conviction that Molly, not Jack, was the traitor.
“But is she a traitor?” he asked himself. “We’ve treated her all
wrong, and Eph King is her father. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a
tooth. And Jack is just reckless enough to die rather than let any one
know that she is to blame.”
Jack walked back to the doorway. Molly had just opened the door and
was watching Marsh Hartwell ride away. Her head was swathed in
bandages, and there was little color in her face.
“What did your father want?” she asked.
“Well, he thought we ought to run away, Molly.”
“Run away?”
Jack had not told her of the suspicions against him, nor did she know
that he had seen her father.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “They think that I was the one that sent the
information to your father. They’ve thrown me out, brandin’ me a
traitor. And I’ll be kinda lucky if they don’t come down here in a
bunch and hang me.”
“Jack, they don’t think that!”
“Well, I wish you were right. While you was tryin’ to run away from me
last night, they were puttin’ the sheep dip on to me. It was a big
night in my life, I’ll tell yuh. They think I did all this because Dad
treated me the way he has. And last night I smashed my way through the
dead-line, Molly. I thought you had gone to your father. And the
cattlemen seen me go through.”
Molly stared at him, trying to understand what he had done.
“You went to see my father?”
“Yeah, and I seen him, too.”
“Did you? Oh, what did he say, Jack?”
“Well,” Jack smiled grimly, “he said that if there was any kings
around, I could easy get a job as a fool.”
* * * * *
It was still fairly early in the morning when Hashknife and Sleepy
rode into Totem City. They put both horses into the sheriff’s stable
and went back to the street, where Hashknife had seen a little harness
and saddlery store. Here they were able to purchase belts and
holsters. Luckily they were able to pick up some second-hand ones,
which would fit their needs, and then they went to the general
merchandise store to get a supply of cartridges.
Jim Hork, the proprietor, listened to their wants, and rubbed his chin
thoughtfully, as he looked at his stock of cartridges.
“Mebbe I can let yuh have a box apiece,” he said. “I’m runnin’ low,
and I’ve got a whole slue of orders.”
“That’s enough,” grinned Hashknife. “We ain’t goin’ to shoot more than
fifty men apiece.”
Hork grinned and sold them the cartridges. They filled their belts and
guns, and he watched them curiously, but Hork was a life-long resident
of the cattleland, and did not ask questions. It was not often that
strangers came to Totem City and bought revolver cartridges.
But Hashknife and Sleepy did not enlighten him. They knew he was
aching for them to talk about themselves, but they kept a discreet
silence. A little, barefooted boy came in to buy some kerosene oil.
“Did they kill any sheepherders last night, Mister Hork?” he asked
excitedly. “Ma wants to know, she said.”
“I dunno, Jimmy. Don’t reckon they did. You ain’t got no relations
fightin’ for the sheep, have yuh?”
“Me?” shrilled Jimmy. “By jing, I ain’t! I hate ’em.”
Hork laughed and went into a back room to get the oil.
“It’s quite a battle, ain’t it, Jimmy?” asked Hashknife.
“Well, it ain’t—yet. Pa says she’ll be a humdinger. Which side are you
on, mister?”
“I reckon I’m on my side, Jimmy.”
“Uh-huh.” Jimmy scratched the calf of his leg with the big toe of his
other foot. “I’ll betcha they’ll make Jack Hartwell hard to catch.”
“Thasso? What did he do, Jimmy?”
“Jack Hartwell? Huh! Pa says he’s the son-of-a-gun that told the
sheepmen all about when and how to git in here. He ort to be shot,
y’betcha. He married a sheep-girl.”
“Did he?”
“Yeah. That was quite a while ago. Nobody liked him since. And his pa
is the biggest rancher in this valley, too. I know him and I know Mrs.
Hartwell, too.”
“Jack Hartwell?”
“I don’t mean him; I mean his pa and ma.”
“You don’t like Jack Hartwell, Jimmy?”
“Well,” the youngster hesitated, “I did—once.”
“Who is yore pa, Jimmy?”
“Gee, don’tcha know my pa? He’s the sheriff. I thought that everybody
knew my pa.”
“Here’s yore coal oil,” said Hork, coming in from the rear. “You tell
yore ma she better get a bigger can. That one just holds an even
gallon.”
“Ma knows it,” grinned Jimmy, holding it gingerly. “She measured it.
If it ain’t plumb full when I get home, me or you are goin’ to catch
thunder.”
Hork exploded with laughter while Jimmy went pattering out of the
store, watching his step closely.
“Jimmy is a great lad,” observed Hork. “He sure sees the funny side of
things. Was he tellin’ you about Jack Hartwell?”
“Yeah,” Hashknife inhaled deeply on his cigaret. “Jack Hartwell is in
kinda bad around here, ain’t he?”
“Well, it’s too bad,” admitted Hork. “Still, I reckon I ain’t in no
position to talk about it a-tall. If he done what they say he did, he
ought to get hung. But if he didn’t, he hadn’t.”
“Well, that’s justice,” said Hashknife seriously. “I hope he knows how
yuh feel about it.”
“I try to be fair about things.”
“Well, that’s right, I suppose. Sleepy, let’s me and you go and wrap
our insides around some ham and eggs. It seems like years and years
since I ate anythin’.”
They walked out and crossed the street to the restaurant, where they
had eaten the night before. They ordered a big meal and did full
justice to it.
“Now, we’ve got to face the sheriff,” said Hashknife, loosening his
belt. “I suppose he’ll rise up and tear his hair when he finds that
his roan horse is a casualty.”
“I s’pose,” agreed Sleepy dismally. “He’ll tell us that the roan was
worth five hundred dollars and that it could run faster than anythin’
on four legs.”
“Sure. If he don’t tell us that, he’ll swear that it was a family
heirloom. It was, all right. The fastest move it made was when it
started fallin’. Oh, well, human nature is queer.”
They paid for their meal and walked outside. The sheriff had just
ridden in and was talking to old Sam Hodges, of the Bar 77, in front
of Hork’s store. The sheriff still had the saddle in his arms.
“There’s our first difficulty, Sleepy,” said Hashknife. “We’ll go
right over and have it out with him.”
The sheriff scowled at them, as they came across the street.
“Hyah, sheriff,” grinned Hashknife. “You must be anticipatin’
somethin’ to be packin’ an extra saddle with yuh thataway.”
“Yeah?” The sheriff was not to be mollified. “Mebbe you fellers don’t
know where I got this saddle, eh? I got it off my roan horse.”
“Oh, is that so? By golly, you got out there quick.”
“Mebbe I did. And then what?”
Hashknife grinned widely and began rolling a cigaret.
“Before we go too far,” he said slowly, “would yuh mind tellin’ me how
many hundreds that roan bronc was worth?”
“Not a —— hundred! Fact of the matter is, he wasn’t worth six bits.
But that don’t tell me nothin’.”
Hashknife and Sleepy gawped at each other. It was unusual. In fact it
had never happened to them before. Old Sam Hodges grinned. The sheriff
had just told him enough to whet his interest in the matter. He
instinctively liked the looks of these two cowpunchers, and old Sam
was a pretty good judge of human nature.
“Somebody,” said Hashknife mysteriously, “shot that horse.”
“——, that wasn’t hard to see!” snorted the sheriff.
“When I was on him, goin’ as fast as he could go.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. We went to Turkey Track sidin’, like we said we would, but the
train was gone. We started back, like we intended to do, if the train
wasn’t there. And when we crossed the river, some folks started
throwin’ lead at us. By golly, they sure did heave the old shrapnel at
us.
“They chased us all the way to that little ranch on the creek, where
we busted into the house and the six-gun parade turned around and went
away. About a mile from the ranch, one or two of them bullets hived up
in the roan, and we had to do the last mile on one horse. Now, I dunno
how you folks do things around here, but I think it’s a —— of a way to
treat strangers.”
The sheriff squinted at Hashknife and turned to look at old Sam, who
was masticating rapidly and trying to figure out what it all meant.
Then he spat explosively.
“But who in —— was the shooters?”
“They never said,” replied Hashknife blandly. “Mebbe they thought it
wouldn’t make any difference with us. But I’d rather be shot by
somebody I know than by a total stranger. It ain’t etiquette.”
“It’s sure beyond me.” The sheriff shook his head. “Just why somebody
desires yore death is more than I can figure out. Do you fellers know
anybody around here?”
“Reckon not,” grinned Hashknife. “We never were here before.”
“And we ain’t comin’ ag’in,” declared Sleepy. “I don’t mind havin’ one
or two men shootin’ at me, but when they come in flocks—I’m through.”
“Well, they never scared the grins out of yuh,” observed old Sam
Hodges.
“Might as well grin,” said Hashknife. “Outside of the sheriff’s roan
horse, nobody got hurt; and we’ll pay for that.”
“Yuh will not,” declared the sheriff. “It wasn’t no fault of yours,
Hartley. I’d give all my horses to know why yuh was shot at. Kinda
looks to me like somebody mistook yuh for me and Sunshine.”
“Somebody that wants to wipe out the sheriff’s office?” asked old Sam
quickly. “Sudden, I’ll betcha that was it. Find yore enemy and you’ll
find the men that killed the roan.”
“The theory is fine,” agreed Hashknife. “But there’s one big flaw in
it, gents. One horse was a roan and the other is a dark bay. At night
nobody could identify ’em. And another thing; would they be lookin’
for you and Sunshine to come out there last night?”
“And that,” said old Sam, “picks a big hole in the idea.”
“Yeah, it does,” agreed the sheriff. “I’m goin’ to put this horse in
the stable and get me some breakfast. You fellers had breakfast?”
“Just exactly,” replied Sleepy.
“Well, I’ll see yuh later.”
The sheriff turned his horse and started to ride away, but drew rein.
A cowboy was riding toward them, coming in from the north. He swung
off his horse and nodded to Hodges.
“I wonder if Hork has got any ammunition,” he said.
“I ain’t been in there,” said Hodges, “but I don’t reckon he’s had
time to get any yet.”
“Uh-huh.”
The cowboy glanced at the sheriff and nodded. Then he looked at
Hashknife and Sleepy. For a moment he squinted, and a peculiar
expression flashed across his face. He turned awkwardly and struck his
shin against the wooden sidewalk, swore softly and went into the
store.
Hashknife pursed his lips and began rolling a cigaret. The sheriff had
seen Casey Steil’s face, which told him that Casey had recognized
these two men. Hashknife glanced up and found the sheriff looking
closely at him.
“You know Casey Steil?” he asked.
“Casey Steil?” Hashknife frowned. “Where does he live?”
“Uh-huh.”
The sheriff turned his horse and rode away. Hashknife looked
inquiringly at Sleepy, who grinned widely.
“Lives at Uh-huh, Hashknife. Didja ever hear of that town?”
“That was Casey Steil who just went into the store,” offered old Sam
Hodges.
“Thasso?” Hashknife squinted toward the closed door. “What made the
sheriff think I knowed that jigger?”
Old Sam did not say. He felt that it was none of his affair.
“Casey Steil worked for Slim De Larimore,” he said.
“Uh-huh.”
Hashknife did not seem greatly interested in Casey Steil. He turned to
Sleepy.
“Gimme yore Durham, cowboy. I scraped my pocket for that last smoke,
and this coat of mine is all wool.”
“Go and buy yoreself some tobacco, why don’tcha?” complained Sleepy.
“They sell it in that store.”
“All right, yuh doggoned miser.”
Hashknife stepped up on the sidewalk and went into the store. After a
moment Sleepy followed him, with old Sam limping along behind.
* * * * *
Casey Steil was at the counter, talking with Hork, who had taken
several boxes of cartridges off the shelf for his inspection. Steil
glanced quickly at Hashknife and busied himself reading the labels on
the boxes.
Hork sold Hashknife some tobacco, and when he turned back to Steil,
the Turkey Track cowpuncher had walked away and was heading for the
door. Hork grunted peevishly and put the boxes of cartridges back on
the shelf.
Old Sam Hodges had been watching Steil, and he knew that Steil had
walked away to prevent Hashknife from speaking to him. But Hashknife
merely glanced toward Steil’s disappearing back and began rolling a
cigaret.
“Wanted shells kinda bad,” observed Hork sarcastically. “Acted like he
was half asleep. Didn’t even seem to know what sizes he wanted. And
then—” Hork threw the last box back on a shelf—“he went out without
any.”
“That’s what is called lapse of memory,” said Hodges.
Hashknife glanced quickly at the old man, and they both grinned.
Hodges crossed the room to Hashknife and held out his hand.
“My name is Hodges—Sam Hodges of the Bar 77.”
“Mine’s Hartley—Hashknife Hartley of anywhere,” grinned the lanky
cowboy as they shook hands. “Sam Hodges, meet Sleepy Stevens. He
belongs to the same outfit that I do.”
“Glad to meetcha,” nodded Sleepy, holding out his hand.
They shook hands gravely, and the three of them walked out of the
store together. Casey Steil had mounted his horse and was riding out
of town.
“My place is almost due east from here,” said Hodges as they stopped
at the edge of the sidewalk. “Anybody can direct yuh. We’d like to
have yuh come out, gents. The Bar 77 ain’t no millionaire place, but
we eat three times per day, and there’s always plenty of room at the
table.”
“That’s sure nice of yuh,” smiled Hashknife. “We’ll likely be around
here a few days.”
“Fine. Come out any old time.”
The old man got into his buckboard and rattled out of town.
“Salt of the earth,” declared Hashknife. “I’ll betcha he’s as square
as they make ’em.”
“I won’t bet,” declared Sleepy. “Anyway, I’m more interested in Casey
Steil. He sure ignored us, didn’t he? Hashknife, that mean-faced
jigger almost swallowed his teeth. He was so darned scared you’d talk
to him that he barked his shins on the sidewalk. How come that yuh
didn’t speak to him?”
“That was up to him, Sleepy. Me and you know what Lee Steil used to
be, but we’ve got to give him the benefit of the doubt. If he’s
workin’ here and goin’ straight—good for him. He don’t need to be
scared of us.”
“I’ll betcha he wishes he knew that,” laughed Sleepy.
They walked down to the sheriff’s office, where they found Sunshine,
stretched out on a cot. He recognized them, but was in no mood to
enthuse over anything.
“I reckon I was pie-eyed last night,” he told them sadly. “My mouth
tastes like the bottom of a parrot’s cage today, so I know danged well
that I had a cargo aboard. What’s new? I heard Sudden swearin’ around,
but he didn’t think me worth while talkin’ to, I guess.”
“Nothin’ much new, Sunshine,” said Hashknife.
“Uh-huh. Ahem-m-m-m! Any news from the battle front, I wonder?”
“Not much. Somebody tried to play rough with us last night, but only
killed one of the sheriff’s horses.”
“Eh?” Sunshine sat up quickly. “Which one?”
“A roan.”
“Oh, that old jug-head! I’ve been tellin’ Sudden that the old roan was
dead, but wouldn’t lay down. What was it all about?”
Hashknife described how the sheriff had loaned them the two horses to
ride after the train, and of what happened later. Sunshine gawped
widely at the recital. He was still a trifle hazy from his potations,
but most of it percolated through his brain.
“Well, that’s what I call a —— of a note!” he declared. “Mistook yuh
for sheepherders, eh?”
“Very likely,” dryly.
“Still—” Sunshine scratched his touseled head—“they hadn’t ought to do
that either. You was horseback, wasn’t yuh? Uh-huh. And it was dark,
too. Come to think of it, it looks danged queer. How did they act?”
“Awful.”
“Oh yeah. Sudden know about it?”
“About all there is to know, Sunshine.”
Sunshine thought it over for a while, or tried to. Then he reached for
his boots and drew them on.
“Well, I dunno,” he said sadly. “I’m in no shape to work out puzzles.
I git kinda giddy in the head.”
The conversation lapsed. Sunshine tried to smoke a cigaret, but threw
it away in disgust. Finally the sheriff came back to the office and
sat down to smoke his pipe. He was not bubbling over with conversation
either, confining himself to cursing a pipe that is always stopped up.
Then came Doctor Owen, carefully removing his hat, mopping his brow
and adjusting his glasses.
“Old Ed Barber died at six thirty-two this morning,” he stated.
The sheriff’s pipe rattled on the desk top.
“The —— he did!”
“Yes. I suppose we shall have to hold an inquest.”
“H-m-m. Yeah, I reckon we will. By grab! Poor old Ed’s dead, eh?”
The sheriff picked up the pipe and polished the bowl with the palm of
his right hand.
“Old Ed was murdered,” he declared slowly. “Mebbe everythin’ is fair
in war, I dunno. This is goin’ to stir things up badly. I swore to
uphold the law, and I told ’em at the meetin’ that I’d do it, but by
——, I’m huntin’ for the men that shot old Ed. The law says that the
sheep have the same right as cattle, but in a case like this, I reckon
I’ll make a few laws of my own.”
“Don’t yell,” begged Sunshine, holding his head. “Sudden, you don’t
know how loud yore voice is.”
“You stay sober!” exploded Sudden. “I’m goin’ to need yuh, doggone
yore hide!”
“Oh, aw-w-w right!” Sunshine held his hands over his ears. “Jist don’t
yowl at me. I’ve got a headache, I tell yuh.”
Sudden turned to the doctor,
“We’ll hold the inquest tonight at the Arrow, Doc. I reckon we can
call in enough men for a jury.”
“Yes, I think we can, Sudden. Well, I will be going now.”
Sunshine sighed with relief when the doctor had gone.
“Too —— exact,” he said wearily. “Tellin’ us that old Ed died at
exactly thirty-two minutes after six. I’ll betcha he held a watch on
old Ed. What the —— was he tryin’ to do; find out if it was a world’s
record? Aw-w-w, gosh! I taste like Paris green!”
“You look like it, too,” stated the sheriff. “You better go and rinse
out yore system with strong coffee.”
“Oh, aw-w-w right.”
Sunshine groaned miserably and went in search of something bracing.
“What are you fellers goin’ to do?” asked the sheriff. “Are yuh goin’
to stay here a while, or are yuh pullin’ out?”
“Yuh don’t mind if we stay, do yuh?” asked Hashknife.
“No-o-o. I was just wonderin’, thassall. How long have yuh known Casey
Steil?”
“What makes yuh think we know him?”
The sheriff scratched a match and lit his pipe, which did not draw at
all well. He spat disgustedly and threw it on the desk.
“Tell us about this sheep trouble,” urged Hashknife. “We’ve heard
enough of it to make us curious.”
“Yeah?” The sheriff grinned wisely. “Curiosity killed the cat, yuh
know.”
“We’ll take a chance on the cats.”
“All right, they’re yore cats, Hartley. I don’t know neither of you
two fellers. Mebbe yo’re connected with the sheepmen, for all I know,
but the causes of this trouble ain’t secret. So I’ll tell yuh about
’em.”
* * * * *
The sheriff was not a story teller. At times he was forced to go back
and bring in other threads, but at last he finished, and attacked his
old pipe again, while Hashknife tilted back in his chair and squinted
at the ceiling.
“So old Marsh Hartwell turned down his son because he married Eph
King’s daughter, eh?”
“Well, Jack was an awful fool to bring her here, wasn’t he?”
“Accordin’ to yore liver and lights,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “On
the other hand it was the natural thing to do. Did you folks ever
think what a lot of —— it must’a been for that girl to have everybody
dislikin’ her?”
“Well, I s’pose it wasn’t so awful nice, Hartley.”
“And folks kinda turned Jack down, too, didn’t they?”
“Yeah, yuh might say they did. But lookin’ at it——”
“From yore point of view? Say, sheriff, you folks have lived in this
tight little valley until you’ve got so —— narrer that yuh could take
a bath in a shotgun barrel. A lot of you folks can’t see higher than a
cow’s vertebray. That’s a honest fact. I’m not tryin’ to start an
argument.
“You never stop to think that bein’ cattlemen or sheepmen is only
occupation, not blood. I’m not tryin’ to defend the sheep. I ain’t got
no more use for a sheep than you have. I hate the danged things. I
know what they’ll do to a range, and I know that the cattle business
is rockin’ on the narrow edge right now, on account of the sheep; but
I also know that sheepmen are just as human as cattlemen. They’re
mostly cattlemen gone wrong.”
“Well, we won’t argue about sheepmen,” said the sheriff. “Jack’s own
father accused him of bein’ a traitor, but I’ve got a sneakin’ idea
that it’s Jack’s wife, not Jack.”
“That’s sure a sneakin’ idea,” agreed Hashknife softly.
The sheriff caught Hashknife’s meaning, but did not show that it had
offended him. He was more sure now that Hashknife and Sleepy were in
some way connected with the sheep. Else why would Hashknife defend the
sheepmen?
“Are you fellers goin’ to try and get work around here?” he asked.
Hashknife smiled and shook his head.
“No, I don’t reckon we will, sheriff. We was takin’ a vacation, by
ridin’ that cattle-train East; but that idea got ruined, so we’ll
kinda mope around here for a while instead—if yuh don’t mind.”
“——, it’s a free country, gents.”
“Too —— much so,” grinned Sleepy. “Folks feel free to take shots at
yuh any old time. They really ought to have an open and closed season
on human beings.”
The sheriff laughed and began tinkering with his pipe, so Hashknife
and Sleepy got to their feet.
“Mind if we attend the inquest tonight?” asked Hashknife.
The sheriff looked up quickly,
“Be glad to have yuh, Hartley. Ride out with me, if yuh want to. If
yuh don’t want to ride Hartwell’s horse, I’ll get yuh one.”
“Much obliged, Sheriff. See yuh later.”
They went outside, leaving the sheriff debating what to do about them.
There was no doubt in his mind that they had purposely been left
behind by that train. It was all too obvious. And as long as they were
not in the employ of the cattlemen, it must be that they were employed
by the sheepmen to work behind the cattle lines. The sheriff decided
that these men were well worth watching. He did not care to share his
suspicions with any one, as he wanted full credit when the
_dénouement_ came.
* * * * *
That night the inquest over Ed Barber’s body was held in the big bunk
house at the Arrow. The low-ceiled room was hazy with tobacco smoke
when Hashknife and Sleepy went in with the sheriff. At sight of the
two strange cowboys the conversation stopped. Old Sam Hodges alone
greeted them kindly.
Matthew Hale, the prosecuting attorney, and Doctor Owen, the coroner,
had already drawn the jury, which consisted of Buck Ames and Mel Asher
of the 404, Cloudy McKay of the Arrow, Gene Hill of the Bar 77, Abe
Allison of the Turkey Track and Bert Allen of the Circle V.
Hashknife and Sleepy sat down near the door, feeling strangely out of
place. They studied the faces of the crowd and decided that there were
no mail-order cowpunchers present. They were a hard-looking,
bronzed-faced crew of men, unkempt, heavily armed. The sheep had
served to keep many of them from procuring clean clothes or using a
razor.
But none of them asked questions regarding Hashknife and Sleepy. The
fact that they had come with the sheriff kept many from wondering why
these two strangers came to the inquest. There was no delay in the
proceedings. Honey Wier was put on the stand and described how he had
found old Ed Barber, and what the old man had said to him.
“Nossir, he didn’t say who shot him,” declared Honey. “Somebody
sneaked in on the old man and popped him over the head, so he told me,
They tied him up. Nossir, he didn’t know who shot him.”
That was the sum and substance of the evidence. Old Ed had told them
practically the same story before the doctor had come. Doctor Owen
testified to the fact that the old man had died from two gunshot
wounds, which had been made by a .38-55 caliber rifle.
And with this evidence the jury brought in the usual verdict to the
effect that old Ed Barber had come to his death from gunshot wounds,
inflicted by a party or parties unknown.
“Well, I reckon that’s about all we can do,” said Honey Wier, as the
jury was dismissed. “Anyway, it’s all we can do until we can put the
deadwood on the men who done the shootin’.”
“Which can’t be done,” declared Abe Allison, a lean-jawed,
tobacco-chewing, wry-necked cowpuncher. “My idea is to wipe out all
them —— sheepherders, and by doin’ that we can sure hit the guilty
ones.
“By ——, that’s what I’d like to do.”
“Hop to it,” grinned Sam Hodges. “There ain’t nobody settin’ on your
shirttail, is there, Abe?”