the first opportunity, but of course we know that the ranch is not worth
the amount of the mortgage.”
“And that’s the fly in the axle-grease,” Hashknife told Sleepy.
“Anderson don’t know yet.”
Uncle Billy had come to town in the buckboard after the mail and he came
to Hashknife.
“I wonder if we can round up about fifty head of stock and have ’em in
the pasture by next Wednesday?” he asked.
Hashknife squinted down at him, wondering what was coming next.
“I jist got a letter from Joe Ables,” explained Uncle Billy. “He’s a
buyer from Chicago and he’s bought from me before. Said he’d be here at
that time and wanted to make me a price on that many head.”
“Fifty head?” Hashknife scratched his long nose. He knew that Uncle
Billy would have to know at least part of the deception.
“Uncle Billy, I hate to have to tell yuh this, but you’ve got to know,”
he said slowly. “There ain’t over thirty head of Diamond H cattle left,
and most of ’em are runts and old cows.”
Uncle Billy gawped at him, “Why—why—what do yuh mean?”
“Just that, Uncle Billy. The last year you ran that ranch, somebody
stole yuh blind. I reckon yuh was so busy drinkin’ liquor and playin’
poker that you didn’t know nor care. While you was wearin’ out that ten
thousand dollar mortgage, somebody was takin’ all yore stock.”
“Yo’re jokin’ me, ain’t yuh, Hashknife?”
“I wish I was, old-timer. The bank knows.”
“Yeah?” Uncle Billy blinked painfully. It seemed incredible. Yet he knew
that Hashknife was not lying.
“And Ma bought—” He looked at Hashknife. “They sold her that ranch,
Hashknife. By ——, they knew they was beatin’ her. Say, I’m goin’ over to
that bank and—”
“Not now, Uncle Billy.”
“Right now! Why, that’s downright robbery, I tell yuh.”
“Wait a minute,” begged Hashknife. “You can’t do a thing by goin’ over
there. I’ve got a scheme, Uncle Billy, and that would ruin it. You keep
still about this. Don’t even tell ma. If you let anybody know about
this, it’ll ruin everythin’.”
“You’ve got a scheme? All right. But jist the same they—”
“Do this for me, Uncle Billy. I’m for yuh—yuh and ma. Please.”
“Well, all right,” he conceded grudgingly. “I don’t _sabe_ it, but I’m
willin’ to keep my mouth shut. But lemme tell yuh somethin’: I’m shore—”
“That’s fine; so am I. Now let’s forget it. It’s a secret, eh?”
“If you say so, Hashknife. But —— it, I’d like to know where all them
cattle went.”
“You quit worryin’ about that,” advised Hashknife, “and for gosh sake,
don’t let ma know.”
“No, we’ve got to keep it away from her,” admitted the old man. “I won’t
say a word.”
It was with relief that they watched the old man drive out of town. They
felt sure that he would not tell Ma Holton.
“We’re slippin’, cowboy,” said Sleepy. “Somethin’ is goin’ to break
pretty soon. If yo’re such a danged good detective, why in —— don’tcha
detect somethin’?”
“What can be done?” grinned Hashknife. “Gimme somethin’ to work on.”
“I ain’t got nothin’.”
“Then don’t chide me, feller; I’m just human. Here comes that disciple
of Blackstone.”
Andrew Jackson Polk was strolling down the sidewalk, picking his teeth
diligently. He had eaten an early supper, it seemed.
“Hyah, judge,” greeted Hashknife.
“Evenin’, suh, evenin’,” he nodded pleasantly. “How is everything at the
Diamond H?”
“Finer than frawg-hair,” grinned Hashknife. “How’s yore business these
days?”
“Just faih, thank yo’. I see that ouah estimable sheriff has just ridden
in. I suppose he is still hunting fo’ the miscreants who robbed the
bank.”
“I reckon so,” nodded Hashknife. “But I guess he ain’t havin’ much
luck.”
“No, suh, they seem to have made good their escape.”
“For a while,” said Hashknife.
“Yo’ evidently believe in the theory that murder will out.”
“It’s a cinch, Polk. If it had been done by one man, I’d say he had a
reasonable chance for escape.”
“I see. Yo’ think that one of them will make a slip?”
“I think they have.”
Polk squinted closely at Hashknife.
“Yo’ think they have?”
Hashknife nodded. Polk cleared his throat and smiled widely.
“It would be interesting to know in what way, Mr. Hartley.”
“Yeah, it prob’ly would,” Hashknife grinned softly. “Mebbe I’ll tell yuh
one of these days.”
“I see. Yo’ have whetted my curiosity, Mr. Hartley, and I would like to
buy a drink. Will you join me, gentlemen?”
“If yuh won’t ask questions,” smiled Hashknife. “Don’t try to get me
drunk enough to talk, Polk.”
“Oh, not at all, I assure yo’. While I am curious, I am also willing to
let yo’ tell me when yo’ are ready.”
“Well, that’s pretty reasonable for a lawyer,” laughed Hashknife.
They had their drink, but nothing more was said regarding the murder and
robbery. Hashknife and Sleepy walked over to Polk’s office and sat down
to enjoy a smoke.
Polk’s office was a large room, partitioned through the center, which
gave him living quarters in the rear half. His furniture was meager,
consisting of an old roll-top desk, a few chairs, an antiquated
book-case, filled with miscellaneous law-books, and a small safe.
His living quarters was furnished with a small stove, table, two chairs
and a single bed. There was one big window at the rear and a rear exit
on the left side of the room. There was still enough cooking odors left
to prove that Andrew Jackson Polk liked onions.
“I suppose you get quite a lot of legal work, eh?” said Hashknife, after
their smokes were going good.
“At times, suh.”
“Did yuh ever know a feller named Green around here?”
“Green? No, suh—not here.”
“Uh-huh.”
The talk drifted to common gossip of the range and in a short time
Hashknife and Sleepy sauntered back to the War Paint where a sizable
poker game was in progress. There was one vacant chair at the table and
Hashknife decided to test his luck.
* * * * *
Yakima Reed was winning steadily and frowned when Hashknife bought a
supply of chips. Yakima realized that another hand in the game would
possibly change the run of the cards. There were two other cattlemen
besides the dealer in the game, and Hashknife knew that they were not
playing for pastime.
Five dollar jack-pots is a stiff game, and Hashknife played cautiously.
There was no limit. Twice, hand-running, Yakima Reed fought out the pot
with Hashknife, only to find that Hashknife held the winning cards. Each
time he had forced Hashknife to bet all of his chips.
“What the —— good is a limit, when the other feller is short of money?”
he demanded. “Yuh can’t scare anybody with a hundred dollars.”
“Were you tryin’ to scare me?” asked Hashknife innocently. “I didn’t
know it.”
The other players grinned and it angered Yakima.
“I’ll make yuh play cards,” growled Yakima, opening the next pot for
twenty-five dollars. It was merely a coincidence that Hashknife was the
only player to stay with Yakima.
Yakima drew one card. Hashknife studied his hand for several moments,
adjusting the sequences of the cards.
“I forgot to ask when I bought into this game,” he said. “Do yuh play
straights and flushes?”
The dealer nodded, holding the pack ready to deal Hashknife his draw
cards.
“Well, I’ll play these,” said Hashknife indifferently.
Yakima squinted narrowly at Hashknife. It was poor poker policy to bet
against a pat hand, but Yakima had caught a trey, which gave him three
treys and a pair of jacks. He wondered if Hashknife did have a straight
or a flush, or was he bluffing.
“You opened it,” reminded Hashknife.
Yakima bet twenty-five.
“Must ’a’ helped,” mused Hashknife aloud. “Drew to two pair, or held a
kicker to a set of threes. Let’s make it an even hundred.”
Yakima grinned, shoved in seventy-five more and began counting out
another stack of blue chips. He flirted ten of them into the pot and
leaned back.
“Hundred more, eh?” Hashknife grinned, called the bet and added his
remaining chips.
“Do any of you fellers know where I’ll find a man named Green?” asked
Hashknife. The players looked at him. Yakima had started to count out
chips enough to call Hashknife’s last bet, but now he picked up his
cards and squinted closely at them.
“Never heard of a Green around here,” said the dealer.
“That’s funny,” said Hashknife. “I was told he was around here.”
Yakima looked at the pot, gnawed at the corner of his lips for a moment
and threw his hand into the discard.
“It was a fool thing for me to ask about straights and flushes,” said
Hashknife rather mournfully, as he drew in the pot, “But I had to be
sure.”
Yakima growled angrily.
“All right, all right. I know that kind of talk. But I didn’t have
anythin’ myself.” Yakima lied to cover his reasons for not calling
Hashknife’s last bet, instead of admitting that he was afraid that
Hashknife was holding a straight flush.
“Didn’t yuh have anythin’?” laughed Hashknife. “Shucks! I thought I
stole a pot, and I had yuh beat all the time.”
He turned over his cards, exposing a pair of deuces. Yakima swallowed
heavily and shoved his chips over to the dealer. Two deuces against his
trey-full!
“Quittin’?” asked Hashknife pleasantly.
“Yeah, by ——! I can’t play against that kind of luck.”
“Luck, nothin’. You didn’t have anythin’.”
“All right,” Yakima cashed in his chips and turned to the bar. The other
players smiled covertly. Yakima had been having a run of luck and they
were not sorry to see him leave. Sleepy was at the bar, trying to
operate a nickel-in-the-slot box, but with little success.
“Have a drink,” invited Yakima.
“I’d just as soon,” Sleepy grinned and gave the music-box a parting slap
of his hand.
“That thing is busted,” said the bartender.
“So’m I,” said Sleepy seriously. “I’ve put three nickels in the darned
thing. Gimme a see-gar.”
“What’s the matter with the liquor?” queried Yakima.
“I dunno,” innocently. “I’m no chemist.”
“I don’t care to buy cigars for anybody.”
“I’ll take this in place of the music,” Sleepy told the bartender, and
went back to tinker with the box.
Chuck Allard came in and joined Yakima. He had been drinking.
“How’ja come out?” queried Chuck.
“Ne’mind how I come out.” Yakima swallowed a big drink of liquor. The
loss of that big pot had left him very sour against every one.
“Yuh quit winner, didn’t yuh?”
“Did I? All right, if you know so —— much about it.”
“Been all right, if yuh hadn’t got scared.” This from Sleepy, who still
tried to induce the box to function.
Yakima turned and squinted at Sleepy. “Got scared, eh?”
“Panicky—yea-a-ah—panicky.”
Yakima moved closer to Sleepy and looked at him intently. Yakima Reed
was known to have a hair-trigger disposition. The man who was dealing at
the poker game stopped his distribution and watched the three men at the
bar. As far as they could see, Sleepy was paying no attention to Yakima.
“Got scared, did I?” repeated Yakima. “Do you know what I think of you,
feller?”
Sleepy shook his head, as he tinkered with the slot.
“Pers’nal opinions never interested me, pardner; they’re prejudiced. If
you had an opinion from several folks I might care to listen. I wish my
folks had educated me in mechanics. I’ve got fifteen cents in—”
“—— you! Listen to me!” Yakima advanced on Sleepy, who looked sidewise
at him.
“All right,” said Sleepy pleasantly. “Whatcha goin’ to do—sing?”
“I’ll sing you to sleep!”
Yakima spoke as he drew back his right fist and drove it at Sleepy’s
head. But Sleepy was not unprepared, even if he did seem to be, and the
fist only met space—and the corner of the music-box.
Yakima jerked back his hand, the knuckles badly cut, his arm almost
paralyzed. It took the fight out of him, at least for the moment, and as
he hugged his fist under his left elbow, his face grimacing with pain,
the music-box began playing the “Washington Post March.”
Sleepy had stepped back, watching Yakima closely, but now he grinned
widely.
“Ain’t that pretty?” he asked everybody. “That feller—” indicating the
suffering Yakima—“is a born mechanic.”
Yakima swore feelingly, but the fight was all taken out of him. His
right hand dropped to the butt of his holstered gun, but he drew it away
quickly, realizing that it was in no shape to grip a gun-butt.
“Everythin’ is goin’ to be left-handed with yuh for a while,” said
Sleepy solemnly. “But yuh sure did wake up that music-box, and I’m
obliged to yuh.”
* * * * *
Yakima left the War Paint, walking stiffly on his high-heels, his
shoulders hunched, and with Chuck Allard trailing behind.
“You got out of it pretty lucky,” confided the bartender.
“Out of what?” Sleepy stopped whistling with the music.
“Why, out of your fight with Yakima Reed.”
“Fight?” Sleepy screwed up his face wonderingly. “I never had any
fight.”
“Well, you—” The bartender rubbed his nose thoughtfully.
“You must ’a’ been seein’ things,” said Sleepy. “Didja ever have yore
tonsils and adenoids tended to?”
“My what?”
“Yore medulla oblongata.”
“I dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”
“You ought to be examined.”
“What for?”
“Oh, just make it kinda general.”
Sleepy went back to the pool-table and began playing alone, while the
bartender looked at himself in the back-bar mirror and wondered if there
was any truth in what Sleepy had said.
It was about an hour later that Hashknife cashed in his chips and
declared he was going to have something to eat. He was about two hundred
dollars ahead of the game, but promised that he would come back and win
some more.
In the meantime Yakima and Chuck had been sojourning at the Medicine
River bar where the bartender had dosed Yakima’s hand with iodine and
bandaged it. And that, together with numerous and sundry drinks, had
caused Yakima to forget everything except his hatred of a man who played
a pair of deuces as hard as any man should play a full house, and of a
man who did not have sense enough to know when he had a fight on his
hands.
“You better leave ’em alone,” advised Chuck. “They’re _hyas cultus_, I
tell yuh.”
“They inshulted me,” declared Yakima.
He had shifted his gun to his left side, but had been forced to reverse
his holster, which put the gun between the belt and his thigh.
“Listen t’ me,” said Chuck. “You ain’t no good with yore left hand, Yak;
and yo’re drunk, to boot.”
“Thasso?” Yakima rocked on his heels and lifted his eyebrows wisely.
“Lemme tell yuh, I’m not drunk—and I’m good with either hand. C’mon and
see me do it.”
“Good-by.” The bartender offered his hand across the bar. “I’ve heard
about them two fellers. Cherokee Lee and Parker Miller was in here one
day and I heard ’em talkin’.”
“I’ll run my own business,” declared Yakima.
“I’m not interferin’ with yuh,” assured the bartender. “You’ve been a
good customer of mine, and I wish yuh well.”
“Aw ——!” Yakima turned to Chuck. “Yo’re with me, ain’tcha?”
“Well, yeah, I—I’m goin’ with yuh, Yak.”
“Yo’re goin’ to back my play, ain’tcha?”
“Well, it’s like thish, Yakie. Yuh shee, they never insulted me and I—I
ain’t so very mad at anybody. And I’m drunk. Yesshir, I’m too drunk to
fight for anybody but me—and I ain’t mad. Ha, ha, ha, ha!”
“Well, c’mon, you laughin’ hyener. C’mon and see me clean house with the
War Paint.”
They staggered outside, weaving their erratic way up the narrow sidewalk
to the War Paint, where Chuck stepped aside and let Yakima go in first.
The music-box was stilled and all interest seemed to be in the poker
game.
But there was no sign of Hashknife and Sleepy. The bartender came from
watching the game and wanted to serve them, but Yakima waved him aside.
“Where’s them two gobblers?” he demanded to know.
“Which ones?” asked the bartender.
“Hartley and Stevens.”
“Oh, they went to eat supper, Yakima. Probably be back pretty soon.
They’ve been gone quite a while now.”
“We’ll wait,” said Yakima.
Cherokee Lee and his deputy, Bill Stivers, a heavy-set, square-faced
young man, came in. Yakima invited them to have a drink, which
invitation was accepted. They had been riding in the hills, still trying
to discover the hiding-place of the men who had killed Parker Miller.
Cherokee noticed Yakima’s bandaged hand and remarked about it.
“Yakima had a terrific fight,” declared Chuck. “Oh, it was jus’
somethin’ awful, sheriff.”
Yakima scowled and tried to make Chuck keep still, but he failed. So
Cherokee Lee heard of how Yakima missed Sleepy’s head and started the
music-box. Cherokee smiled softly and advised Yakima to leave those two
cowpunchers alone.
“That’s what I’ve been tellin’ him,” declared Chuck.
“I’ll run m’ own business,” said Yakima darkly.
“All right,” drawled Cherokee. “Try and not have anybody behind yuh when
trouble busts, Ya-a-akima. You ain’t thick enough to stop a forty-five,
and I notice that’s the size them two jiggers are packin’.”
Yakima accepted another drink and sat down against the wall to wait for
Hashknife and Sleepy. It was another case of the spirit being strong,
but the flesh weak; and Yakima Reed obeyed the call of the sandman.
Chuck Allard laughed gleefully and challenged Bill Stivers to a game of
pool, but went to sleep in a chair, after his first shot, with the
billiard cue clasped in his arms.
Hashknife and Sleepy came back from their supper and shook hands with
Cherokee Lee who introduced to them Bill Stivers. The four of them sat
down at a vacant table and the sheriff told of his wasted efforts.
“We’ve combed every inch of these hills,” swore Cherokee. “Them jiggers
sure didn’t hole up in the Medicine River country. Me and Bill know this
country as well as any man here.”
“You liked Parker Miller, didn’t yuh?” asked Hashknife.
“The best,” said Cherokee softly. “The bank offers five thousand dollars
for the murderers, dead or alive, and the county adds another thousand.
But it don’t look like anybody will collect.”
“Why do yuh reckon they killed Miller, Sheriff?”
“I dunno, Hartley. Laskey said they told Miller to keep his hands where
they were. Mebbe they thought he was reachin’ for a gun.”
“He didn’t have any gun in reach. They shot him square between the eyes,
and his arms were on the desk. Sheriff, he never moved, except to fall
forward.”
“Yeah, I noticed that. What does it mean to you?”
Hashknife shook his head slowly.
“It just made me wonder.”
Cherokee studied Hashknife for several moments. Finally, leaning across
the table and lowering his voice—
“Hartley, what do you know about this?”
“I don’t know a thing, Sheriff.”
“Uh-huh. Miller told me that you had a reputation as a range detective,
and I was kinda hopin’ that you’d find somethin’. But this deal don’t
offer much for a feller to work on.”
“No, it sure don’t, Sheriff.”
* * * * *
Their conversation was interrupted by an exclamation from one of the
poker players, and they looked around to see Andrew Jackson Polk
staggering in past the bar. He was dressed, or rather undressed, in a
faded suit of red flannel underclothes and carrying a brown derby hat in
his right hand.
His hair was disheveled and he seemed dazed, as he braced one hand
against the bar and stared around.
“Drunk and dressed up!” snorted Bill Stivers, as they got up and started
toward Polk.
“Say! What’s the matter with you, Polk?” asked the bartender.
Andrew Jackson Polk felt of his head, which seemed rather tender to the
touch, and blinked painfully.
“I—I got knocked down and robbed,” he croaked.
“Have a drink?” asked the bartender.
Polk nodded. The men watched him gulp down a big drink and waited for
him to speak. Chuck Allard awoke. He blinked at Polk and got unsteadily
to his feet, staring at the queer looking lawyer.
“Thasall ri’,” nodded Chuck foolishly.
His hat fell off his head, but he made no effort to recover it. And,
without taking his eyes off Andrew Jackson Polk, he walked unsteadily
out of the saloon, talking softly to himself.
Cherokee Lee came in close to Polk and took him by the arm.
“What’s the matter with you, Polk?” he asked.
“I’ve been knocked down and robbed,” he declared hoarsely.
“Tell us about it,” said the dealer of the poker game.
Polk gulped thirstily and caressed his head, where a swelling the size
of an egg was plainly visible.
“I—I was in bed,” he said. “I went to bed early. My window was open.
Something woke me up and I heard some one outside the window call my
name. I got up and went to the window where I stuck my head out to see
who wanted me.”
“And somebody petted yuh with a club, eh?” supplied Sleepy.
“I—I didn’t see what they had,” said Polk. “Something hit me, I know
that. And when I awoke I was lying on my bed.”
“Walked in his sleep and hit his head,” said Stivers.
“No, suh!” Polk was indignant. “My safe was wide open.”
Several men came in, followed by Chuck Allard, and all gazed curiously
at Andrew Jackson Polk, except Chuck, who seemed afraid to trust his
eyes.
“Chuck came to the Medicine River saloon and told us that somethin’ was
wrong down here,” laughed one of the men.
“He said if there wasn’t he was through drinkin’,” laughed another of
the newcomers.
Chuck goggled at Polk for a moment and began laughing. He was greatly
relieved.
“Yore safe was wide open,” prompted Cherokee. “Mebby yuh left it open.”
“No, suh!” Polk squinted around, and for the first time he seemed to
realize how he looked.
“I—I must be dreaming,” he said thickly.
“I reckon yuh are,” agreed Cherokee. “That’s what I had in mind all the
time, Polk. You better go back to bed before yuh catch cold.”
“Yeah, suh, I—I better.”
He shuffled outside, while the crowd laughed boisterously. It was surely
a good joke on Andrew Jackson Polk, and the bartender invited every one
to partake of the War Paint’s hospitality.
Yakima Reed awoke when Chuck bumped his head against the wall, but
hardly knew what it was all about.
“Lemme ’lone,” he grunted. “I’m all ri’, I tell yuh.”
“Git up, yuh sleepin’ beauty,” demanded Chuck.
Yakima roused sufficiently to get out of his chair. He did not want
another drink and he proceeded to tell the whole wide world that he
didn’t.
“Thasall right,” agreed Chuck, pulling Yakima’s hat down over his ears.
“Yo’re on yore feet, so let’s go home before yuh bog down again.”
“Don’ wanna go home. Noshir. Gimme room! Where’s a vic’im?”
“You don’t need no victim. We’re goin’ home and we’re goin’ right now,
_sabe_? You come with me, or yo’re goin’ to be awful, awful sorry, Yak.
Heed me, cowboy, heed me!”
Yakima nodded slowly and let Chuck lead him away. The crowd laughed,
drank a “how” to the giver and went back to their games. But Hashknife
did not play again, and a little later he and Sleepy mounted their
horses and rode back to the Diamond H.
And for the first time since he had found out that Ma Holton had been
duped Hashknife was so light-hearted that he sang all the verses of the
“Dying Cowboy” and Sleepy assisted at times. They finished the last
chorus as they rode up to the stable, and from within came the long
drawn _cock-a-doodle-dooo-o-o_ of their baritone chicken.
Hashknife laughed softly as he yanked off his saddle. Sleepy grinned to
himself, because it was not often that Hashknife let him in on a secret.
* * * * *
The next few days were spent at the ranch, doing some general repair
work. The whole place was in bad repair; so Hashknife and Sleepy became
rough-carpenters, post-hole diggers and hewers of poles. For once in
their lives they worked willingly at something that would have been
distasteful at any other time.
Uncle Billy followed them from place to place, marveling at their
fondness for manual labor, and trying to find out what they had done
toward making the Medicine River bank come to time. Ma Holton knew
nothing of Uncle Billy’s worries. She was content to work around the
ranch-house and plan for the future.
Wednesday came and with it came Joe Ables, the cattle-buyer. He was a
big rough-looking person, with a hearty laugh and a deep bass voice. He
drove in from the north in a buckboard and chuckled joyously at sight of
Uncle Billy, who looked at him in dismay.
“Hello, you old pirate!” he whooped, as he shook hands with Uncle Billy.
“By gee, I’m glad to see yuh again, Uncle Billy. The stage-driver told
me yuh was back at the ranch again. I just drove from Silver Lake, and
the men who made that road ought to be prosecuted.”
“I got yore letter,” said Uncle Billy, trying hard to think what to say.
“Everybody gets ’em,” boomed Ables. “I sure blow a long horn.”
Uncle Billy introduced Hashknife and Sleepy and Ables shook hands
heartily.
“Ain’tcha goin’ to stop a while?” asked Uncle Billy.
“Thanks, Uncle Billy, but I’ve got to keep goin’. Buyin’ cows is a dog’s
life. Look how thin I’m gettin’.” Ables laughed heartily. “How’s all the
little cowlets comin’ these days?”
Uncle Billy shook his head sadly.
“It’s like this, Joe—”