the Riders Of High Rock (1993) (12 page)

"It's bad," Gamble explained, worried. "The springs lie close to a butte, but they can't be seen from this direction until we are mighty close. I don't like it even a little."

"Yes, I see what you mean. If they have a man atop that butte or the long mesa this side of there, he could have been watching us for the last hour or so, if he had a glass."

Red squinted at the towering buttes before them. The air danced with heat waves, and he mopped his face, then pulled his hat low to enable him to see clearer. The two buttes rose high above the level of the plain. "A man with a rifle up there could sure make it mean for us," he agreed. "You got any water left, Hoppy?"

"I filled up at the last water hole. I've still got about two thirds of a canteen."

"Mine's nearly empty," Gamble said ruefully. "There wasn't anything but alkali over where I was. How about you, Red?"

"About half," he said grimly. "A man with a rifle could hold us off, keep us away from that water hole for a long time."

"He'll have to fight if he does!" Hopalong replied shortly. "Let's go!"

They rode on, accompanied by a little dust cloud of their own making. More and more Hopalong was sure that wherever the missing herd had been taken, it had not been to this valley. At least, not to remain here. Grass was scarce and water scarcer, and while in a wetter year this might be and probably was good grazing land, it was far from that now. A few cattle might eke out a precarious existence, but no large herd would do so. Yet if the herd had come through Long Valley's lower end, Pinto Springs would be the most likely spot to water.

They rounded a corner of the butte and suddenly Red yelled, "Look out!"

Swinging his horse to the left as he did so, Hopalong got a fleeting glimpse of sunlight on a rifle barrel and then something whipped by his head, and an instant later he heard the bark of the rifle. Racing for the rocks, Hopalong kept going straight ahead. He knew that he would soon be so close to the butte that any rifleman atop it would have to rise from concealment to get him in his sights, and unless he was badly mistaken, that would be the end of things for him.

The rifle bellowed again, the shot coming from high up on the butte, but now Hopalong was closer and racing for the water hole. Off to one side Joe Gamble had swung behind a low hill and Red had vanished in the rocks. There was another shot and Red's rifle spoke from behind him, and then Cassidy was in the shadow of the butte. A volley of shots rang out ahead of him, and his palouse stumbled and went headlong, throwing Hopalong to the ground!

Even as he hit, a shot struck near him, and Hoppy continued to roll until he lay flat against the side of a boulder. Bitterly he stared back at the palouse, fearing the horse was dead. But after a moment the horse started to get up, and he saw a red streak along the animal's neck. Evidently the bullet had stung the horse and it had made a misstep. Another bullet spanged against the rock where he lay, and another ricocheted near him. Helpless to return the fire, he lay still.

His rifle was in the scabbard on the palouse, who had struggled erect and walked off, stopping in the shade of some rocks where some bunch grass remained green. The horse was about thirty yards off, but an immeasurable distance when faced with the thought of an expert marksman less than two hundred yards away.

The sun was blazing down and Hopalong studied the terrain with a thoughtful eye. The boulder behind which he lay

was only barely high enough to offer cover for him, and the position could easily be rendered impossible if one of the riflemen should work his way to the left, for then Hopalong would be within sight and it would be only one more shot and Hopalong would be out of the picture, and for good.

He winked the trickling sweat from his eyes and turned his head carefully to the left. The nearest cover in that direction was the boulder where the palouse was sheltered--a veritable nest of rocks and brush where a dozen men might easily conceal themselves--yet that thirty yards of interval was almost certain suicide. On the other side the rocks were small and scattered, but not twenty yards away there was a shallow depression.

Hesitating, Hopalong decided that he must take a chance. Unquestionably, the riflemen who were sniping at them would realize that he could be outflanked, and if he was to move, it must be now. Gun in hand, he squirmed along the sand and managed to move to the next rock. Here he had no more than an inch of clearance above his head. A bullet splintered the rock and tugged at his sombrero. Gathering himself, he lunged in a crouching run for three steps, then dived. He landed in a cloud of sand and dust, bullets raining around him.

Grimly he checked his position and found himself scarcely better off, but the shallow place was much closer now. From between two rocks he studied the situation where the riflemen were concealed. Suddenly a boot heel showed. Under no misapprehensions as to the range of his pistol, he knew it could easily carry that far, even though it was of uncertain accuracy at the range. Holding the Colt high, he fired. Sand splashed inches short, but the rustler jerked his foot back.

Behind him Red's rifle bellowed and a man cried out. Then the yell died away into a burst of sullen cursing. Red fired again

and the curses ended in a yelp of surprise and fury. Hopalong crawled along the sand, made the shallow place, and rolled into it. Here he was safe from rifle fire, and he checked his Colts, thumbing shells into the one fired.

Carefully he took stock of his position. Red was still shooting, so he was all right. But there had been no sign of life from Joe Gamble, and he might have been injured. On the other hand, he might be just scouting for a good position.

The rustlers were apparently gathered in a cluster of rocks at the foot of the four-hundred-foot cliffs to the butte. There were ways up those cliffs, for here and there were steep or completely vertical chimneys that seemed to offer access to the top, but these would be in direct line of fire from Red. Somewhere behind those rocks, and probably around the turn of the butte, would be the outlaws' horses. Getting to his feet, Hopalong started moving swiftly down the shallow place in which he now found himself.

This depression was evidently an old wash that somehow had been closed off to water and gradually filled in by windblown sand mingled with drift and fallen rock. It ran past the butte pointing down the valley, but at one place it seemed to come within a few yards of the butte's shoulder. If he could get there without being noticed, Hopalong Cassidy would then find himself behind the attackers and probably in the vicinity of their horses.

Moving swiftly, and listening to the methodical boom of Red's rifle, Hopalong followed the filled-in draw, safe from either observation or fire. It took him all of fifteen minutes to reach his goal, and as he neared it he slowed his pace. Mopping sweat from his face, he listened attentively for any sound, but there was nothing. Peering through a clump of grease-wood, he studied the lay of the land.

Here, as elsewhere, the foot of the cliff was piled with slabs of broken rock, yet there was no sign of the horses or of any tracks here. In a quick dash Hopalong made the shelter of the cliff and stopped to catch his breath. The boom of Red's rifle and the occasional rattle of the outlaws' guns sounded faintly here, partly cut off by the shoulder of the butte. Now Hopalong moved forward, holding close against the cliff and so avoiding the worst of the rocks. He had been climbing slightly and was now probably above the outlaws, but still there was no sign of their horses.

Suddenly, below him and some distance ahead, he saw a man dash from a cluster of rocks and dart towards him. Instantly Hopalong grabbed his gun and fired from the hip. The bullet caught the man in the knee evidently, for his leg buckled under him and he fell, plunging face downward in the sand, his rifle sliding ahead of him.

Wildly he grabbed for the gun but Hopalong put a bullet in the sand almost at his fingertips. The man jerked back his hand as if stung.

"You can get hurt," Cassidy commented dryly. "Better toss your pistols down there with your rifle, and don't try anything funny. You're out of this fight now, if you play it smart."

The man looked up at Hopalong, his swarthy face dark with fury. "You'll get killed," he promised. "They got too many for you."

Hopalong shrugged. "Toss your guns down here," he said, "and let me worry about getting killed. If we have to start a Boot Hill here, don't let yours be the first grave."

Sullenly the man unbuckled his belt and tossed his guns down beside his rifle. "My leg's busted," he said then. "You sure nailed me." His eyes rolled off to his right, and Hopalong

was instantly all attention. He was aware that all firing had ceased. That this was due to his own shots he did not doubt. Both Red Connors and the outlaws would be in doubt as to what course to adopt.

The outlaws made up their minds first. . . .

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