the Trail to Seven Pines (1972) (14 page)

"Busy, China," Hopalong said, grinning. "Come on with the coffee. Forget the rest of it."

"Forget nothin'," the Chinese cook replied shortly. "You work, you got to eat."

The door opened, and Hopalong glanced up into the eyes of Lenny Ronson. "Oh? It's you." She seemed disappointed. "I hear you have been quite busy." Her voice was cold.

"You seem to have a faculty for creating trouble."

"Some folks do," Cassidy admitted. "Personally, I don't care for it."

"Well, for a man who doesn't care for it, you seem to be in the middle all the time!" she flashed. "Now I hear you've had trouble over at Corn Patch!"

Hopalong was instantly alert. He shook his head wonderingly. "Now what trouble did I have over there? I don't recall any."

"You killed a man. You killed Bud Frazer!"

Hopalong waited for a full minute, his attention on her statement. He had told only Dan Dusark, and Dan had come in late. He doubted very much if she had talked to the big cowhand. Furthermore, that killing had taken place at the hideout with only Bale as a witness, and if he had told anybody, then he must also have revealed the hideout.

Sure that he had struck
a
new lead, Hopalong tried to draw her out.

"You heard that? Now what do you know? Just goes to show you how folks talk about things they know nothing about!"

"I do know about it!" she protested. "You picked an argument with him and then killed him."

"Everybody in town talkin' about it, I suppose?"

"I haven't been to town. But certainly they all will be hearing about it! And they will all be saying that we hired a killer!"

"Could be." Cassidy filled his cup once more. "But I thought you wanted your brother to hire Clarry Jacks. Isn't he a killer?"

Her face flushed with anger. "He is not!" she protested. "He has shot men, but he's not a-" She hesitated, flushed and angry, yet suddenly realizing the absurdity of what she was saying. An essentially honest person, she had to admit to herself that Clarry had killed men. Moreover, some of his reasons had been very flimsy. She had accused him of it herself, and he had laughed at her. It had been a pleasant laugh, but one that seemed to express tolerance rather than respect for her.

"Anyway," she said, "even if he has, that is no excuse; I don't believe in a lot of heedless killing."

"Neither do I, Lenny," Hopalong replied quietly. "But there's no sense in the good people layin' down weapons when the others won't. Peace talk has to come from both sides.

'Tour dad built him a fine ranch. He kept peace here, sometimes the hard way, but he kept it and other folks lived comfort ably because of it. He didn't bother anybody except those who took the law into their own hands.

"Your brother feels like you. He's against killing, but what happens? Do other folks agree that he's right and start helpin' him? No, they rob him blind! That's what I mean by not layin' down your gun until the other feller has. Now your brother has hired me, and with luck, this place will be peaceful as a sewin' circle in about a month. The time between may be sort of rough-like in spots."

Lenny eyed him thoughtfully as he returned to his meal. Despite her irritation at her brother's hiring of Cassidy instead of Jacks, she liked this blue-eyed gunman.

He inspired confidence and trust, and in him she found something of a kindred spirit too.

"You don't like Clarry, do you?" she asked suddenly.

Cassidy hesitated, knowing he was on dangerous ground. "Lenny," he said slowly, "I don't know him, but what I know of him don't appeal very much. I could be wrong.

I have been plenty of times. You've brains enough of your own. You do know him, so set what you know up against what you think a man should be, and then be honest about it."

Lenny Ronson got to her feet, her face sober. "I guess I've misjudged you. I've been a fool."

He grinned at her, his blue eyes flickering with humor. "Not a bit of it," he said.

"Nobody's got any corner on being foolish. Why, I bought a blind mule once when I was a youngster, paid all my savings for it, and you know, it was three months after I learned he was blind before I'd admit it to anybody else!"

Later, as he started out the door, he hesitated. "By the way," he asked, "did you happen to see Dan Dusark come in this afternoon?"

She turned. "Why, no," she replied thoughtfully, "I don't believe I've seen him in two days. Has he gone somewhere?"

"No, just wondered if he got back all right." Hopalong went outside and paused on the step to roll a smoke. So Dan had not told her about the killing of Bud Frazer?

Who, then, had given her that news? And who let her believe it had happened at Corn Patch?

Dusark was in his bunk, but he was awake and thinking. The day had been a busy one for him, a day full of worry. All his doubts were crowding him close tonight, and he failed to cut any one of them out of the herd long enough to dab a rope on it.

They crowded in a confused snarl in his brain, and long after the others were snoring peaceably he lay awake.

How much did Hopalong know? How could he know of the secret hideout of the stage robbers? The rustlers knew of the other group, but who or what they were, none of them knew unless it was Poker Harris. Yet this calm-faced gunfighter who had been in the country but a few days did know. And how had he known of that trail today?

Or of the rustlers' trail through High Rock? And had he avoided the trail through Rosebud Canyon on purpose or by accident?

He was awake when Hopalong came in, and he lay quiet in his bunk, watching the glow of the other man's cigarette in the dark. He heard the jingle of his spurs when he removed his boots, the slap of leather from his belts, and then the rustle of blankets as he crawled into bed. For a long time Dusark watched the cigarette burning, then saw it rubbed out.

Dan Dusark suddenly realized that he was afraid. It was a shocking thing to admit, but he was afraid, bitterly afraid.

He had never feared death before, except remotely in the back of his mind. Death by the gun, by stampede or maddened steer had never frightened him. He had never worried when his horse swam bad rivers. Only one kind of death frightened him, and that was death by the rope. Long ago he had seen a man hanged, and the fear had come to him then, a deep, throbbing, aching fear that was mounting these days, mounting in his throat, running in his veins.

Dusark had lived all his life in cow country. He knew the justice of the frontier.

Sudden, harsh, and honest in its intentions, but unrelenting. If he was caught rustling, he would be hanged.

It was time he left the country. More than time. He would say nothing at all to anyone.

He would just drift out. Let Harris rustle his own cows. The difference between the money he was making and an honest wage was not great enough to cover the fear that was eating at him. A fear that had grown, doubled, intensified with the coming of Hopalong Cassidy.

Brutal and harsh in his own way, Dan Dusark did not have it in him to hate Cassidy for what he was or what he was doing.

In the morning, Dusark decided, he would saddle up and slip away. He would head for Oregon.

Chapter
8

Dusark Takes a New Trail
.

U
nder the rules as established, the roundup organized by Bob Ronson and Hopalong was a strictly local affair. Essentially it was an effort to ascertain just how much stock was being carried, the shape it was in, and to brand all unbranded stock that belonged to the Rocking R. As much of the range was free, or partly so, neighboring ranches had been invited to send reps to check the branding.^

All through the previous week stock had been drifted from the far boundaries of the ranch toward the holding ground. Short-handed as they were, this seemed the best procedure, and the roundup itself would be handled in bunches of a few at a time.

It was hot within an hour after daylight. Dust clouds lifted slowly from the hoofs of the cattle. Among these greater clouds the thin trail of dry wood smoke from the chuck-wagon fire was lost. In the rush of work Dusark had found no chance to get away, and now he was deep in the labor around the branding fire where there would be no chance for escape until he was relieved.

Tex Milligan cut the first cow and calf from the herd and shook out a loop. The rope streaked like a bullet for the calf, and the little white-face was spilled to the ground. Milligan's pony squatted suddenly as the rope fell into place, then straightened as Tex took a turn of the rope around the horn of the saddle and dragged the bawling curly-faced calf to the fire.

Dusark and Joe Hartley were working the fire, and Dusark grabbed the calf by the ears, twisting its head around and sitting on it. Joe cast the rope loose and, grabbing the hind legs, forced one forward and one back. Held so, the calf could do nothing but bawl helplessly while Weaver, one of the small ranchers, came up with the Rocking R iron. The red-hot iron hissed in the morning air; then, as Weaver stamped the iron onto the calf, there arose an evil-smelling smoke from the burning hair. Weaver looked up toward Bob Ronson. "Tally one, Rockin' R!" he yelled. With quick cuts of the knife he put the Rocking R notches on the ear, and then the calf was freed.

Hopalong was riding Topper this morning. Frenchy Ruyters, Kid Newton, and Shorty Montana were all working with cattle, and the roundup proceeded swiftly.

At the chuck wagon John Gore watched with a dark and irritated eye. For once he was uncertain as to what course to take. Con was in no such quandary. He wanted trouble and was ready for it, but he had joined in the work with a will. A roughly energetic man, he could no more have stood on the sidelines than he could have avoided a fight.

Windy was helping, too, as was Hank Boucher and several of the smaller ranchers.

A few 3 G cattle had been found, and a J A Connected and a Bar L U. Dust arose in a thickening cloud, and the men's faces became gray with dust streaked with sweat.

"Bar L U, one calf!" Weaver yelled.

"Come on, you souwegians!" Hartley shouted. "Rustle some stock! We're coolin' off, waitin'!"

As a matter of fact, the roundup was clicking smoothly and fast. Hopalong, his wide black hat pulled low, was in the midst of the work, doing his and more. A calf bolted from the herd before the white gelding's outstretched nose, then dodged back and raced for a hole in the mass of cattle. The gelding spun on a dime, cut the calf out again. The white-face ducked, but Topper was ahead of it again, and the calf was forced away from the herd while the bawling cow raced wide-eyed with apprehension to see what would happen to its offspring. Hopalong's rope streaked, and the calf tumbled, then was dragged to the fire.

The heat increased with the day, and the dust cloud climbed. Frenchy came in with Kid Newton, hazing a fresh bunch of young stuff into the herd on the holding ground.

Bob Ronson watched thoughtfully and sharpened his pencil before turning another page on the tally book.

The clanging of the triangle at the chuck wagon stopped Hopalong as he was shaking out a loop to go after a yearling. He drew up and slapped the dust from his hat.

"Let it go, boys!" he yelled. "Chuck!"

Kid Newton reined his bay in sharply, turning the pony on both hind feet, and raced for the wagon, riding neck-and-neck with Tex. Right behind them was Frenchy. Dusark straightened from the fire, where he had been handling irons for the last hour, and grinned, red-faced, at Hopalong.

"Gettin' her done," he said. "But wait until you get into that bunch of ladinos up by Sugarloaf."

"Bad?"

"Pear eaters. Every durned one of 'em! Wild as deer, and they crawl around in that brush on their knees! Fact! I seen one about a month back, and the hair was all worn off his knees, and his nozzle was stuck full of pear thorns like he'd had a tangle with a porcupine!"

"The old ones are smarter," Cassidy agreed. "They get most of the prickly pear without thorns. Used to see 'em down in Texas, around the Bend country. They go for months without gettin' near a water hole sometimes. Live off the pear, which runs up to eighty percent water in good seasons."

"That's a ropin' job," John Gore agreed, looking up from his tin cup of coffee. "You can't herd them. You got to go in and drag 'em out one at a time. She's man-killin', that job."

"Ever rope cows at night?" Frenchy asked. "Now there's a creep job! I've done it down in Texas. The wild ones, old mossy-horns from way back in the brush, they'd come out at night sometimes and head for the water holes. We'd ease up on 'em and then let go a yell and charge right into 'em!

"Out there at night nobody could see well, and any black bunch you saw might be a critter. I heard tell one time of a Mex who roped a bear. Fact."

"Don't doubt it," Dusark said. "Out in California the vaqueros used to rope 'em for fun. Sometimes they'd fight 'em against a big longhorn bull."

"Aw," Windy Gore interrupted, "a bull wouldn't have a chance with a grizzly!"

"That's what you say," Kid Newton objected. "One time I came on a big longhorn standin' head down in the brush, his hide all blood and dirt. One eye was gone and he'd been chewed up, but he was on his feet. I hunted around some, and just when I was about to give up I found the carcass of an old grizzly. Big one, too.