too, when his gun went off in my face.”
“What happened to you, Van Dorn?” asked Falconer nervously.
Two of the cowboys helped Van Dorn to a chair, and one of them mopped
his head with a handkerchief.
“He—he hit me on the head,” said Van Dorn foolishly.
“Who hit you on the head?” asked the sheriff.
“A man.”
“Who hit you, Hartley?”
“Same party,” grinned Hashknife.
Van Dorn looked at the open safe, his brows knitted thoughtfully.
“That is funny,” he muttered.
“Remember what happened?” asked Falconer.
“Why, yes, I remember now.”
He rubbed his head for several moments.
“Someone knocked on the door of my house. I went to the door, and there
was a masked man. He threatened me with his gun, warned me not to talk,
and made me go with him. I—I didn’t know what to do. He brought me down
here and told me to open my safe. I tried to explain that there wasn’t
any money in the safe, but he made me open it. And then—I guess he hit
me.”
“What do you know, Hartley?” queried the sheriff.
“Well, I saw ’em go into the office,” replied Hashknife. “I dunno why I
came over here. It was just a hunch. I was tryin’ to hear what was bein’
said in there, when the light went out and a man stepped out so quickly
he almost bumped into me. He fired his gun in my face, and when I
grabbed him, he socked me over the head.”
“What was in your safe, Van Dorn?” asked Falconer.
“Only private papers,” painfully. “Not a cent of money.”
“It looks as though he had taken all of ’em, except these,” picking up a
few and placing them on the desk.
Van Dorn was not attentive. His head was his chief concern, and he did
not seem interested in any investigation.
“You better see a doctor,” advised Falconer. “Want to go to his office,
or have him come up to your place?”
“I think I’ll go home; I’m sick.”
“How’s your head, Hashknife?” asked the sheriff.
“Oh, I didn’t get hit so hard,” grinned the tall cowboy.
Most of the crowd went back to the Sunset Saloon, where they crowded
around the bar and asked one another foolish questions. A murder and a
robbery gave them food for conversation. But Hashknife was not
interested in their arguments. His hunch was working again, and that
hunch told him to keep out of the light.
He went past the hotel entrance and stopped at the corner. From there he
could hear the voices over in the Sunset Saloon. Several men were in the
hotel office, talking things over. Hashknife knew there was a rear
entrance to the upper floor of the hotel; so he went cautiously around
to the rear, halting at the corner.
Someone was back there. He could hear him crossing the yard. It was too
dark to distinguish objects very well, but he was sure he saw a shadowy
figure going up the outside stairs. Of course, it might be someone
connected with the hotel.
Moving cautiously, he reached the bottom of the stairs and climbed up to
the open door. Peering down the dark hallway he could see a faint glow
of light from the front stairway, and could hear the dull buzz of
conversation from the office.
Slowly he went down the hall to his door, halting against the wall. He
knew the door was partly open, because he could feel the draught. It was
evident that the window was also open. It had been shut when he left,
and the door had been locked. But the door would be a simple matter for
anyone with a pass key or a piece of bent wire. Still, the fact remained
that the door was partly open and also the window.
“Queer,” said Hashknife to himself. “If somebody wanted to bushwhack me
in my room—why leave the door and window open?”
These thoughts flashed through his mind, as he flattened against the
wall near the door, and the answer came in the smashing report of a
revolver shot.
_Wham! Wham! Wham!_ Three more shots, the flashes lighting the hall. A
space of two or three seconds, followed by another shot—another. Six
shots in the space of ten seconds.
Another shot, a choking grunt, and a man stumbled out of the room,
backing erratically in the dark. Hashknife dived into him, like a
halfback making a flying tackle, and they went crashing down along the
wall. Quickly Hashknife caught his arms, but the man made no effort to
free himself.
Men were running up the stairs, and one came crowding from the rear,
carrying a lamp. Hashknife called for them to hurry. Sleepy, the sheriff
and Blue Snow were there. They had been looking for Hashknife. He let go
of his captive and got to his feet.
The man was of medium height, swarthy, black haired. He blinked at the
light, his lips shut tightly. More men came down the hall, and among
them was Falconer. They were all trying to question Hashknife, who knew
little more than they did. He went into his room, which was acrid with
burned powder, found a match and lighted the lamp.
* * * * *
Lying against the wall, his head almost against the window sill, was Ed
Reed. He was still alive, but hit hard. Hashknife picked up his gun, as
Falconer shoved forward, his jaw sagging.
“Ed!” he almost shouted. “Ed, what happened? My God, are you hurt bad?”
“Bring the other feller in here,” ordered Hashknife, and they carried
him in, placing him near Reed. The two wounded men stared at each other,
blinking in the light.
“What’s it all about, Hartley?” asked Falconer. “Can’t you talk, man?”
Hashknife laughed harshly.
“They got their wires crossed, I reckon. Both of ’em layin’ for me, and
they got each other.”
No one made any comment. Hashknife swung out the cylinder of Reed’s gun
and removed an empty shell. Glancing at it quickly, he turned to the
sheriff.
“Go and get the gun Jim Snow used.”
“I’ll get it,” said Smoky quickly. “You stay here, Singer.”
“You’re pretty damn’ smart, Hartley,” said Reed painfully.
“Not very. Why did you kill Jeff Blondell and rob Van Dorn’s safe?”
“You don’t know, eh?”
“Not yet.”
Reed laughed hoarsely.
“You’ll never know from me.”
“You stole Bar S Bar cattle and altered the brand to Cross 84.”
“Did we? Prove it, damn you!”
Hashknife smiled queerly and turned to the other man.
“You’re the man who killed Wilson, eh?”
The man said nothing. Perhaps he was too sick to deny anything.
“Didn’t Wilson play the game accordin’ to your rules?”
“Tell him nothin’,” groaned Reed. “He don’t know a damn’ thing.”
“Let’s see if I don’t. One of you was delegated to kill me tonight. It
wasn’t settled jist where the killin’ was to be done; so this friend of
yours decided to pull it off here in my room, but didn’t tell you, Reed.
Evidently he wanted to keep under cover. You killed Blondell, and you
recognized me when we tangled in front of Van Dorn’s office. Mebbe you
thought I recognized you. Anyway, you made a guess that your friend had
missed out on his end of the deal; so you came huntin’ me.”
At that moment Smoky came in, bringing Jim Snow’s six-shooter. Hashknife
opened the gun and examined the empty cartridges, comparing them with
the one from Reed’s gun.
“That cinches you, Reed,” he said. “Your gun is loaded with the same
brand of cartridges that you used to kill Chub Needham and Jim Snow. For
fear that somebody might hear those shots and wonder who fired all of
’em, you put two empty shells in Snow’s gun, makin’ three, with the one
he shot at you.
“Blue Snow thought he heard five shots. I figure there was six, and that
two were fired so close together that it sounded like one. Chub never
fired a shot, but you shot his gun in the air twice. Your first shot
killed Chub instantly. A moment later Jim Snow came in sight, headin’
for San Miguel. You swapped shots together, and you hit him. Then you
shot again real quick, and he went down.
“But you made a mistake when you put them other shells in Snow’s gun.
The firin’ pin on his gun hits dead center, while the pin on your gun
hits low on the cap. You stuffed that package of bonds inside Snow’s
shirt and kept the money for yourself.”
“That’s what Blondell said,” mumbled the other man. “He said Reed done
that job and never split with—”
“Shut your damn’ mouth,” groaned Reed. “You yaller dog!”
“What’s the good of it? We’re cinched. Get a doctor, will you?”
“Who tried to kill me the other night at the Double Diamond?” asked
Hashknife.
“Reed,” replied the other man. “Rotten shot. I told him—”
“Wait a minute. Who stole the Bar S Bar cattle?”
The man laughed shakily. He was getting weak from loss of blood.
“Hundred head at the old Ox-Bow ranch near Gates Ajar. Me and Reed
and—Blondell.... Find the rest if you can.”
“What about Wilson?”
“He got ’em for half what they was worth.”
“And you didn’t sell the last time, eh? You killed him and took all his
cash.”
“Have it your own way.”
“You dirty quitter!” grated Reed, but the other man did not hear him—he
had fainted.
Falconer’s face was white, his lips set in a grim line. He would have
staked his life on Reed’s honesty.
“Somebody better get the doctor,” said Hashknife. “I don’t think he’ll
be of much use to either of ’em, but we better get him. Now, Reed, tell
us why you cracked that safe?”
“I’ll see you in hell, first, you dirty snooper!”
Hashknife had shoved his hands deeply into his pockets, and now his
right hand came out, holding the few crumpled papers he had picked up in
front of Van Dorn’s office. He looked at them curiously. One was a large
envelope, apparently containing a single sheet of paper, and on the
outside was written in ink, JEFF BLONDELL—PRIVATE.
Some of the men moved in closer, wondering what was coming next. Reed
saw the envelope and his face twisted curiously as Hashknife tore it
open, taking out the single sheet, folded once. Swiftly he read it. Reed
tried to move, groaned hollowly and sank back.
“Will you quit now?” asked Hashknife, but Reed refused to answer.
Hashknife turned to the crowd.
“Listen to this letter, folks:
“To be opened and read only in case I disappear or am killed in
a mysterious way. This is my agreement with Van Dorn, who knows
nothing about the contents of this letter.
“My name is Henry Blondell Jeffries. Two years ago I was
released from the Montana State Penitentiary, where I served a
full term of five years for train robbery. While in the
penitentiary I met a convict named Reed Haskell, who was serving
twenty years for robbery and manslaughter.
“Reed Haskell is Ed Reed, foreman of the Double Diamond outfit.
He and another convict named Tony Blackburn slugged a guard and
escaped. They both know of this letter, which I use as a
safeguard. Either one of them would kill me like a snake, if
they wasn’t afraid this letter would be read.
“Reed Haskell, or Ed Reed, as he is known here, is paying well
for what I know, and if you doubt my word, they can easily
identify him at the pen.—HENRY BLONDELL JEFFRIES, OR JEFF
BLONDELL.”
“And there you are,” finished Hashknife.
The crowd was silent. Reed was staring at the floor, eyes nearly shut.
“I suppose your friend is Tony Blackburn, eh?” queried Hashknife.
Reed nodded shortly, as the doctor came in, carrying his valise.
“One thing more,” said Hashknife. “The night Wilson was killed, wasn’t
it Blondell who came over there, ridin’ a Cross 84 horse?”
Reed nodded again.
“He wanted all the money, I suppose?”
“The dirty rat,” whispered Reed. “He had me cinched.”
The crowd moved out to give the doctor more room. Falconer took Blue
Snow by the arm and they moved down to the hotel office with Hashknife.
“I’ll make good on them stolen cattle, Blue,” he said. “I reckon your
father was right. I’m sorry as hell—and that’s all I can say.”
“That’s enough,” said Blue slowly. “I’d like to ride out and tell Jerry
what happened.”
“Fine. She’ll understand. You see, she’s got a lot more sense than her
dad.”
Blue turned to Hashknife and they shook hands silently. Falconer watched
Blue go striding out through the door, his chin in the air for the first
time since he came back to Sunset City.
“He’ll do well,” said Falconer softly. “Blue knows cows.”
“Knows girls, too,” said Hashknife seriously. “It’s a danged lucky thing
he came back to this country—lucky for both of you.”
Falconer nodded slowly.
“Yea-a-ah, a mighty lucky thing for me and mine, Hartley. But the
luckiest thing in the world that ever happened for all of us was when a
long legged puncher came down over the Rattlesnake Cañon grades, lookin’
for a shipment of cows.”
“And tried to bust the trust.”
“It’s busted, Hartley.”
Smoky came in from the street, still excited.
“Terry McQueen and Molly Malone pulled out south, just after all the
shootin’ took place,” he panted. “The bartender saw ’em go.”
“I wouldn’t chase ’em,” said Hashknife slowly. “They’ll be dodgin’ all
their life, anyway.”
Falconer put a hand on Hashknife’s shoulder.
“Hartley, I need a foreman, and I need two more men. You’re not a
regular buyer. Hang your hats at the Double Diamond—you and Sleepy. One
of these days I’ll want to step out, and I want a good man to run the
business.”
Hashknife squinted thoughtfully over his cigaret.
“Well, I’ll think it over, Falconer. Will you see that Kinnear gets a
good break on them beeves? You know what I mean.”
“I shore will. But—”
“Thank you kindly; and I’ll let you know about the other.”
Some of the men were coming down the stairs, talking, arguing. Hashknife
stepped outside, where Sleepy was standing beside one of the porch
posts, holding the reins of their two horses. Without a word they
mounted and rode down the street, passing out of Sunset City in the
darkness.
“I dang’ near accepted a job,” said Hashknife.
“No!”
“Yeah.”
“I seen Falconer talkin’ with you. This deal kinda knocks his horns off,
don’t it?”
“Complete.”
“Which way, cowboy?”
“Lemme see. North is San Miguel, east is Gates Ajar. What’s south?”
“A lot of tall hills.”
“Good—we’ll go south.”
And they went down through the darkness of San Miguel Valley, chap knee
rubbing chap knee, while the distant stars seemed to tumble down over
the tops of the southern hills, which beckoned them on to see what was
on the other side. What had just happened was all in a day’s
work—tomorrow was merely another day.
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine,
November 1, 1929. It is believed to be in the public domain in the
United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]