Pedro Torres was in a bad frame of mind over his enforced bath in the
blacksmith shop. He made a few purchases at one of the stores, bought a
bath in the one tub at the hotel, and became presentable again.
But his vanity had been badly injured, and he swore dire threats toward
the man who had insulted him. He assured himself that he had done
nothing wrong, merely desiring to talk with a half-breed girl.
Garcia was not sympathetic. He had seen the incident, and the fact that
Torres hankered for revenge made little difference to Garcia. If Torres
had asked Garcia to kill Hashknife, Garcia would have instantly agreed
to do it.
Baldy Kern smiled grimly and polished his head. He was curious to know a
few things about Hashknife and Sleepy. Baldy was not talkative, so he
chose to listen. Cloudy Day, still full of liquor, had been told of the
incident, and imagined that he had seen it.
“It sure was good,” he announced in the Greenback Saloon. “That tall
puncher was all crippled up with rheumatism, but he picked Torres up
just like Torres wasn’t nothin’. If that feller’s got rheumatism, I’m
paralyzed, thassall.”
Baldy grinned widely. He had seen no evidences of Hashknife’s being a
cripple.
“Who is this feller, Cloudy?” he asked.
“Tha’s a question,” said Cloudy owlishly. “Lon introduced me to them,
but I didn’t git the names.”
“Lon knows ’em, does he?”
“Oh, abs’lutely. Why, Lon’s an old friend of theirs.”
Baldy accepted this with a grain of salt. He knew that Cloudy was prone
to exaggerate, especially when drinking; so he found Lon Belly in the
Yellow Stamp Saloon, bought Lon a drink, and swung the conversation
around to the baptism of Torres.
Lon hadn’t seen it either.
“Must be strong,” commented Baldy. “Torres ain’t no little kid. They
tell me that this stranger picked Torres up and packed him to the
blacksmith shop.”
“He’s tall, but don’t look very strong,” said Lon. “I dunno anythin’
about him, except what I got from talkin’ with him a little. They was on
the stage when it was held up. The tall one said they was goin’ over to
Hawkworth’s for him to take baths for his rheumatism.”
“Must be badly crippled,” mused Baldy aloud.
“He did limp a little,” offered Lon. “Mebbe he got so mad at Torres that
he forgot to limp. A feller over in the restaurant seen it, and he said
that Torres was bowin’ and scrapin’ to Wanna Hawkworth when this feller
picked him up.”
Baldy smiled softly and bought another drink. Did Lon know what this
tall feller’s name was?
“Name’s Hartley. Short one is Stevens.”
Baldy considered the names, but they meant nothing to him.
“How much of a haul did the robbers get?” he asked.
“Nobody seems to know,” replied Lon.
“Got any idea who done it, Lon?”
“Yeah--three men.”
Baldy left the Yellow Stamp and went down to the doctor’s house. He had
known Doctor Henry for several months. The doctor was an oldish man,
very methodical, reserved.
“The patient is doing very nicely,” he told Baldy. “I recovered the
bullet, and can see no reason why, with proper care, he should not
completely recover.”
“That’s fine,” agreed Baldy. “Yo’re some doctor. What was the feller’s
name, Doc?”
“His name is Jack Hill, I believe.”
“Uh-huh. Jack Hill. Must be a stranger, eh?”
“I think he is, Mr. Kern. He is not inclined to talk about himself. My
worry now is to get a suitable nurse for him. He says he is able to pay
for services, and wants to be sent out, but such a thing would be
impossible.”
“I dunno where you’d find a nurse, Doc. Wimmin ain’t noways plentiful
around here, not the nursin’ kind.”
Baldy went back to the Greenback Saloon, none the wiser for his
interviews.
He did not know anyone by the name of Jack Hill, and he wondered why the
holdup man had shot him down. For his own satisfaction, Baldy desired to
know things.
It was shortly after dark that Torres and Garcia mounted their horses
and rode out of Pinnacle, heading south. Across the border was the
Rancho Sierra, owned by Steve Guadalupe, who bred gamecocks and trouble.
Steve was an old man and full of iniquity, who pointed with pride to the
fact that his ancestors were pure Castilian, when, as a matter of fact,
he was a mixture of Portuguese, Mexican, and Yaqui.
Torres and Garcia were friends of Steve, as were most of the denizens of
the border, whose deviltry served to bring dishonor upon the Mexicans as
a people. The Rancho Sierra was too isolated for the Mexican Government
to bother with Steve’s doings, and the United States officers could only
patrol the border and hate him from afar.
Two more of Baldy’s men, Sam Blair and Jack Baum, had ridden into town
just before Torres and Garcia rode away. Blair was a blocky-faced
individual, none too intelligent-looking and of rather unkempt
appearance.
Baldy met him at the hitch-rack and whispered for him to follow Torres
and see where he was going. Blair nodded and rode out of town a few
minutes after Torres and Garcia. Blair did not ask questions; neither
did Baldy tell him why he wanted Torres followed.
* * * * *
It was one of those moonlight nights down in the border country, when
the moon seems to almost rest upon the hills and bathes the world in a
blue light. Blair had no difficulty in following Torres and Garcia. They
rode slowly toward the south until a mile out of town, when they turned
northeast, circling back around Pinnacle.
Blair waited until they had made their swing before following them. He
rode a gray horse, which made him almost invisible in the gray blue of
the landscape. Torres and Garcia rode faster now, keeping off the road
and heading straight for Hawkworth’s Tumbling H Ranch. Blair suspected
that this was their goal, so he moved closer.
They swung wide of the ranch buildings and came in behind the stable,
while Blair dismounted farther up the cañon and came down on foot. Two
of the ranch-house buildings were illuminated, and he could hear a
squeaky phonograph playing a waltz.
Blair came in behind the stable, going softly. He knew that Torres and
Garcia were not far away. He crawled through the corral fence, went
slowly along the side of the stable and out through the other side of
the corral.
There was still no sign of Torres and Garcia. Blair peered around the
corner of the stable. He could see the door of the bathhouse, which was
illuminated from a light within. From the ranch-house came the sound of
muffled voices.
Blair scratched his nose and considered things. If someone came from the
rear door of the ranch-house, they could see him. He did not like his
position in the matter at all. Someone was moving around in the
bathhouse, and now the occupant came out, carrying a lantern, which gave
little light.
Blair flattened himself against the wall, between the corner of the barn
and the corral, peering around to see which way the lantern-bearer was
going.
Then there came a dull thud, and the man with the lantern went down,
throwing the lantern aside, but not extinguishing it. Blair jerked back.
Torres and Garcia ran past him, going around the corner of the corral
and out to their horses.
In another minute he heard them riding swiftly away. The phonograph had
started another turn.
Blair squinted thoughtfully as he peered out again. He could see the
black bulk of the man on the ground, and the spluttering lantern near
him.
Cautiously Blair stepped away from the corner and went swiftly over to
the man, who was lying on his back. He picked up the lantern and stepped
in close, throwing the beams of light into the face of the man on the
ground.
For several moments Blair stared down at that face, oblivious to
everything. He bent closer, holding the lantern on a level with his own
face, as he peered into the features of the injured man. A voice spoke
to him out of the darkness and he jerked upright, still clutching the
lantern.
* * * * *
It was late that evening when Musical Matthews and Cleve Davis rode in
at the Tumbling H and met Hashknife and Sleepy. In a few short words Big
Medicine told them that Hashknife and Sleepy would be with them until
Hashknife’s rheumatism had succumbed to the effect of the hot baths.
Hashknife had just got out of bed and was feeling better, but slightly
weak. Lucy had told about Hashknife’s encounter with Torres, and it
seemed to please everyone except Hashknife. Big Medicine seemed a bit
dubious over the outcome of it.
“Watch that Mexican,” he warned Hashknife. “He’s a snake.”
“I’ve made snakes bite themselves,” grinned Hashknife.
“Didja ever see one of them knife-throwin’ Mex handle his weapon?” asked
Musical.
“No,” Hashknife shook his head. “I don’t _sabe_ ’em much.”
“Then look out for ’em. Knives don’t make no noise. I’d shore rather
face a six-gun than a knife, and either Torres or his dirty-face
pardner, Garcia, can shore pin your ears back with a knife at twenty
feet.”
Lucy came to announce supper, and they all clattered to the table,
except Hashknife.
“I’ve done lost my appetite,” he told them. “Couldn’t eat a thing,
folks; so I reckon I’ll take the lantern and go out to the bathhouse.
Another good soakin’ and a big sleep will put me in the saddle again.”
Lucy secured the lantern for him and he went out through the kitchen,
while the rest of them did ample justice to the culinary efforts of Lucy
and Wanna, who waited on the table silently.
“We rode beyond the breaks,” Musical told Big Medicine. “As far as we
can see, everythin’ is all right. There wasn’t many cows over on that
side. From up on that saw-tooth ridge yuh can almost see the Rancho
Sierra.”
Big Medicine nodded and turned to Sleepy.
“This Rancho Sierra is across the border. Belongs to old Steve
Guadalupe, the meanest old Mexican that ever stole a cow. We have to
keep our eyes open all the time, Stevens. They’ve raided us a few
times.”
“Yuh can’t get ’em back after they cross the line, eh?”
“Not very well. Our business is to keep them far enough on this side to
make it hard for them to grab very many. Guadalupe has a tough gang down
there, rustlers, smugglers, and all that kind of folks.”
“I wonder if it was some of his gang that held us up the other night,”
said Sleepy.
Big Medicine frowned heavily, but said nothing.
“Hell, yuh don’t have to go into Mexico to find holdup men,” said Cleve
Davis. “There’s plenty of ’em on this side of the line. I’ve got a hunch
that it was white men from this side of the line that stole the last
bunch of cattle from us.”
“That K-10 outfit?” began Musical, but Big Medicine stopped him with a
gesture.
“Name no names, Musical, please,” he said softly. “There is bad blood
between this ranch and the K-10, and the least said the better. Give
them the benefit of the doubt, until we are sure.”
“All right, Big Medicine. I s’pose that’s right, too. But I get kinda
mad once in a while.”
“You should learn to control your temper.”
Sleepy grinned, as he remembered how Big Medicine had pitched Jim Reed
out on his head that morning. Big Medicine had said nothing about being
mad, but had admitted that Reed had irritated him beyond endurance.
Sleepy wondered what Big Medicine might do if he became mad.
They finished their meal and went back to the creaky-floored
living-room, where Musical proceeded to put a record on the phonograph.
After the second record Sleepy grew nervous. He hitched his chair
around, tore up two cigarette papers, and decided he would go and see
how Hashknife was getting on with his bath.
He went out through the kitchen, where Lucy and Wanna were clearing off
the table, and the old squaw handed him a clean towel.
“I ain’t goin’ to take a bath,” he told her smiling.
“All right. You giveum to tall man. He need much towel.”
“There is quite a lot of him,” grinned Sleepy. “Thanks.”
The door was not latched and he stepped out softly. The bathhouse was
only fifty feet away. About ten feet from the open door of the bathhouse
crouched a man, holding a lantern in such a way that his face was fully
illuminated. Lying on the ground was the body of a man.
Sleepy stepped forward, his right hand reaching back to his gun.
“What are you doin’ here?” he almost shouted.
Sam Blair jerked up, still holding the lantern, but flung it aside as he
drew his gun. The lantern had barely smashed to the ground when the two
men began shooting.
Sleepy felt the first bullet as it passed his head, and fired twice in
rapid succession. Blair fired again, but the streak of flame from his
gun was pointing upward and the bullet went streaking toward the North
Star, while Blair stumbled and went down in a heap.
It was all over in five seconds. The kitchen door crashed open and the
three cowpunchers, headed by Big Medicine, came running out. Sleepy was
going toward Blair, covering him with his gun, when Big Medicine joined
him.
“What happened?” he panted. “What was the matter?”
“Watch that jigger,” said Sleepy hoarsely. “I think he’s got Hashknife.”
Sleepy fell on his knees beside Hashknife, while the others scratched
matches. Big Medicine came from Blair.
“Take him into the house,” he ordered. “This other feller ain’t goin’ to
get away, until he’s carried away.”
They carried Hashknife into the house and placed him on the floor, while
Big Medicine made a swift examination.
“He got hit, that’s all,” declared Big Medicine, pointing to an egglike
swelling on Hashknife’s head between his eye and ear. “He’ll be all
right in a few minutes, I think.”
Sleepy sighed with relief and leaned against the wall.
“That other jigger opened the ball,” he said wearily. “His first bullet
almost creased me. He was humped over Hashknife, lookin’ him over with a
lantern, when I went out there. I just had a hunch that somethin’ was
wrong.”
Big Medicine nodded slowly.
“It was Sam Blair of the K-10 outfit,” he said softly.
“Dead?” asked Musical.
“Yes.”
Musical shrugged his shoulders.
“The war is on, I reckon.”
“Aw, that’s too bad,” said Sleepy. “Dang it, I had to shoot.”
“Sure yuh did,” assured Musical. “That’s all right, Stevens.”
* * * * *
The practical Lucy came in with a basin of water and a towel, with which
she proceeded to bathe Hashknife’s head and face. He opened his eyes and
stared up at them in wonderment.
“How are yuh feelin’, pardner?” asked Sleepy.
Hashknife sat up and felt gingerly of his head.
“What happened?” he asked foolishly.
“Somebody hit yuh when yuh came out of the bathhouse.”
“Oh, yeah.” Hashknife got to his feet and blinked painfully. “I remember
startin’ out, when somethin’ hit me and I seen a million stars. Who was
it, Sleepy?”
“I dunno.”
Sleepy scratched his head nervously, as he told Hashknife what he had
done.
“They tell me that his name was Sam Blair,” said Sleepy.
“From the K-10 outfit,” said Musical quickly. “Mebbe we better kinda
look around with a lantern, eh?”
Hashknife and Sleepy exchanged a quick glance.
“You feel good now?” asked Lucy anxiously, dripping water from the towel
and the basin.
“Yeah, I feel fine,” lied Hashknife. “Ain’t got a pain in either leg.”
The boys had secured another lantern and were going out to look around.
Hashknife sat down in a chair and Lucy proceeded to attack the swelling
with compresses. In a few minutes Musical came back and placed a
long-bladed knife, with a horn handle, on the table beside Hashknife.
“There’s what hit yuh,” he declared. “Whoever throwed it at yuh must ’a’
misjudged a little and hit yuh with the hilt. It was right near where
yuh was layin’. And,” added Musical, “that Sam Blair wasn’t no
knife-thrower.”
“Wasn’t he?”
Hashknife looked the knife over carefully. It was a wicked weapon,
almost as sharp as a razor, and with a point like a needle.
“Do yuh reckon the Mexican did it?” asked Hashknife.
“You’ll probably never know who done it,” said Ike. “Sam Blair is too
dead to skin. Mebbe he knowed who threw it. If he didn’t, what in hell
was he doin’ out there? Big Medicine swore he’d kill the first K-10
puncher that showed up; swore that to Baldy Kern.
“It’s shore too bad, but it can’t be helped. The K-10 will declare war
as sure as hell. Not that we care a whoop what they do, except that
it’ll mean a killin’.”
Ike turned to Sleepy.
“That Sam Blair is the puncher I was tellin’ yuh about, from Oregon, or
up thataway. Funny, ain’t it? Talkin’ about him today, and got him on
our hands tonight--dead.”
Big Medicine came in and sat down. His face was very grave, as he rested
his big hands on his knees and squinted thoughtfully. Ike handed him the
knife and he hefted it in his hand.
“I don’t think that Blair ever threw it,” he said. “It looks like one
that Pete Torres might use.”
“If Blair had nothin’ to do with it, why did he start shootin’ at
Stevens?” asked Musical.
“I don’t know, Musical.”
Big Medicine handed back the knife.
“This will start trouble, won’t it?” asked Hashknife.
“Very likely,” said Big Medicine. “The K-10 outfit is not a crew of men
you can talk things over with.”
“I’ll tell yuh what we’ll do,” suggested Hashknife. “We’ll pack the body
in close to Pinnacle and swear that we met him and he started shootin’.
That’ll let you folks out of it.”
“That’s it,” agreed Sleepy. “They’ll believe us.”
But Big Medicine shook his head quickly. “Since when did the Tumbling H
shift a responsibility to a guest?” he demanded. “If Baldy Kern wants
battle, he’ll get it.”
“Suits me,” said Musical joyfully. “I’ve been kinda----”
“Just a moment,” begged Hashknife. “We’re not askin’ to take any
responsibility off the Tumblin’ H Ranch. There’s somethin’ wrong about
this whole thing, folks. If Torres threw that knife, what did Blair have
to do with it? Torres ain’t connected with the K-10, is he?”
“No, he sure ain’t,” declared Ike.
“Find Blair’s horse,” said Hashknife. “He didn’t walk here.”
Musical, Cleve, Ike, and Sleepy went horse-hunting, while Big Medicine
watched Lucy draw most of the swelling from Hashknife’s injury. The hilt
of the knife had bruised the scalp a little, but it would not be
noticeable after the swelling was out.
“Torres probably threw that knife, saw you fall, and headed for the
border,” said Big Medicine. “It isn’t often that he misses. Possibly he
hurried his throw and misjudged the distance in the dark.”
“Always somethin’ to be thankful for,” grinned Hashknife. “It always
seems that things might ’a’ been worse.”
In a few minutes the boys came in. They had found Blair’s gray horse,
branded with the K-10, and brought it up to the house.
“What’s the next thing to do?” asked Ike.
“We’ll put Blair on his horse and take him to town,” said Hashknife. “Me
and Sleepy found him beside the road when we were comin’ in from this
ranch, and we don’t know a thing about how he got killed. There’s
somethin’ wrong about this deal, and if we make a mystery about this,
mebbe somebody will show their cards.”
Big Medicine nodded gravely.
“Possibly. I wish we could settle this without open warfare, but I do
not want you to take the blame. Blair had no right to be here tonight.
He knew that I had drawn a deadline against the K-10, and he knew that I
would keep my word.”
They loaded Blair’s body on his horse, roped it on with Blair’s rope,
and saddled their own horses. Hashknife walked with only a slight limp
and was able to mount his horse without much suffering. His head ached
slightly, but otherwise he felt able to take care of himself.
“Come out tomorrow mornin’,” invited Big Medicine.
“Come tonight,” said Lucy. “We got plenty bed.”
“Thank yuh,” grinned Hashknife. “We’ll see how this deal will work out.
So long.”