Tecoma consisted of a little depot, a saloon and a restaurant. Inasmuch
as the saloon and restaurant were in the same building, it made Tecoma
a two-house town. The railroad time table showed that Tecoma had an
elevation of five thousand feet, and that certain trains would stop
there on a flag.
There was a wagon road of sorts from Tecoma down into the Moolock
cattle country, and this alleged road also wound its way from Tecoma
back to the mines of the Bearpaw district. The main street of Tecoma
was this road, if it might be termed a street. In front of the saloon
and restaurant was a long hitch-rack, where a horse might have the
privilege of standing at an angle of about forty-five degrees.
Just now it was after dark. The restaurant was closed, as was the depot;
but from the open saloon door a shaft of yellow light illuminated part
of the rough porch. Inside the saloon, five men sat at a poker table,
playing rather indifferently. The stakes were not high enough to make it
interesting for a tall, raw-boned cowboy, who yawned wearily and shoved
back from the table.
“I wish there was a hotel here,” he said. “Ain’t even a stable where yuh
can feed a horse.”
“And that’s whatever,” agreed the proprietor. “Tecoma ain’t no town,
pardner. ’F I had a bed I’d offer it to you and your pardner; but all
I’ve got is a cot t’ sleep on.”
“It’s about twenty miles to Moolock,” offered the man who owned the
restaurant. “The road ain’t none too good, but yuh can get a bed in
Moolock.”
The tall cowboy yawned again and squinted at his partner, “Sleepy”
Stevens. Sleepy was slightly below the average in height, with broad
shoulders, slightly bowed legs and a pair of perfectly innocent blue
eyes. His face was angular, almost serious in repose, but at the
slightest provocation it would break into a mass of grin-wrinkles,
like the ripples from a stone cast into a quiet pool.
“What do yuh think about it, Sleepy?” asked “Hashknife” Hartley, the
tall one. “Shall we gird up our broncs and hie away for this Moolock
town?”
“Jist so well as not, I reckon,” said Sleepy. “Might as well be ridin’
as settin’ here. I ain’t held better than a pair of jacks since supper.”
“You fellers come in from the Bearpaw?” asked the saloon man.
“Yeah,” said Hashknife. “We came in over the Grayling trail. Some darned
liar told us that there was a lot of unlocated land up there--land that
was pretty rich; but he lied, as usual. What kind of a country is this
Moolock?”
“Cows, mostly. Lot of good outfits. Frank Allenby owns the Half-Circle
Cross, the biggest outfit.”
Hashknife looked curiously at Sleepy, who regarded him innocently. They
cashed in their few chips, bought a supply of tobacco from the saloon
keeper, and went out to the hitch-rack.
As they started to untie their horses, Sleepy grunted wonderingly. He
had ridden a roan horse into Tecoma, but the horse he was looking at
now was decidedly gray. Its head was hanging low with fatigue and its
coat was drying rough with lather.
He called softly to Hashknife, who was doing a little swearing over his
own discovery.
“I’ve got a pinto,” grunted Hashknife, as Sleepy blurted out the fact
that he had drawn a gray.
There were only two horses at the rack, and only one rack in the town.
Sleepy scratched a match and discovered that whoever had made the
substitution had changed saddles too.
“We’ve still got our saddles,” he declared. “Now what in ---- do yuh
know about that?”
Hashknife untied his pinto and led it into the light from the saloon
door, where he appraised the animal closely. It was sore-footed and
weary. Sleepy walked in beside him, leading the gray, and was about
to call to those inside the saloon to come out and help them wonder
over it all, when a voice yelled out from the darkness--
“Put up yore hands, doggone yuh!”
A revolver flashed and the bullet bit a splinter out of the
sidewalk. With an almost automatic movement, Hashknife drew and
fired at the flash; and at the same moment he darted out of the
light and flung himself flat on the ground. Sleepy went headlong out
of the illumination, rolled down the hill and came to rest behind a
big rock.
“Gosh dang yuh, what did yuh do that for, ‘Forty’?” wailed a voice from
the gloom. “Who in ---- told yuh to shoot, anyway?”
“Don’t walk into that light, ‘Swan River’!” cautioned another voice.
“They didn’t go far. I’ve got to fix that gun of mine. It’s too easy
on the pull. Don’t git in that light, you darned fool!”
The three men had come to the saloon door, wondering aloud what it was
all about. The saloon keeper carried a sawed-off shotgun, and at sight
of him, the one called Swan River spoke quickly--
“Hey, Pierson! This is the sheriff.”
“Hello, Swan River,” called the saloon keeper. “What’s all the ruction
about?”
“Don’t git in that light!” warned the deputy, “Forty Dollar” Dion, whose
gun was easy on the trigger. “I tell yuh they didn’t git far away.”
“Who yuh lookin’ for?” asked one of the men in the saloon doorway.
“The men who own them two horses,” replied Swan River Smith, the
sheriff. “They stuck up a train this afternoon, and we’ve been on their
trail ever since. That’s their gray and pinto.”
“Hey, sheriff!” called Hashknife.
“Listenin’.”
“Then listen close. Them ain’t our horses. I reckon the three men in
the doorway can tell yuh that we rode a roan and a bay into this place
late this afternoon, and that we’ve been in there ever since. We jist
found that somebody traded horses with us, and was admirin’ ’em in the
light.”
“That’s the truth,” said the saloon keeper. “They sure did ride a roan
and a bay, sheriff.”
“Well--” the sheriff seemed a bit dubious--“if yuh say so, Pierson, I’ll
take yore word. C’mon in, gents.”
* * * * *
Hashknife and Sleepy sauntered back into the light and looked at Swan
River Smith and his elongated deputy. Swan River was small, gray as a
rabbit, and with a pair of eyes as hard as granite. Forty Dollar Dion
was almost as tall as Hashknife, sad of face, and walked with a
loose-jointed shamble that would cause one to suspect that he might
fall apart at any time.
“I’m the sheriff of this county,” said Swan River, after a close
scrutiny of the two cowpunchers. “Name’s Smith.”
Hashknife introduced himself and Sleepy, and they adjourned to the bar.
“You danged near killed me,” declared Forty Dollar mournfully. “My gun
went off accidental. I had sense enough to sidestep; and yore bullet
poked a hole in the air just after I left. And it ain’t like me to think
fast, either.”
“Well,” grinned Hashknife, “yuh can’t blame me, pardner. One of yuh
yelled for us to put up our hands and the other one shot at us.”
“Excuse him, if yuh can,” said the sheriff, “I can’t. Here’s happy days
and a blanket at night.”
They drank and rattled their glasses on the bar.
“Didja take a good look at them horses, Forty?” asked the sheriff.
“Uh-huh. I was right, Swan.”
The sheriff accepted Hashknife’s tobacco and cigaret papers, which were
also passed to Forty Dollar.
“The question is--where did they go from here?” observed the sheriff.
“I’ll betcha forty dollars they headed for Bearpaw,” said Forty Dollar.
“They’ve got fresh horses now.”
“And good horses,” added Sleepy mournfully.
“I never heard of a lost horse that wasn’t a good one,” grinned the
sheriff. “Nobody ever lost a bad one. Ha, ha, ha! Well, there ain’t
no use tryin’ to foller them two fellers now. Our horses are plumb
whipped; so we might as well go home, I reckon.”
“How much did they get?” asked Hashknife.
“I dunno. They blew the safe on the express car and took what was in
it. Cut the train in two and made their getaway near where they had
the horses staked out. But the engineer got a look at the horses they
used, and as soon as the train got to Moolock he told me about it. Me
and Forty cut straight across the hills and are lucky enough to spot
’em.
“Since then we’ve sure burnt up horseflesh. Comes night and we kinda
loses track of ’em; so we heads for here and finds that pinto and gray,
standin’ plumb in the light. Yuh can’t blame us for the mistake, can
yuh?”
Hashknife laughed and shook his head. It was all clear to him now, and
he did not blame the sheriff.
“I reckon we’ll go to Moolock with yuh,” he said. “Mebbe them two horses
are as fresh as yours, sheriff.”
“Yeah, sure. Let’s go. It’s a long ride back there; but there ain’t no
accommodations in Tecoma. You know anybody down there, Hartley?”
“Nope. Me and my pardner rode into Bearpaw from over the Grayling trail.
We kinda had an idea we’d like to do some gold minin’, and we was told
that there was plenty of good ground left up there; but there wasn’t an
inch. By golly, a moose bird has to keep in the trees to keep from bein’
a trespasser.”
“Pshaw, that’s all been located long ago. Well, let’s have one more
drink and pull our freight, gents.”
They told Tecoma good-bye, mounted the jaded horses and headed for
Moolock.
“Seems to me that I’ve heard of Moolock,” observed Hashknife, as they
jogged along over the dim road through the pines. “The name is kinda
familiar. You spoke of a feller named Allenby.”
“Frank Allenby,” said the sheriff. “He’s the biggest man in Moolock
county.”
“To hear him tell it,” amended Forty Dollar, “Allenby thinks that his
family is responsible for the risin’ and settin’ of the sun. ’S a fact.
He tells it when to come up and when to go down.”
“Didn’t Allenby send some young feller to the pen a while ago?”
“Yeah. A young feller by the name of ‘Bud’ Bell. Allenby didn’t exactly
send him to the penitentiary; but he was responsible for it. Bud’s out
now. I ain’t seen him yet. Mebbe he hates me for what I done, but I had
to do it. The Bell family are kinda strong on hate.
“Allenby bought the Half-Circle Cross from Henry Christman about three
years ago. Allenby is from Philadelphia. Never seen a cow ranch until
he hit this country. Hank Bell nested in on what Christman claimed as
his own ranch; but Christman didn’t own it.
“There was bad blood between Christman and old Hank. Christman tried in
every way to oust old Hank. Hank’s cows turned up missin’; some of ’em
had their throats cut. But old Hank stuck. One day him and Christman met
on the street in Moolock and shot it out. Christman got a bullet through
one lung and old Hank got his right arm crippled for life.
“It kinda put a crimp into old Hank, as a gunman; so he spent all his
time givin’ his son Bud a six-gun education. And Bud was a danged good
pupil. Then Christman sold out to Allenby, who tried to oust old Hank,
but the old boy had a title to his ranch. It’s a sore spot to Allenby,
’cause Hank’s place has the best spring in the Moolock range.”
“Did they quit killin’ off Hank’s cattle?” asked Hashknife.
Swan River Smith chuckled audibly.
“Yeah, yuh might say they did. The Bible says somethin’ about an eye
for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Anyway, Allenby got the deadwood
on Bud Bell and sent him up for five years; but the law let him out
in two years and a few days. Now I reckon Allenby is shakin’ in his
boots for fear Bud will make him pay for that two years.”
“Allenby is rich, ain’t he?”
“Yeah, I suppose he is pretty well fixed.”
“And I’ll tell yuh why,” said Forty Dollar. “Allenby is so stingy that
he wouldn’t pay two bits for a front seat at the Custer battle, if the
original actors would come back and play it. It’s an honest fact. To my
way of thinkin’, Allenby is a big jughead, with too much money and a
soul so danged thin that it squeaks in the wind like a fiddle string.
He wants everybody to know that he’s from Philly-del-fee.”
“That ain’t nothin’ agin’ him,” said the sheriff.
“Not that part,” agreed Forty Dollar. “I admire him for gettin’ out that
place. I’ve been there----”
“You mean you’ve heard about it,” corrected the sheriff.
Forty Dollar subsided.
“I’ve heard that men don’t value their lives very highly in Moolock,”
said Hashknife.
“Thasso?” The sheriff seemed surprised.
“Some as cheap as five thousand dollars.”
“Cheap?” blurted Forty Dollar. “My ----, I could point out a lot that
wouldn’t be worth that much per bale. Five thousand! Say, if I was
Saint Peter I wouldn’t even accept souls from Moolock, unless they
came prepaid.”
“Forty Dollar is a pessimist,” explained the sheriff quickly.
“Yeah and I’m a good democrat. M’ folks was Baptists. Tried to make me
one, but the water was too cold that winter; and by spring I was all out
of the notion.”
“I think we’ll like Moolock,” said Sleepy.
“Everybody does,” said Forty Dollar. “I know at least a hundred that
couldn’t even think of leavin’ there.”
“Love their little city, eh?”
“No--they’re stuck on the little cemetery,” chuckled the deputy. “Ha,
ha, ha, ha! I’ll drink with yuh in Moolock.”
They laughed and rode down the last of the steep grades into the valley
of the Moolock. The moon had lifted above the timbered slopes of the
mountains, bathing the hills and valleys in a blue haze. Far off to the
left a light twinkled from a window.
“That’s the 27A ranch,” said the sheriff. “Joe Bass owns it. Joe’s part
Nez Percé; quarter-breed, I reckon. Minds his own business. Been here a
long time. Ships quite a lot of stock.”
“Moolock is the shippin’ center, ain’t it?” asked Hashknife.
“Most of it goes from there. It’s kinda in the center of the valley; so
mostly everybody trades there. I was just wonderin’ what you meant about
human life bein’ cheap in Moolock.”
“Nothin’ much,” laughed Hashknife. “I heard that a man--a certain
man--only put that much value on his life.”
“Well, I dunno,” said the sheriff thoughtfully. “I s’pose that some
folks feel thataway about money. I’d hate to sell mine for that.”
“And yet yuh take a chance every day for so much per month.”
“Yeah, that’s a fact. You fellers aim to get jobs over here?”
“Mebbe. Feller’s got to eat.”
“They sure do. Yuh might see Allenby. Jim Merton might need a man. He
runs the Arrowhead brand, and his iron is on lots a cows. Them two are
the biggest outfits. You’d like Jim. He’s young and full of ambition.”
“Do yuh think we’d like Allenby?”
“Mm-m-m, well, yuh might. It takes all kinds of folks to make up a
world. What’s meat for one man is poison for another.”
It was about one o’clock in the morning when they rode into the town of
Moolock, stabled the horses and got a room at the one little hotel. They
were too tired to investigate the town, and even the hard mattress of
their bed felt like downy feathers.
“It’s funny how things work out,” observed Hashknife, as they stretched
out in bed. “We never had any idea of runnin’ into this place.”
“It’s the same Allenby, ain’t it?” asked Sleepy.
“Sure. Bob Freeman said in his letter that it was Allenby of Moolock;
so it must be the same feller. He spoke about the feller that Allenby
sent to the penitentiary; and about the old man.”
“They are the ones that are stealin’ Allenby’s cows, eh?” Thus Sleepy,
with interest.
“The ones he said he’d pay us five thousand for, if we could convict
’em. If we could.” Hashknife laughed. “Allenby wants his detective work
done on commission, Sleepy. He’s afraid of his life, that’s what’s the
matter with him. And he values it at five thousand.”
“Prob’ly all it’s worth,” laughed Sleepy.
In a different environment Hashknife Hartley might have been a famous
detective. His mind was quick to grasp the important points of a case,
and that, combined with what a gambler would call a “hunch,” had enabled
him to solve some of the mysteries of cowland, which had baffled even
the best operatives of the Cattle Associations.
Both he and Sleepy Stevens were top-hand cowboys; but fate had always
thrown them into troubled ranges where their detective ability was of
more demand than their ability to handle cattle. It was a hazardous
calling, and of little remuneration.
Their fame had spread from range to range; and the repeated telling
in cowtown, bunkhouse and around the camp-fires had exaggerated their
ability until they became a bugaboo to those outside the law on the
ranges. But there was nothing superhuman about either of them. There
was nothing marvelous about their gun-play; neither could they whip
their weight in wild-cats. Yet they had left behind them a trail of
righted wrongs, and a memory of two big-hearted cowpunchers, who
fought with a grin, asking no favors of anyone; riding away ahead of
thanks or remuneration, if possible.
There were homes on the ranges where these two men were mentioned in
the evening prayer, and there were places where their names brought
forth a curse and the hope that they would never come back. Still they
rode on with a grin on their lips, knowing that fate had marked them
for certain duties. And they were both confirmed fatalists--facing
death with a grin, because they felt that they would never die until
the moving finger on the big book wrote _Finis_ after their names.
* * * * *
It was just breaking day the following morning, when “Chet” Hoban,
foreman of the Half-Circle Cross, and “Omaha” Olsen, one of the
Half-Circle Cross cowboys, rode through the main street of Moolock,
which was the only street in the town.
It was a crooked street as well as a narrow one, bordered with
false-fronted buildings, of which the livery stable was the most
pretentious. The next building in size was the Elk saloon and
gambling house, with its spacious hitch-rack crowding close to the
narrow sidewalk.
Next to the Elk saloon was the Blue Front Café, with only the name to
indicate that at some remote time it might have been painted. Adjoining
this building was the White Horse saloon. Across the street from the Elk
saloon was the sheriff’s office. On this side of the street were more
saloons, a general merchandise store, post-office, stage station and
other small business necessary to the comfort of rangeland humanity.
The Moolock hotel was neither of great size nor elegant in appointment,
but it served. Its sign read--
MOOLOCK HOTEL
FROSTY WELCOME PROP.
Which, as a cowboy had said, “If yuh don’t git treated well, you’ve been
warned ahead of time.”
But “Frosty” Welcome was only frosty by nickname and not by nature.
The two cowboys rode through town and cut across a flat toward the big
loading corrals near the depot. A string of cattle cars were being
shunted onto a spur track by a freight engine, as they rode up to the
corral fence and tied their horses.
Chet Hoban was a thin-faced, raw-boned man, whose hair was plentifully
dusted with gray, and whose humped shoulders and bowed legs gave him the
appearance of one who bears a mighty burden on his back. His boot heels
were run-over on the outer side, which caused him to walk jerkily lest
he sprain his ankles.
Omaha Olsen was taller than Hoban, and even leaner of frame. His eyes
were sad; in fact his whole mien bespoke a great sadness, and his long
nose, slightly twisted at the bridge, showed blue veins, as though it
might be perpetually damp and cold.
The engine uncoupled and went puffing back toward the depot, while
Hoban and Olsen crossed the track, circled the corral and stopped. For
a space of several moments they surveyed the empty corral and then, as
if by mutual consent, they climbed to the wide plank of the top and
gazed across the different pens, their faces filled with an expression
of wonderment.
Then Hoban circled to the main gate, where he sat down and looked at the
broken padlock, which dangled from a twisted staple. Omaha Olsen came up
and peered down at it. Then he produced his tobacco and papers and began
calmly rolling a cigaret, while Hoban turned and gazed off across the
rolling hills.
“They done busted the lock,” said Omaha. Hoban squinted at him, but did
not reply. The busted lock needed no explanation.
“Three hundred of ’em, too,” observed Omaha.
“You keep on and there won’t be nothin’ to tell about,” said Hoban a
trifle sarcastically.
“And Allenby will jist about bust a gizzard.” Thus Omaha, ignoring
Hoban. “I c’n see him commencin’ to git red and swell up like a
carbuncle. My ----, this’ll sure ache him all over.”
“You’d ache if somebody stole three hundred two-year-old Herefords from
yuh,” retorted Hoban.
“----, I’d ache if I ever had that many. Now what in ---- will we do
with these cars?”
Hoban got to his feet, shaking his head.
“Let Clayton worry about that. C’mon.”
They climbed down and went to their horses, which they mounted and rode
back into town. The sheriff was still asleep, but Hoban hammered on the
office door and woke him up.
“Last night we had three hundred two-year-old Herefords in the loadin’
corrals, sheriff. They were to be loaded this mornin’. Somebody smashed
the padlock on the main gate and swiped the whole herd.”
Swan River scratched his head thoughtfully.
“Well,” he said slowly, “that was worth takin’. Smashed the padlock,
eh? That’s a penitentiary offense. Took three hundred Half-Circle Cross
Herefords, eh? Gosh! Somebody held up the train yesterday, too, Chet.
Danged country is goin’ to the dogs. Allenby know?”
“Not yet. We just found it out.”
“We better find Clayton,” said Omaha. “He’ll likely want to see about
them cars.”
“I’ll git on some clothes right away and see what I can find out,”
offered the sheriff, turning back into the office.
Hoban and Omaha walked up to the hotel, where they found Ed Clayton,
the cattle-buyer, just ready to leave for the loading pens. Clayton
was a big man, without an ounce of fat on his huge frame. He was not
unhandsome, dressed well, and was not over thirty-five years of age.
Clayton was an inveterate gambler, a plunger; and his eyes were still
heavy from a long session of poker at the Elk.
In a few short words Hoban told him what had happened.
“Sounds like a ---- fairy story,” said Clayton, but quickly corrected
himself with, “You know what I mean, Hoban; it don’t seem possible.”
Hoban relaxed and nodded shortly. He and Clayton had never been very
friendly.
“Mebbe it don’t sound possible,” said Hoban slowly, “but they’re gone.
What about your cars?”
“And nothing to put in ’em,” muttered Clayton. “Well, I’ll have to see
what can be done. Want to walk up to the depot?”
“All right. Allenby will be here pretty soon.”
The freight was still at the depot and Clayton immediately explained the
situation to the agent.
“I’ll tell yuh what we can do,” suggested the agent, “We can send ’em
up to Bluejoint. Old Sam Bass has been yelling for cars for three days.
He’s got some stock to ship. Shall I take that chance?”
“Go ahead,” urged Clayton. “I don’t want the darned things. If Bass can
use ’em, he’s sure welcome.”
Bluejoint was merely a siding and a loading corral about ten miles
from Moolock. It was sometimes used by the ranchers of that side of
the valley in making small shipments, and was located about two miles
from the 27A ranch.
The train crew grumbled audibly, but added the cattle cars to the train,
took their orders and steamed away across the valley, while Clayton,
Hoban and Omaha went back to wait for Allenby, who rode into town in a
buckboard drawn by a pair of cream-colored horses.
* * * * *
Frank Allenby was about fifty years of age, portly and important. When
Forty Dollar Dion had declared that Allenby thought the sun arose and
set because of the Allenby family, he was not so far wrong. Allenby
had a square, protruding jaw, which accentuated the flatness of his
cheek-bones, and beneath a slightly hooked nose he wore an aggressive,
brush-like, gray mustache.
His suit was of black broadcloth, his boots of finest leather, and his
hats were made to order. But he wore an old-fashioned, stiff bosomed
shirt, sans collar, but with a huge onyx button; while his cuffs were
fastened together with big cameo cuff-buttons. He wore no vest. From a
suspender stay dangled a solid gold watch chain, each link at least an
inch long.
Hoban met him at the hitch-rack and tied the team, while Allenby got
ponderously from the buckboard, the springs of which seemed to sigh
with relief. He looked questioningly at Hoban, as though wondering why
he was not busy at the loading pens. He could also see Omaha Olsen and
Ed Clayton, standing in front of the Elk saloon.
It did not take Hoban long to inform Allenby of his loss, and the big
man stiffened, as though to withstand a physical blow. His face paled
with anger and then he hunched forward, as if to grapple with his
foreman.
“Gone?” he muttered thickly. “You mean that some one stole them?”
“Yuh might say they have,” said Hoban slowly. “The padlock on the big
gate has been smashed. I told the sheriff about it.”
Allenby shook his head like a wounded bull. The pocket-book was Frank
Allenby’s vital spot, and it nauseated him to think of losing those
Herefords. Then he shut his teeth with an audible snap and surged
ahead toward the Elk saloon, where he stopped in front of Omaha and
the cattle buyer.
“I know about it,” said Clayton sympathetically.
“By ----, I know about it, too!” roared Allenby. He was almost crying
with anger. “I know who stole those Herefords. By ----, I know!
I’ll----”
“Go ahead and tell me who stole ’em.”
Swan River Smith had crossed the street unnoticed and had heard
Allenby’s statement. Allenby turned his head and glared at the
sheriff. But Allenby’s glare did not affect Swan River in the least.
The big cattle man’s dominating personality meant nothing to the
little sheriff.
“Go ahead,” urged Swan River. “I’d shore like to hear his name.”
“That’s my business!” snapped Allenby.
“And mine,” added the sheriff. “If you know who stole yore cows tell
me his name. If you don’t know, Allenby, if yore only makin’ a wild
guess--keep it to yourself.”
“I’ll do as I ---- please!”
“Yeah?” Swan River looked him over coldly. “All right. Free speech is
yore right, Allenby. But if you ain’t got evidence enough to back up
the name you mention--the law ain’t backin’ you.”
“I don’t need the law. I’ll be my own law, by ----!”
“Huh!” Thus the sheriff softly, as he turned and walked back toward his
office. Allenby glared after him. Omaha and Clayton smiled; but Hoban’s
face did not change a line.
“Little pup!” sneered Allenby, half under his breath; but the sheriff
was too far away to hear it.
“He isn’t much,” agreed Clayton. Hoban looked sharply at the
cattle-buyer. Hoban knew that Swan River Smith was a thoroughly capable
officer, with a fine record behind him.
“Do yuh know who stole ’em?” asked Omaha innocently.
“Do I know who stole ’em?” parroted Allenby. “I do know.”
“Well, let’s go and get ’em back.”
“Fool!” snorted Allenby. “Do you suppose they’d leave ’em where we could
find ’em?” He spat viciously and turned to Clayton.
“When will your man be here, Ed?”
“He’s due any time now. You just keep calm and let Jim Seeley work on
this case. He’ll put a stop to it.”
“That’s the detective?” asked Omaha.
“Sh-h-h-h!” cautioned Clayton. “Don’t tell everybody about it.”
“I hope he can handle it,” said Allenby wearily. “I can’t stand losing
any more stock. Freeman, the secretary of the association, promised to
furnish me with a couple of men, who, he said, are the best in the world
on this kind of a case. But they refused to take it. I offered them five
thousand dollars for a conviction, but they refused.
“I know who is doing the dirty work, Clayton. I know it just as well
as if I had a confession from them; but I need evidence. Nobody else
is losing stock. It’s spite work, that’s all it is. For over two years
I’ve been losing cattle. I sent one man to the penitentiary, and next
time I’ll send two. If I don’t stop ’em, I’ll be broke. I’m going home
now.”
“You heard about the train robbery, didn’t you?” asked Clayton.
“Yes. The sheriff chased them to Tecoma, but they got away into the
Bearpaw country.”
“Suppose there’s any connection between the train robbery and the
rustlers?”
“No. Too far apart. Are you coming out to the ranch today?”
“I may be out later.”
Hoban untied the team and watched Allenby ride back toward the ranch,
before joining Omaha and Clayton at the Elk bar.
Hashknife and Sleepy had finished their breakfast in time to see Allenby
ride away. The sheriff was standing in the doorway of his office when
they arrived, and told them that the big man was Frank Allenby.
“Allenby ain’t no woolly little sheep when he’s contented,” explained
Swan River, “so right now he’s a ragin’ wolf with nothin’ in sight to
bite into. Somebody busted into the loadin’ pens last night and lifted
three hundred Hereford cows that were due to take a railroad ride this
mornin’.”
“Lifted ’em out of a loadin’ pen, eh?” grinned Hashknife. “I’ll tell a
man that’s the real handy way to get ’em. Sheriff, I’m of the opinion
that this county ain’t so law-abidin’ that it aches.”
“Naw, she ain’t,” agreed Forty Dollar, trying to get a number nine foot
into a number seven boot. “’F you was a deputy sheriff here for a while
you’d find out. This here ain’t no office--it’s a job, y’betcha.”
“Any clues left by the light-fingered gents?” asked Sleepy.
Swan River shook his head.
“Not a clue. There’s so darned many cow tracks in this country, and no
rain for two months, that yuh never could trail ’em.”
“Just have to trust to luck, eh?” Thus Hashknife, interested.
“Yeah--luck.”
“Have much rustlin’ to contend with?”
“Mm-m-m, not so much. It’s a queer thing about the rustlin’. Somebody
has been stealin’ cows from Allenby for over two years. I’ve tried every
scheme I could think of to nail the guilty party or parties; but they’re
too slick for me.”
“Only from Allenby?” queried Hashknife.
“He’s the only one that reports a loss.”
“Uh-huh,” Hashknife squinted thoughtfully. “Kinda looks like somebody
had a grudge against Mr. Allenby, don’t it?”
“Do yuh think so?”
“Well, what do you think, sheriff?”
Swan River Smith rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He knew who Allenby
suspected. There was a dead weight of evidence against that party right
now; but Swan River wanted to be fair. He did not know who Hashknife
and Sleepy were, except their names, and he did not want to make any
mistakes.
“We don’t want to horn into yore business,” said Hashknife, reading
the sheriff’s hesitancy. “It ain’t nothin’ to us, yuh see. We’d kinda
like to get our broncs back though. Them was sure two goshawful good
horses.”
Swan River looked up grinning.
“I’ll betcha they were,” he said. “I’d just like to help yuh get ’em
back, to see how good they are. C’mon out to the stable.”
They went out through the rear door, with Forty Dollar bringing up
the rear, stamping his feet to try and stretch his boots. If facial
expression means anything he was accomplishing little.
“These are m’ dude boots,” he explained to Sleepy. “When I dress--I
dress to kill.”
“Yourself?” asked Sleepy innocently.
Forty Dollar grinned painfully and rested on his high-heels, bracing one
hand against the stable door, while the others went inside.
“I want yuh to take a look at the gray and the pinto,” said Swan River,
pointing out the two horses in adjoining stalls. Hashknife looked them
both over carefully and came back beside the sheriff.
“Notice the brands?” asked the sheriff.
“Both HB animals,” said Hashknife. “No other brands.”
The sheriff squinted at the rumps of the two horses, chewing
reflectively on a straw.
“I didn’t need to look at the brands,” he said slowly. “I knew the two
horses we were chasin’ yesterday. Yuh couldn’t mistake that pinto. That
black head shows it up a mile away. And there ain’t many gray horses
bein’ rode around here.”
“Kinda looks like Hank Bell’s goose was about cooked,” observed Forty
Dollar, limping in from the doorway.
“That’ll be about all from you,” said the sheriff. “Yo’re just
pessimistic from tight boots.”
They went back to the office, where Forty Dollar managed to take off the
offending, if gaudy, footwear and put on his old boots.
“Them that wants to be dudes can be dudes,” he declared. “’F I can
find the drummer what sold me that pair of boots, I’ll kick him seven
times with each one. I want food, by golly. You fellers had breakfast
yet? Yeah? Well, I reckon I can eat by my lonesome.”
* * * * *
Forty Dollar grabbed his hat and crossed the street to the Blue Front
restaurant, while the other three men lounged in the doorway of the
office, smoking thoughtfully. A man rode in past them and dismounted at
the Elk saloon. He was not many years past his majority; a thin-faced
youth and rather frail of physique.
“That’s Allenby’s son,” said the sheriff. “Harry Allenby. The old
man thinks that Harry is the finest piece of man-flesh that ever was
whelped. I dunno what in ---- he’s ever goin’ to make out of the
kid. Allenby is so ----ed stingy that he wouldn’t let the kid go to
college; yet he expects him to be President of the United States, I
reckon.”
“Kinda figures to have him be a self-made man, eh?” smiled Hashknife.
“Somethin’ like that. I like Mrs. Allenby. She’s sure a nice little
woman--too ----ed nice for Allenby. And June is a dinger. June is the
daughter. She’s about a year younger than Harry, and I reckon he’s
about twenty-four now.”
While they were discussing the Allenbys’ affairs two more riders came
into the far end of the street and rode toward them. Swan River squinted
thoughtfully, watching them ride to the Elk saloon rack.
“There’s Bud Bell and ‘Sticky’ Clay,” said Swan River. “Bud is the one
on this side--the feller that Allenby sent to the penitentiary. Clay
rides for the HB outfit, and he’s a gunman if there ever was one. Oh,
oh! C’mon.”
The two men had tied their horses and were going toward the saloon door.
Swan River stepped off the sidewalk and hurried toward the saloon. After
a moment of hesitation, Hashknife and Sleepy hurried after him.
“There’s three men from Allenby’s in there,” explained Swan River, as
they reached the sidewalk. “Mebbe it won’t mean anythin’, but yuh never
can tell.”
As they went inside Clayton was just buying some chips in a poker game,
while Omaha and Hoban were deep in the mysteries of trying to play pool
on an uneven table, on which the cushions were as “dead” as strips of
mattress. Harry Allenby was at the bar, with a bottle at his elbow,
squinting sidewise at Bud Bell and Sticky Clay, who were also at the
bar, being served by “Snowy” Barnette, the proprietor.
As far as outward appearances went there was no cause for the sheriff
to feel any uneasiness. Bud turned his head and looked at Swan River
Smith. It was their first meeting since Bud had come back from the
penitentiary. But if Bud felt any malice toward the sheriff, his gray
eyes did not show it.
“Hello, Bud,” said the sheriff softly. “Goin’ to shake hands with me?”
A slight smile flashed across the young man’s thin lips and he nodded
quickly, as he held out his hand.
“Why shouldn’t I, Swan River?” he asked. “You wasn’t to blame.”
They shook hands solemnly. Omaha and Hoban stopped playing long enough
to observe this meeting, and those in the poker game were silent until
it was over. Harry Allenby took a lonesome drink and braced his elbows
on the bar, hooked one heel over the bar-rail and studied the poker
players.
“Howdy, Clay,” said the sheriff.
Sticky Clay grinned, showing two rows of bad teeth, and motioned for
the sheriff to join them in their drink. Clay was wry-necked, sallow
complexioned and almost bald. He seemed to be in bad health, but
those who had had trouble with him declared that there was nothing
sickly about him.
“Invite yore friends,” said Sticky, noticing that Hashknife and Sleepy
were with Swan River.
“I’ll take a cigar,” said Hashknife. “Little too soon after breakfast to
drink.”
“Thasall right,” grinned Clay. “I don’t diagnose no man’s inside
workin’s. ’S everybody set? Here’s hopin’ yuh never get caught.”
“Here’s hopin’ I don’t have to catch yuh,” smiled the sheriff.
Harry Allenby laughed harshly. The saloon went silent. Swan River had
spoken loud enough for every one to hear.
“You won’t have to,” said Harry meaningly. “A sheriff can do as he ----
pleases.”
Swan River’s eyes narrowed, but he turned away, ignoring the implied
insult. He knew that Harry had been drinking more than was good for
him, and was willing to excuse him for his words. Bud was only a few
feet away from Harry, with no one between them.
“You’re drunk, Harry,” said Clayton, shoving back from the table.
“Better go out and get some fresh air.”
Hoban and Omaha carefully placed their billiard cues on the table and
moved slowly toward the bar. Harry looked at them and laughed.
“I don’t need any help,” he assured them, waving them away with a slight
gesture of his left hand. “I can take care of myself, y’betcha. Maybe
it’s none of my business, but when the sheriff comes in and tries to put
himself in right with a ---- jail-bird of a horse-thief, I’m ----ed if
I----”
His right hand jerked to his gun and he swayed from the bar, but his
defense was too slow. Before he had finished speaking, Bud Bell had
flung himself forward, and Harry Allenby went down from a smash full
in the face that flattened his nose and loosened his front teeth.
He fell at the feet of Omaha and Hoban, who made no move to assist him,
as they were looking at Sticky Clay, who had stepped into the center of
the room, six-shooter swinging at his thigh, a grin on his lips. Harry
got slowly to his feet, spitting gore; but the fight had all been taken
out of him. His gun was still in its holster, but he had enough for one
day.
“Yuh can put up yore gun, Clay,” said Hoban. “The kid’s been drinkin’
too much, thasall.”
Sticky Clay grinned and snapped the gun back into the holster. Bud
Bell’s face was still white with anger, but he turned his back on the
blubbering young cowboy, who was being led back to a bucket of water
by Omaha Olsen. Clayton looked up at Swan River and said:
“Overlook that, will you, sheriff? Harry is just a fool kid, and he had
too much liquor.”
“I’ll do the best I can,” said Swan River seriously. “I hope this will
be a lesson to him. Somebody’ll kill him for talkin’ too much one of
these days, Clayton.”
“I suppose they will,” agreed Clayton, and resumed playing.
* * * * *
Bud and Sticky left the place and crossed to a general merchandise
store. In a few minutes Swan River, Hashknife and Sleepy went outside,
where they met Forty Dollar. He wailed mightily when Swan River told
him what had happened.
“Jist my darned luck!” he exclaimed. “Seems like I’m always eatin’
when anythin’ good is pulled off. ’F I ever want to see anythin’ of
the world, I’ll have to starve, I reckon. Betcha forty dollars this
won’t be the end of it.”
“I hope you lose that forty dollars sometime,” grunted the sheriff.
“You’ve been offerin’ that bet ever since I’ve knowed yuh.”
“Nobody ever takes me up, Swan River. I’m game.”
“Oh, ----, you never had that much money. I reckon I better go up to the
depot and collect a lot of telegrams from the express company. They’ll
swamp me with ’em for a while, even if there wasn’t a two bit piece in
that safe.”
“How much did they lose?” asked Hashknife.
“I dunno. They prob’ly don’t know yet. Anyway, there ain’t a ghost of a
chance to--” Swan River hesitated, cleared his throat harshly and headed
for the depot.
“I’d say that he was a square-shooter,” observed Hashknife.
“Swan River?” Forty Dollar grinned softly. “Yeah, he’s all right. He’d
play square with a horse-thief. That’s why our jail ain’t hardly ever
occupied. But don’tcha ever get the idea that the little feller ain’t
a fighter.”
“I wouldn’t choose him,” smiled Hashknife.
They sauntered across the street and met Bud, who was coming out of the
store, followed by Sticky Clay.
“Hyah, Bud,” greeted Forty Dollar, holding out his hand.
“Old Forty Dollar Dion, how are yuh?” said Bud softly. “Long time I no
see yuh.”
They studied each other for several moments.
“Yuh look all right, Bud,” said Dion.
“Yeah, I’m all right, Forty. It seems good to see yuh again.”
“Thank yuh, Bud. Say, I want you fellers to meet Hashknife Hartley and
Sleepy Stevens. Gents, this is Bud Bell and Sticky Clay.”
The four men shook hands. Bud Bell’s eyes never turned from his study
of Hashknife, even when he shook hands with Sleepy. It was evident to
both Hashknife and Sleepy that Bud Bell had recognized them by name.
Sticky’s eyes squinted reflectively, as he seemed to try and place
them. Hashknife and Sleepy had never traveled incognito, even when
knowingly going into an enemy country. Moolock was a long ways from
any place where they had operated, and it was not surprising that
more men did not recognize them by name.
There came an awkward pause, broken by Sticky Clay.
“We better be gettin’ back to the ranch with this stuff, Bud.”
“All right,” said Bud. “Pleased to have met yuh, gents.”
They walked across to their horses and rode out of town, while
Hashknife, Sleepy and Forty Dollar sauntered down to the office.
“Did you ever know that tall puncher?” asked Clay, as he and Bud rode
out of town. “Seems like I’ve heard that name.”
“I don’t know him,” said Bud slowly, thoughtfully, “but I’ve heard
about him, Sticky. There was a man in the penitentiary, servin’ time
for murder, who told me about him. This convict was part of the Moon
River gang. Hartley sent him to the pen.”
“Was he the only one of the gang in the pen?” asked Sticky.
“Yeah--the rest died with their boots on.”
“Oh, yeah,” muttered Sticky. “What do yuh reckon he’s doin’ around here,
Bud?”
Bud shook his head slowly.
“I dunno. Mebbe Allenby has hired him.”
“Well, mebbe,” said Sticky dubiously. “Yuh never can tell. Still, when
you knocked Harry Allenby down, and Hoban and Omaha were comin’ from
the pool table, I seen this tall puncher’s hand swing back toward his
gun, and he kinda humped a little. I seen all this out of the corner
of my eye. Mebbe he’s hired by Allenby, but I’m wonderin’ what would
’a’ happened if Allenby’s gang had started anythin’.”
Bud shook his head and examined his skinned knuckles, which had come in
contact with Harry Allenby’s teeth.
“I heard,” said Sticky Clay, “that Clayton, the cattle-buyer, is goin’
to marry June Allenby.”
Bud looked up quickly, but Sticky was looking straight ahead, his
sombrero pulled low over his eyes. For several moments they rode
silently. Bud’s thin lips twisted painfully, as he said--
“Well, she’d sure make him a good wife.”
“That side of it is all right,” observed Sticky. “She’d make any man a
good wife.”
“If he was lucky enough to get her,” said Bud softly.
Sticky squinted sidewise under the protection of his wide hat at Bud,
who was gazing unblinkingly at the bobbing ears of his horse.
* * * * *
Frank Allenby fairly boiled with indignation when Chet Hoban told him
what had happened in the Elk saloon. Harry had refused to come home
with Hoban and Omaha. Hoban told Allenby exactly what had transpired,
without excusing Harry in any way.
Allenby did not stop to consider that Harry had been a foolish young
man; he only saw the disgrace to the Allenby family in having an
ex-convict knock his son down in a saloon brawl.
“Why didn’t you and Omaha defend him?” he demanded hotly.
Hoban shook his head slowly.
“Harry was wrong; and Sticky Clay had every man in the room covered
before Harry went down. And Clay will shoot.”
“Well, perhaps,” grudgingly. “And Harry wouldn’t come home, eh?”
“No.”
“He must feel the disgrace keenly.” Allenby turned away and went into
the house. Hoban squinted after him and went back toward the bunkhouse,
where Omaha was stretched out on a bunk, reading a paper-backed novel.
“How’d he take it?” asked Omaha.
“Rearin’ straight up,” said Hoban humorously. “I told him that Harry
wouldn’t come home, and he said that Harry must feel the disgrace
keenly.”
“My ----!” grunted Omaha. “‘The disgrace keenly,’ eh? Didja tell him
everythin’ that Harry said?”
“Every word, cowboy.”
“He ought to be proud of his offspring.”
“That’s the ---- of it, Omaha--he is.”
June Allenby was in the living room of the ranch-house when her father
came in after his talk with Chet Hoban, and she could see that he was
greatly perturbed. June was a tall, slender girl, with an unruly crown
of soft brown hair above a face that the cowboys of the Moolock swore,
“has anythin’ beat that ever came over the hills.” But June was not of
the clinging-vine type, nor was she ever guilty of parading her own
beauty.
Allenby flung himself down in an easy chair that creaked a protest, and
stared moodily at the well-worn Navajo rug under his feet.
“What has gone wrong now, Dad?” asked June, closing the book she had
been reading.
He lifted his head and stared at her.
“Wrong? Everything is wrong. Bud Bell whipped your brother in the Elk
saloon today. Knocked him down like a dog!”
Allenby grasped the arms of the chair, as though trying to tear them
from their moorings.
June colored slightly and looked away.
“Why did he do it?” she asked calmly.
“Why?” snorted her father. “Possibly Bud Bell thought it would help to
pay me back for sending him to prison.”
“Don’t you know what started it?”
“What difference does that make?”
“Had Harry been drinking?”
“Drinking? He doesn’t----”
“Yes, he does, Dad. Omaha told me----”
“Oh, pshaw! They all drink a little. Harry isn’t a drinker.”
“Perhaps it doesn’t take much liquor to make him drunk.”
Allenby stared at June for several seconds. He chuckled angrily and got
to his feet.
“June, are you trying to defend Bud Bell?”
“No, I----”
“You met him at several dances before----”
June sprang to her feet and they looked squarely at each other. Then
Allenby laughed harshly, and June whirled on her heel and left the room.
“By ----, that would make the ---- laugh,” he told the empty room. “That
---- rustler!”
He turned to the front door as a vehicle rattled over the hard ground
outside, and he stepped out to see Clayton and a stranger getting out
of a buggy. The stranger was of medium size, dark-featured and with a
small, black mustache. He was dressed in dark clothes, soft shirt and
a stiff-brim Stetson hat.
“Mr. Allenby, meet Mr. Seeley--Jim Seeley.”
They shook hands jerkily. Clayton took a big suit-case from the buggy
and placed it on the porch.
“Kind of a pretty place yuh got here, Mr. Allenby,” said Seeley,
glancing around. “I never seen a cow-ranch with so much paint before.
You believe in dudin’ it up, don’tcha?”
“Just because it is a cattle ranch, there is no need of living like
savages,” replied Allenby.
“Mr. Allenby is several jumps ahead of the rest of the country,”
declared Clayton. “He’s progressive. His ranch-house is as fine as a
home in the city, and I’ll defy you to find a broken board, loose
post or a loose wire on the place.”
Seeley laughed.
“I’m not goin’ to look.”
“Well, you couldn’t find it,” declared Allenby proudly. “I’ve seen to it
all myself. Do you intend to stay right here?”
“Why not?” asked Seeley. “I’m workin’ for you now.”
“Well, I’m glad to have you,” said Allenby. “And when I hire a man I
want him where I can see that he is on the job all the time. Come on
in and meet the family.”
Seeley shot a side glance at Clayton, who was trying to suppress a
smile, and they followed Allenby into the house.
“Now who do yuh reckon that is?” queried Omaha, who was looking out of
the window and saw the three men going into the house.
Hoban joined him and took a look at the stranger.
“That must be the private investigator that Clayton sent for,” said
Hoban dryly. “Allenby has had the detective idea for quite a while, it
seems. He lost faith in the Cattle Association, and had some words with
the secretary, who promised to get him a first-class cow detective; but
it seems that Allenby didn’t ante high enough to get this man.”
“He wouldn’t,” agreed Omaha, turning away from the window. “I don’t
like to appear disloyal, but personally I think that Allenby is so
stingy that he takes out his false teeth at night to save the wear
and tear from his snores.”
* * * * *
Omaha went back to his paper-backed novel, while Chet Hoban sat down
to play a game of solitaire. About fifteen minutes later Harry Allenby
came in. His nose was badly swollen, as was his upper lip; but he was
well loaded with liquor, and if he had been disgraced he did not show
it.
“Whoozup at th’ house?” he asked thickly, trying to point in the
direction of the ranch-house.
“Clayton and a stranger,” grunted Hoban.
“Whooza stranger?”
“I dunno,” Hoban was trying to concentrate on the layout.
“Zasso?” Harry sat down on the bunk and looked owlishly at Omaha, who
grinned behind his book.
“He’s a detective, sonny,” said Omaha patiently. “He’s come here to save
yore papa’s li’l cowlets.”
“Zasso?” Harry blinked thoughtfully. “Zee a goo’ one?”
“Shore is,” nodded Omaha. “He’s the jigger that found the ‘Lost Chord,’
if yuh know what that is.”
“Yezzir, I dunno. Ol’ man up at the house?”
“Yeah, he’s there. If I was you I’d doctor up that nose and lip, Harry.
Yo’re a ---- of a lookin’ thing, if yuh ask me.”
“You better crawl into bed and sleep it off,” said Hoban, without
looking up. “Don’t let yore dad see yuh drunk.”
“Zasso?” Harry stumbled over to a mirror and looked at himself with one
eye shut.
“I’m a sweet lookin’ lily, tha’s a cinch,” he concluded.
He came back to the center of the room, as though the sight of himself
had sobered him a little.
“I’m goin’ back to town,” he decided.
“You better stay right here,” advised Hoban. “Shuck off yore clothes and
go to bed.”
“Not ’f I can get away without the folks seein’ me.”
He opened the door cautiously, peered out for several moments before
going out after his horse. Omaha went to the window and watched Harry
make his sneak back toward town.
“Danged fool kid,” opined Hoban.
“Yeah,” nodded Omaha, “he’s a fool all right, I s’pose. Still he’s old
enough to know what he wants. I blame Allenby more than I do the kid.
He won’t even pay Harry a cowpuncher’s wages.”
Some one was talking just outside the door; so Omaha went to the window
and looked out at Swan River Smith and Forty Dollar Dion, who had just
ridden up to the bunkhouse.
“The law has found us out, Chet,” he said as he threw the door open.
“Howdy, officers,” he called. “Get down and appear amiable.”
“Hello, Omaha,” grinned Swan River. “Is Allenby at home? I mean ‘Mr.’
Allenby.”
Omaha grinned widely and pointed toward the house, where Allenby,
Clayton and Seeley had come out on the porch. Clayton got into the
buggy and drove away, and after a few moments of conversation Allenby
and Seeley came down to the bunkhouse.
Allenby did not introduce Seeley to any of them, but spoke directly to
the sheriff--
“Something you wanted, Mr. Smith?”
“Nothin’ I exactly wanted, Mr. Allenby,” said the sheriff. “It was
kinda in regard to yore loss of last night. In reply I can say that I
ain’t been able to find any clue--yet. In yore talk of this mornin’
you kinda intimated that you suspected somebody of purloinin’ yore
cows, and if you ain’t got nothin’ else to do right now, I’d kinda
like to have yuh explain yore suspicions to me. Sincerely yours, Swan
River Smith, sheriff of Moolock.”
Swan River had intoned the whole statement, as though dictating a
letter, and Allenby’s ears reddened quickly. Omaha smothered a grin;
but Forty Dollar Dion laughed outright. Allenby glared angrily at
Forty Dollar, but that worthy did not mind.
“Are you trying to be smart, or just funny?” Allenby asked the sheriff.
“It’s all in the point of view,” said Swan River evenly.
“All right,” Allenby spat viciously. “As far as my losses are concerned,
you may just forget them. I am not asking any assistance from the
sheriff’s office, and I don’t care to have you volunteer any. I hope you
understand what I mean.”
“----, you didn’t leave many loopholes for a mistake to crawl through,”
grinned Swan River. “But yore likes and dislikes don’t mean nothin’ to
me, Allenby. I’m the sheriff of this county, and I want to tell you----”
“Pardon me, but you can’t tell me anything.” Thus Allenby.
“That’s the whole trouble with you,” said Swan River slowly. “You think
that yore a tin god around here, Allenby. Another thing yuh might do
without any advice from me--and that is to look after that half-baked
kid of yours.
“He came danged near gettin’ what was comin’ to him today, when he
opened his mouth too wide. You’ve brought him up to think too ----ed
much of the name of Allenby. Now I’m tellin’ this to you for yore
own good. And yuh might preach it to him and practice a little of it
yoreself. When you’ve got some evidence that’ll hold good in court,
let me look at it. In the meantime, think what yuh please, but keep
yore mouth shut. I hate to conduct coroner’s inquests. _Adios._”
The two officers turned their horses and rode away, leaving Allenby
gasping with wrath. Omaha stepped back into the bunkhouse, where he
could laugh in safety, while Allenby spluttered and told the wide
world what he thought of Swan River Smith.
Finally he introduced Seeley to Chet Hoban, but did not tell Hoban what
Seeley’s business was. In fact Allenby was too mad to tell anything.
“We’re going to town, Chet,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll hitch up the team
myself.”
He and Seeley went toward the stable, and Hoban leaned against the
doorway until they drove away. Omaha, his face tear-streaked, came out
to watch them depart.
“Prob’ly goin’ down to tell his son that the fatted calf is almost ready
for the barbecue,” said Omaha hoarsely.
“More likely goin’ down to save his little lamb from the slaughter,”
said Hoban. “Me and you better fix a new lock on this bunkhouse, Omaha.
The next thing we know, somebody will steal us.”
* * * * *
For the next two days Moolock was devoid of excitement. Hashknife and
Sleepy spent their time loafing around the Elk saloon and the sheriff’s
office. They had made the acquaintance of several cowboys, but had not
tried to secure work. Hashknife suggested that they move on, but Sleepy
demurred.
“Somethin’ tells me that Moolock is a good place for to be, Hashknife,”
he stated. “The poker games ain’t too avaricious, they put up good food,
and I ain’t found a bug in that hotel. Yuh don’t find many places as
good as this, cowboy.”
Swan River and Forty Dollar had scoured the country, trying to see
what they could see; but there was no trace of Allenby’s three
hundred Herefords. The express company had flooded Swan River with
correspondence regarding the robbery but as yet they had offered no
reward.
“I marked them off my slate, as soon as they got into the Bearpaws,”
stated Swan River. “I’d like to see you fellers get yore broncs back.”
“Me, too,” said Sleepy. “They was the best pair of animals that ever
wore a saddle, y’betcha. Whooee, but that roan of mine was a bird.”
“I’ll betcha,” nodded Swan River. “It could run a mile in spite of----.”
“Just about that fast,” agreed Sleepy. “It was one of them famous A-rab
steeds, noted for endurance. It was the horse that the old emperor or
somethin’ or other meant when he yelled that he’d trade his kingdom for
a horse. Yessir, I’m sure pinin’ a lot for that hammer-headed,
ring-boned hunk of coyote bait.”
“Speakin’ of horses,” observed Hashknife, “I’d like to play somebody a
game of bottle-pool for the championship of Sweden.”
“I’ll poke yuh a game,” offered Forty Dollar quickly.
Swan River and Sleepy agreed to hold stakes and keep the score, but
before the quartet reached the Elk saloon, Jack Merton, owner of the
Arrowhead outfit, and Pete Sepulveda, one of his cowboys, came riding
down the street, leading two horses.
Hashknife and Sleepy looked quickly at each other, as they recognized
their horses. There was no mistaking Hashknife’s tall bay and Sleepy’s
hammer-headed roan. Merton waved to the sheriff, and he and Sepulveda
tied the four horses to the Elk saloon hitch-rack, and the four men
waited for the two riders.
“Seen anybody that lost two horses?” asked Merton, a tall well-built
cowboy, with a pleasant cast of countenance, indicating the horses.
“These two were camped at my stable this mornin’; so I brought ’em in,
sheriff. One’s branded with a JK and the other with a Triangle-6. They
don’t show in my register book.”
“They belong to us,” grinned Hashknife.
“F’r gosh sake!” exclaimed Swan River.
“Is them the two saddle-racks yuh been wailin’ about? Well, well, well!
Huh!”
“What about it?” asked Merton interestedly.
“Well,” Swan River scratched his head thoughtfully, “it ain’t ready for
explanation, Jack. You just take my word for it that the horses belongs
to these gents, will yuh?”
“Anythin’ you say, Swan River,” Merton grinned and hitched up his chaps.
“That’s fine of yuh,” admitted Swan River, and proceeded to introduce
Merton and Sepulveda to Hashknife and Sleepy.
They all adjourned into the saloon, and a few minutes later another
rider came into town.
It was not difficult to see that this rider’s veins carried a certain
percentage of Indian blood. He was nearly six feet tall, a trifle
gaudy in his spotted calf-skin vest and scarlet muffler, together with
a canary-yellow shirt. He was about forty-five years of age, with a
deeply lined face and prominent cheek-bones.
He looked over the horses at the rack, especially the two strange ones,
before dismounting. Seemingly satisfied with his inspection he tied his
sorrel horse at the rack, adjusted his belt and went into the saloon.
“Well, here’s Sam Bass comin’ to town!” exclaimed Swan River, as the
newcomer approached the bar. “How are yuh, Sam?”
“Pretty ---- good, you bet,” laughed Bass. “Hello, Forty Dollar. Hello,
Merton. How are you? By golly, here’s Pete Sepulveda!”
“Have a drink,” invited Swan River.
“Sure I drink whisky. Pretty ---- dry these days.”
They poured out their drinks and Swan River introduced Hashknife and
Sleepy to Sam Bass, who grunted and grinned widely.
“I see two strange horses at the rack,” he stated. “I don’t know the
brands; so I s’pose strangers here. You ride bareback, eh?”
“Well, here’s regards,” said Hashknife, ignoring Bass’ question. He
knew that Swan River did not want to explain about the lost horses.
Bass noticed the evasion, and elevated his brows slightly; but drank
his liquor and did not bring up the subject again.
“You don’t happen to know of somebody that wants to hire a couple of
good punchers, do yuh?” Thus Hashknife, speaking to Merton.
Merton shook his head and motioned to the bartender to get busy again.
“No, I don’t,” he said. “I’ve got a full crew. Maybe Sam needs some
help.”
“Not much,” replied Bass quickly. “I got too much help now. ‘Pinon’
Meade and Lem Elder set in the shade all the time.”
“Must take a lot of shade for all three of yuh,” observed Swan River.
Sam Bass laughed loudly, nodding excitedly.
“By golly, that’s right!” he exploded. “I’m lazy too. Swan River knows.
Some cattlemen work all the time. Look at Allenby. He make new fence,
paint it pretty; paint the house. He’s rich. Sam Bass let ranch go to
----; he’s poor.
“Allenby work all the time; worry, too, I guess. He’s ---- fool. Sam
Bass never work much, never worry no time. He’s ---- fool, too. Let’s
have another drink, eh? Drink to two fools.”
“Allenby wouldn’t appreciate that,” laughed Merton. “He sure thinks he’s
a wise man. Personally, I think that Sam Bass is right.”
“Danged right he is,” agreed Forty Dollar. “Any old time a man says that
Allenby is a fool, I’ll agree with him.”
“What about Allenby losin’ three hundred head of Herefords?” asked
Merton. “Was it a fact?”
“You ask Allenby,” laughed Forty Dollar. “It gave him plumbago.”
“Plumbago is lead,” stated Swan River. “You don’t mean plumbago; you
mean lumbago, Forty.”
“Thasso?” Forty Dollar emptied his glass and wiped off his chin. “If I
shoot a man, I give him plumbago, do I?”
“If yuh shot him with a lead-pencil, Forty.”
“My ----!” grunted Forty Dollar.
“That liquor shore does take a-holt of yuh, Swan River. Shoot him with a
lead-pencil!”
Forty Dollar stared around at the rest of the men, his eyes wide with
wonder.
“You fellers better exchange a few last words with Swan River Smith,
while he still has a little _sabe_ left,” he said softly. “It shore is
the turnin’ point in his glorious career. I’d rather see him dead than
to not know anythin’. ---- knows he’s always been bad enough, but this
is too much.”
Forty Dollar Dion buried his face in his elbows on the bar and began
crying.
“That danged fool always gets a cryin’ jag on, after about six drinks,”
said Swan River disgustedly. “Let him cry.”
* * * * *
Someone passed a sack of tobacco and they were rolling cigarets, when a
tow-headed youngster, his eyes wide with wonder, tiptoed into the saloon
and looked at the group at the bar.
“What do yuh want, sonny?” asked the bartender.
“I--I want the sheriff,” faltered the youngster.
“Me?” asked Swan River. “What do yuh want, son?”
“You--you better come out here.” The lad turned and fairly ran out of
the place.
“Mebbe I better,” agreed Swan River quickly, and he was followed by
every one, except Forty Dollar and the bartender.
The boy was on the sidewalk, pointing excitedly toward the hitch-rack,
where a man sat drunkenly on a horse, reins dragging.
“That looks danged funny!” exclaimed the sheriff, as they all hurried
out to the man. He was roped to the saddle with a long lariat, and
tied to the rope, where it circled the man’s neck, was a fairly fresh
cowhide.
It was Seeley, Allenby’s detective. His face was gray as ashes,
except where it was caked with blood; and there was blood all over
his shirt. It appeared that the man had been shot in the head and in
the body. Hashknife took out his knife and cut the ropes, while the
others lowered the man to the sidewalk.
He groaned painfully and collapsed. Swan River sent one of the men
after a doctor. Hashknife spread out the cowhide. It had been taken
from a Hereford two-year-old, and the brand on the right shoulder was
a Half-Circle Cross.
“Does anybody know him?” asked Swan River. “Ain’t he the feller who was
stayin’ at Allenby’s place?”
“He was here with Allenby yesterday,” offered the bartender, who had
left Forty Dollar alone.
“It kinda looks like he’d collected the hide of one of Allenby’s missin’
Herefords,” said Hashknife. “He’s got creased along the head, and it
kinda looks like there might be a bullet in his right shoulder, which
made him lose quite some gore.”
The youngster came racing back with the information that the doctor
wanted them to bring the man down to his home. Some one got a blanket
from the hotel, and there were plenty of men to carry the wounded man
down to the doctor’s office. Swan River carried the cowhide over in
front of his office and draped it across the little hitch-rack.
“What do yuh make of it, Hartley?” he asked seriously. “Why would
anybody shoot this man, tie him to a saddle and send him back with
that cowhide?”
“You want my opinion, Swan River?”
“Y’betcha.”
“Well, I ain’t got one. It kinda looks to me like somebody was tryin’ to
take a slap at Mr. Allenby.”
Swan River sighed deeply. All this was only piling up misery for him.
“I suppose I’ve got to make an arrest pretty soon,” he said slowly. “I
ain’t got a bit of evidence to make it on; but the arrow points just one
way. Still--I dunno.”
He got up and walked to the door of the office. Hank and Bud Bell were
dismounting at the general store.
“There’s old Hank Bell,” he told Hashknife, pointing at the angular
little man, who carried his right arm sharply bent at the elbow. They
disappeared into the store, and Swan River turned to Hashknife.
“That pinto and gray belong to old Hank,” he said softly. “Bud rides the
pinto.”
“You still got ’em in yore stable?” asked Hashknife.
“Sure thing. When they start inquiring about lost horses, it’ll be
time enough for me to do my talkin’. Nobody, except the four of us,
know about ’em.”
Hashknife walked up to the store and went inside. He was curious to see
old Hank Bell. Bud was buying some cartridges from the proprietor, who
was telling him about the stranger who had been shot. Old Hank seemed
indifferent to the telling, but Hashknife could see that the old man was
not missing a word of it.
Old Hank was of the old school of cattlemen. He was small, wiry of
frame, thin faced; his white hair reaching to his collar. His eyes were
small and as hard as agate, but there were enough grin-wrinkles around
them to prove that old Hank Bell was not always serious. His right arm
was crippled in such a way that he was unable to reach below his waist;
and Hashknife noticed that the old man wore his holster on the left
side, tied down.
“Regular old he-wolf,” Hashknife told himself. “Taught himself to draw
and shoot left-handed.”
The proprietor finished telling his story, and a ghost of a smile
flitted across old Hank’s lips, when the proprietor spoke about the
Half-Circle Cross cowhide that was hanging from the man’s neck.
Bud turned and nodded to Hashknife. He spoke aside to his father, who
shot a quick glance at Hashknife. Pete Sepulveda came into the store
and spoke to Hashknife--
“That feller was shot twice, Hartley. The one creased his head and won’t
amount to much; but the other one went plumb through him. He was shot
from behind. The doctor dunno whether it’ll kill him or not. Do you know
who he is?”
“Nope. Somebody said he was stayin’ at Allenby’s place.”
“Allenby just drove in. I seen him comin’ as I came in here.”
Hashknife walked to the door and looked up the street. Allenby and his
daughter were in the buckboard, stopped in the middle of the street,
talking to one of the men who had just come from the doctor’s office.
As Hashknife watched them Allenby whipped up his team and went toward
the doctor’s place.
Bud completed his purchases and walked across to the Elk saloon,
followed by his father, who gave Hashknife a searching glance as he
went past.
“He’s a tough old pelican,” declared Sepulveda. “Don’t think he’s been
in a shootin’ scrape since he got his arm smashed; but I’m bettin’ that
he _sabes_ how to shoot left-handed. Them old jiggers shoot first and
talk afterward.
“Old Hank used to be awful fast with a gun. He had a funny way of
gettin’ his gun, Hartley. He’d kinda swing his hand behind the
holster--like a feller might swing his hand when he’s walkin’--and on
the back swing he pulled and shot all to once. I dunno how he done
it. I’ve tried to do it. They tell me that he learned Bud how to do
it; but I ain’t never seen Bud have to shoot--yet.”
They walked outside and joined Sleepy and Merton.
“Allenby is throwin’ a fit,” declared Sleepy. “He acts like he was
the one that got shot. I asked him who this feller was, and he told
me it was none of my business--which it wasn’t. I’ve heard a lot of
profanity, but Allenby’s got ’em all skinned.”
“Not in front of his daughter, did he?” asked Hashknife.
“No, she didn’t stay; she drove back to the post-office.”
Swan River Smith and Sam Bass were coming down the street toward the
store; but crossed the street and went to the White Horse saloon.
“I’ll buy a drink,” offered Sepulveda, and Sleepy accepted; but
Hashknife shook his head.
“Thank yuh just the same, Sepulveda. Mebbe I’ll join yuh later.”
Sleepy and Sepulveda went to the saloon, leaving Hashknife leaning
against the front of the store, cogitating over certain things.
Bud Bell came out of the saloon, as Sleepy and Sepulveda went in. He
declined their invitation to drink and came over to the store.
“How is everythin’ today, Hartley?” he asked, as he went past.
“Oh, kinda interestin’,” smiled Hashknife.
June Allenby was coming down the street, carrying some packages in
her hands. It was the first time that Hashknife had seen her, and he
was forced to agree with Forty Dollar Dion, that June Allenby was a
“dinger.”
It was not like Hashknife to stare at a lady, but he did. In fact he
was so interested in her that he did not hear Bud Bell come out of the
store. June lifted her eyes from the sidewalk and looked straight past
Hashknife, who turned his head and discovered Bud Bell.
They had both stopped and were staring at each other. Hashknife
wished that he was on the opposite side of the street instead of
almost directly between these two. Then Bud stepped to the edge of
the sidewalk, as though to start across the street; but the girl
halted him with a motion of her hand.
“Bud,” she said, “aren’t you going to even say hello?”
Bud’s hand went uncertainly to his sombrero, but his eyes shifted from
June and glanced quickly around.
“Yes’m, I reckon that wouldn’t hurt anybody--and I don’t want to hurt
you.”
He stepped off the sidewalk and headed swiftly across the street.
Hashknife watched June’s face, as she followed him with her eyes until
he went into the Elk saloon. Hashknife wanted to speak to her--to tell
her that he would help to straighten things out--but he was tongue-tied.
Perhaps she read his intentions in his eyes as she passed him and went
into the store.
“She loves Bud Bell!” he told himself wonderingly. “Can yuh beat that?
This is sure a queer old world. And in spite of all the trouble Frank
Allenby has caused Bud Bell, I’m bettin’ that Bud Bell loves Allenby’s
daughter. He said he didn’t want to hurt her. I wonder if he meant--oh,
well, let’s see.”
He hooked his thumb over the waistband of his overalls and considered
the situation for a space of time. His eyes shifted to their two horses
at the Elk saloon hitch-rack.
“By golly, I’ve got to fix a place for them broncs,” he told himself,
“and this is as good a time as any, I reckon.”
He turned on his heel and went slowly down the street.
* * * * *
Hashknife was barely out of sight when Allenby came from the doctor’s
home. His face was black with anger and his hands were clenched at his
sides as he strode along. Near the door of the Elk saloon he stopped
and studied the horses at the hitchracks. Over in front of the store
stood the two horses which Hank Bell and his son had ridden.
“Both here,” muttered Allenby, half-aloud. “By ----, I’ve stood enough!”
He turned, spat viciously, grimacing, as though he tasted wormwood and
gall, and went into the saloon.
Swan River Smith and Pete Sepulveda saw him cross in front of the White
Horse saloon, and they lost no time in crowding into the saloon behind
him. He was standing in the middle of the room, looking at Hank Bell,
who was standing at the bar with Sleepy and Sam Bass. He did not notice
that the sheriff was behind him.
Bud was sitting beside a card-table, looking at an old newspaper, but
now his eyes shifted to Allenby.
“I’ve stood about all I’m going to, Bell,” Allenby spoke to old Hank in
a shaking voice. Hank Bell turned slowly, his left hand swinging back of
him, as though to shove him away from the bar.
“Look out,” whispered Pete Sepulveda, who knew what that movement meant.
Allenby was not a gunman. It is doubtful if he could have hit Hank
Bell at that distance; but his anger had made him forget all caution.
He wanted to crush this little, crooked-armed old man. But Hank Bell
was not going to fight him. He stood there, poised easily, his left
hand splayed out behind him.
But before anything more could be said, Swan River Smith butted Allenby
with his left shoulder, while with his right hand he snatched Allenby’s
gun from its holster. The jolt turned the big man half-around and he
struck at the little sheriff; but Swan River easily dodged the blow and
stepped between Allenby and Hank Bell.
“And that’ll be about all of this show,” said Swan River calmly. “If you
fellers want to go gunnin’ for each other, you better go out on the flat
somewhere.”
“I wasn’t gunnin’ for anybody,” said old Hank slowly, “but I hate to
disappoint anybody when they ask me for trouble.”
“Thasall right, Hank.” Swan River turned to Allenby--“Some day,
Allenby, you’ll make a mistake. And it’ll probably be the kind of a
mistake that a man only makes once in a lifetime. I don’t blame yuh
for bein’ mad--but yuh ought to use judgment.”
“What was this to you?” demanded Allenby hotly. “You had no right to
interfere with my business. Give me back that gun!”
Swan River grinned and shoved the gun inside the waistband of his
overalls.
“When yuh get ready to go home, I’ll just do that,” he said. “I’m kinda
responsible for the wear and tear on Moolock, yuh know.”
“You’re responsible for a lot of things,” sneered Allenby. “I came to
town to get a little information from you, Smith. This morning I had
a little talk with a man named Pierson. He’s from Tecoma. He told me
a little story about you being at Tecoma the other night--the evening
of the day that the express robbery was pulled off.
“He told me about two men whose horses were stolen by the bandits--and
he told me about a pinto and a gray that were left at the hitch-rack.
The pinto had a coal black head. Pierson saw the brands, too. What about
it?”
Swan River squinted at Sleepy and his brows drew into a deep frown. He
realized that there was nothing more he could do to keep that evidence
under cover. Hank Bell and Bud were looking straight at each other, and
now Bud got to his feet.
“Take it easy,” advised Sleepy softly. Bud flashed a glance at him, as
though wondering why Sleepy had said that.
“Well, what about it?” asked Allenby triumphantly.
He felt that he was putting the screws to Swan River Smith, and he knew
that it was not welcome news to the Bell family.
“What about it?” queried Swan River vacantly. “Huh! Pierson told yuh
this, did he?”
“Yes, he did. Would he have any reason to lie?”
“No-o-o, I don’t reckon he would, Allenby.”
“What about the pinto and gray?” asked Bell wonderingly.
Swan River pursed his lips, as he shook his head slowly.
“You’ve got those horses,” declared Allenby. “You’ve had them ever since
that night.”
Swan River did not deny it. Sepulveda turned to Sleepy.
“That’s how you lost your two horses, eh?”
Sleepy ignored the question.
“Are they in your stable or at the livery barn?” asked Allenby.
“Yuh might find out by lookin’,” said Swan River.
“All right!” snapped Allenby. “You know as well as I do that those two
horses belong to Hank Bell. Now what are you going to do about it?”
“Do about it?” parroted Swan River.
“Yes! Are you going to let them escape while we go to look at the
evidence?”
Swan River squinted at Hank and Bud.
“Are yuh?” he asked.