“Lavelle thinks that Bud sold his cows and lied about ’em bein’ stolen.”
“That is not true! Why, Bud wouldn’t do a thing like that. You ought to
know Bud better----”
“I didn’t say it,” interrupted Hashknife. “Lavelle said it.”
“Well, it’s not true. We were just getting a good start in life, when
this all happened.”
“All right.” Hashknife nodded and shoved his hat onto the back of his
head. “Why didn’t Bud talk at the trial?”
“Why didn’t he talk?” Mrs. Daley looked at Hashknife closely.
“Yeah. He didn’t even try to tell where he was that night.”
“No, he didn’t tell,” Mrs. Daley spoke softly. “He wouldn’t tell
anything.”
“Feller ought to talk,” said Hashknife slowly. “Did he ever tell you
that he didn’t do it, May?”
“No.” Softly.
“Did he ever tell you where he was that night?”
“No.”
“Say!”
Hashknife turned half-around and looked at her. She lowered her eyes,
but he put his hand on her shoulder and she looked up at him, her eyes
filmed with tears.
“May Daley, did Bud talk to you a-tall?”
She bit her lips to try and keep back the tears, as she shook her head.
“Why didn’t he?”
“I--I do not know.”
“Grub-pile!” yelled Uncle Jimmy. “Come and git it!”
Hashknife helped her to her feet and she gripped his hand tightly as she
looked up at him.
“Why do you ask me these questions?”
Hashknife grinned down at her and shook his head.
“I can’t tell yuh yet, May. I don’t want yuh to think that I’m meddlin’
into yore personal affairs; but I’d like to ask yuh if yuh still care
for Bud?”
“More than any one in the world, Hashknife Hartley.”
Hashknife nodded slowly.
“I hope he knows that, May. If I wasn’t his friend I’d think he was
guilty; but friendship makes it look different.”
“Do you--” she faltered--“do you think there is any way of saving him?”
Hashknife grinned and patted her on the arm.
“Miracles do happen,” he told her smiling. “I saved half of my salary
one year. Let’s eat and forget it.”
* * * * *
The town of Black Wells was on the east side of the range and on the
main line of the railroad, the branch of which extended into the Modoc
country, but from a point much farther South.
Until the building of this branch line, all the cattle of the Modoc
had been herded into Black Wells for shipment; but since then, Black
Wells had ceased to be more than one of the many little cattle-towns
along the railroad.
Its one street was little more than a dusty road, bordered by
false-fronted, unpainted buildings, which looked as if they might fall
down in the next gust of wind; their signs were faded and dimmed by
time.
The railroad did not come within a quarter of a mile of the town and it
seemed that the town did not like the railroad well enough to move over
close to it. The little depot stood bravely forth in the sage-covered
plain, and a few hundred yards from it were the big corrals and
loading-pens, fast falling apart from neglect.
Hashknife and Sleepy rode into Black Wells after dark, put their horses
into a corral, foraged some hay and went hunting for a hotel. A frowsy
hotel-keeper answered their banging on the front door, grumbled at being
disturbed, but finally agreed to give them a place to sleep.
He held up his overalls with one hand, a smoking oil-lamp in the other,
and padded along barefooted to a door, which creaked a protest at being
disturbed.
“Ain’t used to puttin’ up folks at night,” he explained. “The hotel
business ain’t what it used to be. I’ve seen the time when this old
Californy House was loaded to the guards. I’ll leave yuh fix up the
bed the way yuh want it. This lamp ain’t got more’n enough ile to see
yuh to bed, and I’ll be darned ’f I’d ever fill one by match-light.”
He placed the lamp on a rickety dresser and peered around.
“How about a little water, pardner?” asked Hashknife.
“Water? T’night? Nope.” He shook his head violently. “Fetch yuh some
in the mornin’. That ---- old pump is hard t’ find in the dark, and
she’s gotta be primed to beat ----, or yuh don’t git nothin’ to come
up.”
He padded out, shut the door and went down the narrow hallway,
complaining audibly. The room was hot, unventilated; but both cowboys
were too tired to care about that. They flopped on the old bed, which
creaked and groaned at every move, and stayed there until daylight,
when they went wearily down the hall and on to the front porch.
Black Wells woke up by degrees. A mongrel dog got up from in front of
the Welcome saloon, turned around three times, lay down. Then it got
up, yawned widely, snapped at a fly and went down the street toward a
watering-trough.
Somewhere a door banged shut, and some one began whistling discordantly.
A high-pitched voice complained profanely against the whistler, who
stopped whistling long enough to tell the plaintiff to go plumb to ----.
A window slammed down and there came a tinkle of broken glass.
“You ---- fool, that winder has been cracked ever since eighteen
eighty-six!” complained a feminine voice. “Whatcha slammin’ it down
fer?”
The reply was muffled. A man came across the street, leading a horse to
the watering-trough. He began manipulating the rusty old pump-handle,
which screeched loud enough to wake every one. Another man came out of a
one-story building across the street; a short dumpy man, bearded to the
eyes. He slid back the wide door of the blacksmith shop and went inside,
where he busied himself singing a tuneless song and beating time on the
anvil. The proprietor of the hotel, evidently fearful that Hashknife and
Sleepy might get away without paying for their lodging, came out on to
the porch, still using his two hands in lieu of suspenders.
“Howja sleep?” he asked.
“With our eyes shut,” said Hashknife.
“Howja find the bed?”
“That wasn’t a bed,” said Sleepy dryly, “that was a buggy.”
The man seemed aggrieved.
“Yuh can’t expect no New Yawk accommodations in Black Wells. ----,
man; yo’re in the West. Black Wells is a good town. Whatcha like for
breakfast--coffee or tea?”
Hashknife laughed and got to his feet.
“That’s what I’ve always heard about Black Wells--yuh can get what yuh
want. We’ll take coffee.”
“Yuh sure can git anythin’ yuh want,” admitted the proprietor. “She’s a
he-man’s town, y’betcha.”
He went back into the house. The blacksmith was still singing to the
music of his anvil, his voice quavering with the intensity of feeling.
Hashknife grinned and nodded toward the shop.
“That feller’s human, Sleepy. My bronc has a loose shoe; so we’ll give
the singer a job, and mebbe he’ll talk.”
They got the horse at the corral and took it to the shop. The blacksmith
grinned good-naturedly and examined the loose shoe.
“Better take her off and shape her up li’l’, eh?” he asked.
“Yo’re the doctor,” said Hashknife. “Do yore job.”
“Quite a town yuh got here,” observed Sleepy.
The blacksmith looked up from his work and squinted at Sleepy.
“You tryin’ to be funny, or start an argument?” he asked.
“Neither one,” grinned Sleepy. “But that’s the regular thing to say,
ain’t it?”
The blacksmith laughed and walked back to his forge, where he shoved the
shoe into the fire and leaned heavily on his bellows pole.
“You fellers are strangers here,” he said slowly. “I _sabe_ the JM
brand on this bronc, and I _sabe_ the Modoc. I ain’t been here long,
but I know everybody by their first name. Black Wells is a ---- of a
town, any old way yuh look at it.”
“Ain’t much since Modoc quit bringin’ their cows over here, I reckon,”
said Hashknife. “I dunno how yuh make a livin’.”
“Oh, I manage to get a little job now and then.”
“Know the 76A outfit?”
“Know of ’em. I put a couple of shoes on a 76A bronc not long ago. That
was the first job I had, after I opened this shop.”
“You been open long?”
“Less than a month.”
He took the shoe from the fire and shaped it carefully, while Hashknife
sat on the edge of the slack-tub and watched him work.
“You must ’a’ been here when them Triangle D cows were brought over
here,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “That wasn’t more than a month ago.”
The blacksmith squinted thoughtfully for a moment.
“No, I don’t remember them. Mebbe that was before my time. Who owned
them Triangle-D cattle?”
“Bud Daley.”
“Oh, yeah. He was the feller that robbed the Modoc bank, wasn’t he? And
then got away from the sheriff?”
“That’s the feller.”
“I dunno him. How did he happen to bring his cows over here?”
Hashknife laughed shortly and shook his head.
“Do you know the sheriff of Modoc?”
“Nope.” The blacksmith went over to the horse and fitted the shoe. “I
dunno many folks over there. I used to be there a couple of years ago,
but I went up to Pocatello, Idaho, and stayed there until jist a while
ago.”
“Over in Modoc they told me that Black Wells has a pretty bad
reputation,” said Hashknife, watching the blacksmith closely.
“I dunno.” The blacksmith laughed shortly and came back to the forge.
“I never seen anythin’ bad about it. I suppose there’s a certain gang
that ain’t teachin’ no Sunday schools; but they jist kinda fade in and
fade out of here. Nobody bothers me; so I keep my mouth shut and drive
nails.”
“After all,” observed Hashknife, “that’s the best thing to do.”
“Safest, anyway,” grunted the blacksmith.
The proprietor of the hotel came out on the porch, a huge bell in his
hand, and proceeded to announce breakfast. Men began to drift in from
all directions, and there was a sizable crowd in the dining-room, when
Hashknife and Sleepy arrived.
No one spoke to them, but, being strangers, they created a certain
amount of silent interest. Hashknife sized up the crowd and decided
that Black Wells might be able to live up to advance notices. There
were two men whose attire stamped them as saloon owners or gamblers,
another whose tonsorial splendor shrieked of the fact that he mixed
drinks for a livelihood. Another might be a keeper of a store. The
rest were cowpunchers or cattlemen.
There was little conversation, except in a low tone. The proprietor of
the hotel waited on table, assisted by a slatternly, middle-aged woman,
who did not change expression during the meal.
After breakfast they filed silently out of the room. Hashknife and
Sleepy went back to the blacksmith shop, paid for the work and took
their horse back to the corral.
“I wish I knowed what in ---- we came down here for,” complained Sleepy.
“This ain’t my idea of a good place to stay.”
“I want to find out if Bud sold them cows himself,” replied Hashknife.
“All right,” grinned Sleepy. “That’s somethin’ yuh never did expect to
find out down here.”
“You’d laugh at me, if I told yuh why I came, Sleepy.”
“No, I’d fall dead, Hashknife.”
They went into the Welcome saloon, where a poker game had already
started. Hashknife looked the players over, but decided that there was
too much dexterity shown by the dealer; so he did not take the vacant
chair. The blacksmith came in, bought himself a drink and appropriated
the chair.
Several hard-faced cowpunchers drifted in, took a few drinks and went
away. It was hot. The old saloon reeked of stale liquor and tobacco
smoke. Flies crawled over the bar and buzzed up and down the dusty
mirror and windows.
The proprietor of the saloon, a crafty-faced individual, with an
almost-bald head, which was knobby in contour, was in the poker game.
He drank whisky copiously and perspired generously on his bald dome.
* * * * *
The day passed slowly, dustily. The poker game was listless, and
Hashknife and Sleepy dozed in a pair of chairs on the porch of the
saloon. Cow-ponies stood listlessly at the hitch-racks, switching their
tails wearily at the flies, while the sun beat down on the dusty street
until the pine boards of the buildings oozed pitch.
“There ain’t been a soul spoke to us all day,” said Sleepy. “I hope to
gosh that we pull out this evenin’. Even if they do use our dooryard to
pull off their killin’s, I’d rather be there than here.”
Supper time came and about the same crowd went to eat. There was a
little more conversation, because of the fact that much liquor had
been consumed. Several of the men nodded to Hashknife and Sleepy,
and the proprietor of the Welcome muttered something about it being
a warm day for this time of year.
“They’re thawin’ out,” grinned Hashknife.
“At a hundred and ten in the shade, they ought to,” grunted Sleepy,
wrinkling up his nose at the dishes of hot food. “I’d like to hit that
old Crooked Cañon ag’in. It’s cool there.”
“Don’t get impatient,” said Hashknife. “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
“Oh, that’s what yo’re doin’ over here, eh? Buildin’ another Rome.”
They went back to the Welcome saloon and sat down. Men drifted in
and started another poker game, but this time the proprietor of the
saloon did not sit in at the games. He went behind the bar and let
the bartender go to eat his supper, and his first act was to invite
everybody up to have a drink.
Hashknife and Sleepy came up with the others, but stayed at the bar
after the rest of the crowd had gone back to their drinks.
“You fellers goin’ to locate around here?” asked the proprietor.
He had drunk enough whisky to make him just a trifle thick of tongue,
but his eyes were keen.
Hashknife considered his question thoughtfully, but finally shook his
head.
“Didja come from over in the Modoc country?”
The man was busy washing glasses and did not look up when he asked the
question.
“Yeah, we rode in from there last night,” yawned Hashknife.
The proprietor filled several bottles from a keg, arranged his glasses
carefully and turned back to them.
“Many Modoc folks drift over this way?” queried Hashknife.
The man appeared interested in an argument which had started at one of
the poker tables and did not answer, although Hashknife felt sure that
he had heard the question. Finally he said:
“When are you goin’ back to Modoc?”
“Mebbe tonight, we dunno,” said Hashknife.
“Nicer ridin’ at night than in the daytime.”
The man looked straight at them when he spoke, and it seemed that his
statement held a warning.
“That’s right,” grinned Hashknife. “It’s kinda hot in the daytime. You
know much about the Modoc country?”
“Not much.”
Hashknife leaned across the bar and lowered his voice.
“Pardner, I’m lookin’ for information. Do you know who Bud Daley is?”
The man squinted keenly at him, but lowered his eyes, a slight frown on
his face. He was putting up a show of thinking. Then:
“I’ve heard the name. Didn’t he git into trouble over there?”
“They say he shipped some stock from here,” said Hashknife, ignoring the
question, “and we’re tryin’ to find out if that is the truth.”
The man shook his head, but called to a cowpuncher who was watching one
of the games. He was a frowsy, unkempt individual, who had been around
there all day. He slouched over to the bar.
“Jud,” said the proprietor, “here’s a man who wants to find out if Bud
Daley has shipped any stock from here lately?”
Jud licked his lips and reached for a cigaret-paper.
“Jud kinda has charge of the loadin’ corrals,” explained the proprietor.
“Bud Daley?” Jud seemed to be questioning himself. Then he looked at
Hashknife keenly, “Whatcha want to know fer?”
“I’ll trade answers with yuh,” said Hashknife.
“Trade with me?”
“Yeah. You tell me if he has and I’ll tell yuh what I wanted to know
for.”
Jud grinned wisely and licked the edge of his cigaret-paper. His eyes
shifted to the face of the proprietor and back to Hashknife.
“Suppose I tell yuh I don’t know,” he suggested. “How’d yuh trade on
that?”
“By tellin’ yuh it wasn’t none of yore ---- business,” replied
Hashknife.
Jud gawped at Hashknife for a moment and flushed angrily.
“Yo’re kinda salty, ain’t yuh?” he queried.
Hashknife laughed with his mouth, but there was no mirth in his steady
eyes. Jud fidgeted nervously, ripped a match viciously along the bar and
lit his cigaret.
“I’ll buy a drink,” said the proprietor slowly.
Jud whirled on his heel and walked back to the poker-table, ignoring the
invitation. The proprietor laughed and set out glasses and a bottle. He
did not drink, but lighted a fresh cigar instead.
“This one is on me,” said Hashknife, tossing a dollar on the bar, “I
reckon that folks didn’t lie to us when they said that we’d never find
out anythin’ in Black Wells.”
He and Sleepy tossed off their drinks and went outside, leaving the
dollar on the bar.
“My gosh, that’s awful whisky!” exclaimed Sleepy. “No wonder this town
hates itself. Where now?”
“Back to Modoc,” said Hashknife, “I don’t like this place.”
They went back to the corral and began saddling. A moon had just come
up over the Modoc hills. Sleepy was fussing with his cinch and looking
at the moon. Then he stopped and grasped the saddle with both hands.
The moon was acting queerly. It seemed to advance and recede rapidly,
and the queer motion was making Sleepy sea-sick. He looked over at
Hashknife, who seemed to be acting strangely. Then a sudden dizziness
struck him and he fell backward against the corral fence, where he
slumped down in a heap.
It seemed to Sleepy that he had only been on the ground a short time,
when he groped for the fence and managed to get back to his feet. The
moon was high in the heavens now, and he wondered how it had got up
there in such a short time. He was still nauseated, hazy; but the cool
night breeze revived him rapidly.
The horses were still there. He crossed the corral, where he found
Hashknife leaning against the fence, his head on his hands.
“Say, what in ---- happened?” queried Sleepy painfully.
Hashknife groaned and straightened up. He looked at Sleepy and laughed
hoarsely.
“Feel in yore pockets, Sleepy?”
Sleepy did so.
“Anythin’ missin’?” asked Hashknife.
“Well, I’ll be ---- if I ain’t shy about ten dollars!”
“They cleaned me out,” groaned Hashknife. “I’m as clean as a new six-gun
barrel.”
“Well, what in ---- is the answer?” demanded Sleepy angrily.
“Them last drinks,” said Hashknife, “they must ’a’ filled ’em full of
knockout drops, Sleepy. I’ve been doped before, but I never got all
there was in the world in one drink. Waugh!”
“They doped and robbed us?” queried Sleepy.
“That’s the answer.”
“All right.” Sleepy’s voice was harsh with anger. “We’ll go back to
that Welcome saloon and take it back with interest. C’mon, Hashknife.
I’ll show that bunch of tin-horns somethin’ quaint.”
“Nope.” Hashknife laughed and went back to his horse. “Me and you are
goin’ back to Modoc. It’s late.”
“You ain’t goin’ to let that bunch of side-winders get away with all
this, are yuh?” demanded Sleepy.
“They didn’t get much.”
Sleepy went to his horse, shook up the saddle and drew up the cinch.
He was mad. They rode out of the corral gate and down the street. As
they passed the Welcome saloon, Sleepy drew up his horse and peered
through the window. There were several men at the bar and among them
was the proprietor.
“Hang on to yourself,” advised Hashknife. But he was too late.
Sleepy drew his gun and sent a bullet smashing through the window and
into the back-bar. The crowd at the bar fell back in a panic. Another
bullet bored through the broken window, splintered the back-bar mirror
and played havoc with some bottled goods, which were on display.
A man threw open the door, but slammed it shut quickly, when a bullet
buzzed in over his head.
“Yeow! Ye-e-e-ow!” whooped Sleepy. “Dodge, you Black Wells pickpockets!”
Three times more he sent bullets in through the windows, before he set
spurs to his horse and went thundering out of Black Wells, riding high
in his saddle and stuffing more cartridges into his six-shooter.
Straight out the old Crooked Cañon road they went and into the moonlit
hills before they slackened pace.
“I sure gave ’em a receipt for my money,” laughed Sleepy, looking back
toward the town, “yo’re too easy, Hashknife. I only hope that bunch of
reptiles will be pickin’ glass splinters out of their mangy hides for
a month.”
“Well,” laughed Hashknife, “I dunno that I blame yuh, cowboy.”
“Blame, ----!” snorted Sleepy, “I wish we’d ’a’ gone in there and
salivated the whole works. I was shootin’ at the cash register, and I
hope I rung up enough to make it worth while. You wanted to come to
Black Wells, and I hope you’re satisfied.”
“I’m satisfied,” answered Hashknife. “Perfectly satisfied.”
“You didn’t do no good for anybody.”
“Didn’t I?”
“Well, where in ---- did yuh? You asked questions and got no answer. We
got doped and robbed. And you’re satisfied. Brother, it don’t take much
to satisfy you, does it? Sometimes, I wonder if you’re just right in the
head.”
“My heart is in the right place, Sleepy.”
“Yeah--and I suppose yore liver is accordin’ to the location notice.
You’re actin’ as happy as though you done some good there.”
But Hashknife only laughed joyfully, in spite of the fact that his
stomach was almost too weak to bear the drag of his heavy belt and gun.
* * * * *
It was breakfast time the next morning at the 76A, when Dug Breed and
Charley Morse rode in for breakfast. A rumor that Bud Daley was back in
the Lost Pine country had given them eighteen hours of riding, with no
results.
Monte Sells, Frank Asher and Brent Allard were eating, but stopped long
enough to greet the sheriff and deputy, who sat down at the long table.
“A feller don’t have to strain his eyesight to see that yuh didn’t have
much luck, sheriff,” observed Monte.
He winked at the other two cowboys. Dug Breed noted the wink, but did
not appreciate the humor of Monte’s observation.
“Not much,” said Breed dryly.
Frank Asher laid down his fork, rested his elbows on the table and
leaned toward Breed, as he said--
“Breed, who do you think shot Red Blair?”
The sheriff had a cup of hot coffee at his lips, but he slowly lowered
it to the table, his eyes searching the faces of the three men across
the table.
“What in ---- was Blair doin’ out there?” he countered.
“What’s that got to do with it?” asked Monte.
“Quite a lot.” The sheriff seemed more at ease. “If we knew what Red
Blair was doin’ out there, we might get a line on who shot him.”
Asher grunted and began eating, but Monte took up the discussion.
“What do yuh know about them two punchers who are livin’ at Bud’s
place?”
“Not a thing.”
“Did yuh ever think that they might ’ve had a hand in the shootin’ of
Red?”
“If you’ll tell me what Red was doin’ out there, I might say.”
Brent Allard got to his feet and shoved back his chair.
“What’s the use of arguin’ about it?” he asked.
“I’m not arguin’ about it,” laughed Breed. “Red will likely tell us what
he was doin’ out there, as soon as he is able.”
“The doctor don’t think he’ll get well,” observed Monte. “I was down
there last night. Them two punchers told about a lot of shots bein’
fired out there that night. They claim to have found Red after the
shootin’ was all over.”
Breed nodded slowly.
“Yeah, I know that’s what they said.”
“Who do yuh reckon done all the shootin’?” queried Allard.
“Didn’t you say that there wasn’t no use arguin’ about it?” asked Breed,
grinning. “Don’t ask me who done it, Allard; I didn’t see ’em.”
Breed and Morse finished their breakfast and went on to town, while
the three cowboys sat down on the ranch-house porch and rolled fresh
cigarets.
“Do yuh know what I think?” asked Monte.