the Rustlers Of West Fork (1951) (12 page)

"Sure we know him," Sparr said, scowling. "What about him?"

"What would he be doin' ridin' around the Elk Mountain?" Soper's face went white, then deadly, as he stared, nostrils distended, at Avery Sparr.

The gunman was half out of his chair. "Goff?"

He was incredulous. "Around Elk Mountain?"

"Oh, well!" Cassidy was cheerful. "Some idea of his own, I guess. Gamblers," he added sagely, "are odd folks. Always gettin' ideas about makin' money for themselves. Fact is, most folks are like that. Always ready to make a few extry dollars. Like Johnny Rebb said to me the other night-was He paused. "But that was in confidence."

Avery Sparr arose so abruptly that he tipped over his chair. "What was it Rebb said?" he demanded. His voice was harsh, his gray eyes dancing with a cold and ugly light.

"Oh, he was just talkie'!" Hopalong waved an airy gesture of dismissal. "At that, you can't blame a man for looltin' out for his own interests."

He crossed the hard-packed ranch yard chuckling to himself. That would give them something to think about! If it did no more than worry Sparr, it would help.

Better yet, it might take Sparr, Soper, or some of the others off the ranch and leave him a freer hand in getting away with the Jordans. So far as Hopalong knew, Goff was still playing cards at Clifton's, and Johnny Rebb might be anywhere, and the guard on duty at the ford on Middle Fork might never have slept a wink in his life. Men of criminal instincts and aspirations are men born withand filled with suspicion. They live with the cherished idea that all men are out for their own interests. They judge others by themselves; hence, seeds of suspicion fall on fertile soil and easily flower into a lot of trouble. And with Soper, Cassidy was quite sure he had struck such soil. The man had obviously been frightened of the construction Sparr might put on Cassidy's remarks and genuinely upset when he heard that Goff was riding in the vicinity of Elk Mountain. Speaking of Johnny Rebb had turned Hopalong's thoughts upon the buck-toothed gunman. There was nothing about him, really, except those buck teeth, that in any way distinguished him, but somehow the young man's image stayed in Hopalong's mind, and the fact disturbed him. Somewhere, deep within him, some wellspring of memory or some unconscious construction had attached importance to Johnny Rebb. And the fact that he could not guess why disturbed Hopakmg and made him restless.

Once in the saddle he started east by north, heading for a route that would put him on the Indian Creek Trail, which was the main-traveled route to Horse Springs. As he rode he studied the country with great care, pausing from time to time and reining the buckskin off the trail to make sure whether or not he was followed. It was not until the third attempt that he actually did spot his trailer. The rider was about a half mite behind him and just coming down into the broken country that was the approach to the canyon of the Middle Fork.

Dropping the buckskin swiftly down the trail to the floor of the canyon, Hopalong started it up the opposite side, then swung it to a narrow shelf of rock he would have hesitated to take with another horse, and rode back to the river. Entering the water, he walked the horse up the canyon, staying close to the edge of the river and the trail that ran along the bank. Following the river for almost two miles, he finally found a canyon and entered it.

More and more he was admiring the buckskin. The horse had not only courage, but an almost instinctive sense of what was safe and what was not. Once it decided a trail was safe it would push along regardless of the narrowness of the ledge or the depth of the canyon.

Climbing up from the bed of the Middle Fork, Hopakxig followed a mere eyebrow of trail where for almost half the distance one boot brushed the rock wall while the other stirrup was suspended over space. And the buckskin plodded as if it were walking along a bridle path is a park.

Keeping to the timber and brush, avoiding trails, Hopalong rode steadily west, crossing Canyon Creek without seeing anyone. The country grew steadily more wild and the mountains to the west loomed up sharp and clear against the sky.

Even from here he could see how rough they were and how few passes there must be. Among the jumble of massive mountains three peaks lifted high above the others. All of these, he had been told, were more than ten thousand feet in altitude, and the northern of the three was Whitewater Baldy. He found a hollow among heavy growth where there was grass and made camp. Picketing his horse, he carefully built a hasty fire from dried and weathered branches under a tree where even the thin smoke from the dry wood could be thinned more and dispersed by the needles of the pine. . When he had cooked and eaten a meal, he rolled up in his blanket and went to sleep. It was not quite sundown when he dosed his eyes. It was after ten when he awakened suddenly.

Instantly he was on his feet. Rolling his bed, he saddled up, strapped on his bedroll, and swung into the leather. The buckskin humped its back irritably, but not very seriously. "Take it easy, Buck," he whispered companionably. "You'll need that energy before another rest, b'lieve me."

An hour was used in covering the six miles back to the ranch house, but once there he swung down in the trees where he had stopped that morning. The air was dear and cold, sharp and fresh as cold water, and every breath felt like he was actually drinking. The air smelled faintly of pines and wood smoke, and there were lights in the house and also in the bunkhouse. For several minutes he waited, studying the layout anew, and then he worked his way around and behind the corrals, eased past them to the wall of the bunkhouse, and looked within. Anson Mowry sprawled in his bunk, half asleep. The tall hand Hopalong had seen earlier was at a table playing solitaire and facing the door. There was no one else in sight.

Huddling against the log and adobe wall, partly concealed by the corner ends that jutted out from the wall, Hopalong waited and listened. "Hey, Anse!

Wake up! What happened around here t'day? Where'd ever'body go?"

Mowry spoke drowsily, half asleep.

"Cassidy was here. The one that shot Barker."

"Here? Is he loco?"

"Naw! You should o' seen the way they invited him in! Like he was their rich uncle or somethin'.

Sometimes I think this whole outfit got throwed on its head." Mowry sat up and fumbled for the makin's. Hopalong could see him only slightly, as his body was partly hidden behind the card player. "I gotta notion to drag it."

"Huh! You never had it so good! They feed good here, good money, an' durned little work. I ain't a-scared of this here Cassidy. Anyway, he's Sparr's problem. Let the boss have him."

"Mebbe."

"Or Johnny Rebb."

"Rebb?" Mowry's voice was edged with contempt.

"What makes you think he's good?"

"Ever see him throw a gun?" The card player looked up casually. "B'lieve me, Anse, an' you're my friend. Don't you ever stack up against him. That long-haired, homely galoot is fast!"

"Aw!" Mowry was irritated. He got to his feet. "You talk like a crazy man! Who'd you see him with?"

"Remember"-the tall cowhand lifted a bone-ribbed face of sun-tanned leather-"I was at McClellan. That was skittish, mighty skittish! But not Rebb! He stood there cold as ice, talkin' easylike, an' no more worried than nothin'." Then he added, "It was him killed Duke Brannin."

"What?" Mowry whirled. "Him?.

"Uh-huh. I've knowed it three, four months.

Brannin an' him had trouble up Utah way.

Rebb lit out because Brannin had friends an' he didn't. Duke Brannin follered Johnny an' cornered him at Lee's Ferry. I come up a few minutes after, an' folks said Brannin never had a chance."

Anson Mowry scowled, and Hopalong could share the gunman's feelings. It was good to know these things.

Usually, gunmen are well known, but such a one as Johnny Rebb, young and comparatively unknown, could be dangerous. "Funny he never said nothin' about it.

You sure?" "Practic'ly seen it. O' course I'm sure. It's just that Rebb ain't one o' these talkative hombres. I wouldn't be surprised if he was slicker than the boss."

"Say!" Mowry turned. "Does the boss know that?"

"Uh-uh. Don't think so."

"Maybe Rebb is lucky. The boss was friendly with Duke Brannin." Mowry sat down on the bunk again and rubbed out his cigarette with a bootheel.

"All right, shut up an' let me sleep. Wake me up at one." "I'll wake you at twelve!"

The card player gathered in the pasteboards and riffled them, then shuffled and cut. Finally he began to deal. From the bunk came a slow snore, then another.

The card player turned his head to glance at the bunk. "Look at that hombre!" he muttered, half aloud. "Already asleep!"

"Yeah," the voice was low, "an' he needs it, so don't wake him. ., The card player's head swung around, startled.

The hand that had dropped to the gun butt froze.

Then, carefully, the fingers spread and the hand lifted.

Hopalong Cassidy stood inside the door and to the left of it. In his hand was a Colt. "If you want the last sound you make that' be a yell," Hopalong suggested, "make it. Otherwise, unbuckle your belt an' lower the gun real gentle to that table top."

The outlaw was sweating now. He swallowed once, then slowly and with infinite care unbuckled his belt and did as he was told. He had straight black brows that lay like a bar across his forehead and from beneath them his eyes stared, cold and hard, above his lean, hard-drawn face. "Now turn around," Cassidy said, and motioned with his gun barrel. The tall man hesitated. "Don't slug me with that gun," he said. "I ain't aimin' to cause you no trouble-not now." He bared his teeth in a wolfish grin. "But wait'll we git together again, Mister. I'll peel yore hide for this!"

He turned around, and Hopalong walked up to him. Taking his wrists, he bound them solidly behind him. Then he gagged and bound him thoroughly, with occasional glances at Mowry, who slept soundly, andwitha glance once toward the house.

Anson Mowry was asleep and dreaming. He was dreaming that he had Hopalong Cassidy at the end of his long gun and was about to squeeze off a killing shot. And then something hard pressed into his stomach, and he opened his eyes to find Cassidy staring down at him from hard blue eyes. "One whimper out of you," Cassidy said, "an' I'll bend this over your noggin!was Mowry lunged to get up, and his mouth opened for a yell. The gun muzzle jerked up hard in his solar plexus and he gasped for air. Coolly, Cassidy slammed the gun barrel behind his ear, and Mowry folded. Glancing over at the bound outlaw, Hopalong said quietly, "This hombre won't take anybody's word for anything."

When Mowry was bound, Hopalong left the bunkhouse and walked at once to the corral, where he led out two horses and swiftly saddled them.

He had sized up the horses that day and knew just which ones he wanted. He worked swiftly and surely, with a minimum of effort, every move deft and sure. Then he led the horses to the side of the house and went up the steps. The first person he saw was the Mexican woman who did the cooking. "Buenos noshes, senora," he said softly. "We'll have no trouble with you, either." " lComo?"

"You heard me. Now open that door." He gestured with his pistol. "I'm talon" the Jordans away where they'll be safe."

"Take me too!" she pleaded.

"I'm sorry. You stay here, chiquita. Later I'll come back an' clean out this nest of rats."

She opened the door for him, but at the opposite door she shook her head. There was a heavy bar across it and the bar was padlocked in place. It did not fasten to the door, however, and was mostly for show.

Hopalong rapped on the door. "Pamela!

Dick!"

Feet ran inside, and then Pamela, in an excited, unbelieving voice, called out, "Hoppy? Oh, Hoppy, is it you?"

"Yeah. Open the door."

"I can't. Only the bar on this side. He has the door key."

"All right, take down the bar an' then get your dad ready. We're ridin'." Hopalong stepped back and kicked the door at the lock. It did not budge. He kicked it again, and swore as he barked his shin on the bar. Coolly he walked back to the yard and picked up an ax. Two well-directed blows and the door flew open.

Dick Jordan, who had not yet gone to bed, was struggling to get erect, grasping a heavy cane.

With Hoppy on one side and Pam on the other, they got him to the door. "Get me in a saddle," he said hoarsely, "that's all I ask. I can still ride! Anyway, if I die I want to die in the saddle!" The Mexican woman had disappeared, but as the old man was firmly seated and Hoppy came running back from the house with a brace of guns for the girl and her father and two rifles, she appeared with a burlap sack stuffed with food. Hopalong grinned at her. "Gracciaas, chiquita!" he said. "You're a woman after my own heart!" He pinched her fat cheeks, and she struck at his hand, embarrassed.

Hopalong swung to the saddle and they started swiftly. Behind them the woman called after them, "Maya con Dios!"

"Go with God!" Pamela whispered to Hopalong.

"We'll need to!"

Suddenly there was a clatter of horses' hoofs and a shout of laughter. Into the ranch yard poured a column of laughing, shouting, drunken, or half-drunken riders. Rushing to the bunkhouse, they flung out of their saddles. "Ansel Slim! What do' yuh think-to " Their question was drowned in confused shouts, and Hopalong swore.