Trouble Shooter (1974) (24 page)

Diving for the brush, he heard a second shot and hit the trees running, then skidded to a halt. The shots had come from his own side of the canyon, and from the rim. Leaving Topper, he slipped his rifle from the boot and started out, skirting the rim of the canyon, then swinging wide to encircle the unknown antagonist. Almost instantly a shot clipped leaves near his head and he hit the dirt on hands and knees.

His tactics had been surmised and the man was ready for him. Hoppy lay still, studying the situation. Unless the marksman had moved, he was not more than fifty yards away and in a cluster of rocks that formed a rugged natural tower on the canyon rim. And that place presented problems for an attacker.

Yet Hopalong moved forward at once, weaving back and forth in the brush. Once he picked up a rock and tossed it to one side, but it drew no answering fire.

He studied an open space that ran between the clumps of brush, an open space that had grass all of a foot high in it. The grass might have been a trifle higher, he decided. He looked down at his own clothes. They were now covered with dust and streaked with sweat. They would, he decided, fade into the grass and rocks very easily. Moreover, the open alley between the lines of brush could not be overlooked by the watcher. He could see along it but could not look down upon it. Hoppy decided to take the risk of advancing along that open space. The chances were that Us enemy would be searching the brush for movement and would not guess that Hopalong was approaching by the one place that seemingly offered no concealment at all.

Dropping to his stomach, Hopalong wormed his way out of the brush and headed toward the chimney of rocks. For an instant he lay still in a cold sweat. If he was seen here, he was cold turkey, and the worst of it was the man might wait until he was fairly close, deliberately letting him advance to his death.

Hopalong started forward, inching his way along the ground but keeping his head low. The man might be shrewd enough to watch that particular place, for any soldier or Indian fighter would know that it takes only a few inches of cover to hide a man if he lies still. And Hoppy was gambling that his movements would be slow enough to offer almost the same effect.

No sound came from the rocks. Hopalong's cheek was pressed to the earth to keep his head lower, and he tried to keep

his body in a logical place for a rock to lie if the watcher happened to look that way. Whoever the man was he had been left behind to prevent Hopalong's following the party, and Cassidy was confident that the hideout was someplace near, possibly even in the bottom of the canyon itself.

He inched on, waiting for a long time at each stopping point. Having the patience of an Indian, he knew that haste is more often death than otherwise under these circumstances. Once, where the grass grew taller, he turned his head and peered forward. He was right out in the open now, none of the taller brush was anywhere close to him, and the rocks were not many yards away.

He lowered his head and crept on, making for an outcropping of chaparral that stood between him and the rocks. When he made it, he found the brush concealed a pile of rocks, and he rested there, studying the tower before him. On his side it was sheer, rising at least twenty feet above the terrain, but even though it could not be scaled from this side, neither could it offer any good spot for observation. He had managed to work his way halfway around the tower so that he was well on the other side from where he had last drawn fire.

Worming his way on, he finally took a chance, braced his toes in the sod, and came up with a rush that carried him into the shadow of the tower. If he had been seen, there was no evidence of it from the watcher.

Yet that man knew Hopalong was down here somewhere, and as long as he was out of sight, the watcher would grow increasingly nervous. Hopalong worked his way through the

rocks around the tower toward the rim of the canyon. Hearing a slight noise, he froze in position, his Winchester at his hip. For an instant he stood still, then heard a second noise and at once he relaxed. Easing around a rock, he saw a small hollow, scarcely larger than a box stall, and there, cropping grass, was the bandit's horse, a fine-looking gray, dappled over the shoulders and hips.

Crossing the hollow with a low word to the horse, who merely looked curious and went back to cropping grass, Hopalong found himself looking up a notch in the rock. Yet almost as he glanced up the watcher above dropped into the crack and started scrambling down. Evidently he had no desire to wait and be trapped.

Drawing back, Hopalong waited. The man was Krug, and he came out of the crack almost at a trot. He was starting for his horse when Hopalong spoke. "Let go your gun belt, Krug."

The man's shoulders hunched as from a blow, and slowly he turned. Bitterly he glared at Hopalong. "I was a durned fool! Should have kept goin' when I had the chance!"

"That's right," Cassidy agreed. "Now drop your guns."

Reluctantly, but with careful hands, Krug unbuckled his belt and stepped back. "Believe it if you want to," he said, "but I was fixin' to slope. I'd been settin' up there watchin' for you, an' thinkin'. Then I saw you were out there, an' until I lost you, I figured to make a fight of it. All I wanted when I started for my horse was to get up an' get out."

"Sorry." Hopalong was stern. "You had your chance."

Turning the man around, Hopalong tied his hands, then

tripped him up and bound his feet, rolling him into the shade of a boulder. "What if you don't come back?" he pleaded. "Suppose they get you?"

Hopalong did not relent. "Then I'd say you were in a bad

spot."

He squatted on his haunches. "Where are they? You're going to be tried for that stage holdup, but if you tell me, I'll put in a good word. I can't do more than that now."

"Reckon you can't." Krug was silent. "They got that Blair girl. She rode right into us. I don't hold with that. She's a fine person, but I knew better than tryin' to reason with Saxx or Tredway." He was silent again. "I never been to the place. All I know is that a canyon branches off Chimney Creek a ways up. No water in it most of the time, but a mile or so up, there's a good spring an' a water hole. There's shelvin' cliffs all along there an' plenty of shelter. I think they mean to hole up there while decidin' what to do next."

An hour later Hopalong and Topper had reached the bottom of Chimney Creek Canyon and were slowly moving up the canyon. At this point it was no more than two hundred feet deep and could be climbed at almost any point by a man on foot. He glimpsed no trails that would allow a horse to travel. The tracks of the outlaws were only occasionally to be glimpsed, but there was now no way for them to escape from the canyon.

He eased up and let Topper drink from a small pool of water that had gathered in the shade of the slope. From here on he must proceed with the utmost caution, for the men he pursued could be waiting around any rock or turn in the narrow canyon. He shoved his hat back and wiped his forehead with his ban--

danna. As he looked at the slope above the pool he saw something strange.

A boot.

It was hanging over the edge of a large rock just thirty feet away and the way that the heel stuck out indicated that there was a foot in it!

Moving slowly so as not to betray his alarm, Hopalong dismounted and slipped the thongs off of his six-guns. His mind racing, he walked to the shallow place where the water had collected. There was no cover! The rock with the man on top of it was near, very near. No doubt if the ambusher had moved to peer over the rock edge, Hopalong would have seen him immediately; it ./as only his protruding foot that had offered a warning. If he continued on either up or down the canyon, it was certain that he would end up shot in the back; it was only the hidden man's unwillingness to take on a man who was approaching his position that had saved him so far.

Unable to think of a better plan, Hopalong took a deep breath and shucked one of his guns. "All right, Topper," he said clearly and loudly, "let's move on."

Then he whirled, and hit the slope running as fast as he could! Rocks and dirt slid as he scrambled up, his gun held in front of him in one hand, the other grasping at brush and boulders for handholds as he climbed. As he came up over the edge of the rock where the unseen man was bedded down, he knew that fast as he was he had climbed too slowly and made far too much noise. He thumbed back the hammer of his gun and braced himself to take a bullet.

The man lay sprawled on the rock ledge, facedown. He had

not moved. Hoppy straightened and stood over him, sucking deep breaths and trying to steady himself. The man he had thought was a hidden ambusher was already dead!

Torn brush and furrowed earth on the slope above showed that he had fallen while making his way down into the canyon. The angle of his neck to his shoulders was so extreme that it must have been broken when he hit the rock ledge. Hopalong holstered the gun and turned the man over. It was the man he had seen in Kachina, the man Pike had told him was Tote Brown. Dried blood on his jaw indicated that he had been dead for many hours, if not days.

Hopalong Cassidy sat on the edge of the rock looking down at Topper. He waited until his pulse had returned to normal before sliding back down to the pool, mounting his horse, and continuing his cautious way up the canyon.

He heard them before he saw them. It was a sound of voices and the sharp crack of a breaking stick. Looking hurriedly about him, he saw a gap in a mass of mountain mahogany that covered one area near the north wall of the canyon. Leading Topper back into the gap, he found a space some dozen feet across with a little grass and plenty of cover. Tying Topper, Hopalong switched his boots for a pair of moccasins he always carried, and taking his rifle and canteen, he slipped out and started up the canyon wall.

When he could overlook their camp, he saw at once that they had an almost impregnable position. The country above the canyon walls was wild and lonely, a region of jumbled boulders, scattered juniper, and that look an untrammeled country has. He was now, he could see, west of Brushy Knoll. Babylon Mesa

was behind him and ran off to the north, a towering wall of rock; this country was wild, uninhabited, and virtually unknown.

The canyon deepened and narrowed, and the walls grew steeper. If there was any way into that canyon but the way he had come, it was not visible, nor was there any indication of an entrance. Almost below him was the camp. He could smell the smoke, he could dimly hear the voices, but he could see nothing from where he lay. Below him there was the sound of running water and a freshness that comes only from the presence of water and vegetation.

As he lay there he began to plan, searching every corner of his mind for an idea. To face the lot of them would be useless and would only mean failure and death. Neither Tredway nor Saxx would hesitate to take a chance, and while he might get one of them, he would not get the other. And there were still three men down there, dangerous, hunted men, at least two of them killers.

He moved closer to the rim, listening. Voices came to him faintly at first, then clearer.

Cindy Blair was thoroughly frightened. She was courageous, used to the harshness of Western life; she understood her own situation better than most women could have. She knew the manner of men who held her prisoner, and knew none of them was to be trusted. If there was any hope, it lay in Pres, but he was the least forceful of the lot and the least likely to help her even if he wished. Krug had remained to kill Hopalong Cassidy. The fact that several shots had been heard disturbed the outlaws.

"Aw, he'll get him!" Saxx protested to Tredway. "He was probably just finishing Cassidy off."

Tredway's face seemed to have thinned down and grown more hawklike. His eyes were bitter and lighted by something else, something wild and dangerous. "Then where is he? One shot's all you need!" he snapped angrily. "I should have stayed there myself!"

Pres looked from one to the other. "What'll them Brothers do?" he asked cautiously.

Tredway advanced on him, his eyes vicious. "Do? What do you think they'll do? They'll come out of their holes like a pack of wolves, that's what! And make up your minds to this! If they get us now, it will be all of us, not just me!" "What did they want you for?" Saxx asked. "None of your business!" Tredway wheeled on him, half-crouched. "When I want questions from you, I'll ask for them!" Bill Saxx gave Tredway a cold, measuring glance. "That's no way to talk," he said calmly. "We're all in this together. I don't aim to take that kind of talk. I don't work for you any longer, an' I didn't spring you from the Brothers to start taking orders again."

The eyes of the two men held. That weird look in Tredway's eyes disturbed Saxx, but he did not show it. The men glared at each other, and then Pres spoke up. "Aw, forget it! Why start fightin' among ourselves? We got troubles enough!"

Tredway relaxed slowly, then shrugged. "That's right. Sorry, Bill."

Saxx watched him as he turned away, and he was puzzled. He had never seen Tredway flash a gun on anybody, although he had seen him shoot, and he was good. Very good. But right then he would have sworn the boss was a gunman. That quick turn, the poised right hand, the left... He scowled. That left hand had been across in front of Tredway, poised palm down.

It came to him suddenly. He had seen such a pose once before. The man using it had been a gun fanner.