old Skipper Franklyn, the cook and housekeeper of the Bar S Bar. Skipper
was seventy, skinny as a rail, with one single lock of hair on his
scalp. He was a little man, hawk-faced, with huge gnarled hands, a
pessimistic view of life and a wonderful flow of profanity.
“Knowed you the minute I clapped eyes on you,” he told Hashknife. “Blue
described you perfect. You’re the buyer, ain’tcha? Git down, both of
you. Blue is out, runnin’ down some dogies—him and that ancient mummy of
a Graveyard Jones. C’mon in and rest up.”
They followed him into the little ranch-house and sat down on an old
horsehair sofa, from which the hair was protruding in spots.
“We’ve had a lotta damn’ grief around here,” offered Skipper. “Suppose
you heard ’bout Jim Snow gittin’ killed. Yea-a-a-ah, Jim got leaded
plumb t’ heaven. Lotta folks think he went the other way, but I knowed
him better than they did.”
Skipper wiped away a rheumy tear and picked up his old cob pipe.
“You don’t think he robbed the stage?” asked Hashknife.
“Robbed hell! No! Jim Snow was headin’ for San Miguel. Not that he ain’t
justified, if he did stick it up. That there damn’ Falconer outfit have
jist about ruint everythin’ for anybody else around here. They broke
Jim, and they broke Graveyard Jones. We’re hangin’ by the skin of our
teeth. ’Course I’m sorry old Chub got killed. The Lord giveth and the
Lord taketh away. If you don’t believe it, look at m’ teeth. I started
out in life with a perfectly good set, now look at the damn’ things.
Only three in m’ head, and they never touch. For the last ten year I’ve
been jist punchin’ holes in m’ grub.”
“You look healthy,” grinned Hashknife.
“Healthy? Say, I can flop half the smart punchers in this country, even
if I was a old bull skinner when they was still wearin’ three-cornered
pants.”
“You’ve been around here a long time, eh?”
“Long? My Gawd! They built them San Miguel hills since I come here. This
wasn’t no valley in them days. Fact of the matter is, the lowest part of
this valley was a hill in them days. Yessir, I’ve been here a long
time.”
“You’ve seen a lot of changes,” sighed Sleepy.
“Changes? Well, I’ve seen all there is.”
“You knowed the cliff dwellers, eh?” said Sleepy innocently.
“Know ’em? Huh! I showed ’em where to build their mud shacks.”
Sleepy subsided, while Skipper filled his pipe.
“I’m sorry I didn’t find Snow here,” said Hashknife. “I just discovered
that it wouldn’t be legal for Blue Snow to sell me any Bar S Bar.”
“Mind repeatin’ that ag’in?”
* * * * *
Hashknife explained the legal difficulty, and Skipper exploded with
wrath. “That’s Falconer! Darn his sneakin’ skin!”
“I’m sorry, but he’s right. I shore wanted to buy Snow’s cattle.”
“And now you can’t do it. Gawd, that’ll be hard on the kid.”
“Did Jim Snow leave any will?”
“’Course not. He never knowed he was goin’ to git killed.”
They sat around for an hour or more, listening to Skipper’s opinion of
things in general, and Blue Snow rode in alone. His horse was played
out, and Blue was minus his smile, as he shook hands with Hashknife and
Sleepy.
“Graveyard went home,” he told Skipper.
Skipper nodded and indicated Hashknife.
“He brought some damn’ bad news.”
“Falconer dug up a legal snubbin’ rope on you,” said Hashknife. “Until
this estate is settled, you can’t even sell a horn off one of your
cows.”
Blue scowled for a moment, but nodded slowly.
“That’s right. Anybody ought to know that much. But it don’t matter,
Hartley. Me and Graveyard have shore covered a lot of territory, and we
dug out less than a hundred Bar S Bar. And none of ’em fat enough for
beef. There must be a lot more in the hills, but they’ve probably
drifted on to the north range.”
“And Graveyard ain’t got enough for a shipment?”
“Not as many as we have. I reckon we’re stuck; but I want to tell you
I’m shore obliged to you for offerin’ to take our beef. It was a lot
more than this man Wilson ever done, as far as I can learn.”
“Falconer owned him,” growled Skipper.
“Did Falconer ever try to buy you out?” asked Hashknife.
Skipper shook his head violently.
“Not him! He’d freeze us out first. Jim Snow has been hangin’ on by the
skin of his teeth. What can you do? Kinnear gits the cream of this
country. We could herd out to San Miguel and give the things away, I
suppose, or kill ’em here, feed ’em to the coyotes and sell the hides.
Either way, we’d lose our shirt on the deal.”
Hashknife understood the situation. It was not the first time that a big
outfit had declared a boycott on small stock raisers.
“Mind tellin’ me what you know about that holdup, Snow?” asked
Hashknife.
“There’s nothin’ to tell,” said Blue gloomily.
“You heard the shots fired, didn’t you?”
Blue nodded and explained how he happened to be on the grades, and his
reasons for not wanting to be seen.
“There was one shot fired,” he said. “Pretty quick after that there were
two shots fired fairly close together. I suppose it was more than a
minute before the other two sounded.”
“You found the driver on the seat, dead?”
“Yeah, sprawled on the seat.”
“After you got up on the stage, could you see the other body—the body of
your father?”
Blue shut his lips tightly for a moment.
“No, I didn’t see it until the horses shied a little. He—he was lying at
the mouth of that little gully, and his horse was tied to a bush just
beyond him. You couldn’t see him from where I first got on the stage.”
“Did you have a gun with you at the time?”
Blue reached in his pocket and handed Hashknife a pawn ticket on a San
Francisco loan office.
“I needed the money worse than I did a shootin’ iron,” he said.
“What the hell are you—a detective?” asked Skipper suddenly.
Hashknife grinned slowly.
“I’m buyin’ cows for Kinnear.”
“You shore ask a lot of questions,” growled Skipper.
They rode back to Sunset City and stabled their horses. Sleepy did not
ask Hashknife any questions, but he knew his tall partner was doing much
heavy thinking. They found Smoky Woods at the sheriff’s office and sat
down with him to discuss the cattle situation. Smoky was mad over the
deal, as he wanted, so he said, to have the trust broken.
A commotion had started over in front of the Ace-High Saloon, on the
east side of the street, and the three men went out quickly. Several men
were in front of the saloon, and among them were Ed Reed and Jeff
Blondell. Blondell was mopping his face with a handkerchief and Reed was
removing his coat.
“Oh, oh!” grunted Smoky. “Somethin’ has gone wrong.”
Blondell threw the handkerchief aside and stripped off his coat. Both
men had removed their belts and guns. More men were hurrying up the
street toward the saloon. There was no preliminary action. Reed, the
larger of the two, lunged straight at Blondell, swinging both fists. No
boxer was Reed—just a slugger. For a moment it seemed that he had
Blondell pinned against the wall of the saloon, but he got away,
snapping Reed’s head back with a short left to the jaw. Perhaps the blow
had more effect than it seemed, because Reed turned awkwardly, dropping
his guard, and Blondell lashed out with a straight right punch, which
seemed to catch Reed square on the point of the chin. Reed’s shoulders
thumped against the wall, and he slithered down to the sidewalk, knocked
cold.
Blondell put on his coat, picked up his handkerchief and came past the
sheriff’s office, heading toward the Sunset Saloon. His nose was
bleeding a little.
Gradually Reed regained consciousness, but even after he got back on his
feet he staggered weakly. One of the men put on his belt, while another
held his coat and, after a short conversation, Reed went to his horse
and rode back past the sheriff’s office, heading toward the Double
Diamond.
One of the men came over to the office, grinning widely. He did not know
what the fight was about. Reed and Blondell had been drinking together,
he said. Neither of them was drunk. Suddenly Reed smashed Blondell on
the nose, knocking him down. The men got them outside, where they
decided to fight it out with their hands.
“I reckon Blondell got revenge,” grinned Smoky.
“That was a sweet punch,” laughed the man.
“Have they been enemies long?” asked Hashknife.
“Hell, they’ve been good friends all th’ time. This shore was a quick
turn.”
Ed Reed went straight to the Double Diamond, feeling a bit sick. It was
the first time he had ever been knocked out, and the dose tasted bitter.
And to be knocked out by a smaller man! The Double Diamond ranch-house
was a rambling old building, nestled away in a grove of ancient live
oaks—a picturesque old place, with flagged walks and thick walls.
* * * * *
The bunkhouse, built within the patio, was of adobe, but the rest of the
buildings were of frame construction, weathered to a neutral tone. The
Double Diamond hired six cowboys, exclusive of Reed the foreman. An old
Chinese cook had been at the ranch since Falconer had acquired it. He
and Marie, an old Yaqui squaw, ran the house and kitchen. There was no
servant problem at the Double Diamond.
Reed stabled his horse, went to the well beside the stable and washed
his face. His jaw was swollen a little, but he had no marks, for which
he was thankful. Marks might require explanation.
Jerry was out in the patio, playing with a pair of black kittens, when
her father came out to her. He had been in a vile humor ever since she
had given Ed Reed back his ring. He watched her for awhile, his hands
shoved deep into his pockets, lower lip protruding thoughtfully. Then—
“When are you and Ed goin’ to get married?”
Jerry placed one of the kittens on a bench and turned to her father.
“Am I supposed to answer that question, Dad?”
“You bet.”
“Never.”
“Oh, don’t be foolish. Just because he didn’t like to see you—”
“Let’s not discuss Ed Reed.”
“Well, we’re goin’ to, just the same. Everybody knows by this time that
you turned him down, and he’s sick about it. He never did anythin’
wrong.”
Jerry stroked the kitten thoughtfully.
“The matter is settled as far as I am concerned, Dad.”
“Yea-a-ah? I suppose the return of Blue Snow settled your mind, eh?”
“Blue Snow had nothing to do with it.”
“And after you went and bought a lot of weddin’ clothes and—”
“I can make them over.”
“I’m not kickin’ about the money you spent.”
Jerry laughed shortly.
“Well, I’m glad that is settled.”
“It is not settled. You’re not givin’ Ed a square deal. Folks are
talkin’. They know you was—that you got stuck on Blue Snow years ago.
They know I kicked him off the ranch. Now, he’s back, and you bust up
with Ed. You know what they’re sayin’, don’tcha? They say you’re still
stuck on Blue Snow.”
“You can’t shoot folks for thinking,” said Jerry slowly.
“You ought to—for thinkin’ that way. Son of a murderin’ thief.”
Jerry shut her lips tightly and her hair seemed to flame up from the
roots.
“That is what Ed Reed called him,” she said. “You are parroting Ed Reed.
Why don’t Ed go and say that to Blue Snow? I’ll tell you this much—I’m
not in love with Blue Snow—but I detest Ed Reed.”
Jerry picked up the kitten and went into the house, her father looking
after her, a scowl on his brow. Slowly he turned his head and saw Reed
in the patio gate. Reed had heard what Jerry said. He came in and the
two men looked at each other.
“I reckon I talked too much,” said Reed glumly, “and as far as that
goes, you talked too much just now. Let her alone. You can’t drive
Jerry.”
“Damn it, you can’t even lead her,” growled Falconer. “What happened to
your jaw, Ed?”
Reed felt of his swollen jaw. No use lying about it.
“I smashed Blondell in the nose today. He mentioned the fact that I
wasn’t goin’ to get married. He wanted to fight it out, so we went out
on the sidewalk. I guess I slipped—” lamely. “Anyway, he—aw—it didn’t
amount to much. It’s a little sore.”
“Kinda swelled. Did you see anythin’ of the buyer?”
“They rode in just before the fight, and I think they went out to tell
Snow that the deal was off.”
“Did they see the fight?”
“I dunno.”
Reed sighed deeply and felt of his chin.
“This deal has got me all unhooked,” he said miserably. “I know what
they are sayin’. I don’t want to start any trouble around here, and
today I got to thinkin’ I’d go away for awhile—until it’s forgotten.”
Falconer nodded grimly.
“I know how you feel, Ed. It might be a good thing.”
“I think it is the only thing I can do to keep out of trouble. If you
don’t mind givin’ me a layoff, I’ll pull out tomorrow mornin’. Mebbe
I’ll be back in a couple weeks—mebbe a month. It all depends.”
“Sure, that’s all right. Where’ll you go?”
“I dunno. Mebbe I’ll pull west, cross the Divide and—”
“Why not go down to Phoenix or over on the Coast to some big town?”
“No, I don’t want big towns. I dunno where I’ll go. But I’ll let you
know where I stop.”
“All right, Ed; I’ll give you a check tonight.”
“Thanks.”
Falconer watched the hunched shoulders of his foreman go out through the
patio. He felt genuinely sorry for Reed. A vacation would do him good.
Falconer decided that he would personally help select the hundred and
fifty head of beef for Kinnear & Company. He felt better, until he
thought of Blue Snow.
“If she wants to love him, she better love him at a distance,” he told
himself. “I kicked him off this ranch once, and I’ll do it again if he
ever sticks his nose inside the place.”
* * * * *
Jeff Blondell had nothing to say about the fight. His nose, already
misshapen, showed little signs of having been hit by Ed Reed. That
evening Hashknife had a chance to see the six cowboys from the Double
Diamond. Smoky pointed them out—Harry Bond, Dick Lasher, Molly Malone,
Terry McQueen, Bun Parker and Matt Sullivan.
McQueen was a wild-eyed sort of puncher, and Hashknife felt that he had
seen McQueen before. Malone was small, scrawny, hatchet-faced, with mean
eyes and bad teeth. The rest of the crew were ordinary looking fellows,
out for a few drinks and a whirl at the games. Smoky introduced McQueen
and Malone to Hashknife, but they did not linger long with him. Malone
asked Smoky about the fight between Reed and Blondell. He said he had
only heard Reed’s version and wanted the straight dope on it.
“Where’s Reed tonight?” asked Smoky.
“Too sore to come in,” grinned Malone. “I think he’s goin’ away tomorrow
for a trip.”
“Business?”
“Naw,” grinned Malone. “You know his girl throwed him down, didn’t you?
Well, he’s kinda sour on the world, sore at everybody in it, and he’s
goin’ to go away for awhile.”
“I heard she ditched him,” said Smoky. “Wonder what was the trouble.”
“Another man, I reckon—owner of the Bar S Bar.”
“Whatcha know about that?” grunted Smoky, as Malone walked away.
“He seems like a good kid,” replied Hashknife.
“Yeah, he’s all right; but Falconer never would let Jerry marry him.”
“How old is this lady?”
“Well, I s’pose about twenty.”
“And she’s got red hair.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Want to make a little bet with me, Smoky?”
Smoky shook his head.
“I never thought about her age, and I done forgot about that red hair.
I’ll jist keep my money, pardner.”
“I thought you was goin’ to try and find out who shot Wilson,” said
Sleepy that night as they were going to bed. “You ain’t done a thing.”
“I’m not worryin’ myself about the man who killed Wilson,” said
Hashknife. “Do you remember on jist what part of that horse’s anatomy we
saw the Cross 84 brand?”
“You mean over at Gates Ajar? Right shoulder.”
“Good! I thought it was, but I wasn’t sure.”
Hashknife still had Wilson’s telegram, which was to notify Kinnear &
Company that he was shipping one hundred Cross 84. Where was he going to
ship those cattle, wondered Hashknife? The telegram stated that he would
try and ship again next week from San Miguel. The mysterious man who had
ridden in late at Gates Ajar was riding a Cross 84 horse, and Hashknife
wondered if this was merely a coincidence.
“What’s the Cross 84 got to do with this deal?” asked Sleepy.
“Because,” replied Hashknife, “there ain’t a Cross 84 in this State. I
looked at the brand register at the sheriff’s office. Wilson was going
to ship Cross 84 beef, according to this telegram, and next week he
expected to ship from San Miguel. We were goin’ to meet him in Gates
Ajar and help nurse a train of cows to Kansas City. Either Wilson was
crooked, or he had a touch of sun, ’cause nobody knows of that Cross 84
outfit.”
They went out to the Double Diamond the next morning and had a talk with
Falconer. The big cattleman was inclined to be domineering, possibly
because he thought he had an advantage, and wanted more than the market
price. Hashknife knew prices and he knew cattle, which Falconer soon
found out.
“Kinnear asked me to buy this beef,” said Hashknife. “There wasn’t any
prices mentioned, but they wouldn’t expect me to offer you a bonus. As
far as I’m personally concerned, it don’t make any difference whether I
buy your cows or not, Falconer.”
“I don’t have to sell to Kinnear,” retorted Falconer warmly.
“That leaves us deadlocked. I’ll wire Kinnear in a few days and tell him
what happened. If he wants to pay you more than he does anybody else—”
“Well, I wouldn’t quarrel over a few dollars, Hartley. I’ve always sold
to Kinnear; so I reckon we can get together. How soon do you want ’em?”
They settled the details of delivery at San Miguel, and went back to
Sunset City, where Hashknife wrote a wire to Kinnear and gave it to the
clerk at the stage station to send from San Miguel. Later in the day
some of the Double Diamond cowboys were in town, and one of them told
Smoky that Ed Reed had started on a vacation.
Blue Snow and old Graveyard came in that afternoon. Both men looked
tired, as they dismounted at the sheriff’s office. Singer Sanderson was
at the office, and Blue sat down with him. Blue had his father’s papers,
showing the roundup reports for two years, which he spread out on the
sheriff’s desk. The fall count showed five hundred and eighty-seven head
of Bar S Bar cattle, sixty head of horses. The spring count only showed
three hundred and ten head of cattle and forty horses.
“What’s the answer?” queried the sheriff.
“Shrinkage,” said Blue bitterly. “Right now I’ll bet there ain’t over a
hundred head of Bar S Bar cows in these hills, and—well, I won’t swear
to the horses, but there ain’t no forty head left.”
“Looks kinda funny,” nodded the sheriff.
“Dad knew it, Sanderson. He wrote me that he was gettin’ a bad deal.”
“Who from?”
Blue shrugged his shoulders and looked up at Hashknife, who was in the
doorway.
“Do you think your cows have been stolen?” asked the sheriff.
“They’re gone. Cattle usually stay around their own range, unless
somebody takes ’em away. Hello, Hartley—” nodding to Hashknife.
“Well, what’s to be done about it?” queried the sheriff.
“I dunno. I thought I’d let you know what it looks like. I’ve got to see
a lawyer about the ranch. You knew the Double Diamond stopped me from
sellin’ beef to Hartley, didn’t you?”
“I heard they did. What lawyer are you goin’ to get?”
“Van Dorn, I reckon.”
“He’s attorney for Falconer.”
“Yeah, I know he is; but he’s a square shooter.”
“That’s true.”
“Well, he better shoot square with me,” said Blue coldly, as he picked
up his papers. “I didn’t know how things were goin’ down here with Dad,
or I’d have been here sooner. The Bar S Bar is goin’ to belong to me
now, and I’ll stop losin’ stock, if I have to feed a few rustlers to the
buzzards.”
* * * * *
Blue left the office and went to find Van Dorn. The sheriff was going to
San Miguel on a matter of business, and Hashknife wrote out a telegram
to Al Kinnear and gave it to the sheriff to send.
HAVE YOU BOUGHT MANY CROSS EIGHTY-FOUR BRAND AND WHERE WERE THEY
SHIPPED FROM STOP ANSWER AT ONCE AS IT IS IMPORTANT.
—HARTLEY
The sheriff brought the reply back with him the following morning, and
it read:
PLACE NAMED GATES AJAR STOP HAVE BOUGHT TWO HUNDRED SEVENTY-FIVE
HEAD.
It was signed by Al Kinnear. Hashknife smiled grimly and pocketed the
telegram. This was evidence that the Cross 84, whatever it consisted of,
was near enough Gates Ajar to use that station as a shipping point.
“This is how it looks to me,” he told Sleepy. “Wilson was as crooked as
the rest of the bunch. He bought stolen cattle cheap, probably payin’
cash, instead of a check, and kept the difference. The man who rode that
Cross 84 bronc was the man who was to make the sale—but he was late.
Wilson got into a poker game with a couple punchers, prob’ly two of the
gang, while he was waitin’ for the main jasper to show up; and they
framed to kill him for the cash in his pocket.”
“And the bartender was in on the deal, eh?”
“To the extent of trade, prob’ly—mebbe hush money. He knew who done the
killin’, but he wouldn’t tell. He couldn’t afford to tell.”
“Don’tcha think Wilson was one awful fool to want to hire me and you?”
“Mebbe Wilson wasn’t such a fool, at that. Lookin’ at it from a
cold-blooded angle, mebbe me and you wasn’t supposed to ever leave Gates
Ajar.”
“Oh!” grunted Sleepy softly. “I never thought of that.”
“We’ve stopped quite a lot of rustlin’, Sleepy.”
Blue Snow came in that afternoon; he was at the lawyer’s office when
Jerry Falconer came in, driving a spanking gray team and a newly painted
buckboard. Hashknife saw Blue Snow come from the office of Van Dorn and
meet Jerry in front of the stage station, where they stood and talked
for possibly fifteen minutes.
A little later Hashknife met Jerry in a store.
“Dad said if I saw you to invite you and your friend out to supper,” she
said. “You see,” she added with a twinkle in her eye, “Dad wasn’t so
sure about your credentials; so he sent a wire to Kinnear the other
day.”
“Yeah?” curiously.
“I guess he is satisfied now. Anyway, he wants to talk with you.”
“All right, Miss Falconer,” grinned Hashknife. “We’ll be out.”
“Come out tonight. Dad likes to talk.”
“Well, we can do that—and thanks.”
“Supper about six o’clock, but come before that, won’t you?”
“Sure. We’re always ahead of the supper bell, ma’am.”
He and Sleepy rode out about five o’clock, and Falconer welcomed them
warmly. He did not evade mentioning the wire to Kinnear, but showed them
the reply.
HASHKNIFE HARTLEY BUYER FOR US STOP IF YOU’VE GOT ANY
HORSETHIEVES RUSTLERS OR GUNMEN IN YOUR COUNTRY THEY WILL
STAMPEDE STOP BEST REGARDS TO HIM AND SLEEPY STOP YOU CAN BANK
ON HIS INTEGRITY
—AL KINNEAR
Hashknife grinned widely.
“That sounds like Al. We worked together, before he got into the meat
business.”
“That telegram interested me,” said Falconer, as they sat down in the
big living room of the ranch-house.
“In what way?” queried Hashknife.
“About the horsethieves and rustlers. The sheriff was out here today,
and we had quite a talk. Now, I don’t want you to misunderstand me,
Hartley. There has always been bad blood between me and Jim Snow. He’s
dead now, and his son will probably take his place. I’ve no use for the
boy. Jim Snow accused me of stealin’ his horses. That wasn’t true. It
hit me hard, bein’ called a thief; so I blocked him from sellin’ his
beef. I wanted to break him, and I think I just about put him on the
rocks. You’ve heard about it, I reckon.”
“Yeah, I heard quite a lot about it.”
“All right. Blue Snow has been makin’ a rough count, since you tried to
buy his cattle. He showed the sheriff a roundup tally for last fall and
this spring. And—” Falconer shut his jaw tightly for a moment—“that
count shows a big shortage. It revives that old gossip, I tell you! Blue
Snow might just as well accuse me of stealin’ his damn’ cows!”
Hashknife eyed him closely.
“What has this to do with me, Falconer?”
“Would a man in my position steal cows?”
“Well,” Hashknife half closed his eyes thoughtfully, “you might as well
steal ’em as to keep him from realizin’ on ’em. Accordin’ to my views, a
boycott is the same as a steal.”
“You’re pretty damn’ frank with your views, Hartley.”
“You asked my opinion.”
“But I never stole his cows.”
“I never said you did. What have you got against Blue Snow?”
“Against him!” exploded Falconer. “He’s like the old man. I—I had a lot
of trouble with him,” he finished weakly.
Hashknife grinned widely.
“He thinks a lot of your daughter.”
“Yeah? What do you know about that part of it?”
“What I’ve heard.”
Falconer leaned back in his chair.
“Well, I dunno,” wearily. “Jerry was to have married Ed Reed, my
foreman, this week. Everythin’ was fixed. Why, Jerry even went to
Phoenix and bought her weddin’ clothes. She was on her way back—on that
stage, when it was held up. Now she won’t marry Ed. It busted him all
up, and he’s gone away for awhile. Couldn’t stand it. You see, everybody
knew about it, and he thought they was laughin’ at him. He’s a serious
sort of a feller.”
“Do you think Blue Snow had anythin’ to do with that?”