“Know anythin’ about that bank robbery over to McClellan?”
Thatcher looked quickly at Hopalong. “Know anything? No, I don’t, but I’ve done some thinking. Those hombres got away slick as a whistle, an’ believe me they weren’t just ordinary thieves! They had a plan, an’ a mighty shrewd one!”
They rode on in silence until they came to the adobe ranch house of the T Bar. Diamond Creek flowed along a small canyon nearby, and there was little at the ranch but the rambling adobe house, the stables, bunkhouse, and corrals. However, they had been solidly constructed around a square and there was a huge log gate, carefully balanced, that closed off the central square from the outside.
The house was L-shaped, and with the bunkhouse it formed the end and two sides of the square, while the stables and corrals formed the opposite end. As the stables were also constructed of adobe and there were heavy plank troughs within the corrals, the place was admirably situated for defense against Apaches.
“Come on us three, four times,” Thatcher said, as Hopalong washed his hands in a tin basin. “We drove ’em off each time. Lost a hand one time, though. He was caught outside. I been here ten years,” he added, “an’ don’t aim to leave, short of they carry me. And I reckon what’s left won’t be worth the haul.”
The dining room was long and low-raftered, warmed by a huge fireplace and a potbellied stove. “Need a fire up here, even in the summertime, usually. Nighttime she cools off.”
A sturdy Mexican woman came in and began piling dishes on the table, and a few minutes later several hands trooped in and dropped to their seats. One and all, they merely glanced at Hopalong, then began eating. The food was good and wholesome. Hopalong had not realized how hungry he was, but the slab of steak he took was huge, and he returned for another helping when the platter went by him. The potatoes, beans, and rice were equally good.
When he pushed back from the table, Sim Thatcher chuckled at him. “Don’t you be cashin’ in so soon!” he said. “This here Mexican woman I got has learned one trick north of the border. She makes first-rate apple pie!”
Hopalong promptly slid his chair back to the table and filled his coffee cup. One of the hands looked up.
“Seen Barker t’day,” the hand remarked. “He was sort of scoutin’ the ranch. I reckoned he might be huntin’ for you. All of us, we aimed to start out, when we seen you comin’.”
“Hope you got a good look at him,” Thatcher said, “if you aim to remember him. You won’t see him no more.”
If he had shouted for attention he would have received it no faster. Not even the arrival of the apple pie distracted their attention. They stared from Sim Thatcher to Hopalong Cassidy, then back at Sim. A big redheaded puncher with a huge Adam’s apple was first to demand an explanation.
Coolly, ignoring their pleading eyes, Thatcher cut into the apple pie with his fork. It was all of two and a half inches thick, and juicy. Hopalong’s mouth watered, and he went to work on his own. Each slab was a quarter of a pie. Few Western ranchers ever considered cutting a pie into more than four pieces.
Thatcher chewed quietly, then stirred his coffee and tasted it. The punchers stared at him sadly. Finally the redhead spoke again. “Aw right,” he said, “I give in. What happened?”
“Barker,” Thatcher said, smacking his lips over the pie, “had some words with us. My friend here declared himself in. Then Barker made a mistake.”
Thatcher lifted his cup. He drank from it, then replaced it and picked up his fork. “Well, of all the half-baked storytellers!” Red yelled. “What happened?”
Thatcher chuckled. “I said Barker made a mistake. Well, he sure did. He reached for his gun.” The rancher glanced ostentatiously at the clock. “’Bout now they will be plantin’ him in Circle J’s Boot Hill.”
They stared at him. “You mean—you beat him?”
“Not me,” Thatcher said. “My friend here. He drilled our friend Barker right through the tobacco sack with one gun an’ burned the gun out of Mowry’s hand with the other. Then he sat there in his saddle an’ let those other hombres ask themselves whether they wanted to gamble or not. None o’ them did. About that time I had my rifle out, an’ Hopalong here, he suggested they pick up their meat an’ mosey.”
“Hopalong?” The redhead leaned forward, staring at Cassidy. “Hopalong Cassidy, from the Bar 20 outfit?”
“Used to be Bar 20,” Cassidy agreed. “Now I’m driftin’.”
“Hope you stick around here awhile,” the redhead said grimly; “there’s a gent name of Sparr you should talk to.”
“Give him time,” Thatcher suggested. “He told Mowry to tell Sparr he was visitin’ up that way soon, an’ to roll the welcome mat out or come a-shootin’, as he liked!”
“No!”
“Sure did.”
Thatcher studied the remains of the pie that stood down the table and looked thoughtfully at his plate. Hopalong waited, and when Sim Thatcher drew back with a sigh, he promptly reached over and picked up his second piece. Thatcher grinned at him. “Couldn’t eat any more if I had to! This ranch sure feeds good! If I was huntin’ a job, I’d go to work here.”
Hopalong grinned but said nothing. Then he turned to Red and the other hands. “Seen anything of that kid of Jordan’s lately? Pamela, her name is. Last time I saw her she was all knees an’ freckles.”
Red grinned. “That must have been a long time ago,” he said. “Right now I’d say she’s about the purtiest thing on two feet this side o’ the Pecos! Pert an’ purty, an’ ever’ inch of her woman, b’lieve me!”
“How’s her right, Red?” Thatcher grinned, and the other punchers chuckled.
Red’s face flamed, and he looked ruefully about, then at Hopalong. “Aw, don’t listen to these fellers! Always hoorawin’ a man!”
A tousle-headed puncher looked up and winked at Hopalong. “Red took her to a dance one time, an’ outside the dance he tried to kiss her. Man, did she ever wallop him! He went around lopsided for three days!”
Thatcher glanced over at Hopalong as he lit his cigar. “You mean what you said? That you’re goin’ over to the Circle J?”
“Yeah. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Want we should go with you?”
“Nope. I’ll go alone. However,” he added, “if you know a way to get fairly close without bein’ seen it might help. Once I’m up close I don’t mind.”
A gray-haired puncher glanced up. “There’s a couple of ways, both of ’em rough rides. As the crow flies it’s maybe fourteen mile from here to headquarters on the J. The reg’lar route goes up the canyon o’ the West Fork for maybe six mile above the hot springs. Then the trail runs north through the woods for nearly three mile an’ turns west to the park where headquarters lies.
“But there’s a trail t’other side of West Fork that goes up Little Crick an’ crosses at the meetin’ o’ Whitewater Crick an’ West Fork. Cabin right clost there. When you reach that cabin you are exactly six mile west o’ headquarters. Stick to the breaks along the north side o’ the fork an’ you can git right clost.”
“Ain’t that where Pamela rides sometimes, Red?” Thatcher asked.
Red nodded. “Used to, an’ I reckon she still does. They’d not be afraid o’ her ridin’ thataway, even if she’d leave her pa. West o’ there lie the Mogollons an’ Jerky Mountains, an’ believe you me that’s rough country.”
“They don’t come any worse, Hoppy,” Thatcher assured him. “That country west of Jackson Mesa an’ the Jerkys is mighty rough, an’ she rises higher an’ higher. There’s a pass back in yonder called Turkeyfeather, but none of us have ever seen it or even know where it lies. Just trapper talk, maybe.”
The older man shook his head. “There’s a trail in there, Sim. I never crossed it, but I’ve talked to them as has. Snow Creek trail cuts down from the north an’ almost peters out, but she goes on like a game trail until she crosses the Mogollons into the Silver Creek trail to Alma. If a feller wanted to right bad he might get through
Turkeyfeather Pass an’ hit that trail by holdin’ north of Whitewater Baldy.”
“Well,” Thatcher said, “you won’t have cause to head thataway. But if you can take that trail up Little Crick an’ cut over to the cabin, I’d say you had a better-than-usual chance of gettin’ to the Circle J headquarters without bein’ seen until you’re within a few hundred yards.”
Hopalong nodded. Carefully he went over in his mind all he had heard. He had the retentive memory of a Western man, but he was taking no chances. Upon what he had just heard his life might well depend, and even more than his life, the lives of Pamela and her father. It was during just such discussions that Western men acquired most of their knowledge of a country, and with a meticulous knowledge of what they had heard and seen, their directions often became marvels of detail.
In this case the old cowhand had not gone into detail, but before the night was over Hopalong intended that he should. That country west of the Circle J headquarters interested him. He was one man and alone against Avery Sparr and his outfit of killers, and, skillful as he was, he had no intention of playing the fool. With luck he might get in touch with the Jordans, and if Dick was able to straddle a horse they might run for it into that maze of canyons and mesas west of the Circle J ranch house.
“Whatever you do,” Thatcher said as Hopalong picked up his hat, “don’t pull out before breakfast. That cook raises chickens. She’s got real eggs!”
*
AWAKE WITH THE first break of dawn, Hopalong put his hands behind his head and stretched to full length in the bunk. It was good to lie in bed for a while and not have to be up and moving. Lying in bed, he had discovered, was a good way of thinking, if a man didn’t go back to sleep.
During his long talk with the old cowhand he had elicited minute details of that route and all he knew about it. The old man liked to talk, and Hoppy had learned that it paid to be a good listener. He listened and he learned. Moreover, he got a rough idea of how many hands there were on the ranch.
“There’s maybe twenty, comin’ an’ goin’.”
The old man looked shrewdly at Hopalong. “If you have to light out o’ there fast, head due west. Those hombres will sure as shootin’ split two ways. One bunch will head for the crossin’ nigh that cabin I told you of, an’ the others will ride due north of Jackson Mesa to the crossin’ of the Middle Fork. That way they’ll figger they got yuh cut off. Instead, you head due west past Lily Peak an’ hole up back in the Jerkys. If they chase you into them mountains they are bigger fools than I figger.” The old man had knocked out his pipe. “But watch out for ’Paches!”
Reaching for the edge of the blanket, Hopalong threw back the covers and swung his feet to the floor. He sat there scratching his ribs for a minute, then yawned, stretched, and reached for his socks. He dressed slowly, and was just drying his hands and face when he heard the triangle clanging for breakfast.
He buckled on his gun belts, checked the guns, and then followed the hands to breakfast. There would be food left, he knew. Grinning, he reflected that being an honored guest had its points—they always saved something for you.
By the time the sun had reached its highest, Hopalong Cassidy had not only the longest part of the day behind him, but sixteen miles as well. Today he was riding a buckskin that belonged to Thatcher, and while not the horse Topper was, it was nevertheless a fine animal and a horse that understood mountains.
Circle J headquarters could be no more than four miles north of him as the crow would fly, but between them lay the deep canyon of the West Fork, and he had half a mind to attempt a crossing and save time. On the other hand, he knew that some knowledge of the country west of him would be a help if he had to run for it, so he continued on along the prescribed route.
It was midafternoon by the time he reached the trail to the cabin, and for the first time he felt uneasy. He had been told that this route was known to the outlaws and occasionally used by them. It might be watched, and to ride down the trail would be foolhardy to say the least. Accordingly he pushed on and found a trail that led down from the rim into the canyon of a branch of the stream.
Turning north off the trail, he rode alongside the stream or even in the shallow, rushing water for almost two miles. Once, coming to a fall of several feet, he was sure that he would have to turn back.
Yet, surprisingly enough, it was the horse itself who found the way around the falls. Hopalong had reined in with the water rushing by the horse’s legs, and evidently deciding to take the matter up itself, the buckskin turned right and picked its way carefully, now in, now out of the stream through a maze of rocks to the stream bed below the falls.
Suddenly the mouth of the canyon gaped before him, and from the west another stream flowed, coming in at precisely the point where Hopalong’s stream and one from the northwest combined. He had emerged from his canyon slightly upstream from the crossing, and now he found a route out of the canyon, and rode up and stopped the buckskin under the trees.
Getting down, he carefully rubbed dry the horse’s legs, for the water had been very cold. After rubbing warmth back into them, he tied the horse and walked down toward the cabin. At once he heard voices.
Dropping to his hands, he lowered himself to his stomach in the grass and edged closer behind the trunk of a tree. Past its roots Hopalong could see two men. One sat on the porch of the ramshackle old cabin; the other was astride a horse. It was he who was talking, and he had evidently just arrived.
“Yeah, Barker.” There was a low murmur, and then the same man replied, “Yesterday afternoon. Said his name was Hopalong Cassidy.”
“He alone?” the guard asked suspiciously.
“Seemed to be,” the rider replied. “He was with Sim Thatcher, but Johnny says they met at Clifton’s. Cassidy was alone then.”
“Hope he stays alone,” the guard grumbled. “I heard about that outfit. You have trouble with one of ’em an’ the first thing you know the country’s full of ’em. Friend o’ mine rode with a hoss thief that Hopalong had trouble with. That young partner of Hoppy’s, Mesquite Jenkins, he tracked down the whole shootin’ match. He killed Dutch Bill.”
“Well, he sure didn’t miss Barker! This Cassidy drilled him right through the heart. Had a tobacco sack in his shirt pocket and the bullet drilled right through it. They claim they found some tobacco where the bullet come out!”
“What happened to Mowry?”
“Him? He’s snarlin’ like a grizzly with a sore tooth! Hopalong shot his gun out of his hand and laid a furrow across the back of it that shore won’t heal fast, b’lieve me! He’s swearin’ he’ll kill Cassidy as soon as his hand’s well.”
“He better hunt him a hole.”
“Maybe.” The rider turned his horse. “Well, Sparr wanted me to ride over here an’ check ever’ so often. I’ll head back.”
“Stick around. I got a deck o’ cards.”
“Can’t. Sparr’s mighty restless these days himself. Might just ride out here, and you know what that would mean.”
Hopalong lay in the grass and watched the rider walk his horse away. It was a nice-looking paint, sorrel and white. And he walked fast. The guard stood up to watch him go, then loafed down to the cliff over the river and stared at the crossing and over at the far side. Finally he turned and came back. Putting his rifle down, he began to fix supper.
Cassidy started to get up. Then a thought struck him, and he settled down in the grass well out of sight. He could wait. No use capturing the man before supper was ready. He would only have to get it himself. After a while he got up, hitched his guns into place, and keeping the corner of the cabin before him so he could not be seen from within, he strolled down there.
Inside, the guard was growling to himself, and Hopalong heard grease spattering. The man stepped to the door. Hopalong watched him walk off the porch to throw out some water. He stepped up on the porch as the man left it. When he turned, Hopalong was standing there with a gun in his hand.
The guard gulped a
nd stared. “Say, what th—! Who are you?” he demanded.
“I’m Cassidy,” Hopalong said quietly; “dropped in for supper. Fixed enough for two?”
The man stood there helplessly. He was a lanky man with his shirt sleeves rolled up to display a soiled red flannel undershirt. His legs were very bowed and he had a droopy mustache that seemed to droop more than ever now. “I—I reckon,” he said hoarsely. “You be keerful o’ that gun, mister. I ain’t done nothin’.”
“Then unbuckle that belt an’ let her drop,” Hopalong replied pleasantly. “I’ve no mind to kill another man unless you force it on me.”
The man let his belt drop, and Hopalong ordered him to turn around, then walked up and appropriated the belt and gun. Stepping to the door, he grasped the rifle and shucked the shells from it. “All right,” he said, “get the rest of it fixed, an’ enough for me.”
While the man cooked, Hopalong sat where he could keep an eye on both trails. The man noticed it finally. “No use to look,” he said, gloomily. “Won’t be nobody along.”
“I hope not,” Hopalong assured him. “I might have to shoot you so’s you wouldn’t interfere.”
“Don’t do it!” the man pleaded. “If’n anybody should come, an’ I swear I don’t know who or why they would, I’ll set down on the floor an’ keep shet. I ain’t hungry for no lead, mister!”
They sat opposite each other and ate in silence. The man kept glancing up, and when each time he found Hopalong looking into his eyes from his own frosty blue ones, the older man became more uncomfortable. “I ain’t tryin’ nothin’, Cassidy,” he said. “I ain’t no gun slick an’ ain’t huntin’ no trouble.”
Hopalong pushed back from the table. “Look, old-timer,” he said sincerely, “if you got a horse, I’d say better throw a leg over him an’ light out—south.”
“Sparr would kill me!” the man pleaded, his face gray. He stared at Hopalong, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “He’d kill me shore!”
“Sparr’s goin’ to be so busy aroun’ home,” Hopalong replied, “that he won’t have time to chase you. Now you do like I say; unless”—he paused suddenly—“unless you want to do somethin’ for me.”
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