UNPROVED ACCUSATIONS
Hashknife and Sleepy were standing in front of the hotel when Nan Lane
rode into Cañonville. Her horse was lathered to the ears and almost fell
with her, but she yanked it up and headed for the sheriff’s office.
“Little Miss Somebody’s in a hurry,” observed Sleepy.
“Y’betcha,” agreed Hashknife. “Come to visit the sheriff, too. Let’s see
what’s all the hurry about.”
They strode down to the office, where they found Nan telling Lem and
Noah what had happened at the ranch.
“But what was it all about?” asked Lem. “Doggone it, Nan, don’tcha know
what they wanted?”
Nan clung to the back of a chair, weary from her wild ride over the
Coyote Cañon grades.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Rex slammed the door in their faces, before
they had time to tell, I suppose. Then he ran in through my room and
fell through the window. I—I guess they thought it was my father; so
they took out after him.
“Dad didn’t know what it was all about, but he decided to keep away
until he could find out; so he took one of their horses and I took
another.”
“And all them jiggers went huntin’ young Morgan, eh?” grinned Noah.
“I’ll betcha they ruin him before they’re through.”
Lem frowned reflectively, wondering what to do. Then he stepped over to
his desk, opened a drawer and took out Peter Morgan’s six-shooter, which
he held out to Nan.
“Didja ever see that gun before?” he asked.
Nan looked at it, knowing down in her heart that it was the gun Lem had
picked up in the corral, but at that time she had paid no attention to
the general appearance of the gun.
“I don’t believe I have,” she replied calmly.
Lem tossed it back in the drawer, as if dismissing it from the
conversation.
“I reckon we better ride up thataway and see what’s what,” he said
slowly; then he turned to Hashknife. “Want to go along?”
“Like to,” nodded Hashknife, “but our broncs are so sore footed that—”
“Plenty broncs,” said Noah quickly. “I’ll get you a couple. C’mon.”
When the three men were gone, Lem turned to Nan, where she was standing
beside the doorway, looking out at the street.
“Was that _all_ you knowed about it, Nan?” he asked.
“All?” She turned her head quickly.
“Yeah. You didn’t know why they came after your father?”
She shook her head and looked back at the street.
“You knew I found Peter Morgan’s gun in your corral this mornin’, didn’t
you, Nan?”
“I saw you pick up a gun, Lem.”
“You didn’t know whose gun it was?”
“How would I know?” she parried.
“It’s got his initials on it.”
“Has it? He must have lost it in our corral.”
“Looks like it,” sighed Lem. “Hear anythin’ of your brother?”
Nan shook her head.
“Anyway,” she said, “you couldn’t expect me to answer that, could you,
Lem?”
“I’m your friend.”
“And sheriff of this county.”
“Yeah, I reckon that’s right.”
“Who are those two strange cowboys, Lem?”
“Hartley and Stevens. The tall one is Hartley.”
“He has fine eyes, hasn’t he?”
“Never noticed. His brother used to work with Noah. But what is fine
about his eyes?”
“The way they look at you, Lem.”
The sheriff laughed softly.
“You’re a pretty girl, Nan.”
“But they didn’t look at me that way.”
“I pass,” sighed Lem.
The three men were coming from the livery stable with their horses.
“Mebbe you better stay here in town until this thing is over,” suggested
Lem.
“Not me,” declared Nan. “I’m going back with you, if that stolen horse
is able to make the trip.”
“Looks like Dave Morgan’s bronc,” grinned Lem. “He’ll want me to arrest
you for stealin’ his horse, I suppose. Mebbe I will, Nan. Who knows?”
“I—I hope you won’t, Lem,” she said seriously.
“Well, I won’t. And if he swears out a warrant, I’ll give you plenty of
room for a getaway.”
* * * * *
Lem introduced Hashknife and Sleepy to Nan, and they all rode out of
town together. Nan was worried about what might happen to Rex Morgan,
but Lem refused to hurry.
“Your horse is all tired out and, anyway, they won’t hurt young Morgan,”
he said. “Them boys will find out their mistake. One of ’em might take a
punch at him for foxin’ ’em thataway.”
“Oh, I hope not,” said Nan. “His head is badly hurt, and he isn’t very
strong, anyway.”
“Did he pull that winder stunt to give your dad a chance to git away?”
asked Noah.
“I don’t know. Perhaps he was so frightened at the sight of those guns
that he went right out through the window. You see—” turning to
Hashknife—“he isn’t used to this kind of a country, Mr. Hartley.”
“I can imagine how he’d feel,” smiled Hashknife. “What do you know about
young Morgan, Miss Lane?”
“Only what he has told us.”
“Kind of a misfit,” growled Lem. “Ort to be back in the city where he
belongs.”
Noah winked at Hashknife meaningly, and Nan saw it. She blushed and
turned her head away. It was nearly dark when they reached the Lane
ranch. Rex was sitting on the front porch, with Paul Lane’s
double-barrel shotgun across his lap. In the dim light he recognized
Nan, and came out to meet the cavalcade.
“What did they do to you, Rex?” she asked anxiously.
“Not much,” cheerfully. “One of the boys knocked me down, and then I
knocked him down.”
“The hell you did!” blurted Lem, swinging down from his saddle. “Which
one was it, Morgan?”
“I think it was Mr. Cahill.”
“Spike Cahill!” exploded Noah. “You knocked him down?”
“Yes. It was quite a while before he recovered.”
“Sa-a-ay! C’mere and shake hands.”
Rex shook hands with Noah, who doubled up with mirth.
“Is Spike Cahill a fighter?” asked Hashknife.
“Not necessarily; but he’s shore belligerent. Wish t’ gosh I’d ’a’ seen
it. That’ll stigmatize Spike to his dyin’ day.”
“C’mere, Morgan,” ordered Lem severely. “What was it all about? Didn’t
they tell you?”
“Yes, they told me. I tried to find out how they knew so much about
it—the evidence, you know—but they—”
“The evidence of what?”
“That Mr. Lane had killed Peter Morgan.”
“F’r God’s sake! Is Peter Morgan dead?”
“I would gather from their remarks that he is, Mr. Sheeley. I asked them
where he was killed and when he was killed, but none of them were able
to answer my questions. They rode away without molesting me further.”
“Did Spike Cahill knock you down, Rex?” asked Nan.
“Oh, certainly. I suppose he was excited. In fact, one of them fired
three shots at me, and one went through my sleeve, but no harm was done.
But for fear that some of them might come back, I armed myself.”
Sleepy picked up the shotgun and opened it.
“This gun is empty,” he said.
“Didn’t you load it, Rex?” asked Nan.
“No. You see, I didn’t know—”
“And there you are!” snorted Lem. “Hell’s bells! We’ve got to get to
town and find out about this. Noah, you stay here and help hold down the
ranch. We can’t leave Nan alone with that idiot.”
“Suppose you stay here, too, Sleepy,” suggested Hashknife.
“Suits me.”
“I thought it would,” said Hashknife meaningly.
* * * * *
Lem and Hashknife mounted and headed for Mesa City, riding knee to knee.
“What was it about that gun in the corral?” queried Hashknife, as they
swung back on the main road.
“I dunno, Hartley. It looks bad for Lane. Of course, we’ll have to get
the details before we can figure on anythin’. I feel awful sorry for
that girl. But she’s plumb game, she is. Imagine a girl actin’ like her,
when her father and brother are both accused of murder and both hidin’
in the hills.”
“She’s shore cool, Sheriff. It takes cool folks to live in this kind of
a country.”
“In more ways than one, Hartley.”
They rode in at Mesa City and tied their horses at the Oasis Saloon,
where they found Dave Morgan, Cal Dickenson, Spike Cahill, Napoleon
Bonaparte Briggs and Red Eller, all more or less drunk. They looked the
sheriff over coldly.
“What’s been goin’ on, boys?” asked the sheriff.
“A-a-a-a plenty!” snorted Dave Morgan. “Didn’t you hear about it?”
“I haven’t heard much, Dave. Nan Lane came to Cañonville after me, but
she didn’t know what it was all about. Young Morgan said you accused
Paul Lane of murderin’ Peter Morgan. It’s a wonder that some of you
couldn’t have come after me in the first place. Now, the soberest one of
you tell me what happened today. No, don’t all talk at once. Spike, you
tell it.”
“I can damn’ soon tell you, Lem,” declared Spike. “When we got up this
mornin’, Peter Morgan was gone. He’d saddled up and pulled out before
breakfast. Me and Bert Roddy came to town. Well, you met us here, Lem.
We went back to the ranch, and it wasn’t so very long after that, when
here comes Peter Morgan’s horse, and on his back is Pete Morgan, tied
on—dead as a doornail.
“He’d been hit over the head with somethin’, and his gun was gone. There
was blood on the horse’s shoulder, and we thought the horse had been
shot, but it was Pete’s blood. And the horse came from down toward the
Lane ranch. You know that Pete and old Lane had a fight yesterday here
in town, and Lane said he’d kill the first one of the 6X6 that ever came
on his ranch.”
“Where’s Pete’s body now, Spike?”
“Out at the ranch.”
“And nobody thought to notify me, eh? I suppose the sheriff and the
coroner—”
“We didn’t need your help,” said Dave Morgan. “You haven’t even tried to
find young Lane. Things like this don’t require a sheriff, Lem.”
“Things like this require a little brains and horse sense,” retorted
Lem. “And there ain’t a one of you fellers that qualify. You was jist
smart enough to send Old Man Lane into the hills.”
“If it hadn’t been for that fool kid—”
“Smart, I’d call it,” said Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs.
“Hello, Napoleon,” smiled Lem. “How come you in town?”
“He’s scared to stay on the ranch with a corpse,” laughed Spike.
“Wouldn’t even stay there along with Dell Bowen and Bert Roddy.”
“All right,” grunted Briggs. “I don’t crave no dead folks. Every
person’s got a hobby. Mine’s to keep a long ways ahead of the dead.”
“You got a rig we can take the body to Cañonville in?” asked Lem.
“Shore,” nodded Spike. “Got a hack.”
“All right, c’mon and drive it.”
“Aw, hell, Lem! I’m all—”
“You’re deputized, Spike.”
“I hoped you wouldn’t do that, Lem.”
“Well, it’s done. C’mon.”
“You have to come back through here, don’tcha?” asked Hashknife. “All
right, I’ll stay here until you come back.”
“You got a hobby like mine?” asked Briggs.
“Somethin’ like it.”
“Good! I’ll buy a drink.”
* * * * *
Dave Morgan, Cal Dickenson and Spike Cahill went with the sheriff, while
Hashknife stayed with Napoleon and Red Eller. The Oasis was not busy.
Only on Saturday and Sunday was the trade heavy. The bartender was a
portly sort of person, collarless, moist of skin, with the proverbial
“spit curl” over his left eye, and an odor of perfume about him.
“It sure was a blow to this country when Peter Morgan died,” he said
mournfully. “Grand man; big man. In fact, he was the biggest—”
“Your loop’s around your feet,” warned Briggs. “All you know about him
is seein’ him once or twice a week.”
“I worked for him, didn’t I?”
“Yea-a-ah, you did and you do. But I knowed him better than you ever
could. I’ve filled his belly with food for years, and I shore know him
from his chilblains to his dandruff. And he wasn’t a big man. He was
pretty much of a fool in lotsa ways.”
“Just what ways?” asked the bartender.
“Lotsa ways. Say! He shore got popped over the head awful hard. I got
one look at him, and that was s’fficient f’r me. I says t’ myself,
‘Pete, you’re a goner.’ And he was, too.”
“Who was there when he came, Briggs?”
“Oh, me and Spike and Bert and Dell and Dave Morgan. It shore hit Dave
awful hard. Him and Peter never was real friendly, but they was
cousins.”
“Who gets the 6X6 ranch?” asked Hashknife.
“Prob’ly lotsa folks are wonderin’ about that,” said Briggs slowly.
“Dave looks like the lee-gitimate heir, unless old Pete made out a will.
That’ll all be found out later on, I reckon. Pete wasn’t much of a hand
to monkey with lawyers. Kinda wanted t’ be his own law.”
“Dave’ll probably git the Oasis Saloon, too,” said the bartender. “Mebbe
he’ll get his fill of liquor and poker.”
“Dave’s all right,” defended Red Eller.
“I’m not sayin’ a word agin him, Red. Let’s all have a drink.”
They accepted the drink, and Hashknife turned to Red. “Were you at the
Lane ranch this mornin’?”
“I shore was,” grinned Red. “That tenderfoot shore foxed us aplenty. We
was so anxious to git our hands on Old Man Lane that we plumb forgot he
might stampede; and when he heard that winder go smash, we busted our
legs, tryin’ to head him off.
“And he shore led us a merry chase. By the time we did catch him, Spike
was awful sore. He busted the kid flat with a punch on the jaw, but the
kid got up, kinda white, spittin’ blood. And when Spike grabbed him by
the arm, the kid knocked Spike plumb cold with an uppercut to the jaw.
“Oh, it was a complete knockout. That tenderfoot kid may be crazy, but
don’t never let anybody tell you he can’t hit. He took all the fight out
of Spike. Why, he hit Spike so damn’ hard that Spike got on his horse
from the wrong side.”
“Is he any relation to Dave Morgan?” asked Hashknife.
“Na-a-aw!”
“What’s he doin’ in this country?”
“_Quien sabe?_ He ain’t been here long enough for anybody to find out.
Hello, Bunty.”
* * * * *
Bunty Smith came over to the bar, glanced quickly at Hashknife and
returned Red’s greeting. Red turned to Hashknife.
“I dunno your name, pardner; but whatever it is, this is Bunty Smith,
one of the stage drivers. Bunty’s the owner of the stage line, and
drives every other day.”
“My name’s Hartley,” smiled Hashknife, and shook hands with Bunty.
“We was jist talkin’ about young Morgan,” said Red.
“Oh, that fool! Is he still alive?”
“Live enough to knock Spike Cahill out.”
“You love to lie, don’tcha, Red?”
Red explained what happened that morning, and Bunty apologized by buying
a drink.
“That tenderfoot shore had me moppin’ my brow,” laughed Bunty. “I still
think he’s loco. Hartley, did you hear about him headin’ for town on one
of my horses, and fallin’ off on his head in front of the Lane
ranch-house?”
“He said somebody hit him, didn’t he?”
“Shore he did. Alibi for fallin’ off.”
“I never thought of that,” laughed Red. “By golly, and I thought it was
a mystery.”
“It’s like the usual mystery,” smiled Hashknife.
“Do you like mishteries?” asked Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs, who was not
carrying his liquor very well.
“I don’t,” replied Hashknife.
“Shame here. I like romansh. Didja ever read ‘Lef’ At The Altar’? Great
book. You don’t happen to know where I c’n fin’ the rest of it, do you?”
“The rest of the book?”
“Shertinly. Mine’s been docked. Right on the las’ line it says, ‘Lord
Mort’mer flung the heavy draperies ashide with the pint of his
sh-sh-shward, and there stood——’ And that’s the end of it. I’ve ’magined
my own endin’ for the schtory, but it ain’t so good. But she’s a dinger
up to where she skips off into space.”
“Sheriff ain’t caught young Lane yet, has he?” asked Bunty.
“Na-a-aw, and he never will,” flared Red. “I think he’s stuck on that
girl.”
“Shows good taste,” said Briggs. “I’ve only sheen her once, but I was
shober enough to r’lize that she was pretty nice for to gaze upon.”
“The sheriff,” said Hashknife, anxious to switch the subject away from
Nan, “seems of the opinion that this young Lane shot in self-defense.”
“All right,” said Red, ready for an argument. “If he did, why did he
take Ben’s horse and gun? I’m not tryin’ to stick him for killin’ Ben,
if he had to do it; but he took the horse and the gun.”
“Yes, that looks bad. But he was drunk.”
“Not too drunk, Hartley. Remember he shot straight.”
“That’s true. And what evidence have you that Old Man Lane killed Peter
Morgan?”
“None,” said Red honestly. “Lane swore he’d kill him, if he came to his
ranch. Peter Morgan is dead, and his body came from toward the Lane
ranch. That’s all we’ve got.”
“Lane was heard to say that he’d kill any of the 6X6 that came to his
ranch, wasn’t he?”
“He shore was.”
“And if Peter Morgan went there, after that warnin’, wasn’t he expectin’
to kill or be killed?”
“I dunno what he thought. But that can’t be made out as self-defense,
Hartley. If Lane killed him, why didn’t Lane report it to the sheriff? I
mean, if it was self-defense. Lane could clear himself, I reckon.”
“Could he, Eller? With his own son hidin’ out from the law? With the
feeling against nesters? Do you think he could clear himself? Remember,
Peter Morgan was a big man around here—Lane, the smallest. Look at it
from Lane’s angle.”
* * * * *
Red gazed moodily at his empty glass.
“I see what you mean, Hartley. I never did put myself in Lane’s
place—until now.”
“The law,” said the bartender wisely, “is supposed to play square with
you.”
“It very often does,” nodded Hashknife. “In case they decide you deserve
hangin’, they’ll furnish the rope.”
Red squinted at Hashknife, a half grin on his lips.
“You ain’t very strong for the law, are you pardner?”
“Not for the law, but for justice.”
“There’s a difference,” agreed Red. “Well, I reckon I better take
Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs over to the hotel and put him to bed.”
“Lemme shee you do it,” urged Briggs.
“Oh, I can do it all right,” declared Red.
He grasped Briggs by the collar and one sleeve and was hustling him to
the doorway when Rex Morgan came in. He was hatless, dirty, with one
shirt sleeve almost torn off at the shoulder. For several moments he
stood there, breathing heavily, before he could speak.
“Get a doctor!” he blurted. “Mr. Evans has been shot.”
Red released Briggs, who stumbled against the wall and fell in a heap,
swearing drunkenly.
“Who do you mean?” demanded Red. “Noah Evans, the deputy sheriff?”
Rex nodded painfully.
“At the Lane home. He—he went out on the porch and somebody shot him.”
“How badly is he hurt?” asked Hashknife.
“Through the shoulder. Mr. Stevens says it is quite bad. They made me
ride here after the doctor, and I fell off. But—” he tried to grin—“I
held to the lines, and got on again.”
“I’ll get the doctor,” said Red, and ran from the saloon.
“You look as though you needed a drink,” said the bartender, pouring out
a stiff drink of whisky. “Throw that into you, kid.”
Rex shook his head.
“I never did drink anything.”
“You prob’ly never needed it before.”
“Do you good,” nodded Hashknife. “Better mix a little water in it, if
your neck is tender.”
* * * * *
Rex choked over the drink and his eyes filled with tears. Mesa City
liquor was powerful stuff, and after a few moments the effects of the
drink brought a pleasant glow to its owner.
“Feelin’ better?” asked the bartender.
“Wonderful. What was in it?”
“Heaven only knows. For some men it’s full of fights; for some it’s full
of songs. Didn’t you ever take a shot of hooch before?”
“No, sir.”
“I reckon you’ve been raised by hand,” sighed the bartender. “Have
another?”
Rex did. Hashknife was standing beside the doorway, listening for Red
Eller to come back with the doctor, and he turned to watch Rex take his
second drink.
“Are you the feller who knocked out Spike Cahill?” asked the bartender.
“Yes,” choked Rex. “Ah-h-h-h!”
“They tell me you’re a fighter.”
“I do very nicely, thank you.”
“My stars!” grunted the bartender. “You do nicely, eh?”
Hashknife studied the flushed face of Rex Morgan. The two drinks of
powerful liquor were almost too much for the young man.
“C’mere, Morgan,” said Hashknife, and Rex came over to him, slightly
unsteady on his feet.
“Just what are you doin’ in this country?” asked Hashknife.
“Well—” Rex rubbed the palm of his right hand along his jaw, his eyes
half shut, as he tried to concentrate on Hashknife’s question.
“Well, I don’t exactly know,” he confessed. “I’m sure I did not come
here to get the things I have already received. I think I came out of
curiosity.”
“Curiosity, eh? And how did you happen to pick on this part of the
country?”
“It was a check on the Mesa City bank, Mr. Hartley, a check which was
sent to my mother. After she died I found the check.”
“A check sent from here to your mother, eh? Whose name was on that
check?”
“I don’t know. Queer, isn’t it? The writing was so blurred, don’t you
see? Or perhaps the signature was not well written.”
He grinned at Hashknife foolishly.
“I feel so free of all pain,” he said slowly. “Even my head does not
pain me now. It is the first time since I woke up at the Lane residence
that my head has not hurt me.”
“You’re drunk,” said Hashknife shortly.
A horse and buggy was coming down the street, and turned in at the front
of the saloon.
It was Red Eller and the doctor.
“Better let Morgan ride with the doctor,” suggested Hashknife. “I’ll go
back to the Lane place, and as soon as the sheriff shows up, you can
tell him what happened, Eller.”
“All right. It’ll give me a chance to put Briggs to bed.”
“I’m going to ride a horsh,” declared Rex.
“You’re goin’ to ride on a buggy seat,” replied Hashknife. “Get in with
the doctor and I’ll lead your horse.”
* * * * *
It was possibly an hour later when the sheriff came back to Mesa City
with the body of Peter Morgan. Dave Morgan and Spike Cahill came back
with him, and when they stopped at the Oasis Saloon, Red Eller told them
what had happened at the Lane ranch.
Joe Cave, Bunty Smith’s driver, had joined Red at the Oasis, and now
they all headed for the Lane ranch, taking the body of Peter Morgan
along with them. Red knew nothing about the shooting, except what Rex
had told.
“That’s what you get for leavin’ your deputy at that place,” declared
Dave Morgan. “Old Lane probably mistook Noah for one of the 6X6 outfit.”
“Don’t talk so much, until you know what it is all about,” replied Lem,
and Dave subsided.
They were unable to travel very fast over the old road, for fear of
jolting the corpse out of the hack, but they eventually drew up at the
Lane ranch. Hashknife met them at the porch.
“Evans is pretty badly hurt, but conscious,” he told them. “The doctor
thinks he might stand the ride to Cañonville, where we can ship him to a
hospital, if he needs one; and this ain’t such a good place for him.”
They shoved in past Hashknife and found Noah on a bed in the living
room, with the doctor bandaging him with yards of cloth, while Nan stood
beside the bed, assisting him.
Noah tried to smile, but it was an effort.
“Don’t ask him to talk,” warned the doctor. “He’s been hurt badly. Have
you something we can take him to town in, boys?”
“Got a hack,” said Lem. “But we’ve got a dead man in the bottom of it.
Who knows what happened here?”
“Nobody,” said Sleepy quickly. “Noah went out on the front porch, just
kinda lookin’ around, and somebody potted him from the brush. We heard
the shot, and Noah came clear back in here before he fell. By the time
we got over the shock, and got outside, there wasn’t anybody in sight.
Anyway, it was too dark to see. I reckon they saw him against the light
of the doorway.”
“Where was the girl and that young feller?” asked Dave Morgan.
“Right in here with me.”
“Who are you?” asked Joe Cave.
Sleepy considered Joe gravely.
“You ought to study law, pardner. I think I’ll object to that, as bein’
a leadin’ question, irrelevant, immaterial, and having no bearing upon
the case.”
“You don’t say!” snorted Joe.
“Keep out of this, Joe,” growled Dave Morgan.
“Well, dern it, I jist asked a question.”
“And didn’t get it answered.”
“Well, what about it?” queried Lem. “How are we goin’ to take Noah to
town? He can’t stand ridin’ in a lumber wagon. We might leave the corpse
here—”
“Like hell you will!” snapped Dave Morgan.
“What harm would it do?” asked Hashknife. “Peter Morgan is dead. There’s
nothing you can do for him, except to bury him. Bein’ a relative, I know
how you feel, but you can’t let sentiment interfere in a case of this
kind. We’ve got to get Evans to a hospital, _sabe?_”
“Since when did you start runnin’ this country?” demanded Dave Morgan
hotly.
“Since about a minute ago, Morgan. Sleepy, you and Eller fix a place in
the stable where we can leave a corpse until mornin’. See if you can’t
find an old piece of canvas or—”
“In the stable, eh?” grunted Dave. “By God, you—”
“In the stable!” snapped Lem. “Now shut up, Dave. I’ll send a livery rig
out after the body tonight, if that will ease your mind any.”
Dave shrugged his shoulders and turned away, muttering under his breath,
while the boys prepared a place for Peter Morgan. One of the boys piled
some hay in the bottom of the hack, and they fixed Noah up as
comfortably as possible. There had been no hint of the person who had
shot him, but Nan knew what they were thinking.
* * * * *
When they were ready to leave for Cañonville, Lem took Hashknife aside
and asked him to stay at the ranch.
“You and Stevens stay, will you, Hartley? I’m darned if I want Nan to be
here alone with that fool kid.”
“Sure, we’ll stay. Intended to all the time. What’s your idea of it all,
Sheriff?”
Lem shook his head.
“I dunno; we’ll talk later.”
Nan had kept her nerve well, but after they had gone, she sat down and
cried. Rex sat on the edge of the bed, looking at her gloomily. His head
was aching again, and the bandage had assumed a rakish angle over his
left ear.
Hashknife tilted back against the wall in a chair and smoked a cigaret,
while Sleepy sat on his heels against the wall, also smoking. Finally
Nan got to her feet and shook back her hair.
“No use being a little fool,” she choked. “Crying won’t make anything
right. I’m going to get us some supper.”
She stopped in the doorway and looked back at Hashknife.
“I know what they’re saying. They think my father shot Noah Evans, don’t
they?”
“By mistake—I suppose,” replied Hashknife.
“Thinking he was one of the 6X6?”
“Probably.”
She came back closer to him.
“Do you think so?”
“I’m kinda funny,” he smiled at her. “They’ve got to prove anythin’—and
then I only believe half of it. You see, I don’t know your father, Miss
Lane.”
“I see. What did the sheriff say about it?”
“He didn’t say. That’s one thing I like about him.”
“But I know he suspects.”
Nan was thinking of the gun in the corral. After a moment she turned and
went into the kitchen, where she began to prepare a meal.
Hashknife studied the attitude of Rex Morgan, who might well have been
posing for a statue of Despondency.
“How do you like this country, Morgan?” he asked.
Rex looked up slowly and sighed audibly.
“I think I prefer civilization, Mr. Hartley.”
“You are seeing life in the rough, Morgan,” grinned Hashknife.
“Seeing? Horned frawgs, as Mr. Bunty Smith says, I’m living it.”
[Note on the text: This story, Buzzards, by W. C. Tuttle was
printed in two consecutive issues of Adventure Magazine. What follows
is the story as it continued the second month. The few paragraphs of
overlap are intentional, as in the original publication.]
Rex Morgan sat on the porch of the nester’s cabin and listened to
Hashknife Hartley on the subject of the Black Horse range.
Rex was a tenderfoot, come to the Arizona cattle country to find the
person who had sent his mother a check from Mesa City before her death
in California. On the way to Mesa City from Cañonville the stagecoach
suffered a runaway. Rex had ridden on for help and, in the darkness, he
had been struck on the head. He had awakened in the cabin of Lane, the
nester.
Now, Lane had surrendered to the sheriff, after Dave Morgan, the
shiftless owner of the Flying M, had accused him of murdering Dave’s
cousin Peter. As far as anyone knew, Rex was no kin of the Mesa City
Morgans. Already Rex had accepted the hospitality of the Lanes, and
before the murder of Peter Lane there had been bad blood between the
Morgans and Old Man Lane. Lane’s son had been suspected of killing Peter
Morgan’s cowhand, Ben Leach, who had been found, shot, by the roadside.
As nesters alongside the powerful 6X6 of Peter Morgan, the Lanes had
little prestige in the country. Old Man Lane and his son denied their
guilt, but surrendered to avoid lynching.
Inside the Lane cabin Nan Lane was preparing a fresh bandage for Rex’s
head.
“How do you like this country?” grinned Sleepy Stevens, the merry
partner of the errant Hashknife.
“I think I prefer civilization.”
“You are seeing life in the rough.” Hashknife smiled.
“Seeing? Horned frawgs—as Bunty Smith, the stage driver says—I’m living
it!”