“Gotta roo--roosh-ter?”
“Got a rooster?”
“Yesh,” nodded Bility, “Need one--bad.”
“What for?” Hashknife grinned at their earnestness.
“Fight,” explained Lonesome, trying to make the glass and bottle meet.
The bartender rescued them both, when Lonesome dropped them disgustedly.
“Whitey’s got roosh’er,” said Lonesome. “Pre’y good one, too, y’betcha.
Fight’n rooshter. Yesshir, he’s gone af’er it.”
“Who’s Whitey?” asked Hashknife.
“He owns the depot,” said Bility with great deliberation.
Came the sound of unsteady footsteps, and Whitey Anderson bumped his
way in through the front door. Anderson was in the same condition as
Lonesome and Bility, and in his two hands he carried a
bedraggled-looking rooster.
“C’mon with your fight’n animals,” croaked Whitey. “Bring ’m big and
bring ’m strong. H’rah, f’r my he-hen!”
“Misser Andershon,” said Lonesome gravely, “shake han’s with my ol’
friend Hartley. Very ol’ friend, ’ndeed.”
“How doo-o-o,” drawled Whitey, and let loose of his rooster to shake
hands with Hashknife.
The frightened bird flipped to the top of the bar, volplaned across to
the top of a pool-table and scooted out the back door, cackling wildly.
Lonesome made a grab at it, but missed and fell flat on his face, while
Bility stumbled across him and almost knocked the bar loose from its
moorings.
But Whitey paid no attention to any one, except Hashknife.
“Yesshir, I’m glad t’ meet ol’ friend of Loneshome Hobbs. Whatcha shay
your----”
He looked around and discovered Lonesome trying to get back to his feet.
“Shay, Loneshome, what shay friend’s name? My gosh, you ain’t got
ap’plexy, have yuh? Face’s all red.”
“Who shoved me?” wailed Lonesome, feeling of his nose, which was
bleeding slightly. “Who done it, I deman’ t’ know immed’ly.”
“You fellers go outside to do your bumpin’!” advised the barkeep
angrily. “This ain’t no ---- corral.”
“Where’s m’ rooshter?” demanded Whitey hotly, looking around. “Who’s got
’m? Loneshome have you got ’m?”
“Nug oomp guff,” declared Lonesome, holding one hand tightly over his
nose and mouth.
“He says he ain’t got ’em,” explained Bility solemnly.
“I think he’s a liar, Whitey; let’s shearch him.”
Bility staggered into Lonesome and tried to feel in his pockets, but
Lonesome protested strenuously and Hashknife had to pry them apart.
“Got’m in hish pocket,” declared Bility.
“Can’t be dood,” Whitey shook his head violently. “Can’t put rooshter in
pocket.”
“Tha’s right!” exclaimed Bility. “Too wild. Let’s shing a shong. What
shay?”
“Not in here,” declared the bartender. “You cowpunchers start to sing in
here and I’ll----”
“Don’t go no further.” Lonesome shook a warning finger at the bartender.
“You’ve threatened us s’fficiently, Misser Weed. We unnerstand yore
at’tude perfec’ly; perfec’ly. You are not a frien’ of a workin’ man, so
you ain’t. I refuse to shing in yore housh. C’mon.”
They strung out in single-file, with Hashknife bringing up the rear, and
went into the street. Whitey leaned against the side of the building and
tried to adjust his hat to an even balance.
“Mus’ go back t’ work,” he declared, trying to force himself to a
semblance of sobriety. “I’m workin’ man.”
“Ain’t you goin’ t’ shing?” queried Lonesome.
“Yesh, I’ll shing--shometime--but not yet. Gotta work.”
He shoved himself away from the wall and wended a very erratic way down
the narrow sidewalk.
“Perfec’ly capable man,” declared Lonesome airily, “but he’s curshed
with a thirsht. Ha, ha, ha! Rhymes like a po’m. Curshed with a thirsht.”
“You think yo’re funny, don’tcha?” queried Bility, with drunken sarcasm.
“Yesshir, I am. Betcha I c’n make you laugh.”
“Zasso? Betcha five dollars yuh can’t.”
“Lissen, that’s a bet, now.”
Lonesome shook a finger in Bility’s face.
“Can’t back down, yuh mus’ ’member.”
“Nosshir, I back down from no man. How yuh goin’ do it?”
“Take off yore boots, old shad face. I’m goin’ to tickle yore feet.”
“Tha’s dirty trick,” declared Bility. “That ain’t bein’ funny, you
danged fathead--tha’s torture. But I’ll let yuh try it. I’m numb all
over, anyway.”
He half-fell to the edge of the sidewalk and began tugging at his boot,
which resisted his efforts stubbornly. Lonesome essayed to help him and
Hashknife walked away, leaving them in each other’s arms and the boot
still intact.
Hashknife crossed the street and bought some tobacco, after which he
sauntered down the street to the little depot. He found Whitey Anderson
slumped in a chair, his head dripping wet and his shirt saturated.
“Water-cure,” explained Whitey. “Darn near drowned myself, but it sure
sobered me up. I get with that blamed gang up there and drink too much.
Anyway--” Whitey hooked his toe into the rounds of a chair and jerked
it around for Hashknife-- “Anyway, I’m sick as ---- of this town and
this job. Nothin’ ever happens, except somebody gets drunk and shoots
up things a little. And I mostly always miss that.”
“Wolf Wells seems like a nice town,” observed Hashknife.
“It does? Well, you can have it, as far as I’m concerned. I’m goin’ to
have another station or I quit poundin’ brass.”
Hashknife laughed softly over his cigaret.
“I should think you’d get lots of excitement. Train comin’ in every day
and all that.”
“My ----!” Whitey stared at Hashknife wonderingly.
“Trains comin’ in--sa-a-ay, the only reason they ever come to Wolf Wells
is because there’s a Y here, and it makes the engineer seasick to ride
backward. Never any passengers.”
“One come in this mornin’, didn’t he?”
Whitey grew thoughtful for a moment.
“Uh-huh. That’s right, we did have one today. Yessir, I remember that
Carsten came in.”
“Come very often?”
“Well, not every day,” grinned Whitey. “He comes every month or so--him
and his limp. Yuh know, a horse or a cow stepped on him about six month
ago and busted his ankle.”
“Cow or a horse?” grinned Hashknife. “Don’t he know which it was?”
Whitey chuckled softly and helped himself to Hashknife’s cigaret
makings.
“I don’t think he knows. Yuh see, it was in the dark. They was loadin’
a train of stock out at the loadin’-corrals and Carsten was helpin’. He
sure hollered to beat ----. It kinda crippled him for a while.”
“Does he buy a lot of stock around here?”
“Yeah, I think he does--quite a little. Mostly from the Circle Cross,
though.”
“That’s what cuts down the profits on cattle--the freight,” observed
Hashknife. “By the time yuh pay for a lot of cars from here to Chicago,
yuh ain’t got much left.”
“They don’t pay the freight,” explained Whitey. “The buyer pays ’em so
much F. O. B. They’ve got to load ’em, of course. But I guess they get
a pretty good price, at that.”
“Are most of the cattle shipped from here?”
“No-o-o. Mostly everythin’ north of here ship from here, and the Flying
M and the Circle Cross ship quite a lot, but the last two Circle Cross
shipments went from the siding at Sandy, about five or six miles below
here.
“That siding was put in for the 66 outfit, so they tell me; but anybody
can use it. It’s about as close to the Circle Cross as this is, and if
they pick their cattle from the south range, it’s closer.”
“No town there?” queried Hashknife.
“Nope; not even a shed. Just a loading-corral, that’s all.”
A man came in to argue about an overdue express package, so Hashknife
sauntered back uptown. He stopped to speak with the sheriff, who was
filled with gloom over the fact that his deputy was _hors de combat_.
“Lonesome’s just plain drunk,” he announced. “He’s bad enough when he’s
sober. I found him and Edwards out in the street, with their boots off,
tickling each other’s feet. That’s a ---- of a thing for grown men to
do.”
Hashknife grinned widely and went back to his horse. He had tied the
Sharps rifle to the horn of his saddle and now he rode away with it
swinging in his hand. Instead of keeping to the road he turned into
the hills and rode straight toward the Tomahawk.
* * * * *
It was a broken country and he was forced to travel slowly, but it was
much safer than to take chances of being shot at on the road. He passed
the spot where he had picked up Poco’s trail that morning, and swung
wide around the coulée to come down at the west side of the Tomahawk.
He had no wish to take a chance on being shot at again, although he did
not expect the bushwhacker to be on the job again that day.
He came out on the brow of the hill and drew rein. There was no one in
sight at the ranch-house. The sun was low over the Western hills and the
air was filled with the lazy drone of insects. From down in the hills a
cow bawled softly.
Suddenly the drowsy gray bronco threw up its head, ears forward, as
it glanced almost at right angles, and to the east. Hashknife turned
quickly and looked in that direction.
About four hundred yards away, a man was crossing the ridge; a man who
stooped low in the sage and appeared to be carrying a rifle. He stopped
and appeared to turn in their direction.
Hashknife knew that the man had seen him; so he whirled his horse around
and spurred him into deeper cover. As Hashknife drew up he saw the man
running in the opposite direction, still running crouched over, and
disappeared over the ridge.
Hashknife debated quickly. This man was armed with a rifle, and if it
was the bushwhacker, he knew how to use it. He had a decided advantage
over Hashknife, because he could stop just beyond the ridge and wait
for Hashknife to come to him.
“He must ’a’ been just givin’ it up as a bad job,” decided Hashknife,
“and I caught him pullin’ out. C’mon, bronc.”
Hashknife rode back in the direction of the Tomahawk, but as soon as
he crossed the top of the ridge, he spurred his horse into a gallop
and cut the side of the hill toward where the man had disappeared.
This left another ridge between where Hashknife rode and where the
man had disappeared, and Hashknife felt sure that the man would not
dare to try and cross back to his original position on the slope to
the Tomahawk.
Hashknife rode about eight hundred yards along the side of the hill,
swung back near the top and dismounted, leaving his horse in a heavy
clump of greasewood. Cautiously he went to the top of the ridge and
studied every inch of the country.
To the right of him was the spot where the man had crossed the next
ridge, and Hashknife could see that the man had gone into a heavily
wooded coulée. Minute after minute passed, but still Hashknife’s eyes
studied every bit of brush in sight.
But there was nothing, except the heat-haze of late afternoon. Across
the coulée in a jumble of rocks a ground-hog whistled shrilly, angrily,
as the shadow of a circling hawk passed over the rocks.
Hashknife grinned and reached for his tobacco.
“Everybody’s gunnin’ for somethin’,” he said softly, “but a man is the
weakest of all, when it comes to knowin’ when to duck. The ground-hog
knows what to dodge, and that hawk ain’t got a chance to collect a feed.
I suppose I’d know how to dodge bullets, if my ancestors for several
hundred years back had been dodgin’ ’em a few times per day all their
lives.”
Suddenly he caught sight of a moving object far down the coulée to his
left. It was almost half a mile away, but he was able to see that it
was a man on a pinto horse. As Hashknife watched him he swung to the
right, climbed up a narrow coulée to the top of the ridge, where he
stood, silhouetted against the sky, for several moments. Then he rode
over the ridge and out of sight.
“Man on a pinto,” mused Hashknife. “Too far away for a shot with this
old gun, and, anyway, I don’t know that he’s the man I’m after.”
He watched for about five minutes longer and went back to his horse,
where he mounted and rode to the Tomahawk ranch-house.
They were all glad to see him, especially Sleepy, who was propped up
in a chair, trying to teach Lorna to roll cigarets for him. Jimmy, the
half-breed, was there but, like his aboriginal ancestors, did not ask
questions.
Hashknife explained to Sleepy what had happened to him after leaving
there that morning; told him of following Poco Saunders, and of seeing
the man on the pinto.
“Jimmy,” Hashknife turned to the half-breed, “who rides a pinto horse?”
Jimmy squinted thoughtfully and shook his head.
“Nobody, I guess. I have pinto long time ago, but him stole, I think.”
“Long time ago? How long is a long time, Jimmy?”
“T’ree, four month, I think.”
Lorna had been an interested listener, but now she exclaimed:
“Why, the man that shot Sleepy was riding a pinto! I did not think to
tell you before.”
“Pinto, pinto, who owns the pinto,” laughed Hashknife. “There’s no pinto
on the Circle Cross. Buck Avery rides a Roman-nosed buckskin and a
jug-headed roan. Poco has a sorrel and a bay; Trainor keeps four others
at the stable, but there ain’t a pinto in the outfit.”
“Well,” grinned Sleepy, “mother says I’ll be ridin’ in a day or so; and
we’ll find out who forks a painted bronc. You need me and my brains,
cowboy.”
“Uh-huh,” Hashknife grinned widely. “I sure need yuh, Sleepy.”
Lorna and her mother went into the kitchen and Sleepy motioned Hashknife
to come closer.
“I’ll tell yuh why Cassidy drew the deadline with the Circle Cross. It
was because Trainor came to see Lorna and made love to her. He got drunk
and bragged about it in Wolf Wells, it seems, and when Cassidy asked him
if he was goin’ to marry her--well, I reckon Trainor wasn’t.
“Lorna didn’t tell me, but her mother did. Smoky Cole came to see her a
few times, too; but Mrs. Cassidy says that Smoky was nice boy.”
Hashknife nodded slowly and looked straight at Sleepy.
“You ain’t stuck on her, are yuh, Sleepy?”
Sleepy rubbed his hand thoughtfully on his knee, avoiding Hashknife’s
eyes for a moment, but looked up and said:
“No. She’s goin’ to marry Ben Lanpher, if he gets loose. They’ve been
mighty good to me here, Hashknife. The old lady is a dinger, y’betcha.
My own mother couldn’t ’a’ done more for me than she has. If old
Cassidy don’t get acquitted, I’m goin’ down and blow a corner off that
jail. Gotta do somethin’ to show my appreciation.”
Hashknife stayed to supper and spent the evening with them. Bright
moonlight flooded the land when he started back for the Circle Cross,
so he headed into the hills in preference to taking a chance along the
lighted road. There were too many narrow places where a man might lie
in wait with a sawed-off shotgun.
He rode slowly along the moonlit ridges, through the misty-gray-blue
hills; silent, except for the occasional yipping bark of a coyote or
the sleepy bawl of a cow. From far away came the faint whistle of a
locomotive as the train drew near Wolf Wells.
Hashknife stopped his horse and rolled a cigaret. He could think clearer
with a cigaret between his lips. He had the glimmering of an idea--a
solution to the whole problem--but there were many tangles to straighten
out, many loose ends to pick up yet.
“Gawd A’mighty,” he said half-aloud. “I ain’t askin’ nothin’ for me and
Sleepy. That other two thousand that Lanpher offers us ain’t worth
prayin’ for, but if you can see yore way clear to keep them dirty pups
from fillin’ us with lead until I can clean up this layout, I sure wish
you’d do it. Amen. C’mon, bronc.”
Which was the nearest thing to a prayer that Hashknife Hartley had ever
offered--and it was not for himself or his partner--but for those who
would profit more than gold.
* * * * *
The trial of Ben Lanpher for the murder of Smoky Cole was the first case
on the docket and caused much speculation in the Ghost Hills Range. They
came from far and wide to sit in a hot, stuffy court-room and listen to
the bickerings of the attorneys. Mitchell, the San Francisco lawyer, had
worked swiftly in building up a defense, which he knew to be weak and
insufficient. His only argument would be that Ben was too drunk to have
done the deed.
There was no one who could say what kind of a bullet had killed Smoky
Cole. Lanpher had told Mitchell about the doings of the bushwhacking
rustlers, but Mitchell knew that there was little hopes of throwing
the guilt upon a party or parties unknown; especially after Ben’s hat
and gun had been found near the murdered man.
The fact that Ben and Smoky had tried to shoot each other in town, and
that Ben had left town ahead of Smoky, tended to weaken the defense
badly.
Eph Baker, the prosecuting attorney, chewed tobacco and grinned
benevolently upon everybody. Eph was fat, and the hot weather bothered
him considerably, but he realized that little effort would be necessary
to win this case. He had prepared a scathing denunciation of young men
who come to cowland and mix their whisky with six-guns.
It had cost him much in perspiration to prepare this tirade, but the
heart within him rejoiced that he would be directing his verbal
broadsides at “city-folk” and not at the people of the range country.
He felt sorry for the Lanpher family, and especially for the young
lady, but Eph was cognizant of his place in the sun and was going to
make a name for himself, in spite of his feelings.
Ben was a greatly changed young man since his few days in jail. He
realized what his escapades had done for him and there was little
doubt of his sincere repentance. His mother, sister and father sat at
the table with Mitchell, while just away from them sat Ben and the
sheriff.
Sleepy was able to sit in a saddle again and rode in with the family
from the Tomahawk. He was a little pale and had not regained his full
strength, but his six-gun swung at his hip and he prayed for an open
shot at the man who had shot him from ambush.
The sheriff had questioned Hashknife regarding Lorna’s identification
of the man, but Hashknife had evaded the question. Several other men,
who had been at that meeting, tried to find out who she had meant, but
Hashknife told nobody, except Trainor. The night after he had left the
Tomahawk he had met Trainor at the front of the ranch-house and had
told him what Lorna had said.
Trainor was very grave over the information, and tried to remember
some one who might look or ride like Buck Avery, but was unable to do
so. There seemed no doubt in his mind that Lorna was mistaken in the
man, because of Buck’s condition.
They both agreed to say nothing more about it. Buck’s spree was over
and he became a normal being once more. But Poco Saunders did not seem
to relax for a moment. Hashknife felt that Poco was keying himself up
to a point where he was going to kill somebody. Somehow, Hashknife felt
that Poco knew the guilty man--or thought he did--but was waiting until
he was sure.
And Hashknife had not been shot at for a day and a half, which showed
that the Fantom Riders, whoever they might be, had relaxed their
aggressiveness, or decided that he was a hard target to hit. Hashknife
was inclined to favor the former.
The first day of the trial was devoted to securing a jury. Few
challenges were used by either side, and the usual question-- “Have you
formed any opinion as to the guilt or innocence of the defendant?” was
omitted.
Every one conceded that it would be a short trial, because of there
being no witnesses, except those who had seen Ben Lanpher ride away
ahead of Smoky Cole. The old prospector had disappeared into the
hills and no one knew where he had gone. No one knew where he had
come from or who he was, and it was whispered that he might be one
of the rustling gang.
Hashknife rode home that evening with Trainor and Buck, while Sleepy
went back with the Cassidy family and Jimmy. The Lanphers had taken
rooms at the hotel, intending to stay there during the trial. Poco
remained in town, and Hashknife noticed that he was drinking a
little.
Trainor and Hashknife discussed the case on the way home, but Buck had
little to say.
“We’ve got to pull for Ben, thasall,” observed Trainor. “He’s up against
a hard deal and I don’t look for him to get loose.”
“If he gets loose, Cassidy won’t have much trouble,” observed Hashknife.
“Mitchell is goin’ to work from the angle that there was bushwhackin’
done before Smoky was killed and afterward. Mebbe he can convince that
jury that Ben had no hand in it at all.”
“He might,” agreed Trainor.
Later on, Hashknife asked Buck what had become of Carsten and Buck told
him that Carsten had stayed in town to see old man Shappee, but might be
out to the Circle Cross the next day. Buck was not very communicative,
so Hashknife let him alone. It was later in the evening that Poco came.
He had been drinking, but the liquor only served to make him more quiet.
Hashknife was outside the barn when Poco came out and they stood
together for a while without speaking.
“Poco,” said Hashknife seriously, “did you see the color of the horse
you trailed?”
“Color?” Poco studied the question for a while, before he nodded and
said--
“Yeah--a pinto.”
“Who rides a pinto?”
“I’ve been tryin’ to find out,” said Poco slowly.
Quong’s supper triangle stopped the conversation, and the trial was not
discussed at the meal. Trainor seemed greatly preoccupied, Buck a little
sullen and Poco quiet as usual.
Toward the end of the meal, Hashknife turned to Trainor.
“Why do they call this gang ‘The Fantom Riders?’ ”
Trainor laughed shortly.
“I suppose it’s because they work like ghosts, Hartley. Nobody has ever
seen ’em.”
“Has anybody ever tried to find ’em?”
Trainor leaned his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his hands.
“Tried to find ’em?” he repeated slowly, and laughed. “They sure have.”
“There ain’t much brains in the Ghost Hills, then,” observed Hashknife
slowly.
“What do you mean?” queried Trainor quickly, while Buck and Poco grew
interested. Hashknife grinned and pursed his lips.
“Just what I said,” he declared, squinting his eyes away from the smoke
of his cigaret.
“It takes brains to catch ghosts.”
“Mebbe you could catch ’em.” Buck’s remark was sarcastic, but Hashknife
merely laughed at him.
“Sure I could catch ’em--if it was worth my while.”
Trainor laughed and shook his head.
“I’m afraid they’d get you first, Hartley.”
“Thasso? They’ve sure done enough shootin’ at me. What I don’t
understand is how they ever hit anybody. Such poor shootin’ as they’ve
been doin’.”
Hashknife knew that the marksmanship had been good enough, but the
shooter had picked his targets at long range. Buck laughed shortly and
got to his feet.
“Well,” he said, “why don’t yuh go out and get ’em? It’ll be worth yore
while, I reckon. The ranchers would be willin’ to pay yuh well.”
“Go ahead,” grinned Trainor. “The Circle Cross will sure pay yuh a good
reward and the others will chip in.”
“By golly, I might, at that,” laughed Hashknife.
“Lemme know when yuh start in,” laughed Buck, “and I’ll pick out a soft
spot to bury yuh in, Hartley.”
They finished their supper and went outside. It was growing dark and a
slight breeze was blowing in from the north. A lone rider swung in
through the main gate and rode up to them. It was Jimmy, the half-breed,
and he spoke directly to Hashknife.
“You come.”
“What’s wrong now?” asked Hashknife quickly, thinking that the
bushwhackers had been busy again.
“You come,” repeated Jimmy and refused to say more.
Hashknife went straight to the barn and saddled his gray horse. Trainor
came down and offered to go with him, but Hashknife shook his head.
“I’ll find out what he wants, Trainor. Let yuh know later.”
They rode away with the three men watching after them, and went straight
down the road. Jimmy did not speak until they were past the forks and
heading toward Wolf Wells. Then he swung off the road to the right and
said--
“We go here.”
It was just a little below where Hashknife had trailed Poco. There was
no sign of a trail, but Jimmy went steadily on and into a brushy coulée
where willows and cottonwoods grew in profusion. A tiny stream trickled
over the rocks and on both sides the walls were almost precipitous. It
was not a spot that a rider would choose in cutting across the country.
The branches whipped Hashknife across the face in spite of their slow
and cautious pace.
Suddenly Jimmy stopped and Hashknife rode in beside him. They were up
against a brush corral. They dismounted and Jimmy led the way around
to where three poles had been placed across the opening.
And just in front of them, plainly visible even in that weak light,
stood a pinto horse. Hashknife studied the horse for a few moments and
turned to Jimmy.
“Is that your pinto?”
“Mine,” nodded Jimmy, “Tomahawk on left shoulder.”
“How did yuh find him, Jimmy?” Hashknife could not keep the elation out
of his voice, and he placed a hand on the half breed’s shoulder.
“I come through hills from town,” explained Jimmy. “Down there,”
pointing back toward the road, “I find horse tracks. Rain make soft
ground. Track point this way. I find ’nother horse track point this
way.
“I wonder why horse come in this cañon. That’s how I find. I come to you
first. That my pinto, you bet.”
“Good boy!” applauded Hashknife softly. “You’re the smartest man in the
Ghost Hills, Jimmy.”
“---- smart,” admitted Jimmy proudly. “Now I take my pinto.”
“Not yet,” said Hashknife. “We’ve got to leave him here for a while,
pardner. We know where he is, but we don’t want anybody else to know
that we know it; _sabe?_”
“---- right!” exclaimed Jimmy. “I’m smart.”
“Well,” grinned Hashknife, “if we’re both smart, we’d better get out of
here right now. C’mon.”
They went back to their horses, mounted and rode out of the cañon. Jimmy
headed for the road, but Hashknife called him back and advised that they
travel through the hills to the Tomahawk.
“Remember, they might be layin’ for us,” warned Hashknife. “We’ve got to
be smart--me and you, Jimmy.”
“You bet,” agreed Jimmy. “I’m smart. Sometime ---- fool. Jus’
alike--mos’ always.”
“And you said a lot of wise words,” laughed Hashknife.
They rode to the Tomahawk and Hashknife told Sleepy what they had found.
Sleepy grinned with delight and fairly hugged Jimmy, the half-breed.
“But,” said Hashknife sadly, “if that son-of-a-gun is as smart as he
seems to be, he’ll spot our horse-tracks. Yuh can’t get into that place
without leavin’ plenty of sign.”
“Well, what’ll we do?” asked Sleepy.
“Be Johnny at the rat-hole,” grinned Hashknife. “We’ve got to be there
when he finds the tracks, Sleepy. We’ll pull out of here before daylight
and kinda drape ourselves on the edge of that cañon.
“We’ll take that old Sharps along, and I’ll bet he’ll stop foolin’
folks. You feelin’ well enough for rough work, or do yuh reckon yuh
better stay here and keep warm?”
“You try to stop me!” snapped Sleepy angrily.
“Pretty ---- well,” stated the old squaw. “Good man--git well quick.”
Sleepy took several naps during the night, but Hashknife huddled in a
chair and smoked innumerable cigarets. The discovery of the hidden horse
had simplified things to a great extent. It meant that the bushwhackers
had stolen the pinto and were using him for their work, instead of using
their own horses, which might be easy of identification.
All night long Hashknife puzzled over different things, trying to
untangle a web of suspicions and bring them to a point where he could
work upon a reasonable basis. There was nothing definite upon which to
rest his suspicions, but he had the glimmering of an idea that might,
if things worked out right, bring results.
* * * * *
He woke Sleepy about two hours before daylight and they rode into the
hills. To satisfy their own curiosity that the pinto had not been
removed they went to the brush corral and looked at the animal.
Then they went back to the side of the cañon, hid their horses and sat
down to wait. Daylight came, but nothing else. At nine o’clock they were
both tired of the vigil. Both of them were to appear at the trial, and
they felt that the pinto would not be moved that day, so they mounted
and rode through the hills to Wolf Wells.
Trainor, Carsten and Lanpher were together in the Antelope saloon when
Hashknife and Sleepy arrived. Trainor invited them to have a drink, and
afterward he and Carsten drifted away together.
Lanpher was frankly worried about the trial, although he tried to appear
unconcerned. Hashknife drew him aside and they sat down together at a
vacant card-table.
“I want to ask yuh a few questions,” said Hashknife easily. “You handle
the business end of the Circle Cross, don’t yuh?”
“Yes,” nodded Lanpher, “I handle most of it.”
“How many head of cattle have you lost?”
Lanpher grimaced bitterly and shook his head.
“I don’t know exactly, Hartley. The last roundup showed a big loss. I
have talked with several other owners and they have lost more or less,
but I think that we have been hit harder than any of them. Of course,
we were the largest owners.”
“You ought to be able to make a good guess at what you’ve lost,”
observed Hashknife. “You’d get a pretty fair count at the roundup, and
you know how much you’ve sold.”
Lanpher drew out a note-book and pencil, and, after making a few notes,
tore out the page and handed it to Hashknife.
“There is the sales for this year, Hartley. I’ll get the approximate
roundup count from Trainor and give it to you later. He will know
exactly what we started with, and what the average increase would
be.
“I have never attended to that end of the thing because I have been
too busy with my other interests. I am not a practical cattle-man, but
Trainor knows every phase of the business, and will be able to furnish
you with facts.”
Hashknife glanced at the notes and put the paper in his pocket.
“I’ve got to check up on the amounts, or the approximate amounts of
stolen stock, so as to get some idea of the bulk these thieves had to
handle,” he told Lanpher.
“Good idea,” nodded Lanpher indifferently, as he got to his feet. “Court
is about to open, I think.”
He walked away toward the court room, and Hashknife sauntered down the
street to the depot. Whitey Anderson was tilted back in an old chair,
his feet on the table and a cob-pipe between his teeth.
“Howdy,” he greeted Hashknife. “Come in and rest your feet. How come you
ain’t at the trial?”
“Danged place is too stuffy,” grinned Hashknife, seating himself on the
counter beside the clattering telegraph instrument.
“I probably won’t be called before afternoon, anyway.”
Hashknife rolled a cigaret and listened to the clicking sounder,
although he did not understand the difference between a dot and a dash.
“Say, I got into a kind of a mix-up over a darned telegram,” he told
Whitey. “Along about the tenth of this month I sent a telegram to a
certain party here in Wolf Wells and he swears he never got it.”
“Swears he didn’t?”
Whitey twisted the pipe-stem between his teeth and looked foolishly
solemn.
“Swears he didn’t get it, eh?”
“Yeah,” Hashknife nodded seriously. “I think the darned jug-head got
it all right, but didn’t want to answer it. Telegrams don’t get lost,
do they, Whitey?”
“Hm-m-m! Might--but they don’t very often. About the tenth, eh? Who was
it sent to, Hartley?”
“Well, I don’t want to say,” laughed Hashknife, “but if I knowed for
sure, I’d make him a little bet that he got it.”
“By golly, I’d know if he got it.”
Whitey got to his feet rather belligerently.
Hashknife laughed softly.
“Don’t get mad, Whitey, but this feller said that you’d likely got drunk
and lost it.”
“Is that so!”
Whitey slammed his pipe down on the counter and drew a bulky,
flimsy-leafed volume from under the counter-top. He began flipping
over the leaves, grunting to himself, while Hashknife peered over his
shoulders, scanning the imprint of the telegrams.
Page after page flipped past, until certain dates caused Whitey to scan
them closer. Carefully they looked them over.
“Did yuh sign your own name?” asked Whitey, going back over certain
dates carefully.
“Yeah, I sure did,” said Hashknife, his eyes shining with sudden
delight.
“Well--” Whitey slapped the book shut and tossed it back under the
counter-- “Well, it never came to this office, Hartley--That’s a cinch.
Where did yuh send it from?”
“Phoenix,” lied Hashknife. “Dang it, I thought this feller just didn’t
want to admit it, but I guess it got lost.”
“Well, you can tell him that I didn’t lose it,” said Whitey
half-angrily. “And you can tell him that I’ve only been drunk twice
since I came here.”
“Aw, don’t mind him,” laughed Hashknife. “He was drunk when he said it.”
Hashknife wandered back uptown, sat down on the board sidewalk and
scribbled a few words on the back of an old envelope. He seemed pleased
with himself, as he softly sang:
“I loved a maiden, whose hair was like go-o-old,
And her eyes were as blue as the se-e-e-ea.
She said she’d be tr-r-r-rue,
But didn’t say who to-o-o.
I know now that she didn’t mean me-e-e-e.
Oh, I’m goin’ to Montana,
The trail’s mighty long-g-g,
But a trail’s always shorter
When I’m singin’ my so-o-ong.”
Hashknife wailed that last soft note and grinned at his own efforts. He
was not musical. In fact, he hardly knew the difference between “Home,
Sweet Home” and “Little Brown Jug,” except for the difference in words.
And it was not often that Hashknife sang; but just now he felt that
he was entitled to lift his voice in song. Trainor was coming up the
sidewalk with old man Shappee and Hashknife joined them. They were
going to a restaurant; so Hashknife went along.
“You won’t have to be a witness,” said Trainor, as they sat down.
“The sheriff and Lonesome testified about findin’ the body, and told
about you bein’ with them. It would only be a case of repeatin’ the
testimony.”
“I don’t reckon that the prisoner has got a chance in the world,”
declared Shappee. “I never seen such a weak defense as he’s got. By
---- I feel sorry for Lanpher; but I’d have to convict him, if I was
on that jury.”
“Looks bad for him,” agreed Trainor. “It looks bad.”
“Well, it’s just so danged weak that the case will go to the jury in
the mornin’,” said Shappee. “It ain’t what you’d call interestin’. Eph
Baker’s got a cinch case and he knows it.”
“Well,” grinned Hashknife, “yuh never can tell.”
“No, that’s a fact. Cow-country juries are funny things.”
After lunch Trainor drew Hashknife aside and tried to find out why
Jimmy, the half-breed, came after him; but Hashknife only laughed and
told him that Sleepy had sent for him.
“Jimmy made it look like somethin’ important,” grinned Hashknife, “but
it wasn’t.”
Trainor lifted his eyebrows slightly, as if in disbelief, but Hashknife
said nothing more. Carsten limped up from the courtroom and announced
his intentions of getting some food, and in a few minutes court
adjourned and Sleepy joined Hashknife.
The Lanpher family came along together and Hashknife noticed that Mrs.
Lanpher had been crying. He went to them and tried to laugh away their
fears.
“There ain’t nothin’ as bad as it looks,” he told her. “You keep on
grinnin’, ma’am.”
“There seems to be little cause for smiles,” said Helen wistfully.
“Everything is wrong.”
Hashknife shook his head quickly.
“No, ma’am; that’s the wrong way to think. Down deep in yore heart you
know danged well that Ben didn’t do it. He knows he didn’t; but when he
looks at yuh and sees yuh cryin’ and looking gosh-awful sad--well, he
kinda figures that yuh ain’t with him.
“Cryin’ is fine sometimes,” Hashknife turned to Mrs. Lanpher, as though
half-apologizing. “Yessir, it sure helps once in a while. But if you
needed help real bad, would yuh expect to get it from a cryin’ person or
one that smiles?”
“I can see your point,” said Mrs. Lanpher sadly, but trying to smile.
“Certainly, we all can,” said Lanpher.
Mrs. Cassidy, the squaw, Lorna and Jimmy were coming from the courtroom
and the Lanphers moved aside to let them pass on the narrow sidewalk.
Lorna stopped and looked at Mrs. Lanpher.
“Why do you cry?” she asked softly. “Are you afraid?”
Mrs. Lanpher forced a smile as she shook her head.
“I am trying to not be afraid, child.”
Lorna nodded and looked up at Hashknife.
“We are not afraid, are we?”
It was not what she said or the way she said it that made Hashknife
stutter his reply of--
“Yuh--yuh bet we ain’t, Lorna.”
She smiled around at them and hurried to catch up with her mother, while
the Lanphers looked after her.
“There’s the prettiest girl in the world,” declared Hashknife aloud,
although he had meant to say it only to himself. Sleepy was looking
queerly at him and Hashknife blushed hotly.
“Was Ben really going to marry her?” asked Helen.
“Is going to,” corrected Sleepy.
“Not if I can prevent it,” declared Lanpher quickly.
“Which you can’t,” smiled Hashknife.
Trainor and Carsten joined them; so Hashknife and Sleepy walked down the
street and crossed over to the Antelope saloon, where they found Poco
and Buck Avery. Poco was drinking steadily, but the whisky showed little
effect on him.
Several poker-games were in progress, and in a few minutes Carsten
and Trainor came in and took seats in a game. Carsten spoke to Poco,
but only received a black look for his courtesy. Poco was in no mood
for companionship.
Hashknife and Sleepy stayed around town for an hour or so, but did not
go to the courtroom. The place was crowded to the doors and the sun beat
down on the old frame building with great intensity.
Poco watched them mount and ride back toward the ranch and in a few
minutes he mounted and went out of town, sitting very straight in spite
of all he had drunk during the day.
Hashknife and Sleepy went straight to the brush corral and found the
pinto still there. It was evident that the Fantom Riders were not
aware that their hidden mount had been discovered--or perhaps they
did not care.
“Mebbe they’ve found out that we know about the pinto and will quit
comin’ here,” suggested Sleepy.
“They might, but I don’t believe it,” said Hashknife. “Somethin’ caused
’em to lay off us for a while; but they’ll be back. They won’t lay off
us until they’re behind the bars or we’re under the grass.”
“I’ll choose the latter,” said Sleepy seriously. “I’ve always wished to
have ‘Grandpaw’ carved on my tombstone. But I s’pose I’ll poke my nose
into trouble along with you until somebody’ll select me a tenor-harp,
which won’t match my sopranner voice a-tall.”
Hashknife shook his head.
“No, I don’t reckon we’re born to be shot, Sleepy. We’ve been shot at
with everythin’ except a bow and arrows, ain’t we?”
“And sling-shots,” laughed Sleepy. “But some danged poor shot will nail
us both with a .22 some of these days. That’s fate, old-timer.”
“Well, we ain’t learnin’ nothin’ by settin’ here,” said Hashknife,
getting to his feet. He looked down at the brush corral and scanned
the gray hills, where the heat-haze danced in waves.
“I’ll tell yuh what to do, Sleepy. You go back to the Tomahawk and get a
good sleep. Take it easy until an hour or so before daylight. Then you
take that old Sharps rifle and come down here. Locate yourself where yuh
can watch this pinto; _sabe?_”
“And if anybody comes after it, I’ll shoot ’em loose from their
disposition,” nodded Sleepy eagerly.
“Make sure that it ain’t me, cowboy.”
“Well, I’ll sure know the shape of his jaw before I pull the trigger of
that old dreadnaught, y’betcha. What are you goin’ to do, Hashknife?”
“I’m goin’ to the Circle Cross for the night; but you’ll sure see me or
hear from me early in the mornin’. You better stick to the hills all the
way home, Sleepy.”
“Danged right. I’ve only got one life to give for my country, and I’m
sure goin’ to be stingy with that. Look out for yourself, long feller.”
Hashknife watched Sleepy ride away up the brushy slope, and swung back
across the swale at the bottom of the corral cañon. He rode slowly,
skirting the side of the hill until he reached the other swale above
the road, where he had trailed Poco Saunders.
Near the cottonwood clump he dismounted and looked closely at the
ground. There were a number of horse-tracks, jumbled together; some
hardly visible, which were made before the rain.
Hashknife studied them closely, leading his horse from place to place.
Then he found the imprint of a high-heeled boot, where a man had
dismounted.
“Now what did he get off for?” wondered Hashknife as he scanned the
swale.
The clump of old cottonwoods attracted him, so he led his horse down
toward them. Farther down he found another heel-print, pointing toward
the trees.
He walked up to the clump, dropped his reins and looked around. There
was nothing visible. He entered the clump and studied it from all
angles. The road was not visible from any point in there.
“They didn’t hide here to bushwhack anybody, that’s a cinch,” he
muttered. “Smoky was probably shot from the other side of the road,
and Jimmy, the half-breed, was shot from that direction.”
Hashknife rolled a cigaret and leaned against the bole of one of the
trees. As he passed the paper across his lips he lifted his head and
glanced into the foliage. For a moment he stared intently and the
cigaret slipped from between his fingers.
Just about the height of a man’s reach, hanging closely against the
gray bark of the old cottonwood, was a rifle in a canvas and leather
scabbard. It was so nearly the color of the old bark that it would
hardly be visible, unless seen at close quarters.
Hashknife stepped over and unhooked the strap off the short limb. The
rifle was a Winchester, .30-30, wrapped in oiled cloth, and filled
with cartridges. He examined it closely and noted the peep sights, the
well-kept mechanism and the polished bore.
Then he took out his pocket-knife, opened the screw-driver blade and
grinned widely as he deftly ruined the firing-pin. Then he wrapped the
gun in its oiled cloth, slid it back into the scabbard and replaced it
as he had found it.
He went back to his horse, mounted and circled back a mile into the
hills before striking the road and heading for the Circle Cross. And
for the first time since coming to the Ghost Hills Range, he relaxed
in his saddle and sang softly, all unconscious of his words or music:
“There’s a range far away in a beautiful land,
Where cowboys live happy and free-e-e;
And all decks have six aces
All the girls’ pretty faces,
O-o-oh, that is the land for me-e-e-e.
I’m goin’ to Montana,
The trail’s mighty long-g-g,
But a trail’s always shorter,
When I’m singin’ my song.”
* * * * *
Trainor came to the ranch alone that evening. He said that Buck had
started drinking again and would probably stay in Wolf Wells that
night. The case had gone to the jury that afternoon.
“You’ve got to give Eph Baker a lot of credit,” said Trainor, as they
sat down to supper.
“He didn’t make any plea. He knows that the case is a dead
open-and-shut; so he told the judge and jury that he would not make
any plea. Mitchell had little to say.
“He talked kinda soft to the jury and asked them to remember that murder
had been done from ambush twice just a short time before, and had been
attempted since.
“He pointed out the fact that Ben was just a wild kid and was drunk at
the time. No, Mitchell didn’t have no defense to speak of.”
“Then you think they’ll hang the kid?” queried Hashknife.
“No-o-o; they’ll likely send him up for life.”
“Life’s a long time,” mused Hashknife, sadly. “Didja ever think what
that means, Trainor? It don’t even give yuh a fightin’ chance. Day
after day, day after day--knowin’ that yuh can’t ever get out.”
“Feller had better die fightin’,” nodded Trainor.
“Yeah, that would be better. But what’s after death? Do we go into a
better world, I wonder. I often wonder if cows and horses live in the
hereafter.”
“That’s a ---- of a thing to think about,” grunted Trainor. “Man would
go loco tryin’ to think about it. My theory is this: When yore dead,
yore dead--and that’s all there is to it.”
“Then what’s the use of livin’ and tryin’ to make somethin’ of yourself,
Trainor? What good does it all do yuh? Nossir, I think that there’s
somethin’ else.”
“Why should there be?” growled Trainor.
“Because God had somethin’ in mind when he created man. He gave men and
women a soul--or whatever it is that makes us what we are. Where does
that go when the body dies? Does it die, too? You believe in God, don’t
yuh, Trainor?”
Trainor shoved away his plate and bit off the end of a cigar before he
said:
“I’ve never had time to believe in anythin’ that I can’t see. Whatcha
tryin’ to do, start a revival?”
“Only what yuh can see?” laughed Hashknife. “Then yuh don’t believe
you’ve got a heart inside yuh, eh?”
“----, I can feel that!”
“Some folks claim they can feel God A’mighty.”
“Aw-w-w ----!”
Trainor kicked back his chair and strode into the living-room, while
Hashknife grinned at Quong and held out his cup for more coffee.
Quong grinned and shuffled over with the pot.
“I no _sabe_ Melican God,” he said softly. “I _sabe_ Chinese God, you
bet. Plenty good.”
“They’re all the same, Quong. Do right all the time, help everybody,
sing and smile. That’s God, Quong.”
“You ---- right! You be plenty bad, you catch ---- sure.”
“And yuh don’t have to die to get it either.”
“Nossah. Plenty catchum lite here.”
Hashknife grinned and followed Trainor into the living room, where he
found the Circle Cross owner humped over in a rocking-chair, reading a
newspaper. He grunted at Hashknife, but did not look up.
“When does the sheriff start his posse combin’ the hills?” asked
Hashknife.
Trainor glanced up at him, but turned back to his paper.
“How do I know?” he growled.
“I just wondered.”
Hashknife walked to the front door and squinted off across the hills. He
leaned against the doorway and looked back at Trainor.
“Say, I’ll betcha he don’t never do it, Trainor.”
“Eh?”
Trainor turned his head quickly.
“Why won’t he?”
Hashknife laughed shortly, seriously.
“Trainor, I’ve come to the conclusion that the best thing I can do is to
plumb ruin these Fantom Riders.”
“Yeah?”
Trainor placed his newspaper on the table and swung his chair around.
Hashknife’s statement was worth his undivided attention, but the
half-grin on his lips showed that he was a trifle skeptical.
“Just how do you intend to do this, Hartley?” he asked.
“By exposing the Fantom Riders.”
Trainor squinted closely at Hashknife, as if trying to see if he was
joking; but the tall cowboy’s face was very serious.
“Yeah?” Trainor laughed shortly. “Well, just how are you goin’ to do
that?”
“I ain’t quite sure,” Hashknife grinned thoughtfully and shook his head.
“I’ve got the goods on ’em right now, but I don’t want to tell anybody
until I get set.”
“Got the goods on ’em, eh? Tell me a little about it.”
“Nope. I ain’t just sure enough yet, but I’ll make yuh a little bet
that by this time tomorrow everybody’ll know who’s been doin’ all the
stealin’ and shootin’ around here.”
“That’s worth a bet,” smiled Trainor, “but the odds are all against yuh,
Hartley.”
“I’ll bet even money,” said Hashknife firmly. “I’ve got five hundred
dollars that says I’m right. If you want to cover that amount--go
ahead.”
Trainor laughed and shook his head.
“Not until I know more than I do now. You seem to think you have a
cinch, and I never bet against a cinch.”
“No, it ain’t a cinch, Trainor. I think I know who has been doin’ the
shootin’; and the man or men who have been doin’ the shootin’ are the
same ones that have been doin’ the rustlin’. Tomorrow mornin’ I’m goin’
to ask a few questions in Wolf Wells, and what I learn will either cinch
the case against ’em or bust my theory entirely.”
“Well--” Trainor turned back to the newspaper--“I wish yuh luck,
Hartley.”
“Thank yuh,” said Hashknife and clumped down the steps, going to the
bunk-house.
For a long time he sat on his bunk in the dark bunk-house, humped over
with his elbows on his knees, thinking of what he was going to do.
Piece by piece he knitted the elusive evidence together; his lean jaws
shut tightly, as he debated just what to do.
In all the years that he and Sleepy had untangled range mysteries and
troubles, this was the most fiendish outfit they had ever tried to run
to earth. The cattle stealing end of the thing was on a par with any
rustling trouble, except the clever way in which it had been done; but
the fact that three men had died from ambush; shot from behind,
without a chance to protect themselves, while others had almost lost
their lives, made it entirely different from anything they had ever
encountered.
“They don’t deserve a trial,” muttered Hashknife. “Killin’ ain’t bad
enough. I can forgive a rustler, but I can’t stand for a dirty
murderer.”
Neither Buck nor Poco showed up that night, which was not surprizing,
and Trainor rode away fairly early, after asking Hashknife if he was
going to town with him.
Hashknife was in no hurry. He cleaned his six-shooter carefully, put on
a clean shirt after shaving and took his time about saddling his horse.
Then he rode away unhurried. At the forks of the road he turned toward
the right, as if heading for the Tomahawk, spurring his gray into a
gallop.
But as soon as he galloped around the first curve he reined off the
road and pointed into the hills, circling toward where he had found the
hidden rifle. Here he was forced to slow down to a walk on account of
the rough going.
It was an ideal morning. The early morning mists were still rising up
the sides of the gray hills; a meadow-lark warbled from the cottonwoods,
and a flock of turtledoves, like fast-moving shadows, hurtled past on
their way to a water-hole.
The gray horse threw up its head in alarm when a long-legged jack-rabbit
bounded from under a sagebush, jigged a few times to loosen up its kinks
and faded away into the protective coloring.
But Hashknife was not considering the beauties of nature just then. He
rode very straight in his saddle, his six-shooter swinging loose in his
right hand, while his eyes searched every movement on the brush-lined
hills.
He was nearing the clump of trees in the little swale now, and the gray
had slowed down to a slow walk. Once he drew up and made a motion, as if
to dismount, but did not.
Suddenly a shot crashed out. The gray jerked back and Hashknife
instinctively ducked. There was a brushy ridge between him and the
shooter. For a moment Hashknife thought the shot had been fired at
him, but the next moment came the spattering reports, as two guns
opened a rapid fire.
Hashknife’s first thought was that Sleepy had engaged the enemy.
Forgetful of all danger to himself he spurred the gray into a lunging
run and swept over the ridge and into the swale, circling wide above
the clump of trees.
The tall gray hurdled sage and greasewood, like a born hunter. Suddenly
a horse came sweeping into them, its rider crouched low. Both horses
were running at full speed, crossing each other at almost right-angles.
Two six-guns spat bullets at almost the same moment, and Hashknife felt
the hot sear of a bullet across the side of his neck. A swift sidewise
glance showed the other rider sway in the saddle, but the next instant
horse and rider swept out of sight.
Hashknife tried to stop his lunging mount, but only managed to stop
it almost against the grove of cottonwoods. He whirled in his saddle
and tried to catch a glimpse of the other rider, but in vain. The
gray hills had swallowed him up.
A moment before, two wild riders had almost crashed into each other;
both had fired with the intent to kill. Now a meadow-lark winged its
way into the quiet swale and lifted its voice in song.
Hashknife felt tenderly of his neck and got stiffly out of his saddle.
Lying just a few feet away was the .30-30 rifle and around it was
scattered four unexploded cartridges.
Hashknife smiled grimly and climbed back into his saddle, leaving the
gun where he found it. He jerked out the empty shell from his gun and
replaced it with a fresh one.
Then he spurred into a gallop again and went straight for the spot where
he had told Sleepy to meet him. And the faithful Sleepy was right there,
fairly bursting to know the meaning of those shots.
“---- it, I stayed here,” he wailed. “I’m never where there’s anythin’
goin’ on. What and who was it, Hashknife?”
“Get on yore bronc and come on,” ordered Hashknife and Sleepy lost no
time in following orders.
They spurred down out of the hills and headed for town before Hashknife
yelled back at him:
“Shake up yore old coyote-bait, cowboy. I just swapped lead with Poco
Saunders and I want to beat him to Wolf Wells.”
“Poco Saunders!” yelled Sleepy. “Didja hit him?”
“I hope not. I swapped before I thought.”
“Hope not?” panted Sleepy, trying to urge his horse to greater speed in
hopes of keeping up with the racing gray. “Why in ---- do yuh hope not,
Hashknife?”
“I’ll tell yuh in town,” yelled back the lanky one.
* * * * *
Trainor met the Lanpher family at the hotel. Carsten was with them, and
they were anxiously waiting for news of the jury which had been locked
up all night, battling out the fate of Ben Lanpher.
Many of the ranchers and cowboys were still in town, anxious to know
the verdict, and the Lily of the Valley and the Antelope saloons had
profited greatly thereby.
There was an air of utter despair about the Lanpher family. They
realized that nothing short of a miracle could save Ben from paying
the extreme penalty for the crime.
The fact that the jury was still battling for a verdict showed that some
of the members were unconvinced one way or the other. Lanpher paced the
short lobby of the little hotel, his lips twitching nervously, paying no
attention to the words of comfort from Carsten and Trainor.
Mrs. Lanpher and Helen sat together, staring out of the dusty window,
seemingly resigned to their fate, speaking to no one. Mrs. Cassidy, the
squaw, and Lorna had stayed at the hotel, awaiting the verdict, and now
they came down the narrow stairway, scanning the faces of the group, as
though wondering what the morning was to bring.
Trainor spoke to Lorna, but she did not look at him. After a glance
around the room she went straight to Mrs. Lanpher and Helen, who looked
up at her.
“You worry too much,” said Lorna softly, and then, as though imparting a
great truth:
“Sleepy says to not worry. Everything come out right pretty soon.”
Trainor and Carsten moved in closer.
“Who is Sleepy?” queried Mrs. Lanpher.
“Oh, just a cowpuncher,” said Trainor. “He is a friend of Hartley, who
works for us, Mrs. Lanpher.”
“Just a cowboy?” Lorna spoke softly and looked straight at Trainor.
“That’s all he is,” Trainor seemed slightly angry, and turned away, as
if to dismiss the argument.
Lorna turned to Mrs. Lanpher.
“I don’t know why he says that everything will come out right. He
says--” Lorna smiled softly--“that you’ll always have good luck when
you find a pinto horse.”
“Pinto horse?” asked Lanpher, ceasing his restless pacing of the floor.
“What about a pinto?”
Trainor and Carsten were looking at Lorna, but she did not turn away
from Mrs. Lanpher.
“I do not understand,” said Mrs. Lanpher. “How can a pinto horse bring
one good luck?”
Lorna shook her head seriously.
“I don’t know, Mrs. Lanpher.”
Trainor laughed sarcastically.
“Indian superstition, Mrs. Lanpher,” he assured her.
“That ---- lie!” grunted Mrs. Cassidy blandly, and Trainor’s face went
black with rage at the retort.
“Well,” Lanpher laughed shortly, “Mrs. Cassidy should be a judge of
that, Trainor. Personally, I hope that a pinto is good luck. There
doesn’t seem to be much luck for us here.”
Trainor bit savagely at his underlip and strode out of the door,
with Carsten going out behind him. They crossed to the Antelope and
disappeared. Mitchell, the lawyer, came in and sat down.
“Nothing from the jury-room,” he said wearily. “They seem to be at
odds over something. They are a hard-headed lot of cattle-men, and I
feel that we shall get the benefit of any doubt. Still, our defense
was so weak; so weak that the prosecution was content to send the
case to a jury on our own evidence and plea.”
Lanpher blinked painfully and walked to the door. Mrs. Lanpher was
crying softly and Mrs. Cassidy was looking at her, with a face as
immobile as bronze. Then she said:
“You lose boy--you cry. Mebbe I lose husban’--I no cry. Too ---- much
cry; not ’nough laugh.”
Lanpher had been leaning out, looking down the street, and now he turned
back to those inside the lobby.
“The jury has reached a verdict,” he half-whispered, and there was a
decided catch in his voice, as he added--
“We--we’ll know it all very soon.”
Lonesome Hobbs came puffing up to the door and nodded violently.
“They--they’ve agreed,” he panted. “I--I guess they gug-got hungry.”
He turned and bow-legged his way across the street to notify every
one, while those in the hotel lobby went slowly down to the courtroom;
anxious, but still afraid to hear what the decision might be.
The courtroom filled rapidly. Trainor and Carsten took seats at the
table with the Lanpher family, and in a few minutes the sheriff brought
Ben in the rear door. Ben was pale and appeared nervous, jerky. He sat
down beside the sheriff and stared straight at the wall, ignoring the
sheriff’s attempt at conversation.
The courtroom buzzed with subdued conversation which ceased quickly
when the gray-haired judge came in and sat down at his desk. The judge
appeared tired and worn as he looked down at the prisoner and scanned
the room.
Then with a slow tread the jury filed in past the judge and sat down.
Every eye in the room was upon them, and they seemed carefully to avoid
looking at the prisoner who, after a searching glance, bowed his head.
The judge rapped softly for order, and turned to the jury.
“Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a decision?”
Caleb Hardy, a raw-boned cattleman from the west side of the county, got
slowly to his feet, holding a folded paper in his two big hands.
“Judge, we have,” he said slowly, the lines of his face deepening, as
he looked at the paper. “Yeah, we have. It’s all wrote out on this here
paper.”
He stepped slowly across the intervening space and handed it to the
judge. The room was so still that one might hear the buzzing of flies
on the window-panes, as the judge unfolded the paper and read it. For
a moment he looked at the rear of the room, his eyes half-closed. Then
he looked down at Ben Lanpher and said softly--
“Ben Lanpher, stand up.”
Ben glanced up at him for several moments before he got slowly to his
feet, his hands resting on the table-top. The judge looked down at the
paper and read aloud--
“We, the jury, find Ben Lanpher guilty of murder in the first degree.”
The paper slid from his fingers and he shut his eyes, as if he did not
want to see how Ben Lanpher took the blow.
Ben stared at him, turned his head and looked out across the silent
crowd, his jaw set tight. Mrs. Lanpher began crying bitterly, and Ben
stared at her, as if he did not understand what it was all about. Then
he sat down and leaned forward on his folded arms, while the sheriff
patted him on the back and tried to say words that would not come from
his lips.
The judge turned to the jury.
“Gentlemen, is this your verdict?”