Hashknife picked up Sleepy at the livery stable, and they rode out to
the Box S. Sleepy didn’t know what it was all about, but he went
willingly. They found Len and Larry on the front porch.
“Do you think there’s enough wind to sail that kite to-day, Mr.
Hartley?” called the boy anxiously.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to wait a while, Larry. Take a look at this,
Len.”
He handed Len the answer to the telegram, explaining that he had wired
the conductor on the train.
“I’d have bet on my hunch!” snapped Len. “That proves it. But where is
she, Hartley? Nobody saw her leave. All we’ve got to go on is the note
she left.”
“Do you know her writin’, Len?”
“Never saw it in my life.”
“Maybe she didn’t write it. Maybe she didn’t go away with Baggs. But
there’s one cinch bet: she didn’t board that train last night in Lobo
Wells. Jack Pollock, the gambler, is missin’, and Harry Cole says he
left on that eleven-thirty train for Frisco. But this mornin’ the
stable-keeper found a billfold, which looks as though it belonged to
Pollock, and in it is two one-way tickets from Lobo Wells to San
Francisco. Pollock bought the two tickets yesterday mornin’.”
“For gosh sakes!” blurted Len. “I’ll say you’ve found out a lot.”
“Don’t do us much good. What we want to know is this: did Pollock intend
takin’ the girl with him last night; and what became of them? Do yuh
know if she was acquainted with Pollock?”
“I never heard her say.”
“Did you talk with Amos Baggs about her goin’ away?”
“I couldn’t find him, Hartley; his office was locked.”
“Well, he’s still in town. That damn fool sheriff read the answer to
that telegram right in front of him. Some folks never will have any
brains, and it seems as though about the time they get elected sheriff
they lose all their natural sense.”
“Do you think Baggs knows somethin’?”
“He knows that we know the girl didn’t go away last night, and that we
know Pollock didn’t take that train. It may not be of any interest to
him to know this--but he knows it, if it is.”
“Have you any idea why this was done, Hartley?”
“Nope; have you?”
Len shook his head wearily, but Hashknife had a feeling that Len knew
more than he was telling. Whispering and Sailor came to them, seeking
information--Len had told them that he didn’t believe Nan wrote the
note--and now he told them that Nan did not leave on that eleven-thirty
train from Lobo Wells.
“Yuh don’t mean to say that somebody kidnapped her, do yuh?” asked
Whispering. “Wouldn’t nobody do that?”
“There’s always somebody that’ll do _anythin’_,” declared Sailor. “We
ain’t had a first-class hangin’ for a long time.”
“Catch a rabbit before yuh skin him,” grunted Whispering. “The worst of
it is, this must have happened while I’m down at the bunk-house last
night.”
“We left yuh here to guard her,” said Sailor.
“You left me here ’cause I had rheumatism, yuh mean. Nobody told me to
ride herd on her.”
“Well, boys, it couldn’t be helped,” sighed Len. “There’s no blame
comin’ to anybody. Mebby everythin’ is all right. I guess I’ll go to
town and have a talk with Baggs,” and then savagely: “And he’ll talk to
me, or I’ll saw off his damn ears.”
“That would be my idea of a holiday,” grinned Whispering as Len hurried
down to the stable to get his horse.
“Why does everybody hate Baggs?” asked Hashknife.
“I dunno,” confessed Whispering. “I hate him for the things he said
about Len at the trial. Old Harmony Singer hated him a-plenty. I had to
talk pretty strong to keep Harmony from killin’ him. He shore was a
tough old feller.”
“Singer was dragged to death, wasn’t he?”
Whispering nodded sadly.
“They didn’t make ’em better,” said Sailor.
“You knew Len’s wife?” Hashknife queried.
“Shore,” nodded Whispering quickly. “She didn’t shoot square.”
“Before he was sent up?”
Whispering and Sailor exchanged quick glances, and Whispering cleared
his throat harshly.
“Afterward,” he said huskily.
Len was riding up from the stable, and the three of them went back to
Lobo Wells. Len was plainly worried.
“I don’t know what to say to Baggs,” he confessed, as they neared the
town.
“Take it easy,” advised Hashknife. “Just tell him that she went away
without leavin’ any orders, and see what he has to say about it. No use
rubbin’ him the wrong way. Don’t let him know that yuh suspect anythin’
wrong.”
“That might be best; I’ll do it.”
But Len got the surprise of his life when he went to see Baggs in his
office. The lawyer was inclined to be dictatorial.
“No, I don’t know where Miss Singer went,” he said. “She left a note
under my door sayin’ she was leavin’ for San Francisco and might not be
back.”
He produced the note, written in the same hand and on the same kind of
paper as the one she had left for Len.
“She didn’t tell me she might not be back,” said Len.
“Well, she told me. And, another thing, Ayres: I have power of attorney
to run the Box S until she returns. Miss Singer signed the paper several
days ago. If you want to see it----”
“Gave you power of attorney to run the Box S?”
“Exactly. And I’m going to run it, Ayres. You are through as foreman,
and you can notify Taylor and Jones that they are also through.”
Len stared at him blankly.
“Kinda sudden, ain’t yuh?” he asked softly.
“Not at all. You and your men move out, and I’ll hire a new crew. It has
been done before, so I’m not setting any precedent. I have explained to
the sheriff just what I intend to do; so the less you say or do about it
the better it will be for you, Ayres.”
Len was mad. He wanted to take that skinny neck between his two hands
and squeeze real hard. But he was forced to admit that Baggs had the
whip hand.
“I suppose you’ll sign and cash that thousand dollar cheque now?” said
Len slowly.
“If it suits me--yes. I have the right.”
Len studied the situation for a while. Then he said slowly:
“She’ll have to come back to have that will probated.”
“I don’t think so. She has been established here, and if it is
impossible for her to be present--well, it is merely a matter of legal
procedure. I don’t think the court will even raise a question.”
“Another friend of yours pulled out on the same train last night, didn’t
he?”
“Who was that?”
“Pollock.”
“Did he? I didn’t know it. Why do you say he’s a friend of mine, Ayres?”
“I heard he was.”
“Don’t you believe everything you hear, Ayres.”
“Who brought Miss Singer to town last night?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Can’t or won’t, Baggs?”
“I think that will be about all. If you will make out the pay-roll for
yourself and the other two men I’ll give you a cheque for it. Be off the
Box S by to-morrow evening.”
Len stifled an impulse to manhandle Baggs and left the office.
Hashknife, Sleepy and Breezy were sitting on the sidewalk in front of
the sheriff’s office, and Len went down to them. He drew Hashknife aside
and told him what Baggs had done, while Hashknife whistled unmusically
between his teeth.
“Showed you the note she left under his door, eh?” mused Hashknife. “She
shore sneaked fast, Len. But where did she go from there? Who brought
her to town? I felt sure that Baggs went out after her, but I just asked
the man at the stable, and he said that Pollock was the only man who
hired a rig from him last night.”
“Who is this Pollock person, anyway?” asked Len. “He came here after I
went away.”
“Flash gambler, from Frisco. Unless I’m mistaken, his name used to be
Evans, and he’s wanted for killin’. Looks to me like a slick-fingered
killer. They tell me he used to work for Harry Cole of the Oasis. Cole
told me that Pollock got busted up in a wreck in Frisco and was out here
visitin’ while his arm healed up.”
“Hartley, do you think Nan ran away with Pollock?”
Hashknife studied Len’s face for a few moments.
“Len,” he said softly, “is this anxiety merely for the boss of the Box
S, or is it----”
“I’m just a plain damn fool!” said Len savagely. “I’ve been a fool ever
since I came back here. I suppose,” he added bitterly, “I’ll keep on
bein’ a fool all my life.”
“And they are legion,” sighed Hashknife.
“What did you say, Hartley?”
“I just said that we’re in the majority.”
“Uh-huh--I suppose. Well, I hate to go out and break the news to
Whispering and Sailor. They’ve lived there for years; sorta pensioned by
Harmony. They’ll want to come in and kill Baggs. And, Hartley, I’m
afraid it will require the sheriff to shake ’em loose from the Box S. I
can land another job, but they can’t.”
“Well, he gave yuh until to-morrow night, didn’t he? Kingdoms have
changed hands in shorter time than that. I’m goin’ up to my room and do
a lot of thinkin’. And I’ve got a hunch that Nan didn’t run away with
Pollock.”
“I hope yo’re right, Hartley. I’ll see what I can think about before I
see yuh again.”
Hashknife went up to his room and sprawled on the bed.
“Of all the snake trails I ever follered, this is the worst,” he told
himself. “What’s it all about, anyway? There’s one cinch bet, and that
is that somebody around here is scared of me, and I don’t know what
for.”
He reviewed the killing of Charley Prentice, who had been sober and
industrious until Len Ayres came back. What was Prentice afraid of, he
wondered? Was it because he had married Len’s ex-wife? Did he fear Len’s
wrath so much that he drank himself to a physical wreck?
The evidence of little Larry would indicate that the man or men who
killed Prentice wanted to throw the blame on Len. And would they commit
murder merely to get Len out of the way? That was hardly reasonable,
Hashknife decided. Did they want to close Prentice’s mouth, and at the
same time dispose of Len? That sounded reasonable. Drunken men might
talk.
For at least two hours the tall cowboy sprawled on the bed, his gray
eyes blinking at the bare ceiling, until Sleepy came up and demanded to
know whether Hashknife was playing a joke on his stomach or had he
forgotten that it was past supper time.
Hashknife got up and washed his face in the cracked porcelain bowl. He
placed his sombrero atop his bandages and did a few clumsy dance steps
on the creaking floor, after which he sang softly:
“When my engine roars down through the cut,
I’ll tell yuh what to do:
If my darlin’s dead, just show the red;
If she bet-ter-r-r, show the blue.”
Sleepy looked at him curiously. It was not often that Hashknife sang a
song--for which Sleepy was duly thankful, because Hashknife was not
exactly a vocalist. But Sleepy knew that when Hashknife sang, even a
short part of a verse, it was because he had solved something.
“What do yuh know?” asked Sleepy curiously.
Hashknife grinned softly and looked at himself in the old mirror.
“I know it’s time to eat, cowboy. Glad yuh reminded me.”
They found Ben Dillon and Breezy eating their supper; so they sat down
at the same table. The sheriff masticated rapidly for several moments,
his eyes on Hashknife. Then:
“Hartley, I’d like to have yuh tell me what that telegram meant. I’m not
in the habit of lettin’ folks use my name on telegrams, the same of
which I don’t know anythin’ about. The darn thing don’t make sense. You
ain’t never showed me jist who yuh are, and--well, what about it?”
Hashknife smiled across the table at the sheriff, who grunted audibly,
but waited for Hashknife to speak.
“I’ll pay for the telegram,” said Hashknife.
“That part don’t interest me none; I want to know what it was all
about.”
Hashknife did not smile now. He looked at the sheriff with his level
gray eyes, as he said softly: “I can’t tell yuh now, sheriff. Too many
cooks always spoil the broth.”
“Yeah?” thoughtfully. “Well, you got a nerve, Hartley. Oh, it’s O.K.
with me if all this is on the square.”
“It’s all right, I give you my word.”
Baggs had talked to the sheriff, telling him that he was firing the crew
at the Box S, and saying that he might have some trouble over it.
“Kinda tough,” agreed Breezy, digging away at a tough steak with a dull
knife. “Len’s got the kid to look after, too. Mebby he’ll rent the
Prentice house and start housekeepin’. Be funny if he did, wouldn’t it?”
“Did Prentice own the house?” asked Hashknife.
“Belongs to Harry Cole,” said the sheriff. “Prentice rented from him.”
“Mebby Baggs will give us a job on the Box S,” grinned Sleepy.
“Stranger things than that have happened,” grunted Breezy.
“Shore,” grinned Hashknife. “I remember readin’ about the sea openin’ up
and lettin’ the Hebrews go through dry-shod.”
“I never swallered that,” choked Breezy. “Must ’a’ been plenty mud. I
don’t believe in mi-rackles, but the jigger that served this steak shore
does. Hey, Charley! Take this steak back and try it on the next
customer. I know when I’m whipped.”
“Don’t like taste?” inquired the Chinaman.
“Boy, I never got that far. Gimme some aigs.”
“Yessa.”
Hashknife turned to the sheriff, who was grinning.
“Pollock went away last night, didn’t he?”
“Yeah, he went away on the----” The sheriff hesitated as he remembered
the wording of that telegram. “I heard he did,” he finished rather
lamely. “What about him?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.”
“Do you know Pollock, Hartley?”
“Never met the gent in my life.”
“Then why are you so interested in him?”
“It ain’t so much the man as it is the things he does.”
“What’s he done?”
Hashknife paused with a forkful of food short of his lips. “_Quién
sabe?_” he said softly.