the Riders Of High Rock (1993) (20 page)

Jack Bolt stood on the boardwalk in the sunlight. He stared one way and then another. All eyes avoided him. More than anything else this told him his stack of chips had run out and he was down to the boards. He spat viciously and stared fiercely at a man sitting on the boardwalk. He felt like kicking

the man, like striking him, killing him. And he did not even know him.

Striding down the walk, his boot steps rang hard on the boards, but no head turned. It was like being dead, as if he moved through a world where he could not be seen. Already the story had gone the rounds. And people believed him a rustler. All right! Let them believe it! He'd show them! Cassidy had been the cause of his misfortunes, so Cassidy would die!

Griffin! Why, that poor, egotistical fool! To believe he could kill a man like Hopalong! To kill such a man you had to plan carefully or take a great chance. You could never do it in the haphazard way Pod Griffin had tried it. Nor could you do it from too great a distance.

Jack Bolt stopped suddenly, his eyes straying up and down the street, his brain suddenly sharp with calculation. That upstairs window over the bank--it had been an office, but the lawyer had left town. It was empty now. A man up there with a rifle ... He nodded to himself. That was it.

But why take a chance on just one man? A man there with a rifle, but another up the street in the loft of the livery stable. Another on the bluff over the town. Swiftly he chose his positions and considered the situation. It was all or nothing now. He would have to hit hard and suddenly. He must kill so completely and wipe out his enemies so well that never again would a hand be lifted against him in this town.

Suppose--just suppose he could get Connors, Cassidy, Monaghan, and Gamble all at once? Then ride on to the 3TL and take care of Gibson and Gillespie? Suppose he could catch them in the street, down them quickly? Suppose a message was delivered to them by some stranger, somebody who would call them all together in plain view of his unseen marksmen? A

volley of shots--and then he could appear and be all sorrow and sadness.

Sim Aragon would soon be in town, and with him would be Pete and some of the boys. It would be enough. Once the leaders were dead, the others could suspect all they wanted to! Let them suspect; it would put fear in them, destroy their ability to organize against him.

Passing Manuel on the street, he whispered, "At the bar down by the creek, in two hours. Get Sim."

Hopalong Cassidy walked into the restaurant and sat down. Red Connors strolled after him and* seated himself nearby, where he could keep an eye on the tDack door to the kitchen. Whatever was going to happen woul>>

Hopalong stretched his legs und_er the table and reached for the egg- and coffee-stained menu, which was written on the back of an old show-card advertising East Lynne. His eyes looked over it at the street. Bolt was standing on a corner as if deep in thought.

Dru Monaghan came in--a tall, ^rim-looking man, neat in cattleman's clothes, looking every iimch the rancher. He nodded at Hopalong and dropped into a chair. Joe Gamble joined hlm, and the four men were silent.

"Grub's good here," Red said f&nally. "Be a relief to get away from my own cookin'."

"Your cooking?" Hopalong chucksled. "Joe did all the cook-ng' 3OU couldn't boil the hide off a steer!"

Huh! You talk about your own_ cookin', not mine." Red

eyed the back door suspiciously. Bolt was a little too obvious out there on the corner.

"How long will it take to hear from that sheriff?" Monaghan wanted to know.

Hopalong shrugged. "Maybe a few hours, maybe a few days. It's hard to tell. The message doesn't go straight through. It has to be re-sent a couple of times. There may be delays."

"Hope Bolt won't leave town."

"He won't."

Jack Bolt waited in the shade of a store awning and watched the street. A buckboard drawn by a pair of half-broken mustangs clattered and rattled down the street, and then a heavy freighter's wagon, drawn by a long string of mules. A barefooted boy walked by with a stick in his hand and a nondescript dog at his side. After a while Grat and Bones turned the corner near the livery stable and started towards him. Again his eyes surveyed the street. Slim was down at the Picket Pin, a small bar just around the corner and off the one street of the

town.

The Picket Pin had long been a hangout for his boys. It faced the creek and a row of huge old cottonwoods. Beyond the creek, which was shallow, gravel-bottomed, and only about six feet wide, was a corral where several of the townspeople held their saddle horses. Probably the Breed was down there, too. A showdown was coming, and they all knew it.

Grat swung down from his horse, a big, rough-dressed man, hard-bitten and tough. He had acquired new respect for his boss since the killing of Pod Griffin. How fast Griffin had been, Grat did not know, although he had always talked a good

fight--but one thing he did understand and no mistake about it. The boss was much, much faster.

"What's up, boss?" he asked. "Anything doin'?"

"There will be." Bolt looked up at him, then over at Bones. "See Slim and the Breed and tell them to stay close to the Picket Pin. Cassidy's in town."

Grafs mouth opened to speak, then closed. Cassidy was not dead. Pod had been mistaken. Grafs jaw set hard. That silly fool! Couldn't he do anything right? Grat turned impatiently and strode down the street, and after a moment's hesitation Bones followed.

Hopalong Cassidy alive! Grat did not like it. He liked no part of it. And Red Connors, too. He recalled his own conversation with Cassidy on the trail when they were chasing Red. He had warned Cassidy then of what he would do if he saw him around again. Did Hopalong recall that warning? Grat hoped not. He was a fighter, but he wanted no shootouts with a man of that caliber. Life was short enough, and if by some miracle he should beat Hopalong, like as not he would only be downed by some half-smart kid with a desire for a reputation. Like Pod Griffin.

Grafs cigarette suddenly tasted bad, and he hurled it into the dust. Then he turned the corner and pushed into the Picket Pin. The interior was cool and dark. Slim sat at a table playing cards with Manuel Aragon and two other men, both Aragon riders. The Breed stood at the bar, drinking. Grat walked up beside him. "Go easy on that stuff," he warned. "Bolt won't like it."

The Breed turned his yellowish eyes on Grat. He smiled, and his teeth were even and white. He had beautiful teeth, but there was nothing else beautiful about him. His boots were down at the heel and long unpolished. His trousers were

stained and soiled. A stubble of hairs grew on his chin and upper lip--thick hairs that he shaved once every few weeks. Grat could see that telling the Breed to stop now would be a waste of time. Grat called for a drink and felt Bones take his place alongside him. Suddenly Grat was impatient with Bones. The man was his shadow. He was never without him, he--

"Grat!"

He turned to see that Bolt had come into the room and was motioning to him. Grat tossed off his drink and crossed to the table. Then Bolt called to Bones and the Breed. Manuel Aragon moved over, and Sim suddenly walked into the room from the rear. One of the men with Manuel got up from the table and walked to the door, where he sat down on a bench from which he could see anyone who approached.

A half hour later, when Grat left the Picket Pin, it was to walk towards the livery barn. He went up the street first and mounted his horse, riding it to a place in the shade of the stable, where he could reach it easily. Careful that he was not seen, Grat slipped his rifle from the scabbard and, entering the livery stable, climbed to the loft. Once there, he bellied down in the hay to the left of the wide second-floor door, through which hay was thrown into the loft. From this point he could cover all the far side of the street and most of the street itself. He jacked a shell into the chamber. The payoff was coming, and he was relieved. He hoped it would not be long. His mouth was already dry.

In the deserted office above the bank Manuel Aragon placed his rifle carefully beside the window. Grat was in the stable, and what Grat could not see of the street Manuel could. In another window of the same office was Slim, with a Spencer 56.

Bones plodded up behind the building and walked to the

back of the hardware store. He left his horse there in the mouth of the draw that opened to the hills beyond. He had the best getaway of them all, the very best. But he would have to take his place behind some rubbish at the rear of the store. From there he could prevent anyone taking shelter in the space between the saloon and the hardware store and could see a part of the street. Other men were carefully disposed about town so that no getaway would be possible. Caught by fire in the middle of the street, their instinctive action would be a jump for shelter in a gap between buildings. And now a rifleman covered each gap, ready for just such a move.

Jack Bolt considered his situation and the dispersal of his men. Four rifles would cover the group in the street, and they would open fire simultaneously. If their guns did not get the men they sought, some of the other ambushing riflemen would. And with that lot out of the way the countryside would be in the hands of Bolt and the Aragons. The few remaining, like Gibson, could be taken care of very easily.

Suddenly Bolt's spirits rose. This was a time when Hopa-long could not get away. He was closed in from every approach, as were the others. For Hopalong alone was not enough now. This had to be sudden, terrifying, and complete. Hopalong Cassidy, Red Connors, Joe Gamble, and Dru Monaghan were the four marked for murder.

Jack Bolt walked slowly down the street towards the saloon. There was no sense waiting. He would get this started now. And if any of them should try to get back into the saloon he would, if necessary, take care of them himself. The messenger should arrive vithin the half hour, and that would be the

end. He stepped into the saloon and sauntered across to the bar.

Hopalong Cassidy had walked over from the restaurant and was seated at a table with Red Connors. He looked up as Bolt walked in. Instantly he was alert. Every line of the man exuded confidence and readiness. Red's eyes followed Hopa-long's.

"Now what's got into him?" Red demanded. "He looks like he's the cat that's been eatin' the canaries."

Hopalong got to his feet. "Trouble coming--I can smell it. That hombre has got something up his sleeve."

Dru Monaghan and Joe Gamble looked at the two men curiously. "What is it? What do you think?"

"What would please him most?"

"Most? Why, to see the four of us dead," Monaghan suggested. "Why?"

"Then we'd better look sharp," Hopalong replied dryly. "He looks mighty happy to me!"

Chapter
20

Cold-blooded Killing
.

D
espite the tension, night drew near without any break in the ordered calm of the day. Men drifted reluctantly home, and others went to the saloon and stood along the bar, drinking a little, talking, and listening. Rumors were still rife, and it was noticed that neither Hopalong Cassidy nor Red Connors showed any evidence of leaving town. Moreover, about dusk Frank Gillespie rode in and stripped the saddle from his horse. With him was a well-set-up young man with cold gray eyes. He was dressed in almost-new clothes that seemed to have been carefully brushed only minutes before.

"You think Cassidy is dead, then?"

Gillespie shrugged. "All I know is the rumor. You can't keep a thing like that quiet. Anyway, what I hear now came to me from a 4H cowhand. He heard it from somebody else. This Pod Griffin killed Hopalong and was killed later by his own boss, Jack Bolt."

"Bolt a friend of Cassidy's?"

"Not so's you'd know it. Bolt is ramroddin' that rustler outfit or I miss my guess. He killed Pod because he got too big for his breeches, that's all."

Gillespie looked at the stranger again. They had met onthe trail, and he was beginning to realize that he had done all the talking himself. He knew no more about this man now than when they had met. Nevertheless there was something about him he liked, although the two tied-down guns spoke of a man who understood trouble.

Simply and directly as possible he explained the situation as it now stood in the country around Tascotal, ending with the return of the cattle and the capture of Cardoza and the cook. Then he added, "About sundown I took a pasear aroun' the hills near our range. Some distance off I spotted a party of riders. I didn't have no glasses with me, but I spotted a horse I knowed. It was Sim Aragon's."

"Headed for town?"

"Uh-huh. Well, I knowed that Monaghan and Gamble had come in here, and that Red Connors would come to town if he was alive, so I figured the big payoff was due. I grabbed my rifle and headed on over."

"Good man. I'm in this, too."

Gillespie searched the young man's face. "How's that? I don't place you."

"Why, I was down country, sort of ambulatin' this way, when I heard a rumor that Cassidy was in a knock-down and drag-out range war, so I hit the trail for Tascotal. Hoppy's a friend of mine. My name's Jenkins. Mesquite Jenkins."

Frank Gillespie stared. This, then, was the holy terror of whom Red had talked almost as much as he had talked of Hopalong! He swallowed.