The Project Gutenberg eBook of Buzzards
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Title: Buzzards
Author: W. C. Tuttle
Illustrator: Charles Durant
Duncan McMillan
Release date: September 13, 2026 [eBook #79563]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: The Butterick Publishing Company, 1928
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79563
Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BUZZARDS ***
BUZZARDS
By W. C. Tuttle
Hashknife and Sleepy in a new mystery of the range trails
CHAPTER I
BEGINNING AN ORPHAN’S ODYSSEY
Rex Morgan came back from his mother’s funeral and sat down on the front
porch of the little place he had always known as home. He was a slender
young man, twenty years of age, with the complexion of a girl,
well-moulded features, somber brown eyes and an unruly mop of black
hair.
His black suit was slightly threadbare, the cuffs of his shirt rough
edged from many washings. He smoothed back his hair, staring at the
skyline of the little city of Northport, California. It had suddenly
occurred to him that he was all alone in the world.
The death of his mother had been a great shock to him. The doctor had
said it was heart failure. The rest of it had been a confusion of
neighbors, who wanted to assist with everything, the sympathetic
minister, the businesslike, solemn-faced undertaker, who had talked with
him on the price of caskets.
It seemed that there was a difference in price between sterling silver
handles and the plated ones, but Rex did not remember which had been
selected. Just now he stared at the skyline and wondered who would pay
for everything; because he had suddenly remembered that he had no money.
As far as he knew he was all alone in the world. There were plenty of
Morgans, of course, but he had never heard his mother mention one of
them as being a relative. He had never given this a thought before. In
fact, he had never given anything of that kind any thought.
Mrs. Morgan had always been an enigma to her neighbors. They had seen
Rex grow from babyhood to manhood, practically tied to his mother’s
apron strings, as they expressed it. He had no companions. She had never
allowed him to go to a public school, but had always employed a tutor.
How her income was derived, no one knew; but she was not wealthy. On the
contrary, Mrs. Morgan practiced the strictest economy in order to make
both ends meet. She was a slight little woman, evidently well-bred, who
lived solely for her son, shielding him from the world in every way.
She had never told any one anything of her past life. Rex was like her
in many respects. Now he was twenty years of age, educated from books—as
ignorant of the world as a six-year-old. He did not know how his
mother’s money had come. It had never meant anything to him.
* * * * *
In his own dumb sort of way he wondered about the money, and whether
there was any left. Another thing bothered him just a little. A
newspaper reporter, writing up the death notice, had asked Rex about his
father.
“I don’t know anything about him,” Rex had replied. “In fact, I have
never heard his name mentioned.”
“Possibly his name was Morgan,” suggested the reporter facetiously.
“Didn’t your mother have a marriage certificate?”
“I have never seen it.”
These things bothered him now. It seemed so ridiculous. There had been
one man in Northport, who had dropped in to see his mother once in a
while. Rex knew him to be a Mr. J. E. Blair, an attorney at law. He did
not come oftener than once every two or three months, and his visits
were of short duration. Rex had never wondered about him; he had never
been present during Mr. Blair’s short visits.
The death of his mother had been a great awakening for Rex. All his life
he had drifted along, being content to let her guide him in everything,
absolutely devoid of any initiative, and now he was like a rudderless
ship in a storm.
He looked at his soft, white hands, and a flash of bitterness swept
through his soul. He remembered what he had heard a man say one day:
“That Morgan boy is going to grow up to be an educated damn’ fool.”
He did not understand it at the time, but now he knew. But he was not
exactly a fool. He had absorbed education as a sponge absorbs water—but
to no purpose. He realized that he knew nothing of the world, of people,
except what he had learned from books. There was not a single thing he
had learned that would fit him for making a living.
His next-door neighbor was coming across the little strip of lawn, and
Rex looked at him curiously. His name was Amos Weed, a big, portly man,
who owned a grocery store down in the center of the city. They had been
neighbors for years, but nothing more than a nod had ever passed between
them.
* * * * *
Amos Weed sat down beside Rex, shifted his cigar to the opposite side of
his mouth and considered Rex thoughtfully.
“Me and the wife have been talkin’ about you,” he said. “Been wonderin’
just what you’re going to do, young man.”
“Going to do?” Rex lifted his head and looked at Weed.
“Yeah—work.”
“Oh, I hadn’t thought about that.”
“I see. Mebbe it’s none of my business, but are you fixed so you don’t
have to work?”
“Why, I—I don’t really know.”
“Uh-huh.”
He moved over closer beside Rex.
“Your mother traded with me a long time,” he said slowly. “She always
paid her bill right on the dot.”
“Well?” queried Rex.
“No, she don’t owe me a red cent, young man. You see, none of us ever
understood her. We wanted to be neighbors, but she didn’t care to mix
with us. We didn’t understand why she kept you so close all the time.
Hirin’ private teachers and all that. Of course—” quickly—“it wasn’t
none of our business. But you’ve lived here a long time, and folks do
get curious.”
“I see—” absently.
“Ain’t you got no relations?”
Rex shook his head quickly.
“None that I have ever heard about.”
“Father dead?”
“I don’t know,” replied Rex honestly.
“Don’t know?”
“Not a thing, Mr. Weed. I have never heard a word about him. My mother
never mentioned him to me.”
“Nor to anybody else, I guess.”
“I must have had a father.”
“Chances are, you did.”
“Oh, I must have, you know.”
Weed shifted his cigar and looked intently at the sad-eyed young man.
“Are you tryin’ to be funny, or are you just plain ignorant?”
Rex shook his head.
“No, I’m not trying to be funny.”
“I didn’t think you was,” Weed said dryly. “But what’s your plans?”
“I guess I haven’t any.”
“Talkin’ cold turkey, have you any money to live on?”
“None. I haven’t a cent.”
“You’ll have to get a job, eh?”
“I—I suppose so. But I don’t know—”
“All right. I need a boy to drive a delivery wagon for my grocery. You
ought to know this town well enough. I’ll pay you forty a month—start
tomorrow. What do you say?”
“Drive a—a horse?”
“Two of ’em.”
“But I have never driven a horse.”
“Listen to me, son—” Weed tapped him on the knee with a huge
finger—“you’re goin’ to do a hell of a lot of things that you’ve never
done. You’re goin’ to get callouses on your hands, wear dirty clothes,
swear like a man. Your private teacher will be Old Man Experience. He’ll
teach you things that ain’t in books, and when you get a diploma from
his school you’ll be the first man that ever did. Most of us die in the
first grade. You show up at the store at seven o’clock in the mornin’,
and Jerry will teach you how to harness a horse.”
Weed got up abruptly, hitched up his trousers and went striding back
across the lawn to his own porch, where he went clumping heavily into
the house.
* * * * *
Rex stared after him a bit foolishly, got to his feet and went into the
house. The air seemed heavy, and there was a faint scent of flowers. He
remembered now that someone had sent a huge bouquet.
He sat down in an old rocker, staring moodily at the wall, where an old
crocheted motto, slightly askew, stared back at him. Before he had
learned to read he had been taught that single line of cotton words,
done in red against a brown background, “Yield Not to Temptation”.
What temptation, he did not know. Possibly it meant any kind of
temptation. Anyway, it had been held before his eyes since he could
remember.
And there was another, “Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother”. This one was
in green on a tan background, with a grapevine effect. His mother had
never said much about this one.
He remembered that the house did not belong to him. Sam Tilton had
rented it to his mother.
Finally he got up from the chair and went to an old desk, where his
mother kept her papers. There was a letter that had come the day she
died, still unopened. He looked at the postmark on it, which was
slightly smudged, but he was able to decipher Mesa City, Ariz.
Slowly he tore it open and took out the single content—a folded green
check on the Mesa City Bank, drawn in favor of Mrs. Mary Morgan, for the
sum of seventy-five dollars. It was signed with an unintelligible
scrawl, badly blotted.
He put the check back in the envelope. Some one was knocking at the
front door, and that someone was Sam Tilton, short of stature, pudgy of
waist, puffing heavily on the short butt of a cigar almost enfolded
between his thick lips.
“I was thinkin’ about the rent,” he panted. “Due las’ week. Don’t like
to have it go too long. Sorry about your ma, young man.”
“How much was the rent?” asked Rex.
“Seventy-fi’ dollars per quatter—due in advance.”
Rex drew out the check and handed it to him.
“Fuf-fine,” panted Tilton heavily, drawing out a much thumbed receipt
book. “Goin’ to stay on, eh? Uh—uh—”
He squinted at the check, turned it over carefully.
“No good this way,” he said sadly. “Ain’t been endorsed. Your ma would
have t’ sign it before I could take it.”
“I’m afraid that is impossible, Mr. Tilton.”
“Seems t’ me that way. Is that all you’ve got?”
“Every cent.”
“Well, well! Suppose I’ll have to take possession. Huh-huh! Well, you
stay here tonight and move out t’morrow. I lose money on it, but can’t
be helped. Did your mother have a nice funeral? Queer woman. Don’t
suppose many folks went to see her off. Well, I’ll be goin’.”
* * * * *
The next morning Rex Morgan took his first job. Jerry, the big stable
man, showed him how to harness a horse. Jerry had barely gone past the
primary grades in school, but he knew horses. Rex was afraid of being
stepped on by the two big grays that he was supposed to drive, and he
was as white as a sheet when he drove them through the narrow alley and
out into the street in front of the grocery store.
He kept repeating under his breath—
“Pull left line to turn left, right line to turn right, and both lines
to stop them.”
The horses knew where to go, and he had no difficulty in swinging them
around to the front door. Amos Weed looked quizzically at him.
“Didn’t expect you to handle ’em so soon,” he said. “Was goin’ to have
Slim drive for you today. But I guess you’ll do. C’mon in and load up.
First delivery almost ready.”
Two clerks helped him load the wagon, explaining just where he should go
in order to shorten the route. Rex listened to them in a sort of daze,
saying yes, when he hadn’t the slightest idea of what it was all about.
Then he found himself back on the seat again. One of the men was
explaining to him about the heavy iron weight, from which ran a strong
strap, fastened to the bit of one of the horses.
“Always throw down that anchor when you stop,” explained the man. “Those
horses are high headed. Don’t depend on the brake. And don’t forget to
take it up when you start again.”
Rex nodded absently and tightened the lines. He drove away from the
store, and the horses broke into a trot. It was exhilarating to sit up
there and guide a stepping team. As an experiment, he leaned back,
reached down to pick up an order sheet from one of the boxes, and almost
tore a front wheel off against a fire plug. A policeman swore roundly at
him, as he trotted his team around a corner, barely missing another
vehicle, but Rex was trying to read the address on that slip of paper.
The horses were going faster now. He slipped the paper under his leg and
shortened his grip on the lines. About a block ahead of him was a street
car, just slowing to a stop.
* * * * *
Suddenly, he heard the jangle of bells, the shrieking of a siren. It was
behind him. Quickly he turned his head and looked back. It was the fire
department, answering a call, heading down the street toward him.
For a moment he was paralyzed. He had been driving in the middle of the
street, and now he forgot whether they were supposed to pass on the
right or left hand side of him. It seemed to him as if he were taking up
all of the street and that unless he did something quickly they would
crash into him.
He reached back, picked up his whip and slashed both horses, swinging
heavily on the left line. With a lurch the team broke into a running
gallop, and the wheels of the wagon, skidding sideways on the car track,
almost side-swiped the rear end of the street car.
Across a street intersection they went at a mad gallop, the wagon doing
a juggling act with the grocery orders. For two long blocks the way had
been cleared for him, it seemed, but when he was halfway down the next
block he saw a heavily loaded truck lurch out through an alley, blocking
his way.
He forgot to set back on the lines, forgot to apply the brake. Perhaps
it would have availed him little. But one thought flashed through his
brain—the anchor. It was the last thing any driver would have thought
about, but Rex Morgan was not a driver.
And as quickly as the thought struck him he leaned over, hooked his
fingers in that iron anchor and threw it off the right side of the
wagon.
The twelve-pound weight hurtled through the air, whipped around a
telephone pole, where it hung long enough to throw one of the horses
almost a complete somersault; the wagon buckled sideways and up-ended on
the sidewalk, while Rex Morgan described a parabola, landed on his hands
and knees in the doorway of a clothing store and settled on his back,
with his feet up the side of a counter.
He stayed right there, trying to pump air into his lungs, while a
white-faced clerk, quivering all over, leaned across the counter and
looked down at Rex.
“What do you want?” he asked inanely.
“What have you got?” replied Rex. His right eye was fast swelling shut,
and the knees of his trousers were burst wide open, exposing badly
bruised knees.
A crowd had gathered, and men were trying to untangle the two horses,
which miraculously were unhurt. Even the wagon did not seem any the
worse for it; but the grocery orders were a sad jumble. A policeman came
in and looked at Rex. Finally he helped Rex to his feet, growling deep
in his throat.
“Did—did the fuf—fire department catch me?” panted Rex.
“Were ye runnin’ away from the department?”
“Yes.”
“They turned a half block from where ye started, ye poor fool. Who told
ye ye could dr-rive?”
“I—I can drive all right—but I don’t stop very well.”
“Oh, ye stopped, all right. Wan of yer horses had his nose through a
wheel of the big tr-ruck. If ye hadn’t—”
But at that moment Amos Weed came in. His face was red and he was
panting heavily. He looked at Rex, worked his jaws savagely and glared
at the policeman.
“He ran a race wid the fire department, Mr. Weed,” said the officer.
“The boy is too swift to be dr-rivin’ a delivery wagon.”
“He is!” exploded Weed angrily, turning on Rex. “You are fired! Don’t go
near that wagon. You almost killed both horses. I was a fool to hire
you, in the first place.”
* * * * *
Weed bustled outside into the crowd, while Rex leaned against a counter
and tried to adjust his thoughts. He had never been hurt before, and the
experience was quite a novelty. It was not remorse. He tried to grin.
“Get away from that counter!” snapped a voice.
Rex turned his head slightly. The clerk was standing close to him,
scowling and pointing.
“Move on, will you?” he demanded. “You’re bleeding on my counter. This
is not a hospital. Will you move, or will—”
The man reached over and put a hand on Rex’s shoulder, as if to shove
him away; and before Rex realized what he was doing he had clenched his
fist and smashed the clerk square in the jaw, sending him spinning back
against another counter.
Rex stared at the man, who made no move to resent the blow, but kept
both hands up to his jaw. Like a man in a daze, Rex limped through the
doorway, while the clerk ran out behind him, calling for the police. But
the crowd had righted the wagon, untangled the team, and the policeman
had gone on down his beat.
People looked curiously at the youth with the black eye and the ripped
trousers that showed a bruised knee, as he walked down the street.
Rex’s right hand was sore from the blow he had struck the clerk, and he
grinned foolishly at his own reflection in a plate glass show window. He
had unconsciously started toward home, but now he realized that he had
no home. In fact, he had walked out early that morning, without taking
anything except the clothes he had on his back. He stopped on a corner
near a big bank and watched the people going in and out of the
institution.
Reaching inside his coat pocket he drew out the green check for
seventy-five dollars. Without the proper identification it was worthless
but, without hesitating, he went into the bank and wrote his mother’s
signature across the back of the check.
The teller glanced at it closely, shot a quick glance at the bruised
face of the young man and shoved the check back to him.
“You better write your own name on it, too,” he said.
Fifteen minutes later Rex leaned against the ticket window at the Union
Station.
“A ticket to Mesa City, Arizona,” he said.
After a few moments of investigation the clerk replied:
“I can sell you one to Cañonville. Mesa City is on a stage line from
there. When do you want to leave?”
“Right now.”
“Train leaves in thirty minutes. Gives you time to check your baggage.”
“Plenty,” agreed Rex. “Were you ever in Mesa City?”
“No; and that’s only half of it,” replied the clerk blandly. “I prefer
civilization.”
“Isn’t Mesa City civilized?”
“Well, it’s twenty-five miles from a railroad, in Arizona; so you may
draw your own conclusions.”
CHAPTER II
NESTERS KEEP OFF
About two-thirds of the distance from Cañonville to Mesa City, traveling
north toward Mesa City, the road keeps to the higher ground, several
miles of it being along the rim of Coyote Cañon. From there it drops to
the lower ground, nearly on a level with Black Horse River, and near the
bottom of the grade it crosses Antelope Creek, which flows in from the
northeast.
Just north of this crossing, on the right-hand side of the road, is an
old weather-beaten sign, nailed to a gnarled cottonwood, and it reads:
THIS SIDE OF THE ROAD BELONGS TO
THE 6X6. NESTERS KEEP OFF.
That was Peter Morgan’s warning to any one who might entertain any idea
of taking up a piece of ground on that side of the road. For a great
number of years Peter Morgan and his hard-riding cowboys had enforced
that warning. It is true that some had ignored the sign; but not for
long. Strangers made haste to move on when the 6X6 outfit proceeded to
show them the error of their ways.
Peter Morgan did not own all that range, but he certainly did control
it, until one day when Spike Cahill, one of the 6X6 punchers, rode in at
the home ranch and announced that a nester family had moved into the old
ranch-house between Coyote Cañon and Antelope Creek.
“They’ve got a few head of stock, couple of wagons and the gall of a
sidewinder,” declared Spike.
“Did you tell ’em to keep movin’?” demanded Morgan hotly.
“I shore did!”
“What did they say?”
“The old man said f’r me to git to hell away from there before he blowed
me back a few ginerations. What is a gineration, Pete?”
“Probably some kind of a gun,” said Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs, the cook
of the 6X6, whose opinion usually settled all arguments, as far as
Briggs was concerned.
At any rate, Peter Morgan went down to see this nester, whose name
happened to be Paul Lane. Morgan was promptly told that the nester fully
intended staying just where he was. Paul Lane said that if any
pestiferous cowpunchers started trouble with him, he’d make ’em wish
they were on a dairy, where they belonged.
In a way it rather amused Peter Morgan, whose word had almost been law
in that part of the country. He noticed that this nester had a son and a
daughter. The boy was a long, gangling youth, possibly twenty-five, with
a devil-may-care air which irritated Peter Morgan. The girl was possibly
eighteen years old. She was tall and slender, and Peter Morgan thought
she was rather pretty, although he knew more about cattle and horses and
cards than he did about women.
But he was there for a purpose and he told Paul Lane in no uncertain
terms that nesters were interlopers and very unwelcome in any part of
that range.
Paul Lane replied that he aimed to stay, just the same. Yes, he had read
that sign at Antelope Creek, and in his opinion the man who put it there
had a lot of gall.
“There’s a devil of a lot of land on this side of that road,” he told
Morgan. “Fact of the matter is, you could go plumb around the world on
it, and I don’t see how any one man has the gall to claim all of it.”
“Then you aim to try and stay here, eh?” queried Morgan.
“I aim to stay here,” corrected Lane, “and you might pass the word
around that I’m settled.”
“We don’t pass our troubles along,” said Morgan. “I’ll give you three
days to move on.”
“And then what?”
“Wait and see.”
Lane waited. He knew that there was no use appealing to the law until
something happened to injure him in some way; and he also knew that a
nester would get little consideration in a Mesa City courtroom.
Peter Morgan’s first move, a petty one, was to make a night raid on the
nester’s stable, silently removing all of Lane’s horses, and herding
them far back on the headwaters of Black Horse River, twenty miles away.
Two days later the horses were all back in Lane’s corral, and Dell
Bowen, foreman of the 6X6, found two of the 6X6 saddle horses in the
hills, sore-footed, sore-backed, attesting to the fact that Lane and his
gangling son had used them to round up their stock.
Young Lane, who had gained the appellation of Long Lane, told Spike
Cahill confidentially that he and his father had fixed a trap gun inside
the stable door, which would blow hell out of any one who opened it at
night. He told this to Spike, just as if Spike had had nothing to do
with the raid.
“I dunno if he was tryin’ to be funny, or if he thought we didn’t do
it,” Spike told Peter Morgan, who exploded with wrath.
* * * * *
Morgan was a big man, his black hair slightly grizzled. He had piercing
black eyes like onyx beads, beneath heavy brows. His mouth was wide and
thin-lipped, ready to laugh at anybody except himself. Morgan was known
as a hard man with whom to deal, but his word was as good as his bond.
The 6X6 was the biggest outfit in the country; and, besides that, Morgan
owned the Oasis Saloon and gambling house in Mesa City, which paid him a
fine revenue. Morgan had little to do with the management of the Oasis,
which was handled by Jack Fairweather.
A mining boom north of Mesa City had been responsible for the growth of
the place, but the mines had been nearly worked out at this time.
Cañonville was the county seat, a town about the same size as Mesa City.
The 6X6 ranch was located about three miles east of Mesa City, on
Antelope Creek. Northwest of town, about two miles away, was the Flying
M outfit, owned by Dave Morgan, a cousin of Peter Morgan. Dave had tried
to be as big a man in the community as Peter, but too much indulgence in
the flowing bowl and the green-covered table had left him a sour-faced
cattleman, fighting to keep ahead of a mortgage.
They had little in common, these two Morgans. Peter rather frowned upon
Dave’s failures, and Dave sneered at Peter’s successes; although they
were always friendly enough, though in a cold way. Dave was younger than
Peter, who was past fifty. They were not alike in any way except
coloring.
Dave was slender, nervous, quick to take offense. He hired three
cowboys—Ed Jones, Cal Dickenson and Red Eller.
Peter Morgan’s outfit consisted of Dell Bowen, foreman, Bert Roddy,
Spike Cahill, Ben Leach and Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs. And they were a
hard-bitted crew, even to Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs, who was so
bowlegged he couldn’t sit in an armchair.
Napoleon defended his position as camp cook by saying—
“I riz from bein’ a common puncher.”
* * * * *
It did not take Peter Morgan long to discover that Paul Lane and his
family did not intend to move away. And there was a law against killing
nesters, even in the Black Horse range; so Peter instructed his punchers
to confine their operations to annoyance, instead of open warfare.
“You’ll never annoy that feller enough to make him move,” declared
Spike. “Mebbe we can make him so fightin’ mad that he’ll kill some of
us, and then you can have him hung.”
“You watch him,” said Peter. “Him and that fool son of his will likely
_orejano_ a few calves, and then we’ll have him where the hair’s short.
There’s an _orejano_ law, you know, Spike.”
“What kind of a law?”
“Every _orejano_ belongs to the Cattlemen’s Association.”
“Shucks! And I aimed to go into the cow business myself some day.”
It might be explained that an _orejano_ is an unbranded, weaned
calf—always legitimate prey for the first man who found it and put on
his brand. In some parts of the country, especially farther north, they
were known as mavericks, but in the southwest, where many of the Spanish
words were used, they were generally spoken of as _orejanos_.
The unbranded, motherless calves had often been the nucleus of a big
herd, and the practice of claiming them had become so common that
industrious cowboys, anxious to build a herd as quickly as possible,
made mavericks, or _orejanos_, by the simple process of separating a
calf from its mother by force. This practice became so prevalent that it
became necessary to pass laws governing the disposal of all motherless,
unbranded calves. This was a law which had been recently passed, and few
of the cowboys were aware that such a thing had been done.
Dave Morgan seemed greatly amused at Peter’s failure to remove the Lane
family, and his three punchers rubbed it in on the boys from the 6X6 on
every occasion. Nan Lane came to Mesa City once in a while, and the
cowboys looked upon her with great favor, although none of them had met
her.
They did not like her brother. He played a little poker and drank more
than a little.
“Talks too much for a single-handed feller,” declared Red Eller. “I
wouldn’t talk that much, even with all the Flyin’ M behind me. But that
sister of his is a dinger. I wish somebody would git a knockdown to her,
so I could meet her. Some day I’m goin’ to ride right up to that
nester’s shack and say howdy.”
“Howdy, Saint Peter!” said Ben Leach dryly.
“Hell, they can’t shoot you for sayin’ howdy.”
“You just think they can’t, Red. Wait’ll you lock horns with old man
Lane. He done told me things about my family that I never heard before.
He’s what you’d call well read.”
“Fortune teller?” asked Red.
“Fortune hell! Disaster, I’d call it. He told me that my grandpappy was
a polecat. Fact.”
“Didja ever see your grandpappy, Ben?”
“No-o-o, I never did.”
“Uh-huh. Well, you can’t hardly dispute him, can you? How soon does
Peter Morgan expect to make Lane move out?”
“You better go and ask Peter Morgan.”
Knowing that no one cared to discuss it with Peter Morgan, it was a good
way to dismiss the argument.
* * * * *
Lem Sheeley, the sheriff, and Noah Evans, his deputy, riding through
Mesa City, heard about the nester on the 6X6 and decided to investigate.
“The nester part of it don’t interest me none, Noah,” explained Lem,
“but I’d kinda like to see what this here Lane looks like while he’s
alive.”
Lem was almost too fat to be riding a horse. His face was like a full
moon, surmounted by an unruly mop of corn-colored hair. He was only
thirty years of age and a native of the Black Horse country.
Noah was tall and thin, with a hook nose and watery eyes, which gave him
the appearance of having a perpetual cold in his head. He wore shirts
that were too small for him and trousers that were too large. As Lem
said—
“Noah busts the elbows out of his shirts from grabbin’ at his pants.”
They rode in at the nester ranch, rather curious to see the man who
defied the 6X6. Lane’s was not much of a ranch-house, being an old
tumbledown affair on the edge of a swale which led down to Coyote Cañon.
The fences were badly in need of repair, and the old sway-backed stable
threatened at any time to collapse.
Years before this time someone had built the old place and ranged stock
for a time, but finally had given it up. It had never been filed as a
homestead. Peter Morgan had often threatened to tear it down, burn it
down, or otherwise destroy it, but he had neglected to do so.
“We better be a little careful,” advised Noah. “You never stop to think
you’re so damn’ fat that the worst shot in the world could hit you at
four hundred yards with a .22.”
“Then you’d git my job,” chuckled Lem as they rode up to the
ranch-house.
“Don’t want it. Look at you. You’ve been sheriff only three years, and
you weighed a hundred and fifty when you took office. Me and my
indigestion would look like sin, packin’ two hundred and thirty-five,
wouldn’t—”
* * * * *
Noah stopped talking and looked intently at Nan Lane, who came out on
the rickety front porch. She was wearing a pale blue dress and a white
apron. She was quite the prettiest girl he had ever seen, and he was
especially partial to pale blue. Lem folded his hands over the horn of
his saddle and helped Noah to look at her.
She brushed a hand across her forehead and smiled at them.
“How do you do?” she said pleasantly.
“Nester hell!” snorted Noah under his breath.
“Purty good,” grinned Lem foolishly. “Your pa at home, miss?”
Nan was looking at him closely now. She had seen the flash of his badge
in the sunlight, and her demeanor changed perceptibly.
“Why did you want him?” she asked coldly.
“I’m the sheriff, and I—”
“So I noticed.”
“He shore wears it in sight, ma’am,” said Noah quickly. “He got the
biggest star they make. Hates t’ go out at night, ’cause it don’t show
in the dark. I been tellin’—”
“Shut up!” snorted Lem disgustedly.
“Did Peter Morgan send you over here?” asked Nan.
“He did not, ma’am. We heard about you; so me and Noah thought we’d
kinda ride over and have a look at you.”
“Go ahead and look,” she said indifferently.
Noah turned his head and looked at Lem disgustedly.
“Ma’am,” he said solemnly to Nan, “you’ve heard of the hoof-and-mouth
disease, haven’t you? Well, that’s what he’s got. Every time he opens
his mouth he puts his foot in it.”
Lem grinned vacantly.
“Ne’ mind him, ma’am,” he said. “He has indigestion somethin’ awful.
Nothin’ is funny to him. Eats sody by the pound. That’s why he rides
around with his mouth open all the time. If he ever keeps his mouth shut
for five minutes at a stretch, he’ll jist natcherally bust.”
“I’d rather have indigestion than fatty degineration,” declared Noah
hotly.
Lem flopped his arms dismally.
“I s’pose. Anyway, I don’t think this lady is a bit interested in our
symptoms.”
“Not a great deal,” choked Nan. “Did you want to see my father?”
“I was thinkin’ about it,” said Lem solemnly, “but your temperature went
so danged low that I froze my ears, and now I dunno jist why I wanted to
see him.”
“He didn’t,” declared Noah. “Somebody told him there was a mighty pretty
girl over here. Lem would ride miles to investigate a rumor like that.
Why, I’ve knowed him to ride a sore footed horse plumb over to Gila
County, and when—”
“Whoa!” snorted Lem. “That’ll be about all, Noah. Jist kinda calm down
until your vocal cords stop vibratin’, and you’ll feel all right again.
You excuse him, ma’am. He’s one of them queer folks who dreams things
and tells ’em for pers’nal recollections.”
Noah subsided, grinning widely, while Nan leaned against a porch post
and wiped the tears from her eyes. It was the first time she had felt
like screaming with laughter since she had moved into the Black Horse
range.
* * * * *
A man was riding toward the Lane ranch-house from the direction of Mesa
City, and Nan and the officers watched him approach. From the way he
swayed in his saddle there was little doubt of his being either drunk or
sick. He rode up to the stable, dismounted heavily and removed his
saddle, turning the horse into a corral.
It was Walter Lane, Nan’s brother, whose long, gangling frame had caused
him to be known locally as Long. He came up to the men and they noticed
that his face was bruised and swollen, one eye having assumed a purplish
cast. There was dried blood on his chin, on the front of his shirt, one
sleeve of which had been almost torn off at the shoulder.
He eyed the sheriff owlishly.
“Whazzamatter round here?” he demanded.
“Not a dern thing,” grinned Lem.
“Yea-a-ah?” He looked at Nan inquiringly. “Nothin’s matter, eh?”
He rocked on his heels, trying to roll a cigaret.
“You ought to go and clean up,” said Nan wearily.
“Thasso? Huh! Shay—” he grinned crookedly at the sheriff—“I’ll betcha
there’s one of that damn’ 6X6 outfit that won’t nav’gate f’r a while.
Whooee! I shore fixed him.”
“Walter, you haven’t been fighting, have you?” asked Nan anxiously.
“Have I?” He winked at Lem drunkenly. “Lemme tell you somethin’. Lemme
tell you—”
He shifted his feet and frowned at the sheriff.
“What do you want here?” he demanded.
“We just dropped in,” smiled Lem.
“Is that so? Well, as far as I’m concerned, you can jist drop out ag’in.
You’re a friend of Pete Morgan, ain’t you? Oh, yeah, you are. He swings
all the votes in this end of the county, and if you wasn’t his friend
you wouldn’t be sheriff. And no friend of—”
“Walter, will you stop that?” demanded Nan nervously. “These gentlemen
merely stopped—”
“Don’t let ’em fool you, kid,” sneered the young man.
“Hang on to yourself,” advised Noah coldly. “You’re too drunk to _sabe_
what you’re sayin’. We’re not interested in your troubles with Peter
Morgan, unless it comes down to reg’lar trouble.”
“And then what chance has a nester?”
“Depends on what the nester has done,” said Lem.
“If he protected his own?” suggested the boy.
“Lotsa ways of lookin’ at it,” sighed Lem.
He was more interested in talking with Nan than in arguing with her
drunken brother.
“There’s just one way you’d look at it,” said the boy. He spat dryly and
had to move quickly to keep his balance.
“You better wash your face and go to bed,” advised Lem.
“A-a-aw right.”
He hitched up his belt and went up the steps past Nan, but stopped at
the doorway and looked back.
“Any old time they monkey with me, they git what’s comin’ to ’em,” he
said warningly, and went into the house.
* * * * *
Nan shook her head wearily and looked at Lem.
“He _will_ drink,” she said sadly.
“Shore,” nodded Lem.
“And he’s just the finest kind of a boy, when he is sober.”
“Shore,” agreed Lem. “Hadn’t ort to drink.”
“Here comes somebody,” said Noah, twisting around in his saddle.
Four men were riding toward them, traveling rather slowly, and as they
drew nearer the sheriff recognized Peter Morgan, Spike Cahill of the
6X6, Ed Jones of the Flying M and Joe Cave, one of the stage drivers.
They recognized the sheriff and deputy and increased their speed.
“What in hell has gone wrong now?” growled Noah.
Joe Cave swung away from the rest and stopped his horse near the corral,
while the three other men came up to the porch.
“Hyah, Mr. Morgan,” said Lem.
“Hello, Lem.”
Peter Morgan looked closely at the sheriff and at Nan Lane.
“Where’s Long Lane?” asked Morgan. “You know who I mean,” he said, when
no one answered him. “He’s here. That’s his horse in the corral.”
“What do you want him for, Peter Morgan?” asked Nan anxiously.
Morgan merely glanced sharply at her, but directed his answer to Lem
Sheeley.
“Young Lane killed Ben Leach less than half an hour ago, Sheriff. If
your judgment is good, you’ll ride back the way you came—and forget what
I told you.”
Nan was standing on the top step, leaning forward, her eyes wide, as she
listened to what the sheriff said. But now she turned and ran to the
doorway.
“Stop that girl!” snapped Peter Morgan. “Get to the back of the house,
Spike!”
Spike Cahill spurred around to the back door while Peter Morgan
dismounted, drawing his gun. But before he could reach the steps, Lem
Sheeley had dismounted and stopped him.
“Just a minute, Morgan,” said Lem coldly. “This is my job—not yours. And
I’m not takin’ your advice. If that drunken kid killed Ben Leach, it’s
my job to take care of him.”
Morgan stepped back, scowling at the sheriff.
“Well, go ahead and do it; we’ll argue later.”
Lem walked up the steps. Nan was still standing at the doorway.
“Oh, he didn’t do it,” she whispered. “Don’t you see, they are trying to
ruin us. It’s part of their game, Mr. Sheeley.”
Lem stopped and looked her straight in the eyes. It was probably the
first time he had ever looked any woman straight in the eyes, and for a
moment he forgot that inside of the house there was a murderer.
“Do you think so?” he asked softly.
“I—I think so. They didn’t want you to interfere.”
“Mm-m-m-m—”
Lem moved past her and into the living room. She did not leave the door,
but watched Peter Morgan standing at the bottom of the steps. Noah Evans
still sat on his horse.
Slowly Lem moved through the living room and into the kitchen. Through
the window he could see Spike Cahill on his horse, gun in hand. Farther
to the left and down by the corral sat Joe Cave.
* * * * *
But there was no sign of Long Lane. Lem moved slowly back to the living
room. There was another door, which led to a bedroom. It was not locked.
Slowly Lem opened it and stepped inside. It was a small room, poorly
furnished. On the floor was an empty box that had contained rifle
cartridges and near the open window was a loaded .30-30 cartridge,
evidently dropped by someone who was in a hurry.
There had been no one guarding that side of the house, and within fifty
feet of the window was a thick fringe of brush, which led to a deep
arroyo. Lem peered through the window, but could see no one. He lowered
the window softly. There was an old nail, hanging on a string, which had
been used to block the lower half of the window. He inserted the nail in
the little hole over the top of the sash and went slowly back to the
living room, kicking the empty cartridge box under the bed and putting
the loaded cartridge in his pocket.
There was a bed in the living room, which he judged to be the one used
by Paul Lane and his son; and the room he had just left was the one used
by Nan. She was still standing at the doorway, and she looked curiously
at Lem.
Morgan came up to the doorway, halting just outside.
“Is there any more rooms besides this room, the kitchen and that
bedroom?” asked Lem.
Nan shook her head. Lem turned to Morgan.
“He must have went straight through here, Morgan,” he said. “I can’t
find anybody.”
“That’s damn’ funny!” snorted Morgan.
He surged into the house and went through to the kitchen, where he flung
the back door open.
“See anybody, Spike?” he asked.
“Not a soul.”
Spike dismounted and came inside. It did not take the men long to
satisfy themselves that Long Lane was not in the house.
“We forgot about the winders on this side of the house,” said Spike. “He
could ’a’ gone out that one, Morgan.”
“And fastened it behind himself,” sneered Morgan. “Guess ag’in. No, he
made you folks think he was goin’ to stop, but kept on goin’. Probably
went through the house, circled around to the stable and saddled a fresh
horse. But we’ll get him, if he stays in this country.”
“Of course, I’m only the sheriff,” said Lem slowly, “but I’d shore like
to find out what this killin’ was about.”
“It started in Mesa City,” said Morgan. “Young Lane had been drinkin’,
and they met in the Oasis. Mebbe Ben had a few drinks. I dunno exactly
what it was about, Lem; but the boys said Ben called Lane a nester. One
word led to another and they started a fight. I reckon it was a good
fight, until Ben kinda got the best of it, and then Lane hit him with a
chair.”
“He knocked Ben down with it,” declared Spike, “and before we could stop
him he started to put the boots to Ben. But he didn’t hurt Ben much,
before we stopped him, and then Lane started for home. Ben woke up
and—and—”
“And he took out after Lane, eh?” queried the sheriff.
“Yeah. Ben was crazy mad. He fought fair, Ben did.”
“And Lane killed him, eh?”
“We took out after Ben right away,” said Spike. “If it was goin’ to mean
another fight, we intended to see that it was a fair one. We found Ben
about a mile and a half from town, layin’ beside the road with a bullet
through his head. He’s there yet.”
“Lane bushwhacked him,” declared Morgan hotly.
“A-a-a-aw, hell!” said Noah Evans disgustedly. “And you call that
murder! Ben Leach got what he was a-lookin’ for.”
“He got bushwhacked by a damn’ nester!” snapped Spike.
“And all this time he’s gettin’ further and further away,” complained
Joe Cave.
“The question is this,” said the sheriff thoughtfully. “Did Ben Leach do
any shootin’?”
He remembered what Lane had said about fixing one of the 6X6, so they
wouldn’t navigate for a while.
“I don’t know about that,” said Morgan. “We didn’t stop to investigate.”
“Hang ’em first, and investigate afterwards, eh?” said Noah.
Morgan scowled at Noah, but said nothing. There would be an election
next year, and Morgan controlled a lot of votes.
“What do you intend doin’?” asked Morgan. “All this talk don’t do any
good. Are you goin’ after that killer, or do we have to do it
ourselves?”
“Go where?” asked Lem coldly. “Run the legs off our horses before we
know which way to go? I reckon we’ll go back and take a squint at the
dead man.”
He turned and held out his hand to Nan.
“I’m pleased to meet you, ma’am,” he said pleasantly.
Morgan growled under his breath and walked outside, followed by the rest
of the men. Nan shook hands with Lem.
“I—I heard you put down that window,” she whispered softly, her voice
filled with gratitude.
“I hate a draught,” he whispered seriously. “I catch cold awful danged
easy. So long.”
* * * * *
The crowd of men mounted and rode back along the dusty highway. Morgan
and his men had nothing to say on the way back to the spot where they
found Leach’s body. It was lying beside the road, and the sheriff needed
little examination to find that Leach had been shot through the head.
“You moved him, didn’t you?” he asked Morgan.
“Took him off the road. He was layin’ on his face.”
“Where’s his gun?”
The holster was empty and there was no gun in sight.
“Where’s his horse?” wondered Spike Cahill. “I didn’t see it when we
came past here.”
None of them had. The road was rocky along there and on the right hand
side was a scattering of broken rock which had been removed from the
road at the time of construction.
“Looks to me as though Lane took his gun and horse,” said Morgan.
“Probably cached the horse for a getaway.”
“Well, there’s one sure thing,” said Lem sadly. “Ben Leach is too dead
to tell us about what happened, so we might as well put him on a horse
and take him to town.”
“And there’s another sure thing,” declared Morgan. “If the law won’t
hang Lane for this murder, somebody will.”
“If there’s goin’ to be any hangin’ done in this county it better be
done by the law,” replied Lem meaningly.
CHAPTER III
CREDIT AND LYNCHING
“We can’t do a thing for you, Dave. You ought to know we’re carrying you
for every cent your ranch is worth to us. This is not a personal matter.
I know you’re good for it; but I merely represent the directors, the
stockholders of this bank.”
John Harper, president of the Mesa City Bank, leaned back in his swivel
chair and looked at Dave Morgan, who was seated across the table from
him. Harper was small, wiry, grizzled, smooth shaven and neatly dressed.
He had been with the Mesa City Bank since the day it opened.
Dave Morgan twisted his lips seriously. He needed a shave and, judging
by his bloodshot eyes, he needed sleep.
“All right,” he said slowly, “I reckon I could get along, John. I just
wanted to see about a loan. How about buyin’ the Flyin’ M?”
Harper shook his head quickly.
“No, Dave. Say, why don’t you get Peter to take a second mortgage? He’s
pretty well fixed.”
Dave smiled crookedly, shaking his head.
“Not Pete. If I was anybody except his cousin. He thinks I’ve got poor
judgment in business.”
“You haven’t done so well, Dave.”
“Oh, that’s all right. I’m not kickin’. I get more fun out of my money
than Pete does. He’s been goin’ around like a bear with a sore head ever
since them nesters moved in on him. They’ve got him bluffed.”
“The nester’s son had a fight over at the Oasis today,” said the banker.
“I happened to be out in front about the time it was over. I don’t know
who got whipped, but I saw young Lane get on his horse and ride out of
town. In a few moments Ben Leach followed him, I think. Several of the
boys stood around the hitchrack for a few minutes, and then they all
rode away.”
“Wasn’t a gun fight, was it?”
“No, there wasn’t any shooting.”
“Young Lane is a tough _hombre_,” laughed Dave. “Some of Pete’s punchers
probably rubbed him the wrong way. I guess the old man is kinda salty,
too. Well, I’ve got to be movin’.”
“I’m sorry about that loan, Dave; but business is business.”
“That’s all right, John. I’m pretty near busted, but I’ll pull through.”
He laughed bitterly and hitched up his belt.
“Mebbe somebody will die and leave me a fortune.”
“Have you any rich relatives?”
“Only Pete—and he’s healthy.”
Dave laughed and walked out of the bank. But there was little mirth in
his laugh. He stopped in at the post office to get the ranch mail, and
the clerk handed him a telegram along with the rest of his mail.
“I’m not sure about that telegram,” he said. “It is either D. Morgan or
P. Morgan, and I can’t tell which.”
Dave tore it open and glanced quickly at the telegram.
“It’s mine,” he said shortly, and walked out, stuffing the mail in his
pocket. The telegram read:
MRS. MORGAN PASSED AWAY SUDDENLY AND WAS BURIED LAST
SUNDAY STOP TRACED SON TO DEPOT WHERE HE PURCHASED
TICKET TO CANONVILLE
—J. E. BLAIR
* * * * *
Dave Morgan halted at the edge of the wooden sidewalk, a puzzled
expression on his face.
“Mrs. Morgan!” he exclaimed to himself. “So old Pete had a wife and a
son, eh?”
He started to laugh, but checked himself quickly. When had Pete married,
he wondered? He had been on the same range with Peter for over twenty
years. Of course, Peter had taken trips east with cattle and it had been
said that Peter was a wild devil in those days, but no one had ever
mentioned the fact that Peter had been married.
He probably had got drunk, married in that condition, and had been
forced to support the woman away from Mesa City. And there was a son,
too, a son who would inherit the 6X6 and the Oasis. And Dave had thought
he was the only living relative of Peter Morgan.
Dave had been married. It had been so long ago that he could hardly
remember what the woman looked like. But the nuptial bliss had not
lasted long. Dave was too wild. He remembered that Peter had
remonstrated with him, tried to get him to straighten up, but it was no
use. Anyway, it was none of Pete’s business, he had decided. And one
morning, when he awoke from a drunken spree, the woman was gone.
Dave wondered what had caused Pete and his wife to separate. As he stood
there, thinking over the situation, Peter Morgan rode in to town with
his three men, the sheriff and deputy and the body of Ben Leach.
Their arrival caused plenty of excitement in Mesa City. A crowd gathered
quickly around the livery stable, where Lem Sheeley had hired a vehicle
in which to take the body to the coroner at Cañonville. Indignation ran
high when the crowd heard that Leach had been killed by Long Lane, and a
number volunteered to form a posse.
But Lem Sheeley, the sheriff, was deaf to their offers.
“Keep your hands off,” he requested them. “This job belongs to the
law—not to a lot of damn’ fools with a rope.”
“Then you better do somethin’ right quick,” said Peter Morgan. “Either
you do your duty, Lem, or—”
“Or what?”
“You’ll see.”
* * * * *
Shortly after the sheriff and deputy drove away with the body of Ben
Leach, old Paul Lane rode into Mesa City. He had been to Cañonville, but
had stopped at home on his way back, where he had heard what had
happened. Now he wanted more information than Nan was able to give him.
He met Peter Morgan in front of the bank. Dave Morgan and Joe Cave, the
stage driver, were there. For several moments the big cattleman and the
nester eyed each other closely. Then—
“That’s what you get for stayin’ where you ain’t wanted,” said Peter
coldly.
“Yeah-a-ah?” Lane gritted his word through clenched teeth.
“That’s what I said, Lane. You better move quick.”
“I’m not movin’, Morgan. Today I filed a homestead.”
“You did, eh? I suppose you know your son is a murderer.”
“I don’t know any such thing! If he killed Ben Leach, it was in
self-defense.”
“Men who kill in self-defense don’t usually run away.”
“When everybody’s ag’in’ ’em, they do.”
“You’re crazy.”
Morgan turned his back and started away, but stopped and came back to
Lane.
“We’re through fooling with you, Lane,” he said. “We’ll find your son
and make an example of him, and it won’t take us long to do it, either.
And if you’re wise, you’ll pull out of this country as fast as you can.”
“If you’re through, I’d like to say a few words, Morgan,” said the old
man coldly. “That ranch belongs to me now. The line runs about two
hundred yards this side of the ranch-house. And when you or your men
ride my way, you better estimate distance pretty close.”
“Drawin’ a deadline, eh?”
“Ag’in, the 6X6. And another thing, Morgan; yesterday I found an
_orejano_, with my brand on it. I brand on the left hip, but this calf
was branded on the right hip. I suppose your punchers, or you, forgot
where I branded. They tell me you got your start by pickin’ up
_orejanos_, Morgan; so I just heated an iron and run the 6X6 on its left
shoulder, passin’ it back to you.”
For a moment Morgan glared at the old man, who was little more than half
his size, and then lashed out with his right fist, catching Lane just
above the left eye and knocking him flat. But the old man was not
knocked out; the blow had landed too high for that. For a moment the old
man sprawled on his side, dazed, hurt. Then his hand jerked back to his
holster.
But Joe Cave stepped in front of him, blocking him from using the gun.
Morgan laughed shortly, turned his back and strode over to the Oasis
Saloon, while Joe Cave helped Lane to his feet.
“That shore was a dirty punch,” said Joe.
The old man brushed off his clothes, turned and went back to his horse,
while Dave Morgan and Joe looked at each other and laughed.
“I’d hate to be in Pete’s boots,” grinned Joe. “That old jigger will
kill him, if he don’t look out.”
“That’s no lie, Joe. Let’s go and have a drink, eh? No, not to the
Oasis.”
Joe had worked for Dave before driving stage, and they knew each other’s
business fairly well. Joe was a colorless sort of a person, with
tow-colored hair and buck teeth. He had been fired from the 6X6 for
playing a crooked game of poker in the bunkhouse, and naturally had no
love for Peter Morgan.
“Mebbe I was a fool for blockin’ the old man,” said Joe Cave.
“Mebbe Pete will give you a reward for savin’ his life,” grinned Dave.
“He ought to pay you for that, Joe.”
“Any time!” snorted Joe. “He wouldn’t pay a nickel for a front seat at
the Battle of Waterloo, with the original folks doin’ the fightin’.”
“Why, I thought you loved old Pete.”
“That overbearin’ old badger? What are you drinkin’?”
* * * * *
Peter Morgan and Dell Bowen rode back to the 6X6, but Spike Cahill and
Bert Roddy stayed in town. Bert was a roly-poly sort of cowboy, too fat
to walk and almost too fat to ride. He had bunked with Ben Leach, and
after a few drinks he became tearful.
In fact, the evening was still young when Bert became almost maudlin in
his grief. He and Ben had quarreled for over a year, and at times they
had almost come to blows; but now Ben had been his best friend, a model
young man, a paragon of all the virtues.
“My, my, he wash shome feller,” declared Bert owlishly. “Do I mish him?
I tell you, Spike, it wash jist like tearin’ out my own heart to lose
ol’ Bennie. There never wash and never will be another like ol’ Bennie.”
“Lishen,” said Spike thickly, “you shut up. Nex’ thing you know I’ll be
cryin’ with you. I don’ wanna cry. Have ’nother drink, Bertie.
Na-a-a-a-aw! Not another cry! You fool, don’tcha unnerstand English?”
“I—I feel my losh,” wailed Bert. “Don’tcha know I feel my losh?”
“He feels his losh,” explained Spike to the bartender.
“He feels his liquor, you mean,” said the calloused dispenser of drinks.
“A great shorrow has come upon me,” explained Bert. “You heard ’bout
Bennie Leach, didn’t you, bartend’r? Ter’ble! The bes’ man in thish
State died t’day, and I mourn him. His losh is more than I can bear.”
And Bert Roddy proceeded to cry openly and unafraid. Spike looked at him
disgustedly, kicked him a few times, which seemed ineffectual, and then
proceeded to have a little cry on his own hook.
“Go home,” advised the bartender.
“Home won’t never be home without Bennie,” wailed Bert.
“We ought to do shomethin’,” said Spike tearfully. “That sheriff won’t
do nothin’.”
“Tha’s a good idea,” agreed Bert. “Le’s take this in our own hands,
Schpike. We owe it to poor ol’ Bennie.”
“You fellers better rattle your hocks home, before somebody finds you
loose,” advised the bartender.
“That is alsho good advice,” agreed Bert. He dug in his pocket and took
out some money. “Gimme a quart, bartender. I’d rather drink alone out of
a bottle than to make merry with a crowd at your bar. Your face would
shour milk. Keep the change.”
“Hey! You’re two bits shy, feller.”
“Hold your bub-breath till you get it, will you?”
They stumbled outside, Bert carrying the quart of liquor, and went to
their horses.
“The ques’n is,” propounded Spike, “what’ll we do?”
“Sh-shall we flip a coin?” asked Bert.
“Tha’s fine. Heads we do, tails we don’t.”
Spike produced a piece of money and threw it in the air. The night being
quite dark, they had no idea where it fell, so they lighted matches and
crawled around in the dust on their hands and knees, until Spike
happened to find it.
“It’s heads,” declared Spike, gathering in the money.
“We do,” said Bert solemnly.
“It’s all shettled,” agreed Spike. “We do, and that’s all there is to
it.”
After several moments they were able to regain their feet.
“We do,” declared Bert thickly. “Now the ques’n is, what do we do?”
“Ex-actly. What do we do, Bertie?”
“I dunno. Go home? No, that wasn’t it. Let’s have ’nother drink.”
They drank from the bottle.
“’F poor old Bennie was only here,” sighed Spike. “He loved to drink
from a bottle.”
“Tha’s it!” exclaimed Bert. “That’s what we came for. Don’tcha ’member,
Spike? We was goin’ to do shomethin’.”
“Yes, sir,” choked Spike, “let’s go out and shee if we can’t find that
murderin’ nester. We’ll lock’m up.”
“Tha’s the idea. Wait’ll I button my vest around thish danged bottle.
We’ll show ’m shomethin’, ol’ par’ner.”
* * * * *
They managed to get on their horses and headed away in the darkness.
Both horses wanted to run, and both riders were willing to let them.
They were too drunk to realize their danger in going to the nester’s
place at night.
There were no lights in the old ranch-house. They fell off their horses
at the corral fence, had another drink and tried to formulate a plan of
battle. It was very dark out there. Somewhere in the hills a coyote
yipped lonesomely.
“Wha’s the idea now?” asked Bert drunkenly.
“Tha’s question.”
Spike Cahill was not feeling just like a fighting man now. He rather
wanted to sleep.
“Let’s turn their horshes loose firs’,” suggested Bert. “Set ’m on foot,
eh?”
They went staggering along the corral fence to the old stable, where
they had another drink.
“You stand guard at the door,” instructed Spike.
“I’ll guard it, y’betcha,” agreed Bert. “I’m bes’ li’l guard you ever
sheen.”
The big stable door was unlocked. There was quite a wind blowing, and it
was not very warm. Both cowboys were carrying their guns in their hands.
Spike opened the big door, swinging it back against the wall, and went
inside, while Bert stood just inside the stable, with a cocked gun in
his hand, trying to tune his ears to all sounds.
Even in the darkness it did not take Spike long to discover that the
stable was empty. He bumped his nose against the side of a stall, and
swore drunkenly. One of his pawing hands came in contact with a set of
harness, which obligingly fell off a peg and draped around him.
“Wha’s goin’ on in there?” demanded Bert in a sepulchral whisper.
“Speak, or I’ll sh-shoot.”
“Shoot if you mus’,” wailed Spike. “I’m helpl’s. Got a breechin’ round
my damn’ neck and a hame in one of my boots.”
He managed to get loose from the harness, and one of his groping hands
came in contact with the short ladder which led up to the old loft. Just
why he should go up there never occurred to him, but he did.
He tried to straighten up, and his head came in contact with the low,
sloping roof so hard that he fell on his hands and knees. Just ahead of
him was the square opening in the end of the stable, used as a hay
window.
Spike was blinking at the window when he heard a dull thud, a frightened
curse, the sound of a revolver shot. There was only one explanation to
Spike. The nesters had discovered Bert Roddy.
“Well, they’ll have their hands full,” he declared to himself, and
walked out through the hay window.
It was about twelve feet to the ground, and he landed all in a heap. The
liquor had made him almost shock proof, but he realized that a man had
jumped on him and was kicking and striking with sickening regularity.
Spike Cahill loved to fight. He had lost his gun, but that was merely
incidental. He managed to shake off his assailant long enough to get to
his feet, and then they went at it, hammer and tongs.
Down they went again, rolling over and over, kicking, striking and
gouging, missing oftener than they landed, unable to see each other. A
man was running from the ranch-house, carrying a lantern; but Spike paid
no attention to him, until the lantern illuminated both him and his
antagonist. Then he looked up at Old Man Lane, half dressed, a cocked
revolver in his right hand. To Spike it was very like a nightmare. He
realized that his opponent had ceased fighting and he looked down at the
bruised face of Bert Roddy, whose eyes were blinking in the lantern
light.
* * * * *
“What seems to be goin’ on here?” demanded the old man.
“Thish?” queried Spike. “Oh, thish? Ha-ha-ha!”
“Yeah, this!” snapped the old man. “What are you two doin’ here in my
yard? Ain’t there room at the 6X6 for you to fight, without comin’ over
here, shooting and fightin’, wakin’ everybody up?”
Slowly Spike got up from Bert, who managed to get to his feet. They were
both badly bruised.
“Misser Lane,” said Spike foolishly, “thish is so unexpected. B’lieve
me, I dunno what to shay. I’d crave to have you put away that gun. We
ain’t doin’ nothin’ and we ain’t goin’ to do nothin’.”
“You’re danged right you ain’t. Now, you fellers get on your horses and
head for home. I ought to fill you both with lead, I suppose. What in
hell were you doin’ here, anyway?”
“Tha’s a question,” said Spike seriously. “B’lieve me, whatever it was,
we’re all through.”
“Ain’t it a fac’?” agreed Bert. “I sholemnly swear that the test’mony I
give in this case shall be the truth, the whole truth and—”
“Go home,” said the old man. “You’re both too drunk to do anything. And
don’t never come here again.”
“We won’t,” promised Spike. “Believe me, we won’t.”
Lane followed them to their horses and watched them ride away in the
darkness, wondering why they had been fighting and especially why they
were fighting in his dooryard.
“What I’d crave t’ know is thish,” said Bert dismally, as they rode
toward Mesa City. “What was it all about, and where in hell did you come
from? You was inside the stable, wasn’t you?”
“I shore was, Bertram. What I want to know is, what happened to you down
there. Didn’t you shoot?”
“Oh, abstively. I—say, I’ve lost my gun!”
“Same here,” sadly. “What did you shoot at?”
“I dunno. I thought somebody slammed the door shut on me. Anyway I got
knocked down and my gun went off. I got up as quick as I could and
shoved the door open, when somebody comes bouncin’ almost into me; so I
jist cuts loose and fights f’r m’ life. I give somebody a couple good
wallops.”
“That was me,” dismally. “I fell out of the hayloft.”
Bertram sighed and said—
“Mebbe it was the wind.”
“What was the wind?”
“Slammed the door ag’in’ me.”
“Mebbe. Where’s the bottle?”
“Some’ers. I ain’t got it. We can git more in Mesa.”
“Aw, I wasn’t thirsty. I wanted to bust it over a rock.”
“Gittin’ temperance, cowboy?”
“Gittin’ wise. Man hadn’t ought to drink.”
Bert was not quite convinced.
“Well, I won’t bear down so hard, Spike. I will say that a man hadn’t
ort to do anythin’ else, when he’s drinkin’.”
CHAPTER IV
“WRECKS” MORGAN
That same morning Rex Morgan had arrived at Cañonville. His right eye
was still discolored and there were bruises on his face, but he had
purchased a pair of trousers, and still had five dollars left.
Cañonville rather amazed him. The architecture, the dusty street, the
horse-drawn vehicles, wide-hatted men. Rex knew nothing of the cattle
country. The stage office sign caught his eye and he remembered that he
must ride by stage to Mesa City. He had made up his mind to find the man
who had sent that seventy-five dollar check.
“Shore, you can ride to Mesa City,” said the nondescript Bunty Smith
who, with the able assistance of Joe Cave, piloted the stage between
Cañonville and Mesa City. Bunty was a small, grizzled individual, whose
face was unusually lopsided from an immense chew of tobacco.
He spat violently and considered Rex closely.
“Horned frawgs!” he exclaimed. “I can jist look at you and bet a hundred
to one that you ain’t no native of this here country, young man. Goin’
t’ Mesa City, eh? Drummer?”
“Drummer?”
“Uh-huh, sellin’ things.”
“I haven’t anything to sell,” smiled Rex. “No, I am merely goin’ to Mesa
City out of curiosity.”
“Horned frawgs! Curiosity? Mm-m-m-m-m, well.” He spat again and
scratched his stubbled jaw. “It ain’t none of my business. Fare’s two
dollars.”
Rex dug deep in his pocket and drew out five dollars in change, from
which he separated two dollars. Bunty watched him curiously.
As Rex pocketed the remaining three dollars, Bunty rubbed his chin again
and considered Rex gravely.
“It ain’t none of my business,” he said slowly, “but have you got any
money?”
“I’ve still got three dollars,” said Rex.
“Huh!” Bunty shoved back his battered sombrero and ran his fingers
through his sparse hair. “Three dollars, eh. And you’re goin’ to Mesa
City out of curiosity. Horned frawgs! You put that two dollars in your
pocket. I’m drivin’ this here stage to Mesa City after dinner and I need
a shotgun messenger kinda bad. You can earn your ride.”
“Shotgun messenger?” queried Rex. “I don’t understand.”
“Guard,” said Bunty, a twinkle in his eye. “You set on the seat with me
and hold the sawed-off shotgun; _sabe_? If anybody tries to hold us up,
you shoot hell out of ’em.”
“Oh!” said Rex dumbly. “But I—I never have shot a man.”
“I ain’t never been held up, either. You be here about one o’clock,
young feller. What didja say your name is?”
“My name is Morgan—Rex Morgan.”
“Yea-a-a-ah? Whatcha know about that? Mine’s Smith. You spell it
S-m-i-t-h. Pronounced jist like she’s spelled. Folks calls me Bunty. You
be here at one o’clock, Morgan.”
Bunty spat violently and headed for the back room of the office, while
Rex went back to the street. Bunty Smith rather amazed him. The idea of
any one’s not being able to spell Smith—or to pronounce it. Still, Rex
rather liked Bunty Smith.
* * * * *
Rex spent the rest of the morning on the main street. The chap clad
gentry of Cañonville paid no attention to him. It was just at noon when
Lem Sheeley and Noah Evans came to Cañonville with the body of Ben
Leach, and Rex was in the crowd that gathered around the front of the
sheriff’s office, curious to know who the dead man was and how he had
met his death.
“Got in a fight and got killed,” said the laconic Noah, as they waited
for the coroner.
Lem was a little more explicit, and Rex learned that the man had been
shot, either during or after a fight, and that he had been a resident of
Mesa City. He listened to what the sheriff had to say about it and went
to the stage office to tell Bunty Smith.
“I knowed him well,” said Bunty. “Plenty much of a fool, too. Think a
nester killed him, eh? Must ’a’ been one of the Lane fambly. Well, I’ll
be darned! Ben Leach. Still, I reckon the day must come when somebody
pokes a pin through our balloon. Sooner or later, we’ll all git it.”
“What is a nester?” asked Rex.
“Well, I’ll tell you, it all depends on the point of view. To me a
nester is jist another settler, tryin’ to git along. To the cowman,
whose range this settler settles on, he’s somethin’ to git rid of damn’
quick. Most of ’em are fence builders. We don’t like fences in this
country. When a nester squats on a piece of land, he puts bob wire all
the way around it, and inside that fence is usually a good spring. And
if you git enough nesters—goodby cow country!”
“It is all Greek to me,” said Rex honestly, “but I suppose I’ll
understand it all after I’ve lived in this country for a while.”
“Oh, shore. You stay around here twenty-five years, like I have, and
you’ll be answerin’ fool questions, jist the same as I have to now. Had
your dinner? No. Well, she’s a hard trip to Mesa City, pardner; so me
and you better upholster the old insides with some ham and aigs.”
“This air surely does give one an appetite.”
“Mm-m-m-m. If you’re jist speakin’ for yourself, you better include me,
and make it appetites for two.”
* * * * *
After they finished their meal Rex was introduced to the first four
horse stage he had ever seen. In fact, he had never seen four horses
hitched to a vehicle before, and he marveled at the way Bunty Smith
handled them. Rex was the only passenger, and he perched on the seat
with Bunty, while between them reposed a sawed-off shotgun. Bunty had
showed him how to operate the gun.
“If anythin’ goes wrong, grab her and start throwin’ lead. There’s ten
buckshot in every shell, and that old sheep laig Winchester holds six
shells. Didja ever do any drivin’?”
“Well—” Rex colored slightly—“I—I have driven. You see, I got this
discolored eye while driving a delivery wagon.”
“Runaway team?”
“Something like that. You see, I was trying to get away from a fire
department, and I had to stop quickly, because a truck had blocked me;
so I threw out the anchor.”
Bunty squinted sideways at Rex, spat thoughtfully and removed the
shotgun.
“Didja reach port safely?” he asked.
“I sailed right into a clothing store.”
“O-o-o-oh, yea-a-a-a-ah!”
Bunty swung his long lash, snapping it sharply over the rump of a
lagging leader, and the ensuing jerk almost upset Rex. Bunty decided
that he had a crazy man on board. The idea of throwing out an anchor to
stop a team! He spat violently and wondered how they got that way.
“My mother died a few days ago,” offered Rex, as they jolted up along
the Coyote Cañon grades.
“Thasso? That’s tough luck. You got any more folks?”
“I guess not,” sighed Rex. “Since she died, I find that there are many
things I don’t understand. I don’t even know who my father was.”
“No-o-o? You’re kind of an _orejano_.”
“I don’t know what that is, Mr. Smith.”
“You’ll probably learn. Educated, ain’t you?”
“I have been taught quite a lot. I never went to a public school. Mother
was always very particular in that respect.”
“You didn’t go to school?” Bunty didn’t understand.
“No, I had a private tutor.”
“Horned frawgs! You ain’t aimin’ to start a band in a town like Mesa
City, are you?”
“I don’t know anything about a band, Mr. Smith.”
“Uh-huh. Kinda warm, ain’t it? If you ain’t used to this atmosphere,
you’re liable to feel it.”
Bunty swung the four horses around a hairpin turn, where the outer
wheels ran perilously close to the edge of the cañon. It was blue down
there, and Rex could look down at the back and outspread wings of a
circling hawk.
“My, it is a long ways to the bottom!” exclaimed Rex.
“You can’t even see it,” grinned Bunty. “On this here road a driver is
jist allowed one mistake. The last man who drove off the edge fell so
danged far that his clothes was out of style when he hit bottom.”
“Really?”
“Shore. Styles change every few years, they tell me.”
* * * * *
It was a long, tedious drag over the grades, and it required all of
Bunty’s skill. Rex looked at upside-down landscapes until his eyes
ached, and he wondered why in the world so much of the country had been
set on edge.
Finally they struck the downgrade, where Bunty locked the rear wheels
and they went skidding down, with the wheel horses holding back against
the firm pull of the lines.
But something went wrong. Perhaps the old leather shoes nailed to the
brake blocks had worn out, and the friction of iron-shod wheels against
wood was not sufficient to hold back the heavy stage. At any rate the
stage lunged ahead, crowding close against the rumps of the wheelers,
skidding sideways in the gravel roadbed.
But Bunty Smith was no novice. With a wild yell at the team he slackened
the lines, while his long whip curled over the team with a vicious snap.
And the team sprang ahead, yanking the stage around, and they went down
that dangerous grade, all four horses at a furious gallop, while Bunty
braced his feet and sent his lash licking at the two running leaders. He
knew he must keep them at top speed in order to hold the stretcher taut.
If one of the wheel horses ever got its front feet over that stretcher
it would throw the wheeler and cause both team and stage to pile up in a
smashing heap, either against the inner wall of the grade, or down into
the depths.
There were plenty of curves. Rex clung to the seat, blinded with fear,
as the old stage lurched and skidded, going faster each moment. On the
right hand curves, it seemed to Rex that the entire stage was off the
grade, but at the next lurch it was back on the grade again. He did not
realize that Bunty Smith was making the drive of his life. He couldn’t
see the lurch and sway of Bunty’s body, as he guessed his turns to the
_n_th degree.
Only one more curve now. Bunty set his jaw and fairly flung the team
around. A rear wheel struck a projecting rock, and for several moments
it was an even bet whether the stage would right itself. Rex was clawing
at the seat, fearful of being thrown over the edge; but the stage
righted itself and went thundering down through a cottonwood thicket.
The road was level there, but very narrow. Bunty relaxed wearily,
although the stage was going almost as fast as it had been. But he knew
that the danger was over.
Gradually Bunty slowed down the team, but the horses were still
galloping, when a chuckhole caused the stage to swerve. Came a sickening
lurch, the crash of a wheel, and Rex felt himself shoot off the seat and
go head over heels into the brush beside the road.
The foliage broke the force of his fall, but he was still dazed when he
staggered back to the road, where Bunty was trying to get a struggling
leader to its feet. The other horses of the team were standing with
lowered heads, breathing heavily from their long run down the mountain.
The leader finally managed to struggle to its feet, after being partly
unhitched, and Bunty quickly fastened the tugs again. He turned and
looked at Rex, and a slow grin overspread his face.
“You took quite a hoolihan, didn’t you, pardner? Whooee! That was quite
some ride. Thought for a while that I had m’ right hand stretched out
for a harp.”
“What ha-happened?” stammered Rex.
“Busted a front wheel on a boulder, dang the luck. Chuckhole skidded us
into it.”
He went around and tried to examine the extent of the damage, but the
brush was so thick, and the wheel was so imbedded in the brush and rocks
that he was unable to see just how bad it was.
Bunty squinted at the sun, swore hollowly and sat down to smoke a
cigaret. Although it would soon be sundown, he did not hurry. He was due
in Mesa City before dark, but there was no hard and fast schedule.
* * * * *
After due deliberation Bunty unhitched the team, tied the horses to a
tree and made an examination of the broken wheel. But it was too badly
damaged for further progress; so the two sat down to wait until someone
came along.
“Got to take a chance that some puncher will ride along here,” he told
Rex. “We’re hung up until somebody shows up and gets us some help.”
Bunty was afraid to leave the stage. He had a fairly large load of stuff
for Mesa City—the mail and express. It was in his charge, and he was
most surely not going to leave it in charge of Rex. He considered Rex
mildly insane.
The sun went down and the air grew chill, but no one came along. It was
growing dark when Bunty got an idea.
“Can you ride a horse?” he asked.
“I never have,” replied Rex.
“Well, you’re old enough. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. That off leader
of mine is broke to ride. We’ll take off the harness and you can ride to
Mesa City. Go to the stage office, tell ’em what happened and they can
come down here with a rig to haul this stuff in.”
“I don’t know whether I can ride or not,” said Rex dubiously, “but I’ll
do the best I can, Mr. Smith.”
“That’ll be fine, Mr. Morgan. If you don’t quit callin’ me Mr. Smith,
I’ll run your hocks off. My name is Bunty. Mr. Smith was my father’s
name.”
“My first name is Rex.”
“Wrecks? Fittin’ title. Brother, you almost had my whole outfit named
after you.”
Bunty unharnessed the horse, leaving the bridle, to the bit of which he
fastened a rope. Rex looked the horse over dubiously. It was rather a
formidable order for one who had never been on a horse.
“C’m’ere and I’ll give you a leg,” ordered Bunty.
“I shall probably need an extra one,” said Rex, who was not without a
sense of humor, even if he did not understand what Bunty meant.
But he managed to get on, almost falling off the other side, as the
horse twisted nervously.
“Give him his head,” grunted Bunty. “Don’t yank! Keep right on the road
and you can’t miss the town. And tell ’em to come quick as they can.”
“Yes, sir,” said Rex politely as he rode away, keeping a tight rein on
the animal.
After the first shock of being on the horse, he began rather to enjoy
the sensation. He thumped the animal with his heels and was almost
unseated when the horse jerked quickly ahead.
“That is what makes them go,” decided Rex, wishing for daylight instead
of darkness.
It seemed rather lonesome until some coyotes started yapping from the
side of a hill, which cheered Rex up a little. He thought they were
dogs.
But Bunty Smith had made a mistake in not explaining to Rex that there
were other roads, which might confuse a man who knew so little about
roads as Rex did. It was too dark for Rex to tell one road from another,
and when the horse stopped at the forks of a road, Rex didn’t know just
what to do.
After deliberation Rex decided that the horse knew more about the roads
than he did, so he let the horse decide. He rode along through the
night, expecting at any time to reach Mesa City, when he suddenly found
himself faced by the bulky outlines of a big gate.
It seemed that beyond this gate he could see the dim outlines of a
house, but he could not be sure. He slid off the horse, swung the gate
open and led the animal toward the house, intending to find out, if
possible, where he was, before going any further.
It was a house, and as Rex drew nearer he saw a man come toward him. He
could not see very plainly. The man came close to him, and before Rex
could speak to him, something crashed down on his head, and his
consciousness went out in a blaze of fireworks.
* * * * *
Several hours later Bert Roddy and Spike Cahill came back to the 6X6,
and on the way they picked up the horse Rex had ridden. It was between
the ranch and the main road. Spike looked it over by the light of a
match and found it to be a horse that the 6X6 had sold to Bunty Smith.
“Somebody’s been ridin’ it with a work bridle and rope reins,” he told
Bert. “I reckon we better pick him up and turn him back to Bunty.”
They found Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs and Dell Bowen asleep in the
bunkhouse, woke them up rudely and were cussed for their pains.
“Now that we know all about our ancestors, mebbe we better hit the hay,”
chuckled Spike. “She’s been a large evenin’, Bertram Roddy, Esquire.”
“And to be forgotten,” reminded Bert.
CHAPTER V
AN ODD CHORE ON THE LANE RANCH
It was daylight when Rex Morgan awoke. He was conscious of a dull
headache, the strong odor of liniment and of the fact that he was in a
bed. He shifted his eyes and looked around the living room of the Lane
home, which was unfamiliar to him. Then he turned his head slightly and
looked toward a window, where Nan Lane was standing, looking through the
window. He studied her profile for several moments. She was a very
pretty girl, he decided, though he knew very little about girls.
He felt his head and found it heavily bandaged. Some of the incidents of
the previous day flashed through his mind, but they seemed like a dream
now. The mad race down the crooked grade, the smashing of the stage
wheel, his ride through the dark on a bareback horse—all unreal to him
now. Nan turned from the window and looked at him.
“Hello,” he said weakly.
She came over to the bed and smiled at him.
“Oh, I’m glad you are awake,” she said. “I was just a little afraid. Dad
said you had been hit pretty hard.”
“Pretty hard,” parroted Rex. “I don’t seem to remember much about it.”
He blinked painfully, but tried to smile.
“We found you out by the porch,” she said, indicating the front of the
house. “Dad heard a noise out there, and he found you near the bottom
step. He thought it was one of the 6X6 outfit. Two of them were here
earlier in the evening, and Dad almost had trouble with them.”
“I—I remember something about it now,” said Rex. “I was trying to find
my way to Mesa City. The stage broke down, and Mr. Smith sent me for
help. Perhaps I got on the wrong road.”
“And then what happened to you?”
“I really don’t know. There was a man at the corner of the house, and he
came up to me in the dark. He asked me what I wanted, but before I had a
chance to answer—”
“He hit you?”
“I think he did.”
Nan walked back to the window, a puzzled expression in her eyes. Was it
some of the 6X6, hiding at the corner of the house at night, watching
for her brother, she wondered?
“You didn’t see what this man looked like, did you?” she asked.
“No. You see, it was quite dark.”
* * * * *
A lone horseman was coming down the road, and Nan watched him ride in at
the ranch. It was Lem Sheeley, the fat sheriff. She stepped out on the
porch and met him, leaving the door partly open. Rex heard her call him
by name and heard him ask her if she had seen any strangers around.
“Bunty Smith had a passenger yesterday,” explained Lem. “The stage
busted down at this end of the Coyote grades and Bunty sent this
stranger to Mesa City after help. But he never got to town. Bunty spent
the night out there, waitin’ for him to come back. Now, we can’t find
the stranger nor Bunty’s horse.”
“I guess I’ve got the man you are looking for, Mr. Sheeley,” said Nan.
“Come in and talk to him about it.”
The sheriff followed Nan into the house, where Rex had propped himself
up in bed. The sheriff studied Rex quizzically for several moments.
Then—
“You look as though you’d bumped into somethin’.”
“I guess I did.”
“Mind tellin’ me what happened?”
Rex told him all he knew about it, and the sheriff questioned him
closely. Then Nan told about her father’s finding the two 6X6 cowboys
fighting near the stable.
“This morning we found two six-shooters and a bottle of whisky near the
stable,” she added. “One gun had been fired once.”
“Funny business,” mused the sheriff.
“Nothing funny about it,” retorted Nan. “They’re trying to find Walter.
I believe that these two men were watching for him to come back and
accidentally came together, both thinking the other to be my brother.
And one of the outfit stayed here, still watching, and when this man
came, he knocked him down. That’s the only explanation I can see.”
“Looks thataway,” agreed Lem. “They’re a hard outfit.”
He turned to Rex.
“What’s your name?”
“Rex Morgan.”
“Yea-a-ah?” Lem rubbed his chin wonderingly. “Morgan, eh? Any relation
to the Morgans around here?”
“I don’t suppose so.”
“No-o-o-o? Huh!”
Lem hunched his shoulders, leaned his elbows on his knees and considered
Rex closely.
“You used to be a sailor, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“Uh-huh. Bunty thought you did.”
“I don’t think I mentioned such a thing to him!”
“Mebbe not. Bunty prob’ly had a few drinks. He said you told him about
stoppin’ a runaway team by throwin’ out the anchor.”
“And I did,” smiled Rex.
“Shore,” agreed Lem heartily. “Lotsa folks do. He tells me that you came
to Mesa City out of curiosity.”
“That is true. I did. My mother died a short while ago. I guess I don’t
know much, except what I learned from books,” he confessed wearily.
“After she died I began to realize it more than ever. I have never
worked. As long as I can remember I have always studied.
“It never occurred to me that my mother had an income of some kind. She
never mentioned the fact that I had any relatives. Why, I don’t even
know who my father was. That is the truth, as strange as it may seem.
But after she died, I found a letter, or rather, an envelope, inside of
which was a check for seventy-five dollars. It had been sent from Mesa
City. I couldn’t read the signature on the check, you see. There was
really nothing to keep me; so I came here, because I was curious.”
“Well, I’ll be darned!” exclaimed Lem. “Your name’s Morgan, too, eh?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t know what became of the horse, do you?”
“Naturally not. I think I better get up. My head feels much better and
I’m awfully hungry.”
“I reckon you ain’t goin’ to die from a tunk on the head,” grinned Lem.
He got to his feet and picked up his hat. “I reckon I’ll be foggin’
along, Miss Lane.”
* * * * *
Nan went out on the porch with Lem, where they talked together for
several minutes.
“I dunno what to do about that 6X6 outfit,” said Lem. “If they get your
brother, they’ll hang him sure; so you better get word to him to lay
low. Accordin’ to my way of thinkin’, it was self-defense. If I get him,
I’ll lock him up, of course. Have to, because it’s my duty. And you keep
an eye on this young Morgan. Bunty Smith says he’s as crazy as a loon.
Of course, you can discount what Bunty says, because Bunty was as sore
as a boil. He says this young feller will have more twists than a
pretzel, when he gets through with him. Well, I’ll be goin’. If I see
Pete Morgan, I’ll tell him to keep his punchers off this place.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Sheeley.”
“Oh, you’re welcome. Only I don’t much like that ‘mister’ part. I
answers to ‘Lem’ pretty well.”
“All right, Lem.”
“Gosh!” Lem turned with a big grin. “What I’ll tell old Pete Morgan will
be a plenty, ma’am.”
“My friends call me Nan.”
“That shore is a pretty name, Nan. You tell your brother that the law’ll
give him a square deal. Only I wish he hadn’t took Ben’s gun and horse.
That looks bad. Well, I’ll see you later.”
As Nan turned to go into the house Rex was standing in the doorway. He
had been fully dressed, except for his shoes and coat; so it had been a
simple matter to make himself presentable.
“What did he mean by saying that I am crazy?” he demanded.
Nan colored quickly, realizing that Rex had heard what the sheriff had
said.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said dubiously.
Rex watched the expression of her face for several moments.
“I think you are very pretty,” he said. “Yes, I think you are quite the
nicest looking girl I have ever seen.”
“I wonder if the sheriff wasn’t right?” laughed Nan.
“Do you think I’m crazy to say such things?”
“In my opinion—yes.”
“Well, I’m not. Outside of a very sore head, I’m all right. I heard what
the sheriff said about your brother, and it leads me to believe that it
was your brother who shot that cowboy they brought to Cañonville.”
“They say he shot Ben Leach,” said Nan. “I don’t believe he did.”
“No one saw the shooting?”
“Not a soul.”
Rex rubbed his bandaged head thoughtfully.
“What will they do if they catch him?”
“You heard what the sheriff said, didn’t you?”
“He said they’d hang him. That hardly seems fair to me. This country is
rather elemental, I fear. The ticket agent told me that he preferred
civilization, when I asked him if he had ever been at Mesa City—and I’m
beginning to realize what he meant.”
Nan smiled wearily and shook her head.
“I’m afraid you won’t do in this country, Mr. Morgan. It is too big for
a man who has been raised on books.”
“Still, I like it,” he said slowly. “Perhaps I won’t do, as you say. And
I have been raised on books. I am what Bunty Smith would probably call
an educated damn’ fool. Oh, I heard that expression a long time ago, but
I didn’t know until a few days ago just what it meant.”
Nan laughed softly.
“Perhaps you might be able to forget some of the things you learned out
of books.”
“I can try. A few more blows on the head, and I probably won’t have to
work hard to forget.”
“Do you intend to stay in this country?”
“I didn’t at first,” he said thoughtfully, “but now I rather think I
will.”
“But what will you do for a living?”
“What is there to be done?”
“You might work as a cowboy,” said Nan, smiling.
“Yes, I might. Did you know you have a dimple in each cheek when you
smile?”
“I think we better change the bandage on your head,” said Nan severely.
“You lie down, while I get the hot water and some clean cloth. I think
you’re feverish.”
* * * * *
The sheriff rode back to Mesa City, trying to puzzle out who this young
Morgan might be and just what he was doing in that country. He was
satisfied that some of the 6X6 outfit had been at the Lane ranch,
watching for Long Lane, and had hit Morgan over the head with a gun,
possibly mistaking him for someone who was liable to interfere with
them.
He found Bunty Smith, Spike Cahill and Bert Roddy in the Oasis Saloon.
“I got my horse,” said Bunty. “Spike and Bert brought it in this
mornin’, Lem.”
“Where did you boys find it?” asked Lem.
“Out at the ranch. Probably dumped that young feller off and came home.
You see, that horse was raised on the 6X6.”
Lem nodded with understanding.
“But where’s the young feller?” wondered Bunty.
At this moment Dave Morgan and Cal Dickenson came in, but Lem Sheeley
paid no attention to them. As soon as the greeting was over Lem came
right to the point.
“As far as that young feller is concerned,” he said slowly, “he’s out at
the Lane place, nursin’ a busted head. I don’t reckon I’ve got to tell
you and Bert that, Spike.”
Spike looked at him blankly and then at Bert.
“You see, I happen to know that Old Man Lane found you two jaspers
fightin’ at his place last night. I dunno why you fought each other, and
it’s none of my business; but a little later this—or it might have been
before your fight, as far as I know—this young feller, who says his
name’s Morgan, showed up there and got belted over the head.”
“Honest to goodness, we don’t know nothin’ about him,” declared Spike
solemnly.
“Of course not,” smiled Lem. “I didn’t reckon you would. But that’s what
happened.”
Spike rubbed his chin and looked at Bert.
“What do you know about that, Bert?”
“I think he’s crazy,” replied Bert.
“I know damn’ well he is!” blurted Bunty. “Why, some of the things he
told me on the way from Cañonville—”
“I’m talkin’ about Lem Sheeley,” interrupted Bert.
“Oh! Well, I’d like to know how that kid got over to Lane’s place. I
told him to stay on the road, the prime fool.”
“But you didn’t say which road,” laughed Spike.
“I suppose not. Gee, I shore wanted to get my hands on him, makin’ me
spend the night out there, without even a blanket. I’ll buy a drink.”
“Mebbe this young Morgan is one of your long-lost relatives, Dave,”
suggested Spike.
Dave Morgan laughed, as he poured out a drink.
“Might be, Spike. Still, I suppose there’s a lot of Morgans scattered
over the face of the earth. Well, here’s happy days, boys!”
* * * * *
“Where’s Pete?” Dave Morgan asked Spike, after they had finished their
drink.
“I dunno. He must have pulled out early this mornin’. Didn’t say
anythin’ about goin’. Fact of the matter is, he didn’t wait for
breakfast. When Briggs got breakfast ready, we found that the Old Man
was gone. His horse and saddle were missin’, so we decided he left
early.
“We thought we’d find him here in town. Did you just come from the Lane
place, Lem?”
“Yeah,” nodded the sheriff.
“Didn’t see anythin’ of Pete Morgan?”
“Nope. Did he intend goin’ over there?”
“You heard about Pete and Old Man Lane havin’ a fight yesterday, didn’t
you, Lem?”
Lem hadn’t. He listened to the details, according to Dave Morgan, who
had seen it all.
“But that wouldn’t send Peter Morgan over to Lane’s place early this
mornin’, would it?” queried Lem. “Seems to me that he’d keep away. I
understand that Lane has homesteaded that ranch.”
“Well, he drew a deadline on the 6X6,” laughed Dave. “If Joe Cave hadn’t
acted real quick, Lane would have shot Pete.”
“I suppose,” said Spike thoughtfully. “It wouldn’t do me and Bert a bit
of good to deny that we hit this young Morgan, would it, Lem?”
“I dunno,” smiled the sheriff. “It might, if you’d tell me why you and
Bert were fightin’ each other out there.”
“That was a mistake,” said Bert quickly. “It was dark, and we didn’t
recognize each other, Lem.”
But further than that neither of them were willing to commit themselves.
“Found any trace of Long Lane?” asked Dave Morgan.
“Not any,” said the sheriff.
“Lookin’ for any?” asked Spike sarcastically.
“That’s my business, Spike. And I don’t need any bushwhackin’ help from
the 6X6. You fellers better keep away from Lane’s place. Accordin’ to
law he owns that ranch, and he’s given you plenty of warnin’.”
Spike subsided. He knew Lem Sheeley to be a two-fisted fighter and a
fast man with a gun; there would be little satisfaction in starting
trouble with him.
“You evidently don’t consider Long Lane a murderer, do you, Lem?” asked
Dave Morgan.
“Why should I? Ben Leach followed him, didn’t he? He didn’t have any
idea of kissin’ Lane when they met, did he? No, I don’t consider it
murder, Dave.”
“But Lane took his gun and horse. You might at least arrest him for
stealin’ the horse,” said Spike.
“Do you _know_ he took the horse?”
“Well, the horse is gone, ain’t it?”
“Does that prove Lane took it?”
“Oh, hell!” snorted Spike. “You talk in circles and ask questions all
the time. C’mon, Bert.”
Bert was willing to leave, and a few minutes later Dave Morgan and Cal
Dickenson left the saloon.
* * * * *
In the meantime Nan Lane had put a fresh bandage on Rex Morgan’s head,
and he sprawled back in a rocker, watching her while she worked around
the room.
“Where is your father?” he asked suddenly.
Nan shook her head.
“Out in the hills somewhere.”
“With your brother?”
“I can’t answer that question.”
“Have you a sweetheart?”
Nan turned quickly. He was not joking. His eyes were deadly serious.
“Of all things!” she exclaimed. “You’re feverish again.”
“Nothing of the kind. Please answer the question.”
“Nothing of the kind,” she mimicked him. “Why did you ask such a foolish
question?”
“Most girls do have sweethearts, do they not?”
“I really don’t know. Possibly.”
She laughed and listened intently. From down at the stable came the
cackle of a hen, announcing to the world that an egg had been produced.
Following this came the hoarse crow of a rooster. Nan laughed and turned
to Rex.
“Cut-cut-cut goes the little brown hen;
She cut-cut-cuts a warning.
Then the rooster crows and everybody knows
We’ll have eggs for breakfast in the morning.”
“Is that what it means?” laughed Rex.
“Didn’t you ever hear that before? That was the first poem I ever
learned. We have only a dozen hens and only six are laying, so I better
get that egg before a coyote or a bobcat finds it.”
She went out through the kitchen door, and Rex heard her going toward
the stable. She had not invited him to go with her, but he decided to go
anyway. His head was a bit light, he found, and his knees were weak, but
otherwise he felt all right.
Nan went down to the stable, searching for the nest, but was unable to
find it. The chickens were in the willows beyond the corral, so she
crawled through the corral fence. The corral of the Lane ranch
surrounded one side and the rear of the stable, being almost an L in
shape, with a cross fence separating it into two units.
Nan entered the smaller corral and walked back to the cross fence near
the corner of the stable, intending to go through the gate, but as she
glanced through the fence she stopped short.
On the ground, at the corner of the stable, she could see part of a
shoulder and the left arm of a man. The fingers were splayed out in the
dirt, the sleeve, drawn back sharply, showed a hairy wrist.
Nan flung the gate open and stepped to the corner of the stable, her
eyes filled with horror. The man was lying close against the rear of the
stable, as if he had been leaning against the wall, and had hardly moved
after falling. His right arm was twisted back, almost under his right
leg, and Nan could see the butt of a six-shooter.
Forgetting her fear for a moment, she stepped forward, took hold of his
shoulder and gave a slight pull. The body turned over easily and she
looked down into the contorted features of Peter Morgan.
With a stifled scream she stepped back, staring down at the corpse,
looking dazedly at the earthly remains of the man who had been her
father’s enemy.
“What do you suppose happened to him?” asked a voice, and she jerked
around quickly to face Rex Morgan who had stepped through the gate and
was looking at the body.
“My God!” she whispered. “That is Peter Morgan!”
“_Was_ Peter Morgan,” corrected Rex unemotionally. “Dead, isn’t he? I
never saw a dead man before. He must have been struck over the head,
too. Queer, isn’t it?”
“Queer?”
Nan struggled to keep her voice calm. If she ever needed
self-possession, she needed it now.
“Queer about him getting hit on the head, I mean. It seems to be a sort
of habit around here.”
Nan leaned against the wall of the stable, trying to think just what to
do.
“Who do you suppose killed him?” queried Rex. It was rather strange that
he wasn’t at all excited.
“Oh, don’t you see what it will mean?” whispered Nan. “This is Peter
Morgan. He hated my father, and my father has threatened to kill any of
his outfit that came here.”
“Your father threatened him? Do you suppose he killed him?”
“I—I don’t know. No! Why, if he killed him, he wouldn’t leave the body
there—here. But they won’t believe it. My father left here early this
morning. Why, he and Morgan had a fight in Mesa City yesterday. This is
terrible!”
“I begin to understand,” said Rex slowly. “If they find the body here,
they will say your father killed him.”
“Yes, yes! Oh, what can I do?”
“Well, the first thing to do is to get rid of the body, I suppose. Of
course, the man is dead and it won’t make a particle of difference to
him. I think we...”
* * * * *
Nan had stepped to the gate and was looking down toward the willow lined
creek, where a saddled horse stood, barely visible to them. It was a
tall roan, the riding horse of Peter Morgan.
“That was his horse,” she told Rex. “He must have tied it down there,
and then—”
“Came looking for trouble.”
“Oh, I suppose—” wearily—“but what can we do, Rex?”
It was the first time she had called him Rex.
“I was just wondering what would be the proper thing to do,” he replied.
“You see, I haven’t many ideas on the subject. My idea of it would be to
get the body away from here and let them find it elsewhere. That would,
at least turn the finger of direct suspicion from your father; and that
seems to be the primary idea, doesn’t it?”
Nan nodded quickly.
“But how can we, Rex? Suppose someone saw us?”
“I don’t know anything about what they would do, Nan. I just had an
idea. I—you wait here a minute.”
He crossed the corral, climbed through the fence and came back shortly,
leading the saddled horse.
“We would have to dispose of the horse, too,” he said, eying the body.
“Suppose you get some rope.”
“Do you mean to—to tie the body on the horse?”
“Something like that. I think it can be done.”
Nan secured a length of spot cord lariat and came back to him.
“I was just thinking again,” smiled Rex. “The body is very stiff, and I
wonder whether—no, I guess we better just drape him across the saddle.
Do you feel capable of helping me lift him up, Nan?”
She shut her eyes tightly, but nodded in the affirmative. It was a tough
job. Rex was none too strong, and Nan’s natural aversion to touching the
body did not add any material strength to her arms.
But they finally managed to place the body across the saddle, face down,
and together they roped it tightly. Rex knew nothing about knots, so he
let Nan tie off the ropes. Luckily, it was a gentle horse.
“Now, that is done,” said Rex thankfully.
“But what next?” asked Nan anxiously, scanning the hills. She was
mortally afraid someone would come before the coast was clear.
“Would this horse go home?” asked Rex.
“It might. Oh, that would—”
“Let’s try it, Nan.”
Slowly he led the horse through the rear gate. They had tied the reins
to the saddle horn. Pointing the animal away from the ranch, he gave it
a slap with his open palm, and the animal went trotting away, heading
back toward the 6X6.
* * * * *
For a long time they stood there together, watching the hills, and once
they saw the animal with its grisly burden, a mile away, still going.
Nan’s face was very white as she turned to Rex and held out her hand.
“Thank you, Rex,” she said simply.
“You are welcome, Nan. It was nothing.”
“But if it were known, we would both go to jail for a long time.”
Rex shuddered slightly.
“Is that a fact, Nan?”
“Yes, we must never tell. The law would blame us equally with the one
who killed him.”
“Well, that is all right. I mean—it does matter. You see, I don’t want
anything to happen to you. I never did touch a dead man before, and my
head hurts now, but it is all right. You see, I—”
His hands slipped off the fence and he fell in a heap at her feet.
Quickly she knelt in the dust of the corral and took his head in her
lap. His face was bloodless. She knew she could not carry him to the
house. For a moment she wondered what to do, but finally she lowered his
head to the ground and got quickly to her feet, intending to go to the
house after some water, but as she turned toward the gate she saw the
sheriff riding up to the corral. It was evident that he had seen her and
was coming there, instead of to the house.
He rode up along the fence, swinging his sombrero in his hand, a smile
on his face.
“Howdy, Miss Lane,” he said pleasantly.
When he looked through the fence and saw Rex on the ground, he
dismounted quickly and climbed over the fence.
“He—he fainted,” faltered Nan, fearful that the sheriff had seen the
horse and its burden leave the ranch.
“Shore looks white,” he said seriously.
“I was just going after water,” she said.
“I’ll get some,” he said quickly.
He hurried toward the open gate, but stopped near the corner of the
stable, where he stooped and picked up Peter Morgan’s revolver.
Nan’s heart sank, when she saw it. Would the sheriff recognize the gun,
she wondered? But he merely gave it a sharp glance and went on toward
the house, carrying it in his hand. She noticed when he came back that
the gun was nowhere in evidence, and he did not mention finding it.
* * * * *
Sheeley poured some of the water over Rex’s face, and the shock of cold
water brought him back to consciousness. He sat up, blinking foolishly.
“This is the sheriff,” said Nan. “You’ve seen him before, Rex.”
Rex nodded quickly.
“Foolish of me to faint. I guess my head isn’t very good yet.”
He looked searchingly at Nan.
“Did you find them?” he asked.
“Find what?” asked the sheriff, before Nan could reply.
“The eggs,” said Rex. “The hen called, you know, and we went hunting the
egg. Queer, isn’t it? And I fainted.”
The sheriff smiled thinly. He had seen the look that passed between
them.
“Can you navigate all right?” he asked.
“Oh, I am all right now.”
“I just dropped in to tell you that the horse you rode last night was
picked up at the 6X6 ranch and brought back to Mesa City. The horse came
from there, you see, so that would be where he’d go.”
“Well, I am glad they got it back, and thank you for telling me.”
“Oh, you’re welcome.”
He mounted his horse.
“I’ll see you later,” he said.
“Come any time, Lem,” called Nan.
“Thank you, Nan, I shore will.”
“Whew!” exclaimed Rex weakly. “That was a close call. You don’t think he
saw what we did, do you?”
“I’m sure he didn’t. But somehow I don’t feel that he believed about the
eggs.”
“Well, we are not in jail,” grinned Rex.
They walked back to the front of the house, and Rex stood there quite a
while, thinking over the events of the night before. He distinctly
remembered that there had been a big gate. Where was that gate now, he
wondered. There was no big gate at the Lane ranch. In fact, there were
no fences around the place, except the corral, and he was very sure he
did not come through the corral. Finally he went over to the house and
sat down on the porch, trying to reconstruct the locale, as well as he
could, of the place where he had been attacked.
While Rex Morgan pondered over these things, Lem Sheeley rode back to
Cañonville, also thinking deeply. From inside his shirt bosom he removed
a heavy Colt revolver and examined it closely.
It was of .45 caliber, with white bone handles, and on one handle had
been carved the initials P. M.
“P. M.,” he said to himself. “That’s Peter Morgan’s gun. I remember them
bone handles. But what was Peter Morgan’s gun doin’ in the Lane corral?
I’ll betcha he was over there, tryin’ to raise a little hell with Lane,
and lost the gun. Serves him right, and I’ll shore tell him so when I
give him the gun.”
CHAPTER VI
HASHKNIFE AND SLEEPY
Along a sandy road, which leads northward from Cañonville, came two
cowboys that afternoon. They were not traveling fast, because of the
fact that both horses were footsore and weary. The fact of the matter
was, they were cowboy “tourists,” heading south for the winter.
The one on the tall, gray horse whistled unmusically between his teeth
and surveyed the landscape through a pair of level, gray eyes. He was
tall, thin, with a long, rather serious face, generous nose and a wide
mouth. His well-worn Stetson was tilted forward over his gray eyes,
shading his face from the western sun. He wore a pale blue shirt, a
nondescript vest, which was little more than a drape on each side of his
chest, and a pair of batwing chaps. Around his waist was a weathered,
hand made cartridge belt, supporting an old holster, from which
protruded the black handle of a big Colt gun. His boots were extra high
of heel and his spurs had been dulled until there was little left except
a circle of steel.
The other man was shorter, broader of shoulder, with a deep-lined,
grin-wrinkled face, out of which looked a pair of innocent blue eyes.
The shorter man rode a chunky sorrel, which was forced to single foot in
order to keep up with the swinging walk of the tall gray.
Their raiment was about the same, their riding rigs much alike.
“Ain’t seen a cow for forty miles, Hashknife,” said Sleepy Stevens, the
short one of the two, breaking a long silence.
Hashknife Hartley turned in his saddle and smiled at Sleepy.
“Mebbe it’s a lucky thing for the cows, cowboy. Any cow that could live
in the country we’ve gone through would have to imagine a lot. But we
didn’t come lookin’ for cows—we came for the climate.”
“Shore,” admitted Sleepy.
“And this is climate.”
“In the daytime,” admitted Sleepy. “Last night I dang near froze. When
we hit a town, I’m goin’ to have at a reg’lar bed. Didn’t that shepherd
tell us it was only twenty miles to Cañonville?”
“Sheepherder’s miles, Sleepy.”
“I reckon that’s right.”
They rode in over the hill and saw the town of Cañonville ahead of them.
“That’s her,” proclaimed Hashknife. “The first thing on my program is to
wrap m’self around about four eggs and a couple slices of a hawg’s hind
leg.”
“Yea, brother. And set on somethin’ besides a saddle or a cactus. Man,
I’m plumb rode out. When we talked about comin’ to Arizona for the
winter, I took a look at a map, and I seen a couple of two inch squares,
pink and orange, which represented what we has to cover in order to
reach this here destination.
“It looked easy, Hashknife. There wasn’t a danged thing difficult
lookin’ about it—no hills, no cactus, no sand; jist pink and orange. And
only two inches of it. I’d like to meet the jigger that drew the map I
looked at.”
Hashknife smiled and shook his head.
“We shore earned a rest in a sunny land, Sleepy. I’ll bet these broncs
will be glad to lean up agin a load of oats. They wasn’t raised to
browse off a Spanish dagger.”
* * * * *
Cañonville looked exactly like several of the Arizona towns they had
passed—a typical Arizona cow town on a railroad. Many of the buildings
were of adobe, the rest weathered frame, with false fronts.
They rode straight to the livery stable, where they put up their horses,
and then they went hunting a restaurant. It was there that they met Noah
Evans, the deputy sheriff, humped in a chair, as he waited for his meal
to be served.
He gave Hashknife and Sleepy a sharp glance, noted their general
appearance and nodded a welcome. Noah needed someone with whom to talk,
and a stranger was a boon. Hashknife and Sleepy slid into chairs across
the table from Noah and gave their order to the waiter.
“Jist got in, didn’t you?” asked Noah.
“Not fifteen minutes ago,” said Hashknife. “How’s everythin’ down here?”
“Kind of a broad question, stranger.”
“Crime, for instance.”
Hashknife had noticed the badge of office on Noah’s shirt bosom.
“Crime? Huh! Ain’t none,” gloomily. “Ain’t been none since me and Lem
Sheeley’s been runnin’ the office.”
“Lem’s the sheriff, eh?”
“Y’betcha. And he’s a dinger, too. Was a dinger,” he corrected himself
sadly.
“Somebody plant him?”
“Na-a-aw! You see—” Noah rested his skinny elbows on the table and
considered the sugar bowl thoughtfully. “I figure a sheriff ort to be
heart whole and fancy free. Otherwise he ain’t capable.”
“Fell in love, eh?” smiled Hashknife.
“Accordin’ to all signs of the Zodiac, he has. I’m here in town, runnin’
the office, while he lollygags. By gosh, I hope t’ be my own boss some
day.”
“And if you was, you’d be out to see the same girl, eh?”
Noah looked up quickly, and his ears grew red.
“How do you make that out, stranger?”
“Observation. If it wasn’t true, you wouldn’t give a damn where he was.”
“Uh-huh.”
The waiter deposited Noah’s food in front of him, and the conversation
lagged for a few minutes. Their orders came along, and the three men
busied themselves with the meal.
“Goin’ to stay around here?” asked Noah.
“Dunno yet,” replied Hashknife. “We’re down here to spend the winter,
but we’ve got to hit a cow country, where we can get work.”
“Uh-huh. From up north, eh? I used to punch cows up in the Milk River
country. Used to be around Pendleton, Umatilla, and then I was over in
Idaho.”
“We’ve been up in that country,” nodded Hashknife. “I was born over on
the Milk River.”
“Thasso? What’s the name?”
“Hartley.”
“Hartley, eh? Any relation to Jim Hartley, of the Bar 77 outfit?”
“I guess so; he’s my brother.”
“Well, I’ll be darned! Why me and old Jim—say! Your dad was a preacher
up in that country. Rode an old white horse and packed the gospel. No, I
didn’t know him, but I heard a lot about him. They said he was the only
preacher they ever had that didn’t try to convert somebody. Wasn’t
tryin’ to show folks how to die; he showed ’em how to live straight. And
you’re Jim’s brother! You’re Hennery, ain’t you? I’ve heard him tell
about you. My name’s Evans—Noah Evans.”
They shook hands solemnly, and Hashknife introduced him to Sleepy.
“Well, well!” marveled Noah explosively. “She’s a small world, gents. I
ain’t seen Jim Hartley for three or four years. Spent a winter up there,
and I ain’t thawed out yet. Wish it was jist before dinner; I’d shore
like to buy you both a drink.”
“We’ll be here just before supper,” grinned Sleepy.
“You betcha.”
* * * * *
They finished their meal, and Noah invited them to come down to the
office, where he talked with Hashknife about the Milk River country,
naming over people whom Hashknife remembered, although it had been many
years since he had been home.
While they were talking, Lem Sheeley rode in. Noah lost no time in
introducing the two cowboys to the sheriff.
“Hear anythin’ of young Lane?” asked Noah.
Lem shook his head wearily.
“Nothin’, Noah. Probably out in the hills. Didn’t see anythin’ of the
old man, so I reckon he’s out there, too.”
“How about the girl?”
“She’s home.”
Lem tried to act indifferent.
“Alone?” asked Noah.
“No-o-o.”
“Well, who in hell is with her?”
Lem slowly rolled a cigaret, as he told about Rex Morgan and his
experiences. Hashknife leaned forward on his chair and absorbed every
word of it, while Sleepy scowled over his cigaret, sighing wearily.
Lem told them of Old Man Lane’s discovering Spike Cahill and Bert Roddy,
fighting in the dark, and Noah seemed greatly amused over that incident.
Knowing that Hashknife did not know of the incidents that led up to
this, Noah explained about the coming of the nester family, the
persecutions by the 6X6 and of the killing of Ben Leach.
“And this young feller says his name is Morgan, eh?” queried Noah. “I
wonder if he’s any relation to Pete or Dave.”
“I dunno.” Lem shook his head. “Bunty Smith says he’s loco, but I don’t
see anythin’ wrong with him, except that he talks like a dictionary and
ain’t never been out in the sun very much. Didja ever see this?”
He took the Colt from inside his shirt and placed it on the table in
front of Noah, who examined it quickly.
“That’s Pete Morgan’s gun, Lem. I’d know it by them handles. Spike
Cahill shaped ’em for him. Said he’d make me a pair like ’em as soon as
he got time. That was a year ago, which leads me to believe Spike has
been pretty darned busy. Where’d you get it, Lem?”
“I picked it up in Lane’s corral this mornin’.”
“Oh-ho-o-o-o! So old Pete went over to clean up on Old Man Lane and lost
his gun. I’d keep it, if I was you, Lem. Serves him right.”
“Pete Morgan and Old Man Lane had a fight in Mesa City yesterday, and
Pete knocked him down. They tell me that the old man drawed a deadline
against the 6X6. He tried to draw a gun on Pete, but Joe Cave blocked
him. I reckon he’d have killed Pete.”
“By golly, they’ll monkey with that old buzz saw until he does kill some
of ’em. You ort to go and have a talk with that 6X6, Lem.”
“That would do a devil of a lot of good.”
“Tough outfit?” asked Hashknife.
“No tougher than the rest, I don’t suppose. But Peter Morgan has kinda
bossed things around the Mesa City country, until his punchers think
they can do just as they please. This nester shore slipped one over on
old Pete, when he homesteaded that place. I dunno yet why Pete didn’t
have somebody homestead it for him. I reckon it was because Pete thought
he could keep anybody off, anyway. He’s shore scared a lot of nesters
off that side of the road. But Lane was jist as tough as Pete; so he’s
still there.”
“With his son hidin’ out,” added Noah sadly.
“And the rest of the country givin’ us hell because we don’t smoke him
out,” sighed Lem.
* * * * *
“What kind of a feller was this Leach?” asked Hashknife.
“Tough _hombre_,” replied Noah. “We figure he got what he went lookin’
for.”
“The only bad move Lane made was to take Ben’s gun and horse,” said the
sheriff. “I reckon he was just drunk enough to take ’em. Kind of an
Injun idea; kill ’em and take everythin’.”
Sleepy was humped up in a chair, looking sadly at Hashknife. Sleepy knew
what this would mean. Hashknife was leaning forward, an eager expression
in his gray eyes, his long, lean fingers caressing the knees of his worn
chaps. Gone were all the signs of weariness, despite the long journey.
Fate had again thrown Hashknife and Sleepy into a troubled range.
“This young Lane ain’t got Injun blood, has he?” asked Hashknife.
“No-o-o,” drawled Lem, “but he was drunk enough to be a fool that day.
He probably knew we’d be on his trail, so he heeled himself with Ben’s
gun and horse. Me and Noah was at his ranch when he came home, and he
said he had fixed one of the 6X6 gang.”
“And when the 6X6 gang came after him, he wasn’t in the house,” added
Noah. “Must ’a’ went straight through the house, cut out through the
hills and picked up Ben’s horse, ’cause he left his own bronc at the
corral.”
“If it was self-defense, why didn’t he give himself up to the law?”
asked Hashknife.
“Because he’s a nester,” said Lem quickly. “He had an idea that the law
wouldn’t give an even break.”
“I can understand that,” agreed Hashknife. “And since the killin’, the
6X6 has been hangin’ around the nester’s place at night, eh?”
“Y’betcha. They want young Lane. And Peter Morgan backs their play,
Hartley. Some day him and Old Man Lane will meet for a showdown.”
“And what kind of a girl is this nester’s daughter?”
“She’s all right,” said Lem slowly. “Square as a dollar.”
“And no shrinkin’ violet,” added Noah.
“Is Peter Morgan a married man?”
“No.”
“What did Ben Leach and young Lane fight about?”
“I dunno. I heard that Ben called him a dirty nester. Mebbe it was
mostly liquor. But Ben had no right to follow him, unless he was
prepared to shoot. The 6X6 contend that Lane saw him comin’ and
bushwhacked him. Can’t prove it. Ben got a bullet through his head. I
dunno what Lane’s story would be, but he’s got a good chance to prove
self-defense.”
“Looks thataway,” admitted Hashknife. “I reckon we better get us a room
at the hotel, Sleepy.”
“I’ll go along,” declared Noah. “I know the jigger who runs the hotel
and I’ll see that he gives you a good room. Some of ’em has got cracked
pitchers in, you see.”
They secured the room and spent an hour or two looking over the little
town, after which they drifted back to the sheriff’s office. Lem
stretched out on a cot and snored audibly, while Noah talked Milk River
with Hashknife.
CHAPTER VII
TENDERFOOT’S LUCK
After much deliberation Rex Morgan decided that the blow on his head
must have left him slightly hazy on things in general; so he gave up
trying to puzzle out what had become of the gate. He did not speak to
Nan about this. She sat on the porch steps with him, looking toward the
6X6, and he knew she was worrying over what had taken place at the
corral.
“You saw the sheriff find that gun, didn’t you?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“That was Peter Morgan’s gun, Rex, and I’m afraid the sheriff recognized
it. If he hadn’t, I think he would have mentioned picking it up, and
would have given it to us. They cost about thirty dollars apiece.”
“But he doesn’t know Peter Morgan is dead.”
“He will. And he’ll wonder how that gun got in our corral. Rex, we’ve
got to forget it. No matter what happens, we must keep this a secret.
They would hang my father, as sure as fate.”
“Well, I’m not going to tell,” declared Rex. “I’ve been rather weak in
the stomach since then, but I’m all right now. I don’t want to go to
jail, and I’d do anything in the world before I’d tell. But I wish we
had picked up that gun.”
“If wishes were horses, beggars might ride,” quoted Nan seriously.
“And be welcome to them,” smiled Rex wryly. “I’d rather walk.”
It was an hour or so later when Paul Lane rode in and stabled his horse.
Nan was in the kitchen, preparing a meal, and Rex was sitting on the
front porch, reading an old magazine.
Rex had never seen the old man, but he knew he must be Nan’s father. The
old man came up to the porch and looked Rex over quizzically.
“How’s your head?” he asked.
“It is much better, thank you,” replied Rex. “You are Mr. Lane? My name
is Morgan.”
The old man did not offer to shake hands with him.
“What Morgan?” he asked coldly.
“What Morgan? I don’t know just what you mean, Mr. Lane.”
“Any relation to the Morgans of Mesa City?”
Rex shook his head quickly.
“I guess not. At least, I don’t believe I am.”
* * * * *
Nan heard them talking, and came out to the porch.
“Your patient recovered kinda quick, Nan,” said the old man.
“Yes,” she said softly. “How is Walter?”
“All right. I asked him about that horse and gun. He never took ’em,
Nan. He swears he never seen Ben Leach after he left the saloon.”
Nan was watching her father closely, and Rex noticed that her face was
rather white, her lips compressed tightly.
“Dad,” she said hoarsely, “what happened down by the stable this
morning?”
“Eh? Down at the stable? Why, I dunno—nothin’ that I know anythin’
about, Nan.”
“Didn’t you meet Peter Morgan?”
“Meet Peter Morgan? No! I dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”
He turned to Rex.
“What about you, young man? Who hit you over the head?”
“That is something I can not tell you, Mr. Lane.”
“Mm-m-m-m. Kinda funny.”
He turned from Rex and looked at Nan closely.
“What’s the matter with you?” he asked. “What makes you look at me like
that, Nan? Don’tcha feel well?”
“You swear you didn’t meet Peter Morgan at the stable this morning?”
“I told you I didn’t. Was he here?”
“He was here,” she said. “I found him in the corral, near the corner of
the stable—dead.”
“What?” The old man came closer to her, his eyes wide. “Nan, you don’t
mean that! Not Peter Morgan.”
“He had been hit over the head,” she said slowly. “His horse was back in
the willows; so we tied him on the saddle and turned the horse loose. He
had drawn his gun, and we were so anxious to get him away from here that
we forgot the gun, and the sheriff came along—”
“My God, he didn’t see you, did he, Nan?”
“No, he didn’t see us, but he picked up the gun and took it with him.”
The old man sat down heavily on the bottom steps and tried to get it all
clear in his mind.
“We had to do something,” said Nan wearily.
The old man nodded thoughtfully.
“This young man helped you?” he asked.
“Yes, Dad, I couldn’t have done it alone.”
He turned his head and looked at Rex closely.
“Where’d you come from?” he asked.
Rex explained how he happened to be in that country, and what had
happened to him since he started.
“No idea who hit you last night?” asked the old man.
“Not the slightest, Mr. Lane. I don’t remember a thing from the time
that man stepped out to speak to me until I woke up in your home.”
“You had been hit hard, Morgan. You’ve got a hard head, young man. That
blow would have killed most men. I dunno,” he said wearily, “I almost
wish I hadn’t tried to buck the 6X6. My son is a fugitive, you know.
I’ve tried to induce him to leave the country, but he won’t go. Swears
he never killed Leach. He won’t get a square deal with a Mesa City jury,
nor a jury from any other part of this range; and if the 6X6 outfit
catch him they’ll lynch him on the spot; so what can he do?”
“But who killed Peter Morgan?” asked Nan.
“I don’t know,” replied her father. “If he was killed here, he could
only blame himself. I told him what would happen. I drew a deadline for
the 6X6. Morgan knocked me down on the street in Mesa City.”
“They’ll swear you killed him, Dad. Don’t you see what it means? No
matter where they find the horse with the body, the sheriff found
Morgan’s gun in our corral.”
“That’s true, Nan. We’ll just have to wait and see how it turns out.”
He turned to Rex.
“If I was you, young man, I’d head for Mesa City as quick as possible.
This is a dangerous place to be found. You haven’t any interests here.
I’m just telling you this for your own benefit.”
“But we haven’t done anything, Mr. Lane. I don’t know anybody in Mesa
City—and I’m not afraid.”
“That’s because you’re ignorant of what it might mean. This is my home.
I’m too old to stand trial for murder. My best days are behind me. I’ve
got to fight.”
“I never have fought,” said Rex slowly. “I don’t know how well I could
fight. But I’m not going to run away and leave you and Nan here.”
“They know he’s here,” said Nan quickly.
Her father looked at her quizzically.
“Calls you by your first name—and you don’t want him to go, eh?”
Nan got quickly to her feet.
“I think I better start supper.”
* * * * *
The old man filled his pipe and smoked slowly for a while, stealing an
occasional glance at Rex. Finally he got to his feet and stretched
wearily.
“I dunno,” he said, as if talking to himself. “Soft-handed tenderfoot
and a nester’s daughter. I had hopes she’d pick a man.”
Paul Lane entered the kitchen; he glanced at the wood box, discovered it
almost empty, and started for the back door. But he did not open it. He
stopped suddenly and listened. Nan turned from the stove, holding a
skillet in her hand.
It was the sound of horses’ hoofs on the hard-packed ground of the yard.
Unconsciously Rex crossed near the old man.
None of them said a word. Suddenly the old man reached out and flung the
door open, almost swinging it back against Rex. In the doorway stood
Spike Cahill and Dell Bowen, guns in hand, while behind them were Bert
Roddy, Dave Morgan and Red Eller.
“Gotcha, Lane!” snapped Bowen.
But before any one else made a move, Rex flung himself against the door,
crashing it shut in the faces of the cowboys. Then he darted out of the
room, and a moment later they heard the crash of glass, as he went out
through a window.
One of the cowboys yelled a warning, and they went pounding around the
house, while Nan and her father stood there, looking foolishly at each
other. Then the old man ran through the living room and barred the front
door, picking up his Winchester on the way back.
Nan and her father could hear the cowboys yelling at one another, as
they crashed through the brush, searching for the man they believed to
be Paul Lane. Nan ran to a window and looked out. The chase had taken
the men quite a distance from the ranch-house, but it would only be a
matter of minutes until they would find Rex.
“I reckon I’ll slide out for a while, Nan,” said the old man coldly.
“Looks like my best chance.”
He kissed her quickly, ran out, mounted one of the horses and rode
swiftly down past the stable. Nan heard several shots fired, and her
heart sank.
She unbarred the door and went out on the porch, but could not see
anybody. Acting on the impulse of the moment, she ran into the yard,
climbed on a tall bay horse and raced away from the ranch, heading for
Cañonville.
* * * * *
It is doubtful whether Rex could have explained just why he slammed the
door shut and then dived head first through that window. It was the same
window that Long Lane had used as an exit, but Rex did not wait to open
it.
He struck on his hands and knees in a shower of broken glass and fairly
bounced to his feet and ran as fast as possible for the fringe of brush.
Only one of the men had seen Rex, and that one got only a glimpse. But
it had been enough to draw all on Rex’s trail.
He ran through the heavy cover, tearing his clothes on the mesquite,
scratching his face and hands on the clinging thorns, but going ahead in
spite of it all.
He could hear his pursuers now. They were unable to travel any faster
than he, but they were probably in better physical condition. He tripped
and fell heavily, staying down long enough to let two cowboys pass
within twenty feet of him.
Then he got to his feet and struck off at an angle, only to be cut off
by another cowboy who yelled breathlessly and then fell flat in the
brush. Rex had seen him fall, and it struck him as very funny, but he
did not have enough breath left to laugh.
He changed his course, which took him to an open space in the brush,
where he stopped for a moment to try to get his bearings. Almost at the
same moment he heard a bullet scream past his ear, and from the slope of
a hill came the pop of a revolver.
Another bullet plucked at the sleeve of his shirt, and the third one
struck a rock behind him and went zeeing off through the brush.
“Stop shootin’, you damn’ fool!” yelled a voice. “That ain’t Old Man
Lane; that’s the crazy jigger!”
Then it seemed to Rex that cowboys came smashing through the brush from
every direction. He did not move, as they came up to him. It seemed that
they were all swearing at him. Spike Cahill faced him, breathing
heavily, purple from the hard run.
“So you’re the jigger who busted through the winder, eh?” snarled Spike.
“What was the big idea?”
Rex was too short of breath to even answer a question. He grinned at
Spike, and Spike knocked him flat on his back with a right hand punch.
“Don’t do that, Spike,” said Bowen. “This ginny is crazy.”
“Crazy hell!” gritted Spike. “He led us out here to give that dirty
murderer a chance to fade out. Git up, you lizard!”
Rex got slowly to his feet, his lips red with blood. There were tears in
his eyes, and they thought he was crying because he was hurt. Spike
grasped him by the left arm, sinking his fingers deep.
“Do you know what you done, you ignorant pup?” rasped Spike. He yanked
roughly on Rex’s arm.
_Splat!_
With no preliminary movement Rex uppercut Spike with his right fist, and
Spike landed on his haunches. The knockout was so complete that, after a
moment, Spike sagged sidewise and sprawled flat on his face.
Rex stepped back, rubbing his knuckles on his thigh.
“Bat him over the head with a gun,” advised Dave Morgan.
“No you don’t!” snapped Dell Bowen. “Spike got what was comin’ to him.
This poor fool ain’t got brains enough to fool us intentionally. He
likely got scared and took to the window. And we didn’t have sense
enough to leave somebody at the house to see that it wasn’t a trick.”
* * * * *
Spike rolled over and sat up. He was still hazy, and Red Eller helped
him to his feet.
“Wh—what hit me?” he asked weakly.
“The loon-a-tick,” grinned Red.
“This?” Spike pointed at Rex.
“That,” said Dell coldly. “You earned it, Spike.”
“Well, for heaven’s sake!”
The knockout had taken the fight out of Spike. He looked at Rex gloomily
and shook his head.
“Well, we might as well go back and get the horses,” said Dave Morgan.
“It’s all off for today.”
Ignoring Rex, they headed back to the ranch-house, with Rex following.
And it was there that Dave Morgan and Spike Cahill staged a swearing
contest. Both of their horses were missing.
For several moments the air was blue with profanity. Dell Bowen went
through the house, but could find no one.
“The old man took one and the girl took the other,” he said.
“I’ve got a good notion to punch the head off that tenderfoot,” growled
Dave Morgan.
“Go ahead, Davie,” urged Spike. “Hit him for me.”
“No,” said Bowen firmly. “He has nothin’ to do with it. Hittin’ him
won’t correct our mistakes.”
“Would you mind telling me what it is all about?” asked Rex. The cowboys
stared at him.
“Old Man Lane murdered Peter Morgan,” said Bowen.
“When?”
“How in hell do we know?”
“Where?”
“Don’t know that either.”
Rex spat out a little blood and wiped his mouth with the back of his
hand.
“What do you know?” he asked.
“Hell!” snorted Spike. “Let’s go.”
They mounted double on two of the horses, and Rex watched them spur away
from the ranch. He washed his face in cold water and went through the
house, looking for Nan. He didn’t understand why she should leave the
ranch, but she was not there. He looked at himself in a cracked mirror,
and the reflection was somewhat of a shock. He saw a pair of swollen
lips, a discolored eye and numerous scratches across a face which was
badly in need of a shave.
“I prefer civilization,” he said, quoting the ticket agent. “With a face
like that and a head all bandaged, I doubt whether civilization would
accept me. Still, I am alive, and that is something to be thankful for.
I have been in a runaway over a dangerous grade, thrown from a wrecked
stage, beaten over the head, helped dispose of a murdered man, dived
through a window, been shot at and knocked down. What next, I wonder?
Perhaps I had better search for a razor and at least put up an
appearance of civilization.”
CHAPTER VIII
UNPROVED ACCUSATIONS
Hashknife and Sleepy were standing in front of the hotel when Nan Lane
rode into Cañonville. Her horse was lathered to the ears and almost fell
with her, but she yanked it up and headed for the sheriff’s office.
“Little Miss Somebody’s in a hurry,” observed Sleepy.
“Y’betcha,” agreed Hashknife. “Come to visit the sheriff, too. Let’s see
what’s all the hurry about.”
They strode down to the office, where they found Nan telling Lem and
Noah what had happened at the ranch.
“But what was it all about?” asked Lem. “Doggone it, Nan, don’tcha know
what they wanted?”
Nan clung to the back of a chair, weary from her wild ride over the
Coyote Cañon grades.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Rex slammed the door in their faces, before
they had time to tell, I suppose. Then he ran in through my room and
fell through the window. I—I guess they thought it was my father; so
they took out after him.
“Dad didn’t know what it was all about, but he decided to keep away
until he could find out; so he took one of their horses and I took
another.”
“And all them jiggers went huntin’ young Morgan, eh?” grinned Noah.
“I’ll betcha they ruin him before they’re through.”
Lem frowned reflectively, wondering what to do. Then he stepped over to
his desk, opened a drawer and took out Peter Morgan’s six-shooter, which
he held out to Nan.
“Didja ever see that gun before?” he asked.
Nan looked at it, knowing down in her heart that it was the gun Lem had
picked up in the corral, but at that time she had paid no attention to
the general appearance of the gun.
“I don’t believe I have,” she replied calmly.
Lem tossed it back in the drawer, as if dismissing it from the
conversation.
“I reckon we better ride up thataway and see what’s what,” he said
slowly; then he turned to Hashknife. “Want to go along?”
“Like to,” nodded Hashknife, “but our broncs are so sore footed that—”
“Plenty broncs,” said Noah quickly. “I’ll get you a couple. C’mon.”
When the three men were gone, Lem turned to Nan, where she was standing
beside the doorway, looking out at the street.
“Was that _all_ you knowed about it, Nan?” he asked.
“All?” She turned her head quickly.
“Yeah. You didn’t know why they came after your father?”
She shook her head and looked back at the street.
“You knew I found Peter Morgan’s gun in your corral this mornin’, didn’t
you, Nan?”
“I saw you pick up a gun, Lem.”
“You didn’t know whose gun it was?”
“How would I know?” she parried.
“It’s got his initials on it.”
“Has it? He must have lost it in our corral.”
“Looks like it,” sighed Lem. “Hear anythin’ of your brother?”
Nan shook her head.
“Anyway,” she said, “you couldn’t expect me to answer that, could you,
Lem?”
“I’m your friend.”
“And sheriff of this county.”
“Yeah, I reckon that’s right.”
“Who are those two strange cowboys, Lem?”
“Hartley and Stevens. The tall one is Hartley.”
“He has fine eyes, hasn’t he?”
“Never noticed. His brother used to work with Noah. But what is fine
about his eyes?”
“The way they look at you, Lem.”
The sheriff laughed softly.
“You’re a pretty girl, Nan.”
“But they didn’t look at me that way.”
“I pass,” sighed Lem.
The three men were coming from the livery stable with their horses.
“Mebbe you better stay here in town until this thing is over,” suggested
Lem.
“Not me,” declared Nan. “I’m going back with you, if that stolen horse
is able to make the trip.”
“Looks like Dave Morgan’s bronc,” grinned Lem. “He’ll want me to arrest
you for stealin’ his horse, I suppose. Mebbe I will, Nan. Who knows?”
“I—I hope you won’t, Lem,” she said seriously.
“Well, I won’t. And if he swears out a warrant, I’ll give you plenty of
room for a getaway.”
* * * * *
Lem introduced Hashknife and Sleepy to Nan, and they all rode out of
town together. Nan was worried about what might happen to Rex Morgan,
but Lem refused to hurry.
“Your horse is all tired out and, anyway, they won’t hurt young Morgan,”
he said. “Them boys will find out their mistake. One of ’em might take a
punch at him for foxin’ ’em thataway.”
“Oh, I hope not,” said Nan. “His head is badly hurt, and he isn’t very
strong, anyway.”
“Did he pull that winder stunt to give your dad a chance to git away?”
asked Noah.
“I don’t know. Perhaps he was so frightened at the sight of those guns
that he went right out through the window. You see—” turning to
Hashknife—“he isn’t used to this kind of a country, Mr. Hartley.”
“I can imagine how he’d feel,” smiled Hashknife. “What do you know about
young Morgan, Miss Lane?”
“Only what he has told us.”
“Kind of a misfit,” growled Lem. “Ort to be back in the city where he
belongs.”
Noah winked at Hashknife meaningly, and Nan saw it. She blushed and
turned her head away. It was nearly dark when they reached the Lane
ranch. Rex was sitting on the front porch, with Paul Lane’s
double-barrel shotgun across his lap. In the dim light he recognized
Nan, and came out to meet the cavalcade.
“What did they do to you, Rex?” she asked anxiously.
“Not much,” cheerfully. “One of the boys knocked me down, and then I
knocked him down.”
“The hell you did!” blurted Lem, swinging down from his saddle. “Which
one was it, Morgan?”
“I think it was Mr. Cahill.”
“Spike Cahill!” exploded Noah. “You knocked him down?”
“Yes. It was quite a while before he recovered.”
“Sa-a-ay! C’mere and shake hands.”
Rex shook hands with Noah, who doubled up with mirth.
“Is Spike Cahill a fighter?” asked Hashknife.
“Not necessarily; but he’s shore belligerent. Wish t’ gosh I’d ’a’ seen
it. That’ll stigmatize Spike to his dyin’ day.”
“C’mere, Morgan,” ordered Lem severely. “What was it all about? Didn’t
they tell you?”
“Yes, they told me. I tried to find out how they knew so much about
it—the evidence, you know—but they—”
“The evidence of what?”
“That Mr. Lane had killed Peter Morgan.”
“F’r God’s sake! Is Peter Morgan dead?”
“I would gather from their remarks that he is, Mr. Sheeley. I asked them
where he was killed and when he was killed, but none of them were able
to answer my questions. They rode away without molesting me further.”
“Did Spike Cahill knock you down, Rex?” asked Nan.
“Oh, certainly. I suppose he was excited. In fact, one of them fired
three shots at me, and one went through my sleeve, but no harm was done.
But for fear that some of them might come back, I armed myself.”
Sleepy picked up the shotgun and opened it.
“This gun is empty,” he said.
“Didn’t you load it, Rex?” asked Nan.
“No. You see, I didn’t know—”
“And there you are!” snorted Lem. “Hell’s bells! We’ve got to get to
town and find out about this. Noah, you stay here and help hold down the
ranch. We can’t leave Nan alone with that idiot.”
“Suppose you stay here, too, Sleepy,” suggested Hashknife.
“Suits me.”
“I thought it would,” said Hashknife meaningly.
* * * * *
Lem and Hashknife mounted and headed for Mesa City, riding knee to knee.
“What was it about that gun in the corral?” queried Hashknife, as they
swung back on the main road.
“I dunno, Hartley. It looks bad for Lane. Of course, we’ll have to get
the details before we can figure on anythin’. I feel awful sorry for
that girl. But she’s plumb game, she is. Imagine a girl actin’ like her,
when her father and brother are both accused of murder and both hidin’
in the hills.”
“She’s shore cool, Sheriff. It takes cool folks to live in this kind of
a country.”
“In more ways than one, Hartley.”
They rode in at Mesa City and tied their horses at the Oasis Saloon,
where they found Dave Morgan, Cal Dickenson, Spike Cahill, Napoleon
Bonaparte Briggs and Red Eller, all more or less drunk. They looked the
sheriff over coldly.
“What’s been goin’ on, boys?” asked the sheriff.
“A-a-a-a plenty!” snorted Dave Morgan. “Didn’t you hear about it?”
“I haven’t heard much, Dave. Nan Lane came to Cañonville after me, but
she didn’t know what it was all about. Young Morgan said you accused
Paul Lane of murderin’ Peter Morgan. It’s a wonder that some of you
couldn’t have come after me in the first place. Now, the soberest one of
you tell me what happened today. No, don’t all talk at once. Spike, you
tell it.”
“I can damn’ soon tell you, Lem,” declared Spike. “When we got up this
mornin’, Peter Morgan was gone. He’d saddled up and pulled out before
breakfast. Me and Bert Roddy came to town. Well, you met us here, Lem.
We went back to the ranch, and it wasn’t so very long after that, when
here comes Peter Morgan’s horse, and on his back is Pete Morgan, tied
on—dead as a doornail.
“He’d been hit over the head with somethin’, and his gun was gone. There
was blood on the horse’s shoulder, and we thought the horse had been
shot, but it was Pete’s blood. And the horse came from down toward the
Lane ranch. You know that Pete and old Lane had a fight yesterday here
in town, and Lane said he’d kill the first one of the 6X6 that ever came
on his ranch.”
“Where’s Pete’s body now, Spike?”
“Out at the ranch.”
“And nobody thought to notify me, eh? I suppose the sheriff and the
coroner—”
“We didn’t need your help,” said Dave Morgan. “You haven’t even tried to
find young Lane. Things like this don’t require a sheriff, Lem.”
“Things like this require a little brains and horse sense,” retorted
Lem. “And there ain’t a one of you fellers that qualify. You was jist
smart enough to send Old Man Lane into the hills.”
“If it hadn’t been for that fool kid—”
“Smart, I’d call it,” said Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs.
“Hello, Napoleon,” smiled Lem. “How come you in town?”
“He’s scared to stay on the ranch with a corpse,” laughed Spike.
“Wouldn’t even stay there along with Dell Bowen and Bert Roddy.”
“All right,” grunted Briggs. “I don’t crave no dead folks. Every
person’s got a hobby. Mine’s to keep a long ways ahead of the dead.”
“You got a rig we can take the body to Cañonville in?” asked Lem.
“Shore,” nodded Spike. “Got a hack.”
“All right, c’mon and drive it.”
“Aw, hell, Lem! I’m all—”
“You’re deputized, Spike.”
“I hoped you wouldn’t do that, Lem.”
“Well, it’s done. C’mon.”
“You have to come back through here, don’tcha?” asked Hashknife. “All
right, I’ll stay here until you come back.”
“You got a hobby like mine?” asked Briggs.
“Somethin’ like it.”
“Good! I’ll buy a drink.”
* * * * *
Dave Morgan, Cal Dickenson and Spike Cahill went with the sheriff, while
Hashknife stayed with Napoleon and Red Eller. The Oasis was not busy.
Only on Saturday and Sunday was the trade heavy. The bartender was a
portly sort of person, collarless, moist of skin, with the proverbial
“spit curl” over his left eye, and an odor of perfume about him.
“It sure was a blow to this country when Peter Morgan died,” he said
mournfully. “Grand man; big man. In fact, he was the biggest—”
“Your loop’s around your feet,” warned Briggs. “All you know about him
is seein’ him once or twice a week.”
“I worked for him, didn’t I?”
“Yea-a-ah, you did and you do. But I knowed him better than you ever
could. I’ve filled his belly with food for years, and I shore know him
from his chilblains to his dandruff. And he wasn’t a big man. He was
pretty much of a fool in lotsa ways.”
“Just what ways?” asked the bartender.
“Lotsa ways. Say! He shore got popped over the head awful hard. I got
one look at him, and that was s’fficient f’r me. I says t’ myself,
‘Pete, you’re a goner.’ And he was, too.”
“Who was there when he came, Briggs?”
“Oh, me and Spike and Bert and Dell and Dave Morgan. It shore hit Dave
awful hard. Him and Peter never was real friendly, but they was
cousins.”
“Who gets the 6X6 ranch?” asked Hashknife.
“Prob’ly lotsa folks are wonderin’ about that,” said Briggs slowly.
“Dave looks like the lee-gitimate heir, unless old Pete made out a will.
That’ll all be found out later on, I reckon. Pete wasn’t much of a hand
to monkey with lawyers. Kinda wanted t’ be his own law.”
“Dave’ll probably git the Oasis Saloon, too,” said the bartender. “Mebbe
he’ll get his fill of liquor and poker.”
“Dave’s all right,” defended Red Eller.
“I’m not sayin’ a word agin him, Red. Let’s all have a drink.”
They accepted the drink, and Hashknife turned to Red. “Were you at the
Lane ranch this mornin’?”
“I shore was,” grinned Red. “That tenderfoot shore foxed us aplenty. We
was so anxious to git our hands on Old Man Lane that we plumb forgot he
might stampede; and when he heard that winder go smash, we busted our
legs, tryin’ to head him off.
“And he shore led us a merry chase. By the time we did catch him, Spike
was awful sore. He busted the kid flat with a punch on the jaw, but the
kid got up, kinda white, spittin’ blood. And when Spike grabbed him by
the arm, the kid knocked Spike plumb cold with an uppercut to the jaw.
“Oh, it was a complete knockout. That tenderfoot kid may be crazy, but
don’t never let anybody tell you he can’t hit. He took all the fight out
of Spike. Why, he hit Spike so damn’ hard that Spike got on his horse
from the wrong side.”
“Is he any relation to Dave Morgan?” asked Hashknife.
“Na-a-aw!”
“What’s he doin’ in this country?”
“_Quien sabe?_ He ain’t been here long enough for anybody to find out.
Hello, Bunty.”
* * * * *
Bunty Smith came over to the bar, glanced quickly at Hashknife and
returned Red’s greeting. Red turned to Hashknife.
“I dunno your name, pardner; but whatever it is, this is Bunty Smith,
one of the stage drivers. Bunty’s the owner of the stage line, and
drives every other day.”
“My name’s Hartley,” smiled Hashknife, and shook hands with Bunty.
“We was jist talkin’ about young Morgan,” said Red.
“Oh, that fool! Is he still alive?”
“Live enough to knock Spike Cahill out.”
“You love to lie, don’tcha, Red?”
Red explained what happened that morning, and Bunty apologized by buying
a drink.
“That tenderfoot shore had me moppin’ my brow,” laughed Bunty. “I still
think he’s loco. Hartley, did you hear about him headin’ for town on one
of my horses, and fallin’ off on his head in front of the Lane
ranch-house?”
“He said somebody hit him, didn’t he?”
“Shore he did. Alibi for fallin’ off.”
“I never thought of that,” laughed Red. “By golly, and I thought it was
a mystery.”
“It’s like the usual mystery,” smiled Hashknife.
“Do you like mishteries?” asked Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs, who was not
carrying his liquor very well.
“I don’t,” replied Hashknife.
“Shame here. I like romansh. Didja ever read ‘Lef’ At The Altar’? Great
book. You don’t happen to know where I c’n fin’ the rest of it, do you?”
“The rest of the book?”
“Shertinly. Mine’s been docked. Right on the las’ line it says, ‘Lord
Mort’mer flung the heavy draperies ashide with the pint of his
sh-sh-shward, and there stood——’ And that’s the end of it. I’ve ’magined
my own endin’ for the schtory, but it ain’t so good. But she’s a dinger
up to where she skips off into space.”
“Sheriff ain’t caught young Lane yet, has he?” asked Bunty.
“Na-a-aw, and he never will,” flared Red. “I think he’s stuck on that
girl.”
“Shows good taste,” said Briggs. “I’ve only sheen her once, but I was
shober enough to r’lize that she was pretty nice for to gaze upon.”
“The sheriff,” said Hashknife, anxious to switch the subject away from
Nan, “seems of the opinion that this young Lane shot in self-defense.”
“All right,” said Red, ready for an argument. “If he did, why did he
take Ben’s horse and gun? I’m not tryin’ to stick him for killin’ Ben,
if he had to do it; but he took the horse and the gun.”
“Yes, that looks bad. But he was drunk.”
“Not too drunk, Hartley. Remember he shot straight.”
“That’s true. And what evidence have you that Old Man Lane killed Peter
Morgan?”
“None,” said Red honestly. “Lane swore he’d kill him, if he came to his
ranch. Peter Morgan is dead, and his body came from toward the Lane
ranch. That’s all we’ve got.”
“Lane was heard to say that he’d kill any of the 6X6 that came to his
ranch, wasn’t he?”
“He shore was.”
“And if Peter Morgan went there, after that warnin’, wasn’t he expectin’
to kill or be killed?”
“I dunno what he thought. But that can’t be made out as self-defense,
Hartley. If Lane killed him, why didn’t Lane report it to the sheriff? I
mean, if it was self-defense. Lane could clear himself, I reckon.”
“Could he, Eller? With his own son hidin’ out from the law? With the
feeling against nesters? Do you think he could clear himself? Remember,
Peter Morgan was a big man around here—Lane, the smallest. Look at it
from Lane’s angle.”
* * * * *
Red gazed moodily at his empty glass.
“I see what you mean, Hartley. I never did put myself in Lane’s
place—until now.”
“The law,” said the bartender wisely, “is supposed to play square with
you.”
“It very often does,” nodded Hashknife. “In case they decide you deserve
hangin’, they’ll furnish the rope.”
Red squinted at Hashknife, a half grin on his lips.
“You ain’t very strong for the law, are you pardner?”
“Not for the law, but for justice.”
“There’s a difference,” agreed Red. “Well, I reckon I better take
Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs over to the hotel and put him to bed.”
“Lemme shee you do it,” urged Briggs.
“Oh, I can do it all right,” declared Red.
He grasped Briggs by the collar and one sleeve and was hustling him to
the doorway when Rex Morgan came in. He was hatless, dirty, with one
shirt sleeve almost torn off at the shoulder. For several moments he
stood there, breathing heavily, before he could speak.
“Get a doctor!” he blurted. “Mr. Evans has been shot.”
Red released Briggs, who stumbled against the wall and fell in a heap,
swearing drunkenly.
“Who do you mean?” demanded Red. “Noah Evans, the deputy sheriff?”
Rex nodded painfully.
“At the Lane home. He—he went out on the porch and somebody shot him.”
“How badly is he hurt?” asked Hashknife.
“Through the shoulder. Mr. Stevens says it is quite bad. They made me
ride here after the doctor, and I fell off. But—” he tried to grin—“I
held to the lines, and got on again.”
“I’ll get the doctor,” said Red, and ran from the saloon.
“You look as though you needed a drink,” said the bartender, pouring out
a stiff drink of whisky. “Throw that into you, kid.”
Rex shook his head.
“I never did drink anything.”
“You prob’ly never needed it before.”
“Do you good,” nodded Hashknife. “Better mix a little water in it, if
your neck is tender.”
* * * * *
Rex choked over the drink and his eyes filled with tears. Mesa City
liquor was powerful stuff, and after a few moments the effects of the
drink brought a pleasant glow to its owner.
“Feelin’ better?” asked the bartender.
“Wonderful. What was in it?”
“Heaven only knows. For some men it’s full of fights; for some it’s full
of songs. Didn’t you ever take a shot of hooch before?”
“No, sir.”
“I reckon you’ve been raised by hand,” sighed the bartender. “Have
another?”
Rex did. Hashknife was standing beside the doorway, listening for Red
Eller to come back with the doctor, and he turned to watch Rex take his
second drink.
“Are you the feller who knocked out Spike Cahill?” asked the bartender.
“Yes,” choked Rex. “Ah-h-h-h!”
“They tell me you’re a fighter.”
“I do very nicely, thank you.”
“My stars!” grunted the bartender. “You do nicely, eh?”
Hashknife studied the flushed face of Rex Morgan. The two drinks of
powerful liquor were almost too much for the young man.
“C’mere, Morgan,” said Hashknife, and Rex came over to him, slightly
unsteady on his feet.
“Just what are you doin’ in this country?” asked Hashknife.
“Well—” Rex rubbed the palm of his right hand along his jaw, his eyes
half shut, as he tried to concentrate on Hashknife’s question.
“Well, I don’t exactly know,” he confessed. “I’m sure I did not come
here to get the things I have already received. I think I came out of
curiosity.”
“Curiosity, eh? And how did you happen to pick on this part of the
country?”
“It was a check on the Mesa City bank, Mr. Hartley, a check which was
sent to my mother. After she died I found the check.”
“A check sent from here to your mother, eh? Whose name was on that
check?”
“I don’t know. Queer, isn’t it? The writing was so blurred, don’t you
see? Or perhaps the signature was not well written.”
He grinned at Hashknife foolishly.
“I feel so free of all pain,” he said slowly. “Even my head does not
pain me now. It is the first time since I woke up at the Lane residence
that my head has not hurt me.”
“You’re drunk,” said Hashknife shortly.
A horse and buggy was coming down the street, and turned in at the front
of the saloon.
It was Red Eller and the doctor.
“Better let Morgan ride with the doctor,” suggested Hashknife. “I’ll go
back to the Lane place, and as soon as the sheriff shows up, you can
tell him what happened, Eller.”
“All right. It’ll give me a chance to put Briggs to bed.”
“I’m going to ride a horsh,” declared Rex.
“You’re goin’ to ride on a buggy seat,” replied Hashknife. “Get in with
the doctor and I’ll lead your horse.”
* * * * *
It was possibly an hour later when the sheriff came back to Mesa City
with the body of Peter Morgan. Dave Morgan and Spike Cahill came back
with him, and when they stopped at the Oasis Saloon, Red Eller told them
what had happened at the Lane ranch.
Joe Cave, Bunty Smith’s driver, had joined Red at the Oasis, and now
they all headed for the Lane ranch, taking the body of Peter Morgan
along with them. Red knew nothing about the shooting, except what Rex
had told.
“That’s what you get for leavin’ your deputy at that place,” declared
Dave Morgan. “Old Lane probably mistook Noah for one of the 6X6 outfit.”
“Don’t talk so much, until you know what it is all about,” replied Lem,
and Dave subsided.
They were unable to travel very fast over the old road, for fear of
jolting the corpse out of the hack, but they eventually drew up at the
Lane ranch. Hashknife met them at the porch.
“Evans is pretty badly hurt, but conscious,” he told them. “The doctor
thinks he might stand the ride to Cañonville, where we can ship him to a
hospital, if he needs one; and this ain’t such a good place for him.”
They shoved in past Hashknife and found Noah on a bed in the living
room, with the doctor bandaging him with yards of cloth, while Nan stood
beside the bed, assisting him.
Noah tried to smile, but it was an effort.
“Don’t ask him to talk,” warned the doctor. “He’s been hurt badly. Have
you something we can take him to town in, boys?”
“Got a hack,” said Lem. “But we’ve got a dead man in the bottom of it.
Who knows what happened here?”
“Nobody,” said Sleepy quickly. “Noah went out on the front porch, just
kinda lookin’ around, and somebody potted him from the brush. We heard
the shot, and Noah came clear back in here before he fell. By the time
we got over the shock, and got outside, there wasn’t anybody in sight.
Anyway, it was too dark to see. I reckon they saw him against the light
of the doorway.”
“Where was the girl and that young feller?” asked Dave Morgan.
“Right in here with me.”
“Who are you?” asked Joe Cave.
Sleepy considered Joe gravely.
“You ought to study law, pardner. I think I’ll object to that, as bein’
a leadin’ question, irrelevant, immaterial, and having no bearing upon
the case.”
“You don’t say!” snorted Joe.
“Keep out of this, Joe,” growled Dave Morgan.
“Well, dern it, I jist asked a question.”
“And didn’t get it answered.”
“Well, what about it?” queried Lem. “How are we goin’ to take Noah to
town? He can’t stand ridin’ in a lumber wagon. We might leave the corpse
here—”
“Like hell you will!” snapped Dave Morgan.
“What harm would it do?” asked Hashknife. “Peter Morgan is dead. There’s
nothing you can do for him, except to bury him. Bein’ a relative, I know
how you feel, but you can’t let sentiment interfere in a case of this
kind. We’ve got to get Evans to a hospital, _sabe?_”
“Since when did you start runnin’ this country?” demanded Dave Morgan
hotly.
“Since about a minute ago, Morgan. Sleepy, you and Eller fix a place in
the stable where we can leave a corpse until mornin’. See if you can’t
find an old piece of canvas or—”
“In the stable, eh?” grunted Dave. “By God, you—”
“In the stable!” snapped Lem. “Now shut up, Dave. I’ll send a livery rig
out after the body tonight, if that will ease your mind any.”
Dave shrugged his shoulders and turned away, muttering under his breath,
while the boys prepared a place for Peter Morgan. One of the boys piled
some hay in the bottom of the hack, and they fixed Noah up as
comfortably as possible. There had been no hint of the person who had
shot him, but Nan knew what they were thinking.
* * * * *
When they were ready to leave for Cañonville, Lem took Hashknife aside
and asked him to stay at the ranch.
“You and Stevens stay, will you, Hartley? I’m darned if I want Nan to be
here alone with that fool kid.”
“Sure, we’ll stay. Intended to all the time. What’s your idea of it all,
Sheriff?”
Lem shook his head.
“I dunno; we’ll talk later.”
Nan had kept her nerve well, but after they had gone, she sat down and
cried. Rex sat on the edge of the bed, looking at her gloomily. His head
was aching again, and the bandage had assumed a rakish angle over his
left ear.
Hashknife tilted back against the wall in a chair and smoked a cigaret,
while Sleepy sat on his heels against the wall, also smoking. Finally
Nan got to her feet and shook back her hair.
“No use being a little fool,” she choked. “Crying won’t make anything
right. I’m going to get us some supper.”
She stopped in the doorway and looked back at Hashknife.
“I know what they’re saying. They think my father shot Noah Evans, don’t
they?”
“By mistake—I suppose,” replied Hashknife.
“Thinking he was one of the 6X6?”
“Probably.”
She came back closer to him.
“Do you think so?”
“I’m kinda funny,” he smiled at her. “They’ve got to prove anythin’—and
then I only believe half of it. You see, I don’t know your father, Miss
Lane.”
“I see. What did the sheriff say about it?”
“He didn’t say. That’s one thing I like about him.”
“But I know he suspects.”
Nan was thinking of the gun in the corral. After a moment she turned and
went into the kitchen, where she began to prepare a meal.
Hashknife studied the attitude of Rex Morgan, who might well have been
posing for a statue of Despondency.
“How do you like this country, Morgan?” he asked.
Rex looked up slowly and sighed audibly.
“I think I prefer civilization, Mr. Hartley.”
“You are seeing life in the rough, Morgan,” grinned Hashknife.
“Seeing? Horned frawgs, as Mr. Bunty Smith says, I’m living it.”
[Note on the text: This story, Buzzards, by W. C. Tuttle was
printed in two consecutive issues of Adventure Magazine. What follows
is the story as it continued the second month. The few paragraphs of
overlap are intentional, as in the original publication.]
Rex Morgan sat on the porch of the nester’s cabin and listened to
Hashknife Hartley on the subject of the Black Horse range.
Rex was a tenderfoot, come to the Arizona cattle country to find the
person who had sent his mother a check from Mesa City before her death
in California. On the way to Mesa City from Cañonville the stagecoach
suffered a runaway. Rex had ridden on for help and, in the darkness, he
had been struck on the head. He had awakened in the cabin of Lane, the
nester.
Now, Lane had surrendered to the sheriff, after Dave Morgan, the
shiftless owner of the Flying M, had accused him of murdering Dave’s
cousin Peter. As far as anyone knew, Rex was no kin of the Mesa City
Morgans. Already Rex had accepted the hospitality of the Lanes, and
before the murder of Peter Lane there had been bad blood between the
Morgans and Old Man Lane. Lane’s son had been suspected of killing Peter
Morgan’s cowhand, Ben Leach, who had been found, shot, by the roadside.
As nesters alongside the powerful 6X6 of Peter Morgan, the Lanes had
little prestige in the country. Old Man Lane and his son denied their
guilt, but surrendered to avoid lynching.
Inside the Lane cabin Nan Lane was preparing a fresh bandage for Rex’s
head.
“How do you like this country?” grinned Sleepy Stevens, the merry
partner of the errant Hashknife.
“I think I prefer civilization.”
“You are seeing life in the rough.” Hashknife smiled.
“Seeing? Horned frawgs—as Bunty Smith, the stage driver says—I’m living
it!”
CHAPTER IX
INQUEST DAY
The following morning, shortly after daylight, Lem Sheeley and Joe Cave
arrived at the ranch with the hack from the 6X6 and a top buggy. They
were going to take Peter Morgan’s body to Cañonville in the hack, and
Lem brought the top buggy to take Nan to the inquest—or rather the
double inquest.
This had been the date set for the inquest over the body of Ben Leach;
so they were going to hold one over Peter Morgan on the same day. Lem
Sheely had appointed Joe Cave to act as his deputy while Noah Evans was
out of commission.
“They know Nan was here at the ranch when her brother came from Mesa
City and they heard what he said about fixin’ one of the 6X6 outfit,”
explained Lem. “Me and Noah heard it; but they want her testimony.”
Nan agreed to go, and while she was getting ready, Hashknife took Lem
aside and questioned him about the gun he found in the corral.
“Are you goin’ to offer that as evidence?” asked Hashknife.
“I’m kinda stuck about that,” said Lem. “I hate to do it, and still I
figure I ought to, Hashknife. It’ll hang Lane as sure as hell.”
“They’ll have to catch him first.”
“Yeah, I know, but I’ll catch him. I wasn’t goin’ to do a thing until
the coroner’s jury decides, but if they say it was murder and names the
murderer, what can I do? I’m jist an instrument, Hashknife.”
“I know, Lem. How’s Noah this mornin’?”
“Crazy as a shepherd. The doctor was with him all night, and he says
Noah’s got a fightin’ chance. That ride last night didn’t do him a bit
of good, and the doctor says we can’t take a chance on shippin’ him to a
hospital.
“The folks down in Cañonville want to go right out and hang a rope on
old man Lane and his son. They figure one of ’em mistook Noah for
somebody from the 6X6.”
Sleepy and Joe Cave were putting the body into the hack, while Rex stood
against the side of the stable, watching them.
“What do you think of that young Morgan?” asked Lem.
Hashknife grinned slowly.
“He’s so ignorant that he might do somethin’ smart. I figure he’s been
raised in a hothouse, Lem. Still, he’s got a sense of humor, and he
ain’t all fool. Just between me and you, he’s got somethin’ on his
mind.”
“Mebbe it’s the wallop he got on the head, Hashknife.”
“Mebbe.”
Nan had come out to the buggy, so the two men sauntered toward the front
of the house.
“We’ll stay here at the ranch,” said Hashknife, as Nan held out her hand
to him.
“Thank you,” she said simply.
“And when they put you on the witness stand,” said Hashknife slowly,
“don’t offer anythin’. If you don’t feel like answerin’ a question, jist
say you don’t know. The law never hung anybody for not rememberin’.”
“That’s fine advice to a witness, right in my presence,” grinned Lem, as
he untied the horse.
“I shall follow that advice,” said Nan firmly. “Goodby, Mr. Hartley.
Take good care of Rex.”
“Can’t he take care of himself?” growled Lem.
“I don’t think so, Lem. He needs somebody to look after him.”
“He ort to get a keeper, or a nurse.”
* * * * *
The two vehicles rolled away up the dusty road, leaving Hashknife and
Rex together at the front porch. Sleepy had gone to the rear of the
house to wash his hands.
“So that’s the opinion she has of me, is it?” queried Rex wearily. “Need
someone to look after me.”
“I don’t think she meant it exactly that way,” smiled Hashknife.
“Oh, I guess she’s right, as far as that goes. Mr. Hartley, I guess I do
need someone to look after me. I don’t know anything.”
“Uh-huh?” Hashknife considered Rex gravely. “Morgan, if it was rainin’
real hard right now, what would you do?”
“Why—er—go in the house, I suppose.”
“I reckon you’ve got as much sense as the rest of us, but you lack in
experience.”
Sleepy came around the house and they all sat down in the shade of the
porch. Rex wanted to know what an inquest meant, and Hashknife explained
all about it.
“And if that jury decides that Mr. Morgan was killed by Mr. Lane, they
will hang Mr. Lane?”
“Well, not immediately,” said Hashknife. “They will have to capture Mr.
Lane and give him a fair trial.”
“Have they any evidence that Mr. Lane killed him?”
“Only that Lane hated Morgan and threatened to shoot any of his outfit
that might come over here, and the fact that the horse bearing the body
of Morgan came from this direction. Of course, those are merely
circumstantial. And there’s the fact that the sheriff found Peter
Morgan’s gun in the corral down there.”
Hashknife was watching Rex closely when he propounded the last evidence,
and he saw Rex change color quickly, shutting his lips tightly. Rex did
not look at Hashknife when Hashknife added—
“That last bit of evidence might hang him.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” said Rex slowly.
“Of course not.”
“I didn’t see the gun.”
“Prob’ly not. The sheriff found it. He said that you fainted in the
corral.”
“Oh, yes!” Rex tried to laugh. “We—Miss Lane and—we heard a chicken
crowing, and she made up a little poem about eggs for breakfast; so we
went to find the egg, you see. Yes, I fainted. Foolish thing to do,
wasn’t it?”
“Mebbe not. But neither of you saw the gun, eh?”
“Oh, no. We were excited and—” Rex stopped quickly.
“Excited over what?” asked Hashknife quickly.
Rex shut his lips tightly and looked away for several moments. Finally
he sighed softly.
“Eggs,” he said simply.
“Excited over eggs?”
“Yes. Oh, it doesn’t require much to excite me.”
“Uh-huh.”
* * * * *
Hashknife and Sleepy exchanged glances. Hashknife was sure that Rex
Morgan knew more than he was willing to tell. It was evident that this
young tenderfoot was protecting Nan Lane—and Hashknife admired him for
it.
“Do you intend to stay in this country?” asked Sleepy.
“Do you mean always?” Rex shook his head slowly. “No, I—well, I don’t
really know. Do you know, everything has been more or less like a dream
since my mother died. I have been jerked around so badly that I hardly
know what to do next. I realize that I shouldn’t be here, sponging, I
believe you’d call it, on the Lane family. But I just simply don’t know
what to do.”
“Didn’t you ever have a job?” asked Hashknife.
Rex pursed his lips thoughtfully for a moment.
“Yes, I did. I believe it lasted less than an hour. Mr. Weed, a grocer,
employed me as a driver for one of his delivery wagons, but I tried to
outrun a fire department.”
“And didn’t make it?” smiled Hashknife.
“Oh, but I did! But when I was forced to stop, I threw out the anchor,
and—”
“Uh-huh!” snorted Sleepy. “That’s what Bunty Smith said.”
“Threw out the anchor?” queried Hashknife.
“That is what one of the men called it. It is a heavy weight, which they
have fastened to the horses, and when you make a delivery you leave it
on the ground. It prevents the horses from running away, don’t you see?”
Hashknife laughed softly.
“I know what you mean, kid.”
“Well, when I threw it off, I believe it wrapped around a pole. At any
rate, we stopped so suddenly that I entered a store on the back of my
neck, and by the time I had recovered I had lost my position.”
“And that’s the only job you ever had?”
“The only one.”
“How old are you, Morgan?”
“Twenty.”
“Your folks have plenty of money?”
“I didn’t have folks—just a mother.”
“Yea-a-ah?” Hashknife leaned back, resting his shoulders against the
wall, and began rolling a cigaret.
“What became of your father?” asked Sleepy.
Rex shook his head.
“I never knew him. In fact, I never heard his name mentioned.”
And while Hashknife and Sleepy lounged in the shade and listened
closely, Rex Morgan told them of his life. He did not condemn his mother
for the way she had raised him.
“Mebbe she wanted you to be a preacher,” suggested Sleepy. “Was she very
religious?”
“No, not very. In fact, she seldom went to church.”
“And you say that check was on the Mesa City bank?” asked Hashknife.
“Yes. That was why I came here, trying to find out who sent her that
money. Perhaps they might tell me more.”
“Did your mother ever mention Mesa City?”
“No.”
* * * * *
“Well, that’s shore a queer deal, Morgan. Even if you never find out
anythin’, I think you came to the right country. It’ll make a man out of
you. Get a job. Even if you don’t know anythin’, take the job and learn.
Make good out here. Folks are rough out here, but if you make good with
them, they’ll stand at your back until your belly caves in.”
“I suppose you are right, Mr. Hartley.”
“Call me Hashknife.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m Sleepy.”
Rex turned his head and glanced at Sleepy.
“Why don’t you go in and lie down?” asked Rex.
Hashknife grunted so explosively that he blew his cigaret out into the
yard, while Sleepy slid down on his shoulders, shaking with laughter.
“I don’t understand,” said Rex blankly.
“That’s what made it so funny,” choked Hashknife. “He meant that his
nickname was Sleepy.”
“Oh, I knew that; but I didn’t realize it at the time. I guess it did
sound rather like a joke.”
“Rather,” chuckled Sleepy. “But don’t mind me; I’m just a bowlegged
puncher, tryin’ to get along in the world.”
“Morgan, you must have had quite an experience the night you arrived
here,” said Hashknife.
Rex grinned slowly.
“I surely did, Hashknife. I wonder why that man struck me over the
head.”
“Some of the folks,” said Hashknife slowly, “seem to doubt that you got
hit. They think you fell off the horse and hit your head on a rock.”
“I did not!” indignantly. “Not that I couldn’t have done such a thing.
You see, I had never ridden a horse before. But there is something that
has bothered me, Hashknife. Just before I reached the house I went
through a big gate.”
“You went through a big gate?” wondered Hashknife.
“I was obliged to get off the horse to open the gate.”
“But there is no gate here.”
“That is the queer part of it.”
“Hm-m-m-m,” Hashknife grunted softly as he rolled another cigaret. “Went
through a big gate, eh? How was it fastened?”
“I don’t remember that it was fastened.”
“Uh-huh. But this was the house, eh?”
“I suppose so. It was very dark that night, and I was unable to see more
than the outline of the house.”
“Are you shore you didn’t dream about that gate?”
Rex frowned thoughtfully.
“Perhaps I did, Hashknife. As far as that is concerned, I might have
dreamed all of it. But if you do not think I was struck on the head—look
at it.”
“I saw it,” grinned Hashknife. “That’s no dream.”
“Well, that’s no more true than the rest of it.”
“You ain’t been to Mesa City yet, have you? I mean, to make any
investigations about that check.”
“No, I haven’t had a chance. But just as soon as possible, I shall go
over there.”
CHAPTER X
GUESTS BY NIGHT
It was late in the afternoon when Nan came home, accompanied by a man
from the Cañonville livery stable. Hashknife met her, and they walked
from the buggy to the house. She did not mention the inquests until
Sleepy and Rex met them in the living room, and the four of them sat
down together.
“They asked the sheriff to arrest Walter for shooting Ben Leach,” she
said bravely. “They say, because he took Ben’s horse and gun, it don’t
look like self-defense. But they say dad murdered Peter Morgan.”
“Who testified?” asked Hashknife.
“The boys of the 6X6 testified that Peter Morgan’s body came on, roped
to the saddle of his horse. That was all the testimony, except what was
said about the fight dad had with Peter Morgan in Mesa City, and that
dad swore he’d kill them if they came here.”
“And that’s all the evidence they needed to name your dad as the
murderer?”
“That was all. They didn’t ask me to testify. Lem told them about Walter
coming home from Mesa City drunk, and what he said about fixing one of
the 6X6 outfit. Lem tried to give his opinion of Ben Leach following
Walter, but the coroner wouldn’t let him talk, and they almost had a
fight.”
“And will the sheriff be obliged to capture your father and brother
now?” asked Rex.
Nan nodded wearily.
“I guess he will. Oh, I don’t know what to do. We haven’t any money to
hire lawyers; nothing to fight with.”
“The court will appoint a lawyer to defend them,” said Hashknife.
“To represent them,” corrected Nan quickly. “But of what value will he
be to us? It is merely a matter of form. Oh, I know enough about the law
to know what it will mean. A cow town jury, sitting in judgment on a
nester.”
“Well,” said the optimistic Sleepy, “they ain’t got ’em in jail yet,
Nan.”
“But they will have. Dad and Walter are not far away from here.”
“I’d like to have a talk with ’em, before the sheriff gets his hands on
’em,” said Hashknife.
“What for?” asked Nan.
“Oh, just to talk about things. I’d like to get their version of things
ahead of the rest.”
* * * * *
Later that day Hashknife and Sleepy talked things over from the top pole
of the corral fence.
“I tell you it’s no puzzle,” declared Sleepy. “Old Man Lane killed Pete
Morgan, jist as sure as a Californian will lie about his climate. Of
course, Pete had no business bein’ here. He’d been warned to stay
away—and didn’t. If me and you was on a jury, we’d turn him
loose—because we don’t hate a nester. Likewise, this here Ben Leach got
his needin’s. Hunted for trouble and found it. Self-defense, of course;
but you never can convince these natives that Lane didn’t bushwhack
Leach. Of course, Lane made a mistake in takin’ the horse and gun, but
he was drunk and mad.”
It was a long speech for Sleepy to make. Hashknife lifted his brows in
mock astonishment.
“You’re gettin’ kinda technical, ain’t you, Sleepy?”
“Well,” confessed Sleepy, “that’s the way she looks to me. Whatsa use of
stayin’ around here any longer? We’ve got to land a couple of jobs for
the winter, ain’t we?”
“Did we ever quit before the last dog was hung?”
Sleepy shook his head gloomily. They had been together for quite a
number of years, these two drifting cowboys. Their trails had led from
the wide lands of Alberta to the Mexican Border, and no matter where
they were there was always a hill just beyond, which beckoned them on.
Sleepy had been christened David in the little Idaho town where he was
born, but it had soon been changed to his present cognomen, because of
the fact that, like a weasel, he seemed to sleep with both eyes open.
He and Henry Hartley had met on the old ranch which gave Henry the name
of Hashknife, and together these two cowboys of the itching feet struck
out for themselves. The ranges were wide and there was plenty of demand
for the services of top hand cowboys, but they did not stay long in any
one place.
Fate had given Hashknife an analytical mind. In a different environment
he might have been a famous detective, instead of a drifting cowboy, a
Nemesis of range crooks, where, in most cases, the six-shooter
superseded the court of law.
It seemed as if fate continually threw them into troubled places, no
matter which way they traveled, until even Sleepy, prone to argument,
admitted that there was little use trying to dodge the issue. Sleepy
analyzed nothing. He was content to follow the lengthy Hashknife, no
matter where the trail led, and to be ready for trouble at the finish.
Their remuneration had been small. In fact, they might have better been
working at forty dollars a month, as far as the financial end of their
partnership was concerned. Two horses, riding rigs, clothes, guns and a
few dollars were all they ever had.
“You can’t take anythin’ with you,” Hashknife had often said, when
Sleepy remarked about their financial returns. “The farther we go, the
less chance we have of livin’ to a ripe old age; so what good is the
money? I’d rather give, while I’m alive, to see the happiness it brings.
And if we had a lot of money, we wouldn’t know what in the devil to
spend it for.”
* * * * *
Hashknife debated Sleepy’s résumé of the case. It was a reasonable
decision and was probably the decision of everybody who knew of the
case; but Hashknife withheld his opinion, because he refused to agree
with the masses. To Sleepy the case was closed; but to Hashknife it was
just beginning to open.
“They tell me that Paul Lane is a salty old jigger,” said Sleepy
thoughtfully. “It would be like him to kill a man and send him home on
his own horse. I wish I knew what Pete Morgan was doin’ over here that
night?”
“Evidently tryin’ to get Old Man Lane, Sleepy.”
“Why?”
“There you are. He came alone. Why?”
“Don’t ask me; I’m no mind reader.”
“And still you think there’s nothin’ to the case?”
“I wasn’t figurin’ any reasons for the killin’.”
“There’s got to be a reason for the killin’, Sleepy. I want to know why
Pete Morgan got up long before daylight, saddled his horse and came over
here—if he did come here. Of course, we’ve got no proof that he did,
except that the sheriff found his gun in the corral.”
“Guns don’t fly.”
“This ’n didn’t have any wings. Sleepy, didja ever see a girl with more
nerve than Nan Lane? By golly, she’s a dinger. Wants to cry, but won’t.
It’s a hell of a position for her to be in, don’tcha know it? She’s up
there in the kitchen, cookin’ up a meal for us, when down in her heart
she wants to lie down and cry her heart out. If I ever get married, I
hope I get her kind.”
“One that won’t cry, Hashknife?”
“Sure.”
“You never will, cowboy. Mebbe she won’t cry from ordinary causes, but
jist let you put on a boiled collar and a white shirt, and she’ll cry.”
“Is it that bad?” sadly.
“Worse than that, Hashknife. You look jist like a half broke Apaloosie,
lookin’ over a whitewashed fence.”
“I might get one with a sense of humor, Sleepy.”
“She’d have to have it, cowboy.”
Rex was wandering around the yard, like a lost pup, and finally joined
them at the corral.
“I wish I knew what to do,” he said sadly. “Nan is up there in the
kitchen, crying. I tried to solace her, but it didn’t seem to do much
good. She’s afraid they are going to hang her father, you know. Perhaps
I handled the situation badly, when I told her we’d both be orphans, if
such a thing happened. And then I asked her to marry me.”
“You damn’ fool!” exploded Sleepy. “That ain’t no time to propose to a
girl.”
“I didn’t know. You see, I never proposed before.”
“There’s a lot of things you don’t know.”
“There’s a lot of things I want to learn,” retorted Rex heatedly.
“That’s a lot better,” grinned Hashknife. “Use a little profanity and
less dictionary. Correct English is great; but out here they think
you’re crazy. You’ll forget how to talk it soon enough. As far as you
marryin’ Nan Lane—I’d forget it, Morgan.”
“What would you support a wife on?” asked Sleepy.
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Well, you’re honest,” grinned Hashknife. “I reckon you’re a good kid,
Morgan. You mean well enough. Now forget the marriage stuff for a
while.”
“The sheriff wants to marry her.”
“Fine. Lem’s a good man, got a good job.”
“But I don’t think she loves him.”
“No? Does she love you?”
“I never asked her.”
“A-a-aw, hell!” snorted Sleepy. “Let’s go and help her cook supper,
instead of talking about her feelin’s.”
* * * * *
It was after supper that night when Paul Lane came home. Rex was washing
the dishes and Hashknife was wiping them, much against the wishes of
Nan.
“It’s the only thing I can do well,” declared Rex. “I used to wash them
for my mother.”
Nan was in her room, and Sleepy was perched on the wood box, smoking a
cigaret, when Paul Lane stepped into the kitchen, gun in hand. Rex was
the only one of the three who had ever seen him before. Lane stopped
just inside the door and looked at the men.
Rex stopped washing dishes and started to introduce the old man to
Hashknife, but the old man stopped him.
“Where’s Nan?” he demanded.
“Here, dad.”
Nan had stepped from her room, and now she crossed the kitchen to her
father, who put one arm around her, but he still kept his eyes on
Hashknife and Sleepy.
“Who are these men?” he asked.
“Friends, dad—Mr. Hartley and Mr. Stevens. You have met Mr. Morgan
before.”
“Yeah, I’ve met him. I’ve been around here quite a while, lookin’ ’em
over through the windows. I didn’t quite figure out who they were, but
it didn’t look to me as though an officer of the law would be washin’
dishes.”
With as few words as possible she told him everything that had happened
since he left the house. She told him of the shooting of Noah Evans, the
double inquest, and the verdicts. Hashknife watched the face of the old
man during her recital, and decided that Paul Lane was a tough old
ranger. He did not flinch at the verdict, but his blue eyes clouded a
trifle.
He was not a big man, and age had sapped some of his vitality, but he
was wiry, keen-eyed, and the hands that gripped the Winchester were
muscular and steady.
“Kinda looks as though they had the deadwood on me and the kid,” he said
bitterly. “We been hidin’ out in the brush, wonderin’ what was goin’ on;
so I took a chance. We got a look at you fellers today and wondered who
you might be. And we seen Nan come back in that buggy; so I decided that
there had been an inquest at Cañonville.”
“Why don’t the both of you sneak down and give up to the sheriff?” asked
Hashknife. “Looks like the only way out of it, Lane.”
“And get hung for it, eh?”
“Mebbe not. The law won’t hang you without a trial.”
“Meanin’ that the 6X6 outfit will, eh?”
“Might be more than them in on the deal. There’s always a pack of
wolves, you know.”
“That’s right, Hartley. It shore makes it tough for Nan.”
“And she’s been mighty game,” said Hashknife quickly.
“I’m not so game,” choked Nan. “I don’t know what to do, except to grin
and bear it.”
* * * * *
They moved to the living room, leaving Rex to finish the rest of the
dishes, and sat down together. Hashknife wanted a chance to talk with
Paul Lane, and this seemed like the opportune time, but before he could
frame the opening question the front door was flung violently open and
three rifles were covering them through the doorway.
The visitors were Dave Morgan, Red Eller, Spike Cahill and Ed Jones.
There was only one thing to do; the three men in the room threw up their
hands. It took Spike Cahill about ten seconds to collect their guns, and
then the captors relaxed.
“I reckon that about ends the deal,” growled Dave. “We been watchin’ for
you, Lane. Knowed you’d have to come home, sooner or later.”
“Well,” said Lane coldly. “What now, Morgan?”
“A lot depends. Get a rope, Spike.”
“Just what’s the idea of a rope?” asked Hashknife.
“Keep your nose out of it,” growled Morgan. “I’d advise you two to
hightail out of this country. About the time we tell folks about findin’
you here, hobnobbin’ with a man wanted for murder, they might talk of
more ropes.”
“Oh, is this man wanted for murder?”
“You know damn’ well he is! Wasn’t that girl at the inquest? Don’t try
to be funny.”
Spike Cahill stepped in and flung out the coils of his rope, preparatory
to roping Paul Lane.
“What are you going to do?” asked Nan. “Don’t put a rope on him. Dad
will go to jail peacefully.”
“Jail, eh?” Spike laughed softly. “You think he will? After we exhibit
him in Mesa City? Guess agin, sister.”
“You better put your hands up,” said a voice at the doorway to the
kitchen, and the captors jerked around to see Rex Morgan, holding the
heavy, double-barrel shotgun against his shoulder, the twin muzzles
covering them.
Dave Morgan’s hands jerked shoulder high, and the other three were quick
to follow his lead. Even a tenderfoot could score a bull’s-eye with a
shotgun at fifteen feet.
“Good, kid!” exclaimed Hashknife, while Dave Morgan swore bitterly, as
he watched Sleepy gather up all the guns.
“You can take a rest with that gun now,” laughed Hashknife.
“Well, I’m glad,” sighed Rex. “It is very heavy, and I was afraid
someone might know it isn’t loaded.”
Hashknife backed against the wall, gun in hand and laughed at the
expressions on their faces, when they realized that the shotgun was not
loaded.
“You can’t get away with this,” gritted Morgan, facing Hashknife. “We’ll
show you how to tamper with things that don’t concern you. And we’ll
make that half-witted, white-faced kid wish he’d kept out of it.”
“I got away with it—my part of it,” said Hashknife coldly. “I think that
kid outsmarted you and saved you from lynchin’ a man tonight. And as far
as you doin’ anythin’ about it—cut your wolf loose.”
“We were goin’ to take him to jail,” said Eller.
“You’re a liar!”
Eller bristled angrily.
“You wouldn’t call me that, if I had a gun, you hatchet-faced bum.”
“Step into the middle of the room,” ordered Hashknife. “Right out here
away from the rest. Watch ’em, Sleepy.”
* * * * *
Hashknife stepped up to the bed, picked up a six-shooter and walked back
to Eller, who stared at him foolishly. With a flip of his wrist,
Hashknife dropped the gun into Eller’s empty holster and stepped back
about six feet and holstered his own gun.
“It’s an even break, Eller,” he said coldly. “You’re a liar; a dirty,
forked-tongue liar. You’ve got a gun in your holster, and I’m talkin’ to
you straight.”
Red Eller hesitated. Hashknife’s right hand hung limply at his side,
swaying back and forth past his holster, but there was nothing about his
pose or expression that would indicate a quick draw. For several moments
there was no sound, except the breathing of people. Then:
“Don’t do it, Red,” whispered Spike. “It ain’t worth the chance.”
Eller licked his lips and shook his head.
“I pass,” he said softly. “Mebbe I did lie, Hartley.”
Swiftly Hashknife stepped over and removed the gun.
“What’s next?” asked Morgan angrily.
“Go home and try to mind your own business.”
“All right, but wait until we tell what happened.”
“Suits me, gents. Vamoose.”
Hashknife and Sleepy followed them out to their horses, where the four
men mounted quickly.
“What about our guns?” asked Morgan.
“One of you come back in daylight and get ’em.”
“Oh, all right. But you two better not be here.”
“We will be, Morgan. _Adios._”
Hashknife watched them ride away in the darkness, and then he went back
in the house, where he found Lane shaking hands with Rex and thanking
him for his timely aid with the shotgun.
“Oh, it wasn’t anything,” said Rex. “I just saw the gun in the corner,
and thought I might frighten them with it.”
“Well, you shore did,” laughed Hashknife. “They know what a shotgun will
do at short range, and they took no chances. Now—” he turned to
Lane—“what are you goin’ to do?”
“I’m goin’ to see Walter and get him to go to Cañonville with me. We
might as well give up and take a chance with the law. I didn’t realize
until just now how safe a jail could be.”
“Oh, I’m glad!” exclaimed Nan. “Anything would be better than this
suspense. But will Walter go with you, dad?”
“I think so. He is tired of dodging in the hills.”
“Well, I wouldn’t lose any time,” declared Hashknife. “That bunch will
probably get drunk in Mesa City, and you never can tell what they will
do.”
“I know,” nodded Lane, “but I don’t know what to do about Nan. She can’t
stay here—”
“I can’t stay anywhere else, dad. I can’t afford to live at a hotel. Oh,
I’ll be all right.”
“We’ll stay a while,” offered Hashknife. “I can’t run away now; not
after that warnin’. As soon as you see the sheriff, send him up here. I
want him to understand about that warnin’, ’cause I might need an
official reason for throwin’ lead.”
“All right, Hartley. I’ll leave my rifle and shells here, in case you
need long range.”
He shook hands with each of them, kissed Nan and vanished down past the
corral in the darkness.
“I guess I better finish washing the dishes,” said Rex. “But I wish some
of you would load that shotgun. I might have to shoot next time.”
“You spoke your piece, pardner,” laughed Hashknife. “I’ll load the gun
for you.”
He took a box of shells off a shelf and dropped one in each barrel,
after which he stood the gun in a corner.
“Thank you so much,” said Rex.
“Good huntin’ to you, brother,” grinned Hashknife.
“Oh, but I’m not going hunting for any one.”
“You won’t have to. In Arizona, that kind of game comes right up to your
door.”
CHAPTER XI
WHISKY TALKS
It is doubtful whether any of his friends would have recognized Napoleon
Bonaparte Briggs, as he stood against the Oasis bar that night. On his
narrow, slightly grizzled head was an ancient brown derby hat, several
sizes too small. Around his skinny neck was a high, batwing collar,
plenty large enough for Napoleon to sink into up to his generous ears,
and his bosom was resplendent in a once white starched bosom
shirt—strange garb for Peter Morgan’s old ranch cook.
He wore no vest, no necktie, and his old brown coat showed evidences of
its long vacation inside a warbag. His overalls were glaringly new,
tucked inside a pair of high heel boots, which emitted an unmistakable
odor of stove polish. Inside the waistband of his overalls, the butt of
it reposing against the lower edge of his shirt bosom, was a heavy Colt
revolver.
And Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs was drunk. It was seldom that Briggs ever
came to Mesa City on a drunk, and no one had ever seen him dressed in
this manner.
“I’m goin’ awa-a-ay, fer, fer awa-a-a-ay,” he sang mournfully. “Where
the swee-e-e-et swy-ring-ga bloo-o-ooms.”
“You thinkin’ of takin’ a long trip?” asked the bartender.
Nap cuffed his derby over one eye and considered the bartender solemnly.
“Feller, when Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs dudes up thisaway, he’s halfway
there.”
“Ocean voyage, Nap?”
“Not unless there’s a cloudburst between here and Cañonville. I aims to
ride a fo’ legged hoss. Gimme another scoop of that liquor, which
tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, and charge it to the house.”
“Can’t do that, Nap. Jack says to make everythin’ cash, until he finds
out what’s to become of this place.”
“Become of it?”
“Yeah, you know, since Peter Morgan died.”
“Oh, yeah,” sadly.
“Have one on me.”
Napoleon considered the bartender thoughtfully, as the glasses were
placed on the bar, and he saw the bartender take money from his own
pocket and put it in the till.
“Well, here’s luck, Nap,” said the bartender.
They drank their liquor straight, and Nap cuffed his hat to the back of
his head.
“I reckon I’ll keep you,” he said seriously.
“Keep me?” queried the bartender.
“Uh-huh. You’re kinda human. I thought at first that I’d do m’ own
bartendin’, but mebbe I won’t. Now, let’s have one on me. I’ve got
money.”
Came the staccato thudding of hoofs, the rattle of spurs on the wooden
sidewalk, and in came Dave Morgan, leading the boys who had been with
him at the Lane ranch. They were all thirsty and mad, and it required
two rounds of drinks, before they were able to discuss the events of the
evening.
Napoleon moved to the end of the bar, standing in solitary grandeur, as
if not wishing to associate with the common herd in his present
habiliments.
“My Lord!” blurted Spike Cahill, spying Napoleon. “There’s the ghost of
Old Man Briggs, lookin’ over his own tombstone!”
“Oh, to the devil with him!” snorted Dave Morgan, invigorated by the
potent liquor. “Let’s decide what’s to be done.”
“And not a gun in the crowd,” said Napoleon, noting the empty holsters.
“O-o-o-oh, I’m go-in’ fer, fer awa-a-ay, where the swee-e-e-et
swy-rin-ga bloo-o-o-oms.”
“What’s the idea of the boiled clothes, Nap?” asked Spike.
“Celebratin’ m’ releash from bondage, Spike. I’m through cookin’.”
“No-o-o-o!”
“Yes, sir. Been rasslin’ pots for the 6X6 for over twenty years, and
it’s time I retired.”
* * * * *
Jack Fairweather, manager of the Oasis, came in beside Dave Morgan,
nodding to each of the boys. Fairweather was a small man, about fifty
years of age, who had been long in the employ of Peter Morgan.
“I’ve been tryin’ to get some dope on this situation,” he told Dave.
“Nobody seems to know just what is to be done. As far as I can find out,
Peter left no will. He never had any use for a lawyer, and they tell me
at the bank that there is no will, as far as they know. What’s to be
done?”
“I dunno,” growled Dave. “What’s usually done in a case of this kind?”
“Well, I suppose the property belongs to his nearest relative. You ought
to know who that would be, Dave.”
“He didn’t have no real close relatives, Jack. His mother and father are
both dead, and he was the only kid they had. There was just two boys in
the family, my father and Pete’s father. They’re both dead.”
“Well, it looks as though you owned somethin’, Dave.”
“I suppose so. As long as there’s no will—”
“Who the hell says there ain’t?” demanded Napoleon.
And thus Napoleon became the center of attraction. He had been so long
with the 6X6 that it might be possible he _did_ know something of
interest. Dave Morgan glared at him, but Napoleon was too drunk to mind
a glare.
“What are you talkin’ about?” demanded Dave.
“What do you know about it?” countered Napoleon.
He almost lost his derby, giving his head a quick jerk.
“What about a will, Nap?” asked Fairweather.
“Oh, thasall right,” muttered Napoleon foolishly.
“Did you ever see a will?” asked Spike.
“I’ve seen a lot of ’em.”
“A lot of ’em that Peter Morgan wrote?” asked Fairweather.
“Nossir.”
“Drunk as a boiled owl,” grunted Red Eller. “He don’t know what it’s all
about. Let’s have another drink.”
“I’m not drunk,” declared Napoleon. “I know a will, when I shee one.
Gimme shome of your tannin’ fluid.”
“What’s the idea of the clothes?” queried Spike.
“Duded up f’r a trip to Cañonville.”
“Napoleon,” grinned Spike, “have you got a girl?”
“Nossir, I ain’t got no girl; I’m goin’ on ’ficial business to the
county sheat. These are m’ ’ficial clothes. Here’s m’ regards, gents.”
* * * * *
Napoleon drank a full glass of liquor, groped his way to a chair, where
he flopped down heavily. His derby rolled off across the floor, and Red
Eller kicked it the length of the room. But Napoleon was not too drunk
to witness this bit of horseplay, and his hand groped drunkenly for the
butt of his six-shooter. But after several ineffectual efforts to draw
the gun, he made a gesture of despair, slumped down in the chair and
began snoring.
“If he’d been sober, he’d have killed you, Red,” declared Spike.
“If he’d been sober, I wouldn’t have kicked the hat.”
“Hell!” snorted Ed Jones. “If he had been sober, he wouldn’t have worn
such a lookin’ hat.”
“Who cares what he would have done?” growled Dave. “What I want to know
is, what are we goin’ to do?”
“Search me,” said Spike. “I know I’m not goin’ back there agin’
tonight.”
“Goin’ to crawfish on this job?”
“Not crawfish, Dave. Old Man Lane won’t be there; so what could we gain
by goin’ back?”
“I reckon that’s true.”
Dave explained to Fairweather what had taken place at the Lane ranch,
but the gambler had no suggestions to offer.
“I’ll ride down in the mornin’ and collect the guns,” offered Spike.
“I’m not scared. They said we could have ’em in daylight.”
Red Eller and Ed Jones decided that they wanted to play a little poker,
and Dave Morgan wanted to go home; so Dave went away alone. Others
drifted in and the games filled up, while Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs
slept off his jag, and awoke, with a stiff neck and the disposition of a
grizzly.
He found the brim of his derby hat, which Red Eller had kicked loose
from its crown, and it pained him greatly. He accepted a drink, went out
to his horse, where he mounted and headed for Cañonville.
“If that horse ever bucks, that collar will slice old Briggs’ ears off,”
declared Spike Cahill. “Funny old coot. Him and Pete Morgan was pretty
close friends, even if they did cuss each other out at least once a
day.”
“What do you suppose he meant—about that will?” asked Jack Fairweather.
“Liquor talkin’. Old Briggs would rather argue than eat. The minute
somebody says, ‘There is,’ old Briggs is sure to say, ‘There ain’t.’ But
I sure don’t _sabe_ that boiled shirt and collar and the hard hat.”
CHAPTER XII
BUZZARDS
It was three days after the voluntary surrender of Paul Lane and his son
that Hashknife, Rex and Lem Sheeley rode to Mesa City from the Lane
ranch.
Spike Cahill had come to the ranch the day after the attempt to capture
Paul Lane and recovered the guns. If Spike bore any malice toward
Hashknife, Sleepy or Rex he failed to show it, but at that time he did
not know that Paul Lane had surrendered to the sheriff.
Both men had sworn that they were innocent of the charge, and they both
denied shooting Noah Evans, who was slowly recovering. Long Lane swore
he had not seen Ben Leach after Leach left the Oasis Saloon and that he
did not take Ben’s horse and gun.
Of course, no one believed the father and son, and every one knew that
they had surrendered to the law rather than take a chance of being
lynched. Their guilt was so firmly fixed in the eyes of the cattlemen
that any twelve men in the county would have convicted them without
leaving the jury box.
Sleepy urged Hashknife to forget the case. As far as he could see there
was nothing to keep them in the Black Horse range any longer, and Sleepy
was anxious to get settled to a job for the winter.
But Hashknife was not satisfied. The shooting of Noah Evans was one
thing unexplained. After talking with Paul Lane, he was satisfied that
neither the old man nor his son were bitter enough against the 6X6 to
bushwhack one of that outfit, especially when the light was so bad that
they could not identify their target.
And there was Rex Morgan, whom Sleepy had dubbed the Orejano. Who in
Mesa City had sent money to Rex’s mother, wondered Hashknife? And that
was the reason why Hashknife, Rex and the sheriff had ridden to Mesa
City. Hashknife had talked it over with Lem Sheeley and decided to seek
information at the Mesa City Bank.
* * * * *
John Harper, the Mesa City banker, a small, wiry man, with heavy
glasses, welcomed Lem and Hashknife cordially. Harper had known the
sheriff for years.
“Well, what’s on your mind, Lem?” he asked, after Lem had introduced the
others.
“Peter Morgan banked with you, didn’t he, John?”
The banker smiled slowly.
“What banking he did—yes.”
“What do you mean by that, John?”
“He didn’t do much banking, Lem. Peter Morgan was rather a queer person
and preferred having his money nearer than a bank vault.”
“You mean he kept it at the ranch?”
“I suspect he did, Lem.”
“Well, here’s somethin’ we want to find out, John,” and Lem explained
about Rex’s mother’s receiving the seventy-five-dollar check.
The banker listened closely, and when Lem finished he shook his head
thoughtfully.
“Was that the only check from here that you have seen?” he asked Rex.
“That was the only one, Mr. Harper. But I feel sure that my mother
received money from someone.”
“The name of Morgan kinda had us guessin’,” said Lem.
The banker smiled slowly, thoughtfully.
“I don’t suppose I’d be violating any confidence, now that Peter Morgan
is dead,” he said, “but the fact of the matter is this—Peter Morgan
could not write.”
“Couldn’t write?” pondered Lem.
“He had no education whatever. In fact, when he wished to draw a check,
I signed his name for him. So that answers your question regarding that
particular check.”
“Could it have been Dave Morgan?” asked Hashknife.
The banker shook his head quickly.
“No. Dave Morgan closed his account with us several months ago. I think
I was the only one in this country who knew that Peter Morgan could not
write. He was very sensitive about it. I don’t believe Dave Morgan knew
it. When there were any papers to be signed, Peter always brought them
to me.”
“You never heard him mention a will, did you?” asked Hashknife.
“No, I never did. I’m sure I would have known about it, if there had
been one. I understand you have Paul Lane in jail for murdering Peter.”
“Yeah, he’s down there,” sighed Lem.
“Any question about his guilt, Lem?”
“I hope so, John. I dunno what defense the old man will put up. If he
wasn’t a nester he might get off. You see, he warned Peter to keep away
from his place. There ain’t no direct evidence that Morgan was killed on
the Lane ranch, but the jury will probably think he was.”
“How is Noah Evans getting along?”
“Kinda slow. The doctor seems to think he’s out of danger. I reckon he
is; he cusses all the time.”
They thanked the banker for his information. Lem had other business to
transact, so Hashknife and Rex left him in Mesa City and rode back to
the ranch.
* * * * *
Hashknife was disappointed. He had expected some information from the
banker that might be of some value to him, but as far as he could see,
they were up against a blank wall.
Rex had nothing to offer. He couldn’t remember what the signature on
that check looked like.
“I don’t know what to do,” he told Hashknife. “I can’t stay here all my
life. I haven’t any money, and no place to go. Rather a puzzling
situation, isn’t it?”
“Well, we’re in the same boat,” smiled Hashknife. “But our case is a
little different, except that we can’t all pull out and leave that girl
here alone. The Lanes haven’t any money, either. It looks to me as
though we’ve all got to stay here and see what works out. Me and Sleepy
have enough for a grubstake for all of us, I reckon.”
“Well, I suppose we’ll have to do something like that.”
“Sure. But the limb of the law waves so slow in a country like this that
we’ll wear the seats out of our pants, waitin’ for them to try the Lane
family for murder. I reckon we’ll just stick around and see what
happens.”
They talked it over with Nan and Sleepy at the ranch. Nan wanted to go
to Cañonville and look for a job.
“I might get work in a restaurant,” she said. “That would relieve you
boys of my presence. I didn’t realize the situation until now.”
“You are not going to work in any restaurant,” declared Rex warmly. “We
can get along out here. I’ve still got my five dollars.”
“You bloated financier!” exploded Sleepy. “If you knew anythin’ about
poker, I’d take that five away from you.”
“I don’t know anything about poker,” said Rex quickly, “but if you want
the five, I’ll give it to you, Sleepy.”
“Thank you,” grunted Sleepy, rather taken aback by Rex’s generosity. “I
reckon you’re all right, kid; we’ll get along. Can you imagine that?” he
asked Hashknife, a little later on.
“Rex is all right, Sleepy.”
“Shore, he’s all right. Pretty heavy on education, but he’ll get that
knocked out of him in a short time. Do you know, I’ve got a hunch that
Nan thinks quite a lot of him.”
“She’s sorry for him.”
“Yeah, and he’s sorry for her. He looks at her like a dyin’ calf in the
spring thaw.”
They took care of their horses and wandered back to the house, where
they found Nan and Rex on the porch, talking confidentially. Nan seemed
very determined about something, and Rex seemed troubled. Hashknife
sprawled on the steps and rolled a cigaret.
“I want to tell you something, Hashknife,” said Nan. “Rex don’t think I
should, but—”
“I wouldn’t,” said Rex firmly.
“But I think you boys understand,” said Nan. “Oh, it won’t hurt
anything, Rex—not now. We haven’t told anybody, except my father.”
“Go ahead,” urged Hashknife. “I suppose it’s about findin’ Peter
Morgan’s body, ain’t it? And sendin’ it home on the horse?”
Nan gasped, staring at Hashknife.
“What—why, how did you know?”
“Guessed it, Nan. Lem found you and Rex in the corral. Rex had fainted.
And then Lem found Peter Morgan’s six-gun in the corral. It wasn’t more
than an hour or so later that the body of Morgan came to the 6X6.”
“And you just guessed it?” asked Nan wonderingly.
“Somethin’ like that, Nan. I figured that you and Rex had a secret
between you. Would you mind takin’ me down to the corral and showin’ me
just how the body laid, and all that?”
“And—and you don’t blame us for what we done?” asked Nan.
“Certainly not; I’d have done the same. C’mon.”
* * * * *
They all went down to the corral, where Nan explained all about the
position of the body and how they had secured the horse from the willows
across the stream and had managed to rope the body to the saddle.
Hashknife listened closely, questioning both of them as to small
details, and even examined the dust closely, where Peter Morgan’s body
had lain. Nan pointed out the place where the horse had been tied, and
Rex took Hashknife over to the spot where he had secured the horse.
The ground was fairly soft along the creek, and Hashknife was able to
distinguish the tracks of the shod horse.
“Mr. Morgan must have left his horse here while he went over to the
corner of the stable,” said Rex.
Hashknife grunted, as he studied the tracks closely. From where they
stood the horse would have been invisible to any one at the ranch-house.
The presumption would have been that Morgan rode up to the willows from
that side of the creek, not taking any chances of being seen, but the
tracks showed that the horse had crossed the stream twice; one set of
tracks, of course, was made when Rex took the animal over to the corral.
It proved that the rider had come in past the corral, crossed the creek
and tied the horse over there.
They came back to the bank of the little creek, where Hashknife stopped
again to examine the tracks. The stream was about four feet wide and two
feet deep at this point. Rex sprang across and went back to the corral
fence, while Hashknife squatted on his heels on the creek bank.
Suddenly he got to his feet and looked down the stream, where the water
swung around an undercut bank, practically undermining a heavy growth of
willows. Something had attracted his attention, and he shoved down
through the brush to this spot, where he sprawled along the bank,
reaching down in the water.
After some little effort he was able to drag out the object, which he
lugged back to a clear space. It was a Navaho rug, about four feet wide
and five feet long, which had been rolled tightly and tied at both ends
with whang leather strings.
Hashknife cut the strings and unrolled the rug. It was rather difficult
to tell how long the rug had been in the water. It was rather
discolored, but the pattern was clear enough. The two ends of the rug
were of red and gray design, while the center was dead black, with a
jagged strip of white, representing the Navaho idea of lightning.
Hashknife carried the rug over to the corral, where he spread it out on
the ground. It was a very distinctive pattern, and Nan was sure she had
never seen it before. Just why it was in the creek, none of them was
able to say. It was not a rug that any one would discard.
Hashknife hung it over the top pole of the corral to dry out, and left
it there, dripping down across the poles.
“That must have been a beautiful rug,” sighed Nan. “I have always
admired Navaho rugs, but we have always been too poor to buy one.”
“You can have that one,” smiled Hashknife. “Probably take a lot of
washin’ to clean it up. Lot of that silt has soaked up in it, and it’ll
take time to get it out. Might be better to let it dry, and then beat it
out.”
“What would they do to us, if they knew what we had done?” asked Rex
anxiously.
“I dunno,” smiled Hashknife. “Better not tell anybody else. It would be
a point for the prosecution, you know. It would prove just where Peter
Morgan was killed. It’s too bad you didn’t think to get that gun.”
“We were too excited to think of anything, except to get the body away
from here,” said Nan.
“I’ll betcha. That was shore some job for you two. Now, we’ll just
forget all that.”
* * * * *
An hour later, Lem Sheely rode in at the ranch. Nan was busy in the
kitchen, but the three men were on the porch to meet him.
“I’ve got a little information for you,” said the sheriff, declining to
dismount. “After you boys left town, John Harper called me back to the
bank. You see, bankers are kinda close when it comes to talkin’ about
things, and he didn’t know you very well.
“Here’s what he told me, boys. Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs is the one who
has been sendin’ money to a Mary Morgan. He has been sendin’ it for
years. John said he never asked Nap about it, ’cause he figured it
wasn’t his business.
“He said he wondered where Briggs got the money, until one day Peter
Morgan told him that Briggs had an interest in the 6X6. Now, mebbe you
can find out from Briggs what it’s all about, Hashknife. Harper don’t
know a thing about it, except that Briggs kept a balance in the bank,
and mostly every month he sent a check away. Harper says he don’t know
any Mary Morgan.”
“Old Man Briggs is the cook at the 6X6, ain’t he, Lem?” asked Hashknife.
“Yeah, a queer old pelican. Been with the 6X6 since these hills were
holes in the ground. Don’t start any argument, ’cause it won’t get you
anywhere with him. I wish you luck in findin’ out anythin’. Just thought
mebbe you’d like to know, so I dropped in. Got to get back before dark.”
Hashknife thanked him for the information, and the sheriff rode on
toward Cañonville.
“It shore is worse tangled than ever now,” said Hashknife. “I reckon the
name Morgan is just a coincidence in this case, Rex. But just where does
Briggs come in on it?”
“Oh, I suppose we’ll never find out,” sighed Rex. “But after all, what
difference does it make? It can’t affect my future in any way. Still,
I’d like to know. Don’t you see the position I am in? Suppose—” Rex
hesitated for a moment—“suppose I wanted to marry a girl, and she asked
me about my father?”
“Tell her he died before you was born,” advised Hashknife.
“But that would be a lie.”
“How do you know?”
“But I couldn’t prove it, Hashknife.”
“Any girl who likes you well enough to marry you won’t make you prove
when your father died, kid.”
“But I don’t even know I had a father.”
“Well, you won’t have to prove that. Just forget that you went through
life kinda one sided on parents. And don’t argue with me. I want to set
down and think about Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs and a dirty Navaho rug.”
* * * * *
Sleepy went into the house, where he flopped on the old couch, burying
his nose in an old magazine, while Rex sat down on a corner of the
porch, watching the changing lights on the hills, as the sun sank lower
in the west.
It was as if a painter, unsatisfied with an effect, would swiftly blot
out a streak of gold and draw in a full brush of violet, only to change
it to a deep mauve, and then to an opaque cobalt, striking new
highlights with glowing gold.
Farther to the north a great flock of birds, like a lot of black sheets
of paper caught in a whirlwind, spiraled up from among the hills, always
traveling in circles. Rex watched them, fascinated. They did not seem to
flap their wings, but mounted higher and higher. Some of them circled
back to earth, but seemed to come back, flapping their wings, as if in
haste to gain altitude.
“What kind of birds are those, Hashknife?” asked Rex.
Hashknife glanced quickly at Rex, turned and scanned the hills.
“Buzzards,” he said indifferently.
“I tried to count them, but they weave back and forth so swiftly, and
each one looks like the other.”
Hashknife relaxed and reached for his cigaret papers.
“Scavengers, Rex; a big bird who smells death, they say. But I don’t
believe it, because I’ve fooled ’em. I’ve stretched out on the desert,
played dead, and had them down so close I pulled feathers out of their
tails.”
“Is there something dead over there, Hashknife?”
“Undoubtedly. They’ve been having a feast and are pulling out before
dark. Mebbe a coyote or two came along and started an argument.”
“Dead cow, do you suppose?”
Hashknife squinted quizzically at the gyrating flock, slowly mounting
higher. They were not splitting up, as a flock usually does, when the
feast is over; but rather they were acting as if something had
interrupted them. Hashknife grinned and turned to Rex.
“Let’s take a rifle and go over there, kid. It’s in a little swale off
the road, and we might knock over a coyote.”
Rex was willing. Hashknife called to Sleepy, asking him to go along.
“Goin’ to ride over?” asked Sleepy.
“It’s only a little ways,” replied Hashknife.
“Count me out. I wouldn’t walk a mile for all the coyotes in Arizona.”
Hashknife took Paul Lane’s .30-30, and they walked up the road, while
the buzzards still circled. It was a little over a mile to where they
left the road and about a quarter of a mile from where Ben Leach had
been killed.
From the road they went cautiously through the brushy swale, circling
the thickets of mesquite. Suddenly a coyote went streaking across the
swale, almost invisible in the waning light. Hashknife stepped back,
swinging up the Winchester, and as the animal started up the slope of
the hill on the opposite side of the swale, the rifle cracked sharply
and the coyote gave a convulsive sidewise leap, landed in a Spanish
dagger, from whence it went yipping along through the brush, telling the
world in coyote language what it thought of a man who would drive
a .30-30 bullet in front of the nose of any well-meaning coyote.
“Led him too much,” laughed Hashknife. “Didja see him set down in that
dagger? Talk about anythin’ bein’ full of pins and needles! I had a
hunch that some coyotes had chased them buzzards from their supper.”
* * * * *
They circled another clump of mesquite and found what had attracted the
scavengers. It was what was left of a sorrel horse, which was still
wearing a saddle and bridle. The buzzards and coyotes had made a sorry
mess of it, but the saddle and bridle were still intact.
With his pocket knife, Hashknife cut the latigo, and drew the saddle
away from the carcass. It was a good grade of stock saddle, with stamped
seat and fenders. The skin of the animal had been literally torn to
shreds, obliterating the brand, but leaving enough to identify its
color.
Hashknife examined the head of the animal for possible bullet holes, but
found none. Upon closer examination he found that the horse’s shoulder
had been broken. The bridle reins were tangled about the other leg,
drawing the head of the animal sharply downward.
No doubt the coyotes had pulled the body about to some extent, but
Hashknife was able to read the signs fairly well.
“I reckon this was Ben Leach’s horse,” he told Rex. “It busted its
shoulder in some way, leavin’ it to hobble on three legs, until the
reins got tangled in the other front leg and threw it. Mebbe the fall
broke its neck, and mebbe it just couldn’t get up, and the coyotes
finished it.”
“Does it mean anything?” asked Rex.
“Well, it means that Walter Lane didn’t steal the horse, which is one
point in his favor.”
Hashknife hung the saddle in a mesquite thicket, and they went back
home, leaving the way clear for the coyotes to continue their
interrupted meal. The buzzards had disappeared by this time.
“If it hadn’t been for those buzzards, we would never have found that
horse,” said Rex.
“That’s true,” thoughtfully. “Sometimes it’s a good plan to foller the
buzzards, kid. You never can tell what you might find.”
CHAPTER XIII
DAVE MORGAN TAKES CHARGE
“What right have you got to open the safe?” demanded Dell Bowen. “This
ranch ain’t never been turned over to you, Dave.”
Dave Morgan, standing in the center of the 6X6 ranch-house living room,
smiled sarcastically at Dell Bowen. With Morgan was Ed Jones, his
right-hand man. Spike Cahill and Bert Roddy were standing beside a
small, old-fashioned iron safe against the west wall of the room.
On the table, beside Morgan, was a collection of papers, some money, the
miscellaneous stuff which had been taken from Peter Morgan’s pockets.
Dave Morgan had in his hand a key which he had taken from the table.
“It _will_ be, as far as that’s concerned,” said Morgan.
“Then you better wait until it is, Dave.”
“Yea-a-ah? Well, I’m just a little curious to know what’s in that safe,
Dell. All this talk about wills has kinda made me wonder if there is
such a thing. You boys can check up everythin’ in there, and I won’t
take anythin’.”
“Well, that might be all right. As long as we put everythin’ back, Dave.
I don’t want to get in bad with the law, you know.”
They went over to the safe and watched Dave Morgan insert the key. The
safe opened easily. For a moment there was no sound, and then Spike
Cahill whistled softly.
The safe was empty! Not even a scrap of paper. Dave got to his feet,
looking from face to face.
“Looks pretty clean, don’t it?” he asked softly.
“It does,” admitted Dell Bowen.
Dave walked back to the table and dropped the key. He did not bother to
lock it again.
“I don’t quite _sabe_ that empty safe,” said Bowen. “The boss must ’a’
cleaned it out before he got killed.”
“You think he did, eh?” sneered Morgan.
“Well, it shore looks thataway, Dave.”
“Yea-a-ah? Huh! I don’t _sabe_ why that key wasn’t turned over to the
sheriff. Leavin’ it layin’ around—”
“Wait a minute,” cautioned Bowen. “You ain’t aimin’ to put the deadwood
on any of us, are you?”
“I’m not aimin’ at anybody,” said Dave angrily, “but it don’t look right
for that safe to be empty, does it?”
“Aw, what the hell?” snorted Spike. “It’s empty, and that’s all there is
to it.”
“Mebbe not _all_,” retorted Dave. “Pete must have had some money.
There’s very little in the bank; I found that out.”
“Well, what are you goin’ to do about it?” demanded Dell. “It shore
looks to me as though you was a little previous, Dave.”
“You think so, do you, Bowen?” Dave hooked his thumbs over his cartridge
belt and glared at the red-faced cowboy who had acted as Peter Morgan’s
foreman.
“Lemme tell _you_ somethin’. This 6X6 belongs to me. It’s only a matter
of a few days until I move in here and take charge.”
“Suits me,” grunted Bowen.
Dave hunched his shoulders and scanned the faces of the three 6X6
cowboys.
“And I’ll prob’ly hire my own crew,” he added meaningly.
“And far as I’m concerned, you can hire ’em right now, Morgan; I’m
through.”
“Same here,” nodded Spike, and Bert nodded in agreement.
“You don’t need to go off half-cocked,” said Dave quickly.
“As far as I’m concerned, you can go to hell,” said Bowen coldly. “And
another thing, Morgan; don’t ever make the crack that any of us unlocked
that safe. If you do, we’ll shore take you apart to see what makes you
tick.”
“I don’t reckon I need to make any cracks, Bowen. And as far as takin’
me apart is concerned, I’ll be right there, showin’ you what makes me
tick.”
* * * * *
The three cowboys headed for the door.
“You might take Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs along with you,” said Dave. “I
reckon I can find a cook.”
“He’s gone already,” growled Spike. “Pulled out several days ago. The
night the tenderfoot made us back water with an empty shotgun, Old Man
Briggs headed for Cañonville.”
“Well, if you see him, you can tell him he don’t need to come back.”
“If he knows you’re here, it’s a cinch he won’t want to.”
It did not take the three boys long to pack their belongings in their
warbags. Dave Morgan and Ed Jones sat on the spacious porch of the
ranch-house and watched them saddle their horses and leave the ranch.
Dave Morgan smiled around at his possessions. The 6X6 was the biggest
ranch in the country. Even the stable was a better building than the
ranch-house at the Flying M.
“Got kinda salty, didn’t they?” grinned Dave.
“They allus have been,” said Ed slowly. “I was wonderin’ about Old Man
Briggs, Dave. He pulled out several days ago, and he had plenty chance
to open that safe.”
Dave smiled thoughtfully.
“I’ll betcha you’re right, Ed. That old pelican cleaned out that safe
and skipped the country. I’ll get in touch with the sheriff as soon as I
can, and we’ll see if we can’t find Briggs. He’s the man.”
“Another thing,” said Jones. “You’ll have to hire some punchers, Dave.
We can’t run both places. What you ort to do is to hire a crew to run
the Flyin’ M, and let us come here.”
Dave pondered a moment.
“Might be a good idea. I dunno where I’d find any men right now.”
“How about them two jiggers at the Lane place. Oh, I know you don’t like
’em, but they look like cowmen, Dave.”
“I know,” nodded Dave. “I kinda hate to go ahead and hire a crew until
this thing is all settled up, but I reckon I might as well. Tomorrow
I’ll go down to Cañonville and have a talk with a lawyer. He can fix it
all up for me, and in the meantime I’ll ride down to the Lane place and
have a talk with them two fellers. I don’t quite _sabe_ what they’re
doin’ around here, and it might be a good scheme to have ’em where we
know what they’re doin’.”
“You don’t think they’re in here to pull anythin’ crooked, do you,
Dave?” asked Ed.
“_Quien sabe?_ They’re shore backin’ the Lane family, and I might be
doin’ the law a favor by hirin’ ’em away from the Lane ranch.”
“You can stay here, Ed. Mebbe you better ride back to the ranch and get
Red to come over with you. Move your stuff over. I’ll stay at the Flyin’
M with Cal, until I get things fixed up. And I’ll see if I can rustle a
cook for here. Then I’ll be all set.”
* * * * *
That same morning Hashknife had been doing considerable thinking about
the dead horse they had found, so he decided to ride to Cañonville and
have a talk with the sheriff. Nan wanted to send some clean clothes to
the jail; so Sleepy decided to go along. With both of the Lanes in jail,
there was nothing for Nan to be worried about, as far as the 6X6 was
concerned. Anyway, Rex would stay.
After Hashknife and Sleepy went away Rex investigated the Navaho rug and
found it practically dry. He carried it up beside the house and
proceeded to hammer the dirt out of it. Armed with a section of broom
handle, he beat industriously, and was so engaged when Dave Morgan rode
up.
Rex was a bit apprehensive when he saw who the rider was, but Dave’s
grin was reassuring.
“Cleanin’ house?” he asked, glancing at the rug.
“Not exactly,” said Rex, wiping the perspiration off his nose. “Mr.
Hartley discovered this rug in the creek yesterday. I doubt that I shall
ever be able to beat the dirt out of it.”
“Found it in the creek, eh?”
“Yes. Queer, isn’t it? Looks like a good rug. It has a very distinctive
pattern, don’t you think?”
“Yea-a-ah, it has.”
Nan came to the door and saw Dave Morgan. He smiled at her and lifted
his hat.
“How do you do, Miss Lane?”
Nan nodded coldly.
“Aw, let’s be friends,” he laughed. “I don’t blame you for the way you
feel. No? Well, I’m sorry. Where’s Hartley and his pardner?”
“Oh, they went to Cañonville today,” said Rex quickly. “We found the
horse and saddle which belonged to Ben Leach last night, and I think Mr.
Hartley wished to talk to the sheriff about it.”
“Thasso? Where did you find it?”
Rex pointed vaguely toward the hills.
“Out there. It had a broken shoulder, and the coyotes had eaten it
nearly all up.”
“Yea-a-ah?” Dave rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, that’s funny.”
He turned to Nan.
“Mebbe your brother didn’t take Ben’s horse, after all. That’ll be good
evidence in his favor.”
“I hope something will be in his favor,” she said wearily.
“You just leave it to Hashknife Hartley,” said Rex. “He knows things.
Sleepy told me that Hashknife saw things that other men overlooked.”
“Is that so? I wanted to have a talk with ’em today. I’ve taken over the
6X6, and I need some help. In fact, I’d like to get them to run the
Flyin’ M for me, because I want to move my crew over to the 6X6.
“I might be able to use you, too,” he said to Rex. “You can learn.”
“Certainly, I can learn,” said Rex smiling.
Dave looked at Nan thoughtfully.
“You’ve been cookin’ for these three men, ain’t you?”
Nan nodded.
“After a fashion.”
“Well, now here’s what I was thinkin’ about. This place don’t need much
attention. Why don’t you all move over to the Flyin’ M, Miss Lane. You
can do the cookin’. Take what little stock you’ve got over there. It’s
better than this. Under the circumstances, there ain’t a thing you can
do here. That trial won’t come off for another month, at least. Why not
try a whirl at the Flyin’ M? At least you’ll get paid for your work.”
“Why, I don’t know—” faltered Nan. “I—I don’t know what to say.”
“Well, think it over. When Hartley comes back, talk it over with him. If
you want the jobs, you’ll probably find me at the Flyin’ M. I’m goin’ to
Cañonville tomorrow to see a lawyer, but I’ll be back late in the
afternoon. Don’t hold it against me for the things my cousin done to
you. I’m owner of the 6X6 now, and I don’t mind a nester.”
“It is nice of you to make us that offer,” said Nan.
“Nothin’ of the kind; I need you. Let me know what you decide to do.
Well, I’ll see you later.”
* * * * *
Dave Morgan tipped his sombrero and rode away, while Rex essayed an
awkward dance toward the half-cleaned rug. He was delighted with the
chance to get a job; but Nan did not share his enthusiasm.
“Why, Nan, he’s all right,” said Rex. “He’s so different than he was the
last time he was here.”
“Very much different,” said Nan seriously. “I can’t trust men who suffer
such great changes. Hang that dirty rug on the fence and get me some
wood. I’m trying to bake an apple pie for supper, and I need a hot
oven.”
Rex shouldered the rug and turned toward the corral, then swung around,
facing Nan.
“If I had a lucrative position, would you marry me?”
Nan flushed slightly.
“That question is a whole lot like the saying ‘If we had some ham we
could have some ham and eggs, if we had some eggs.’”
“I see,” blankly. “Well, I shall get you the wood, Nan. I’m afraid I’ll
never get this rug cleaned. It seems to be badly stained.”
“Well, hang it on the fence.”
* * * * *
Dave Morgan decided to go to Cañonville that day, instead of waiting
until the next, and he was within a couple of miles of the town, when he
met the sheriff, Hashknife and Sleepy. The sheriff had considered the
dead horse worthy of further investigation, and they were on their way
to the Lane ranch.
Dave greeted them in a friendly manner and told them he had been at the
Lane ranch.
“Didja see old Briggs in Cañonville?” he asked Lem.
“He ain’t there, Dave. What do you want Briggs for?”
Dave told them of the empty safe at the 6X6. He did not directly accuse
Briggs of theft, but he intimated that the guilt lay between Briggs and
the three other cowboys, with most of the evidence against Briggs,
because he had seemingly left the country.
“How do you know there was anythin’ in the safe before Peter Morgan was
killed?” asked Hashknife.
“I don’t know that there was, Hartley; but there should have been. Pete
wasn’t very strong for banks, and it don’t seem reasonable that the safe
would be empty, does it?”
“Who had charge of the key?” asked Lem.
“Anybody at the ranch. They had the keys, along with the other stuff
they took from Pete’s pockets, in a drawer of the table. Any of them
could have swiped the key and looted the safe, Lem.”
Lem considered the matter gravely.
“It’s kinda hard to accuse anybody of theft, when you don’t know
anythin’ has been stolen, Dave. There’s no record of what was in the
safe. Old Briggs has had several days to make his getaway, and nobody
knows which way he went.”
“Yeah, that’s true. I suppose we might as well forget that safe.”
“Best thing to do, Dave. Have you taken over the 6X6?”
“Just about. I’m goin’ to see a lawyer now, and have him fix it up.”
He turned to Hashknife.
“I need two good men, Hartley. The crew at the 6X6 have quit, and I’m
kinda short handed. If you’ll take the job, I’ll put you in charge of
the Flyin’ M. I had a talk with Miss Lane and the young feller a while
ago, and I made her a proposition to cook for you. She’s cookin’ for you
now; so she might as well make some money out of it. I can use the kid,
too. He ain’t worth much, but he’ll learn. What do you say?”
“I dunno,” smiled Hashknife. “Sounds all right. I’ll talk it over with
Miss Lane and see what she thinks. We can’t step out and leave her
alone, you see.”
“No, that wouldn’t be right. You talk it over with her, and let me know.
I want to move my outfit over to the 6X6 as soon as I can. As far as
Lane’s stock is concerned, he’s only got a few head, and you can herd
them over to my place.”
“Well, that’s nice of you, Morgan.”
“It’ll help me out a whole lot.”
* * * * *
Hashknife promised to talk it over with Nan, and they rode on. Sleepy
was rather jubilant over the chance to go to work, especially if
Hashknife was to have charge of the ranch. But Hashknife had little to
say about it.
“Don’t you think he’s a little previous about takin’ over the 6X6?”
asked Hashknife.
“Looks thataway,” replied Lem. “Still, he might as well, I suppose. Now
that he owns the Oasis, he’ll probably drink himself to death. Dave’s
all right though. He’s all excited over that 6X6.”
“Probably was an awful blow to find the safe empty,” grinned Sleepy.
“Sure. Just between us, I’ll bet old Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs did clean
out that safe. He just about emptied it, and headed out of the country.”
“What about his share of the 6X6?” queried Hashknife. “The banker at
Mesa City mentioned it to you, didn’t he?”
“Mebbe Briggs’ share was in the safe,” chuckled Lem. “Briggs hated Dave
Morgan, and he knew Dave would inherit the 6X6; so he just took his
share out of the safe and busted up the partnership. Anyway, it’s too
bad they didn’t turn that key over to me.”
They left the main road and soon came to the spot where Ben Leach had
been killed. Hashknife had never had much of that incident explained to
him, but Lem pointed out where Ben had fallen, according to what the
others had told him; they had moved the body before the sheriff had had
a chance to view it.
The old road was very rocky at this point. Hashknife dismounted and
walked along the right side of the road, which was piled with broken
boulders. Suddenly he grunted aloud and reached down among the rocks.
He had found a Colt .45 revolver. The two other men swung down from
their horses and came over to him. The spur of the hammer had been
broken off, and one shot had been fired. It was a single-action gun,
well oiled.
Hashknife examined it closely and smiled at Lem, as he handed him the
gun.
“There’s the missin’ six-shooter,” he said. “Ben Leach shot himself.”
“Shot himself? How do you—”
“Probably ridin’ with the gun in his hand, Lem. The horse stumbled on
this rocky ground, fell and broke its shoulder, throwin’ Ben. See where
the spur of that hammer hit a rock?”
“You mean, the hammer hit the rock, fired the shell—and killed Ben?”
“Don’t it look reasonable, Lem? He was probably ridin’ fast, and when
the horse fell he flung the gun on the rocks. The horse got up and went
limpin’ off across country, until it got the other front foot tangled in
the reins, and went down for keeps. You can see that the hammer of the
gun hit the rocks and fired that shell.”
“Well, by gosh!” blurted Lem. “I can see it all now, Hashknife. It’s all
simple, when you can see it. Ain’t that fate for you?”
“It was his way to die,” said Hashknife thoughtfully.
“That’s right, I reckon. Nobody ever thought of it bein’ an accident.
Let’s go and find that horse. I want to take the saddle back to
Cañonville for evidence, too. After I explain things to the prosecutin’
attorney, he’ll have to turn young Lane loose. Now, if we could only
discover that Peter Morgan accidentally killed himself.”
“Mebbe he butted his head against the stable,” suggested Sleepy, as they
rode up through the swale.
“I reckon we’ll have to look further than that,” smiled Hashknife.
They found the carcass of the horse, and Lem verified what Hashknife had
told him about the broken shoulder. The reins were still twisted around
the left foot of the animal. They fastened the saddle behind the saddle
on Lem’s horse and went back to the road, where Lem left them and went
back to Cañonville. He was anxious to get Walter Lane out of jail.
* * * * *
It was still early in the afternoon, and they discovered that both of
them were almost out of tobacco.
“Might as well head for Mesa City and stock up,” said Hashknife. “We can
get back by supper time. Might also pick up a few cans of groceries,
’cause I figure Nan’s cupboard is jist about cleaned out.”
They found the three boys from the 6X6 in town, already a little more
than half-drunk, quarreling over a dice game.
“We’ve done quit the 6X6,” said Spike Cahill, “so you don’t need to be
scared of us. We’re plumb neutral now. Old Dave Morgan came out and took
charge today. In fact he became so full of ownership that we pulled out
and left him flat.”
“That’s what he told us,” said Hashknife.
“Yeah? I suppose he’s braggin’ about it. I’d jist like to bend him so
bad that every time he coughed he’d snag his nose on his own spurs.”
“What became of your cook out there?”
“Old Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs? Did Morgan say anythin’ about him,
Hartley?”
“Somethin’ about bustin’ a safe at the 6X6.”
“Uh-huh.” Spike wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Well, I
dunno. Far be it from me to say he did or didn’t. I’m no mind reader.
Dave Morgan found the safe empty, and he kinda intimated that some of us
had a hand in the thing. We shore called his bet—and quit. I don’t say I
wouldn’t snag me an _orejano_, but I won’t rob no penny-ante safe. Let’s
have us a drink, tall feller. How’s the tenderfoot?”
“He’s all right,” laughed Hashknife.
“What’s that lunatic doin’ here, anyway? Nobody knows what he came for.
I thought he was a weak sister, and I found m’self flat on m’ back. I
could almost be friends with a feller who can hit that hard. Let’s go
and have that drink.”
Hashknife accepted the drink in order to find out a few things from
Spike. He wasn’t quite certain of Spike; so he didn’t want to rush
matters.
“What are you boys goin’ to do now?” asked Hashknife.
“We don’t know,” replied Spike. “We got to get jobs. I think I’ll head
south, down into the Juniper River country. Used to punch cows down
there, and I mebbe can land a winter job.”
“You’ve been on the 6X6 quite a while, ain’t you?”
“Two seasons is all.”
“I’m goin’ to ask you somethin’, Cahill,” said Hashknife confidentially.
“You’ve been in the 6X6 ranch-house quite a lot, ain’t you?”
Spike looked curiously at him, but nodded slowly.
“Yea-a-ah, quite a lot.”
“Are there any Navaho rugs on the floor?”
“Mm-m-m-m. Yeah, I think there is a few.”
“Didja ever notice one that had a lightnin’ mark—zigzag streak of white
on a black background?”
“Lemme see.” Spike scratched his head thoughtfully. “I’m not awful sure
about that, but it seems to me-e-e that I’ve seen somethin’ like that.
Now, I can’t swear to it. Mebbe Bert or Dell would remember.”
* * * * *
Dell and Bert had settled their quarrel over the dice and were ordering
their drink, when Spike moved in beside them and propounded the
question. They looked solemnly at Spike and wanted to know why he wanted
to know.
“This tall feller asked me,” said Spike humbly. “I didn’t know for sure,
so I ask you.”
Bowen and Roddy moved over closer to Hashknife, prompted by curiosity.
“What’s the idea?” queried Bowen.
“I can’t tell you,” smiled Hashknife. “I just wanted to know, thasall.”
“Uh-huh. We-e-ell,” drawled Bowen, “I reckon there is.”
“Is it there now?”
“Now, you got me guessin’, pardner. I reckon it is.”
“Do you remember it, Bert?” asked Spike.
“No,” growled Bert. “And I’d crave to know what a darned Injun rug has
got to do with this drink I jist won off Dell.”
“You didn’t win it,” contradicted Dell. “You was throwin’ sixes, Bert.
You had four sixes agin my five sixes, on the last horse.”
“I had five sixes and I beat you on the throw off.”
“You had four. On your last throw you saw that six on the _side_ of the
dice—not the top. But whatsa use of arguin’ with a drunken cowboy? Have
a drink, Hartley?”
“I’ll have a cigar, Bowen.”
“You know your own limitations. Their cigars are a lot older than their
liquor. Would you mind tellin’ me what made you ask about that rug?”
“I can’t tell you—yet,” replied Hashknife, examining the ancient sample
of a cigarmaker’s art, which fairly crumbled between his fingers. “You
don’t happen to know where Napoleon Briggs went, do you?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t tell,” said Bowen quickly. “Mebbe you been talkin’
with Dave Morgan.”
“Mebbe I have.”
Hashknife tried to light the cigar, but it was too porous; so he
discarded it in favor of a cigaret.
“Did you boys know that Ben Leach was killed accidentally?” he asked.
“Accidentally hell!” snorted Spike, while the others merely smiled their
disbelief.
“He shot himself accidentally,” declared Hashknife, and proceeded to
describe just how it happened.
“Well, for gosh sake!” blurted Bert. “So that’s why we never found that
gun and horse. Can you imagine that?”
“It sounds reasonable,” agreed Bowen. “Didja work all that out yourself,
Hartley?”
“With the aid of the buzzards.”
“I know. By golly, I’m glad we never caught young Lane. We would have
lynched him sure.”
“Why don’tcha go ahead and clear the old man?” asked Bert. “You might
prove Pete hammered himself over the head.”
“Aw, he couldn’t ’a’ done it,” protested Spike. “He couldn’t rope
himself on a horse, Bert.”
“Might ’a’ roped himself on first, and left one hand loose.”
“You’re a bright pair,” said Bowen disgustedly.
* * * * *
Dave Morgan came in, nodding pleasantly to Hashknife, but ignoring the
three cowboys with him. He talked for a few minutes with Jack
Fairweather, and they went together to the rear of the saloon, where
they entered a private room.
“Morgan’s probably takin’ over this place,” said Spike. “He’ll be the
stud road runner of the Black Horse River country, I suppose.”
Dell wanted to shake the dice again, and while they were arguing over
the game, Morgan came from the private room. Hashknife stepped away from
the bar and met Morgan near the door.
“I ain’t had a chance to speak with Miss Lane about takin’ that job,” he
told Morgan. “I dunno how she’ll feel about it now,” and he told Morgan
about the evidence which would release Nan’s brother.
“I heard about it,” replied Dave. “Lem told me about it.”
“Oh, you met him, eh?”
“Yeah. Well, if she don’t want the job, I’ll rustle another cook. You
and your pardner and the kid can take the jobs, can’t you?”
“Might do that, Morgan. Anyway, I’ll talk it over with you tomorrow.”
“That’s fine. I’m takin’ over this place, too.”
“Goin’ to run it yourself?”
“Ain’t decided yet. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Morgan left the saloon, and Hashknife went back to the bar, where Sleepy
joined them in a few minutes. He had made the purchases and was ready to
go home. The ex-6X6 cowboys wanted them to make a night of it, but
Hashknife and Sleepy declined.
It was nearing supper time when they rode away from town, and it was
almost dark when they arrived at the ranch. There were no lights in the
ranch-house, no sign of any one about the place. When they stabled their
horses they discovered that the two extra saddle horses and riding rigs
were missing.
“Betcha Nan and Rex went for a ride,” said Sleepy, as they headed for
the ranch-house.
There was no one in the house. The two cowboys lighted a lamp in the
kitchen, and on the table they found a penciled note:
If we miss meeting you, this note will tell you that
we decided to ride to Cañonville. May be back tonight.
Don’t worry.
—Nan and Rex
P.S. There’s an apple pie in the oven.
“Well, that explains it,” said Sleepy, visibly relieved.
“Uh-huh,” grunted Hashknife. “I suppose she wanted to see her folks.”
“Can’t blame her for that, cowboy.”
“No, I reckon you can’t. That apple pie in the oven sounds good to me.”
CHAPTER XIV
IN COYOTE CAÑON
Nan’s decision to go to Cañonville was rather sudden. She wanted to see
her father and ask him what he thought of her accepting that job at
Morgan’s ranch. Rex was of the opinion that she should wait until
Hashknife and Sleepy came back, but Nan was rather impulsive.
Together they saddled the horses. Nan wrote the note and left it on the
kitchen table, where she knew they would find it.
“We’ll probably meet Hashknife and Sleepy between here and Cañonville,”
said Nan, “and they’ll ride back with us.”
Rex was not exactly sure of himself in the saddle; so they did not ride
fast. His mount was a perfectly gentle horse. Nan’s horse fretted and
danced, fighting against the bit; but she was a good rider and handled
the horse easily.
Rex showed her where the stage broke down the day he came into the
country, and they laughed over the things that had happened to him
during his short stay in the cattle country.
“Do you really believe I will ever be a cowboy?” he asked, as they
started up the crooked grades of Coyote Cañon.
“Do you want to be, Rex?”
“I don’t know, Nan. When I look at Hashknife Hartley, I do. But when I
look at some of the other cowboys, I’m not sure.”
“He’s different,” she admitted.
“Yes, he is, Nan. Sometimes I wonder what I am doing here. I don’t
belong here, and no one realizes it more than I do. If I had what
Hashknife calls horse sense, I would—oh, I don’t know. I’d like to go
somewhere and make a lot of money, and—and then come back here and get
you.”
“And get me?” smiled Nan. “What an ambition!”
“Don’t laugh at me, Nan; I’m serious. Ever since that morning, when I
awoke and saw you looking out through the window, I’ve had just that
ambition.”
“It will be dark before we reach Cañonville,” said Nan, turning in her
saddle and looking at the fading sunset.
“You always change the subject, Nan.”
“I suppose I do, Rex. Why not?”
“Well, I can have ambitions, can’t I?”
“I suppose so, Rex. I guess I haven’t any. We have moved from pillar to
post ever since I can remember, and we have never stayed any one place
long enough to have any ambition. Dad has always been restless. I’ll bet
I have gone to more schools in this State than any other person. We’d
stay a few months in a place, and then dad would hear of another range.
Then it was a case of pack up and move on. This time he promised me that
we would stay.”
“Hashknife and Sleepy always keep moving,” said Rex. “They have actually
killed men, Nan. I don’t know how many. I asked Sleepy how many men
Hashknife had killed, and he said that he didn’t know, because they had
lost the complete list. It must have been a great many.”
Nan smiled sideways at Rex, whose expression was serious. She knew
cowboys and their well-stretched yarns.
“I asked him why it was they never got hung,” said Rex seriously, “and
he said it was because nobody had ever found any of their victims.”
“I should guess not,” laughed Nan.
* * * * *
Far ahead of them stretched the grades, winding around the rim of the
cañon. They could look down on the precipitous sides of the cañon, where
a few piñon and junipers clung to the sides of the slope. Farther down,
the tops of larger trees blended with the purple of the depths.
The opposite side of the cañon seemed to be a sheer, rocky wall, as far
as they could see in both directions. Coyote Cañon was not an inviting
place. Nan had heard her father say that at some remote time an enormous
quantity of water had rushed through that cañon, tearing out great holes
in the cañon bed. It was a sanctuary for the lion and wild-cat, where
men had never made a trail.
The short twilight of the Southwest lasts but a few minutes after
sundown. As they rounded a point on the high grades, Rex was riding on
the outside when, without any warning, his horse plunged headlong to the
ground, almost off the edge of the grade.
Nan’s horse whirled and reared, as the hills echoed from the crashing
report of a rifle. Without hardly knowing what she was doing, Nan
dismounted and ran to Rex. He was trying to sit up, looking dazedly
around.
_Zowee-e-e-e!_ Another bullet struck the ground beside Nan and went
screaming off across the cañon, while the cliffs echoed back the report
of the shot. Rex was getting up. His face was skinned and bleeding, and
he was still dazed from the fall.
Another bullet whistled past his ear, and he jerked his head back
quickly, as if trying to dodge it. Nan grasped him by the arm, and they
both slid over the edge of the grade, while the fourth bullet blinded
them with a spray of dust and gravel from the roadbed.
To get below the road level was their only chance—and a poor chance! The
gravel was loose, sliding. Nan tried to grasp a bush at the edge of the
grade, but it slipped from her hand. They were going down the steep
slope, unable to check themselves in any way.
Rex was over his daze now, and realized what was happening. He had
turned, facing the hill, and dropped to his knees, trying to cling to
Nan. They were not sliding fast yet. Nan turned a white face toward him,
clutching at the sliding gravel with her hands.
“Turn around!” she said hoarsely. “Sit down and slide!”
He obeyed quickly. They were going faster each moment. Just below them
was a small thicket of piñon pines, and unless their speed increased,
there might be a chance to slide into that thicket of small trees.
Another bullet snapped past them, and the tip of a piñon was severed.
Rex glanced back, trying to see the grade, but the angle was too abrupt.
He could see the trail, where the sifting gravel was following them.
Then a branch lashed him across the face, a piñon trunk sent him
spinning sideways, and he was through the thicket. His eyes were filled
with sand and tears, but he saw Nan a short distance behind him. She had
a piñon limb in her hands.
Up to this point the sliding had not been painful. Instead of their
sliding over the loose gravel, it seemed to go along with them. There
was no more shooting now. Rex managed to slow up sufficiently to half
stand, and then to run sidewise across the slope to where he could reach
Nan. Her hands were torn by the piñon branches, and there was a welt
across her cheek. She was slightly dazed and hardly realized that their
slide was over for a moment.
“What happened?” she asked foolishly.
“I don’t know,” said Rex, clinging with toes and hands to the loose
surface, in order to look back up the slope.
* * * * *
They had managed to stop at the edge of a sheer place. Something was
coming down the hill toward them. Rex saw it tear through the little
thicket above them, fairly knocking down the trees. It was going to pass
them at about twenty feet, and as it came down past them, in a cloud of
dust and sand, they saw it shoot over the edge just below them and go
hurtling off into space.
“That is my huh-horse!” blurted Rex.
Nan nodded, her lips shut tight.
“How do you suppose it got off the road, Nan?”
“The man who shot at us,” said Nan, choking back her tears. “He shoved
it off the grade. Oh, what are we going to do? We can’t get back, Rex.”
“And we can’t stay here, Nan. This stuff is sliding all the time. That
horse went over a precipice. If we could only get around to that other
slope.”
“Maybe we can.”
Off to the left, about a hundred feet away, was another slope, which
seemed to lead around and down past the sheer cliffs. It was their only
hope. The ground was slowly moving with them.
They got to their feet and began fighting their way toward this slope,
climbing upward, trying to keep away from the abrupt drop into the
cañon. It was a terrific effort. It was like running on a treadmill.
With another ten feet to go, Nan would never have made it. She fell to
her knees, heading down the slope, but Rex still had strength enough to
grasp her by the shoulders and swing her around. They both went over the
edge of the steep slope.
The dry dust and sand filled their eyes and mouths to the point of
suffocation, but luckily the rubble was so soft that they dug deeply
into it, impeding their progress to such an extent that they were able
to stand up, braced against the hill and work their way down.
Rex clung tightly to Nan. At times they would slip and slide for several
feet, but always they were able to keep from pitching headlong. The
slide was about two hundred yards long, and they came out in a heavy
thicket of fir and small pines, still a long way from the bottom of the
cañon.
It was almost dark down there. They looked back up the slope and
wondered how they ever came down alive. Above them the sky seemed very
blue, but as they sat on a rock and took stock of their injuries the
blue sky faded out and a lone star winked down at them.
Both of them were badly bruised and their clothes torn, but luckily no
bones were broken. They were covered with dust and sand and altogether
miserable.
“I think there is water in the bottom of the cañon,” said Nan painfully.
“We must get to water, Rex.”
“Yes,” dully. “I am numb all over, Nan. I don’t feel a bit good.”
“Have you any matches, Rex?”
He felt carefully through his pockets. Rex did not smoke, but due to the
fact that Sleepy was always out of matches he had been carrying a goodly
supply.
“Yes, I have some, Nan.”
“Good! At least we can keep varmints away from us.”
“What is a varmint, Nan?”
“Oh—mountain lions and things like that.”
“Down here? And we have no gun.”
“Perhaps it is lucky we haven’t. I’m not much good with a gun, and if
you had one I’d be afraid you might shoot me.”
“I suppose that is true, Nan. But do you mean that we are going to spend
the night down here?”
“Unless you know of a way out. I don’t. I doubt if there is a man in
this country who could get out of here at night. We’ll just have to make
the best of it and be thankful we are alive. Tomorrow, if a lion don’t
claw us, or a rattler bite us, we may find a way out.”
“You are joking, Nan.”
“I’d like to agree with you, Rex. Come on.”
* * * * *
Traveling over the rocks in the half-light was difficult, but they
reached the bottom of the cañon with a few extra bruises. There were
huge, whitened boulders in the dry bed of the old stream, relics of a
day when much water had poured down through Coyote Cañon. From the side
of the bank trickled a tiny stream of cold water, and they drank
heavily, then built a fire.
It was cold down there, and a wind moaned through the tops of the trees.
There was plenty of wood, and they soon had a fire burning in the lee of
a big polished boulder. Beyond the illumination of the fire was
blackness and the moaning wind. A stone rolled down the slope and
crashed through the brush, bringing them both to their feet in a sudden
panic.
Rex piled more wood on the fire and they stood together, trying to
pierce the darkness.
“I—I guess it—it wasn’t anything,” faltered Rex.
Nan sat down against the boulder, trying to calm her nerves, while Rex
hunched down beside her, poking at the fire with a stick, his ears tuned
for the slightest sound.
“I have been wondering who shot at us,” he said nervously. “Do you
suppose they would follow us down here, Nan?”
“Not down here,” she replied. “Nobody would ever come down here
voluntarily.”
“I suppose not. I know I—”
But Rex did not finish. From out in the blackness came the sound of a
mirthless laugh, a devilish chuckle, which caused them to shrink back
against the boulder, staring wide into space.
It was not repeated. After a space of perhaps twenty seconds they looked
at each other, as if wondering whether the other had heard it. Nan shook
her head; she could not speak.
Slowly Rex got to his feet, knees trembling, his hand on Nan’s shoulder.
“My God!” he breathed chokingly.
Just across the fire from them, as if appearing from nowhere, stood a
man, the firelight glistening on his face. He wore no hat, and his face
was gobby with dirt, swollen, contorted. He was wearing a coat, one
sleeve of which had been torn away, along with the sleeve of his shirt,
which had once been white, but was now stained and dirty.
He was looking at them in a stony sort of way, hunched forward, one hand
thrown up, as if to ward away the heat, and in the other hand was a
heavy Colt revolver, cocked.
CHAPTER XV
HASHKNIFE’S TELEGRAM HUNCH
Hashknife and Sleepy did not hurry their supper, and it was after dark
before they began eating. Hashknife was rather thoughtful, and Sleepy
noticed him staring at the table top several times.
“You ain’t worryin’ about the two kids, are you?” he asked.
“Not exactly worryin’, Sleepy, but I wish they had waited until we got
back.”
“Well, my gosh, there ain’t nothin’ goin’ to hurt ’em.”
“I hope not. Better cut that pie.”
Sleepy took it from the oven and cut two generous slices, which soon
disappeared. But even the apple pie did not serve to raise Hashknife’s
spirits, and Sleepy laughed at him.
“You look like them pictures of Abe Lincoln, when you get that serious
expression,” grinned Sleepy. “All you need is some whiskers and a plug
hat.”
Sleepy slid down in his chair and began rolling a cigaret. He was just
running his tongue along the edge of the paper, when something hit him
squarely in the face, knocking him over backwards, and he heard the
clatter of glass, the thud of a shot.
Hashknife flung himself away from the table, going backwards in his
chair, but landed on his hands and knees. His cheek was slightly cut by
flying glass from the window, but he did not know it. He sprang to his
feet, swept up the rifle that stood in the corner and ran through the
living room.
Without hesitation he flung the door open and sprang off the porch. Just
out beyond the corral was a horse, going away at a sharp trot, and
Hashknife thought he saw a rider on it. He threw up the Winchester and
fired twice. The flash of the gun blinded him for a moment, and he was
unable to see what had happened, but he could hear the horse no longer.
He ran back in to the house, flinging the rifle aside. Sleepy was still
on his back, his feet sticking up over the overturned chair, apparently
unconscious.
As quickly as he was able, Hashknife dragged him out of line with the
broken window and made an examination. His face was covered with a
sticky liquid, and both of his eyes were rapidly turning black. He
grunted and sat up.
“What in hell hit me?” he demanded.
“Looks to me as though it was the condensed milk,” said Hashknife
thankfully.
“Exploded?”
“Yeah—from a bullet.”
“Bullet?”
“Somebody tried to spot us through the window, Sleepy.”
Sleepy got to his feet, wiping the milk off his face, while Hashknife
investigated. The bullet had smashed through the window and ricocheted
on the table top, driving the can of condensed milk into Sleepy’s face,
and had struck the opposite wall.
“Look at m’ eyes!” wailed Sleepy, touching them tenderly with his
fingers. “Can’t hardly see, damn it!”
“You’re lucky, cowboy. A few inches higher and you’d be an angel instead
of a milkmaid.”
“Well, who in hell fired the shot?”
“I’d like to know. You stay here and I’ll see what I can find.”
* * * * *
Sleepy got a basin of cold water and began treating his eyes, while
Hashknife went outside. He was back in less than five minutes, and with
what little vision Sleepy had left he could see that Hashknife was
greatly perturbed.
“What do you know?” he asked.
“There’s hell to pay, Sleepy. I took a shot at what I thought was the
bushwhacker on a horse, and I killed one of Lane’s saddle horses—the one
Nan said she used. It has got her saddle on it.”
“What do you make of that, Hashknife?”
“Somethin’ has happened to ’em.”
“Mebbe she got throwed. Say, who do you suppose took that shot at us?”
“I wish I knew. They almost got you, pardner.”
“They shore condensed me for a moment,” grinned Sleepy.
His eyes were swollen almost shut.
“Well, this ain’t gettin’ us nowhere, Sleepy. You take care of the
ranch; I’m headin’ for Cañonville.”
“Why don’t we both go?”
“Try and see yourself in the glass,” retorted Hashknife, picking up his
hat. “You stay here, cowboy. If anybody comes foolin’ around here, use
that shotgun on ’em. I’ll be back as soon as I can find out somethin’. I
may meet ’em on the road.”
But Hashknife did not meet anybody on the road. He forced the tall gray
over the Coyote Cañon road as fast as he dared in the dark, but he had
the road all to himself. He tried to believe that everything was all
right with Nan and Rex, but down in his heart he knew something had gone
wrong.
* * * * *
It was late when Hashknife drew up at the sheriff’s office in
Cañonville. He knew that Lem slept in his office, and he had little
trouble in arousing him.
“Hello, you old son of a gun,” greeted Lem sleepily. “Come on in.
Wait’ll I light the lamp. What brings you here this time of the night?”
“Has Nan Lane and Rex Morgan been here this evenin’?”
“No-o-o, I ain’t seen nothin’ of ’em, Hashknife.”
“Well, they started for here, accordin’ to a note they left for us.
After we left you, we went to Mesa City, Lem. They must have started out
between the time you left us and the time we got back to the ranch. And
while we was eatin’ supper, somebody shot through the kitchen window and
almost got Sleepy. The bullet lifted a can of milk and slammed Sleepy
between the eyes with it. I ran outside and I thought I seen a man goin’
away; so I shot twice at the object, which turned out to be Nan Lane’s
saddle horse, still wearin’ her saddle. I killed it too dead to kick.
Now, what do you make of that, Lem?”
“Well, f’r heaven’s sake! Lemme think. Somebody shot through your
window? That’s bein’ tough, ain’t it? And was it the horse Nan rode
today?”
“There was only two horses in the stable, Lem.”
“What do you know? Huh! Well—” Lem picked up his pants and began
dressing, his fat face very serious—“I reckon it’s up to us to find out
somethin’, Hashknife. Where could they go? Looks ridiculous, don’t it?
Who’d want to harm Nan Lane? Say, I took that evidence up with the
prosecutor. He says he’ll release young Lane as soon as he has a talk
with the judge. What did Nan think about it?”
“We never got a chance to tell her.”
“Tha-a-at’s right. What had we ort to do first? Can’t find a thing in
the dark. Mebbe we better ride to Mesa City and see what we can see, eh?
There ain’t no chance for them two folks to get off the main road
between here and the Lane ranch. Are you shore they didn’t say Mesa City
instead of Cañonville?”
“They wrote Cañonville, Lem.”
“Well, if they got here, I never did see ’em. I might inquire around a
little.”
“I don’t think that would do any good. They’d come here.”
“I could ask Joe Cave. He’s livin’ at the hotel.”
“But you’ve been here long enough to have seen ’em, Lem. They must have
come here behind you; otherwise we would have met ’em on the road
between here and the ranch.”
“That’s right.”
Lem buckled on his belt, picked up his rifle and led the way to the
stable, where he saddled his horse.
“What do you make of young Morgan, Hashknife?”
“Good kid.”
“Iggerant as hell, ain’t he?”
“From our point of view, Lem.”
“Uh-huh. I hope he ain’t to blame for them disappearin’.”
“Pshaw!” exploded Hashknife. “He’s square as a dollar, Lem. Why, he’s
civilized.”
“That’s the hell of it! If he was our kind, we’d know what to expect.
Well, let’s hit the high spots, _compadre_.”
“Speed won’t get us nowhere, Lem.”
“All right; you lead. I’m the best little follower you ever saw.”
* * * * *
They rode away from the stable, just as a passenger train roared through
the town. They were obliged to wait until the train had gone past,
before crossing the tracks. Suddenly Hashknife got an idea.
“Do you know the depot agent very well, Lem?” he asked.
“Shore. Knowed him for a year or so.”
“Let’s go over and see him.”
They tied their horses behind the depot and went around to the little
waiting-room. The agent was busy with his telegraph instrument, but he
finally turned in his chair and nodded to Lem.
“Hyah, sheriff. What’s on your mind?”
“Shake hands with Mr. Hartley, Jim. Hashknife, this is Jim Horton.”
They shook hands.
“You tell him what you want, Hashknife,” said Lem.
“I dunno whether you can help me or not, Horton. In case a telegram
comes for anybody in Mesa City, how do you handle it?”
“Mail it to ’em right away.”
“Do you keep any record of telegrams?”
“Oh, sure, we keep a copy. Of course, we never let anybody—”
“If it was orders from the sheriff’s office?”
Horton grinned.
“Well, that’s different, of course.”
“In the last few weeks have you had any telegrams for Peter Morgan?”
“The big cowman who got murdered? Mebbe I did. It seems to me I sent
one—lemme see.”
He lifted a bulky book to the counter and opened it. The leaves were of
yellow tissue, bearing the imprint of telegrams written in copying ink.
Swiftly the agent went through the recent imprints. Not many telegrams
came to Cañonville.
“There’s one,” he said, pointing at it, as he swung the book around for
them to read.
Hashknife leaned in close and read:
MRS. MORGAN PASSED AWAY SUDDENLY AND WAS BURIED LAST
SUNDAY STOP TRACED SON TO DEPOT WHERE HE PURCHASED
TICKET TO CANONVILLE
—J. E. BLAIR
Lem lifted his head and stared at Hashknife, who was smiling, as he
copied the telegram on the back of an envelope.
“What in hell does that mean?” demanded Lem anxiously.
“Looks as though young Morgan was Peter’s son, don’t it?”
“By golly, it shore does, Hashknife! What made you think to come here
and look for a telegram?”
“A hunch.”
“I’ll be darned. Hunch, eh? Wish I had hunches.”
“What is it all about?” asked Horton wonderingly.
“Didn’t you do any wonderin’ when you got that telegram?” asked Lem.
“I guess I didn’t. You see, I don’t know anything about Morgan.”
“You didn’t know he was a bachelor?”
“No. I’ve heard of him, but I never knew he didn’t have a family; so the
telegram didn’t mean anything to me.”
“Well, he never had any wife or a son that we ever heard about. The
telegram says that his son was headed this way.”
“Did he ever get here, sheriff?”
Lem scratched his head foolishly.
“Well, we dunno yet, Jim. Don’t tell anybody about it.”
“Is that all I can do for you, gents?” asked Horton.
“Yeah, that’s all, I reckon. Thank you, Horton.”
“You’re welcome.”
They walked out of the depot and mounted their horses.
“Well, just keep this information under our hat, Lem,” said Hashknife,
as they rode away.
“Oh, shore. I may not be worth a damn to find out anythin’, but I can
keep still about it when somebody else tells me about it.”
CHAPTER XVI
NAPOLEON BONAPARTE BRIGGS
For what seemed hours Nan and Rex stared across the fire at the man. It
was Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs, but they did not know him. His closest
friends would have had difficulty in recognizing him now. His head
seemed to have been battered until it was out of shape. His forehead was
swollen over his eyes, giving him almost the appearance of a gorilla,
and on one side of his head the scalp had been torn loose, disclosing an
ugly wound.
His eyes glittered brightly in the firelight, as he swayed on his feet,
moving his head slowly, shifting his eyes from Nan to Rex, as if trying
to make up his mind just what to do. Rex and Nan seemed incapable of
speech. Neither of them had known Briggs. Suddenly his lips parted and
he laughed insanely, disclosing two broken front teeth. Rex started to
step forward, but the gun muzzle shifted toward him quickly.
“What ’r’ you doin’ here?” he asked gutturally.
“Somebody shot my horse,” said Rex weakly.
“What ’r’ you doin’ here?” he repeated, as if he had not heard Rex.
“Keep back! I’ll kill you. I own this place, and I don’t allow nobody
here.”
“We’ll go away,” said Nan quickly, getting to her feet.
“Woman, eh?”
He laughed foolishly.
“Woman came on my place. Woman and horse meat. Don’t move. Woman, horse
meat and them damn buzzards. What ’r’ you doin’ here, I asked you?”
There was no question that the man was insane, dangerously insane. The
fire was dying out now. Unconscious of the danger, Rex reached down to
pick up a piece of wood, and a bullet smashed the dirt beneath his
knuckles. The report of the heavy cartridge echoed back from the cliffs,
and Rex almost fell over backward.
“I tell you I’ll kill you,” declared Briggs. “I own this place, and I
don’t ’low nobody here.”
“Will you let us go away?” asked Nan, hardly speaking above a whisper.
“No! You’d tell somebody where I am. You can’t go.”
“We wouldn’t tell,” croaked Rex pleadingly.
“You’re a liar! You can’t go. I run this place. Don’t you try to pick up
anythin’.”
“Where do you live?” asked Nan.
She wanted to change the subject, to get his mind away from killing
someone.
“Never mind where I live. You’ll find out soon enough. That’s what they
all want to know. Everybody asks me where I live, but I don’t tell.
C’mon.”
He backed away from the fire, keeping them covered with the gun.
Away from the firelight the darkness was intense.
“No!” he grunted. “The woman goes first.”
Even though his twisted brain was a strain of intelligent cunning, he
realized that he could not control both of them in the darkness. He
moved back closer to Rex, peering at him closely.
“You stay here,” he ordered. “You move and I’ll kill you.”
“I won’t move,” promised Rex.
“Don’t move. I’ll come back for you. If you go away, I’ll find you. You
can’t get away.”
He grasped Nan by the shoulder and shoved her ahead of him out into the
blackness of the cañon. Rex dropped on his knees beside the fire, piling
on more wood. His brain was in a whirl. This crazy man was taking Nan
away, and he was letting her go.
In an access of fury at himself Rex flung a stick into the fire, sending
up a shower of sparks and for the first time in his life he cursed
openly, bitterly. From far up the cañon came the leering laughter of the
crazy Briggs.
Then something snapped in the brain of the young man at the fire, and he
ran headlong up the cañon, bruising himself against boulders, whipped
across the face with branches, falling and swearing at times.
He had lost all sense of reason. After a fall he had picked up a club,
and now he went sneaking along, alert to every sound, gripping the club
in his right hand, his left hand extended ahead of him, feeling out into
the darkness.
* * * * *
Gone was all fear of the darkness, of wild animals. Rex Morgan had
reverted to the primitive. Another cave-man had stolen his woman, and he
was going to get her. On and on he went, climbing boulders, stumbling
over exposed roots, until he came to a spot where he could go no
further.
In the darkness he discovered that he was at the bottom of what had been
an ancient waterfall. There were high banks all around him, but he found
a way out. It was a sort of trail up the left bank, twisting between
giant boulders.
He reached what seemed to be the cañon level again and sank back on his
haunches to listen. Then he heard voices. They were very indistinct, and
he strained his ears. The wind whined among the boulders, drowning out
the sound, but he thought he had located it.
Gripping his club tightly, he began working up the slope to the left,
under the towering cliffs. It was slow work, this climbing in the
darkness. He slipped and sprawled full length on a sloping rock, losing
his club, but got back to his knees and kept going up over the ledges.
Then he saw the flicker of a fire, the scent of burning meat. Pulling
himself up to the rim of the rock he looked into a cave. In reality he
was in the cave himself, as the ledge above him projected twenty feet
farther out over the cañon.
Nan was huddled on the floor near the fire, while Briggs towered over
her, bulking huge in the firelight. Their shadows were huge, goblin-like
things against the wall of the cave. In the fire sizzled a huge hunk of
raw meat, which was sending off a strong odor.
Briggs was talking to Nan, but Rex could not hear what was said. Finally
Briggs left her and came shambling past where Rex crouched on the rock
and disappeared in the darkness. Rex slid off the rock and crossed the
entrance of the cave to the fire, and Nan looked up at him wonderingly.
“How did you get here?” she asked.
Rex brushed a hand across his eyes and stared back at the entrance,
seeking an answer to her question.
“I—I just came,” he said, and squatted down beside the fire.
“He has gone after you, Rex.”
“I suppose.”
“He’ll come back.”
Rex stared at her dully.
“Very likely,” he said.
“Don’t you realize what it means, Rex? The man is crazy. He says he will
kill you, because he don’t want you here.”
“That meat is burning, isn’t it?”
“He said it was horse meat. But don’t you understand, Rex? That man will
come back and kill you.”
“No, he won’t.”
Rex got to his feet and picked up a stone about the size of a baseball,
swinging it in his hand to test the weight.
“I’m going to kill him first,” he said flatly, and went back toward the
opening of the cave.
* * * * *
Rex knew just where Briggs would pass in entering the cave; so he
climbed upon a slab of sandstone, several feet higher than the level of
a man’s head, and stretched out flat. He was in the deep shadow, but by
lifting his head he could see the fire in the cave where Nan still
huddled. He turned his head and peered over the outer rim of the rock.
Something was moving down there; he could see its dark outline.
It came closer, and he decided that it was the crazy man, sneaking back
to the cave. Perhaps, thought Rex, he knows I am here, and is trying to
surprise me. Inching carefully forward, he swung up his arm and sent the
heavy stone crashing downward, where it thudded against some yielding
object.
Came a spitting snarl, the rasp of claws on sandstone, and the object
vanished down the cañon. Rex realized instantly that he had hit an
animal instead of a man, because that snarl never came from a human
throat. The animal was a mountain lion.
But now Rex was without a weapon of any kind. He slid off the sandstone
shelf and went back toward the firelight, trying to pick up another
stone. The lion had probably been attracted by the smell of the meat and
was stalking the cave.
Rex secured another stone and turned back toward the shelf. He heard the
man coming back, talking to himself. It was too late for Rex to regain
the shelf, so he darted in beside a small ledge, crouching as low as
possible.
He heard the scuff of leather soles on the rock, as Briggs came
cautiously. Then he saw the huge bulk of the man pass him, going slowly,
evidently peering into the cave, trying to see if everything was all
right.
Rex straightened up, drew back his arm and flung the stone. But it
slipped from his hand and crashed against the wall, far to the right of
its victim, and Briggs whirled quickly, grunting with astonishment.
But Rex did not wait to see whether he missed. As he flung the stone, he
also flung himself forward, locking both arms around Briggs, and his
rush carried enough weight to send Briggs to his knees against the
sandstone wall of the cave.
The heavy revolver went spinning across the stony floor, and the two men
surged to their feet, only to crash down again, fighting with tooth and
nail, but silently.
Although Briggs was past middle age, he was as strong as any man in the
country, and his strength, added to his insane fury, would have made him
a match for a professional wrestler. Rex was not particularly strong,
but he was fighting for his life and for the life of Nan Lane, and he
clung to Briggs like a burr.
He had his left arm around Briggs’s neck, his right locked beneath
Briggs’s right armpit, the while his knees dug into the small of
Briggs’s back. Briggs managed to get hold of Rex’s left ankle with his
left hand, but Rex promptly locked his other leg around Briggs’s waist,
spurring him in the stomach.
Rex’s grip around Briggs’s neck was shutting off his wind; so he let
loose of the ankle, using both hands to tear Rex’s arm away from his
throat.
It gave Rex a chance to release the right arm, but before he could do
anything, Briggs had caught his left wrist with his left hand, reached
back with his right, grasping Rex’s shoulder, and flung him ten feet
away.
Rex landed on one knee, his left arm numb to the shoulder. For several
moments Briggs stood there, trying to get his balance. Perhaps his
disordered brain caused him to forget what was happening for a moment.
Rex had got back to his feet now and was silhouetted against the light
from the fire.
Nan had heard the scuffle and was trying to see what it meant. Then
Briggs laughed harshly and started toward Rex, who began backing toward
the fire. He did not care to get caught again in those viselike hands.
* * * * *
Briggs did not hurry. Perhaps he realized that Rex could not escape him,
and was playing with him. Nan uttered no sound, as the two men came into
the firelight. Rex’s shirt had been almost torn from his body and one
cheek was bleeding from a rasping contact with the wall of the cave.
Rex glanced behind him. He could not go much farther. He tried to edge
to the left, but Briggs blocked him. It was only a matter of moments
before he would be caught. Suddenly he remembered the gun.
“Nan—the gun!” he panted. “Near the entrance—he dropped it, Nan!”
Briggs shifted his eyes to Nan. He was close enough to stop her if she
started. But as he shifted his eyes Rex sprang to the side of the cave,
trying to get past Briggs.
He was not successful. As quick as a flash Briggs reached out and caught
part of Rex’s torn sleeve. Rex tried to back away, but the cave wall was
too close. Briggs was slightly crouched, and as he yanked Rex toward
him, the young man struck with every ounce of his body in a sweeping
uppercut, which caught Briggs flush on the point of the chin.
Briggs’ head snapped back, his heel caught on a stone, and he fell flat
on his back, his head fairly bouncing on the sandstone floor.
Rex fell to his knees from the force of his blow, his right arm and hand
paralyzed for the moment, but he got to his feet and staggered out to
the entrance, where he found the gun. Nan was sitting against the wall,
crying, as he came back, and he looked at her curiously. Briggs had not
moved.
Rex picked up some scattered wood and threw it on the fire.
“This is a better place than we were, Nan,” he said calmly. “At least we
have a roof over our heads.”
She took her hands from her face and stared at him. It was such a
ridiculous thing to say after what had happened.
“Rex, are you all right?” she whispered.
He looked at her and grinned.
“You’re damn’ right! Isn’t that what Hashknife would say?”
“Oh, I’m glad, Rex. I don’t know what to say. It is all like an awful
dream. I thought you had lost your mind, too.”
“Me?” Rex blinked some of the blood out of his eye. “Perhaps I did, Nan.
I don’t remember much about it. But I was sane enough to realize that he
would kill me. I guess I missed him, with the stone. I wonder whether I
killed him.”
Cautiously he examined Briggs. The man’s heart was beating, but he was
unconscious. The blow on the jaw and the drop to the stone had given him
a double knockout.
“He’s not dead, Nan. I’m glad of that.”
“But what will we do when he wakes up, Rex?”
“That depends on him entirely. If he still persists in trying to be boss
of this place, I shall shoot him with his own gun.”
“Let me see that gun, Rex.”
He handed it to her and she looked it over carefully.
“Every cartridge has been fired,” she said wonderingly.
“You mean it is of no value?”
“Not unless he has more cartridges in his pockets.”
Briggs was wearing no belt, and a search of his pockets failed to show
any ammunition.
“Give me the gun,” said Rex. “I can bluff with it.”
“But he must know it is empty, Rex.”
“If he did, why was he carrying it? You try and get a little sleep, Nan;
I’ll watch him. If he wasn’t born in this cañon, there must be a way
out, and we’ll find it. That meat don’t make a very pleasant odor, does
it?”
“He was cooking it for me,” said Nan. “He said it was horse meat. He
picked it up off the dirty floor and threw it on the fire—for my
supper.”
“He may be hungry when he wakes up,” grinned Rex.
CHAPTER XVII
A DRUNKEN DEPUTY
It was well after midnight when Hashknife and the sheriff reached Mesa
City. The town was in darkness, except the Oasis Saloon, where they
found only Dave Morgan and Jack Fairweather, discussing business, while
the bartender rested his elbows on the bar, as he perused a dog-eared
book.
Morgan welcomed the newcomers heartily.
“C’mon and have a drink. You fellers ridin’ kinda late, ain’t you?”
“Kinda,” admitted Lem, as they lined up at the bar. “What’s new, Dave?”
“Nothin’ much. I’m takin’ over this saloon, Lem.”
“Yea-a-ah? Oh, shore. You goin’ to stay here, Jack?”
Fairweather shook his head slowly.
“You goin’ to run this place yourself, Dave?”
“I don’t hardly think so, Lem. May sell it after while.”
“Where’s the boys from the 6X6?” asked Hashknife.
“Gone to bed, I reckon. Got pretty well loaded, all of ’em.”
“You boys just rode in from Cañonville?” asked Fairweather.
Lem nodded, lifting his glass.
“Here’s how, gents.”
They drank together.
“You goin’ to the ranch with me, Lem?” asked Hashknife.
“I think I’ll stay here, Hashknife. I’ll get a room at the hotel and be
out to your place early.”
“All right.”
Hashknife went back to his horse, mounted and headed for the ranch,
while the three men at the bar had another drink.
“You ain’t takin’ an after-midnight ride just for your health, are you,
Lem?” queried Morgan.
The sheriff rolled a cigaret, shaping it carefully, before replying:
“Nan Lane and that young tenderfoot started for Cañonville late this
afternoon, and they never arrived.”
“Never arrived? What do you mean, Lem?”
“Never arrived, thasall. Her horse came back to Lane’s ranch, and
Hashknife killed it.”
“Killed what—the horse?”
“Shore.”
“What for?”
“Thought there was a man on it—the man who had just shot through the
window at them.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!” exploded Dave. “What’s this all about?”
“Search me,” replied Lem wearily, as he lighted his cigaret.
“Did either of ’em get hit, Lem?”
“No-o-o, not exactly. The bullet hit their can of milk, and the can hit
Stevens between the eyes.”
“Can you imagine that? And you say that Miss Lane and the tenderfoot
never got to Cañonville?”
“So far as we know, they never did.”
“But where are they?”
“Dave,” said Lem seriously, “I’m no mind reader. I dunno a thing about
it. I’m follerin’ Hartley, thasall. He says he’s got a hunch—and that’s
more’n I’ve got. Let’s have one more drink.”
The bartender served them and they drank silently.
“Dave, did you ever hear Pete say anythin’ about havin’ a woman?” asked
Lem.
“About havin’ a woman?”
“Yeah—a wife.”
“Where didja ever get that idea, Lem?”
“Oh, I jist wondered.”
“Funny ideas you get, Lem. Did you ever hear of him havin’ a wife?”
“Nope.”
“I never did,” said Fairweather. “I don’t think he ever did, unless he
was married before he came to this country.”
“What ever put that idea in your mind?” persisted Dave.
“Oh, I dunno. Mebbe it was that tenderfoot. His name’s Morgan, and he
came here, tryin’ to find out who sent a check to his mother. It came
from Mesa City, he says.”
“He’s crazy,” laughed Dave. “Anyway, he’d have a hard time provin’
anythin’. His mother’s dead and Pete’s dead, and how in hell could he
prove anythin’? Let’s have another drink.”
“I guess you’re right, Dave. No, thanks, I’ve had enough. Better grab a
little sleep.”
“What does Hartley think about it, Lem?”
“Well, he don’t say much, except when I get an idea, and then he shows
me where I’m all wrong. If I had his brains, I wouldn’t be sheriff of no
county, I’ll tell you that much.”
Lem left the saloon and took his horse to the livery stable.
* * * * *
Hashknife rode straight back to the ranch and stabled his horse. Sleepy
was still awake and anxious to know what Hashknife had discovered, so he
came down to the stable.
“But where can they be?” wondered Sleepy.
“I’m shore stuck,” said Hashknife gloomily. “This is the worst danged
case I ever worked on. I can’t seem to get goin’. But, by golly, I’m—”
Hashknife hesitated.
The moon was high up over the hills, illuminating the old buildings and
corrals.
Hashknife walked away from Sleepy and stopped beside the corral fence,
only a few feet away.
The Navaho rug was not on the fence.
“It was there when we came in this evenin’,” said Sleepy. “I remember
seein’ it, Hashknife.”
“I remember it, too, Sleepy. Let’s go to bed.”
“I used some raw meat on my eyes,” offered Sleepy. “I can see clearer
than I could.”
“I can see better now, too,” said Hashknife meaningly.
But Sleepy did not question him.
* * * * *
Joe Cave, deputy sheriff, was very drunk. He leaned on a saloon bar in
Cañonville and gazed gloomily about the place, where a lone bartender
polished glassware and busied himself with mop and water bucket.
It was too early in the morning for much activity. In fact, it was
rather out of the ordinary for any one to be drunk that early in the
morning. Joe’s tow-colored hair had not been brushed, and he looked as
if he had slept in his clothes. His thin lips parted over his prominent
front teeth, known as “buck teeth,” as he indulged in a foolish grin.
“Whazzametter round here?” he demanded.
The bartender studied him gravely. He hated to see a man drunk so early
in the morning.
“I don’t see anything the matter,” he replied shortly.
“Zasso?” Joe yawned foolishly.
He was wearing a once yellow shirt, a nearly red muffler around his
scrawny neck, and his overalls were so tight that one knee had split
over a too prominent knee cap. Joe’s boots were run over on the outside
of the heels, causing him to be knock-kneed. He wore a holstered gun,
and the loops of his belt were full of cartridges.
Failing to strike up a conversation, Joe left that saloon and went down
the street to another place, where he found conditions much the same.
“Where’s the sheriff?” asked the bartender.
“Dunno. Went away last night.”
“And so you went and got drunk, eh? Lem will jist about kick you off the
job when he comes back.”
“Zasso? Huh! Let ’m kick. I don’t like thish job. Nawthin’ to do but
feed pris’ners. T’ the devil with it. Gimme a drink.”
Joe got his drink and went to the next saloon. It seemed that he was
making the rounds and still going strong when Hashknife, Sleepy and the
sheriff rode in and went to the office. The office and jail were in the
same building, and in fact the sheriff’s office was the main entrance to
the jail.
Sleepy’s eyes were still of a decidedly mauve hue, but the swelling was
gone and he was able to see. Lem had come to the ranch at daylight, and
the three of them had headed for Cañonville. They had tried to read the
signs along the Coyote Cañon road, but the ground was so hard that they
were unable to distinguish one track from another.
* * * * *
The three men entered the office, which was unlocked, and Lem swore
roundly when he did not find Joe Cave there. It was against the rules to
leave the place unlocked. Lem opened the barred door at the rear of the
office and went down the narrow corridor between the cells.
Old Paul Lane called a cheery good morning to him. Young Lane wanted to
know how soon he was to be turned loose.
“I hope to get you out today, son. How’s everything?”
“All right, if we had some breakfast.”
“Ain’t you had no breakfast yet? Where’s Joe?”
“He ain’t been in here this mornin’. I think he came to the office, but
he didn’t come in here.”
“Well, that’s a fine deal, folks. I’ll get your grub right away.”
Lem told Hashknife and Sleepy to hold down the office while he went to
the restaurant.
“Go in and talk to ’em,” he said. “They been askin’ about you. But don’t
mention anythin’ about Nan bein’ missin’.”
Old Paul Lane shook hands with them through the bars, and the son
thanked Hashknife for what he had done to secure evidence that he had
not shot Ben Leach.
“We been wonderin’ why Nan didn’t come to see us,” said the old man
wistfully.
“She’s been awful busy,” said Hashknife quickly. “Keeps her busy cookin’
for three of us.”
“I imagine that’s right, Hartley.”
“Well, I’ll soon be out,” said Long Lane thankfully. “You ain’t been
bothered with any of the 6X6 outfit, have you?”
“They’ve quit the 6X6. Dave Morgan has taken charge of the ranch.”
“The devil he has!”
“And of the Oasis Saloon, too.”
“I’ve been worryin’ about Nan,” confessed the old man. “But Lem says
she’s safe as long as you boys are with her. I’m shore much obliged to
both of you. How about the tenderfoot?”
“Oh, he’s still alive,” smiled Hashknife, wondering down in his heart
whether this was the truth.
“He’s lucky,” smiled Lane. “He done me a good turn—two of ’em. It’s
funny what a green kid will do thataway.”
“I was just wonderin’ why Joe Cave didn’t bring you any breakfast,” said
Hashknife.
“I dunno. Usually brings it about eight o’clock. He was kinda snappy
last night, when he brought our supper. Somebody rubbed him the wrong
way yesterday.”
“Yeah?”
“I think so. We didn’t hear much of it, because the door was almost
shut, but there was some kind of an argument.”
“Who was he arguin’ with?” asked Hashknife.
“We dunno, but we heard Joe say, ‘Well, don’t blame me. That was your
fault,’ and after a few moments he said, ‘By God, that was the
agreement, and you better stick to it.’ Then there was quite a while
that we can’t hear anythin’, except a word once in a while, but before
they quit talkin’, we heard Joe say, ‘That’s the way I’m goin’ to work
it, and you better stick to your word.’ Afterwards, when Joe brought in
our supper, he was mad about somethin’, and wouldn’t talk to us.”
“Was he arguin’ with Lem?” asked Hashknife.
“I dunno who the other person was.”
* * * * *
A few minutes later Lem brought in their breakfast and, while they were
eating, Joe Cave came to the office. He leaned against the side of the
doorway and leered at the men in the corridor.
Lem walked out to him, looked him over carefully, his face registering
disgust.
“Drunk as a boiled owl, eh?”
“Whazzamatter with you?” grunted Joe.
“What’s the matter with me? I’ll tell you what’s the matter with me. I’m
through with you, Joe.”
Lem reached over and unpinned the star from Joe’s vest, while Joe looked
at him owlishly.
“Go and sober up,” said Lem coldly, “and then come back here and I’ll
give you an order on the county for your salary.”
“Fired, eh?” queried Joe.
“You’re right! I don’t want a drunken deputy around here, forgettin’ to
feed the prisoners and leavin’ the jail unlocked. Get away from here,
before I flatten your nose.”
“A-a-a-aw right!”
Joe surged away from the doorway and went to the edge of the sidewalk,
where he balanced drunkenly for several moments, and then headed his
erratic way toward the livery stable.
Lem snorted with disgust and turned from the doorway, but Hashknife
watched him disappear through the wide door of the stable.
“Gone after his horse?” asked Hashknife.
“He’ll probably head for Mesa City, the drunken bum,” said Lem.
Hashknife stepped outside, but turned to Lem and Sleepy.
“Wait here for me,” he said quickly, and hurried out to his horse.
Lem and Sleepy came to the door and watched Hashknife ride out of town,
going north.
“What struck him so sudden?” wondered Lem.
“I dunno,” grinned Sleepy. “He’s thataway, Lem.”
About five minutes later Joe Cave came from the stable, riding a chunky
bay gelding. He swayed drunkenly in his saddle, as he rode up the main
street of the town, also heading north.
* * * * *
Lem was carrying the breakfast dishes back to the restaurant when
Hashknife rode back to the front of the office. He did not explain where
he had been or why he had gone, but as he waited for Lem to come back
from the restaurant, Sleepy heard Hashknife singing softly:
“I know a girl down Pecos wa-a-ay,
And I’m goin’ to marry her some da-a-ay.
Her pa’s in jail and can’t get bail;
They rode her ma out of town on a ra-a-ail.
Her lips are red and her hair is black;
She shot the sheriff in the ba-a-ack.
Oh, how my heart for her does pi-i-ine,
’Cause she’s my little clingin’ vi-i-ine.”
Sleepy knew the symptoms. It was not often that Hashknife sang. He was
not at all musical. Just now he was deadly serious, and it is doubtful
whether he realized that he was singing.
“Feelin’ good, cowboy?” asked Sleepy. Hashknife looked at him quickly.
“Yeah, I feel pretty good, Sleepy.”
Lem came back from the restaurant. He didn’t ask Hashknife where he had
been.
“Get on your horse,” said Hashknife. “We’re goin’ to Mesa City.”
They mounted and rode away, after Lem had locked the office door. At the
upper end of the street they met Bunty Smith, and Lem drew up his horse.
“Goin’ to be here all day, Bunty?” he asked.
“Shore am, Lem.”
“Here’s the key to my office. If I ain’t back by five o’clock, I wish
you’d feed my prisoners, Bunty.”
“Glad to do it, Lem. What do you know?”
“I don’t know a thing, Bunty. See you later.”
They rode back along the mesa to the Coyote Cañon grades, riding swiftly
until they started climbing. It was a long, slow climb to where the
grades flattened out around the cañon. They met the stage coming from
Mesa City. The driver was a man from south of Cañonville. He nodded
pleasantly, as they crowded their horses against the inner bank to let
the stage pass.
“Joe Cave used to drive stage, didn’t he?” asked Hashknife.
“For a long time,” replied Lem. “Been here a long time. Used to work for
the 6X6. Worked for the Flying M, too. I thought he’d make a good
deputy, but I was wrong. Good shot, Joe is. I’ve seen him shoot. Fast
with a gun.”
Lem spoke jerkily. He was too fat to ride fast. Suddenly Hashknife drew
up his horse and looked down into the cañon. A flock of perhaps fifty
buzzards were circling below them; floating without apparent effort.
They could look down on their backs from the grade. They were apparently
keeping to a certain level.
“Quite a flock of buzzards,” observed Lem. “Probably a lion killed a
deer down there, and they want their share. Lots of lions down there,
Hashknife. Rocks full of ’em. Notice the way them buzzards act? Probably
the lion chased ’em away.”
“Uh-huh,” grunted Hashknife. “It’s a wonder that deer would go down in
that cañon, Lem.”
“Water. They probably come from out on the mesa. Not very much water for
’em out there. Hard trip, I reckon. I never been in the cañon. Probably
a way in, if you know where to look.”
“Probably.”
They rode on toward Mesa City.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE MASKED MAN
That night was years long to Nan and Rex. She slept fitfully, but Rex
did not sleep at all. Briggs had not moved. At times he groaned softly,
and several times he babbled incoherently. There was plenty of wood, and
Rex kept the fire going briskly.
It was fully daylight before Rex moved from the fire. He was stiff and
sore in every joint. His left shoulder pained him greatly, and his right
hand was badly swollen. Nan followed him out to the mouth of the cave.
She limped as badly as he, and together they stood on the sandstone
ledge, looking up at the sunlight on the high peaks.
“It won’t shine down here much before noon,” she said, placing a hand on
his shoulder. “This cañon is so deep that the sun doesn’t reach it
quickly.”
Rex nodded gloomily.
“What a night! And what next? I’m so hungry I could almost eat that
piece of burned horse meat.”
“Same here,” Nan tried to smile, “but we’ll have to go without food, I
suppose. Which way was that spring?”
“Down there.” Rex pointed to the right. “I wonder whether my old hat
will hold water? I believe it will, Nan. You stay here and I’ll bring
you some.”
He made his way down among the boulders, sliding the last few feet to
the bottom of the cañon, where he picked up a sizeable club. His steps
made little sound in the yielding sand, as he made his way down the
bottom to where he circled the big boulder, where they had built their
fire.
Clustered around the little spring were dozens of quail, getting their
morning drink. Rex did not know what they were, except that they were
birds, and perhaps food. They had probably never before seen a human
being, because they merely squatted and looked at him. With a side swing
of his hand he flung the club at them, killing three and sending the
rest in a whirring, curving flight down the cañon.
He secured his birds, filled his hat with water and started on his
return journey to the cave. Nan danced with joy at the sight of the
three birds.
“I didn’t know what they were,” confessed Rex, “but they looked good to
eat, so I hit them with a club.”
Nan skinned the birds and went back in to the cave where Rex had built
up the fire. Briggs had not moved yet, and Rex was afraid he was dead,
but the old man muttered brokenly as Rex leaned over him.
He did not look so formidable now—more like an oldish man who had been
badly mistreated. It seemed that his head had been battered until it was
all out of shape.
“He is wearing a dress shirt,” said Rex. “Isn’t it queer for a man down
here to be wearing a stiff bosom shirt? Did you ever see him before,
Nan?”
“No, I never have. See if you can find us a couple of green sticks, Rex,
about a yard long and as big as your finger, to broil these quail on.”
“But what are we going to do with this man, Nan? He’s in awful bad
shape. Shouldn’t we tie him up, or something?”
“I don’t know, Rex. We haven’t any ropes. Oh, I don’t think he can hurt
anybody. He’s just an old man.”
* * * * *
Rex secured the sticks and came back to the entrance of the cave, where
he stopped and looked at the sky. The buzzards were coming for their
breakfast, a whole cloud of them, zooming down, like a great fleet of
black airplanes. Rex called Nan to the entrance to watch the birds. Some
of them sailed within a few yards of them, croaking harshly. One tried
to alight on the sandstone shelf, where Rex had wasted his stone on a
lion, but it caught sight of the two human beings and went away with a
great flapping of wings.
Their objective seemed to be just across the cañon from the cave.
“Horrid, dirty things!” exclaimed Nan, “Always looking for carrion.”
“I suppose,” sighed Rex. “Still, they might be our salvation, Nan. I
remember what Hashknife said to me the night we found that horse. He
said, ‘Sometimes it’s a good thing to follow the buzzards. You never can
tell what you might find.’”
“But do you suppose he might see the buzzards down here?”
“He might see them as they come down, Nan. He’ll know today that we
never reached Cañonville, and he will start a search.”
“Oh, I hope so, Rex. But after breakfast we’ll see if there isn’t a way
out of here. Come on and help cook it.”
They each ate a half-cooked quail. Without any seasoning it was far from
delicious, but they ate it and pronounced it good.
“I think you are a very brave girl, Nan,” said Rex. “In fact, you are
rather wonderful in every way, but you’ve got a lot of burned quail on
your nose and a black smudge on one cheek. I suppose I’m a sight. But I
don’t really care, do you?”
“I don’t care how you look, Rex.”
“Well, that’s fine. Now, I think we better look around and see whether
there isn’t a way out.”
They worked their way down through the brush and crossed the bottom of
the cañon above the cave, where they were able to climb to a wide shelf.
It was here that they disturbed the buzzard host, and the birds went
flapping and croaking their way up the side of the cliffs, only to soar
in vast circles, halfway up the height of the cañon, watching with their
keen eyes for the two human beings to disappear.
It was this flight of buzzards that Hashknife, Sleepy and Lem saw from
the grades.
“They were eating a horse!” exclaimed Nan. “Why, your horse never fell
this high up the cañon, Rex.”
They walked over and inspected the almost obliterated carcass of a
horse, which still bore a saddle. It had been a roan horse, and a strip
of the skin still bore the brand of the 6X6.
“That was one of Peter Morgan’s horses,” declared Nan. “But how in the
world did it get down here?”
Rex looked critically up the side of the sheer hillside.
“It surely didn’t walk down,” he replied. “I think it must have come
down like my horse did—end over end.”
“Well, I don’t like the odor,” said Nan finally. “Let’s see if we can’t
go down the cañon.”
* * * * *
In the meantime, Hashknife, Sleepy and Lem rode on to Mesa City. Spike
Cahill and Bert Roddy met them at the hitchrack, and from their general
appearance those two were not feeling so good as they had the evening
before.
“What’s all this talk about Miss Lane and the tenderfoot disappearin’?”
asked Spike. “Lotsa folks have been talkin’ about it, and we want it
straight.”
Lem explained as well as he could.
“Ain’t showed up yet?” Bert Roddy shook his head painfully.
“Not yet, Bert.”
“Well, I’ll be jiggered! Whatcha suppose became of ’em, Lem?”
“Nobody knows.”
“Did Joe Cave show up here?” asked Hashknife.
“About an hour ago,” said Spike, spitting dryly. “Quit his job, didn’t
he?” looking at Lem.
“I fired him,” said Lem.
“I told you!” crowed Bert. “Didn’t I offer to make you a bet, Spike? I
said that Lem canned him, didn’t I?”
“A-a-aw, don’t brag; you make my head ache.”
“Where’s Joe now?” asked Hashknife.
“Gone out to the Flyin’ M. Dave Morgan hired him and sent him right out
to the ranch. Dave needs men pretty bad. He even offered to take us back
agin’, didn’t he, Bert?”
“Shore did. And you tell ’em what I told him, Spike.”
“Aw, it wasn’t so smart. We need the job.”
“Not for that sidewinder. He jist the same as accused us of openin’ the
safe at the 6X6. I may be a thief, but I don’t like to have it told
before my friends.”
“That’s right; he did insult us, Bert. I’m glad you said what you did to
him. But—” he turned to Lem—“what are you doin’ toward findin’ the lost
folks?”
“Not a thing—yet.”
They all walked over to the Oasis, where they found Dave Morgan and
several more men.
“What’s the latest news?” asked Morgan.
They were obliged to tell him that there was nothing new.
“You know this country pretty well, don’t you, Morgan?” asked Hashknife.
Dave Morgan smiled faintly, fingering his watch chain.
“I ought to,” he said. “I’ve been here a long time.”
“Ever been down in the middle of Coyote Cañon?”
Morgan blinked quickly, thoughtfully.
“No, I never have, Hartley.”
“Do you know if there’s a trail down there?”
“I’ve never heard of any.”
“I never have either,” said Spike. “Why that thing is straight up and
down. Talkin’ about it makes me thirsty; so we better have a drink. The
6X6 owes me some money, anyway.”
“And you’re goin’ to collect it over the bar, eh?” queried Dell Bowen.
“Aw, don’t preach. You spent part of yours last night.”
“What about a trail into Coyote Cañon?” asked Morgan.
“I’d like to go down there,” replied Hashknife.
“You think there’s somethin’ down there?” asked Spike.
“About a hundred buzzards,” smiled Sleepy, accepting a glass from the
bartender.
“Buzzards, eh? Somethin’ dead, eh?”
“No, they go down there to eat brush,” said Bert sarcastically.
“You’re comical,” said Spike admiringly. “The only thing that keeps you
off the stage is the fact that you can’t drive, and they wouldn’t trust
you with the money box.”
“Nobody interested in your comedy, Spike,” assured Bowen. “We want to
know more about Coyote Cañon. Hartley, are you serious in wantin’ to go
down there?”
“I’m goin’ down,” declared Hashknife.
“You don’t suppose that Nan Lane and that fool kid are down there, do
you?”
Hashknife studied his glass of liquor for a moment.
“Bowen,” he said slowly, “I don’t know, but there’s no other place to
look. They never got to Cañonville; they never came home. Nan’s horse
came back. They either went up or down, and I’m bettin’ they went down.”
“But why should they, Hartley?”
“Who knows? I’m playin’ the buzzards, Bowen.”
“Uh-huh,” thoughtfully. “Well, it’s a good bet. We’ll go with you,
cowboy. I don’t know a trail down there, but we’ll find one. It’s worth
a try. When do we start?”
“Right now.”
“Saddle up!” snorted Spike, sending his glass spinning down the bar.
“C’mon.”
“You might get in off the mesa on the lower end,” called Dave Morgan.
“They tell me the deer come in that way.”
“All right, Dave, thanks,” replied the sheriff.
* * * * *
The three cowboys hurried to the livery stable, where they saddled their
horses. Hashknife, Sleepy and Lem joined them, and the six men rode out
of town together. Lem and Hashknife rode knee to knee.
“We better try the cañon jist south of the Lane place,” called Bowen.
“It ain’t so high there.”
“Suits me,” agreed Lem heartily.
He had little hopes of ever getting to the bottom of the cañon, no
matter where they tried a descent.
A quarter of a mile away from town, Hashknife halted them.
“Boys, I want you to do me a little favor,” he said. “Go right ahead and
try to get down the cañon.”
“What’s the idea, Hashknife?” queried Lem wonderingly.
“I can’t tell you yet, Lem. It’s just a hunch. I’m turnin’ back here.”
“Let him go,” said Sleepy quickly. “It’s all in the game.”
“All right,” agreed Lem, holding out his hand. “Good luck, Hashknife.”
They swung their horses around and rode swiftly southward, while
Hashknife went back toward Mesa City again. Just outside the town he
halted his horse behind a thicket of mesquite and dismounted.
He had not been there over five minutes when Dave Morgan rode past, his
horse traveling at a swinging walk. As far as Hashknife knew, Morgan was
merely heading for the 6X6 ranch. But as soon as he passed a turn in the
road, Hashknife mounted and followed him.
For possibly half a mile farther Morgan rode slowly, but finally forced
his horse to a gallop. Hashknife kept far enough behind him so that
Morgan would not see or hear him, and from a slight elevation he saw
Morgan swing to the 6X6 road.
Hashknife swore under his breath, but followed, and it was with a great
deal of satisfaction that he saw Morgan leave the road, possibly a
quarter of a mile from the forks, and travel south down a brushy swale.
It was rather difficult for Hashknife to follow without being seen now,
but he was obliged to take a chance, in order to keep Morgan in sight.
Morgan did not look back, but seemed intent on his destination.
It was a little over a mile from where Morgan left the road to the rim
of Coyote Cañon, and Hashknife was not over two hundred yards to the
left of him, shielded by a mesquite thicket, when Morgan reached the
rim.
For several minutes Morgan sat his horse, scanning the cañon, as if
satisfying himself that no one was in sight. Hashknife was a little
afraid that the five men farther down the cañon might interfere with
things, but finally, Morgan, evidently satisfied, rode his horse over
the rim of the cañon, cutting in between two live-oaks, and disappeared.
Hashknife rode cautiously to the rim, behind the oaks, and dismounted.
Here were the marks of Morgan’s horse in the loose earth, and for quite
a distance down the slope he could see where the horse had sidled along
the steep slope.
Calmly he rolled and smoked a cigaret. He was not in such a hurry now.
If Morgan could get down, he could. And he did not want to try the
descent while there was danger of Morgan’s hearing him come down.
Finally he tightened his cinch, mounted and followed Morgan.
* * * * *
Nan and Rex wandered down the cañon below where they had first entered
it, but were unable to find a way out. After a supreme effort they were
able to climb back over the rocks to where the slide ended. They were
unable to go any farther.
“It doesn’t look very promising,” said Rex wearily.
Nan sat on a rock, tired out from the climb. She realized better than
Rex did what they were up against. Unless help came to them, they were
doomed to starvation in the bottom of Coyote Cañon. She knew that it was
only through great luck that Rex had been able to kill those quail.
“If we even had a gun,” she said helplessly, “perhaps they could hear
the echo of it.”
“But there must be a way out,” insisted Rex. “It seems to be an
impassable pocket, but there must be a way.”
“I almost wish we were buzzards,” he said. “They are able to fly out
with scarcely any effort.”
“They are not the only buzzards in this country,” said Nan.
“You mean—human buzzards?”
“Yes. Whoever shot your horse must know we are down here. They don’t
know whether we are alive or dead. How did the crazy man get down here,
I wonder? That must be his horse.”
“Yes, it is all very queer. I wonder if he is still alive? Perhaps he
knows a way out, Nan. It seems a brutal thing to leave him up there
alone in that cave. But what can we do? At least, he is unconscious and
does not seem to be suffering. But I wish he would wake up sane again,
because he might know a way out.”
“He wouldn’t know. I guess we better go back to the cave and gather a
supply of wood. All we can do is to pray that someone will look down
here for us.”
They went back to the bottom of the cañon and had a drink at the little
spring. A copper-colored rattler, stretched out on the top of a boulder,
waiting for the sunshine, looked them over with beady eyes, as they went
past. They did not see the snake, and the snake was too torpid from the
cold to sound a warning.
They climbed up from the bottom of the cañon near the old waterfall and
twisted their way around the huge boulders. Nan was in the lead, and as
she circled an outcropping of sandstone she cried out sharply and
stepped back, bumping Rex sideways.
A man was standing against the sandstone, covering them with a rifle,
and so close was he that Nan’s elbow struck the barrel of the rifle, as
she jerked back. Her first impression was that it was the crazy man, but
a second glance dissipated this idea.
* * * * *
The man was masked with a big bandanna handkerchief, with jagged
eyeholes, and his slouch hat was pulled low over his forehead. For
several moments he did not move or speak. Rex put his arms around Nan,
and tried to draw her behind him.
“Don’t move,” warned the man harshly.
“Who are you?” demanded Rex.
“Ne’mind who I am. Keep your hands up and foller me.”
He backed slowly to the open hillside below the cave, which was not
visible from there. Rex had shoved the empty revolver inside the waist
band of his trousers, and now the man stepped over and yanked it away. A
quick glance showed him that the gun was empty.
“Where’d you git that?” he asked.
“I found it,” lied Rex.
“Uh-huh.”
The man flung it far off down the cañon.
“How did you git down here?” he asked.
Rex explained.
“You came all the way down that side, eh?”
“It was quite a slide,” agreed Rex. “Now, I hope you will show us the
way out.”
“You hope so, do you? Who shot your horse up there?”
“We haven’t any idea.”
“Anybody gunnin’ for you?”
“I don’t know why they should.”
The man had a lariat wrapped around his waist and now he began
unwrapping it.
“We just want to find the way out of here,” said Rex.
“Thasso?”
The man seemed amused. He shifted his gaze to Nan.
“Set down on the rock!” he snapped harshly. “Set down there and set
still.” He shook the last coil of the rope loose, catching the hondo and
quickly making his loop. Neither of them had any idea what he was
intending to do. He flipped the twist out of the loop, and with a jerk
of his wrist he flung the loop over Rex’s shoulders, yanking it tight.
Rex stumbled forward, his arms cinched to his sides, and the man kicked
his feet from under him, throwing him heavily.
“Stay there, damn yuh!” he snarled. He gave Nan a sharp glance. She had
jumped to her feet now, as if intending to help Rex.
“You stay put!” warned the man. “Set down there!”
* * * * *
Nan sank back on the rock and watched the man deftly hogtie Rex. He knew
ropes, and in a few moments Rex was completely helpless.
“I reckon that’ll hold you,” said the man.
“But what has he ever done to you?” asked Nan. “Why are you tying him
up? He never harmed you.”
“Who’s doin’ this? Keep your face out of it.”
“But why are you tying him up?” persisted Nan. “He never harmed you. All
we want is a chance to get out of here.”
She left the rock and came close to him. He watched her through the
jagged slips in the handkerchief.
“Keep away from me,” he growled. “I never hit no woman. Never thought a
man ort to hit a woman. But I got to protect myself.”
“Oh, I’m not going to fight with you,” wearily. “I just want to explain
things.”
“Yeah? You set down. I’ve gotta figure out somethin’.”
“But won’t you let him go—please.”
“I can’t! Set down. If I had another rope, I’d tie you, too.”
Nan sat down, while the man perched on a convenient boulder. Rex was
lying on his side, facing them. He was bewildered and unable to move.
The man in the mask rolled a cigaret, but discovered that he would have
to move his mask aside in order to smoke, and tossed the unlighted
cigaret aside.
He made no mention of the cave, and Nan decided that he had not
discovered it. For possibly five minutes they sat there silently. At
times the man leaned forward, rubbing his face through the handkerchief,
as if unable to arrive at a decision. At times he turned his head and
looked at the buzzards, which were circling about. Finally he got to his
feet, walked over and looked at the knotted rope and then turned to Nan.
“I’m goin’ to take you out,” he said.
“Goin’ to take me out?” Nan got to her feet quickly. “What about him?”
pointing at Rex.
The man shook his head.
“He stays.”
“But we can’t leave him here alone.”
“The hell we can’t? What’ll stop us?”
“Why, he will die. Don’t you understand? We can’t leave him there.”
“He stays, do you _sabe_ that? I’ll take you out.”
“Go ahead, Nan,” panted Rex. “You —you can tell where I am, don’t you
see?”
“A lot of good it’ll do,” laughed the man.
He pointed at the circling buzzards meaningly. Nan knew what he meant,
and her face went white.
“I won’t go without him,” she said firmly.
“You won’t? Well, I’ll declare! What’s the idea? Are you—aw, have a
little sense, can’tcha? No use of both of you cashin’ in down here. I’m
willin’ to take you out, and you act like a fool over this white-faced
jigger. I don’t git your idea. What does he amount to, anyway?”
“If he stays, I stay.”
Nan’s eyes were filled with tears, but her voice was firm. The man came
closer to her, peering through his mask.
“You ain’t gone loco, have you?”
“No, I am perfectly sane.”
“And you’d give up a chance to git home safe—for that?”
He pointed disgustedly at Rex.
“I’ll stay with him,” she said chokingly.
“Well, f’r God’s sake!”
* * * * *
The man looked around, as if asking the wide world whether the girl
wasn’t crazy. He looked at Rex, who was watching Nan, wide eyed.
“Of all the loco things I ever heard of,” grunted the man. “Listen,
sister, is this on the square? Would you give up—say, don’tcha know
there ain’t a chance of you ever gettin’ out here, unless somebody
guides you? You’ll die here, and the buzzards will strip your bones. Do
you realize that? Do you? And still you’d stay with that weak kneed
tenderfoot? Sluff off a chance to git home safe? You would? Well, I’d
like to know why.”
“Because,” said Nan wearily, “I love him!”
The man jerked forward.
“You what? You love _him_? You love—”
“I have told you why I will stay,” said Nan. “If he stays here, I stay,
too.”
“Well, hell!” exploded the man. “With all the reg’lar men in the state
of Arizona—you pick that!”
He moved back and sat down on the rock, where he rolled another cigaret,
only to toss it aside. After a long silence he said softly—
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!”
“Won’t you cut him loose?” begged Nan. “Can’t you see those ropes are
cutting him?”
“Pretty soft skinned. Why in hell didn’t he stay where he belonged?”
But he made no move to release Rex; he was studying Nan, who humped on
the rock, her hands between her knees, as she looked at Rex, her eyes
filled with tears.
Finally the masked man got to his feet, looking down at Rex.
“I ain’t got the sense that Gawd gave geese in Ireland,” he said slowly.
“I’ve knowed lotsa married folks, and I’ve had me a girl onct or twict;
but I never knowed that any woman ever cared enough f’r a man to sluff
off a chance to save her life—f’r him.”
He stepped over to Rex and quickly unfastened the ropes.
“You’re not going to leave him here?” asked Nan, hardly believing that
such was his intention.
“Not if you want him that bad. T’ me, he don’t amount to a damn, and I’d
jist as soon use him for buzzard bait as not; but if you— You two wait
here. I’ve got to git my bronc. There’s a way out the lower end of this
cañon, if I can remember it. It’s a long ways around, but it can’t be
helped.”
He picked up his rope, swung it over his arm, grasped his rifle and went
stumbling up the cañon, while Nan and Rex stood there, looking at each
other.
“Thank God!” breathed Nan.
“Did you mean what you told him, Nan? Did you mean that you love me?”
“Well, I would have stayed,” she said simply.
CHAPTER XIX
BEYOND DAVE MORGAN’S TRAIL
Hashknife had little trouble in following Morgan, although Morgan seemed
to be traveling more by guess than following a trail. It was so steep
that a horse was obliged to sit on its rump and to keep angling from one
side to another to keep from going headlong into the cañon.
About halfway down the side of the cañon, Hashknife’s gray horse shoved
loose a boulder of considerable size, which went bounding down the steep
slope, crashing through the brush and splitting itself on the boulders
at the bottom.
Hashknife realized that Dave Morgan would have to be deaf not to hear
it; but there was no turning back now. He was riding the rump of the
gray, his feet drawn back as far as possible to escape the brush.
Slipping and sliding, careening from side to side, the tall gray took
him safely to the bottom of the cañon, where he dismounted. He had lost
Morgan’s trail, and there did not seem to be any way of recovering it.
The bottom of the cañon at this point was a jumble of broken sandstone,
boulders and brush, which seemed an impassable barrier to man and beast;
but Hashknife knew there must be a way out.
The cañon was about six miles in length, and Hashknife had entered it at
about a mile below the north end. After waiting a while, trying to
figure out where Morgan had gone, Hashknife picked up his reins and
started to pick out a route down the cañon.
It was slow traveling. Time after time he was obliged to retrace his
steps and select a new route. For over a mile he managed to find his
way. His overall legs were flapping rags, and the knees of the tall gray
were torn and bleeding.
“Tough goin’, Ghost,” grinned Hashknife. “If we ever go the length of
this cañon, we deserve a medal.”
At last he came to a place where he could not find a way through. The
cañon narrowed to a boxlike affair, not over sixty feet in width, with
perpendicular sides, a hundred feet high.
Back went Hashknife and the gray horse to a point about three hundred
yards away, where they began climbing the west side of the cañon. It was
slow work, but they managed to get above the perpendicular sides of the
box cañon.
And it was here that Hashknife was rewarded for his labor. Cut deeply in
the side of the hill were the tracks of a horse, which had come down the
side of the cañon at this point. Hashknife studied the situation, and
from his point of view, Dave Morgan had cut back to the top of the cañon
again, and had tried the descent at another place.
But this time Hashknife was careful to follow the tracks, which kept to
the side of the hill, until reaching the sheer cliffs, less than a mile
from where Nan and Rex had found the cave. Hashknife stopped near the
cliffs and scanned the country. Far above him and across the cañon, he
could see the tiny scars, which indicated graded curves on the wagon
road. Far down the cañon he could see a few buzzards, spiraling upward
from the cañon bed.
That was where he wanted to go—down where the buzzards were. It meant
another hard slide down the cañon, but he made it in safety. For some
distance the trail led down the bottom of the cañon, where the tracks in
the sand made it easy to follow the spoor of the other horse.
* * * * *
The buzzards were getting closer all the time. Again the trail led from
the bottom, and Hashknife was obliged to dismount to follow, leading his
horse. The last few hundred yards required nearly an hour to negotiate,
and he suddenly broke through the brush on the very spot where the
buzzards had been feeding on the roan horse from the 6X6, across the
cañon bottom from the cave.
Hashknife watched the big birds leave their meal and then he examined
the carcass. He found the strip of skin, which carried the 6X6 brand,
and he sat down to ponder over it. There was no question in his mind
that this horse had slid down from the grades, as the bones of the legs
were broken, and as far as he was able to determine, the neck had also
been broken. The saddle bore no name, and had been badly damaged.
Hashknife left the carcass and tied his horse to a snag. Sliding down
into the bottom of the cañon, he discovered Nan’s tracks, which were
very plain. This proved to him that Nan had reached the bottom alive,
and he heaved a sigh of satisfaction. Fifty feet farther down the cañon
he found the empty revolver where the masked man had thrown it. From the
way it had skidded in the sand, he knew it had been thrown from the west
side of the cañon.
Hashknife felt sure that neither Nan nor Rex had been armed when they
left the ranch; and this gun, with six empty shells in the cylinder,
proved that someone had been doing some shooting in the cañon.
He climbed the west bank and came out almost under the overhang of the
cave. After a careful survey of the surrounding country he climbed up
over the shelves of sandstone to the entrance of the cave.
Here was an odor of wood smoke, although the fire had long since died
out. Cautiously he advanced into the shallow cave, gun in hand. It was
light enough for him to see the outstretched form of Napoleon Bonaparte
Briggs near the pile of ashes.
Briggs had been tied securely with a length of lariat rope, with the
loop drawn tightly around his neck. Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs was as
dead as a man might be, and Hashknife could see that he had died from
strangulation, although he had been badly battered.
Hashknife loosened the ropes. In spite of the battered face, Hashknife
was able to recognize the old 6X6 cook. On the left side of his head was
a furrow, which seemed to have been made by a bullet, but with so many
cuts and bruises it was difficult to say which were the worse wounds.
The old man’s coat had been almost torn from his body, but in the inside
pocket Hashknife found several folded papers, which he took to the cave
entrance to examine.
For perhaps five minutes he sat on a sandstone ledge, pondering deeply
over them, while the shadows of the buzzards drifted back and forth
across the slope below him.
Finally he pocketed the papers and went back in the cave, where he
dragged the old man’s body farther away from the entrance.
“Mebbe you’ll be a mummy by the time you get out of here, old-timer,” he
said. “I’d take you out, if I could; but I can’t. So long.”
Hashknife went back down the slope, where he found the track of a horse,
going down the cañon. It went down past the old waterfall, where the
tracks were plainly outlined in the sand.
“Must be a way out the lower end,” he decided. “If I can get Ghost down
into this danged place, I’ll try my luck. It can’t be any worse than the
way I came in—and it must be shorter.”
He managed to pick out a possible place to get down, and went back for
the gray horse.
* * * * *
The shadows from the mesquite clumps were growing long on the mesa below
the mouth of Coyote Cañon. Farther to the south was the blue haze over
the flat land toward Cañonville. Blue quail were calling to one another
from the brushy slopes, their plaintive _ca Cuckoo, ca Cuckoo_ being the
only sound to break the silence.
A lean coyote, like a gray shadow, came limping along past a mesquite,
where he stopped in the shade, his ears cocked toward the sound of
feeding quail. A brush rabbit rustled in the mesquite, and the coyote
shifted his head quickly. Suddenly he lifted his nose. Down the wind
came a scent, which he quickly associated with men who carried guns and
lariat ropes. More like a shadow than before, the coyote seemed to fade
out of sight through a convenient cover, while from a spot upwind came
the soft crackling of brush.
First came the masked man, leading the bay horse, with Nan in the
saddle. Behind them—quite a way behind them—came Rex Morgan, staggering
along, looking like a rag man, or rather a man of rags.
The masked man stopped the horse and allowed Rex to join them.
“Devil of a trip, huh?” grunted the man. “Well, here’s where I leave
you.”
He pointed up the slope.
“About half a mile up thataway you strike the road. Turn left for Mesa
City.”
Nan dismounted and stood beside Rex, while the masked man mounted his
horse.
“I’d like to thank you,” she said.
“You don’t need to. Your sweetheart shore looks fagged, don’t he? You
ain’t a very good picker, ma’am. Them shoes he’s wearin’ wasn’t built
f’r Coyote Cañon. Good luck to you. I don’t _sabe_ women—not a-tall. So
long.”
He spurred his horse to a gallop and soon disappeared, traveling south.
Nan and Rex looked foolishly at each other. Rex’s shoes were ready to
fall off his feet, which were bleeding. Nan was a little better off,
because she had ridden the horse, but her face was drawn from suffering
and lack of food.
“We’ve got to walk home,” she said.
Rex nodded, shifting his feet painfully, and they started toward the
road.
Rex was game. Every step was torture, but he gritted his teeth and kept
going. They were both staggering before they reached the road, and Rex
was laughing foolishly, as they sat down to gain a little strength
before attempting the steep grades.
“I haven’t any feeling,” said Rex weakly. “My legs and arms belong to
someone else, I think.”
“And your feet are all blood, Rex.”
“I know. But we are out of that terrible cañon. Everything will be all
right now, Nan. I want to sing, but I can’t think of a single song. It
is like waking up from an awful dream. I wonder who that man is, Nan.
What was he doing in that cañon, and why did he want to leave me there,
all tied up in that rope? It all seems so ridiculous—now. I have never
harmed any one in my life, except the clothing clerk in Northport, Spike
Cahill and the crazy man. And they couldn’t really hold any grudge for
that, because it was in self-defense. Queer country out here. Somebody
always trying to kill somebody else. But I like it, Nan.”
She did not reply. After a few moments he turned his head and looked at
her. She was leaning against a rock, sound asleep, her hands folded in
her lap. He sighed and shifted to a more comfortable position.
* * * * *
It was nearly dark when something awoke Rex. He lifted his head quickly,
trying to understand what it was all about, trying to realize where he
was. A great, gray shape loomed over him in the half light, and there
sounded the creak of saddle leather, the jingle of spurs.
Then he heard the voice of Hashknife Hartley saying—
“You poor kid, this is Hashknife.”
But Hashknife wasn’t talking to him; he was talking to Nan. And the
great, gray shape was Ghost.
Nan was crying and Hashknife was patting her on the shoulder, telling
her that everything was all right. Rex staggered around the horse to
Hashknife, and the tall cowboy put an arm around his shoulders.
“I trailed you out of the cañon,” said Hashknife. “My Lord, what a
trail! You’re all right now, Nan. How ’r’ you comin’, Rex?”
“I don’t know,” confessed Rex weakly. “I’ve got so many sore spots that
I am just one big ache. Are you all right, Nan?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied wearily. “I must have gone to sleep, you
see.”
“Well, that’s all right,” laughed Hashknife. “I’ll boost you up on
Ghost, and we’ll head for home.”
He picked Nan up in his arms and placed her in the saddle.
“I’ll give you a leg up, Rex,” he said. “You ride behind Nan. Ghost is
broke to ride double.”
“But you can’t walk all the way,” protested Nan.
“Can’t I? Shucks, I could walk to the moon right now.”
He helped Rex on behind the saddle, and they went on up the winding
grades, while Nan told Hashknife the story of what had happened to them
from the time someone shot Rex’s horse until they left the masked man on
the mesa.
“I thought you’d see the buzzards,” said Rex.
“I seen ’em. Gosh, what an experience you had.”
“I think Rex went crazy for a while,” said Nan, “when he fought with the
crazy man.”
“Did you tie him up after the fight?” asked Hashknife.
“We didn’t have anything to tie him with,” said Rex, “but he never tried
to get up, you see.”
“Uh-huh.”
The moon was up when they reached the spot where Rex and Nan had dropped
into the cañon. It silvered the hills and the cliffs on the opposite
side of the cañon.
“Oh, we forgot about the crazy man!” exclaimed Nan. “He’s still down
there in the cave, you know, Hashknife.”
“Don’t worry about him, Nan.”
They plodded on around the grades, down around the sharp turns, where
the stage had given Rex his wild introduction to the country, and on
through the flat land to the forks of the road, where they turned to the
Lane ranch.
The ranch-house was dark.
“Queer, isn’t it?” said Rex. “When I was asleep back there, I dreamed
about that Navaho rug. It had blood on it—in my dream, Hashknife.”
“Yeah. It ain’t on the fence down there now; somebody took it.”
“Oh, I’ll bet your feet are worn raw,” said Nan. “With those high heel
boots on.”
“Feet are all right. Here we are.”
Rex slid down, and Hashknife lifted Nan from the saddle.
* * * * *
The kitchen table was just as Hashknife and Sleepy had left it after the
bullet had driven the milk can between Sleepy’s eyes. Both Nan and Rex
were still wobbling, and they watched Hashknife build a fire in the
kitchen stove. He put on a big kettle of water.
“I can get the meal,” said Nan. “I feel fine again.”
“Start in with some coffee, Nan. There’s half of that pie in the oven. I
could drink a pot of coffee myself. Show me where you keep your writin’
paper and ink, will you, Nan?”
They found it in the drawer of the table in the living room, along with
an old pen.
“You fix the coffee,” said Hashknife. “I’ve got to write a note.”
He placed a lamp on the table, while Nan went back to the kitchen, where
Rex was removing what was left of his shoes. Hashknife took a folded
piece of paper from his pocket, propped it up against a book and filled
his pen.
He wrote slowly on the cheap sheet of paper, so slowly that it seemed he
was copying something. His brow was knitted deeply, almost covering the
gray eyes, as the broken pen holder moved slowly in his cramped fingers.
Finally the document was finished to his satisfaction and, after folding
it roughly, he placed it in the inside pocket of his vest. The paper he
had propped against the book went into a hip pocket, and he got up from
the table, a half smile on his thin lips.
Nan was limping around the table in the kitchen, while Rex looked
ruefully at his swollen feet.
“I’ll have some hot water for you in a few minutes, dear,” said Nan.
Rex looked up quickly at Hashknife. It was the first time she had ever
called Rex by that title. The gray eyes shifted to Nan and back to Rex.
Neither of them had told Hashknife just why the masked man had taken
them out of the cañon. Perhaps it was a subject that neither of them
cared to discuss with a third party.
CHAPTER XX
INDIRECT INHERITANCE
Came the sound of running horses, the thump of footsteps on the rickety
porch, and Sleepy came stamping through the living room, while behind
him came Lem Sheeley. At sight of Nan, Sleepy let out a joyful yelp and
grabbed Hashknife by the shoulders.
“Where didja find ’em?” he yelled. “My, this is great, ain’t it? Where
you been? Look at the kid’s feet, will you? Why don’t somebody say
somethin’? All dumb, are you?”
“Are you run down?” queried Hashknife mildly.
“Well—yeah!” snorted Sleepy. “Talk a little.”
Both Sleepy and Lem crowded into the kitchen and humped on their heels
against the wall, while Hashknife told what he knew and what Nan and Rex
had told him. The coffee pot boiled over before the tale was told, but
no one noticed such a small detail.
“But what’s it all about?” complained Lem. “There ain’t head nor tail to
it. All this crazy man in the cañon, and a man with a mask stuff. Sounds
kinda looney to me.”
“It does sound crazy,” smiled Hashknife.
“Like a sheepherder’s dream,” grunted Sleepy. “After we left you we
spent about three hours tryin’ to find a way down into that cañon, but
had to give up. It’s one awful place, Hashknife. I don’t _sabe_ how you
ever found a place to get in. Me and Lem had an idea of tryin’ to get
down at the lower end, but gave it up until we heard from you.”
“Where are the other boys?” asked Hashknife.
“Mesa City, gettin’ their bills wet,” grunted Sleepy. “Spike Cahill dang
near broke his neck in that cañon. He thought he could slide a hundred
feet down a thirty foot rope, but found it was too short on one end.”
Nan poured the coffee and refilled the pot. She and Rex split the half
pie, while Rex bathed his feet in warm water. He was too tired even to
tell them whether the water was too hot, and Sleepy almost cooked him
with it.
“Well, what next?” asked Lem, finishing his coffee.
Hashknife shoved his cup aside and got to his feet.
“I reckon we’ll go back to Mesa City,” he said.
Sleepy eyed him closely, knowing that something real had caused him to
make that decision. It was not merely to go to town. Hashknife’s feet
were too sore for a pleasure trip.
“We’re with you, cowboy,” declared Sleepy. “My, your feet must be
tender.”
“Not a bit; can’t feel anythin’.”
He turned to Nan.
“Better go to bed pretty quick, and don’t worry any more. Fix up the
kid’s feet the best you can, and they’ll be all right. C’mon, boys.”
He limped from the house to his horse, with the two men close behind
him. Ghost nickered softly and rubbed his muzzle against Hashknife’s
vest.
“Can’t travel very fast,” said Hashknife. “That cañon is shore hard on a
horse. There’s places where Ghost had to almost crawl on his knees. You
shore need sky hooks and a lot of faith in the Almighty to make that
trip.”
* * * * *
It was rather a big night at the Oasis, as far as the bar was concerned.
Morgan was helping the overworked bartender, while Mesa City discussed
what had become of Nan and Rex. Hashknife, too, had not been accounted
for, but Spike Cahill declared that Hashknife could take care of
himself.
“But he never got into that cañon,” said Cal Dickenson, of Dave Morgan’s
outfit. “I tell you, it can’t be done.”
“The devil it can’t!” snorted Spike. “I was jist one inch of goin’ into
it myself today. A hondo on that rope was all that saved me. A inch
ain’t far, Cal.”
The boys laughed with Spike. They knew just how close he had come to
smashing his bones on the rocks.
Joe Cave came in from the Flying M and joined the gang. Joe was cold
sober now, but willing to be otherwise.
“It’s too lonesome out there,” he told Morgan. “You didn’t tell me that
all the rest of the gang had left.”
“I did, too,” said Morgan. “Mebbe you was too drunk to pay any
attention.”
“Mebbe,” grinned Joe sourly. “Gimme whisky.”
“Whatsa matter?” asked Spike, watching Joe gulp down a glass of liquor.
“Is your swallerin’ apparatus busted? I’ll leave it to anybody around
her, if Joe’s Adam’s apple didn’t jump sideways to let that drink jump
past.”
“His Adam’s apple ain’t so dumb,” said Bert Roddy solemnly. “It knows
what it means to git in front of a runaway drink of Oasis liquor. Sleepy
Stevens says the only safe way is to drink quick and shut your mouth. He
says that kinda whisky bounces.”
“Where’s Sleepy?” asked a cowboy.
“Him and Lem pulled out about an hour ago.”
“What was Lem doin’ here?” asked Joe Cave.
“Prob’ly lookin’ for you,” grinned Spike. “He shore did look sad. Mebbe
he mourns his loss.”
“I s’pose he does,” grinned Joe. “That’s an awful job—packin’ food to a
prisoner. I’m glad I quit.”
“Yea-a-ah, you quit!” flared Bert Roddy. “You got drunk, and he fired
you, Joe.”
Joe grimaced and reached for the bottle.
“I suppose that’s what Lem said.”
“Yeah, and he don’t lie,” declared Spike.
Joe glared at Spike, but dropped the argument. He had no desire to
tangle with that ex-6X6 gang.
“How about a little poker,” suggested Dave Morgan.
“Very little for me,” replied Dell Bowen. “I’m almost broke enough to
take a job with you, Dave.”
“That’s fine with me; I can use you.”
* * * * *
Morgan left the bar and began arranging a check rack on one of the
tables, when Hashknife limped in, followed by Sleepy and Lem.
“There’s the old cañon crawler now!” whooped Spike.
Hashknife smiled thinly and looked around, nodding to the men. Morgan
halted with a stack of chips in his hand.
“Just in time, Hartley,” he said. “Grab a seat.”
“Didja get down into the cañon?” asked Spike.
“I shore did,” smiled Hashknife.
“F’r gosh sake, where? Did Sleepy tell you the trouble we had? Where’d
you get down?”
“Morgan showed me the place.”
All eyes were turned to Dave Morgan. He placed his chips on the table
and looked at Hashknife.
“Did you foller me down?” he asked easily.
“I did.”
“Well, I’ll be darned. After you boys left here, I got an idea that
there might be a place to get down; so I rode down and tried it. I never
knew anybody was follerin’ me. Sure, I got down. But I couldn’t get
anywhere; so I went north agin’, and finally gave it up.”
Hashknife’s eyes narrowed slightly. He knew that the falling stone in
the cañon had warned Morgan.
“I see,” he said thoughtfully. “That’s how I missed your trail down
there. But I found a way through.”
“The devil you did!” exploded Spike. “What’d you find?”
Hashknife’s eyes traveled slowly over the crowd.
“I found a blue roan 6X6 horse, with a saddle on it. The buzzards found
it first, but there was enough left.”
“Blue roan?” queried Bert Roddy. “Was it Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs’ blue
roan?”
“I think so, Bert.”
“Where’s old Briggs?” demanded Morgan. “I want to get my hands on that
old thief. He opened that safe—”
“Briggs is dead,” interrupted Hashknife. “He had been all battered up,
and I think a bullet had scored his head. I found him down there in a
cave, with a tight rope around his neck—jist buzzard bait.”
For several moments there was silence, broken by Spike’s—
“My God!”
Sleepy moved back slightly, his right hand brushing over his gun butt.
“He was drunk when he left here,” said Bert Roddy. “He must ’a’ rode off
the grade. Poor old Briggs.”
“Do you think he shot himself and then choked himself to death with the
rope?” asked Hashknife slowly.
“Oh, I forgot that,” said Bert. “He couldn’t have done all that,
Hartley.”
“Sounds foolish,” said Dave Morgan.
“The body is down there in a cave to prove it.”
“Oh, I’m not disputin’ your word, Hartley.”
“And last night,” said Hashknife slowly, “somebody shot Rex Morgan’s
horse on the Coyote Cañon grade, while him and Nan Lane was ridin’ to
Cañonville. They kept shootin’, and drove the kid and the girl over the
edge, where they slid all the way to the bottom. God only knows how they
lived. I reckon they had a hell of a time. Briggs was down there, crazy
as a loon. He stuck ’em up with a gun and took the girl to a cave; but
the kid follered and whipped Briggs, knockin’ him out cold. I reckon it
bumped Briggs’ head pretty hard, ’cause he didn’t wake up the last they
saw of him. But they never roped him.”
Hashknife paused to let this soak in.
* * * * *
“You mean there was somebody else down there?” asked Lem hoarsely.
“A masked man,” said Hashknife. “He choked Briggs to death with the rope
and then brought them two kids out to the south mesa, where he left ’em.
I found ’em down there, all fagged out, and brought ’em home.”
“What masked man?” demanded Dave Morgan. “Talk sense.”
“The man who shot Rex Morgan’s horse last night. The same man who shot
Noah Evans on the porch of the Lane ranch-house, Morgan—shot him,
thinkin’ it was the tenderfoot kid. The same man who fired a shot
through the window at the Lane ranch-house last night and almost killed
Sleepy Stevens.”
“There’s been quite a lot goin’ on around here, it seems to me,” said
Joe Cave, laughing shortly.
“But your explanation don’t tell us anythin’,” said Dave Morgan,
stepping away from the table.
“It told me quite a lot,” said Hashknife. “But there’s more to it than
that, folks. Did any of you examine the spot where Peter Morgan was
killed? Well, you might ’a’ been surprised. There wasn’t any blood
spilled. Peter Morgan was dead long before he came to that place. And
the man or men who brought him there killed him in the 6X6 ranch-house
on a Navaho rug, which has a lightenin’ mark on it. To remove the blood,
they took rug and all with ’em. And when they was gettin’ away, that
tenderfoot kid rode in on ’em, and they popped him over the head. They
thought they had killed him, and took him along to the Lane ranch. They
sunk the rug in the creek. And when they knew we had found the rug—they
stole it.”
The men were all staring at Hashknife, whose face was drawn, lips almost
white.
“Cave!” he snapped. “You made a mistake this mornin’. You should have
been just as drunk outside of town as you was in it.”
Joe Cave flinched, as if someone had seared him with a hot iron.
“You’ve got mask marks on your face, Cave!” Hashknife’s voice snapped
like a whip.
With a jerk of his hand, Cave started to reach for his face, but sagged
back against the bar.
“And you made a mistake, Morgan,” whispered Hashknife. “Why didn’t you
kill Briggs on flat ground, so you could search him, instead of shooting
him off the grade into the cañon, where you couldn’t get at him? He had
somethin’ in his pocket that you needed bad.”
Joe Cave was the first to act. As he sagged back against the bar, his
right hand flashed down to his gun. He was trapped. Morgan’s gun was
coming out like a flash, but his bullet ripped into the floor, echoing
the crash of Sleepy’s .45.
Cave sprang away from the bar, screaming a curse, with Spike Cahill
clinging like grim death to his gun hand. Lem shot across the space,
knocking the table aside, and threw one arm around Cave’s neck, shutting
off his wind, while Spike tore away the gun.
Morgan went to his knees, blindly groping for the gun which had fallen
from his nerveless hand, but Hashknife kicked it aside, and Morgan
sprawled on his face. They flung Cave in a chair, and Lem handcuffed
him, while Cave cursed them bitterly.
* * * * *
One of the men ran for the doctor, but Lem turned Morgan over to
discover that a doctor was not needed. Hashknife patted Sleepy on the
back and leaned against the bar.
“Dead, is he?” gritted Joe Cave.
“You’re lucky not to be with him,” said Spike nervously.
“Like hell I am! Why didn’t he live long enough to tell the truth?
Nobody will believe me. Dave killed Pete. I was out there with him. He
didn’t go to kill him; he went to borrow money. I wasn’t even in the
house. He wouldn’t lend Dave money; so Dave killed him. I don’t know how
Hartley knows so much about it. Dave wanted to lay the blame on Lane; so
we took the body there. We didn’t know who that kid was, but Dave said
to take him along. I shot Noah Evans by mistake. Dave promised to give
me this saloon for helpin’ him. He wanted to git rid of that tenderfoot,
and yesterday we had a quarrel about it. I was afraid he’d kill me as
soon as I done his dirty work. I shot the kid’s horse on the grade, and
I swiped the rug, jist before I shot through the winder. And that’s all
the truth.”
“And Dave Morgan robbed Pete’s safe, didn’t he?” asked Spike.
“Sure did. He was worried about a will. He thought old Briggs knowed too
much; so he waylaid Briggs on the Coyote Cañon grade. But Briggs went
into the cañon.”
“What did you go down there for today?” asked Hashknife.
“To see what happened. I know that cañon like a book.”
“And you choked Briggs?”
“You found him, didn’t you? No use of me lyin’.”
“Well, for God’s sake!” blurted Lem.
“Old Man Lane ain’t guilty a-tall.”
“But who tied Pete on the horse?” asked Lem. “That part of it ain’t
explained.”
“Nan and Rex,” said Hashknife. “They found the body in the corral and
wanted to get rid of it. That’s what made me sure Paul Lane never killed
him, Lem. If he had, he’d have hid the body—not left it there to cinch
him for murder. If there hadn’t been any more shootin’, I might have
believed Old Man Lane guilty; but there was too much shootin’ goin’ on.
The fact that Dave Morgan would inherit the 6X6 made me suspect him; but
he couldn’t do it all alone. He had to have help, but I didn’t know who
to suspect. I never thought of Joe Cave, until Lem fired him for bein’
drunk.”
“Wasn’t anythin’ about that, was there?” asked Lem.
“A puncher,” said Hashknife slowly, “don’t usually get drunk that early
in the mornin’, and they don’t usually take a chance on losin’ a good
job. It kinda looked to me as though Joe wanted to lose that job; so I
rode out of town to see how he acted after he got away from town. He
sobered up too quick. He had to be fired in order to make it look right.
You see, he was due to take over this saloon.”
“Morgan said you ought to be killed,” said Joe wearily.
“What did you and Morgan quarrel about down in the sheriff’s office,
Joe?”
“Did you hear that, too? He wanted me to go out to the ranch and kill
Rex Morgan. I was gettin’ scared. But I wanted this saloon. I heard them
comin’ on the grade; so I let ’em past before I shot. I never missed so
bad before, but the light was awful bad.
“Just one thing more, Cave,” said Hashknife. “When you had a chance down
there, why didn’t you kill the tenderfoot?”
Joe sighed and looked at the handcuffs.
“I was a fool,” he said slowly. “I don’t _sabe_ women. This ’n said she
wanted the tenderfoot so bad that she’d rather stay with him than git
out alone. And if you’ve ever been down there, where nothing much but a
buzzard or a lion can git, you can _sabe_ how bad she wanted him.”
“And that’s why you brought ’em out, Joe?”
“Wasn’t that enough?”
* * * * *
The doctor came and made an examination of Dave Morgan’s body. He did
not even open his black bag.
The crowd wanted more explanation. Hashknife drew a folded paper from
his inside vest pocket and handed it to Lem, who read it, while the
crowd leaned in over his wide shoulders to see what it was all about. It
read:
This is mi last will—when im ded.
To Mary Morgan, mi legil wife i hearby give the 6X6 ranch
and everything on it. i dont give nuthing to Dave Morgan
cause he dont deserve it.
If Mary dyes it goes to her nearist kin. To Napoleon Bonaparte
Briggs i hearby give the Oasis saloon he aint got no branes so
he will have to give Jack Farewether a job as long as the saloon
keeps open. This is mi onely will.
Yrs Respy
—Peter Morgan
his X mark
P. S. wrote bi Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs oct 18 1904 because
Pete Morgan cant wright.
Lem read it aloud to the men. Spike Cahill examined it closely, handing
it back to Lem.
“That’s old Briggs’ writin’,”, he declared. “I’d know it among a
million.”
The other boys agreed with Spike.
“That’s it,” said Bert Roddy. “I know how he writes his name. But where
is Pete’s wife? Nobody around here knows he ever had a wife.”
“The tenderfoot is her son,” said Hashknife. “We can prove it, can’t we,
Lem?”
The big sheriff nodded quickly.
“Somebody wired him when his wife died. We got a copy of the telegram.”
“Pete never got it,” said Joe Cave. “It came to the post office, and
Dave claimed it. He knowed that the kid was Pete’s son.”
“Well, it’s all perfectly clear now,” said Lem. “Ready to take a ride,
Joe?”
“It ain’t because I’m ready, Lem. Better get me a fresh horse. I had to
circle and go across the river to get back from that mesa.”
* * * * *
“Let’s all go down and congratulate the tenderfoot,” suggested Spike,
and when Lem took his prisoner to Cañonville, there were nine other
riders, who accompanied them to the forks of the road.
They rode up to the ranch-house and trooped inside, where they found Rex
humped down in a rocking chair, his feet bandaged. Nan was in her room,
but the uproar awoke her and she peered out at the crowd.
Spike was hammering Rex on the back and trying to shake hands with him
at the same time, while the bewildered Rex was trying to puzzle out what
it was all about.
“Put on a blanket and come out, Nan,” advised Hashknife. “This gang
won’t take no for an answer.”
Nan wrapped herself in a gaudy blanket and came out timidly. She looked
like a very little and very tired Indian.
“You tell ’em, Hashknife,” said Spike.
“It’s too long a tale to tell now,” said Hashknife, “but it amounts to
this, Nan. Your father will be turned loose tomorrow. Dave Morgan killed
Pete Morgan, who was the father of Rex. We’ve cleared that all up. Dave
Morgan is dead, and I found the will that gives Rex the 6X6.”
“You mean—my dad is free?” asked Nan.
“Jist as soon as they can unlock the jail, Nan.”
She stood there in front of them, the blanket tucked up around her chin,
crying. There was no effort to hide the tears. The cowboys turned away.
“Oh!” snorted Spike.
“What are you kickin’ about?” growled Bert.
“Somebody stepped on my foot.”
“Ain’t been anybody within six feet of you.”
“And I—I own the 6X6?” asked Rex foolishly.
“You shore do!” exclaimed Spike. “It’s your ranch, kid.”
Rex blinked at them foolishly.
“And Peter Morgan was my father? It was he who sent that check to my
mother?”
“I reckon it was Briggs,” said Hashknife. “Peter Morgan didn’t want
anybody to know; so he had Briggs send the checks.”
“Was he ashamed of my mother?”
“I dunno. We’ll never know, Rex; they’re both gone. You be content with
what he left you.”
Rex nodded dumbly. He could hardly understand his great fortune. The
boys came and shook hands with him. They all wanted to shake hands with
Nan, but she had slipped away to her room. The boys filed out of the
house, mounted their horses and headed back to Mesa City. Hashknife
yawned wearily and started for the door.
“Hashknife,” said Rex slowly, “I don’t understand anything. I know you
are the one responsible for all this good fortune, but I can’t think of
just what to say. If, as you say, the 6X6 belongs to me, will you take
charge of it? I don’t know anything about it. I’d like to hire all those
boys.”
“Well, I dunno. Might work out that way, Rex. We’ve got to put up our
horses now.”
He and Sleepy stabled their mounts and gave them a meal of oats. As they
closed the stable door, Sleepy said—
“How much of that will is true, Hashknife?”
“How much?” Hashknife hesitated for several moments.
“Your fingers are all stained with ink, cowboy.”
Hashknife chuckled softly.
“Some day, you’ll be a detective, Sleepy. C’mere.”
They backed against the stable, where Hashknife took a crumpled piece of
paper from his hip pocket. He scratched a match and held the paper for
Sleepy to read. The writing was identical with that of the other will,
but read:
This is mi last will—when im ded.
To Mary Morgan, legal wife of Dave Morgan i hearby give the 6X6
ranch to own. i dont give nothing to Dave Morgan he dont deserve it.
If Mary dyes it goes to her nearist kin. To Napoleon Bonaparte
Briggs I hearby give the Oasis saloon he aint got no branes so
he will have to give Jack Farewether a job as long as the saloon
keeps open. This is mi onely will.
Yrs Respy
—Peter Morgan
his X mark
P. S. wrote bi Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs oct 18 1904 because
Pete Morgan cant wright.
* * * * *
Hashknife was obliged to light a second match before Sleepy could finish
reading the document, and as Sleepy straightened up with a soft whistle
of astonishment, Hashknife touched the match to a corner of the paper
and they watched it burn to crinkly ashes.
“I wrote that other will, Sleepy,” said Hashknife slowly. “It works out
the same way, as far as the property is concerned. But when a young man
is slated to marry a danged sweet young lady, and don’t know anythin’
about his paternal ancestor, why not start him off right, as far as his
father is concerned?”
“That’s right,” said Sleepy softly. “It don’t hurt nobody. Look at that,
will you?”
Silhouetted against the ranch-house window were two figures, about a
foot apart. One figure greatly resembled a blanketed Indian, the other a
scarecrow, with rags dangling from its arms, making queer motions.
Sleepy laughed softly.
“Look at him, will you? He’s probably tellin’ her in good English what
he’s goin’ to do with the 6X6. Betcha he ain’t even kissed her.
Hashknife, that feller is almost dumb enough to make a good cowpuncher.”
Suddenly the figures blended, and Hashknife turned his back, as he
fumbled for his cigaret papers.
“Not so dumb,” he said slowly.
“Well, that one is over,” chuckled Sleepy.
“Good. Now, I can heat some water and soak my blisters.”
They pulled their hats low over their eyes and headed for the kitchen
door.
[Notes on the Text:
1. This story appeared in consecutive issues of Adventure Magazine:
April 15, 1928 and May 1, 1928.
2. It is believed to be in the public domain in the United States;
copyright status may differ in other countries.
3. Publisher’s stock cut images on the original page 3 of Part I and
on page 71 of Part II have been removed.]
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