Trouble Shooter (1974) (6 page)

You ever tackled a sixteen-hundred-pound longhorn at close quarters? How many men you usin?"

"One," Hopalong said, "besides myself. We'll handle it."

Carter snorted and spat. "Why, I was aimin' to take your scalp, but I'd be a fool to waste lead on a tinhorn that would tackle a job like that! You won't last a week!" He laughed. "Go to it. If you get a hundred head out of there, I'll eat my shirt an' yours, too!"

Hopalong chuckled. "I've got to get out more than that. I've got to get five hundred head out or no deal."

Vin Carter's eyes glinted. 'Teah? This I gotta see!"

"You will!" Hopalong was cheerful. He turned Topper to the north and followed out, riding along the tracks of the broad-tired wagon. Dust arose at each step the horse took. The Box T range was in bad shape. Very bad.

From Carter's attitude it was obvious that the Box T hands wanted no part of the forest of prickly pear and mesquite, and knowing such country, he could not find it in his heart to blame them. It was hell to work, and nobody knew that better than he.

The sun was high, and he mopped his brow and rode on, the salt of the sweat smarting his eyes. The sun reflected from the barren range as from a desert or salt bed. The mountains were close now, and the towering finger of Chimney Butte was plain to see. Soon he should be sighting Brushy Knoll. His eyes swung eastward then, toward the strange, high mesa that was Babylon Pastures. The mystery of the place intrigued him. The bridge was down, they had said, on the trail that led that way, and that trail was miles away to the east, but suppose there was

another way? A route that led to the vicinity of Brushy Knoll, where strange lights had been seen? What was it that was up there on the mesa to frighten a man like Tredway? What was up there that was strange?

The landscape began a change that was only subtle at first, for the grass grew gray and then turned to pale green. They were nearing the Picket Fork now, although it was still miles away. Already, however, its effects were being felt. A coyote appeared, then vanished into an arroyo. The land grew more rolling, and the shallow valleys were greener and the grass grew taller. Now, for the first time, he began to see cattle, but they were painfully few.

There might be more than one way for Cindy Blair to regain her ranch; Colonel Tredway might not be so secure as was generally imagined. He pushed on, and it was well past noon before he sighted the Picket Fork. He drew up on a long ridge, and standing in his stirrups, he searched the banks of the stream.

After a moment his eyes caught a faint trail of smoke, and he swung the white horse toward it. Pike Towne was on his feet to welcome him when Hopalong rode into camp. His wife turned and smiled at Hopalong.

"Glad to see you, Cameron!" Towne said. "I was afraid you might have had trouble in town."

"No trouble," Hopalong said, "but I'll have it with Vin Carter one of these days."

Towne nodded seriously. "Yeah, he's a cantankerous cuss. Somethin' eatin' on him all the time." He handed Hoppy a plate. "There's somebody else around here it would pay to keep your

eyes on. I spotted him in town the other day. His name is Tote Brown. Thin, stoop-shouldered hombre, never clean-shaved, an' always packin' a rifle. He's a back shooter.

"Up north," he added, "some cattlemen hired him to clean out nesters an' rustlers at so much a head. Nobody knows how many he got. I doubt if anybody around here knows him or even knows about him. He ain't talkative, an' he had to get out of that country before they hung him, so he ain't exactly anxious to have folks know who he is."

Hopalong had stopped, listening intently, his mind back with the mysterious marksman who had taken a shot at Rig Taylor. His own shot had spoiled the man's aim, and perhaps scratched him, but he had a mere glimpse of the killer. Yet this might be the man, and it was such a man who had left the dun horse hitched around the corner of the Chuck Wagon Restaurant, and his Winchester had been fixed with an especially fine sight. "I think I've seen him," Hopalong said. "Thanks for the

tip."

Towne nodded, speared a chunk of beef, and began to ladle beans to his plate. "This here," he added seriously, "is no country for a pilgrim. A man who expects to stay alive had better keep his eyes open. There's plenty of folks around here with secrets they want to keep, an' if they get an idea somebody is too curious, they'll shoot, an' shoot quick."

"Looked this country over yet?" Hopalong jerked his head toward the land beyond the Picket Fork.

"Thought I'd wait for you. There was plenty to do, anyway. I had to cut,a stock of wood for Sarah and rustle up some rocks

for a fireplace. From here, though, she looks mighty mean."

The beans were excellent and the steak was broiled just as he liked it, thick and juicy. He ate more than he had planned, listening to the talk between Pike Towne and his wife. That there was a strong bond of affection between them was obvious.

Shep had come up to Hopalong, and after sniffing inquisitively of his sleeve, he lay down beside him and rested his nose on his paws. Pike glanced at him and smiled. "Reckon Shep figures you are all right," he said. "He's mighty touchy about strangers as a rule."

"This afternoon," Hopalong said, "we'll scout a little. You go one way, I'll take another. Make an estimate of the cattle you see, but mostly I want to find a large open space well back into the pear forest. I want a place that's hard to find, with good grass, and water if possible."

Towne looked at him curiously. 'Teah," he said. "I think we can find a place like that. I hear there's clearings back in there that are hundreds of acres in extent. After we find it, what then?"

"We'll build a good-sized corral out here," Hopalong said, "but we'll also make a fair corral back in that clearing, mostly by working the limbs of the mesquite together. Probably we can find a place that will need only a little work to keep it safe so the cattle won't stray."

Towne chuckled. "I get it. You're figurin' to keep most of the cattle back inside so nobody will know how many you're gettin' out. Is that it?"

Cassidy nodded. "It seems to me," he said, "that a certain

hombre might let us get out, say, four hundred head or better. Then someone might run them off before we could begin to collect. I don't figure to let anybody know how we're fixed."

"Good idea." Towne started to speak, then said nothing further, but when he got up and wiped his hands on a handful of grass, he said, "I'll head off toward Chimney Butte. I figure that might be a good place to look."

"Go ahead," Hoppy said. "I'll work farther east."

Hopalong got to his feet and glanced at Sarah Towne. "Thanks," he said, smiling. "That was the best meal I've eaten in a long time. Pike sure found a good cook when he found you."

She flushed with pleasure. "Pike likes good food," she said. "He's a big eater, and I like that. It's no pleasure to cook for a man who picks over his food. He's like you--he never leaves anything on his plate."

Hopalong saddled Topper again and, putting the bit between his teeth, slipped the bridle over his ears. "It's a long time since you've been in the brush, Topper," he said, "but you'll get a taste of it today."

He went down the bank and waded the horse through the ten-foot-wide Picket Fork and up the opposite bank. The trees were thick, but he rode through them and found himself facing an impenetrable wall of brush. As he skirted it, searching for an opening, he studied the varieties he saw. Before him were thousands of acres of black chaparral, dense thickets of mingled mesquite, towering prickly pear, low-growing catclaw with its dangerous thorns that hook into the hooves of cattle or horses, and colima with its spines. Everything here had a thorn, long and dangerous, some of them poisonous, all of them needle--

pointed. Once within these close confines, there were no landmarks, nothing but a man's own trail to guide him.

Walls of jonco brush, all spines and ugly as sin, devil's head, and yucca; it was all here in a dense tangle. And under it moved a myriad of life-forms: rattlesnakes, javelinas, and many varieties of birds and lizards. It was a morass without water, a maze without plan, a trap that could grip and hold a man for days. Once lost, only chance could help a man escape. Even when fairly cool where there was a breeze, within the black chaparral the air was close and sweat streamed down your body, soaking your clothing. Thorns snagged at the clothes and skin. You jerked free from one thorn to be stabbed by another. Only heavy leather, hot as Hades, offered protection. This was exactly like the dreaded monte of Mexico and Texas.

Hopalong rode slowly along that thorny rampart, alert for any opening that might allow him to enter. Twice he believed he had found what he wanted, but each time it proved to be only a deviation in the wall of brush, and there was no entry. ' As he skirted the chaparral he thought of the problem that faced him. The wild cattle of the brush country had lost all domestication. They lived for the wilderness, and he had known of cases where, when removed from the brush, the cattle simply lay down and died, refusing to be driven despite torture and beating. And they were utterly savage, fighting anything that came into their path, possessed of the speed of a deer and the agility of a panther. He who has not encountered wild cattle in their native habitat can have no idea of their nature.

Now the wall bellied out before him, and swinging wide to skirt it, Hopalong suddenly saw a projecting corner of rock. Riding nearer, he found that a huge fault in the surface had thrust a rocky ledge from the earth on a steep incline. Beneath its shade the brush had not gathered, and it seemed to offer entry to the wall of brush. Topper went forward, his ears pricked with curiosity, and avoiding with dainty steps the reaching spines of the catclaw. Rounding the corner of the ledge, Hopalong saw a narrow avenue before him and he saw cow tracks, some of them amazingly large, along the earth and sand that formed the trail.

Carefully he pushed on, and the close, deadly air of the chaparral settled about him, confining and sticky with heat. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck and under his arms. Dust arose from beneath him and settled over his clothing. The reaching spines of the pear snagged at his clothing, only sliding off the stiff leather of his chaps.

Yet the trail continued. Once he had seen those tracks, Hop-along knew that he had found an entry to that backcountry of the bush. Somewhere far ahead he heard a steer lowing. It was a soft, distant, moaning sound. He moved steadily on, the walls of the chaparral so close that a lifted hand would be snagged by the spines. Overhead was a single strip of brassy sky. He halted, talking softly to Topper, and let the horse breathe a little, yet it was almost better to be moving. Once they entered a small clearing, about half an acre in area. Here they paused longer. There were cow tracks all about now, and here and there smaller alleyways led off into the brush waste.

Chimney Butte might as well have been a thousand miles away, for from here it could not be seen. He spotted a big steer, its huge horns all of five feet across. It lifted its head and stared

at him, but made no move to attack, merely snuffing suspiciously at the scent of horse and man.

It was well nigh impossible to estimate distance in the chaparral. The trail twisted and turned, and occasionally he had to double back and try again. Usually the tracks helped, but the rock wall of the upthrust had long since fallen behind. Then he began to encounter more and more clearings, small but grassy, and in many of them the grass was remarkably green. Because of the roots, very little rain that fell on this land ever ran off. Yet these clearings would grow fewer and fewer as time went on, and eventually there would be none at all. The brush would have covered every available foot of it. This brush was a thorny-handed monster, an octopus of the plains and desert country, never satiated while anything remained to be taken and to be bound in the clinging tentacles of its roots.

Suddenly Hopalong rode out into a huge clearing that must have been all of half a mile long and more than a quarter of a mile wide. Here at least thirty head of cattle were feeding or lying about on the grass. They got up and stared at him, and one bull came toward them, lowing deep in his chest and kicking dust over his back, his big head lowered, his eyes rolling. That bull, Hopalong reflected, must weigh all of twenty-two hundred and his head and sides were scarred by many battles.

Hopalong swung wide around him and, mopping sweat from his face, searched the opposite wall for a way out of the clearing. He found it, and then continued to search until he had located more cattle and more clearings. It was late afternoon before he started back. He had seen at least a hundred head of

cattle, and heard many more, and he doubted if he had more than touched the huge mass of the chaparral.

It was dark when he reached camp, and he rode toward the firelight, hot and weary. Pike was already in, seated on a fallen log with a tin cup of coffee. He grinned at Hopalong. "Got into it, I see. Find much?"

When Cassidy had told him of his day's venture into the brush, Pike nodded. "I reckon I saw about as many as you did. There's plenty of cattle in there, all right, and from the way they act, they haven't been bothered much. Notice any brands other than Box T?"

"No, not a one," Hopalong admitted, "but most of this stock has never been branded. How about you?"

"Same as you. No other brands." He hesitated, then reaching for the coffeepot, he said casually, "Found a place to hold our cows. Old corral back in there. The fence is all overgrown, but she was built tight. Now the brush has grown all through the posts and rails so it's that much tighter. It's big--big enough to hold a thousand head if necessary. I reckon somebody threw it up some years back. It was built about like you suggested, just pieced together wherever the brush wasn't tight enough to hold