Trouble Shooter (1974) (13 page)

Finally the drum of shots ended. There was a long period of silence when the unknown man seemed to be listening. Cassidy strained his ears, and could hear the crackle of breaking brush. The man was not pushing his way through the chaparral because the sound wasn't moving very far. It sounded like he was just breaking branches. Why was he collecting dry sticks and leaves?

For a torch.

Sudden fear shot through him! Once it was set aflame, Hop-along would be revealed stark and clear in the glare of light, and then one last easy shot would do the job!

Desperately, his heart pounding, his mouth dry, his hands reached out, feeling the rock wall to his left while still grasping the rawhide rope for life insurance. He stretched, striving to find something that would help him climb. He could be no more than fifteen feet from the rim, but how to get up there? Especially as the rim had, if he remembered right, shelved out a little from the wall.

Then he remembered something. Part of the old abutment $$ below him! The bridge that led to Sipapu had been built of timber and was of the arch type of construction. The itself had been gone for a long time, but some of the base jj of the arch remained. Those of the lower part of the

art-h were set solidly in the rock wall, and these braces had ppeared still strong when he had glanced at them from above. yet how far down were they? Seconds seemed like hours as he t, trying to imagine the amount of arch needed to bridge space, and to calculate how far below him that arch might ug, To lower himself down the cliff face would be to put him farther from the rim where safety lay. His guns were no solution, to{ he dared not risk removing a hand from the rope, and in this precarious position he could not turn to shoot.

If his estimation was correct, the arch timbers would be aljnost directly beneath him, and with great care he began to f^l with his toe. He found nothing, and just then a match flared. '{tie man held the match to his bundle of grass, but in that brief light Hopalong saw the bulky timbers below him. He took a deep bfeath and let go!

Down. He struck and grasped with both arms and found jjjinself gripping the remnants of a big twelve-by-twelve timber (fiat was set on an angle into the rock. Not more than a few feet jifay was another timber and there were lighter crosspieces. Carefully he pulled his body in behind the heavy timber even as ttie first of the brush torches fell down the canyon. The flare lit jI the canyon like day for a brief instant and showed his rope jigging empty on the wall.

The unknown man was not satisfied. He had evidently

made several torches, for he dropped another almost instantly. It fell, the light flaring upward, but apparently the watcher saw nothing. Hopalong reached back to his hip and released the thong on his six-gun. There was a chance he might shoot the other man, although, backed by trees as he was, his body formed no silhouette, and if he did not get him, he would most certainly give himself away.

He waited, deciding to use the gun only if he was seen. The mysterious man was not yet satisfied. He moved a few steps away and dropped another torch. Evidently he could not see a body upon the rocks below, so decided Hopalong was alive. However, after his fourth drop he must have decided that the body had gone under the water, for he dropped no more.

Bruised and battered, his hand cut by the rope and the other full of slivers from the timber, Hopalong waited. To sleep was to fall. To make a move was to be shot, so he clung to the timber and waited, helpless to do anything to better his situation.

Finally he heard the man leave. Heard the echo of his horse's hooves, and then the long silence that followed. The stars waned at last, and heavy-lidded with sleep, Hopalong dozed slightly. He awakened with a jerk as his hands slipped and he clung there, his heart thudding sickeningly against his ribs. That was close, too close!

He forced himself to remain awake, and at long, long last the sky began to grow gray, and a coolness came down the canyon. Below him the waters rustled and chuckled over their stones. He turned his neck, stiff from its position, and stared downward. Far below was the silver of the stream with deep shadows still covering the rocks.

Then he remembered something. Part of the old abutment was below him! The bridge that led to Sipapu had been built of heavy timber and was of the arch type of construction. The bridge itself had been gone for a long time, but some of the base timbers of the arch remained. Those of the lower part of the arch were set solidly in the rock wall, and these braces had appeared still strong when he had glanced at them from above. Yet how far down were they? Seconds seemed like hours as he thought, trying to imagine the amount of arch needed to bridge that space, and to calculate how far below him that arch might be. To lower himself down the cliff face would be to put him farther from the rim where safety lay. His guns were no solution, for he dared not risk removing a hand from the rope, and in this precarious position he could not turn to shoot.

If his estimation was correct, the arch timbers would be almost directly beneath him, and with great care he began to feel with his toe. He found nothing, and just then a match flared. The man held the match to his bundle of grass, but in that brief light Hopalong saw the bulky timbers below him. He took a deep breath and let go!

Down. He struck and grasped with both arms and found himself gripping the remnants of a big twelve-by-twelve timber that was set on an angle into the rock. Not more than a few feet away was another timber and there were lighter crosspieces. Carefully he pulled his body in behind the heavy timber even as the first of the brush torches fell down the canyon. The flare lit up the canyon like day for a brief instant and showed his rope hanging empty on the wall.

The unknown man was not satisfied. He had evidently

made several torches, for he dropped another almost instantly. It fell, the light flaring upward, but apparently the watcher saw nothing. Hopalong reached back to his hip and released the thong on his six-gun. There was a chance he might shoot the other man, although, backed by trees as he was, his body formed no silhouette, and if he did not get him, he would most certainly give himself away.

He waited, deciding to use the gun only if he was seen. The mysterious man was not yet satisfied. He moved a few steps away and dropped another torch. Evidently he could not see a body upon the rocks below, so decided Hopalong was alive. However, after his fourth drop he must have decided that the body had gone under the water, for he dropped no more.

Bruised and battered, his hand cut by the rope and the other full of slivers from the timber, Hopalong waited. To sleep was to fall. To make a move was to be shot, so he clung to the timber and waited, helpless to do anything to better his situation.

Finally he heard the man leave. Heard the echo of his horse's hooves, and then the long silence that followed. The stars waned at last, and heavy-lidded with sleep, Hopalong dozed slightly. He awakened with a jerk as his hands slipped and he clung there, his heart thudding sickeningly against his ribs. That was close, too close!

He forced himself to remain awake, and at long, long last the sky began to grow gray, and a coolness came down the canyon. Below him the waters rustled and chuckled over their stones. He turned his neck, stiff from its position, and stared downward. Far below was the silver of the stream with deep shadows still covering the rocks.

Hopalong craned his neck back and looked up, and there, no more than twenty feet above him, was the rim. Off to his left, for he now faced the stream and the opposite wall, hung the rope, out of his grasp.

Above, the wall was smooth; below, it was scarcely less so. He was trapped, trapped by his own means of escape, and now he was doomed to die slowly of thirst or exhaustion before anybody could find him.

Painstakingly, Hopalong began searching the cliff face again. Inch by inch he went over it, searching for any crack, any knob, any bulge that might help him. On his left hand the skin was broken and badly cut by the jerk of the rope when he fell, and his right was skinned from the wall and the timber. Despite their condition, he knew the longer he remained where he was, the less his chances of coming out alive.

The Brothers, or one of them, might come to see what the shooting had been about, but otherwise there was small chance of being found by anyone. He was alone here, and if he escaped, he must do it on his own initiative. And escape he must, for aside from his own problem, Topper would be needing water. If he called to the horse, Topper might pull his picket pin and be free, but he might then get it caught in the brush ... his picket pin ... picket ropel

The instant the idea came to him, Hopalong braced himself, his back to the cliff and his feet on the timber, and pushed himself upward. Balancing, with his feet on the broken top of the old bridge support and his back held as straight as possible, allowed him to reach within eight or nine feet of the rim. He took a deep breath and yelled to the horse. His voice might be

lost in the canyon, but he was quite sure he was near enough to the rim to allow Topper to hear him. He yelled again and then again.

He heard the horse quite plainly then, heard him stomping about in the brush. If he could only get loose! If he would come to the edge of the cliff!

Hopalong yelled again and again, and then suddenly he heard a snort and running feet. His eyes riveted on the edge of the cliff, he yelled again. The horse peered over, ears pricked. "I'm in trouble, boy," Hopalong said quietly. "You've got to help me."

The horse looked at the canyon and snorted. He did not like standing on this rim. He did not like the empty space below him, but Hopalong was down there, so it must be all right. Hopalong called to him again. He could see the picket rope trailing back from the bridle, but how to get it over the cliff edge? If he could get hold of that rope, he might make Topper back up and pull him to the edge, and then, if he could get a grasp on the rim, he might get up. He might even be able to cling to the rope and be pulled over. The problem was to get hold of that rope, and from its position it obviously was trailed back between Topper's legs.

"Topper," he said suddenly, "say howdy! Come on, say it! Howdy!"

The white gelding hesitated, then bobbed his head, a trick that Red Connors had taught him as a joke. As he did so, the picket rope came forward a bit. Hopalong stared at it. Although there was now a little slack under Topper's jaw, the rope was still far out of reach. That picket rope was all of twenty feet long,

and if it could be gotten over the edge, it would be long enough. How to get it over was the real problem.

Topper was inquisitive and craned his neck, reaching down with his nose toward Hopalong, and although that slid the rope again, it moved it no more than a few inches. If only he had something with which to reach for it!

He stared around him, trying to find something he might use, but the only bush nearby was a bedraggled gray thing that offered little promise.

Where Hopalong now stood was on a brace that had supported the old bridge. This brace was set deep into the solid rock of the cliff and was joined by crosspieces to the adjoining brace. The bridge had been built with an eye toward future loads of machinery and supplies and so had been strongly constructed. He was safe enough where he stood as long as he made no attempt to move around, but there was nothing in the bridge itself that he could utilize for a means of escape.

He looked again at that gnarled and ancient gray bush that grew from the rock near the base of the abutment. Suddenly he dug into his jeans for his pocketknife, and carefully lowering himself to a squatting position, still holding his back against the rock, he cut three of the spreading branches. They were of that tough fiber common to desert woods, and from his belt he took several of the piggin' strings he always carried and lashed the branches one to the other until he had a stick all of nine feet long. To the top he fastened a forked branch with the fork opening downward. Then, careful not to lose balance, he straightened up.

The stick was too limber, but could be managed, and

slowly, carefully, he lifted it up toward Topper. The horse drew back, and Hopalong spoke to him. "Steady, boy! Stand still, Topper!"

As if conscious of what his master planned, the white gelding stood still. The forked stick moved nearer, wavered, then the fork hooked over the picket rope and began to pull it downward, tugging on the loose end of the rope. As it forced a bight over the cliff edge, it became easier, and then, by reaching, Hopalong got his hand on the rope. Carefully he dropped his stick and it fell away into the gorge. Then he wrapped the rope around his body under his arms, tied a bowline so the knot would not tighten too much, and spoke to Topper. "All right, Topper, back up. Back! Easy, now! Back!"

Step by step the white gelding moved back until Hopalong could get his hand on the cliff edge, and then he crawled over. Unsteadily he got to his feet. "Saved my neck, Topper"--he rubbed the gelding's neck and slapped his shoulder--"but it wasn't the first time! Let's go!"

Recovering his rope, Hopalong mounted and turned back through the chaparral, heading for the camp. He had not seen any of the members of his own group since breakfast on the previous morning.

He rode swiftly, and knowing they were headed for home, Topper was eager and kept tugging on the bit, wanting to go faster and still faster. When he appeared from the brush, he heard a yell and saw Pike Towne, rifle in hand, waving to him. The big man came down to meet him, and when he saw the blood on Hopalong's hands and side, he looked up sharply. "What happened to you?" he demanded.