Dug Breed was greatly disgruntled over his failure to find any clue
to Bud Daley’s whereabouts. He had not expected to find any trace of
the train-robbers. The express messenger and the engine crew said
that there were several masked men in the gang; but their failure to
do more than damage the through-safe and the interior of the car
hardly made them worth bothering with.
Breed was of the opinion that the hold-up was planned only as a
means for taking Bud Daley away from him, because of the fact that
an organized gang would hardly stick up a train and blow the express
safe unless they were reasonably certain of some remuneration.
But he could hardly understand just who would do such a job. The JM
outfit might have done such a thing. There were four men at that ranch.
But Breed well knew that Sody Slavin was too drunk that night, and that
Uncle Jimmy Miller had been at the depot to see Bud leave. This was a
perfect alibi for the JM.
“I don’t _sabe_ it a-tall,” he told Charley Morse, his deputy, who was
tilted back in an office chair, trying to coax a tune from a home-made
banjo.
Charley balanced the banjo on his knee while he rolled a cigaret.
Charley was not very keen mentally, and Breed’s worries bothered him
very little.
“Bud’s prob’ly got a gun, by this time,” he observed.
“Yeah, he prob’ly has,” agreed Breed.
“And he’ll use it, too.”
“What would you do, if yuh had twenty years starin’ yuh in the face?
Wouldn’t you use a gun, Charley?”
“Y’betcha.”
“All of which makes Bud a dangerous man,” mused Breed.
“Gotta outsmart him, thasall,” declared Charley, picking up his banjo
and hunching to a comfortable position.
“Yeah? How would you outsmart him, Charley?”
Charley yawned widely and rubbed his nose. Charley was not slighted when
they passed around noses.
“He’s got a wife, Dug,” said Charley. “He’ll want to see her, won’t he?
Stick him up when he comes home.”
“Uh-huh?” Breed squinted reflectively. It was not such a bad idea, at
that, he agreed.
“He’ll come home after grub, I reckon,” added Charley. “Feller has got
to eat.”
“But his wife ain’t home, Charley. She’s at the JM ranch.”
“Does Bud know it?”
Breed glared at Charley and spat disgustedly.
“How in ---- do I know what Bud knows?”
“Have to watch both places, I reckon.”
“All right. As soon as it gets dark we’ll pull out. You go to the JM
and I’ll watch Bud’s place. It ain’t likely that he knows she went
to the JM, Charley. Don’t let nobody see yuh, _sabe_? Cache yourself
away where yuh can watch the house all night.”
“----!” Charley threw the banjo on the table and fumbled for a match.
“Set there all night, eh? I had a ---- of a good idea, didn’t I?”
Charley rubbed an ear violently. “Next time I’ll keep my danged mouth
shut. Bein’ real smart didn’t git me anythin’.”
“You prob’ly won’t have much to do, Charley?”
“Only keep awake. I played poker all night, I’d have yuh know.”
“That ain’t my fault. You better take a shotgun along, ’cause you’re
cock-eyed already.”
Breed went across the street to the Rest Ye All, where he sat in at a
poker game. It was shortly before dark when the boys from the 76A rode
in and proceeded to regale themselves with plenty of liquor.
Breed noticed that they talked among themselves, ignoring the games,
but drank plenty of whisky. Then they went out and were gone quite a
while, drifting back in singles to meet at the bar again.
“Lookin’ for somebody,” Breed decided.
More cowboys drifted in, and in a little while Breed cashed in his
chips and drew out of the game. Charley was at the office, with the
two saddled horses, and in a few minutes they were out of Modoc and
on their way, unseen by any one in the town.
* * * * *
About a mile out of town the road forked; one road leading to the JM and
the other to Bud’s ranch. Breed gave Charley final instructions and they
separated.
There was no moon, but the sky was brilliant with stars. The road
led along the slope of the hills, winding in and out of the hollows,
crossing an old water-course, deep in the shadows of cottonwood and
willow, only to lead straight back into the sage-covered hill again.
Further on it skirted the side of a hill, and Breed could see a light in
the ranch-house window. Somewhere a horse nickered shrilly. Breed drew
up, dropped to the ground and placed a hand over his horse’s muzzle.
After a minute or two he went on, walking and leading his horse.
The road led in past the stable, but Breed dismounted in the brush
before reaching the stable, tied his horse and went cautiously past
the corral and stopped at the corner of the stable. He was not in a
position to watch the entire house; so he went back to an open window,
climbed inside the stable and felt his way to the door, which he found
unlocked.
He shoved the door partly open and sat down. From here he could see
part of the front porch, all of one side and the kitchen door. The
horses moved uneasily for several moments, but settled down to their
feeding.
He could not see the lighted window now. It was warm there in the barn.
He found a saddle-blanket and a box, with which he made a comfortable
seat, and settled down to his long vigil. He felt sure that Bud would
not show up before midnight, if at all.
Then he did the natural thing under the circumstances--fell asleep.
After all, a sheriff is only human, and he was comfortable.
He did not know what awakened him, but he suddenly found himself wide
awake and staring out through the doorway. A man was between him and the
house, bulking large in the half-light. As far as Breed could determine,
this man was watching the house. Then he began moving slowly toward the
front porch, apparently cautious.
Breed grunted to himself, drew his gun and stepped softly outside.
“He ain’t takin’ no chances,” he observed to himself. “Bud always was
cautious, and he don’t know who might be in the house.”
Swiftly but softly, Breed crossed toward the man, who was so intent on
the house that he did not think of any danger from the rear, and when
within about twenty feet, Breed stopped and spoke:
“Put ’em up real high, young feller.”
The man whirled swiftly, and his answer was an orange-colored streak of
fire and the crashing report of a revolver. Breed felt the wind from the
bullet, ducked instinctively and shot from his hip. The man grunted,
staggered sideways and went to his knees, shooting as fast as he could,
while Breed’s gun stabbed streaks of fire in his direction.
Then a bullet struck in the gravel a few feet from Breed and threw a
spray of fine rocks into his face. He ducked sideways and almost ran
into a bullet, which was coming from another direction; while from
three different directions came the barking reports of six-shooters,
all throwing lead at the sheriff.
Breed did not stop to question any one. He almost decided not to bother
with a horse, but his course was in that direction. Luckily the corral
gate was open, which gave him a chance for a long run before his jump,
and he barely scraped a heel on the top pole of that seven-foot corral.
Hashknife and Sleepy were in bed when the first shot caused them to
sit up, like a pair of mechanical toys. The next shot sent them out
of bed, gun in hand and running toward the door; but the fusillade
caused Hashknife, who was in the lead, to stop short, and Sleepy
bumped violently into him.
“What the ---- are yuh tryin’ to do--knock m’ teeth out?” demanded
Sleepy. “Yore danged elbow is jist like a bay’net.”
“Aw, hire a hall!” snapped Hashknife. “What’s goin’ on around here,
anyway?”
The firing ceased. Some one ran past the front porch, crunching heavily
on the gravel. Hashknife cautiously opened the door and peered out. All
was serene. From far away came the sound of a running horse, and
somewhere in the hills a coyote barked snappily and wailed dismally, as
if protesting against being disturbed.
“Well, now that sure does beat ---- by a neck!” exclaimed Hashknife.
“Jist why do they pick our little ranch to stage a battle?”
“Some of it was danged close, too,” said Sleepy. “Them first few shots
were right up against our house.”
Hashknife led the way back to the bedroom, where they proceeded to dress
and buckle on their belts.
“She’s a small world,” complained Sleepy, “when they have to come out to
our yard to have their fights. What do you make of it, Hashknife?”
“Mebbe somebody was havin’ fun with us, Sleepy.”
“Well, they’ve had it, cowboy. I’m a-quiverin’ all over.”
They went out on the front porch and looked around. There was not a
sound to be heard. Hashknife led the way around the corner and stopped
short. A man was lying flat on his back, looking up at the sky, arms
outstretched. A few feet from him was a heavy six-shooter.
Hashknife knelt beside him and felt of his heart. He was still
breathing, and as Hashknife touched him he groaned aloud.
“He ain’t dead, is he?” asked Sleepy.
“Yeah. They always groan thataway after they’re dead.”
Hashknife got to his feet and dusted off his knees.
“Grab his feet, Sleepy; we’ll take him in the house.”
They carried him in and placed him on the floor, after which they
lighted a lamp and looked him over. It was Red Blair; but he was an
unknown to them. Hashknife made a brief examination of him and
pronounced him a case for a doctor.
“And we ain’t got no time to lose,” declared Hashknife. “There’s a
buckboard down at the stable, and I reckon them other two horses are
broke to harness. We’ll take this jasper to Modoc and find out who he
is.”
It did not take them long to harness the team, load the wounded man
into the buckboard, and head for town. The road was not very smooth,
but Sleepy held the man down, while Hashknife drove the team at a
stiff gallop most of the way.
* * * * *
It was past midnight when they drove up to the Rest Ye All. The place
was fairly well filled, and Lavelle was at the bar, talking with several
men, when Hashknife asked the bartender where he could find a doctor.
“Somebody hurt?” asked Lavelle.
“Yeah,” replied Hashknife, “I dunno who he is. There was a lot of
shootin’ goin’ on out at Daley’s ranch, and this feller must ’a’ got
in the way of some lead. He’s out there in the buckboard.”
There was a general exodus to the front of the saloon, and Hashknife
soon found out who the man was. Lavelle took immediate charge and sent
a man for the doctor.
“Mind telling me how it happened?” asked Lavelle.
Hashknife told him what he knew of the matter, but it was evident that
Lavelle did not believe a word of it. Some one was sent after the
sheriff, who appeared in a few minutes. He made a great show of asking
questions, which no one could answer--except the sheriff himself--and
he grew absent-minded, trying to appear at ease and to puzzle out what
Red Blair was doing at the Triangle D ranch, and who did the shooting
after Red Blair went down.
He felt sure that Hashknife and Sleepy were telling the truth, as
strange as it might seem to those who did not know.
The doctor took charge of the wounded man, and Hashknife and Sleepy
went back to the ranch, wondering what Lavelle’s cowpuncher was doing
at their doorstep, and who shot him.
“This,” declared Hashknife, “sure as ---- has got me fightin’ my head,
Sleepy. What did that red-headed puncher want out there? Who shot him?
Was all them shots fired at the jasper that shot this Red Blair? Who
were they? Sleepy, I’ll be darned if this ain’t some mix-up.”
“Do yuh reckon Bud Daley was mixed up in it?” queried Sleepy.
“That’s hard to tell, Sleepy. There’s a lot of things to work out.
F’r instance, who stole Bud’s cows? Who robbed the bank? Who held up
that train? Why did they take Bud away from the sheriff? What in ----
was Red Blair doin’ out there tonight, and who shot him? My gosh, no
wonder Sherlock Holmes was a hop-head.”
“Well,” laughed Sleepy, “yo’re happy, ain’t yuh, cowboy?”
“Gittin’ thataway,” laughed Hashknife.
They unsaddled at the stable and went to the house, but drew all the
curtains before lighting the lamp. Hashknife started toward the bedroom,
but stopped and squinted toward a corner of the living room.
“Sleepy,” he asked, “wasn’t there a rifle in that corner when we left
here?”
“By jolly, I think there was, Hashknife. It was there the last I seen of
it.”
“Uh-huh.” Hashknife strode into the kitchen with the lamp and looked
around, with a wide grin on his face.
“We’ve had a visitor,” he stated. “Bud’s been here after a gun and a
grub stake, Sleepy. That dog-gone pantry is jist about cleaned out,
and I’ll betcha we’re shy a horse and saddle.”
“That’s fine!” grunted Sleepy. “Takes a load off m’ mind. I was kinda
worryin’ about Bud, but we know he’s all right now.”
They went back to the bedroom and undressed.
“I wish we’d ’a’ been here,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “I’ve got a
lot of questions to ask that danged fool.”
“What about, Hashknife?”
“Oh, about hang-nails, and if he’s bothered with dandruff,” replied
Hashknife sarcastically. “If I’ve got to live with an idiot, I might
as well be crazy, too. Good night.”
One of their horses was missing in the morning, but Bud took his own
saddle. Sleepy saddled one of the buggy team and found it much better
riding than a harness-animal. They went to Modoc, where they found
that Red Blair was still unconscious and that the doctor was still
prospecting him for bullets.
Dug Breed made a show of questioning Hashknife, while Cleve Lavelle
listened. But Hashknife had told all he knew the night before. Lavelle
was thoughtfully serious, and the bartender confided to Hashknife that
Lavelle had lost a lot of money at stud poker last night.
“And that’s the first time anybody has tapped him hard since Bud Daley
took ten thousand out of here,” stated the bartender.
“Lost his luck?” queried Hashknife, grinning.
“I betcha.” The bartender breathed tenderly upon a glass, and polished
it carefully.
“Lavelle’s sure out of luck when they can hit him hard.”
“Gamblin’ is a queer profession,” mused Hashknife. “They’re all
superstitious. They make up their mind that somethin’ brings ’em
luck--and it does. I reckon it’s just another case of mind.”
“Lavelle’s thataway,” laughed the bartender. “Horse-shoes, pins on the
floor, pointin’ toward him, pictures hangin’ crooked on the wall--oh, a
lot of hoodoo or good-lucks.”
“Alle same Injun medicine-bag, eh?” grinned Sleepy.
“That’s it.”
Lavelle came in and walked over to the bar, inviting the two cowboys to
have a drink.
“How far is it to Black Wells?” asked Hashknife as they lifted their
glasses.
“About thirty-five miles,” said Lavelle.
“Good road?”
“Good enough for a saddle-horse. Been neglected so long that it wouldn’t
be passable for a wagon. Thinking of going there?”
Hashknife nodded slowly.
“Yeah, I’m goin’ over there, Lavelle. Have you got any idea what could
have become of Bud Daley’s cattle?”
Lavelle laughed and indicated for the bartender to fill up the glasses
again.
“Just between us,” said Lavelle, “I think that Bud sold his cattle.”
“In Black Wells?”
“Perhaps. That is the best place.”
“Well,” said Hashknife, “we’re goin’ over there and see what we can
see. There ought to be somebody there that could put us on to the right
track.”
“If they would. Black Wells,” said Lavelle slowly, “is one place where
it’s hard to get folks to talk.”
“We never get folks to talk,” said Hashknife. “Let ’em alone and they’ll
tell everythin’. Well, Sleepy, we better be hittin’ the grit. We’ve got
to stop at the JM outfit a while, and I dunno if them hammer-headed
broncs are good for thirty-five miles, or not.”
“You two were on the car the night the hold-up men took Bud away from
the sheriff, wasn’t you?” asked Lavelle.
“Y’betcha,” grinned Hashknife. “I’ll never forget it. They tried to rob
me and Sleepy, but I told ’em that all we had left was the draggin’ end
of a pair of railroad tickets, so he dug into his pocket and tossed me
some money for a breakfast stake.”
Lavelle laughed and lighted a cigar.
“How much did he give you?”
“I dunno. It wasn’t much. Well, c’mon, Sleepy; let’s hit the grit.”
Monte Sells and Frank Asher were riding into town, as Hashknife and
Sleepy rode out. Monte squinted closely at them and turned in his
saddle to watch them fade out down the road in a cloud of dust.
* * * * *
The Miller family, Mrs. Daley and the cowpunchers were all at the JM
and greeted them warmly. Sody noticed that Sleepy was riding one of
Bud’s horses and asked him what was wrong with the JM horse.
“Bud took him,” laughed Hashknife. “From what we can observe, Bud has a
horse, grub and a gun. He took that rifle out of the corner of the front
room, cleaned out the cupboard and lifted a horse.”
“Oh, did you see him--talk to him?” exclaimed Mrs. Daley.
“Wish I had,” said Hashknife. “We wasn’t there when he came. We was
packin’ Red Blair to a doctor.”
“What happened to Red Blair?” asked Uncle Jimmy.
Hashknife described what had happened at the ranch the night before,
and Dinah Blewette almost choked to death, trying to express himself.
Sody hammered him on the back and ordered him to use his ears and let
his tongue alone.
“Do you suppose that Bud had anything to do with it?” asked Mrs. Daley
wonderingly.
“He didn’t have no gun,” said Sleepy. “Least we don’t reckon he did. It
was after that when he took the rifle.”
“Well, tie up yore horses and have somethin’ to eat,” invited Ma
Miller. “You two gallinippers are jist like every other puncher I ever
knowed--always show up at meal-time.”
“Ma throws a mean flock of food,” grinned Uncle Jimmy. “I know she’s
bakin’ bread and there’s beans in the oven, too.”
“Oh, we’ll stay,” said Hashknife. “My gosh, we’ll stay.”
The wide porch of the ranch-house looked inviting to Hashknife. Sody
and Dinah were breaking a bronc at the corral, and this was inviting
enough for Sleepy. Uncle Jimmy followed Ma to the kitchen, leaving
Hashknife and Mrs. Daley together. They sat down in the shade, and
Mrs. Daley waited for Hashknife to speak. His long, lean face was
serious as he carefully rolled and shaped a cigaret before saying a
word. Then--
“Where was you the night the bank was robbed?”
“Why, I was at home.”
Mrs. Daley looked curiously at him, and a fear clutched at her heart.
Did he know that Cleve Lavelle was out at the ranch that night, she
wondered?
“Wasn’t Bud home that night?” he asked.
She shook her head slowly.
“No, he did not come home.”
“Where’d he go that day--to Modoc?”
“I--I think so. He said he was going to see the sheriff about the stolen
cattle.”
“Uh-huh,” Hashknife smoked thoughtfully. “Are him and Breed good
friends?”
“No, I do not think so.”