the Trail to Seven Pines (1972) (10 page)

There was no uncertainty about the 3 G outfit. The Gore boys had a goal in mind and would waste no time in achieving it, nor would they hesitate to throw lead. The rustlers no doubt had a tie-up with Harris. The holdup men, whoever they might be, would have to have a tighter organization than such a man as Harris could handle. Their greatest problem would be disposal of the gold itself, and raw gold in quantity presented a very real problem in the marketing.

Dark as it soon became, Hopalong had no trouble holding to his direction. Without landmarks from this approach, he nevertheless had the stars to guide him on a course, and knew that if he headed in his present direction he must sooner or later run into the stage trail. Heading south, he made camp in a small hollow among the hills near Poker Gap.

Fixing coffee and a quick meal, Hopalong then killed his fire and, moving back into the sage a short distance, spread his sugan and rolled up.

Silence awakened Cassidy. Total, complete silence. The pulsing of the crickets had stilled; no wind, no movement of small animals in the brush. It was as if the entire landscape had frozen in fear. Even the breeze was holding its breath. Hopalong's right hand closed on the grip of one of his pistols, and he slowly turned his head to look across the campsite at Topper. In the dark the big gelding was only a pale blur, but Hoppy could tell his head was up and his ears pricked, focused intently on something in the distance. A glance at the sky told him that it was near three o'clock.

Taking a fresh grip on the gun, he rolled out of bed, eyes scanning the darkness.

Nothing moved; the night waited, tense in anticipation. He was just considering putting the Colt aside to pull on his boots when there was a sound from far off. It was like distant thunder in a narrow valley, like blasting powder set off deep in a mine, like a huge boulder rolling down a steep hillside; getting closer and closer. . . The earth under Hopalong's bare feet trembled, then jerked. Topper snorted, prancing backward. A rock fell, off to his right, hit with a clatter, and then all was still.

After a moment or two the silence was broken by the plaintive call of a night bird, then the sound of a single cricket, but soon it was joined by others. Topper blew, and Hopalong went over to comfort him.

"Easy, boy. Just an earthquake, that's all. Take it easy an' we'll see if we can't sleep for a couple more hours."

At the first gray light he was out of bed and building a fire in a small hollow where the flame would be concealed. He used dry sticks and knew they would allow almost no smoke. All the while he kept a sharp lookout on the country around him, watching for any sign of movement or smoke.

The events of last night had focused Hopalong's thinking on caution. That he was in the enemy's country he knew, and the holdup gang might have their hideout anywhere in the area. From now on he would have to exercise utmost care. Swinging into the saddle, he moved out, keeping to washes and bottoms, avoiding all ridge lines and hills. As he rode, his attention was divided between the country itself and the ground beneath.

Suddenly he drew up. A fresh line of tracks, probably only hours old, crossed before him, and one of the hoofmarks had that same close-trimmed look as one of the horses ridden in the holdup! This was luck! Hopalong studied that track, as well as the three accompanying it, for in the future he might not be so fortunate as to see that one print. However, the other forefoot was also closely trimmed, and the horse toed in slightly.

From under the big hat Hopalong scanned the country. His cold blue eyes left nothing unseen. They were eyes long accustomed to searching desert and range, and he knew how to look for what he saw. His eye would instantly separate anything from the surrounding terrain that did not belong there. When his inspection was completed he started on, but he did not deliberately follow the trail of the horse. He headed in the same direction, swinging on ahead to cut the trail at another point.

Before him the sandy knolls of the desert, covered with sagebrush mingled with creosote, rolled back in a wide but narrowing fold. Huge plates of rock pushed up, the strata in them visibly tilted toward the sky. Here was a piece of the fault along which had run last night's minor earthquake.

The trail he followed headed into the gap between those tilted rocks. He studied it with care, then turned Topper and rode up the side of the hill across from the trail. Keeping below the line of sight from beyond the ridge, he pushed on for half a mile and halted. Leaving the gelding in the juniper, he made his way to the crest and, removing his hat, peered over the top.

The space between had narrowed into a rocky defile, and he could vaguely make out what seemed to be the trail below him. Turning his eyes, he could see up the defile through a maze of gigantic ledges into what seemed to be a canyon, but this was no canyon worn by the slow hand of time, but rather an enormous crack caused by some not-too-ancient upheaval of the earth. Red and raw, the ledges exposed the broken fangs of their ugly jaws to the morning sky, and between two of them lay a narrow valley, in the bottom of which were several makeshift shelters of stone, adobe, and logs. In a pole corral were three horses, and the whiter marks of a trail led away even deeper into the maze of faulted rock.

As Hopalong watched, a man came to the door of one of these shelters and threw a bucket of water onto the ground. Then he walked out of sight behind some rock. When he next appeared, the bucket was full. He went back into the cabin.

For an hour Hopalong carefully studied the situation. Several times he shifted his position for a different viewpoint. To approach up the usual path through the rocks looked to be foolhardy in the extreme, for these men would be taking no chances, and the sight of a stranger would be enough to start them shooting. Yet no matter how he studied the terrain, he could not see what became of the path that vanished into the rocks.

Returning to his horse, he mounted and started riding west. The trail was precarious and he worked his way in and around the tangle of canyons and washes, trying to get at the upper end of the valley to see where the trail he had glimpsed would emerge.

Some bygone earthquake had created havoc with the country, and so it was not as easy to read the terrain as it was in a country of natural grades.

Emerging from the tangle, he found himself below the crest of a long ridge. Turning in the saddle, he could see that a high peak ended the ridge, and beyond were two more peaks. The canyon he was looking for must lie between those peaks and this ridge.

Mopping the sweat from his face, for the morning was already warm, Hopalong studied the situation once more but saw nothing new. Following a vague hunch, he pushed on into a tangle of juniper, where the ground seemed to slant sharply away, and found himself at the head of a steep declivity, a rock slide that slanted sharply away for at least two hundred yards, then disappeared out of sight around a shoulder.

Dismounting, Hoppy worked his way slowly down the slope, leaving Topper tied at the top. When he reached the shoulder, he saw that the slide made a ramp that changed directions but fell sharply away to the bottom of a canyon that could only be the one he had glimpsed. If such was the case, it extended much farther than he had believed.

Returning for Topper, Hopalong led the horse carefully down over the rocks. An excellent mountain horse, the gelding took it with patience and some prick-eared interest.

Reaching the trail, Hopalong saw nothing behind him in the direction of the small cluster of huts, but before him, in a small amphitheater in the mountains, lay a forest of pine and fir, and in the back of the hollow was the stone face of a building.

Working his way into the basin, Hopalong studied the building. It was a rebuilt cliff dwelling that had obviously been found in good shape. Nearby was a corral, and five beautiful horses stood in it. Hoppy could hear water running, and there appeared to be plenty of grass. He took another step, then stopped abruptly. One of the horses in the corral was that same white-splashed paint horse he had seen in the holdup bunch!

Chapter
6

Frazer Makes an Error
.

Duck Bale was mad. He was mad clean through. For three days before the last holdup and now for every day since then he had been stuck at the hideout, and Duck was a man who liked company.

Frazer was here, of course, but nobody ever claimed that Bud Frazer was good company.

He slept most of the time, growled about doing his share of the work, and played solitaire the rest of the time. Duck was a man who liked to talk, and on occasion he liked to listen. Mostly it was just that he liked to talk himself, which was one reason he had the nickname. The other reason was his long nose and flappy lips.

He was good and mad this morning. Frazer had crawled out of bed long enough to eat and had then gone back. He was lying there now, snoring like all get-out. Why wasn't Laramie here? Now Laramie was all right, a pleasant man, but a fighter too. Duck Bale had his own ideas about fighters, and in his mind Laramie stacked up as the toughest of the lot. He was slick with a six-gun and a handy man with a rifle. Someday Laramie would tangle with the boss; Bale was sure of that. He had been pretty sore when the news reached them of how Jesse Lock had been killed.

"It's not decent," he complained to Duck on the quiet. "Lock was a good man and tried to make a fight of it. It wasn't right to kill him thataway."

"Don't let the boss hear you say that," Duck warned. "You know how he is!"

"I sure do," Laramie agreed, his eyes cold.

Duck Bale caught the inflection and admitted to himself that Laramie was right. The boss was cold-blooded. He would shoot a man down without a chance. He wished Laramie was here now. He wanted to tell him about the gold being gone. Maybe it was just that the boss was fixing to get rid of it, but anyway, it had been taken away from the house during the night.

He stared irritably at Bud Frazer. The bald-headed gunman was sprawled on his rumpled bunk, snoring peaceably. They had had another argument that morning with a lot of loud talk and shouting. Frazer did not like him, and Frazer was lazy. He had not made his bunk in four days. Nor had he helped with the cleanup job-not that they ever did much of it.

Duck walked outside and had started for the barn when he heard a horse. He turned instantly, expecting to see either the boss or Laramie. It was neither. The man on the white gelding was a stranger, a cold-faced man with chill blue eyes and sloping shoulders. He drew up and chuckled. "Name fits all right. You Duck Bale?"

"Yeah." Duck suddenly realized that his gun belt was hanging over the back of a chair in the bunkhouse. "Who are you?"

"Name of Red River Regan." The stranger slid from his horse and stretched. "He said you had quite a layout here and you sure have. I had a time findin' the place."

Duck Bale was in a quandary. Nothing had been said about any new men, but this fellow knew his name, seemed to know his way around, and obviously had known how to get here. Moreover, he wore those two Colts like he was used to them. "How did you find it?" he said.

"Boss told me." He looked around again, then led his horse into the shade of some trees near the stable and tied him near a patch of grass. "He said there'd be another man here. Bud Something-or-other?"

"Bud Frazer. He's asleep. He's always asleep." There was an irritable tone to Duck's voice, and Hopalong had gauged his man correctly. He suppressed a grin. "You fixin' to feed the horses?"

'Yeah. Bud should've done it, but that hombre's the laziest man I ever did see."

"Got a fork? I'll help. Show me where the hay is."

Duck lit up, then led the way to the stable. Behind it there was a comfortably large stack of hay. In no time at all, hay had been forked to the horses and a bait of corn given each one.

Duck was still suspicious, but the stranger's confidence and easy manner had him puzzled. If the man did not rightly belong, he would never have found his way here in the first place, nor would he be so much at home. Grateful to have somebody to talk to and some help with the work, Bale was not inclined to ask too many questions.

In all the time they had used the place nobody had ever appeared who did not belong there.

Hopalong had looked the place over carefully before approaching Duck. He knew he was taking a chance, but he had overheard the extended quarrel that morning and got their names from it and also hints regarding the characters of the two men, as well as the substance of the disagreement between them.

"Eat yet?" Duck inquired suddenly. "I haven't washed up, if you want somethin'. May be some coffee left."

"Sure!" Hopalong drew a deep breath. He knew this could develop into a tight spot if anyone else showed up. If the boss came, whoever he was, Hopalong would truly be out of luck. Or even if the unknown Laramie showed up, for that one might be sharper than Duck Bale. Whatever Cassidy learned would have to be learned fast, for every minute of his stay would increase his danger.

"Quite a place, ain't she?" Duck said, grinning at him. "Boss sure picked him a hideout!

Been wonderin' how he knowed it was here, but from the way he acts, he knowed about it for a long time! Plenty long, if you ask me.

"Maybe we aren't the first to use it. Anyway, I've seen a posse ride within a dozen feet of the entrance and miss it.

"Keep a good store of grub on hand, extry horses, and plenty of ammunition. No army could ever take this place."