Trouble Shooter (1974) (14 page)

"Long story," Hopalong replied briefly. "Where is everybody?"

"Sarah's here, been keepin' breakfast warm for you. Cindy went off to town, an' Rig took off somewhere before I was up. He was sure you'd had a run-in with some of that Box T outfit. He was fit to be tied."

"I can use some grub," Hopalong admitted, "and about a gallon of water. Tell you all about it while we eat."

Swiftly, as they ate, he told his story, leaving nothing out. He mentioned the Brother he had talked to, and then told of what he had said. As he talked Hopalong noticed that Pike Towne's face grew more and more grim. Suddenly the big man got to his feet and nervously paced about. "Hoppy," he said, "Fan Harlan's in that outfit! Nobody but him ever planned thataway! I'd bet he rode that horse from the stage route to Sipapu, too!"

Watching him, Hopalong nodded. "Could be," he agreed.

"Harlan was always one for that kind of plannin'," Pike continued. "Figured it like clockwork. Fact is, he used to--" His voice broke off as he realized what he was saying, and his eyes swung back to Hopalong. His wife was staring from Pike to Hopalong, her face blank with fear.

Hopalong got to his feet and stretched. "I could sleep for a week," he said, "but I only figure on a couple of hours. That'll rest me up for what we've got ahead of us." He picked up his hat. "How did Shep work out?"

"We doubled our catch." Pike was still keeping his eyes on Hopalong Cassidy, puzzled by his ignoring of Pike's remarks. "But look, I--"

"You know," Hopalong said thoughtfully, holding out his cup for more coffee, "Fan Harlan was alive last we heard. Maybe you're right and he is in this gang."

Pike started to interrupt, but Hopalong continued in a mild voice, "We're sure lucky you'd known him. I reckoned the only man who might know Fan Harlan was dead. You see," he lied, "I heard that Ben Hardy was killed back in the Nation. Even if he isn't dead, he might have reformed, and if a man has reformed, I'd have to judge him according to what he is now, but I'd advise him to keep his name to himself."

Hopalong looked poignantly at Pike Towne, then turned and shook out his bedroll. Towne hesitated, letting out a long breath. He stepped up beside Hopalong. "That isn't all," he said in a choked voice. "Fan Harlan--is Justin Tredway!"

Cassidy examined the old outlaw carefully. "You know this? For a fact?"

"Yes. I saw him in Santa Fe months ago. I thought... I thought I was seein' things, but there he was. People told me he was a respected businessman, a retired army officer." Pike took off his hat and ran a shaky hand through his hair. "He used to make up stories all the time, tellin' us about how he'd lived in this place and that.... I guess he's still doing it."

"So you followed him down here?" Hopalong asked.

"It took a while to convince Sarah. But I had to know. I had to know what he was up to. I had to know what had happened to Diego and Purdy--and the money." Pike turned away for a moment. "Now we're in it up to our necks"--he looked back and now his old eyes were hard--"and I wouldn't have it any

other way. I wish to God Sarah weren't here, but she won't let me send her away, so now we're all in it... to whatever the end

will be."

Hopalong Cassidy looked long and hard at the man, then shook his head and clapped him on the shoulder. "Well, I'm glad you told me. I'll get that sleep now. You wake me up in two hours. I hope," he added, "that Rig hasn't gone and jumped that Box T outfit by himself!"

Hopalong dropped to his blankets and was asleep as soon as he touched them.

Pike Towne looked over at his wife and their eyes met across the fire. "There," the big man said reverently, "is a man to ride the river with! He's one to tie to!"

Hopalong opened his eyes when Pike touched his shoulders and instantly got out of bed. As he pulled on his boots, his mind was already functioning. Rig was the first thing for even if a holdup was planned, they had no way of knowing its time.

"No sign of Taylor?" he asked quickly.

Pike turned from the fire. "No," he said, "but this came. It was thrown into camp by a stone. Whoever threw it didn't want to be seen and got away very fast. We didn't see it thrown, but it fell right near where Sarah had been workin', so it couldn't have been there more'n a few minutes."

It was a piece of coarse brown wrapping paper and written on it were these words:

TAGGART PAYROLL TO BE STOLEN. HOLDUP GANG TO HOLE UP IN SIPAPU OVERNIGHT. SHOULD HIT THERE ABOUT FIVE THIS EVENING. FOUR MEN. IF YOU RIDE WITHIN THE NEXT COUPLE OF HOURS YOU CAN STOP THEM AND THERE SHOULD BE A REWARD.

There was no signature. Hopalong studied the writing and the paper with care, then finally folded the note and put it in his pocket. "What'd you think?" he inquired, looking up at Pike.

Towne shifted uneasily and drew down his right eyebrow into a half frown. "We could do it," he said reluctantly. "We could make Sipapu, an' the two of us might take those boys over. If we were lucky."

Cassidy agreed. "Well, there's a couple of things about this that don't look good to me. Whoever wrote this note could have written it to the mine boss and gotten the reward all for himself. Or he could have been waiting for these hombres and thrown down on them. But for some reason he wants us to do it." ' Pike's eyes glinted shrewdly. "An' both of us know those outlaws wouldn't quit. They'd fight."

"And somebody would get killed, maybe a lot of somebodies, including us." Cassidy put down his cup and shucked his guns, checking their loads as he habitually did before starting anywhere. "But suppose one member of the gang knew we were going to show up? Suppose he could fall behind? Then, if they were wiped out, he would have all the money to himself."

Pike came to his feet. "You mean Fan Harlan cooked this up? Is that it?"

Hopalong shrugged. "How can we know? But remember,

the last time the gang was wiped out, he ended with all the money. Why wouldn't he try it again?"

Pike turned and paced the ground. "That skunk!" he said. "That dirty, lyin'..." He spun around. "Are we goin' to let this happen?"

Hopalong chuckled and leaned back, smiling a little. "Pike," he said, "we're not going to have to let it happen. It's too late now to stop the actual holdup. We couldn't reach the scene of the crime until after it was over. We aren't going to ride into any shooting match with those outlaws, either.

"Unless we're guessing wrong, Harlan planned this to get the money for himself. That means he has to have it in his possession. It also means that he cannot be with the outlaws when they reach Sipapu. My bet is that he'll take the money himself, cross the Picket Fork at the stage road bridge, and head for home."

"So what is it we're going to do?" Pike asked Hopalong.

Hopalong Cassidy got up and went to his horse. "Figure it out on the way. We won't be in the area in time to do anything if we don't get going!"

Over on Dead Horse Pass, that seasoned old fighter Tom Burnside did not look upon his job as a sinecure. He felt he was on the pass for a serious purpose and he took it seriously. Every day he was in position well before time for the stage and mounted to a platform built high in a tree. From there he surveyed the country in every direction through a pair of ancient field glasses.

This platform was known to none but himself, and concealed by the foliage of the tree, it had never been discovered. From this lookout he carefully studied the terrain and every possible place for a holdup. On days when there was no treasure on the stage, he rode around the country, and as a matter of fact, he knew of the old wash as well as Tredway did, recognizing its usefulness to outlaws.

Tredway had visited the place and so had Bill Saxx, and he found their tracks there, although he had no idea to whom they belonged. Sure that he was barking up the right tree, Tom Burn-side kept careful watch on the place, and about an hour before time he saw a small party of horsemen come from the bed of the Picket Fork, ride up the bank, and vanish in the direction of the junction of the Picket Fork with Chimney Creek. Burnside was well aware that the old wash ended at the same place, so was not surprised when the riders did not again appear.

Descending from his tree, he rode down the mountain to the foot of the pass, and then down the stage road to the bridge. Turning, he followed up the Picket Fork, and just beyond the intersection of the two streams, he found the mouth of the old wash. Five riders had recently entered there. Convinced of his Tightness, he paused to consider his next step.

To ride up the wash would be foolhardy, and he was too wily an old campaigner to do such a thing. It was too late to attempt to ride for help, and he had no right to take any step until a crime was either begun, carried out, or strongly indicated.

If the men donned masks, then he would be free to open fire. Finally, he decided to do the one thing left for him to do. He rode to the Chimney Creek bridge, walked his horse across it so as to make no more noise than necessary, and then he found himself a good spot of concealment in the patch of woods with a good field of fire. He prepared a rest for himself in the crotch of a tree and laid out several cartridges for his long-barreled Sharps .50 buffalo gun. Then he lit his pipe and settled down to wait. He felt good, better than in months. He would show the Taggart outfit they were not wasting money!

Meanwhile Hopalong had arrived at a plan. Unable to prevent the holdup because of the distance, he realized the outlaw gang itself was relatively unimportant. It was the leader he wanted, both for his own purposes and to frustrate his lawbreak-ing. And that leader would not want to be present when the battle began between the outlaws and the Cassidy outfit.

Pike Towne was to ride at once for the ghost town of Sipapu, and when the outlaws arrived, he was to survey the scene and note all that went on. Cassidy, meanwhile, would try to intersect the trail of anyone leaving the outlaw group. The note could have been sent by any of the outlaws, or by Tredway himself.

They were well on their way to their various destinations before the stage rolled through Dead Horse Pass, thundered

across the Picket Fork, raced at top speed across the planks of Chimney Creek bridge, and started through the woods. Tom Burnside got to his feet, knocked out his pipe, and stretched. He was in no hurry. There was plenty of time.

The stage rattled down the road toward the wash, and suddenly riders boiled up as if from the ground. There was a shot, and the messenger rolled from the top of the stage and hit the ground. The driver reached high and at the command from a masked man picked up the reins to restrain the excited horses. "Throw down the box!" The masked man's voice carried through the clear air to where Tom Burnside stood with his empty pipe in his teeth. The old man lifted his Sharps, steadied it in the fork of the tree, and fired!

The heavy .50-caliber slug caught the nearest outlaw right under the shirt pocket, knocking him from the saddle, dead before he struck the ground. Burnside reloaded, and before the amazed outlaws knew what was hitting them, the Sharps bellowed again, and another man dropped. A horse went down at the third shot, and then the outlaws broke into a run.

Forgotten was the heavy box of gold, forgotten was everything but getting out of there. A heavy express packet of bills had already been thrown down, and Saxx had that stuffed into his off saddlebag. Racing their horses, they left the road, circled, and headed for Sipapu.

Vin Carter's face was white as death, but his eyes were bright. "Tipped off!" he yelled at Saxx. "They was tipped off!"

"Tipped off?" Saxx roared back. "It was that durned old buffalo-huntin' ex-deputy, Burnside!"

"Let's rush him!" Pres shouted.

Saxx glared at Pres. "Rush him? You rush him! That old coot would shoot your ears off! He didn't miss anything, did he? Got two men and a horse in three shots, and if that horse hadn't bobbed his head, you'd be dead now. You were lucky to grab that sorrel!"

They raced on away, and Tom Burnside mounted his own horse and rode up to the stage. There he helped load the gold box aboard and removed the masks from the two dead men. Both were Box T hands.

He exchanged a glance with the driver. "Better go on through," he said. "I'll catch up that extry horse and carry these two gents back into Kachina."

"They might come back!" the driver protested.

Burnside's eyes crinkled at the corners. "I don't reckon," he said grimly. "You git along now."

Bill Saxx rode hard for a short distance and then drew up. "Might as well save our horses," he said. "There won't be any pursuit now. Later there will be trouble."

"What'll the boss say?" Pres wondered.

Bill Saxx was thinking of the same thing, and his jaw set hard. "It don't make a durn what he says!" he flared. "Deke an' Windy are back there dead!"

"I'll kill that Burnside," Carter swore, "if it's the last thing

I ever do!"

"Lay off him," Saxx warned. "He wasn't foolin' an' he won't be. That old devil's rode with the curly wolves. He's bucked the

tiger an' heard the owl hoot. You won't get anything from him but a stomach full of lead!"

Bill Saxx was still stunned by the suddenness of the attack on their rear and he had not reached any definite conclusions about anything. What he wanted more than anything else was to put distance between himself and that stage. That they had shot the messenger, he knew, and that if discovered they would hang, he also knew. Two of their men had been killed and there would have been more had they tried to pick up the bodies. Box T men they were, and it would draw attention to the ranch, but they could always say those men had been fired sometime before.