the Trail to Seven Pines (1972) (3 page)

Worst of all, Thacker was dead, and the manner of his death sent a cold chill up Harper's spine. Had they guessed his mission? Or had Thacker himself spoken?

Hopalong Cassidy headed for the nearest saloon, then changed his course. A sign down the street advertised: katie regan for steak, eggs, and pie. He went up the boardwalk and pushed open the door. Except for a cowhand in run-down boots and a ragged hat who slept with his head pillowed on his arms, the place seemed to be empty.

The bell that tinkled to warn of his coming did not disturb the cowhand but brought a girl with a very pretty face from the kitchen. Her black hair was gathered atop a beautifully shaped head, and her blue eyes were flecked with darker color. She inspected him curiously, and he grinned response. "Howdy! I'll take the steak, eggs, and pie."

She came into the room holding a large ladle and pushing up a strand of hair. "Don't give me that!" she said severely. " It's steak and pie, or eggs and pie, and either will cost you two bits!"

"Bring me both of 'em," Hopalong said seriously. "The biggest, thickest, juiciest steak you've got, and make that four eggs instead of two! If you've got some beans, throw in a mess of them."

"The beans go with either order, but that order will cost you six bits. Have you got that much?"

"If I haven't," he said, grinning, "I'll wash dishes!"

"Oh, no, you don't!" she flashed. "Every cowhand this side of Dakota has tried that! And then when they get into the kitchen it isn't washing dishes they think of! You'll pay-and cash!"

Hopalong's dollar rang on the tabletop. "All right, Katie! Feed me!"

Swiftly she scooped up the dollar and dropped it in her apron pocket. "Sit down and I'll be right back." She turned. "How do you want that steak?"

"Just dehorn it and run it in, Katie. I'll take it from there."

Frying steak spluttered, and then she reappeared with a steaming cup of coffee. She was a tall girl with a superb figure, and Hopalong had no trouble imagining that many drifting cowhands had tried that dishwashing trick. "You're new here?" she ventured.

"Are you the one who found Jesse Lock?"

He nodded. "News gets around. Did you know him?"

"I knew him. There's not a hand this side of Texas that's his equal. And good with a gun, too, although in that they say he can't hold a candle to his brother Ben."

Hopalong waited, wanting her to go on talking. There were times when listening paid off. He intended to look around a bit before leaving. The murder of Jesse Lock had become a personal matter now. Had Lock died from the original shots, Cassidy would not have considered it any of his affair, but to have the man so foully murdered while Hopalong was doing his best to save him was quite something else. He would like to have a look at the man who would do such a thing.

"What will Harrington do for a shotgun rider now?" he queried.

Katie Regan looked down at him. "They do say he offered the job to you."

"Uh-huh. I'm not job huntin', and if I take a job, it will be ridin'."

Katie returned to the kitchen and came back with the steak and eggs. While he ate, Katie talked. "Nobody hiring much now. Ronson needs riders. He can never keep any around with those two sisters of his."

"Bob Ronson?" Hopalong looked up. "He was out there today with Hadley and Harper."

"That was the one. He owns the Rocking R, and it's a good ranch, although it's said that he's hard-pressed for money."

"You mentioned girls?"

Katie flashed Hopalong a glance. "I thought that would get you. Every cowhand in the country tries to get a job there, and everyone tries to dab a rope on one or the other of the girls, although Lenny seems to be the preferred one. Irene has a way about her that scares them a little. Anyway, she seems spoken for."

"Pretty, are they?"

"No, not just pretty. They are beautiful."

Hopalong nodded seriously. He was not thinking of the Ronson sisters. He was trying to get a line on this town and the country around it. He wanted to know just what went on. Sheriff Hadley was a good man, he would gamble on that. How much imagination he would have was another guess.

While he ate, Hopalong kept Katie Regan talking, and the community began to take shape in Hopalong's mind. His keen blue eyes were thoughtful as he listened.

The community was a combination of cattle and mining. The biggest cow outfit was Bob Ronson's Rocking R; the only mine of any consequence was Harrington's Gold Stake.

Ronson had inherited the Rocking R from his father, who had been an old gray wolf from the high timber, a man who had teeth and used them on the least provocation.

He had been honest in his dealings, but utterly ruthless. The Rocking R had made few friends and many enemies. When the old man died, rustlers hit the Rocking R high, low, and in the middle.

Within a year two of the Rocking R hands had been dry-gulched and more than a thousand head of cattle run off.

Small outfits that had heretofore scarcely made their way began to wax fat, their herds growing, their shipments getting larger. Their owners began to spend more money as the Rocking R spent less. New faces were seen around the country, too, and where the Rocking R hands under the firm leadership of Old Man Ronson had kept the town cleaned up, now there were many loafers and hangers-on, most of whom had money or seemed to know how to get it.

The Gold Stake was booming and many restless eyes began to look thoughtfully toward the monthly gold shipments that went out by stage. Meanwhile, the Ronson cattle herds, while still vast, had thinned down. Rustlers took to fighting over them, and one night four known rustlers were killed on the Rocking R range by other rustlers.

Small mines began to pay off, and two of them were looted after cleanups. In one case the owner was killed. In another, masked men had beaten two of the workers at the mine and taken gold from them. A prospector was murdered for his outfit. A freight wagon was looted on the outskirts of town and the teamster murdered. From a quiet community under the rough hand of Ronson, the area had become wild, lawless, and almost beyond handling. Sheriff Hadley had replaced the previous sheriff, who had been dry-gulched in the town itself.

"There's always a ringleader," Hopalong suggested. "Who is it runs Seven Pines?"

"Nobody, actually. The ranchers used to follow Ronson, but lately they have been listening more and more to Pony Harper."

"The horse trader?"

"That's the one, but he owns a small ranch, too, and he is a cattle buyer as well as owner of the livery stable. There's also Sheriff Hadley, of course, and Dr. Marsh."

There were footsteps on the boardwalk and Katie glanced out the window. "This here's Clarry Jacks coming in now," she said, moving away from Hopalong. "He's someone that the newer element around here have been following more and more."

Before he could ask what she meant, the door opened and two men walked into the room.

The first was a black-browed, bowlegged man with a thick body and deep-set black eyes. Yet it was the man behind him who drew Hopalong's attention.

Clarry Jacks was handsome. Gray eyes and chestnut hair, a lithe, erect figure, and an easy, carefree walk made him the natural focus of attention. He wore two silver-plated, pearl-handled guns tied down in elaborate hand-carved holsters.

"Howdy, Katie!" Jacks grinned widely. "Set 'em up for us, will you? Two cups of coffee and a half dozen of those sinkers of yours!"

"You set down, Clarry," Katie said severely, "and you'll get waited on same as anybody else. The same for your friend"she shot a glance at Hoppy-"Dud Leeman."

Hopalong glanced at Jacks, who had turned toward him. "Stranger?" Jacks asked.

"Have you seen me around before?" Hopalong asked coolly.

"No. That's why I asked."

"If you haven't seen me around before, I must be a stranger." Hopalong smiled. Turning back toward Katie, he asked quietly, "How's for another cup of Java? You sure make good coffee."

Jacks was irritated at this flouting of his importance and he showed it. He started to say something more, then hesitated.

Leeman was staring at Cassidy and frowning, seemingly puzzled, but he offered no comment. Ignoring the stranger, Jacks turned back to his coffee and doughnuts. He had not failed to notice Hopalong's bone-handled, tied-down guns. Whoever the fellow was, he was no pilgrim.

Hopalong finished his coffee and strolled outside. He had recognized Jacks at once, seeing beyond the easy laughter to the underlying hardness of the man. On the surface Jacks might seem gay and friendly to many, but he was the sort of man who could be utterly ruthless. Match that to gun skill, and it could mean a lot of trouble.

The High-Grade Saloon showed down the street a few doors, and Hopalong drifted that way.

In the door of Katie Regan's, Dud Leeman stared after him, watching the short, choppy horseman's walk, the sloping but powerful shoulders, and the tied-down guns. He slammed the door and strode back to the counter. Clarry Jacks stared at him curiously. "What's eatin' you?" He grinned. "That hombre scare you?"

"Scare, nothin'!" Leeman dropped to a stool and spooned sugar into his coffee. "Only he seems durned familiar. I've seen him somewhere but can't remember where."

Clarry Jacks shrugged. "Just a driftin' hand. He'll move on."

"He'll stick around." Katie had come in from the kitchen. "At least for a while.

The murder of that boy got under his skin."

"Does he think he can do better than the sheriff?" Jacks wanted to know.

"I don't know whether he can do better than Hadley or not," she replied easily, "but if I was the killer I'd be feeling mighty uneasy."

Circulating around through the various saloons and hangouts, Hopalong kept his eyes and ears open. Long ago he had learned to know the signs of a tough town, and he could see this one was seething. He heard of several killings, of a slugging and robbery the previous night, of another prospector found dead on his claim. The lid was off and the wolves were flocking to the fat herd.

As long as he lived, Old Cattle Bob Ronson had kept the town under his thumb. It had been he and his hands who enforced the law, and now he was gone. Young Bob was admitted to be an excellent cowman but no fighter. The town was wide open and the trouble was only starting.

Over a bottle, Hopalong talked to an old cowhand who nodded grimly toward Joe Turner, the fat, bald-pated man behind the bar whose gold watch chain crossed an imposing stomach. "He's ridin' high with Old Cattle Bob dead!" he sneered. "No sound out of him when the old man was around, but now he's playin' it mighty big!"

Cassidy strolled on to the bar, recording in his memory the cowhand's comment. Bill Harrington was standing there, and he turned, smiling, when he saw Cassidy. "Glad to see you, amigo," he said quietly. "Changed your mind about ridin' shotgun for me?"

Hopalong shook his bead. "Not yet. I'll be stayin' around awhile, but I'd prefer a ridin' job. I may hit Ronson about it. Who is his foreman?"

"Handles the job himself. He knows cows and he knows range. He don't like trouble, though, and doesn't have the backbone for this. You can see why." Harrington gestured toward the room. "At least sixty men in here right now. I'd bet at least twenty of them have killed their man, some of them several. Probably more than that are cow thieves. Another ten would be crooked gamblers. It's no job for a tenderfoot.

"Over there"-he indicated Joe Turner-"is the man who would like to run the town.

He isn't big enough."

"Who is?"

Harrington glanced at Cassidy and smiled. "That, my friend, is a good question. Some of them think I am, but I don't want the job, believe me. I'd sooner ride shotgun on my own shipments."

He shook his head. "No, there's no man big enough now. Doc Marsh has the brains and courage, but he doesn't have either the leadership or the desire. His practice suits him. Hadley just can't do it."

"What about Pony Harper?" Cassidy asked casually.

Harrington hesitated. "There," he said at last, "you may have something, but Harper's not an easy man to understand."

Cassidy changed the subject. "What about that gold of yours? How will the thieves get rid of it? Gold isn't the easiest thing to handle. Not in quantity."

"You're right, and I've good reason to believe that not a single ounce of stolen gold has appeared on the market anywhere. My idea is, their plans were made before the gold was ever stolen, but it will take some managing."

Harrington shrugged, then waved a hand at the room. "And whom to suspect? Any of them! This room is filled with thieves! Believe me, Ben Lock will have his work cut out for him!"

He glanced around as somebody shouted a welcome. "Here's Young Bob Ronson now, if you want that job. Hit him up for it."

Ronson was a tall, well-made young man with a pleasant, friendly face. He walked to the bar, strolling over near Harrington. "How are you, Bill?" He shot a quick, measuring glance at Cassidy. "You're the man who found Lock."

"That's right," Cassidy said, "and I was fixin' to ask if you needed a hand."

Ronson laughed. "I need lots of them, friend. Lots of them! But I'd better warn you that being a hand for the Rocking R isn't a popular occupation right now. Somebody seems to have decided to eliminate them."