had been cut at the north side and then they came down to the coulee
where the Big 4 steers had been killed. Luckily they had been killed far
enough away so as not to pollute the water. A coyote sneaked away from
one of them, and a flock of magpies went chattering into the trees.
Nature’s scavengers were swiftly obliterating the Big 4 losses.
Hashknife examined one of the steers. It had been shot in the head.
“Funny they didn’t hear the shootin’ down at Conley’s,” said Sleepy.
“A twenty-two don’t make much noise, Sleepy.”
“F’r gosh sake! No wonder. Probably used longs; them little guns are
beef killers. Looks as though the killers didn’t want to be heard, eh?”
“Looks thataway,” agreed Hashknife, mounting his horse. “Let’s ride down
and see how Conley is feelin’.”
The doctor had gone to town a short time before they arrived. Conley was
conscious, but the doctor had left orders with Dawn that he was to see
no one. She came outside to talk with them.
“What did he have to say?” asked Hashknife. “Did he know who shot him?”
Dawn nodded, her eyes filled quickly with tears.
“Jimmy, eh?” said Hashknife softly.
“Yes. The doctor wouldn’t let him talk much.”
“Of course not; but the doctor thinks he’ll get well, don’t he?”
“He thinks Dad has a good chance now.”
“Well, that’s great.”
Hashknife sat down on the steps and rolled a smoke.
“Is there much deer huntin’ around here in the fall?” he asked.
“Not very close,” said Dawn. “The boys go back about fifteen miles. They
get quite a lot.”
“Plenty grouse, eh?”
“Quite a few; Peter kills lots of them.”
“It’s a lot of fun, if you’ve got a shotgun,” said Hashknife.
“Peter uses a twenty-two rifle,” said Dawn.
“Uh-huh.” Hashknife did not look at Sleepy. He had found out that the
Conley family owned a .22.
They did not stay long. Mrs. Conley was sleeping, and Hashknife realized
that Dawn wanted to be with her father.
“How much longer are we goin’ to stick around here?” asked Sleepy, as
they rode back toward Turquoise City.
“Not long, I reckon. It kinda looks as though the Conley family killed
those steers.”
“Well, that’s what everybody else thinks; so why not you?”
“I hoped they hadn’t, Sleepy, that’s all.”
“As far as ownin’ a twenty-two is concerned--there must be more
twenty-twos in this country.”
Hashknife grinned at Sleepy.
“You do have an idea once in a while, cowboy. But how much easier it
would have been if Conley didn’t.”
“I suppose it would. But what do we care? Let’s figure on pullin’ out
tomorrow.”
Hashknife frowned thoughtfully. There were still things that puzzled him
greatly, and he hated to leave things unsolved. The jury would find Pete
guilty, and he would be sentenced to hang; that was almost a certainty.
If Conley died, Jimmy Moran might get off with a sentence. It would all
depend on the jury, and a Black Horse jury would give Jimmy the benefit
of a doubt.
But Jimmy wanted to marry Dawn Conley, and nothing except complete
vindication would ever give him that chance. Hashknife did not believe
English Ed Holmes. He had a feeling that Holmes merely wanted to know
whether Hashknife was going to work on the case.
It was rather hard for Hashknife to believe that old Moses Conley had
cut the fence, herded in those Big 4 steers and shot them down just for
revenge. Revenge for what? For something that had happened twenty-five
years before. That would be ridiculous presumption. No doubt Conley had
fenced in Hot Creek against the Big 4; but that was no crime. He owned
the land.
Had some of the Big 4 cut that fence and killed the steers merely to
have a reason for starting trouble with Conley? Possible but hardly
probable, he decided. Slim Regan was a hard-bitted sort of person, but
Hashknife could hardly believe that Slim would do that.
“You’re doin’ a lot of thinkin’,” observed Sleepy.
“Am I?” grinned Hashknife. “It ain’t doin’ me much good. I’m kinda
stuck.”
“Glad to hear it. Mebby you’ll quit.”
“I might,” grinned Hashknife.
About a mile out of Turquoise City they met the old doctor, heading back
to the Conley place, driving his old sway-backed gray. The two cowboys
drew rein beside the road, and the doctor stopped.
“Hyah, Doctor,” smiled Hashknife. “Hear your patient is comin’ along
fine.”
“Good enough,” answered the doctor gruffly. “Didn’t talk to him, did
you?”
“The little lady wouldn’t let me.”
“Good for her. Smart girl; nice girl, too. Obeys orders. Feel sorry for
her. Conley says Moran shot him. Lucky thing I’m pulling Conley out of
it. Hate to see the kid strung up.”
The old doctor talked jerkily.
“Conley didn’t say he saw Moran, did he?”
“Didn’t say; suppose he did. Kind of hot today.”
“Little warm,” agreed Hashknife. “You’re the coroner, ain’t you, Doc?”
“Yes, who’s dead this time?”
Hashknife laughed and shook his head.
“Nothin’ like that, Doc. You handled this Mallette, didn’t you?”
“Naturally, bein’ a murder case.”
“Didn’t find any bullet?”
“No; shot in the head; bullet went on. You’re not trying to find out who
killed him, are you?”
“Why not?”
“No question about Pete Conley, is there?”
“Might be, Doc. Tell me about how Mallette looked. Was he shot at close
range?”
“Guess not. Not close enough to get burned. They said he had been
drinking heavily. Drank absinth with his liquor. Darn bad combination.
Wore cowboy boots. Funny thing about his boots. When I took them off I
found a lot of gravel in them. I told the sheriff about it.” The doctor
laughed heartily. “He said Mallette wasn’t very clean.”
“Gravel in his boots, eh?” mused Hashknife. “Man would have to go
without a bath a long time to acquire gravel.”
“He would,” laughed the doctor, picking up his lines. “I’ve got to be
going on, boys.”
They told him good-by and rode on. Hashknife’s eyes were keen now and
his lips shut tightly. Sleepy looked closely at him, groaned and yanked
his hat down viciously.
* * * * *
Sleepy and Hashknife stabled their horses and went to the sheriff’s
office, where they found Roaring and Wind River Jim. The deputy was
asleep on the cot, sleeping off his jag.
“What do you know?” asked Roaring.
“Not very much,” replied Hashknife. “I wish you’d take me to the spot
where they found Joe Mallette.”
“Yea-a-ah? What for, Hashknife?”
“Curiosity, I suppose.”
“Uh-huh. Will you stay here, Sleepy? Got to keep somebody around here.
Wind River ain’t much use right now.”
“Go ahead,” laughed Sleepy.
Roaring led Hashknife through the alley between the Black Horse Saloon
and the restaurant, out past the rear of the judge’s home, to a spot
between there and the end house of the redlight district.
“This is the spot,” said Roaring. “I wasn’t here that night, but several
of the boys showed me the place.”
Hashknife studied the spot for a while, while the sheriff watched him
curiously.
“Mallette was drunk, wasn’t he?” asked Hashknife.
“They say he was. Drank absinth. Some of the boys said they wondered how
he was able to walk.”
“Powerful stuff.”
They walked part way back to the alley, where Hashknife stopped and
looked back.
“Mallette came from the rear of the Black Horse Saloon,” said Hashknife.
“He was headin’ for them redlight houses and he was loaded with absinth
and whisky. Uh-huh.”
“That’s the right dope on it, Hashknife. What have you got in your
mind?”
“How long was it before Pete Conley went out on his trail?”
“Prob’ly not much more than five minutes.”
“Long enough.”
They walked back through the alley, where Hashknife excused himself and
went over to a general merchandise store. He bought a box of cartridges
for his revolver, and engaged the proprietor in conversation. Their
selection of ammunition was limited to a few sizes. Hashknife noticed a
few boxes of .22 caliber shells.
“Yuh don’t sell many twenty-twos, do you?” he asked.
“Not many,” grinned the proprietor. “Pretty small ammunition. Pete
Conley used to buy quite a lot.”
“Some places they’re popular,” observed Hashknife. “Is Pete the only
twenty-two shooter around here?”
“Guess he is. Don’t remember any others.”
Hashknife bought some tobacco, and went out. It seemed to have narrowed
down to the one twenty-two rifle. As he came from the store he met Kent
Cutter, the boss of the 7AL. They nodded and went on. Cutter entered the
store, singing out a greeting to the proprietor, who had seen Cutter and
Hashknife exchange nods.
“Who is that tall cowboy?” asked the merchant.
“Name’s Hartley. Came here with Frank Moran. Heard he’s a cattle
detective, but don’t know anythin’ about him myself.”
“He’s a level-eyed son-of-a-rooster.”
“Sure is. Gimme a box of thirty-thirties, Al.”
The merchant slid a box across the counter.
“This Hartley seemed to be interested in twenty-twos.”
“In twenty-twos? Don’t pack one, does he?”
“Bought forty-fives. Mentioned that I probably didn’t sell many
twenty-twos. I told him Pete Conley had the only twenty-two in this part
of the country.”
“Yeah, he’s got one,” said Cutter. “I need a pair of overalls, Al. Give
’em to me big enough. This cowboy idea of tight pants don’t appeal to
me. So he’s interested in twenty-twos, is he? Pretty small gun for a
grown man; me, I like a thirty-thirty.”
Hashknife went back to the office and asked Roaring to let him speak a
word with Pete Conley. Roaring was willing. Hashknife told Pete that his
father was conscious, and the half-breed seemed pleased. Jimmy Moran
danced a jig on the cell floor and wanted to know all the details.
“What did he say?” asked Jimmy anxiously. “Did he have any idea who shot
him, Hashknife?”
“He said you did, Jimmy.”
“My God!” Jimmy turned around and sat down.
“I want to ask you a question, Pete,” said Hashknife.
“Sure.”
“You’ve got a twenty-two rifle, Pete?”
“Sure,” Pete grinned widely. “I got little gun. Pretty damn good gun,
too.”
“Fine. Who else in Black Horse valley has a twenty-two rifle?”
“Mm-m-m-m,” Pete scratched his head thoughtfully. “By golly, I dunno.
Nobody, I guess. I not know any one. You want use mine? You tell Dawn--”
“I don’t want it, Pete--thanks.”
“She shoot good.”
“Yeah,” sighed Hashknife.
“What about a twenty-two rifle?” asked Roaring.
“You don’t know anybody who owns one, do you?”
“I don’t; didn’t even know Pete owned one.”
“You’re a lot of help to me,” sighed Hashknife. “Much obliged to you,
Pete.”
They went back into the office and sat down. Hashknife knew that Roaring
was itching to know; so he told him that the Big 4 steers had been
killed with a twenty-two rifle.
“The hell!” exploded Roaring. “Do you know, I never even thought to see
what had killed ’em? I’ll betcha Mose Conley killed ’em with Pete’s gun.
Yes, sir, that’s jist what happened.”
“Why would he, Roaring?”
“Why would he? Why, the old man has hated the Big 4--”
“For twenty-five years--yeah.”
“Well, mebby it was to show Frank Moran--”
“Conley didn’t even know Frank Moran was comin’. That fence was cut. If
Conley wanted to kill Big 4 steers for revenge, would he kill ’em down
in that Hot Creek coulee, where the Big 4 couldn’t find ’em? He’d have
to take a chance that some puncher would find that cut fence, and
investigate. If Conley wanted to make the Big 4 mad, he’d kill them
steers inside the fence and near the road.”
“Yeah, that’s true. I never thought of that, Hartley. You kinda reason
things out.”
“And if Pete owned the only twenty-two in the country, do you suppose
they’d kill them steers and then deny it? They did deny it, Roarin’. And
if Conley killed ’em for revenge, would it be any revenge to deny it to
the Big 4? It would not. He’d merely tell ’em to keep their stock off
his ranch. And another thing, Roarin’; Moses Conley wouldn’t wantonly
butcher eight big, fat steers in that manner. He’s an old cowman. He
might kill a man, but I don’t think he’d kill steers.”
“Well, somebody did,” said Roaring foolishly. “Mebby the Big 4 killed
’em themselves.”
“Probably borrowed Pete’s twenty-two,” said Hashknife.
“Uh-huh. Anyway, I’m not interested in them steers. So old man Conley
says Jimmy shot him, eh? That makes it tough for Jimmy; but old Frank
Moran will shore hire a good lawyer for Jimmy. English Ed tells me that
the old man paid Jimmy’s gamblin’ debt. English was down here a while
ago. Asked about you. I told him I didn’t know where you’d gone. He
asked me if you was interested in Jimmy’s case, and I said you prob’ly
was. He said he heard that you took a shot at Horse-Collar Fields, and I
told him what had happened. Ryker heard about it too, and he came down.
You can’t keep a lawyer’s nose out of things. He asked quite a lot; but
that’s natural.”
“He’s a queer lookin’ jigger,” smiled Hashknife.
“He shore is,” laughed Roaring. “Ryker is an old old-timer, Hashknife.
He had that assay office for years. Knows minerals, y’betcha. But when
the minin’ boom died out and his business wasn’t so much, he took to
law. I reckon he had studied it before he came here. Knew quite a lot
about minin’ law. He’s done pretty good. Got himself elected to office,
and this is his third term. Makes me itch. I want to cinch up his
collar. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! And them danged cuffs! Him and Judge Beal never
got along. The old judge knows law, and the prosecutor never slips
anythin’ over on him. I heard old Ryker make the crack one day that he
was aimin’ to be judge of this county one of these days. Could, I
reckon--if the voters would elect him.”
“Was Jim Randall a good sheriff?” asked Hashknife.
“Best in the world! Why, Jim Randall would shoot a man as quick as he’d
look at him. Good? I’ll tell you he was.”
Hashknife grinned to himself. That was Roaring Rigby’s idea of an
efficient officer.
“Strict, eh?”
“You’re danged right. That’s why they ran him out. He was a fighter in
the open, but--but he had a wife and kids, Hartley. I don’t blame him.
If they ever send me a warnin’, my own skin will be my only alibi for
high-tailin’ it out of here. I’d rather be a runnin’ coward than a
reclinin’ hero.”
“Somethin’ to that, too,” smiled Hashknife.
“Yeah, and you better think about it,” said Sleepy.
* * * * *
Saturday night, as was usual in a cow-town, was a gala night in
Turquoise City. Every cowboy in the country came to town, thirsty, full
of song and looking for excitement. Wind River had sobered and was
repentant; but Horse-Collar Fields and Lovely Lucas were still having a
wonderful time.
They had forgotten Jimmy Moran and their escapade at the sheriff’s
office; but they had never gone near the Black Horse Saloon. The Ranger
was their happy hunting ground. Both of them had long since run out of
money and were spending their credit with great prodigality.
“We s’licit your votes, gen’lemen,” said Horse-Collar expansively.
“Lovely’s runnin’ f’r gov’ner and I’m sheekin’ nomina-shun for
pup-president. Long may she wave. How’s all your li’l’ cowlets and
bullets? Have a drink on the bartender; he ain’t treated since Sittin’
Bull stood up.”
“Lemme ’lone;” pleaded Lovely, “Lemme ’tirely ’lone. I’m tryin’ to think
why I came to town.”
“Tha’s right; be intelligent, ’f you can. ’F that bartender would only
think, he’d know it’s his turn.
“O-o-o-oh, I feel as fresh as a big sunflower
That bends and nods in the bree-e-e-e-zus;
My heart’s as light as a drop of dew
That lays in the road and free-e-e-e-zus.”
“My word, what a shong!” exploded Lovely. “Lissen, mockin’-bird, I know
what we came here for.”
“I crave to know,” said Horse-Collar seriously. “Yes sir, I ahnos’
deman’ to know. Don’t keep me in shuspense.”
“We came here to liberate Jimmy Moran.”
“My God! We did? Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! That was yesserday.”
“That was t’day.”
“My, my! Thasso? How time does fly. Was it only t’day that we had the
battle? Don’ tell me. Where’s Wind River Jim?”
“Roarin’ came and got him long time ago.”
“Can that be possible? Ain’t Roarin’ Rigby dead? Ain’t he? My, my, I
mus’ practise up. Shay! Let’s me and you go down and c’ngratulate
Roarin’. He’s lucky. As shoon as the bartender dechides that it’s his
turn, we’ll have one more li’l’ snifter and then go down to shee
Roarin’.”
“I’d do that just to get you jiggers out of here,” said the bartender.
“But if you ask me, I’d tell you to go easy on Roarin’ Rigby. He’ll
salivate both of you.”
“Yesh, he will not!” snorted Horse-Collar. “He’ll eat out of my good
right hand, tha’s what, eh, Lovely?”
“Oh, pos’tively; well, here’s a stiff rope and a short drop, bartender.
May you eat well on your last mornin’.”
They took their drink, locked arms and tried to go through the narrow
doorway, arm in arm. Failing in that, they went out sidewise and fell
flat on the sidewalk.
“Thank heaven, they’re out of here!” said the bartender. “They’re the
craziest pair of punchers I ever seen, and I’ve seen ’em all. Lie and
prove it by each other. Owe me ten dollars apiece, and won’t remember
it. Well, I won’t lose an awful lot. I filled up a half-empty bar-bottle
with water, and they’ve drank it all; so I only lose fifty per-cent on
’em.”
But they didn’t find Roaring at the office. Hashknife was there, talking
with Wind River Jim, and Horse-Collar looked hin over rather dubiously.
Lovely sat down on the floor against the wall and tried to roll a
cigaret. Wind River Jim didn’t feel very well.
“We came peacefully,” declared Horse-collar. “Kinda like a fam’ly
re-e-union, you shee.”
“You don’t feel so good, do you, Wind River?” asked Lovely, spilling the
contents of his tobacco sack over his knees. “I think you’ve got
stummick complaint.”
“Ne’ mind my stummick,” growled Wind River.
“Don’ mind his stummick,” advised Horse-Collar Fields owlishly, and then
to Hashknife he said--
“Wheresh Roarin’ Rigby?”
“I dunno,” grinned Hashknife.
“Ain’t dead, is he?”
“He wasn’t dead fifteen minutes ago.”
“Then I mus’ ’a’ missed him,” sadly.
“Gittin’ old.”
“You’re drunk,” declared Wind River heavily.
“Thasso? Huh! Not a speck. Lemins tell you--”
From somewhere on the street came the sharp snap of a revolver shot.
Hashknife stepped quickly to the door. There was nothing unusual about a
revolver shot on the main street of Turquoise City, especially on a
Saturday night.
The only lights on the street were from the windows of the saloons and
business houses. Hashknife stepped outside, and Wind River Jim came to
the doorway behind him.
Hashknife was looking toward the Black Horse Saloon, where there seemed
to be considerable activity, and Wind River Jim stepped past him to the
edge of the sidewalk, when a spurt of flame seemed to lash out at them
from the alley between the office and a store building next door.
Almost before his ears registered the report of the gun, Hashknife felt
the bullet sear the side of his neck, like the touch of a red-hot iron.
Hashknife instinctively threw himself sidewise, drawing his gun. He
heard Wind River drop to the sidewalk, but he thought that he merely did
it for protection, never thinking that the bullet might have hit him.
He heard the scrape of running feet. He darted into the dark alley,
regardless of the fact that he might be running into an ambush. He
blundered around behind the store, falling over an old packing-box;
finally he ended his run at the corner of the sheriff’s little stable.
For several moments he remained silent, but he could hear nothing. He
circled the rear of the store and came back to the street between the
store and post-office, where he met Roaring Rigby.
“What was that shootin’?” asked Roaring.
“I don’t know who it was,” panted Hashknife. “They darned near got me.
Burned me across the neck. I chased him down the alley but he got away.
Didn’t somebody fire a shot near the Black Horse Saloon?”
“Yeah--one shot. I can’t find out who fired it.”
“Foxy devils,” said Hashknife. “That shot was to draw me out of your
office, Roarin’. I bit on it.”
“Well, I’ll be darned!” exploded Roaring. “Could it have been
Horse-Collar or Lovely?”
“No, they’re both in the office. Let’s go down there.”
They went cautiously past the alley and entered the office. Wind River
Jim was lying flat on his back in the middle of the office floor, his
face bathed in gore. Around his neck was Lovely Lucas’ blue silk
muffler, tied loosely, and inside the loop of this was a long-barrel
Colt revolver, which Horse-Collar Fields was twisting around and around,
shutting off Wind River’s breath entirely, while Lovely sat on Wind
River’s legs to keep him from jerking.
“You fools!” yelled Roaring.
He knocked Horse-Collar aside and untwisted the muffler as quickly as
possible. Horse-Collar landed against the wall and stared at Roaring
indignantly.
“What in the devil was you tryin’ to do?” demanded Roaring.
“Turny-keet,” wailed Horse-Collar. “Look at his head, you big bully!
He’s bleedin’ to death.”
“Firs’ aid for the injured,” grunted Lovely. “Look at him kick.”
Hashknife flopped down in the old swivel chair and shook with laughter,
while Horse-Collar and Lovely looked at him in amazement. Roaring didn’t
see the humor of the situation. He wiped some of the blood off Wind
River’s face and head; enough to discover that the bullet had merely cut
a furrow, knocking Wind River cold.
“You can’t stop bleedin’ thataway,” he told Horse-Collar.
“The devil you can’t! I did, the time I got shot in the leg. Saved in’
life, too, y’betcha.”
“Who shot ’in?” demanded Lovely. “That’s what I’d crave to know--who
shot ’in?”
“That long legged geezer,” said Horse Collar, pointing at Hashknife.
“Shot ’im and then run. He’s dangerous, I tell you. Didn’t he shoot at
me awhile ago? Put ’m in jail, Roarin’.”
“Drunk and crazy!” snorted Roaring. “Take a look at this wound, will
you, Hashknife? If you figger it’s bad enough, I’ll send out to Conley’s
place for the doctor.”
Hashknife examined it closely and decided that Wind River would be all
right in a few minutes.
“Get some water and wash his head,” suggested Hashknife.
As Roaring started for the rear of the office, Slim Regan stepped into
the office. Slim was panting from running, and he ignored the sight of
Wind River Jim on the floor.
“Hartley,” he panted. “Your pardner got hurt. They’ve got him in the
Black Horse Saloon; you better come.”
Hashknife was past Regan before the Big 4 foreman finished speaking. He
ran heavily up the street and crossed to the saloon. The crowd parted to
let him in. They had placed Sleepy on the floor near the center of the
room, and the yellow light from the center lamp illuminated his white
face. Hashknife dropped to his knees beside him, putting a hand on his
shoulder.
“Sleepy, do you know me?” he asked.
But Sleepy did not speak. He was breathing heavily. Hashknife could see
the blood oozing through Sleepy’s shirt. He had been shot through the
body on the right side, about two inches above his waist-line.
“I sent Hank Pitts for the doctor,” said Slim.
Hashknife looked up at Regan, his face twisted with pain.
“Thank you, Slim. Does anybody know how it happened?”
Slim shook his head.
“He was out by the hitch-rack. Hank Pitts almost stepped on him,
Hartley. There was a shot fired out there awhile ago, but nobody
investigated it.”
“That was the shot I heard,” muttered Hashknife. He got to his feet and
stood fretfully looking down at Sleepy.
“I seen him in the restaurant a while ago,” said Ted Ames, a short,
fat-faced cowboy from the 7AL.
Hashknife nodded. He knew that Sleepy had gone to supper with Roaring
Rigby. Roaring came in and shoved his way to Hashknife. His arms were
still wet from washing Wind River’s head.
“How bad is he hurt, Hashknife?” he asked.
“Bad enough. They’ve gone for the doctor. Wasn’t Sleepy eatin’ supper
with you, Roarin’?”
“He shore was. I stopped to talk with Jeff Ryker, and Sleepy went out.
While I was talkin’ to Ryker I heard that shot out near the hitch-rack,
and then I heard the one that hit Wind River Jim. I came out, tryin’ to
find out what was goin’ on, and crossed the street. That’s when I met
you.”
“Who shot Wind River Jim?” asked a cowboy.
“The same man who tried to kill me,” said Hashknife savagely.
“F’r God’s sake!” exploded some one. “’S gittin’ salty around here.”
“If there’s a blanket handy, I’d like to have some of you help carry him
over to the hotel,” said Hashknife. “We’ve got a room over there.”
The blanket was forthcoming, and there were plenty of volunteers to act
as stretcher-bearers. They put Sleepy on the bed, and several of the men
waited with Hashknife, until the old doctor arrived. Among them were
Slim Regan and Kent Cutter. Hashknife had nothing to say. He sat at the
head of the bed, his lean face very grim in the lamplight.
It was the first time in their wanderings that either of them had been
seriously hurt. Hashknife knew that only half of the plot had succeeded.
These men, whoever they were, had planned to kill him and Sleepy.