Trouble Shooter (1974) (21 page)

After they had departed, Hopalong sat very still in the abandoned building and considered what he had overheard. The answer was no puzzle to him, for the logical way to avoid payment was to send his riders out to move the cattle to some hideout that would not be known to Cassidy or his friends. Then, even if freed, they would fail to deliver and lose all claim to any money from Tredway.

By the way in which Tredway left, he was about to get things rolling to do just that, and Hopalong dared not leave. He coiild hear someone working behind the adjoining building, so escape that way was impossible. And the front opened on the street, where there were at least a dozen people within a hundred yards.

There was only one solution. He would wait and carry on as he had started. He would gain access to the hotel, and once inside, he would have a look for the hidden evidence. If he found it, then he would move against Tredway's men. There was nothing to do but sit and await darkness.

The hours dragged by, but finally dusk began to gather in the street. Anxiously he tried to calculate the time required to

ride to the hidden corral in the pear forest. There was every chance they did not know where it was despite Tredway's previous knowledge of the vicinity, and they would lose time searching. Yet there were enough tracks if they could find them--but they could not see them at night! That was his best chance.

He dozed, and finally slept. He awakened with a start to find it completely dark. There were no lights in the hotel, none down the street except in one distant cabin and the lantern kept burning over the livery-stable door. Stiff from sleeping in his awkward position, Hopalong got to his feet and eased the bone-handled guns to an easier position on his hips. He moved to the door. A hinge creaked slightly, and then he was in the deep shadow of the doorway.

The street was empty. Down in front of the Elk Horn was a black spot that might be a sleeping dog. There was nothing else. For several minutes Hopalong studied the building fronts, their deepest shadows, their windows and doors. He detected no movement. It would do nothing but harm to be seen now and arrested. In jail he would be helpless. Thankful for his dark clothing, he moved from the shadows and crossed the street.

He did not run, knowing how a moving and especially a swiftly moving object draws the eye. When he was under the awning in front of the hotel, he paused again. The lobby was dark and empty. A light burned over the desk on which there was a bell to ring for the night clerk. He eased open the door and stepped in.

Swiftly Hopalong moved behind the desk and squatted on his haunches, studying the floor. The space was no more than six by six and framed by the counter behind him, the desk, safe,

and pigeonholes for keys. On the floor there was nothing loose but the wastebasket. With a struck match he studied that floor with care, and found nothing.

The boards were even and smooth and dust filled all the cracks. Had he found one with less dust, he would have suspected it, but there was nothing here that offered a clue. He felt beneath the desk, under the safe, hoping the papers or whatever they were might be pasted to the bottom of one or the other, but he found nothing. He was about to give up when he saw something else. It was a break in the strip of molding that covered the crack where the floor and wall joined.

Kneeling, Hopalong inserted the point of his knife, and the piece lifted out easily. Below and behind it the crack had been widened with a sharp knife, and hanging to a nail was a string. Lifting it, Hopalong found at the end several long manila envelopes. Hastily he stuffed them inside his shirt and behind his belt. Then he straightened to his feet and stepped from behind the counter. As he did so he came face-to-face with Bill Saxx.

' The big blond man stared from Hopalong to the counter, his eyes suspicious. "What're you doin' back there?"

"Checking the register," Hopalong replied quietly.

'Yeah?" Saxx had his hands on his hips, and he stared hard at Hopalong. "Wonder what the marshal will think of that? He's huntin' you for that holdup."

Cassidy never moved his eyes from Saxx. He was in for trouble and he could see no way to avoid it, although right now trouble was the very last thing he wanted.

"Whatever you got back there," Saxx said coolly, "I want it. Hand it over."

Hopalong smiled easily. "Now, that's foolish talk," he said, "for if I got anything, it is something I want and intend to keep." Saxx swung from the hip, balling his fist as his hand shot out. The punch was hard and fast, thrown with all of his great strength. It was wrong only in one thing. It was a swing, and the straightest line is just that, a straight line, not a curved one. Hoppy's left leaped out in a stiff jab that caught Bill Saxx on the mouth and set him back on his heels. Instantly Hopalong stepped in and smashed a heavy right to the ribs and, rolling, hooked a hard left to the midsection. Hurt, Saxx staggered and hit the steps leading to the second floor. He came up with a lunge, swinging hard. Hopalong threw a right, missed, and the two men fell into a clinch. His left hand on Saxx's biceps, Hopalong caught the back of Saxx's right elbow and thrust his leg quickly behind the legs of the larger man and threw him to the floor. He hit with a thud that shook the building.

Furious, he lunged to his feet and hurled himself at Hopalong, who met him coming in with a smashing left. Saxx was a powerful man and he had been hurt, and suddenly all his innate viciousness came to the fore. Toe to toe they stood in the dim light of the lobby and slugged it out. Hopalong was lighter but faster, and he hit with the jarring force of a trip-hammer. Saxx took the punches coming in and smashed back, his heavy fists rocking Hopalong's head and jarring him clear to his heels. Slipping a wicked right, Hopalong smashed a left to the teeth, then whipped a right to the midsection and then slammed both hands to the head. Saxx ducked lower and bored in, but Hopalong uppercut hard and straightened him. Trying with a left for the face, Hopalong missed and fell into a right to the chin.

Lights seemed to explode, and the room spun. He felt himself falling, felt the smashing of blows to the head and body, and then he went down hard and rolled over. Hurt though he was, he knew he had to get to his feet, that on the floor he would be helpless before the boots of the big ranch foreman. Rolling over, Hopalong lunged to get up and moved just in time to miss the full force of Saxx's first kick. He went down again, however, and Saxx came after him. Helpless to rise fast enough, Hopalong rolled up to his shoulders, bracing his hips with both hands, and kicked out with both spurred heels. The first one raked Saxx across the face and the second ripped his shirt and drew blood on his arm. Saxx sprang back, cursing with pain, and Hopalong rolled over and came to his feet. Saxx charged, and Hopalong Cassidy met him with a left fist that loosened four front teeth. The foreman stopped in his tracks, and Hopalong whipped over a right that laid open the bigger man's face for three inches.

Shouts and inquiring yells rang out from all over the hotel and footsteps pounded on the hall floor upstairs. Hopalong was desperate. To be found here now meant arrest. He saw Bill Saxx boring in, his eyes ugly with pain and fury, and then Saxx swung hard with his left. Catching the blow on his forearm, Hopalong chopped wickedly at the Box T foreman's jaw. It was a short, vicious punch, and it hurt. Stopped in his tracks, half off balance, Saxx shook his head and started to lift his hands when Hopalong hit him, one-two on the chin. He went back, and Hopalong followed up with a looping, lifting bolo punch to the wind. With a grunt, Saxx folded and Hopalong uppercut hard with both hands. Footsteps sounded on the steps. Hopalong glanced once at the fallen man, then went through the door with a jump.

Disregarding the steps, he hit the street running, went between the buildings across the street, and gasping for breath, his lungs stabbing with pain, he raced for his horse. Behind him came yells and much loud talk. Slowly he eased his pace. His heart was pounding, his chest heaving. Somehow he had managed to grab up his hat, although he had no memory of it, and both guns were still in place. Glancing back, he saw no pursuit, and walked on, stones rolling under his boots occasionally. Sweat trickled into his eyes and they smarted with the salt.

His shirt was torn, his face bloody. His lip must have been split inside, for he could taste blood. He stopped once to mop the sweat from his face, and his breathing slowed down, his heart eased in its pounding. Evidently he had not been seen.

A few minutes later he had reached Topper and was in the saddle. He walked the horse back into the trees and, avoiding open places, moved over the ridge and to the lower ground beyond. It was a long ride to the camp on the Picket Fork, and he was suddenly very, very tired. He sagged in the saddle, his body moving with the easy rhythm of Topper's walking. His fingers strayed to his waistband. He still had the papers. If he swung wide of his trail, he could be at Burnside's before daybreak. It would increase the time taken to get to the camp, but no matter. These papers, whatever they were, should be in the hands of the old lawman. He turned Topper toward the ranch at Dead Horse Pass, then dozed in the saddle.

It was almost midafternoon before Hopalong neared the camp on the Picket Fork.

Almost at once he saw that the Box T hands had found the cattle. They were there, and with them several unknown Mexican riders. Vin Carter seemed to be in charge and they were moving the cattle out, gathering them on the south bank of the Picket Fork near the site of the old camp, ready to drive them on.

Alone, Hopalong rode from the timber. Vin Carter had gone back into the brush toward the drag end of the herd. Pres was the first to see him coming, and the cowhand cast one quick glance toward where Vin Carter had gone, then waited to meet Hopalong. Another Box T rider, Krug, had faced around also, and both men got down from their horses.

"Where you going with those cattle?" Hopalong demanded.

"Drivin' to the Box T," Pres said. "What did you expect?"

"You've no right to move them," Hopalong said. "They are our gather and will be moved when we're ready."

Pres shrugged insolently. 'That's your worry. My orders are to move 'em. If you don't like that, talk to Vin. He'll straighten you out. In fact," the cowhand added, "I can't think of anything he might like better."

Hopalong dismounted, keeping Topper between them. Then he walked around the horse. A glance had told him the Mexican riders were holding aloof, watching with interest, but apparently with no idea of interference. "If you move them," Hopalong said, "I'll want a tally."

Pres shrugged again. "Then make your own tally. We got no such orders."

"All right." Hopalong was agreeable. "I'll do it." He hooked his thumbs in his belt. "If I were in your shoes, I'd be doing some serious thinking. Tredway's through. He can't protect you any longer."

"Yeah?" Pres stared at Hopalong. "Where did you get the idea that I needed any protection?"

"Just telling you." Hopalong shrugged. "Burnside didn't stop when he killed two of your boys. He's on the trail of the outlaws and he's got a good lead. You're trailing with the wrong crowd, Pres."

Unknown to Hopalong, Vin Carter had come from the chaparral behind him. Sighting Cassidy, the Box T segundo narrowed his eyes with calculation. Swinging from his horse, he took his rifle and worked his way around behind Hopalong. His eyes glued to the broad shoulders of the silver-haired rider, he was giving no thought to any danger to himself. Separated from the herd and standing half-hidden in the brush was a big black steer that had previously given Hopalong trouble. He was one of three who had fought hardest against capture, and now free, he stood in the mesquite, glaring red-eyed at the man slipping through the brush. His head came down and he pawed at the leaves.

Carter heard the sound and hesitated, listening. Behind him the black steer moved with all the silence of the stalking wild creature it had become. With Cassidy not fifty yards from him, Carter lifted his rifle and drew a careful bead on Hopalong's

back. Nestling the rifle against his cheek, taking aim, Vin heard a faint rustle behind him. His head came around, and he glanced over his shoulder.

Whatever else he might be, Vin Carter was a cattleman, and no fool when it came to range stock. One glance at the big steer and he knew exactly how much danger he was facing. Yet in the crucial instant he froze, torn between the instinctive realization of his danger and his lust to kill Cassidy. And it was that hesitation which was to prove fatal.

The black steer weighed more than two thousand pounds and it was raw power, all mighty muscle and bone. The creature was scarcely ten yards from Vin Carter when the outlaw turned, and in that instant the big steer bunched his muscles and lunged, his great head of horns lowered.

With a cry, Vin swung his rifle and fired point-blank. Even had the bullet hit, nothing on earth could have stopped him, for the beast had every ounce of his strength gathered in this lunge at the hated man-thing that had driven him from his brushy stronghold, subjected him to the rope and the corral. Vin's rifle bellowed, and he tried to work the lever. One fleeting instant he jerked down on it and then the lowered head struck him.

He went flying back, his body striking a tree, then rebounding. The steer hooked low and hard, and Vin Carter screamed wildly as. the horn tore into him.

The shot and the scream had followed one on the other. Wheeling, Hopalong saw the steer goring the man; he ran three quick steps to the left, his hand lifting iron. The steer lunged toward the fallen man again and Hopalong fired!