For the next three days nothing startling happened at the Double Bar
8, except that Jimmy Legg labored hard with the intricacies of a rope,
which invariably tangled around his legs, and a six-shooter, which
seemed to ignore the target entirely.
Hashknife and Sleepy humped against the patio wall, absorbing many
cigarets, while they solemnly gave advice to Jimmy, and marveled that
any man could shoot away so much ammunition and never hit anything.
But Jimmy was persistent. He banged away merrily, satisfied if his
bullet came within two feet of a tomato-can, at twenty feet, trying to
follow Hashknife’s advice to shoot low. Apollo, the burro, entirely
recovered from his creasing, humped back in the shade of the patio
wall, and watched Jimmy with solemn dignity, jerking his one good ear
convulsively at each report of the heavy Colt.
Nanah had watched with interest from the door of the ranch-house,
until a misdirected bullet smashed through a window near her, after
which she lost interest in Jimmy’s marksmanship.
Hashknife and Sleepy rounded up several head of Double Bar 8 horses,
getting Marion’s opinion on them as a remuda for the coming round-up,
and also trying them out. As a result, both of the cowboys were stiff
and sore from the unaccustomed shaking which is usually meted out to a
rider by horses which have not been ridden for months. Jimmy Legg had
tried one, and then retired to the liniment bottle.
Marion decided to ride to Blue Wells, and Jimmy immediately offered to
ride with her. Jimmy had not been away from the ranch since the
mysterious bullet had nearly robbed him of an ear, and he was anxious
to go to town. Regardless of the fact that his torn scalp had not been
dressed by a doctor, it was doing very nicely, and he was able to do
away with the bandage.
He and Marion did not indulge in much conversation on the way to Blue
Wells, because of the fact that most of Jimmy’s time was occupied in
handling his mount.
“This is rather embarrassing,” he told Marion. “I start to say
something to you, when this fool horse goes off across the country.
I’d rather be thrown off than to have my conversation interrupted
every time.”
“But you’re learning,” declared Marion.
“I hope so,” dubiously.
“Jimmy, does it mean so much to you—to be a cowboy?”
Jimmy reined his horse back into the road, clutched his hat just in
time to save it, and nodded violently.
“You bet! Say, it means an awful lot to me, Marion. Darn it, the more
I think about it, the more it means.”
Marion did not question him any further, as they rode down the main
street of Blue Wells. Marion dismounted at the sheriff’s office, but
Jimmy rode on to the Oasis hitch-rack, where he had seen several AK
horses tied.
At the Oasis bar he found Johnny Grant, Eskimo Swensen, Oyster Shell
and Tex Alden. Johnny fell upon him with a war-whoop of joy and
dragged him to the bar, while Eskimo and Oyster pounded him on the
shoulders and examined his scalp, much in the way of a pair of
monkeys, gibbering the while.
Tex turned away without speaking and walked outside, while the AK gang
leaned Johnny against the bar and demanded loudly of the bartender
that he work fast. They questioned Jimmy about the shooting at the
Double Bar 8, and his progress as a cowpuncher. In fact, the questions
came too fast for Jimmy to answer. But after the second drink he
managed to catch his breath, and told them some of the happenings. But
he would not drink any more.
“I’ve got to ride back to the ranch,” he told them solemnly. “I
brought Miss Taylor to town, and she is down at the jail, visiting
with her folks.”
The two drinks had made Jimmy rather expansive and he told them about
his roping and shooting lessons; which caused the AK boys to double up
with mirth.
“We was goin’ to stop at yore place on the way back,” said Johnny
Grant. “Bonnette said to tell Miss Taylor that her outfit can use from
our wagons. There’s plenty of room for all the bed-rolls, and three
extra men ain’t goin’ to kill off our cook.”
“Well, that certainly is thoughtful of him,” said Jimmy. “I know Miss
Taylor will appreciate it.”
“Aw, you better have one more drink,” urged Eskimo. “One more won’t
hurt yuh none.”
“Well,” Jimmy smiled expansively, “I suppose not. But I’ll buy this
one.”
All of which was acceptable, as it had been long enough since pay-day
to find the AK boys in financial straits. They drank a health to
Jimmy, and all walked outside. The main street of Blue Wells drowsed
in the afternoon sun. A few men humped in shady spots, whittling,
discussing nothing much in particular. Even the horses at the
hitch-racks drowsed.
Suddenly a commotion started at the sheriff’s office. It was not a big
commotion, but plainly audible on the silent street. A yellowish-red
dog darted out of the office door, whirled around once, as if to get
its bearings, and trotted up the street, looking back.
Out of the door came Al Porter. He had a heavy dish in his right hand.
Only for a moment did he hesitate, and then started toward the dog,
running stiffly, swearing. The dog was Geronimo, the Exhibit A, in the
case of the State of Arizona versus the Taylor Outfit.
Running as fast as he was capable, Porter hurled the dish at the dog.
But his aim was very faulty, which was attested to by a splintering of
window-glass from the front of Louie Sing’s restaurant.
The AK gang whooped with mirth. Jimmy Legg, forgetting that ownership
of Geronimo might cause complications, ran across the street toward
Porter, yelling at him to let the dog alone. Geronimo stopped in an
angle between the end of a bench and the wall of Moon’s store, and
anxiously watched Porter, who had picked up several rocks about the
size of eggs, and was preparing to bombard the dog.
Jimmy’s three drinks had made him reckless.
“You let that dog alone!” yelped Jimmy.
He was about twenty feet away from the swearing, perspiring Porter,
who paused long enough to consign Jimmy to a place which was even more
arid than Death Valley.
“By ——, I’ll learn that dog to bite me!” he roared. “I’ll smash in his
—— skull!”
The first rock struck the end of the bench and glanced into Geronimo,
who yelped more from fright than actual distress.
“Stop that, you dirty coyote!” yelled Jimmy.
Porter let fly with another rock, which narrowly missed breaking one
of the store windows, and whirled angrily toward Jimmy.
“Who’s a coyote?” he snorted.
His right hand swung back to the butt of his gun. It is barely
possible that Jimmy’s three drinks had ruined his perspective, because
he whipped out his gun and shot at Porter, almost before his hand
swung away from his hip.
The enraged deputy was off balance, unprepared, his right foot lifted,
as he had been following the swing of his throwing-arm. And at the
crack of Jimmy’s gun, his feet seemed to jerk from under him and he
came down in the hard street with a crash.
Jimmy stood there in the street, dangling the gun in his hand, while
Porter sprawled on his back, his knees jerking. The dog came running
toward Jimmy, barking joyfully, and almost knocked Jimmy down.
“Good ——, go away!” panted Jimmy. “Gug-go away!”
The three boys from the AK ran past Jimmy, going straight to Porter.
The sheriff and Marion were coming from the office, while it seemed to
Jimmy that the rest of the world spewed out of every doorway. Then he
lost his nerve. Whirling on his heel, he ran to the hitch-rack,
mounted his horse and went flailing off down the street, followed by
Geronimo, barking wildly.
Porter got slowly to his feet, holding one hand against his head, his
face a mixture of anger and wonderment.
“Where’d he hit yuh?”
“What was the matter?”
“Who shot yuh?”
Questions were fired at Porter, who groaned dismally and shoved the
anxious sheriff away.
“That —— fool!” quavered Porter. “Who’d ever think he’d shoot? I was
plumb off balance—kinda on one heel—and his bullet—take a look at it.”
Porter held up his foot and they beheld the reason for the deputy’s
sudden drop. The heavy bullet had smashed into the high heel, almost
into the counter, and the impact had knocked Porter’s sole prop from
under him. And Porter had hit his head a resounding whack against the
ground, which accounted for the fact that Porter stayed down a while.
“And he stole the dog!” exclaimed the sheriff.
“The dog stole him,” amended Johnny Grant.
“I hope t’ —— he keeps him!” groaned Porter. “I’m all through with
that dog, evidence or no evidence.”
“But we’ve got to have that dog, Al,” insisted the sheriff. “That’s
our main evidence.”
“Then you get him and do the feedin’. I never hired out as a ——
menagerie keeper. He bit me on the wrist, and when I kicked at him, he
bit me on the ankle and got loose.”
Tex Alden was one of those who had come from Moon’s store, and now he
spoke to the sheriff:
“Just why did that dog pull out with Legg?”
“Why, I dunno, Tex,” admitted the sheriff.
“Why did Legg defend the dog?”
The sheriff looked blankly around.
“I dunno that either, Tex.”
“All right,” Tex smiled crookedly and shrugged his shoulders. He
looked at Marion, but did not speak, and turned away.
“What’ll yuh do to that kid, Al?” asked one of the men.
“Do to him?” Porter took it under advisement. “I dunno. He might ’a’
been right. I was so —— mad that I dunno just how things was.”
“You reached back for a gun,” reminded Eskimo, and the other three AK
cowboys nodded in confirmation.
“Yuh did, Al,” said Johnny.
“All right,” nodded Porter. “Mebbe I did.”
“And the kid thought yuh was goin’ to draw on him,” offered Oyster
Shell.
“Well, what the —— is all the argument about?” snarled the deputy.
“I’ll admit he was right. But,” Porter mustered a smile, “I hope that
—— dog bites him when he gits off that horse.”
All of which ended all arguments as far as the guilt or innocence of
Jimmy Legg was concerned—although Jimmy Legg, running his horse back
toward the Double Bar 8, considered himself a deep-dyed killer.
He imagined that a posse was already on his trail, and once he saw
Geronimo far back in the road, just topping a rise, and his
imagination conjured up a dozen armed men, hot on his trail. The
shooting had made him cold sober, but the taste of liquor was still on
his palate.
His future was indefinite, because his thoughts ran in circles. He
could see the big deputy, lying flat in the street, his knees jerking.
Everything else was blotted out by that picture. He tried to remember
just why he had fired the shot, but it was like a half-forgotten
dream—something that had happened long ago.
His horse was plastered with lather, when he rode in at the patio gate
and dismounted near the well. Hashknife and Sleepy were just coming
from the ranch-house door, realizing from the condition of the horse
that something was wrong.
“What’s wrong, Jimmy?” asked Hashknife.
Jimmy flapped his arms weakly, and there was a decided catch in his
throat.
“I just killed the deputy sheriff,” he said.
Hashknife stepped closer and grasped Jimmy by a shoulder.
“You done what?”
Jimmy gulped and nodded.
“Ye-yes, I did. I—I—”
“Take it easy, kid,” said Hashknife. “Set down here on the curb and
tell us about it.”
“I can’t,” Jimmy shook his head nervously. “I’ve got to keep going.
They’re after me, don’t you see?”
“All right, kid. If they’re after you, this is a fine place for ’em to
get you.”
“But I can’t stay here, Hashknife.”
“Sure yuh can, Jimmy. Let’s talk it over. Runnin’ away won’t help yuh
none. You’d lose out.”
Geronimo came into the patio, dust-covered, his tongue hanging out,
tail wagging. Jimmy had set a hot pace from town, but the dog had
found him. He sat down on his haunches in front of Jimmy and put a paw
on Jimmy’s knee.
“Where’d the dog come from?” asked Sleepy.
Jimmy looked at Geronimo, and Geronimo looked at Jimmy.
“He is my dog,” said Jimmy slowly. “It’s the dog they had in jail—the
evidence against Taylor.”
“Your dog, Jimmy?” asked Hashknife.
“Oh, yes,” Jimmy nodded slowly. “You see, I was afraid to tell
anybody.”
“All right,” said Hashknife. “Now, tell us about the killin’ of the
deputy sheriff, Jimmy.”
And Jimmy told them, while the two cowboys asked a question here and
there to clarify things somewhat.
“Well, it looks to me as if it was a case of self-defense,” said
Hashknife, when Jimmy had finished his story.
“He really reached for his gun,” said Jimmy. “I realized it.”
“What I’d like to know is, how in —— did yuh ever hit him?” queried
Sleepy.
“I—I suppose it was because he’s larger than a tin can.”
“Where do yuh reckon yuh hit him?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” wailed Jimmy. “It must have been through the
heart, because he fell down so quickly—and his knees were jerking.”
“That’s good shootin’, for the first time,” said Sleepy dryly. “Where
is Marion?”
“Oh, I forgot her! I must have been excited.”
“You prob’ly would be,” agreed Hashknife. “What I want you to do right
now is to tell me all about ownin’ this dog.”
“Oh, yes, about the dog,” Jimmy jerked nervously at the sound of a
noise outside the patio gate, but it was only Apollo, rubbing his
shoulder against the wall.
Jimmy sighed deeply.
“I suppose that was a dirty trick. But when I found out that—that the
dog was supposed to belong to a robber, I was afraid to claim him. He
ran away from me that night in Blue Wells, you see.”
And then James Eaton Legg went ahead and told them about his
experience with the express messenger. Hashknife grinned, when Jimmy
told of that battle in the express car, and of how the messenger had
described him as being a big, burly man, who tried to draw a gun.
“His lyin’ saves you a lot of trouble,” said Hashknife, when Jimmy had
finished his tale. “He didn’t want anybody to think he had been
whipped by a smaller man.”
“I suppose so; but I’ll go to town and tell ’em that the dog belongs
to me. I might as well shoulder it all now.”
“I wish yuh wouldn’t,” said Hashknife. “Let things ride as they are
for a while. If they arrest yuh for shootin’ the deputy, mebbe yuh can
make a self-defense out of it. Yuh say that the AK boys saw it?
They’ll prob’ly alibi yuh, ’cause they don’t like the sheriff. Under
the circumstances a man could lie a little and not bend his conscience
too much.”
“Yuh should have stayed and seen the finish,” said Sleepy. “It would
’a’ looked better.”
“I know it,” Jimmy sighed wearily. “But all I could think about was to
run away. I’ve never killed a man before.”
“Prob’ly the first time he ever was killed, too.”
“Oh, don’t joke about it! It’s a terrible thing.”
“Pshaw, I wasn’t jokin’, Jimmy.”
“I know, but—”
A horse swung in through the patio gate, and Jimmy almost fell off the
curb; but it was only Marion. She looked at Jimmy and began laughing.
Geronimo barked joyfully and tried to jump up to her stirrup.
But Jimmy only stared at her blankly, his mouth open.
“What’s the joke?” asked Hashknife seriously.
“Dud-don’t laugh,” pleaded Jimmy. “It isn’t anything to laugh about.”
Between chuckles of merriment Marion managed to tell them what Jimmy
had done, while Jimmy, his eyes and mouth wide open, leaned against
the curb, gasping like a fish out of water.
Marion described how Jimmy had ridden out of Blue Wells, followed by
the dog, and Sleepy cried against the shoulder of her horse. But Jimmy
was too relieved to laugh.
“Well,” he said solemnly, “I guess I’ll have to pick something bigger
than a man next time. Really, there should be something big enough for
me to hit.”
“You ought to attack a fort,” laughed Sleepy.
They unsaddled Marion’s horse, while Jimmy took care of his own
exhausted mount. He was so happy that he tried to take the saddle off
without uncinching it.
“I expect the sheriff will be out here soon,” Marion told them. “He
wants that dog. It bit Al Porter twice today, but they’ve got to keep
it for evidence.”
“They don’t know it’s here,” said Hashknife. “Let’s hide it.”
“Hide it? But that wouldn’t be lawful.”
“It isn’t lawful to hold yore folks on that kind of evidence, either.
Where can we put the dog.”
“In the cellar,” suggested Sleepy. “The one beneath the kitchen.”
“But won’t they search?”
“Prob’ly. Put a rug over the trap-door, and they’ll never see it.”
It did not take them long to dump Geronimo into the cellar, where
Sleepy made him a good bed and put in a bucket of water. The dog
accepted his new quarters without any protest, and Nanah grinned when
she put an old rug over the trap-door, and moved over a table to rest
on it.
The three men were in the bunk-house when the sheriff showed up, about
thirty minutes later. He looked around the patio, expecting to see the
dog, and dismounted. Hashknife shook hands with him. Jimmy did not put
in an appearance.
“You heard what happened in town, didn’t yuh?” asked the sheriff.
Hashknife agreed that he had.
“It ended all right,” remarked the sheriff. “Except that the main
exhibit of the Taylor case followed Legg out of town.”
“What exhibit was that?”
“The dog. Legg came here, didn’t he?”
“Oh, yeah. But I don’t know anythin’ about the dog. Jimmy said the
trouble started over a dog, and Miss Taylor said the dog followed
Jimmy out of Blue Wells, but it prob’ly went back.”
“Yea-a-a-ah? Went back—where?”
“Why, to Blue Wells.”
“I don’t think so, Hartley.”
“Didja search the town?”
The sheriff, of course, hadn’t. He had taken it for granted that the
dog followed Legg all the way to the Double Bar 8, and upon sober
reflection on his part it was reasonable to suppose that the dog had
stopped and turned back to town.
“The kid was kinda scared, wasn’t he?” asked the sheriff.
“Naturally would be,” grinned Hashknife. “He thought he had killed
Porter.”
“I dunno how he ever missed hittin’ Al some’ers beside in the heel.
They wasn’t twenty feet apart. That derned tenderfoot is goin’ to kill
somebody before he gits through. He’s comin’ closer every time. By
golly, I dodge every time I see him. He’s such a bad shot that he
worries me.”
As they were laughing over Jimmy’s markmanship, Lee Barnhardt rode in
on his sway-backed mount and dismounted beside them.
“You rode too fast for me,” he told the sheriff. “I saw you start out,
but you didn’t stop when I yelled.”
“I didn’t hear yuh, Lee.”
Marion came from the house, and Barnhardt took some mail from his
pocket, which he gave to her.
“The postmaster said you forgot to get it,” he said. “I was coming
out; so I brought it.”
The mail consisted of a few circulars and a weekly newspaper.
“I asked for mail for you boys,” Barnhardt told Hashknife.
“We’re not likely to get any,” smiled Hashknife. “Thank yuh just the
same.”
Barnhardt turned to the sheriff.
“What about that dog?”
“Not here. Mebbe it never left town, Lee. Yo’re not worryin’ are yuh?”
“Not me. I’d be just as well satisfied if it never came back.”
“That’s what I thought. Are yuh ready to ride back?”
The lawyer shook his head.
“I’m in no hurry, Scotty.”
“Well, I am. So long, folks.”
Jimmy ventured out after the sheriff had gone, and wanted to know
everything the sheriff had said. He was so glad to know that the law
was not on his trail that he even spoke pleasantly to Lee Barnhardt.
Marion went in the house, and Sleepy sat down in the shade with Jimmy,
leaving Hashknife with the lawyer.
“Naturally, we are both working in the interests of the Taylor
family,” said the lawyer confidentially. “Now, I’d like to know what
progress you have made in your observations.”
Hashknife looked at him keenly.
“I don’t reckon I understand yuh, Barnhardt.”
“No?” Barnhardt smiled knowingly. “For your own information I will say
that Chet Le Moyne admitted your connections with the Santa Rita
mining company.”
“He did, eh?” Hashknife was wearing his poker face now.
“Yes. It is rather difficult to keep a thing like that from becoming
common knowledge. Folks naturally wondered what your business might
be.”
“I suppose,” seriously. “But I don’t reckon it makes much difference,
does it?”
“Oh, no. I have not mentioned it to any one; but I was curious to know
what you had found out, because I am anxious for any new development
which will serve my clients.”
“Well, I can’t tell yuh much. In fact, I can’t tell yuh anythin’.”
“Anything you told me would be in strictest confidence.”
“Yeah, I realize that.”
But although the Blue Wells lawyer waited patiently, the tall cowboy
remained silent. Then—
“Just an inkling of what you are doing would serve to cheer up my
clients.”
Hashknife shifted his position and looked Barnhardt squarely in the
eye. The level stare of the cold-eyed cowboy caused Barnhardt’s gaze
to shift. He had the uncomfortable feeling that Hashknife could read
his mind.
“Barnhardt,” said Hashknife earnestly, “do you think I’m a —— fool?”
“Oh, no; not at all. Well,” Barnhardt turned away, “I suppose I may as
well go back. No hard feelings, I hope. Being in charge of the Taylor
defense, I would naturally be interested in any new developments in
the case.”
Barnhardt mounted his sway-backed horse and rode away, his elbows
flapping, his trouser-legs crawling up. About a mile from the Double
Bar 8 he drew rein and let his horse walk slowly along the dusty road,
while he took an envelope from his pocket.
The flap had already been torn loose. He drew out the letter and
perused it closely. The envelope, postmarked Chicago, was addressed to
H. Hartley, Blue Wells, Arizona, and the letter read:
Dear Sir: A wire from us to James Eaton Legg, San Francisco,
California, brought a reply from his former place of residence
to the effect that Mr. Legg had left there and had left his
forwarding address as Blue Wells, Arizona. This may be a
coincidence, or it may be because of some former information.
Trusting that you will be able to furnish us with valuable
information soon, we beg to remain,
Sincerely yours,
Leesom & Brand.
Barnhardt’s lips were shut tightly and the muscles of his jaw bulged
as he tore the letter into tiny fragments, swung his horse off the
road and scattered the bits of paper into a mesquite tangle. He turned
in his saddle and looked back toward the Double Bar 8, as he reined
his horse back to the road.
“Hashknife Hartley,” he said earnestly, “do you think I’m a —— fool?”
But whether Hashknife did, or didn’t—Barnhardt had no way of knowing.
He could only guess, and possibly he guessed wrong. At any rate he
rode back to Blue Wells in a black frame of mind, and the first man he
met was Chet Le Moyne.
“I’ve just been out to the Double Bar 8,” he told Le Moyne. “And I had
a talk with your detectives.”
“You did, eh. What did they tell you?”
“That would be telling, Chet. I told them I knew they were working for
the Santa Rita.”
“Yeah?” coldly. “And then?”
“Oh, they didn’t deny it. But I don’t think they’ve found out very
much.”
“Possibly not.”
Le Moyne watched Barnhardt ride down to his office, tie his horse, and
go inside. The face of the handsome paymaster twisted angrily, as his
gloomy eyes squinted against the sun.
“I wonder if Barnhardt is just a plain —— fool, or—”
Le Moyne shook his head and went on his way.
* * * * *
That evening Hashknife, Sleepy and Jimmy rode to Blue Wells. There
were few people in town, and while Jimmy and Sleepy played pool at the
Oasis saloon, Hashknife found the sheriff at his office. The sheriff
was pleasant and curious, especially when Hashknife talked over with
him the evidence in the Taylor case.
The subject of the AK boys’ locking the sheriff in his own cell came
up, and the sheriff explained that the reason no one discovered his
plight was because Al Porter, the deputy, was at Encinas, visiting a
girl, and did not get back until morning.
“Does that Santa Rita pay-roll come in at the same time every month?”
asked Hashknife.
“I dunno.”
“They say that the paymaster always takes the money from here to the
mine.”
“I reckon he does.”
“And somebody would have to know it was comin’ that day.”
“Oh, they must ’a’ knowed about it, Hartley.”
“How would Taylor have found it out?”
“That’s hard to say. Chet Le Moyne, the paymaster, is kinda sweet on
Miss Taylor, and—”
“And he might have told her, eh?”
“I don’t say he did, Hartley.”
“But for the sake of an argument, it could ’a’ happened. She might ’a’
mentioned the fact that Chet was comin’ in to get the pay-roll, eh? Is
that what yuh was thinkin’?”
“Mebbe.” The sheriff did not want to commit himself.
“And this Le Moyne was at the depot to get the pay-roll?”
“Yeah. He was here earlier in the evenin’, and somebody said he went
out to see Miss Taylor.”
“But he was at the depot to get the money, was he?”
“Yeah.”
“And you think there was four men in on the deal?”
“Sure. The fourth one got on at Encinas. It was his job to put the
messenger out of commission, I reckon.”
“This happened out where the AK road turns off the Encinas road, near
the railroad track, I understand. They cut the express car loose from
the rest of the train, ran it up there, blew the safe and got the
money. The engine crew say they had sort of a battle with ’em, after
they left the car. Then the engine crew ran the engine and express car
back to where they had cut loose from the rest of the train, picked it
up and came on to Blue Wells. Is that it?”
“Yeah, that’s what happened.”
“This express messenger and the man who got on the car at Encinas
fought in the car, but finally fell out. Do yuh know if this was
before or after the train was cut in two?”
The sheriff cogitated deeply.
“I never did hear, but—say, it must ’a’ been after the train was
broken, because they picked up the messenger on their way to here.
Yessir, it must ’a’ been after they cut off the express car, because
that messenger sure was picked up. He never walked to the train.”
“The messenger described the man who fought him, didn’t he?”
“Well, he said it was a big, husky sort of a feller. I don’t think
there’s any question about him bein’ one of the gang. He used that dog
as a reason for gettin’ on that car.”
“They why did he walk to the scene of the robbery, take the dog from
the express car and disappear?”
“Prob’ly scared that some one would recognize the dog?”
“The messenger and engine crew had already seen it. If it belonged to
Taylor, do yuh reckon they’d take the dog back to their ranch, where
any one could find it?”
The sheriff twisted his mustache thoughtfully. This was something he
had not thought about.
“Anybody would recognize that dog,” said Hashknife.
“Yore argument sounds pretty good,” admitted the sheriff. “But it
don’t make much difference, because we can’t find that dog. Al Porter
is glad, I suppose. The darn thing hates him. Bit him every time it
had a chance. Growls every time he shows up.”
“You’ll have to find the dog before the trial, won’t yuh?”
“I s’pose the prosecutin’ attorney will raise —— if it ain’t here.
Still, it’s been identified; so that prob’ly won’t make a lot of
difference.”
“What became of Wade, the railroad detective?”
“Oh, he went back. Yuh see, he decided that Taylor was guilty; so
there wasn’t anythin’ more for him to do here.”
Hashknife went back to the saloon, and they made it a three-handed
game of pool. It was about nine o’clock when they decided to go back
to the ranch, as there was no excitement at all in Blue Wells. The
moonlight was so bright that, following Hashknife’s suggestion, they
rode in single file, about fifty feet apart.
That shot from the hills had made Hashknife cautious, and he knew that
three riders, bunched, would make an easy target in that moonlight.
But their return was uneventful, except that there were no lights in
the windows of the ranch-house.
“That sure looks all wrong,” declared Hashknife.
“Mebbe not,” said Sleepy. “Marion and Nanah might be enjoyin’ the
moonlight.”
“They might, but we’ll play safe by thinkin’ they’re not.”
The three men dismounted a hundred yards from the house and went
cautiously to the patio gate. There was not a sound. The rear of the
ranch-house flung a long shadow across the patio. Hashknife watched
and listened for a while, and then strode boldly inside. A door
creaked, and they heard Marion’s voice—
“Is that you, Hashknife?” she spoke softly.
“It sure is,” replied Hashknife. “What’s the matter?”
“Come here.”
They went softly across the patio and up to the door, where she let
them in. They could see the silhouette of Nanah against a window,
where she was watching. Marion closed the door softly.
“There wasn’t any light,” said Hashknife.
“Nanah saw you leave your horses,” said Marion. “She knew who it was.
About half an hour ago Nanah and I were sitting on the back porch in
the moonlight. It was wonderful out there, but it was getting cool; so
we came in. There were no lamps lighted.
“And Nanah swears she saw a man looking in the window, where she is
now. I told her she must be seeing things, but she persisted. So we
did not light a lamp. We watched and watched, but the man did not come
back. I went to the rear door and opened it a little. It squeaks a
little, you know. Then I saw a man cross the patio. He was all humped
up, and it seemed to me as though he had been looking in the window of
the bunk-house. I can’t be sure about it. I’m sure he did not suspect
that I had seen him, because he stopped in the gateway for quite a
while. Then he stepped into the shadow on the other side of the wall.”
“How long ago was this?” asked Hashknife.
“Not over thirty minutes ago.”
“He must have been lookin’ for us,” grinned Sleepy.
“And if he seen us sneak in here he’ll know we’re on to him,” said
Hashknife. “But we’ve got to take a chance. Come out on the porch.
Tell Nanah to light the lamps.”
The old Indian woman bustled around, lighting lamps, while the rest of
them followed Hashknife to the rear porch.
“I’ll go first,” whispered Hashknife. “One man only makes one target.
If the coast is clear, I’ll whistle a tune, and Sleepy, you and Jimmy
come over there.”
Hashknife kept well in the shadow in crossing the patio, and in a
minute or two he began whistling. Sleepy and Jimmy crossed to the
bunk-house, where the door was open. Hashknife lighted the lamp, which
was on a table about midway of the room.
Then he motioned Sleepy and Jimmy back to the doorway, where he
followed them out, closing the door.
“Duck down as low as yuh can and sneak back to the house,” he
whispered. They got back to the house and crept silently in.
Hashknife stepped in close to a rear window, where he could get a
clear view of the patio, and watched through a break in the curtain.
“If he didn’t see our horses, he’ll think we’re in the bunk-house,”
said Hashknife. “If he seen us leave our horses and do an Injun sneak,
he’ll know we’re on to him, and prob’ly fog away from here.”
“Do you think it’s the man who has been trying to kill me?” asked
Jimmy.
“Might be.”
Suddenly Hashknife jerked back. A blinding flash filled the room,
followed by a terrific jarring crash, which fairly threw them off
their feet. The lamp was extinguished; pictures fell from the walls,
and a moment later the house seemed to be bombarded with missiles from
every angle.
Hashknife had fallen back against a table, but now he got to his feet,
groping in the dark. Sleepy was swearing dazedly. Dust and smoke
eddied in through the broken windows, and with it was the odor of
dynamite; the unmistakable scent of nitroglycerine.
“Is anybody hurt?” gasped Hashknife, scratching a match and holding it
above his head. Nanah was sitting against the wall, her eyes goggling
out of an impassive face. Marion had got to her feet and was reaching
for something to steady herself with, while Jimmy had backed against
the wall, his arms outspread against it, his feet braced.
“What was it?” whispered Marion, staring wide-eyed at Hashknife.
“Somebody dynamited us, I reckon.” He strode to the door and flung it
open, while the others crowded close behind him. Where once had stood
the adobe bunk-house, there was only a pile of adobe bricks, twisted
timbers. The patio was a mass of adobe. On the porch of the
ranch-house was the splintered door, torn from its hinges and flung
across the patio.
Hashknife ran across the yard, vaulted across the débris and went out
through a gaping hole in the patio wall, heading for the stables.
Through some freak of dynamite explosion, the force seemed to have
been in the opposite direction to the stables, with the result that
none of the stock was injured, and the stable still intact.
It did not take Hashknife long to find that nothing had been injured
in the stable. A decidedly feminine shriek from the patio sent him
running back through the broken wall, where he almost ran into Apollo,
the ancient burro.
“He was under that pile of stuff,” yelled Sleepy. “Rised up like a
darned ghost and almost scared Marion to death.”
Marion was laughing foolishly, almost hysterically.
“—— good thing I see man,” declared Nanah solemnly.
“You bet it was!” agreed Hashknife warmly. “If yuh didn’t see that
man, we’d be in bad shape now, Nanah. Good gosh! Can yuh imagine what
would ’a’ happened to us, if we’d ’a’ been in that bunk-house?”
“Yeah, and we’d better look a little out,” said Sleepy nervously. “The
little sidewinder that touched off that blast will prob’ly want to see
if he done a good job.”
“He’ll not come back tonight, Sleepy. He’s high-tailin’ it out of this
section right now. I’ll betcha yuh could hear that explosion in Blue
Wells.”
Marion shivered in the cold breeze, as she looked at the moonlit
wreck.
“Oh, what will happen next?” she wondered aloud.
“Somebody,” said Hashknife, “is goin’ to hear the echo of that blast,
and it sure is goin’ to ache his ears.”
They tried to find their bed-rolls, but the outer wall of the
bunk-house, which was about two feet thick of adobe, had fallen in on
the floor, and it would require much digging to get down even to the
bunk-levels.
They went after their horses and put them in the stable, after which
they borrowed a few blankets from Marion. Jimmy insisted that he be
allowed to stand guard with them, but Hashknife decreed that Jimmy
sleep in the house, while Sleepy rolled in his blankets at the hay-mow
window of the stable, which, since the bunk-house was no more, gave
him a fair view of the patio and rear of the house. Hashknife went out
about a hundred feet from the front of the house, and coiled up in his
blankets in the cover of a mesquite, where he could watch the front of
the ranch-house. But nothing came, except the cold, gray dawn, which
was a long time coming.
There was an exodus from Blue Wells, when the news of the dynamiting
reached there, and the Double Bar 8 held a great gathering of the
cattle-clan, who came to view the ruins and to give an opinion. Some
of them seemed to think that perhaps Apostle Paul Taylor had had some
dynamite stored in the bunk-house, and that it had exploded.
Tex Alden came and viewed the ruins with gloomy eyes; Barnhardt
perched on a pile of adobe and crumbled the clay between his fingers,
and looked wise. The sheriff talked to every one who seemed to have
any kind of a theory—and knew no more about it than he did when he
came.
The women grouped around Marion, and “Oh’d” and “Ah’d,” like a lot of
old hens clucking over a sudden fright. Hashknife said nothing, but
listened much. Le Moyne came to him and tried to find out what
Hashknife thought about it, but went away with the feeling that this
tall cowboy knew less than any of them.
With Le Moyne was Dug Haley, who quarreled loudly with Al Porter over
what dynamite would or would not do. Sleepy Stevens horned into the
argument with a dissertation on “the dynamic principles of
combustion,” in which he used the words “epiglottis,” “atomizer” and
“dogmatic” numberless times; much to the confusion of Al Porter, who
was forced to admit that all he knew about dynamite was that “the ——
stuff busts and raises ——.”
It was not often that Antelope Neal, owner of the Oasis, went out of
Blue Wells, but he did ride down to see what had happened to the
Double Bar 8. Neal was a small, gray-haired man, who seldom had
anything to say. He was a square gambler, and was respected as such in
Blue Wells.
Hashknife noticed that Tex Alden and Antelope Neal stood apart from
the crowd for quite a while, talking confidentially, eying him at
times, and causing Hashknife to suspect that he was the subject of
their conversation.
When the crowd began to thin out, it seemed that Tex tried to start a
conversation with Marion, but she evidently preferred the attention of
Jimmy Legg, and Tex retired, his lips set in a thin line, his eyes
hard and speculative.
Lee Barnhardt noticed that Marion had evaded Tex, and it seemed to
amuse the Blue Wells attorney. He sidled in beside Tex, who paid no
attention to him.
“Tex, you’re not going to let a tenderfoot tramp cut you out, are
you?” he asked, possibly trying to be sympathetic.
Tex’s action was almost as sudden as dynamite. He hooked his right
fist against Barnhardt’s jaw, knocking him almost through the patio
gate. Needless to say, Barnhardt stayed down. Tex stepped over to him,
glanced down, turned to the crowd and studied them coldly. Then,
without a word, he walked to his horse, mounted and rode away.
Several men ran to Barnhardt and tried to help him to his feet; but
standing up was one thing that Barnhardt did not care about in the
least. He sagged weakly, goggle-eyed.
“As cool as a cow-cumber,” said Al Porter.
“Cucumber,” corrected Dug Haley.
“I said what I meant!” snapped Porter. “If you wants to correct me on
vegetation, you better mean the same thing that I do.”
“There’s been enough fightin’,” observed the sheriff. “Did anybody
hear what caused Tex to hit Barnhardt?”
Nobody had. Some one secured a bucket of water, which they sluiced
over the helpless Barnhardt. It made a mess of him, but served to jolt
him back to consciousness. After a minute or two he was able to stand
on his feet, but his jaw did not function properly. Hashknife examined
it but found it was not broken.
“Why did he hit yuh, Lee?” asked the sheriff.
“Idnuk,” said Lee painfully. Interpreted, this might be construed to
mean “I don’t know.”
And this was all the explanation he was willing to mumble. He went out
to his sway-backed horse, and headed for Blue Wells, riding slowly and
caressing his jaw.
The sheriff was the last to leave, and he would have stayed longer,
except that the four cowboys from the AK ranch rode in. They had heard
of the dynamiting, in Blue Wells. The sheriff did not care for their
company; so he rode away.
“My ——, that shore is another wreck of the Hesperus, ain’t she?” said
Eskimo Swensen. “Wham! I’ll betcha she made some noise.”
“It came near being serious,” said Jimmy. Johnny Grant grinned widely
and slapped Jimmy on the back.
“You derned hoodoo! It looks as though this was the third time they’d
tried to kill yuh off. I dunno what they’ll use next.”
“Tie him on a railroad track,” suggested Oyster.
Johnny drew Hashknife aside, and they sat down together on a pile of
shattered adobe bricks.
“I’ve been wantin’ to talk with you, Hartley,” said Johnny seriously.
“Yo’re workin’ on this hold-up case, ain’t yuh?”
“Well?” Hashknife admitted nothing.
“I heard yuh was; so I’m goin’ to tell yuh what I know about it.”
And while the other boys examined the wreckage, Johnny Grant told
Hashknife of that night in Blue Wells, when they got drunk and locked
the sheriff in his own cell. And of the incident at the train, when
they staged an impromptu battle with the engineer and fireman; not
knowing what it was all about.
He told Hashknife of the man who came along the track in the dark,
went into the express car and got the dog.
“Somebody cut our broncs loose that night,” said Johnny. “I understand
that the sheriff’s horses were also turned loose, and it kinda looks
as though it was done to prevent a posse from trailin’ ’em. Of course,
they wouldn’t know that Al Porter was in Encinas, visitin’ his girl,
and that the sheriff was in jail.”
Hashknife grinned widely and thanked Johnny for his information.
“Thasall right,” said Johnny. “Yo’re sure welcome. Yuh see, we don’t
care much for the sheriff and his deputy. They said we ought to be run
out of the country; so we kept still about what happened to us. But
when they jailed the Taylor outfit, I just got to thinkin’ that mebbe
our evidence might help to land the right ones. I didn’t want to give
it to Wade, the railroad detective, because he acted so —— smart; but
I’m givin’ it to’ you, because you—because I had a talk with Goode,
over at the X Bar 6.”
“Well, that may not help us all the way out, but it’s somethin’ to
grab on to,” smiled Hashknife. “That feller Goode probably lied a lot
about us, but he means all right, I guess.”
“Well,” confessed Johnny gravely, “he sure scared me into tellin’ yuh
all I knew.”
“You look like a feller that scares easy,” grinned Hashknife. “I’ll
betcha all three of you fellers would run from a shadow.”
“Well, yuh can’t do much damage to a shadow, yuh know. We’d like yuh
to know that if yuh need three fellers that are strong in the muscle
and weak in the head, yuh might call on us.”
“Thanks, Grant. I reckon Nanah and Marion are cookin’ dinner, and if I
was you, I’d stick around for the meal. Marion wants to thank yuh for
offerin’ accommodations to us on the round-up.”
“George Bonnette done that, Hartley. ’S funny Tex Alden didn’t offer
to take care of yuh.”
“I reckon he’s sore about Jimmy bein’ here.”
“M-m-m-m-m-m. Hartley, no matter what yore personal opinion is of Tex
Alden, he’s a white man, and a —— of a good cow-hand. Mebbe he’s kinda
off-color on account of carin’ a lot for that girl, but he’s a square
shooter—all the time.”
“Yeah? He ordered Jimmy Legg to get out of the country. That night
Jimmy was shot, just after he had left Marion Taylor, at the front of
the Blue Wells hotel. A little later on, a shot from the hill out
there almost got him again.”
“I know that,” Johnny shook his head. “If I was goin’ off at
half-cock, I’d nod toward Tex, wouldn’t you?”
“I suppose I would, Grant—but I don’t.”
“No? Well, that’s good. I talked with Tex the other day. He admits
that it looks as if he done it.”
Marion called to them from the rear door, and they headed for the
wash-bench, dropping the subject of Tex Alden.
And while they ate dinner at the Double Bar 8, Lee Barnhardt rode into
Blue Wells, stabled his horse and went to see the doctor, who did a
little to alleviate the pain in his jaw. Back in his office, he filled
his pipe and tried to enjoy a smoke, but flung the pipe aside, because
he couldn’t keep his mind on tobacco. It was the one time in his life
that Lee Barnhardt was thoroughly mad. Just now he hated everybody,
and everything— especially Tex Alden.
And while his anger was at fever-heat, Scotty Olson, the sheriff,
walked into the office.
“How’s yore jaw?” asked the sheriff.
“None of your —— business!”
The exclamation seemed to hurt Lee’s jaw, and he clapped a hand to the
side of his face, shutting one eye tightly.
“I reckon it’s all well,” said the sheriff sarcastically. “Tex hit yuh
a dinger of a punch, didn’t he. I never did see a feller flatten out
prettier than you did. My ——, you was jist about as animated as a
scarecrow, after yuh pull the braces out of it! I asked Tex a while
ago why he hit yuh, and he said for me to ask you.”
“And you came to ask me, did you?” Barnhardt was almost crying with
anger. “You haven’t a brain in your head.”
“I thought there was a reason,” said the sheriff mildly. “Of course,
if he was jist doin’ it for fun—”
“Fun, eh?” gritted Barnhardt. “I’ll make him think it was fun. He owes
the X Bar 6 eight thousand dollars, and he’ll pay it, or go to jail
for embezzlement. I’ll show him! And for your own information, I’ll
tell you that Tex knew the money for the Santa Rita was coming in on
that train.”
“How did he know that, Lee?”
“By ——, I told him it was!”
“How did you know?”
“I guessed it.”
The sheriff sat down and studied the situation, while the lawyer
caressed his sore jaw and wondered if he was showing good judgment in
telling all this about Tex.
“And you think Tex held up that train, Lee?”
“I didn’t say that, Scotty.”
“No, I know yuh didn’t; but yuh hinted at it. If Tex hears this, he’ll
hit yuh with somethin’ besides his fist.”
“I suppose.” Lee looked gloomily at the wall, one eye half shut from
the pain in his jaw.
Came the sound of a step at the doorway, and Tex Alden came in.
Barnhardt jerked up his head quickly and stared at the man who had
knocked him cold.
“Hello, Scotty,” said Tex evenly.
He did not speak to Barnhardt, as he came up to the lawyer’s desk,
drawing a bulky package from his pocket.
“I owe yuh that much, Barnhardt,” Tex said coldly. “Mebbe yuh better
count it.”
Barnhardt swallowed heavily, but made no move to pick up the money.
Tex eyed him for a moment, turned and walked out, without saying
anything more. Barnhardt shifted uneasily, but finally picked up the
package, walked to his small safe, opened it with a key, and put away
the package.
He came back and sat down, making no explanation.
“Tex wasn’t very cheerful,” observed Scotty.
Barnhardt shook his head and sighed deeply.
“I think I’ll take a little trip, Scotty; kinda get away until time
for that trial. I’ve been pretty steady on the job for two years, and
a little change would do me good.”
“A change does anybody good,” admitted the sheriff. “I’d like to go
with yuh. What’ll yuh do, close yore office?”
“I think so. I won’t be gone more than a week, but I think, under the
circumstances, I should go away until things clear a little.”
“I suppose so, Lee.”
The sheriff thought it would really be a wise thing for Barnhardt to
go away for a while, and he said so to Hashknife that evening, when
Hashknife stopped at the office for a few minutes. They were
discussing the incident at the Double Bar 8, and Hashknife wondered
how Barnhardt’s jaw was feeling. The sheriff told of Tex’s bringing a
package of money to Lee Barnhardt, and he also told Hashknife what
Barnhardt had said about Tex knowing about that shipment of money.
“I wouldn’t tell that to anybody else,” said the sheriff. “But it
appears that you’re workin’ on the case, and yuh ought to know about
these things.”
“When does Barnhardt intend to leave?” asked Hashknife.
“He didn’t say; but I expect he’ll leave tomorrow. Between me and you,
he’s scared of Tex Alden, and he wants to git away for a few days to
let Tex cool off. Lee talks too —— much.”
“That’s a human failin’,” smiled Hashknife.
But Lee Barnhardt did not go on any trip. When he got up the following
morning he found that some one had opened his safe during the night,
and had looted it of everything it contained. The bank did not have a
safety vault; so Barnhardt found himself cleaned out, as everything he
owned was in his own safe.
He sat down at his desk and stared at the empty valise, which he had
brought along and placed beside the safe. His clothes were packed in a
larger valise. He seemed stunned, his vacant gaze fixed upon the
half-open door of the safe.
The fruits of two years’ work had been in that safe, when he locked
the office the night before. He had never feared a robbery, because a
lawyer’s safe usually only held papers, of no value to any one, except
to the lawyer.
His dazed condition passed, leaving him in a state of perspiration. He
got to his feet and staggered over to the safe, peering within, trying
to convince himself that it was only a dream. He went to the front
door and gazed out at the street. It was fairly early in the morning,
and there were few people in evidence. He heard the train leave the
station; the train he had intended leaving on, and he turned away,
choking a curse.
He went to his desk, and with shaking fingers he opened a drawer and
took out a revolver, which he put in his pocket. He unbuttoned his
vest, disclosing a narrow strap across his bosom, attesting to the
fact that he was wearing a shoulder-holster. Then he sat down, trying
to think just what to do.
“I’ve got to find Tex Alden,” he told himself. “Tex saw me put that
money in my safe. —— him, he paid his debt before a witness, and then
took it back—took everything in the safe. If he don’t give it back to
me, I’ll kill him.”
He flung the two valises behind his desk and walked to the door. Al
Porter was coming toward the office. Barnhardt tried to appear
indifferent, although he knew Porter would question him. As Porter
neared the office, Marion Taylor, Jimmy Legg and Sleepy came riding
down the street. Porter came up to Barnhardt, but did not speak, and
they watched the riders draw up in front of them.
“Good morning, Mr. Barnhardt,” said Marion. “We looked for you at the
depot a while ago. Did you decide to not go away?”
Barnhardt nodded dumbly, because he dared not speak.
“Where’s the tall feller?” asked Porter.
“He went away on the train,” said Sleepy, beginning the manufacture of
a cigaret.
“Went away, eh? Gone to stay?”
“No-o-o; just to Encinas.”
Barnhardt swallowed heavily and tried to smile.
“That’s where Al’s girl lives,” he offered.
“He may see her,” replied Sleepy seriously.
Porter stared at Sleepy, wondering if this innocent-eyed cowboy meant
anything by that remark.
“We came in pretty early,” said Marion, “and I wonder if the sheriff
will let me in the jail.”
“He’s in the office,” growled Porter. “I reckon he will.”
They moved on toward the jail, and Porter turned angrily to Barnhardt.
“That was a —— of a remark to make! You ain’t got no interest in my
girl, have yuh?”
“Not a particle.”
“Then never mind about her; _sabe_? You monkey with my business and
you’ll get worse than Tex Alden gave yuh.”
“Did you come up here to pick a fight?” queried Barnhardt.
“Any old time I look for trouble, I won’t pick out a —— wide-mouthed
lawyer, that’s a cinch.”
Porter turned on his heel and went to the stable, where he saddled his
horse and rode out of town.
Barnhardt waited until the three riders had left the sheriff’s office,
and then went down there. The sheriff looked quizzically at him.
“I thought you was goin’ away this mornin’, Lee.”
“Changed my mind,” said Barnhardt. “May go tomorrow.”
The sheriff nodded and looked at some papers on his desk.
“Hartley went away this mornin’,” offered Barnhardt.
The sheriff looked up.
“Yeah, they said he did; went to Encinas.”
“Yes. I guess he expected me to go on the same train.”
“Prob’ly did. I told him yuh was goin’ away this mornin’.”
Barnhardt went back to his office, his mind still traveling in
circles. He knew what would happen if he accused Tex Alden of opening
the safe. Tex was hotheaded, and Barnhardt knew he could never best
Tex in any kind of a fair fight. If he accused Tex of theft, he’d
never get his money and papers back.
So Barnhardt decided to wait and see, even if the waiting did gall his
soul. No one, except himself and the man who opened the safe, knew
that such a thing had been done. He had thought of having Tex
arrested, but decided that his evidence against Tex only consisted of
Tex’s knowing that the eight thousand was in the safe. Barnhardt had
counted the package of money, when he was alone, and it contained that
amount of currency.
Sleepy, Jimmy and Marion did not ride back to the ranch on the road,
but circled through the hills. It was early morning, and they were in
no hurry to return. A coyote invited them to a race, and they gave him
what he was looking for. Only a barrier of mesquite, into which he
sped like a gray shadow, saved him from Sleepy’s loop.
Flocks of white-wing doves hurtled past them, heading for the
water-holes; quail called from the slopes; a deer broke from a
thicket, and after a few short, stiff-legged jumps, headed up a slope,
head cocked back, walking jerkily.
They were nearing the ranch when they described a flock of buzzards,
circling low over a little ravine, like scraps of black paper, caught
in the grip of a whirlwind.
“Somebody lost a cow,” said Sleepy, “and it’s eatin’ time for Mr.
Buzzard.”
“I hope it isn’t any of our stock,” said Marion. “We can’t afford to
feed any buzzards this year.”
Jimmy evinced a desire to investigate; so he and Sleepy rode down to
the ravine, while Marion circled higher on the hill. The air suddenly
filled with flapping buzzards, croaking hoarsely; possibly swearing in
their own language on being interrupted at their morning meal.
It was not a cow, but a horse, which lay at the bottom of the ravine;
a gray horse, partly eaten by buzzards, but with the brand still
showing. Sleepy quickly noticed that its right fore leg was broken
about half-way between knee and hock. Further investigation showed
that the animal had been shot through the head, and that the shooter
had held his gun so close that the powder had scorched the hair.
“Broke a leg and had to be shot,” said Sleepy. “Not so very long ago.”
They mounted and rode back to Marion, who had waited for them. Sleepy
explained what caused the buzzards to congregate.
“What brand was on the animal?” she asked. Sleepy rubbed his nose
thoughtfully. “Well, it happens to be a Double Bar 8.”
“One of our horses?”
“Yeah—a gray. Weigh about a thousand. Got some dark spots on the rump,
and its fetlocks are almost black.”
“Why, that horse belonged to Buck! He didn’t ride it often. But I
never heard Buck say anything about shooting it.”
“And pretty close to home, too,” observed Jimmy.
The little ravine where the horse lay was not over an eighth of a mile
from the Double Bar 8 stable.
“If the wind had blown down from that direction, we’d ’a’ knowed it
before this,” grinned Sleepy.
The discovery of this horse interested Sleepy. He felt sure that Buck
would have mentioned it at the ranch. The horse had either fallen into
the ravine and broke a leg or stepped into a hole. It was also very
evident that the rider had mercifully put the animal out of its
misery. And Sleepy wondered who, except some of the Taylor outfit,
would be riding a Double Bar 8 horse so near the ranch.
He rode to Blue Wells that evening and met Hashknife, whom he told
about the dead horse. They found the sheriff at his office, and he let
them in to see Buck Taylor. Buck was glad to see them, but denied
knowing anything about the horse being dead.
“I ain’t seen that horse for quite a while,” he said. “He wasn’t
exactly a good cow-horse; so I let him drift. Plenty of speed, but he
never seemed to _sabe_ what it was all about. Who do yuh reckon killed
him?”
“Somebody must ’a’ borrowed him, I s’pose,” said Hashknife.
“Well, I wish we was out of here,” sighed Buck. “With all this
shootin’ and dynamitin’, I sure hate to stay here. I’d like to find
the dirty snake that’s doin’ it all.”
Hashknife and Sleepy left the jail and went to the livery-stable,
where they had left Hashknife’s horse that morning. Hashknife had
nothing to say about his trip to Encinas, and Sleepy knew that
questions were useless. Hashknife always worked on the theory that a
secret is safe only with one person.
It was about ten o’clock when they approached the Double Bar 8, riding
silently. There was a light in the ranch-house window, and as they
drew closer they heard Jimmy’s and Marion’s voices blended in “After
the Ball,” accompanied by the old upright organ. The two cowboys drew
rein and listened. Off to the left of them a horse nickered softly.
They peered in that direction, thinking it was a loose horse.
Then they went on, their horses making little noise in the sandy road,
and drew up just outside the patio entrance. They could hear Marion
and Jimmy laughing, as Marion tried to strike the right chord on the
old organ.
Something prompted Hashknife to walk from his horse to the patio
entrance, where he stopped quickly. A man’s voice snapped a warning, a
streak of flame flashed toward him, and a bullet crashed into the
corner of the entrance.
Two men were running toward the broken place in the wall, stumbling
over the débris. Hashknife drew his six-shooter and fired twice,
yelling at Sleepy to circle the wall. Another bullet whined off the
adobe wall near him, as he started across the patio, heading for where
the men had gone out.
Sleepy had dismounted, and he did not think to mount and ride. In
fact, he hardly knew what it was all about. He ran around the wall and
almost collided with Hashknife, who sprang out through where the
dynamite had wrecked the wall.
“What the —— was it?” panted Sleepy.
“Sh-h-h-h-h!” whispered Hashknife. “Listen.”
They stood against the ruined wall, straining their ears for the
slightest sound. Then they heard the distant thud of running horses,
growing fainter and fainter, as the riders faded away in the hills.
Hashknife swore softly, as he told Sleepy of the two men. Some one had
extinguished the lamp in the ranch-house, and Sleepy called, telling
them that everything was all right.
They found Marion and Jimmy on the back porch, and told them about the
two men who had shot at Hashknife.
“Oh, I’m a fine guard!” said Jimmy bitterly. “Sleepy told me to keep
an eye open. But we started singing, and—”
“Oh, it’s all right,” laughed Hashknife. “Nobody hurt. If we’d only
gone over and investigated, when that horse nickered, Sleepy, we’d ’a’
had ’em cinched. But I didn’t look for ’em to come back so soon.
That’s sure a puzzle. The further I go into this thing, the worse the
fog gets.
“They wasn’t over here by the house. They could ’a’ looked in the
window and seen who was in there. They might ’a’ been waitin’ for us
to come back, but if they were, why did they let us walk in on ’em? I
heard one of ’em snap a warnin’; so it kinda looks as though they
didn’t expect us just then.”
“Do you think you hit either one of them?” asked Jimmy nervously.
Hashknife laughed.
“I was shootin’ for general results. A man runnin’ in the dark,
jumpin’ through a broken wall, is a hard target. And when yuh hit a
man with a .45 in any spot, except his hands, arms, or the end of his
nose, he won’t go far; so I’ll admit that I missed ’em.”
For the next two nights Hashknife and Sleepy guarded the place, but no
one came. The sheriff visited them, but they did not mention anything
about the latest development. Hashknife was very thoughtful all the
while, but admitted that he was getting nowhere in his deductions. He
talked with Marion about Tex Alden and Le Moyne, and she seemed
surprized when he told her that it was the general opinion that there
was a rivalry over her between Tex and Le Moyne.
“Why, that is ridiculous,” she told Hashknife. “Mr. Le Moyne used to
drop in here once in a while, but he hasn’t been here for over a
month, except when they all came out to see the ruins of our
bunk-house.”
“As far as Tex is concerned, the opinion ain’t far off, is it?”
Marion flushed.
“I liked Tex all right,” she admitted. “He is nice, as long as his
temper doesn’t run away with him. Tex has a bad temper, you know.”
“And he hates Jimmy Legg, because Jimmy Legg happens to be here,”
observed Hashknife.