Louis L'Amour_Hopalong Cassidy 04

by Trouble Shooter

  Opposite him was a bridge post that looked as sturdy as the day it was put in. He took care to examine it with his glasses before making his attempt.

  The canyon at this point narrowed to no more than fifty feet wide, and the cast, while not easy, was to a large, stationary target. Pulling the noose tight, he made his own end fast to a tree, and then slipping the thongs over his guns so they would not fall out, he lay down on top of the rope. One leg he kept outstretched along the rope, the rope running inside the knee and outside the foot. His left leg hung straight down as a balance. Then he pulled himself, hand over hand, across the canyon. It was much the simplest way of crossing anywhere or anything on a rope, and it was a method he had used before on more than one occasion.

  Getting to his feet on the opposite side of the canyon, Hopalong made his way slowly back to the trail that ran off the fallen-in bridge.

  A movement caught his eye, and he looked up to see a man step soundlessly from the trees along the path. Bearded, the man wore his hair long and was dressed in a homespun garment of brown that fell around him like a mantle with long sleeves. It was gathered at the waist with a rawhide belt, woven of many strands.

  The man eyed him without speaking, and seemed unarmed but for the staff he carried and a knife at his belt.

  “You are a stranger here?” The bearded man spoke with a soft yet clear voice.

  “Yes,” Hopalong replied. His curiosity was aroused, but he knew this must be one of the strange sect who lived atop Babylon Mesa. “You are from Babylon Pastures?”

  “Yes. And you are working cattle in the brush? For whom do you work?”

  Hopalong watched him closely. “Contracting,” he said, “but the cattle are Colonel Tredway’s.”

  “Do you plan to work north of the canyon?”

  “Hadn’t figured on it,” Hopalong admitted. “I’m just having a look around.”

  “I wondered. We have seen a man looking around at Sipapu. We thought it might be one of you. We do not,” he continued, “look with pleasure on people coming north of the canyon. For a number of years now we have lived in almost complete isolation, and that is the way we like it. Our beliefs are not the beliefs of others, and it is better if we are left alone.”

  Hopalong nodded. “Your beliefs are none of my business, that’s the way I see it. A man is free to do what he wants to do as long as he doesn’t interfere with another man’s freedom or way of doing things.”

  “We have been curious,” the man said. “There has been much strange riding in the past few days. We keep,” he added, “a careful lookout. There has been a good deal of activity along the stage road. Two men have ridden from it out toward Sipapu. One of them ran his horse as if pursued from the stage road toward Sipapu. It was very peculiar, for no one was behind him.”

  His eyes suddenly alert, Hopalong Cassidy considered this. A man prowling around Sipapu, others along the old stage road, and one of them running his horse? That sounded like someone planning a holdup.

  The idea seemed farfetched, yet when all was considered, why else would a man be running a horse from the stage route into a wild and remote section of the country? Perhaps he was timing the trip to see how long it would take and the best route.

  The bearded man nodded. “The rider crossed the Picket Fork on the main-trail bridge, went on up the road toward an old wash, and then from near there raced to Sipapu.”

  “If you don’t mind,” Hopalong said, “I’ll have a look around Sipapu.” He turned to the bearded man. “What do you call your outfit?”

  “We have no name,” the bearded man said, “except that we refer to ourselves as the Brothers. In origin we were once allied to the Franciscan order, but we disagreed and under our prophet, Logan, we left and set up our own colony.” He hesitated, then looked gravely at Hopalong. “You have heard of the Penitentes? We are an offshoot of theirs.”

  He smiled slightly. “The Brothers would not like me to phrase it that way, but such is the case. Our belief is simple, and we keep to ourselves, till our fields, raise a few goats; we live simply but well.”

  “And have a good signal system,” Hopalong said, chuckling.

  The bearded man laughed. “You are observant. Yes, we have had to have. At first there was some Indian trouble, then outlaws, and now we wish to avoid outside contacts, and consequently we keep careful watch on all movements around us. As a result we have become very skilled in understanding the movements of men who are on business of their own. When we see something like today, we are naturally puzzled.”

  For more than an hour they talked. Hopalong had learned that long ago the sect had been more open in their contact with outsiders. But following the chaos that had caused Sipapu to be abandoned, they had discovered that people in the area, especially those devout in other faiths, felt that they were somehow evil and therefore responsible for the curse that had fallen over the small community. The Brothers then retreated to their mesa and severed most of their contacts with the outside world. They had known Pete Melford, however. In fact, the old Texan had been quite friendly with them and had been one of the few to visit them up on the mesa.

  Finally the Brother announced that he had to be going. “It is good,” he told Hopalong, “to talk to an outsider who does not fear or shun us. It does not happen often.” He moved off into the brush near the base of the slope, a mysterious, but somehow lonely figure.

  Hoppy walked toward the ruins of Sipapu. Two of the buildings before him were of stone, one of adobe, the others of crude lumber. This lumber had now aged silver brown, and the shutters on the windows hung on ancient hinges. Pete Melford had mailed his letter from here over three years ago. Given the condition of the place, it hardly seemed possible that it was even that recently, although Hopalong had gathered that it had been practically deserted even then.

  The shadows were black under the rim of Babylon Mesa, and he walked slowly, studying the town as he approached. The first building was a frame structure and he stepped to the door and peered in. The floor was a litter of ancient papers, broken glass, and a few scattered bottles. The ceiling had partly fallen in and there was a broken chair.

  Withdrawing, he walked on to the second of the buildings. It had been a saloon, and the mirror in the bar back was still intact. There were many empty bottles here, a long bar in good shape, and some scattered and ancient playing cards. There were tables and a few chairs, a stove that was still good, and even a pile of wood for burning.

  His footsteps sounded hollowly on the hard floor. He found himself pausing to listen intently as one so often does in an empty building. A glass still stood on the bar, and Hopalong had started past it when he jerked to a halt.

  That glass had been used!

  Not only had it been used, but within a matter of an hour or so! Far from having dust on it, there was even a drop of moisture in the bottom!

  An eerie feeling crept over Hopalong and he stared around uncomfortably, watching on all sides. No sound. Cobwebs trailed across the windows and over a doorway to an upper story. Broken glass on the floor, and dust. A boot print in the dust—his own? No sound. The old building creaked. A hot gust of wind blew down the empty street, a ghost wind stirring the tall grass and ruffling leaves.

  The room grew dark. He walked to the door and stared out into the silence. As the sun set, the shadow of the mesa had moved across the street to cover all but the tops of the buildings. From somewhere voices were heard, singing—voices from high up on the rim. A rat scurried across the street. A rabbit hopped near the fallen poles of the old corral. Ghosts moved and communed in Sipapu—the ghosts of men who had walked, belted and booted, down this narrow street, who swaggered into these saloons, drinking at these bars. But who had emptied the glass that now stood on the bar? Where had he come from?

  Dusk obscured the room, but from somewhere a vagrant light came and caught the glass and held it, shining slightly, a little apart from everything on the bar. Hopalong’s flesh crawled and involuntarily his hand
dropped to his gun. He stepped out on the empty street and felt eyes watching him. Or was he dreaming it?

  He walked slowly toward the next building and entered it. Again there was nothing, but still he felt the watching eyes. Could it be the Brother from Babylon Pastures? Or was it the mysterious rider who had come dashing out of the broken country to the dead town?

  He stepped out the door, and then something slapped the doorjamb beside him and a gun roared in the stillness of the approaching night. Jerking back, he drew in one fast flowing motion and stood waiting for the next move, his heart pounding. Nothing more happened, and he moved. Instantly the next shot came, and then with slow and methodical effort the unknown marksman began to shoot the building full of holes.

  First he smashed at the top of Hopalong’s head, but Cassidy dropped to his face on the floor. Then with a carefully searching fire and with attention to possible moves Hopalong might make, the rifle began to work over the building, first high, then low along the floor.

  Hopalong scrambled back farther into the building, frantic for cover, but the shots switched over and back, so that to shift position was not to escape. The building was being literally riddled with rifle fire.

  Suddenly he sighted some broken flooring. A dozen or more of the floorboards had been ripped up, leaving a black space below the floor level. Recalling that the foundation of the building was of stone, Hopalong dropped to the floor and lowered himself into the hole. It was shallow, at best no more than nine inches deep, but that was enough. Bullets hit the floor over him, one cut a groove not far from his head, but lying as he did there was less chance of a bullet hitting him—but neither was there any chance of his firing back.

  All firing ended as suddenly as it had begun, but there was no move to come near the building. After a long time Hopalong crawled from the hole and made his way carefully to the door. Now all was dark, a ghostly white moon swung lazily above the town, and in the brush a night bird called.

  All was still. A board creaked as the night air cooled it, but there was no other sound. Easing from the door, Hopalong retreated toward the bridge, then turned back into the woods and came to his rope by a roundabout route. It still hung there, but he could not see the other end. He glanced at it, his lips dry.

  It was three hundred feet to the bottom of jagged rocks. Three hundred feet of emptiness.

  He touched his lips with his tongue and, bending over, took the rope in his hands and lowered himself carefully. Then he started out, hand over hand, along the rope. He was not yet to the middle when he heard a light step behind him.

  CHAPTER 6

  BEN HARDY COMES CLEAN

  FOR AN INSTANT his heart almost stopped beating. The distance below him was three hundred feet and the jagged rocks projected above the water and alongside the shallow stream. To fall was to be killed.

  Again he heard the light step, and then smothered laughter—easy, confident laughter that held a gloating note. Carefully he tugged himself along, his hands grasping the rope ahead. He pulled carefully so as to make no more movement than he could help.

  If the reata was cut now, he would swing forward against the cliff, his grasp would be torn or knocked loose, and he would fall, his body bounding from one projecting rock to the next in the sheer drop, and then his broken body would hit upon the stones below. No man could live through such a fall. If he did live, it would be to die a lingering death, crippled and broken, on those rocks alongside the stream.

  A hand touched the rope, shaking it. Hopalong felt it tremble beneath him. Then it gave a tremendous heave, and he clung desperately. Behind him, on the edge of the cliff, a voice spoke. “A mean way to die, Cassidy. I’d never hoped to find you like this.”

  So whoever it was knew who he was. But who did? Only his own crowd? No, it had to be somebody else, but over the rush of water echoing against the canyon walls, he could not make out the voice well enough to place it.

  Fearing another shake, he swiftly began to pull himself along. The reaction was instantaneous. He felt the line jerk as a knife struck it and slashed through, and then he was falling. He had only time for a quick turn around his fist as the rawhide rope slackened, and then the air roared past his ears and he struck the cliff with a sickening thud, his arms almost wrenched from their sockets. Rocks cascaded from under him and went crashing off down into the stream below. The rawhide cutting into his hand, he clung desperately, unable to lift himself even a little.

  There was movement behind him, and then the voice again, louder but as unrecognizable as before. “I don’t think you fell, Cassidy, so I’ll take no chances!”

  A gun roared and a bullet smashed the rock, spitting fragments into his face. Then the gun blasted again and again. The shots picked out spots all around him. Dark as it was, he could not be seen, and as he hung there suspended in the darkness, not daring to move, the unknown rifleman on the rocks behind him continued his careful, searching fire—and Hopalong knew that calculated fire would reach him if he stayed there.

  His arm muscles seemed torn from their moorings, and he could not seem to muster strength to pull himself up. Besides, even if he had, the sound would instantly have indicated his position. Tentatively he reached out a boot toe, feeling for a projection to his right. He found none. He tried with the other foot, and barely touched something to his left. Desperately, while bullets smashed and splintered the rock around and above him, he tried to swing himself enough to grasp a foothold. Dust splashed in his face, then a bullet burned along his side. Another bullet struck the rock within a hair of his fingers, and then he got his toe on that projection of rock, and he held himself there, at least four feet out of the line where he should be hanging.

  Finally the drum of shots ended. There was a long period of silence when the unknown man seemed to be listening. Cassidy strained his ears, and could hear the crackle of breaking brush. The man was not pushing his way through the chaparral because the sound wasn’t moving very far. It sounded like he was just breaking branches. Why was he collecting dry sticks and leaves?

  For a torch.

  Sudden fear shot through him! Once it was set aflame, Hopalong would be revealed stark and clear in the glare of light, and then one last easy shot would do the job!

  Desperately, his heart pounding, his mouth dry, his hands reached out, feeling the rock wall to his left while still grasping the rawhide rope for life insurance. He stretched, striving to find something that would help him climb. He could be no more than fifteen feet from the rim, but how to get up there? Especially as the rim had, if he remembered right, shelved out a little from the wall.

  Then he remembered something. Part of the old abutment was below him! The bridge that led to Sipapu had been built of heavy timber and was of the arch type of construction. The bridge itself had been gone for a long time, but some of the base timbers of the arch remained. Those of the lower part of the arch were set solidly in the rock wall, and these braces had appeared still strong when he had glanced at them from above. Yet how far down were they? Seconds seemed like hours as he thought, trying to imagine the amount of arch needed to bridge that space, and to calculate how far below him that arch might be. To lower himself down the cliff face would be to put him farther from the rim where safety lay. His guns were no solution, for he dared not risk removing a hand from the rope, and in this precarious position he could not turn to shoot.

  If his estimation was correct, the arch timbers would be almost directly beneath him, and with great care he began to feel with his toe. He found nothing, and just then a match flared. The man held the match to his bundle of grass, but in that brief light Hopalong saw the bulky timbers below him. He took a deep breath and let go!

  Down. He struck and grasped with both arms and found himself gripping the remnants of a big twelve-by-twelve timber that was set on an angle into the rock. Not more than a few feet away was another timber and there were lighter crosspieces. Carefully he pulled his body in behind the heavy timber even as the first of the bru
sh torches fell down the canyon. The flare lit up the canyon like day for a brief instant and showed his rope hanging empty on the wall.

  The unknown man was not satisfied. He had evidently made several torches, for he dropped another almost instantly. It fell, the light flaring upward, but apparently the watcher saw nothing. Hopalong reached back to his hip and released the thong on his six-gun. There was a chance he might shoot the other man, although, backed by trees as he was, his body formed no silhouette, and if he did not get him, he would most certainly give himself away.

  He waited, deciding to use the gun only if he was seen. The mysterious man was not yet satisfied. He moved a few steps away and dropped another torch. Evidently he could not see a body upon the rocks below, so decided Hopalong was alive. However, after his fourth drop he must have decided that the body had gone under the water, for he dropped no more.

  Bruised and battered, his hand cut by the rope and the other full of slivers from the timber, Hopalong waited. To sleep was to fall. To make a move was to be shot, so he clung to the timber and waited, helpless to do anything to better his situation.

  Finally he heard the man leave. Heard the echo of his horse’s hooves, and then the long silence that followed. The stars waned at last, and heavy-lidded with sleep, Hopalong dozed slightly. He awakened with a jerk as his hands slipped and he clung there, his heart thudding sickeningly against his ribs. That was close, too close!

  He forced himself to remain awake, and at long, long last the sky began to grow gray, and a coolness came down the canyon. Below him the waters rustled and chuckled over their stones. He turned his neck, stiff from its position, and stared downward. Far below was the silver of the stream with deep shadows still covering the rocks.

  Hopalong craned his neck back and looked up, and there, no more than twenty feet above him, was the rim. Off to his left, for he now faced the stream and the opposite wall, hung the rope, out of his grasp.