the Riders Of High Rock (1993) (8 page)

put them off guard. Moreover, they had covered the doors and windows through which he might escape, but there was nobody behind him. Hopalong's sudden move put the big man between him and the others, and now he held, by virtue of that flashing draw, two six-guns.

"Move back." He indicated the big fellow. "You fall back with your partners. You, Pete, tell your boys not to start anything they can't finish. The first person I nail will be you."

Vila was glaring, his tongue touching his lips. This was the man to watch; Hopalong Cassidy had seen gunmen too many times not to realize that the Mexican was dangerous. He was tightly strung and had that kind of nervous energy that builds up to an explosive pitch.

Pete Aragon was worried. He knew Vila, and knew the Mexican was quite capable of attempting a draw even when covered--if the slightest chance offered itself. "No use to get upset," Pete said carefully. "We just mentioned that was bad country up there. We weren't huntin' trouble."

"Take it easy, then," Hopalong replied easily. "I'm driftin'. If you get trouble, it will be because you start it." He let his eyes wander over the faces of the watching men and then swung his back to the door and in three steps felt the edge of the door against his shoulder. Nobody had moved.

"Better drift on out of the country," Pete suggested quietly. "It ain't healthy around here for gunslingers."

Hopalong's cold features relaxed in an ironic smile. "No? Then suppose you boys take that advice. You drift--I'm stickin'. In fact, I may take a job ridin' for the 3TL."

Aragon stiffened, and Vila's clawlike fingers tensed. Both men glared at him. Holstering a gun, Hopalong dropped his left hand to the doorknob, and turning it, he stepped out into the night. Crossing to the stable, he stepped quickly into the darkness. His horse was unsaddled and needed rest. It would take minutes to saddle it, and by that time they could be out and have all trails covered. He would have to shoot his way through. The best and safest place was right here. He turned, looking around for the old miner.

Sourdough's dry voice came out of the darkness. "Surprised," he said. "I never figured you'd get back here alive. Figured that horse of Dan Keating's would be left here for me." "You know that horse?"

"Knowed Keating hisself. Mighty fine man. Always figured I'd like to get my sights on the hombre what shot him."

"Don't blame me for that," Cassidy said shortly. "I got this horse in Tascotal to replace my own."

"Yeah," Sourdough said, "I guessed as much. You couldn't get a hand on him unless Letsinger figured you to be all right." He stared across the street as the door opened and men poured into the street. "What now?"

"I'm crawling into the hay in your loft," Hopalong said. "I don't feel like running." So saying, he swung and went up the ladder. In an instant he was lost in darkness. Sourdough struck a match and lighted up his pipe, then returned to the worn chair by the door.

Pete Aragon's voice sounded suddenly, and Hopalong heard his every word. "Sourdough? You see an hombre come out here a minute ago?"

"Reckon somebody did come out. I was back inside gettin' matches, but I heard the door close."

"You didn't see anybody in the street? Or on the trail?" "Yeah, a while back I did. Feller went into the saloon yonder. Anybody," he added truthfully, "comin1 into the stable would've had to pass right by me. This hombre might have left his cayuse outside of town. He might be headed back

thataway." Which, he reflected, was nothing less than true. Hopalong could have left his horse outside of town. The fact that he had not was quite another thing.

Aragon turned and spoke rapidly to two of his men. Both mounted and rode rapidly down the trail. Sourdough puffed contentedly at his pipe. The truth, Hoppy decided, could be a very pliable thing.

After a while the rest of them saddled up and left town, and Hopalong relaxed contentedly into the hay. It smelled fresh and good. He was very tired.

It was daylight when he awakened to see Sourdough bending over him. "Fixed you some grub," the old man said. "Better eat and get. This here town ain't safe for you."

Hopalong got quickly to his feet and brushed off the hay. Descending the ladder, he walked into the old man's living quarters. He grinned widely when he saw the eggs and ham. Quickly he washed up and combed his hair, then drew up a chair and started in. Sourdough chuckled when he saw him eat.

"Now that's the way a man should eat! I like to see a real appetite, not one of these here picky kind of fellers who muddle over their grub and never eat up. Never seen a cowhand nor any kind of workin' or fightin' man who ever left grub on his plate!"

Hopalong chuckled. "You're right, old-timer. Do I smell hot cakes?"

"You just wait! I got a stack comin' up for you."

Hopalong glanced out of the window. Mormon John was standing on his steps, looking across the street. There was nobody else in sight. The tracks of the horses could be plainly seen from where he sat, and all were going out of town, none coming back.

Mormon John looked curiously up the street towards the trail out of town. He scowled, then turned and walked back inside. Hopalong considered the action and looked up. Casually he asked, "I recall a couple of buildings between here and the edge of town. Is there anyone living over there?"

"Uh-uh. Just a couple of empty shacks and the old Gold Strike Saloon. Ain't been anybody in 'em for years."

Watching the saloon, Cassidy saw Mormon John come outside again. Obviously the big man was curious and trying to conceal his curiosity. He came out now and began sweeping the porch before the saloon, pausing from time to time to look around, but his attention centered itself on the trail towards the west or something in that direction.

Sourdough brought the pot and filled Hopalong's cup once more. He seemed oblivious of Hopalong's interest in what was happening outside. After a minute or so Hopalong got up, stretched, and changed his seat. He tried the fresh cup of coffee. From the new position he had taken he could see down the trail. The faded sign on the Gold Strike indicated that building. In the rear corner there was a window. Could Mormon John have seen something in that window?

As he sipped coffee Hopalong listened to the idle rambling of Sourdough's conversation. Once started, the old man was ready enough to talk, and his talking concerned the trail west and the country that lay out thataway, as he phrased it.

"Applegate done started that trail," Sourdough advised, "and Pete Lassen used part of it on his own cutoff. Folks in them days was in a powerful hurry to get rich. They figured once they was in Californy they would have no trouble pickin' up plenty of gold, so when that Humboldt Trail swung south they didn't like it much.

"Them that tackled the Applegate and Lassen routes, they

cussed the livin' daylights out of both men for startin' it. Mighty scarce grass and less water, unless you knowed exactly where to look, and them days nobody knowed but the Injuns. But what Injuns they was wasn't friendly.

"Rabbit Hole Springs they found because of rabbit tracks. Why, even the Humboldt didn't have much water in it. There was a young feller named Clemens workin' on a paper down in Virginny City who says a feller could tire himself jumpin' back and forth across the river and then drink it dry when he got himself thirsty.

"Lots of hot springs over west. Lassen got hisself killed over there, huntin' silver. Clapper Crick's right back up thataway. Clapper was killed with Lassen. Maybe by Injuns, maybe by a partner. Nobody ever rightly knowed. North of there you'll find water at Soldier Meadows, and there's plenty of water and grass up Mud Lake Valley."

He paused for breath, and Hopalong finished the last of his coffee, only lukewarm now. He stretched his muscles.

"Reckon I'll leave now, Sourdough," he said. "Wish you'd go to the stable and saddle up for me. I've got a little job to do first."

The old man looked at him quickly, struck by some tone in Hopalong's voice. "Somebody stayed behind." Cassidy nodded. "There's a man in that old saloon. I'd lay a month's wages on it."

He waited after the old man went out, watching the saloon. Then he went swiftly to the back of the livery stable and out a door into the corrals. For an instant he stood there, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the glare of the bright morning sun. It was pleasant just to stand there and feel the warmth and brightness, to smell the rich barnyard smells, and over them

the faint yet tangible odor of the sage-clad hills. Then he crossed to the corral fence and slid between the bars.

He stood now at the corner of the barn. Removing his hat, he peered around the edge, studying the situation.

The nearest house was some thirty feet away across a gravel alleyway. From where he stood only a corner of the saloon could be seen, and the merest edge of the saloon window. The unseen gunman's only chance of seeing him would be if he was pressed tightly against that edge of the window, and in any event he would have no chance to fire. Hopalong pulled his hat on, took a step back, then launched himself in a swift run to the back wall of the house. He drew up and stood still, listening.

There was no sound. The boards of the old house were brown with age and they smelled of the heat. Edging along behind the building, he peered through a window that allowed him to see through the empty house and watch the front of the saloon. As he watched he saw a shadow slip by a window opposite to his. He had been right, then. Someone had been left behind in case he had hidden in the town.

On tiptoe, placing each foot down gently, Hopalong worked his way to the corner of the building. The neighboring house, which was the last in town, jutted at least ten feet farther towards the road than his present hiding place. To cross to its shelter he would have to allow himself in full view of the saloon for at least three steps. Time enough to drop him if the watcher was ready.

Listening, Hopalong Cassidy heard a horse walking in the gravel in front of the livery stable. Evidently Sourdough had led the black outside for water. That would certainly attract the watcher's eyes. In three quick steps Hopalong made the back

of the neighboring house, but even as he leaped behind it, a gun bellowed and he heard the angry thud of a bullet!

Swinging around the corner of the house, he dropped flat at its corner and edged forward. The Gold Strike's swing doors had been enclosed inside the heavy outer doors put up when the saloon was closed. Now the outer door stood partly open, and Hopalong thought he saw the blackness of a boot. He lifted his pistol and took a snap shot past the corner.

Instantly a gun boomed and a heavy slug ripped through the corner of the house just inches over his head, showering him with splinters. Another shot came through higher, and then one lower that almost nicked him! Jerking back, he lay still, waiting. His shot must have been wasted. Whoever the watcher was, he was using a rifle--probably, by the sound, a Spencer.

He groaned suddenly, then again, and softer in tone. The air was still, and he was sure the sound would reach the gunman. Whether he would be taken in by the ruse was quite another thing, but it was worth trying. Hopalong waited while a man might have counted ten and then moaned softly, as if in pain.

There was no sound within the saloon. The air was warm and very still. A door slammed down the street; then all was silent once more. A lizard eased itself from under the porch and peered, bright-eyed and curious, at Hopalong. He waited, heard a faint creak of boards from within the saloon, then no other sound.

A hat appeared, and he waited. The hat was withdrawn and there were sounds of movement within the saloon. Drawing back, Hopalong tiptoed around the house and peered from the back corner. The door was partly open now, as if the gun--

jit

man were looking towards the corner at which he had fired. Unexpectedly, the man emerged. It was Vila.

Gun in hand, but a pistol this time, for close work, the desperado stepped off the porch into the street. Instantly Hopalong stepped into the open.

"Vila!" he shouted. "Drop it!"

The outlaw whirled as if touched by a spark, and dropping into a half-crouch, he fired. Despite the speed of his turn, the bullet flicked dangerously near Hopalong's cheek. Cassidy thumbed the hammer of his gun. The outlaw sprang back, his pistol sliding from his fingers, a red gash across the back of his hand. With his left he grabbed for his other gun, but a bullet cut between belt and gun butt and he jerked his hand clear, blood dripping from a thumb knuckle. Slowly he lifted his hands.

"That's better," Hopalong said quietly, "much better. My advice then is to get out of this country, and fast!"

"Not me!" Vila's face was vicious. "I'll kill you for this."

Chapter
8

Dangerous Country
.

In some secret place among the canyons west of the desert the stolen herds would be held, and it was to that country now that Hopalong Cassidy turned the palouse. Hopalong allowed the horse to set its own gait, and despite the heat of the day, they moved swiftly.

Now there was a definite trail, and studying the tracks of the various horses, Hopalong picked out, one by one, the hoof-prints of each. Soon some of them might turn off, and he wanted to know who he was following. Without doubt one of the leaders would be Pete Aragon--which he hoped to discover before long, for Aragon was one man of whom he wished to keep track. The horse on the left front was peculiarly gaited; the toes of the hoofs pointing out somewhat, the buttresses inward. Another of the group had bar shoes. Studying the tracks as they moved along proved other things to Hopalong. One of the horses kept fighting the bit. More often than any of the others it broke the formation in which they rode and had to be forced back alongside his mate.