-J 162 THE TRAIL TO SEVEN PINES "Gone!" Hankins swore. "That durned Cassidy's outsmarted us!" Hopalong grinned in the darkness. Straining his eyes and shifting his head from right to left because of the boulders, he soon saw and was able to identify several of the men: Con Gore, Dud Leeman, Drennan, Hankins, Rawhide! "Hey! Where's Troy?" Hankins yelled. "What happened to him?" "He was with us a while back. "What's he doin'? Hidin' out?" Hopalong slid hastily back into the darkness and moved for the slope. He still did not know who the stranger was, but the man must have been close by. There had been no chance for him to have escaped without being seen or heard by Hopalong himself. A startled yell warned him that Troy had been found. And he could see the darker blotch where the men had gathered. Then he moved on up the hill and returned to his own men. He was surprised to find Kid Newton and Tex Milligan arriving, too. Both were stifling laughter. "Got all their horses!" Tex whispered. "They are sure enough afoot now." "You know," Hopalong said suddenly, "I didn't see Jacks, but his sidekick Leeman was there." "Then it must have been Jacks!" Newton leaned forward. "We found one horse missin'. His picket rope had been left lyin' on the ground, but he was gone. I felt in the ground for tracks and found where a man in fairly new high-heeled boots had mounted that horse!" "Where would he be goin'?" Ruyters asked. Hopalong knew that Kid Newton was thinking the same thing he was: that Clarry might have gone to meet Lenny Ron 163 163 LOUIS L'AMOUR son. Then another thought came to him. Suppose he had gone to the hideout? It was not too far from here, and if he knew of it he might go there. Perhaps he was the leader! The man who had killed Thacker had been a fast hand with a gun, and Clarry was that. Instantly, Hoppy knew what he had to do. "We've set 'em afoot, boys," Hopalong said suddenly, "and it's a good thirty miles to the 3 G. Unless they gamble and take a roundabout route, they won't get there until tomorrow night sometime. You might's well head for home." "What about you?" Ruyters asked. "Why, I've got a little job to do," Cassidy said, "down the trail a ways. You boys head for home. I'll be along tomorrow or the next day." He yawned. "Come to think of it, we all need sleep. Daybreak will be soon enough to move." But at daybreak they did not move, for they were scarcely on their feet when they heard a wild yell from the valley and then a storm of curses. Saddling up, Hopalong grinned at Frenchy. "Now what do you suppose those rannies are so all-fired upset about?" Kid Newton was grinning as he slouched toward them. He wore his left-hand gun with the butt back, but the right-hand one with the butt to the fore. Both guns ready for a left-hand draw. "Might as well have some coffee, Hoppy," he said. "I sort of figure on stickin' around long enough to see those hombres on the hike." "Don't get too close," Milligan warned, "or they'll have that bronc of yours and you'll be walkin'! They've still got guns." Shorty Montana had walked to the edge of the bin and was standing in plain sight, looking down upon them. "Hey!" he bellowed suddenly. "Hey, you fellers!" As one man, they wheeled and stared upward at him. "Get 164 164 THE TRAIL TO SEVEN PINES movin'!" he yelled. "It's not more than thirty miles or so! If you're lucky, you make it tonight. That is-if your feet hold out!" Con Gore swore viciously and grabbed his rifle. Instantly Shorty dropped to his knees, then rolled back away from the rim of the canyon. When he got up he was laughing, but he was careful to avoid the edge of the hill, where he could be skylined. Saddling up, Hopalong Cassidy started east once more, but now he was riding with a definite purpose, for ahead of him was a gunman the equal, if not the superior, of any he had ever faced. Before him the tracks lined out, easily identified as those of the horse who had been picketed where Newton indicated the man had mounted. There was a chance he was mistaken, but all the signs pointed this way, and Hopalong Cassidy was sure he knew where the outlaw was riding. And then into the trail came another set of tracks. These were those of an unshod horse, but the rider was no Indian. Who was he then? The mysterious camper in the canyon? Another rider on a gun trail? A friend or an enemy?
L 165 165 CHAPTER 10 A Shootout 166
Re Decent events had Pony Harper worried. By now there should have been news. However, the few riders who drifted into town reported they had seen neither movement nor shadow on the range of either the 3 G or Rocking R. It was uncanny and unreasonable. Knowing the rough-and-ready violence of range war, he found this silence nerve-shattering. By rights plenty of trouble should have been popping, and while one cowhand did admit to hearing gunfire, he had seen nothing. A Harper scout, riding around by the 3 G, found a deathlike silence, empty corrals, and no visible Me. Having depended upon this range war to rid him of his rivals, Harper was now thinking less of the Ronsons than of one or two others. Ever since Thacker had been found dead and his pockets empty of all papers and money, Harper had been worried. If Thacker had carried anything incriminating, that evidence might now be in the hands of his killer-and Pony Harper knew exactly who that killer was. Four hands, he finally learned, had returned to the Rocking R, but Hopalong Cassidy was absent on some mission of his 168 167 THE TRAIL TO SEVEN PINES own. What if he had gone again to the hideout? What might he uncover there? Or at the mine near Star City? Harper had a feeling that fate was closing in around him. He ran a finger around his collar and swore bitterly. Just when everything was going right! Of course if anything happened to the Gore outfit, Clarry Jacks was riding with them and the gunman might be killed. That possibility pleased him, but a lurking doubt Remained, for Jacks had shown an unerring instinct for
*i staying alive. There had been that other time, when Dakota Jack's gang was wiped out. Uncomfortably, Harper recalled what had happened to Dakota Jack. Clarry was definitely dangerous. Joe Turner crossed to him at the bar. Turner jerked a thumb at Harrington, who stood nearby. "He was askin' for you." Harrington was smiling when Harper stopped beside him. Harper mopped his face. "Hot," he said. "Uh-huh." Harrington was cheerful. "And getting hotter. They found Poker Harris and Dan Dusark, both dead, and they said it looked like a shootout." "I figured they worked together." "Maybe. Can't tell where a man stands these days." "Anybody else around Corn Patch?" "Deserted." "If John Gore's dead," Harper suggested thoughtfully, "that fight may be over." If Gore was dead, the fight would be over. Harper mopped his face again. Then Cassidy might help Lock in uncovering the killer of Jesse, and that the two might fail, he doubted. His mouth felt dry and he scowled, glaring at his reflection in the bar mirror. That trail might uncover a lot of things, and slid- 169 168 LOUIS L'AMOUR denly he felt tired and afraid. All his plans would go for nothing -nothing! Another worry was the gold. It had been taken to the mine at Star City. Rawhide was not available to watch over it, for Harper had foolishly allowed him to join the 3 G with Jacks. Rawhide could keep an eye on him there but had no excuse to follow when the big gunfighter went off on his own. Always before he had been positive that he could control Clarry Jacks, yet uneasily he began to recall that such had never been the case. Jacks had gone his own way, always listening to Pony with apparent respect but then doing much as he pleased. Harris dead. The king of Corn Patch had seemed invulnerable. Somehow he had been a symbol, for not even the domination of Cattle Bob had been able to shake his control of that corner of the mountains. Weakened, yes. His area of control narrowed, but nevertheless existent. And now Harris, who had seemed as immune as the mountains themselves, was gone, puffed out like smoke. Pony Harper licked his dry lips. He had slept little and looked it. His nerves were fine-drawn and he was irritable. He walked to the door and stared up the street toward the livery stable, where the arrivals stopped first. "Wish we'd hear somethin'!" he said angrily. "This silence gets on my nerves!" Harrington looked at him thoughtfully. "What stake have you got in this? You aren't with the Gores, and the only other bunch that suffers will be the rustlers. Unless," he added carefully, "unless it's the stage robbers." "You implyin' I had anything to do with them?" "You?" he asked innocently. "Who would think a thing like that?" He paused. "Jacks? Now that's another story. He always did have money, but where he got it I could never guess." He lighted a cigar. "See you around, Pony." 170 169 THE TRAIL TO SEVEN PINES Harper
stared after him, his lips compressed. He must watch himself. Joe Turner watched him and smiled secretly. If Harper was out of the picture, Turner stood to gain more than he would lose. Ever since Hopalong Cassidy arrived, Turner had been glad he was a small man, a man unnoticed and usually out of sight. He liked it that way. It was better to be a small man and a live one. John Gore finally caught a horse. Not the one he had chased earlier, but another horse freed from somewhere and wandering to the only home he had known. Mounted once more, Gore raced for the 3 G, arriving to find empty corrals and silence. There was neither food nor ammunition, nor any sign of his brother or the men. Wild with worry, he ran to the crest of a nearby hill and searched the desert with his field glasses. At first he saw nothing, and then only a thin dark line that seemed to move. Squinting, he could not make out what or who it was. It might be cattle heading for a water hole. Actually, it was his own men, lips cracked from heat and thirst, dust-covered and evil-tempered. A half-dozen killers, bitter, vengeful, and hair-triggered of temper. Most vicious now, if not the toughest, was Troy, his normally vile temper aggravated by the blow from Hopalong's gun. John Gore did some fast thinking. Most of all he needed a horse, but there were none on the ranch now, Cassidy having driven them far out onto the range. Nor would there be any at Willow Springs. The closest horses he knew of were at Manda-lay. Unknown to him, these, too, had been driven off. 171 170 LOUIS L'AMOUR He returned to the battered mustang he had ridden to the ranch and swung into the saddle. The little horse started off gamely, and then Gore's mind suddenly leaped to the Rocking R. It was nearer than Mandalay Springs. Their riders should be all gone; there should be plenty of horses. He made a decision and altered his course due west. In such little decisions are the courses of men laid out. For John Gore had taken the trail to death. Had he gone to Mandalay he would have arrived on a spent horse, with no fresh animal to be had and nothing to do but wait until the horse recovered or somebody came along. He would have been safely out of the fight until it was over. Taking the road to what he believed would be an almost deserted ranch, he took the road to a ranch where everybody was home but two men. Hopalong Cassidy was riding to the outlaw hideout, and Shorty Montana had slipped away from the others and was trailing Hopalong, wanting to be on hand if he needed assistance, and knowing that where Hopalong was, trouble would be. Under the flat hot sun Hopalong drifted due east, then swung south. South of him loomed the sprawling foothills and first peaks of the Trinity range, and from under the brim of his wide hat his hard blue eyes searched the sweep of desert before him, starting near and then reaching out, sweeping the sagebrush levels with a careful, searching gaze that left no hummock, no boulder, no suggestion of movement unseen or unstudied. Sweat trickled down his neck. Fine white dust lifted with each footstep of his horse and settled in a film over Topper's sleek white coat and over Hopalong. 172 171 THE TRAIL TO SEVEN PINES Greasewood mingled with the sagebrush and occasional patches of prickly pear, or even cat's-claw. He saw the curious twin tracks of a walking antelope, the hindfoot placed precisely back of the forefoot. Running, the track would be different. The tracks were narrower and tapered more than those of a deer. Considering the matter, he was quite sure that Duck Bale did not know that he had come down the slide into the hideout, and it was very likely it had never been attempted by any of them. If such was the case, he might again get into the canyon without attracting attention. He mopped the sweat from his face and stared into the heat waves. The broken ridges that were the only outward indication of the hideout showed before him, and he skirted them, seeking the juniper tangle where he had found the sloping ground that led him to the slide. The heat was oppressive, and several times he glanced at the sky, for it reminded him of nothing so much as the Kansas heat that precedes a bad thunderstorm. There was a faint suggestion of grayness over the mountain, but it might be his imagination and nothing more. In any event, his slicker was behind his saddle. He had not worn it since the day of the holdup. For the first time he remembered the papers taken from the pockets of Thacker. In the rush of events that followed his discovery of Jesse Lock, he had forgotten about those papers, forgotten them completely! Pushing steadily on, Hopalong sighted one of the granitic upthrusts that marked the earthquake fault and, riding toward it, saw the junipers above him. Circling and weaving among the boulders, he arrived and swung to the ground above the slide. Taking down his slicker, he thrust his hands into the capacious pockets. 173 172 LOUIS L'AMOUR The forgotten wallet was there, several letters, and some money. The first of the letters was addressed to Sim Thacker, Mobeetie, Texas. Inclosing one hundred dollars. On arrival you will receive four hundred more. The balance of the fifteen hundred dollars will be paid over when the job is completed. Of Clarry Jacks you may have heard. How, where, and when is up to you, but the sooner the better.
H. That H. could stand for Pony Harper. Obviously he had sent out for a gunman to kill Clarry Jacks. If, as Cassidy believed, Harper was involved in the holdups with Jacks, then he had either decided it was foolish to share the proceeds or had decided Clarry Jacks was too dangerous to have around. The killing of Thacker now made sense. He had been called aside, given his chance, and killed as a demonstrati on of the futility of hiring anyone to kill Jacks. It also implied then that Jacks knew who had hired Thacker. Why, then, had he not acted against Harper? There could be only one reason. Because he was using him and wanted him around a bit longer. The next letter was a further explanation. In answer to your query regarding Clarry Jacks. The name is unfamiliar, but the description tallies with that ofVasco Graham, of the Bald Knob family. If this is the same man, he is wanted here for killing a man some fifteen years ago. I believe that he was involved in a cattle war in the state of Texas and he later worked with Panhandle rustlers. He is known as an out-and-out killer, 174 173 THE TRAIL TO SEVEN PINES and fast with a gun. He is also wanted for robberies in Colorado. There was a circular listing rewards for the capture of Vasco Graham or his killing, and a commission as deputy sheriff. Evidently Sim Thacker had gone to great lengths to give his projected killing the cloak of legality. There was a letter from Thacker's wife, from whom he was separated, and into this letter Hopalong put what money there was to forward to her when he again reached a post office. Vasco Graham was the outlaw who had murdered his partner and leader, Dakota Jack, and stolen his horse for a getaway. It had been a cold-blooded murder as bad as that of Jesse Lock. No wonder Clarry Jacks had known the country! Picketing Topper among the junipers, Hopalong went to the slide and studied it with care. There was nobody in sight, and careful inspection showed only a thin trail of smoke from the cabin where he had talked with Duck Bale. Going down the slide was a problem, not so much the difficulty as the necessity for quiet. Loose rocks made it virtually impossible, but by keeping to the inner wall it might be done. Checking his guns for the last time, Hopalong hitched up his belt and started down. Six miles behind him Shorty Montana was working out Hopalong's trail through the sagebrush. Ordinarily, as Hopalong had taken no trouble to conceal it, this would not have been difficult, but dust devils had skittered across the desert and wiped out the trail here and there. Montana continued to move and searched the range ahead of him for some sign of Hopalong's objective. 175 174 LOUIS L'AMOUR Mopping his tough brown face, Shorty cursed the heat. He wished it would rain. He would give anything for rain. He rolled a smoke with damp fingers and lit up. Drawing deep, he stared at the wreck of mountains before him. Something, he reflected, had raised hob here. Overhead a buzzard wheeled in lazy ellipses, swinging wide and calmly. The buzzard was in no hurry. In his experience everything eventually came to him. Shorty spoke to the horse, and it moved on, pleased to be going anywhere that might offer relief from the sun. The range over Seven Pines was topped with cloud. He might get his wish. It might rain. The stone house in the amphitheater had been built by some vanished tribe of Indians, and it was snug and cool, shaded from the sun. A bottle was open on the table and Clarry Jacks sat bareheaded before it. Damp brown hair was plastered against his foreh
ead, and he was smiling at Laramie. "You talk to Duck?" Laramie asked. "Not me. He's a nice hombre, but let him get started and he'll jaw your arm off." "You think that Red River Regan was Cassidy?" "Sure. But how he found this place I'll never know. Every time I go out I have trouble getting back." "You think he'll come here again?" "Sure. And when he comes, we'll bury him. Duck's watchin' the entrance, and he's to let him ride right in." Jacks looked up, measuring Laramie with his cold eyes "This here's the showdown. Harper hired Thacker to kill me. He tried to hire Jesse Lock." "Jesse wouldn't hire out to kill anybody." 176 175 THE TRAIL TO SEVEN PINES "Pony tried him. I saw 'em talkin' and braced Jesse about it afterward. He wouldn't give me any definite answer, but he did ask if we didn't get along, Harper and I." "That was enough?" "Sure it was. Harper wants all that gold. Every bit of it." Laramie shrugged. "I never did trust him." "Well, in a short time we'll be through with Cassidy. Then I'll settle with Harper. He might have tipped us off to something else that was good if this thing hadn't busted wide open. We'll slope out of here, cash our gold in for money, and live high and handsome for a while." "Wonder what happened to John Gore?" "No tellin'. His horse was dead at Corn Patch. Harris and Dusark dead in a gun duel." Jacks shrugged. "Didn't think Dusark had it in him." "No." Laramie shifted his seat. He stared disconsolately at the bare table and the bottle. Was this all it came to? Hiding, dodging, waiting to trap a good man and shoot him down? "Makes an hombre think," he said suddenly. "Poker Harris was tough. I'd of said he was one of the ring-tailed terrors, and blam! He's out like a candle! If he can get it so easy, anybody can." They sat silently, and in the distance thunder rumbled. Both men looked up. "Rain! Man, we can sure use it! Cool things off." "Lucky, you knowin' about this place," Laramie said. "A man couldn't find it in a year, just lookin' without knowin'." "Dakota Jack found it. He was ridin' ahead of a posse and ran up this draw. Back there where the stone gate is, there was a lot less opening than now. He dodged in there and the posse lost him. He found the spring and holed up here for a week, eatin' what grub he had left, a few rabbits, and some prickly 177 176 LOUIS L'AMOUR pear. There was some maize growin' wild here then, too, he said. "We used it from time to time in the next year or so, but after the outfit got shot up there was nobody left but me who knew where it was. I packed in a stock of grub and began usin' it for a hideout when I was on my lonesome." "Wonder what caused it? That sure isn't washed out by any stream! Those jagged edges look like the ends of a broken bone." "Man in El Paso told me it was an earthquake fault. He said the line of fault might run for miles." "What happens durin' a quake?" "She grinds around some. I've never been here when there was one and I don't think anybody ever was, but there's been cracks in the floors, and once a whole wall was shaken down." The two men smoked in silence, and then Clarry walked back to the fire, stirred it a trifle, added wood, and began to make coffee. "What's the deal on Cassidy? We let him come in, you say?" Laramie asked. "Sure. And we take him from the front, and Bale from behind. He'll be caught in the open and he won't have a chance." Hopalong Cassidy was already in the canyon while Duck Bale still watched outside. The afternoon was well along, and the clouds were piling up higher and higher above Seven Pines. In the bottom of the canyon Hopalong neither realized this nor cared. He was intent upon one thing only, to get within shooting distance of the man or men who had been responsible for the 178 177 THE TRAIL TO SEVEN PINES murder of Jesse Lock. Whatever else they had done was beside the case in his consideration. To shoot a man already sorely wounded and helpless put the killers beyond the pale. Close to the wall, partly concealed by an angle of rock, he considered the situation. Smoke was rising now from the house in the amphitheater, and that told him that there were men not only in the outer canyon where his fight with Frazer had taken place but also here in this reconstructed Indian house among the evergreens. There was cover in plenty here, and he used it, moving carefully around by the rocks and working his way closer and closer to the house. The two men within were men worthy of his guns in every sense. Either might prove his equal; together they might be far superior. In any event, it did not pay to take chances with such men. One mistake was all anyone could expect -and that one would be fatal. Thunder rumbled again, nearer this time, and Hopalong paused, noting it and carefully considering what it might mean to him. Then he moved on. A half mile away, at the mouth of the fault, Duck Bale arose and stared off toward Seven Pines. All was blackness over there, a blackness shot through with vivid streaks of lightning. The front of the storm was rolling down upon him, and he did not like his situation one bit. Any fool could see that he was going to get wet if he stayed where he was, and maybe struck by lightning on that high, exposed knob of stone. He turned, and glancing back toward the canyon, he felt himself start. Someone was creeping along the far wall of the amphitheater! 179 178 LOUIS L'AMOUR Instantly realization came to him. Hopalong Cassidy was already inside the canyon! No sooner had he realized this than he began to scramble down the rock, just a minute too soon to see a rider turn in the mouth of the draw and stare his way. That rider was Shorty Montana. He had finally lost Hopalong's trail and was hunting for it in that maze of uptilted rock. Bale hit bottom and broke in a run for the shack in which Laramie waited. Now they had Cassidy! Had him bottled up! But how had he gotten in here? There was only one alternative, and that was the rockslide, but Bale had examined it, and it had not looked too practical, as a man was sure to make noise descending it. He hurried to the door of the stone building and shoved it open. Laramie was sprawled on a cot, reading a magazine. "Cassidy's inside!" Bale gasped out. "How he got in I don't know, but he's in! I saw him!" Laramie got to his feet and belted on his guns. His heart pounded and his mouth was dry. He knew what he was going up against, and despite the odds, he was not comforted. Hopalong had reached the back of the hollow and was now near the corrals. The paint horse he had seen in the holdup was still there, and with it now were six other horses. There were no sadd led horses in sight. If Clarry Jacks had intended to return to the outfit at Poker Gap, he had changed his mind or left his horse in the outer corral. The stone building was rectangular and two-storied, although the upper story had not been entirely repaired. Its back 180 179 THE TRAIL TO SEVEN PINES was close to the wall of the cliff itself, and the corrals were a short distance away. Scattered pines and firs completed the picture, and several of these were close around the house, three or four between it and the corral. The cliff wall, a part of the fault, was of sandstone, and projecting layers of it formed a partial roof over the house itself. Sliding carefully around the corral, Hopalong worked his way through the debris that lay between it and the wall. Here there were several niches, which his mind noted and filed away for future reference. The easiest way into the building appeared to be through a ruined corner on the second floor, but it left open the possibility that they would hear his footsteps below. Yet if this house was like many others, the intervening floor would be of stone, and he might be able to cross it without noise to warn those below. Clouds were rolling over the canyon now, and someone inside struck a light. He was about to move forward to the wall of the house when he saw the ears of the horses go up sharply. All of them were looking inquisitively toward the entrance, and Hopalong crouched quickly, his right hand on his gun, waiting. Movement showed suddenly, then vanished, and he knew someone from the outer canyon had slipped in. Someone who moved warily. He had no friends around of whom he knew, unless Ben Lock had found this place, which was improbable. The only alternative was an enemy, and one who knew he was here. The man before him was Duck Bale, gun in hand, coming around the wall, still some distance away but on Hopalong's very trail. Crouched at the corner of the corral, Hopalong considered his position anew. There was a chance he might be able to shoot 181 180 LOUIS L'AMOUR his way out of the corner he was in and get away safely, yet it was not his nature to turn from a course once planned. At the same time, he did not wish to commit suicide. Long experienced in affairs of the gun, he knew full well that the best way is often straight ahead, and that was t
he course he chose now. He had planned to face the killer of Jesse Lock, and the man was inside this house. He was going in after him; then he would face things as they came. Leaving the corral in a quick dive, he reached the corner of the stone house. The space here between the house wall and the sandstone of the canyon was narrow, and the light was not in the back of the house. Pausing only an instant, he gathered himself, then jumped straight up and caught the roof edge in his fingers. He chinned himself, got an arm over the parapet, and then a leg. A moment later he lay flat on his back on the roof. Laramie had not seen this movement. Neither had Bale. Both men were looking around the corral. Behind Laramie a boot crunched and he whirled, gun in hand. Already it was nearly dark and he could just make out the face of Bale. "So where'd he go?" "Durned if I know! I sure saw him here, honest! Where could he go?" Hopalong had already answered that question by two quick steps into the upper room of the house. Here he paused, listening. Outside he could hear whispers of more than one man. Feeling his way along the wall of the windowless room, he 182 181 THE TRAIL TO SEVEN PINES came to a pile of rubble, evidently the remains of an earlier roof. Working around this, he heard a low mutter of voices and then saw a vague light from the floor. He moved nearer and found himself standing over a trap door, but no ladder descended into the darkness. Yet not far from the opening of the trap was a crack in the ceiling of another room below, and through this opening there now came both light and the sound of voices. Clarry Jacks was speaking. "Not out there?" "Duck must be nervous . . . seem' things." "Well, he knows of this place. He'll come eventually. He'll be looking for me." "Suppose Lock told him anything?" It was Laramie talking. "I doubt it. From where I was hid I could see them plain. Lock talked some, all right. I could hear his voice. After Hopa-long had the fire goin' I could see them both, and then when light came, Hopalong took off and I knew I had to get down there fast." "Maybe Lock never saw anything?" "He saw something, all right. He got a good look at me when the lightning flashed, and he'd know me, mask or no mask." "You were lucky to run into Harper like you did." 'Teah. When I spotted them I swung around a hill so I could ride down on them from behind. They were hurryin' to catch Harrington then, and I told 'em I'd chased 'em all the way from town, which accounted for my horse being hard-ridden. Harper knew the tally all right, but Doc never suspected." Hopalong put his feet through the trap door and lowered himself full length. Then he dropped. "What was that?" Clarry demanded. "What?" "I thought I heard somethin'." 183 182 LOUIS L'AMOUR Laramie rose. "Any way into this place but the door?" "None I can think of. There's a hole in the wall of that upper room. If a feller got on the roof-" Both men turned like cats. Hopalong Cassidy stood in the dark doorway to the inner room, elbows crooked, his big hands poised above the guns that had ended the career of many an outlaw or professed gunman. Jacks stared at the hard-boned face, the weather-beaten countenance and blazing eyes, and something turned over within him, something happened that he had never believed could happen to him. His courage seemed to ooze from him. Yet at the height of his terror a thought raft through him, cold and chilling. He had no choice. This man had come here hunting him. Despite their elaborate plans, he had come without warning. Jacks uttered a low cry and grabbed for his gun. Hopalong's crooked, waiting hands flickered, and then the blur ended with stabbing flame. Clarry Jacks, his gun lifting, felt a blow alongside the head and went down. Something else struck him in the side, knocking him to the floor. He hit hard, and his bullet buried itself in the ceiling. Laramie's gun leaped to his hand, and his first shot grooved the doorjamb where Hopalong stood, and again Cassidy's guns began to flame. Then suddenly the floor heaved, a wall rippled, and the ceiling caved. From outside there was a wild yell of fear, and wheeling, Hopalong leaped for the door. He lunged into the outer darkness, saw a weird flare of lightning, and beheld the serrated edge of the fault moving against the sky. Stone ground against jagged stone, with an awful sound that turned his bowels 184 183 THE TRAIL TO SEVEN PINES to weakness. Hopalong sprang for his remembered escape route. The next instant a rider charged through the rocking darkness and swung broadside to Hopalong, a gun lifted. Lightning flashed, and Hopalong saw the man was Lock. "Ben!" he yelled. "It's Cassidy! Get out of here! This fault may close up!" Lock urged his horse nearer. "Up!" he yelled. "Behind me!" Laramie charged into the open from the ruins and, seeing Hopalong springing to the horse behind Lock, skidded to a halt and swung up his gun. Ben Lock's long-barreled six-shooter dropped down, and the two guns blasted at almost the same instant. Laramie stepped back, turned half around, and fell full length to the hard-packed earth. Hopalong felt the powerful muscles of the mustang hunch beneath him, and then they were racing for the outlet of the fault. Another horseman loomed before them. "Hoppy?" The yell was from Shorty Montana. "Get out!" Cassidy yelled. "Ride, you souwegian!" The rain was coming down now in torrents, but the earthquake was not over, for after a brief respite it trembled again, and behind them stones cascaded into the fault, roaring long after they were beyond the mouth of the fault. Lightning crackled and rumbled among the distant peaks, and looking for the finger of the granitic upthrust, Hopalong saw nothing. The horizon at that point was empty! "Swing around," he advised. "My horse is tied back up in the junipers." "Get Jacks?" Lock asked suddenly. "Think so. That quake busted things up. He was hit bad and went down just as Laramie opened on me." 185 184 LOUIS L'AMOUR "I got that one-dead center." "It was Jacks who killed your brother." "I figured that. He or Pony Harper." "Harper was involved somehow-Jacks said something about it while I was hidin' out there in the house." "I got the feeling," Ben Lock replied, "that he was the one spotting the gold shipments, but I'm not sure." Hopalong found Topper dragging a picket rope and a branch of the manzanita to which he had been tied. Mounted, he turned toward the ranch. The others fell in beside him. "Never would have found that place if it hadn't been for you," Lock said suddenly. "I trailed Jacks away from Poker Gap, then lost him. I spotted your tracks, then lost them, but kept the general direction and picked up Jacks's trail again." Behind them, on the rubble-littered floor of the ruined house, a bloody man groaned, then tried to move. Only the fact that he had partly rolled under the table had saved him from the falling adobe blocks. A bloody furrow lay along his scalp above the ear, and he sat there, blood trickling down his face, staring, shocked and half blind, at the ruin about him, unknowing, uncaring. Lightning showed him the crumpled body of Laramie, and slow curses bubbled at his lips as he remembered the image of that crouched, black-clad man with guns that flamed their death into the room-a man he was going to kill. Sobbing, Jacks was trying to crawl when Duck Bale felt his way over the ruins. "Take it easy," Bale said. "We Bald Knob-bers stick to gether. I'll get you out of this." 186 185 CHAPTER 11 Vengeful Outlaw 186
L'Amour, Louis - Hopalong 03 - The Trail To Seven Pines Page 13
