ranch-house. The sky was cloudy and the night so dark that they had to
feel their way across the yard to the bunk-house.
“Like a stack of black cats,” declared Sleepy, as they pawed at the
bunk-house door-knob.
Hashknife was half-way across the room, trying to locate the table-lamp,
when something crashed down on his head, dazing him so badly that he
went to his knees. He struggled to his feet, his hands coming in contact
with some one, but another blow dropped him cold.
* * * * *
When Andrew Jackson Polk crossed the street to the War Paint saloon the
next morning, he found Bill Stivers, the deputy sheriff, having a drink
with Charley Deal. Polk excused himself for intruding and accepted their
invitation to have a drink. The poker game of the day before seemed to
have been the topic of conversation, which was resumed after Polk’s
drink had been poured.
“Yakima was sore,” declared Stivers. “Allard was sore, too. Somethin’
happened in that last pot to make Hartley quit.”
“Maybe not,” said Deal. “He was ahead of the game.”
“No, it wasn’t that, Charley. Parker Miller told Cherokee somethin’
about this Hartley, and it don’t sound like Hartley is the kind of a
whippoorwill who will quit just because he’s ahead.”
“What did Miller tell Cherokee?” asked Deal.
“Enough to cause Cherokee to trail with Hartley in anythin’ Hartley
wants to do. Oh, Cherokee checked up on everythin’, and he found that
Miller didn’t lie.”
“It seems,” said Andrew Jackson Polk, “that we are entertaining quite a
prominent man.”
“He’s prominent in some ways,” laughed Stivers.
“What about his partner?” asked Deal.
“Gun-man,” said Stivers.
“Yeah? What are they doing here?”
“Well,” grinned Stivers, “I never got well enough acquainted with ’em to
ask that question. They came here to run the Diamond H ranch for the
Medicine River Bank, and it may be that old man Holton has hired ’em to
work for him.”
“They wouldn’t hardly be stayin’ around at forty a month.”
“Maybe they’re tryin’ to find out who killed Miller.”
“Yeah,” nodded Deal. “They might be, at that.”
Yakima Reed, Chuck Allard and another cowboy came in. Deal set up the
drinks.
“We were talkin’ about that poker game yesterday afternoon,” said
Stivers to Yakima. “What do yuh reckon caused Hartley to quit when he
did?”
Yakima grimaced sourly.
“Mebbe he was scared.”
“Mebbe,” said Stivers doubtfully. “He didn’t look scared.”
“Well, don’t ask me—ask him, Bill.”
“Uh-huh. Well, yuh don’t need to get snappy about it, Yak. He sure gave
yuh all the action yuh wanted.”
“Did he? Called one raise with three kings. I don’t call that action.”
“I’d say he was pretty good to yuh—and you with two pair.”
“Oh, what the —— do you care?”
“Not a thing. Let’s have a drink.”
But before the bartender could put out the glasses Uncle Billy came in,
hatless, coatless, breathless.
“Where’s Cherokee?” he panted.
“Cherokee? What do yuh want of him?” asked Stivers.
“—— fool question! Where is he, Bill?”
“I left him at the restaurant, Uncle Billy.”
The old man turned around, stepped out of the saloon and went running up
the sidewalk, while the men came from the saloon and watched him enter
the restaurant. Hashknife’s sorrel horse stood at the hitch-rack, its
sides heaving from a fast run.
Stivers was halfway to the restaurant when Uncle Billy and Cherokee Lee
came out, and he joined them.
“What’s wrong?” asked Stivers.
“Come on and we’ll get our horses,” said Cherokee. “Be with yuh in a
minute, Uncle Billy.”
They ran down the street to their stable, where they saddled hurriedly
and joined the old man. Yakima, Allard, Deal and Polk had come to the
hitch-rack and questioned Uncle Billy as he mounted his horse, but he
refused to answer.
Cherokee and Stivers came galloping up the street and Uncle Billy
spurred in beside them, while the four men stood at the hitch-rack and
wondered what it was all about.
“Somethin’ is wrong at the Diamond H,” was all that Cherokee had told
Bill Stivers.
They dismounted at the ranch-house and went down to the bunk-house,
which showed signs of conflict. The table had been smashed flat, the
lamp had been upset and broken. There was a splotch of blood on the
inner side of the door, a pool of blood near the broken table, and the
bedding had been dragged from both bunks.
“I—I found one blanket out in the yard,” faltered Uncle Billy. “It had
blood on it, too. Their six-shooters are here. One was on the floor near
the stove and the other was under the bunk. Prob’ly lost ’em in the
fight.”
“What do yuh make of it, Cherokee?” asked Stivers.
The sheriff shook his head, “I dunno, Bill. It looks like somebody had
jumped Hartley and Stevens in the dark. Probably laid for ’em.”
“They left the house about nine o’clock,” said Uncle Billy. “We never
heard any noise, never knew anythin’ was wrong until I came to call ’em
to breakfast. They didn’t answer the gong, yuh know.”
Ma Holton came down from the house and stood beside the door.
“Any news of them?” she asked.
“Not yet, Mrs. Holton,” said the sheriff. He came outside and looked all
around, but there was nothing to indicate that there had been any
struggle in the yard.
“Somebody sure tore up that bunk-house,” said Stivers.
“I don’t mind that part of it,” said Ma Holton. “But I do want my boys
back again. You don’t suppose somebody killed them, do you?”
“No-o-o,” drawled Cherokee. “Somebody took ’em away, it looks like to
me. If they killed ’em, they’d leave ’em here.”
“But why would they take them away, Sheriff?” asked Uncle Billy.
“I dunno. There’s a lot of things I don’t know about this deal.”
Cherokee and Stivers mounted their horses and circled the ranch, hoping
to pick up some evidence which would assist them in making a search. But
they found nothing. The ground was so dry and hard that a horsetrack
would hardly show.
“If you killed a man at the ranch and wanted to hide the body, where
would yuh take it, Bill?” asked Cherokee.
Bill laughed and shook his head.
“I dunno, Cherokee. I’d prob’ly be so danged scared that I’d leave it
where it fell.”
“You ain’t much help to me, Willyum.”
“I thought yuh wanted a deputy, not a murderer.”
“Well, I s’pose yuh are better thataway,” admitted Cherokee. “About all
we can do is to ride and look, so we might as well act like officers of
the law.”
And while Cherokee and Bill Stivers headed back in to the hills,
Hashknife Hartley twisted and turned, fighting for an extra fraction of
an inch slack in his ropes. He had been conscious for several hours, but
unable to make much progress toward loosening his bonds.
“Yo’re all right, ain’t yuh, Sleepy?” He had asked that question a dozen
times in an hour, and a dozen times he had received the same answer—
“Like —— I am.”
Neither of them had any idea of where they were, nor how they got there.
Their experiences in the bunk-house were about the same—a smash on the
head. They were both well aware that they had been hit and that their
assailants had not spared any pains in hog-tying them; but all this had
failed to dampen their sense of humor.
“Ma will be worried,” said Sleepy painfully.
“I’m kinda worried myself,” said Hashknife, and a moment later gave a
yelp of joy.
“I ain’t got no hair left on the back of my head and all the skin is off
my nose, but by golly, I’ve got the bandage off my eyes.”
He hitched himself against the wall and blinked tearfully. It was
semi-darkness in the only room of what seemed to be a small log cabin,
without a stick of furniture, no windows and one door. The floor was of
clay.
* * * * *
Sleepy was lying near him, tightly bound and with a cloth tightly tied
over his eyes. “What do you see, pardner?” asked Hashknife.
“See, ——! Don’t try to be funny.”
Hashknife was close enough to see that Sleepy’s bandage was
blood-soaked, as was one side of his head and face. His own face was
stiff from blood and dirt and his head pounded painfully every time he
made a move.
He explained the details of their prison to Sleepy, who thanked him very
kindly and wanted to know what time it was.
“Forgot to wind my watch,” said Hashknife. “Why don’tcha try to get
loose?”
“Why? No use. I’ve got all the skin rubbed off my wrists now.”
Hashknife managed to roll over to Sleepy and to set his teeth in
Sleepy’s blindfold. Hunching one shoulder against the ground, he managed
to worry the bandage over the bridge of Sleepy’s nose.
“Hey!” yelped Sleepy. “Leggo my nose! Whatcha trying to do, peel me?
Ouch! —— yuh, Hashknife!”
But Hashknife kept jerking until the cloth was off Sleepy’s eyes, and
that worthy swore roundly.
“Why didn’t yuh pull it the other way?” he wailed. “I’m a lot narrower
thataway. One of my eyebrows is rolled up in that darned rag, I’ll
betcha.”
“You can see, can’tcha, Sleepy?”
“Yeah, I can see—what there is to be seen.”
They looked at each other and grinned foolishly.
“Yo’re a —— of a lookin’ thing,” declared Sleepy.
“So are you, pardner.”
“Ho, hum-m-m!” Hashknife squinted up at the ceiling. “It’s day-light,
Sleepy. You can see some light seepin’ in. By golly, I wonder why they
made this shack so air-tight. No window at all. Even the chinkin’ is a
solid job.”
“Architecture don’t interest me right now,” Sleepy groaned and shut his
eyes. “I’ve had a lot of headaches, but this is the prime ache of ’em
all. How are we ever goin’ to get loose?”
“We ain’t,” declared Hashknife. “Yuh can always read about how the hero
found a busted bottle or somethin’ like that, and sawed his bonds, but
they took the bottle away from here. I reckon we’ll stay here until
somebody comes along.”
“And mebby they won’t turn us loose, Hashknife.”
“Mebby not. I wish I knew where we are and who put us here.”
And, as if in answer to Hashknife’s wish, there came the _cut, cut, cut,
cut, ca-dar-cut!_ of a hen.
They looked at each other quickly, wonderingly.
“Lady Godiva!” exploded Sleepy.
“Sounded more like Mary Garden, Sleepy. But it can’t be either of ’em.
Say! Sleepy, look at this shack! Think how it would look from the
outside!”
“It would look fine to me, pardner.”
“I don’t mean that—I mean the shape of it. By ——, this is the little log
cabin that Uncle Billy said he built and intended to make into a
smoke-house.
“Ha-a-a-ay! Uncle Billy! Whooee-e-e-e!” Hashknife yelled at the top of
his voice. Sleepy joined him and together they fairly shook the roof.
And Uncle Billy heard them. The little shack was so tightly built that
their voices were muffled, and it took Uncle Billy and ma quite a while
to locate them. The door had been padlocked, but Uncle Billy did not
wait to hunt for a key. He took an ax-handle and pried out the staple.
Ma Holton cried over them, while Uncle Billy cut the ropes and helped
them to their feet, and then they limped to the house to receive first
aid. Both of them bore scalp wounds, painful swellings, and were stiff
and sore from their bonds, but they laughed and told all they knew of
the assault.
“More dinged funny things happenin’ around here,” declared Uncle Billy.
“I don’t _sabe_ none of it. Say, we found yore guns in the bunk-house,
and everythin’ was all torn up around there. Looks like there’d been a
bullfight.”
Hashknife and Sleepy limped down to the bunk-house and viewed the place.
“It sure looks cyclonic,” laughed Hashknife.
“I dunno,” Uncle Billy scratched his head foolishly, “You boys ain’t
carryin’ on none to speak about. What in —— was it all about, anyway?”
“That’s part of the joke, Uncle Billy,” grinned Hashknife.
“Well, it may be a joke, but I don’t know when to laugh.”
“We’ll tell yuh when.”
As they started back toward the house Cherokee Lee and Bill Stivers rode
in and dismounted.
“Well, for gosh sake!” exploded Cherokee. “We’ve been curryin’ the hills
for you two fellers.”
“And they were locked up in my little log shack over there,” explained
Uncle Billy.
Hashknife told Cherokee what had happened to them, and the sheriff
scratched his cheek reflectively.
“Yeah, that’s all right, Hartley. But who hit yuh?”
“It was too dark to see, Sheriff. They knocked us so cold that we slept
real sound.”
“Uh-huh. But what did they hit yuh for?”
“They didn’t say.”
“Aw-w-w!” Cherokee scratched the other cheek. “Didn’t, eh?”
“Hartley, did this have anythin’ to do with the poker game yesterday?”
Thus Bill Stivers.
“Poker game?”
“Between you and Yakima Reed.”
“Where would yuh find any connection, Stivers?”
“Gosh, I dunno.”
“They tied yuh up and left yuh in that log shack,” said the sheriff.
“Why did they do that? It don’t sound reasonable.”
“Mebbe you don’t see things like they do,” grinned Hashknife.
“Prob’ly not.” Dryly. “I wish I saw things like you do.”
“Then you might get hit on the head,” laughed Hashknife. “Too much
knowledge is a bad thing sometimes, Sheriff. I wish that you and Stivers
would go back and tell everybody that yuh can’t find us. Tell ’em about
how the bunk-house looks, and that yuh found pieces of rope and blood
spots in the little log shack. Yuh might say that the door looks like it
had been busted open from the inside, and all that.”
“Yeah, we might do that,” nodded the sheriff. “I dunno why we should lie
about it though.”
“You don’t need to lie. You couldn’t find us, could yuh? And you can see
the pieces of rope and the blood spots out in the log shack, if yuh care
to look.”
Cherokee grinned softly, “All right, Hartley. But you better get found
pretty soon. There’s a dance in Medicine River day after tomorrow night,
and yuh don’t want to miss it. All the pretty girls will be there.”
“Somebody will find us by that time,” grinned Hashknife. “Me and Sleepy
sure do put up some exhibition of dancin’, and we hate to miss a chance
to entertain the natives.”
Cherokee and Bill mounted their horses.
“Any special person yuh want me to tell this story to?” asked Cherokee.
“No-o-o, just make it kinda general.”
“All right, Hartley. Get over yore bruises and I’ll introduce yuh to
some mighty pretty girls. So-long.”
They rode away and the two cowboys went back to the shady porch with
Uncle Billy, where they joined Ma Holton.
“How would yuh like to go to a dance, Ma?” asked Hashknife.
“Dance? Me? Bless your heart, I ain’t danced for so long that I couldn’t
do it. Anyway, I haven’t anything nice to wear Hashknife.”
“You’ve got plenty of good clothes, Ma,” said Uncle Billy.
“Let me furnish yuh with clothes, Ma,” suggested Hashknife.
“For goodness sake, what do you mean, Hashknife?”
“I can’t tell yuh yet, ma. It’ll be askin’ quite a lot, but I hope yuh
can do it. I’ve been wonderin’ a lot about how to work this deal, and
this dance gives me a good idea.”
“All right,” ma laughed and patted Hashknife’s arm. “Your old ma will do
most anything for her boys. Go and wash your faces and get ready to
eat.”
“We’ll talk this over later,” said Hashknife seriously. “It might be too
dangerous, and by golly, we ain’t goin’ to take any chances on gettin’
yuh hurt.”
“A few more shocks won’t hurt me,” laughed ma. “I’m getting used to
them.”
“I hope this will be the last one,” said Hashknife. “I’m gettin’ tired
of ’em myself.”
* * * * *
Cherokee Lee was as good as his word. He and Stivers stabled their
horses and went to the War Paint. It seemed as though everybody in
Medicine River knew that something had gone wrong at the Diamond H, and
was waiting for someone to bring the news.
Even Anderson, the banker, and Andrew Jackson Polk came to hear what
Cherokee Lee had to say.
“Dunno a darn thing about it,” declared Cherokee. “They left the
ranch-house last night about nine o’clock. This mornin’ they was gone.
The bunk-house was all torn up inside and blood over everythin’. Their
two six-shooters were on the floor and the place sure looks like a
battle-ground. Me and Bill searched all around, and in a little log
shack near the stable we found pieces of rope and more blood spots. The
door had been padlocked, it seemed, but the staple on the hasp had been
shoved out. It kinda looked to me as though somebody had been locked in
there and had managed to knock the staple loose.”
“And you couldn’t find them?” asked Anderson.
Cherokee shook his head. “Nope. Me and Bill circled the hills, but
couldn’t find ’em, Anderson. It sure looks funny.”
“Are their horses still there?” Thus Chuck Allard.
“Yeah, I reckon they are. Uncle Billy rode one of ’em down here after me
this mornin’.”
“That’s right,” nodded Yakima. “I noticed that.”
“Perhaps they have left the country.” Andrew Jackson Polk’s suggestion
did not meet with favor.
“On foot?” queried Stivers. “Any old time a cowpuncher walks!”
“Well, what’s the answer?” Jim O’Leary did not care to listen to
speculations.
“I wish I knew,” said Cherokee. “They’ve prob’ly been murdered and
thrown in the brush. I reckon my best bet is to set on a hill and watch
for buzzards.”
Cherokee evidently thought that he might as well romance a little on his
own account when he found he could do it seriously.
“If they were dead, how could they bust out of the shack?” said O’Leary.
“Nobody said they busted out of the shack,” said Cherokee. “I said it
looked thataway to me. Somebody busted out. Somebody had also been tied
up in there, somebody that bled quite a lot. Kinda looks like somebody
had been taken in there, all tied up.”
“Tied up and murdered, eh? And then taken out and hid?”
“Well, mebby that was it. Jim, for gosh sake, don’t start any argument
with me. I dunno any more about it than you do.”
And this settled the argument as far as the sheriff was concerned,
although the others continued the discussion after the sheriff and his
deputy had left the saloon.
“It sounds rather queer to me,” declared Anderson. “Hartley paid me
twenty-five hundred dollars for the Diamond H ranch and had the deed
made out to Mrs. Holton. He paid me with two one-thousand-dollar bills
and the five hundred in smaller ones.”
“Thousand-dollar bills?” O’Leary laughed. “Never seen one in my life, I
don’t believe. Anyway, I don’t reckon they’re common pocket-pieces among
cowpunchers.”
“Well, he had two of them.”
Several of the cowboys suggested that a search be made, but no one
seemed to step forth as a leader, so the idea was abandoned. Cherokee
Lee and Bill Stivers remained in their office for the afternoon,
finishing up some clerical work and wondering what was behind all this
trouble at the Diamond H.
“I’ve got a hunch that somethin’ is goin’ to bust pretty soon,” said
Cherokee. “That long-geared cowpuncher has some ideas, I’ll betcha,
Bill. He grins at yuh with his mouth, but his eyes don’t twinkle. He
looks plumb through yuh.”
“He plays poker jist like that,” declared Stivers. “His eyes and mouth
don’t work together. And didja ever notice that his hand is always
swingin’ real close to his gun. Somebody said that Stevens was a
gun-man, and he may be, but Hartley is the jigger to look out for.”
“Well, we don’t need to look out for him, Bill. I’ll bet he knows who
knocked ’em out. Miller told me to let him alone. I wish we knew who
killed Parker Miller. Hartley was the first man to look at Miller after
he was shot, and I’m wonderin’ if Hartley ain’t got some idea who done
it. But he won’t answer questions, that’s a cinch.”
“If he knows, why don’t he do somethin’?” asked Stivers.
Cherokee shook his head and resumed his work. He was a perfectly good
sheriff, but there was not a shred of detective ability in his make-up.
That the case had caused a certain amount of interest was manifested the
next day when several of the ranchers dropped in at the Diamond H. But
Hashknife and Sleepy had kept a close watch and went into hiding.
Cherokee and Stivers dropped in, accepted the absence of the two
cowpunchers as a precautionary measure, exchanged a few words with the
old folks and rode away. Jim O’Leary and Cliff Montell rode in later on
and were welcomed warmly by the old folks. And while they talked came
Frank Laskey and Andrew Jackson Polk, driving Anderson’s buggy mare
hitched to a top-buggy.
Laskey’s explanation to the effect that Mr. Anderson was curious to know
how things were and did not have time to come himself brought a grin to
Uncle Billy’s face. Anderson had not forgotten Uncle Billy’s wrathful
denunciation.
“Well, that’s shore nice of Mr. Anderson,” said Uncle Billy. “You tell
him that everythin’ is fine as frog-hair, Frank.”
“All right. But is there any news of the missing men?”
“Nope.”
“What is your personal opinion, Uncle Billy?”
“Well,” the old man knocked the dottle out of his pipe against the porch
railing, “pers’nally, I think it’ll rain.”
O’Leary’s laugh irritated Laskey.
“It isn’t a joke, is it?” he demanded.
“If it is, we ain’t seen it yet.” Thus Uncle Billy, soberly. “But we
might as well laugh as cry. Still, I’ve got a hunch that them two boys
will take a mighty lot of killin’.”
“Exactly,” said Andrew Jackson Polk. “Just now it is a case of _corpus
delicti_. But if they are not dead, why do they not come back?”
“Yo’re gettin’ into the question class, too, are yuh?” Jim O’Leary
laughed. “Let me tell yuh somethin’: If Hartley and Stevens ain’t
dead, —— pity the men who failed to do the job when they had a chance.
Of course, if they had the chance.”
“And,” said Polk judicially, “if they knew who the men were.”
“Oh, sure, that figures in on it,” agreed O’Leary.
“If we only knew what it was all done for,” said Ma Holton. “Those two
boys had no quarrel with any one around Medicine River.”
“Hartley had a quarrel with Yakima Reed,” said Montell. “And I heard
that Yakima took a swipe at Stevens the other night and busted his hand
on the War Paint music-box.”
“Which was not sufficient cause for a murder,” said Polk.
“Well—” Jim O’Leary shook hands with the old couple—“I’ve got to be
goin’ on, folks. If I was you, I wouldn’t worry. Yo’re comin’ to the
dance tomorrow night, ain’t yuh? By golly, it’ll seem like old times to
see yuh down there again. Everybody will be there, and Medicine River
ain’t forgot the Holton family, yuh betcha.”
“A whole lot depends,” said Uncle Billy. “Me and ma think a lot about
them two boys, and we’d kinda hate to go dancin’ when they’re—well, you
know how it is, Jimmy.”
“Sure, I know. Anyway, we’ll hope for the best. So-long.”
Laskey and Polk said good-by and drove away at the same time. Uncle
Billy laughed gleefully, as he filled his old pipe.
“Anderson sent his hired man, Ma. Ha, ha, ha, ha! I sure told him where
to head in at, and he was scared to come again.”
“Anyway, it was nice of him to inquire,” said Ma.
“Yeah, nice! Just like most folks think it’s nice of them to attend a
funeral. They don’t go out of respect. Curiosity, I tell yuh. Anderson
wanted his curiosity satisfied.”
* * * * *
Uncle Billy repeated the conversations to Hashknife and Sleepy, who had
hibernated in the cellar, along with some old magazines, blankets and an
oil lamp. The cellar entrance was a trap-door in the middle of the
kitchen.
“Anderson got curious and sent Frank Laskey out to see what it was all
about,” Uncle Billy told them. “Polk rode out with him.”
“Anderson got curious, did he?” grinned Hashknife.
“Yeah, but he never came out himself. By golly, he sure got told a few
things the last time he was out here and he don’t care to hear ’em
again.
“Jim O’Leary said he pitied the men who done this to you boys. Mebby Jim
don’t believe that yo’re dead, ’cause he said they made a mistake in not
killin’ yuh while they had a chance. He thinks you’ll make it hot for
’em, Hashknife.”
“What makes him think we know who done it, Uncle Billy?”
“I dunno. Do yuh?”
“We didn’t see ’em, nor hear ’em talk.”
“Then how—” Uncle Billy rubbed his nose and went back up the stairs. He
had been with Hashknife long enough to know that Hashknife answered no
questions.
The following morning Cherokee Lee brought a posse with him, consisting
of Bill Stivers, Yakima Reed, Chuck Allard, Cliff Montell and Andy
Halpern, another of O’Leary’s cowboys. They stopped at the ranch-house,
while Cherokee questioned Uncle Billy.
“Nothin’ new,” said Uncle Billy, sizing up the posse. “Takin’ quite a
crew with yuh, ain’t yuh, Cherokee?”
“Lookin’ for buzzards,” said Cherokee seriously. “Everybody seems to
think that we ought to keep on lookin’, so I’m takin’ enough men along
to find most anythin’.”
He took them down to the bunk-house and showed them the evidences of the
attack, and then over to the log shack, where they examined the hasp and
agreed that it had been forced from inside the shack, as the staple had
been forced out sidewise from the soft wood.
“Wasn’t a very good fastener,” said Yakima Reed, examining the staple.