the Riders Of High Rock (1993) by Louis - Hopalong 0 L'amour Page B
Authors: Louis - Hopalong 0 L'amour
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could learn much by simply being around and listening. Hopalong knew this and if the strange rider had been one of the rustlers, he was sure he would find out before he had been long in Agate.
The livery stable was a rambling red-painted barn with a high-peaked roof over the center part and almost flat roofs over the two wings. There was an office with two lighted windows beside the big door of the stable, and the door was open. In the rectangle of lantern light a lean, hard-faced oldster sat, smoking a pipe. From what Gillespie had said, Cassidy knew that this was Sourdough. He looked up balefully as Hopalong swung down.
"Got an empty stall? And some corn?"
The old man took his pipe from his teeth. "Corn?" He was incredulous. "You gonna feed corn to that cayuse?"
"That cayuse is a mighty fine horse," Hopalong said calmly, "and any horse I ride gets the best."
The old man pointed with his pipe stem. "Third stall. Corn is in the feed bin. Watch out for that bay--he kicks mighty wicked."
When Hopalong had stripped the saddle from the black he fed it an ample supply of corn, then strolled outside, shoving
back his black wide-brimmed hat. The lamplight gleamed on his snowy hair.
Neither man spoke. The night was very still. Far out over the desert a coyote yapped in a shrill, complaining voice, and across the street at the saloon there was a shout of laughter, then the bang of a bottle on the bar. The night air was cool, and there was a vast spread of stars that looked amazingly bright and near. The livery had the good smells of a horse barn, of stored hay and feed, of horses and sweaty leather. In the distance the serrated ridge of mountains drew a ragged black line.
Darkness had come, and in the shadow of his hat the old man's face could not be seen. Only the glow of his pipe was visible. Beyond him the town's street, which was also the trail, showed white against the darker earth. Two cabins were lighted, but all other buildings loomed dark and sullen except for the saloon.
"Mighty restful," Hopalong suggested, squatting on his heels. "Does a man good to relax once in a while."
Sourdough grunted, drawing on his pipe. It seemed to have gone out, and he struck a match, then sucked to get it going better.
"See many riders through here?" Hopalong asked.
The old man merely grunted again, but made no further reply. Hopalong decided to use strategy. "Of course," he said, "you can't expect much in a place like this. Out of the way, like it is. A man might come through here once a week or ten days. I don't see how you keep alive."
"We do all right."
Encouraged, Hopalong shook his head. "Beats me how you do it. There aren't enough people. I'd bet there ain't five men in that saloon right now. And I'll bet all of them are from right here in town."
Sourdough glared at him through the darkness. "A lot you know!" he scoffed. "There's eight men over there right now, and only three of 'em are from right here!"
"Three?" Hopalong grinned. "You mean to say five strangers are in town at once?"
Sourdough bristled. "I didn't say nothin' about strangers. These here hombres ain't strangers. They just don't live right here in town. Peter Aragon has him a ranch back in the hills somewheres, and two of them fellers ride for him. What the others do I wouldn't say."
Hopalong rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Pete Aragon was one of the men in the saloon, and the others were his friends. The chances were these men were driving the herd and had come to town for a drink or two, after which they would return to the stolen cattle. It was doubtful that more than three men had been left behind as guards.
Jack Bolt had only six men of his own and the Aragon outfit numbered seven all told, which meant thirteen men at least were available. Some of these would be needed on the home ranch and some would be left in the hills to scout for Connors. Eight was probably a good guess at the number with the herd, and five were here in Agate.
Watching the lights
The livery stable was a rambling red-painted barn with a high-peaked roof over the center part and almost flat roofs over the two wings. There was an office with two lighted windows beside the big door of the stable, and the door was open. In the rectangle of lantern light a lean, hard-faced oldster sat, smoking a pipe. From what Gillespie had said, Cassidy knew that this was Sourdough. He looked up balefully as Hopalong swung down.
"Got an empty stall? And some corn?"
The old man took his pipe from his teeth. "Corn?" He was incredulous. "You gonna feed corn to that cayuse?"
"That cayuse is a mighty fine horse," Hopalong said calmly, "and any horse I ride gets the best."
The old man pointed with his pipe stem. "Third stall. Corn is in the feed bin. Watch out for that bay--he kicks mighty wicked."
When Hopalong had stripped the saddle from the black he fed it an ample supply of corn, then strolled outside, shoving
back his black wide-brimmed hat. The lamplight gleamed on his snowy hair.
Neither man spoke. The night was very still. Far out over the desert a coyote yapped in a shrill, complaining voice, and across the street at the saloon there was a shout of laughter, then the bang of a bottle on the bar. The night air was cool, and there was a vast spread of stars that looked amazingly bright and near. The livery had the good smells of a horse barn, of stored hay and feed, of horses and sweaty leather. In the distance the serrated ridge of mountains drew a ragged black line.
Darkness had come, and in the shadow of his hat the old man's face could not be seen. Only the glow of his pipe was visible. Beyond him the town's street, which was also the trail, showed white against the darker earth. Two cabins were lighted, but all other buildings loomed dark and sullen except for the saloon.
"Mighty restful," Hopalong suggested, squatting on his heels. "Does a man good to relax once in a while."
Sourdough grunted, drawing on his pipe. It seemed to have gone out, and he struck a match, then sucked to get it going better.
"See many riders through here?" Hopalong asked.
The old man merely grunted again, but made no further reply. Hopalong decided to use strategy. "Of course," he said, "you can't expect much in a place like this. Out of the way, like it is. A man might come through here once a week or ten days. I don't see how you keep alive."
"We do all right."
Encouraged, Hopalong shook his head. "Beats me how you do it. There aren't enough people. I'd bet there ain't five men in that saloon right now. And I'll bet all of them are from right here in town."
Sourdough glared at him through the darkness. "A lot you know!" he scoffed. "There's eight men over there right now, and only three of 'em are from right here!"
"Three?" Hopalong grinned. "You mean to say five strangers are in town at once?"
Sourdough bristled. "I didn't say nothin' about strangers. These here hombres ain't strangers. They just don't live right here in town. Peter Aragon has him a ranch back in the hills somewheres, and two of them fellers ride for him. What the others do I wouldn't say."
Hopalong rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Pete Aragon was one of the men in the saloon, and the others were his friends. The chances were these men were driving the herd and had come to town for a drink or two, after which they would return to the stolen cattle. It was doubtful that more than three men had been left behind as guards.
Jack Bolt had only six men of his own and the Aragon outfit numbered seven all told, which meant thirteen men at least were available. Some of these would be needed on the home ranch and some would be left in the hills to scout for Connors. Eight was probably a good guess at the number with the herd, and five were here in Agate.
Watching the lights
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