my four. I catch Soapy’s ten on the second swing--sabe? Gimme that
_dinero_. Any old time yuh bid and make four yuh win the pot.”
“If I was as lucky as you are, I’d be out of jail,” sighed Soapy. “That
was my last two-bits.”
[Illustration: “If I was as lucky as you, I’d be out of jail,” sighed
the prisoner.]
“I’ll stake yuh,” said Chuck.
“Suppose they find me guilty?”
“Game’s over,” said Chuck seriously. “I plumb forgot about the trial.”
“I reckon yore name’s McHaverty,” said Soapy. “You shore act Scotch.”
* * * * *
That same morning Hashknife and Sleepy rode away from Chongo town,
heading north. They did not stop at the LeClere ranch but swung in
to the north of it. Hashknife had noted many landmarks on their trip
into Silver River Valley and he had little difficulty in finding the
spot where they had met Joe LeClere.
But the Box 88 cattle were gone, the brush corral empty. Hashknife did
not expect this. His idea in coming out there was to release those
steers.
“Do yuh think they busted loose?” asked Sleepy.
Hashknife shook his head and pointed at the ash-heap where the fire
had been built. A man had attempted to obliterate all indications of
the fire and had left a heel mark deeply punched in the dirt.
“We never touched that fire, Sleepy,” said Hashknife.
“That’s right. I reckon Joe wasn’t workin’ alone, after all. I just been
thinkin’ that this country might not be healthy for us. The geezer who
came back here must know that we stopped Joe LeClere, don’tcha think?”
“Kinda looks thataway.”
They rode back down the valley and swung in at the IS ranch again.
Yvonne was sweeping the front porch as they rode up and she came out
to them, carrying her broom. She looked like a pretty Gipsy with her
head bound in a scarlet bandanna.
“How’s Joe?” asked Hashknife.
“He’s still in bed,” she replied. “I guess his leg is pretty sore. He
hasn’t much to say. Dad tried to question him last night.” She shook her
head sadly. “I don’t believe Dad takes any stock in the story about Joe
being shot accidentally.”
“Why not?” asked Hashknife suddenly.
“Well, he asked Joe how he happened to reload his rifle and who cleaned
it after the shot.”
Hashknife smiled sourly and looked at Sleepy.
“We shore overlooked that point,” he admitted. “That’s too danged bad.
What did Joe tell him?”
“Nothing. Said he was too sick to talk about it. Dad went to town this
morning. Won’t you come in a while? I was just finishing my work, you
see.”
They dismounted and sat in the shade of the porch.
“Will you tell me all about what happened yesterday?” she asked.
“No,” replied Hashknife. “You go ahead and believe I told yore Dad the
truth.”
“That lets you out of anythin’,” added Sleepy. “Yore Dad can’t prove
that we lied, yuh see. If it comes to a show-down, I’ll swear I cleaned
that gun and put in a cartridge.”
“Dad wouldn’t believe that. He’s had so much trouble with Joe! He tries
to believe in Joe; but Joe drinks hard all the time and gambles when he
can get the money. It’s only been in the last year or so. Before that
Joe was fine.”
“We’ve heard quite a lot about this Kid O’Neil,” said Hashknife. “We
didn’t like to ask questions, yuh see, but I’d kinda like to hear about
him. We know they’ve got a man by the name of Soapy Weed in jail and
that O’Neil was shot from behind. What was it about the body comin’ to
town on Weed’s horse?”
Yvonne told them the whole story as well as she could, including the
evidence at the inquest. Hashknife questioned her about Kid O’Neil’s
activities prior to the shooting, and she told him of how the Kid had
hired out to her father when he first came into the Valley.
“I wasn’t here when he came,” she said. “He had been here about a week
when I came back from school. He got drunk and tried to kiss me and I
slapped his face. When Dad found it out he kicked O’Neil off the ranch.
“Then he went to work for the AH outfit, but they had some trouble over
there and he lost his job. After that he went to work for the Box 88 and
he was with them until he was killed.”
“Kind of a tough _hombre_, eh?”
“Yes, he was.”
“Did you know McFee, the man who was murdered about a year or so ago
near Chongo?”
“No, I never met him. He was only in the valley a short time. Joe knew
him, I think. I guess they never had any idea who killed him.”
“Probably not. I wonder if we could see Joe?”
“Why, sure.”
They followed Yvonne into the house and found Joe in a bedroom that
opened off the living-room. He was propped up in bed, smoking a
cigaret, and did not seem overjoyed to see them. He admitted that the
leg was very sore and that he had not slept well.
“You remember a feller named McFee who was killed near Chongo?” asked
Hashknife.
Joe started suddenly and almost dropped his cigaret.
McFee had been a cowboy on the Box 88 for only two days when the murder
occurred. Nobody had known him and the mystery of his death had never
been solved and he had been almost forgotten.
“What about McFee?” Joe asked shortly.
“I just wanted a description of him.”
“Oh!” Joe puffed violently on his cigaret for several moments.
“He was kinda chunky and broad-shouldered if I remember right. Dark eyes
and a pug nose. Oh, yeah! He had a scar on his upper lip that kinda
puckered the skin. Looked as though it might have been stitched.”
Hashknife nodded slowly, his gray eyes thoughtful.
“Yuh don’t know where he came from, do yuh?”
“Nope; he never said. What do you know about him?”
“Not a thing.”
“What’s the idea of askin’ about him?”
“I had a friend named McFee and I wondered if this was the same person.”
“Was he?”
“I guess not.”
But this did not seem to satisfy Joe. He shot a sharp glance at Sleepy,
whose innocent blue eyes told him nothing.
“Did the doctor say how soon yuh could walk?” asked Hashknife.
“Nope. But I’ll be out in a day or so. What are you fellers doin’ over
here? Expect to get jobs?”
“Thought we might strike the Box 88 for jobs.”
“Yea-a-ah?”
“They lost a man the other day I understand.”
Joe began rolling another cigaret. Finally he looked at Hashknife and
said:
“What are yuh goin’ to do about--what yuh discovered yesterday?”
“What do yuh mean?”
“You know ---- well what I mean!”
“Oh, yeah! Nothin’. Next time yuh leave a rifle layin’ around loose tie
yore horse away from it.”
[Illustration: “Next time yuh leave a rifle layin’ around loose tie
yore horse away from it”]
Hashknife got up abruptly and walked out of the room with Sleepy
following close on his heels. They went out on the porch where Yvonne
joined them.
“Won’t you let me apologize for Joe?” she asked. “He doesn’t seem to
understand that--that there isn’t some motive behind you protecting
him this way. I--I guess he hasn’t much faith in humanity.”
“He’s pretty young to lose faith in humanity,” said Hashknife slowly.
“But you don’t need to apologize nor thank us. We didn’t do it with
that idea in view.”
“Oh, I know that. It was just the good in your heart.”
“Mebby that’s it. Well, I reckon we’ll ramble along.”
“Can’t you stay for supper?”
“Not very well. Mebby some other day, but we thank yuh just the same.”
“You are always more than welcome, Hashknife.”
“That’s fine,” he smiled. “It’s great to be welcome and we appreciate it
more than you know. We’ll probably see yuh again in a few days.”
They mounted their horses and headed back for Chongo town over the dusty
road.
“Why did yuh ask about McFee?” queried Sleepy. “You didn’t never know
him, didja?”
“Not as McFee. See if yuh can’t remember a puncher with a scar on his
upper lip. Kind of a puckered scar.”
Sleepy rode along squinting his eyes against the glare from the yellow
dust. Something stirred in his memory and he saw a heavy-set cowboy
with a scarred upper lip. The man was squatting at a camp-fire drinking
coffee from a tin cup and the firelight illuminated the scar.
[Illustration: A scarred face illuminated by the firelight stirred in
Sleepy’s memory]
Sleepy lifted his head and looked at Hashknife.
“McFee was his name,” he said as though they had discovered his
identity. “He was workin’ as a deputy for the sheriff of Piney River
and he stopped at our camp.”
“Good boy!” exclaimed Hashknife. “That’s Charley McFee. It shore had
me pawin’ my head. He was trailin’ a murderer that night. Thanks for
the memory.”
“Yo’re welcome,” grinned Sleepy. “But what good is it?”
“Mebby it’s no good but it gives a place to start. McFee was a stranger
here--almost.”
“Why the almost, Hashknife?”
“Somebody knew him. He wasn’t here long enough to cause an enmity that
would end in murder. He was killed by the one man who knew him.”
“What do yuh think of Joe LeClere?”
“That’s hard to say. Joe was goin’ to alter the brands on them Box 88
animals, I think. But Joe ain’t alone in the deal. I had an idea he
was workin’ alone but I guess not. Somebody went up there and turned
the steers out of that brush corral after we brought Joe home.”
“I reckon Joe is a bad boy. He shore threw lead at you.”
“Yeah and he danged near got me too. I’m glad I got him in the leg.”
“Didn’t yuh shoot at his legs, Hashknife?”
“Don’t be foolish. With a man tryin’ to kill me? I shot to stop him,
tha’sall, Sleepy.”
It was like Hashknife to depreciate his own ability with a gun. But
neither of them claimed to be good shots. In their wanderings up and
down the earth they had encountered split-second gunmen who when the
showdown came failed to split the second.
Hashknife had always said, “If yo’re in the right yuh don’t have to
split a second; just shoot straight.”
* * * * *
Just outside Chongo town they met Frenchy LeClere. He nodded pleasantly
but did not stop his team. They stabled their horses and wandered down
to the sheriff’s office where they found Weary and Chuck. Fat had ridden
out to the Box 88.
“I’m glad yuh came,” declared Weary. “I’m plumb tired of talkin’ with
folks I know.”
“Meanin’ me,” said Chuck sadly.
“Meanin’ everybody in Chongo.”
Hashknife laughed and stretched out in a broken-back chair; Sleepy
squatted against the wall and rolled a cigaret.
“We were out to the IS ranch,” offered Hashknife.
“Thasso? How’s Joe?” asked Weary.
“Gettin’ along all right, I reckon. They seem to think that somebody is
stealin’ their cows.”
“Seem to!” snorted Weary. “That’s all it amounts to. Old LeClere makes
me laugh. He’s been kickin’ to us for a year. We investigated but didn’t
find anythin’ to prove that his cows are fadin’ away.”
“Has the Box 88 lost any?”
“I sh’d say not. Nobody stealin’ cows around here. Where would they
dispose of ’em if they did rustle a few? You’ve got to show the hides
of every cow yuh kill. Every month we go out to the silver mines and
inspect the hides that the Box 88 save. Every hide that’s shipped out
of this here range must be inspected by the sheriff.”
“The Box 88 has the meat contract for the mines?”
“Sure. Hayward keeps two men out there all the time to handle the stock.
They kill a lot of beef in a month and I reckon Tuck Hayward makes a
mighty good profit. He used to ship a lot of beef east but not since the
railroad built in here. Yuh see he furnished the railroad camps with
meat too. Hell, he ain’t a cattleman no more; he’s a butcher.”
“What kind of a lay-out is the AH?”
“Fine. Old Ace Hart is a prince. He never gets anywhere, as far as
money is concerned but he don’t care. Ace is one of the old-timers
and he’s satisfied as long as he can make enough to pay off the boys
and keep eatin’. Hayward is a money-getter. He makes plenty money on
beef and he ain’t in the gamblin’ and liquor business for his health.
Not that he don’t shoot square. I wouldn’t say that about Tuck. But
the percentage is shore heavy.”
“What’s yore opinion of the killin’ of Kid O’Neil?” asked Hashknife.
Weary laughed and shook his head.
“Search me. We’ve got a prisoner charged with the crime.”
“Somethin’ like the killin’ of McFee, wasn’t it?”
“Yo’re plumb full of questions, ain’t yuh?” grinned Chuck.
Hashknife grinned back at him and nodded.
“Yuh got to be if yo’re goin’ to know things, Haverty.”
“If yo’re goin’ to damn sure,” said Chuck seriously.
“Come to think of it, I reckon yo’re right,” said Weary. “McFee _was_
shot in the back jist like O’Neil was.”
“And he was workin’ for the Box 88 too--eh?”
“Just what are you drivin’ at, Hartley?”
“Did you know McFee?” asked Hashknife, ignoring Weary’s question.
“I did not. Nobody seemed to. He rode in and took a job with the Box
88. Never was here before. All we knew was that his name was Charley
McFee; so we buried him out on the hill with the rest of the folks.
He rode to town alone that night and never got here.”
“Kinda funny, wasn’t it?” mused Hashknife. “I wonder if anybody knew he
was ridin’ alone the night he was killed!”
“I guess not. Hayward said that him and Joe LeClere was intendin’ to
ride in with him but changed their minds. Joe was out there soberin’
up. He dang near had snakes. Cornes, McLeod and Dalhart had come to
town earlier in the evenin’. None of ’em saw McFee after they left
the Box 88.”
“Do yuh reckon somebody killed him for what money he might have had on
him?”
“Not a chance, Hartley. Hayward loaned him five dollars before he left
the ranch and he still had it in his pocket when we searched the body.”
“O’Neil wasn’t robbed, was he?”
“He never had anythin’. Spent it faster than he made it.”
Hashknife slowly rolled a cigaret, pondering over all this information.
Chuck Haverty looked at Hashknife with amusement.
“Run out of questions?” said Chuck softly. “Hartley, you’d make a good
lawyer.”
Hashknife smiled at Chuck, who was grinning.
“I’m afraid not, Haverty,” said Hashknife. “I like to see everybody get
a square deal.”
* * * * *
A little later they left the office and went to a Chinese café for
their supper. Mike Dalhart and McLeod were at the rear of the café
eating a meal and both of them glanced up at Hashknife and Sleepy as
they came in. They sat down near the front of the room with Sleepy
facing the rear.
After a few minutes Dalhart said something to the waiter, who nodded,
and Dalhart went out through the kitchen. McLeod waited a while and
then came to the front of the room and paid for two meals.
He then nodded shortly to Hashknife and Sleepy as men do to strangers
and went out. McLeod was rather a big man with iron-gray hair, possibly
fifty years of age. He stopped outside and looked around as though
looking for Dalhart, who came through an alley and met him.
Dalhart was of medium height, dark-skinned as an Indian, with small,
close-set eyes and an aggressive chin. He was quick of movement and
walked with a decided swagger. They went to the Silver Streak where
McLeod sat down in a poker game. Dalhart stood around until Tuck
Hayward showed up and they went to Tuck’s private office together.
Tuck shut the door tightly and turned to Dalhart.
“Well, what do yuh know, Mike?” he asked.
“Not much. We stopped at the IS. Didn’t see Joe. Yvonne told us the
same thing we heard here--that Joe shot himself accidentally or that
the horse kicked over the rifle and shot him through the leg. I talked
with the doctor and he said it was a clean wound. Yuh can’t tell me
that a thirty-thirty, with a mushroom bullet--”
“That ain’t what I want to know, Mike. Did she say anythin’ about these
two strange punchers?”
“She said they found Joe and helped him home. I’ll bet if Joe had been
hit with a thirty-thirty he’d ’a’ lost his whole leg. Say, who in hell
are these strange punchers?”
“Said their names are Hartley and Stevens.”
“Hartley and Stevens, eh?” Mike’s eyes narrowed perceptibly. “Where are
they from?”
“I dunno; never talked with ’em. You know ’em?”
“Not me.”
“How soon will Joe be out?”
“The girl said in a couple of days. Say, she’s a dinger, Tuck. If she
was my girl--”
“Which she ain’t, Mike,” coldly.
“No, that’s true as hell. Well, I reckon that’s all, Tuck.”
“All right; thanks, Mike.”
“Yo’re welcome.”
Dalhart had a drink at the bar and then went out to his horse. He was
riding out of town when Hashknife and Sleepy came from the café. He
turned and looked at them but they were not looking in his direction.
They did not stop at the Silver Streak but went on down to the Chongo
Saloon where they found an unoccupied pool-table and started a game.
It was their favorite relaxation.
“Didja ever see this Dalhart person before?” asked Hashknife, squinting
down the length of his cue when the game was well started.
“I don’t reckon I have; have you, Hashknife?”
“I’m just wonderin’ how good yore memory is.”
“Who is he?”
“Well--he’s Mike Dalhart of the Box 88 I reckon.”
“You reckon?”
“Yore bust,” smiled Hashknife.
* * * * *
It was another week before Joe LeClere was able to get around. Even
then he was unable to wear a boot. Hashknife and Sleepy had been out
to the IS ranch several times but had not talked with him. Yvonne had
never mentioned the cattle-stealing incident and Joe felt sure that
his father had believed Hashknife’s lie as to how he had been hurt.
Yet there was something wrong. He caught his father looking queerly
at him several times.
Did the old man suspect something? he wondered. Frenchy LeClere was
keen-eyed in spite of his age. Joe tried to dismiss the thought but
it persisted. His enforced stay at the ranch had cleansed his system
of liquor and when the craving subsided at times he swore to himself
that he was all through with the stuff.
He cursed the stuff bitterly to himself. Twice within a year he had
been on the verge of delirium tremens. So far gone in fact that he
hadn’t remembered what he had done. It was like a nightmare. Hayward
had warned him that if he got a third attack it would finish him. Joe
had no desire to see any more little green devils with red hats. Next
time he would drink moderately, he promised himself.
Yvonne seemed changed too and Joe wondered whether it was because Soapy
Weed was in jail. He couldn’t understand why Yvonne would choose Soapy,
who had nothing in the world, when Tuck Hayward, who had everything,
desired her.
He sat on the porch of the ranch-house and smoked innumerable cigarets,
wishing he was in Chongo town where there was something going on. Yvonne
came out and sat on the steps near him. She was doing a small piece of
embroidery work and he watched her needle going in and out.
“Where’s Dad?” he asked. Yvonne shook her head but did not look at him.
“He rode north this morning,” she said, “and he carried a rifle.”
Joe blinked thoughtfully.
“What about him carrying a rifle, Yvonne?”
“I don’t know, Joe. He said he talked with the sheriff yesterday about
losing cattle.”
“And the sheriff didn’t believe him?”
“I guess not. He said it was up to him to furnish evidence. I don’t know
what evidence he needs. The last round-up shows that we have lost a good
many head, Joe.” Yvonne turned her head and looked at him. “What were
you doing with those cattle the day you were shot?”
Joe smiled crookedly.
“Not a thing. I was a fool to start anythin’.”
“You must have been doing something, Joe.”
“Do yuh think so? Well, I wasn’t. There wasn’t any evidence to show
that I had done anythin’. What could I do to a Box 88 animal, even if
they did find a runnin’-iron?”
“Then why did you start trouble with them?”
“Jumpy, I reckon,” grinned Joe and then sobered quickly. “Who are these
two men anyway? What are they doin’ here?”
Yvonne shook her head.
“I don’t know, Joe. Nobody seems to know. They make friends with
everybody. You can’t help liking them.”
“Can’t, eh? I remember one of ’em shot me in the leg.”
“But you shot at them first, didn’t you?”
“Oh, sure! I don’t blame ’em.”
Joe rubbed his leg carefully, squinting away from the smoke of his
cigaret.
“You ain’t never been in to see Soapy, have yuh, Yvonne?”
“No,” softly.
“Do you think he killed Kid O’Neil?”
“No.”
“Then who did?”
“Haven’t you any idea, Joe?”
“What idea would I have?” quickly. “What are you drivin’ at, anyway?”
“Joe, the night O’Neil was killed you wasn’t home. You came here after
Soapy Weed left.”
Joe dropped his cigaret as he leaned forward, his lips shut tightly for
a moment. Then--
“You ain’t tryin’ to put _that_ on me, are yuh?”
Yvonne folded her hands in her lap, staring straight ahead.
“I’m not trying to put anything on you, Joe. You are my brother and
I--but Soapy didn’t kill him. He--Joe,” she turned and looked up at
him--“I think Soapy Weed tried to protect you. He was taking the body
away when his horse got away from him.”
“Tried to protect me!” sneered Joe. “What the hell! I’m nothin’ to Soapy
Weed.”
“You never considered me, did you, Joe?”
“Considered you? You mean that for you--is that yore idea of it? He was
tryin’ to protect _you_?”
“I wonder.”
“Well, I’ll be damned! So you think yore brother murdered Kid O’Neil,
eh? My God, you’ve got a lot of respect for me! Kill Kid O’Neil, eh? I
busted his nose because he said things about you, didn’t I? Sa-a-ay!
This ain’t somethin’--who else has this fool idea?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, Joe. It was my idea.”
“Well, that’s shore a sweet idea, I must say.”
Joe leaned back in his chair and rolled a cigaret. His hands shook
slightly and he gnawed at the corner of his lower lip.
“Well, why don’t-cha go down and tell this to the sheriff? He might fall
for it and let yore sweetheart loose. You can’t tell me that any man
would be fool enough to stay in jail to protect his girl’s brother.”
Yvonne got to her feet, her eyes blazing. “Joe,” she said, her voice
shaking, “you have associated with that crowd around the Silver Streak
until you haven’t a shred of common decency left. Now you take back
what you just said.”
“I ain’t got a thing to take back, kid. Go ahead and tell the sheriff.
He’s fool enough to fall for anythin’. But if Soapy Weed ain’t guilty
they’ll have a hell of a time tryin’ to put the deadwood on somebody
else.”
Yvonne walked past him and went into the house shaking with anger. Joe
grinned crookedly as he lighted a cigaret. At least he had his sister’s
opinion. Some one was coming up the road on horseback and he recognized
Tuck Hayward.
“Now, what the hell does he want?” wondered Joe.
Tuck rode up and dismounted, dropping the reins. His tall bay was broke
to stand to dropped reins. Tuck grinned as he came up to the porch
carrying a paper-wrapped parcel.
“Hello, Joe!” he grinned. “Able to be around, eh?”
“Just about,” grunted Joe glancing back toward the open doorway. Tuck
caught the signal and nodded as he handed Joe the parcel.
“Thought yuh might be dry,” said Tuck. “Here’s a quart.”
“Dry! My God, I’ve spit cotton for a week! Thanks, Tuck.”
“Tha’sall right,” Tuck sat down ponderously on the step. “How’s the
leg?”
“Gettin’ good. Be ridin’ day after tomorrow.”
“Good. I been intendin’ to come out and see yuh but I’ve been pretty
busy. So the leg is almost healed, eh? Didja have a steeljacket bullet
in that thirty-thirty?”
Joe shot a keen glance at Hayward before he said:
“Didn’t mushroom, I guess.”
“I guess not,” said Hayward softly and Joe flushed angrily.
“What are yuh drivin’ at, Tuck?”
Tuck glanced at the doorway and shook his head.
“Not a thing, Joe. Least said, soonest mended.”
“Is that so? Did that Hartley--” Joe stopped short, and Hayward looked
at him curiously for a moment before he asked:
“What about Hartley?”
“Nothin’.”
Joe realized that he had made a slip. Hayward’s eyes bored into him and
he turned away.
“I heard that Hartley and Stevens found yuh,” said Tuck.
“Yeah; they helped me home.”
“What else do yuh know about ’em, Joe?”
“Not a damn’ thing.”
“Uh-huh! Well, I’m glad yo’re gettin’ better. Come down as soon as yuh
can.”
“I’ll be down in a day or so, Tuck. Thanks for the quart.”
“That’s all right. Where’s the Old Man?”
“Out in the hills. How’s all the gang?”
“Same as ever. Well, I’ll be goin’. See yuh later.”
Tuck mounted and rode away while Joe limped back into his bedroom where
he locked the door and picked up a corkscrew. His good resolutions had
vanished. He swore softly, filled a water-glass half-full of the amber
liquid and sat down on the bed.
* * * * *
During the week Hashknife had talked several times with Soapy Weed. In
fact Hashknife had been included in the daily pitch game in Soapy’s cell
and had come to the conclusion that Soapy was either innocent or a hard
customer. He had stuck to his story of finding the body near the river
with such persistency that Hashknife was inclined to believe him.
Weary had told Hashknife about Soapy’s slip at the inquest in which he
had mentioned finding the body in the weeds and Hashknife had talked it
over with Fat Garnette.
“I don’t sabe yore interest in this case, Hashknife,” said Fat.
“Just a humane interest,” said Hashknife. “I don’t believe in soakin’ an
innocent man.”
“Neither do I. But what can yuh do with a young fool like Soapy?”
“Do you suppose that Soapy is protectin’ Joe LeClere?”
“How do yuh get that?” asked Fat.
“Soapy Weed took Yvonne LeClere home from that dance. Joe had busted
O’Neil’s nose that night and you all admit that O’Neil was a tough
hombre. Suppose he followed Joe home and Joe laid for him. Suppose
Soapy found the body, realized that it would incriminate the brother
of his girl and decided to move it to a safer place.”
“Ain’t it funny?” sighed Fat. “I’ve pictured it just that way but I
was afraid to mention it. Joe LeClere murdered O’Neil and before he
had time to get away with the body Soapy and Yvonne came along in
the buggy; so Joe ducked. On the way back from the house Soapy finds
the body and packs it on his horse. The horse gets away from Soapy
and comes to town. By God, it’s as clear as anythin’!”
“Clear to you,” grinned Hashknife. “But the thing to do is to get Soapy
to admit where he found the body.”
“Which he won’t.”
“No, I suppose not. You say O’Neil had no gun?”
“Wasn’t any on the body. The bartender at the Silver Streak had the
Kid’s gun.”
“Hm-m-m, that’s different. But would the Kid go after Joe LeClere
without a gun?”
“Not likely. But we’ve no proof that he did go after him. Tuck Hayward
says he told the Kid to go home.”
“The Kid was of age.”
“Yea-a-ah--sure!”
“Would Joe know that the Kid followed him?”
“By God, you can find more things to talk about!” wailed Fat. “Build up
a case and then tear it down.”
“That’s the thing to do, Fat. Common-sense tells us that Soapy Weed
would have no reason for killing the Kid unless the Kid attacked him.
If Joe knew that the Kid was on his trail he might bushwhack him. Joe
drinks heavy and he might not want to swap lead with the Kid, who was
a gunman, accordin’ to local talk.”
“I never seen him do any shootin’, Hashknife. Dang it, if Soapy would
only tell where he found the body we might figure somethin’ out of it;
but he won’t, darn him!”
“Let’s me and you ride out to the IS, Fat. We might get a chance to talk
with Joe and yuh never can tell what a man might let slip.”
“Shore; I’ll ride out with yuh.”
Sleepy was in a poker game at the Chongo Saloon; so the two rode away
from town without him. Fat showed Hashknife the spot where Soapy claimed
to have found the body and they examined it closely. No rain had fallen
since that day but they were unable to find even a boot-print.
“Was there any blood on Soapy’s saddle that mornin’?” asked Hashknife.
“Not a bit.”
They rode on to the double line of trees which extended along the last
half-mile of the road. Here the road was bordered on each side by a
strip of grass and weeds possibly fifteen feet across.
“Plenty weeds,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “Dusty weeds. Plenty
fox-tail, Fat.”
“Weeds,” said Fat. “Yeah, there’s--by golly, do yuh suppose that this--”
“Lots of ’em!” smiled Hashknife. “Never find anythin’ in all these.
Still it’s worth a look. You ride down that side and I’ll ride down
this. Cut about the center.”
“But yuh never could find where a body laid this late in the game,”
protested Fat. “Like huntin’ for a needle in a hay-stack.”
“Just like it. But let’s see what we can find.”
Each took a side of the weedy strip and rode slowly along, scanning the
ground closely. The task seemed hopeless. The mass of timothy, fox-tail
and various weeds was almost knee-deep to their horses; a harsh
dust-covered tangle. They rode nearly to the ranch-house before turning
back into the road.
“No chance to find anythin’ there,” declared Fat.
“Not even if yuh knew what yuh was lookin’ for, which I don’t.”
“Well, we looked,” smiled Hashknife. “I’m always willin’ to look.”
He turned in his saddle and looked back at the dusty strips of weeds
along the trees.
“Soapy mentioned weeds,” he said thoughtfully. “Deep weeds, didn’t he
say? Well, there they are.”
“Lotta good it does anybody,” grunted Fat. “There’s Joe on the porch.”
Joe was leaning against a porch-post as they rode up and it did not
require a keen eye to discover that he was as drunk as the proverbial
boiled-owl. His eyes were shot with red streaks and his lips sagged in
a derisive grin.
“Whasha want?” he demanded belligerently.
“Hello, Joe!” grinned Fat. “How’sa leg?”
“None of yore damn’ business. Who’s yore long-geared friend, eh? Shorry
I can’ give yuh a drink. I drunk it all. Tuck Hayward brought me quart
t’day. He’s a frien’, I’ll tell yuh that! Whasha want, Fat Garnette?”
“Set down; yo’re drunk!” grunted Fat disgustedly.
“Set down when I damn please!”
“Stand up then. Where’s Yvonne?”
“Tha’s some more of my business,” owlishly. “’F yuh want to know so
damn’ bad, she’s settin’ on the corral fence. She said I wasn’t fit
to stay in the house with. Ain’t that a nice thing for a sister to
shay?”
[Illustration: Yvonne in disgust left the house and sat on the corral
fence]
“I reckon she knew what she was talkin’ about,” replied Fat while
Joe staggered over to the corner of the porch where he could see the
stable and a corner of the corral. He chuckled drunkenly and headed
for the doorway.
“Here’s my pup-paternal anchestor; so I guess I better hunt a li’l hole
and crawl in.”
He disappeared within the house as Frenchy LeClere and Yvonne came from
down by the corral talking earnestly. They caught sight of the sheriff
and Hashknife.
“Hello folks!” called Fat waving his hand.
“By gosh, de sheriff!” exclaimed Frenchy. “And Meester Hart-lee! Well,
well!”
He glanced at the porch and seemed relieved to note that Joe was not
in evidence. They all shook hands but Frenchy did not invite them to
dismount. They knew why Yvonne seemed very quiet and had nothing to
say.
“Joe, she’s get along fine,” offered Frenchy. “I’m s’pose she’s lie down
jus’ now and tak’ rest.”
“We just rode past to see how he was comin’ along,” said Hashknife.
“He’ll be out in a few days, won’t he?”
“Oh, for sure!” replied Frenchy.
They were visibly relieved when Hashknife suggested to Fat that they had
better be going along and Fat accepted quickly.
“Come out again, won’t you?” asked Yvonne. “Please do. We are glad to
have you.”
“Thank yuh, Yvonne,” smiled Hashknife. “We shore will.”
As they rode away they noticed that Frenchy and Yvonne went quickly into
the house.
“Joe will get merry hell,” grinned Fat. “The Old Man has a terrible
temper.”
“He deserves it,” declared Hashknife. “Too much liquor. Tuck Hayward
ought to get a good kick in the pants for bringing whisky out here to
the boy.”
“I reckon that’s right.”
They rode along the strip of weeds but were making no attempt at a
further search when suddenly Hashknife drew up his horse, turned him
around and rode back a few steps. Quickly he dismounted and walked a
short distance through the tangle of weeds where he picked up an
object.
“Whatcha find?” asked Fat, reining back through the weeds.
Hashknife held it out to him--a heavy Colt revolver.
“I got a flash of the sun on it,” he said.
“Fully loaded!” said Fat. “Forty-five.”
Hashknife was squatted on his heels examining the grass and Fat
dismounted beside him.
Together they looked the spot over and Hashknife found a mat of old
leaves about as large as his hand apparently glued together. He examined
it closely and got to his feet.
“What is it?” asked Fat.
“I think we found where Kid O’Neil went down and out. Unless I’m badly
mistaken, that bunch of leaves is stuck together with gore.”
“It ain’t red,” declared Fat.
“Yuh didn’t expect it to stay red, did yuh? Plenty of fox-tail here too.
Do yuh recognize that gun?”
“No. Nothin’ on it to show who owned it, Hashknife.”
Hashknife wrapped the leaves in a handkerchief and mounted his horse,
while Fat put the gun in his pocket. They rode back to Chongo and
turned the leaves over to Dr. Plumley, who confessed that he was not
exactly a chemist but that he could determine whether it was blood or
not.
But Hashknife did not wait for an analysis. They went to the jail where
they found Sleepy and Chuck Haverty in the cell with Soapy Weed, arguing
over a seven-up game. They went in and Hashknife sat down beside Soapy.
Hashknife had the gun, which he placed on the little table.
“Didja ever see that gun before, Soapy?” he asked.
Soapy examined it closely, shaking his head.
“Never saw it before in my life. What about it?”
“That’s the gun Kid O’Neil had when he was killed.”
Soapy looked closely at Hashknife who was examining the gun again.
“How do yuh know that?” asked Soapy wonderingly.
“Because we found the spot where you found the body. It was just a
little ways this side of the IS ranch-house, on the north side of the
road. The weeds are deep there, Soapy. And it might interest yuh to
know that Joe LeClere got drunk today and made things so unpleasant
that Yvonne was obliged to go out and set on the corral fence.”
Soapy’s eyes snapped angrily.
“That dirty bum! If he--” Soapy stopped.
“Were you tryin’ to protect Joe LeClere?” asked Hashknife.
Soapy settled back on the cot, his eyes thoughtful.
“I reckon I might as well tell it all now. It had to come out sooner or
later. I wasn’t tryin’ to protect Joe but I did want to protect Yvonne.
She’s his sister, yuh know.”
“You didn’t see Joe kill him, didja?” asked Fat quickly.
“No. I was comin’ back from takin’ Yvonne home and I saw a horse. It had
the reins tangled in its feet. It was a Box 88 horse. I untangled it and
the darn thing broke away. Then I fell over the body. I didn’t know what
to do. But I knew it would cinch Joe; so I put it on my horse and got on
behind. The darn bronc bucked and I was scared of losin’ the body. Yuh
see, it was a hell of a mean job gettin’ it on.
“Well, I fell off and the bronc ran away. I chased him plumb to the
river. It put me in a bad fix. When Fat arrested me I thought it would
end at the inquest, but I made a fool break about that deep grass and
they soaked me in here. I never shot O’Neil and I don’t know who did.”
“But you felt sure that Joe LeClere did,” said Hashknife.
“I was afraid he did,” amended Soapy.
Hashknife stretched and began rolling a cigaret.
“What’s the next move?” asked Fat anxiously. “Shall I arrest Joe
LeClere, Hashknife?”
“You better talk it over with the prosecutin’ attorney. Personally,
I don’t think there’s a thing that they can put on Joe. It’s just
circumstantial evidence. Joe’s rep would be against him. Probably a
jury would convict him.”
“What about me?” asked Soapy anxiously.
“You’ll stay here until we get a better man to fill yore cell,” said
Chuck.
“I reckon that’s about the size of it,” agreed Fat.
“Anyway they won’t hang me,” grinned Soapy.
“They’ve never hung anybody around here for bein’ a damn fool,” declared
Chuck.
“That’s a lucky thing for the population, I suppose,” said Fat
seriously.
* * * * *
Hashknife supposed that Fat would tell what the prosecuting attorney
had to say about it, but he didn’t see anything of Fat until late that
evening when Fat rode in with Joe LeClere and put him in jail.
Frenchy LeClere and Yvonne came in shortly afterwards, rather dazed
over the sudden turn of events. Joe was half-sober and in an evil frame
of mind. He cursed Fat and everybody until Fat locked him in a cell and
left him to sober up.
The prosecuting attorney had talked with the judge, who advised turning
Soapy loose, and as Soapy came from the jail free at last he came face
to face with Frenchy LeClere and Yvonne. He stopped short and stared at
Yvonne, who walked past him without a sign of recognition. Soapy almost
fell down.
“Well, what do yuh know about that?” he wailed to himself. “They turned
me down like a white chip.”
He headed for the Silver Streak where he found Hashknife and Sleepy.
“Yo’re loose, eh?” grinned Hashknife.
“Loose as hell!” snorted Soapy. He lowered his voice.
“Met Frenchy and Yvonne and they never recognized me.”
“That’s kinda funny, ain’t it?” queried Hashknife.
“Mebby you think it is--I don’t! Do yuh reckon they blame me for Joe
bein’ in jail?”
“You didn’t put him there, Soapy.”
“I shore didn’t. By golly, I’ve got to find Fat. If he lied about what I
said I’ll salivate him.”
And Soapy hurried across the street looking for Fat, who was in his
office talking with Yvonne and her father. But Soapy didn’t go in. He
walked past, looked through the open door and then sat down on the
wooden sidewalk fifty feet past the office door.
* * * * *
Fat was having rather a strenuous time.
Frenchy wanted to know the reasons for everything and Fat was obliged
to tell him that Joe had been under suspicion for quite a while but
that they had needed a confession from Soapy as to where he had found
the body before they could act.
He told them about finding the evidence near the IS ranch-house.
“I never hear no shot that night,” declared Frenchy. “I’m t’ink Joe come
straight home that night.”
“You _think_ he did?”
“I’m don’ know for sure,” sighed Frenchy. “Well, I’m s’pose we mus’ do
our bes’. No use to kick. When you have trial?”
“I don’t know, LeClere. I suppose he’ll have to have a hearing and then
be bound over to the superior court.”
Yvonne had nothing to say. She knew that Joe was not in the house that
night when Soapy took her home, because she saw him ride in at daylight.
She and her father came from the office and went up the street together,
going in the opposite direction from Soapy, who got to his feet and went
to the office door. Fat glared at him because Fat was in a bad humor
just then.
“What the hell do you want?” asked Fat.
“What did you tell ’em about me, Fat?”
“I dunno what yuh mean.”
“Oh, the hell yuh don’t! They never spoke to me.”
“Didn’t, eh?”
“No, they didn’t. They acted just as though I was a plumb stranger.
Never even recognized me.”
“Well, what in hell can yuh expect, with ten-days growth of whiskers on
yore face? Go get a shave, you bo-hunk!”
Soapy’s hand went slowly to his face, which had not felt a razor since
the day before his arrest.
“Well,” he said slowly, “thanks, Fat!”
* * * * *
Joe LeClere had his hearing the following day and quite a crowd
assembled in the little court-room. Joe was sullen and eyed the crowd
angrily. He glared at Hashknife as though he blamed Hashknife for his
incarceration. Soapy Weed was sworn in and told exactly what happened
that night as far as he was concerned. He admitted trying to shield
Joe.
The sheriff told of finding the spot where O’Neil had been killed and
exhibited the gun as evidence. Following him came Doctor Plumley, who
testified that the handful of leaves had been clotted together with
blood. Quite a number of employees of the Silver Streak were present,
including Tuck Hayward and McLeod, his ranch foreman.
Joe refused to testify but he did get to his feet and single out
Hashknife.
“Yo’re the one that framed all this!” he shouted. “You put me in jail
with yore damn meddlin’. Who in hell are you? You better keep yore damn
long nose out of my business--or you’ll wish yuh had.”
“Shut up!” snapped the sheriff, jerking Joe down in his chair. “If
you’ve got anythin’ to say, be sworn and tell it under oath.”
“I’ve got plenty to say!” snapped Joe. “When it comes down to cases I
can say a hell of a lot.”
His eyes roamed the room and he laughed harshly.
And so the judge bound him over to the next term of court and the
prosecuting attorney filed a charge of first degree murder against him.
There was much speculation as to what Joe had meant about having plenty
to say.
* * * * *
In celebration of Soapy’s release he and Cling proceeded to imbibe
plenty of hard liquor. They tried to get Chuck Haverty to join them but
Chuck was duty bound to stay at the jail. It was only a small building,
located about fifty feet behind the sheriff’s office, and a small room
at the front was used as a home for the jailer.
Soapy hugged Chuck, cried on his shoulder, told him he was the finest
jailer on earth and that they owed him a real good time; but Chuck
remained loyal to his job, although he hankered to join the two cowboys
and cut loose.
“He was jus’ like a father t’ me, Cling,” sobbed Soapy. “Jus’ like a
father and mother t’ me. Oh, he’s lov’ble person, Cling! Shake hands
with Chuck, will yuh? Oh, you’ll jist love him; he’s part Scotch--the
finan’shl part!”
“Shert’ly glad to meetcha,” said Cling solemnly. “So glad you were kind
to our li’l soap weed. Won’t you come and let us buy you a snifter of
demon rum?”
“Aw, hell, I can’t leave here!”
“Isn’t he profane?” applauded Soapy. “Didja ever hear a man use
pr’fanity better ’n that, Clingin’-Vine? He’s a wunnerful pitch player.
Oh, jus’ wunnerful! Ought to be a claim-agent. Claims everythin’; high,
low, jack and the game.”
“Go home and sober up,” growled Chuck.
“There y’are!” exploded Soapy. “Tha’s one side of his nature I never
rec’gnized. I judged him wrong. I thought he was a hail feller, well
met; and the son of a horned-toad tells us to go home and shober up.
C’mon! I’m shert’nly disappointed in him. But he’s good to his
captives. Oh, my, he’s so good!”
“Aw, go to hell!” snorted Chuck.
* * * * *
Soapy and Cling went to the Chongo Saloon where they essayed a duet.
Soapy had a barber-shop tenor which strangled him badly at times, while
Clingin’-Vine sang in a mournful baritone with many a quaver and jiggle
in his voice.
“Just break the news to Mother,” they sang tearfully, as they leaned
against the bar.
Just tell her not to wait for me-e-e-e,
Fo-o-o-or, I’m not comin’ ho-o-o-ome.
Just say there is no-o-o-o other--
Then they broke down and cried while the sleek-haired bartender
snorted disgustedly and polished the bar with great vigor. He was also
sentimental and that barber-shop chord was something he loved.
“I can’t stand it,” sobbed Soapy. “My heart’s too full for shong.”
“Yore stummick is, yuh mean,” said the bartender callously.
“Tha’s a inshult,” declared Clingin’-Vine tearfully.
And so they locked arms and weaved their way outside where they headed
for the Silver Streak. The games were running full blast. They leaned
against the bar, imbibed another drink and proceeded to regale the world
with:
Out in thish wide worl’ alo-o-o-one;
Nothin’ but shorrow I shee-e-e-e.
I am nobody’s darling,
Nobody cares for me-e-e-e.
It didn’t get over so well because the two-piece orchestra, consisting
of a violin and a tin-panny piano, were playing “The Irish Washerwoman.”
The singers realized that their efforts were spoiled; so they went back
to the little orchestra platform where they sat down together. Several
cowboys were dancing with the “girls” and after the dance was finished
some one invited the orchestra to have drinks.
The fiddler placed his instrument on the platform near Soapy and headed
for the bar. A few moments later Soapy and Cling were out behind the
saloon and Soapy had the fiddle and bow.
“The ques’n is,” propounded Cling, “just what in hell did yuh steal that
fiddle for, Soapy?”
“The answer to yore overpowerin’ ques’n, Clingin’-Vine, is thish: We
need ’companyment to our shong. I never re’lized it so much before.”
“Well, tha’s great, Soapy! But why in hell didn’t you steal the fiddler
too?”
“Don’t need ’em.”
“You can’t play no fiddle, Soapy.”
“The hell, I can’t! Ee-magine that, will yuh? I can play anythin’ I can
get m’ hands around. I took two lessons on one of these whine-boxes.
C’mon!”
They went around several buildings and finally emerged on the street
below the Chongo Saloon where they sat down on the sidewalk. Soapy
tucked the fiddle under his chin and proceeded to make a lot of
wailing discords.
“Rec’nize it, Clingin’-Vine?” he asked.
“Not ’zactly, Soapy; what is she?”
Soapy cuffed his hat over one ear and sang softly:
Oh, I kissed Josh and Josh kissed me,
As we went bobbin’ ’round.
“Do yuh rec-nize it now, Cling?”
“Well,” sighed Cling, “I’ll take yore word for it. But I will shay
thish much; either yore voice or that damn fiddle is way to hell off
the tune.”
“It ain’t me, Cling--it’s you. Yore ears ain’t percolatin’ right f’r
music.”
“Pos’bly. Now what’ll we do?”
“I jus’ got lovely insp’ration; let’s sherenade Chuck Haverty. Whatcha
shay? Le’s give ’m a treat.”
“Oh, lovely! C’mon.”
It was with difficulty that they got to their feet. Soapy dropped the
fiddle and they bumped together in trying to recover it. Soapy got a
heel through the top of it but they didn’t mind that.
“Prob’ly make it shound better to me,” said Cling.
“Oh, always! Tha’s the firsth thing I’d do if I got me a new fid’l. The
very bes’ musicians always step on a fid’l the firs’ thing. I ’member
when I was playin’ with a big orc’restra--”
“Big what?”
“Orc-rest-ree.”
“Where and when, Soapy?”
“Tha’s the trouble with you,” sighed Soapy. “I wish I hadn’ brought up
that subject. Look out! Didn’ you shee that hitch-rack? When you shee a
hitch-rack comin’ toward yuh, don’ try to jump it. Duck under it like I
did.”
[Illustration: “When you shee a hitchrack comin’ toward yuh don’t jump
it--duck it”]
Soapy crawled around on his hands and knees, recovering the stolen
fiddle, while Cling sat on the edge of the sidewalk and nursed his
nose. They finally got on the sidewalk and went past the sheriff’s
office to the alley which led around to the jail.
They managed to reach the front steps of the jail where they sat down
together. The fiddle had been all knocked out of tune but they didn’t
mind. Soapy sawed dolefully on the loosened strings while both of them
sang mournfully. It was a terrible musical effort.
For possibly ten minutes they sawed and sang but nothing came of it.
Their last few drinks had begun to take active effect and their final
song was a series of squeaks and vocal discords.
“Do you shuppose we shung him to sleep?” asked Soapy.
“Tha’s about the shize of ’t. Let’s go and wake ’m up.”
The door was unlocked, so they went in. But there was no sign of Chuck
Haverty. Cling smashed the lamp in trying to light it and Soapy fell
down across his fiddle, breaking the neck completely off it, and they
ended their evening when Cling fell across Chuck’s bed and Soapy went
to sleep with his head pillowed on the broken fiddle.
* * * * *
“No, the sheriff ain’t here. He went to the mines early this mornin’
and he won’t be back before this afternoon. You say somebody stole yore
fiddle? Well,” Weary braced one elbow against the side of the office
doorway and rubbed his touseled hair vigorously, “I dunno nothin’ about
it. Now, if it was a stolen cow or a horse--”
“Well, it ain’t--it’s my fiddle.”
The fiddler from the Silver Streak spat angrily and considered the
sleepy deputy who stood barefooted in the doorway with only a pair of
over-alls over his red underwear. He had just got out of bed.
“Yeah, it’s yore fiddle,” admitted Weary. “After listenin’ to you
playin’ it, Andy, I’d look for a deaf man if I was you. Nobody with
two good ears would ever steal that fiddle.”
“It cost me seven dollars and six bits.”
“Which was pretty high for that kind of a fiddle.”
“Who do yuh reckon would steal it, Weary?”
“Somebody prob’ly played a joke on yuh. One of the boys prob’ly took
it.”
“Yeah, that might be. I went to take a drink last night and when I came
back it was gone.”
“Well, you’ll find it. A fiddle ain’t somethin’ yuh can get rid of.
Ain’t very many fiddles in this country. Didja have yore initials cut
in it or anythin’?”
“Yuh don’t do things like that to a fiddle. Might ruin the tone.”
“Aw, hell! You could shoot yore initials in that one with a buffalo-gun
and never hurt the tone. But I’ll keep an ear cocked, Andy. I’d
recognize that fiddle, y’ betcha!”
“Thank yuh, Weary.”
Weary watched him go up the street, shook his head and went back to
dress.
“This here country is goin’ to the dogs,” he told the four walls of the
office. “When they start rustlin’ fiddles I’m all through. And that kind
of a fiddle!”
He buttoned up his shirt and drew on his boots. Weary wore boots a size
too small and they gave him misery in the morning. He stomped around the
office for a while, picked up his hat and went back to see Chuck. They
usually ate breakfast together, after which Chuck carried a tray of food
to the jail.
Weary walked right in, stopped short and looked around. Cling Heffner
was sprawled across Chuck’s bed while in the middle of the room was
Soapy Weed, lying across the smashed fiddle. Just beside Soapy was
the oil-lamp, just a pile of smashed glass now amid a huge ring of
kerosene.
Both men were snoring industriously. Weary rubbed his chin and
considered them gravely. There was the missing fiddle--what was left
of it. But there was no sign of Chuck. There was a half-barred door
leading down the jail corridor which was always kept locked, but
when Weary turned the knob the door swung open. There was no one in
the corridor.
“Chuck!” called Weary, but there was no response.
Weary walked down the short corridor and leaned against the bars of Joe
LeClere’s cage. Joe was lying in the middle of the floor, instead of on
his cot. Weary snorted with indignation and walked back to Chuck’s room
where he surveyed the wreckage and the two sleeping men.
“Drunken lotta bums!” he snorted virtuously. “Slipped the bottle to our
prisoner, didja? Gotta good notion to kick yuh both out in the alley
where yuh belong. I suppose Chuck is over at some saloon cryin’ on the
bartender’s shoulder.”
Weary went outside, slammed the door shut and headed up the alley,
telling himself that he was going to talk plenty strong to Chuck
Haverty. Of course he wasn’t Chuck’s boss but that didn’t matter. The
idea of making a barroom out of a perfectly respectable jail! Chuck
would hear about it in plain language.
* * * * *
Chuck wasn’t in the Chongo Saloon. Nobody in there except a couple of
swampers and a bartender. At the doorway of the Silver Streak he met
Sleepy who had just come over from the hotel.
“Seen anythin’ of Chuck?” asked Weary.
“Not this mornin’, Weary.”
“Ain’t in the Silver Streak?”
“Wasn’t ten seconds ago. Yuh don’t mean to say you’ve lost yore jailer,
do yuh?”
“Kinda looks like it,” grunted Weary and proceeded to tell Sleepy about
Cling and Soapy and the busted fiddle.
Sleepy laughed at Weary’s description of the fiddler bewailing his loss.
“I was here when he missed it,” chuckled Sleepy. “Accused everybody
except Tuck Hayward of stealin’ it. I wondered who got it. Come to
think of it, I did see Cling and Soapy over there by the orchestra
but I never connected them with the disappearance of the fiddle. Did
Fat say what time him and Hashknife would be back?”
“Afternoon, I reckon. Fat was goin’ to check up on a shipment of hides
from the Box 88 and Hashknife went with him.”
“I know about that part of it. Yuh say Soapy and Cling slipped some
liquor to Joe LeClere?”
“Shore did! Fat will give Chuck hell for this, y’ betcha.”
“Mebby we better get that fiddle and bury it before the owner of it
finds out who got it.”
“Aw, to hell with it! I hope he makes Soapy and Cling pay a month’s
salary for bustin’ it. And that don’t mean the fiddler is any friend
of mine either. Chuck would have been respectable if them two geezers
had stayed away from him. They’d corrupt anybody.”
They walked back across the street and sat down in the office to have a
smoke.
“Do yuh suppose Yvonne LeClere is stuck on Soapy?” asked Sleepy.
Weary cocked one eye at Sleepy and grinned widely.
“Not me!” laughed Sleepy. “I’m female proof.”
“Me too!” sighed Weary. “I dunno about Soapy. He kinda had the inside
track, it looked like t’ me. But yuh never can tell about a woman. I had
a girl turn me down for a bat-eared shepherd once. Fact! Ever since then
I’ve kinda steered away from ’em. Gee, he shore was bat-eared!”
“Marry her?”
“Shore did.”
“Had money, eh?”
“Had ten dollars I loaned him, if yuh call that money. It was so much
he never paid me back. That was seven years ago and they’ve got two
sets of twins and a couple singles. I’ve seen ’em all and every kid
has got bat-ears.”
“Marriage is a serious thing,” smiled Sleepy.
“If yuh don’t think so jist take a look at them twins and singles. Six
of ’em to feed and clothe! I’ll betcha it’s serious. It shore would
crimp a salary like mine. But if I had ’em I’d pin back their ears
while they was young. If a feller with ears like that ever moved to a
windy country he’d have to carry a rudder.”
* * * * *
In the meantime Hashknife and Fat rode to the mines on Chongo Creek.
Hayward had notified the sheriff that he was going to ship hides in a
few days and they had to be inspected by the sheriff’s office.
They found Cornes and Asher at the butchering corrals. Cornes had met
Hashknife and now he introduced him to Asher, a skinny, long-nosed
cowboy. The two went on about their work while Hashknife assisted Fat
in checking over hides. It was not a long job and they found every
hide branded with the Box 88. The sheriff tagged each bundle with an
inspection card. Neither he nor Hashknife was interested in the mines;
so they started back as soon as their work was finished.
“Didja ever find anythin’ besides a Box 88 hide?” asked Hashknife
curiously.
“Twice,” replied Fat. “Once it was an AH and the other time it was
an IS. They got in by mistake and were killed. But both owners were
paid the market price and the hides were returned. Oh, Tuck Hayward
is square as a dollar in his cow business! I dunno much about his
gamblin’ games.”
Hashknife was gravely thoughtful. He had examined every one of those
hides and had noticed certain things that puzzled him greatly.
LeClere swore that he was losing stock--and Hashknife believed him.
But where were they going? And what was Joe LeClere going to do with
the Box 88 stock he had in that brush corral? Why was he heating a
running-iron? What in the world could he do with a running-iron on a
Box 88? To change that brand to any other brand on the range would be
impossible. If he boldly vented the brand and ran on another it would
be a plain case of suicide. As far as Hashknife could find out, the
IS had no vent-brand. That is, a brand to use in case an animal is
vented, showing that the IS came by the animal legally.
And apparently Tuck Hayward was a friend of Joe LeClere. Hashknife
had puzzled over it ever since he had been in the country and he was
no nearer to a solution now.
“How do yuh account for LeClere losin’ cattle?” he asked the sheriff, as
they rode back to town.
“I don’t account for it, Hashknife. The old man is loco.”
“His round-up tally has showed short twice now.”
“_His_ tally, Hashknife. I know what his last tally showed and I’ll
check up myself next round-up. I don’t believe he ever had any cows
stolen. Nobody else has lost any.”
“Mebby yo’re right. It looks that-away, Fat.”
“I know I’m right.”
* * * * *
And while they rode back to Chongo town Soapy Weed opened his eyes and
stared at the ceiling. His mouth was apparently full of ashes and there
was a dull throb in the back of his head. After due deliberation he
raised up and looked around.
Beneath his left elbow were the remains of that fiddle and he squinted
at them curiously. He looked at Cling’s feet dangling over the edge of
the cot. His head turned and he looked at the half-open door where the
sunlight glared through.
He spat dryly and rubbed his eyes.
“I must have fallen asleep,” he said huskily.
“Ditto.”
He turned and looked at Cling who was sitting up with a queer expression
in his face.
“Ditto, eh?” said Soapy.
“Yeah--ditto. We both fell asleep. Lemme see--”
“Where’d this damn fiddle come from, Cling?”
“Don’tcha remember, Soapy? We stole it at the Silver Streak.”
“That’s right. Oh, yeah, I remember now! What time is it?”
“Forgot to wind m’ watch last night, and it stopped.”
“Must be almost noon,” squinting at the sunlight.
“Funny thing they ain’t found us,” yawned Cling. “Wonder where Chuck is?
My God, did we upset that lamp, Soapy?”
“Lamps,” said Soapy seriously, “don’t usually fall down and break
themselves. My God, this fiddle is a wreck!”
“So’m I. Oh, what a head! What did we drink, do yuh s’pose?”
“We drank anythin’. I’m hungry.”
“I’m not. Waugh!” Cling got to his feet and went over to the doorway.
“No water close, I don’t reckon. My God, I’m ninety per cent dryer than
Death Valley in July!”
“C’mon,” sighed Soapy wearily. “No use stayin’ here.”
He kicked the fiddle under the cot and led the way out through the
narrow alley to the street. Weary was in the office door and looked
them over pityingly,
“Drunken bums!” he said solemnly. They stopped together and made wry
faces at him. Sleepy came and stood beside Weary, a grin on his face.
“Yo’re gonna get hell,” declared Weary. “Wait’ll Fat gets back.”
“Since when did it become a penitentiary offense to get drunk in
Chongo?” asked Soapy.
“I suppose yuh got Chuck drunk and left him in an alley,” said Weary.
“Yo’re crazy as hell! We never even seen him.”
“Addin’ lies to his other crimes,” said Weary sadly.
Soapy spat dryly and looked longingly across the street.
“I need water,” said Cling. “Need lotsa water. Let’s go down to the
livery-stable pump and drink her dry.”
“Where’s Chuck?” asked Weary.
“We never seen him,” said Soapy indignantly. “What’s all the fuss about
anyway?”
“I suppose you’ll deny that yuh slipped a bottle to Joe LeClere?”
Soapy shut one eye and looked at Cling.
“Remember anythin’ like that, Cling?”
“Not me. My thinker ain’t so clear, but I’ll be damned if I remember any
such a thing as that.”
“Yuh remember stealin’ the fiddle, don’tcha?”
“What fiddle?” asked Soapy innocently.
“There yuh go,” wailed Weary. “What fiddle? Why, the one yuh was
sleepin’ on.”
“Didja see me on any fiddle, Cling?”
“’F yuh ask me anythin’ about it I’d say that Weary is fit to herd
sheep. C’mon, Soapy; this conversation makes me awful dry.”
They wandered across the street and down to the livery-stable, where
they took turns at pumping water over one another’s heads.
“I know just how they feel,” grinned Sleepy, rolling a cigaret. “It
don’t pay.”
“It shore don’t,” agreed Weary. “Gosh, I wish Chuck would show up! He’s
supposed to pack some food to the prisoner.”
“Probably the prisoner don’t feel like food.”
“Prob’ly not. Oh, I dunno! I guess it’s Chuck’s business.”
“Chuck’s a good feller, Weary.”
“Shore! But--well, mebby I better kinda clean up things. I’ll see if Joe
is in any mood to eat. Want to go along?”
They closed up the office and walked around to the jail. Chuck was
not in evidence. Weary picked up the remains of the broken lamp and
threw them outside. Sleepy examined the fiddle and declared that it
was ruined forever.
“We’ll hide it,” said Weary. “But, by golly, I’ll see that Soapy and
Cling pay the fiddler for it!”
* * * * *
They walked back through the corridor and peered in Joe’s cell. Joe was
lying in the same position as when Weary last saw him. It was still a
little dark in the cell.
“Wake up and pay for yore lodgin’!” yelled Weary. “Hey! Joe! Time to get
up!”
But Joe didn’t move. Weary looked at Sleepy, who was peering closely.
“What’s the matter with the damn fool?”
“Have you got a key to this cell, Weary?”
“Chuck’s got ’em.”
“This don’t look right to me,” said Sleepy seriously.
“Yuh don’t think he’s hurt or sick, do yuh, Sleepy?”
“He acts like a dead man.”
“Well, that ain’t--hey? Joe! Wake up, can’tcha?”
“Let’s see if we can’t find Chuck.”
They went outside and looked around. Weary was visibly nervous.
“I dunno where to look. Damn it, what do yuh reckon has gone wrong?”
* * * * *
Sleepy led the way over to the sheriff’s stable, which was large enough
to take care of four horses. Two horses were still in the stalls. But
Chuck was not there. At the rear of the stable was a small pole corral
where the owners kept their hay. Sleepy shoved his way between the hay
and the rear of the stable and there they found Chuck Haverty tightly
bound and effectively gagged.
[Illustration: There was blood on the gagged head, but the man was
unconscious]
There was blood on his face and neck from a bruise on the side of his
head but he was conscious. Quickly they cut the gag loose and stripped
off the ropes. Chuck made no effort to get up; so they braced him
against the hay and waited for him to get his voice back again. The
corners of his mouth had been bruised by the gag until they bled and
it took him quite a while to articulate at all. He grimaced with agony
as the returning circulation sent streamers of pain through his arms
and legs. Five minutes passed before he was able to stagger back to
the jail where Weary unearthed a small bottle of liquor Chuck emptied.
“Can yuh talk now, Chuck?” asked Weary.
“Can try it,” mumbled Chuck painfully. “What happened?”
“You’ll have to tell us; we don’t know.”
Chuck shook his head painfully.
“I dunno. Somebody called to me, and I stuck my head out. I guess they
sapped me on the head. I woke up out there in the hay.”
“Was that last night, Chuck?”
“About nine. I was goin’ to bed.”
“Where are the keys to the cells?”
“Under the mattress on my bunk.”
Weary lifted the mattress and found the keys. Chuck sat down on the
bunk and held his head in his hands while Weary and Sleepy went back
and unlocked Joe’s cell.
“My God, he’s been shot!” exclaimed Weary. “Look at the blood, will yuh?
What the hell has been goin’ on, anyway?”
“He ain’t dead,” said Sleepy, after they had turned Joe over. “Must
have been shot quite a while ago, judgin’ from the dried gore on his
shirt. Better get the doctor quick as yuh can.”
“You stay here, will yuh, Sleepy?”
“Shore thing. Get goin’.”
Weary dashed out after the doctor and Sleepy went back to Chuck, who
listened vacantly to what Sleepy told him.
“I dunno,” wailed Chuck. “I’m sick as a fool. They busted me in the
cranium, didn’t they? And they shot Joe? That’s a hell of a thing to
do. Where’s Fat?”
“Him and Hashknife are out at the mines, checkin’ hides. You say yuh
heard somebody callin’ yore name, Chuck?”
“Yeah. I thought it was some of you boys. But I didn’t see ’em. I stuck
my head out, thasall.”
Sleepy walked out on the little step and saw Hashknife and the sheriff
riding up to the little stable. He called to them and they rode over.
In a few words Sleepy told them what had happened, and while they were
examining Joe Weary and the doctor came in.
[Illustration: In a few minutes half the town was in front of the jail]
They moved Joe to the front of the building for the doctor to make
his examination and a few minutes later it seemed as though half the
town of Chongo was in front of the building, trying to find out what
had happened. Sleepy went out and told them what the trouble was all
about. In the meantime the doctor had ordered Joe to be taken to his
office. They put him on the cot and carried him down there, with
Chuck trailing along to get his head fixed up.
* * * * *
Joe LeClere was badly hurt. A bullet had passed through his left side
a few inches above his heart and the doctor was a bit dubious. Over a
dozen hours had elapsed since the bullet had been fired.
Hashknife found the bullet on the cell floor. It was a forty-five, with
the nose only slightly battered. Doctor Plumley spent considerable time
over the wound and after Joe was in bed he patched Chuck Haverty, who
needed a couple of stitches in his scalp.
Soapy and Cling lost no time in coming to the sheriff with their story.
They admitted that they had gone to the jailer’s with the intention of
serenading Chuck with the fiddle and that they hadn’t found Chuck. They
had had no idea what time of night it was but they had been sure it was
only a short time after they had stolen the fiddle.
This would place the time of the shooting between nine and nine-thirty.
No one had heard the shot fired but that was easily accounted for, as
the corridor had probably been closed and the shot fired at close
quarters. Outside the sound would probably have been only a jarring
thud. And the shooting had been done while Chuck was still knocked out
and probably in the hay and just a short time before the serenaders
arrived.
Soapy and Cling chipped in and paid the fiddler what the fiddle had cost
him, after Weary had sworn to the price as told to him by the fiddler,
Andy Elders.
* * * * *
Fat was gloomy. It was rather a discredit to the sheriff’s office to
have somebody knock out his jailer and shoot down a prisoner in his
cell. It established a precedent which did not exactly suit Fat, who
went around uneasily, his hands shoved down in his pockets, chewing
an unlighted match.
He sent Weary out to notify Joe’s father and sister and Weary cursed
Fat all the way out to the ranch. The job wasn’t one to please Weary.
Hashknife and Sleepy sat on the Silver Streak hitch-rack and smoked
calmly while the rest of the town discussed the latest development in
the local crime wave.
“What do yuh know for sure?” asked Sleepy.
“Don’t know a darn thing,” said Hashknife. “But I do know it’s goin’ to
take more luck than brains to find out who shot Joe.”
“Somebody wanted him out of the way, don’tcha think?”
“Very evident,” dryly.
“How many in the gang?”
Hashknife smiled sourly.
“I’m no mind-reader, Sleepy. We looked over all them hides and they
belonged to Box 88. Of course the Box 88 wouldn’t make any fool
moves. They’d be suckers to show a wrong hide. Fat thinks they’re on
the square and I can’t find a thing to prove they’re not. If I only
knew what Joe LeClere was goin’ to do with them Box 88 cows he had
in that brush corral! Now Joe is pretty badly shot up and the doctor
don’t think he’s got a chance to pull through. He’s the one who
could put me on the right track. I’ll bet he knows who shot him. Or
he’d know who might shoot him. It’s all a muddle, I tell yuh.”
“And the man who pokes his nose into it is liable to get what Joe got,”
said Sleepy.
“He’s the third one,” said Hashknife. “Three times and out.”
“You think there’s any connection between this shootin’ and the other
two, Hashknife?”
“I dunno. There might be. All three men were shot with a gun.”
“You think yo’re pretty damn smart, don’tcha?”
“No, I don’t,” grinned Hashknife. “I know I’m not.”
* * * * *
Hashknife and Sleepy were down at the sheriff’s office when Frenchy
LeClere and Yvonne came in. Weary had told them the whole story with
embellishments.
Frenchy had little to say but there was misery in his eyes. He loved
Joe in spite of Joe’s wild ways. Hashknife shook hands with the old
man and with Yvonne. Fat went with them to the doctor’s office. Joe
was unconscious. The doctor seemed more hopeful than he had been at
first.
“It was a clean hole,” he told them. “Went through a thin shirt and I
don’t think any of it went inside. He’s got a fighting chance.”
“She’s look awful w’ite,” whispered Frenchy, shaking his head. “By gosh,
I’m like to fin’ de man who shot her! You fix her up, Doc, eh? I’m like
to take her home.”
“Can’t move him now, Mr. LeClere. Might be fatal.”
“I suppose not. You t’nk she’s get well?”
“I hope he will.”
“I’m hope so too, Doc. She’s good boy--jus’ wild. I’m hire good lawyer
for her. If she’s die now--always Frenchy LeClere’s boy be murderer.”
“He isn’t going to die, Dad,” whispered Yvonne hopefully.
He patted her on the shoulder but there were tears in his eyes as they
walked out. They met Tuck Hayward just at the doorway and the big man
was sympathetic.
“I just heard about it,” he told them. “Went out to the ranch last night
and just got in. How is he?”
“Mebby she’s live,” said Frenchy. “Pretty bad!”
“Gosh, that’s tough! Joe’s a good boy. I’ll go in and have a talk with
the doctor.”
* * * * *
Frenchy and Yvonne walked up the street together to where their team was
hitched. Frenchy went into a store to make some purchases and while he
was there Soapy Weed came down the sidewalk. Yvonne smiled wistfully at
Soapy and his heart missed a whole beat. He had expected her to turn him
down.
“Hello, Yvonne!” he said softly. “Gosh, I’m sorry about what happened!
Didja see Joe? How is he?”
“Not very good, Soapy. I didn’t know whether you’d speak to me or not,
after I didn’t come to the jail to see you--and all that.”
“Oh, that didn’t make no difference, Yvonne!”
“I should have come, Soapy. I realized you were protecting Joe all the
time--and me.”
“I didn’t do very much good. It was all right until Hashknife and Fat
found the gun. They had me cinched and I had to tell the truth. I was
shore glad to get out, but it was tough on Joe. And now look what’s
happened to him!”
Yvonne nodded wearily.
“If Joe dies they’ll never know who killed O’Neil.”
“Do yuh reckon he knows?” asked Soapy quickly.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, let’s hope he don’t die. I mean, we’ll shore pull for him to get
well. Joe’s all right. Can’t I come out and see yuh, Yvonne? Gosh, I’d
shore like to!”
“Why don’t you, Soapy?”
“Well, I am coming! Gosh!”
“But don’t bring a fiddle.”
Soapy’s ears turned scarlet. He tried to speak but his tongue refused.
Then--
“We--Weary told yuh? Oh, that ornery sheepherder!”
Yvonne laughed softly.
“He mentioned it,” she said.
“He would! Well, I reckon I didn’t play it well.”
“He said you didn’t.”
Frenchy LeClere was coming from the store and Soapy was glad of the
interruption. He wanted to tell Weary what he thought of him.
“Hello, Soapee!” said Frenchy. “How you come, eh?”
“Swell--elegant!” grinned Soapy.
“You play de feedle now, eh? Feedle music ver’ good. Sometime you come
out and play de feedle for de ol’ man, eh?”