“Yo’re kinda gettin’ in the habit of havin’ yore face busted, ain’t yuh,
Jim?”
Searles’ hand went to his bruised face, feeling tenderly of his swollen
lips as he nodded.
“Some friend of yours, Jim?”
“No, by ----!” emphatically.
“I’m kinda lookin’ for news,” said Romaine; “but I expect yuh to lie to
me, Searles.”
Searles said nothing, and Romaine considered the remote possibility of a
truthful answer. Then he said--
“Is the sheriff huntin’ me?”
Searles shook his head.
“May or may not be the truth,” reflected Romaine out loud. “Who are
those two punchers who are workin’ for the Diamond-S?”
“Couple of ---- fools that don’t mind their own business.”
Romaine laughed. There was no possibility that Searles was not telling
the truth this time, he was so earnest.
“The tall one ran a blazer on Cal Severn,” volunteered Searles.
“What for?”
Searles refused to say. He caressed his face and wished he was far away
from there. He did not care to answer some questions.
“Goin’ out to the Diamond-S?” asked Romaine.
Searles considered the question. He had not intended going there, but
he did not care to tell Romaine that he was just riding around; so he
nodded.
“Will yuh pack a message to Cal Severn?”
Searles shut his lips tight. He was about to explode a curse at the
mention of Severn’s name, but thought better of it, and said--
“Yeah, I’ll pack a message to him, Shell.”
“Then tell him for me--” Romaine spoke very distinctly--“that if he
don’t keep away from Marie Wicks I’m goin’ to send him to the
undertaker. That’s all.”
Searles stared blankly at Romaine. So Cal Severn was hanging around the
breed girl! Searles knew her; knew that she was pretty, and he also knew
that she was Henry Horsecollar’s girl. He had no idea of carrying that
message to Cal Severn, but there was no harm in agreeing to do so.
“All right,” he nodded. “I’ll sure tell him, Shell.”
“Much obliged, Jim. And yuh might also tell him that it’s ag’in’ the law
to furnish liquor to Injuns.”
Searles grinned.
“You _sabe_ quite a lot about things, don’tcha? Yo’re takin’ a lot of
chances hangin’ around so close to civilization when there’s rewards
out for yuh.”
“I’m not the one that’s takin’ the big chances.”
Searles considered this statement. It might mean a whole lot, or little.
Romaine stepped back against the fringe of brush.
“You can go now, Jim.”
Searles picked up his reins and settled himself in his saddle.
“All right, Shell; s’long.”
Romaine did not reply. At a turn in the road Searles looked back, but
there was no sign of Romaine. The size of the reward almost tempted
Searles to go back and try to take Romaine, but he thought better of
it, and rode on.
In fact he rode faster now. He was going to the Diamond-S ranch, and
he did not want to be there when Cal Severn came home. He wondered
why Shell Romaine did not shoot him on sight. He had sent Romaine to
the penitentiary, had killed Romaine’s father, and still Romaine did
not seem to seek personal revenge. Searles could hardly understand
Romaine.
He rode in through the Diamond-S gate and up to the bunk-house, where
Henry Horsecollar was humped up on a box, busily greasing a set of buggy
harness. There was a smear of grease across his upper lip, and his bare
arms were greasy to the elbow. He spat dryly and looked up at Searles.
“How yuh comin’, Henry?” greeted Searles.
Henry squinted closer and grinned a toothless grin that almost matched
Searles’.
“Somebody give you some bum advice, too?” he asked.
Searles felt of his face. He and Henry were both alike in facial
disfigurements.
“Nobody gave me any advice,” grunted Searles.
“Mebbe they forgot to, and that’s how yuh got yours.”
Henry laughed as he poured some oil on his hand and applied it to the
harness, but Searles did not see the humor of the thing. He squinted
back down the road, being sure that Severn was not coming in behind
him, and then watched Henry a few moments before he said--
“Man sent a message to Cal Severn.”
“Thasso?”
Henry showed little interest.
“Cal’s in town, I reckon.”
“Well, I ain’t goin’ plumb back there to deliver it to him. I reckon you
can tell him, Henry.”
“Shoot.”
Henry wiped his hands on his overalls and leaned back to receive the
message.
“A man told me to tell him that he’d better keep away from Marie Wicks,
or he’d fill him full of lead.”
Henry did not say anything for several moments. He stared past Searles,
looking blankly into space. Then he wiped a greasy hand across his lips
and looked up.
“Tell me that ag’in’, will yuh, Jim?”
Searles repeated the message, and Henry’s greasy lips opened and shut as
if repeating it after Searles.
“I--reckon--I--heard--yuh--right,” said Henry slowly; and then quickly.
“Who sent that message?”
“Shell Romaine.”
“Shell----”
Henry gawped widely.
“Where’d you see him?” he asked.
“Ne’ mind where I seen him.”
Searles grinned knowingly.
“Well--” Henry bent over his harness and fingered at a buckle--“I’ll
tell him, Jim. Kinda hot t’day; ain’t it?”
“Yeah, ’tis, Henry. Well, I gotta be movin’. S’long.”
Henry watched him ride out through the gate, where he swung into the
hills instead of going back on the road. He blended into the gray of
the hills, and Henry turned back to his work.
“S’long,” he muttered, never giving thought to the fact that Jim Searles
was a mile away by this time. “I’ll tell him what yuh said.”
For a long time Henry bent over his work, polishing a buckle with the
ball of his thumb, a queer tightness about his throat. Shell Romaine had
sent that message to Cal Severn. Why did Shell Romaine send the message?
Did Shell Romaine want her, too?
He knew now why Cal Severn had ordered him to stay at the ranch. It was
to give him a chance to make love to Marie.
“Feller that’d do that won’t play square with a girl,” declared Henry
softly. “I’ve gotta buck Romaine and Severn. I ain’t scared of Romaine,
but Severn’s got money. Money! No!”
Henry shoved the harness aside and upset the oil-can, but did not pick
it up.
“I ain’t no ---- gun-man, and I ain’t got no money; but I’m playin’
square with the girl.”
He got to his feet and leaned against the bunk-house door; a pathetic,
lanky figure in his ill-fitting range clothes, his lips set tight with
determination. After a while he shook his head slowly, shoved his hands
down deep in his overalls and said out loud:
“The only ---- girl I ever had was Injun; and I couldn’t keep her. I’m
a ---- of a lover all right.”
Then he stumbled back into the bunk-house.
But Jim Searles was not through yet. He circled the hills, arriving at
Moon Flats just before dark and going straight to Pat Haley’s home. Pat
was sitting on the porch smoking his pipe, and he looked curiously at
Searles, who dismounted at the gate and strode briskly up the gravel
walk.
Mary O’Hara came to the door to call Pat to supper, but hesitated as she
saw Jim Searles coming up to the porch.
“Hyah, Pat,” said Searles and tipped his sombrero to Mary.
Pat grunted and removed the pipe from his mouth, while his keen eyes
studied Searles’ battered face.
“I wanted to see yuh,” said Searles slowly, “’cause I thought yuh might
like to know that I seen Shell Romaine today.”
“Ye did?”
Pat stared at him quizzically and shoved the pipe-stem between his
teeth.
“Where did ye see him?”
“Back in the hills.”
Searles glanced at Mary, who was leaning against the door, trying to
appear at ease.
“Which covers a lot of territory,” remarked Haley. “Would ye mind bein’
more specific, Searles?”
“Well, along the road between here and the river. He stopped me, and we
talked a while.”
“Hm-m-m.”
Pat Haley grew curious.
“And why didn’t ye bring him back with ye?”
Searles grinned and shook his head.
“I’m no officer.”
“So ye came to tell me where to find him, eh?”
“Well, I thought yuh might like to know he was still in the country.”
“Which I would,” nodded Pat. “What did he have to say?”
Searles grinned widely.
“He sent a message to Cal Severn, but I don’t jist _sabe_ the meanin’
of it, Pat. He told me to tell Cal to quit makin’ love to Marie Wicks
or he’d fill him full of holes.”
For a moment there was complete silence. Searles glanced at Mary’s face,
which had gone gray as ashes. Pat heaved himself to his feet, gripping
his pipe so tightly that his teeth snapped through the amber stem. Came
Ma Haley’s voice just inside the door--
“Have ye no appetites, or do ye think I’m runnin’ a short-order caffay?”
She came out of the door and looked at every one.
“Now, what the ----?” she began, but stopped as Pat stepped off the
porch and grasped Searles by the shoulder.
“Who told ye to come here and say that?” he demanded. “Did Shell Romaine
tell ye to say that before Mary?”
“Wait a minute!” snapped Searles, yanking away from Haley. “What’s all
the fuss about? I was just tellin’ yuh what Romaine told me to tell Cal
Severn.”
“And he knowed you’d tell everybody else, eh?”
“Don’t say that,” begged Mary. “Shell Romaine may be an outlaw, but
he wouldn’t hurt me. He knew I was engaged to Cal Severn, and he
wished--us--luck.”
Pat turned from Mary and glared at Searles.
“What do you know about Cal Severn and Marie Wicks?”
“Not a thing, Pat. I didn’t know I was goin’ to start an explosion, or
I’d ’a’ kept my mouth shut.”
“What was it?” demanded Ma Haley. “What about Cal Severn and the Injun
lass?”
“We’ll not repeat it,” declared Pat firmly as he turned toward the door.
“Good evenin’ to ye, Searles.”
Searles turned and went back to the gate, while Mary O’Hara went softly
back into the house. Pat shook his head slowly and stared down at the
ground. Ma Haley had heard enough to know that it affected Mary O’Hara
and coupled the names of Cal Severn and Marie Wicks. Then Pat said
softly, bitterly--
“Sure, it’s broke square in two, Ma.”
“Mary O’Hara’s heart, Pat?”
“No--me good old pipe,” pointing down where it had fallen after the stem
had snapped.
“Aw, to the ---- wid yer old pipe!” exploded Ma Haley, and whirled back
into the house.
“Aye,” muttered Pat, “to the ---- it is, sure enough. Now I’ll have
to buy me some cigy-reet papers and burn a hole in the middle of me
mustache. And they’re a poor counterbalance for the lower jaw of a
man, so they are.”
He shook his head sadly over the remains of his pipe and went slowly in
through the open door.
* * * * *
The following morning in the little town of Sula, Hashknife and Sleepy
came out of the hotel dining-room and looked over the one long street.
Sula was a mining community, although partly supported by the northern
end of the Mission cattle range. In front of the stage-station a
pack-train of burros were being loaded, and a number of men had
congregated there to offer useless advice.
Hashknife and Sleepy drifted over there and watched operations until
the departure of the pack-train, after which they loitered around the
stage-station. The keeper of the station, a little, dried-up-looking
person, wearing a badly warped pair of glasses, asked them what he
could do for them.
“Not a thing, pardner,” grinned Hashknife. “We’re strangers here. Got in
last night after dark, and we’re just kinda lookin’ around.”
“Well--” the man adjusted his glasses and rubbed the palms of his hands
on his overall-clad thighs--“you can almost see Sula at a glance.”
“Yeah, I noticed that,” grinned Hashknife. “The old-timers just built
along the pack-trail. Anythin’ excitin’ ever happen around here?”
The man looked curiously at Hashknife and shook his head.
“No, I can’t say there is. Things are about the same every day. On
pay-day the boys come in and kinda razoo the old town, but most of the
time she’s like you see her right now.”
“We came here from Moon Flats,” explained Hashknife. “Do yuh know
anybody down there?”
“No, not many. They don’t usually come up this far.”
“Know Doc Maldeen?”
“Runs the Moon Flats saloon, don’t he? Yeah, I know him when I see him,
but not pers’nally.”
“Been here lately?”
The man squinted thoughtfully and shook his head.
“Not for a month or two. Used to come up here on pay-day. Town’s pretty
good for gamblers at that time.”
“What do yuh think about the killin’ of the Black Rider?”
“I dunno. It ain’t been exactly proved that it was the Black Rider, has
it? I ain’t seen Searles since that day. Yuh see, he was only drivin’
for about a month, and that was his last trip.”
“Did the Black Rider hold him up any time?”
“Nope. He just tried it once. Wasn’t no use anyway, ’cause we never sent
any money on the stage. That mornin’ I was talkin’ to Searles about the
Black Rider. It’s a long ways to ride alone, and I don’t blame him for
not liking the job.”
“Where did Maldeen do most of his playin’ up here?”
“Up at the Cinnibar saloon mostly. I expect he’ll be up here ag’in about
the twentieth of the month--pay-day.”
Hashknife and Sleepy went back up the sidewalk and over to the Cinnibar
saloon, where they leaned their elbows on the bar. The bartender, a
smooth-haired, silk-shirted individual, greeted them warmly.
“Came in from Moon Flats,” volunteered Hashknife. “Got in late last
night, and we’re still clogged with dust.”
“Yeah? How’s my old friend Doc Maldeen?”
“Doc’s fine as frawg-hair. Probably be up here on pay-day.”
“I betcha.”
The bartender examined the part of his hair in the fly-specked mirror,
and, finding it perfect, turned back.
“Doc swears that Sula is the best town in the State,” the bartender
remarked, “but he never comes to see us except on pay-day.”
“Ain’t he been here since last month?” casually.
“Naw. He waits for the money to come in. He’s some card-player,
y’betcha.”
“Lost ten thousand in one hand to Cal Severn the other day--and dealt it
himself.”
The bartender grinned widely.
“Brother, don’tcha try to make me swaller that; I know this country too
well.”
“She’s a fact,” declared Hashknife. “There’s a number of folks seen the
play and seen Maldeen hand out the _dinero_.”
“Well--” the bartender set out the bottle and motioned for them to
help themselves--“I don’t doubt but what you fellers are tellin’ me
the truth, but I’ll bet the feller that told you lied like ----. Ten
thousand! Say, have you got any idea of how much money that is? Ten
thousand dollars, ----!”
“I’m sorry to upset yuh thataway,” consoled Hashknife. “Bothered with
asthma, aint’cha? Yuh kinda wheeze like yuh was. Keep away from wild
flowers and don’t rub a cat’s back any more than yuh have to. C’mon,
Sleepy.”
They went out of the Cinnibar, leaving the bartender leaning across the
bar and trying to figure out just what Hashknife meant. He finally swept
the glasses into the wash-tub beneath the bar, swore softly to himself
and examined his hair again.
Hashknife and Sleepy went down to the little hotel and paid their bill
to a grouchy old individual, who seemed to be soured on the world and
all therein.
“Goin’ away, are yuh?” he asked. “Dag-gone it, seems like nobody stays
here any longer than they have to. Which way yuh goin’?”
“North,” said Hashknife, which was untrue. “I was just wonderin’ if I
could leave a note with you for Doc Maldeen. Know him, don’t yuh?”
“Yeah, I know him.”
He turned to an old calendar back of his desk and studied it closely.
“He won’t be here for about ten days.”
“Don’t he never come here except on pay-day?”
“Well, I don’t say he won’t, but I will say that he never has. If yuh
leave a note I’ll----”
“Ne’ mind--I’ll likely see him before that. Much obliged, old-timer.
S’long.”
They went to the livery stable and got their horses. Sleepy had not
spoken a dozen words since breakfast, but when they rode out of town,
heading back toward Moon Flats, he said:
“Yuh came thirty-five miles to find an honest man and picked on a
stage-station boss, a bartender and a grouchy old hotelkeeper. What
did yuh find?”
“Three honest men, Sleepy. I never seen such an honest town in my life.”
“Yuh kinda lied a little yourself, didn’t yuh, Hashknife?” reprovingly.
“Uh-huh. Yuh see, when yo’re lookin’ for truth in yore feller men,
Sleepy, yuh may have to lie to get ’em to tell the truth.”
“Mebbe,” admitted Sleepy; “but yuh still got me fightin’ my head,
cowboy.”
“That’s a good part of yuh to fight--it’s so hard that yuh can’t never
do it no permanent injury, Sleepy.”
* * * * *
Cal Severn did not go out to the ranch that night. He was in no mood
to meet Hashknife Hartley, and he was under the impression that the
two punchers had gone back to the ranch. He was troubled about Jim
Searles too, and was sorry that he had knocked him down.
Searles had not showed up again at the Moon Flats, and Severn wondered
where he had gone. The next morning he ran face to face with Mary
O’Hara, who was coming out of Bill Eagles’ store. She tried to go past
him, but he blocked her way.
“Wait a minute, Mary,” he said. “I want to talk with you.”
“I do not think it interests me at all,” replied Mary coldly. “Will you
please stand aside, Mr. Severn?”
“Aw, shucks!”
Severn stepped aside, but walked beside her down the sidewalk.
“Mary, I want to apologize for what I said the other day. Dog-gone it,
won’t yuh accept an apology? I was a darned fool, and I didn’t have no
right to say what I did.”
“I am glad you realize that part of it,” said Mary coldly, “and I don’t
really think you had better go any further with me.”
Severn laughed, but there was little mirth in it. “Now, listen, Mary.
I’ve apologized and admitted that I was a darned fool, haven’t I? What
more can I do?”
“You can turn around and stop annoying me.”
“Thasso? Aw, what’s the matter with you, anyway? Lemme have a talk with
yuh, Mary.”
Severn’s voice was low and pleading, but it had no effect on Mary
O’Hara.
He followed her in through the gate and up to the porch, where they met
Pat Haley, who was coming out of the house. Without a word Mary stepped
around him and went in through the open door, while Pat Haley blocked
the passage to Cal Severn.
“What’s the big idea?” asked Severn wonderingly.
“Ye’re not welcome here, Severn,” replied Pat easily.
“Not welcome?”
Severn frowned thoughtfully.
“What do yuh mean, Pat? What’s gone wrong?”
“Come away from the house and I’ll talk to ye.”
They walked down to the gate, which Pat opened and motioned Severn
outside. Wonderingly he obeyed and turned, facing Pat.
“Now tell me what in ---- is the matter with you, will yuh?”
Severn’s voice was trembling slightly.
“I will,” nodded Pat. “It has been told to us that ye have been makin’
love to Marie Wicks, the Injun girl.”
Severn’s face flushed hotly, and then the color drained out, leaving
it a gray tinge. He gripped the top of the gate and leaned closer to
Pat Haley.
“Who packed you that ---- lie?” he rasped. “Tell me who told yuh that
and I’ll shoot his ---- heart out!”
“Which wouldn’t disprove the statement,” said Pat softly.
“----! Do yuh believe a lie like that, Pat Haley?”
“Can ye prove it’s a lie, Severn?”
Pat’s gray eyes bored into Severn’s soul.
“Prove it? My ----, do I have to prove a thing like that?”
“Ye do--unless ye don’t care to, Severn.”
Severn relaxed a trifle and began the manufacture of a cigaret. His
hands trembled slightly, and he spilled half a sack of tobacco on the
ground.
“Did Hartley and his pardner pack that talk to yuh?”
“I’ll name no names,” declared Pat. “It was not told to me in
confidence, but I’ll not say who told it. In fact, the man was carryin’
the same message to you--to keep away from Marie Wicks.”
“I don’t getcha.”
Severn squinted away from the match as he lit his cigaret.
“Do yuh mean to say that this ---- liar said he was bringin’ me a
message like that from somebody else?”
“Ye have a complete understandin’,” said Pat.
“Well--” Severn hitched up his cartridge-belt and sighed deeply--“if you
won’t tell me who it was--how can I prove that it’s a lie?”
“I’m not askin’ ye to prove it.”
“You’d rather go on believin’ it, eh?” harshly. “You know why I hired
Hartley and Stevens. It wasn’t because I needed ’em, Haley. I seen
that lanky Hartley lookin’ at Mary O’Hara, like a ---- coyote lookin’
at a lamb. Well, if yuh want to believe him--go ahead.”
“We’ll leave her name out of it, if ye please.”
Pat’s voice cut like a knife.
“Oh, all right.”
Severn turned and started away, but stopped after a few steps.
“I just wanted to tell yuh that the way yo’re runnin’ yore office don’t
make no hit with folks around here, and they’re wonderin’ why you ain’t
makin’ no effort to find Shell Romaine. Some of them say yo’re afraid
and others kinda suggest that it’s kind of a family affair.”
Severn turned on his heel and went back up the street, while Pat Haley
lifted his right hand from near the butt of his gun and gripped the
gate.
“Ye unspeakable pup!” he breathed. “Ye have unfurled yer flag to me, and
the colors are yellow.”
Pat turned wearily away from the gate and went slowly back to the
house. He saw Mary saddling her horse near the rear gate and watched
her ride away toward the hills. He went back to the porch steps and
sat down heavily, his mind mixed with strange emotions. Then he took
out a book of cigaret-papers and a sack of flake tobacco.
“Until Bill Eagles gets a shipment of pipes I’ve got to do this,” he
muttered, his lips set in a thin line of determination, “and ’t’s goin’
to be the ----’s own job to make one unless there’s some tougher papers
in this package than there were in the last bunch I wore out.”
* * * * *
Cal Severn went back to the Moon Flats saloon, where he drank straight
whisky, filling the glass to the brim four times and drinking at a
single gulp. Maldeen was at a card-table, studying a solitaire layout,
but stopped his game to watch Severn.
Searles was sitting across from Maldeen, watching his play, but out of
the corner of his eye he noted the feverish way in which Severn bolted
his liquor. Something seemed to tell him that Severn had received a hard
jolt, and he felt that Shell Romaine’s message had been delivered.
It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps Severn knew who had delivered
the message. Perhaps Severn was getting up courage enough to start
trouble.
Searles reached down slowly and slid his holster over the top of his
leg and loosened the Colt six-shooter a trifle. Being prepared had
saved Searles several times, and he thoroughly believed in the law of
self-preservation.
Severn turned and leaned back against the bar, looking calmly around.
His half-shut eyes dwelt for a moment on Maldeen and Searles, but the
set expression of his face did not change as he said--
“C’m and have a drink, you two.”
It was an order, but neither man resented it. They walked to the bar,
and Severn turned around with them.
“How yuh comin’, Cal?” asked Maldeen.
Severn did not reply until he had imbibed another full glass of raw
liquor. He turned his head and looked curiously at Maldeen. Severn was
not a drinker, and the successive jolts of bad whisky had taken effect
already.
After looking at Maldeen he turned back to the bar and called for more
liquor.
“Take it easy, Cal,” advised Maldeen. “You’ve had too much already.”
“Yeah?” snarled Severn. “When did you get the right to preach to me?
Have a drink, yuh tin-horn.”
Maldeen knew that Severn was drunk in the head, but that his nerve
and body was cold sober; so he accepted another drink and the rebuke
in silence. Searles held his glass in his left hand, while his right
hung close to the butt of his gun; but Severn paid no attention to
him until after the drink was finished.
Several other men had come into the place, and Maldeen shifted around
uneasily. Severn was just in the right mood to start trouble, but he
merely looked drunkenly at the men and took Maldeen by the arm.
“I want to talk to yuh, Doc,” seriously. “You and Jim Searles. C’mon.”
Maldeen led the way back to his private room, and Searles, filled with
misgivings, trod close to Severn. He was all set for anything that might
happen. They went into the room, and Maldeen locked the door. There was
a couch, a couple of chairs, a table, littered with papers, ore samples
and an empty bottle. The rough walls were speckled with old photographs
and pictures cut from sporting magazines and papers.
Severn sat down heavily on the couch, flung his hat across the room and
leaned back wearily against the wall. Maldeen sat down beside the table,
but Searles remained standing just inside the door. Maldeen waved him to
a chair, but he shook his head and leaned against the wall.
“Nobody’s goin’ t’ hurt yuh, yuh ---- fool!” snorted Severn drunkenly.
“I know it, Cal,” grinned Searles, but did not sit down.
“Nobody can hear us talkin’ in here, can they?” asked Severn, and
Maldeen shook his head.
“Either one of you seen them two strange cow-punchers today?” he asked.
“Not today,” said Maldeen. “They left town right after you and the long
one almost had trouble.”
“I don’t think they’ve been back since,” added Searles.
“I hope to ---- that they never come back!” exploded Severn. “But they
will, ---- ’em!”
Maldeen was interested now.
“What’s the idea, Cal?”
“One of ’em went to Pat Haley and said that I was makin’ love to Marie
Wicks.”
Searles jerked visibly and burned himself on his cigaret. This was
interesting news to him.
Maldeen half-smiled.
“Tryin’ to queer yuh with Mary O’Hara, eh?”
“Oh, go to ----!” blurted Severn. “He said that somebody sent the
message to me to let her alone.”
Searles inhaled deeply and studied Severn closely. It might be a scheme
to allay his fears, but he was not going to be caught napping.
“Somebody, eh?”
Thus Maldeen.
“Tryin’ to pass the buck to somebody else, eh?”
“Yeah,” snarled Severn blackly, but leaned forward and lowered his
voice. “I never told anybody who them two punchers are, doc. Me and Pat
Haley are the only ones who know about ’em; so I kept my mouth shut. I
didn’t want to tell anybody, ’cause it might not look good, comin’ from
me; _sabe?_”
“Thasso?”
Maldeen hitched forward in his chair.
“Shell Romaine’s out on parole, which yuh probably know,” continued
Severn. “He was sent up for five years and got out in one year. Didja
ever wonder how he got paroled in one year? Yuh didn’t? There was
thirty thousand dollars lifted in that robbery, and not a cent of it
ever recovered.
“The mornin’ that Shell Romaine showed up here them two punchers rode in
and asked for a job. I didn’t want to hire anybody but Hartley handed me
a letter which showed who they were--and I hired ’em.
“I reckon it was sort of a political pull that the bank directors had,
but anyway they got Shell paroled in a year thinkin’ that he’d come
back here and lift his cache. Hartley and Stevens were workin’ for the
Cattlemen’s Association and they were selected to come here and watch
Shell Romaine. The bank wants that thirty thousand dollars.”
“I see,” said Maldeen softly, wonderingly, while Jim Searles whistled
softly and sat down in the empty chair.
“Well they ain’t been trailin’ Shell Romaine, that’s a cinch,” declared
Searles.
“How could they?” queried Maldeen. “Things broke against ’em. Anyway
they don’t look like they had the sense of a shepherd.”
“Thasso?”
Severn seemed to wake up out of a trance.
“Don’tcha fool yoreselves. What about that shootin’ scrape yesterday?
Don’t tell me that they ain’t got no sense.”
“Well, whatcha want to do?” asked Searles.
“I don’t want to do a ---- thing,” declared Severn; “but I’d give a
thousand dollars if somethin’ would happen to wipe out the both of
’em. One thousand cold dollars.”
“Apiece?” queried Searles softly.
“Yeah,” said Maldeen meaningly.
Jim Searles burned himself again on his cigaret and flung it quickly
aside as he got to his feet.
“Well, what’s all the delay?” he grunted. “Ain’t nothin’ more to talk
about, is there? Let’s go.”
“Nobody settin’ on yore shirt tail is there?” queried Maldeen. “Go
ahead.”
“Cal’s goin’ with me,” explained Searles.
“Where?” asked Severn vacantly.
“Out to the Diamond-S.”
“What for?”
“To git the two thousand dollars f’r one thing.”
“Whatcha mean?”
“Well,” said Searles, yawning widely. “I may be a fool, but I ain’t
no ---- fool. On a job like this I git paid in advance.”
“Oh, yuh do?”
Severn spat dryly.
“You must think I’m somewhat of a fool myself.”
“Thinkin’ ain’t goin’ to git us nowhere,” declared Searles. “I ain’t
doin’ no credit business with my gun, y’betcha.”
Severn heaved himself off the couch and secured his sombrero. He was
a trifle unsteady on his legs now. He motioned Searles out of the
door. Maldeen followed them out into the saloon, but Severn did not
stop at the bar. He and Searles went straight to the stable, saddled
their horses and rode out of town.
Pat Haley, from the porch of his home, saw them ride away and wondered
what would have happened to Searles if Severn knew he was the
tale-bearer. Then Pat Haley looked down at the steps littered with bits
of torn cigaret-papers and at the folds in his shirt bosom, which were
filled with loose tobacco, and shook his head.
“Smokin’ cigy-reets is not a habit--it’s a accomplishment,” he declared
wearily.
* * * * *
Severn and Searles rode slowly along the edge of the low hills, saying
little. Severn’s mind was deeply engaged in trying to puzzle out who
would send that kind of a message to him, while Searles was also doing
quite a lot of wondering himself. Somehow he could not shake the
feeling that Severn knew who delivered that message, and that Severn
was keeping still until he--Searles--had finished the job of getting
rid of Hashknife and Sleepy.
Searles was a gunman whose ability in that direction was for sale, but
he cared a lot for his own skin and meant to keep it intact. He had
formed no plans for getting rid of the two offensive cowpunchers; but
Jim Searles was not brainy enough to plan out any mode of procedure.
They were passing the mouth of the gulch which led up to Romaine’s ranch
when Severn whirled his horse aside and shoved Searles’ horse into the
brush beside the road, where they both stopped.
A horse and rider were coming in from the south, and they were able to
identify the rider as Mary O’Hara. She crossed the road and stopped,
while she looked over the country. It took her perhaps five minutes to
satisfy herself that no one was in sight; then she went on up the road
that led to Romaine’s place.
Cal Severn laughed aloud and swung back into the road.
“Where’s she goin’?” queried Searles.
“To meet Shell Romaine,” grinned Severn, “and we’re goin’ to be there at
the meetin’.”
“And get a .30-30 bullet in our ribs,” protested Searles, shaking his
head. “Anyway she couldn’t ’a’ had no appointment with Shell Romaine.
Why, he likely ain’t in this country, Severn.”
“Yo’re crazy!” grunted Severn. “I betcha she meets him at the
ranch-house.”
“All right, let her meet him.”
Searles evidently did not care to run into Shell Romaine. Neither did he
want Severn to know that he had met Romaine the day before.
“How about the reward?” grinned Severn. “Can’t yuh use half of it?”
“Yeah, I could use the money--if Romaine didn’t see me first.”
“Yellow, eh?” sneered Severn. “Well, come along, and I’ll take chances
on takin’ him. I’ll get some satisfaction out of it anyway.”
They turned off the road and went slowly up the gulch, taking plenty
of time, because the road wound through the brush and they were unable
to see any distance ahead. Severn realized that they were taking big
chances, but he had a desire to catch Mary O’Hara with Shell Romaine.
They came at last to the fringe of the timber and stopped to watch the
ranch-house. There was no sign of Mary O’Hara’s horse, but they knew
she would not leave it in sight. There was no possible way to sneak up
on the house; so Severn decided to go boldly up, taking a chance on
being seen. Searles demurred. He did not want a soft-nose bullet mixed
up in his carcass; but when Severn started for the house, Searles rode
up behind him.
They dismounted at the rickety porch and stood still. There was a
soft murmur of voices coming from the rear of the house, and Severn
grinned widely as he heard Mary’s voice. He knew that there was sort
of a lean-to at the rear, and it was likely that this was where Mary
had taken her horse.
He motioned to Searles for silence and led the way around the house,
flattening themselves against the wall, with guns ready. Near the door
of the lean-to they stopped. The voices were clearer now and Mary was
saying--
“--said he met you; so I came.”
“Yes,” said Romaine. “I sent that message, Mary. I knew that you loved
Cal Severn, and I was going to see that he played fair with you as far
as I was able.”
Severn’s lips curled in a sneer. Now he knew who had sent the message.
“But it doesn’t matter now,” said Mary. “I am not going to marry Cal
Severn. I had made up my mind not to, and that message only strengthened
my resolve. He accused me of meeting you in the hills that day, Shell.”
“Did he? Where was he, Mary?”
“I don’t know. Do you remember seeing those two strange cowboys with
him? One of them asked me what Cal and I quarreled about, and he asked
it in such a way that I just had to tell him.”
“Who are they, Mary?”
“Hartley and Stevens. The tall one, who looks like he was just going to
laugh, told me that they didn’t do much except to make smiles come where
smiles belong.”
“Well, that’s kinda funny,” observed Shell Romaine. “It ain’t such a bad
business either if yuh stop to think it over.”
“I can’t stay long,” said Mary. “It took me quite a while to get here,
because I went around through the hills.”
“It sure was mighty good of yuh,” said Shell; “but I’m afraid
somebody’ll see yuh and look at it all wrong. Mebbe yuh better not
come ag’in’.”
They stepped out of the lean-to, and Shell Romaine looked square into
the muzzle of Cal Severn’s six-shooter. Searles stepped around and
covered him with his gun while he took Romaine’s gun from his holster.
“The pitcher went too often to the well,” grinned Severn. “Much obliged
to yuh, Mary. Yuh sure kept him interested.”
Romaine turned and looked searchingly at Mary, who was staring at
Severn.
“Never trust a woman,” advised Severn. “They sure make a fool out of
yuh, Romaine.”
“Did you lead them to me, Mary?”
Romaine’s lips were white at the very thought of being trapped through
the girl.
“My God--no!” gasped Mary. “Lead Cal Severn?”
“You can stop yore lyin’, Severn,” said Romaine. “I’m takin’ her word
for it.”
Severn laughed.
“All right, Shell. I didn’t say that we framed on yuh, did I? No, we
just followed her, thassall.”
“Well, whatcha goin’ to do?”
“Take yuh to Moon Flats and hand yuh to the sheriff. He ain’t got guts
enough to take yuh, but he may be able to keep yuh in jail.”
“Bring the horses,” ordered Severn, “and hog-tie this gentleman,
Searles.”
It took Searles only a short time to rope Romaine to the saddle of
Severn’s horse. Searles’ horse was not broke to ride double. Mary stood
aside and watched the operation. She was sick at heart over it all, and
blamed herself for Romaine’s capture.
“You ain’t to blame, Mary,” Romaine assured her, ignoring Severn and
Searles. “You forget that part of it. I knew they’d get me some day,
but I hoped it wouldn’t be for a while.”
“Why did yuh hope that?” queried Severn, testing the ropes with a
vicious yank.
“That,” said Romaine slowly, “is none of your business, you coyote!”
Severn laughed up at him mockingly.
“Sore because yuh thought I was cuttin’ in on yore Injun girl, eh?”
Romaine’s eyes flashed to Mary, seeking to find what she thought of
Severn’s accusation, but she had turned her back on them and was
mounting her horse. Severn swung on behind Romaine, turned the horse
around and rode away, with Searles bringing up the rear. At the fringe
of the brush they looked back, but Mary O’Hara was not following them;
she was taking the shorter cut across the hills toward the river.
“You’ve butted in on my game about all yo’re goin’ to, Romaine,” stated
Severn. “I reckon yo’re goin’ to make a long trip and stay quite a
while.”
“Does kinda look thataway,” admitted Romaine, and turned his head toward
Searles. “I reckon you delivered my message, Jim. Much obliged.”
“Message?”
Severn looked at Searles wonderingly. He did not know just what Romaine
was talking about at first, but it suddenly flashed through his mind
that Jim Searles was the one who had told Mary and Pat Haley.
Searles’ right hand had dropped to his thigh and was still concealed,
although his right elbow was bent almost at right-angles. Severn noted
all this, and that Searles was watching him closely.
“So you was the one that brought the message, eh?”
“Yeah, I brought it.”
“Well,” easily, “it don’t make no difference, but yuh might ’a’ told me
instead of Pat Haley.”
“Well, I didn’t know you was still in town,” defended Searles, “and I
knowed that Pat would be glad to hear that Romaine was still around
here.”
“Let it drop,” advised Severn, “and that other proposition still
stands.”
“Y’betcha,” nodded Searles.
* * * * *
Henry Horsecollar Dryden had gone dumbly about his work after Searles
had left the Diamond-S. Never before had he realized just how much he
did think of Marie Wicks, and his soul was filled with sadness and
self-pity. He was not mad at Severn for taking advantage of him, but
he was mad at himself for being weak enough to let Severn keep him at
home, while Severn himself courted Marie.
And Severn had one girl already. Wasn’t one girl enough?
Later on Henry saddled his horse and rode down to the hill above Wicks’
ranch-house. It was dark in the hills, but there was a light in the
ranch-house. For a long time Henry debated over going down, but finally
turned around and went back to the ranch, where he talked with Mrs.
Wicks.
“Is Cal Severn going to marry Marie?” he asked in the Nez Percé tongue.
“He has said it,” replied the old squaw. “We will have many ponies and
much to eat in the Winter.”
“He is going to marry a girl in Moon Flats.”
“That is a lie. A white man can have only one squaw.”
“He may have many sweethearts.”
For a long time the old squaw deliberated. This was a new angle, which
she had never considered. Then--
“The girl in Moon Flats will be the sweetheart.”
“Since when did a white man marry a squaw and leave a white sweetheart?”
“You lie in your heart!” grated the squaw, knowing that Henry spoke the
truth.
“Cal Severn brings whisky to Joe Wicks to steal away his sight,”
declared Henry. “Since when could a drunken man tell right from wrong?
Cal Severn hired you to cook for him because he knew that you would not
drink whisky and forget to look. Ask your own heart if I lie.”
The old squaw looked intently into Henry’s face as if trying to read
the reasons for this disclosure, but he did not turn away under her
stare. She stared down at her gnarled hands for a full minute, like a
bronze statue under the yellow light from the oil lamp. Then she got
to her feet, flung a shawl around her shoulders and went out.
Henry went to the door and watched her going down the white ribbon
of road in the misty light, a blurred figure that faded out and was
gone. For a long time he stood in the doorway, gazing off across the
shadowy hills, listening to the calling of a sleepy bird. From back
in the trees an owl hooted softly.
“Funny thing,” mused Henry aloud. “I never knowed I was so smart until
I got to talkin’ Nez Percé to the old squaw. I sure know a lot of
things--and mebbe some of ’em is goin’ to get me killed off. I reckon
I’ll go to bed.”
But Henry did not sleep. For once in his life his mind was too active
to woo slumber, and he marveled at the things he could think about,
and by thinking he built up a great anger against Cal Severn. It was
like starting a small snowball at the top of a hill; it grew until it
was a force to be reckoned with.
He unearthed a Winchester rifle from beneath his bunk and put in an hour
cleaning and oiling it. His six-shooter received the same treatment. He
filled his belt with ammunition for both guns.
Daylight came, and Henry cooked his own breakfast with a six-shooter
hanging at his hip and the rifle lying across the kitchen table. He
wondered what had become of Hashknife and Sleepy, but always his mind
reverted back to Marie Wicks.
He waited until afternoon, but Cal Severn did not show up; so he saddled
his horse, slung the rifle in a scabbard under his right leg, and rode
toward Wicks’ ranch. Something seemed to tell Henry that trouble was
brewing, but he did not mind.
He rode up to the ranch-house and dismounted. Joe Wicks was sitting on
the steps, dirty, disheveled, but apparently sober.
“Hyah, Joe,” said Henry.
“Yo’ go to ----!” grunted Joe without looking at him.
Joe’s face still bore the marks of Henry’s fist.
Mrs. Wicks came to the door and looked at Henry, who nodded to her.
“W’at yo’ want?” asked Joe.
“Nothin’ from you,” said Henry, and then to the squaw. “Can I see
Marie?”
“She is very sad,” replied the squaw in her own tongue.
She could speak a little English, but it was much easier to talk in her
own language.
“Yo’ go ’way,” growled Joe. “This place no good for yo’;
yo’ ---- right.”
“Be still!” hissed the old squaw. “Whisky has stolen away your brains,
and you are like an old dog without teeth and without sense; a dog that
can only bark at its own shadow or howl at the moon.”
“I reckon that’ll hold yuh,” said Henry, but without a trace of humor in
his voice.
“She is very sad and does not believe,” continued Mrs. Wicks. “We have
not slept.”
“You ain’t got nothin’ on me,” declared Henry. “Cal Severn did not come
home. The other two are still away.”
“They are good men,” said Mrs. Wicks.
“I am only a squaw, but they are to me like to one of my own color.”
“Yeah, they’re all right,” admitted Henry; “but they gave me some bad
advice.”
“W’at’s the matter with yo’?” growled Joe. “Nobody ask yo’ to come
here.”
Henry ignored him and looked appealingly at the squaw.
“Can’t I see Marie?”
For a moment she hesitated and then pointed toward the rear of the
house.
“Yo’ ---- right yo’ can’t see Marie!” grunted Joe; but Henry shoved him
back on the steps.
“You horn into my business and I’ll bend a gun over yore head,”
threatened Henry, and walked around the corner.
Joe relapsed back to his former position and said nothing, while the old
squaw sat down beside him with her hands in her lap, staring into space.
Marie was sitting on the ground against an old cottonwood-tree when
Henry came around the house, and started to get to her feet; but Henry
motioned for her to sit down. He came up to her and leaned against the
tree.
“Why did you come here?” she asked.
“I had to come,” he replied.
“Why?”
“I wanted to ask yuh a question, Marie. Did Cal Severn ever ask yuh to
marry him?”
Marie dropped her eyes and began fingering her faded apron.
“No,” she said after several moments of silence.
“Didn’t he make love to yuh?”
“I don’t want to talk to you,” she said defiantly.
“Don’tcha?” softly. “I’m kinda sorry, ’cause I sure want to talk to you,
Marie.”
“You lie,” she said wearily. “You talk nice to me and then laugh about
me to other people.”
“What do yuh mean?” demanded Henry.
“You know what I mean. You laugh and say I am jus’ an Injun girl to play
with. You not care for me, you say.”
Henry’s lips tightened and he looked down at the top of her head.
“Marie, did Cal Severn say that?”
“Yes.”
“Good God!” exploded Henry. “Looky here! Do yuh think I’d say that? Do
yuh? Am I that kind of a coyote?”
“You are a white man; I am an Indian girl.”
“That ain’t no answer. Do yuh love Cal Severn?”
“I don’ know what I love. Everybody lie to me.”
Marie threw out both arms.
“I believe nobody now.”
“Marie, will yuh marry me?”
Henry leaned closer and put his hand on her shoulder.
“I never lied to yuh.”
“How do I know?” she asked, looking up at him.
“That’s right.”
Henry straightened up and shoved himself away from the tree.
“My word ain’t no better than Cal Severn’s now, but mebbe I can make it
better. Yuh don’t hate me, do yuh, Marie?”
“I don’t hate nobody--jus’ sorry.”
“Somebody is goin’ to be with yuh on that sorry idea,” declared Henry,
and walked back to his horse.
Joe Wicks glared at him, but said nothing. Mrs. Wicks nodded solemnly,
and Henry tipped his wide hat to her as he turned his horse and galloped
down the road.
Back at the cottonwood-tree Marie turned her head and watched him ride
away. He had asked her to marry him, but had never given her a chance
to accept or reject the proposal. White people were queer folks, she
thought, and many of them were liars.
* * * * *
Hashknife and Sleepy came straight back from Sula, but did not turn on
to the Diamond-S road. For once in his life Hashknife rode for miles
in silence, his forehead puckered in a heavy frown in the shade of his
sombrero.
Sleepy was content with silence. He knew that there was no use in
questioning Hashknife, and gentle sarcasm failed to bring a retort
from the tall cowboy.
Where the road from Joe Wicks’ place joined the main road they met
Henry Horsecollar, who came at a swift gallop out of the brush-lined
road. They noted the display of firearms and wondered what had struck
Henry.
“Howdy, Henry,” greeted Hashknife. “Goin’ to town?”
Henry nodded and rode in beside them. Hashknife looked curiously at the
rifle sticking out from beneath the right saddle fender and at Henry’s
low-swung Colt.
“Kinda loaded for bear, ain’t yuh?” queried Sleepy.
“Coyote,” corrected Henry shortly.
Hashknife whistled softly. This was a different Henry from him whom
they had known at the Diamond-S, and he wondered what had happened.
But neither of them questioned him further. If he was gunning for
some one it was none of their business, and the less they knew about
it the better for all concerned.
“How’s things at the ranch?” asked Sleepy.
“Aw right,” grunted Henry, never taking his eyes off the road.
“Hangin’ on to his nerve,” thought Hashknife. “Don’t want to talk for
fear of gettin’ off the main idea.”
By mutual consent they swept into a gallop riding knee to knee.
Hashknife noted the set angle of Henry’s lower jaw; it rather belied
the rest of his bony angular body. Still there was force in that
body. The smash he had delivered on Joe Wicks’ jaw proved that. All
Henry had lacked was nerve, and Hashknife wondered if something had
happened to cause Henry to find himself.
About a mile out of town another rider came down off the hills and
into the road going toward Moon Flats. It was Mary O’Hara. She glanced
back anxiously as they rode up to her and they noticed that there were
tear-streaks on her dusty cheeks.
“They caught Shell Romaine!” she blurted. “Cal Severn and Jim Searles
are taking him to Moon Flats.”
“Well, whatcha know about that?” grunted Hashknife. “Tell us about it,
will yuh, Miss O’Hara?”
In a few words Mary described the capture; how she had unwittingly led
them to him. She seemed to blame herself for everything.
“Yuh can’t beat that, can yuh?” said Hashknife sadly. “I reckon we
better mosey on to town and kinda find out all the latest news.”
As they started on Hashknife drew in beside Mary.
“How’s all the sick folks at yore house?”
“Splinter’s fever is bad and Mort Lee has never been conscious except
for a few minutes at a time. He talks all the time, but the doctor says
he will get well.”
“Talks all the time--kinda crazy-like?”
Mary nodded and brushed a lock of hair away from her eyes.
“Yes. He raves about old man Romaine’s shirt sleeve. Isn’t that queer?”
“Yeah, it is--kinda,” admitted Hashknife. “Funny thing to talk about,
y’betcha. And what else seems to bother him?”
Mary smiled and shook her head.
“It’s mostly the shirt sleeve, but sometimes he rambles about a suit
that he did not see. It bothers him a lot, it seems.”
“Black suit?” queried Hashknife quickly.
“Yes--a black suit. Uncle Pat has tried to make head or tail out of his
conversation, but is unable to get it connected enough to make sense.”
Hashknife grinned widely and shifted himself in his saddle.
“Let’s shake ’em up a little, folks. I’ve got a hunch that somebody is
settin’ on about a ton of dynamite and the fuse is gettin’ short.”
The four horses broke into a gallop down the dusty road with Hashknife
slightly in the lead, frowning deeply as he contemplated just what to
do.
Into Moon Flats they came at a stiff gallop. In front of Bill Eagles’
store was a crowd of men, some mounted but most of them on foot. There
seemed to be a heated argument in progress. Several small groups of men
had seemingly drawn away from the main crowd, and were holding their own
arguments.
The four riders drew up at the edge of the sidewalk, but no one gave
them any heed. Looking over the heads of the crowd they could see
Shell Romaine, still bound, leaning up against the wall, while near
him were Cal Severn, Jim Searles and Bill Eagles. Bill was arguing
with voice and arms.
Hashknife leaned down and tapped a cowboy on the shoulder.
“What’s the trouble?” queried Hashknife.
The excited cowboy grasped a porch-post and jerked his head toward the
center of the group.
“They captured Shell Romaine a while ago.”
“Why don’t they put him in jail?”
“Splinter See died an hour ago, and Pat Haley ain’t in town. I reckon
they’re goin’ to lynch Romaine.”
Hashknife turned in his saddle and put his hand on Mary’s arm.
“Get away from here, miss,” he ordered. “You better go home, I think.”
“But they can’t lynch him!” hoarsely. “They wouldn’t dare do that.”
“Will yuh go away?” queried Hashknife sharply. “You can’t help him, and
yo’re in the way if somethin’ busts.”
Something in Hashknife’s homely face told her that her interests would
be well protected, and with a half-sob she spurred her horse away from
the crowd and went slowly down the street.
Bill Eagles was still arguing mightily, and it appeared that he was in
favor of waiting for the law. But his arguments seemed only to bring a
laugh of derision. A man came out of the store carrying a length of new
rope and handed it to Severn.
“I don’t _sabe_ the right kind of a knot,” said Severn, holding the rope
out to the crowd.
Maldeen shoved his way in and took the rope.
“I know how to make it,” he stated, and began making the loop.
Shell Romaine watched him coldly. There was no hint of fear in his
eyes. Hashknife deliberately turned his horse around and rode it on to
the board sidewalk, almost riding over those on the outskirts of the
crowd, who broke away at the clattering hoofs, giving him an opening
to the center.
All eyes shifted from the main point of interest and centered upon
Hashknife, towering above them.
“Get that bronc to ---- out of here!” snarled Severn.
Maldeen stopped looping his rope and stepped back as if afraid Hashknife
was going to ride straight over him.
“Right sweet little party yuh got here,” grinned Hashknife. “Keep right
on makin’ that knot, Maldeen; we’ll likely need it.”
“What you hornin’ in fer?” queried a grizzled cowman who had moved
aside. “This any funeral of yours?”
“Brother, yuh never can tell,” grinned Hashknife. “Fate is a queer
jasper; don’tcha know it?”
Henry Horsecollar had pulled the Winchester out of its scabbard and was
holding it in the crook of his elbow.
“Henry Horsecollar’s got a gun!” grunted a cowboy wonderingly.
Severn’s eyes snapped to Henry and found his hired man’s eyes looking
directly at him. He started to say something, but there was something
about Henry’s expression that caused him to withhold his words.
“You aimin’ to hang Shell Romaine, ain’tcha?” queried Hashknife softly.
“That ain’t none of yore ---- business!” snapped Jim Searles angrily,
while the crowd shifted.
They knew the temper of Searles, and it had begun to appear that trouble
was brewing.
“Yo’re Jim Searles, ain’tcha?”
Hashknife did not seem to resent Searles’ rebuke.
“Yo’re the jasper that identified Shell Romaine in that Sula bank
robbery. Now what I want to know is how much did they pay yuh for
identifyin’ Shell Romaine?”
“What in ---- do you mean?” rasped Searles.
“Think it over, Searles,” grinned Hashknife. “Talkin’ real fast and
tellin’ the truth might help yuh out.”
“I dunno what in ---- yuh mean,” faltered Searles; but a hunted look had
come into his eyes.
He tried to keep his eyes upon Hashknife, but they grew watery, as if he
had strained them badly, and he turned away.
“What’s all this about, pardner?” queried Bill Eagles.
“A lot of things. Me and my pardner came here for the purpose of tryin’
to find where Shell Romaine planted his share of that Sula robbery. They
had him let out on parole and sent us in to trail him.
“Things kinda broke bad for our purpose, yuh know, and we just
pesticated around, lookin’ over things. I got to wonderin’ if things
were just like folks thought they was. Funny what a feller will find
out if he keeps his eyes and ears open.”
“Say, let’s get this job over,” snorted Severn. “This ain’t no time to
listen to a long-winded lecture.”
“This ain’t goin’ to be so awful long,” said Hashknife, “and I’d kinda
like to talk it over, if yuh don’t mind.”
“Pardner, yo’re talkin’,” said Bill Eagles. “They wouldn’t listen to
me.”
“It’s a scheme to delay things, by ----!” declared Maldeen. “He’s tryin’
to stall until Haley gets back.”
“Go ahead and talk, feller,” said the grizzled old cowman. “Get her down
to brass tacks.”
“Thank yuh kindly,” said Hashknife. “I won’t make it long, but I’m
bettin’ it’ll be interestin’. Now about the stage holdup. Maldeen, you
was there, wasn’t yuh?”
“You know ---- well I was!” snapped Maldeen.
“You and Jim Searles drove down from Sula, didn’t yuh?”
“Yes.”
“What time did yuh leave there, Maldeen?”
“I dunno. I reckon it was the usual leavin’ time; wasn’t it, Jim?”
Jim Searles glanced at Maldeen and at Hashknife, but did not speak. His
mind was beginning to run in circles.
“Then yuh got held up at Medicine Creek,” continued Hashknife, and
added, “by the Black Rider.”
Maldeen nodded, but did not speak.
“He came out of the brush and tried to stop yuh, but Searles got the
drop on him. Searles got down and went over to where the old man was
lyin’ in the brush with one hand and arm stickin’ up, didn’t he?”
Maldeen squinted blankly, but nodded.
“Yeah, I reckon that’s right; but I don’t see----”
“And then Mort Lee came down the creek trail and busted right in on
yuh. Searles was on the ground with the shotgun in his hands. He had
looked at the old man and was comin’ back to the stage when Mort rode
into yuh.”
Maldeen half-smiled and cleared his throat.
“You sure got a good description of it, feller.”
“Mort Lee didn’t go over and look at the old man. You and Searles
explained it all to him and told him to ride like ---- to Moon Flats
and tell the sheriff that they had killed the Black Rider. Ain’t that
right?”
Maldeen and Searles exchanged glances before Maldeen nodded.
“I wanted to get that all straight,” grinned Hashknife. “And now I
want to tell yuh that old man Romaine rode a horse down to within a
couple of hundred yards of that spot, where the horse broke its leg
in a gopher-hole and the old man had to shoot it.”
This was something new, and it seemed to interest every one. Even Shell
Romaine leaned forward and stared at Hashknife.
“How do yuh know it was his horse?” queried Eagles.
“Still got his saddle and bridle on, and the horse is branded on the
right hip with a Box-R.”
“I dunno where that means anythin’,” sneered Severn. “Suppose he did
have a horse--what about it?”
“The Black Rider was supposed to be right smart, wasn’t he? Would a
smart man shoot his horse and go right ahead and pull a holdup?”
“That’s a ---- of an argument!” laughed Maldeen. “Who knows what a man
will do in a case like that?”
“Yeah, I’ll admit that human bein’s ain’t built to run to form,” agreed
Hashknife. “But there’s another little point to be covered; Mort Lee
only seen the hand and arm of old Rim-Fire Romaine, but that arm was not
clad in a black coat sleeve.
“Mort Lee told yuh that, didn’t he, Severn?” queried Hashknife as the
crowd fell silent. “Wasn’t that why yuh kicked his hat?”
“By ----, I don’t know what yuh mean,” replied Severn, and his voice was
almost a whine.
“Mort Lee wanted to find Shell Romaine and tell him about it,” said
Hashknife, guessing real fast. “He had to tell somebody, and when he
couldn’t find Shell he came out to the Diamond-S, sampled your whisky
and talked to you about it, Severn.”
Severn took a half-step ahead, and his right hand fell to his side.
“I don’t know what yo’re talkin’ about, Hartley. You talk like
a ---- fool!”
“All right,” grinned Hashknife. “Mebbe I am. Anyway I’m only telling
what Lee told yuh, and he got shot over a seven-up game. Now we know
that old man Romaine wasn’t wearin’ that black suit when he was
shot.”
“Wait a minute,” interrupted Bill Eagles wonderingly. “Lemme get that
straight, will yuh? If old Romaine----”
“That’s ---- foolishness!” roared Searles.
“Y’betcha!” snapped Hashknife. “Keep on listenin’. Me and my pardner
went down to Romaine’s ranch-house and got bushwhacked. I got peeled
on the shoulder, and both of our horses got shot. I’m goin’ to ask
Cal Severn where he was at that time. That was the day we hired out
to yuh, Severn.”
“Where was I?”
Severn tried to appear at ease.
“Why, I was there at my ranch.”
“Then how did yuh know that Mary O’Hara met Shell Romaine on the narrow
trail at the head of Broken Gulch?”
Severn’s teeth shut with a click, and he leaned forward, his face filled
with righteous wrath.
“You keep her name out of this!”
“That don’t answer my question, does it? You never stopped to think that
you put yoreself in bad when yuh accused her of meetin’ Shell Romaine.”
Hashknife grinned pityingly and shook his head as his eyes shifted from
the crowd and saw the bartender standing in behind two other men.
“Soapy’s lookin’ on,” observed Hashknife. “I thought that Maldeen was
just a ordinary tin-horn gambler until I seen who his bartender was.
Birds of a feather.”
“Now is that all yuh got to say?” demanded Searles.
“Shucks, I’m just startin’; and I want to say right now that any nervous
hands annoy me. When I see fingers itchin’ to pull a gun--I scratch
’em.”
“I’ve heard about all I care to from you!” snarled Maldeen. “I don’t
know where yuh got all these fool ideas, and I don’t care. You’ve gone
far enough.”
“Thasso?”
Hashknife seemed hurt.
“Why, I ain’t no more than scratched the surface, Maldeen; and you know
it as well as I do.”
“I don’t know a ---- thing about it!”
“Then listen.”
Hashknife’s smile faded, and he leaned forward in his saddle.
“It kinda looked like Shell Romaine was the one that killed our horses,
didn’t it? All right. We wasn’t so far from the shooter that he couldn’t
have seen that we were strangers. He had no reason for shootin’ us.
“Shell Romaine did not know that me and my pardner were over here to
try and put the deadwood on him and get back that money. There were
only two men beside me and my pardner who did know, and Pat Haley was
here in Moon Flats. Cal Severn knew----”
“What in ---- are yuh drivin’ at!” yelled Severn. “Don’tcha try to hang
anythin’----”
“Don’t incriminate yoreself,” interrupted Hashknife. “Who knew that we
were goin’ back there after our saddles? Pat Haley and Splinter See came
huntin’ for Shell Romaine, and See got shot. Shell Romaine did not fire
those shots. Not by a ---- sight! Splinter See is about my size----”
Severn’s face was black with rage, but his eyes shifted from side to
side, like a trapped animal looking for an exit.
“Keep goin’, pardner!” panted Bill Eagles.
“That’s a lie, ---- yuh!” snarled Severn. “You’re tryin’ to stall until
Pat Haley gets here, thassall.”
“About thirteen months ago you needed money, Severn,” continued
Hashknife. “You wanted a certain girl, and you heard that she was
engaged to a certain young man. You had a fight with him and he
whipped yuh. Then you framed to send him to the penitentiary and to
get a lot of money for yoreself.
“Don’t get sore, Severn. You’ve got your misdeeds to face God with
anyway, so yuh might as well face men.”
Maldeen moved a step away from Severn as if giving him plenty of room,
forgetting that he was included in the accusations. Searles swayed on
his feet like a drunken man, fingering his belt with nervous hands.
“Now about that express robbery,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “That
was kinda clever. The robber got off near Clevis Creek and went across
to the main road. He kept his black suit. He packed a valise to hold
his extra clothes and the money.
“The stage came along, and he got on. That part of it was all fixed,
but the meetin’ with old Romaine wasn’t part of the scheme. The old
man’s horse broke its leg and had to be shot. The old man knowed
that the stage was about due, so he waited for it, intendin’ to ride
home.”
Maldeen stared at Hashknife, mouth half-open. In fact, the whole crowd
seemed bereft of motion or speech.
“That poker game was a clever scheme to give Cal Severn his share of the
express robbery, and nobody would wonder where he got so much money.
Maldeen was the Black Rider, and you and him robbed the Sula bank over a
year ago, and----”
“That’s a lie!” screamed Severn, and his hand snapped to his gun; but
Shell Romaine, bound as he was, toppled into him, knocking him
half-way to his knees, and his wide-flung gun went off almost against
Jim Searles.
Maldeen flung himself backward into the crowd, drawing a gun from under
his long coat, while men collided with each other in a mad rush to get
out of danger.
From behind Hashknife came the roar of a revolver, and he saw the
soap-painting bartender stumble into the street and fall flat on his
face, his gun spinning out of his hand. Sleepy was not overlooking
any details.
Maldeen’s first shot knocked the hat off the grizzled old cowman, and
the second one went into the top of the porch. Hashknife was unable to
shoot for fear of hitting a bystander, and Maldeen was unable to shoot
accurately on account of them.
Searles was down on his hands and knees, paying no attention to any one,
a smudge of smoke coming from his shirt, where Severn’s accidental shot
had set it on fire.
Severn had recovered his balance, flung Shell Romaine aside, and without
firing a shot whirled and darted into the open door of the store. Came
the crash of boots on the sidewalk as Henry Horsecollar vaulted from his
horse, and a moment later he darted through the cross-fire between
Hashknife and Maldeen and dived into the open door after Cal Severn.
It was all happening in a few short seconds--a fraction of the time
taken in the telling. Maldeen’s backward rush had taken him to the
wall beside a narrow alley, and Sleepy smashed a bullet into the wall
beside his ear. As he whirled to return the fire, Hashknife fired his
first shot.
Maldeen jerked back from the shock of the heavy bullet, spun around and
stumbled into the alley, just as Sleepy darted across the sidewalk and
dived into him, like a football player making a flying tackle. Together
they crashed down out of sight.
Men were running away from the shooting, never realizing that the
danger was all over. Searles was still on his hands and knees, and
near him, sitting on the sidewalk, braced against his bound elbows,
was Shell Romaine.
Sleepy backed out of the alley and stumbled toward Hashknife, panting
triumphantly--
“He ain’t goin’ no place, Hashknife!”
Pat Haley was coming up the street, running in his queer, bow-legged
way, a sawed-off shotgun in his hands, while behind him came Mary
O’Hara.
“My Gawd, what happened!” he gasped. “Ah!”
He looked at the bartender, lying flat on his face in the street, and at
Searles. He gave Romaine a quick glance and turned to Hashknife.
“Maldeen’s in the alley,” said Sleepy wearily, “and he’s still wearin’
his boots.”
“Where’s Severn?”
Searles dropped on one elbow and looked at them with lack-luster eyes.
“He shot me, didn’t he? I knew he would some day. Where are you,
Hartley?”
He tried to grin, but only his lips responded.
“I can’t see yuh very plain, Hartley, but I want yuh to know that
your story was all true, except that the killin’ of old Romaine was a
accident. It fit our plans fine though.”
Searles licked his dry lips and took a deep breath.
“Mort Lee told Severn about not seeing--that--black--suit.
Shell--Romaine--and--his--old--man--never--done--nothin’.”
“He died clean,” breathed Haley. “Clean.”
Came the sound of some one stumbling down the alley, and Henry
Horsecollar came into view. He waved out to them, almost falling over
the body of Jim Searles. His hair was matted with blood, and his shirt
was completely torn from his body, which was bruised and cut in many
places.
He shoved the gory mop of hair out of his eyes, stared at them for a
moment and then stumbled out into the street, where his horse was
standing on the bridle-reins.
Men came out and stood around him as he tried to mount, but Henry did
not mind having an audience. Hashknife went out and took him by the arm.
“Where’s Severn?”
Henry blinked and shook his head drunkenly.
“I can’t prove nothin’ by him now,” he muttered. “He lied to Marie about
me, and now I can’t prove--that--he--lied--not--by--him.”
Henry drew a hand across his bloody face and began to cry bitterly.
Hashknife flung one arm across his shoulders and patted him on the back.
“Cheer up, Henry. By golly, I’ll tell her, and I’ll bet she’ll believe
me.”
“Will yuh?”
Henry lifted his head and peered into Hashknife’s eyes. He stared at the
crowd, but they meant nothing to him.
“If yuh will, Hartley, there’s a chance that she will believe it, ’cause
yuh sure can talk and make it sound true.”
Hashknife grinned and turned to Haley.
“Yuh can turn Shell Romaine loose, Pat, and shift all this crime where
it belonged. I dunno how much the bank will recover, but that don’t
interest me right now.”
Pat Haley, with only part understanding, went over with Mary O’Hara and
cut the bonds from Shell Romaine. He and Mary looked into each other’s
eyes for a moment, and both turned to Hashknife.
“I don’t reckon there’s anythin’ I can say to yuh that would fit the
case, Hartley,” said Romaine slowly. “It ain’t somethin’ that a feller
can put into words.”
“Tell it to Mary,” said Hashknife seriously. “And I’d like to see yuh
both grin.”
Mary turned away, her eyes filling with tears. Shell Romaine tried to
speak; but his throat contracted, and he turned away. Then they started
down the street hand in hand, going to Mary’s home.
“Looky!” said Sleepy hoarsely.
Henry Horsecollar had mounted and was riding slowly up the street, going
back to Marie Wicks.
They stood there, watching Mary and Romaine going one way and Henry
going the other.
Pat Haley was standing near them, starting to roll a cigaret; his eyes
blinking suspiciously fast. Perhaps some flakes of tobacco had blown
into his eyes. Hashknife grinned softly, and Pat Haley lifted his
head. He glanced down the street, where Mary and Romaine were turning
in at the gate, and in the opposite direction, where Henry Horsecollar
was fading out down the dusty road, and shook his head slowly.
Then he squinted at Hashknife and said:
“Hartley, ye’re a wonder, so ye are. Ye have done a world of good for
deservin’ folks.
“Tramp cowboys, I’ve heard them call ye. If ye are, the title is an
honor. Ye have done much for the Mission range, so ye have, and I’m
wonderin’ if ye’d do somethin’ for me.”
“Yo’re danged right we will, Pat!” exclaimed Hashknife seriously. “What
is it?”
“Will ye roll me a cigaret?”
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the February 28, 1923 issue
of Adventure magazine.]