the Riders Of High Rock (1993) (7 page)

"You might as well go back, Frank," he said at last. "This will be a mighty long job. You head back to the ranch and tell 'em where I am. Don't tell anybody else. Meanwhile I'll ride on

to this place called Agate. Whether I find the trail or not, I'll be in Agate the day after tomorrow. If there's any news, have somebody meet me there with it. I don't think I'll need any help yet, but they might need it back at the ranch."

Frank Gillespie hesitated and swore. "Durn it all, Hoppy, I wanted to be in on the showdown with them rustlers! I've come this far. Still"--he was disgusted--"as you say, they're gonna need me back there. We're mighty short-handed."

After the cowhand had gone, Hopalong sat his horse and studied the situation. The herd might have gone into that desert all right, and it might have only been walked in it a way and then driven back out on the same side. That would stand investigation before crossing the desert into the rough country beyond.

Speaking to the black, he started along the desert's edge. Whether he found the trail or not, he had every idea that the rustlers, or some of them, might stop at Agate, and there was a chance he might get news of them there. In the meantime he would soon know whether the herd had been driven out of the sand again.

This was very rugged country; the timber of the region to the east here thinned out and most of the mountains were bare except for low brush and desert growth. Yet there was plenty of cover, and farther west there was both water and grass in the remote High Rock Canyon country. No matter who was directing the move, whether Jack Bolt or Sim Aragon, they would have a chance of holding the cattle for months in that rough country without being seen.

The tracks of the herd had not emerged from the desert but when the buildings of Agate were in sight, a lone rider came out of the sand and headed towards the town. Hopalong

slowed down and took his time. The rider might be somebody he had never seen, and somebody who had not seen him. The livery stable would be the first stop, and then the saloon.

The western saloon was always a clearing house for information. It was much more than a drinking establishment, for it was the center of all male social life. Here trail news was repeated, cattle were discussed as were all the varied topics of interest to western men. The saloon was at once a reception room, a social club, and a source of information. Sooner or later all news came to light around a saloon, and if a man had time and patience he could learn much by simply being around and listening. Hopalong knew this and if the strange rider had been one of the rustlers, he was sure he would find out before he had been long in Agate.

The livery stable was a rambling red-painted barn with a high-peaked roof over the center part and almost flat roofs over the two wings. There was an office with two lighted windows beside the big door of the stable, and the door was open. In the rectangle of lantern light a lean, hard-faced oldster sat, smoking a pipe. From what Gillespie had said, Cassidy knew that this was Sourdough. He looked up balefully as Hopalong swung down.

"Got an empty stall? And some corn?"

The old man took his pipe from his teeth. "Corn?" He was incredulous. "You gonna feed corn to that cayuse?"

"That cayuse is a mighty fine horse," Hopalong said calmly, "and any horse I ride gets the best."

The old man pointed with his pipe stem. "Third stall. Corn is in the feed bin. Watch out for that bay--he kicks mighty wicked."

When Hopalong had stripped the saddle from the black he fed it an ample supply of corn, then strolled outside, shoving

back his black wide-brimmed hat. The lamplight gleamed on his snowy hair.

Neither man spoke. The night was very still. Far out over the desert a coyote yapped in a shrill, complaining voice, and across the street at the saloon there was a shout of laughter, then the bang of a bottle on the bar. The night air was cool, and there was a vast spread of stars that looked amazingly bright and near. The livery had the good smells of a horse barn, of stored hay and feed, of horses and sweaty leather. In the distance the serrated ridge of mountains drew a ragged black line.

Darkness had come, and in the shadow of his hat the old man's face could not be seen. Only the glow of his pipe was visible. Beyond him the town's street, which was also the trail, showed white against the darker earth. Two cabins were lighted, but all other buildings loomed dark and sullen except for the saloon.

"Mighty restful," Hopalong suggested, squatting on his heels. "Does a man good to relax once in a while."

Sourdough grunted, drawing on his pipe. It seemed to have gone out, and he struck a match, then sucked to get it going better.

"See many riders through here?" Hopalong asked.

The old man merely grunted again, but made no further reply. Hopalong decided to use strategy. "Of course," he said, "you can't expect much in a place like this. Out of the way, like it is. A man might come through here once a week or ten days. I don't see how you keep alive."

"We do all right."

Encouraged, Hopalong shook his head. "Beats me how you do it. There aren't enough people. I'd bet there ain't five men in that saloon right now. And I'll bet all of them are from right here in town."

Sourdough glared at him through the darkness. "A lot you know!" he scoffed. "There's eight men over there right now, and only three of 'em are from right here!"

"Three?" Hopalong grinned. "You mean to say five strangers are in town at once?"

Sourdough bristled. "I didn't say nothin' about strangers. These here hombres ain't strangers. They just don't live right here in town. Peter Aragon has him a ranch back in the hills somewheres, and two of them fellers ride for him. What the others do I wouldn't say."

Hopalong rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Pete Aragon was one of the men in the saloon, and the others were his friends. The chances were these men were driving the herd and had come to town for a drink or two, after which they would return to the stolen cattle. It was doubtful that more than three men had been left behind as guards.

Jack Bolt had only six men of his own and the Aragon outfit numbered seven all told, which meant thirteen men at least were available. Some of these would be needed on the home ranch and some would be left in the hills to scout for Connors. Eight was probably a good guess at the number with the herd, and five were here in Agate.

Watching the lights of the saloon, he studied the situation with care. He hesitated to enter the saloon, yet knew that some of them had probably heard his horse when he arrived and if he did not come in they would be suspicious.

Sourdough knocked out his pipe, then stoked it with fresh tobacco. Hopalong gave him a sidelong glance, wondering how much he could get out of the old man. He knew the method of obtaining information now at least.

"A long time ago," he said, "I knew a man named Tedrue. He was a good friend to a fellow in my outfit. That Tedrue was

a woodsman and a hunter as well as a rider. He told me about a valley over west of here where there was plenty of grass and water, but from the look of this country he must've been mistaken. I'd say there wasn't a drop of water in miles of that country."

Sourdough took his pipe from his mouth. "And you'd be wrong!" he said flatly. "I knowed that there Tedrue, and he knowed this here country most as well as I do! He was sure a-tellin' of the truth!"

"Aw!" Cassidy protested. "Just look around. Black sand and bare hills. Not a sign of water. I'd bet you'd have to go nearly to the coast before you'd find water."

"Huh!" The old man grunted his disgust. "Sure wouldn't! I could name you fifty water holes, and even some lakes over thataway!" He drew deep and his pipe glowed. Somebody laughed loud in the saloon. The old man pointed towards a distant peak. "There's a water hole at the foot of that peak. The country west of here has plenty of hot springs, too.

"Why, there's one section over there a man has to walk mighty easy or he'll go through. The whole surface of the ground is underlaid by one big hot spring, boilin' water that'll take the hide right off a man if he should fall into it!

"There's water in High Rock all right, and in Little High Rock. Summit Lake is one of the prettiest lakes you ever laid eyes on. A mite farther west is the Massacre Lakes--mostly dry this time of year, though. Injun country, that is, and plenty of Modocs still around. Jesse Applegate went through there, and so did Lassen. There's lost mines, too. Me, I prospected all over that country. Tedrue, he come through there as a boy, and what he told was the truth, believe you me."

Hopalong got to his feet. "Well, I could be wrong," he said, "and it sure is good to find a man that knows the country. I like

to talk to an hombre who knows what he's talkin' about. I reckon I'll have a look around that saloon."

Somewhat mollified by Hopalong's flattery, Sourdough looked up at him. "You be mighty careful in yonder," he said. "Some of that bunch is plumb salty, and Pete Aragon ain't the worst of them!"

Chapter
7

Swift Gunplay
.

Sl
owly Hopalong walked across the street and opened the door of the saloon. At once faces turned towards him. Hard-featured faces of roughly dressed men, and all were armed, several wearing two guns. Head and shoulders above them stood Mormon John, a huge black-bearded man with thick eyebrows. The gaze of this towering giant met that of Hopalong over the crowd, and Cassidy was sure he saw a glint of sudden interest in the big man's eyes. What the others were thinking Hopalong could not guess. He walked to the bar and slowly looked around the room.

Long and low-ceilinged, it was only a third as wide as its length, and on the side opposite the door was a long bar. Hopalong nodded to Mormon John. "Howdy! I take it you're Mormon John?"

"You got it right, stranger. Somethin' for you?"

"Not right now," Hopalong said. "Just passing by and thought I'd drop in. I was talking to your friend Sourdough."

"My friend?" Mormon John exploded. "That old rawhider? That son of a sheepherder a friend of mine? You heard wrong, stranger, if you heard that."

"That right?" Hopalong looked amazed. "Well, now, what do you know about that? He didn't say anything bad about you, mister."

A heavy-faced man standing nearer to Hopalong than the others stared hard at Cassidy. "Where've I seen you before?" he demanded.

Hopalong looked the man over carefully. The face was unfamiliar, but the type was not. "Why, I don't reckon you have," he said quietly. "I know you don't look like anything I've ever seen before."

Somebody chuckled a little, and the man's face darkened. He straightened a little from the bar. "Too many of you grub-line riders around here," he said. "Why don't you drift north and git clear out of the country?"

Hopalong considered the question gravely. "I like it here," he said at last. "Fact is, I'm figuring on starting my own outfit. I am riding west right now and figure to find a place over in the High Rock country."

The hands holding drinks froze in position. He was looking down at the bar, but sensed all eyes were upon him.

"That there's a bad area." The new speaker was a narrow-faced man with black eyes. There was an ugly scar on his right cheek that looked as if it had been torn by claws. "Good country to stay shut of."

Hopalong shrugged. "Could be, but I like a place without fences and I hear there's both grass and water over there, and land for the taking."

One by one the men downed their drinks. The man with the scar on his face turned to one of those beside him. "Reckon we better go, Vila."

"Sure, Pete."

Vila turned and walked to the door, pausing there. Pete

had not moved, yet from some unseen gesture one of the men nearest him straightened, placed his glass on the bar, walked across to the window, and stopped there with his back to it.

The big man who had started hunting trouble spoke softly. "You stay out of that High Rock country. Folks over thataway don't cotton to strangers."

Hopalong Cassidy said nothing at all. He knew the value of suspense, of waiting. He also knew his own nerves, and now he stood very still and let his eyes go from one face to another. Slowly the seconds passed, and the tension grew. Somebody swallowed and the sound was plain to them all. Then Vila shifted his feet slightly. Hopalong's eyes moved on to Pete Aragon and stopped there. Pete was the boss--and was less charged with killing tension than Vila.

"That right?" Hopalong said gently. "Now that's too bad, isn't it?"

Hopalong was not looking for trouble. He had wanted information and he had wanted to see these men, for the more of them he knew by sight, the better off he would be. Furthermore, if anything did begin, he wanted them to begin it.

"Yeah," he continued, "that is too bad. It would be a nice country to locate in, but me, I'm a peace-loving man." He pulled his hat down on his head. As he started to turn from the bar he perceived, by the sudden stiffening of the watchers, that he was not going to get away without trouble. Some signal had evidently passed from Pete Aragon which he had overlooked, yet he continued his turn and brought his foot down hard on the big man's toe. The man cried out and jumped back. Instantly Hopalong grabbed iron.

His move had been abrupt and unexpected, and although they had planned to take him, Aragon's men were caught by surprise. Hopalong's seeming unawareness of the situation had