some trouble over in Turquoise City, and I’m anxious to get over there.”
“Trouble, eh?” Hashknife Hartley’s long nose twitched.
Moran mounted and picked up his reins. Sleepy Stevens was looking at
Hashknife, a queer expression in his blue eyes.
“Seems there is,” nodded Moran. “Ready?”
“Yeah,” nodded Hashknife. He turned to Sleepy.
“Don’t miss that train, pardner; I’ll be lookin’ for you.”
Sleepy nodded solemnly and watched them ride away. Finally he cuffed his
Stetson over on one side of his head, spat disgustedly and walked back
toward the saloon.
“Trouble!” he snorted aloud. “By God, there wasn’t nothin’ but a depot
and a saloon, a depot-agent and a bartender --and we found trouble jist
the same.”
* * * * *
That same afternoon, which was two days after Lovely Lucas had tossed
Kent Cutter over the Black Horse bar, Jeff Ryker, prosecuting attorney,
rode out to Conley’s ranch, wearing a new mailorder suit and an extra
large collar. Dawn saw him coming from afar. She had been expecting
Jimmy to ignore her father’s warning, and at first she thought it might
be Jimmy; but, when she saw who it was, she departed hurriedly, leaving
her mother to do the talking.
The very fat, stolid old Indian woman filled the rocking-chair to
creaking capacity. She wore an old print wrapper and moccasins, a very
brassy necklace and an even more brassy bracelet. Minnie Conley had
never become civilized, as far as apparel was concerned.
Ryker rode up to the porch, tipped his hat to Mrs. Conley and
dismounted. She nodded coldly. Moses Conley had explained to her that
Ryker was the man who would try to hang Peter.
“Rather hot today, Mrs. Conley,” he said pleasantly.
“Pretty damn hot,” she said forcibly.
“Yeah, it is,” he sat down in the vacant chair and mopped his brow. “Hot
in town today. I thought I’d take a ride and cool off. Where’s Mr.
Conley?”
“He not here.”
“I see.”
He craned his neck and glanced through the doorway.
“Dawn not here,” said the woman.
“I see. Well, you’re here, Mrs. Conley.”
“I here,” stolidly. “I mos’ always here. Too fat to ride.”
Ryker laughed cautiously.
“Well, you’re good and healthy, Mrs. Conley.”
“Pretty good. What you want?”
“That depends, Mrs. Conley. Peter’s in jail, you know.”
“I know very well.”
“And they might hang him, Mrs. Conley,” he said heartlessly.
The Indian woman’s eyes flickered for a moment, as she shifted her gaze
past Ryker. He watched her face closely, but beyond the flicker of her
eyelids there was no emotion.
“And you don’t want that to happen,” he said softly.
“No,” she said. “No want that to happen.”
“He’s your son,” said Ryker.
“You right, my son.”
“There’s just me and you here, Mrs. Conley. I don’t mind telling you, I
love Dawn. I want to marry Dawn.”
The woman’s gaze came back to Ryker, and he shifted uneasily under the
stare of those beady eyes.
“You want marry Dawn?” she asked.
“Yeah, that’s the idea, Mrs. Conley. I’m a big man in Turquoise City,
you understand. If I say they must hang Peter--they hang Peter. If I am
going to marry Dawn, I not say for them to hang Peter. You _sabe_ that?”
“Damn right!”
“Fine. When Dawn say she marry me, I get Peter loose. If she not marry
me--” Ryker hesitated meaningly.
“You hang Peter,” said the woman heavily.
“That’s the idea, Mrs. Conley. We make a trade, eh?”
“S’pose Dawn no marry you?”
“She like to see Peter get hung?” countered Ryker.
“She not like.”
“And there you are, Mrs. Conley. You tell her about it. You not need to
tell Moses. He not need to know. Our secret, eh?”
“I not tell nobody.”
“Good! Well, I’ll be goin’ on. Peter have trial next week. You let me
know Monday.”
Ryker mounted his horse and rode away, well pleased with himself. Once
he turned in his saddle and waved back at the huddled figure on the old
porch, which did not wave back at him.
After Ryker had passed from sight, Dawn came out. She halted near her
mother and stared across the hills toward the Black Horse ford.
“I heard everything he said, mother.”
“Good! Ryker _mamook hyas cultus wau-wau_.”
Stress of emotion caused the old squaw to revert to the trade language
of her people. Translated, it meant that Ryker made a very bad talk.
“How can he turn Peter loose?” demanded Dawn indignantly. “Is Ryker the
law?”
“Crooked!” said the old lady.
“It surely is! If I marry him he’ll turn Peter loose. Why, I wouldn’t
marry him.”
“Peter hang, mebby.”
“Oh, I don’t mean it that way, mother. I want Peter to go free. You know
that, don’t you? Why, he’s my brother; but to marry Jeff Ryker--”
“Too much talk about marry,” said the old lady. “Cutter talk to Mose.
You don’t know. He want marry you. Jimmy Moran want marry you.”
“Kent Cutter want to marry me?”
“You right. Mose tell him go to hell.”
Dawn laughted bitterly.
“I wonder what’s got into ’em? Why don’t they come to me, I wonder?”
“Jimmy come to you, eh?”
“Yes,” softly.
“Roarin’ come to you, Dawn?”
“No.”
“He not come to nobody--jus’ come. Good man.”
“Yes, he’s a good man, mother; but I don’t want to marry him. Oh, I
don’t want to marry anybody.”
Her mother looked at her keenly for several moments.
“I guess you marry man you want,” she said slowly. “Peter have trial
next week. Mose hire good lawyer. Mebby I tell judge what Ryker say.
Here come Mose now.”
Moses Conley rode to the corral, unsaddled his horse and came up to the
house.
“Was Ryker here?” he asked.
Mrs. Conley nodded.
“He jus’ stop little while, Mose.”
“What for?”
“Dawn.”
“Dawn?” Mose Conley twisted his head and looked at Dawn. “Came to see
you? What did he say to you?”
“I didn’t talk with him.”
“He want marry her,” said Mrs. Conley.
“Huh!” The old man ran his fingers through his white beard, frowning
heavily. “The prosecutin’ attorney wants to marry Dawn. That’s funny.
There’s Cutter, Rigby, English Ed, Moran, and now comes Ryker. How do
you account for all this, Dawn?”
“I don’t,” said Dawn seriously.
“You’re pretty,” said Conley slowly.
“I’m a half-breed.”
“You stop that! I hate that word, Dawn. If there’s any mixed blood that
you might be ashamed of, it’s on my side. You mother is an American.”
“You right!” said Mrs. Conley. “My father big chief.”
“Well, I wouldn’t rate him too high,” said Conley. “If I hadn’t tracked
some horses he stole from me to his teepee, I wouldn’t have met you; so
that’s all right.”
“That was my grandfather,” said Dawn bitterly. “A horsethief.”
“Well,” amended Conley, “he didn’t really steal ’em, Dawn. Me and him
made a deal. He kept six pintos and I took his daughter. That’s the only
time I ever cheated an Injun.”
Conley looked fondly at his fat wife. She smiled. Dawn laughed and
turned toward the door, going into the house.
* * * * *
A moment later came the sound of horses, and two riders swept around the
corner of the house. They jerked to a stop, throwing a shower of gravel
against the steps. Moses Conley sprang to his feet.
The men were Slim Regan and Mark Clayton of the Big 4. Regan whirled his
horse against the side of the porch and at the same time, he covered
Moses Conley with a six-shooter. Clayton dismounted.
“What’s the matter with you?” demanded Conley.
“I’ll show you what’s the matter with me!” rasped Regan angrily. “Keep
your hands above your waist, Conley.”
“I’m not armed,” said Conley. “What’s gone wrong with you, Regan?”
Mark Clayton halted at the bottom of the steps. He held a gun in his
right hand and seemed to wait for Regan to give him further orders.
“You know damn well what’s wrong,” declared Regan hotly. “We found where
you cut your upper fence; so we rode down to see what it meant. Oh, we
found out all right. There’s eight white-faced, Big 4 steers dead at Hot
Creek. You let ’em in and then shot ’em for trespassin’, eh?”
Conley’s right hand went to his beard, trembling slightly.
“Keep your hands still,” warned Clayton.
“You don’t need to deny anythin’,” said Regan coldly. “We’ve got the
deadwood on you, Conley. I reckon you’ll claim they didn’t have any
right there, eh? Mebby not. But that won’t help you any. Come off that
porch and saddle your bronc. You go to jail, _sabe_?”
“To jail?” Conley shook his head slowly. “I don’t know what you’re
talkin’ about, Regan. Put up that gun and let’s talk sensible.”
“Like hell! Come off that porch.”
Mark Clayton holstered his gun, as the old man started to obey Regan. It
was evident that the old man carried no arms of any kind.
“Drop that gun, Regan!”
Regan’s head jerked sidewise enough for him to see Dawn Conley and the
muzzle of a double-barreled shotgun. She was not over a dozen feet away.
He dropped his gun. Clayton stood perfectly still. Dawn had circled the
house and come in almost behind them. Now she moved closer, holding the
big gun easily in her two hands, the first finger of her right hand
crooked around a trigger.
“Take their guns, Dad,” she said huskily.
Clayton made no objection as Conley removed the gun from his holster. He
knew what a shotgun would do at short range, and he had no desire to be
picked up in chunks.
The old man took Regan’s gun and stepped back to the edge of the porch.
Dawn went slowly to him and laid the gun on the porch floor.
“Where do you keep the shells for this gun, Dad?” she asked. “I looked
all over for them.”
“There ain’t any, Dawn,” he said. “I’ve been goin’ to buy some, but I
put it off.”
“Wasn’t loaded, eh?” gritted Regan.
“Hasn’t been for a week,” said Conley.
“Pretty good bluff, at that,” said Clayton. “It’s all right with me. Any
old time you point one of them twin tubes at my anatomy, I sag visibly.”
“What’s it goin’ to get you?” demanded Regan. “Put down them guns.
You’re goin’ to town with us.”
“Not now, Regan. The Big 4 can’t arrest me. If you’ve got a complaint to
make, go to the sheriff.”
“Oh, yes! And have him pull a deal with us like he did with Pete.”
“Then go home and mind your own business. I’m not goin’ to town with
you, Regan. I don’t care to see you two any longer than I have to. I
fenced this place to keep all the Big 4’s off my land; so you better
pilgrim home.”
Clayton mounted hurriedly.
“We’ll come back, Conley,” said Regan. “You’ve butchered eight of our
steers on your land, and if the Big 4 don’t wipe you off the earth, I’ll
miss my guess.”
They whirled their horses and galloped off down the road. Regan was so
mad he spurred his pet saddle horse unmercifully on the way to the gate.
The sun was just going down. He wasn’t certain just what to do. They
drew rein at the gate.
“What are you laughin’ about?” demanded Regan.
“I can’t help it,” chuckled Clayton. “The look on your face, when you
saw that shotgun! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”
“Is that so! Well, I didn’t see you do anythin’, except reach for the
sky.”
“An empty gun, too! Whooee-e-e! Say, Slim, I never knowed how danged
pretty that girl was until now. She’s a bird.”
“Yeah, and she needs her wings clipped. What had we better do, Mark? We
can’t let the old man destroy the evidence. It would be like him to drag
every steer out of sight.”
“Let’s go and get Roarin’ Rigby. We can come back with him and see that
he does what we want him to do. I know I’d like to have my gun but it’ll
be dark pretty quick.”
“That’s the worst of it. Wonder who this is comin’.”
Two horsemen were coming up the road from the ford, and the fading
sunlight showed them to be riding a tall gray and a sorrel.
“Pretty tall man on that gray,” observed Regan.
“Plenty big on the sorrel,” Clayton. “I don’t _sabe_ that tall gray,
Slim.”
As the riders drew closer, the two men at the gate recognized Franklyn
Moran as the rider of the sorrel.
“Well, I’ll be danged!” snorted Regan.
“Hello, Moran!”
“Hello Slim,” called Moran. “Howdy, Clayton.”
He shook hands with the two cowboys and introduced them to Hashknife
and, at the same time, he told them how it happened that he was riding
to the ranch. Slim looked appraisingly at Hashknife. Slim was a cowman
and a judge of cowboys. His practised eye noted the riding rig of the
tall cowboy, the cut of his well worn chaps, the hang of his belt and
gun. His eyes flashed back to Hashknife’s serious face, and he
half-smiled as he said:
“Boy, howdy! Your outfit never got to lookin’ that way from ridin’ now
and then.”
“I’ve been around,” said Hashknife modestly.
“I’ll betcha. Lookin’ for work?”
Hashknife grinned at Moran.
“Must be a habit in this country, Moran--this ‘work’ idea.”
Moran laughed and explained.
“I was just wonderin’ if it was ag’in’ the law to wear a gun around
here,” smiled Hashknife, indicating Regan’s empty holster.
“Not unless they get the drop on you!” blurted Clayton. “You tell ’em,
Slim.”
Slim told them, while Moran swore explosively. Hashknife rolled a
cigaret during the recital and tried to appear indifferent, but his eyes
smiled when Regan told how Dawn Conley had stuck them up with an empty
shotgun.
“That’s the dirty old squaw-man I told you about, Hartley,” said Moran.
“That’s how he gets even with me. I’ll send him to the pen for that, if
there’s any law in the county.”
“Well, there ain’t,” declared Clayton. “Roarin’ Rigby is stuck on Dawn
Conley and--”
“What about Jim Randall, the sheriff?”
“Gone. The Black Horse Saloon outfit scared him out of the country.
Roarin’ Rigby is sheriff, and he’s hired Wind River Jim for a deputy.”
“And that is the most ridiculous thing I ever heard,” declared Moran.
“This country needs a shake-up. What about Jimmy? Oh, you don’t need to
be afraid to talk in front of Hartley. I’ve told him all about things.”
“Well, there’s no secret about him goin’ to marry Dawn Conley, I guess,”
said Slim. “I happen to know Jimmy borrowed money from the bank on a
mortgage, and he owes English Ed quite a lot of money.
“You knew they had Pete Conley in jail for killin’ Joe Mallette. Well,
that same night, Jimmy had a fight with English Ed, and knocked Ed out.
That caused bad blood. Then Jimmy and Roarin’ Rigby foxed the gang that
went out to hang Pete, and got Pete safe to jail. It put Jimmy in bad
with a lot of folks. They held the inquest and indicted Pete. Kent
Cutter got to talkin’ kinda loud about Jimmy in the Black Horse, and
Lovely Lucas pitched Kent over the bar, bustin’ forty dollars’ worth of
glasses. Oh, we’ve had a lot of fun around here lately, but Joe Mallette
is the only one that’s been killed. You know, the same gang that scared
Jim Randall out sent warnings to Judge Beal, but the old judge is still
in evidence, although he sticks pretty close to home.”
“And all this will lead to more killin’,” said Moran. “I’ll tell you
what to do, Slim. You and Mark go to town and bring Roarin’ Rigby out to
the Big 4. Tell him I want to talk with him.”
“All right. But in the meantime we ought to have a man over on Hot
Creek, to see that Mose Conley don’t destroy all that evidence.”
“And get him shot into ribbons, eh? I know Conley.”
“Yeah, I reckon that’s true. Well, they’re your steers; so you can do as
you please. We’ll bring Roarin’ back with us.”
* * * * *
Slim Regan was glad that Franklyn Moran arrived in time to take charge
of the affair. It would take the responsibility off of his shoulders,
and Slim didn’t care for responsibility.
He and Clayton splashed through the ford at Black Horse Creek and, about
a quarter of a mile beyond, they met Jimmy Moran. Jimmy was alone,
singing at the top of his voice. He had a very good barytone, developed
to a certain extent in a college glee club.
“Drunk ag’in,” declared Mark.
But Jimmy wasn’t drunk. He drew up beside them, grinning good-naturedly.
Slim Regan scowled. Jimmy had a habit of getting on Slim’s nerves.
“Your father just came in,” said Slim.
“Yea-a-a-ah? Too much for you to handle, eh?”
“You don’t need to let that bother you?” retorted Slim.
“Oh, I know all about it,” grinned Jimmy. “You wired him. I got the
depot agent drunk, and he told me about it.”
“The dirty bum!” exploded Slim. “I’ll fix him.”
“Well, he told the truth, didn’t he?”
“He didn’t need to tell anythin’.”
“Well, he didn’t,” laughed Jimmy. “I guessed it, and you bit like a
hungry fish. I saw you head for the depot after the inquest; so the rest
was a cinch. How’s the old man lookin’, and what’s he goin’ to do about
it?”
Slim gnawed the corner of his lip.
“He’ll do somethin’--that’s a cinch,” said Clayton. “Old Mose Conley cut
his upper fence, herded eight Big 4 steers down into Hot Creek basin and
shot ’em. I reckon that’ll hold him for a while.”
“A-a-a-aw, what are you talkin’ about!” snorted Jimmy. “He never did any
such a thing.”
“Yes, he did,” said Slim quickly. “We found ’em, Jimmy. We went down to
bring the old man to town, and the girl got the drop on us with a
shotgun. Oh, we all know how you feel about that girl--but I’m tellin’
you the truth.”
“Got the drop on you, Slim?”
“She shore did. Two-barrel shotgun.”
“Empty,” chuckled Clayton.
Jimmy took a deep breath and grinned widely.
“Well, can you beat that? What are you goin’ to do?”
“That’s up to your dad. He sent us to town after Roarin’ Rigby.”
“Well, I’ll be darned! Are you sure about them steers?”
“We seen ’em. Eight white-faced steers, with the Big 4’s pointin’
skyward. No mistake, kid. And the fence was cut.”
“Gosh, that’s bad, huh!”
“You headin’ up that way?” asked Clayton.
Jimmy shook his head quickly.
“Not me. I’ve been warned to keep away. This is gettin’ to be a great
place for warnings. I got a tip today that the Black Horse Saloon
wouldn’t be healthy for me. I suppose the bartender has his orders to
put ground glass in my liquor. They tell me that Lovely Lucas mopped off
the back-bar with Kent Cutter the other day and busted forty dollars’
worth of glasses. This Western country is gettin’ tough. Well, you boys
better trot along and get the sheriff.”
“I reckon we better,” nodded Slim.
“So long!”
“Want to send any message to your dad?” asked Clayton.
“Yeah. Tell him to mind his own business, and to give Slim Regan orders
to the same effect.”
Slim turned and glared at Jimmy in the gathering gloom, but Jimmy didn’t
see the glare. He was riding on, lifting his voice in song.
“He’s a tough pup, that feller,” growled Slim. “Why, he didn’t know I
sent that telegram.”
“Not until you admitted it.”
Clayton turned in his saddle and listened. Jimmy’s voice floated back to
them. He was singing “The Message of the Violet” from the “Prince of
Pilsen.” They drew up their horses and listened.
“I wish I had his voice,” said Clayton seriously.
“I wish I had his gall,” said Slim.
* * * * *
Hashknife Hartley instinctively liked Roaring Rigby. There was something
pathetically earnest about this new sheriff of Black Horse County, who
was willing to admit that he knew little about his duties and
limitations.
Roaring had ridden back to the Big 4 ranch with Slim Regan and Mark
Clayton. He shook hands gravely with Franklyn Moran and with Hashknife,
and accepted Moran’s invitation to stay all night. Regan had told
Roaring about the dead steers at the Hot Creek coulee.
“That’s Mose Conley’s idea of retaliation,” declared Moran, as they sat
together in the main room of the Big 4 ranch-house, the air blue with
tobacco smoke.
“Mm-m-m-m-m,” mused Roaring, “kinda funny thing t’ do. What head would
that come under, Moran? It ain’t rustlin’. He didn’t steal your cattle.”
“Wanton destruction!” snapped Moran.
“They was inside his fence.”
“He cut the fence himself.”
“Mm-m-m-m-m. Hard to prove, Moran.”
“Even that doesn’t need proof. He shot the animals. Any jury on earth
would convict him.”
“Any Black Horse jury would convict Mose Conley of anythin’. Just bring
your charge.”
“Well, he brought it on himself, Roarin’, when he fenced in the only
open winter water-hole in the country.”
“It’s his land.”
“I can see where Conley’s got one friend.”
“Two,” corrected Roaring. “Me and Jimmy Moran.”
That was a body punch to Franklyn Moran. He got up from his chair and
announced that he was going to bed.
“We’ll see about those steers in the morning,” he said.
Hashknife slept in the ranch-house that night. He tried not to work up
any interest in the squabble. He did not care particularly for Franklyn
Moran, who was half-Easterner, half-Westemer, and inclined to be proud
of his own importance.
Moran had told Hashknife much of the story during their ride from Sibley
Junction. He had admitted that he double-crossed Moses Conley in a
mining deal, because he was unwilling to match his money against
Conley’s knowledge. He told Hashknife that he had bought up several
prospects which turned out well. In fact, these prospects were
responsible for his fortune.
He also explained to Hashknife his reasons for haste in coming to
Turquoise City--to break off Jimmy’s engagement to a half-breed girl,
who happened to be Conley’s daughter.
“That’s another one of Conley’s ideas of getting even with me,” he told
Hashknife.
“He must kinda hate you,” observed Hashknife.
But Hashknife was really more interested in the fact that the sheriff of
Black Horse had been frightened into resigning his office by the
gambling element of Turquoise City; not that it made any difference to
Hashknife, but it was in his blood to seek the reasons for things of
this kind.
That was one of the reasons for Sleepy Stevens’ outburst against
trouble, when Hashknife and Moran rode away from him at Sibley Junction.
Sleepy knew what this word “trouble” would mean to Hashknife.
It would mean that the lean-faced cowboy would not rest until it was all
straightened out, regardless of the cost. Since the day when George
Hartley had ridden in at the ranch that gave him his nickname, he and
Sleepy Dave Stevens had been inseparable. They had cast their lots
together and had become wanderers of the open places, going nowhere in
particular, but always heading for the next hill, just to see what might
be on the other side.
Hashknife had been born with an analytical mind. Having had little
schooling and having been born in the cattle country, he naturally
became a cowpuncher, a rider of bad bronchos--a top hand with cattle.
But there was always the urge to follow the trail of trouble, and when
he found Sleepy Stevens, blue-eyed, grin-wrinkled, always looking beyond
the distant ranges, they went away together, up and down the land,
untangling the mysteries of range trouble, seeking no remuneration,
asking no thanks.
In many places they were marked men, but this did not stop them from
coming back. Life had made them confirmed fatalists, knowing that
nothing could happen to them until their time came.
The West did not list them as gunmen; but strangely enough they had gone
through many gun battles unscathed, when men faster with guns had gone
down. Theirs was the psychology of being in the right.
“Run when you’re wrong; shoot when you’re right,” said Hashknife.
“That’s why some of these fast gunmen get killed off’--they shoot when
they’re wrong.”
Sleepy Stevens did not analyze anything. He followed Hashknife dumbly,
filled with arguments against getting into trouble, deriding Hashknife’s
ability, vocally fearful of getting killed; and yet he inwardly
delighted over it all, anxiously waiting for somebody to start shooting.
The following morning after breakfast, Moran, Regan, Roaring and
Hashknife rode away from the Big 4 ranch. Hashknife led Sleepy’s horse,
as he meant to meet the train at Turquoise City that afternoon.
Regan led the way down to the cut fence at the Conley ranch, and they
rode through to Hot Creek. As they came out along the lava beds, high
above the creek bottom, they could easily count the eight head of dead
steers. Moran swore bitterly against Moses Conley and promised him
plenty of trouble for this work.
They circled the lava beds and came down into the bottom. Moran had
explained to Hashknife about this warm spring, and Hashknife could see
the value of it as a winter shelter and watering place.
“We all used it,” said Slim Regan. “Why, you could run a thousand head
of cattle in here ahead of a blizzard, and they’d stand it fine and
dandy. This country is cold in the winter. The other streams freeze to
the bottom.”
“Why don’tcha make some kind of a deal with Conley?” asked Hashknife.
“Can’t be done; he won’t sell out. Moran offered him more than it’s
worth, but he won’t sell. The 7AL has tried to buy it, but didn’t have
any luck. The old fool won’t listen to money.”
“Hey!” blurted Roaring. “Look at that animal!”
They had ridden up close to the nearest dead steer. On its shoulder was
a spot about a foot square, where the hide had been stripped off.