HOPALONG'S NIGHT RIDE
Hopalong, passing the bunk-house on his way to the stable, paused to
listen. Through the open window Pickles' voice had reached him quite
clearly: "I don't guess I 'll ever get him, Whit, but if I do, it 'll be
for keeps, you betcher."
Hopalong was interested. The death of Gottleib Gerken was an old story
and so many things of pressing moment having occurred about the time of
Hopalong's arrival, he had not been told of this. The finality of
decision in Pickles' murderous intention was so evident that Hopalong
wondered how the boy came to conceive so deadly a hatred. He stepped to
the window and stood looking at the two figures within. They neither
saw nor heard him.
Both were deep in thought. Whitby's inherent regard for due process of
law had received numerous shocks since he left Chicago. Like many
another square man finding his niche in a raw country, he was beginning
to see that right must be enforced by might, until such time as wrong
became subdued by the steady march of the older civilization. And this
face-about in opinion is not accomplished in a day, even when on the
spot and a personal sufferer. It was this new feeling that led him to
listen with respect to Pickles' confidences, boy though he was. Boys
imbibed men's ideas early in this country; too early, thought Whitby,
recalling his own play-time at this lad's age. He stole a look at the
glum face beside him and began to draw circles with the point of the
switch he held in his hand--he was never without one. "It's a pity," he
said, "a pity."
"What's a pity?" asked Pickles, a note of indignation in his voice at
the implied suggestion.
Whitby ignored the tone. "It's a pity you never heard of the Witch's
Spell," he explained, reminiscently.
"What's that?"
"But then, of course," reasoned Whitby, "if you can't find a Witch's
Ring, you can't work the Spell; and I rather fancy there is n't a
Witch's Ring in all the world outside of Yorkshire."
"What's it like?" demanded Pickles, with the practical insistence of
Young America.
"Why, the Old Witch makes it, you know. She runs around in a ring and
blows on the grass and it never grows any more. Inside the Ring and
outside, the grass is just the same, but the Ring is always bare."
Pickles was silent. He was picturing to himself the process of the Ring
in the making. So was Hopalong. It seemed very matter-of-fact as Whitby
told it; still, there was something--
"What's she do that for?" asked Pickles--the very question Hopalong was
asking himself.
"It's the bad fairies, you know, and Wizards, and that sort of thing;
she 's afraid of them. But they can't pass the Ring, no matter how deep
they dig, so the Witch is quite safe, you know. They 're a bad lot,
those others, no end. But the Old Witch is quite a decent sort. She
lives inside the Ring, under the ground, and that's where you go to get
your wish."
Pickles pondered. His eyes began to glow. "Any wish?" he questioned,
in subdued excitement.
"All sorts," declared Whitby. "There was Jimmie Pickering: he always
got his wish; he told me so, himself; and Arthur Cooper: he wished to be
a minister and he got his wish; and George Hick: he wished to see the
world and he 's always travelling up and down the earth; and Allen
Ramsey, who wished to be an athlete, strong, you know: he got his wish;
then there was Maggie Sheffield, who wished to marry a soldier: she
married a soldier; and Vi Glades, who wished to be a singer: she can
sing tears into your heart, lad, so sweet you 're glad to have them
there; so she got her wish. And ever so many more: they all got their
wishes. She was a rare good one, that Witch."
"Did you get yore wish, Whit?"
"I could only count to seven," explained Whitby.
Pickles' lips moved silently. "How many do you have to count?" he
asked, dubiously.
"Nine," said Whitby, with a regretful sigh. "You run around the Ring
nine times, holding your breath and saying your wish to yourself over
and over again. Then you run into the middle and lie down. You must n't
breathe until you lie down. When you put your ear to the ground you can
hear the Old Witch churning out your wish. 'Ka-Chug! Ka-Chug!
Ka-Chug!' goes the churn, away down in the earth. Then you know you
will get your wish."
Pickles straightened up and looked fixedly at Whitby. His voice was
very solemn: "Whit, I take my oath there's a Witch's Ring right here on
the range!"
"Nonsense!"
"Hope I may die! I 'll show you, to-morrow. An' I 'm a-goin' to
wish--"
"I say! You must n't tell your wish, you know. That breaks the Spell.
If ever you tell your wish, it does n't come true."
"Jiggers!--I won't tell. Nine times 'round the Ring an' hol' yore
breath an' say yore wish fast an' then to th' middle--"
Hopalong lost the rest as he continued on his way to the stable.
Pickles' Ring puzzled him only for a moment, for as he turned away from
the window, he was chuckling. "Means some place where th' Injuns used
to war-dance, I reckon," was his conclusion. "But that Britisher seems
like he believed it himself."
Two minutes later and he was in the saddle and riding south, edging over
toward Big Moose trail. He melted into the surrounding darkness like a
shadow, silence having been the evident aim of his unusual preparations
earlier in the evening. Not a leather creaked; an impatient toss of his
pony's head betrayed no clink of metal on teeth; the velvety padding of
the hoofs made as little noise as the passing of one of the larger cats,
in a hurry. Hopalong meant to quarter the section of range allotted him
like a restless ghost and, if the others did as well, he had a strong
conviction that night-deviltry would lose its attractions in this
particular part of the country.
It was not long before he began to test his memory. To a man of his
experience this guard duty would have presented but little difficulty in
any case, but Hopalong had been careful to make a very complete mental
map of this section when riding it by daylight. He went on now like a
man in his own house.
He turned abruptly to the left, heading for the Jill and taking the low
ground between two huge buttes. Just short of the Big Moose trail he
halted, listening intently for five minutes, and then, turning west
again, began to quarter the ground like a hound, gradually working
south. With the plainsman's certainty of direction his course followed
a series of obliques, fairly regular, though he chose the low ground,
winding about the buttes, to the top of which he lent a keen scrutiny.
He stopped for minutes at a time to listen and then went on again.
It was during one of these pauses that he espied a dark shape at rest
not far from him. He eyed it with suspicion. It should be a cow but
there was something not quite normal in its attitude. He rode forward
cautiously, being in no way desirous of disturbing the brute. Circling
it at a walk a similar object loomed up, some little distance from the
other. "Calf!" he decided. A few steps nearer and he changed his mind.
"No, another cow. I don't know as I ever see cattle look like that.
'Pears like they was shore enough tuckered out--an' I bet they ain't
drifted a mile in twenty-four hours." They were very still. There was
no reason why they should not be and yet--the wind being right, he
hazarded a few steps nearer.
And then there came to his ears a sound that stiffened him in his
saddle. His pony turned its head and gazed inquiringly into the
darkness. "Injuns!" breathed Hopalong, doubt struggling with
conviction. He slipped to earth and ran noiselessly to the nearest
recumbent figure. A single touch told him: it was a dead cow; warm, but
unquestionably dead.
With his horse under him once more, Hoppy crept forward. Careful
before, his progress now had all the stealth of a stalking tiger. There
it came again: the unmistakable twang of a bow-string. The pony veered
to the left in response to the pressure of Hoppy's knee, when there
sounded a movement to the right and he straightened his course to ride
between the two. His spirits began to rise with the old-time zest at
the imminence of a fight to the death. Mary, back yonder in the ranch
house, with her new proud hope, Buck and his anxieties, Tex in his
indefatigable hunt for evidence, the far-distant Bar-20 with its duties
and its band of loyal friends, all were forgotten in the complete
absorption of the coming duel. Indians! Rebellious and treacherous
punchers were foemen to beware of, but these red wolves, savage from the
curb of the reservation and hungry with a blood lust long denied--a grin
of pure delight spread over his features as he foresaw the instant
transformation from cattle-killing thieves to strategic assassins at the
first crack of his Colt.
The odds could not be great and he expected to reduce them at the
opening of hostilities. Warily he glanced about him as he moved slowly
forward, casting, at the last, a searching look off to the right. He
saw that which brought him up standing, his breath caught in his
distended lungs; it escaped in a long sigh of pleased wonder: "Great
Land of Freedom! Please look at that," he pleaded to his unresponsive
country.
Broadside on, head up and facing him with ears pricked forward, alert
yet waiting, stood a horse that filled Hopalong's soul with the sin of
covetousness. So near that the obscurity failed to hide a line, the
powerful quarters and grand forehand betrayed to Hopalong's discerning
eyes a latent force a little superior to the best he had ever looked on.
"An' a' Injun's!" sighed Hoppy, in measureless disgust. "But not if I
sees th' Injun," he added hopefully. Wishing that he might, his thought
back-somersaulted to Pickles and Whitby and the Witch's Spell. A
whimsical smile wrinkled the corners of his mouth and at this very
moment the thing happened.
A nerve-racking screech, the like of which no Indian ever made, lifted
the hair on Hoppy's head, and his pony immediately entered upon a series
of amazing calisthenics, an enthusiastic rendering no doubt enhanced by
the inch or two of arrow-head in his rump. Hopalong caught one glimpse
of a squat, mis-shapen figure that went past him with a rush and let go
at it, more from habit than with the expectation of hitting. When he had
subdued his horse to the exercise of some little equine sense, the
rapidly decreasing sound of the fleeing marauder told him that only one
had been at work and with grim hopelessness he set after him. "Might as
well try to catch a comet," he growled, sinking his spurs into the
pony's side and momentarily distracting its attention from the biting
anguish of the lengthier spur behind.
The pony was running less silently than when he left the ranch.
Portions of unaccustomed equipment, loosened in his mad flurry, were
dropping from him at every jump. This, and the straining of Hopalong's
hearing after the chase, allowed to pass unnoticed the coming up of a
third horseman, riding at an angle to intercept the pursuit. The first
intimation of his presence Hopalong received was the whine of a bullet,
too close for comfort, and Hopalong was off and behind his pony to
welcome the crack of the rifle when it reached him. "Shootin' at
random, d--n his fool hide!" snorted Hoppy; "an' shootin' good too," he
conceded, as a second bullet sped eagerly after the first. Hoppy
released a bellow of angry protest: "Hey! What 'n h--l do you reckon yo
're doin'?"
There was an interval of silence and then a voice from the darkness:
"Show a laig, there: who is it?"
"Show you a boot, you locoed bummer! It's Cassidy." He mounted
resignedly and waited for the other to ride up. "Could n't 'a' caught
him, nohow," he reflected. "Never see such a horse in my life, never.
Hope to th' Lord it don't rain. Be just like it."
The unknown rode up full of apologies. Hopalong cut him short. "What
d' they call you?" he asked, curtly.
"Slow Jack," was the answer.
Hoppy grunted. "Well, you camp down right here," he ordered, "an' don't
let nobody blot that sign. I 'm a-goin' to be here at daylight an'
foller that screech-owl th' limit. Good-night."
He headed for the ranch house, satisfied that his section of range would
remain undisturbed during the next few hours, at the least.
* * * * *
"Sweet birds-o'-paradise! Would you--would you oblige me by squintin'
at that!"
Straight north, from the few dead carcasses where the trail started it
led to the creek bank, east of the ranch house; and like hounds with
nose to scent, Hopalong, Buck, and Ned had followed it from the point
where Slow Jack had been found doing sentry-go and sent, in profane
relief, to breakfast and sleep. Hoppy was in the lead and as he came to
the creek he raised his eyes to look across at the other bank for signs
of the quarry's exit from the water. It was the sign on the north bank,
coupled with that on the somewhat higher bank where they stood, that had
made him exclaim.
Ned Monroe's face cleared of the frowning perplexity that had darkened
it at first sight of the hoof prints they tracked. "Must be a
stranger," he affirmed. "Dunno th' country or he 'd never jump when he
could ride through."
"Jump!" exclaimed Buck, startled. "Why, of course," he conceded.
"Hoppy, that's shore one scrumptious jump"; and the dawning admiration
grew to wonder as he mentally measured the distance.
Hoppy nodded his head. "_I_ never see th' horse could do it right now;
an' that bird flew over there last night. He was right on it afore he
knew an' he did n't stop to remember how deep it was; he just dug in a
spur an' lifted him at sight of th' breakin' bubbles: they 'd show purty
nigh white last night--an' th' horse, he does n't know how much he has
to jump, so he jumps a good one--a d--n good one, though Ned, here,
don't think it so much. Mebby you know a horse as could do it right
easy, eh, Ned?"
With Hopalong's sharp eyes on his face, Ned shook his head in denial,
gazing stolidly at the sign. "Too good for any in these parts; would
n't be no disgrace for a thoroughbred."
Buck glanced quickly at Ned and then, pulling his hat low over his eyes,
struck up the brim with two snappy blows of the back of his hand.
"Well, Buck, I reckon I 'll leave you an' Ned to foller this. I got a
feelin' I 'm wanted at th' ranch. So long." Hopalong rode off in
obedience to one of the signals that had helped to simplify affairs
among the Bar-20 punchers.
Buck had signified his desire for Hoppy's absence. He pushed Allday to
the creek and set off at a lope. "Easy as follerin' a wagon, Ned," he
remarked.
"Yep," agreed Ned.
"Stopped here," observed Buck. "Listenin', I reckon. Goin' slower,
now."
"Some," replied Ned.
"Right smart jump acrost that creek," said Buck, questioningly.
"Uh-huh!" consented Ned, with non-committal brevity.
They rode a couple of miles before Buck hazarded another remark. "Seems
like I oughta know that hoof," he complained. "Keeps a-lookin' more 'n
more like I knowed it. Durn thing purty nigh talks."
Ned threw him a startled glance and then gazed steadily ahead. "Be at
th' Jill in a minute," he announced.
"Yeah. Thought he was driftin' that-away. Lay you ten to two he don't
_jump_ th' Jill, Ned."
"Here 's Charley," was the irrelevant response. The Indian was a
welcome diversion. Buck slowed to a walk, raised his eyes and waved
Charley an amiable salute. The Cheyenne promptly left the trail and
rode to join them.
"Hey, Charley, whose horse is that?" asked Buck, pointing to the hoof
prints.
The Indian barely glanced at them. "French Rose," he declared. "Cross
trail, swim river before sun. Heap good horse."
"Where goin', Charley--ranch?" asked Buck, evenly. He did not question
the Cheyenne's conclusions. _He knew_. Buck was satisfied of that.
Charley grinned sheepishly and shifted uneasily under Buck's stare.
"That's all right," assured Buck, "tell Jake to give you--no, wait for
me. I 'll be there as soon as you are." He turned away and Charley
accepted his dismissal in high good humor, riding off with cheering
visions of a cupful of the "old man's" whiskey, which was very different
from that dispensed over the bar in Twin River.
"Well, Ned," said Buck.
"Well, Buck," returned Ned.
"You knew it was Rose's horse."
"I was a-feared."
"You knew it, you durn ol' grizzly."
"Look a-here, Buck. You ain't goin' to tell me as how Rose--"
"Not by a jugful! That's a flower without a stain, Ned, an' I backs her
with my whole pile."
"Here, too," coincided Ned, in hearty accord.
"We lost th' trail, Ned."
"You bet!"
"In th' Jill."
"Took a boat," suggested Ned, solemnly.
Buck concealed his amusement. "Or a balloon," he offered.
"Mebby," assented Ned. "Could n't pick her up agin, nohow."
"Not if we 'd had a dog," declared Buck.
"Or a' Injun," supplemented Ned. They gazed at one another for a second
and, of one mind, spun their horses around and off for the ranch like
thoroughbreds at the drop of the flag.
"I just thought o' Charley," explained Buck.
"Here, too," grunted Ned.
"Might talk," said Buck.
"You bet."
Charley heard them coming. When he saw them, the explanation to his
untutored mind was a race. Determined to be in at the finish, he laid
the quirt to his pony with enthusiastic zeal, casting a rapid glance
over his shoulder, now and then, to see if he were holding his own. It
was a sight to see the tireless little pony wake up under punishment.
He had covered twenty miles that day and over forty the day before, but
he shot forward on his wiry legs like a startled jack-rabbit and in
one-two-three order they thundered up to the ranch house with a noise
that brought Mary to the door.
"Well, Buck Peters!" she exclaimed, "ain't you _never_ goin' to grow up?
Yo're worse'n that loco husband o' mine, right now."
Buck grinned at the abashed Ned and winked knowingly at Mary. He and
Mary were very good friends, Buck long ago having gauged her sterling
worth and become aware of her mischievous propensity for teasing. As he
led Charley indoors he asked for Hopalong and learned that he had set
off for Twin River soon after his arrival at the ranch house.
* * * * *
Hopalong had taken his cue from Buck without question but not without
curiosity. On his way to the house he decided, not without a longing
thought in the direction of Red Connors, foreman _pro tem_ of the
Bar-20, that Tex Ewalt would be all the better for a knowledge of recent
events. Therefore he paused only long enough to inform Mary of his
intention before starting in search of him. At Twin River he pulled up
at the Why-Not and went in for a drink. Tex was standing at the bar and
ten minutes after Hopalong left, Tex had overtaken him on the Wayback
trail. They struck off through the undergrowth until secure from
observation, and Tex was soon acquainted with the latest attempt at
stock reduction.
He listened silently until Hopalong mentioned the kind of man who had
done the killing. "Big Saxe," he exclaimed. "So, that's his game.
Well, we got 'em now, Hopalong. I can lay my hands on that cow-killer
right soon, an' he 'll squeal, you bet. An' I got a long way to go.
_Adios_."
"Blamed grasshopper!" grumbled Hopalong. "Never even guessed where that
horse come from. If Big Saxe is on him yet, you shore got a long
journey, Tex."