Trail Dust Read online

  Hopalong laughed, felt in a pocket, and pulled out the papers which authorized the trail cutter to protect the range brands along this cattle highway. The job was a necessary one, and while it was more or less of a nuisance to trail drivers, most of them were fair enough to aid a cutter in trimming a herd, thereby saving time and tempers. Not all the drivers were fair, and not all the cutters were honest. Hopalong glanced over the paper and then quietly handed it to Lanky.

  Lanky slowly scrutinized it, his companions looking over his arms and shoulders.

  “Great gosh!” he said, turning a serious face to his boss. “This looks mighty good to me. That seal ain’t no forgery. We still got time to head west for th’ state line.”

  “It shore looks all right,” admitted Hopalong, wearing his poker face.

  “This here paper was issued proper an’ legal!” said Lanky anxiously. To his way of thinking, it was not a good thing to run foul of the law in another man’s state; not when a man had a thousand head of cattle on his hands.

  “It shore was,” acknowledged the trail boss, holding out his hand for it. “If you’ve looked it over, I’ll take it ag’in. It might be right important, later on.”

  “Might be—later on?” muttered Lanky. “Great gosh, man! It is, an’ right now! It’s plumb legal, an’ we’re mebby monkeyin’ with a buzz saw.”

  “You notice anythin’ about it that didn’t look just right?” asked Hopalong, glancing from face to face.

  “You mean that spot of blood?” asked Lanky.

  “Yeah. Anythin’ else?”

  “No–o. Can’t say as I did,” admitted Lanky slowly. “Was there somethin’?”

  “Figger so, mebby,” answered Hopalong. “Anyhow, I got an idear.”

  “Hell!” grunted Pete. “You usually have, not admittin’ that they’re worth a cuss. What is it this time?”

  “Just for that remark you can find out for yourself,” retorted the pride and joy of the Cassidy family, already showing most of the traits which were to make him famous throughout the wide cattle country and up and down a long and tough frontier. He shoved the paper back into a pocket, wheeled, and rode down the trail toward the herd, followed by his silent and thoughtful friends.

  IV

  Hopalong sat up in the darkness, awake in an instant, with the sounds of shots in his ears—the sharp sounds of shots like faint punctuation marks in a steady roar of sound. The ground trembled under him, and he thought he could make out the clicking of horns on horns. As he rolled out of his blankets he sensed that his companions were stirring. Shadowy silhouettes were picked out by the cherry glow of the fire and turned into moving men. The roar was steadily becoming less, and from the sounds and the faint flashes of guns he knew that the herd had stampeded from the bed ground toward the trail; from right to left, from east to west; and he knew that it would break back the way it had come, the way it knew. Excited queries came from the darkness about him. Somebody threw wood on the dying fire and swung a big hat across it. All this had taken but an instant. The cattle were still tired, and heavy with water and grass: yet they had stampeded.

  “To hell with that fire!” snapped Hopalong, running toward his picketed night horse.

  Other figures ran after him. Leather squeaked, there came a vague and sudden bunching of horses, ghostly movement, and then the swift pound of hoofs toward the scene of disaster. At intervals Hopalong fired into the air, the flash of his gun winking in the dark. At last a distant flash answered him, and he led the little group toward the sign. After a few moments of steady riding he fired again, and the answering signal turned him toward the left. Soon a voice hailed him. It sounded like Pete, and Pete it was.

  “You hurt?” shouted Hopalong and slowed his horse, the others slowing likewise.

  “No!” answered the voice in a bellow and almost tearful from rage. The darkness hid the speaker’s limp. The voice trailed off into meaningless profanity.

  “What started ’em?” demanded the trail boss.

  “Bunch of riders, shootin’ as they came,” growled Pete, his huge hands clenching. “Shot my hoss. It fell on me, but I histed him off.” A casual statement, that; but a true one; also, an amazing one, unless you knew Pete. He was a squat giant. Once Pete lifted a man, as heavy as himself, high up over his head and threw him through a plank door. Pete had been in a hurry, and the man had been the only tool at hand. The door was ruined, and the man died. He would have died anyhow in the next few seconds, and as it was, Johnny was saved a cartridge which came in handy a little later on.

  “They shot my hoss an’ dumped me plumb in front of th’ herd, damn ’em!” growled Pete, still swearing. “Lucky I wasn’t trompled flat; woulda been, too, if I hadn’t waited till th’ last damn steer was past before I histed th’ dead hoss off’n me.” Thus one might suspect that Pete used his head as well as his muscles. With the last word he started to limp toward the faint, winking light of the fire at the wagon, there to obtain a horse, and to go to work again.

  As Pete faded into the night, the mounted group whirled and swung off toward the trail, to follow along in the rear of the stampeded herd, content to keep reasonably close to it and thus be on hand at the first crack of dawn. Unless urged, the herd would not run far, having fed and watered heavily; but as things were, it or part of it undoubtedly was being driven off. Dawn would be the signal for purposeful action.

  “No questions,” growled the trail boss. “Shoot first. Anybody found with our cattle has it comin’ to ’em. Shoot ’em where you find ’em, an’ let ’em lay where they fall. They’ll mebby find out that trail cuttin’ is damn risky business.”

  Growls responded. Every man was peering ahead into the night. At last one man spoke. It was Lanky:

  “Wonder where Billy is.”

  “With th’ cattle if he ain’t been shot,” said Hopalong. “Spread out: I’m goin’ to signal.”

  His companions obeyed, guns in their hands. A signal might draw shots.

  The heavy Colt roared and jumped. Ahead of them, to the south, came an answering flash and roar, and then two more, followed by another two. The group leaped forward behind its leader. That answering signal had started a gun fight. Billy was in trouble. There was no caution now in the riding of the group. It tore through the night to the aid of a friend. Three more shots flared down the trail, and then there was silence. The night wind whistled past their ears as they streaked forward.

  “Over here,” groaned a voice, and the bunch whirled like one man. One of the riders stopped and leaped from the saddle, but the rest kept on, spreading out.

  “They musta been waitin’ for me to show ’em where I was,” said Billy. “Minute I answered you, they cut loose. Got th’ hoss first an’ then me. Then they fanned it outa here.”

  Hopalong’s match flared, and he hastily examined his friend.

  “Nothin’ to worry about a whole lot,” he said, taking hold of the prostrate man under the armpits. “Get hold of yoreself, Billy: I’m goin’ to lift you into th’ saddle. All ready?”

  “Shore,” growled Billy and groaned. He was recovering from the shock of the terrific impact of the heavy bullet. In these days we hear a lot about small caliber and high velocity, special thirty–eights, and thirty–eight specials; but never was there a better cartridge made for hand guns, a better necessary compromise between speed and shock than the .44–40; and Hopalong knew it when he changed to the .45 in later years because of the greater certainty of obtaining the latter cartridge. When a man was hit by the old forty–four he was hit by a sledge.

  Hoofbeats came down the trail, and Hopalong guessed that Pete was mounted and on his way toward trouble; but the trail boss left his burdened horse and ran a score of paces from it before he challenged, to save Billy from more trouble if the guess were wrong.

  “Pete?” he called.

  “Yeah. That you, Hoppy?”

  “Yes. Ride over here. Billy’s shot. Take him back to the wagon for th’ cook to patch up.”


  “Got you, huh?” asked Pete of Billy as he rode up to the wounded horseman. He reached out his huge arms, and Billy was cradled as safely as a baby. The double–burdened horse turned to face the wagon, where the fire burned much brighter now. The cook knew that someone of the outfit might need that wagon, might need a beacon; but the cook was not foolish enough to be found in its circle of light. The cook was sprawled out in the wagon, a rifle in his capable hands. Pete said something to his horse and was on his way, riding straight for the campfire.

  Hopalong climbed into the now empty saddle, wheeled, and loped in the direction taken by his friends. After a few moments a voice snapped a question, and the clicking of a hammer could just be heard. Hopalong quickly replied and bore off a little more to the left.

  The eastern horizon had begun to glow, and it would not be long, now, before they could give their whole attention to rounding up the cattle. There would be a shortage: of that all were certain; but if it lay in their power to change this, it would be only a temporary shortage. Cattle leave tracks, and tracks can be followed. In this case there was more than a few head of stolen cattle to be paid for: and the debt was heavy enough to press for collection; but right now the round–up was the first consideration. The little group sat motionless, impatiently waiting for light, and light swiftly came. Eager eyes waited for what it would reveal.

  V

  The bulk of the herd had stopped and was grazing as placidly as if nothing unusual had happened. No thanks to it, however: it doubtless had run until out of breath. As had been expected, they had followed the back trail, the way they had come up—the way they knew. This was but natural, and they received no credit for that. The group of horsemen cursed them as it rode on.

  Hopalong waved his hand, and the group split up into its component units, each riding off to take up his place on the circle. It was not long before the greater number of steers was bunched up in a tight little herd, to serve as a magnet to others farther afield. Two men held this main bunch, and the others began to drive in the scattered animals. Apparently they had received no real injuries; and from the looks of them they would not be hard to handle; at least, not until later, when they got their gumption back. There was a thought in the foreman’s mind that after this experience they might stampede more easily—get the habit, as it were. This, also, was a characteristic of cattle; but in this case they had been trail broken too long to easily become habitually hair–trigger. One stampede, thoroughly excusable, would hardly change them.

  By mid–forenoon the plain had been dragged, the ravines and hollows combed. All the cattle within reasonable distance had been driven in. Stragglers, far afield, had been hunted down and brought back. Any now which might be missing had not kept on travelling of their own volition. How many would that be? Only a count would tell.

  Hopalong and Lanky sat opposite each other, motionless in their saddles. South of them the herd began to move slowly, easily, and steadily. It grew wedge–shaped, with the point nearest them. Both waiting men held a handful of cartridges in their right hands. The tired animals began to stream past between them; and every tenth steer that passed caused the counters to drop a cartridge into a pocket. Their hands were emptied on the fiftieth tally; and after that, every tenth animal caused a cartridge to come out of the pocket and drop into another. The dust was still rising as the last steer passed through. Hopalong thought for a moment, looked at his companion, and spoke.

  “Nine hundred fifty–two,” he said, scowling.

  “Nine fifty–three,” said Lanky, with a sigh. If anybody should ask him, that was good counting. Sometimes the cattle passed in bunches, with following bunches head to flank.

  “Countin’ in th’ extra dozen head, that’s about sixty we’re short,” said Hopalong and unconsciously hitched up his gun belts. What assurance a man got out of the weight of a pair of .44s! And it would soon be time to use them. There was Billy, up in the wagon——

  “Yeah,” grunted Lanky, turning his head to look down the trail.

  Hopalong looked in the same direction. Both men had noticed that cattle tracks led southward, superimposed upon those first made by the herd; and that they ran on beyond the tracks of the last, scattered steers that had been found.

  “They shoulda got more than that,” said Hopalong.

  “Dark as pitch, it was,” excused Lanky.

  “Hell!” sneered the trail boss, with a vast contempt. “We’ve never tried our hands at it, but if we couldn’t cut out an’ run off three times that number, we all oughta be shot—like they’re goin’ to be.”

  “Well,” said Lanky, smiling a little. “Let’s go get some rations an’ start after ’em.” He sent his horse forward, toward the distant wagon. “Wonder how Billy is?”

  “Oughta be all right, far’s any danger is concerned,” growled the trail boss. “You head in toward th’ herd an’ send Red on to th’ wagon to get them rations.”

  “Ain’t I goin’ with you?” asked Lanky, hastily.

  “I want th’ longest an’ coolest heads with th’ herd,” replied Hopalong, not mentioning that he wanted the best rifle shot with himself. “We’ve lost enough cattle as it is. Push ’em right along, Lanky. Get ’em out of this part of th’ country soon as you can. I’ll feel a lot better after they’re up at th’ pens. Red an’ me are enough to handle this bunch of bunglers. An’ here’s somethin’ I want you to remember: take a good look at every little thicket, every bunch of cover that you pass on th’ way, that’s near th’ trail. You’ll likely see his boots stickin’ out, if you look close.”

  Lanky gazed steadily at his boss, his thoughts racing. After a few moments of intense cogitation he gave up the puzzle and spoke:

  “Whose boots?”

  “Th’ trail cutter’s; th’ real trail cutter,” answered Hopalong, grimly. “How else you figger they got his papers?”

  “Great mavericks!” muttered Lanky. “Then those papers was real an’ legal, after all!”

  “Shore, except for th’ one brand that was writ in after they was issued. I’m headin’ in for th’ wagon. Send Red after me.”

  Lanky scratched his head, swore under his breath, and then glanced admiringly after his red–headed friend. “Sixty head!” he snorted, with contempt. “Shucks!”

  The herd went on, tired and chastened by the night’s run. Off to one side dawdled the cavvy. Hopalong changed his mind about going to the wagon and looked after it. It rumbled and rattled, its driver taking more care in its guiding than usual. Billy’s profanity kept the cook’s foot near the brake and the whip in its socket. Billy was doing nicely, although that was not well enough to suit him. They needed every rider, and he swore that another day would find him in the saddle. He was lucky: the two–hundred–grain bullet had missed everything of importance, striking only flesh. When reminded of that fact, he claimed that if he had been lucky the damned bullet would have missed him altogether.

  Red nodded to Lanky, listened for a moment, smiled broadly, and rode off after the chuck wagon. He told Billy what was in the wind, took a few lessons in profanity, a supply of food from the cook, and then headed back along the trail and joined his boss. He patted the Sharps in its saddle sheath: the old .50 caliber rifle was like an epidemic on the plains in its day. Its cartridges were obtainable everywhere, as the .45 Colts were later. Unlike most heavy rifles of its day, it was light and slender, its only ugliness being the thick, heavy breech.

  Hopalong’s eyes rested on the roll fastened behind his friend’s saddle.

  “Looks like you got grub enough to feed an outfit,” he said.

  “What you care: I’m totin’ it, ain’t I?” retorted Red.

  “On th’ prod already, huh!” jibed Hopalong.

  For some reason there was no retort, and the two men rode in silence. Then Hopalong growled.

  “We warned these fellers twice,” he said. “That’s enough. We know what they did an’ how they did it. Shoot on sight.”

  Red nodded and sent his horse
forward to keep even with the roan. They had little to say. The tracks were plain. Their eyes were mostly concerned with picking up patches of brush, tufts of weeds, rain–washed gullies: possible ambush points. It seemed reasonable that the thieves would leave a rear guard. He would not be out in plain sight. He would have to be smoked out. After half an hour’s riding they found the trail swinging into a wide circle, heading into the west along a shallow ravine. The two friends spread out now without verbal prompting, riding a dozen yards apart, hair–trigger with alertness.

  “Headin’ for th’ new C 80,” sneered Hopalong.

  “They never heard of th’ brand till they saw our cattle,” said Red. “They had somebody out scoutin’ th’ trail.”

  A puff of smoke burst out against the top of a little hummock up the ravine, and the low–pitched whine of the heavy slug made Hopalong duck. He swore under his breath, and Red laughed. The horses leaped convulsively and streaked forward at an angle, in opposite directions. Red was heading for the shelter of a fringe of brush; his friend, for a deeper wash.

  “Nervous, he was,” grunted Hopalong to himself as he raced out of the wash and swung toward the distant marksman, riding erratically.

  “He had his chance,” growled Red, sending his horse from cover to cover in rushing zigzags. Red was making good speed and hoped to get behind the marksman. Neither he nor Hopalong had spoken of any course of action, and it had not been necessary to agree upon a plan: they had worked together many times, and their teamwork was well–nigh perfect. A little ravine ran off to Red’s left, and he sent the horse into it, guiding with his knees. The Sharps lay breast high, balanced in both hands. He was an instinctive rifle shot, perfected by practice, and he used a rifle much as other men used a shotgun. Gripped between two fingers of his left hand was a second cartridge, dangling down below the slender wooden stock. He could flip out the empty and reload in almost one swift motion.