Pink Lowry had heard about Hashknife’s bringing back the stolen horse,
and Pink was afraid Bill McGill had returned; so he elected to ride out
to the ranch with Steve and find out what was what.
And it was they who found Ed Reese, with the two horses, trying to load
Jack Erb on one of them. Erb was not dead, but he was so near it that Ed
thought he had passed out. Reese was a good liar, and convincing.
“Me and Jack jist come over from Cinnabar,” he said, whining a little.
“We just hit the road out there a little ways, when _ker-blooie!_
Somebody shot Jack off his horse. I ducked in the brush and waited a
long time for the dirty bush-whacker to show up, but he didn’t come. I
knowed Jack needed a doctor, so I started to town.”
Steve and Pink examined Jack, who was unconscious. He had been hit in
the right shoulder and the bullet had broken him up quite a bit.
“Looks like he’s been hit by a .30-30,” said Steve.
“Sounded like one,” admitted Ed. “Poor Jack, he never done nothin’ to
anybody, either.”
“Take that out and bury it,” said Pink. “He’s as crooked as a snake in a
cactus patch, and you know it, Reese.”
“Aw, he’s all right, Lowry. Give a dog a bad name, you know.”
“He earned his. But that don’t matter—he needs a doctor. Can you take
him in alone?”
“If you’ll help me tie him on. It ain’t far.”
“Better go to town and get a buggy,” said Steve.
“Takes too long. Jist help me lace him on and I’ll take him in.”
They helped him pack the wounded man, and Reese was profuse in his
thanks. But as soon as they left him, he grew bitter in his remarks to
his unconscious partner.
“You ain’t only crooked, but you’re a danged fool, Ed. Runnin’ in
thataway! Why didn’t you stay back? Didn’t you see the horse fall? And
why didn’t you shoot him again? I’m disgusted with you. He knows who you
are, and he’ll be on my trail. I’ll turn you over to a doctor and then
I’ll fade out. If you die, it’ll be a mystery who bushwhacked you—and if
you live, that crane legged jasper will prob’ly shoot your topknot off
for tryin’ to bush him. It don’t take no fortune teller to guess that
you’ve got misery ahead of you!”
Sleepy was not at the ranch, but Hashknife told Mary about being fired,
and he told her the reason. She admitted that her father knew about Bill
McGill.
“I’m frightened to death that he’ll investigate the dugout,” she said.
“I don’t know of any other place to hide him.”
Hashknife smiled at her.
“Mary, he won’t look there. He’d never suspect that we’d be fools enough
to bring him back and hide him there. He’s sure I took Bill and that
horse in order to get Bill out of the country.”
“Didn’t you?”
“I did not, Mary—and Bill don’t know who did. Somebody hit him over the
head and took him away.”
“I’ll bet that was the cry we heard. Oh, I must remind Pink of that. We
were on the porch that night, and it startled both of us.”
“I was in Santa Dolores that night, and can prove it,” said Hashknife.
“What will you do now?”
“I don’t know. As soon as Sleepy comes in, we’ll get out together. I’m
sorry it broke the way it did, but I felt duty bound to tell Noon.”
“I’m glad you did, and I’m going to tell Dad.”
“I wouldn’t. No use stirrin’ things up.”
“But what in the world will I do with Bill McGill?”
Hashknife grinned softly.
“I reckon we’ve got a white elephant on our hands, lady. I’ll have to do
a little thinkin’.”
Hashknife was down at the stable when Steve and Pink rode in. Steve
stabled his horse, while Pink told Hashknife about meeting Reese and his
wounded partner.
“Oh, them two punchers from over Cinnabar way. Well, well! Bushwhacked,
you say?”
“That’s what Reese says. No warnin’ at all.”
They talked about it for several minutes before Steve came out. His
expression was rather serious as he said to Hashknife—
“What happened to your gray horse, Hartley?”
“Happened? Nothin’ that I know of, Steve.”
“He’s been creased with a bullet, it seems.”
“Yeah, I noticed that. I reckon he rolled over a snag or somethin’.”
“Probably,” Steve said dryly, and Pink followed him to the house.
It was suppertime when Sleepy came back to the ranch. He was glad he had
been fired and he told Steve so.
“Stay until after supper,” begged Mary. “I want a chance to talk with
you about Bill McGill.”
They agreed, and while they were eating supper Buck Haskell, of the
Diamond R, rode in and asked to see Steve Pelliser. Hashknife would have
given a lot to hear what passed between them, because Steve went
straight to the stable, saddled his horse and rode away toward town with
Haskell without finishing his supper.
None of the boys at the supper table said anything about it, but they
thought deeply. Mary came out to the table and sat down with them, but
did not eat.
She was worried about her father, and after supper she called Hashknife
out to the front porch.
“Buck Haskell brought Dad a note,” she whispered, “and I’ve got the
note!”
“How did you get it?”
“The right hand pocket of Dad’s coat hadn’t any bottom. He burned it out
with some matches. I was to mend it today, but I forgot. He put the note
in that pocket and it fell out. Do you want to read it?”
“Have you read it, Mary?”
“Not yet.”
“Uh-huh. I think you ought to. And if you want to tell me what’s in it,
why, all right.”
Mary frowned over the note for a moment, then laughed with relief as she
handed it to Hashknife.
“I guess it isn’t so bad,” she said. Hashknife read it.
Steve:
Noon had me arrested and jailed. You come down here and prove
you sold me a hundred head of stock and that I had a right to
vent brand them.
—S. McGOWAN
Hashknife laughed, but there was no humor in his gray eyes as he handed
the note back to Mary. He knew, or was fairly positive, that Steve had
not sold any cattle to Scotty McGowan lately. But Mary accepted the
explanation.
Pink came out to them, and their chance to talk about Bill McGill was
lost because Mary did not want to tell Pink that Bill was back.
Hashknife and Sleepy saddled their horses, while Thursday and Sid
complained bitterly over their discharge.
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing,” declared Thursday. “If things don’t
change pretty danged soon, I’m goin’ to quit my job. I’ll betcha that
Diamond R outfit are stealin’ us blind. Whatcha s’pose Haskell wanted
Steve for? I don’t _sabe_ Steve no more. Used to be a fighter, but his
guts has all turned to fiddle strings. You boys ain’t leavin’ the
country, are you?”
“Not for a day or two,” said Hashknife. “We’ll come back and tell you
goodby.”
“That’s fine.”
* * * * *
They rode up to the house and shook hands with Mary and Pink. Hashknife
promised Mary that they would come out again before leaving the Valley.
“I’ll see you in town,” said Pink as they rode away.
On the way to town Hashknife told Sleepy about being bushwhacked, and
the perhaps fatal results to the broken nosed cowboy from High Grade.
“They both laid for me, and the skinny one slammed a .30-30 into his
pardner. I shore heard it hit—and if that guy ain’t dead, he’s as tough
as he looks. Them two jiggers came over here to put me out of the game
’cause they know I fooled ’em at Cinnabar. But I’ll bet you ten to one
that the skinny one won’t be in Willow Wells when we get there. If he
is, I’ll shore bend him all out of shape.”
They stabled their horses and went over to the sheriff’s office, which
was empty, and sat down to enjoy a smoke. It was possibly thirty minutes
later when the sheriff came in. He sat down at his desk, leaned back
against the wall and looked at the two cowboys.
“Well,” he said disgustedly, “what’s new this time?”
“I dunno,” grinned Hashknife. “What’s on your mind, Dud?”
“You heard about Jack Erb stoppin’ a bullet, didn’t you?”
Hashknife nodded and blew smoke rings at the ceiling.
“And then Ed Lane and Caliente Smith dragged Scotty McGowan in here and
charged him with misbrandin’ HN cows. I made ’em get a warrant, and then
I put Scotty in jail. Scotty sends a note to Steve Pelliser, and Steve
comes down here to swear that Scotty bought a hundred head of SP cattle
and had a right to vent the brand. Ed and Caliente can’t prove that it
was a HN instead of a SP, so the judge squirshed the warrant and turned
Scotty loose.”
“Was Scotty mad?” asked Hashknife, trying to poke a finger through one
of his smoke rings.
“Mad? I’ll tell you he was mad. So was Ed and Caliente.”
“How’s Jack Erb?”
“One chance in a thousand, the doctor says.”
“And where’s Ed Reese?”
“I think he pulled his freight.”
“I knew he would. Come over to the stable and look at my horse.”
They went over, and Hashknife showed Evans the crease on the neck of the
animal. And when they went back to the office the tall cowboy told Evans
what had happened to Jack Erb and why Ed Reese left Willow Wells.
“Well, the dirty murderers!” blurted the sheriff. “Why pick on you?”
Hashknife explained about the cattle at Cinnabar, but did not mention
Bill McGill. The sheriff thought it over for awhile.
“But Steve says he sold the Diamond R a hundred head. If that’s true,
they were merely movin’ ’em out of the country.”
“Shore. And them two crooked jaspers shot at me because they had a right
to receive them honestly owned cows, eh? Think again, Evans. I heard one
man say he’d be scared to ever come back here again.”
“But you don’t think Steve Pelliser would lie about sellin’ them cows.”
Hashknife dropped his cigarette on the floor and ground it out with his
heel.
“I’m not claimin’ that anybody is a liar,” he said slowly. “If Steve is
willin’ to swear he sold ’em, that’s his business.”
“We’ll have to take his word for it, Hartley.”
“Shore. Dud, I’d like to send a telegram to Newton in the mornin’ and
sign your name to it. The stage driver can send it from Newton for me.”
“I dunno about signin’ my name. Write it out and let me see it.”
Hashknife took a blank sheet of paper and wrote a telegram to the warden
of the penitentiary.
SEEKING INFORMATION ON MAN NAMED NEILAN NOLAN NELSON OR NEAL
WHO WAS CONVICTED OF ROBBERY AT SANTA DOLORES TWENTY YEARS
AGO HAVE YOU ANY RECORD
The sheriff studied the telegram for awhile.
“What’s the idea?”
“A lot depends on the answer, Dud. Will you sign it?”
“I guess so. Who was this man, anyway?”
“That’s what I want to know.”
“Gimme that pencil. That’s shore goin’ back a long ways. Are you sure he
was sent to the penitentiary?”
“Haven’t any idea, and I can’t find out. If he was, they’d know it.”
“Will you tell me what the thing is all about when you get your answer?”
“Yeah, if it’s worth tellin’.”
“Good enough. I’ll ship this out on the mornin’ stage. Steve tells me he
fired you boys today, but he didn’t say what for.”
Hashknife laughed softly.
“We ate too much, I reckon.”
“That’s as good a reason as any other. Well, I think I’ll go down and
see how Erb is gettin’ along. I should have throwed Ed Reese in jail
when I had a chance, the danged murderer.”
After Ed Reese delivered the wounded Erb to the doctor at Willow Wells,
he headed straight for the Diamond R. Reese was frightened. He had
fallen down on the job.
Scotty was not at the ranch for the simple reason that about that time
he was being held in Willow Wells, while Buck Haskell carried the note
to Steve Pelliser. Sam Hall, Barney East and Nick Lee were there, and
Scarface Smith rode in shortly after Reese arrived.
“Yeah, I raised hell,” said Reese disgustedly. “Me and Jack laid for
that long legged Hartley—him in one place and me in another so one of us
would shore get a crack at him. I reckon my first bullet creased his
bronc, and Jack, like a crazy fool, thought I’d dropped my man and went
in to see. From where I am I can’t see what happened, but I reckon the
tall feller foxed Jack. Anyway they came up together, and I shot too
low.”
“Didja kill Jack?” asked Sam.
“Well, he got a .30-30 through his body, and if that ain’t enough to
kill a man he’s shore tough. I packed him to town, swore we’d been
bushwhacked and then headed for here.”
“Did they believe you, Ed?”
“Damned if I know. But I know I’m headin’ out of here as fast as a bronc
can carry me. That lanky gent is plumb bad luck, and the sooner I get
rid of him the better I’ll be satisfied.”
“Where are you goin’?” asked Smith curiously.
“I’m headin’ for Cinnabar.”
“Hell, they ain’t got nothin’ on you,” said Hall. “Hartley didn’t see
you, did he?”
“Mebbe not.”
“Wait here until Scotty gets back. It’s a cinch that Hartley won’t come
out here. At least, he better not.”
“I think I’ll go to town and see what I can hear,” said East. “Want to
ride in, Smith?”
“Yeah, I’ll go with you, Barney.”
* * * * *
It was dark when they reached town, and they found Scotty in the War
Paint with Buck Haskell. Both men were half drunk, and Scotty was in a
bragging mood. It was not often that Scotty got drunk—drunk enough to be
mean—but he was in that condition now. He told Smith and East of his
arrest, punctuating his remarks with hot oaths against the HN outfit.
Then he invited every one in the place to drink with him.
They were drinking when Hashknife and Sleepy came in with the sheriff.
Scotty wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and considered the
three men belligerently, but they paid no attention to him.
“Hello, you weepin’ willers,” he grunted. “I’m runnin’ this place
tonight, and don’t-cha forget it.”
“Cool off, Scotty,” advised the sheriff.
“Who’ll cool me off if I don’t, Evans?”
The sheriff shrugged his shoulders and followed Hashknife and Sleepy
back to the pool table, where Sleepy began racking up the balls for a
game. Scotty felt hurt at being ignored. He tilted his hat over one eye
and came back to the table. Hashknife was chalking his cue, watching
Scotty from the corner of his eye.
Scotty halted almost against the table, a sneering grin on his face.
Suddenly he reached out, snatched up a ball with his right hand and drew
back as if to crash it down among the other balls. But at the same
moment Hashknife’s cue, rapier-like, flicked over Scotty’s left
shoulder, the point catching under his right elbow, and the ball shot
straight into the air. Hashknife, with a savage wrench, whirled Scotty
around and dropped him flat on his back, his right shoulder almost
dislocated.
The crash stunned Scotty for several moments, before he got to his feet,
his face twisted with pain.
“Any time you want to get in a game of this kind, get yourself a cue,”
said Hashknife coldly.
The rest of the Diamond R men made no move to assist Scotty; they looked
on soberly while their boss rubbed his shoulder. Once Scotty’s right
hand moved back toward his gun, but the pain in his arm was too much for
his nerve.
Sleepy picked up the ball and proceeded to rack the lot again, while
Scotty moved away to the end of the bar.
“I’ve seen a lot of things,” said East slowly, “but I never seen
anythin’ like that before. Jist poled him right off his feet.”
“Shut up!” snarled Scotty. “This ain’t finished; not by a damn’ sight!”
Hashknife laid down his cue and walked over to Scotty, who looked at him
rather anxiously.
“Shoulder hurt you?” asked Hashknife.
“What’s that to you?”
“Just want to know. I’ve never killed a cripple yet, and I don’t want to
start on you. You ain’t drunk now. The liquor has all run out of you; so
I wouldn’t be throwin’ lead through a drunken man. Now, you’re either
able to finish your war talk, or go back home and wait until you are.”
“You can’t run me out.” Scotty shoved out his jaw angrily. “You damn’
imitation of a cow detective!”
Hashknife laughed shortly.
“I wondered what you thought of me. So it was you who hired Ed Reese and
Jack Erb to bushwhack me, eh?”
Scotty’s face went black.
“That’s a lie!”
“It’s the truth, but I can’t prove it.”
“You bet you can’t. And I’ll make you swaller them words.”
“Go ahead.”
“Boys, that’s enough,” said the sheriff. “Let’s drop it. You’re both hot
under the collar. Scotty, you better go home.”
“You can’t run me out of town, Evans.”
“All right. You get your bronc and pull out right now, or I’ll stick you
in jail over night for disturbin’ the peace.”
Scotty sneered at Evans. No one had ever been jailed in that town for
disturbing the peace.
“I’m not foolin’,” warned Evans. “Take your choice.”
“All right, I’ll go home. But you ain’t heard the last of this—neither
of you. C’mon, boys.”
They filed out of the place and a few moments later the men in the War
Paint heard the noise of their departure.
“That’ll mean trouble,” said the sheriff sadly.
“Barkin’ dogs,” grinned Hashknife, as he lined up his shot.
“I hope it ain’t nothin’ worse.”
The sheriff watched the game for awhile, yawned widely and told them
good night. Hashknife and Sleepy played another game, bought a drink for
the bartender and themselves and headed back for the hotel. They were in
the middle of the street when they saw three riders coming toward them.
It was light enough for them to recognize Thursday and Sid. The third
man was Bill McGill. Hashknife snorted aloud.
“Hello,” said Thursday. “Look what we caught. Willyum McGill, at our
services. Caught the son of a gun peekin’ in the ranch-house winder. Can
you imagine that? Can you? Me and Sid will split that thousand two
ways.”
For several moments Hashknife did not know what to say. Then—
“What did he have to say for himself?”
“Not a word. This jigger ain’t opened his mouth. Mebbe he’s gone dumb.”
“He won’t tell where he came from, what he wants, nor nothin’. We’ll
take him to the sheriff and then join you.”
“Listen to me, Thursday,” said Hashknife seriously. “Bill has been on
the ranch ever since he got out of jail. Mary has been feedin’ him, and
he’s been livin’ in that dugout behind the stable. She’ll be all broke
up if she knows he’s been taken. In the first place—”
“Why in hell didn’t somebody tell us?” asked Thursday.
“You can’t spread that kinda knowledge around.”
“You say Mary’s takin’ care of this feller?” asked Sid.
“Ever since he got out of jail. Why, even Pink knows about it, and he
ain’t tellin’.”
“Well, for gosh sake! There goes our winter stake, Thursday.”
“Looks thataway. Great gosh! Well, back he goes. I wouldn’t hurt Mary.”
“Not a chance,” agreed Sid heartily. “Let’s git off the street before
somebody sees him.”
“Bill,” said Thursday, “can you find your way back to your hole in the
hill?”
“I have no doubt of it,” replied Bill.
“There!” snorted Thursday. “He ain’t dumb. That’s the first word he’s
spoken since we caught him. All right, Bill, you go home. Leave the
bronc in the stable. Don’t worry about the saddle. We’ll take care of
that.”
And without another word Bill McGill swung his horse around and went
back up the street.
“My Gawd!” breathed Thursday. “If I ever want to share a secret, I’ll do
it with Bill McGill. Let’s go and git a drink.”
In the meantime Pink left the SP ranch, knowing nothing of what had
happened. He had spent the evening with Mary and he was in good spirits.
The moon was bright and he sang to the wide world as he galloped along.
Suddenly he turned a curve in the road, and almost ran into a rider. He
jerked back on his reins in time to avoid a collision. The other horse
stopped short.
“Who are you?” grunted Pink.
“William Allen McGill.”
“Christmas daisies! Bill McGill!”
Pink was off his horse and up to Bill, poking him with the barrel of his
six-shooter.
“So it’s you, is it? Why, you danged pin headed— Keep your hands up! Now
keep ’em up, or I’ll bore you plenty. Stole a SP horse and saddle, eh?
Don’t move, Willyum, or I’ll be obliged to bore holes in your carcass.”
Quickly Pink shook out his lariat, and while poor Bill reached for the
moonlit sky the deputy sheriff roped him to the saddle. Bill said
nothing. In fact, he had nothing to say about it. That was the second
time in one evening that he had felt the muzzle of a six shooter.
“That’ll hold you,” grunted Pink. “Mebbe next time you won’t hit me over
the head—you amateur horsethief.”
Pink mounted, picked up the reins of Bill’s horse and headed for town.
“I think you are making a mistake,” said Bill timidly.
“Well, if I do, we’ll be even; you’ve already made yours.”
Hashknife, Sleepy, Thursday and Sid were in the shadow near the
hitch-rack when Pink rode in with his captive; they recognized both men
by the light from the War Paint windows.
“Good gosh, Pink caught him!” snorted Hashknife. “C’mon.”
They ran across the street, keeping out of the light from the saloon
windows. Pink dismounted at the short rack in front of the office, tied
both horses carefully and went to the office door. As far as he noticed,
the street was deserted. He opened the door and stepped inside the room.
He scratched a match and lighted the lamp, while Evans lifted up from
his cot, blinking at the light.
“Why don’tcha stay out all night?” grunted the sheriff. “By golly, your
girl shore costs me lots of sleep.”
“Thasso?” Pink grinned at him. “Does, eh? Come out here and see what
I’ve got for you.”
“What have you got?” asked Evans.
“Git up and take a look.”
Evans grumbled, grunted, but finally got out of bed, while Pink grinned
in anticipation of the sheriff’s surprise, as he walked over to the
door. But the door was stuck. He could tug it open about an inch, but it
would not come any farther.
“What’s the matter with this danged door, Dud?”
“Stuck?”
“You open it.”
Dud tried, but with no better success. Pink frowned. Something was
holding it from the other side. He turned, ran through the door that led
to the corridor, let himself out through the back door and circled the
building. Bill McGill and his horse were gone, and Pink’s own lariat
rope had been looped around the door-knob and tied off tightly to the
hitch-rack.
Pink swore bitterly as he unfastened the rope and opened the door. Dud
looked him over, squinted at the rope, then grinned.
“Did somebody play a joke on you, Romeo?”
“It may look like a joke to you, but it don’t to me. I had Bill McGill!”
“Yea-a-ah? Bill McGill? Where’d you capture him?”
“On the road between here and the SP ranch, ridin’ a SP horse and
saddle.”
“Pink—” severely—“you ain’t been smoking _marihuana_ weed, have you?”
“I tell you I had him.”
“Well, you ain’t got him now. You’re like a lot of fishermen I’ve
knowed. Better come to bed and sleep it off, Pink. That’s what love does
to you.”
“Aw, hell! Why do you suppose anybody fastened me in the office for?”
“For safe keepin’, I reckon. You jist ooze insanity.”
“You ain’t got a lick of sense, Dud.”
“I know it. Every time I look at you I realize it. If I had any, I’d
hire me a girl-proof deputy. C’mon to bed and forget your
hallucinations.”