Both Evans and Lowry were gone when Hashknife rode to Willow Wells early
the following morning. The blacksmith told Hashknife that Steve Pelliser
had gone along with them and that they were hunting for Bill McGill’s
body. The whole town was talking about it, speculating, wondering who
was in the mob. Nick Lee and Sam Hall rode in about ten o’clock, and
Hashknife wondered whether they had not come to get the latest
information.
Lee avoided Hashknife, and a little later they rode away. It was early
in the afternoon when the sheriff came back, and with him were Steve
Pelliser, weary eyed from lack of sleep, Pink Lowry and Scotty McGowan.
They had overtaken Scotty on the road to town.
“Never found a damn’ thing,” Evans told Hashknife. “Goin’ to get some
food and then head north.”
Hashknife rode with them, and after a wide circle, they left Pelliser at
his ranch. Scotty stayed in town.
“I’ve examined trees until I’ll see ’em in my sleep,” declared Pink, as
they rode back to town.
Evans was weary and thoughtful. He had expected to have little
difficulty in locating the corpse. Hashknife seemed without any ideas at
all. Scotty was sitting in front of the office as they rode in, but
Hashknife tied his horse in front of the War Paint.
Pink took the two fagged horses to the stable, while Evans talked it
over with Scotty.
“What makes you so damn’ sure that McGill was lynched?” queried Scotty.
“What would a mob take him out for, if not to lynch him?”
“Suppose it was a bunch of his friends?”
“Rats! Where’d he get a dozen friends?”
“How do you know there was a dozen?”
“Saw ’em ridin’ away.”
“Yeah? Are you shore Bill McGill was with ’em?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just suppose, for sake of an argument, that Bill’s friends knowed he
was goin’ to get lynched.”
“You mean they’d take him out ahead— Where didja get that idea?”
“Thinkin’ about it.”
The sheriff squinted at Scotty. Evans was no fool, and he realized that
Scotty did not arrive at that conclusion from merely thinking things
over. Then—
“What friends has he got around here?”
“Well, there’s Hartley and Stevens.”
“Hartley was with me.”
“Where was Stevens?”
“Out at the Pelliser ranch. Anyway, it wouldn’t be hard to find out if
he was. Nope, I think you’re wrong, Scotty. Neither of them boys turned
him loose. Somebody lynched him last night and hid the body.”
“Have it your own way.”
“Where were you last night?”
Scotty smiled slowly.
“No, you don’t, Evans. You can’t put the deadwood on me. I was home with
my gang, and they’ll swear to it.”
“They would,” said Evans shortly.
Scotty stood up and brushed the tobacco crumbs off his shirt.
“Go ahead and hunt for a body,” he said. “It’ll give the kid plenty time
to make a clean getaway.”
Scotty headed for the War Paint, and Evans went to have a talk with the
prosecuting attorney. Down in his heart he was not sorry that Bill
McGill was not there to have his hearing. In any other place, with no
more evidence against him than they had, Bill would have stood a good
chance of never coming to trial; but not in Willow Valley.
Scotty met Hashknife in the War Paint, and Scotty insisted on buying a
drink.
“How do you feel about this Bill McGill?” he asked Hashknife. “Do you
think they lynched him and hid the body?”
“That seems to be the sheriff’s opinion.”
“What’s yours?”
“Me?” Hashknife smiled widely. “I haven’t any.”
“Did you see them take Bill away last night?”
“It was too dark for that. If I could have seen Bill McGill I might have
spotted some of the men who took him out of jail. That would have been
rather unfortunate, you know.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s quite a severe penalty for lynchers, you know.”
“I see. Well, I’m lookin’ at it from the outside. You’re a friend of the
kid, and your views would favor him, of course. It’s nothin’ to me. Hart
was a friend of mine, but I ain’t the rabid kind that demands an eye for
an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Just what the kid had against him,
nobody will ever know, unless the kid confesses.”
“And if he’s dead, he can’t talk.”
“No, that’s the truth. The sheriff believes he is. Matter of opinion, of
course, but if I was in his place, I’d kinda look for a live Bill
McGill.”
Hashknife toyed with his empty glass thoughtfully.
“Jist what makes you think Bill is alive, McGowan?”
“Just a hunch.”
“Mm-m-m.”
“Do you have hunches?”
“You’d be surprised to know some I’ve had. Well, let’s have another.
I’ll take a see-gar, if they ain’t too dry.”
“Hadn’t ought to be,” said the bartender. “We got ’em for Christmas.”
* * * * *
Hashknife was satisfied that Scotty and at least some of his gang were
in that lynching party. But as long as they did not accomplish their
purpose, the law could not touch them. After Scotty rode away, Hashknife
went over to the Bank of Willow Wells, where he found Frank Davis in
charge of things.
Davis greeted him pleasantly and they talked about the disappearance of
Bill McGill. Davis was a man of about thirty-five years of age,
prematurely gray, well educated, trustworthy. He had been connected with
the bank about four years and there had been a close friendship between
Hart and himself.
“I’m tryin’ to help the law out a little on this Hart case,” he told
Davis, “but we’re up against a blank wall. I don’t believe for a minute
that Bill McGill shot Hart. It isn’t reasonable. I want a little inside
information, if you’ll give it to me.”
“I’ll do my best, Hartley. Of course, there are things—”
“I understand that. Can you tell me if there’s anybody in this Valley
who owes or did owe Hart a lot of money on a mortgage or a note?”
Davis gave the question considerable thought. He did not like to divulge
anything confidential. He did not know Hashknife, and he was not sure
Hashknife was connected in any way with the sheriff’s office.
Hashknife appreciated his hesitancy.
“Mebbe I better bring the sheriff up to get the answer,” he said.
“No, I guess it’s all right, Hartley. The Diamond R is mortgaged with
this bank for ten thousand. That is the largest mortgage we hold at the
present time. It expires soon.”
“Was it taken out by Jim McGowan?”
“Yes. McGowan purchased the property from Mr. Hart, who took a mortgage
for that amount with the Wells bank.”
“Would the bank renew the mortgage?”
“That is up to the directors. I believe Mr. Hart would, if he were
alive.”
“Did any one owe Mr. Hart any large amount on a note?”
“I don’t believe they did.”
“Mr. Davis, did you ever suspect that Mr. Hart was afraid of anybody?”
The cashier shook his head slowly.
“I am afraid I can’t help you there. Perhaps Mr. Pelliser would know. He
and Mr. Hart were very close friends.”
Hashknife thanked him and went out. The cashier’s information was worth
nothing. He found Pink down at the sheriff’s office. His head was still
very sore, but he was in fairly good spirits.
“Dud and the prosecutin’ attorney have gone to Newton to wire out some
descriptions of Bill McGill,” he said. “I guess they’ve got a hunch that
somebody jist wanted to let Bill out, instead of hangin’ him. The county
is offerin’ a thousand dollars reward for Bill.”
Hashknife smiled over his cigaret.
“Got an idea that Bill’s friends let him out?”
“Looks thataway to them.”
“Where would he get any friends?”
“I dunno. You and Sleepy—”
“I was here in town with the sheriff, and Sleepy was at the ranch.”
“That’s what I was goin’ to say, when you went off half-cocked. Why
would a dozen men ride up here, pop me on the head and take him out
unless they wanted to hang him? My idea is that they’re holdin’ him
somewhere until the reward gits big enough, and then they’ll cash him in
like a stack of blue chips in a poker game. I may be wrong, but I’m as
much right as they are.”
“You shore are.” Hashknife grinned.
“One man’s guess is as good as another on a thing like that. I wish
you’d tell me about that shootin’ at the Pelliser ranch. I’ve only heard
parts of it.”
Pink went into details of the story, even telling about the dress suits.
He admitted that he was hurt by what McGowan had said that night, and he
told about Mary’s not wanting to dance with the older man.
“Then you didn’t know you shot at McGowan?” asked Hashknife.
“You couldn’t see your hand before your face, I tell you. There was only
one light spot in the whole danged world, and that was the open kitchen
door, and the lamplight shinin’ out on One Hop, who was makin’ ice
cream. I didn’t even hear McGowan. Of course, the wind was blowing away
from me and the orchestra was whoopin’ her up pretty strong.
“I guess I was lookin’ toward McGowan. I must have, to see the flash of
his gun. The bullet plunked the post behind me, and I shot right back
before I stopped to think about anythin’. The flash of my own gun kinda
blinded me; kinda scared me too, ’cause—well, I dunno jist why I shot.
Mebbe I was jist in the humor to shoot.
“I heard One Hop yellin’, and folks commenced to pile out of the house,
runnin’ down toward us. Then they found Mac. He was hit dead-center.”
“How did he know where you were? You didn’t have anythin’ white on?”
“Not a thing.”
“Queer thing, wasn’t it?”
“Danged queer. If he knew where I was standin’, he must have had eyes
like an owl. And you wouldn’t hardly think he’d try to kill me just
because Mary didn’t want to dance with him, would you?”
“I wouldn’t think so. Was McGowan in love with Mary?”
Pink hunched his knees up around his chin, smoking thoughtfully.
“Yeah, he was. That same night he asked Steve Pelliser about it. He told
Steve he was aimin’ to marry her, and I reckon Steve kinda threw a
monkey wrench into Mac’s machinery. Anyway, they had a verbal run-in, so
I’m told, and Steve told him to keep away from her.”
“What was Steve’s objection to McGowan?”
“I dunno. Mebbe it was ’cause McGowan was too old for her. He was as old
as Steve, you know.”
“I see. And Mac thought you had the inside track on him, eh?”
“That’s the only way I can figure it. They dug that bullet out of the
corral post, and it was the same size as Mac’s gun shoots.”
“How did Scotty act about it?”
“Oh, he was sore as a boil. Swore that Jim had been murdered. Me and him
almost made some more smoke. But I reckon he’s over it now. There’s a
dance in Newton tonight, and I wish I was goin’.”
“Why don’tcha go?”
“Well, I ain’t made no plans to go. Been so danged much goin’ on. I
reckon I’m better off right here, with all these stitches in my head.
They have some rough times down there, and I might lose all my sewin’.
Kinda ravel out, you know.”
Hashknife saw the sheriff after he came back from Newton, and was told
that notices had been wired to head off Bill McGill.
“Finally made up your mind he didn’t get hung, eh?” asked Hashknife.
“No, I ain’t. But I’ve got to play the game safe. This kind o’ thing
worries me. If I catch him again, I’ll shore guard him close. Things
like this make a sheriff look bad. Had your supper yet? No? Let’s eat.”
While they were eating, the sheriff told Hashknife he had met the
Diamond R outfit heading for the dance at Newton.
“Pink tells me that their dances are a little rough.”
“Rough? And then some! I keep me and my hired man away from there on
dance night. Lot of the boys come up from the south and they shore cut
loose. Oh, there ain’t much gunplay—not much. But they resent havin’ an
officer around. I was thataway when I was younger; so I hadn’t ought to
begrudge the boys a little leeway.”
“You know,” the sheriff went on, “I always feel kinda like the
old-timers—that the wilder the colt the better the horse.”
* * * * *
It was just growing dark when old Piute Jones and Caliente Smith rode in
from the HN ranch. The two old boys wore their Sunday clothes. Caliente
displayed a rusty black suit, with the trousers tucked into boots; Piute
was in an ancient cutaway coat and a pair of tight fitting gray pants.
He wore an old green Ascot tie and no vest. On his big feet were a pair
of congress gaiters, the elastic sides of which had long since lost
their elasticity, gaping wide at the ankles.
“We have come jist for fun,” announced Piute. “Long time we no have fun,
eh? The rest of the outfit has gone to Newton to the dance. Aunt Ida
went ’cause the Methody church is givin’ a oyster supper. Anythin’ the
church does will draw her from far and wide. Hoddy hankered to come with
us, but he had about as much show as a snowball in hell.
“Chris Halvorsen, he’s young enough to dance and enj’y it, and Mrs. Lane
elected fer her and Ed to trip the light fantasmry. Me and Caliente,
we’ve long since wore out our welcome on the dance floor. Yessir, we’ve
lost our swing.”
“I ain’t,” denied Caliente. “I’m as young as I used to was, and don’t
you forget it, you bald headed old badger. I jist come to keep you from
drinkin’ up all the liquor in Willer Wells and makin’ a fool out of
yourself. Yes, you would, Piute; you’re irresponsible.”
“Well, you don’t need to be responsible for me. I c’n worry along by
m’self. Go on to Newton and dance, you—you damn’ infant.”
Caliente wore the conventional belt and holstered gun, but Piute tucked
a huge Colt inside the waistband of his trousers, the weight of which
kept him busy pulling them up.
They took a few big jolts of whisky and Piute essayed a clog dance,
which nearly proved disastrous when his ankle turned in his ill fitting
shoes.
“Drunk already,” said Caliente disgustedly. “Ain’t got the capacity of a
hummin’ bird.”
“You think so, do you? Huh! I c’n drink you flat on your old spinal
col’m, I’ll tell you that. No snake eater from the Modoc lava beds can
ever make me wobble. I’m a wild wolf from Snake River, that’s me.”
“You never saw no Snake River, Piute. You was borned and raised in the
Kern River hills, and you never saw more’n two people together at once
till after you was of age. Iggerant? My gawsh, you’re iggerant! You
never had no learnin’. Wild Wolf from Snake River! Where’s Snake River?”
“Colorady, you Digger Injun!”
“What part?”
“Part? Splits the State in two parts.”
“Oh! Well, what if it does—you wasn’t never on it.”
“Well, I ain’t iggerant, I’ll tell you that.”
“Let’s have another drink.”
“All right. But I’ve had as much learnin’ as you.”
“Is that so? How much is six times seven?”
“Eighty-nine!”
“Yea-a-a-a-ah! You heard me ask Chris that same question.”
“Well, I got the right answer, didn’t I?”
“Not out of your own head, you didn’t. Here’s blood pizen to you.”
“Same to you and many of ’em.”
Hashknife and the sheriff enjoyed the repartee of the two old-timers,
but refused to join them at the bar. It was doubtful whether either
could recognize his own name in letters ten feet tall. They were a pair
of hard-headed old bull whackers, ready to fight at the drop of a hat,
sarcastic, argumentive; but either of them would have given away his
last dollar to a friend.
“That,” said Piute, slamming his glass down on the bar, “is the worst
liquor I’ve had since one day in New York. Me and Cash Rawlins was
ridin’ down Main Street—”
“Ex-cuse me,” drawled Caliente, “but was that the day you bought them
rubber ankle things you wear on your hoofs?”
“It was not, dang you! These come from Washin’ton, D. C. These are
congress gaiters. Me and Cash was a-ridin’ down Main Street, and Cash
says to me—”
“Why don’tcha tie a string around your ankles, Piute. Some day a rattle
snake is goin’ to climb in with you. Haw-haw-haw-haw! New York! Do you
know where New York is?”
“I know where it was the time I was there.”
“Well, they’ve moved it from over on the Kern River.”
Piute’s eyes opened in sarcastic amazement.
“The hell they did!”
“Sho-o-o-ore! The day after you was there. They said we better move this
place before that danged liar comes back ag’in. What’ll you have?”
“I’ll take some more whisky, if the barkeep will strain it. The dang
stuff is full of tobacco leaves.”
“Leaves!” snorted the bartender.
“That’s feathers off the Old Crow.”
“Yea-a-a-ah? Tryin’ to make a piller out of me, eh? No, you don’t. I’ll
drink gin.”
“I’d jist as soon drink kerosene,” declared Caliente. “That stuff ain’t
made for human consumption.”
“What surprises me is that you ain’t been drinkin’ it all your life,
then, Caliente. You ain’t human. You don’t need to look at that label,
’cause letters don’t mean nothin’ but marks to you. _Ah-h-h-h-h-h!
Hm-m-m!_ Well, it didn’t have no feathers in it. Now, what do we shing?”
Hashknife and the sheriff went back to the office.
“They’ll both get paralyzed, have a fight, and go to sleep on the
floor,” said the sheriff. “Salt of the earth, both of ’em, but I don’t
want to be around when they get to singin’. They’ll have a good cry,
want to fight a duel and pass out. They’ve been doin’ it for years and
they’ll keep on doin’ it until they die. Why not? It’s all they git out
of life.”
“That’s true; why not?”
They found Pink asleep on a cot, snoring loudly, lying flat on his back,
his mouth wide open. The sheriff grinned, stepped in close to the cot,
drew his gun and fired a shot through the rough board floor. It made a
terrific noise in that small room.
The snore was cut short, but Pink did not open his eyes. He grinned
slowly and whispered—
“Shoot ’em again—they ain’t got no friends,” and resumed snoring.
“My alert deputy,” said Evans dryly as they sat down.
Hashknife wanted the sheriff’s version of the shooting at the Pelliser
ranch and steered the conversation around to it. The sheriff knew very
little about it. His idea was that McGowan had seen Pink.
“I know it was dark, but he _must_ have seen him, Hartley.”
They spent about an hour discussing the shooting of Edward Hart, in
which they tried to find some lead to work on. It was a blank wall, no
matter what theory they brought up. When Hashknife looked at his watch
it was eleven o’clock.
“I reckon it’s about time for me to go to bed.”
He got to his feet and yawned widely.
“Goin’ back to the ranch?”
“I reckon so. I dunno though; might get a bed at the hotel.”
* * * * *
From the street came a shrill cowboy yell, the splintering of boards,
the report of two guns spaced about five seconds apart. They ran to the
door and stepped out on the sidewalk. A man was running from the War
Paint, a riderless horse came down past them, turned around and stopped
when it stepped on the reins.
“That’s Piute’s horse,” said the sheriff. “Got drunk and fell off, I
suppose.”
“Somebody come here!” yelled a voice. It was the bartender, out in the
street, his white shirt and apron visible at that distance.
Hashknife and the sheriff ran up the street and found the bartender and
Caliente. Caliente was staggering, gun in hand, trying to break away
from the bartender.
“He shot me, I tell you!” he choked.
“Lemme go, will you? I’ve been his bes’ friend, and he shot me.”
“Who shot you?” asked the sheriff.
“Piute Jones! Lemme go, will you?”
“He got hit all right,” said the bartender. “Look at the blood on his
sleeve.”
“By golly, I believe he did!”
“Course I got shot! Don’t I know when I get shot? Been shot hunners of
times—hunners and hunners of times. Lemme go, dang you!”
“Hold still.”
“Bring him over to the light,” said the sheriff.
They led the protesting Caliente over to the saloon. The bullet had
furrowed his left arm just below the elbow. It was rather a nasty wound,
but not serious.
“Now, what happened?” demanded the sheriff.
“Look at that and ask me?”
“Aw, they got to quarrelin’ like a pair of old fools,” said the
bartender. “And then—”
“I never quarreled like any old fool!”
“Shut up! You wanted to fight.”
“That ain’t quarrelin’, is it? Ain’tcha goin’ to stop me from bleedin’
to death? How much blood am I supposed to lose in thish argument? Why
don’tcha go and apperhend m’ murderer? Is thish a debate?”
The bartender waved his arms helplessly.
“If you’ll choke him off, I’ll tell you about it.”
“Choke me! Go ahead. I’m bleedin’ t’ death, and you want to choke me.
Fine lotta cit’zens we’ve got. Murderers runnin’ loose, me bleedin’ to
death—and you want to tell ’m a story. Oh, go ahead, don’t mind me. I’m
no use to anybody. Dammit, I’m bleedin’ t’ death!”
Caliente’s voice ended in a despairing wail.
“Where’s Piute?” asked Hashknife.
“Yeah!” snorted Caliente. “Now you’re talkin’ sense. Go ahead. I’m
willin’ to bleed to death to hear one shensible thing shed.”
“They got to quarrelin’ in here and decided to shoot each other,” said
the bartender. “I told ’em to get out and they got mad at me. I got down
behind the bar, and one of ’em threw the bar bottle through the back-bar.
Look at it—all busted up! Then they went outside together, and I
don’t know what happened. I found Caliente on foot, walkin’ in a circle,
lookin’ for somebody to shoot.”
“I wasn’t lookin’ for anybody to shoot—I wanted to kill Piute.”
“And Piute shot you?” asked Hashknife.
“Ain’t I bleedin’ to death? Ain’t I? He didn’t bite me, did he? Looks t’
me like a bullet wound. I may be wrong, but I’ve lost forty gallons of
blood already, and no relief in sight. Might as well make my will, I
reckon.”
“Why did Piute shoot you?” asked the sheriff.
“Jist damn’ mean, tha’s all.”
“Shot you off your horse?”
“I wasn’t on no damn’ horse, but he was. I got on once, but I got on so
far that I went off the other side. Piute rode his horse on the sidewalk
in front of the bank, and then he shot me down—the dirty polecat!”
“Did you shoot back at him?”
“I shore did.”
“Mebbe you killed him.”
“That’d be almos’ too good to be true. Jus’ one more thing before I
shrink to rest; how bad does a man have to be hurt before he gits a
doctor? I’d crave to know, that’s what I’d crave.”
“Set down there in a chair and let the bartender put a towel around your
arm,” said the sheriff. “We’ll see if we can find Piute.”
“Tell ’m,” said Caliente weakly, “that I bled t’ death, listenin’ to a
lot of damn’ fools talkin’ about the weather. C’mon with your towel,
barten’er. You’re too late, but it’s nice of you, anyway.”
Hashknife and the sheriff crossed the street and went over to the
sidewalk in front of the bank, where they found Piute. He was sitting in
the street, with his elbows over the edge of the sidewalk. Hashknife
lighted a match, and Piute blinked up at them.
“Twinkl’, twinkl’, li’l star,” he whispered.
“Are you hurt, Piute?” asked the sheriff.
“There’s shome precincts to be heard from yet. I ain’t sure, but I think
my horsh dumped me here. How’s all your folks?”
“Mine are fine,” grunted the sheriff. “Can you walk?”
“Why not—I’ve still got legs.”
They helped him to his feet, and between them they led him over to the
saloon, where they found Caliente, one arm bound up in a towel, fast
asleep with his head resting on a card table. Piute looked him over
owlishly.
“Passed out, eh?” he grunted. “Ain’t got the capacity of a hummin’
bird.”
“Why did you shoot him?” asked the sheriff.
“Why?” Piute rocked on his heels, but grasped the table in time. “Why
didn’t I shoot him, you mean? He shot at me, tha’s what he done. Af’r my
bronc dumped me, my gun got caught in m’ pants and I couldn’t shoot.”
The sheriff managed to unhitch the gun, and looked it over curiously.
It had not been fired. He showed it to Hashknife, and they looked at
each other foolishly.
“Caliente’s a danged—danged back-biter,” declared Piute.
“You say Caliente shot at you?” queried the sheriff.
“It’s too bad he didn’t hit me,” complained Piute. “Then I’d have shome
proof. I shuppose, if he shot me through the heart, you’d be sayin’,
‘Poor old Piute—his horsh mus’ have kicked him!’”
The sheriff had Caliente’s gun, and an examination showed two empty
cartridges in the cylinder. The sheriff grinned.
“Two shots fired, and Caliente shot both of ’em. All this fuss about
nothin’. Piute, you better take Caliente home.”
“That danged murderer? Me take him home? Misser Evans, you git funnier
every day. You lemme have him and I’ll lynch him.”
“Caliente must have shot himself,” said the bartender.
“Sure,” chuckled Piute. “He’s jist that handy with gun.”
Hashknife shook his head doubtingly.
“There’s no powder burn on him.”
“Well, I heard glass smashin’,” declared the bartender. “He must have
busted somebody’s window.”
“Mus’ been awf’l big winder,” said Piute sleepily, stretching out in a
chair. “Mus’ have been for him to hit it.”
Piute Jones’ head slumped forward, and his snores blended with those of
Caliente.
Hashknife and the sheriff crossed the street, lighted matches and
examined the bank windows. One of Caliente’s bullets had hit a big
window, almost dead center, knocking out about three square inches of
glass and sending cracks radiating in every direction...
“That’ll cost Caliente plenty money,” said the sheriff. “Danged old
fool.”
“Well, if the excitement is all over, I think I’ll get me a bed,”
laughed Hashknife.
He walked up to the hotel, changed his mind and went back to the ranch.
He wanted to see how Bill McGill was getting along.