“What’s wrong?” asked the big sheriff.
“I don’t know, Nick. Hashknife saw somethin’ through the window, and he
ran around to the back stairs. He told me to--”
Sleepy stopped, when two, closely spaced shots rattled the windows
beside them. Both men sprang through the doorway, into the hotel, as a
figure staggered into view, sagged at the top of the steps and came
pin-wheeling down into the lobby. Hashknife ran to the top of the
stairs, gun in hand, stopped for a moment, but came on down. Behind him
came the disheveled, excited hotel man, waving his arms.
The stranger was sprawled at the foot of the stairs, tall, gaunt,
unkempt. Hashknife was looking down at him, as Sleepy and the sheriff
came over. The excited hotel man was jabbering:
“He stuck me up, I tell yuh! Made me come up there, or he’d kill me.
Hartley, how on earth did you ever beat him? He heard you comin’ up the
stairs. How did you beat him?”
“I didn’t beat him--he missed me,” said Hashknife coldly.
“That’s Cass Trent!” exclaimed the sheriff. “Why he’s-- Hartley, there’s
a half-dozen rewards for this hombre. He’s livin’ across the border for
over a year. He’s a killer.”
“Was,” corrected Sleepy, and looked around at the crowd, swiftly
gathering. The sheriff said:
“What was Cass Trent doin’ here--stickin’ up a hotel?”
“He wasn’t stickin’ me up,” denied the hotel keeper. “He was goin’ to
bush somebody in that hallway. I came and peeked down the stairs and I
seen him. I told him to git out of here, and I was goin’ up and run him
out--but I didn’t. Man, the bore in his gun looked like a tunnel in a
hill!”
“Goin’ to bush somebody?” queried the sheriff. “Who?”
No one seemed to know. Nick McGarvin looked at Hashknife and found the
tall, lean cowboy smiling a little. The sheriff said, “Oh,” and waited
for Doctor Talbert to arrive.
A search of Trent’s pockets revealed five hundred dollars in currency,
all in a packet, and the usual impediments carried by cowboys. They took
the body to the doctor’s place. Nick McGarvin said, “He got what was
comin’ to him. Hashknife--yore cleared--and congratulations. They say
Cass Trent never missed.”
“They all miss sometimes, Nick,” said Hashknife soberly.
“But why would he try to bush you?” asked the sheriff. “You didn’t even
know him.”
Hashknife shook his head. “No, I didn’t, and I never heard of him, until
now. He was hired to kill me, Nick.”
“Hired? Good gosh! Who hired him, Hashknife?”
“I can’t tell yuh--’cause I’m not sure.”
* * * * *
The excitement was mostly over, as soon as the body was removed, but
there was still a lot of discussion going on. Trent’s name was
well-known down there. Hashknife and Sleepy went over to the Pasatiempo
Saloon, listening to the gossip. Harry Colton was at the bar, already
more than half-drunk. Hashknife shoved in beside him, and Colton
resented it. However, he looked at Hashknife, and decided to give him
room.
Hashknife was only at the bar a few moments when the sheriff came in.
Men were asking him questions about the affair at the hotel, when
Hashknife drew him aside, whispered a few words. The sheriff looked at
him in amazement, but finally nodded. About a minute later the sheriff
arrested Harry Colton, who tried to shove the law officer away, swearing
indignantly. The incident brought a lot of attention, but the sheriff
was firm.
“Harry, yuh better go peacefully,” he said.
“You’re crazy!” snarled the young man. “Why arrest me? What’s the
charge?”
“Murder,” said the sheriff coldly. “You killed Chiquita Morales.”
“That’s a lie!”
“It’s the truth, Harry. You’ve still got that turquoise ring. It’s in
yore pocket. Take it out--and deny it!”
The arrest had sobered Harry Colton. Swearing his innocence, he felt in
his pocket and took out the turquoise ring. He took one good look at it
and flung it at the back-bar. The next moment the big sheriff had
crashed Colton against the bar and deftly handcuffed him. Harry Colton
was not swearing nor protesting now, he seemed too stunned to even
notice the crowd, as the sheriff led him outside. The bartender
recovered the ring, and gave it to a man to give to the sheriff.
Word that Harry Colton had been arrested for the murder of Chiquita
Morales spread swiftly. The sheriff was in a quandary as to what to do
about Frenchy Arnett. Hashknife got Frenchy aside and explained to him
that arrest didn’t mean that Harry Colton was guilty. Frenchy laughed
shortly, but promised to keep his trigger-finger under control.
“I think yo’re wrong, Hashknife,” confided the sheriff.
“Maybe I am,” admitted Hashknife, “but it’ll stir things up.”
“It shore will, if a mob decides to lynch Colton.”
Sleepy showed up, having been on a mission, and reported quietly, “Sam
Hack went to tell Thomas Colton, but he’s back at the Pasatiempo. I
heard Colton tell him he’d be right up to the jail.”
“You stay here and keep yore eyes open, pardner,” ordered Hashknife, and
went swiftly up the street.
Hashknife wasn’t sure of anything. When he had dropped that turquoise
ring into Harry Colton’s pocket, he was acting on a vague sort of hunch;
a hunch that this was the time to force the issue. There was a light in
the living-room of the Colton home. Colton hadn’t been to the jail.
Hashknife came straight to the house, so it was evident that Thomas
Colton was taking his own sweet time in reacting to the arrest of his
son. Hashknife circled to the rear of the house, working along a low
fence, when he heard a door close quiet. A moment later someone came
toward the fence, climbed over it and headed south. The man was
evidently carrying something, which he lifted over the fence.
* * * * *
Hashknife trailed him as close as he dared. The man crossed the street,
far from any lights and walked swiftly down the road, which led south
from Tomahawk Flats. But he only went a short distance and stopped off
the road. A minute later he was coming back. Hashknife dropped flat, as
the man went past him, panting a little. He saw him turn into the main
street.
Hashknife saw the man was not carrying anything when he returned; so he
went on in the darkness, just off the road, searching as well as he
could in the darkness, and almost fell over a valise, which had been
left behind a small clump of brush, only a dozen feet off the road. The
heavy valise was locked, and Hashknife didn’t bother to try and open it.
He picked it up and went back to Colton’s house, where he left the
valise against the low fence.
There was a light in the house, but the blinds were down.
Hashknife tried the kitchen door and found it unlocked. Quietly he
opened the door, and listened, but there was not a sound. He closed the
door, moved ahead to the partly opened doorway, which opened into the
living-room, stepped aside against the wall and waited for something to
happen.
He had been there about ten minutes, when he faintly heard footsteps on
the plank walk, which led from the street. There was a sharp knock at
the front door, and then the door opened. He was unable to see who had
come, but heard more than one come in. A voice called:
“Colton!”
* * * * *
When there was no reply, he heard a man swear bitterly, damning the
Colton family back several generations.
“Where the devil did he go? He never came to the jail. Yuh don’t
suppose--?” a voice began.
“Suppose what?” asked another man.
“Never mind. Where did Hartley go? I seen Stevens there, but I didn’t
see that long-legged bloodhound. That damned Trent! He made a mess of
the deal. Five hundred dollars, all shot!”
“Never mind the five hundred dollars,” said the other nervously. “We’ve
got to find Colton. Don’t yuh realize that Harry will talk? He ain’t got
the guts of a cottontail. Let’s head south.”
“No, we won’t head no place--not till we find Colton. Damn it, we’ve got
to find Colton! Where did that ring come from?”
“That beats me. I threw it away, I tell yuh. I heard it hit the
buggy--maybe that fool Harry found it. He’s half-crazy, anyway. He
should have been dumped into the canyon with Regan. We’d have been safe,
that’s a cinch.”
“Regan got what was comin’ to him. Askin’ the Association to send a man
down here to buy ranches! Said it’d look legitimate. Legitimate--hell!
They sent Hashknife Hartley. He found it out, and lost his nerve. Scared
to write or wire us--came down himself, and wanted to get out of the
deal.”
“Never mind what happened to Regan--what’ll happen to us?”
“Nothin’!” snapped the man. “Maybe we’re through here, but we can live
like kings in Mexico. Yuh see--”
The man stopped short. Hashknife heard the door click shut, and Colton’s
voice saying, “Keep your hands where they are--both of you.”
“What’s eatin’ you, Colton?” asked one of the men anxiously.
“What did you two do with that valise?”
“Are you crazy? What valise?”
“Don’t lie to me--you got it. I cached it beside the road, got Harry’s
horse and saddle, and when I got back there--it was gone. I’ll give you
ten seconds to tell me where--”
There was the sound of a scuffle, the thud of a falling body, and a
voice drawled:
“Jist set right there, my fine-feathered friend! Pick up his gun, before
he gits any bright ideas. Standin’ on a loose rug ain’t safe, Mister
Colton--not when I’ve got m’ toe through a hole in one end of it. All
right, all right! This gun’s easy on the trigger, my friend. Start
tellin’ us where yuh put the money.”
“Money!” panted Colton, his voice husky. “You fools, I want to know
where _you_ put it. Put that gun away. Listen; I couldn’t leave the
money here; so I cached it. along the road--in a valise--but it’s gone,
I tell you!”
“Ain’t he a cute thing?” queried a voice sarcastically. “Why, you lyin’
pup! Scared somebody’d find it! You was goin’ to pull out with the
money, and leave us to face the music. I’ve got a damn good notion to
blow yore head off, Colton. Maybe I will. If you don’t--”
“Sh-h-h-h-h!” hissed a voice. “Somebody comin’!”
“Git in that chair, Colton! Guns out of sight!”
Someone knocked on the door, and one of the men said, “Come in!”
Hashknife heard the door open, and a voice said, “Come in, Sheriff. Oh,
Mr. Stevens, too!”
Hashknife stepped into the doorway, shoving the door wider. He could see
Colton, white-faced, sitting in a chair, looking toward the doorway. He
could also see part of one of the other men, and he held a gun behind
him, and cocked.
“Colton, you didn’t show up,” Nick McGarvin said, “and--and we’ve got to
tell yuh. Harry had a gun hidden on him some’ers--and he shot himself.
No, he ain’t dead, but--he-e-ey! What’s this all about?”
“Set down!” rasped one of the men. “Keep yore hands in sight. All right,
Colton--where’s that money? Our money? Our only chance is to get out of
here now--and we don’t go without that money.”
“I told you,” husked Colton, “that somebody got it. If you two
didn’t----”
“You ain’t lyin’, Colton?”
“Would I lie--now? I’ll hold these two. Get your horses, and we head for
Mexico.”
“Broke? Colton, I don’t trust you--not a bit. Tell us where that money
is, or I’ll shoot yuh flat. If we can’t get the money, why should we
bother with you, you sneakin’ coyote. Either you get that money--and we
all go south--or you die here and we pull out together.”
“He ain’t givin’ yuh much choice, Colton,” said Sleepy. “Yuh might as
well play square with ’em.”
“Keep yore nose out of this, Stevens!” snapped one of the men. “One
cinch, when we leave here--_you_ won’t be on our trail.”
“Hashknife will,” reminded Sleepy calmly. “And if yuh ask me, I don’t
believe yo’re goin’ any place. Yuh see, yuh don’t know where he is.”
“Hartley!” whispered Colton. “Maybe he followed me an’--”
“I’m gettin’ out!” declared a man.
“Money be damned--my hide’s worth more’n any money.”
The man wasn’t taking any chances with his partners. With his forty-five
tensed at his hip, he began backing toward the doorway to the kitchen.
The door was open just wide enough to let him through--but he didn’t
make it. A dull thud sounded, just as he was almost out of their sight,
and he went right back, head down, shoulders sagging, buckled at the
knees and sprawled flat onto his face, almost into the sheriff.
* * * * *
For a moment it seemed that everyone except Sleepy was off guard. Sleepy
shot out of his chair and dived into one of the men, blocking his
gun-hand, and the force of his dive crashed over the table, knocking the
lamp off, and plunging the room into darkness. A gun flashed twice, but
the spurts of flame went straight toward the ceiling. Hashknife flung
the door wide open, as a man came at top speed, but the tall cowpoke
dropped to his knees and the man tripped, going into the air and coming
down with a crash against the old kitchen stove.
Hashknife was on him like a flash, gathering in the man’s two arms.
“Light somethin’, will yuh?” Sleepy was yelling. “I think this hombre is
petterfied, but I’d like to be sure.”
The amazed and excited McGarvin managed to light matches. Sleepy was
astride Sam Hack’s back, his hands locked behind him, and Sam Hack was
having trouble getting enough air. McGarvin quickly handcuffed him.
“When yuh get a little time on yore hands,” Hashknife called, “I could
use some rope or somethin’. Better find a lamp, Nick; you’ll burn yore
fingers with all them matches.”
Sleepy came out with a rush, lighting matches, while the sheriff found
and lighted a lamp. Thomas Colton had struck his head against his own
stove and was in no shape to try a getaway. They dragged him into the
living-room, and stood back, panting a little. Gus Staley groaned and
sat up, trying to caress his aching head. He peered at the three men,
who were looking at him, groaned dismally and lay down again.
Someone had heard the two shots, which knocked shingles off the roof,
and in a few moments plenty of folks were running forward. Sleepy tried
to keep them back, but it was no use. Uncle Andy and Ed Frawley were
there, Buck Nolan, Frenchy Arnett, and most everybody else, who could
get in. The sheriff was at a loss as to what to do next; so Hashknife
took charge.
“Folks, will yuh give us room, please? Gus Staley! Gus, do yuh know what
I’m sayin’?”
“To hell with you!” groaned Staley. “I don’t talk.”
“If you don’t, one of the others will. And the man who talks first gets
off easiest. Shall I wait for the others?”
Gus Staley, his eyes just a bit off center, looked at the faces around
him and decided to talk. He said, “I didn’t do it.”
“All right,” said Hashknife, “we’ll start from the first, Gus. You and
Hack and Harry held up the bank and took all the money.”
“It wasn’t stealin’,” whined Staley. “Colton planned it. His idea was to
break the county--and buy it back, cheap.”
“And Harry wore that turquoise ring, eh?”
“He bought it from Chiquita--and forgot he had it on.”
“You shot Oren Blakely, Gus.”
“That’s a lie!” husked Staley. “Hack killed him. He refused to go in on
the deal, got scared and pulled out. Hack was afraid he’d talk. I liked
Oren. Hell, I wouldn’t have done it--myself.”
“Why did you kill Chiquita Morales?”
“Hack got scared,” whispered Staley. “Harry was a fool to wear that
ring. Chiquita could have told who had it. Harry wanted to make Chiquita
swear that he never had the ring, but Hack said the safest thing was to
shut her mouth. I wasn’t there--it was Hack and Harry. Yuh can’t kill
women and have yore luck last.”
“Who hired Trent to shoot me tonight, Staley?”
“Colton. He paid him five hundred dollars.”
“Gus, we know why and how you fellers killed Regan. Wasn’t he usin’ the
name of James Morrison?”
“Yeah--he was the syndicate--the yaller pup.”
“Folks,” said Hashknife wearily, “you’ve heard the story. I can’t tell
yuh any more. In fact, if Gus hadn’t been scared, I couldn’t have told
yuh half that much.”
Uncle Andy and Ed Frawley shoved their way over to the sheriff, and
Uncle Andy said, “It all came too fast, Nick. Does this mean that
Johnny’s free?”
“Why, shore he’s free. Don’t paw me around--go and paw Hashknife.”
But Hashknife wasn’t in sight. He and Sleepy had gone through the crowd
and were outside, heading for the main street. Uncle Andy went galloping
past them, intent only on finding Aunt Judy and Nell Frawley. They paid
their bill at the hotel. The old hotel keeper said, “Some excitement,
eh? I heard there was more trouble down at Tom Colton’s home. What
happened down there--or don’t yuh know?”
“That’s right,” nodded Hashknife and they walked out, smack into Aunt
Judy, Nell Frawley and Uncle Andy. Uncle Andy grabbed Hashknife by the
sleeve and turned him around, while Aunt Judy planted a kiss on his
cheek. Not a word had been said, until Hashknife said, “Aw, gee!” He
turned Aunt Judy around, facing the lights of the hotel, and she was
crying.
“I thought that kiss kinda ran a little,” he said. “When yuh see Nick,
Uncle Andy, you tell him that valise-full of money is jist outside
Colton’s south fence.”
“No, yuh don’t!” whispered Uncle Andy. “No, yuh don’t. Eddie Connors
said that you two allus pull out on folks. You’ve got yore war-sacks
with yuh--but yuh ain’t goin’. Nossir, yuh ain’t. This time, yuh don’t
go. Hashknife Hartley, tomorrow night is Christmas Eve--and you brought
peace to Dancin’ Devil. Johnny’s free to marry Nell t’morrow night--we
get our money back--and you just _try_ to leave here!”
“You won’t go--will you?” asked Nell, her voice choked. “You can’t even
think of it, Hashknife--not this time.”
“Well,” said Hashknife quietly, “I reckon we _can_ stay.”
“Can stay!” snorted Uncle Andy. “You’ll stay, if I have to hog-tie yuh.
You ain’t the right size nor the right shape, but if Sandy Claus ever
came to Dancin’ Devil Valley, yo’re him.”
“Let’s go get Johnny,” said Aunt Judy quietly. “The sheriff just went
down there.”
* * * * *
Hashknife and Sleepy, still holding to their war-bags, stood in the
hotel doorway. Frenchy Arnett came past, stopped and looked at them.
Sleepy said, “How’r yuh comin’, Frenchy?”
“I’m all right,” replied Frenchy. “Everythin’ is all right. Yuh see,
Chiquita _sold_ that ring; she wasn’t tradin’ it. Yeah, I reckon it’s
all right.”
Frenchy went on. Sleepy said, “Well, yuh can’t run away from everythin’.
Maybe they’ll make you best man. But tell me somethin’, Tall-Feller;
how’d you manage to suspect Tom Colton?”
“’Member the first time he talked with me, Sleepy. He had a telegram
from James Morrison, who turned out to be Regan. After we took this job,
Regan didn’t have time to get a letter about us, and the telegram didn’t
mention who we were. But Colton said, ‘After all, the Cattlemens’
Association wouldn’t recommend a man who wasn’t capable.’ How would he
know who recommended us, unless he had another wire ahead of the one I
read?”
“That wasn’t much to go on,” said Sleepy.
“It was enough,” smiled Hashknife. “Maybe I better send a telegram to
Bob Marsh, and tell him the ranches ain’t for sale.”
“Yeah, that’s a good idea, pardner; and when yuh write it--give him my
regards, will yuh?”
They grinned at each other, went back and registered again.
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the October 25, 1948 issue
of _Short Stories Magazine_.]