"THE TRAIL TO SEVEN PINES" - читать интересную книгу автора (L'Amour Louis)

to say something more, then hesitated.
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Leeman was staring at Cassidy and frowning, seemingly puzzled, but he offered no
comment. Ignoring the stranger, Jacks turned back to his coffee and doughnuts. He
had not failed to notice Hopalong's bone-handled, tied-down guns. Whoever the fellow
was, he was no pilgrim.
Hopalong finished his coffee and strolled outside. He had recognized Jacks at once,
seeing beyond the easy laughter to the underlying hardness of the man. On the surface
Jacks might seem gay and friendly to many, but he was the sort of man who could be
utterly ruthless. Match that to gun skill, and it could mean a lot of trouble.
The High-Grade Saloon showed down the street a few doors, and Hopalong drifted that
way.
In the door of Katie Regan's, Dud Leeman stared after him, watching the short, choppy
horseman's walk, the sloping but powerful shoulders, and the tied-down guns. He slammed
the door and strode back to the counter. Clarry Jacks stared at him curiously. "What's
eatin' you?" He grinned. "That hombre scare you?"
"Scare, nothin'!" Leeman dropped to a stool and spooned sugar into his coffee. "Only
he seems durned familiar. I've seen him somewhere but can't remember where."
Clarry Jacks shrugged. "Just a driftin' hand. He'll move on."
"He'll stick around." Katie had come in from the kitchen. "At least for a while.
The murder of that boy got under his skin."
"Does he think he can do better than the sheriff?" Jacks wanted to know.
"I don't know whether he can do better than Hadley or not,"
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THE TRAIL TO SEVEN PINES
she replied easily, "but if I was the killer I'd be feeling mighty uneasy."
Circulating around through the various saloons and hangouts, Hopalong kept his eyes
and ears open. Long ago he had learned to know the signs of a tough town, and he
could see this one was seething. He heard of several killings, of a slugging and
robbery the previous night, of another prospector found dead on his claim. The lid
was off and the wolves were flocking to the fat herd.
As long as he lived, Old Cattle Bob Ronson had kept the town under his thumb. It
had been he and his hands who enforced the law, and now he was gone. Young Bob was
admitted to be an excellent cowman but no fighter. The town was wide open and the
trouble was only starting.
Over a bottle, Hopalong talked to an old cowhand who nodded grimly toward Joe Turner,
the fat, bald-pated man behind the bar whose gold watch chain crossed an imposing
stomach. "He's ridin' high with Old Cattle Bob dead!" he sneered. "No sound out of
him when the old man was around, but now he's playin' it mighty big!"
Cassidy strolled on to the bar, recording in his memory the cowhand's comment. Bill
Harrington was standing there, and he turned, smiling, when he saw Cassidy. "Glad
to see you, amigo," he said quietly. "Changed your mind about ridin' shotgun for
me?"
Hopalong shook his bead. "Not yet. I'll be stayin' around awhile, but I'd prefer
a ridin' job. I may hit Ronson about it. Who is his foreman?"
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