the Riders Of High Rock (1993) (22 page)

A bullet whipped by Hopalong's cheek and he spun on his heel. Before him gaped the opening between the hardware store and the hotel, and at the far end the pile of rubbish. Instantly he saw it all. The shouted warning of the attack, the rush into the street . . . Guns were bellowing, and he saw Joe Gamble hit the ground in a heap, his face contorted. Hopalong took a jump for the bank building and flattened against the

wall. Somebody on a roof was firing with a rifle, but not at him.

He glanced again at the rubbish pile, then deliberately rounded the corner of the bank and started for the stair. The shot that missed him had come from the second floor. He went up fast, seeing Red Connors down behind a water trough and Dru Monaghan, wounded and staggering, heading for the Emporium.

A bullet smacked the rock of the bank wall before him and spat angry flakes in his face before it whined away into the distance. Another bullet hit and then another. He felt something hit the step under his feet, and then he lunged through the door. A bullet broke the window behind him, and he flattened against the wall. At least one rifleman was here, on this almost deserted second floor of the bank, and that man he intended to get.

Outside, bullets still sounded in the street. Wheeling, he lifted the rifle and let three fast shots go at the top door in the livery barn. Then, placing his rifle against the doorjamb, he yanked out a six-gun and turned towards the hallway.

Here all was still. The sounds outside seemed far away. Then he heard the harsh bark of a gun from the room near him, and heard feet scuff on the floor. Did the unknown outlaw know Cassidy was here? Was he waiting for him even now?

Sweat trickled down Cassidy's cheek. He listened, his ears attuned to the slightest sound. The seconds passed like hours, and he moved on tiptoe, fighting for silence, towards the hall door. It opened gently under his hand, then creaked. He froze in place, the doorknob in one hand, his gun in the other.

No sound.

The room smelled faintly musty, and the air was close, as of a place long shut away from air and movement. There was

dust on the floor. The rifle in the next room barked again, and an answering shot tinkled glass. Hopalong eased himself into the hallway and stood waiting with poised gun. The shooting outside had now become scattered. Obviously, the various fighters were taking their places and getting set for a long battle.

The hall was long, and four doors opened off it on either side. At either end was a window, but only one stairway led to this floor--the one up which he had come.

Wind stirred and the door behind him creaked slightly. Hopalong watched the other doors with careful eyes, then moved forward. The rifle barked again, and he selected the door and made two hurried steps before he paused to listen again. The door was one step farther. Glancing swiftly down the hall, he thought he saw a knob move slightly and he waited, but hearing movement within the room where the rifleman was, he looked around again, then stepped quickly across and threw the door open.

Manuel Aragon spun on his heel, dropping his rifle and grabbing for his Colt.

"Drop it!" Hopalong yelled.

Aragon snarled and his fingers closed on the gun butt. Behind Hopalong the door creaked, and he fired as Manuel jerked to lift his gun. The bullet hit Aragon and turned him halfway round, and instantly Hopalong wheeled, dropping to one knee. A dark figure loomed before him, bearded and wild. The man held a gun, a big Walker Colt, and both weapons flamed as one. Hopalong felt the shock of the bullet and heard a second report as he fired, a report that was not his own. His shot missed as the shock of the bearded man's bullet turned him. Instantly he steadied and fired again, and the bearded man pitched forward on his face, mouthing curses.

Glancing down, Hopalong saw that the man's bullet had hit his cartridge belt and had fired one of his own shells. There was a bloody tear in his jeans where the bullet had ripped its way down, burying itself in the floor. Manuel Aragon lay sprawled out on the floor, and Hopalong sprang across to him, seeing the movement of his lungs that betrayed the fact that he lived. Picking up both six-gun and rifle, Hopalong hurled them through the window, then did the same with the bearded man's weapons. Outside there was more shooting, and he rushed for the door. Instantly a shot rang out and a bullet cut through the door within inches of his reaching hand.

Another bullet holed the door higher up. No chance to get out here. Wheeling, he ran down the hall to the back window, knowing the front must be under cover of a half-dozen rifles. The back window opened on a shed roof, and Hopalong took a quick look and stepped out. He had holstered his .45 and now carried the Winchester. Suddenly, not a block away, a man skylined himself on a rooftop and shot. Hopalong's rifle came up, but he held his fire. The man was shooting at something in the street. There was something familiar about that man on the roof, something Hopalong could not quite place.

Dropping from the roof of the shed, Hopalong turned towards the street. Instantly a shot grooved the wood within an inch of his face. He sprang back, then circled towards the far side of the bank. At the corner he faced a street empty except for the body of Joe Gamble, who lay sprawled there. Dru Monaghan was nowhere in sight, nor was Red Connors.

Hopalong dropped his rifle suddenly and sprinted for the far side of the street. A bullet clipped past his head, another kicked up dust just short of him, and then with a long dive he hit the street rolling and ended up against the boardwalk. A

bullet slammed the walk over his head, and he realized he was in an absolutely impossible position. Yet to rise meant death. He turned his head and saw that the walk itself was raised about eight or nine inches from the ground at this point, and beyond it he could see the litter of bottles and refuse under the saloon. Edging under the walk, he crawled back under the saloon proper. Here there were at least two feet of clearance. Grasping his six-guns to assure himself that he had not lost them under the walk, he crawled towards the back of the hotel. After a quick look he crawled out and straightened up.

The rubbish pile was unchanged, but behind it lay the sprawled body of Bones. The fat outlaw was dead. A bullet had struck him over the ear and ranged downwards through his skull. Evidently, the rifleman Cassidy had seen upon the roof. Hopalong opened the back door of the saloon and stepped in. Two men were standing inside the front door, and both were armed. The bartender, his face pale, was standing near the bar, his shoulder trickling blood.

"Look out!" he whispered. "That's Sim Aragon!" At the

sound both men turned. The three men faced each other

across the saloon. Sim Aragon smiled with thin, scarred lips.

"So? This is Hopalong Cassidy? I have looked for you, amigo."

"You've found me," Hopalong replied shortly.

Aragon's hand dropped, and Hopalong's guns leaped from

his holsters, blasting fire. Sim Aragon dropped his gun and

spun, buckling at the knees. Then he fell, striking the man

beside him and throwing him off balance. Hopalong held his

fire.

"Don't try it!" he warned. "Drop your gun!" Pete Aragon glared. "You've killed my brother!" "He asked for it. Drop your guns!"

For an instant Aragon hesitated. With a shrug he moved his hands carefully to his buckle and let go his belt. Then he stepped away. His black eyes never left Hopalong. "Can I look at him? Maybe he is not dead."

"Go ahead--only don't get any ideas."

There was silence in the streets. Then, some distance away, a door slammed and there was a murmur of voices. Reassured by the end of the shooting, people were coming out into the streets. Red Connors was the first one through the door. His shirt was ripped and bloody.

"I ain't hurt," he protested as he saw Hopalong's eyes. "Just split the hide and ruined my shirt."

The door swung open, and both men looked around. In the door, grinning, was Mesquite Jenkins!

"Where did you spring from?" Hopalong demanded.

"Heard you were up here, so I headed north. When I found out about this trouble I figured I could learn more and do more by bein' where I wasn't known, so I stayed away from you."

"Where's Dru, Red? Was he hurt?"

"He caught two slugs, but he'll live. Fact is, he was still on his feet when last I saw him. Gamble's not dead either. He's got him a broken leg and a slug through the shoulder, though."

"How about them?"

"I don't know. Let's see."

They started for the door, and Mesquite commented on Bones: "I spotted that place right off. He was holed up there where he could kill any one who jumped between the buildings for shelter. They had 'em all laid out right to get you, Hoppy."

Bones was dead. Manuel Aragon and the bearded outlaw were both living, but the bearded outlaw was in very bad shape. Manuel Aragon stared at Hopalong with hard eyes.

"Some day," he muttered through lips twisted with pain, "I keel you!"

Four outlaws had been killed, three were badly wounded, two more slightly wounded. Pete Aragon had surrendered.

Of Jack Bolt and Grat there was no sign.

Chapter
22

Unfinished Business
.

At was plain that Red Connors was disgusted by the news.

"Got clean away," Red Connors said bitterly. "And Bolt won't head for California, because he knows the sheriff will be waiting for him there."

"It looks to me," Hopalong replied slowly, "like the smart thing to do would be to ride out to the 8 Boxed H and give the place a going over. We might find something there that would tip us off."

Mesquite Jenkins suddenly scowled. "Say, where's that other hombre? He said he worked for the 3TL. Tall, high cheekbones, brown hair."

"Sounds like Gillespie." Connors looked questioningly at Mesquite. "Where'd you know him?"

"Rode into town with him. We were going to meet at the corral, but I was late and he wasn't there. Come to think of it, I think Gillespie was the name."

"Let's have a look." Hastily the three men got to their feet and started for the door. Outside, people were gathered about in knots, talking and arguing. All eyes turned to the three, and

although many admiring, interested glances went their way, there were a few that were hostile.

Despite their questions, they could find no one who had seen the 3TL hand. At the livery stable the man who had lent the palouse to Hopalong nodded to their question.

"Saw him last night," he said. "He slept here. He was prowlin' around most of the night, ugly as a grizzly with a sore paw. One thing I do know--he was some interested in Jack Bolt."

Cassidy considered this, his eyes thoughtful. Shoving his hat back on his head, he dropped to his heels, chewing on a bit of hay. As he turned the situation over in his mind it began to clarify, in some respects at least. There was every chance that Gillespie had been most interested in Bolt. That he disliked the outlaw rancher he had already shown, and that he did not trust him. Their words of the day after the herd was recovered returned to mind. Gillespie was almost sure to concentrate on Bolt, of all the outlaws. The lean Scot was a stubborn man, and not one to relinquish a fight without adequate reason.

"I've a hunch," Hopalong suggested, "that when we find Gillespie, our man Bolt won't be far away. Chances are he followed Bolt and Grat when they slipped out of town."

"Where would they go?" Red said irritably. "No use him going to the 8 Boxed H, and he would expect us to look there and at the 3TL. Anyway, he could gain nothing by going there. The 4H is watching for him, and so's the 3F. Whatever he has done, he's flown the coop."

"He knows that country west of here," Hopalong said.

"He knows it north, too." The liveryman looked up. "I know he does because he used to come in here and hire horses from me to ride that way."

"He tell you that was where he went?"

"No, Cassidy, he sure didn't, but I don't need to be told. Except in the Pine Forests, there's no timber west of here, and from the needles I used to comb out of those horses' tails, he went through thick timber. There's timber northeast of here along the state line. And the fact is, that's the only way he could have gone in the time he had."

"Had he hired any horses lately?" Hopalong asked.

"No, not just lately. The last time was almost two months ago, but before that he was ridin' that way right reg'lar. Two, three times a week. Carried some grub with him, I think."

Studying the matter, Hopalong looked up at Mesquite. "How about you walkin' over to the Emporium and asking a few questions? Red, drop in at the hardware store. See if Bolt bought any tools or other gear there, say a couple or three months back."

When they had gone Hopalong considered the matter further. "Did he ever take a pack horse?"

"Not that I know of. He had some sizable packs behind his saddle nearly every time, though."

"If a man rode north, where would he be apt to go?" Hopalong asked. "I don't know that country up there."

The liveryman shrugged. "There ain't no place to go. Just range country, then some mountains and some scattered timber. There isn't a ranch or even a prospector's cabin anywhere to the north."