"Gettin' her done," he said. "But wait until you get into that bunch of ladinos up by Sugarloaf."
"Bad?"
"Pear eaters. Every durned one of 'em! Wild as deer, and they crawl around in that brush on their knees! Fact! I seen one about a month back, and the hair was all worn off his knees, and his nozzle was stuck full of pear thorns like he'd had a tangle with a porcupine!"
"The old ones are smarter," Cassidy agreed. "They get most of the prickly pear without thorns. Used to see 'em down in Texas, around the Bend country. They go for months without gettin' near a water hole sometimes. Live off the pear, which runs up to eighty percent water in good seasons."
"That's a ropin' job," John Gore agreed, looking up from his tin cup of coffee. "You can't herd them. You got to go in and drag 'em out one at a time. She's man-killin', that job."
"Ever rope cows at night?" Frenchy asked. "Now there's a creep job! I've done it down in Texas. The wild ones, old mossy-horns from way back in the brush, they'd come out at night sometimes and head for the water holes. We'd ease up on 'em and then let go a yell and charge right into 'em!
"Out there at night nobody could see well, and any black bunch you saw might be a critter. I heard tell one time of a Mex who roped a bear. Fact."
"Don't doubt it," Dusark said. "Out in California the vaqueros used to rope 'em for fun. Sometimes they'd fight 'em against a big longhorn bull."
"Aw," Windy Gore interrupted, "a bull wouldn't have a chance with a grizzly!"
"That's what you say," Kid Newton objected. "One time I came on a big longhorn standin' head down in the brush, his hide all blood and dirt. One eye was gone and he'd been chewed up, but he was on his feet. I hunted around some, and just when I was about to give up I found the carcass of an old grizzly. Big one, too.
"Week or so later I was down thataway again, and that longhorn was sure on the prod.
I figure he was huntin' him another grizzly."
Windy Gore stared at Newton. "That's a likely story!" he sneered. "Just the sort of a story some kid would tell a bunch of full-grown men!"
There was sudden silence, and Hopalong's eyes went to John Gore. The big rancher was head up and alert. As if by magic, the men had spread out, leaving Kid Newton facing Windy Gore across the chuck fire. Gore was full of himself now, confident and contemptuous.
Newton was slender and quiet. His narrow-brimmed hat was battered and old. His boy's face was beardless, but his eyes were old with the ways of time and the West. Hopalong suddenly knew that Windy was a fool.
"I reckon," Newton said slowly, "that my tracks are as big as yours, Windy. And if you want to call me a liar for that story, you can start your callin'-but when you do, start reachin'."
Windy was astonished and furious. "Why, you fool!" His hand dropped for his gun butt, and Kid Newton drew left-handed and shot him through the mouth.
Windy Gore took a half step forward and fell facedown at the edge of the fire, blood all over the back of his head and neck where the bullet had emerged.
For an instant all was still. Then Con Gore stepped into the circle by the fire, his hard face brutal with passion. "You lowdown skunk. You've killed my brother!"
Newton held his drawn gun level. His voice was cool. "He asked for it," he said calmly.
"He was always loose-jawed and you know it. He never would have started it unless he figured he had the edge on me. I don't hold to killin'," he added, "and I got nothin' against you Gores if you stay on your own range, but Windy run his blazer and he had hard luck. Would you be out in that circle yellin' now if it had been me who fell? I don't reckon!"
"The boy's right," Ronson said quietly. "Windy made his play and he was too slow."
"Maybe there'll be another time!" Con shouted furiously. "Maybe I won't be slow!"
"Maybe." Newton was pale but calm. "I'm not huntin' feuds nor fights. You have it your way." Calmly he bolstered the gun and turned his back. At the wagon he picked up his cup and filled it with coffee. Only then did his eyes return to Con Gore and his brother. He did not look at the dead man as he lifted the cup.
Hopalong moved easily to the side of the fire. "We've work to do, and we won't get it done if we're fightin'.
"We all saw what happened. Windy was your brother and you're some wrought up. Best thing you can do is forget it."
"We'll forget nothin'!" Con blazed.
"Then remember that the Kid rides for the Rocking R!" It was Bob Ronson speaking, and his voice suddenly rang with challenge. "Remember that, Con Gore! You boys started this fuss, but the man don't live that can ride a Rocking R hand when I'm alive.
If you want fight, get started now or any time!"
Hopalong felt a little thrill run through him, and he was aware of the astonishment on the faces of the others. There had been doubts as to whether young Bob would go along if it came to an all-out battle, and Hoppy was sure that the Gores had doubted it, as well as some of his own men. Now Ronson had definitely declared himself. John Gore for one was amazed and discomfited. He stared, frowning, at the young cowman.
"I realize," Ronson added more quietly, "that some false ideas have developed concerning my personal courage and my willingness to back a fight. I freely admit they came from my dislike of bloodshed and my own knowledge that I am not a leader. That last has been well taken care of. In Hopalong Cassidy I hired a fighting man who will fight if he must, but who knows also how to keep peace and when to stop fighting.
"Here and now I am serving notice that if war is started we'll fight it to the last dollar, and the last drop of blood if need be." He paused. "Let's get back to work."
Hopalong glanced at Frenchy and saw grim approval on the rider's face. Ruyters put down his cup and moved over to Newton. He spoke clearly. "We'll ride together this afternoon, Kid."
"No ridin' for either of you," Cassidy interrupted. "You'll tend irons, Kid. Frenchy, you'll work around the fire. You'll take the places of Dusark and Hartley."
Through all the altercation John Gore had not spoken, nor did he speak now. He had glanced only once at the body of his brother. Now, when he looked across the fire at Hopalong, his eyes studied that man with a cool, detached interest. Kid Newton he seemed to ignore, as if the Kid already fitted into some category in his mind.
Then he spoke loudly. "We'll finish the roundup, boys, and no trouble! Understand?
No trouble!"
Abruptly he turned away. Riders drifted back to their horses or roped fresh stock from the remuda.
Few had anything to say, but as Hopalong swung to the saddle Bob Ronson walked up to him. "Hoppy, you think John's going to lay off? Or is he figuring on something?"
"My guess would be that we are in for a war," Cassidy said quickly. "I believe he meant what he said about finishing the roundup, but I think we can expect trouble.
I'm glad you've got some of the boys you have got."
Dusark closed in with him almost an hour later. The big man was hazing a half-dozen head back toward the main holding ground. "Don't trust that Gore," he volunteered suddenly. "He comes of feudin' stock. They'll never rest now until the Kid's dead, and most of the rest of us."
Hopalong glanced curiously at the big man. "You said 'us,' Dan. I take it that means you're stayin'?"
Dusark's face turned dull red. "What give you the idea I was leavin?"
"Sort of figured it. Last night you looked mighty skittish. Glad to have you, if you figure you can stay."
Dusark drew up. His small eyes stared at Hopalong for an instant, and then he said, "I've been workin' with the rustlers."
"I knew that. Many a good man's rustled a few head in his time. It's what he does when the chips are down that counts. Take it now, Dan. This range is goin' to be split wide open. We'll have war, and unless I'm much mistaken the Rocking R will be fightin' alone."
"That's about it I reckon. All right if I stay?"
Cassidy smiled suddenly. "Why, sure! Only if you keep on eatin' like you do, we'll have to start killin' a ste
er every day!"
Dusark chuckled. "I always was a big eater." He bit off a chew of tobacco. "Hoppy, Joe Hartley wasn't in this with me. He knew I was spottin' a few herds, but he took no hand in it. I just wanted you to know."
"Thanks." Hopalong turned his horse toward a draw. "See you at chow."
Dan Dusark stared after the black-clad rider and chewed slowly. His thick-fingered hand pushed back the hat on his head, and he turned once and glanced back of him.
"Horse," he said quietly, "there goes a good man. I reckon you and I are holed up for some months to come."
The horse flipped his tail in acknowledgment, and Dan Dusark moved on behind his cattle. It had been a long time since he had felt loyalty to anyone or anything.
It wasn't, he decided, the way for a man to be. A man needed to belong to something, to somebody or some way of thinking. What Hoppy had said was true. A lot of good men had rustled a few head of stock, but they hadn't stayed rustlers.
Remembering the cool, careful look in John Gore's eyes, he let himself think for a minute and remember that a man could die in the battle for another as well as for himself. And from the depths of his sordid years there was wisdom in Dan Dusark.
John Gore was the one to be feared. Windy was the loudmouth, Con the fighter, the strong man. John was the planner, cold, ruthless, utterly relentless-and he came of feudal stock, men who felt the ties of blood and tribe as more binding than any other.
Dusark remembered Newton, and he frowned with curious consideration. "That was a surprise," he said aloud. "I'd have made the same mistake Windy did. The Kid's got sand, and he's more than half gun-slick. More than I am. I reckon Windy knew he was dead even as he dragged steel. There was something about that spindlin' youngster that made him look mighty big right then."
Nothing stopped the work now. As if by some secret order from John, even Con Gore seemed to have forgotten the killing. They worked hard and long, and dust and profanity hung in a cloud above the hot fires. There was the smell of sweaty bodies, singed hair, and cattle hanging over the branding ground. Day by day the tallies added up in Bob Ronson's black book, and as they did, his face became more careworn and watchful.
John Gore rode to town on the third day. He rode only after careful thinking, and he said nothing of his plans to anyone, not even to Con. When he got to town he rode directly to the Nevada Saloon. Glancing around quickly, he saw at once that the man he sought was not in. Rawhide was. Harper's gunman lounged against the bar, watching Gore with careful eyes. Gore noted the glance, considered the man with distaste, then crossed to him.
"Seen Jacks or Leeman around?" Gore demanded.
Rawhide hesitated, his mind working swiftly. Then he nodded. 'Yeah, just saw 'em both go over to Katie's. They haven't come out that I know of."
John Gore strode from the saloon and crossed the street, little puffs of dust rising from each step. Rawhide turned on his heel and walked swiftly down the room to the back office. He rapped lightly, then stepped in.
"Boss," he said excitedly, "John Gore's in town. He asked where Jacks and Dud were.
I reckon this is it."
Pony Harper got up instantly, his eyes suddenly ugly with cold triumph. "Could be," he agreed. "Jacks, is it? Clarry Jacks against Hopalong Cassidy! Now won't that be somethin' to see?"
"That isn't all." Rawhide chuckled. "They'll be mighty busy fightin' each other.
There's a lot of good stock on both ranges."
"All right." Harper bit off the end of his cigar. "Ride out that way, but keep out of sight until you see Dan. Tell him I want to see him."
John Gore had crossed the street to the restaurant. The place was empty but for Clarry Jacks and Dud Leeman. The two were loafing over coffee and pie. Jacks glanced up with a nod; then his casualness vanished as Gore approached him. "You afraid of Cassidy?"
Gore demanded.
In the kitchen Katie suddenly froze, her flour-covered hands poised above the piecrust she was kneading.
Clarry's eyes blinked; then he laughed. "Cassidy? Now why would I be afraid of him?"
"If you aren't, you've got a job. Kid Newton killed my brother."
"Heard about it," Clarry admitted. "Didn't think the Kid had it in him. Windy," he added, "always did run off at the mouth too much."
John Gore's lips tightened. It was no more than he believed himself, but he did not like others to say it.
"I'll give you two hundred," Gore said coolly. "And a bonus for Newton, Cassidy, or Ronson." .
Jacks sipped his coffee, his eyes coldly alert and pleased. "What about Dud? He's a handy man."
"Figured on him. A hundred. The bonus deal works with him, too."
Clarry nodded. "All right. We'll ride out tomorrow."
Katie worked quietly in the kitchen, but she was thinking swiftly. This meant that the rumors had been true. There would be war on the range, bloody war. In her mind's eye she reviewed the situation thoughtfully. The Rocking R would be alone, and they had few men. She needed no one to tell her where the rustlers from Corn Patch would be, and her instinct told her that Pony Harper and his influence would definitely be thrown into the balance on the side of Gore. The old bull of the herd was dead, and the wolves were closing in for the slaughter.
Remembering Hopalong Cassidy, she was not so sure they would succeed, and she was glad that Shorty Montana had joined them. Shorty would be in to visit soon and through him she would be able to send word to Hopalong about the deal between Gore and Clarry Jacks. Suddenly she thought of something else. There was another man. A good man.
A man for whom Katie had made her own plans.
As if some secret wind whispered the news across the range, the coming war became the only subject of conversation at every lonely cabin, in every crowded saloon.
Men here had known the Lincoln County War, the Graham-Tewksbury feud, and other bloody battles that made western history a page of violence, victory, and challenge.
The men who profited by lawlessness were drawing together, aware suddenly that, under the hand of Hopalong Cassidy, the Rocking R might again become the power for law and order that it had once been. Poker Harris had made his own plans, and in his saloon Pony Harper was doing some careful thinking. He did not believe that Cassidy would stop what had been started, and intended to see that he didn't.
Clarry Jacks, idling about town, his smile quick to come, his eyes always cold behind their amusement, heard the news and listened. He had his own reasons for accepting the bid of John Gore when it came and his own ideas for making the most of the coming war.
John Gore arrived at Corn Patch alone. He went to Poker Harris, and they talked quietly and for a long time. When Gore left he was accompanied by three men: Drennan, Hankins, and Troy. All were heavily armed. John Gore was not a man who did things by halves.
He had made his decision and intended to act quickly.
On the fourth day after the killing of Windy Gore, Ben Lock rode into town and went at once to Katie's for a meal. He did not stop to think that only a short time before he had eaten a big meal at a sheep camp.
Whenever he was in town these days he found himself going again and again to Katie's. i"(f The place was empty when he came in, and almost before he was on his stool a cup of coffee had been placed before him. J*
He looked up from the coffee. "Katie, you're a jewel. It's a lucky man who'll get you. It was like her that she only smiled, then grew serious. "Ben, there's a war on. Windy Gore tackled Kid Newton at the roundup and was killed. The whole country is taking sides for or against the Rocking R.
Ben Lock considered the news. Hopalong Cassidy had tried to save his brother-any final doubt he might have had was now gone. Doc Marsh would not have lied.
"Hopalong's a good man," he suggested.
"He is that," Katie said. "And Ronson is and Shorty."
"You think a lot of Shorty, don't you?"
Their eyes met briefly. "I do that. He's pure gold. I do think a lot of him."
For t
he first time Ben Lock knew jealousy. Montana had hung around here a good deal; he always came to Katie's when he was drunk, and she had always taken care of him.
There had been some gossip, but Ben put the idea aside, although it rankled. He was on his second cup of coffee when Clarry Jacks came in.
Their eyes met and passed, but each man felt a little cold prickling run over him.
"You're Lock, aren't you?" Jacks said.
Ben turned his head and nodded.
"Heard you were huntin' your brother's killer. Luck to you."
"Thanks. I'll find him."
"It may take quite a while."
Lock shrugged. "Looks like I'm good for thirty, forty more years yet. That should be more than enough."
Jacks considered Lock anew. This man was not boasting. He was quite capable of staying with it just that long, and Clarry Jacks felt a faint touch of uneasiness. "Talked to Cassidy?" Jacks paused. "You should, you know. He was the last one to see him alive and might have been told something he's not tellin'."
"Could be."
"He told you nothing new?"
Why, he did not know, but Lock was suddenly alert. Coldly he began to consider the situation. Could Jacks himself be involved? The man was a killer-and he was without doubt a man who kept many of his actions secret.
"Not much that was new." Lock picked up a doughnut. "Looks like he'll have his hands full now."
Jacks's lip curled. "He will that. You better talk to him again -while he's alive."
"He'll be around awhile. He might," Ben added, "win this fight. Suppose he sent for the old Bar 20 outfit?"
Clarry Jacks felt a distinct shock. The point was one he had not considered. When John Gore had come to him with the offer to join him and kill Cassidy, he had been more than pleased. Sure that the Rocking R could not win, he saw a lot of his own plans maturing. The war promised the weakening of both parties. Yet he knew the stories of the far-famed Bar 20 outfit. He had heard from Carp of their coming to Snake Buttes after the wounding of Johnny Nelson, and of the fight they had made there.
the Trail to Seven Pines (1972) Page 11
