HASHKNIFE’S TELEGRAM HUNCH
Hashknife and Sleepy did not hurry their supper, and it was after dark
before they began eating. Hashknife was rather thoughtful, and Sleepy
noticed him staring at the table top several times.
“You ain’t worryin’ about the two kids, are you?” he asked.
“Not exactly worryin’, Sleepy, but I wish they had waited until we got
back.”
“Well, my gosh, there ain’t nothin’ goin’ to hurt ’em.”
“I hope not. Better cut that pie.”
Sleepy took it from the oven and cut two generous slices, which soon
disappeared. But even the apple pie did not serve to raise Hashknife’s
spirits, and Sleepy laughed at him.
“You look like them pictures of Abe Lincoln, when you get that serious
expression,” grinned Sleepy. “All you need is some whiskers and a plug
hat.”
Sleepy slid down in his chair and began rolling a cigaret. He was just
running his tongue along the edge of the paper, when something hit him
squarely in the face, knocking him over backwards, and he heard the
clatter of glass, the thud of a shot.
Hashknife flung himself away from the table, going backwards in his
chair, but landed on his hands and knees. His cheek was slightly cut by
flying glass from the window, but he did not know it. He sprang to his
feet, swept up the rifle that stood in the corner and ran through the
living room.
Without hesitation he flung the door open and sprang off the porch. Just
out beyond the corral was a horse, going away at a sharp trot, and
Hashknife thought he saw a rider on it. He threw up the Winchester and
fired twice. The flash of the gun blinded him for a moment, and he was
unable to see what had happened, but he could hear the horse no longer.
He ran back in to the house, flinging the rifle aside. Sleepy was still
on his back, his feet sticking up over the overturned chair, apparently
unconscious.
As quickly as he was able, Hashknife dragged him out of line with the
broken window and made an examination. His face was covered with a
sticky liquid, and both of his eyes were rapidly turning black. He
grunted and sat up.
“What in hell hit me?” he demanded.
“Looks to me as though it was the condensed milk,” said Hashknife
thankfully.
“Exploded?”
“Yeah—from a bullet.”
“Bullet?”
“Somebody tried to spot us through the window, Sleepy.”
Sleepy got to his feet, wiping the milk off his face, while Hashknife
investigated. The bullet had smashed through the window and ricocheted
on the table top, driving the can of condensed milk into Sleepy’s face,
and had struck the opposite wall.
“Look at m’ eyes!” wailed Sleepy, touching them tenderly with his
fingers. “Can’t hardly see, damn it!”
“You’re lucky, cowboy. A few inches higher and you’d be an angel instead
of a milkmaid.”
“Well, who in hell fired the shot?”
“I’d like to know. You stay here and I’ll see what I can find.”
* * * * *
Sleepy got a basin of cold water and began treating his eyes, while
Hashknife went outside. He was back in less than five minutes, and with
what little vision Sleepy had left he could see that Hashknife was
greatly perturbed.
“What do you know?” he asked.
“There’s hell to pay, Sleepy. I took a shot at what I thought was the
bushwhacker on a horse, and I killed one of Lane’s saddle horses—the one
Nan said she used. It has got her saddle on it.”
“What do you make of that, Hashknife?”
“Somethin’ has happened to ’em.”
“Mebbe she got throwed. Say, who do you suppose took that shot at us?”
“I wish I knew. They almost got you, pardner.”
“They shore condensed me for a moment,” grinned Sleepy.
His eyes were swollen almost shut.
“Well, this ain’t gettin’ us nowhere, Sleepy. You take care of the
ranch; I’m headin’ for Cañonville.”
“Why don’t we both go?”
“Try and see yourself in the glass,” retorted Hashknife, picking up his
hat. “You stay here, cowboy. If anybody comes foolin’ around here, use
that shotgun on ’em. I’ll be back as soon as I can find out somethin’. I
may meet ’em on the road.”
But Hashknife did not meet anybody on the road. He forced the tall gray
over the Coyote Cañon road as fast as he dared in the dark, but he had
the road all to himself. He tried to believe that everything was all
right with Nan and Rex, but down in his heart he knew something had gone
wrong.
* * * * *
It was late when Hashknife drew up at the sheriff’s office in
Cañonville. He knew that Lem slept in his office, and he had little
trouble in arousing him.
“Hello, you old son of a gun,” greeted Lem sleepily. “Come on in.
Wait’ll I light the lamp. What brings you here this time of the night?”
“Has Nan Lane and Rex Morgan been here this evenin’?”
“No-o-o, I ain’t seen nothin’ of ’em, Hashknife.”
“Well, they started for here, accordin’ to a note they left for us.
After we left you, we went to Mesa City, Lem. They must have started out
between the time you left us and the time we got back to the ranch. And
while we was eatin’ supper, somebody shot through the kitchen window and
almost got Sleepy. The bullet lifted a can of milk and slammed Sleepy
between the eyes with it. I ran outside and I thought I seen a man goin’
away; so I shot twice at the object, which turned out to be Nan Lane’s
saddle horse, still wearin’ her saddle. I killed it too dead to kick.
Now, what do you make of that, Lem?”
“Well, f’r heaven’s sake! Lemme think. Somebody shot through your
window? That’s bein’ tough, ain’t it? And was it the horse Nan rode
today?”
“There was only two horses in the stable, Lem.”
“What do you know? Huh! Well—” Lem picked up his pants and began
dressing, his fat face very serious—“I reckon it’s up to us to find out
somethin’, Hashknife. Where could they go? Looks ridiculous, don’t it?
Who’d want to harm Nan Lane? Say, I took that evidence up with the
prosecutor. He says he’ll release young Lane as soon as he has a talk
with the judge. What did Nan think about it?”
“We never got a chance to tell her.”
“Tha-a-at’s right. What had we ort to do first? Can’t find a thing in
the dark. Mebbe we better ride to Mesa City and see what we can see, eh?
There ain’t no chance for them two folks to get off the main road
between here and the Lane ranch. Are you shore they didn’t say Mesa City
instead of Cañonville?”
“They wrote Cañonville, Lem.”
“Well, if they got here, I never did see ’em. I might inquire around a
little.”
“I don’t think that would do any good. They’d come here.”
“I could ask Joe Cave. He’s livin’ at the hotel.”
“But you’ve been here long enough to have seen ’em, Lem. They must have
come here behind you; otherwise we would have met ’em on the road
between here and the ranch.”
“That’s right.”
Lem buckled on his belt, picked up his rifle and led the way to the
stable, where he saddled his horse.
“What do you make of young Morgan, Hashknife?”
“Good kid.”
“Iggerant as hell, ain’t he?”
“From our point of view, Lem.”
“Uh-huh. I hope he ain’t to blame for them disappearin’.”
“Pshaw!” exploded Hashknife. “He’s square as a dollar, Lem. Why, he’s
civilized.”
“That’s the hell of it! If he was our kind, we’d know what to expect.
Well, let’s hit the high spots, _compadre_.”
“Speed won’t get us nowhere, Lem.”
“All right; you lead. I’m the best little follower you ever saw.”
* * * * *
They rode away from the stable, just as a passenger train roared through
the town. They were obliged to wait until the train had gone past,
before crossing the tracks. Suddenly Hashknife got an idea.
“Do you know the depot agent very well, Lem?” he asked.
“Shore. Knowed him for a year or so.”
“Let’s go over and see him.”
They tied their horses behind the depot and went around to the little
waiting-room. The agent was busy with his telegraph instrument, but he
finally turned in his chair and nodded to Lem.
“Hyah, sheriff. What’s on your mind?”
“Shake hands with Mr. Hartley, Jim. Hashknife, this is Jim Horton.”
They shook hands.
“You tell him what you want, Hashknife,” said Lem.
“I dunno whether you can help me or not, Horton. In case a telegram
comes for anybody in Mesa City, how do you handle it?”
“Mail it to ’em right away.”
“Do you keep any record of telegrams?”
“Oh, sure, we keep a copy. Of course, we never let anybody—”
“If it was orders from the sheriff’s office?”
Horton grinned.
“Well, that’s different, of course.”
“In the last few weeks have you had any telegrams for Peter Morgan?”
“The big cowman who got murdered? Mebbe I did. It seems to me I sent
one—lemme see.”
He lifted a bulky book to the counter and opened it. The leaves were of
yellow tissue, bearing the imprint of telegrams written in copying ink.
Swiftly the agent went through the recent imprints. Not many telegrams
came to Cañonville.
“There’s one,” he said, pointing at it, as he swung the book around for
them to read.
Hashknife leaned in close and read:
MRS. MORGAN PASSED AWAY SUDDENLY AND WAS BURIED LAST
SUNDAY STOP TRACED SON TO DEPOT WHERE HE PURCHASED
TICKET TO CANONVILLE
—J. E. BLAIR
Lem lifted his head and stared at Hashknife, who was smiling, as he
copied the telegram on the back of an envelope.
“What in hell does that mean?” demanded Lem anxiously.
“Looks as though young Morgan was Peter’s son, don’t it?”
“By golly, it shore does, Hashknife! What made you think to come here
and look for a telegram?”
“A hunch.”
“I’ll be darned. Hunch, eh? Wish I had hunches.”
“What is it all about?” asked Horton wonderingly.
“Didn’t you do any wonderin’ when you got that telegram?” asked Lem.
“I guess I didn’t. You see, I don’t know anything about Morgan.”
“You didn’t know he was a bachelor?”
“No. I’ve heard of him, but I never knew he didn’t have a family; so the
telegram didn’t mean anything to me.”
“Well, he never had any wife or a son that we ever heard about. The
telegram says that his son was headed this way.”
“Did he ever get here, sheriff?”
Lem scratched his head foolishly.
“Well, we dunno yet, Jim. Don’t tell anybody about it.”
“Is that all I can do for you, gents?” asked Horton.
“Yeah, that’s all, I reckon. Thank you, Horton.”
“You’re welcome.”
They walked out of the depot and mounted their horses.
“Well, just keep this information under our hat, Lem,” said Hashknife,
as they rode away.
“Oh, shore. I may not be worth a damn to find out anythin’, but I can
keep still about it when somebody else tells me about it.”