the men held them over Sleepy while he made his examination.
“Close,” he muttered. “Went all the way through. Must have went through
on an angle. Bad shock, lost lots of blood. Can’t tell all about it
yet.”
He straightened up and peered at Hashknife.
“Pretty lucky, I think. Gut shot is very bad. Unless I miss my guess,
he’ll pull through. Put the lamps on the table and get me plenty of hot
water.”
Hashknife stretched his full length and sighed deeply.
“Glad, eh?” said Regan.
“Glad?” Hashknife blinked painfully.
“My God!”
He turned and walked over to a window, where he stared out into the
night. The room was very quiet.
“We ain’t got much money, Doc,” said Hashknife slowly. “But if you pull
him through, I’ll go out and kill anybody you want killed.”
The old doctor lifted his eyes and studied the lean figure at the
window.
“All right,” he said finally, “I’ll take you up on that.”
“Name your man, Doc.”
“I can’t do it, Hartley; it’s a man who shoots in the dark.”
“All right, Doc, you’ll get his ears.”
* * * * *
Sunday was a dull day in Turquoise City. Hashknife hardly left Sleepy’s
side during the day. Sleepy had regained consciousness and was pretty
sick. There was plenty of company. Wind River Jim, his head swathed in
bandages, insisted upon playing nurse while Hashknife ate his meals.
“That’s the least I can do,” declared Wind River. “If your old leather
beck hadn’t deflected that bullet, it would have hit me between the
eyes. And between you and Roarin’, you stopped Horse-Collar from chokin’
me to death.”
Hashknife told Sleepy about Horse-Collar’s tourniquet, and Sleepy cried
tears. Even with all his pain he still retained his overdeveloped sense
of humor. Later in the day Horse-Collar came to the hotel. He was sober
now and had been talking to Jimmy Moran at the jail.
“I been talkin’ with Jimmy,” he told Hashknife confidentially. “He says
you’re detectin’. Gosh, I didn’t know that.”
“What about it?” asked Hashknife curiously.
“Thisaway, Hartley. You can’t detect and set here. Tomorrow I’ll be
here. I ain’t much of a good nurse, but I’ll do what I can.”
“That’s mighty good of you, Horse-Collar.”
“Not p’ticularly. I’m still workin’ for Jimmy, and I take orders from
the boss. Old Conley’s out of danger, they say, and I heard that Frank
Moran has paid Jimmy’s debts at the Black Horse. I’ll be here in the
mornin’.”
Jeff Ryker came and talked to Hashknife, trying to see if Hashknife had
any idea who had shot Sleepy.
“There’s been too much of this shooting going on around here,” declared
Ryker earnestly.
“Well, you can’t blame it on Pete Conley or Jimmy Moran,” observed
Hashknife. “Mebby it’s what you’d call an epidemic of crime.”
“That’s what it is. Conley’s trial starts tomorrow. He hasn’t a lawyer
to defend him. The court will have to appoint some one to defend him, I
suppose, and that will cause a delay. Personally, I don’t think a lawyer
would do him any good.”
“You think he’s guilty?”
“Beyond a doubt. He went out to kill Mallette. Admits it.”
“Admits that he wanted to, Ryker.”
“I don’t know about that, because I never talked to him; but the
evidence is all against him.”
Hashknife studied the thin face of the prosecuting attorney--the wry
neck inside the misfit collar, the deep-set eyes.
“And you was willin’ to kill the case, if that half-breed girl would
marry you, eh?” he said coldly.
Ryker flushed hotly and shuffled his feet on the old carpet of the
hotel.
“That--that isn’t true,” he stammered.
“I never--”
“Why deny it?” queried Hashknife coldly. “You’re not the first man in
your position to misuse his power, Ryker. You ain’t settin’ no precedent
that I know of.”
“Oh, all right, I’m not going to discuss my personal affairs with you,
Hartley. What I do is none of your business.”
Ryker turned on his heel and walked away.
“You stick to your own business then,” said Hashknife.
“And you stick to your own,” retorted Ryker hotly.
Hashknife laughed softly and went back to Sleepy.
The doctor came again that night. Sleepy had not developed any fever,
and the doctor was jubilant. In the morning he was stiff and sore, but
cheerful. Horse-Collar Fields came fairly early in the morning and
offered to stay with Sleepy as long as Hashknife wanted him to stay.
* * * * *
The court was to open at ten o’clock, but Hashknife did not care about
the opening of the case. He saddled his horse and rode out toward the
Conley ranch. Near the ford he met Doctor Shelley and Dawn. The doctor
had told Dawn about the shooting of Sleepy, and the girl was full of
sympathy.
“He’s able to cuss this mornin’; so he’ll get well,” laughed Hashknife.
“How’s your father?”
“Just fine, Mr. Hartley.”
“I wonder if I could talk with him.”
“Go ahead,” nodded the doctor.
“Don’t talk too long.”
Hashknife rode on to the ranch. He hadn’t the slightest idea of why he
was coming out to see Conley, except that he had what might be termed a
hunch. Mrs. Conley admitted him, and he found the old man propped up in
bed.
Conley stared at Hashknife out of sunken eyes.
“I heard them talk about you,” he said huskily. “The doctor said your
pardner got shot last night. Is he alive?”
“Yeah, luckily,” said Hashknife.
“I’m glad somebody has luck.” He stared up at the ceiling. “I’ve never
had much of it myself. My son is being tried for his life, and he hasn’t
even a lawyer. I was goin’ to get him one, but I got shot. Dawn has gone
down to be with him.” He shifted his eyes to Hashknife.
“Will they hang him, do you think?”
“Law is a queer piece of machinery, Conley.”
“Law for a half-breed, Hartley.”
“Law for anybody.”
“Mebby. They tell me you came with Frank Moran.”
Hashknife explained how it happened that he came to Black Horse with
Moran, and the old man nodded.
“I hate him,” he said.
“Yeah, I know,” said Hashknife. “It’s too bad, Conley. Hate never got
either of you anythin’ but misery. Hatin’ folks is just like throwin’ a
rubber ball against a wall. It slams back at you.”
“That’s true!” The old man’s eyes opened wide. “It does. Ain’t it queer
that my son and Moran’s son should both be in jail at the same time.
Jimmy Moran shot me, you know.”
“Sure of it, Conley?”
“He called me out and shot me.”
“Did you see him?”
“No. I don’t remember anythin’ after I opened the door and stepped
outside. But he called and told me who he was.”
“He admits it. Oh, he’s sorry, Conley. He swears he didn’t shoot you.
Why, man, he’s in love with your daughter.”
The old man averted his eyes and his bony old face twitched.
“That’s what hurts, Hartley--hurts worse than the bullet-hole in my
side. That’s what hate does. I--I was goin’ to let Dawn marry Jimmy
Moran, because I hated his father. Goin’ to help his son marry a
half-breed girl. It wasn’t right.”
“It was right, Conley; he loves her.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t want him to at first. I gave him orders to
keep away. But I got to thinkin’ how it would hurt Frank Moran. That’s
hate. I’m not fit for much. By God, I was goin’ to sell my girl! It’s
the same thing. Love! Bah! What in hell did I care about love? But I’ve
had plenty of time to think lately. I fenced Hot Creek against the
Big 4, but I didn’t kill them steers. No, I didn’t, Hartley. I’m a
cowman. I’ve been a cowman ever since the old minin’ days. Do you know,
this ranch was a minin’ claim? It was. About twenty-five years ago I
located this as a minin’ claim. In them days there was plenty of buyin’
and sellin’ prospects. You know Ryker? He was an assayer. Frank Moran
was here. He had plenty of money to buy mines. He’s always had money.”
“You not talk too much,” advised Mrs. Conley.
“I’m all right, mother. It was great in the old days; but the mines
played out. This was my last location. I dug my discovery hole just west
of Hot Creek. There’s an old sycamore up there on the slope. It was a
small tree twenty-five years ago, and it was there that I tacked my
notice and dug my discovery. But things went wrong in the minin’ game,
and a little later I homesteaded and went in for cattle. I went up into
Idaho to buy stock and that’s where I met Minnie.”
“My father big chief,” said Mrs. Conley.
“Mm-m-m-m,” grunted Conley. “Not so awful big. You see, he stole some
horses from me, and I went after ’em. I made him a trade for Minnie. He
had six other daughters; so it wasn’t hard to make a trade, you see.”
“We get married, too,” said Minnie.
“We shore did; and I’ve never been sorry, Hartley.”
“Well, that’s great,” smiled Hashknife. “You better take a rest now,
I’ll see you ag’in’, Conley.”
“All right; be sure and come ag’in’, Hartley.”
Hashknife rode around the house and headed for Hot Creek. He wanted to
see that old prospect hole. He had a hunch that the Conley ranch was
being desired for more than a winter water-hole and a shelter from
blizzards.
He located the big sycamore and, in the brush at its base, he found the
old prospect hole, which was practically hidden in an overhang of brush.
It was an open cut, possibly five feet long, three or four feet wide,
and not over five feet deep.
Hashknife was not a miner, but he knew a little about rocks. It seemed
to him that there were indications that some one had broken off a little
of the exposed ledge of reddish quartz long since the hole had been
originally dug. Some of the quartz was badly honeycombed, rusty looking
stuff.
He broke off a small chunk from about the center of the upper end of the
cut, put it in his pocket and went back to his horse. His hunch was
fading out now. It did not seem that this mere showing of honeycombed
quartz would warrant any one’s making a great effort to purchase the
entire ranch.
He rode back to the main gate and followed the fence down to the ford,
where he dismounted and drank from the river. Sitting down on a
convenient boulder, he took out the chunk of rock and washed it
carefully, while the tall gray horse slaked its thirst and looked
curiously at him.
A washing showed the quartz to be thoroughly honeycombed and not very
hard. Taking the rock in his palm he struck it sharply against another
rock, breaking it in several small pieces. For several moments he stared
at the broken fragments.
Gold! It gleamed through the lace-like texture of the broken quartz, and
there were even specks of it on his palm.
He examined it closely, knowing that it was gold. Hashknife had never
seen rock so rich in his life. He tried to estimate its worth per ton,
but gave it up. The rock was not heavy. It would take a lot of it to
weigh a ton, and if all of it was as rich as this, it would be worth
more money than Hashknife could estimate.
He put the rock back in his pocket. It was not hard for him to imagine
what had happened. Conley had found a piece of promising float, located
the property, dug a discovery hole and had never had an assay made. The
mining boom had died, and Conley had never gone any further with the
prospect.
* * * * *
Hashknife rode back to Turquoise City and went to the assay office,
where he met “Mica” Jones, the old bald-headed assayer who ran the
business for Ryker. The little place stank of acids.
Jones was idly reading a much-thumbed mining journal, when Hashknife
came in and placed a piece of the ore on the battered old counter. Jones
put on his glasses and picked up a receipt blank.
“Assay it for lead, will you?” said Hashknife.
Jones glanced at the sample. It was a most unusual request. He squinted
closely at it and looked at Hashknife.
“There ain’t no lead in that stuff,” he said, giving an honest opinion.
“What do you think’s in it, pardner?”
Jones picked up the sample, turned it slowly in his gnarled hand and
gave Hashknife a sharp glance. But the tall cowboy merely slouched
against the counter, looking at other pieces of ore on the counter. Mica
Jones swallowed heavily. He had seen the gold.
“It ain’t lead-bearin’ rock,” he said, clearing his throat harshly.
“Pshaw! Well, let it go then. I don’t know much about ore. Do you know
anythin’ about minin’ laws, pardner?”
Mica Jones frowned. It was difficult for him to keep his eyes off that
piece of crumbly red ore.
“Little bit,” he said. “Whatcha want to know?”
“Ain’t there some kind of a minin’ law that lets you go on a man’s ranch
and locate a mine, if you can prove it’s worth more for mineral than it
is for agriculture?”
Mica Jones carefully placed the piece of ore on a shelf behind him, drew
out a plug of tobacco and bit off a huge portion.
“Yea-a-ah, I think there is. It was tried out five year ago. Feller
jumped in on a ranch about ten mile below here and located a mine.
Quoted that law and got a bullet plumb through him. They tried this
rancher for murder, and the lawyer orated that this dead client was
actin’ accordin’ to law; but the jury exonerated him without leavin’
their seat. It kinda set a precedent, you see. Out here--” Mica shifted
his chew thoughtfully--“out here, you can hold what you’ve got,
pardner.”
“That’s a good system,” agreed Hashknife. “Thanks for the opinion. Never
mind assayin’ that stone.”
“Oh, that’s all right; come in ag’in’.”
“Thank you.”
Hashknife went to the hotel and found Horse-Collar and Lovely with
Sleepy, who was resting easily. The doctor had been there and changed
the dressing.
“Wind River was over here from the courtroom a while ago,” said Lovely.
“They’re goin’ ahead with the trial of Pete Conley. The judge offered to
postpone the trial until Pete could get a lawyer, but the bug-headed
half-breed said to go ahead; he didn’t need any lawyer.
“They’ve got the jury already. Ryker ain’t particular, because he’s got
a cinch. Him and the judge locked horns a few times this mornin’, and
the boys had fun out of it. Roarin’ come damn near runnin’ everybody out
of the courtroom. Dawn is up there with Pete--jist them two. I tell you
it don’t look right. It’s jist them two agin’ the judge, jury and the
crowd, not to mention Ryker. The judge says it’s a farce. What’s a
farce, Hartley?”
“It’s a cooked game that looks honest.”
“Oh, yeah. He prob’ly meant that Pete ain’t got a chance. But Pete’s
hardheaded. The judge asked him if he didn’t want the case postponed
until he could get a lawyer. Pete asked him where in hell he could find
a lawyer that knew who killed Joe Mallette. It made everybody laugh.”
“They’ll have Jimmy on the stand,” said Horse-Collar. “He’ll have to
tell about that poker game, I reckon. English Ed will be a witness, and
the doctor said he’d have to testify; but what good will it do the
half-breed? They won’t be helpin’ him. Suppose Mallette did steal from
Pete?”
“It’s murder, just the same,” said Hashknife. “I suppose there’s quite a
crowd at the court-house.”
“Biggest you ever seen,” said Horse-collar. “Everybody in the country.
I’d hate to be in Roarin’ Rigby’s shoes, if he has to hang Pete.”
“A-a-aw, talk about something’ pleasant,” said Sleepy.
* * * * *
Hashknife saw Dawn Conley after the trial was over for the day, and he
talked to her for awhile. She did not see a single loophole for Peter.
Of course, the evidence was all circumstantial, but there was plenty of
evidence that Peter had left the saloon that night with a revolver in
his hand.
English Ed had testified to what he knew about it. The old doctor, who
was also the coroner, testified. Jimmy Moran had not been brought from
the jail to testify; but his testimony would be taken the next morning.
Roaring Rigby had told the court how he had outwitted the men who came
out to Conley’s ranch that night to lynch Peter, and his testimony
caused a laugh. Most of the men who had ridden through the hills that
night were in the room.
Ryker had dominated the trial. The old judge, white of face, plainly
nervous, humped at his desk. At times he would rebuke Ryker; but there
was little dignity left in the man. He continually scanned the room, as
if seeking the men who had warned him to leave Turquoise City.
In a half-open drawer at his right hand was a Colt revolver, fully
loaded, and most of the time his hand rested on that drawer.
After Dawn had ridden away, Hashknife met Franklyn Moran. He had
attended the trial and he told Hashknife much of what had happened. He
was cheerful over the rapid recovery of Moses Conley, but he was curious
to know who had shot Sleepy.
“You know as much as I do,” said Hashknife.
Ryker came from the courtroom and gave them a curt nod as he went past,
carrying papers and several books. The sheriff and the judge were close
behind him; the sheriff walked home with him.
“Scared to death,” said Moran, after the sheriff and judge were out of
hearing. “The man is positively on edge. I don’t believe he knows what
the trial is all about. To begin with, his nerves are all shot from
whisky.”
“Are they?” asked Hashknife.
“Sure they are; he’s the greatest single-handed drinker in this country.
I haven’t seen him for almost a year, and he’s ten years older than he
was at that time.”
“I’d like to talk with him,” said Hashknife. “I believe I’ll go
visitin’.”
“Good luck to you,” laughed Moran.
Hashknife hurried across the street and went through the alley between
the saloon and restaurant. The sheriff and the judge were at the judge’s
gate, talking together, when Hashknife came up to them. Roaring
introduced them, and the judge offered Hashknife a very limp hand.
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” said the judge huskily. “Nice weather we’re
having these days.”
“Pretty good,” smiled Hashknife. “The sheriff has told me a lot about
things that have happened around here, Judge, and I just wondered if you
happened to keep one of those warnings.”
The judge started visibly and looked at Roaring.
“It’s all right, Judge,” assured Roaring.
“I have,” said the judge firmly, “the first one.”
“May I take a look at it?”
“You may; I’ll get it for you, Mr. Hartley.”
The judge went into the house and came out in a few moments with the
halfsheet of paper. The warning had been written with a pen, or rather
printed with a pen. The paper was of ordinary grade, unglazed.
Hashknife looked it over carefully, examining the letters, even looking
through it at the sun. There was a faint watermark--_Fordhill Bond_.
Hashknife gave the paper back to the judge.
“What do you make of it?” asked Roaring anxiously.
“Who knows?” smiled Hashknife.
“Are you a handwriting expert?” asked the old judge.
Hashknife laughed softly and shook his head.
“Not me, Judge. I know pen and ink from typewriter, but that’s about
all.”
“You didn’t come up to the trial, did you?” asked Roaring.
“I’ve been busy. They tell me Peter Conley hasn’t a chance in the
world.”
“Gentlemen,” said the judge wearily, “let us not discuss the trial.
Anything else, and I am at your service. Won’t you come in?”
Roaring shook his head quickly.
“Got to get back, Judge.”
Hashknife thanked the judge, but declined his invitation.
* * * * *
On the way back to the office, Roaring told Hashknife that the judge had
asked him to walk home with him.
“He’s scared to death,” declared Roaring. “Personally, I don’t think
they’ll harm him. I don’t think they’d ’a’ hurt Jim Randall, but he
didn’t wait to see.”
“Time will tell,” said Hashknife. “The old judge has a right to be
nervous.”
They went back to the office, where Wind River Jim was changing the
bandage on his sore head. Hashknife sat down at the sheriff’s desk and
rolled a smoke, while Roaring assisted Wind River Jim with his bandage.
There were several sheets of writing paper on the desk, bearing the
letterhead of the sheriff’s office. Hashknife picked one of them up in
his hand and looked through it. Across the bottom of the sheet was the
watermark--_Fordhill Bond_.
He dropped the sheet of paper back on the desk and lighted his cigaret.
“I’d like to get a line on the jigger that knocked on my temple,”
growled Wind River Jim. “It shore aches me.”
“What does Pete think of the trial?” asked Hashknife.
“Sore about it.”
Roaring pinned the end of the bandage and came back to the desk.
“He testified today. Ryker tried to get him mad. I don’t think the jury
believed Pete’s story. He admitted he wanted to shoot Mallette. He put
up a good argument. Ryker wanted to know why he wanted to kill Mallette,
and if he didn’t know it would be murder; and Pete asked him if it was
murder to kill a horsethief. He said that Mallette stole his money, and
that stealin’ was stealin’; and, by golly, the judge agreed with him, I
think! You see, he’s bein’ tried for first-degree murder, and if that
knot-headed jury brings in a verdict of guilty, it’s up to the judge to
soak him awful hard. He can either hang Pete or give him life.”
“If somebody don’t shoot the judge between now and the time he’s
supposed to pass sentence,” said Roaring dryly.
“I don’t think they will,” said Hashknife. “There’s other things to
think about.”
Hashknife didn’t tell them what he meant, but went back to the hotel to
relieve Horse-Collar Fields. Sleepy was in good spirits, much better
than Hashknife expected him to be.
“How’s it comin’, cowboy?” asked Sleepy.
“I’m just about to sing me a little song,” replied Hashknife, and Sleepy
knew what that song meant.
Hashknife did not have a particularly melodious voice and seldom did he
lift his voice in song, except when a puzzle was working out to his
satisfaction.
“And me flat in bed,” wailed Sleepy. “But go easy, pardner. You can see
just how easy it is for to go down and out. I never had no warnin’. I
felt it slap me down, but I never heard the shot. It hurts worse now
than it has any time. The doctor says it’s healin’ up fine. You’ll go
easy, won’t you, Hashknife?”
“If you need help, call on Horse-Collar and Lovely. They’re the biggest
liars that ever saw the sun come up, but they’re on the square.”
“Dang the luck, I want to ride with you. Can’t you put it off for a week
or so? The doctor says I’ll be able to ride in a week or ten days, if I
wear a wide belt.”
“You lay still and take it easy. Get well, cowboy. I shore miss you.
Ain’t had nobody crabbin’ at me for two days, and it ain’t natural. And
I’m not goin’ to get hurt. Can you eat anythin’?”
“Soup!”
“All right. I’ll git a tray of grub at the restaurant, and a bowl of
soup. We’ll eat up here and, by golly, I’ll stay here until daylight.
I’m as scared as the judge was. I’ll find Horse-Collar Fields and ask
him to come agin’ tomorrow morning.”
* * * * *
It was just daylight when Hashknife left the hotel. The street was
deserted at that time in the morning, but Hashknife did not lose his
vigilance. He found the keeper of the livery-stable, asleep in his
little inside office, and told him he was taking his horse out.
“Yeah, all right,” yawned the man. “Need any help?”
“No, I’ll manage,” laughed Hashknife. “What time did Ryker get back last
night?”
“Ryker? Oh, it was about midnight.”
“I just wondered.”
Hashknife went to his horse, grinning to himself in the gloom of the
stable. He knew nothing about Ryker’s having been out last night, but he
had followed another of his hunches when he asked the question.
He took the right-hand road out of Turquoise City, traveling east.
Hashknife had never been over this road, so he went carefully. The
country was fairly flat for about two miles. Then the road entered the
foot-hills. About four miles from town he swung off the road, but kept
it in sight and finally came out on a hogback ridge from where he could
get a good view of the 7AL ranch.
He was not over two hundred yards from the buildings, but his view of
the one-story ranch-house was partly obstructed by a huge stable and
several sycamore trees. Behind the stable sprawled a series of corrals
and beyond them could be seen the top of the old bunkhouse.
There was smoke coming from the ranch-house. A man came around the
corner of the stable and entered the corral at the rear, where there
were several horses. A little later he came out, leading a bay horse,
which he led around the stable out of Hashknife’s sight.
Hashknife tied his horse in a thicket and came back to the crest of the
ridge, where he sat down to wait. It was about thirty minutes later that
three men rode away from the ranch-house and came down along the road,
passing Hashknife close enough for him to identify Kent Cutter and Ted
Ames. The third man was Henry Miller.
They disappeared down the road, and Hashknife went back to his horse. He
guessed that Cutter had a cook. There was a fourth man, Jud Hardy.
Hashknife knew him for a thin-faced, hard-jawed young man, who had bad
eyes--not physically, but morally. Eyes meant quite a lot to Hashknife,
when it came to judging a man’s character.