The Hopalong Cassidy Novels 4-Book Bundle Page 13

  A double-rutted track pointed the way into the brush, and they followed, bending low in the saddle to stay under the branches and leaves. What they found then was a continuation of the cleft from which they had come, but this one started back into the mountain, trending southwest, while the former cleft had run due north and south and they had followed it going north. Yet before they had gone many yards the trail made an elbow and they started back, now riding northwest. The cleft widened suddenly into a high-walled canyon and on one side there was a mound of talus at the foot of the cliff.

  The grass thickened and there was brush, but by following the double-rutted bear track they traveled swiftly. Obviously an ancient, long-used trail, it wound around boulders and fallen logs but kept a fairly general direction. Twice they found fallen trees ripped open by bears hunting for grubs. Then suddenly the narrow canyon ended and they emerged in the open with a creek lying across their trail at least a half mile ahead.

  Side by side they started across it. Dick Jordan was not talking, but his face was grim as he sat his saddle. Once he permitted himself a faint grin.

  “I ain’t pullin’ leather, Hoppy, so keep movin’. Whoever won that scrap back there will be on our trail.”

  “This is the Turkeyfeather, the way I’ve got it figured,” Hoppy said, “an’ north of us is supposed to lay Iron Creek. We’ll head that way an’ try to follow it for a while. Then we cross some canyons an’ hit the Snow Creek trail somewhere beyond.”

  Dick Jordan glanced around, studying the sky shrewdly. “We got another reason to hurry,” he said quietly. “It’s goin’ to snow.”

  Hopalong felt a chill within him. All day he had felt it coming, but had hoped that he was mistaken. It was early for snow, yet they were very high here, and they must go yet higher in crossing the top of the Mogollons. All day he had been trying to convince himself that he was mistaken about that feeling in the air.

  He took the lead now and moved on rapidly across uneven, tree-dotted terrain. Then into a dark forest, out of it, and they were on the edge of Iron Creek. Fording the creek, they struck a dim trail. “This meets the Snow Creek trail,” he told them. “It will be faster goin’ now.”

  Now he was watching the back trail again, for he knew they would be pursued, and he was only uncertain as to when that pursuit would catch up. The trail was climbing now, and steadily. The sun that had greeted them shortly after daybreak had disappeared while they were following the trail through the cleft, and now the sky was a dull, even expanse of gray. A cool wind touched his cheek, and he scowled, suddenly worried.

  If a storm was coming, their situation could not be worse. They still had high mountains and a ride that would take them the better part of another day at least. As the crow flies it was probably less than thirty miles; by trail it was considerably farther, and with a crippled man—He pushed on, stopping only briefly at a spring on the hill near Iron Creek Mesa.

  Something touched his cheek, and he glanced up quickly. Snowflakes!

  His whole body seemed stilled by apprehension. They had more than thirty miles to go without heavy coats over a high mountain pass in the face of a snowstorm. And neither food nor shelter anywhere along the trail!

  Chapter 10

  APACHE BAIT HITS CIRCLE J

  * * *

  The fight in the basin had not ended quickly, but had dragged on indecisively until the Apaches abandoned the field. Just when this took place Avery Sparr did not know. There had been eight Apaches alive when the fighting started and Sparr had nine men including himself. However, Sparr did not know the number of Indians he faced, and he fought, after a fast start, with considerable caution. Sparr had killed the first Indian he had seen, but in almost the same instant had lost Jake Lydon.

  Hopalong’s stratagem was apparent at once. The mystery of the unused fire was explained, and Sparr guessed correctly that a trail had been laid out by Cassidy to lead the Apaches toward him. Knowing that while they fought, Hopalong was making his getaway in safety, Sparr was furious. Outgeneraled, he nevertheless settled down to whipping the Apaches, and finally succeeded. At least three more Indians had gone down, but he had two wounded men of his own.

  It was then that he showed his own generalship. “Tony,” he said, turning to Cuyas, who had suffered a flesh wound, “take Hank an’ start back. Push your horses, kill ’em if necessary, but get to the Circle J an’ to Soper. Tell him to rush men to Alma to head off Cassidy an’ the Jordans. By usin’ relays of horses from the ranches along the way they can make it.

  “When they get to Alma they can get more men there from Moralles, an’ make a quick check to see if Hopalong’s got to town. If he hasn’t, cover every trail out of the mountains, but concentrate on Deep River an’ the Silver Creek trail. I don’t think he could get to the last, but he might, so take no chances. Tell him to get all three—no nonsense. Get rid of ’em! The men doin’ the actual killin’ get a hundred extra each, an’ five hundred for Cassidy.”

  “Five hundred?” Tony Cuyas grinned. “I’ll go myself, amigo!”

  “What if they’ve got to Alma?” Hank Lydon demanded.

  Avery Sparr scowled. “Then get ’em! Get ’em out of town! Do it smooth an’ quiet, but get ’em—and then get rid of them where they won’t be found.”

  When they had gone, Sparr stood for an instant in thought, then turned to his men. “All right, scatter out and find their trail. I’ll give twenty dollars on the spot to the man who finds it!”

  He stared up at the bleak sky and swore irritably. It would be tough to get caught in the mountains now, and every mile was a mile of added danger. If it started to snow—Suddenly his eyes glinted.

  Snow! What a break that would be! Caught in those high mountains in a snowstorm, Cassidy would never get through. Why, it would be spring before they could be found, and even if they found a place to hole up, they would certainly starve if they did not freeze. Such a solution would solve all his problems and be infinitely the best thing. Yet, even if there was no snow, the chances were fifty-fifty that his men would beat them to Alma. The distance was all of twice as great, but the trails were good and there were fast horses at the ranches the outlaws had been using. Cassidy would be burdened by a rapidly failing crippled man and a girl.

  Suppose they did make it? Suppose they got to the law? The deputy sheriff at Alma right now was notoriously inefficient. He would act slowly, and Sparr could always deny their stories and say that Jordan had been affected by his fall and was no longer right mentally. Pamela, he could say, was merely hysterical. Yet while some might believe him, many would not. While with Soper’s help he might brazen it out, there was a risk in that which he did not choose to take.

  The Piute was coming up the trail. He halted when he saw Sparr and lifted a hand. “Got trail,” he said shortly. “You come?”

  Sparr’s long halloo brought instant response from the other riders, and they closed in around him swiftly. Avery Sparr halted at the cleft and looked into the deep shadows without enthusiasm. “A good place to die,” he thought aloud, “if he wants to chance it.”

  “Not him.” Proctor was positive. “He won’t gamble on it with that old man on his hands, an’ in this weather. He’ll head for Alma fast as he can roll.”

  “That’s probably right,” Sparr agreed, “but we’ll go slow.”

  Despite the tracks left by Hopalong, Sparr and his men were even longer finding the hidden trail from the bowl than Hopalong had been, and by the time they reached the crossing of Iron Creek snow was falling fast and hard. For the last few miles his men had been looking at him expectantly, and at last Avery Sparr conceded that to push on farther was to take an unnecessary risk. It was time now to go back. If they went farther they might be caught in the same snowy trap he was wishing for Hopalong and the Jordans.

  Now it was up to the men from Alma and the snow.

  “We’ll go back,” he said. “I think they are high in the peaks now.”

  “If they are,” Ed Framson s
aid, “they’ll never get through! Drifts will be over all the trails within another hour or so. They are just far enough along to get trapped.”

  Leven Proctor stared at the peaks, gloomy now and black against the dull gray sky. A little chill went through him as he thought of the three riding into those icy peaks—a crippled man, rapidly tiring, a young girl, and Hopalong. Remembering Hopalong Cassidy’s cold blue eyes, he was not so sure.

  “If any man alive can get through,” he said, “that gun slick will do it.”

  Sparr nodded.

  “He’s tough,” he conceded. “One of the toughest.”

  Proctor stared uncomfortably at the peaks. What had happened to him, anyway? How did it happen that he, a top hand in any man’s outfit, was riding with such men as these? He looked around him unhappily. The memory of the girl and her father stayed with him. For Hopalong he was not concerned. He was a tough man in a tough game, and he knew what his chances were. But old men and girls? Leven Proctor suddenly realized that he was not the sort of man he had hoped to be. Money was all right. Escaping the brutal work of roundups and line riding was all right, but he had never intended to go so far as this.

  * * *

  Mesquite Jenkins and Johnny Nelson rode down the trail to the Circle J almost without interruption. Yet they had fortunately missed the trail with the guarded crossing and found the Indian Creek crossing. They came up to the ranch and halted in the edge of the timber. Nothing could have been more peaceful. A half-dozen horses lazed in the corral, the warm sunshine gleaming on their polished bodies. No one moved about the place, although a slow trickle of smoke drifted skyward from the ranch-house kitchen.

  Mesquite started his horse, and the two rode quietly down the trail to the house. They were drawing up before the step when Soper spoke. Until that instant neither man had seen him. “How do you do, gentlemen? Have you had breakfast?”

  Mesquite strained his eyes to see into the shadowed porch after facing the bright glare of the sun. He was glad that the speaker, whoever he was, was not shooting. “We had coffee,” he admitted, “but we could sure eat.”

  Soper stepped out on the porch, neat in his gray suit, his smile pleasant. “Get down, then! Get down! Glad to have company.”

  He gestured toward the bunkhouse.

  “Most of the hands are gone, and so are the others. Will you come in?”

  Soper’s eyes measured them quickly. He knew of the death of Bizco, and immediately placed Mesquite as the killer. It seemed impossible that this young cowhand could be so fast. Yet when Mesquite drew nearer and he looked into those icy eyes and that cold face he felt a momentary chill—a chill that removed all doubts. Johnny Nelson, he guessed, was merely a happy-go-lucky cowhand.

  The Mexican woman entered at Soper’s call and began putting food on the table. Several times Johnny surprised her looking at them with interest, and her eyes, when they went to Soper, held something else. Could it be fear? Nelson shrugged. It was scarcely likely, for no more agreeable sort could be found than Soper.

  “Where’s Dick Jordan?” Mesquite demanded suddenly. The question was sharply asked, and it almost caught Soper off balance, yet suddenly he perceived that a time had come for change.

  “Dick Jordan left,” he said, “with his daughter and a man called Cassidy. They got away, and Avery Sparr is chasing them.”

  The two exchanged glances, and Mesquite lifted his coffee cup, his mind working swiftly. Who and what was Soper? He seemed friendly, yet Mesquite was a young man more than usually gifted with suspicion. Yet if he was not friendly, why tell them what he just had?

  Soper continued to talk. “There’s been a bad situation here,” he said gravely, “and personally I know very little about it. Most of my duties have been away from the ranch, handling business with this venture and others in which Mr. Jordan was concerned. He has, you know, some mining interests also.”

  Jenkins did not know, but he was listening and willing to learn. In the meantime, the food was good, and he was hungry. Johnny Nelson was devoting himself to the food, but his eyes and ears were busy. Above all, the Mexican woman interested him. She would, of course, be a holdover from the old days on the Circle J. She would know all that had happened, and if she would talk, and had a chance to talk, she might explain a lot of things.

  The thing was to get the chance to talk to her alone and, moreover, to win her confidence. That she was curious about them, Nelson was aware, and she had seen the brands on their horses.

  “I’m afraid,” Soper suggested carefully and gravely, “that Avery Sparr has exceeded himself. I rarely saw Mr. Jordan or his daughter unless he was present, and many orders were relayed to me through him, but some of the orders have appeared—well, unlikely, to say the least.”

  While they ate, several riders had drifted in from outlying parts of the ranch, and Johnny had seen them studying the two horses and looking toward the ranch. Among them was a lean, buck-toothed man who walked around them very slowly, glanced at the house, then disappeared in the direction of the bunkhouse.

  “I don’t,” Soper continued, “even know much about the events here. I know that Cassidy seemed to feel that Mr. Jordan and Pamela were held against their will, and he got them away. From Sparr’s actions I would surmise that he was correct, for Avery Sparr went off in pursuit, taking some of the toughest hands with him.”

  Arnold Soper was thinking as he talked, but he was thinking far ahead of his speech. Avery Sparr might catch Hopalong Cassidy, and if he did, somebody would be killed. If it was Cassidy, then Sparr would return at once to the ranch; if it was Sparr, then Soper would appear as a friend and nothing could be proved to the contrary—at least, he added, not easily. The Jordans might not know anything themselves. Or, he corrected himself, remembering Pamela, not much.

  In Mesquite and Johnny Nelson he saw two men who could be used to destroy Avery Sparr, and with Sparr out of the way, all would be well. Of course it would be much better if the Jordans were removed, but by this time Sparr might have accomplished that. Knowing the ruthlessness of Sparr when aroused, Soper was quite sure that he would succeed. Soper hoped he would—and get killed in the process.

  If he did not, there were possible tools of his defeat here in these two men. “No need for you two to push on,” he suggested. “There would be no chance to catch up to Cassidy now. Not in time, anyway. If Sparr catches him, or even if he fails, he will have to come back here. The way I see it, we’re going to have snow, and when it comes all the passes will be blocked. Sparr will never keep on into the mountains then; it would be sheer suicide.”

  “You think Hoppy was tryin’ for Alma?” Mesquite inquired.

  “Certain of it. There is no other place to go. Alma has some law-abiding citizens, and of course some that are not. Still, if he got to Alma with Dick Jordan and Pamela, they have friends there, and they would all be safe.”

  “If I know Hoppy,” Johnny said, “he won’t be looking for safety! He’ll be huntin’ Avery Sparr!”

  “That’s him, all right,” Mesquite agreed, “an’ he’ll not rest until he smokes out every one of this gang.”

  “You have a lot of faith in him,” Soper suggested. Mesquite’s words had brought a little chill of uneasiness to him. But why be foolish? Hopalong Cassidy was just a cowhand who happened to be handy with a gun. “Sparr may be the better man.”

  “I’ve heard of Sparr,” Johnny admitted, “but I’ve yet to see the man who could stack up against Hopalong.” He refilled his cup. “Who’s in this with Sparr? Was he the only one?”

  “Bizco was killed at Horse Springs the other night.” Soper turned his eyes toward Mesquite. “By you, I believe.”

  “Uh-huh. I heard that was his name. What about the others?”

  “Well”—Soper was cautious—“Cassidy killed Barker, but there is another one, Anse Mowry. He is totally vicious, and a man named Proctor. Then Mark Connor, the bartender in Horse Springs, is an old friend of Sparr. Most of the men with him would leave in
a hurry if anything happened to Avery Sparr. He’s the ringleader.”

  “How come you got along with him?” Johnny asked casually.

  Soper waved a hand. “He needed me, and I believed I might help the Jordans. I did not understand the situation here, but I knew they derived some comfort from my presence. So I stayed on. Also”—he made the remark very casual—“I have interests here myself.”

  “Another partner?” Mesquite asked.

  Soper looked quickly at the cowhand. Had there been any sarcasm in that remark? But Mesquite was eating quietly and scarcely seemed to have noticed. “Not exactly,” Soper said carefully, “but I have interests. I had been doing some selling for the ranch and some buying for myself. I have cattle on this range, under my brand.”

  “Which is?”

  “The Circle S.”

  Soper’s reply was low-voiced, as he did not want the Mexican woman to hear. And he did not think it necessary to add that Sparr believed that the Circle S was his brand, but had entrusted the registration of the brand to Soper, who had filed it in his own name, having his own plans. Every head of stock that Sparr’s men branded was branded for Arnold Soper.

  “I figured that was Sparr’s brand,” Johnny said.

  “He has no brand. He talked some of filing one, but never did. I think he was mainly interested in stealing stock from Jordan. Some of the men working with him are notorious rustlers.”

  As Soper sat there, he knew that every word he said would make his life less secure if Sparr was not killed soon. Yet he knew that Cassidy had precipitated the whole situation to such an extent that he must follow through now or not at all. There was every chance that Sparr would catch the Jordans, or they would be killed in the mountains. Hopalong might be killed and might not, but whatever happened, he must be prepared. The return of Avery Sparr must be met with these men, these two who faced him.

  “Avery Sparr,” he began carefully, “is a dangerous man. The longer he lives the more we all are in danger. He hates Cassidy, and if he catches him will kill or be killed. He will not”—he spoke the words in a flat, cold, emphatic voice—“leave the trail until Cassidy is dead. Therefore, if Avery Sparr rides into this ranch yard, you can take it from me that Hopalong Cassidy is finished.”