That same evening Cleve Lavelle stood near one of his roulette tables,
which was losing heavily. His face was as expressionless as the face
of a savage, but his eyes shifted nervously, as the dealer paid out on
nearly every turn of the wheel.
He knew that every one was talking about his run of bad luck, and, like
a flock of buzzards, they had come to the kill. He turned away from the
roulette and walked to a stud game. Mediocre players were bucking the
game, and nearly every one of them had an array of red, white and blue
chips in front of them.
Lavelle walked to his private office at the rear and sat down alone,
chewing savagely on his cigar. Alone, his features relaxed and he swore
softly to himself.
“If this keeps up, I’ll be flat broke in a short time,” he muttered to
himself.
Then he threw his cigar aside and paced the length of the room.
Came a knock on the door, and he wheeled quickly. It was Dug Breed. He
squinted at Lavelle and came to the center of the room, where he leaned
on a table.
“Well, what luck?” queried Lavelle uneasily.
It was not often that Dug Breed came to his private office, and he felt
that Breed must have a good reason for it now.
And with little omission, Breed told Lavelle of running Bud Daley to
cover, only to have him escape them. Lavelle listened in silence to the
telling, a speculative expression on his face. Then he laughed shortly;
an ugly laugh.
“Breed, you are a mighty poor sheriff,” he declared.
“All right.” Breed shrugged his shoulders. “It was just a case of
mistakin’ Hartley for Bud Daley, thasall.”
“That’s all,” nodded Lavelle. “You had your chance, and missed.”
“Didn’t miss entirely, Lavelle. Bud was hit.”
“Oh, yes, I suppose so.” Lavelle was sarcastic, and it nettled Breed.
“Well, it was just a case of Hartley bein’ smarter than I was,” admitted
Breed.
Lavelle laughed at Breed’s admission, but grew serious.
“It’s too ---- bad you didn’t plug him by mistake.”
“I was mad enough to plug him on purpose, Lavelle.”
“Well, what are you going to do next, Breed?”
“Search me. I’m goin’ to watch Hartley and Stevens, for one thing. They
know where Bud is, and sooner or later they’ll lead me to him. Next time
I won’t be fooled.”
“You better not,” said Lavelle coldly. “You make another mistake like
that, and you’ll not be the next sheriff of Modoc.”
Breed lifted his eyebrows slightly and backed slowly to the door, where
he stood and looked intently at Lavelle.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” demanded Lavelle.
“I was just thinkin’,” said Breed slowly. “They say that you’ve lost
your luck, and I was wonderin’ if it would affect you politically.”
Lavelle came toward him, a scowl on his face.
“What do you mean, Breed?” he snarled.
“It takes money to run politics--even in a county as small in population
as this, Lavelle.”
“Don’t let that bother you, Breed. I’ll be leading the parade next
election, and don’t you forget it. You either ride with me or you walk
alone. Those cheap gamblers out there are only winning chicken-feed.”
“Yeah--all right.” Breed turned and opened the door. “I’ll see how
things go, Lavelle.”
“Just a moment,” said Lavelle, coming closer. “If you need any help, my
boys will be free to ride with you.”
“And a ---- of a lot of good they’ll do me!” snorted Breed. “When
Hartley laughed at me, they laughed with him. _Adios_.”
Breed slammed the door shut, leaving Lavelle staring after him. Then
Lavelle went back to the table and selected a fresh cigar from a box.
For a long time he chewed on the unlighted weed, his face drawn in a
heavy frown.
“Breaking me, are they?” he muttered. “My luck is all gone, eh? I put
him in office, but he’d quit me in a minute--the coyote.”
Lavelle laughed softly, bitterly, as he crumpled the cigar in his
clenched hand. From the gambling-room came the sounds of laughter,
the rattling of chips, the drone of a dealer’s voice. Business was
in full sway, and Lavelle knew that the Rest Ye All was losing money
every minute.
He went back to the games, where men jostled each other for a chance
to place a bet. None of them paid the slightest attention to Lavelle.
His games were on the square--no chance for a fixed wheel, a crooked
deal--and they knew it. It was just one of those unaccountable runs
of ill-luck in which every game in the house suffered heavily.
The stud game halted temporarily while the dealer came to Lavelle and
drew him aside.
“Every chip in the rack gone,” he said softly. “My game is about four
thousand in the hole right now. I’ve paid out about two thousand in
cash.”
“Fill your rack,” said Lavelle shortly, and walked away.
The dealer nodded indifferently and went back to his game. Lavelle went
to the roulette and studied the play. Men were going in on dollar bets
and coming away with a hatful of coins.
He walked over to a draw-poker table and sized up the chips in front of
the different players, estimating swiftly. The dealer looked up at him
inquiringly, but Lavelle walked away and went to the bar. There was
nothing he could do. To close the games would be fatal to his prestige.
Men would say that he was a quitter.
Down deep in his heart he wanted to quit, because he knew that he had
lost his luck.
Sody Slavin and Uncle Jimmy Miller came in, but did not play. Lavelle
knew that Sody had taken a big roll of money out of the place the night
before. Other cowboys came rollicking in and added to the noise and
smoke of the place. Lavelle turned to the bartender and beckoned him
away from the end of the bar, where he was talking to Sody Slavin.
“If anybody wants to see me, I’ll be at my room in the hotel.”
The bartender nodded.
“Sure, I’ll do that.”
* * * * *
As Lavelle turned toward the door he came face to face with Jud Mahley.
The Black Wells cowpuncher paid no attention to Lavelle, but slouched up
to the bar and ordered a drink of whisky.
Lavelle studied him from the rear, a look of half-disgust on his face,
which he could not conceal. Jud gulped his liquor and turned around, as
Lavelle moved up closer to him.
“Hello, Mahley,” Lavelle spoke softly.
Mahley’s ferret-like eyes shifted quickly around the room, as he
returned the greeting.
“What do you know?” queried Lavelle.
“Not a ---- thing.”
“Not a thing, eh?”
Mahley shook his head. A couple of cowboys had come in close to them and
ordered their drinks. Mahley moved aside, drawing his slouchy sombrero
farther down over his eyes.
“Couple of fellers come out to Black Wells,” he said to Lavelle. “They
didn’t like the liquor very well, so they shot the winder out of the
Welcome saloon and smashed the mirror of the back-bar. That’s all the
news.”
“Who was they?”
One of the cowboys turned his head and looked at Mahley.
“I dunno.”
Mahley turned away, as if he did not care to talk about it. The cowboys
laughed and went back toward the gambling-room. Sody and Uncle Jimmy
came toward the bar, laughing over some incident of the gambling, and
Sody moved in beside Mahley.
Lavelle knew of the enmity between Sody and Jud Mahley, and tried to
flash a signal to Mahley; but the signal was lost upon every one,
except Sody, who saw the action in the mirror.
Quickly he turned his head and looked at the profile of the bad-man from
Black Wells. Sody did not believe in arguments. With a sideswipe of his
big left hand he caught Mahley a slap full in the nose and mouth.
The sound of the blow could be heard all over the house, but was of
such a nature that it did little more than sting and partly daze
Mahley. He struck his shoulders against the bar and fairly rebounded,
his hat flying over the bar and both hands grasping for a support.
For an instant he seemed incapable of action, but instinct caused him to
reach for his holstered gun. Sody grunted with glee, swung his right
foot in an arc, catching Mahley’s legs just behind the ankles and kicked
his feet from under him before his hand had quite gripped the butt of
his gun.
The shock of Mahley’s downfall shook the Rest Ye All and also took all
the fight out of Mahley. He sat on the floor, goggling around, while
Sody swiftly disarmed him and tossed the gun over the bar.
“What’s the big idea?” queried Lavelle angrily. “What right ----?”
“You backin’ this scorpion?” asked Sody, pointing at Mahley.
“No, I’m not. But I don’t see----”
“You try and see enough to mind your own business, Lavelle.”
Lavelle stepped aside while Mahley got slowly to his feet, looking
around as if wondering what had happened to him. Then he got a good
look at Sody Slavin, and his face reddened with anger.
“Whatcha tryin’ to do?” he muttered.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve to be showin’ up around here,” said Sody. “If
I wasn’t tender-hearted I’d unwind you, Mahley. And if you show up here
agin, I’ll jist about do that. Now you git off the Modoc range and stay
off, you brand-buster.”
Mahley’s right hand felt of the empty holster, and his eyes squinted
almost shut. He blinked his little eyes angrily and started to say
something, but changed his mind.
“You ain’t goin’ fast enough to suit me,” said Sody. “If I was you I’d
be halfway to Black Wells by this time.”
“Aw right.”
Mahley turned toward the door, and Sody stared after him. Mahley
appeared to be perfectly willing to leave; but at the door he drew a
six-shooter from inside his dirty flannel shirt bosom and whirled on
Sody.
“---- you, I’ll show you!” he snarled, half-sobbing with wrath, as he
threw down on Sody.
But before he could pull the trigger a man dived through the doorway
into him, and he went staggering sideways, the bullet tearing along
the wall.
The man who had knocked him sidewise fell to his knees from the rush,
leaving Mahley still able to recover for another shot; but another
man came through right behind him and was into Mahley with both hands
swinging like pistons.
The first man was Hashknife Hartley, the second Sleepy Stevens.
Neither man said a word. Hashknife got to his feet in time to see
Mahley sway forward and catch one of Sleepy’s punches flush on the
chin. Then Mr. Mahley of Black Wells folded up like an old shirt and
went to sleep. And, without any lost motions, Sleepy picked him up
in his arms, staggered to the doorway and threw him bodily into the
street.
Sody’s altercation with Mahley had drawn quite a crowd, and now they
stood open-mouthed and stared at Hashknife and Sleepy. Hashknife dusted
off his knees with his hands and grinned slowly. Lavelle had not moved,
but now he looked keenly at Hashknife before turning away.
“That was kinda complete,” remarked Sody with a sigh of relief. “I’m
sure much obliged, gents. You came just in time. Mebbe he ain’t a very
good shot, but I’m big enough for anybody to hit at that distance.”
“You don’t need to thank me,” grinned Sleepy, blowing on his sore
knuckles. “I’ve been honin’ for a crack at that horse hobo. And I sure
got my fill. He rattled like a handful of poker-chips when I hit him on
the chin, didn’t he?”
“Mebbe we better take another look at him,” suggested Sody. “Yuh never
can tell how many more guns he’s got with him.”
They filed outside and looked around, but there was no sign of Jud
Mahley. In the space of two minutes he had recovered from his knockout
and had faded from view.
“And I’ll betcha he never even stopped to bother with a horse,” laughed
Sody. “He knows now that Modoc ain’t healthy. Let’s all go and have a
drink.”
They went back to the bar. The curious crowd had gone back to the
gambling-room, leaving only the bartender to applaud them.
“You sure knocked on his gate,” he told Sleepy, grinning. “I ain’t never
seen anybody nail ’em sweeter.”
“Wasn’t he talkin’ to Lavelle?” asked Sody.
“Yeah, he was,” said the bartender. “Most everybody around here knows
Jud Mahley. He’s kinda tough, I’d say.”
“Well, he got softened up quite a little,” laughed Sody. “Let’s have
another little snifter and then help break Lavelle. Everybody wins
from the house these days.”
They all trooped into the gambling-room and began laying small bets
on the roulette. There was no sign of Lavelle, but there was plenty
of talk about the ill-luck of the house. Neither Hashknife nor Sleepy
felt inclined to gamble heavily, but preferred to stand by and watch
the others buck the games.
Uncle Jimmy tried to get Sody to break away and go home; but the fat
cowboy was adding to his bank-roll and did not want to leave any easy
money behind.
* * * * *
Time passes swiftly when stakes are running high, and it was about two
hours after the incident with Jud Mahley when Hashknife, Sleepy and
Uncle Jimmy went back into the barroom. They had about decided to ride
home and were going to take a farewell drink, when Dug Breed staggered
through the doorway.
His face was streaked with blood, as if something with many claws had
scratched him, and he was disheveled and covered with dirt. He spat
dryly and reached for a glass of whisky which Uncle Jimmy had poured
out for his own use. Gulping the liquor at one swallow, he leaned
against the bar and swore hoarsely.
“Morse is dead,” he croaked, shaking his head painfully. “He never
knowed what hit him. I--I----” he felt tenderly of his face--“I reckon
I got the drag of the load.”
“You sure look like you got somethin’,” admitted Hashknife.
“Who killed Morse?” queried Sody wonderingly.
“---- only knows. His horse ran away, and mine won’t pack double, so
I had to leave him there in the road. Somebody bushwhacked us with a
shotgun. I was a little behind Charley. Look at my face!”
“Where did it happen?” asked Hashknife.
“Between here and Bud Daley’s ranch just a little beyond where the JM
road forks. I couldn’t bring Charley in. But he’s dead; so it won’t
matter to him. I’ve got to find a doctor and take him out there. Lucky
it didn’t hit me in the eyes.”
He turned and staggered outside. The word ran swiftly through the
gambling-room and the crowd quit playing to find out the particulars.
Some one went to Lavelle’s office at the rear and told him what had
happened. He added his voice to the rest, and hurried down to the
doctor’s house to get further particulars from Breed.
No one seemed to be able to figure out just why the sheriff and his
deputy should have been ambushed--unless Bud Daley had done it.
Hashknife smiled grimly at their conjectures. He knew what had happened
or thought he did.
Jud Mahley, smarting over what had happened to him, had secured a
shotgun and planted himself beside the road. In the darkness he had
mistaken Breed and Morse for Hashknife and Sleepy, never expecting
any one except them to ride over that road that night.
And Sleepy had arrived at the same conclusions. He drew Hashknife aside.
“Cowboy, she’s a good thing we didn’t get there first,” he said softly.
Hashknife nodded and they walked outside to their horses.
“Breed and Morse were goin’ to the ranch,” declared Sleepy. “They knowed
we were here; so they thought it might be a good chance to look for
Bud.”
“And some of them danged fools are blamin’ poor Bud,” said Hashknife
disgustedly. “We know what happened, but we’ll never be able to prove
it. Still--” he swung into his saddle--“never is a mighty long time,
Sleepy.”
The murder of Charley Morse shocked even the sensibilities of Modoc. It
was so uncalled for, so fiendish, that those who were hard-bitten enough
to overlook an ordinary killing longed for a chance to get their hands
on the murderer.
Morse had never been popular, but he had never been unpopular. He was
soft-spoken, reliable, minded his own business and was an efficient
officer. The charge of bird-shot had scattered enough merely to rake
Breed’s features and drill some little holes in his neck and shoulders.
The shooting had been done at fairly close range, and, from the extent
of Morse’s wounds, the assassin had fired both barrels. Hashknife and
Sleepy had ridden back to town fairly early in the morning and had a
talk with Breed, whose face was plentifully decorated with bits of
court-plaster.
Breed was frankly worried. It looked to him as if some one was trying
to put the sheriff’s office out of commission. But he did not have the
slightest idea of who had killed Morse. Only fate had put Morse ahead
of him that night. A loose cinch, which he had stopped to tighten,
caused him to be riding far enough behind to have escaped the force of
the shotgun load.
“You were lookin’ for Bud, wasn’t yuh?” asked Hashknife.
Breed rubbed his speckled face and nodded slowly.
“Yeah, we was, Hartley. I knowed that you and Stevens were here in town;
so we rode out there, intendin’ to take a good look at Bud’s ranch. You
foxed us the other day, but I ain’t holdin’ no hard feelin’s toward yuh.
“Bud and me never did hitch. He’s a wild sort of a jigger, and just a
kid; but he ain’t a feller that yuh can dislike a lot. It ain’t me that
wants him, Hartley; it’s what I represent. The law says he’s guilty--not
me.”
Hashknife held out his hand to Breed, who took it wonderingly.
“Yo’re kinda human, Breed,” said Hashknife warmly. “Mebbe I’ve
misunderstood yuh all the time. Let’s set down and have a talk.”
Hashknife indicated a spot on the board sidewalk and they sat down
together, where no one would overhear them.
“You don’t think that Bud Daley killed Morse, do yuh?” queried
Hashknife.
Breed shook his head quickly.
“No, I don’t, Hartley. Bud Daley ain’t that kind. Bud would shoot, if he
had to, but not from ambush with a shotgun.”
Hashknife glanced across the street. Uncle Jimmy and Ma Miller had
driven in and were tying their team to a hitch-rack. The hitch-racks
were filling up fast. Hashknife grinned and turned to Breed.
“Saturday is always the same in all ranch countries,” he observed.
“Everybody comes in to trade and tell lies. If it wasn’t for Saturday,
I’d live in a city.”
Breed grinned and nodded. Lavelle came out of the Rest Ye All, spoke
to Uncle Jimmy and Ma for several moments and walked down the street.
Hashknife watched him keenly and turned to Breed.
“Funny about Lavelle’s luck, ain’t it, Breed?”
Breed glanced after Lavelle and nodded slowly, a slight frown on his
face.
“Do you believe in luck, Hartley?”
“Yeah.” Hashknife nodded slowly. “I believe in it, sheriff; but not the
way Lavelle does. He’s superstitious; believes in signs and charms, I
hear.”
“Yeah, he does.” Breed laughed shortly. “Most gamblers do.”
“They’re poor sticks to tie to,” declared Hashknife. Breed looked up
quickly.
“What do yuh mean, Hartley?”
“Lavelle got you into the sheriff’s office, didn’t he?”
Breed’s face flushed hotly, but he shut his lips tight.
“He thinks the office belongs to him,” continued Hashknife easily. “I
know how you feel about it.” Hashknife dug his heel into the dirt and
squinted thoughtfully, as he said--
“Breed, did you ever wonder what became of Bud’s cattle?”
“Yeah; but I never figured it out. Bud could ’a’ bunched ’em and
taken ’em to Black Wells. Lavelle thinks that Bud done it. Yuh see,
Bud owes Lavelle five thousand dollars, and Lavelle thinks that Bud
sold his cattle and lied about ’em bein’ stole; so he won’t have to
pay it back.”
“And who do yuh think them two men were that took Bud away from you that
night on the train?”
Breed shut his lips tight and shook his head. Lavelle was riding up the
street from the livery-stable. He had changed to boots and chaps, and
sat his horse as easily as any cowpuncher in the country. He nodded to
Hashknife and Breed, as he passed them and rode out of town.
“I don’t know who them two men were,” said Breed thoughtfully. “But
it strikes me that the hold-up was just a blind to stop the train and
release Bud.”
Hashknife laughed and began rolling a cigaret. Breed looked curiously at
him and said--
“Does it strike you funny?”
“It’s so danged mixed up, Breed. If it was only a blind, why did they
dynamite that safe in the express car? Their intentions were good,
don’tcha think?”
“I dunno. Still, it looks like it might ’a’ been just--well, I dunno
watcha call it. I can’t imagine who the robbers were.”
Breed shook his head seriously, but turned to Hashknife with a grin.
“That jasper that made me unlock Bud’s handcuffs was a queer jigger.
When he found that you didn’t have any money, he gave yuh some.”
“Cold-blooded bluff,” said Hashknife, grinning. “Gentleman bandit stuff.
Wanted to show that he was plumb salty, thasall. Well, we don’t know
much, do we, Breed? Now let’s talk about the bank robbery.
“That happened late at night. Somebody knowed that the cashier was
workin’ late; so he must ’a’ waited for the cashier to come out of the
door. Then he jist about shoved a gun in his ribs and hurried him back
inside.
“Mebbe he made the cashier open the vault. Then he pops the cashier over
the head with his gun. He thinks that the cashier is cool for a spell;
so he proceeds to loot the vault. About that time, the cashier wakes up
and makes a break for the door.
“This robber gent takes a shot at the cashier, misses him, busts the
window and kills Sody’s bronc. The next shot gets the cashier dead
center. Then this man takes his plunder and makes a getaway. Ain’t
that about the ticket?”
“That’s the way I see it,” nodded Breed, “I found a rosette off Bud’s
chaps on the vault floor, kinda mingled with some loose money. I’d know
that rosette anywhere. At daylight, I beat it for the ranch and found
Bud jist pullin’ in. He’s sure been ridin’ a lot that night, and he
won’t tell where. His wife don’t know, except that he ain’t been home.
“We do know that Bud got kinda drunk that evenin’ and said he was goin’
home. He was kinda raisin’ thunder around here--him and Sody Slavin and
Dinah Blewette. Dinah and Short-Horn Adams had a fight, and Dinah got
licked. Then Sody proceeds to lick Short-Horn--or to fix him so Dinah
can lick him--which he does to the queen’s taste. But that was long
after Bud disappeared.”
“And Bud needed the money, didn’t he?” queried Hashknife.
“Yeah. He tried to borrow more from Lavelle that evenin’, but didn’t get
it. I don’t blame Lavelle. Bud wanted me to try and find his cows; but I
was convinced that he’d sold the ---- things; so I got mad at him for
askin’ me to hunt for ’em. If Bud shot Charley Morse----”
“He didn’t,” declared Hashknife. “He couldn’t. You fellers shot Bud
through the leg and he can’t walk.”
“Thasso?” Breed rubbed his chin and grinned at Hashknife.
“Yeah, that’s so, Breed. That’s an alibi for Bud. I know where Bud is
right now, but I’m not goin’ to tell you.”
“I could arrest you for harborin’ a criminal, Hartley.”
“Hop to it,” laughed Hashknife.
Breed frowned reflectively. He knew that Hashknife would not tell,
and somehow he did not blame him. There was something about the
tall, sad-faced cowpuncher that made Breed feel willing to tell him
everything he knew.
“Hartley,” he asked, “are you a detective?”
“No. I’ve done things that a detective might ’a’ done; but never wore a
badge. Didja ever notice that my nose is kinder long and sharp on the
end? Breed, I was born to stick my nose into other people’s business. I
can’t help it.
“Sleepy Stevens is my pet pessimist. Any old time I gets to feelin’ real
smart, he’s there to hang crape on my soul. I need him. Cattle-ranges
get sick, don’tcha know it? Yeah, they do. I reckon the cities get sick,
too; but I don’t _sabe_ their disease. We’re jist cowpunchers, Breed--me
and Sleepy--but fate has made us a couple of medicine-men of the
cow-country.”
“Medicine-men?” queried Breed.
“Yeah--medicine-men, thasall.”
Breed smiled and got to his feet as he said:
“All right, Hartley; Modoc needs somethin’ in that line. I’m jist a
sheriff. Nobody ever gave me credit for havin’ brains. They’re sayin’
that I ought to find the men who robbed that train; find the man who
killed Findlay and find Bud Daley. Now I’ve lost my deputy and got
shot in the face with a scatter-gun. I reckon I’ve got a job on my
hands.”
“Like the Irishman said--single misfortunes seldom come alone,” laughed
Hashknife. “You forgot to mention Red Blair.”
Breed looked quickly, suspiciously at Hashknife; but the tall cowpuncher
was looking at Brent Allard, who was just riding past them, heading
toward the hitch-rack beside the post office. Allard waved at them, and
Hashknife nodded.
“We’ll add Red Blair to the total,” said Breed.
Hashknife looked up quickly and nodded.
“One more won’t hurt.”
Breed crossed toward the Rest Ye All, and Hashknife turned and sauntered
down toward the post office, where Brent Allard was trying to tie a
half-broken broncho to the rack. It was a mean-looking, glass-eyed gray
with a snaky head and ears that seemed to be pinned down.
* * * * *
Allard had passed inside the post office. Hashknife leaned against the
corner and studied the animal. In a few minutes Allard came out, with
a bundle of mail under his arm. He grinned at Hashknife, as he stuffed
the mail into his coat-pockets.
“I seen yuh talkin’ with the sheriff,” he grinned. “By grab, I didn’t
think he’d ever speak to yuh, after the way yuh fooled him in the blind
cañon.”
“Aw, we’re good friends,” laughed Hashknife.
“Uh-huh,” Allard glanced toward the saloon and back at Hashknife. “Well,
he’s got a little sense, anyway.”
“That’s a plumb forked-lookin’ bronc yo’re ridin’,” observed Hashknife.
“That thing?” Allard’s voice was filled with contempt. “Forked? Say,”
Allard laughed, “that ---- bunch of coiled springs never knows when
to quit bouncin’. It’s about seven miles from here to the ranch, I
reckon. Well, that bronc jist went seven miles high. Mebbe it went a
little higher than it did long, ’cause there was times that we stuck
to the same landin’ spot for quite a spell.”
“That’s a ---- of a thing to ride in after mail,” laughed Hashknife.
Allard laughed and shoved the animal away from the rack, so he could
untie the rope.
“That’s what Monte said. But I told him there was so ---- much
bushwhackin’ goin’ on these days that I wanted to ride somethin’ that
would be awful hard to hit--even with a shotgun.”
“Is Lavelle out at the ranch, Allard?”
“Naw. He don’t come out much. Well, I’ve got to git ready to hammer this
jughead out of town.”
The gray whirled wickedly, but Allard cramped its head back against its
shoulder and snapped into the saddle. For a moment there was a blur of
whirling horse and man; then the horse went high in a lunging pitch that
almost unseated Allard, and sent a shower of mail from both his coat
pockets.
Swiftly the gray changed ends, its head seemingly locked between its
front feet, but Allard stuck like a burr. Into the street they went
and the gray broke into a run, which took them out of town, like the
fading of a motion picture on the screen.
Hashknife gathered up the mail from the dust and started into the post
office, but a glance at one of the dusty envelopes caused him to flash
a quick glance around as he swiftly slid it inside his shirt.
He walked into the post office and told the postmaster what had
happened.
“I’ll put it back,” grinned the old man, “I don’t reckon it’s
perishable. Ha-ha-ha-ha!”
Hashknife laughed with the old man and went outside. Sleepy and Sody
had seen the bucking horse, and now they came across the street. They
had imbibed several drinks and insisted on Hashknife joining them, but
Hashknife was not in the mood.
Uncle Jimmy and Ma Miller came out of a store, and Hashknife got rid of
Sleepy and Sody by hailing them.
“C’mon, Sleepy,” urged Sody. “If Ma smells liquor on me, she’ll gimme
---- She always tells me a story about a feller who got all stunted to
---- from whisky. Pers’nally I ain’t scared of not growin’ any more.
C’mon.”
Hashknife joined the old folks and asked where Mrs. Daley was.
“Oh, May stayed home,” explained Ma. “She didn’t have nothin’ to buy,
and she naturally don’t like to talk to folks. She kinda feels that
they’re sayin’ things about her. You know how it’d be.”
“That--and other reasons,” grinned Uncle Jimmy.
Hashknife nodded.
“You try and don’t talk too much,” warned Ma.
“I ain’t said nothin’, have I?” demanded Uncle Jimmy.
“Then don’t repeat it,” said Ma, and then to Hashknife:
“Are yuh comin’ out soon? Come out and eat, can’tcha. My gosh, you’ll
ruin yore stummicks eatin’ city food down here.”
“We’ll be out real soon,” declared Hashknife. “Mebbe we’ll be out
tonight.”
“You just do that,” urged Ma. “I’ll set two extra places.”
Hashknife laughed and went over to the hitch-rack. Sody and Sleepy had
disappeared. Hashknife hesitated for several minutes, but decided to let
Sleepy go ahead and have a good time. He mounted his horse and rode out
of town toward the ranch.
* * * * *
Lavelle also knew that Mrs. Daley had been left at the JM ranch. It was
the first time since Bud’s arrest that Lavelle had had a chance to see
her alone, and he lost no time in taking advantage of it.
He was careful to study the ranch-house at a distance before riding in,
as he wanted to be sure that no one else was there. He dismounted at the
front porch and knocked loudly on the door, but there was no response.
He tried the door and found it unlocked.
Cautiously he opened it. The living-room was empty. Some one was moving
about behind the half-open door of an adjoining room. He listened
closely, thinking that perhaps his knock had not been heard.
“Hello,” he said softly. “Anybody home?”
There was no reply, but the person in the next room continued to move
about. Suddenly the door opened. Lavelle took a step backward, an
unspoken exclamation on his lips.
Bud Daley was standing in the doorway, a half-dressed Bud Daley, whose
face was flushed with fever, his eyes bloodshot. He blinked at Lavelle,
but without a sign of recognition, muttering something unintelligible.
Some one was coming to the front of the house. Lavelle wanted to turn
his head, but there was something that caused him to keep his eyes on
Bud. Then Hashknife Hartley’s voice drawled--
“Mister Lavelle, meet Mister Daley.”
Lavelle turned his head and looked at Hashknife, who was leaning against
the side of the doorway. Bud was paying no attention to either of them;
he was too sick for that.
“I--I just came,” said Lavelle lamely.
“I know yuh did,” said Hashknife indifferently, and started to cross the
room, when Mrs. Daley came in from the dining-room.
She was dressed for riding. At sight of them she stopped, with a quick
intake of breath.
“It’s all right,” assured Hashknife softly. “There’s nothin’ to get
scared about, May.”
“I--I was just going to town after the doctor,” she said wearily. “Bud’s
fever got worse, and there wasn’t anybody here to help me.”
Hashknife crossed to Bud and took him by the arm. Bud half-smiled, as if
he recognized Hashknife, but did not speak.
“You get back into bed, old-timer,” ordered Hashknife. “You’ve got to
take it easy, don’tcha know it?”
Hashknife assisted him back to the bed, where Bud dropped wearily.
Lavelle and May were left alone in the living-room, but neither of them
spoke. Hashknife was back in a minute and went straight to Lavelle.
“You tryin’ to collect that three thousand reward, Lavelle?” he asked.
Lavelle flushed hotly and wished that this long-faced, keen-eyed
cowpuncher was miles away. Lavelle had the feeling that Hashknife
wanted to make him angry; and Lavelle was too clever a gambler to
show his anger.
“The reward does not interest me,” he replied. “I just dropped in. But I
had no idea that Bud was here.”
“You waited until yuh knew that nobody but Mrs. Daley was here, yuh
know,” reminded Hashknife.
“All right,” laughed Lavelle easily. “You did, too.”
Hashknife’s face grew serious as he nodded slowly.
“Yeah, that’s true,” he said softly. “I knowed that she was alone--with
Bud. Yuh see, I think a lot of these folks, Lavelle. Now, there ain’t
nothin’ for you to do, except to tell the sheriff where Bud is--and
collect the reward.”
“---- the reward!” snapped Lavelle. “I’m not looking for any reward.”
“No? Well, that’s funny,” Hashknife laughed shortly. “You let Breed use
yore cowpunchers to try and catch Bud.”
“He swore them in, Hartley. I couldn’t stop him, could I?”
“We’ve got to get a doctor for Bud,” interrupted Mrs. Daley. “All this
talk is a waste of time. You stay here and I’ll go.”
“And the sheriff will find it out,” declared Lavelle.
“Will he?” queried Hashknife. “Listen to me, Lavelle. You’ve got
enough power to keep Breed from doin’ anythin’. Suppose you go after
the doctor? He won’t tell. And if Breed finds it out, a word from you
will stop him from makin’ any arrest.”
Lavelle nodded quickly and turned to the door. He was willing to get
away. Hashknife followed him out on to the porch and watched him mount.
“Just to save arguments, you might not tell the doctor who the sick
person is, Lavelle,” he said. “Tell him it’s mostly a fever.”
“All right,” grunted Lavelle.
“And the sheriff won’t come out here?”
“I’ll do my best,” said Lavelle.
“That won’t be quite enough,” said Hashknife meaningly.
Lavelle turned and rode swiftly away, while Hashknife went back into
the house. Mrs. Daley was standing beside Bud’s bed, looking down at
him, when Hashknife came back in. Bud was mumbling in his delirium a
meaningless jumble of broken sentences.
“--price of two dresses,” he muttered. “--prettiest woman in this
country.”
Hashknife glanced keenly at Mrs. Daley. Her lips were shut tightly, and
her hands clenched.
“What’s he talkin’ about?” queried Hashknife.
“--throw away your youth?” queried Bud, “--retain your beauty? Two can’t
live on cowpuncher’s--failure--throw away your life.”
Bud laughed bitterly in his delirium. “--silks and furs. Bud is man
enough--loyalty and all that.”
* * * * *
Mrs. Daley turned away, with tears running down her cheeks. Now she knew
that Bud had come home and overheard Lavelle and her talking that night.
That was why he did not come home; why he did not care what they did to
him at that trial. He was willing to go to prison. And this was why Bud
would not speak to her.
She walked out into the living-room and sat down in a chair, while
Hashknife followed her to the doorway. Bud had quit talking now. Mrs.
Daley looked up at Hashknife and found him staring intently at her.
“Oh, he’s so sick.” Her voice sounded strained, unreal, and she knew
that Hashknife did not believe that she was overcome on account of
Bud’s condition.
“What did he mean?” asked Hashknife.
Mrs. Daley turned away, trying to ignore the question; but Hashknife was
not to be denied. He came over and put his hand on her shoulder, shaking
her a little.
“What did he mean?” he repeated. “Tell me, May.”
She looked up at him and tried to get to her feet, but he held her
firmly.
“Why, he’s--he’s just delirious,” she faltered. “He doesn’t know
what----”
“It’s back in his mind,” said Hashknife firmly. “He don’t realize what
he’s sayin’, thasall.”
“Will Lavelle send the doctor out?” asked Mrs. Daley.
“That’s up to Lavelle, May. Now will yuh tell me what Bud means?”
“I--I don’t know, Hashknife.”
“You don’t need to lie to me, May.”
She looked up at him, her lips shut tightly; and she turned away from
the determined expression in his eyes.
“And you know yuh lie, when yuh say yuh don’t know, May,” he said
softly. “I’m yore friend--and I’m listenin’ real close.”
“You--you call me a liar?” she faltered. “And you say you are my
friend?”
“I’ve had a lot of friends that lied, May. That’s one of the failin’s of
the human race. There’ll always be liars. Now come clean with me. I want
to help yuh, but I’ve got to have the truth.”
She got up from her chair and walked to the front doorway. He followed
her and she went out on the porch, where she leaned against one of the
porch-posts, staring off across the hills. Hashknife leaned easily
against the side of the doorway and rolled a smoke. Back in the bedroom
Bud muttered some broken sentences.
“Oh, I wish that doctor would hurry,” said May nervously.
“It’s quite a ways to town,” said Hashknife. “But that’s all right; Bud
ain’t in dangerous shape. Are yuh ready to talk?”
“Talk?” She turned on him wearily. “Oh, why don’t you go away and let me
alone? I have nothing to talk about.”
He stepped out and put a hand on each of her shoulders, forcing her to
look into his face.
“May,” he asked softly, “are you in love with Lavelle?”
She shut her eyes quickly and shook her head violently.
“Is he in love with you?”
Quickly she turned away from him, but did not answer.
“All right, I reckon that’s it,” said Hashknife sadly. “I don’t blame
him. Yo’re a lovable sort of a girl, May. I used to wonder how Bud Daley
got yuh.” He laughed softly and rubbed his chin.
“Yo’re too good for Bud Daley.”
She turned quickly, angrily.
“What do you mean by that?” she demanded.
“He’s just a cowpuncher, May. You ought to have silks and furs and all
that, don’tcha know it?”
Her tightly shut lips trembled and tears came to her eyes. He was
goading her with Bud’s own words.
“Lavelle could give yuh all them things, May. He told yuh he could,
didn’t he?”
“Oh, why do you ask me these things?” she cried. “What good can it do
you?”
“And Bud heard yuh talkin’ with Lavelle, didn’t he? He heard Lavelle
offer yuh all these things, May? When did he hear this?”
“What good--?” she began.
“Was it the night that the bank was robbed?”
She tried to turn away, but he caught her by the arm and their eyes met.
She nodded quickly and looked away.
“Thank yuh, May,” he said softly. “Now, let’s talk about it.”
“Oh, I don’t want to talk about anything, Hashknife. Please don’t ask me
to talk about it. I’ve had so much trouble----”
“Yo’re goin’ to talk to me,” laughed Hashknife, “or I’m goin’ to take
you across my lap and spank yuh good; _sabe_?”
She turned angrily on him, but her sense of humor saved Hashknife. In
spite of herself she was forced to laugh at his threat.
“Right down here on the steps,” grinned Hashknife. “We’ll set down and
have a real good talk. I’m a danged good spanker, too.”
They sat down together. It seemed easier to talk now.
“Now,” said Hashknife, “I understand that Lavelle loves you, but you
don’t love him. Makes it tough on Lavelle, but lucky for you. And the
night of the bank robbery, Bud heard Lavelle makin’ love to you, eh?”
“I didn’t know it,” she confessed. “But those were some of the things
that Lavelle said to me; so Bud must have overheard.”
“Prob’ly broke Bud all up. He had tried to borrow more money from
Lavelle that day. Makes it look bad for Bud. He needed money to buy
yuh the things that Lavelle promised yuh. It’s a good thing yuh didn’t
have to testify at the trial, or they’d ’a’ hung him on that kind of
testimony.
“Would you--say, May, this is gettin’ danged personal, and mebbe yuh
won’t answer it, but I’m asking it just the same: If Bud had gone to
the penitentiary, would you have married Lavelle?”
“I don’t love Lavelle,” she replied softly.
“He wanted to marry yuh, didn’t he?”
“Yes--for a long time.”
“Uh-huh. And if Bud was sent to the penitentiary, you could marry him,
if yuh wanted to, May. There wasn’t nothin’ to stop yuh.”
“I realize that,” she said slowly. “Lavelle offered to take me away from
here--away from Modoc. He said he would sell out and we could see the
world. He came to me again, after Bud was convicted. But I told him that
it was impossible. I was so sick over it all. He begged me to go away
with him, but I refused. I told him that I was Bud’s wife as long as he
lived--no matter what he had done.”
“That was square of yuh, May,” said Hashknife softly. “I’m kinda proud
of yuh, don’tcha know it?”
“And you don’t blame me, Hashknife?” she asked eagerly.
“Not that I know of,” he smiled. “It wasn’t no fault of yours, if
Lavelle loved yuh. You wouldn’t be hard to love. If I was ten years
younger, I’d love yuh myself.”
She laughed softly and the color came back to her face.
“I didn’t know that age was a barrier to love,” she said.
“There’s different kinds of love, May. The kind you know is yore love
for Bud. That’s the love of youth. If I was ten years younger--”
Hashknife laughed and got to his feet. “Gettin’ kinda stiff in the
knees.”
“You are not over forty, Hashknife.”
“Well?”
“Lavelle is almost forty.”
“And yo’re about twenty-two. Say, you ain’t tryin’ to make love to me,
are yuh, May?”
“Certainly not!”
“Squirshed agin’,” said Hashknife dejectedly. “I never did have no luck.
I got stuck on a waitress in Cheyenne once. She had the prettiest hair I
ever seen. I reckon I got stuck on her hair. Well, one day she was
waitin’ on my table and I asked her to go to a dance with me that night.
I was sure goin’ to ask her to marry me that night.” Hashknife laughed
softly and rubbed his chin.
“Well, she said she’d go with me. She was standin’ agin’ the wall, where
the hooks are that yuh hang yore hats on, and when she turned to go back
to the kitchen, her hair got caught on a hook--and stayed there.”
“Stayed there?” wondered May.
“Uh-uh.” Hashknife laughed heartily. “It was a wig. She was as bald
as an aig. She beat it for the kitchen; so I got the wig and gave it
to the cashier. That was my only experience as a hair-restorer.”
Mrs. Daley laughed heartily over Hashknife’s sorrows, and to take
her mind off the long wait for the doctor, he told her some of the
experiences that he and Sleepy had encountered; telling them in a
whimsical way, taking no credit for himself.
It was an hour or so later that the doctor arrived. He asked no
questions, but proceeded to administer to Bud, who had recovered to
a certain extent. Uncle Jimmy and Ma Miller came home, excited over
the presence of the doctor, until Hashknife explained how it had all
happened.
“And what was Lavelle doin’ out here?” demanded Ma Miller.
“I reckon he just dropped in,” said Hashknife.
“Dropped, eh?” Ma was suspicious and did not conceal it.
“Ma, it’s none of yore business,” said Uncle Jimmy, glad of a chance to
chide her. “He didn’t come out here to see you, ’cause he knowed you was
in town.”
“Yeah, and he knew that May was here alone. I don’t like it.”
Ma bustled away into the kitchen, and Hashknife went back to his horse.
Uncle Jimmy begged him to stay for supper, but Hashknife declined.
“Mebbe t’morrow night. I’ve got some folks that I want to see pretty
soon.”
“Well, make it tomorrow night then,” said Uncle Jimmy regretfully.
“Ma’ll probably raise ---- when she finds out that yo’re gone, but yo’re
single and can do as yuh ---- please. Might do her good to find out that
she can’t boss everybody.”