“Did he have that letter, Spot?”
“Naw!”
“That puncher still got it?”
Spot looked very disconsolate, but did not answer.
“What was in it, do you reckon?”
“How’d I know?”
Blue gnawed off an enormous chew of tobacco and moved to a chair.
“’F he’s still got the letter I’ll git it for you tomorrow, Spot.”
“How?”
“Law requires that I search all prisoners, tha’s why.”
“Thasso?” Spot Easton grew interested. “You goin’ to put him in jail?”
“I sure as ---- am. More’n that, I’m goin’ to put the both of ’em in
jail, along with old man Skelton.”
“How you goin’ to make it look right?”
Blue spat copiously and grinned at the ceiling.
“That was old Skelton’s rifle which they found beside the drunk Swede.”
“Skelton’s rifle? And he brought it to you?”
“Nope. I went past there yesterday and I dropped in to call on
Skelton--knowin’ he was in town.”
“And swiped his rifle?”
“Uh-huh. Belonged to old Bill Wheeler, and she’s got a li’l 33 cut into
the forearm. She’s a cinch to hang it onto Skelton, and I can hold them
other two--easy.”
Easton laughed and got to his feet.
“You’re clever, Jake. Let’s go and get a drink.”
“I sure am.”
Blue was not adverse to applauding himself. Being a sheriff in
Lodge-Pole county entailed too much danger for the remuneration; so
nobody cared much about a sheriff’s morals--or methods.
Easton gazed approvingly upon the amount of activity within the four
walls of the War-Bonnet, as he led the sheriff to the bar. The click of
dice, the rattle of poker chips and the droning voices of dealers was
sweet music to Easton’s ears.
A number of men were standing at the bar, but Easton and Blue ignored
them. Two cowboys were shaking dice on the bar-top at Easton’s right
hand.
“’At’s horse ’n horse,” declared one of them. “One flop, Sleepy.”
Easton shot a sidewise look at the speaker. It was the tall cowboy, who
had hit him on the ear, standing elbow to elbow with him; intent on his
dice shaking.
Easton slowly turned his head and looked at Blue, who was toying with
his glass of liquor. The dice rattled.
“You’re stuck!” exclaimed Hashknife.
Easton jerked his head around and looked square into Hashknife’s face.
“How’s the ear?” asked Hashknife.
The question placed Easton in an embarrassing position. He could not
see Hashknife’s right hand, and his own hands were on the bar. Blue
squinted past Easton’s shoulder at Hashknife, and Hashknife grinned at
him.
Sleepy leaned forward on the bar and craned his neck around Hashknife.
“I hope to die, if I ain’t terror-stricken!” he gasped. “We’ve been
told that it’s fash’nable to be plumb scared of Mister Easton; so we
turns pale, politely.”
Easton tore his eyes away from Hashknife’s grinning face and looked
straight into the back-bar. His mind worked swiftly, but got nowhere.
He was being insulted in his own house. Jake Blue leaned away from the
bar, as if to move into the crowd, but Sleepy stepped around behind
Hashknife and Blue leaned back against the bar.
“Where’s the old man--old Lonesome Lee?” asked Hashknife.
Easton turned quickly.
“What do you want of him?”
“Want to give him that letter,” explained Hashknife.
“Oh!” Easton’s grunt seemed to relieve him.
“’F he ain’t around here, mebbe you could take care of it for him, eh?”
“Sheriff’s nervous,” interrupted Sleepy. “’Pears to have a itch on his
hip. Likely comes from a callous caused by packin’ such a heavy gun.”
Jake Blue scowled, but said nothing.
“I’ll give him the letter,” nodded Easton, trying to not appear too
eager to be of service.
Hashknife’s concealed right hand flipped the letter to the bar in front
of Easton and dropped back. Easton picked up the letter and started to
put it in his vest-pocket, but Hashknife stopped him.
“Whoa, Blaze!”
Easton stared at him wonderingly, as Hashknife motioned for him to
stop.
“Not in a vest-pocket, pardner. Put it in your side pants-pocket, if
you don’t mind. That’s the only pocket where a tin-horn gambler don’t
pack a derringer.”
Easton scowled and shoved the letter into the designated pocket. He
wondered if this tall cowpuncher was a mind reader, and knew that he
was going to use the letter as an excuse to get at the two-barreled
derringer in his vest-pocket.
“’F you don’t stop hankerin’ t’ scratch--” Sleepy’s voice held a note
of menace--“’f you don’t, I’m goin’ to get a piece of sandpaper and
give you one good curryin’, Mister Sheriff. Ain’tcha ashamed to scratch
thataway in comp’ny?”
“By ----, I’m tired of this!” wailed the exasperated Mr. Blue. “Who’re
you, anyway, I’d like to know? What right you got to tell me when I can
scratch and when I can’t?”
“I’m just teachin’ you how to act polite, ain’t I?” complained Sleepy.
“Gee cripes, you sure do act peevish over learnin’ things. ’F I was
you----”
“Don’t tease the li’l gent, Sleepy,” Hashknife said, chuckling. “His
chilblains has likely extended up to his hips. You know how cold feet
makes you itch.”
Hashknife kept his eyes on Easton, while talking direct to Sleepy, and
he saw a flash of relief come over Easton’s face. A man had stepped in
behind him, brushing against Hashknife’s right elbow, and Easton’s eyes
had followed this man.
The conversation had been even lower than ordinary and had attracted no
attention.
* * * * *
It all happened in a few seconds. As the man brushed Hashknife’s arm,
Hashknife stepped quickly away from the bar; stepped away just in time
to let Hagen, the ex-88 cowboy, crash into Easton.
Hagen had intended to bump Hashknife hard enough to knock him off his
balance, but he had not expected Hashknife to move so quickly.
Easton whirled half-around and jammed his heels on to Jake Blue’s toes,
while Hagen half-fell to his knees. Like a flash, Easton struck at
Hashknife, and his bare knuckles came in contact with Hashknife’s heavy
six-shooter.
Sleepy sprang in to prevent Blue from drawing a gun, and his knee
caught Hagen just under the chin, knocking his head against the solid
bar with a dull tunk! Easton’s right hand went out of commission and he
stumbled awkwardly over Hagen’s legs, falling flat on the floor, while
Sleepy pinned Blue’s arms in a bear-like hug, swung him up bodily and
backed to the door. Hashknife backed swiftly out with him, covering the
surprized crowd, which had no idea of what had been going on.
Once outside they went swiftly to the hitch-rack, with Sleepy still
carrying the cursing sheriff.
“What’ll I do with him?” panted Sleepy. “I don’t want him.”
“Got his gun?” asked Hashknife.
“It’s back in the War-Bonnet.”
“Let him loose,” laughed Hashknife. “We ain’t collectin’ knick-knacks.”
Sheriff Blue sat down so heavily in the hard street that his tongue,
for once, refused to function. Hashknife and Sleepy mounted swiftly and
whirled back past the War-Bonnet, where men were crowding the doorway.
Spot Easton cursed bitterly as he saw them flash past the beams of
yellow light, then he turned back to “Blondy” Hagen, who was still
sitting in front of the bar, holding his head in his hands.
Easton’s right hand was deeply cut and swelling rapidly. He cursed it
fluently and turned to see Jake Blue coming in, covered with dust, his
face badly scratched.
Blue had nothing to say. Men crowded around them, wondering what had
been the reason for the fight, but none of the three victims seemed
inclined to explain things. Hagen got to his feet and started for the
door.
“You!” gritted Easton bitterly.
Hagen scowled blackly and shouldered his way out of the door, where he
turned and glared back at Easton.
“Aw! You be ----!” he snorted, and went away.
“It’s a large night,” said Blue inanely.
* * * * *
The coroner’s inquest over the remains of Quinin Quinn caused little
excitement in Caldwell. The fact that Quinin was dead was enough in
itself; who killed him, was merely conjectured and Lodge-Pole county
felt that it would remain so, according to precedent.
The jury listened patiently to Hashknife, Sleepy and Skelton, while Doc
Clevis, puffing with his own importance, crossquestioned them. Swede
Sam was there, blank-faced over the whole thing, and all that Doc
Clevis could get from him was:
“Ay dunno. Ay am de cook.”
Neither Easton nor Blondy Hagen was at the inquest, which was held at
the doctor’s home. Sheriff Blue glared silently at the floor during the
proceedings, looking at no one.
“Sheriff,” said Doc Clevis, turning away from Swede Sam, “you’ve got a
little evidence to show the jury, ain’t you?”
Jake Blue looked straight at Hashknife for a moment and then he
answered--
“Nope.”
“Why, I--I thought----”
Doc Clevis seemed surprized.
Blue shook his head.
“We-e-ll, I reckon that’s all--then,” said the doctor slowly, looking
at Blue.