Trouble Shooter (1974) (11 page)

Cindy Blair was more of a problem. Western men were notoriously particular about how a woman was treated, and Cindy, slim, erect, and attractive, had made more than a few friends around--friends she did not even know about herself. Her frank friendliness, good cheer, and willingness to ride at all hours and over all kinds of country appealed to these men. Even Bill Saxx had said something about her being pretty.

From what he had been told, both she and Rig Taylor were now at the cattle-hunting camp on the Picket Fork. He scowled and went back to his work. Maybe he had been a fool ever to suggest getting those cattle out.

With the map before him, he was studying the layout of the holdup situation. Bill Saxx was to flee northeast, then circle, passing near Babylon Mesa and meeting him at Sipapu. If all was well, they could then return to the ranch. It was at that point that Justin Tredway thought of an alternative. His eyes narrowed with thought, he leaned back in his chair, considering every possibility. Yes, he decided, it might be done. With planning, it could be done.

At just that instant a rock sailed through the open window, struck his desk, skidded along it, and fell into his lap.

Springing to his feet, he whipped out his gun and stepped away from the light, staring out of the open window from a position well back inside the room.

There was no sound, and he waited a long minute, then another. To his ears came faintly, the distant beating of a horse's hooves, then silence. Curious, he walked back to his desk and picked up the rock.

It was flat and quite heavy, and it had been tossed rather than thrown into the room. Tied to it was a piece of brown wrapping paper such as was used at the general store in Kachina. Untying it, he unfolded the paper. The message was crudely printed but explicit enough.

CAMERON IS HOPALONG CASSIDY, FRIEND OF PM

For several long minutes Justin Tredway did not move, and when finally he became aware of his surroundings, the first thing he noticed was the ticking of the clock. In the empty room the sound was loud and clear. He shook himself and stared again at the brown paper.

Hopalong Cassidy.

Hopalong Cassidy was here, he had been in Kachina. He was even now hunting cattle for the Box T. It seemed incredible, impossible, but there it was. It was not in Tredway to doubt, for once the name was mentioned, he realized how obvious it had been. Melford was from Texas and had a long association with the Bar-20 Ranch, an operation where, for many years, Bill "Hopalong" Cassidy had been foreman.

How had he come here? Why had he come here? What was happening that he, Tredway, did not know?

In the light of this information, all plans would have to be reconsidered, for Cassidy had always been on the side of the

law, and the man was no fool. He had proved before this that he was uncommonly shrewd, that he read sign well, and certainly that he could handle a gun.

Suddenly a chill went over Tredway. Suppose--suppose Cassidy found what had stayed hidden for so many years back there in the chaparral? Tredway forced himself to sit down and think coolly. Suppose he did? Nobody in town knew anything. Cassidy had talked to Peavey, but Peavey was dead and buried now, and he had known little, in any event. Would Cassidy wait for evidence? Tredway did not know.

But suppose--suppose the fleeing bandits happened to run into Hopalong?

Suppose Bill Saxx, Vin Carter, and the others encountered Hopalong as they fled the holdup scene? Carter would not hesitate to kill, and for that matter, neither would the others. Five men against Cassidy, especially when one of them was Bill Saxx? Tredway smiled.

It could be arranged, of course, but that meant that he, Tredway, must get his hands on the money first or it would be of no use. If the loot was still in the hands of the outlaws and anything went wrong, it might be lost to him, for they might leave the country with his share, or someone might hear the shots and get to the scene before he could.

Of course, he reflected, if it did come to shooting, it was possible that all might be wiped out, all or most of them. And it could be arranged that none survived. The more he considered that possibility, the better it seemed. Thirty thousand was much better than ten, and suppose when the shooting started, he himself were bedded down nearby with a rifle?

The rifle had always been a favorite weapon with him, and he had been a dead shot since boyhood. During a fight nobody would know where the bullets all came from, and if there were any survivors ... Well, there would be no survivors.

Drawing the light nearer, he carefully burned the note and then began to study the map. He had been working over it for twenty minutes before he received his next jolt, and he was shocked that he had not thought of it before.

Who had thrown the note through the window? Who knew that he would want to know that Cameron was Cassidy?

Suppose it was Cassidy himself? He considered that, then dismissed the idea. Hopalong Cassidy would have nothing to gain by such an action. Who else, then?

Definitely worried, he got up and began to pace the floor. His own men would have come to him at once. The man who worked with Cassidy? He had never seen the man--a married man with a wagon, they said, a passing stranger.

Cindy Blair? It was an outside chance. The girl was clever, she had shown that by her businesslike attitude. She was dangerous, too, because she made friends.

Tote Brown? He puzzled over that possibility, then dismissed it. Regardless of who had supplied the information, he had to come up with a plan and he had to pull it off in a place where he would be free of interference.

Sipapu. The ghost town occurred to him at once. That was the logical place. All thought of the unknown messenger dismissed from his mind, he began at once to study the methods he might use if Sipapu was to be the scene of a fight between Cassidy and Saxx.

It was logical enough, for Saxx would be taking his men that way on the day of the holdup. An anonymous note could get Cassidy and his friends there also, and with no love lost between them, Saxx would be sure to believe they had been discovered. Vin Carter hated Cassidy and had a hair-trigger temper. Shooting was inevitable, and he knew just the place he could hole up to handle the survivors.

The following day Cindy Blair mounted her horse, determined to do some looking for the site of the PM without interference. Hopalong would be working in the brush with Rig and Pike and they would be safely out of the way, giving her a chance to have a look for the site of the ranch.

Rig had given her a complete account of his experiences when he had first encountered Hopalong Cassidy on what he had believed was the site of the PM Ranch, so now Cindy turned her mare in that direction and in a short time was riding down the slope along which Hopalong had ridden after taking his shot at Tote Brown.

The valley was green and lovely, for despite the dryness of the year, the waters of the Picket Fork all drained into this area, and there were several small brooks that started from springs back in the trees and rocks. With Pete Melford's letter in her hand, she drew up and looked about. On the letter was a crude sketch, and turning her horse, she turned the sketch until it was oriented with the landmarks on the ground. Brushy Knoll and

Chimney Butte were exactly as he had said, and the Picket Fork cut across the range just as on the map. Right now she should be sitting her horse not more than two hundred yards from the ranch house.

Turning her mare again, she studied the terrain where the ranch was supposed to be if her sketch was correct. To her left was a lightning-blasted stump, and that, too, was on her sketch, but nothing else was the same. Where the ranch house should have been was a tall cottonwood, and where the barns should be there was a small grove of pines.

The pines were young, but they were not that young. They could be no less than eight or nine years old. Puzzled, she rode forward and swung down from her horse. Standing under the spreading limbs of the cottonwood, she looked back where the corrals should have been, then paced off the distance.

With a long branch she found lying nearby, Cindy began to probe the ground. If there had been a corral, there had been postholes, and when filled, these are rarely packed down. She worked steadily but without success. Grass had grown over everything, and the trees ... Suddenly her stick sank through soft earth, and with a little cry Cindy dropped to her knees. In an instant she was digging earth from a round hole, its edges firm and hard with ancient sod. She had found a posthole! It was the first definite clue.

To work brush a man not only had to be an excellent rider but a superb hand with a rope. There was no chance to build a loop. Often all a man saw was a fleeting glimpse of a hoof, and it was a short rope, a quick throw, or nothing.

Leather tapaderas housing the stirrup were an essential. A stiff branch might run through an open stirrup, leaving the cowhand with a torn or broken leg, a lost stirrup, or a badly gouged horse. At the very least he could have his saddle torn from under him in full flight. Brush cattle were usually larger than on open range, for they might go years and never see a cowhand, and usually they knew places where water and grass were plentiful. More often than not, there were no holes in the brush and a cowhand hit it flat and hard, tearing an opening by sheer drive. He went through with thorns ripping his clothes, branches slapping or stabbing at him, and literally forced a way through. Brutally hard work, it required a brand of riding and toughness demanded by no other craft.

"Let's get Shep busy," Hopalong suggested. "We can work him every day from now on. We want to finish this job fast, and remember, what I want most is a PM brand."

He had seen Cindy leaving camp and was worried. Yet he knew she was a cow-country girl and had unusually good judgment. However, no amount of judgment will stop a bullet, and he had a better than fair idea of what they were coping with. Hopalong was sure that both Saxx and Tredway knew more about Pete Melford than they would admit, and he was sure now that the attempt to kill Rig had come because his refusal to leave was worrying whoever it was who did know the facts.

Hopalong pushed into the thickest brush, turning steers

toward the clearings to be roped. Many would not be led or driven and consequently had to be tied tightly abreast of one of Pike's oxen. Calm, wise, and powerful, the oxen knew exactly what to do. As Pike Towne had driven six oxen into the country, they used them all, three each day on alternate days. All of them had done this sort of work in Texas and knew well what was expected of them. Invariably they started at once for the home corral when tied to a wild steer, and fight as the wild one might, he was taken along. Such steers have been known to fight to the death, but the ox is usually the heavier, the more stubborn, and he knows what he is doing. As a result he wins most often.

Rig Taylor was a top hand. He had done little brush work before, but enough to get the feel of it, and he threw himself into it with everything he had. Cindy Blair had forgotten she was owner of a ranch and had fallen in beside Sarah Towne and was helping the older woman prepare their meals.

The use of the dog and the three oxen made the work much easier, and some of the younger stuff could actually be herded out. By nightfall more than sixty head had been brought in, the branded stock being thrown into the outer corral, the unbranded held in the hidden corral back in the brush.

The following day they started again, and worked so far toward the north that on several occasions Hopalong found himself almost on the edge of Chimney Creek Canyon, with the towering six-hundred-foot rim of Babylon Mesa facing him about two miles beyond.

Chimney Creek Canyon was unbelievably wild and desolate. The brush gave way to lower-growing varieties strongly mingled with sage, and then to a few cedar and pinon along the

rim. The canyon was deep, seemingly offering no possible route to the bottom, and an impassable barrier to further movement to the north. Seized by a sudden urge for exploration, Hopalong pushed free of the brush and began working his way along the

rim toward the east.

He had ridden for several miles when he drew up to let Topper catch his breath and, turning in his saddle, looked back. He was just in time to catch the blinking of a mirror from the higher slopes of Brushy Knoll!

Somebody was signaling, and to someone who must be

ahead of Hopalong.

When Hopalong moved on, it was not to return to camp. Instead, he rode rapidly along the canyon rim toward the site of the bridge. When he arrived, it was late afternoon and the sun was making its way down, toward the rim of the mountains. He sat under cover of the trees looking across the narrow canyon, studying the ruins of Sipapu.

Only five buildings remained intact. All were obviously store buildings of one kind or another, but one might have been a hotel or rooming house. There were the ruins of a dozen other buildings within sight, but no sign of life in the town. He watched it for a time, and when he was positive there was nobody within the town, he dismounted and picketed Topper on the rich grass in a small glade within the forest.

Habitually he carried a long, California-style reata. During the brush work he had been using a thirty-five-foot rope, but the reata, such as the old vaqueros had used, was all of seventy-five feet long. Now he took it down from the saddle and walked to the

rim of the canyon. He wanted a look at the town and had no idea of riding clear around to the bridge, which would take him at least a day, owing to the rugged terrain and thick chaparral.