that won’t help him. Everybody knows we brand on the left shoulder.”
“So does the Stumblin’ K,” said Roaring thoughtfully.
“Huh!” Moran stared at Roaring. “Is that so! I suppose that squirt of a
kid will claim the carcasses, eh? Swear he owned ’em, eh? But you and
Clayton saw ’em, Slim. You can swear they had Big 4’s, can’tcha?”
“Shore,” nodded Slim thoughtfully.
He remembered that he and Clayton had told Jimmy about it last night.
Now he wished that he had kept his mouth shut.
“What are you thinkin’ about?” asked Moran.
Slim jerked slightly and adjusted his Stetson carefully.
“I was just thinkin’ how much gall some folks have.”
“Oh, Conley’s got plenty of it, Slim. He always did have. Well, what
about it, Roarin’? Goin’ to arrest Conley?”
“When you swear out a warrant, Moran. Pers’nally, I don’t see anythin’
to arrest him for. Eight dead steers without any brands don’t mean
nothin’ to me. Lotsa folks around here has white-faced cattle. If you
swear out a warrant for Mose Conley, I can’t help servin’ it.”
“I can prove ownership of these dead steers.”
“You’ll have a hell of a time!”
“Maybe. Oh, let’s go to town. This makes me sore; but what I’d like to
know is this: Why didn’t Conley cut the brands off before you and
Clayton saw the animals?”
“That wouldn’t have been any revenge,” said Slim.
“No, that’s true. I’ve a notion to go over and have it out with Mose
Conley right now.”
“Hop to it,” grinned Slim. “You can shore have my share of it. My gun
and Mark’s gun are still there, so you might ask him for ’em.”
Moran spat out the stump of his cigar and picked up his reins.
“I reckon it can wait,” he said. “I’ll see him later.”
They rode back through the cut fence, instead of going down through
Conley’s gate. They rode to Turquoise City.
* * * * *
Dawn and her father had been out to Hot Creek earlier in the morning,
and they were just as surprized as the Big 4 men had been to find the
brands skinned off.
“Mighty queer,” said Conley heavily. “I don’t understand it, Dawn.”
“No one would,” replied Dawn.
“The Big 4 is tryin’ hard to get me,” declared Conley.
He seemed years older today, and he mounted his horse with difficulty.
“Why don’t you sell out, Dad?” asked Dawn.
It was the first time she had ever suggested such a thing, and he looked
queerly at her.
“I won’t be hounded out,” he said firmly. “I’ll never sell to the Big 4,
Dawn.”
“Sell to some one else. It will give us enough to take us away from
here, and we can start in a new country.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I feel old today; didn’t sleep much last night. I
kinda expected the sheriff out to get me, I guess. Don’t know why he
don’t come. The Big 4 killed them steers, Dawn. They cut the fence and
drove ’em down here. They want to railroad me out of the country.
“But I’m not goin’,” he said, after a pause. “I never done anythin’
wrong, and they can’t take me. I’ll shoot the first man that comes on my
ranch.”
“The first man might be a friend,” said Dawn softly.
“I ain’t got a friend. They’re all ag’in’ me, Dawn. They got Pete into a
poker game and stole his money. They knocked him down after they robbed
him, and now they’ll try to hang him for killin’ a thief. Well, they can
come and get the old man any time they feel like it--but they’ll know
they’ve been to war.”
They rode back to the house, where Dawn hitched a horse to the rickety
old buggy and drove to town after groceries. She wanted to have a talk
with Roaring Rigby about the dead steers and about her father. She knew
her father meant what he had said about taking a shot at anybody who
came after him.
Roaring was not at the office, but Wind River Jim was there. With him
was Jeff Ryker, the attorney. They both knew about the dead steers and
were waiting for Roaring to return and tell them the rest of the story.
Wind River told her that Roaring had ridden out to the Big 4 with Regan
and Clayton the night before, and hadn’t returned yet. Ryker was very
pleasant. In fact he was so pleasant that Wind River snorted aloud.
Ryker did not know that Dawn’s mother had told her; but he hoped his
suit was being looked upon with favor. Neither of them mentioned the
dead steers, but Wind River told her that Jimmy Moran’s father was at
the Big 4.
“He probably came back to try and buy your father out,” said Ryker.
Dawn shook her head.
“He knows it’s no use,” she said. “Dad won’t sell out to the Big 4.
They’ve tried enough times.”
“So I understand.” Ryker rubbed his hands together, causing his
celluloid cuffs to click. “Still,” he said thoughtfully, “I think he’d
be wise to sell the place. Cutter would pay a good price. In fact, I
think he made your father an offer, Miss Dawn.”
“_I_ don’t know,” said Dawn. “Dad is queer about that old place. I wish
he would sell. It isn’t pleasant living the way we do. I know I’d be
willing to sell out.”
“How does your mother feel about it?”
“Mother doesn’t seem to care; it isn’t her nature.”
They both knew what Dawn meant.
“With Peter in trouble, I don’t think Dad would consider any offers,”
said Dawn.
“Yes, I understand that,” said Ryker.
Dawn turned back to the door of the office.
“I believe I’ll go out and have a talk with your father,” decided Ryker.
Dawn shook her head quickly.
“I don’t believe you better, Mr. Ryker. He said he’d kill the first man
that comes on the ranch.”
“But that is ridiculous, Miss Dawn!”
“Perhaps. But I wouldn’t go out there to see how much truth there is in
it, if I were you, Mr. Ryker.”
Dawn left the office and went back up the street, while Wind River Jim
leaned back in the old swivel chair and laughed at Ryker.
“That’s a reg’lar family of home folks,” laughed the deputy. “Girl
sticks up two mad punchers with a shotgun and takes away their guns.
Then the old gent declares war ag’in’ the world. I only hope he don’t
decide to attack. As far as I’m concerned, he can jist set there on his
porch until the stock rots off his Winchester. I’ve seen that old
pelican throw lead from his old forty-five-seventy, and I don’t want him
to notch no sight on me.”
“But that’s a ridiculous situation,” declared Ryker, waving his arms
helplessly. “The man must be crazy.”
“Put yourself in his place, Ryker. His son faces hangin’; they find a
lot of Big 4 steers killed on his land, and they’re goin’ to try and git
him for it. What would you do, eh? Wave your arms and talk about it
bein’ ridiculous? Huh! You make me sick!”
Ryker walked to the doorway and leaned a shoulder against the
door-frame. Roaring Rigby, Franklyn Moran, Slim Regan and Hashknife
Hartley were riding into the upper end of the street. Hartley and Regan
rode in at the Black Horse Saloon hitch-rack, where they tied the three
horses, while Moran and Regan came on down to the office. Moran shook
hands with Ryker and Wind River Jim, and Ryker wanted to know all about
the dead steers.
Moran told him exactly what they had found, and Ryker whistled softly.
“But you’re going to have Conley arrested, are you not?” he asked.
“Haven’t made up my mind.”
“You should; he’s out at his ranch, and he says he’ll kill the first man
that comes out there.”
“Yeah? Well, I’ll wait until somebody else takes the first chance.”
* * * * *
Ryker grinned sourly as he walked away, going to the Black Horse Saloon.
He found Hashknife and Regan at the bar. Regan invited him to have a
drink; and he introduced Hashknife.
“Ryker is the prosecuting attorney,” explained Regan.
“He’s the jigger who proves they’re guilty, whether they are or not,
eh?” laughed Hashknife.
“Something like that,” smiled Ryker, accepting the drink.
“You’re not part of the law that’s been ordered out of the county, are
you?” asked Hashknife.
“Not yet. No, they’re not on my trail, it seems.”
Regan nudged Hashknife sharply. English Ed was coming up to them, and
Regan didn’t want any arguments started. The gambler looked sharply at
Hashknife, when Regan introduced him.
“Holmes owns this place,” explained Regan.
“Uh-huh. Quite a place you got, Holmes,” observed Hashknife. “Lot nicer
than bootleggin’ hooch to the Flatheads, eh?”
Holmes started quickly, and for once he forgot to use his poker-face.
But he recovered quickly and stared at Hashknife.
“I didn’t quite get that,” he said.
Hashknife looked at him keenly, his level gray eyes boring into the
gambler’s face.
“Mebby I’m mistaken,” he said slowly. “There was a Holmes that
bootlegged hooch to the Flatheads up in Montana a few years ago. He was
a remittance man from Canada. Yeah, his name was Ed Holmes. I guess
you’re not the man.”
“I know I’m not,” denied Holmes. “I never was up in Montana. I’m not
sure I got your name.”
“Hartley. My friends call me Hashknife.”
“I see, you’re a stranger here. Going to stay long?”
“I dunno. I’ll buy a drink.”
“No; this is my treat,” said the gambler, motioning the bartender. They
drank a “good luck” to the house, and Holmes excused himself.
“Glad to see you any time,” he told Hashknife. “Make this your
headquarters.”
“Thanks,” grinned Hashknife; he watched the gambler cross the big room
to a poker table.
“Jist how near right was you about that Flathead deal?” queried Regan.
Hashknife laughed, but did not reply.
“You are probably mistaken,” said Ryker softly.
“Is that a legal opinion, or man to man?” asked Hashknife.
“Merely my opinion,” said Ryker seriously. “Now, I’ll buy.”
Hashknife shook his head quickly.
“Nope, I’ve had enough, pardner. Knowin’ when to quit is a failin’ I’ve
always had.”
They left the bar and went to the sidewalk, where they met Kent Cutter
and two of his men. Regan introduced Hashknife to them, and Cutter
offered to buy a drink, but Hashknife and Slim declined. Not so Ryker.
He went in with them, while Hashknife and Regan walked to the depot to
see whether the train would be in on time.
The few drinks had made Ryker expansive. He wanted to tell Cutter what
Hartley had said to English Ed, but English Ed joined them before Ryker
had a chance to do much talking.
“Where did that fellow come from?” demanded English Ed.
“He brought Frank Moran from Sibley Junction,” explained Ryker. “His
partner rented his horse to Moran, and the partner will be in on the
train today.”
“Looks kinda forked,” observed Cutter indifferently.
“He is,” said English Ed. “That’s Hashknife Hartley. He’s a cattle
detective.”
“Oh-ho-o-o!” grunted Cutter. “Association man, eh?”
Ryker grinned half-drunkenly.
“He knew you, didn’t he, Holmes?”
“That’s my business. You keep out of it.”
“That’s all right,” grinned Ryker.
“What’s he doin’ here?” wondered Cutter.
“Maybe Franklyn Moran knows.”
“There’s been no rustlin’ around here, Ed.”
“What about those dead steers at Conley’s?”
“Pshaw! They were killed yesterday. I think he just happened to come
here. Mebby he--” Cutter hesitated-- “Mebby he came here to investigate
the killin’ of Joe Mallette.”
English Ed squinted at himself in the back-bar mirror.
“I don’t know who would hire him to investigate that.”
“Conley might,” suggested Ryker.
“That’s true enough,” agreed Cutter. “If Hartley is an Association
detective, like you say, Ed, he’d have a slick way of comin’ into a
place, wouldn’t he? Detectives don’t usually have a brass band and a lot
of banners.”
“I suppose that’s true,” nodded the gambler.
Ryker laughed outright and reached for the bottle on the bar.
“I wonder if Hartley has seen Conley. The old man is out at his house
with a Winchester in his hands, and he swears he’ll kill the first man
that comes on the place.”
“How do you know?” demanded Cutter.
“His own daughter told me awhile ago.”
“Yeah, and he’ll do it, too,” said Cutter. “I’m shore glad I don’t owe
him any visit.”
Mack Ort, one of English Ed’s gamblers, came up to the bar, nodding to
the three men. Ort was a slim, dark-faced man of about thirty-five,
reputed to be a gunman. Little was known of him in Turquoise City,
except that he had cold, hard nerve, and very little sense of humor.
English Ed’s other gunman was Keno Smiley, a tall, tow-headed person,
with a huge nose and a long, lean jaw. It was rumored that Smiley had
left the mining camps of the Cœur d’Alenes just two jumps ahead of a
United States marshal; but this rumor had never been confirmed.
Smiley had been picking out a tune on the piano with his long, lean
fingers, but now he sauntered up to the bar beside Ort.
“Who was that puncher with Regan, Mack?” he asked.
“I dunno,” replied Ort. He turned to Cutter.
“Know who he is, Cutter?”
“That tall feller? Yea-a-ah. They tell me he’s a detective from Northern
Idaho, Mack.”
Cutter seemed serious, but Smiley saw the grin on Ryker’s lips. He
flushed slightly.
“You tryin’ to be funny, Cutter?” he asked.
“Not a bit, Keno. Go ask English Ed.”
“Does English know him?” asked Ort.
“To his everlasting sorrow,” grinned Ryker.
“What does he want here?” demanded Smiley.
“Give him enough time and he’ll probably show you,” said Ryker.
“Well, he’s got nothin’ on me,” declared Smiley.
“Nor me,” echoed Ort. “Let’s all have a drink.”
* * * * *
The train was late that afternoon. It had taken a long time to clear
away the wreck. Hashknife was alone at the depot, when Sleepy climbed
off the train, a wide grin on his face. He had Moran’s two valises, but
Moran had told Hashknife to leave them at the depot, because he and
Regan were going back to the Big 4.
“I was sure glad to see this train pull in at Sibley,” grinned Sleepy.
“That bartender drove me wild. When he ran out of talk about himself, he
read out loud from his book. Where’s the horses?”
“Tied to a hitch-rack up the street, Sleepy.”
“Uh-huh,” Sleepy’s blue eyes studied Hashknife seriously.
“How soon do we pull out, Hashknife?”
“Most any time, I reckon.”
“Oh!” he exclaimed in surprise.
Sleepy was rather taken aback. Hashknife lighted a cigaret and sat down
on the rear platform of the depot.
“Remember Ed Holmes, the remittance man, who bootlegged hooch to the
Flatheads, Sleepy?” he asked.
“Holmes? Lemme see--Holmes. Remittance man, oh yeah.”
“He’s top hand in a big honkatonk here. Owns the place. I sprung the
bootleg thing on him and he flinched; but he shook out of the loop
pretty quick and denied everythin’. I admitted I might be mistaken; but
he knows I ain’t, and he knows I know it. Got a few gunmen workin’ for
him. Somebody has scared the sheriff out of the country, and tried to
scare the county judge, but he don’t scare. Tin-horn gambler got shot by
a half-breed a few days ago, but they got the breed. Old Man Moran owns
the Big 4, and his wayward son is in love with this half-breed’s sister.
Yesterday they found eight Big 4 steers dead on this squaw-man’s place,
but before they got the sheriff out to see the evidence, somebody
skinned out the brands. And that’s about all there is, Sleepy.”
Sleepy sighed deeply and rolled a cigaret.
“I’m shore glad,” he said slowly. “I tell you I was scared there might
be trouble over here, and that you’d get your long nose into it. Didja
get the twenty-five from Moran?”
“Y’betcha.”
Sleepy smoked slowly, eyeing the main street of Turquoise City.
“Didja meet young Moran?” he asked.
“Nope. Regan, the foreman of the Big 4, told me a lot about him. Wild
young Irishman, I reckon. Busted with his father, they say. Took the
money his mother left him and bought a ranch here. Too much liquor and
cards have put him on the rocks, but he’s still a wild go-devil. Sent
word to his father to mind his own damn business.
“The sheriff is a character, Sleepy. You’ll like him. He ain’t got a
brain in his head, and he’s got a deputy that don’t know there ever was
a Civil War--and don’t care. This sheriff was a deputy just long enough
to learn how to pin his badge on right side up. There’s nobody to show
’em what to do. I met the prosecuting attorney. Queer looking jigger,
named Ryker. Wears celluloid cuffs and a collar two sizes too big.
Ex-assayer. Still owns the assay office here.
“They tell me that the judge is an old-timer here. Lives alone, with a
crippled Chinese cook. Square as a dollar, drinks like a fish and thinks
the town needs cleanin’.”
“What about this half-breed girl?” asked Sleepy.
Hashknife smiled softly over his cigaret.
“I haven’t seen her, Sleepy. Regan says she’s as pretty as a picture.
She stuck Regan and one of the cowboys up with a shotgun and took away
their guns last night.”
“Um-m-m-m-ha-a-ah!” grunted Sleepy. “Beauty is as beauty does. I’ll say
she ain’t no frail lily. And it’s her brother they’ve got in jail, eh?”
“And the sheriff is also in love with her,” smiled Hashknife. “I dunno
how many others. And her old man sits on the porch with a great big
.45-70 Winchester in his hands and swears he’ll kill the first man that
shows up on his land.”
Sleepy stretched wearily and threw away his cigaret.
“I shore didn’t sleep much last night. Every time I turned over I
knocked the bartender out of bed, and every time he turned over he
knocked me out. I ate more cheese, crackers and salmon for supper,
salmon, cheese and crackers for breakfast, and I ain’t had no dinner
today. Let’s put on a feed-bag.”
They went to a restaurant next door to the Black Horse Saloon, where
they found Roaring Rigby and Wind River Jim, sitting at a table with
Jimmy Moran. Roaring waved a fork at them, inviting them to sit at his
table. He introduced Hashknife, after which Hashknife introduced Sleepy
to all of them.
“This is Frank Moran’s son,” explained Roaring. “Owns the Stumblin’ K,
and is master of his own soul, ain’tcha, Jimmy?”
“To my own sorrow most of the time,” grinned Jimmy. “Dad probably
painted a scarlet picture of me, didn’t he?”
“He said outside of bein’ a proper damn fool, you was all right,”
replied Hashknife seriously.
“Well, that’s kinda soft language for him,” laughed Jimmy. “He hates me
because I’m such a success. Right now I’m just one jump ahead of the
sheriff. Ain’t that right, Roarin’?”
“Yeah, that’s right, Jimmy.”
Jimmy was facing the door. Suddenly he slid away from the table, grabbed
his hat from a nail on the wall and headed for the door. Roaring twisted
his head around and looked toward the front window in time to see Dawn
Conley ride past in the rickety old buggy. Jimmy was already outside.
“Bet she came back to see you, Roarin’,” said Wind River. “She was at
the office this mornin’, and she told Ryker her old man was gunnin’ for
anybody that showed up on his ranch. I reckon she was a little nervous.”
Wind River walked to the window and looked out, but he came right back,
nodding his head.
“Her and Jimmy are in front of the office, talkin’.”
Roaring was staring at his plate; his lips shut tightly. Hashknife
watched the expression of his face, as he lifted his eyes slowly and
cleared his throat.
“That’s all right,” he said, trying to make his tone indifferent.
“They’ve prob’ly got things to talk about.”
The men resumed their meal, but something had caused the conversation to
lag. It was possibly ten minutes later when Jimmy came in. He sat down
across the table from the sheriff, his elbows on the table, his chin in
his hands.
“Roarin’,” he said slowly, “Dawn wants to see you.”
“To see me? What for, Jimmy?”
“It made me laugh,” said Jimmy seriously. “You probably won’t see
anythin’ funny about it. When Dad and Slim Regan left here this mornin’,
Dad got the idea of goin’ to see Conley. I suppose he was goin’ to tell
Conley what he thought of him. Dad would, you know. He hasn’t any sense
of humor, I guess. And Slim’s a sort of a fool, too. He’d back any play
that Dad started. So they went over to see Conley--or rather that seems
to have been their idea. It--”
“Say!” blurted Roaring anxiously.
“Who got killed?”
“Oh, it wasn’t that bad, Roarin’. They got in reach of Conley’s
Winchester, and Dad’s horse got killed. He piled on behind Slim, and
they high-tailed it for the ranch. Dawn has the idea that you might be
able to do somethin’. Might go out and explain to the old man that--”
“Me? Me go out there and--and-- yea-a-a-ah! Like hell!”
“Well, go down and talk with her, Roarin’. She’s upset.”
“So was your pa,” grinned Wind River Jim.
“But I can’t do a thing,” protested Roaring.
“Is the old man crazy?” asked Hashknife.
“He is not,” declared Jimmy. “He’s mad. He thinks they’re all pickin’ on
him. He hates Dad. He gave me orders to keep away. His son is in jail
charged with murder and he thinks everybody is against him. And,” sighed
Jimmy, “he may be right about it, at that.”
Roaring got heavily to his feet, yanked his Stetson down over his ears
and went scuffling toward the door. Wind River Jim choked on his coffee
and wiped the tears out of his eyes.
“He’s a great sheriff, that feller,” said Wind River.
Roaring found Dawn waiting for him in front of the office. She looked
searchingly at him and he grinned rather foolishly.
“You know what happened, don’t you?” she asked.
“Y-yes, Jimmy told me. I dunno.” Roaring shoved his hat on the back of
his head and rubbed his chin with the palm of his right hand. “I dunno
what to do,” he said.
“I don’t either,” she said. “Dad’s stubborn. It will mean a killing, I’m
afraid. But it was wrong for Slim Regan and Mr. Moran to come. Slim knew
how Dad feels. Oh, it was lucky that only the horse was killed.”
“Lot of luck depends on your aim, when you shoot as well as your dad
does, Dawn. Did he shoot more ’n once?”
“No, just once.”
“Makes it look better,” said Roaring, “but what can I do?”
“Can’t you come out and have a talk with him?”
“And git my earthly envelope all gummed up?”
“I don’t believe he--if he knew you were just coming to talk with him,
he wouldn’t harm you.”
“Talk to him about what, Dawn?”
“Oh, about everything. Try to make him understand. He’s bitter.
Sometimes I think he’s losing his mind. He hasn’t hired a lawyer for
Peter. I asked him why he don’t, and he says it’s no use. He says that
the Big 4 and the Black Horse Saloon are running the country and that
they’ll hang Peter in spite of any lawyer.”
“Pshaw, that ain’t no way to feel,” said Roaring slowly. “Old Judge Beal
ain’t against your dad.”
“No, he’s honest. Dad knows he is; but Dad says they’ll kill him before
the trial.”
“Uh-huh,” Roaring caressed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, I dunno; mebby
they will.”
“And what chance has an honest judge, if a crooked jury brings in a
verdict of guilty?”
“Shore, that’s the worst of it. I tell you what you do. You tell your
dad I’ll be out this evenin’, and we’ll see what we can figure out.
Pers’nally, I think he had a right to hoodie Moran and Regan off the
ranch. They had plenty of warnin’.”
“I’ll tell him,” said Dawn wearily. “He likes you. But I hope nobody
else comes.”
“I hope to gosh he don’t mistake me for anybody else.”
Dawn climbed into the buggy, while Roaring untied the horse.
“Why did Jimmy Moran’s father come here?” she asked.
Roaring tied up the rope carefully, looked the patched harness over and
stepped aside.
“Don’t you know?” she asked.
“You better ask Jimmy,” he said. “He knows more ’n I do about it.”
“Was it about me, Roaring?”
Roaring leaned back against a porchpost and looked at the horse.
“Don’t let that git you down,” he said softly. “Lotsa parents are like
that; they prob’ly didn’t pick so well themselves and they want to try
and help the kids.”
Dawn drove away from the hitch-rack, and Roaring watched until she
disappeared. The men were coming from the restaurant, so he went to meet
them. But he didn’t tell them that he was going out to talk with Moses
Conley.
Hashknife and Sleepy got a room at the Turquoise Hotel and put their
horses in the livery-stable. Jimmy Moran had taken a liking to them and
had introduced them to every one they met.
* * * * *
It was about an hour after dark when Lovely Lucas came into the Ranger
saloon, where Hashknife, Sleepy and Jimmy were playing seven-up, and
announced that the Big 4 outfit had come to town in force.
“The whole works, I tell you,” declared Lovely. “Old Man Moran, Slim
Regan, Clayton, Allard, Creswell and Pitts. They’re all in the Black
Horse, except Slim. He went down to see the sheriff.”
The game broke up immediately, and the four men trailed up the street
past the sheriff’s office, where they found Wind River Jim alone.
“Yeah, it was about that shootin’ today,” said Wind River. “The whole
Big 4 is b’ilin’ mad. They hopped all over Roarin’ when he said there
wasn’t anythin’ to be done about it. He’s over in the Black Horse,
arguin’ about it with ’em right now.”
“Pretty sore, eh?” said Lovely.
“Right to a head.”
Jimmy touched Hashknife on the arm.
“I’ll see you later, Hartley,” he said.
“Yeah, all right,” replied Hashknife, and Jimmy hurried up the street.
They listened to Wind River Jim’s opinion of the case, and then they
moved over to the Black Horse. Lovely demurred about going in.