Nick Lee, the man who had impersonated the sheriff at High Grade, was an
old friend of Scotty McGowan; and Lee was around the Valley several days
before he happened to see Hashknife Hartley. It was quite a shock to his
nerves when he found that Hashknife and Sleepy were working at the
Pelliser ranch. Lee had never told Scotty what happened in High Grade,
but after seeing Hashknife he decided to tell him all about it.
He told him how Ed Reese and Jack Erb, the two cowboys, had conceived
the idea of taking the money away from the tenderfoot and of the
disastrous results when these two traveling cowboys had taken a hand in
the matter. He described how they had taken him out of town, made him
get off and break all existing records in getting out of sight.
“You should have seen Jack and Eddie when I got back. This tall waddy
got them into a fight and they was a mess. They got drunk that evenin’,
and I pulled out. I kinda had a hunch that I might git even with these
two jiggers, so I went to Cinnabar. You know old Matt Daley, who runs
the hotel there, don’tcha?”
“Well, them two punchers and the tenderfoot stayed there. Old Matt’s as
crooked as a snake in a cactus patch, and I find out that he’s pulled
the stolen horse game on ’em, ’cause he’s got some broncs he wants to
git rid of. Figures he can sell ’em three at a tall price. I keeps out
of sight, and old Matt sure sold ’em. Got a hundred and fifty apiece for
a twenty dollar animal. Matt tells me that they’ve pulled out, but I’m
not so sure.
“Anyway I waited until almost dark, and then I headed for here over that
old road from Cinnabar.”
“Well, they ain’t got nothin’ on you, except that you played a game,”
said Scotty.
“Yeah, that’s true. But here’s another queer one, Scotty. I ain’t more
than a mile or so from Cinnabar, when I runs into that tenderfoot ag’in.
He don’t rec’nize me in the dark, and I figure he thinks I’m one of them
other two. Anyway, I stick him up for what he’s got and took his bronc.”
“Oh! Did he know who you was, Lee?”
“No. But he’s out at the Pelliser ranch, and I’m here. It wouldn’t
sprain anybody’s brain to figure who got his money and bronc.”
“Aw, forget it. They can’t prove nothin’. But who in hell are these two
strange punchers?”
“Search me. But I’ll tell you one thing, they’re forked and salty. Don’t
forget that, Scotty. They shore tell you where to head in.”
“Well, they ain’t after you, so forget it.”
In the meantime Bill McGill was loath to leave the Pelliser ranch. He
had no place to go.
“Kinda helpless,” said Hashknife to Steve Pelliser, a day or so after
Bill had unburdened himself to Steve.
“Yeah —— helpless,” agreed Steve. “Wanted me to board and room him, but
I can’t do that. He ain’t no earthly good around here. Don’t even know
which side of a horse to get on to. I told Mary I was goin’ to ship him
away from here.”
Steve paused reflectively.
“I caught him recitin’ poetry to her yesterday.”
“Did he recite it well?” Hashknife smiled.
“That part of it didn’t interest me a damn’ bit.”
“She’s a pretty girl, and he’s a good lookin’ youngster.”
“And that,” said Steve slowly, “is jist why Bill McGill has got to git
away from here.”
Hashknife grinned and went away. He did not appreciate Steve’s viewpoint
in the matter at all. Hashknife had heard all about the killing of Jim
McGowan and had even been shown the hole in the corral post where
McGowan’s bullet had bored into the wood. Thursday Adams’ idea was that
the two men had fought over Mary Pelliser.
“O’ course,” warned Thursday, “that’s jist my idea—but it’s reasonable.
Pink’s story about all that shootin’ in the dark is bunk. McGowan wanted
to marry this girl, I tell you, and when he seen Pink Lowry beatin’ his
time, he runs into Pink down there by the stable and they had words. It
was jist a case of McGowan missin’, Pink hittin’. Oh, it was
self-defense, but why make a mystery over it?”
“Lowry seems like a nice feller.”
“Nicest you ever seen. He was past here yesterday and he talked to me.
Never went near the house, ’cause Bill was there. He asked me about
Bill, and I told him he better shine up his shirt or dance at somebody
else’s weddin’. He acted like I’d stepped on his corns. He don’t come
out to see her. Can’t expect her to go and see him, can he?”
“Did she like Lowry?” asked Hashknife, rather amused at Thursday.
“I reckon she did—better than she did McGowan.”
Hashknife and Sleepy were going to town that evening, and Bill asked to
go along. He had never been at Willow Wells and he needed some new
clothes. His war-bag was somewhere along the old road out of Cinnabar.
He had been wearing a pair of Steve’s socks, which he wished to replace.
Thursday Adams went along with them, and they left Thursday, with Bill,
at the store. Hashknife and Sleepy met Dud Evans, and the three of them
went to the War Paint, where they found Scotty McGowan and Buck Haskell.
Scotty had been drinking and was in a belligerent mood, while Buck
greatly desired to sing. Scotty gazed moodily upon Hashknife and Sleepy,
decided that they might resent any familiarity on his part, and let them
alone. The three men were at the bar when Nick Lee came in with Sam
Hall, an undersized cowboy from the McGowan ranch. They stopped to watch
a poker game, and when Nick Lee glanced around, he saw Hashknife looking
at him. Lee tried to appear nonchalant, but he swallowed heavily and
looked away.
“Outside your own county, ain’tcha, Sheriff?” said Hashknife.
Lee affected extreme deafness.
“Feller talkin’ to you, Lee,” said Sam Hall.
“Oh!” grunted Lee.
“Called you sheriff.”
“Huh?”
Lee looked at Hashknife, who was grinning. Lee grinned, too, because it
looked like an easy way out.
“Didja resign?” asked Hashknife.
“He asked you if you resigned,” said Sam, as if acting as interpreter.
Hashknife turned to Dud Evans.
“That’s a man you ought to know. He’s the sheriff at High Grade. You
sheriffs ought to know each other.”
“That’s right,” grinned Evans. “What didja say the name was?”
Lee was cornered, looking for a way out. Scotty was close enough to hear
what was being said. He seemed to enjoy it.
“Tell’m to go to hell, Lee,” he advised.
“You better keep your horns out of this, Scotty,” advised Dud.
* * * * *
Sleepy had moved slowly around until he was within reach of Scotty, who
realized he was getting in bad. He shrugged his shoulders and turned
around. For several moments he seemed undecided what to do, but finally
headed for the front door; and with him went Nick Lee, thankful to get
away. Sam Hall laughed loudly, as if with complete enjoyment. “I’ll buy
a drink,” he offered. “Them two jiggers are supposed to be plumb
saline—_mucho salinas_, as they say. I never did see that Lee feller
until he came here; but Scotty says he is _mucho malo hombre_. What’ll
you have, gents?”
“Who is he, anyway?” asked the sheriff as they accepted the drink.
“Jist a waddy from over in the Cinnabar country; old friend of Scotty
McGowan. Scotty sent for him, I reckon. Here’s how.”
Hall paid for the drink and walked out. Hashknife and Sleepy went over
to the pool table, racked up the balls and began playing, while Dud
perched on the back of a chair and offered advice on the shots. They
were arguing when Thursday Adams came in, hat in hand, a wide grin on
his face.
“You shore missed a sight!” he blurted. “Golly, it was good! Me and Bill
are over there in the store where you left us, when in comes Scotty
McGowan and another jigger—a stranger to me. You know, they don’t light
up that store very good, and this stranger almost ran into Bill. I don’t
know yet what it’s all about.
“Them two met right there beside the counter, and they looks at each
other for long enough to count ten. This here stranger says, ‘Well, if
here ain’t little Red Ridin’ Hood.’ Jist like that. And Bill draws back
his right fist, bats this stranger plumb in the nose and knocks him half
the length of the store. And then Bill walks right over him and goes out
through the doorway.
“Well, none of us gets much explanation. Scotty swears he don’t know
what it’s all about, and this stranger is losin’ so much red ink that he
ain’t explainin’ anythin’. I can’t find Bill—and there you are.”
Hashknife placed his cue on the table top and sat down in a chair to
laugh.
“Bill,” said Sleepy chokingly, “is gettin’ civilized.”
They went out and tried to find the boy. His horse was still tied to the
hitch-rack, but Bill was not in evidence.
“Do you reckon he got scared and pulled out on foot?” asked Evans.
“I can’t believe that,” replied Hashknife. “I don’t reckon Bill ever hit
a man before, and it might react kinda funny on him. He might think that
this feller would kill him on sight, and he’ll keep out of his way.
We’ll have to wait until he gits over his scare.”
“Is he packin’ a gun?”
“Not in sight.”
“Well, I dunno,” said Thursday. “He asked me if I knowed where Mr. Hart,
the banker, lived, and I told him. He didn’t say why he wanted to know.”
“Maybe he went out to Hart’s house,” suggested the sheriff.
“Well, we’ll wait and see if he shows up,” said Hashknife.
They went to the store, but Scotty and Nick Lee had left there. The
storekeeper said that the stranger was angry about the blow.
“I think his nose was busted. Anyway, it looked as though it was. I’ve
got the bundle of stuff the tenderfoot bought. I reckon he forgot it.”
“I’ll give it to him,” said Sleepy, taking the package.
They were standing on the sidewalk in front of the store, when a man
came running across the street. It was the blacksmith.
“Is the sheriff there?” he panted. “Oh, hello, Evans! Say, you better
get up to the Hart house right quick—I’ll get the doctor.”
And without any further information, he ran down the street.
“That’s funny,” said Evans. “Hart home, eh? C’mon.”
Edward Hart lived in a neat frame house, located about three city blocks
from the main street. The nearest house was the one occupied by Jeff
Miller, the blacksmith, about a hundred feet away.
Not knowing what had happened, the four men ran all the way to the Hart
home, where they found Mrs. Miller at the gate. The front door was open,
the light shining out on the little vine-covered porch.
“Somebody shot Mr. Hart,” she said hoarsely. “Mrs. Hart’s in there with
him. Did Jeff go for the doctor?”
“Yes,” said Evans shortly. “Who shot Hart?”
“Nobody knows. Mrs. Hart was over at our house, when we heard a shot.
Jimmy, that’s my oldest boy, says there were two shots, but I only heard
one. We came out on our porch, but there wasn’t anythin’ wrong as far as
we could see. But Mrs. Hart said she’d go on home. Pretty soon I heard
her scream for help, and me and Jeff came runnin’ over.”
The sheriff and Hashknife went into the house, while Sleepy and Thursday
sat down on the porch. After a few moments Hashknife came back to the
door.
“Hit pretty hard,” he said.
The doctor was coming, and they could hear the excited voice of the
blacksmith as he tried to explain. There was a soft groan from the
shrubbery beside the porch, and Sleepy got quickly to his feet. The
bushes quivered considerably. Hashknife stepped to the edge of the porch
as a man raised up to a sitting position.
It was Bill McGill, a trickle of blood over his left temple, a vacant
expression in his eyes. Then he got to his feet. Clenched in his right
hand was a heavy Colt.
“For God’s sake, Bill!” cried Sleepy.
Evans stepped out on the porch, staring at Bill, as Hashknife jumped
down and removed the gun from the boy’s hand. The doctor came hurrying
down the little sandy walk, brushed past them without a word and entered
the house. Hashknife seated Bill on the steps and wiped the blood off
his face.
“What happened, Bill?” he asked.
“What was he doin’ with that gun?” queried the sheriff, taking it from
Hashknife and examining it. “One chamber empty,” he said. “I guess this
is the gun. Smells as though it had just been fired.”
Bill was beginning to recover. He wiped his face, stared at the
handkerchief and put it into his pocket.
“What happened?” asked Hashknife.
Bill looked at him dazedly.
“I hurt my head, I guess.”
The sheriff went back into the house, where the doctor was working over
his patient. Hashknife went in and looked around. They had the wounded
man on a couch. Mrs. Hart was sitting in a rocking chair, her face in
her hands. The sheriff rested one hand against the wall, watching the
doctor.
“Badly hurt, Doc?” he asked.
“Bad enough. Who shot him?”
“We ain’t got that far—yet.”
Hashknife examined the room. One window, a front one, was wide open, the
shade up, a pair of lace curtains playing back and forth in the breeze.
The sheriff tried to question Mrs. Hart, but she knew nothing. She had
found her husband on the floor. There had been no one with him when she
went over to see Mrs. Miller.
Hashknife and the sheriff went back to the porch. Bill was still hazy
about what had happened. He did not seem able to tell why he should be
lying out there in the bushes with a six-shooter in his hand.
“I hate to do it,” said the sheriff, “but I’m afraid I’ve got to lock
this boy up—until he knows somethin’.
Hashknife nodded slowly.
“It looks thataway, Evans. Queer deal all the way around. He’s been hit
on the head.”
“Been hit twice,” corrected Sleepy. “I examined him.”
“Remember bein’ hit, Bill?” asked Thursday.
“I know I have a fearful headache.”
Evans drew Hashknife aside.
“I think I better lock him up. Folks around here are mighty fond of
Hart, and you never can tell, you know.”
“That’s true. I’ll go with you.”
Bill was a little wobbly on his legs and a trifle vague about things,
but went willingly. They locked him in a cell after bandaging his head,
which had swollen badly on one side, and helped him to bed. The doctor
had put Hart to bed by the time they got back to the house.
“We’ve got to wait and see what happens,” he told them. “It’s a bad
hurt, boys.”
“Got a fightin’ chance?” asked the sheriff.
“Just about. The bullet is still in there. Struck a rib, I think. I’ll
try and take it out tomorrow, when I can get enough light to work by.
I’ll be here all night.”
The three cowboys rode back to the Pelliser ranch. It was past midnight,
so they did not awaken any one to tell them.
“I suppose you’re satisfied, Hashknife,” said Sleepy, as he sat on the
edge of his bunk, drawing off his boots.
“Satisfied over what?”
“Somethin’ to work on.”
“Oh!”
“I was just wonderin’ if that feller that Bill hit had anythin’ to do
with it.”
“Hart didn’t hit him.”
“I know that. But mebbe somebody shot at Bill and hit Hart.”
“Doin’ a little thinkin’ yourself, ain’tcha?” Hashknife said, smiling.
“A little. I kinda like Bill McGill.”
“Yea-a-a-ah. Bill’s all right—the danged fool.”
“But who hit him on the head twice?”
“Keep thinkin’—you might get it. That’s how I got my start.”
* * * * *
The shooting of Edward Hart rather upset Willow Valley. He was
universally liked and respected; so much so, in fact, that men came a
long way to get the details and find out what was being done to punish
the man who shot him. There was little change in his condition. The
doctor forbade any one’s going in to see him; accordingly the cattlemen
congregated, drank too much liquor and wanted to know more about the
tenderfoot who was in jail.
Bill McGill was willing to talk and did talk, but the prosecutor did not
believe him. It was not a consistent story. Bill told it to Hashknife
and Sleepy.
“After I had trouble with that man in the store, I decided to go and see
Mr. Hart at his home. Thursday told me where he lived. I found Mr. Hart
at home, and he asked me to come in. I told him what I wanted, and he
said there was no opening at the present time.
“We sat down to talk a few minutes, and he said he wanted a drink. I
noticed this big revolver on the table, near where I was sitting. Mr.
Hart left the door open when he went to the kitchen, and I was looking
at him as he came back in. I remember that he turned his head and looked
back toward the kitchen, and just at that moment I heard the report of a
gun.
“It was like a clap of thunder and frightened me for—well, anyway, it
was considerable of a shock. I saw Mr. Hart falling forward. I don’t
remember taking that gun, but I suppose I did. I remember running to the
front door, throwing it open, and my toe caught on a rug. I was falling
when something struck me on the head. I dimly remember hearing another
shot, and then—then I don’t know what happened.”
Bill told his story haltingly, as if afraid of a misstatement, and he
kept his eyes on the floor as he talked.
“I guess I was still dazed when I was put in jail.”
“Remember firin’ a shot from that gun?” asked Hashknife.
“I do not,” Bill answered crisply. “In fact, I have never shot a gun in
my life.”
“I believe you,” said Hashknife, “but the rest of ’em don’t, Bill.”
“My heavens! They don’t think I killed Mr. Hart?”
“I’m afraid they do. You see, they don’t know you like we do.”
“Does Mr. Pelliser and—Mary?”
“They didn’t say. It was quite a shock to Pelliser, you know. Bill, I’m
shore afraid they’ll keep you here quite awhile.”
“But I am innocent of any wrong, Hashknife.”
“I know. There’s no earthly reason for you to kill him. You didn’t even
meet him until last night. But a jury of these Willow Valley cowmen
would hang you higher than a kite, evidence or no evidence. Hart was
mighty well liked around here. The thing to do is not to prove your
innocence, but to prove somebody else guilty.”
“Could that be done?”
“That question shows lack of practise in thinkin’, Bill.”
They left Bill and went over to the War Paint, which was crowded. Nick
Lee was there, back to the bar, while the rest of the Diamond R outfit
were scattered around the room. The man who called himself Smith, whose
injuries were not entirely healed, was at the bar with Lee.
Lee was talking rather loudly, with but few listeners.
“Well, they caught him in the act, didn’t they? What the hell good is
the law if that’s all they do? Found him out there with a gun in his
hand, and one shot fired. They’ll use up a lot of taxpayer’s money and
then turn him loose. The law is pretty damn’ loose, I’d say.”
“And lenient,” said Hashknife.
Lee twisted his head quickly, his jaw sagging a little.
“Otherwise some folks I know would be breakin’ rocks,” added Hashknife.
Some of the men laughed. Even if they did agree with Lee, they did not
approve of his soap-box actions.
Lee shrugged his shoulders and tried to appear indifferent.
“Are you through talkin’?” asked Hashknife.
Lee looked at him defiantly for a few moments, but shifted his gaze. He
did not like the level stare of those gray eyes.
“Well, I’ve said what I wanted to,” he growled.
“I haven’t. You stand there and kick about the law being slow to hang a
man whose sole guilt is in having been on the spot of crime. The
tenderfoot kid never killed anybody. He hasn’t a crooked thought in his
danged head. And you kick because they don’t hang him quick. Your name’s
Lee, ain’t it? That’s what them two horsethieves called you. Want me to
tell this crowd what kind of a hairpin you are, Lee? No? Then keep your
mouth shut about the laxity of the law.”
Lee turned slowly around and motioned for the bartender to serve them.
The scar faced man studied Hashknife intently, but said nothing.
“How are you comin’ along, Smith?” asked Hashknife pleasantly.
“All right, thank you.”
“That’s fine.”
As they passed toward the rear of the room, Scotty McGowan accosted
Hashknife.
“I’d like to talk with you a minute. My name’s McGowan, Hartley.”
“I knew you by sight, McGowan.”
“Good. You know that Hart was a friend of mine, and I kinda want to git
your opinion of this tenderfoot they’ve got jailed for the shootin’.
What you jist told Lee kinda struck me as good sense. You don’t believe
the kid shot him, eh?”
Hashknife shook his head.
“I don’t. Why would he?”
“That’s what I’m drivin’ at. Who is this kid they call McGill? Where did
he come from and what’s he doin’ here?”
Hashknife explained as much as he knew of Bill’s personal affairs, and
Scotty listened attentively.
“Well, that shore don’t show any reason why he should shoot Hart,”
admitted Scotty, after Hashknife had finished.
“Did Hart ever have any trouble with anybody around here?” asked
Hashknife. “Ever put anybody out of business through the bank?”
“I don’t believe he did. Never heard of anythin’ like that. I’m glad you
told me what you did, Hartley. Lotsa folks don’t _sabe_ anythin’ about
this kid, and they might try takin’ him out of jail some night.”
“That would shore be a pity.”
“Yeah, it would. What kind of a chance do you think Hart stands?”
“The doctor won’t even make a statement.”
“Uh-huh. If he recovers, mebbe he can tell who shot him.”
“I hope so, but I doubt it. My opinion is that Hart was shot while his
head was turned, and that he never seen the man who shot him. The kid
told me that Hart was lookin’ toward the kitchen when the shot was
fired.”
“There was only the kid and Hart in the room.”
“But the window was open.”
“Oh, yeah. Well, it shore is a mix-up. Thanks for tellin’ me about it.”
“You’re welcome, McGowan.”
* * * * *
Mary and her father came to town early that morning, and Pink let them
in to talk with Bill. Pink was sour about Mary’s coming down to the jail
but secretly glad that Bill McGill was away from the Pelliser ranch.
After the interview Mary met Pink in the office.
“You haven’t been out to see us for a long time,” she said.
“I was past there,” admitted Pink, “but you had company.”
“Why, Pink, we haven’t had any company for ages.”
“Oh!”
“Why, you didn’t stay away on account of Bill McGill, did you?”
“Well—” Pink rubbed an ear violently—“well, he—he’s company.”
“No such a thing—he was a patient.”
“Oh, that’s how it was.”
“He wouldn’t have bitten you.”
“No-o-o,” admitted Pink, “but I don’t like to horn in. Say, I’ve got a
dinger of a new mouth harp. Sent away for it.”
“Bring it out with you.”
“Yeah, I shore will.”
“You haven’t been out since the party, you know.”
“I know.” Pink grinned slowly, bashfully. “My clothes wasn’t—”
“Forget the clothes.”
“Well, I was to blame for bustin’ up that party, Mary. I’ve tried to
puzzle out why Jim McGowan ever took that shot at me. I didn’t like Jim,
but I’m shore sorry it had to be thataway. It wasn’t like him. I always
thought he was too practical to shoot at a man in the dark.”
“Didn’t he say anything before he shot?”
“I swear I don’t know. The wind was blowin’ toward him from me, and the
music was kinda loud, you know. I did hear the stable door slam just a
few moments before the shot was fired. I tell you the truth, I was so
sore about what McGowan said to me in the house, that I wouldn’t have
heard anythin’.”
Mary nodded slowly.
“I heard what was said.”
“It wasn’t bad enough to start a battle over.”
“I know. Oh, I’m sorry about what I did, Pink. McGowan asked me to dance
with him, and I told him I was engaged when I wasn’t. That was why I
grabbed you and made you dance that first quadrille with me. McGowan
knew I lied.”
“Well,” Pink said slowly, “it’s all over now. What do you think of them
new cowboys you’ve got out there?”
“I don’t know so much about them, but Dad likes them fine. Hashknife
says such serious things, and Sleepy laughs at everything and
everybody.”
“What do you think of Bill McGill’s story?”
“I think he is telling the truth, don’t you?”
“Well—” Pink grinned—“I believe it more now than I did awhile ago.”
“What caused the change in your beliefs?”
“Findin’ out that he wasn’t company at your house.”
Mary laughed and went on up the street, while Pink did a shuffle on the
office floor. He wanted to go in and hug Bill McGill, but was afraid
Bill might not take kindly to such a procedure.
The following day Edward Hart regained consciousness. The sheriff
happened to be there at the time. Hart’s memory seemed all right, and he
wanted to talk; so the doctor merely warned him against it.
“Did you see the man who shot you?” asked the sheriff, eager to find out
what Hart knew.
“The stranger,” he whispered, “was the only person in the room. I can’t
swear he shot me. My gun was there on the table.”
“You don’t know where the shot came from?”
Hart shook his head weakly.
“It was pretty close.”
The doctor forbade any further questioning, and the sheriff went back to
the office to talk with Bill about what the banker had said.
“But I didn’t,” protested Bill. “I’ve told the truth, Sheriff.”
Bill McGill’s reasons for being in Willow Valley had been broadcast by
word of mouth, but no one seemed interested; people wanted to know his
reasons for shooting Edward Hart.
And that night the banker died. Pink rode out early the next morning,
bearing the news to Steve Pelliser and the rest of the SP outfit.
“He was conscious for awhile yesterday evenin’,” explained Pink. “He
seemed to think that Bill shot him. He said he wasn’t sure.”
It was quite a blow to Steve, although he said nothing. Mary went to
town with her father, but the rest of the boys went ahead with their
work. That afternoon after they returned Steve told Hashknife that the
doctor had taken the bullet from Hart’s body, that it was a .45.
“Same as the gun Bill had,” said Hashknife.
“The kid is up against a hard deal,” declared Steve. “They’ll cinch him
as sure as fate. Ed didn’t have an enemy in this Valley. I hate to say
it, but I’m afraid Bill did the job. No, I’m not bitter, Hartley. Ed was
my best friend, but I’m not bitter against the kid. Why he did it, God
knows. I’d believe him innocent as quick as a flash, if there was a
chance in the world.”
“They’ll hold him for murder, you think?”
“Sure as fate. Judge Lindsay won’t be here until tomorrow, so they’ll
have to hold his preliminary when he comes.”
“I still don’t believe the kid killed him, Steve.”
“I wish you were right.”
“Do you?” Hashknife looked at him quizzically.
“I certainly do.”
“All right, pardner. You fire me off this job I’ve got, and I’ll see if
I can’t scare up a murderer.”
Steve stared at him for several moments.
“I don’t _sabe_ your idea.”
“Well, I can’t do much if I keep workin’ every day. You fire me.”
“You mean to work on this case? Are you a detective, Hartley?”
“No-o-o, I’m not—not a reg’lar one.”
“What do you know?”
“Nothin’—yet.”
“Well, I won’t fire you. But if you think there’s a chance to save that
kid, I’ll pay your salary and let you do as you please.”
“Why are you so anxious to save the kid?”
Steve hunched back against the corral fence, his eyes somber as he
looked off across the hills.
“I’d hate to see an innocent man hanged,” he said slowly. “The kid is
nothin’ to me. Go ahead and work on the case, Hartley. I’ll pay the
bill.”
“You’re a square shooter.”
“Mm-m-m. I’ve been hit hard today and I feel kinda limp. You see, me and
Hart have been friends for years, and I’ll miss him a lot.”
“You don’t remember anythin’ about that Willow Valley Copper Company, do
you, Steve?”
“What the kid was searchin’ for? No. I never mixed up with the minin’
game to any extent.”
“Did Hart?”
Hashknife wondered why Steve gave him such a searching look.
“I guess not.” Steve turned away. “He never said anythin’ about it.”
“Was Hart in the cattle business?”
“Punched cows for awhile years ago. He married money. Oh, not a barrel
of it, but enough to set up the bank at Willow Wells. Hart was educated
in the East, but he came West, dropped his education and learned to ride
the range. A lot of men have done that. The bank has made money.”
“You say Hart had no enemies?”
“Not one—that I know anything about.”
“Uh-huh. Do you know if he held any mortgages against ranches in the
Valley? Any notes or anythin’ that would cause a man to wish for his
death?”
Steve’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, but he finally shook his head.
“I don’t know of any.”
“Somebody had a reason to kill him, you know. Only crazy men kill
without reason, and you ain’t got no crazy men around here. At least—”
Hashknife smiled—“not crazy enough to do a thing like that.”
“No, I guess not.”
“Well, it looks like a blank wall,” admitted Hashknife, “but I’ll see if
there ain’t a crack in the wall somewhere. Don’t tell anybody I’m doin’
anythin’, ’cause I don’t want a bullet in the back.”
“You seem convinced that the kid didn’t do it.”
“I’m hopin’ he didn’t; there’s nothin’ sure.”
“I wish you luck.”
* * * * *
Hashknife did not tell Sleepy of his new arrangement with Pelliser. He
knew Sleepy would go ahead with his own job, asking no questions. Sleepy
had perfect faith in Hashknife. After supper that evening Hashknife rode
to Willow Wells. He found Evans and Lowry at the sheriff’s office, and
the three of them went in for a short talk with Bill, whose preliminary
hearing was set for two o’clock the following afternoon.
Bill was a bit downhearted, but felt that the judge would release him as
soon as he heard his story. The boys cheered him up as much as they
could. They left Pink at the office and went over to the War Paint. The
place was almost deserted, but they managed to get Miller, the
blacksmith, and Frank Davis, book-keeper in the bank, to play sluff with
them, while the bartender sat on the back of a chair, watching the game.
They played for a couple of hours, then Davis went home. He was in
charge of the bank until the directors decided on what to do. Hashknife
was tired of cards, and when the bartender took Davis’ place and
suggested a small poker game, Hashknife drew out, lighted a cigarette
and walked out of the place.
He crossed the street and went into a store, where he made a few
purchases. Several men were there, and the conversation was all about
the murder of Edward Hart. Hashknife leaned on a counter and listened to
the different opinions regarding Bill McGill.
No one seemed to have any idea why Bill should shoot Hart, but they were
of the general opinion that Willow Wells would have a murder trial.
“Judge Lindsay will shore soak him plenty,” decided one of the men.
“He’s death on murderers.”
Hashknife smiled to himself. Death on murderers!
“And I’d like to see you pick a jury in this county that wouldn’t hang
that feller.”
“You couldn’t do it.”
Hashknife wandered back to the door. He could understand them. They were
of the types of human beings who believe any man in jail is guilty;
their reasoning is that he would not be in jail if he was not guilty.
Hashknife went outside and stood on the edge of the sidewalk. It was
rather dark, and the street was lighted only by two or three windows.
There seemed to be a lot of horses around the sheriff’s office; men and
horses. Hashknife’s heart gave a quick jump. He knew what it meant.
Swiftly he ran across the street to the War Paint, where he yelled at
the sheriff—
“They’re takin’ Bill out of the jail, Evans!”
The sheriff kicked back his chair and came running, followed by all the
others. The men were mounting now—were riding down the street in a
compact mass. The sheriff ran from the saloon to the office, where the
door stood wide open. The rear half of the office was the jail.
Pink Lowry was stretched on a cot, blood dripping from a cut on the side
of his head. The sheriff ran quickly down to Bill’s cell, where the door
sagged open. The cell was empty.
The sheriff ran back and found Hashknife examining Pink’s head.
“They swatted him over the head,” said Hashknife. “Get me some water.”
“They’ve got Bill!” exclaimed the sheriff. “My God, what next? They’ll
lynch him before we can stop ’em, Hashknife.”
Hashknife got up quickly and turned to the bartender.
“Get some water and bathe that cut. Miller, you run for the doctor and
bring him here. Evans, have you got a couple rifles? Oh, yeah.”
Hashknife strode across the room and took down a Winchester, around
which was wound a belt full of ammunition.
“Take a rifle and get your horse. Mine’s at the hitch-rack. We may not
be able to do anythin’ for the kid, but we’ll try. Where’s the nearest
big tree south of here?”
But the sheriff did not wait to figure out details; he was on the way to
his stable. Hashknife ran up the street and mounted his horse. Evans did
not take time to bridle his mount, but rode with a hackamore. He met
Hashknife in front of the office, and they raced their horses down the
street and over the road which led southward to Newton.
There were trees along the road, but no sign of the lynchers; so the two
men pounded along to the Diamond R ranch, which was in darkness. They
circled the ranch-house close enough to see that no horses were
concealed behind the buildings and then came back to the road. Both
horses were heaving from the long run.
“They’ve got away,” said the sheriff dismally. “Started south and turned
north, I’ll betcha. Threw us off the trail. Well, it’s too late to help
him now.”
Hashknife was obliged to agree. The lynchers would not delay matters.
“I only hope Pink was able to identify some of ’em,” said the sheriff,
as they headed back toward town.
“What satisfaction in that?” asked Hashknife wearily. “Kick up an awful
mess here in the Valley. There were at least a dozen men in that gang.”
“Oh, I suppose. Men are awful fools sometimes, Hashknife.”
“Men,” said Hashknife slowly, “are awful fools most of the
time—especially when they’re in a bunch. The sheep instinct, I reckon.”
They came back to the office and dismounted. The blacksmith and the
doctor were with Pink, who was sitting on the bunk, his head bandaged,
smoking a cigarette. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked miserable.
“Didja find ’em?” asked Miller anxiously.
“They slipped us,” replied the sheriff. “We went as far as the Diamond
R, but didn’t find a soul. What do you know, Pink?”
“I know I got hit,” Pink said sourly.
“Didja see any of that gang?”
“I didn’t see nothin’ but stars. Doc took two stitches in my scalp.”
Pink grinned painfully over his cigarette. “I was settin’ in here
readin’ when I heard somebody outside. It wasn’t exactly a knock—it was
more like somebody brushed against the door. I got right up and opened
it, stuck my head out—and somebody dropped a match in the barrel of
skyrockets.”
“Didn’t you even see that bunch of horses?”
“Nope.”
“Somebody petted him on the head with a rifle barrel,” said the
blacksmith.
The sheriff returned the two rifles to the wall and slumped into a
chair.
“I’ll be going back,” said the doctor. “Dress that head again tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Doc,” said Pink, as the doctor walked out.
“They unlocked the cell with your key,” said the sheriff.
“Took it out of my pocket.”
“It was still in the lock.”
“Do you suppose they hung Bill?”
Evans looked at his deputy pityingly.
“I s’pose they did,” said Pink sadly.
“And you don’t need to look at me that-away, Dud. I’ve been through
enough tonight.”
“It shore didn’t reach your brains.”
“If I had any brains to begin with, I wouldn’t be a deputy sheriff.”
“There’s no use quarrelin’,” said Hashknife. “It’s all over by this
time. We’ll just have to wait until somebody locates the scene, and then
cut Bill off the limb. I reckon I’ll go home.”
“And I’m goin’ to bed,” decided Pink. “I’ve been through somethin’.”
“Yeah, and you’ll go through more, if you don’t stop wailin’,” said the
sheriff.
“Anybody’d think you was hurt.”
“Look at my head!”
“I’ve been lookin’ at it for years—wonderin’ at the handiwork of Nature.
She shore plays jokes on the human race.”
“Yea-a-ah? I’ll match my brains against yours any old time, Mr. Evans.”
“You would, eh? Huh! And if the winner had some calf liver, he could
scramble the whole works and not have enough for a hummin’ bird’s
breakfast.”
They were still glaring belligerently at each other when Hashknife
softly closed the door and went out to his horse. They were not going to
fight. Their nerves were overwrought, and this was merely an outlet for
their feelings.
* * * * *
Hashknife mounted his horse and rode back to the ranch. He had always
detested mob law, and now he was more against it than ever. They had not
given the boy a chance, and Hashknife believed him innocent. He hated to
bear the news to Mary and her father, hated even to think about it
himself. No one would be punished for the deed. The cattlemen were
always a clannish crew and the sheriff could do nothing.
He went in at the big gate and started for the stable, but Mary called
to him from the front porch and he rode up to her.
“You’re up pretty late, ain’t you?” he asked, as he dismounted.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she replied. “Dad went to town to sit up with the
body. Mrs. Hart sent word that she’d like to have him. What is new in
town?”
Hashknife sat down on the porch, while the gray horse nuzzled at him in
the dark.
“Mighty bad news, Mary. The lynch lawyers took Bill out of the jail
tonight.”
“Lynch lawyers?”
“Men who take the law in their own hands.”
“You mean—oh, Hashknife, they didn’t!”
“I reckon they did. Knocked Pink Lowry cold. We tried to find ’em, but
they faded out with him. Gee, it’s a tough way to cash in your last
chip.”
“But—but—”
Words failed her. She was crying now.
“I feel bad about it myself,” Hashknife said slowly. “I liked the danged
fool, and I don’t believe he shot Hart. But what’s the use—now? Even if
we knew who _was_ guilty, it wouldn’t bring Bill back.”
“Oh, who would have done such a thing? Isn’t there a punishment for a
deed like that?”
“Yes’m—it’s against the law. Lots o’ things against the law, you know.”
“It’s just the same as murder.”
“The law misses badly in some cases, Mary. I’ve known cases where a man
was as guilty as hell, and yet the law let him loose. And then it’s time
for lynch lawyers—not before the suspect has even been heard. Poor Bill
never had a chance. Oh, it’s murder all right.”
“What will Dad say?”
“He’s prob’ly heard about it by this time.”
“Are you sure they’d hang him?”
“Sure? Mary, they knocked out Pink Lowry to get him. What else would
they want him for?”
“I guess there’s no hope.”
They sat there together, thinking it over. Far away a cow bawled
dismally, a cricket chirped beside the porch. The rim of the moon was
just showing over the hills, and a lonesome coyote protested.
Someone was coming through the big gate. It was a man on foot, and he
came slowly toward the porch. The light was behind him and his size was
exaggerated, his shadow almost reaching the house from the gate.
“Who’s this?” murmured Hashknife.
The man came on until he was not over twenty feet away, where he
stopped. Hashknife cleared his throat softly.
“Lovely evening, isn’t it?” said the man.
“My God!” exclaimed Hashknife. “Bill McGill!”
“Oh, it’s Hashknife. I wondered where you were.”
Mary did not speak. The shock was almost too much for her nerves. Bill
came over to the porch.
“I believe I have another blister,” he said. “Hello, Mary. I didn’t
expect to find you up at this hour.”
“They—they didn’t hang you?” she whispered.
“I don’t understand.”
“Listen to me, Bill,” said Hashknife severely. “What did those men do to
you?”
“Those men? Oh, do you mean the man who let me out of the jail?”
“There were at least a dozen of them, Bill.”
“Possibly. I saw but one. He unlocked the cell door, pointed toward the
back door and said, ‘Get to hell out of here.’ Rather a difficult order
to fulfill, of course, but I went as far as I could. After I got out, I
had no idea of what to do; so I walked out here.”
“What did this one man look like?”
“I haven’t any idea because he wore a covering on his face. I thought it
rather queer at the time, but I was pleased to get out, you see.”
“Did he carry a light?”
“None at all; but there was light enough shining down the corridor from
the sheriff’s office for me to see him rather plainly.”
Hashknife stood up and leaned against the porch. He could not understand
what it was all about. Why should these men let Bill loose? It was
rather a ridiculous thing to do, he thought.
“Did you come around to the main street?” he asked, thinking that Bill
might have seen the crowd around the front of the office.
“No, I did not.”
“What did you think, when this man let you out?”
“Oh, I was quite pleased with him.”
“Mm-m-m. Bill, you’re a queer jigger. But what’s to be done now? They’ll
put you back in jail and try you for murder.”
“I should hate to go back there again.”
“I should think you would.”
“Can’t we hide him?” asked Mary.
Hashknife had been revolving the thing over in his mind. Could it be
possible that some man had released Bill, knowing that the lynchers were
coming? It was a bare possibility. And next time Bill would be there
when they came.
“Where on earth could we hide him?” said Hashknife.
“Oh, I know!” Mary’s voice was eager. “Over there against the hill is an
old dugout. It was my playhouse when I was a little girl. There is a lot
of brush around the doorway and nobody ever goes there. We could get
some blankets for him, and One Hop would—One Hop will do anything I tell
him.”
“By golly, it’s a chance!” exclaimed Hashknife. “But just remember,
we’ll all go to jail if he’s discovered.”
“Rather a foolish move on your part, then,” said Bill.
“I’m not afraid,” said Mary. “I’ll get the blankets right now.”
She went into the house, and Hashknife turned to Bill. “Pardner, you’ve
got to play the game with us. If you go back to that jail, your neck
will be disjointed inside of a week. If you hide in this dugout, by
golly, you stay there durin’ the daylight. One peep out of you, and we
all go to jail, _sabe?_”
“I understand, Hashknife—and thanks. Mighty good of you both.”
“You play the game, Bill McGill.”
Mary came out with several blankets and a pillow. She carried a few
candles and led the way to the dugout, which was on the slope behind the
stable. A jutting rock and some brush concealed the old doorway from the
ranch-house. It was about fifteen feet deep by ten feet wide, dirt floor
and no furnishings of any kind.
Mary made up a bed for Bill. It looked fairly hard, but Bill was
grateful and promised to keep well hidden. Hashknife and Mary raided the
kitchen for enough food to keep him one day, and they brought him a
bucket of water too.
“I’ll let One Hop in on it tomorrow,” said Mary. “He’ll keep a secret
and he’ll see that you don’t starve.”
They shook hands with the boy and went back to the house.
“This has been a big night,” Hashknife laughed. “I hate to keep Evans in
ignorance and let him ride the hocks off his bronc, lookin’ for the
corpse of Bill McGill; but it won’t hurt him.”
“Pink wasn’t hurt much, was he?”
“Couple of stitches. Well, you better go to bed, Miss Lawbreaker.”
Mary laughed and held out her hand.
“Good night, pardner.”
The door closed softly behind her, and Hashknife faded out toward the
stable, leading his tall gray horse.