INDIRECT INHERITANCE
Came the sound of running horses, the thump of footsteps on the rickety
porch, and Sleepy came stamping through the living room, while behind
him came Lem Sheeley. At sight of Nan, Sleepy let out a joyful yelp and
grabbed Hashknife by the shoulders.
“Where didja find ’em?” he yelled. “My, this is great, ain’t it? Where
you been? Look at the kid’s feet, will you? Why don’t somebody say
somethin’? All dumb, are you?”
“Are you run down?” queried Hashknife mildly.
“Well—yeah!” snorted Sleepy. “Talk a little.”
Both Sleepy and Lem crowded into the kitchen and humped on their heels
against the wall, while Hashknife told what he knew and what Nan and Rex
had told him. The coffee pot boiled over before the tale was told, but
no one noticed such a small detail.
“But what’s it all about?” complained Lem. “There ain’t head nor tail to
it. All this crazy man in the cañon, and a man with a mask stuff. Sounds
kinda looney to me.”
“It does sound crazy,” smiled Hashknife.
“Like a sheepherder’s dream,” grunted Sleepy. “After we left you we
spent about three hours tryin’ to find a way down into that cañon, but
had to give up. It’s one awful place, Hashknife. I don’t _sabe_ how you
ever found a place to get in. Me and Lem had an idea of tryin’ to get
down at the lower end, but gave it up until we heard from you.”
“Where are the other boys?” asked Hashknife.
“Mesa City, gettin’ their bills wet,” grunted Sleepy. “Spike Cahill dang
near broke his neck in that cañon. He thought he could slide a hundred
feet down a thirty foot rope, but found it was too short on one end.”
Nan poured the coffee and refilled the pot. She and Rex split the half
pie, while Rex bathed his feet in warm water. He was too tired even to
tell them whether the water was too hot, and Sleepy almost cooked him
with it.
“Well, what next?” asked Lem, finishing his coffee.
Hashknife shoved his cup aside and got to his feet.
“I reckon we’ll go back to Mesa City,” he said.
Sleepy eyed him closely, knowing that something real had caused him to
make that decision. It was not merely to go to town. Hashknife’s feet
were too sore for a pleasure trip.
“We’re with you, cowboy,” declared Sleepy. “My, your feet must be
tender.”
“Not a bit; can’t feel anythin’.”
He turned to Nan.
“Better go to bed pretty quick, and don’t worry any more. Fix up the
kid’s feet the best you can, and they’ll be all right. C’mon, boys.”
He limped from the house to his horse, with the two men close behind
him. Ghost nickered softly and rubbed his muzzle against Hashknife’s
vest.
“Can’t travel very fast,” said Hashknife. “That cañon is shore hard on a
horse. There’s places where Ghost had to almost crawl on his knees. You
shore need sky hooks and a lot of faith in the Almighty to make that
trip.”
* * * * *
It was rather a big night at the Oasis, as far as the bar was concerned.
Morgan was helping the overworked bartender, while Mesa City discussed
what had become of Nan and Rex. Hashknife, too, had not been accounted
for, but Spike Cahill declared that Hashknife could take care of
himself.
“But he never got into that cañon,” said Cal Dickenson, of Dave Morgan’s
outfit. “I tell you, it can’t be done.”
“The devil it can’t!” snorted Spike. “I was jist one inch of goin’ into
it myself today. A hondo on that rope was all that saved me. A inch
ain’t far, Cal.”
The boys laughed with Spike. They knew just how close he had come to
smashing his bones on the rocks.
Joe Cave came in from the Flying M and joined the gang. Joe was cold
sober now, but willing to be otherwise.
“It’s too lonesome out there,” he told Morgan. “You didn’t tell me that
all the rest of the gang had left.”
“I did, too,” said Morgan. “Mebbe you was too drunk to pay any
attention.”
“Mebbe,” grinned Joe sourly. “Gimme whisky.”
“Whatsa matter?” asked Spike, watching Joe gulp down a glass of liquor.
“Is your swallerin’ apparatus busted? I’ll leave it to anybody around
her, if Joe’s Adam’s apple didn’t jump sideways to let that drink jump
past.”
“His Adam’s apple ain’t so dumb,” said Bert Roddy solemnly. “It knows
what it means to git in front of a runaway drink of Oasis liquor. Sleepy
Stevens says the only safe way is to drink quick and shut your mouth. He
says that kinda whisky bounces.”
“Where’s Sleepy?” asked a cowboy.
“Him and Lem pulled out about an hour ago.”
“What was Lem doin’ here?” asked Joe Cave.
“Prob’ly lookin’ for you,” grinned Spike. “He shore did look sad. Mebbe
he mourns his loss.”
“I s’pose he does,” grinned Joe. “That’s an awful job—packin’ food to a
prisoner. I’m glad I quit.”
“Yea-a-ah, you quit!” flared Bert Roddy. “You got drunk, and he fired
you, Joe.”
Joe grimaced and reached for the bottle.
“I suppose that’s what Lem said.”
“Yeah, and he don’t lie,” declared Spike.
Joe glared at Spike, but dropped the argument. He had no desire to
tangle with that ex-6X6 gang.
“How about a little poker,” suggested Dave Morgan.
“Very little for me,” replied Dell Bowen. “I’m almost broke enough to
take a job with you, Dave.”
“That’s fine with me; I can use you.”
* * * * *
Morgan left the bar and began arranging a check rack on one of the
tables, when Hashknife limped in, followed by Sleepy and Lem.
“There’s the old cañon crawler now!” whooped Spike.
Hashknife smiled thinly and looked around, nodding to the men. Morgan
halted with a stack of chips in his hand.
“Just in time, Hartley,” he said. “Grab a seat.”
“Didja get down into the cañon?” asked Spike.
“I shore did,” smiled Hashknife.
“F’r gosh sake, where? Did Sleepy tell you the trouble we had? Where’d
you get down?”
“Morgan showed me the place.”
All eyes were turned to Dave Morgan. He placed his chips on the table
and looked at Hashknife.
“Did you foller me down?” he asked easily.
“I did.”
“Well, I’ll be darned. After you boys left here, I got an idea that
there might be a place to get down; so I rode down and tried it. I never
knew anybody was follerin’ me. Sure, I got down. But I couldn’t get
anywhere; so I went north agin’, and finally gave it up.”
Hashknife’s eyes narrowed slightly. He knew that the falling stone in
the cañon had warned Morgan.
“I see,” he said thoughtfully. “That’s how I missed your trail down
there. But I found a way through.”
“The devil you did!” exploded Spike. “What’d you find?”
Hashknife’s eyes traveled slowly over the crowd.
“I found a blue roan 6X6 horse, with a saddle on it. The buzzards found
it first, but there was enough left.”
“Blue roan?” queried Bert Roddy. “Was it Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs’ blue
roan?”
“I think so, Bert.”
“Where’s old Briggs?” demanded Morgan. “I want to get my hands on that
old thief. He opened that safe—”
“Briggs is dead,” interrupted Hashknife. “He had been all battered up,
and I think a bullet had scored his head. I found him down there in a
cave, with a tight rope around his neck—jist buzzard bait.”
For several moments there was silence, broken by Spike’s—
“My God!”
Sleepy moved back slightly, his right hand brushing over his gun butt.
“He was drunk when he left here,” said Bert Roddy. “He must ’a’ rode off
the grade. Poor old Briggs.”
“Do you think he shot himself and then choked himself to death with the
rope?” asked Hashknife slowly.
“Oh, I forgot that,” said Bert. “He couldn’t have done all that,
Hartley.”
“Sounds foolish,” said Dave Morgan.
“The body is down there in a cave to prove it.”
“Oh, I’m not disputin’ your word, Hartley.”
“And last night,” said Hashknife slowly, “somebody shot Rex Morgan’s
horse on the Coyote Cañon grade, while him and Nan Lane was ridin’ to
Cañonville. They kept shootin’, and drove the kid and the girl over the
edge, where they slid all the way to the bottom. God only knows how they
lived. I reckon they had a hell of a time. Briggs was down there, crazy
as a loon. He stuck ’em up with a gun and took the girl to a cave; but
the kid follered and whipped Briggs, knockin’ him out cold. I reckon it
bumped Briggs’ head pretty hard, ’cause he didn’t wake up the last they
saw of him. But they never roped him.”
Hashknife paused to let this soak in.
* * * * *
“You mean there was somebody else down there?” asked Lem hoarsely.
“A masked man,” said Hashknife. “He choked Briggs to death with the rope
and then brought them two kids out to the south mesa, where he left ’em.
I found ’em down there, all fagged out, and brought ’em home.”
“What masked man?” demanded Dave Morgan. “Talk sense.”
“The man who shot Rex Morgan’s horse last night. The same man who shot
Noah Evans on the porch of the Lane ranch-house, Morgan—shot him,
thinkin’ it was the tenderfoot kid. The same man who fired a shot
through the window at the Lane ranch-house last night and almost killed
Sleepy Stevens.”
“There’s been quite a lot goin’ on around here, it seems to me,” said
Joe Cave, laughing shortly.
“But your explanation don’t tell us anythin’,” said Dave Morgan,
stepping away from the table.
“It told me quite a lot,” said Hashknife. “But there’s more to it than
that, folks. Did any of you examine the spot where Peter Morgan was
killed? Well, you might ’a’ been surprised. There wasn’t any blood
spilled. Peter Morgan was dead long before he came to that place. And
the man or men who brought him there killed him in the 6X6 ranch-house
on a Navaho rug, which has a lightenin’ mark on it. To remove the blood,
they took rug and all with ’em. And when they was gettin’ away, that
tenderfoot kid rode in on ’em, and they popped him over the head. They
thought they had killed him, and took him along to the Lane ranch. They
sunk the rug in the creek. And when they knew we had found the rug—they
stole it.”
The men were all staring at Hashknife, whose face was drawn, lips almost
white.
“Cave!” he snapped. “You made a mistake this mornin’. You should have
been just as drunk outside of town as you was in it.”
Joe Cave flinched, as if someone had seared him with a hot iron.
“You’ve got mask marks on your face, Cave!” Hashknife’s voice snapped
like a whip.
With a jerk of his hand, Cave started to reach for his face, but sagged
back against the bar.
“And you made a mistake, Morgan,” whispered Hashknife. “Why didn’t you
kill Briggs on flat ground, so you could search him, instead of shooting
him off the grade into the cañon, where you couldn’t get at him? He had
somethin’ in his pocket that you needed bad.”
Joe Cave was the first to act. As he sagged back against the bar, his
right hand flashed down to his gun. He was trapped. Morgan’s gun was
coming out like a flash, but his bullet ripped into the floor, echoing
the crash of Sleepy’s .45.
Cave sprang away from the bar, screaming a curse, with Spike Cahill
clinging like grim death to his gun hand. Lem shot across the space,
knocking the table aside, and threw one arm around Cave’s neck, shutting
off his wind, while Spike tore away the gun.
Morgan went to his knees, blindly groping for the gun which had fallen
from his nerveless hand, but Hashknife kicked it aside, and Morgan
sprawled on his face. They flung Cave in a chair, and Lem handcuffed
him, while Cave cursed them bitterly.
* * * * *
One of the men ran for the doctor, but Lem turned Morgan over to
discover that a doctor was not needed. Hashknife patted Sleepy on the
back and leaned against the bar.
“Dead, is he?” gritted Joe Cave.
“You’re lucky not to be with him,” said Spike nervously.
“Like hell I am! Why didn’t he live long enough to tell the truth?
Nobody will believe me. Dave killed Pete. I was out there with him. He
didn’t go to kill him; he went to borrow money. I wasn’t even in the
house. He wouldn’t lend Dave money; so Dave killed him. I don’t know how
Hartley knows so much about it. Dave wanted to lay the blame on Lane; so
we took the body there. We didn’t know who that kid was, but Dave said
to take him along. I shot Noah Evans by mistake. Dave promised to give
me this saloon for helpin’ him. He wanted to git rid of that tenderfoot,
and yesterday we had a quarrel about it. I was afraid he’d kill me as
soon as I done his dirty work. I shot the kid’s horse on the grade, and
I swiped the rug, jist before I shot through the winder. And that’s all
the truth.”
“And Dave Morgan robbed Pete’s safe, didn’t he?” asked Spike.
“Sure did. He was worried about a will. He thought old Briggs knowed too
much; so he waylaid Briggs on the Coyote Cañon grade. But Briggs went
into the cañon.”
“What did you go down there for today?” asked Hashknife.
“To see what happened. I know that cañon like a book.”
“And you choked Briggs?”
“You found him, didn’t you? No use of me lyin’.”
“Well, for God’s sake!” blurted Lem.
“Old Man Lane ain’t guilty a-tall.”
“But who tied Pete on the horse?” asked Lem. “That part of it ain’t
explained.”
“Nan and Rex,” said Hashknife. “They found the body in the corral and
wanted to get rid of it. That’s what made me sure Paul Lane never killed
him, Lem. If he had, he’d have hid the body—not left it there to cinch
him for murder. If there hadn’t been any more shootin’, I might have
believed Old Man Lane guilty; but there was too much shootin’ goin’ on.
The fact that Dave Morgan would inherit the 6X6 made me suspect him; but
he couldn’t do it all alone. He had to have help, but I didn’t know who
to suspect. I never thought of Joe Cave, until Lem fired him for bein’
drunk.”
“Wasn’t anythin’ about that, was there?” asked Lem.
“A puncher,” said Hashknife slowly, “don’t usually get drunk that early
in the mornin’, and they don’t usually take a chance on losin’ a good
job. It kinda looked to me as though Joe wanted to lose that job; so I
rode out of town to see how he acted after he got away from town. He
sobered up too quick. He had to be fired in order to make it look right.
You see, he was due to take over this saloon.”
“Morgan said you ought to be killed,” said Joe wearily.
“What did you and Morgan quarrel about down in the sheriff’s office,
Joe?”
“Did you hear that, too? He wanted me to go out to the ranch and kill
Rex Morgan. I was gettin’ scared. But I wanted this saloon. I heard them
comin’ on the grade; so I let ’em past before I shot. I never missed so
bad before, but the light was awful bad.
“Just one thing more, Cave,” said Hashknife. “When you had a chance down
there, why didn’t you kill the tenderfoot?”
Joe sighed and looked at the handcuffs.
“I was a fool,” he said slowly. “I don’t _sabe_ women. This ’n said she
wanted the tenderfoot so bad that she’d rather stay with him than git
out alone. And if you’ve ever been down there, where nothing much but a
buzzard or a lion can git, you can _sabe_ how bad she wanted him.”
“And that’s why you brought ’em out, Joe?”
“Wasn’t that enough?”
* * * * *
The doctor came and made an examination of Dave Morgan’s body. He did
not even open his black bag.
The crowd wanted more explanation. Hashknife drew a folded paper from
his inside vest pocket and handed it to Lem, who read it, while the
crowd leaned in over his wide shoulders to see what it was all about. It
read:
This is mi last will—when im ded.
To Mary Morgan, mi legil wife i hearby give the 6X6 ranch
and everything on it. i dont give nuthing to Dave Morgan
cause he dont deserve it.
If Mary dyes it goes to her nearist kin. To Napoleon Bonaparte
Briggs i hearby give the Oasis saloon he aint got no branes so
he will have to give Jack Farewether a job as long as the saloon
keeps open. This is mi onely will.
Yrs Respy
—Peter Morgan
his X mark
P. S. wrote bi Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs oct 18 1904 because
Pete Morgan cant wright.
Lem read it aloud to the men. Spike Cahill examined it closely, handing
it back to Lem.
“That’s old Briggs’ writin’,”, he declared. “I’d know it among a
million.”
The other boys agreed with Spike.
“That’s it,” said Bert Roddy. “I know how he writes his name. But where
is Pete’s wife? Nobody around here knows he ever had a wife.”
“The tenderfoot is her son,” said Hashknife. “We can prove it, can’t we,
Lem?”
The big sheriff nodded quickly.
“Somebody wired him when his wife died. We got a copy of the telegram.”
“Pete never got it,” said Joe Cave. “It came to the post office, and
Dave claimed it. He knowed that the kid was Pete’s son.”
“Well, it’s all perfectly clear now,” said Lem. “Ready to take a ride,
Joe?”
“It ain’t because I’m ready, Lem. Better get me a fresh horse. I had to
circle and go across the river to get back from that mesa.”
* * * * *
“Let’s all go down and congratulate the tenderfoot,” suggested Spike,
and when Lem took his prisoner to Cañonville, there were nine other
riders, who accompanied them to the forks of the road.
They rode up to the ranch-house and trooped inside, where they found Rex
humped down in a rocking chair, his feet bandaged. Nan was in her room,
but the uproar awoke her and she peered out at the crowd.
Spike was hammering Rex on the back and trying to shake hands with him
at the same time, while the bewildered Rex was trying to puzzle out what
it was all about.
“Put on a blanket and come out, Nan,” advised Hashknife. “This gang
won’t take no for an answer.”
Nan wrapped herself in a gaudy blanket and came out timidly. She looked
like a very little and very tired Indian.
“You tell ’em, Hashknife,” said Spike.
“It’s too long a tale to tell now,” said Hashknife, “but it amounts to
this, Nan. Your father will be turned loose tomorrow. Dave Morgan killed
Pete Morgan, who was the father of Rex. We’ve cleared that all up. Dave
Morgan is dead, and I found the will that gives Rex the 6X6.”
“You mean—my dad is free?” asked Nan.
“Jist as soon as they can unlock the jail, Nan.”
She stood there in front of them, the blanket tucked up around her chin,
crying. There was no effort to hide the tears. The cowboys turned away.
“Oh!” snorted Spike.
“What are you kickin’ about?” growled Bert.
“Somebody stepped on my foot.”
“Ain’t been anybody within six feet of you.”
“And I—I own the 6X6?” asked Rex foolishly.
“You shore do!” exclaimed Spike. “It’s your ranch, kid.”
Rex blinked at them foolishly.
“And Peter Morgan was my father? It was he who sent that check to my
mother?”
“I reckon it was Briggs,” said Hashknife. “Peter Morgan didn’t want
anybody to know; so he had Briggs send the checks.”
“Was he ashamed of my mother?”
“I dunno. We’ll never know, Rex; they’re both gone. You be content with
what he left you.”
Rex nodded dumbly. He could hardly understand his great fortune. The
boys came and shook hands with him. They all wanted to shake hands with
Nan, but she had slipped away to her room. The boys filed out of the
house, mounted their horses and headed back to Mesa City. Hashknife
yawned wearily and started for the door.
“Hashknife,” said Rex slowly, “I don’t understand anything. I know you
are the one responsible for all this good fortune, but I can’t think of
just what to say. If, as you say, the 6X6 belongs to me, will you take
charge of it? I don’t know anything about it. I’d like to hire all those
boys.”
“Well, I dunno. Might work out that way, Rex. We’ve got to put up our
horses now.”
He and Sleepy stabled their mounts and gave them a meal of oats. As they
closed the stable door, Sleepy said—
“How much of that will is true, Hashknife?”
“How much?” Hashknife hesitated for several moments.
“Your fingers are all stained with ink, cowboy.”
Hashknife chuckled softly.
“Some day, you’ll be a detective, Sleepy. C’mere.”
They backed against the stable, where Hashknife took a crumpled piece of
paper from his hip pocket. He scratched a match and held the paper for
Sleepy to read. The writing was identical with that of the other will,
but read:
This is mi last will—when im ded.
To Mary Morgan, legal wife of Dave Morgan i hearby give the 6X6
ranch to own. i dont give nothing to Dave Morgan he dont deserve it.
If Mary dyes it goes to her nearist kin. To Napoleon Bonaparte
Briggs I hearby give the Oasis saloon he aint got no branes so
he will have to give Jack Farewether a job as long as the saloon
keeps open. This is mi onely will.
Yrs Respy
—Peter Morgan
his X mark
P. S. wrote bi Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs oct 18 1904 because
Pete Morgan cant wright.
* * * * *
Hashknife was obliged to light a second match before Sleepy could finish
reading the document, and as Sleepy straightened up with a soft whistle
of astonishment, Hashknife touched the match to a corner of the paper
and they watched it burn to crinkly ashes.
“I wrote that other will, Sleepy,” said Hashknife slowly. “It works out
the same way, as far as the property is concerned. But when a young man
is slated to marry a danged sweet young lady, and don’t know anythin’
about his paternal ancestor, why not start him off right, as far as his
father is concerned?”
“That’s right,” said Sleepy softly. “It don’t hurt nobody. Look at that,
will you?”
Silhouetted against the ranch-house window were two figures, about a
foot apart. One figure greatly resembled a blanketed Indian, the other a
scarecrow, with rags dangling from its arms, making queer motions.
Sleepy laughed softly.
“Look at him, will you? He’s probably tellin’ her in good English what
he’s goin’ to do with the 6X6. Betcha he ain’t even kissed her.
Hashknife, that feller is almost dumb enough to make a good cowpuncher.”
Suddenly the figures blended, and Hashknife turned his back, as he
fumbled for his cigaret papers.
“Not so dumb,” he said slowly.
“Well, that one is over,” chuckled Sleepy.
“Good. Now, I can heat some water and soak my blisters.”
They pulled their hats low over their eyes and headed for the kitchen
door.
[Notes on the Text:
1. This story appeared in consecutive issues of Adventure Magazine:
April 15, 1928 and May 1, 1928.
2. It is believed to be in the public domain in the United States;
copyright status may differ in other countries.
3. Publisher’s stock cut images on the original page 3 of Part I and
on page 71 of Part II have been removed.]