“But I can’t very well do that, Ma Cooper.”
“Why not? Bless your heart, of course you can, if you want to. I’ll send
your trunk out. And when you get all through with the doctor’s orders,
come back and live with us. Hootie says he misses you. That’s quite an
honor. He never misses me.”
* * * * *
The three women sat down and talked for an hour. Mrs. Blanco seemed to
grow younger every minute. Tex came in and stood against the dining room
entrance, listening to the chatter, a smile on his lips.
He tiptoed through the hall and went to the bedroom, where Andy was
sitting beside the bed. Jimmy was awake, but his little face looked
pinched and drawn and his blue eyes clouded. He knew Tex and smiled.
“Hello, little pardner,” said Tex softly.
“He asked for you, Tex,” said Andy, “asked me to have you sing to him.”
“Sing to him? Jimmy do you want me to sing to you?”
“About the rose, Uncle Tex,” weakly.
Tex looked queerly at Andy. A strange request for a sick boy. But Tex
turned to a corner and picked up an old guitar that he had not played
for a long time. Softly he tuned it, while the little fellow watched him
wearily.
He began singing softly, in a crooning tenor, and little Jimmy closed
his eyes, listening. Andy rested his chin on his hands, tears in his
eyes. Out in the living room the three women stopped talking and
listened.
“He’s singing to the lad,” whispered Mrs. Blanco. “It’s the song he
likes best. Listen—”
“You may search everywhere, but none can compare,
With my wild Irish Rose.”
“He calls it his rose song.”
“... and some day for my sake, they may let me take
The bloom from my wild Irish Rose.”
The voice crooned the end of the song. Ma Cooper held out her hand to
Mrs. Blanco.
“I’m goin’ now,” she said softly. “I’m glad I heard the song, Mrs.
Blanco. I’ll come again. When you come to Pineville, come and see me,
will you. Marion, I’ll send out your trunk.”
She hurried out to the buckboard and rode away, leaving Marion and Mrs.
Blanco in the doorway, looking after her.
“That song made her cry,” said Mrs. Blanco softly.
“It almost made me cry, too,” confessed Marion.
Tex came out, closing the door softly behind him.
“He’s asleep again,” said Tex. “He was awake and knew me and Andy. Can
you imagine it, he asked me to sing.”
“I—I don’t blame him,” said Marion. “We heard you.”
“Pshaw! I was just singin’ for Jimmy.”
Ma Cooper sent the team spinning over the road to Pineville. She was
glad she had visited the B Arrow, and she decided to go again. As
strange as it may seem, she had never before exchanged a dozen words
with Mrs. Blanco. She had found her a delightful old Irish lady.
“Got a lot more class than some of these Pineville holier-than-thous,”
she declared to herself. “And everybody said she was an ignorant old
pipe smoker! Ignorant! If some of ’em had half her brains, they’d die
from headache.”
She drove up in front of Hootie’s store and found Oscar Johnson, who
seemed to have nothing better to do than to brace up one of the porch
posts.
“Are you awful busy, Oscar?” she asked.
“Not right now, Mrs. Cooper.”
“I was just wonderin’ if you’d do me a big favor.”
“Wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” he grinned.
“Well, I’ve got to get somebody to take this team and haul Miss Evans’
trunk out to the B Arrow ranch.”
“Out to the B Arrow ranch? Oh, yeah, shore. Is she goin’ to stay out
there?”
“Long enough to need her trunk.”
“Uh-huh. Want me to go right away, Mrs. Cooper?”
“If you’ll do it, Oscar.”
“Ain’t a bit busy.”
“Well, get in and we’ll load up at the house.”
Oscar carried the trunk down to the buckboard. The back of the vehicle
was hardly large enough to accommodate the trunk, and Oscar had no ropes
to tie it on.
“But I reckon it’ll ride there,” he told her, as he climbed in. “I’ll
take it easy.”
He drove out of town, holding the team in check. The last time he had
driven a buggy team he had smashed the buggy, and he was going to be
more careful this time. Everything went well until the crossing of
Stormy River, and he swung a little too far down the stream, where some
big boulders blocked a wheel, almost upset the buckboard and threw the
trunk into the river.
Oscar yelled like an Indian, whipped the team to the shore, where he
tied them to a snag, and then went galloping down the stream after the
trunk, which had wedged on a sand bar twenty feet below where it had
gone into the water.
“If I ever do anythin’ right, I’ll die next minute,” declared Oscar,
sloshing out of the river with the trunk in his arms, the water running
a stream from one of the corners.
He placed the trunk on the sand and surveyed it sadly.
“Wetter ’n hell!”
He sat down on it, removed his boots and poured out the water, while the
team watched him, possibly wondering what it was all about. It suddenly
occurred to him that he might be able to dry out the things, so he
opened the trunk, which was not locked.
It was fairly well filled with feminine attire, the top things being
dry. He dumped them out on the sand, grunting disgustedly when he found
the things sodden in the bottom of the trunk.
“Well, f’r heaven’s sake!” he grunted, and lifted a big, pearl-handled
Colt forty-five from the bottom of the trunk. It was fully loaded.
Ignoring the rest of the things, Oscar sat down, with his back against
the trunk and examined the gun. Oscar was not very quick minded, but
something seemed to tell him that a schoolteacher, under ordinary
conditions, would not own a new gun of that size and description.
He removed the cartridges and amused himself for a while by snapping it
at different objects. He liked the trigger pull and the balance of the
weapon. The pearl flashed in the sun like an opal as Oscar polished it
with a none too clean handkerchief.
He took out his own gun and compared them. They were the same model,
same caliber. But Oscar’s gun was shiny in spots, nicked, the trigger
pull altogether too heavy for accurate work. In fact, Oscar’s gun was
old. Suddenly a bright idea occurred to Oscar.
He took his pocket knife, unscrewed the handles of both guns and changed
handles, putting the pearl ones on his own gun. Now he had a new gun
with old handles, while his old gun, resplendent in mother of pearl,
went into the bottom of the trunk, along with the sodden clothes.
“What in hell would a schoolma’am want of a new gun, anyway?” he asked
himself. “A gun’s a gun. It ain’t stealin’, if you put back as good as
you take.”
Thereupon Oscar loaded the things back in the trunk, put it back on the
buckboard and headed for the B Arrow. Marion was asleep, much to Oscar’s
relief, and Mrs. Blanco told him to leave the trunk on the porch. Oscar
left it in a sunny place, hoping it would dry out a little, at least.
* * * * *
He drove back, stabled the horses in Cooper’s barn and went back to the
office, well satisfied with himself. The inquest over the body of Guy
Shearer was held that afternoon. Hashknife and Sleepy attended, but were
not called as witnesses. The usual verdict was rendered by the jury.
The sheriff had heard a number of remarks reflecting on his ability as a
peace officer, and he was not in a good frame of mind when he went back
to his office with Oscar.
“What do they expect me to do?” he asked plaintively. “I never had no
trainin’ at this here job. To hear some of them whippoorwills talkin’,
you’d think I ought to have an X-ray eye. I’m sick of the whole danged
job.”
“Same here,” agreed Oscar. “I took this job to help you out, Pat, and
you don’t need no help, not for what you’ve done.”
“We’re a awful mess, Oscar.”
“Speak for yourself. I’m all right for what I’m intended. A deputy ain’t
supposed to have any brains.”
Oscar took off his heavy belt and gun and placed them on the desk, after
which he sighed deeply and stretched out on a cot. The sheriff stared
sad eyed at the belt and gun, thinking over the woes of his position.
His fingers picked absently at the cartridges in the belt loops.
He ran his fingers over the butt of the gun, not because he wanted to
feel of the gun, but because of something to do. Then he shut one eye
and looked at the exposed breech of the gun. After a moment’s scrutiny,
he drew the gun from the holster and looked at it closely.
“Where’d you git the new gun, Oscar?” he asked.
Oscar sat up like a mechanical toy, quick and jerky.
“Wh-what gun?”
“This here one.”
The sheriff held it up.
“Oh, that one.”
Oscar swore inwardly at himself for leaving that gun on the desk.
“New gun, ain’t it, Oscar?”
“Pretty new.” Oscar sank down again.
“Pretty damn new, it looks to me. You never had it before.”
“No,” said Oscar. “It’s almost new, Pat.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“Where’d I get it?”
“Yeah, where’d you get it?”
“Oh, I dunno.”
“You dunno?”
“Well, my stars!” Oscar sat up and glowered at the sheriff. “What’s the
difference where I got it? When you start harpin’ on anythin’, you never
know when to quit.”
“I ain’t harpin’; I just asked you where you got it.”
“Where I got it, eh? Ain’t that harpin’?”
“Well, I just asked you. You’re my deputy. Ain’t I got a right to ask
you where you got a new gun?”
“Got a right, yes.”
“Well, where didja get it, Oscar?”
“You mean, who did I get it _from_?”
“If that’s the answer, yes.”
“I didn’t get it from nobody.”
“Didja find it?”
Oscar got off the cot and hitched up his pants. He was mad enough to
tell where and how he got it—and he did.
The sheriff listened, open-mouthed, while Oscar described how he lost
the schoolteacher’s trunk in Stormy River, how he recovered it and
wanted to dry out the clothes, and where he found the new gun.
“And that answers your question, Pat,” he finished. “Now forgit it, will
you?”
“And you took the pearl handles off it and put ’em on your old smoke
wagon, eh? You traded guns—Oscar Johnson, you damn fool!”
The sheriff got to his feet and advanced on the cot, half choking, as he
tried to talk.
“O-o-oh, you damn fool!” he wailed. “Who had a new six-gun with pearl
handles? Who did? Tex Blanco! He lost it at that holdup. That’s what
them wimmin stopped and picked up. That teacher got it. She’s stuck on
Tex, Oscar. She put the gun in her trunk, and you—you traded—oh, my
soul! Oscar you’ve ruined the evidence!”
Oscar sat up, rubbing his nose. Then he got to his feet and hitched up
his pants. He looked at the sheriff sadly and shook his head.
“Well, you kept on harpin’ until you got an answer, didn’t you.
Curiosity killed the cat, and it made you pretty sick. Now what’ll we
do?”
“Keep our mouths shut!” snapped the sheriff. “If we ever let this get
out, they’ll laugh us out of the valley.”
“Well, I’m not goin’ to tell it. Didn’t I try to even keep it from you?”
“You jist the same as stole that gun.”
“I traded,” said Oscar firmly. “Mine had a heavy pull on the trigger,
and it throwed me off. Some day I might accidently kill somebody.”
The sheriff stumped around the office, while Oscar laid down again and
began rolling a cigaret. Finally the sheriff sat down again, holding his
head in his hands.
“If I had knowed about that gun—” said Oscar slowly. “But I never once
thought about the schoolma’am havin’ Tex’s gun in her trunk. Why should
I? I never even remembered that Tex had a pearl handle six-gun. I
remember it now.”
“It’s too late now. It’s an old gun that’s got the pearl handles on it
now. Tex could laugh at us.”
“Unless you might make that girl admit findin’ it, Pat. If you caught
her before she found that gun in the trunk. Even at that, she might not
see that the gun was different.”
“You mean we might bluff her into admittin’ that her and Mrs. Cooper
found the gun there?”
“Why not? If we could get the gun, without Tex seein’ it, we can change
the handles back again.”
“Yeah, we might do that.”
* * * * *
The sheriff sighed and lifted his head. It was worth a try. He started
to suggest something more, but stopped short. Hashknife Hartley was
standing in the doorway, leaning against the door frame, slowly rolling
a cigaret, his face very grave.
“We might bluff her,” said Oscar, “but she’s got to be talked to before
she empties that trunk, Pat. She’ll see it’s been tampered with, and
she’ll get scared and give Tex back his gun.”
Hashknife looked at Oscar, who was lying on his back, staring at the
ceiling, all oblivious to Hashknife’s presence. The sheriff cleared his
throat harshly, glared at Oscar murderously.
“It won’t be any job to change the handles,” said Oscar.
“Are you goin’ to keep runnin’ off at the mouth?” asked the sheriff
explosively.
Oscar sat up, took one look at Hashknife and sank back.
“He’s got the hoof-and-mouth disease,” said the sheriff wearily. “Every
time he opens his mouth he gets his foot in it.”
“The inquest didn’t amount to much,” said Hashknife.
“Not much. How could it?”
“Did Shearer have any relatives, Sheriff?”
“In Chicago, I think. Rice sent some telegrams, and we’ll wait to hear
what they want done with the body.”
“None around here, eh?”
“Matt Sturgis is a forty-second cousin, or somethin’ like that.”
“Sturgis of the TD outfit?”
“Yeah. Shearer worked over at Garnet quite a while. Nice sort of a
feller.”
“What kind of a person was Buck Dennig?”
“Wild as a hawk, but square as a die.”
“Get along well with Tolman?”
“Oh, shore.”
“Like hell!” snorted Oscar. “They used to quarrel a lot. You must
remember I worked for ’em.”
“Quarrel over what?” asked the sheriff. “I never heard it.”
“Over money. Cleve Tolman gambled on the stock markets, and he got stuck
a couple times pretty hard. Buck was a gambler, too, but not on the
markets. I heard ’em hot and heavy one night a year or so ago. I reckon
Cleve had used some of the partnership money. Anyway, they decided to
each bank their share after that.”
“I found out after Buck’s death that they had separate bank accounts,”
said the sheriff, “but I never knowed why.”
“Well, that was why,” said Oscar. “Buck shore was mad, and he gave
Tolman hell. I couldn’t help hearin’ it. I thought it was all off with
the partnership, but next day they was all right again. But outside of
their quarrels, they was good enough friends, I reckon.”
Hashknife left the office in a few minutes. He had heard enough to know
that in some way Oscar Johnson had found the gun in Marion’s trunk and
had left his gun in its place. And he had also heard enough to know that
the sheriff intended getting a confession, if possible, and recovering
the evidence.
But both the sheriff and deputy were afraid that Hashknife had heard too
much.
“I don’t _sabe_ that feller,” declared Oscar. “You don’t know whether
he’s for you or against you.”
“Well,” said the sheriff sadly, “he prob’ly knows that it ain’t Tex’s
gun in that trunk. He kinda antagonizes me.”
“You don’t suppose he’s in cahoots with Tex, do you?”
“You git some real bright ideas, Oscar. Nossir, Tex Blanco held up that
stage, as sure as shootin’. Mebby him and Judd. Anyway, there was more
than one man. We won’t do nothin’ now, Oscar. We’ll wait until dark, and
then go out to the B Arrow. We’ve got to take a chance that she ain’t
found that gun. And even if she has, she wouldn’t rec’nize it.”
“That’s a good idea,” applauded Oscar. “But I hope Tex ain’t there.
Anyway, he don’t know about that gun, so we’re safe, as far as that’s
concerned.”
Hashknife found Sleepy at the Stormy River bar talking with Frank Shell,
the owner of the saloon, and Dobe Severn. Matt Sturgis, Shorty Gallup
and Alex McLean were playing pool at the rear of the room.
“What became of old Luke Jones?” asked Hashknife.
“He went to Garnet this mornin’,” said Dobe. “Sobered up and pulled out,
I guess. He’ll probably get drunk in Garnet. He shore raised hell at the
TD. Got drunk on prune whisky and pot-shotted everythin’ around the
place.”
Hashknife wanted a chance to talk seriously with the old cook. Luke
Jones had admitted that he knew something, and Hashknife wanted to know
what that something might be. Sleepy went with him from the saloon, and
they crossed the street to the bank, which was closed. Hashknife knew
where John Rice lived. They found the old banker at home.
“I’ll tell you what I want to see,” explained Hashknife. “Buck Dennig
cashed a check for ten thousand dollars the afternoon of the night he
was killed, and I want to see that canceled check, if it still exists.”
“Why, I suppose it still exists,” said Rice. “But what is the idea of
you wanting to see it?”
“Curiosity, I reckon, Mr. Rice.”
“I’m sorry, but I—”
“Do you think Buck Dennig committed suicide?”
“That would have been impossible, Hartley.”
“And you don’t think he buried that ten thousand before he died, do
you?”
“Buried it? Why would he bury it?”
“All right, he was murdered and robbed. If it isn’t too much trouble,
I’d like to see that check.”
The old banker’s mild blue eyes wavered under the steady stare of the
gray ones, and he turned slowly on his heel.
“Wait until I get my hat,” he said. “I—I suppose there would be no harm
in it, Hartley.”
They walked back to the bank, where Rice unlocked it, and they went
inside. It did not take Rice long to find the check, along with Buck
Dennig’s statement and several other smaller checks, drawn by Buck.
Hashknife spread them all out on the counter and examined them closely.
He was not an expert on handwriting, but his eyes were keen. Finally he
took out the warning note he had received and examined it again.
The old banker did not seem interested. The canceled checks meant
nothing to Sleepy, who talked with Rice about the murder and robbery. It
seemed that there was a difference in the opinions of the several
directors of the bank, and no final decision had been made as to how
soon the bank would resume operations.
“I suppose Cleve Tolman has taken over the TD ranch, ain’t he?” asked
Hashknife.
“Yes,” nodded the banker. “I believe he has a court order to that
effect. Buck Dennig died intestate and, as far as any one knows, he has
no relatives. Naturally the ranch and all of Dennig’s personal goods
belong to Tolman.”
Hashknife folded up the statement and checks, handing them back to Rice.
“Thank you, Mr. Rice,” he said. “Keep those where we can get at ’em, in
case we need ’em again.”
“Yes, certainly. Are you a—a detective, Mr. Hartley?”
“Under the circumstances,” smiled Hashknife.
“What was the queer idea of lookin’ at them checks?” asked Sleepy, after
they left the bank.
“Just playin’ a hunch, Sleepy. After supper we’re ridin’ to Garnet to
have a talk with Luke Jones. I hope he’s sober enough to come clean, or
drunk enough to talk.”
“Have you hit the trail, cowboy?”
“I dunno. Anyway, I’ve got a couple blazes in sight.”
* * * * *
Marion did not discover that her trunk had been soaked in the river.
Mrs. Blanco had ordered one of the cowboys to move it into the room
Marion was occupying, and she had had no cause to open it. Little Jimmy
was so sick that both women spent most of their time in the room with
him.
Tex came in from work about five o’clock. The doctor had not been there
since morning, so Tex sent Corbett after him. Tex was pleased to find
that Marion’s trunk had been brought to the ranch. Neither Tex nor
Marion had mentioned that gun again, and Tex did not know that Marion
suspected Hashknife of overhearing what she had told Tex that night
about finding his gun at the scene of the holdup.
Tex had offered no explanation, no alibi. Marion did not want to believe
that Tex robbed that stage, but the evidence was all against him.
The doctor did not get there until after supper and he decided to stay
awhile and watch the patient. Mrs. Blanco sat in the bedroom with the
doctor and Andy Hastings, while Tex and Marion sat in front of the
fireplace in the living room.
“It’s funny how things break,” said Tex. “Who would ever have bet on any
kind of odds that you would ever be stayin’ here at the B Arrow,
Marion?”
“I suppose not.”
“But I’m glad you are. I’m sorry for little Jimmy, but his sickness
brought me luck. It gave me a chance to see you for more than a minute
at a time.”
Marion stared in the flames, her chin resting in her palm.
“I know what you’re thinkin’,” he said slowly. “I’m no fool. You’re
thinkin’ how much better it would be if I was a respectable citizen,
instead of a man under suspicion of bein’ a murderer, stage robber and a
lot of other crimes.”
“I wasn’t thinking of that, Tex,” she said quickly.
“But I am, you know.”
“I don’t know it, Tex.”
They sat there together for a long time, saying nothing, while the
flames crackled in the old fireplace. Finally Tex walked over to a
table, picked up an old photograph album and brought it over to Marion.
“Some of the old Blanco family,” he said, opening the old book. “Oh,
they were respectable enough, I suppose. I’m the black sheep of the
family. Some of those tintypes are rather good. There’s my father, when
he was twenty. I reckon he was a gay young blade of Seville. Always
wanted to be a bull fighter, he said. Came to California to pick up gold
on the streets.”
Tex laughed shortly.
“Didn’t find the gold, so he went into the cattle business—and found it.
That next one is an uncle of mine. He was a bull fighter in Mexico City,
until he found a bull that was color blind. Saw the man instead of the
red cloth.”
Mrs. Blanco came from the bedroom.
“The doctor is still there,” she said. “He thinks the lad is gettin’
along well.”
“I was just showing Marion some old pictures,” said Tex smiling.
“Aye, and they’re old, too,” smiled Mrs. Blanco.
Some kodak pictures had been left between the leaves of the album and,
as Tex started to gather them up, Marion stopped him and took one of the
pictures. It was a very good snapshot of Tex and another man, standing
close together, holding their big hats in their hands, with a corner of
a corral fence for a background. The faces were well lighted.
Marion stared at the picture for several moments, and her face was white
as she looked up at Tex.
“Who is that—that man with you, Tex?” she asked.
“That?” Tex laughed shortly. “That’s Buck Dennig.”
“Buck Dennig? The man who was—who was killed?”
“Yes, Marion. Go ahead and say it.”
“Buck Dennig?”
“It was taken about five years ago, Marion.”
“Did you know anything about him, Tex?”
“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Mrs. Blanco. “Your face is all white,
lass.”
Marion shook her head, and her hands trembled, as she examined the
picture again, staring down at the smiling face of Buck Dennig.
“Nobody knew much about him,” said Tex. “He had no relatives, I guess.
He never spoke about his past. I don’t—”
Came a sharp knock on the front door. Tex walked over and opened the
door, admitting the sheriff and deputy. They did not stop to wait for an
invitation to enter. Oscar stopped at the doorway, while the sheriff
advanced toward Marion and Mrs. Blanco. Tex still had his hand on the
door.
“I’ve been talkin’ to Mrs. Cooper,” said the sheriff, addressing Marion.
“She didn’t want to get in bad with the law, so she talked quite a lot.
Now, it’s your turn. I want that pearl-handled six-shooter you’ve got in
your trunk.”
Marion’s face was whiter now, as she looked up at the grim-faced
sheriff, her mind trying to conceive that Ma Cooper had divulged their
secret.
“What pearl-handled six-shooter are you talkin’ about?” demanded Tex.
The sheriff did not turn his head, as he replied:
“That’s my business with this young lady. You keep out of it.”
“That’s what I say,” growled Oscar, trying to keep his nerve.
“Mrs. Cooper told you?” Marion’s voice was a whisper.
“Shore thing. Now, you dig up that gun. I could put you in jail for
doin’ a thing like that. Hurry up.”
“What did she tell you?” asked Marion weakly.
“About you findin’ that gun at the holdup. We know whose gun it is, and
we’re goin’—”
Tex acted quickly. In fact he acted so quickly that Oscar Johnson’s feet
went from under him and he fell along the wall, clawing for support, his
holster dangling empty. When the sheriff turned, Oscar crashed down on
the floor, and they heard the porch railing creak, as Tex vaulted it.
The sheriff sprang toward the doorway, while Oscar swore bitterly and
got back to his feet, feeling for his gun, which Tex had taken away.
“Let him go!” snapped the sheriff. “We’ll get him, Oscar. What we want
right now is that six-gun. Where’s the trunk?”
But before Marion could tell him, from somewhere out in the darkness
came the thudding report of a revolver shot. In another moment came a
spatter of shots, as if several guns were discharged close together. In
possibly five seconds there were three more shots, spaced about two
seconds apart.
The sheriff and deputy seemed rooted to the spot, unable to understand
what it was all about. Outside, somebody was shouting questions; a man
swore wonderingly. Frank Judd ran up the steps to the front door and
stepped inside, staring at the sheriff and deputy.
“What in hell is goin’ on around here?” he demanded.
“God knows, I don’t,” said the sheriff.
* * * * *
Someone came into the kitchen, and they all went into the dining room.
It was Hashknife Hartley, half carrying, half dragging Sleepy Stevens.
Hashknife’s face was white in the lamplight. The doctor had stepped out
from the bedroom, and now he went straight to Hashknife.
“In here,” said Mrs. Blanco, “on the couch. Don’t lay him on the floor.”
Judd grasped Sleepy’s feet, and they carried him into the living room
couch.
“For God’s sake, what happened?” asked the sheriff.
He had forgotten all about the trunk.
Hashknife shook his head, his lips shut tightly, while the doctor cut
away Sleepy’s vest and shirt, trying to determine the extent of his
injuries. So interested were they that they did not see Tex Blanco
return.
Marion was first to see him. He was standing in the doorway, leaning
weakly against the wall, while the left shoulder of his pale blue silk
shirt was gradually assuming a scarlet cast. The blood seemed to have
drained from his face, and his brown eyes were filled with pain.
“Tex!” whispered Marion. “Oh, Tex, you’re hurt!”
“It’s all right,” he said weakly. “I’m all right.”
Hashknife stepped over and helped Tex to a chair, where he slumped
wearily. Hashknife tore away the shirt and began mopping away the blood.
Tex had been shot rather high up through the shoulder. From the way he
carried his arm, Hashknife felt sure that no bones were broken.
“In the name of God, what happened?” demanded the sheriff. “Who done all
the shootin’, anyway, Hartley?”
Hashknife shook his head and watched the doctor.
“Nasty wound,” said the doctor. “Rib probably saved his life. Broke the
rib, but turned the bullet. Went all the way through, but turned aside
enough to give him a mighty good chance. Mrs. Blanco, will you get me
plenty of hot water and cloths?”
He got up from the floor and walked over to Tex, who was gritting his
teeth to keep upright.
“Lucky all around,” muttered the doctor. “Clean through and never
touched the bone. Miss Evans, you can help me, if you will.”
He had noticed that Marion was on the verge of keeling over in a faint,
so he used these means of bracing her nerve.
“Go out and help Mrs. Blanco fix the water. Nobody is going to die, my
dear. Regular hospital, we’ve got here. Sheriff, if you can’t think of
anything else to do, try closing your mouth. It has been open for five
minutes.”
“Well!” snorted the sheriff. “Won’t nobody tell me what happened? Two
wounded men, and no explanation.”
“I don’t know, Sheriff,” said Hashknife, looking down at Sleepy. “We
rode in here, down by the gate, and somebody shot Sleepy. I didn’t know
he was hit until he fell off near the back door out there. I was
shootin’ at the flashes.”
“I shot at somebody,” muttered Tex, “but they shot me first. There was a
lot of shootin’, I think.”
“Plenty,” said Hashknife grimly.
“Why did you come out here, Hartley?” asked the sheriff.
“Why did you come out here?” retorted Hashknife.
“I guess you knew why. I came out here to get that gun, and I’m goin’ to
get it. You keep your nose out of my business, will you? I’ve got the
goods on Tex Blanco, and I’ll put that girl in jail with him for tryin’
to destroy evidence. I don’t know what your game is, but you better not
monkey with the law.”
“I’m not monkeyin’ with the law,” said Hashknife.
He looked at Frank Judd, who had been shifting around nervously.
“Go and get Miss Evans’ trunk and bring it here, Judd.”
“You never mind!” snapped the sheriff. “I’ll get that there trunk and—”
“Aw, quit bluffin’,” said Hashknife. “Get the trunk, Judd.”
Judd brought the trunk and placed it in the center of the room.
“Open it up and find a six-shooter in it, will you?” requested
Hashknife.
The sheriff swore impotently, as Judd dug deeply in the trunk. Mrs.
Blanco and Marion came in, bringing the hot water and cloths. Marion
stopped short at the sight of Frank Judd digging in her trunk. Finally
he straightened up, holding the pearl-handled gun in his hand.
Hashknife took it from him and showed it to Marion.
“Is that the gun you found at the place of the holdup?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Fine,” smiled Hashknife.
He walked over to Tex and held it before him.
“Is that your gun, Tex?” he asked.
Tex stared at it for a moment and looked up at Hashknife blankly.
“That’s not my gun,” he said evenly. “My gun was new.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Hashknife seriously.
He turned the gun over in his hands, looking at it closely.
“There’s two initials scratched on the bottom of the trigger guard,” he
said slowly. “Looks like O. J.”
Hashknife looked keenly at Oscar Johnson, but the deputy was not
interested enough to look at him. Hashknife stepped over and handed the
gun to the sheriff.
“There’s your evidence, Sheriff.”
The sheriff’s face was a study in mixed emotions. He knew that the
evidence was ruined now. His idea was to have secured the gun, switched
the handles again, and to swear that the new gun was the one found in
the trunk. He looked at Oscar and longed to bend the gun over his thick
head. But all he could do was to accept defeat gracefully.
“All right, Hartley,” he said thickly. “You’ll hear more of this later.
I’m not through with you—yet.”
“Well, that’s fine, Sheriff.”
* * * * *
Oscar followed the sheriff away from the ranch, glad to be out of the
house, while Hashknife and Judd helped the doctor. Sleepy was still
unconscious when they put him to bed. Hashknife wanted to take him to
town, but the doctor would not listen to him.
“Right here he stays, Hartley, and right here I stay.”
Tex refused to go to bed, but stretched out on the couch. He had lost
considerable blood, and the heavy bullet had shocked him badly, but he
felt better now. There were too many things to talk about for him to
think of going to sleep.
He wanted to know how Oscar Johnson’s revolver happened to be in
Marion’s trunk. He listened in amazement to what Hashknife told him. Of
course, Hashknife did not hear all the story, but he had heard the
sheriff and deputy say enough for him to build up the rest of the story.
“And you knew they would come after that gun tonight?” asked Marion.
“Wasn’t sure, but I knew they intended to come and get it. They didn’t
want Tex to see that gun, until after they had switched handles again.”
“You saved my bacon, Hartley,” said Tex wearily. “They’ve got the goods
on me, I guess. But I want you to know that I’m mighty grateful for what
you’ve done for me.”
“How grateful, Blanco?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Hartley.”
“Grateful enough to tell me about that holdup?”
“To tell you what about it?”
“How your pearl-handled gun happened to be there.”
“Looks as though I lost it, don’t it?”
“Let’s stop sparrin’ around, Blanco. Where was you when that stage was
robbed?”
Tex turned his head and stared at the fire several minutes, while they
waited for him to speak.
“I didn’t try to prove any alibi,” he said slowly. “I’m not a good liar,
and this sounds like a lie. Nobody would believe it, so I kept still.
The night before the holdup I was goin’ to Garnet to the dance.
“I left the house and went down to the stable to get my horse. As I
stepped into the stable, somethin’ hit me on the head, and I didn’t know
anythin’ for quite a while. When I woke up I was tied tight, gagged and
blindfolded. I had an awful headache and a thirst. You’ve read about men
gettin’ loose from ropes? Well, I couldn’t. I reckon I rubbed all the
skin off my wrists.
“I don’t know how long it was before somebody came. I knew it was
daylight, because I had felt the sun for a long time. They unfastened my
legs and helped me to my feet, but didn’t say a word. It was hard for me
to stand up, even when I braced my legs.
“Then a man spoke to me and said he was goin’ to cut my hands loose. He
told me to leave the bandage on my eyes until I could count a hundred,
before I took it off. He warned me that he was counting, too, and if I
took it off too quick, he’d kill me. Then he cut my hands loose.
“My gun was gone. I felt for it first. I counted a hundred before I took
off that blindfold and gag. Then I found myself in a little clearing in
the brush, about two miles from here. My horse was there, tied to a
snag. My head was so sore I had to wear my hat on one side of my head,
and I was so thirsty I couldn’t talk. So I came home. I told mother,
because she would believe.”
“Sounds reasonable,” said Hashknife seriously.
“Don’t say that,” replied Tex. “It sounds like a badly told lie.”
“And somebody stole your gun, trying to make them think you robbed the
stage!” exclaimed Marion.
“If you believe my story,” sighed Tex. “I can’t hardly believe it
myself.”
“Oh, I’m glad I found that gun. Suppose the sheriff had found it, Tex.”
“I’d be in jail, I suppose. But, Marion, just before the sheriff came in
tonight, you were looking at Buck Dennig’s picture. What was it all
about?”
Marion went to her trunk and, after a few moments, she came back and
handed Tex a picture of a man.
“Why, that’s Buck!” he said. “Buck Dennig.”
“My brother,” said Marion softly. “Blaine Evans.”
“It’s Buck Dennig all right,” said Judd. “Little younger, but it’s Buck,
just the same, Miss Evans.”
“Then Buck Dennig was my brother.”
The doctor examined the picture, nodding slowly.
“That is the man we knew as Buck Dennig, Miss Evans.”
“That’s somethin’ to shock Cleve Tolman,” grinned Judd.
“They say I killed Buck Dennig,” said Tex bitterly. “And I haven’t even
a good lie to use as an alibi. We quarreled that night. I reckon I would
have killed him, because he called me a thief.”
“I don’t believe you killed him,” said Marion.
“Well, I can’t prove it, Marion. I suppose they are sayin’ that I killed
Guy Shearer and robbed the bank.”
Hashknife reached in his pocket and drew out the hondo, which bore the
brand of the B Arrow, and held it down in front of Tex.
“Who owns that hondo, Tex?” he asked.
Tex stared at it for a moment and took it in his good hand.
“That’s mine,” he said. “Where did you get it, Hartley?”
“On the floor of the bank, when we found Shearer. The rope was there,
too, but the hondo had been cut off.”
Tex stared at the hondo, turning it over in his hand.
“You found that on the floor—my rope and hondo?”
“The sheriff has the rope, I reckon. You can’t identify a rope.”
“Does he know you’ve got this hondo?”
“Nope, I sneaked it off the floor.”
Tex lay back on his pillow and closed his eyes wearily.
“And I’ve got no lie to tell about that,” he said. “I don’t know who nor
what you are, Hartley, but you’ve sure been a friend to me. That
evidence would hang me.”
“I suppose it would. Did you lose the rope?”
“I don’t know. Never missed it if I did.”
“Any of your boys carry a marked hondo?”
“I don’t think so. Do you know any, Frank?”
Judd shook his head quickly.
“I guess not, Tex.”
Hashknife put the hondo on the mantel.
“I’m goin’ to Garnet,” he told them. “Take good care of Sleepy, will
you? He means more to me than anythin’ on earth. I don’t like to run
away, when he’s bogged down thataway, but he knows me and he’ll
understand why I went.”
And without another word he went out to his horse and mounted in the
dark.
“We better get you into a bed, Tex,” suggested the doctor. “You probably
don’t realize that you are badly hurt.”
“Yeah, I realize it, Doc,” said Tex, “but I’m all right, except that I
don’t know what it is all about. Who shot Stevens and me, I wonder? What
was it all about, anyway?”
“I wish I knew,” said Judd. “Andy is asleep in the bunkhouse, and Tommy
and Kit are in Pineville. I ran out of the bunkhouse, when the shootin’
started, but I couldn’t see anybody. Who would want to shoot ’em, Tex?”
“Search me. I think the sheriff was mad enough to shoot somebody, but
he’s no bushwhacker. Who are these two men, I wonder? Nobody seems to
know much about ’em.”
“They seem all right,” said Marion softly.
“They _are_ all right,” declared Tex. “They’ve proved it to me. How
badly is Stevens hurt, Doc?”
“Bad enough to lay him up for awhile.”
The doctor went back to where Sleepy was lying. Little Jimmy had decided
to sleep through it all, and the doctor was satisfied with his
condition.
* * * * *
It was nearly midnight when Hashknife reached Garnet. He tied his horse
at a hitchrack near the Overland Saloon, the big gambling house of the
town, and went in. The place was fairly well filled and a number of
games were running full blast.
Hashknife went along to the bar, where he stopped and looked over the
room, which was hazy with tobacco smoke. He wanted to find Luke Jones,
and he expected to find the hardboiled old TD cook where the drinks came
fast.
The room buzzed with conversation, the click of chips, the droning
voices of the dealers, while glasses clicked at the bar and spurs rasped
along the metal bar rail.
No one paid any attention to the tall cowboy who leaned against the bar,
smoking a cigaret. At the rear of the room were a number of tables,
where drinks were served. The three piece orchestra struck up a dance,
and several of the chap-clad gentry tramped around the small dance space
with the girls, having a boisterous time.
Suddenly a girl screamed, and her scream was punctuated by the thudding
jar of a revolver shot. The room was in an uproar in a moment. The girls
scattered like a bevy of frightened quail. Hashknife shoved his way
through the crowd and found himself against a table which had been upset
by someone who stood not upon their manner of going.
A man was lying flat on his back on the floor and, against the wall,
standing alone, gun in hand, was Cleve Tolman, owner of the TD outfit.
Some men were moving in closer to him and he eyed them with evident
hostility.
“Keep away from me,” warned Tolman. “I shot in self defense, that’s
all.”
“That’s right,” said a cowboy, who had evidently seen the shooting. “The
other feller went for his gun.”
“Thank you,” said Tolman coldly.
He looked around and saw Hashknife, looking at him across the table.
“Somebody ought to get a doctor for him,” he said, and several men left
the saloon.
Tolman slowly replaced the gun in his holster.
Hashknife stepped in close and looked at the man on the floor. It was
old Luke Jones, ex-cook of the TD. Another man knelt down and lifted the
old man’s head and shoulders. But old Luke wasn’t dead. He groaned a
couple of times and opened his eyes. It seemed as if he had some
difficulty in realizing what had happened.
“Been drinkin’ quite a lot,” said one of the men.
Luke looked at him, but shifted his eyes to Hashknife.
“Where’s Tolman?” he asked hoarsely. “Didn’t I git him?”
“I guess you didn’t,” said Hashknife. “Never mind. Just take it easy,
old-timer; the doctor will get here in a few minutes.”
“Aw, to hell with the doctor! I’ve got mine, I guess. So he beat me to
it, eh? First time that’s ever happened, too. He wouldn’t pay me to keep
my mouth shut, Tolman wouldn’t. All I wanted was a thousand dollars.
That ain’t much.” He blinked around at the faces and added, “To keep
yore mouth shut.”
“Shut about what?” asked Hashknife softly.
“About Buck Dennig. I told him to give me the money or I’ll talk. He
called me a dirty black somethin’, and I went for my gun. Where is he,
the dirty sidewinder? Buck was my friend. I knowed more about Buck than
anybody. Buck’s got relatives. He’s got a mother and a sister. Tolman
didn’t know it until tonight. He called me a dirty liar, and then killed
me to keep me from tellin’ it.”
“You ain’t dead yet,” said one of the men.
“No, but I’m close to it. And this here Western country loses a good man
when I cash in. Where’s that doctor? Where’s Tolman?”
“Who killed Buck Dennig?” asked Hashknife.
“I dunno. Think I’d let him live, if I knowed. You’re Hartley, ain’t
you? I ’member you. Are you a damned detective?”
“Do I look like one?” smiled Hashknife.
“Why don’tcha go and arrest Tex Blanco if you are?”
“Did Tex Blanco kill him, Luke?”
“I dunno. Gimme a drink, can’tcha? How bad does a man have to be hurt
before he gets a drink. Where’s that doctor? I’m bleedin’ to death, I
tell you.”
“Listen to me, Luke,” said Hashknife seriously. “What do you know about
the killin’ of Buck Dennig? What do you know about that ten thousand
they stole from him?”
Luke blinked painfully.
“I think Tolman knew,” he said hoarsely. “They quarreled the mornin’
Buck drawed that money. I heard some of it. Tolman gambled for big
money. Buck tried to stop him. I didn’t hear it all, but I know Tolman
said, ‘We split here, Buck. I’ll buy or sell. Ten thousand down and the
rest on time.’ That’s what I heard that mornin’. Tolman knows, damn his
dirty hide!”
The doctor came elbowing his way through the crowd, and Hashknife got to
his feet. That end of the room was packed solid with interested
humanity, but Tolman had vanished. Hashknife did not wait to hear the
doctor’s verdict, but went back to his horse.
He was no nearer a solution than he was before. But he knew now that
Cleve Tolman and Buck Dennig had quarreled, and that Tolman knew Buck
was to draw that money. Evidently Buck had decided to buy out Tolman’s
interest in the TD, and had drawn the money to make the initial payment.
And it was also evident that old Luke Jones had tried to blackmail
Tolman out of a thousand dollars, knowing that his evidence might
convict Tolman. As far as the shooting was concerned, Tolman would have
little trouble in proving self defense, but he might have trouble in
explaining away what old Luke had told about him.
But there were other things that Hashknife had discovered, little things
which no one else had considered. He rode back to the B Arrow and found
only Mrs. Blanco and the doctor awake. The doctor assured Hashknife that
all the patients were doing as well as might be expected; so Hashknife
rode on to Pineville, knowing that all the beds were filled at the
ranch.
There was a light in the sheriff’s office. Hashknife tied his horse and
knocked on the door. The sheriff, half dressed, came to the door and
glared icily at Hashknife.
“F’r God’s sake, what are you doin’ around here?” he demanded. “I hoped
you wouldn’t never come back.”
“I saw a light,” grinned Hashknife. “The rest of Pineville is fast
asleep. You’re up late, ain’t you?”
“Aw, hell! C’mon in. I think I’d like to talk with you.”
* * * * *
Hashknife followed him in and the sheriff shut the door. Oscar, the
deputy, was stretched out on a cot, snoring. The sheriff sat down at his
desk and motioned Hashknife to a chair near him.
“Set down,” he growled. “I swore to myself that I’d curry you with a
six-gun if you ever came in here again.”
“Oh, you never want to feel thataway about anybody, Sheriff.”
“You made me so damn mad. What are you tryin’ to do, anyway? Goin’ down
to the B Arrow and—”
“Keepin’ you from gettin’ Oscar’s gun?”
“The big jughead!”
“How does it come you’re up so late—or early?”
“You don’t know, eh? Well, I’ll tell you why. Fifteen minutes ago Cleve
Tolman left here. He was here for half an hour, and he told me about
havin’ to shoot Luke Jones.”
“Yeah?” Hashknife smiled. “Tell you why he shot him?”
“Old Luke had been drinkin’; kinda got loco and opined to kill Cleve,
didn’t he?”
“Did Tolman tell you I was there, Sheriff?”
“He said you was. You didn’t see the shootin’, didja?”
“Nope. Oh, I reckon he shot in self defense.”
“He said he did. Hartley—” the sheriff stretched wearily—“who shot your
pardner at the B Arrow?”
“Who knows?”
“Was it Tex Blanco?”
“I never thought of that.”
“Did you shoot Tex Blanco?”
“I hope not.”
“Mm-m-m-m. Was Luke Jones dead when you left Garnet?”
“Nope. I don’t know how badly he was hurt.”
“Why did you go from the B Arrow to Garnet?”
“Exercisin’ my bronc.”
“Oh, I see. I suppose you were just exercisin’ your bronc, when you went
out to the B Arrow.”
“No, I went out there to keep you from makin’ a fool of yourself.”
“To keep me? You’re crazy. Hartley, sometimes I like you. Yes, sir, I
think you’re fine, when you mind your own business; but right here and
now I want to tell you to keep your long nose out of my business. I can
run my office.”
“Then you don’t need any help a-tall?”
“You’re damn right, I don’t!”
“You can catch’m all by yourself, eh?”
“All the catchin’ I need, yes.”
“You ought to run Scotland Yard.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh, a little corral they’ve got in London.”
“I dunno anythin’ about that, but I do _sabe_ my own job.”
“You must be a great help to the county.”
The sheriff glowered at his sock-clad feet and wiggled the big toe of
his left foot, which protruded through a hole in the wool.
“I reckon I can get along without your help,” he said wearily.
“That’s fine. Did Tolman tell you why he had to shoot Luke Jones?”
“He said Luke was loco and imagined things. Wanted Cleve to pay him a
thousand dollars or he’d tell somethin’. Cleve said he didn’t know what
it was he was goin’ to tell.”
“Tolman didn’t wait to see if Luke died.”
“That don’t mean anythin’. He shot in self defense.”
“I suppose you’d like it fine if I’d go away and let you sleep, wouldn’t
you, Sheriff?”
“I sure would.”
The sheriff didn’t tell him goodby, but he did slam the door rather
hard, after Hashknife was outside. Hashknife laughed to himself and went
to the hotel.
* * * * *
Doctor Brent did not leave the B Arrow until morning. All of his
patients were doing well, due to the fact that he had been on the spot
to handle their wounds at once. Sleepy was in worse shape than Tex, but
told the doctor that if he saw Hashknife he should tell him that
everything was fine.
The doctor met Hashknife in front of the hotel and delivered the
message. By this time nearly every one in Pineville knew of the shooting
at the B Arrow, and many had heard of the shooting of Luke Jones at
Garnet.
Hashknife was passing the post office, when Henry Goff, the postmaster,
accosted him from the doorway.
“I’ve got a letter for you, Hartley,” he said. “Sent to you in care of
the sheriff, but he don’t call for his mail until after the stage gets
in this afternoon, and I thought it might be important.”
Hashknife thanked him and went in to get the letter. It was in a plain
envelope, slightly soiled, and the penciled line inside read:
We got one of you and you’re next.
—THE BUNCH.
Hashknife compared it with the other letter he had from The Bunch, and
it did not require a practised eye to see that the messages had not been
written by the same person. In fact they were not alike in any detail.
Hashknife smiled to himself and went down to the sheriff’s office, where
he found Oscar Johnson.
“Pat’s gone out to the B Arrow,” he told Hashknife. “The things that
happened out there last night has got him kinda pawin’ his head. He
knowed you wasn’t out there, so he went out. Said he might git at the
bottom of things if you wasn’t around to horn in and spoil the deal. My
stars, but he was mad about that six-shooter deal!”
Hashknife showed Oscar the warning.
“By golly, they mean business, don’t they?” exclaimed Oscar. “So it was
The Bunch who shot Stevens and Tex. That lets Tex out, unless Tex—”
“Unless Tex what?”
“Well,” said Oscar slowly, “Tex was out there and got mixed up in the
shootin’.”
“Did he do any shootin’?”
“I’ll be darned if I know. He had my gun, you know, and I forgot to take
it away from him when he came back in.”
“So there’s no way of connectin’ Tex with the shootin’.”
“Not a bit,” wailed Oscar. “There’s a lot of things happenin’ around
here, and always there ain’t no clue. Somethin’ wipes out the evidence.
Me and Pat are jist about disgusted.”
“Were you awake when Cleve Tolman came here last night—or rather this
mornin’?”
“Shore, partly. He shot Luke Jones in Garnet.”
“I know all about that part of it. I was there.”
“Oh, yeah, I think Pat mentioned it. He wondered what you was doin’
there. Tolman said that old Luke was loco from too much drink. Demanded
a thousand dollars from Tolman and started to draw a gun on Tolman, when
Tolman wouldn’t give him the money. Old Luke has been makin’ his own
liquor at the TD, and that kinda stuff will make you crazy.”
Hashknife did not tell Oscar what Luke Jones had said. He knew that the
story would circulate fast enough, anyway. It was nearly noon when the
sheriff came back from the B Arrow, and he was not in a pleasant frame
of mind. Hashknife came down to his office and inquired about the sick
and injured at the ranch.
“I didn’t see ’em,” growled the sheriff. “Old lady Blanco wouldn’t let
me in the house. Said the doctor gave her orders to not let anybody in
to see ’em. But I saw Miss Evans and I shore told her about that gun.
She sent one of the punchers to Mrs. Cooper, with a note, askin’ her why
she told me what she did. And now, by God, I’ve got to apologize to Mrs.
Cooper.”
“She didn’t confess, eh?”
“Hell, no! I lied to get a confession.”
“Lyin’ seems to be a popular pastime around here.”
“Oh, go to hell!”
Hashknife laughed softly.
“Pat Lynch, who do you think killed Buck Dennig?”
“I dunno. My Lord, if I knowed—”
“Who robbed that stage?”
“Tex Blanco.”
“Who killed Shearer and robbed the bank?”
“I dunno.”
“The only thing you’re sure of is that Tex Blanco robbed the stage, eh?”
“That’s all.”
“All right. Just for the sake of an argument, how often is money carried
on that stage?”
The sheriff looked sharply at Hashknife.
“Not very often, I’d say.”
“Would Tex know enough about it to pick the right day?”
“Not unless he was told.”
“Who could tell him—Windy March?”
“By God, I’ll bet he could.”
“If the money was sent to Windy, he might.”
“What are you drivin’ at? Are you protectin’ Tex Blanco? And what’s all
this talk about? What’s all this to you? It seems to me that you’re
takin’ a lot of interest in all this stuff. Tex lost his gun after he
held up that stage, and them women found it. If it hadn’t been for
Oscar, the Swede jughead, we’d have Tex in jail. And if it hadn’t been
for you, we’d have had him, anyway. I could jail you for what you done.”
“Yeah? And I could have made Stormy River County laugh you out of the
state of Wyoming. Anyway—” seriously—“you always want to look before you
leap, Sheriff. Look at this.”
He let the sheriff read his latest warning.
“Tex never posted that,” declared Hashknife. “He hasn’t written a line
since Sleepy got shot, and he couldn’t have known that The Bunch was
goin’ to get one of us.”
“You ought to be a detective, Hartley. Still, you wouldn’t be much use,
because you’re always goin’ around provin’ that everybody is innocent.
Heffner’s yellin’ his head off for a chance to convict somebody. The
county commissioners are ridin’ him, and he’s ridin’ me. I’m ready to
quit.”
“You hadn’t ought to do that, Sheriff. There’s worse sheriffs than you
are.”
“Where?” asked Lynch bluntly.
“Well, I just can’t answer you off-hand.”
“That’s supposed to be funny, ain’t it?”
“It’s all in your point of view, Sheriff.”
When the stage arrived that afternoon, Windy March brought the
information that Luke Jones wasn’t dead and wasn’t liable to die until
his appointed time.
“Danged old wood-rat wasn’t hurt much,” laughed Windy. “Swore he was
dyin’, they tell me. Had a pint of whisky in the inside pocket of his
coat, and the bullet smashed it all to hell, cracked one of Luke’s ribs
and tunneled under the skin plumb around to his back.
“The doctor dug the bullet out, tied a few yards of bandage around Luke
and let him go. Luke was plenty sick, but he went back to the Overland
Saloon and celebrated his resurrection by gettin’ as drunk as a boiled
owl. I seen him this mornin’, settin’ on the sidewalk, runnin’ a rag
through his six-gun and singin’ to himself.”
As Windy was telling them about Luke Jones, Bud Hough drove through town
in a buckboard, accompanied by a short, heavy set man, dressed in black.
Bud waved at the men around the stage, but the other man merely nodded.
“I wondered what Bud was doin’ in Garnet,” said Windy. “Must have been
there to git that feller. I seen him git off the train.”
“Prob’ly somebody visitin’ Tolman,” said Oscar.
* * * * *
Hashknife rode out to the B Arrow that afternoon and found Sleepy
getting along fine. Tex was around the house, bandaged, and wearing his
left arm in a sling. Little Jimmy’s fever had been broken, and their
greatest concern was to keep him quiet.
Sleepy didn’t remember getting hit. He had heard one shot fired and
remembered reaching for his gun. The rest of it was a complete blank. He
was anxious to know what Hashknife had accomplished, but Hashknife was
unable to tell him anything, except about the gun fight between Tolman
and Luke Jones.
Hashknife did not tell him about the last warning, because it would only
serve to worry Sleepy. He met Marion on the front porch, as he was
leaving, and she told him that Mrs. Cooper had denied telling the
sheriff about finding that gun.
“The sheriff told me,” laughed Hashknife. “It was one way of gettin’ you
to confess, you see. It’s been done many times. What are you goin’ to do
about provin’ that Buck Dennig was your brother?”
“I don’t know. But that can wait. I asked the doctor to not mention it
to any one, and I wish you would do the same.”
“Shore, it’s all right with me.”
Marion stood with her hands on the rail, staring off across the hills.
“Just to think that Blaine came away out here, hiding from the world,
and made a success. And that fate sent me out here, too—but too late to
find him. Do you believe in fate, Mr. Hartley?”
“Yes’m.”
“Did fate send you here to help us—me, I mean?”
“You might say she did, Miss Evans—fate and necessity.”
“Necessity?”
“We needed the money, I reckon.”
“But why would anybody wish to kill you and Mr. Stevens?”
“Well,” smiled Hashknife, “I reckon they believe in fate, too; and
they’re afraid the cards might fall wrong, with us in the game.”
“Do you believe Tex Blanco robbed that stage?”
“Do you, Miss Evans?”
“I did.”
“So did I.”
“The sheriff believes he did, Mr. Hartley. Oh, I suppose many other
folks believe he did; and how in the world can he ever prove his
innocence?”
“They can’t prove his guilt, Miss Evans.”
“Would you want to go through life that way?”
“It is kinda tough. I can see his point of view. No jury on earth would
believe his story of what happened to him the night before the robbery.
I believe him, even if it does sound fishy. I shore hope that some
day—Miss Evans, you kinda like Tex Blanco, don’tcha?”
Marion turned away and walked to the end of the porch.
“Aw, shucks!” grunted Hashknife. “I wasn’t tryin’ to act smart and pry
into your affairs. I’m no blind man. And love ain’t nothin’ to make fun
about. Don’t get sore about it and put ground glass in Sleepy’s mush.”
Marion was laughing, and Hashknife crossed the porch to her.
“You ain’t sore at me? Gee, that’s great. Are you goin’ to marry Tex
Blanco?”
Marion shook her head slowly.
“Gee, that’s great!”
Marion turned quickly and she was not laughing now.
“What is great about it?”
“To think that a pretty girl really has sense. I shore was scared you
was goin’ to marry him.”
“What is that to you?” she asked, her eyes snapping.
“Nothin’ to me, of course, except that I don’t like to see a pretty girl
throw herself away on a man with a reputation like he’s got. Tex is
virtually an outlaw. He’s just out of jail, because they can’t put the
deadwood on him. They all know he’s guilty, but they can’t prove it. You
couldn’t marry a man like him, Miss Evans. You’d ruin your life. When
they told me you was liable to marry him, I didn’t believe it. I got one
look at you and I said you had too many brains for a thing like that.
I’m glad I’m right. It ain’t often I’m mistaken in human nature.”
“Thank you,” she said icily, turning to the door. “I’m inclined to agree
with the sheriff, when he says that you have a nasty habit of meddling
in affairs which do not belong to you.”
She closed the door behind her, leaving Hashknife alone on the porch. He
leaned against a porch post, a twinkle in his gray eyes, the corner of
his wide mouth twisting to a grin. He went slowly down to the ground and
walked around to his horse.
Tex came striding out through the kitchen and halted Hashknife. It was
not difficult for Hashknife to see that Tex was mad. He came up to
Hashknife, who was standing beside his gray horse.
“What did you say to Miss Evans, Hartley?” he demanded.
“Why, I dunno,” he answered innocently. “What did she say?”
“She didn’t say anythin’, but I know you did, because she was cryin’.
Lemme tell you somethin’, Hartley; you—”
“You didn’t ask her if she was mad, didja?”
“She was cryin’, I tell you.”
“Sometimes folks cry when they’re glad, Blanco.”
Tex glanced back toward the house.
“Glad?” He turned and looked at Hashknife. “What has she got to be glad
over?”
“I dunno, I’m sure. You might ask her?”
“Yeah, I might.”
“Does your shoulder hurt, Blanco?”
“Not very much. I can stand the pain all right. You didn’t hurt her
feelin’s, did you?”
“I tried to be easy. Blanco, did you ask her to marry you?”
“I did not,” firmly.
“Why don’tcha?”
“I’m no fool, Hartley. How could a man in my position ask a girl to
marry him? She’d be a fool to marry me.”
“That’s what I told her—and she got mad at me.”
“You—uh—” Tex opened and shut his mouth several times, while Hashknife
swung easily to his saddle.
“You’d be a fool to ask her, and she’d be a fool to accept,” said
Hashknife, gathering up his reins, “but go ahead. If men and women
didn’t marry because they knew they were fools, we’d run out of
population in a little while.”
“Well,” said Tex slowly, “you—I don’t _sabe_ you. This is none of your
business.”
“I know it; but if I minded my own business, you’d have a lot of misery
ahead of you.”
Hashknife reined his horse around and galloped down through the big
gate, leaving Tex to wonder what he meant. He watched Hashknife ride
away and wandered around to the front porch, where he found Marion
alone. She was seated in an old rocker, a magazine in her lap.
He sat down on the top step of the porch.
“Has Mr. Hartley gone?” asked Marion.
“Yeah, he’s gone,” said Tex. “What did he say that made you cry,
Marion?”
She did not answer him and he finally turned to look at her.
“He said you’d be a fool to marry me, didn’t he, Marion?”
Marion looked down at the magazine.
“Yes,” she said softly.
“He told me he did,” said Tex.
“He told you? What did you say, Tex?”
“I agreed with him.”
“Oh.”
“What else could I do, Marion?”
“I—I didn’t know that the question had ever come up,” she said slowly.
“It made me mad to have someone suggest that I would be a fool to do
something I had never really considered doing.”
“That’s what made me mad, too,” said Tex. “I—I knew you would never be
able to marry me. Gosh, I’m no fool. Mebby I was a fool awhile ago; but
I didn’t stop to think. I wish Hartley would stay away and mind his own
business.”
“I do, too, Tex.”
“Well, if you say so, I’ll see that he does.”
“I suppose he’ll have to come out here to see his partner.”
“We’ll have him moved to town.”
“The doctor says he must stay here until that heals.”
Tex hammered his heel savagely against the step.
“Well, there’s nothin’ to be done. Anyway, we can keep away from him
while he’s here.”
“Certainly. Still, that is poor thanks for what he did, Tex. If it
hadn’t been for him, you would be in jail now.”
“That’s true,” said Tex grudgingly. “Why did he do it, Marion?”
Marion shook her head.
“I asked Sleepy, and he said it was because Hashknife couldn’t help
doing things like that. He says that Hashknife never did any one a wrong
in his life. I don’t know what Sleepy’s idea of right and wrong amounts
to, of course. I reminded him that Hashknife lied to Hootie Cooper about
knowing Hootie’s brother, and he said, ‘Miss Evans, you can find lies in
the Bible, if you look close enough; and Hashknife’s lie didn’t hurt
anybody!’”
“No, I don’t reckon it did, Marion. Well, here comes the doctor. He’s
shore a faithful person.”
* * * * *
The next two days were uneventful. Hashknife made daily trips to the B
Arrow, but he did not travel the road. The doctor said that Sleepy would
be able to ride in about another week. Tex’s wound was healing nicely,
and Jimmy Hastings was out of danger. Hashknife had a long talk with
John Rice, the banker, regarding Buck Dennig. The bank had opened its
doors again, but Rice told Hashknife that Tolman had resigned as a
director.
Old Luke Jones came back to Pineville, still half drunk and more grouchy
than ever. He refused to talk with Hashknife about the things he had
blurted out in Garnet, when he thought he was bleeding to death. A few
stitches in his side gave him a great deal of pain, but outside of that
he was as good as new.
Hashknife had not seen Tolman since the shooting at Garnet, but the rest
of the outfit had been to town. He had talked with Shorty Gallup about
Buck Dennig, and had mentioned the things old Luke had spoken about.
“Old Luke better look out for Tolman,” said Shorty.
“He talked as though Tolman knew somethin’ about the killin’ of Dennig,”
said Hashknife.
“I dunno,” said Shorty vaguely. “I think he’s crazy, about Buck havin’
any relatives. Still, you never can tell. Luke and Buck were good
friends, and Buck might have told him more than he told us.”
“What’s your honest opinion of who killed Dennig?”
“I wouldn’t even make a guess.”
“It must have been somebody that knew Buck had that ten thousand
dollars, don’t you think?”
“Mebby. Buck always carried quite a roll. Somebody might have killed him
for what he carried, picked up that big roll and didn’t wait to grab
that hundred and sixty he had in another pocket.”
“Yeah, that’s true. Probably the same gang robbed the stage.”
“Looks thataway. What a cinch they had. That sheriff and deputy couldn’t
foller a load of hay in the snow. What we need is a good detective.”
“Had one, didn’t they?”
“I reckon so. Didn’t last long. Any detective is a fool to come in
openly on a case like this, don’tcha know it?”
“I suppose you’re right, Gallup. What do you think about Tex Blanco?”
“Oh, Tex is all right, I reckon. Anyway, he’s slick; I’ll say that much
for him.”
“Slick?”
“Shore. They can’t pin anythin’ on him, can they? I’ll say they can’t.
How’s your pardner gettin’ along?”
“Be out in a week.”
“Got any idea who shot him?”
“Yeah,” said Hashknife seriously.
Shorty eyed him closely.
“Do you mean that, Hartley?”
“I think I know.”
“That sounds interestin’. Why don’tcha do somethin’?”
“Can’t do a thing until I’m sure.”
“Why did they shoot him?”
Hashknife laughed softly.
“They thought poor old Sleepy was a detective. He don’t know yet why
they shot him, and I don’t want to tell him, ’cause he might pull out
some of his stitches laughin’.”
“Oh,” said Shorty dryly, “that’s why they shot him, eh?”
“Sure. We’ve been warned to get out of the country.”
“You did? Well, I’ll be darned. That detective was warned, too, wasn’t
he? Can you imagine that. They think you’re workin’ for the cattle
association, eh?”
“They didn’t say who we was workin’ for. I dunno where they got the
idea, I’m sure.”
“Well, ain’t you scared to stay around here, Hartley?”
“I’m still here, ain’t I? Sure I’m scared. When men shoot at you in the
dark, it pays to be scared.”
“You’re danged right. Well, I’ve got to be headin’ for the ranch. See
you later, Hartley.”
“So long, Gallup.”
The following morning Hashknife went to the B Arrow with the doctor,
feeling sure that no one would molest them together. Sleepy wanted to
get out of bed, but the doctor warned him against it.
After the doctor had gone back to town, Tex asked Hashknife if he would
stay at the ranch for awhile. Marion wanted to go to town, it seemed,
and Tex also wanted to go. But Tex was unable to handle the team with
one hand; so Frank Judd was elected to drive. Tex didn’t want to leave
his mother alone with the two patients; so Hashknife agreed to stay.
It was about an hour later, while Hashknife was enjoying a siesta on the
front porch, that Bud Hough and Dobe Severn, from the TD outfit, came
past, heading toward Garnet. Hashknife waved at them and they drew up at
the gate, while he walked down to them.
He noticed that both men had war bags fastened to their saddles, and
this meant that they were traveling away.
“Pullin’ out?” he asked.
“Goin’ down to the XOX outfit, south of Wallgate,” said Bud. “Change of
pasture makes fat calves, you know. Same man owns both ranches.”
“You mean the same man owns the XOX and the TD?”
“Shore. Name’s Billings, Ed Billings.”
“I thought Tolman owned the TD.”
“Sellin’ out today.”
“Is that so?” Hashknife was thinking swiftly. “Today, eh? Kinda quick
sale, ain’t it?”
“Billings has been out there with us for two or three days. They been
dickerin’ for a week or so. Heffner, the lawyer, is handlin’ the deal.”
“Is he goin’ to keep the rest of the crew?”
“I think all but Shorty and Sturgis. They might stay, but Matt said they
might go with Tolman. Well, we’ll drift on. If you want a job, you
better strike Billings right away.”
Hashknife hurried back to the house and met Mrs. Blanco at the steps.
“I’ve got to go,” he told her, and ran for his horse.
In town old Luke Jones, like a sore-headed bear, was looking for
trouble. Everybody ignored him, because he was dangerous, and being
ignored was something old Luke hated.
“You better cool off,” advised the sheriff. “Somebody is liable to bust
your earthly envelope, if you don’t look out, Jones. You ain’t sober
enough to make a fight.”
“Zasso?” Old Luke shoved out his lean jaw at Pat Lynch.
“Show me somebody that wants to choose me, Pat. I’m here to be selected
by anybody on earth—pre—pref-er-bly Cleve Tolman. He’s my meat, the
dirty sidewinder.”
“Aw, go sleep it off,” advised the sheriff, and walked away.
He had tried to start an argument with Bud Hough and Dobe Severn, but
they had ridden along, ignoring him. Shorty, Matt and Alex dodged him
for half an hour, with Alex arguing all the time with Shorty, to keep
him from going back and accepting Luke’s challenge.
Fortunately Luke did not see Tolman and Billings arrive and go to the
court house. Heffner was busy with a civil case, and they were obliged
to wait until he finished; so they waited in his office.
* * * * *
Tex, Marion and Judd arrived, tied their horses in front of Hootie
Cooper’s store and went in to see him. Mrs. Cooper was there, and she
chuckled with glee over Marion.
“The school teacher was a frost,” Mrs. Cooper declared. “He whipped both
of the Beebee kids the second day, and sent Ella Hall home with a note,
askin’ her folks to teach her to not carry tales. Oh, he’s still there,
’cause they’ve got to have a teacher, but old Sam and Beebee asked me
how soon you was comin’ back.”
Marion laughed, but shook her head.
“I don’t think I could take the school again, Ma Cooper.”
Mrs. Cooper looked sidewise at Tex and nodded sagely.
“You’ve had an awful time out there, ain’t you, Marion?”
“But I’ve enjoyed it.”
“You would. Oh, don’t hop me. I don’t blame you. I shore was surprised
at your note about that gun. Pat Lynch shore lied, didn’t he. And he’s
dodged me ever since. But he told Hootie what happened. You ought to
love Hashknife Hartley, even if he is a liar. C’mon over to the house
and let’s talk.”
“All right, Ma.”
Marion walked over to Tex and told him she was going home with Mrs.
Cooper for a few minutes.
“That’s fine,” he told her. “Don’t hurry.”
They had just opened the door, when Hashknife’s tall gray fairly spiked
his tail against the sidewalk, throwing gravel all over them. He was off
the horse and up to them before they recovered from their surprise.
“C’mon with me, Miss Evans!” he panted. “Don’t ask questions, ’cause we
might be too late.”
Tex and Frank Judd ran out of the store, wondering what it was all
about, and they saw Hashknife hurrying down the sidewalk, holding Marion
by the elbow.
“What’s the idea?” asked Tex.
“That’s what I want to know,” said Mrs. Cooper. “That tall cowboy is
shore sudden. They’re goin’ into the court house.”
“Well, I’m goin’ to find out,” growled Tex, and hurried down the street
with Judd.
Hashknife did not bother to tell Marion what it was all about, as he
rushed her up the one flight of stairs and down the hall to Heffner’s
office. He opened the door and shoved her in ahead of him.
Tolman and Billings were seated at a table, while Heffner was standing
up, enumerating something from a legal paper. All three men turned
quickly at the interruption.
“I am engaged just at present,” said Heffner quickly. “If you will wait
a few minutes, I will be at your service.”
“I reckon this is the right time,” said Hashknife.
He was out of breath and snapped his words sharply.
Tolman started to his feet, a scowl on his face, as Hashknife came
closer to the table.
“Ain’t been no deed signed yet, has there?” asked Hashknife.
“Why—_not yet_?” faltered Heffner. “I don’t see—”
“Then there won’t be none signed, folks. I understand that Mr. Tolman is
sellin’ the TD, all of the TD, and it just happens that this lady is
Miss Marion Evans, sister to Blaine Evans, deceased, who was known to
you as Buck Dennig.”
For a moment there was silence, as all three men stared at Marion. Then
Tolman laughed shortly.
“What kind of a holdup game is this?” he asked harshly.
“Not any holdup, Tolman. Miss Evans can prove it. You’ve no right to
sell all the ranch. In fact, I don’t reckon you’ve got any right to sell
any of it, until an accountin’s been made.”
“Why, that claim is ridiculous.”
“Ask Luke Jones, Tolman.”
“That damn’ drunken old liar!”
“You shot him, you know.”
“I shot him because he tried to shoot me.”
“Why did he want to shoot you, Tolman?”
“He’s crazy.”
“That’s a weak answer. Anyway, there won’t be no sale—not now, Heffner.”
“I guess not,” replied the attorney. “If you had been ten minutes later,
it would have required a lot of legal red tape to settle the matter.”
Tolman jerked his hat down over his eyes and walked from the room.
Tex and Judd had stopped just outside the doorway, listening to what was
being said, but Tolman did not look at them as he went past.
“I’m sorry about this,” said Billings. “Of course, you understand I knew
nothing about it.”
“You couldn’t know, Mr. Billings,” agreed Heffner warmly.
“I suppose it saves me a lot of time and money, as long as it had to
happen. Miss Evans—” he held out his hand to Marion—“if you ever want to
sell your half of the TD, just write me in care of the XOX ranch, at
Wallgate.”
“Thank you,” said Marion weakly. “I—I don’t know what it is all about
yet myself.”
Hashknife grinned at her.
“Go ahead and bawl me out for not mindin’ my own business.”
“But how did you know?” asked Tex. “How on earth did you know this sale
was being made here?”
“Couple little birds rode past and told me, Tex. You can talk it over
with Mr. Heffner, or—” Hashknife pointed toward the open door—“down the
hall a couple doors is where they issue marriage licenses.”
He laughed and walked from the room.
* * * * *
Tolman had halted at the sidewalk, seething with anger. He knew Marion
was Buck’s sister, knew it before anybody else did. But he took a chance
on disposing of the TD, hoping to get away before anybody discovered the
fact, if they ever did. He blamed old Luke Jones, although he wondered
how old Luke found out who Marion was. Tolman knew that Marion and Buck
looked alike. He had seen that the first time he met her, and wondered
why others didn’t see it, too.
Tolman didn’t want to make an accounting of what he had done with Buck’s
share of the ranch, and he stood there on the edge of the sidewalk,
trying to figure out his next move.
Suddenly old Luke Jones lurched out of the Stormy River Saloon and
started across the street. Tolman forgot his troubles, when he saw his
old ex-cook. He stepped into the street and started toward old Luke, who
stopped short.
“Go back to your hole, you dirty old badger!” rasped Tolman.
Old Luke laughed. Hashknife stepped out to the sidewalk and saw them
walking toward each other. Old Luke had both hands in the pockets of his
frayed coat, and he did not take them out. He was not wearing a
holstered gun. Hashknife stepped out of line with them. Someone was
running up the sidewalk, and Hashknife turned to see the sheriff.
“Stop it, Tolman!” he yelled.
But Tolman didn’t stop. They were not over ten feet apart when Tolman
jerked out his gun, and at the same instant the side of Luke’s coat
seemed to erupt a cloud of smoke.
Tolman jerked sidewise, half turned, tried to recover his balance, but
couldn’t do it. He staggered back on his heels and went sprawling in the
street, still clutching his big Colt gun.
“Oh, hell!” panted the sheriff. “Got him cold.”
Old Luke pounded the fire out of his coat, as he looked at Tolman, flat
on his back in the street. Men were running from every direction. Shorty
Gallup was the first to reach old Luke. He flung both arms around him.
“Somebody git a rope!” yelled Shorty. “Git a rope!”
“No you don’t!” snorted the sheriff.
“I saw it myself. I don’t like old Luke no better than you do, but give
the devil his dues. Luke shot in self defense.”
“Lemme alone!” growled Luke. “Git your paws off me, Gallup, or I’ll
pistol whip you.”
Hashknife looked back toward the entrance to the court house. Tex and
Judd were coming across the street, while Marion had joined Mrs. Cooper
and several people in front of the store.
The sheriff and Hashknife made a quick examination of Tolman. It did not
require a lengthy examination. The sheriff got to his feet and looked at
old Luke.
“You made a complete job of it, Luke,” he said coldly.
“He had it comin’, Pat!” Old Luke looked around at the crowd that had
gathered in the street. “I’ll bet you ten dollars that Cleve Tolman
killed Buck Dennig. Anybody want to take that bet?”
“If I take your bet, can you prove it?” asked Hashknife.
Luke shut one eye and looked at Hashknife.
“I can come nearer provin’ that Tolman killed him than anybody else that
Tex Blanco killed him.”
The eyes of the crowd shifted to Tex. Oscar had joined the crowd and was
standing beside the sheriff. Old Luke laughed gratingly and began
talking again. Hashknife whispered softly to the sheriff:
“Back my play, Pat. It’ll come quick now. Tell Oscar.”
The sheriff drew a quick breath, shot a quick glance at Hashknife, but
spoke softly to Oscar, who looked at him blankly.
“I tell you, I’ll bet ten dollars,” reiterated Luke.
“Somebody bet him,” laughed Hashknife and stepped over beside Shorty
Gallup. “You bet him, Shorty.”
“Why should I bet him?” growled Shorty.
“Mebby your pardner, Sturgis, will take the bet?”
Sturgis shot a quick glance at Hashknife.
“I ain’t got no money to bet,” growled Matt Sturgis.
“What didja do with all you got?” asked Hashknife, and his voice fairly
snapped.
“Damn you, what do you mean?” Sturgis whirled, facing Hashknife. “What’s
all this about? What money?”
Sturgis swung his hand over the butt of his gun, eyes snapping.
Hashknife was covered by the body of Shorty Gallup, so he had little
fear of Matt’s gun. Shorty did not seem able to move. Hashknife glanced
at the sheriff, who had his gun in his hand, a queer expression in his
face, as he tried to puzzle things out.
“Shorty,” said Hashknife, “which one of you two are goin’ to confess
first?”
That sentence was like an electric shock to Shorty. He ducked sidewise,
jerking at his gun, but it was not there, because Hashknife had deftly
plucked it out with his left hand, just before Shorty ducked.
Matt Sturgis did not shoot, did not even draw a gun. He started to back
away, thinking to escape, but the sheriff and deputy had him covered. He
backed about six steps, before he threw up both hands in token of
surrender.
“I quit,” he choked. “My God! I’ll talk,” he blubbered, as the sheriff
stepped over and took his gun.
“Talk, you dirty quitter!” rasped Shorty.
He had both hands above his shoulders and was looking at the muzzle of
Hashknife’s gun.
“Go ahead and talk yourself into a rope.”
“You two killed Buck Dennig, robbed the stage and killed Guy Shearer,”
said Hashknife.
“Shorty killed Buck,” declared Matt.
He was almost crying.
“Gimme a gun,” begged Shorty. “Lemme kill him, won’t you? I swear to
give it back as soon as I kill him. He’s yaller as mustard.”
“Sturgis, stop blubberin’!” ordered Hashknife. “Shearer forged that ten
thousand dollar check, didn’t he?”
“Uh-huh. Buck and Tolman quarreled and Shorty heard ’em. We framed with
Shearer for a three way split, and he forged Buck’s signature. Shorty
killed Buck, and we hid the money.”
“Yes, and you killed Shearer!” roared Shorty.
Sturgis was on the verge of collapse.
“Better lock ’em up, Sheriff,” said Hashknife. “They’ve told enough.”
Both men went willingly, and some of the crowd carried Tolman’s body
into the saloon. Heffner had reached there in time to hear part of the
confession. Tex seemed dazed, unable to comprehend what it was all
about. Hashknife slapped him on the shoulder, and Tex jerked out of his
trance.
“That clears you, Tex,” he said softly. “If I was you I’d go across the
street and talk to a certain lady. She might want to know about it,
don’tcha think?”
Tex blinked at Hashknife, turned and walked slowly toward the crowd on
the opposite sidewalk, where Judd was telling them what it was all
about.
Hashknife and Heffner walked into the saloon, where most of the crowd
were gathered and, in a few moments, the sheriff came in. McLean was the
only one left of the TD outfit, and he looked frightened to death. He
came straight to Hashknife.
“I—I didn’t have anythin’ to do with it, Hartley,” he said.
“I had you on my list for awhile,” grinned Hashknife.
“My God, I’m glad you marked me off.”
Hashknife laughed.
“It was lucky for me that Shorty and Sturgis caved in. I wasn’t sure of
Sturgis, but I had a big hunch, because they were together a lot, and
Sturgis was related to Shearer. I knew Shearer was in on it, as soon as
I studied that check. The signature was clever, but he didn’t follow it
out in writing all the check.
“The warnin’ they sent to Sears, the detective, was written by Shearer.
He also wrote the first one to me and my pardner. But the last one I got
was written by someone else, because Shearer was dead. I think they were
goin’ to rob the bank vault, with the help of Shearer, and intended
merely ropin’ him up to make it look good, but they got greedy and
killed him, for fear he’d talk, or to make their shares bigger.
“They stole a rope from the B Arrow, cut the hondo off and left it on
the floor to convict Tex Blanco. But the key that unlocked the inside
door of that vault was on Shearer’s key ring in Shearer’s pocket, and
the door had been locked after the money was taken. If they had forced
him to unlock that door, they’d never have bothered to lock the inside
door again, and put the key in Shearer’s pocket.
“Shearer told ’em about the money comin’ on the stage. I ain’t sure just
what their idea was, but I figure they went to the B Arrow to pick up
somethin’ to incriminate Tex Blanco, and got a chance that night to
knock out Tex and kidnap him. Anyway, they left his gun at the scene of
the holdup, and Miss Evans and Mrs. Cooper found it.”
“That’s shore the truth,” agreed the sheriff warmly. “Oscar dumped Miss
Evans’ trunk in the river and, when he tried to dry out the things, he
found the gun. Like a darn jughead, he traded handles, and killed the
evidence.”
The crowd laughed.
“And Tex knew that no jury would believe his story, so he never told
it,” said Hashknife. “I talked with Shorty yesterday, and he told me
what he thought about the killin’ of Buck Dennig. He said that somebody
must have killed Buck for what little money he had, but found the big
roll and overlooked the rest of it. Shorty and Matt tried hard to kill
me and my pardner, and they almost got my pardner. I reckon that’s all
the story, unless Shorty and Matt know more than I do.”
“I’ll be jiggered!” snorted the sheriff. “And I thought you was just a
nosey puncher, who wasn’t able to mind your own business.”
“What is your business, Hartley?” asked Heffner.
“Me?” Hashknife laughed softly. “I’m the detective you sent for to the
cattle association.”
“You are? But Sears said—”
“Sears is a clerk. He had his orders to run at the first sign of
trouble—and he did. I’ll bet he’s scared yet.”
“And that’s why you lied about where you come from!” exclaimed McLean.
“Yeah, and you come near gettin’ me killed off by makin’ me out a liar,”
laughed Hashknife. “You folks wasn’t near as wise as Shorty was. But you
didn’t have a guilty conscience.”
* * * * *
Hashknife left the saloon and went back to his horse. Marion, Tex, Mrs.
Cooper, Hootie and Judd were there, waiting for him. They had managed to
understand what it was all about. He looked at them and his face
wrinkled to a grin.
“Well, it was a nice afternoon, wasn’t it?” he queried.
Mrs. Cooper came up to him, her fat face grinning with delight, and held
out her hand to him.
“I want to be the first to shake hands with you,” she said. “The rest of
them just stand around and say, ‘My God!’ Tex Blanco has said it a dozen
times already, and Hootie ain’t far behind him. Marion ain’t said much,
but I’ll bet she’s thought a lot. Didja ever realize that she owns the
TD outfit right now? Tolman ain’t got a livin’ relative.”
Hashknife looked at Marion. Her face was white, and she was clinging to
Tex’s good arm, as if afraid he might get away from her.
Slowly Hashknife untied his horse and climbed into the saddle.
“It’s funny what changes you can bring into the lives of folks, when you
don’t mind your own business,” he said slowly. “Sometimes I’m glad I’m
nosey thataway. Well, I’ve got to get back and help Ma Blanco take care
of the sick folks. Gotta get my pardner back on his feet, you see. There
ain’t nobody’s business around here that looks worth my time mindin’ it
now. I’ll see you later, folks.”
He started to ride away, but stopped and called to Frank Judd. They
talked for a moment, and then Hashknife rode on down the street.
Judd came back, a half smile on his lips. They were watching Hashknife
going down the street, sitting very straight in his saddle.
Tex sighed deeply.
“Well, he must think I’m a fool. Honest to gosh, I couldn’t talk to him.
I wonder if he realizes what this means to me? Why, I’ve got the weight
of the world off my neck.”
“Cleared with one swipe,” said Hootie. “The long legged son of a gun! I
don’t give a damn if he never was in Mizpah, Arizona, or never heard of
my brother. Whooee-e-e! Well, Ma—” he turned to Mrs. Cooper—“I reckon I
better turn merchant again.”
Old man Beebee was hurrying up the street and caught sight of the group
near the store. He came over to them, chewing violently.
“I jist heard about it!” he panted. “Missed it, of course. Always miss
the fun of anythin’, ’cause I had to wash the danged dishes. Oh, hello,
Miss Evans. Sa-a-ay! I reckon you can have that school any time you want
it. Ma and Mrs. Hall have hauled in their horns, and the menfolks are
runnin’ things again.”
“She’s all through teachin’ school,” said Tex.
“Oh! Well, I don’t blame her. Awful job. Sorry.”
He turned and headed for the Stormy River Saloon.
Tex turned to Marion.
“I guess we better go home, Marion.”
“Yes,” she said softly.
“You tell Mrs. Blanco I’ll be out in a day or two,” said Mrs. Cooper.
“Mebby tomorrow.”
“That will please her,” said Marion. “We’ll look for you, Ma.”
They were halfway to the buckboard, when they met Oscar, grinning
widely, coming from the jail.
“Sturgis told the whole works,” he said. “The money is all hid at the
TD. They never spent a cent. Can you imagine it? I seen Hartley goin’
down the street, but I didn’t have no chance to stop him. Jist to think
that Shorty and Matt was the two tough jiggers of Stormy River. Well,
I’ve got to find the sheriff. He’s prob’ly around some’ers, with his
mouth wide open.”
Oscar trotted across the street, while they went on to the buckboard.
Judd untied the team and handed the lines to Tex.
“I’m not goin’ back with you, Tex,” he said.
“You’re not?”
“Aw, you can drive with one hand, Tex.”
Tex looked at Marion and back at Judd.
“Just why ain’t you goin’ back with us, Frank?”
“Well, if you want to know so bad, Hashknife told me if I didn’t let you
two come home alone, he’d whip hell out of me when we got there. And
that meddlin’ jigger means what he says.”
“Oh, yeah,” replied Tex rather blankly. “Well, under them circumstances,
I’ll forgive you, Frank. Giddap, broncs!”
“They’ll walk, if you’ll let ’em,” was Judd’s parting shot.
Tex nodded with complete understanding, and they went out on the winding
road toward home.
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine,
December 1, 1927. It is believed to be in the public domain in the
United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]