the Riders Of High Rock (1993) Read online

  Rounding the Point, they faced the wide expanse of Long Valley. At this point it looked to be all of nine or ten miles to the far side--not arf easy distance for three men to cover and keep in touch with each other. The only possible way was to ride diagonally across the valley, and when upon the other side to cut back, checking all water holes and any tracks they encountered.

  Hours later Red Connors joined Hopalong at a butte in the valley's center. "Gamble's comin' up," he said. "We didn't find a thing."

  "No luck for me, either." Hopalong rubbed his jaw. "Our best bet's right ahead, at Pinto Springs. There's water there, enough for a herd. I've seen some cattle tracks headed that way, too. Mostly strays, I guess."

  "It's bad," Gamble explained, worried. "The springs lie close to a butte, but they can't be seen from this direction until we are mighty close. I don't like it even a little."

  "Yes, I see what you mean. If they have a man atop that butte or the long mesa this side of there, he could have been watching us for the last hour or so, if he had a glass."

  Red squinted at the towering buttes before them. The air danced with heat waves, and he mopped his face, then pulled his hat low to enable him to see clearer. The two buttes rose high above the level of the plain. "A man with a rifle up there could sure make it mean for us," he agreed. "You got any water left, Hoppy?"

  "I filled up at the last water hole. I've still got about two thirds of a canteen."

  "Mine's nearly empty," Gamble said ruefully. "There wasn't anything but alkali over where I was. How about you, Red?"

  "About half," he said grimly. "A man with a rifle could hold us off, keep us away from that water hole for a long time."

  "He'll have to fight if he does!" Hopalong replied shortly. "Let's go!"

  They rode on, accompanied by a little dust cloud of their own making. More and more Hopalong was sure that wherever the missing herd had been taken, it had not been to this valley. At least, not to remain here. Grass was scarce and water scarcer, and while in a wetter year this might be and probably was good grazing land, it was far from that now. A few cattle might eke out a precarious existence, but no large herd would do so. Yet if the herd had come through Long Valley's lower end, Pinto Springs would be the most likely spot to water.

  They rounded a corner of the butte and suddenly Red yelled, "Look out!"

  Swinging his horse to the left as he did so, Hopalong got a fleeting glimpse of sunlight on a rifle barrel and then something whipped by his head, and an instant later he heard the bark of the rifle. Racing for the rocks, Hopalong kept going straight ahead. He knew that he would soon be so close to the butte that any rifleman atop it would have to rise from concealment to get him in his sights, and unless he was badly mistaken, that would be the end of things for him.

  The rifle bellowed again, the shot coming from high up on the butte, but now Hopalong was closer and racing for the water hole. Off to one side Joe Gamble had swung behind a low hill and Red had vanished in the rocks. There was another shot and Red's rifle spoke from behind him, and then Cassidy was in the shadow of the butte. A volley of shots rang out ahead of him, and his palouse stumbled and went headlong, throwing Hopalong to the ground!

  Even as he hit, a shot struck near him, and Hoppy continued to roll until he lay flat against the side of a boulder. Bitterly he stared back at the palouse, fearing the horse was dead. But after a moment the horse started to get up, and he saw a red streak along the animal's neck. Evidently the bullet had stung the horse and it had made a misstep. Another bullet spanged against the rock where he lay, and another ricocheted near him. Helpless to return the fire, he lay still.

  His rifle was in the scabbard on the palouse, who had struggled erect and walked off, stopping in the shade of some rocks where some bunch grass remained green. The horse was about thirty yards off, but an immeasurable distance when faced with the thought of an expert marksman less than two hundred yards away.

  The sun was blazing down and Hopalong studied the terrain with a thoughtful eye. The boulder behind which he lay

  was only barely high enough to offer cover for him, and the position could easily be rendered impossible if one of the riflemen should work his way to the left, for then Hopalong would be within sight and it would be only one more shot and Hopalong would be out of the picture, and for good.

  He winked the trickling sweat from his eyes and turned his head carefully to the left. The nearest cover in that direction was the boulder where the palouse was sheltered--a veritable nest of rocks and brush where a dozen men might easily conceal themselves--yet that thirty yards of interval was almost certain suicide. On the other side the rocks were small and scattered, but not twenty yards away there was a shallow depression.

  Hesitating, Hopalong decided that he must take a chance. Unquestionably, the riflemen who were sniping at them would realize that he could be outflanked, and if he was to move, it must be now. Gun in hand, he squirmed along the sand and managed to move to the next rock. Here he had no more than an inch of clearance above his head. A bullet splintered the rock and tugged at his sombrero. Gathering himself, he lunged in a crouching run for three steps, then dived. He landed in a cloud of sand and dust, bullets raining around him.

  Grimly he checked his position and found himself scarcely better off, but the shallow place was much closer now. From between two rocks he studied the situation where the riflemen were concealed. Suddenly a boot heel showed. Under no misapprehensions as to the range of his pistol, he knew it could easily carry that far, even though it was of uncertain accuracy at the range. Holding the Colt high, he fired. Sand splashed inches short, but the rustler jerked his foot back.

  Behind him Red's rifle bellowed and a man cried out. Then the yell died away into a burst of sullen cursing. Red fired again

  and the curses ended in a yelp of surprise and fury. Hopalong crawled along the sand, made the shallow place, and rolled into it. Here he was safe from rifle fire, and he checked his Colts, thumbing shells into the one fired.

  Carefully he took stock of his position. Red was still shooting, so he was all right. But there had been no sign of life from Joe Gamble, and he might have been injured. On the other hand, he might be just scouting for a good position.

  The rustlers were apparently gathered in a cluster of rocks at the foot of the four-hundred-foot cliffs to the butte. There were ways up those cliffs, for here and there were steep or completely vertical chimneys that seemed to offer access to the top, but these would be in direct line of fire from Red. Somewhere behind those rocks, and probably around the turn of the butte, would be the outlaws' horses. Getting to his feet, Hopalong started moving swiftly down the shallow place in which he now found himself.

  This depression was evidently an old wash that somehow had been closed off to water and gradually filled in by windblown sand mingled with drift and fallen rock. It ran past the butte pointing down the valley, but at one place it seemed to come within a few yards of the butte's shoulder. If he could get there without being noticed, Hopalong Cassidy would then find himself behind the attackers and probably in the vicinity of their horses.

  Moving swiftly, and listening to the methodical boom of Red's rifle, Hopalong followed the filled-in draw, safe from either observation or fire. It took him all of fifteen minutes to reach his goal, and as he neared it he slowed his pace. Mopping sweat from his face, he listened attentively for any sound, but there was nothing. Peering through a clump of grease-wood, he studied the lay of the land.

  Here, as elsewhere, the foot of the cliff was piled with slabs of broken rock, yet there was no sign of the horses or of any tracks here. In a quick dash Hopalong made the shelter of the cliff and stopped to catch his breath. The boom of Red's rifle and the occasional rattle of the outlaws' guns sounded faintly here, partly cut off by the shoulder of the butte. Now Hopalong moved forward, holding close against the cliff and so avoiding the worst of the rocks. He had been climbing slightly and was now probably above the outlaws, but still there was
no sign of their horses.

  Suddenly, below him and some distance ahead, he saw a man dash from a cluster of rocks and dart towards him. Instantly Hopalong grabbed his gun and fired from the hip. The bullet caught the man in the knee evidently, for his leg buckled under him and he fell, plunging face downward in the sand, his rifle sliding ahead of him.

  Wildly he grabbed for the gun but Hopalong put a bullet in the sand almost at his fingertips. The man jerked back his hand as if stung.

  "You can get hurt," Cassidy commented dryly. "Better toss your pistols down there with your rifle, and don't try anything funny. You're out of this fight now, if you play it smart."

  The man looked up at Hopalong, his swarthy face dark with fury. "You'll get killed," he promised. "They got too many for you."

  Hopalong shrugged. "Toss your guns down here," he said, "and let me worry about getting killed. If we have to start a Boot Hill here, don't let yours be the first grave."

  Sullenly the man unbuckled his belt and tossed his guns down beside his rifle. "My leg's busted," he said then. "You sure nailed me." His eyes rolled off to his right, and Hopalong

  was instantly all attention. He was aware that all firing had ceased. That this was due to his own shots he did not doubt. Both Red Connors and the outlaws would be in doubt as to what course to adopt.

  The outlaws made up their minds first. . . .

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  c (0Ic/uick movement showed among the rocks, and a bullet spattered stone near Hoppy's face. He fired instantly, and the outlaw ducked with an oath. Hopalong fired again, then backed up, dropped to all fours, and scrambled for the gun belts and rifle. The wounded outlaw stared at him with reluctant admiration.

  "You sure picked a dilly of a scrap," he said. "What happened to Vila?"

  "He'll be all right. He laid for me and stopped some lead."

  "He'll kill you," the outlaw promised matter-of-factly. "You got a match?"

  Hopalong reached into his shirt pocket for his matches and tossed them to the wounded man. "I'll take those back," he said, "but light up."

  The outlaw returned the matches. There was still no sound. The afternoon was hot and still. Sweat trickled down Hopalong's face. "You better fix up that bad leg," he said, "right now."

  "Yeah." The dark-faced man straightened up a little. "Looks like I'm ridin' out of the money in this show."

  A tentative shot clipped the greasewood over their heads, but Hopalong waited, taking his time. Soon a man would be sent to investigate. Hopalong wondered again about the horses of the rustlers and considered asking, then realized he could not expect a truthful answer, if any at all. Yet there was always a way, even if a devious one.

  "You may be stuck here a long time," he suggested to the wounded man. "Those hombres aren't going to get out of here in a hurry."

  "Uh-huh, I expect so," the outlaw agreed.

  "Hope you had your canteen behind those rocks," Hoppy suggested. "You'll get mighty dry."

  "Hey?" The wounded man's head came around sharply. "That's so!" He swore bitterly. "And my canteen is on my saddle!"

  "Shucks!" Hopalong replied carelessly. "No need to fret. I'll get it for you. I've no mind to see a man die of thirst."

  "Would you do that?" The outlaw was incredulous. "Say, that would be mighty fine! The horses are right back of that tall pine you can see yonder. You--" He broke off suddenly, seeing the sudden gleam in Hopalong's eyes. "Aw, that was what you wanted all the time! Sucked me in, didn't you?"

  Cassidy grinned at him and winked. He was listening to a faint dragging sound in the sand. "Sure, but don't you worry. I'll get your canteen to you so long as you don't try to warn anybody. If you do that, I'll come back here and blow all your brains out through your ears!"

  The dragging sound had stopped. It seemed to come from the rocks before him. Somewhere off to the north Red's rifle boomed. He had moved, obviously. Two shots replied, and then Red fired again. Knowing Connors's skill with the rifle,

  Hopalong knew that somebody was feeling mighty uncomfortable. Red Connors never fired without effect.

  Hopalong shucked his captured pistol after returning his own to his belt. Then he buckled the gun belt around his shoulder and under the opposite arm, making a bandolier of it. Then, with the Colt in his right hand and the Winchester in his left, he started to move toward where he had last heard that dragging sound.

  He laid a course for the tall pine and crawled forward. Then he stopped and listened. There it was again, the sound of chaps or jeans dragging over sand. He left the Winchester on the ground and cautiously got to his feet. Then, with the Colt in his right hand, he gripped the ends of his fingers into a crevice in the rock and swung himself around in a crouching position, gun ready. A bullet blasted almost in his face, and then he fired. The outlaw slid to the ground. It was the big man Hopalong had seen in the saloon at Agate. Hoppy's bullet had cut deep into the scalp, laying the bone of the skull white and bare. But the man was still alive.

  Stripping him of guns, Hopalong lifted them and threw them into the brush a dozen feet away. As they hit the brush two guns blasted, and then somebody grunted and there were signs of a furious struggle. Scrambling through the rocks, Hopalong brought up short.

  Joe Gamble, blood trickling down his face, was slugging furiously with a husky rustler. Seeing Hopalong, the rustler jerked back and grabbed for iron, but Gamble threw a high right that flattened his nose and the man staggered. Instantly Joe was after him, swinging wild punches with both hands, and the rustler hit the ground on his knees.

  Stripping him of guns, Hopalong wheeled and ran for the

  tall pine. Yet even as he charged through the brush a shot whipped by his head and a bay horse lunged by him so close that he was spun off balance and fell back into the clutching fingers of a manzanita. Struggling erect, he heard Joe Gamble's gun roaring, and then silence.

  "Got away!" Gamble said disgustedly. "We had 'em outflanked, too!"

  "What about Red?" Hoppy demanded. "See him?"

  The Winchester barked, then again, and they saw Red stand up and wave his hat. He had fired two shots after the departing outlaws. Their trap had backfired; two of their men were wounded and the other had taken a beating. At least three had pulled out in that final rush.

  "Got away," Gamble repeated irritably.

  "Let them go," Cassidy replied carelessly. "We got out of their trap and gave them a taste of trouble. Let them go and think it over. This will give them something to worry about, and we can pick up their trail again."

  Connors rode up, leading Gamble's horse. Hopalong started back through the rocks after the palouse. He turned, remembering the wounded men.

  "Better pick 'em up," he said, "especially the one with the broken leg. He'll have to have care or he might lose it."

  The palouse nickered softly as he approached, and Hopalong smiled. "Glad to see me, boy? No more than I am to see you. That Dan Keating knew how to pick a horse."

  Red was waiting for him when he returned. "We found the gent with the busted leg, but the other two took out. One of them left plenty of blood behind."

  "That one got his skull grazed, Red," Hopalong replied. "He lost blood, and probably had a serious concussion. Well,

  now they've gone, it's their own problem about how they get help. We're going on after the herd."

  "Know where they are?" Red squinted his eyes at the sun. "Unless you do we'd better camp at Pinto Springs. We'll never get far at this hour."

  Cassidy nodded. "All right, only let Gamble make the coffee. Yours always tastes like alkali mixed with sulphur."

  "Mine does?" Connors growled. "What about that brown stuff you make? You never could make coffee near as good as me, Hoppy, and you know it. I could teach you plenty."

  "You couldn't teach a setting hen to cluck!" Hopalong laughed, winking at Gamble. "As long as you're herding cattle you're all right, but let you get even a half-mile away from a cow herd and you couldn't drive nai
ls into a snowbank."

  He turned to Gamble again. "Come on, compadre, we'll let Red stoke up the fire while we rustle some grub. That bacon and sourdough bread is all right, but I saw some sage hens out here on the edge of the rocks. They size up better to me."

  Dusk fell and the shadow of the buttes grew tall. Joe Gamble concealed the horses in a clump of brush near the springs and made his own bed close to them. Hopalong found a space in a cluster of rocks and then returned to the fire. It was blazing cheerfully, and Gamble had taken over the cooking.

  "We're due west of Soldier Meadows," he commented. "That outfit must have found a way to bring the herd through Little High Rock without leavin' any tracks."

  "No chance," Hopalong said. "I looked that ground over carefully. There's got to be another way. Right now what I want to know is not how they got this far, but where they went."

  "What's west of here?" Red demanded. "Could they have gone that way?"

  "California line's over there a ways," Gamble mused. "They might have a hangout in Surprise Valley. It's just over the mountains yonder."

  "We'll take a look tomorrow." Hopalong filled his cup with coffee. "We'll start first thing in the morning."

  Sim Aragon was not sitting by a fire on this night. He had heard from Jack Bolt, and Bolt's impatience irritated him. Bolt was, he decided, getting skittish. There was nothing to worry about. With Cassidy, Connors, and Gamble all trailing herd, catching up to them would be simple indeed, and once caught up, the situation could be handled with guns.

  Aragon had no particular confidence in his brother Pete as a fighter. Pete was the cattleman of the crowd, and although he could handle a gun well enough, he was not in the same class as Sim or Jack Bolt. It was Pete's responsibility to get the cattle over the state line and conceal them in Wall Canyon, where they could not be found. Always before he had managed to leave no trail. They had been careful to leave none, as they wanted no suspicion directed their way, and so far they had been successful.