the Trail to Seven Pines (1972) (7 page)

It's getting cold!"

The drunken man hesitated an instant, staring at the other two, then lurched to a seat. Shaking his head, he muttered, "Women! Women! Never leave a man alone! Gettin' so a man can't even have a decent knock-down-and-drag-out fight without a woman buttin' in! Can't even talk to a couple of polecatsh!"

The door closed softly, and Cassidy noticed the two men had gone quietly outside.

He heard a murmur of conversation, and it sounded bitter. He grinned at the thought of what was probably being said. At the same time he was wishing he could overhear it. Whatever those two had to say might be interesting. He doubted that Harper really wanted him as town marshal. What Harper or somebody wanted was to have him away from the Rocking R. But who? And why?

Cassidy went to work on the pie and glanced up to see Shorty Montana staring at him.

He continued to eat, and when he had finished the pie and his cup was refilled, he looked at Montana in a friendly, good-natured fashion.

The cowhand stared back at Cassidy.

Hopalong said quietly, "Ronson hired me as segundo. In charge of trouble."

"He needs one," Shorty said dryly, all the apparent drunkenness gone from his tone.

"He does," Cassidy agreed. "Seems the Gores are takin' in a lot of territory out thataway."

"The Gores," Shorty said sincerely, "are big enough to do it."

"Met one of them today," Hopalong continued. "Windy. Had some words. What's the name of that hand of his with the bald head?"

"Hank Boucher," Shorty said.

"Made some trouble for himself," Cassidy explained casually. "He's been advised to try a more agreeable climate."

Shorty Montana was staring at Hopalong. "Boucher," he said, "is plumb salty."

"He's freshened up some now," Hopalong replied. "And Windy's got a bug in his ear.

All of which," he added, "builds up to a point. I'm goin' to need more hands. I'm goin' to need a few fightin' men. They tell me you like a scrap, and you size up right to me. How about it?"

Montana hesitated. Then slowly he shook his head. "Had a run-in with that old blaze-face who used to ramrod this country," he said, "and swore I'd never work for him or the brand."

"Anybody can change his mind," Hopalong said. "Young Bob knows he's no fighter, but he's in for a fight. I like him. I'm runnin' the fight. I could use you."

Shorty Montana drank his coffee in silence. Finally he said, "Joe Hartley still there?

And that Dan Dusark?"

"Still there."

"Then count me out."

"You don't like them?"

Shorty Montana got to his feet. "Hartley I don't know. But sometimes you wonder why Dusark don't come to town on Saturday nights like the rest. Then wonder where he does go."

Hopalong studied Montana curiously, knowing that he wanted this man, knowing from what he saw, to say nothing of what he had heard, that this man would be worth a half dozen in a scrap. "Where does he go?"

Montana smiled. "Why, he takes a ride. A long ride. Now you ask yourself where he goes and for what. When you get the answer, maybe you'll know why we don't get along so well."

Shorty Montana went out the door and closed it after him. Hopalong smoked thoughtfully, and then he said, "A good man, that. I'd like to have him."

"You'll get him." Katie was positive. "Leave it to me-and to Shorty himself. He can't stay out of a scrap, and I know he's fairly crazy to be in this one. Then"-she glanced at Hopalong appraisingly-"he likes you."

"Me?" Hopalong looked around in surprise.

"You. I know Shorty. He'll be out nosing around now to find out what happened today between Windy Gore and you. If he likes what he hears, he'll be out to the Rocking R reporting for work. When he comes-and I'll bet you an apple pie against a dollar that he does-just take it for granted and ask no questions."

Hopalong walked outside and studied the street. The man who had stood in front of the harness shop now stood across the street and a short distance up. He was leaning against the wall of a building, only his legs visible.

Hopalong waited an instant, then turned and sauntered slowly down the street, taking his time. Without glancing around, he knew he was being followed. If the man had wished to take a shot at him, there had been several good chances; therefore, either the fellow wished to do some talking or else he was waiting until Hopalong got off the street before he tried shooting. Maybe that was it. Maybe the fellow just wanted a better chance to get away unseen.

Thinking of that, Hopalong kept well into the shadows and took his time considering the situation. Who would want to kill him? There were three possible chances. One of the Gore crowd, one of the holdup men who feared he might know something, or one of the rustler crowd who wanted to keep him out of the picture. Any one of the three was a good bet, but Hopalong was not interested in guessing. He wanted to know.

Pausing on a corner, he drew in a deep breath. His muscles felt alert and ready, and there was rising in him a certain recklessness that he continually fought down.

There was that in him that disliked being pushed, and while he knew it might be best to avoid the issue that was presenting, itself, he was not the man to do it. He believed in taking the bull by the horns and tail, and this was one time he was going to do it.

That the situation in the Seven Pines country was all set to blow off, he knew. Any action now might start trouble, but he had an idea that the rustlers were lurking around, stealing dribbles of cattle and waiting for the Gores to tangle with the Rocking R in an all-out battle.

Hopalong glanced back once more, then walked on. Stepping off the boardwalk at the end of a building, he turned swiftly into the darkness of an alleyway. He ran a dozen steps, then halted and listened. Behind him he heard boot steps on the boardwalk, then silence. In his mind he could see the unknown follower waiting there, hesitating whether to follow, and probably wondering what Hopalong was up to.

Footsteps sounded on the gravel, and Hopalong knew the man was walking toward him.

He scowled thoughtfully, aware that whoever the man was, he was making no effort at concealment. When he was almost abreast of him, Cassidy spoke. "All right, friend, you've come far enough. Huntin' trouble, or just huntin?"

"Cassidy?"

"Right." Cassidy moved a soundless step left as he spoke, his hands poised above his guns.

"I want to talk. Peaceful talk, but we can't be seen together."

"Lead the way."

The footsteps crunched on down the alley, and Hopalong followed, keeping well to one side. When the man stopped they were in a clump of willows on the edge of town.

He turned and faced Hopalong, his hands out away from his sides. "This is peace talk," he repeated. "I'm not honin' for trouble with any of that Bar 20 outfit."

The use of the brand name was something. That meant that the man had probably known or known of Hoppy in the past. "I come to warn you," the man continued. "You're due to walk into a trap if you're not careful."

"Why warn me? Who are you?"

"Carp-from the Butte country."

"Carp?" The name had a familiar sound, but Cassidy could not quite place it.

'Yeah. You and the Bar 20 riders cleaned out the rustlers down in the Butte country after Nevada and his crowd shot up Johnny Nelson, remember? Well, I was one of 'em."

"I remember. You were the one who sided Tex Ewalt when he was in a tight spot with 'em, and he promised you a break."

"That's right. And what's more, he lived up to his promise and so did you. You stood up and spoke for me at the trial and saved me gettin' my neck stretched. Well, I ain't no better than I used to be, Cassidy, but I know a square shooter when I see one. You see, a few nights ago I was over to Corn Patch and I heard some talk. I heard plans to ambush you and wipe you out.

"Me, I may be a lot of things, but I ain't a dry-gulcher. Nor am I standin' by to see a square man shot down without a chance, not by that bunch of coyotes."

"Thanks, Carp. That's square, and I ain't forgettin' it." Cassidy would have liked to ask the outlaw questions about the holdup or the rustling, but, knowing his man, he knew it would be of no use. Carp had warned him only because of the favor Cassidy had done him before, and also because he was himself a brave man and it went against the grain to see murder done. But that would not allow him to betray his friends or to expose any of their schemes. If the time came when Carp believed it best to talk, he would make up his own mind.

"How's the shootin' planned? You know that?" "Not exactly, only they'll send word to you that one of your boys is hurt. It'll be in some place where they can lay concealed, and I have an idea, from what was said, it will be over west in the Rosebud Canyon.

They'll have seven or eight men all ready to mow you down. They are scared you'll end rustlin' in this country."

"Thanks, Carp." Hopalong hesitated. "What about you?" Carp chuckled dryly. "Me? I'm splittin' the breeze out of here. I don't mind admittin' I've done a bit of rustlin' myself, but when I heard you was in the country I knew the game was up. I'm headin' for Montana come daybreak."

A tight-riding bunch of horsemen were coming up the street when Hopalong Cassidy reached it, and he faded back against the building for a better look. Standing there in the shadow, he saw five men in the group, and one of the riders was Hank Boucher.

Another was Windy Gore.

There was a slight movement across the street, and Hopalong stared hard, straining his eyes to make out the man who was moving among the shadows. Then he saw-it was Shorty Montana.

The puncher was moving after the Gores and following them into the High-Grade Saloon.

Hopalong hesitated, then crossed the street and circled for the rear of the saloon.

The High-Grade was more than a saloon, for it was also the town's principal hotel.

A two-story frame structure, it housed the bar with its gaming tables, and at the back of the room a stairway led to a narrow balcony. Along the balcony were curtained booths, but in the rear were the hotel rooms, some thirty of them, all small and each one equipped with a wooden bed. There was also a rear stairway to the second floor and a rear door to the first floor.

Cassidy went up the rear stairway to the second floor and tiptoed along the hall to the balcony. Without attracting attention he managed to get into the first booth.

There he drew the curtain, leaving it open just enough to enable him to watch the room without being seen.

The Gore outfit was already in the saloon and lined up along the bar. Windy, tall and slack-jawed, Cassidy recognized at once. John he soon picked out by hearing him named, a burly man with thick shoulders and chest who wore a huge reddish mustache and had small, cruel eyes. Con was just as big, but he had none of the bulkiness that his brother showed. He was square-shouldered and muscular, his face clean-shaven and brutally boned. All three men looked tough and all three wore two guns each.

Aside from Hank Boucher, his face bruised and swollen, Cassidy recognized none of them. Shorty Montana had come in and was now walking slowly past them. As he drew abreast of Boucher, he deliberately stopped and eyed his bruised face. Boucher turned, anger mounting within him.

"What's eatin' you?" he demanded.

"Nothin'." Montana had his thumbs tucked behind his belt, and he was elaborately serious. "Just sort of wonderin'."

"About what?" Boucher demanded suspiciously.

Shorty smiled innocently. "I was wonderin' what sort of animal could step on a man's face to make it look so messed up. Now if you were dragged by a horse, it would be more skinned and scratched-like."

"Shut up!" Boucher growled furiously. "Ain't none of your business!"

"That's sure the truth," Montana agreed pleasantly. "It's none of my business. On the other hand, can't a man express a friendly sort of interest? Can't blame a body for being' curious, can you? I knew an hombre down to Tombstone who got him a face like that, but he was kicked by a mule.

"Now that there eye," Shorty continued, "it's cut pretty deep. That might've been kicked by a mule, all right. And your mouth there, lips all puffed and swollen-don't reckon that could be-"

"Shut up!" Boucher turned on Montana. "Shut up or I'll do it for you!"

Shorty Montana backed off two steps in mock fear. "Hey! What's the matter? I ain't huntin' trouble, Boucher! Just sort of wonderin' what happened."

"You've wondered enough!" Pony Harper spoke abruptly from the end of the bar. "We want no trouble in here, Montana. I won't stand for it!"

"Aw, cut it out, Pony!" Montana objected, grinning. "I was just a-funnin', that's all! Why, I come in to say goodby to the 3 G boys, seem' as they are leavin' the country."

Conversation stilled and all ears were listening. "Leavin?" Harper was startled.

He stared at John Gore. "You boys pullin' your freight?"

"No!" Gore exploded, astonished and angry. "Where'd you get a fool idea like that, Shorty?"

"Why, I heard Hopalong Cassidy was fighting segundo out at the Rockin' R now, so I figured you boys would be splittin' the breeze out of here almost any time. I didn't reckon," he said seriously, "you'd be so plumb foolish as to stay around and buck him!"