“You know the reason well enough.”
Trainor had tied a lunch to the back of his saddle, and they ate at a
spring far back in the hills. During the course of the lunch, Lanpher
remarked--
“Carsten was in to see me not long ago, Jim.”
“That so?”
“Yes. Just a friendly call, he said; but wanted to know what we had that
was for sale.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Well, I told him I didn’t know. He said that beef was due to take a
raise pretty soon. I’m not kicking on prices.”
“No.” Trainor shook his head. “We have no kick on the price of beef and
hides.”
They finished their lunch and mounted again. Hashknife grinned as
Lanpher settled himself tenderly in the saddle and braced his feet
solidly in the stirrups.
It was almost dark when they arrived at the ranch-house. Lanpher was
thoroughly tired so Hashknife took care of the horse for him. Poco had
just fed the wagon-team and told Hashknife that they had just arrived
a short time before.
“What’s new in Wolf Wells?” asked Hashknife.
“Nothin’ much. I seen your pardner and the half-breed girl down there
about noon. He’s workin’ at the Tomahawk, ain’t he?”
“Well, I dunno about the work part of it,” laughed Hashknife, as they
entered the bunk-house.
Buck was still stretched out on the bunk and an empty bottle attested
to the fact that Buck was “full as a tick.” Poco tried to rouse him,
but Buck refused to give more than a grunt.
Trainor ate supper with Hashknife and Poco, after the Lanpher family
had eaten, and during the meal the sheriff and Lonesome Hobbs rode in.
Hashknife saw them from the window, but said nothing. They dismounted
and went to the front of the house.
“What’s comin’ off around here?” wondered Hashknife, as he saw three
more riders ride down past the house and tie their horses to a corral
fence.
He recognized one of them as being Ability Edwards. Trainor saw them,
too, and hurriedly finished the rest of his meal. After he went out,
Hashknife said to Poco:
“The sheriff and deputy came a few minutes ago, and just now, three more
men rode in. What do yuh make of it?”
Poco halted with a cup at his lips, slowly placed it back in the saucer
and got to his feet. He went to the door and looked out. Hashknife got
up and went over to him.
The men had grouped a short distance from the porch and were talking
as they looked down the road toward town. In a few moments three more
riders appeared.
“That’s Jud Carey, Bert Elhoff and Honey Simpson, all from the 66
outfit,” said Poco. “Them first three are old man Shappee, Bility
Edwards and Baldy Shannon, from the Flyin’ M. I wonder what it
means.”
“Let’s horn in and find out,” grinned Hashknife.
The three riders dismounted and joined the group.
“Well, I reckon we’re all here,” observed Trainor, “so we might as well
go into the house.”
He led the way into the living-room and the men sat down on the chairs,
or squatted on their heels against the wall. Lanpher had joined them at
the door. Trainor glanced around at the group, but said nothing to Poco
and Hashknife, who had invited themselves.
“Gentlemen,” said Trainor seriously, “I reckon you all know why yo’re
here this evenin’. We’ve all suffered alike in this matter, and I think
the time has come when we will have to step out into the open.
“Mr. Lanpher--” Trainor indicated him--“I reckon most of yuh met him
when he was here before, and yuh know he is half-owner of the Circle
Cross. He advised me to have yuh meet here and try to figure out some
way to handle this proposition.
“I know how yuh feel about it. We’ve all been afraid to talk about
it--or to do much. But I’ll tell yuh it’s comin’ to a showdown. I
don’t mind tellin’ yuh that the two men of mine that were killed were
detectives; sent here by the association.
“Whether or not Smoky Cole was killed by the same gang, we don’t know. I
hope it can be proved on ’em. Yesterday two shots were fired from back
there in the hills. One of ’em hit the casing of the kitchen door, while
the other went into the kitchen and smashed into a kettle. Hartley, over
there, was going toward the door at the time, and my cook was beside the
doorway. I don’t know which they were trying to kill.”
The cattlemen considered this, as they looked at Hashknife and at each
other. Old man Shappee, a typical old cattleman, cleared his throat
raspingly.
“What did you ever do to ’em, Hartley?” he asked.
“It was kinda hard to tell--at that distance,” grinned Hashknife, and
the men smiled with him.
“Now, who has an idea to work on?” asked Trainor.
The men stirred uneasily. None of them seemed to want to commit
themselves. Finally Jud Carey, a lanky, middle-aged man stood up.
“I dunno how anybody could figure out an idea,” he drawled slowly. “It
ain’t like buckin’ somethin’ that yuh can see, Jim. The 66 has lost a
lot of stock, but none of us has been shot at--yet.”
He sat down slowly and lighted a cigaret.
“Aw, ----!” exploded Trainor. “Is everybody afraid to talk? Are we goin’
to set here and shiver in our boots while a gang of bushwackin’ rustlers
shoot our men from ambush and run off our stock?”
“All right--tell us what to do,” suggested Shappee.
“Well,” Trainor hesitated, “I’m ----ed if I know what to do. Lanpher
and I have done what we think is the best thing; but we can’t ask the
association to send more men to the slaughter.”
“How did this gang find out that they were detectives?” asked Bility
Edwards.
“Nobody knows.”
“They’re sure a slick outfit,” observed the sheriff. “I didn’t know that
these men were detectives. Nobody ever told me about ’em. One was killed
near town and the other one on the Tomahawk ranch. It’s almost a cinch
that old Cassidy didn’t kill both of ’em.”
“Cassidy’s a salty old son-of-a-gun, but I’ll bet he never killed that
feller,” said Shappee, but qualified his statement with--
“Unless he’s one of the gang himself.”
“And that’s what we don’t know,” said Trainor.
“Would it do you any good to make up a big posse and hunt every inch of
the hills?” asked the sheriff.
“How would we know but what the men we’re lookin’ for would be ridin’
along with us?” asked Carey.
“I dunno,” said the sheriff foolishly.
“Well, anythin’ is better than settin’ around and bein’ shot at, I
should think,” observed Shappee. “I’m ready to ride or do anythin’ the
majority wants to do.”
“I wish I knew what to suggest.” Thus William Lanpher, who had been a
good listener.
“I have spent money for investigators, who have been killed. This is
very unfortunate. I do not know how much stock you men have lost, but I
do know that we have suffered severely. And, gentlemen, it is not going
to stop, unless we are able to stop it.”
“Yuh can’t expect ’em to draw out of a cinch game, can yuh?” queried
Bility Edwards.
“Why would they kill Smoky Cole?” demanded Lonesome, who had hardly
spoken since he arrived. “Smoky wasn’t no detective.”
“We don’t know that they did,” said Trainor, “but we hope it can be laid
to their door so as to clear Ben Lanpher of the charge.”
“----, he was too drunk to bushwhack anybody that day,” declared
Lonesome. “I reckon they done it.”
“They’re promiscuous all right,” agreed Hashknife heartily. “Night
before last they shot Jimmy Droop-drawers, the Tomahawk half-breed,
while he was ridin’ along the same place that Smoky Cole was killed.”
“For gosh sake!” exploded Shappee, while the rest of them grunted or
cursed in astonishment.
“You didn’t tell me about this,” said Trainor seriously.
Hashknife shook his head.
“No, I thought yuh had troubles enough, Trainor.”
“Nobody told me,” complained the sheriff. “Was he hurt much?”
Hashknife explained the extent of his injuries.
“And why did they try to kill the breed?” queried Lonesome dismally.
“My ----, why don’tcha do somethin’, except ask questions?” snorted the
sheriff.
“Show me anybody that’s doin’ better than that,” replied Lonesome. “I’m
askin’ ---- pointed ones, y’betcha.”
Lonesome’s reply brought a grin, but it was short-lived.
Came the sound of a hurried footstep, the door was flung open and Lorna
Cassidy almost fell inside the room. She shut the door behind her and
stood with her back against it.
She was hatless, one sleeve of her dress was torn badly. Her hair was
wind-blown and one of her long braids was wrapped once around her neck;
as though she had ridden fast and far through the wind.
She looked from face to face in that smoke-fogged room, her lips shut
tight, her eyes blazing, until she caught sight of Hashknife, and spoke
directly to him.
“Your pardner was shot--hour--or--so--ago!” she panted.
Hashknife sprang to his feet, as did the rest of the men.
“My pardner--Sleepy. Shot? Not dead?”
She shook her head, her eyes still searching the room.
“No, not dead; hurt bad.”
Hashknife went to her and took her by the arm.
“Don’t hurry,” he advised her hoarsely. “Take yore time and tell us all
about it.”
She nodded, leaning against the door, as she looked from face to face.
She appeared to be looking for some one.
“We were out riding,” she said slowly. “We had been to town and when we
were coming back we decided to take a ride into the hills.
“We saw a man riding alone, but paid no attention to him. As we were
riding down to our ranch, a shot was fired and my horse fell. I hurt
my head a little, and before I could get up another shot was fired
and Sleepy fell off his horse.
“I got him to the house and--” she shook her head wearily-- “My mother
helped me. She heard the shots, too.”
“But how bad is he hurt?” asked Hashknife.
“I don’t know. The bullet struck him under the left arm and knocked him
off the horse. He didn’t know anything for a while, but he woke up all
right.”
“How long ago did this happen?” asked Trainor.
“Oh, I don’t know. It was a while before dark.”
“And he hasn’t had a doctor?” queried Hashknife.
Lorna shook her head.
“My mother is better than a doctor. She knows what to do. He knew I came
over to tell you, and he said to tell you that he’s all right.”
“And you didn’t see the man that fired the shots?” said the sheriff.
Lorna looked around the circle again and back at the sheriff.
“Yes, I seen him.”
“Yuh did? My gosh! Who was he?”
“I got up, after my horse fell with me. I was dizzy for a minute, but I
looked back toward the hill and I seen the man riding away. It was the
same man we saw a while before.”
“But who was he?” urged half-a-dozen voices, as the cattlemen crowded
around her.
“Give us his name,” demanded the sheriff.
But Lorna shook her head.
“No, not yet.”
“Why not?”
“I told Sleepy about it and he said for me to not tell anybody.”
“Well, that’s a ---- of a note!” wailed Lonesome.
Hashknife smiled grimly. He knew that Sleepy, even though badly hurt,
knew that this information would be for them alone.
“You want to be party to a crime?” queried the sheriff. “If yuh don’t
tell, yo’re as guilty as the shooter.”
Lorna backed against the door and looked defiantly at him.
“All right, arrest me.”
“Oh ----!”
The sheriff turned appealingly to the men.
“What can yuh do in a case like that?”
Hashknife turned and went out through the kitchen, heading for the barn.
He saddled and led his horse outside, where he found the cattlemen
waiting for him. Poco brushed past him, saying that he and Trainor were
going along.
Lorna was already in the saddle; so he rode in beside her and they led
the way. There was little conversation. Every man felt that they would
soon know the name of the man who had been terrorizing the Ghost Hills
Range, and they also knew that he would never live to be tried by a
court of law.
Hashknife did not question Lorna, and he felt that these men would have
their ride in vain. If Sleepy did not want her to tell the name of the
killer, it was because this information might serve them to uncover the
whole band.
Near the forks of the road he asked if it might not be well to send one
man after the doctor at Wolf Wells, but she said:
“My mother good doctor. She knows what to do.”
Hashknife knew that many of the Indians were adept at treating gunshot
wounds, and a rangeland doctor is not usually a surgeon; so he agreed
that her idea was probably the best.
It was a silent group of riders that dismounted at the open door of the
Tomahawk ranch-house and filed inside. Sleepy was stretched out on a cot
and beside him sat the Indian woman, Mrs. Cassidy.
Sleepy was very white, but he grinned at Hashknife and looked around at
the crowd.
“Pardner, how do yuh feel?” asked Hashknife softly.
“Fine.” Sleepy’s voice was weak. “They come danged near handin’ me a
harp, Hashknife.”
“Where did it hit yuh?”
“Kinda under the pit of m’ arm and come out over m’ chest. It sure
ripped ---- out of me. I must have cast-iron ribs, ’cause she didn’t
go inside.”
“Then yuh ain’t hurt bad.” There was a note of relief in Hashknife’s
voice.
“F’r a minute I thought yuh was dead, cowboy.”
“You didn’t have nothin’ on me. I seen seven flocks of angels flyin’
in a V-shape over me. I says to myself, ‘Sleepy, yo’re goin’ to be a
migratory bird, instead of a harpist.’”
The sheriff shoved his way to the front and looked down at Sleepy.
“The girl says that yuh know who shot yuh.”
Sleepy squinted up at the sheriff in amazement. He turned his head
slowly and looked at the ring of faces around him.
“Well, I know that somebody did,” he said softly, “but a feller with his
face in the dust can’t hardly see behind him and up a hill.”
“But you seen the same feller before today,” persisted the sheriff. “By
----, we want to know who it was!”
“So do I,” said Sleepy. “I want to be sure.”
“You give us his name and we’ll find out for yuh,” stated old man
Shappee.
Sleepy shook his head and looked appealingly at Hashknife, who turned to
the crowd.
“Gents, yuh can’t bother him no more now. He’s been bad hurt, and he
don’t want to talk.”
The crowd moved back to the doorway and the Indian woman sat down beside
Sleepy, giving him a drink of something that had a most peculiar odor.
There was no question but what the cattlemen were not in the best of
humor. They had come a long way after information and had not received
it.
“I don’t understand why they won’t talk,” said Trainor. “This ain’t a
thing to keep secret. If the guilty one finds out that they are known,
they’ll fog out of the country and we’ll never see ’em again.”
“Well,” Lonesome shook his head sadly, “that sure wouldn’t hurt my
feelin’s, none whatever. They can’t fog too soon nor too far to suit
old man Hobbs’ little son.”
“---- it!” wailed the sheriff dismally. “What’s the good of havin’ a
sheriff.”
“I’ve argued the same question many times,” smiled Hashknife, “but yuh
never can make folks listen to reason. I never seen one yet that was
good for anythin’, except pitchin’ horseshoes.”
“What I want to know is this.” Jud Carey spat dryly and looked around.
“When do we git informed as to who the shooter was?”
“Don’t look at me!” snapped the sheriff. “I’ve asked questions until m’
tonsils are all raw. I don’t see why they’re keepin’ this to themselves,
danged if I do.”
“I reckon there’s nothin’ to be learned here,” said Shappee wearily,
“and it’s a long ride back to the old Flyin’ M. I ain’t as young as I
used to be.”
“Come over and stay with us tonight,” offered Trainor.
“Yeah, and have ma pawin’ holes in the carpet, ’cause I don’t come home.
She’s scared stiff, jist thinkin’ that I might git shot in the back. I
told her that at my age it didn’t make a ---- bit of difference whether
they shot me in the back or the front. I’m much obliged to yuh, just the
same, Trainor.”
“You’re sure welcome to come,” laughed Trainor, and turned to Hashknife.
“You goin’ back with us, Hartley?”
Hashknife shook his head quickly.
“No, I reckon I’ll stay here tonight. Mebbe I’ll have to go after a
doctor, but I don’t think so. Anyway, I’ll be over early in the
mornin’.”
They went back to their horses and rode away down the moonlit highway,
which wound in and out of the brushy cañons. Hashknife watched them
until they faded out in the distance, and turned back, closing the door
behind him.
He crossed the room and drew the blanket curtain across the window
near the cot. Lorna had sat down near the fireplace, and a moment
later Jimmy, the half-breed, slipped in the front door and closed it
quickly.
Jimmy was carrying a shotgun, which he leaned against the wall. The
squaw spoke to him in the Sioux tongue and he shook his head.
“Lorna go way, Jimmy watch,” volunteered the squaw in explanation.
“See nothin’,” grunted Jimmy, coming closer to the cot and grinning at
Sleepy.
“You feel good, eh? Minnie ---- good doctor.”
Hashknife walked over and squatted down on his heels beside the cot.
“Yuh want to talk about it, Sleepy?” he asked.
“Ask Lorna.”
Lorna came closer and spoke softly.
“It was Buck Avery.”
“Buck Avery?”
Hashknife squinted thoughtfully. Buck had been drunk for two days. He
was still drinking that morning, and was dead drunk just before supper.
“I’m sorry, but I reckon yuh made a mistake, Lorna,” he said slowly, and
told them of Buck’s drinking.
“I told her not to tell anybody, and I’m glad she didn’t,” said Sleepy
weakly. “It don’t pay to be too quick in a thing like that.”
Lorna shook her head slowly and stared at the blank wall.
“No talk much,” grunted the squaw. “---- good thing.”
“I seen that man,” persisted Lorna, as if visualizing him now. “He
rode like Buck Avery and he looked like Buck Avery. But this man was
not drunk.”
“Got me the second shot,” grinned Sleepy. “His first one must ’a’ just
grazed me and hit Lorna’s horse in the head. No drunken man fired them
two shots.”
“Which lets Buck out,” declared Hashknife. “He’s been drunk ever since
I went to the Circle Cross. But this sure puts us in one fine fix. The
guilty party will think that we know ’em, and they’ll either pull out
of the country or try harder to wipe us out.”
“Don’t worry sick man,” advised the squaw. “Go to bed.”
“That’s good advice,” admitted Hashknife, and to Sleepy--
“If that bullet tore yuh up bad, suppose I go after a doctor and have
him sew yuh up.”
“I fixum,” grunted the squaw. “No need doctor.”
“That’s a cinch,” grinned Sleepy. “Mother fixed me up fine. I couldn’t
be sewed tighter if they used a sewing-machine on me. Don’tcha bother
about me, Hashknife; you keep yore own skin together.”
Hashknife accepted a blanket from Lorna, kicked off his boots and
rolled up in a corner. He was dog-tired, but his mind refused to rest.
He wondered who rode and looked like Buck Avery.
Mentally he compared every Ghost Hills cowpuncher that he knew, but none
of them looked like Buck. Still, at a distance, there was a similarity
between Buck and Honey Simpson, the silent puncher from the 66. Even
Bility Edwards might be mistaken for Buck.
But his mind always jerked back to Buck Avery, snoring on the bunk,
with the empty bottle beside him and the bunk-house smelling strongly
of liquor. Buck was drunk the night that Jimmy, the half-breed, had
been shot, and Buck had gone to the Flying M ranch at the time that
Quong had nearly been hit.
The Flying M was west of the Circle Cross, while the shots had been
fired from the east. Buck had been to Wolf Wells that day, and had
also carried the message to the Flying M for Trainor.
And last, but not least, there was not a .30-30 rifle on the Circle
Cross. The bullet that wrecked Quong’s kettle was a .30-30. Hashknife
had seen Smoky Cole’s wound, but it was hard to tell what kind of a
bullet had killed him. He wished now that he had examined it more
closely.
He resolved to examine the dead horse in the morning and see if he could
find the bullet. Lorna was sitting by the fireplace, her chin cupped in
her hands and Hashknife studied her profile.
Just beyond her, and to the right, sat her mother, a short, squat,
typical Indian woman. He thought of Pinto Cassidy, with his wizened,
wrinkled, Irish countenance, and wondered what freak of nature had
given these two an offspring like Lorna. She was as unlike either of
them as a child could be.
And then he went to sleep to dream of miles of mesquite clumps with a
bushwhacker behind each one, and him with a .45-70 rifle and nothing
to shoot in it, except .30-30 caliber cartridges.
Just after midnight a severe thunderstorm swept the Ghost Hills, and
the downpour of rain thudded hollowly on the roof of the Tomahawk
ranch-house; but Hashknife slept the sleep of the just, in spite of
it all.
It was barely past daylight when Hashknife awoke and rolled out of his
blanket. The old squaw was already preparing breakfast and Sleepy was
snoring soundly. Jimmy, the half-breed, put in a yawning appearance,
and peered cautiously out of a window.
“Whatcha see?” queried Hashknife.
“I just look,” replied Jimmy.
“Uh-huh.”
Hashknife rolled a cigaret and turned to the squaw.
“Mother, how’s the patient gettin’ along?”
She smiled widely and nodded toward the cot.
“He get well now--pretty quick.”
“He sure didn’t git hit in his snorer,” grinned Hashknife, and nodded to
Lorna who had just come in.
She walked over, looked at Sleepy, who awoke and grinned up at her.
“How are yuh feelin’, cowboy?” asked Hashknife.
“Finer ’n frawg-hair. Gimme a cigaret.”
They sat down and discussed the happenings of the evening before, but
Lorna still persisted that the man looked exactly like Buck Avery.
“But,” argued Hashknife, “Buck has been drunk for several days. He was
drunk when we found him yesterday.”
“Lorna know Buck pretty good,” said Jimmy.
“All right,” grinned Hashknife. “If it was Buck, he’s headin’ out of
this country right now. He’d hear that Lorna seen him, and he’d sure
fade away fast. But where would Buck fit into the scheme of things?”
No one seemed to have an answer for that question. They ate breakfast
and Hashknife announced his intentions of going back to the Circle Cross
ranch.
“No ---- good,” declared Jimmy.
“Yuh think they’d bushwhack me, Jimmy?”
“Think plenty now,” advised Jimmy.
Hashknife grinned and puffed on his cigaret.
“Mebbe yo’re right, Jimmy,” he finally agreed. “They’d hate to have
me pack information back with me, I reckon. None of ’em know the name
that Lorna had in mind, but they’d know danged well that I’d have it
now. Mebbe we better try somethin’ easy at first.”
Hashknife selected an old pair of overalls, an old shirt and a pair of
boots. Three blankets sufficed for the stuffing of them. He tied a rope
around the dummy under the arms and left a length of rope extending from
each side. Then he surmounted the thing with his own hat, fitting it to
the roll of blanket which extended up through the neck of the shirt.
“Grab hold of a rope, Jimmy,” he ordered, and the half-breed obeyed with
a grin.
“Looks more like me than I do,” laughed Hashknife as he dragged the
dummy over to the door.
“Now, Jimmy, you stand on one side and hold yore rope high and tight
enough to make the darned things stand up like a man. Don’t expose
yourself, young feller. All set?”
Jimmy nodded and drew the rope tight. Hashknife looked back in the room
to see that nothing was in line. Then he shoved the door wide open. The
dummy looked like a cowboy. Perhaps it was a trifle limp-looking at
close range.
It stood there for perhaps five seconds motionless. Then it jerked
convulsively and fell sidewise. From the rear of the room came the
splat of a bullet striking wood, and from the hills came the thin pop
of a high-power cartridge.
Hashknife reached out and drew the door shut. Jimmy stood there,
looking foolishly at a piece of rope in his hand, which had been
cleanly severed. It was a rope made from Maguey fiber, about the size
of a clothes-line, but very hard and brittle.
“Well,” said Hashknife, shoving the dummy aside, “I’ll say that it
worked to the queen’s taste.”
The two women were staring wonderingly at him, but Sleepy was laughing
joyously. Jimmy crossed the room and poked his finger at the spot where
the bullet had bored into the seasoned wall.
“We’re sure hived up for keeps,” said Sleepy, as if rather pleased at
the prospect. Sleepy loved a fight, and nothing pleased him more than
to give odds.
“You ain’t in it, you doggone cripple,” reminded Hashknife. “Yuh don’t
need to start cheerin’ about it.”
Jimmy had moved the curtain an inch and was staring out through the
window.
“See anythin’?” asked Hashknife.
“Nothin’. They think you dead--mebbe.”
“Very likely. But they won’t stop at one killin’. They will naturally
think that we all know the guilty man, and they’ll try to stop all of
us. You got a rifle, Jimmy?”
“You ---- right!”
Jimmy went into another room and came back with an old .50-90 Sharps,
which he handled lovingly before giving it to Hashknife.
“That good gun, you bet.”
Hashknife grinned and examined it. He knew the killing power of the old
Sharps, even though they did not compare with the high-power rifle. He
accepted a handful of cartridges from the half-breed.
“Whatcha goin’ to do?” queried Sleepy anxiously.
“I’m goin’ into the hills,” grinned Hashknife. “I’m goin’ to have a
perfectly good little fight, and yo’re goin’ to lay here in yore nice
little beddie and wish you was along; _sabe?_”
“Aw ----! You’ll go out there and get yore danged hide all filled up
with soft-nose bullets that’s what you’ll do. Ain’tcha got no sense,
Hashknife?”
“Sour grapes,” retorted Hashknife, and to Jimmy--
“Gimme more shells.”
Jimmy gave him several more, which Hashknife pocketed. He rescued his
hat from the dummy and drew it tightly on his head.
“Now, you folks just set tight, will yuh? I’ve got to teach them
bushwhackers that they ain’t got the only rifle in the Ghost Hills.
_Adios._ That means good-by in Spanish.”
“Thirty-thirty,” retorted Sleepy. “That means good-by in any darned
language.”
Hashknife went to the rear of the house, opened a window as wide as
possible, stood up on a chair and fairly dived outside. He landed on
his feet, ducked low and ran swiftly toward the upper corral, running
in a zigzag angle to confuse any one who might be trying to use him
for a target.