who shot Wilson. He might have been packin’ a lot of money. One of the
men shot him, and they had plenty time to rob him before one of ’em was
wise enough to shoot out the light. Shot it out before anybody had a
chance to see who they were. The bartender was prob’ly in on the deal.”
“He’s got snaky eyes,” mused Sleepy. “He’d never identify ’em. Unless
Wilson lives, we’ll never know who shot him.”
“Yeah, and it’s a hundred to one shot that Wilson don’t live. That
bullet hit him just above the heart. I doubt if he’s alive now.”
Sleepy finished undressing and crawled into bed. Hashknife fumbled in
his vest pocket and took out an empty tobacco sack.
“You got any Durham?” he asked.
“That’s the sack I let you have, Hashknife; I’m all out.”
Hashknife sighed and got off the bed.
“I’ll go down and see if the bartender’s got any. Be back in a minute.”
He went down the hall in the dark and picked his way down the stairs to
the outside door, which was slightly open. There were voices out front,
and he stopped at the doorway. Two men seemed to be in low-toned
argument on the sidewalk, and he recognized the bartender’s voice.
“I tell you I don’t know who shot him. They was a couple—”
“You said that before, and I don’t believe it even this time.”
“I wouldn’t lie to you, Jeff.”
“You’d lie to your own father. Why didn’t you stop ’em?”
“It was all so danged quick. They shot out the light, and—well, come in
and see that lamp, if you don’t believe me.”
“What about them two waddies that showed up right away and sent the man
to San Miguel?”
Ensued a fairly complete description of Hashknife and Sleepy.
“They said they was to meet Wilson here and help him take a shipment of
cattle East,” said the bartender.
“You don’t know their names?”
“Nope. I heard the short one call the tall one Hashknife.”
“What?”
“Don’t yell. I tell you they’ve just—”
“What was that name again?”
“Sounded to me like Hashknife.”
“The hell you say!”
There was a period of silence, broken only by the soft scruffing of
soles on the wooden sidewalk. Then the bartender said softly—
“What about ’em?”
“What you don’t know won’t hurt you. This is a hell of a mixup, if you
ask me.”
“You stayin’ all night?”
“I shore ain’t—if you’ve got a fresh horse to let me have.”
“There’s my brown mare back in the stable. There’s a couple broncs in
there that belong to them two strangers, but my mare is in the rear
stall.”
“All right. I’ll swap back with you in a few days. S’long.”
Hashknife heard the man go around the building, while the bartender went
into the saloon. Hashknife slipped out and followed around the building.
He hoped to get a good look at this party, but the man brought out the
brown mare, switched his saddle from the back of another animal, stabled
the one he had been riding, and left town, traveling west. In the dark
Hashknife was unable even to get an idea of the man’s size.
He went back around the building and entered the saloon, just as the
bartender was ready to put out the light and close the place. He was a
bit startled at sight of Hashknife, but the tall cowboy’s alibi for
being down there seemed to satisfy him. He sold Hashknife a quantity of
tobacco, closed the saloon and followed him up the stairs.
“I live in the bridal suite,” he grinned, as he stopped at a door,
holding a lighted match in his fingers. Then, apparently as an
afterthought, “I plumb forgot to have you boys register for your room.
It’s the law, you know.”
“Put us down as the Smith brothers,” said Hashknife seriously.
“Oh, all right—thanks.”
* * * * *
Hashknife told Sleepy what he had heard, and the next morning they took
a look at the bay horse in the rear stall. It was wearing a Cross 84
brand.
“Kinda makes me figure that the bartender is a liar in the first
degree,” grinned Hashknife. “I dunno what it’s all about, but there’s
somethin’ danged crooked about it. I wish I knew who the stranger was.
He shore knowed me by name.”
“Nothin’ strange about that,” laughed Sleepy.
Hashknife nodded gloomily, as he leaned against the stable door. He did
not desire notoriety. In fact, he desired nothing more than to be unsung
and uncursed. Just to be known as a cowboy, trying to get along. But,
looking down their twisting back trail, which led up and down the West,
from Alberta to Mexico, he realized the truth of Sleepy’s remark.
Hashknife, christened Henry, son of an itinerant minister of the Gospel
in northeastern Montana, started early in life as a cowboy, drifted from
his home range and eventually worked his way down to the cattle outfit
after which he received his nickname. Born with a keen mind, a love of
adventure, and an overwhelming desire to see what was on the other side
of a hill, he met Dave—Sleepy—Stevens, another drifting cowboy, and they
rode away together one spring morning, following the trail of Fate.
At times they would handle a case for the cattle associations, clear up
the case and ride on, refusing further assignments. They did not care to
be under orders from anyone. Again, they would work a few weeks on some
cattle ranch, draw enough money to replenish their outfit, and ride on.
Always the other side of the hills called to them.
Both of them had known Jack Wilson for years, and when they met him in
Clinton it was not difficult for him to talk them into going East with
his shipment of cattle. They needed a change. But that deal was all off
now, and Sleepy realized that fate had dumped them into trouble again.
With the tenacity of a bulldog, Hashknife would dig up and cling to
every shred of evidence, until he proved who shot Jack Wilson. Sleepy
did not analyze anything, but he had a dogged faith in Hashknife’s
ability, a ready gun and the nerve to use it.
The bartender was still in bed when they saddled their horses and headed
up the road which led to San Miguel. They had heard of the San Miguel
Valley, but neither of them had ever seen it.
There was not a town between Gates Ajar and San Miguel, and at times the
road was little better than a trail. It was nearly three o’clock in the
afternoon when they arrived at San Miguel. Hashknife inquired at the
depot regarding the telegram to Kinnear & Company, and found a reply
waiting for him.
VERY SORRY ABOUT WILSON STOP ADVISE FURTHER AS HIS FAMILY LIVES
HERE STOP WILL YOU HANDLE DEAL FOR US AND BUY ONE HUNDRED FIFTY
HEAD BEEF IN SAN MIGUEL VALLEY STOP AM WIRING SAN MIGUEL BANK TO
COVER PRICE STOP ADVISE AT ONCE STOP WOULD SURE BE GLAD TO SEE
YOU AGAIN
—AL KINNEAR
The depot agent directed them to the doctor’s house, where they had
taken Wilson, but told them he feared Wilson was dead when he arrived.
The doctor confirmed this, and Hashknife wired Kinnear again to wire the
doctor a disposition of the body, and also accepted the order to
purchase the one hundred and fifty head of beef animals in San Miguel
Valley.
Hashknife also wrote out what he knew about the shooting and gave it to
the doctor to forward to the sheriff, as Gates Ajar was not in the same
county as San Miguel. The old doctor seemed to be an active source of
information, and he gave Hashknife and Sleepy a résumé of what had
happened to the stage between San Miguel and Sunset City, two days
previous.
He had his information from Sanderson, the Sunset City sheriff, who had
been in San Miguel, and who had searched every likely spot for that
package of money between Sunset City and the point where the stage had
been stopped.
Hashknife and Sleepy spent the night in San Miguel, and Hashknife made
discreet inquiries regarding the Cross 84, but no one seemed to know
anything about the brand.
The next morning they headed for Sunset City. Hashknife remembered what
the doctor had told them, and was able to find the spot where the holdup
and double killing had taken place.
“Not much mystery about this deal,” said Sleepy. “Holdup man kills the
stage driver and is killed himself.”
“And,” added Hashknife solemnly, “the holdup man, just before he died,
swallered the ten thousand dollars worth of currency, and the coroner
forgot to perform an autopsy.”
“Yeah, I forgot about that,” said Sleepy. “But wasn’t the son of this
here deceased bandit mixed up in it?”
“Shore. He came all the way from Oregon to take the money and throw it
over the grade.”
“Aw, hell!” snorted Sleepy. “You never believe anythin’ you hear.”
“And only half that I see, pardner. Mistakes are the easiest things in
the world to make.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I’m glad we’re only down here to buy cows.”
“I’d almost forgot the cows.”
“I’ll remind you of it every little while.”
About a mile north of Sunset City, along the main road, was the old
cemetery, surrounded by a broken-down fence, grown up with weeds, many
of the wooden headstones sagging drunkenly. As Hashknife and Sleepy came
in sight of the cemetery they noticed four men standing close together
at a new grave, while a short distance away from them was a woman on
horseback.
“If that’s a funeral, it shore ain’t well attended,” said Hashknife, and
by mutual consent they swung off the road and came up along the old
fence.
The four men were Blue Snow, Graveyard Jones, Smoky Woods and the
Reverend Mr. Oscar Sundborg. The lady on the horse was Jerry Falconer.
As they rode up, the minister closed his Bible and motioned for
Graveyard and Smoky to fill the grave.
* * * * *
He turned from the grave, replacing his hat, but Blue Snow spoke to him
and he stopped. Blue took a bill from his pocket and handed it to the
minister, who apparently started to refuse, thought better of it, and
pocketed the money. He was a sallow blond, with a weak chin and a
certain air of sanctimony. The two cowboys had seen Blue give him the
money, and as he went past them, Sleepy said seriously—
“What’s salvation worth around here, Parson?”
The minister stopped and looked sharply at them, a trifle belligerently,
perhaps, but turned away and walked slowly down to the road. The girl
had heard Sleepy’s remark and was looking at the two cowboys when Blue
Snow came up to her.
“Jerry, I want to thank you for comin’ here,” he said. “It was mighty
kind of you.”
“He was always nice to me,” she said simply. “I don’t see why folks act
as they do.”
“I guess you can’t blame ’em,” he replied slowly. “I hope your dad won’t
be mad about you comin’ out here.”
“I don’t see what difference that could make to him.”
“I shore hope it won’t, Jerry.”
“Don’t worry about that part of it. I’ll be going now.”
“Goodby, Jerry, and thanks a lot.”
“You’re welcome.”
She rode past the two cowboys at the break in the fence, and they
watched her ride down to the main road, turning toward town.
“Gosh!” exploded Sleepy softly. “Beautiful red hair.”
Blue had gone back to the grave, where he talked with Graveyard and
Smoky. Blue’s horse was tied at the far side of the cemetery, and as
soon as the grave was filled he shook hands with the other two and went
to his horse. Hashknife dismounted and walked over to the grave. Smoky
leaned on his shovel, perspiring copiously, while old Graveyard tried to
arrange a crude headboard. A deputy sheriff’s badge attracted
Hashknife’s attention when he looked at Smoky.
“You’re the first Arizona deputy I ever seen actin’ as a sexton,” he
said.
“Somebody had to do it,” replied Smoky. “You’d think the old man had
cholera, instead of bullets, the way folks act. There ain’t a damn one
of us so good we can’t shovel dirt in on top of a bandit. I like that
girl’s nerve. Her old man and the old man we jist planted have been
enemies for a long time. He’ll prob’ly give her hell for comin’ to the
funeral.”
Hashknife smiled at Smoky.
“I dunno the details, pardner. You see, we just got here.”
“There ain’t much details,” said Graveyard, wiping his hands on his
overall-clad knees. “Jim Snow held up the stage, pulled a gun fight with
the driver, and they both got killed. They buried the driver this
mornin’ and this place was filled with folks. This afternoon we buries
old Jim—and you saw the crowd. That was his son who jist rode away.”
“Who was the lady?” asked Hashknife.
Smoky grinned widely.
“She’s Jerry Falconer. Her dad owns most of this country, and he shore
hated hell out of poor old Jim Snow. Mebbe Jim hated him plenty, too.
You see, that money was for the bank, and Falconer jist about owns the
bank. He owns the Double Diamond outfit. Lots o’ folks think Jim Snow
stuck up the stage to git some of Falconer’s money.”
“I heard about that in San Miguel. Do you know anythin’ about a Cross 84
outfit around here?”
“Ain’t none,” replied Graveyard, spitting at a lizard. The deputy shook
his head.
“How much of an outfit does young Snow own?”
“Remains to be seen.”
“The reason I asked you was because I’m buyin’ cattle for Kinnear and
Company of Kansas City and I need a hundred and fifty head of good
beef.”
“Where’s Wilson?” asked Graveyard slowly.
“Somebody killed him over at Gates Ajar day before yesterday.”
“The hell you say!” snorted Smoky. “Who killed him?”
“Nobody seems to know. His body is at San Miguel now.”
“Well, I’ll be terror-stricken!” exclaimed Graveyard. He shoved his
hands deeply in his overall pockets and squinted at Hashknife.
“And you’re takin’ his place, eh? Hundred and fifty head of beef.” He
turned his head and looked closely at Smoky. “I’ll betcha Blue Snow can
jist fit you out with them there beef critters.”
Smoky grinned widely, started to say something, but changed his mind.
“Did Wilson ask you to do this here buyin’ for him?” asked Graveyard.
“He didn’t live long enough. I wired his boss, who happened to be a man
I knew several years ago, and he wired me to do this buyin’ in place of
Wilson. You boys knew Wilson pretty well, eh?”
“Pretty well,” agreed Graveyard solemnly.
“Anythin’ against him?” queried Hashknife.
“No-o-o,” drawling.
“No-o-o-o-o,” echoed Smoky, scratching his chin violently. “Graveyard,
you better get hold of Blue and let these gents talk beef with him. My
name’s Woods—Smoky Woods, deputy sheriff. This here gent is Graveyard
Jones.”
“Mine is Hashknife Hartley,” grinning, as they shook hands. “The gent on
the horse is Sleepy Stevens. C’mon over, Sleepy, and meet Smoky Woods
and Graveyard Jones.”
In the meantime Jerry rode back to town. Ed Reed and Falconer were
standing together in front of a store, and Reed tied Jerry’s horse. She
knew her father was angry and that Reed was not at all pleased.
“Kinda funny—you goin’ out to the graveyard,” said her father coldly.
“It was anything but funny,” said Jerry.
“Folks will probably have plenty to say about it.”
“It wasn’t hardly the thing to do,” added Reed. “Not under the
circumstances, Jerry.”
“Circumstances have nothing to do with it,” replied Jerry coldly.
“Buryin’ a murderer and a thief,” said Reed.
Jerry flared quickly. Stripping off her glove, she took off a ring and
handed it to Ed Reed.
“That will end any right you might think you had to criticize my morals,
Ed.”
And with that parting shot, Jerry walked past them and entered the
store. Reed glowered at the ring, his lips shut tightly, while William
Falconer almost exploded.
“Damn women! Her mother was thataway, Ed. You let me handle it, will
you? I’ll make her take back that ring. My Gawd, everythin’ is ready for
the weddin’—and this had to happen!”
Reed smiled sourly.
“Young Snow is behind this. I happen to know she saw him here yesterday,
and they talked quite awhile.”
“The hell she did! I’ll stop that, too. I’ll—”
“She’s of age.”
“She’s my daughter. Don’t you want her?”
“I was goin’ to marry her, wasn’t I?”
“Well—” angrily— “I wouldn’t let no son of a murderin’ thief beat me out
of my girl, I’ll tell you that.”
* * * * *
Falconer turned and walked into the store, leaving Reed alone, looking
at the tiny gold circlet and small diamond in his big hand. He shut his
fist tightly and walked across the street to the Sunset Saloon, where he
drank several glasses of raw whisky. He was there when Hashknife,
Sleepy, Graveyard and Smoky came in. Smoky nodded to Reed, but old
Graveyard did not even look at him. Graveyard and Smoky were carrying
their pick and shovel.
“Got him planted, eh?” queried Reed sarcastically.
“We buried him,” said Smoky slowly.
Graveyard turned his head and shot a venomous glance at Reed.
“Blue paid the preacher,” said Smoky, “so there wasn’t any charity mixed
up in the deal.”
Jeff Blondell came in, and Smoky introduced him to Hashknife and Sleepy.
He accepted a drink, inquiring casually about the funeral. Hashknife
looked Blondell over, taking note of the broken nose, cruel mouth and
mean eyes, and filed him mentally as a bad actor. Blondell wore his gun
low on his thigh, the bottom of the holster tied down to a rosette of
his chaps.
A little later Hashknife walked down to the office with Smoky and met
Singer Sanderson, the tall sheriff. Hashknife told him about the
shooting of Wilson, the cattle buyer. Sanderson knew Wilson. Smoky told
Hashknife who Reed was, and that Reed was engaged to marry the girl who
had been out at the cemetery.
Hashknife asked about Blondell.
“_Quien sabe?_” replied the sheriff. “Been here quite awhile, acted like
he was broke when he came, but got money from somewhere. Don’t work,
pays his bills and plays poker most of the time. As far as we know, he’s
on the square, and he minds his own business.”
A little later Hashknife and Sleepy stabled their horses and secured a
room at the Sunset City hotel. Old Graveyard was still at the saloon,
getting more intoxicated all the time. Finally he flourished his pick
dangerously near the polished top of the bar and announced—
“Gentlem’n, I’m goin’ and shell shome cows.”
“Whose cows?” asked the bartender.
“Bar S Bar cows, ’f it’s any of your business.”
Ed Reed pricked up his ears.
“Yesshir,” nodded Graveyard owlishly, “I’m goin’ shell cows to Kinnear,
an’ ’f I ain’t, I’m a liar. Goin’ shell hunner’n fif’y head. Gimme
’nother drink, and then I’m goin’ shellin’ cows.”
“There ain’t even a buyer in the Valley,” said the bartender.
“Zazzo? Huh! Hell of a lot you know. He was in here with me. Wilshon got
killed in Gates Ajar, and thish is new buyer. Well, here’s m’ regards,
an’ may you all die from a fishbone in your windpipes.”
Graveyard swallowed his drink, took a tight grip on his pick and
staggered out to his horse. Ed Reed scowled thoughtfully, went outside
and saw Hashknife and Sleepy entering the hotel. He sauntered over, and
met them outside a little later.
“Are you the new buyer for Kinnear?” he asked Hashknife, who nodded.
“My name’s Reed—foreman of the Double Diamond outfit.”
“Yeah. Glad to meetcha, Reed. What’s on your mind?”
“You need a hundred and fifty head of beef?”
“Somethin’ like that.”
“All right, we can fix you out.”
“That’s fine—but I’ve kinda halfway made a deal.”
“With Graveyard Jones?”
“Well, it ain’t his beef, but—name’s Snow, I think.”
Reed laughed harshly.
“Never mind him. I doubt if Snow could sell you that many head right
now, and even if he could— Lemme tell you somethin’. The Double Diamond
has always furnished Kinnear with beef. In fact, we had an agreement
with Wilson to buy nothin’ but Double Diamond in the Valley.”
“And if he bought from anybody else?” suggested Hashknife.
“We’d find another market—and we’re the biggest cattle raisers in this
part of the State.”
“In other words, you hogged the show,” said Hashknife coldly.
“We delivered the goods.”
“What other buyers come in here, Reed?”
“None. It wasn’t worth their while.”
“Nice little game of freeze-out, eh?”
Reed shrugged his shoulders.
“Call it that, if you want to; but if you’re so dead set on buyin’ some
Bar S Bar stock, I’d advise you to wire Kinnear and tell ’em the
situation out here.”
“They probably don’t know it,” agreed Hashknife.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Al Kinnear is a mighty square shooter.”
“Square shooter or not, he wouldn’t cut off his own nose. Think it
over.”
Reed turned and walked back across the street. Hashknife grinned softly
and looked at Sleepy, who was looking at Reed’s broad back.
“Well, what do you think of that?” grunted Sleepy.
“I think I’ll look over some of them Bar S Bar beeves.”
* * * * *
Old Graveyard was not too drunk to remember what he was to do, and early
the following morning Blue Snow came in to see Hashknife. Smoky Woods
introduced them. Blue explained that he had no way of knowing much about
the Bar S Bar cattle, but he did want to make a sale.
“Things have been pretty rotten around here,” he said. “The Double
Diamond have hogged everything, kept buyers away from us, until the
Circle J and our outfit are just about broke.”
“I heard somethin’ about that,” smiled Hashknife. “How about Jones’
cattle? If you can’t furnish all the hundred and fifty, why can’t he run
in some of his?”
“He could,” said Blue eagerly. “He’s goin’ to help me round up mine, and
if you can wait a couple of days—”
“Shore—we’ll wait.”
Hashknife was willing to wait, because he wanted to know more about
things in San Miguel Valley. Smoky was a good source of information, and
in one day Hashknife had a fairly complete history of the valley. Smoky
showed Hashknife the two revolvers used at the holdup, still containing
the empty cartridges. Jim Snow’s gun, a .45, contained three empty
shells, while Chub’s was a .38 and contained two empty shells.
Blue Snow had told of hearing the five shots fired. Old Chub had been
hit once, and Jim Snow twice. Hashknife examined the guns closely, a
queer expression in his gray eyes.
“You never found that package of currency, eh?” he asked.
“Nope. Me and Singer hunted every place along the grades, too. Pshaw, I
reckon every puncher in the country has sneaked down there and looked.
Old Falconer kinda wants to arrest Blue Snow, but he’s scared he’ll
never get that money back if he does. If Blue hid it, he’ll never tell.
Queer kid, that Blue Snow. He wanted us to give him the old man’s gun. I
dunno—mebbe we ought to do it.”
“You keep that gun,” said Hashknife quickly. “Keep ’em both.”
“What for? The case is—”
“Lock ’em up in the safe, Smoky.”
“Huh?” Smoky eyed Hashknife quizzically. “In the safe? F’r gosh sake,
what good are they now?”
“You keep ’em where nobody can get at ’em.”
“Well, I’ll tell Singer what you said, but—what do you know, Hashknife?”
“This case ain’t closed, Smoky.”
Smoky told the sheriff what Hashknife had said, and the sheriff took the
two guns out and looked them over carefully.
“Funny idea,” he commented. “Ain’t a thing about them two guns. What’s
the tall feller got under his hat, anyway?”
“He says the case ain’t closed, and for us to keep them guns hid.”
“He’s a queer sort of a jigger—” thoughtfully. “Well, we’ll foller his
hunch; lock ’em in the safe. I just saw Falconer and Reed ride in, and
Falconer had blood in his eye. Mebbe he’s sore about Snow gettin’ a
chance to sell some stock.”
“I shore hope Snow sells ’em.”
Falconer did have blood in his eye, and he went straight to the little
law office of Henry Van Dorn, who handled the affairs of the Double
Diamond. Henry was five feet six inches tall, and weighed two hundred
and thirty pounds, stripped. He was about forty years of age, nearly
bald, very florid and always short of breath.
When Falconer came from the office he joined Reed at the store, and they
talked together for awhile. Hashknife and Smoky came across the street
from the Sunset Saloon, and Reed spoke to Hashknife.
“Hartley is your name, ain’t it? I want you to meet Mr. Falconer.”
Falconer merely nodded, not offering to shake hands, and came quickly to
the point.
“I understand you are thinking of buying some cattle from Snow.”
Hashknife nodded shortly, wondering what Falconer might have to say.
“Before I went too far with that deal, Hartley, I’d look at it from a
legal point of view. Those cattle belong to the estate of Jim Snow, and
until that estate is settled Blue Snow can’t touch a single head.”
“I forgot about that,” smiled Hashknife. “However, I think Graveyard
Jones will be able to fill my order with his brand.”
Falconer laughed heartily.
“Graveyard Jones! He hasn’t that many.”
“Kinda stuck, ain’t I?” grinned Hashknife. “Well, how about your brand?”
“Come out and talk it over at the ranch.”
“All right—tomorrow.”
“Suits me. Are you goin’ to buy for Kinnear all the time?”
“I dunno.”
“Well, you come out tomorrow and we’ll talk beef.”
Hashknife realized that Falconer had the best of the argument, and that
Blue Snow had no legal right to sell the Bar S Bar cattle. It would be a
bitter dose for Blue Snow, but he would have to swallow it.