“Anythin’ new goin’ on around here?”
Newt inhaled deeply and blew the ash off his cigaret.
“No-o-o, nothin’ much, except the feller they calls the ‘Black Rider.’”
“He’s a-plenty,” grunted Monte seriously.
“Black Rider?”
“Uh-huh.”
Newt nodded and puffed slowly.
“Some jasper is liftin’ treasure-boxes, robbin’ banks, et cetery, and he
dresses all in black. He’s sure a dinger, that feller; and he’s got the
sheriff pawin’ his head.”
Shell stared at the toes of his worn shoes for a moment, and a bitter
smile twisted his lips as he looked at Newt.
“It’s a wonder they don’t say it’s the man who helped me do that Mission
Bank job.”
“That’s what they’re sayin’,” nodded Newt.
Shell laughed shortly.
“He must be smarter than I am.”
“He’s smart as ----,” agreed Monte quickly. “He’s about ten thousand
dollars ahead of the game now.”
“Includin’ his half of the thirty thousand we stole, makes him kinda
rich,” mused Shell.
“Yeah, that’s a fact,” grinned Newt. “’F he’s real cute, he’ll quit
while the quittin’ is good.”
“Takes brains, I reckon,” sighed Shell. “A ---- fool never knows when to
quit. Pat Haley’s still sheriff, ain’t he?”
“Yeah, Pat is still lookin’ for suspects.”
“Pat’s all right--good sheriff,” nodded Shell. “Just ’cause he shipped
me to the pen, don’t make me sore at him. He treated me right. No--”
Shell shook his head--“I ain’t sore at none of them judges, lawyers nor
jury. They done their dangdest, I reckon.”
“Jim Searles is still around here,” volunteered Monte.
“Thasso?”
Shell was too indifferent to this.
“Yeah, he’s still around here.”
“Lemme have yore Durham,” said Shell, holding out his hand to Newt. “I
ain’t had nothin’ but pocket-scrapin’s for quite a while.”
“He’p yoreself, pardner, and then we’ll have a little mornin’ snifter.”
“Much obliged for the smoke, but I ain’t drinkin’--thank yuh kindly,
Newt. I’ve been away from it a year, and I’m kinda sanitary and
antiseptic, I reckon. I kinda get a kick outa settin’ here and lookin’
at the old town.”
“She ain’t much t’ look upon,” grinned Monte.
“It’s home,” said Shell softly as he lowered his head to lick the edge
of his cigaret paper, “and I’ve been away for a good many lifetimes.”
* * * * *
That same morning Cal Severn stood on the spacious veranda of the
Diamond-S ranch-house, leaning against the railing as he moodily smoked
a cigaret, his somber eyes taking in the wide vista of rolling hills and
the sun-tinted Mission range beyond.
Just beyond the huddle of barns and shelter-sheds a long line of
cottonwoods and willows marked the twisting course of Whispering
Creek. To the south lay mile upon mile of broken, rolling hills, an
ideal cattle range.
The Diamond-S was the largest, and reputed to be the richest, cattle
outfit in the Mission River range; owned for years by the Severn
family, of which Cal Severn was the last of his line. Square-shooting,
upstanding folks were the old Severns, proud, perhaps arrogant.
Cal Severn was barely thirty years of age, well-built, bronzed as an
Indian. His face was lean but well proportioned, and his dusky-gray
eyes remained indifferent, dreaming, even when his lips laughed. Like
all of the Severns, he was quick of temper, slow to forgive; and Cal
Severn was a fighter--a hard-riding fighter of the old rangeland.
Two men rode in at the big gate and halted at the corral, where they
talked with two of the Diamond-S cowboys, who were saddling their
horses. Cal Severn watched these two men turn their horses and ride
toward him. They were strangers in the Mission River range; cowboys,
by their garb.
One of them was tall, swarthy, with a heavy mustache and a hawk-like
face; the other shorter, wiry of build, and with a face filled with
grin-wrinkles. The tall one, in spite of his serious mien, appeared
ready to laugh at any time.
They drew rein and nodded to Cal Severn.
“Lookin’ for work,” announced the tall one. “Me ’n’ him,” indicating his
companion.
Severn shook his head.
“Not taking in any hands now.”
He shifted his position and tossed away his cigaret.
“Fact of the matter is, I’m laying off all, but one, of my boys today.”
“Thasso?”
The tall one seemed sympathetic. For a moment he considered Severn, and
then his eyes swept around the confines of the Diamond-S as he reached
to an inside pocket of his vest and took out a folded paper.
“Mind readin’ this?” he asked, handing the paper out to Severn, who took
it and unfolded it slowly.
His eyes grew even more sober, and his lips settled into a harsh line as
he scanned the typewritten page.
His eyes came up from the letter, and he stared off across the hills,
thinking deeply.
“Yuh _sabe_ the idea, don’t yuh?” queried the tall one.
Cal Severn seemed to jerk back to the present, and after a few moments
he nodded slowly and handed the letter back to its owner.
“Yeah, I reckon I understand,” he said. “You’ll find bunks down there--”
pointing toward the bunk-house--“and just make yourselves to home. Henry
Horsecollar’ll fix yuh up.”
“I’m Hartley,” said the tall one. “Folks calls me ‘Hashknife.’ This
wide-awake pardner of mine was christened Geor-gh, but answers to
‘Sleepy.’ How far is it to town?”
“Six miles,” shortly.
Cal Severn turned and walked back into the house, while Hashknife
Hartley and Sleepy Stevens rode down to the bunk-house and dismounted.
A tired-looking individual came around the corner and looked them
over.
“Want t’ see somebody?” he asked.
Hashknife shook his head.
“No-o-o, I reckon not. We’ve just hired out to the Diamond-S.”
“Thasso? Huh!”
The man rubbed his ear violently.
“Kinda funny, seems like. Boss said he was cuttin’ down the crew, and he
let Newt Bowie and Monte Barnes go yesterday.”
“He hired us,” grinned Sleepy. “Mebbe he knows two danged good men when
he sees ’em, pardner.”
“Mebbe,” dryly. “M’name’s Dryden; first name’s Henry and m’ middle
name’s Harrison. H. H. Dryden.”
“They sure branded yuh,” grinned Hashknife. “I’m Hartley, and my
pardner’s name is Stevens. Hashknife Hartley and Sleepy Stevens.”
“T’ meetcha,” bowed Dryden. “Howsa folks?”
“That,” said Hashknife seriously, “would be pryin’ into our private
lives.”
“Ex-cuse me plumb to ----!” exclaimed Dryden, very apologetic and also
very serious. “I’ll kinda he’p yuh git settled in the bunk-house.”
He led them inside the spacious bunk-house and allotted each of them
a bunk. The room was large enough to accommodate twelve men, and as
the Diamond-S force had been cut down they were able to select their
own sleeping-places.
“Strangers around here?” queried Dryden.
“Uh-huh,” admitted Hashknife. “Tee-to-tally.”
“I sure know her from stem t’ gudgeon.”
Dryden smiled over his superior knowledge. It was not often that Dryden,
known as “Henry Horsecollar,” was able to get any one to listen.
“I know this here country jist like a book,” he went on. “I know
everything about her. There ain’t a cañon nor a wash-out that I ain’t
fa-mil-yer with. By cripes, I sure know it well.”
“That’s sure fine,” applauded Hashknife, looking up from his bed-roll.
“Anythin’ startling ever happen here?”
“Now yo’re talkin’,” said Henry. “There sure is. Ain’tcha never heard of
the Black Rider?”
“Go ahead,” grinned Sleepy. “We’ll bite, Henry.”
“Aw-w-w-w, it ain’t no joke. Nossir.” Henry shook his head violently.
“That there Black Rider sure ain’t no joke. He’s a lone rider, that
feller is, and he’s sure he’pin’ himself t’things around this neck of
the timber.”
“Rustler?”
“No-o-o, I don’t reckon he’s rustlin’ any; but he’s sure makin’ money
off the stages and banks. Rides a black horse and dresses in black.
Aw-w-w, yuh don’t have t’ believe me; yuh can ask anybody around
here.”
“Henry Horsecollar, we believe yuh,” grinned Hashknife. “Who do yuh
reckon it is?”
“’F I knowed I’d sure go after him--mebbe.”
Henry was not committing himself.
“Outlawin’ must be a good business around here,” observed Sleepy.
“While she lasts,” agreed Henry; “but she don’t always last long. Look
at Shell Romaine. He sure grabbed off a lot of money from the bank at
Sula; but they put the deadwood on him, and he’s bustin’ rocks at Deer
Park for five years. His old man owns a little outfit between here and
Moon Flats--off to the right-hand side as yuh go from here. They calls
him ‘Rim-Fire’ Romaine.
“Bitter? Beside him quinine would taste kinda sickish-sweet. Hates
everybody. Got a few dogey cows and some horses.”
“What’s he sore about?” asked Hashknife.
“Eve’ything.”
Henry spread his hands to indicate the entire universe.
“Hates eve’ything.”
“Did they ever get the money back?” asked Sleepy.
“Git it? ----, no! Shell wouldn’t tell ’em nothin’. It was thirty
thousand dollars. There was three weeks that not a danged cowboy on this
range would work. Nossir; they was all treasure-hunters; but nobody ever
found it.”
“Did you hunt for it?”
“Yuh danged well right I did! I was workin’ for the X Bar X outfit
at the time and when I got back I found out I didn’t have no job; so
I beat the Diamond-S outfit over here and got a job from Cal Severn.
Cal was sore as ---- at his own crew.”
“Good feller to work for?” asked Hashknife.
“Fine and dandy. He don’t pay much attention; but say--” Henry lowered
his voice--“this ranch ain’t no money-maker. They tell me that old man
Severn was a humdinger, but Cal sure ain’t. ----, he’s a dreamin’
son-of-a-gun, and yuh can’t run a cow-ranch thataway. He’s hot-headed
sometimes, and he’d fight a circle-saw, but he ain’t got no idea of
business.”
“He ought to make you the foreman,” said Hashknife.
“Yeah.”
Henry shifted his tobacco and spat accurately at a sawdust-filled box
beside the stove.
“Yeah, that’s what I been thinkin’. I could sure make this a reg’lar
ranch, y’betcha. Mebbe Cal Severn don’t think it takes brains t’ run
a ranch like this, but ’f I had a chance I’d sure show him what a
li’l head-work would do.”
“What’s yore job around here now?” queried Hashknife.
“Aw, I kinda work around--keepin’ things tidy-like.”
Just at that moment, Cal Severn came to the door and looked inside.
“Henry fix yuh up?” he asked.
“Yeah,” grinned Hashknife. “We’re all set.”
“Yuh spoke about goin’ to town,” remarked Severn. “I’m ridin’ down right
away.”
“And we’ll ride right along with yuh,” nodded Hashknife.
Cal Severn saddled a horse and the three men rode away, while Henry
Horsecollar stood in the doorway, chewing rapidly. He heartily
approved of the new men. Since they were strangers, he would be able
to talk about many things that the natives would not listen to nor
believe.
“Quite a character,” observed Hashknife, jerking his head in the
direction of the bunk-house.
“Henry Horsecollar?” grinned Severn. “Yeah, he sure is. Did he retail
all the range gossip?”
“Well, he got a runnin’ start,” laughed Hashknife. “Told us about the
Black Rider.”
Severn laughed.
“That’s a pet piece of gossip for Henry, and if he talks long enough
about it he’ll tell you who the Black Rider is and where to find him.”
“Is it Henry’s imagination, or is there a Black Rider?”
“There is,” declared Severn, “and he’s makin’ things bad for the money
interests. Somebody named him the Black Rider because he wore black
clothes, I reckon.”
“Got any idea who it might be?”
Severn shook his head.
“No, but I wish I did. There’s an aggregate of ten thousand dollars
reward for him--and I could sure use ten thousand dollars right now.”
“You ain’t got nothin’ on me, pardner,” assured Hashknife. “I never
could count that much, but they could short-change me and never make
me sore.”
* * * * *
Shell Romaine stirred the curiosity of Moon Flats, and many were the
conjectures over his appearance; but he made no explanation of why he
was out four years ahead of his sentence. Pat Haley got word of it and
lost no time in meeting Romaine.
Pat was hard-faced, prone to hew to the line of duty, but with a soft
heart inside his deep chest; and it was with a smile that he approached
Shell Romaine.
“Shell, me lad, I heard ye was in town.”
“Hyah, Pat,” grinned Shell. “Howsa jail since I left?”
They shook hands earnestly, like two old friends meeting after a long
separation.
“The jail is still intact,” stated Pat, “and little used.”
“She’s a good strong jail,” admitted Shell, “or I’d ’a’ bored out,
y’betcha. How’s the good wife?”
“She’s fine, Shell. Did they treat ye right at the big corral?”
Shell smiled grimly.
“Did any one ever go there expectin’ good treatment, Pat?”
“’Tis not the primary object of the thing,” agreed Pat slowly, “and I
suppose that even Moon Flats looks good to ye now, Shell.”
“Uh-huh,” slowly.
“Will ye be stayin’ hereabouts?”
Pat Haley wanted some information, but did not want to come right out
and ask for it.
“I dunno.”
Shell shook his head.
“It all depends, Pat.”
“I suppose so.”
Pat fidgeted with his belt-buckle.
“Have ye been out long, Shell?”
“Not very long.”
“Uh-huh. Well, have ye seen the old man yet?”
“No.”
“Uh-huh,” thoughtfully.
Evidently Shell Romaine was not going to explain anything. They stood
together on the edge of the board sidewalk in front of the Élite Café
and considered the street while Cal Severn, Hashknife Hartley and Sleepy
Stevens rode in and tied their horses at the hitch-rack in front of Buck
Franey’s place.
Haley noticed that there were two new punchers with Severn and also
noted that their horses were branded with the Hashknife brand, which was
a big outfit many miles to the South. Shell Romaine watched Severn until
he disappeared inside Franey’s Place, and then he turned to Haley.
“How’s Cal Severn gettin’ along these days, Pat?”
“Fine.”
Some one called out from across the way, and they turned to see a man
riding swiftly down the street. He jerked his mount to a stop at the
door of the Moon Flats saloon and sprang to the ground. Several men
gathered around him as he talked excitedly, and one of them pointed
across the street in the direction of the sheriff and Romaine.
“Somethin’ must ’a’ happened,” observed Haley. “There’s Mort Lee. C’m
on.”
They crossed the street, where the crowd was gathering, and the excited
rider turned to the sheriff. The man was a stranger to Romaine.
“They got the Black Rider!” he exclaimed. “He tried to stop the Mission
River stage at Medicine Creek, and Jim Searles got him cold.”
“What do ye know about that?” grunted the sheriff. “Do ye know who he
was, Mort?”
“Old man Romaine!”
The sheriff shot a quick glance at Shell Romaine, whose body had
stiffened under the shock of his father’s death. Some one in the crowd
who knew Shell tried to interrupt the speaker, who continued:
“Doc Maldeen was with Searles when the old man tried to stick ’em
up; but Searles was lookin’ for somethin’ like that, and he started
shootin’. They’ll be here in a little while.”
The man laughed nervously as he added:
“I come dang near gettin’ shot m’self. I was ridin’ down the creek
trail and busted right into it after it was all over. Thought I heard
a shot just before that, but the creek makes so much noise and the
twisted cañon kinda cuts off sounds. Searles lined up on me before he
recognized who I was.”
Nearly all the men in the crowd knew Shell Romaine, and they watched him
curiously as he turned away and went into the Moon Flats saloon.
“You ---- fool!”
One of the cowboys grasped the excited informer by the arm. “That feller
is Shell Romaine, the old man’s son!”
“Well, how’d I know?” he whined. “I never seen him before.”
Cal Severn, Hashknife and Sleepy had joined the group in time to hear
it all. There were no expressions of satisfaction over the passing of
the Black Rider, although he had been a menace to the country. Both
father and son bore bad reputations, but these grave-faced men around
the sheriff did not comment upon the passing of one nor the appearance
of the other.
One of the crowd moved over to the doorway of the saloon and peered
inside, coming back in a moment to state softly that Shell Romaine was
at the bar, drinking whisky.
“I don’t blame him,” stated the sheriff. “I dunno what I’d do in a case
like that, so I don’t.”
A man came up the sidewalk, surveyed the group for a moment and called
to the sheriff. The man was dressed in “store clothes,” bareheaded and
in his shirt sleeves. He handed a folded yellow paper to the sheriff
and watched him as he read:
EXPRESS MESSENGER OF OVERLAND FOUND BOUND AND GAGGED WHEN
TRAIN REACHED WHEELOCK THIS MORNING. SAFE BLOWN AND BIG
AMOUNT REPORTED STOLEN. MESSENGER SAYS ROBBER LEFT TRAIN
BETWEEN CLEVIS CREEK AND MOON FLATS.
(Signed) CLAVERING.
Sheriff Haley squinted closely at the message as some of the more
inquisitive moved in close to see what it was about. Haley folded up
the message and turned to the crowd.
“A lone bandit blew the Overland safe this mornin’ and got off between
here and Clevis Creek, accordin’ to this telegram from Clavering, the
marshal at Wheelock.”
“By ----, this is gittin’ to be a reg’lar country!” exclaimed an old
grizzled cowman. “If it ain’t one thing, it’s two.”
Haley nodded, and his eyes squinted thoughtfully as he remembered that
Shell Romaine had just reached town. It was only three miles to Clevis
Creek by the road, although it was much farther by rail and over a heavy
grade, where a train barely crawled.
“If the Black Rider hadn’t been killed they’d blame it on to him,”
declared another.
“The Overland hits there before daylight,” said another, “and the stage
don’t hit Medicine Creek before eleven o’clock or later--and it’s only
seven miles from Medicine Creek crossin’ to Clevis Creek railroad
bridge.”
Haley glanced around the crowd, and his eyes stopped at Hashknife, who
was looking at him. Both Hashknife and Sleepy were strangers--and this
was not exactly a nice day for strangers in Moon Flats; not unless they
could furnish a good alibi.
Several others took notice of Hashknife and Sleepy, but the coming of
the stage precluded any questions. It drew up at the stage-office, and
thither went the crowd.
Jim Searles, the driver, was a lanky, raw-boned, long-mustached person
with pouchy eyes and red-veined cheeks. Doc Maldeen, the other occupant
of the driver’s seat, was a man of about forty years of age,
black-haired, keen of features and with a long, flowing black mustache.
He was slightly overdressed, and one might expect him momentarily to
produce a stock of cure-alls, made by some famous Indian medicine-man,
and which would cure any and all ills of mankind.
But Jim Searles was no less the showman in spite of his appearance.
Without visible emotion but feeling that his prowess had been well
advertised by Mort Lee, Searles looked the crowd over coldly,
triumphantly. Then he handed the lines to Maldeen, got slowly down
over the wheel and with a quick motion of his arm jerked the stage
door open.
Lying on the floor of the stage, half-reclining against a seat, was the
body of old Rim-Fire Romaine.
“There,” said Searles dramatically, “is yore Black Rider!”
As Searles’ eyes came back to the crowd he looked straight into the
face of Shell Romaine, the man he had helped send to the penitentiary.
Searles’ eyes widened and he swayed back against the wheel as if trying
to get farther away.
Shell’s eyes were half-closed as he leaned forward and looked inside
the stage. He had drunk considerable whisky, but was far from being
drunk. The sheriff stepped in beside Searles and motioned for two of
the men to help him remove the body, but Shell shoved one of them
aside and took his place.
They carried the body into the stage-office and placed it on the floor.
The old man was dressed in an old suit of rusty, badly fitting black
clothes, nondescript shirt, black slouch hat and well-worn, high-heeled
boots. The sheriff, after a cursory examination, stepped back. The old
man had been killed with a buckshot load from a sawed-off shotgun--the
upper part of his body being riddled.
Shell Romaine still stood beside the body, his shoulders hunched as he
stared down at what had been his father, while the crowd watched him in
silence. Then he lifted his eyes and looked straight at Jim Searles. It
was not a look of anger; rather it appeared that Shell was trying to
read Searles’ innermost thoughts--and Searles turned away.
“Mind tellin’ us about it, doc?” asked the sheriff of Maldeen. “Mort Lee
told us some of it, but he was kinda excited.”
“There’s not much to tell,” stated Maldeen. “We came to Medicine Creek,
and Romaine stepped out of the brush just in front of us. He threw up
his hand, trying to stop us, I think--and Searles shot him.
“He fell back into the brush. I held the team while Jim went over there
and found out that he had killed old man Romaine. As he came back Mort
Lee rode out of the brush and Jim almost shot him. Mort found out what
had happened and then came on in ahead to tell about it.”
“Had a gun, did he?” queried the sheriff.
Searles stepped forward and handed him a long-barreled .44 Colt pistol.
“This here’s his gun, sheriff.”
The sheriff looked at the gun and dropped it into his pocket as he
said--
“It kinda looks like Searles was right; so there won’t be no inquest.”
“How about that reward, Pat?” asked Searles.
He had moved in closer to Shell Romaine as he spoke to the sheriff,
and the words had barely left his lips when Shell whirled, stepped
across the body of his father and smashed Searles flush in the mouth
with a terrific right-hand swing.
Searles went backward almost out of the doorway, where he collapsed,
half-knocked out and spitting broken teeth through his cut lips. Shell
tried to follow up his blow, but Hashknife Hartley blocked him.
“Take her easy, pardner,” begged Hashknife. “You can’t hurt him any more
until he gets partly over that punch.”
Shell’s face was white, and his eyes were a mere, dark-colored line, so
tightly were they drawn, but he did not try to force his way past the
tall cowpuncher. Searles crawled to his hands and knees and managed to
get to his feet.
“I’d druther be kicked by a mule,” observed one of the crowd seriously.
“Jim Searles’ll be eatin’ his meals through Doc Hansen’s stummick-pump,
I’ll betcha.”
But Searles made no comment. He clapped one hand over his mouth and
staggered outside, without asking further about the reward. That punch
had driven all monetary considerations from his mind.
Shell Romaine turned to the sheriff.
“If there ain’t goin’ to be no inquest, can’t I take him home, sheriff?”
His voice was pitched low, and his sudden flash of resentment had passed
now.
“There ain’t nothin’ yuh want of him--now, is there?”
Pat Haley did not know just what to say. He looked at Shell and around
at the crowd as if seeking guidance in this matter. Then he said:
“Well, I dunno, Shell. Why don’t ye let us bury him all regular-like
and----”
“Knowin’ that he was an outlaw, Pat? What does Moon Flats care about old
man Romaine? My God, he was the only person on earth who cared for me!
Me and him were a lot alike, sheriff; carin’ for each other--kinda; and
if it ain’t against the law I’d like to take him--home.”
Shell turned his head and looked down at the body, while Pat Haley bit
his lower lip and had trouble adjusting his cartridge-belt. It was
annoying him greatly; and several moments elapsed before he looked at
Shell Romaine.
“Shell--ahem-m-m--it may be irregular as ----, but there ain’t any of us
too regular. You go right ahead, will ye?”
“Thanks, Pat. I suppose I can hire a team and a wagon.”
“Yuh can borry mine,” stated the man who had declared that Searles was
due to take nourishment through a stomach-pump. “It’s over in front of
the store.”
“Thanks,” nodded Shell, and walked out past the crowd.
Severn, Hashknife and Sleepy walked outside to the edge of the sidewalk,
where they were joined in a moment by the sheriff, who looked curiously
at Hashknife and Sleepy.
“Do yuh think that Romaine was the Black Rider, Pat?” asked Severn.
The sheriff spat dryly and looked at Hashknife.
“We’re strangers,” explained Hashknife, “and I know how yuh feel,
sheriff. I’m Hashknife Hartley and my pardner’s name is Stevens.”
Names meant nothing to Pat Haley, and he merely nodded.
Hashknife produced the same paper he had shown to Cal Severn and handed
it to the sheriff, who perused it slowly, pursing his lips over the
words. Finally he folded it carefully and handed it back to Hashknife.
“Ah-ha-a-a!” he grunted. “So that’s it, eh?”
“Kinda looks thataway,” smiled Hashknife.
“Well, I wish ye luck.”
Shell Romaine drove up and crowded the team close to the edge of the
sidewalk, while four men brought out the body and placed it in the
wagon-box. And without a word to any one Shell Romaine kicked off the
brake and drove slowly down the street--going home.
“May the ---- fly away wid me!” muttered Pat Haley. “I may be violatin’
the law and me own duty in doin’ this thing, but I’ve somethin’ inside
of me besides liver and lights, so I have.”
“Do yuh think that Shell Romaine had anythin’ to do with the Overland
robbery?” asked Severn.
Pat Haley bit off a generous chew of tobacco and hitched up his
cartridge-belt.
“Ye’ll never find out by askin’ me today, and if ye asked Shell--he’d
likely lie about it.”
Hashknife grinned in appreciation of the answer, but Cal Severn turned
on his heel and walked away.
“The Spanish cavalee-e-e-er stood in his retreat and on
his guit-ar-r-r-r played a tune, de-e-e-ear.”
Henry Horsecollar’s voice, if it might be called a voice, wailed
dismally as he stood, razor in hand, and surveyed his half-shaven
features in the dingy bunk-house mirror.
Hashknife Hartley sat up in his blankets and blinked sleepily at Henry,
after which he reached down and picked up one of his boots. Henry
twisted his face sidewise so as to afford a medium smooth surface for
the dull razor, and from that cramped facial angle continued--
“The mu-u-u-usic so-o-o-o swee-e-e-t----”
_Blam!_ The boot crashed into the wall beside the mirror and drove all
the music from Henry’s soul. He turned and glared at Hashknife.
“Ex-cuse me,” apologized Hashknife seriously.
“Why for did yuh throw the boot at me?” demanded Henry.
“Honest to gosh, I thought yuh was sufferin’,” declared Hashknife, “and
I can’t bear to see sufferin’.”
Sleepy kicked himself loose from his blankets and sat up.
“This is Sunday, don’tcha know it?” queried Henry.
“And you woke us up this early!” growled Sleepy. “What kind of a ranch
is this anyway? Does everybody get up early and go to church?”
“I betcha Henry Horsecollar has got a sweetheart,” grinned Hashknife,
and Henry’s ears got very red.
He turned and washed his face violently in cold water, while Hashknife
and Sleepy winked at each other and began dressing.
“What does the boss do on Sunday?” queried Hashknife.
“Goes to see his girl,” replied Henry.
“This must be a reg’lar Romeo ranch,” laughed Sleepy. “We’ll have to
fall in love with somebody, Hashknife.”
Henry wiped his face and sat down on the edge of his bunk. His face was
badly cross-hatched from the dull razor, but shone from much scrubbing
with soap--that is, the part which had been scrubbed. Henry was a lot
like the average small boy, who never washes farther back than a line
drawn from temple to angle of jaw-bone.
“Who is Cal Severn’s girl?” asked Hashknife.
“Mary O’Hara.”
“Swede?” queried Sleepy.
“I dunno. She’s Pat Haley’s niece, that’s all I know.”
“Visitin’ here?”
Hashknife seemed anxious for information.
“No, I don’t reckon you’d call it that. She’s been with Pat and his wife
for a couple of years!”
“Pretty girl?”
Henry Horsecollar scratched his chin and seemed to take the question
under advisement.
“Well, she ain’t my idea of beauty. I never did care for yallerish-red
hair and blue eyes; and I betcha she powders, ’cause no danged human
female has got skin as white as her skin is, and--Well, I ain’t sayin’
she ain’t pretty, but to my way of thinkin’, she ain’t.”
“Young?”
“Yuh can’t tell--with all that powder; but mebbe she ain’t more ’n
twenty-one. I reckon she’s a nice girl, but if she wasn’t, Henry H.
Dryden would be the last one to hold it ag’in’ her.”
“Yo’re sure broad-minded, Henry,” applauded Hashknife. “Did yuh know
Shell Romaine?”
“Dang right!”
Henry grew thoughtful.
“I wonder why they turned him loose and what he’s goin’ to do. I had a
hunch that Rim-Fire Romaine was the Black Rider. I kinda git hunches,
don’tcha know it?”
“You look like yuh might,” agreed Sleepy meaningly.
“It don’t look right t’ me for a man t’ take his own father home and
bury him.”
Henry shook his head.
“Things like that ought t’ be all fixed up by a preacher.”
“Do yuh think that it makes any difference to God Almighty?” asked
Hashknife.
“Well, if yo’re goin’ that deep into the matter, I’ll pass. The old man
was a tough old pelican; hated ---- out of everybody, ’specially after
Shell got sent to the pen.”
“Shell is a hard man to whip, ain’t he?” asked Sleepy.
“Yo’re danged well right he is!”
Henry laughed and caressed his scratched chin.
“He licked Cal Severn, and when yuh lick Cal yo’re some scrapper.”
“What did they fight over?”
Hashknife grew serious.
“I dunno. That was over a year ago, and I don’t reckon I ever knowed
what started it. Anyway they curried each other right on the main
street of Moon Flats, and Shell jist knocked ---- out of Cal. They
both had guns on ’em, but neither one offered to do any shootin’.”
“Probably just a friendly fight,” observed Hashknife. “Let’s see if the
cook’s got anythin’ to eat.”
A middle-aged half-breed woman was doing the cooking. Henry Horsecollar
called her “Mrs. Wicks,” and then talked to her in the Nez Percé tongue,
which they both spoke fluently. Henry scowled over some information and
shot questions at the woman, who only repeated her statement.
“I’m goin’ to git me a new job!” declared Henry heatedly. “By gosh,
I’m tired of bein’ bossed allatime. Sunday is supposed t’ be a day of
rest, and here the boss goes an’ passes me an order t’ stay here at
the ranch.”
“Can’t yuh rest here?” asked Sleepy.
“Rest, ----!” exploded Henry. “There ain’t no reason for it, by gosh!”
He turned and spoke to Mrs. Wicks, who repeated her former statement.
Henry sighed--
“I don’t reckon she’s mistaken, ’cause she’s told me the same darned
thing three times hand-runnin’.”
After breakfast Hashknife and Sleepy saddled their horses, while Henry
Horsecollar looked on disconsolate. He wanted to go and see his girl,
but a job meant a lot to Henry and he did not want to displease Cal
Severn.
Hashknife and Sleepy rode toward Moon Flats, twisting in and out of
the low hills to a rickety old bridge which spanned the swift-running
Mission River. Beyond this the road skirted the hills. There were a
few cattle in evidence, but the better feed was farther back in the
range.
“What do yuh think of this layout?” queried Sleepy.
“I dunno,” grunted Hashknife. “’Pears like we’ve run into somethin’,
Sleepy.”
Hashknife drew rein near the mouth of a gulch, up which was an old road,
showing little travel.
“I wonder if this is the road that leads to Romaine’s ranch.”
“Kinda looks like she might be,” agreed Sleepy, and they turned and
rode up the side of the hill, ignoring the road, which angled up the
gentle slope of the dry cañon.
A mile farther on they cut back to the rim of the cañon and stopped
in a clump of jackpines. Below them in the bottom of the gulch was a
tumble-down shanty and barn. Behind this was a rickety old corral. An
old roan horse browsed around the corral, and a few chickens roamed
around the dusty yard.
There did not seem to be any sign of life about the place. Suddenly
their attention was arrested by a flash of color farther up the cañon,
where a large clump of cottonwoods grew around a spring. A man and a
woman were standing there close together, but at that distance it was
impossible to identify them. There was a saddle-horse tied to a tree,
but the shadows hid its color.
“I reckon this ain’t the place we’re lookin’ for,” observed Hashknife,
“but we’ll ride down and kinda find out whose place she is, Sleepy.”
“Might as well,” agreed Sleepy, and they rode straight down the side of
the hill to the flat below.
Half a dozen mongrel dogs came out of the house at their approach, and
each one tried to outdo the other in dog language.
As they rode up to the door a disheveled-looking character came on to
the porch and stared at them. The man was a half-breed, bleary of eye
and slovenly dressed. He was without boots, and his socks were half
off his feet.
Several loose rocks were on the porch, and one of these he hurled at
the barking dogs, sending them ki-yiing away. Then he drew himself up
in mock dignity and said--
“What in ---- you want here?”
“What yuh got?” asked Hashknife seriously.
“Ugh!”
The man leaned against a post and put one foot on top of the other,
while he wiped his lips with a none too clean hand.
“This yore ranch?” asked Hashknife.
“Yeah--my ranch; yo’ ---- right!”
“What’s yore name?”
“Me Joe Wicks, by ----!”
“Must be the lovin’ husband of the cook,” grinned Sleepy. “No wonder she
hires out.”
Joe Wicks bobbed his head drunkenly and reached for another rock; but
the dogs knew what was coming and fled down toward the barn, where they
proceeded to pull off a free-for-all fight.
“How far is it to the Romaine ranch?” asked Hashknife.
Joe Wicks considered this a while, slobbering just a trifle and keeping
one eye on a spotted dog, which was coming toward the porch, but on an
angle which would take it just beyond the corner.
A moment later came the slither of gravel, and Joe hurled his rock at
the corner just in time to hit a girl who was turning toward the porch.
Without a sound she crumpled up, while the dog, which had gone up to
meet her, went yapping back toward the fighting crew at the barn.
“My Gawd!” gasped Hashknife, sliding out of his saddle and almost
colliding with Sleepy.
They picked the girl up and placed her on the porch. The rock had hit
her on the head, but too high up to do her any permanent injury.
Joe Wicks looked drunkenly on as Hashknife parted her hair and examined
the bruise. She was dressed in a plain calico dress, badly made, and was
undeniably part Indian, but her features were pretty. She was not over
eighteen and had not begun to acquire the shapeless figure which her
kind are heir to after the bloom of youth has faded.
After a minute her eyes opened and she looked around.
“Got eyes like a young doe,” grunted Sleepy, and blushed to think that
he had spoken his thoughts.
“What was it?” she asked softly.
“You got hit with a rock,” explained Hashknife. “Better lay still for a
few minutes.”
Her hand went up to her head, and she felt tenderly of the bruise.
Hashknife pointed at Joe Wicks and said--
“He throwed a rock at the dog and you walked into it.”
“---- dogs!” grunted Joe. “Too ---- much dogs!”
She sat up, blinked her eyes dizzily for a moment and got to her feet
with Hashknife’s assistance.
“Thank you,” she said with that peculiar, half-hiss of an Indian
speaking a strange tongue, and went into the house without speaking
to Joe Wicks.
“My girl,” said Joe. “Marie Wicks, by ----!”
“Your daughter?” asked Sleepy.
“Yeah--my papoose; yo’ ---- right!”
Hashknife considered Joe, and his mind flashed back to the squat
figure of Mrs. Wicks. Marie was pretty, graceful; but still she was
the offspring of these two. Joe’s socks bothered him considerably; so
he yanked them off and threw them aside.
“Yo’ have drink whisky?” he grunted.
“Where did you get whisky?” demanded Hashknife quickly.
Joe licked his lips and his eyes narrowed, but he did not say. Hashknife
knew it was of no use to ask an Indian where he got liquor; so he did
not repeat his question.
“Let’s go,” suggested Hashknife, getting back into his saddle. “We’ll
cut across the hills toward town, and we’ll likely find the Romaine
ranch.”
Sleepy mounted, and they started toward the opposite side of the cañon.
Joe Wicks watched them through narrowed eyes, and called after them--
“Yo’ go to ----!”
Hashknife nodded as if accepting good advice, while Joe Wicks spat dryly
and went into the house.
“Can yuh ’magine that girl bein’ a daughter of them two? Can yuh?”
Sleepy’s questions were explosive.
“Well,” laughed Hashknife, “she sure don’t take after her folks,
Sleepy.”
They rode on across the sage-covered hills, angling back toward the
road, riding silently; both men thinking deeply. Their course led down
the sharp side of a hill and on to a flat, where they passed a heavy
growth of timber and drew up at an old rail fence which enclosed a
ranch-house, little better kept than that belonging to Joe Wicks.
There was no human being in sight, and an air of lonesomeness seemed to
pervade the old place. The roofs of the house and barn were sway-backed
from age and neglect, and everything seemed neglected, forgotten.
Hashknife opened a broken-hinged gate, and they rode up to the house.
The door was closed and locked with a heavy padlock. Just out in the
yard was a fresh mound of dirt; mute evidence that Shell Romaine had
buried his own father.
Hashknife shook his head sadly.
“Dang it all, yuh got to feel sorry for Romaine. Mebbe he ain’t no
good--I dunno.”
“He’s got guts anyway,” declared Sleepy. “He didn’t lay down and wail
about it, Hashknife.”
“No,” agreed Hashknife; “he sure didn’t; and I like the way he pasted
the stage-driver. Man, he sure can hit. Well, I don’t reckon there’s
any use foolin’ around here.”
They turned and rode out of the yard, heading down the road, which
would connect with the main highway to Moon Flats. Just at the edge of
the clearing, where the road twisted between a tall outcropping of
granite and a big clump of brush, Hashknife suddenly jerked sidewise
in his saddle, almost falling across his horse’s neck; while from back
somewhere near the house came the sharp snap of a high-power rifle.
With a sharp slash of his spurs Sleepy whirled his horse sidewise,
throwing Hashknife’s mount off the road and into the brush, where both
horses raced ahead several jumps before Sleepy stopped them. Hashknife
was humped in the saddle, apparently badly jarred. Sleepy slid to the
ground and went to Hashknife’s assistance, but the tall cowboy had
already dismounted and was fumbling with his holster.
“Where did it git yuh?” asked Sleepy anxiously.
“Take a look,” grunted Hashknife, turning his back to Sleepy.
The bullet had torn Hashknife’s shirt from the center of his back to a
point high up on the shoulder, cutting an ugly gash but not going deep
enough for any permanent injury.
Sleepy started to examine it more closely; but another bullet struck a
sapling just behind them, and they both dropped low in the brush.
“Kinda jagged me, didn’t it?” asked Hashknife.
“Cultivated yore shoulder,” grunted Sleepy. “If that danged fool don’t
quit he’ll hit a horse.”
“Yeah--if he don’t quit he’ll grab a harp,” gritted Hashknife, flexing
his right arm.
Another bullet flipped above them, sending a shower of leaves down upon
their sombrero hats, but they were so low that the shooter could not see
them now, and he was evidently shooting by guess.
“Wish we had a Winchester,” grumbled Hashknife. “Can’t do much with a
six-shooter at this range, but I can sure make one awful stab at it.”
“Aw-w-w, look at them ---- horses!” wailed Sleepy.
The two horses had left the brush and were working out into the open.
One of them had the reins looped around its foot and was moving along
head down, when the rifle cracked again, and the horse pitched headlong,
kicked wildly and lay still.
Sleepy sprang to his feet, but Hashknife yanked him down.
“Stay down, yuh danged fool! Don’tcha know he was tryin’ to hoodle yuh
into starting somethin’?”
The rifle cracked again, and the other horse floundered back into the
brush, ran a few jumps and crashed down.
“Well,” said Hashknife slowly, “we’re due to walk now.”
“I reckon we better be glad that we’re able to walk,” observed Sleepy.
“That jasper is a good shot, and you just happened to turn far enough
to miss bein’ hit plumb center. Hurtin’ yuh much?”
“Not half as much as my feet will before we get to town, Sleepy. My
boots are kinda tight.”
“Danged dude,” sarcastically. “Tryin’ to pinch a pair of number tens
into nines. Next thing I know you’ll be usin’ cornstarch on yore nose
to take off the shine.”
“Well,” mournfully, “I’ll still be yore little friend. No matter what
happens, I won’t turn yuh down because yuh ain’t got no sense, Sleepy.”
Sleepy grunted explosively and peered through the brush. There was no
sign of the shooter. A magpie, dipping and sailing across the clearing,
twisted sharply and came to rest on the apex of the ranch-house roof. A
minute later another of the same species came in from the opposite
direction and perched near the first one, where they both chattered
volubly, arguing in almost human voices.
“Either that bushwhacker is danged well hid or he’s pulled out,”
declared Hashknife. “Them magpies ain’t even cautious, and yuh can’t
hardly fool a magpie.”
Cautiously they crawled toward the edge of the clearing, taking plenty
of time and watching closely. An exposed sombrero failed to draw a
shot. Hashknife snaked himself in behind a cottonwood bole and assumed
an upright position. The sharp eyes of the magpies discovered him, and
they flitted swiftly away, calling a warning to all of their kind.
Hashknife gripped his gun, flung himself away from the tree and ran
to the dead horse, where he dropped flat on the ground. Still there
was no shot to break the stillness. He sat up, taking a long chance,
but no shot came.
Sleepy walked over, and they examined the horses, both of which had been
almost instantly killed. They stripped off the saddles and bridles and
hung them up in a tree. Neither of the men complained nor swore dire
revenge upon the man who had deprived them of their mounts.
“That there roan was a danged good horse,” declared Sleepy.
“Such as he was,” admitted Hashknife; “but he didn’t noways compare with
my gray hawse.”
“Both of ’em bein’ dead, it sure makes a fifty-fifty argument,” grinned
Sleepy. “That little roan bronc was all horse. Fifty miles a day----”
“Yuh mean, a week,” interrupted Hashknife.
“Lemme finish, won’t yuh? Jumpin’ at conclusions thataway, Hashknife,
makes me weary of yore company. I was goin’ to say that fifty miles a
day would kill that roan--dead. Want me to doctor that shoulder?”
“Naw. It kinda burns a little, and it’s sore as ----; but yore kind of
doctorin’ wouldn’t help it none. Let’s go to Moon Flats. Can’t be more
than a couple of miles.”
Sleepy nodded.
“All right, cowboy. I hope they don’t cuss us nor shoot at us down
there. I never did see such a ---- uncivilized country in my life. Who
do yuh reckon shot at us?”
Hashknife shook his head.
“I dunno. Likely mistook us for some one else and pulled out as soon as
they found out their mistake.”
Sleepy shook his head and squinted at Hashknife.
“Now, you don’t even start to think thataway. They’d ’a’ found that out
before they shot our horses, wouldn’t they? They never got a look at us
after that.”
“Mebbe they got scared and shot the horses to keep us from followin’
’em, Sleepy.”
“All right, all right. Mebbe this and mebby that, and all the time----”
“We’re delayin’ the blisters on our heels,” finished Hashknife. “C’mon,
old pessimist.”
And they started off down the road, walking with the stiff-legged
gait of a cowboy whose boots are high-heeled and altogether too
tight; walking with elbows bent and hardly swaying from the head to
the waist.
Just before they reached the forks of the road a rider swung on to
Romaine’s road and eyed them curiously. It was Mort Lee, the cowboy
who had brought news of the Romaine killing to Moon Flats. Hashknife
grinned at him, and after a moment Mort Lee grinned widely.
“Takin’ our daily exercise,” stated Hashknife seriously.
“Yeah?”
Mort Lee did not seem convinced.
“Keeps a feller in good shape,” added Sleepy, shaking the perspiration
off his nose.
“I betcha,” agreed Mort, and added, “’Specially in ridin’-boots.”
“That fit tight,” added Hashknife painfully.
Mort Lee nodded, and his eyes invited explanations which did not come.
Finally he said--
“Been up to Romaine’s place?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Shell at home?”
“I dunno,” said Hashknife. “We didn’t see him.”
“Oh.”
Mort Lee pursed his lips and squinted at the sun.
“We-e-ell, I reckon I’ll be moseyin’ on, gents. Yuh won’t find the main
road much better walkin’ than this.”
He spurred his horse and went away in a whirl of dust.
“If they don’t cuss yuh or shoot at yuh, they hang crape,” complained
Sleepy. “---- such a country!”
“Country’s all right,” argued Hashknife. “It’s the folks in it that make
it bad. These people need purifyin’--that’s all it needs, Sleepy.”
“That’s all ---- needs,” retorted Sleepy sadly.
* * * * *
About the time that Hashknife and Sleepy reached the main road, a crowd
of men gathered around a poker table in the Moon Flats gambling house.
Cal Severn had challenged Doc Maldeen to a single-handed game of stud
poker. Severn seldom played poker, but when he did it was for big money,
and the men around the table grinned in anticipation of large stakes.
There was no money in sight, Severn merely requesting five thousand
dollars worth of chips. The cowboys around the table gasped audibly.
Five thousand dollars! But Maldeen did not even blink as he slid five
stacks of white chips across the table to Severn.
“Hundred dollar chips big enough?” he asked casually, and Severn nodded
as he stacked them up in two piles of twenty-five chips each.
They cut for deal, and Maldeen won. Both men shoved in an ante of two
hundred dollars after getting their hole-card. Then Severn drew an ace
and Maldeen a seven spot. Severn bet two hundred and Maldeen stayed. The
third card around showed another ace for Severn and a king for Maldeen.
This time Severn bet two hundred, and, after calm consideration, Maldeen
tossed in seven chips.
“Tiltin’ it five hundred, eh?” Severn half-smiled, as he called the
raise.
The fourth card showed a jack for Severn and another king for Maldeen.
Severn studied Maldeen’s cards. He had Maldeen beaten in sight, but the
five hundred dollar raise made it appear that Maldeen had a king buried.
Severn passed the bet and Maldeen shoved in five chips. Severn fingered
his chips for quite a while, but finally tossed five into the pot.
Maldeen dealt slowly, placing the next card carefully beside Severn’s
hand. It was another jack. This gave Severn aces and jacks in sight.
Maldeen flipped over his own card--another king. Three kings against
two pair--in sight. It was Maldeen’s first “say” in the pot, and he
quickly estimated Severn’s chips before shoving ten chips into the
center.
Severn seemed to hesitate. He was beaten in sight, and Maldeen held a
hard hand to bluff. Severn was already in eleven hundred dollars. Then
he slowly picked up the rest of his chips and slid them to the center.
Maldeen smiled and shook his head.
“Cal, that’s cold-blooded poker, but I feel that yo’re out on a limb.”
He swiftly counted out his chips and slid them to the center, and his
pile totaled one more chip than what Cal Severn had bet.
“Raisin’ a hundred?” queried Severn softly.
“Thassall,” smiled Maldeen.
Severn hesitated for a moment and cleared his throat.
“Give me five thousand more, doc.”
Maldeen seemed about to refuse, but counted out the required amount.
Severn was good for that amount, just on the strength of the Diamond-S
ranch. He did not stack his chips this time, but shoved them all to the
center.
“Boostin’ it forty-nine hundred,” he stated.
A gasp went up from dry throats around the table. It was the largest bet
they had ever seen made. Maldeen studied Severn’s cards as if seeking to
discover whether Severn was bluffing or had filled his hand. He squinted
at Severn’s face, but the young cattleman was slowly puffing on his
cigaret and looking at the fortune in the center of the table.
“I call,” said Maldeen, tossing in his chips. Severn flipped over his
hole-card--an ace. “Ace full!” gasped a cowboy, almost overcome from
the suspense.
Maldeen smiled grimly and turned his card. It was another seven.
“King full!” exploded another cowboy. “Two full houses!”
For a few moments Cal Severn did not say anything. He shoved the chips
across to Maldeen and leaned back in his chair.
“The god of luck was with me, doc; I’m through.”
Maldeen got slowly to his feet and went back to his private room, where
he kept a small safe. In a few moments he came back with ten thousand
dollars in gold and currency. After he had counted it out he turned to
the crowd and said--
“The house buys a drink, gents.”
And the “gents” took their drink, gulping it down wolfishly, as if
seeking solace from the reaction of that big bet.
“Never saw nothin’ like it before,” declared a cowboy earnestly. “That’s
goin’ to spoil me for any of this four-bits-a-stack game. I used to git
a thrill out of a five-dollar bet, but--Forty-nine hundred--whoo-o-ee!”
Severn laughed softly and leaned on the bar.
“That ten thousand will kinda help to pay up some of my debts, doc.”
Maldeen grimaced.
“It won’t help mine, Cal. That’s a hard jolt for the old Moon Flats, if
anybody asks yuh.”
Severn shrugged his shoulders.
“You dealt ’em to me, doc.”
“I’m a ---- of a dealer,” admitted Maldeen, and the crowd laughed
boisterously.
They appreciated a good loser, and Maldeen was not kicking.
* * * * *
And that same morning Mary O’Hara met Shell Romaine in the hills;
but the meeting was not planned. Mary rode the hills nearly every
day astride a wiry little sorrel horse, riding as recklessly as any
cowboy; but today she was not in the mood for a wild gallop, and was
poking slowly along a narrow trail when her horse suddenly stopped,
and she looked up at Shell Romaine, whose horse blocked the trail.
For several moments they looked at each other, and then Shell swung
his horse on to the down-hill side, giving her plenty of room to
pass. He had removed his hat, but did not speak. He had changed from
the dilapidated suit of the day before, and was now wearing a black
sombrero, faded blue shirt and bat-winged, silver-trimmed chaps.
Around his neck was a scarlet silk muffler, while around his waist
was a wide, silver-trimmed cartridge-belt, and swinging low on his
thigh was a holstered pistol.
“Why don’t you speak to me?” asked Mary O’Hara.
Shell looked closely at her and dropped his eyes to the pommel of his
saddle, where the palm of his right hand was tightly clenched.
“I didn’t reckon you’d care to have me,” he replied.
“Did you make that up out of your own head, Shell?”
“Well--” Shell lifted his head defiantly--“I don’t know why yuh should
want to speak to me.”
Mary sighed and examined her well-worn gauntlets.
“Nobody wants to speak to a horse-thief, bank-robber, killer,” he
continued; but there was no bitterness in his voice. “I reckon everybody
knows that my old man was the Black Rider.”
“Shell, I’m sorry--for--you. It is hard luck, but----”
“I don’t want sympathy,” interrupted Shell, “and I’m not blamin’ luck
for what happened. I reckon I’ll try to sell out the old place and
leave the Mission country. It was hard to make a livin’--before; it’ll
be impossible now.”
Mary nodded slowly. Shell twisted in his saddle and wiped his forehead
with his sleeve.
“Mary, I want to tell yuh somethin’ and ask yuh to forgive me for doin’
it--if yuh can.”
“If I can?”
“Yeah. Before that bank robbery--” Shell paused a moment--“mebbe it
was a week or so before that, I got drunk in Moon Flats, and I got to
braggin’ to some of the boys. You was crossin’ the street and I told
them that me and you was engaged to marry.”
Mary looked curiously at him and shook her head.
“No one ever told me that, Shell.”
“Well, I said it, Mary. I dunno why I lied like that, but I did, and I’m
glad it never came to you.”
Suddenly Mary smiled.
“Shell, it did, too; but not that you had said it. Quite a while after
you went away Cal Severn asked me if I was engaged to you. I told him
I was not, and he laughed it off. I did not ask him where he got the
idea.”
“I reckon some of the boys told him,” said Shell slowly; and then, “Are
you goin’ to marry Cal Severn, Mary O’Hara?”
Mary flushed and reached down to pat the shoulder of her horse, but did
not reply.
“I wish yuh a lot of luck,” said Shell. “A lot of luck.”
Mary lifted her head, her eyes filled with tears.
“Shell, I must tell you something. You heard that the Overland was
robbed yesterday morning between Moon Flats and Clevis Creek bridge,
didn’t you?”
Shell nodded his head.
“Uncle Pat was notified yesterday morning. It was done by a lone
robber, who tied up the messenger and blew the safe. There was a lot
of money taken. The messenger was discovered at Wheelock, and he was
unable to give a good description of the robber, but said he was
dressed in dark-colored clothes.”
Shell turned his head and stared off across the purple sage, his mind
working fast. He had been on that train.
“Did Pat find any clews, Mary?” he asked.
“No. But, Shell, they want to know where you were at that time, don’t
you see? Some say it was done by the Black Rider, but others point out
the fact that you came into town early. Newt Bowie and Monte Barnes say
that you were in Moon Flats at daylight.”
Shell smiled bitterly.
“Is there a warrant out for me?”
“Uncle Pat did not say, but I know he has worried a lot about it,
Shell.”
“Has he? I suppose I ought to go to town and prove that I had nothin’
to do with it, or give myself up to the law; but one I can’t do and the
other--I’ve had a taste of, Mary. Oh, I know what the Mission range
thinks of me, and I know how much chance I’d have in their courts. I’m
already convicted, in their minds.”
Mary nodded. She knew that Shell’s past reputation was all against
him, and she knew that many folks in Moon Flats had already declared
that Shell Romaine had robbed the train. Hadn’t he been convicted of
robbery before? Hadn’t his own father been the Black Rider and got
killed in the act of holding up a stage?
“Couldn’t you prove your innocence, Shell?” asked Mary.
“Prove nothin’!” bitterly. “What proof could a paroled convict bring to
a court of law?”
“Paroled?”
“Yeah--paroled, Mary. I’m not free--not in the right way. I’ve got to
report to the sheriff every so often, and any old time I even look
cross-eyed--back I go to the pen.”
“Will you report to Uncle Pat?”
“No!”
Shell gathered up his reins and settled himself in his saddle.
“I’m an outlaw. I haven’t got a chance in the world to prove anythin’,
and I’m not goin’ back to the penitentiary. If they got me for this
robbery I’d go in for twenty years, don’tcha know it?
“They’re all primed to get me, I reckon. I ain’t got a friend left--if I
ever did have any; and from now on I’m goin’ to get the game as well as
the fame. You tell Pat Haley, will yuh, Mary? Tell him he can declare
open season on the last of the Romaines. I like Old Pat, and the Lord
never made a better woman than ‘Ma’ Haley. I don’t want to harm them,
but you tell Pat that I’m not comin’ in--not on my own feet.”
Shell turned his horse down the hill, riding straight down the steep
slope to the bottom, where he swung around on to a hog-backed ridge
and disappeared in the timber.
For several minutes after Shell had disappeared, Mary continued to watch
after him. He had wished her lots of luck in her marriage to Cal Severn.
She had liked Shell Romaine, but had never thought seriously about him.
He was a wild sort of person, willing to fight at the drop of a hat--and
drop it himself--while Cal Severn was more settled, substantial.
She turned her horse and rode slowly back toward town, secretly glad
that Shell Romaine was not going to give himself up to the law. She
knew that it would be Pat Haley’s duty either to arrest or kill him;
knew that the men of the Mission River ranges would comb the hills
for him. Turning outlaw would be proof conclusive that he was guilty,
but for some reason Mary was glad that Shell Romaine was no quitter.
* * * * *
Hashknife and Sleepy came into Moon Flats tired, dusty and limping from
sore feet. They headed for the horse-trough beside the livery stable,
where they took off their boots and immersed their aching feet in the
water.
“---- hath no fury like a busted blister,” declared Sleepy, wiggling his
cramped toes. “I wish I had the power to bring a curse upon the man who
slew our chargers.”
“Go ahead,” groaned Hashknife, “and I’ll do my dangdest to make it come
true. The man that made my boots never knowed that a human bein’ had
more’n one toe.”
“You will be a dude,” observed Sleepy. “Bend yore feet all out of shape
to make ’em look dainty.”
Sleepy looked up and shoved his bare foot against Hashknife’s ankle. Cal
Severn was coming down toward them, leading his horse.
“What’s the idea of the foot-bath?” he asked as he came up to them.
“Gettin’ sanitary,” grinned Hashknife, reaching for his cigaret-makings.
“Washin’ feet helps clear yore mind.”
“Thasso?”
Cal Severn seemed amused.
“And what is the real reason?”
“Hot feet,” grunted Hashknife, and then proceeded to tell Severn what
had happened to them.
“You ain’t kiddin’ me, are yuh?” he asked when Hashknife finished.
“Go and look in Romaine’s front yard and you’ll find two perfectly good
dead horses,” declared Hashknife.
Severn shook his head.
“No, I’ll take yore word for it and keep away from Romaine’s place.”
“Scared of him?” queried Hashknife, lighting his smoke.
Severn grinned.
“If yuh want to look at it that way. I don’t care to be shot at,
Hartley. But--” Severn grew more serious--“why should Shell Romaine
shoot at you two?”
“Who in ---- said he shot at us?” demanded Hashknife.
“Well, you--uh-- Didn’t you just tell me----”
“I said we was shot at,” corrected Hashknife.
“I getcha. But who would shoot at you? You are strangers around here.
Maybe it was a mistake.”
“I dunno about that.”
Hashknife proceeded to pull on his socks carefully.
“Anyway--” looking up with a grin--“we know ---- well that we wasn’t
welcome around there.”
“Kinda looks that way,” admitted Severn seriously, and then, “Get a
couple of horses from the stable to ride out to the ranch today.”
Severn started to lead his horse into the stable, but turned.
“I reckon I can fix up some saddles for yuh out at the ranch.”
“Ne’ mind,” said Hashknife. “We’ll go out tomorrow and get our own
rigs.”
“Out to Romaine’s?”
“Perzactly!” grunted Hashknife, kicking a boot-heel against the trough,
trying to drive his swollen foot into close quarters.
Severn nodded and led his horse inside.
“I wonder what kinda whippoorwills he thought we are?” queried Sleepy.
“Think we’d give up them there good saddles?”
“Didn’t know he had hired two brave men,” grinned Hashknife, but
grimaced with pain as he took a step. “---- it! I thought my shoulder
was sore, but these two feet of mine ain’t feet a-tall; they’re ---- in
a pinch.”
Hobbling along, they headed for the Moon Flats saloon, where several
cowboys, including Monte Barnes, were standing on the porch. The cowboys
looked curiously at them, but said nothing.
“I’ll buy a drink,” announced Hashknife. “I bet my pardner the drinks
that I could beat him to town from the Diamond-S, but I calculated
wrong; so I’ll buy a drink for everybody.”
“Walk?” gasped Monte.
“Not all the way,” said Hashknife, standing on one foot. “Part of the
way we ran. C’m on in.”
They all went inside and lined up at the bar. Maldeen was not there, and
the conversation turned to the poker game, which had been played a short
time before.
“Severn won ten thousand dollars in one hand,” explained Barnes. “Game
of stud. Both men filled. Never seen anythin’ like it in my life.”
“Prob’ly won’t never ag’in,” declared another.
Hashknife squinted at his drink and looked around the room. Finally he
turned to Barnes.
“Ten thousand is a lot of money.”
“More ’n I ever seen before,” declared Barnes. “It’s plumb easy to speak
about it, but when yuh see it all on the table--whoo-o-o-ee!”
“And Maldeen done the dealin’,” added another. “He sure deals a straight
game.”
“Severn must be a plunger,” observed Sleepy.
“I never seen him play big before,” stated Barnes. “He plays poker once
in a while, but I think that most of his gamblin’ is done in the East.”
“Goes East to gamble?”
Hashknife squinted at Barnes.
“Naw--the stock markets. Yuh know what I mean--gamblin’ in wheat and
oats and that kinda gamblin’. We took a train of beef back there two
years ago and Cal studied market stuff. Ever since then he’s gambled
thataway, and I reckon he didn’t get as square a deal as he got
today.”
“They kinda hook yuh, I reckon,” observed Hashknife.
“Dang right! They sure hookum-cow. Man ain’t got no chance to bluff;
don’t even get time to study his cards. I’ll takem mine over the poker
table, y’betcha.”
“What happened to yore back and shoulder?” asked one of the cowboys,
pointing at Hashknife’s back, where the bullet had ripped the shirt.
The wound had bled considerably, discoloring his shirt.
“Oh, that?”
Hashknife tried to twist his head and look over his own shoulder.
“Well, sir, I was kinda hurryin’ along and snagged m’self on a barb-wire
fence.”
The cowboys glanced at each other, but did not dispute the explanation.
That it was not done by a barbed wire was very certain, but they knew
better than to inquire too deeply into something that was really none of
their business.
After the round of drinks Hashknife and Sleepy left the saloon, leaving
a bunch of cowboys trying to figure out why two sore-footed cowboys had
walked into town and why one of them had a bullet-scrape across his
shoulder.
Jim Searles was standing in front of Bill Eagle’s general merchandise
store, and from him Hashknife found out where Pat Haley lived. Searles
scowled at them and hitched up his belt. Searles was an evil-looking
gentleman, short of body, but long of face.
“Whatcha want him fer?” he asked after directing them.
“Want him to say a prayer,” said Hashknife seriously.
“Who fer?” quickly.
“I dunno--yet,” grinned Hashknife and turned away.
Pat Haley lived in a home-like frame cottage just at the edge of town.
Two great cottonwoods almost concealed the house, and the front yard
was a mass of rosebushes. A sorrel horse, saddled, was tied to the rear
gate, and voices were audible through the open front door.
The two cowboys went up to the door and were about to knock, when Pat
Haley came into the short hall. He glanced quickly at them and grinned
with his pipe clenched between his big teeth.
“Come in and rest your feet,” he greeted them. “Sure, it’s cooler in the
house, and me wife has just made a gallon of limminade wit’ ice. Come on
in.”
They followed him into the living-room, where he introduced them to Ma
Haley and Mary O’Hara.
“Me niece,” explained Haley. “She’s one-half of the Haley family, and me
and Ma are the other half.”
Hashknife and Sleepy sat down awkwardly on the sofa and fondled their
hats. Hashknife winced from the jerk of his shirt as he sat down, and
Ma Haley divined that something was wrong.
“Did ye get hurt?” she asked abruptly, getting out of her chair.
“Now, it ain’t nothin’,” declared Hashknife. “I just got scratched with
a bullet, thassall.”
“All?”
Ma Haley came straight to him and made him bend his back.
“Heavens above!” she exclaimed. “Why, the poor boy has been badly hurt!
Mary, get some hot water and car-r-bolic-acid bottle--quick!”
“Aw-w-w-w!” begged Hashknife. “It ain’t nothin’.”
“You’re in a ---- of a fix,” laughed Pat Haley. “When Ma finds a cut
or a bruise she niver lets up until she doctors it. But who shot ye,
Har-r-tley?”
“I dunno. You tell him, Sleepy--I’m in the hospital.”
“You’ve got to take off that shirt,” declared Mrs. Haley, “I never do
things by halves, me boy.”
“Come out on the porch and I’ll tell yuh,” laughed Sleepy. “I’d get to
laughin’ if I ever seen Hashknife Hartley in the rough.”
They went outside, leaving Hashknife groaning mentally.
Mary came in with the water and bottle of acid, and Hashknife prayed
that she would go out again; but Ma Haley spoiled his prayer by saying:
“I want you to help me, Mary. Every girl should know how to doctor a
cut, bruise or a gun-shot wound, and this is a bad one to star-r-rt
on,” and then to Hashknife, “Shall I cut the shirt off, or can ye
stand to have it pulled off?”
Hashknife hesitated.
“Bring me the shears, Mary.”
“----!” breathed Hashknife. “I suppose there ain’t no way out of it; so
I might as well save the shirt,” and he began to take it off.
He glanced at Mary O’Hara, who was trying to suppress a laugh, and at
Ma Haley’s serious face. It was too much for Hashknife. He bared his
back and prayed that it might not take long.
From out on the porch came the droning of Sleepy’s voice as he explained
things to Pat Haley, while Ma Haley bathed the wound tenderly and
explained the dangers of infection to Mary O’Hara.
For lack of adhesive Ma Haley was compelled to wind the bandages around
Hashknife’s chest and over his shoulder, which forced him to sit up and
face them, bared to the waist. He was bronzed from the sun, and the long
muscles rippled like those of an athlete.
“Ye are no weakling,” declared Ma Haley, and Hashknife blushed like a
girl.
“Would ye tell me where ye were when ye got shot?”
“In Romaine’s front yard,” replied Hashknife.
_Crash!_ Mary dropped the pan of water upside down on the carpet, and
it flooded Ma Haley’s shoes. She sprang aside and stared at Mary, who
was staring at Hashknife.
“In Romaine’s front yard?” breathed Mary. “At the Romaine ranch?”
Hashknife nodded and looked down at the wet carpet. Just at that moment
Pat Haley and Sleepy came in from the porch and stared at the tableau.
“What went wrong?” asked Pat.
“Mary fumbled the pan,” said Mrs. Haley gently. “Sure, the antiseptic
water should be good for the carpet.”
Sleepy laughed and leaned against the wall.
“Hashknife, yo’re all packed up and ready for shipment.”
Hashknife merely glanced at Sleepy, but turned his eyes back to Mary
O’Hara, wondering why she dropped the pan of water. Why was she startled
when he mentioned the place where the horses were killed? Pat Haley was
talking now, and so was Ma Haley; one about the shooting, the other
about supplying Hashknife with a clean shirt while she washed the torn
one.
Hashknife agreed with both sides and Ma Haley bustled away to get one
of Pat’s shirts, while Pat sat down on the sofa beside Hashknife. Mary
picked up the pan and went to the kitchen just as some one knocked on
the front door and Cal Severn’s voice called a greeting from the porch.
Without waiting for any one to answer his hail, he came down the hall
and into the doorway, where he stopped and stared at the three men.
“Excuse me,” he grinned. “I didn’t know yuh had company, Pat. Where’s
Mary?”
“Out in the kitchen.”
Severn walked through the kitchen door, and a moment later he and Mary
were in conversation.
“She goin’ to marry Severn?” asked Hashknife.
“Uh-huh,” grunted Pat. “That’s the idea, I reckon.”
“Severn just won ten thousand dollars from Maldeen.”
Pat took his pipe from his mouth and looked closely at it for a moment.
He squinted at Hashknife curiously.
“Would ye say that ag’in?”
Hashknife repeated the statement and added that it was won on a single
hand in which both men held full houses.
“Well, well!”
Pat blinked rapidly.
“I’ve an idea that ten thousand is a lot of money. And ye say it was a
single hand? Ten thousand dollars! I’m thinkin’ that Doc Maldeen will
face a lean year.”
Mrs. Haley came in with one of Pat’s shirts and gave it to Hashknife.
“I’ll wash and mend the other one,” she stated, “and I’ll also go out
while ye put this one on.”
“Yo’re a wonder, Mrs. Haley,” declared Hashknife. “My shoulder feels
better than it did before it was hurt.”
“A little lyin’ directly from the heart hurts no one,” grinned Ma Haley.
Hashknife put on the shirt and rolled a cigaret, while Pat Haley puffed
slowly, thoughtfully.
“Sleepy told yuh all about what happened, didn’t he?” asked Hashknife,
and Pat nodded.
“He did. I can’t for the life of me de-duct why ye were shot at, though.
If it was Shell Romaine, why would he wish to kill either of you?”
“If he knowed why we are here he might,” said Hashknife softly.
“Aye, but he don’t know. Cal Severn and meself are the only ones who
know. I have not told him, and I’m sure that Cal has not.”