the Trail to Seven Pines (1972) Read Online Free PDF

spoken so and was not quite sure why he had. For all he knew, Clarry Jacks might be a pillar of society. Only if he were, then all Hopalong's instincts were at fault.
    "Perhaps I was wrong, ma'am," he said apologetically.
    "Only a man has to make a livin' somehow. He rides for somebody, owns a ranch, prospects, works in a mine, tends bar, or something. Maybe Jacks has an income or something.
    I don't know."
    Lenny Ronson eyed him without pleasure. Her continued championing of Jacks had irritated her brother and worried her sister. Nevertheless, the dashing gunman appealed to her. He was so fearless, yet so gay. He was far from the cool, quiet man her brother was, and Lenny was full of fire herself and furious that the ranch could be stolen blind while her brother did nothing.
    The only solution for the Rocking R was to make Clarry Jacks foreman. Then the stealing would be ended in a hurry. Yet, although they possessed equal shares, her brother had been given complete control over the operation of the ranch. It had been so provided in Cattle Bob's will. To make matters worse, from Lenny's point of view, Irene almost always sided with Bob when they discussed matters of ranch policy.
    "That's a beautiful horse," Lenny said, changing the subject.
    Cassidy nodded with real pleasure. "He sure is! Best cutting horse I ever rode, an'
    I've ridden some. Got more brains than most humans."
    "Are you staying long? I mean, did Bob hire you just for the roundup?"
    "Don't rightly know," Hopalong mused. "Nothin' was mentioned about what I was to do or the time I'd be here. I heard he needed hands, so hit him for the job."
    "Did you hear that we had lost some hands?" Lenny demanded. "Did Bob tell you that?"
    "Yeah, he mentioned it, and some other folks did." Hopalong let his eyes run over the sunlit hills and drew a deep breath of the fresh, dancing spring air. "I reckon every range has its troubles."
    He carried the saddle under a shed and threw it across a pole kept for the purpose, hanging up the bridle and bit. "How many hands have you got now?"
    "Only five. We used to have anywhere from twelve to twenty on this place." Lenny's voice was bitter. "It's the biggest ranch around here."
    "They been workin' here long?"
    "Only two of them. Frenchy Ruyters and Tex Milligan. Frenchy has been with us since I was a child. Tex hired on about four years ago."
    "What about the others?"
    "You'd better decide for yourself. You'll have to work with them. They are good hands, I think. Kid Newton has been with us about two weeks. The others hired on about a month ago. They are saddle partners, Joe Hartley and Dan Dusark."
    She was silent for several minutes while Hopalong studied the ranch with careful, appraising eyes. The buildings and the grounds were well kept; the stock he had seen was in good shape. Whatever Bob Ronson might not be as a fighter, he was no rawhider as a rancher. He believed in running a good place, and he did. This, in good times, could be a fine place to work.
    "We'll have trouble," Lenny said soberly, "at the roundup. We'd be less than honest if we didn't tell you. There's an outfit east of here who are getting too big for their hats. Three brothers named Gore from over on Blue Mountain."
    "What's the trouble?"
    "They want range. Bob thinks they are a little on the rustle too. So does Tex. Anyway, they've been pushing our stock off land the Rocking R has used for twenty years.
    Tex braced them about it and they invited him to start something. All three of them were present, and they laughed at him, trying to egg him into going for a gun so they could kill him.
    "John is the worst, I think. But there's little to choose. Windy and Con are almost as bad. They've boasted they'll run the Rocking R off the range."
    There was a rattle of horses' hoofs, and glancing up, Hopalong saw Bob Ronson come riding into the place with three hands beside him. The dark, lean-faced man with the shrewd eyes would be Frenchy Ruyters; the narrow-hipped