fresh chew and tried to think of some smart remark to hurl back at
Hodges, who was probably two or three answers ahead of Allison.
The prosecuting attorney, of the stolid, red-faced type, whose very
presence breathed the majesty of the law, scanned the faces of the
crowd until his gaze rested upon Hashknife and Sleepy. He had been
long in Lo Lo Valley, and knew every man, woman and child. After a
close scrutiny he turned to the sheriff.
“Sudden, who are the visitors?” he asked.
The sheriff squinted at Hashknife and Sleepy, and his eyes flashed
around the circle.
“Gentlemen, I don’t know,” he said mysteriously. “They laid claim to
being stranded from a cattle-train but their opinions has kinda led me
to think that mebbe the sheep was their reason for bein’ stranded.
Queer things has happened since they came, so I decided the safest
thing to do was to keep ’em kinda in sight. This might be a danged
good place to ask questions, folks.”
Hashknife and Sleepy had not moved. The sheriff’s words were as much a
surprize to them as they were to the crowd. Then one of the cattlemen
swore audibly and several shifted in their chairs.
“What do yuh mean, Sudden?” asked Marsh Hartwell, who had taken no
active part in the inquest, but had kept well in the background.
“Well,—” the sheriff shrugged his shoulders—“it might be a handy thing
for Eph King to have somebody behind our line, Marsh.”
“By —— that’s right!” exclaimed Cloudy McKay. “We’ll jist ask a few
questions.”
“And get answers,” snorted Gene Hill. “We’ll find ——”
The sheriff had made a move to get between Hashknife and the door, but
the lanky cowboy shot out of his chair and backed against the door,
covering the men with his gun, while Sleepy backed into a position
beside him, his gun tensed at his hip.
“Don’t move!” ordered Hashknife sharply. “I can see every man in this
room, and I’m gunnin’ for a move. Just relax, please.”
“I told yuh,” complained Sudden. “Yuh see now, do yuh?”
“Aw, shut up,” snorted old Sam Hodges.
“If you seen so——much, why didn’t yuh act before?”
“Yo’re all wrong, sheriff,” said Hashknife easily. “We’re not
connected in any way with Eph King nor the sheep interests.”
“Then whatcha make all this gun play for?” asked Gene Hill.
“Because a lot of —— fools like you ain’t got brains enough to try a
man before yuh hang him. Our answers to your questions wouldn’t suit
yuh at all, so we’d get hung. Sleepy, go out and get the horses ready,
while I keep ’em interested.”
Sleepy slid carefully outside. Old Sam Hodges laughed softly and some
one questioned him in a whisper.
“Why?” asked the old man. “Can’t I laugh if I want to? I was just
thinkin’ that it would be impossible for one man to stick us up, but
it ain’t. I ain’t got no more desire to draw a gun than I have to go
swimmin’. That one man ain’t got no more license to keep the drop on
us than anything, but he’s doin’ it.”
“Against the law of averages,” admitted Hashknife smiling. “But it’s
psychology, Hodges. I’m doin’ this to save my life. If killin’ me
would save yore lives, I’d live about a second. Don’tcha see the edge
I’ve got? I’ve got everythin’ to gain; you’d have everythin’ to lose,
without a chance of personal gain.”
Came a low whistle from Sleepy, who had led the horses up to the
doorway. Hashknife backed half way through the partly open door, still
covering the crowd. Then he fired one shot directly over their heads,
ducked back and sprang for his horse.
In a moment they were both mounted and spurring for the gate, while
the demoralized crowd in the bunk house bumped into each other,
swearing, questioning, trying to find out if anybody had been hit. The
shot had held them long enough for Hashknife and Sleepy to disappear
in the night, and when the crowd did manage to get outside, there was
not even the sound of galloping hoofs to tell which way the two men
had gone.
Some of the men mounted their horses, but did not leave the ranch.
There was considerable speculation as to where they might go, but Lo
Lo Valley was a wide place in which to search for two men in the dark.
They went back into the bunk house, where the sheriff was besieged
with a barrage of questions. He admitted that he had nothing except
his own suspicions to work on, but he pointed out that they had all
been held up at the point of a gun, and that the two men had made
their getaway.
“Yeah, they’re guilty of somethin’,” declared Gene Hill.
“Guilty of havin’ brains,” growled Sam Hodges.
“One of ’em is ridin’ yore horse, ain’t he?” asked Honey Wier.
“Yeah; the tall one. The other one is ridin’ a horse that belongs to
Jack Hartwell.”
“Jack Hartwell?”
“How’d he get that horse?”
“Where does Jack fit into this?”
“Are they friends of Jack?”
These questions and many others were hurled at the sheriff, who threw
up both hands and proceeded to tell just how and why Sleepy Stevens
was riding Jack Hartwell’s horse. He told them all about the killing
of his horse, or rather Hashknife’s version of it.
“But who would shoot at them?” demanded Marsh Hartwell.
“Search me,” replied the sheriff wearily. “I don’t _sabe_ it.”
“Aw, they’re lyin’ about it,” opined Allison.
“Wait a minute,” said Marsh, turning to Allison. “You were with Slim
De Larimore, Allison, when these shots were fired.”
“That’s right,” Allison nodded quickly. “Al Curt rode down here to see
if you knew what it was about. There sure was a lot of shootin’ goin’
on. We thought it was a battle somewhere along the line.”
“Do you suppose they ran into a bunch of sheepherders?” asked Sam
Hodges.
“I don’t know,” Marsh Hartwell shook his head. “It was behind our
lines, and I’d hate to think that the sheepmen could seep through that
way, Sam. And if they were down here, why start a battle with two men,
who were merely ridin’ along, mindin’ their own business?”
“Queer,” declared Sam Hodges. “In fact, it would take a lawyer to
figure it out. Where’s Matt Hale?”
“He beat it for home,” laughed a cowboy. “As soon as Matt got outside
he fogged out.”
“That six-gun made him nervous, I guess,” laughed Sam. “It made me
nervous, too. If I’m any judge of human nature, that long-geared
puncher would shoot at the drop of the hat, and drop it himself.”
“Yeah, he’s a gunman,” agreed the sheriff. “They both are. And what
would two gunmen be doin’ around in a strange country, I ask yuh?”
“Which don’t get a rational answer from anybody,” said Honey Wier
disgustedly. “It’s time we went back to the seat of war and gave the
rest of the boys a chance to grab a cup of coffee.”
“That’s about right,” agreed Marsh Hartwell. “We’ll let the sheriff
grieve over his lost horse, while we protect our own.”
“I ain’t goin’ to grieve a whole lot,” declared Sudden. “Just now I
feel like a —— fool for denouncin’ these two men, and lettin’ ’em get
away. They won’t be noways friendly to me.”
“If you wanted their friendship, why didn’t yuh keep your mouth shut
until you have evidence to work on?” asked Hodges. “You plumb ruined
any chance to connect them with any crime. They know how everybody
feels toward ’em, and if they are with the sheep, all they’ve got to
do is ride behind the line. And right now I’m ——ed if I care to face
them across a dead-line.”
“I reckon we can handle ’em,” said Allison.
“You can have my share, Allison.”
“——, they ain’t much.”
“Let’s get back to the line,” said Marsh Hartwell. “If Eph King
planted those two men behind our lines, they’ve failed to do him any
good. From now on we’ll be on the lookout for them. Let’s go.”
* * * * *
Hashknife and Sleepy rode blindly into the hills. Their main idea was
to put a certain distance between themselves and the Arrow ranch,
which they proceeded to do as rapidly as possible. There was no moon
yet. As soon as they were far enough away to preclude possibility of
pursuit, they drew rein and debated on their next move.
“We’re in a sweet mess,” declared Sleepy. “Everybody and their
brother-in-law will be gunnin’ for us, Hashknife.”
“Sure thing. What struck that danged sheriff? I never expected
anythin’ like that, did you?”
“I’m gettin’ so I never know what to expect in this life. What’ll we
do now? Every hand will be ag’in’ us, cowboy.”
“Two poor little orphings, Sleepy. Honest, I feel like cryin’. If I
didn’t wear long pants, I’d sure bawl a plenty. But I have to laugh
when I remember how them jiggers looked at us. They sure didn’t want
to set there with folded hands, did they? I sure looked for one of ’em
to make a break, but they remained comatose.”
“Yeah, and we’ll remain comatose, if some of them fellers run across
us in their present frame of mind. Where do we go?”
“I dunno,” confessed Hashknife. “As far I can see, we ain’t got no
place to go. The sheriff will probably arrest us for horse stealin’,
and—aw, I dunno. Let’s go and visit Jack Hartwell. Nobody likes him,
and misery likes company.”
“All right,” laughed Sleepy. “Which way is his place from here?”
“Where is here?” asked Hashknife. “We’re kinda lost, Sleepy.”
It was so dark that they had lost all sense of direction, and they
knew it would be several hours before the moon came up.
“Well, we won’t get there unless we start,” declared Hashknife. “Jack
Hartwell lives somewhere, and if we go far enough we might strike a
road. C’mon.”
Hashknife instinctively swung to the left, and they started out in
singe file. It was slow traveling, as the country was broken up with
small cañons, washouts and brushy swales, where they were forced to
swing wide in order to cross.
For about an hour they poked aimlessly along, hoping to cross a road
or run into some sort of habitation.
“I’ll betcha we’re in another county,” said Sleepy. “We’ve come miles
and miles. I figure that we’ve passed Jack Hartwell’s place.”
“Mebbe, perhaps and probably,” agreed Hashknife. “If that old moon
would only come up we might be able to see somethin’. But, in the mean
time, we might as well keep movin’.”
For about thirty minutes they kept going, but now they were bearing to
the right a little. The hills had become more precipitous, and they
felt that they were altogether too high to strike their destination.
Then Hashknife discovered a light. It was quite a way below them, but
it did not take them long to find that it was a light in a ranch house
window. It was plainly evident that it was not Jack Hartwell’s place,
as it was a much larger ranch house. They found the gate, and rode up
to the house.
The light they had seen was from a kitchen window, so around to the
kitchen door they went and knocked loudly.
“Whasamalla you?” called a Chinese voice.
“Little of everythin’, John,” laughed Hashknife. “We’re lookin’ for
information.”
“Yessah?”
The Chinaman evidently misunderstood. He opened the door a little, and
peered out at them.
“What ranch is this?” asked Hashknife.
“Tu’key Track, yo’ _sabe_?”
“Turkey Track, eh? Anybody home?”
“Yessah—me.”
“Good. Now that yo’re at home, John, mebbe yuh can tell us how to find
Jack Hartwell’s place.”
“Jack Ha’twell? Yessah, I _sabe_. Yo’ want find him place?”
“If it ain’t stretchin’ yore imagination too much.”
“Yessah. Yo’ go those way.” He pointed back across the kitchen. “Yo’
find road pretty quick. Bimeby yo’ find Ha’twell place.”
“Uh-huh,” nodded Hashknife. “I _sabe_ fine, John. Much obliged.”
“Yessah, yo’ find plenty good now. Goo’-ni’.”
He shut the door in their faces, and they heard him drop the bar into
place.
“Yuh can’t beat a chink for caution,” laughed Hashknife, as they
mounted their horses. “We must ’a’ swung away north of Jack Hartwell’s
place.”
They left the Turkey Track and soon found that they were on the old
road of the night before. The horses were willing to follow this,
after miles of brushy going. About a mile along the road they suddenly
drew rein. Some one ahead of them had lighted a match.
They drew off to one side, and in a minute a rider passed them,
puffing on a cigaret. They gave him plenty of chance to ride on,
before they swung back into the road.
“That was probably one of the Turkey Track riders, who was at the
inquest,” said Hashknife. “I’ll betcha they’re all wonderin’ where we
went.”
“I’ll betcha I don’t care,” said Sleepy. “I’m wonderin’ what’s goin’
to become of us. We can’t buck the whole county, Hashknife.”
“Not all at once, Sleepy. We may have to make ’em form a line. Right
now I feel so danged sleepy that I don’t care what happens.”
“I hope I never get that way. When my hide is in danger, my skin
tightens up so much that I can’t shut my eyes.”
* * * * *
They rode in at the gate of Jack Hartwell’s place and dismounted at
the corral. There was no sign of a light in the house. They unsaddled
and put the horses into the the little corral, threw them some hay and
debated on what to do.
“Will we wake ’em up?” asked Sleepy.
“Not under the circumstances. We’ll see if there’s some hay in his
little stable, and if there is, we’ll hive up there for the night. It
ain’t noways healthy to go knockin’ on ranch house doors at night in
Lo Lo Valley. In the mornin’ we’ll start in clearin’ the atmosphere
around here.”
“What do yuh mean, Hashknife?”
“Why, kinda settlin’ arguments and all that.”
“Oh, yeah. Listen to me, cowboy: Our best bet is to slide out of here
as fast as we can. We’ll never get anywhere in an argument with these
folks. The best we can hope for is a chance to write our last will and
testament, as the lawyers call it. My idea of a good time would be to
sneak over to Turkey Track crossin’, flag down the first train and
hook our spurs into a cushion seat. We ain’t got no business around
here.”
“All right,” Hashknife sighed heavily. “I didn’t know you was the
runnin’-away kind, Sleepy. Have you forgotten last night? Have you
forgiven them men for shootin’ a horse out from between the legs of
your little friend? And last, but not least, do you want to run away
from these kind folks, who like us so well that they want to fix it so
we’ll never leave their soil?”
“Mm-m-m, well,” hesitated Sleepy, “let’s see if there’s any hay in
this stable. If there ain’t, we can carry some in from the stack.”
* * * * *
And that same night Eph King stood in the light of one of the
camp-fires and gazed off into the night; a huge figure of a man, his
deeply lined face high-lighted in the glow from the fire, his head
bared to the wind. Near him crouched the wizened old man who did his
cooking, poking coals around a huge coffeepot.
The little cook straightened up and looked at King.
“Want a cup of hot coffee?” he asked.
King shook his head slowly.
“No, Shorty.”
“Uh-huh.” The cook squinted out into the night. “It ain’t like I
expected, is it to you?”
“What’s that, Shorty?”
“The fight. I had a idea that there’d be a lot of shootin’ and all
that. But all we’ve done is to set here. A lot of the men was arguin’
about it last night. Some of ’em wondered if you was afraid to bust
that line, or if you was tryin’ to play safe and wait a while.”
“I wondered what they’d think, Shorty.” Eph King turned his back to
the fire and gazed back toward Kiopo Pass. “We’ll go just as soon as
the word is passed. I don’t want to see a lot of killin’, when we can
get what we want without it. Once we get on to the lower ranges, the
law will take care of us. Possession is nine points in the law,
Shorty.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that, King. Well, mebbe yo’re right. When a feller
is dead, he’s jist dead, thassall. It’s plumb easy to kill a man, but
there ain’t nobody found out how to unkill him.”
Eph King smiled grimly. Shorty Jones had been working for him ever
since he had started into the sheep business, and was more like one of
the family than a hired man.
“But what I don’t _sabe_,” remarked Shorty, “is what yuh mean by
havin’ the word passed. Yo’re the boss, King.”
King shrugged his shoulders.
“I can’t tell you right now, Shorty. I may be an awful fool, but I
don’t want every one to know it ahead of time.”
A man came out of a tent and approached the fire. As he came into the
light, King spoke to him.
“How’s the arm, Mac?”
It was the man who had carried the note to Molly Hartwell.
“’Sall right, boss,” he said. “Scraped the bone and took away a little
meat. Got her bandaged tight and can’t use it, but it’ll be all right
pretty soon.”
“Want some coffee, Mac?” asked Shorty.
“Yeah, I’ll drink a cup, Shorty.”
As the little cook bustled away after a tin cup, another man came in
out of the night, leaned his rifle against the side of a tent and came
over to the fire. It was Steen, the foreman.
“Well, what do yuh know, Steen?” asked King.
“Not much, boss. They held an inquest at the Arrow tonight. There were
two strange cowpunchers there, and somebody passed the word that they
were spies for you. They got away. Jack Hartwell and Molly are in
danger right now.”
Shorty came back, carrying several cups, which he filled and passed
two of them to Steen and the one called Mac.
“They’re sure that either Jack or Molly are spies,” said Steen. “And
that’s about all I can find out, except that we’ll have to wait a
while longer. The cattlemen don’t _sabe_ us, and they’re watchin’ the
line pretty close. We might make a bluff to get through on the west
end tomorrow.”
King did not reply to Steen’s suggestion. The foreman placed his cup
on the ground and squatted on his heels while he rolled a cigaret.
Then:
“Steen, do you know what kind of fish yuh could catch, if yuh used
about thirty thousand sheep for bait?”
The foreman looked up at him blankly.
“I dunno what yuh mean, boss.”
“I didn’t think yuh did, Steen. You ain’t that kind.”
He turned to Mac.
“Think you could find that old Morgan place again, Mac?”
“Yeah.”
“All right. We’re going down there tonight.”
“Better not,” advised Steen. “They’ve plugged all the holes, and yuh
might run into some hot lead.”
“We’re goin’ down,” said King firmly.
Steen knew better than to voice any more objections. When Eph King
made up his mind to do a thing, nothing would stop him. He offered to
go along, but King objected.
In a few minutes Mac and King left the camp, heading in a
southeasterly direction. They passed through the bedded sheep and
worked their way down Slow Elk Cañon. It was so dark that the Bar 77
men were unable to distinguish an object at three feet distance, and
as a result they passed safely through the dead-line.
From there it was an easy task to follow the creek to the old Morgan
place. Hashknife and Sleepy heard them walk past the stable, talking
in an undertone. Without a word the two cowboys crawled out of the hay
and opened the stable door. King and his companion had reached the
door of the ranch house, and their knocking was audible to Hashknife
and Sleepy.
“What do yuh make of it?” whispered Sleepy.
“I dunno. Mebbe they’re friends, Sleepy.”
There was a long period of silence, and then some one called from
inside the house.
“This is Eph King talkin’,” replied King.
Hashknife and Sleepy were unable to hear what was said, but a moment
later a lamp was lighted, and the door opened. The two men went inside
and closed the door.
“Eph King, eh?” grunted Hashknife. “Oh, what a chance for the
cattlemen, if they only knew it.”
“We might capture him and get in good with the cows ag’in,” suggested
Sleepy.
“And plumb ruin our conscience,” declared Hashknife. “We’re goin’ back
to bed and forget what we’ve seen and heard.”
They piled back into the hay, but not to sleep.
* * * * *
Jack Hartwell faced Eph King and the man he had knocked down, with a
cocked six-shooter. He was still a trifle hazy with sleep, but managed
to keep them the width of the room away.
“What do you want here?” he demanded.
“I want to see Molly,” said Eph King softly. “I heard tonight that she
is in danger, Hartwell.”
Jack turned toward the bedroom door to call her, but she had thrown a
wrap around herself and was opening the door as Jack turned. She
blinked at her father.
“Dad, what are you doing here?” she asked.
“Hello, Molly. I came to see yuh, that’s all.”
“But, Dad, don’t you realize——?”
“I realized that my runaway daughter was in danger, so I came to find
out just how real it is.”
“It’s real enough,” said Jack bitterly. “And if any one saw you come
here, it would be ten times worse, King. They’d hang me for havin’ you
in my house.”
“They didn’t see me, Hartwell. It’s too dark for that. I’ve come down
here to ask yuh both to go back with me. I can send you over into
Sunland until this trouble is over.”
“Well, that’s fine.” Jack’s lips twisted sarcastically. “You’d like to
make me out a traitor, wouldn’t yuh? I suppose that would fit in with
yore idea of gettin’ even with Marsh Hartwell, eh?”
“It’s better to be a live coward than a dead hero.”
“Is it? You ought to know, King.”
The big man’s eyes hardened and he started toward Jack, but the big
revolver in Jack’s hand did not waver, so he stopped.
“Jack, don’t do that,” begged Molly. “Dad means it all for the best.”
“For the best—yeah, that’s true,” nodded Jack, but added, “for
himself.”
“All right,” King turned and looked at Molly. “You go with me, Molly.
You can’t stay here any longer. They’ve given you a hard deal, girl.
Oh, I know all about it. They treated you like dirt because you
happened to be my daughter, but I’ll even things with ’em for that. By
——, I’ll sheep out Lo Lo Valley, if it’s the last thing I ever do.”
“That’s fine,” laughed Jack. “Ever since I was a kid I’ve heard that
you were goin’ to do that, King. Women used to scare their kids by
tellin’ ’em that Eph King would get them if they wasn’t good. That’s
what folks over here think of you.”
The big man’s fierce expression softened to one of pain. He looked at
Molly for several moments before turning back to Jack.
“They didn’t do that, did they, Jack?” he asked, half whispering.
“The —— they didn’t!”
“They—they made ’em afraid of me—the little kids?”
King took a half step toward Jack, ignoring the gun. It is doubtful
that he remembered the gun. Jack nodded emphatically.
“I’ve heard ’em say it, King. I’ve seen kids playin’ a game. They’d
draw straws to see who’d be King, and he’d have to run the gauntlet.
They’d take slats——”
“Don’t say that!” King rubbed the back of his right hand across his
eyes, as if bewildered. “My ——! Even the little kids.” He grasped the
back of a chair to steady himself. “Why did they do that? I’ve never
harmed a kid. Good ——, what do they think I am?”
“And they think the same of Molly, I suppose,” said Jack wearily. “I
didn’t give her a square deal by marryin’ her and bringin’ her here.
But I didn’t think how it would be. I married her because I loved her,
King. I didn’t ask you for her. I took her. You would have interfered
if you had known about it.”
“No, Jack,” King whispered his denial. “Molly had a right to her own
happiness.”
“Then why did you use her to spy on us?”
For several moments no one moved or spoke. Eph King looked at Molly,
whose face had gone white.
“That’s the rub,” said Jack harshly. “—— knows I don’t blame her,
after what she’s had to stand, but you should have known that she
would be suspected. And you sent that note.”
“That note?” King’s voice was husky.
“The note that that man—” pointing at Mac—“brought. The note that
caused me to cripple him, King. I got a corner off it, anyway. I
reckon you were willin’ to take any old kind of a chance to get
information. You knew that the men of Lo Lo never hang women, so you
used my wife.
“Oh, it don’t matter much now, except that it will cause a few men to
lose their lives, and the sheep will make a dust pile out of Lo Lo,
like you promised. They’ve branded me a traitor, because Molly is my
wife. I wanted you to know all about it, King. But I’m not runnin’
away. I won’t blame Molly if she goes back to you—but I’d—I’d miss her
somethin’ awful.”
Jack turned and looked at Molly, as he finished speaking. She shook
her head slowly, her eyes filled with tears.
“Well——”
King sighed deeply and moistened his lips with his tongue. He seemed
undecided what to say. There was nothing arrogant about him now;
nothing that would brand him as the hard fighting sheep king. He
seemed to have grown suddenly old.
“I’m not going, Dad,” Molly whispered.
“No, I don’t suppose so,” said her father dully.
He stared down at the floor for several moments. Then he looked up and
shook his head.
“That was awful—about those kids,” he said slowly. “I don’t think I
deserved that. I—I don’t mind about the grown folks—but kids—little
ones.”
He turned toward the door, as if to leave the room. Mac stepped in
front of him, opened the door and started outside, when there came the
sound of a sudden blow, followed by the ringing report of a rifle. Mac
spun on his heel and fell face-down on the floor.
* * * * *