the Rustlers Of West Fork (1951) (3 page)

By midafternoon, if all went well, he should be coming up to Clifton House, the best-known stopping place on the river. It was or had been a stage station for the Barlow and Sanderson line, and he would be sure to get information there as to the Indian outbreaks, if any, and with discrimination he might even learn something about Jordan and the Circle J. If Avery Sparr was in the Mogollons or the Apache country west of the Canadian, somebody would know it at Clifton's. There had been a gold strike over there, and despite the fact that the discoverer had been killed by Indians, more prospectors and miners were coming into the country. There would be talk of this around the bar in Clifton's, and much might be learned. Finally, after studying the country around him with care, Hoppy mounted again and, fording the stream, turned his horse into the pass. All was still. The sun was already high in the sky behind him, and its warmth was beginning to creep along his muscles and take away the chill of night. His hard blue eyes studied the pass as he rode, and they returned again and again to the trail. Unshod horses had been ridden here, too, and Hopalong had lived too long in the West to take the Apache lightly. When the rock walls of the pass opened out again and he saw Chicorica Creek before him he breathed easier. The open country ahead, stretching far to the blue mountains beyond the Canadian, were the grama grass plains, and beyond them, out of sight from here, was Clifton House.

A shout startled him to alertness and he drew up.

Then it came again, the long, ringing shout of a mule skinner, followed by the gunshot crack of a whip.

"Fool," Hopalong muttered. "Ain't sensible to shout like that in this here country."

He started the gelding again, knowing, although he could not see, that the unknown mule skinner was down in the bottom of the creek. And then, suddenly, the wagon was in view. It was a Conestoga with a patched canvas top and drawn by six spankingfine mules.

A man and a woman sat on the seat, while a boy of probably fourteen rode alongside on a rawboned buckskin. As Cassidy approached, still partly concealed by the scattered rocks and brush at the mouth of the pass, he saw the skinner swing his mules wide to start up a steep cut in the bank of the creek. The boy on the horse preceded him, shouting back to the wagon and its driver. The mules went into the cut fast, and just as the wagon pulled over the lip of the bank, a shot rang out. Hopalong saw the puff of smoke over some rocks, and in the same instant a half-dozen Apaches broke cover and started for the wagon on a dead run. The boy and his horse were down, but as his own rifle leaped from its scabbard, Cassidy saw the mule skinner whip up an old Sharps. Then Hopalong's rifle came up. He sighted quickly, held his breath, and squeezed off his shot. The Winchester leaped in his hands, and the foremost Apache left his horse and hit the ground in a tawny, trail-dusted heap. The mule skinner must have fired in the same instant, for a horse went sprawling. But more than the dropping of the man and horse, the Apaches were surprised by the sudden attack from their flank. Cassidy rode forward, drew up, and fired again, dropping his second Indian.

Snapping two more fast shots, he slammed his rifle home in the boot and went down the hill at a dead run. The Apaches broke for the rocks, and he raced after the first one, intercepting him just as they reached the rocks. With savage desperation the Indian lunged his horse straight at Hopalong and, knife in hand, leaped for him!

Cassidy had drawn his right-hand gun, and as the Indian lunged with the knife, he swung the heavy barrel. The wrist cracked and as the Indian fell, Hopalong's plunging horse went over him, drowning his shrill cry and hammering it into a choking moan.

Swinging his horse, Hopalong cantered back to the wagon. The driver was helping the boy from under his horse. "You shore showed up at the right time, mister!" the boy said. "That hoss had me pinned down. I was dead meat for certain!"

The driver of the wagon was a dark, sullen-appearing man whose face was now a sickly white. Reaction to fear had left him shaking. "Thanks, mister," he said, holding up a thin hand; "that was shore a help!" The man's eyes were taking him in now, and Hopalong sur- 23 mised in them a cool curiosity and some calculation. "You handle them guns right good," the man said. "You from around here?" "Driftin'," Hopalong said. "Figured I'd see some o' the country west.

Over toward the Mogollons."

The man's face stiffened, but he said carefully, "Good country to get shet of, an' you can take that friendly. I know this country. Been ranchin' over near McClellan for the past couple o' years. Just gettin' back from Colorado with my wife an' boy. But you stay away from those Mogollons unless you-" His voice broke off sharply, and he touched his lips with a nervous tongue. "Unless what?"

Cassidy was walking his horse alongside the man as they started for the wagon.

"Nothin"dis" The man avoided his eyes. "But thanks again. You probably kept us alive back yonder. Won't ferget it, neither." He looked up. "My name's Leeds. My brand's the Circle L, six mile out of McClellan. Look me up." Hopalong was intrigued by the man's comments on the Mogollons. "Headin' for Clifton's. Might's well tag along, I guess. That's my spot for tonight." "Good grub,"

Leeds said, committing himself to nothing. Asking questions was the worst way to get information in this country, as Cassidy well knew. He was reticent himself, but most Westerners were inclined to be even more so.

Especially in some neighborhoods where it paid to know nothing and say nothing. Yet in hopes of breaking down the man's resistance and of leading him into some admission or comment, Hopalong talked from time to time on cattle, range conditions, the nutritive value of grama grass, and the probable chance of water from deep wells.

It was the boy who finally interrupted him. "You got a fine horse there," the boy said, "mighty fine! He shore don't size up like no mustang to me."

"He's not," Cassidy explained. "Hombre north of here has him a horse ranch. Good friend of mine. He gave me this horse for a favor I once done him. Topper is a cross between an Arab mare an' a big Irish stallion this friend of mine owns. He'll walk faster'n most horses trot."

"I'd like to get me a horse like that!" The boy wat all admiration. "I seen him comin' down the hill, runnin' like the wind!" He looked up at Hoppy. "My name's Billy. What's yourn?"

At the question, Hopalong saw the driver turn his head slightly. His interest was obvious, although he knew the West well enough to ask no questions. "My name," Hopalong replied genially, "is Tuck:

Most folks call me Ben."

They talked quietly until the wagon drew up before Clifton House. Hopalong lad already taken in the situation. Four saddled horses stood at the hitch rail, and this was obviously a busy place. A wagon stood nearby with mules hitched to it, and several men loafed about. Their eyes went from Leeds to Cassidy and back again.

One of the men, a rawboned fellow in a torn shirt and dirty gray sombrero, walked over to speak to Leeds as the mule skinner swung down.

The fellow had buck teeth and a tied-down gun.

A Mexican stable hand walked toward Cassidy. "Got any corn?" Hopalong inquired. "Give him a bait of it if you have.

I'll be movin' on tomorrow." "Si, senor" The Mexican also noticed the tied-down guns and the rifle, which Hopalong took from the scabbard.

Leeds and the man with buck teeth were watching him; and Cassidy ignored them as he went by and entered the long, lowraftered room of Clifton House.

Two men stood at the bar and several were gathered about a table playing draw. Hopalong eyed the group with interest. Draw poker was his game, and this looked like a chance to sit in.

"See any Injuns?" The speaker was a big, dark-faced man who needed a shave. "Uh-huh."

Hopalong jerked his head toward the door. "Leeds an' me had a brush with "em. Mebbe six or eight. Don't know for sure."

"Git any?"

"Four, mebbe five."

Leeds had come in with his companion.

"That was good shootin", Leeds," the big man said. "Didn't know you was that good."

"I ain't. Tuck got three of "em. He's good with his guns. They'd of had us shore, me with that old single-shot Sharps. I got one, but they'd of been all over us afore I could git loaded up. The boy was down, pinned under his horse."

"Looks like you come along at the right time," the big man said. "Tuck, your name is? Mine's Sim Thatcher. I'm ranchin" west of here."

"You picked yourself a rough country, from all I hear," Cassidy said. "Figurin' to stick around?"

Thatcher asked. "If you're huntin' a ridin' job, drop around to the T Bar. I could use a good hand."

"Mebbe later." He grinned. "I ain't broke yet."

They all chuckled. "I'd be careful of that horse o' yours," Thatcher said. "This is a country where good horses disappear mighty fast."

The room was suddenly still. Leeds's companion straightened slowly and turned his head to stare at the big rancher. If Thatcher noticed the stare, he gave no evidence of it. His attention centered, Hopalong listened an instant, judging the silence.

Then he said, "Horse thieves? Where I come from they use a rope to stop that."

"What some of us aim to do here." Thatcher was talking, but not to Hopalong alone. He was talking to the room, and he had an attentive audience, even if they did not appear so.

"Somebody in this country?" Hopalong suggested casually. "Or is it somebody driftin' them to Mexico?"

"Both," Thatcher replied. He tucked his thumbs behind his belt and Hopalong noted that he wore one gun, belted too high. "Mostly right here in this country. I reckon those Texas range detectives for the Association could find plenty of missin' stock back in the mountain meadows. It's about time the ranchers got together an' put a stop to this rustlin' of stock. Hunt"-Cassidy saw one of the card players look up-"you with me on this?" Hunt looked from Thatcher to the bartender. Then he swallowed. "I ain't lost no stock. Well," he added, as if agreeing to an understood fact, "not much, anyway."

Sim Thatcher stared at him, his face stiffening.

"So that's the way it is? Well, there's plenty around that don't feel that way, and once the shootin' starts it'll be either with us or against us!"

A slim, cool-eyed man with a thin black mustache looked up gravely and seriously. "You'd do better, Sim, to talk quietly to the men you speak of. If Sparr hears of this talk, he might not like it."

Thatcher stood his ground stubbornly. "I didn't accuse Sparr. I haven't accused anybody, but when the time comes, I'll name names."

"That wouldn't be Avery Sparr now, would it?" Hopalong asked casually. "Seems I've heard of an Avery Sparr."

"Heard of him?" It was the buck-toothed man.

"He's the slickest, fastest gunman around this country! Or any other, if'n you' ask me! I'd say he'd make Hardin or any of them back water if it came to that!"

"What's he doin'? Ranchin'?" Hopalong asked casually. "Seems whenever I heard of him he was a town marshal with a careless gun, or backin' some gamblers."

"He's ranchin'," Sim Thatcher replied;

"partners with a Montana man name of Jordan This Jordan, he come out here an' shortly after, this Sparr hooked up with him."

Leeds turned toward the door. He seemed anxious to get out and away. Sim Thatcher stared at him and started to speak, but the door closed after Leeds and they heard his rapidly retreating footsteps on the hard-packed ground. Nobody spoke for an instant, and then Sim nodded after him. "He keeps some good stock around."

The buck-toothed man turned slowly.

"Meanin'?" There was a menace in the question. "Leeds is a friend of mine."

The room was suddenly still again, and judging the two, Cassidy was suddenly worried for the big rancher.

Yet it was not his place to interfere, nor would he.

It was the rancher himself who used judgment where Hopalong had expected none. "Why, nothin',"

Thatcher said quietly. "I was thinkin' o' those mules he drove up. Mighty fine! Best mules I've seen this side o' Missouri!"

Coolly he ignored the gumnan, his broad back turned to him. After a minute the door closed, and Hopalong noted the man had left. Quietly he said, "That hombre's a friend of Leeds. Looks like he might be gun handy."

"He is." Thatcher's voice was dry. "That's Johnny Rebb. He's a gunslinger all right.

He rides for Jordan's outfit."

"Johnny Rebb, is it? Where'd he get the name?"

Thatcher's chuckle was dry. "Like most of that crowd. Names come easy to them."

"How's the trail to Horse Springs?" he asked. "I'm ridin' that way." was "Bout like it has been." Thatcher measured him. "That job's open, friend." He nodded toward the guns. "Especially if you use those like I figure you do."

Hopalong shook his head. "Maybe later."

Sim Thatcher turned to go. "Well," he said quietly, "if you go to Horse Springs you better watch both your horse an" money."

Hopalong watched him go, then drifted across to the poker game. He was aware of the cool eyes of the gambler on his face, but he paid no attention.

Cassidy's shrewd blue eyes watched the dealing of the cards. This gambler was smart, and he had clever fingers. He was winning, but very slightly, and he would emerge from this game some few dollars ahead. Too many would-be card sharks went all out for a big killing and either frightened off other suckers or got themselves shot.