Hashknife and Sleepy return to try
THE LUCK OF SAN MIGUEL
A Novelette of the Arizona Range
by W. C. Tuttle
It was the last day of the fall roundup, and the sun was only an hour
high above the Oregon hills. Cowboys were unsaddling at the corral,
laughing, joking, looking forward to the evening in town, when with
pockets full of money they might woo the goddess of the green cloth and
drink enough to cut the alkali from their dry throats.
Over in front of the bunkhouse squatted Dell Stewart, foreman and part
owner of the Double Circle, a huge bundle of currency in his gnarled
hands, ready to pay off the boys in cash. Dell smiled a trifle wistfully
as he looked at the money. He knew where it would go. Those wild-riding
punchers would not keep it long.
Dell thought they should, because winter was coming on; but he knew they
would not. They would spend it on wine, women and cards, caring little
for tomorrow. Now they were heading toward him, and he began paying them
off. It was a simple operation. No payroll, no signatures. Each man
accepted his wages, bobbed his head in acknowledgment, grinned and
headed for the bunkhouse.
The last man from the corral was Blue Snow. In garb he was little
different from the rest of the punchers, except that he wore leather
batwing chaps, instead of the woolskins. Perhaps his hat was a bit
higher in the crown, his boots shorter.
In height he was about five feet eleven inches, rather slender,
narrow-waisted, but with good shoulders. He stopped between the corral
and the foreman, removed his hat and wiped his forehead with his sleeve,
disclosing a well-shaped head and a mop of curling brown hair, badly in
need of trimming. His eyes were a frosty blue, his nose well shaped;
thin lips and a stubborn chin. He was only twenty-four, but looked
older.
A string of wild geese were honking high overhead, and he stopped to
watch their flight southward. Finally he came on, dangling his big
Stetson in his right hand.
“Geese startin’ early,” he remarked. “Looks like an early winter, Dell.”
“Pretty good sign, Blue,” replied the foreman, as he handed the cowboy a
number of bills and a letter.
“Got it in town this afternoon,” he said, indicating the envelope.
Blue stuffed the money in his pocket and opened the letter. For several
moments after reading it he stared rather blankly, a queer, tight
expression at the corners of his mouth.
“A letter from the Old Man,” he said slowly.
“Your father?”
“Yeah. Read it.”
The foreman took the letter, noted that it was from Sunset, Arizona. The
letter read:
Come home, son. Seymour showed me your letter. I hope you get
this one, because I need you down here. They’ve about busted me.
Come home.—Your Dad.
The foreman handed the letter back, but stopped to glance at the
address.
“Your name’s Blucher, eh? That’s why they call you Blue?”
“That’s the reason, Dell.”
“Goin’ home?”
Blue sat down on the steps, rested his elbows on his knees, as he idly
shaped and reshaped his big hat. One of the punchers yelled at him:
“Hurry up, Blue. We’re pullin’ out pretty quick.”
But Blue did not answer him. He turned to the foreman.
“I reckon I will,” thoughtfully. “I ain’t heard from the Old Man for six
years. Couldn’t hear, ’cause I never wrote, and he didn’t know where I
was. About a month ago I got to thinkin’ about him; so I wrote to the
banker in Sunset, askin’ him how the Old Man was gettin’ along.
“This is the answer—askin’ me to come home. You know, Dell—” Blue took a
deep breath— “I never expected the Old Man to ask me home. Me and him
had a quarrel six years ago. I was eighteen—knowed it all. There was a
girl—daughter of a man Dad didn’t like.
“Lookin’ back, I can see a stringy sort of a kid, with a stub nose and
red hair—lotta red hair. She was sixteen. I dunno what I was thinkin’
about, when I went and asked her dad to let me marry her. I didn’t drink
at that time; so I reckon I was plain loco.
“Well—” Blue grinned shyly—“he kicked me off the porch, and I lit on my
head in a rose bush. When I got out of there, her dad was gone back in
the house, but the girl was on the porch. She asked me if I was hurt. I
was all scratched up and I hit my head on a rock, but the hurt wasn’t in
scratches and bumps. She said to me:
“‘I don’t think pa likes you—but I do. Let’s run away and get married.’
“Well, that looked like the only thing to do. I went back home, and Dad
cornered me. He wanted to know about the scratches and bumps; so I told
him how I got ’em, and I also told him we were goin’ to elope.
“Then he sat me down in a chair and told me plenty—and I told him
plenty. I told him he was a damned old fool, Dell. He got kinda white
and walked away from me. That night I packed my warbag, saddled my own
cayuse and pulled out. Oh, I’ve been plenty sorry over what I called
him. Many and many a time I’ve wished t’ God I hadn’t said that.
“He’d kill a man for sayin’ that to him. If it hurt him, it hurt me jist
as much—mebbe more. I worked my way up to Portland and got me a job in a
wholesale house, where I stuck for a year. But you can’t make a stock
clerk out of a puncher. I went over to eastern Montana and Dakota,
worked back into southern Idaho, always punchin’ cows. Went down in
Colorado for a spell, but finally came up here. Every cent I own is what
you jist gave me; but it’s enough for me to get home on. I’d like to
stay and work for you, Dell, but I realize that your regular hands are
plenty to handle the work for the winter.”
“That’s right,” admitted Dell. “I like you, Blue. You’re a top hand and
you won’t have no trouble landin’ plenty jobs. But if I didn’t have a
darn man, and you was askin’ for a job, I’d—well, I’d rather see you
pull out for Arizona. You’re the only son?”
“Yeah. Mother died when I was twelve. There’s jist the Old Man and me.”
“You ought to be together, Blue. When are you pullin’ out?”
“Right now.”
“Sandy is goin’ in with the buckboard pretty quick.”
“Fine. I’ll bale up my saddle and throw it in the back.”
“And wake up in the mornin’ broke?” asked the foreman.
Blue shook his head quickly.
“There’s a train to the Coast at eight o’clock—and I’ll be on it.”
The foreman held out his hand and they shook solemnly, gripping tightly.
“Good luck to you, Blue Snow.”
“Same to you, Dell Stewart—all th’ time.”
“There’s one of them big seamless sacks under my bunk, and there’s a
sack needle stickin’ in the wall near the winder.”
“Thank you, Dell.”
“Write?”
“Shore.”
“Huh! Mebbe so. I’ll have heart disease, if you do.”
“I’ll kill you inside six months.”
“So long, pardner.”
“_Hasta luego, compadre._”
It was a simple leave-taking. Dell went back to the ranch-house, while
Blue found the sack, baled his saddle inside it, and threw the bale into
the back of the buckboard which Sandy McKeown was taking to town. The
other cowboys pulled out ahead of them, whooping their way to town, six
miles away.
“Leavin’ the country?” asked Sandy, eyeing the baled saddle.
“On the eight o’clock train for the Coast.”
“Uh-huh,” dubiously. “I’ve started six times m’self, Snow—and I ain’t
never got as far as the depot yet. Allus wanted t’ go back to Iowa. Born
there.”
“Been back since you was born?”
“Left there when I was six, and I’m fifty. Gawd, ain’t it funny how the
call of home comes to you at times? Git in. You won’t git past the first
saloon, but I admire your resolutions.”
But Blue Snow fooled them. He went straight to the depot, bought a
ticket through to San Francisco, and sat in the little depot until the
eight o’clock train came along. He did not even tell the boys goodby—he
did not dare. It was the first time in six years that he had not led the
hilarity of pay night.
Blue Snow was drifting home.
* * * * *
It was several days later, and Jerry Falconer was also heading home;
coming back from a trip to Phoenix, where she had been to purchase her
trousseau. Jerry had been properly christened Geraldine, but no one in
Sunset City, except the minister, ever called her Miss Geraldine.
Jerry was rather tall, slender, with a wealth of copper-red hair. Her
eyes were as blue as the Arizona skies, a straight nose, tilted a
little, and a laughing mouth that almost drove the cowboys to
distraction. A vote would have proved her the most beautiful girl in San
Miguel Valley, by long odds.
Jerry was twenty-two, rode like a cowpuncher, swore like one, when the
occasion demanded it, and did not admire her own reflection in a mirror.
In other words, Jerry was not vain, detested adulation and wished she
had been born a boy.
Her father objected to her going alone to Phoenix, but she went. The
town of Sunset City did not cater to prospective brides. William
Falconer, owner of almost everything worth while in San Miguel Valley,
swore by all the Arizona gods that no daughter of his could ever make a
trip alone to Phoenix to buy wedding clothes. It is presumed that all
the gods of Arizona threw him down in favor of Jerry. Now she was on her
way back, bringing a trunkful of clothes.
It had been a wonderful experience for the girl, except that once in
awhile she would think calmly about the coming wedding. And when she did
think of it, her eyes clouded a little and she wondered. She had known
Ed Reed three years, two of which he had been foreman of her father’s
Double Diamond outfit. And for three years he had made love to her.
Reed was thirty, a big, handsome man in a swarthy way, and capable.
Jerry was forced to admit that Reed was capable, that he was good
looking. There were other good looking men in the valley, but none dared
cut in, as they said, on Ed Reed. Perhaps Jerry did not realize this.
She was not egotistical. Perhaps the lack of suitors had given her
rather an inferiority complex. Ed Reed or nothing—and Jerry did not want
to be an old maid.
She arrived at the town of San Miguel late in the evening, without
sending word to her father at Sunset City, which was eighteen miles away
on a stage line. She would take the Sunset stage the next morning and
have her father send in a conveyance to Sunset City after her arrival
there.
She stayed all night at the San Miguel hotel, and was at the stage
station at nine o’clock, where old Chub Needham was loading the
old-fashioned vehicle. Chub had known Jerry since she was a little girl.
Chub was sixty, bow-legged, bald-headed, with a long nose and little
gimlet eyes above an enormous gray mustache.
The wind was blowing a gale and the old man’s eyes were so full of sand
that he rubbed them tearfully before recognizing her.
“Dag-gone!” he grunted. “Hello, Jerry. Got back safe, eh? Purty hat you
got on. Gawd, every time I look at you, I cuss m’ age. Goin’ up with me?
Yea-a-ah? Windy, eh? That was your trunk I jist packed on, wasn’t it?
Uh-huh. Wind’s goin’ to be hell up along them Rattlesnake grades. Ol’
dust is pretty deep, and this wind will shore fog plenty. As much as I’d
like to have you ridin’ with me, I s’pect you better ride inside this
trip.”
Jerry nodded, realizing the wisdom of Chub’s prophecy regarding the dust
and sand along the grades. A man came from the office and handed Chub a
sawed-off Winchester shotgun, which Chub proceeded to load, while the
man talked to him in low tones. The old driver nodded and tossed the gun
up on the high seat, before opening the door for Jerry.
“If the wind dies down, I’ll ask you up on the seat,” he told her.
“Thanks, Chub.”
“Got a lotta sense,” mused the old man to himself, as he climbed up on
the seat, kicked off the brake and spoke sharply to his four horses.
“Lotta damn’ women would insist on settin’ here outside. Jerry’s got
plenty o’ sense, y’betcha. Almost as much sense as a man.”
It was none too comfortable inside the old stage. Dust filtered through
the creaking doors, and the old springs were worse than none on the
rough road. The windows were too dirty for Jerry to see through, but she
did not mind that.
They struck the grades and began climbing. It was really a one-way road,
with an occasional turn-out here and there. Off to the right was
Rattlesnake Cañon, and at times there was a perpendicular drop from the
narrow grade to the bottom, hundreds of feet below.
The Hairpin turn was the bad one, circling one arm of the cañon.
Rounding a cliff, the road doubled back for nearly a half mile, made a
sharp turn to the left and ran back, paralleling itself for about half a
mile, where it again turned to the right. From the cliffs, where it made
the right-hand turn, across to the point where it again turned to the
right, it was not over four hundred yards on an air line. In other
words, the road made a loop of over a mile to progress four hundred
yards.
* * * * *
While the stage was yet a quarter of a mile from the cliff turn, a man
climbed off the road on the upper side, crouched down in the rocks and
remained there until the stage had gone past and disappeared. Then he
climbed down again and continued walking up the hill.
It was Blue Snow, a bit disheveled, badly in need of a shave, limping a
little in his high-heeled boots. Blue had arrived early that morning on
a freight train—broke. He had underestimated the amount of money
necessary to bring him home from the North, and a poker game in Frisco
town had reduced him to the necessity of beating his way for the last
few divisions.
But Blue did not mind that part of it. He was still too proud to ask any
favors. He had been away from the valley for six years, and it was
against his nature to let anyone know he had come back broke. He did not
know that Chub Needham was still driving the Sunset stage, until he saw
that familiar face. He was almost at the point of yelling to Chub to
give him a ride, but thought better of it. No use advertising the fact
that he had started walking.
Blue was in no hurry. It was eighteen miles to Sunset City, and three
miles more to his father’s Bar S Bar ranch. He would circle Sunset City.
“I’ll have a fine pair of feet by the time I get home,” he decided
painfully, as he reached the cliff turn and stopped in the shade.
He could see the dust from the stage across the cañon. In fact, the
stage had left a dust screen behind it all the way around the Hairpin.
Blue sat down on a rock and rolled a smoke. Tobacco was running low, so
he made a skimpy cigaret. The wind was still blowing, but he was out of
the dust. He could not see the stage; he decided it had made the turn
over there. Off came his boots, and he sighed with relief as he removed
his socks.
“Ain’t been barefoot for years.” He grinned to himself. “Mebbe I’ll bust
a few toes, but anything is better than blisters on your heel.”
He leaned back, smoking thoughtfully, working his toes in the cooling
breeze. Suddenly he sat up straight. From far across the cañon came the
echoing report of a shot. Blue squinted thoughtfully. No hunting around
there. Farther back in the hills, perhaps—
Then came two more reports, their echoes blending, banging back and
forth from the sides of the cañon.
“That’s danged queer,” muttered Blue. Nothing to be seen, except some
buzzards circling high over the cañon. “Nobody on the stage, except old
Chub. What would he be shootin’ at, I wonder?”
Blue got to his feet and tucked his boots under his arm. He had only
taken a few steps, when two more shots echoed across the gorge.
“Sounds like Fourth of July,” he told himself. “Mebbe some of the
natives got their calendar mixed up a little. Anyway, I don’t suppose it
means much. Mebbe old Chub met a bear on the road and it wouldn’t give
him the right-of-way.”
But it was not a bear that met the Sunset stage that morning. As old
Chub swung his four horses around the curve at the finish of the
Hairpin, a masked man was on the edge of the grade, covering the driver
with a six-shooter. With a grunted oath the old man threw on the brake,
swung back hard on the lines, stopping the team short, caught the tight
lines between his knees and lifted his hands.
“Git down,” ordered the masked man hoarsely.
Old Chub dismounted slowly, wondering if it was worth while for him to
resist. He was debating the advisability of this, when the man stepped
over and took Chub’s revolver from his holster.
“Open the door,” growled the man, and Chub obeyed.
Jerry, knowing nothing of what had taken place, and thinking that Chub
was inviting her to ride outside with him, stepped out of the doorway
and down on the step. Seeing the masked man she stopped short and took a
deep breath.
“Git down,” said the man harshly.
“You better, Jerry,” advised Chub a little shakily, and Jerry obeyed.
The man seemed to study her closely through the eye holes of his mask.
She was evidently a problem he had not taken into consideration. Finally
he said—
“Turn around and walk back the way you came, miss.”
Jerry glanced back along the grade.
“You mean I—”
“That’s right—walk. Jist keep on walkin’.”
“You better, Jerry,” said old Chub softly.
Jerry shut her lips tightly and looked at the masked man, who swung the
muzzle of his gun to cover her.
“Git goin’,” he said roughly. “It’s the safe thing for you to do.”
And Jerry obeyed. A few yards took her out of sight, but she kept going.
It was possibly five minutes later that the first shot was fired, and
Jerry stopped, turned around and went back. A foolish thing to do,
perhaps. Then came the two shots, and she stopped. Her eyes were full of
dust, and she was wearing pumps which were already full of sand.
She sat down on a rock beside the road and emptied the pumps, after
which she wiped the dust out of her eyes. Then came the second shots.
Jerry did not know how many shots had been fired; the echoes confused
her. There might have been a dozen shots, as far as she was able to
determine, because the echoes seemed to come from every direction.
She sat there for quite awhile, but finally decided there was no sense
in her walking back toward San Miguel; so she headed in the direction of
Sunset City. The stage was not where she had left it; but farther around
the turn, on a straight piece of grade, she found it.
The stage had been left, blocking the road, with the horses headed into
the rocky wall at one of the few turn-outs.
Slumped sidewise on the seat, his head and one arm flung over the side,
was old Chub Needham, his sightless eyes staring down at the dusty road,
a round blue hole through his left temple, his face smeared with blood.
The old driver of the Sunset stage had taken his last ride.
Jerry spoke to him, but she knew he would never answer. She did not know
what to do, standing there on the edge of the narrow grade, her clothes
whipping in the wind. The four horses seemed contented, the lines
wrapped around the brake. Jerry went around to look at them from the
right-hand side. Her intention was to drive the stage to Sunset City.
She had never driven four horses, but she felt capable of doing it.
But the dead driver was sprawled on the seat, one foot over the side.
She was afraid to touch him for fear he might topple off, and she did
not feel able to take him off the seat and put him inside the stage.
Anyway, she remembered that the sheriff and coroner should see him
first.
She was in the angle between the team and the cliff when Blue Snow came
into sight. Jerry saw him as he came around the curve. She did not
recognize him, and she was unable to say just why she did what she did;
but before he saw her, she stepped inside the stage and softly closed
the door. The window on the left hand side was nearly opaque with dirt,
but she saw and recognized him, as he came up and stared at old Chub
Needham. Blue was still carrying his boots.
* * * * *
After a long look at the dead driver he sat down near the edge of the
grade and slowly replaced his boots. Jerry watched him through the dirty
window. Blue seemed at a loss what to do. He scanned the road, the
surrounding hills, studied the depths of the cañon and finally rolled
another cigaret. He seemed to take it for granted that the inside of the
stage was empty.
Jerry Falconer was the “stringy sort of a kid, with a stub nose and red
hair” that Blue had told Dell Stewart about in the Northwest. She had
told Blue she would wait for him until the end of time, and here she was
with her wedding clothes, getting ready to marry another man within a
week.
“Why didn’t you write to me?” she whispered, her nose against the pane.
Blue spat reflectively, hitched up his overalls and climbed up over the
right front wheel. Jerry could tell by the jerking of the stage that
Blue was doing something with the body, and she was afraid he might
intend putting it inside the stage.
But Blue had no intentions of that kind. He swung the body around on the
seat, found a length of rope, which he looped around the body and tied
to the back of the seat. Then he carefully swung the team away from the
wall, kicked off the brake and headed for Sunset City.
Fifty feet farther along the grade the leaders shied to the left, and
Blue jammed on the brake. It was the mouth of a little side cañon,
cutting back from the grade. It was almost overhung by a giant manzanita
bush, to a limb of which had been tied a sorrel horse, saddled and
bridled.
And lying at the base of the manzanita, one booted foot almost in the
wagon rut, was the body of a man, face down, arms outstretched, the
right hand half clutching at a heavy Colt revolver.
Swinging the leaders farther in against the wall, Blue set the brake
solidly, fastened the lines and climbed down, his heart pounding wildly.
Even with the man’s face obscured, Blue knew who it was. The man’s hat
was off, and there was a huge mop of gray hair, which Blue remembered so
well.
He leaned against the wheel, sick at heart. Finally, with a choking sob,
he went ahead and knelt beside the body, turning it over tenderly. He
had not been mistaken—it was his father. Blue got to his feet,
staggering a little. He did not hear Jerry Falconer leave the stage, did
not know she was within miles, until she said—
“Blue, what happened?”
He turned and looked at her, but she was staring at the body. There was
no greeting of any kind. It was as though they had never been apart.
“That’s Dad,” he said chokingly.
“Yes, I know,” she replied. “What happened?”
“The horses shied,” he said, “and I saw him there.”
“He—he’s dead, Blue?”
“Yes. He’s been shot.”
Blue rubbed his eyes and stepped over by the rocky wall, looking at his
father, his lips twisted strangely. The sorrel horse moved nervously,
jerking back on the tie-rope. Finally Blue turned to Jerry.
“Old Chub is dead,” he told her.
“I know.”
He looked closely at her for several moments, at the stage, back to her.
“Where did you come from, Jerry?”
“I was on the stage all the way from San Miguel. The holdup man made me
get out and walk back. Where did you come from?”
“I—I was walkin’ home from San Miguel. Jist got back, you see.”
“Did we pass you on the road?”
“I hid, when the stage came along.”
“Oh.”
“You’ve changed, Jerry.”
“But you recognized me.”
He nodded slowly.
“I guess I would—any time. Well,” he continued, turning back to the
body, “I guess there’s nothin’ to do, except take him back. If you’ll
open the stage door—”
Picking up the body of his father, he carried it over and placed it
inside the stage. He took the gun and dropped it beside the body. Old
Chub was a more difficult proposition, but he managed to lower him to
the ground, then place the body inside the stage.
For several moments he leaned against the wheel, his face buried in his
arms, breathing heavily. Then he helped Jerry to the seat, climbed up
beside her, gathered up the reins and drove slowly along the narrow
grade.
“I’m glad you came back,” said Jerry simply.
“I’m glad I did,” he replied. “Dad said he needed me.”
“I saw him about two months ago and he said he had never heard a word
from you, Blue.”
“He hadn’t—at that time. I came as soon as I heard from him. I’ve been
all over the Northwest country, Jerry. Never stayed long in one place.
Do you remember a song old Graveyard Jones used to sing about ‘a
rambling wreck of poverty and a son-of-a-gun to boot’? That’s me. Broke
flat. I came to San Miguel on the deck of a box car, without enough
money to pay my stage fare to Sunset City. Walked and dodged—dodged so
folks wouldn’t know I was too danged poor to ride. It’s funny I’m
tellin’ you this. You see, I never intended tellin’ it to anybody,
except Dad. You don’t look like my old Jerry. I’ve thought of you a lot,
but it wasn’t about a beautiful young lady. No, sir, it was about a lean
lookin’, red-headed kid. I can see you yet, Jerry; the day your dad
booted me off into the briars. Remember it? I said I’d come back some
day and get you. But you can discount all that—now. I couldn’t even take
myself away, unless I walked.”
“I remember it,” said Jerry. “We had wonderful ideas, Blue.”
“Kids do,” sighed Blue. “I reckon your dad did the right thing.”
Blue’s voice was strained, unnatural, but he wanted to talk; wanted to
forget as much as possible. Later on he would be able to think calmly,
but not now. Suddenly he remembered he had left the horse tied to the
manzanita bush, but it was too late to go back. He would ask someone to
go after it.
“Things haven’t changed much around here since you left,” said Jerry.
“You’ve changed.”
“I don’t feel any different.”
And then they struck the downgrade to Sunset City, where it required
considerable concentration on the part of the driver to swing the four
horses around the narrow turns and keep the rear end of the stage from
parting company with the team.
* * * * *
Sunset City had been in existence about thirty years, and as some cowboy
wag had said, “The only paint they ever had in the town was when a war
party of Apaches came in and swiped the postmaster’s hair.”
There was one main street, bordered closely by false-front buildings,
which in turn were bordered with wooden sidewalks, undulating to conform
with the doorways of the buildings, none of which were on the same
level.
The total vote of Sunset City was less than two hundred, but it was the
county seat and of great importance in San Miguel Valley. William
Falconer was the big man of the valley, financially and politically,
somewhat of an egotist, hard-headed and inclined to domineer.
He owned the Double Diamond cattle outfit and was a director of the
Sunset City Cattlemen’s Bank. Falconer made an effort to control the
politics of the valley and probably did to some extent. He boasted
openly of his own honesty and was somewhat flattered when anyone
referred to him as “Honest Bill” Falconer.
But, big as he was in his own estimation, he hated two men—Jim Snow,
father of Blue Snow, and Jeff Blondell. The trouble with Jim Snow dated
back to the time when Snow swore out a warrant for the arrest of
Falconer, charging that the Double Diamond had stolen three horses from
him, alleging that the brands had been altered. Reed swore they were
part of a shipment received from Texas. Snow swore to shape, color and
markings, and said that the brand had been altered so as to be
unreadable; but the judge declared the evidence insufficient for a
conviction.
Freed by the court of any and all blame in the matter, Falconer still
hated Jim Snow for even hinting that the Double Diamond would do such a
thing.
His hate against Jeff Blondell was of a different nature. No one knew
much about Blondell. He drifted into Sunset City on a horse about a year
previous to the homecoming of Blue Snow. Blondell was of medium height,
swarthy of skin, with a broken nose, a cruel mouth and habitually
bloodshot eyes. He was typically a tough cowpuncher, a mighty drinker
and an inveterate gambler.
Sunset City looked upon him with a certain suspicion at first. He put up
at the livery stable, apparently too short of cash to afford a hotel
room. He did not get a job, but graduated from the stable to the hotel,
wore better clothes and seemed to acquire a little money. He was not a
good poker player, but a consistent one, and drank steadily, paying in
cash. Gradually he became one of the men about town.
But Blondell did not like William Falconer. He heard Falconer reciting
his own virtues one day, after a few drinks, and Blondell remarked
openly that he would not trust any man who bragged of his honesty.
Falconer was indignant, but he did not awe the broken-nosed gentleman
from nowhere.
“Crooks speak for themselves,” said Blondell recklessly. “Honest men let
their deeds do the speakin’.”
And these words, spoken in the presence of possibly a dozen men, galled
the soul of William Falconer. He went to Singer Sanderson, the sheriff,
and told him to keep an eye on Blondell. Singer found out why, and was
amused.
It did not take much to amuse Singer Sanderson. Neither did it take much
to amuse Smoky Woods, Singer’s deputy. There was little reason to watch
Blondell. No crime had been committed.
In fact, it had been a long time since the sheriff’s office had done
more than tack up reward notices and serve notices in civil suits. There
had not been a prisoner in the jail for over a year.
Old Graveyard Jones did not like Falconer; neither did he like
Blondell—but he did like Jim Snow. Graveyard was nearly seventy, looked
sixty and acted twenty—a tough, wiry old rascal, who handled his own
little outfit alone and feared neither man nor devil.
“That there Blondell is a danged parachute,” he declared.
“What’s a parachute?” queried Singer Sanderson.
“Don’tcha know what a parachute is? It’s a feller that lives off’n his
feller men.”
“You mean a parasite,” corrected one of the gamblers in the Sunset
Saloon.
“I mean a parachute,” snorted Graveyard. “A parasite is only a small
form of the animile.”
It just happened this day that Graveyard Jones and Smoky Woods sat on
the sidewalk in front of the sheriff’s office, lying to each other, as
usual. Graveyard claimed to have been a member of the Royal Northwest
Mounted Police at some remote time, while Smoky claimed the Texas
Rangers as his alma mater. Both of them lied, and they both knew it, but
it made for conversation.
“I ’member one mornin’,” said Graveyard reminiscently, “when the general
calls me into his office. This was in Vancouver. He says to me—
“‘Graveyard, I’m askin’ you to do somethin’ that I wouldn’t even do
m’self, but she’s got to be done for the honor of the force.’
“Well, I knowed it was somethin’ terribly particular, but I didn’t
quail.”
“You didn’t what?” asked Smoky gloomily.
“Quail.”
“Oh, quail. Didn’t you mean duck?”
“I said quail and I meant quail, Smoky.”
“Go ahead.”
“Well, he says to me, ‘Graveyard—’”
“Jist a minute. Did they call you Graveyard at that time?”
“Shore. He says, ‘Graveyard, there’s a dirty murderer hidin’ out on the
bank of Athabasca. Go git him or die in the attempt.’ Jist like that he
said it.”
“And you died.”
“I got m’ man, that’s what I done. I allus got m’ man. I borrowed me a
couple dogs and I—”
“Bird dogs?”
“Man hunters.”
“Oh, yea-a-ah. You mentioned quail, so I thought—— Go ahead, Graveyard.”
“It was about nine o’clock in the mornin’ when I started, and I was up
at the lake about sundown; so I—”
“Athabasca Lake?”
“Shore. It was about sundown—”
“Let’s make it some other lake. I heard you tell this one before, and I
been lookin’ at a map of Canada. She’s pretty close to a thousand miles
from Vancouver to Athabasca Lake, on a air line.”
“Smoky, I didn’t travel no air line,” said Graveyard sadly, “and as far
as you lookin’ up that lake on a map—how old was that there map?”
“Not over a couple years, anyway.”
“There you are,” triumphantly. “Couple years, eh? You go find a map
that’s about fifteen, twenty years old. That there country changed a
hell of a lot in that len’th of time.”
“Oh, shore, I realize that. I ’member one time when I was down on the
Pecos River, trailin’ some Mexican hoss-thieves—”
“Here comes the stage,” interrupted Graveyard. “Mebbe it’s a lucky thing
for them Mexican hoss-thieves.”
Smoky got up and yawned heavily.
“Did you get your man on Athabasca Lake?”
“Nope,” grinned Graveyard. “I caught him next day at the upper end of
Hudson’s Bay.”
* * * * *
They walked across the street, as the stage drew up in front of the
postoffice. Several others had come up to meet it, but no one seemed
aware that old Chub was not driving until the horses stopped and Blue
Snow climbed down among them. Jerry remained on the seat.
Graveyard was the first to recognize Blue.
“Hyah, kid?” he grunted. “Where did you come from, anyway?”
“Hello, Graveyard,” softly; and then to the crowd, “Where’s the
sheriff?”
“What’s wrong?” asked Smoky, shoving forward.
“Plenty. You’re Smoky Woods, ain’t you? I’m Blue Snow.”
“That’s right,” said Smoky. “Blue Snow. You’ve changed a lot. But what’s
gone wrong? How come you’re drivin’ the—”
Blue opened the door of the stage, and the crowd surged forward to see
the two dead men inside. A cowboy ran across the street to get the
sheriff, who came running over, questioning the cowboy. The sheriff paid
no attention to Blue Snow until he discovered that one of the dead men
was old Chub. Someone told him Blue Snow brought in the stage.
By that time a goodly portion of Sunset City was there, and among them
was Charles Seymour, the tall old banker. Someone helped Jerry down, and
she went into the postoffice to escape the crowd.
They took the bodies out and a doctor examined them carefully. Blue had
nothing to say until the sheriff asked for an explanation.
“Better talk at your office,” suggested Blue, and the sheriff nodded.
“How much does Miss Falconer know?” asked Smoky.
“Better bring her along,” replied Blue.
Smoky brought Jerry to the office, and the sheriff shut the door against
the crowd. Blue detailed everything he knew, and Jerry told her part of
it, which corroborated what Blue had told them. Their story was already
told, when the doctor and the banker came over to the office. The doctor
was carrying a package in his hand. Smoky let them in, and the doctor
placed the sealed package on the table.
“This package was inside the shirt of Jim Snow,” he said. “I found it in
making my examination.”
The sheriff looked at it, examined the unbroken seals and the address.
“This is yours, ain’t it?” he asked the banker, who nodded gravely.
“Unless I’m badly mistaken that package contains twenty thousand
dollars’ worth of negotiable bonds,” he said.
“You found that inside my father’s shirt?” asked Blue.
“Yes,” nodded the doctor.
The banker cleared his throat harshly.
“We found the receipt book in old Chub’s pocket. There were two packages
receipted for at San Miguel. The other one contained ten thousand in
currency.”
“Jim Snow didn’t have it, eh?” queried the sheriff.
The banker shook his head.
“Didja examine the strong box?”
“Hardly a strong box,” said the banker. “It never was locked. In case of
a holdup, they would take box and all. No, it was empty.”
Smoky Woods turned from the window.
“Here comes Falconer,” he said.
“Let him in,” grunted the sheriff, and in a moment William Falconer, the
big man of San Miguel Valley, came in.
He was a big man, physically, slightly gray, hard-featured, with
greenish gray eyes deeply set under heavy brows. He nodded shortly to
the men and turned to Jerry.
“Why didn’t you send word of your arrival? A nice mixup, this seems to
be.”
Jerry merely smiled at him, and he grunted angrily. Turning around, he
looked at Blue Snow quizzically.
“Came back, eh?”
“Yeah,” replied Blue softly.
“Uh-huh.” Turning back to the sheriff, “Well, what’s happened, outside
of two men dead?”
“Ten thousand dollars missin’, it seems.”
“Missing, eh? Bank money?”
“Bank money,” echoed the banker. “We found the twenty thousand worth of
bonds inside Jim Snow’s shirt, but the money is gone.”
Falconer was puzzled. The sheriff told him what Blue Snow had explained,
and Jerry recited what she knew about it. Falconer drew the sheriff
aside and they talked confidentially for several moments, after which
the sheriff came back to Blue Snow.
“You won’t mind us searchin’ you, will you, Snow?” he asked.
Blue flushed hotly and was about to argue, but finally shook his head.
The search was fruitless.
“I reckon that’s all for you, Snow,” said the sheriff. “You’ll be around
here for awhile?”
“I expect to,” replied Blue coldly, and walked outside.
Falconer turned to Jerry and questioned her closely.
“Jerry, how much time elapsed after the stage stopped, until you got out
and saw Blue Snow with the body of his father?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps it was a full minute.”
“What was he doing, when you saw him?”
“He was standing there, looking down at the body.”
“Did he have anything in his hand?”
“I didn’t see anything.”
“Did he leave you and walk around the other side of the stage, out near
the edge of the grade?”
“No.”
“You didn’t see any package on the seat, after you got up there with
him?”
“No, I did not see any package.”
“Are you figurin’ he might have pitched the package over the grade?”
asked the sheriff.
“It is missing,” replied Falconer. “Money hasn’t wings.”
“All right,” growled the sheriff. “We’ll search every place he might
have throwed it away.”
“You don’t think Blue Snow had anything to do with that missing money,
do you?” asked Jerry.
“You bet he did!” snapped her father angrily.
“Wait a minute,” drawled the tall sheriff. “You don’t know any more than
the rest of us, Falconer. It ain’t square to accuse a man thataway.”
“Don’t be a fool, Sanderson. Jim Snow held up the stage. He and old Chub
fought it out, both of them dying. Blue Snow found his father, and it’s
a hundred to one shot that he found that currency. Blue is nobody’s
fool. Even if he wasn’t crook enough to want that money, he’d get rid of
it to protect the old man’s name. Of course, he never found the package
inside the old man’s shirt, or that would have disappeared too.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Jerry firmly.
Falconer laughed harshly, but made no reply.
“We’ll make that search right away,” said the sheriff. “I don’t reckon
there’s any more talking to be done.”
“As far as I’m concerned, no,” replied Falconer.
“We will take the two bodies down to my place,” said the doctor.
One of the boys brought in the two guns from the stage, and an
examination showed that Jim Snow’s gun had been fired three times,
Chub’s twice. They were both single-action Colt weapons, Snow’s being
a .45, while Chub’s was a .38.
The sheriff turned to Jerry.
“How many shots did you hear, Miss Jerry?”
“I can’t say how many. The echoes—”
“I know. Maybe Blue counted ’em. Could you swear that the robber who
made you walk back from the stage, was Jim Snow?”
“He was masked,” said Jerry.
“I know that, but the size of him, the clothes—”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” smiled Jerry. “It was the first time
anyone ever pointed a gun at my head.”
Sanderson grinned.
“I don’t blame you; I know how it feels.”
As he and Smoky went to the office they passed Blue Snow, who was
standing at the edge of the sidewalk. Sanderson stepped up to him.
“How many shots did you hear?” he asked.
“I think there were five.”
“That’s right. Your father shot three times and old Chub fired twice.”
“I didn’t have any gun,” said Blue bitterly. “I pawned mine in Frisco;
so you can’t hang me for doin’ any shootin’.”
“Nobody wantin’ to hang you, Snow.”
“That’s great. Didja expect me to have that money in my pocket?”
“I didn’t.”
Blue smiled grimly.
“I reckon Falconer did.”
“Well, I wouldn’t let that git me down, if I was you.”
“Ain’t nobody goin’ to get me down, Sanderson.”
“That’s the stuff.”
“The Old Man wrote me that he was gettin’ a bad deal down here—so I came
down to help him. I reckon I came too damn’ late.”
The tall sheriff squinted thoughtfully.
“Said he was gettin’ a bad deal?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Who was givin’ him a bad deal?”
“That’s what I came to find out.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I dunno anythin’ about it. Your dad was close mouthed,
you know.”
“He was a square shooter.”
“I know it, and I’m sorry as hell about this deal. I liked him and I
liked old Chub.”
“And they’ve always been friends,” added Blue.
“Shore have. Well, I’ll see you later, Blue.”
“Goin’ to see if you can find where I threw that money?”
The sheriff turned his head and looked back at Blue, but did not reply.
“He’s no damn’ fool,” chuckled Smoky Woods.
* * * * *
It was late in the evening in the town of Gates Ajar, forty miles east
and across the San Miguel range from Sunset City. Gates Ajar consisted
of a little depot, a saloon, with possibly six rooms on the second floor
for transients, a combination store and postoffice, and a section house.
It was too small to show on the map, and passenger trains only stopped
on a flag. The only light in the town at this time in the evening was in
the saloon, where a smoky old lamp hung a few feet above the faded green
cover of a poker table. There were four men at the table, two dressed in
range clothes; the bartender in shirt sleeves, bareheaded; the fourth
was a thin-featured man, with a closely cropped gray mustache, wearing a
gray business suit.
He was drinking steadily, and seemed peevish over a run of bad luck.
Several times he had torn his cards across and demanded a new deck. The
stakes were fairly high, and an observer might have noted that the other
men were, in the parlance of the initiated, whipsawing him at every
turn.
The man was not a clever player or he would have realized that it was
three men against one, but the one man was getting more intoxicated all
the time, playing recklessly. It was also apparent that a small town
bartender and two cowboys were in no financial condition to be playing
for such stakes.
It was about the time when the gray-suited man emptied his billfold to
purchase more chips that two cowboys rode into Gates Ajar, and guided
their horses to a hitch rack across the street from the saloon.
One man was tall and thin, astride a tall gray horse, and the other was
stocky, broad of shoulder, riding a chunky sorrel. They dismounted and
stood on the short length of wooden sidewalk in front of the postoffice
and store.
“This must be Gates Ajar,” remarked the short one. “What a name for a
town!”
The tall one laughed softly, throatily.
“Probably named by a psalm singer, Sleepy. One light in the place, and
that’s over a poker table, unless my eyes deceive me; and unless I’m
badly mistaken, Jack Wilson will be under that lamp.”
“Beyond the shadder of a doubt, as the lawyers say. Anyway, they’ll know
if this is Gates Ajar, and where we can stable these broncs.”
As they stepped off the sidewalk and started for the saloon, both men
stopped short—the sound of a revolver shot thudded within the saloon.
There was a sudden commotion in the place, a sharp exclamation, a
confusion of voices. Came the sound of another shot, the tinkle of
shattered glass, and the bar was in darkness.
The two cowboys stood rooted to the spot, staring toward the dark
saloon. It was possibly twenty seconds later that a match flared, as
someone tried to light a lamp. The two cowboys went toward the doorway
and, as they stepped up on the wooden sidewalk, they heard the drumming
crescendo of running horses, heading away from town.
They stepped inside; the lamp flared up. The fat bartender, his forehead
beaded with perspiration, placed the lamp on the poker table and looked
at them shakily. The gray-suited man was sprawled near the table, a
chair lying across his legs.
“What happened?” asked the tall cowboy calmly, his level gray eyes
fastened on the frightened face of the bartender.
The bartender licked his dry lips, rubbed the palms of his hands on his
hips and looked down at the figure on the floor.
“God!” he said softly. “Must ’a’ got him dead center.”
The tall cowboy stepped over and swung the man on the floor around to
where the light would fall on his face.
“Jack Wilson,” he said.
“That his name?” asked the bartender, and the tall one nodded.
“Didn’t you know him?” queried the short cowboy.
The bartender shook his head quickly.
The tall one had been making a swift examination, and now he stood up.
“Who shot him?” he asked sharply.
“I didn’t know ’em,” replied the bartender. “Couple punchers. Came in
this evenin’. Poker game and plenty whisky. Accused one of ’em of
stealin’ a card.”
The bartender cut his sentences short, taking a deep breath between.
“Is he dead, Hashknife?” asked the short one.
“Not yet. Is there a doctor around here?”
“Up at San Miguel. That’s thirty-five miles up the line. No doctor
around here.”
Two more men came in. One was only partly dressed. He was the postmaster
and storekeeper, and the other worked in the store for him. They had
heard the shots. The bartender explained what had happened, but they
made no comment.
“Did you know this man?” asked the storekeeper, addressing the tall
cowboy.
“Yeah. His name is Jack Wilson, and he’s a buyer for Kinnear & Company,
Kansas City. We came here to meet him tonight. We saw him day before
yesterday at Clinton, and he told us to meet him here, because he was
shippin’ a bunch of cattle, and we were to go East with him.”
“Shippin’ a bunch of cattle from here?” queried the storekeeper. “Kinda
funny.”
“What’s funny about it?”
“Whose cattle?”
The bartender laughed shortly.
“I guess he drank so much he imagined he was shippin’ from here. There
ain’t a shipment of beef around here.”
From far down the line came the shrill whistle of an engine. The tall
one turned to the storekeeper.
“We’ve got to get this man to a doctor, and if that train stops here—”
“Freight,” said the other man, looking at his watch. “It’ll stop for
water.”
The bartender secured a blanket, and with it as an improvised stretcher,
they carried the wounded man up to the little depot, where the conductor
let them place him in the caboose. As they placed him carefully on a
wide seat, some papers slid from a pocket of his coat, and the tall
cowboy picked them up. One was a telegraph blank, folded, and was
apparently a telegram which he had written but not sent.
KINNEAR & CO, KANSAS CITY.
SHIPPING ONE HUNDRED CROSS EIGHTY-FOUR AND WILL SHIP AGAIN NEXT
WEEK FROM SAN MIGUEL IF POSSIBLE.
—WILSON
“I dunno whether he wanted that one sent or not,” said the tall cowboy,
as he borrowed a pencil from the conductor. He wrote another telegram on
the back of an envelope.
AL KINNEAR, KINNEAR & CO, KANSAS CITY.
JACK WILSON PROBABLY FATALLY SHOT STOP RUSHING HIM TO DOCTOR AT
SAN MIGUEL SO ADVISE ME THERE AT ONCE.
—HASHKNIFE HARTLEY
* * * * *
He handed this telegram to the conductor and asked him to send it from
San Miguel as soon as they arrived. “We’ll be there some time tomorrow,”
he told the conductor, and a few moments later the train clanked away
from Gates Ajar.
Hashknife Hartley and Sleepy Stevens, his stocky companion, went back to
the saloon, where they found the bartender mopping up the floor.
“I shore hate for a thing like that to happen,” he puffed. “Kinda ruins
trade. Gives a place a bad reputation.”
“Keep thousands away,” smiled Hashknife. “You didn’t know those two
cowboys, eh?”
“Never seen ’em before. Couple of drifters.”
The bartender did not look at Hashknife, as he denied knowing the
killers. He had encountered the steady gaze of those level gray eyes
just after the shooting, and they made him feel uncomfortable. Hashknife
leaned back against the bar, a tall, lanky figure, lean of face,
generous of nose and with a wide, thin-lipped mouth. His big sombrero
was tilted back on his head; his long fingers deftly rolled a cigaret.
Both men were clad in well-worn batwing chaps, worn boots and battered
hats. Their belts were handmade, fitting perfectly to the sag of their
holstered guns. Sleepy Stevens’ features were blocky—jaw square, blue
eyes encased in grin wrinkles. He seemed to be smiling with the world—or
at it.
“Kinda funny about this Wilson goin’ to ship from here,” said the
bartender, as he took his pail and mop behind the bar.
“Uh-huh,” replied Hashknife thoughtfully. “Did he ever ship from here
before?”
“I never did see him around here.”
The bartender turned to the back bar and replaced some glasses.
“Who owns the Cross 84?” asked Hashknife.
“The what?” asked the bartender, turning quickly.
“The Cross 84.”
“Oh, I dunno much about brands around here. Don’t remember seein’ any.”
“Uh-huh. The man who was shot had a telegram he was goin’ to send East,
and it said he was shippin’ a hundred head of Cross 84. I thought mebbe
he was shippin’ from here.”
“Couldn’t have been here.”
“Prob’ly not. How about a room for the night?”
“I can fix you up.”
“Stable for a couple broncs?”
“Back of here’s a little stable you can use.”
They put up their horses and went back into the saloon. The bartender
took them to an outside entrance, where they mounted some rickety stairs
and went down a narrow hall to a small room. The bartender lighted a
lamp. It was an end room, the one window looking out toward the little
depot.
“Ain’t much,” said the bartender, “but you can’t expect much here.”
“This is all right,” smiled Hashknife.
“Can do,” grunted Sleepy, pulling off his boots.
The bartender left them, and they heard him go down the creaking stairs.
Hashknife sat down on the foot of the bed, thinking deeply. Sleepy
looked at him curiously.
“Funny deal, eh?” he said.