Hashknife, with seven stitches in his scalp, and bandaged like a
turbaned Moslem, was around town, minus his hat. Questions came thick
and fast, but he told everybody that it was a mystery to him. He
fingered the derringer in his pocket, and wondered whether it belonged
to Jack Pollock, who was around the Oasis, still wearing his arm in a
sling. Pollock--if he were really Evans--had used a derringer in
Redfields. The gun did not bear any identifying mark, and was small
enough to conceal in the palm of a man’s hand.
Hashknife tried to remember the two voices he had heard, but the memory
was too vague, the voices seemingly too far away, although he could
remember what was said. But he decided that the approach of Sailor Jones
had hurried them and they had thrown him over the railing of the bridge
on the spur of the moment, when otherwise they might have been more
critical of his real condition.
Amos Baggs was a little more than just upset that day. He had been to
the depot and seen the last train of the day go through to the West, and
Nan had not been at the depot. He swore bitterly and went back to his
office, trying to think what to do next. He was sure that Len had
advised her to stay, in spite of his warning.
If he had seen Len Ayres when the puncher rode up to the front of his
office he would have beaten a retreat out through the back door, but he
didn’t have time. Len did not waste words, but delivered Nan’s message
as briefly as possible. And Amos Baggs almost hugged Len Ayres. The
weight of the world lifted from his shoulders.
Len met Hashknife a little later and told him about it, after they had
discussed the events of the night before.
“I dunno what struck Baggs,” said Len. “He was so sour and so scared
when I went in, and as soon as I told him about Nan sprainin’ her ankle
he got real happy. I don’t figure him.”
“That’s a queer thing to make anybody happy.”
“Shore is.”
“What was the message?”
“That she had been hurt and wouldn’t be able to see him to-day.”
Hashknife didn’t tell Ayres what he had read in the letter from Baggs to
Nan, but he knew that Nan lost no time in coming in to see Baggs.
“There’s somethin’ wrong in that end of the deal,” he told himself.
“Nice girl and a crooked lawyer. He’s got her scared, I think. I wish I
had her scared enough to talk. I’ll just about fool around here until
somebody blows my head off.”
Sleepy had the same idea.
“It ain’t worth it,” he declared. “Wire Wells Fargo that we’re off the
job, Hashknife. It was a foolish idea, in the first place. They can’t
expect us to do anythin’. I’ll be darned if I think Len Ayres has got
that money planted.”
“Yuh don’t? Ain’t it funny--neither do I!”
“Fine! So what’s the use of stickin’ around here, lookin’ for somethin’
that neither of us believe exists.”
“Sleepy,” seriously, “what do yuh reckon they’re shootin’ at me for?”
“That question can’t be answered. And if we stick around here much
longer it never will--by us.”
But Hashknife made no move to leave Lobo Wells. For the next couple of
days he stayed close to town, waiting for his wounds to heal and being
sure not to acquire any fresh ones.
Out at the Box S, Nan’s ankle was nearly well again. Much of the arguing
between Whispering and Sailor had ceased, because Larry was cutting the
wood, much to the amusement of everybody. His ideas of measurements were
rather flexible, and at times Whispering was obliged to take the wood
back and cut it again; but never when Larry might be aware of it.
Came Saturday night and Sailor rode to Lobo Wells with Len. Whispering
had been complaining about rheumatism for days, so he decided to stay at
the ranch. Nan had completely recovered the use of her ankle. She had
heard no more from Amos Baggs, but she realised that there was no more
to hear. He had delivered his ultimatum, but had been kind enough to
allow her this extra time.
Little Larry went to bed early, thoroughly tired. Whispering was down in
the bunk-house, either in bed or deep in a game of solitaire. Nan was
reading in the living-room when she heard a noise on the porch. As she
lowered her book the door opened softly and in came Amos Baggs and Jack
Pollock, the gambler.
“We saw you through the window,” said Baggs softly, “so we didn’t bother
to knock.”
Pollock was looking at her with a curious smile.
“Some difference between a hall bedroom in a Frisco rooming house and
ownership of a ranch like this,” he said. “Kid, I’ll give you credit;
you’ve got plenty of nerve. Too bad you didn’t get away with it.”
Nan did not answer him. Baggs came up to the table and removed some
papers from his pocket, which he spread on the table at her elbow. He
took out a fountain pen and handed it to her.
“Just sign on that lower line,” he said, indicating it with a bony
forefinger. “Sign it Madge Singer.”
“What is it?” Nan managed to articulate at last.
“Power of attorney,” said Baggs. “You just sign it, young lady. I’ll
need that to handle this case. We’ve got to say that you are suddenly
called to Frisco.”
“I--I’d rather not sign it now,” she said.
“_You’d_ rather not sign it now? What have you got to do with it, I’d
like to know? You sign it. I’ve been pretty lenient with you, young
lady; now you play square with me. Write your name on that line, and
let’s get this over.”
Nan looked at Pollock, who was grinning at her. Baggs had been drinking,
and his face was close to her.
“You say I’m going back to Frisco?” she asked.
“That’s none of your damn business,” Baggs said coldly. “You were an
impostor. I’m merely saving you from jail. You’re not entitled to that
much consideration, but I’m giving it to you. You sign Madge Singer’s
name on that line, write a note to Len Ayres, telling him that you are
suddenly called away, and we’ll all get out of here. You’ll either do
this or stay in jail to-night.”
“Does Ayres know your handwriting?” asked Pollock.
“I don’t think he does,” said Nan weakly. She turned to Amos Baggs. “I
guess I’d rather go to jail,” she said.
“You’re seventeen kinds of a fool!” snorted Baggs angrily.
Pollock was busy writing in a notebook. He tore out the page, and his
eyes were hard as he looked at Nan.
“Let her go to jail, Amos,” he said. “She better take her stuff along,
because she’s going to stay a long time.”
“I’ll pack my stuff,” said Nan firmly.
“With us watching you,” declared Baggs. “You’re too slippery, young
lady. You’ve given us plenty trouble already. Hurry up; we want to get
there before the jail closes for the night.”
Pollock laughed harshly, and then went to help her pack.