“You aren’t hit bad.” Hopalong had been swiftly checking the wounds. “You took one through the leg. I think you’ll be all right, but you’d better start back for town.”
“I reckon I can make it. You goin’ after him?” Buck Lewis hesitated, then he said, “Maybe you’d better, Hoppy. Sure, I never wanted any man shot, but Saxx has gone plumb wild. He swore to me that he’d kill all of you, but it was Rig an’ yourself he wanted most.”
Cindy and Rig with their newfound happiness, and Pike and Sarah able to find some peace at last. It would never do for Bill Saxx to be at large.
Hopalong checked his guns, then turned toward his horse. “See you, Buck!” He waved a hand, then walked his horse from the yard.
Too experienced with bad men to be fooled, Hopalong Cassidy knew just what he was facing. Bill Saxx was a known gunman, dangerous under any conditions but now furious over his beating and the defeat of all their plans. If he came in contact with Krug and Pres, they would have no choice but to join him or fight it out. He would accept no arguments. So while he was trailing one man he must also be prepared to meet three.
Sure in his knowledge of the ways of hunted men, Hopalong believed that Saxx would head for the pear forest and either hide out there or lose his trail in its depths. Then, if he wished to get away, he might ride down the old trail past Brushy Knoll and into the almost trackless wilderness beyond. Certain it was that the trail Hopalong now found was heading straight for the Picket Fork. Beyond the stream he would have water and beef for the killing. Living would be easy enough, and Saxx would be able to strike from there at his enemies. Without doubt there were people in Kachina who would help him out of fear or the hope of profit.
Knowing the man, Hopalong Cassidy knew what a ruthless and relentless enemy he would be. Fiercely proud, he had taken an unmerciful beating in public. Over and above the fact that the holdup had proved profitless to him and the money lost. He had shot and, he would believe, killed the marshal. From foreman of the biggest ranch in the area, he had become a fugitive and an outlaw. No man, not even Tredway himself, could be more dangerous.
The corral where the cattle had been gathered looked lonely now, and the fire where their meals had been cooked was only long-dead ashes and blackened stones. There is nothing so forlorn as a deserted and long-dead campfire where one has been with friends. The trail left by Bill Saxx did not pause near the camp, but continued on across the Picket Fork. His guns loose in their holsters, Hopalong rode into the pear forest, every sense alert to danger.
Shadows were deep, and he rode slowly, his ears attuned to the slightest sound. He knew that he might hunt for days without finding the former Box T foreman. And the man was skilled in woods travel and in mountains or plains.
As if sensing the alertness of his master, Topper stepped daintily as he crossed the stream and entered the pear forest, ears up and twitching. It was very still. The sun’s heat was thickened by the unmoving air and seemed to settle down and gather in the small open places. He rode slowly and with many pauses to listen. In the dust beneath the chaparral Topper’s hooves made little sound, but listen as he might, Hopalong could hear nothing. Yet here and there he found a track, and he knew that somewhere ahead of him was Saxx.
Did the outlaw know he was followed? Hopalong doubted it, yet there was a chance, and if he knew he was followed by one man alone, he would not wait long for a meeting.
CINDY BLAIR WAS starting up the path from the bottoms when she saw the horse. Rig had gone off somewhere to hunt up Buck Lewis and see how he was getting along, and she had suddenly remembered there was no coffee in the Towne wagon. With a word to Sarah she had saddled her mare and started out of the bottoms to pick up supplies, the same supplies they had been forced to leave behind when Sarah’s only money had proven to be stolen.
The horse was standing in the trail, and he seemed to have a pack on his back. Also, there was something wet and glistening on his shoulder. Puzzled and worried, she turned her horse back along the lip of the wash toward the trail. When next she sighted the horse, she felt a start of fear. On the horse’s back was a man!
He was bent far forward, and the horse’s shoulder was bloody and red. The man looked strange. Even as she rode up to him he slid from the saddle and fell heavily into the road. Swinging down, Cindy ran to the man, and then saw what made him look so different. He was dressed in a homespun cloak and hood. His chest and stomach were literally drenched in blood and his shirt soaked with it. Gently she stretched the man out on the grass beside the road, then she lifted his head and removed the hood.
He was a fair-haired young man, and now his face was very pale. Yet she saw at once that he was conscious. His eyes flickered open. “Harlan … got …” he whispered hoarsely. His lips fluttered and worked hard at the words. “Got … got away!”
Suddenly Cindy was frightened. Desperately she worked over the man, finding his wounds, of which there were four, and bathing them as well as she could with water from her canteen, then she ripped up her skirt and bandaged the wounds. Obviously the man had started back to town for help and had fainted when almost there. He had lost his grip on the bridle reins, they had fallen to the ground, and the horse had stopped, as trained.
When the man was resting more comfortably, she stepped quickly to the side of the road. Drawing her rifle from the scabbard, she fired three fast shots, waited an instant, then fired three more. Hastily she reloaded, and was rewarded by a rush of horses’ hooves, racing from the town.
Rig Taylor was the first to arrive, and behind him were Pike Towne, Tom Burnside, and several others. Quickly she told her story. When she had finished, the man on the ground gasped out the details.
They had been nearing Babylon Mesa. Several men had ridden on ahead with the prisoner. He and one other had been bringing up the rear. Suddenly there was a commotion ahead and they had rushed forward to run into a blast of gunfire. His companion had been killed instantly, but his own horse had bolted with him clinging to the saddle.
Knowing he could never get up the trail in his present condition, he had turned his horse and started back for town. All five of the men guarding Tredway had been killed. Whether the advance group had turned back he did not know. His one thought had been to prevent the escape of the killers.
“How many was there?” Pike demanded.
“Don’t know. Maybe—maybe three, four.”
Pike’s face was serious. “Three or four. That means Bill Saxx may have caught up with Krug an’ Pres. Now Tredway is with ’em. They are on the dodge, an’ they’ll be feelin’ mighty mean.”
“We’d better get going,” Rig said gravely. “We’ll get this man back to town to the doc, then we’ll get a posse and head out down the trail.”
Cindy Blair watched them go, walking to her own horse. They had rushed off to send a buckboard for the wounded man, and it was not until she had led the mare back to the shade near him that she thought of Hopalong.
He was out there alone, hunting Bill Saxx. He would find himself facing four or five men, Tredway among them, and he would have no warning! Frightened, she sprang into the saddle. The wounded man looked up at her. “You’ll be all right,” she said quickly. “They are coming for you. Hopalong Cassidy is hunting for one man—he’ll find four. They’ll kill him!”
The little mare was a runner and liked it. She took to the trail like a rabbit. Cindy’s mind flashed ahead. Hopalong had gotten into this because of her, to help her. They had not found the PM steers he wanted, but he had found evidence to prove her claim, and now he was riding unwarned into a trap. He would never dream that Tredway was free.
He would go to their old camp, she was sure of that. Her own knowledge of the West was good, and she had hunted too much not to know that a hunted man will head for shelter. Saxx would avoid open country, try to lose his trail. He would go for the chaparral and Hopalong would follow him. But Saxx had already struck from the chaparral to free Tredway, who had been longer in the country than any
of them and who would know more of the thickets than anyone else.
After a fast start she slowed the game little mare to a space-eating trot and cut across country, taking every possible shortcut to cover the distance as quickly as possible. As she rode she tried to guess how far Hopalong would have penetrated into the pear forest and where he would be now.
She waded her horse across the Picket Fork and drove into the brush. There was no trail at this point, but she hit it flat as she had seen Hopalong do and was soon pushing her way through. Branches tore at her, ripping her blouse and snagging her hair. She forced her way into a narrow cattle trail and turned along it, riding full tilt. Suddenly the trail opened, almost without warning, into a clearing. She was riding too fast to stop quickly, and before she realized what had happened, her mare had plunged into a group of horsemen. A hand shot out and grasped her bridle and she found herself looking into the eyes of Bill Saxx. He was grinning widely.
“Well, what d’ you know?” He grinned, winking at Tredway. “We got company! Where you goin’ in the hurry, ma’am?”
Cindy felt despair rise within her, then fear. These men were already outlaws. They were already murderers, and she could expect no mercy. One more crime, or a dozen more crimes, would mean nothing at all now. “Let me go,” she said quietly. “Let go of that bridle!”
Saxx chuckled. “Let go? Honey, I always did figure on seein’ a sight more of you.”
Tredway turned impatiently. “Bring her along then, but let’s move!”
“Bring her along?” Saxx chuckled again. “I’ll say! She’ll be good company, and she’ll be bait for Cassidy, too.”
Tredway nodded. “Let’s get moving. Once we’re where I’m taking you, we’ll be safe enough. We can make Cassidy come to us as we like. And when we like.”
Cindy’s rifle was jerked from its scabbard and Pres tied a thong to her wrists and passed the other end to Saxx. Then they started on.
DUSK HAD FALLEN before Hopalong finally halted. He had lost the trail more than an hour before as several of the roving half-wild cattle had obliterated all evidence of the passing of the horseman. Yet he had continued on, following the paths that led deeper into the brush and hoping he was still on the trail.
Earlier in the day he had believed he heard distant shots, but in that clear and soundless air, they might well have carried for several miles and might have been fired at a coyote. They were not repeated, and he was not sure whether he had even heard the shooting or not. Having no desire to stop in the narrow paths of the pear forest, he continued even after the stars came out. Topper was a weary horse and Hopalong himself was sagging in the saddle, not so much from the riding of the day as from the accumulated fatigue.
Despite that, he grew more and more wary as the hours drew on, and when he approached a clearing, he hesitated and listened for a long time. He passed several of the cattle and finally bedded down near a seep of water on the far side. He was awake at the first gray of day and swiftly saddled Topper. The white gelding had rested and seemed in fine fettle. Mounting up, Hopalong started out once more.
He had gone no more than a mile when suddenly he drew up sharply. The track of Bill Saxx’s horse was plain and clear, but accompanying it, the tracks evidently made the night before, were the hoofprints of four other horses! Dropping to the ground, Hopalong shoved his hat back on his head and studied the tracks.
As he did so his face grew serious. Getting to his feet, he walked on along the trail, leading Topper. Several times he paused to examine tracks, then when he stopped at last, his face was hard with worry and anger.
Pres was once more with Saxx. The track of the paint he rode most often was easily identified. That helped with some of the strange tracks also, for one of the other riders would be Krug. He had recognized the track of Cindy’s mare at once, and the other track was the one made by the horse Tredway had ridden out of Kachina!
Tredway was free.
Tredway was free, and the outlaws had Cindy Blair a prisoner. That they would try to kidnap her seemed doubtful, but since she was with them, and from a boot track seen at one point during a brief halt Hopalong knew it was actually she, it was obvious that she had run into them by accident or some such thing.
There were no signs of any pursuers. So what could have happened? Apparently, he guessed, Saxx and his two companions had effected a delivery for Tredway.
As Topper walked on, Hopalong realized that his problem now was enormous. Saxx or Tredway were a match for any man, and together, aided by the other two, they made any attack or fight with less than their number dangerous and foolhardy. Yet he dared not turn back. The girl could not be left in their hands, and he would have to follow and trust to improvising some solution.
It was late afternoon before Hopalong Cassidy lost the trail. It had been following the canyon of Chimney Creek for more than a mile when suddenly he realized there were no more tracks in the dust. He dismounted and backtracked, working carefully. Until now the party had moved without hesitation, bound for some definite goal.
Now … ?
Twice he had worked along the trail before he found the white scar made by a shod horse on the face of a flat rock. Puzzled, he glanced in that direction and could see nothing but a short space of almost smooth rock to the very lip of the canyon. Walking out upon it, he glanced down and caught his breath. A steep trail dipped down on the very rim of the canyon, but a hoof mark showed itself plainly in a spot where dust had packed into a space between rocks. He was about to advance when wind whipped past his face and he heard the not-too-distant report of a rifle!
Diving for the brush, he heard a second shot and hit the trees running, then skidded to a halt. The shots had come from his own side of the canyon, and from the rim. Leaving Topper, he slipped his rifle from the boot and started out, skirting the rim of the canyon, then swinging wide to encircle the unknown antagonist. Almost instantly a shot clipped leaves near his head and he hit the dirt on hands and knees.
His tactics had been surmised and the man was ready for him. Hoppy lay still, studying the situation. Unless the marksman had moved, he was not more than fifty yards away and in a cluster of rocks that formed a rugged natural tower on the canyon rim. And that place presented problems for an attacker. Yet Hopalong moved forward at once, weaving back and forth in the brush. Once he picked up a rock and tossed it to one side, but it drew no answering fire.
He studied an open space that ran between the clumps of brush, an open space that had grass all of a foot high in it. The grass might have been a trifle higher, he decided. He looked down at his own clothes. They were now covered with dust and streaked with sweat. They would, he decided, fade into the grass and rocks very easily. Moreover, the open alley between the lines of brush could not be overlooked by the watcher. He could see along it but could not look down upon it. Hoppy decided to take the risk of advancing along that open space. The chances were that his enemy would be searching the brush for movement and would not guess that Hopalong was approaching by the one place that seemingly offered no concealment at all.
Dropping to his stomach, Hopalong wormed his way out of the brush and headed toward the chimney of rocks. For an instant he lay still in a cold sweat. If he was seen here, he was cold turkey, and the worst of it was the man might wait until he was fairly close, deliberately letting him advance to his death.
Hopalong started forward, inching his way along the ground but keeping his head low. The man might be shrewd enough to watch that particular place, for any soldier or Indian fighter would know that it takes only a few inches of cover to hide a man if he lies still. And Hoppy was gambling that his movements would be slow enough to offer almost the same effect.
No sound came from the rocks. Hopalong’s cheek was pressed to the earth to keep his head lower, and he tried to keep his body in a logical place for a rock to lie if the watcher happened to look that way. Whoever the man was he had been left behind to prevent Hopalong’s following the party, and Cassidy was co
nfident that the hideout was someplace near, possibly even in the bottom of the canyon itself.
He inched on, waiting for a long time at each stopping point. Having the patience of an Indian, he knew that haste is more often death than otherwise under these circumstances. Once, where the grass grew taller, he turned his head and peered forward. He was right out in the open now, none of the taller brush was anywhere close to him, and the rocks were not many yards away.
He lowered his head and crept on, making for an outcropping of chaparral that stood between him and the rocks. When he made it, he found the brush concealed a pile of rocks, and he rested there, studying the tower before him. On his side it was sheer, rising at least twenty feet above the terrain, but even though it could not be scaled from this side, neither could it offer any good spot for observation. He had managed to work his way halfway around the tower so that he was well on the other side from where he had last drawn fire.
Worming his way on, he finally took a chance, braced his toes in the sod, and came up with a rush that carried him into the shadow of the tower. If he had been seen, there was no evidence of it from the watcher.
Yet that man knew Hopalong was down here somewhere, and as long as he was out of sight, the watcher would grow increasingly nervous. Hopalong worked his way through the rocks around the tower toward the rim of the canyon. Hearing a slight noise, he froze in position, his Winchester at his hip. For an instant he stood still, then heard a second noise and at once he relaxed. Easing around a rock, he saw a small hollow, scarcely larger than a box stall, and there, cropping grass, was the bandit’s horse, a fine-looking gray, dappled over the shoulders and hips.
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