“By golly, you do deduct once in a while,” laughed Hashknife. “Let ’em
rustle. As I said before, we’re chasin’ a train, not trouble. C’mon.”
“Yeah, and c’mon fast,” chuckled Sleepy. “That impudent son-of-a-gun
headed down this road, I’ll betcha. Shake up that old bed spring yo’re
ridin’, Hashknife and he’ll have to be a wing shot to hit us.”
Together they went down the old road as fast as the two horses could
run, each man carrying a heavy revolver in his right hand. The old
road was only a pair of unused ruts, but the horses had good footing.
A quarter of a mile below where the shot had been fired at them, a
rider swung across the road and faded into the tall sage, but whether
he was a rustler or not they were unable to say.
They drew up at the bank of the Lo Lo River and let the horses make
their own crossing. The river was shallow at this point. It was only a
short distance from the river to the old loading corrals at Turkey
Track siding, but there was no sign of the cattle-train.
“Empty is the cra-a-adul—baby’s gon-n-ne,” sang Hashknife in a
melancholy voice as they dismounted and sat down on the corral fence.
“Who the —— told you you could sing?” asked Sleepy.
“A feller with a voice like mine don’t have to be told. It’s instinct,
cowboy, instinct.”
“Extinct,” corrected Sleepy. “Like do-do-bird and muzzle-loadin’
pistols. I wonder if that jigger was a rustler, or was he just
nervous. Some folks are thataway, Hashknife.”
“All rustlers are, Sleepy. The more I see of this country the more I
envy Stumpy, Nebrasky and Napoleon in their nice, easy-ridin’ caboose.
Right now I hanker for that good old dog house. Sleepy, I hankers for
it so strong that I becomes melancholy and must sing.”
Hashknife cleared his throat delicately and began:
It was a dar-r-r-rk, stormy night,
As the train rat-tuled on,
All the pass-un-n-n-gers had gone to bed,
Except one young man, with a babe on his ar-r-rm,
Who sat there with bow-w-w-w-ed down head.
The——
“Hark!” blurted Sleepy dramatically. “There came a scream of agony!
The lights went out! From somewhere came the crashing report of a gun.
Then everything was still. A man lighted a match and held it above his
head, dimly illuminating the room. But it was enough. The singer was
dead—shot through the vocal cords.”
“Didn’t yuh like the song?” asked Hashknife meekly.
“——, the song was all right; it’s the way it was bein’ abused that
made me step in and stop it. Yore ears must shut up tight every time
yuh try to sing, Hashknife. That must be it, ’cause you’d never do it
if yuh knowed what it sounded like.”
“Uh-huh, that must be it,” agreed Hashknife sadly. “I wish that train
would back up long enough for us to get our belts and holsters. This
darned six-gun of mine is goin’ to give me stummick trouble, if I
don’t find a new place to carry it. The barrel is too long for my
pocket.”
“Carry it over yore shoulder,” advised Sleepy. “We better go back and
give these horses to the sheriff. It’ll be daylight pretty soon, and
I’m sleepy.”
“Might as well,” agreed Hashknife. “No tellin’ where that train is by
this time, so there’s no use chasin’ it.”
They climbed back on their horses and rode toward the river. It would
be daylight in less than two hours, and they were both weary. The
horses splashed into the ford and surged through the knee-deep water
over to the other bank, where the old road wound its way up through a
willow thicket to the higher ground.
And as they rode slowly up through the heavy shadows of the thicket, a
gun flashed almost in their faces. It was so close that the burning
powder seemed to splatter them. With a lurching scramble the two
horses broke into a frightened run, while behind them two more guns
spat fire.
The horses needed little urging, as they ran blindly along the old
side-hill road.
“Hit yuh?” yelled Hashknife anxiously.
“Burnt me!” yelped Sleepy angrily. “Yanked all the feelin’ out of my
left arm.” He was half turned in his saddle, looking back.
“Don’t shoot,” advised Hashknife. “Don’t waste ammunition.”
Their belts and extra ammunition were on that cattle-train, and all
they had were the six cartridges in each gun.
“They’re comin’, —— ’em!” snorted Hashknife, catching a fleeting
glimpse of several horses running toward them over a high spot in the
road. “That sheriff never gave us race horses, that’s a cinch.”
They were running as fast as they were able, but both of the cowboys
knew that, as far as speed was concerned, they were not well mounted.
But the horses were willing to run, and that was something to
recommend them.
“We horned into somethin’,” panted Hashknife, as a bullet whizzed past
them. “Them danged fools have made a mistake.”
“As long as they don’t know it—say! That last bullet was too close!
C’mon, Molasses!”
The pursuers were shooting recklessly now. The chase was nearing Jack
Hartwell’s place, and they seemed determined to kill or capture these
two men before they reached that ranch.
Hashknife turned in his saddle and shot at them.
“That split ’em, cowboy!” cheered Sleepy. “Keep hittin’ the grit.”
* * * * *
Then came a splattering of shots and Hashknife’s horse went stumbling
into a fall. But the lanky cowboy was not caught napping. As the horse
went down, he swung free from the saddle and ran several steps before
he went sprawling.
Sleepy jerked up quickly, whirled and sent shot after shot at the
oncoming crowd, which had drawn up quickly. Hashknife got quickly to
his feet and ran to Sleepy, where he vaulted on behind him.
“Got a horse to pay for yours,” panted Sleepy, as he spurred the
overburdened horse onward. “Went down in a heap.”
Sleepy’s volley had driven the pursuers to cover momentarily, but now
they came on again. Bullets whizzed and skipped around them, but a
stern shot at a running horse in the dark, especially from the saddle
of a running horse, is rather difficult.
Hashknife turned and fired his last shot at them, as Sleepy whirled
the horse into the yard of Jack Hartwell’s place and rode up to the
front of the building, where Jack was standing, wondering what the
shooting was all about.
They fairly fell off the horse, shoved Jack into the house and slammed
the door behind them. But the riders circled wide of the gate and went
back the way they came.
“What—what was the trouble?” stammered Jack.
“Got any shells for a forty-five?” asked Hashknife calmly.
Jack shook his head. He carried a forty-four.
“But what was the matter?” he demanded.
“I heard a lot of shootin’ and—”
“So did we,” laughed Sleepy. “They killed a horse for us. They might
’a’ just been foolin’, but they sure play rough.”
“They sure did,” laughed Hashknife, brushing the dust off himself. “I
lit so hard I almost knocked the heels off my old boots.”
They grinned at each other, and Hashknife, turned to Jack.
“We don’t know who it was nor what it was about. A feller took a shot
at us when we was goin’ over to the sidin’, and when we came back
there was three or four of ’em bushwhacked us just this side of the
river. I dunno how we escaped. My gosh, they were so close that the
powder burned my bronc’s nose.”
“I got a furrow along my forearm,” said Sleepy grimacing, as he pulled
the sleeve away. “But it won’t bother much. Kinda made the old arm
feel like it was asleep.”
“But what did they shoot at yuh for?” demanded Jack.
“You answer it,” replied Hashknife quickly. “We don’t know anybody
around here. We borrowed the horses from the sheriff, and he’ll likely
blow up when he hears that one of ’em has been shot.”
“Keep away from that door,” advised Sleepy, as Jack started toward it.
“Them pelicans don’t need to recognize yuh.”
“It sure beats me,” declared Jack.
“Does it?” queried Haskhnife seriously. “Everythin’ around here beats
us, pardner. We ain’t been here long, but we’ve sure found out that Lo
Lo Valley is a dinger of a place to entertain a stranger. What’s wrong
around here?”
“Everythin’,” said Jack bitterly.
“Sheep and cattle war?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought so.”
“Didja? Who are you fellers, anyway?”
“Couple of soft-shelled eggs.”
“I guess so!” Jack snorted his unbelief. “Don’tcha know that Lo Lo
Valley ain’t a very healthy place for strangers right now?”
“——!” snorted Sleepy. “Mebbe yuh think we don’t. Take a squint at my
arm—and ask me that.”
“I reckon I know what yuh mean,” said Hashknife slowly. “Mebbe it
looks kinda queer for us to be gallivantin’ around here, but we had a
danged good reason.”
He explained to Jack how they had missed their train, and their
reasons for going to Turkey Track siding. The explanation seemed
plausible enough.
“Yo’re a cattleman, ain’t yuh?” asked Hashknife.
“Well,” Jack laughed shortly, “I dunno. I’ve got cattle, if that’s
what yuh mean, stranger.”
“My name’s Hashknife Hartley,” said Hashknife. “This here droopin’
lily beside me is Sleepy Stevens.”
“Hashknife Hartley?” Jack frowned thoughtfully. “Say, did you ever
know a feller by the name of Casey Steil?”
“Casey Steil? Hm-m-m. Casey Steil. That name is familiar.”
“I heard him tellin’ about a Hashknife Hartley one night. I think
Casey is from the Sweetgrass country.”
“Lee Steil!” blurted Sleepy. “Kinda bench-legged, roan-haired,
buck-toothed son-of-a-gun, with green eyes?”
“That fits him,” laughed Jack.
“And that ain’t all,” said Hashknife seriously. “Who does he work
for?”
“He’s been with the Turkey Track for a year. Slim De Larimore owns the
outfit.”
“Slim De Larimore? By grab, that’s a fancy name. What is he, a exiled
duke?”
Jack laughed and shook his head.
“Slim is all right. Casey Steil is all right, too, as far as I know.”
“Nobody disputin’ yuh, pardner. I wonder if them blood-huntin’ jiggers
have pulled out, or are they waitin’ for one of us to show up.”
Hashknife went to a window and peered out. It was getting lighter, and
the east glowed from the coming sunrise. There was no one in sight. A
horse was coming into the place, and Hashknife watched it approach the
house.
“Here comes the bronc the lady tried to ride,” he announced. “It’s got
the saddle under its belly.”
“See any signs of our enemy?” asked Sleepy.
“Nope. I reckon they was afraid to be seen in the light.”
The three of them went outside and removed the saddle from Molly’s
horse, and Jack offered them the use of the animal to ride back to
Totem City and the offer was accepted. They put the saddle back on the
horse and Hashknife lengthened the stirrups.
“We’ll leave yore animal in the stable,” said Hashknife as he shook
hands with Jack. “Mebbe well see yuh later. We didn’t intend to stay
here, but after what happened a while ago, we feel like stickin’
around a while.”
“To find out who shot at yuh?”
“Yeah, they kinda made us curious.”
Jack grinned seriously.
“I reckon you are the same Hashknife Hartley that Casey spoke about.
We thought he was stretchin’ it a little.”
“What did he say?” smiled Hashknife.
“Oh, a lot of things. We was talkin’ about rustlers and all kinds of
bandits, and of fellers we knew that were wanted by this sheriff and
that sheriff and by U. S. marshals. Casey says:
“‘It all depends on who wants yuh. Now, if Hashknife Hartley, the
feller I’ve been lyin’ to yuh about, wanted me, I’d either throw away
my gun and yell like ——for him to come and get me, or I’d turn sailor
and head for the tip end of South America.’”
Hashknife laughed and lighted the cigaret he had been rolling.
“He likely exaggerated a lot,” he said. “I’m not an officer of the
law—never have been. Never arrested any one in my life.”
“Casey said the same thing—about the arrests. He said there wasn’t
anybody left to arrest. He sure boosted yuh to us.”
“Well, don’t believe half of it,” laughed Hashknife, as he swung the
horse around and joined Sleepy, who had been examining his animal for
possible injury, and they rode back toward Totem City.
* * * * *
It was a little later that morning when old Doctor Owen closed the
door of the Arrow bunk house and walked to his horse and buggy at the
front gate. He was an angular, grave-faced man, well past middle age,
an old family doctor sort of person.
He carefully placed his well-worn medicine case in the buggy,
carefully wiped his glasses on an immaculate handkerchief before
taking the halter off his horse. For twenty years Doctor Owen had been
doing this same thing in the same way.
The medicine case must be placed in just such a position on the seat,
the glasses must be polished, before he would take the halter off his
horse. As he coiled up the halter rope to place it in its accustomed
place in the buggy bed, he looked up at Marsh Hartwell, who had just
ridden in.
Hartwell’s eyes were red-rimmed and there was a weary stoop to his big
shoulders as he spoke to the doctor.
“What’s new, Doc? Patient doin’ well?”
“The patient,” said the good doctor slowly, “is dead. He passed away
at exactly six-thirty-two.”
It was like the doctor to be exact.
“Dead?” Marsh Hartwell turned away and glanced toward the bunk house.
“Old Ed Barber is dead. I didn’t think he was hurt that bad, Doc.”
“It seems that he was,” dryly. “Two bullets had passed entirely
through him, one of them puncturing his lung. It was impossible to
stop the internal bleeding. I shall notify the sheriff at once. It is,
I believe, a case for the coroner, Marsh.”
“Yes.” Marsh Hartwell sighed deeply. “I—send me the bill will yuh,
Doc?”
“There will be no bill, Marsh. I liked old Ed, and that was the least
I could do for him.”
The doctor got into his buggy and drove away. Marsh Hartwell stared
after him for several moments before he turned toward the house, where
Mrs. Hartwell and Mrs. Brownlee were waiting for news from the
dead-line.
Mrs. Brownlee was two years older than Jack, a tall, thin-faced,
tired-looking woman. Any beauty she might have possessed while a girl
had long since departed with the drudgery of running a ranch house.
Marsh Hartwell came slowly up to the steps, leading his horse. Both
women knew that something was decidedly wrong.
“Did yuh know that Ed Barber died this mornin’?” he asked them.
They shook their heads. The doctor had not been to the house.
“Died about half-past six,” said Marsh wearily. “Murder is all they
can make of that.”
“That’s all the rest of it amounts to,” said Mrs. Brownlee wearily.
“It is just a grudge fight between you and Eph King—and your armies.”
“You, too, Amy?” Marsh Hartwell looked curiously at her.
“Oh, well—” she turned away half angrily— “There will be a lot of men
killed, men who have no interest beyond their monthly pay check. You
branded Jack a spy last night; turned him out of his old home because
he married a sheepman’s girl. That was spite. I’m getting tired of
spite and grudges. My husband is up there on your dead-line, trying to
kill somebody, because you pay him sixty dollars a month.”
Marsh Hartwell’s expression hardened slightly, but he did not reply to
his daughter’s angry accusations. Mrs. Hartwell looked away. It was
not her nature to accuse nor condemn. Mrs. Brownlee went into the
house and closed the door, leaving Marsh Hartwell and his wife
together.
“The sheep moved back a little this mornin’,” he told her wearily.
“Everything is quiet along the line, so I came home for a while.
Anyway, I want to ride east along the Turkey Track end of the line and
see how things look. We expect the sheep to spread into a longer line
by tonight.”
Mrs. Hartwell remained silent. They had not mentioned Jack since the
night before.
“Too darned bad about old Ed,” continued Marsh. “They shot him down
like a dog.”
“And who will pay for it, Marsh?” she asked.
“Pay for it? —— only knows. It was the sheep men who shot him, but the
dirty spy who told them that old Ed was the guardian of Kiopo Pass is
the real murderer.”
“Who would tell?”
“Who?” Marsh Hartwell’s features hardened. “Nobody knew it, except
cattlemen. It was something that we guarded close. It was not the work
of a spy; it was the deed of a traitor.”
“And you still accuse your own son, Marsh Hartwell?”
The big man laughed bitterly and turned toward the door.
“Jack is no traitor, Marsh,” she declared flatly.
“No?” Marsh turned and placed his hands on her shoulders. “I wish I
could believe that, Mother. Last night Jack broke through our
dead-line and went over to Eph King. He rode his horse over Gene Hill
to get through. If he isn’t a traitor, what is he doin’ over there?”
“Are you sure, Marsh?”
“You bet I’m sure.”
For several moments they looked at each other, the old lady with
tearful eyes; the big man, whose thin lips showed in a white line now,
his eyes filled with pain.
“It hurts you, too, Marsh?” she whispered.
“Hurts? Good God, it hurts! He’s as much my son as yours, Mother. The
men all know this. They don’t say anythin’ to me, and I’m tryin’ to
put myself in their place. I’m tryin’ to forget that it’s my son, but
it can’t be done, Mother.”
He shut his jaw and turned away. Al Curt, a thin-faced,
narrow-shouldered cowpuncher from the Turkey Track, was riding in at
the main gate, so Marsh Hartwell waited for him to come up.
“Mornin’, Curt,” he said hoarsely.
“Mornin’. How’s everythin’ along yore line, Marsh?”
“Quiet. I just left there.”
“Plenty quiet on our end, too. They ain’t got the sheep down that far
yet. Didja know anythin’ about a lot of shootin’ that was goin’ on
early this mornin’ over near the old Morgan place?”
Marsh shook his head,
“No, we didn’t hear it, Curt.”
“Uh-huh. Wasn’t none of yore men, eh?”
“My men were all on the line, Curt. I traveled the line twice last
night myself. You say it was over by the Morgan place?”
“Yeah; about an hour or so before daylight. We could hear it pretty
plain. Thought at first it was the sheep tryin’ to bust through, but
it was too far south for that. Must ’a’ been fifty shots fired. Slim
told me to ride down here and see what I could find out about it. I
came past the Morgan place, but didn’t see anybody.”
“Wasn’t anybody at home, Curt?”
“I didn’t go up to the house, Marsh, but there wasn’t anybody in
sight.”
“Where are you goin’ now?” asked Marsh.
“I’m goin’ back and let some of the boys off for breakfast. Was the
sheep movin’ any this mornin’?”
“Not much. I expect they’ll take their time.”
“They better,” grinned Curt, and rode back toward the east end of the
dead-line.
“What do you suppose the shooting was about?” queried Mrs. Hartwell
anxiously.
“That’s what I’m goin’ to find out, Mother. It was near the old Morgan
place. Now, there’s no use borrowin’ trouble. It can probably all be
explained.”
* * * * *
And just to show that he believed in his own assurances, he mounted
his horse and went galloping across the hills toward the Morgan ranch.
He was afraid that some of the cattlemen had taken it for granted that
Jack was the traitor and had paid him an early morning visit.
He knew that Gene Hill had not been lying when he said that Jack had
smashed his way through the dead-line. Hill bore evidences of the
encounter. Bert Allen had seen him, but not near enough for
recognition. Things looked bad for Jack, but down in his heart, Marsh
Hartwell could not believe that his son had turned traitor out of
spite.
He rode to the top of a hill in sight of the little ranch, where he
drew rein. There was no assurance that Jack would not enforce his
private dead-line, and Marsh had no desire to be made a target for his
son’s rifle. From his elevated position he could see two men and a
saddled horse in the front yard.
It looked very much like a black and white pinto, belonging to Sudden
Smithy. He whistled softly and spurred down the hill, wondering what
would bring the sheriff out there so early in the morning.
The sheriff and Jack were not having a very animated conversation, as
he rode up and dismounted. In fact the sheriff seemed a trifle annoyed
over something, and barely nodded to Marsh Hartwell. Jack did not make
any sign.
“Ridin’ early ain’t yuh?” asked Marsh.
“Kinda.”
The sheriff nodded shortly.
“What was all the shootin’ about over here?”
“Shootin’?” The sheriff was interested. “Did you hear it?”
“No. Al Curt came over to the Arrow to see if we knew what it was all
about. They heard about fifty shots.”
The sheriff turned and squinted at Jack, who looked him square in the
eyes.
“You heard ’em, didn’t yuh, Jack?” he asked.
“Did I?”
“Oh, ——!” snorted the sheriff. “That’s as far as I can get with him,
Marsh.”
“Well, what’s it all about?” asked Marsh. “What do you know about it,
Sudden?”
“I know this much—” he pointed at a saddle, lying on the ground near
his pinto— “I loaned two horses and two saddles to two strangers last
night. They came in on a cattle-train—or said they did—and the train
went away and left ’em in Totem City.
“This train got off the track at Turkey Track sidin’, so I loaned ’em
the outfits to ride over to catch their train. They were to leave the
horses tied to the old loadin’ corral. Later on I got to thinkin’ what
a fool I was to let ’em have them horses, so I saddles the pinto and
takes a straight cut toward the sidin’.
“It was doggone slow goin’, I’ll tell yuh. I hunted in the dark for a
shallow crossin’ of the river, and wasted a lot of time thataway,
finally havin’ to swim across. Well, I finally got to the sidin’, but
don’t see my horses.
“Just about that time I hears a lot of shootin’ goin’ on down by the
old river crossin’. I rode down there, but finds that the shootin’ is
gettin’ farther away all the time. Then I waited until daylight and
came in over the old road. About a mile from here I finds my roan
horse lyin’ right in the middle of the road, too dead to skin. I took
the saddle—and that’s all I know.”
“Well, that’s quite a lot, Sudden,” observed Marsh.
“Yeah, it’s quite a lot, but not enough. Jack must know somethin’
about it, but he won’t talk.”
“Why should I talk?” asked Jack coldly. “I never fired any of the
shots, and I don’t know who killed your horse.”
The sheriff sighed and hooked his thumbs over his belt. He was plainly
exasperated, so exasperated that he forgot caution.
“His wife answered my knock at the door,” he said, indicating Jack,
“and her head is all tied up in bandages. She looks like she’d been
run through a threshing machine.”
“You leave my wife out of this, Sudden!” snapped Jack. “She had
nothin’ to do with it. If you want to find out anythin’, you better
find them two strange cowpunchers.”
“Yeah, and I’ll do that too!” snorted Sudden. “They’ll talk, or I’ll
know why.”
“You better take their word for it,” grinned Jack.
“Is that so?”
“Very likely.”
“You know ’em, do yuh?”
“Ask Casey Steil about Hashknife Hartley.”
“That’s the tall one,” said the sheriff quickly. “Casey knows him,
does he?”
“I think he does.”
“Well—” the sheriff picked up his saddle and turned to the pinto—“I
reckon all I can do is to go back and wait for ’em to show up and talk
about it.”
He mounted his pinto, carrying the saddle in his arms, and headed for
Totem City, while Jack and his father faced each other, both waiting
for the other to begin.
“What did you want here?” asked Jack after a long silence.
“I heard about the shooting and I was afraid——”
“That somebody had come gunnin’ for the spy?” Jack laughed harshly.
“Don’t mind me. I can take care of myself.”
“Ed Barber died this mornin’.”
“Aw, that’s too bad. He was hurt worse than we thought.”
“I forgot to tell the sheriff.”
“He’s got enough grief right now, I reckon.”
“We’ve all got plenty of that, Jack. Did you see Eph King last night?”
“Yeah.”
Jack was not trying to deny it.
“You rode over Gene Hill, didn’t yuh, Jack?”
“Yeah, I sure did. He tried to stop me.”
“They all know that you went over to the sheep last night.”
“And then what?”
“Jack, don’t you realize what that means? Good ——, they’ll hold you
responsible for old Ed Barber’s death and for the sheep comin’ into Lo
Lo Valley. Have you lost yore mind entirely?”
“Mebbe I’ve lost my mind, but not my nerve.”
“Nerve won’t help yuh. Don’t be reckless, boy. There is yet time to
get away. I’ll stake yuh. Peel out of here while the sheep are keepin’
everybody busy. Take yore wife and head east until things are blown
over. Won’t yuh do that, Jack?”
“And admit that I was a traitor? ——!” Jack laughed bitterly and shook
his head. “Not by a —— sight. Any old time I start runnin’, it will be
after somebody.”
Marsh Hartwell turned to his horse and started to mount, but changed
his mind and came close to Jack.
“Jack, I’m goin’ to ask yuh a question that’ll make yuh mad, but I’ve
got to do it. Did yore wife have anythin’ ——”
“Leave her out of this, Dad,” interrupted Jack, but his eyes did not
hold steady.
“All right, Jack.”