Louis L'Amour_Hopalong Cassidy 04 Read online

  “And they say it is haunted?”

  “Uh-huh. Queer lights seen up there at times … That’s what they say. I hear the grass used to be mighty good up there.”

  Hopalong’s mind reverted to Pete Melford and his long-overdue letter. Obviously something had warned Pete of impending trouble, and fearing his niece would be left with nothing, he had written to Hopalong for help. But the letter had come too late to help Pete, and there was a big question if it had not come too late to help Cindy Blair. But it might be worth a try.

  What evidence did he have that anything was wrong? Pete himself was the best warranty of that, for Pete had been a practical, unimaginative man. If he said he had a ranch, then he had one. Nobody who knew him would ever doubt that. Furthermore, while such a man might be thrown from a horse, and any man might be, with Pete it was highly improbable. He was the soul of caution. As many horses as he had broken, and bad horses, he had never been hurt. And the horses he himself rode were always carefully trained and gentle.

  The facts were, however, that Hopalong knew very well that Pete had survived his return to the ranch. His own letter proved that. It also proved that the author of the letter to Cindy was a liar or else did not know what he was talking about.

  “Look,” Hopalong suggested, “you go to the Mansion House. Stand around the bar and keep your ears open for any gossip. Listen to anything you hear, for any of it may be important. In the meantime, spot this Colonel Tredway if you can. Don’t talk to him, just locate him and see who his friends are. He seems to be the one who has possession of the land; that’s as good a place to start as any.

  “Meanwhile, I’ll do some checking. I’ve an idea or two that will bear looking into.”

  Leaving Topper at the livery stable, Hopalong stepped outside and paused there, breathing the cool air of evening and studying the town.

  Kachina stood on the edge of a small flat among rolling chaparral-covered hills. The population might have been two hundred people, and most of the buildings were new. Obviously the biggest part of town had only been built in the past few years. There were older buildings, however, of which the livery stable was one. Behind the stable, which stood on the north side of the street, were the corrals. To the left of the stable was a narrow passage and then a general store, a lawyer’s office, the residence of the town’s one doctor. Farther on were two other homes, then another store, the Mansion House, and beyond it, the express office.

  On the south side of the street opposite the Mansion House was the Elk Horn Saloon, and east of it ran a row of false-fronted buildings, one of which was empty, then the assayer’s office, a harness-and shoe-repair shop, the town’s blacksmith, the Roundup Saloon, and opposite the livery stable, the Chuck Wagon Restaurant. Behind the Chuck Wagon was a long building of adobe that did duty for a bunkhouse, providing for those travelers who either could not afford the comparative luxury of the Mansion House or who preferred, for reasons of their own, a certain degree of anonymity.

  A lean-jawed man with stooped shoulders cared for the horses. When he finished, he came out into the street, lighting a pipe. “Not much of a town,” Hopalong said. “Been here long?”

  The oldster shook his head. “Ain’t nobody been here long. It’s a new town … grew up around Colonel Tredway’s freighting operation. Back in the old days there was a fair strike out past Chimney Creek Canyon, so they built that road and started freightin’ to ’em. The mine went bust and so did the town, but by then Tredway was doin’ business elsewhere and he started his own town right here. He built the Mansion House and a couple of other buildings.” The man gestured about, vaguely. “I come here when she opened up. Folks heard there was gold in the crick down the road about a half mile. A whole flock of us come a-runnin’. There was a mite o’ color, but not much. I had me a couple o’ horses, so I started rentin’ ’em out. There’s been a lot of stuff that was freighted in that just passed through to other camps. They made a sight o’ money out of that freightin’.”

  Hopalong glanced at the stable. “This building looks mighty old,” he suggested.

  The old man nodded. “She was here when the town started. Folks say there was a bunch of outlaws hung out hereabouts. Don’t know nothin’ about it myself. They was two, three old deserted buildin’s aroun’ when I come in here.”

  “Ever hear of a man named Pete Melford? Or the PM Ranch?”

  “Melford? No, can’t say’s I have.” The old man pondered the question. “Nobody never lived in Kachina of that name. Leastways nobody who stayed aroun’ none.”

  “How about Sipapu?”

  “That’s it… . The strike I mentioned. Been nearly a ghost town for years. The stage used to stop for mail, but then the bridge got bad and they moved the route.”

  Hopalong watched the shadows gathering in the lee of the hills and along the east side of the buildings. It was cool and pleasant in the evening in this country, and there was good grass. No wonder Pete had liked it and had settled here. Leave it to such a canny rancher to pick a place like this. Somewhere around the country Pete would have left his sign, for he was a man with habits that stayed with him, and Hopalong Cassidy had known the man too long not to be aware of those habits. Pete had been naturally fastidious. He liked to see things cared for, and he liked things in their place. Also, he was a man who thought of eventualities and prepared for them. Perhaps he had even prepared for this one.

  Something else came to Hopalong’s mind. “What do you know about Babylon Pastures?” he asked suddenly.

  He was unprepared for the reaction. “Don’t know nothin’ about it!” The old man’s voice was suddenly harsh and ugly. “I don’t want to know nothin’ about it, now or never. That ain’t no place for man nor beast, an’ you’re better askin’ no questions about it!”

  “Just wondering,” Hopalong said casually. “I heard there was good grass up there.”

  “Good?” The old man looked up at him. “Mebby. There’s them as says it used to be good up there. She was long an’ tall one time, an’ she may be yet, but that country is evil, son. She’s downright evil, an’ no good can come of trekkin’ aroun’ up yonder. If you’re a good Christian, you’ll take an old man’s word for it an’ stay away!”

  Hopalong picked up his war bag and started up the street toward the Mansion House. He had learned a little, although none of it concerned Pete Melford except indirectly. However, there had been no mention of Kachina in Pete’s letters and it was possible he had never been known here. He knew how easy it was for a man, especially one set in his habits like Melford, to begin going to one town for supplies and keeping it up, year in, year out.

  The Mansion House was a large rectangular building, the lower floor built of stone, the upper of lumber. The wide front faced on the street, half of it given over to the hotel itself and half to the saloon that was under the same management. He went up the four steps to the porch, where several loafers sat waiting. They looked up at him, then away, apparently uninterested.

  The lobby was wide and shadowed now. There were several leather chairs and a black leather settee. A couple of good elk heads and one of a grizzly overlooked the room. The desk was high, and behind it was a board with a number of keys dangling from hooks. A register was spread out on the desk.

  Hopalong picked up the pen and signed the name Scot Cameron on the line below that of Cindy Blair. Her room number was fourteen and he noted the key was gone, so she was probably in her room.

  The clerk was a sallow-faced man with black eyes and a sly, knowing look. The sign on the desk said K. EVENAS, MANAGER. He got up, glanced at the register, then handed Hopalong a key. It was number eighteen. “That’ll be two dollars,” he said with a smirk. “Cash in advance.”

  Hopalong Cassidy handed over the two dollars and then asked, “How about grub? Is that place down the street the only place?”

  The clerk nodded. “It is, but the food is good. It’s quite a sight, noontime. Half the town comes out when they ring the triangle. Big s
ocial event of the day.”

  “Nice place you’ve got here,” Hopalong suggested. “Who owns it?”

  “Tredway,” the clerk said with a sour expression. “He owns most everything around here.”

  “Well,” Hopalong suggested, “when he landed here, there must have been land for the taking. A man could do all right then, if he was careful and used his head.”

  The clerk gave him a sly, sidelong glance. “Or if you were tough enough,” he said. “Believe me, it isn’t so easy anymore. Tredway owns everything around here that isn’t nailed down. I give him credit,” he added grudgingly. “He didn’t let nothing stop him.”

  “Some make it that way.” Hopalong Cassidy waited, hoping the clerk would continue to talk. “Maybe we’ll make ours someday.”

  The clerk straightened and his eyes hardened. “I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I got mine! All I got to do is collect!”

  He would say no more, and after a little while Hopalong picked up his war bag and started up the stairs. Glancing back, he saw the clerk was down on his knees in the empty corner behind the desk. Now, what was the man doing there? Had he dropped something?

  While he bathed and shaved, Hopalong considered the situation with care. He had learned little, but more and more he was becoming aware that this was Tredway’s town. It would pay a man to go easy here.

  He had parted company with Rig Taylor on the outskirts of Kachina and they had entered separately. Since then he had seen nothing more of the cowhand.

  Pete Melford’s ranch had vanished, and apparently into the greater mass of Tredway’s holdings. It was imperative to learn just when Tredway had come to Kachina and what he had done here. It also might be interesting to know where he came from. That was a question rarely asked in the West, but Hopalong had no intention of asking it. There were other means of finding out.

  He was an outsider in Kachina, having little excuse to remain in the area for long; however, if he had a riding job, it might give him a chance to learn a great deal. A riding job with Tredway’s own Box T. He grinned at the thought. And why not? He would then be in a position to hear any talk there might be and to ride the Box T range.

  AT THE CORNER of the hotel farthest from the street, the man known as Colonel Tredway was at that moment opening the door of his suite to his foreman.

  Bill Saxx was a big man, brawny and tough. Handsome in a hard, capable way, he was known locally as a gun handler. A gifted leader of men, he was brutal and cunning as well, entirely without mercy or conscience; he was a sharp instrument in the hands of Tredway. Moreover, the two men understood each other, and of those who knew what went on around Kachina, Saxx was the only one who realized the extent to which Tredway was involved or the part he played in it. But even Bill Saxx did not know the beginning of the story or all the motives that inspired or drove Justin Tredway.

  “Carter an’ some of the boys ran into two hombres over on the Picket Fork today.”

  Tredway received the information in silence. He had expected it ever since Cindy Blair and Rig Taylor had arrived in town, but two men?

  “Taylor was one of them. Who was the other?”

  “Don’t know yet. He was a stranger. Ridin’ a white horse. Finest horse he ever saw, accordin’ to Carter. Rig was set to make a fight of it, but this other hombre pulled Rig away. Taylor said he’d been shot at by somebody.”

  “Shot at? He was probably trying to stir up trouble.” Tredway’s voice was smooth. “Who would shoot at him?”

  Saxx scowled. “I was wonderin’ that myself. It fair had me worried. I like to know what’s goin’ on around.”

  “So do I.” Tredway’s voice was dry. “Find out who this newcomer is and what he is. I want to know right away. Meanwhile, don’t bother Taylor. If he starts anything or gives any of the boys a good excuse, that’s different, but I want him to start it. Understand?”

  Saxx nodded. “Sure. I’ll tell Carter.” He hesitated. “Eckerman was over east last night. He seen a light over Brushy Knoll again. I’d sure like to take a pasear up thataway. That there Babylon Pastures always made me wonder.”

  “Saxx!” The big foreman was shocked at the paleness of Tredway’s face. “Stay away from there! Don’t you ever go near there! Understand?”

  “Sure, boss.”

  Bill Saxx stopped outside the door and rolled a smoke. Babylon Pastures. What was there about that to scare the old man out of his wits? For he had been frightened, he had been badly frightened, and in all their association Bill Saxx had never seen Tredway get that way about any other subject.

  What was there about Babylon Pastures to frighten the man?

  CHAPTER 2

  HOPALONG MAKES A DEAL

  HOPALONG CASSIDY WAS out of bed early on the following morning and ate a leisurely breakfast. He saw nothing of Rig Taylor. He indulged himself in casual conversation with various people, and in each case they were soon doing most of the talking and Hopalong was proving himself an excellent listener.

  The area around Kachina had been a stopover point for the early wagon trains, but those had ceased during the War Between the States. The freight line had been the beginning of its current rise to importance, that and the mines nearby. Although several minor gold booms and one find of silver ore had failed to produce anything but a couple of low-grade properties that barely paid for themselves and employed a few dozen men, supplying these mines had been the springboard that put Tredway into the shipping business.

  The mines to the north and one placer area were served by the town, which was also a supply point for the Box T outfit and a few smaller ranching ventures. Because the town had been mostly created by Tredway’s freighting operation, few of the townspeople had been in the area more than three years.

  Despite Hopalong’s leading remarks, no ranching ventures earlier than the Box T could be located, and nowhere did he hear any mention of Pete Melford. There had to be a lead somewhere. Among the people in the area there had to be somebody who knew of Pete Melford and his PM outfit.

  Outside the Mansion House he loitered on the steps, then seated himself. Apparently dozing, he watched the stores open up, watched the various people go to their day’s work, and began to get the faces associated with certain places. His eyes were directed to older men more than the younger, and each one he cataloged for future reference.

  The whole affair showed every evidence of having been coldly and deliberately planned. Such actions were not too common in the west, and betrayed the mind back of it to a considerable degree.

  He was sitting there on the steps when he heard boots behind him and then a voice said, “Tell Vin I want to see him. I’ll be in the Elk Horn, an’ it’s mighty important.”

  “Sure, boss.” The man hesitated. “You seen Eckerman?”

  “I’ve seen him.”

  “Whatever he saw on Brushy Knoll last night scared the daylights out o’ him.”

  “He’s an old woman!” The voice was harsh and intolerant. “Next thing he’ll be scared of mice!”

  “Mebby, but I ain’t wantin’ any part o’ that Babylon Pastures country myself. Mebby there’s nothing there, but where there’s so much smoke there must be some fire.”

  “Forget it, Pres. Nobody is askin’ you to go anywhere near there. The fact is, the old man wants us to stay clear away from that neck o’ the woods. I think he’s a mite scared himself.”

  “The Colonel? I didn’t think he was afraid of the devil hisself!”

  “You go look up Vin. Tell him I want to see him.”

  “All right, Bill. On my way.”

  Hopalong sat very still and watched the man walk away from them. Pres was a stocky man with decided knee action when he walked; he had dirty blond hair that curled over his shirt collar. He was shabbily dressed, but his gun looked to be in good shape. The holster and belt had been freshly oiled.

  He waited for the man behind him to move, but he did not. Cassidy sat there, becoming acutely conscious of being stared at. He let
himself start, as if awakening from a doze, and then he got to his feet, yawning. Turning, he saw the big man who stood behind him.

  Bill Saxx was well over six feet and his chest swelled the material of his shirt, stretching it taut over powerful pectorals. He was a handsome man, blond, with a wide face and thin lips. He had big hard hands and he wore two guns, his left-hand gun butt to the front, apparently for a right-hand draw. Hopalong Cassidy did not trust to appearances.

  Saxx stared at him from frosty gray eyes. “Stranger?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” Hopalong smiled. “Name of Cameron. What outfit you with?”

  Bill Saxx studied him a minute before replying. “Box T,” he said finally.

  “Need any hands out there?”

  Saxx studied him longer. “Might use a good man.”

  “I rode for Shanghai Pierce, John Slaughter, and the XIT.”

  “They were good outfits.” Saxx studied him. “Know anybody around here?”

  “One hombre. Met him outside of town, though, and he seemed to be a stranger, too. Fellow named Rig Taylor.”

  Saxx started inwardly. Then this was … “Oh? So you’re the hombre who was trespassin’ yesterday? I heard about that.”

  “Were they your boys?” Hopalong shrugged. “I’d no idea who they were, but I was afraid they were going to jump to conclusions. I was ridin’ across country when I heard a horse, then I saw someone all bedded down in the grass ready to shoot a man who was walking below. I took a shot at the ambusher to scare him.”

  Saxx stared across the street. Then somebody had tried to kill Taylor! But who? Why? He shook his head irritably. “You did just right,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean it pays to butt into things that don’t concern you. Ever do any brush poppin’?”

  “Sure.” Hopalong shoved his hat back on his head. “I grew up in the Big Bend country. You got some riding work?”

  “Yeah. Plenty of it, an’ some half-wild cattle back in that brush that don’t want to come out.”