that means.”
Uncle Billy’s eye was still discolored and there was a slight swelling
on his temple. Hashknife had not told Miller about the queer incident of
the night before, but Miller paid no attention to the black eye. He took
it for granted that the old man had been drunk and injured himself.
“You like the old ranch, don’t you?” queried Miller.
“Like it?” Uncle Billy took a deep breath. “Yeah—I don’t know jist what
to say. I’ve jist been wonderin’ if I don’t feel like a bear does, when
he comes out of his cave in the Spring and gets a whiff of fresh air and
sees the sunshine. It shore is great to be alive—out here.”
Ma Holton came to the doorway, a puzzled expression on her face.
“I can’t find that mortgage,” she said wonderingly. “It was in my
bag—that and the bill-of-sale—and they’re both gone. The bag was under
the bed, and I left it in the bureau drawer. I saw the handle of it
sticking out from under the bed.”
She held the bag out for their inspection—empty. Miller and the two
cowboys looked quickly at each other.
“That’s what them fellers came to steal!” exploded Uncle Billy. “They
stole yore papers, Ma!”
“What fellows?” asked Miller.
Hashknife examined the bag, gave it back to Ma and sat down to tell
Miller what had happened the night before.
“But the bank knows that I bought it and paid the money,” said Ma,
appealing to Miller, who nodded slowly.
“And they can give yuh another bill-of-sale, Ma.” Uncle Billy patted her
on the shoulder. “Them darned burglars stole worthless papers.”
“Mrs. Holton, do you remember just who signed that bill-of-sale?” asked
Miller.
“Besides you?” asked Ma.
“Well—yes—besides me.”
“I think it was Mr. Green. He signed his name under your signature.”
“I see, my signature was already on the bill-of-sale, was it?”
“Oh, yes. He said it was impossible for you to attend it, so you signed
it before he left the bank. I don’t see what anybody would do with it,
because it wasn’t worth anything to any one, except me.”
“Not in the least,” said Miller slowly. “Well, I will have to be getting
back to the bank.”
He shook hands with the old folks and walked out to his buggy, followed
by Hashknife and Sleepy, while the old folks went back to their
cleaning.
“I don’t know what to make of it,” declared Miller.
“You don’t think she imagines all this, do yuh?” asked Hashknife.
“Not a bit of it. Her story is too straight for that, Hartley. If we had
that mortgage and bill-of-sale we might have a chance to pin the crime
on the guilty parties. But they were smart enough to steal the
evidence.”
“That’s right.”
“And we’ll never be able to continue this deception,” declared Miller.
“It won’t cost yuh much to try it,” said Hashknife. “You’d have to pay
me and Sleepy a hundred per month, and it’s a cinch that it won’t take
that much grub to keep the four of us. Send out a preacher or a justice
of the peace and have ’em bring a blank marriage certificate. You can
fix it, Miller. If they go to Medicine River, somebody might ruin the
party.”
Miller laughed and picked up his lines. “All right, Hartley. I’ll see if
it can be done.”
“And if things break wrong, they can go to the poor-house together.”
“That might not happen, if what the secretary of the Cattlemen’s
Association said about you was the truth, Hartley.”
“Don’t believe everythin’ that whippoorwill tells yuh,” laughed
Hashknife, “He never told the truth about me yet.”
* * * * *
And Parker Miller was as good as his word. Supper was just over at the
Diamond H, when they came trooping in: Parker Miller, Steve Morris, the
justice of the peace, Allen Hogue, the county clerk, and “Cherokee” Lee,
the tall, gaunt sheriff, who thought twice before speaking once.
They were all old timers in the Medicine River range. Miller had merely
told them that Ma Holton had bought the Diamond H, and that Uncle Billy
was not going to the poor-farm. There was so much to talk about that the
oil was low in the lamps when the marriage license had been filled out
and Steve Morris had stumbled through his first marriage service.
It was a queer ceremony, in the half-light of the old living-room; the
old couple standing very straight and serious beside the center-table,
while Morris, who was a bit near-sighted, held his book beneath the
shade of the oil-lamp, as he spelled out the words that gave these old
folks another chance to love, honor and obey each other again.
Hashknife listened, his mouth shut tight, his eyes suspiciously moist,
while Sleepy closely examined a belt-buckle he had worn for seven years.
As Steve Morris finished, Uncle Billy looked at Ma and said, his voice
choking slightly—
“Yesterday I was goin’ to the poor-farm—tomorrow I’m on my honeymoon.”
And while the hand-shaking was in progress, Hashknife drew Parker Miller
aside.
“I want to thank yuh, Miller,” he said. “Yo’re a white man.”
“Don’t thank me,” said Miller. “I’m only accessory to a —— foolish game.
I didn’t know what it meant until just now—this idea of happiness.”
“It is fun, kinda,” smiled Hashknife. “Yuh won’t never show a money
profit, Miller.”
Cherokee Lee came to Hashknife and held out his hand.
“I ain’t never met yuh, Hartley,” he said slowly. “Howdy.”
“Howdy, Sheriff.”
“Best weddin’ I ever seen—’cept m’ own. Got buck fever. Had the ring in
m’ mouth and swallered the —— thing, and then I got shot twice in the
laigs with bird-shot durin’ the shivaree. They said it was accidental,
but I dunno. My girl shore was craved by quite a few fellers. Haw, haw,
haw, haw!”
“It sure was providential for Uncle Billy,” said Morris, as the four men
rode back to Medicine River. “We waited the stage for half an hour this
morning, but nobody knew where he had gone. And I’m glad, gentlemen;
glad that it all happened this way. And it gave me a chance to get over
the buck fever of marrying some one. That part of my job has always
worried me.”
“Do yuh reckon they’ll get along all right?” asked Cherokee Lee. “Yuh
know, Park, that ranch ain’t noways self-supportin’.”
“Let’s not worry about that,” said Miller. He did not want to answer
questions, and he had a feeling that as soon as every one heard what Ma
Holton had paid for the ranch he would be censured severely. But he was
willing to play the game to an end.
II
The following morning Hashknife and Sleepy saddled their horses and rode
away from the Diamond H. Hashknife was curious to find out approximately
how many head of Diamond H cattle were left in the hills, and he also
wanted to get away where he would have plenty of room to think about
things.
“I feel like a danged thief and a liar every time I look at them old
folks,” declared Sleepy. “I don’t like this deal.”
“If yuh think I do, yo’re crazy,” said Hashknife. “I never seen two
people as happy as they are. Act like a pair of kids. Oh, well, it’s
just another case of what yuh don’t know won’t hurt yuh.”
“But it sure is hard on the innocent bystander, Hashknife.”
“We’re not innocent, Sleepy. We’re as guilty as ——. Parker Miller is
guilty along with us. There’s a reg’lar man—Miller. He’ll prob’ly have
to account to the stockholders as soon as this report gets circulated,
but he’s game to play with us.”
“Yeah, that’s right, Hashknife. This is just another deal where we’ll
pull out with less than we had when we went in. When we get old, I hope
to gosh we’ll be surrounded by a lot of —— fools like us. I like
half-witted cowpunchers.”
“Don’t get vain,” advised Hashknife. “Next thing I know you’ll be
puttin’ corn starch on yore face after shavin’, and knock out a front
tooth so yuh can lisp.”
They grinned together and headed for the tops of the ridges, looking for
cattle wearing the Diamond H mark, but there were few. In three hours
search they counted twenty head. Their ride had brought them to the west
of Medicine River, so they decided to ride down and see what they might
hear in town.
Parker Miller’s first duty that morning was to take Frank Laskey, the
cashier, into his confidence. He knew that Laskey would hear of the sale
and probably deny it. Laskey was an undersized, pale-faced person,
slightly round-shouldered from leaning over a desk-top.
Miller explained the deal to Laskey, who seemed surprized that Miller
would enter any such agreement, but agreed to do his part.
“I won’t deny it,” said Laskey. “I wondered if there wasn’t something
wrong about that mortgage. But you won’t be able to keep this secret
very long, Mr. Miller. The stockholders—”
“The stockholders be ——!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Frank, did you ever hear of Hashknife Hartley?”
Laskey squinted thoughtfully and shook his head.
“No, sir. That tall cowboy is named Hartley, but I have never heard his
given name.”
“Well, that’s Hashknife Hartley, Frank. Did you ever read ‘Sherlock
Holmes’?”
“Detective stories? Oh, yes, I’ve read a few. Do you mean that Hartley
is a detective?”
“They tell me—” Miller smiled and leaned back in his chair—“they tell me
that Hartley started in where Holmes left off.”
Laskey smiled and adjusted his tie.
“Possibly.”
“Probably,” corrected Miller. “Anyway, Frank, we’ll wait and see.”
Laskey went back to his work which amounts to considerable in a cow-town
bank where the cashier does the work of paying teller, receiving teller
and the other things which are handled by departments in the big banking
institutions.
Hashknife and Sleepy rode in and tied their horses to the War Paint
hitch-rack. Several other horses were nodding at the rack, indolently
switching their tails at the flies and trying to get their heads in the
meager shade afforded by the top-pole of the rack.
There were several cowboys in the saloon, where a fair-sized poker game
was in progress, but none of them paid any attention to Hashknife and
Sleepy, who sat down against the wall to have a smoke.
“I hear that ol’ lady Holton done bought the Diamond H,” said one of the
players.
“Yeah,” drawled the dealer, “and that ain’t all. Last night Steve Morris
went out and married her to the old man agin. It kinda looks like the
old ranch was comin’ back onto the map.”
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Yakima Reed and Chuck
Allard. They were both drunk. Yakima was boisterous, but Chuck seemed
rather unnerved from his potations.
“Yah-hoo-o-o!” screamed Yakima. “We are the people and we must be
respected! Gimme a drink, before I wreck the place.”
“Aw, don’t yell,” advised Chuck.
“C’mere!” Yakima grasped Chuck by the arm and nearly tore his sleeve
off. “Don’t tell me what t’ do, you—you—aw, I can’t think of what yuh
are right now. Have a drink.”
Yakima invited those at the poker game to have a drink with him and,
while they advanced to the bar, Hashknife and Sleepy went back to the
street and crossed toward the bank. Andrew Jackson Polk was coming out
of the bank and nodded to them.
“How’s law and order?” asked Hashknife, grinning.
“All right, suh. I hear you-all had a marriage at yo’ ranch last
evenin’.”
“Yeah, we did. You should ’a’ been there.”
Polk laughed and nodded.
“It would have been interesting. But no one told me.”
As Polk started toward his office, which was the next building from the
bank, Yakima Reed and Chuck Allard came from the saloon and started
toward them. Polk merely glanced at them and walked on, but Yakima
yelled at him—
“Hey! Polk! I’ll buy yuh a drink!”
“No, I thank yo’, suh.”
Yakima laughed and they came on across the street, while Polk went into
his office.
“He won’t drink with us, Chuck,” complained Yakima. “Lawyers are too
dignified to drink with a cow-hand. F’r a plugged dime, I’d go and make
him drink with me.”
“Aw, let him alone.” Chuck did not seem to be looking for trouble.
“Let’s go and get somethin’ to eat.”
“Aw-w-w right. How do-o-o.” Yakima nodded to Hashknife and almost lost
his balance.
“How are yuh?” grinned Hashknife. Yakima was a cadaverous specimen of
the genus cowboy, loose-jointed, unkempt. A lock of tow-colored hair
hung below the band of his sombrero and interfered with his vision.
“I’m jus’ right,” declared Yakima belligerently. “’F I was any better
I’d have to be held.”
Hashknife turned away, realizing that Yakima was just in the proper
condition to start trouble, and he had no desire to fight with the
drunken cowpuncher. As Hashknife turned away, Parker Miller came out of
the bank and called him aside.
“Go down to the store,” said Miller. “I’ve given Jim Leeds orders to
fill your wants, and he’s put up a bunch of staples. Might hire a
livery-rig to take them out with. Find out from Mrs. Holton just what
she wants, and tell her that the Diamond H credit is good at the grocery
store. I suppose they’ll need credit.”
“That’s sure good of yuh,” nodded Hashknife. Yakima and Chuck had gone
to the front of Polk’s office and were arguing between themselves.
“Miller,” said Hashknife, “have yuh any idea who Green might be—the
feller who signed that bill-of-sale?”
“No. I was afraid to ask too many questions last night. Maybe you can
get a description. Have you got anything to work on?”
“Not much. It kinda hinges on Green. I’ll see if I can find out what he
looked like and let yuh know.”
“All right, Hartley, good luck.”
He went back in the bank and the two cowboys sauntered down to the
store, which was on the same side of the street. Jim Leeds, the
storekeeper, nodded pleasantly and indicated several boxes of stuff.
“Miller said to fix up a lot of staple stuff,” he said. “If yuh can
think of anythin’ I’ve overlooked, just say so.”
Hashknife examined the articles. Miller had not been stingy in his
order.
“Looks like enough to feed an army,” grinned Hashknife. “I know we’re
short of food out there and this will fix us up in fine shape. Thank yuh
very much.”
“Let’s buy a can of salmon, some crackers and a can of peaches,”
suggested Sleepy. “I don’t want no restaurant cookin’.”
“Suits me,” nodded Hashknife.
* * * * *
They opened the cans and ate off the counter, while Jim Leeds talked to
them of the Medicine River range. There had never been any serious
trouble in that part of the country, it seemed.
“Didja ever know a feller by the name of Green?” asked Hashknife. “Used
to work in the bank here, I think.”
“Green? Nope. Never worked in the Medicine River bank. I’ve been here
since the town started twenty-five years ago and there ain’t been no
Green workin’ in that bank.”
“Mebbe I’m mistaken in the name.”
“Must be. Parker Miller was cashier for about twelve years. Old Ase
Wheeler died and they made Park the president. That was three years ago.
They hired Frank Laskey for cashier.”
“Miller is a nice feller,” said Sleepy, spearing in the can for the last
peach.
“Best there is,” nodded Leeds. “Clean as a hound’s tooth. Want more
crackers?”
“Nope,” said Sleepy, waving them aside. “Loaded to the gills.”
“Yuh ought to be,” said Hashknife, “yuh ate most all them peaches. Well,
I reckon we better hire a rig to haul all that plunder out to the ranch,
Sleepy.”
“I s’pose. I’d rather set in the shade now and dream of a time when I’ll
have money enough to eat canned peaches three times a day. I’d sure make
a peach-eatin’ millionaire.”
Sleepy slid off the counter and stooped to dust the cracker crumbs off
his clothes when he suddenly straightened at the sound of a muffled
shot, or what seemed to be the report of a gun.
“What was that?” he asked.
“I dunno.” Leeds squinted thoughtfully. “Might have been a shot. Shucks,
some cowpuncher is always drillin’ a hole in the floor at the War Paint.
Makes a good vent for scrub-water.”
Hashknife walked to the doorway and looked across the street at the War
Paint. Everything looked peaceable. As he turned back they heard some
one shouting in the street.
It was Frank Laskey and he was halfway across the street to the War
Paint, when the three men reached the door, running and looking back
toward the bank.
“Somethin’ wrong at the bank!” snapped Hashknife. “C’mon.”
They ran up the sidewalk and were almost to the bank when several men
came running from the saloon, headed by Laskey, who was yelling
something about a hold-up.
Hashknife, Sleepy and Leeds halted, while from Polk’s office came Polk
and the two drunken cowboys. The men all crowded in through the bank
door. Hashknife managed to squeeze in behind Laskey.
There was an odor of powder smoke in the air. Parker Miller was seated
at his desk, sprawled forward, his head buried in his arms. Hashknife
vaulted the railing and went to him. The room was in an uproar, as the
crowd questioned Laskey.
Parker Miller was dead. It did not take Hashknife long to determine
this, and he held up his hand to stop the crowd from coming inside the
railed-off space.
“Miller is dead,” he told the crowd. “Stay where you are until the
sheriff comes. C’mere, Laskey.”
Laskey was all out of breath, trembling with excitement, but he came
willingly.
“Everybody keep still and let him tell his story,” said Hashknife.
“You’ll never get it straight this way.”
“They came in the back door, I guess,” panted Laskey. “No one was here,
except Miller and myself. There was two men. I think there was three,
but the other stayed with the horses. They were masked.
“I didn’t see them until one stuck a gun in my face. The other had a gun
pointed at Miller. They told me to hand over all the money I had. Just a
few minutes before that Miller had told me to fix up a package of
currency which was to be expressed to Cheyenne. They got it all.
“I tried to hide it, but it wasn’t any use. I don’t know how much they
got, but it was quite a lot. I couldn’t see what Miller did, but I heard
one of them tell him to keep his hands on the table, and then I heard
the shot.
“I thought they were going to shoot me, too, so I dropped on the floor
as they ran out the rear door. Then I ran across the street and gave the
alarm.”
Laskey was panting and clinging to the railing as he finished his
breathless tale.
“What makes yuh think there was three of ’em?” asked Hashknife.
“There was some silver,” said Laskey. “One of them said that it was too
heavy, but the other said, ‘Aw, ——, the three of us can take care of
it.’”
At this juncture Cherokee Lee came in and shoved his way through the
crowd. He went straight to Miller and lifted his head. The blue hole in
the middle of the forehead told its own story. The sheriff turned to
Laskey.
“Talk a little, Frank,” he said softly.
As swiftly as possible the nervous cashier repeated his story.
“Aw, what the ——!” snorted a cowboy. “While all this story-tellin’ is
goin’ on them three —— are headin’ into the hills.”
Hashknife squinted at the crowd. The two drunken cowboys seemed to have
sobered, and Cherokee Lee had no trouble in gathering a sufficient posse
for his needs. He did not swear nor lift his voice above his usual soft
drawl as he told the boys to get their horses and go with him.
Hashknife and Sleepy did not offer to go, and the sheriff did not ask
them. Every one seemed shocked at the murder of Parker Miller and the
people of the town thronged the sidewalk in front of the bank while the
doctor made his examination.
Andrew Jackson Polk was so excited that he legged his way across to the
War Paint and bought himself a drink: Which was an unusual thing for him
to do in the middle of the day.
“I heard the shot,” he told Hashknife and Sleepy. “I was havin’ an
argument with those two drunken cowboys. They insisted on me having a
drink with them. It sounded as though some one had struck the side of my
office.”
“Do yuh think the sheriff will catch ’em?” queried the bartender.
“I hope so,” said Hashknife. “They evidently had their getaway all
planned out, and they sure had plenty of time to slide out of sight. Was
Miller a married man?”
“No suh.” The drink had calmed Polk. “It is a fortunate thing that he
had no dependents.”
“Well, it sure is a terrible thing,” said the bartender. “Miller was
awful well liked by everybody.”
“Not everybody,” said Hashknife. “They shot him down without giving him
a chance, shot him at his desk, when his hands were in sight. I tell
yuh, they’ll pay for that piece of work. They may dodge the sheriff and
all that, but they’ll make a slip.”
“The perfect criminal doesn’t live,” said Polk wisely. “They make a
mistake some where. Those men secured a lot of money, it seems. It is
unlikely that they are men who can stand to have a fortune and not spend
it unwisely. My theory would be to watch for three men, or, possibly one
or two men, who are exhibiting too much money.”
“No, they can’t stand prosperity,” agreed Hashknife. “Are there plenty
of hidin’ places back in the hills around here?”
“There must be, if yuh know the country,” said the bartender. “It’s all
hills and brush.”
“And they wasn’t takin’ many chances by comin’ in the back door,” mused
Hashknife. “They could look out the big windows and see any one comin’.
Prob’ly some one who has planned it a long time.”
* * * * *
Hashknife and Sleepy crossed the street with Polk and stopped in front
of his office. The doctor and three other men were removing Miller’s
body from the bank, while a curious crowd looked on.
Hashknife walked down between Polk’s office and the bank. It was an
alley, about ten feet wide. The rear door of the bank was almost in the
center of the rear wall. To the right was a high tight-board fence which
enclosed the rear of the general store.
To the left was the rear of Polk’s office, and beyond that was the rear
of the stage-office, a small corral and a stable. Almost in a direct
line with the alley, and about two hundred yards away, was the rear of a
large stable, a corral, and beyond that was a small cottage.
There was plenty of room for the bandits to have made their getaway. Not
a fence barred their way to the hills beyond the town, where numerous,
brushy cañons would give them a cover. But there was nothing out there
to give any idea of which way the men had gone, so Hashknife went back
to the street where he found Sleepy listening to Andrew Jackson Polk
reciting the murder to a newcomer. The drink had caused Andrew to become
eloquent, and he pictured the tragedy with appropriate gestures. In
fact, he even attempted to imitate the sound of the gun.
Laskey had accompanied the body to the doctor’s office, but now he came
back and unlocked the bank. Hashknife and Sleepy followed him inside.
Laskey was completely unnerved and did not seem to know what he was
doing.
“You better lock up and go home,” advised Hashknife. “Yo’re shakin’ like
a leaf, Laskey.”
“I know it. Do you think they’ll catch those men?”
“Mebby. Do yuh remember enough about ’em to give me any kind of a
description?”
“No, I don’t think so. They were masked you know.”
“Yeah. Why do yuh reckon they shot Miller?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he tried to get a gun. The man told him to keep his
hands on the desk.”
“Uh-huh. Did Miller have any enemies, Laskey?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Do yuh usually keep the back door open?”
“Not always. It was awful hot in here today; so I opened it to let the
breeze blow through. I meant to close it, but I was busy.”
“Uh-huh. Did Miller tell yuh about the Diamond H ranch?”
“Yes—this morning. I promised to keep still about it.”
“Makes it look kinda bad now, eh?”
“I don’t know what will happen now. I’m so nervous I can’t even think
straight. Maybe I better lock up and go home.”
“Good scheme,” agreed Hashknife.
They left Laskey and went to the livery-stable, where they secured a
rig. Leeds helped them load the stuff in the wagon and they went back to
the ranch, leading their saddle-horses behind the wagon.
“This sure is ——,” complained Sleepy. “Kinda puts our scheme in the
hole, cowboy.”
“It sure looks thataway, Sleepy. With Miller alive we had a chance to
keep goin’ for a while, but I’m kinda scared that our cake is all dough
right now. But don’t let the old folks know.”
* * * * *
Cherokee Lee and his posse scoured the Medicine River hills, but without
success. It was a big country, and they had no idea which direction the
bank robbers had taken in their flight from town.
The death of Parker Miller was a big blow to every one, as he was known
far and wide and liked by all the folks of the cattle country. Morton
Anderson, of Rangervill, the biggest stockholder of the Medicine River
bank, took charge of the institution, but retained Frank Laskey.
Anderson was a hard-headed business man and sentiment had no part on his
views of life. Hashknife had a talk with him about the Diamond H and
found that Anderson had not been told about Ma Holton’s purchase.