Read Online the Trail to Seven Pines (1972) by Louis - Hopalong 02 L'amour - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Louis - Hopalong 02 L'amour
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After a moment or two he turned and started down the room toward the door. As he walked he did not feel another pair of cold blue eyes following him. Hopalong Cassidy had seen the gesture. What lay behind it he did not know, but it could scarcely mean anything except trouble for himself.
Shorty Montana moved up beside him. "Looks like you hired yourself a hand, Cassidy," he said. "All right if I show up in the mornin?"
"You just know it is!" Hopalong said emphatically.
Montana said, "You know, of course, you were just talkin' through your hat like Gore was? There isn't goin' to be any peace in this valley until that Gore outfit's wiped out! And some more I've a hunch I could put a name to!"
"You're right, I'm thinkin'." Hopalong stared at him thoughtfully. "Reckon I've a little ridin' to do."
Shorty hesitated. "Hoppy," he said seriously, "this don't make any promises for me, does it, about that Dusark? I don't cotton to that hombre."
"It makes no promises," Cassidy agreed. "Only take it easy. Don't push either him or Hartley."
Cassidy turned to leave the room, and Montana followed him. "If I'm not at the ranch in the mornin'," Cassidy said, "you tell Bob Ronson I hired you, and go to work. You know what needs to be done on a cow outfit."
"Where you goin?" Montana demanded.
Hopalong hesitated. "Why, I reckon to Corn Patch. I think I'll just take a pasear over there and see what goes on."
Montana shook his head. "Hoppy, you watch yourself. That bunch is poison. And don't you trust that Poker Harris-not by a jugful! He'd kill a man as quick as he'd fry an egg!"
Chapter 5
Extra Aces .
P oker Harris had been the guiding hand at Corn Patch for more years than even the oldest other inhabitant could remember. His background was unknown, except that it seemed more than probable that it had included a postgraduate course in the unrefined arts of murder, mayhem, and assorted varieties of robbery.
Six feet and four inches in his sockless feet, Poker Harris was two hundred and sixty pounds of bone and muscle overlaid with a deceptive veneer of fat. His jowls were heavy, usually unshaven and flushed, and his lashless eyes peered from between folds of loose flesh. His hands were large, very thick and powerful, covered with reddish hair. His head was partially bald, and he made up for that lack of hirsute adornment by a surplus on his chest.
Customarily he wore a six-shooter tucked behind the rope that did duty as a belt, but his favorite weapon, which he was almost never without, was a sawed-off shotgun fitted with a homemade pistol grip. It was this weapon, as much as anything else, that terrorized those close to him, for many a man will face a pistol with equanimity and yet shrink from the blasting of a shotgun at close range.
A drifting miner some fifty years before, when prospectors in the region were extremely rare, had found a patch of corn growing on a flatland alongside a water hole. Evidently someone had planted this corn, cultivated it for a time, and then gone on about his business, or perhaps had died in the back country. Given a chance, the corn made good and grew rapidly; un-harvested, it scattered its kernels about, and more corn had grown.
Attracted by its presence, the miner had built a shack. He found some placer gold in a nearby wash, picked up a couple of cows lost by a wagon train, and soon found himself settled in an easy way of life. Other miners came, lived for a time, abandoned their shacks and diggings, then moved on. Then there was a brief boom during which a saloon was thrown together and a bunkhouse that passed as a hotel was built. The shacks exchanged owners nightly, weekly, or monthly, and without title beyond that of possession. Then Poker Harris came and stayed.
The original inhabitant disappeared, and ownership of the cows, now grown to a herd of an even dozen, was transferred to Harris. By use of appropriate gestures with the shotgun, Harris acquired title to the saloon and the shacks.
Shorty Montana moved up beside him. "Looks like you hired yourself a hand, Cassidy," he said. "All right if I show up in the mornin?"
"You just know it is!" Hopalong said emphatically.
Montana said, "You know, of course, you were just talkin' through your hat like Gore was? There isn't goin' to be any peace in this valley until that Gore outfit's wiped out! And some more I've a hunch I could put a name to!"
"You're right, I'm thinkin'." Hopalong stared at him thoughtfully. "Reckon I've a little ridin' to do."
Shorty hesitated. "Hoppy," he said seriously, "this don't make any promises for me, does it, about that Dusark? I don't cotton to that hombre."
"It makes no promises," Cassidy agreed. "Only take it easy. Don't push either him or Hartley."
Cassidy turned to leave the room, and Montana followed him. "If I'm not at the ranch in the mornin'," Cassidy said, "you tell Bob Ronson I hired you, and go to work. You know what needs to be done on a cow outfit."
"Where you goin?" Montana demanded.
Hopalong hesitated. "Why, I reckon to Corn Patch. I think I'll just take a pasear over there and see what goes on."
Montana shook his head. "Hoppy, you watch yourself. That bunch is poison. And don't you trust that Poker Harris-not by a jugful! He'd kill a man as quick as he'd fry an egg!"
Chapter 5
Extra Aces .
P oker Harris had been the guiding hand at Corn Patch for more years than even the oldest other inhabitant could remember. His background was unknown, except that it seemed more than probable that it had included a postgraduate course in the unrefined arts of murder, mayhem, and assorted varieties of robbery.
Six feet and four inches in his sockless feet, Poker Harris was two hundred and sixty pounds of bone and muscle overlaid with a deceptive veneer of fat. His jowls were heavy, usually unshaven and flushed, and his lashless eyes peered from between folds of loose flesh. His hands were large, very thick and powerful, covered with reddish hair. His head was partially bald, and he made up for that lack of hirsute adornment by a surplus on his chest.
Customarily he wore a six-shooter tucked behind the rope that did duty as a belt, but his favorite weapon, which he was almost never without, was a sawed-off shotgun fitted with a homemade pistol grip. It was this weapon, as much as anything else, that terrorized those close to him, for many a man will face a pistol with equanimity and yet shrink from the blasting of a shotgun at close range.
A drifting miner some fifty years before, when prospectors in the region were extremely rare, had found a patch of corn growing on a flatland alongside a water hole. Evidently someone had planted this corn, cultivated it for a time, and then gone on about his business, or perhaps had died in the back country. Given a chance, the corn made good and grew rapidly; un-harvested, it scattered its kernels about, and more corn had grown.
Attracted by its presence, the miner had built a shack. He found some placer gold in a nearby wash, picked up a couple of cows lost by a wagon train, and soon found himself settled in an easy way of life. Other miners came, lived for a time, abandoned their shacks and diggings, then moved on. Then there was a brief boom during which a saloon was thrown together and a bunkhouse that passed as a hotel was built. The shacks exchanged owners nightly, weekly, or monthly, and without title beyond that of possession. Then Poker Harris came and stayed.
The original inhabitant disappeared, and ownership of the cows, now grown to a herd of an even dozen, was transferred to Harris. By use of appropriate gestures with the shotgun, Harris acquired title to the saloon and the shacks.
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