“I’d rather fight than run, Swan River. Suppose we go with yuh.”
“That’s a ---- of a way to run your office!” exploded Allenby. “Some of
these days----”
“Suppose you stay here, Allenby,” suggested Swan River blandly.
“No, by ----! All I want is a square deal. Will we go to the livery-barn
first?”
“Suit yoreself.”
* * * * *
They all trooped to the livery-stable, where it did not take them long
to find that the horses were not there. Back they went to the sheriff’s
stable, behind his office, where they found Hashknife, busily currying
the tall bay. In the next stall stood the JK roan, belonging to Sleepy,
and in the other two stalls stood Swan River’s sorrel and Forty Dollar’s
buckskin.
Hashknife looked curiously at the crowd, but did not cease grooming his
horse. Swan River leaned against the doorway and rubbed his chin, while
the rest of the crowd looked around blankly and came outside.
“I--I hope yore satisfied,” said Swan River chokingly.
“Satisfied, ----!” snorted Allenby. He was no longer the triumphant
person of a few minutes ago. Old Hank scratched his head foolishly,
and motioned to Bud.
“You don’t want us for anythin’ more do yuh?” Old Hank spoke to Swan
River.
“Shucks, no,” said Swan River. “I reckon everybody’s satisfied.”
“I hope so,” said old Hank. “C’mon, Bud.”
They walked back through the alley, leaving Allenby staring after them,
his lips working painfully. He turned on the sheriff.
“What crooked work is this?” he demanded hotly. “You just the same as
admitted that you had those horses.”
“I didn’t admit nothin’,” denied Swan River. “I was willin’ to prove
that I didn’t.”
Allenby went back toward the street without another word.
“I’d buy a drink,” stated Pete Sepulveda. “I’d buy a drink for
everybody.”
Sam Bass, Merton and several more of the crowd accepted on the spot; but
Sleepy had already gone to work grooming his roan.
Swan River sat down on the feed-box and watched the two cowboys work on
their horses, until the rest of the men had gone back.
“I thought they had yuh, Swan River,” said Sleepy, pausing to clean his
currycomb. “Yuh could ’a’ knocked me down with a straw.”
“Yeah, I felt the same about it.” Swan River squinted at Hashknife
questioningly, but the tall cowboy’s face was serious. For several
minutes there was nothing but the “swish” of the currycomb and brush
to break the silence. Finally Hashknife stepped back, looked the bay
over carefully and threw the comb and brush into a box against the
wall. He walked to the door and looked out, as he brushed off his
shirt.
“Hartley,” said Swan River softly. “Did you know that Pierson had talked
with Allenby?”
“Pierson?”
“Yeah. He’s the feller who runs the saloon at Tecoma. Didja know that
Pierson told Allenby about those two horses--the pinto and the gray?”
“No-o-o, I didn’t know it. We needed a place to put our broncs, and I
didn’t feel like payin’ a livery-stable to keep ’em.”
Swan River took a deep breath and looked at Sleepy, who had ceased work
while Hashknife was talking.
“And that’s about all you’ll ever get out of him,” said Sleepy
knowingly.
“Well,” Swan River sighed with satisfaction, “that’s enough to suit me.
Mebbe we’re all wrong, I dunno. Anyway, I thank yuh, Hashknife. It saved
me from a lot of explainin’.”
“Yo’re welcome, sheriff,” said Hashknife. He was thinking of a girl who
wanted a boy to say hello to her; a boy who was afraid that even a hello
from him might harm her.
“This is a ---- of a world,” he said thoughtfully.
“It sure is,” agreed Swan River. “We don’t ask to get in; get ---- while
we’re here, and get out because we can’t help ourselves. My old dad used
to say--
“‘Eat a lot of green vegetables, keep yore mouth shut and yore gun
cocked--and you’ll live a long time.’”
Sleepy laughed and put up his brush.
“How close do yuh foller that advice?” he asked.
“Well,” grinned Swan River, “I keep my gun cocked quite a lot of the
time. I figure that’s what they call a necessary of life--anyway around
here.”
* * * * *
A lapse of twenty-four hours had made little difference in Allenby’s
feelings toward the rest of the world. Seeley was still alive, but the
doctor held out little hope for his recovery. The soft-nose bullet had
just about wrecked one of his lungs, and the other had caused a slight
concussion of the brain.
Clayton has just brought in the latest report of Seeley’s condition, and
Allenby had called a meeting at the bunkhouse. Harry was sober but just
a bit shaky; Omaha amused; Hoban serious. It was then that Allenby told
them all about hiring Seeley to investigate for him.
“They shot him down like a dog,” Allenby told them angrily. “They have
probably added murder to their other crimes. There is no doubt in my
mind that either the sheriff, his deputy, or one of those two strange
cowboys turned that pinto and gray horse loose, to ruin the evidence.
“Just what interest those two cowboys have in this deal, I do not know.
I feel sure that Swan River Smith thought those two horses were in the
stable, and that he was as surprised as anyone else when we did not find
them. The sheriff is against us; so it is up to us to handle it in the
only way possible--go and settle it ourselves.”
“How do yuh mean?” asked Hoban.
“I mean that we’ll ride down to the HB ranch, force them to confess and
take them to jail ourselves.”
“Christmas daisies!” grunted Omaha. “You talk like we was goin’ out to
bring in a cow.”
Allenby glared at Omaha. He did not believe in anyone questioning an
order or a suggestion from him.
“Are you afraid to do this, Olsen?” he asked.
“No, I ain’t afraid,” said Omaha meaningly. “I just don’t think it can
be done, tha’sall. You might get a ---- of a lot of hot lead, but yuh
won’t get no confession.”
“Would you refuse to go?” asked Allenby.
Omaha squinted at the floor for several moments before he looked up at
Allenby and nodded slowly--
“Yeah, I reckon I would. If I caught a man stealin’ yore cows, I’d shoot
him as quick as you would; but I don’t reckon I’m goin’ to try and take
the law in my own hands and try to make a man confess. That’s up to the
officers--not to me.”
“All right,” said Allenby briskly. “Your wages up to date are ready for
you, Olsen. I want men who will do my bidding. How about you, Hoban?”
“I’ll ride with Omaha,” said Hoban calmly. “We came here together, yuh
know. I’ve handled yore cows, Allenby--you handle yore own killin’.”
Allenby snorted audibly and looked around. He had been sure of Hoban,
because Hoban was his foreman. It left only three of them to do the
job--and he wasn’t so sure of Clayton.
“Well, that makes things different,” he decided grudgingly.
“Decidedly,” agreed Clayton. “Perhaps the idea wasn’t as good as it
might have been. You see, Allenby, you haven’t enough evidence yet to
force a confession from either of the Bell family.”
“Well, how can I get it?” demanded Allenby. “I’d give five thousand
dollars for evidence enough to convict those two men.”
No one seemed to know--which was not surprising.
“Who are those two cowboys?” asked Allenby.
“One is named Hartley and the other one Stevens,” offered Harry. “I
heard that much about ’em. The tall one is nicknamed Hashknife.”
Allenby squinted closely at Harry.
“Are you sure of that, Harry?” he asked.
“Well, that’s what they’re called.”
“That’s funny,” muttered Allenby, turning to Clayton. “That is the names
of the two men that Freeman, the secretary of the Cattle Association,
spoke to me about. They refused my offer, but still they came here.”
“Hartley and Stevens, eh?” said Clayton wonderingly. “Who sent them in
here, I wonder?”
“I’ve done all the wondering I’m going to,” declared Allenby, turning to
the door. “I’m going to town and find these two men. My offer is still
open, and I think they’ll accept it, after I tell them what it means to
me.”
“How soon can I get my pay?” asked Omaha. Allenby halted half-way
outside and looked back.
“We will take that up later, Olsen. Are you going with me, Clayton?”
“Yes, I’ll go with you,” agreed Clayton.
They drove away in a cloud of dust, swinging out through the main gate
on two wheels. Omaha grinned and sat down on his bunk.
“I suppose that me and you are canned, Chet,” he said.
“Yo’re canned,” corrected Chet, “I quit.”
“Aw, ----!” blurted Harry. “The old man will forget all that in an hour.
You fellers got anythin’ drinkable around here?”
“You lay off the booze,” advised Hoban. “The first thing you know the
old man will cut you off his will.”
“Is that so?” Harry laughed sarcastically. “That’ll hurt me a ---- of
a lot. He never did give me a ---- cent; and he’ll live longer than I
will probably.”
“If you don’t keep your mouth shut,” agreed Hoban dryly.
Harry laughed and went up to the ranch-house, while Omaha and Hoban
began packing their war-sacks.
It did not take Allenby and Clayton long to make the drive to Moolock,
and they were greeted at Elk saloon with the information that Seeley had
died. The doctor wanted some information regarding this man, in order to
notify his relatives; and Swan River Smith wanted some information
regarding him, to use at the inquest.
Allenby knew nothing about him, except what Clayton had told him; and
Clayton’s information was almost as vague. He knew that Seeley was a
detective--a cattle detective--but he did not know where Seeley’s
relatives lived.
Swan River Smith went back to his office, where Forty Dollar, Hashknife
and Sleepy were playing seven-up at two bits a corner, and told them
what Clayton had told him regarding the dead man.
“Name is Seeley, and he was a cattle detective, eh?” mused Hashknife.
“It kinda looks to me like his profession reacted upon him. Mebbe he
wore a star, or somethin’ that advertised his callin’.”
“That’s why Allenby told me to keep out of it,” grinned Swan River. He
sobered in a moment, shutting one eye, as he considered the situation.
“I’ll tell yuh, it ain’t so much of a joke, at that,” he said. “Murder
is murder, by golly. That Seeley was shot from behind; and it ain’t
noways healthy nor conductive of pleasant thoughts to think that there
might be a killer behind the next bush.”
“Looks to me like it might be a warnin’,” observed Forty Dollar. “I
sure believe in them kinda signs. I’ve had my fortune told five times,
altogether. Had ’em told by a different person every time--and every
fortune was different. Doggone it, yuh never know who to believe.
“One of ’em told me to beware of a tall, dark man; another told me
that I was goin’ to have a lot of trouble with a light complected man,
and the rest of ’em dilated on trouble with three other kinds of men.
And they all was different. If I tried to run my existence accordin’
to their warnin’s, I’d have to hide out in the hills. Whooee! I sure
have got a lot of mixed sizes and colors tryin’ to make life hard for
me.”
“I never had my fortune told,” said Swan River. “I’d a lot rather get
along in my own dumb way. I don’t want to know what is jist around the
next turn; but I’d sure like to have just a little inside information
on who is doin’ this dirty work.
“We’ll have to hold this inquest tomorrow and shove that poor ----
under the sod without knowin’ anythin’ more about him. Clayton, the
cattle buyer, hired him for Allenby; but Clayton don’t know where
Seeley’s relatives live.”
* * * * *
While they were talking, Doctor Edwall, the coroner, came in. He was a
fussy little man, partly bald, and talked jerkily.
“Very little information to be had,” he declared. “Clayton knows very
little. No known relatives. Came here from Omaha, Nebraska. Pockets
yielded very little. Nothing worth while. Here--” he handed the sheriff
a soiled envelope--“that is a letter to Seeley, written, I presume, by
Mr. Clayton. I have read it.”
Swan River Smith took the letter out of the envelope and read it
carefully. Swan River did not read very fast. Finally he placed it on
his desk.
“Well, that don’t give us much information, doctor,” he decided. “We’ll
just have to go ahead and hold the inquest, bring in the usual verdict,
and bury the corpse, I reckon.”
“Yes, yes, I suppose so, sheriff. Well, good-by, gentlemen.”
The doctor bustled away, as busy as a bee. Hashknife picked up the
letter and looked it over. It had been sent from Moolock, and was
directed to Jim Seeley, Omaha, Nebraska, care of general delivery.
The letter read:
Dear Jim:
Frank Allenby, the biggest cattleman in Moolock, is
up against a very dangerous proposition and needs help.
It looks like a plain case of spite work by somebody and
you can make five thousand dollars for a few days work.
This gang of rustlers are able to pull off big jobs
and get away without the slightest chance of anyone
detecting them. Your work must be done without anyone
knowing who you are; _sabe_?
I will explain everything to you when you get here.
You will like Allenby. If you can’t take this job, Jim, it
will disappoint me greatly. If you come, keep it dark, or it
might make things very bad. Wire your decision.
Sincerely
Ed.
“Well, Allenby’s life is still worth the five thousand, I reckon,”
smiled Hashknife, as he handed the letter back to the sheriff. “Mebbe
he’ll raise the ante after awhile.”
“Speak about the ----,” muttered Forty Dollar.
Allenby was entering the office as Forty Dollar spoke, but he could
hardly have heard what Hashknife said. Allenby was trying his best to
be pleasant as he greeted all of them. He sat down and fanned himself
with his hat.
“Going to hold the inquest tomorrow?” he asked the sheriff.
“Yeah, tomorrow,” nodded the sheriff. “Probably want you to testify,
Allenby. It won’t amount to anythin’; but it’s accordin’ to law.”
“Certainly,” agreed Allenby warmly. “I wish I could give you more
information regarding this man Seeley; but I knew nothing about him.
There is no question but what he was murdered.”
“Well,” said Swan River slowly, “I never knowed a man to shoot
himself twice in the back with a rifle. I suppose there is some of
them con-tor-shunists that might shoot themselves once in the back;
but I’ll betcha that a thirty-thirty would sure take the kink out of
’em real quick. No, I reckon we’ve got to look the facts square in
the face and admit that Seeley was shot with malice aforethought and
a high-powered rifle.”
“Mm-m-m-m,” muttered Allenby.
Swan River’s face was so serious that Allenby wasn’t quite sure whether
Swan River was joking or not. He decided to drop the subject; so he
turned to Hashknife and said--
“I was just wondering if you two cowboys were looking for work.”
Hashknife grinned widely.
“You might change that question to read, ‘lookin’ for jobs,’ and get us
to nod our heads.”
Allenby forced a laugh.
“I suppose it’s just as well to be honest about it,” he said. “There
will probably be two vacancies on my ranch, and you two can have the
jobs, if you care to take them.”
“Hoban and Omaha quittin’?” asked Forty Dollar.
“Well, it amounts to that. I shall make Harry foreman, I think. He needs
responsibility.”
“He sure as----needs somethin’,” grinned Swan River.
Allenby’s lips formed a hot retort, but he curbed his feelings. He knew
that there was nothing to gain in quarreling with the sheriff; so he
shut his lips and waited for Hashknife to decide.
“Forty a month?” asked Sleepy.
“Yes.”
The forty dollars per month did not appeal to Sleepy, but he was willing
to leave the decision to Hashknife, who was thinking deeply over the
offer.
“Well,” he said slowly, “I suppose we might take it. It ain’t none of
my business, but I’d like to know why yore foreman and the other man
are quittin’ yuh.”
Allenby’s expression indicated that it was none of Hashknife’s business,
but he replied evenly--
“They are leaving the Half-Circle Cross because they would not obey
orders.”
“Yeah? Well, mebbe we won’t obey ’em either, Allenby. But if you want to
take that chance--we’re willin’, eh, Sleepy?”
“We can always quit,” said Sleepy indifferently.
“Well, that is settled,” said Allenby, with a certain amount of
satisfaction, as he got up and started for the door. “You will be out
to the ranch today?”
“Before supper time,” said Hashknife.
A few minutes later Omaha and Hoban rode into town, with their war-sack,
containing their belongings, tied to the back of their saddles. Allenby
met them on the street and paid what was due on their salaries.
Clayton was not going back to the ranch; so Allenby left town alone.
“What did yuh take these jobs for?” asked Sleepy, as he and Hashknife
saddled their horses at the sheriff’s stable.
“Just a fool notion thasall,” said Hashknife seriously.
“All right,” Sleepy retorted grudgingly. “Forty a month, and take orders
from some kid.”
“We ain’t took no orders from him yet, Sleepy.”
“That’s true. I’d kinda like to know what kind of orders he passed out
to them other two hired men.”
“Wait and see,” advised Hashknife. “We’ll likely find out.”
About a mile out of town they overtook Allenby, who had driven off the
side of the road and was waiting for them.
“I didn’t want to say too much there in town,” he told them. “Freeman
told me your names at the time he spoke about me hiring you; so I
know you are the same men. I think I need your help now more than I
did before, and I just want to say that I’m still willing to pay you
the sum of five thousand dollars for evidence that will convict those
who have been stealing my stock.
“The men who have been stealing my stock are the same ones that killed
Seeley. A conviction for rustling will fasten the murder on them also.
For some reason or other, it appears that we have been working at cross
purposes. I think you know what I mean.”
“Don’t reckon I do,” said Hashknife thoughtfully.
“That matter concerning the pinto and gray horse.”
“Oh, yeah. I heard the sheriff sayin’ somethin’ about it. What was it
all about, Allenby?”
Allenby studied Hashknife and Sleepy for several moments. Sleepy’s
expression was as innocent as that of a child, while Hashknife’s was
merely indifferent, as he carefully shaped a cigaret and struck a
match with his thumb nail.
“Well,” said Allenby dubiously, “perhaps--but it doesn’t matter.”
He spoke sharply to the team, which surged back into the road, and the
two cowboys followed leisurely behind him.
“He’s still got that five thousand,” laughed Hashknife.
“Yeah, and he can keep it,” said Sleepy. “I don’t want no thirty-thirty
bullets between my shoulders, y’betcha.”
* * * * *
Hashknife and Sleepy did not go to Moolock the next day. Allenby and his
son left early, as they were not sure what time the inquest was to be
held. They gave no orders to Hashknife and Sleepy. Allenby told them to
get used to the ranch, and to take it easy for their first day.
The two cowboys had instinctively liked Mrs. Allenby, a quiet little
woman. June had colored slightly during her introduction to Hashknife
as she recognized him, and wondered if he had remembered her meeting
with Bud Bell.
Sleepy did not like the Half-Circle Cross ranch buildings.
“Ain’t noways homelike,” he complained. “Makes yuh feel like yore
civilized. Even the bunkhouse door don’t squeak. By golly, I’d put some
sand into them hinges if I stayed here long. Carpet on the bunkhouse
floor and a re-cep-tickle for cigaret butts!”
“It sure is kinda dude-like,” admitted Hashknife. “But you have to
excuse Allenby; he’s from the city. If he runs cows long enough he’ll
develop squeaky hinges, bare floors and weather-beaten exteriors.”
About an hour after Harry and his father left the ranch, June asked
Hashknife if he would saddle her horse. She rode a racy-looking little
sorrel, a swell-fork saddle; and her riding clothes consisted of a
divided skirt, flannel shirt, cowboy boots and a floppy sombrero.
“_Mucho buena!_” exclaimed Sleepy softly, as she rode away.
“That’s right,” agreed Hashknife.
They watched until she disappeared in the hills to the east. There was
nothing for them to do except to loaf around.
The inquest at Moolock caused a certain amount of interest, and there
was quite a crowd present. Allenby admitted that Seeley was a detective,
hired for him by Clayton, the cattle-buyer. Clayton said he had met
Seeley a number of times, and knew that Seeley was a man of ability. The
sheriff produced and read Clayton’s letter to Seeley, which had been
among Seeley’s effects; and the hastily picked coroner’s jury brought in
a verdict that Seeley had been shot in the back by a party or parties
unknown.
There was considerable discussion among the cattlemen, following the
inquest. They had ignored Allenby’s statements regarding the number
of cattle he had lost lately; but they were forced to admit that it
was serious enough to cause a man to get shot in the back.
Neither Hank nor Bud Bell were in town. It might have complicated
matters a little, as it was well known that there was bad blood
between them and Allenby. The inquest was held about two o’clock in
the afternoon, and at about three o’clock the stage from White Eagle,
thirty miles away, came into town, with the driver, “Shorty” Elkins,
sitting straight in the seat, hanging on with both hands, and with
the lines twisted around one foot and held between his knees.
The team went past the stage station, caught the right front wheel into
the post of a hitch-rack and jerked to a sudden stop; so sudden that
Shorty pitched off over the wheel and fell against the sidewalk, where
he stayed until some of the men picked him up.
They straightened him out on the sidewalk and some one poured a drink of
whisky between his white lips.
“My gosh!” exploded Larry Neil, an Arrowhead cowboy, “somebody has sure
riddled poor Shorty. Somebody get the doctor.”
Swan River Smith arrived, as did Allenby and Clayton. Another drink
of whisky, forced between Shorty’s lips, seemed to revive him enough
to open his eyes.
“How are yuh, Shorty?” asked Swan River. “Can yuh tell us what happened
to yuh?”
Shorty’s eyes were filming, but he was conscious. He tried to lift his
hand, but the effort was too much. Several times he twisted his lips,
trying to speak. Then--
“June--Allenby----”
He managed to speak her name, spacing it widely.
“What about her, Shorty?” asked Swan River anxiously. “Try it again,
son.”
“She--” He spoke the one word, tried to say more, but was unable to open
his mouth again.
“Shorty’s dead,” said Swan River softly, getting to his feet.
Fred Hartwell, owner of the stage line, forced his way to the center and
looked down at the dead man who had been his driver. Swan River told him
all they knew about it, and they watched Hartwell as he examined the
contents of the stage.
“The treasure box is gone,” he said. “We won’t know how much has been
stolen until we check up with the office at White Eagle.”
The doctor arrived, and after a short examination shook his head, as he
listened to a description of how the stage had arrived.
“I don’t see how he lived that long,” declared the doctor. “He must have
fought hard against it.”
“But what did he mean about my daughter?” asked Allenby anxiously. “What
could he have meant?”
“She wasn’t on the stage today, was she?” asked the sheriff.
“No. She was at home when I left there.” Allenby whirled and ran to his
buckboard.
“Some of us better ride to the Half-Circle Cross,” said the sheriff
quickly. “Shorty had that girl on his mind for some reason. Dang it,
why didn’t he live longer!”
Swan River bowlegged his way swiftly toward his stable, with Forty
Dollar right at his heels; while several of the cowboys mounted and
waited for the sheriff to ride with them. But far ahead of them went
the team of cream colored bronchos, running at top speed, while the
lurching buckboard threatened at any time to capsize and throw
Allenby and Clayton out into the sagebrush.
Hashknife and Sleepy were in the bunkhouse when the cavalcade arrived.
The horsemen had almost overtaken the team, and when the two cowboys
came outside the yard was filled with riders. Allenby fairly fell out
of the buckboard and ran to Hashknife.
“Is June home?” he panted.
Hashknife shook his head.
“No, she ain’t. About an hour after you left this mornin’, she had me
saddle her horse, and she rode away. I don’t reckon she’s come back
yet. What’s the matter?”
Allenby groaned aloud and turned to the sheriff.
“She went riding,” he said blankly.
“That’s all right,” said Swan River. “Which way did she go?
“Went east from here,” said Hashknife, pointing in that direction.
“Straight toward the White Eagle road,” said a cowboy softly.
“We’ll spread out and comb that country,” said the sheriff. “Maybe we
can find her.”
Allenby ran toward the house, where Mrs. Allenby had come out on the
porch, wondering at the crowd of riders, while the sheriff told
Hashknife about Shorty Elkins.
“He tried to tell us about her,” said Swan River sadly. “Somethin’ has
happened to her, that’s a cinch.”
“Shucks, this is a civilized country,” said Pete Sepulveda. “I dunno
what could happen to a girl around here.”
“Two men have been murdered this week,” reminded Swan River grimly, and
several of the men growled audibly.
Hashknife and Sleepy ran to the stable and saddled their horses, while
others helped Allenby and Clayton saddle suitable mounts.
It was not over fifteen minutes later that they rode out of the ranch
yard, spread out fan-wise and headed east. Hashknife and Sleepy were
the last ones to see her; so they headed for the spot where she had
disappeared.
About six miles from the ranch they struck the road to White Eagle,
which ran north and south. It was here that the riders drew together,
searching for the spot where the stage had been held up. The roadbed
was so hard that it was impossible to distinguish anything out of the
ordinary; so the searchers split into two parties, going in opposite
directions.
Hashknife and Sleepy joined Swan River Smith, going toward Moolock, and
they were the ones to find the spot. It was in a timbered swale, where a
small stream trickled down across the road. The signs were fairly plain
here. The stage had swerved half-off the road into softer ground.
To the west of the road a deep cattle trail wound down the swale, where
the timber would mask it from the road. Hashknife discovered the trail,
and in it were the fresh imprints of a shod horse.
“She came down that trail,” he told the sheriff, pointing out the
tracks. “They picked a dandy place for the job, too. It kinda looks
like she busted right into the holdup, without knowin’ it was takin’
place. She couldn’t see the road until she came out through them
bushes, and they likely seen her first.”
“Yeah, it looks thataway, Hartley,” agreed Swan River. “Mebbe they had
to do somethin’ to save themselves, don’tcha see? If it was somebody she
knew--well, it kinda put ’em up against it.”
Hashknife examined the tracks closely, squatting on his heels. Swan
River turned around to take another look at the trail, and Hashknife
suddenly reached down, picked up a tiny object and put it in his
pocket.
“Where’ll we go now?” he asked Swan River.
“The Lord only knows,” confessed the sheriff. “There’s no way to track
’em. I’ve heard about savages bein’ able to follow a trail where there
wasn’t any--but I’m no savage. Dang it all, that’s the worst of bein’ a
sheriff. Everybody expects him to be wise as ---- and with a nose like
a bloodhound.”
“Might as well wait for the rest of the gang to come,” said Hashknife.
“They’ll be bustin’ back this way soon. It was a cinch that Shorty
Elkins didn’t drive an awful long ways, shot up thataway.”
* * * * *
They rolled cigarets and mused silently. There were no clues to work on.
They had found where the stage had been stopped; but it had done them no
good, as far as clues were concerned. It was possibly half-an-hour
before the other riders arrived, and Hashknife showed Allenby what had
happened at that spot.
Allenby listened dumbly, nodding his head; like a man who is too sick to
talk.
“You think then that she was merely captured to prevent her from
exposing the bandits?” queried Clayton.
“That’s about the only way to look at it,” said Hashknife. “Men don’t
steal girls these days. It just ain’t done. I don’t know this country
like some of yuh do,” Hashknife turned to the crowd, “If any of you
was goin’ to steal a girl, where would yuh hide her?”
No one replied. Allenby stared dumbly ahead of him, his jaw shut
tightly.
“I dunno where to look,” confessed Swan River. “It’s likely the same
gang that held up the train.”
Allenby turned quickly and stared at the sheriff.
“The same two?” he said wearily. “Why--sure.” He turned and mounted his
horse.
“Where are you goin’?” asked Swan River quickly.
Allenby picked up his reins, adjusted his belt.
“I’m going to kill the men who own a black headed pinto and a gray
horse,” he said coldly. “I’m going, if I have to go alone.”
“Hank Bell,” said Forty Dollar Dion softly.
“Let’s talk about it a little,” advised Swan River. “They----”
“They wasn’t in town today,” interrupted Larry Neil.
“Neither were we,” said Hashknife, indicating himself and Sleepy.
“They’ve been stealing from me for over two years,” said Allenby grimly.
“I helped to send Bud to the penitentiary. Hank Bell swore he’d get even
with me. Their last steal was when they took three hundred Herefords
from the Moolock loading pens.
“I hired a detective and they killed him--shot him in the back. The
sheriff can’t deny that he thinks they robbed that train. He chased them
to Tecoma, where they stole Hartley’s and Stevens’ horses, leaving the
pinto and gray in their stead. If they’d steal my cattle, rob trains--is
there any reason why they wouldn’t rob a stage--and steal my girl?”
“Why sit here and argue about it?” asked Harry Allenby. “Let’s go over
to the HB and have it out with them.”
“Allenby’s argument looks ---- plausible to me,” stated Merton. “It’s
worth workin’ on, ain’t it?”
“Worth workin’ on--but it ain’t worth killin’ on,” said Swan River.
“It’s awful easy to make mistakes.”
“Well, I’m going down there,” declared Allenby. “If I have to go alone,
I’ll go anyway. I’m going to find June.”
“That’s fine,” said Hashknife. “We’re all lookin’ for her, Allenby,
but we ain’t on no killin’ spree. If I’m any judge of humanity, Hank,
Bud and that Sticky Clay _sabe_ shootin’-irons. If we go down there,
huntin’ for trouble, I’ll bet we find it. What do you fellers think?”
“I don’t care what they think!” exclaimed Allenby. “I’m going!”
“Wait a minute,” begged Clayton. “Hartley is right, Allenby. Right now
you are in no frame of mind to go there. You know that those three men
are dangerous. You are not a gunman. You wouldn’t have one chance in a
thousand with them. No, you can’t get June back with a six-shooter.”
“You are all against me,” mourned Allenby pettishly. “Don’t you want me
to get my daughter back?”
“Don’t be a ---- baby!” snorted Hashknife. “This is no time for
hysterics.”
Harry shoved his horse close to Hashknife.
“You let up on that stuff,” he ordered. “You can’t come in here and tell
us what to do.”
Hashknife grinned at Harry and the boy’s face flushed hotly.
“Back up, you ---- fool!” snorted Forty Dollar. “If you don’t keep yore
mouth shut, Harry, somebody is goin’ to hit you so hard they’ll uncork
yuh.”
Harry turned in his saddle and glared at Forty Dollar.
“By ----, I don’t have to take things like that!” he blurted.
“No, yuh don’t have to,” said Forty Dollar quietly. “If you’ve got
any good ideas on how to handle this situation, yuh might step up and
disgorge ’em. If yuh ain’t--shut up.”
“There’s a lot of truth in that,” agreed Clayton.
“Oh, go to ----!” Harry was sufficiently squelched to draw his horse
back, but his face was black with rage.
The sun was just going down behind the hills, and they all knew that
there was little daylight left to work in.
“If Hartley is right in his surmise, I don’t think that June will be
injured in any way,” said Clayton. “I don’t think it is a situation
that can be handled by force of arms. If we were lucky enough to
blunder into them, it is hard to tell what they might do to keep her
from exposing them.”
“That sounds like sense,” agreed Hashknife heartily. “This thing is not
going to be easy to handle, nor is it a mob job.”
“What would you suggest?” asked Allenby. He seemed more at ease now.
“I’d suggest that we go home. Mebbe the girl wasn’t caught at all. We
kinda went off half-cocked, just because a dyin’ man spoke her name.
We don’t know for sure, don’tcha see?”
“That’s true,” agreed Allenby, willing to grasp at any straw.
“I wonder if that isn’t true?” Thus Clayton, visibly relieved.
“Let’s look at it thataway,” suggested Swan River. “Tomorrow is another
day.”
After a few minutes of conversation, Hashknife, Sleepy, Harry and his
father left the road and went back toward the ranch, while the rest
of the searchers went on toward Moolock. Hashknife and Sleepy lagged
back during that ride across the hills. “You ain’t hopin’ to see her
at home, are yuh?” queried Sleepy.
“Hopin’, thasall,” said Hashknife. “We had to bust up that argument
someway, Sleepy. It’s a cinch that June got grabbed. Just who got her
is a mystery. Me and you are goin’ to Moolock after supper.”
But June was not at the ranch. Allenby’s spirits went down below zero.
He had evidently expected to find her there. Mrs. Allenby seemed very
patient. She was not the kind of woman to show great emotion. Harry came
down to the bunkhouse, where Hashknife and Sleepy were getting ready for
supper, and apologized for what he had said.
“I’m sorry,” he said contritely. “That argument got on my nerves.”
“Thasall right,” grinned Hashknife. “Mebbe I’d ’a’ done the same thing.
Just forget it, Harry.”
“Well, I’m glad yuh feel that way about it,” said Harry. “Dad seems to
have great faith in you two.”
Hashknife smiled softly, as he hung up his towel.
“Faith is a great thing, Harry,” he said. “If folks ever have faith in
yuh--don’t ruin it. This whole world is built on faith. Yuh can go a
long ways, if yuh have faith in yoreself; but the minute yuh lose faith
in yoreself--yore done. And yore done, when others lose faith in yuh.”
“Are you a preacher?” asked Harry, a trifle sarcastically.
“A preacher?” Hashknife squinted thoughtfully. “No-o-o, I’m not a
preacher, Harry. Mebbe I’m my brother’s keeper.”
“What’s that?”
“Did you ever read the Bible?”
“No. I’m not religious.”
Hashknife smiled.
“What is religion, Harry?”
“I dunno. Lot of ---- Bible-backs, I reckon.”
Harry turned away and went out of the bunkhouse. Sleepy grinned at
Hashknife and said--
“Shall we sing a hymn before supper, cowboy?”
Hashknife squinted seriously, as the cook hammered on the triangle at
the kitchen door, calling them to supper.
“No,” he said slowly, “I don’t think we’ll sing, Sleepy. A little prayer
might be a lot better.”
“A prayer for who, Hashknife--us?”
“It all depends on what’s in the Big Book, pardner. Let’s eat.”
“So it’s come all ye punchers,
Put yore belly to the bar
And drink a fare-ye-well,
’Cause I’m goin’ mighty far,
With a whang de oodle addy aye.”
* * * * *
Thus sang Lem Elder, a tall, weary-looking cowboy, who worked for Sam
Bass, of the 27A outfit, as he rested his elbows on the White Horse
saloon bar.
Pete Sepulveda was sitting on a card table, chin in hands, but now he
looked up reprovingly at Lem.
“Yuh hadn’t ought to sing, Lem,” he said. “Songs ain’t appreciated in
Moolock tonight. Yuh know, they ain’t found that girl yet.”
“That’s right,” nodded Lem. “Excuse me. That ---- whisky they sell here
makes yuh sing. Is anybody huntin’ for her, Pete?”
“Not now, I guess. Allenby and his bunch went home. Wasn’t much they
could do in the dark.”
“I seen Harry and them two strange punchers ride in a while ago.” Thus
Pinon Meade, another of Sam Bass’ men. Pinon was small of stature, but
wide of shoulder. He had been so nicknamed from his fondness for pinon
nuts.
“That’s Hartley and Stevens,” offered Pete. “They took the place of
Omaha and Chet Hoban at the Half-Circle Cross.”
“Hoban and Olsen get fired?” queried Lem.
“Yesterday. Had a run-in with Allenby. They’re still here in town.
They’re two danged good cow-hands.”
“Where did Hartley and Stevens come from?” asked Pinon.
“I dunno. Just drifted in, I suppose.”
“Good cow-hands?”
“I’ll betcha they are.”
Harry Allenby came in, his face flushed with drink, and set up the
drinks to the three cowboys.
“Any news?” queried Pete.
“Not a thing,” replied Harry, glancing toward the door. “Bud Bell is in
town.”
“Alone?” asked Pete.
“The old man and Sticky Clay are with him.”
“Put yore troubles in yore war-bag,” advised Pete meaningly.
“You think I’m afraid of them?” Harry drained his glass and flipped it
back on the bar. He was drunk enough to be reckless.
“I would be,” said Lem Elder seriously.
“----, you fellers make me tired! I’ll get ’em one at a time.”
Pinon Meade laughed and walked out of the place. Harry’s eyes snapped
angrily. The strong liquor was percolating through his veins, taking
away what little judgment he might have had. He rubbed the palm of
his right hand on the butt of his revolver, and his lips screwed into
a sneering grin. His nose and upper lip were still swollen a little,
and he did not look pretty.
He did not notice that Pete and Lem had stepped away from him, nor that
the bartender had moved quietly toward the other end of the bar. He was
facing the door, squinting at the floor, and now he looked up to see
Sticky Clay framed in the doorway.
Harry blinked, as though not believing his eyes. Clay did not move.
Then Harry swayed away from the bar, his right hand streaking for his
gun. Harry was fast with his draw, but not fast enough. The experienced
gunman in the doorway flipped his hand forward, fired almost from his
hip. Clay’s draw was almost too fast for the eye to follow. Harry took
a half-step backward, dropped his gun and fell forward on his face,
arms outspread. For several moments Clay leaned forward, watching him.
Then he straightened up, snapped his gun back in the holster and spoke
to Pete--
“You saw this, Pete?”
Pete nodded quickly.
“Yeah, we all seen it, Sticky.”
“Lookin’ for it, wasn’t he, Pete?”
“Yeah, he was.”
“Got it, didn’t he?”
Pete nodded.
“Everybody satisfied then,” Sticky Clay turned and disappeared. Pete and
Lem turned Harry over, expecting to find him dead; but he was far from
it. The heavy bullet had scored along his head from the left temple to
his left ear, where it had taken the top of his ear off cleanly. He was
bleeding freely, but recovering nicely from the shock. An inch farther
to the right, and Harry Allenby would have been a casualty.
They helped him into a chair and bound his head in a none-too-clean
handkerchief. The report of the gun had caused the curious to go
searching for its cause, with the result that Harry was soon surrounded,
and the White Horse saloon began doing a good business.
Swan River Smith investigated, and nodded over Pete Sepulveda’s story;
while Hashknife and Sleepy listened closely.
“He was lookin’ for trouble, Swan River,” said Pete. “I don’t blame Clay
a ---- bit. Harry started his draw first.”
“And that settles it,” said the sheriff. “As long as it was an even
break.”
Some one had gone after the doctor, who bandaged Harry, in spite of
Harry’s protests that he did not need any attention.
“You let him do it,” said Clayton. “If you don’t have it fixed up now,
you’ll be marked for life. You’re lucky.”
The shock had sobered Harry, and he had nothing to say. Hashknife and
Sleepy crossed the street to the general merchandise store, where they
found Hank and Bud Bell. Bud nodded to them. Several men were in the
store, talking about the missing girl and about the stage robbery.
Hashknife bought some tobacco and began rolling a cigaret, when he saw
Bud Bell signal him to come outside.
Bud sauntered out and in a few moments Hashknife followed him. Sleepy
had seen the signal to Hashknife, but did not go with him. Bud had
walked down the sidewalk out of the lights, and Hashknife joined him.
“Hartley,” he said, without any preliminaries, “I want you to tell me
all about this. I’ve heard several tales, but they are all different.”
“Mebbe mine is, too,” said Hashknife. “Anyway, here’s how it looked from
my knot-hole.”
He told Bud all he knew about the shooting of Shorty Elkins and the
disappearance of June Allenby. Bud did not interrupt. He told Bud his
conclusions regarding the reasons for June’s disappearance.
“Thank yuh, Hartley,” he said. “Do you remember ‘Slim’ Stout?”
“Slim Stout?” Hashknife took the cigaret out of his mouth and nodded
slowly. “Yeah, I do. I sent him to the pen.”
“That’s where I met him, Hartley. He told me about you.”
“Thasso?”
“Yes. He’s still got five years before he can look for a parole or a
pardon. He says you let him off easy.”
“Shell stuck in my gun,” said Hashknife. “Slim didn’t know it, I
reckon.”
Bud laughed shortly.
“Slim didn’t tell it that way.”
“Likely lied to yuh. Now listen, Bell; as friend to friend, I want to
warn yuh. Things are gettin’ hotter every minute. Allenby has piled up
evidence enough to hang a king--that is, outside the law. Sticky Clay
and Harry Allenby just tried to kill each other a while ago, as you
know. Allenby didn’t get hurt much.”
“As friend to friend?” said Bud wonderingly.
“Somethin’ like that.”
“Why? Was it you who turned those two horses loose?”
“I needed the stable space,” lied Hashknife.
“Yeah? And now yore workin’ for Allenby?”
“Externally.”
“Why are you takin’ an interest in me, Hartley?”
“I dunno. Why does the wind blow? Ask me somethin’ easy. Now you take
my advice and don’t go to sleep. I know that all three of you are able
to get along without crutches; but yuh can’t buck the whole county. I’m
doin’ all I can, Bell. If they hang yuh, that won’t help me much--nor
you either. I’m goin’ to sneak out to see yuh just as soon as I can.”
“Thanks, Hartley.”
“Don’t thank me.”
* * * * *
Hashknife turned and walked across the street to the Elk saloon,
leaving Bud alone to think it over. More men were coming in to town.
Bud walked back to the store, signaled to his father, and together
they got their horses. They knew that Sticky had gone home after the
shooting, to prevent complications which were bound to ensue, if he
stayed in town.
“Things look kinda cranky, Bud,” observed the old man.
“Yeah, and I’m afraid they’ll get worse, Dad. Stealin’ a girl is bad
business. There’s a lot of talk and a lot of whisky in Moolock tonight;
so we better keep out of sight. I wish Sticky had kept away from Harry
Allenby; but Harry was lookin’ for it, and Clay is always willin’ to
accommodate. They tell me that Harry started the draw first.”
“Young Allenby is a fool to draw with Clay,” observed the old man. “What
did that tall cowpuncher want, Bud?”
“Wanted to give me some advice.”
“He’s workin’ for Allenby, ain’t he?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, we don’t need any advice from that ---- outfit.”
“This didn’t come from the outfit, Dad. If it ever comes to a showdown,
don’t hurt that tall puncher. And if he asks yuh to do somethin’--do
it.”
“Who in ---- is he, Bud?”
“He turned the pinto and gray out of Swan River’s stable.”
“But he’s workin’ for Allenby, Bud.”
“Yeah. I don’t _sabe_ it, but I’m willin’ to foller his advice.”
While the Bell family rode homeward, Hashknife went to the White
Horse saloon. Harry Allenby was still there, but fairly sober now.
His head was bandaged and he was unable to wear his hat. Swan River
took Hashknife aside and imparted the information that there was too
much talk, mixed with whisky, to suit him.
“This girl-stealin’ has worked everybody up to a pitch,” he declared.
“Dang it, they’ll ruin everythin’ if they start out on a rampage. I’ve
done a lot of talkin’, and I’ve kinda got some of ’em sore at me. Are
Bud and Hank still in town?”
“Just left a few minutes ago,” said Hashknife. “I think Clay left just
after the shootin’.”
More men came into the saloon. Hashknife and Swan River sat down at a
vacant card table near the rear of the room, where they could watch
the place. Harry Allenby was drinking again, and seemed to parade his
bandages, talking loudly.
“Swan River, have you still got that letter --the one that Seeley had in
his pocket?” asked Hashknife.
The sheriff drew it out of an inside pocket and handed it to Hashknife,
who spread it out on the table. For several minutes he studied it
closely, squinting away from the smoke of his cigaret. He was about to
fold it up, when something caused him to look at it again.
After concentrating on it for a space of time he looked up at Swan
River, a grin widening his mouth.
“What’s funny in that letter?” asked Swan River.
“Nothin’,” grinned Hashknife. “I was just thinkin’ about somethin’ else.
Mind if I keep this letter?”
Swan River shook his head, “It ain’t of no use to me.”
Forty Dollar came in and walked straight to their table. Forty was
serious as he sat down.
“Somethin’ is goin’ to bust pretty soon,” he declared. “Over at the
Elk, they’re talkin’ too much to suit me. Some son-of-a-gun has told
about them two horses, and a few of the gang wants to know if the
sheriff’s office is standin’ in with the robbers.”
Swan River’s jaw clamped tightly and he got to his feet.
“I’ll answer their ---- questions,” he rasped, and started for the door.
Clayton was coming in, and they almost collided. Clayton’s sleeve was
torn and he had the general appearance of one who had been fighting.
He stepped away from the sheriff and went to the bar, where he drank
alone, turned with his back against the bar and looked around the room.
“Kinda looks like friend Clayton had been fightin’,” observed Forty
Dollar.
Forty’s observation was punctuated with a “_zz-zwhap!_”. Clayton’s
shoulders thudded back against the bar and Hashknife went sidewise out
of his chair, while from outside came the report of a shot.
Clayton ducked, putting the end of the bar between himself and the open
doorway, while the rest of the crowd scattered to get out of line. For
several moments Clayton clawed at his shirt front. The bullet had burned
across his chest, tearing a shallow furrow, but doing little damage;
after which it passed within a short distance of Hashknife’s head and
thudded into the rear wall.
“Hurt yuh much?” asked Hashknife.
Clayton shook his head, sprang to his feet and ran out through the
rear entrance. Disregarding a possible second shot, Hashknife and
Forty Dollar ran out through the front doorway and into the street.
It was too dark, beyond the front window illumination, for them to
see anyone.
Swan River came running from the Elk saloon, followed by several men,
who had heard the shot. But the shooter had made himself scarce.
Hashknife drew Swan River aside and together they made the rounds of
the saloons, checking up on the cowboys
As far as they were able to find out, no one was missing, except
Clayton.
“Do yuh reckon they was tryin’ to kill you or Clayton?” asked Sleepy,
who joined them at the Elk.
“That’s hard to tell, Sleepy. We’ll figure it was Clayton. He’d had
trouble with somebody just before that shot was fired. If we can find
Clayton, mebbe he’ll tell who it was--if he knows.”
But they were unable to find Clayton; so Swan River opined that Clayton
was hiding out. The folks of Moolock town were getting plenty of food
for conversation. Hashknife was curious about the trouble between Harry
Allenby and Sticky Clay; so he found Pete Sepulveda and asked him about
it.
“Harry was lookin’ for it,” explained Pete, a trifle thickly. “Pinon
Meade, Lem Elder, me and Harry was there in the saloon, when Harry
got to makin’ his war-talk. Pinon pulled out and in a few seconds we
happens to see Sticky in the doorway.
“Harry don’t see him for a while, yuh see. Pretty soon he looks up
and sees Sticky. They look at each other about a second and Harry
breaks for his gun. Sticky makes his draw, shoots from his hip, and
Harry falls on his nose. Sticky thinks he’s killed Harry, I reckon;
but he ain’t excited. It was an even break, thassall.”
“Much obliged, Pete,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “Has there ever been
any trouble between Harry and Pinon Meade?”
“I don’t reckon there has. Pinon ain’t quarrelsome.”
Hashknife drifted back to Swan River and Sleepy, where he found Frank
Allenby, listening to Swan River tell about the gunbattle between Harry
and Sticky Clay. Allenby said little. He seemed to have aged greatly in
the last few hours. Hashknife drew him aside.
“Has there ever been any trouble between you and Pinon Meade?” asked
Hashknife.
“Not at all,” replied Allenby. “Why do you ask?”
“Just wonderin’, thassall. You heard about somebody shootin’ at Clayton,
haven’t yuh?”
Allenby nodded quickly.
“Yes, but I do not understand it. I can’t find Clayton anywhere. He is
not at the hotel.”
“There’s a fly in the axle-grease somewhere,” mused Hashknife.
“I don’t know what to do,” admitted Allenby. “---- knows, I can’t stand
it much longer. My wife just sits and looks at the wall. I wish she
could cry. It helps a woman to cry, don’t you think so, Hartley?”
“Not as much as it does to laugh, Allenby. I want to ask you a personal
question: Is Clayton goin’ to marry yore daughter?”
“What has that to do----?”
“I’m askin’--not answerin’, Allenby.”
“Suppose he is--what about it?”
“Is there anyone else who might want her bad enough to kill Clayton over
her?”