When Hashknife turned back to the Double Bar 8 it was because of a
single theory. He was fairly positive that Marion had not been
kidnaped by those men because they wanted her; but that they had had
reasons of more importance to them than the mere capture of a young
lady. Hashknife wasn’t sure just what this was, but he had a
suspicion—at least, enough suspicion to send him back to the ranch,
instead of heading a posse over to the breaks of Broken Cañon.
He rode his horse into the stable, unsaddled quickly, turned it into
the corral, and ran to the house, where he found Nanah, bathing her
head in a basin of water. He explained to her the necessity of locking
the house, covering the windows, and of keeping out of sight.
Without question she obeyed him, and he went back to the stable,
climbed to the little loft and sprawled near the window, concealed by
a screen of hay. He could not see over the ranch-house, except at a
distance, but his little window gave him a fairly good view of the
country toward Broken Cañon.
Apollo wandered about the patio, possibly wondering why no one was
about. Mocking-birds sang from the twisted vines along the walls, and
little lizards scuttled here and there over the débris of the former
bunk-house. Hashknife yawned and waited, wondering what success Sleepy
had had in gathering a posse.
He had been there over an hour, when his keen eyes detected two
riders, who seemed to be coming swiftly toward the ranch from the
northeast. Blue Wells was almost directly north. He wondered if some
of the posse had turned back from going to Broken Cañon and were
coming to the ranch.
When about a mile from the ranch they swung due west, passing from
Hashknife’s vision. He went to the rear of the loft, and peered from a
crack. The riders came into sight, swinging in toward the ranch again,
but disappeared into the cañon where Hashknife had captured Plenty
Goode, following the mysterious shot from the hill.
It took them several minutes to cross the cañon, and he saw them draw
rein in the heavy cover, where they stayed for about five minutes,
evidently studying the ranch buildings. Their elevation gave them a
good view of the whole country.
Finally they rode down toward the stable. Hashknife was unable to
recognize them, nor did he recognize their horses—a roan and a gray.
Softly Hashknife went back to his former position at the window. He
heard the riders come in behind the stable, where they stopped. After
a few moments he heard them in the stable, talking softly. One of them
laughed, but their conversation was too indistinct for Hashknife to
hear what was said.
He was so intent on listening that he was not aware they were out of
the stable, until he turned his head and saw them going into the
patio.
It rather amused Hashknife to see that these men were both masked. One
of them went to the ranch-house door, finding it locked. It was
evident to Hashknife that these men were sure that every one had left
the ranch. They conferred together for a moment, and one of them came
toward Hashknife, stopping on the ruins of the bunk-house, while the
other man swung up on the wall near the corner of the ranch-house and
scanned the country.
Slowly Hashknife slid back across the floor, until he reached the
ladder, which led down from the loft. He went down the ladder and
walked softly to the door, where he peered around the edge. He could
hear the sound of some one digging; the dull thud of adobe bricks
being thrown aside, but he could not see either of the men now.
Drawing his six-shooter Hashknife went slowly and carefully across the
space between the stable door and the patio wall. He could hear the
digging plainly now. Then he heard one of the men snap out a curse. It
was evidently the man on the wall, because the answering voice was
just beyond—
“What’s the matter?”
“That —— posse must ’a’ seen us! They’re comin’!”
The two men were running now, and Hashknife expected them to come
through the broken wall past him, but instead they went out the south
entrance of the patio, possibly with the intention of keeping the
ranch buildings between them and the approaching posse, and circling
back to their horses.
Disregarding the fact that the odds were two to one, Hashknife ran
swiftly along the wall, coming out within fifty feet of the two men,
who were humped over, running as low as possible. There was no time
for them to turn; nothing to do but fight or surrender. It was still a
hundred feet to the cover of the brush, and Hashknife was between them
and the stable. But neither of them thought of surrender. Hashknife
fired, as the two men whirled to a stop and drew their guns. One of
them went to his knees, and his bullet tore up a spurt of dust
half-way between him and Hashknife, and the other man’s bullet sang
wide of its target. He fired again, but his bullet went skyward,
because the shock of Hashknife’s next bullet threw him backward. The
man who was on his knees fired again, but so wildly that Hashknife did
not even hear the bullet.
Then he tried to get to his feet, pitched forward on his face and lay
still. The other man did not move, except that he half turned over.
Hashknife went slowly up to them, his jaw shut grimly. He had shot
deliberately, slowly—only twice. Even with the two-to-one odds, the
advantage had been with him, because he had been ready for the battle.
Hashknife did not make any examination of the men. He heard the
drumming of hoofs, as the posse rode up, and in a few moments they
were surrounded by excited men—the nine men who had ridden out of Blue
Wells with Sleepy.
“My ——, it’s Al Porter and Chet Le Moyne!” exclaimed the sheriff,
tearing the masks off the two men. “Hartley, what does this mean?”
He came to Hashknife, gripping his arm. “It means that an officer of
the law went wrong,” said Hashknife coldly.
“But how?” demanded the excited sheriff. “My ——, this needs more
explanation than that, Hartley.”
“Go easy,” advised Sleepy, who turned to Hashknife. “We wasn’t quite
to the Broken Cañon, when we spotted these two riders. They were
headin’ this way, foggin’ to beat ——; so we follered.”
“Good thing yuh did, Sleepy.”
Questions volleyed at Hashknife, while others examined Le Moyne and
Porter, but Hashknife brushed them all aside.
“They’re both as dead as herrin’,” said Johnny Grant.
Two more riders came—Antelope Neal and Lee Barnhardt.
“We missed the posse; so came here to see what we could do to help,”
said Neal.
Barnhardt squinted at the dead men, but said nothing.
“Will yuh please tell us what it means?” asked the sheriff. “You ain’t
told anythin’ yet, yuh know, Hartley.”
Hashknife smiled grimly.
“There ain’t much to tell, Scotty. These men came here, wearin’ masks.
They tried to get away when they saw yuh comin’, but I blocked ’em,
and we shot it out.”
“Oh, I can see that! But—”
“Good ——! Here comes some more!” Johnny Grant’s yell turned all
interest away from Hashknife.
It was Marion and Jimmy on one horse, leading another horse, on which
was roped a swaying figure of a man, his body slouched forward until
his face was almost buried in his chest. Jimmy was riding behind
Marion, clinging to her, while he swayed weakly, a silly smile on his
dirty face.
Men ran to them, while others unroped the sagging figure on the other
horse. It was Dug Haley, of the Santa Rita mine. He was conscious, but
unable to stand. Willing hands lifted Jimmy off the horse, but his
left leg was too sore for him to stand on it for several moments.
“I—I got him,” Jimmy told Hashknife hoarsely. “Filled him full of
shot. We had a regular battle down in the cañon.”
The sheriff was goggling from one to another, trying to get things
straightened out to his own mind. Hashknife went to Marion.
“Tell us what you know about it, Marion,” he said.
“Oh, I don’t know very much, Hashknife. Three masked men came, and
they—I heard the noise, when they fought with Jimmy, and came out to
see what it was about. They had knocked him down, and I thought he was
dead.
“They told me to not be afraid, and that everything would be all
right. It seems that I wasn’t to be hurt. They put me on a horse, and
we went to Broken Cañon, where two of the men turned back. They were
masked all the time; so I wasn’t just sure who they were, because they
changed their voices.
“One man took me down into the cañon, and I think he heard Jimmy
coming. Anyway, he tied the horses and went back toward the bottom of
the trail. I heard a lot of shooting, and I was sure somebody was
trying to help me, but I never thought it was Jimmy, until he shot Dug
Haley.
“We had a hard time getting him on a horse, because Jimmy was so weak
he couldn’t help much. But we made it. We’ve got to get Jimmy to a
doctor, because he’s all cut to pieces.”
Haley was sitting on the ground, goggling at every one. He had lost a
lot of blood, but his mind was clear. Hashknife saw him eying the
bodies of Le Moyne and Porter; so he stepped over to him.
“Haley,” he said kindly, “the game is up. You better come clean,
because yo’re the last of the three men who stole that pay-roll. Al
Porter did not go to Encinas the night of the robbery, and more than
that, he and that girl of his busted up two months ago. Which one of
yuh rode Buck Taylor’s gray horse that night, and had to kill it up
there in that little cañon?”
“That was me.” Haley spoke hoarsely.
“Oh, ——, I might as well admit it. Le Moyne schemed it, and we helped
him. But our luck broke bad. Le Moyne had to be at the depot when the
train came in, and Porter had to be on the other side of Broken Cañon
to pick up a freight early in the mornin’—or when one come along; so
it was up to me to take the money to Santa Rita, where we was goin’ to
hide it.
“I kinda got off in my bearing, in the dark, and found myself too far
south. Then that —— gray horse fell and busted a leg. I had to kill
it, yuh see. Then I had all that-gold to carry. It wasn’t safe to
cache it in the hills, because I didn’t know the country well enough.”
Haley smiled grimly.
“I seen the light from the ranch-house, and I was sure it was the
Double Bar 8; so I packed the gold down here, lookin’ for a place to
hide it. Back of the bunk-house I found a hole under the foundation. I
scratched a match and looked it over. It wasn’t big enough for
anythin’ but a small dog to get through; so I shoved that money under
the bunk-house, and went back to the mine.”
“And then dynamited the bunk-house, eh?” queried the sheriff.
“Like ——, we did! That’s why we kidnaped the girl. We wanted to draw
everybody away; so we could dig the —— money out of the ruins. But we
wasn’t goin’ to hurt her. I was to keep her in the cañon until about
noon, and then let her come home. Our idea was to get Hartley and
Stevens away from here long enough to let us get the money.”
“And it’s still under all that adobe, eh?” smiled Hashknife.
“If Le Moyne and Porter didn’t get it out. I wish you’d get me to a
doctor. I’m full of buckshot. That —— tenderfoot! We didn’t count him
in a-tall.”
“I didn’t need to be counted,” croaked Jimmy. “But what I want to know
is, who shot me, and who blew up the bunk-house?”
Hashknife stepped over and put a hand on Barnhardt’s shoulder. The
Blue Wells attorney’s lips went white and he tried to draw away.
“You tell ’em about it,” advised Hashknife. “Just be a man and speak
yore little piece, Barnhardt.”
“Me?” whispered Barnhardt. “Why—why—I don’t know—”
“Do yuh want me to tell it?”
Barnhardt’s legs jiggled nervously and he wet his lips with his
tongue, while his Adam’s apple jiggled convulsively.
“There’s nun-nothing to—to—”
“Then I’ll tell it,” said Hashknife. “And if Mr. Barnhardt don’t stand
still, keep his hands where they are and not try to scratch his ribs
around the spot where his gun hangs in a shoulder-holster, I’ll betcha
somebody will add him to the list of casualties.
“Mr. Barnhardt is a cousin of Mrs. Martha Eaton, of Chicago, who owns
this ranch. For several years Mr. Barnhardt has handled all the
affairs of the X Bar 6. In fact, he grew rich, handling her stock
interests. But she was a simple old lady, with quite extensive
holdings, and she had faith in Mr. Barnhardt.
“Now, if I make any mistakes, I hope Mr. Barnhardt won’t interrupt,
until I’m finished. A short time ago Mrs. Eaton became an invalid, and
was unable to handle her own business. I reckon the doctors have told
her that she won’t live more than one year more.
“Still bein’ of sound mind, she decided to make out a will, and in
this will she goes kinda hay-wire, like old folks do, sometimes; so
she picks out a young feller, whose name was James Eaton Legg, a son
of her sister, and wills him the X Bar 6, with the provision that
within a year he be able to present proof that he is capable of
runnin’ this here ranch.
“And about that time she turns her affairs over to Leesom and Brand, a
law firm in Chicago, who, after lookin’ things over, decides that the
returns from the X Bar 6 need investigatin’. It kinda looks to them as
though that ranch ought to pay more dividends. Accordin’ to their
reports, there’s too many cows out here, and not enough revenue.
“They takes it up with the Cattle Association of this here State, the
same of which sends me and Sleepy up here to work on the round-up and
send in a tally of the X Bar 6. It appears that Jimmy Legg
accidentally drifts in here, tryin’ make a cowpuncher out of himself;
and our friend Barnhardt, knowin’ that Jimmy might beat him out of a
lot of money, decides to put him out of commission.
“And I’m not sure, but I think Mr. Barnhardt stole one of my letters
from the Chicago lawyers, and found out what we was doin’ here; so he
plants dynamite under the bunk-house, after he misses two well-meant
shots. Oh, he was a friendly sort of a jigger. Now, Barnhardt, tell us
yore story.”
But the Blue Wells attorney merely goggled, trying to deny it all with
a shake of his head.
“You planned to make a getaway, yuh know,” smiled Hashknife. “Yore
little vacation was goin’ to be permanent, but I cracked yore safe the
night before, because I knew yuh wouldn’t go away broke, and I wanted
time to land the train robbers. Yeah, I’ve got all yore stuff. It’ll
send yuh over for a long time.”
“This is funny,” said Tex Alden. “I had a letter from that same firm,
askin’ me a few questions. It kinda looked to me as though Barnhardt
was playin’ crooked; so I held out that eight thousand and faked a
loss to Antelope Neal, who was in on the game with me. I wanted to see
if Barnhardt was crooked enough to doctor the books for me, but he was
pretty shrewd, and I really got afraid he might have me arrested for
embezzlement and put me in pretty bad; so me and Neal marked all those
bills and I gave ’em back to him.”
Hashknife held out his hand to Tex.
“I couldn’t figure yuh out for quite a while,” said Hashknife smiling.
“Barnhardt sure tried to put me in bad, Hartley. He told me about that
pay-roll comin’ in, because he thought I’d do anythin’ to pay him back
that eight thousand, and he also wanted his split of the thirty
thousand dollars.”
Jimmy had gone to the house, and now he came staggering back, followed
by Geronimo, barking joyfully. The sheriff turned from handcuffing
Barnhardt, and stared at the dog.
“We had him in the cellar,” laughed Hashknife. “He’s the dog that was
on the express car, and Jimmy Legg is the big burly who fought with
the messenger.”
The boys crowded around Jimmy, slapping him on the back; which, under
the circumstances, did not appeal to Jimmy, who was just beginning to
find out how sore he really was.
“Lemme alone, you man-chasers!” he yelped. “I was tough for an hour or
so, but I’m sure tender now.”
“Talks like a cowpuncher,” said Eskimo gravely.
“Looks like a cowpuncher,” added Johnny.
“Fights like one,” groaned Dug Haley. “When yuh get through throwin’
bouquets, I wish you’d take me to a doctor.”
Hashknife grinned at the wreck of what had been James Eaton Legg, the
bookkeeper, and nodded solemnly.
“I reckon we’ll be able to tell Leesom and Brand that Jimmy Legg has
qualified,” he said earnestly.
“And if I was Jimmy Legg, I’d put on some clothes,” said Sleepy.
“Cowboy, yo’re a fright.”
Jimmy grinned, started toward the house, followed by Marion. But Jimmy
shoved her ahead of him, because he just remembered that he had slid
half-way down Broken Cañon, sitting down. Tex looked after them, a
half-smile on his face, as he turned to Hashknife.
The posse was putting the bodies in the ranch wagon, and two of the
men were assisting the sheriff, who had put Dug Haley on the
wagon-seat, and was helping the dazed lawyer to mount his sway-backed
horse. The handcuffs bothered Barnhardt, and he was breathing like an
asthmatic.
“You don’t act very sore about it,” said Hashknife, nodding toward
where Marion and Jimmy were disappearing into the house.
Tex shrugged his shoulders.
“I know when I’m whipped,” he said, with just a trace of bitterness in
his voice. “It seems that Legg didn’t. If yuh want me to sign that
affidavit, regardin’ his ability, bring it around. Leesom and Brand
know I wouldn’t be fool enough to wish him on to me as a boss, unless
he was capable—and I’ll teach him all I know.”
“That’s square enough,” nodded Hashknife. “Wait until I saddle my
bronc, and I’ll ride to Blue Wells with yuh. Me and Sleepy have got to
peddle a couple of horses before that train pulls through.”
“Yo’re not leavin’ so soon, are yuh?”
Marion and Jimmy were coming from the ranch-house, and with them was
Nanah, her head bandaged up. Geronimo circled them, barking with joy.
Jimmy was clad in a baggy pair of overalls and a shirt three sizes too
large for him. The face-washing operation had opened the cuts on
Jimmy’s face, and he was beginning to look like a war-path Indian.
“We’ll all three ride in the buggy,” said Marion. “Jimmy is too weak
and sore to ride a horse, and Nanah won’t.”
Tex offered to hitch up the horse, and Marion went with him to the
stable. Hashknife drew Jimmy aside.
“I reckon you’ve made good, Jimmy,” Hashknife said slowly. “I’ll see
that the right report goes to Leesom and Brand. You’ll marry and
settle down on the X Bar 6, I reckon, eh?”
“Marry and settle down?”
“Yeah—sure. You’ll marry her, won’t yuh?”
“Marion? Why—”
Jimmy hesitated, his eyes turning toward the stable door, where Marion
and Tex were standing. Marion was looking down at the ground, but now
she looked up at him, a smile on her face. Tex started to reach toward
her, realized that he had an audience, and they both stepped inside
the stable. Jimmy grinned and shook his head.
“Why, no, I don’t reckon I will, Hashknife. That whips me.”
And Jimmy wondered why Hashknife laughed so suddenly and walked to his
horse. He did not know that Tex had admitted defeat, too. When the
buggy, with its three occupants started up the road toward Blue Wells,
with Tex Alden riding beside it, far in the distance they could see a
lone rider—Hashknife Hartley, riding swiftly to join Sleepy, that they
might dispose of their horses and catch the first train out of town.
Their work was done—and the other side of the hill was calling.
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the November 23, 1926
issue of Adventure magazine.]