the Trail to Seven Pines (1972) (17 page)

"Hoppy," she said, suddenly serious, "if Clarry has joined the Gores, he's no longer a friend of mine. I-I guess I've always known he wasn't trustworthy."

Hopalong waited, rolling a smoke. He had worked out answers to a lot of problems, but they lacked confirmation. He was quite sure he knew who had killed Jesse Lock.

He was quite sure who had handled the robberies of gold from the mine, and that behind those robberies there were two cool-headed men with no regard for human life. He was quite sure now that he knew how they planned to dispose of the gold. Yet Lenny had known Jacks well, and he might have dropped some remark that it would pay to know.

She was hesitating, then said, "He knows this country well, Hoppy, very well. He knew it when I first met him, and he'd only just arrived in town.

"Dud said once that Clarry was a big man. That everybody jumped when he spoke-that Corn Patch outfit, even some important men in town."

Reverting to the earlier comment, he asked, "You think he had been here before?"

Lenny's gaze turned to Frenchy, Kid Newton, and Milligan, who were loafing near the bunkhouse. Shorty Montana lay on the crest of a ridge out back, covering the approach and watching with field glasses.

"Lenny," Hopalong said, "one man, or two at most, is behind all the trouble here.

Pony Harper is one of them, I'm thinkin'. Maybe Poker Harris is another, but I think he's small potatoes. That Corn Patch crowd seems to be the center for the whole show, but I think it's just a side issue. Clarry Jacks probably knows who the boss is. If you remember anything he said that would help, let me know. Clarry never worked, but he always had money, and I'd like to know who he was tied in with."

She frowned. "There was a man-a man he called Laramie. Sometimes they used to talk, always off to themselves."

Laramie!

At this moment Joe Hartley spurred his mustang down the slope. He raced around the corral and slid to a stop near Hopalong. "They're movin'!" he said. "Riders left the 3 G and met up with another bunch south of here. They headed for our line cabin at Willow Springs!"

"Where's Dan?"

Hartley looked worried. "He picked up a smoke from Corn Patch. Used to be they used that signal to call him in when they wanted to make medicine. That was hours ago."

"Any movement from Corn Patch?"

"No. But I recognized that roan of Hankins with the 3 G crowd. There's nine riders, as near as I could make out."

"All right, Joe; you stick here with Bob Ronson and China. We're headin' for the 3 G outfit an' then for Corn Patch. If anything comes up we should know, or if that bunch heads this way and the place is attacked, start a smoke on top of the ridge.

We'll see that."

He led the way out of the basin with four men riding beside him. It was already past noon of a new day, and there was little time. Hopalong had no love of range war, but he knew this one had to be fought and had to be won. Actually, far to the south near Corn Patch, a decisive blow had already been struck.

Dan Dusark had died, but his death had not been wasted. Poker Harris had gone out with him, but what was infinitely more important now, he had with his last gasp fired the rifle shot that froze the 3 G outfit.

John Gore was boss. Not even the tough and hard-bitten Con ever crossed him. John was the boss, and John was gone. The swiftly attacking parties that had been due to move at once and to strike hard awaited his orders, and he had not returned from Corn Patch. That last shot had not injured him, but it had broken the back of his horse, and John was afoot in the mountains, miles from anywhere he wanted to be.

Dusark had a horse at Corn Patch, but John was not aware that Dan lay dead on the floor, the big buffalo gun beside him, and John was a cautious man. It was fully three hours after his own horse died that he finally got to Dusark's animal, but the ex-rustler's mustang was wild, and he shied away from the man who crawled toward him and felt no more trust when he got to his feet. Swearing viciously, John Gore started in a lumbering run after the fleeing horse. Holding his head high and to one side to keep the reins clear of his feet, the mustang galloped away. Sweaty, bursting with rage, and covered with dust, John Gore stopped and cursed viciously.

The carefully prepared plan of attack had awaited his return, and it kept waiting.

Finally, almost at noon, Con decided to take matters into his own hands and to begin by a strike at the line cabin where two Rocking R men were expected to be. But those men had returned to the home ranch shortly after daybreak and were now riding out behind Hopalong Cassidy. Dan Dusark's bullet had wrecked the timing of the scheme, and now it was too late. The general of the 3 G outfit was panting and swearing on a sage-covered hillside near Corn Patch, while not over twenty yards away stood a wary mustang who was beginning to enjoy the game.

Led by Hopalong Cassidy, the Rocking R riders were cutting through a narrow draw, and when they emerged upon the desert, Hopalong sighted a group of tracks. Reining in, he motioned the others to halt and studied the sign carefully. Two men with a bunch of led horses. "Headin' north," he said. "Now what's the idea of that?"

"Sure them horses are led?" Milligan asked. "It might be that bunch who headed for Willow Springs."

"Those are led horses. Two riders." Hopalong spoke with the sure knowledge of years of sign reading.

They continued east and then, at Hopalong's signal, drew up again. "Another bunch.

One rider." He blinked his eyes against the salty perspiration that trickled into them and pushed back his hat, staring over the sun-blasted ridges and the sagebrush flats where a lake of deepest blue covered the valley floor. That lake was a mirage, but the tracks of those horses were not. They represented something.

"Dollars to doughnuts they are stakin' out fresh horses! They figure to ride far and fast over this country, wipin' us out, and usin' fresh horses to keep up the pace!"

"Sounds like Gore," Frenchy opined.

Hopalong drew his hat down and headed east once more. The 3 G was deserted except for a corral of horses. Dropping down, Hopalong threw down the bars and, with a few whoops and waves of his arms, emptied it. Grinning, he turned to the other riders.

"Frenchy, you and the Kid keep watch and warn us if anybody shows up.

"Tex, you and Shorty come with me. We'll round up all the food on this place and cache the stuff where they won't find it. All the ammunition, too. We'll set this outfit afoot so fast they won't know what hit 'em!"

Chuckling, Tex and Shorty raided the grub shelves and storerooms, carrying the canned goods and other foodstuffs out to a hole in the rocks, where they were carefully concealed. Mounting once more, Hopalong headed north.

He had a rough plan now. That first bunch of horses had been taken north, and probably toward Mandalay Springs. If they were waiting there for the riders, they could be easily found; and, once led away or scattered, it would be but a short time until the 3 G men were afoot. Riding hard in the expectation of fresh horses, they would find their own mounts in bad shape by the time they arrived at each rendezvous.

As he rode, he made a picture of the range in his mind and, by nightfall, had found two more bunches of horses and liberated them, then had driven them off into the hills.

"Smoke!" Frenchy said suddenly. "That from the home place, you reckon?"

Hopalong squinted against the sun. "No, looks as if they burned the line cabin at Willow."

"Burn the luck!" Kid Newton exploded. "I had my extra shirt in that cabin!"

"Bunk!" Milligan spat. "You never had an extra shirt!"

"What?" Newton bellowed. "I sure did! And that's more than you can say! Why, you never wore a pair of socks in your boots in your life!"

"Best way to wear 'em," Tex said cheerfully. "Cooler."

'Yeah, for a horn-heeled ladino like you!" The Kid snorted.

Hopalong chuckled as he listened. It reminded him of the old Bar 20 outfit, of Red Connors, Johnny Nelson, Lanky, and the rest.

The day was gone, limping over the horizon and trailing a few scattered flags of light behind it. The heat was already gone from the air, and coolness was coming on. In high altitudes where the air is thin, over deserts where clouds are few, the heat of day changes very swiftly to the cold of night.

As he rode he chalked up the places they had struck and the horses they had scattered.

Even allowing for the fact that they might manage to catch one or two horses, the 3 G outfit would be afoot by noon of the next day. Night would revive what horses they had to some extent, but they would not be ready to take the hard riding expected of them.

Putting the places together, Hopalong could get a rough idea of what John Gore had planned. Evidently he did not know that Cassidy had recalled his riders, and expected to hit them early and fast, wiping them out two or three at a time. Evidently something had gone wrong, for they had a very late start. If his guess was correct, then from Willow Springs the outfit would have gone either north to Mandalay or south to Poker Gap. If they got to Mandalay they would find no horses awaiting them, nor were there any left at Rabbit hole.

If they struck toward the south and Poker Gap, they would probably get fresh horses there, yet there was just a chance they might still be encamped at that place, waiting.

That he had guessed correctly, Hopalong did not know. Nor had he guessed that he himself was expected to put in an appearance at the Gap, guided there by Dan Dusark.

That had been John Gore's plan and he had talked it over with his riders. That his failure to reappear spelled disaster, they could not know.

The 3 G riders drifted into Poker Gap on badly whipped horses shortly before sundown.

Leaving their mounts in a box canyon, they built a fire and prepared supper. From a hilltop Hankins kept watch on the trail for Cassidy, and so it was that about the time Hopalong had turned toward Poker Gap, Hankins spotted a lone rider.

Hankins could not identify the man, still some distance off, and it was easy to see that by the time the rider arrived it would be completely dark. Sliding off the hill, he went back to the campfire and explained the situation to Con Gore and Clarry Jacks, who were sharing command in the absence of John. He assumed the man to be Cassidy and said as much.

"He'll bed down nigh the spring," Con said. "It isn't likely he'll move on in this dark. We'll get him then."

"Wasn't Dusark supposed to be with him?" Troy objected.

"Somethin' maybe happened to change it. Anyway, the only thing matters is he's here.

Keep quiet and give him time to bed down. How far away is that spring, anyway?"

"Half mile, maybe," Boucher said. "Can't be much more than that."

"Wonder what became of them riders that was supposed to be at Willow?" Leeman wanted to know. "I don't like that. We got started late and that Cassidy is up to somethin'."

Clarry leaned back and lighted a cigarette. "Forget it, Dud. You worry too much.

We're all here, aren't we? What can he do?"

"John isn't here," Boucher said. "I don't like that."

"Aw, he's probably home by now," Con said. "He'll know we're on the trail. No use to worry."

As he spoke, John Gore was building a fire in the cookhouse stove at Corn Patch.

Hot, tired, and dusty, he had staggered on blistered feet from the mountains to the town. At the saloon he found both men dead. Without touching either body, he went to the cookhouse, where he began to prepare a quick meal.

Meanwhile, Ben Lock had appeared at Poker Gap on a trail of his own. Earlier that day he heard the rumor of a rich gold strike made by Clarry Jacks in a mine above Star City. He reached the same conclusion that Hopalong had reached earlier. The way to dispose of the stolen gold was to find it in another mine.

Melted down and in a new bar, it would be impossible to identify. By this means the gold could be handled through the normal channels, and apparently the rumor stemmed largely from the talking of Pony Harper. Ben Lock listened and reflected that Jacks had been loafing about town or riding with Gore, and there had been no time to hunt for gold. Nor had he, to his knowledge, been anywhere near Star City in the past week or so.

Like Hopalong, Lock had decided the crux of the whole matter was the disposal of the gold itself. Bar gold was not so easily handled as the uninitiated might suspect, and through illegal channels it would call for at least a forty percent discount.

On the surface there was no connection between Clarry Jacks and Pony Harper. They were rarely seen together and seemed to have nothing in common. Actually, Lock was convinced that they represented a strong combination and that the 3 G outfit was merely playing into their hands. John Gore was a violent, easily angered, and dogmatic man. Inclined to be contemptuous of Clarry Jacks, he failed to recognize the sharp, cunning mind behind the gunman's easy laughter and good looks.

During the night after the gunfight at Corn Patch, Jacks had ridden into town and stopped briefly at Harper's office, entering by an alley door. Ben Lock had been watching that door, and Jacks's arrival filled him with satisfaction. Starting from scratch, with no previously formed opinions of the town or its people, he had swiftly leaped to the conclusion that Pony Harper was both a politician and a crook of the first water. When Clarry Jacks left town, Ben Lock was close behind him. The trail led to Poker Gap.