GUESTS BY NIGHT
It was late in the afternoon when Nan came home, accompanied by a man
from the Cañonville livery stable. Hashknife met her, and they walked
from the buggy to the house. She did not mention the inquests until
Sleepy and Rex met them in the living room, and the four of them sat
down together.
“They asked the sheriff to arrest Walter for shooting Ben Leach,” she
said bravely. “They say, because he took Ben’s horse and gun, it don’t
look like self-defense. But they say dad murdered Peter Morgan.”
“Who testified?” asked Hashknife.
“The boys of the 6X6 testified that Peter Morgan’s body came on, roped
to the saddle of his horse. That was all the testimony, except what was
said about the fight dad had with Peter Morgan in Mesa City, and that
dad swore he’d kill them if they came here.”
“And that’s all the evidence they needed to name your dad as the
murderer?”
“That was all. They didn’t ask me to testify. Lem told them about Walter
coming home from Mesa City drunk, and what he said about fixing one of
the 6X6 outfit. Lem tried to give his opinion of Ben Leach following
Walter, but the coroner wouldn’t let him talk, and they almost had a
fight.”
“And will the sheriff be obliged to capture your father and brother
now?” asked Rex.
Nan nodded wearily.
“I guess he will. Oh, I don’t know what to do. We haven’t any money to
hire lawyers; nothing to fight with.”
“The court will appoint a lawyer to defend them,” said Hashknife.
“To represent them,” corrected Nan quickly. “But of what value will he
be to us? It is merely a matter of form. Oh, I know enough about the law
to know what it will mean. A cow town jury, sitting in judgment on a
nester.”
“Well,” said the optimistic Sleepy, “they ain’t got ’em in jail yet,
Nan.”
“But they will have. Dad and Walter are not far away from here.”
“I’d like to have a talk with ’em, before the sheriff gets his hands on
’em,” said Hashknife.
“What for?” asked Nan.
“Oh, just to talk about things. I’d like to get their version of things
ahead of the rest.”
* * * * *
Later that day Hashknife and Sleepy talked things over from the top pole
of the corral fence.
“I tell you it’s no puzzle,” declared Sleepy. “Old Man Lane killed Pete
Morgan, jist as sure as a Californian will lie about his climate. Of
course, Pete had no business bein’ here. He’d been warned to stay
away—and didn’t. If me and you was on a jury, we’d turn him
loose—because we don’t hate a nester. Likewise, this here Ben Leach got
his needin’s. Hunted for trouble and found it. Self-defense, of course;
but you never can convince these natives that Lane didn’t bushwhack
Leach. Of course, Lane made a mistake in takin’ the horse and gun, but
he was drunk and mad.”
It was a long speech for Sleepy to make. Hashknife lifted his brows in
mock astonishment.
“You’re gettin’ kinda technical, ain’t you, Sleepy?”
“Well,” confessed Sleepy, “that’s the way she looks to me. Whatsa use of
stayin’ around here any longer? We’ve got to land a couple of jobs for
the winter, ain’t we?”
“Did we ever quit before the last dog was hung?”
Sleepy shook his head gloomily. They had been together for quite a
number of years, these two drifting cowboys. Their trails had led from
the wide lands of Alberta to the Mexican Border, and no matter where
they were there was always a hill just beyond, which beckoned them on.
Sleepy had been christened David in the little Idaho town where he was
born, but it had soon been changed to his present cognomen, because of
the fact that, like a weasel, he seemed to sleep with both eyes open.
He and Henry Hartley had met on the old ranch which gave Henry the name
of Hashknife, and together these two cowboys of the itching feet struck
out for themselves. The ranges were wide and there was plenty of demand
for the services of top hand cowboys, but they did not stay long in any
one place.
Fate had given Hashknife an analytical mind. In a different environment
he might have been a famous detective, instead of a drifting cowboy, a
Nemesis of range crooks, where, in most cases, the six-shooter
superseded the court of law.
It seemed as if fate continually threw them into troubled places, no
matter which way they traveled, until even Sleepy, prone to argument,
admitted that there was little use trying to dodge the issue. Sleepy
analyzed nothing. He was content to follow the lengthy Hashknife, no
matter where the trail led, and to be ready for trouble at the finish.
Their remuneration had been small. In fact, they might have better been
working at forty dollars a month, as far as the financial end of their
partnership was concerned. Two horses, riding rigs, clothes, guns and a
few dollars were all they ever had.
“You can’t take anythin’ with you,” Hashknife had often said, when
Sleepy remarked about their financial returns. “The farther we go, the
less chance we have of livin’ to a ripe old age; so what good is the
money? I’d rather give, while I’m alive, to see the happiness it brings.
And if we had a lot of money, we wouldn’t know what in the devil to
spend it for.”
* * * * *
Hashknife debated Sleepy’s résumé of the case. It was a reasonable
decision and was probably the decision of everybody who knew of the
case; but Hashknife withheld his opinion, because he refused to agree
with the masses. To Sleepy the case was closed; but to Hashknife it was
just beginning to open.
“They tell me that Paul Lane is a salty old jigger,” said Sleepy
thoughtfully. “It would be like him to kill a man and send him home on
his own horse. I wish I knew what Pete Morgan was doin’ over here that
night?”
“Evidently tryin’ to get Old Man Lane, Sleepy.”
“Why?”
“There you are. He came alone. Why?”
“Don’t ask me; I’m no mind reader.”
“And still you think there’s nothin’ to the case?”
“I wasn’t figurin’ any reasons for the killin’.”
“There’s got to be a reason for the killin’, Sleepy. I want to know why
Pete Morgan got up long before daylight, saddled his horse and came over
here—if he did come here. Of course, we’ve got no proof that he did,
except that the sheriff found his gun in the corral.”
“Guns don’t fly.”
“This ’n didn’t have any wings. Sleepy, didja ever see a girl with more
nerve than Nan Lane? By golly, she’s a dinger. Wants to cry, but won’t.
It’s a hell of a position for her to be in, don’tcha know it? She’s up
there in the kitchen, cookin’ up a meal for us, when down in her heart
she wants to lie down and cry her heart out. If I ever get married, I
hope I get her kind.”
“One that won’t cry, Hashknife?”
“Sure.”
“You never will, cowboy. Mebbe she won’t cry from ordinary causes, but
jist let you put on a boiled collar and a white shirt, and she’ll cry.”
“Is it that bad?” sadly.
“Worse than that, Hashknife. You look jist like a half broke Apaloosie,
lookin’ over a whitewashed fence.”
“I might get one with a sense of humor, Sleepy.”
“She’d have to have it, cowboy.”
Rex was wandering around the yard, like a lost pup, and finally joined
them at the corral.
“I wish I knew what to do,” he said sadly. “Nan is up there in the
kitchen, crying. I tried to solace her, but it didn’t seem to do much
good. She’s afraid they are going to hang her father, you know. Perhaps
I handled the situation badly, when I told her we’d both be orphans, if
such a thing happened. And then I asked her to marry me.”
“You damn’ fool!” exploded Sleepy. “That ain’t no time to propose to a
girl.”
“I didn’t know. You see, I never proposed before.”
“There’s a lot of things you don’t know.”
“There’s a lot of things I want to learn,” retorted Rex heatedly.
“That’s a lot better,” grinned Hashknife. “Use a little profanity and
less dictionary. Correct English is great; but out here they think
you’re crazy. You’ll forget how to talk it soon enough. As far as you
marryin’ Nan Lane—I’d forget it, Morgan.”
“What would you support a wife on?” asked Sleepy.
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Well, you’re honest,” grinned Hashknife. “I reckon you’re a good kid,
Morgan. You mean well enough. Now forget the marriage stuff for a
while.”
“The sheriff wants to marry her.”
“Fine. Lem’s a good man, got a good job.”
“But I don’t think she loves him.”
“No? Does she love you?”
“I never asked her.”
“A-a-aw, hell!” snorted Sleepy. “Let’s go and help her cook supper,
instead of talking about her feelin’s.”
* * * * *
It was after supper that night when Paul Lane came home. Rex was washing
the dishes and Hashknife was wiping them, much against the wishes of
Nan.
“It’s the only thing I can do well,” declared Rex. “I used to wash them
for my mother.”
Nan was in her room, and Sleepy was perched on the wood box, smoking a
cigaret, when Paul Lane stepped into the kitchen, gun in hand. Rex was
the only one of the three who had ever seen him before. Lane stopped
just inside the door and looked at the men.
Rex stopped washing dishes and started to introduce the old man to
Hashknife, but the old man stopped him.
“Where’s Nan?” he demanded.
“Here, dad.”
Nan had stepped from her room, and now she crossed the kitchen to her
father, who put one arm around her, but he still kept his eyes on
Hashknife and Sleepy.
“Who are these men?” he asked.
“Friends, dad—Mr. Hartley and Mr. Stevens. You have met Mr. Morgan
before.”
“Yeah, I’ve met him. I’ve been around here quite a while, lookin’ ’em
over through the windows. I didn’t quite figure out who they were, but
it didn’t look to me as though an officer of the law would be washin’
dishes.”
With as few words as possible she told him everything that had happened
since he left the house. She told him of the shooting of Noah Evans, the
double inquest, and the verdicts. Hashknife watched the face of the old
man during her recital, and decided that Paul Lane was a tough old
ranger. He did not flinch at the verdict, but his blue eyes clouded a
trifle.
He was not a big man, and age had sapped some of his vitality, but he
was wiry, keen-eyed, and the hands that gripped the Winchester were
muscular and steady.
“Kinda looks as though they had the deadwood on me and the kid,” he said
bitterly. “We been hidin’ out in the brush, wonderin’ what was goin’ on;
so I took a chance. We got a look at you fellers today and wondered who
you might be. And we seen Nan come back in that buggy; so I decided that
there had been an inquest at Cañonville.”
“Why don’t the both of you sneak down and give up to the sheriff?” asked
Hashknife. “Looks like the only way out of it, Lane.”
“And get hung for it, eh?”
“Mebbe not. The law won’t hang you without a trial.”
“Meanin’ that the 6X6 outfit will, eh?”
“Might be more than them in on the deal. There’s always a pack of
wolves, you know.”
“That’s right, Hartley. It shore makes it tough for Nan.”
“And she’s been mighty game,” said Hashknife quickly.
“I’m not so game,” choked Nan. “I don’t know what to do, except to grin
and bear it.”
* * * * *
They moved to the living room, leaving Rex to finish the rest of the
dishes, and sat down together. Hashknife wanted a chance to talk with
Paul Lane, and this seemed like the opportune time, but before he could
frame the opening question the front door was flung violently open and
three rifles were covering them through the doorway.
The visitors were Dave Morgan, Red Eller, Spike Cahill and Ed Jones.
There was only one thing to do; the three men in the room threw up their
hands. It took Spike Cahill about ten seconds to collect their guns, and
then the captors relaxed.
“I reckon that about ends the deal,” growled Dave. “We been watchin’ for
you, Lane. Knowed you’d have to come home, sooner or later.”
“Well,” said Lane coldly. “What now, Morgan?”
“A lot depends. Get a rope, Spike.”
“Just what’s the idea of a rope?” asked Hashknife.
“Keep your nose out of it,” growled Morgan. “I’d advise you two to
hightail out of this country. About the time we tell folks about findin’
you here, hobnobbin’ with a man wanted for murder, they might talk of
more ropes.”
“Oh, is this man wanted for murder?”
“You know damn’ well he is! Wasn’t that girl at the inquest? Don’t try
to be funny.”
Spike Cahill stepped in and flung out the coils of his rope, preparatory
to roping Paul Lane.
“What are you going to do?” asked Nan. “Don’t put a rope on him. Dad
will go to jail peacefully.”
“Jail, eh?” Spike laughed softly. “You think he will? After we exhibit
him in Mesa City? Guess agin, sister.”
“You better put your hands up,” said a voice at the doorway to the
kitchen, and the captors jerked around to see Rex Morgan, holding the
heavy, double-barrel shotgun against his shoulder, the twin muzzles
covering them.
Dave Morgan’s hands jerked shoulder high, and the other three were quick
to follow his lead. Even a tenderfoot could score a bull’s-eye with a
shotgun at fifteen feet.
“Good, kid!” exclaimed Hashknife, while Dave Morgan swore bitterly, as
he watched Sleepy gather up all the guns.
“You can take a rest with that gun now,” laughed Hashknife.
“Well, I’m glad,” sighed Rex. “It is very heavy, and I was afraid
someone might know it isn’t loaded.”
Hashknife backed against the wall, gun in hand and laughed at the
expressions on their faces, when they realized that the shotgun was not
loaded.
“You can’t get away with this,” gritted Morgan, facing Hashknife. “We’ll
show you how to tamper with things that don’t concern you. And we’ll
make that half-witted, white-faced kid wish he’d kept out of it.”
“I got away with it—my part of it,” said Hashknife coldly. “I think that
kid outsmarted you and saved you from lynchin’ a man tonight. And as far
as you doin’ anythin’ about it—cut your wolf loose.”
“We were goin’ to take him to jail,” said Eller.
“You’re a liar!”
Eller bristled angrily.
“You wouldn’t call me that, if I had a gun, you hatchet-faced bum.”
“Step into the middle of the room,” ordered Hashknife. “Right out here
away from the rest. Watch ’em, Sleepy.”
* * * * *
Hashknife stepped up to the bed, picked up a six-shooter and walked back
to Eller, who stared at him foolishly. With a flip of his wrist,
Hashknife dropped the gun into Eller’s empty holster and stepped back
about six feet and holstered his own gun.
“It’s an even break, Eller,” he said coldly. “You’re a liar; a dirty,
forked-tongue liar. You’ve got a gun in your holster, and I’m talkin’ to
you straight.”
Red Eller hesitated. Hashknife’s right hand hung limply at his side,
swaying back and forth past his holster, but there was nothing about his
pose or expression that would indicate a quick draw. For several moments
there was no sound, except the breathing of people. Then:
“Don’t do it, Red,” whispered Spike. “It ain’t worth the chance.”
Eller licked his lips and shook his head.
“I pass,” he said softly. “Mebbe I did lie, Hartley.”
Swiftly Hashknife stepped over and removed the gun.
“What’s next?” asked Morgan angrily.
“Go home and try to mind your own business.”
“All right, but wait until we tell what happened.”
“Suits me, gents. Vamoose.”
Hashknife and Sleepy followed them out to their horses, where the four
men mounted quickly.
“What about our guns?” asked Morgan.
“One of you come back in daylight and get ’em.”
“Oh, all right. But you two better not be here.”
“We will be, Morgan. _Adios._”
Hashknife watched them ride away in the darkness, and then he went back
in the house, where he found Lane shaking hands with Rex and thanking
him for his timely aid with the shotgun.
“Oh, it wasn’t anything,” said Rex. “I just saw the gun in the corner,
and thought I might frighten them with it.”
“Well, you shore did,” laughed Hashknife. “They know what a shotgun will
do at short range, and they took no chances. Now—” he turned to
Lane—“what are you goin’ to do?”
“I’m goin’ to see Walter and get him to go to Cañonville with me. We
might as well give up and take a chance with the law. I didn’t realize
until just now how safe a jail could be.”
“Oh, I’m glad!” exclaimed Nan. “Anything would be better than this
suspense. But will Walter go with you, dad?”
“I think so. He is tired of dodging in the hills.”
“Well, I wouldn’t lose any time,” declared Hashknife. “That bunch will
probably get drunk in Mesa City, and you never can tell what they will
do.”
“I know,” nodded Lane, “but I don’t know what to do about Nan. She can’t
stay here—”
“I can’t stay anywhere else, dad. I can’t afford to live at a hotel. Oh,
I’ll be all right.”
“We’ll stay a while,” offered Hashknife. “I can’t run away now; not
after that warnin’. As soon as you see the sheriff, send him up here. I
want him to understand about that warnin’, ’cause I might need an
official reason for throwin’ lead.”
“All right, Hartley. I’ll leave my rifle and shells here, in case you
need long range.”
He shook hands with each of them, kissed Nan and vanished down past the
corral in the darkness.
“I guess I better finish washing the dishes,” said Rex. “But I wish some
of you would load that shotgun. I might have to shoot next time.”
“You spoke your piece, pardner,” laughed Hashknife. “I’ll load the gun
for you.”
He took a box of shells off a shelf and dropped one in each barrel,
after which he stood the gun in a corner.
“Thank you so much,” said Rex.
“Good huntin’ to you, brother,” grinned Hashknife.
“Oh, but I’m not going hunting for any one.”
“You won’t have to. In Arizona, that kind of game comes right up to your
door.”