Comanche Beadle swung the stage team through the gate at the Diamond R
on his southern trip the next morning, and drew up near the kitchen door
of the ranch-house. He had some stuff to deliver. Scotty looked him over
sourly, and Comanche grinned to himself. He had heard about Scotty’s
turning a flip over a billiard cue. Scotty’s eyes were bloodshot, but he
was perfectly sober.
“Hello, Mulligan!” yelled Comanche to the Chinese cook, who came
shuffling out, skillet in hand.
“H’lo,” replied Mulligan.
“Got some stuff for you, you flat faced heathen.”
Comanche unroped some boxes from the boot and put them on the steps.
“Hyah, Comanche,” grunted Scotty.
“Howdy,” Comanche grunted back at him. Comanche was a tough old bull
whacker. He grinned at Scotty, spat copiously and said, “They tell me
you’re gittin’ good at pool, Scotty.”
“They do, eh?” Scotty said coldly.
“Yea-a-ah. They say you shore believe in signs.”
“What kinda signs?”
Comanche grinned widely.
“There’s a sign in the War Paint which says for pool players to keep
both feet on the floor. They tell me you—”
“I’ll make somebody laugh out of the other side of their mouth,” gritted
Scotty angrily.
“They ain’t laughin—they’re marvelin’.”
“Thasso?”
“Uh-huh.”
Comanche bit off another generous chew.
“You lived in Santa Dolores a long time ago, didn’t you, Scotty?”
“What if I did?”
“’Member a feller named—uh—” Comanche consulted a sheet of paper for a
moment—“a feller named Neilan, Nolan, Nelson or Neal, who used to be up
that-away about twenty years ago?”
Scotty shut one eye and squinted closely at Comanche.
“What’s the idea?”
“I jist thought mebbe you’d know him.”
“What about him?”
“Sheriff’s sendin’ a wire to the penitentiary, askin’ for information
about this feller. I jist thought mebbe you knowed somethin’ about him.”
Scotty hitched up his overalls and walked over to look at the boxes.
Comanche climbed back on his seat, picked up the lines and sat there,
looking at Scotty.
“You didn’t say,” reminded the old driver.
“Didn’t say what?”
“Whether you knew him.”
“Knew who?”
“Feller named Neilan, Nolan, Nelson or Neal.”
Scotty’s face turned red, puffed angrily and he seemed about to turn the
vials of his wrath on old Comanche. Then he took a deep breath.
“Comanche, if there was a taxidermist around here, I’d shoot you and
have you stuffed. I don’t know any Neilan, Nolan, Nelson or Neal. Git to
hell away from here before I haul you off that stage and rub your nose
in the dirt.”
“You and what other six cowpunchers? Rub my nose in the dirt! I’m sixty
years old, but I can whip you on a sheepskin. Gittin’ mad jist because I
wondered—”
“Wondered, eh? Can’tcha drive and wonder at the same time, or can’t you
do two things at once?”
“Giddap!” snorted Comanche. “I never seen a pool player yet that—” The
rest was lost in the rattle of the heavy stage as he turned swiftly to
the right, and headed back for the main road.
Scotty stood there, scowling after Comanche, his jaw set belligerently.
“Neilan, Nolan, Nelson or Neal, eh? That’s damn’ funny.”
“You no feel good t’day?” queried Mulligan.
Scotty gave the Chinese a blistering look and walked around to the front
porch, where he sat down on the steps and tore up several cigarette
papers before he succeeded in rolling one.
A few minutes later Buck Haskell rode in from Willow Wells and got off
his horse at the porch.
“Jack Erb is still alive,” he said. “Unconscious yet. As far as I can
find out, everybody believes Jack was bushed. If Hartley knows Reese
done the shootin’, he ain’t tellin’ nobody.”
Scotty spat dryly.
“That’s the hell of it! Hartley don’t tell _all_ he knows. That _hombre_
is dangerous, Buck. Look out for him.”
“I’m not worryin’ about him. Here’s a funny deal, and I got it straight.
Pink Lowry captured Bill McGill between town and the SP ranch last
night. He took the tenderfoot to jail, roped to the saddle, tied the
horse in front of the office and went in to tell Evans. And somebody
blocked the door on him, took McGill away and nobody knows where he went
nor who got him.”
“Bill McGill, eh? Well, I’ll be danged! So that blamed tenderfoot is
still around here.”
“Must be. And Pelliser fired Hartley and Stevens yesterday.”
Scotty laughed with evident amusement.
“They’re stayin’ at the hotel,” offered Buck. “I wonder why Pelliser
fired ’em.”
“I dunno. They told old man Noon that he was stealin’ his cows.”
“They did, eh?”
“Yeah. Well, if they ain’t got no job, mebbe they won’t stay long. If
they do stay, it won’t be long before me and that Hartley person locks
horns.”
“Don’t never tackle him with your fists.”
“Not me.”
“Lee says he’ll get him.”
“Yea-a-a-ah, he will! Lee’s as yaller as a sunflower. Reese said he’d
get him, too. And Reese is hightailin’ it for Cinnabar, lookin’ behind
himself at every straight piece of road. He’s scared, if you ask me.”
“I guess he is. How’s your shoulder?”
“Pretty sore. He thinks he pulled a slick one on me, and I’ll admit it
was; but it don’t end there. It’s a wonder he didn’t unjoint me.”
Buck laughed shortly.
“Any man who can think that fast—well, I hope him and his pardner pull
out of the Valley pretty soon.”
“They will—or they won’t never leave here,” declared Scotty. “They ain’t
got me scared.”
“Oh, I’m not scared, but I don’t want no truck with ’em if it can be
avoided.”
Buck took his horse down to the stable, and Scotty sat down again. He
had told Buck that he was not afraid, but there was a worried expression
in his eyes.
“Neilan, Nolan, Nelson or Neal,” he said softly. “I wish I knowed what
it was all about. A telegram to the penitentiary, eh? Mebbe I better try
and get Evans to talk.”
He nodded slowly to himself, but suddenly his jaw sagged.
“Hartley was over at Santa Dolores, I’ll bet! That’s how he happens to
be in Cinnabar. Damn’ him, what’s he up to, anyway?”
Scotty got to his feet, staring off across the hills.
“That’s it,” he muttered. “Hartley! Tryin’ to spoil my deal, eh? Yeah,
he will—not! I’ll stop him if it’s the last thing I do.”
Buck and Smith, the scar faced cowboy, were coming up from the stable,
heading for the bunkhouse. Scotty called to Smith, who came over to the
porch.
“How good a detective are you, Smith?” he asked.
Smith grinned and shook his head.
“Not very good, I don’t reckon.”
“Prob’ly not. But here’s what I want you to do. Go to town and kinda mix
around with the folks. If you can git in with Hartley and Stevens,
that’ll be fine. Or even with the sheriff. Steer the talk around to
Cinnabar and Santa Dolores. Mebbe they’ll ask you some questions.”
Smith scratched his stubbly hair and looked at Scotty.
“How could I answer their questions, Scotty? You’ve got to know—”
“Lie about it. Tell ’em—lemme see. Tell ’em you had a brother out in
this country a long time ago, up around Santa Dolores. See the idea?
Tell ’em you’d like to git some track of him.”
“But I never—”
“Aw, lie, you damn’ fool!”
“What’s the joke, Scotty?”
Scotty shook his head.
“Mebbe it’s a joke, and mebbe it ain’t. Go ahead and lie to ’em. They’ll
talk, and you tell me what they talked about.”
Smith nodded slowly.
“All right, I’ll do it. I reckon I can rig me up a brother. I never had
any, you see.”
“Git yourself one to use. But find out all you can. And see what else
you can find out about Bill McGill. He’s back in the Valley again.”
Smith laughed softly and shook his head.
“That feller is a wonder.”
“He’s a locoed tenderfoot, that’s what he is. Did Buck tell you?”
“About the deputy sheriff losin’ him? Yeah. Funny, wasn’t it?”
“Lots o’ funny things happenin’.”
Smith saddled his horse and rode to Willow Wells. The first bit of
information he received was in the War Paint Saloon, where he went to
get a drink. The bartender had the story from Hashknife, and he gave it
to Smith for what it was worth.
“That feller Jack Erb was conscious for a little while, and I’ve heard
that he told quite a few things to the sheriff. The doctor says he can’t
live, you know.”
“Told about what?” asked Smith.
“I dunno. Kinda queer about him bein’ bushwhacked, wasn’t it? Mebbe he
had somethin’ to tell, eh?”
“Mebbe.” Smith was quite positive that this would interest Scotty. It
might also interest other people, he thought.
* * * * *
The town was quiet and there was no sign of Hashknife and Sleepy. Smith
got into a small poker game to while away the time. The stage was due to
pass the Diamond R ranch at about suppertime, and Scotty happened to be
out at the road with a letter for Comanche when the stage came along.
“Kinda dusty, ain’t it?” grunted Comanche as he reached down for the
envelope.
“It is dusty, Comanche. Didja get the information you wanted?”
“What about?”
“That feller named Neilan, Nolan—”
“Oh, no,” grinned Comanche. “Fact is, I never asked anybody else. Got a
telegram for the sheriff, but the damn’ thing’s sealed. Mebbe that’s the
information. Well, see you later. Giddap, broncs!”
And Comanche wheeled away in a cloud of dust, springs creaking. Scotty
walked back to the house, buckled on his chaps and headed for the
stable.
“Goin’ to town?” asked Buck Haskell.
“Right now, Buck.”
“We’re all goin’ in after supper. This is Sat’day night and I’d like to
draw a few dollars.”
“See you in town, Buck.”
“All right. We’ll be in about seven o’clock.”
Buck went on to the house, where the boys were washing up for supper.
“He’ll meet us in town,” explained Buck.
“Must be in a awful rush to go before supper,” said Lee.
“All on aidge,” said Barney East, his face muffled in a towel. “Since
old man Noon had him arrested for rustlin’, Scotty has been keyed up—and
that billiard cue business didn’t calm him down a bit. I’ve jist got a
hunch that there’ll be powder smoke in the old town tonight.”
“I hope not,” grunted Buck. “I got a cactus spine in my right foot and I
can’t run very fast.”
“Powder smoke or no powder smoke, I’m goin’ to play some poker,”
declared Barney. “I’ve got some easy money comin’, and I’m goin’ to make
me a bankroll or go busted right.”
Smith did not see Hashknife or the sheriff until the stage rolled in; it
stopped for a moment at the sheriff’s office to deliver the telegram,
then went on to the stage station. The sheriff opened the telegram, read
it and handed it to Hashknife. It was from the State penitentiary,
signed by the warden.
NEAL SERVED FULL SENTENCE BELIEVED RINGLEADER IN ATTEMPT TO
DELIVER TWENTY MEN TEN YEARS AGO WAS BAD PRISONER
NO FURTHER INFORMATION.
—TAYLOR
Hashknife swore softly and handed the telegram back to the sheriff.
“My mistake was in not askin’ how long a sentence Neal got. But this
might be enough.”
Smith came up to them, sauntering along, and Hashknife pocketed the
telegram.
“How are you this evenin’, Smith?” asked the sheriff.
“Pretty good; how are you? Any news about Jack Erb?”
“Not since this afternoon,” said Hashknife. “He was conscious for a few
minutes—long enough to talk a little.”
“And he shore talked,” said the sheriff, backing up Hashknife’s lie.
Smith smiled to himself, wondering what Erb had said. Not for a moment
did he suspect that Hashknife had circulated this information for an
especial purpose. Even the sheriff did not know what it was for.
“Was either of you men ever up around Santa Dolores years ago?” asked
Smith seriously.
“I never was,” said the sheriff. Hashknife’s gray eyes twinkled a
little.
“Why I asked you was because I had a brother out in this country a long
time ago, and I kinda lost track of him. He wrote me letters from Santa
Dolores, and I kinda thought somebody might remember him.”
“Named Smith?” asked Hashknife.
Smith snorted softly.
“Naturally. First name Henry.”
“You might ask Caliente Smith,” suggested Hashknife. “He was up in that
part of the country a long time ago and he might remember a Smith, bein’
as that’s his name, too.”
“I might ask him. Thanks for the suggestion.”
Smith went back up the street and Hashknife looked after him, a curious
expression in his eyes. He turned to the sheriff.
“That was kinda funny, wasn’t it? Comin’ right after that telegram?”
“Yeah, it was.”
They walked up the street and met Comanche, who had turned his team over
to the stable. Comanche evidently saw nothing wrong in having read the
telegram entrusted to his care.
“Didja git an answer to your telegram?” he asked. “The one I sent out
for you this mornin’? Quick work, eh? Send her out and git an answer
inside of a couple hours. I stopped at the Diamond R on my way down, and
I happened to remember that the McGowans used to be up around Santa
Dolores. I asked Scotty if he remembered anybody by them names, but I
guess he didn’t.”
“You showed him my telegram?”
“Didn’t show it to him—no.”
“Read it to him?”
“No, I jist asked him about a feller of that name. He didn’t know any.”
Hashknife sighed deeply and shook his head as they walked on.
“That’s a lesson,” he said to the sheriff.
“Always seal your telegrams.”
“That’s right. But there’s no harm done, is there?”
“I reckon not. Mebbe it’s best that way. Let’s go and eat.”
“All right. I’ll lock up the office. Pink’s gone out to the Pelliser
ranch again, I reckon. Love must be a awful thing, Hartley.”
“No question about it. It shore ruins a good officer.”
“Then it won’t hurt Pink; he ain’t a good one.”
By the time Scotty reached town Smith was back in a poker game, which
had built up considerably. It being Saturday night, the cowboys would
all be in, especially if they were able to draw some of their wages.
Scotty came to the War Paint and hung around until he was able to
attract Smith’s attention. Smith shook his head at Scotty, indicating
that he had no information. He had forgotten that Erb was said to have
talked. Anyway, that was common knowledge, and Scotty might already have
heard about it. Scotty had a drink and went to the restaurant, where he
found Hashknife and Evans.
Ignoring them, Scotty sat down at a table as far removed as possible,
and ordered a meal. Thursday and Sid Brayton came in, yelped gleefully
and sat down with Evans and Hashknife.
“Didn’t wait for supper,” they said. “Wanted some ham and aigs. Hey!
Sing Lee! Two order soup and two order ham and aigs, straight up.”
Scotty scowled at them as they talked softly, wondering what they were
discussing. With Hashknife and Sleepy fired from the outfit, and with
Sid and Thursday in town, it meant that Mary and Steve were alone at the
ranch.
Scotty was still eating when they left the restaurant and went to the
War Paint, where they found Sleepy playing pool with Chris Halvorsen.
Chris was too easy for Sleepy, who asked Hashknife to play a game with
him; but Hashknife shook his head shortly and Sleepy knew his lanky
partner had something on his mind.
The rest of the Diamond R outfit showed up, but paid no attention to
Hashknife. They wanted liquor and cards—not trouble. The sheriff sat
down to watch another poker game, and in a few minutes Scotty came in.
He gave the men some money and they went straight to the bar.
Hashknife saw the bartender talking to Barney East, and the Diamond R
cowboys seemed deeply interested. They turned and spoke to Scotty, who
listened to what Barney told him. Hashknife had no way of knowing what
was said, but he felt sure the bartender had told Barney that Jack Erb
had talked. Scotty nodded shortly and they went back to their drinks.
Hashknife watched Scotty closely now. He stood there under the hanging
lamp, with tobacco smoke wreathing around his face, his eyes half
closed. He caught Smith’s eye and the scarfaced man cashed in his few
chips and drew out of the game. Hashknife had never practised lip
reading, but he watched the two men closely as Scotty asked Smith a
question. And Smith’s answer was very plain.
“Yeah, I knew about it.”
Hashknife caught it easily—as also he caught Scotty’s reply.
“You fool, why didn’t you tell me?”
Smith shrugged his shoulders. Scotty was whispering swiftly, too swiftly
for Hashknife to catch any of it. Scotty was vehement. His eyes swept
the room and his lips said—
“They’re all here now.”
Smith glanced around, and Hashknife saw his eyes pick out Thursday and
Sid Brayton. He nodded quickly. Scotty said something more, but Smith
did not reply. Scotty turned quickly and left the saloon without saying
anything to his men. Smith glanced around sharply, went slowly to the
doorway, where he stood for several moments, idly looking around. Then
he slipped outside and headed for the hitch-rack.
Hashknife touched Sleepy on the arm and they went outside, not appearing
to be in a hurry. Once out of the lights, Hashknife ran swiftly toward
the livery stable, with Sleepy at his heels. The stablekeeper gawked at
them as they saddled quickly, mounted almost on the run and fairly shot
through the wide front doors.
“I reckon,” said the stablekeeper thoughtfully, “I ought to run and tell
the sheriff that them two gents has either killed somebody or robbed the
bank—but I won’t. It’s none of my business, and I like ’em both.”