The inquest frightened little Larry. He didn’t know what it was all
about, but he managed to tell the same story he had told Hashknife and
Breezy. Minnie’s story was the same. There was no evidence to show who
had fired the fatal shots; so the jury brought in the usual verdict.
Amos Baggs came to see the sheriff following the inquest, and complained
against Len Ayres for knocking him down the previous afternoon.
Hashknife and Sleepy were with the sheriff when Baggs called.
“It seems to me that yo’re a grown man, Baggs,” said the fat sheriff.
“If anythin’, yo’re bigger than Ayres.”
“Do you think I’m going to fight him?” demanded Baggs.
“Well, yuh didn’t; so what can yuh do about it?”
“Do you think I’m going to let him batter me around?”
“Say, what do yuh think this is--a guessin’ contest, Baggs? What do I
know about what you’ll do and what yuh won’t do? Yuh wasn’t aimin’ to
have Len arrested for slappin’ yuh, was yuh?”
“It was plain assault.”
“Yea-a-a-ah, I s’pose it was; very plain. But it ain’t up to me, Baggs.
Get the judge to swear out a warrant and I’ll serve it.”
Baggs was mad. He even glared at Hashknife, who grinned at him openly.
He walked to the door, but turned to fire a parting shot:
“I suppose you don’t know who killed Charley Prentice.”
“Well,” said the sheriff wearily, “I didn’t do it, because I’m the
sheriff; and you didn’t because you ain’t got the nerve.”
“That’s supposed to be a smart answer, isn’t it, Dillon?”
“It’s the right answer to a foolish question, Baggs.”
After Baggs had left the office, the sheriff declared: “I don’t like
that feller.”
“I guess he knows it,” grinned Hashknife. “Wasn’t he the prosecutor who
sent Ayres to the pen?”
“Yeah, and he shore piled it on a-plenty. I thought Len would kill him
when he came back, but I guess the pen takes all the killin’ ideas out
of a man. Nobody ever wants to go back.”
“Do you think Ayres really cached a lot of that money he stole?”
The sheriff laughed shortly.
“I suppose every man in this county has asked himself that same
question, Hartley. Nobody but Len could prove it. They say he was the
one who pulled the jobs, and he must have done somethin’ with the money.
I think some folks had a sneakin’ suspicion that his wife knew where it
was. But I don’t think she did.”
“Was she pretty?”
“Yeah, y’betcha. Prettiest woman around here.”
“How soon did she marry Prentice after Len was convicted?”
“Well, she got her divorce right away, and they was married inside of
six months.”
“She must have known him before Len was sent up.”
“Oh, shore. They’d been friends a long time.”
“Len and Prentice?”
“Prentice and the woman. Oh, I suppose him and Len was good enough
friends.”
“You wasn’t sheriff at that time, was yuh?”
“Nope. Harry Cole was the sheriff. Afterward he bought out the Oasis
Saloon. He’s made good money over there.”
“What’ll become of the kid now?”
“Larry? I dunno, Hartley; never thought about him. Say, that is
somethin’ to think about. Mebbe Len wants him. I’ll have to find out
about that right away, because I don’t suppose Prentice left anythin’.
Anyway, it probably can’t be touched until the estate is settled up.
I’ll talk with Grant, at the bank, and see what he knows about
Prentice’s finances.”
The next day they buried Charley Prentice in the little cemetery on the
slope behind the town. The countryside came to pay homage to a man they
had known as a good citizen. His sudden fall from grace meant nothing
against a good record. Hashknife and Sleepy did not intend to go to the
funeral, although the sheriff asked them to go with him.
They were sitting in front of a store, as the funeral came down a short
side street and wended its way out of town. It was not over a quarter of
a mile to the cemetery. The wagons, buckboards and riders were still
turning the corner on to the main street, when Len Ayres rode in. He
drew up in front of the Oasis and watched the procession.
And as the last vehicle turned the corner, he spurred his horse and fell
in behind.
“Can yuh imagine that?” snorted Sleepy. “He’s goin’ to the funeral!”
Hashknife looked seriously at Sleepy and got to his feet.
“I reckon we’ll go along, pardner. C’mon.”
The cortege moved slowly, so they had no difficulty in reaching the
graveyard in time. Len tied his horse to a fence and mixed in with the
crowd around the grave. Hashknife and Sleepy managed to get to a vantage
point where they could watch everything. Little Larry was the sole
mourner, but he was too interested in the crowd to be much of a success.
They saw Len push his way in close to the grave, where he stood all
during the ceremony, paying no attention to any one. In fact, he was the
centre of interest, although he seemed unconscious of it. Amos Baggs
stood across the grave from him, and if his expression was any criterion
of his feelings, he was sorry that it wasn’t Len’s funeral.
Len stayed in the one spot until the crowd began to disperse, when he
went slowly back to his horse and rode away. Breezy met Hashknife and
Sleepy at the fence, bursting for a chance to talk.
“Can yuh ee-magine that?” the deputy demanded. “Stood right there and
watched ’em plant Charley! That’s cold nerve, Hartley.”
“Do yuh suppose he was merely tryin’ to show his nerve?” asked
Hashknife. “Yuh know it don’t take nerve to attend the funeral of a man
you’ve never hurt in any way.”
Breezy tipped his hat over one eye as he scratched his head
thoughtfully.
“Yeah, there’s somethin’ in that, too. Lordy, it shore gave the folks a
shock. Amos Baggs almost fell in the hole--and I reached for a shovel.
It ain’t right to say it, but I’ve always hankered for a chance to pat
him in the face with a shovel. He makes me mad, jist to look at him.
Wait till I git my horse, and I’ll walk back with yuh.”
They found Larry at the sheriff’s office, talking with Dillon, when they
came back. The sheriff was trying to find out whether any one had made
plans for the boy. He seemed just a little bewildered, but grinned at
Hashknife.
“I’m still waitin’ for the wind to come along,” he said.
“That’s fine,” grinned Hashknife. “When she comes, we’ll shore fly that
kite, Larry.”
“Y’betcha.”
“I had a talk with Grant,” said the sheriff, “and as far as he knows,
Prentice didn’t leave a dollar. Gambled quite a lot, and the luck
usually went against him. I dunno what about this boy.”
“I’ll betcha I know,” grinned Breezy. “Larry would like to go out to the
Box S and live with his dad.”
Larry looked earnestly at Breezy for several moments, but finally shook
his head.
“Yuh don’t?” Breezy was astonished.
“No, I don’t want to go out there,” he said.
“I guess I better go home to Minnie.”
He walked out of the office and Breezy whistled softly.
“Ain’t that funny? Why, the other day he was shore strong for Len. I
don’t savvy what changed him so quick.”
“Was he very fond of Prentice?” asked Hashknife.
“I don’t believe he was,” answered the sheriff. “I don’t believe
Prentice cared much for him. Yuh don’t suppose the kid thinks that Len
killed Prentice, do yuh? That might make him afraid of Len. Somebody
might have told him that Len was the one who done the shootin’.”
“That would be a dirty trick,” said Hashknife quickly.
“Dirty tricks have been done,” smiled Breezy. “I wouldn’t put it past
Amos Baggs.”
Nobody reproved Breezy for that statement. But Hashknife wasn’t
satisfied. He left the office and made his way up to the Prentice home,
where he found Larry in the yard. “No wind yet,” said the boy. “I reckon
we won’t get any to-day.”
“Not much chance,” smiled Hashknife, leaning on the fence. “I wanted to
ask yuh a question, Larry.”
“To ask me a question, Mr. Hartley?”
“Man to man, Larry.”
“What is it?”
“Did somebody tell you that Len Ayres killed Prentice?”
The boy blinked quickly and turned his head away.
“Just man to man, Larry,” urged Hashknife softly.
Larry shook his head.
“Nobody told me,” he said. “Not a soul, Mr. Hartley.”
“You didn’t even hear anybody hint it?”
“Do they think he killed Mr. Prentice?”
“Who do you think killed him, Larry?” countered Hashknife.
“I don’t know who killed him.”
“And you never even heard anybody hint that your father might have
killed Prentice?”
After a moment of sober thought the boy shook his head.
“I didn’t know they thought he did,” said Larry.
“Thank yuh for answerin’ my question, Larry.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Hartley. I hope we get some wind.”
“Yeah, I shore hope so. So long, Larry.”
“So long, Mr. Hartley.”
Hashknife went away unsatisfied. There was some reason why Larry did not
want to go to Len; and Hashknife would never be comfortable until he had
discovered who shot Charley Prentice--and why. He felt that Len Ayres
was perfectly capable of killing a man, but he did not think that Ayres
would ever commit murder.
He talked it over that night with Sleepy, but his grin-faced partner had
no ideas on the subject, except the local thought that Len had killed
him.
“Some folks think he done the right thing,” said Sleepy.
“Yuh can’t justify murder, Sleepy.”
“I ain’t tryin’ to. Anyway, it wasn’t my funeral.”
“Did Len strike you as a man who would call a man to his door and kill
him?”
“I dunno, Hashknife. Readin’ human bein’s is like dopin’ out a race
horse from a form-chart. They never run the way they should. I’d hate to
think he would, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he did. What’s yore
opinion?”
“The key to the whole thing is this, Sleepy: find the man who wanted to
kill Prentice.”
“Yeah, I know that. But Prentice was well liked by most everybody. He
never hurt nobody--except Len Ayres. Ask anybody and they’ll tell yuh
the same thing. I’ve talked with a lot of ’em.”
“That’s what made it easy for somebody else to kill him, and get away
with it, Sleepy.”
Sleepy laughed softly.
“Hashknife, yo’re funny. If you seen a man shoot another man, you’d
prove that somebody else done it.”
“And get a confession from ’em, Sleepy.”
“And they’d be guilty. Go ahead, but don’t ask me to think. All I’m good
for is to burn powder, anyway.”
“There ain’t much to think about--yet.”
“Well,” grinned Sleepy, “yo’re young yet.”
The next day Whispering made out a grub list, and Nan rode to town with
him in a lumber-wagon. She had talked things over with Len and he had
advised her to get some cheques at the bank to pay for the grocery list.
“Even before the will is probated, they’ve got to allow enough money to
keep the ranch goin’,” he told her. “It may not be exactly accordin’ to
law, but that won’t matter.”
Nan didn’t want to meet Amos Baggs. She hadn’t seen him since she
refused to sign the thousand-dollar cheque for him. The Arizona sun had
changed her complexion to an olive tan, and she might easily be mistaken
for a native of the range.
They were obliged to cross the railroad tracks near the little sun-baked
depot, and as a train was approaching, Whispering drew up the team some
distance away. The train did not tarry long at Lobo Wells, and as it
drew away Whispering whipped up the team.
They jolted across the tracks and headed down the main street. A man
dressed in black, one arm in a sling, was going down the wooden sidewalk
from the depot, carrying a valise in his free hand, and as they came
abreast of him, he turned his head sufficiently for Nan to see his face.
For a moment she grasped the side of the seat to steady herself, turning
her head away quickly. Her heart seemed to come up in her throat.
It was Jack Pollock, the San Francisco gambler! Madge’s friend! He was
the last man she had ever expected to see again, and the last one she
wished to see. Her mind was in a whirl, as the team drew up in front of
the store. Whispering looked at her and put his hand on her arm.
“What’s the matter--too much sun?” he asked.
“I--I’m all right,” she said jerkily.
“Yo’re mighty white, ma’am. I’ll help yuh down and git yuh in the shade.
A derned old wagon is the hottest place on earth, anyway. We’ll git some
water for yuh.”
She walked shakily into the store, where Whispering secured a cup of
cold water for her. The proprietor of the store was solicitous, but
helpless.
“Oh, I’m all right now,” she said weakly.
“You set right here,” advised Whispering. “I’ll go up to the bank and
git them cheques, and I’ll tell Grant about it. I know him well. You
jist take it easy. Give Jim Albers here yore grub list, and he’ll fix it
up while I’m away.”
Nan was more than thankful to Whispering. She didn’t want to go out on
the street. It was cool in that dark corner of the store, and she wanted
time to think. What was Jack Pollock doing in Lobo Wells, she wondered?
Baggs had spoken about him, and Nan realised that Pollock was the one
who was going to send Madge Allan to Lobo Wells to take over the Box S
property.
Had some one suspected that she was an impostor and sent for Jack
Pollock to prove the suspicion? She was at the end of her rope, and she
knew it. A word from Pollock would prove who she was.
Whispering was coming back, grinning widely.
“Feel better? Got everythin’ fixed up. Grant said he’d take a chance on
yore cheque. Got some pen and ink, Jim? How much does that total?”
Nan’s hand shook as she made out the cheque, but the men did not notice
it. They loaded the stuff in the wagon and drove away. Nan did not draw
a full breath until they were out of town. The colour came back to her
cheeks and Whispering nodded approvingly.
“Oh, yuh look a lot better,” he told her. “Gosh, yuh shore looked like
you’d seen a ghost, when we pulled up at the store. This sun does fry
yuh plenty.”
Whispering didn’t know how near he had come to the truth when he said
she had seen a ghost. He told Len about it when they got back to the
ranch, but Nan assured them that she was entirely recovered.
Hashknife and Sleepy were in the Oasis Saloon when Pollock came in. He
shook hands with Cole and with several other men, drank with them, and
then went back with Cole to his private office.
Hashknife was tilted back against the wall, with his hat over his eyes,
and after the two men had entered the back room, he tilted forward, got
to his feet, and walked outside with Sleepy.
“Recognise the black-coated gent who just came in, Sleepy?” he asked.
“Didn’t pay much attention to him. Who is he?”
“I dunno who he is now,” thoughtfully. “About three or four years ago a
gambler by the name of Jack Evans shot a feller in the Golden Arrow
Saloon in Redfields. They quarrelled over a poker game, and Evans shot
him with a derringer. The man didn’t die, but he was badly crippled, and
there was a warrant for Evans, who got away. Remember that, Sleepy?”
“Yeah, I remember the shootin’. Is this Jack Evans?”
“If it ain’t, it’s his ghost. I don’t forget faces. Yuh see, I’ve played
poker with him. He’s got a scar on the back of his left hand; sort of a
white half-moon, where a Mexican pinned his hand to a poker table in
Laredo. Wore a big cameo ring on the same hand. The ring may be gone,
but the scar will show.”
“Do yuh reckon he’s still wanted in Redfields?”
“That’s not our business. Let Redfields capture their own criminals.
What interests me is the fact that he’s here in a small town with one
arm in a sling. Harry Cole and the bunch seem to know him very well; so
this may be where he hangs out when the police need him pretty bad.”
“Do yuh think he’ll recognise you, Hashknife?”
“Not a chance in a thousand. We never locked horns in any way, and he
prob’ly dealt cards to a lot of suckers since he dealt to me.”
They mentioned Pollock to Breezy.
“Jack Pollock? Shore I know him. He used to work for Harry Cole. Oh, he
was here a long time. Yuh say he’s back? He’s all right, jist a little
slick, thasall. Mebbe Harry sent for him.”
“I don’t know him,” said Hashknife. “Heard them call him Pollock. He’s
got his left arm in a sling.”
“Yeah? Well, he prob’ly got clumsy on the deal. Some folks demand an
honest deal, it seems. Oh, I don’t say he’s a crooked dealer, Hashknife.
Lotsa other ways for him to git hurt. Might have fallen out of a
balloon, f’r instance. I’d be the last one to ever say anythin’ against
him.”
Hashknife dropped the subject, as far as the conversation was concerned,
but did not dismiss it from his mind. It might be the natural thing for
Pollock to visit the place where he had formerly lived and worked, but
Hashknife did not figure that a man of Pollock’s reputation would do the
natural thing. He took it for granted that Pollock was there for some
other reason than a visit.
Hashknife drifted back to the Oasis a little later, giving Pollock
plenty of chances to recognise him, but the gambler merely glanced at
him and went on talking with Cole. Hashknife noticed that his left hand
was bandaged to the knuckles, precluding any chance of an identifying
glimpse of any scar on the back of that hand.
Pollock did not take a room at the hotel, but occupied one of Cole’s
rooms over the saloon, where Cole’s other two dealers slept. Cole’s own
bed was in his private office.
That evening about eight o’clock Amos Baggs came in to the sheriff’s
office, where Ben Dillon was seated at his desk, writing a letter.
Baggs did not sit down, but stood beside the desk and came to the point
immediately.
“I want to talk with you about Len Ayres, Dillon,” he said.
“What’s he done now, Baggs?”
“This has nothing to do with what he has already done; it’s what he
might do. You probably know that he hates me for what happened during
his trial five years ago. Well,” Amos sighed deeply, “he came to me with
all kinds of threats. I tried to smooth things over, but it was no use.
You wonder how he got the job of foreman on the Box S? I’ll tell you why
he got it, Dillon; it was because he said he’d cut off my ears if I
didn’t give it to him.”
“Bein’ your ears,” said the sheriff thoughtfully, “you wanted to save
’em.”
“Naturally. I asked Miss Singer to give him the job. I was retained by
Harmony Singer during the last few months of his life, and as I drew his
will and located the heir, it would naturally follow that I have charge
of the business, at least until after the will is probated and the owner
established.”
“Looks thataway,” agreed Ben, who knew little law.
“Well, I haven’t!” snapped Baggs. “Ayres has blocked me in every way. He
hates me. I’ve been ordered off the ranch, and threatened with bodily
injury if I return. Miss Singer does not confer with me in anything. If
you were in my place, would you allow such a condition to remain?”
Ben rubbed his stubbled chin thoughtfully. He looked up at Baggs, a
quizzical expression in his eyes.
“Just how much do you value yore ears, Amos?”
Baggs adjusted his collar, shrugged his shoulders wearily.
“We’ll drop that matter,” he said flatly, and then as an afterthought,
“I don’t suppose any effort is being made to discover Prentice’s
murderer.”
“Any effort? Jist what kind of an effort do yuh mean? We ain’t made no
house-to-house canvass, if that’s what yuh mean.”
Baggs put his lean hands on the desk and leaned forward.
“If I was the prosecuting attorney of this county, I’d----”
“But you ain’t,” interrupted the sheriff. “If yuh don’t mind, we’ll
leave----”
Ben didn’t finish his advice. Came the crash of a window pane behind the
sheriff, showering him with glass; a sharp cry from Baggs, the thud of a
bullet smashing into the wall, and from somewhere outside came the
whiplike report of a rifle, the echoes clattering back from the
buildings.
Ben’s presence of mind caused him to fall over backward against the
wall, clawing for his six-shooter. Baggs staggered sidewise, almost
fell, recovered and stood there trembling like a leaf.
“Git away from the window, yuh damn’ ignorant fool!” roared the sheriff,
but Baggs didn’t understand. His hands were clawing at his chest.
Some one shouted from across the street, men were running on the
sidewalk. Ben slid low beneath the window sill, came up against the
wall. He wasn’t going to get in line with that window again.
“They hit me,” said Baggs dumbly. “They hit me.”
“Stay right where yuh are, and they’ll hit yuh again,” said the sheriff
sarcastically.
But the shooting was over. A man sprang on the sidewalk in front of the
office and threw the door open. It was Breezy.
“Where was that shot?” he began, but stopped. Sleepy joined him in the
doorway.
“They shot Baggs,” said the sheriff.
“He’s still on his feet,” grunted Breezy. “Where’d it hit yuh, Amos?”
They crowded around him. Sleepy picked up an object against the opposite
wall, a small tangle of metal and smashed wheels.
“Here’s yore watch,” he said, holding it out.
An examination showed that the bullet had cut through Baggs’s left coat
sleeve near the shoulder, ripped across his chest, barely scoring the
skin, picking up his watch and fountain pen, and had torn his right coat
sleeve, but did not tear his shirt.
Baggs’s face was white and he shook weakly. An inch or two to the right,
and Amos Baggs’s career would have been closed. He sat down in a chair
and covered his face with his hands, while more men crowded in. Harry
Cole, one of his dealers, and several cattlemen came over from the
Oasis.
Everybody wanted to know what it was all about. Baggs was unable to talk
about it. The sheriff told them what had happened, they examined the
evidence and departed, taking Baggs with them. He had a keen desire to
stay with a crowd.
Breezy and Sleepy stayed with the sheriff, who hung a blanket over the
smashed window and sat down to smoke it over.
“The question is: who wants to kill Baggs?” mused Breezy.
“Hang the whole town,” grunted the sheriff. “By golly, he almost grabbed
a harp that time.”
“Are yuh sure they didn’t shoot at you, Ben?” asked Breezy.
“Not a chance. No sir, they wanted Amos.”
“A worthy want,” grinned Breezy. “Me and Sleepy was playin’ pool in the
Oasis, and that shot sure sounded loud.”
Sleepy grinned over his cigarette, but suddenly sobered.
“Did any of yuh see Hashknife lately?” he asked.
“Not since supper,” replied the sheriff. “I seen both of yuh over at the
restaurant.”
“That’s funny to me.”
Sleepy got to his feet and walked quickly out of the office. It was
unlike Hashknife not to be in evidence when there was shooting going on.
Sleepy went up one side of the street and down the other, as far as the
depot, but did not find Hashknife in any of the buildings.
He came back to the Oasis, where he met Breezy, who had also been
looking for Hashknife, but without results. Together they went to the
livery stable, only to find that Hashknife’s gray horse was in its
stall, contentedly munching hay.
“That’s shore got me beat,” confessed Sleepy.
“Well, he can take care of himself,” said Breezy.
“Prob’ly better than you think, Breezy. I suppose I might as well sit
tight and wait for him to show up.”
They went back and finished their game of pool, but Sleepy’s mind was
not on his shots. The attempt to murder Baggs made Sleepy nervous. As
soon as they finished their game, Sleepy left Breezy, who was interested
in a poker game, and went over to the hotel, never dreaming that
Hashknife might be there.
He found his tall partner slumped down in an old rocker, reading a paper
by the light of an oil lamp. The room was foggy with cigarette smoke,
which eddied in the gust of wind from the open door. Sleepy noticed that
the shade had been drawn over their one window.
“I’ve been huntin’ all over town for you,” he told Hashknife. “Didn’t
yuh hear that shot?”
“Yeah, I heard it.”
“Yuh did? And you stayed here? Whatsa matter, cowboy?”
“Wasn’t anybody killed, was there?”
“Somebody dang near killed Amos Baggs, the lawyer.”
“No!”
“They shore did.”
Sleepy described how the bullet came through the sheriff’s window and
within an inch or so of killing Baggs. Hashknife grinned through the
recital. It was amusing to him.
“And you sat here, readin’ an old paper, and never looked to see what it
was all about, eh?” said Sleepy. “Well, that ain’t a bit like you. Kinda
losin’ interest, or was the paper so danged interestin’?”
Hashknife yawned widely and laid the paper aside.
“I was readin’ how to stay beautiful after yo’re over forty,” he
grinned. “It’s worth readin’.”
“I’ll betcha,” laughed Sleepy. He leaned forward and looked closely at
Hashknife. “Whatcha been doin’--cuttin’ yore ear with a razor?”
Hashknife reached up, fingered his ear and looked at the smear of blood
on his fingers.
“Piece of that glass must have flew back,” he said.
“Piece of what glass?”
“From the sheriff’s window, Sleepy. I reckon my head was about on a
level with Baggs’s vest pockets.”
“You mean that somebody tried to kill you instead of Baggs?”
“Well,” grinned Hashknife. “I don’t want to steal any glory from Mr.
Baggs; but I’m afraid that’s about what happened.”
“And you didn’t do anythin’ about it?”
“Oh, shore. I ducked down the alley, sneaked in the backway and read the
newspaper. Don’t tell anybody, Sleepy.”
“It’ll probably scare Baggs out of the country, Hashknife.”
“Be a great thing for the country.”
“But why would anybody try to kill you? Don’t set there and grin like a
danged fool! Do you know what it’s all about?”
“Nope; that’s why it’s amusin’, Sleepy. Somebody is scared.”
“Scared?”
“Scared enough to shoot at me. I wish I knew why.”
“So do I,” seriously. Suddenly Sleepy grinned widely. “By golly, we
won’t sprout, Hashknife. I believe Lobo Wells is human, after all.”
“Most places are, if yuh scratch ’em deep enough. Let’s go to bed and
get a good sleep.”