Trouble Shooter (1974) Read online

  Saxx studied him longer. "Might use a good man."

  "I rode for Shanghai Pierce, John Slaughter, and the XIT."

  "They were good outfits." Saxx studied him. "Know anybody around here?"

  "One hombre. Met him outside of town, though, and he seemed to be a stranger, too. Fellow named Rig Taylor."

  Saxx started inwardly. Then this was ... "Oh? So you're the hombre who was trespassin' yesterday? I heard about that."

  "Were they your boys?" Hopalong shrugged. "I'd no idea who they were, but I was afraid they were going to jump to conclusions. I was ridin' across country when I heard a horse, then I saw someone all bedded down in the grass ready to shoot a man who was walking below. I took a shot at the ambusher to scare him."

  Saxx stared across the street. Then somebody had tried to kill Taylor! But who? Why? He shook his head irritably. "You did just right," he said, "but that doesn't mean it pays to butt into things that don't concern you. Ever do any brush poppin'?"

  "Sure." Hopalong shoved his hat back on his head. "I grew up in the Big Bend country. You got some riding work?"

  "Yeah. Plenty of it, an' some half-wild cattle back in that brush that don't want to come out."

  "That's a mean job, but if you want me, I'm your huckleberry." He hesitated. "How about paying me by the head? Turn the whole job over to me?"

  Bill Saxx hesitated. That might be the best way out. He had done some work in the chaparral, but the little he had done he'd definitely not liked. It would be easy to lose an eye back there

  in the brush, charging through it after cattle. And that would get this fellow out of the way, for if he went to work by the head, he would have to rustle hard to make a go of it.

  "I can't say," he said. "I'll have to talk to the Colonel." He grinned. His worst headache would be gone. "Stick around, Cameron. I'll talk to Tredway. I think we can get together."

  As Saxx walked away Hopalong's mind leaped ahead. No matter where those cattle were, there was every chance of a lot of mixed brands being among them. He might even find a few of the PM steers, for he knew how cattle strayed, and how once back in the brush, they might stay for years if they found grass and water. Moreover, while working cattle in the brush, he could not be seen and it would give him an excellent chance to do some scouting without anyone knowing the difference.

  Suddenly an idea came to him. There had been a covered wagon camped on the edge of town as he came in, and there had been a big dog lying there.

  He went down the steps into the street and walked swiftly along it to the edge of town. Rounding the corral corner, he went down the embankment to the creek bottom, where a willow-dotted meadow provided plenty of grass. Not far away he saw a Conestoga wagon and several oxen. A washing was hung out on the willows and a cook fire was going.

  A big black-and-white shepherd rushed out, barking furiously. Hopalong continued to walk. "Hello there, boy," he said quietly. "You don't want to bark at me. I'm a friend of yours."

  The dog eyed him doubtfully, barked again but with less assurance, and then came closer, stretching an inquisitive nose toward Hoppy's hand.

  A mild-faced woman was bending over a cook pot and she straightened as he approached. Putting her hand to the small of her back, she nodded to him. "Good morning. Did you want to see my husband?"

  A big-shouldered older man came around the wagon and nodded, his eyes appraising. "What can I do for you, stranger?"

  "Just visiting," Hopalong said casually, for the man had the look of a canny trader and it would never do to let him know what it was he wanted. "Come from the East?"

  "Missouri." The man was repairing a bit of harness. "We stopped in Santa Fe last winter, an' we figger to head north for

  Oregon."

  "I've been in Santa Fe." Hopalong squatted on his heels and looked around the camp. It was no rawhide outfit. The man looked capable and so did his wife, and moreover, their stock, wagon, and household goods showed care and consideration. "Travelin' costs money," he suggested.

  There was a flicker of worry on the woman's face. "It sure does," the man replied, "but we'll make her. Although," he added, with a speculative glance at Hopalong Cassidy, "I could use a job about now."

  "Is that dog any good with stock? With cattle?"

  "Shep?" The man laughed. "Mister, that dog is the best stock dog I ever saw. No exaggeration, either. I used him a lot, an' he's good on sheep, cattle, or horses. But he's worked cattle mostly."

  "Want to sell him?" Hopalong suggested tentatively. "I like

  a good dog."

  "No." The man hesitated. "I wouldn't sell him, he's like one

  of the family. My woman sets a lot of store by Shep. He's company, an' he's a good judge of people."

  The man produced a pipe and stoked it. "Mebby you could hire me?" he offered. "You get an extra hand--the dog, too___"

  Hopalong considered the question. If Bill Saxx suggested to Tredway that they give the job of rounding up the brush cattle to Hopalong, and the price per head was right, he would hire this man and his dog. Together they could get the cattle out-- and Hopalong had once worked with a dog in Texas. A good stock dog could get out three times the cattle that a puncher could, when it came to working brush.

  An idea came to Hopalong suddenly. "Ever been in this country before?"

  The man's head lifted and his eyes studied Cassidy with care. "No," he said finally, "I never have been here before."

  Hopalong didn't press the subject, but something in the man's manner made him wonder. At the same time, Hopalong was impressed with the man. He was straightforward and able looking, and his wife seemed like a woman of character.

  He got to his feet. "My name is Cameron," he said, "and I think we're going to make a deal. You stand pat and I'll let you know by tomorrow morning. All right?"

  The man nodded. "My name is Pike Towne. You just come let us know. We'll work hard an' steady. I'm not," he added, "a drinkin' man."

  As Hopalong walked up the street he saw several people turning in at the restaurant, and he stopped, aware that he was hungry and it was lunchtime. He had been longer in the creek bottom than he realized. Just as he turned to enter he saw Rig

  Taylor coming toward him, and walking with Rig was a girl in a divided riding skirt, a flat-crowned hat tied under her chin, and red-gold hair. A few freckles were scattered over her face. Her eyes were hazel and her lips slightly full. She looked trim and neat in her riding clothes.

  Rig stopped abruptly when he saw Cassidy. "Miss Blair," he said, "this here's Cameron, the gent who lent me a hand yesterday."

  Hopalong thrust out his hand, smiling. "How do you do, ma'am? It's nice meeting a lady. They are mighty scarce here in the West."

  She looked at him directly, speculatively. "How do you do? Rig says that you kept him out of a fight the other day--yesterday. Thank you. We can't afford anything like that right now."

  Cassidy nodded. "Well, I've had a lot of trouble in my time, but fighting doesn't get a man very far. It's brains that matter in the long run, and believe me, Miss Blair, it will be brains that win for you."

  "You don't think Pete Melford was lying to me? Or just imagining things? You think he really had a ranch?"

  "I'm sure of it." Hopalong was positive. "But if I were you, I'd not push this too hard for a while. Look around, make friends, and keep your eyes and ears open. You might learn a lot that way.

  "For example," he added, "most of the people in town came here after your uncle's death. There could be somebody around here who knows all about him, but they'd be someone who had reason to be in this area before Kachina was built, an old trapper or trader. If we can find someone like that, we can start things."

  She nodded seriously. "You've been very helpful."

  Hopalong watched them go on into the Chuck Wagon, and then, as he was about to follow them, he stopped. A man was standing by the corner of the building staring at Rig Taylor. He was a lean, stoop-shouldered man carrying an old-fashioned Walker Colt in an
open-bottom holster. There was something wolfish about his eyes as he stared at Rig, something that made Hopalong Cassidy's brows draw together momentarily.

  Hopalong Cassidy had never met Tote Brown.

  Stepping back, he removed his hat and began to beat the dust from his clothing, surreptitiously watching the man. The fellow watched Rig enter the restaurant, then walked on up the street to the Elk Horn Saloon, and entered. He moved with a slight stiffness, as if his side hurt him and he was favoring it. Hopalong went around the corner from which Brown had appeared. A dun horse was tied there, a rangy animal with a Star B brand on the shoulder.

  He examined the horse thoughtfully, and then as he was about to turn away, he paused and half drew the rifle from the scabbard. The sight was unusually fine. Replacing it, Hopalong went on up the street and sat down in the shade of an awning where he could watch the Elk Horn.

  Suddenly the Elk Horn doors pushed open and Vin Carter stepped out. Almost at once he saw Hopalong, and for a moment he stared at him in a manner that was intended to be intimidating. Deliberately, then, Carter stepped down off the walk and started across the street. That the man had been drinking, Hopalong was immediately aware. Moreover, it was obvious the man was in a belligerent mood.

  He stopped directly in front of Hopalong and stared at him, his eyes ugly. "Still playin' wet nurse to that lyin' youngster?" he demanded.

  "Taylor? He can take care of himself."

  Carter sneered. "He was in over his head. If you hadn't pulled him out, he would have been dead by now."

  "Then you should thank me." Hopalong's voice was quiet. "Nobody wants to kill a man unnecessarily. You might be in jail by now."

  "Me? In jail?" Carter laughed harshly. "Shows you're a stranger hereabouts, Cameron. Nobody bothers Colonel Tred-way nor none of his men. We fork our own broncs up here. You stay off the Box T an' keep that youngster off or you'll both be in trouble!"

  "Get out of here."

  The voice was low and utterly cold, yet there was a fiber in it that stiffened Hopalong's spine and made him tense with awareness.

  "Go," the cold voice continued. "Get back to the T, and if you can't come to town without starting trouble, stay on the ranch! Now get going!"

  Vin Carter had taken a step back, suddenly blinking. "Sure! Sure, boss! I'm goin'!" He turned swiftly and started across the street toward his horse.

  Hopalong got to his feet. He was facing a man half a head taller than himself, a lean, graceful man whose hair was white and whose mustache was white and carefully waxed, but whose eyes were hard and alive. He was dressed neatly in gray. If he wore a gun, it was not in sight.

  "I'm Colonel Justin Tredway," the man said coolly. "I'm sorry my man disturbed you. He's an excellent hand, but under the influence he is apt to become quarrelsome. What, may I ask, is your name?"

  "Cameron."

  "Ah? The man Saxx was telling me about." The cold eyes appraised him anew. "The man who wanted to get my cattle out of the breaks." He stared at Hopalong again, then looked away. 'Tell you what I'll do. Those cattle are scattered over an area better than sixty miles square. The back part of it is desert and rock, miserable country. The nearest part is brush and prickly pear. Forests of mesquite, cactus taller than a man on a horse. Parts of it you couldn't even force a horse through. It's plain hell.

  "But there's cattle there, plenty of them. How many, I don't know. Certainly no less than a thousand head. There's some long meadows back inside there. I don't know where they are, nor does anybody, but the Indians knew about them.

  "That country is hell to work in. Last year we tried it and Had a man gored, a horse killed, and two men injured, so we dropped it for the time being. Saxx says you've worked brush before, in Texas. All right, you get those cattle out of there and I'll give you a dollar a head. Do it any way you've a mind to, but get 'em out.

  "You'll find that a dollar a head will pay you well, but I want a finished job. I want those cattle out of there--all of them. Understand?"

  Hopalong nodded. At a dollar each it could be a very profitable venture for him, especially with the dog and Pike Towne to help. The first few days would be easiest, and the test as to

  how much money he would make would be how fast the cleanup could be made. "It's a deal. We'll move out tomorrow."

  "We?"

  Hopalong nodded. "I've got a man and his wife. They'll cook for me and the man will help some. Now, where does this land lay? Maybe I'm a fool to take it sight unseen."

  "Your problem, sir. The brush country starts east and north of here. You can drive right through the Box T and cross it toward the Picket Fork. You'll see a high point of rock--Chimney Butte they call it. Head for that, but when you begin to see a green hilltop, very high and steep-sided but brush-covered, veer toward it. That's Brushy Knoll. You'll cross the Picket Fork at the ford and you're right on the edge of the chaparral."

  "How does it lie?"

  "Most of the area is between the Picket Fork and Chimney Creek Canyon, but it spreads apart as you go northeast and you'll find a widening V of country back in there. It's not an easy job you're taking, my friend. You'll earn every dime."

  Tredway reached in an inside pocket and took out a wallet. "Here is forty dollars. Lay in your supplies and get going. We'll draw up a contract now and my man Saxx will be up from time to time to see how you are making out." He hesitated, lighting a cheroot. "By the way. If you quit before you get out five hundred head, you don't get a dime."

  When Tredway had gone, Hopalong considered the matter. He understood the situation perfectly, for once a fair-sized gather had been made, Tredway would see that it was difficult to stay on the job and might even drive off the cattle or force them to leave. Yet actually it was the best chance to find any

  PM stock that might be remaining, for if any unaltered brands existed, they would be back in the brush.

  Moreover, he had thought of working for the Box T to gather what knowledge he could, but this would be much better than working for forty per month. Not only would he earn better money if he could make the gather, but he would be free to look the country over in the very area where the PM was said to have been located.

  Eighty head of cattle per month would pay wages, which meant less than three per day, and once acquainted with the area, they could work fast. The problem would be to keep Tredway from knowing how fast or how successful they were, but Hopalong Cassidy had his own ideas about that.

  Pike Towne was coming up from the bottoms when Cassidy saw him. "The deal's on," he told him. "I'll give you forty a month or the privilege of forty percent if we make it. We get a dollar a head."

  "Fair enough, and I'll take the forty percent. I'll work harder thataway, an' if we don't make it, you'll be out nothin' but grub." He looked at Cassidy. "You ever worked a pear forest? She's plain hell."

  "It is that. But we'll make a good stake and your dog will be all the difference. I said nothing about him to Tredway." Then he explained the deal--no pay for less than five hundred head.

  Towne shrugged. "He's no fool. If we try to get that stock an' fail, they'll be wilder than deer. Mostly they will be anyway. An'," he added grimly, "if he could make it unhealthy for us to stay on, he'd have all the cattle we got out at no cost to him."

  "Just so we understand."

  Pike Towne smiled, crinkling his eyes. "We understand. An' I reckon, Mr. Cameron, this isn't the first time you've come up against a thing like this. I ain't no house dog myself. Between us, we'll teach Colonel Tredway a thing or two."

  "But we'll be careful," Hopalong warned.

  "We will that," Towne said sincerely. "We most certainly will. Between us, Colonel Tredway is a shifty gent. He didn't get that Box T by saying his prayers reg'lar. You an' me, we've handled guns. Tredway never does, but he has men that handle 'em. Like Bill Saxx."

  "I figured on him."

  "You'd better," Towne replied quietly, "for Bill Saxx is good. He's good as Wes Hardin, mebby, or--Hopalong Cassidy."


  There had been an instant of hesitation there. Why? Hopalong seemed not to notice. If Pike Towne had guessed who he was, it was all right. If he had not guessed, he would learn nothing by fishing.

  Between the two of them they bought supplies, and bought carefully. Then they discussed the trail, and Towne returned to the bottoms to load up his wagon and start moving. Hopalong watched him go, liking the man's straightforward manner as well as his easy stride and wide shoulders. Unless he knew nothing of men, Pike Towne was one to ride the river with.

  It was shadowed and still inside the Elk Horn. Hopalong stopped at a table and idly shuffled some cards, watching the few men who were around the room. He knew none of them.

  Two men at the bar nearby were talking quietly. One was a bearded oldster, a man of nearly sixty with gnarled hands and thick gray hair. The old man wore miner's boots. "Yessir!" he

  was saying cheerfully. "She was plumb wild around here! Many's the time I've shot deer within fifty yards o' where we stand this minute! Kilt one right out in the street one time. Only then there was only three shacks here, an' they'd been empty for a couple o' years.

  "This was hangout for Ben Hardy's gang them days. Ben, he was here for a while an' he he'ped build that livery barn. He was tradin' with Injuns an' robbin' wagon trains. Made a good thing of it. Then he went back to Missouri, an' got throwed in jail.

  "Had four, five mighty tough nuts along with him--Black John, a greaser name of Diego, an' a couple of sharp ones. One named Purdy, the other was Fan Harlan. They finally pulled out, it was a long while later that the freight outfit started workin' through here an' they called the place Kachina... didn't have no name till then."

  Nobody said anything, and Hopalong pushed his hat back on his head and shuffled the cards idly, but with every sense alert. This old man was evidently a prospector just in out of the hills, and if anybody could give him the information he wanted, it was this man.

  "Buy you a drink, old-timer," he said.

  The old man turned and nodded pleasantly. "Thankee. Don't mind if you do."

  "Seems like," Hopalong said as the man crossed to his table, glass in hand, "there aren't many old-timers about. I'm interested in the history around here."