the Riders Of High Rock (1993) (2 page)

Gibson . . . the 3TL ... a redheaded man who could hit a moving target at just under half a mile! Somewhere out in those black mountains Red Connors was being hunted down like a wild beast.

"Got a fresh horse I could borrow? As good a horse as my gelding?"

The stablehand straightened. "I reckon not. That's a mighty fine horse you got there. Besides," he added, "it's not a good country to be ridin' in now."

"I'll buy a horse. You got one?"

His cold, bright eyes held those of the stablehand for an instant, and then the fellow turned and walked down the line of stalls. In a box stall at the end of the barn was a splendid black horse. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness Hopalong could see a patch of white and gray spots on its flank: an Appa-loosa.

"This palouse," the man said, "is the best horse around here. He belongs to an hombre that died mighty sudden here a while back, an' I got a claim against him for the feed bill, so I reckon he's more my horse than anybody's.

"He's a mountain horse and he can outrun, outclimb, outlast any cayuse in this here country. I can't rightly sell him, but I'll mebbe lend him to you on condition you don't tell me where you're goin' or for why. I ain't aimin' to know anythin'."

"Saddle him up!" Hopalong turned to the door. "I'll eat and

pick up some ammunition. You have that horse ready to go, mister."

The stablehand followed Cassidy back and picked up the saddle. As Hopalong started for the door the man's voice stopped him. "Tough country back in there, and those hombres doin' the huntin' know it like the back of their hand, but if I needed a hideout right quick, I reckon I know where I'd go."

Hopalong turned slowly. "Where would that be?"

"There's a cave high up on Copper Mountain, just about timberline. There's water in it, and plenty of wood, and nobody can come close without bein' seen. You hit Lone Pine Pass and turn left up the mountain at the Pine. Keep on the game trail till you get to a blaze-face boulder. Then turn left again and start circlin' the peak. When you cross the rockslide you'll see a clump of trees mebbe five hundred feet higher and what looks like a big ledge. The cave'U be there."

Hopalong's eyes searched the man's face with care. Finally he nodded. "Thanks, friend. I'll remember that."

"Name's Letsinger," the man said. "One time at Doan's Crossin' a feller lookin' somethin' like you sided me in some trouble. Saved my horses for me and kept me and my family from bein' set afoot. I ain't forgettin' that."

"I'm mighty glad I look like that gent you speak of," Hopalong said gravely. "But I sure hope nobody else around here thinks so."

"Reckon nobody would," Letsinger said, "unless it was that man up in the mountains."

H
opalong Cassidy rode over the top of Coon River Summit. He knew he was striking out blindly and must trust to luck. Yet it was not nearly so much of a guess as it seemed, for he had his knowledge of Red Connors's ways, and his own ability to read sign.

Months ago Hopalong Cassidy had started north to visit his old friend Gibson of the 3TL Knowing Cassidy was headed that way, Red Connors also had started for the 3TL to meet him, and there their paths were to intersect. They planned, after a short visit, to start on for the Musselshell in Montana.

Now Cassidy had arrived, only to find his friend on the run, perhaps badly wounded, and no word at all of either Gibson, his daughter, or the 3TL. All he knew was that the ranch lay some distance west of these mountains and that there was a possibility that it might also be in trouble. These potentials brought a chill to his heart and a glint of steel to his eyes.

It was nighttime. Until dawn came, neither his knowledge of Red's habits nor his skill at tracking would be of much use in the darkness.

Reaching the summit, he headed downhill and then

turned into the brush and found the trail through the pines that Letsinger, the stablehand, had mentioned.

When he had located Copper Mountain from certain landmarks that Letsinger had mentioned, and had reached the pines fairly well up on the crest, he drew back among some boulders and waited until dawn.

Dawn arrived sooner than he expected, for the night had gone swiftly. He walked out of his hideaway, leading the pa-louse, and began searching for sign. Almost at once he found the trail of two riders. He backtracked them until suddenly he found the tracks of another horse. He stopped and examined this trail, and after studying it for half a mile he was sure that this was the horse ridden by Red Connors. Obviously the horse was nearly exhausted.

An hour of careful work and Hopalong was coming to the conclusion that Red Connors had not been on the horse at the place where he had first seen its tracks--its path had a random quality that indicated no human intelligence was guiding it. Working back along its trail, searching with greater care, he found the place where the stirrup had dragged when Red carried off the saddle. From there it was but a few minutes until he had found the narrow ledge that led down the brink of the cliff.

Leading the palouse back into the shelter of a grove of aspens, he took his rifle and walked down the path. When he found the place where Red had fainted from loss of blood, he studied the place for a long time. Obviously Red was all in. Hopalong's weather-beaten face became hard and cold. He found the saddle, concealed it, and started on down the path. Soon he found the empty canteen, long dry. Gathering it up, he studied the cliff before him.

Red was trying to get to water, and he would be needing it

badly. Whether he made it or not would be a question, but he was making a try. No matter whether he did or not, he would be closer to the bottom than the top, and it behooved Hopalong to return to the crest, get his horse, and find some way to the base of that cliff.

He had reached the top when he heard footsteps. Stepping back into the shade of a boulder, he saw a man leading his palouse come from the aspens. The man's own horse stood close by. Hopalong drew his gun and waited. The man had a narrow, dark face and looked like a half-breed. The Breed gathered up his own reins and put his foot in the stirrup. In that instant Hopalong stepped from behind the boulder and laid the barrel of his six-shooter behind the Breed's ear. The man crumpled and went down. Hastily, Hopalong gathered him up, stripped him of weapons and ammunition, and then tied him to his horse. Slapping the horse, he started it down the trail, then swung into the saddle himself and turned in the other direction.

It was broad daylight before he finally found a way that showed possibilities of reaching the bottom of the cliff. When he started down he found it was even easier going than he had expected. Off to his right Hoppy could hear a sizable stream running across rocks. Reaching the bottom, he started through the trees, riding slowly.

He passed through a grove of tall pines and then stopped suddenly. Swinging to the ground, he tied his mount and then, rifle in hand, began looking around.

Unless he was much mistaken, this was the place where the trail from above ended, but he found no evidence that Red Connors had ever reached the stream. Climbing a rock for a long view, Hopalong immediately spotted Red and scrambled over the rocks towards him.

He dropped to his knees beside the man, and placed a hand over his heart. Faintly he could feel it beating.

Swiftly he stopped and checked his injured friend for broken limbs. Finding none, he lifted Connors in his arms and made his way to the stream, and then scrambled for his canteen. Carefully he lifted Red's head and touched water to his lips. With his hand he scooped water from the stream and began to bathe Connors's face and head.

The puncher stirred and opened his eyes. He looked up and blinked slowly as he saw Hoppy.

"Reckon," he whispered, "you didn't come none too soon!"

Hopalong made Red as comfortable as possible. Then he uncovered his friend's wounds and examined them. Only one was dangerous. The flesh wound in his side was badly inflamed. Otherwise his trouble had been weakness from thirst and loss of blood. The wound needed attention, and with the few remedies he always carried in his saddlebags Hopalong treated it as well as possible.

Loading Red's rifle and his pistols, he refilled his cartridge belt while keeping a sharp eye on the terrain. This place showed no evidence of visitors, and it was possible that nobody had ever entered the tiny hollow. Where the trail led out to the north he had no idea, and east or west, the walls of the canyon blocked all approach or retreat.

Carefully he scouted the area and returned to find Red fast asleep. Remaining under cover, he scanned the approach to the canyon. There was nothing and no one in sight but the far reaches of the forest, the blue of the distant hills, and no sound but the wind in the trees and the now-distant chuckle of the stream over its rocky bed.

For the time being it appeared they were safe. Unless they stumbled across his trail, nobody would know there was anyone here but Red, and they would probably believe him dead or more badly injured than he had been. Wherever he went, Hopalong found the tracks of a big lion. Evidently it made its den within the area of his search. But there were other tracks. Mule deer were plentiful, and several times he saw sage hens. Seeing a trout leap in the stream, he rigged a line and hooked three in the first thirty minutes. With dry wood gathered from under the pines he built a smokeless fire and began baking the fish. Red was awake when he looked around at him, and Hopalong studied him sourly.

"You sure you're hurt that bad?" he demanded. "Looks to me like you're just taking it easy at my expense. You always were a no-account."

"Me?" Red exploded. "No-account? Why, you lowdown maverickin' coyote! I could work circles around you any day you ever saw, and I've done it many's the time!"

"Yeah?" Hopalong sneered. "When did you ever put in a decent day's work?" Then before Red could make the angry retort that was forming on his lips, Hopalong interrupted, "What's the trouble, anyway? First thing that happens after I get to Tascotal is I hear you're getting yourself shot at. Who's back of this?"

Red grunted, accepting the hot black coffee Hopalong handed him. "Hombre name of Jack Bolt. Has him a brand called the 8 Boxed H."

"That brand don't fool anybody," Hopalong agreed. "Anybody who could handle a running iron could change that over from a 3TL."

"It ain't that simple," Red said. "Nobody has ever killed one of those 8 Boxed H critters to get a look at the inside of the brand, and the job is done so slick I don't see how anybody could burn it with a runnin' iron. I mean, that work is smooth!"

"But they are stealin?

"Surest thing you know. I spotted a blaze-shouldered steer in their drive and braced 'em about it. They laughed at me and said I was wrong. Then they took me over their range and showed me their tally books, and if they've any extra stock on their range, I sure couldn't find it!"

"So you kept watch?"

"Naturally. I hid out in the hills and watched one big herd. Never saw 'em change a brand or move a head of stock. Then one mornin' as I was about to pull out I saw that herd was a whole durned sight smaller than it had been.

"I hunted around in the hills and couldn't find hide nor hair of 'em, not anywhere. I knowed some of that stock had disappeared, but couldn't see where she'd gone. I hunted around, but all the Bolt hands were on the job.

"Few days later I stumbled on a bunch of tracks 'way back in the hills and started following 'em. Then's when they closed in on me."

"What about Gibson? What's he doing all this time? Sitting on his reservation?"

"Nope. He's laid up with a busted leg. His horse throwed him. Him bein' short-handed like he was, I stayed on and stumbled into this. We'd had a talk, and he told me he was losin' stock, that if it didn't get stopped he'd be cleaned out before he could get back on his feet."

"Where were those cattle headed? You see 'em?"

"Nope. Just the trail. My guess is they are the same cows that slipped out from under my nose while I was watchin' from the hill. But swear to it? I couldn't."

Hopalong nodded thoughtfully. Evidently Red had stumbled upon something hot or there would never have been an attempt to kill him. Did they believe he had trailed them all the

way? Was that the reason they were so worried? Or was it because this was the first time anyone was in danger of getting evidence that might lead to conviction?

Hopalong roamed the little valley ceaselessly, worried and restless. Red was in no shape to travel, but they should be moving. If this Jack Bolt had as good a thing here as Red believed, he would not risk the possibility of leaving Red alive. The manhunt would continue until he had been found and killed. In that case, sooner or later they would find this place, and then it would be only a matter of a few hours until they were bottled up tighter than a drum.

He placed several runway snares and within an hour had two rabbits and a sage hen. Returning with these, Hopalong found some silverweed growing along the banks of the stream and gathered some of the roots for roasting. Back at camp, he took time to prepare a good meal from these and some of the supplies he had brought along. When Red awakened again he was hungry. Hopalong looked at him with a sour expression. "I'd sooner buy your clothes than feed you," he said. "You eat like you never expected to again!"