“I be back soon.”
He spurred his horse ahead and faded out in a cloud of dust.
“The Tomahawk sure does love the Circle Cross,” laughed Hashknife. “No
wonder they drew a dead-line. Find out what it was all about, Sleepy.
Prob’ly just a personal affair, but we’ve got to consider everything
around here. But don’t come bustin’ over with the first thing yuh find
out. Let it soak into yore mind, cowboy.”
They shook hands at the forks of the road and went on their different
ways. They had fought their range-battles together for so long that
they both felt a trifle helpless apart.
“Some day they’ll get us both,” mused Hashknife, as he rode slowly
along the dusty road. “Yuh can dodge bullets just so long, but they’ll
get yuh in the end. Dang Sleepy! If he’ll only keep his darned eyes
open. He needs a keeper, that’s what he needs. Mebbe I won’t like this
Circle Cross job--mebbe.”
He found Jim Trainor sitting in an easy chair on the ranch-house porch,
a bottle beside him and his right foot swathed in bandages.
“Put up your bronc, Hartley,” he called. “You’ve got a job. Buck will
show yuh where to put him.”
Buck Avery called from the bunk-house and joined Hashknife at the barn,
where they stabled the horse.
“Bronc stepped on Jim’s foot,” explained Buck. “Dang fool won’t send for
a doctor, so he can suffer for all of me. Yuh seen Poco, did yuh?”
“Yeah, he sent me out.”
They sauntered up to the ranch-house and Trainor yelled for Quong to
bring two more glasses. Trainor was already half-drunk, but in a good
humor.
“I was wonderin’ if Poco would find yuh before yuh got another job,” he
explained. “You’re a top-hand, I can see that, Hartley. Losin’ Smoky
Cole kinda puts me short-handed, and now I go and get walked on. ----
horse was sharp-shod, too. Pour your own drinks, gents.
“I ought to be gettin’ an answer from Lanpher pretty soon. I found
Mitchell, that lawyer, and told him to take the kid’s case, but the kid
cussed ---- out of him. That sure is appreciation. I suppose things will
have to ride about like they are until Lanpher shows up from Frisco and
looks things over. What do you think of the case, Hartley?”
“Well, it kinda looks like the kid was guilty,” observed Hashknife.
“Mebbe the law will consider that they were both drunk at the time;
but that’s a poor defense. A feller ain’t so awful drunk when he’ll
bushwhack a man and kill him the first shot.”
“Ben Lanpher is a good shot, too,” said Buck Avery. “He never did do
nothin’ but drink whisky and practise shootin’.”
“Two bad things to mix,” declared Trainor thoughtfully, and then--
“Where’s your partner, Hartley?”
Hashknife looked up quickly.
“Did yuh want to hire him, too?”
“Want to--yes; but I haven’t work enough.”
“He went out to the Tomahawk ranch. Sleepy’s always doin’ somethin’ for
folks, and he kinda thought mebbe they’d need a little help. This deal
makes it kinda tough for the Tomahawk.”
“That’s a fact,” Trainor scowled at his glass, shaking his head sadly.
“Yuh know, I should ’a’ sent one of the boys over there to help ’em
out.”
“They’d be welcome,” laughed Buck. “Welcome, like the smallpox.”
“Me and Sleepy came past there a while back,” volunteered Hashknife.
“Wasn’t sure just what ranch it was, but we was kinda dry; so we stopped
for a drink. They treated us fine.”
“You were lucky,” said Trainor, pouring himself another drink. “You work
for me and you won’t dare go over there.”
“They didn’t look dangerous. Nobody there, except the old lady, the girl
and the half-breed puncher.”
“Uh-huh,” Trainor’s voice was mildly sarcastic. “Don’t underrate that
half-breed, Hartley. He’s one of the best rifle-shots you ever seen.”
“Yeah?” Hashknife leaned back against a porch-post and hugged his knees.
“Yuh know, I’ve never seen such a country for crack-shots as this is.
Mostly everybody I’ve heard spoken about has that reputation. If trouble
ever starts there won’t be more’n one box of shells needed to kill off
the whole danged population.”
Trainor laughed boisterously and handed the bottle to Buck.
“We sure can shoot, can’t we, Buck? I betcha Hartley can shoot a few,
too, eh, Hartley?”
Hashknife shook his head.
“No-o-o, I wouldn’t say that, Trainor. Me and Sleepy never put
ourselves up to be good shots, but we’re willin’ shooters. Lotsa
folks can out-shoot us, but,” Hashknife grinned softly, “we’re still
alive.”
“And some of them ain’t, eh?” grinned Buck suggestively.
“Every dog has its day,” said Hashknife slowly. “None of us can live
forever. I always worked on the theory that bein’ right gives yuh the
edge on folks that do wrong. That’s why a horse-thief goes to the end
of his rope in a short time. A gunman cuts a short swath. If yuh
notice, they don’t last long, and it’s because they’re all wrong. Look
at Smoky Cole. Look at Ben Lanpher.”
“Your theory don’t work out right, Hartley,” laughed Trainor. “It wasn’t
a case of right winnin’ out there. Ben Lanpher wasn’t any more right
than Smoky.”
“All right--where’s Ben Lanpher? The law got him, and the law is right.”
“Oh, to ---- with such arguments!” blurted Trainor. “Fill up your glass,
Hartley. Here comes Poco. Didja tell him to get the mail, Buck?”
“Yeah, I told him,” said Buck.
Poco rode down to the stable, put up his horse and came slowly up to
the house. He nodded to Hashknife and handed Trainor a telegram. Buck
offered Poco a glass and the bottle, but the flinty-faced cowpuncher
refused with a shrug of his thin shoulders.
“Telegram from William Lanpher,” explained Trainor. “He’ll arrive at
Wolf Wells tomorrow night. Don’t say whether he’s alone or not. ----
it, I told him he ought to take Ben home months ago, but he wouldn’t
do it.”
“Ben is of age,” grunted Buck. “He had a birthday about a month ago and
celebrated it by gettin’ drunk and shootin’ at himself in the Antelope
mirror. There was busted glass all over the place. Somebody said he’d
have bad luck for seven years.”
“Mrs. Lanpher’ll probably come,” said Trainor thickly. “She thinks Ben’s
a little tin god.”
“He’s her son.” Thus Poco Saunders, speaking for the first time since he
arrived.
“He ain’t worth worryin’ about, that’s a cinch,” laughed Trainor.
“Good or bad, their mother worries,” said Poco flatly, and got to his
feet.
He started to say something more, but changed his mind and went down to
the bunk-house.
Hashknife looked after him and squinted thoughtfully. He had disliked
Poco Saunders--until that remark. It showed that somewhere inside that
sinister-looking cowpuncher was a big spark of human nature.
“Good or bad, their mother worries,” repeated Hashknife to himself. “She
thinks that Ben is a tin-god--but he’s her son.”
“Queer sort of a jigger,” said Buck, noticing that Hashknife was looking
toward the bunk-house.
“Poco don’t drink like other folks. He won’t take a drink until he is
ready to get drunk. Then he hides his gun, and proceeds to get goshawful
drunk. He won’t talk much, but he’s no fool, Poco ain’t.”
“No, I betcha he ain’t,” agreed Hashknife. “If I was goin’ to pick an
enemy, I sure wouldn’t pick Poco Saunders.”
“The killin’ of Smoky Cole kinda hit him hard,” said Buck. “He used to
grin once in a while, but now he goes around with the same hard-faced
expression all the time. I’ll bet he’d make a scrap-heap out of Ben
Lanpher, if he had the chance.”
“Aw, to ---- with ’em all!” snorted Trainor. “Hey! Quong! Bring us
another bottle. I’m celebratin’ a busted foot and I need a lot of
liquor.”
“Ex-cuse me then,” laughed Hashknife apologetically, “my stummick ain’t
in good shape, and I never did need much liquor. I’ll go down and get
used to the bunk-house.”
Trainor frowned slightly, but gave a drunken shrug of his shoulders.
“You know your own insides, Hartley. If me and Buck get plumb paralyzed,
you and Poco run the ranch, will yuh?”
“We’ll do our best,” laughed Hashknife, and went down to the bunk-house,
where he found Poco Saunders playing solitaire.
Poco nodded, but kept on with his game.
“Which bunk do I take?” asked Hashknife.
Poco pointed out two unoccupied bunks and began rolling a cigaret.
His tobacco sack was almost empty, so Hashknife tossed a full sack in
front of him. He nodded his thanks and finished his cigaret. Suddenly
he turned and looked straight at Hashknife.
“Do you think that Ben Lanpher killed Smoky Cole?”
Hashknife’s face did not change a line, but his eyes squinted a trifle,
as he replied--
“What makes yuh think he didn’t, Saunders?”
Poco turned back to the table and gathered up the cards.
“I was just wonderin’,” he said slowly. “Lanpher was pretty drunk.”
“If Ben didn’t kill him, who did?” asked Hashknife.
He had asked the same question several times, but no one had given him
the slightest clue to show who might have done the murder. And he was
doomed to disappointment this time. Poco inhaled deeply and shuffled
the cards.
“There was several of that jury that was sore at him,” reminded
Hashknife.
“Not sore enough to murder him.”
“Lotsa folks seem to think that Smoky Cole got what was comin’ to him.”
“Thasso?” Poco scowled thoughtfully at his cards, and turned slowly,
facing Hashknife.
“They say that Smoky wasn’t any good, Hartley. He drank and raised ----
in general every time he got money enough. Smoky was a gunman, and
mebbe, accordin’ to law, he wasn’t just the sweetest little citizen yuh
could imagine; but he was my bunkie.
“Me and Smoky shared the same blanket for a long time. We split
fifty-fifty on everythin’--me and Smoky did. He might ’a’ been an
enemy of society, as the judge said at Cassidy’s trial, speakin’ about
criminals, but he was a good friend of mine.”
Poco shifted his eyes and looked out through the dusty window, where
the last rays of the sunset back-lighted the old cottonwoods beyond
the creek, and the lines of his face softened until he was no longer
the sinister-looking cowboy.
“He was my bunkie--my pal,” he said softly.
“I reckon I understand,” said Hashknife slowly. “I’ve got a bunkie, too,
Saunders.”
Poco turned and looked at him, as he got slowly to his feet and walked
over to the door.
“I know yuh have,” said Poco softly, “and--and yuh might tell him to
look out.”
Hashknife squinted wonderingly, as Poco shut the door behind him.
“What does he know?” wondered Hashknife, half-aloud. “And why does he
tell me to warn Sleepy?”
There was no question that Poco Saunders knew something; that he did
not believe Ben Lanpher guilty of murder. Hashknife wondered if Poco
knew something about the Fantom Riders, who were making inroads on
the cattlemen of the Ghost Hills Range; and was afraid to name them.
“It’s too foggy for me to see through,” he decided, “so I reckon we’ll
have to let nature take her course.”
Came the musical clanging of the cook’s triangle, which announced that
supper was ready at the Circle Cross. As Hashknife stepped outside, Poco
Saunders was crossing from the barn.
“We’ll feed alone t’night,” he observed, motioning toward the front
porch of the ranch-house.
“Trainor and Buck are both paralyzed drunk.”
“Do they make a practise of drinkin’ each other to sleep?” asked
Hashknife.
“No. Trainor don’t drink much, and Buck only cuts loose once a month.
Help yourself to a wash-pan.”
* * * * *
The next day, neither Trainor nor Buck Avery was in any shape for
active duties. Hashknife asked Trainor what he wanted done, and
Trainor was so muddled in the head that he had no coherent ideas. He
finally told Hashknife to do what he pleased; so Hashknife saddled
his gray bronco and headed into the hills, cutting across toward the
Tomahawk.
He wanted to find Sleepy and tell him what Poco Saunders had said; but
most of all he wanted to see if Sleepy was all right.
Circle Cross, Tomahawk and Flying M cattle dotted the hills, but the
Circle Cross predominated. The feed was fairly good and there seemed
plenty of water. It was an ideal range as far as nature was concerned.
As he swung higher into the hills he could see the town of Wolf Wells,
a blur of buildings in the swale-like little valley, and beyond that
drifted the smoke of a train. There was little color in the hills. Even
the foliage of the few trees was of a gray tint that blended into the
gray of the forbidding-looking hills.
“Ghost Hills is the right name for ’em,” he told his horse, as he swung
along a hog-back, which led to the little valley of the Tomahawk ranch.
He found Sleepy humped up in the doorway of the ranch-house, trying to
coax a tune out of a one-string mandolin, while Lorna leaned against the
wall and smiled at his serious efforts.
“Hyah, cowboy!” yelled Sleepy. “By gosh, I’m glad for to see yuh. Git
down and listen to the ‘Cowboy’s Lament,’ done to a turn on one string.”
Hashknife dismounted and came up to the doorway. Lorna nodded to him,
but it was plainly evident that he was not exactly welcome, and he
blamed it to the fact that he was working for the Circle Cross. Mrs.
Cassidy came to the door, bobbed her head and went back to her work.
“Here, you play it, Lorna,” Sleepy handed her the mandolin, and grinned
at Hashknife. “She can play it, too.”
But Lorna did not seem disposed to exhibit her musical ability. She took
the instrument and went into the house.
“Callin’ her by her first name already, eh?” chided Hashknife seriously.
Sleepy blushed and rubbed his stubbled chin.
“Well, there ain’t no harm in that, is there?”
“No-o-o, I s’pose not. Lemme tell yuh somethin’, cowboy.”
And in a few words, Hashknife repeated what Poco Saunders had said.
“What do yuh reckon he meant?” asked Sleepy. “Look out for what?”
“Just that, and no more, Sleepy. I tell yuh, they’re on to us and Poco
knows it.”
“Yeah, and Poco’s probably one of the gang.”
“If he is, why should he warn us?”
Sleepy shook his head violently.
“That’s what I hate about this ---- country, Hashknife. They’re all too
scared to talk. But I found out that the Tomahawk has lost a lot of
stock. And old Cassidy never killed that detective, no more than I did.
There’s a bad, bad gang back in these hills, cowboy; and they swoop out
and strike hard at anybody that horns into their business.”
“Want to pick up and drift out?” queried Hashknife.
Sleepy glanced back at the doorway and shook his head.
“No more than you do, Hashknife. We’ll strike a lead pretty soon. I
tried to pump the half-breed puncher, but he’s close-mouthed like all
Injuns. Mebbe he don’t know any more than we do, but he’s scared to
talk.”
“Suppose we take a ride into the hills,” suggested Hashknife. “We’ll
kinda look around and see what we can see.”
“That’s a pious idea,” agreed Sleepy. “I’ll get my horse.”
Lorna stood in the doorway and watched them ride away. Sleepy waved at
her, but she made no move to show that she had seen him.
“Yo’re free, white and twenty-one,” said Hashknife, “but you ain’t above
takin’ friendly advice, are yuh, Sleepy?”
“Well, I ain’t makin’ love to her--if that’s what yuh mean.”
“Yuh don’t have to make love, cowboy. It’s already made. Do yuh know
what I mean?”
“Yore advice is accepted,” grinned Sleepy. “Let’s forget the female end
of this proposition.”
They rode straight back to the main divide of the Ghost Hills, and swung
in a wide circle. It was a wild range, where an army might be able to
hide without fear of detection. They found two deserted old cabins,
windowless and doorless, where the range horses sought shelter from the
flies; but there were no other signs of human habitation.
It was nearly sundown when they came back to the Tomahawk. Jimmy, the
half-breed, was there and greeted them with a grin. Hashknife did not
dismount, but rode back to the Circle Cross, where he found supper on
the table, Buck half-drunk again and Trainor swearing at his sore
foot. Poco was eating supper.
Buck was just drunk enough to be quarrelsome, and insisted that he was
going down to meet the Lanpher family, or as many of them as were coming
that night.
Trainor was just as emphatic in telling Buck that he was seven kinds of
a fool to even think he was. Trainor appealed to Hashknife.
“He’d be a fine lookin’ thing to meet the owner of this ranch, wouldn’t
he? Wouldn’t Mrs. Lanpher and Helen appreciate havin’ him meet ’em,
Hartley?”
“Well,” grinned Hashknife, “I dunno them folks, but I reckon yo’re
right.”
Buck exploded with protestations that he was as sober as a judge, and
called upon Poco to look upon him and see if he--Buck--wasn’t fit to
meet a king and queen.
But Poco refused to be drawn into the argument and Buck subsided in a
chair, where he began to snore.
“I don’t like to ask it of yuh, Hartley,” said Trainor, “but would yuh
mind meetin’ them folks and bringin’ ’em out here? They’ll be in about
nine o’clock tonight,” if the train is on time, which it probably won’t
be.
“You can get a two-seated hack at the livery-stable and lead your horse
back. Yuh won’t be able to miss ’em, ’cause we don’t have many strangers
come into Wolf Wells.”
“Sure, I’ll go after ’em, Trainor. As soon as I get through eatin’ a bit
of supper, I’ll go right down-town.”
“Take yore time, Hartley. I’m goin’ to bed right now. This danged foot
is givin’ me thunder tonight, and I drank too much last night. Feller’s
a fool to drink whisky.”
Hashknife sat down across from Poco and accepted of Quong’s culinary
art. He had not eaten since breakfast, and the fat Celestial grinned
with delight as Hashknife stowed away great quantities of food.
“Belly good,” observed Quong, “Cook plenty--nobody eat. Too much whisky,
yo’ _sabe_? Yo’ eat good, I’m ve’y glad.”
“Then I’ll make yuh glad a lot of times,” laughed Hashknife.
* * * * *
Hashknife took his time, and it was growing dark when he mounted his
gray bronco and headed for Wolf Wells. Just before he reached the forks
of the road he saw a rider pass, going toward town.
It was a little too far for identification, but he noted that the man
was riding a gray or a grayish-roan horse. The rider had disappeared
when Hashknife reached the main road, and he made no effort to overtake
him.
The air was cool and Hashknife had plenty of time to go to town and
arrange for the livery-rig before train-time. He was riding slowly,
scanning the road, near the spot where Ben Lanpher’s gun had been
found, when the whip-like report of a rifle sounded from the left.
Hashknife’s horse swerved quickly, and for a moment Hashknife thought
the shot had been fired at him, but there had been no sound from a
bullet. He dropped off his horse, drew his six-shooter and led the
horse down the road.
There were no more shots. The fringe of timber and brush along the
road masked him from the hillside, but also precluded any chance of
his seeing the shooter.
He led his horse around the first turn and stopped short. Almost at the
same spot where Smoky Cole had been killed stood a man and a horse. The
man appeared to be leaning against the horse, as if bracing himself, but
when he saw Hashknife he threw up a six-shooter and fired.
Hashknife instinctively ducked, but the bullet hummed off through the
brush ten feet away, and the man mounted swiftly although awkwardly and
raced down the road.
Hashknife threw up his gun, but snapped it back into its holster, as he
mounted swiftly and spurred after the rider.
He knew the speed of his gray horse, and felt sure that he could run his
quarry down, if they kept to the road.
“Left handed son-of-a-gun!” snorted Hashknife. “Can’t shoot straight,
that’s a cinch. C’mon, bronc!”
They whirled out into the more open country and Hashknife grinned to see
that the rider was still traveling down the road. But the horse ahead,
even with its long handicap start, was no match for the long-legged
gray, which cut down its lead at every stride.
The rider looked wildly back and even turned in his saddle and tried to
get into position for another shot, but, as the running gray horse drew
closer, he jerked up on his reins and threw up his hands in token of
surrender.
“Don’t shoot!” he called, and Hashknife squinted through a cloud of dust
at the face of Jimmy, the half-breed.
Hashknife moved in closer and noticed that Jimmy’s right arm was
bleeding badly.
“That’s why yuh shot left-handed, eh?” panted Hashknife.
“Yeah,” Jimmy nodded quickly. “Other arm no good.”
“Who shot yuh?”
Jimmy squinted at Hashknife and licked his lips.
“You don’t shoot me?” he asked.
“No. I heard the shot. Then you shot at me?”
Jimmy nodded and felt of his arm tenderly.
“I thought you shoot me, but I guess not. You can’t be two place same
time. Who shoot me, you s’pose?”
“Hard to tell, Jimmy. Is your arm hurt bad?”
“Pretty bad. Almost knock me off horse.”
He rolled up his sleeve and they examined the wound. The bullet had
struck near the wrist and had cut a furrow almost to the elbow. It was
a painful, but not a serious wound; and Hashknife bound it up with a
big handkerchief.
“How in thunder did yuh get hit in that arm?” queried Hashknife. “The
shot came from the left-side of the road.”
“I dunno,” said Jimmy blankly. “I reach up to rub my nose, I think.”
“By gosh, that was close!” exploded Hashknife, “that bullet must ’a’
passed close to yore chin, hooked into yore wrist and kicked loose at
your elbow. Now, who in ---- wants to kill you, Jimmy?”
Jimmy’s eyes were troubled as he thought deeply, but his answer was not
at all evasive:
“I dunno. I never hurt nobody.”
“All right, Jimmy; let’s be driftin’.”
“I go after coffee,” explained Jimmy. “Lorna want coffee for Sleepy.”
Hashknife grinned widely, as they rode on, but deep in his heart he was
afraid that Sleepy might fall in love with this half-breed girl. But he
forgot that as he studied Jimmy and his grayish-roan horse.
It would have been easy to mistake them in that light for himself and
the gray horse, he reflected. Were the Fantom Riders aware that he and
Sleepy were trying to smoke them out, and were trying to ambush them?
If that were the case, they would get them sooner or later. Hashknife
shuddered slightly. He was convinced that they had mistaken their man
and had injured Jimmy. There was no way to guard against an ambush.
They would likely try another place next time. He turned to Jimmy.
“You better see a doctor about that arm, Jimmy. I’ll pay the bill.”
“No,” Jimmy shook his head quickly. “I go back and let Minnie fix it.
She know how.”
“Minnie is Mrs. Cassidy, ain’t she?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you and Lorna related?”
“---- no! My mother and Minnie sisters, thasall.”
Hashknife grinned, but did not try to explain that Jimmy and Lorna were
cousins. Anyway, it would mean nothing to Jimmy.
Hashknife left Jimmy at the general store and went to arrange for the
livery-rig. He knew that Jimmy would not discuss the shooting with any
one. Coming back from the livery-stable he found the sheriff at his
office.
“Lanpher’s comin’, eh?” said the sheriff, after Hashknife had spoken of
meeting him at the depot.
“The rest of the family comin’?”
“I dunno. The telegram didn’t say, but Trainor talks like they was all
comin’.”
“I kinda feel sorry for them folks,” mused the sheriff. “I like Lanpher.
Never did get acquainted with his wife and daughter. I reckon I’ll go
over with yuh and meet ’em.”
Contrary to predictions the train was on time. Lanpher, his wife and
daughter were all there, with innumerable bags and suitcases. Hashknife
was lucky enough to reach Lanpher first, and gave him the whispered
warning--
“Remember, you don’t know me.”
Then came the sheriff, hand outstretched.
“Glad to meetcha ag’in, Lanpher; but not under these circumstances.”