IF POSSIBLE WIRE ME COMPLETE DESCRIPTION OF BITTER RIVER BELTON
WANTED BY YOUR COUNTY ABOUT TWO YEARS AGO STOP MUST BE COMPLETE
FOR IDENTIFICATION
GARNETTE SHERIFF
Hashknife paid for the wire and they went back up the street.
“What in hell has Bitter River Belton got to do with this proposition?”
queried Sleepy.
“Not a thing, I’ll bet! Just a hunch, Sleepy. When yo’re stuck as solid
as I am you’ll play hunches.”
“I don’t see where Belton could figure--”
“Neither do I, Sleepy. Go on and forget him. He’s just a name as far as
we’re concerned--but don’t mention it.”
“Oh, all right! I always travel in the dark in these things. I don’t
know why yuh don’t never tell me anythin’.”
“Life is just travelin’ in the dark, Sleepy. We all do. We don’t
know what it’s all about. And when we’re dead--take yore pick of
resurrection, reincarnation or the end of things. I knowed a feller
who believed in reincarnation. He was sure he’d come back in a
different form. And I’ll be a liar if I don’t believe he did. About
five years after his death I met a polecat. Well--aw, go ahead and
laugh! There’s lots of things we don’t know about.”
“I feel better about it now,” laughed Sleepy.
* * * * *
The next morning Joe LeClere was still alive and the doctor was still
hopeful. Yvonne rode in early to see how Joe was getting along and
Hashknife and Sleepy rode home with her. She tried to appear hopeful
but it was no use.
“Dad worries so much,” she said. “He’s afraid Joe will die and that he
will never get cleared of that murder charge. Dad doesn’t believe Joe
is guilty of course.”
“Do you?” asked Hashknife.
“I don’t believe he killed O’Neil but I believe he knows who did kill
him. The morning O’Neil was killed Joe didn’t come home until daylight.
He wasn’t home when I got back from that dance.”
“Does the sheriff know this, Yvonne?” She shook her head quickly.
“You are the only one I’ve told.”
“Then he wasn’t at home when Soapy Weed found the body, eh? That looks
bad. Where do yuh reckon he was?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Your father doesn’t know this?”
“No. He would be the last person I’d ever tell. Oh, I want him to keep
his faith in Joe!”
“Yeah, I suppose that’s best. But why did you tell me all this, Yvonne?”
“Because--well, I don’t just know, Hashknife. You played so square
with me that day--the first time I ever saw you. You saved Dad a big
heartache. If he had known that Joe was a rustler it would have killed
him, I think.”
“Thank yuh for the confidence, Yvonne. I’m doin’ everythin’ I can to
save Joe. It’s one awful jumble though.”
They rode in at the ranch and Hashknife unsaddled her horse while she
went in the house. Frenchy came down to them and was questioning
Hashknife about Joe when Yvonne came out on the porch and Sleepy went
up to her, leading his horse.
“I don’t know, Hart-lee,” sighed the old Frenchman. “Joe she’s not so
very strong and she’s bad hurt.”
“He’ll be all right, Mr. LeClere,” assured Hashknife. “You quit
worryin’.”
“I guess I worry all my life ’bout Joe,” wistfully.
“Aw, Joe’s all right.”
“It is nice from you to say good t’ing of Joe--when you know better.”
Hashknife looked sharply at him, wondering what he meant.
“You try to save de old man,” said Frenchy softly. “You tell me Joe
she’s h’accidently shoot herself.”
He lifted his eyes and looked at Hashknife.
“You know it is not true, Hart-lee. I’m fin’ dat gonn has not been shoot
and de mag’zine she’s full of shells.”
“Oh, yeah!” sighed Hashknife, trying to think of a reasonable alibi.
“Well, yuh see, we cleaned--”
“_Non, non!_” the old man shook his head quickly. “I’m go back to de
spring where Joe says she’s got shot. I’m h’examine spring ver’ close.
Nobody she’s got shot dere. Bimeby I ride up de cañon and somet’ing led
me to a brush corral. She’s full of Box 88 cows. I turn him loose. Now,
w’at you say?”
“Well, old-timer,” said Hashknife slowly, “I ain’t got a thing to say. I
done what I thought was for the best.”
“I know, Hart-lee. You are w’ite man. You never tell nobody ’bout my
Joe. I’m glad to know man like you.”
“Shucks!” said Hashknife. “It wasn’t none of my business. And anyway I
shot him. He shot first of course.”
“I know. I never h’ask Joe. I’m jus’ let it go. But I want you to know I
’preciate w’at you do for me.”
“Well, yo’re shore welcome, Mr. LeClere!”
They walked up to the porch and talked with Yvonne a few minutes before
they mounted and rode away. Hashknife told Sleepy what the old man had
found out and Sleepy whistled softly.
“He’s no fool, Hashknife. Yuh can tell by his eyes that he’s a smart
man. But ain’t it hell to see the hurt in his eyes? When they get
old--and get hurt--”
“That’s the worst of it, Sleepy. I can see my old dad in most every
white-haired man I find. He had his failings the same as every one.
But he was awful human. Mother was human, too. My God, she had to be
to raise a family like she did! They’re both gone now. I wasn’t there
when they went away.”
“That was my fix,” sighed Sleepy. “Where are we goin’?”
“Out in the hills, just ridin’ I suppose. I get tired of town and I want
to look at cows and horses.”
They rode far back into the hills, just drifting along. At times they
would draw up their horses to look at range stock, sometimes just to
look at the panorama of the hills slumbering in the afternoon sun. They
did little talking. Wild horses threw up their heads from afar and
looked at the two riders until a suspicious stallion led them away on a
wild chase farther back into the hills.
Range cattle eyed them suspiciously but allowed them to ride in close.
Hashknife was reading brands as they went along, the IS, AH and the Box
88, of which the Box 88 predominated.
* * * * *
They had ridden out on a flat mesa, where several head of stock were
crossing near them and Hashknife began taking down his rope.
“Let’s take that roan steer, Sleepy,” he said, pointing to an animal
which had just passed them.
Sleepy shook out his rope, swinging to the right, as Hashknife, swinging
a wide loop, rode to the left at a gallop. His first cast encircled the
animal’s head and Ghost sat back quickly, whirling the surprised animal
around. Sleepy, riding in close, deftly roped its hind legs and a moment
later the big steer was stretched out on its side, bawling softly, while
Hashknife dismounted and came along his rope. They had thrown the animal
on its left side, exposing the Box 88 on its right shoulder.
Hashknife leaned over the animal, examining the brand closely. It was a
Box 88 but seemed to have been made rather recently. There were no other
marks on the animal.
“What did yuh find?” asked Sleepy.
“Fresh brand on an old steer. Looks and feels all right.”
Neither of them saw two riders come over the edge of the mesa behind
them and neither was aware that another human was within miles until
they heard McLeod of the Box 88 say:
“What in hell is the big idea?”
Hashknife straightened up suddenly. Within fifty feet of them sat McLeod
and Asher, looking them over curiously. It was rather an embarrassing
position for Hashknife and Sleepy.
“Oh, hello!” said Hashknife easily.
“That’s a Box 88, ain’t it?” queried McLeod coldly.
“Yeah,” nodded Hashknife.
“Then what in hell are you two jaspers doin’ with him? I’d like to
know.”
Hashknife smiled softly.
“We thought we knowed this critter,” he said slowly. “He was too shy for
close inspection; so we used a rope.”
“Sounds damn fishy to me.”
“Don’tcha like fish, McLeod?”
“Never you mind what I like; and I don’t like yore explanation,
Hartley.”
Hashknife walked over to McLeod, who eyed him angrily.
“That’s the only explanation we’re usin’ today, McLeod.”
“The hell it is!”
“Just that--and no more.”
“Oh, yea-a-ah!”
McLeod looked Hashknife over closely. He intended telling this lanky
cowpuncher what he thought of people who get free with their rope, but
there was something in those level gray eyes which caused him to
hesitate. He looked at Sleepy, who was lolling sideways in his saddle
a half-smile on his face, resting his right hand on his hip just above
the butt of his gun.
“The sheriff might be interested in this,” said McLeod.
“He might,” nodded Hashknife. “He’s shore soakin’ up all the information
he can get.”
“We been wonderin’ about you,” said McLeod meaningly.
“Yeah?”
“Wonderin’ what yo’re both doin’ around here.”
“Found out anythin’ yet?”
“Well, yuh can draw yore own conclusions. You’ll probably hear more
about this later.”
“If there’s anythin’ I can help yuh out on--don’t hesitate to speak
about it.”
McLeod grunted, turned his horse around and he and Asher rode away,
disappearing over the edge of the mesa. Hashknife looked at Sleepy and
they both laughed foolishly.
“Hell of a situation!” snorted Hashknife as he removed the ropes and let
the steer go its way.
“A damn dangerous situation!” said Sleepy.
“Mebby more than you think, cowboy! I reckon we better go back to town
before we get into any more mischief.”
* * * * *
They rode off the mesa and headed back for Chongo town while McLeod
and Asher swung further to the east, forded the river about two miles
above the town, taking a short-cut to the Box 88. McLeod was properly
indignant. He told the wide world that he didn’t want strangers roping
Box 88 cattle in the hills.
“Why didn’t yuh bawl that tall puncher out good?” asked Asher
innocently.
“Didn’t I?”
“Well, yuh didn’t scare him none, Mac. He don’t look like a person yuh
could scare very easy.”
“I reckon he’s salty,” agreed McLeod. “But he can’t get away with that
kind of stuff, y’betcha.”
* * * * *
They found Tuck Hayward at the ranch with Mike Dalhart and McLeod lost
no time in telling Tuck what they had seen and what had been said.
“What’s it all about?” queried Tuck.
“I dunno. They had the steer tied down when we walked in on ’em.”
“Why didn’t yuh smoke ’em up, the dirty thieves?” asked Dalhart.
“Well, they hadn’t stole anythin’, Mike.”
“What the hell kinda evidence do _you_ have to have?”
“I’ll run my end of the business, Dalhart.”
“You keep out of this, Mike,” ordered Hayward.
“Oh, all right!”
Dalhart and Asher went down to the bunk-house, leaving Hayward and
McLeod to talk it over.
“Just what did they seem to be doin’, Mac?” asked Tuck.
“Stevens was on his horse and Hartley was lookin’ at the brand. I dunno
what it was all about but they shore felt cheap when we moved in on
’em.”
“Scared ’em, eh?”
“Like hell! You try to scare ’em, Tuck!”
“You say they felt cheap?”
“Well, you know what I mean. I reckon we better keep an eye on ’em.”
“It was a Box 88 they was lookin’ at?”
“Shore was!”
“I wish I knew what the idea was, Mac. Well, I reckon there wasn’t any
harm done; so we won’t say anythin’ about it. I may mention it to the
sheriff. As long as they didn’t have no fire nor runnin’-iron--”
“No, they didn’t, Tuck. But I don’t like their curiosity.”
“Well, just forget it. Did the sheriff check over that bunch of hides at
the mine?”
“I reckon he did. Asher said that Hartley was out with Fat and they
tagged all the hides.”
“Hartley was out there, eh?”
“That’s what Asher told me.”
“Mm-m-m-m! Well, I’ve got to go back to town, Mac.”
“How’s Joe LeClere?”
“Still alive. Doctor said he had a fightin’ chance.”
“Who the hell do yuh suppose shot him, Tuck?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” laughed Hayward. “Queer proposition!
Well, I’ll see yuh later, Mac.”
* * * * *
Hashknife told Fat Garnette about the steer-roping incident as soon as
he got back to town.
Fat didn’t seem to see any reason why Hashknife should throw a Box 88
steer until Hashknife explained that the brand looked too new.
“You ain’t tryin’ to put anythin’ on the Box 88, are yuh?” Fat wanted to
know.
“Just curious,” smiled Hashknife.
“Curiosity killed the cat, yuh know, don’t yuh?”
“I’ve heard since that it didn’t. How’s Joe?”
“Still alive.”
Fat cuffed his sombrero over one ear and spat violently.
“I can’t make head nor tail out of it. If there’s one more killin’
I’ll be fit for the bug-house. What we need is a detective. As much
as I hate the breed, I reckon we need one. I’ve been talkin’ to the
prosecutin’ attorney for an hour or more and I’ll be damned if I
don’t think they blame me for everythin’. The county commissioners
had a meetin’--and they blame me.”
“I don’t blame yuh, Fat. I’m as much at sea as you are.”
“You? What the hell is it to you? Yo’re not a sheriff. They even wanted
to know who you are. I couldn’t tell ’em. I tell yuh, I’m gettin’ so
thin that my pants won’t stay up. Gotta wear suspenders, I suppose.
Ain’t protectin’ society! I suppose they think I’m protectin’ murderers.
By golly, I’ll resign--that’s what I’ll do! To hell with the job!”
Hashknife laughed and slapped Fat on the shoulder.
“Stay with ’em, pardner; you’ll win out.”
“Yeah, I’ll worry myself into a grave.”
* * * * *
Chuck Haverty had recovered from his busted scalp and he wanted revenge.
“Show me the geezer that petted me on the head and I’ll give yuh a
first-class corpse,” he declared.
“Prob’ly stubbed yore toe and butted yore head against the door,” said
the unfeeling Weary. “Yo’re a hell of a jailer.”
“I suppose yuh think I shot Joe and then tied myself up.”
“Wouldn’t put anythin’ past yuh, Chuck.”
“Well, I didn’t. Weary, ain’t you got no idea who might have done it?
My God, some of us ort to figure out who done it! Fat is goin’ around
fightin’ his hat all the time. Mebby if we steal his hat he’ll start
thinkin’. Where is he?”
“I seen him and Hashknife together a while ago and they was headin’ for
the Chongo Saloon.”
Chuck started to walk toward the door when the tired-eyed depot agent
came in, bringing a telegram.
“A wire for the sheriff,” he said, handing it to Weary.
“Don’t suppose there’s an answer but I’ll wait and see.”
Weary tore it open and scanned the contents. It was from Evans, sheriff
of Piney River, and said:
BITTER RIVER BELTON DARK SKINNED FIVE FEET TEN WEIGHT ABOUT
ONE FIFTY SMALL BROWN EYES THREE MOLES TOGETHER ON UPPER LEFT
WRIST AND A DEEP SCAR ON LEFT ELBOW STOP CONVICTED OF SECOND
DEGREE MURDER HERE BUT ESCAPED STOP ADVISE IF YOU HAVE HIM
As Weary was puzzling over the telegram Tuck Hayward came in.
“I don’t reckon there’s any answer,” said Weary. “Fat ain’t here now. If
there’s an answer he’ll come up to send it.”
The depot agent nodded and went out as Weary turned to Tuck with a grin.
“Ever hear of Bitter River Belton, Tuck?”
“Bitter River Belton? Don’t reckon I ever did, Weary.”
“Neither did I. Listen to this.”
Weary read the telegram to Hayward and Chuck.
“I don’t sabe it,” declared Weary. “Sounds as though this here Piney
River sheriff thought we had him.”
“Does sound that way, Weary. Where’s Fat?”
“Around town somewhere. I seen him and Hashknife headin’ for the Chongo
a while ago.”
“Oh, all right! I’ll see him later.”
Hayward turned and walked from the office while Weary read the telegram
over again.
“Sounds loco to me,” said Chuck.
“Shore it does! The Lord’s Prayer would sound loco to you.”
“Well, do you make sense out of it?”
“You mean this telegram?”
“No, the prayer.”
“Wait’ll I hear it, can’tcha? I’m goin’ to find Fat.”
He found Fat and Hashknife at the Chongo Saloon and gave Fat the
telegram. Hashknife got one look at it and smiled.
“Answer to one I sent, Sheriff.”
“One you sent?”
“I signed yore name to it. Got action quicker. Lemme read it.”
Hashknife read it carefully, tore it into small bits and threw them in a
cuspidor.
“What’s the idea?” asked Fat wonderingly. “I get a telegram and you tear
it all to hell.”
“Don’t worry!” smiled Hashknife. He turned to Weary.
“Forget it, will yuh, Weary?”
“Oh, sure!”
“Yo’re the only one that seen it, Weary?”
“Just me and Chuck and the depot agent and Tuck Hayward.”
“My hell!” exploded Hashknife softly. “Why didn’t yuh paste it on the
front door? Oh, that’s all right, Weary! It was my fault; I should have
told yuh all about it.”
“Well, what does it mean?” demanded Fat. He had only an indistinct
memory of what it contained.
“Shootin’ at shadows,” smiled Hashknife. “Playin’ a hunch. Don’t ask me
any more, boys. Fat, I’ll play yuh that game of pool now.”
“Make it three-handed and spot me half the string,” said Weary.
“You go back in the office and keep Chuck from gettin’ killed,” ordered
Fat. “And if there’s another murder before this game’s over write out my
resignation and I’ll sign it.”
“I’ll have three of ’em written out,” grunted Weary.
* * * * *
“Well, I’m a fool-hen if this ain’t got me doin’ a whirligig!”
Fat Garnette cuffed his sombrero so lustily that it flew across the
room. On the table in front of him was a large envelope which he had
just opened and the objects of his exclamation were scattered around
the desk-top. These objects happened to be at least a dozen printed
reward notices, all alike.
Hashknife was tilted back in a chair near the door, looking over a copy
of the state brand register. He shut the book and looked at Fat.
“Another murder?” he asked.
“Murder be damned! Look at this--will you?”
He handed Hashknife a notice which stated that five thousand dollars’
reward would be paid for the arrest and conviction of the man or men who
murdered Jack Shields, alias Kid O’Neil. It was signed by the secretary
of the Cattlemen’s Association.
“What’s wrong about it?” asked Hashknife mildly.
“Oh, nothin’ of course. Who in hell was Kid O’Neil to be worth five
thousand? And this county is offerin’ two thousand for the scalp of
the geezer who shot Joe LeClere. And Joe’s got to stand trial for
killin’ O’Neil. Didja ever see such a mulligan? It’s damn’ evident
that the Cattle Association don’t believe Joe killed the Kid.”
“Not necessarily. Yuh see, it says for conviction.”
“But who in hell was O’Neil? Was he a cattle detective?”
“Looks thataway,” said Hashknife, scanning the notice.
“Gosh, he was a wild one!”
“If he was Jack Shields he was playin’ wild. I’ve heard about him, Fat.
The poor devil played wild to get in on the inside of things.”
“You knew him, Hashknife?”
“Not personally; but I’ve heard about him.”
“Uh-huh.” Fat recovered his sombrero and sat down. “I’ve been doin’ a
lot of thinkin’ about that telegram yuh got day before yesterday. What
was it all about, Hashknife?”
“I can’t tell yuh yet. Maybe it don’t mean anythin’. It was just a
shadow I shot at, thinkin’ there might be a man around here who made
the shadow. Just a hunch, Fat.”
“Yo’re a shadow shooter, eh?”
“Somethin’ like that.”
“Uh-huh!” thoughtfully. “Well, it’s worth two thousand to find the man
who shot Joe. And it’s worth five thousand more to find the man who shot
O’Neil.”
“Was there any reward for the killer of McFee?”
“Nope. Wasn’t anybody much interested in him, I reckon.”
“Did you say they were goin’ to move Joe out to the ranch?”
“That’s what they say. It’s so hard to get a nurse and the doctor thinks
he can stand the trip. He was conscious this mornin’ for a while but he
don’t seem able to talk. Some of the boys are helpin’ Frenchy fix up
sort of a stretcher to take him home on. I reckon he’s goin’ to get
well, after all, and I’ve told the doctor to not let anybody question
him. If Joe knows who shot him I want to know it first.”
“That’s right--if he’ll tell.”
“Why wouldn’t he tell?”
“I dunno.”
“Sometimes you make me tired, Hashknife.”
“Sometimes I make myself tired,” smiled Hashknife.
“I’ll betcha. Well, I suppose it’s up to me to post up these notices.”
Fat dug in a desk drawer, bringing forth a broken-handled hammer and a
box of carpet tacks.
“Betcha this O’Neil notice will shock the folks, Hashknife.”
“Prob’ly will. Might get a little action, though.”
“Action hell! Make a lot of ’em laugh at me for puttin’ Joe LeClere in
jail. Still he might be guilty, yuh know.”
“Might be. How did it ever happen that Tuck Hayward didn’t get in on the
silver mines, Fat? He’s quite progressive.”
“Wasn’t lucky, I guess. He did have a claim back on Dog Soldier Creek.
That’s a tributary to Chongo but a long ways from the big mines. He done
quite a lot of work in there but it never panned out. Mebby he still
owns it.”
“Silver proposition?”
“Shore. He had a crew of men in there for a while. They built cabins and
all that kinda stuff. Dog Soldier is almost a box cañon back there. The
creek don’t amount to much except in high-water.”
“Rough country, eh?”
“Y’betcha. Well, I’ve got to tack up these notices.”
* * * * *
That afternoon they took Joe home. The doctor assured the prosecuting
attorney that Joe would not be in shape even to think of escaping from
the law for at least a month; so the law was satisfied. Joe needed
more nursing than the doctor could give him and there were no nurses
in Chongo town.
There was much speculation over the reward notices. The sheriff made it
a point to tack both notices together in the saloons where they were
much discussed; Hashknife made it a point to listen in on some of these
conversations but was not enlightened to any extent.
[Illustration: Hashknife made it a point to listen in on the
speculations over the reward notices]
Later in the evening he met Tuck Hayward in the Silver Streak and found
the big man in a genial mood. He invited Hashknife to have a drink with
him and they discussed the reward notices.
“I don’t quite sabe that Association notice,” he told Hashknife. “It
looks as though O’Neil had been a detective, and if he was he was a
wild one. Fat tells me that you knew him.”
“Only by reputation, Hayward. Jack Shields was a good man. He had
handled a lot of tough cases for the Association.”
“What do yuh suppose he was lookin’ for out here?”
“I dunno.”
“Kinda funny. Fat told me quite a while ago that you and Stevens
were lookin’ for jobs. I was shy one man after O’Neil was killed but
I figured to get along without him. Yesterday Dalhart and Asher quit
me. They been wantin’ to head for Arizona for quite a while. Now I’m
needin’ a couple of good men and if yuh want to go to work just say
so. I need one at the ranch and one at the mine. Asher worked out
there.”
“I dunno,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “We’ve got a notion to head for
Arizona ourselves. The winters are kinda bad around here, they tell me.”
[Illustration: “We’ve got a notion to head for Arizona ourselves,” said
Hashknife. “The winters are bad here”]
“Yeah, they are bad. If yuh don’t care for blizzards yuh wouldn’t like
the winters here. It’s pretty high, yuh know.”
“I been figurin’ on that,” said Hashknife. “But yuh never can tell about
us. If we decide to stay we’ll take yuh up. What part did Dalhart and
Asher head for?”
“Down around Springerville, I think. They wasn’t sure.”
* * * * *
When Hashknife left the Silver Streak he met the sheriff near the
saloon.
“Want to go down and see Joe?” he asked. “Weary was just down there and
he said that Joe was conscious. They’re not goin’ to take him home until
tomorrow and I thought he might talk a little.”
Hashknife went down with him and the doctor cautioned the sheriff
against too much conversation. Joe looked very thin and weak, in spite
of a heavy growth of black whiskers.
“Glad to see yuh doin’ so well, Joe,” said the sheriff.
“I’ll be fit to hang!” whispered Joe.
“Forget that, Joe.”
“Hard thing to forget, Fat.”
“I know. Did you see the man who shot yuh?”
“No,” whispered Joe weakly. “It was too dark. I thought it was Chuck
when I came up to the bars.”
“Why would any one want to kill yuh, Joe?”
Joe shook his head on the pillow. Only once did his eyes shift to
Hashknife and then merely for a second.
Perhaps he knew Hashknife didn’t believe him.
“Yuh might like to know that the Cattle Association is offerin’ five
thousand for the man who killed O’Neil.”
Joe’s eyes opened slightly.
“His name was Shields,” said the sheriff. “He was a cattle detective.”
“O’Neil was a cattle detective? I don’t believe it, Fat.”
“Well, he was, Joe.”
“I’ll be damned!”
Hashknife smiled softly, realizing that Joe did not know before that
O’Neil was a detective. He had been afraid that Joe knew O’Neil was a
detective but Joe’s astonishment was painfully real.
* * * * *
“They’re offerin’ two thousand reward for the man who shot you,” said
Hashknife.
Joe frowned heavily as though not understanding.
“Yuh know,” grinned Fat, “it’s quite a crime to break into a jail and
shoot prisoners.”
“Two thousand reward for the man who shot me!” said Joe slowly. “Can yuh
imagine that?”
“You might collect it, Joe,” suggested Hashknife.
“No chance, Hartley. I don’t know who shot me.”
“I think that is enough for today, gentlemen,” suggested the doctor. “We
can’t take any chances, you know.”
“Sure!” said the sheriff quickly. “Much obliged, Doc.” They left the
place and sauntered up-town.
“Well, that didn’t help much,” sighed the sheriff. “Joe don’t know any
more than we do.”
“Not much, I guess. Hayward offered me and Sleepy jobs today. Dalhart
and Asher have quit the Box 88 and headed for Arizona.”
“Thasso? Are yuh goin’ to accept the jobs?”
“Don’t know. We may go to Arizona later on; can’t tell yet.”
“Hayward is a good man to work for.”
“Prob’ly a better man to work for than against.”
“I don’t know what yuh mean, Hashknife.”
“I don’t believe I do either,” smiled Hashknife.
“Well, you say the funniest things!”
“Yeah, I guess I do--but I’m the only one that ever gets much of a laugh
out of ’em. They sound silly to other folks.”
“Like shootin’ at shadows, eh?”
“That ain’t funny; that’s pretty--serious.”
“Well,” sighed Fat, “I can’t figure yuh out.”
“Nobody can but me, Fat; I own the answer-book.”
* * * * *
Hashknife drifted back to the Silver Streak and sat in on a game of draw
where Hayward was playing. Hayward must have known that Hashknife went
down to see Joe because he asked Hashknife how Joe was feeling.
“He’s doin’ fine,” replied Hashknife easily. “We asked him whether
he knew who shot him; but he didn’t. At least he says he don’t know.
Personally I think he’s a liar. He’s afraid to tell.”
Hayward looked sharply at Hashknife but made no comment.
“Mebby he wants to get well and do his own killin’,” suggested Johnny
Colburn of the AH.
“That may be his idea,” smiled Hashknife. “Anyway, I’d bet better than
even money that Joe knows who shot him.”
“What gave yuh that hunch?” asked Hayward, examining his cards closely.
“I dunno. Give me three cards.”
“Two!” said Hayward. “Funny how yuh get a hunch of that kind. Pass the
bet.”
“Not so funny. Pass here.”
Hashknife played out his chips and drew out of the game.
“If yuh decide about them jobs let me know, will yuh?” asked Hayward.
“Shore--thanks!”
“Say!” said Johnny Colburn. “Do yuh think Joe would rather get hung than
tell what he knows?”
“Not little Joe,” laughed Hashknife. “He’ll talk when the time comes.
Self-preservation is the first law of nature, yuh know. It’ll be worth
while listenin’ to what he’ll tell.”
“Be worth about seven thousand to the man who gets into action first,”
grinned Johnny. “He’ll tell who killed O’Neil and who shot him. Seven
thousand dollars’ worth of talk.”
“Suppose he killed O’Neil himself?” said Hayward.
“Well, he didn’t shoot himself--that’s a cinch, Tuck.”
“And they can’t convict him of killin’ O’Neil,” said Hashknife. “As
far as I can see there wasn’t enough evidence against him to hold him
for trial. He whipped O’Neil, didn’t he? On the spur of the moment he
busted O’Neil’s nose. He left town before O’Neil was patched up. He
didn’t even know O’Neil was going to follow him. It was dark that
night. I know there was a moon, but that wasn’t sufficient for Joe to
have seen O’Neil comin’ and known who he was. You’ll say that O’Neil
and Joe might have met and Joe shot O’Neil when his head was turned.
Nothin’ of the kind. If O’Neil was mad enough to kill Joe--and he
_was_ mad enough if he followed him--he wouldn’t talk it over and
turn his head. If Joe had cause to fear a cattle detective he might
have killed O’Neil--but Joe didn’t know O’Neil was a detective. Now
where’s yore case?”
“You should have been a lawyer--or a detective,” laughed Hayward. “Stick
around and we’ll elect yuh sheriff next term. How would that job suit
yuh?”
“I might do that, Hayward,” seriously.
“I’ve always wanted to wear a shinin’ star and have an office.”
“Fat ain’t doin’ much for the county,” laughed Johnny. “All he does is
walk in circles like a pup gettin’ ready to lay down; walk in circles
and fight his hat. Chuck sets on the end of his spine and tells what
he’ll do to the man who sapped him that night--and Weary cusses both
of ’em.”
“What else can they do?” queried Hayward. “There’s nothin’ to work on.
Yore deal, Johnny.”
“There’s always somethin’ to work on,” said Hashknife.
“Show me somethin’,” challenged Hayward.
“You’d like to collect that seven thousand, eh?” laughed Hashknife. “No
chance, Hayward!”
“Well, I’ll bet _you_ won’t collect it either, Hashknife.”
“Not all of it,” smiled Hashknife as he walked away.
“Now what the hell did he mean by that?” queried Colburn.
“Just a smart remark!” growled Hayward. “Yore deal, Andy.”
* * * * *
The next day being Saturday Slim Benito, cook at the AH ranch, came to
Chongo town. Slim didn’t come to town often because he was saving his
money. Slim was short, fat and good-natured. He detested liquor in
every form but like many other men he drank to be sociable. And Slim
was sociable. After the second drink he became expansively sociable.
He threw away his purse and put the money loose in his pocket where it
would be handy.
Slim didn’t come in early in the day, as he waited for Soapy and Cling
who were going to help Frenchy take Joe out to the ranch. Frenchy had
made a canvas sling for the wagon bed and had piled it deep with straw
and blankets.
The doctor had advised taking Joe back after sundown to escape the heat,
and it was still an hour of sundown when the three AH boys came to town.
Soapy and Cling were not averse to taking a few drinks, so they also
grew sociable along with Slim.
“I’m a whipper-will,” declared Slim, “and this is my night t’ sing. I
feel loose and free like a wagon-wheel which has done slipped off the
axle on a down grade.”
“Yo’re a grand man,” agreed Soapy. “If yuh live long enough and have
good luck yuh might be a grandfather. But if you keep this up, Slim,
you’ll be drunk.”
“I can hold as much liquor as any livin’ man,” declared Slim. “But I
only drink to be sociable. I hate the stuff. I hate the stuff, I
tell yuh! Wine is a mocker; so drink whisky. If it wasn’t for bein’
sociable--sociable, yuh know--”
“Do you have to be sociable?” asked Cling.
“I’m accust’md--accust-um-dud--”
“Oh, yo’re accustomed to bein’, eh?”
“Oh, certn’ly!”
“Well, you better coil up yore rope,” advised Soapy. “In three more
drinks you’ll fold up like a blanket, Slim. Far be it from me to advise
a friend--but go easy. We don’t want to have to carry yuh home.”
“Is thasoo? Well, well! You’ll carry Misser Benito home? You? Shay,
lemme tell yuh, par’ner--”
“Listen, Slim!” begged Cling. “Me and Soapy have got to be goin’. Now
have a pleasant evenin’ but keep sober.”
They walked away, leavin’ Slim to goggle after them from beside the bar.
Finally he turned to the bartender.
“I bub-bought sheven or eight drinks,” he said thickly. “They never
bought none, di’ they? And now they run out on me. Aw ri’! I’m a lone
wolf fr’m now on. I hate liquor but I mus’ be shociable. Lets me and
you have li’l drink.”
“All right!” grinned the bartender. “But I’d advise yuh to quit long
enough to get yore eyes in focus. You can’t see anythin’, Slim.”
“You know how ol’ I am, barten’er? Don’tcha? I’m fifty. And any damn
man who ain’t sheen a plenty by the time he’s fifty ain’t got no use
f’r eyes anyway. Here’s my shincere regards. May you choke to death
on a diamond!”
“Why on a diamond, Slim?”
“Oh, tha’s jus’ my idea of a firs’-class, high-tone death. Fill’m up and
you think of one.”
* * * * *
Soapy and Cling kept away from the Silver Streak. They had imbibed a
sufficient amount to cause the world to have a rosy tinge, as it
were. They lost a few dollars at the Chongo Saloon and then went to
a restaurant where they met Chuck and Weary.
“Didn’t recognize yuh without a fiddle,” said Chuck seriously. “What are
yuh doin’--all in-cog-neeto, as it was?”
“Go to hell, you iron-headed bastile-tender,” replied Soapy. “Hello,
Weary! How’s crime?”
“Seems to be doin’ well,” grinned Weary. “How come that you drunkards
ain’t in the gutter before this?”
“We’re not gutterin’,” grinned Cling. “Fact of the matter is this:
Me and Soapy came in to help Frenchy take Joe out to the ranch this
evenin’.”
“You’ve got a swell chance,” grunted Weary, removing his elbows to give
the waiter a chance at the table.
“What’s the matter?” asked Soapy.
“Joe had a re-lapse. Yep--this afternoon. Fever and chills. Guess he
got well too fast. Anyway, the doctor won’t let nobody see him and
it’s a cinch they can’t move him this evenin’, so yuh might as well
go gutterin’.”
“That’s kinda hard luck. Anyway, we’ll see Frenchy when he comes in, so
he’ll know we kept our word.”
“Prob’ly floor him,” said Chuck. “He won’t look for yuh.”
“Oh, he’ll look for Soapy,” laughed Cling. “Soapy has to stand in with
the old man.”
They argued and laughed through their supper and it was dark when they
finished. Then Soapy and Cling went down to the doctor’s place to see
whether Frenchy had arrived yet. He was not there and the doctor told
them that it would be impossible to move Joe. He refused to let them
see Joe; so they went back.
In the meantime Slim Benito had ceased to be a whippoorwill. After a
crying spell, induced by the knowledge that he was a “lone wolf”
without a friend in the world, he became a trifle savage, which is a
wolf trait.
Slim carried a heavy Colt gun inside the waist-band of his trousers
and the bartender eyed this weapon with great disfavor. He had been
a bartender for so many years that he was well able to read drunken
character and he tabulated Slim as being dangerous. And when Slim
decided to drink alone it looked worse than ever.
“I’m wild,” he told the bartender seriously. “Come from a wild family.
Never was a male Benito that wasn’t fit to be tied. We’re snappin’
turtles.”
“Sure,” agreed the bartender. “Tough family.”
“Meaner ’n dirt.”
“A lot meaner.”
“Meaner ’n hell.”
“Oh, yuh bet!”
“Screamin’ mean,” Slim’s eyes flashed.
“Fightin’ fools,” agreed the grinning bartender.
“Gun-fighters, y’betcha!”
Slim’s lips curled back at the mere suggestion and his right hand yanked
the gun from his waist-band.
Crash! The first shot struck squarely in the center of the back-bar
mirror and the splintering of the big glass was almost as loud as the
report of the gun. The bartender just let loose and went flat to the
floor.
Wham! The next shot swept through a pyramid of glassware, sending it
skyward in a sparkling shower.
“Yee-hoo-o-o-o-o!” screamed Slim.
Bam! Another bullet smashed through a side case and into a stock of
fancy liquor, including several bottles of champagne which exploded
merrily.
Then Slim whirled around, the gun at his hip. The saloon was in an
uproar. Players ducked for any old kind of a shelter while Slim stood
there in a fog of powder-smoke yelling at the top of his voice.
Bam! A bullet ripped through the cloth of a roulette table.
Crash! Another went accidentally and almost shot Slim in the foot.
“Yee-ho-o-o-ow-ee-e-e-e!” screamed Slim and went weaving out through the
open doorway swinging the smoking Colt in his right hand. He bumped into
a porch-post, staggered sideways and would have fallen if Soapy and
Cling hadn’t grabbed him.
Soapy got the gun and they dragged Slim into an alley while men came
running out of the saloon swearing, asking questions. Slim was
speechless, helpless. He had gone through three stages of inebriation,
the sociable, the maudlin and the fighting, and now he was unconscious.
“Stick here with him,” whispered Soapy. “I’ll find out who he killed.”
Soapy went around to the saloon where a crowd, including the sheriff,
were examining the extent of Slim’s damage. The back-bar was a wreck,
as was the big mirror.
“This kind of stuff has got to quit,” declared Hayward. “By God, that
mirror cost me a lot of money! And look at it! Look at them glasses!
And he was shootin’ around at everybody. You put him in jail, Fat.”
“I s’pose I’ll have to, Tuck. This place shore is a wreck. Where’d he
go?”
Nobody seemed to know. One man _thought_ he saw Slim go out through the
front door but he wasn’t sure because he was down behind the pool-table.
“I’ll find the damn fool,” declared Tuck.
Soapy ducked back to Cling and Slim. Slim was propped against the wall
snoring heavily.
“We’ve got to keep him away from the sheriff,” declared Soapy. “All he
done was to smash the mirror and wreck the back-bar, and they want to
put him in jail.”
“Yeah! And they’ll find us here--that’s a cinch! What’ll we do with him,
Soapy? He can’t ride.”
“C’mon!”
They picked up the limp Slim and carried him through the alley, circled
the rear of the Silver Streak and came in past the hitch-rack where some
of the men were looking to see whether Slim had taken his horse.
“Horse is still here,” declared a voice and the men went back toward the
front of the saloon.
“My God, this geezer weighs a ton!” panted Cling. “His feet ain’t
draggin’, are they?”
“Mine are,” grunted Soapy. “What’ll we do with him?”
“Drop him somewhere in the dark.”
But they kept on going, praying that they would not meet any one. Down a
side street they went where the lighted window showed the doctor’s
office. Just ahead of them was the black bulk of Frenchy LeClere’s wagon
and team.
“I’ve got a idea,” panted Soapy. “Here’s a hide-out.”
Cautiously they went over to the wagon and with a supreme effort they
dumped Slim over the side of the wagonbox and into the stretcher which
had been made for Joe LeClere. They pulled the blankets from under him
and covered him up completely.
Frenchy and the doctor came outside, talking softly, and the two cowboys
lost no time in making a sneak around the other side of the town, coming
back to the street near the sheriff’s office.
In front of a general merchandise store they met the sheriff.
“Where yuh been?” he asked.
“Do yuh mean all our lives?” asked Soapy innocently.
“I mean just now.”
“Oh, we was down to yore office, Fat. Somebody said yuh had captured
Slim Benito.”
“You knew I was lookin’ for him, eh?”
“We heard yuh was. Didja find him?”
“I didn’t. Where was you when he shot up the saloon?”
“We was down at the Chongo. Yuh see we didn’t want to associate with
Slim, so we went down there. Honest, he ought to be hung.”
“Yeah,” growled Fat. “I s’pose so.”
Fat wasn’t at all convinced that Soapy and Cling hadn’t had a hand
in helping Slim to safety. Cowboys are notoriously faithful to their
own outfit, even when in the wrong, and especially where the law is
concerned.
And down in his heart Fat didn’t blame them. He had been a cowboy before
he was a sheriff and he knew. It wasn’t because of any outrage against
the law that he wanted Slim but because he was afraid Slim might break
forth again and do some bodily injury to some one.
“I thought Slim was too drunk to shoot,” he said. “I seen him fifteen
minutes before he broke loose and he was hangin’ onto the bar with both
hands.”
“Did he take his horse?” asked Soapy, who already knew that they had
found the horse at the hitch-rack.
“No, he didn’t take it. He’s still in town.”
“Well, if we see him we’ll tell him that yuh want him.”
“I know yuh will, Soapy. He’ll have to work all the rest of his life to
pay for the damage he done over there.”
The sheriff walked on and the two cowboys sat down on the sidewalk and
chuckled joyfully. They heard Frenchy’s wagon rumbling along over on the
side street and saw the dark bulk of it as Frenchy swung his team to the
right and headed for the IS ranch.
“My God, wait’ll Slim wakes up!” laughed Soapy. “He’ll have to walk
home.”
“And if Frenchy discovers him I’ll bet Frenchy will just about pile off
that wagon and start runnin’,” choked Cling.
“I’ll betcha! Gosh, that was a good scheme, Cling! We shore got old Slim
out of the clutches of the law that time. I hope he gives us credit when
he finds out what happened.”
“Oh, he shore will! He don’t know it now but we’re the two best friends
he’s got. Let’s go over to the Silver Streak and inspect the damage.”
* * * * *
Hashknife and Sleepy had been playing pool at the Chongo when Slim
started shooting and there was so much noise in the place that they
didn’t hear the shots at the Silver Streak, which was a block away.
But as soon as they heard about the shooting they quit playing and
went up to view the damages, which seemed very complete as far as the
mirror was concerned. Things had quieted down, although the sheriff’s
office was still on the trail of Slim Benito.
Hashknife and Sleepy left the Silver Streak and went to their room at
about ten o’clock and at about two o’clock in the morning Fat Garnette
hammered on their door.
“Somethin’ has gone wrong,” he told Hashknife. “Put on yore clothes,
both of you, and come down, will yuh?”
“Now, what the hell has busted?” wondered Sleepy as he put on his boots.
“This town shore does do things!”
“Looks thataway.”
On the sidewalk in front of the hotel they found the Sheriff, Weary and
Yvonne LeClere.
“Sorry to get yuh out of bed,” said Fat apologetically, “but Yvonne just
came in and she says her father started for here early this evenin’ and
he ain’t never got home. We found out that he showed up at the doctor’s
place to get Joe. But Joe ain’t so well, so he didn’t get him. The
doctor says he left there all right--but where is he?”
“That’s queer,” mused Hashknife.
“It is queer,” agreed Yvonne nervously. “I couldn’t stand it any longer,
so I saddled a horse and came down here.”
“Where could he go?” asked Sleepy.
* * * * *
There was plenty of activity at the Silver Streak and as they were
talking Soapy and Cling came from the doorway. They stopped on the edge
of the sidewalk for a moment but came on across the street, evidently
curious about the little group in front of the hotel.
“Well, what kind of a meetin’ is this?” asked Soapy as soon as he
recognized those of the group.
“Did you see anythin’ of Yvonne’s father tonight?” asked the sheriff.
“N-no, I--I--”
“We seen him pullin’ out,” said Cling. “At least we saw a team and
wagon. What’s wrong?”
“Well, he never got home; that’s what’s wrong.”
“Never got home?” Soapy’s voice was hoarse. “What do yuh mean that he
never got home?”
“My God, yo’re thick!” snorted Weary.
“Oh, yeah!” said Soapy as though it was all explained. He stepped in
close to Cling and said hoarsely, “He never got home.”
“I heard he didn’t,” foolishly.
They were both thinking of Slim Benito in the bed of that wagon.
“What do yuh think we ought to do, Fat?” asked Hashknife.
“Go and hunt for him, I suppose. He can’t be on the IS road or Yvonne
would have seen him. And I dunno where else he could possibly be. Dang
it, yuh can’t lose a team and a wagon!”
“Yuh might lose one,” said Hashknife, “but you’d have a hard time
misplacin’ one. We’ll get our horses, Fat.”
Soapy and Cling went across to get their horses at the hitch-rack and
Yvonne walked down to the office with Fat and Weary to wait for them
to saddle.
“What do yuh make of it, Soapy?” asked Cling seriously.
“My God, I don’t know! Slim was too drunk to do anythin’, wasn’t he? Yuh
don’t suppose he took the team away from the old man and went to the AH,
do yuh?”
Soapy put his foot in the stirrup before he answered.
“Don’t ask me to guess. I hope they’re all right.”
“Yuh couldn’t kill Slim--he was too drunk.”
* * * * *
They rode down to the office and in a few minutes Hashknife and Sleepy
joined them. As soon as Fat and Weary had their animals saddled the
seven of them rode out of town toward the IS ranch. It was too dark for
any investigation, but as the LeClere wagon had been the last one over
the road it was easy, with the aid of lighted matches, to see that it
had not turned off on the road to the mines or to the AH.
Their investigations showed that the wagon had been headed for the IS,
and as that ranch was the end of that particular road that fact was
conclusive evidence that somewhere between the AH fork and the IS ranch
they should find the team and wagon.
North of the Silver River crossing the road climbed up along the side
of a hill where the ground sloped for perhaps a quarter of a mile off
to the left ending in a narrow ravine. At no place on the road was
what might be termed a dangerous spot. From the top of this hill the
road ran fairly level to the ranch.
They traveled slowly to the ranch-house, the dusty road giving them
no clues as to whether the wagon was still ahead of them or not. But
it was not at the ranch-house. They rode all around the premises and
came back to the house where they dismounted and went inside.
“Wait until daylight,” advised Hashknife. “In a couple of hours it will
be light enough to see what we’re doin’.”
“I think that is the thing to do,” agreed Yvonne. She was greatly
worried but went to work in the kitchen making some coffee for the men.
“I’d rather be doing something,” she said when Hashknife begged her not
to go to all that trouble. “And a cup of hot coffee will taste good.”
“Didja find out from the doctor how Joe was?” he asked.
“He was sleeping but still had fever. Oh, I don’t know!” she said
helplessly. “It seems as though everything happens to us. Even if Joe
does get well--”
“You forget that,” advised Hashknife. “He’ll get well and they’ll turn
him loose.”
“I wish I thought so, Hashknife.”
* * * * *
By the time they had finished breakfast the dawn was showing in the
east. Yvonne insisted on riding with them.
“I’m glad she’s goin’,” Weary whispered to Hashknife. “If there’s
anythin’ wrong I’d be the one to have to pack the bad news to her.
This way she’ll see it with us.”
“You shore think pleasant things, Weary.”
“I’m protectin’ my own feelin’s,” grinned Weary.
They mounted their horses and rode back toward town, watching both sides
of the road to see if the wagon had left the ruts.
“What kind of a team was yore father drivin’?” asked Sleepy.
“Roan team,” said Yvonne.
“Gentle?”
“Not gentle, Sleepy, but well broke. Joe broke them and he likes speed.”
“Might run away?”
“Oh, if they had a good chance, I suppose! They never have run away
though.”
* * * * *
It was at the top of the slope above the river that they found the wagon
tracks. The iron-shod wheels had cut deeply where the wagon had swung
off the road and there was a deep gash in the side of the hill where the
vehicle had slewed around on the slope.
The hill was about fifteen per cent grade with clumps of greasewood
and sage. The track of the wagon was plain, as it had nearly torn a
big greasewood out by the roots and evidently carried it along.
They spurred off the road and scattered out. It was Weary who found
Frenchy LeClere sprawled on his back half under a greasewood. Weary’s
yell brought them to the spot and they lifted the old man out into the
open.
He was alive, but badly hurt and unconscious. It was impossible for them
to determine just how badly he was hurt, except for a nasty scalp wound
which looked as though it might be more than skin-deep.
“Weary, you get the doctor as fast as yore bronc can run,” ordered Fat.
“Soapy, you and Cling head back to the ranch and bring down the horse
and buggy.”
Weary spurred back up the hill while Soapy and Cling mounted at a much
slower gait. They didn’t want to go. They wanted to stay and look for
Slim Benito but there was nothing for them to do now except to go after
that buggy.
“I feel just like a murderer,” said Soapy as they rode swiftly back to
the ranch.
“Same here! Why didn’t we let ’em put Slim in jail?”
“He’s prob’ly deader ’n hell.”
“Cinch! I’ll betcha the team up-ended plumb in the bottom of that cañon.
Of course he’s dead. But keep yore mouth shut. Nobody knows we put him
in that wagon.”
“But they’ll know we did,” wailed Soapy. “Murder will out--sure.”
“Well, it won’t out so damn quick if yuh keep yore mouth shut. Take a
reef in yourself, Soapy, yo’re tremblin’!”
“I don’t feel well. Guess them eggs didn’t set well.”
“Well, they can’t cinch us for murder. We didn’t know the team was goin’
to run away.”
“A damn lawyer can make most anythin’ out against yuh, Cling. You ain’t
got a chance in the world.”
“I’m all through doin’ good for folks.”
“Same here. From now on, I’m hard as hell.”
* * * * *
Sleepy rode down to the river and came back with the crown of his hat
full of water which they used to bathe the old man’s face. Yvonne sat
there in stony silence staring at her father who occasionally groaned
softly.
“Maybe he ain’t hurt so bad,” said Hashknife hopefully.
“Nothin’ we can do until the doctor gets here.”
“Maybe we better take a look and see what happened to the team and
wagon,” suggested Sleepy.
“Why don’t you fellers do that? No use of all of us stayin’ here.”
Hashknife and Sleepy mounted their horses and rode down through the
greasewood, following the tracks of the wagon, which seemed to have
come most of the distance on two wheels, judging from the deep rut.
Then they found where it had overturned, and from there to the bottom
of the little cañon it had rolled over and over, finally smashing down
between a tree and a ledge of rock.
Both horses were dead, piled up together fifty feet away from the
wrecked wagon. There was no use going down the steep bank to examine
them.
“Gee, that was a nasty wreck!” exclaimed Sleepy. “Mebby the old man went
to sleep and the team ran away with him.”
“Looks thataway.”
They had turned their horses to start back up the hill when a querulous
voice said:
“What in hell is goin’ on around here, anyway--I’d crave to know?”
There was no one in sight. Hashknife and Sleepy looked at each other,
both wondering whether the other had heard.
“I’d crave to know what in hell is goin’ on,” said the voice distinctly.
“It’s shore got me guessin’. And how in hell do yuh git out of a damn
greasewood when yo’re upside down and all hung up. I don’t guess I’ve
got anythin’ busted.”
“Where are yuh, pardner?” asked Hashknife.
“You start guessin’ and I’ll put in with yuh. All I can see is
greasewood and a little sky. Damn little sky too.”
“He’s in that big greasewood,” said Sleepy. “There’s his hat.”
“I ain’t near no damn hat!”
“I’ve got him spotted,” said Hashknife, pointing at a particularly big
greasewood.
They dismounted and between the two of them they were able to
disentangle Slim Benito, who had evidently been pitched head first into
the clump. His clothes were all torn and he flapped like a scarecrow in
the breeze as he gravely considered Hashknife and Sleepy. His face was
scratched and one eye badly discolored. He looked around at the
landscape wonderingly.
“Yuh know,” he said slowly, “this is one of the queerest dreams I
ever had. Funny how yuh dream! Now I never was even thinkin’ of you
two fellers before I went to sleep. Soapy says that dreams come from
a disordered liver. My God, the shape mine must be in!”
“You ain’t dreamin’,” said Hashknife.
“Thasso? Huh! Don’t tell me! What in hell am I doin’ out here, if I
ain’t dreamin’? How’d I get here?”
[Illustration: “What in hell am I doin’ out here if I ain’t dreamin’?”]
“You’ll probably be asked that same question.”
“Well, I hope somebody can answer it. I can’t!”
“It might refresh yore memory if I told yuh that old Frenchy LeClere is
further up the hill badly hurt and in the bottom of the cañon just below
us is a smashed wagon and a dead team of horses.”
Slim looked blankly at Hashknife.
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“I don’t know. I’m just tellin’ yuh.”
“Well, that’s all right.”
“You don’t know how yuh got here?” asked Sleepy.
“I don’t. And by God, I don’t even know where ‘here’ is!”
“This is off the IS road north of the river crossin’.”
“Yea-a-ah?”
“Are you the cook from the AH ranch?” asked Hashknife.
“I was--the last recollection I had. Name _was_ Benito.”
“You shot up the Silver Streak last night.”
“I did?” Slim’s eyes opened wide. “Oh, yea-a-ah!”
He shut both eyes and frowned heavily.
“I ’member somethin’ about _that_. Did I kill anybody?”
“I reckon not,” smiled Hashknife. “But it wasn’t yore fault that yuh
didn’t. They tell me yuh handled that six-gun as though it was a hose.”
“I’m a rotten shot,” confessed Slim. “Drunk or sober, I can’t shoot
straight. Tell me more about Frenchy LeClere.”
“I’ll let the sheriff tell yuh. He’s up there.”
“Well, that’s kind of yuh! Mebby he knows how I got out here. Yuh didn’t
see my horse, didja?”
“I think he’s still at the hitch-rack where yuh left him.”
“Thasso? Well, I reckon I flewed out here.”
* * * * *
They found Fat and Yvonne beside Frenchy. Both of them stared foolishly
at Slim, who sat down on the ground beside them holding his head in his
hands. It had been a hard climb up the hill and he was not in
first-class physical condition.
He made no comment, while Hashknife told them about finding Slim in the
greasewood clump. Fat studied Slim for quite a while. Then:
“Was it you who scared LeClere’s team off the grade, Slim?”
“I dunno anythin’,” said Slim wearily. “All I know is that I woke up
in that greasewood and started talkin’ to myself. Mebby I did scare
the team. I won’t swear to anythin’, Fat.”
“Find out what time LeClere left the doctor’s house and what time Slim
shot up the Silver Streak,” advised Hashknife. “He’d have to have a
little time to get here.”
“Mebby that’s the best thing. Slim, where didja go after yuh shot up the
saloon?”
“I don’t know. It’s all hazy and kinda faded out. I shore must have been
awful drunk.”
“Well, we couldn’t find yuh, Slim. You shore disappeared in a hurry.”
* * * * *
The doctor arrived with Weary before the rig came from the IS ranch and
made a swift examination.
“Bad cut on the scalp, broken collarbone and possible concussion. I
think we better get him to town.”
Hashknife walked over the wagon tracks and looked the place over. From
where Frenchy had lain to the road there were no greasewood of any
size and no rocks. In fact the ground was rather soft. He examined the
greasewood under which they had found Frenchy but there did not seem
to be anything that would cause such a scalp wound.
Slim had stretched out on the ground paying no attention to what was
going on around him and Yvonne and Fat were busy helping the doctor.
Hashknife walked up to the road as Soapy and Cling came along. Cling
was driving the buggy horse while Soapy rode his horse and led Cling’s
mount.
Before either of them had a chance to ask any questions Hashknife said:
“We found Slim Benito, boys. It’s too bad yuh put him in that wagon last
night.”
“My God!” exploded Soapy. “He--he ain’t dead, is he?”
“Almost. He said yuh put him in that wagon.”
“A-a-aw, we had to get him away,” wailed Soapy. “My God, we didn’t know
that team was goin’ to run away.”
“Well, he’s all right,” grinned Hashknife. “He didn’t know how he got
there, so I just made a guess. I had to know, yuh see?”
“I--I see,” faltered Soapy. “Yuh say he’ll get well? Didja say that,
Hashknife? Didja?”
“He ain’t hurt; he’s sick. Too much liquor and standin’ on his head in a
greasewood clump. You hold that horse, Cling, and we’ll bring the old
man up to the buggy. Don’t look foolish, Soapy. I haven’t told anybody.”
Hashknife went back down the hill and helped carry the old man up to
the buggy. Weary climbed in beside Soapy and held the old man in his
arms while the rest of them mounted, after the doctor had invited
Slim to ride back in his buggy.
Sleepy rode beside Yvonne while Hashknife and Fat lagged back to talk
things over. Hashknife told him that Soapy and Cling had put Slim Benito
in the wagon, which accounted for Slim being where they found him.
“So that’s the how of it, eh?” grunted Fat. “How didja find that out?”
“Told ’em they did and they admitted it. Never ask a man if he did
somethin’--accuse him! Act as though yuh knew he did. They fell for
it quick. So that’s that. Now what do yuh think of the runaway?”
“I guess the old man went to sleep or somethin’ scared the team off the
grade. Once off that road, they couldn’t stop, Hashknife. That heavy
wagon would crowd them too much.”
“You saw the condition of the old man, Fat?”
“Sure I did.”
“He’d been thrown clear of that wagon. The tracks are twenty feet
from where he lay against that greasewood. There wasn’t any dirt in
his hair. There ain’t a snag or a rock that would cut him that-away
and there ain’t a sign of anythin’ that would show he had bumped that
greasewood where we found him. What do yuh make of that?”
“I dunno what yuh mean,” blankly.
“Somebody tried to kill Joe in the jail, didn’t they?”
“Yeah, they--” Fat hesitated and stared at Hashknife.
“Do yuh mean--somebody smashed the old man?”
“Feelin’ sure that Joe was the man in the stretcher,” nodded Hashknife.
“Thought they had killed the old man and tried to make it look like a
runaway.”
“My God, do yuh think that, Hashknife?”
“Don’t it look thataway to you?”
“With you pointin’ things out like yuh have. Why, I never thought of
such a thing!”
“Well, don’t mention it to anybody, Fat. Let ’em think it was a
runaway.”
“But my God, we’ve got to stop such things, Hashknife!”
“If we knew why they were done we could stop ’em. Joe could tell but
won’t. If Frenchy lives mebby he can tell who slugged him. You get
hold of the doctor and have a talk with him. No matter how favorable
things are for the old man, have the doctor circulate the report that
he can’t possibly live, that he’ll never wake up. That old doctor is
pretty square and I think he’ll do it for you. It’ll mean a lot. Yuh
might tell Yvonne because there’s no use worryin’ her.”
“Sure!” nodded Fat. “Doc will do it, I reckon. He can easy keep anybody
from seein’ the old man. I’ll see him as soon as we hit town. I don’t
sabe yore game but I’m for yuh.”
“Here’s the game, Fat. If the folks who slugged the old man knew he’d
recover--they’d high-tail out of the country. That is, if he recognized
’em. And we want to keep the population intact until we _know_.”
“Oh, that’s right! I never thought of that.”
“If I lived around you very long I’d consider myself a brainy man,”
smiled Hashknife.
* * * * *
That kind of news travels fast and inside of twelve hours every one in
the Silver River range knew that old Frenchy LeClere had been mortally
injured in a runaway. Many of the old-timers came in to see him but the
doctor refused them admittance.
He told them that nothing in the world could be done for him because
of a double fracture of the skull and that it was only a question of
time until he would pass out without regaining consciousness.
But Yvonne knew that her father had a fine chance of recovery and
insisted on being at his side. Joe was better. Hashknife and Fat talked
with him and told him what they thought had happened to his father.
“You think that somebody thought I was in that wagon?” he asked.
“That’s a cinch,” said Hashknife. “Now, Joe, we want you to tell us what
yuh know.”
“I don’t know anythin’,” was all they could get out of him.
“He’s afraid to talk,” said Hashknife after they left the room.
“I don’t believe he knows anythin’ to talk about.”
“They tried to kill him to keep him from talkin’.”
“That’s just yore theory, Hashknife. Yo’re one of them jiggers who think
they can’t be wrong. When I’m wrong I admit it.”
“Yeah--and it keeps yuh busy all the time.”
“Busy doin’ what?”
“Admittin’ it.”
* * * * *
Slim Benito kept away from Silver Streak after he got to town and headed
for the ranch as soon as he found his horse. Soapy and Cling also went
straight home that day. Neither Hashknife nor Fat told anybody how
Benito had got out there in the greasewood, although Hayward tried hard
to find out how it had happened. He was still bewailing his smashed
mirror and glassware and swore that Slim would pay dearly for shooting
up the place.
It was the second day after the runaway and Hashknife was sitting in
the sheriff’s office when he suddenly got to his feet and walked
outside. Fat and Weary stared after him but Sleepy smoked quietly,
eyeing Hashknife through the open door.
“What stung him?” wondered Weary aloud.
“Moved awful quick,” grinned Fat. “What’s the matter with him, Sleepy?
He ain’t spoke a word today.”
“He’s thataway sometimes,” said Sleepy slowly. He uncoiled from his
chair and followed Hashknife outside.
Hashknife was leaning against a post staring at the ground. After a
while he looked sideways at Sleepy and his eyes were smiling, although
his mouth was grim.
“Sleepy, I’ve been a dumb fool,” he said softly. “What in hell has been
the matter with me?”
“Ain’tcha feelin’ well, cowboy?” asked Sleepy.
In answer Hashknife took the stub of a pencil from his pocket, drew out
an old envelope and on it made a few cabalistic marks which looked very
much like cattle brands. Then he moved his pencil slowly over one of
them; a look of understanding came to Sleepy’s eyes and he grinned.
“Don’t talk about it,” said Hashknife softly and Sleepy nodded with
complete understanding.
“C’mon!” said Hashknife.
* * * * *
They walked straight down to the doctor’s home and in through the old
gate. They stopped at the front steps when they heard voices around
at the little side porch. Yvonne was speaking and they thought she
was talking to the doctor, but as they stepped around in range of the
softly pitched voices they found that the other speaker was Soapy
Weed.
Both men stopped short without being seen nor heard. Yvonne was talking
and Hashknife touched Sleepy on the arm.
“Oh, I’m sorry about it all, Soapy!” she said. “I like you awful well
but I can’t marry you. Don’t you see it is foolish to even think of
such a thing? You’ll find plenty of girls, Soapy.”
“Don’t want ’em,” flatly. “Is it because I ain’t makin’ much money,
Yvonne?”
“Money isn’t everything.”
“’Cause I got drunk?”
“You are not a drunkard, Soapy; you can quit.”
“I ain’t much to look at, Yvonne. Do yuh think I threw yuh all down on
that O’Neil proposition?”
“No, Soapy. I think it was wonderful of you to do what you did for us.
But I can’t think of marriage now. Joe sick in bed, accused of murder;
Dad unconscious--and he may never get well. Can’t you see I--”
[Illustration: “I can’t think of marriage with Joe accused of murder.
Can’t you see I--”]
“Yeah, that’s right. Say, Yvonne--if Joe was cleared and yore dad was
all well again would yuh talk it over with me again?”
“Soapy, I’d do most anything if that might happen.”
“Well,” sadly, “I wish I could do it. It would shore be worth a lot
to me--worth everythin’. Mebby I could get Ace Hart to lemme have
that place on Opal Creek, and if I could get somebody to lend me a
few hundred dollars we could start a brand of our own. The old place
would stand a lot of fixin’, I know. But I could shore fix it. I’ll
ask him about it, Yvonne. Gee, I’d like to have you--and be a
cattleman instead of just a common waddie! It’s a swell place over
there. Yuh know I was christened Jim, don’tcha? We’d make it the JY
place. Use our two initials and connect ’em.”
Yvonne laughed softly.
“Oh, don’t laugh, Yvonne! By golly, I can do it! I’d never drink nor
play poker any more.”
“Would you take up knitting, Soapy?”
“Well, I might not do that. Say--you watch me, Yvonne! I--I wish
somethin’ would happen to clear Joe.”
“I’ve been praying a long time,” said Yvonne softly.
Hashknife shoved Sleepy back along the walk almost to the gate and then
they went around the house making plenty of noise. Both Yvonne and Soapy
leaned out beyond the few vines as they came around the corner.
“Howdy, folks!” said Hashknife softly. “How’s yore pa, Yvonne?”
“Still unconscious, Hashknife. The doctor is out for a little while.
Won’t you sit down and wait for him?”
Hashknife grinned at Soapy and shook his head.
“No, I don’t reckon we will, Yvonne. Me and Sleepy thought we’d make
an early start into the hills in the mornin’ and I was wonderin’ if
we might stay at yore ranch-house.”
“Well, you certainly may! It isn’t locked, so just make yourself at home
out there.”
“You ain’t leavin’ the country, are yuh?” asked Soapy.
“Not exactly. How’s everythin’ at the AH, Soapy?”
“All right.”
“Yo’re a pretty capable boy,” said Hashknife seriously, “and I been
wonderin’ why yuh didn’t figure out to start a little herd of yore
own, Soapy. That’s the only way to do it. Yuh could start small and
grow big. Yo’re young and this is a big range. Why don’tcha do
somethin’ like that?”
Soapy blinked foolishly and looked at Yvonne who was not looking at him
at all. His ears grew red and he shifted his feet uneasily.
“Well, I dunno,” he said vacantly. “Might be done.”
“They all start thataway, Soapy,” said Sleepy.
“Yeah, I know, but it takes a little money to start.”
“Not much. Think it over. Thanks for the house, Yvonne.”
“Oh, you are certainly welcome!”
“So-long, Soapy.”
“Sure! Same to you, Hashknife.”
Sleepy chuckled half-way down to the livery-stable but Hashknife was
serious.
“He’ll think yo’re a mind-reader, Hashknife.”
“Let him think it. I believe in boostin’ a good idea. You go over and
borrow a couple of rifles from Fat.”
* * * * *
The following morning before daylight Hashknife and Sleepy were riding
away from the IS ranch, traveling in a northeast direction. Hashknife
had sketched a map from the big one in the sheriff’s office, which gave
a fairly good idea of the country.
They did not follow any of the marked trails but headed straight across
country. For the first few miles they were able to make fairly good time
but the character of the country soon changed and they were obliged to
pick their way at a more leisurely pace.
The sun came up over the Chongo Creek hills flooding the valley with
opal colors as they climbed higher into the rocky hills, heading for a
spot between the Chongo Creek mines and the mouth of Dog Soldier
Creek. They worked their way around old slides and up through thickets
of jack-pines to the top of a big mesa where they stopped for a while
to study the country.
“We’re too far north,” decided Hashknife. “I think that line of dark
pines over there marks Dog Soldier. Chongo Creek mines are southeast
of us. But I reckon we’re just as well off. We’ll swing off to the
left a little and see what this mesa amounts to. Anyway, it’s easier
goin’ than we’ve had.”
They gave their horses a breathing spell and continued on up the mesa
where there was enough open country to give them a good view to the
north and west.
Suddenly Sleepy spoke sharply to Hashknife and they drew up. Far to the
northwest were two riders, silhouetted against the sky for possibly a
minute before they disappeared.
“Goin’ west,” said Hashknife. “I wonder who that might be travelin’ so
early up here! Might be a couple prospectors of course. Still it might
pay us to foller.”
“That’s my idea,” agreed Sleepy.
They turned their horses and rode northwest, keeping a keen eye on
the skyline above and beyond them. The riders were traveling west in
a line which would bring them to a point well to the north of the IS
ranch. Hashknife and Sleepy traveled slowly and it was fully half an
hour before they saw the riders again.
This time they were swinging to the southwest traveling along the
sloping side of a cañon among the jack-pines. They were still too far
away for identification.
“Ridin’ painted broncs!” said Sleepy as they drew up in a clump of pines
and watched the two riders cutting along the hillside.
“Black-and-white pintoes,” agreed Hashknife. “They circled the head
of the cañon, leavin’ us high and dry. We’ll have to circle it too, I
reckon, if we want to follow ’em.”
“Have you seen a pinto since we’ve been here?”
Hashknife shook his head.
“Not a paint, Sleepy! We’ve got to circle the cañon because there’s
slide-rock on each side. C’mon!”
* * * * *
It took them an hour to reach the spot where they had last seen the two
riders, who had finally swung back to the top of the ridge traveling
west again. It was useless to attempt to trail them, so it was just a
case of hit or miss now.
[Illustration: “We’ll have to circle the cañon if we want to follow
’em”]
They swung back higher in the hills, which would give them a chance
to circle the heads of the cañons, and picked their way slowly along
while the sun rose higher over the Silver River range. The cañons
were plentiful and most of them were brushy. There were no cattle in
that end of the range and trails were scarce.
Mule deer moved out of the thicket ahead of them, bounding a short
distance away only to stop short and look at the riders who paid little
attention to them. A little black bear, surprised in the act of digging
for grubs, squalled like a baby and went up a steep bank throwing gravel
with all four feet.
“And men go out to kill things like that!” said Hashknife as the little
fellow up-ended over a log and out of sight in a berry thicket.
“And brag about it!” grinned Sleepy. “We ought to swing further south,
pardner. This is pretty primitive up here.”
“I reckon it’s a wild-goose chase, Sleepy, but there’s no use goin’
back now. We’ll kinda prospect this part of the country and get back
to the ranch before dark.”
* * * * *
For the next two hours they trailed through the hills, ready to give
up the task as a hopeless one when they suddenly crossed a cattle
trail running northeast and southwest. As far as they were able to
determine the cattle had nearly all been traveling northeast. The
trail led through thickets of jack-pines and they followed it to the
summit where it spread into many smaller trails, all bearing in the
same general direction.
“Don’t tell us much,” said Hashknife, “except that quite a few cows
have headed for the higher ground where the grazin’ ain’t so good.
Mebby they’ve gone on a diet.”
“Let’s see what the other end of the trail looks like,” suggested
Sleepy.
Hashknife nodded in agreement and they rode back down the trail, which
was plainly visible for about a mile beyond where they first picked it
up, and ended at the bottom of a swale near an old water-hole spring.
“Might be that there’s a mesa up there where the feed is good and they
travel back and forth to this water,” said Hashknife as they swung down
and had a drink of the sweet cold water.
They were sitting on the grassy bank enjoying a cigaret when Hashknife’s
attention was attracted by a glint of metal in the brush above the
spring. He worked his way over to it and came back with a tin can in his
hands. It was an old can which at one time had contained pears but at
the bottom of which was a black gummy substance which proved to be
paint. Hashknife dug some out with a stick and examined it closely.
“Paint or tar,” said Sleepy, sniffing in the can. “Looks like the stuff
they brand sheep with.”
“Probably is,” agreed Hashknife and threw the can aside. “Well, I reckon
we might as well travel along.”
* * * * *
They followed down the swale for a quarter of a mile until a granite
outcropping forced them to turn to the left and came out of the swale
onto a broken side hill where cloudbursts and erosion had cut deep
fissures through the landscape. It was a hard place to travel around,
so they rode down one of the narrow fissures, which towered high on
each side and were so narrow that their knees scraped against the
soft dirt of the sides.
The end of the fissure was partly blocked by a big greasewood, which
forced them to turn sharply to the right hugging the bank. No trail
was there and the ground was so soft that the tall gray, which was in
the lead, had to maneuver its feet quickly to get a foothold. In
doing so he dislodged a big stone which rolled a few feet and crashed
into a clump of dry brush. Hashknife leaned heavily toward the bank
to give the animal the advantage of his weight on that side, when a
bullet smashed into the bank just over his twisting shoulder and the
pinnacles echoed back the whip-like report of a thirty-thirty.
With a quick slash of his spurs Hashknife forced the gray to plunge
ahead to the protection of a greasewood while Sleepy jerked his roan
back and dismounted quickly, swinging the horse back into the fissure
behind the big greasewood clump. Swiftly he drew his rifle from its
scabbard and ran back to the mouth of the fissure.
In the meantime Hashknife had dismounted, taken his rifle and was
crouched behind the brush peering down the hill.
“All right, pardner?” called Sleepy.
“Fit to be tied,” said Hashknife. “Watch ’em, cowboy.”
Another bullet crashed through the greasewood causing Hashknife to sag a
little lower and a moment later Sleepy’s rifle sent more echoes across
the broken country.
“I’ll betcha you’ll keep yore head down next time!” snorted Sleepy.
“Can yuh see anybody?” asked Hashknife.
“Not now. I shore sprayed dirt in that geezer’s face. Had him in the old
notch, but this darn gun shoots low at that distance. Make it a hundred
and fifty, Hashknife. Can yuh see their corral?”
“Can’t see anythin’. Is there a corral?”
“I can see part of it. Some cows down there.”
Hashknife snaked along behind the brush until he came to an outcropping
of granite where he slid in close and got his first view of the country
below. It was more like a pot-hole than a cañon, and Hashknife could see
its value to a rustler as the country on three sides was very broken and
from no place except on the very rim would it be possible for any one to
see what was going on down there.
Just against the opposite side, using an angle of the bowl as two sides,
was a brush and rope corral in which were eight or ten head of cattle.
The rustlers were in the brush east of the corral as there was little
cover on the west end.
As Hashknife sized up the place Sleepy shot twice in rapid succession
and two shots smashed through the brush near him. Both sides were
shooting smokeless powder but Hashknife had a fairly good idea where
the men were, so he rested his rifle over the rock and sent three
bullets searching through the tangle of brush in the pot-hole.
A yell of derision answered his third shot and a bullet mushroomed
against the rock beside him.
“Give ’em hell!” yelled Sleepy. A moment later he shot again and swore
roundly.
“Didja miss him?” asked Hashknife quickly.
“It was a horse. No, I didn’t miss. Thought it was a man.”
The rustlers were sore now. They opened up and sent bullet after bullet
against Hashknife’s rock and through the brush over Sleepy’s head.
“Watch for ’em makin’ a break,” warned Hashknife.
“I’ll break ’em if they do,” replied Sleepy. “I’ve got one of ’em all
fixed to walk home.”
“Didja kill a horse?”
“Unless they’ve trained a pinto to lay down when a shot is fired.”
After that it became a case of watchful waiting with neither side
willing to expose themselves. Hashknife propped his sombrero on top
of the rock but it remained there in perfect security for fifteen
minutes.
“Are yuh sure they ain’t pulled out?” he asked Sleepy.
“Dead sure. They’ve got another horse in the brush but I can’t locate
him. Stick tight! They know where we are.”
The advantage was with Hashknife and Sleepy because of their elevated
position, but the brush was thick and there were at least two acres of
it. They made themselves comfortable and watched the brush while the
cattle bawled in the corral as they milled around.
* * * * *
Noon came and still there was no movement in the brush. They were
patient waiters--these two drifting cowboys. Time meant nothing to
them. Hashknife was in such a position that he could not take his
horse away without exposing himself.
The sun traveled down across the sky and the shadows began stretching to
the east.
“Do yuh reckon they’ve dodged us?” asked Hashknife.
“Don’t believe it. I’ve watched awful close. Their idea is to stick
until dark, I reckon; then we _will_ lose ’em.”
Sleepy wriggled back along the fissure to his horse where he untied
the coat he had carried on his saddle. Then he came back and fitted a
stick between the sleeves like a coat-hanger. He slipped the butt of
his rifle between the collar and the stick, hooking the stick against
the rear of the lever. Then he put his sombrero on the butt of the
rifle and cautiously lifted this above the brush.
Whap! A bullet scarred the stock of the rifle between the sombrero and
the coat collar and went splattering into the bank behind Sleepy.
“Still there!” laughed Sleepy. “And how that geezer can shoot! That
bullet would have killed a man who wore as small as a number twelve
collar.”
But Hashknife did not reply because he had cuddled the butt of his rifle
against his lean cheek and his gray eye was notching the gold bead front
sight against an indistinct object. Then came the spiteful crack of the
rifle followed by a stirring movement in the brush. But before Hashknife
could pump another shell into the chamber the object had disappeared.
“I nicked that jigger,” he told Sleepy. “At least I think I did. He
shore moved away quick.”
Whether the shot nicked any one or not, it served to anger the men in
the brush and they spewed lead at both Hashknife and Sleepy, who kept
down until the fusillade was over.
* * * * *
Then followed an hour of inactivity. The sun was getting low in the west
and it began to look as though the rustlers would be able to hold out
until after dark when it would be a simple matter to get away.
“They know they’ve got us stuck,” said Sleepy. “We can’t get down to
’em--that’s a cinch!”
So there was nothing to do except to wait. Sleepy tried drawing their
fire again with the dummy but they refused to rise to the bait. Time
passed swiftly now and the sun sank below the western range.
Hashknife knew the period of twilight would be brief; that within an
hour the rustlers would be able to leave the pot-hole in the hills
without interference. He fumbled in his pockets for cigaret-papers
but suddenly jerked his hands up and gripped the rifle.
Something was moving over by the farther side of the brush. It was a
man, humped over low, moving slowly. As Hashknife lined up the
sights the man ran swiftly across an open space of not over fifteen
feet. Swiftly the muzzle of the gun turned and the report awoke the
sleeping echoes. The man’s feet seemed to jerk from under him and he
fell in the open, but with a rolling flop he was out of sight.
“One baby down!” exclaimed Hashknife.
“Didja wing one?” asked Sleepy anxiously.
“Legged him, Sleepy.”
“Good work.”
Fifteen minutes later Sleepy wailed, “Gettin’ so dark I can’t see to
notch my sights.”
“Same here--but neither can they.”
“There they go!” yelled Sleepy. “Off to the right! Two on one bronc!”
Sleepy sprang to his feet and fired his rifle as rapidly as possible.
But the light was bad and when his rifle clucked on the empty chamber
the riders were out of sight. Hashknife came clawing his way back to
Sleepy.
“They’re gone!” complained Sleepy. “I never knocked a feather out of
’em. Dang the light anyway!”
“Well, that settles the cat-hop!” sighed Hashknife. “Let’s go down and
look at that horse.”
It was impossible for them to ride down into the pot-hole, so they
left their horses where they were and went down on foot. Sleepy led
the way to the dead horse which had been killed instantly. It looked
like a black-and-white animal until a close examination disclosed the
fact that it was a white horse with the black spots painted on.
“A reg’lar painted horse,” laughed Sleepy. “Look at the brand, will
yuh?”
“An AH horse,” said Hashknife. “I expected that.”
The saddle was a well-worn, narrow fork affair without a distinguishing
mark of any kind. The men went over to the corral and looked at the
stock. There were six IS, two Box 88 and one AH animals in the corral.
Sticks had been piled up for a branding fire but the rustlers had become
alarmed before touching a match to it.
Hashknife opened the corral and let the animals out. He wanted to keep
them there for evidence, but there was no feed or water, so he turned
them loose. He and Sleepy went back to their horses, led Ghost along
the treacherous side of the hill to the deep fissure, where they rode
away on the back trail to the swale again.
It was dark by this time and there was no trail, but Hashknife led the
way out of the swale near the spring and they headed down across the
hills toward Chongo town.
* * * * *
Fat Garnette didn’t know where Hashknife and Sleepy had gone. He wasn’t
at the office when Sleepy borrowed the two rifles from Weary without
telling Weary what they intended doing.
“He jist borrowed ’em,” said Weary. “I supposed it was all right.”
“It’s all right,” said Fat. “Only I’d like to know where my rifles go.”
Later on that day Fat met Hayward, who asked him where Hashknife and
Sleepy were.
“Dunno a thing about ’em. They borrowed my two best Winchesters
yesterday evenin’ and Weary says they rode out of town. The danged
fool never asked ’em where they were goin’.”
“Kind of a funny move, wasn’t it?”
“I s’pose it was. They do make funny moves--and tell yuh nothin’.
Sometimes I get tired of it, Tuck. They’ve hung around my office ever
since they’ve been here. Yuh can’t help likin’ ’em but I dunno why in
hell they stay here. They seem to have money and they don’t ask any
odds of anybody, so I reckon it’s their business.”
“Oh, shore! How’s Frenchy?”
“I’m just goin’ down there. Yuh know he can’t get well.”
“Do yuh think that’s a fact?”
“Doctor says so. He might be wrong. I’ll let yuh know how he is when I
come back.”
* * * * *
Yvonne met the sheriff on the front porch and he could see that she was
excited.
“He’s conscious,” she said joyfully. “And he isn’t suffering. The doctor
says he’ll get well.”
“Gosh, I’m shore glad, Yvonne! I wonder if I could see him.”
“I think so.”
They found Frenchy LeClere, heavily bandaged, looking very weak. The
doctor smiled at the sheriff and offered him a chair.
“He’s looking pretty good, eh?” smiled the doctor. “Regained
consciousness ten minutes ago. No sign of concussion now.”
“That’s great! How are yuh feelin’, Mr. LeClere?”
“I don’t feel much,” he whispered.
“You’ll be fine. Do you know what happened?”
“I’m try to think. She’s like dream.”
“Sure yuh didn’t go to sleep and let the team run away?”
“_Non!_ Two men she’s ride up beside me in de dark, one man on each
side. I’m t’ink dey go for to pass me and I’m jus’ say ‘Hello,’ w’en one
man mus’ have hit me with rifle. I’m seem to see rifle. Mebby first time
she’s hit me on de shoulder. I feel h’awful pain and I’m theenk I’m fall
off de wagon and den I don’t feel no-t’ing.”
“And you didn’t see who the men were?”
“_Non._ But I see one t’ing. One man she’s ride pinto. I’m see de spot.
Other man I’m don’ know, biccause I’m not see him so good.”
“Ridin’ a pinto horse, eh?”
“Did you ever hear of such a thing?” exclaimed Yvonne. “Why, we all
thought Dad had been hurt in the runaway!”
“Not all of us,” replied the sheriff. “Hashknife doped it all out right
away. Comin’ in from out there he told me just what happened.”
“But how did he know?” asked the doctor quickly.
“Readin’ signs. The men who did it thought Joe was in the wagon. They
wanted to kill him, so they thought they would kill him and make it look
like a runaway. I guess they thought Joe would be killed in the runaway,
or maybe the team ran away before they had a chance to investigate the
contents of the wagon-box.”
Frenchy relaxed and closed his eyes. Yvonne was staring at the floor.
“De same men w’at shoot Joe in de jail?” whispered the old Frenchman.
“Must be! Doc, I reckon I better get a couple of men to stay down here.”
“You mean to guard the place?”
“Y’betcha. I’ll see if I can find two.”
“Soapy would come and maybe--” began Yvonne.
“Shore!” grinned Fat. “I’ll see him.”
* * * * *
Fat went back to the main street and crossed over to the Silver Streak
where he met Tuck Hayward.
“The old man is still the same, Tuck,” he said.
“Still unconscious, eh?”
“Yeah. Say, Tuck, do you know anybody around here who rides a pinto
horse?”
“Pinto?” Tuck motioned for the bartender. “No, I don’t, Fat. What do yuh
want to know for?”
“Just wonderin’. I don’t know of a single one, do you?”
“Somebody wantin’ to buy one?”
Fat shook his head as he filled his glass.
“No-o-o, I don’t think so, Tuck. Here’s regards!”
They drank and turned from the bar.
“I haven’t seen any pinto horses around here,” said Tuck.
“Neither have I. Well, I’ll see yuh later.”
Hayward walked to the doorway and watched Fat cross the street. The
big man’s face twisted thoughtfully and he shoved his hands deep in
his pockets, his shoulders hunched.
“Pinto horses, eh?” he muttered. “I wonder what in hell he meant.”
He walked back the length of the bar then stood and looked over the
room. The livery-stable keeper was having a drink at the bar and nodded
to Hayward.
“Seen Hartley today?” asked Hayward.
“Not today. Him and his pardner rode away last night--or rather
yesterday evenin’.”
“Pullin’ out of the country?”
“Don’t think so. Anyway, they didn’t say anythin’ about pullin’ out.
Packed a couple of rifles, I noticed. Hope they ain’t gone for good
’cause they owe me a few dollars’ feed bill.”
“Mebby they went huntin’,” suggested the bartender.
“Might have.”
Hayward frowned and lighted a cigar.
* * * * *
Fat found Weary and Chuck at the office and to them he confided what
Frenchy LeClere had said. Fat also told them that Hashknife had
advanced the same idea the day they had found Frenchy unconscious
under the greasewood.
“How in hell did he know?” queried Chuck.
“Brains, you hard-head!” declared Weary. “Hashknife does a lot of
thinkin’, I tell yuh. He’s smart.”
“Ain’t no smarter than the rest of us.”
“Ain’t he?”
“Well, if he is, why in hell don’t he find out who has done all the
dirty work around here for the past year? Why don’t he pin the hornet
on somebody, I’d ask yuh? If he’s so damn smart why don’t he tell me
who petted me on the head that night? I’d _pay_ to know.”
“How much would you pay? Four bits, I suppose.”
“I’d pay, y’betcha!”
“And then what would yuh use for money? And what good would it do yuh?
You’d never go gunnin’ for nobody, Chuck. You’d jist about find out who
done it and tell ’em that they done a hell of a good job. They did--only
they didn’t hit hard enough.”
“The hell they didn’t! Hard enough to suit me.”
“Well,” said Fat moving in on the argument, “I wish they’d bring my
Winchesters back. If they don’t come back I’ll make Weary pay for them
two guns, y’betcha!”
“Oh, they’ll come back!” declared Weary. “I’ll bet they had a good
reason for takin’ ’em. And what’s more, I don’t want that Hashknife
notchin’ a sight on me. His eyes are too keen. By golly, I’m scared
to _think_ evil around him!”
“Oh, he ain’t no mind-reader, Weary,” said Chuck.
“Well, you better think clean around him, pardner.”
“Why? Who’s he to make me think clean? I can think jist as dirty as I
want to.”
“You would!”
Fat laughed and leaned back in his chair.
“Guess I’ll separate you fellers. Weary, you get hold of Soapy Weed and
see if he can get off the AH for a few days. If he can’t I’ll deputize
him--and he’ll have to. I need a couple of men to guard the doctor’s
place.”
“Guard it?” asked Weary. “What’s the idea?”
“There’s been two attempts to kill Joe and one attempt to kill his
father. We don’t want it to happen again.”
“Yuh want me and Soapy?” asked Weary.
“Shore! If Soapy is willin’.”
“Willin’? Say! That bat-eared waddy would sell his soul to be near
Yvonne.”
“All right; you find him.”
* * * * *
It was well after dark when Soapy and Cling rode in from the AH. A
little later Weary found Soapy in a store and told him what Fat had
said.
“Gee, that’ll be great!” exclaimed Soapy. “We better have Fat deputize
me right away or old man Hart won’t stand for it. He says me and Cling
are spendin’ too much time in town.”
“Fat’s eatin’ supper. You show up in an hour and he’ll deputize yuh,
Soapy.”
“I’ll be there if I live.”
Soapy went across to the Silver Streak to find Cling and tell him the
news. Cling was at the bar with Hayward and several other men, and
Soapy told Cling, after drawing him aside. Cling had imbibed several
drinks and was incredulous.
“Aw, yo’re crazy!” he blurted. “What’s the idea of guardin’ the doctor’s
place? I suppose you framed it up yourself.”
Cling had spoken loud enough for the men at the bar to hear.
“What’s the idea of guardin’ the doctor’s place?” asked Hayward.
“Some fool idea of Soapy’s,” laughed Cling.
“No such a damn thing! Didn’t somebody try to kill Joe? And didn’t
somebody try to kill Frenchy?”
“Frenchy was hurt in a runaway,” said Hayward.
“Rats!” snorted Soapy. “That’s all yuh know about it.”
“Well, he _was_ hurt in a runaway,” declared Cling.
“He was, like hell!”
Soapy turned and walked out of the place.
“He’s crazy as a sheepherder,” laughed Cling.
“Is Frenchy conscious?” asked one of the men. “I heard he couldn’t live
and that he never would speak again.”
“That’s what I heard,” said Hayward slowly. “I’m goin’ down and find out
for myself.”
He walked away from the bar and went down to the doctor’s place and the
old doctor met him at the front door.
“Hello, Doc!” said Hayward pleasantly. “I heard that LeClere had
regained consciousness.”
“I heard that also,” smiled the doctor. “But I should be in a position
to know the facts of the matter, don’t you think, Hayward?”
“I should think you would be, Doc. How is Joe?”
“Doing nicely. No fever now but very weak.”
“Well, that’s good. Thanks, Doc!”
“You are very welcome.”
Hayward walked half-way back to the saloon before he realized that the
doctor had not denied that LeClere had regained consciousness.
“I’m a damn fool,” he told himself. “Why didn’t I ask him whether
LeClere was conscious? He merely said that he was in a position to
know the facts. And what are the facts?”
He went back to the saloon no wiser than he had been before.
* * * * *
Soapy could hardly wait to be deputized. Fat gave each man a sawed-off
shotgun and sent them down to the doctor’s house to report on duty. It
amused the doctor but he really was glad that the sheriff had taken
such precautions.
Yvonne was visibly relieved. Two men with riot guns will give any place
a sense of security. Soapy grinned and sat down with the gun across his
lap.
“Bring on yore trouble,” he announced and after he and Yvonne were alone
for a few moments he said:
“Gosh, this is the best job I ever had! Fat says we’ll be here until
both yore dad and Joe are able to take care of themselves. That’ll be
at least two weeks.”
“That will be fine, Soapy.”
“Say! I spoke to Hart about that place on Opal Creek.”
“What did he say?”
Soapy started to grin, smoothed his face and cleared his throat harshly.
“We won’t discuss that part of it, Yvonne. I told him he wanted to keep
me down. But I’ll get it. Gee, just think of two weeks down here! This
is my idea of a _job_.”
Fat came down to see how they were getting along.
“One of yuh stay in Frenchy’s room and the other in Joe’s room. Don’t
let anybody in except Yvonne, the doctor or myself. And if either one
of yuh goes to sleep I’ll can yuh off the job.”
“Suppose somebody tries to get in?” asked Soapy.
“Didja think I gave yuh that gun for a crutch?”
Yvonne questioned Fat about Hashknife and Sleepy but he knew nothing
about them. She told him that they were to have stayed at the IS ranch
the night before, but she didn’t know just what their reasons were for
staying out there.
“I don’t pretend to know what the long-geared cowboy has under his hat,”
said Fat soberly. “He shore gets under my hide sometimes. Well, I’ll see
yuh later, folks. Yvonne, you see that Soapy sticks to his job. He can’t
think of more than one thing at a time and that ain’t work.”
She promised to keep Soapy on the job and Fat went away with a grin on
his face.
* * * * *
It was about eight o’clock when Hashknife and Sleepy rode into Chongo
town and stabled their horses. They did not bother to take the rifles
back to the sheriff’s office but went straight up the street to the
Silver Streak where Sleepy planted himself near the front door while
Hashknife went down to the doctor’s office.
The doctor answered the knock and Hashknife asked him to step outside.
“Ain’t been anybody here for yuh, has there, Doc?”
“Not today, Hartley. Is somebody sick?”
“Mebby. If anybody calls for yuh will yuh let me know before yuh go?”
“I don’t understand what you mean, Hartley, but I’ll do it.”
“That’s fine. How are the patients?”
“Getting along fine. Mr. LeClere is conscious but I’m a little afraid
to have you talk with him. He talked with the sheriff today. Your
theory was correct, Hartley. Two men came along that night, passing
on each side of his wagon, and one of them struck him with a rifle
barrel.”
“Did he recognize either of them?” anxiously.
“No, he didn’t. But he is sure that at least one of the men rode a pinto
horse.”
“Gee, that’s fine! See yuh later, Doc; and I’m much obliged.”
* * * * *
Hashknife hurried back to Sleepy, told him the latest news and they went
into the Silver Streak. Several of the games were running full blast and
Tuck Hayward was dealing the stud game.
Quite a number of men were in from the mines spending their hard-earned
wages over the green cloth. Several railroad men were there, a couple of
cattle buyers and a number of the business men of the town. Cling
Heffner was there playing roulette and they saw Johnny Colburn in a
chuck-luck game, his hat in one hand, his nose beaded with perspiration.
It was not often that Johnny was winner and the excitement was almost
too much for him.
Hayward saw Hashknife and Sleepy come in and he looked at them
curiously. Hashknife stood behind him. It made Hayward nervous. He
twisted in his chair and gave other evidence that he did not like to
have anybody stand behind him. Finally Hashknife moved away and
Hayward shot a baleful glance in his direction.
The sheriff came in and seemed surprised to see Hashknife and Sleepy.
He walked over to them and whispered what he had learned from Frenchy
LeClere. Hashknife told him he had already talked with the doctor and
listened while the sheriff told about posting the two guards at the
doctor’s home.
“Fat, would you be all set for trouble if somethin’ broke tonight?”
asked Hashknife softly.
The sheriff looked at him curiously but replied quickly, “Most anythin’,
Hartley.”
“Fine! And don’t ask questions when it comes.”
“Well, what’s in the air? Gimme an idea, can’t yuh?”
“Not yet. Stay around here and act natural.”
“All right.”
Fat hitched up his belt, reached for his papers and began rolling a
cigaret. That was his idea of acting natural.
Hashknife took a chair against the wall about midway of the room and
relaxed. He was tired from the ride and the gun battle and he needed
to relax for a while. There was nothing sure in his plans. He was
playing a hunch again--“shooting at shadows,” he called it.
Sleepy wandered around the room watching the games while Fat appeared to
grow interested in the roulette wheel where a small crowd of miners were
losing their money. There was plenty of activity but nothing out of the
ordinary. Men came and went but the crowd stayed about the same size all
the time.
* * * * *
It was about ten o’clock when McLeod, foreman of the Box 88, came in. He
had a drink at the bar, rolled a smoke and sized up the place.
Hashknife studied the man from under the brim of his big hat. McLeod
needed a shave and a hair-cut badly. He bought another drink and engaged
the bartender in conversation.
Hashknife glanced toward the door and saw Soapy Weed coming in. Soapy
walked slowly past the bar, nodding casually to Fat, who gawped after
him, inclined to reprimand him for leaving his post of duty.
After a slow survey of the room Soapy came over to Hashknife and spoke
softly. Hashknife merely nodded.
Soapy sauntered away. He stopped to look at the games but finally went
outside.
Hashknife glanced at Hayward, who was looking in his direction, and
wondered whether Hayward had seen Soapy bring him a message.
A waiter started from the bar with a tray of glasses. McLeod said
something to him. The man nodded and as he placed the glasses on the
table spoke to Hayward, who said something in return, and then walked
away with the empty tray. In a few moments another dealer came to the
stud table and relieved Hayward.
Hayward yawned heavily, lighted a cigar and walked back to his
private office where he went inside. McLeod turned from talking with
the bartender and started for the door. In a moment Hashknife was on
his feet signaling to Fat and the two walked out behind McLeod, who
had stopped on the edge of the sidewalk.
The sheriff didn’t know what was to be done. His jaw sagged with
surprise when Hashknife stepped in beside the big foreman of the Box
88, deftly removed McLeod’s gun from its holster and shoved it against
the astonished cattleman’s ribs.
“What in hell is goin’ on here?” demanded McLeod hotly.
“Just this, McLeod. Yo’re under arrest. You take him to jail, Fat.”
“But--but--” faltered the sheriff.
“Give me back that gun, you damn fool!” snarled McLeod. “What’s all
this talk about arrestin’ me? Make that damn fool give me back that
gun, Fat.”
“Take him to jail, Fat,” begged Hashknife. “It’s no joke. My God, don’t
hold up the game!”
“All right, Hashknife. Yo’re under arrest, McLeod. Give me his gun, will
yuh?”
“Well, by God, somebody will smart for this!”
“You will, McLeod. Don’t take a chance with him, Fat. If he makes a
break, shoot him.”
* * * * *
The arrest had been made so quietly that it had not attracted any
attention. As McLeod started across the street with Fat Hashknife
stepped to the right and went swiftly back through the alley, coming
in behind the Silver Streak.
The light from Hayward’s office partly illuminated two saddle-horses
which were standing a few yards from the building, the bridle reins
dragging. Speaking softly to them, Hashknife stepped over and stripped
off the bridles from both horses. He gave one of them a slap with the
reins and both horses trotted away in the night.
Some one was yelling out on the street. Hashknife heard the sound of
pounding feet as a man came running down the alley. Quickly he stepped
in against the building as the man came into view and jerked to a stop,
whirling around in the light from the window which was at Hashknife’s
shoulder.
The man was McLeod, hatless, a gun in his hand. Recognition seemed
mutual and the guns of the two men spat together, throwing a shower of
sparks in the dark. From behind Hashknife came the crackle of broken
glass as the heavy bullet bored through the window of Hayward’s office.
But McLeod was falling forward, pitching on his face in the dirt, arms
outspread. It seemed as if he was still falling when Hashknife darted
to the back door of the saloon, opened it quickly and stepped inside.
The saloon was in an uproar. The crash of the two shots had stopped
all activities and to add to the climax Fat Garnette was staggering
in, his face covered with blood and dirt. Down the middle of the room
he staggered, looking for Hashknife to tell him that McLeod had had a
concealed gun with which he had struck Fat over the head before he had
escaped. But Hashknife was not paying any attention to the sheriff. He
was still at that back door which was wide open.
Suddenly the door of Hayward’s office swung open and Mike Dalhart, the
cowboy who had gone to Arizona, stepped out.
Dalhart was hunched forward, his hat pulled low over his eyes, a
six-shooter in each hand. A trapped wolf would have been a nursing
lamb beside Dalhart. The sheriff saw him and stopped short. The gun
in Dalhart’s right hand jerked to his hip, covering the sheriff.
[Illustration: He jerked the gun to his hip, covering the sheriff]
“Over here, Bitter River!”
Hashknife’s voice snapped like a whip and Dalhart whirled, both guns
spouting flame, shooting too swiftly for deadly accuracy.
Hashknife’s gun thundered in response and as Sleepy’s gun spat flame
from about the center of the room Dalhart jerked sideways, dropped
the gun from his right hand, went back on his heels and fell against
the door of the office, sliding to the floor in a heap.
Hashknife ran to him quickly and flung the office door open. Hayward was
lying on the office floor, flat on his back with one arm flung across
his face. Hashknife stepped back into the saloon as the crowd, panicky
from the killing, surged forward, choking in the powder fumes.
Fat Garnette came forward, his face white where it wasn’t red from gore,
and stopped near Hashknife, trying to ask questions with his hands.
Dalhart wasn’t dead. He tried to lift his head from the floor and cursed
bitterly at Hashknife.
“Who shot Hayward?” asked Hashknife.
“Bullet through the window,” said Dalhart chokingly.
“McLeod got away,” said Fat hoarsely.
“He’s out behind here,” said Hashknife. “He shot at me and his bullet
went through the window. I guess he killed Hayward. Some of yuh prop
Dalhart up and give him a drink.”
Some one got a bottle at the bar, another man went after the doctor,
while the rest stood dumbly in their tracks, shocked, staring with
amazement at Hashknife, who was the coolest man in the place.
Dalhart managed to take a big drink of liquor but he knew as well as
they that his minutes were numbered.
“Yore pardner’s out at the Box 88, ain’t he?” asked Hashknife.
“So it was you, eh?” whispered Dalhart. “We wasn’t sure. Yes, he’s out
there with a broken leg. Damn him! If it hadn’t been for him--I came to
get a doctor and to settle up with Hayward. I was goin’ to get out.”
“You killed McFee a year ago, Dalhart. It was you who killed O’Neil and
it was you who shot Joe LeClere. I can understand why yuh killed McFee.
He recognized yuh as Bitter River Belton. Yuh killed O’Neil because yuh
found out he was a cattle detective, but I’ll be damned if I can figure
out why yuh tried to kill Joe LeClere.”
“That fooled yuh, eh?” whispered Dalhart weakly. “I’m glad somethin’
fooled yuh. I think Joe knew I killed O’Neil and I was afraid he might
tell at his trial. Hayward didn’t think so because he had the deadwood
on Joe. It was Hayward who found out who O’Neil was. He furnished
O’Neil a gun to kill Joe with that night, but Joe didn’t go home.
“That McFee job was funny.” Dalhart was getting so weak that they gave
him another pull at the bottle.
“Joe almost had snakes. He started to town with McFee but he was so loco
he went back. Me and Hayward made Joe believe he killed McFee and the
damn fool still thinks so. That’s what Hayward had on Joe. He forced Joe
to steal cattle from his father for Hayward.”
“Made him change the IS to a Box 88, eh?” asked Hashknife.
Dalhart nodded and closed his eyes.
“Yeah. And we done the same thing. We threw ’em into a box cañon off Dog
Soldier and grazed ’em back there until the brands had healed. When we
knocked old Frenchy off Hayward wanted us to make a big clean-up and we
just got started when you showed up.”
“You stole a pair of white horses from the AH and painted black spots on
’em.”
Dalhart grinned and started to say something as the doctor came
bustling in. He knelt at Dalhart’s side--Dalhart was still smiling.
The examination was brief.
“I don’t see how he lived ten seconds,” said the doctor--and passed on
in to look at Hayward.
McLeod was still alive. Some of the men carried him in. He cursed
everybody and refused to commit himself in any way, even after he was
told that Dalhart had confessed.
* * * * *
Soapy and Weary had deserted their post of duty and were outside the
saloon with Yvonne when Hashknife and Sleepy came out. They had only
heard snatches of information and they almost assaulted Hashknife.
“Joe is clear,” Hashknife told them. “There ain’t a thing they can hold
him for. But I’ve got to have somethin’ else cleared up and Joe can do
it. C’mon!”
“You say Joe is clear?” asked Yvonne, almost afraid that she had not
heard correctly. “He isn’t guilty?”
“Not of murder. Oh, it’s all right, Yvonne! Don’t cry. For gosh sake,
won’t somebody take that riot-gun away from Soapy and let him take care
of Yvonne?”
They walked down to the doctor’s office and went in with Soapy and
Yvonne far in the rear. Joe was half out of bed, trying to put on some
clothes, but found himself too weak.
The man who had come for the doctor had blurted out some information
that was of vital importance to Joe LeClere.
Hashknife lifted him back into the bed and Joe stared at them with
frightened eyes.
“Lay down and listen to me,” said Hashknife. “To begin with, you didn’t
kill Charley McFee.”
Joe opened his eyes wide and his mouth sagged for a moment. He tried to
speak but merely swallowed and looked up at Hashknife.
“Dalhart killed him,” said Hashknife. “He confessed. And he killed
O’Neil too. Didja know that, Joe?”
“I--I thought he did. But--but Hayward said he’d have me hung for murder
if I told. It was Dalhart who tried to kill me.”
“We know that, Joe. He admitted that part of it. He said that they had
the deadwood on you and Hayward made you steal cows from yore father.
Is that the truth, Joe?”
Joe’s eyes shifted from face to face. Yvonne was leaning close to him
and he looked square at her as he said:
“You think I’m a rustler, but I’m not. Hell, how I hated Hayward! But
he could have had me hung. They thought I was stealin’ Dad’s cows but
I wasn’t. I’d corral a lot of Box 88’s and rebrand ’em. Run the hot
iron over the original brand and not do it too well and then turn the
animals over to whoever was in charge of the work at the mines. They
also kept the rebrands back on Dog Soldier. I swear to God that I
never stole a cow from Dad.”
Tears were running down Yvonne’s cheeks as she turned to Hashknife. Joe
was crying too, but most of his tears were from weakness and reaction.
“Oh, he isn’t guilty of anything!” she choked. “Don’t you see he is
cleared of everything, Hashknife?”
“Yea-a-ah, I see he is,” said Hashknife seriously. “But if the chance
ever comes, after he gets well, I’ll kick him a couple of times for my
own satisfaction.”
“Why--what for?” asked Weary.
“For givin’ me the toughest problem I ever worked on. I’ve been here all
this time tryin’ to figure out just what he was goin’ to do with them
Box 88 cows we found him with that mornin’. There wasn’t a darn brand in
this state he could make out of that Box 88--and I never once thought he
might be double-crossin’ a thief.”
“If you wa-want to do the kickin’ right now I’ll let yuh,” said Joe
seriously. “The rest of you folks get out because I’ve only got on one
of Doc’s nightgowns.”
“And I’ve lost my good job,” sighed Soapy.
“You ain’t even started on yore _good_ job,” said Hashknife. “Yvonne, go
in and tell yore dad that the kid is all right. Yore dad knows all about
them cows that Joe was goin’ to brand, but he don’t know why.”
“And you did it,” said Yvonne. She took hold of Hashknife’s sleeve and
looked at him. “You did all of this just for us.”
And then she kissed him square--on the mouth--ducked aside and ran to
her father’s room. Hashknife looked foolishly around and headed for the
door.
“I could do the same thing to yuh,” said Soapy.
But Hashknife didn’t accept. He walked out followed by Sleepy and Weary,
who was still walking around in a daze.
* * * * *
They went to the sheriff’s office where they found Fat and several
other men. McLeod was not dangerously hurt. They had him on a cot in
one of the cells while some more of the men were getting a rig at the
livery-stable to go out to the Box 88 after Asher, who was out there
waiting with Cornes for the doctor to come.
Fat had washed the blood off his face and head but he was far from
presentable yet. McLeod had struck him over the head with a six-shooter,
knocked him down but not quite out.
“I don’t understand it all yet,” complained Fat. “How didja figure all
this out, Hashknife? I don’t get head nor tail out of it. You called
him Bitter River, didn’t yuh? Wasn’t that the name in that telegram
from Piney River?”
“That was the shadow I shot at,” smiled Hashknife. “McFee used to be a
deputy sheriff down there. He was here two days and was murdered. The
only time I ever met McFee he was chasin’ a man by that name--Bitter
River Belton. I took a chance and the description fit Dalhart, except
for the moles which I didn’t see. That established a killer for McFee.
“I knew that O’Neil was a detective. Rustlers will kill a detective,
yuh know. LeClere was losin’ cattle, so I had to find out who was
stealin’ ’em. Yuh can change an IS to a Box 88 by usin’ the I for
part of the Box and makin’ the S into an eight and addin’ another
eight. They both brand on the right shoulder. It took me a long time
because I was workin’ on the wrong angle. I thought Joe LeClere was
a crook and a cow-thief. Hayward said that Dalhart and Asher had
pulled out for Arizona but I didn’t believe it. Then I heard about
Hayward havin’ some claims on Dog Soldier and it struck me that Dog
Soldier was the answer, but me and Sleepy never quite got there.
“We saw two men on pinto horses and later on we ran into ’em in a big
pot-hole in the hills, where we spent the day swappin’ lead. Sleepy
killed one of the pintoes and I got one rustler in the leg. But they
got away from us just at dusk on one horse, and then we found that the
dead pinto was an AH with the black spots painted on.
“I knew that one of the men was hurt, so I figured he would need a
doctor. The rest of it was luck, I suppose. Soapy brought me word that
McLeod asked the doctor to go to the Box 88 to see a sick man. McLeod
tipped Hayward off that some one was in his private office, so I had
Fat arrest McLeod while I handled the rest.”
“I’d say yuh shore handled it,” said Fat. “You’ve got plenty reward
comin’ to yuh, Hashknife--but you earned it. Seven thousand is a nice
stake.”
“I get two thousand of it--that’s all! Have yuh got a telegraph blank
around here, Fat?”
“Sure. Top drawer of that desk.”
As Hashknife wrote the telegram, Ace Hart of the AH ranch came in. He
had heard the story at the Silver Streak.
“I want to meet Hartley,” he said. “By grab, I want to meet the man who
smoked up Chongo town! Never heard anythin’ like it. Where is he?”
Fat introduced them and they shook hands solemnly.
“Soapy and Cling talked a lot about yuh, Hartley.”
“Nice pair of boys,” said Hashknife.
“Nice, hell! Wilder ’n hawks!”
“Soapy told me you’ve got a place on Opal Creek.”
“He did, eh? Told me about it too. Damn fool! Had an idea I’d give it to
him. Talked about startin’ a herd. Ain’t got a damn cent!”
“If he had about a thousand dollars would yuh feel like lettin’ him and
his wife have the place?”
“Thousand--him and _his_ wife? What-cha talkin’ about?”
“Would yuh, Hart?”
The old man cuffed his hat over on the side of his head and squinted at
Hashknife.
“If he had a thousand and a wife--yeah.”
“Make out a deed tomorrow and I’ll speak to the preacher.”
“I don’t understand yuh, Hartley.”
“Are you still shootin’ at shadows?” asked Fat.
“Not if the county will pay that reward and if Yvonne LeClere will stick
to her word.”
“Well, the county will pay it tomorrow, Hashknife. I can’t speak for the
Association, but they’ll pay, I’m sure.”
“I’m sorry I can’t collect that end of it, Fat.”
He handed Fat the telegram, which was directed to the Secretary of the
Cattlemen’s Association and read:
CLOSED CASE TONIGHT COMPLETE CONFESSION MURDER OF MCFEE
AND SHIELDS BY BITTER RIVER BELTON ALIAS MIKE DALHART
A KILLER FROM PINEY RIVER STOP ACCEPT OUR RESIGNATIONS
AS THIS JOB KEEPS US TOO LONG ON ONE SIDE OF THE HILL