stove, while Nell was on the back porch, talking with Eddie Connors, who
went down the steps and headed for the bunkhouse. Hashknife went out on
the shaded porch. Nell said, “Your ears must have burned, Mr. Hartley.”
Hashknife smiled and Shook his head.
“I haven’t felt ’em.”
“We were talking about you.”
“That’s a pretty dry topic for conversation,” he said soberly.
“Eddie didn’t think so. Oh, I didn’t want to be curious, but Uncle Andy
talked about you--and Eddie--” She hesitated.
“That’s the trouble,” he said quietly. “Somethin’ ordinary happens, and
somebody with a big imagination spins a windy about it. The next feller
enlarges it. Well, after it’s been told several times, you’ve either got
wings and one of them halos, or a forked tail and a pair of horns. But
even with all the lies, the poor devil remains a tired ol’ cowpoke, just
gettin’ along in his own dumb way, Ma’am.”
“You’re not so old,” said Nell.
“I’m old enough to know better, Ma’am.”
“I don’t like to be called Ma’am. My name is Nell.”
Hashknife smiled slowly. “I like that name. I’m Hashknife.”
“Just a poor, old, tired cowpoke,” she said slowly. “Johnny said you
just looked at him, and he decided to tell the truth, but he wouldn’t
talk to anybody before that. How did you do it, Hashknife?”
Hashknife looked at her thoughtfully. “I just asked him, Nell.”
“Do people always do what you ask?”
“Well,” Hashknife grinned widely, “I don’t ask--much. Did you know
Chiquita Morales very well?”
“Are you practicing on me?” asked Nell quickly.
“No, I just wondered if yuh knew her pretty well.”
“Not too well,” replied Nell. “Chiquita was pretty, tiny, full of life.
She liked to have a good time, wear pretty clothes. But the Morales are
poor people. I don’t believe they had much control over her. I liked
her. She was very generous, sympathetic, but very emotional.”
“Do you think she would have married Frenchy Arnett, Nell?”
“No, I don’t, Hashknife. Frenchy was too slow for her. She went to that
Mexican dance with Oren Blakely, and Frenchy didn’t know it. If Chiquita
wanted to go some place she’d ask most any man to take her--she didn’t
have any favorites, it seemed.”
“The Morales’ are pretty poor, eh?” remarked Hashknife.
“Yes, they are. I never could understand where Chiquita got money to buy
fancy clothes, but she wore plenty.”
“Maybe some cowpoke bought ’em,” suggested Hashknife.
“At forty dollars a month?”
“No, that don’t go far,” admitted Hashknife. “Did you ever know her to
go to dances with Harry Colton?”
“With the banker’s son? You amaze me, Hashknife.”
Hashknife smiled slowly. “I even amaze myself, at times, Nell.”
“No, I never have seen them together,” she said. “No reason why not.
After all, Harry Colton isn’t too good, in spite of his money. Now that
his father is broke, I don’t know what he will do.”
Aunt Judy came out on the porch to cool off.
“Who are you folks plottin’ against?” she asked.
“The forces of evil, Aunt Judy,” replied Nell.
“Well, it must have been pleasant plotting--the way you’ve been smiling.
Isn’t she a sweet girl, Hashknife?”
“Aunt Judy!” protested Nell.
“I’ve been thinkin’ that all along,” grinned Hashknife.
“How come you never got married?” asked Aunt Judy.
“Well,” replied Hashknife thoughtfully, “I don’t reckon I’ve ever had
time. My old Dad was a range-ridin’ sky-pilot up on the Milk River in
Montana. He had a houseful of kids, and mighty little money to take care
of ’em. When I was still a sprout, I got a horse and a riding rig. I had
itchin’ feet. Dad said, ‘Son, I’ve been watchin’ yuh a long
time--lookin’ at them hills. You want to see what’s on the other side.
When you was born the good Lord put a wanderin’ brand on yuh. I’ve seen
that brand growin’. You’ll never call any place home, never be held by
any ties. I’ve tried to teach yuh to shoot square--it’s the best I can
do.’”
“And you started wandering,” said Aunt Judy.
“All my life, Aunt Judy-- Dad’s prophecy was right. Sleepy is of the
same breed--we can’t stay put.”
“Helping people,” said Nell quietly.
“Who told you that?” he asked.
“Eddie Connors. I think it is wonderful. We need help, Hashknife.”
Hashknife squinted thoughtfully across the hills. After a long pause he
said, “Yeah, I reckon yuh do, Nell.”
“Johnny and me were going to get married Christmas Eve.”
“That ain’t far away, Nell, and there ain’t much to work on, but we’ll
hope that it’s all written our way in the Big Book.”
“Big Book?” queried Aunt Judy quickly.
“There is a big book, yuh know, Aunt Judy,” said Hashknife.
“I’ve never heard of it before.”
“I’ve never seen it,” smiled Hashknife. “No mortal’s eyes have ever seen
it--but the finger of Fate writes in that book. It shows what we do, how
we live, how we die--and when.”
“That’s fatalism!” exclaimed Aunt Judy. “You don’t believe in that, do
you, Hashknife?”
“I believe,” replied Hashknife, “that you’ll never die until your number
is up on the board, Aunt Judy. Bein’ careful is a human trait, but it
won’t save yuh. Men have gone through hell and high water all their
lives, only to trip over a chair in the dark and break their neck.
What’s yore argument against it, Aunt Judy?”
“Well, I--when you started, I had several--but I guess I’ve forgotten
what they were.”
“School is dismissed,” grinned Hashknife.
* * * * *
It was a wonderful supper. Aunt Judy was a fine cook, and Sleepy almost
ate himself under the table. They got back to Tomahawk Flats about nine
o’clock, and were standing in front of the Pasatiempo Saloon, when a
horse and buggy drove up. A man had just come out of the saloon, and the
driver called to him, asking directions for finding Thomas Colton’s
home. Then the buggy turned and went back up the street. The man had
leaned out of the buggy, his face full in the lights of the saloon.
Hashknife said quietly, “Did you see that feller, Sleepy?”
“No, I didn’t pay any attention. Sort of a fat man, wasn’t he?”
“Sort of--yeah. I’ve seen that face before, but I can’t quite place him.
C’mon.”
“Are yuh goin’ to try and run him down?” asked Sleepy.
“I hadn’t thought of that--but I’m curious.”
Thomas Colton’s home was only two blocks off the main street, but there
were no lights on the street, and the night was dark. They found the
horse and buggy at Colton’s front gate. There were lights in the house,
but the windows were shaded. Sleepy wanted to know why they ever came
down there, in the first place. Didn’t Mr. Colton have any right to have
a visitor.
Hashknife laughed. “That visitor,” he said, “is a man we both knew in
Wyomin’, Sleepy. His name was Slim Regan. What it is now, who knows?”
“Slim Regan?” queried Sleepy. “I ’member him. He was a gambler and a
promoter, wasn’t he?”
“That’s the person--I’m dead sure. Maybe he didn’t recognize me--my back
bein’ to the light, and we ain’t seen him for at least five years. Maybe
he’s livin’ straight now--who knows?”
They started back, when they heard footsteps on the wooden sidewalk,
coming from the opposite direction. The walker was wearing spurs. It was
too dark for them to see him, but he turned in at Colton’s gate and went
to the house. There were no lights, when the door was opened, but they
heard it close behind him.
“Maybe the Coltons are havin’ a party,” suggested Sleepy.
Hashknife didn’t offer any suggestions, but started down the road,
heading in the direction from which the spur-wearing person came. After
a short distance they cut over to the sidewalk, and went on, until they
found the horse, tied to a tree almost at the outskirts of town. It was
a tall roan animal, and with the aid of a match they were able to
decipher the Bar N brand on the animal. Sleepy said, “That’s Buck
Nolan’s mark, Hashknife.”
They sat down in the darkness and waited possibly fifteen minutes, but
no one came along.
“Even if he did come for the horse, it’s too dark to recognize him.
Anyway, there ain’t no law,” said Sleepy.
“I reckon yo’re right,” agreed Hashknife.
“No use settin’ here.”
They were almost back at Colton’s house, when they heard the rasp of
buggy-wheels, as the vehicle was turned around. A few moments later the
horse and buggy came past them, traveling fast, heading back toward
where the horse was tied. The Colton house was dark.
“Well,” remarked Sleepy, “what’s funny about that?”
“I didn’t say it was funny,” replied Hashknife.
They went up to their room at the hotel and went to bed. Sleepy said,
“Ain’t we even goin’ to try and get prices on ranches?”
“We’ll let Colton see what he can do first. After all, he knows values
better than we do.”
* * * * *
They met Thomas Colton next morning, and he asked them if they had
discussed prices with any of the ranchers.
“We’re leavin’ that to you, Mr. Colton,” said Hashknife.
“Well, that is right, Mr. Hartley. No use of both of us working on the
same idea. Are you leaving here soon?”
“I’ll tell yuh,” replied Hashknife soberly, “if we can buy at a good
price, we might take over a spread ourselves.”
This seemed to confuse Colton. He said, “Well, I--yes, of course. I had
no idea you--well, why not?”
“If we got it cheap enough,” said Hashknife. “We like this range. After
all, a feller ought to settle down.”
“Yes, I believe--we will talk about it again, Mr. Hartley.”
Mr. Colton went on. Sleepy braced against a porch-post, looked
inquiringly at Hashknife.
“Settlin’ down, eh?” he remarked. “That’s wonderful. Goin’ to buy a
ranch. Total assets about twenty-five dollars.”
“If we could get it cheap enough--” said Hashknife.
* * * * *
Aunt Judy and Uncle Andy came to town before noon, and were talking with
Hashknife and Sleepy in front of the sheriff’s office, when Buck Nolan
came riding up to the office. He nodded to them, started for the office
doorway, when the sheriff came out.
“Nick, there’s a buggy wrecked in Horseshoe Canyon,” said Nolan. “I saw
where it went over the rip-rap, and it’s down there about a hundred feet
below the grade. I was comin’ down from Northgate and--”
“Yuh mean--a buggy and team went off the grade, Buck?”
“It sure looks like it, Nick. Yuh can see some of the buggy, all smashed
up on the rocks down there.”
“I’ll get Frenchy. You take us back there, Buck. Maybe Hartley and
Stevens will go with us; we’ll need plenty help. I wonder who went off
the grade.”
Hashknife looked curiously at Buck Nolan, big, raw-boned, just a bit
gray. Buck was riding a sorrel, bearing his own brand. Then Hashknife
and Sleepy hurried to the stable to get their horses. Sleepy said, “I’m
wonderin’ a little, too, Gardner.”
“We don’t know the man--if its Regan,” said Hashknife.
“I know what yuh mean,” said Sleepy.
It was several miles out to Horseshoe Canyon. Frenchy went along, but
showed little interest. He was sober, but his brown eyes were bloodshot
from too much whiskey.
The coroner went in a spring-wagon, taking plenty ropes along. The
wheelmarks on the edge of the grade were very plain, and they could see
part of the smashed buggy. There was a trail into the canyon just above
the wreck, and they went down on foot.
Slim Regan had been thrown clear of the buggy, but straight into a
jumble of jagged rocks. The scent of whiskey still lingered on the dead
man’s clothes, and there was a smashed bottle in the bottom of the
buggy. They took the body to open ground, where the coroner examined the
pockets of his clothes, but all they found was a pocket-knife and a few
dollars in silver coin. There was not a scrap of paper to identify him.
It was quite a task, getting the body back to the grade. The coroner
said that there was no question of its being an accident. Hashknife made
no comments. The coroner could be right, except that the wheel marks on
the edge of the grade showed the buggy traveling south, instead of
north. Sleepy had noticed that detail, too.
As they rode together off the grade, the latter said, “If Slim Regan
wanted to pile his carcass into the canyon, why did he turn the buggy
around and make the dive? It’s just as fatal, goin’ north as it is
south.”
Hashknife nodded grimly. He said, “Keep yore eyes open, pardner--there’s
brains workin’ down here. They didn’t want anybody to know that Regan
was in Tomahawk Flats last night. Regan rode up in front of the
Pasatiempo Saloon and asked a man where Tom Colton lived. Who was the
man he asked, Sleepy?”
Sleepy scowled thoughtfully, and finally said, “Hashknife, I ain’t
exactly sure. Yuh see, I wasn’t payin’ much attention, but I kinda seem
to remember that it was Gus Staley. I can’t be sure--but I think it was.
He works for that feller Hack.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Regan went to see Tom Colton, stayed there maybe
half an hour, and then pulled out. Regan is a gambler.”
“Was,” corrected Sleepy, “until he hit bedrock. What do yuh make out of
it?”
Hashknife didn’t say. He thought it over and finally remarked, “Sleepy,
I wish we knew who the man was who walked in the dark and wore spurs.”
“And rode a Bar N roan,” added Sleepy. “But what does it add up to?”
“I dunno. Doc Talbert said he’d make a complete examination of the body.
That might help our case.”
But Doctor Talbert’s examination didn’t help them any. Any evidence of
foul play, except by gun-shot, would have been wiped out by the man’s
fall onto the rocks. Nick McGarvin asked that everybody take a look at
the body, hoping that someone would identify him, but to no avail. The
keeper of the livery-stable at Northgate had rented him the horse and
buggy, but had no idea where the man was going. He gave the name of Jim
Hendricks, paid in advance for the rig, and said he would be gone
overnight. Asked about Hendrick’s having any baggage, the stableman said
he wasn’t sure, but believed the man had a small valise.
Hashknife met Sam Hack and Gus Staley on the street and stopped to talk
with them.
“Did you look at the dead man, Staley?” he asked.
“Yeah--sure, I seen him, Hartley. I don’t--”
“Think back,” said Hashknife. “Wasn’t he the same man who drove up in
front of the Pasatiempo that night and asked you how to find Thomas
Colton’s house?”
Gus Staley looked blankly at Hashknife. “I dunno what yuh mean,” he
replied. “I never seen the man before. You must mean somebody else. I
never seen him in a buggy in my life.”
“I see,” murmured Hashknife. “Well, it don’t matter.”
“Didn’t the man run off the grade _comin’_ here?” asked Hack.
“Yeah, it looks thataway,” replied Hashknife. “A couple hundred yards
further along the grade is a place where he could turn his outfit
around. Maybe he was comin’ back--I dunno.”
“You ain’t sure he _ever_ was down here, are yuh?” asked Hack.
“Him or his ghost.”
“Ghost?” Staley spat viciously into the dusty street. “You don’t believe
in ghosts, do yuh, Hartley?”
“I know what I have seen,” replied Hashknife seriously, “but I never try
to impose my ideas on other people.”
“That’s all damn foolishment!” snorted Staley. “When yo’re dead--yo’re
dead, and that’s all there is to it.”
“That’s the best way to look at it,” remarked Hashknife.
* * * * *
Hashknife and Sleepy did not go to the funeral of Chiquita Morales, but
they heard that Frenchy Arnett paid most of the expenses. Thomas Colton
had approached Uncle Andy regarding selling the AD, but Uncle Andy
avoided making any definite price. He knew he would have to sell
eventually, but held off. Hashknife talked with Johnny at the jail, but
Johnny was little help. He stuck to his story that he’d traded the ring
to Chiquita for a pinto horse, and that she didn’t wear the ring to that
dance in Mexico. Hashknife didn’t tell Johnny that he’d found the ring
in the Morale’s buggy. Johnny said, “I’m stuck, Hashknife. If Chiquita
had lived, she could have testified that I didn’t own the ring.”
“That,” said Hashknife, “is why she died. Johnny, do yuh know of any man
around here she liked well enough to give that ring?”
Johnny shook his head. “Chiquita, I believe, was a good girl. She liked
a good time, and she didn’t have to want for men to take her places. She
wanted money, fine clothes and all that. Yuh see, a cowpoke’s wages
don’t cover that, Hashknife.”
“Where did she get her finery, Johnny. Pete Morales couldn’t afford to
buy things for her.”
“Yeah, that’s right--I never thought of that. Well, she never tried to
get money from anybody--as far as I know.”
“Johnny, did Harry Colton ever go out with her?”
Johnny leaned against the bars of his cell and thought it over. Finally
he said quietly, “I’m just wonderin’.”
Johnny might have said more, but Frenchy Arnett came in. He was sober,
but grim-faced. Hashknife said, “Frenchy, wouldn’t you like to know who
shot Chiquita?”
Frenchy shut his eyes tightly for a moment and his jaw tightened. “Sure
would,” he said quietly, but firmly. “I know she went to a dance with
Oren Blakely. That was right; Oren didn’t do it. Damn right, I’d like to
know, Hartley.”
“Maybe you can help us find him, Frenchy. Did you ever give her money to
buy clothes?”
“Give Chiquita money? No! Why do you ask that?”
“They say she wore nice clothes.”
“Chiquita always looks nice--silk skirt, pretty shoes.”
“Pete Morales didn’t have money to buy them with, Frenchy.”
Frenchy thought it over. Suddenly he faced Hashknife, his eyes hot. “You
mean to say somebody gave her money--Chiquita?”
“Keep cool,” advised Johnny. “Hashknife wants to help.”
“She was my girl,” said Frenchy huskily. “If she wanted money, I’d give
it to her. Who gave her money? Oren Blakely didn’t have money to give to
women. Who gave her money?”
“You knew about Johnny tradin’ her that ring for a pinto?”
“Sure--I heard that. That is all right--the pinto belonged to her.”
“Frenchy, Chiquita loaned or sold that ring to the man who killed her.
Johnny is in jail for a robbery, and the evidence is that ring he traded
Chiquita. She could have told who had that ring. She didn’t tell,
because she didn’t want that man in jail--but he didn’t take a chance.”
Frenchy shrugged his shoulders. “Chiquita go out with other men.
Sometimes I warn not here--sometimes I have no money to spend. I am not
her husband--I can’t say no. Maybe she don’t tell me. That is her
business.”
“Frenchy, did she ever go out with Harry Colton?” asked Hashknife.
Frenchy’s lips shut to a thin line and he walked over to a barred
window, but came back.
“I think she did,” he said quietly. “I accuse her of it, but she just
laughed at me. How did you know this, Hartley?”
“I didn’t--I just wanted to find out what men she went out with.
Chiquita is gone now, Frenchy. Nothing can change that. Our job is to
find the man who did it.”
“Sure, she’s gone--now,” breathed Frenchy and walked away, his eyes
filled with tears. Hashknife looked at Johnny and shook his head. “I’ll
see yuh later,” he told Johnny.
* * * * *
Hashknife met the sheriff and Sleepy in the office. Hashknife said,
“Nick, I’ve had a talk with Johnny and Frenchy.”
“Yeah? Did yuh find out anythin’ yuh already didn’t know?”
“If anybody asks yuh, Nick,” replied Hashknife soberly, “you can tell
’em that Dancin’ Devil is in for some surprisin’ things--very soon. In
fact, before Christmas.”
Nick McGarvin’s jaw sagged a trifle. “Yuh mean--yuh know somethin’,
Hashknife?”
“You’d be surprised, Nick.”
Leaving the sheriff to think this over, Hashknife and Sleepy walked back
toward the hotel.
“He’d be surprised, eh?” remarked Sleepy.
“That’s what I told him, Sleepy.”
“What’d he be surprised about?”
“The few things I know, pardner. Listen, will yuh? Our only chance to
find out somethin’ is to scare the guilty into doin’ somethin’. It
works, when brains fail--and I don’t mind admittin’ that mine have
failed.”
“I know what yuh mean,” said Sleepy quietly. “We paint black circles
around our heads, with a bull’s-eye in the middle.”
“That’s right. Nick’s human. He’ll pass the word.”
“Well, all I can say is that we better find a quiet, remote spot, where
we can practice dodgin’ bullets,” said Sleepy. “Yuh know, I think I like
it better than settin’ around, pardner. This ain’t our idea of a good
time, anyway.”
“But just remember, Sleepy; we ain’t dealin’ with dumb rustlers in this
game--but I figure that even the smartest men will get scared and make a
break--when they’re scared, enough.”
* * * * *
Tomorrow night would be Christmas Eve. They brought m a big fir tree for
the little church, but it seemed that the Christmas spirit was lacking.
Someone told Hashknife that Thomas Colton was going to be the Santa
Claus for the church celebration. The Davidsons and the Frawleys were in
town, and Uncle Andy told Hashknife that Colton had asked him to make a
price on the AD.
“He wanted it in a hurry, too,” declared Uncle Andy. “I told him it
wasn’t anythin’ I could hurry with.”
“Did he suggest any price?” asked Hashknife.
“Well,” replied Uncle Andy grimly, “he said I’d be lucky to get much
more than the cost of the mortgage.”
“What about Frawley?”
“He’s goin’ to talk to Colton this afternoon, he said.”
“Tell him to hold off makin’ any deal, Uncle Andy.”
The little cowman looked quizzically at the tall cowboy.
“What’s time got to do with it, Hashknife?” he asked.
“Well, maybe a better price. Anyway, you’ve got plenty time, after the
notice of foreclosure to redeem the property.”
“Not with the mortgages from Colton. It specifies that when the bank
shuts down on the mortgage--yo’re through.”
“I see. Mortgage expires--ranch gone, eh?”
“That’s the only way he’ll loan money, Hashknife.”
A few minutes later he met Ed Frawley, who drew him aside.
“What’s goin’ on?” asked Frawley quietly. “A man over in the Pasatiempo
told me that--well, he said somethin’ was goin’ to happen before
Christmas--somethin’ you said. At least, that’s the rumor.”
“I hope it’s right, Frawley. Funny how things like that get in the
wind.”
“You mean--there’s ain’t anythin’ to it, Hashknife?”
“_Quien sabe?_” replied Hashknife soberly. “A lot can be done in an
hour--and Christmas ain’t until day after tomorrow.”
He found Sleepy in front of the hotel, and told him, “I reckon Nick
McGarvin spread the word.”
“I heard it,” nodded Sleepy. “Frenchy Arnett cornered me, and wanted to
know. He said, ‘If yuh know who shot Chiquita--don’t arrest him; just
let me know who he is.’ I said we would. Aw, I didn’t mean it--but what
else could I tell him? He ain’t no deputy sheriff now--he’s a wolf with
the rabies, pardner.”
The Davidsons and Frawleys stayed in town for supper. Hashknife and
Sleepy stayed together, ate supper in a little Mexican restaurant, where
they could sit against the wall. The Mexican who operated the
restaurant, usually very voluble, was quiet, serving the enchiladas and
frijoles hurriedly, one eye on the door.
“I wonder what he’s thinkin’,” remarked Sleepy.
“I wonder what he _knows_,” said Hashknife. “They tell me he was
Chiquita’s uncle. Maybe he don’t want his place messed up with us.”
It was dark outside, as they paid their bill. With a hand on the knob,
Hashknife drew back, turned and came back to the little counter, where
the Mexican was at his cash-box.
“_Amigo_, is there a back door to this place?” he asked*
“Sure,” nodded the Mexican. “Go t’rough the keetchen.”
They went swiftly through the kitchen, redolent with spices and other
odors, out through an old door and into the alley. There was a short,
narrow alley, leading to the main street, and they could see the
silhouette of a man, leaning against the right-hand wall, evidently
watching for somebody. Hashknife kicked a wooden box aside, making a
clatter, and the man moved quickly, stepping up on the wooden sidewalk.
Hashknife didn’t hesitate, but led the way up the alley. The man had
passed the little restaurant and was standing at the edge of the
sidewalk just beyond. It was too dark for them to see what he looked
like, except that he was tall. Finally he went on up the street toward
the hotel.
“Do yuh think he was tryin’ to dry gulch us?” asked Sleepy.
“Who knows? He was waitin’ for somebody, but we scared him away from the
alley. He could look through the window and see that we’re gone.”
They went slowly up the sidewalk, watching closely, until they were at
the front of the hotel. Hashknife peered through the window, as he heard
Frank Olds, the hotel man, speak sharply to someone. Olds was over near
the foot of the stairs, looking up toward the hallway, when he suddenly
lifted his arms, shaking his head and protesting, but began walking up
the stairs, both hands up.
Hashknife jerked away from the window, whispered sharply:
“Stay here! Trouble in there,” and ran down the alley toward the rear
stairs of the hotel.
Sleepy moved over to the open doorway of the hotel. The sheriff was
crossing the street, and Sleepy said, as he came up: