Read the Rustlers Of West Fork (1951) Online
Authors: Louis - Hopalong 03 L'amour
the Rustlers Of West Fork (1951) (4 page)
This man would win and win again and again, not taking too much at any time, but always keeping ahead of the game.
Such men often leave games with the other players not even aware the gambler was among the winners. Finally he heard one of the players call the man Goff.
Cassidy filed that bit of knowledge away and drifted down the hall and into the room he had taken for the night.
A quick inspection of the room showed him a crudely made bunk with a cowhide bottom. He would be using his own bedroll. There was one window that looked out toward the barn, and it was small, yet a man could get through it if need be. The door had a bolt on the inside, and he shot it home, then unbuckled his gun belts and placed them on the chair near his bed.
He took one gun from the holster and put it down under the blankets, where it would lie alongside his leg.
He had known of men being murdered in their beds because they could not lift a hand as far as their pillow. He slipped off his boots and was ruefully studying a hole in the toe of his sock when there was a light tap at the door. He slid the remaining gun from its holster to his waistband and moved swiftly to the door. "Who is it?"
"Goff." The voice was low. "Figured we might have a talk."
Hopalong shot back the bolt and opened the door with his left hand. Goff stepped in. He glanced at the gun in Hopalong's waistband, then smiled. "This is a friendly visit."
"Sure it is," Cassidy agreed, "an' it'll stay friendly. You can sit on the foot of the bed."
Goff moved across and seated himself, crossing his legs. His trousers were carefully brushed, his boots polished like mirrors. He drew up one trouser leg lightly, then hung his hat over his knee. "Just meet Leeds during that Apache battle?"
"Uh-huh."
Goff had come on his own initiative, so he could do the talking. Hopalong waited.
"Nice country west of here-if you know the right people."
"Uh-huh. Most country is like that."
"From Texas?"
"From a lot of places. What's on your mind, Goff? You've opened, an' I called you. Now what have you got?"
Goff laughed. "Smart!" he said, smiling. "I like that. Men who don't tell all they know are few and far between."
"When I was a boy," Hopalong said quietly, "I used to hear that a fool's tongue was long enough to cut his throat."
"True." Goff hesitated, studying the end of his cheroot. He watched Hopalong; then he said, "I should know you, friend. I know most men who wear guns the way you do, but somehow I don't quite place you."
"Then maybe there's one you don't know."
"Probably there are many, although if anybody suggested that, I'd not believe him. I've known most of them, Doc Holliday, Ben Thompson, Hickok, Hardin, the Earps-many more."
Goff frowned. "Thatcher offered you a job.
Taking it?" "You heard me tell him. I've still got money."
"He would pay well."
"Where one man," Hopalong said quietly, "will pay well for a gun handler, there's always somebody else who will pay well-or better."
Goff chuckled. "And you want the best price for your work?" "Wouldn't you?"
"I would." Goff studied him carefully. "But sometimes a man doesn't take everything at face value. Sometimes a man wants to know what he's hiring. Four-flushers have been known to carry two guns, and carry them like you do." Hopalong's eyes were frosty. "Meanin'?"
Goff suddenly felt chilled. His tongue touched his lips, and the nervous gesture angered him. This man was either dangerous as a poised rattler or he was making a good bluff of it. "Meaning nothing!" he said irritably. "Man, you should know a man can't buy something without knowing what he's getting. Can you produce?"
Hopalong Cassidy leaned forward slightly, his hands resting on his knees. His eyes at that moment were utterly cold and hard. "If a man says he can play a piano," he said quietly, "you got to have a piano handy to prove he's a liar. If a. Man says he's a bronc peeler, you got to get him in the saddle to find out if he can back up his brag, but if a man walks like a fighter an' carries guns like a fighter, then all you got to do to find out if he's a windbag is start somethin'."
The eyes of the two men held, and it was Goff's that wavered first. It infuriated him, but he was too much the gambler to show it. "You've got something there, my friend. Any man who says he's a fighter and is not, is a fool.
He's asking for it." He hesitated, staring at his cheroot. "Are you suggesting that I try you?"
Hopalong's laugh was genuinely pleasant. "Why, no," he said, "because I don't figure you're the man who hires gunslingers. But if you, or anybody, wanted to find out for sure, that would be the way, wouldn't it? Call a man's bluff and see what he's holding. You're a poker player. You understand that." Goff nodded, his mind leaping ahead. "Yes," he agreed, "I do. And something tells me that the man who calls you would find you holding a full house." "Maybe. So what then?"
"Why, then," Goff spoke carefully, "I would say that if you want Situ Thatcher's money, hire out to him. If you want to talk to somebody who might pay more, ride on to Horse Springs and tell Mark, who tends bar in the Old Corral, that Goff sent you, and you're looking for work."
"Thanks." Hopalong stood up. "I may just do that."
"If you don't," Goff added as he reached the door, "you might like it better south or west. This country can be very unhealthy for unattached strangers."
"Or strangers who make the wrong attachments?"
Hopalong suggested. Goff smiled. "I see we understand each other." His eyes warmed somewhat. "It pays to learn the customs of a country before taking any permanent stand. The casualties are high for those who make mistakes, and you look like a man who might find the right attachments very profitable."
He opened the door. "If you stay in this part of the country," he added, "we might get together in a game of draw some night."
Hopalong nodded. "We might." His opaque blue eyes lifted. "Ever hear of Tex Ewalt?"
"Who?" Goff stiffened, his eyes suddenly sharp with attention. That he knew the name was obvious, and there were few gentlemen of the green cloth who did not, for Ewalt was one of the cleverest card handlers in the business. A man who knew every trick of the pasteboards ever invented, and a few he invented himself.
"Tex Ewalt," Hopalong said innocently.
"I thought you might like to know-what I hadn't learned for myself, he taught me."
Chapter
3
There are towns that are born hot from the ferment of hell, towns blasted in
being on the edge of a cattle trail, the end of a railroad, or the site of a gold or silver strike. Not often do these towns last. They are like some evil plant startled into quick growth by the sin that spawns it, and dying when the price of the sin can no longer be paid. The West has known many such towns, and many a sun-blasted hillside preserves their foundations and ruined walls.
Some towns came to stay, to grow from raw adolescence and become adult, to lose the hard, stark lines of ruthless utility and grow green grass lawns, hedges, and tree-shaded dooryards. Before long old men sit on porches, rocking placidly and talking of the old days. And where once thundering hoofs roared down the dusty streets a child plays with a ball or a dog lies in the dust and sun, sleeping away the warm summer hours. And there are other towns that are born neither to grow nor to die, but to linger on, fed from some sparse vein of humanity or interest or evil. Such a town was Horse Springs.
First, there had been the spring. A wagon broke down on the site and a man named Teilhet made some Indian whisky of spring water, two gallons of alcohol, a bar of soap, two plugs of tobacco, and an ounce of carbolic acid. It made a full barrel, and it went fast. With his profits he purchased odds and ends from passers-by that could be converted into what he sold as whisky. Sometimes the ingredients were one thing, sometimes another, but the quantity was unlimited and the liquor was potent. Moreover, it was all there was, so nobody complained. Horse Springs acquired a second citizen who helped Teilhet at the bar, did odd jobs, and stole whatever he could lay his hands on from passing wagons. Surprised in his stealing, he ran to Teilhet for help, and the saloonkeeper, if such he could be called, killed the pursuer with a shotgun blast. The wagon, team, and contents he kept for himself. Johnson, the bedraggled handyman, dug the first grave in Horse Springs's Boot Hill and planted the teamster.
Time passed. The saloon grew to a stage station and fort. It resisted Apache attacks and harbored more rustlers and thieves. A claim or two was filed but came to nothing; the store Teilhet put in did good business with travelers and with the few ranchers beginning to come into the country. It outfitted prospectors, and on occasion provided the murderers who stalked the prospectors in the hills and murdered to recover the outfit. In short, Horse Springs was a place of evil. A place of treachery. Yet it did grow. A few decent people came, as a few always will, and they stayed, avoiding the hangers-on around Teilhet's saloon. They worked at cultivating gardens, mule skinning, driving stage, or running a few cattle or sheep.
As Teilhet grew older he hired a drifter named Mark Connor to tend bar, and, if anything, Mark was even more evil than his boss, but Mark had learned early what Teilhet learned only at the last. He learned to be his own counsel, to listen much and talk little. Mark became the first agent in Horse Springs for Avery Sparr, whom he had known in Montana.
Horse Springs had grown to a population of a hundred and fifty persons of whom at least fifty were rustlers, thieves, murderers, and others treading the downward path that would end in a hangman's noose, legal or otherwise. Of this town Teilhet was the official king, but behind his back Mark Connor had grown into the power and the command, a fact generally understood but not mentioned. Also understood was the fact that Mark Connor himself took orders, and he took them from Avery Sparr, or from Soper.
Into this town men drifted, and some passed on; some remained. Most of those who remained were thieves or worse; some of them were honest cowhands who went to work on the few scattered ranches in the vicinity. Some were murdered on the trail after leaving town; some were killed in the town itself, although these were relatively few and they died in what, to all intents and purposes, were fair battles.
After a time the town acquired a routine for such matters as strangers with gun skill. Spotted at once, they were divided quickly into three kinds: the few who might be valuable to Sparr, the bluffers and brawlers, and the third element, the officers of the law.
But not even Mark Connor could make up his mind about Hopalong Cassidy. Tuck, as he called himself, might be the first or the last. He was not the quarrelsome type, although he carried with him an air of wary readiness for trouble that was in itself warning enough.
On that sunny afternoon when first he walked into the Old Corral Saloon he wore a sun-faded red shirt, a battered hat, and worn jeans. His weather-beaten face revealed nothing; his blue eyes were opaque, hard, and casually aware.
Mark waited, his own white, still face unrevealing. He waited, but the newcomer revealed nothing, offered no comment.
"Stayin'?" Mark asked finally.
"Mebbe. How's the grub?"
"The best." Mark Connor liked good food and allowed himself a little enthusiasm. "We got a cook!"
"Then mebbe I'll be around a while."
"Huntin' a job?"
"Mebbe. Not patic'lar." Hopalong's blue eyes strayed to meet Mark's black, cool glance. "You Mark?"
"Yeah."
"I'm Tuck. Hombre back at Clifton's mentioned you. Goff, his name was."
Mark permitted himself a nod. If Goff vouched for this man he must be all right, for Goff was careful.
He was usually careful. It paid to avoid mistakes when you worked for Avery Sparr. "Known him long?"
"Don't know him at all. We talked a little."
The door opened and a man walked in. The back-bar mirror revealed Johnny Rebb. The buck-toothed gunman sauntered to the bar.
"Howdy." He nodded to Cassidy. "Rye," he said Cassidy glanced at Mark. "Grub?"
The bartender pointed with the hand that held the bar towel. "Through there. It's beef an' beans, but best beans a man ever ate."
"Creosote fire?"
"Uh-huh." Mark's lips stirred in the shadow of a smile. This man knew good food. "You bet!
He wouldn't bake "em any other way."
Cassidy turned and walked through the wide door into what passed for a dining room. There were two potbellied stoves there, both glowing, for while evening was just drawing near, the alti- tude was a little more than seven thousand feet and the air quickly grew chill.
A dozen tables were in the room, and only one of them was occupied. The man at the table was wearing a gray tweed suit with a heavy gold watch chain across the dove-gray vest, immaculate boots, and a black flat-crowned hat. He was clean-shaven except for a small beard on his chin and a thread of black mustache. His black eyes lifted and glanced at Cassidy, then returned to his dinner.
After a few minutes a small, quick-moving girl came into the room. Hopalong gave her his order, then let his head turn as Johnny Rebb came in and sat down. If Rebb knew the man at the other table, he gave no sign of it. Cassidy glanced over at Rebb. "This much of a cattle country "*" Rebb shrugged. "The best, if you' can keep peace with the Apaches." "Any big outfits around?"