“And a gift, Sleepy; remember.”
Marion excused herself to help Mrs. Cooper, and Sleepy whistled softly.
“Mamma mine, what a looker!”
“Ain’t she nice?” said Hootie softly. “Jist as nice as she looks, too.”
“How do you keep the cowboys away?” asked Hashknife.
“They’re scared of her. She’s too pretty, Hartley.”
“Mm-m-m-m. That’s a new way of gettin’ rid of ’em.”
“Oh, they’re shyin’ around. Do you know—” Hootie dropped his voice and
moved in closer—“wimmin are queer? She could prob’ly pick any man in
this valley, and I’ll be darned if I don’t think she’s stuck on Tex
Blanco.”
“Not knowin’ Tex Blanco, I don’t _sabe_ your remark,” smiled Hashknife.
“Oh, that’s right.” Hootie rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “I dunno how I
come to mention it to you, anyway, bein’ as you’re a stranger. Anyway,
this Tex Blanco is supposed to be a pretty bad _hombre_. Lotsa folks
think he killed Dennig. I don’t know a thing about it, but he ain’t
thought much of around here. Owns the B Arrow ranch, you know.”
“Beauty and the beast, eh?” smiled Hashknife.
“Well, I dunno about that. But ain’t it funny that she would pick
_him_?”
“It probably isn’t a bit funny to her.”
“No, that’s right.”
Mrs. Cooper called them in to eat supper. She seated Sleepy beside
Marion. It ruined Sleepy’s meal. The talk was general, but Sleepy said
nothing. Hootie talked with Hashknife about Jim Cooper, and Hashknife
bravely kept up his end of the conversation, even if he didn’t know Jim.
Ma Cooper believed in the stuffing process, and both cowboys did their
best to please her.
Marion helped Ma Cooper clear away the dishes, leaving the three men at
the table, enjoying a smoke. Sleepy’s face was still damp with
perspiration and he felt like a man who had just been dragged from a
watery grave. The women had gone into the living room, while the three
men were in a deep discussion. They heard a man’s voice.
The discussion stopped quickly. Hootie listened for a moment.
“The sheriff,” he said softly, but made no effort to get up from the
table.
The sheriff was saying:
“I thought I’d just drop in for a minute, Mrs. Cooper. There’s somethin’
that’s been botherin’ me. It’s about that stage robbery the other day.
You was the only folks over the road jist after the robbery, you know.
“Well, me and Oscar went right out there. You remember we met you at the
ford. Well, we found where the stage had been robbed, and we found where
you had swung off the road a little in your buckboard. And one of you, I
reckon it was Miss Evans, got out of the buckboard, walked about ten
feet off to one side and then came back to the buckboard. Anyway, I
reckon it was Miss Evans, because she’s the only woman in this country
that wears them sharp pointed, high heels. Now, Miss Evans, jist what
did you find out there?”
The three men strained their ears for her answer.
“I—I don’t know what you mean,” she faltered.
“Certainly not!” snapped Ma Cooper. “Of all things! You got a lot of
nerve, Pat Lynch.”
“I just wanted an answer,” said the sheriff mildly.
“Well, you’ve got it, ain’t you?”
“Nope.”
Marion started to say something, but Ma Cooper stopped her.
“You let me talk to him.”
“Well, you tell it, Mrs. Cooper,” said the sheriff.
“There’s nothin’ to tell. You’re crazy.”
“Mebby. But the tracks are there. Mebby you forgot about tracks.”
“Mebby,” said Mrs. Cooper shortly.
“All I’m tryin’ to do is to find out what Miss Evans picked up. The
tracks show—”
“Since when did you start bein’ a trailer?” asked Mrs. Cooper. “Readin’
tracks—the idea!”
“Oh, I could read ’em plain enough.”
Hootie got to his feet, and the two cowboys followed him through the
doorway. The sheriff was standing beside the door, and he reddened
slightly at sight of the three men.
“You ain’t tryin’ to pin somethin’ on the wimmin, are you, Pat?” grinned
Hootie.
The sheriff shifted his feet nervously.
“I just came to ask a question, Hootie.”
“I heard you say that before, Pat. Well, you got your answer, didn’t
you?”
“I got a kind of an answer.”
“That’s all anybody ever gets from a woman.”
The sheriff sighed.
“I reckon so,” he said.
He twisted his hat in his hands for a moment, before looking at Ma
Cooper.
“I wish you’d think it over, Mrs. Cooper,” he said. “You know there’s a
law against destroyin’ evidence. Compoundin’ a felony, they call it.
Think it over, will you? Good night.”
He opened the door and stepped outside, closing the door behind him.
Hashknife was watching Marion closely, and he knew she was frightened.
She looked appealingly at Mrs. Cooper, caught Hashknife’s steady gaze
and turned her head away.
* * * * *
“What’s it all about, Ma?” asked Hootie.
“You heard what he said, didn’t you? That’s all I know. C’mon, Marion.
Gee, he sure settled my supper. I thought we was goin’ to be arrested.”
Marion followed her into the kitchen, and they shut the door between
that and the dining room. Hootie filled his pipe thoughtfully, frowning
to himself. Finally he grinned at Hashknife and shook his head.
“Wimmin are funny, Hartley.”
“I suppose they are—most of ’em.”
“That sheriff had his nerve—accusin’ women,” declared Sleepy warmly.
“Well, he won’t get anythin’ out of Ma,” chuckled Hootie. “That woman
can keep a secret.”
“Do you think she’s got one to keep?” smiled Hashknife.
“If she ain’t, I don’t know her. Any time Ma gets mad and talks real
fast, she’s coverin’ up somethin’. But it ain’t nothin’ bad. Nossir.
Compoundin’ a felony! Mebby he thinks Ma and Marion held up the stage.
Tonight I’m goin’ to ask Ma for my split of the three thousand, or I’ll
squeal on both of ’em.”
Hootie laughed and dropped his pipe on the carpet.
“Set down, boys. I dunno what we’re all standin’ up here for, when
there’s plenty chairs. I’ll bet Pat Lynch forgot that I told him you was
goin’ to eat supper with us. I told him you was a old friend of my
brother Jim, down in Mizpah, Arizona. He don’t know Jim.”
“Pretty good sheriff, ain’t he?”
“Fills the office. Never caught nobody that I ever heard about, but we
ain’t had much crime. Yeah, I reckon Pat is as good as the average.”
Ma Cooper and Marion stayed in the kitchen long enough to regain their
composure before coming back to the living room, but it was easy to see
that Marion was disturbed.
“Did you ever hear a more ridiculous thing?” asked Ma Cooper. “The nerve
of Pat Lynch! Why he acted as though we held up the old stage.”
She turned to Hashknife.
“I don’t know what you boys will think of us,” she said.
“I think you’re mighty good cooks,” smiled Hashknife. “As far as the
sheriff is concerned, let’s forget him.”
“Aw, he wouldn’t know a woman’s track from a buggy track,” said Sleepy.
“Hoppin’ on a woman thataway! And even if you did make tracks in his old
sand, and if you did pick up somethin’, and if you did—did—”
“Now, you’re all tied up in a string,” laughed Hashknife. “He means
well, folks.”
“Well, you know what I mean,” said Sleepy lamely.
They stayed about an hour after supper, and went back to their hotel.
“Ain’t she a dinger?” asked Sleepy, sprawling on the bed. “Mamma mine,
ain’t she a peach, Hashknife?”
Hashknife slumped down in a chair, his shoulders even with his ears, as
he puffed on a cigaret, his eyes half closed.
“What do you suppose she picked up, Hashknife?”
But Hashknife did not reply to Sleepy’s question. And Sleepy would have
been greatly surprised if he had, because Hashknife was not strong for
suppositions.
“Jist my luck,” mused Sleepy, staring at the ceiling. “Here I am, a
honest, industrious, clean-minded cowboy, with a big heart and a soul
filled with lovin’ kindness, comin’ in jist too late. Mopped out of a
chance of matrimony by a danged outlaw. Virtue is its own reward, I
suppose.”
“Then you think she picked this Tex Blanco, because it was sort of a
last resort, do you?” asked Hashknife.
“I never thought about that. Are you goin’ to bed?”
“I sure am, Sleepy. I can hear them blankets callin’ to me right now.”
“Yeah, and you hear somethin’ else callin’ to you.”
Hashknife smiled softly, as he drew off his high-heeled boots.
“We’re a queer pair of birdies, Sleepy,” he said. “Always goin’ some
place and never gettin’ there.”
“‘And we pray to the god of the trails untrod,’” quoted Sleepy.
“That’s it, cowboy, the trails untrod, the other side of the hill. I’m
gettin’ gray hairs and I like to set down and talk about the old bunch.
That’s a sign of age, they tell me.”
“Shore is,” said Sleepy, tugging at a boot. “Old age! that’s somethin’ I
hate to look forward to. We can’t afford to grow old, Hashknife. You
must have been forty your last birthday.”
“Forty-one. And you’ll be forty pretty soon. The span of a man’s life is
three score years and ten, they say.”
“A peaceable life,” grunted Sleepy. “Not our kind.”
“A peaceable life. Must be great to just drift along from one day to the
next, puttin’ up money for old age; no dangers, nobody shootin’ at
you—just peace every day.”
“Suppose we try it some day.”
“Some day, sure. Get in; I’ll blow out the lamp.”
They had been together a long time, these two. Drifting up and down the
open lands of the West, from the Alberta ranges to the Mexican border,
always on the move, never content to stay long in any place.
Hashknife was originally from the Milk River country in Montana, while
Sleepy was from Idaho. Fate drew David Stevens to the Hashknife ranch,
where he met Henry Hartley, who was nicknamed after that brand, and
together they started out to see what was on the other side of the hill.
Because of the fact that he seemed always awake, Dave was nicknamed
Sleepy. They were intensely human, those two, and their sense of humor
had carried them over many hard bumps. They had gambled with fate and
had won so many times that they were confirmed fatalists.
Hashknife was the leader. Born with a keen mind, he had developed it
through observation, and studying human nature, especially human
failings, to a point where the mere mention of a mystery would cause him
to abandon any other plans he might have to solve it.
But Hashknife was not a manhunter. He had no interest in reward notices,
no extreme dislike for a criminal. To him crime was just one of the
things that happen in the world, according to the pendulum of fate.
Together they would solve a mystery—and ride on. They asked no reward.
Sometimes they would work for a cattle outfit for awhile, gathering a
few dollars before riding on. Their partnership had not been
remunerative. In fact, they were poorer in pocket than they were the day
they rode away together. But they did not care. They realized that they
were pawns of fate, moving hither and thither around the board, doing
their little bit to help to make the world better.
“We’ve never been in a place where they wouldn’t welcome us back,
Sleepy,” said Hashknife. “Mebby, when we’re old, we’ll swing back, goin’
over the hill from the other direction.”
* * * * *
The following day was a trial for Marion. It was one of those days when
every one in the school seemed to be on edge. Two of the larger boys
started a fight in the yard, and she sent them both home with notes to
their parents. Marion did not feel physically able to whip them, as they
were nearly as big as she.
And to cap the climax, at noon came Mrs. Beebee and Mrs. Hall, wives of
the trustees. Mrs. Hall was as large as Mrs. Cooper—a great, grim-faced
woman, dressed in black, with a small hat, which she had trimmed
herself. The hat was a weird and wonderful creation of artificial wheat,
red cherries and a single ostrich plume, the whole balanced precariously
on the back of her head.
Mrs. Beebee was a thin, scrawny little woman, dressed in rusty black,
with a parrotlike voice and a hooked nose. They nodded grimly to Marion
and sat down at a vacant seat at the rear of the room.
“Visitin’,” said Mrs. Beebee severely.
“Oh, I am glad you came,” said Marion, trying to be pleasant.
“Mm-m-m-m,” said Mrs. Hall dryly and dubiously.
And there they sat all the afternoon, saying nothing, listening closely
to everything. The children seemed to sense the strain, too, and went
bad accordingly. Marion had always had trouble with Joe and Mary Beebee,
but today they seemed doubly possessed of demons.
Everything went wrong. Even Ella Hall, the school tattletale, who was
usually letter perfect, failed utterly, and tried to excuse herself by
openly telling the teacher she had given her too much work.
Marion was too miserable to reprimand her, so Ella went back to her
seat, her tongue in her cheek, while the black-clad judges in the rear
seat looked at each other understandingly. After three hours of this,
Marion was ready to scream.
She dismissed school at the regular time, expecting that her visitors
would stay long enough at least to express an opinion; but they trailed
out with the children. She watched them from the window, going stiffly
down the street, bobbing their heads, as they talked it over, while
Ella, Joe and Mary stayed close to them, apparently getting an earful of
what was being said.
Marion sighed and looked down at little Jimmy Hastings, who was waiting
for his father. Jimmy’s face seemed flushed and he rested his chin on
his folded arms.
“Don’t you feel well, Jimmy?” she asked.
“Not very, ma’am. My head kinda aches. And I’m mad, too.”
He sat up in his seat, fumbling with his books.
“You must never get mad, Jimmy,” she said.
“’At’s all right. I heard ’em talkin’ at recess. Mary Beebee said she’d
bet that it won’t be long before we have a new teacher. She said her ma
and Mrs. Hall came up here to see if you was doin’ your work right.”
Marion’s heart sank just a little. She realized that these two women
would be able to influence their husbands enough to cause them to make a
change. She had no contract with the Pineville school board. And if they
did, she would not have enough money even to take her back to Cheyenne.
“And Ella Hall said her mother wasn’t satisfied with what you’d done to
Ella,” said Jimmy slowly. “Gee, I don’t want you to go away.”
“Well, I don’t want to go away, Jimmy; but I think it will all turn out
right.”
“Mebby. Uncle Tex thinks you’re a dinger. Sometimes he talks with me
about you. He says I’m learnin’ awful fast. You ain’t seen him for quite
awhile, have you? He ain’t been to town. Somebody—” Jimmy’s eyes grew
wide and round—“hit him on the head, don’tcha know it?”
“Somebody hit him on the head, Jimmy?”
“Yes’m. Had a big lump on the side of his head. He never told nobody how
he got it. I heard Frank Judd and Tommy Corbett talkin’ about it. It was
the day the stage was held up. I asked him what happened, but he
wouldn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t know anything about it,” said Marion.
“And he ain’t got that pretty gun no more,” said Jimmy. “Gee, ’at was a
pretty gun. And Tex liked it an awful lot,” said Jimmy; and after a few
moments of reflection he said, “He likes pretty things.”
“Is your Uncle Tex a good singer, Jimmy?”
“Y’betcha, when he feels like it. He used to sing to me, when he was
bringin’ me to school. Most always it was somethin’ about Mother
Mac—somethin’.”
“Mother Machree, Jimmy?”
“That’s her. He said it was the Irish croppin’ out. What did he mean by
that, Miss Evans?”
“Isn’t he part Irish, Jimmy?”
“I dunno.” Jimmy yawned widely.
“Here comes your father,” said Marion, glancing through the window.
Jimmy met him at the doorway, and they went away together on the horse.
Marion closed the schoolhouse and went home. She found Ma Cooper on the
porch, dressed in a voluminous wrapper, reading a cook book. Marion sat
down on the steps and took off her hat.
“You had company today, didn’t you?” asked Ma.
Marion sighed deeply and placed her hat on the steps.
“Yes,” she said sadly, “Mrs. Beebee and Mrs. Hall.”
“Came to pick you to pieces, eh?”
“Oh, I suppose. And there were plenty of opportunities. The children
were possessed today, Ma.”
“They would be, with those two there. I took one look at the two old
buzzards and said to myself that you was in for a pleasant afternoon,
unless I missed my guess. Some day I’m goin’ to tell ’em both what I
think of ’em. Poor old Beebee. He’ll have about as much chance to be a
trustee as I will. Same with old Sam Hall. It’ll be Mrs. Beebee and Mrs.
Hall against old Henry Goff, and he won’t count. I’m glad Hootie’s off
the board. Old Henry ought to git off, too; he ain’t got no kids.”
“If Mrs. Beebee and Mrs. Hall decided to—to make a change in teachers,
could they let me go?” asked Marion.
“Well, I wouldn’t think of such a thing, Marion. It’s been a hard job to
get any teacher in Pineville. Don’t you worry about it for a minute.”
“I don’t know. There is a lot of talk among the pupils, instigated of
course, by Mary and Joe Beebee and Ella Hall. Where there is so much
smoke, there must be a little fire. And I can’t afford to lose this
position, Ma Cooper.”
“Oh, you won’t lose it. Quit worryin’. Change your clothes and come back
here where it’s cool.”
* * * * *
That evening Hashknife saw Tex Blanco for the first time. Tex had ridden
in with Frank Judd and Tommy Corbett, who had met Eddie Grimes and
Sleepy, while Hashknife had been visiting with the sheriff.
Tex was in a restaurant eating his supper when Hashknife and the sheriff
came in. He spoke pleasantly to the sheriff, gave Hashknife a sharp
glance and continued eating. Hashknife was rather impressed with Tex’s
appearance. There was nothing of the ignorant gunman type about Tex.
They sat down at the rear of the room and ordered their supper.
Hashknife had a feeling that the sheriff had been trying to find out
more about him, and he wondered just why the sheriff was curious about
him. He had asked Hashknife about the places he and Sleepy had worked,
and his eyes expressed disbelief, when Hashknife began enumerating more
brands than the average cowboy ever dreamed of seeing.
“You must have kept movin’ pretty reg’lar,” said the sheriff dryly.
“Did.”
“What was the idea of movin’ so often, Hartley?”
“The hill that was just ahead.”
“The hill that was—I don’t get what you mean.”
“We wanted to see the other side.”
“Oh, yeah. Kinda tramps, eh?”
“Mebby. I don’t just like that word.”
“Mebby not. How long are you goin’ to stay here?”
“_Quien sabe?_ Mebby pretty soon we’ll see a hill ahead.”
Tex left the restaurant and, in a few minutes, Shorty Gallup, Bud Severn
and Alex McLean came in. They had been drinking and were in a boisterous
mood.
“Hyah, Sheriff!” yelled Shorty.
When he opened his mouth one noticed two teeth missing in front.
“Hello, Shorty,” said the sheriff.
Shorty looked at Hashknife closely, said something to Alex McLean, and
they all sat down at a table near the front of the room.
The sheriff was a little nervous and hurried through his supper. He
didn’t like the idea of the TD and the B Arrow gangs meeting in
Pineville. After they left the restaurant the sheriff confided this to
Hashknife.
“Oscar is in Garnet,” he told Hashknife. “Ought to be back pretty soon.
He knows how to handle ’em better than I do. Your pardner is with the B
Arrow gang and Eddie Grimes, and if I was you I’d get him away from ’em.
Shorty Gallup got whipped by Frank Judd, and Eddie got fired by Shorty,
so there might be some fireworks, if they get a few more drinks.”
“Sleepy can take care of himself,” smiled Hashknife.
“I s’pose he can.”
The sheriff went back to his office, and Hashknife sauntered over to
Cooper’s store, where he stood on the sidewalk for awhile. He saw Oscar
Johnson ride in and go to the office. It was dark. After smoking a
cigaret, Hashknife strolled down the street and went up to his room,
where he sat down and tried to get interested in an old magazine, but
without any success.
Then he decided to go down and talk with Ma Cooper and Marion. He didn’t
want to mix with the men in the Stormy River Saloon, because he didn’t
want to have any trouble with Shorty, who very likely had not forgotten
what had taken place at the TD corral.
But he did not find any one at home at the Cooper house; so he sprawled
in a deep porch chair to wait for them to return. He decided that they
had gone up to the store and would return in a short time.
He smoked a cigaret and went to sleep, stretched out in the big chair.
Suddenly he awoke, staring at the ceiling of the porch, wondering where
he was. There were voices close to him—the voices of a man and a woman.
He could not see them, because they were on the other side of the porch
railing, but he could hear them plainly. It was Marion, talking to Tex
Blanco.
Hashknife did not want to listen, but after a few words he decided to
stay where he was. Marion was saying—
“You shouldn’t have walked down here with me.”
“I suppose not, Marion. Yes, I’m goin’ to call you Marion. I call you
that to myself all the time. I heard a preacher say it is just as bad to
think profanity as it is to speak it; so if I think Marion I’ll say
Marion.”
“That part is all right,” she said slowly.
“That’s fine. Gee, it’s been a tough week for me—havin’ to give up
takin’ Jimmy to school.”
“It was the best thing to do, Mr. Blanco.”
“Won’t you call me Tex? My right name is Bryan. They even mixed my
names—Irish and Spanish. Nobody ever calls me Bryan, not even my mother,
and she named me. I wish you could meet her. We talk about you a lot.”
“I—I don’t know why you should, Tex.”
“Why? Lord love you, Marion, why shouldn’t we? Don’t go in the house,
please. Stay here and talk to me.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” faltered Marion. “You know how they feel about you,
Tex. If any one knew I was here with you, I’d lose my school. I may lose
it anyway. It isn’t I; it’s just the way things are, don’t you see?”
“What does the school amount to, if you say it isn’t you? Marion, you’ve
got to listen to me. I’ve got to tell you right now. The rest of the
world can go hang. I—”
“Don’t, Tex! Oh, can’t you see it is no use?”
“No, I can’t,” said Tex slowly. “I can’t see, unless you believe what
folks have told you, Marion. They have been my judges for a long time.
They must be without sin, because they throw rocks all the time.
“I’m no saint. Oh, I know what they say about me. They have probably
told you I killed Buck Dennig, because he accused me of cheating; and
they can’t arrest me, because there’s no evidence. They’ve put a lot of
their crimes on me. And it never made much difference, until you came
along.
“I ought to understand how you feel, Marion. But I guess I’m kinda dumb.
I couldn’t expect you to marry a man of my reputation, unless you knew
it wasn’t true. I can’t prove my innocence. They can’t prove me guilty,
and I can’t prove my innocence.”
“Tex,” said Marion softly, “would you swear to me that you are innocent
of any crime?”
“Of any crime they accuse me—yes, Marion.”
“Even of holding up that stage the other day?”
Marion’s voice was pitched so low that Hashknife had to strain his ears
to hear her.
Tex laughed softly.
“Bless your heart, of course, I swear it!”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Tex, so sorry I don’t know what to say.”
“Sorry? Because I denied doin’ it, Marion?”
“Because that day—oh, don’t you understand? Ma Cooper and I saw that
holdup. We were on the mesa. And after it was all over, I—I found your
revolver, the one with the pearl handle.”
“You found it?” Tex’s voice was hoarse.
“It’s in my trunk, Tex. Ma Cooper knows. We’ll never tell anybody, Tex.
Goodby.”
* * * * *
She came slowly up the steps and went into the house, passing within six
feet of Hashknife, who hunched lower in the big chair, thankful he was
overlooked. He heard Tex walking slowly away, his spurs rasping on the
sidewalk. Hashknife got to his feet and stepped off the porch. He
decided not to wait for Mrs. Cooper to come back, but he met her just
outside the gate.
“This is Hartley, Mrs. Cooper,” he said. “Dropped in to see you, didn’t
find anybody at home and went to sleep on the porch.”
Mrs. Cooper laughed shortly.
“Wasn’t Miss Evans at home?”
“She came a few minutes ago.”
“I see. Hootie said for me to tell you to run in and see him, if I seen
you.”
“All right. Good night, Mrs. Cooper.”
Hashknife walked up to the store, where he found Hootie waiting on some
customers. As soon as Hootie was at liberty, he motioned for Hashknife
to meet him at the rear of the store.
“I just wanted to let you know that the sheriff sent a telegram
yesterday to my brother in Mizpah, Arizona, askin’ him what he knew
about you, Hartley.”
“Yea-a-ah?” drawled Hashknife, not knowing what else to say.
“And Oscar, his deputy, brought back a wire from Jim this evenin’. It
said—
“Never knew anybody by the name of Hashknife Hartley in my
life.”
“Well,” said Hashknife, after a short pause, “that’s kinda queer,
don’tcha think, Mr. Cooper?”
“I thought it was. That’s why I told you.”
He moved away to wait on another customer, and Hashknife sauntered
outside.
“Next time I start lyin’, I’ll pick a town that ain’t on no map,” he
told himself, grinning in spite of the fact that he had been caught in
the lie. “But just why would the sheriff go to all that trouble and
expense. Mebby I better go down and see him.”
Hashknife went to the office, where he found Oscar Johnson sprawled in a
chair. The tall, sad-faced deputy looked at Hashknife with a funereal
expression, a cigaret hanging loosely from the corner of his mouth.
“Got a letter for you, Hartley,” he said, waving one limp hand toward
the sheriff’s desk. “’S over there.”
Hashknife picked up the letter and glanced at the postmark. It had been
posted in Garnet and sent to him in care of the sheriff’s office. He
tore one end off of the envelope and drew out the enclosure. It read:
We will give you eight hours to leave this valley.
—THE BUNCH.
It was identical with the letter Sears, the detective, had received.
Hashknife glanced sharply at Oscar, who was looking at him quizzically.
The sheriff came in, stopped short and looked at Hashknife, who smiled
and held out the warning for his inspection.
The sheriff scowled at the message for a moment and went to his desk,
where he secured the note that had been sent to Sears and compared the
writing. It was identical.
“Just alike, eh?” asked Hashknife.
“Exactly.”
“But what does it mean? Who is The Bunch?”
“That’s what Sears wondered.”
“Why do they want me out of the valley?”
The sheriff walked over and closed the door, as if he did not want
anybody else to hear what he was going to say. He came back to his desk
and faced Hashknife.
“I dunno why they want you out, Hartley,” he said. “You two fellers have
had me kinda guessin’, don’tcha know it? I’m goin’ to put my cards on
the table. You told folks that you came over the divide from Piney Lake,
didn’t you?
“Well, you didn’t, Hartley. Alex McLean saw you leave Wallgate, and you
couldn’t have made the trip to Piney Lake and back here in that length
of time. You told Hootie Cooper that you knowed Jim Cooper in Mizpah,
Arizona. Just to find out a few things, I wired Jim Cooper. And—” he
reached in his pocket and drew out a telegram—“this is his reply.”
“I’ve heard it,” said Hashknife calmly. “Hootie told me about it.”
“Jim Cooper never met you in his life.”
“Not to my knowledge, Sheriff.”
“Then why didja—”
“Lie?” Hashknife smiled. “Oh I dunno. Force of habit, I suppose. Any
other charges?”
“No-o-o, I don’t reckon so.”
“All right, I’m guilty on both counts. What’s the penalty for lyin’ in
this county?”
The sheriff put the telegram in his pocket. For all his trouble he was
no better off than before.
“I reckon there ain’t no penalty,” he said slowly. “But it kinda makes a
feller lose faith in you.”
“Oh, yea-a-ah,” drawled Hashknife. “As a matter of fact, you didn’t have
no faith in me to start with, Sheriff. If you had, you’d have swallered
my lies instead of provin’ me a liar. Now that you’ve proved it, what
are you goin’ to do about it?”
The sheriff rubbed his nose thoughtfully.
“Nothin’, I guess.”
He sat down in his desk chair and filled an old pipe. Oscar grinned
softly and winked at Hashknife.
“You don’t need to wink at anybody,” said the sheriff. “It was your
idea—this investigation, Oscar.”
“Well, I sink along with you, don’t I? I’m not howlin’ about it. As a
detective, I’m a good night herder. I reckon Hartley ain’t the first
puncher that ever told a lie, and I ain’t lost no faith in him. He
didn’t hedge none, did he? Admitted that we had the goods on him, Pat.
He could have sworn that he had a different name, when he knowed Jim
Cooper, and he could have sworn that Alex McLean was a liar, which he is
most of the time.”
“I thought of both,” said Hashknife, “but what’s the use? I never knew
Jim Cooper. The sign on his store came blowing down one afternoon and
almost crowned me. And we did not come from Piney Lake.”
“Why didja say you came from Piney Lake?” asked the sheriff.
“Thought it might be a good place to be from.”
“I reckon that’s a good answer, Hartley, if that’s your name.”
“You’d have a hell of a time provin’ it isn’t.”
* * * * *
Hashknife walked over to the door, opened it and stood there, looking up
the street. Over at the Stormy River Saloon hitchrack a cowboy was
singing at the top of his voice. Came the rasp of shod hoofs against the
hard street, a shrill yell, a fusillade of revolver shots, sparking
upward.
The sheriff came quickly to the doorway.
“Happy punchers goin’ home,” laughed Hashknife.
“Damn fools!” snorted the sheriff. “Liable to hurt somebody, shootin’
wild thataway.”
Someone was coming down the sidewalk toward the office. It was Sleepy,
grinning widely.
“Well, they all got away without hurtin’ anybody,” he said. “Them last
two was Shorty Gallup and Matt Sturgis, boiled drunk.”
Sleepy leaned against the wall and rolled a cigaret.
“Thought for awhile there was goin’ to be trouble. The TD gang wanted to
act bad. Gallup sent word to Judd, of the B Arrow, that he was goin’ to
get him. Severn and McLean tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t
listen. McLean and Severn went home. Judd was all set to swap lead with
Shorty, but Grimes and Corbett talked him out of the notion. I helped a
little, I suppose. Anyway, the B Arrow gang pulled out, and when Shorty
heard about it he sang a song, piled on his bronc and shot a few holes
in the sky.”
“I’ll bet he was glad Judd pulled out,” said Oscar. “Pat wanted me to go
over and ride herd on ’em, but I told him I wouldn’t do it. Let ’em
fight it out. If they’ve got it in their system, let ’em fight.”
“You was scared to go over,” growled Pat.
“You didn’t go, didja?” queried Oscar. “When I refused, why didn’t you
do it. Don’t talk to me about bein’ scared.”
“They didn’t start nothin’ with you, did they, Sleepy?” asked Hashknife.
“Nothin’ but talk. This McLean person came up to me in the Stormy River,
and he’s pretty well loaded, and he stuck his face into mine, and he
says, ‘I know somethin’ about you.’ I kicked his feet out from under
him, and he sets down on the bar rail like a ton of bricks. I reckon it
was quite a shock, because when he got to his feet again, he’s kinda
puckered up, and I asks him what he knows. But he didn’t say. He went
out of there kinda bent in the shape of a chair; but I guess he got
straightened out to ride a horse.”
Oscar laughed immoderately, but the sheriff was serious. He knew what
McLean meant.
“We’ve been exposed,” smiled Hashknife. “They all know we didn’t come
from Piney Lake, and they know I never met Jim Cooper.”
Sleepy’s mouth sagged for a moment, as he hooked his thumbs over the
waistband of his pants, staring at the sheriff and the deputy.
“Well,” he said softly, “what’s the next thing to do, Hashknife?”
“Go to bed, I suppose,” grinned Hashknife. “Good night, officers.”
They went up the street together and entered the hotel room, where
Hashknife told Sleepy all about their exposure as liars of the first
vintage and also showed him the warning note. Sleepy whistled through
his teeth and essayed a clumsy clog in the middle of the floor.
“Must please you, don’t it?” asked Hashknife.
“Gives me a talkin’ point, any old time you accuse me of stretchin’
things,” laughed Sleepy.
“What do you think of the note?”
“Scares me to death.”
“It’s serious, Sleepy.”
“So am I. In the mornin’ I’m goin’ down and make my peace with Ma Cooper
and Miss Evans. If I have to, I’ll tell ’em I met you after you was in
Mizpah. You see, I never pretended to know Jim Cooper.”
Sleepy laughed gleefully.
“And I saw Tex Blanco tonight. They can say what they want to about him,
he can take care of himself. I was almost tempted to shoot him and steal
his shirt. Man, what a garment! I wonder if Miss Evans is goin’ to marry
him.”
“I don’t think so, Sleepy.”
“You don’t think so? Is that an official count of all the votes,
Hashknife?”
Hashknife shook his head slowly.
“There may be a few counties to hear from yet, Sleepy. We better hit the
hay, because we’ve only got eight hours left.”
“When do we run, Hashknife?”
Hashknife considered his two boots thoughtfully.
“Just as soon as we find somebody to run after.”
* * * * *
Mrs. Blanco, Tex’s mother, was a little old Irish woman, not over sixty
years of age, but looking much older. Her hair was as white as snow, her
face deeply lined and tanned. Her name had been Mary Bryan before she
married Enrique Blanco, down on the Rio Grande, and in her voice was
still the brogue of old Wexford.
This early morning she stood in the kitchen door at the B Arrow, an
anxious expression in her blue eyes. Leaning against the wall beside her
was Andy Hastings, his hands shoved deeply in his pockets, hair
uncombed, a stubble of whiskers on his lean jaw.
“You think he’s sick bad?” asked Andy.
“Aye, he’s bad, Andy. High fever. Well, ye saw the lad. Tex is in there
with him now. I think ye better saddle and get the doctor, Andy.”
“Sure, I’ll do that.”
Andy went striding down to the stable, and in a few moments Tex came out
and stood beside his mother.
“Sleepin’,” he said softly. “Is Andy goin’ for the doctor, mother?”
“Aye.”
“He’s a sick boy,” said Tex slowly. “He didn’t know me.”
“It’s the fever. Children get it bad. And they get over it quick. They
can stand more than a grown-up.”
“He was talkin’ about the school, mother, askin’ for Miss Evans, wantin’
to fight the Beebee boy. I thought he looked kinda bad when Andy brought
him home last night.”
“Aye, it was growin’ on him then, Tex. But mebby it is only an upset
stummick after all. Children get those things.”
Andy Hastings led his horse from the stable, mounted and rode out
through the big gate, forgetting to wear a hat.
“He thinks a world of the lad,” said Mrs. Blanco.
“We all do, mother. I’d rather lose my right hand than—”
Tex turned and went back in the house. The old lady nodded her head
slowly.
Kit Carson, Tommy Corbett and Frank Judd were coming up from the
bunkhouse, ready for breakfast, and she told them about little Jimmy’s
illness.
“Gee, that’s tough,” said Judd. “Andy went after a doctor, didn’t he?”
“Why didn’t he send one of us?” asked Tommy. “He should have stayed with
Jimmy. Where’s Tex?”
“He’s in there with Jimmy. Ye’ll have to wait awhile for breakfast,
boys; I haven’t started it yet.”
“That’s all right, Mother Blanco,” said Judd quickly. “You jist take
your time. There’s nothin’ we’ve got to do early this mornin’, anyway.
Can we do anythin’ for Jimmy?”
“Not a thing, Frank. I’ll get breakfast now.”
Andy Hastings did not spare his horse, and it was still early morning
when he rode up to the doctor’s house in Pineville. Old Doctor Brent
answered his summons and promised to start for the ranch, as soon as he
could dress and get his horse and buggy.
Andy rode back up the street and went to Cooper’s home, where he found
them at breakfast.
“I jist wanted to see Miss Evans,” said Andy to Ma Cooper. Marion came
to the door and Andy told her about Jimmy.
“I jist wanted you to know why he didn’t show up at the school,” he told
her.
“Is he very sick?” asked Marion anxiously.
“Yes’m, I reckon he’s pretty bad. Mother Blanco and Tex was up with him
’most all night. They didn’t tell me until this mornin’, so I came right
away for the doctor. He’s kinda out of his head, you see.”
Andy squinted painfully.
“He didn’t know me; didn’t know Tex either. Jist talked about the school
and you, ma’am. And he wanted to fight the Beebee boy.” Andy turned his
head away. “He’s quite a fighter, ma’am, Jimmy is. He thinks you’re
pretty fine. He talked about you goin’ away.”
Andy turned and looked at Marion.
“You ain’t goin’ away, are you?”
“I hope not, Mr. Hastings.”
“I hope not m’self. Jimmy’s learnin’ so fast. Well, I’ve got to git back
to the ranch.”
“Is there anythin’ we can do, Andy?” asked Ma Cooper.
“Not a thing, thank you, Mrs. Cooper.”
“Will he be nursed all right out there?” asked Marion.
“Oh, shore. Mother Blanco is fine thataway. I’ll let you know how he
comes along.”
Andy rode back to the main street, where he met the doctor, and they
went to the ranch together.
Marion had been greatly worried ever since Mrs. Cooper had told her of
meeting Hashknife at the gate and that Hashknife said he had been asleep
on the porch. Marion remembered that she and Tex had stood near the
porch and she was afraid that Hashknife had heard what she told Tex
about finding that gun. Marion did not tell Ma Cooper that she had told
Tex.
* * * * *
Hashknife cautioned Sleepy that morning. He did not know just how much
of that note was pure bluff and, even if it were part bluff, they were
taking a big chance in staying around Pineville.
They met the sheriff after breakfast, and he seemed a little surprised
to meet them.
“Your eight hours are up,” he told Hashknife.
“We realize that,” smiled Hashknife. “But it’s daylight, and that bunch
don’t work in daylight.”
“You’re just guessin’ ain’tcha?”
Hashknife studied the sheriff seriously.
“You ain’t tryin’ to run us out, are you, Sheriff?”
“No, I’m not. I don’t _sabe_ you, though.”
“You don’t need to. What you don’t know won’t hurt you.”
“Mm-m-m. Well, go ahead and get killed, if you feel thataway.”
“No, that ain’t the idea, Sheriff. Don’t go off half cocked. You’ve been
tryin’ to put the deadwood on us ever since we came here. You proved me
a liar, didn’t you? Oh, that’s all right. Let’s drop it and be friends.”
Pat Lynch looked quizzically at Hashknife.
“I reckon I might as well, Hartley. Me and Oscar argued a lot about you
two fellers, and he stuck up for you. I swear I don’t know a thing about
you, except that you lied, and admitted it like a gentleman.”
“Well, that’s settled,” grinned Hashknife, taking the note from his
pocket. “Who wrote that, Sheriff?”
“I don’t know,” declared the sheriff. “It’s the same writin’ as was on
the other note.”
“Can you get hold of a sample of Tex Blanco’s writin’?”
The sheriff blinked quickly and shifted his eyes toward the bank
building across the street.
“Why do you want a sample of his writin’, Hartley?”
“You wouldn’t have to be very bright to answer that yourself, Sheriff.”
“Uh-huh.”
The sheriff shifted uneasily for a moment; then:
“Hartley, I don’t want this to go any farther, because Heffner says it
don’t prove nothin’; but we compared the other note with Blanco’s
signature at the bank, and the B in Bunch is the same as the B in
Blanco.”
“Why does Heffner say it doesn’t prove anythin’?”
“Says it would take an expert to prove it. And even at that a cow jury
prob’ly wouldn’t believe it. But the B is the same, Hartley. It’s got
the curlicue at the bottom and one at the top. I’m no expert, but I
could see that. But don’t say anythin’, Hartley.”
“I’m not sayin’ anythin’, Sheriff; but I’d like to see that signature.”
“I’ll get it for you, as soon as the bank opens.”
The sheriff glanced at his watch.
“Tex Blanco quarreled with Buck Dennig the night Dennig was killed,
didn’t he?” asked Hashknife.
“Dennig accused him of cheatin’ at poker,” said the sheriff, “but that
ain’t evidence. Somebody stole the ten thousand off Buck that night, but
we’ve no trace of that. Buck cashed a check for it that afternoon.
Nobody knows what he was goin’ to do with the money. Might as well go
over to the bank and get that signature; it’s ten o’clock.”
They went over and started into the bank, but found the door locked. The
sheriff looked at his watch again.
“My watch must be fast,” he said, winding it slowly.
Hashknife looked at his watch; it showed ten minutes after ten.
“Shearer’s late,” decided the sheriff, and they sat down on the edge of
the high sidewalk to wait.
They saw Tex Blanco ride in and go to the little drug store down the
street. He came out in a few moments, mounted and rode swiftly out of
town. Hootie Cooper came along, tried the bank door, and came out to the
edge of the sidewalk.
“Shearer must have overslept,” he said.
But Guy Shearer, the cashier, did not come. Several other people tried
to get into the bank. It was after ten-thirty, when old John Rice,
president of the bank, came along. He and Shearer were the only
employees of the bank, and Rice was not in the habit of coming very
early. Rice was a small, gray-haired man, slightly crippled, an
old-timer in the Stormy River country. He seemed greatly surprised to
find the bank still closed.
“Perhaps Guy is sick,” he said, as he unlocked the front door. “He was
all right yesterday. Come right in, gentlemen.”
They followed him in. He carefully blocked the door open, before doing
anything else. The Pineville Bank was a small institution, the room
being about twenty by thirty feet in size, less than a third of it used
for office space.
Rice led the way to the low railing that separated the office desks from
the rest of the building, swung open the gate and stepped inside. At the
rear of this was the front of the vault, which was little more than a
large safe, set into the wall. Rice placed his hat on a desk and started
to turn back to the men, when he stopped and leaned forward, both hands
on the desk.
“My God!” he exclaimed loudly. “What has been done here?”
Hashknife had halted near the gate, and now he flung it open and stepped
inside, with the sheriff close behind him.
Stretched out on the floor, half under the desk, was Guy Shearer, the
cashier, his head in a pool of blood. On the floor near him was a length
of lariat rope. Hashknife took one look at Shearer and decided he was
dead. Quickly the sheriff and Rice dropped on their knees beside him,
while Hootie and Sleepy leaned across the railing and watched them turn
the man over on his back.
Hashknife picked up the rope, looked it over quickly. It was an ordinary
spot cord rope, which had been used quite a lot. He quickly inspected
both ends of the rope. One end had been wrapped tightly with a fine
copper wire, while the other end, frayed slightly, showed a fresh cut.
Hashknife moved around the room, glancing sharply from one corner to
another, holding the rope in one hand. The men were too interested in
the dead cashier to pay any attention to Hashknife. Suddenly he stooped
and picked up an object from near the leg of a desk, concealing it in
his hand for a few moments while he played idly with the rope, and then
slipped it into his pocket.
“There’s no use goin’ for the doctor,” Hootie was saying. “He’s gone out
to the B Arrow to see Hastings’ kid.”
John Rice’s face was very white and his lips trembled as he leaned
against the railing and looked at the dead cashier.
“You better set down, John,” advised the sheriff. “There ain’t no use of
you standin’ up. Nothin’ you can do. He’s as dead as a salt herrin’.”
“But why—who killed him, Pat? The door was locked.”
The old banker looked around the room, and his gaze came back to the
vault door.
“Those windows won’t open,” he said slowly. “Will some of you lock the
front door? We can’t have folks coming in here now.”
Sleepy walked over and closed the door.
* * * * *
“If I were in your place,” said Hashknife, “I’d open the vault and have
a look inside.”
“But the vault is locked,” said Rice. “Nobody could—”
“Folks don’t usually break into a bank just to kill the cashier, you
know.”
“Mebby you better, John,” said the sheriff.
The old man went over to the vault and slowly worked the combination.
None of the men went near him. He swung the door open and, after a
moment of inspection, stepped back.
“It—it has been cleaned out,” he said painfully.
Hashknife and the sheriff walked over beside him. The inside door was
partly open. The sheriff swung it the rest of the way, disclosing an
empty interior. That door opened with a key, and there was no key in the
lock.
“Better close it up,” said Hashknife. “No use tellin’ everybody.”
Rice closed the outer door and turned the combination.
“This is terrible,” said Rice hoarsely. “What can we do?”
The sheriff shook his head helplessly, staring at the body of the
cashier. Sleepy perched on the rail, smoking a cigaret, and kept an eye
on Hashknife, who was idly swinging the rope in his hand. The sheriff
took the rope and looked at it.
“This was on the floor, wasn’t it, Hartley?”
“Yeah,” said Hashknife. He turned to Rice. “Was the cashier in the habit
of workin’ in here at night?”
“Not very often. There wasn’t enough work for that.”
“Uh-huh. He had a key to the inside door of that vault?”
“Oh, certainly.”
“Let’s see if he’s still got it. Shall I search him, or will you,
Sheriff?”
“You do it,” said the sheriff.
In a trouser pocket Hashknife found the key ring, and Rice identified
the key.
“Did anybody, except you two, know the combination?”
“Just the two of us,” said Rice wearily.
Hashknife and the sheriff walked around the place. There was no evidence
that any one had been at work. The desks were orderly. Hashknife went
back and examined the body. The blow had been struck from behind.
“What do you think, Hartley?” asked the sheriff.
“Hard to tell. Looks as though somebody had met this man, forced him
here at the point of a gun, robbed the vault and then hit him over the
head. They went through the front door, which is on a spring lock. Mebby
they intended to just tie him up here, but somethin’ happened and they
killed him, and forgot their rope.”
“That’s my theory, too!” exclaimed the sheriff. “That’s what they done.
Prob’ly met Shearer on the street. Mebby he recognized them, and they
had to kill him.”
“That sounds reasonable,” agreed Hashknife. He turned to Rice. “Did they
get much from the vault?”
“At least twenty-five thousand dollars.”
Hashknife whistled softly.
“I didn’t know you kept that much cash in a bank of this size.”
“Sometimes more than that. We won’t know until a check is made of it.”
“I hate to move that body until the coroner gets here,” said the
sheriff. “He ought to be back in a little while. I think I’ll go down to
Allen’s place and see what they know about Shearer. Allen’s place is
where Shearer lived,” he explained to Hashknife. “Want to walk down?”
“Yeah, I’ll go with you.”
“I’d like to have one of you stay here with me,” said Rice quickly.
“I’ll stay,” said Sleepy. “I’m good company.”
They walked down to the house and inquired of Mrs. Allen, but did not
tell her that Shearer was dead until she said that Shearer did not show
up for breakfast. She did not know whether he had left early or late the
evening before, as he had a room on the lower floor, with an outside
entrance.
She was greatly shocked to know that he was dead, and let them in to
examine his room. The bed had not been disturbed. On the dresser was an
enlargement from a snapshot picture, showing the front of the bank,
Shearer, Buck Dennig, Cleve Tolman and John Rice.
“That picture was taken about the time Shearer went to work for the
bank,” said the sheriff. “He was with the Garnet Mercantile Company for
quite awhile before he came here. That’s Buck Dennig next to Shearer.”
“Buck was a good lookin’ feller,” said Hashknife.
“And a nice feller, too. Well, I guess we’ll have to go back and wait
for Doc Brent to come back from the B Arrow. This will shore upset this
town.”
They went back up the street. Quite a crowd had collected in front of
the bank and, as they drew near to the bank, old Doctor Brent drove in
from the east side of the town. Someone told him about the trouble at
the bank, and he stopped at the little hitchrack. The sheriff went in
with him, but Hashknife stayed outside listening to the different
opinions. Hootie was telling them all about the discovery of the murder.
Cleve Tolman rode in. He was a director in the bank and one of the
heaviest depositors. Hashknife watched him enter. In a few minutes some
of the men secured a narrow cot, which they used as a stretcher to carry
the body down to the doctor’s office. The bank closed its door for the
day.
* * * * *
The crowd dispersed quickly, after the body had been taken away. Sleepy
joined Hashknife and they sat on the edge of the sidewalk together.
“I suppose that’s the work of The Bunch,” said Sleepy.
“Looks thataway,” nodded Hashknife.
Sleepy looked around and as he rolled a cigaret, edged a little closer
to Hashknife and said—
“What did you find in there, Hashknife?”
“You saw me find it?”
“Yeah. Nobody else did, though.”
Hashknife reached in his pocket and drew out a hondo, the loop on the
end of a lariat, through which the rope runs. It was of metal, covered
with leather, and in the leather had been burned the initial B and a
crudely drawn arrow, the mark of the B Arrow ranch.
Sleepy examined it closely and gave it back to Hashknife.
“Cut it off the rope and then lost it, eh?”
Hashknife nodded slowly as he put the hondo in his pocket.
“Looks thataway. They meant to tie Shearer, and didn’t want that marked
hondo to be found. Probably workin’ in the dark and lost it. That hondo
might hang somebody, Sleepy.”
“Shore! Ain’t you goin’ to give it to the sheriff?”
“Not yet. There’s several men at the B Arrow, and they didn’t all kill
Shearer.”
“They must be The Bunch,” said Sleepy quietly. “We’ll have to keep an
eye on ’em, cowboy. I hear they’ve been rustlin’ TD beef for a long
time. But I like Judd and Corbett. Carson don’t say much. They tell me
Judd is a fighter. He whipped Shorty Gallup.”
“So did Grimes,” smiled Hashknife. “He had Shorty whipped that day we
met him. It was Sturgis who knocked Grimes down, you remember—hit him
from behind.”
“Yeah, that’s right. This killin’ will make folks sore. This Shearer was
well liked.”
Oscar Johnson came along and sat down with them.
“Lotsa crime around here,” he said. “I liked Shearer. Who do you suppose
killed him, Hartley?”
“The same folks who sent us that note, Johnson.”
“I s’pose. Pat was surprised that you fellers didn’t pull out. Your
eight hours are up long ago.”
“I dunno,” mused Hashknife. “Eight hours from when? They should have set
a time, Oscar. How would they know when I got that note?”
“That’s right. But you wouldn’t go, anyway. I told Pat you had more
nerve than Sears did. He shore high tailed quick. I never seen a cow
detective yet that had any nerve. We’ve got a job on our hands, tryin’
to clear all this up. Don’t think we ever will. Takes brains, don’tcha
know it. Me and Pat ain’t got enough. He thinks he’s smart, but I know
him.”
“Don’t you even suspect anybody?” asked Sleepy.
“Shore,” nodded Oscar solemnly, “but what’s the use? You can’t prove it.
Look at the money they’ve got! Ten thousand from Buck Dennig, three
thousand from that stage and now they get about twenty-five thousand
more. Thirty-eight thousand dollars!”
“And two dead men,” said Hashknife.
“Yeah, two dead men. That kind of money ought to burn a man, Hartley.”
“It will.”
“Mebby. If we don’t never catch ’em, it won’t.”
“Who was sick at the B Arrow this mornin’?”
“Little Jimmy Hastings. Tex came in after medicine. Told me the doctor
was scared the kid had typhoid. Tex thinks a lot of that kid. He’s a
queer feller, this Tex Blanco. You wasn’t here the day the stage was
held up, was you? No, that was before you came. Me and Pat went out to
where the stage was robbed. Mrs. Cooper and Miss Evans had been to
Garnet, and they must have been pretty close behind the stage.
“We found where the robbery had been pulled off, and we saw where
Cooper’s buckboard had pulled out of the road at the same spot. And we
found a woman’s tracks, where she left the buckboard and walked about
four or five steps and then came back.
“But them women wouldn’t admit that they seen the holdup, nor that they
walked around at the spot. Pat’s got an idea that they’re keepin’
somethin’ quiet. Anyway, we came back past the B Arrow and talked with
Andy Hastings. He said that Tex went to Garnet to the dance the night
before.
“And while we was talkin’ to Andy, Tex rode in. He shore looked tough.
There was blood on his muffler and on his shirt, and he wore his hat
tilted to one side, as though to hide somethin’. And another thing—he
didn’t have no gun in his holster. Jist nodded howdy to us and rode on.
Acted as though he didn’t want to talk with us. It shore looked queer to
me.”
“Why didn’t you ask him where he’d been?” asked Hashknife.
“Yea-a-ah! In the first place, it wasn’t none of our business.”
“Wasn’t Buck Dennig killed in the same way as Shearer?”
“Shore was. I never thought of that.”
“And they tell me that Windy March, the stage driver, never saw the men
who held him up.”
“That’s right, Hartley. Oh, they’re clever all right. Poor Windy ain’t
over it yet. He sat there and looked the way they wanted him to look. I
don’t blame him m’self.”
“Neither do I,” said Hashknife seriously. “Did any of you check up on
Tex, to see if he was at Garnet that night?”
“I don’t guess anybody did, Hartley.”
“And you don’t know what Buck Dennig was goin’ to do with that ten
thousand?”
“Nope, never knew he had it until after he was killed.”
“I guess we better go and eat, before you admit that you ain’t done a
thing.”
“Hell, I can admit that on an empty stummick—but I’ll eat with you.”
* * * * *
“Ro-o-ho-oll on, silv’ry moo-hoon—
Light the trav’ler on his way-ha-a-ay—
O, la-lay-hee-e-e! O, la-lay-he-hoo-o-o-o!”
As a yodler, Luke Jones, cook for the TD outfit, was terrible. In fact
it was a series of broken notes, wails and hoots, sent forth at the top
of his voice, as he leaned against the side of the kitchen door. In his
left hand he held a tin cup which contained some violet tinted liquid,
while his right hand, concealed beneath his dirty apron, gripped a big
single action Colt revolver.
Luke was very drunk, but very much awake. His bleared eyes caught sight
of what appeared to be the brim of a sombrero, extending just out from
the corner of the bunkhouse. He jerked his hand from beneath the apron
and fired from his hip. The bullet smashed a window in the bunkhouse,
three feet from the corner, and old Luke grinned, exposing a few crooked
teeth. He drank from the cup, twisted his face in a scowl and yelled—
“C’mon out and git shot, you chuckwalla!”
But no one came out. Luke had been there for fifteen minutes, defying
the whole TD outfit. Shorty Gallup had kicked on the breakfast, as well
he might, because Luke was drunk when he cooked it—drunk on prune whisky
which he had made himself. Luke was a periodical drunkard, but he had
always gone to town to celebrate.
Luke had taken Shorty’s kicks as personal insults. He wanted to show
them who was boss of that kitchen, and he was doing it. He had Shorty,
Matt Sturgis, Alex McLean and Bud Hough hiding out behind the bunkhouse.
Tolman and Dobe Severn had left for town before Luke’s outburst.
“I’m goin’ to step out and kill that old fool,” declared Shorty angrily.
“He deserves it, I tell you. Aw, he couldn’t hit me, even if he had a
shotgun. My stars, there goes another window!”
Shorty drew his gun and stepped out quickly from the side of the
bunkhouse. Came a sharp _whap!_ Something went _pwee-e-e_, down toward
the corral, and Shorty fell back against the wall, swearing softly.
“Look at that!” he wailed, indicating the right leg of his batwing
chaps, where a bullet had torn away the leather and forcibly removed one
of Shorty’s silver rosettes. It was the rosette they heard _pweeing_ its
way down past the corral.
“Couldn’t hit you without a shotgun,” jeered Bud Hough.
“Accident—mebby,” said Matt Sturgis.
“Mebby,” said Shorty dryly. “Peek around there and see what he’s doin’,
Alex.”
“When I’m too old to be of any use,” grinned Alex. “You do your own
peekin’.”
They did not know that Luke had gone in the kitchen and filled his tin
cup again, and was now sitting on the steps. The homemade liquor had
made his legs unstable. He had two more shells in his gun, so he fired
both of them at the door of the bunkhouse. One struck the roof of the
stable and the other hit the ground halfway between Luke and the
bunkhouse and ricocheted its way off across the hills.
But the boys behind the bunkhouse stayed where they were for about
fifteen minutes more, before Shorty mustered up nerve enough to peek
around the corner again. Only the soles of Luke’s boots were visible,
sticking through the kitchen doorway.
They surrounded the recumbent form of the old cook, took the gun from
his unresisting hand and told him what they thought of him. But it was
all right with old Luke Jones; he couldn’t hear them.
“Hitch up the buckboard, Bud,” ordered Shorty. “We’re goin’ to ship him
away from here right now. When he wakes up, he won’t be the TD cook any
longer.”
So they took old Luke to Pineville, along with all his possessions, and
left him at the livery stable to sleep off his prune juice. McLean and
Bud Hough, who had brought him to town, met Tolman and told him what
Luke had done.
Tolman didn’t like the idea of losing a cook, but he said nothing.
Tolman was upset over the killing of Shearer and the robbery of the
bank. Being a director and a heavy depositor, he was naturally much
concerned.
* * * * *
Hashknife and Sleepy were with Oscar Johnson, when the stage came in
that afternoon, and they noticed that Windy had a passenger—a
middle-aged, thin-faced man, who wore glasses and was dressed in a rusty
black suit.
The passenger met Sam Hall and Old Man Beebee, and the three of them
walked out to the schoolhouse. It was almost four o’clock when they
came, so they waited until Marion dismissed school.
When the last pupil had left the room they walked in. Marion looked at
them wonderingly, but she did not have to wait long for an explanation.
“Miss Evans, this here is Mr. Long,” said Sam Hall, in his nasal drawl.
“Mr. Long teached the school about a month last term when our reg’lar
teacher quit. Now, we’ve been thinkin’ it over and we come to the
conclusion that this here ain’t no job for a lady, so we’ve done hired
Mr. Long to take over the school.”
Marion gasped.
“You mean, to take my position?”
“Yes’m,” said Beebee firmly. “That’s the idea, ma’am. He will begin
teachin’ t’morrow mornin’.”
“But such a thing is unheard of,” protested Marion. “You told me I was
to have the school for this term.”
“Yeah, we did think so. But you—well, you ain’t been so satisfactory,
ma’am. A lot of the wimmin ain’t satisfied, you see.”
“So the women run the school, instead of the trustees.”
“We don’t want no hard feelin’s,” said Sam Hall quickly.
In a dazed way Marion gathered up her belongings and left the
schoolhouse, while Beebee, Hall and the new teacher waited for her to
go. She did not tell them goodby.
“Pers’nally,” said Sam Hall, after Marion had gone, “I think she’s so
pretty that the wimmin got jealous.”
“A paragon of pulchritude,” said Long seriously.
“I been tryin’ to think of that,” said Beebee.
“You have, like hell!” snorted Sam Hall. “The only big word you know is
asafœdita; and you only know that because you wear it in a bag, hanging
around your neck to keep away disease.”
Marion went straight home, heartsick over her dismissal, wondering what
to do next. There was no one at home, so she dumped her books on the
porch and sat down to adjust her thoughts. That noon she had heard of
the bank robbery and murder of the cashier, but all that had faded to
insignificance now.
She was so deep in her own thoughts that she did not see Andy Hastings
ride up to the gate in the B Arrow buckboard and tie his team, nor did
she look up until he was standing at the bottom of the steps, hat in
hand.
“I came past the schoolhouse,” he told her. “Old Man Beebee told me you
wasn’t there no more, so I came here to find you, ma’am.”
Mrs. Cooper came to the gate, looked curiously at the team and came on
up the walk. Andy glanced at her, but turned back to Marion.
“I didn’t have much hopes,” he confessed slowly, as Ma Cooper halted
beside him, looking inquiringly at Marion. “I talked it over with Tex,
and he said you wouldn’t come. But jist the same I hitched up the
buckboard.”
“I don’t understand,” said Marion blankly.
“It’s Jimmy, the little feller, ma’am. He’s got typhoid, the doctor
says. He keeps callin’ for you all the time. He don’t know none of us,
ma’am—jist wants you.”
“That’s your little boy, Andy?” asked Ma Cooper.
“Yes’m, my boy.”
“But Marion can’t go out there, Andy. She’s got her school.”
Marion lifted her eyes and looked at Ma Cooper.
“I’ve lost the school, Ma. A man, a Mr. Long, from Garnet, has been
hired to take my place.”
“Oh, you don’t mean that, Marion.”
“Old Beebee told me,” said Andy.
“Yes, it’s a fact,” said Marion slowly. “They were not satisfied with my
work.”
Andy sighed and adjusted the band on his hat.
“I’m sorry you can’t go, ma’am. Mebby he’ll be all right. I jist thought
mebby you—thank you jist the same.”
He started away, but Marion stopped him.
“I guess I’ll go,” she said. “It—it don’t make so much difference now.”
“That’s the stuff!” exclaimed Ma Cooper. “You jist go. If a lot of these
Pineville fork tongues want to talk—let ’em talk. Wait’ll I meet Old
Lady Beebee and Hall. You jist go, honey. If you want to stay all night,
you stay. I’ll come out tomorrow myself. You jist grab a nightgown and
go.”
Ma Cooper fairly “shooed” her out to the buckboard and helped her climb
in. Andy was so excited that he almost upset the buckboard.
“Don’t go the back way!” yelled Ma Cooper. “Go down the main street.
Give ’em all a chance to talk.”
And they did go down the main street, with the roan team on the run and
Marion clinging to her hat with one hand and the seat with the other.
They almost ran over Old Man Beebee and Sam Hall, who were a bit slow at
getting out of the road.
“Looks to me as though Andy Hastings was a-runnin’ away with her!”
panted Beebee, wiping the dust and gravel out of his face.
“Looks t’ me as though that damn team was runnin’ away with both of
’em,” grunted Sam Hall. “I felt sorry for her. I never done a dirty
trick like that before, and if it hadn’t been for your wife—”
“Your wife was as bad as mine, Sam.”
“Worse. Old Hennery Goff won’t speak to either one of us now, ’cause we
outvoted him. Well, I hope them wimmin will be satisfied.”
“Mine won’t be,” wailed Beebee. “She showed her stren’th. Next time she
opens her mouth about the school, I’ll resign. I’m jist as ashamed as
you are, Sam, mebby more.”
“You’re pretty low in your own estimation, if you are.”
* * * * *
The killing of Shearer and robbery of the bank awoke Pineville to the
realization that some very bad actors were in their midst and, as a
result, quite a crowd of men met at Hootie’s store that night in a sort
of indignation meeting.
Their criticism of the sheriff’s office was rather more destructive than
constructive, because none of them had any ideas worth working on. Mort
Heffner was called in to give his opinion, and admitted that there was
nothing his office could do.
“We hired a detective,” he told them. “The cattle association sent us a
man, who was warned out of the country, before he had a chance to do
much. You men know how much chance a detective would have around here.
The sheriff wants to stop these killings and robberies as much as you
do, but he can’t do a thing.”
“Ain’t nobody safe,” complained Lester Cline.
“Not if they’ve got money,” added Beebee.
“Well,” declared Sam Hall angrily, “if the law don’t do somethin’ pretty
soon, we’ll take the law in our own hands.”
Heffner laughed shortly.
“You probably heard somebody say that, Sam. But go ahead and take the
law in your own hands. It is your privilege to apprehend criminals.
Don’t let me stop you, gentlemen. In fact, I wish you would do
something.”
Hashknife and Sleepy were rather amused at the expressed opinions of
those present, but left the meeting before it broke up and went to the
Stormy River Saloon, where they found old Luke Jones at the bar, telling
the wide world that he had not been treated right by the TD outfit.
His prune whisky jag had left him in a bitter frame of mind. His shirt
and overalls were bespecked with hay from the livery stable and one lock
of his thin hair stuck straight out from his forehead, like an accusing
finger.
“Fired because I sung,” he declared. “Tha’sall I done; jist sung m’self
out of a job.”
“There’s different grades of songs,” said the bartender.
“Mine’s top hand,” declared Luke. “I’m a natcheral singer. No sense in
firin’ a natcheral singer, is there? We’re few and far between. And I’m
a cook, too. You ask Tolman. And you jist wait till he hears about me
bein’ fired by that squirt of a Shorty Gallup. Gimme liquor, that my
gorge may not rise and suffy-cate me.”
“You’ve been with the TD a long time, ain’t you, Luke?”
“Long? My Lord! When I came here, Stormy River was jist a little
spring.”
Luke leered around, as if challenging anybody to dispute that statement.
He fixed his eyes on Hashknife and a smile twisted his lips.
“C’m’ere and have a drink. I ’member you, tall feller. You ’member me? I
was the cook at the TD the mornin’ Grimes quit out there. I shore
’member you. C’mon and have a drink.”
“I remember you,” grinned Hashknife. He didn’t want the drink, but he
did want to get acquainted with Luke Jones.
“Invite your pardner,” said Luke. “Put out the glasses, bartender; we’re
havin’ comp’ny. Say!” He turned to Hashknife. “I’m fired. They can all
go to hell, as far as I’m concerned. I jist had two good friends on that
ranch. One was Buck Dennig and the other was Grimes. One’s gone to a
better land and the other stayed around here.”
“They tell me Buck Dennig was a fine feller,” said Hashknife.
“You didn’t know him? Pardner, he was a _man_.”
“That’s what I’ve heard.”
“Beloved by everybody.” Luke tried to keep back the tears.
“That’s what I’ve heard. But they never found out who killed him.”
“Never.” Luke wiped the tears away with the back of his hand. “And they
never will.”
“You think they won’t?” asked Hashknife softly.
Luke was not too drunk. He looked sharply at Hashknife.
“What do you know?” he asked.
“Nothin’.” Hashknife toyed with his glass. “But murder will always out,
you know, Jones.”
“Tha’sall right.”
“What do you know, Jones?”
Luke paused with the glass at his lips. He placed it on the bar and
squinted at himself in the mirror.
“I don’t know nothin’—much.”
Some other men came in, and Luke shifted his interest to them. Hashknife
knew there was nothing more to be learned from Luke Jones at present,
but he had a feeling that the former TD cook knew something.