Hashknife rode across to the bridge and headed back to Red Arrow. The
news of Ed Corby’s death had flashed over the range, and many men came
in to look at him and to wonder why anybody should shoot an inoffensive
man like Corby.
Butch Reimer was in town and Hashknife met him at the sheriff’s office.
There was no question about Butch being nervous over the killing of
Corby. He had lost his usual air of bravado. Sleepy told Hashknife that
Butch had asked about him as soon as he came to town, and Sleepy had led
him to believe that Hashknife was still in town.
Sleepy had little else to report. Hashknife asked him if he had seen Jim
Langley and Angel McCoy, but Sleepy hadn’t. As far as he knew they had
not been in town that morning.
About an hour later, Chuckwalla, Monty, and Steve came to town. They
wanted to hear more about the shooting at Reimer’s ranch, and Chuckwalla
wanted to find out if Rance had any money in the bank to pay off the
boys. It did not take long for Chuckwalla to find out that the bank did
not give out any information, and they also told him that any money
taken from the bank would have to be on a check signed by Rance McCoy
himself.
Chuckwalla politely told Hale to go to hell, and left the bank bristling
with anger. He explained the situation to Monty and Steve, who told him
not to worry about them. Hashknife had talked with Slim, and had finally
convinced Slim that Chuckwalla had nothing to do with the escape of
Rance McCoy.
Hashknife found Butch Reimer in the Red Arrow, and asked Butch for a
description of Kid Glover, which was willingly given. It tallied very
well with the man Hashknife had seen.
“You ain’t seen him, have yuh?” asked Butch anxiously.
“I think so, Reimer. Anyway, I saw a man of that description ridin’ my
gray horse.”
“Why didn’t yuh kill him?”
“Didn’t think of it in time. I was wonderin’ what he’s doin’ around
here. After I find out, I’ll probably have to kill him.”
“Well, don’t wait too long. I tell yuh, the man’s a dirty snake.”
“You didn’t seem to think so the mornin’ I first came to yore place,
Reimer.”
“Yeah, I did; but--well, he’d been with me a long time. Yuh see--”
confidentially--“I had a quarrel with him, and I told him I’d kill him
if he didn’t leave the country. I can’t tell yuh any more about it. I
suppose his horse went lame; so he traded with yuh.”
“And then came back to get yuh, eh?”
Butch’s eyes shifted nervously.
“I’ll be damned if I know, Hartley. But I’m scared he mistook Eddie
Corby for me last night. I ain’t got a bit of evidence ag’in’ him--but
somebody made a mistake. Corby never had an enemy around here. He never
done anythin’ to make an enemy.”
“He must be pretty sore at yuh, Reimer.”
“Well, I didn’t know it was that bad. I’ll sure keep my eyes open--and
you better do the same. I told Slim just what I told you. Glover would
kill yuh, if he thought yuh owned that gray horse. You take my
advice--and shoot first.”
“Well, I’m not goin’ out to find him, if that’s what yuh mean, Reimer.”
Slim was interested in Hashknife’s story of seeing Kid Glover. Merkle
had been down to see him, demanding more action from the sheriff’s
office.
“I’ve either got to arrest somebody pretty soon, or I’ll take a punch at
Merkle and resign my office,” declared Slim. “I don’t even know where to
start in. It’s all mixed up.”
Hashknife agreed with Slim. There did not seem to be anything to work
on.
“Don’tcha know _anythin’_?” wailed Slim. “I admit that I ain’t got no
brains, Hashknife. The only thing I can think of doin’ is to take a shot
at everybody and then go on a long vacation. I’m gettin’ jumpy, I tell
yuh.”
But Hashknife could offer no clues. He had a few theories of his own
regarding things; but nothing for a sheriff to work on. Chuckwalla and
his two men had left town about noon, and about two hours later Monty
Adams rode back and came to the sheriff’s office.
“Here’s a funny deal,” he told Slim. “While we was all in town this
mornin’, somebody got into the ranch-house and upset the whole place. I
dunno what they was lookin’ for, but they shore searched the old place.
Even tore the blankets off the beds and smashed open an old trunk.”
Slim shook his head wearily.
“Burglars, too, eh? By God, the next thing we know, we’ll be havin’ our
pockets picked. What would anybody search the Circle Spade for?”
“That’s what we’d like to know,” replied Monty. “Chuckwalla thought yuh
might like to know, Slim.”
Hashknife grinned to himself, because he had seen Jim Langley and Angel
McCoy going toward the Circle Spade. Were they expecting to find the
hidden treasure in the ranch-house, he wondered? Did they think Rance
McCoy had cached the loot from the Wells Fargo in his own house?
But as suddenly the inward grin departed. He seemed to hear Jim Langley
saying:
“I’ll bet yuh ten-to-one he never comes back.”
Hashknife jerked out of his chair, swung out of the office, and headed
for the Red Arrow, where he knew he would find Sleepy.
“What happened to the clam?” wondered Scotty McKay aloud. Scotty was
still bandaged, but able to be about.
“Didja see him shoot out of here, Slim?”
Slim nodded wearily.
Hashknife started for the Red Arrow, but changed his mind and went to
the post-office, where he inquired for mail. He knew there would be
none, but he wanted a chance to converse with the postmaster, an old,
gray-bearded man.
“You know Kid Glover, don’tcha?” asked Hashknife.
“Not very well,” smiled the postmaster. “He seldom came in here.”
“Didn’t get much mail, did he?”
“Not much. He used to get a letter once in a while when he worked for
Jim Langley.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Oh, a year or so. Do you know him?”
“Never met him.”
Hashknife went across to the Arrow, where he found Sleepy watching a
poker game. Sleepy followed him outside and they went to the stable,
where they saddled their horses. Sleepy asked no questions until they
were a mile from town, traveling north along the JML road. Then--
“Where are we goin’, Hashknife?”
“Jim Langley’s ranch, Sleepy.”
“Trouble?”
“Not unless somebody else starts it.”
Neither of them had ever been at the JML, but they knew it was at the
end of the road.
The JML was located on the bank of Lava Creek, near where it emptied
into Red Arrow River; a two-story ranch-house, unpainted, one-story
bunk-house, a stable bigger than the house, and numerous sheds and
corrals. It was rather a picturesque old place, situated on an elevation
which gave them a free view of the long sweep of hills to the south. To
the east, only a short distance away, was the broken expanse of old lava
beds.
Hashknife and Sleepy rode boldly up to the house and dismounted at the
rickety front porch. There was no sign of life about the place until
they walked around to the rear door, where they found Roper Briggs and
“One-Eye” Connell, the JML cook. They were squatting on their heels near
the kitchen door, but at sight of Hashknife and Sleepy, Briggs got
quickly to his feet. He knew who Hashknife and Sleepy were, but did not
speak until Hashknife smiled and nodded to both of them.
“How do yuh do,” said Briggs drawlingly, and it seemed to Hashknife as
though Briggs’s eyes darted toward the open kitchen door.
“Just ridin’ around,” said Hashknife easily. “Where’s Langley?”
“Dunno.”
Briggs turned his head and looked toward the hills. One-Eye continued to
glare with his remaining optic, but did not open his mouth. One-Eye was
about sixty years of age, his sullen old jaws covered with a growth of
gray bristles.
“Ain’t home, eh?” queried Hashknife.
“He ain’t,” said Briggs flatly. “Whatcha want?”
“Nothin’ much. We was ridin’ up this way, so we thought we’d drop in and
talk with Langley.”
“All right; I’ll tell him yuh called.”
“That’s fine of yuh. If yuh think he’ll be back pretty soon, we’ll wait
for him, Briggs.”
“Oh, hell, yuh can’t tell when he’ll be back. Might be pretty late.”
“I see. You been here quite a while, ain’t yuh?”
“Yuh mean, on the JML? Oh, about three year.”
“You was workin’ here while Kid Glover was here?”
“Shore was.”
“Where’d he come from?”
“Montana, I reckon. Anyway, he talked about that State quite a lot.”
“Railroaded up there,” offered One-Eye. “Passenger brakeman. I used t’
railroad on the G.N. I could have had an engine years ago if I’d stuck.”
“He told yuh he used to be a passenger brakeman?” asked Hashknife.
“Shore. Me and him--say, whatcha want to know for?”
“I just wondered. I used to know a Glover over in the eastern part of
the State, and I wondered if this was the same feller.”
I dunno; mebby was. I know he worked out of Missoula f’r a long time; so
he said. I’ve been there.”
“I heard he left the Half-Box R,” said Briggs.
Hashknife nodded. Down in the nearest corral were three horses, and
Hashknife could almost swear that two of them were the horses ridden
that morning by Langley and Angel McCoy. Briggs glanced down that way
and shot a quick glance at Hashknife, who was calmly taking his tobacco
and papers from his pocket.
“Well, I suppose we might as well be goin’, Sleepy,” said Hashknife. “No
use waitin’ for Langley.”
“No use, gents,” agreed Briggs, visibly relieved. “He might be pretty
late.”
“McCoy with him?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, much obliged, anyway. See yuh later.”
Briggs walked around the house with them, and he was still there when
Hashknife and Sleepy swung out of sight around a brushy curve on the
road.
“Well, that didn’t amount to much,” said Sleepy.
Hashknife laughed softly.
“Mebby not; mebby yes. All depends.”
“What put the idea into yore head to ask where that horse thief Glover
came from?”
“Merely curious.”
“I didn’t even know Glover ever worked for the JML.”
“Lotsa things you don’t know, cowboy.”
“You never knew a Glover in eastern Montana.”
“I guess not, Sleepy.”
“Oh, all right.”
They rode back to Red Arrow and stabled their horses, after which
Hashknife walked to the depot and sent a telegram to the Wells Fargo,
asking for certain information on Paulsen, the messenger, who had been
in charge of the express car the night of the robbery.
Slim had some news for Hashknife. Dell Blackwell and “Boomer” Weed had
quit the Half-Box R. The murder of Ed Corby caused them to draw what
they had coming, and they were now in Red Arrow. This left only Einar
Sorensen, a tall, colorless Swede, at the ranch with Butch.
“And I’ll betcha Butch would like to quit, too,” said Chuck Ring. “He’s
gettin’ jumpy.”
“Did the boys say anythin’ about somebody gunnin’ for ’em?” asked
Hashknife.
“They didn’t say,” laughed Chuck. “But they wasn’t takin’ any chances.
Somebody’s gone crazy, I think.”
“Looks thataway.”
Later on in the day Hashknife told Slim about what he had seen in the
hills that morning, describing the man as near as he could.
“That’s Kid Glover all right,” said Slim. “Why didn’t yuh collect yore
horse when yuh had a chance?”
“That would be the natural thing to do, Slim; but I’m the greatest
person yuh ever seen to act unnatural. That black hat we found on the
bridge that mornin’ would just about fit Kid Glover.”
“By God!” exploded Slim. He opened his safe and took out the black
sombrero.
“That’s where I’ve seen it!” he exclaimed. “Right on the head of Kid
Glover! What do yuh know about that? Hashknife, do yuh suppose he had
anythin’ to do with the killin’ of DuMond?”
“Looks as though he did.”
“Well, I’ll be damned! Let’s go and get him.”
“Why would he kill DuMond?”
“That don’t matter. We’ve got his hat and----”
“Yeah, we’ve got the hat. But yuh can’t hang a man for losin’ a hat, can
yuh? That don’t prove anythin’.”
“We’ll get him for horse-stealin’ and make him admit the rest of his
crimes. Why, it might have been him who killed Corby!”
“Why would he kill Corby?”
“Mistook him for Butch Reimer.”
“Why kill Butch Reimer?”
Slim shrugged his shoulders wearily. “You’re the worst ‘why’ asker I
ever knew.”
“There’s got to be reasons for everything, Slim. Men don’t commit murder
for the fun of it. Only a crazy man would kill without cause.”
“Yeah, that’s true. Why would he kill DuMond and Corby?”
“I can’t answer that question--yet. And I’m afraid if we arrest Kid
Glover for horse-stealin’, we’ll never know the answer. It’s worth
waitin’ for, Slim.”
“Do yuh think Glover ransacked the Circle Spade?”
“No.”
“Then who did?”
“Remains to be seen, as the undertaker said when the hearse team ran
away and smashed the casket. What would old Rance have in his house that
anybody around here would want, Slim?”
“The express loot,” quickly.
“Mebby you’re right.”
“But where’s old Rance?”
“Don’t ask me. Yuh goin’ to be around here this evenin’?”
“Right here--why?”
“Oh, I might get an idea between now and dark, Slim. See yuh later. Oh,
yeah; if there’s a telegram comes to yuh--somethin’ yuh don’t know a
thing about, just hang onto it, will yuh? I signed yore name to one I
sent today.”
“Sure, I will.”
Hashknife found Sleepy at the Red Arrow with Chuck Ring, Scotty McKay,
Dell Blackwell, and Boomer Weed. The two men from the Half-Box R had
absorbed plenty of liquor, but were not parading their valor.
“I pulled out because I was scared,” confessed Dell. “Mebby somebody
mistook old Ed Corby for somebody else, but we don’t know who that
somebody else was. Me and old Boomer wasn’t in what you’d call a dyin’
mood; so we jist asked for our time. Yuh can’t blame us, can yuh?”
“Prob’ly be a few hundred men killed around here before it’s over,” said
Chuck. “Things like that kinda run in bunches. Eppy-demic, they call
it.”
Hashknife managed to get Dell Blackwell away from the rest of the crowd,
and while Sleepy was trying to lead them in song, Hashknife asked Dell
about the quarrel between Butch Reimer and Kid Glover.
“Quarrel?” Dell was slightly owl-eyed.
“Yeah--the reason Glover left the ranch.”
“Uh-huh.”
Blackwell scratched his nose thoughtfully.
“Reimer swore he’d kill Glover, yuh know,” explained Hashknife. “And
Glover high-tailed it out of the country.”
“He did, eh?” Blackwell grinned foolishly. “First time I ever heard of
it, Hartley. What did they quarrel over?”
“Butch didn’t say.”
“And he swore he’d kill Glover, eh? Sa-a-a-ay! Lemme tell yuh somethin’,
cowboy; Glover ain’t scared of no man. I ain’t got no use for him
m’self; but I’m here to tell yuh, he’s no runner. If Butch ever scared
Kid Glover, he--a-a-aw, he never did!”
“All I know is what Butch told me.”
“Don’t believe him, Hartley; he was kiddin’ yuh.”
“Did Glover ever have any trouble with DuMond?”
“Na-a-a-aw! The only man DuMond ever had any trouble with was Rance
McCoy. Old Rance shore made Billy show yaller. Let’s have a drink.”
“You know Glover used to be a railroad man, don’tcha?”
“Yeah; a brakeman. What’ll yuh have?”
Hashknife had a drink with them and left the place. He had definitely
established Glover as a former brakeman and Reimer as a liar. Ordinarily
Hashknife would have paid no attention to the fact that Reimer had lied
to him, but that he had lied about the reasons Glover had for leaving
the Half-Box R made a lot of difference.
As he went back to the sheriff’s office he saw Jim Langley and Angel
McCoy riding in from the south end of the town. Langley waved at
Hashknife, who returned the salute. They drew up at the Red Arrow
hitch-rack and went in to the saloon.
Hashknife grinned at the two horses, which were not the same ones he had
seen Langley and McCoy riding that morning, nor were they the ones he
saw in the corral at the JML.
Slim was lying on a cot in the back of the office when Hashknife came
in.
“Be all set to pull out as soon as it gets dark,” said Hashknife softly.
“We may find out somethin’ tonight. I hope that telegram comes before we
leave.”
“I’d like to find out somethin’,” agreed Slim wearily. “I had a visit
from the county commissioners and the prosecutin’ attorney today. They
tell me I’m layin’ down on the job. We shore said things to each other.”
“That Wells Fargo man didn’t stay long,” observed Hashknife.
“Well, we had a prisoner. He said there wasn’t anythin’ for him to do as
long as we thought we had the guilty man. Hashknife, the more I think
about it, the more I’m of the opinion somebody ransacked the Circle
Spade tryin’ to find old Rance’s cache.
“I don’t blame ’em. My God, that’s a lot of money. Just think of a
hundred and thirty-two thousand in one grab! Who wouldn’t try to get
their hands on it? And that’s why Kid Glover came back. He wanted to get
a crack at it. But I’ll bet old Rance is hidin’ out, waitin’ for a
chance to grab the money and head out of the country.
“He’d know that a lot of folks would be lookin’ for him, so he merely
hides out until it kinda blows over. The Wells Fargo detectives are
watchin’ every exit to this Valley. He’s got to be here. There ain’t a
place he can get out unless he flies out.”
“What’s yore opinion on all this killin’, Slim?”
“Personal grudge. I think Rance McCoy killed DuMond. The more I think of
it, the more certain I am. As far as Kid Glover’s hat is concerned, I
don’t sabe it. I’m not even makin’ a guess who shot Corby, except I
think it was a mistake. They might have mistaken him for Butch. Dell
Blackwell is no saint. Neither is Weed. It might have been either of
them that Corby was mistaken for.”
“That’s all very fine,” agreed Hashknife. “You think Kid Glover came
back to try and find the money, eh? Then why is he hidin’ out down there
in the breaks?”
“He stole your horse, Hashknife.”
“All right. Remember he was headin’ away from this country so fast that
he couldn’t wait on a lame horse. Just at that time he grabbed the first
horse he got his hands on. Would he care whose horse it was? He didn’t
know which way we were going. I’ll bet he don’t know yet whose horse
he’s ridin’. And yuh must remember he came back here, Slim. Kid Glover
is down there in the breaks, hidin’ out. He ain’t hidin’ out because he
stole my horse.”
“That’s the worst of talkin’ with you,” sighed Slim. “I get an idea that
I’m kinda proud about, and along you come and shoot it full of holes.
Why don’tcha tell me a few, so I can argue yuh out of ’em?”
“I never express mine,” grinned Hashknife. “At least, not until they’re
hole-proof. Suppose we go and eat? I’m shore hungry and it’s almost
dark.”
Chuck and Sleepy were in front of the Red Arrow when Hashknife and Slim
came out, and Chuck went over to take care of the office, while Sleepy
followed the other two men up to the restaurant.
Chuck was standing in the doorway of the office when Butch Reimer and
Sorensen rode in. Reimer reined his horse over to the sheriff’s office,
where he dismounted and came in where Chuck was lighting the lamp.
“Thought I’d stay in town tonight,” said Butch. “Lost two of my hired
men today, and I’m kinda leary over what has already happened.”
“I don’t blame yuh,” grinned Chuck. “Set down. Things like that kinda
make yuh jumpy. I know I’d be jumpy.”
While they were talking a man came in, carrying a telegram, which he
handed to Chuck.
“Thought yuh might want it,” he said, laughing. “See if there’s any
answer.”
Chuck opened the envelope and took out the telegram, which read:
PAULSEN WITH US EIGHTEEN MONTHS WAS
WITH N. P. SEVERAL YEARS HAS GOOD RECORD
WORKED OUT OF MISSOULA FOR YEAR.
WELLS FARGO EX. CO.
The telegram was addressed to the sheriff of Red Arrow. Chuck frowned
over it. He hadn’t the slightest idea what it was all about, so he told
the telegraph operator that Slim would have to answer it himself.
When the operator left the office, Chuck showed the telegram to Butch
Reimer.
“Paulsen?” said Butch seriously. “Who’s he?”
“That was the name of the messenger who got held up in that train
robbery, Butch.”
“Oh, yeah; I remember now. Where’s Slim?”
“Eatin’ supper with Hartley and Stevens.”
“I reckon I’ll eat, too.”
Butch left the office, but he didn’t go to the restaurant. At least he
hadn’t been there when the three men left. As soon as they got back to
the office, Chuck gave Slim the telegram, who passed it on to Hashknife.
“That must be the answer to the one you sent,” he said.
“That’s the one,” smiled Hashknife.
“Did Butch Reimer come over to the restaurant?” asked Chuck.
“Is he back in town?” queried Hashknife quickly.
“He is. Said he was too jumpy to stay on the ranch tonight. I thought he
went over to the restaurant.”
“Did he happen to be here when this telegram came?”
“Sure. The agent told me to read it and see if there would be an answer;
so I did. But I didn’t know what in hell it was all about.”
“Did Butch read it?”
“Yeah. I didn’t know it was anythin’----”
“It’s all right,” said Hashknife. “Just take a little run around, Chuck,
and see if Butch is still here.”
Chuck was back in ten minutes with the information that Butch Reimer, if
he was still in town, was not visible.
“His horse is gone. Sorensen, Blackwell, and Weed are all over at the
saloon, but there’s no sign of Butch. And he ain’t at the hotel.”
Some one was coming along the sidewalk, and a moment later Jim Langley
came in.
“What’s new, Slim?” he asked. “Any news of old Rance?”
“Not a thing, Jim,” replied Slim. “We’re stuck.”
“Pshaw. Me and Angel have been down in the country below the Half-Box R
all day, so I thought I’d stop and see what was new.”
He looked directly at Hashknife as he spoke to Slim, but Hashknife said
nothing about being out at the JML that day.
“Somebody ransacked the Circle Spade ranch-house while the folks was all
in town this mornin’,” offered Chuck.
“The hell they did! What for, do yuh suppose?”
“Some enterprisin’ person tryin’ to find where Rance cached the loot,”
grinned Slim.
“Prob’ly. But do yuh still think Rance pulled that job?”
“Who else?”
“Well, that’s the way I look at it.”
“What does Angel think about it, Jim?”
“He don’t say much. Well, we’ve got to be driftin’, and it’s a long ways
home when you’re tired. So-long, gents.”
After Langley left the office, Hashknife wrote out a telegram, which he
folded up and handed to Chuck Ring.
“Take that to the depot before yuh eat, Chuck. It’s dark enough now,
Slim. Saddle yore horse and meet us at the livery stable.”
Slim hadn’t the slightest idea where they were going, but he was willing
to follow anybody who might help him make good on the job. Ten minutes
later they met on the side street, and Hashknife led the way toward the
Half-Box R. It was very dark, with no hint of a moon.
“That’s our salvation,” said Hashknife. “If it was moonlight, I’d never
ride this road tonight. Travel fast and keep still. There’ll be plenty
of time to talk later on--if we’re able.”
It seemed a long way to the Half-Box R, riding blindly along the old
dirt road, trusting to their mounts to keep the road. In single file
they thundered across the bridge where Billy DuMond had lost his life,
and the rather frail structure trembled under the thudding hoofs.
About a quarter of a mile from the ranch, as near as Hashknife could
judge, they slowed to a walk.
“Got to be careful now,” warned Hashknife. “Don’t talk.”
“I wish I knowed what it’s all about,” whispered Slim.
“Yuh won’t know,” replied Sleepy. “After it’s all over, he’ll tell
yuh--and you’ll wonder why yuh didn’t think of it before.”
“Don’t talk,” warned Hashknife.
Hashknife remembered that just before reaching the ranch-gate there was
a culvert about four feet wide. As soon as they crossed it, he drew up
his horse.
“You stay here, Sleepy,” he said. “Block the road with yore horse, and
don’t let anybody get past yuh.”
“Not anybody?” asked Sleepy.
“Not a dam’ body!”
“Suits me fine. And you better talk nice when yuh come back,
long-fellow. Good luck.”
Hashknife and Slim disappeared in the darkness, leading their horses.
Hashknife led the way around the fence and came in beside the corrals,
where they tied their horses.
“Can yuh find the stable?” he whispered.
“Yeah,” softly.
“Get down there, Slim. Mebby you’ll find somebody’s horse planted down
there. Stop anybody that comes, even if yuh have to bend a gun over his
head.”
“Who will it be, Hashknife?”
“You take a chance on that. If yuh hear a shot at the house, you come
runnin’.”
Slim crawled through the corral fence and faded out in the night. From
where Hashknife stood he could see the dark bulk of the ranch-house,
with no lights showing. Slipping through the fence he cautiously made
his way to the rear of the house, traveling almost as silently as a
shadow in spite of his high-heeled boots. There was not a sound to be
heard except the sleepy calling of a night-bird and the incessant chirp
of a cricket.
Hashknife was not familiar with the interior of the ranch-house, but he
remembered that there was a back porch, which was unusual in
ranch-houses. He made his way silently around to the porch, slid in
under the railing, and stood up against the back door, which was closed.
Hashknife felt sure that Butch Reimer had come back to the ranch,
although there was no sign of him. It was so dark that objects were
practically invisible at a few feet distance. The house was as still as
a tomb. Cautiously he tested the door and found it unlocked. This was
not at all unusual, as few doors in the cattle country were ever locked.
Sneak thieves were unknown.
Hashknife’s next move was a foolish one. He slowly opened the door,
thrust his head and shoulders just inside the house and listened
intently.
And it was then that his brain registered a soundless explosion; a burst
of flame which gave off no sound--and for a time, at least, he lost all
interest in anything that might happen at the Half-Box R.
Then he felt himself jerked back to consciousness, in which he was
conscious of a heavy nausea and a throbbing pain in his head. He opened
his eyes wearily and looked around. He was lying on the floor of a room,
his head and shoulders propped against the wall, and on a box near him
was an oil lamp, turned low enough to make the other objects in the room
indistinct.
His eyesight gradually cleared, and he saw a man, squatting on his heels
a few feet away, looking at him intently. It was Kid Glover. His thin,
dark features were sharply etched in the yellow lamplight, and his mop
of black hair hung low over his forehead. In his right hand dangled a
six-shooter, which Hashknife immediately recognized as his gun.
Hashknife sighed and closed his eyes.
“Don’t play ’possum with me,” growled Glover. “What in hell do you want
here, feller?”
It was evident to Hashknife that Glover did not know him; which was
fortunate for Hashknife. He opened his eyes and looked at Glover
wearily.
“What do I want?” he said slowly. “I just stopped here, thinkin’ I’d get
a meal.”
“Yeah?” Glover was not convinced. “Where you from?”
“Milk River, Montana.”
“Yeah. Stranger, eh?”
“What happened to me?” queried Hashknife, feeling of his head and
finding a swelling which compared favorably in size with a doorknob.
“You horned in where yuh wasn’t wanted, feller.”
“Evidently. Sorry to cause yuh all this trouble.”
“No trouble.” Glover grinned widely, and evidently with great
satisfaction. “I jist popped yuh over the head and packed yuh up here.”
He lifted a lariat rope off the floor and got to his feet.
“I’m goin’ to tie yuh up for a while,” he said. “You horned in on
somethin’ that don’t concern yuh at all, so I’ll jist fix yuh up with
this string. Kinda want yuh to stay put for a while.”
“Well, I’d rather be gettin’ along,” said Hashknife. “If you’d tell me
where the nearest town is, I’d----”
“You ain’t goin’ to no town. And if you make any crooked move, I’ll even
up the two sides of yore head.”
“Oh, I ain’t goin’ to do nothin’,” assured Hashknife meekly. “I’m
neutral.”
“You better be.”
Swiftly he roped Hashknife, who barely repressed a chuckle. There were
many things that Kid Glover did not know about hog-tying a man. The
slight bracing of a leg, an arm, an elbow, meant nothing to the Kid; but
it meant that Hashknife could relax and almost slide out of the ropes.
Then he whipped out a dirty handkerchief, forced Hashknife’s jaws open,
and gagged him.
“I reckon you’ll stay put,” he said grimly. Then he blew out the light,
crossed the floor, and Hashknife heard him going softly down the stair.
Relaxing his muscles Hashknife began releasing the ropes. It was
ridiculously easy. He untied the gag, and stretched out on the floor.
The exertion had caused his head to throb sickeningly. After a few
minutes he began crawling to the head of the stairs. Just before he
reached the stairs his hands came in contact with an old kitchen chair
of considerable weight.
Downstairs a door closed softly, and in a few moments Hashknife saw the
glow from a lamp. Came a sharp exclamation, silence; and then a harsh
laugh.
“I thought you’d come back, you dirty sneak.” It was the voice of Kid
Glover.
“Keep yore hands still, you dam’ fool! That’s the idea. Mebby yuh better
unbuckle that belt. Just let it fall.”
Came the thud of a belt and gun striking the floor.
“What do you want?” Butch Reimer’s voice was not very steady.
“That’s a hell of a question, you crooked pup.”
“I never played crooked with you,” denied Butch, hotly, it seemed. “By
God, you tried to play crooked with me.”
Kid Glover laughed mockingly.
“Yeah, and you knew I would, Butch. But I’m back now, and I’ll take it
all.”
“The hell yuh will!”
“Yeah--the hell I will. You see if I don’t. I told yuh I’d kill yuh if
yuh ever played crooked with me, and I’m goin’ to keep my word.”
“You killed Billy DuMond.”
“Did I? Try to prove it.”
“And you killed Ed Corby.”
“Thasso? I never had any trouble with that fool.”
“You thought he was me.”
Glover laughed sneeringly.
“Well,” he said, “yuh know I’ll keep my word. Now, where is the stuff?”
“You’ll never know,” defiantly.
“Won’t I? Butch, you better tell me. I came to get it. You know me. I’ll
cut yore ears off if yuh don’t talk.”
“No, yuh won’t, Kid. The only way you’ll ever get anythin’ out of it
will be to throw in with me again. Laugh, if yuh want to. Why, you fool,
everybody knows yuh came back. You traded horses with a man in Welcome,
and you’re still ridin’ that horse. Know who owns that animal?”
“Aw, I don’t give a damn who owns it.”
“Don’tcha? Well, he’s the slickest range detective in the West. He’s
been watchin’ yuh, Kid. I seen a telegram to the sheriff today. By God,
they’ve spotted Paulsen! Don’t ask me how they got wise. They’ll get
you, too. Me and you can pack up enough grub to carry us through, and we
can cut out through the lava country. I’ve got the stuff, but you’ll
never know where it is. Go ahead and kill me if yuh think it’ll save
yore neck.”
“How could they spot Paulsen? You’re lyin’, damn yuh! There ain’t no way
they can spot him. You’re tryin’ to get off cheap, Butch. I don’t trust
yuh, I tell yuh. What about this detective? How do yuh know he’s been
watchin’ me?”
“Told me he was. Oh, he knows yuh. Why, he saw yuh with his horse, you
ignorant fool. He’s got you on the run right now.”
“I’m not on any run. Who is he? What does he look like?”
Hashknife listened to Butch’s description of him, and it was fairly
accurate. When Butch finished, Kid Glover laughed chokingly.
“Butch, yuh may be right, at that. I’ve got to trust yuh a little, I
suppose; but the first crooked move yuh make will be the last one yuh
ever make. Lem me tell yuh somethin’, Butch: yore wonderful detective is
upstairs, roped tight and gagged tighter. He tried to sneak in on me a
while ago, and I thought he was you; so I slammed him over the head with
my gun and packed him upstairs. By God, he made me think he was a
stranger. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”
“You mean to tell me you’ve got----”
“I’ve got a man of that description, Butch.”
“My God, that’s luck! He was after me and you, Kid. What’s our next
move? If he’s upstairs he can hear every word we say.”
“What do we care,” laughed Glover callously. “He ain’t goin’ nowhere.
We’ll shut his mouth pretty quick, and then we’ll head for the lava
beds.”
“You mean--we’ll bump him off, Kid?”
“Why not? You fool, it’s him or us.”
“Mebby he didn’t come alone, Kid. He’s workin’ with Slim Caldwell, and
Hartley’s got a pardner. Better let me have my gun again. Two guns are
better than one.”
“I’ll never be anythin’ but a fool, I suppose,” growled the Kid, and
Hashknife guessed that Glover gave Butch his gun and belt.
“Better douse that light,” said Butch. “We can light the lamp upstairs.
Better wait until I fasten the doors. We don’t want anybody sneakin’ in
on us right now.”
Hashknife heard Butch working with the doors, and finally he came back
to Glover. Hashknife picked up the old chair, grasping it by the back,
as he knelt close to the stairs. There was no railing around the
stairway, and he saw the black bulk of the two men, as their head and
shoulders came above the floor level.
The next instant the heavy chair crashed down upon them, swung with
every ounce of strength in Hashknife’s arms and shoulders. Rungs
splintered out of it, and Hashknife swayed sharply sideways to keep from
falling down on them, when his hands held nothing but the back of the
chair.
He heard a sharp grunt, the bumping crash of a falling body, a wondering
curse, and then he flung himself over the edge of the stairway, landing
on a yielding bulk, which he knew was the body of one of the men.
As he reached frantically down, searching for the man’s holster, his
hand came in contact with a revolver, lying on a step. Swiftly he sprang
down the remaining steps and into the front room of the ranch-house just
as the front door was jerked open.
Hashknife fired one shot, but he was sure it missed. The man had darted
to the right, and Hashknife ran through the doorway after him, vaulting
the railing, running halfway to the rear of the house, where he paused
to listen.
“Hashknife!” called Slim’s voice softly from toward the stable.
“Up here,” replied Hashknife, and in a moment Slim had joined him.
Hashknife was thankful that Slim did not ask questions.
“I got yore gray horse and another one,” he whispered. “The gray was
behind the stable, so I moved it away. Then a man rode in and tied to
the corral. I kept down, and as soon as he left the horse, I swiped it.”
“Good boy! Where did that feller go, Slim?”
“I heard him runnin’, and I think he went around the house.”
“Around the house, eh? By golly, I bet he went back in. Look out for
him, Slim.”
They sneaked back to the front porch and found the door closed.
Hashknife knew it was wide open when he came out and there had been no
breeze to close it.
Suddenly came the sound of a muffled shot inside the house.
“Get to the back door!” said Hashknife.
Slim raced around the house, while Hashknife sprang to the porch and
flattened himself against the wall beside the door. He heard somebody in
the house. It sounded as though somebody had struck a piece of
furniture. Then he heard heavy footsteps near the door.
Hashknife gripped his gun tightly and swung up his hand as the door
opened and a man surged out. But Hashknife did not strike him. Instead,
he dived forward, wrapping his long, muscular arms around the man, and
together they plunged off the few steps to the ground.
The man did not offer any resistance. In fact, it was as though
Hashknife had tackled a dummy. Quickly he twisted the man’s right arm
behind his back, holding him down with his knees, and called to Slim,
who came on the run.
“Hold this whipperwill,” said Hashknife. “I think he’s all raveled out,
but yuh never can tell.”
They exchanged places and Hashknife went into the house. Moving slowly
back to the stairway, he halted at the sound of a groan and scratched a
match.
Lying near the foot of the stairs was Butch Reimer, flat on his face,
arms outspread. As quickly as possible Hashknife lighted the lamp and
called to Slim, who came in, carrying the limp form of Kid Glover.
Hashknife turned Butch over. The bullet had struck him over the right
eye, knocking away a generous chunk of his head, and from there it cut a
nasty-looking furrow along the side of the head to a point just above
his ear. He was bleeding freely, and while the shock had knocked him
out, there was nothing serious about it.
Kid Glover was a sight. As far as Hashknife could determine, the Kid had
borne the brunt of the heavy chair. But he had evidently recovered
sufficiently to shoot Butch and to stagger outside, trying to get away.
CHAPTER XIX--PART OF THE TRUTH
Hashknife stood up from his examination and grinned at Slim, who didn’t
know yet what it was all about.
“Where does Butch figure in this?” he asked. “Was he tryin’ to protect
Glover?”
They turned at a sound and saw Sleepy at the doorway, gun in hand.
“I heard some shootin’,” he said simply, and came in to look at Butch
and the Kid.
“I crowned the Kid with a chair,” said Hashknife. “He got me first.
Knocked me down and tied me up, but he don’t know much about ropes. Then
him and Butch decided to throw in together, put me out of my misery and
clear out; but I got loose and smashed a chair on the Kid’s head. I
think Butch decided to get back in the house and recover his gun, and
the Kid shot him in the dark, not knowin’ who he was.”
The Kid blinked his eyes and sat up, rubbing his head. He squinted
painfully at Hashknife, shifted his eyes to Slim and Sleepy, and then
looked at Butch. The Kid was not shamming--he was very sick.
“You shot Butch,” said Hashknife.
The Kid grimaced painfully at Hashknife.
“I guess I didn’t tie yuh very tight,” he said.
“Not tight enough, Glover. Butch ain’t hurt much, and as soon as he
recovers I think he’ll tell where the plunder is cached.”
“What plunder?”
“The stuff you came back to get. You tried to play crooked with Reimer
and DuMond, didn’t yuh? But they shifted the cache and left a dummy
package for you to skip away with. Oh, I’ve got you cinched, Glover. By
this time the Wells Fargo have arrested Paulsen. You was a brakeman on
the same train that Paulsen worked on in Montana.
“You framed it with Paulsen, you and Butch and DuMond. It was a cinch.
Paulsen opened the door and let Reimer in. You broke the train in two at
Curlew Spur, Reimer pulled the job lone-handed, while DuMond handled the
horses. Oh, we’ve got yuh where the hair is short.”
“Prove it,” snarled the Kid. “You can’t, damn yuh!”
Butch was beginning to make funny noises and trying to sit up. Hashknife
nudged Sleepy and whispered:
“Take Glover into the kitchen, Sleepy. Watch the little snake. Slim will
light a lamp for yuh.”
They went away with Glover, while Hashknife squatted on his heels,
watching Butch fight his way back to consciousness. Butch had lost
considerable blood, and the shock of the heavy bullet had dazed him
badly. But he finally opened his eyes, and gradually a look of
understanding overspread his face. His right hand, hanging limp at his
side, twisted over against his empty holster.
Slim came back to the front room and Butch scowled at him.
“The Kid shot yuh, Butch,” said Hashknife.
Butch started to speak, but changed his mind.
“Oh, we’ve got him,” assured Hashknife. “He hasn’t done anything but
talk since we tied him up. He seemed to think we’d turn him loose if he
spilled the whole plot, but he’s such a liar that we don’t believe him.”
“What’s he say?” groaned Butch.
“He said it was you and DuMond that framed the scheme with Paulsen. I
think he lied, myself, because him and this crooked messenger used to
work together. He said he merely introduced Paulsen to you, and
that----”
“He’s a dirty liar!” snarled Butch.
“We thought so,” said Hashknife seriously.
“And then he told us that you killed DuMond, in order to increase yore
size of the pot.”
Butch raised himself up on one elbow.
“Where is that dirty liar?” he demanded hoarsely. “By God, he killed
Billy himself. He came back here to kill me, too. He’s a sneakin’ little
crook. He raided the cache and tried to get away with it all, I tell
yuh. We knowed he’d do it; so we made up a dummy bundle. That’s how he
happened to cripple his horse, gettin’ away fast--and that’s why he
traded horses with yuh.”
“I felt that for a long time, Butch. And he killed Corby, didn’t he?”
“Sure as hell, he did! He thought he could kill me and find the cache.
None of the rest of my boys know anythin’ about it. Bring in that dirty
little sidewinder and I’ll make him eat every word he said about me.”
“That was his hat we found on the bridge, Butch.”
“I knew it. I was scared you’d work somethin’ out of it.”
“It sure helped,” grinned Hashknife. “And another thing, Reimer. The
night of that holdup, which one of yuh knocked old Rance McCoy down and
robbed him?”
“DuMond,” said Butch readily. “He hated the old man. Billy saw a chance
to get him right. He wanted to kill McCoy, and thought he did, but I
reckon it was a glancin’ blow.”
“And was it DuMond’s idea to take McCoy’s horse down there where yuh
held up the train and shoot it?”
“Yeah--his and Glover’s. Glover mentioned it, and the Kid carried it
out. He shot the horse before we went to Curlew Springs.”
“Whose idea was it to skin out the brand?” asked Slim.
“I dunno. The Kid and Billy saw you and yore two men ride out there that
mornin’, and then they trailed yuh over to the Circle Spade, to see if
yuh arrested Rance. After yuh left there and headed back for town, Billy
said they got the idea of skinnin’ out the brand and stealin’ the
saddle--tryin’ to make it look worse for Rance.”
“I thought that was the way of it.”
“But how did you know it wasn’t a bullet from the car that killed the
horse?”
“That was a cinch. The cut is pretty deep there, Reimer, and any bullet
fired from the car door at a horse outside the right-of-way fence would
naturally range upward. The bullet that killed the horse was fired from
slightly above the animal, ranging downward. And what holdup man would
ever leave his horse in full view of the train?”
Butch rubbed his sore head and groaned a few times.
“That’s the hell of makin’ it too strong,” he said.
Hashknife walked to the kitchen door, opened it, and said to Sleepy:
“Bring in yore company.”
The Kid and Butch glared at each other.
“Butch says you’re a liar,” grinned Hashknife.
“The hell I am! What about?”
“He says it was you that framed the deal with Paulsen.”
The Kid started toward Butch, but Sleepy yanked him back.
“And you know damn well it’s the truth!” rasped Butch.
“You fool!” screamed the Kid, trying to tear loose from Sleepy. “What
have you told?”
“Told?” queried Butch blankly. “Why, you told ’em----”
“Oh, you poor fool! I never told anythin’!”
Butch slumped back on the floor, glaring his hate at Hashknife, who
grinned over his cigarette.
“Try and find the money!” snarled Butch.
“By God, you’ll never find it.”
“No?” Hashknife looked pityingly at Butch. “Listen to me, pardner.
You’re close to fifty, ain’t yuh? They’ll give yuh close to twenty-five
years for this job. Twenty-five years in the penitentiary is a long
time. You’ll be an awful old man when yuh come out. The money won’t help
yuh none. Mebby we can find it ourselves. But if yuh give it all up and
tell the prosecutor the truth about the whole deal, yuh might cut that
sentence down to where you’ll still be worth killin’ when yuh get out.”
Butch laughed harshly, shaking his head.
“What would I get off?” asked Glover.
“They’d only hang you once.”
“That’s a hell of a lot.”
“You ought to be hung once a week,” growled Butch. Then he sobered
suddenly and looked at Slim.
“I’ve got to have more than the word of that Hashknife bloodhound,
Slim.”
“I can’t promise anythin’,” said Slim. “You’ll have to make yore deal
with Merkle.”
Slim went after the horses, and came back leading three. The tall gray
horse nuzzled Hashknife violently, and acted as if he’d found a
long-lost friend.
“Damn that horse!” snorted Kid Glover. “If I’d left it alone, everythin’
would have been all right.”
“If you hadn’t been born a horse-thief, we’d have been all right, yuh
mean,” retorted Butch.
They roped the two prisoners to their horses and started back to Red
Arrow. There were three aching heads, a jubilant sheriff, and one sour
cowboy--the latter being Sleepy, who had shared in none of the action.
“You’ll get into it,” assured Hashknife.
“Yea-a-ah--next time! Next time, you watch yore own back trail. I spend
a week or so watchin’ you build up to a big climax, and then don’t even
shoot off a roamin’--candle.”
“I swear, I can’t hardly realize it yet,” declared Slim. “I heard yuh
tell it all, Hashknife. Oh, I don’t get any of the credit. I didn’t know
what was goin’ on half the time.”
“Yuh never will--around him,” complained Sleepy.
“Well, he’ll get that five thousand,” said Slim.
“And give it to some orphin’ asylum, prob’ly.”
“Five thousand!” snorted Glover. “Why didn’t yuh throw in with us,
Hartley?”
“You made me mad when yuh stole my horse.”