the Trail to Seven Pines (1972) (8 page)

"Well, of all the gall!" John Gore slammed his glass on the bar. "When we pull out for any overrated gunfighter like him, you'll know it, Shorty! We're here to stay, and believe me, we'll stay, Hopalong Cassidy or not!"

Shorty nodded agreeably. "I'm settin' 'em up, Slim," he said to the bartender. "Drinks for the whole 3 G outfit on me!" He slammed a gold piece on the bar and waited while the bartender filled their glasses, then lifted his own. "To the 3 G outfit! A bunch that was game enough to stand their ground and die in their boots!"

Pent-up rage spluttered from Windy Gore's lips and he turned. "You think that's funny, Montana?" He glared. "I've got a good notion to take you apart right now and see what makes you tick!"

"Don't try it, Windy!" Montana warned, his voice ringing with sudden sincerity. "You haven't got what it takes! Besides"he grinned suddenly-"Mr. Harper wouldn't like it. He sure does hate to get blood on his floor."

John Gore was no fool. He was shrewd enough to know that a statement of purpose made now would be remembered by many of the listeners in the days to come, and he knew also that public opinion was important.

"We aren't lookin' for trouble," he said, phrasing his words with care. "It's true that we are runnin' cows on range relinquished by the Rockin' R, and as long as the grazing between the Blues and the Antelopes has been abandoned I see nothing wrong with it."

This was untrue and he knew it, yet he also knew that few of the bystanders had ever actually ridden over that range since the death of Cattle Bob. They would be in no position to dispute his statement. He had made his own plans, and the arrival of Hopalong Cassidy might complicate things but would be allowed to change nothing.

He wanted the Rocking R range for himself and intended to have it. He was a domineering man but far from a fool. He was ready and able to use force-not the thoughtless, sometimes reckless force Windy might use or the brutality of Con, but force. Hard, driving force that would take him at once to a victory.

"Free range," he continued, "is only held by an outfit so long as they keep it stocked."

Hopalong Cassidy had moved from his curtained booth and had come most of the way down the steps without attracting attention. All eyes had been centered on Montana and the Gore outfit. Now he spoke.

"You're mistaken," he said quietly. "The Rockin' R has relinquished nothing at all.

Our cattle still run on that range, and they will continue to do so. Furthermore, you have been ordered to drive your cattle the other side of the Blues. I repeat that order now."

For an instant there was silence. John Gore was inwardly furious. Better than any of the others, he saw how Cassidy had turned the tables on him. Now any action of his that led to violence would certainly be considered his fault. He fixed his eyes on the bar, stared at it bitterly. Then, feeling eyes upon him, he looked around to meet the gaze of Pony Harper. He saw the slight inclination of Harper's eyes toward the office of the hotel and frowned slightly.

There had never been anything but a speaking acquaintance between himself and Harper.

He did not like the man and saw no more reason for beginning to like him now. However, there was something in the gesture that interested him. After a moment or two he turned and started down the room toward the door. As he walked he did not feel another pair of cold blue eyes following him. Hopalong Cassidy had seen the gesture. What lay behind it he did not know, but it could scarcely mean anything except trouble for himself.

Shorty Montana moved up beside him. "Looks like you hired yourself a hand, Cassidy," he said. "All right if I show up in the mornin?"

"You just know it is!" Hopalong said emphatically.

Montana said, "You know, of course, you were just talkin' through your hat like Gore was? There isn't goin' to be any peace in this valley until that Gore outfit's wiped out! And some more I've a hunch I could put a name to!"

"You're right, I'm thinkin'." Hopalong stared at him thoughtfully. "Reckon I've a little ridin' to do."

Shorty hesitated. "Hoppy," he said seriously, "this don't make any promises for me, does it, about that Dusark? I don't cotton to that hombre."

"It makes no promises," Cassidy agreed. "Only take it easy. Don't push either him or Hartley."

Cassidy turned to leave the room, and Montana followed him. "If I'm not at the ranch in the mornin'," Cassidy said, "you tell Bob Ronson I hired you, and go to work. You know what needs to be done on a cow outfit."

"Where you goin?" Montana demanded.

Hopalong hesitated. "Why, I reckon to Corn Patch. I think I'll just take a pasear over there and see what goes on."

Montana shook his head. "Hoppy, you watch yourself. That bunch is poison. And don't you trust that Poker Harris-not by a jugful! He'd kill a man as quick as he'd fry an egg!"

Chapter
5

Extra Aces
.

P
oker Harris had been the guiding hand at Corn Patch for more years than even the oldest other inhabitant could remember. His background was unknown, except that it seemed more than probable that it had included a postgraduate course in the unrefined arts of murder, mayhem, and assorted varieties of robbery.

Six feet and four inches in his sockless feet, Poker Harris was two hundred and sixty pounds of bone and muscle overlaid with a deceptive veneer of fat. His jowls were heavy, usually unshaven and flushed, and his lashless eyes peered from between folds of loose flesh. His hands were large, very thick and powerful, covered with reddish hair. His head was partially bald, and he made up for that lack of hirsute adornment by a surplus on his chest.

Customarily he wore a six-shooter tucked behind the rope that did duty as a belt, but his favorite weapon, which he was almost never without, was a sawed-off shotgun fitted with a homemade pistol grip. It was this weapon, as much as anything else, that terrorized those close to him, for many a man will face a pistol with equanimity and yet shrink from the blasting of a shotgun at close range.

A drifting miner some fifty years before, when prospectors in the region were extremely rare, had found a patch of corn growing on a flatland alongside a water hole. Evidently someone had planted this corn, cultivated it for a time, and then gone on about his business, or perhaps had died in the back country. Given a chance, the corn made good and grew rapidly; un-harvested, it scattered its kernels about, and more corn had grown.

Attracted by its presence, the miner had built a shack. He found some placer gold in a nearby wash, picked up a couple of cows lost by a wagon train, and soon found himself settled in an easy way of life. Other miners came, lived for a time, abandoned their shacks and diggings, then moved on. Then there was a brief boom during which a saloon was thrown together and a bunkhouse that passed as a hotel was built. The shacks exchanged owners nightly, weekly, or monthly, and without title beyond that of possession. Then Poker Harris came and stayed.

The original inhabitant disappeared, and ownership of the cows, now grown to a herd of an even dozen, was transferred to Harris. By use of appropriate gestures with the shotgun, Harris acquired title to the saloon and the shacks. He designated sleeping quarters as he wished, and if any sought to dispute possession they had a choice of leaving town fast or being assigned a permanent residence on Boot Hill.

Some of this Hopalong Cassidy knew. Much he had yet to find out. What Poker Harris knew he kept to himself, and what his dealings were with those who came and went around Corn Patch he kept a secret. Like many pioneers of both good and bad vintage, Harris had a fine memory for names, faces, and descriptions. Newspapers were sadly lacking, but word-of-mouth descriptions were correspondingly accurate.

Few men appeared at Corn Patch whose backgrounds were unknown to Poker Harris.

Corn Patch itself lay in a canyon once called Eldorado by some optimist or humorist.

A mountain ridge that towered nearly five thousand steep feet above the town divided it from the mining town of Unionville, some five miles south, and the immediate canyon in which Corn Patch lay was steep-sided and the sides lined with shacks. From his windows Poker Harris could see most of those shacks and watch the comings and goings of the inhabitants. Consequently he was his own espionage service, and little took place within the confines of the town that he did not know.

The saloon, which was also his office and home, was a stone-and-frame structure, badly weathered and never painted. It backed up against the southeast wall of the canyon and looked right down the main and only street, which was also the canyon's bottom. A store, the bunkhouse, a blacksmith shop, and a scattering of shacks completed the street, all easily seen from the stool where Poker usually sat.

Behind him was a rack containing a Sharps .50, a Spencer .56, a Winchester .44, and two shotguns other than the sawed-off he usually carried. These were always loaded, the rack was locked, and he carried the only key. Under the bar, within grasp of his hand, was another Spencer .56, a weapon whose ventilating possibilities were scarcely exceeded by an artillery piece. In short, Poker Harris was monarch of all he surveyed and intended to remain so-against any one man or any gang of men.

Both attempts had been made. The first had been tried four times, accounting for four of the graves on his private Boot Hill, and the last had been tried twice, accounting for seven more graves. At least four other graves were filled by itinerants who seemed doubtful to Poker, who settled his doubts with lead.

A dozen men idled about the saloon playing desultory poker. Harris dozed at the bar.

It was during one of the intervals of wakefulness that he glanced past the bottom of his stein to see a rider turn into the trail that doubled as street. The rider was astride a white gelding that walked fast and smoothly. The rider himself wore a black wide-brimmed hat. He had a tanned, pleasant countenance, worn black trousers tucked into cowboy boots, and two white-handled, tied-down guns. He also wore a black vest.

It was the Winchester in the saddle boot that did not click in the brain of Poker Harris. Had it been a Sharps, he would at once have thought of Hopalong Cassidy.

As it was, he did not know that Hoppy had at last yielded, temporarily at least, to the arguments of his old Bar 20 comrade Red Connors. The rifle argument between the two had gone on for years, and Connors, a wizard with the weapon, had at last prevailed upon his friend. That he had won a victory he did not know, and if Red Connors had appeared on the horizon, Hoppy would hastily have concealed the Winchester and resorted to his old and well-loved buffalo gun.

Poker Harris linked men up to things, and the love of Cassidy for the Sharps was known wherever there were cow camps or men from the cattle drives. The bone-handled Colts he recognized instantly as belonging to a man who understood their use, but this man had come to Corn Patch, a place of safety to outlaws and of death to officers of the law. Therefore, this man must be an outlaw. Still, Poker Harris was wary.

Pushing open the door, Cassidy entered the long room.

Men glanced up, then went on with whatever they were doing. Harris would take care of things. He always did. No sense being too efficient.

"Water," Hopalong suggested, and Harris swept a thick hand to the back bar for a glass, filled it, and shoved it toward Hopalong. Hopalong tasted the water, then drank it all. "Good," he said.

"Spring water," Harris replied with pardonable pride. "No alkali."

Poker Harris liked a man who had little to say. The cold blue eyes measured him.

Harris felt a moment of uneasiness and that disturbed him, for so superb ;was his confidence that he was rarely uneasy about anything.

Cassidy glanced at the men playing poker. "Any draw players around?"

Harris's eyes flickered. "Few. I play a few hands occasionally."

"Like it myself," Hopalong agreed, "if the players aren't too stuffy. I like a fast game," he added, "where a man takes care of hisself."

Harris shifted on his stool, warming toward this hard-eyed stranger. "I'll break out a new deck." He glanced out the window. "Better put your horse up. Hot out there."

Turning, Hopalong walked from the saloon, and Poker Harris stared after him, watching the choppy walk, the sloping shoulders. This was a man he should know. He shook his head with disgust. It would come to him. He smiled when the man swung into the saddle instead of merely leading his horse across the street. It was typical of a rider.

The livery stable was long, wide, and cool inside. The old familiar barn smells and sounds made Hopalong smile. They were smells he would always love and sounds he knew.

The blowing of a horse, the drone of flies hovering in the shadows, the occasional stamp of a hoof on soft earth and hay. He led the white gelding into a stall and stripped off the saddle and bridle, giving the horse a quick going-over with a handful of hay. Digging around, he found a corn bin and poured a quart of corn into a small feed box in the stall. Then he stepped to the door and, keeping in the shadow and out of the sun, lit a match.

That he was on dangerous ground he well knew. Poker Harris was a man who would kill and had killed on the slightest provocation. If he got so much as an idea who his new guest was, he might shoot without comment or accusation-and he might not. He was supremely confident, with just reason, in Corn Patch.