“A hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars!” exploded Chuck Ring.
“Didn’t I tell yuh, Slim? Didn’t I? By golly, I knew what I was talkin’
about, didn’t I?”
“You said a million,” reminded Scotty McKay.
“What’s the difference? Dang near a million, ain’t it? I’ll betcha you
wouldn’t know the difference, if yuh saw the two amounts together. Just
think of a hundred and thirty-two thousand! Why, yuh can’t ee-magine
it!”
“Takes brains,” admitted Scotty seriously.
The representative of the express company nodded gravely, sucking
heavily on his cigar. He was seated in the sheriff’s office, occupying
the extra chair, while the two deputies squatted against the wall. Slim
Caldwell leaned back in his chair, feet crossed on top of his desk, a
frown between his eyes.
“That’s what it amounts to,” said the Wells Fargo man. “There’s a
five-thousand-dollar reward.”
“And who in hell,” said Chuck querulously, “would be fool enough to
trade yuh a hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars for five thousand?”
“That all depends on the point of view.”
“Well, I know what mine would be.”
“Yuh spoke of valuable packages,” said Slim.
“Yes, I did. There are two packages, each containing fifty cut diamonds.
These packages are worth twenty-five thousand each. There is one small
package containing a single diamond ring, worth ten thousand dollars.
Another package contains five platinum and diamond watches, valued at
seven thousand. A package of currency worth thirty-five thousand, a
canvas sack of gold worth ten thousand, and a package of negotiable
bonds, worth twenty thousand. In all there were seven packages.”
“Good God!” snorted Chuck. “Some fellers shore do have all the luck. If
I held up that train, I’d prob’ly get a mail-order catalogue.”
“You say you are not a detective,” said Slim.
“I am not; I merely represent the company. I don’t know what good a
detective would do in a case of this kind. It is merely a case of a lone
bandit holding up the train and making his getaway. His capture would
consist more of luck than anything else. As you have said, the
description of the robber would fit half the men in the Valley. And as
far as that is concerned, any one man in the Valley could have done the
job.”
“And he’d be a sucker to give it back,” declared Chuck.
“We don’t expect him to give it back. But to the man who can recover
that money--or rather the packages, intact--we will give five thousand
dollars.”
Slim did not tell the Wells Fargo man about his suspicions in regard to
Rance McCoy, but Merkle, the prosecutor, did, and the man came straight
back to Slim about it.
“With all that evidence, why don’t you arrest him, sheriff?”
“I can,” said Slim. “But you’ll never get yore stuff back. Old Rance
McCoy would see you and yore company in hell before he’d squawk. If you
want to pay a hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars for puttin’ him in
jail--it’s yore money. And if Merkle don’t quit blattin’ about what he
knows, we’ll never get it.”
“The prosecutor wants a conviction, of course.”
“And you want the money back,” said Slim dryly. “Mebby you better tell
Merkle to keep his mouth shut, eh?”
“Might be a good idea, sheriff.”
“Best in the world.”
Slim Caldwell left Chuck and Scotty at the office, saddled his horse and
rode away. He thought of going down to the Circle Spade and having a
heart-to-heart talk with old Rance, and was almost to the ranch before
he decided to postpone it for a while.
And instead of going to see old Rance, he swung off to the right and
went down to the big cut along the railroad. The coyotes and magpies had
been busy at the carcass of their Exhibit A, and there was little left
of it. Below the big cut, near Curlew Spur, was a crossing, where Slim
crossed the tracks and headed for the Half-Box R. It was not over two
miles to Butch Reimer’s ranch, and Slim found Butch at home with Billy
DuMond. The rest of the crew were working.
Butch greeted the sheriff pleasantly enough, but his small eyes showed a
certain curiosity over the sheriff’s visit. DuMond had not been to Red
Arrow since Rance McCoy had practically run him out of town, and Slim
thought he acted a trifle sheepish about it, although nothing was said
about the incident.
“What’s new on the robbery?” asked Butch.
“Nothin’ much, Butch. He got a hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars’
worth.”
“What do yuh know about that! Gosh, that was worth goin’ after, Slim.”
“Shore was.”
“Who have we here?” grunted DuMond.
Hashknife and Sleepy were riding up through the big gate, heading
directly to the ranch-house.
“I never seen them two before,” said DuMond.
“Howdy,” greeted Butch, getting to his feet.
The two cowboys dismounted and led their horses up to the porch.
“Howdy, folks,” smiled Hashknife. “Is this the Half-Box R outfit?”
“This is her,” nodded Butch.
“Fine. Take a look at that bay and see if yuh can remember who owned it
last.”
Butch walked down the steps and looked the animal over. Slim also moved
down and examined the animal.
“Wears my brand,” said Butch thoughtfully. “I don’t just remember that
particular animal. What about him, stranger?”
“That particular animal,” said Hashknife slowly, “was left in place of
my horse, night before last, in Welcome.”
“Yea-a-ah? Well, I’ll be darned!”
“And I thought yuh might know who owned the animal.”
“No-o-o-o, I can’t say I do. Funny he’d leave this horse and take yore
animal.”
“This one had a sore foot. That’s why we’re a day late in lookin’ up
that light-fingered jigger’s family tree.”
Butch Reimer laughed softly and looked at Hashknife. Slim did not grin.
He studied the horse closely and turned to Hashknife.
“I’m the sheriff of this county,” he said. “Name’s Slim Caldwell.”
Hashknife thrust out his hand quickly.
“Pleased to meet yuh, sheriff. My name’s Hartley. Meet my pardner,
Stevens.”
Slim introduced them to Reimer and DuMond.
“Goin’ to be around here a while, Hartley?” asked Butch.
“Long enough to see who got my bronc.”
“Oh, yeah. If you’re lookin’ for work, there’ll be plenty of it. Roundup
starts in a week or so, and there ain’t too many cow-hands in this
country.”
“We’re headin’ for Arizona,” explained Hashknife.
“Goin’ down where it’s hot, eh?”
“Why don’t yuh jist keep that horse?” queried DuMond. “He’s as good as
you’ll find.”
“Not if I can find mine,” smiled Hashknife.
“Lost horses are always best,” laughed DuMond.
“It ain’t so much the difference in the animals,” said Hashknife. “I
like to keep what I own.”
“Well, I never quarreled much if I got a fair exchange.”
“You probably wouldn’t.”
DuMond took a good look at Hashknife’s gray eyes and decided not to
carry the conversation any further.
“You boys goin’ on to Red Arrow?” asked Slim.
“We didn’t intend to,” replied Hashknife. “I’m sorry yuh don’t remember
who owned that horse, ’cause I’d shore like to find the ex-owner and
explain the difference between this bronc and the one he took from me.”
“Might as well take a look at the town,” suggested Sleepy. “We’re this
far, so we might as well go on.”
“Sure,” agreed Slim heartily. “Ride along with me.”
They left the Half-Box R and rode away toward Red Arrow together. Slim
was not very communicative, and Hashknife noticed that he looked often
at the bay horse.
“Not wishin’to get personal on short acquaintance,” smiled Hashknife,
“but haven’t you an idea who owned this horse, sheriff?”
“I can’t swear that I do, Hartley. Yuh might be fooled in a bay horse,
so I better keep my mouth shut. Stealin’ horses is a crime in this
country, yuh know.”
“I thought it might be. It is in several places I’ve been. Down at
Welcome I was talkin’ to a gambler, who used to deal at the Eagle in Red
Arrow, and he told me quite a lot about the place. His name was Warren.”
“Oh, yeah; Bill Warren. I heard he was down there. The Eagle has closed
its doors.”
“He said it probably would. Did McCoy go busted?”
“More than likely. His old man won pretty close to eight thousand the
night before it closed.”
“Did he pay it?”
Slim laughed shortly. “I dunno. Don’t see how he could. That’s a lot of
money, Hartley. Remember that feller DuMond yuh just met at the ranch?
Well, old Rance McCoy danged near killed him that night. He shore made
DuMond crawl.”
“Rance McCoy is pretty salty, eh?”
“About ninety-nine per cent.”
They crossed the river and were almost to town when Slim Caldwell looked
sharply at Hashknife.
“You don’t happen to be any relation to a feller named Hartley that was
up on the Thunder River range for a while a year or so ago, do yuh?”
“I dunno,” replied Hashknife. “There’s more or less Hartleys scattered
over the country.”
“Not this kind of a Hartley.”
“Colored one?” grinned Hashknife.
“Pretty much white, as far as I’ve heard.”
“I guess it wasn’t any of my relatives, sheriff.”
“Prob’ly not. It just struck me kinda queer that there should be two
Hartleys runnin’ around with Stevens for a bunkie.”
Hashknife’s face did not change expression, and when the sheriff looked
at Sleepy, there was only mild wonder in that worthy’s innocent blue
eyes.
“That shore _is_ funny,” said Sleepy seriously.
“There’s a lot of queer things in the world,” said Hashknife. “It kinda
amazes us three to think that there should be two sets of Hartleys and
Stevens runnin’ loose thataway. In fact, there ain’t many folks that
would believe it; so let’s not tell anybody else, sheriff.”
Slim eased himself in his saddle and nodded shortly.
“I don’t want to make myself out a liar,” he said seriously. “As far as
I know, there’s only one set.”
“And that’s no lie,” smiled Hashknife.
They rode past the little schoolhouse and saw Lila and Angel on the
porch, talking to each other. Hashknife happened to see the expression
on Slim’s face when he saw Lila and Angel, and he knew the sheriff was
annoyed.
“That was Angel McCoy and Lila Stevens,” said Slim. “At least, they say
her name is Stevens.”
“Thasso?” grunted Sleepy. “What do yuh know about that? I’ve knowed a
lot of folks named Stevens, but she’s the first one I ever felt like
scrapin’ up relationship with.”