“When you try it,” Saxx replied dryly, “be sure you’ve got an edge. That hombre’s gun slick. An’ those two with him are not pigeons, neither! That big one, he bothers me. I’m bankin’ he’s a mean one. Notice his eyes? The way he looks at you?”
“Skeered?” Carter sneered.
Saxx turned sharply around, his gray eyes flat and ugly. “When you ask that question,” he said, “you’d better have your hand on your gun!”
Carter drew back warily. “No offense,” he said irritably, “but I’m fed up with layin’ around. I want action.”
“You’ll get it, but don’t try to tree those boys unless you want to go all the way. They won’t run or back down, not that crowd. We’ll tangle someday, but when we do, four or five of the six will be dead when it’s over. You figure on that, unless”—he smiled—“unless we take a page from Tredway’s book an’ play it smart.”
“You got any ideas?” Carter squinted up at him.
“Yeah,” Saxx said, “I got a few. We got to split that bunch up. Take ’em one at a time. Me, I want Cameron.”
HOPALONG RODE SWIFTLY for half a mile, then slowed to listen, but hearing no sounds of pursuit, they continued on. Neither Saxx nor Carter had the balance and cunning of Tredway, and their conversation with Cassidy might stampede them into some hasty and thoughtless action. While such action might give them away, it would be fraught with danger for Hopalong himself and all his friends, particularly for Cindy Blair, at whom they might decide to strike.
Around them the woods grew thicker, and high above them towered the wall of the mesa. Before them, still some distance off, was Brushy Knoll. The air was very still and quiet. Not a breath of wind, not a sound, and there was the smell of dried pine needles, leaves, and hot earth. Hopalong mopped the sweat from his face and dried his hands. His blue eyes were restlessly watching the woods around him and the trail ahead. Despite his common sense, the quiet of the place and the strange stories told of the inhabitants of the mesa worked on his nerves.
“Hoppy.” Rig’s voice was low and it was worried. “I don’t like this! It’s too durned quiet!”
“There’s no sound but the wind off in the chaparral,” Pike agreed, “no sound but the wind.”
“Probably,” Rig half whispered, “there ain’t a soul in miles.”
The wind was a low, far-off sound, almost no sound at all, but a background more silent than silence. Rig’s eyes shifted to the mesa’s rim, then to the trees. He dried his palm on his chap leather and touched his gun.
TWO PAIRS OF eyes watched their progress. One pair was high on Brushy Knoll behind an ancient field glass, another was in the chaparral three hundred yards away, and this man held a rifle. Colonel Justin Tredway had succeeded in contacting Tote Brown, and Brown was ready to do his job. His narrow eyes on the trail below, he watched the riders and steadied the rifle in the crotch of a tree.
CHAPTER 8
BABYLON MESA
AT THE VERY moment when Hopalong Cassidy talked to Bill Saxx, Sarah Towne was standing at the counter of the general store in Kachina, her face pale and sick. Before her, his hands flat on the counter, was Ira Arnold, the storekeeper. Beside Sarah herself was Buck Lewis, the marshal who had been called back as he was about to leave town. In his hand he held a twenty-dollar bill, a bill that was brand spanking new.
“You’re right, Iry,” he said dubiously, “this here is sure an unsigned bill, an’ as such ain’t legal tender, but I don’t reckon Missus Towne knowed it or she wouldn’t have tried to spend it.”
Ira Arnold had never been noted for graciousness. “Ain’t necessarily so,” he snapped irritably. “Folks try to get away with anything these days, just to keep from payin’ their just dues.”
Sarah Towne lifted her chin. She looked tired, and now she was frightened. She had found the money in the pocket of Pike’s spare pants—had he been implicated in that holdup? The thought had scared her, and while she refused to believe it, there remained a tiny lingering doubt. “Everything I ever bought,” she said firmly, “I paid for. I don’t owe you anything, do I?”
“No, an’ you ain’t likely to!” Arnold sniffed. “I know your kind! Traipsin’ about the country, no good to nobody!”
“If my Pike was here, you wouldn’t say that!” Sarah Towne was suddenly angry.
“That ain’t no way to talk, Iry,” Lewis interrupted gently. “After all, none of us was born here, an’ we’n our folks been movin’ for years. That goes for you, too, Iry. Remember I knowed your pa in St. Louis, an’ you, too, an’ them days neither of you had nothin’.”
Arnold glared at him, furious beyond words. Before he could think of anything to say, Lewis turned to the woman. “Where’d you get this bill, ma’am? Ain’t no call to be frightened. We here in Kachina don’t aim to make trouble for no women.”
Ignoring Ira Arnold’s sniff of contempt, he continued, “Just tell us where you got it.”
“It was in Pike’s other pants!” she returned quickly. “And wherever it came from, Marshal, it’s honest money!”
“Lady, it’s unsigned.” Arnold sneered. “Honest money! We all know it came from the stage robbery.”
Buck Lewis looked at the storekeeper with ill-concealed irritation. He held his job as a result of selection by a half-dozen men, of whom Ira was one; nevertheless, he disliked the man intensely and admired this quiet, courageous woman in her threadbare garments and with her work-worn hands. She had a quality of courage and an innate fineness that he understood and could appreciate.
“May I see the bill?” Lewis turned at the voice. He knew that voice at once and was relieved. The authority of Colonel Tredway counted for much and far out-weighed any opinion held by Ira Arnold.
Lewis handed him the bill, and Tredway glanced at it, then turned it over. “It is unsigned,” he commented. “Does anybody have a description of the money taken from the stage? I can imagine no other way in which an unsigned bill could get into circulation.”
“What did I tell you?” Arnold was triumphant. “This woman’s husband’s being hunted right now. He along with that Cameron or whatever his name is. They are a bad lot! Too bad they didn’t shoot all of them!”
“I know nothing about it, of course,” Tredway said gently, “and without doubt this good woman is innocent of any wrongdoing, but I suggest, Marshal, that you get in touch with the stage company and ask for some information on the nature of the money being shipped. If they were unsigned bills, as now seems logical, this could be a very important clue.
“As I’ve said, I see no reason for disturbing this woman, but if this money came from her husband’s trousers, then no doubt our suspicions are correct and he is one of the outlaws we seek.”
“I’ll check on that,” Lewis agreed, “right away.”
Sarah Towne glanced once toward the piled-up groceries, then turned away from the counter, her heart beating rapidly. Something was wrong about this, very wrong! Pike had promised her and he couldn’t have … Or could he? Then she shook her head decidedly. Pike might have been many things, but he was a man of his word, and furthermore, he loved her too much. Nothing would ever shake her faith in that love.
Colonel Tredway’s face was grave, but inwardly he was glowing. Nothing could have worked out better! Not only was suspicion thrown right where he wanted it thrown, but he had appeared as a friendly witness and would never be suspected of having planted that bill himself. This was one more step in the elimination of the Cassidy-Taylor-Towne combination, and with them out of the way, he was safe.
That the bills had been unsigned he discovered upon opening the package. That did not trouble him, for among other things he was a skilled penman, and upon occasion could do a good job of forging. Also, he smiled slightly, this would keep the money in his hands and keep him in control of the situation.
Sarah Towne returned to the wagon to find Cindy Blair had returned from her ride. Quickly she told her story.
“It’s absurd!” Cindy flared. “Som
ething is wrong! They had no chance to rob any stage even if they had been the kind to do it! I’m going to see Marshal Lewis!”
On second thought she changed her mind. It would do no good to go to him and lodge a protest, none at all. Before they could do that, they must have evidence.
“If they didn’t have that money, and we know they didn’t, then how could it have been there for you to find?” she asked, speaking more to herself than to Sarah Towne. “There’s only one answer. Somebody had to put it there!”
She started for the wagon. “Sarah, show me where those pants were hanging.”
Sarah pointed at the hand-carved wooden hook inside the covered wagon. Inside, but within easy reach of a man who got up on the back of the wagon. Getting down, she looked carefully around. Their own footprints were all over everything. Despairing of finding anything, she nevertheless began to scout around. Her eyes suddenly fell on a pair of boots, and looking up, she saw a quizzical pair of gray eyes looking from a seamed brown face. The man was old, but stalwart and strong, and his mustache was white except for a slight yellowing from tobacco stains.
“Huntin’ somethin’, ma’am?”
She hesitated, uncertain whether to be friendly or not, but the old man looked pleasant enough. “I’m hunting some tracks,” she said then, and went on to repeat the story of the morning’s happenings. He watched her as she talked and glanced from time to time at Sarah Towne, who had joined them.
“My name’s Tom Burnside,” he said quietly. “I used to be some shakes at trackin’. Suppose you let me have the job?”
Turning away from them, he began a careful examination of the ground, swinging in a slowly widening circle about the area in which the wagon stood. Suddenly he knelt, examining a sharply delineated track.
It was the print of a new boot, the toe pointing toward the wagon, part of it obliterated by grass on which the walker had stepped, part in soft loam. But the overall impression was excellent, better than he had hoped for.
Two hours of careful work took him back to the rocks at the edge of the little stream that flowed by the town. On those rocks the walker might have come from anywhere, gone to anywhere. You had only to come out of the back door of one whole side of the town and walk down to the stream. The worn boulders held no mark of any kind. Yet he was impressed by what he had found. Without doubt somebody had circled around and crept up close to the wagons. That somebody might have planted the bills. It was then he made up his mind to go to Buck Lewis.
ON THE TRAIL near Brushy Knoll, Tote Brown suddenly had Hopalong Cassidy in his sights. He disliked firing on one man when there were others with him, but his orders were explicit and the price better than usual. He squeezed off his shot.
No one has ever recorded the place of little things in the chain of history. On this occasion it was a big horsefly that buzzed near Topper’s ear, and Topper shied slightly. Something stung Hopalong sharply across the top of the ear, and the sharp report of a rifle rang out, echoing against the face of the cliff.
Racing their horses for the trees, Hopalong put one hand to his ear and it came away bloody. He stared at his fingers, then looked at Rig with disgust. “A half inch closer and that would have blown the top of my head off!”
Too wise to start charging up the side of the tree-covered slope that lay below the precipice, the three waited and listened, but there was no sound. “Now, who d’you suppose fired that? One of those Brothers?”
Cassidy shook his head. “What about that hombre who shot at you, Rig? It could be the same one.”
“Where does he fit into this?” Taylor demanded. “I don’t get it.”
“If my guess is right, he’s working for Tredway. He may have been trying to keep you from discovering Pete Melford’s place, but now I guess he’s after all of us.”
“Either of you want to go back there in the brush after him?” Hopalong touched his bloody ear and looked from one to the other, grinning. “Well, neither do I. Let’s Injun out of here and push on.”
TOTE BROWN HAD retreated from his position but only to a better one selected earlier. He had hit Cassidy; even if the bullet had not killed him, it had hit him. He had seen that much. Now, if they came after him, he could get one of them and maybe all. From his present position they could not see him, and to get at him they must dismount and come up the slope toward him. His own horse was across a narrow gap and beyond a rocky area that could not be crossed by a horse. His chances of getting one man and maybe more were excellent, and his own chance of being hit was slight.
He waited and waited, but nothing happened. Were they lying below him, watching from under cover? He dared not approach the trail now. He must wait or retreat. He swore softly. It had been too much to expect, of course. But if they had come! His eyes gleamed with malice and he got to his feet, but as he straightened up and turned a queer feeling came over him, a feeling of being watched. His rifle at the ready, he looked around very carefully, then started down the rocks in the direction of his horse.
Suddenly there was a rustling in the brush ahead of him. Frozen in place, he listened. Behind him a twig snapped. He peered through the leaves but could see nothing. He thought he could feel the weight of unseen eyes upon him. He took a long slow breath and stepped forward. He sensed movement all around him, just out of sight, on the lowest threshold of his hearing… . A shadow shifted on his left, a whispering in the branches to his right. Behind him … He whirled for an instant and saw … A cloak? A hooded figure in the trees?
Tote Brown was not, or he had never considered himself, a superstitious man, yet all around him the brush seemed to have come to life. He had heard of ghosts around Sipapu and had sneered at such stories. He had heard bizarre tales about the inhabitants of Babylon Mesa, but he had believed none of them. He stood frozen, looking around and trying to locate the origin of the movement, but he could find nothing. All was very still, and there was no other sound.
After a while he started on, and he walked softly, as if fearful of attracting attention. Was he going crazy? Or was his imagination playing tricks on him? As he neared the place where his horse had been left, he began to hurry. Rounding the last clump of rocks and brush, he was almost running. He slid to a halt, staring, wild-eyed, suddenly frightened. His horse was not there!
Dragged its picket pin? Hurrying forward, Tote looked at the ground. He could track the … There were no tracks. There was no evidence that a horse had ever been here.
It was the wrong place, that was it! He hurried on, but an hour of searching brought him nothing. Panting, he stopped and mopped the sweat from his brow. Gone! They had taken his horse, then. But who were they? What were they?
He was thirsty and wanted a drink. He should never have left his canteen on his horse. Thinking swiftly, he made up his mind. There was no use looking further. He would start for Chimney Creek. By keeping the cliff at his back, he could go right to the stream, and it could not be far off. Yet even as he started to retrace his steps he began remembering that cliff. Nowhere in all the length of the canyon he had examined had he seen where a man might get to the bottom!
But there would be a way. There had to be a way.
In a flash it came to him. The place to go would be Sipapu! Why had he not considered that? Bill Saxx would be there with his men and he could give them some cock-and-bull story about being thrown. It would be simple enough. He started off, walking rapidly. It might be four or five miles. It could not be more than that.
The region between Chimney Creek Canyon and the mesa was not a dense thicket of brush but rather scattered clumps of trees, thick groves of aspen, and much grass. He walked rapidly, but the heavy rifle began to tire him. Finally he made a sling with a strip of rawhide and hung it over his shoulders. He could carry it more easily then, but it gouged into his back from time to time, and he kept shifting it as he walked.
It was very hot. His mouth felt dry and his brow was fevered. He touched his tongue to his lips and walked on. The clumps of trees k
ept him walking around them, and several times he had to stop and correct himself, for he was walking out of his course. His face felt hot, but he slowed now to conserve energy. Dusk was nearing when at last he sighted the town. Barely able to restrain himself from running, he hurried toward the place. Earlier, as he followed Hopalong and his friends, he had seen Saxx there, and so he went at once to the camp.
It was deserted and still. The ashes of the fire were cold. They were gone—gone!
But there was water—there had to be water! Yet a hurried search netted him none. The well that had once supplied the town was caved in. A trip to the creek found him standing on the old abutment of the bridge, but below him it was a sheer drop of hundreds of feet down to the water.
Slowly he got to his feet. How far it was to a place where he could descend to the river he did not know. Nor did he know in which direction to start. Frightened, he took what seemed the best chance and started downstream. He no longer even thought of his missing horse. His problem now was water, and he knew of no nearer chance to get water than the bridge on the stage road.
It was very hot. He slowed his pace and shifted the heavy rifle. Suddenly he realized for the first time that he might not get out of this alive. He started to walk again. Once he stumbled, and a dozen yards farther he stumbled again. He would have to take his time, he would have to be careful of his strength.
HOPALONG CASSIDY RODE in silence, considering the situation. The thing to do, he realized now more than ever, was to see the Brothers. They might actually know something, and they might give evidence. And now was the time to find out. That there was a trail to the top of the mesa in the vicinity of Brushy Knoll had long been rumored. The one Brother he had talked to knew of Pete Melford and he was hoping to enlist their aid in proving the guilt of Tredway and establishing Cindy Blair’s claim to the PM range.
“Look,” Pike suggested suddenly. “I’m worried about Sary. If you don’t think you’ll need me, I’ll head back for town. I want to be sure they are all right.”
Louis L'Amour_Hopalong Cassidy 04 Page 13
