“Henry Horsecollar Dryden is stuck on Marie and wants to marry her, so
Mary says.”
“Thasso?”
Hashknife grew interested; but just then Cal Severn came in from the
kitchen, barely nodded to them and went out the front door.
“Well, that’s leavin’ in a hurry,” observed Pat.
From the kitchen came the sounds of argument between Mrs. Haley and
Mary, and Pat grinned widely.
“Sure, there’s been a battle,” he whispered. “Ma’s out there tryin’ to
pour water on the powder.”
A moment later Ma Haley came into the room, her eyes serious as she went
to the front window and looked out. Then she turned to Pat.
“Mary’s cryin’ her heart out, and Cal’s headin’ back toward the ranch.”
“Well, now, isn’t that the usual thing to do, Ma?”
Pat seemed surprised at her distress.
“I mind the time that you bawled----”
“I never bawled, Pat Haley! If you’d ’a’ hurt my feelin’s before we were
married--we wouldn’t ’a’ married.”
“Ma, ye’re startin’ an argument with me,” warned Pat. “I have never won
an argument with ye yet, but I’m givin’ ye fair warnin’. I’ll win some
day, so I will.”
“Ye will, will ye? Well, if it wasn’t for our guests I’d make ye wish
ye’d never made the statement.”
Pat Haley grinned delightedly and was about to continue when Mary came
in. She had been crying, but her mind seemed to have been made up and
she spoke directly to Pat Haley.
“I did not want to tell you this, but I think I must. I met Shell
Romaine this morning--in the hills. It was an accidental meeting. We
talked for a while about things, and he told me that everything and
every one was against him and for me to tell you that he was not going
to come in and report to you. He said that he was turning outlaw and
that he was going to get the game along with the fame.”
Pat took his pipe from between his teeth and polished the bowl on his
palm while the others waited for him to speak. Finally he laid the pipe
aside and smiled softly.
“I believe I’m not surprised. What time was it, Mary, and where did ye
meet him?”
“It was about ten o’clock, and I met him on that narrow trail around the
head of Broken Gulch.”
Pat turned to Hashknife.
“About what time was it that you were shot at, Hartley?”
“It must have been later than that. Mebbe it was ten-thirty or a little
later.”
Pat nodded and rubbed his knees.
“From that spot it is about two miles to the Romaine ranch.”
He frowned for a moment and looked at Mary.
“I’m sorry, but it looks like Shell Romaine had started real quickly to
make good his threat.”
Mary’s eyes blinked back the tears, and she turned and went back into
the kitchen. Pat squinted after her and turned to Ma Haley, speaking
softly,
“And what was the row about--between her and Cal?”
“She would not say, Pat. Does a girl blab about the troubles between her
and her sweetheart?”
Pat grinned at Ma Haley’s serious expression and turned to Hashknife.
“It appears that Shell Romaine has challenged the law, does it not? I
hate like the ---- to accept, but me sworn duty says for me to bring
him to task.”
“If he’s the one what shot at us, yo’re welcome,” said Sleepy. “That
jasper sure can shoot.”
“Aye, he can that, and it will be a grand battle.”
Hashknife got to his feet and shook hands with Ma Haley, thanking her
for dressing his wounds.
“Come and see us,” she urged. “Ye have not been well entertained because
things are kinda upset; but drop in any time.”
Hashknife turned and walked to the kitchen door. Mary was standing at
a rear window, looking out, but turned as Hashknife came up to her,
holding out his hand.
“I--I am pleased to meet you,” she faltered.
“Yes’m, I suppose yuh are, but yuh ain’t had much pleasure since I’ve
been here. I hope to see yuh again--smilin’.”
He turned and walked on to the porch, where Pat and Sleepy were waiting
for him, and with a hearty handshake they left the warm-hearted sheriff
of Moon Flats.
Severn had spoken to the livery stable keeper, and two horses were
saddled for them. The man volunteered the information that Severn had
gone back to the ranch. He dilated on the fact that Severn had won ten
thousand dollars from Maldeen, and was still marveling over it as they
rode out of earshot.
Hashknife was very thoughtful, shaking his head as he debated things
with himself. Finally he said--
“Mary O’Hara is a danged pretty girl.”
“Yeah?”
Sleepy grinned.
“Think she is, do yuh? Henry Horsecollar didn’t think so.”
“He likes ’em dark.”
Hashknife turned sidewise in his saddle and squinted at Sleepy.
“I’ve got a hunch that Mary likes Shell Romaine.”
“Yo’re dense as ---- if it took yuh that long to find it out,” grinned
Sleepy. “Didja notice that her and Cal Severn had a quarrel?”
“Yeah, and I’d give a lot to know what it was about, Sleepy.”
“What good would that do yuh?”
“I dunno--no good, mebbe.”
They rode in at the ranch and stabled their horses. Henry Horsecollar
squinted at their mounts and rubbed his chin.
“Didja trade with the livery stable?” he asked.
“Rented ’em,” said Hashknife. “Somebody shot both of our horses.”
“M’ ----! Shot ’em? Where?”
Sleepy sketched out their experience, and Henry listened in open-mouthed
amazement.
“Well, sir,” he declared, “it’s a caution what folks will do. Cal Severn
came home a while ago, swore at me and almost jarred the winders out of
the house when he slammed the door.”
“He won ten thousand dollars from Maldeen today,” stated Hashknife.
Henry half-opened his mouth and leaned weakly against the corral.
“Ten-- Aw-w-w, yo’re kiddin’ me, ain’tcha?”
“In one hand of stud poker,” said Sleepy.
Henry rubbed his chin slowly.
“Well, sir, I reckon he wasn’t mad a-tall--he was crazy. The shock of
winnin’ that money kinda insaned him, don’tcha s’pose?”
“It would me,” grinned Hashknife, and then sobered suddenly, as he said,
“I seen yore girl today, Henry.”
“My girl--Marie?”
Hashknife explained their mistake in thinking it was Romaine’s place,
and then he told of how Joe Wicks had hit Marie with a rock. Henry
listened calmly enough, but his lips tightened over the recital.
“Drunk, was he?”
“Drunk enough to ask us to drink with him.”
“That’s pretty drunk,” admitted Henry.
“I dunno where he gets his whisky--wish I did.”
He sighed and leaned against the fence.
“I never had no girl before. Mebbe folks will look down on me for carin’
for an Indian girl, but it’s my own business. I’m shootin’ square with
her.”
“Then we’re with yuh, Henry,” said Hashknife softly.
“We’re with anybody that shoots square. Me and Sleepy ain’t no plaster
saints, but we sure do admire folks that shoot straight.”
“I ain’t no saint either.”
Henry shook his head.
“I’ve mavericked cows and been two jumps ahead of the sheriff; I’ve done
a lot of wrong things, but I’m square with Marie.”
“Kinda wipes out the rest of the charges,” nodded Sleepy, and added, “We
met Mary O’Hara today.”
“Yeah? She’s goin’ to marry Cal Severn, I reckon. Anyway folks say she
is. Didja hear anythin’ more about the train-robbery?”
“Not much,” said Hashknife. “They’re thinkin’ that Shell Romaine pulled
that job.”
Henry grinned and shook his head.
“I don’t believe that. I betcha Shell Romaine came back here to dig
up his half of that thirty thousand dollars he stole a year ago, and
he ain’t takin’ no chances till he gets it.”
“There may be a hunk of truth in that,” admitted Hashknife.
“Yo’re danged well right there is truth in it. I’ve felt that all along.
His old man has got a cache somewhere that’s a dinger. Mebbe Shell will
find that, too. Mort Lee came past here today and asked me if I’d seen
Shell. I wonder what Mort wants him for.”
“Mort’s the cowpuncher that brought in the news of old Romaine’s
killin’,” said Hashknife thoughtfully.
“We met him, too. What kind of a feller is he, Henry?”
“Mort Lee? Well, I’ll tell yuh about me: If I can’t say somethin’ good
about a man, I won’t say anythin’. Mort Lee is jist so-so, if yuh know
what I mean.”
“What about Jim Searles?”
“That or’nary pup? Sa-a-ay----”
Henry shook his head.
“Words fails me when I even think of Jim Searles.”
“That’s good,” said Hashknife. “Let’s see if Minnehaha has got any food
for the stummick.”
* * * * *
Cal Severn was not friendly the following morning, but the boys put
that down to the fact that the quarrel between him and Mary O’Hara
still ruffled him. He came down to the bunk-house after breakfast,
leading a saddled horse.
“Goin’ after your saddles today?” he asked.
“Pretty quick,” said Hashknife. “We’ll lead a couple of your horses so
we can return the livery stock.”
“All right. Henry’ll show yuh the ridin’ stock.”
“Reckon I’ll ride in, too,” said Henry; but Severn shook his head.
“No; I want you to ride that upper fence today,” he said.
Severn swung into his saddle and turned.
“I’m goin’ up the east side of the river if anybody wants to know.”
He rode away while Henry Horsecollar swore under his breath.
“I dunno who in ---- cares!” he snorted. “Make me stay here all day
Sunday and then send me out to fix a ---- old fence!”
“When yo’re foreman, yuh can do as yuh please,” grinned Hashknife.
“Yeah, and when ----’s froze over I can skate, too!” retorted Henry
heatedly.
Hashknife and Sleepy led two of the Diamond-S horses and rode the
livery horses across the hills toward the Romaine ranch. They did not
follow the road beyond Mission River, but swung back into the hills,
circled Joe Wicks’ place and swung around the heads of the gulches
which led down to the Romaine place.
Just above the Romaine ranch-house the gulch forked like the letter Y,
and Hashknife and Sleepy circled both forks, which brought them out on
to the side-hill on the west side of the ranch. It gave them a clear
view of the place. The ranch-house was about four hundred yards away
and below them, as they rode into a thicket of jackpines and stopped.
There was no one in sight about the place, but both men studied it
closely. They were going to be very sure that no one was there to ambush
them again. Hashknife slowly rolled a cigaret, never taking his eyes off
the clearing below them.
“She’s plumb deserted,” declared Sleepy.
Hashknife nodded in agreement, but his eyes continued to search the
tangle of timber and brush north of the buildings.
“Look down the road!” grunted Sleepy, lifting himself in his stirrups.
Two riders were coming up the narrow, winding road, heading toward the
ranch. They were plainly visible to Hashknife and Sleepy, who were far
above them, but they were still concealed from the ranch-house.
“Who do yuh reckon it is?” queried Sleepy.
“I dunno,” admitted Hashknife. “I ain’t familiar enough with folks
around here to tell who it is.”
The riders came on, their horses kicking up a cloud of dust, swung into
the clearing and headed for the house. Then one of the riders seemed to
jerk sidewise and fell off his horse, which whirled and ran back toward
the brush, while the clear air was shattered by the whip-like _pop!_ of
a rifle.
The other rider sprang from his horse and dropped flat on the ground,
while the horse whirled and followed the other one back toward the
brush. There was silence for several moments, and then the rifle
cracked again. A splatter of gravel lifted in front of the man on the
ground, who rolled rapidly aside as if trying to get the ranch-house
between himself and the shooter.
Hashknife and Sleepy were watching closely, and now Hashknife drew his
six-shooter.
“I think I see him, Sleepy. He’s shootin’ smokeless powder, but--watch
that heavy clump of willers.”
As Hashknife spoke he lifted his gun and fired--once--twice. It was long
range for a .45 pistol, but Hashknife guessed the elevation perfectly,
and a man got up from among the willows and began running up the gulch.
He was partly screened by the brush, which made it impossible for either
Hashknife or Sleepy to tell how he was dressed or even to estimate his
physical proportions.
It was only about fifty yards from the heavy willow clump to the forks
of the gulch, and both Hashknife and Sleepy emptied their guns at him,
but at that range it was impossible to tell where the bullets were
striking.
At the forks of the gulch the man stopped in a screen of cottonwoods,
and a moment later a bullet splatted into the dirt under Hashknife’s
horse. Quickly they swung their horses back into the heavier thicket,
but another bullet hummed past their heads, cutting the plume off the
top of a jack-pine.
“Dang the luck!” swore Hashknife. “If we only had a rifle!”
He was shoving cartridges into his revolver as he spoke, and after
filling the chambers he dropped it back into its holster and turned
to Sleepy.
“You go down and help with that wounded man. I’m goin’ to try and snag
that smart jasper.”
Sleepy nodded quickly, and Hashknife spurred out of the thicket and
galloped off along the slope of the hill. His only chance was to circle
the heads of both gulches and try to head off the man’s escape; but if
the other had a horse close at hand he would have a decided advantage.
Hashknife could have ridden straight down the hill to the bottom of the
gulch and followed the man, but it would mean that he would have to ride
in the open in the face of rifle-fire; and this man had demonstrated his
ability with a rifle.
Sleepy took the two lead-ropes and poked off down the hill, while
Hashknife circled the west fork of the gulch, riding recklessly but
watching the country. Between the two gulches was a wide stretch of
open country, where a rider would be plainly visible; but on the east
side of the main gulch were miles of broken hills, where a man might
hide away for months.
Hashknife circled around the head of the west fork and galloped
straight across this wide flat, heading swiftly for the rim of the
main gulch, over a mile away. Instead of going toward the junction of
the two forks he swung to the left, cutting across to the main fork,
with the intention of striking it about half a mile from the forks. He
felt sure that the shooter, realizing that he had more than one person
to contend with, would retreat; and there was a bare possibility that
he would follow the gulch.
Hashknife drew up at the rim and scanned the country beyond, but there
was no one in sight. The gulch was heavily timbered and extended far
beyond him. He hesitated only for a moment and then rode slowly down
through the trees, watching closely. The timber was so thick that he
knew the man’s rifle would be of little advantage.
At the bottom was a deeply rutted cattle-trail, and a small trickle of
water showed the presence of a spring farther up the gulch. He stopped
in a thicket beside the trail and waited.
From the top of a dead cottonwood a mourning dove called softly,
monotonously. Farther up the gulch a family of magpies started an
argument, and Hashknife smiled at the great similarity to human
voices. The old trail was deep with dust, which would muffle the
sound of passing hoofs.
Suddenly a jack-rabbit flashed into sight, bounding along the trail like
a gray shadow. It passed out of sight, leaving a faint cloud of dust in
its wake.
Hashknife hunched lower in his saddle. Something had frightened the
rabbit and that something was probably coming up the trail.
Then came the muffled _plop, plop_ of a horse walking in deep dust, and
out of the brush-lined trail came a horse and rider. Hashknife leaned
forward and lowered his gun. It was Mary O’Hara!
Her sorrel horse was streaked with sweat and dust and appeared so weary
that it did not even sense the presence of Hashknife’s mount, passing
within twenty feet and fading out in the brush beyond.
Hashknife made no move until a full minute after she had passed; then he
rode out of the heavy thicket and went down the trail, wondering what it
all meant. What was Mary O’Hara doing there? Had she met the man who had
done the shooting?
He watched closely as he followed the trail, but there was no sign
of any one in the gulch. It was impossible to distinguish tracks in
the deep dust; even the tracks of Mary’s mount were but hillocks of
dust. He rode out at the forks and swung wide of the brush to circle
Romaine’s fence.
He rode over to the ranch-house porch, where Sleepy was sitting. Four
horses were tied to the porch-posts, and lying on the porch was a man,
his head bolstered on a folded coat.
“See anythin’ more of him?” asked Sleepy.
Hashknife shook his head and dismounted. The man was unconscious,
mumbling incoherently.
“Splinter See,” said Sleepy. “Got hit in the shoulder. Pat Haley’s gone
after a doctor and a rig to take him to town in.”
“Was that Haley?” queried Hashknife.
“Yeah. He got his eyes full of sand from a 30-30 bullet and can’t see
very well, but it didn’t stop him from doin’ a complete job of cussin’.”
Hashknife slowly rolled a cigaret as he considered Mary O’Hara. She had
known that Pat Haley was coming after Shell Romaine, and apparently had
cut across the hills to warn Shell.
“Hurt kinda bad, ain’t he?” queried Hashknife.
“I betcha. Me and Pat looked him over, but it’s a job for a doctor.
Didn’tcha see nobody, Hashknife?”
“Seen Mary O’Hara.”
Sleepy looked blankly at Hashknife.
“Mary O’Hara?”
Hashknife explained where he had seen her, and Sleepy swore softly.
“Goin’ to tell Pat Haley?”
“Nope. I figure that she knew that Pat was comin’ over here after Shell;
so she packed a warnin’ to him, and he stayed long enough to do some
shootin’.”
“And now the whole ---- country’ll be on his trail,” declared Sleepy.
“He didn’t use no judgment.”
“I don’t _sabe_ him,” admitted Hashknife. “There’s a lot of things
around this range that I don’t _sabe_.”
“Well,” observed Sleepy, “things must be in a ---- of a muddle when
you’ll plead ignorance, cowboy.”
* * * * *
It was about an hour later when Pat Haley arrived. He was ably assisted
by several of Moon Flats’ leading citizens, among which were Maldeen and
Jim Searles. The doctor was not available, so they did not wait for him.
The men were vociferous in the denunciation of Shell Romaine, and
assured each other that his demise was but a question of a short time.
They loaded the injured deputy into the wagon-box and trooped back
toward town. Hashknife asked Haley to take back the livery horses, and
after they were on their way Hashknife and Sleepy secured their saddles
and bridles.
“I reckon that Shell Romaine is kinda up against it,” said Sleepy as
they mounted.
“Sure looks thataway,” grinned Hashknife. “Everybody seems to be goin’
after him.”
“Kinda spikes our job,” complained Sleepy. “About the only thing we can
do is to set around and look on.”
“Well, we sure can do that, can’t we?” grinned Hashknife.
“Lotsa worse things than settin’ around. Let’s go back and see if Joe
Wicks has thought up any new cuss words.”
They went back across the hills and dropped down into Joe Wicks’ road,
where they ran into old Joe astride a moth-eaten gray horse. He was
heading toward home, so they swung in beside him. Joe was just as dirty
and unkempt as before, but he was painfully sober.
“What the ---- yo’ want?” Joe’s inevitable question.
“How is the little girl, Joe?” asked Hashknife.
Joe squinted at Hashknife but did not answer.
“Rock didn’t hurt her much, did it?”
Joe shook his head. He was evidently not in any mood for conversation.
“Is Henry Dryden goin’ to marry her?” asked Sleepy.
“No, by ----!”
Joe woke up explosively.
“Henry’s a good feller,” said Hashknife.
“----fool!” grunted Joe. “My girl too good for him, by ----!”
“He probably wants her to marry a king,” grinned Sleepy.
They rode out of the willows and up the slope to the house. A tall roan
horse was tied to the porch, and Joe Wicks swore fluently, hammering his
old gray into a trot. He dropped off before reaching the porch and ran
the rest of the way. Hashknife and Sleepy rode up, but did not get off
their horses.
Inside the house, Joe Wicks was discoloring the air with profanity, and
a moment later Henry Horsecollar came backing out of the door, followed
by Joe. Henry did not see the two men beside the porch.
“Yo’ go to ---- out of here!” yelped Joe, waving his arms wildly. “You
le’ my Marie alone! _Hyak klatawa!_”
“_Klatawa_ your own self, you ---- breed!” snorted Henry. “Keep yore
dirty paws off me or I’ll knock yuh plumb into the Happy
Huntin’-Ground!”
“Yo’ go ’way, ---- quick!” shrilled Joe. “Yo’ not marry my girl,
yo’ ---- right!”
Just then Marie came out of the door and Joe shoved her aside.
“Yo’ keep to ---- out of this!”
“You keep your paws off her!” howled Henry. “Leggo her, Joe!”
“Yeh?”
Joe leered at Henry.
“Yo’ make me, eh? Huh!”
Joe whirled Marie toward him and slapped her across the cheek--probably
to show Henry Horsecollar that Marie was his property to do with as he
pleased.
Marie jerked back, throwing Joe off his balance, and in that fraction
of a second Henry Horsecollar sprang in and smashed Joe flush in the
face. It was a terrific punch, which started back about two feet
behind Henry’s right hip, described the arc of a circle and connected
perfectly with the head of Joseph Wicks.
And the said Joe Wicks seemed to lift off the floor, straightened out
to an angle of forty-five degrees and floated off the porch, where he
fell limply among his colony of mongrel dogs.
Henry blew on his sore knuckles and stared at Marie, who was looking at
Hashknife and Sleepy. He turned and looked foolishly at them.
“Henry, you sure can hit,” applauded Sleepy.
“Uh-huh,” admitted Henry. “Y’betcha I can.”
They watched Joe Wicks get to his feet and look around. He was very
dignified and very erect. Twice he turned around as if surveying the
country, and then started out toward his corral, weaving like a drunken
man with his whole pack of dogs barking at his heels. The running-gears
of an old buggy barred his trail; but he walked into it, fell down and
went to sleep while the dogs all sat down around him and barked at each
other.
Marie turned and walked into the house, and after a moment’s hesitation
Henry followed her in.
“Yuh gotta hand it to Henry for bein’ a Romeo,” said Hashknife. “A
father-in-law don’t mean nothin’ to him.”
“He’ll likely come out, draggin’ her by the hair,” grinned Sleepy, but
he was wrong.
Henry came out alone, rather sad of face, and mounted his horse.
“Goin’ back to the ranch?” queried Hashknife.
“Uh-huh.”
They rode down past Joe Wicks, but he paid no attention to them.
“He’ll likely beat that girl after he wakes up,” said Hashknife.
Henry started to go back, but changed his mind and rode on with them.
“Prob’ly will,” he agreed sadly. “Mebbe he’ll beat some sense into
her--I dunno.”
“Ain’t she got no sense?” queried Sleepy. “She says she can’t marry me.”
“Mebbe she don’t love yuh, Henry,” offered Hashknife.
“My ----!” exclaimed Henry seriously. “Now I never thought of that!”
“Didn’t yuh ever ask her if she loved yuh?”
“No-o-o, I never did. By gosh, mebbe that’s why she can’t marry me.
Whatcha know about that?”
“And,” declared Sleepy, “all that hammerin’ on her pa’s head ain’t goin’
to git yuh no votes from her.”
“Huh!”
Henry squinted both eyes and rubbed his right ear thoughtfully.
“Love’s a ---- of a thing, ain’t it?”
“Y’betcha,” agreed Hashknife.
* * * * *
The shooting of Splinter See and the open defiance of Shell Romaine
furnished food for conversation in the Mission rangeland. Splinter
was still alive, but badly injured. Ma Haley was a more than willing
nurse, and old Dr. Goodsell was thankful for her assistance.
“When do ye look for a crisis?” inquired Pat.
“Crisis ----!” exploded the old doctor. “When you get hit with a 30-30,
that’s the crisis--right then. If you survive the shock you’ll get
well--maybe.”
Contrary to expectations Pat Haley did not swear in a big posse of
men and go hunting for Shell Romaine. The county offered a thousand
dollars for his arrest, and the express company offered two thousand
dollars reward for information that would lead to the conviction of
the bandit who robbed the express-car near Clevis Creek.
To many folk it was a foregone conclusion that Shell Romaine had robbed
the train, and his early appearance in Moon Flats was but a part of his
defiance of the law. Since Splinter was shot, cowboys rode the range
with rifles handy--partly for protection, partly to try and collect the
reward.
Mary O’Hara went softly about her work, taking little interest in
things, paying little attention to those who came to see Ma Haley’s
patient. But Cal Severn did not come again, and Ma Haley shook her
head sadly.
She knew that Mary was unhappy, but was unable to decide whether it was
from the fact that Cal did not come any more, or-- Ma Haley sighed
deeply and reminded herself that the heart of a maid is a queer machine,
so it is.
And Cal Severn seemed very unhappy, morose. He had little to say to
Hashknife and Sleepy, but vented his spleen on Henry Horsecollar, whose
hide was so thick that sarcasm and insult failed to penetrate.
“If I was you, I’d bulldog that _hombre_,” declared Sleepy, disgusted at
Henry’s indifference to Severn’s vitriolic tongue.
“He’s hard to comb,” replied Henry. “Fightin’ whelp, that feller is,
y’betcha.”
“Then why not pistol-whip him?”
“And be out of a job, eh?”
“----!” breathed Sleepy. “You can’t beat humanity.”
Mort Lee came out to the Diamond-S and talked with Severn. It was a
lengthy conversation, and when Mort Lee left the ranch he was so drunk
that he lost his hat as he mounted his horse, and did not go back after
it. Severn seemed to be cold sober. He studied the hat for a while,
kicked it aside and went back in the house.
Hashknife was perched on the corral fence and observed all this. There
was nothing strange that Mort Lee should come to see Cal Severn; nothing
strange that Mort Lee should get drunk and lose his hat; but it caused
Hashknife to think deeply. He wondered whether Mort Lee had seen Shell
Romaine, and just why he had been looking for Romaine the day that they
had been ambushed at the Romaine ranch.
Why had Cal Severn appeared friendly to Mort Lee, and then kicked so
savagely at Mort’s hat after Mort had ridden away? That trifling act
whispered to Hashknife that Cal Severn was not friendly to Mort Lee.
Sleepy came from the bunk-house and climbed up on the fence.
“Whatcha worryin’ about?” he demanded of Hashknife. “Yore nose is plumb
tied in a knot.”
Hashknife continued to squint thoughtfully.
“The Great Stone Face,” observed Sleepy, “has puzzled scientists for a
million years. What is it thinkin’ about? Say, I reckon I talked Henry
Horsecollar into stickin’ up for himself, Hashknife.”
Hashknife merely grunted and glanced toward the house, where Cal Severn
was standing on the porch. He was looking down toward the bunk-house,
and in a moment he left the house and walked down that way. He showed no
effects of drink, except that he walked a trifle more erect than ever.
He went into the bunk-house and shut the door behind him.
“Henry’s in for another bawlin’-out,” grinned Sleepy. “I dunno how he
stands it, Hashknife.”
“Henry’s a danged jelly-fish,” grunted Hashknife. “He might fight like
he did over at Joe Wicks’ place--kinda like an animal protectin’ its
mate; but nobody can insult him and make him fight. He’s just about
fool-proof.”
“He sure is. Did Mort Lee go back?”
“Uh-huh. Drunker than a whangdoodle. Lost his hat when he forked his
bronc, and after he was gone, Severn kicked ---- out of the poor old
hat.”
Sleepy grinned and began the manufacture of a cigaret. The bunk-house
door banged open, and Cal Severn came out, kicked the door shut and
went down to the barn, where he began saddling his horse.
“Look!” gasped Sleepy, pointing at the bunk-house.
Henry Horsecollar was standing in the doorway, dangling to the sides of
the door with both hands, while he carefully felt for the one step with
his foot. Then he came out, looked all around and weaved slowly toward
the corral.
Cal Severn mounted and rode past him, but Henry Horsecollar did not look
at him; neither did Severn even give Henry a passing glance. Henry came
up to the corral fence and looked up at Hashknife and Sleepy. Henry’s
two eyes were swollen almost shut, his upper lip stuck out like a duck’s
bill and the two front teeth in his lower jaw were missing.
“You--you--give me thom good advith, like ----!” lisped Henry painfully.
“My gosh, what happened to you?” gasped Hashknife.
“Well,” mumbled Henry, caressing his swollen lip and trying to open
his eyes wide enough to see his listeners, “well, I told you he wath
a fightin’ thon-of-a-gun, didn’t I? He asked me to thaddle his horth
and I thought it wath a good time to atthert my independenth.”
Henry twisted his face and spat painfully.
“I told him to go to ----.”
“And he didn’t want to go?” queried Hashknife.
“He didn’t thay.”
Henry shook his head.
“Anyway he didn’t go thoon enough. By ----, I’m all through taking
advith, and that’s a thinch. I’m got thom brains now, y’betcha.”
“Then you ain’t so much loser, after all,” said Hashknife. “Swellin’
will go down, but brains remain.”
“Better go and ask the cook for some beefsteak,” advised Sleepy.
“That’ll take out the swellin’.”
“More advith?” queried Henry seriously.
“I’m advisin’ yuh what to do to take out the swellin’, thassall!”
“Thankth.”
Henry squinted painfully toward the ranch-house, squared away and went
seeking raw meat.
“He sure stuck up for himself,” observed Hashknife.
“Yeah,” sadly. “I sure feel sorry for Henry. Severn has got him
buffaloed for fair. Somebody told Henry that Severn was a ---- of a
fighter, and Henry believed it.”
“Lookin’ at Henry,” said Hashknife, “I’d be kinda inclined to think that
Henry heard a lot of truth. Let’s go to Moon Flats and see if there is
any late scandal.”
* * * * *
Mary O’Hara was standing in the kitchen door, looking off across the
hazy hills, when Hashknife and Sleepy rode up and tied their horses
to the fence. She smiled wistfully as they came up to her.
“Yo’re lookin’ mighty pretty t’day,” grinned Sleepy.
“Why emphasize ‘t’day?’” asked Hashknife reprovingly, and Sleepy blushed
bashfully.
“Pat out huntin’ bushwhackers?” asked Sleepy.
Mary’s smile faded, and Hashknife scowled at Sleepy, who fingered his
hat and tried to think of something to say that would mend matters. Ma
Haley spied them and came bustling out.
“Why do ye come sneakin’ in the back way?” she asked. “Ain’t the front
way wide enough, or--” she glanced at Mary and smiled knowingly--“was
there an attraction?”
“There was,” nodded Hashknife. “How is the sick man t’day?”
“Cranky as the ----, if ye please. I think he’s gettin’ well too fast.
Won’t ye come in? Pat’s out in the hills today.”
“Sleepy will go in,” said Hashknife. “He likes to talk to you about
nursin’; don’t yuh, Sleepy?”
Sleepy squinted closely at Hashknife and was about to protest, but
nodded understandingly and followed Ma Haley into the house. Mary
watched them go inside and turned to Hashknife as if wondering why he
sent them away.
“I wanted to talk to yuh,” said Hashknife softly.
“Yes?”
“Uh-huh.”
Hashknife examined the palm of his right hand for a space of time as if
wondering just where to begin.
“Things ain’t just right around this country,” he observed. “’Pears to
be a lot of unhappiness. Mebbe it ain’t nothin’ I can mend, but I’d sure
like to try.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Hartley?”
“I like to see folks smile, Miss Mary. Me and Sleepy are just a pair
of common old range tramps--not much good for anythin’, never havin’
anythin’ except the smiles we’ve helped to bring to humanity.”
“I don’t think I understand,” said Mary softly, wonderingly.
“Nobody does,” admitted Hashknife, “until after the smile comes--then
they know.”
“But what do you want of me, Mr. Hartley?”
“Well--” Hashknife hesitated--“I’m goin’ to ask yuh a personal question.
I don’t reckon you’ll care to answer it, but nobody ever gets real smart
without askin’ questions. What did you and Cal Severn quarrel about?”
Mary was staring at him; but her lips shut tight, and she turned away.
Hashknife reshaped his sombrero while he waited for Mary to consider the
question.
“Why do you ask me that question?”
“Just--kinda--wantin’ to know, miss.”
“Oh!” softly. “Why should you be interested?”
“Well, I can’t just come out and tell yuh, but it ain’t just curiosity.
I reckon I know how yuh feel about things. I’m a lot older than you,
Mary O’Hara; and I ain’t makin’ love to yuh.”
Hashknife’s homely grin brought a smile to Mary’s serious face.
“But just the same,” continued Hashknife, “I don’t reckon that age ever
stops a man from lovin’ a sweet girl.”
“Thank you,” smiled Mary. “I shall remember that.”
They were both silent for a few moments, and then Mary smiled sadly and
said:
“I don’t know why you want to know what happened between Cal Severn
and me, but I feel that it is not just curiosity; so I will tell you.
He accused me of meeting Shell Romaine in the hills.”
She flushed hotly and shut her lips.
“Thank you, miss,” nodded Hashknife. “Thassall. I reckon I’ll go in and
see the sick man.”
As he started in through the door he met Sleepy.
“Patient’s asleep,” whispered Sleepy, “and Ma’s in there fannin’ the
flies off him. By grab, it’s a cinch to be sick around here.”
“I reckon we’ll drift up-town then,” stated Hashknife. “And don’t forget
the smiles, Mary O’Hara.”
“I’ll try to remember them,” she assured him.
“What’s goin’ on around here?” grinned Sleepy as they rode toward the
street. “You tryin’ to make a mash on the fair lady?”
“Mebbe,” said Hashknife absently.
They tied their horses to the Moon Flats saloon hitch-rack and went
inside. There were several horses at the rack, and among them was Cal
Severn’s horse and Mort Lee’s brown mare.
Maldeen, Severn, Monte Barnes, Newt Bowie and another cowboy were
playing poker. It was too early in the day for a heavy play, and the
rest of the games were deserted. Jim Searles was sitting behind
Severn, watching his play.
The bartender had moved all the glassware from the back-bar and was
industriously painting a soap picture on the bar mirror, while in front
of the bar a couple of the dance-hall girls offered frank criticism of
his skill.
The men at the poker game looked up as Hashknife and Sleepy came in,
but none of them spoke. The girls moved away from the bar and went
to the rear of the room, while Hashknife and Sleepy made known their
wants to the bartender.
Hashknife studied the soap picture. It was well drawn, and depicted a
bucking horse almost unseating its rider. Hashknife frowned and bent
his head over his glass, but in a moment he shot a searching glance at
the bartender and said, with a grin--
“‘Soapy’ Evans, I had a hard time rememberin’ you.”
The bartender’s eyes narrowed perceptibly as he stared at Hashknife and
said coldly:
“You got the name wrong, pardner; my name’s Hill.”
“Thassall right,” nodded Hashknife. “Hill’s as good as Evans. You
can’t hardly help paintin’ soap pictures, can yuh? Remember the one
you painted on the lookin’-glass in Bill Bird’s place in Elkton?”
“I dunno what yo’re talkin’ about,” growled the bartender. “I never was
in Elkton.”
“My mistake,” said Hashknife quickly. “It was in Bearpaw.”
The argument had been loud enough for those at the poker table to hear
it, and Hashknife turned to see Maldeen looking closely at him.
“What’s the argument?” asked Maldeen.
“I called yore bartender Soapy Evans, and he kicked about it.”
Maldeen laughed.
“His name is Hill. He’s been working for me almost two years.”
“All right,” grinned Hashknife. “If two years’ work will change a man’s
name from E to H--mine’s Zachariah.”
Maldeen snorted and turned back to his cards, and after a moment
Hashknife and Sleepy rattled their spurs out of the front door.
“Where in ---- did you ever know anybody by the name of Soapy Evans?”
demanded Sleepy as they sat down on the edge of the sidewalk away from
the Moon Flats saloon.
“Never did know him,” grinned Hashknife. “About two years ago I dropped
in at the Cross-in-a-Box outfit in Wyoming for a few days. One of the
punchers was tellin’ us about Soapy Evans. Seems that he knowed Soapy
for a long time, but kinda lost track of him.
“One night a gamblin’-house in a town near there was robbed--safe blowed
open. Whoever done the job knocked a watchman on the head and finished
up the job by paintin’ a picture in soap on the mirror.
“This puncher said he knowed danged well that Soapy done the job on
account of the good drawin’ on that mirror, but he never told on Soapy.
I reckon it was partly because he was a friend of Soapy’s and partly
because he was afraid Soapy might find it out and come callin’.”
“I betcha this is the same whippoorwill,” declared Sleepy. “He sure
acted guilty as ----; don’tcha know he did? And he’s been with Maldeen
for two years.”
“Let’s get some information,” suggested Hashknife, and led the way over
to Bill Eagles’ merchandise store.
Mort Lee was in there, or rather was just coming out as they went in.
Mort was still half-drunk and in a rather hilarious mood. He was wearing
a new hat which did not fit him very well, and this fact seemed to amuse
him greatly.
He went weaving toward the Moon Flats, taking up much more than his
share of the street. Hashknife went up to the counter and replenished
his stock of tobacco. Bill Eagles was a squat-figured, dark-faced man
with keen brown eyes and a wide-mouthed smile.
“Mort lost his hat,” he volunteered. “Mostly allus does lose his hat
when he gets drunk.
“You fellers are working for Cal Severn, ain’t yuh? Thought yuh was.
How’s Henry Horsecollar these days? Ain’t seen him lately. Saw Pat
Haley ride past a while ago, but he didn’t have no prisoner.
“I jist got some fresh sardines and a barrel of crackers in if you
fellers are hongry. Got a lot of nice canned peaches, too. Thirty-five
cents a can. Ain’t such big cans, but them peaches are dingers.
“Got two kinds of sardines this time. One kind is in big cans and all
kinda gooied up with mustard. Fat Kahler ate two cans and they made him
kinda sick. I been wonderin’ if they’re all right.”
Bill Eagles stopped for breath and handed some tobacco to Hashknife.
“How long has Maldeen owned the Moon Flats?” queried Hashknife.
“How long? Hm-m-m--lemme see. Why, I reckon about two years. He bought
out----”
“How long has Hill been tendin’ bar for him?”
“Hill? Lemme see. Why, he came here with Maldeen. I allus figured that
Hill owned an interest in the Moon Flats.”
“Didja ever see any of Hill’s soap pictures on the saloon mirror?”
Bill Eagles looked blank and shook his head.
“I never seen none. Ain’t sure I know what yuh mean.”
“Pictures painted with soap on a lookin’-glass.”
“No, I never see any.”
“All right; give us some of them mustard-soaked sardines and some
crackers.”
“Yuh heard what I said about them peaches, didn’t yuh?”
Bill Eagles did not want them to overlook their dessert.
“And some peaches,” agreed Hashknife, sitting up on the counter.
Bill Eagles spread a piece of paper on the counter and laid out the
lunch, keeping up a rapid-fire of comment on range happenings, asking
questions and never waiting for an answer.
About fifteen minutes later Monte Barnes and Newt Bowie came into the
store. Hashknife invited them to dine, and they lost no time complying.
Bill Eagles opened another can of sardines and more peaches and invited
himself into the feed without an invitation.
“Game busted up,” Newt informed them with his mouth filled. “Me and
Monte won six dollars and forty cents. Severn said it wasn’t interesting
to play four-bits-a-stack; so we cashed in and busted up the game. Say,
what was you kiddin’ Hill about?”
“Mistook him for another feller,” grinned Hashknife.
“Yeah?”
Monte squinted at Hashknife.
“He got mad and wiped out that soap horse after you left. Gosh, that
feller sure can draw! Maldeen said it was a ---- of a thing to put on
a lookin’-glass, and Hill rubbed it out.”
The conversation turned to Shell Romaine and the express-car robbery.
“Shell came to Moon Flats that mornin’, that’s a cinch,” declared Newt.
“Me and Monte run into him early in the mornin’.”
“Wonder where he is now,” said Hashknife.
“I betcha he’s up in the Sulphur Cliff country,” said Monte. “That’s
about the only place a feller could hide out around here unless he
hived up in the breaks between this place and Mission River, which
ain’t noways likely.”
“Where are the Sulphur Cliffs?” asked Hashknife.
“Back on Clevis Creek about ten or twelve miles from here.”
“But why should he stay around here?” queried Hashknife. “Ain’t nothin’
to keep him from pullin’ out of this country, is there?”
“I been wonderin’ about that myself,” declared Monte, “and she kinda
looks to me like he was hangin’ around until he finds the old man’s
cache. Yuh see, the old man must ’a’ lifted a fortune.”
“Yeah; but Shell must ’a’ had some of that thirty thousand dollars he
helped steal from the bank at Sula,” argued Bill Eagles. “What more
would he want? My ----, if I had thirty thousand dollars--uh-uh-h-h-h!”
Came the unmistakable thud of a pistol-shot. At the moment Monte was
holding half-a-can of sardines, which fell from his hand, caromed from
his toe and landed upside down on the none too clean floor.
“Somebody’s shootin’!” exclaimed Bill Eagles.
“Nervous, like old wimmin!” complained Newt. “Actin’ like a pistol-shot
was somethin’ unheard of.”
Nevertheless they all moved toward the front of the store and looked
out. Doc Maldeen and Jim Searles came out of the Moon Flats, and Searles
started for the hitch-rack; but Maldeen called sharply to him, and he
stopped. After a short conversation Searles turned and started down the
street toward the sheriff’s office.
Hashknife flung open the door and started across the street, with the
others strung out behind him. Maldeen looked across at them and went
hurriedly back into the saloon.
Inside the saloon they found Mort Lee lying half-under the poker table,
flat on his face with both arms flung wide. The elbow of his right arm
was resting on a Colt revolver. Cal Severn was standing at the end of
the bar, leaning on one elbow, while Maldeen stood near the card-table.
The bartender was leaning on the bar with his chin cupped in his hands,
looking down at Mort Lee. The air was still acrid from powder-smoke.
The men from the store stopped just inside the door and considered the
tragedy.
“He tried to shoot Searles,” volunteered Maldeen, “but Jim beat him on
the draw.”
“What was the row about?” queried Bill Eagles.
“Just a fool thing.”
Maldeen shook his head.
“Mort wanted to play Jim a game of seven-up for the drinks. They both
had six, don’tcha see, and Jim, who was dealing, turned a jack. Mort
swore that Jim cheated. That’s where it started.”
“Jim went to give himself up.” This from Severn.
“Is he dead?” asked Hashknife.
“Yeah,” Maldeen nodded. “Drilled plumb center.”
“How in ---- do you know?” flashed Hashknife. “Did yuh turn him over
after he was shot?”
Maldeen was flustered for a moment and groped for a reply; but at that
instant footsteps sounded outside the door, and Pat Haley came in with
Searles. Pat glanced around the room and went straight to Lee. He shoved
the table away and knelt down.
“Help me turn him over, somebody.”
Maldeen assisted him, and they placed Lee on his back. Lee’s face was
ashen, and the breast of his faded shirt was sloppy with blood. Pat
grasped his limp wrist for a moment and looked up at the circle of
faces.
“Somebody rustle around and find Dr. Goodsell while we take this
feller down to my place. He sure ain’t dead yet. Get a blanket for a
stretcher.”
Some one found a blanket; and Hashknife, Sleepy, Monte Barnes and Pat
Haley carried Lee down to Haley’s home, where Ma Haley welcomed them
with open arms. The doctor was ready for the job when they arrived,
and his swift diagnosis showed that Mort Lee had a fighting chance.
Pat Haley singled out Cal Severn and asked him about the shooting.
Severn’s evidence was the same as that given by Maldeen--exonerating
Searles. Mort Lee was drunk, quarrelsome, but not too drunk to draw
a gun. It was a simple case of self-defense.
But Hashknife was dissatisfied, and did not conceal his feelings. Why
didn’t some one stop Mort Lee from starting the quarrel? He was drunk
and irresponsible; probably fumbled considerably, trying to draw a gun.
Why did three other men stand aside and let it end in powder-smoke?
It was in the Moon Flats that Hashknife sounded his queries, which
only brought blank or black looks from the witnesses to the affair.
Only Maldeen resented it openly, and his resentment took the form of
sarcasm.
“Some of these tramp cowpunchers wear kinda long horns,” he observed to
Severn, who did not reply, but half-smiled in agreement.
“And some of ’em kinda hookum-cow,” remarked Hashknife meaningly.
Maldeen leaned against the bar and studied Hashknife. There was no
doubt in Maldeen’s mind that this lanky cowboy was well able to take
care of himself. The wide holster and heavy gun, hanging low on his
hip, were too well-worn for ornaments.
“Well, mebbe it was kinda foolish of us,” admitted Maldeen, “but it all
happened so quick, don’tcha see?”
Maldeen’s inventory of Hashknife had caused him to assume a conciliatory
tone, but Hashknife was not to be won over by soft words.
“Quick, ----! Didn’t they argue over the turnin’ of that jack? They
must ’a’ been standin’ up when they was arguin’, or Mort Lee wouldn’t
’a’ fell under the table in that position.”
“Yo’re quite a detective, ain’tcha?” sneered Maldeen.
“No, but I’ve got sense enough to smell a frame-up that’s as raw as this
one.”
“What do yuh mean by that?”
Severn whirled on Hashknife, his face black with anger.
“You better take that back!”
“Thasso?”
Hashknife laughed in Severn’s face and shook his head.
“Them are my sentiments, pardner, and I’ll hang on to ’em until Mort Lee
gets well enough to tell me I was wrong.”
“‘Tend to yore own knittin’, Hashknife,” said Sleepy. “I’m estimatin’
the rest of the crowd.”
Sleepy had backed against the bar, where he could keep an eye on every
one, and he did not want Hashknife to worry about outside-interference.
Just then came the scrape of a boot on the threshold, and Pat Haley
came bustling in. He stopped and looked at Hashknife and Cal Severn,
facing each other in the middle of the room, and his eyes shifted
around the place.
“The doctor,” he said distinctly, “says that Mort Lee will pull through.
And I want ye to distinctly understand that the next cripple will have
to be shipped to a hospital, ’cause Ma Haley’s extra beds are all full.”
Severn turned and walked away. The tension of the room relaxed, and
Maldeen offered to set up drinks; but Hashknife and Sleepy went outside,
where they mounted and rode out of town.
“Do you think that was a smart thing to do?” queried Sleepy as they
swung into the Diamond-S road.
“What do yuh mean--callin’ ’em on that frame-up?”
“Are yuh sure it was a frame-up, Hashknife?”
“I think so, Sleepy. Anyway I sure got a rise out of Cal Severn. He’ll
fight, that’s a cinch.”
“That’s a ---- of a lot of satisfaction,” dryly. “Didja ever stop to
think that we came here for a purpose, Hashknife? We didn’t come here
to do battle with the natives.”
“No-o-o, that’s right,” admitted Hashknife; “but in the course of human
events it become necessary to horn in and show some folks their errors.
Mort Lee don’t mean anythin’ to me or you, except that I’d sure like to
know why Mort Lee was looking for Shell Romaine, and why Cal Severn
kicked his hat.”
“That don’t mean nothin’,” declared Sleepy. “Yo’re allus makin’ a
mountain out of a mole-hill, cowboy.”
“Sleepy--” Hashknife turned sidewise in his saddle and considered his
companion seriously--“tell me just how you figure things up to date?
Lookin’ at it from yore angle, what does all this shootin’ amount to?”
“Well, I dunno,” faltered Sleepy. “Kinda looks like Shell Romaine was
makin’ good, don’t it? The Black Rider is under the sod; Shell Romaine
is holed up. Mebbe he mistook me and you for the sheriff and deputy
and took some shots at us. The next time he don’t make no mistake, but
we put the run on him.
“I figure that Mary O’Hara knowed that Haley was goin’ after Romaine;
so she packed a warnin’ to him. It’s a cinch that she likes Shell
Romaine--or did like him. It’s a mixed-up deal, Hashknife, but that’s
my opinion.”
“Yeah?” thoughtfully. “Why did Jim Searles shoot Mort Lee?”
“Drunken row. Searles is a gun-man, that’s a cinch. He got old man
Romaine.”
“Jim Searles was the one that identified Cal Severn as bein’ the Sula
bank bandit. Then he kills old Rim-Fire Romaine, the Black Rider, and
this last time he smokes up Mort Lee, who was the one that packed the
news of old Romaine’s killin’. Mort said that he danged near got
killed by Searles.
“That part of it was all right. I can imagine that Searles was kinda
jumpy over it, and when Mort Lee came bustin’ out of the brush Searles
didn’t know but what it was somebody workin’ with the old man.”
Hashknife grinned as he visualized the scene. Mort Lee had said that
the twisted cañon and the running stream would effectually cut off the
report of a gun from him, and it was a wonder that Searles did not take
a shot at the man who appeared there at the moment.
“At that, it was kinda lucky for Searles that Maldeen was with him,”
said Sleepy. “There was a reward offered for the Black Rider, and Jim
Searles wouldn’t mind collectin’ it--on any promising carcass.”
They were at the forks of the road, where one road led across the
river to the Diamond-S and the other to Sula, thirty-five miles away.
Hashknife drew rein and considered both roads, while Sleepy looked
curiously at him.
“Let’s go this way,” said Hashknife, pointing up the Sula road. “We
ain’t never been to Sula, and we ain’t goin’ to be none too welcome
at the Diamond-S after what happened today.”
“I dunno why we’re goin’,” declared Sleepy, “but yo’re handlin’ the
rudder of this ship, cowboy.”
“I dunno anythin’ about Sula,” confessed Hashknife, “but I might find
somebody to answer a civil question.”
They swung into an easy gallop, heading toward the purple haze of the
Mission range; following a white ribbon of road, broken by the long,
late-afternoon shadows; two tramp cowboys, going out of their way to
help some one or to satisfy their own curiosity--or souls.
* * * * *
The departure of Hashknife and Sleepy did not bring any sadness to the
Moon Flats saloon. Cal Severn was sore over the accusation that there
was anything crooked over the shooting of Mort Lee, but talked little.
Searles was told of Hashknife’s insinuations and grew indignant.
“Who in ---- are these two short-horns?” he demanded of Cal Severn. “If
I was you, I’d fire ’em bodily off the Diamond-S.”
“The long one,” said Pat Haley slowly, “might not take kindly to it. The
small one--ye can’t tell about. Be the hang of his gun, I’d say they’re
a pair, them two.”
“Well, they’re headin’ into trouble.”
Thus Maldeen prophetically.
“A man is skatin’ on thin ice,” he added, “when he accuses folks of
a frame-up shootin’ scrape. Why should Jim Searles want to kill Mort
Lee, I ask yuh?”
“I wish I could tell ye, Doc,” said Pat Haley, “but it’s beyond me, so
it is. Mebbe Mort Lee can tell--if he lives and keeps his voice.”
“The doctor thinks he’ll live, does he?” queried Jim.
“That’s what he says,” replied Pat; “but ye never can tell. The doctor
has no powers over life or death, except to do what other doctors has
done.”
Pat Haley finished his drink and went back home, leaving Maldeen, Severn
and Searles alone beside the bar. Jim Searles was ill at ease and helped
himself several times from the bar-bottle.
“If I was you, Jim,” said Maldeen. “I’d pull out, while the pullin’-out
is real good.”
“Yuh would, eh?”
Searles scowled and rested his elbows on the bar; after which he reached
for the bottle again.
“Don’t be a fool,” grunted the bartender. “You can’t afford to get a
skinful of hooch, Jim.”
“The ---- I can’t!” indignantly. “Whose skin is this that I’m wrapped up
in, I’d like to know?”
He turned and leered at Cal Severn.
“You jaspers are full of advice, ain’tcha? I notice that the long,
grin-faced puncher run his li’l blazer on you, Severn. He didn’t take
back anythin’ he said, did he? Hah!”
Severn’s brows lifted a trifle.
“Do as yuh like, Jim; only I’d be away from the Mission range when Mort
Lee got his voice back if I was you.”
“To ---- with him and his voice!”
Searles was working himself into a rage.
“You and Maldeen were here and seen it all. It’s three ag’in’ one, ain’t
it?”
“Don’t get to yelpin’,” advised Maldeen. “Yo’re howlin’ loud enough to
be heard all over town. There ain’t nobody goin’ to give you the worst
of it, Jim. If you want to stay here--stay.”
“Yo’re ---- right I’ll stay! I ain’t never collected the reward for the
Black Rider yet.”
“And yuh likely never will,” said Maldeen. “The county commissioners say
that there is not sufficient evidence to prove that it was the Black
Rider. They contend that old man Romaine might have tried to imitate the
Black Rider, and that the real Black Rider is liable to show up any old
time.”
Maldeen laughed and ordered the bartender to serve more drinks.
“That’s a ---- of a way to look at it,” grumbled Searles. “I reckon the
only way I can grab off a reward is to go out and catch Shell Romaine.”
“Why catch him?” queried Maldeen.
Searles shook his head and shot a side glance at Severn, who was moodily
looking into his glass.
“If he’d ’a’ stole my girl--” began Searles; but the next instant he
received the contents of Severn’s glass in his eyes, which was followed
up by a terrific smash in the face.
The blow knocked Searles down, but did not knock him out. He spat
out blood and profanity and tried to draw his gun, but Severn sprang
into him, kicked the gun loose from his hand and flung it across the
room. Searles’ face was still swollen from Shell Romaine’s fist, and
Severn’s blow did not tend to increase his beauty.
He got slowly to his feet, scowling at Severn, but did not speak; and
without looking for his gun he went out of the door.
“That,” said Maldeen slowly, “was a bad move, Cal.”
“Yeah?”
Severn’s face was white with passion.
“Because,” continued Maldeen. “I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could
toss a steer by the tail.”
Severn looked down at his skinned knuckles, flexing his fingers slowly.
“He’d be a fool to hang himself, doc.”
“There’s been a lot of fools hung,” said Maldeen, “and they’re still
bein’ born every day.”
* * * * *
Hashknife and Sleepy knew the country through which they were riding
only from description; but a weather-beaten sign marked the trail up
Medicine Creek. They drew rein and looked over the scene of the
killing of the Black Rider.
The road sloped sharply to the crossing with fairly heavy foliage on
either side and a box cañon on the right, through which Medicine Creek
came brawling its way over rock and drift. Beyond this to the left the
country was more open, although fairly well covered with brush.
“She was a good place for a holdup,” said Hashknife as they rode on,
“with everythin’ in the favor of the bandit.”
Fifty yards farther on he stopped his horse. There was a slight
breeze from the northwest, and Hashknife wrinkled his long nose like
a hunting-dog.
“Somethin’ unclean in the world,” stated Sleepy. “Prob’ly a dead cow.”
“Prob’ly,” admitted Hashknife, but swung his horse off into the brush
and tried to follow the scent.
Sleepy growled a malediction upon any cowboy that would search for a
deceased cow-critter, but followed. About a hundred yards from the
road Hashknife dismounted at the side of a dead horse, which still
bore a saddle and bridle. The animal had been dead for several days,
and was already half-eaten by coyotes and magpies. They examined it
closely, silently. The saddle was almost new, but already discolored
and warped.
“Horse wears a Box-R brand, and has been shot square in the forehead,”
said Hashknife.
“Must ’a’ been shot kinda close,” observed Sleepy, “’cause it’s been
powder-burned. Whatcha make of it?”
“Take a look,” said Hashknife, pointing at the front leg of the animal.
“Busted half-way between ankle and knee. Somebody had to shoot it.”
“That part’s all right, Hashknife; but why didn’t they take their saddle
and bridle?”
Hashknife rolled and lighted a cigaret before he replied.
“Cowboy, that’s the horse that old man Romaine was ridin’ the mornin’ he
was killed.”
“Thasso? There wasn’t no horse mentioned in the story.”
Hashknife squatted on his heels and chuckled to himself. It seemed to
amuse him greatly.
“Where’s the joke?” grumbled Sleepy. “Settin’ there chucklin’ at a dead
horse!”
Hashknife sighed with evident satisfaction and got back on his horse.
“Cowboy, she’s workin’ out,” he declared joyfully. “A dead horse ain’t
nothin’, but when yuh find one that is saddled and bridled and left to
the coyotes she sure means a lot to old man Hartley’s fav’rite
offspring.”
“I’m just with yuh,” complained Sleepy. “I reckon I’m supposed to
chuckle with glee and applaud yuh for havin’ a wonderful brain, ain’t I?
Yo’re sure a wonder, Hashknife. My ----, I dunno how any human bein’ can
have a brain like you got!
“She’s workin’ out, is she? Y’betcha she is, and the sooner we get out
of the wind from yore latest find, the better it’ll suit yore silent
pardner.”
“Yuh still got faith in me, ain’tcha?” asked Hashknife seriously. “Yuh
ain’t doubtin’ me, Sleepy Stevens?”
“Can yuh ask a question like that, Hashknife?”
“Uh-huh-h-h-h.”
“Then guess the answer,” retorted Sleepy. “Let’s go to Sula.”
* * * * *
While Hashknife and Sleepy headed for Sula, Jim Searles mounted his
horse and left Moon Flats, smarting from his injuries. Searles was
usually cold-blooded, but now he was hot with rage against Cal Severn.
He was not a man to take a knockdown without repaying it, and just now
his mind was working overtime on plans for revenge.
But Searles was no fool. He knew the temper of both Severn and
Maldeen. Curiously enough he held no grudge against Shell Romaine for
the knock-down in the stage-office, in which he had lost both teeth
and prestige.
He had no destination in view when he left Moon Flats, and suddenly
realized that he was nearing the forks of the road, which led to Sula
and the Diamond-S.
He checked his horse to a slow walk as he rode down through a wooded
swale. Suddenly a man stepped out of the brush beside the road, causing
Searles’ horse to plunge sidewise with fright, almost unseating its
rider. Searles whirled the horse back into the road and met Shell
Romaine face to face.
Romaine was watching Searles closely, coldly, with his hand covering
the butt of his heavy Colt revolver, and Searles instinctively lifted
both hands even with his shoulders. He knew that Romaine was lightning
fast with a gun, and was taking no chances on being misunderstood.
“Whatcha want, Shell?” he asked, and his voice was hardly more than a
whisper.