider turn into the trail that doubled as street. The rider was astride a white gelding that walked fast and smoothly. The rider himself wore a black wide-brimmed hat. He had a tanned, pleasant countenance, worn black trousers tucked into cowboy boots, and two white-handled, tied-down guns. He also wore a black vest. It was the Winchester in the saddle boot that did not click in the brain of Poker Harris. Had it been a Sharps, he would at once have thought of Hopalong Cassidy. As it was, he did not know that Hoppy had at last yielded, temporarily at least, to the arguments of his old Bar 20 comrade Red Connors. The rifle argument between the two had gone on for years, and Connors, a wizard with the weapon, had at last prevailed upon his friend. That he had won a victory he did not know, and

  if Red Connors had appeared on the horizon, Hoppy would hastily have concealed the Winchester and resorted to his old and well-loved buffalo gun. Poker Harris linked men up to things, and the love of Cassidy for the Sharps was known wherever there were cow camps or men from the cattle drives. The bone-handled Colts he recognized instantly as belonging to a man who understood their use, but this man had come to Corn Patch, a place of safety to outlaws and of death to officers of the law. Therefore, this man must be an outlaw. Still, Poker Harris was wary. Pushing open the door, Cassidy entered the long room. />
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  75 LOUIS L'AMOUR Men glanced up, then went on with whatever they were doing. Harris would take care of things. He always did. No sense being too efficient. "Water," Hopalong suggested, and Harris swept a thick hand to the back bar for a glass, filled it, and shoved it toward Hopalong. Hopalong tasted the water, then drank it all. "Good," he said. "Spring water," Harris replied with pardonable pride. "No alkali." Poker Harris liked a man who had little to say. The cold blue eyes measured him. Harris felt a moment of uneasiness and that disturbed him, for so superb ;was his confidence that he was rarely uneasy about anything. Cassidy glanced at the men playing poker. "Any draw players around?" Harris's eyes flickered. "Few. I play a few hands occasionally." "Like it myself," Hopalong agreed, "if the players aren't too stuffy. I like a fast game," he added, "where a man takes care of hisself." Harris shifted on his stool, warming toward this hard-eyed stranger. "I'll break out a new deck." He glanced out the window. "Better put your horse up. Hot out there." Turning, Hopalong walked from the saloon, and Poker Harris stared after him, watching the choppy walk, the sloping shoulders. This was a man he should know. He shook his head with disgust. It would come to him. He smiled when the man swung into the saddle instead of merely leading his horse across the street. It was typical of a rider.

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  76 THE TRAIL TO SEVEN PINES The livery stable was long, wide, and cool inside. The old familiar barn smells and sounds made Hopalong smile. They were smells he would always love and sou nds he knew. The blowing of a horse, the drone of flies hovering in the shadows, the occasional stamp of a hoof on soft earth and hay. He led the white gelding into a stall and stripped off the saddle and bridle, giving the horse a quick going-over with a handful of hay. Digging around, he found a corn bin and poured a quart of corn into a small feed box in the stall. Then he stepped to the door and, keeping in the shadow and out of the sun, lit a match. That he was on dangerous ground he well knew. Poker Harris was a man who would kill and had killed on the slightest provocation. If he got so much as an idea who his new guest was, he might shoot without comment or accusation-and he might not. He was supremely confident, with just reason, in Corn Patch. Hopalong strolled aimlessly down the line between the two rows of stalls checking each, wondering if he would find a horse with a blaze on its face and side . . .the horse that he had seen among the riders heading toward the hold up. He quickly ascertained that no such horse was among those present. There might be other barns in town, or a hideout in the hills where horses could be kept. He turned and walked back across the sun-baked street toward the saloon. Harris looked around at him. "Well, how about that game? Interested?" "Sure am! Blind openers?" "My game too." Poker heaved himself from his stool and ambled around the bar to an empty table. He dropped into a huge chair, obviously built for his own comfort, then turned slightly. "Any you boys want in?"

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  77 LOUIS L'AMOUR A surly-eyed black-haired man looked up. "Not with you, I don't! Your game's too fast for my blood!" Poker Harris chuckled. "Plays a careful game, that one." A narrow-faced man with a petulant, irritable mouth sauntered over. "Name's Troy. I'll sit in." Two others, a burly cowpuncher named Hankins, with broken, dirty nails and quick, hard eyes, and a tall, gray-haired man with dark eyes and smooth hands. "Blind openers?" The gray-haired man smiled. "That can be rough." Harris jerked a thumb toward the man. "Name's Drennan. Yours?" "Red River Regan." Cassidy smijed.

  ) "Cut high for deal?" Harris asked casually. He glanced around the table, not to find if his suggestion was agreeable, but rather to place all his men and fix their positions in his memory. Red River Regan appeared to have a roll, and he was slated for a cleaning. Suckers had been all too scarce lately. "High or low, either one." Cassidy leaned back in his chair, apparently uninterested in the swiftly moving fingers of the saloonkeeper, who was shuffling the cards a bit. He shoved them toward Cassidy, who cut an eight. Drennan cut a six, Hankins and Troy both cut tens, and Poker Harris a king. Harris shuffled the cards once more, slapped them down before Troy, who cut, and then he dealt. The game moved qui etly along, and Hopalong found himself winning a few small pots. Drennan won, and Harris. Both Troy and Hankins were losers, with Troy growling at his ill luck. Hopalong's own very real ability with cards had been tapered to a fine point under the masterly training of Tex Ewalt, poker player extraordinary, and what Tex did not know, nobody knew. Recognizing at once that Harris, while handy with cards, was no Ewalt, Cassidy pro4

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  78 THE TRAIL TO SEVEN PINES ceeded to play carefully and wait for a showdown. It came suddenly. Both Drennan and Hankins had dropped out. Harris, Troy, and Hopalong had stayed. Harris mopped his sweaty face with a handkerchief and stared at his cards, lifting his eyes in a casual glance across the table at Troy. As he did so his left thumb projected from the fist of his clenched left hand. Hopalong caught the gesture from the tail of his eye and grinned inwardly. So this was it? They were going to keep raising? All right, he would stay with them. He glanced once more at his full house, queens and sixes. Harris shoved three blue chips into the center of the table. "Raise it thirty." Hankins stared at Troy, then looked at Hopalong. Troy licked his lips. "See you, and up ten." Hopalong studied his stack of chips and tossed four blues to the center. "Call," he said quietly. His quick eye had caught a surreptitious signal from Harris to Troy. "Four kings," Harris said coolly, and slapped his stacked cards on the table, only the top card showing. Troy's right hand shot out instantly to spread them, and Hopalong's left was faster. Before Troy's hand could reach the cards, his own was there. He spread the hand with a swift gesture. Only four cards showed-and only three kings. Troy's face turned ugly, and Poker Harris's eyes tightened. Hopalong only grinned. "You must have dropped one, Harris. I only see three kings." Harris craned his neck to see under the table, then ducked quickly and came up with a card. It was a trey. His face was red. "Mistake," he said. "I'd have sworn I had four kings." Cassidy shrugged. "Forget it. We all make mistakes. Looks," he added innocently, "like my full house takes the pot?"

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  79 LOUIS L'AMOUR Troy had withdrawn his hand, and Cassidy coolly swept the chips toward him. That fourth king had been in Troy's hand, and had he spread the cards, he would have added it to those already there. It was an old trick, and one Ewalt had showed Cassidy in a bunkhouse years before. It was Hopalong's deal, and he gathered the cards clumsily toward him. He had already noted two aces among the discard, and he neatly swept them into a bottom stock as he gathered the cards together. He riffled the cards, spotted another ace and, in a couple of passes in shuffling, added it to his bottom stock. Palming the three, he passed the deck to Harris for cutting, returned them to

  ) the bottom after the cut, and calmly dealt five hands, giving himself two of the aces in bottom deals. Drennan promptly glanced at his cards and tossed them aside. Hankins stayed and tossed in a red chip. Troy upped it five, and then Poker Harris grinned over at Hopalong. "Reckon we'll see how you like it, Red! I'll see that ten and lift her forty!" Cassidy hesitated, studied his cards, then raised twenty more. Hankins folded and Troy raised, Harris raised again, and they made another round of the table. At the draw Harris took two cards and Troy and Cassidy three each. One of the three Hoppy dealt himself was the remaining ace from his bottom stock. Troy promptly tossed two blue chips into the pot. Harris saw him and raised, and Hopalong sat back in his chair and grinned at them. His hard blue eyes were smiling over the ice that glinted in their depths. Drennan suddenly shifted his feet and looked anxiously at Poker Harris, but the big man was looking at Hopalong. Hankins sat silent, his big hands resting on the

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  80 THE TRAIL TO SEVEN PINES arms of his chair. Troy twisted nervously and glared at Hopa-long for the delay. Hankins's guns, Hopalong noted, were almost under the arms of his chair, which precluded a swift draw. Drennan wore no gun in sight, and it was a question whether he would declare himself in or not. If trouble showed, Troy would be the first to move. He was the sort to go off half-cocked. Harris
was the tough one. "Let's make it pot limit," Cassidy said, chuckling. "I like 'em bloody!" Troy swore bitterly as Harris nodded assent, then threw in his hand and drew back slightly, leaving himself in position to cover Hopalong if trouble started. Poker Harris studied the man across the table with ill-concealed curiosity. It was possible the man who called himself Red River Regan might have guessed their play on the last hand. If he had guessed it, he knew something about crooked cards. If it had been mere chance that his hand had beaten Troy to the spread, he might be just a lucky cowhand. While inclining to this view, Harris was uncertain, and uncertainty he definitely did not like. He did not like it in others, and he liked it even less in himself. "Pot limit," he said, "can run into money. You got it?" For answer Hopalong drew a thick roll of bills from his pocket and placed them beside his chips. "I'll cover any play you make, Harris," he said carelessly. "Make her as tough as you like." "Lot of money for a cowhand," Harris suggested. "I make good money." Hopalong grinned widely. This Red River Regan had dealt the cards, but his handling of them had been clumsy, and if he was a gambler, he looked

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  81 LOUIS L'AMOUR less like one than any man Harris had ever seen. So far he had played a fair game of draw, but nothing unusual. It was true that twice, when Harris had planned a kill, Cassidy had thrown in his hand and passed. "No," Harris said, "no pot limit, but I'll bet you a flat five hundred over what's in the pot now that I got you beat." "Call," Hopalong said, still smiling. He spread his cards as he spoke-four aces. Three by bottom dealing and one by accident. Poker Harris's eyes bulged. He came half out of his chair, the cords in his neck swelling. "Why, you mangy wolf!" Troy's grab for a gun was wasted,. With a swift motion Hop-along had sprung back, knocking over his chair as his Colts leaped to his hands. Troy's hand froze, and Harris stiffened where he stood. Cassidy smiled. "What's the matter? You got aces too?" He motioned with his guns. "Back up!" Holstering his left-hand gun, he turned over Harris's hand, then chuckled. "Your aces came from a newer deck, Poker. You should use two decks equal so it won't show up." Calmly he began to pocket the money. "Sorry to spoil this game for you boys, but you started playin' rough. I just kept it up." He nodded toward his hand. "Four bullets. Don't make me use any more." Troy was livid with fury, Poker Harris big, utterly contained, only his eyes showing the rage that consumed him. Hankins, whose hands had dropped only to realize the futility of attempting a draw from his position, held his place. Only Drennan seemed unmoved and somewhat curious. "Enjoyed the game," Hopalong said quietly. "Now you boys sit quiet while I leave." "Wait a minute!" Harris had relaxed in his chair. "Why leave? Strikes me you're an hombre knows his way around. You