HOPALONG'S MOVE
Hopalong, nursing Allday with due regard to the miles yet to be
travelled, was disagreeably surprised to recognize Cock Murray in the
horseman approaching. The explanation offered did not improve his
temper. He turned on Murray a hard stare that was less a probe than an
exponent of destruction to a liar. There was that about Hopalong which
spelled danger; no strong man is without it; and few men, honest or not,
fail of the impression when in the presence of it. Cock Murray was no
coward. He was distinctly not afraid to meet death at a moment's notice
or with no notice at all, if it came that way; yet he was grateful to be
able to face that stare with an honest purpose in his heart.
"Murray, down Texas way h--l-raisin' on a range means sudden death.
It's a-goin' to stop on th' Double Y. Which side are you on?"
"If it depends on my say-so, th' Double Y is as peaceful as a' Eastern
dairy from this out."
"Let 'er go at that. How 's that cayuse?"
"Good, an' fresh as paint. I on'y breathed him, comin' from Twin."
"Swap. This bay has come along right smart for twenty miles. I ain't
goin' to lose you much, either. Th' boys is after us but they won't
catch you."
Hopalong was well past the Sweet-Echo before the pinto was recognized.
Slick let out a yell of surprise. The Cyclone puncher sauntered to the
window, where Slick was pointing, glanced up the trail and laughed.
"That's a friend o' Buck's," he explained, "an' he 's certainly aimin'
to get there, wherever it is, as quick as he can."
"Ain't that yore pinto?" queried Slick.
"Less 'n I 'm blind," agreed the cow-punch.
"Seems to me there's a lot o' swappin' goin' on som'ers along th' Big
Moose," hazarded Slick. "Which they can't _all_ be backin' winners," he
added, thoughtfully.
They were still seeking light in useless discussion when the
long-striding Allday went past. Slick shouted to Murray for news but
Cock waved his hand without speaking. Twin River was beginning to show
a languid interest. Day-and-night _habitues_ of the I-Call lounged out
into the open and gazed after Cock inquiringly, irritated Pop Snow into
a frantic change of base by their apparently earnest belief in his
knowledge of these events and their demands for information, and lounged
back again; Dutch Fred soothed the peevish old man by talking "like he
had some sense"; having sense proved an asset once more as Dirty, no one
being near, suddenly discovered a thirst. Ike, wise old wolf, though
unable to solve the riddle, smelled a killing. "Stay around," he
advised several of his own trustworthy satellites. Little Nell alone,
who looked on and read as the others ran, came near to supplying the
missing print: "The French Rose has shook Dave," she decided. "Dave has
pulled his freight and the Double Y is on the prod after him. Smiler
ought to show for place but the minute he looks like a winner the Texan
'll pump him full of lead. The Double Y will win out. Maybe Ned--"
Little Nell's wild heart had regretted bluff, kindly Ned, these many
days.
The passing of the Double Y punchers, strung out half a mile, confirmed
Nell's guess. The Cyclone puncher, hurriedly throwing the leather on
the Goat, loped along beside Slow Jack, the last in the string,
obtaining from him such meagre information as only whetted his
curiosity. He returned to the Sweet-Echo and Slick, disdaining to reply
to the I-Call loungers. Ike was too wise to risk a rebuff; he already
knew enough from what he had seen. "Pickin's, boys," was his laconic
comment; and soon a company of five Autolycus-minded gentlemen took the
Big Moose trail, openly. The break-up of this chance foray was largely
due to the simple matter of direction.
Hopalong, knowing nothing of the wagging tongues at Twin River, drove
the pinto for every ounce there was in him. A vague uneasiness, risen
with the delivery of Buck's message by Cock Murray, rode with Hopalong;
he could not shake it off. Ten minutes beyond Two Fork he saw the
buckboard and the curse in his throat had its origin in a conviction as
accurate as Whitby's had been. He turned and rode beside them. "Well,
they got you, Buck," was his quiet comment.
"Shore did," admitted Buck. "Ambushed at four hundred--first shot--bad
medicine. I lit a-runnin' an' caves in just as th' next ball drops th'
bronc. I lays most mighty still. He thinks I kicked th' bucket but he
's afraid to find out. I was hopin' he 'd come to see. He gets away
quiet an' I lay an' bleed a-waitin' for him. Rose an' Whit here wakes
me out of a sweet dream." He smiled up at Rose whose anxiety was
evident.
"Too much talk," she warned him.
"Dave?" asked Hopalong, looking at Whitby, who nodded.
"How far?"
"Two miles; possibly less," answered Whitby.
"I 'll get him," said Hopalong, with quiet certitude. "So long, Buck."
"So long, Hoppy. Go with him, Whit. Can't afford another ambush."
"Very well, Buck. You will find a medicine-chest in my kit, Miss
McAllister."
Whitby turned and rode hard after Hopalong who, nevertheless, arrived at
the dead pony considerably in advance, and after a searching look
around, rode straight to the ambush. The signs of its recent occupancy
were plain to be seen. Hopalong got down and squatted under cover as
Dave must have done, from which position his shrewd mind deduced the
cause of the poor shot: a swinging limb, which had deflected the bullet
at the critical moment. The signs showed Dave had led his horse from
the spot, finally mounting and riding off in a direction well to the
east of Wayback. Minute after minute Hopalong tracked at a slow canter;
suddenly his pony sprang forward with a rush: even to the Englishman's
inexperienced eyes there was evidence of Dave having gone faster; very
much faster, Whitby thought, as he rode his best to hold the pace,
wondering meanwhile, how it was possible to track at such speed. It was
n't possible: Dave had set a straight line for Wayback and gone off like
a jack rabbit. Hopalong was simply backing his guess.
Exhaustive inquiries in Wayback seemed to show that Hoppy had guessed
wrong. No one had seen Dave. No one had seen Schatz, either; the bank
president had gone to Helena and his single clerk, single in a double
sense, was an unknown number of miles distant on a journey in courtship.
The station agent declared Dave had neither purchased a ticket nor taken
any train from the Wayback station. Whitby became downcast but
Hopalong, with each fruitless inquiry, gathered cheerfulness almost to
loquacity. It was his way. "Cheer up, Whit," he encouraged: "I'd 'a'
been punchin' cows an' dodgin' Injuns in th' Happy Hunting Grounds
before I could rope a yearlin' if I 'd allus give up when I was beat."
Whitby looked at him gloomily. "I 'm fair stumped," he admitted. "D'
you think, now, it would be wisdom to go back and follow his spoor?"
"Spoor is good. He came to Wayback, Whit, sure as yo 're a bloomin'
Britisher. Keep a-lookin' at me, now: There 's a bum over by th'
barber's has been watchin' us earnest ever since we hit town; he 's
stuck to us like a shadow; see if you know him. Easy, now. Don't scare
him off."
Whitby won his way into Hopalong's heart by the simplicity of his
manoeuvre. Taking from his lips the cigar he was smoking, he waved it
in the general direction of the station. "You said a bum near the
barber-shop," he repeated. His pony suddenly leaped into the air and
manifested an inexplicable and exuberant interest in life. When
quieted, Whitby was facing the barber's and carefully examining the bum.
Hopalong chuckled through serious lips. Whitby had allowed the hot end
of his cigar to come in contact with the pony's hide. "No, can't say I
do; but he evidently knows me. Dashed if he does n't want me to follow
him," and Whitby looked his astonishment.
Hopalong's eyes sparkled. "Get a-goin', Whit. Here's where ye call th'
turn. What'd I tell you?" He wheeled and rode back to the station.
Whitby followed the shambling figure down the street and around the
corner of a saloon, where he discovered him sunning himself on a heap of
rubbish, in the rear.
"Well, my man; what is it?" asked Whitby.
The crisp, incisive tones brought him up standing; he saluted and came
forward eagerly. "Youse lookin' f'r Dave?" he responded.
"What of it?"
"I seen him jump d' train down by d' pens. She wuz goin'
hell-bent-f'r-election, too. Wen Dave jumps, I drops. Dave an' me
don't pal."
"Why not?"
"Didn't he git me run out o' Twin? Youse was dere. Don'tcher 'member
Pickles an' Dutch Onion--Pickles' old man--an' dat Come Seven guy w'at
stopped d' row? Don'tcher?"
"Yes; I do. Are you the man who shied the bottle?"
"Ke-rect. I 'd done f'r him, too, but dey put d' ki-bosh on me."
"And are you sure it was Dave? Did the train stop?"
"Stop nothin'! 'T was a string o' empties. Dave jumped it, all right.
An' I 'd hoof it all d' way to Sante Fe to see him swing."
"Deuced good sentiment, by Jove. Here, you need--well, a number of
things, don't you know."
Boomerang gazed after the departing Englishman and blinked rapidly at
the bill in his hand. Did he or did he not see a zero following that
two? With a fervent prayer for sanity he carefully tucked it out of
sight.
Whitby returned to Hopalong as much elated as previously he had been
cast down. "We have the bally blackguard," was his glad assurance.
"Where?" asked Hopalong; "in yore pocket, or yore hat, or only in yore
mind." Whitby explained and Hopalong promptly appealed to the station
agent.
It was a weary wait. Whitby, a patient man himself, found occasion to
admire the motionless relaxation of Hopalong, who appeared to be storing
energy until such time as he would require it. To Whitby, who was well
acquainted with the jungle of India, it was the inertia of the tiger,
waiting for the dusk.
The station door opened again but this time with a snappier purpose that
seemed promising. Whitby turned his head. The railroader nodded as one
well satisfied with himself. "Got your man," he announced, with a grin
of congratulation. "He dropped off at X----. Don't seem a whole lot
scared. Took a room at th' hotel. Goin' to turn him over to the
sheriff?"
"No," answered Hopalong, "an' I don't want nothin' to get out here,
_sabe_? If it does, yo 're th' huckleberry. When 's th' next train
East?"
"It's past due, but it 'll be along in twenty minutes."
"I 'll take a ticket," and Hopalong rose to his feet and followed him
into the station. He returned shortly, to apologize for leaving Whitby
behind. "I know you 'd like to go, Whit, but you ought to find out
about that money. Better stay here an' see them bank people in th'
mornin'."
Whitby acknowledged the wisdom of this and agreed to call on Buck at
Jean's on his way back to the ranch. "You tell Buck Dave is at X----,"
said Hoppy. "An' that's where he stays," he added, grimly. "Here she
comes."
Long before this, the usual crowd of idlers had gathered; and now the
rest of Wayback began to ooze into the road and toward the station. As
the train drew in it attracted even a half-shaved man from the barber's,
hastily wiping the soap from his face as he ran; after him came the
barber, closing the razor and sticking it in his pocket. The first man
off the cars was a fox-faced little hunchback, whose deformity in no way
detracted from his agile strength; after him, with studied carelessness,
came Tex. Hopalong grunted, turned his head as the clatter of hoofs
sounded through the turmoil, and signalled Chesty Sutton, first man of
the rapidly arriving Double Y punchers.
"Don't you stray none, screech-owl, or I 'll drop you," he warned the
captive, who shot one impish glance at the speaker and froze in his
tracks. "Chesty, tell Ned to take this coyote to th' ranch, an' don't
let him get away, not if you has to shoot him."
"Hold hard, stranger. He looks mighty like Big Saxe to me, an' if he
is, I wants him. I got a warrant for him in my clo'es." The deputy
sheriff started forward.
"Wait!" commanded Hopalong. The deputy waited. "Tex, hold that train.
You an' me are goin' th' same way. Mr. Sheriff, I got a warrant ahead
o' yourn an' I wants him. You 'll find him at th' Double Y ranch when I
gets through with him."
Slow Jack, the last of the Double Y punchers, loped up to the station,
swung from his saddle and joined the interested group surrounding the
disputants.
"If that's Big Saxe I wants him now an' I 'm goin' to take him."
"Don't you, son." Kind as Hopalong's tone sounded, the deputy halted
again. "Bow-Wow, hit th' trail an' have eyes in th' back of yore head.
Straddle, boys." The crowd scattered as the mounted punchers moved
their ponies about, to open a clear space. Hopalong met the eye of the
hunchback, whose clear, shrewd glance recognized the master of the
moment. "Screechy! that pinto 's a-waitin' for you an' if any
son-of-a-gun gets there first, _you_ won't need no bracelets. Git!"
Struggling between indecision and duty, the deputy saw the group of
punchers, the pinto in advance, turn into the Twin River trail. "Looky
here!" he began fiercely to Hopalong, "'pears to me--"
"Bah! Tell it to Schatz"; and Hopalong sprang up the steps, followed by
Tex, to the outspoken regret of Wayback's citizens there assembled.