the Trail to Seven Pines (1972) (4 page)

"I've been shot at before," Hopalong said.

"All right. Come out in the morning." He started to turn away and then hesitated.

"By the way, what's your handle?"

"Cassidy. My friends call me Hopalong."

Harrington straightened up and stared. Ronson had stopped in mid-stride, and somebody, somewhere nearby, swore. Hopalong had not spoken loudly, yet there had been a sudden lull, and at least a dozen men had heard him. That the name meant nothing to some of them was obvious, but that it meant a great deal to Harrington, Ronson, and Dud Leeman was also obvious.

"Hopalong Cassidy . . ." Ronson stared. "Man, I'll say you've got a job! Come out in the morning, by all means!"

Dud Leeman had turned swiftly. He strode from the room. Hopalong glanced after him curiously. The dark-skinned gunman had seemed unusually upset. Harrington had noticed it, too, but said nothing. Pony Harper stood nearby, but his back was toward them, and whether he had heard, neither man knew.

"In the morning then." Hopalong nodded to the men, then turned and moved through the crowd toward the door.

The Rocking R lay in a notch of the Antelopes, a rambling, Spanish-style house sprawling comfortably among the cottonwoods with a huge old log barn, a series of pole corrals, and a bunkhouse that trailed a lazy thread of smoke toward the sky. A great tank, almost a half acre in extent, was placid with crystal-clear water. Green moss showed at the. edges, and a thin trickle dribbled into the tank from a pipe. After the trail Topper was ready for the water, and he sank his muzzle into it as Hopalong swung down. Sunlight reflected from the green leaves of the cottonwoods, and Hopalong heard a door slam from the house and looked across the saddle at the girl walking toward him.

She walked as gracefully and easily as a fawn. Her hair was brown but red-tinged in the sunlight, and her face and throat were lightly, beautifully tanned. She was young, probably seventeen, but rounded and perfect. She was, as Katie Regan had said, beautiful.

She smiled, her quick green eyes studying him. "Are you Cassidy? Bob said to tell you to locate a bunk, stow your gear, and then just look the place over. He's off across the range and won't be back until night. He said you'd want to get acquainted with the ranch."

"Thanks." Hopalong smiled. "I reckon he's right, at that. A man always feels better around a place once he knows the lay of the land. You run many cows?"

Her smile disappeared. "We did-and when it comes to that, we still do. I expect there's a good many thousand head on the place, but some of the boys around are a little on the rustle since Dad died."

"So I hear. Don't the hands stop it?"

"They tried, but the ones who tried didn't last long. They were killed mighty fast."

She was bitter. "What this ranch needs is a fighting foreman! Somebody who would really run it!"

"Well, maybe. And again maybe not. That sort of thing can lead to a lot of trouble unless your fightin' foreman has judgment too."

"If Irene didn't side with Bob all the time, we'd have one!" The girl's eyes flashed.

"I've tried to get Bob to hire Clarry Jacks! He'd be the man! They wouldn't run over us then!"

"Jacks?" Hopalong was surprised. He looked the girl over more carefully. "Maybe he would be the man, but he doesn't size it up to me, ma'am. Of course I'm only a stranger here. What does this Jacks do?"

"Do?" She looked at Hopalong, momentarily puzzled and, he thought, a little confused.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean what does he do for a livin'? Is he a puncher?"

"Why, he has been. Right now he isn't doing anything."

Hopalong nodded thoughtfully. "I see." He slid the saddle from Topper. "That's a right nice job, but it don't pay much. A man can only do it so long and then he's broke. Of course I expect Jacks doesn't need much money. If you have friends around, a man can live off them."

Her eyes flashed. "Why! Why, that's not fair! How can you say a thing like that?"

Hopalong looked innocent. He was momentarily sorry he had spoken so and was not quite sure why he had. For all he knew, Clarry Jacks might be a pillar of society. Only if he were, then all Hopalong's instincts were at fault.

"Perhaps I was wrong, ma'am," he said apologetically.

"Only a man has to make a livin' somehow. He rides for somebody, owns a ranch, prospects, works in a mine, tends bar, or something. Maybe Jacks has an income or something.

I don't know."

Lenny Ronson eyed him without pleasure. Her continued championing of Jacks had irritated her brother and worried her sister. Nevertheless, the dashing gunman appealed to her. He was so fearless, yet so gay. He was far from the cool, quiet man her brother was, and Lenny was full of fire herself and furious that the ranch could be stolen blind while her brother did nothing.

The only solution for the Rocking R was to make Clarry Jacks foreman. Then the stealing would be ended in a hurry. Yet, although they possessed equal shares, her brother had been given complete control over the operation of the ranch. It had been so provided in Cattle Bob's will. To make matters worse, from Lenny's point of view, Irene almost always sided with Bob when they discussed matters of ranch policy.

"That's a beautiful horse," Lenny said, changing the subject.

Cassidy nodded with real pleasure. "He sure is! Best cutting horse I ever rode, an'

I've ridden some. Got more brains than most humans."

"Are you staying long? I mean, did Bob hire you just for the roundup?"

"Don't rightly know," Hopalong mused. "Nothin' was mentioned about what I was to do or the time I'd be here. I heard he needed hands, so hit him for the job."

"Did you hear that we had lost some hands?" Lenny demanded. "Did Bob tell you that?"

"Yeah, he mentioned it, and some other folks did." Hopalong let his eyes run over the sunlit hills and drew a deep breath of the fresh, dancing spring air. "I reckon every range has its troubles."

He carried the saddle under a shed and threw it across a pole kept for the purpose, hanging up the bridle and bit. "How many hands have you got now?"

"Only five. We used to have anywhere from twelve to twenty on this place." Lenny's voice was bitter. "It's the biggest ranch around here."

"They been workin' here long?"

"Only two of them. Frenchy Ruyters and Tex Milligan. Frenchy has been with us since I was a child. Tex hired on about four years ago."

"What about the others?"

"You'd better decide for yourself. You'll have to work with them. They are good hands, I think. Kid Newton has been with us about two weeks. The others hired on about a month ago. They are saddle partners, Joe Hartley and Dan Dusark."

She was silent for several minutes while Hopalong studied the ranch with careful, appraising eyes. The buildings and the grounds were well kept; the stock he had seen was in good shape. Whatever Bob Ronson might not be as a fighter, he was no rawhider as a rancher. He believed in running a good place, and he did. This, in good times, could be a fine place to work.

"We'll have trouble," Lenny said soberly, "at the roundup. We'd be less than honest if we didn't tell you. There's an outfit east of here who are getting too big for their hats. Three brothers named Gore from over on Blue Mountain."

"What's the trouble?"

"They want range. Bob thinks they are a little on the rustle too. So does Tex. Anyway, they've been pushing our stock off land the Rocking R has used for twenty years.

Tex braced them about it and they invited him to start something. All three of them were present, and they laughed at him, trying to egg him into going for a gun so they could kill him.

"John is the worst, I think. But there's little to choose. Windy and Con are almost as bad. They've boasted they'll run the Rocking R off the range."

There was a rattle of horses' hoofs, and glancing up, Hopalong saw Bob Ronson come riding into the place with three hands beside him. The dark, lean-faced man with the shrewd eyes would be Frenchy Ruyters; the narrow-hipped youngster could be nobody but Tex Milligan, for his state was written all over him. Bob Ronson introduced them by saying their names. The last was a big-bodied man with ,,a round, sullen face. His name was Dan Dusark.

"Startin' today," Ronson said abruptly, "Cassidy's segundo on this ranch. Take his orders like you would my own. Cassidy, we'll talk inside." Swinging down, Ronson led off at a rapid walk.

Inside, Bob Ronson stopped by his desk and shoved his hands down into his pockets.

His eyes twinkled and he grinned suddenly. "Hopalong," he said, "I've heard stories about you for a long time. Gibson of the Three T L talks about you all the time.

Now you're here, and believe me, you're a godsend. Making you segundo of this spread is throwing a load on your shoulders, but if what he says is true, you're just the man for the job.

"You'll be stepping into trouble. We're the big outfit, we're short of cash, and we're being robbed blind. The small ranches are range-hungry and over half of them rustling.

"You're a fighter. I know men. I knew when I saw you out there after the holdup that Gibson was right. You'll give the orders when it means fighting. To me as well as the others. I can handle cattle, but I've no confidence in my ability to handle a war. That's your job."

Cassidy nodded. His admiration for this lean, sincere cattleman was growing.

"You expect trouble from the Gores too?"

"You heard of them? Yes, I do. And from other sources there will be trouble. We're the melon they all want to cut in to."

"All right," Cassidy agreed, hitching his gun belts, "you've hired a hand. I'll run it through without gun smoke if I can. And if I can't?"

"Use your own discretion," Ronson said simply. "They are asking for trouble. If they want it, give it to them. Only"-his eyes hardened-"if they start it, we win it. Understand?"

Chapter
3

Hopalong Serves Notice
.

T
he truth of the matter was that Hopalong Cassidy enjoyed ranch life. It was not only association that made it so, but a deep-seated and genuine appreciation for what he was doing. He liked cattle and thoroughly understood them. He liked horses, and good or bad, he enjoyed working with them. Already in his short life he had seen changes come to the range and he was well aware that the life he lived was not to last forever.

Where once there had been unlimited miles of unfenced and unsettled range, now fences were coming up and nesters creeping in. In some places the nester would remain. In others he would leave, for much of the western grass country was never made for farming.

Once it was plowed, the wind ripped into it and turned the prairie into a vast dustbin where billowing clouds obscured the sun. But whether he stayed or departed, the nester and the small rancher were bringing changes into the free range country of the West.

Many of them were honest, home-loving people who wanted nothing more than to make a living. For such as these Hopalong had respect. There were others, however, who came only to fatten themselves and their herds on the vaster herds of the big cattlemen, to reap what others had sown, to spend what others had earned.

These last were of two principal types: the out-and-out rustler, who drove off herds, took his chances with the cattlemen and would shoot it out if cornered, and the other type, who covered his stealing under a veil of appearances, and allied himself to the honest men of the community. To such as these a ranch like the Rocking R was a veritable honey pot.

Cattle Bob's death was reported far and wide by word of mouth, and into the country had flocked those who wished to fatten from his herds. The first raids had been tentative, testing raids to see if the young cub carried the punishing claws of the old bear.

They soon found he did not, and then the looting began. By the time Hopalong Cassidy arrived it was in full swing, and instead of driving cattle off by the dozen, the steals were rising in scope until nights came when several hundred head were driven off at once, and often by several different gangs.

To some of them the name of Hopalong Cassidy was known. No newspaper had published reports of his activities, for no newspaper was necessary. Drifting hands, stage drivers, cattle buyers, and all the vast itinerant army of the western country had carried the news. They knew the manner of man he was and the speed with which he used his guns. Most of these stories centered in the range country of the great plains east of the Rockies. However, as such stories always do, these had drifted westward through the mountain passes from Wyoming and down from Montana until the name was known to a few at least.

Here and there among the ranks of the outlaws were those who had actually encountered him before. It was noteworthy, and should have been thought-provoking, that these were the first to drift. One tough hand who worked for the Gores on their 3 G spread heard the name at sundown.

He looked up quickly from his plate. "Hopalong's here?" He was incredulous, worried.

"Yeah, that's his name." John Gore was not impressed. He had never heard of Cassidy nor of the old Bar 20 outfit.

The tough hand got to his feet. "Boss," he said quietly, "I reckon I want my time.