Hashknife looked at Vane, a look of contempt that he made no effort to
conceal, as he said:
“Pardner, you’ve lived here so long, seein’ the same things, thinkin’
the same thoughts, that you’ve become so —— narrow that yore squinty
little brain can’t conceive of anybody doin’ humanity a good turn,
unless there’s somethin’ in it, some chance to feather yore own nest.”
Vane blinked angrily. Honey Wier guffawed loudly and slapped Chet so
hard on the shoulder that the foreman of the Arrow almost fell down.
“What do yuh mean by them remarks?” demanded Vane.
“Ne’mind,” said Honey. “He wouldn’t get it, unless yuh wrote it out on
paper, Hartley.
“Who the —— are yuh hittin’ around?” demanded Chet. “My ——, you ain’t
got no feelin’s a-tall, have yuh, Honey? Some day I’m goin’ to pack a
club for you.”
“I’ll use it on yuh,” nodded Honey, laughing.
“Aw, quit foolin’!” snorted Vane. “We’ve got to decide —— quick on
what to do about this. Where are these cattle, Hartley?”
“I don’t know,” replied Hashknife. “Perhaps they are on their way into
Sunland Basin.”
“Through the railroad route?” queried Chet.
“They haven’t gone over Kiopo Pass,” said Jack.
Marsh Hartwell swore feelingly,
“We might have known that Eph King was up to some dirty work. There
has been a reason for his delay in tryin’ to put sheep below the
dead-line.”
“We’re between the —— and the deep, blue sea,” said old Sam Hodges.
“King knew he had us cinched. Any time we go chasin’ after our cows
he’ll put the sheep across. And I’m bettin’ that he’ll know when we
start after the rustlers.”
“Yeah?” Vane drawled his question and looked meaningly at Hashknife
and Sleepy. “I’ll bet he will, too, Sam. Mebbe he’s gettin’ tired,
waitin’ for us to find it out.”
Hashknife got Vane’s meaning. He knew that the others got it, too.
They shifted uneasily. Hashknife grinned at Vane and shook his head
sadly.
“Pardner, you’ve got a thin soul. Somebody hinted that me and my
friend were employed by Eph King, and you accepted it as the truth.
Yore brain can’t hold more than one idea at a time, so I’m not goin’
to make yuh feverish by provin’ anythin’.”
“Don’t bother with him, Hartley,” advised Jack, and then to his
father, “Hartley is tellin’ the truth. I’d stake my life that he is
not workin’ for Eph King.”
“You ought to know,” growled Vane.
“Yeah, I ought to know!” Jack whirled angrily on Vane. “I do know.
Now, —— yuh, put that in yore pipe and smoke it!”
Marsh Hartwell stepped in between them, shoving Jack back.
“This is not the time to fight each other,” he said calmly. “I believe
that Hartley is doin’ this for our good.”
“Let him prove it, and I’ll apologize to him,” said Vane sulkily.
“I don’t want an apology from you,” smiled Hashknife. “Keep ’em to use
on yourself; you need ’em.”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!” howled Honey Wier. “Better’n a circus!”
Cliff Vane glared at Hashknife, but said nothing more. Marsh Hartwell
turned to the other cattlemen,
“Boys, if this tale is true, and I reckon it is, we’re up against a
stiff proposition. The rustlers have likely shoved a lot of our stock
half way to Medicine Tree by this time, and they know that we don’t
dare desert this dead-line.
“None of us have a title to enough of this range to stop the sheep
from occupying it, except by force. We can’t fence against ’em. Now
it’s just a question of two evils —sheep or the loss of our cattle.
There’s at least nine of the rustlers. If we even match numbers with
’em, it’ll weaken our line badly. Now, what’s to be done?”
The cattlemen shook their heads. Old Sam Hodges dug savagely into the
dirt with his cane, and turned to the soberfaced group.
“Boys,” he said slowly, “we’ve mistrusted Hartley and Stevens, and
we’ve done our darndest to mistreat ’em. Right now some of yuh still
think they’re crooked. Yeah, yuh do. But just to show yuh how I feel
about it, I’m suggestin’ that we ask Hartley what to do about this
proposition—and foller his idea.”
“I’ll tell yuh how I ——” began Vane, but Honey Wier interrupted him
with,
“Oh, you be ——ed! We know how you stand, Cliff.”
“I’m satisfied to do that,” said Marsh Hartwell slowly.
“Same here,” laughed Hall. “That skinny cowpuncher don’t look crooked
to me. Hop to it, long feller.”
Hashknife grinned and hitched up his belt,
“Yo’re askin’ me to do somethin’, gents. I never asked for a chance to
untangle yore hay-wire situation. Mebbe I ain’t got no better idea
than you have, but, if yo’re willin’ to trust me, I’ll do the best I
can.”
“How soon do yuh start, and can I go along?” queried Honey Wier. “I’m
tired as —— of makin’ dynamite bombs.”
“Dynamite bombs?” said Hashknife.
“We’re goin’ to attack the sheep tonight,” explained Hall. “And every
man will carry an armload of dynamite.”
“Oh, I see,” muttered Hashknife. “Well, yuh may not have to do
anythin’ like that. Have all the men got their bombs ready?”
“Yo’re danged right they ain’t,” laughed Honey, “and if they wait for
me to make ’em up, they never will have.”
“We’re all goin’ to meet here about nine o’clock tonight and get ready
for the attack,” said Marsh Hartwell. “Perhaps it would be best to
smash the sheep pretty badly and then go after the rustlers. While the
sheepmen are recovering from the battle, they’re not liable to try and
drive their sheep.”
“No, that ain’t the idea,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “I’ve been
doin’ a lot of thinkin’ lately, and the success of my idea hinges on
one thing. I can’t tell yuh what it is now, and it may look to you
like I’m crooked, but I’m takin’ that chance.
“Go right ahead with yore dynamite idea. If I’m wrong, I’ll throw a
few hunks of it myself, but don’t throw any until yuh hear from me.
C’mon, Sleepy.”
They climbed on to their horses, while the cattlemen watched them,
wondering where they were going, what they were going to do. But they
asked no questions. Vane grumbled profanely, but turned back to the
coffee pot, while Hashknife and Sleepy rode out through the brushy
trail, swung straight north and rode across the dead-line, heading
toward Eph King’s sheep camp.
No one challenged them. If any of the sheepherders saw them they kept
out of sight, knowing that two men would be taken care of by those at
the rear.
* * * * *
Bill Steen and Eph King were just riding into camp as the two cowboys
topped the hill above them. There were at least ten other men there,
eating a meal, who deserted their food at sight of the two cowboys;
but at a sign from Steen they went back and sat down again.
Hashknife and Sleepy dismounted, shaking hands with Steen, who
introduced them to King.
“We’ve met before, but not socially,” smiled King. “Bill was tellin’
me that you were up here to see him. I had an idea that you two might
be responsible for me bein’ in Totem City jail, but Jack didn’t think
so, and Bill wanted to make me a big bet that I was mistaken.”
Hashknife grinned and shook his head,
“I never put a man in jail, unless he deserved it, King.”
“Then yuh don’t think I deserve it, Hartley?”
“I didn’t think so. Right now I don’t know what to think. Either you
ought to be hung—or——”
“Or what?”
King looked curiously at Hashknife. The sheepmen heard what Hashknife
said, and one of them eased himself into a position whereby he could
draw a gun. The others looked at each other, and eating ceased.
“What did yuh mean by that, Hashknife?” asked Steen.
“C’mere.”
Hashknife led them away from the diners. Once out of earshot, he
squatted on his heels and began rolling a cigaret. Steen sat down
against a boulder and accepted a smoke, while Sleepy stretched out
full length and yawned wearily. King did not sit down.
“All right, Hashknife,” said Steen. “Tell us what it’s all about.”
“Yeah, I’m goin’ to do that, Bill. I came all the way up here to tell
yuh; but before I tell yuh all about it, I’d like to have yuh tell me
why yuh haven’t made any attempt to break through. You’ve been here
too long. There’s a reason why, Bill; and I want to know what it is.”
“Of what interest is that to you?” asked King.
“A whole lot,” said Hashknife quickly. “And by givin’ me that
information, I can probably save yore sheep, mebbe a lot of lives, and
I can put the deadwood on the guilty men.”
“Save my sheep?” King smiled. “Save ’em from what?”
“Nobody answered my question,” reminded Hashknife.
“What if they don’t?”
“Then we’ll have to ride away from here, thinkin’ that you are the
lowest coyote alive, Eph King.”
King’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
“Yo’re in my camp, Hartley. Maybe you won’t ride away.”
“Now wait a minute,” begged Steen. “Don’t anybody go off half-cocked.”
He looked up at King. “I know Hartley, Eph. He ain’t the kind to say a
thing like that without a good reason, and we’ve got to get this thing
right.”
“All right,” growled King grudgingly.
“Thank yuh, Bill,” said Hashknife. “Now tell me why yuh didn’t try to
force the sheep through.”
“Because it would be suicide, Hashknife. The plans went wrong. You
know as well as I do that we can’t get through.”
“Thasso?” Hashknife smiled thoughtfully. “And yo’re waitin’ until
somebody finds the hole for yuh to crawl through, eh?”
Steen and King exchanged glances.
“Yuh might figure it like that,” said Steen. “There’s no use in
sacrificin’ thousands of sheep and a lot of men.”
“That’s true,” nodded Hashknife. “Somebody ruined yore scheme, did
they?”
Neither of the sheepmen denied it. Hashknife turned to King.
“Did you know that Jack Hartwell’s wife has been missin’ since
yesterday afternoon?”
“Missin’?” King stared at Hashknife. “You mean that somethin’ has
happened to her?”
Hashknife described the condition of the house, and of finding the
dying man.
“That was Preston!” exclaimed Steen. “By ——, that’s what happened to
him. What did he say, Hashknife?”
“He said that Ed shot him, and that Ed took the woman.”
“Ed who?” asked King anxiously. “Who is Ed?”
Hashknife shook his head.
“We don’t know, King. There ain’t a cowman in Lo Lo named Ed. Jack
hasn’t the slightest idea where she is.”
King straightened up, his jaw shut tight, his big hands clenched at
his sides.
“By ——, I’ll find her,” he said painfully. “She’s had all the —— I’ll
ever let her have in this ——ed valley. That’s one of the reasons I
wanted to come down here and sheep ’em out. Just to show ’em, that’s
all.”
“And that ain’t all,” said Hashknife slowly. “While you and your sheep
have been holding the attention of the cattlemen, a bunch of rustlers
have been quietly liftin’ every head of stock in Lo Lo Valley. And
yo’re goin’ to be blamed for it all, King.”
“Wait a minute,” breathed King, squatting down on his heels. “Say that
again, Hartley, will yuh? Rustlers cleanin’ out the——”
“That’s what I said, King. Do you know the JN outfit?”
“Jack Noonan? Sure I know him.”
“Their horses carry his brand.”
King slowly turned his head and looked at Steen, who was staring at
him.
“And that ain’t all,” said Hashknife. “You could ’a’ shoved yore sheep
through that line any old time yuh wanted to. There ain’t over twenty
men on that line at any time.”
Steen squinted at Hashknife and spat thoughtfully.
“Is that right, Hashknife?”
“Would I lie to you, Bill?”
“No, by ——, I don’t think you would.”
“And so they think I’m a thief, do they?” gritted King. “They branded
me a thief years ago; so it’s easy for them to slap on the old brand
again. They think that I’m holdin’ ’em on this dead-line while my men
sneak in behind ’em and take their —— cows. By ——, that’s a good idea,
too good for me to ever think of doin’.”
Steen got to his feet and threw away his cigaret.
“I can see the whole —— thing, Eph,” he declared. “I’ve been afraid
that somethin’ was wrong.”
He turned to Hashknife.
“You know where to find these rustlers?”
“I know where their bed rolls were today.”
“Good!”
“All right, Bill,” said King firmly. “I reckon you’re right. Down
there in Lo Lo Valley the women have used my name to scare their kids,
and they’ve mistreated my little girl.”
He turned away and started down across the hills, his lips shut
tightly. Then:
“I don’t owe ’em anythin’, but by ——, I’m not goin’ to have anybody
stealin’ in my name—makin’ me blacker than I am. Tell the boys to get
their horses, Bill. We’re goin’ across that dead-line to help the
people that hate us.” He turned to Hashknife, a whimsical sort of
smile on his big face. “I reckon this kinda fits in with that idea of
turnin’ the other cheek, Hartley.”
“Sometimes it helps, King,” said Hashknife. “I’ve never lost much by
helpin’ an enemy.”
“I never did help one,” said King slowly. “Marsh Hartwell is the only
real enemy I ever had. We were friends once, me and Marsh. But I
reckon we both wanted to be the big man of Lo Lo Valley, and one of us
had to quit.
“The country was new then, Hartley, and we were a rough gang. There
wasn’t any law and order, and the man with the longest rope got the
biggest herd. Mebbe—” He smiled softly— “my rope was longer than
Marsh’s and he got jealous. Anyway, I went out with the brand of
thief. Bill is gettin’ the boys together, so we better get ready.”
They turned and walked back to the camp, where men were shoving rifles
into their scabbards and saddling horses, which they were bringing out
of the brushy cañon above the camp. And there was a grin of
anticipation on the faces of these sheepmen. They were tired of
inaction. King glanced at Hashknife and Sleepy’s saddles, and called
Steen’s attention to the fact that neither of them carried a rifle.
Steen handed each of them a rifle and a belt filled with cartridges.
“Noonan travels with a tough gang,” he told them. “Boomer Bates was
one of his men. I can see the whole plot now. King didn’t want to
believe it, but he does now. C’mon.”
They mounted and went down across the brushy hills, fourteen strong,
well-mounted, heavily armed, looking for trouble.
* * * * *
And about the time that the fourteen men rode away from the sheep
camp, Marsh Hartwell and his son rode away from the chuck wagon in Six
Mile gulch. The cattlemen had decided to wait until nine o’clock
before starting their offensive, taking a chance that Hashknife’s
scheme, whatever it might be, would work out.
About a mile south of the camp they met the sheriff and Sunshine, who
were seeking the latest news. They got it. Sudden rubbed his nose
until it looked like an over-ripe cherry.
“By ——, I’ve been expectin’ this!” declared Sunshine.
“You never expected nothin’,” snorted the sheriff. “Don’t say that yuh
have, ’cause yuh haven’t.”
“You don’t know what’s inside my head,” persisted Sunshine.
“The —— I don’t! Just like I know what’s in the hole of a doughnut.
Don’t argue with me about anythin’, Sunshine. Lemme think. By grab,
this is serious, don’tcha know it? Whole bunch of rustlers, eh? In
that old shack down there—hm-m-m! Well,” bravely, “there’s just one
thing to do, and that’s to go and heave some lead at ’em.”
“Don’t do it,” advised Marsh quickly. “That would chase ’em away,
don’tcha see, Sudden? We’ve got to nail that whole gang at once; put
enough men down there to stop every one of ’em, sabe?”
“And let Eph King send his sheep across, eh?”
“We got to take that chance, Sudden.”
“And Eph King knows it, I’ll bet.”
“You’ll probably win.”
“Uh-huh. Say, Marsh, let’s take a little sashay down that way. We can
kinda act like we wasn’t goin’ nowhere. Them jiggers are liable to
pick up their beds and pull out.”
“Let’s do that,” suggested Jack. “Let’s do somethin’ besides talk. My
——, I can’t stand it much longer.”
“You ain’t heard nothin’ from your wife?” Thus Sunshine.
Jack shook his head sadly.
“I’m afraid—now. With that bunch of rustlers around here, it’s hard to
tell what has happened to her. That sun is almost down—and she’s been
gone since yesterday. C’mon.”
They rode down through the hills, swinging to the east of the Arrow
ranch, taking a course almost directly between the Arrow and Jack’s
place. There were no cattle in sight. Ordinarily the hills were filled
with Arrow, Turkey Track and Circle V cattle in that part of the
range, but there were none of any brand now.
Suddenly the sheriff drew rein and pointed excitedly. About a mile
away a group of horsemen were riding swiftly in the direction of the
rustler’s shack. It was impossible to tell who they were or how many
men were in the crowd, but they were making good time, and going
almost away from the sheriff’s crowd.
“There they go!” blurted Sunshine. “And they’re goin’ like ——! I’ll
betcha they’re wise to somethin’ and are beatin’ it for the shack to
get their stuff.”
“It sure looks like it,” agreed the sheriff nervously. “We’re not
exactly equipped for battle, but we’ll give ’em a run for their money.
Hit the grit, boys!”
Only the sheriff and Sunshine had rifles, but Marsh and Jack gave no
heed to this, as they sent their horses into a swift run down through
the hills. The brush whipped into their faces and tore at their
clothes, but they stood up in their stirrups and prayed that their
horses would keep their feet over the rough going.
Then came the _spang!_ of a distant rifle shot, echoing through the
hills. It was followed by a scattering volley.
“Somebody has jumped ’em!” yelled the sheriff. “Ride ’em high and keep
goin’!”
* * * * *
But what the sheriff had thought was the rustler’s gang was
Hashknife’s crew from the sheep camp. He had led them straight through
the dead-line unchallenged, much to the wonderment of Eph King. No one
even questioned their right to pass, and Hashknife knew that the word
had not been passed to let them through, because no one knew that he
was going to bring a crowd back across the line.
Hashknife had taken them east from the sheep camp until almost due
north from the Turkey Track ranch, and then had twisted to the
southwest, crossing Slow Elk Creek and turning south.
Hashknife, King and Steen had talked over what they were going to do,
and decided to sweep down on the shack, kill or capture all the
rustlers in sight and then ambush the rest when they came. It was a
good scheme, and might have worked fine, except for the fact that two
men were at the corral and saw them top the crest of the coulée.
One of these men had a rifle in his hand and he proceeded to take a
snapshot at them before running back toward the shack. The sheepmen
jerked to a stop and fired a scattering volley at the two running men,
which did nothing more than kick up the dust or tear splinters off the
side of the shack.
Then they dismounted, scattered in the brush and started to surround
the shack, when several riders broke from cover farther down the
coulée and rode away at breakneck speed. They were evidently on their
way to the shack when the first shot was fired. Hashknife took a
long-range shot at them, but they were traveling fast through the
brush and his bullet did not stop any of them.
Those in the shack were not at all idle. They were all armed with
rifles, and they were making things warm for the sheepmen. Hashknife
and Sleepy crawled to a spot where they could shoot at a window, and
proceeded to flip the old curtain with such regularity that the
rustlers quit using that window as a loophole.
“This here is worth waitin’ for,” grinned Sleepy. “I wish I had my old
.45-70, Hashknife. This here .30-30 is all very fine, but them bullets
mushroom too quick. They don’t bore through them old weathered boards.
It’s like throwin’ rocks down there.”
_Wham!_
A bullet struck just in front of Sleepy, filling his eyes with dirt.
He rolled over, clawing at his face, trying to blink the gravel out of
his eyes.
“Somebody throwed the rock back at yuh, didn’t they?” asked Hashknife
humorously. “You forget that there’s desperate men in that shack,
cowboy.”
A man ran out of the shack and headed for the corral, where several
horses were tied. Twice he swerved, when bullets whizzed past his
ears, but before he could reach the horses he lunged sidewise and went
flat on his face.
“Must be gettin’ hot inside the shack,” observed Hashknife, as he
stuffed some cartridges into the loading gate of his rifle.
“I feel sorry for them poor —— down there.”
Sleepy squinted through his tears and spat painfully.
“Go ahead and feel sorry for ’em, if yuh want to, Hashknife. And if
yuh happen to have any sorrow left, pass it around to one whose vision
is filled with dancin’ stars. Talk about spots in front of yore eyes!”
Hashknife turned his head and looked back up the slope. Eph King was
running toward his horse, and as Hashknife watched him he climbed into
his saddle and spurred into a gallop. Hashknife squinted wonderingly.
King was traveling rapidly now, and Hashknife watched him crossing the
ridge behind them.
Four other riders had come into sight, riding in from the west, and
traveling fast, as if attempting to cut in ahead of King. One of them
fired a shot, and it appeared to Hashknife as if King almost fell off
his horse.
“Stick here and keep shootin’,” ordered Hashknife, backing out through
the brush. “I’ve got to make a call.”
Sleepy blinked through his tears at Hashknife, who was running low
toward his horse. Sleepy wiped his stinging eyes with the back of his
hand and settled down again.
“I’ll stick here,” he said aloud. “But I won’t guarantee to do any
shootin’. That danged cow thief down there almost rocked me to sleep.”
* * * * *
Hashknife reached his horse, mounted on the run and spurred away in
the direction taken by King. He topped the rise, riding high in his
saddle, but could see nothing either of the pursued or the pursuers.
He remembered that there had been several riders below the old shack
when the battle started, and he wondered if they had circled to attack
them from the rear.
But Hashknife did not waste much time in speculation. As fast as his
horse could run they went across that broken land of sage and
greasewood, heading northeast. He could not hear the shooting now. It
was slightly uphill now and the horse was tiring fast, but Hashknife
showed no mercy on his mount.
Off to the east, beyond the next ridge, several shots were fired, but
Hashknife did not alter his course. He tore his way up through the
brush and swung on to the old road. He drew rein long enough to scan
the country, but there was nothing in sight. Then he spurred on,
heading toward the Turkey Track.
Again he heard the faraway snap of a shot; too far away to interest
him now. At the same spot where he had watched the Turkey Track with
Sleepy and Jack Hartwell, he dismounted and left his exhausted horse,
head down in the greasewood thicket.
A cautious scrutiny of the Turkey Track ranch house showed him that
there was no one in sight, so he circled to the left, keeping himself
concealed, until he was almost at the rear of the place. Then he ran
swiftly across the open space at the rear of the house and slid into
the willows along Deer Creek. For several moments he remained quiet,
watching the house. He had been forced to cross in the open, and there
was a possibility of being seen.
Satisfied that no one had discovered him, he went swiftly down through
the willows until he was at the corral. Just beyond was the big
stable, and about a hundred feet beyond was the bunk house, a low
building. To the right was the ranch house.
Hashknife leaned against the corral fence and looked at the horses.
There were seven of them, nosing around at loose wisps of hay.
Hashknife grinned as his eyes shifted to four of them, which seemed
little interested in anything. Cautiously he worked around the side of
the corral and went over to the stable, where he glued his ear to a
crack.
Satisfied that there was no one in the barn, he circled the building,
with the intention of taking a look at the bunk house; but the fairly
close sound of a revolver shot caused him to draw back and run around
to the opposite side, where he peeked around the corner.
A black horse, now almost white with lather, stumbled into the yard,
its rider swaying sidewise in the saddle. It was Eph King. Behind him
came Marsh Hartwell, Jack Hartwell, Sudden Smithy and Sunshine
Gallagher. The sheriff drove his horse in close to King and caught the
big sheepman before he could fall from his saddle. The others were off
their horses immediately and helped place King on the ground.
Hashknife did not leave his position. Some one yelled a question from
the bunk house, and Hashknife saw Slim De Larimore, Curt, Steil and
Allison running from the bunk house to the group around King.