was a main gate, but it was wide open, sagging on its hinges. He rode
around to the rear, where he found the kitchen door open. There was a
pleasant odor of frying bacon and boiling coffee, doubly pleasant to
Hashknife, who had had no breakfast.
As he swung out of his saddle, the cook came to the door. He was a
grizzled little man, with a big mustache and a slight limp; a typical
old round-up cook. In his hand was a frying-pan, still smoking hot. He
peered at Hashknife wonderingly.
“Hyah, pardner,” greeted Hashknife, “how about a little breakfast?”
“Hyah,” he grunted, “pretty good-- mebby.”
He looked Hashknife over carefully and glanced at the tall gray horse.
“Ridin’ kinda early, ain’t you, stranger?” he asked.
“No law ag’in’ it, is there?”
“Not that I ever heard about. Excuse me. My name’s McCall. ‘Jinyus’
McCall, to be exact. Used to be Albert, until I cooked a forty-year-old
sage-hen for some fellers. One of ’em said I was a jinyus--and it stuck.
Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”
Hashknife laughed and scraped his heel along the short boards that had
been laid as a walk near the door. He glanced down at the boards, but
lifted his head quickly.
“C’mon in,” invited Jinyus. “I’ll make you somethin’ to eat right off
the stove.”
“Fine.”
Hashknife stooped over quickly and picked up a little copper shell near
the boards. The cook was looking at him curiously.
“Somebody been havin’ target practise, eh?” said Hashknife, exhibiting
the twenty-two shell.
“Pop-gun practise!” snorted Jinyus. “Ever since Cutter sent away for
that danged gun, they’ve shot at everythin’ on the ranch. Nothin’ is
safe. Cutter is the boss here.”
“Oh, I see,” smiled Hashknife. He started to enter the kitchen, but a
man’s voice stopped him short.
“What in hell do you want here?”
Hashknife turned slowly. About ten feet away stood Jud Hardy. His hair
was uncombed and he had the general appearance of a man who had just got
out of bed.
“I didn’t want anythin’,” said Hashknife meekly.
He noticed that Jud’s hand was swinging close to his gun.
“You didn’t; eh?” flared Jud. “Who are you lookin’ for?”
“Not a soul. I was just passin’ and smelled breakfast; the cook said
he’d feed me, so I was goin’ to eat.”
“Is that so? Well, the boss ain’t here, and the cook don’t run this
ranch. If you came from town, it’s damn funny you didn’t meet him.”
“I didn’t say I came from town,” said Hashknife.
“Didn’t anybody ask you, did they? You turn around and get on that
horse.”
Turn around and get on that horse! That was just what Hashknife was not
going to do. He started to turn, as if to comply with Hardy’s order, but
at the same time he drew his gun so quickly that Hardy was looking down
the muzzle of it before he realized that Hashknife had not turned.
The cook stood there, his mouth wide open, the skillet still in his
hand. Slowly Jud Hardy’s hands came up to a level with his shoulders.
“Unbuckle your belt and let it drop,” ordered Hashknife.
One look at Hashknife’s eyes, and Hardy complied.
“Back up five steps. Cook, you stand like you are.”
“Believe me!” gasped the cook earnestly.
Hashknife walked forward, plucked Hardy’s gun from the holster and flung
it far back toward the corral. Then he backed to his horse, mounted and
bolstered his gun.
“Thanks for the breakfast, just the same, Jinyus,” he said.
“Oh, you’re completely welcome.”
Without further conversation he whirled his horse around and galloped
off down the road.
* * * * *
Jud Hardy stared at the cook and slowly put down his hands.
“That shore as hell beats me,” declared the cook foolishly. “What was
all that gunplay about, Jud?”
Jud spat savagely and went after his gun. It had struck on its muzzle
and was half-full of dirt and gravel. Jud came back to the kitchen door,
swearing to himself.
“Gee-mighty, that feller was shore forked!” said the cook. “Didja ever
see a gun pulled thataway, Jud. Jist _whap_! And you’re it.”
“Yeah,” growled Jud darkly. He was fast with a gun himself.
“What did he want, Jinyus?”
“Breakfast.”
“Tha’sso? Is that all?”
“Well, that’s all he asked for.”
“What did he pick up off the ground? He was showin’ it to you.”
“Oh, that,” the cook grinned. “Nothin’ but one of them little empty
twenty-two shells. He asked me if we’d been havin’ target practise, and
I said that ever since Cutter had sent for that damn gun, they’d been
shootin’ at everythin’.”
Jud stared at Jinyus for several moments.
“Yea-a-a-ah? The hell he did!”
“Shore did. Go wash your face and I’ll have you some eggs.”
“To hell with the eggs! I’m goin’ to town.”
Jud whirled and ran down to the bunkhouse. Jinyus looked after him,
shaking his head.
“I dunno what it’s all about,” he told himself aloud, “but it looks t’
me as though somebody was all het up. My, but that jigger shore can yank
a six-gun!”
* * * * *
Within fifteen minutes after the opening of court that morning the case
had gone to the jury. Ryker had made no plea to the jury, and the
judge’s instructions were summed up in very few words. The twelve men
had filed out, preceded by Wind River Jim, who acted as bailiff.
The judge did not retire. He slumped forward on his desk, resting his
chin on one hand and watching the crowded room. Ryker sat at his table,
slouched back in his chair, confident that the jury would bring a
verdict for him.
At the opposite table sat Dawn and Peter with Roaring Rigby. Peter was
not handcuffed. All the cattle ranches in the country were represented.
The Black Horse Saloon was closed, so that every one could attend, and
there was a sprinkling of the girls from the redlight row.
English Ed had a front seat, as did Cutter and Frank Moran. The room
buzzed with conversation. English Ed leaned past Cutter and spoke to
Moran-- “I wonder where Hartley is, Moran?”
“I don’t know.”
“He pulled out almost at daylight. One of my swampers saw him ride out
of town.”
Moran smiled thinly.
“I can’t quite figure things out, Ed. I wonder who shot Stevens.”
“That’s a puzzle. Looks funny. Roaring thinks that bullet that hit Wind
River Jim was intended for Hartley. In fact it burned Hartley’s neck
before it hit Wind River.”
“Somebody is scared of ’em,” declared Moran.
“Why would anybody be scared of ’em?” queried Cutter.
“I don’t know--but they are.”
“Who--Hartley and Stevens?” asked Cutter.
“No, the men who shot ’em.”
Ryker got up and came over to them, a smile on his thin lips.
“What do you think of it?” he asked.
“It looks like a poor piece of justice to me,” growled Moran. “That kid
needed legal advice.”
“He could have had it, Moran. I’ve played easy with him. There’s not a
juror from this end of the county, and I made no plea. What more could I
do?”
“He was as good as hung before the trial started,” said Cutter.
“That’s the worst of it,” said English Ed. “I’m sorry for my part in it.
Mallette was no good. No, I don’t mean that I uphold murdering a man
because he’s no good. But I’m of the opinion that Mallette stole that
pot, and if Pete had killed him on the spot, I’d have hired a lawyer to
free him.”
Moran looked queerly at English Ed.
“I didn’t expect that from you, Ed.” The gambler flushed.
“I’ve been accused of a lot of things I never did, Moran.”
“I suppose.”
“The judge keeps an eye on me,” said the gambler softly. “He thinks I
tried to run him out. I didn’t.”
“He’s getting old,” said Ryker. “We need a younger man on the bench.”
“You, for instance,” suggested Moran.
“Why not? I belong here and I can qualify.”
Ryker laughed, and walked over to the table beside Dawn. He spoke to her
and she got quickly to her feet.
“Go and sit down where you belong,” she said coldly.
Ryker laughed angrily, but did not move. The judge struck the top of his
desk with a clenched hand.
“Ryker, go and sit down!” he snapped. “That girl and her brother are
under the protection of this court.”
“Oh, is that so?” demanded Ryker. “Since when did the court have
jurisdiction over a prosecutor during a recess?”
Before the judge had a chance to reply, Pete Conley sprang from his
chair, caught Ryker by the collar with his left hand and smashed him in
the face with his right fist. He had only time to hit Ryker once before
Roaring had grasped him in both arms and dragged him away.
Ryker went to his haunches, but staggered back to his feet, gore running
from his nose, his big collar half-torn from his skinny neck. The room
was in an uproar. Roaring forced Pete back into his chair and held him
down.
Ryker was dazed, blinded. He clawed under his coat trying to draw a big
Colt gun before Cutter sprang across the railing and grasped him. He
swung Ryker around, talking swiftly. He handed Ryker a handkerchief to
mop off the blood; and the prosecutor of Black Horse County leaned
against his own table.
The judge hammered wildly on his table, while the cowboys in the
audience whooped with joy. This was the first bit of action they had
seen. Roaring talked earnestly with Pete, who nodded in agreement.
Roaring smiled with evident satisfaction, and there was a ghost of a
smile on the face of the old judge.
“By golly!” roared the voice of Lovely Lucas from the back of the room.
“That’s the first time I ever saw a half-breed git the best of anythin’
in a courtroom!”
“Turn ’em loose, and I’ll take the breed for forty dollars, even money!”
boomed Mark Clayton, of the Big 4.
The old judge rapped for order.
“Cease this disturbance, or I’ll have the sheriff clear the court!”
“You better let well enough alone,” said Hank Pitts. “If Roarin’ Rigby
lets loose of Pete, Ryker loses his scalp.”
Hank’s sally brought a laugh that the judge was unable to check. Dawn
was leaning forward on the table, crying. Ryker was angry. He tried to
arrange his collar, but found that Pete had torn out the button-hole. He
finally took it off, exposing about eight inches of thin neck.
Wind River Jim came from the juryroom, closing the door behind him. The
judge rapped again for silence.
“They’ve made up their minds, Judge,” said Wind River.
“Bring them in,” said the judge wearily.
The room became silent, as the twelve men filed in and sat down. They
looked curiously at Ryker, who was holding the handkerchief to his nose
and lips, but none of them looked at Pete.
“Gentlemen,” said the old judge, “have you reached a decision?”
The foreman of the jury, a tall, bearded cattleman from south of
Turquoise City, arose and handed Wind River a sheet of paper.
“We have, Judge,” he said, and sat down heavily.
Wind River gave the paper to the judge, who read it slowly.
For a space of possibly ten seconds the judge stared at the back of the
room, not a muscle of his face moving. An impatient cowboy scraped a
boot-heel on the floor, and it sounded very loud and harsh in that
silent room.
“This is your verdict?” asked the judge, without looking at the jury.
“That’s it,” said the foreman.
The old judge shifted his eyes and looked at Peter Conley.
“Peter Conley, stand up,” he said. It was little more than a whisper.
Roaring nudged Pete; he got awkwardly to his feet. Dawn got to her feet,
as if to assist Pete, and the judge shifted his gaze to her. He looked
back at the verdict.
“Peter Conley,” he said, “the jury has found you guilty of murder in the
first degree.”
The judge stopped, but did not look up. Dawn reached over and put her
hand on Pete’s arm. He turned his head and looked at her, his face
twisted painfully.
* * * * *
There came a slight noise from the rear of the room, and the judge
looked up. It was Hashknife Hartley, coming down the aisle, his spurs
rasping harshly on the board floor--a jarring note in the most dramatic
moment of the trial. But Hashknife did not seem aware of it. There was
an empty seat at the end of the first row, and he went all the way down
to it.
He looked at Ryker as he sat down, and a smile creased his wide lips. He
looked at Peter and Dawn, standing up. The girl looked at him and there
were tears in her eyes and on her cheeks. Hashknife turned his head and
looked at the silent jury. The room was very quiet.
“They found him guilty, Hartley,” whispered a cowboy behind Hashknife
and the whisper could be heard all over the room.
The judge looked sharply at the whisperer.
“Peter Conley,” he said slowly, as if weighing every word, “you have
been found guilty. Is there any reason why the sentence of the court
should not be imposed at this time?”
Peter did not speak. He did not know what to say.
“Have you nothing to say, Peter Conley?”
“I didn’t kill him, Judge; that’s all I say.” Hashknife got slowly to
his feet, facing the judge.
“If you don’t mind, Judge,” he said slowly, “I’d like to speak for Pete
Conley.”
“I object!” snapped Ryker hotly.
“You look like you had once before,” said Hashknife. “I’m kinda
surprized at all that red on your handkerchief, Ryker; I thought you’d
bleed yaller.”
Ryker turned appealingly to the judge, but the judge did not look at
him.
“What did you want to say, Hartley?” he asked.
“Why not sentence the guilty man?”
“The guilty man?” It was a whisper-- a hoarse whisper.
“The man who killed Joe Mallette by mistake, Judge. The man who dragged
Joe Mallette from your door and took him across that vacant piece of
ground, draggin’ his boots full of gravel. Mallette was so drunk that he
made a mistake in houses, Judge. You’re safe; you shot because you
thought he had come to fulfill that warnin’. Tell the truth!”
Roaring was on his feet, as were half of the men in the room. The judge
continued to stare at Hashknife, whose voice rang like a bell in that
crowded room.
“What do you mean, Hartley?” cried Roaring.
“Ask the judge; he knows.”
The old judge got slowly to his feet, his face white, his mouth
half-open, breathing heavily. His right hand was in the drawer of his
desk, clutching the heavy revolver.
“Be quiet!” cried Hashknife. “Let him talk!”
The judge wet his lips with his tongue.
“It’s time to tell,” he said. “Yes, it’s time. Hartley’s right. I hoped
the jury--but that’s past. I killed Mallette. The gambling element
warned me to get out of town. They swore to kill me. You all know it. I
wouldn’t run. I--I waited for them to come after me. Mallette came. He
flung open the door of my house and came in. I--I was sitting in my
chair beside my table, and I shot once.”
His eyes went slowly around the room and he swallowed painfully.
“I never shot a man before,” he continued. “Wong Kee and I dragged him
away. Better to have left him there and sent for the sheriff. But a man
don’t know what he would do, until the time comes. Pete Conley is
innocent. I killed in what I thought was self-defense.”
He lifted his head and his voice grew stronger.
“I’m glad it’s over now.”
English Ed was on his feet, facing Hashknife and the crowd.
“I don’t blame the judge,” he said. “Mallette was drunk and he got into
the wrong place; but I’ll swear that Mallette was not in any plot to run
the judge out. It was not the gamblers. I’ll swear that we had nothing
to do with it.”
“And I’ll back you, Holmes,” said Hashknife.
He stepped through the railing his back to the jury, where he could face
the crowd. A man was coming hurriedly down the aisle. It was
Horse-Collar Fields. He stopped just short of the railing and said to
Hashknife--
“He’ll be here in a minute, Hashknife.” Hashknife backed up a step and
his hands dropped to his sides. The eyes of all in the room were upon
him, and they saw him hunch forward a trifle, his right arm lifting just
above his waist-line.
“It’s Jud Hardy comin’,” he said evenly. “He’s comin’ from the 7AL
ranch, ridin’ the hocks off his horse to tell his outfit that Hashknife
Hartley found an empty twenty-two shell beside the kitchen door. He
tried to kill me, I reckon. He knew that a twenty-two was used to kill
them eight Big 4 steers. He knew there was a million dollar ledge of
gold ore on the Hot Creek ranch, and he wanted his share. He knew, and
his outfit knew, that as long as Moses Conley lived he’d never sell
out--and they wanted it. So they tried to send the Big 4 against Conley
and when that didn’t work they tried to kill him. Cutter--don’t!”
Hashknife drew swiftly and fired from his hip. The report of his gun
blended with the one that flashed beside him from Horse-Collar’s gun.
Cutter staggered sidewise, trying to cock the gun in his hand, but
English Ed caught him in his arms and flung him to the floor. Wind River
Jim vaulted the railing and fell upon Ted Ames, who was trying to reach
the aisle, and from further back in the room came the triumphant yell
from Slim Regan:
“Ho-o-o-old fast, Henry! Take his feet, Bill!”
They had captured Henry Miller. Horse-Collar had fired one shot at
Ryker, who had drawn his gun, and then had whirled and run swiftly from
the courtroom.
“Got Mister Miller!” yelled Regan.
* * * * *
From outside the building came a fusilade of shots, a wild yell. Some of
the men ran out, crowding at the doorway, and some of them fell down.
The room was in an uproar. The old judge had drawn his gun from the
drawer and was standing very straight, resting the muzzle of the gun on
his desk. The room was hazy with smoke. Roaring was shielding Dawn from
the crowd.
English Ed got slowly to his feet. One knee of his pin-striped trousers
was split wide open and the knot of his necktie was under his left ear.
Cutter did not get up. Ryker was sprawled across his desk, one hand
hanging limply over the edge, his gun on the floor. Hashknife stepped
over to the table and touched the prosecuting attorney on the shoulder.
“Horse-Collar Fields shoots straight,” said Hashknife meaningly.
The crowd of men was coming into the room again, headed by Horse-Collar.
They were bringing a disheveled Jud Hardy, whose face was bruised and
dusty, clothes torn.
“He tried to git away on his bronc when he heard the shootin’!” yelled
Horse-Collar triumphantly. “I had t’ hit him on the fly, by golly!”
“Kent Cutter’s dead,” said Roaring Rigby. “I don’t know yet what it was
all about, Hashknife.”
“He’s a liar!” wailed Jud Hardy.
“You don’t even know what he said!” snorted Lovely Lucas.
“Bring ’em down here,” ordered Hashknife. “All three of ’em.”
They came--Henry Miller, Jud Hardy, Ted Ames--brought down bodily by
cowboys who longed for a chance to handle them roughly. Hashknife looked
them over. Miller and Hardy shut their lips tightly. Hashknife stepped
up to Ted Ames.
“You’ll talk,” he said. “I’ve got the goods on all of you; but a talk
will help you out, Ames--State’s evidence, you know.”
“Squealer, eh?” defiantly.
“Not now. It’s a hangin’ matter--unless you talk.”
Ames looked around at the faces of the men.
“I’ll talk,” he said. “Cutter and Ryker schemed it, just like you said.
Cutter shot Conley; Jimmy Moran almost got Cutter that night. Me and
Cutter killed them Big 4 steers. Pete Conley had the only twenty-two in
the country, until Cutter sent away for one. Usin’ a twenty-two would
cinch it on to Conley. Cutter wanted Mose Conley out of the way, so he
could buy the ranch. Dawn Conley admitted to Ryker that she and her
mother would be willin’ to sell.”
“Who shot Sleepy, my pardner, and tried to kill me?”
“Me and Jud Hardy. I missed you, Cutter said we’d have to kill you both,
and they’d blame English Ed and his gang.”
“All right,” nodded Hashknife. “Cutter knew I found that mine, didn’t
he?”
“Ryker came out and told us last night.”
“And Ryker was the one who wrote the warnings, wasn’t he? He used paper
that the county furnished.”
“He wrote ’em,” nodded Ames. “Cutter wanted to be judge of this county,
and he hated Judge Beal. They warned the sheriff, too. Cutter said he
was too honest. But we didn’t know who killed Mallette. We thought Pete
was to blame for that. Ryker wanted to marry Dawn Conley. Said he’d get
control of the property thataway. Ryker was a bad bird.”
“Thank you, Ames. You’re wise to tell it all, and it won’t hurt you none
at the trial.”
Hashknife turned to the old judge, who still stood at the desk, gun in
hand.
“You can put up your gun, Judge,” he said. “The whole county will
vindicate you for your mistake. Mallette was a thief and a card-sharp.
You did just what any man would have done. Now, forget it.”
“I--I’ll have to put these three birdies in jail,” said Roarin’, “and
turn Jimmy Moran loose, eh?”
“Y’betcha.”
“Bring ’em along, boys.”
Hashknife turned to meet Dawn and Pete. None of them spoke for several
moments. Franklyn Moran stepped beside Dawn; he seemed bewildered.
Hashknife smiled at Dawn.
“Let’s not talk about it, Dawn,” he suggested. “Jimmy will be out pretty
quick, and he’ll come up the street, you know.”
Dawn glanced quickly at Franklyn Moran.
“It’s--uh--all right,” he said. “Fine, Dawn.”
“I don’t talk much,” said Pete dumbly.
“That’s fine,” grinned Hashknife, “You’re a man after my own heart.”
Dawn and Pete went hurriedly up the aisle. The old judge came down to
Hashknife and Moran and held out his hand to Hashknife.
“I don’t pretend to know much about it,” he said slowly.
They shook hands gravely, and Moran shook hands with the judge.
“You know many things, young man,” said the judge. “I have grown very
old today, but I’m going to grow younger. I hope you stay with us;
Turquoise City needs men like you.”
“I hope he will stay,” said Moran. “I’m still shocked, and I don’t know
what to do or say.”
“Will you do me a favor?” asked Hashknife.
“Anything in the world, Hartley.”
“Come out and see Moses Conley with me.”
“Moses Conley? Why, well, that’s quite--I’ll go.”
They walked from the court room and met the doctor on the stairs.
“My goodness!” he blurted. “More shooting! I jump around like a
grasshopper. What was it? Nobody talks--they yell. Ten men yelling at me
at the same time. I can’t hardly keep Stevens in bed. Fields came up and
danced on the foot of the bed. Crazy men.”
“You can’t do any good up there, Doc,” said Hashknife.
“Only in your capacity as coroner.”
They went on down to the street. Jimmy was running up from the jail, and
Dawn met him. Pete stood on the sidewalk, blinking around. He didn’t
know what to do.
Hashknife took Moran by the arm and led him down to where Dawn and Jimmy
were looking at each other. Jimmy looked at his father and grinned
foolishly.
“Hyah, Dad,” he said. “How are you?”
“All right, Jimmy. Why don’t you kiss her. We’re all going out to see
her father.”
“For heaven’s sake!” Jimmy cried. “Who upset the world?” He stepped past
Dawn and held out his hand to Hashknife. “You did,” said Jimmy. “I’m all
out of words, Hartley.”
“Good, boy! So am I.”
* * * * *
It was Mrs. Conley who saw them from afar, as they came up the dusty
road. There was a top-buggy, and several men on horseback. She had been
anxiously waiting for Dawn to come home and bring the news. It had been
impossible for her to leave her husband, as there was no one else to
take care of him. She went back to the old man.
“Some folks come,” she said. “One buggy, five, six horses. They turn in
our gate.”
“Who can it be? What has happened now, Minnie? Dawn said she was sure
the case would go to the jury today. Who would be coming here today?”
“I go look.”
Mrs. Conley stood dumbly on the porch and watched Pete and Dawn and
Jimmy Moran get out of the buggy, while Franklyn Moran, Slim Regan,
Lovely Lucas, Hank Pitts and Hashknife dismounted from their horses.
Dawn ran up and threw her arms around her mother, who merely stared at
everybody, especially at Pete, who grinned sheepishly.
“Peter is free, mother!” exclaimed Dawn. “He didn’t shoot Mallette!
Don’t you understand? He’s free!”
“Pretty damn good, eh?” The Indian woman smiled.
“Will you shake hands with me?” asked Moran, holding out his hand to
Mrs. Conley.
She looked closely at him for a moment.
“Your name Moran. You want to shake hands? You crazy?”
“No, I’m not crazy. I want to be a friend.”
“Damn funny.”
She shook hands with him wonderingly, and they all went into the house.
Dawn ran to her father, telling him the good news. Conley patted her on
the head and stared at Franklyn Moran, his sunken eyes wide with wonder.
“Conley,” said Moran, coming in close to the bed, “I came to see if we
can’t be friends. It seems that our kids have decided to marry each
other, and I think it’s time for us to bury the hatchet. Everything else
has been straightened out. The 7AL were the ones that caused the
trouble. They tried to start war between us. They killed my cattle on
your land, and they tried to kill you. Hartley run ’em down. Cutter is
dead and the rest of his gang are in jail. Ryker is dead; he was a
leader in their crooked work. Will you shake hands with me?”
The old man held out a shaking hand.