the Riders Of High Rock (1993) (11 page)

Bones nodded. "Yeah, I understand." Three men murdered, he thought, even as he answered Bolt. Good men, too. Bones had little imagination and less ethics, but he did possess a certain code of his own, and that code went against shooting a man in the back. It also demanded that a man fight his own battles. Bolt was showing no inclination to do any fighting at all. "All right," he agreed, "I'll ride in."

"I'll go along," Garson replied quickly. Ever since the shooting began he had been frightened, and the idea of riding back to Tascotal alone had frightened him even more. Besides, he would be more comfortable riding with Bones than with the others. The fat man was easygoing and not much inclined to run into trouble.

Bones started off towards the corral, and Bolt stared after Garson. He disliked the man even while he used him as a spy. There was nothing stable about Garson, nothing worth any kind of a gamble. It would never do to trust him, and Jack Bolt did not. As a matter of fact, he trusted no one but himself.

He watched the two ride off towards town in the twilight, and then he walked back to the house. A wind had started to blow and dust sifted in the broken window. Like a ghost house. Startled at the thought, he looked hastily around. He was not

actually superstitious, he told himself, but such thoughts disturbed him. Gloomily he stared at the windows. He would have to get new ones in town, and that would mean questions. It would also excite comment from those he did business with, and in no time the story would be all over the country. Some suspicion that Red and Joe Gamble had just reason would be sure to remain.

Joe Gamble disturbed him.

Red Connors and Hopalong Cassidy were strangers in the country, and both had the reputation of being fighters. If such men were killed, there would be little surprise, nor would too many questions be asked; but Joe Gamble was a steady, serious cowhand with a good reputation--a hard-working man known to be honest and not a drinker.

Nevertheless, there was nothing else to be done. All three men must be killed, and the sooner the better. He walked the floor of his cabin restlessly, then gave it up. The very sight of the broken windows acted as a warning. He was now in danger himself. Courageous enough, he had allowed himself to let all that slip into the past, and for several years now he had been telling himself that he was the brains. Let others get shot at, not him.

"Boss?" It was Grat. "That outfit sure did us up brown. They clipped the rope on the well bucket and she's stuck down there."

"Well, get it out!" Bolt was impatient. "The fool who left the well hole so small should have been shot! Can't you hook the bail?"

"We're tryin'. Meanwhile there's no water. Even the trough is run dry."

Jack Bolt walked out into the ranch yard. It was growing late. He stared at the trail towards town, chewing at his under--

lip. Maybe he should ride over to see the Gibsons. How much, if anything, did they know? Pod had run off, but that had been caused by Hopalong, and the gunfighter might not have said anything about Bolt's connection with the rustling--if he knew anything.

Sue Gibson-- He scowled. She was a pretty girl, and they had danced together more than once. Maybe that was an easier way to get the cattle and the ranch--especially with her father laid up in bed. Anyway, he would ride over, be frank with them, and see what came of that. Frankness, he had learned, was disarming, and he might actually win Sue to his side. At least it was worth the chance while he was waiting for Sim Aragon to handle Cassidy for him.

He mounted up and rode off while Grat glared after him. The Breed and Slim were working over the well. "Get busy, you two!" Grat snarled. "The boss has ridden off and left this to us. A lot he cares if we never get a drink!"

Surprised, the others looked at him, and made more angry, he stalked off across the yard. He saddled his own horse, then stopped. Where would he go?

To the creek. It was not far off, and he could at least get a bucket of water there and fill all their canteens. He hesitated again. "How's it look, Slim?"

"Jammed up for fair. We'll have to bust the bucket, I reckon."

"Let it go till morning. Hitch up the team and load a couple of barrels. We'll go to the creek after water. That blasted Connors! That was him, and I know it! Nobody else could cut a rope at that distance."

Slim mopped the sweat from his face. "Don't reckon they could. He missed a couple himself. There's a bullet in the

frame and the shiv wheel has been jimmied up. That Connors, he's a whiz with a rifle."

"Get the barrels loaded. I'm scoutin' around a little. You head for the creek."

Jack Bolt rode on, following the winding trail towards the wide range of the 3TL. The farther he rode, the more he wondered if this was not the best way after all. He did not hesitate to admit the truth to himself. The gunfire and the hum of lead had done something to him. Four years or so of absence from gunfighting and killing had changed his thinking. Cowering on the floor, hearing the bullets punch through the walls of his cabin, knowing that any one of them could mean death, had put something into him that had gone clear to the bottom of his mind and his stomach. He did not like being shot at. When he was younger he had been heedless. He had believed the bullet had not been made that would kill him. Death had seemed fantastically far away.

It was always that way when you were young. Well, he was older now and knew that death was no respecter of persons. There had to be an easier way. He had brains, and it was time to use them.

The moon was rising when he came within sight of the 3TL buildings.

Chapter
10

Fight in the Badlands
.

Circling the hot springs, Hopalong Cassidy walked the pa-louse back into the hills, keeping close watch on the country as he approached it. That an ambush might await him at any point, he was well aware. The horse he rode was one of the best he had ever ridden, but they had been on the move constantly now for some days, and he found himself wishing he was riding his favorite mount, the white gelding Topper.

The morning sun was bright and only beginning to grow warm. The tracks of the cattle were plainer now, and it was obvious that Pete and his men had caught up with the herd. Here and there a cow track partly obliterated one of the tracks Hopalong had memorized farther back along the trail.

Now the herd was in High Rock with its sheer walls towering four to five hundred feet above the trail. Rye grass grew along the floor of the canyon, which was narrow through much of its length but widening at intervals. Occasionally there were pools of water. Twice Hopalong allowed the palouse to crop the grass and drink while he scouted ahead on foot, alert for a trap. Here and there the old tracks of covered wagons were plainly visible, and in places had been gutted out and cut deeper by

rains. Suddenly, in a wide-open space overgrown with tall grass, Hopalong found that the trail had petered out.

Puzzled, he circled around. Here and there he found the tracks of a single animal or, in a few cases, of two or three, but the herd seemed to have vanished into the tall grass, growing saddle-high to the horse he rode. Suddenly Hopalong heard the sound of a calf bawling nearby!

Searching around, Hopalong first found an 8 Box H steer, and if the brand was worked over, it was an excellent job. When he found it, the calf was standing with its mother near a tangle of brush that grew against the canyon wall. The brand on the full-grown cow was freshly burned, but the work had been so carefully done that it would be impossible to tell, without killing and skinning her, if it had been worked over. He pressed on, and although he found a few other scattered cattle, the trail of the main body of the herd had vanished.

Carefully he scouted the edges of the canyon but could find no trail out. Yellow Rock Canyon showed the trail of only one steer. Hopalong scowled and rode back to a spring in a cleft of the rocky wall. It was already growing dark, for he had spent most of the afternoon looking for the trail. Picking dry wood from a nest around the roots of a shrub, Hopalong built his fire and made supper. As he ate he considered the entire situation and what had happened.

Despite his search he could find no exact place where the trail began to peter out. It was as if the herd had gradually dwindled until the few remaining cattle had been scattered here in the upper reaches of the High Rock.

Daylight found him pushing on, and disregarding the dwindling herd and the missing cattle, he pushed on towards Coyote Springs. One horseman had come this far, the man riding the slue-gaited mustang. There was water in the springs,

although nearby Massacre Lakes were only vast dry beds. He had seen no tracks of cattle this far north, but after a while he made camp on the sand near the springs. In the morning he would head back towards the south.

Red Connors stared through the dimming light. "You sure this is the way? Those tracks look like Hoppy's, all right, but he's sure doin' a lot of wanderin' around."

"Perhaps he's lost their trail," Gamble suggested. "We lost it miles back. A while back one of our boys struck the trail of a herd up here once and then lost it completely, just like it vanished into thin air."

The two rode on, and then Gamble drew up suddenly. "Fire ahead. Off there to the right."

Swinging their horses, both men rode towards the fire, but were still some thirty yards from it and could see nothing of its builder when a cool voice said, "Ride right up to the fire and get down facing it, so I can see your faces."

"Hoppy!" Red said. "Found yuh!"

"How are you, Red? You two get down. I'll put on the coffee. What are you doing up this far?"

"Followin' you. What did you think?" Red grinned. "We were afraid you'd get caught by these rustlers."

"Did you see Frank Gillespie? I sent him back to the 3TL They were alone back there."

"No, we didn't see him, but then we didn't stop at the ranch either. We stopped only a few minutes in Agate. Talked with an old fossil named Sourdough. From what he said, you turned plumb salty in that town, Hoppy."

"I'm in more trouble now," Hopalong replied, then explained. "And the way things now look," he finished, "I've lost the trail. My idea was to head south down Long Valley and try to cut their trail on the west. They didn't come north, and they certainly wouldn't turn back towards the east--not unless they cross the border into Idaho."

Hopalong studied Connors thoughtfully. "Are you sure you are in shape for this kind of a ride? You lost a lot of blood."

"In shape?" Red Connors snorted. "I could outride you the best day you ever saw, and without half tryin'. As far as that lost blood is concerned, I could lose twice that much and still lock horns with this outfit you are chasin'."

Cassidy chuckled. "You hear that?" he asked Gamble. "This souwegian is so hardheaded he wouldn't move camp for a prairie fire. Like Lanky used to say, he's full-grown in the body, but kind of puny in the head."

"A lot you got to say," Red growled. "I could name some times you were sure glad to see me around!"

"You can bet your life on that," Hopalong agreed.

Daylight found all three men in the saddle. Hopalong led off, the palouse seeming none the worse for his days of hard riding. If ever a horse had a love for moving, it was this one. Several miles to the west, beyond Massacre Creek and looming above the dry lakes of the same name, was Painted Point, a landmark that stood out boldly against the sky, marking the opening into Long Valley.

"We'll head for that Point," Hopalong suggested, "and then we'll fan out and scout for sign to see if we can find any tracks this far north. If we can't, we'll ride south until we do. It's a cinch that herd had to come west or north, and if we keep moving we'll cut their sign."

"What beats me," Red exclaimed, "is how they got out of

High Rock. That herd just seemed to peter out. We saw the tracks and we followed them a ways. Of course we never scouted that country as thoroughly as you did, but we could see the tracks just fadin' out."

The sun was hot, and they headed west. "That hombre seems to be heading the same way," Hopalong said, indicating the tracks. "He was with the herd."

Yet scarcely a mile farther the mysterious rider turned north across the vast expanse of the dry lakes, pointing toward distant Yellow Peak. Hopalong hesitated, then shook his head. "Let him go. We'll ride south as we planned."

Yet he was growing worried. He did not like the idea of being away from the 3TL for so long a time with the country in the mess it was. Frank Gillespie was there, but he was not enough. But to return now meant a long ride back, and if they could locate the herd or even find the trail they had taken after leaving High Rock, they would be much better off.

Rounding the Point, they faced the wide expanse of Long Valley. At this point it looked to be all of nine or ten miles to the far side--not arf easy distance for three men to cover and keep in touch with each other. The only possible way was to ride diagonally across the valley, and when upon the other side to cut back, checking all water holes and any tracks they encountered.

Hours later Red Connors joined Hopalong at a butte in the valley's center. "Gamble's comin' up," he said. "We didn't find a thing."

"No luck for me, either." Hopalong rubbed his jaw. "Our best bet's right ahead, at Pinto Springs. There's water there, enough for a herd. I've seen some cattle tracks headed that way, too. Mostly strays, I guess."