CLUES
NOTHING had ever happened in Pinnacle City that caused as much excitement as the robbery of the bank. It was something that affected nearly everybody in the Tumbling River country. As Uncle Hozie expressed it—
“There’s a lot of flat pocketbooks right now.”
The news spread swiftly, and by noon of the following day the town was filled with range-folk. The sheriff came in for the usual amount of criticism, and a number of the cattlemen sat in his office, trying to help him devise ways and means of putting a stop to Joe Rich’s activities. A wire had been received from Old Man Ludlow, the president of the bank, who was on his way back to Pinnacle.
Uncle Hozie mourned the loss of eight thousand dollars, while Ed Merrick swore himself red in the face over half that amount. He had drawn out five thousand to lend to Jim Wheeler, thus cutting down his bank deposit.
But they were all losers; some of them more so than others, and Joe Rich’s latest robbery bid fair to make times rather hard in Tumbling River. It was a privately owned bank, and they knew that Ludlow could not make good their losses.
William H. Cates took the first train out of town. The sheriff had hauled him out of the hearse and put him to bed. The following morning he was filled with remorse over it all, but strangely enough he was unable to tell just whom he had been with. He told the sheriff to do his little best and boarded a train for the north.
An examination of the vault disclosed the fact that the robber had taken every cent of money, but had not bothered with any papers. Warner refused even to make a guess at how much money was in the vault, but admitted that it was more than was usually carried. The bank remained closed.
Hashknife, Sleepy and Honey came back to town that forenoon, but the Heavenly Triplets did not show up. Merrick talked with Hashknife about the robbery. Hashknife was not interested to any great extent.
A little later on Hashknife was talking with Kelsey, when the depot agent came to Kelsey.
“Here’s a funny thing,” said the agent. “Remember the night the bridge caught fire?”
“Sure,” nodded Kelsey. “What about it?”
“That night,” resumed the agent, “the rear brakeman of the cattle-train went back to flag the passenger, and he’s never been seen since.”
“What do yuh mean?” Kelsey was evidently puzzled.
“Just what I said. I don’t know how he was passed up. The train was held here quite a while, but the storm was bad, and nobody needed him, I suppose. Down at the bridge both trains were stalled quite a while, and there was no need of whistling in the flag from the cattle-train.
“Oh, the company missed him the next day. But he was what is known as a boomer brakeman, and they just thought he had stepped out without drawing his pay. They do that once in a while—those boomers. But later on they got to checking up on things, and the conductor remembered that he hadn’t seen this man since the night at the bridge. Ransome is the division point, you see; so he didn’t have much farther to go. The reason they watered that stock here was because there were better facilities than at Ransome.”
“Well, that’s kinda queer,” said Kelsey.
“I saw him go out to flag,” said Hashknife. “I remember that freight conductor blamed the passenger crew for runnin’ past the flag. They said they never seen it.”
“Well, what do you suppose happened to him?” queried Kelsey.
“Search me,” said the depot agent. “All I know is what I heard over the wire.”
Hashknife left the sheriff and found Sleepy and Honey. He told them what the depot agent had said. A few minutes later they were heading for the railroad bridge, going through the country where Hashknife and Sleepy had walked the night of the bridge-fire. They tied their horses to the right-of-way fence, crawled through and climbed up to the track level.
The railroad had been graded along the side of the hill, so that the opposite side dropped off about twenty or thirty feet, where the brush grew thick along the fence. Hashknife estimated where the rear end of the cattle-train would have been, and they walked back along the track to the first curve.
Just beyond that there was considerable seepage of water on the lower side, where grew a profusion of tules and cattails, mingled with wild-roses and willows. The bank was rather abrupt along here and heavy brush grew between the track and the upper fence.
Hashknife slid cautiously down this bank, hooking his heels into the broken rock. There was more water, covered with a greenish slime.
“Hook yore heels, cowboy,” laughed Sleepy. “One little mistake, and you take a green-water bath.”
Hashknife worked down to the water edge and went slowly along about fifty feet. Then he stopped and sat back against the bank. For several moments he studied the tangle of brush and green water. Then he turned his head and looked up at the two men above him.
“I’ve found him,” he said.
“You’ve found him?” gasped Honey.
“Uh-huh. One foot still on dry land. I thought it was just an old shoe. He must ’a’ went in head first. There’s his lantern in the muck—just the bottom of it stickin’ out.”
Hashknife turned around and climbed up the bank. From the track level he could not see the shoe nor the lantern. He heaped up a pile of stones beside the track to mark the spot.
“Ain’t we goin’ to take him out?” asked Sleepy.
“Not me,” replied Hashknife. “That’s the sheriff’s job.”
They rode back to the ranch and were just debating what to do, when Ben Collins came along on his way to town from the Circle M. Honey called to him and he stopped at the HJ gate.
“You’ll probably see Kelsey in town,” said Honey. “Tell him we found the brakeman of that cattle-train. He’s in the ditch on the west side of the railroad track, about three hundred yards south of the bridge. We heaped up a pile of rocks along the track, and the body is straight down from that. Tell Kelsey he’ll need help to get the body.”
Collins stared at Honey, his mouth agape. It was all Greek to him, it seemed.
“Well, I’ll be !” he snorted. “Let me get this straight.”
He repeated what Honey had told him, making a few mistakes, which Honey rectified.
“But who killed him?” he demanded.
“We don’t know, Ben.”
“Well, I’ll be ! All right, I’ll tell him.”
Ben spurred his horse to a gallop and was soon out of sight.
“They’ll have to come through this way to get him, won’t they?” asked Hashknife.
“Unless they want to carry the body across the railroad bridge. Good gosh, things look worse for Joe Rich every day! I suppose he ran into the brakeman, eh?”
“Probably,” nodded Hashknife. “Of course he might have fell off the track that night. The wind was awful. If he struck his head on the rocks and slid into the water he’d die pretty quick. We’ll have to wait until they take him out.”
But they didn’t have to wait long. Inside an hour Kelsey, Ralston, Ben Coffins and Abe Liston, of the 3W3, rode in at the HJ. No one had told Peggy and Laura about the dead man, and their curiosity was aroused by the advent of the sheriff and his men.
“Man got hit by a train out by the bridge,” said Hashknife.
“Was he killed?” asked Laura.
“I reckon he was.”
Hashknife went out and talked with Kelsey, who seemed a trifle sore about their finding the body.
“I suppose yuh fooled around and wiped out all the clues,” he said complainingly.
“Well, I dunno,” smiled Hashknife. “We didn’t go near the body, Sheriff.”
“Didn’t, eh? Seems to me you was in a of a sweat to get out there ahead of the law.”
“Did look thataway.” Hashknife did not cease smiling, with his mouth, although his eyes were serious.
“Just how do yuh figure this yore affair, Hartley?”
“You do the figurin’,” suggested Hashknife.
The sheriff glanced keenly at Hashknife’s eyes and decided to drop the subject.
“Oh, all right,” he said. “Yuh might come along and help us take the body out.”
“Yeah, I might,” said Hashknife. “But I don’t think I will. You’ve got plenty men with yuh.”
“Uh-huh.” Kelsey did not press the invitation, but rode away, followed by his three men.
Honey Bee grinned widely and did a shuffle in the dirt.
“That’s tellin’ ’em, cowboy. You’ve got Kelsey’s goat. I could see it in his face.”
“Let’s go down to the bunk-house,” suggested Hashknife. “Them darned girls ask too many questions. I reckon they suspect that this man was killed at that hold-up, and I don’t want to worry Peggy any more. She takes it too serious. By golly, she acts as though folks blamed her for what Joe Rich has done.”
“That’s Peggy,” sighed Honey. “Whitest little girl that ever lived. Suppose we have a three-handed game of seven-up for a million dollars a corner.”
“You two go ahead,” said Hashknife. “I’ve got to think a while.”
“Don’t yore head ever hurt yuh?” asked Honey. “You’ve done an awful lot of thinkin’ since I knew yuh, Hashknife.”
“He has to think an awful lot to get a little ways,” grinned Sleepy.
Sleepy and Honey went into the bunk-house, and Laura wig-wagged to Hashknife from the veranda of the ranch-house.
“What about this dead man?” she demanded.
“Dunno yet, Laura. He’s dead, but we don’t know what killed him.”
He told her about the missing brakeman. Laura had been doing a little thinking, and she confided to Hashknife that she was afraid that Jim Wheeler had been killed by the man who stole the money.
“Aunt Emma thinks so, too,” she said. “We had a talk about it the other day. Joe was out here that day, you know. He came to tell Peggy good-by. His lips were cut badly and he looked awful bad. But Peggy didn’t tell him good-by. She was crying and didn’t hear him go away. She thought he was still there. We found out later that Uncle Jim had knocked Joe down on the street in Pinnacle City.”
Hashknife nodded over this. He had heard it before.
“But she still loves Joe Rich.”
“I honestly think she does,” agreed Laura.
“Did yuh hear about them findin’ Joe’s pocket-knife in the express car?”
Laura hadn’t heard about it.
“The knife that Peggy gave him for his birthday? Oh, what an awful thing to do! Criminals always make mistakes, don’t they?”
“Yeah, they shore do, Laura—bad ones, too.”
Peggy came out on the veranda and sat down with them.
“Tell me about that bank robbery,” she said to Hashknife.
The tall cowboy sighed and reshaped the crown of his hat.
“There ain’t much to tell, Peggy. A lone man met the cashier at the rear door of the bank, forced him back, made him open the vault and then roped and gagged the cashier. They say he got away with a lot of money. Wasn’t anybody hurt.”
“What was the description of that man, Hashknife?”
“Wasn’t any—much. Yuh see, it was dark in there.”
“Much?” sighed Peggy. “Oh, I know!” she suddenly blurted.
“You try to cover it. Please don’t do that, Hashknife.”
Hashknife shook his head sadly.
“That cashier was probably scared stiff, Peggy. Power of suggestion made him see what the express messenger saw—the black leather cuffs with the silver stars. Discount all that stuff. Keep smilin’, I tell yuh. A-a-aw, shucks!”
Hashknife jumped to his feet and walked away. Peggy was crying, and Hashknife couldn’t stand tears. He went down and sat against the stable, his hat pulled down over his eyes. And he was still there when the sheriff and his men came back, bringing the body of the brakeman, strapped across the saddle of Jack Ralston’s horse, while Jack rode behind Kelsey. The body was covered with a dirty tarpaulin.
Hashknife went out to meet them, and Kelsey thanked him for the marker.
“It shore was well hidden,” he said, “and them rocks helped a lot. I reckon this will kinda swell the reward for Joe Rich, Hartley. This man was shot. Yuh can even see the powder marks on his coat, so it must ’a’ been close work. We’ll shore ask for Joe Rich dead or alive now.”
They rode on, and Hashknife leaned against the stable, his mind working swiftly. Dead or alive!
“Oh, I was afraid of that,” he told himself.
He saddled his horse and went to the bunk-house, where he called to the boys.
“I’m goin’ to town,” he told them. “They just went past with that body. The man was shot at close range, and they’ll offer a reward for Joe Rich, dead or alive. I want to get a look at that body. Be back for supper, and for gosh sake, don’t let Peggy know what they said!”
Hashknife galloped away from the ranch, but did not try to overtake the sheriff and his party. They took the body straight to the doctor’s office. It happened that Doc tor Curzon was the county coroner, and the case would require an inquest.
But the sheriff and his party did not stay more than fifteen minutes; so Hashknife waited until they were out of sight before he rode up to the doctor’s little home.
The old doctor greeted him gravely and started to tell him about the latest tragedy, but Hashknife stopped him.
“I know all about it, Doc. What about that bullet? Did it go all the way through?”
The doctor nodded.
“Yes, it did.”
Hashknife sighed. He had hopes that the caliber of the bullet might give him a clue. The doctor showed him the body. There was no mistaking the corpse. It was that of the brakeman, but little changed from immersion. The bullet had gone straight through his heart, and he had probably plunged straight off the high bank into the slough.
“Poor devil,” sighed Hashknife. “Anyway, he died quick, Doc. The wind was blowin’ away from us, so we had no chance to hear the sound of the shot. Anyway, I’m much obliged.”
“You’re certainly welcome, sir. We will probably hold an inquest tomorrow, and perhaps the sheriff will ask you to attend as a witness.”
“All right, Doc.”
Hashknife led his horse up to the main street and over to the Pinnacle hitch-rack. Just beyond the hitch-rack was the end of the board sidewalk which led down past the saloon. This end of the sidewalk was about two feet higher than the ground level. It had been intended to continue the walk, but this had never been done. Pedestrians usually ignored the sidewalk at this point and went farther along, where the contour of the ground permitted a lower step.
Hashknife sat down on the end of this sidewalk, bracing his shoulders against the corner of the building, and rolled a smoke. The sheriff was at his office, talking with the depot agent, who was writing a telegram to send to the railroad company at Ransome.
Ben Collins’ and Abe Liston’s horses were at the Pinnacle hitch-rack; so Hashknife surmised that they were retailing the story in the saloon. Two youngsters came from the rear of the building, barefooted, overalls-clad. One of them had a ball made of rags sewed through with heavy thread; rather a lop-sided affair, but a ball, for all that.
Hashknife smiled at them and they grinned back at him.
“Throw me a catch,” he said, holding out his hands.
The boy with the ball flipped it toward Hashknife, but his aim was faulty and the ball struck the ground several feet in front of Hashknife. It failed to bounce, but rolled heavily under the sidewalk.
“Bum throwin’!” shrilled the other youngster.
Hashknife laughed and dropped to his knees, crawling beneath the sidewalk trying to reach the ball.
“Lemme help yuh, mister,” said the boy who owned the ball.
“I can get it,” said Hashknife.
He picked it up and handed it absently back to the boy. In the accumulated litter of old playing-cards, miscellaneous pieces of paper and the general débris, his eyes caught sight of a certain piece of paper.
“Can’tcha git out?” asked the boy who had the ball.
Hashknife backed out. He had forgotten the boys. In his hand was a folded piece of paper, which he unfolded and read carefully. It was Jim Wheeler’s copy of the note on which he had borrowed the money from Ed Merrick.
“Now, how in did that get under there?” wondered Hashknife. He studied the situation. Close to this spot was the hitch-rack.
“He got on his horse at that rack,” said Hashknife to himself. “He thought he put the note in his pocket, but didn’t; and the wind blew it under the sidewalk. No wonder he didn’t have the note when they found him.”
He folded the note and put it carefully in his pocket. The two youngsters were watching him closely, possibly wondering what he had found. Hashknife stared at them for a moment, and a grin came to his lips as he dug down in his pocket and drew out two quarters.
“You boys buy yoreselves some candy,” he said, giving them the money.
“Thank yuh, mister!” exploded one of them, and they raced across the street to a store, all out of breath. Hashknife went to his horse, mounted and rode out of town.
The two boys lined up at the fly-specked candy counter and took plenty of time in picking out what they wanted. Angus McLaren and Len Kelsey came into the store, talking earnestly about the latest developments, and stopped near the two boys.
The old man behind the counter peered over his glasses at the boys.
“Yuh want two-bits’ worth apiece?” he asked, rather awed at their enormous purchases. “By golly, yuh must have struck a soap mine!”
“Didn’t strike no mine,” said one of them. “How much are them chaklits, Mr. Becker?”
“Aw, you don’t want no chaklits!” snorted the other. “They don’t give yuh hardly any for a dime. Gimme some mixed.”
“I want some mixed, too, Mr. Becker, but I don’t want all of it mixed.”
One of the boys turned and saw the sheriff and McLaren, who were smiling at them.
“Got two-bits apiece,” grinned the boy. “A tall cowpuncher gave it to us.”
“He’s that new puncher at the HJ,” explained the other.
“Gave yuh each two-bits, eh?” smiled McLaren. “That was generous of him, eh?”
“Y’betcha. Over by the Pinnacle’ Saloon rack. I throwed my ball to him an’ it went under the end of the sidewalk. He got under after it, an’ he found somethin’, I think. Anyway, he was lookin’ at a paper when he got out, an’ he gave us each two-bits.”
“What kind of a piece of paper?” asked McLaren.
“I seen it,” said the other boy, watching the merchant weigh the candy. “It was kinda folded up—had printin’ on it. Say, Mr. Becker, are yuh sure them scales don’t weight under?”
They paid for their candy and went outside, looking into their sacks.
“That must have been Hartley,” said Kelsey. “He didn’t lose any time in followin’ us to town. He was at the HJ, when we brought the body past there. I wonder what he found?”
McLaren shook his head. He hadn’t any idea, nor was he interested in knowing.
Kelsey went back to the court-house, where he found Fred Coburn, the county attorney, at his office. He laid the facts of the case before Coburn, who listened to Kelsey’s story of finding the body of the brakeman.
“All right,” said Coburn briskly. “Make out a new reward notice, Len. Offer the reward, dead or alive. I’ll file a charge of first degree murder against Rich. Personally, I think he killed Jim Wheeler, although that would be hard to make stick. This is a cinch. Better see if the commissioners don’t want to boost that reward. When Ludlow comes, I’m sure the bank will boost it. Rich is going to make one break too many—and we’ll get him.”
“That’s a cinch, Coburn. See yuh later.”
As he came from the attorney’s office he met Ed Merrick, Angus McLaren and Ross Layton, the three commissioners.
“I was just going to look for you fellers,” he said. “Just had a talk with Coburn about the reward. He’s goin’ to file first degree murder against Joe Rich and wants me to make up a new reward notice, offering it for him, dead or alive. How about boostin’ the ante, eh?”
McLaren shook his head quickly.
“I’m not in favor of it. There’s already thirty-five hundred offered, and I’ve no doubt the railroad company will add to that for the death of the brakeman.”
“It would be worth a lot to have him behind the bars,” said Merrick seriously.
“Or under the sod,” added Layton.
“Let’s boost it another thousand,” suggested Merrick. “It won’t hurt to make it worth while.”
McLaren turned to Layton.
“What do ye say, Ross?”
“Oh, it’s all right with me,” said the little man, hooking his thumbs inside the armholes of his fancy vest. “Seems to me it’s like making conversational bets—they’re never won or lost. Personally, I’d like to see more action and less interest in what the man’s scalp is worth.”
“Ye hit it, Ross,” laughed McLaren.
“Well,” said Kelsey savagely, “in this country you’ve just about got to buy a man like Joe Rich.”
“Ye mean to make it worth while for somebody to forget friendship, Kelsey?”
“That’s just what I mean, McLaren!”
“Oh, well, have it yer own way, lad. Friendship is a great thing, and it’s har-rd to overcome with silver. As much of a law-abidin’ citizen as I am, I’d vote to hang the man that would even betray Joe Rich for money.”
“You wouldn’t stretch friendship to cover a man who was wanted for murder, would yuh, Mac?” asked Kelsey.
“Friendship,” said McLaren heavily, “is ver-ry elastic. If it wasn’t there’s few of us that would have any.”
“By , that’s true!” snorted Layton.
“I guess we’ll just leave that reward as it is, Mac.”
“All right, yo’re the doctors,” said Kelsey. “I merely wanted to speed things up a little.”
Merrick smiled thinly.
“Joe Rich still has friends,” he said meaningly.
McLaren’s eyes darkened, but he turned and walked away, with the flowery-vested member from Ransome following in his wake, his black coat-tails flapping, looking very much as Honey Bee had said—“a bouquet of flowers wrapped up in crepe.”
Merrick and Ben Collins rode past the HJ a few hours later and stopped to tell Hashknife that Kelsey wanted him and the other two boys at the inquest on the following day.
“Just a matter of form,” said Merrick. “You boys found the body, and I think you were the last persons to see him alive; so the coroner will require your testimony.”
“Yeah; all right,” agreed Hashknife. “What time?”
“About two o’clock in the afternoon.”
Merrick’s white teeth flashed in a smile beneath his pointed black mustache as he glanced toward the house, where Laura was standing, looking out toward them.
“Rather a pleasant place to stay, Hartley,” he said meaningly.
Hashknife did not reply to this, but his gray eyes suddenly seemed to change color and became very hard. Merrick shifted his gaze and lifted his reins.
“Well, we’ll be amblin’ on,” he said. “See yuh tomorrow.”
Neither Merrick nor Collins said anything until they were well out of earshot, when Collins glanced back and said:
“Don’t fool with that jigger, Ed. Holee , didja see his eyes? Didja? My , it went to forty below right then!”
Merrick nodded grimly.
“I guess that detective wasn’t far off when he said that Hartley wasn’t all smiles.”
Hashknife leaned against the gate-post and watched them fade away in the dust. His eyes were normal now—lazy gray eyes which looked out across the hills, but did not see them; and there was a smile on his wide mouth. Laura was calling him from the veranda and he turned slowly to go back.
IT WAS supper time when Honey and Sleepy came back to the HJ and they brought Slim Coleman with them. They had met Slim near the west end of the bridge, and he rode over with them to have some supper before going back to the Lazy B.
Slim was almost the counterpart of Hashknife physically, being rather a high-pocket sort of individual. The girls welcomed Slim, for he was as one of the family—an old-timer in the Tumbling River and a bunkie of Honey Bee’s when Honey was at the Lazy B.
“It’s shore tough, this here offerin’ of a reward, dead or alive, for Joe Rich,” said Slim, who did not have a particle of diplomacy in his system.
Peggy gasped and fled from the room, while Honey proceeded to upbraid Slim for making such a foolish remark before Peggy.
“Well, how’d I know?” wailed Slim. “Nobody told me she was still feelin’ right toward Joe.”
“Didn’t I tell yuh to not talk much about it?” demanded Honey angrily. “I told yuh that when we was crossin’ the bridge.”
“Yeah, I know yuh did. But I didn’t talk much. My , I only said it was too bad!”
“Well, that’s a lot, Slim. Peggy didn’t know they wanted Joe for murder.”
“Well, she knows it now. I s’pose I might as well be the one to break the news to her.”
“Oh, it don’t matter so much,” said Hashknife. “She’d find it out tomorrow, anyway. We’re all to be called on that inquest—me and Sleepy and Honey. It won’t amount to anythin’. They’ll just bring in a verdict chargin’ Joe with the murder.”
“I was talkin’ to Ross Layton before we left town,” said Honey. “Kelsey is gettin’ out new reward notices. He wanted the commissioners to vote more money on that reward, but Ross and Angus McLaren were against it.”
“Kelsey’s got the idea that some of Joe’s friends are hidin’ him, and that a bigger reward would make ’em trade him in.”
Hashknife laughed heartily.
“That’s a new one, Honey. I’ve heard of lots of reasons for offerin’ rewards, but that’s the first time I ever heard of tryin’ to buy off a friendship.”
“Well, that was Kelsey’s idea. He’s shore a bright sheriff. He thinks that an added reward would cause Joe’s friends to pop him on the head and bring him in.”
“It might, at that,” said Hashknife.
Wong Lee called them to supper, but the two girls did not come to the table.
“Slim, you raised with yore remarks,” whispered Honey.
“What do yuh mean?”
“Ruined the girls’ appetites.”
“Pshaw, I’m sorry about that.”
They ate silently for several minutes, and then Slim laid down his knife and fork.
“I found somethin’ funny today,” he said. “I was ridin’ down a coulee, kinda southeast of the Lazy B, and I finds a dead horse. Plenty buzzards feedin’. But the funny part of it is this: That horse has been skinned. Yessir, it shore had. I looked it all over and there ain’t a sign of skin on it anywhere. And it kinda looked to me as though somebody had pulled the shoes off it, too. Anyway, it never traveled far after the shoes was taken off.”
“Somebody needed horse-hide,” observed Honey, helping himself to more food.
“Yeah, I s’pose they did,” agreed Slim, resuming his meal. “It ain’t a common thing for to skin a dead horse. It ain’t been dead a of a long time. I didn’t smell—”
“Hey!” snorted Honey. “What the do yuh think this is? We’re eatin’ a meal, Slim.”
“Oh, I beg yore pardon.”
“Could yuh find it again?” asked Hashknife grinning.
“Shore. If the wind’s blowin’ jist—”
“Wait a minute!” snorted Honey. “You let up on that departed critter, or I’ll—I’ll—”
“All right, Honey.”
“About how long had the animal been dead, Slim?” asked Hashknife.
“Well, I’ll tell yuh, Hartley. Judgin’ from the—”
“Oh, !” exploded Honey.
He kicked back his chair and tramped out through the kitchen to the rear of the house, where he sat down on the well-curb and rolled a smoke.
Slim reached across the table, removed an egg from Honey’s plate and placed it on his own.
“I can allus git extra food thataway,” he grinned. “Honey ain’t very strong. Too much ’magination, I’d say.”
They finished their supper and went down to the bunk-house. Slim wanted to play pitch. Hashknife declined to be a party to any card arguments; so he stayed out of the game and went back to the ranch-house, where he found Wong Lee serving supper to Peggy and Laura.
No reference was made to Slim’s statement about the reward, but it was rather difficult to find any conversation that did not connect with the troubles of Tumbling River. Laura essayed a few pieces of music on the old upright organ, while Peggy curled up in an old rocker, her chin on one hand. Hashknife sprawled on the sofa, his long legs crossed, while the blue smoke curled up from his cigaret.
“Don’t you sing, Hashknife?” Laura turned on the stool and looked at Hashknife.
“Yeah, I sing—sometimes.”
“Come and sing us a song.”
“No-o-o-o, I don’t think so, Laura. I’m what you’d call an absent-minded singer. I never sing when I know just what I’m doin’.”
“Joe used to sing,” said Peggy simply.
“And he had a good voice, too,” added Laura.
There was a long period of silence. Finally Hashknife got to his feet and stood there for a long time, deep in thought. The two girls watched him curiously. Suddenly he looked at them, and a smile spread across his face.
“I just got some good news,” he said.
“You got some good news?” Laura got up from the stool and stared at him. “How could you get some good news?”
Hashknife laughed softly and sat down again.
“I just got to thinkin’,” he said. “Sometimes I get news thataway. Go ahead and play somethin’, Laura.”
For possibly an hour Laura played snatches of old songs, playing entirely by ear. Hashknife still sprawled on the sofa, his eyes closed. Several times Laura and Peggy exchanged amused glances, thinking he was asleep, but he was far from it. Finally Laura left the organ, and Hashknife opened his eyes.
“Play another one, Laura,” he asked.
“Another one?” The little blond-headed girl laughed. “Why, I’ve been playing for over an hour, Hashknife.”
“Thasso?” He smiled at her. “That shows how much I enjoyed yore music.”
“I don’t believe you were listening at all.”
“Oh, yeah, I was.”
The two girls decided to go to bed and left Hashknife to his cigaret-rolling. For another hour he smoked, only moving to throw a cigaret butt into the fireplace and to roll a fresh one. He had turned the lamp down low when the girls left the room and now he blew out the light, yawned heavily and went to the front door.
It was dark outside and the wind was blowing. He could see the dull glow of a fight in the bunk-house window as he stepped off the porch. To the left and to the rear of the bunk-house was the main stable, behind which was part of the corral, which extended out from a front corner of the stable.
Hashknife was half-way to the bunk-house when something attracted his attention. It was down near the stable and sounded very much like a smothered cry. The wind was blowing from that direction. He stopped short, peering through the darkness. There was something moving down near the stable.
Hashknife hurried toward the stable, wondering whether it had been a cry or merely the sound of the stable door in the wind. Then he saw the bulk of a moving horse swinging around as if frightened, and he could hear the bang of the stable door swinging in the wind.
But before he could determine just what was going on, the flame of a revolver shot licked out toward him and he heard the bullet strike the ranch-house. Again and again the gun flashed; but Hashknife had dropped flat and was shooting back at the flashes.
He heard the bunk-house door slam open. Sleepy was running toward him, calling his name. The last flash came from the further corner of the stable front as the shooter darted behind cover. Honey was behind Sleepy, yelling for somebody to tell him what it was all about.
“Stop yellin’!” snapped Hashknife. “One of yuh circle this side of the corral. He’s behind the stable. C’mon!”
Sleepy went galloping around the corral, while Hashknife and Honey swung wide of the stable. But the willows and other brush grew down within fifty feet of that side, affording plenty of cover for any one to make a getaway.
After a fifteen-minute search they gave up. It was so dark that a man could merely lie down on the ground and be invisible. They met at the front of the stable, and there they almost stumbled over Slim Coleman, who was sitting up. They heard him swear long and earnestly.
“What in happened to you, Slim?” asked Honey.
But Slim merely continued to swear, although he was able to walk back to the bunk-house without assistance. He had a lump over his left ear, a bruised nose, and some skin off his right knuckles.
He blinked in the lamplight and tried to grin.
“Talk about it,” urged Honey.
“Talk about it, eh? Well, I dunno what to talk about. After I left the bunk-house I went to git my bronc. Didn’t see a danged soul around there, but when I led my horse out I runs slap-dab into somebody. I thought it was one of you boys, comin’ out to see if I was gettin’ started.
“I started to say somethin’, when I got the flash of a six-gun barrel, which almost knocked my nose off. It did jist scrape my nose. I couldn’t see the feller very good, but I took a smash at him with my right fist, and I think I hit that gun. And then I got a wallop on the head and I seen all kinds of fireworks. It jist keeled me over, and I ’member tryin’ to yell for help. The rest of it is kinda hazy. Whee-e-e! I’ve shore got me an awful headache.”
“But who in was it?” wondered Honey. “Is there somebody tryin’ to lay yuh out, Slim?”
“Must be. Feel of that bump.”
“Honey,” said Hashknife, “you better go up to the house and tell the girls what that shootin’ was all about. Some of them bullets hit the house. And bring back a pan of hot water, so we can fix Slim’s head.”
Honey raced for the house and Slim sat down on a bunk. He was still a little dazed.
“Yore bronc is still there by the corral fence,” said Sleepy.
“Uh-huh. I still had the lead-rope when I fell. Gee, I shore don’t sabe it, boys. I dunno anybody that hates me enough to pop me in the dark. It’s lucky he didn’t hit any of yuh.”
“Missed me a mile,” grinned Hashknife.
In a few minutes Honey came back carrying a pan of water.
“The girls were scared stiff,” he said. “One of them bullets busted the window on this side, and some of the others hit the house. They want me to sleep in the ranch-house.”
“I’ll bet that makes yuh sore,” grinned Sleepy.
“Aw, jist put some horse-liniment on it and I’ll head for home,” said Slim. “It don’t hurt much.”
“Yo’re not goin’ home tonight,” declared Hashknife. “This is no night for a tall jigger like you to be ridin’. Shuck off yore raiment and pile into Honey’s bunk while me and Sleepy unsaddle yore bronc.”
Slim’s protests were very feeble.
“Curt Bellew will swear I got drunk and forgot to come home.”
“We’ll be yore alibi, Slim,” assured Hashknife. “And more than that, I’m goin’ to need yuh tomorrow.”
“Well, all right. Go kinda tender on that pinnacle, cowboy. She’s shore a blood-brother to a boil.”
Hashknife fixed up Slim’s head and then went up to the ranch-house, where he called Honey outside.
“We won’t be here for breakfast,” he told Honey. “Me and Sleepy and Slim are goin’ to take a ride early in the mornin’; sabe? They’re holdin’ that inquest at two o’clock in the afternoon. You hitch up the buggy team in the mornin’ and take the girls to town. Tell ’em I said for ’em to go, Honey. Be there for the inquest.”
“But what for, Hashknife?”
“Just for fun, Honey. Good night.”
“You’ll be at the inquest, won’t yuh?”
“Sure, I’m the main witness.”
IT WAS an hour before daylight when Hashknife, Sleepy and Slim Coleman rode away from the HJ. Slim’s head was a little sore, but the swelling was reduced. Sleepy protested against such an early start; which was the natural thing for him to do, especially since he didn’t know where they were going.
They forded the river below the bridge—much to Sleepy’s disgust. He got one boot full of water.
“Bridge is too narrow,” said Hashknife, “and there’s too much brush on the other side of it.”
“You must be scared,” laughed Sleepy.
The bootful of water made him feel particularly sarcastic. Anyway, he didn’t like to ride with an empty stomach.
“Yeah, I’m scared,” admitted Hashknife as they reached the other bank and climbed to the top.
“You take the lead, Slim,” he said. “Take us to that dead horse.”
“All right. It’ll be kinda slow goin’ in the dark, but it’ll be daylight by the time we get there. Got to swing wide of the river on account of the breaks. We can eat breakfast at the Lazy B, if yuh want to.”
“We’ll look at the horse first, Slim. We may not get any breakfast.”
“That’s the of bein’ pardner to a man who is so curious he’ll get up in the middle of the night to hunt for a dead horse,” said Sleepy.
They were obliged to travel slowly, and the cold morning wind caused Sleepy to swear at his wet feet. He was uncomfortable, and didn’t care who knew it. The stars faded, and a rosy glow in the east proclaimed the coming of daylight.
Slim knew the country well, and had little difficulty in locating the correct coulee. A coyote streaked out through the brush and went loping off across the hills. He wasn’t a bit curious about these cowboys. They often carried rifles, and were not a bit particular which coyote they shot at.
They found the carcass, and Hashknife did not take long in his examination. The other two men sat on their horses some distance away, holding Hashknife’s horse. He came back and climbed into his saddle.
“Shall we go to the Lazy B and eat?” asked Slim.
Hashknife shook his head.
“No time to eat, Slim. Is there a place where we can cross the river down here?”
“Yeah, there’s the old Circle M crossin’. They herd cattle across once in a while.”
“That’s fine. Lead us to it.”
“My , you’d think he was a sailor!” wailed Sleepy. “He must be crazy about water. Oh, well, there’s no use arguin’ with him, Slim.”
“You won’t miss yore breakfast,” assured Hashknife. “If I was as fat as you are I’d welcome a fast.”
“I don’t mind the breakfast but I’d like to know what it’s all about,” said Slim.
“Well, yuh won’t know,” declared Sleepy. “This jigger never tells. He’s a single-handed secret society, he is, Slim.”
Hashknife merely laughed and swung in beside them.
“Are yuh pretty good with a six-gun, Slim?”
“Pretty good? Meanin’ what, Hartley?”
“Did yuh ever kill a man?”
“Nope,” Slim shook his head violently. “Never had to.”
“Would, if yuh had to, wouldn’t yuh?”
“Sure—why not?”
“Yuh may have to.”
Sleepy straightened up in his saddle. Slim looked quickly at Sleepy who was grinning widely. Sleepy always grinned when there was action in the wind.
“I don’t quite sabe the drift of this, Hartley,” said Slim. “Why should I have to kill a man?”
“To make him quit shootin’.”
“Oh, yeah. Well—all right.”
Slim drew his six-shooter, examined the cylinder critically and put it back.
“I wish I’d ’a’ practised more,” he said dryly.
Hashknife grinned in appreciation. He felt that Slim was a dependable man. They reached the west bank of the river and rode south for about a quarter of a mile to the Circle M crossing. The water was not deep here.
Old cottonwoods grew close to the water edge and there were many cattle standing among the trees. The cowboys rode out to the open country, almost within sight of the Circle M. Hashknife studied the country. Farther on and to their left was a rather high butte, fairly well covered with brush.
“On the other side of that is the Circle M road, ain’t it?” asked Hashknife.
Slim nodded.
“Circles the bottom of it on that side. It’s only a little ways to the Circle M. There’s a little stream comes down on this side of the butte, and the road crosses it.”
Hashknife took the lead now. He rode to the south of the butte, dismounted at the foot and tied his horse in the thick brush. The other boys followed him, and they walked up through the brush to the top of the butte.
Below, and not over four hundred yards to the south, were the ranch buildings of the Circle M. Hashknife squatted down on a rocky projection and told the others to keep out of sight. There was enough high brush to make an effectual screen.
The ranch-house of the Circle M was a rambling affair consisting of but one floor. The exterior was rough boards, weathered, unpainted. There were two stables and a number of low sheds, branding corral, bucking corral and general utility corrals. A number of loose horses were in the larger corral.
Smoke was pouring from the kitchen stovepipe, and in a few minutes a man came from the stable and went to the house.
“That’s Ben Collins,” said Slim. “I know his walk.”
“Have they got a Chink cook?” asked Sleepy.
“Nope. Dutch Siebert does most of the cookin’. He’s a puncher. Ed never could keep a cook, it seems, so he uses Dutch. He’s an awful flat-head.”
“Merrick?”
“No—Siebert. Danged flat-faced, obstinate sort of a cuss.”
Sleepy stretched out on the ground and pillowed his head on his arms.
“Wake me up early, mother; I’m to be queen of the May,” he grinned. “If yuh won’t tell me what we’re doin’ here, I’m goin’ to take a nap. Yuh might as well sleep, Slim.”
“Go ahead,” said Hashknife. “I’ll wake yuh up in time.”
Slim needed no second invitation, but slid out full length.
Hashknife made himself comfortable, but not to sleep. He kept an eye on the ranch-buildings, and several times he saw Merrick and Collins together. He knew Merrick well enough to distinguish him at that distance.
Time dragged on and the sun grew hot up there on the top of that knoll, but Hashknife had the patience of an Indian. It was nearly eleven o’clock when he saw Merrick and Collins saddle their horses at the corral. A third man came out from the house and talked with them, and Hashknife was sure this man was Dutch Siebert. He was bigger than either of the other two, who were fairly big men.
In a little while Merrick and Collins mounted their horses and moved away from the ranch on the road which led to Pinnacle City. They were going to attend the inquest. Hashknife paid no more attention to them, but noted the time of their leaving and estimated about how long it would take them to reach the town. Dutch Siebert played with a dog in the yard for a few minutes, then went into the house.
Hashknife settled back and rolled a cigaret. Sleepy woke up, swore a few lines, shifted to more shade and went back to sleep. But Hashknife did not become impatient. He knew what he was going to do, and it was something that required fairly accurate timing. He knew that Merrick and Collins would ride fairly fast and would cover that eight miles in less than an hour.
It was thirty minutes past the noon hour when Hashknife woke Sleepy and Slim. Both required some stretching to get the kinks out of their muscles. Hashknife led the way back to the horses, where they mounted, and circled around to the road near the place where the little stream crossed it. Hashknife dismounted at the stream. They were almost in view of the ranch, the main gate being just around a brushy turn in the road.
Sleepy was curious as to what Hashknife intended doing, and his curiosity was even greater when he saw Hashknife take a chunk of yellow soap from his pocket.
“What’sa big idea, cowboy?” he asked. “Goin’ to take a bath?”
“Git off and help me,” grinned Hashknife.
They dismounted and Sleepy held the horse while Hashknife filled his hat with water, poured it over the shoulders of the animal and began rubbing in the soap.
“The idea is,” grunted Hashknife, “to make us look like we’ve come to beat !”
“Lather, eh?” grunted Slim. “Gimme half that soap, and I’ll fix up this side. You hold the rollin’ stock, Sleepy.”
It did not take long for them to make that horse look as if it had run many miles. They splashed and rubbed until Hashknife stepped back and grinned his appreciation. Then he scooped up a double handful of dust, threw it in the air and let it settle on him, like white ash.
“All right, boys,” he said, swinging into the saddle. “Stay where yuh are until I go past. Then leave yore broncs here and sneak in, keepin’ under cover. If I need yuh, you’ll get a signal. Now, get back, ’cause I’m goin’ to throw dust.”
He rode back about two hundred yards, swung the horse around and came past them as fast as the horse could run. The pounding hoofs threw dust all over them, but they tied their horses and ran along the road, keeping against the brush.
Hashknife did not slacken speed, until almost at the door of the ranch-house. Big Dutch Siebert stepped to the doorway and the sliding hoofs slithered gravel against the half-open door.
Hashknife’s coming was so sudden that the Dutchman did not seem to know just what to do. And Hashknife was out of the saddle and around to Dutch almost before the horse came to a stop. Hashknife took one keen look back up the road, whirled on Dutch and stepped to the threshold.
“Get inside—quick!” snapped Hashknife.
Siebert stepped back quickly. He was a huge man, flat of face, narrow-eyed, one side of his mouth sagging from a big chew of tobacco. Once his big right hand swayed back past his holstered gun, but came away. He was being rushed so fast he didn’t have time to think. And Dutch Siebert was not a fast thinker.
“Ed sent me!” snapped Hashknife. “He didn’t dare to come, because they’re watchin’ him. There’s been a leak, Dutch. Ed says to get Joe out of here as fast as yuh can, because they’re comin’ to search the place. You know what that means? Hurry up, you-fool; they’re comin’!”
Siebert gasped foolishly, whirled on his heel and almost ran into the kitchen. He grasped the heavy kitchen table, whirled it aside and started to drop to one knee. Then he swung around. Dutch Siebert was beginning to think. His hand jerked back to his gun, but he moved too late.
Hashknife was on top of him, driving him against the wall, while Hashknife’s right hand, gripping a heavy gun, described a short downward arc, and Dutch Siebert ceased to think for a while.
Hashknife picked up Dutch’s gun, ran to the doorway and wig-wagged wildly with both arms. Sleepy and Slim broke from the fringe of brush and came running across the yard.
“One of yuh go to the stable and get a rope!” yelled Hashknife.
Sleepy veered off and headed for the stable.
“Did the soap and water work?” asked Slim, panting from his run.
“It always works,” grinned Hashknife. “C’mon in.”