the Riders Of High Rock (1993) by Louis - Hopalong 0 L'amour
Authors: Louis - Hopalong 0 L'amour
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and would not be accepted in any court. It was one thing to know an outfit was rustling, but quite another thing to prove it, and proof would be needed, for Jack Bolt was unsuspected by most of the cattlemen in the area. According to Red and what others he had found time to talk to, Bolt's herds had not been increasing at an unusual rate. Obviously the cattle were being speedily taken out of the country or held somewhere out of sight.
The moon was rising when they crossed the saddle at breakneck speed and drew up in the valley below. The air was
heavy with the smell of dust and of cattle, but there was not an animal in sight. Faintly, Hopalong could see the tracks of the herd moving off to the north. Walking his horse and leaning far over in the saddle to watch the trail, he led off.
After a few minutes he could see that the cattle were headed towards a break in the hills before them, and he slipped his rifle from the scabbard and drew up. "Frank," he asked quietly, "you know this country?"
"Most of it. That country north and west is bone-dry as far's I know. It sure ain't good cow country."
Hoppy nodded. "Bone-dry? Ever hear of High Rock Canyon?"
"Uh-huh, but never been there. That's a long way over west. This outfit's headed north. There's no water either way so far as I know."
"There's water in High Rock," Hopalong said. "Feller told me so some years back. The wagon outfits used to go through that way to Oregon and northern California. There's a few scattered streams over that way, too."
Gillespie agreed as far as the streams were concerned. "But they don't flow all year. You may be right about the High Rock. I dunno."
Hopalong headed along the trail of the missing cattle and took his time. It was true the farther they managed to travel before they were overtaken and recovered, the farther the cattle must be driven to get them back. On the other hand, the farther they went unmolested, the surer they would be of safety, and safety would lull their suspicions, cause them to grow less watchful.
"There's a place up there," Frank Gillespie offered suddenly, "called Agate. She ain't what a feller would call a town, but she's a place. To one side of the road is the hotel and
saloon, to the other side a livery stable with a few old crow-bait cayuses. Feller name of Sourdough runs the livery stable and another, name of Mormon John, runs the saloon.
"Only," Gillespie added, "Mormon John ain't no Mormon. He just talks about Mormon women all the time. Him and Sourdough been fightin' back an' forth for six or seven years. Maybe it's because they ain't nothin' else to do."
"Saloon, eh? Reckon those rustlers will stop there?"
"Might. He's got whiskey there, only it's his own make and mean enough to make a jack rabbit run a grizzly into his hole. Worse than Injun whiskey they used to peddle when I was a kid.
"She's just raw corn whisky that he soups up with a little Jimson weed, but it'll sure get you fightin' and climbin' if you're in a mood for it."
They rode on in silence, each occupied with his thoughts. The moon was floating lower in the sky, and occasionally Hopalong dismounted to study the trail. The cattle tracks were still plain, and he did not like the look of it. There was no sense to this trail. There had to be concealment somewhere. Either that or it was a trap. He said as much and they slowed down, advancing with extreme care. It was useless, for the trail led on into the mountain valleys, occasionally crossing a low saddle, but pushing on and on.
No rustler in his right mind would leave so obvious a trail. Yet this one was being left, and they were free to follow it. That meant one of two things: either a trap up ahead or something unusual in the way of disappearing cattle. Just before moonset the trail petered out.
"No use ridin' now," Hopalong said. "We'll camp here and move on come daybreak."
Morning found them in the saddle once more, but there
was no trail. Swinging wide, one to each side of the dim
The moon was rising when they crossed the saddle at breakneck speed and drew up in the valley below. The air was
heavy with the smell of dust and of cattle, but there was not an animal in sight. Faintly, Hopalong could see the tracks of the herd moving off to the north. Walking his horse and leaning far over in the saddle to watch the trail, he led off.
After a few minutes he could see that the cattle were headed towards a break in the hills before them, and he slipped his rifle from the scabbard and drew up. "Frank," he asked quietly, "you know this country?"
"Most of it. That country north and west is bone-dry as far's I know. It sure ain't good cow country."
Hoppy nodded. "Bone-dry? Ever hear of High Rock Canyon?"
"Uh-huh, but never been there. That's a long way over west. This outfit's headed north. There's no water either way so far as I know."
"There's water in High Rock," Hopalong said. "Feller told me so some years back. The wagon outfits used to go through that way to Oregon and northern California. There's a few scattered streams over that way, too."
Gillespie agreed as far as the streams were concerned. "But they don't flow all year. You may be right about the High Rock. I dunno."
Hopalong headed along the trail of the missing cattle and took his time. It was true the farther they managed to travel before they were overtaken and recovered, the farther the cattle must be driven to get them back. On the other hand, the farther they went unmolested, the surer they would be of safety, and safety would lull their suspicions, cause them to grow less watchful.
"There's a place up there," Frank Gillespie offered suddenly, "called Agate. She ain't what a feller would call a town, but she's a place. To one side of the road is the hotel and
saloon, to the other side a livery stable with a few old crow-bait cayuses. Feller name of Sourdough runs the livery stable and another, name of Mormon John, runs the saloon.
"Only," Gillespie added, "Mormon John ain't no Mormon. He just talks about Mormon women all the time. Him and Sourdough been fightin' back an' forth for six or seven years. Maybe it's because they ain't nothin' else to do."
"Saloon, eh? Reckon those rustlers will stop there?"
"Might. He's got whiskey there, only it's his own make and mean enough to make a jack rabbit run a grizzly into his hole. Worse than Injun whiskey they used to peddle when I was a kid.
"She's just raw corn whisky that he soups up with a little Jimson weed, but it'll sure get you fightin' and climbin' if you're in a mood for it."
They rode on in silence, each occupied with his thoughts. The moon was floating lower in the sky, and occasionally Hopalong dismounted to study the trail. The cattle tracks were still plain, and he did not like the look of it. There was no sense to this trail. There had to be concealment somewhere. Either that or it was a trap. He said as much and they slowed down, advancing with extreme care. It was useless, for the trail led on into the mountain valleys, occasionally crossing a low saddle, but pushing on and on.
No rustler in his right mind would leave so obvious a trail. Yet this one was being left, and they were free to follow it. That meant one of two things: either a trap up ahead or something unusual in the way of disappearing cattle. Just before moonset the trail petered out.
"No use ridin' now," Hopalong said. "We'll camp here and move on come daybreak."
Morning found them in the saddle once more, but there
was no trail. Swinging wide, one to each side of the dim
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