the Riders Of High Rock (1993) by Louis - Hopalong 0 L'amour Page A
Authors: Louis - Hopalong 0 L'amour
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trail they had followed, they attempted to cut sign, but there was none. The herd they had followed had disappeared without a trace!
There was but one thing to do, Hopalong decided, and that was to turn back until they found the point where the herd had vanished. Seven miles back along the trail they again came upon the tracks of the herd. Yet even here they could not decide at exactly what point the cattle had vanished. Either the herd had dwindled bit by bit into the desert or it had vanished into thin air.
The sand of the desert was not hard-packed and laden with rocks or overgrown with desert brush and cacti; instead it was loose and gray, unbelievably fine for the most part, and in this surface the prints sank and were lost. The slightest shifting wind served to wipe out a track.
Gillespie reined in and stared disgustedly at the desert. "Look there, Hoppy! That's where we rode not over an hour ago, and the tracks are gone! Every durned breeze that can tilt a grass blade starts this sand a-blowin'. That herd walked off into the desert, and from there it might have gone anywhere!"
Hopalong stared through narrowed eyes at the mountains beyond the waste. Probably the cattle had gone over there, but those mountains stretched for seventy or eighty miles to the northward, and there was no telling how far the cattle had been driven. Yet there was a limit, too, and that limit was the distance they would go without dying of thirst.
"You might as well go back, Frank," he said at last. "This will be a mighty long job. You head back to the ranch and tell 'em where I am. Don't tell anybody else. Meanwhile I'll ride on
to this place called Agate. Whether I find the trail or not, I'll be in Agate the day after tomorrow. If there's any news, have somebody meet me there with it. I don't think I'll need any help yet, but they might need it back at the ranch."
Frank Gillespie hesitated and swore. "Durn it all, Hoppy, I wanted to be in on the showdown with them rustlers! I've come this far. Still"--he was disgusted--"as you say, they're gonna need me back there. We're mighty short-handed."
After the cowhand had gone, Hopalong sat his horse and studied the situation. The herd might have gone into that desert all right, and it might have only been walked in it a way and then driven back out on the same side. That would stand investigation before crossing the desert into the rough country beyond.
Speaking to the black, he started along the desert's edge. Whether he found the trail or not, he had every idea that the rustlers, or some of them, might stop at Agate, and there was a chance he might get news of them there. In the meantime he would soon know whether the herd had been driven out of the sand again.
This was very rugged country; the timber of the region to the east here thinned out and most of the mountains were bare except for low brush and desert growth. Yet there was plenty of cover, and farther west there was both water and grass in the remote High Rock Canyon country. No matter who was directing the move, whether Jack Bolt or Sim Aragon, they would have a chance of holding the cattle for months in that rough country without being seen.
The tracks of the herd had not emerged from the desert but when the buildings of Agate were in sight, a lone rider came out of the sand and headed towards the town. Hopalong
slowed down and took his time. The rider might be somebody he had never seen, and somebody who had not seen him. The livery stable would be the first stop, and then the saloon.
The western saloon was always a clearing house for information. It was much more than a drinking establishment, for it was the center of all male social life. Here trail news was repeated, cattle were discussed as were all the varied topics of interest to western men. The saloon was at once a reception room, a social club, and a source of information. Sooner or later all news came to light around a saloon, and if a man had time and patience he
There was but one thing to do, Hopalong decided, and that was to turn back until they found the point where the herd had vanished. Seven miles back along the trail they again came upon the tracks of the herd. Yet even here they could not decide at exactly what point the cattle had vanished. Either the herd had dwindled bit by bit into the desert or it had vanished into thin air.
The sand of the desert was not hard-packed and laden with rocks or overgrown with desert brush and cacti; instead it was loose and gray, unbelievably fine for the most part, and in this surface the prints sank and were lost. The slightest shifting wind served to wipe out a track.
Gillespie reined in and stared disgustedly at the desert. "Look there, Hoppy! That's where we rode not over an hour ago, and the tracks are gone! Every durned breeze that can tilt a grass blade starts this sand a-blowin'. That herd walked off into the desert, and from there it might have gone anywhere!"
Hopalong stared through narrowed eyes at the mountains beyond the waste. Probably the cattle had gone over there, but those mountains stretched for seventy or eighty miles to the northward, and there was no telling how far the cattle had been driven. Yet there was a limit, too, and that limit was the distance they would go without dying of thirst.
"You might as well go back, Frank," he said at last. "This will be a mighty long job. You head back to the ranch and tell 'em where I am. Don't tell anybody else. Meanwhile I'll ride on
to this place called Agate. Whether I find the trail or not, I'll be in Agate the day after tomorrow. If there's any news, have somebody meet me there with it. I don't think I'll need any help yet, but they might need it back at the ranch."
Frank Gillespie hesitated and swore. "Durn it all, Hoppy, I wanted to be in on the showdown with them rustlers! I've come this far. Still"--he was disgusted--"as you say, they're gonna need me back there. We're mighty short-handed."
After the cowhand had gone, Hopalong sat his horse and studied the situation. The herd might have gone into that desert all right, and it might have only been walked in it a way and then driven back out on the same side. That would stand investigation before crossing the desert into the rough country beyond.
Speaking to the black, he started along the desert's edge. Whether he found the trail or not, he had every idea that the rustlers, or some of them, might stop at Agate, and there was a chance he might get news of them there. In the meantime he would soon know whether the herd had been driven out of the sand again.
This was very rugged country; the timber of the region to the east here thinned out and most of the mountains were bare except for low brush and desert growth. Yet there was plenty of cover, and farther west there was both water and grass in the remote High Rock Canyon country. No matter who was directing the move, whether Jack Bolt or Sim Aragon, they would have a chance of holding the cattle for months in that rough country without being seen.
The tracks of the herd had not emerged from the desert but when the buildings of Agate were in sight, a lone rider came out of the sand and headed towards the town. Hopalong
slowed down and took his time. The rider might be somebody he had never seen, and somebody who had not seen him. The livery stable would be the first stop, and then the saloon.
The western saloon was always a clearing house for information. It was much more than a drinking establishment, for it was the center of all male social life. Here trail news was repeated, cattle were discussed as were all the varied topics of interest to western men. The saloon was at once a reception room, a social club, and a source of information. Sooner or later all news came to light around a saloon, and if a man had time and patience he
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