pocket and gave it to Hashknife. “We found it on the floor in there.”
The piece of lead was slightly battered, but not too much so to prove
the caliber.
“Forty-five,” said Hashknife.
Roaring nodded and put the bullet back in his pocket.
“We’re goin’ back, Dawn,” he said. “Is there anythin’ you need out here?
No, don’t bother about it now. I’ll send Wind River Jim out with the
doctor’s stuff, and he can find out what you need.”
“That’s mighty nice of you,” said Dawn.
“Pshaw!” Roaring cuffed his hat over one ear. “I wish I knowed what to
do. Tomorrow is Sunday and the next day court starts. I dunno what cases
are ahead of Pete’s. Your dad never hired no lawyer for Pete, did he?
Thought he didn’t. I’ll have a talk with the judge. He’ll know what to
do. Well, so long.”
Hashknife held out his hand to Dawn; she shook hands with him.
* * * * *
For a long while after the men had left the ranch Dawn wondered why
Hashknife had asked all those questions. Why would an absolute stranger
quiz her like that, she wondered? What was behind those level gray eyes,
and that smile that seemed to drive her sorrows away for a moment? She
was so sleepy and weary that she could hardly remember just what he
looked like; but she remembered his eyes. And he seemed just an ordinary
cowboy; the other man seemed to be one continuous grin and blue eyes.
Her mother, wearied from the all-night vigil, came out to her on the
porch and they sat down together.
“Mose pretty bad hurt,” she said dully. “He talk long time ago. Long
time ago he friend to Frank Moran.”
“I know,” said Dawn.
“Two strange men come,” said Mrs. Conley.
“With the sheriff,” said Dawn.
“What they want?”
Dawn shook her head slowly.
“I don’t know, mother. I think they want to find out who shot Dad.”
“Easy find out, Dawn. Everybody know.”
“I suppose.”
“Funny life,” said the old Indian woman. “Frank Moran hate Mose Conley;
Mose Conley hate Frank Moran. Now both have son in jail for same thing.”
“I told that man what Ryker said to you, mother?”
Mrs. Conley looked curiously at Dawn.
“I told him that Ryker came to see me and talked with you,” said Dawn.
“This man knew what Ryker said.”
“You tell him what Ryker say about turn Pete loose if you marry him?”
“I didn’t tell him all about it; he seemed to know.”
“Ryker tell him, Dawn?”
“No.”
Dawn got to her feet and looked down the road. Some one was riding up
along the road. It was Ryker. Dawn knew who it was as soon as she saw
him, even at that distance.
“Ryker is coming now,” she said. “I won’t talk to him.”
“I talk to him,” said her mother, and Dawn went into the house.
The prosecuting attorney guided his horse up to the porch and smiled a
greeting to Mrs. Conley, who gave a short nod of her head in
acknowledgment. He dismounted and came to the corner of the porch.
Perhaps he wasn’t exactly sure of his reception.
“I heard about the trouble,” he told her.
“Pretty damn bad,” she said inelegantly.
Ryker mopped his brow with a clean handkerchief and came up on the
porch.
“Met the sheriff and two men,” he said jerkily. “Out here, wasn’t they?”
Mrs. Conley nodded. Ryker cleared his throat harshly.
“I thought so. Know who those two men are?”
“Pretty smart,” she said. “Tall man tell Dawn what you tell me.”
“Eh?” Ryker blinked rapidly. “What do you mean?”
“Tall man tell Dawn you turn Peter loose if she marry you.”
“The tall man said!” Ryker stopped, staring at her. “Who told you this,
Mrs. Conley?”
“Dawn tell me.”
“Who told the tall man?”
“Nobody.”
Ryker scowled heavily at the Indian woman.
“You told him,” he declared.
“You lie. I never talk to man.”
“You told Dawn and she told him.”
“’Nother lie. He tell Dawn. Pretty damn smart.”
“Too damn smart,” growled Ryker. “What did Dawn say when you told her?”
“I can answer that, Mr. Ryker.”
The prosecuting attorney turned quickly to see Dawn in the doorway.
“Why!” he began breathlessly.
“I heard what was said,” continued Dawn. “The other time you were here I
heard what you said, Mr. Ryker. Are you the law?”
“The law?” faltered Ryker.
“Yes, the law. They say Peter may hang for the murder of Mallette. Can
you trade Peter’s life for a marriage? Is that what the law is
for--trade goods?”
Ryker flushed angrily.
“You don’t understand,” he said huskily. “It isn’t a case of trading,
Dawn. I--I want you.”
“And I don’t want you,” she said evenly. “Go home.”
“Oh, all right,” Ryker turned angrily and walked to his horse. He
started to get on, but hesitated and turned to Dawn. “I suppose you know
your father hasn’t hired a lawyer to defend Pete. The trial starts
Monday.”
He mounted and rode away, cursing his own luck and wondering how
Hashknife Hartley knew about the proposition he had made to Mrs. Conley.
English Ed had said that Hartley was a dangerous man, and Ryker was
inclined to believe him.
* * * * *
Hashknife and Sleepy rode back to Turquoise City with the sheriff. They
had not met Ryker, for the simple reason that Ryker had seen them coming
and had avoided the meeting. They went to the sheriff’s office, where
several men had gathered with Wind River Jim, waiting for word of
Conley’s condition. They went away after the sheriff had reported no
change in the patient, and the four men sat down in the office.
“Pete and Jimmy shore ain’t lost no appetite,” laughed Wind River. “I
shore packed plenty ham and eggs.”
“What did Pete say about his father?” asked Roaring.
“He didn’t say much. I saw Judge Beal this mornin’. He was cold sober,
too. Looked awful white and was kinda shaky, but he stopped long enough
to ask about things. He ain’t been out of his own house for several
days, and I’ll bet he’s been on a big drunk.”
“Gettin’ ready for the openin’ of court,” said Roaring.
“What’s your private opinion of those warnings?” asked Hashknife.
“Search me. They scared Jim Randall out of his job. They sent the old
judge two. The last one was the day before Mallette was killed. Mebby it
was the same day. Anyway, it was their final warnin’--and the judge
ignored it.”
“And he’s still alive,” smiled Hashknife. “It proves that the gang are
four-flushers.”
“Yeah, it looks that way,” admitted Roaring. “But he’s been stayin’ in
the house pretty close.”
* * * * *
Lovely Lucas was as good as his word. He came back to Turquoise City
with Horse-Collar Fields, who came willingly. It was not often that
Horse-Collar left the Stumbling K. He was a small, thin person, about
fifty years of age, as bald as the proverbial billiard-ball. He had a
slight cast in his left eye. He did the cooking for the Stumbling K.
Just now he wore a pair of misfit chaps. They belonged to Wind River
Jim, whose waist measure was several inches larger than that which
Horse-Collar boasted. He also wore a cartridge-belt and a holstered gun.
Lovely led the way to the Ranger Saloon, with Horse-Collar swaggering
along behind him.
“Hello, Horse-Collar,” grinned the bartender, a short, fat person, with
a moonlike face and a damp curl of hair gracing his expansive brow.
“Boy, howdy,” said Horse-Collar seriously. “How’s chances to git drunk?”
“Best you ever seen. Ain’t seen you in a long time.”
“No, and you wouldn’t see me now, if it wasn’t that I’m needed here.
Cities don’t appeal to me. I jist feel all cramped up in a city. What’ll
you have, Lovely?”
“Some of that there corrosive sublimate which is designated as liquor.
But before we salivate our lungs, liver and lights, I want to explain to
you ag’in, for about the seventh time, Horse-Collar--we ain’t goin’ to
git drunk.”
“And for seven times I replies to same,” said Horse-Collar. “When I
takes the law in my two hands, I’m goin’ to have m’ stummick in shape to
handle m’ brains. Gimme that bottle!”
“You takin’ the law?” asked the bartender.
Horse-Collar cocked one eye wisely, as he poured out a big drink.
“Right by the slack of the pants,” he declared. “They’ve got Jimmy Moran
in jail, ain’t they? Here’s how. Well, well, well! ’F here ain’t one of
them officers of the law!”
Wind River Jim had come in and was standing near the bar, considering
them gravely.
“What about Jimmy Moran bein’ in jail?” asked Wind River.
“That’s what we’re here to find out,” grunted Lovely.
“Grab a glass,” invited Horse-Collar.
“I’m purchasin’.”
“I hadn’t ort to,” said Wind River sadly. “I’m deputy sheriff, you
know.”
“What difference does that make?”
“Well, I might gargle one with you, boys.” But they didn’t stop at one
drink.
Lovely bought the next one, the bartender stood a treat and then it was
Wind River’s turn. By this time Horse-Collar was in the right mood to
buy again, which caused the others to treat in turn. Eight drinks of
Ranger whisky were guaranteed to either bring out all the latent forces
within a human being, or to put him flat on his back.
Horse-Collar surveyed the world through rose-colored glasses; he essayed
a song.
“Don’t shing,” advised Lovely.
“Tha’s the worsht of friends,” sighed Horse-Collar. “They try to run
your business. What’ll you do if I try to shing?”
“I’m shorry, but if you shing I mus’ has’en your demise. Know what a
demise is, Horsh-Collar? Tha’s the end of you.”
“Whish end?”
“Now, don’ drink no more, Horsh-Collar. Ain’t that verdict, Wind River?
Horsh-Collar mus’ not drink no more. We’ve got p’tic’lar work to do.
Win’ River’s goin’ help us, Horsh-Collar. We’re goin’ down and deman’
releash of Jimmy. Whoo-ee-e-e!”
Lovely cuffed his hat off his head and laughed deliriously.
“Thish is a lovely day,” he declared. “Win’ River Jim, yo’re triplets!
H’rah, f’r your fambly. Let’s go up to the s’preme palace of vice and
visit our old friend English Ed.”
“He--he’ll mashacree you,” choked Wind River.
Horse-Collar shook his head so violently that he fell against the bar
and sat down heavily on the bar-rail.
“Havin’ a chill?” queried Lovely. “My Lord, you shore can shake. Havin’
fits, Horsh-Collar?”
“Ain’t nobody goin’ mashacree nobody,” declared Horse-Collar. “Let’s go
and fin’ Jimmy. Poor old Jimmy. Oh, poor old Jimmy!”
“Can yuh beat that?” demanded Lovely. “Cryin’!”
“Git up,” begged Wind River. “You make me shick. Let’s have one more
drink, and then we’ll go down and have it out with Roarin’ Rigby. C’mon,
Horsh-Collar. A-a-a-aw, dry up!”
“You fellers start monkeyin’ with the law, and you’ll get hurt,” said
the bartender.
“Will, eh?” grunted Wind River. “Well, I’m about half of the law around
here, and I know what I can do.”
* * * * *
Hashknife and Sleepy came from the restaurant near the Black Horse
Saloon and saw Franklyn Moran and English Ed, sitting together in a
buggy, the team of which was tied to the Black Horse hitch-rack.
Moran called to Hashknife, who went over to them. Sleepy sat down on the
edge of the sidewalk and rolled a smoke.
“You’ve met Holmes, haven’t you, Hartley?” asked Moran.
Hashknife nodded quickly. Holmes laughed shortly.
“Yes, we’ve met before, Moran. Hartley recognized me. He’s got a good
memory, it seems.”
Hashknife studied the gambler. It seemed rather odd that the man was
admitting all this, and Hashknife wondered what his reason might be.
“I’m putting my cards on the table, Hartley,” said Holmes. “I knew you.
At first you had me puzzled, but I remembered.”
“And then what?” asked Hashknife coldly.
“I’ve been telling Moran about you, Hartley. I’ve got nothing to
conceal. I’m just as anxious to have things cleared up as he is. You
heard about the warnings sent to Jim Randall and Judge Beal? Well, I
didn’t send ’em.”
“No?” Hashknife smiled curiously. “Why tell me, Holmes?”
“Because I know you are not here for your health.”
“That’s true; my health never worries me.”
English Ed shook his head.
“Still suspicious, eh? Don’t blame you. Do you believe Jimmy Moran shot
Moses Conley?”
“Don’t you?”
“I’d like your opinion.”
“Haven’t any. None of my business, Holmes. Must have been enough
evidence to satisfy the sheriff.”
“It’s not hard to satisfy a sheriff,” said Moran slowly. “Holmes tells
me that you have cleared up a lot of hard cases, Hartley. I didn’t know
I was hiring a horse from a detective when I met you at Sibley Junction.
I hired your horse and now I’d like to hire you. How about it?”
“I’m more or less of a cowpuncher,” said Hashknife. “I’m not a
detective, Moran. Never pretended to be one.”
“Will you take this case?”
“What case?”
“Jimmy’s case.”
“Oh, yeah, Jimmy’s case. You mean--to try and prove he didn’t shoot
Conley?”
“If it’s possible--yes, I’ll pay well.” Hashknife shook his head
quickly.
“You’ve got the wrong dope on me, Moran. My skin is worth quite a lot to
me. Even if I was able to solve a mystery, I’d have no chance here.
Somebody would fill me full of lead before I got started.”
English Ed laughed shortly.
“Which proves that you don’t think Jimmy is guilty. If he was, why would
you be afraid of getting shot?”
Hashknife shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t think Jimmy killed those Big 4 steers at Hot Creek, do you?”
“I don’t know anything about it,” said Holmes flatly.
“Somebody does,” smiled Hashknife. “Nope, I don’t want any finger in
this pie; I might get it hurt.”
He nodded and turned back to Sleepy, who joined him. They saw Wind River
Jim, Lovely Lucas and Horse-Collar Fields coming from the Ranger Saloon,
and the sidewalk was not wide enough for them to walk in single file.
“What did they want?” asked Sleepy.
“Wanted me to clear Jimmy Moran. English Ed had filled Moran up with a
lot of stuff. I wouldn’t trust Holmes as far as I could throw a prize
bull by the tail.”
“You didn’t take the case, did you, Hashknife?”
“Not so much you’d notice it.”
“Boy, howdy! Now we can high-tail out of here, eh?”
“Mm-m-m-m. Let’s go down and see how Roarin’ is gettin’ along.”
They found Roaring Rigby sitting on the edge of the cot that he had
moved into the office. His eyes were blurred with sleep, but he grinned
a welcome.
“Took a little shut-eye,” he said. “Fixed me up pretty good, too.
Ho-o-o-o-hum-m-m-m-m! Gosh, I shore was sleepy! What’s new in the
world?”
“Nothin’ much,” replied Hashknife. “Roarin’, what kind of a gun did
Jimmy Moran use?”
Roaring yawned heavily.
“Colt. I’ve got it here.”
He went to his desk, sat down heavily and opened one of the drawers.
There were three guns in the drawer, and he placed them side by side on
the desk top.
“This is Jimmy’s,” he said. “The middle one belongs to Moses Conley and
the other is the one Pete killed Mallette with.”
Hashknife examined Jimmy’s gun. The hammer was still down on the
exploded shell. It was a .45 caliber. He picked up Pete’s gun, a .45,
single-action Colt. It was fully loaded and fairly clean.
“He had plenty of time to reload and clean it,” said the sheriff.
Hashknife nodded and put the gun back on the desk.
“There wasn’t any bullet in Mallette, eh?”
“Nope; went plumb through.”
Hashknife picked up Moses Conley’s gun. It was of the same model as
Pete’s. There was an empty shell in one of the chambers. Hashknife slid
it out and looked it over. Some one was coming down the sidewalk toward
the office. Hashknife replaced the shell. He was half sitting on a
corner of the desk.
Roaring Rigby was rolling a cigaret and Sleepy was busily examining a
reward notice. Some one stopped at the open door, but Hashknife didn’t
look up. His long fingers gripped the heavy revolver, a thumb drew back
the hammer almost to full cock and let it slip.
_Wham!_
The big gun roared like a cannon in that small room. Hashknife had the
muzzle pointed at the floor and, as the gun jerked in his hands, he
glanced toward the door in time to see Wind River Jim, Lovely Lucas and
Horse-Collar Fields.
_Wham!_
Horse-Collar Fields had yanked out his gun and fired so quickly that the
report of his gun was a thudding echo of Hashknife’s shot.
_Wham!_
Lovely Lucas’ gun went off before it was out of the holster.
“You-u-u-u-u-u-u damn fools!” howled Roaring. He went over backward,
clawing at his face.
Hashknife sprang sidewise, collided with Sleepy, and they went sprawling
together, while the three drunken cow-punchers backed out, fell off the
sidewalk and proceeded to empty their guns at anything and everything in
sight. Hashknife and Sleepy sat up, staring at each other; while Roaring
crawled to his feet and peeked over the top of his upset chair.
“My Lord!” exploded Sleepy.
“Where’d the nigger come from?”
Roaring’s face, except for the tip-end of his nose, was as black as
ebony. He spat disgustedly and wiped the back of a hand across his lips.
“Ink!” he snorted. “Damn fool busted the ink-bottle and I got it all in
the face. What in the devil is goin’ on around here, anyway?”
_Wham!_
A bullet came through the window and splatted against the end of the
room.
“Shoot at me, will you?” It was Horse-Collar’s voice, filled with
righteous indignation. “Show yourself, you murderer! Give ’em hell if
they rush you, Wind River!”
Roaring wiped some more ink off his face and got to his feet.
“Don’t go near the door,” advised Hashknife.
“I’m not goin’ to. What started this here war?”
Hashknife grinned sheepishly.
“Mebby I’m to blame. I accidentally fired this gun, and them three men
must have thought I was shootin’ at them.”
“Hunh!” grunted Roaring disgustedly.
“One was Lovely Lucas,” grinned Sleepy. “He said he was goin’ to get
help and come back, didn’t he? Wasn’t he goin’ to get a jigger named
Horse-Collar?”
“That’s right! Why, the dirty bum! And they’ve got my deputy along with
’em. See if you can find out where they are, Sleepy.”
“Is that so!” snorted Sleepy. “Take a look and grab a harp. Not me,
brother.”
“Hunh! Well, they won’t shoot at me, I’ll betcha.”
Roaring strode over to the doorway, ducked convulsively when a bullet
thudded into the wall behind him, and whirled in against the wall.
“I lose,” he said quickly.
The shooting had caused considerable excitement in the main street, but
none of the three men went to the door until Hank Pitts, of the Big 4,
came down to the doorway as a committee of one to find out what caused
it.
“They’re over in the Ranger Saloon,” he told Roaring. “Anybody--my Lord,
you shore got painted! Ink?”
“Ink! Nobody got hurt. Hartley accidentally fired Moses Conley’s gun,
and them drunken fools thought we were shootin’ at them. Got a darn good
notion to jail all three of ’em.”
“I wouldn’t; they’re drunk,” laughed Hashknife. “Nobody hurt.”
“I suppose that’s right. The darn fools might have killed somebody.
Hank, if you see Wind River, will you tell him to sober up and get back
on the job?”
Hank promised and went back to the Black Horse. Hashknife examined the
shell he had fired, and a faint smile twisted his wide lips. He handed
the gun back to Roaring, who was scrubbing his face with a handkerchief,
trying to remove the ink, which had already dried in.
“Put that gun in a safe place, will you?” asked Hashknife.
“You’re right I will!” spluttered Roaring. “How’d you ever come to fire
it thataway?”
“Slipped,” grinned Hashknife. “Mind if I talk with Jimmy Moran?”
“I reckon not. I’ll bet they’re wonderin’ what all the shootin’ was
about.”
They opened the jail door and went in. Pete was frightened. He thought
there had been an attempt to take him from the jail. Jimmy laughed
joyfully at Roaring’s description of how Lovely and Horse-Collar and
Wind River had got drunk and had come down to get him out of jail.
“They’re a wild bunch,” laughed Jimmy. “All heart and no brains.”
“I want you to tell me about Conley’s shootin’,” said Hashknife. “I’ve
got Miss Conley’s story.”
“What’s the idea?” asked Jimmy cautiously.
“Just curious, Jimmy. Tell me about it.”
And Jimmy told him everything as he had seen it.
“You shot at a man, eh?” queried Hashknife.
“There was somebody behind that bush,” declared Jimmy. “I was kinda
excited, you see. No, I didn’t see where the shot came from; I was too
far around the corner. But I didn’t see anybody after I shot.”
Hashknife continued to question--
“Was there more than two shots fired?”
“That’s all, and I fired one of ’em.”
“You went out there to warn Conley that the Big 4 outfit were comin’
out, didn’t you?”
Jimmy nodded quickly.
“What else could I do?”
“Did you skin out them brands, Jimmy?”
Jimmy shifted his eyes and a ghost of a smile passed his lips.
“You’re just guessin’, Hartley,” he said.
Hashknife smiled.
“Good guesser?” he asked.
“Mebby you think you are.”
“By golly, I never thought of that!” exploded Roaring.
“I’m just tryin’ to help you, Jimmy,” reminded Hashknife.
“I need little help,” said Pete.
Hashknife turned his head and looked at the half-breed. Pete was leaning
against the bars, a wistful expression in his dark eyes.
“I reckon you do,” agreed Hashknife.
“Pete ain’t even got a lawyer,” said Roaring.
“Don’t need none,” said Pete quickly. “Damn lawyer don’t know who kill
Joe Mallette.”
Hashknife laughed softly.
“That’s very true, Pete.”
They left the jail and, while Roaring went on a hunt for Wind River Jim
and his two wild-shooting companions, Hashknife and Sleepy got their
horses and rode out of town, heading toward Hot Creek.
Quite a crowd collected in the Ranger Saloon, trying to get a firsthand
account of the gun battle, and they got it in three distinct versions.
“They repulsed us,” said Horse-Collar dismally. “Oh, the loss was
terrific. There was bodies stewed--strewed all over the street. In one
plash--jus’ in one plash, mind you--I shaw twelve dead men in one pile.
An’ if that ain’t the truth, you can cut off Lovely’s ears.”
“Whozears?” demanded Lovely. “Horsh-Collar’s a liar. That long-geared
Hartley shot d’liber’tly at my heart; that’s what happened. Jus’ lifted
his six-shooter and shez t’ me, ‘I’ve gotcha faded, Misser Lucas.’ Jus’
like that. And then he pulled the trigger. It was the mean-esht thing I
ever beheld. That feller’s a murderer--jus’ a common murderer.”
“A-a-a-a-aw, hell!” snorted Wind River. “You and Horsh-Collar are drunk.
Here’s what act’ally happened, gents. Me and Lovely and Horsh-Collar
went down to pay our reshpects to Roarin’ Rigby. We was jus’ as
innochent as a unborn sheep--three of ’em. Hartley and Stevens was there
with Roarin’, you shee. Well, they mus’ ’a’ thought we was makin’ an
attack, because they armed themshelves with Winchester rifles, you shee.
And when we came in, p’lite as hell, and shed good-afternoon, they
opened fire on us, jus’ like that. _Bing! Bang! Boom! Bim!_”
Wind River struck the bar three times, emphasizing his vocal imitation
of a shot, but the fourth time he missed the bar and hit his chin on the
edge of it.
“They must be drunk,” declared the bartender, grinning.
“I’ll shay they are,” agreed Horse-Collar.
“Didja kill any of ’em?” asked Hank Pitts.
“All five,” said Horse-Collar solemnly. “Let’s all have a drink. My
conscience bothers me. It’s the firsh time I ever missed a shot. Gittin’
old. Any old time I have to take three shots to kill two men, I’m all
wrong. Whatcha drinkin’?”
It was about ten minutes later when Roaring Rigby came into the Ranger
Saloon. He leaned against the bar and looked sadly at Wind River Jim,
who goggled at him owlishly.
“H’lo corpsh,” said Wind River.
“Go stick your head in a horse-trough,” advised Roaring. “Drown some of
the liquor out of you and then go back to the office where you belong.
You’re a hell of a deputy!”
“Deputy?” Wind River’s eyes opened widely. He turned and hit
Horse-Collar a resounding whack between the shoulders, the force of the
blow knocking Horse-Collar against the bar, from which he rebounded and
sat down on the floor.
“You quit knockin’ Horsh-Collar ’round,” ordered Lovely. “Who do you
think you are, anyway. Git up and pile him, Horsh-Collar. Don’t let’m
knock you ’round, the big bully.”
“Who in the devil got hit?” wailed Horse-Collar in a thin voice. “Lemme
alone, will you, Lovely? Keep your nose out of my business, will
yu-u-u-uh? ’F I want to pile Wind River, I don’t need no advice from
you. Gittin’ so a man can’t even git knocked down, without somebody
advisin’ him.”
“Give ’m hell!” grunted Wind River. “’S’ all right, Roarin’. I’m
shober.”
Wind River cuffed his wide hat almost over his eyes, got his bearings
and headed out through the doorway.
“Have a li’l drink, Roarin’?” asked Lovely.
“You boys better go home, Lovely.”
“Tha’ so? Huh! Whaffor? Nothin’ to do. We ain’t goin’ home
until--whatcha shay, Horsh-Collar?”
“Drunken idiots,” said Roaring, and he went out.
* * * * *