“We’re sure pleased t’ meetcha, and if yuh ever drift over into our
country, drop in and see us.”
The ladies murmured something conventional, but Carsten elevated his
eyebrows a trifle, as he said--
“Just where is your country, Hartley?”
“Well,” grinned Hashknife, “yuh might say it was anywhere in the Western
side of the U. S. A.”
“Sort of drifters, eh?”
“Nope.”
Hashknife shook his head.
“We travel under our own power, Carsten. Good night, folks.”
They went out of the front door and into the fog and rain. The fog-horns
were sending out their eerie wailings down on the harbor, and the street
lights gleamed dully at close quarters or faded to mere halo-like spots
at a few yards distant.
The two cowboys halted on the sidewalk and turned their backs to the
drifting elements.
“What do yuh make of it, Hashknife?” asked Sleepy, his teeth chattering
in spite of himself.
“I dunno what to make of it, Sleepy; but we’ve already made two thousand
dollars out of it. Here comes one of them rattlety-bump cars, goin’
downtown. Do yuh think yuh can ride her on the curves?”
“I’ll ride inside and lock m’ heels,” declared Sleepy. “My gosh, ain’t
Miss Lanpher a dinger. Whooee! The queen of Sheber never had anythin’
on her--except a snake.”
* * * * *
It was very hot in the town of Wolf Wells, a huddle of unpainted
buildings, strung more or less along a crooked, dusty street. Wolf
Wells was strictly a cattle town, where no one seemed inflicted with
too much morals, and its temperature was very hot in Summer and below
zero in Winter, which probably accounted for the weather-beaten
appearance of the whole place.
A branch railroad wound its crooked way through the Ghost Hills to
Wolf Wells, but the train service seemed in the hands of the train
crews, rather than in any semblance of a schedule. Wolf Wells was the
county-seat.
Just now the town was fairly well-filled with people. It was Saturday,
which accounted for some of the activity, but the majority of the people
were interested in the outcome of Pinto Cassidy’s trial for murder.
The jury, a bunch of hard-bitten cattlemen, were still deliberating,
after thirty hours of being locked up in a hot jury-room. Near one
of the hitch-racks stood Jim Trainor, half-owner of the Circle Cross
outfit, talking to “Fat” Fleager, the sheriff.
Trainor was a big man, broad of shoulder and with a face that was as
inflexible as a piece of granite. His eyes were gray, like the gray of
tempered steel, and his jaw jutted belligerently, as he bit reflectively
at his lower lip.
The sheriff was built after the manner of a bed-slat, and from the
sadness of his thin face, the bloodhound-like eyes, with their heavy
pouches, one might well expect him to be the proprietor of a
non-paying undertaking establishment. Both men were dressed in range
clothes, and Fat Fleager seemed to be continually in danger of losing
his belt, which hung draped around his narrow hips. The waistband of
his overalls seemed to cause him much concern also, and the arm-holes
of his vest continually crawled out over the points of his narrow
shoulders.
They were both looking at a young man, dressed in cowboy garb, who
crossed the street past them and went into a saloon. He was a slender
young man, unshaven, unhandsome, but there was a devil-may-care
slouch to his walk and to the angle of his sombrero. He did not look
at Trainor and the sheriff.
“There’s a ---- fool that’s breedin’ a scab for himself,” said Trainor,
as the young man passed into the saloon.
“Yeah.” The sheriff nodded wearily. “I s’pose.”
“No brains. Old man’s got lots of money. ---- kid could pick out a
society girl for a wife, but he ain’t got no brains.”
“Lanpher got lots of money?” Indifferently.
“Ought to have.”
“Rich kid come to cowland and learned papa’s business, eh?” The sheriff
actually smiled at his own humor.
“Lanpher ought to come out here and kick the kid back to Frisco,”
growled Trainor.
“Uh-huh,” dubiously. “Mebbe it wouldn’t be safe. The kid got drunk last
night in the Lily of the Valley saloon, and he backed ag’in’ the bar,
with a gun in his hand, and recited some startlin’ pedigrees. But nobody
called him.”
“Felt sorry for him, I suppose.”
“Thasso?”
The sheriff squinted at Trainor.
“That kid took seven dollars away from Lonesome Hobbs day before
yesterday, shootin’ with a six-gun. I throwed the tin-cans for ’em
m’self. Hobbs ain’t so danged amachoor, y’betcha.”
“Well, let him go ahead.” Trainor shrugged his shoulders, as if to
dismiss the subject.
“Oh, he’ll go too far, that’s a cinch,” said the sheriff. “Kids always
does. I wish that danged jury would make up their minds pretty soon.
There’s Cassidy’s girl over in front of the hardware store now. I betcha
she’s lookin’ for Ben Lanpher.”
Trainor turned and squinted closely at her. She was about average
height, with a thin oval face, as brown as her maternal ancestors,
but showing little of the aboriginal blood. Her hair was dark and
worn in two heavy braids, but her eyes were blue. Her calico dress
was well-made, even though a trifle gaudy in color, and she walked
with the easy grace of a jungle-bred animal.
“Irish and Injun,” muttered Trainor. “----, what a combination! A
blue-eyed Injun. If she wanted a weapon and you showed her a brick-bat
and a scalpin’ knife, which would she take?”
“That’s a question,” grinned the sheriff. “But she’s a ---- pretty girl,
jist the same, Trainor.”
“Yes, she’s ---- pretty.”
“And she’ll make a good wife for some man.”
“Hm-m-m,” mused Trainor. “I reckon she will.”
Two cowboys were crossing the street and Trainor turned from looking at
Lorna Cassidy to give them a sharp glance.
“Who are those fellers, Fleager?” he asked.
“One feller--the tall one--is named Hartley. I talked with him this
mornin’ at the feed corral. They rode in last night from the Encinas
country.”
“Goin’ to stay here?”
“Lookin’ for jobs, I reckon. The tall feller is a nice spoken sort of
a jigger, but he made me feel like he was laughin’ at me all the time.
There ain’t nothin’ soft and tender about either of ’em.”
“What did he say that made yuh feel he was laughin’ at yuh?”
“Oh-h-h, well--nothin’ much. He was tellin’ about a feller that he knew
who was so durned thin that his clothes wouldn’t stay on him, and so he
wore his union-suit on the outside. He said it sure looked awful, but
gave him the full use of his two hands.”
The sheriff hitched up his pants and belt and spat reflectively, while a
grin flashed across Trainor’s thin lips.
“Anyway,” declared the sheriff, “I ain’t goin’ to try it. Mebbe we
better go over and see if there’s any news from the jury.”
As they started across the street, Hashknife and Sleepy came out of the
saloon and caught up with them. Hashknife spoke to the sheriff.
“You ain’t puttin’ on this kind of weather for our benefit, are yuh,
pardner?”
“This ain’t so hot,” said the sheriff.
“No, it ain’t exactly hot. I knowed a man once that was so danged thin
that----”
“Your name’s Hartley, ain’t it?” interrupted the sheriff. “Shake hands
with Mr. Trainor, of the Circle Cross.”
Hashknife shook hands with Trainor and introduced Sleepy to both men.
“You two fellers just driftin’ through?” queried Trainor casually.
Hashknife grinned and shook his head.
“Feller asked the same thing about a week ago. No-o-o, I wouldn’t say
that we’re exactly driftin’, Mr. Trainor.”
“We’re kinda lookin’ for jobs,” declared Sleepy. “We ain’t askin’ for
work--for jobs.”
Trainor laughed.
“I’m full-handed right now, or will be, as soon as that jury finds out
what they’re goin’ to do. My foreman is on the jury, yuh see.”
“Seems like they was havin’ trouble decidin’ the case, accordin’ to what
I can hear,” observed Hashknife. “Old man Cassidy ain’t very pop’lar, is
he?”
“Not very,” admitted Trainor. “I reckon they’ll cinch him.”
The sheriff shook his head and shifted his chew.
“Nossir, I don’t think so. ’F they was goin’ to cinch him they’d ’a’
done it hours ago. Cow-juries don’t work that-away.”
“They sure don’t,” grinned Hashknife. “They’re just as liable to
bring in a verdict of arson ag’in’ the judge as to settle the guilt
or innocence of old man Cassidy.”
“And still they’re twelve men, good and true,” grunted Trainor.
“Good and true don’t mean that they’ve got any brains.”
“Here comes ‘Lonesome’ Hobbs,” said the sheriff, pointing down the
street toward a short, fat, bow-legged individual, who was coming toward
them as fast as his feet would carry him. As he drew near he removed his
hat, exposing an almost totally bald head, which made him look like a
very fat and very much overheated baby.
“Juj-jury’s made up their dud-danged minds,” he panted hoarsely. “Do yuh
know where the juj-judge is, Fat?”
“He’s over in the Lily of the Valley, I reckon. Better go over and roust
him out, Lonesome.”
“Uh-huh. I’ll git ’m.”
Lonesome bow-legged his way across the street, fanning himself with his
hat, while Hashknife and Sleepy followed Trainor and the sheriff down to
the dance-hall, which was used as a courtroom.
Lonesome’s search for the judge had spread the news that the jury had
reached a decision, and the court filled rapidly. Hashknife and Sleepy
secured seats near the front of the room.
Seated just beyond them was Lorna Cassidy, and in a few minutes she was
joined by a stout, white-haired man, carrying a mass of legal-looking
papers.
“That’s Mitchell, the Frisco lawyer,” whispered a man near Hashknife. “I
heard that young Lanpher hired him to defend old man Cassidy. I betcha
it cost him some money.”
A few minutes later the sheriff came in from the rear of the hall, and
with him was Pinto Cassidy, a little, old, wizened character. Cassidy
was typically Irish of face, and his steady glance at the audience
seemed to carry a fighting challenge to any or all of them.
But his seamed old face softened as he looked at his daughter, and he
smiled softly, patting her on the shoulder. They talked together for
a moment and then Ben Lanpher came swaggering up the aisle to sit
down beside her. He was flushed with drink, arrogant with the feeling
that every one was against him, and looked defiantly at every one in
the room.
The judge came in and stood beside his desk. He was an old man, white of
hair, very dignified. For a moment he looked about the room and rapped
sharply on his desk. The buzz of conversation ceased.
“Just to say to you,” said the judge clearly, “that the court will
brook no demonstration whatever. You will curb your feelings while
within these walls.”
He turned and sat down as the jury filed in. They were a tired-looking
crew of men, stolid, some of them seemingly half-angry. They sat down
in the jury-box and looked expectantly at the judge, who said--
“Gentlemen, have you reached a decision?”
A big, raw-boned cowman, the foreman of the jury, got to his feet slowly
and faced the judge.
“We have not,” he replied evenly, “and we can’t. There’s a ---- fool
among us that----” He looked meaningly at a hard-faced, squint-eyed
cowboy on the end of the row--“that ain’t got enough brains to grease
a needle with. He’s held us up for--well, all the time we’ve been in
there, and we ask that you dismiss us.”
The squint-eyed cowboy continued to study the opposite wall, paying
no attention to the foreman’s words. The judge cleared his throat
raspingly.
“Then you find it impossible to reach a verdict?”
“Yeah, unless we want to foller that half-witted gopher’s ideas and hang
old man Cassidy, judge. If it wasn’t murder to kill a feller like him,
he’d ’a’ been dead eleven times right now.”
“And that’s no ---- lie,” echoed a disgruntled member.
The judge sighed. He had been many years in cow-land and knew there
would be no use to reprimand these men for such language in the
court-room. They were all on the ragged edge, and the only thing he
could do would be to dismiss them, which he did; thanking them for
their efforts.
Ben Lanpher got to his feet and spoke directly to the judge:
“What about Cassidy? Does he get off now?”
The judge shook his head.
“No, I am sorry to say that he will have to stand trial before another
jury.”
“There’s a ---- of a lot of justice in that!” roared Ben angrily.
“Eleven of ’em wanted to turn him loose, and just because one man----”
“Hang on to yourself, Lanpher!” snapped the sheriff, taking him by the
arm. “You’re in a courtroom--not a saloon.”
“That’s right,” gritted the boy. “We might get justice in a saloon, but
we can’t get it here.”
The sheriff turned and looked at the judge questioningly, but the judge
shook his head sadly and turned back toward the rear door. The jury had
got to their feet, and the sheriff crossed quickly to them and moved in
close to the squint-eyed cause of their disgust.
“I’ll walk out with yuh,” said the sheriff.
“You better walk with him,” grunted one of the jury meaningly.
“Yes, and you better stay with him,” added Ben Lanpher.
The squint-eyed one glanced at Lanpher and the lines around his mouth
twitched sharply, but he did not reply. Hashknife and Sleepy left the
courtroom and went back to the street, where men were discussing the
trial.
A cowboy, somewhat the worse for liquor, came up to them.
“Kinda looks like they was goin’ to have a hard time convictin’ old
Cassidy,” he observed. “I’ll betcha that jury had a ---- of a time.
But you mark my word, this ain’t all settled yet.”
“No?” queried Hashknife. “How’s that, pardner?”
“Huh! Lemme tell yuh somethin’. That squint-eyed ‘Smoky’ Cole’ll make
’em pay for what they said about him, y’betcha. He’s plumb salty, he
is. I _sabe_ that jasper. Any time yuh think yo’re runnin’ a blazer on
that son-of-a-gun, yo’re foolin’ yourself, thasall.”
“Bad, is he?” queried Hashknife.
“I’ll nod when yuh ask me that,” grinned the cowboy.
“You knowed him a long time--before he came here?”
The cowboy sobered a trifle and hitched up his belt.
“Tell yuh what I’ll do, I’ll buy a drink.”
“Who does Smoky Cole work for?” asked Sleepy.
“He’s foreman of the Circle Cross. Works for Trainor. I’m named Edwards,
but folks calls me ‘Bility.’”
“Is that yore real name, or is it short for Ability?”
“----, I dunno. Yuh see--”
He grinned and spilled half a sack of tobacco past his cigaret paper.
“Yuh see, I been with the Flyin’ M f’r a long time, and one time some
fellers was thinkin’ about buyin’ old man Shappee out. They was arguin’
about things, when I comes up to see the old man, and one of ’em says--
“‘Is this one of yore assets?’
“And old man Shappee says:
“‘----, no! That feller is a liability.’ ”
The cowboy laughed and spilled the rest of his tobacco.
“Do yuh know what it means?” asked Hashknife.
“----, no! And I don’t care. Let’s go. It got me a name.”
They went into the Lily of the Valley, which was the biggest saloon in
the town, and found Trainor at the bar, talking with Lonesome Hobbs.
The place was fairly well-filled and the games of chance were being
well-patronized.
They accepted of Bility’s hospitality and while they were drinking,
Ben Lanpher came in. He drank two big drinks of raw liquor before he
paid any attention to those at the bar. His eyes were red from liquor
and his jaw sagged listlessly.
Hashknife studied him closely and decided that Bennie Lanpher had the
makings of a bad-man. He had evidently practised with a six-gun until
he had an exalted idea of his own ability, and plenty of liquor had
made him careless.
Ben turned and looked at Hashknife, who smiled softly. Bennie was in no
mood to have any one smile at him, and his weak jaw immediately assumed
a belligerent angle.
“See anythin’ funny about me?” he grunted.
Hashknife ignored the question and turned back facing the bar. But
Ben was not to be denied. Something seemed to tell him that this tall
cowpuncher had smiled at him--possibly laughed at him.
He shoved away from the bar and stepped in behind Hashknife.
“See anythin’ funny about me?” he asked.
Hashknife turned lazily and looked him straight in the eyes.
“Yeah, I see a lot of funny things about yuh, young feller. If they
wasn’t also awful sad, I’d laugh like ----”
“Is--that--so?” Lanpher spaced his words widely and his right hand eased
back toward his holster.
“In the first place,” continued Hashknife, “yo’re too young to drink
so much liquor. First thing yuh know you’ll quit growin’ and always
look like a half-baked kid. You ain’t got brain enough to see that
yo’re headin’ plumb into trouble--mebbe a rope. Them is some of the
reasons why I ain’t laughin’ at yuh.”
Lanpher laughed mockingly, loudly and then his teeth fairly snapped.
The room had gone quiet and every one had heard what Hashknife had
said, although he had spoken quietly.
“Take it kinda easy,” advised Hashknife. “I’m a stranger to you and we
ain’t got no quarrel.”
“Backin’ up, eh?” snarled Lanpher. “Next time you laugh at a man, you’ll
find out who he is first.”
Lanpher’s hand was on the butt of his gun and his body tensed forward,
expecting that Hashknife would accept his challenge. But Hashknife’s
eyes squinted just past Lanpher’s head and his left eyelid drew down
quickly in a deliberate wink.
Lanpher’s head twisted as quick as a flash; thinking that there was
danger right behind him, and before he could turn back Hashknife’s left
hand had caught him by the right wrist, while Hashknife’s open right
hand splatted against the side of his jaw, throwing him off his balance
and placing him powerless to do anything, except swear.
And Lanpher did plenty of the latter. Hashknife held him helpless, while
the crowd moved in close to enjoy the sight.
“Yuh got a lot of things to learn before yuh can be a honest-to-gosh
bad-man,” explained Hashknife. “And one of ’em is to never turn yore
head.”
“Lemme go!” wailed Lanpher.
“All right, I’ll let yuh go,” agreed Hashknife, “but you’ve got to agree
to one thing.”
“All right, ---- yuh. What is it?”
“As soon as yuh get yore balance, we’ll both start shootin’.”
The crowd behind Lanpher parted with great alacrity.
But Lanpher did not care for the conditions. Hashknife flung him away
and Lanpher staggered into a card-table before he regained his balance.
Then he went straight out of the door, without looking back.
“That’s tamin’ ’em,” declared Trainor, who had been an interested
observer. “It was just what he needed, Hartley. I’ll buy a drink.”
The crowd went back to their games, but the incident was not forgotten.
Hashknife was a stranger, which was worthy of notice in Wolf Wells,
where few strangers ever came, and he had demonstrated that he was able
to take care of himself in a way that appealed to the range folk.
“I wish I had a job for you fellers,” said Trainor, as they leaned on
the bar, “but I’m plumb filled up right now.”
“We ain’t exactly dependent on a job right now,” explained Hashknife,
“but a feller don’t like to go broke before he lands a job. Who’d be a
good rancher to see about a job?”
“I dunno. Yuh might see old man Shappee. He owns the Flyin’ M, but I
suppose he’s got a full crew.”
“How much of a crew do you have, Trainor?”
“I’m only hirin’ three men now. Nothin’ much to do this time of the
year, except to kinda watch the waterholes. We’re breakin’ a few horses,
too. Usually I have five or six men. I had kinda bad luck lately. Mebbe
yuh heard about two of my men gettin’ shot.”
“Got shot?” Hashknife shook his head. “We ain’t been here long enough to
hear much gossip. Was it for the killin’ of one of them that Cassidy is
bein’ tried?”
“Yeah, the last one. Mebbe he killed the first one, I dunno.”
“He don’t look like a killer.” This from Sleepy.
“No, he don’t, but he’s meaner than a snake.”
“Just in what way?” Hashknife was curious, and Trainor glanced quickly
at him.
“Oh, just mean. He said he’d shoot the first Circle Cross man he found
on the Tomahawk.”
Hashknife grinned.
“He must have a grudge ag’in’ yore outfit, Trainor.”
Trainor grunted an unintelligible reply and turned as some one called
his name. It was an undersized cowboy, with a limp cigaret glued to his
protruding underlip.
“You seen Whitey Anderson?” he asked.
“Not today,” replied Trainor.
“He was lookin’ for yuh about fifteen minutes ago.”
“All right, Shorty.”
Trainor accepted another drink and left the saloon.
“Who’s Anderson?” asked Hashknife of the bartender.
“Depot agent.”
* * * * *
They drifted outside and found Lonesome Hobbs sitting on a hitch-rack.
How he ever got himself up that high was a mystery, but he was up there.
He nodded to Hashknife and Sleepy and slid over to give them room.
“I seen yuh have yore fuss with young Lanpher,” he said huskily. “Bub-by
gosh, he needed a jolt. How’d yuh ever think up that winkin’ idea?”
“Used my head,” grinned Hashknife.
“That’s it,” nodded Lonesome. “Feller’s got to use his brains--if he’s
gug-got any. I can think of the best doggone schemes, but I forget ’em
right when I need ’em bad. Feller told me a good scheme once. Said to
step hard on a feller’s feet, when yo’re fightin’ him and he’ll fall
down. I tried it--once.”
“Didn’t it work?” asked Sleepy.
“Not fer me, it didn’t. I reckon that was only part of the trick; the
rest of it was to keep the other feller from knockin’ ---- out of yuh
until yuh could fu-find his feet. Anyway, that’s how she ’pears to
me.”
They were laughing as Trainor came up to the rack and untied his roan
horse.
“Goin’ home?” asked Hashknife.
“Yeah. Wish I had a job for you two. Hope you get one.”
“Much obliged,” grinned Hashknife. “We’ll swindle somebody out of a few
month’s wages. _Adios._”
“Seems like a right nice sort of a feller,” observed Hashknife, as
Trainor rode away.
“Who, Trainor? Best there is, y’betcha. Danged good cowman, top-notch
puncher and reliable as ----”
“Which is some reliability,” agreed Hashknife. “We’d kinda like to work
for him.”
“Well, I dunno whether I would or not.” Lonesome pursed his lips
thoughtfully. “I’m kinda superstitious, don’tcha know it? I figgers
that things happens three times before they quits. There’s been two of
the Circle Cross punchers killed lately. They was leaded considerable,
too.
“Figgerin’ the way I do, there’s another one to go. It don’t always work
out that-away, of course, bub-but I ain’t the kind of a jasper that goes
dead ag’in’ my own hunches.”
“Why do yuh reckon they was killed?” queried Sleepy.
“Why.” Lonesome leaned his elbows on his knees and shook his head. “I
ain’t prepared to say.”
“Any idea who killed ’em?”
“Well, they’re tryin’ old Cassidy for the last one.”
“Where is Cassidy’s ranch?” asked Hashknife.
Lonesome jerked his thumb in a northerly direction.
“Out thataway. Yuh take the main road out there, and a little over two
miles she forks, but don’t take the right-hand fork, ’cause that goes
to the Circle Cross. Keep on goin’ about a quarter-mile and take the
left-hand road.
“It’s about seven miles to the Tomahawk, and about five to the Circle
Cross. I’d keep plumb away from the Tomahawk, if I was you. They ain’t
a danged bit friendly.”
“But Cassidy is where he can’t hurt anybody.”
“No, he can’t, but there’s young Lanpher livin’ there, and Jimmy
Droop-drawers.”
Hashknife laughed outright.
“For gosh sake, what a name!”
“He’s a half-breed,” grinned Lonesome, “and that name fits him like a
plaster. Jimmy was absent the day they was passin’ around the brains,
but he sure can shoot.”
“You got kind of a sweet lot of folks around here,” observed Hashknife.
“Looks to me like Wolf Wells had enough gunmen to hold up the reputation
of a bigger place.”
“Aw, we ain’t botherin’ with gunmen.” Lonesome spat dryly and shook his
head. “We ain’t afraid of nothin’ we can see, y’betcha. It’s the things
we can’t see that gits under our hides.”
“Such as what?” asked Hashknife.
“Cows that evaporate, for instance.”
Hashknife and Sleepy looked closely at Lonesome, but his face was deadly
serious.
“Well,” said Hashknife slowly. “I’ve heard of evaporated milk. Mebbe
that’s where it come from, Lonesome.”
“Mum-mebbe,” dubiously. “Anyway, it ain’t a fav’rite subject with me,
gents. I reckon I’ll be goin’ back to the office. You ain’t found no
jobs yet?”
He almost fell off the hitch-rack, without waiting for an answer,
recovered his hat, which rolled under a horse, and bow-legged his way
across the street.
Sleepy grinned and looked at Hashknife.
“What do you think of things, Hashknife?”
“Well, it’s too danged early in the game to make any remarks, but I’ll
say there’s a lot of folks around here that might start shootin’ any
time.
“I don’t think a lot of old man Lanpher’s offspring, but I do like his
pardner. Trainor seems like a regular he-man. The sheriff has only one
thing to recommend him, and that is the fact he’s so danged thin that
nobody could hit him with anythin’ bigger than a .22 rifle.
“Lonesome Hobbs is all right. Old man Cassidy might ’a’ killed that
puncher, but I have my doubts. His girl is danged pretty, and William
Lanpher might be danged well honored to think that she’d look at his
slack-headed son. Outside of that, I’m hungry. Let’s go and eat.”
“All right,” agreed Sleepy. “I kinda feel that we’re goin’ to like Wolf
Wells. It kinda reminds me of the old Willer Crick outfit, Hashknife.
Everybody suspicious of everybody else. I sure hope they don’t suspicion
us.”
“They will, if we don’t get a job, Sleepy.”
As they crossed the street, Ben Lanpher, Cassidy’s squaw and Lorna
Cassidy were getting into a light wagon. Lanpher saw them, but did not
look up as they passed. The girl gave them a keen glance and the two
cowboys lifted their hats. As they went into a restaurant, Hashknife
looked back and the girl had turned her head and was watching them.
“I hope she knows us next time she sees us,” said Sleepy, grinning.
“I hope they all do,” replied Hashknife. “I’d hate to be mistaken for
some of the boys from the Circle Cross.”
* * * * *
The Tomahawk was a typical squaw-man’s ranch. There was little semblance
of order in the locations of the ranch-house, barns or corrals, and the
buildings looked as if they might collapse in the next breeze.
The weather-beaten ranch-house, a low, rambling affair, was sway-backed
from old age and the weight of many snows, and the barn stood, as a
cowboy might express it, kinda antegodlin’ to everythin’. The corral
fences were lopsided and badly in need of repair.
A few mongrel chickens strayed around the littered front yard of the
ranch-house, clucking wildly after the winged grasshoppers; a family
of magpies chattered in the cottonwoods behind the barn, while down
in a corral a hungry calf bawled loudly.
It was the day following the dismissal of the jury. In the long
living-room Ben Lanpher humped over in a dilapidated rocking-chair,
staring moodily at a crumpled envelope. His hair was matted, his face
unshaven and his clothes bore evidence that he had slept in them--and
not on a bed.
Lorna Cassidy leaned against the side of the adobe fireplace, looking
with troubled eyes at Lanpher, while near her the squat figure of Mrs.
Cassidy was seated on a low stool. At the far end of the room, sitting
on the floor, with his knees drawn up to his chin, was the half-breed
cowboy, known by the unlovely title of Jimmy Droop-drawers.
Jimmy was a typical half-breed, in which the Indian blood seemed to
predominate strongly. His lower lip was thick and pendulous, his
eyes mere slits above his high cheek-bones, and his garb, with the
exception of his high-heeled boots, badly run-over at the heels, was
entirely aboriginal. It was plainly evident that his beaded-blanket
pants had not been made by a tailor, because the seat was entirely
too commodious--which accounted for his cognomen.
Ben Lanpher crumpled the letter in his hand and got to his feet.
“Well--” He tried to laugh, but it was only a grimace. “Well, that
settles the cathop, I suppose. The old man has cut off my credit--told
me that I could have no more of his money.”
He turned his head and looked at Lorna.
“Well, why don’t somebody say something? I’m too ---- dry even to curse
him.”
“There is nothing to say,” said Lorna softly.
“Ain’t there?” Ben laughed hoarsely. “It means that we won’t be able to
hire a lawyer for the next trial. I’m broke.”
“Why need lawyer?” asked Mrs. Cassidy. “My man never kill cowboy. Only
one man think so.”
“That ---- Smoky Cole!” snapped Ben. “I’ll fill him so full of holes
that he’ll----”
“And who will pay for the lawyer to keep you from hanging?” asked Lorna
quickly.
“You don’t need a lawyer when you kill a man in self-defense.”
“Yo’ look out,” advised Jimmy thickly. “Cole bad man with a gun. Mebbe
yo’ need doctor--not lawyer.”
“Too much talk about kill,” said the stolid old squaw, as she slowly
filled a pipe with plug tobacco. “No good to talk.”
“Tha’s jus’ right,” nodded Jimmy. “Old Minnie know. Big talk, small
medicine.”
“Who were those two men who passed, when we were ready to leave Wolf
Wells yesterday?” asked Lorna.
“Them two?” Ben took a half-filled bottle from his hip pocket and
reached for a tin cup on the table.
“I dunno who they are. Couple of smart cowpunchers, I guess.”
“Ben, why don’t you go back to your home?”
“Huh?”
Ben took the cup away from his lips and stared at her.
“Why don’t I go home?”
“Yes--back to your people.”
Ben laughed harshly.
“Why should I go back to them?”
“They are your people. You don’t belong here. They would be glad to have
you come back.”
“Whatcha talkin’ about, Lorna?”
Lanpher was half-angry, as he got to his feet and walked over to her.
“I told yuh I’d stay here and see that the old man was cleared. Dad
wanted me to stay with the Circle Cross, but me and Trainor couldn’t
get along. He treated me like I was a kid. Told me not to come over
here. Said that you was just a ---- Injun, and that your father would
shoot me if I came on the Tomahawk ranch.”
Lorna turned and stared out of the window, her lips shut tight, as if to
hold back a flood of bitterness. Then--
“Well, I suppose he was right, Ben.”
“What do we care?” laughed Ben hoarsely. “If I want to marry an Injun,
that’s my business, ain’t it?”
Lorna shook her head.
“No, you are just foolish, I think. You go back to your people and
forget everybody in the Ghost Hills.”
“Not by a ---- sight! When I go back to California--to Frisco, you are
going with me, Lorna.”
The old squaw took her pipe slowly from her lips and looked up at Ben.
“You are very big ---- fool, I think,” she declared.
“Is that so?”
Ben turned to the old squaw.
“Mebbe you’d have somethin’ to say about it?”
She nodded slowly and began puffing on her pipe.
Ben shrugged his shoulders and poured himself another drink. He had
imbibed so much liquor during the last two weeks that his system
shrieked for more.
“Why don’t you quit drinking?” asked Lorna. “When you came here you did
not drink.”
“Lot of things I didn’t do then.”
Ben wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and laughed uncertainly,
as he looked closely at his almost depleted flask.
“I’ve got to go to town and get more hooch.”
“What will you do when your money is all gone?”
“Do?”
Ben laughed and picked up his hat.
“Rob a bank, I guess. Maybe I’ll join the Ghost Hills gang. By ---- I’ll
bet they’d take me in.”
He turned and walked out of the door, staggering slightly, as he
clumped off the porch and headed for the barn. Jimmy, the half-breed,
walked to the door where he leaned lazily against the sill, puffing on
his cigaret.
The old squaw did not turn her head as Ben went out, but continued to
puff at her pipe, while Lorna moved from the fireplace and stood beside
the table, her shapely fingers picking at the cloth.
“Just a ---- Injun,” she said softly, sadly. “Just that and nothing
more. Am I any different or worse than other girls?”
The squaw knocked the dottle from her pipe and got clumsily to her feet,
which were shod in buckskin.
“You good girl, Lorna. Good Injun just as good as white people.”
“You ---- right!” agreed Jimmy from the doorway. “You jus’ right, Lorna.
To ---- with Trainor.”
Jimmy turned away from the door and came back toward them.
“Ben gone to town,” he announced, and added. “Too much whisky no good.”
He squatted at the fireplace and started to roll another cigaret, but
his trained ears heard a sound outside and he arose swiftly and his
hand swung back to jerk his revolver holster into position.
Came the scrape of a footstep on the narrow porch and Jim Trainor’s
voice called--
“Anybody home?”
“Somebody home,” replied Jimmy huskily. He was just a trifle afraid of
the big man from the Circle Cross.
Trainor’s huge frame fairly blocked the door as he came in from the
porch. Lorna looked straight at him, but the old squaw, after the
manner of her kind, paid him no heed. Jimmy watched him closely.
“Hello, Lorna,” grinned Trainor, “I got to wonderin’ how you folks were
gettin’ along so I came over to see. Where’s Ben Lanpher?”
“He go to town,” said Jimmy. “Go jus’ now.”
“Gone down to get drunk again, I suppose.”
Trainor sat down in the rocking-chair and threw his hat on the table.
He seemed entirely at home, even though his welcome had not been any
too cordial.
“Why do you come here?” asked Lorna.
“Why?” Trainor laughed shortly. “I told you I wanted to see how you were
all getting along, Lorna.”
“That should not take long to find out, Mr. Trainor.”
“No, I guess that’s a fact. Too bad about that jury.”
“Too ---- bad,” corrected Jimmy, and was immediately sorry he had
spoken.
Trainor turned and looked straight at him.
“When I speak to you, I’ll call you by name.”
Jimmy swallowed with difficulty and sidled toward the door. He was not
of a belligerent disposition and he greatly respected Trainor’s fighting
ability. At the doorway he turned and fired a parting shot.
“Next time jury agree, mebbe. You know what Pinto Cassidy said about
Circle Cross men.”
And then Jimmy Droop-drawers faded out of sight. Trainor’s face went
black for a moment, and the ghost of a smile flitted across the old
squaw’s face, but Trainor passed it off with a laugh.
“I hope they do agree,” he laughed, “and I don’t think that Pinto
Cassidy will be so hasty next time.”
“You believe my father killed him?”
Lorna leaned across the table and looked Trainor square in the eyes.
“Well--” Trainor looked away and rubbed his chin with the ball of
his right thumb. “Well, I hope not, Lorna. But if he did he was only
making good his threat. Ed Meeker had no business coming over here.
He knew what Cassidy had said.”
“Who killed the other man--Lloyd Hansen? He wasn’t found on the
Tomahawk.”
“I don’t know who killed him. But your father ain’t accused of that
killin’.”
“Why was he killed?” demanded Lorna.
“Why?” Trainor shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows. But that does not
interest me. Did Ben get a letter from his father lately?”
Lorna turned away from the table and sat down near the old squaw.
“I know nothing about Ben’s mail,” she replied.
Trainor smiled.
“He’s sayin’ that he’s goin’ to marry you, Lorna.”
“I have no strings on his tongue,” indifferently.
“I thought he was lyin’,” smiled Trainor. “His father wrote me that he
had sent word to Ben that his money supply was cut off. It’s about time,
I reckon.”
“Ben is a fool,” continued Trainor, when Lorna ignored his statement.
“His father is wealthy and can give him everything he would want. He
can marry a white girl and live in a fine house; so why should he stay
around here?”
“And marry a ---- Injun,” added Lorna.
Trainor looked keenly at her. He remembered saying those same words to
Ben, and wondered if he had told her.
“Well, you know how city folks look at Indians, Lorna. You don’t look
like an Injun. If I didn’t know different, I’d never know that you had
a drop of Indian blood in yuh.”
“What have the Indians ever done to make a white man look down upon
their blood?” asked Lorna hoarsely. “They only fought for what had
belonged to them for many years. It was not that they wanted to win
more, but to keep what they already owned.
“I know. I have read history in school. I have read many tales of the
Indian--written by men who knew only the one half of the tale--the white
half. The Indian fought in his own way--the only way he knew.
“The Indian was lazy, because that was his disposition, but the squaw
was not lazy. And the Indian was honest and sober until the white
man--that superior race--came to ruin his morals and soul. He taught
the Indian to lie, steal and drink. Perhaps--” Lorna turned away
scornfully--“it will take many more years to bring the Indian up to
the standard which the white man started to teach him many years
ago.”
Trainor laughed loudly and slapped his thigh.
“Lorna, when you turn loose, I wonder if you’ve got any white blood in
yuh.”
“I am never ashamed of Indian blood,” she retorted, “but there are times
when I am ashamed of my white blood.”
“All right,” grinned Trainor. “I don’t blame yuh. Let’s drop the
subject. I never like to argue with a lady.”
“Bad business,” grunted the old squaw.
“That’s right, Minnie,” agreed Trainor, laughing. “Anyway, I like Lorna
too well to argue with her.” He got to his feet and picked up his hat.
“I’m going to run in real often,” he stated. “Cassidy won’t get another
trial before the next term of court, and that’ll be three months from
now. You’ll probably be needing a little help before he can get cleared,
and I want yuh to understand that the Circle Cross is willing to help
yuh in any way we can.”
“Good!” grunted the old squaw.
But Lorna did not express any thanks for his offer. He looked keenly at
her before he turned toward the door. She gave him a sidelong glance as
he went out through the door, but it was not a look of gratitude.
She heard him gallop away, going back toward the Circle Cross, and then
she sat down beside the table. The old squaw had put away her pipe and
was softly crooning a Sioux cradle-song, a chanting, tuneless thing
that recited the superiority of the Sioux papoose over anything else on
earth. It was one of the first things Lorna remembered, but she
shuddered just now. It seemed so foolish to think that the Indian could
be superior.
“Perhaps,” she told herself, “it is the white blood that rises above the
red and makes me dislike Indian songs.”
The squaw finished the song and started all over again. Lorna got to
her feet and walked to the door, as if to get away from the song, and
as she looked out into the sunlight, two riders, the two men who had
lifted their hats to her in Wolf Wells, were riding up to the house.
Jimmy, the half-breed, was working around one of the corrals, but when
he saw the two men he came up toward the house. Hashknife and Sleepy
took off their hats and spoke to Lorna pleasantly.
“We was just ridin’ around, ma’am, and thought mebbe we could get a
drink of water,” explained Hashknife, “We tried to take a drink out
of the little creek below here, but it was a little too bitter with
alkali.”
“We have plenty of water,” replied the girl, and turned to the
half-breed.
“Jimmy, will you get some water from the well? These men want a drink.”
Jimmy squinted at the two cowboys for a moment before he turned and
went around the house. Hashknife and Sleepy dismounted and came up to
the steps, just as Mrs. Cassidy came over to the door.
“Hello, mother,” smiled Hashknife. “How are you today?” The old squaw
smiled broadly at the title and nodded pleasantly. Hashknife turned to
Lorna.
“This is the Tomahawk ranch, ain’t it?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Uh-huh. Yuh see, I wasn’t sure. Somebody told us that we’d likely get
shot if we came here, but we don’t believe everythin’ we hear.”
Lorna smiled, but there was little happiness in it.
“I am glad you did not believe,” she replied. “We have never killed any
one.”
“Sure yuh ain’t,” agreed Sleepy heartily. “I can jist look at you
and see that yuh never. Gosh dang it, some folks sure do get things
twisted.”
Hashknife squinted sidewise at Sleepy and a grin spread his lips. Sleepy
saw the grin and shuffled his feet nervously.
“Well,” he said defensively, “can’t you, Hashknife?”
“I never disputed yuh, cowboy,” grinned Hashknife.
Jimmy came around the corner with a bucket of water and the two cowboys
quenched their thirst.
“Best water I ever drank,” declared Sleepy. “Never knowed that water
could taste so danged good. Betcha I’ll be ridin’ this way real often
f’r my drinks. Don’tcha know.” Sleepy was almost confidential. “I
wonder why men drink strong liquor, when water tastes so good.”
“Now, little Dew-drop, don’t get so enthusiastic,” advised Hashknife
seriously, and then to Lorna--
“He’s the same way over everythin’, ma’am.”
“He likes water,” said the old squaw.
“Under bridges,” admitted Hashknife. “Sleepy--say, I plumb forgot to
introduce us. I’m Hashknife Hartley and this here water-soaked pardner
of mine is named Sleepy Stevens.”
“I am Lorna Cassidy,” said the girl, “and this is my mother, Mrs.
Cassidy.”
“We’re sure pleased to meetcha,” said Sleepy, bowing gracefully, but
kicking over the water-bucket at the same time.
“You’ve gotta watch him all the time,” explained Hashknife, as Sleepy
hastened to right the bucket. “He’ll get his feet right into anythin’
that’s got water in it.”
Sleepy stood up, a grin on his flushed face. Lorna was laughing and a
wide grin overspread the old squaw’s face. Jimmy, the half-breed stepped
in and held out his hand to Hashknife.
“I’m Jimmy,” he said. “Nobody speak my name.”
Hashknife and Sleepy shook hands solemnly with him.
“You’ll excuse me, won’t yuh Jimmy?” asked Hashknife, “and we both thank
yuh for the water.”
Jimmy grinned.
“Plenty water. You want more?”
“No, thank yuh, Jimmy. If there was any more water around here, I’d have
to get a canoe for Sleepy. He can’t swim a lick.”
Jimmy grunted and went away with the bucket. He had no sense of humor,
but he instinctively liked these two cowpunchers. Perhaps it was because
they shook hands with him and treated him as an equal.
“My man in jail,” said Mrs. Cassidy, as if explaining his absence.
“Can’t get out. Too ---- much law.”
“Yeah, I reckon that’s right, mother,” said Hashknife, “but he’ll get
out.”
“Won’t you come in?” asked Lorna. “It is cool in the house.”
“Betcha we will,” agreed Sleepy quickly. “I’m about fried to a cinder.”
Jimmy followed them into the house and sat down against the wall.
“Ben Lanpher lives here, don’t he?” asked Hashknife.
“He has been staying here,” corrected Lorna. “Do you know him?”
“He was pointed out to me, and they said he was livin’ here.”
“Too much whisky,” grunted the old squaw.
Hashknife smiled and rolled a cigaret. He had been afraid to ask
questions in Wolf Wells for fear that some one might find out that he
and Sleepy were investigating the rustling situation.
“You folks been losin’ any cattle?” he asked.
Lorna nodded quickly.
“Yes, I think so. Dad insists that we have. He told everybody that he
was losing cattle, and two days after that we found a card pinned to
the front door. It had been written with a pencil and told us to keep
our mouths shut or something worse than loss of cattle would come to
us.”
“Don’t talk about it,” advised Jimmy warningly.
Hashknife and Sleepy exchanged glances. They knew now why there was no
talk about the rustlers. It was the fear of the unknown that had shut
the lips of the cattlemen. It was a condition that would make every man
suspect his neighbor.
“Where do the cattle go?” asked Hashknife. “You’ve got to have a market
for stolen stock. Is there any way out of here, except by railroad,
where cattle could have been sent?”
Lorna shook her head.
“I can’t talk about it with you,” she said. “You are strangers to us,
and for all we know you may belong to the Ghost Hills gang. Every one
is afraid around here. Two men have already been killed and I think
they were killed by the rustlers, but we have no proofs.”
“Ghost Hills gang, eh?” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “Have they ever
been seen by any one?”
“No seeum,” grunted the old squaw.
“Sort of fantom riders, eh?” grinned Sleepy. “I dunno whether we want
jobs in this range or not, Hashknife. I’m kinda spooky m’self.”
“Does kinda make a feller feel creepy,” admitted Hashknife seriously,
“and I don’t blame you folks for not talkin’ too much. I don’t suppose
the sheriff is spendin’ much time tryin’ to round ’em up.”
“He stay home,” grunted Jimmy. “Sheriff smart man.”
Hashknife laughed softly and picked up his hat.
“Well, folks, I reckon we’ll drift along. Can we cut straight across the
hills to Wolf Wells?”
“Yeah,” grunted Jimmy. “No fence, no trail. Not so long as road.”
Lorna followed them to the door and watched them mount.
“Will you come again?” she asked, just a trifle wistfully.
“Unless the ghost riders plug me first,” said Sleepy quickly.
“She meant both of us,” grinned Hashknife, as they rode away. “Sleepy,
you sure do lose what little sense yuh got when yuh see a pretty girl.”
“Well, by golly, she sure is a pretty girl, Hashknife. She’s got
Lanpher’s daughter beat four ways from the jack.”
Hashknife turned in his saddle and looked keenly at Sleepy, who was
looking back toward the Tomahawk ranch-house. Sleepy turned and
encountered Hashknife’s gaze.
“Rope’s draggin’ ag’in, Sleepy,” warned Hashknife.
“Lemme alone, will yuh?” snapped Sleepy, spurring his horse ahead and up
the brushy slope.
“There’s some nice lookin’ girls in the city,” said Hashknife, quoting
what Sleepy had said the night he had met Miss Lanpher.
But Sleepy only grunted. He and Hashknife had been partners for years,
riding the ranges from Alberta to Mexico, and both were still heart and
fancy free. Neither of them had ever been willing to marry and settle
down. No range had ever been home to them for more than a few months at
a time, and neither of them was young.
Both of them bore scars of conflict, and behind them were greater scars,
which they had left in payment of injustice to others. They did not seek
trouble, but, as Hashknife had said:
“There’s an antidote for every kind of poison, Sleepy. Some of it ain’t
nothin’ more than salt-water or soapsuds, but it does the trick. Poison
is poison, whether it’s somethin’ yuh get out of a bottle or somethin’
that grows in yore soul.
“When me and you first started hornin’ into dirty deals, I figured we
was professional trouble-shooters, but I’ve come to the conclusion that
the good Lord intended us as an antidote for range poison. And we’ve
sure cured a lot of hard cases.”
“And never profited thereby,” reminded Sleepy.
“No-o-o, but yuh never heard of soapsuds and salt-water yelpin’ for pay.
We’re just antidotes, thasall.”
Sleepy had a habit of falling in love at first sight, but it never went
beyond that. Both of them realized that the marriage of one would mean
the end of their adventures, and they were not ready to lead a peaceful
life.
* * * * *
Fat Fleager was putting in a bad afternoon. It was bad enough to have
Smoky Cole in town, drunk. Smoky had been drinking alone since the jury
had been discharged, and he was beginning to move around, as if defying
the whole world.
He had imbibed raw whisky for twenty-four hours, and was still on his
feet. Not only was he on his feet, but he was fairly steady on them.
His eye was bloodshot, but not at all bleary.
Fleager had observed Smoky Cole closely, waiting for him to run into
some of the folks who had denounced him in the courtroom. Then came
Ben Lanpher to add to the slatlike sheriff’s troubles. Ben was nearly
drunk when he reached town, and he lost no time in bracing his chest
against the Lily of the Valley bar and filling his interior with
fighting liquor.
Fat lost no time in hot-footing it back to the office and waking
Lonesome Hobbs out of his mid-day siesta.
“Nouk,” grunted Lonesome. “To ---- with ’em both. Let ’em git at each
other, Fat.”
“But me and you have sworn to uphold the law,” wailed the sheriff.
“We’ve gotta do it, Lonesome.”
“I’ll hold her up,” agreed Lonesome, getting off the bunk, adjusting his
hat and selecting a sawed-off shotgun from the gun-rack.
“Where’s all them buckshot shells, Fat?”
“Now whatcha goin’ to do?”
“Shoot ---- out of both of ’em. It’s gettin’ so a fuf-feller can’t even
sleep around here. Where’s the shells?”
“Aw-w-w, go lay down!” wailed the sheriff. “You ain’t no help to me,
Lonesome. You’re either as lazy as the ----, or as bloodthirsty as a
cannibal. I hired yuh as a deputy and all I got was a drawback.”
“Well, whatcha want me to do?” grunted Lonesome. “I only know how to
do two things real well--sleep and shoot. You woke me up, darn yuh,
and now yuh won’t let me know where them shells are. You ain’t noways
consistent.”
“Yuh might use a little brains!” snapped the sheriff.
“If I had brains--” The cot creaked raspingly, as Lonesome stretched
himself out again-- “If I had brains I’d never live in Wolf Wells, I’ll
tell yuh that, Fat Fleager. Anyway, it ain’t no job for a fat man, this
ain’t. All you’ve got to do is stand sideways and nobody can hit yuh.
With me----”
Lonesome lifted his head and looked toward the door, but the sheriff had
gone, and Lonesome did not finish his sentence.
Then he groaned dismally, got off the cot and buckled on his belt. He
was in no mood to be trifled with now. It was his usual siesta time,
and he meant to make it worth losing sleep over.
With Ben Lanpher in the Lily of the Valley, and Smoky Cole in the
Antelope saloon, the sheriff planted himself between the two, which were
half-a-block apart, and made a resolution that they--Ben and Smoky--must
be kept apart.
The fact that one of them did not know the other was in town helped the
sheriff considerably. Lonesome looked witheringly upon the watchful
sheriff and went into the Lily of the Valley, where he found Ben
Lanpher, standing with his shoulder-blades sort of hooked over the top
of the bar, while he considered things of importance.
Lonesome Hobbs was no diplomat. He knew that Ben was just drunk enough
to pick trouble. His bleary eye and the belligerent angle of his
sombrero proclaimed to Lonesome that Bennie was contemplating starting
something.
Lonesome walked up to the bar beside Ben, as if to buy a drink, turned
swiftly and kicked Bennie’s feet from under him. And while Bennie was
going down in a sitting position, Lonesome uppercut him with a right
fist, which landed Bennie into dreamland.
Then, while everything in the saloon suspended operations to watch him,
Lonesome removed Bennie’s gun, flipped out the cartridges and replaced
the gun.
“And that’s some sudden!” exclaimed the bartender.
“Dud-danged right,” admitted Lonesome, and to the crowd--
“When he wakes up, you tell him to high-tail it out of town, ’cause I’m
comin’ back to make both sides of his face match up.”
Then Lonesome went out of there, walking stiff-legged, and headed for
the Antelope. The sheriff was still planted in the same spot, but
Lonesome walked past him, as if the sheriff was a stranger. He spoke
to Lonesome, but got no reply.
Lonesome went into the Antelope and found Smoky in a poker-game. Or
rather, Smoky was half-in and half-out of the game. He was standing up,
leaning across the table and talking in uncertain and very profane terms
over what he declared to be a deliberate attempt to swindle him out of a
pot.
Smoky was just drunk enough to be vile in his language, and dangerous
withal. He was standing up in front of his chair when Lonesome’s right
hand hooked into his gaudy muffler, and a moment later he went over
backward, taking the chair with him, and landed on the back of his head
with a thud.
It knocked all the fight out of Smoky, and his mind was a blank during
the time that Lonesome removed his gun and took out the cartridges.
Smoky had no friends in the place to assist him, and those present
seemed to get a lot of fun out of the incident.
“Tell him to rattle his hocks out of town,” said Lonesome. “He’s been
makin’ himself ob-obnoxious around here, and I’ll be watchin’ the
front door for his goin’. Me and the sheriff is plumb tired of bein’
annoyed.”
Lonesome went out of the door and crossed the street toward the office,
without looking at the sheriff, who was still holding forth between the
two saloons. Lonesome went into the office and planted himself near the
front window, after placing the sawed-off shotgun handy.
It was several minutes later that Ben Lanpher came to the door of the
Lily of the Valley. His right hand caressed the side of his head and he
seemed undecided as to what he intended doing. He took stock of the fact
that the sheriff was between him and the Antelope saloon, but started
walking toward him.
About this time Smoky Cole staggered out of the Antelope, his hat in
his hand. He was also a trifle erratic in his movements, and perhaps
a bit near-sighted after the bump on his head, because he too started
toward the sheriff.
There was nothing for the sheriff to do but to move away from between
them, which he did and did quickly.
“Don’tcha start nothin’!” he yelled. “Don’tcha ----”
But his warning was wasted. The two belligerents had recognized each
other. For a moment they hesitated, then two hands reached for two
guns. Smoky was the faster of the two. His gun was out before Ben had
started his draw, but the hammer fell upon an empty cylinder.
Swiftly his thumb hooked the hammer, and again the dull click of a dead
cylinder. Ben’s gun was leveled now, but his efforts were as unavailing
as were Smoky’s. But Smoky did not hear the click of Ben’s gun, because
Smoky was going away as fast as his legs would carry him.
Ben did not pay any attention to Smoky’s going, because a quick glance
told him that his gun was empty, and he turned to run the other way.
Lonesome whooped with glee and fell backward on the cot, while the
sheriff, after a glance in either direction, hurried across to the
office.
Lonesome sat up and looked at the sheriff, his eyes filled with tears.
The sheriff was a trifle pale and his lips worked soundlessly.
“What’s the matter with you?” choked Lonesome.
“Thank the Lord!” exclaimed the sheriff. “I--I’m glad to hear your
voice, Lonesome. I thought I had lost my hearin’. Them two guns ----”
“Were empty,” finished Lonesome. “Ha, ha, ha, ha! They never thought to
look at ’em, and nobody told that I took out the shells.”
“You took ’em out?”
“Yeah, I took ’em out,” laughed Lonesome, and then told the sheriff what
he had done to both men.
The sheriff went to the door and looked into the street. Ben Lanpher
was mounting his horse, and a moment later rode away toward home. He
was unsteady in his saddle and lost his hat, but did not stop to
recover it.
It was probably ten minutes later that Smoky Cole rode out of the
livery-stable and headed toward home. He was savagely drunk and took
out his spite on his horse, which almost threw him off in front of
the sheriff’s office.
“Well, they’re gone and I hope they never come back,” declared the
sheriff fervently.
“You and me both,” agreed Lonesome wearily. “It’s gittin’ so a
fuf-feller can’t even sleep around here. Next time I’ll take a
hammer and nails with me and nail their pants to the floor. I’ll
betcha they’ll stay put next time I have to git out of mum-my sleep
to correct ’em.”
“You think you’re a little bit of ----, don’tcha?” queried the sheriff
sarcastically.
“Not such a little bit either,” retorted Lonesome. “I’ve got the
stren’th to hold up the law, y’betcha.”
* * * * *
Hashknife and Sleepy were riding in from the other end of town, and the
sheriff watched them ride up to the front of the office and dismount. He
was not exactly sure whether he liked these two punchers or not. Still
their smiles were friendly enough, but he was not sure that they were
not laughing at him.
“Howdy,” greeted Hashknife. “How’s tricks?”
“Tricks are fine,” yelled Lonesome. “I jist pup-played a dinger. Lemme
tell yuh about it.”
And with great gusto and much stuttering, Lonesome told them how he had
treated the two drunken punchers.
“And Fat Fleager thought he’d lost his hearin’, ’cause he couldn’t hear
’em shootin’,” concluded Lonesome. “Mamma mine, I never done nothin’
half as good before.”
“Didja think they’d do that, when yuh took the shells out of their
guns?” asked Hashknife.
“I wasn’t sure of nothin’,” admitted Lonesome, “but it sure worked out
swell.”
“Now they’ll pack a grudge agin’ you,” declared the sheriff.
“And I’ll pack a riot-gun,” said Lonesome laughing.
“Kind of a tough place yuh got here,” said Hashknife, sitting down on
the sidewalk and producing his papers and tobacco. “Cattle fade out and
folks get shot. You kinda got yore hands full, ain’t yuh, sheriff?”
The sheriff nodded slowly and shoved his hands deeply into his pockets.
“Yeah, I reckon things are kinda unsettled, Hartley.”
“You fellers find a job yet?” Thus Lonesome, as if to change the
subject.
“Not yet,” grinned Hashknife. “Jobs is scarce.”
“If I wanted a job punchin’ cows, I’d sure pass up the Ghost Hills
range,” observed the sheriff. “There’s lots of better ranges than this,
where there’s always a need for top-hands.”
“Yeah, I reckon that’s right,” agreed Hashknife. “It ain’t noways the
best. The Circle Cross is the best outfit around here, ain’t it?”
“Yeah, I reckon it is. They run more cattle than any other outfit
around here--or did until--say, did yuh go over to the Flying M? Old
man Shappee might have a job for one of yuh. It’s about four miles
east of here. And there’s the 66 outfit about seven miles kinda south
of here.”
“We was just ridin’ around today,” explained Hashknife. “We ran across
the Tomahawk ranch-house, but they ain’t hirin’ nobody.”
“That’s a cinch,” said Lonesome, grinning widely. “They never did hire
anybody. Old Cassidy and Jimmy Droop-drawers done all the work. Mebbe
Ben Lanpher is doin’ somethin’ since old Cassidy git into jail, but I
doubt it. He’s so soaked with hooch that he’s no good to anybody.”
“Who is this here Ben Lanpher?” asked Hashknife.
“Millionaire kid,” grunted the sheriff. “His father owns half of the
Circle Cross. Lives in Frisco, I think. Sent the kid out here to learn
the cattle business and he took a post-graduate course in whisky and
six-guns. He was at the Circle Cross for quite a while, but he got stuck
on Cassidy’s daughter, pulled off a quarrel with Jim Trainor and hooked
up with the Tomahawk. He says he’s goin’ to marry that breed girl, but I
doubt it.”
“So do I,” agreed Sleepy, and added quickly. “He’d never stay sober long
enough for that.”
Hashknife chuckled to himself and tried to catch Sleepy’s eye, but
Sleepy was busy examining his fingernails and would not look up.
“It’s a wonder that his father wouldn’t make him come home,” said
Hashknife. “Somebody’ll kill him if he don’t pull the kink out of his
neck.”
“Well, sir, he’s got a nice father, too,” observed the sheriff. “I kinda
like Lanpher. Not a ---- bit like the kid. He was here about a year or
so ago--him and his wife and daughter.”
“And that daughter is a dinger,” wheezed Lonesome. “Prettiest girl I
ever seen. She sure was a promisin’ lookin’ filly, but Jim Trainor
kinda close-herded her all the time. By golly, there was a lot of
punchers that’d given their right eye to even dance with her. Her ma
high-toned everybody, but papa was sort of a harmless hoptoad.”
Lonesome laughed and shook his head sadly.
“Mamma looked right over my huh-head, when I tried to shake hands with
her. I told her to set her sights lower if she wanted to connect with
me and she got sore. Anyway, I got papa drunk and he confided that he
had high ideas for daughter. I often wonder if he hit what he was
aimin’ at.”
“And they ain’t been here since, eh?” This from Sleepy.
“Nope. Their little son stayed, thasall. And I’ll tell a man that this
country didn’t draw much when they got him.”
“Lots of cattle shipped out of here?” asked Hashknife.
“Ain’t been for a while.” The sheriff shook his head. “Oh, there’s a few
bein’ shipped now and then, but no big shipments. The 66 outfit shipped
some horses the other day, didn’t they, Lonesome?”
“Gosh, I dunno,” Lonesome yawned widely. “I never keep track of them
kinda things. It keeps me busy knockin’ down drunken bad-men.
Ho-o-o--hum-m-m!”
“Why don’tcha try sleepin’ for it?” asked Hashknife.
“Try it?” snorted the sheriff. “My ---- he don’t do nothin’ else but
sleep.”
“Don’t I?”
Lonesome slapped himself on the chest.
“I went out and cleaned up on the bad-men, while the sheriff planted
himself over there on the sidewalk and got cockeyed from tryin’ to
watch both ways at once.”
“Yuh should ’a’ seen him, gents. He seen Smoky comin’ one way and Bennie
the other. Then he yelps:
“‘Don’tcha start nothin’!’ Ha, ha, ha, ha!”
Lonesome roared his mirth and the sheriff whirled and went into the
office, quivering with indignation.
“Now he’s mad at me,” wailed Lonesome, “and I suppose he’ll fire me, and
I won’t have no more job than a jackrabbit. That’s just my luck.”
“You think yore kinda ---- smart, don’tcha?” growled the harassed
sheriff.
“Well,” Lonesome sighed gleefully, “it isn’t as bad as I thought it
was. When Fat gets to blamin’ me for bein’ smart, I know everythin’
is all right.”
Lonesome began manufacturing a cigaret and the conversation stopped
for a few minutes. A loaded wagon creaked down the street, stirring
up a cloud of dust. Over in front of the Antelope saloon a couple of
cowpunchers mounted and rode away, arguing loudly over something that
neither of them knew anything about. Up the street a couple of dogs
started a battle, which was a signal to every dog in town to come and
look on.
Hashknife inhaled deeply on his cigaret and motioned with his arm to
take in the whole town.
“Boys, this is the kind of a town to live in. They can all have their
cities--give me the old cow-town.”
“Huh!”
Lonesome flipped away his match and stared at Hashknife.
“Pardner, you’ve got a ---- of an idea of a place to live. You ain’t
been around much, have yuh?”
“No-o-o, not a whole lot.”
“I guess you ain’t.”
“Here comes an old-timer,” observed Sleepy, pointing up the street.
“Betcha he struck the mother-lode.”
It was a bearded old prospector, astride a bony, gray horse, and
trailing him was a decrepit-looking pack-horse, with pack askew and a
limp in one leg.
The one-man caravan came straight to the office and the bearded man
shaded his eyes from the sun, as he spelled out the sheriff’s sign
over the door.
“Howdy, stranger,” said Lonesome. “Somethin’ I can do for yuh?”
“You the sheriff?” asked the bearded one anxiously.
“No, I’m his hired bad-man buster,” grinned Lonesome.
Just then the sheriff came to the door, and Lonesome jerked his thumb in
that direction.
“There’s the sheriff--such as he is.”
“What do yuh want?” queried the sheriff.
“Well--” The patriarch cleared his throat raspingly and leaned forward
in his saddle--“I found a dead man a little while ago.”
The sheriff stepped out nearer him.
“Keep on talkin’, stranger. Where’d yuh find him?”
“Back up the road a piece. Mebbe it’s a couple of miles. He’s layin’ on
his face in the middle of the road. I didn’t move him none, I didn’t,
but I looked at him enough to know that he’s dead. Been shot in the back
of the head, ’cordin’ to what I observed.”
“What did he look like?” queried Lonesome.
“I told yuh he’s layin’ on his face--kinda rootin’ into the dust. Got
on chaps and overalls and a shirt. Jist a little ways before I finds
this here dead man, I finds this in the road.”
He drew a six-shooter from the waistband of his overalls and handed it
to the sheriff. It was a Colt single-action .44 caliber.
“Say yuh found it in the road?” asked the sheriff, examining the gun
closely.
“Yeah. I thinks to myself that I’ve found me a good gun, but when I
finds the dead man, I decides to turn the gun over to the sheriff.
It’s been shot once.”
“I see it has,” nodded the sheriff, and then to Lonesome--
“Get a hack from the livery-stable and we’ll go out after this dead
man.”
Lonesome bow-legged his way across the street and down to the stable,
while the sheriff went back through his office to the stable, where he
and Lonesome kept their saddle-horses.
The old prospector turned and studied the saloon signs across the
street, spat dryly and rode over to the Antelope to quench a thirst
that was probably of long standing.
“Who do yuh reckon got killed, Hashknife?” asked Sleepy, as they waited
for the sheriff.
“Probably that fool Lanpher. Here comes the sheriff.”
They swung on to their horses and joined Fleager, without waiting for
Lonesome.
“He’ll come along after while,” assured the sheriff. “We’ll go ahead and
investigate.”
It took them only a short time to reach the spot, where the man was
lying. On both sides of the road was a heavy thicket of brush and
rocks. The sheriff dismounted and turned the man over.
It was Smoky Cole. Hashknife and Sleepy swung down and the three of
them made a minute examination. Cole had been shot from behind, the
bullet striking him almost at the base of the brain.
“Never knowed what hit him,” declared the sheriff, standing up and
dusting his knees.
“His gun is still in its holster, too,” said Hashknife as he drew the
gun out and looked it over. All the chambers were loaded and the barrel
was clean.
“Kinda looks like he never had a chance, sheriff.”
The sheriff nodded gloomily and began searching for tracks in the deep
dust.
“I wonder where Sandy Claws found that six-gun.”
“Said it was a little beyond here,” said Sleepy. “It was prob’ly beyond
that curve, and we can likely see where he picked it up.”
They left the body and walked up the road, searching for the place where
the old man had dismounted to pick up the gun. About fifty yards beyond
the first turn in the road they found the spot.
“Here’s where the gun was dropped,” observed the sheriff, pointing at
the footprints in the road.
Hashknife was looking a little farther on, and now he crossed the road,
reached into the brush and picked up a black sombrero.
“Here’s a hat,” he called, and walked back to the sheriff.
It was a fairly new Stetson, but badly soiled, and in the sweat-band was
punched the initials “B. L.”
“Ben Lanpher,” declared the sheriff thoughtfully. “That’s his hat. He
probably bushwhacked Smoky and lost his hat and gun in his getaway. And
he was likely so drunk that he never thought to stop and get ’em.”
As they walked back to the body, Lonesome drove into view and managed to
turn his team around near the body.
It did not take Lonesome long to find out all they knew and he shook his
head sadly.
“I knowed it,” he declared. “Yuh can’t mix whisky and six-guns. Well,”
optimistically, “the county ain’t loser none to speak about, Fat.”
“Mebbe not,” grunted the sheriff, and motioned for them to help him put
the body into the hack.
Lonesome climbed back to his seat and the sheriff gave his orders where
to deliver the body.
“Ain’t you goin’ back with us?” queried Lonesome.
“Nope, not now. I’ve got to go and get Ben Lanpher.”
“Goin’ to give him a medal?” grinned Lonesome.
“Goin’ to arrest him for murder.”
“Aw, for gosh sake! You don’t call this murder, do yuh?”
“Well--” The sheriff mounted and adjusted his holster--“well, yuh
couldn’t very well call it self-defense, Lonesome. Smoky never drawed
his gun, and he was shot from behind. No, I reckon Bennie is sure up
ag’in’ it good and strong.”
The sheriff rode on toward the Tomahawk, while Lonesome sputtered at
the team and drove back toward Wolf Wells, with Hashknife and Sleepy
riding behind the wagon.
“Gosh, this sure will be a jolt to old man Lanpher,” observed Sleepy
sadly.
“Yeah,” sighed Hashknife. “I sure feel sorry for them folks. I wonder if
the sheriff knows Lanpher’s address in Frisco.”
“You know it, don’t yuh?”
“Yeah, but I don’t want anybody to know that I do.”
He called to Lonesome and asked him about the Lanpher family.
“I don’t know his address, and I don’t reckon that Fat does either,”
replied Lonesome. “Jim Trainor’d know it.”
“Suppose we ride to the Circle Cross and tell Trainor? He’d probably
want to know about Smoky Cole.”
“That’s a good idea,” admitted Lonesome. “You go ahead.”
Lonesome drove on, and the two cowboys turned and rode back up the
highway toward the Circle Cross.
Hashknife was very thoughtful, but finally turned to Sleepy.
“Cowboy, it kinda looks like we’ve bit off a big chaw.”
“Sure does,” agreed Sleepy, “and there don’t seem to be no handy place
to start chawin’, does there?”
Hashknife shook his head, his eyes squinted thoughtfully.
“No, there don’t, Sleepy. I reckon it’s a fact that a gang of rustlers
are makin’ a cleanup in this range, but everybody is scared to talk
about it.
“It must ’a’ been that gang who killed the two cattle detectives, but I
don’t think they had anythin’ to do with this killin’ today.”
“Mebbe old man Cassidy is one of the gang,” suggested Sleepy.
“Might be. As far as that’s concerned, Ben Lanpher might be one of ’em,
too. It looks to me like Smoky Cole tried to convict old Cassidy at that
trial. He sure stuck for conviction. I’m just wonderin’ if Smoky Cole
didn’t try to make love to Lorna Cassidy, and that was why the old man
drew a dead-line against the Circle Cross outfit.
“Smoky was a mean sort of a jasper, and that would be his idea of
revenge, to hang the old man. Still I don’t think that Ben belongs to
the rustlers, because he wouldn’t hardly steal from his own father.”
“How about that warning that Lorna told us about, Hashknife?”
“Don’t mean anythin’, Sleepy. They’d naturally want everybody to think
they was sufferin’, too. But where in ---- are they disposin’ of the
stock? Workin’ in the dark thisaway is kinda hard, don’tcha know it?
And we can’t ask a lot of fool questions, because we don’t know when
we’re talkin’ to some of the gang.”
They passed the spot where Cole had been killed, and took the right-hand
road at the forks, which wound in and out of the brushy coulées and into
a wide swale on the bank of a creek where the Circle Cross buildings
were located.
* * * * *
It was growing late, but there was still enough light to show that the
Circle Cross was no small outfit. The ranch-house was pretentious in
size, the barns, fences and corrals were in good repair, and even the
front yard of the ranch-house seemed well-kept.
“Looks like the teepee of a millionaire,” observed Sleepy, as they
dismounted at the ranch-house.
A fat Chinese answered their knock at the front door and nodded solemnly
when they asked for Trainor.
“Yessah, he in. I call.”
“Who’s out there?” yelled Trainor’s voice.
“This is Hartley,” called Hashknife.
“Come on in and rest your feet.”
They followed the Chinaman into the living-room, and in a few moments
Trainor came in. He was carrying a bottle of liquor and some glasses,
and seemed a trifle unsteady in his walk.
“Glad to see yuh,” he boomed. “Welcome to the Circle Cross, gents. I’ve
just been tryin’ out some new liquor and I find that it has a lot of
authority.”
He started to pour out a glass.
“Say when, Hartley.”
“When!” grunted Hashknife quickly.
“Say, that ain’t half-full, cowboy. Why ----”
“Too late in the afternoon, and we ain’t been fed since breakfast.”
“You ain’t?” Trainor turned and yelled toward the kitchen.
“Hey, Quong! Throw on a couple of steaks. Cut ’em thick, yuh hear me?”
“Yessah, can do,” called the Chinaman.
“Wait a minute,” begged Hashknife. “We didn’t come out here to bum a
meal and a drink, Trainor; we came to tell you that Smoky Cole was
killed a little while ago, and that the sheriff has gone to arrest
Ben Lanpher for murder.”
Trainor stared at Hashknife, started to put the bottle on the table,
but missed, and it fell to the floor, where its contents gurgled out
over a fine Navajo rug.
“Smoky Cole? How did this happen, Hartley?”
Hashknife explained how Cole’s body had been found and how the evidence
all pointed to Ben Lanpher. He told Trainor of the bloodless gun-fight
at Wolf Wells, and that Ben Lanpher had ridden away ahead of Smoky Cole.
“And he shot Smoky from the brush, eh?” Trainor’s jaw muscles bulged
angrily. “Never gave him a chance. Wait a minute.”
Trainor stepped out onto the front porch and yelled at two cowpunchers,
who were down near a corral. Hashknife and Sleepy followed him out and
watched the two men come up to them. Hashknife and Sleepy had never
seen these two, and Trainor introduced them as “Buck” Avery and “Poco”
Saunders.
Avery was a square-faced, pig-eyed, medium-sized man, about thirty years
of age, whose face was badly marked from smallpox.
Saunders was of medium height, but thin-faced and as dark as a Mexican.
His eyes were sullen and the pupils seemed flecked with red. After a
searching glance, which seemed to take in every inch of both Hashknife
and Sleepy, Saunders kept his eyes on Trainor’s face, while Trainor
repeated what Hashknife had told him.
Buck Avery swore witheringly, but Saunders said nothing when they
learned that Smoky Cole was dead.
“We’ll all have a drink and then go to town,” said Trainor. “C’mon.”
But Poco Saunders did not accept the invitation. He turned and walked
back toward the corral, without a word.
“He was Smoky’s bunkie,” said Trainor, which seemed sufficient
explanation for refusing to drink.
“Poco don’t drink much, anyway,” added Buck, “but I feel like a drink
would kinda take the edge off a shock like that. It ain’t that it’s
any surprize t’me, though. Smoky always got mean when he was drinkin’,
but he thought he was such a ---- of a gunman that he’d git past with
anythin’.”
“He was shot from behind,” reminded Sleepy.
“Which’ll make it go hard with Ben Lanpher,” nodded Buck over his drink.
“It’s a fine start for a kid like him, and I feel a lot more sorry for
his folks than I do for him. Yuh goin’ to wire ’em, ain’tcha, Trainor?”
“Just as soon as I get to town, Buck. Let’s go.”
Poco Saunders had saddled his horse and was waiting for them. Hashknife
studied Poco, while Trainor and Buck Avery were saddling, and decided
that Poco was a very sinister-looking young man; and might well be
marked with a danger signal.
Whereas Smoky Cole was a talkative gunman, prone to boast of his prowess
and more or less audible threatening, Poco would probably shoot first
and talk about it later, if at all.
Trainor and Avery rode out from the corral, joined them, and the five
of them headed for Wolf Wells at a gallop. Hashknife showed them where
Smoky’s body had been discovered, and where Ben Lanpher’s gun and hat
had been picked up, but Poco showed no interest in this.
Trainor looked curiously at Poco, who went on without them.
“Hit him kinda hard, I reckon,” he observed. “Him and Smoky were bunkies
for a long time. Poco’s a good puncher, but he ain’t got much sense.”
“Part Mexican?” asked Hashknife.
“He’s got some Mexican blood in him, I reckon,” replied Buck. “Used to
talk it a little once in a while. That’s where he got his nickname.”
They rode into town and went straight to the sheriff’s office, where
they found several men talking with the sheriff. He had brought Ben
Lanpher back with him and had locked him in a cell.
“He was still drunk,” said the sheriff, “and he sure was a meek jasper.
Didn’t object to bein’ locked up, except to tell me he never done it.
Mebbe he was so drunk that he didn’t know when he shot Cole. I dunno.”
“Man never gets so drunk that he don’t remember bushwhackin’ and killin’
a man,” declared Hashknife.
“Dang right he don’t,” agreed Lonesome Hobbs. “That ain’t no alibi,” and
added sadly, “I wish I’d let their guns alone t’ day. One or both of ’em
would ’a’ got killed, but it would ’a’ been legal. I s’pose I’ve got to
spend most of my time feedin’ and takin’ care of prisoners now. Thank
gosh, we’ve only got two cells. If we get any more prisoners we’ll have
to pasture ’em out some’ers.”
A man came across the street and joined the group. He was a sallow-faced
man, with tobacco-stained teeth and ink-stained fingers.
“I was just comin’ down to send a telegram to Lanpher,” said Trainor,
addressing the newcomer. “You heard what happened, didn’t yuh, Whitey?”
“Yeah, I heard about it. Looks kinda bad for the kid.”
Trainor walked away with Whitey, going to the depot, and Hashknife and
Sleepy put their horses into a corral. At the depot, Trainor sent a long
message to William Lanpher, giving him the details of the trouble.
“There’s a telegram here for yuh, Trainor,” said the depot agent, as he
checked off the words on Trainor’s message.
“I was goin’ to send it out to yuh, if somebody was goin’ out your way.
This’ll cost yuh a dollar and sixty cents.”
Trainor paid for the message and walked out. At the edge of the platform
he tore open the envelope and read the message, a serious frown on his
face. Then he grinned softly and went back up the street.
* * * * *
When Ben Lanpher sobered up he failed to become the least bit
repentant over what had happened to him. Trainor had consulted with
George Mitchell, the lawyer from San Francisco, and had hired him to
defend Ben, but Ben would have none of him.
Hashknife and Sleepy talked with the sheriff about Lanpher.
“He’s loco,” declared the sheriff. “Tells a tale that no jury would
believe.”
“What about?” queried Hashknife.
“Aw, he says he never bushwhacked Cole a-tall.”
“I’d like to talk with him a while,” observed Hashknife, “and see if he
tells the same thing twice.”
“Might be a good idea,” agreed Lonesome Hobbs. “Me and Fat’ll listen and
see what it sounds like.”
“Prob’ly won’t talk to yuh. Mitchell comes down here to have a talk
with him, but he cussed Mitchell plumb out of the jail. Mitchell told
him that Trainor hired him to defend him, and it made Lanpher sore as
----. I’ll see if Ben’ll talk to yuh.”
The sheriff came back in a few minutes with the information that Ben
was willing to talk to anybody who wasn’t connected with the Circle
Cross outfit. They went through the office and into the rear, where
two cells were built in at the back of the room.
Old Pinto Cassidy scowled at them through the bars, but noticed that
they were strangers and became more friendly. Ben came to the barred
door and squinted at Hashknife.
“I know you,” he said hoarsely. “You’re the jasper that winked over my
shoulder. By ---- that seems a long time ago. What did yuh want to see
me for?”
“Ye don’t have to talk with ’em, if ye don’t want to, remimber that,
Ben,” warned Cassidy. “Ye have to be careful who ye talk wid in here.
Sure, it’s a ---- of a place to be in, so it is.”
“That’s all right, Cassidy,” grunted Ben. “I’ve nothin’ to conceal.”
“Then tell us about it,” urged Hashknife. “What did you do after you
left town yesterday?”
Ben forced a laugh and tried to peer around the corner of his door.
“I remember that Lonesome Hobbs played a dirty trick on me. After that I
got on my horse and started home. I was pretty drunk--too drunk to ride
fast, and I had a bad horse.
“I loaded my gun on the way, I remember that because I dropped some
shells and got off to pick ’em up. I had a hard time getting back on
my bronc, but finally made it.
“Then I seen Smoky Cole coming. He was quite a ways behind me, but he
was foggin’ right along as though he was tryin’ to catch me. I didn’t
want him to catch me, because I was just sober enough to know that a
killing out there might look like murder.
“I rode on, but had a lot of trouble with that ---- horse of mine. He
almost threw me a couple of times, and I guess we wasted a lot of time
along that brushy road. All to once, I thought that Smoky was shootin’
at me.”
Ben grinned wearily and shook his head.
“No, I didn’t see Smoky at all, but I sure heard him shoot. I drew my
gun and waited for him to swing around the curve, but I guess I was
just drunk enough to cause me to accidently pull the trigger. Anyway,
I felt the gun kick out of my hand, and then that fool bronc started
to buck again. That was the first time I ever shot off that horse,
and I guess it was scared stiff.
“Anyway, we must have gone real fast, because I remember we were close
to the Tomahawk when I got my reins back again. And that’s all, except
that the sheriff woke me up later on and told me I had killed Smoky
Cole.”
Hashknife nodded over his cigaret.
“That’s the whole story,” sighed Ben.
“And, by golly, it’s a good one, too,” added Cassidy. “You stick to that
story, me lad. I stuck to mine--and look where I am.”
Hashknife laughed at Cassidy. Squawman he might be; a bitter old
cattleman he surely was, but he still retained his sense of humor.
“If Cole had been killed several days ago, you might be a free man now,
Cassidy,” said Hashknife.
“Ah, that’s true, me lad; but I’d suffer a long time in jail, if the
poor misguided lad could be brought back to life. He was but goin’
accordin’ to his own lights, so he was.”
“Then he had a ---- poor light!” snapped Ben.
“A lot of us have,” sighed Cassidy. “Mine has flickered badly at times.
’Tis hard to sit here the long days and know that me old ranch has no
keeper, except Lorna and Jimmy. Sure, that’s no job for a bit of a lass
and a well-meanin’, but poor managin’ lad. They’ll hold me and Bennie
for the nixt term of court, which will be a long, long time away.”
“Don’t worry about that,” assured Sleepy. “We’ll do what we can to help
yuh out.”
“Well, now that’s nice of ye,” said Cassidy, scratching his head as if
wondering why these strangers would promise to help him in any way.
“What do you think of my story?” asked Ben anxiously.
“I dunno,” Hashknife shook his head. “It sounds reasonable, Lanpher--to
me. But they’ll likely hold you for the next term of court. You’ve got
an even break, thasall.”
“That’s all I want.”
As they started away, Cassidy called to them:
“Come again, lads. Ye’r the first folks I ever known in Wolf Wells that
showed common sense. Ye’ll probably not find us out when ye come again.”
“All right,” laughed Hashknife as they passed out and shut the door
behind them.
The sheriff and Lonesome had heard every word, and nodded to the two
cowpunchers.
“Same story,” said Lonesome, leading the way outside. “Ben sure has got
it rehearsed well, or he’s tellin’ the truth.”
“Sounds reasonable, at that,” commented Hashknife. “He shot the gun
accidental, got his hat bucked off. But who in thunder killed Smoky
Cole, if Ben Lanpher didn’t?”
The sheriff scowled and shook his head.
“I dunno of anybody that would bushwhack him, Hartley.”
“It’s kinda gettin’ to be a habit around here, ain’t it? Trainor has
lost two other men in the same way.”
“Yeah,” breathed the sheriff, “---- it! It makes me nervous to think
about it. Feller never knows who’s next.”
The sheriff looked so lugubrious that Hashknife laughed and slapped him
on the shoulder.
“I reckon yo’re safe, as long as yuh don’t antagonize the bushwhackers,”
said Hashknife.
“Huh! Well, I dunno.”
Poco Saunders came into the upper end of town, dismounted at the Lily
of the Valley hitch-rack, and walked down to them. Poco had a queer,
stiff-legged walk, and held his elbows close to his sides.
“Trainor said he wanted to see yuh,” he told Hashknife.
“What’s he got on his mind?” queried Hashknife.
“I dunno. Bronc stepped on his foot this mornin’, and he can’t walk.
Mebbe he wants to hire yuh? I dunno.”
“Did he ask for both of us?” queried Sleepy.
Poco shook his head, turned on his heel and went back toward the saloon.
“He’s a queer jigger,” observed Lonesome; “dangdest feller to run out of
words thataway.”
“He don’t talk much, that’s a cinch,” grinned Hashknife, getting to his
feet. “I reckon we’ll get a bit to eat, Sleepy.”
They walked up to a restaurant and ordered a meal. It was not like
Hashknife to accept a job alone, but the circumstances were different
this time.
“Well, whatcha goin’ to do about it?” asked Sleepy.
“I been wonderin’ a lot m’self, Sleepy. Suppose you go out to the
Tomahawk and help ’em out a little, cowboy. Keep yore eyes open and
yore mouth shut; _sabe?_ I’ll take this Circle Cross job, if that’s
what Trainor wants.
“But--” Hashknife put his hand on Sleepy’s arm and spoke softly--“for
gosh sake, look out. I’ve got a feelin’ that we’re marked right now.
This is goin’ to be our hardest job, Sleepy. Yuh can’t dodge a bullet
that’s fired at yore back--and that’s their game. There’s a dirty
bunch of murderers in these hills, and they’ll hand us a harp if they
get a chance.”
“But there ain’t nothin’ to work on,” complained Sleepy. “They won’t
come out into the open and everybody’s afraid to say what they think.
I’ll find out what I can without askin’ questions, and if I do stumble
on to anythin’ worth talkin’ about, I’ll see yuh real quick.”
They finished their meal and went to the corral after their horses. Poco
Saunders saw them ride past the saloon, but made no move to join them.
About half-way to where the road forked to the Circle Cross, they met
Jimmy, the half-breed, from the Tomahawk.
He grinned widely and drew up his broncho.
“You go Tomahawk?” he asked.
“I’m goin’ out there,” said Sleepy. “Maybe I stay and help for a while.”
“That ---- good! Both go?”
“No,” Hashknife shook his head. “I’m goin’ to work for the Circle Cross,
Jimmy.”
“Not good,” Jimmy shook his head.
“You don’t like the Circle Cross?”
“No, by ----!”