today, warnin’ him to keep away from here.”
“Do you think that was the right thing to do, Falconer?”
“That was _my_ business.”
“Oh, shore. But put yourself in his place; what would you do?”
Falconer scowled at Hashknife for several moments.
“If you thought a lot of the girl, and you knew she thought a lot of
you—” suggested Hashknife.
“We won’t discuss that part of it.”
“It’s worth discussin’. If I was you, I’d ask Snow to come up here and
have a talk about it. Let your daughter in on the discussion.”
“Not a damn’ bit of it! His father murdered a man, robbed the stage.
Why, that currency belonged to me, I tell you! Either Blue or his old
man got that money. And you ask me to let—— You’re crazy, Hartley.”
“Suppose his father hadn’t killed that stage driver, hadn’t stolen that
money—”
“No supposin’ about it—he did.”
“Outside of that, the boy is all right, eh? You merely disliked him
because he loved your daughter.”
“Well?”
“That closes the incident. Let’s talk about somethin’ else.”
“I’m willin’. Every time I talk about it, I get sore.”
The conversation switched to shop talk of the cow country. The cowboys
finished their supper, and went out. Hashknife heard Malone tell
Falconer that he and Terry McQueen were going to town, and wanted to
know if he wanted them to get anything at the store.
* * * * *
The old Chinese was a good cook, and the visiting cowboys thoroughly
enjoyed the supper. Jerry seemed in good spirits, laughing and talking
with Hashknife. Falconer eyed her closely. For the last few days she had
been rather quiet, and this was a decided change.
After supper she went with them to the living room and played a few
pieces on the organ. Falconer wanted to talk; wanted to tell how he had
made a success of his business, and Jerry left the three men together to
smoke and talk. Hashknife was sitting near a window opening on the
patio, and he saw Jerry pass the window.
From the bunkhouse came the tinkling of a mandolin, the deeper strumming
of a guitar. Falconer talked on and on, occasionally stopping to fill
his pipe. Neither Hashknife nor Sleepy were interested, but were obliged
to listen patiently.
It was nearly nine o’clock when Falconer finished.
“I reckon we’ll be driftin’ back,” said Hashknife, getting to his feet.
Falconer protested, got their promise to come back again, and called to
Jerry.
“She’d want to tell you good night,” he said, as they walked out to the
patio.
Jerry stepped up on the porch as they came out.
“I thought you was up in your room,” said her father.
“It was too warm, Dad.”
“It is warm tonight. Hartley, I’ll call one of the boys to bring your
horses.”
“Never mind that, Mr. Falconer,” replied Hashknife.
He turned to thank Jerry for their evening at the ranch, when something
seared across his cheek, thudded into the wall behind them, and from
somewhere close at hand came the report of a gun. None of them saw it
flash.
Hashknife flung Jerry away from the light of the doorway, sprang out at
right angles from the steps, drawing his gun. The shot had come from
somewhere in the patio. The cowboys were running from the bunkhouse,
questioning.
Hashknife was hunched low, heading for the angle of the patio, where a
big oak tree threw a heavy shadow. A man was trying to get over the
wall. Hashknife heard the scrape of his clothes, the thump of a boot.
“Stop where you are,” ordered Hashknife, and the noise ceased.
“Got him?” asked a cowboy hoarsely.
“Got somebody,” replied Hashknife, as the man stepped away from the
shadow, his hands half raised.
It was Blue Snow. They led him over to the house and took him inside.
Jerry’s face was white, her eyes wide with fright. Falconer’s eyes
narrowed and his voice was vibrant with anger, as he faced the young
cowboy.
“Murderin’ folks must kinda run in your family, Snow,” he said.
“I never fired that shot,” replied Blue evenly.
“Where’s your gun?” asked Hashknife.
“Didn’t bring one.”
“Probably threw it away,” said a cowboy. “We’ll take a lantern and see
if we can find it.”
They ran to get the lantern. Hashknife’s right cheek was bleeding a
little and he mopped away the blood with a handkerchief.
“I guess we’ll take you to town, Snow,” said Falconer. “I suppose that
bullet was meant for me.”
“I never fired that shot,” repeated Blue. “I never had a gun with me.”
“Right now is the time to settle this proposition,” said Hashknife. He
turned to Jerry. “This is like gettin’ a tooth pulled; it’ll hurt for a
minute. Today you met Blue Snow in town and you asked him to come out to
see you tonight. Mebbe he asked to come. Anyway, that doesn’t matter.
You knew your father would be busy talkin’ to us; so that fixed the deal
up fine. Blue crawled over the patio wall near that tree, and you met
him out there in the dark. That’s your business—not mine, but I want to
get it all straight. How about it, Snow?”
Blue looked at Jerry, his lips shut tightly.
“That is all true,” said Jerry softly.
“Damn’ fine business!” snorted Falconer.
“Now,” continued Hashknife, speaking to Blue, “after Jerry left you—she
could see me through that window, and she knew her father would be busy
until I got up—what happened?”
“I watched her go to the house and meet you. Then I started to climb
over the wall, and that shot was fired from just outside the gate. It
wasn’t over thirty feet from me. I saw a little of the flash. Well, it
kinda stunned me. I didn’t know what was wrong. But I decided that my
best bet was to get out of there; so I—well, you stopped me, Hartley.”
“That’s a pretty good story to make up in a short time,” said Falconer.
“And I’ll bet big odds that it’s true,” said Hashknife.
“Why would I shoot at Hartley?” asked Blue.
“Maybe you didn’t,” said Falconer.
“Why would I shoot at you?”
“I warned you to keep away from here, Snow.”
“Yeah, I got your note. I suppose it was from you. You see, you forgot
to sign it—or was you afraid to sign it?”
“I reckon you knew who it was from.” Falconer turned to Jerry. “You’ve
made a nice mess of things, haven’t you?”
“You can drop that,” said Blue coldly. “I insisted on comin’.”
“She didn’t have to let you.”
The cowboys came back in, carrying a lantern.
“We can’t find any gun,” said Matt Sullivan. “There’s none in the patio,
and he couldn’t throw it very far over the wall.”
“That part of it’s all settled,” said Hashknife. “Snow never had any gun
and he never fired the shot.”
“If he didn’t, who did?” demanded Falconer. “You’re too danged quick to
exonerate him, Hartley.”
“Well, I was the only one who got marked.” Hashknife laughed.
Terry McQueen and Molly Malone came back from town, and the cowboys met
them outside the house, telling them what had happened. McQueen gave
Falconer the mail.
“You boys didn’t meet anybody between here and town, didja?” asked
Hashknife.
“Not a soul,” replied McQueen. “We rode slow all the way back, but we
never seen nor heard anybody.”
“Where’s your horse, Snow?” asked Hashknife, and Blue grinned.
“I’ve got him staked out in the brush.”
“You may as well ride back with us.”
Falconer swore under his breath, but did not protest. He turned away,
when Blue shook hands with Jerry.
“Thank you, Mr. Hartley,” she said, as she shook hands with him. “You
saved the day.”
“The day ain’t all saved—yet; but we’ve made a start.”
* * * * *
Blue had little to say as they rode back toward town, but when they
parted he shook hands with both of them.
“I was a fool to go out there,” he said. “But I shore was lucky to have
you there to square the deal for me, and I appreciate what you did. If
you can ever use me for anythin’, yell my name. I’ll have a gun with me
next time.”
“I may need you, Snow. _Hasta luego_.”
“_Buenas noches, caballeros._”
“Who do you reckon fired that shot?” asked Sleepy, as they went on.
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“He’s a good shot.”
“How do you figure that out?”
“Takin’ a chance on pickin’ you out of that group at that distance, and
in a bad light.”
“It shore was too close for comfort. Well, they’ve showed their hand,
whoever they are, Sleepy. Too danged much publicity. We’ll either have
to change our names or get out where nobody ever heard of us. Scared,
cowboy?”
“Tremblin’ all over.”
They went to the Sunset Saloon, and Hashknife tried to find out what
time Malone and McQueen left town, but no one seemed to have paid any
attention to the hour they left. The sheriff listened to what happened
at the Double Diamond, but did not seem to have any theory to offer,
except that Falconer had lots of enemies, and that the shot might have
been intended for him.
Blondell heard Sleepy telling Smoky about the shooting, and came over to
Hashknife, questioning him about it. Hashknife told him what he knew of
the affair. Blondell had no comments to make, and Hashknife wondered
what Blondell’s interest might be. He did not trust Blondell, but he
found that Blondell had been around the saloon all evening, which was
enough alibi to clear him of any hand in the matter.
Blondell was somewhat of a mystery to every one, but Sunset City had
become used to him. To Hashknife he was a sinister figure, getting a
living from somewhere—but where? What kept him in Sunset City? According
to all Hashknife could learn about him, he seldom left town. It seemed
that Blondell drank plenty of liquor, but kept a silent tongue in his
head.
“If Blondell ain’t wanted some place, I’m a Chinaman’s uncle,” Hashknife
decided. “And, if I’m wise, I’ll keep an eye on Mr. Blondell.”
Hashknife found that Blondell was in Sunset City at the time of the
stage robbery; so that excused him. In fact, as far as Hashknife could
discover, Blondell’s only fault lay in the fact that he came there
broke, got money in some mysterious way, and continued to get it. He
minded his own business. His fight with Ed Reed was the first time he
had been in any trouble in Sunset City. He never mentioned what it was
about, but the general opinion was that Blondell had joked Reed over
losing his girl.
Hashknife and Sleepy rode out to the Bar S Bar ranch the next morning,
and found Graveyard Jones there with Blue and Skipper.
“Well, they haven’t killed you off yet,” smiled Blue.
“Give ’em time,” grinned Hashknife.
There were a couple of Bar S Bar horses in the corral, and Hashknife
took a look at the brand. The brand itself consisted of a short bar, a
large S and another short bar. Hashknife called Blue over to him and
they stopped beside a light sorrel, on which the brand showed plainly.
“What didja want?” asked Blue curiously.
“Watch this.”
Hashknife drew his forefinger through the first bar, continued the S to
an 8, and drew two lines on the last bar. Blue scowled thoughtfully.
“Do that again, will you, Hartley?”
Hashknife did it over again.
“Makes it a Cross 84, don’t it?” queried Blue. “Why—”
“Somebody,” said Hashknife softly, “has been sellin’ Cross 84 beef to
Kinnear, and shippin’ ’em from Gates Ajar.”
“Yea-a-h?” Blue hooked his thumbs over his belt, as he studied the lean
face of Hashknife. “Are you sure of that?”
Hashknife showed him the wire from Kinnear.
“That was an answer to my wire, askin’ him about buyin’ Cross 84.”
“So that’s where the Bar S Bar has been robbed, eh? They took ’em over
the range, altered the brands and shipped ’em as Cross 84. Well, I’m
goin’ to Gates Ajar, Hartley.”
“Wait a little while, pardner. I—I don’t think the time is ripe. There’s
a lot of Cross 84 beef over there right now, but they can’t ship ’em.
It’ll take quite a while to dig up another buyer. Let things drift for
awhile, and we’ll go with you.”
“Does the sheriff know about this?”
“Nope.”
Old Graveyard was all excited. He wanted to go right over to Gates Ajar
and hang somebody. Skipper insisted that he would go along and tie the
knot.
“We’ll go when Hartley gives the word,” stated Blue. “I’m backin’ his
play from now on. Has this deal got anythin’ to do with somebody takin’
a shot at you last night, Hartley?”
“I’m afraid it does.”
“Do you think somebody in San Miguel Valley rustled our cattle?”
“Somebody in San Miguel Valley took a shot at me. I don’t reckon any of
them Gates Ajar rustlers would ride plumb here to shoot me. How easy is
it to get across that range?”
“Easy as shootin’ fish,” replied Graveyard. “All open country to
Antelope Pass, and a good trail through to the other side. Why, you
could almost drive a wagon over there, without no road. The railroad
aimed to come through and take in this valley, but they finally went
straight north and swung around to San Miguel.”
* * * * *
Blue decided to go back to town with them, and they went to talk with
the sheriff. Hashknife took a pencil and outlined the Bar S Bar, showing
the sheriff how simple it would be to alter it to a Cross 84.
“But we’ve got to keep this quiet,” said Hashknife. “If there’s any
slip, we’ll never get ’em for the job. They could dig out, leave the
cattle and we’d be holdin’ the sack.”
“That’s true,” replied the sheriff. “But what’s our best move?”
“Do you know the sheriff of the county over there?”
“I do. His name is Dick Redman, and I’m not surprised that they were
able to ship stolen cattle in his county.”
Hashknife laughed softly.
“I wondered what kind of a person he was. You see, he should have served
me and Sleepy with a subpena to appear at the inquest over the body of
Wilson. Mebbe he passed it up cold.”
“Knowin’ who killed him,” nodded Sanderson, “he prob’ly would.”
Old Graveyard came in later and he went to supper with Hashknife, Sleepy
and Blue. The old man was wearing his gun. Blondell came in to supper,
nodded to them and sat down at the back of the room. Hashknife noticed
that Blondell watched the front windows fairly close, and wondered if he
was looking for somebody.
Before they finished eating Terry McQueen, Molly Malone and Matt
Sullivan came in to eat. From their conversation it developed that that
was payday at the Double Diamond, and they were out to celebrate. As
Hashknife and his party went outside, they met Harry Bond, Dick Lasher
and Bun Parker, the other three punchers from the Double Diamond.
“Ain’t nobody killed you yet, I see,” remarked Harry Bond laughingly.
“Not yet,” replied Hashknife. “How’s everythin’, boys?”
“Finer’n frawg hair,” said Bun Parker. “Falconer’s comin’ in tonight.”
“He allus comes in to pack us home,” laughed Lasher, as they entered the
restaurant.
Smoky had eaten earlier in the evening and he met them at the Sunset
Saloon. Sleepy and Blue started a pool game, and the others sat down to
watch the play.
Blondell came back from the restaurant, watched the play for awhile, and
sat down against the wall. At times he eyed Hashknife speculatively, his
sombrero low over his sullen eyes; again he would watch the front of the
building.
“Nervous,” decided Hashknife.
The boys came back from the restaurant, and soon a sizable poker game
was in progress, but Blondell made no move to get into it. A little
later Falconer came in. He seldom drank, but tonight he asked Hashknife
to join him at the bar. He nodded coldly to Blue Snow.
“You asked somebody about the Cross 84 brand, didn’t you, Hartley?” he
asked.
Hashknife nodded, wondering what this would lead to.
“Today I ran across a horse with that brand, out near my place.”
“Well?” queried Hashknife.
“It was the first time I ever saw that brand, and I knew you inquired
about it.”
“Oh, yeah. When Wilson was shot he had a telegram written out. It hadn’t
been sent, I reckon. He mentioned the Cross 84, and I was curious to
know where that brand was located. It didn’t matter.”
Falconer laughed.
“I thought I was bringin’ you some news. The boys made another search
this mornin’, but they couldn’t find any gun. It begins to look as
though Blue Snow had nothin’ to do with that shot in the dark.”
“I knew he didn’t.”
Falconer sighed deeply over his drink and shook his head.
“I don’t _sabe_ women,” he confessed. “I had a run-in with Jerry after
you left.”
“She’s got plenty red hair,” said Hashknife.
“Her mother had it, too. I wish Jerry would marry Ed Reed. He’s been
like a son to me. I could trust him with everything.”
“She will marry Blue Snow,” said Hashknife.
“Over my dead body!”
“Yeah? Well, it ain’t no killin’ matter.”
“I can’t see what there is about that damn’ kid. Reed was worth a
million like him.”
“That might all be true—and when you married Jerry’s mother, there was
probably a lot of men worth a million of you.”
Falconer shoved his empty glass across the bar, and studied himself in
the mirror of the back bar for several moments.
“I never looked at it that way, Hartley. Mebbe there was. But damn it,
all I want is for Jerry to get a good man, and I don’t like Snow’s
reputation. He’s a drifter. His father murdered a man I liked and stole
a lot of money.”
“That’s a queer way to look at it, Falconer. There’s nothin’ in
heredity—not that kind. If your father had been a horsethief, would you
give yourself up to the sheriff? You let the girl pick her man. She’s
got to live with him.”
“He’s got nothin’.”
“What did you have before you got married?”
“Things are different now,” _evasively_.
“I’ll bet you couldn’t pay the preacher.”
Falconer’s eyes widened a little, as he stared at Hashknife.
“Who told you that?”
“A good guess, wasn’t it?”
Falconer laughed shortly.
“I was afraid for a minute that you was a mind-reader. I was thinkin’
the same thing.”
They both smiled, and Hashknife ordered the drinks.
“I like you, Hartley,” said Falconer slowly. “I don’t believe we’d hitch
very long, because you speak right out; but—mebbe I need it. I want you
to come out tomorrow and look at the beef I’ve got for you.”
“All right.”
“It’ll take all one long day to drive to San Miguel.”
“Kinnear didn’t say anythin’ about bein’ in a hurry; it’s all right.”
* * * * *
Blondell got up from his chair, stopped and looked at the poker game for
a few moments, and sauntered past them, going to the door. Hashknife was
standing with his back to the bar, leaning back on his elbows. He saw
Blondell stop in the doorway, looking at the lights across the street.
Then he stepped down the few inches to the sidewalk—stopped short.
From the right-hand side of the doorway came the report of a revolver
shot. Blondell did not move for several moments. He seemed to hunch his
shoulders a little, took one slow backward step, then fell half into the
saloon.
Hashknife was the first man to reach the doorway. He stepped over
Blondell and ran to the corner. The alley was dark. Men were picking
Blondell up, carrying him back into the saloon. Men were running from
the restaurant, from the stores. A cowboy went running from the saloon,
heading for the doctor.
They stretched Blondell out on the floor. Hashknife quickly cut away his
coat and shirt. The bullet had struck him on the right side just below
the armpit, and apparently had ranged straight through.
“Bad?” queried Falconer nervously.
“I think he was killed instantly,” replied Hashknife. “Probably went on
through his heart. The doctor can easily tell.”
The old doctor’s examination was brief. He shook his head, closed his
case and dusted off the knees of his trousers.
“The man is dead,” he said crisply. “He never knew what hit him.”
Hashknife sighed and looked down at the battered features of their
mystery man, wondering if he would ever know what the mystery was.
Someone got a blanket, and four of the cowboys carried the body into a
back room, where they placed it on a table.
The cowboys took a drink and stood around thoughtfully. It had ruined
their payday. The sheriff and Smoky came just before the body was taken
out.
“What can I do?” Smoky asked helplessly. “No use runnin’ around in the
dark.”
“Not a bit,” replied Falconer. “You wouldn’t know which way to go.”
“Damn’ queer thing,” muttered Terry McQueen. “Who would kill Blondell?”
“Shoot a man in the back,” growled Malone. “Gawd, he never had a
chance!”
“Don’t anybody know anythin’ about Blondell?” asked Hashknife. “He must
have some relations somewhere—somebody who would like to know.”
“He never told anybody,” said the bartender. “I’ve known him ever since
he came here, but he never talked. Drunk or sober, he kept still. Allus
wore a gun. Never smiled much.”
“Did he ever go away for any length of time?”
“Kept a horse in the livery stable, but he didn’t ride much.”
“What brand was on that horse?”
McQueen and Malone looked quickly at Hashknife.
“I dunno the brand,” said the bartender.
“It was a Double Diamond,” said McQueen. “Reed sold it to him.”
“I remember that,” said Falconer. “It belonged to Reed. He told me he
had sold it to Blondell. He also sold Blondell a saddle.”
McQueen nodded, and the boys returned to the poker table, trying to
force their interest back to cards.
Falconer went across the street to the biggest store, and Hashknife
wandered up the street a way, where he sat down on the edge of the
sidewalk. He wanted to think, to try to puzzle out why anyone would try
to kill him, and why someone had killed Blondell. Who was Blondell and
what had he done, he wondered? Did Blondell know someone was looking for
him? He had acted nervous.
Why did Malone and McQueen look at him so quickly when he asked what
brand Blondell’s horse wore? All the Double Diamond cowboys were in the
saloon; so none of them could have fired the shot. It would be difficult
to connect Blondell with rustling operations over around Gates Ajar.
Every one agreed that Blondell had had no trouble with anybody, with the
exception of his fight with Reed. Reed was gone from the Valley. Anyway,
their fight was nearly even. Both men had been knocked down. In fact,
Reed probably hurt Blondell worse. It was not a matter to commit murder
over; so Hashknife discarded any thought of that incident.
As he sat there in the dark he saw two men go diagonally across the
unlighted street above him. They reached the sidewalk and went on to the
front of Van Dorn’s little law office. Hashknife heard them unlock the
door and go in, closing the door behind them. The shade was nearly down,
but he saw the sudden glow of light, as they lighted a lamp.
There had been nothing furtive about their movements; merely a couple of
men going into a law office. But something urged Hashknife to go and see
what it was all about.
“That’s a funny hunch,” he told himself, as he got to his feet. “I must
be gettin’ jumpy.”
He pulled his hat tighter—there was a little wind—and went slowly down
the sidewalk. For several moments he stood listening, but could hear no
sound from within the office. As he stepped in closer, the lamp was
extinguished, and a moment later a man came out so suddenly that he was
almost against Hashknife before the cowboy could move.
There was a startled curse, and a revolver was fired so close to
Hashknife’s face that the powder burned him. Instinctively he ducked low
and flung himself forward, clawing at the man with both hands. He
collided with him and they crashed back against the building; but before
Hashknife could get his balance, the man swung at his head with the gun;
overswung a little, and his hand and gun butt came down squarely on
Hashknife’s head.
The blow was sufficient to knock the puncher to his knees, and in a daze
he heard the man running. Someone was yelling over near the saloon,
probably unable to tell where the shot had been fired. Hashknife sat
there long enough to get back his scattered senses, swore at himself for
getting knocked down, and finally got back to his feet. He balanced
himself against the door frame and lighted a match, before opening the
door.
On the sidewalk were several papers and a letter in a legal size
envelope, and Hashknife picked them up. Stepping into the office, he
lighted the lamp.
Someone had seen him light the match, and several men came running over
from the saloon. Hashknife unconsciously shoved the papers into his
pocket and looked down at Van Dorn, the fat attorney, who had been
struck over the head, and was just beginning to recover. The men crowded
in. Van Dorn’s small safe in the corner of the room was wide open, and
several papers were scattered about the floor.
* * * * *
The sheriff came striding in, and Hashknife turned to grin at him.
“What’s goin’ on here?” demanded the sheriff. “Who hit Van Dorn?”
Hashknife rubbed his sore head and tried to remember just what had
happened. Van Dorn gaped vacantly at the crowd, a trickle of blood
running down his nose. He rubbed it off with a pudgy forefinger and
looked at it.
“Mebbe the fat feller knows,” suggested Hashknife.
“Somebody socked you?” asked Sleepy anxiously.