The Project Gutenberg eBook of The meddler
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Title: The meddler
Author: W. C. Tuttle
Illustrator: V. E. Pyles
Release date: July 29, 2026 [eBook #79212]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: The Butterick Publishing Company, 1927
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79212
Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MEDDLER ***
Hashknife rides into a mystery in Stormy
River County and gets himself called
THE MEDDLER
by W. C. Tuttle
It was early morning in the town of Pineville; so early, in fact, that
there was little activity. The lamps were still burning in the Stormy
River Saloon, where tired-eyed cattlemen, ignoring the fact that this
was Sunday morning, shuffled and dealt poker hands, drinking
occasionally.
At the long hitchrack in front of the place nodded a dozen cow horses,
whose owners had forgotten them since early in the evening. A man came
from the saloon, carrying two big buckets, which he proceeded to fill at
a squeaky old pump, breaking the stillness of the sleeping town.
Two men were standing in front of the sheriff’s office. One man was tall
and thin, with a sad face; the other was a small, wiry, sharp-faced man,
with graying hair. The tall man was dressed in wrinkled black clothes
that did not fit well, a white shirt, polished of bosom, and an extra
high stiff collar. He wore no vest, and his glaring red four-in-hand
necktie gave him the appearance of a man who had had his throat cut. He
leaned against a porch post, shifting his weight from one foot to the
other, as if his new boots were just a size or two too small.
“You say you busted it all to hell, eh?” said the small man, who was Pat
Lynch, the sheriff of Stormy River County.
Oscar Johnson, the black-clad deputy, nodded sadly.
“Tryin’ to drive with one hand, Oscar?”
“No, sir.”
“Had a girl with you, didn’t you?”
“Shore, Annie Hall was with me, Pat. I was drivin’ with both hands,
though. I dunno. Mebby the horse flipped his tail over the lines. It was
dark. First thing I knowed, he kicked the dash off the buggy, and then
started runnin’. Busted dash didn’t mean nothin’. I says fer her to set
tight, and we come a-runnin’. ’Course, everythin’ was all right, until
we hits that culvert jist outside of town, and we does a
‘thank-yuh-ma’am’ that jist caved in the wheels. But I hung to the
lines, and when we lit—well, as soon as I gets untangled from Annie, I
finds the horse upside down and the buggy fit fer fixin’. I gets the
horse to his feet and managed to drag the buggy behind the blacksmith
shop. And that’s where she is now, Pat.”
“Annie Hall?”
“Hell, no! The buggy. Annie went home.”
“Wasn’t she hurt?”
“Nothin’ special; kinda limped.”
“And you in that new black suit, Oscar.”
Oscar sighed deeply and looked down at himself.
“I thought of that, Pat; but there wasn’t no time to make a change. I’m
sorry about the buggy.”
“You ought to be. Cost me a hundred and sixty dollars in Cheyenne—almost
new. Damn good buggy, I’ll tell you!”
“One of the best I ever smashed.”
“You don’t need to be funny about it, Oscar.”
“Think I ort to cry about it? You’re lucky to have me back alive.”
“Some folks have a queer idea of what constitutes luck,” said the
sheriff dryly.
“Oh, it wasn’t all luck; I used my head.”
“Yea-a-ah, I’ll betcha. Well, let’s go over and look at the wreck. I
reckon you’d like to see me git it back in the same condition it was
when I loaned it to you, Oscar.”
“Like to—yes; but it ain’t hardly possible.”
“I mean, I don’t like to have to pay for fixin’ it.”
“I don’t blame you, Pat. Won’t hardly be worth it. Anyway, you don’t
need no buggy.”
“Well, you was the one who busted it.”
“You can’t argue with me. I did.”
The sheriff snorted disgustedly. He didn’t like to come right out and
ask Oscar to pay for the fixing of the buggy and he knew that Oscar
never would do it voluntarily.
“That was a great dance at Garnet,” offered Oscar, as they crossed the
dusty street toward the blacksmith shop, which was near the Stormy River
Saloon.
“Best callin’ I ever heard. My hoofs shore feel like I’d been on hard
pasture for a long time. Fact of the matter is, I wouldn’t know I had
any feet, unless I look down at ’em, they’re that numb. Good crowd, too.
Lotsa girls.”
“You ort to wear boots that fit you, Oscar.”
“Fit? I got into ’em, didn’t I?”
“You wouldn’t call the skin of a sausage a perfect and comfortable fit,
would you? Some of you cowpunchers make me sick. Ain’t got brains enough
to wear comfortable boots. My Lord, you’d think there was a prize
offered for the most uncomfortable feet.”
“There’s your buggy,” said Oscar sadly, as they halted at the rear of
the shop, which was littered with the running gears of wrecked wagons, a
wheelless cart and all the refuse of a cow town blacksmith shop.
“Yeah, that’s my buggy,” admitted the sheriff. “If it wasn’t fer that
yaller paint on the wheels, I’d never recognize her. You shore massaged
it a-plenty, Oscar.”
“The top’s all right, Pat.”
“Yea-a-ah, and one shaft. Why didn’t you bust off that shaft and use it
to beat hell out of the top? Might as well have made it unanimous.”
“I s’pose. Still, old Sam Hall is a pretty good blacksmith, and he might
put her together ag’in.”
“Oh, yea-a-ah! Take the blacksmith’s daughter to a dance and—— Whatcha
tryin’ to do—git in good with old Sam?”
“Aw, I didn’t do it on purpose, Pat. ’S far as I’m concerned, I don’t
give a darn whether he fixes it or not.”
* * * * *
Pat Lynch straightened up from an examination of a smashed wheel, sighed
deeply and considered his deputy.
“Sometimes I almost hate you, Oscar.”
“Tha’sall right, Pat. Everybody is entitled to their opinion. I won’t
argue with you. Fact is, I’m too sleepy and sore to argue with you.
Remember, I got drug about forty feet, with Annie on my lap. She ain’t
no feather piller, you know. Jist about ruined my new suit. I’m inclined
to be sorry about that buggy, but at the same time—”
Oscar’s voice trailed off to a stop as he stared at the corner of a
little corral, which enclosed a small stable behind the Stormy River
Saloon. The sheriff turned and gazed in the same direction.
“What’sa matter, Oscar?” he asked.
“I dunno.” Oscar spat dryly. “Feller layin’ on the ground over there by
the corner of the fence. Mebby he’s jist drunk, but he’s in a funny
position.”
The sheriff stepped past Oscar, where he could get a better view.
“Too much liquor,” he decided.
But Oscar wasn’t sure. He walked over to the corral and looked at the
man.
“You better come here, Pat,” he called softly. The sheriff left the
wrecked buggy and came quickly.
The man was lying flat on his face, arms spread out, fingers clutching
the dirt. His hat was lying several feet away. The back of the man’s
head had been smashed in, and he was a welter of blood. Neither the
sheriff nor the deputy spoke for several moments.
There was no use of an examination; no use in turning the body over.
They both knew that it was Buck Dennig and that he was dead. Oscar
reached out and braced himself against the corral fence, as he wet his
dry lips with his tongue.
“Somebody’s killed Buck Dennig,” he said softly.
“Somebody did,” nodded the sheriff. “Been dead quite a while, too;
prob’ly couple of hours, or more.”
Oscar nodded slowly, and they considered the murder in silence.
“We ought to tell about it,” suggested Oscar.
He stepped farther toward the other corner and looked between the poles
of the corral. On the opposite side of the corral, tied to the fence,
was a tall sorrel horse.
“That’s Buck’s horse,” said Oscar. “He mostly allus ties him back there.
Said that the sorrel scares easy and might break loose from the
hitchrack. Who do you suppose killed Buck?”
“This ain’t no guessin’ contest. C’mon.”
* * * * *
They went back through the alley and entered the Stormy River Saloon.
Only one poker game was still in progress; around the table sat Hootie
Cooper, a merchant, Frank Shell, a gambler, Mort Heffner, prosecuting
attorney, Lester Cline, another merchant, Dobe Severn and Bud Hough, two
of the TD cowboys.
They nodded to the sheriff and the deputy. Heffner yawned widely and
looked at his watch, not realizing that it was already daylight.
“When did Buck Dennig leave?” asked the sheriff casually.
“About two o’clock,” replied Dobe Severn sleepily, “and it’s about time
for us to foller suit, Bud.”
“Yeah, or get me somethin’ to prop my eyes open with,” grunted Bud,
intent on his cards.
“Well, he didn’t git far,” said the sheriff seriously. “He’s layin’ out
there by the corral, with the back of his head smashed in.”
The players blinked at the sheriff, hardly understanding what he had
said. Heffner got slowly to his feet, his hands on the table.
“You mean that somebody killed Buck?” he asked.
“Jist that, Mort. Smashed in his head.”
“Well—well,” faltered Bud vacantly, “he was all right when he left
here.”
“That shore sounds intelligent,” grunted Oscar.
None of them waited to cash in their chips. They filed out through the
rear entrance, which was only about sixty feet from where the body lay.
“Don’t touch him,” warned the attorney. “One of you go and get the
coroner. Just let the body alone. There isn’t a thing you can do now.”
Dobe Severn ran down the alley, hotfooting his way after the coroner,
while the rest of the men stood stiffly around the body.
“Looks pretty damn bad,” said Hootie Cooper, a thin-faced little man,
with a huge nose and a squeaky voice.
“For Blanco,” said Lester Cline, a much younger man than Cooper.
They were business rivals in everything except kerosene. Hootie wouldn’t
handle it, because it had been the cause of his burning out his store at
one time.
The sheriff turned his head quickly and looked at Cline.
“What about Blanco?” he asked sharply.
“That don’t prove anything,” said Shell, the gambler, quickly.
“No, it shore don’t,” agreed Cline, “but just the same—”
“What’s this all about?” demanded the sheriff.
“Buck Dennig and Blanco quarreled last night,” said the gambler. “Buck
just the same as accused Blanco of stealing a card. I didn’t see it;
mebby Buck had been drinking.”
“I didn’t see it,” said Hootie. “I was watchin’ the play. Blanco was
dealin’. Looked to me as though it was square.”
“Did they fight?” asked the sheriff anxiously.
“No,” said the gambler shortly.
“They was mad enough,” yawned Bud. “Blanco’s lips were as white as
anythin’ you ever seen. And he never turned a hair, when Buck—”
“Don’t say too much,” advised the gambler. “Just because two men
quarrel—”
“I want the straight of this,” interrupted the sheriff. “You say they
didn’t fight, eh? Did Blanco leave the game?”
“He did. It must have been about one o’clock. He never even stopped to
cash in his chips. I’ve still got ’em for him—about sixty dollars’
worth.”
“And Buck left about an hour later, eh?”
“I looked at my watch,” said Hootie. “It was a quarter of two.”
Little more was said, and in a few minutes the coroner came with Dobe.
The coroner was an old cow town doctor, short of speech, familiar with
the ailments of everybody within a radius of twenty-five miles. His
examination of the dead man was very brief. Except for the smashed
skull, Buck Dennig had not been touched.
“One good swipe would have done it,” said Hootie.
“One _good_ swipe,” admitted the doctor grimly. He had known Buck for a
long time.
“Take him out to the ranch?” queried Dobe.
“Take him to my office,” said the doctor shortly.
After they had taken the body away, the sheriff and the prosecutor went
back across the street to the sheriff’s office, with Oscar tagging
behind them.
“You better go to bed,” said the sheriff. “And for the love of gosh, git
that collar and shirt off!”
“All right,” sighed Oscar. “I’m sorry about that buggy.”
“I hoped you would be.”
The sheriff and the prosecutor sat down in the little office and looked
at each other.
“What do you think, Mort?” asked the sheriff.
The lawyer stroked his unshaven jaw. A full night session of poker did
not tend to make him abnormally bright, not that he was a tower of
wisdom at any time.
“I don’t know, Pat,” he replied vaguely.
“You was there when they quarreled?”
“Oh, sure.”
“Any threats?”
“Hm-mm. Well, there usually is at a time like that. I don’t remember
just what was said—everybody talking, you know. But Blanco was mad, and
so was Buck. In fact, Buck was mad when he came there last night.”
“Mad about what?”
“Oh, I don’t know what was the matter with him. Buck was usually good
tempered. But something was wrong. You know, there has been a bad
feeling between the TD and the Blanco outfits. Nobody has ever preferred
any charges, but I think it was over some alleged rustling.”
“I’ve heard the same thing, Mort, but never from either side. Things
like that leak out, you know. But what do you think? Is there enough to
base an arrest on?”
“To arrest Blanco?”
“Yeah.”
The attorney shook his head quickly.
“Not in my opinion. Blanco may be as guilty as hell, but we can’t prove
it. Not yet.”
The sheriff sighed with relief. He didn’t want the job of arresting Tex
Blanco, owner of the B Arrow outfit.
“We may be able to gather some evidence,” said the lawyer reflectively,
and then yawned widely.
He was a sallow-faced, angular sort, with heavily pouched eyes. He wore
a celluloid collar, cut well back to give plenty of room for his Adam’s
apple, and celluloid cuffs, with huge cameo cuff buttons.
“We may be able to,” agreed the sheriff dubiously, “but it looks to me
like one of them crimes that you can’t hang on to anybody. If Blanco
killed him, and keeps his mouth shut, how are you goin’ to put the
deadwood on him, Mort?”
“I dunno,” said Mort, yawning again. “I guess I better go to bed.”
“How did Buck quit the game?”
“Lost about fifty dollars, I think. Ho-o-o-hum-m-m! Well, I’ll see you
this afternoon, Pat.”
He stopped in the doorway and turned to the sheriff.
“Buck had more money with him, Pat. Had a roll of bills, fastened with a
rubber band. Might see if he’s still got it on him.”
“All right, Mort. See you later.”
* * * * *
The Tolman-Dennig cattle outfit, known by its brand as the TD, was the
biggest outfit in the Stormy River country. Cleve Tolman had been the
original owner, but ten years before the killing of Buck Dennig, Buck
had drifted into the valley, a youth of twenty-three, with a bankroll
big enough, in the vernacular, to choke a horse.
Buck was not a cowboy in those days; merely a wild youth, who had come
down through the country, pitting his luck against the games of chance.
He landed in Pineville with more money than he knew how to handle. Cleve
Tolman needed a partner and Buck needed an investment; so they became
partners, registered a new brand and proceeded to build up a big cattle
business.
Buck was a handsome, likable sort of chap, and he soon learned the
cattle game, plunging into the business with the same dash he had used
in beating cold-eyed gamblers, whose abilities had been as nothing
against his phenomenal luck.
No one knew anything of Buck’s past life—of his family or whence he
came. This was no novelty in the cattle ranges. Men told their past if
it pleased them to do so; nobody asked. Buck played on the square with
everybody, and that was all that was required.
Cleve Tolman was a big man, with the square jaw of a fighter, but rather
short of speech. He always seemed content to sit back and let Buck do
it. Some of the men said that Cleve was lazy. He liked to gamble, but
his bad luck was proverbial.
Neither Tolman nor Buck had ever married. They employed from six to
twenty cowboys, according to the season. Buck had always acted as
foreman. Tolman was a director in the Pineville Bank and always had a
finger in the local politics, although he had never aspired to an
office.
The TD ranch was located about five miles southwest of Pineville, on
Lobo Creek, the buildings almost hidden away in a big grove of
cottonwoods. Little money had been spent on the ranch buildings, and
none for paint. The ranch house was a rambling one-story building, that
sprawled hither and yon among the cottonwoods, as if the architect had
started something he didn’t know how to finish. The bunkhouse was a
long, low building, with a swayback. The big stable also swayed badly
along the ridgepole, as did the sheds and other buildings.
But in spite of all this, the TD was a prosperous outfit, with rather a
happy-go-lucky crew, until Dobe Severn and Bud Hough rode in that
morning and told them that Buck Dennig had been murdered. Cleve Tolman
and Shorty Gallup were in the kitchen, getting a list of provisions from
old Luke Jones, the TD cook, when the two cowboys brought the news.
Old Luke dropped a dozen eggs on his own feet and never even looked down
at them; and Luke was a thrifty cook, too.
“You ain’t jokin’, are you, Dobe?” asked Shorty hoarsely.
“I wish t’ hell, I was, Shorty. He’s dead, all right. Somebody smashed
in his head, and he’s laid out at the coroner’s office right now.”
Dobe went on to explain how the body had been found and what had been
done; but Tolman did not wait to hear the details. He was heading for
the stable to get his horse.
“What did the sheriff say?” asked Shorty.
“What could he say? He don’t know no more about it than we do.”
Matt Sturgis, Alex McLean and Eddie Grimes, the other cowboys were at
the stable and heard the news from Cleve Tolman; so they came up to the
house, eager for more details from Dobe and Bud, while Tolman mounted
his horse and rode swiftly up the road toward Pineville.
Bud and Dobe gave them plenty of details, and they were willing
listeners.
“It kinda looks to me as though Blanco’s cinch was kinda gettin’ frayed
out,” said Shorty Gallup meaningly.
Shorty was about thirty-five years of age, five feet six, of tough
muscles, stringy, colorless hair, pale blue eyes deeply set on each side
of a crooked nose over a thin-lipped mouth. Shorty’s reputation included
a willingness to fight anybody or anything at any time.
His bunkie, Matt Sturgis, was a tall, thin, grimy-featured cowboy who
wore his holster tied down and said little.
“Looks thataway,” he said, in response to Shorty’s observation.
“Don’t prove nothin’,” said Eddie Grimes, who was inclined to be
technical. He added hastily, “Oh, I know how it looks, but just because
they quarreled over a poker game—”
“You worked for Blanco one time, didn’t you?” asked Shorty.
“I shore did, Shorty. And Tex Blanco never struck me as bein’ a
murderer. Anyway, his punchers think he’s on the square, and he’s darn
nice to his old woman.”
“She’s a funny old woman,” grinned Dobe. “Sets out there on the porch,
smokin’ a cob pipe. Betcha she’s seventy years old.”
“Sixty-nine,” corrected Eddie, “and she shore can cook. She thinks a lot
of Tex, and the punchers like her, too.”
“The first thing we know we’ll be right neighborly with the B Arrow,”
said Shorty sarcastically. “Eddie, you ought to tell all this to
Tolman.”
“No, I don’t need to do that, Shorty. Every man is entitled to his
opinion, you know. I’m not boostin’ the Blanco outfit and I ain’t tryin’
to prove no alibi for Tex. But he was square with me, and I’d like to
bet that a lot of the stuff he’s blamed for, he never done.”
“Let’s arise and sing hymn number thirteen,” said Shorty Gallup
seriously.
Eddie smiled shortly and turned away. He knew that Shorty was looking
for trouble, and he had no desire to carry the matter any further; not
that Eddie wasn’t perfectly capable of holding his own, but he could not
see where anything could be gained by fighting.
“Well, you shore run your sandy on him, Shorty,” laughed Sturgis, as
they watched Eddie enter the bunkhouse.
“Looks thataway,” agreed Shorty.
“You did like hell!” snorted Luke Jones, standing in the kitchen
doorway. “You jist think you did. Any old time Eddie Grimes backs down
it’s ’cause he don’t want to take advantage of a weaker man.”
“Go on back to your mulligan, you old spav!” growled Shorty. “What do
you know about war? You never cocked a cannon.”
“War? Say, I could take a umberelly and chase a whole damn brigade of
jaspers like you plumb down to the mouth of Stormy River and never lay a
hair. You’re allus lookin’ fer trouble, and hopin t’ hell you never find
it. Some of these days somebody is goin’ to saw off your horns; and if
you git comical with me, folks will point me out and say, ‘There goes
Luke Jones, the feller who made a hoop out of Shorty Gallup and rolled
him out of the State!’”
The door slammed shut, and they heard old Luke laughing to himself.
Shorty’s ears were fiery red and he started for the door, but Dobe
Severn blocked him.
“Don’t be a fool, Shorty,” he advised. “You know Luke.”
“The dirty old sheep waddy!” rasped Shorty.
“Aw, I know,” grinned Dobe, “he shore can git under your hide. But he
does it for fun. He couldn’t whip nobody, but he shore can make you mad.
Let him alone, Shorty.”
“I suggest that we go to town,” said Bud. “There won’t be no work done
on this ranch on Sunday, that’s a cinch. And it might look better if we
went down.”
“Suits me,” growled Shorty. “I reckon you’re right, Bud.”
* * * * *
Cleve Tolman found several people at the coroner’s office, and they
greeted him with a certain sympathy. He looked at the body, asked a few
perfunctory questions and went up to see the sheriff.
He found the sheriff talking with Lester Cline and Frank Shell, the
gambler. They had gone over the cause of the quarrel between Buck Dennig
and Tex Blanco, and they detailed it to Tolman again.
“But there’s no evidence that Tex killed him,” said the sheriff.
“He was pretty mad,” offered Cline. “It looked as though they might
start shooting it out right there.”
“Did Blanco steal a card?” asked Tolman.
“Nobody seems to know,” smiled Shell. “Buck was pretty mad; so I reckon
he thought Blanco stole it. Do you know—it seemed to me as though Buck
was looking for trouble.”
“What do you mean?” asked Tolman quickly.
“Well, sort of irritable.”
“He came down early, didn’t he?”
“Sure, I saw him in the middle of the afternoon.”
“It wasn’t a case of robbery,” said the sheriff. “He had a hundred and
sixty-five dollars in his pocket.”
“Makes it look worse than ever for Tex Blanco.”
“I’d like to notify Buck’s relatives, if we knew where they are,” said
the sheriff.
Tolman shook his head.
“He never mentioned any, Pat.”
“Did Buck ever have any trouble with anybody else?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, did he ever have a quarrel or a fight—I mean, lately?”
Tolman looked closely at the sheriff for several moments, as if
wondering what had prompted the question. Then he shook his head
shortly.
“No.”
“Uh-huh. Well, it looks as though we was kinda up a stump. We could
arrest Tex on circumstantial evidence, I reckon; but Heffner says it
wouldn’t do us any good.”
“Probably not,” said Tolman slowly. “When is the inquest?”
“Tomorrow mornin’.”
“I’ll be down.”
Tolman walked away from the office, and the three men looked at one
another curiously.
“He’s a cold blooded fish,” said Shell. “I don’t suppose Buck’s death
affects him at all. I think he knows something, Pat.”
“Knows somethin’? What about, Frank?”
“Didn’t you notice the look he gave you when you asked him if Buck had
had a quarrel or a fight lately?”
“You don’t think Tolman knows how Buck got killed, do you?”
“Probably not; but your question froze him up, just the same.”
“I guess we’re all lookin’ for somebody to suspect,” said the sheriff
dryly. “And there’s too damn much talk about Tex Blanco; too much talk
and too little evidence. Tex is hot-headed, and about the time he hears
what’s bein’ said, somebody will get pistol-whipped.”
“Don’t you suppose that the TD outfit will kinda ask Tex how about it?”
queried Cline.
“Prob’ly. I’ll bet I know what he’ll tell ’em. But I hope they won’t.
There’s been bad blood between ’em for a long time, and somethin’ like
that might touch off the fireworks. Cleve Tolman is pretty level-headed,
as a rule, but he might accidentally make a fool of himself.”
Shell walked over by the door and stood there looking up the street.
“The rest of the TD outfit just arrived,” he said. “I guess I better go
over and open up a game.”
As Shell started to step off of the wooden sidewalk, he looked down the
street and saw Tex Blanco and Frank Judd, one of Tex’s cowboys, riding
up the street toward him. He hesitated for a moment, but stopped and
waited for them to ride up. The sheriff and Cline came out, and Tex
reined his horse over to the edge of the sidewalk. Judd rode on to the
front of a store, where he dismounted.
Tex smiled pleasantly and spoke to the three men as he dismounted. He
was a trifle over six feet tall, well built and graceful. His brown eyes
and olive tinted skin showed his Spanish blood, as did his coal-black
hair, slightly gray at the temples. His nose was slightly hooked and his
teeth were whiter than those usually displayed in the range countries.
He wore a gray Stetson, nearly new, adorned with a silver band of
Spanish workmanship. His shirt was of blue silk, and around his throat
was a red silk handkerchief. Around his waist he wore a multi-colored
sash, with the beaded ends hanging down his left hip, and a wide
cartridge belt, sagging heavily to one side from the weight of his
holstered gun. He wore gray trousers, tucked in the tops of his fancy
stitched, high-heeled boots.
There was no denying the fact that Tex Blanco was what is generally
known as a “fancy cowboy”; perhaps just a bit more picturesque than the
average, but his clothes fitted him well, and these touches of
aboriginal color were by no means glaringly objectionable.
He stepped up on the sidewalk, still holding his reins, while the tall
sorrel came in close behind him. His saddle was hand stamped and
decorated in silver, tarnished to a soft gray.
“Well, what do you know, Sheriff?” he queried pleasantly.
“Not very much, Tex.”
The sheriff was uneasy. Across the street and a little farther up the
block was the Stormy River Saloon hitchrack, where all the TD horses
were tied. He was afraid of what the TD outfit might do if they
discovered Tex.
Tex seemed to feel that something was wrong. He followed the sheriff’s
gaze, but saw only the string of horses at the hitchrack. Shell was
looking curiously at Tex.
* * * * *
“What’s the matter with you fellers?” asked Tex bluntly.
“You didn’t hear about it, Tex?” asked the sheriff.
“Hear about what?”
“Somebody killed Buck Dennig last night.”
Tex frowned slightly, narrowing his eyes as he looked from one to the
other.
“Buck Dennig killed? Who killed him?”
“Nobody knows, Tex. I found him this mornin’, out behind the Stormy
River Saloon, layin’ almost against the little corral fence. He’d been
hit on the head—from behind.”
Tex’s eyes swept the other side of the street, and his right thumb
hooked carelessly over the top of his belt, just above his holster.
“That’s shore news to me,” he said slowly. “Wasn’t there no clue of any
kind?”
“Not a thing, Tex. He’d been dead several hours. Left the poker game
about two o’clock and was prob’ly killed on the way out to his horse. He
kept it tied to the corral fence, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know,” said Tex evenly.
“Well, most everybody did,” said the sheriff quickly.
Tex rubbed his freshly shaven chin thoughtfully as he looked at Shell.
“Me and Buck quarreled last night,” he said. “You was there, Frank.”
“Yes, I was there, Tex.”
“I didn’t steal that card, Frank.”
“I didn’t see it, Tex. None of the rest saw it; but that’s all past. I
guess Buck made a mistake. He was drinking quite a lot.”
“But he wasn’t drunk. I suppose everybody knows about the quarrel by
this time, eh?”
The sheriff turned from looking at the saloon.
“They do, Tex. Too bad it happened. Nobody accusin’ you or anybody else,
but I wish you’d pull out before that TD outfit see you. You know what I
mean, Tex. They’ll be drinkin’, and there’s always been bad blood.”
“I usually do my runnin’ straight ahead, Pat,” said Tex coldly.
“I know you do, Tex. I’m your friend, ain’t I? Do this for me. Give that
wild bunch a chance to cool off. The odds are all against you, if
anythin’ starts, and it will start if they run into you. Give ’em
twenty-four hours, and they’ll see things different.”
“Meaning that I killed Buck Dennig, and that I better give the TD outfit
a wide berth, eh?”
“Oh, Tex, have a little sense.”
Tex’s brown eyes flashed with resentment for several moments, but
finally he laughed softly and slapped the sheriff on the shoulder.
“All right, Pat, I guess you’re right. You can tell Tolman and his gang
that—no, I’ll tell ’em, when the time comes up.”
Judd came from the store and Tex motioned for him to come down the
street. Without saying anything more, Tex mounted his sorrel, joined
Judd, and they rode back the way they had come.
The sheriff sighed with relief and shook his head.
“I reckon I rubbed him the right way. I shore was scared he was goin’
over and meet the whole gang. And he’d do it, too.”
“Didn’t seem so awful surprised over Buck’s death,” observed Cline.
“What did you expect him to do—faint?” asked the sheriff caustically.
“How did you act when you heard it?”
Cline grinned sourly, but did not reply. They walked up the street to
the front of a small store, where they met Guy Shearer, the cashier of
the Pineville bank. Shearer was about forty years of age, stockily
built, and wore glasses. He had been with the bank for several years.
“I heard about Buck Dennig getting killed,” he told the sheriff. “Wasn’t
it awful? Things like that are an awful shock. Any idea who did it?”
“Not an idea,” said the sheriff.
“Queer, isn’t it? Buck was in the bank yesterday afternoon just before
closing time, but he didn’t have much to say. I asked him if he was
buying more cattle, but he either didn’t hear me, or didn’t care to
answer.”
The sheriff pricked up his ears quickly.
“Just what made you think he was goin’ to buy cattle?”
“From the amount of money he drew, I thought—”
“How much did he draw, Shearer?”
“Ten thousand dollars. It was a lot of money to draw from a bank the
size of this one. But I gave it to him.”
“Ten thousand dollars?” wondered the sheriff. “Drew it on a check?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, I’ll be damned! Huh! That puts a new angle on it. Who knew he
drew all that money?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. I was alone in the bank when he drew it; so if
any one else knew it, he must have told them.”
“That’s an awful lot of money,” said Cline slowly.
“Lot of money to have somebody steal from you,” said the sheriff. “The
question is—who knew about it?”
“Well, he must have had a reason for drawing it,” replied the cashier.
“Somebody else must have known about it.”
The sheriff nodded and went straight across the street to the Stormy
River Saloon, where he found the boys from the TD ranch at the bar. They
had absorbed a number of drinks and were in the right mood for anything.
“The law is among us,” declared Shorty Gallup, seeing the sheriff step
through the doorway. “Hyah, Paddy?”
“All right, Shorty.”
Cleve Tolman was at the back of the room, talking with Mort Heffner, the
prosecutor, who had slept only an hour. They came back to the front of
the saloon, when they saw the sheriff, and the three men went outside
together.
“You got any opinion on this, Pat?” asked Tolman.
“I have not,” replied Pat firmly.
“I’ve been trying to convince Tolman that there isn’t a bit of evidence
to connect Tex Blanco with it,” said Heffner.
“And I don’t agree with him,” said Tolman coldly. “Tex and Buck had it
in for each other. They’ve never been friends. And you can see for
yourself that it was purely a case of revenge. His money was not
touched.”
“And here,” said the sheriff slowly, “is just where your theory gits all
shot to hell, Cleve! Yesterday afternoon Buck drawed ten thousand
dollars from the bank.”
Heffner whistled softly. Tolman blinked nervously and seemed unable to
speak for several moments. He cleared his throat harshly.
“Ten thousand dollars,” he said hoarsely. “That’s a lot of money.”
“A hell of a lot,” agreed Heffner. “Who told you, Pat?”
“Shearer. Buck cashed his check just before the bank closed yesterday.
And Buck had a hundred and sixty-five dollars in his pocket when we
searched him at the coroner’s office.”
“How much did he lose in the poker game?” asked Tolman.
“Not over fifty dollars,” replied Heffner.
“Did Tex lose very heavy?”
“I think he was ahead of the game, but he never stopped to cash his
chips; he was too mad. But he’ll get his money.”
“Now the question is: Who knew Buck had that money?” said the sheriff.
“Shearer knew, of course; but as far as he knew, Buck disposed of it
right away. Anyway, Shearer ain’t the kind of a person to do a thing
like that. Cleve, did you know that Buck was goin’ to draw that money?”
Tolman’s eyes narrowed slightly, and it was at least ten seconds before
he replied—
“No!”
“Buck had his own bank account?”
“Yeah.”
“Wasn’t there a company account?” asked Heffner.
“No.”
“Well,” said the sheriff, “it looks as though Buck was killed for his
money.”
“Not necessarily,” replied Tolman. “Most any man could use ten thousand
dollars.”
“Sure,” nodded Heffner. “That’s a lot of money.”
“It’s a funny deal,” sighed the sheriff. “No evidence at all. Tolman, I
hope you’ll order your men to let Blanco and his outfit alone. It’ll
only start trouble. Tex was in town a while ago, and heard all about it.
I didn’t want him to meet your gang today, so I induced him to go back
home. But he knows what everybody’s thinkin’.”
“He does, eh?” Tolman smiled grimly. “I reckon you didn’t have to argue
much with him to get him to pull out.”
“Tex is no fool. You’ll speak to the boys, Cleve?”
“Is the law goin’ to lay down on the job?”
“Not by a damn sight!”
“I’ll speak to ’em, Pat.”
* * * * *
It was a week after the murder of Buck Dennig that Marion Evans,
erstwhile of Chicago, later of Cheyenne, climbed aboard the stage at
Garnet, while Windy March, the stage driver, roped her trunk to the
boot, and cast quizzical glances toward the back of his lone passenger.
Windy was thin of form and face, and tanned to the texture of old
parchment. His face was not classical, due to numerous and sundry
encounters, and his average chew of tobacco gave him a mumpy appearance.
As a dispenser of local news, Windy was an animated bulletin board, but
he was just a trifle timid around the weaker sex.
He had taken one look at Marion Evans, knocked his sombrero off when he
tried to be polite, and almost swallowed the contents of his capacious
mouth. She was quite the prettiest girl he had ever seen. In fact, he
had never seen any girl with such a lovely complexion. The girls of the
Stormy River country were tanned from the sun and wind. None of them had
such big brown eyes, that looked steadily at you. And her clothes were
different. Windy leaned against the rear wheel of the stage and wished
he didn’t have to sit beside her all the way to Pineville.
But there was no way out of it. She had climbed unbidden to the driver’s
seat. He took plenty of time in arranging his load, but he was finally
obliged to climb up beside her and drive out of town. A close observer
might have noticed that Windy had failed to fill his mouth with tobacco,
and that he did not anathematize his four half-broken horses.
For a mile or more they rode in silence. The sun was warm, and a breeze
sent the dust cloud behind them. The road was not too bad, and the stage
was well enough ballasted to make easy riding.
The girl asked—
“Do you have many mornings like this?”
Windy, looking straight up the road, shook his head.
“First one I ever had,” he said slowly.
“First one you ever had?”
“Mostly travel alone, ma’am. Sometimes a puncher goes to Granite and
loses his bronc, you know, and he has to ride back with me. This stage
don’t pay much—not in passengers. Haul the mail, you know, and some
freight.”
“I see. What kind of a town is Pineville?”
“Oh, all right. Need a railroad. They thought they was goin’ to git a
railroad, but the railroad company didn’t think they was, and the
railroad company built it, so they didn’t let Pineville’s thoughts
amount to much. Mebby some day they’ll extend the line over there; but I
dunno what for.”
“You are pretty well acquainted around here?”
“Know every sage bush by its first name, ma’am. Raised here and got m’
eddication here. Could ’a’ been a big cowman, I reckon, but m’ tastes
didn’t run thataway.”
“I suppose the transportation business was of more interest to you.”
“Well, I—I—” Windy floundered badly. He didn’t know what transportation
meant, but he ended weakly, “Yes, ma’am, it was.”
“This country is not what one might call thickly settled,” she observed
a little later.
“No, it ain’t, ma’am. You’re from the city, ain’t you?”
“Chicago. I came here from Cheyenne.”
“Chicago, eh? Well, well! I was down there six year ago. Went down with
a load of TD cows. Uh-h-h-h-huh-h-h-h! I sh’d say I did. Say, you don’t
happen to know a Miss Smith in Chicago, do you? Had yaller hair and
chawed gum. No? I dunno if she’s there yet or not. I took her to a show,
and durin’ the evenin’ somebody stole my watch and my money. She was a
right good lookin’ girl.”
“No, I don’t think I ever met her,” smiled Marion. “Chicago is rather a
large city, you know.”
“You bet. Are you goin’ to stay in Pineville?”
“For several months, I hope, Mr.—er—”
“Name’s March, ma’am. M-a-r-c-h. Jussa same as the month. Most everybody
calls me Windy.”
“Windy March?”
“Shore,” laughed Windy. “Sounds like bad weather, eh? Buck Dennig named
me Windy. I got sore at a couple fellers one night, you know. Mebby I
kinda overestimated m’self. Anyway, I went into the Stormy River Saloon,
intendin’ to knock the whey out of ’em. I reckon I announced m’
intentions, so that all might gather around and see the fun. Well, it
didn’t happen jist the way I planned. You see, them two waddies jist
nacherally knocked the tar out of me. They seemed to have a lot of
fightin’ that had to be done, and they shore worked me over a-plenty;
and when it was all over, I went out on m’ hands and knees, plumb meek
and lowly. That’s how I got my name, ma’am.”
“But I don’t quite understand,” laughed Marion.
“Don’tcha? Buck Dennig said that March came in like a lion and went out
like a lamb; so they shortened it to Windy.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Yes’m, that’s how it comes.”
“I am Miss Evans—Marion Evans. And unless something unforeseen happens,
I shall teach the Pineville school this coming term.”
“Well, what do you know about that? A schoolma’am, eh? Well, you don’t
look it, and that’s a fact.”
“This will be my first school,” she confessed.
“Well, that accounts for it, I suppose.”
Windy slammed on the brake and paid close attention to his driving,
until they left the short grades and entered the flat country again.
“Accounts for what?” asked Marion. Windy squinted against the sun,
trying to recall what he had said.
“Oh, yeah; I done forgot for a minute. Well, I meant that they don’t
stay so pretty after they teach school for a long time. I reckon it
kinda takes all the pretty out of ’em. It’s shore a job—learnin’ kids. I
know they had a job learnin’ me. But they stuck to it, and I came out of
it all right. Takes patience, I reckon.”
“I suppose,” smiled Marion. “It will be a new experience for me; but one
must work.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I feel that I was very fortunate to be accepted by the Pineville school
board. I applied from Cheyenne, and they accepted immediately.”
“Prob’ly had to have somebody.”
Marion wanted to laugh, but she realized that there might be much truth
in what Windy had said.
“I do not suppose that they are flooded with applications,” she said.
“Flooded? My God! Excuse m’ language, ma’am. No, I don’t reckon nobody
has ever had to set along the road with a loaded Winchester to keep the
teachers out of Pineville. The last one we had almost died on us.”
“Almost died on you?”
* * * * *
“Uh-huh. There’s the Blanco ranch ahead of us, ma’am. It’s a good-sized
outfit. Tex Blanco owns it. We’ve got to stop there and drop off a
package for Tex. I dunno what’s in it, but it’s from the Colt Company;
so I don’t have to be no mind reader to know it’s six-shooters.”
“What is a six-shooter?” she asked.
“You don’t know? Well, what do you know about that? A six-gun is a—a
hawgleg—aw, you know—a revolver.”
“Yes, I know what a revolver is.”
“Well, that’s them.”
“I notice you carry one, Mr. March.”
“Everybody does around here. Puncher without a gun is plumb naked.”
“But they don’t shoot each other, do they?”
“Not reg’larly, ma’am. It ain’t what you’d call a common occurrence. In
fact, it don’t happen often enough to make it pop’lar. We wear ’em to
prevent trouble.”
As they drove up to the big gate, Tex Blanco, astride his tall sorrel,
was just coming out.
“Got a package for you, Tex,” said Windy.
He handed the lines to Marion and stepped down over the wheel.
“All right, Windy,” replied Tex, his eyes on Marion.
His steady gaze caused her to turn her head, and he said softly—
“Oh, I beg your pardon, ma’am.”
“Two bits, charges,” informed Windy, producing the package.
Tex paid him, and Windy climbed back to the seat.
“Oh, I plumb forgot,” he laughed. “Miss Evans, I’d like to make you used
to Tex Blanco. Tex, this is Miss Evans, who is goin’ to teach the school
at Pineville.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Evans,” said Tex slowly.
“Thank you,” said Marion.
“I’ll betcha you’re sorry you ain’t got no kids to send to school, Tex,”
laughed Windy.
Marion flushed slightly, but did not look at Tex, who said—
“I never thought of that.”
Windy spoke to the team, kicked off the brake, and they went away in a
cloud of dust, while Tex sat there on his horse, the package on the
pommel of his saddle, until they disappeared into the hills.
“Nice lookin’ feller,” said Windy.
“Seemed very pleasant,” replied Marion.
“He’d be jist that pleasant if he was goin’ to shoot you full of holes,
ma’am.”
“Good gracious!”
“Good shot, too. Nobody paws him around. I feel kinda sorry for Tex.
Lotsa folks think he murdered Buck Dennig. Mebby he did. ’Course, they
can’t prove it. The coroner’s jury said somebody unknown killed Buck;
but jist the same they all felt that Tex done it. There’s bad feelin’
between the TD outfit and Tex. The TD outfit belonged to Cleve Tolman
and Buck Dennig, you see. Everybody liked Buck. I reckon somebody will
git hurt before it’s all over.”
“I am sure Mr. Blanco does not look like a murderer,” said Marion.
“Didja ever see one that did, ma’am? They most all look like ordinary
folks, until they git convicted, and then everybody says they’ve got the
face of a murderer. No, I can’t say that Tex looks like a killer.”
For the next mile or so Windy devoted himself to driving, as the road
was bad. Once more they reached the long slope that led down toward
Stormy River, and Windy relaxed.
“You spoke about the last teacher nearly dying,” reminded Marion,
opening the conversation again.
“Oh, yeah, but he didn’t die. Kinda funny, too. The schoolhouse ain’t so
very big, ma’am. There’s quite a few kinda big boys goin’ to school, and
a couple of them got so they hated the teacher, so they framed a job on
him.
“At the back of the schoolhouse is a hole big enough for a man to crawl
under, and at the front, under the steps is another hole, not so big.
Well, the kids got to playin’ around under there, and the teacher
ordered ’em to keep out from under there, ’cause they might crawl over a
rattler.
“Well, a couple of the big boys kinda hung around after school one
night, and one of ’em went in and told the teacher that a little kid had
got under there and couldn’t git out. He led the teacher around to the
hole at the back, while the other big kid stayed under the steps and
cried through the other opening.
“The teacher tried to talk with the cryin’ kid, but the kid wouldn’t do
nothin’ but cry; so he crawled under to git the kid, and these two big
boys blocked the two holes. They piled cordwood against the holes,
shuttin’ the blame place up tight.
“Next mornin’ there wasn’t no teacher and no bell rung; so everybody
thought the teacher had jumped the job. And by golly, it was two days
later before anybody found him.”
“What a terrible thing to do!” exclaimed Marion. “What did they do to
the two big boys who perpetrated such a thing?”
“I ain’t sure, but I think they got dispelled.”
“Literally, I hope,” laughed Marion.
“I ain’t sure about that,” said Windy seriously.
They drove through the Stormy River crossing, where the water barely
reached the hubs of the wheels. It was near the middle of September, and
in a couple more months there would be plenty of snow and cold weather
in the Stormy River valley. Cattle were trailing along the bank of the
river, and Windy pointed out the different brands.
“There’s some TD’s,” he told her. “Biggest outfit in the valley. I
reckon it all belongs to Cleve Tolman now. Buck didn’t have no folks.”
“Buck was the man they think was killed by Mr. Blanco?”
“Yes’m—murdered. Prob’ly killed for his money.”
“Did he have lots of money?”
“Y’betcha. Had ten thousand on him, they say.”
“Gracious! Isn’t that a lot of money to be carrying around?”
“I’ve heard that it was, ma’am; but I never had no personal knockdown to
that much cash. After it gets over forty dollars, it all looks alike to
me.”
“I guess I know how you feel,” sighed Marion.
Windy shot a sidewise glance at her. Windy was not so dumb that he did
not understand that his fair passenger was not overly burdened with
worldly wealth.
“Oh, I’ve got a few dollars salted away,” he told her confidentially.
“It must be a comfortable feeling, Mr. March.”
“Mm-m-m-m.”
Windy had the munificent sum of eighty-three dollars in the Pineville
Bank.
“Well, there’s Pineville ahead of us, ma’am,” he said. “That’s her
skyline, you can see. Looks like a set of bad teeth, don’t it. See them
two molars in the middle. Them’s the Pineville Bank and the Stormy River
Saloon; two of the big business places. They’ve got false fronts.”
* * * * *
“Do you know Mr. James Lawrence Cooper?”
“James Lawrence—oh, yea-a-ah. That’s Hootie Cooper. Runs a store in
Pineville. Yeah, I shore know Hootie.”
“I am to board at his home—board and room.”
“That’s fine. Mrs. Cooper is a great big fat woman. Awful nice woman,
too. You’ll like her fine. Good cook. Tell her she’s gettin’ thin and
she’ll love you. But she ain’t. If anythin’, she’s gettin’ fatter.”
“Have they any children?”
“Didn’t have last Friday.”
Marion laughed outright.
“Well, that’s the truth,” said Windy seriously. “I never lie to a lady.
If it came to a showdown, I’d bet they ain’t, but I wouldn’t make no
definite statement.”
“I am just a little afraid of the board of trustees,” admitted Marion.
“I am not so sure of my ability, you see.”
“Well, you jist forget that, ma’am. There’s Hootie and old Sam Hall and
Hennery Goff. That’s the trustees.”
“Mr. Cooper said they would investigate my qualifications, but he felt
sure I would do. They will probably ask me to pass an examination.”
“They will? Lemme tell you somethin’, ma’am? If them three old pelicans
make you pass an examination, they better ask you to write out the
answers of the questions they’re goin’ to ask you, or they’ll never know
whether you’re right or wrong.”
They drove in on the main street, and Windy drew up in front of Hootie
Cooper’s general merchandise store, with a squeal of brakes and a jingle
of trace chains. Hootie was in the doorway, and he came slowly out to
the stage.
“Hootie, this here is Miss Evans, the new teacher,” said Windy grandly.
“Well, howdy!” exclaimed Hootie. “Gosh darn! C’mon right down, ma’am.”
He turned around toward the doorway, cupped his hands around his mouth,
and bellowed:
“Ma-a-a-a-a! C’mere, Ma-a-a-a!”
A portly figure, dressed in printed calico, darkened the doorway,
carrying an armful of packages. Her face beamed like a full moon.
“Ma, this is Miss Evans,” said Hootie excitedly.
“Well, bless your heart!” panted Mrs. Cooper.
She dropped the bundles and advanced to Marion, holding out her hands.
“My God!” exploded Hootie. “A dozen aigs busted. There’s your omelette
on the sidewalk, woman; omelette and sugar and oatmeal. Turn your team
around, Windy. Here’s their dinner.”
But Mrs. Cooper paid no attention to her scattered groceries.
“Oh, I’m so glad to see you,” she panted. “I told Hootie I hoped you’d
be young and good lookin’. We’ve shore been fed up on men teachers and
homely wimmin ones. You shore do look nice. Hootie—” she turned to her
husband—“you’ll have to set on the porch with a Winchester and keep the
cowpunchers away.”
“Looks thataway,” grinned Hootie.
“Well, drive around to my house and take off that trunk, Windy,” she
ordered. “You didn’t think the lady was goin’ to pack it down there in
her hand, did you?”
“Well, shore I’ll take it down, Mrs. Cooper. My, my! You’re a lot
thinner than you was last Friday.”
“I am! Last Friday I weighed two hundred and forty; today I barely
tipped the beam at two hundred and forty-four, you liar!”
Windy skipped up over the wheel and landed in the seat, where he kicked
off the brake and headed for the Cooper home. Marion laughed with Mrs.
Cooper.
“Well, that’s that,” sighed the fat lady. “Hootie, put me up another
order, will you. No, never mind. Bring it down when you come to supper.
I’ve got to talk with Miss Evans, and I need both arms. What did you say
your first name was? No, that’s right, you didn’t. Marion? Say, that’s
pretty. Mine’s Gladys. But call me Ma Cooper. I shucked Gladys when I
got over a hundred and seventy-five. Kinda outgrew it. I suppose Windy
told you all about everybody, didn’t he? Oh, he would. When he tells you
anythin’, strain it through a sieve. He can git himself all excited over
one of his own lies. But he’s all right, Windy is. His heart is in the
right place. You’re from Chicago, ain’t you? That’s what Hootie told me.
I’ve heard a lot about Chicago from Windy. He met a girl named Smith.”
“He told me about her,” laughed Marion, as they walked down the street.
“He would. Say, you ain’t aimin’ to marry no cowpuncher, are you,
Marion?”
“Good gracious, no! What ever put that notion in your head, Ma Cooper?”
“Are you plumb ag’in’ the notion of marryin’?”
“Well, I’m certainly not thinking about such a thing.”
“That’s all I wanted to know. As soon as some of these punchers around
here see you, there’s goin’ to be a lot of punchers accidentally
droppin’ in at my place, and I want a talkin’ point.”
“Don’t they think of anything but marriage?”
“They won’t—not when they see you. I hope you’ll like Pineville. It’s a
rough, tough place, my dear; but we don’t have to lock our doors. This
is my house. Them’s what is left of my twelve rose bushes. Soil ain’t so
good. Hootie calls ’em the twelve apostles. A cow ate Matthew, Mark,
Luke and John the first night they was set out. C’mon in and be at
home.”
“I just love it,” sighed Marion. “Every one is so kind and so pleasant I
could just cry.”
“Go ahead. Tears don’t hurt nobody. Half a glass of water will put all
the moisture back in your system.”
Windy met them at the door.
“I carried the trunk upstairs, Mrs. Cooper,” he said.
“That’s fine, Windy.”
“Thank you, Mr. March,” said Marion.
“You’re shore welcome, ma’am.”
He hurried through the gate and out to his team. Mrs. Cooper shook her
head.
“He’s plumb ruined,” she said sadly. “Roped and hawgtied. That’s the
first trunk he ever carried farther than the front porch in his whole
life.”
* * * * *
“I tell you this TD outfit is goin’ to the dawgs,” declared Luke Jones,
as he served a belated dinner to Eddie Grimes and Bud Hough.
“What’s eatin’ you, Luke?” queried Eddie, eying a fork suspiciously.
“Hey! Why don’tcha wash the soap off these implements once in a while? I
got a whole chunk of soap in my mouth.”
“Little soap won’t hurt you. You’d think it was strychnine! Nobody told
you to swaller it, did they?”
“Well, you ought to clean things better than that, Luke.”
“Why is this outfit goin’ to the dogs?” asked Bud.
“’Cause why?” Luke struck a belligerent attitude, punctuating his
statement with swordlike jabs of a long-tined fork. “’Cause Cleve Tolman
appointed Shorty Gallup foreman this mornin’—that’s why.”
“Aw, he didn’t do that!” exclaimed Eddie.
“The hell he didn’t! I tell you he did. You two was gone, when Cleve
called the gang together and made the announcement. Shorty swelled up
like a pizened pup.”
Eddie smiled faintly and shook his head, as he helped himself to some
baked beans.
“Aw, I suppose Shorty will make a good foreman,” he said.
“If you say yes to him all the time,” admitted Bud.
“Well, here’s one who won’t say it to him,” declared Luke. “Me and him
never did hitch, and if he tries to give me any orders, this here TD
will be short a cook and a foreman, ’cause he’ll be runnin’ to beat
hell, with me after him.”
Eddie laughed at Luke’s serious statement.
“Don’t rub him wrong, Luke. We like you and your cookin’ so well we
don’t want to lose you. Anyway, Cleve won’t let him interfere with the
kitchen.”
“By golly, he better not. I’m strong for peace, but when I’ve got any
fightin’ to do, I do it right now. Shorty don’t like me.”
“You speak to Cleve,” advised Bud. “Jist tell him to have Shorty lay off
your end of the job.”
“Lotsa good that would do me. If Cleve ain’t got no more brains than to
make Shorty foreman, talkin’ wouldn’t do me any good. I liked Buck
Dennig. By grab, he knowed how to run this ranch.”
“He shore did,” said Eddie thoughtfully. “We lost a good man when we
lost Buck. I wonder if Tex Blanco had anythin’ to do with it. I hate to
believe he did.”
“I’d hate to say one way or the other,” replied Luke. “Mebby it’s best
to let her lie the way she is. Ain’t nothin’ goin’ to bring Buck back,
and the money—well, it was Buck’s own money, and he don’t need it now.”
Eddie looked closely at Luke, his blue eyes quizzical.
“Just what do you know about it, Luke?” he asked.
“I don’t know anythin’.”
Luke turned back to the stove and began cleaning up the dishes, while
Eddie rolled a cigaret.
“Where’s the new foreman?” asked Bud.
Luke shook his head violently.
“I dunno, Bud. Prob’ly gone to Pineville to get a hat that’ll fit him. I
was just thinkin’ that it won’t be so nice for you, Eddie.”
“It’s all right with me,” smiled Eddie. “I’m just a common puncher, and
I ain’t wedded to no job.”
“Well, don’t let him run you off.”
Eddie laughed and got up from the table.
“Forty a month ain’t worth fightin’ over, Luke; but I think Cleve will
have somethin’ to say about it.”
“You’re leanin’ on a weak reed,” said Luke.
* * * * *
Shorty Gallup celebrated his new job by going to town with Cleve Tolman.
Cleve had business with a lawyer, so Shorty centered his attentions on
the Stormy River Saloon, where he found Frank Judd, from Blanco’s ranch,
talking with Oscar Johnson and Windy March. Frank Judd was Tex Blanco’s
right hand man. He was about Shorty’s height, but weighed a few pounds
less.
“Hyah, Shorty,” greeted Windy. “Have a shot?”
“Mebby,” said Shorty, looking sharply at Frank.
“How’s the TD these days?” asked Oscar expansively.
He had imbibed considerable liquor and was looking upon a rose colored
world.
“Pretty good,” grinned Shorty. “I’m foreman now.”
“You are?” exploded Windy. “Whatcha know about that? Are they goin’ to
quit raisin’ cattle?”
Shorty didn’t appreciate the humor of Windy’s question, but passed it
off with a forced grin.
“I suppose,” drawled Oscar, “we’ll see some big changes in things around
the TD.”
“You might,” grunted Shorty. “F’r instance, there might be less rustlin’
goin’ on.”
“Oh, is that so?” queried Windy. “Kinda reformin’, eh?”
“You go to hell!” snapped Shorty. “You know what I meant.”
He looked straight at Frank Judd as he finished his sentence.
“Was you speakin’ to me?” asked Frank coldly.
“If the shoe fits you, wear it, Judd.”
“It don’t fit me, Gallup; nor it don’t fit any of the B Arrow outfit.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah, that’s so!”
Frank swayed away from the bar, facing Shorty, and Oscar stepped quickly
between them.
“Go easy,” he warned them. “Keep your hand away from your gun, Shorty.
No use killin’ each other. You ort to be ashamed of yourselves.”
“I’ll knock his head off!” growled Shorty. “I don’t need any gun.”
“Then give it to me.”
Reluctantly Shorty drew out his gun and gave it to the deputy, who
turned and accepted Frank’s gun. He shoved both guns inside the
waistband of his overalls.
Then he stepped from between them, and without any warning, Shorty
rushed at Frank, slamming him against the bar, smashing at him with his
free hand.
It was so unexpected that Frank had no chance to defend himself for
several moments, but Shorty’s blows were too wild to do more than bounce
off Frank’s head. Then they clinched and staggered to the middle of the
room.
Shorty was mouthing curses, wearing himself out, trying to hammer Frank
down, with a volley of blows to the elbows and shoulders, while the
cooler Frank took plenty of time to adjust himself for the work at hand.
Suddenly he lashed out with a straight right that caused Shorty to part
with two front teeth. It almost floored the new foreman of the TD. But
Shorty was game. He came back with a rush, both arms working like
pistons, and Frank broke ground, letting Shorty do all the fighting. But
as soon as Shorty’s flurry was over, and before he realized that he had
done little damage, Frank’s left hook caught him flush on the right ear,
knocking him to his knees.
Frank stepped back, playing the game on the square, and Shorty should
have stayed down long enough to allow the shower of stars to disappear;
but he sprang back to his feet, still dazed, and rushed in again. But
this time Frank did not retreat. In fact, he came ahead, smashing with
both hands, sharpshooting at Shorty’s jaw. It was all over in a moment.
Shorty was sprawled half under a card table, flat on his back, while
Frank leaned against the bar, breathing heavily, unmarked, except for a
skinned elbow.
“Lasted jist one round,” said Windy disgustedly. “I thought it was goin’
to be a fight.”
“Lasted long enough to suit me,” panted Frank.
“Aw, you can whip him any day in the week,” assured Windy.
“That’s danged little satisfaction, Windy. I didn’t want to fight him.”
“Well, you whipped him, didn’t you?”
“I suppose that’s what you’d call it.”
“It shore looked thataway to me,” grinned Oscar. “Mebby we better sluice
him with some cold water.”
* * * * *
Cleve Tolman didn’t find the lawyer at his office, so he went on down to
Cooper’s store. Marion was there with Mrs. Cooper, and Hootie hurried to
introduce them.
“I heard you was here,” said Tolman. “One of the boys said that the new
teacher had arrived.”
“Yes, I arrived yesterday,” smiled Marion.
Tolman frowned slightly as he looked at her. It was on the tip of his
tongue to ask her if he hadn’t met her before. There was a great
resemblance to someone he had known.
“You’re a stranger in this part of the country?” he asked.
“Yes. I came from Chicago to Cheyenne, where I learned about this
position. It was my first time west of Chicago.”
“I hope you’ll like it here, Miss Evans. It’s a little rough, of course,
but you’ll get used to it.”
“Well, we’re goin’ to make her like it,” laughed Mrs. Cooper.
Tolman nodded quickly and glanced toward the doorway, as Tex Blanco came
in. He was wearing a pair of wide batwing chaps, flashing with silver
conchos and a vermilion-colored silk shirt and a blue handkerchief. He
flashed a smile at Marion as he removed his gray sombrero and walked
past them to the rear of the store.
Marion’s eyes followed him, and Tolman scowled darkly. Mrs. Cooper
smiled softly, and Marion flushed slightly, as she turned back and saw
them looking at her.
Mrs. Cooper had told Marion all about the murder of Buck Dennig and the
suspicions against Tex Blanco.
For several moments none of them spoke. They could hear Tex giving an
order to Hootie at the rear of the store.
“You better put in about four boxes of forty-fives,” they heard Tex
saying. “I got them new guns yesterday, Hootie—pearl handles and all. I
dunno whether I’m goin’ to like ’em, but they’re shore pretty.”
“Pretty!” snorted Tolman, beneath his breath.
“He shore loves pretty clothes and things,” whispered Mrs. Cooper.
“Sends to Cheyenne and has his shirts made to order.”
“Hummin’ bird!” said Tolman.
“Scarlet tanager,” said Marion, smiling.
* * * * *
A cowboy came across the wooden sidewalk, rasping his spurs, and struck
the side of the doorway with his shoulder, as he came in. It was Shorty
Gallup, his wet hair still dripping water that mixed with trickles of
blood from each side of his mouth.
He stopped at the doorway and looked at Cleve Tolman.
“Lemme have your gun, will you, Cleve?” he asked thickly, trying to talk
without opening his mouth very far. His own holster hung empty on his
right thigh.
“Let you have my gun?” queried Tolman. “What’s wrong, Shorty?”
Shorty’s eyes blazed as he saw Tex Blanco, who came from the rear of the
store and was looking at him.
“Johnson took m’ gun away from me,” said Shorty, and his voice shook
with anger.
“Took your gun away from you?”
“Yeah, the dirty pup! And then Frank Judd smashed me in the mouth. Gimme
a gun, Cleve. I want to go back.”
“Take it easy,” said Tolman. “Why did Frank Judd hit you?”
Shorty wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He was both mad and
hurt, and when he glanced at Tex, who was leaning lazily against the
counter, a half smile on his face, Shorty almost exploded.
“Gimme a gun, Cleve,” he begged. “Gimme a chance to clean up that damn B
Arrow outfit.”
Marion glanced at Tex and their glances met. He was still smiling.
Tolman stepped over to Shorty and led him outside, where they stood
together, while Shorty showed him where Frank had removed two of his
teeth. Mrs. Cooper sighed deeply and shook her head.
“It looks t’ me as though Shorty had found somebody he couldn’t whip,”
observed Hootie.
“It may do him a lot of good,” said Tex seriously. “They are about the
same size, and I’m shore Frank didn’t hit him first. It’s too bad this
happened in front of Miss Evans. It gives her a bad impression of
things.”
“I’m sure it doesn’t bother me in the least, Mr. Blanco.”
“Well, that’s fine. You’ll get along out here.”
“Thank you.”
“Here comes Frank and Oscar,” said Hootie.
The two men came across from the saloon and stepped up on the sidewalk
near Tolman and Shorty. Oscar handed Tolman Shorty’s gun.
“You better keep this until your foreman cools off, Cleve.”
“Kinda takin’ things in your own hands, ain’t you?” asked Tolman coldly.
“Would you rather have him dead than alive, Cleve?”
“Hell, I can take care of myself!” rasped Shorty.
“The evidence is all ag’in’ you, cowboy,” grinned Oscar.
Frank Judd said nothing. His holster was still empty.
“Who started this trouble?” asked Tolman.
“Shorty did,” said Oscar quickly. “He started the conversational fight,
and then he started the fist fight. And he shore got what he asked for.
He jist the same as accused Frank of bein’ a rustler.”
Tolman laughed shortly, turned and handed Shorty his gun. Almost at the
same instant, Oscar jerked out the other gun and handed it to Frank, who
dropped it in his holster, without looking at Shorty.
Tex stepped quickly to the doorway. His smile was gone now. He shot a
glance at Frank, but centered his attention on Tolman and Shorty. The
foreman held the gun in his right hand, gripping it tightly, but he was
looking at Tex now.
Slowly he lifted the gun and socked it down in his holster. He was mad
enough to bite a rattler, but he did not care to start trouble with Tex
Blanco.
“Well, that’s over,” sighed Oscar.
“You jist think it is,” growled Shorty.
“I guess you better go with me,” said Tolman. “At least you’ll get an
even break, Shorty.”
They turned and went up the street together. Blanco smiled at Judd, who
acted rather sheepish about the whole matter.
“He got an even break, didn’t he, Frank?” asked Tex.
“Little better than an even break,” said Frank.
“And a whole lot better!” snorted Oscar. “Shorty hit a dozen times
before Frank hit once.”
“I don’t think that Mr. Tolman should ’a’ taken Shorty’s part in
somethin’ that was his own fault,” declared Mrs. Cooper.
“Well, he’s one of Tolman’s men,” said Tex slowly. “You got to stick
with your own men, Mrs. Cooper.”
“I thought it was goin’ to mean some shootin’,” said Hootie. “Shorty was
goshawful mad, I’ll tell you. He was mad at you, too, Tex.”
“Naturally,” smiled Tex. He lifted his hat to Marion and Mrs. Cooper.
“I’m shore sorry this happened in front of you ladies, and I’m glad it
didn’t go any further. Pleased to have met you again, Miss Evans. C’mon,
Frank.”
They went down the sidewalk together to the next hitching post, where
they mounted and rode away.
“Tex is allus like that,” said Oscar. “Nothin’ ever ruffles his
feathers. I reckon it’s ’cause he ain’t scared of nobody. A feller’s got
to have nerve to wear colors like Tex does.”
“They are very becoming,” said Marion. “He looks well in red and all
that silver.”
“But he ain’t tryin’ to be no dude,” declared Oscar. “His father was a
Spaniard and his mother is Irish. Didn’t you ever hear her talk, Hootie?
She’s Irish, you betcha. And Tex can sling Spanish like a greaser.”
“Do you suppose there will be trouble between him and Mr. Tolman?” asked
Marion.
“Is trouble,” corrected Hootie. “The TD swear that—well, no, they don’t
swear it, but they shore hint that Blanco and his men are stealin’ TD
cattle. That’s what started the trouble today, wasn’t it, Oscar?”
“Shore, same old complaint.”
“Why don’t they settle it in the courts?”
Oscar looked at her thoughtfully.
“You’re new to this here country, ma’am. Rustlin’ is somethin’ that
ain’t exactly on the law books of this country. Most cases are handled
by the coroner.”
“Do you suppose Mr. Blanco knows how every one feels toward him?” asked
Marion. “It must be terrible to know that every one thinks him a
murderer.”
“It don’t seem to bother him,” said Oscar. “Tex is pretty salty, ma’am.
He had a reputation as a killer, down in the Panhandle country. Got
three men down in that country, they say. Folks kinda sidestep Tex up
here. He downed a gunman over in Garnet two years ago, and they tell me
it was the fastest piece of gunplay you ever seen. But he never picks a
fight. Takes a drink once in awhile, but never more than a couple.
Shorty Gallup was achin’ to take a pop at Tex awhile ago, but he was
afraid. Even with the gun in his hand, he was scared.”
“It looked to me as though Tolman was sort of givin’ Shorty a chance to
start somethin’,” said Hootie slowly. “He shore took a chance, handin’
Shorty the gun thataway. And then you hands the other gun to Judd,
Oscar. You’d ’a’ felt kinda mean, if they’d started throwin’ lead into
each other.”
“Yea-a-ah, and I’d have been plumb mystified, too,” said Oscar slowly.
“You see, I took the shells out of them guns over in the saloon. I
wasn’t takin’ no chances.”
* * * * *
The Pineville school opened on the following Monday. The trustees had
hired a swamper from the Stormy River Saloon to clean up the place, but
it was far from Marion’s idea of what a schoolhouse should be. It was a
one-story frame building, thirty feet long by twenty-five feet wide, of
rough lumber walls, and with a blackboard across one end wall.
Each homemade seat was large enough to accommodate two pupils, with a
two-by-six separating them. The teacher occupied an old weatherbeaten
desk on a slightly raised platform, which gave her a teacher’s-eye view
of the whole room. The walls were undecorated, except for an old clock
that refused to run longer than an hour at a time.
The board of trustees did not require Marion to pass an examination.
They were only too glad to hire her. Sam Hall, the blacksmith, who
talked through his nose, wanted to have an examination, but the other
two vetoed such a thing.
“Well, it’s all right,” said Sam. “I jist wanted to ask her a problem in
arithmetic to see how fast she is.”
“What is it?” asked Hootie.
“There’s a room with eight corners in it, Hootie. In each corner sets a
cat, and each cat is lookin’ at seven cats. How many cats in the room?”
Hootie took a pencil and figured laboriously.
“Four hundred and forty-eight cats, Sam.”
“You’re crazy.”
“I’m not. There’s eight cats, ain’t there? One cat sees seven cats, and
seven times eight is—no-o-o, that ain’t right. Each cat sees—”
“I’ve got it,” exclaimed Henry Goff. “Each cat sees seven cats. That
makes eight cats, don’t it. And there’s eight cats, all seein’ the same.
Eight times eight is ninety-six.”
“Seventy-two,” corrected Hootie.
“That’s right.”
“I dunno,” said Sam dubiously. “I’ve heard so danged many answers that
I’m kinda confused.”
“Seventy-two is the answer,” insisted Goff.
“Ye-e-es and no,” said Sam diplomatically. “You’re part wrong and part
right, Hennery. I’ll tell you what let’s do. We’ll go up to the
schoolhouse and have her work it on the board. I’d like to git it
straight myself.”
“All right,” agreed Goff. “I’d like to prove my figures. It’s twenty
minutes yet before the school bell rings.”
And while the board of trustees, bringing their weighty question, were
preparing to advance, Marion was meeting the young ideas of Pineville
and the Stormy River range.
They came on horseback, on foot, in wagons, until at least forty of them
had invaded the little schoolhouse. And they were of all ages, from big
lumbering, sixteen year old boys to six year olds, attending for the
first time. Lunch pails were stacked along the window ledges. The big
boys eyed the teacher speculatively, wondering just how strict she might
be, and talked loudly, as if trying to attract her attention to them.
But Marion paid no attention to them. It was all as new to her as it was
to many of them. Suddenly the room was hushed, and then she heard one of
the big boys say—
“What do you suppose Tex Blanco wants here?”
Marion walked to the front of the room and stepped outside. Tex Blanco
had ridden up close to the porch carrying a little boy in front of him
on the big saddle. Tex slowly removed his hat, a smile on his lips.
“’Mornin’, ma’am,” he said slowly and, leaning over, he gently deposited
the wide-eyed youngster on the porch beside Marion.
The little, freckled boy looked up at her, his blue eyes very serious.
“You remember Windy March sayin’ that I was probably sorry I didn’t have
a kid to send to your school?” asked Tex slowly, his eyes on Marion.
“I remember it,” she said.
“Well, I brought one, ma’am. Now, I ain’t sorry.”
“This is—is not your boy, Mr. Blanco?”
“No, ma’am. His name’s Jimmy Hastings. He belongs to one of my men. His
ma died a couple of years ago, you see. Jimmy ain’t never been to school
before.”
“But why didn’t his father bring him?” asked Marion severely. “It is the
duty of a parent, you know.”
“Tha’so.”
“I—I want to know the parents, you see,” she said rather lamely.
“Well, I’m sorry he ain’t mine, ma’am.”
“His father was busy, I suppose.”
“Nope, unlucky.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Blanco?”
“You see, ma’am—” Tex leaned forward, resting an elbow on his saddle
horn—“me and Hastings gambled on it. I put up fifty dollars against the
kid, you might say. If I won, I took the kid to school, and if Hastings
won, he took the fifty and the kid.”
Marion flushed quickly. She realized that Tex Blanco had risked fifty
dollars for a chance to bring little Jimmy to school, to meet her.
“Why did you do that?” she asked.
“Well, I didn’t want to be sorry, you know. And I think a lot of Jimmy,
don’t I, Jimmy?”
“Yes, Uncle Tex,” said Jimmy gravely.
“Shake hands with Miss Evans, Jimmy.”
The little boy solemnly shook hands with her.
“Pleased to meetcha,” he said.
“And I’m pleased to meet you, Jimmy.”
“’At’s good. Uncle Tex says I’ve gotta learn a lot so I won’t have to be
no cowpuncher all my life.”
“Oh, I’m sure you will learn very fast, Jimmy.”
“’At’s good.”
“Well, here comes the board of trustees,” laughed Tex. “I’ll leave Jimmy
to you, Miss Evans—and gladly.”
* * * * *
Tex swung his horse around, waved a gloved hand at Jimmy and rode away
from town. Marion stood there with Jimmy, waiting for the three
trustees, and again the children began their noise inside the
schoolhouse. Marion realized that they were quiet while Tex Blanco had
been there.
The three men came up to the porch, and she knew that they had been
discussing the reasons for Tex Blanco’s being there.
“Good mornin’,” greeted Hootie. “How’s everythin’ comin’?”
“Oh, just fine. This little boy is from Mr. Blanco’s ranch. His name is
Jimmy Hastings.”
“Oh, that’s why Tex was here, eh? We wondered.”
“You hadn’t ought to have much to do with him, ma’am,” advised Henry
Goff, the postmaster.
“Them things,” pronounced Hootie coldly, “is personal matters, Hennery.
We hired this lady to teach school, you must remember.”
“I know, but—”
“Drop it, Henry,” advised Sam Hall. “Any old time you start preachin’
morals, I’ll tell about the time you slick-eared a branded calf.”
“Never did! By golly, I—I—”
“Yore loop’s draggin’,” cautioned Hootie. “We never came up here to
recite our pasts to Miss Evans, but to have her prove a problem. Here it
is, Miss Evans: There’s a room with eight corners, and in each corner
sets a cat. Each cat looks at seven cats. How many cats in the room?”
Marion laughed outright.
“Why, eight, of course.”
“Eight?” wondered Henry. “But there’s eight to start with.”
“Of course, and each one looks at the other seven.”
“Seventy-two!” exploded Sam Hall. “Seventy-two!”
“You didn’t know, you animated jew’s-harp!” snapped Henry.
“I admit it,” laughed Sam, “but I knowed it wasn’t seventy-two.”
“Well, we better go back and let the lady start her school,” said
Hootie. “It’s a cinch she knows more than we do.”
“About cats,” amended Sam Hall.
“Come any time,” said Marion, laughing.
“Any time Sam Hall gets a problem,” laughed Hootie.
Marion spent the entire day in trying to get the grades separated and
some semblance of order in the place. There was no chance for study, and
her mind was in a whirl when the day was over, and the children went
whooping out doors; all except little Jimmy, who stayed in his seat.
“Aren’t you going out, too, Jimmy?” she asked.
“Gotta wait for Uncle Tex.”
“Oh, is he coming after you, Jimmy?”
“He won me for a month.”
“Won you for a month?”
“That’s what he said,” said Jimmy solemnly, “and he squeezed me so hard
he almost busted a rib. Did anybody ever squeeze you that hard?”
“I’m afraid not, Jimmy,” she answered, laughing.
“Uncle Tex is awful strong; I like to ride with him.”
“You seem to like your Uncle Tex, Jimmy.”
“’At’s right. He told me he was takin’ me to learn somethin’ from a
beautiful lady. I guess he meant you.”
“But I’m not beautiful, Jimmy.”
“Well—”
Jimmy frowned thoughtfully. He was trying to remember something he had
heard one of the cowboys say about a girl.
“Well, you ain’t hard to look at.”
“Where in the world did you ever hear such a thing? Did your Uncle Tex
say that?”
“No’m, I guess it was Kit Carson. He’s pretty tough.”
“And who is Kit Carson, Jimmy?”
“Oh, he’s one of Uncle Tex’s saddle slickers.”
A noise at the front of the building caused Marion to look up, and she
saw Tex Blanco stepping up to the door. He was wearing that flame
colored shirt again, and the sun sparkled on his silver-trimmed chaps.
He stopped in the doorway and smiled widely as he doffed his wide hat.
“I came to get my winnings,” he said to Marion, as he came inside. “Was
he a good boy, ma’am?”
“Just lovely,” smiled Marion.
Jimmy slid out of his seat and stood beside Tex. His tousled head just
reached Tex’s holster, from which peeped the butt of a pearl-handled
revolver that flashed like fire-opal in the beam of sunlight through the
window.
“I understand you have won him for a month,” said Marion seriously.
Tex looked steadily at her for several moments, before he looked down at
Jimmy.
“Yea-a-h,” he said slowly. “Jimmy told you, ma’am?”
“Well, you did,” declared Jimmy. “You told me, Uncle Tex.”
“That’s right, old pardner, I did tell yuh.”
Tex looked up at Marion.
“You don’t mind, do you, ma’am?”
“If you bring Jimmy to school?”
“Yeah.”
“That is your business, Mr. Blanco.”
“I’m awful glad to meet somebody who concedes me some rights, ma’am.
You’ll hear lots of things about me. After you hear all of it, mebby you
won’t concede me the right to bring Jimmy to school.”
“I have already heard many things,” she said slowly. “Still I don’t
understand why you should gamble for the chance to bring the little boy
to school.”
“Don’tcha, ma’am? Well—” Tex took a deep breath and patted Jimmy fondly
on the head—“you prob’ly learned a lot from books. A lady must be pretty
smart to teach a school, but there’s some things that you don’t know
yet. C’mon, Jimmy.”
They turned and walked straight through the doorway, and Marion saw Tex
toss Jimmy to the saddle, before climbing on. She bowed her head on her
arms and tried to laugh, but the laugh did not come. It was ridiculous
for Tex Blanco, the killer, to come to the school twice a day, merely to
see her. She knew what the people would say. She didn’t want to see him.
He was nothing to her, never would be.
She arranged her desk and put on her hat, but she sat there quite a
while, her eyes fixed on the spot beside little Jimmy’s desk, where the
sunlight glinted through a window, like a spotlight trained on the
floor. She could still visualize Tex Blanco’s white-toothed smile above
the flame color of his shirt, and the sunlight flashing back from the
pearl handle of his big revolver.
Finally she got to her feet and walked out, locking the door behind her.
It was nearly a quarter of a mile walk to Hootie Cooper’s house, but she
did not hurry. Cleve Tolman and two of his men rode past her on the
gallop, almost blinding her in a cloud of dust.
“They might at least have slowed down,” she told herself angrily. “I’ll
bet Tex Blanco wouldn’t have done it.”
And then she grew angry with herself for thinking of Tex Blanco.
* * * * *
Marion was still flushed when she reached home, where she found Mrs.
Cooper on the wide porch, fanning herself with a huge straw hat.
“I been wonderin’ how you was gettin’ along, Marion,” said Mrs. Cooper.
“Sit down and tell me all about it.”
Marion was only too glad to sink down in one of their easy chairs and
remove her hat.
“Well, I suppose everything went as it usually does on the opening day
of school, Ma Cooper. It is quite a task to get them all placed.”
“I’ll betcha, I’d use a barrel stave m’self.”
Mrs. Cooper fanned herself industriously for a moment.
“Hootie was tellin’ me that Tex Blanco brought the little Hastings boy
to school.”
“And came after him a while ago,” said Marion.
“Yea-a-ah?” Mrs. Cooper turned her head and looked at Marion closely.
“Came and got him, eh? Is Andy Hastings crippled or somethin’?”
“Tex Blanco gambled with little Jimmy’s father, and Tex Blanco won the
right to bring Jimmy to school for one whole month.”
“For one whole month?”
Mrs. Cooper’s face slowly dissolved into a smile, the smile into a
chuckling laugh.
“Mamma mine!” she chuckled. “Oh, can you beat that? For one whole month.
That’s shore a new one. Gambled for a chance to see you twice a day.”
“But I don’t want to see him,” declared Marion.
Mrs. Cooper looked closely at Marion.
“Of course you don’t, dearie. I’ll speak to Hootie about it tonight.
He’ll see that Tex don’t bother you. Hootie likes Tex and all that, but
he’ll jist explain it to Tex in a nice way, and I’ll bet he quits
annoyin’ you.”
“But he—he wasn’t annoying me. It is just the fact that he—that he comes
to the school, you see.”
“I see. Well, we can stop that. Just you quit worryin’ about Tex Blanco.
I don’t think he ever had a girl before.”
“But I’m not his girl, don’t you see?”
“That’s right. You’ve probably got a feller in the East.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Well,” smiled Mrs. Cooper, “we’ll have Hootie tell Tex that you have.”
“But that would be lying.”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, lyin’.”
Mrs. Cooper smiled broadly and shook her head.
“You’re funny. I try to get you out of bein’ embarrassed, and you won’t
let me. Just between me and you, we’ve got to stop Tex from comin’ to
see you, even at the school. Folks might talk, don’tcha see? You don’t
realize that Tex is sort of an outcast around here—a man with a bad
reputation. You can’t afford to have your name linked with his, can
you?”
“Certainly not.”
“I should say you couldn’t,” sighed Mrs. Cooper. “But ain’t he good
lookin’, Marion? He’s the kind of a man I used to dream about—and look
what I got. Dreams shore go by contraries. Hootie’s got a heart as big
as an ox, and I reckon the rest of his internal organs are in the right
place, but as a specimen he shore don’t stack up beside Tex Blanco. I
love Hootie, but my love ain’t blind.”
Marion laughed softly.
“Looks are not everything.”
“Well, they’re quite a lot, Marion. Your looks made Tex Blanco gamble
for the chance to see you.”
“From what I hear, that is not much to brag about.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re level-headed. Some girls might fall for his
looks. You’ll meet the right man some day. Can’t teach school all your
life. Probably get one with bow-legs—and a mole on his nose. Cleve
Tolman asked me quite a lot about you. He’s interested. Asked me about
your family, but I didn’t know anythin’ to tell him. Tex didn’t ask.
He’s the kind that would take you, even if you never had any folks.”
Marion flushed and grew interested in a broken stitch on her glove.
“There isn’t much to tell about my family,” she said slowly. “Father
died a few months after I was born, and I guess mother had a hard time
making a living for my brother and me. He was older than me. We got
along, somehow, back there in Chicago. We all worked, and I went to
night school, after my brother left home and my mother died.”
“Well, you had a hard time, didn’t you? Mother and father both dead,
eh?”
“Yes—both gone.”
“Where’s your brother?”
“Who knows? He left home when I was fourteen.”
“And never told you where he went?”
“No. You see, he—he had to leave. Oh, we’re not so good,” she said
bitterly.
“He was suspected of a robbery. The police came for him, but he got
away. It killed mother. She just sort of faded away after that, and a
year later she died. I was fifteen then and getting five dollars a week
in a department store. But I managed to live, and I went to night school
until I got my diploma. I kept on working, saving what little I could. I
knew I could never qualify as a teacher in a big city, so I came to
Cheyenne. I don’t know why I ever selected Cheyenne. There I learned
about Pineville and their need of a teacher for this term of school. Oh,
it was a godsend to me. I just had one silver dollar when I arrived.”
Marion was on the verge of tears when she finished her story.
“I didn’t intend to tell any one my story,” she said, “but I just had to
tell you, Ma Cooper.”
“Well, I’m glad you did, honey. It seems as though I’ve known you all
your life. Your face was familiar the first time I ever seen you. Now,
you go in and clean up, while I start mixin’ a flock of biscuits. Hootie
likes ’em and, if I do say it myself, I mingle a good one. Mebby we
better let things go as they lie for awhile—about Tex Blanco.”
“Perhaps it would be best, Ma Cooper. I don’t want to hurt his
feelings.”
“Shore, you don’t. Some folks say he hasn’t any, but they’re crazy.”
“Little Jimmy Hastings certainly loves him.”
“And I’ve seen dogs follerin’ him. You run along, Honey.”
Marion kissed Mrs. Cooper and went into the house. The fat lady dropped
the straw hat in a chair, took a deep breath and grinned widely at
nothing at all. Then she went in and began mixing biscuits.
* * * * *
It was several days later that five men sat in the sheriff’s office,
with the front door closed. There were Pat Lynch, the sheriff, Mort
Heffner, prosecuting attorney, Cleve Tolman, Shorty Gallup and a
detective named Sears, from the cattle association.
Sears was a slender man, about forty years of age and rather grim. He
had arrived that day from Cheyenne, and wanted a few details. Tolman and
Gallup happened to be in from the TD ranch; so the sheriff asked them to
talk with Sears.
“How did you happen to get a detective?” asked Tolman, after Sears had
been introduced.
“I sent for him,” replied Heffner. “We talked it over, the sheriff and
myself. As far as I could see, we were not getting anywhere in the
solving of Buck Dennig’s murder; so we decided to appeal to the
association. Of course, the county will pay part of the expenses. We
thought a range detective would be better than one from a private
bureau.”
“And I’m going to need help,” smiled Sears. “Coming in on a case so late
in the day, when all evidence is stale, I am going to need a lot of
information. The sheriff has outlined things to me, of course, but only
the bare facts. Mr. Dennig was your partner, was he not?”
“Yeah, he was my pardner,” said Tolman.
“You understood his financial condition, I take it.”
“What do you mean?”
“As I understand it, Mr. Dennig drew ten thousand dollars from the bank
on the afternoon of his murder.”
“He did,” said Tolman shortly.
“Have you any idea why he drew all this money?”
“No idea at all. Didn’t know he drew it, until after the murder.”
“I believe he had the sum of one hundred and sixty dollars on his body.
Doesn’t it seem that someone knew he had this money, and robbed him?”
“You’d naturally think so.”
“Was he in the habit of carrying a big sum on his person?”
“I don’t think he was.”
“Was this partnership money, or his own?”
“His own. We didn’t have any partnership account.”
“I see. You don’t know that he owed any such a sum?”
Tolman smiled shortly.
“Not that I knew anythin’ about.”
“Do you know how much money he had left in the bank, after drawing this
sum?”
“About five thousand, I understand.”
“Mr. Tolman, do you think Dennig was killed for his money, or for
revenge?”
“How would I know?”
“I understand that Mr. Dennig had no relatives, no one to leave his
share of the ranch. Is that true?”
“That’s true.”
“And you naturally receive his share.”
“Well?”
“Have you done anything personally to try and find out who killed him,
Mr. Tolman?”
“That’s the law’s business, Mr. Sears—not mine.”
“And yet you profit greatly, do you not?”
Tolman got to his feet quickly, facing the detective.
“That’s about all of that,” he said harshly. “It’s no fault of mine that
Buck Dennig had no relatives. Was it my fault that he had no will? You
talk as though I had somethin’ to do with his murder. You can go to hell
with the rest of your questions. C’mon, Shorty.”
Tolman kicked the door open and strode out, followed by Shorty, who was
grinning foolishly. Sears watched them cross the street to the Stormy
River Saloon.
“You got under his hide,” grinned the sheriff. “Now you’ll get no more
information from Cleve Tolman.”
“Didn’t get anything worth while, anyway, Sheriff.”
“You don’t think he had anything to do with it, do you?” asked Heffner.
“Well, he got mad, didn’t he? You were in that poker game when Dennig
and Blanco quarreled, weren’t you, Heffner?”
“Yes, I was there.”
“Dennig accused Blanco of stealing, didn’t he?”
“He did. They were both mad, and I really believe there would have been
a killing right there, if we hadn’t interfered.”
“And it was only an hour or so after that, I understand, that Dennig
started home. He didn’t exhibit a lot of money in the saloon that night,
did he?”
“Not over a couple hundred dollars. He came to town early in the
afternoon. Buck wasn’t a heavy drinker, but this time he had quite a
few. No, he wasn’t drunk, but he just had enough to make him rather
savage. He certainly called Tex Blanco a lot of fighting names that
night.”
“Did Blanco have much to say back to him?”
“Not so much. Tex isn’t foul mouthed, you know; but he was mad. I don’t
blame him. The things Buck Dennig called him would make a jackrabbit
bite a grizzly bear.”
“Blanco has rather a sinister reputation, I understand.”
“I suppose he has.”
“And there has been hard feelings between the TD and the Blanco outfits
for quite awhile, I understand.”
“The TD claim they lost cattle,” said the sheriff. “They never came
right out and accused Blanco, of course, and they never asked my help in
the matter.”
Sears nodded thoughtfully.
“Don’t seem to be much to work on in this case, but I’ll do what I can.”
* * * * *
Sears met with little success in his investigations. Always the
suspicion pointed at Tex Blanco, but there was no evidence. Sears did
not go out to see Tex. He rode out to the TD ranch, but learned nothing.
In fact, Tolman gave him to understand that a detective was not welcome
on the TD.
He had been in Pineville three days when a letter was sent to him in
care of the sheriff. It had been posted in Pineville and read:
We will give you eight hours to leave this valley.
—THE BUNCH.
“I guess that settles it,” said Sears nervously.
“Looks thataway,” agreed the sheriff grimly, studying the penciled note.
He sent Oscar after Heffner, who came immediately, and they discussed
the note seriously.
“What would you do, Heffner?” asked Sears.
“I’d leave here,” said Heffner. “I guess you’ve found that you can’t do
us any good, and there’s no use of getting killed, Sears. The Bunch mean
business, I guess. The stage leaves for Garnet at one o’clock, so you
better slide out gracefully.”
And Sears slid. He went to the Pineville Hotel to pack his bags, leaving
the note with Heffner, who put it in his pocket.
“Let’s go and find out something, Pat,” he suggested.
They walked up to the bank and called Shearer aside.
“Have you a copy of Tex Blanco’s signature, Shearer?” asked Heffner.
“Certainly.”
“Let us look at it, please.”
Shearer produced the card with Blanco’s signature, and went to wait on a
customer while Heffner compared it with the writing on the penciled
note.
“Look at that B,” whispered Heffner.
A comparison of the B in Bunch and the B in Blanco showed them to be
nearly alike.
They gave the card back to Shearer and returned to the office.
“Goin’ to show it to Sears?” asked the sheriff.
“No, I don’t think I will. We’ve got to move slow in this, Pat. It would
require a handwriting expert to prove that Tex Blanco made that B—and
then you’d have a hard job proving it to a cow jury. No, we’ve got to
have more than that, but it sure gives us plenty of reasons for keeping
an eye on Tex Blanco.”
“Well, he’s in town twice a day,” smiled the sheriff. “He brings Andy
Hastings’ little boy to school every morning and comes after him at four
o’clock.”
“What’s the idea, Pat?”
“The new teacher.”
“Miss Evans? You don’t mean to say he’s stuck on her?”
“Nothin’ strange about that, is there? If I was twenty years younger I’d
find some kid to take to school.”
“But Tex Blanco—that’s different,” laughed Heffner. “Somebody ought to
talk to the lady about it.”
“Suppose you try it, Mort.”
“Not me. I’m happily married, and somebody might think I was jealous.”
That afternoon Sears left Pineville, riding on the seat with Windy
March, having accomplished nothing. He believed implicitly in warnings,
and had no hankering for a bullet in his back. They met Tex Blanco
between town and the B Arrow ranch, and Sears felt a contraction of the
spine, until a curve in the road hid him from view.
“Do you think Tex Blanco killed Dennig?” he asked Windy.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” said Windy seriously, “The road is most always
dusty this time of year. We need rain.”
“That seems to be the general opinion,” replied Sears, and added
quickly, “that we need rain.”
Windy spat over the wheel and cleared his throat.
“You through detectin’?”
“I’m leaving the valley.”
“I didn’t think you would stay long. I allus had an idea that a
detective was kinda sneakin’.”
“You mean, he didn’t let anybody know who he was?”
“Yeah, wore whiskers and looked for nicks on the furniture.”
Sears laughed.
“Well, I suppose that is one way. I was warned to get out inside of
eight hours.”
“Yea-a-ah? Well, well! Warned, eh? When didja get this here warnin’?”
“About eleven o’clock this morning.”
“Well—” Windy squinted at the sun—“I’ll say you gave yourself leeway.”
* * * * *
It did not require many days for every one in Pineville to know that Tex
Blanco was coming to the school twice a day, and the gossips had plenty
of material. Marion heard none of the talk. She was too busy. But Ma
Cooper heard it. Hootie heard it, too, and was worried. He talked it
over with his wife.
“They’re talkin’ too much,” declared Hootie. “It’ll hurt Marion, hurt
the school. Puts me in an awful hole, Ma. Sam and Henry both talked with
me today about it.”
“I’ll speak to Marion, Hootie. She ain’t to blame. Darn the whole bunch
of old forked tongues around here, anyway!”
But Marion did not need to be told. That morning, after she had called
the roll, she discovered that Joe and Mary Beebee were not present. She
asked little Ella Hall, who lived next door to Beebee, if she knew why
they were absent.
“Their ma took ’em out, Miss Evans,” piped the little girl. “She told my
ma this morning that she wasn’t never going to let them come to this
school any more.”
“My gracious. And why not, Ella?”
“She said it was because Tex Blanco came here. She said to my ma—”
“That will do, Ella. Thank you so much.”
Marion looked blankly down at the litter of papers on her desk, her mind
in a whirl.
“My ma said—” began little Ella, but Marion stopped her.
“That will be all, Ella. We—will dispense with the singing this
morning.”
“What did she say about my Uncle Tex?” piped little Jimmy Hastings.
“Nothing, Jimmy. Go right ahead with your studies.”
“’At’s good.”
Jimmy glared at the back of Ella’s head, but finally subsided behind a
book, held tightly in his chubby hands.
That day was long to Marion. She did not go home to lunch. At recess and
noon the children talked in whispers, with Ella Hall the center of their
conversation.
Marion dismissed school fifteen minutes early. She wanted time to plan
what to say to Tex Blanco. She did not know that he was there until she
happened to lift her eyes and see him standing in the doorway. Jimmy was
drawing a picture on his slate, and the only sound was the creak and
scratch of his slate pencil.
“Hello,” said Tex softly.
Jimmy turned his head and looked at him.
“C’m’ere, Uncle Tex,” he piped. “See what I drawed of Ella Hall.”
Tex came slowly up to him, looking at the slate.
“You shore gave her plenty mouth, pardner,” said Tex.
“She’s mouthy,” declared Jimmy.
Tex looked at Marion and laughed. But Marion was not laughing. Tex
sobered quickly and walked toward her.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“You must not come here any more,” she said wearily.
“Not come here, ma’am?”
“Not any more, Mr. Blanco.”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Old lady Beebee took her two kids out of school, ’cause you come here,”
said Jimmy. “I heard Ella Hall tell all the kids outdoors. She said you
was stuck on Miss Evans; and that you wasn’t fit for much, and that she
wouldn’t let her kids come to school. By golly, I shore told her
somethin’. Ella said her pa was a trustee and she’d have me throwed out.
Can she, Miss Evans?”
For several moments Tex and Marion looked at each other. The eyes of the
big cowboy were clouded, his lips tightly shut. He turned from Marion
and stared at the blackboard.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I didn’t know. I was a fool to do
this. I might have known all the time. I’m just not fit. With the
reputation I’ve got, I should never have looked at you; but I’m human.
“No matter what they say about me, I’m just human. The happiest week of
my life has been in bringin’ little pardner down here to school and
seein’ you twice a day. But I didn’t know it would turn out like this. I
used to sing, a long time ago. I’ve been singin’ for a week now. Mother
said she’d like to meet you, to meet the girl who brought back her
singin’ cowboy.
“But that’s all past now. I’m sorry I hurt you, ma’am. I won’t come any
more. You can tell ’em that for me. Jimmy’s pa will bring him in the
mornin’. Goodby.”
He took little Jimmy by the hand and they walked out, without a backward
glance, the tall cowboy in the flame colored shirt, his fine shoulders
drooped just a little, and the little boy, his head tilted as he looked
up at his big partner.
“I shore told Ella Hall where to head in at, Uncle Tex,” she heard him
say.
“Thank you, little pardner.”
And then they rode away—the little boy who did not quite understand and
the singing cowboy who had lost his song.
Marion leaned forward on her desk, chin in her hands, her eyes filled
with tears.
“Oh, why don’t people mind their own business?” she asked herself. “Why
don’t they? But they never have, not since time began, so what can you
expect?”
She did not say anything to Ma Cooper about it that night, not even
after she heard that the trustees were to have a meeting at Sam Hall’s
house.
It was a rare occasion when Hootie Cooper took a drink, but this night
he came home partly saturated. From her room, Marion heard some of the
conversation between Hootie and Ma Cooper.
“I ain’t drunk, Ma,” she heard him tell her. “But I came within about
three swallers of it. I offered to lick old Sam and Hennery, with one
hand tied behind me. Darn ’em! Old lady Beebee was there. Yea-a-ah,
shore! I told ’em what I thought of the whole danged works, resigned as
a trustee and drank straight whisky to celebrate m’ return from
bondage.”
“But what did they decide to do, Hootie?”
“They’ve appointed Old Man Beebee to fill my place, and they’re goin’ to
plant the seats of their pants on the schoolhouse steps in the mornin’,
and when Tex shows up they’re goin’ to tell him what for.”
“Ain’t you goin’ to undress before you go to bed, Hootie?”
“Oh, yeah. Ma, if they say anythin’ to hurt Marion, I’ll whip the whole
works.”
“You couldn’t whip anythin’.”
“I might s’prise you.”
“You shore would. If I was you I’d unbutton that shirt before I tried to
take it off.”
“The dern thing has shrunk, Ma.”
“No such a thing. You take them suspenders off your shoulders and it’ll
come off all right.”
* * * * *
The following morning the three trustees were there. They did not come
in the schoolhouse, but sat on the edge of the porch—Old Man Beebee,
possibly fifty, but looking seventy, with a thin crop of whiskers, bald
head, sour face; Sam Hall, nasal-voiced, red-tipped nose; Henry Goff,
querulous, argumentative—three old buzzards waiting for the kill.
And they waited, too, until five minutes of nine, while the blacksmith
shop remained unopened and folks wondered why the post office was still
closed.
Then came Andy Hastings and Jimmy. He put Jimmy on the schoolhouse steps
and rode away, as the bell rang and the children trooped in.
“Reckon I better git to the shop,” drawled Sam Hall.
“Same here,” said Henry. “Folks’ll wonder where I am.”
“Somebody,” said Beebee seriously, “must have told Tex Blanco.”
“Probably was Hootie Cooper,” growled Henry. “That man ain’t got a bit
of civic pride.”
They went tramping back down along the dusty road, while Marion watched
them from the window, a half smile on her face. Little Jimmy sat very
straight in his seat, his eyes on the Beebee children and at Ella Hall,
who stuck out her tongue at the teacher’s back.
_Crash!_ Marion whirled in time to see a pencil box rebound off the top
of Ella’s desk, scattering pencils in every direction. Jimmy was on his
feet, his eyes snapping.
“Who threw that box?” asked Marion.
“Jimmy Hastings,” said Joe Beebee. “I seen him, teacher.”
“Yo’re dern right I throwed it,” piped Jimmy bravely. “And it didn’t hit
where I meant for it to either.”
“He threw it right at me,” declared Joe.
“Yo’re a lyin’ chuckwalla!” shrilled Jimmy. “I throwed it at Ella Hall.
She stuck out her tongue at the teacher.”
Marion struck the side of a seat with a ruler.
“Be quiet, all of you!”
She came slowly over to Jimmy and looked down at him.
“Why did you do that, Jimmy?”
He looked up at her, his blue eyes very brave and earnest.
“I don’t let nobody run a blazer on you,” he said.
Marion walked away and sat down at her desk. There was no punishment
meted out that time. Joe Beebee stayed around the schoolhouse that night
until Andy Hastings took Jimmy home, and Marion knew he had been
instructed to wait and see if Tex Blanco came after the little boy.
That night Mrs. Cooper asked Marion to ride to Garnet with her on
Saturday.
“I want to see if I can get somethin’ different for a new dress,” she
told Marion. “Hootie won’t keep no stock. Says that everybody sends to a
mail-order house for their stuff, anyway. We can get an early start from
here and git back early in the afternoon.”
Marion was glad to go. Hootie heard about the trustees’ waiting until
nine o’clock for Tex and gurgled with joy. It was his idea of a good
joke. Of course, he did not know why Tex didn’t come.
“I had a invite for you, Marion,” he told her. “Cleve Tolman asked me if
I thought you’d go to Garnet with him to a dance tomorrow night.”
“I don’t reckon Marion wants any second-hand invitations,” said Ma
Cooper quickly.
“Not any, thanks,” laughed Marion.
“I can tell him that?”
“Certainly.”
“Well,” laughed Ma Cooper, “I had the same thing put to me by Oscar
Johnson, and I told him he better ask you himself. They’re all scared of
you, Marion.”
“And Lester Cline wants to meet you,” grinned Hootie. “I told him he’d
wait a long time for me to introduce him. He’s my rival in everythin’,
except kerosene. Some day he’ll burn out, like I did, and then he’ll
quit handlin’ it.”
The next two days were uneventful. Things were going smoothly at the
school. Marion saw nothing of Tex Blanco, but she did see Cleve Tolman
and, by his cold nod, she concluded that Hootie had told him her
decision regarding the dance invitation.
Came Saturday morning, and the ride to Garnet. Mrs. Cooper was a capable
driver, and Hootie’s buckskin team, hitched to a buckboard, desired
nothing so much as open road and plenty of it. Mrs. Cooper weighed down
one side of the seat so badly that Marion felt herself perched high on
the opposite side, where she clung to the seat with one hand, her hat
with the other.
They made the trip to Garnet in record time, and spent the rest of the
forenoon in shopping at Garnet’s two small stores, and watching one
train go through. They ate at a Chinese restaurant, where they met Windy
March. He had been at the dance the night before, and was red eyed.
“Shore had a good time,” he told them. “You should have been there, Miss
Evans.”
“Why didn’t you ask her to go?” queried Ma Cooper.
“Why-uh—by golly, I didn’t think she’d go. I heard she turned down Cleve
Tolman.”
“News,” pronounced Ma Cooper, “shore does get around. Was Cleve Tolman
there, Windy?”
“Nope. Annie Hall came with Lester Cline. Oscar Johnson came alone and
hated Lester all evenin’. Annie won’t go with Oscar since he tried to
kill her in Pat Lynch’s buckboard. She’s kinda walked with a hitch ever
since.”
“Treat ’em rough, that’s Oscar,” laughed Ma Cooper.
Windy finished his lunch and went out to his stage duties. He drove out
of town about fifteen minutes ahead of them, going toward Pineville.
“We’ll let him get well ahead,” said Ma Cooper. “That road ain’t wide
enough to do much passin’ on, and we don’t want to eat his dirt all the
way home.”
The buckskins were still willing to travel, and they knew they were
going home. Mile after mile they reeled off at a steady trot, fighting
against the pull of the bits, until they came to a stiff pull up a
winding grade, where they slowed to a walk.
Once over the top they surged into a trot again, across the mesa. At the
far side of the mesa, where the road wound down to the valley level
again, Ma Cooper drew up the team for a breathing spell.
* * * * *
Below them the yellow ribbon of road wound in and out through the clumps
of brush, and far beyond, marked by a patch of green, was the B Arrow
ranch. Farther along was the green ribbon that marked the course of
Stormy River.
“Why, there is the stage down there!” exclaimed Marion, pointing down
the hill. “See it down there, just beyond that little ravine.”
“I see it,” said Ma Cooper.
Theirs was almost a bird’s-eye view of the stage, which was not over
three hundred yards from them, on an air line. It appeared as if the
driver was sitting very straight on the seat, with both hands in the
air. For several moments they watched the scene below them. Then Ma
Cooper fairly exploded:
“A holdup! Can’t you see it, Marion? My Lord! There’s a man just back of
the stage. Can you see him?”
“Yes, I can see him,” said Marion nervously.
They saw the driver’s arms drop down, and the stage lurched ahead, the
driver still sitting stiffly, apparently looking straight ahead.
“But where is the man who was behind the stage?” pondered Marion.
“He hit for the brush. I’ll betcha they saw us.”
For possibly ten minutes they sat and watched the brushy country below
them, but caught no sight of the man. Far out toward the B Arrow ranch
trailed the dust cloud of the fast traveling stage.
“Well, that’s that,” declared Ma Cooper. “That’s the first holdup I ever
seen. Giddap, broncs.”
“But aren’t you afraid to pass that spot?” asked Marion.
“Good grief, no! They’ve pulled out a long time ago.”
They stopped where the tracks of the stage had turned slightly off of
the road.
“This is the place where they stopped,” said Ma Cooper.
But Marion did not express an opinion. Her eyes were riveted on
something just beyond the fresh tire marks of the stage, where the
sunlight flashed back the colors of a fire-opal.
Slowly she dismounted from the buckboard and went over to it.
“What is it, Marion?” asked Ma Cooper.
Marion came back with the heavy Colt revolver in her hand.
“Either Windy or the robber dropped it!” exclaimed Ma Cooper, “and it
don’t look like a gun Windy March might own. Golly, ain’t them handles
pretty? Say, what’s the matter with you, Marion? Too much sun?”
Marion tried to speak, but finally shook her head, as she rested one
hand against the wheel of the buckboard.
“What in the world is the matter with you, honey?”
“Didn’t you ever see that gun?” asked Marion weakly.
“Not to my knowledge; did you?”
“It—it’s Tex Blanco’s gun.”
“Whooee-ee! Tex Blanco’s gun? Then Tex—”
Ma Cooper did not finish. She leaned across the seat and touched Marion
on the arm.
“Get in here,” she said.
Marion obeyed, holding the gun in both hands.
“I didn’t know how you felt, honey,” said Ma Cooper. “That evidence
would send Tex up for several years. This here is our secret. We’ll
throw that gun in the river and forget it.”
Marion nodded dumbly.
“You are awful good, Ma Cooper.”
“You forget that part of it. I’m not so good. I’m jist human, honey.
Just remember that we never seen no holdup. Are you sure about that
gun?”
“I think so, Ma. He—he carried one just like it.”
“Any man is a fool to pack a gun you can identify him by, anyway. And
that’s a gaudy thing. I never had any jewelry half as gaudy as them
handles. Giddap, broncs!”
* * * * *
While Ma Cooper and Marion Evans drove on to Pineville, Windy March
galloped his four horses down the main street of town and drew up at the
post office. Windy had experienced his first holdup, and he wanted
everybody in the town to hear about it.
Luckily the sheriff and his deputy were at the office. They came on the
run, when someone yelled through their doorway that the stage had been
robbed. Inside of three minutes the stage was surrounded, listening to
Windy tell how it happened.
“Jist at the bottom, this side of the mesa,” he told them, “rope tied
across the road, belly high to a bronc, and with a cloth danglin’ from
it. My leaders comes to a stop. And then I hears a voice from the brush
a-tellin’ me to put up my hands and keep lookin’ ahead. They also tells
me that if I look around I’ll see Saint Peter.
“Not bein’ wishful to see him, I does as I’m told. I’m sure there’s two
men, ’cause I hears ’em whisperin’. They shore took everythin’ they
wanted. My little old strong box is gone, I know that much. Then they
told me to look east and keep lookin’ east, or I’d git a quick chance to
visit some of my very, very old ancestors. After a while I hears one of
’em say:
“‘All right; look up the road again.’ And then I seen that the rope was
gone.
“‘Drive straight ahead and don’t look back,’ said one of ’em, and that’s
what I done. I tell you, they knowed what they was doin’. I never seen a
danged one of ’em, and their voices sounded like they had a bad cold.”
“At this side of the mesa, eh?” queried the sheriff.
“Jist at the bottom, Sheriff. I reckon you can see where I swung a
little off the road.”
The sheriff and the deputy ran to the stable, saddled their horses,
equipped themselves with rifles and headed out of town. The sheriff knew
that there was little use of trying to do anything, but it seemed that
the public expected them at least to make a show of doing something.
Just at the Stormy River ford they met Ma Cooper and Marion, and waited
for the buckboard to make the crossing. Ma Cooper drew up the team.
“Did you just come from Garnet?” asked the sheriff.
“We shore did,” laughed Ma Cooper. “All the way.”
“How far were you behind the stage, Mrs. Cooper?”
“I dunno. Windy drove away about fifteen minutes ahead of us. Why?”
“He was held up at this side of the mesa. You was lucky not to run into
it.”
“Good grief! Held up, you say? What did they get?”
“I didn’t stop to find out. We’re just ridin’ foolish, I suppose.”
They lifted their hats and rode on across the river, while Ma Cooper
chuckled to herself.
“Well, I didn’t have to lie, did I, honey? They didn’t ask me if we saw
it. And if we hadn’t seen them first, they might have seen you dump that
gun in the river, if you had tried to dump it. Now, what’ll we do with
it?”
“I shall keep it,” said Marion, “down in the bottom of my trunk, Ma.
It’s as safe there as it would be in the river.”
“That’s fine. Wrap it up in a piece of paper and get it in the trunk as
fast as you can. Half the people in this country prob’ly know Tex Blanco
packs that kind of a gun, and if the sheriff knew you had it, he’d put
two and two together and figure you found it at the holdup.”
“I could swear that Tex Blanco gave it to me.”
“Don’t be silly! Even in this country, men don’t make girls presents of
.45 Colts. Keep it hid.”
“Oh, I suppose I’m foolish,” said Marion. “It doesn’t make him any less
the criminal.”
“You’d be surprised to know how many honest men are criminals, honey.
And a man ain’t a criminal until he’s caught. Go ahead and be foolish.
That’s a woman’s privilege, when a certain man is concerned.”
But the sheriff found nothing, except where the stage had turned out—and
a woman’s tracks in the sand. There were men’s tracks too, but they
meant nothing in the dust and sand. The woman had a small foot and wore
high heels.
The marks of the buckboard, with its narrow tires, also cut the outside
of the road, and the tracks led from these.
“What do you make of them?” asked Oscar, the deputy.
The sheriff shook his head thoughtfully.
“I dunno. Them two wimmin stopped here in the buckboard, and one of them
walked over there. The tracks show she walked straight out there and
straight back. She either found somethin’, or she walked out there to
look at somethin’.”
“Mebby we better ask ’em, Pat.”
“Mm-m-m. You don’t know much about wimmin, do you, Oscar? If you did,
you’d know better. Either their answer wouldn’t be worth a damn to us,
or they wouldn’t tell.”
“That ain’t Mrs. Cooper’s feet prints,” said Oscar. “She wears a flat
heel shoe.”
“You ort to be a detective, Oscar.”
“Yeah, I reckon so. I could do as well as Sears did. Do you reckon this
holdup was pulled by the bunch who sent the note to Sears?”
“I hope so, Oscar. I’d hate to think that there was two tough outfits in
our little county. Now lemme see. They’d likely pull southwest from
here, so we’ll take a little ride down thataway and see what we can pick
up.”
But after an hour or so of fruitless riding, they swung in past the B
Arrow ranch, where they found Andy Hastings putting a new brace on the
big ranch house gate. He was working alone, so they stopped to talk with
him.
After a few minutes of general conversation the sheriff asked him if Tex
was at home.
“I ain’t seen him today,” said Andy. “He went to the dance at Garnet
last night, I think. Prob’ly got into a poker game and stayed all night.
What’s new, Pat?”
“Nothin’ much, Andy. How’s the little kid gettin’ along in school?”
“Jimmy? He’s doin’ fine. Tells me he’s had several good fights already,
and thinks education is a great thing for a man. He’s shore strong for
the new teacher. Wants to give her a horse, so she can go ridin’ with
him.”
“Lotsa punchers around here feel the same about it,” grinned Oscar. “She
could have a swell remuda, if she’d jist do a little acceptin’. I’d
start it with a couple good broncs, myself.”
“I’ll betcha,” grinned Andy.
“Here comes Tex now,” said the sheriff, as a horse and rider came into
view down the road.
Tex was riding slowly and, as he drew closer, they could see that his
face was rather pale. His gray sombrero was drawn rather rakishly over
one eye and he did not smile. It was rather unusual for Tex not to
smile. He merely nodded shortly to them and rode through the gate. They
watched him dismount stiffly at the stable and lead his horse inside.
“Must ’a’ had a hard night,” smiled the sheriff.
“I sh’d say he has!” exclaimed Andy. “It ain’t like old Tex to act
thataway. Hm-m-m. Well, it’s his business.”
“Shore is,” nodded Oscar. “See you later, Andy.”
“Yeah. Drop in any time.”
They rode on toward Pineville and, when they were out of earshot of the
ranch, Oscar turned to the sheriff.
“What do you think of that?”
“Think of what, Oscar?”
“Tex has been in a mixup, Pat. Didn’t you notice how he was wearin’ his
hat? Coverin’ a bump, I’ll betcha. And his neckerchief had blood spots
on it, too. And not only that, but he didn’t have no gun in his
holster.”
“I didn’t notice,” confessed the sheriff.
“And he looked as though he had slept in his clothes.”
“Oscar, you ought to be a detective.”
“Well, mebby that’s true, but I ain’t.”
“Do you think we ought to go back and ask Tex what happened to him?”
“Not now, Paddy. With that expression on his face, I’d be scared to even
ask him what time it is. That’s the first time I ever seen Tex without
his smile.”
“That’s true. Keep still about them tracks in the sand, Oscar. And don’t
say anythin’ about Tex. If we’re ever goin’ to put the deadwood on
anybody, we’ve got to stop tellin’ the world what we suspect.”
* * * * *
“Well, I’m jist a-tellin’ you, so you would know.”
Luke Jones straightened up and kicked the oven door shut with a bang.
Standing in the kitchen doorway was Shorty Gallup, a limp cigaret
hanging in the corner of his mouth.
“You think so, do you?” he sneered.
“I don’t think nothin’ about it—I know! You may be foreman of this old
TD ranch, but I’m foreman of this kitchen. Don’t come around here
a-tellin’ me what to do, or how to do it. By golly, I was cookin’ food
for he-men when you wasn’t weaned yet.”
“Oh, you can cook, if you want to, Luke. But you’re layin’ down on the
job. Cleve knows it. We was talkin’ about it last night.”
“The hell you was! You and Cleve, eh? Lissen t’ me, Shorty. Any old time
I don’t suit Cleve Tolman, he can come and tell me and not send a
dirty-eared puncher to pack his messages. Yes, you are. You ain’t washed
farther back than the front of your face since you owned your first pair
of chaps. You jist run along and be foreman of the cows.”
Shorty snorted disgustedly and went down to the corral, where Eddie
Grimes and Matt Sturgis were fooling around with a hammer-headed
buckskin. Shorty sauntered into the corral and leaned against the fence.
“Whatcha goin’ to do with him?” he asked.
“Goin’ to ride him,” grunted Matt, working up the rope.
“Eddie goin’ to ride him?”
There was a sneer in Shorty’s question. Eddie did not pretend to be a
bronc rider.
“I’m goin’ to ride him,” said Matt.
“I thought so.”
Shorty came over, took hold of the rope and shoved Eddie aside.
“You better go and set on the fence,” he said roughly, and then added
maliciously, “and let the men do the work.”
Matt laughed. Eddie let loose of the rope, but made no move to get away.
“Git out of here!” snapped Shorty. “Ain’t you even got sense enough to
take an order?”
“Not that kind of an order,” replied Eddie evenly.
Matt turned and looked at Eddie, whose back was partly turned to him,
and winked at Shorty.
“What kind of an order do you need?” queried Shorty.
“White man’s talk, Shorty. You talk like a baby.”
Shorty had gathered up the slack of the lariat, and now he slashed Eddie
across the face. It was a cowardly thing to do, but did little damage,
except to blind Eddie for a moment. In that moment Shorty dropped the
rope and sprang in, trying to hit Eddie with his fists.
Eddie backed away, blocking the blows with his elbows, bobbing his head
up and down to escape the flying fists, but quickly got set and came
back, swapping punches with Shorty.
Neither of them showed any science. It was just a case of slug, slug,
slug with both men trying to send over a finishing blow. It was Eddie
who landed it. One of his wild uppercuts crashed against the point of
Shorty’s jaw, and the TD foreman went to his haunches.
Almost at the same moment, Matt Sturgis smashed Eddie between the angle
of his jaw and the ear, and Eddie went down on his hands and knees, too
dazed to realize that Shorty had surged to his feet and was trying to
kick him.
“That’s kinda dirty, don’tcha think?” asked a voice.
Shorty turned quickly, blinking his still dazed eyes at the two cowboys
who had ridden up close to the fence and were looking at him with great
disapproval. Eddie got to his feet, wondering what it was all about.
The men were strangers to the cowboys in the corral, but Shorty was
still so dazed and angry that he blurted—
“Don’t horn in on somethin’ that’s none of your business.”
“I suppose not,” said the taller of the two riders easily, “but just the
same it shore looked like a dirty trick to me, pardner.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!”
Shorty came over closer to the fence and stared at the strangers.
The one who had done all the talking was well over six feet tall, rather
slender, with a long, serious face, level gray eyes and a wide mouth.
The other was shorter, broad of shoulder, with a rather blocky face,
creased heavily with merry wrinkles, his blue eyes rather large and
inquiring.
The tall one rode a tall gray horse, the short one a sorrel, and behind
them was a bay mare, carrying a pack. Both men were dressed in range
clothes and both needed a shave.
Eddie Grimes walked over to the gate and let himself out of the corral,
while Shorty and Matt considered the strangers.
“Jist about where did you come from?” demanded Shorty.
“That,” said the tall, gray-eyed one, “is our business, if you’re so
particular about personal business.”
“Is that so?”
Shorty felt his damaged jaw. Matt Sturgis had nothing to say, but
shifted uneasily from one foot to the other under the steady stare of
the gray eyes.
“Is that the road to Pineville out there?”
Matt nodded quickly. The tall cowboy gave Shorty a sharp glance, before
he turned his horse and rode away from the corral. Eddie Grimes was
coming from the bunkhouse, carrying his war sack in one hand. He called
to the strangers—
“Are you goin’ to Pineville?”
“Shore am,” replied the tall cowboy.
“Wait a minute and I’ll ride with you, if you don’t mind; I’m through
with this place.”
“You’re right you are!” yelled Shorty.
Eddie looked toward the corral, laughed shortly and looked at the
strangers.
“He’s the foreman of this ranch.”
They waited until Eddie had saddled his horse, while Shorty and Matt
watched them from between the poles of the corral. Eddie rode up to the
kitchen door and called to old Luke, who came to the doorway.
“I’m pullin’ out, Luke,” he said.
“Yeah? Well, be good to yourself, Eddie. I don’t blame you.”
“I’ll probably see you soon again, Luke.”
“Shore. I may not stay long m’self. _Adios._”
Eddie rode toward the gate and the strangers followed him out.
“This is the TD ranch,” explained Eddie as he fastened the gate behind
them. “The foreman’s name is Gallup, Shorty Gallup. That other polecat
is named Matt Sturgis. My name is Eddie Grimes.”
He swung back on his horse and the tall cowboy shook hands with him.
“My name’s Hartley,” he said. “My pardner is Stevens.”
Eddie shook hands with him, and they headed for Pineville.
* * * * *
“I’m glad you showed up when you did,” grinned Eddie. “You see, I wasn’t
lookin’ for Matt to pop me thataway.”
“And Mr. Gallup was aimin’ to put the boots to you, I observed.”
“I guess he was.”
“We came across the range from Piney Lake,” said Hartley. “Never been
over here before. We struck that creek this side of the summit and
followed it all the way to the ranch.”
“Lobo Creek,” said Eddie. “Quite a trip over from Piney Lake.”
“Took us two days. How are things over here, Grimes?”
“All right, I guess. I’ve been with the TD for quite a while. Everythin’
was fine until Buck Dennig got killed and Cleve Tolman hired Shorty
Gallup as a foreman.”
“Not much good, eh?”
“Overbearin’ little pup. He got whipped a short time ago by Frank Judd,
of the B Arrow. Thinks he’s a fighter and is always lookin’ for trouble.
I’ll have to come back and get my wages from Tolman, I suppose.”
“How did this Dennig get killed?”
“Murdered. Somebody smashed him on the head one night and stole ten
thousand dollars from him. Nobody knows who done it.”
“Hashknife, we must be in a land of milk and honey,” laughed Stevens.
“Cowboy packing ten thousand!”
“Well, it ain’t a common thing,” laughed Eddie.
“Don’t mind Sleepy,” grinned Hashknife Hartley. “He’s always jumpin’ at
conclusions.”
“Buck was the first man I ever knew who carried that much money,” said
Eddie.
“Wasn’t anythin’ done to find out who killed him?” asked Hashknife
curiously.
“Sure. The sheriff talked with the prosecutin’ attorney and they both
talked with Cleve Tolman. They held an inquest and decided that Buck had
been murdered. Then the cattle association sent a detective over here,
and he lasted long enough to be warned out of the valley.”
Hashknife laughed softly.
“You’ve had quite a lot of excitement around here, it seems.”
“Plenty. Day before yesterday the stage was held up between Garnet and
Pineville and three thousand taken. The sheriff rode down, looked over
the spot where the robbery had taken place and came home.”
“A very unmoral place,” sighed Hashknife.
“You ain’t a preacher, are you?” asked Eddie quickly.
Hashknife laughed and shook his head.
“Not by any means, Grimes. My father was a minister. He rode the Milk
River range, packin’ the Gospel and a Winchester. Sort of a bunkhouse
sky pilot, you know. Me, I’m just a puncher, tha’sall.”
“Lookin’ for work?”
“Bein’ kinda lazy—no. We might take a job.”
“There’s a vacancy at the TD, you know.”
“Yeah, I know; but I’m afraid the foreman might not want my services.
Anyway, there’s two of us.”
“That’s right. I’m afraid you’ll have a hard job gettin’ on here for the
winter.”
“Mebby we won’t want to,” said Sleepy Stevens. “I shore don’t want to
spend no winter in a place where they hold up folks. I scare easy.”
Eddie Grimes looked sidewise at the broad shoulders and the square jaw
of Sleepy Stevens, noting the heavy Colt in its weathered holster, the
easy sway of the body, a sway which is only acquired by years in the
saddle.
“I’ll bet you do,” agreed Eddie.
“Any old time they start trouble, I’ve shore got a lot of goin’ away to
do,” said Sleepy seriously.
Just before they reached Pineville they met Cleve Tolman, riding alone.
He looked curiously at Hashknife and Sleepy, but Grimes did not
introduce him.
“I quit the TD a little while ago,” he told Tolman.
“Quit, eh. Kinda sudden, wasn’t it, Eddie?”
“I suppose you might say it was, Cleve. Had a run-in with Shorty. Him
and Matt kinda double teamed on me.”
“Yea-a-ah?” Tolman looked him over curiously. “You don’t seem to be hurt
much.”
“No, I didn’t get hurt much, Cleve.”
“Shorty fire you?”
“I quit. And I don’t mind tellin’ you that you’ll lose more men, unless
you fire Shorty.”
“I’ll run my own business,” said Tolman shortly.
He looked straight at Hashknife, but Grimes did not offer to introduce
them. Tolman reached in his pocket and drew out a wallet.
“I owe you about thirty-five dollars,” he said, and gave the money to
Grimes.
“You better tell Shorty to lay off of Luke, or you’ll lose your cook,”
said Grimes, pocketing the money.
“I can run my own business, Grimes.”
“Mebby you can, Cleve.”
“No mebby about it.”
Tolman nodded shortly and rode on.
“That’s the man who inherited Buck Dennig’s half of the TD,” said
Grimes, as they rode on toward town.
Hashknife looked curiously at Grimes, but did not ask him just why he
said that. It sounded as if Tolman might have had something to do with
Buck’s demise.
“Wasn’t anybody hurt in the stage robbery, was there?” asked Hashknife.
Grimes laughed shortly.
“No shots fired. Windy March was scared half to death, I reckon. Got
something to talk about for the rest of his life, though.”
* * * * *
They rode to Pineville, where Hashknife and Sleepy stabled their horses
and secured a room at the Pineville Hotel. The sheriff had seen them
ride in, and he was just a little curious about who they were; so he
appeared at the hotel, where Grimes had also secured a room, and Grimes
was accommodating enough to introduce them.
“I saw you come in,” said the sheriff. “Prospectin’?”
“No-o-o,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “You see, we ain’t got no
shovel.”
“I noticed you didn’t.”
“We rode in over the divide from Piney Lake,” said Hashknife. “Follered
down Lobo Creek and hit the TD.”
“Aimin’ for Pineville, eh?”
“Well, not exactly; just aimin’ to hit this valley.”
“Never been here before?”
“Never have, Sheriff. Nice little town you’ve got here.”
“’Sall right, Hartley. Goin’ to be here awhile?”
“Couple days, prob’ly. We’re just lookin’ around.”
“Fine. Make my office your headquarters while you’re in town, will you?”
“Thanks.”
The sheriff went away, and they headed for a restaurant.
“It strikes me that your sheriff is full of questions,” grinned
Hashknife.
“Oh, shore,” laughed Grimes. “Pat’s a question box. But he’s all right.
You’ll like him fine. He’s got a big Swede deputy, and they quarrel all
the time. Both good men, but they don’t think very fast.”
“Pat is kinda touchy about the killin’ of Dennig and this stage robbery.
He don’t know which way to turn, so he stands still. Mebby that’s the
best thing to do, after all.”
They ate their meal and wandered around the town. The stage came in, and
with the driver was an angular person, with a black mustache and a large
nose. Hashknife, Sleepy and Grimes walked past the stage, while Windy
was taking off the mail, and spoke to the black mustached passenger.
“Hello, Alex. How’s everythin’ in Wallgate?”
“All right, Eddie. How’s everythin’ at the ranch?”
“Same as ever. I quit today.”
“The hell you did! What’s the matter?”
“Too much foreman.”
The man laughed, as he climbed down from the stage.
“I don’t blame you,” he said seriously.
“How’s your brother, Alex?”
“Gettin’ along fine, Eddie—thanks.”
They strolled along and Grimes told them that this was Alex McLean, one
of the TD cowboys, whose brother had been very sick at Wallgate, twenty
miles south of Garnet; and McLean had been down to see him.
“Alex is a good man,” declared Grimes. “About the first time Shorty
tries to ride him, he’ll bust Shorty wide open.”
McLean watched the three men walk down the street, and turned to the
post office, where he met the sheriff.
“Hello, Alex,” grinned the sheriff. “How’s your brother?”
“Gettin’ along fine, Pat. Wasn’t as bad as they thought he was. Kinda
hard to kill a McLean. Do you know who them two strange cowboys are with
Eddie Grimes?”
“Oh, I met ’em awhile ago, Alex. Hartley and Stevens. They came in from
Piney Lake. Came over the divide and follered Lobo Creek to the TD.”
“Yea-a-ah?” Alex lifted his black brows slightly, shut one eye and
appeared to be thinking deeply.
“Piney Lake, eh? They told you that, Pat?”
“Sure.”
“Hm-m-m-m. Piney Lake, eh? By golly, they shore cut one big circle. I
seen ’em in Wallgate three days ago.”
“In Wallgate, three days—you shore about that, Alex?”
“They ain’t a pair to mistake very easy, Pat.”
“Three days ago, eh? And they rode in from Piney Lake. If they left
Wallgate three days ago, they couldn’t have got to Piney Lake short of
two days, even if they went over Lobo Pass, and that’s the way they came
back.”
“That’s right, Pat.”
“Mm-m-m-m. Alex, do me a favor, will you? Don’t say nothin’ about this
to anybody? You heard about the stage bein’ stuck up for three thousand
dollars, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“Well, don’t say anythin’.”
“That’s an order with me, Pat. I’m headin’ for the ranch right away, and
if you want me, I’m there. _Sabe?_”
“Thank you, Alex.”
* * * * *
Alex was not very reliable. He had a number of drinks at the Stormy
River Saloon and took a quart of liquor with him when he went to the
livery stable after his horse. Several of the boys were at the TD, when
he arrived, and they all went to the bunkhouse with Alex, who was just
drunk enough to be talkative.
“I seen Eddie in town,” he told Shorty, who felt of his tender jaw and
took a deep drink. “Said he quit.”
“I fired him,” declared Shorty. “Wasn’t worth a hoot. He ain’t got no
nerve.”
“Throwed in with a couple strangers,” said Alex.
“Thasso?” Shorty did not mention the fact that he had seen the two
strangers.
“Did you bring that bottle specially for Shorty?” asked Bud Severn.
“Take it,” growled Shorty, passing it to Bud, who took a drink and
passed the bottle to Matt Sturgis.
“Who were the strangers?” asked Bud.
“I dunno,” grinned Alex. “Couple awful liars, Bud. Said they come over
the hill from Piney Lake. That’s a two day trip.”
“You’re drunk,” grunted Bud. “Or did they tell you they made it in a
day?”
“They didn’t tell me nothin’; but they told the sheriff they come over
the hump from Piney Lake.”
“Better cache that bottle,” advised Bud.
“Think I’m drunk, do you?” grinned Alex. “Well, listen t’ me, will you?
I seen them two jiggers in Wallgate three days ago. If they came here
from Piney Lake, they shore flew. My gee-og-ri-fee may not be the best
there is in the world, but—”
“They couldn’t do it,” declared Shorty.
“That’s what the sheriff thinks.”
“Ain’t none of his business, if a man wants to lie,” said Bud. “Gimme
back that bottle, Matt.”
“Mebby he’ll make it his business,” grinned Alex. “You must remember
that two men held up the stage two days ago, and it’s only twenty miles
from Wallgate to Garnet.”
“Well, that’s different,” grunted Bud, wiping off the neck of the bottle
on his sleeve.
“But why in hell would they come back here?” queried Alex. “That beats
me.”
“Mebby they thought there was more easy money in this valley,” laughed
Shorty. “Is the sheriff goin’ to jail ’em?”
“I dunno. He told me to keep it under my hat, so I ain’t told nobody
outside of my own gang.”
“You’re a lot like the feller who said he had confided his secret to
only one party, the Republican party,” laughed Bud.
“Well, I know it won’t go no further,” said Alex, trying to get the cork
in the empty bottle.
“You better lay down and sleep it off,” advised Shorty.
* * * * *
In the meantime the sheriff was undecided what to do. Hashknife and
Sleepy came down to his office and made themselves at home, talking
intelligently about his office and its duties; so much so, in fact, that
he was just a little suspicious that they were pumping him.
They did not mention any of the things that had been worrying him, and
finally they went away, promising to come again. He went to Heffner’s
office and laid the facts, as he had them from McLean, before the
prosecuting attorney, who sucked on the butt of a cheap cigar, his feet
on the desk top.
“No evidence there,” decided Heffner. “Man has a perfect right to lie,
Pat. At least that seems to be the general opinion in a cow country. Do
they look like suspicious characters?”
“No, they don’t, Mort. The tall one looks plumb through you, and the
other one laughs at you. But it strikes me that if they wanted to rob a
stage, all hell wouldn’t stop that stage from bein’ robbed. I saw the
brands on their horses and looked ’em up in the registry, but they ain’t
from this State. They’re goin’ to be here a few days, so they told me.”
“Well, just keep an eye on ’em, Pat. If they start gambling, watch their
money. That three thousand was mostly in twenty dollar gold
certificates.”
“I’ll watch out for that. Have you been doin’ any thinkin’ about Buck
Dennig’s money, Mort? Somebody around here has that money; and the man
who has it is the man who killed poor old Buck. But I can’t think of
anythin’ to do.”
Heffner shook his head slowly.
“Not an idea, Pat. I wish we had a detective. I don’t mean one like
Sears.”
“He wouldn’t stand a chance—no more than Sears did.”
“Not if he was known. Sears was a fool to tell who he was.”
“What else could he do? He was a stranger here.”
“That’s true, Pat. I suppose we’ll have to go along in our dumb way,
leaving it unsolved.”
But Pat didn’t agree with him. Heffner was too much inclined to let
things slip along. The sheriff had very little detective ability,
usually thinking in a single track way, but he had known and admired
Buck Dennig for a long time, and he wanted to convict the man who had
murdered him. And he had also done considerable speculating over those
tracks he had found beside the road, where the stage had been robbed.
For some reason he thought that Marion Evans and Mrs. Cooper knew
something.
Hashknife and Sleepy wandered around and finally entered Hootie Cooper’s
store, where they purchased some tobacco. Hashknife eyed Hootie closely.
He had noted the name on the store sign, and now he said:
“You don’t happen to be any relation to Jim Cooper, who runs a store in
Mizpah, Arizona, do you?”
Hootie’s eyes opened wide and his face broke into a wide smile.
“Jim Cooper of Mizpah is my brother. You know him?”
“Bought tobacco from him all last winter,” laughed Hashknife. “My name’s
Hartley, Mr. Cooper.”
They shook hands warmly, and Sleepy was introduced.
“I thought you two looked alike,” said Hashknife.
“Well, I’ll be darned!” exploded Hootie. “And you know old Jim, eh?
Older ’n me. Ain’t seen him for five year. How was he?”
“Fine, the last time we seen him.”
“Well, gosh! Say! I’m shore glad to meetcha. Didja just arrive here?”
“Today.”
“Stayin’ at the hotel?”
“Goin’ to,” smiled Hashknife.
“Good. You’re both comin’ over to my house and have supper with us
tonight. I’ll tell Ma right away. No, you can’t lie out of it. We’ve got
to talk. I shut up this shebang at six o’clock, and you meet me here.
Nobody there, except Ma and the schoolma’am. Mighty nice girl, too.
She’s folks.”
“Well, that’s shore nice of you,” smiled Hashknife.
“Shucks! Ma’ll be glad to see you. She likes Jim. She was jist sayin’
the other day that I ought to write a letter to Jim, but he’s owed me
one for four year. We ain’t much on letter writin’. You meet me here at
six, or I’ll shore comb this town for you.”
They promised to meet him at that time, and went to the hotel to shave
and clean up a little.
“Gotta look smooth to greet the schoolma’am,” laughed Sleepy.
“Yeah, and you’ll prob’ly fall in love with her,” grinned Hashknife,
emptying his war bag in search of a clean shirt. “You mostly always do,
Sleepy.”
“Not with schoolma’ams, cowboy. There’s where I draw the line.”
Sleepy began industriously stropping at his razor, whistling
unmusically.
“How do you like the looks of this place, Sleepy?” asked Hashknife.
“Cow town and no trimmin’s. Some nice folks. Say! I was just wonderin’
about this Jim Cooper of Mizpah. I don’t remember him, Hashknife.”
“You remember Mizpah, don’tcha?”
“Well, we was there that one day, Hashknife.”
“Sure. Remember the windstorm that day?”
“Yea-a-ah. Say, I forgot that. Wasn’t it a dinger? That was the time the
sign blowed off the store and almost landed on us, wasn’t it?”
“That’s the time.”
“But I don’t remember no Jim Cooper.”
“His name was on that sign.”
Sleepy chuckled softly and began lathering his face.
“You shore got a memory, Hashknife,” he said.
“Well,” grinned Hashknife, “I seen them two words, painted in big
letters, Jim Cooper, sailin’ right straight for my head, so I ought to
remember him. Mebby we didn’t meet Jim Cooper, but we shore met a
signboard by that name.”
“And now, you’ve got to talk all evenin’ about Jim Cooper.”
“Not necessarily. We can change the subject. You can get in a corner and
talk to the teacher.”
“Any time I do! I may be a lady’s man, but I’m no teacher’s pet. You can
have her.”
“Is that a promise?” laughed Hashknife.
“Yeah, and a gift, cowboy.”
* * * * *
They met Hootie at the store at six o’clock and went home with him. He
had told Mrs. Cooper about them, and she welcomed them pleasantly.
“Small world, ain’t it?” she laughed.
“Funny how you just happened to mention Jim to Hootie. Lotsa Coopers,
you know.”
“Yeah, I know it,” smiled Hashknife, “but Jim Cooper had the biggest
sign I ever seen. Letters two feet high.”
“He would have,” chuckled Hootie. “Prob’ly spent a lot of time across
the street, lookin’ at that sign.”
“Gents, I want you to meet Miss Evans,” said Mrs. Cooper. “Miss Evans is
the schoolteacher. Mr. Hartley and Mr. Stevens.”
“Oh, I am pleased to meet both of you,” said Marion.
“So’m I,” said Sleepy foolishly.
Hashknife caught his eye and said softly—
“And a gift, Sleepy; remember.”
Marion excused herself to help Mrs. Cooper, and Sleepy whistled softly.
“Mamma mine, what a looker!”
“Ain’t she nice?” said Hootie softly. “Jist as nice as she looks, too.”
“How do you keep the cowboys away?” asked Hashknife.
“They’re scared of her. She’s too pretty, Hartley.”
“Mm-m-m-m. That’s a new way of gettin’ rid of ’em.”
“Oh, they’re shyin’ around. Do you know—” Hootie dropped his voice and
moved in closer—“wimmin are queer? She could prob’ly pick any man in
this valley, and I’ll be darned if I don’t think she’s stuck on Tex
Blanco.”
“Not knowin’ Tex Blanco, I don’t _sabe_ your remark,” smiled Hashknife.
“Oh, that’s right.” Hootie rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “I dunno how I
come to mention it to you, anyway, bein’ as you’re a stranger. Anyway,
this Tex Blanco is supposed to be a pretty bad _hombre_. Lotsa folks
think he killed Dennig. I don’t know a thing about it, but he ain’t
thought much of around here. Owns the B Arrow ranch, you know.”
“Beauty and the beast, eh?” smiled Hashknife.
“Well, I dunno about that. But ain’t it funny that she would pick
_him_?”
“It probably isn’t a bit funny to her.”
“No, that’s right.”
Mrs. Cooper called them in to eat supper. She seated Sleepy beside
Marion. It ruined Sleepy’s meal. The talk was general, but Sleepy said
nothing. Hootie talked with Hashknife about Jim Cooper, and Hashknife
bravely kept up his end of the conversation, even if he didn’t know Jim.
Ma Cooper believed in the stuffing process, and both cowboys did their
best to please her.
Marion helped Ma Cooper clear away the dishes, leaving the three men at
the table, enjoying a smoke. Sleepy’s face was still damp with
perspiration and he felt like a man who had just been dragged from a
watery grave. The women had gone into the living room, while the three
men were in a deep discussion. They heard a man’s voice.
The discussion stopped quickly. Hootie listened for a moment.
“The sheriff,” he said softly, but made no effort to get up from the
table.
The sheriff was saying:
“I thought I’d just drop in for a minute, Mrs. Cooper. There’s somethin’
that’s been botherin’ me. It’s about that stage robbery the other day.
You was the only folks over the road jist after the robbery, you know.
“Well, me and Oscar went right out there. You remember we met you at the
ford. Well, we found where the stage had been robbed, and we found where
you had swung off the road a little in your buckboard. And one of you, I
reckon it was Miss Evans, got out of the buckboard, walked about ten
feet off to one side and then came back to the buckboard. Anyway, I
reckon it was Miss Evans, because she’s the only woman in this country
that wears them sharp pointed, high heels. Now, Miss Evans, jist what
did you find out there?”
The three men strained their ears for her answer.
“I—I don’t know what you mean,” she faltered.
“Certainly not!” snapped Ma Cooper. “Of all things! You got a lot of
nerve, Pat Lynch.”
“I just wanted an answer,” said the sheriff mildly.
“Well, you’ve got it, ain’t you?”
“Nope.”
Marion started to say something, but Ma Cooper stopped her.
“You let me talk to him.”
“Well, you tell it, Mrs. Cooper,” said the sheriff.
“There’s nothin’ to tell. You’re crazy.”
“Mebby. But the tracks are there. Mebby you forgot about tracks.”
“Mebby,” said Mrs. Cooper shortly.
“All I’m tryin’ to do is to find out what Miss Evans picked up. The
tracks show—”
“Since when did you start bein’ a trailer?” asked Mrs. Cooper. “Readin’
tracks—the idea!”
“Oh, I could read ’em plain enough.”
Hootie got to his feet, and the two cowboys followed him through the
doorway. The sheriff was standing beside the door, and he reddened
slightly at sight of the three men.
“You ain’t tryin’ to pin somethin’ on the wimmin, are you, Pat?” grinned
Hootie.
The sheriff shifted his feet nervously.
“I just came to ask a question, Hootie.”
“I heard you say that before, Pat. Well, you got your answer, didn’t
you?”
“I got a kind of an answer.”
“That’s all anybody ever gets from a woman.”
The sheriff sighed.
“I reckon so,” he said.
He twisted his hat in his hands for a moment, before looking at Ma
Cooper.
“I wish you’d think it over, Mrs. Cooper,” he said. “You know there’s a
law against destroyin’ evidence. Compoundin’ a felony, they call it.
Think it over, will you? Good night.”
He opened the door and stepped outside, closing the door behind him.
Hashknife was watching Marion closely, and he knew she was frightened.
She looked appealingly at Mrs. Cooper, caught Hashknife’s steady gaze
and turned her head away.
* * * * *
“What’s it all about, Ma?” asked Hootie.
“You heard what he said, didn’t you? That’s all I know. C’mon, Marion.
Gee, he sure settled my supper. I thought we was goin’ to be arrested.”
Marion followed her into the kitchen, and they shut the door between
that and the dining room. Hootie filled his pipe thoughtfully, frowning
to himself. Finally he grinned at Hashknife and shook his head.
“Wimmin are funny, Hartley.”
“I suppose they are—most of ’em.”
“That sheriff had his nerve—accusin’ women,” declared Sleepy warmly.
“Well, he won’t get anythin’ out of Ma,” chuckled Hootie. “That woman
can keep a secret.”
“Do you think she’s got one to keep?” smiled Hashknife.
“If she ain’t, I don’t know her. Any time Ma gets mad and talks real
fast, she’s coverin’ up somethin’. But it ain’t nothin’ bad. Nossir.
Compoundin’ a felony! Mebby he thinks Ma and Marion held up the stage.
Tonight I’m goin’ to ask Ma for my split of the three thousand, or I’ll
squeal on both of ’em.”
Hootie laughed and dropped his pipe on the carpet.
“Set down, boys. I dunno what we’re all standin’ up here for, when
there’s plenty chairs. I’ll bet Pat Lynch forgot that I told him you was
goin’ to eat supper with us. I told him you was a old friend of my
brother Jim, down in Mizpah, Arizona. He don’t know Jim.”
“Pretty good sheriff, ain’t he?”
“Fills the office. Never caught nobody that I ever heard about, but we
ain’t had much crime. Yeah, I reckon Pat is as good as the average.”
Ma Cooper and Marion stayed in the kitchen long enough to regain their
composure before coming back to the living room, but it was easy to see
that Marion was disturbed.
“Did you ever hear a more ridiculous thing?” asked Ma Cooper. “The nerve
of Pat Lynch! Why he acted as though we held up the old stage.”
She turned to Hashknife.
“I don’t know what you boys will think of us,” she said.
“I think you’re mighty good cooks,” smiled Hashknife. “As far as the
sheriff is concerned, let’s forget him.”
“Aw, he wouldn’t know a woman’s track from a buggy track,” said Sleepy.
“Hoppin’ on a woman thataway! And even if you did make tracks in his old
sand, and if you did pick up somethin’, and if you did—did—”
“Now, you’re all tied up in a string,” laughed Hashknife. “He means
well, folks.”
“Well, you know what I mean,” said Sleepy lamely.
They stayed about an hour after supper, and went back to their hotel.
“Ain’t she a dinger?” asked Sleepy, sprawling on the bed. “Mamma mine,
ain’t she a peach, Hashknife?”
Hashknife slumped down in a chair, his shoulders even with his ears, as
he puffed on a cigaret, his eyes half closed.
“What do you suppose she picked up, Hashknife?”
But Hashknife did not reply to Sleepy’s question. And Sleepy would have
been greatly surprised if he had, because Hashknife was not strong for
suppositions.
“Jist my luck,” mused Sleepy, staring at the ceiling. “Here I am, a
honest, industrious, clean-minded cowboy, with a big heart and a soul
filled with lovin’ kindness, comin’ in jist too late. Mopped out of a
chance of matrimony by a danged outlaw. Virtue is its own reward, I
suppose.”
“Then you think she picked this Tex Blanco, because it was sort of a
last resort, do you?” asked Hashknife.
“I never thought about that. Are you goin’ to bed?”
“I sure am, Sleepy. I can hear them blankets callin’ to me right now.”
“Yeah, and you hear somethin’ else callin’ to you.”
Hashknife smiled softly, as he drew off his high-heeled boots.
“We’re a queer pair of birdies, Sleepy,” he said. “Always goin’ some
place and never gettin’ there.”
“‘And we pray to the god of the trails untrod,’” quoted Sleepy.
“That’s it, cowboy, the trails untrod, the other side of the hill. I’m
gettin’ gray hairs and I like to set down and talk about the old bunch.
That’s a sign of age, they tell me.”
“Shore is,” said Sleepy, tugging at a boot. “Old age! that’s somethin’ I
hate to look forward to. We can’t afford to grow old, Hashknife. You
must have been forty your last birthday.”
“Forty-one. And you’ll be forty pretty soon. The span of a man’s life is
three score years and ten, they say.”
“A peaceable life,” grunted Sleepy. “Not our kind.”
“A peaceable life. Must be great to just drift along from one day to the
next, puttin’ up money for old age; no dangers, nobody shootin’ at
you—just peace every day.”
“Suppose we try it some day.”
“Some day, sure. Get in; I’ll blow out the lamp.”
They had been together a long time, these two. Drifting up and down the
open lands of the West, from the Alberta ranges to the Mexican border,
always on the move, never content to stay long in any place.
Hashknife was originally from the Milk River country in Montana, while
Sleepy was from Idaho. Fate drew David Stevens to the Hashknife ranch,
where he met Henry Hartley, who was nicknamed after that brand, and
together they started out to see what was on the other side of the hill.
Because of the fact that he seemed always awake, Dave was nicknamed
Sleepy. They were intensely human, those two, and their sense of humor
had carried them over many hard bumps. They had gambled with fate and
had won so many times that they were confirmed fatalists.
Hashknife was the leader. Born with a keen mind, he had developed it
through observation, and studying human nature, especially human
failings, to a point where the mere mention of a mystery would cause him
to abandon any other plans he might have to solve it.
But Hashknife was not a manhunter. He had no interest in reward notices,
no extreme dislike for a criminal. To him crime was just one of the
things that happen in the world, according to the pendulum of fate.
Together they would solve a mystery—and ride on. They asked no reward.
Sometimes they would work for a cattle outfit for awhile, gathering a
few dollars before riding on. Their partnership had not been
remunerative. In fact, they were poorer in pocket than they were the day
they rode away together. But they did not care. They realized that they
were pawns of fate, moving hither and thither around the board, doing
their little bit to help to make the world better.
“We’ve never been in a place where they wouldn’t welcome us back,
Sleepy,” said Hashknife. “Mebby, when we’re old, we’ll swing back, goin’
over the hill from the other direction.”
* * * * *
The following day was a trial for Marion. It was one of those days when
every one in the school seemed to be on edge. Two of the larger boys
started a fight in the yard, and she sent them both home with notes to
their parents. Marion did not feel physically able to whip them, as they
were nearly as big as she.
And to cap the climax, at noon came Mrs. Beebee and Mrs. Hall, wives of
the trustees. Mrs. Hall was as large as Mrs. Cooper—a great, grim-faced
woman, dressed in black, with a small hat, which she had trimmed
herself. The hat was a weird and wonderful creation of artificial wheat,
red cherries and a single ostrich plume, the whole balanced precariously
on the back of her head.
Mrs. Beebee was a thin, scrawny little woman, dressed in rusty black,
with a parrotlike voice and a hooked nose. They nodded grimly to Marion
and sat down at a vacant seat at the rear of the room.
“Visitin’,” said Mrs. Beebee severely.
“Oh, I am glad you came,” said Marion, trying to be pleasant.
“Mm-m-m-m,” said Mrs. Hall dryly and dubiously.
And there they sat all the afternoon, saying nothing, listening closely
to everything. The children seemed to sense the strain, too, and went
bad accordingly. Marion had always had trouble with Joe and Mary Beebee,
but today they seemed doubly possessed of demons.
Everything went wrong. Even Ella Hall, the school tattletale, who was
usually letter perfect, failed utterly, and tried to excuse herself by
openly telling the teacher she had given her too much work.
Marion was too miserable to reprimand her, so Ella went back to her
seat, her tongue in her cheek, while the black-clad judges in the rear
seat looked at each other understandingly. After three hours of this,
Marion was ready to scream.
She dismissed school at the regular time, expecting that her visitors
would stay long enough at least to express an opinion; but they trailed
out with the children. She watched them from the window, going stiffly
down the street, bobbing their heads, as they talked it over, while
Ella, Joe and Mary stayed close to them, apparently getting an earful of
what was being said.
Marion sighed and looked down at little Jimmy Hastings, who was waiting
for his father. Jimmy’s face seemed flushed and he rested his chin on
his folded arms.
“Don’t you feel well, Jimmy?” she asked.
“Not very, ma’am. My head kinda aches. And I’m mad, too.”
He sat up in his seat, fumbling with his books.
“You must never get mad, Jimmy,” she said.
“’At’s all right. I heard ’em talkin’ at recess. Mary Beebee said she’d
bet that it won’t be long before we have a new teacher. She said her ma
and Mrs. Hall came up here to see if you was doin’ your work right.”
Marion’s heart sank just a little. She realized that these two women
would be able to influence their husbands enough to cause them to make a
change. She had no contract with the Pineville school board. And if they
did, she would not have enough money even to take her back to Cheyenne.
“And Ella Hall said her mother wasn’t satisfied with what you’d done to
Ella,” said Jimmy slowly. “Gee, I don’t want you to go away.”
“Well, I don’t want to go away, Jimmy; but I think it will all turn out
right.”
“Mebby. Uncle Tex thinks you’re a dinger. Sometimes he talks with me
about you. He says I’m learnin’ awful fast. You ain’t seen him for quite
awhile, have you? He ain’t been to town. Somebody—” Jimmy’s eyes grew
wide and round—“hit him on the head, don’tcha know it?”
“Somebody hit him on the head, Jimmy?”
“Yes’m. Had a big lump on the side of his head. He never told nobody how
he got it. I heard Frank Judd and Tommy Corbett talkin’ about it. It was
the day the stage was held up. I asked him what happened, but he
wouldn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t know anything about it,” said Marion.
“And he ain’t got that pretty gun no more,” said Jimmy. “Gee, ’at was a
pretty gun. And Tex liked it an awful lot,” said Jimmy; and after a few
moments of reflection he said, “He likes pretty things.”
“Is your Uncle Tex a good singer, Jimmy?”
“Y’betcha, when he feels like it. He used to sing to me, when he was
bringin’ me to school. Most always it was somethin’ about Mother
Mac—somethin’.”
“Mother Machree, Jimmy?”
“That’s her. He said it was the Irish croppin’ out. What did he mean by
that, Miss Evans?”
“Isn’t he part Irish, Jimmy?”
“I dunno.” Jimmy yawned widely.
“Here comes your father,” said Marion, glancing through the window.
Jimmy met him at the doorway, and they went away together on the horse.
Marion closed the schoolhouse and went home. She found Ma Cooper on the
porch, dressed in a voluminous wrapper, reading a cook book. Marion sat
down on the steps and took off her hat.
“You had company today, didn’t you?” asked Ma.
Marion sighed deeply and placed her hat on the steps.
“Yes,” she said sadly, “Mrs. Beebee and Mrs. Hall.”
“Came to pick you to pieces, eh?”
“Oh, I suppose. And there were plenty of opportunities. The children
were possessed today, Ma.”
“They would be, with those two there. I took one look at the two old
buzzards and said to myself that you was in for a pleasant afternoon,
unless I missed my guess. Some day I’m goin’ to tell ’em both what I
think of ’em. Poor old Beebee. He’ll have about as much chance to be a
trustee as I will. Same with old Sam Hall. It’ll be Mrs. Beebee and Mrs.
Hall against old Henry Goff, and he won’t count. I’m glad Hootie’s off
the board. Old Henry ought to git off, too; he ain’t got no kids.”
“If Mrs. Beebee and Mrs. Hall decided to—to make a change in teachers,
could they let me go?” asked Marion.
“Well, I wouldn’t think of such a thing, Marion. It’s been a hard job to
get any teacher in Pineville. Don’t you worry about it for a minute.”
“I don’t know. There is a lot of talk among the pupils, instigated of
course, by Mary and Joe Beebee and Ella Hall. Where there is so much
smoke, there must be a little fire. And I can’t afford to lose this
position, Ma Cooper.”
“Oh, you won’t lose it. Quit worryin’. Change your clothes and come back
here where it’s cool.”
* * * * *
That evening Hashknife saw Tex Blanco for the first time. Tex had ridden
in with Frank Judd and Tommy Corbett, who had met Eddie Grimes and
Sleepy, while Hashknife had been visiting with the sheriff.
Tex was in a restaurant eating his supper when Hashknife and the sheriff
came in. He spoke pleasantly to the sheriff, gave Hashknife a sharp
glance and continued eating. Hashknife was rather impressed with Tex’s
appearance. There was nothing of the ignorant gunman type about Tex.
They sat down at the rear of the room and ordered their supper.
Hashknife had a feeling that the sheriff had been trying to find out
more about him, and he wondered just why the sheriff was curious about
him. He had asked Hashknife about the places he and Sleepy had worked,
and his eyes expressed disbelief, when Hashknife began enumerating more
brands than the average cowboy ever dreamed of seeing.
“You must have kept movin’ pretty reg’lar,” said the sheriff dryly.
“Did.”
“What was the idea of movin’ so often, Hartley?”
“The hill that was just ahead.”
“The hill that was—I don’t get what you mean.”
“We wanted to see the other side.”
“Oh, yeah. Kinda tramps, eh?”
“Mebby. I don’t just like that word.”
“Mebby not. How long are you goin’ to stay here?”
“_Quien sabe?_ Mebby pretty soon we’ll see a hill ahead.”
Tex left the restaurant and, in a few minutes, Shorty Gallup, Bud Severn
and Alex McLean came in. They had been drinking and were in a boisterous
mood.
“Hyah, Sheriff!” yelled Shorty.
When he opened his mouth one noticed two teeth missing in front.
“Hello, Shorty,” said the sheriff.
Shorty looked at Hashknife closely, said something to Alex McLean, and
they all sat down at a table near the front of the room.
The sheriff was a little nervous and hurried through his supper. He
didn’t like the idea of the TD and the B Arrow gangs meeting in
Pineville. After they left the restaurant the sheriff confided this to
Hashknife.
“Oscar is in Garnet,” he told Hashknife. “Ought to be back pretty soon.
He knows how to handle ’em better than I do. Your pardner is with the B
Arrow gang and Eddie Grimes, and if I was you I’d get him away from ’em.
Shorty Gallup got whipped by Frank Judd, and Eddie got fired by Shorty,
so there might be some fireworks, if they get a few more drinks.”
“Sleepy can take care of himself,” smiled Hashknife.
“I s’pose he can.”
The sheriff went back to his office, and Hashknife sauntered over to
Cooper’s store, where he stood on the sidewalk for awhile. He saw Oscar
Johnson ride in and go to the office. It was dark. After smoking a
cigaret, Hashknife strolled down the street and went up to his room,
where he sat down and tried to get interested in an old magazine, but
without any success.
Then he decided to go down and talk with Ma Cooper and Marion. He didn’t
want to mix with the men in the Stormy River Saloon, because he didn’t
want to have any trouble with Shorty, who very likely had not forgotten
what had taken place at the TD corral.
But he did not find any one at home at the Cooper house; so he sprawled
in a deep porch chair to wait for them to return. He decided that they
had gone up to the store and would return in a short time.
He smoked a cigaret and went to sleep, stretched out in the big chair.
Suddenly he awoke, staring at the ceiling of the porch, wondering where
he was. There were voices close to him—the voices of a man and a woman.
He could not see them, because they were on the other side of the porch
railing, but he could hear them plainly. It was Marion, talking to Tex
Blanco.
Hashknife did not want to listen, but after a few words he decided to
stay where he was. Marion was saying—
“You shouldn’t have walked down here with me.”
“I suppose not, Marion. Yes, I’m goin’ to call you Marion. I call you
that to myself all the time. I heard a preacher say it is just as bad to
think profanity as it is to speak it; so if I think Marion I’ll say
Marion.”
“That part is all right,” she said slowly.
“That’s fine. Gee, it’s been a tough week for me—havin’ to give up
takin’ Jimmy to school.”
“It was the best thing to do, Mr. Blanco.”
“Won’t you call me Tex? My right name is Bryan. They even mixed my
names—Irish and Spanish. Nobody ever calls me Bryan, not even my mother,
and she named me. I wish you could meet her. We talk about you a lot.”
“I—I don’t know why you should, Tex.”
“Why? Lord love you, Marion, why shouldn’t we? Don’t go in the house,
please. Stay here and talk to me.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” faltered Marion. “You know how they feel about you,
Tex. If any one knew I was here with you, I’d lose my school. I may lose
it anyway. It isn’t I; it’s just the way things are, don’t you see?”
“What does the school amount to, if you say it isn’t you? Marion, you’ve
got to listen to me. I’ve got to tell you right now. The rest of the
world can go hang. I—”
“Don’t, Tex! Oh, can’t you see it is no use?”
“No, I can’t,” said Tex slowly. “I can’t see, unless you believe what
folks have told you, Marion. They have been my judges for a long time.
They must be without sin, because they throw rocks all the time.
“I’m no saint. Oh, I know what they say about me. They have probably
told you I killed Buck Dennig, because he accused me of cheating; and
they can’t arrest me, because there’s no evidence. They’ve put a lot of
their crimes on me. And it never made much difference, until you came
along.
“I ought to understand how you feel, Marion. But I guess I’m kinda dumb.
I couldn’t expect you to marry a man of my reputation, unless you knew
it wasn’t true. I can’t prove my innocence. They can’t prove me guilty,
and I can’t prove my innocence.”
“Tex,” said Marion softly, “would you swear to me that you are innocent
of any crime?”
“Of any crime they accuse me—yes, Marion.”
“Even of holding up that stage the other day?”
Marion’s voice was pitched so low that Hashknife had to strain his ears
to hear her.
Tex laughed softly.
“Bless your heart, of course, I swear it!”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Tex, so sorry I don’t know what to say.”
“Sorry? Because I denied doin’ it, Marion?”
“Because that day—oh, don’t you understand? Ma Cooper and I saw that
holdup. We were on the mesa. And after it was all over, I—I found your
revolver, the one with the pearl handle.”
“You found it?” Tex’s voice was hoarse.
“It’s in my trunk, Tex. Ma Cooper knows. We’ll never tell anybody, Tex.
Goodby.”
* * * * *
She came slowly up the steps and went into the house, passing within six
feet of Hashknife, who hunched lower in the big chair, thankful he was
overlooked. He heard Tex walking slowly away, his spurs rasping on the
sidewalk. Hashknife got to his feet and stepped off the porch. He
decided not to wait for Mrs. Cooper to come back, but he met her just
outside the gate.
“This is Hartley, Mrs. Cooper,” he said. “Dropped in to see you, didn’t
find anybody at home and went to sleep on the porch.”
Mrs. Cooper laughed shortly.
“Wasn’t Miss Evans at home?”
“She came a few minutes ago.”
“I see. Hootie said for me to tell you to run in and see him, if I seen
you.”
“All right. Good night, Mrs. Cooper.”
Hashknife walked up to the store, where he found Hootie waiting on some
customers. As soon as Hootie was at liberty, he motioned for Hashknife
to meet him at the rear of the store.
“I just wanted to let you know that the sheriff sent a telegram
yesterday to my brother in Mizpah, Arizona, askin’ him what he knew
about you, Hartley.”
“Yea-a-ah?” drawled Hashknife, not knowing what else to say.
“And Oscar, his deputy, brought back a wire from Jim this evenin’. It
said—
“Never knew anybody by the name of Hashknife Hartley in my
life.”
“Well,” said Hashknife, after a short pause, “that’s kinda queer,
don’tcha think, Mr. Cooper?”
“I thought it was. That’s why I told you.”
He moved away to wait on another customer, and Hashknife sauntered
outside.
“Next time I start lyin’, I’ll pick a town that ain’t on no map,” he
told himself, grinning in spite of the fact that he had been caught in
the lie. “But just why would the sheriff go to all that trouble and
expense. Mebby I better go down and see him.”
Hashknife went to the office, where he found Oscar Johnson sprawled in a
chair. The tall, sad-faced deputy looked at Hashknife with a funereal
expression, a cigaret hanging loosely from the corner of his mouth.
“Got a letter for you, Hartley,” he said, waving one limp hand toward
the sheriff’s desk. “’S over there.”
Hashknife picked up the letter and glanced at the postmark. It had been
posted in Garnet and sent to him in care of the sheriff’s office. He
tore one end off of the envelope and drew out the enclosure. It read:
We will give you eight hours to leave this valley.
—THE BUNCH.
It was identical with the letter Sears, the detective, had received.
Hashknife glanced sharply at Oscar, who was looking at him quizzically.
The sheriff came in, stopped short and looked at Hashknife, who smiled
and held out the warning for his inspection.
The sheriff scowled at the message for a moment and went to his desk,
where he secured the note that had been sent to Sears and compared the
writing. It was identical.
“Just alike, eh?” asked Hashknife.
“Exactly.”
“But what does it mean? Who is The Bunch?”
“That’s what Sears wondered.”
“Why do they want me out of the valley?”
The sheriff walked over and closed the door, as if he did not want
anybody else to hear what he was going to say. He came back to his desk
and faced Hashknife.
“I dunno why they want you out, Hartley,” he said. “You two fellers have
had me kinda guessin’, don’tcha know it? I’m goin’ to put my cards on
the table. You told folks that you came over the divide from Piney Lake,
didn’t you?
“Well, you didn’t, Hartley. Alex McLean saw you leave Wallgate, and you
couldn’t have made the trip to Piney Lake and back here in that length
of time. You told Hootie Cooper that you knowed Jim Cooper in Mizpah,
Arizona. Just to find out a few things, I wired Jim Cooper. And—” he
reached in his pocket and drew out a telegram—“this is his reply.”
“I’ve heard it,” said Hashknife calmly. “Hootie told me about it.”
“Jim Cooper never met you in his life.”
“Not to my knowledge, Sheriff.”
“Then why didja—”
“Lie?” Hashknife smiled. “Oh I dunno. Force of habit, I suppose. Any
other charges?”
“No-o-o, I don’t reckon so.”
“All right, I’m guilty on both counts. What’s the penalty for lyin’ in
this county?”
The sheriff put the telegram in his pocket. For all his trouble he was
no better off than before.
“I reckon there ain’t no penalty,” he said slowly. “But it kinda makes a
feller lose faith in you.”
“Oh, yea-a-ah,” drawled Hashknife. “As a matter of fact, you didn’t have
no faith in me to start with, Sheriff. If you had, you’d have swallered
my lies instead of provin’ me a liar. Now that you’ve proved it, what
are you goin’ to do about it?”
The sheriff rubbed his nose thoughtfully.
“Nothin’, I guess.”
He sat down in his desk chair and filled an old pipe. Oscar grinned
softly and winked at Hashknife.
“You don’t need to wink at anybody,” said the sheriff. “It was your
idea—this investigation, Oscar.”
“Well, I sink along with you, don’t I? I’m not howlin’ about it. As a
detective, I’m a good night herder. I reckon Hartley ain’t the first
puncher that ever told a lie, and I ain’t lost no faith in him. He
didn’t hedge none, did he? Admitted that we had the goods on him, Pat.
He could have sworn that he had a different name, when he knowed Jim
Cooper, and he could have sworn that Alex McLean was a liar, which he is
most of the time.”
“I thought of both,” said Hashknife, “but what’s the use? I never knew
Jim Cooper. The sign on his store came blowing down one afternoon and
almost crowned me. And we did not come from Piney Lake.”
“Why didja say you came from Piney Lake?” asked the sheriff.
“Thought it might be a good place to be from.”
“I reckon that’s a good answer, Hartley, if that’s your name.”
“You’d have a hell of a time provin’ it isn’t.”
* * * * *
Hashknife walked over to the door, opened it and stood there, looking up
the street. Over at the Stormy River Saloon hitchrack a cowboy was
singing at the top of his voice. Came the rasp of shod hoofs against the
hard street, a shrill yell, a fusillade of revolver shots, sparking
upward.
The sheriff came quickly to the doorway.
“Happy punchers goin’ home,” laughed Hashknife.
“Damn fools!” snorted the sheriff. “Liable to hurt somebody, shootin’
wild thataway.”
Someone was coming down the sidewalk toward the office. It was Sleepy,
grinning widely.
“Well, they all got away without hurtin’ anybody,” he said. “Them last
two was Shorty Gallup and Matt Sturgis, boiled drunk.”
Sleepy leaned against the wall and rolled a cigaret.
“Thought for awhile there was goin’ to be trouble. The TD gang wanted to
act bad. Gallup sent word to Judd, of the B Arrow, that he was goin’ to
get him. Severn and McLean tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t
listen. McLean and Severn went home. Judd was all set to swap lead with
Shorty, but Grimes and Corbett talked him out of the notion. I helped a
little, I suppose. Anyway, the B Arrow gang pulled out, and when Shorty
heard about it he sang a song, piled on his bronc and shot a few holes
in the sky.”
“I’ll bet he was glad Judd pulled out,” said Oscar. “Pat wanted me to go
over and ride herd on ’em, but I told him I wouldn’t do it. Let ’em
fight it out. If they’ve got it in their system, let ’em fight.”
“You was scared to go over,” growled Pat.
“You didn’t go, didja?” queried Oscar. “When I refused, why didn’t you
do it. Don’t talk to me about bein’ scared.”
“They didn’t start nothin’ with you, did they, Sleepy?” asked Hashknife.
“Nothin’ but talk. This McLean person came up to me in the Stormy River,
and he’s pretty well loaded, and he stuck his face into mine, and he
says, ‘I know somethin’ about you.’ I kicked his feet out from under
him, and he sets down on the bar rail like a ton of bricks. I reckon it
was quite a shock, because when he got to his feet again, he’s kinda
puckered up, and I asks him what he knows. But he didn’t say. He went
out of there kinda bent in the shape of a chair; but I guess he got
straightened out to ride a horse.”
Oscar laughed immoderately, but the sheriff was serious. He knew what
McLean meant.
“We’ve been exposed,” smiled Hashknife. “They all know we didn’t come
from Piney Lake, and they know I never met Jim Cooper.”
Sleepy’s mouth sagged for a moment, as he hooked his thumbs over the
waistband of his pants, staring at the sheriff and the deputy.
“Well,” he said softly, “what’s the next thing to do, Hashknife?”
“Go to bed, I suppose,” grinned Hashknife. “Good night, officers.”
They went up the street together and entered the hotel room, where
Hashknife told Sleepy all about their exposure as liars of the first
vintage and also showed him the warning note. Sleepy whistled through
his teeth and essayed a clumsy clog in the middle of the floor.
“Must please you, don’t it?” asked Hashknife.
“Gives me a talkin’ point, any old time you accuse me of stretchin’
things,” laughed Sleepy.
“What do you think of the note?”
“Scares me to death.”
“It’s serious, Sleepy.”
“So am I. In the mornin’ I’m goin’ down and make my peace with Ma Cooper
and Miss Evans. If I have to, I’ll tell ’em I met you after you was in
Mizpah. You see, I never pretended to know Jim Cooper.”
Sleepy laughed gleefully.
“And I saw Tex Blanco tonight. They can say what they want to about him,
he can take care of himself. I was almost tempted to shoot him and steal
his shirt. Man, what a garment! I wonder if Miss Evans is goin’ to marry
him.”
“I don’t think so, Sleepy.”
“You don’t think so? Is that an official count of all the votes,
Hashknife?”
Hashknife shook his head slowly.
“There may be a few counties to hear from yet, Sleepy. We better hit the
hay, because we’ve only got eight hours left.”
“When do we run, Hashknife?”
Hashknife considered his two boots thoughtfully.
“Just as soon as we find somebody to run after.”
* * * * *
Mrs. Blanco, Tex’s mother, was a little old Irish woman, not over sixty
years of age, but looking much older. Her hair was as white as snow, her
face deeply lined and tanned. Her name had been Mary Bryan before she
married Enrique Blanco, down on the Rio Grande, and in her voice was
still the brogue of old Wexford.
This early morning she stood in the kitchen door at the B Arrow, an
anxious expression in her blue eyes. Leaning against the wall beside her
was Andy Hastings, his hands shoved deeply in his pockets, hair
uncombed, a stubble of whiskers on his lean jaw.
“You think he’s sick bad?” asked Andy.
“Aye, he’s bad, Andy. High fever. Well, ye saw the lad. Tex is in there
with him now. I think ye better saddle and get the doctor, Andy.”
“Sure, I’ll do that.”
Andy went striding down to the stable, and in a few moments Tex came out
and stood beside his mother.
“Sleepin’,” he said softly. “Is Andy goin’ for the doctor, mother?”
“Aye.”
“He’s a sick boy,” said Tex slowly. “He didn’t know me.”
“It’s the fever. Children get it bad. And they get over it quick. They
can stand more than a grown-up.”
“He was talkin’ about the school, mother, askin’ for Miss Evans, wantin’
to fight the Beebee boy. I thought he looked kinda bad when Andy brought
him home last night.”
“Aye, it was growin’ on him then, Tex. But mebby it is only an upset
stummick after all. Children get those things.”
Andy Hastings led his horse from the stable, mounted and rode out
through the big gate, forgetting to wear a hat.
“He thinks a world of the lad,” said Mrs. Blanco.
“We all do, mother. I’d rather lose my right hand than—”
Tex turned and went back in the house. The old lady nodded her head
slowly.
Kit Carson, Tommy Corbett and Frank Judd were coming up from the
bunkhouse, ready for breakfast, and she told them about little Jimmy’s
illness.
“Gee, that’s tough,” said Judd. “Andy went after a doctor, didn’t he?”
“Why didn’t he send one of us?” asked Tommy. “He should have stayed with
Jimmy. Where’s Tex?”
“He’s in there with Jimmy. Ye’ll have to wait awhile for breakfast,
boys; I haven’t started it yet.”
“That’s all right, Mother Blanco,” said Judd quickly. “You jist take
your time. There’s nothin’ we’ve got to do early this mornin’, anyway.
Can we do anythin’ for Jimmy?”
“Not a thing, Frank. I’ll get breakfast now.”
Andy Hastings did not spare his horse, and it was still early morning
when he rode up to the doctor’s house in Pineville. Old Doctor Brent
answered his summons and promised to start for the ranch, as soon as he
could dress and get his horse and buggy.
Andy rode back up the street and went to Cooper’s home, where he found
them at breakfast.
“I jist wanted to see Miss Evans,” said Andy to Ma Cooper. Marion came
to the door and Andy told her about Jimmy.
“I jist wanted you to know why he didn’t show up at the school,” he told
her.
“Is he very sick?” asked Marion anxiously.
“Yes’m, I reckon he’s pretty bad. Mother Blanco and Tex was up with him
’most all night. They didn’t tell me until this mornin’, so I came right
away for the doctor. He’s kinda out of his head, you see.”
Andy squinted painfully.
“He didn’t know me; didn’t know Tex either. Jist talked about the school
and you, ma’am. And he wanted to fight the Beebee boy.” Andy turned his
head away. “He’s quite a fighter, ma’am, Jimmy is. He thinks you’re
pretty fine. He talked about you goin’ away.”
Andy turned and looked at Marion.
“You ain’t goin’ away, are you?”
“I hope not, Mr. Hastings.”
“I hope not m’self. Jimmy’s learnin’ so fast. Well, I’ve got to git back
to the ranch.”
“Is there anythin’ we can do, Andy?” asked Ma Cooper.
“Not a thing, thank you, Mrs. Cooper.”
“Will he be nursed all right out there?” asked Marion.
“Oh, shore. Mother Blanco is fine thataway. I’ll let you know how he
comes along.”
Andy rode back to the main street, where he met the doctor, and they
went to the ranch together.
Marion had been greatly worried ever since Mrs. Cooper had told her of
meeting Hashknife at the gate and that Hashknife said he had been asleep
on the porch. Marion remembered that she and Tex had stood near the
porch and she was afraid that Hashknife had heard what she told Tex
about finding that gun. Marion did not tell Ma Cooper that she had told
Tex.
* * * * *
Hashknife cautioned Sleepy that morning. He did not know just how much
of that note was pure bluff and, even if it were part bluff, they were
taking a big chance in staying around Pineville.
They met the sheriff after breakfast, and he seemed a little surprised
to meet them.
“Your eight hours are up,” he told Hashknife.
“We realize that,” smiled Hashknife. “But it’s daylight, and that bunch
don’t work in daylight.”
“You’re just guessin’ ain’tcha?”
Hashknife studied the sheriff seriously.
“You ain’t tryin’ to run us out, are you, Sheriff?”
“No, I’m not. I don’t _sabe_ you, though.”
“You don’t need to. What you don’t know won’t hurt you.”
“Mm-m-m. Well, go ahead and get killed, if you feel thataway.”
“No, that ain’t the idea, Sheriff. Don’t go off half cocked. You’ve been
tryin’ to put the deadwood on us ever since we came here. You proved me
a liar, didn’t you? Oh, that’s all right. Let’s drop it and be friends.”
Pat Lynch looked quizzically at Hashknife.
“I reckon I might as well, Hartley. Me and Oscar argued a lot about you
two fellers, and he stuck up for you. I swear I don’t know a thing about
you, except that you lied, and admitted it like a gentleman.”
“Well, that’s settled,” grinned Hashknife, taking the note from his
pocket. “Who wrote that, Sheriff?”
“I don’t know,” declared the sheriff. “It’s the same writin’ as was on
the other note.”
“Can you get hold of a sample of Tex Blanco’s writin’?”
The sheriff blinked quickly and shifted his eyes toward the bank
building across the street.
“Why do you want a sample of his writin’, Hartley?”
“You wouldn’t have to be very bright to answer that yourself, Sheriff.”
“Uh-huh.”
The sheriff shifted uneasily for a moment; then:
“Hartley, I don’t want this to go any farther, because Heffner says it
don’t prove nothin’; but we compared the other note with Blanco’s
signature at the bank, and the B in Bunch is the same as the B in
Blanco.”
“Why does Heffner say it doesn’t prove anythin’?”
“Says it would take an expert to prove it. And even at that a cow jury
prob’ly wouldn’t believe it. But the B is the same, Hartley. It’s got
the curlicue at the bottom and one at the top. I’m no expert, but I
could see that. But don’t say anythin’, Hartley.”
“I’m not sayin’ anythin’, Sheriff; but I’d like to see that signature.”
“I’ll get it for you, as soon as the bank opens.”
The sheriff glanced at his watch.
“Tex Blanco quarreled with Buck Dennig the night Dennig was killed,
didn’t he?” asked Hashknife.
“Dennig accused him of cheatin’ at poker,” said the sheriff, “but that
ain’t evidence. Somebody stole the ten thousand off Buck that night, but
we’ve no trace of that. Buck cashed a check for it that afternoon.
Nobody knows what he was goin’ to do with the money. Might as well go
over to the bank and get that signature; it’s ten o’clock.”
They went over and started into the bank, but found the door locked. The
sheriff looked at his watch again.
“My watch must be fast,” he said, winding it slowly.
Hashknife looked at his watch; it showed ten minutes after ten.
“Shearer’s late,” decided the sheriff, and they sat down on the edge of
the high sidewalk to wait.
They saw Tex Blanco ride in and go to the little drug store down the
street. He came out in a few moments, mounted and rode swiftly out of
town. Hootie Cooper came along, tried the bank door, and came out to the
edge of the sidewalk.
“Shearer must have overslept,” he said.
But Guy Shearer, the cashier, did not come. Several other people tried
to get into the bank. It was after ten-thirty, when old John Rice,
president of the bank, came along. He and Shearer were the only
employees of the bank, and Rice was not in the habit of coming very
early. Rice was a small, gray-haired man, slightly crippled, an
old-timer in the Stormy River country. He seemed greatly surprised to
find the bank still closed.
“Perhaps Guy is sick,” he said, as he unlocked the front door. “He was
all right yesterday. Come right in, gentlemen.”
They followed him in. He carefully blocked the door open, before doing
anything else. The Pineville Bank was a small institution, the room
being about twenty by thirty feet in size, less than a third of it used
for office space.
Rice led the way to the low railing that separated the office desks from
the rest of the building, swung open the gate and stepped inside. At the
rear of this was the front of the vault, which was little more than a
large safe, set into the wall. Rice placed his hat on a desk and started
to turn back to the men, when he stopped and leaned forward, both hands
on the desk.
“My God!” he exclaimed loudly. “What has been done here?”
Hashknife had halted near the gate, and now he flung it open and stepped
inside, with the sheriff close behind him.
Stretched out on the floor, half under the desk, was Guy Shearer, the
cashier, his head in a pool of blood. On the floor near him was a length
of lariat rope. Hashknife took one look at Shearer and decided he was
dead. Quickly the sheriff and Rice dropped on their knees beside him,
while Hootie and Sleepy leaned across the railing and watched them turn
the man over on his back.
Hashknife picked up the rope, looked it over quickly. It was an ordinary
spot cord rope, which had been used quite a lot. He quickly inspected
both ends of the rope. One end had been wrapped tightly with a fine
copper wire, while the other end, frayed slightly, showed a fresh cut.
Hashknife moved around the room, glancing sharply from one corner to
another, holding the rope in one hand. The men were too interested in
the dead cashier to pay any attention to Hashknife. Suddenly he stooped
and picked up an object from near the leg of a desk, concealing it in
his hand for a few moments while he played idly with the rope, and then
slipped it into his pocket.
“There’s no use goin’ for the doctor,” Hootie was saying. “He’s gone out
to the B Arrow to see Hastings’ kid.”
John Rice’s face was very white and his lips trembled as he leaned
against the railing and looked at the dead cashier.
“You better set down, John,” advised the sheriff. “There ain’t no use of
you standin’ up. Nothin’ you can do. He’s as dead as a salt herrin’.”
“But why—who killed him, Pat? The door was locked.”
The old banker looked around the room, and his gaze came back to the
vault door.
“Those windows won’t open,” he said slowly. “Will some of you lock the
front door? We can’t have folks coming in here now.”
Sleepy walked over and closed the door.
* * * * *
“If I were in your place,” said Hashknife, “I’d open the vault and have
a look inside.”
“But the vault is locked,” said Rice. “Nobody could—”
“Folks don’t usually break into a bank just to kill the cashier, you
know.”
“Mebby you better, John,” said the sheriff.
The old man went over to the vault and slowly worked the combination.
None of the men went near him. He swung the door open and, after a
moment of inspection, stepped back.
“It—it has been cleaned out,” he said painfully.
Hashknife and the sheriff walked over beside him. The inside door was
partly open. The sheriff swung it the rest of the way, disclosing an
empty interior. That door opened with a key, and there was no key in the
lock.
“Better close it up,” said Hashknife. “No use tellin’ everybody.”
Rice closed the outer door and turned the combination.
“This is terrible,” said Rice hoarsely. “What can we do?”
The sheriff shook his head helplessly, staring at the body of the
cashier. Sleepy perched on the rail, smoking a cigaret, and kept an eye
on Hashknife, who was idly swinging the rope in his hand. The sheriff
took the rope and looked at it.
“This was on the floor, wasn’t it, Hartley?”
“Yeah,” said Hashknife. He turned to Rice. “Was the cashier in the habit
of workin’ in here at night?”
“Not very often. There wasn’t enough work for that.”
“Uh-huh. He had a key to the inside door of that vault?”
“Oh, certainly.”
“Let’s see if he’s still got it. Shall I search him, or will you,
Sheriff?”
“You do it,” said the sheriff.
In a trouser pocket Hashknife found the key ring, and Rice identified
the key.
“Did anybody, except you two, know the combination?”
“Just the two of us,” said Rice wearily.
Hashknife and the sheriff walked around the place. There was no evidence
that any one had been at work. The desks were orderly. Hashknife went
back and examined the body. The blow had been struck from behind.
“What do you think, Hartley?” asked the sheriff.
“Hard to tell. Looks as though somebody had met this man, forced him
here at the point of a gun, robbed the vault and then hit him over the
head. They went through the front door, which is on a spring lock. Mebby
they intended to just tie him up here, but somethin’ happened and they
killed him, and forgot their rope.”
“That’s my theory, too!” exclaimed the sheriff. “That’s what they done.
Prob’ly met Shearer on the street. Mebby he recognized them, and they
had to kill him.”
“That sounds reasonable,” agreed Hashknife. He turned to Rice. “Did they
get much from the vault?”
“At least twenty-five thousand dollars.”
Hashknife whistled softly.
“I didn’t know you kept that much cash in a bank of this size.”
“Sometimes more than that. We won’t know until a check is made of it.”
“I hate to move that body until the coroner gets here,” said the
sheriff. “He ought to be back in a little while. I think I’ll go down to
Allen’s place and see what they know about Shearer. Allen’s place is
where Shearer lived,” he explained to Hashknife. “Want to walk down?”
“Yeah, I’ll go with you.”
“I’d like to have one of you stay here with me,” said Rice quickly.
“I’ll stay,” said Sleepy. “I’m good company.”
They walked down to the house and inquired of Mrs. Allen, but did not
tell her that Shearer was dead until she said that Shearer did not show
up for breakfast. She did not know whether he had left early or late the
evening before, as he had a room on the lower floor, with an outside
entrance.
She was greatly shocked to know that he was dead, and let them in to
examine his room. The bed had not been disturbed. On the dresser was an
enlargement from a snapshot picture, showing the front of the bank,
Shearer, Buck Dennig, Cleve Tolman and John Rice.
“That picture was taken about the time Shearer went to work for the
bank,” said the sheriff. “He was with the Garnet Mercantile Company for
quite awhile before he came here. That’s Buck Dennig next to Shearer.”
“Buck was a good lookin’ feller,” said Hashknife.
“And a nice feller, too. Well, I guess we’ll have to go back and wait
for Doc Brent to come back from the B Arrow. This will shore upset this
town.”
They went back up the street. Quite a crowd had collected in front of
the bank and, as they drew near to the bank, old Doctor Brent drove in
from the east side of the town. Someone told him about the trouble at
the bank, and he stopped at the little hitchrack. The sheriff went in
with him, but Hashknife stayed outside listening to the different
opinions. Hootie was telling them all about the discovery of the murder.
Cleve Tolman rode in. He was a director in the bank and one of the
heaviest depositors. Hashknife watched him enter. In a few minutes some
of the men secured a narrow cot, which they used as a stretcher to carry
the body down to the doctor’s office. The bank closed its door for the
day.
* * * * *
The crowd dispersed quickly, after the body had been taken away. Sleepy
joined Hashknife and they sat on the edge of the sidewalk together.
“I suppose that’s the work of The Bunch,” said Sleepy.
“Looks thataway,” nodded Hashknife.
Sleepy looked around and as he rolled a cigaret, edged a little closer
to Hashknife and said—
“What did you find in there, Hashknife?”
“You saw me find it?”
“Yeah. Nobody else did, though.”
Hashknife reached in his pocket and drew out a hondo, the loop on the
end of a lariat, through which the rope runs. It was of metal, covered
with leather, and in the leather had been burned the initial B and a
crudely drawn arrow, the mark of the B Arrow ranch.
Sleepy examined it closely and gave it back to Hashknife.
“Cut it off the rope and then lost it, eh?”
Hashknife nodded slowly as he put the hondo in his pocket.
“Looks thataway. They meant to tie Shearer, and didn’t want that marked
hondo to be found. Probably workin’ in the dark and lost it. That hondo
might hang somebody, Sleepy.”
“Shore! Ain’t you goin’ to give it to the sheriff?”
“Not yet. There’s several men at the B Arrow, and they didn’t all kill
Shearer.”
“They must be The Bunch,” said Sleepy quietly. “We’ll have to keep an
eye on ’em, cowboy. I hear they’ve been rustlin’ TD beef for a long
time. But I like Judd and Corbett. Carson don’t say much. They tell me
Judd is a fighter. He whipped Shorty Gallup.”
“So did Grimes,” smiled Hashknife. “He had Shorty whipped that day we
met him. It was Sturgis who knocked Grimes down, you remember—hit him
from behind.”
“Yeah, that’s right. This killin’ will make folks sore. This Shearer was
well liked.”
Oscar Johnson came along and sat down with them.
“Lotsa crime around here,” he said. “I liked Shearer. Who do you suppose
killed him, Hartley?”
“The same folks who sent us that note, Johnson.”
“I s’pose. Pat was surprised that you fellers didn’t pull out. Your
eight hours are up long ago.”
“I dunno,” mused Hashknife. “Eight hours from when? They should have set
a time, Oscar. How would they know when I got that note?”
“That’s right. But you wouldn’t go, anyway. I told Pat you had more
nerve than Sears did. He shore high tailed quick. I never seen a cow
detective yet that had any nerve. We’ve got a job on our hands, tryin’
to clear all this up. Don’t think we ever will. Takes brains, don’tcha
know it. Me and Pat ain’t got enough. He thinks he’s smart, but I know
him.”
“Don’t you even suspect anybody?” asked Sleepy.
“Shore,” nodded Oscar solemnly, “but what’s the use? You can’t prove it.
Look at the money they’ve got! Ten thousand from Buck Dennig, three
thousand from that stage and now they get about twenty-five thousand
more. Thirty-eight thousand dollars!”
“And two dead men,” said Hashknife.
“Yeah, two dead men. That kind of money ought to burn a man, Hartley.”
“It will.”
“Mebby. If we don’t never catch ’em, it won’t.”
“Who was sick at the B Arrow this mornin’?”
“Little Jimmy Hastings. Tex came in after medicine. Told me the doctor
was scared the kid had typhoid. Tex thinks a lot of that kid. He’s a
queer feller, this Tex Blanco. You wasn’t here the day the stage was
held up, was you? No, that was before you came. Me and Pat went out to
where the stage was robbed. Mrs. Cooper and Miss Evans had been to
Garnet, and they must have been pretty close behind the stage.
“We found where the robbery had been pulled off, and we saw where
Cooper’s buckboard had pulled out of the road at the same spot. And we
found a woman’s tracks, where she left the buckboard and walked about
four or five steps and then came back.
“But them women wouldn’t admit that they seen the holdup, nor that they
walked around at the spot. Pat’s got an idea that they’re keepin’
somethin’ quiet. Anyway, we came back past the B Arrow and talked with
Andy Hastings. He said that Tex went to Garnet to the dance the night
before.
“And while we was talkin’ to Andy, Tex rode in. He shore looked tough.
There was blood on his muffler and on his shirt, and he wore his hat
tilted to one side, as though to hide somethin’. And another thing—he
didn’t have no gun in his holster. Jist nodded howdy to us and rode on.
Acted as though he didn’t want to talk with us. It shore looked queer to
me.”
“Why didn’t you ask him where he’d been?” asked Hashknife.
“Yea-a-ah! In the first place, it wasn’t none of our business.”
“Wasn’t Buck Dennig killed in the same way as Shearer?”
“Shore was. I never thought of that.”
“And they tell me that Windy March, the stage driver, never saw the men
who held him up.”
“That’s right, Hartley. Oh, they’re clever all right. Poor Windy ain’t
over it yet. He sat there and looked the way they wanted him to look. I
don’t blame him m’self.”
“Neither do I,” said Hashknife seriously. “Did any of you check up on
Tex, to see if he was at Garnet that night?”
“I don’t guess anybody did, Hartley.”
“And you don’t know what Buck Dennig was goin’ to do with that ten
thousand?”
“Nope, never knew he had it until after he was killed.”
“I guess we better go and eat, before you admit that you ain’t done a
thing.”
“Hell, I can admit that on an empty stummick—but I’ll eat with you.”
* * * * *
“Ro-o-ho-oll on, silv’ry moo-hoon—
Light the trav’ler on his way-ha-a-ay—
O, la-lay-hee-e-e! O, la-lay-he-hoo-o-o-o!”
As a yodler, Luke Jones, cook for the TD outfit, was terrible. In fact
it was a series of broken notes, wails and hoots, sent forth at the top
of his voice, as he leaned against the side of the kitchen door. In his
left hand he held a tin cup which contained some violet tinted liquid,
while his right hand, concealed beneath his dirty apron, gripped a big
single action Colt revolver.
Luke was very drunk, but very much awake. His bleared eyes caught sight
of what appeared to be the brim of a sombrero, extending just out from
the corner of the bunkhouse. He jerked his hand from beneath the apron
and fired from his hip. The bullet smashed a window in the bunkhouse,
three feet from the corner, and old Luke grinned, exposing a few crooked
teeth. He drank from the cup, twisted his face in a scowl and yelled—
“C’mon out and git shot, you chuckwalla!”
But no one came out. Luke had been there for fifteen minutes, defying
the whole TD outfit. Shorty Gallup had kicked on the breakfast, as well
he might, because Luke was drunk when he cooked it—drunk on prune whisky
which he had made himself. Luke was a periodical drunkard, but he had
always gone to town to celebrate.
Luke had taken Shorty’s kicks as personal insults. He wanted to show
them who was boss of that kitchen, and he was doing it. He had Shorty,
Matt Sturgis, Alex McLean and Bud Hough hiding out behind the bunkhouse.
Tolman and Dobe Severn had left for town before Luke’s outburst.
“I’m goin’ to step out and kill that old fool,” declared Shorty angrily.
“He deserves it, I tell you. Aw, he couldn’t hit me, even if he had a
shotgun. My stars, there goes another window!”
Shorty drew his gun and stepped out quickly from the side of the
bunkhouse. Came a sharp _whap!_ Something went _pwee-e-e_, down toward
the corral, and Shorty fell back against the wall, swearing softly.
“Look at that!” he wailed, indicating the right leg of his batwing
chaps, where a bullet had torn away the leather and forcibly removed one
of Shorty’s silver rosettes. It was the rosette they heard _pweeing_ its
way down past the corral.
“Couldn’t hit you without a shotgun,” jeered Bud Hough.
“Accident—mebby,” said Matt Sturgis.
“Mebby,” said Shorty dryly. “Peek around there and see what he’s doin’,
Alex.”
“When I’m too old to be of any use,” grinned Alex. “You do your own
peekin’.”
They did not know that Luke had gone in the kitchen and filled his tin
cup again, and was now sitting on the steps. The homemade liquor had
made his legs unstable. He had two more shells in his gun, so he fired
both of them at the door of the bunkhouse. One struck the roof of the
stable and the other hit the ground halfway between Luke and the
bunkhouse and ricocheted its way off across the hills.
But the boys behind the bunkhouse stayed where they were for about
fifteen minutes more, before Shorty mustered up nerve enough to peek
around the corner again. Only the soles of Luke’s boots were visible,
sticking through the kitchen doorway.
They surrounded the recumbent form of the old cook, took the gun from
his unresisting hand and told him what they thought of him. But it was
all right with old Luke Jones; he couldn’t hear them.
“Hitch up the buckboard, Bud,” ordered Shorty. “We’re goin’ to ship him
away from here right now. When he wakes up, he won’t be the TD cook any
longer.”
So they took old Luke to Pineville, along with all his possessions, and
left him at the livery stable to sleep off his prune juice. McLean and
Bud Hough, who had brought him to town, met Tolman and told him what
Luke had done.
Tolman didn’t like the idea of losing a cook, but he said nothing.
Tolman was upset over the killing of Shearer and the robbery of the
bank. Being a director and a heavy depositor, he was naturally much
concerned.
* * * * *
Hashknife and Sleepy were with Oscar Johnson, when the stage came in
that afternoon, and they noticed that Windy had a passenger—a
middle-aged, thin-faced man, who wore glasses and was dressed in a rusty
black suit.
The passenger met Sam Hall and Old Man Beebee, and the three of them
walked out to the schoolhouse. It was almost four o’clock when they
came, so they waited until Marion dismissed school.
When the last pupil had left the room they walked in. Marion looked at
them wonderingly, but she did not have to wait long for an explanation.
“Miss Evans, this here is Mr. Long,” said Sam Hall, in his nasal drawl.
“Mr. Long teached the school about a month last term when our reg’lar
teacher quit. Now, we’ve been thinkin’ it over and we come to the
conclusion that this here ain’t no job for a lady, so we’ve done hired
Mr. Long to take over the school.”
Marion gasped.
“You mean, to take my position?”
“Yes’m,” said Beebee firmly. “That’s the idea, ma’am. He will begin
teachin’ t’morrow mornin’.”
“But such a thing is unheard of,” protested Marion. “You told me I was
to have the school for this term.”
“Yeah, we did think so. But you—well, you ain’t been so satisfactory,
ma’am. A lot of the wimmin ain’t satisfied, you see.”
“So the women run the school, instead of the trustees.”
“We don’t want no hard feelin’s,” said Sam Hall quickly.
In a dazed way Marion gathered up her belongings and left the
schoolhouse, while Beebee, Hall and the new teacher waited for her to
go. She did not tell them goodby.
“Pers’nally,” said Sam Hall, after Marion had gone, “I think she’s so
pretty that the wimmin got jealous.”
“A paragon of pulchritude,” said Long seriously.
“I been tryin’ to think of that,” said Beebee.
“You have, like hell!” snorted Sam Hall. “The only big word you know is
asafœdita; and you only know that because you wear it in a bag, hanging
around your neck to keep away disease.”
Marion went straight home, heartsick over her dismissal, wondering what
to do next. There was no one at home, so she dumped her books on the
porch and sat down to adjust her thoughts. That noon she had heard of
the bank robbery and murder of the cashier, but all that had faded to
insignificance now.
She was so deep in her own thoughts that she did not see Andy Hastings
ride up to the gate in the B Arrow buckboard and tie his team, nor did
she look up until he was standing at the bottom of the steps, hat in
hand.
“I came past the schoolhouse,” he told her. “Old Man Beebee told me you
wasn’t there no more, so I came here to find you, ma’am.”
Mrs. Cooper came to the gate, looked curiously at the team and came on
up the walk. Andy glanced at her, but turned back to Marion.
“I didn’t have much hopes,” he confessed slowly, as Ma Cooper halted
beside him, looking inquiringly at Marion. “I talked it over with Tex,
and he said you wouldn’t come. But jist the same I hitched up the
buckboard.”
“I don’t understand,” said Marion blankly.
“It’s Jimmy, the little feller, ma’am. He’s got typhoid, the doctor
says. He keeps callin’ for you all the time. He don’t know none of us,
ma’am—jist wants you.”
“That’s your little boy, Andy?” asked Ma Cooper.
“Yes’m, my boy.”
“But Marion can’t go out there, Andy. She’s got her school.”
Marion lifted her eyes and looked at Ma Cooper.
“I’ve lost the school, Ma. A man, a Mr. Long, from Garnet, has been
hired to take my place.”
“Oh, you don’t mean that, Marion.”
“Old Beebee told me,” said Andy.
“Yes, it’s a fact,” said Marion slowly. “They were not satisfied with my
work.”
Andy sighed and adjusted the band on his hat.
“I’m sorry you can’t go, ma’am. Mebby he’ll be all right. I jist thought
mebby you—thank you jist the same.”
He started away, but Marion stopped him.
“I guess I’ll go,” she said. “It—it don’t make so much difference now.”
“That’s the stuff!” exclaimed Ma Cooper. “You jist go. If a lot of these
Pineville fork tongues want to talk—let ’em talk. Wait’ll I meet Old
Lady Beebee and Hall. You jist go, honey. If you want to stay all night,
you stay. I’ll come out tomorrow myself. You jist grab a nightgown and
go.”
Ma Cooper fairly “shooed” her out to the buckboard and helped her climb
in. Andy was so excited that he almost upset the buckboard.
“Don’t go the back way!” yelled Ma Cooper. “Go down the main street.
Give ’em all a chance to talk.”
And they did go down the main street, with the roan team on the run and
Marion clinging to her hat with one hand and the seat with the other.
They almost ran over Old Man Beebee and Sam Hall, who were a bit slow at
getting out of the road.
“Looks to me as though Andy Hastings was a-runnin’ away with her!”
panted Beebee, wiping the dust and gravel out of his face.
“Looks t’ me as though that damn team was runnin’ away with both of
’em,” grunted Sam Hall. “I felt sorry for her. I never done a dirty
trick like that before, and if it hadn’t been for your wife—”
“Your wife was as bad as mine, Sam.”
“Worse. Old Hennery Goff won’t speak to either one of us now, ’cause we
outvoted him. Well, I hope them wimmin will be satisfied.”
“Mine won’t be,” wailed Beebee. “She showed her stren’th. Next time she
opens her mouth about the school, I’ll resign. I’m jist as ashamed as
you are, Sam, mebby more.”
“You’re pretty low in your own estimation, if you are.”
* * * * *
The killing of Shearer and robbery of the bank awoke Pineville to the
realization that some very bad actors were in their midst and, as a
result, quite a crowd of men met at Hootie’s store that night in a sort
of indignation meeting.
Their criticism of the sheriff’s office was rather more destructive than
constructive, because none of them had any ideas worth working on. Mort
Heffner was called in to give his opinion, and admitted that there was
nothing his office could do.
“We hired a detective,” he told them. “The cattle association sent us a
man, who was warned out of the country, before he had a chance to do
much. You men know how much chance a detective would have around here.
The sheriff wants to stop these killings and robberies as much as you
do, but he can’t do a thing.”
“Ain’t nobody safe,” complained Lester Cline.
“Not if they’ve got money,” added Beebee.
“Well,” declared Sam Hall angrily, “if the law don’t do somethin’ pretty
soon, we’ll take the law in our own hands.”
Heffner laughed shortly.
“You probably heard somebody say that, Sam. But go ahead and take the
law in your own hands. It is your privilege to apprehend criminals.
Don’t let me stop you, gentlemen. In fact, I wish you would do
something.”
Hashknife and Sleepy were rather amused at the expressed opinions of
those present, but left the meeting before it broke up and went to the
Stormy River Saloon, where they found old Luke Jones at the bar, telling
the wide world that he had not been treated right by the TD outfit.
His prune whisky jag had left him in a bitter frame of mind. His shirt
and overalls were bespecked with hay from the livery stable and one lock
of his thin hair stuck straight out from his forehead, like an accusing
finger.
“Fired because I sung,” he declared. “Tha’sall I done; jist sung m’self
out of a job.”
“There’s different grades of songs,” said the bartender.
“Mine’s top hand,” declared Luke. “I’m a natcheral singer. No sense in
firin’ a natcheral singer, is there? We’re few and far between. And I’m
a cook, too. You ask Tolman. And you jist wait till he hears about me
bein’ fired by that squirt of a Shorty Gallup. Gimme liquor, that my
gorge may not rise and suffy-cate me.”
“You’ve been with the TD a long time, ain’t you, Luke?”
“Long? My Lord! When I came here, Stormy River was jist a little
spring.”
Luke leered around, as if challenging anybody to dispute that statement.
He fixed his eyes on Hashknife and a smile twisted his lips.
“C’m’ere and have a drink. I ’member you, tall feller. You ’member me? I
was the cook at the TD the mornin’ Grimes quit out there. I shore
’member you. C’mon and have a drink.”
“I remember you,” grinned Hashknife. He didn’t want the drink, but he
did want to get acquainted with Luke Jones.
“Invite your pardner,” said Luke. “Put out the glasses, bartender; we’re
havin’ comp’ny. Say!” He turned to Hashknife. “I’m fired. They can all
go to hell, as far as I’m concerned. I jist had two good friends on that
ranch. One was Buck Dennig and the other was Grimes. One’s gone to a
better land and the other stayed around here.”
“They tell me Buck Dennig was a fine feller,” said Hashknife.
“You didn’t know him? Pardner, he was a _man_.”
“That’s what I’ve heard.”
“Beloved by everybody.” Luke tried to keep back the tears.
“That’s what I’ve heard. But they never found out who killed him.”
“Never.” Luke wiped the tears away with the back of his hand. “And they
never will.”
“You think they won’t?” asked Hashknife softly.
Luke was not too drunk. He looked sharply at Hashknife.
“What do you know?” he asked.
“Nothin’.” Hashknife toyed with his glass. “But murder will always out,
you know, Jones.”
“Tha’sall right.”
“What do you know, Jones?”
Luke paused with the glass at his lips. He placed it on the bar and
squinted at himself in the mirror.
“I don’t know nothin’—much.”
Some other men came in, and Luke shifted his interest to them. Hashknife
knew there was nothing more to be learned from Luke Jones at present,
but he had a feeling that the former TD cook knew something.
That night as they went to bed Sleepy asked—
“Have you got anythin’ to work on at all?”
“Two murders and three robberies,” smiled Hashknife, “not to mention the
fact that we’re still here and our eight hours were up a long time ago.”
“They were bluffin’, Hashknife.”
“Mebby.”
“Well, they ain’t made good.”
Hashknife smiled.
“The note didn’t say they’d kill us five minutes after our time was up.
Give ’em time, cowboy.”
* * * * *
Tex Blanco stopped short in the center of the living room at the B Arrow
and looked at Marion. Tex had been working late and was still clad in
his wide, batwing chaps, his features streaked with dust. He had left
the ranch about the time Andy Hastings had gone to Pineville and did not
know Marion had come back with him.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said. “I told Andy I didn’t think you
would, but he said he’d try.”
“I guess I just came,” said Marion simply.
Tex shook his head slowly.
“I—we all wanted you to come, Marion, but I think we did wrong in askin’
you to come out here.”
“It doesn’t make any difference, now. You see, I’ve lost my school.”
“You’ve lost your school?” He came toward her. “I don’t know what you
mean, Marion.”
She shrugged her shoulders wearily.
“Just lost it. They hired a man to take my place.”
“They hired a man—but why?”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter. They said I wasn’t satisfactory.”
Tex stared at her for a moment.
“They know that wasn’t true,” he said firmly, “and you know it, too,
Marion. It was my fault. Oh, I know; it was because I came there. I’m to
blame for you losin’ that job.”
Marion shook her head.
“No, that wasn’t it.”
“Oh, I know. I—I guess I contaminated the kids.”
He turned away and flung his sombrero on a chair.
“Jimmy told me what the children said. And they don’t talk, unless they
hear things at home. How is he, Marion?”
“Sleeping. The doctor promised to come out tonight. You heard what
happened in Pineville?”
“Judd told me.”
Mrs. Blanco came in from the kitchen and Tex went to her, bending down
to kiss the little old lady.
“Ye are a little late,” she said, “but I’ve kept the supper warm. And
were ye surprised to see the lady with us? Ah, it was fine of her to
come. Do ye know it, the boy went fast asleep when she talked to him,
Tex?”
“It was mighty fine of her to come; Jimmy will get well now.”
“He will, thanks to a most unselfish young lady. Ah, ye are unselfish,
though.”
Mrs. Blanco put her arms around Marion’s waist, patting her on the arm.
“Do ye know, my dear, you are the first woman to come in this house in
years?”
“I don’t understand what you mean,” smiled Marion.
“They’d know in Pineville. Folks avoid this place as though it had a
plague. ’Tis a bad reputation the B Arrow has. Aye, that’s a fact. They
say that the old lady smokes a pipe. And she does. She may put unclean
things in her mouth, but—but never mind. Tex, I’ll set ye a supper.”
She patted Marion on the arm and hurried away to get the supper for Tex.
“I think she’s wonderful,” said Marion.
Tex nodded slowly.
“You don’t know half of it, Marion. She’s my silver linin’. I’d have
left this country a long time ago, but for her. The Spanish half of me
gets mad and wants to run away, but the Irish half listens to her, and I
stay. What pleasure can she get out of life? No women ever come here.
You don’t know what it means to be shunned. When I take her to Pineville
the women avoid her. They all avoid me, too. But that doesn’t hurt me.
“That’s what a reputation will do, Marion. I’ve killed men in fair
fights. They had an even break. But they call me a killer. I’m not a
killer. God knows, I’m not. And then some dirty voiced liar hinted that
we stole cattle. It don’t take long for such things to get around.
Killers and cow thieves! No wonder they leave us alone. They say I
killed Buck Dennig—”
Tex laughed bitterly. He started to say something about the stage
robbery, but checked himself in time. Mrs. Blanco called him from the
kitchen, and he went out to her.
Marion sat down on a couch covered with a gaudy blanket. It was quite
cool, and one of the boys had built a fire in the big fireplace. The
flames crackled merrily, and a little yellow canary in a homemade cage
began singing softly.
Old Doctor Brent came before Tex finished supper. Jimmy was still
asleep, and the doctor was well satisfied. Mrs. Blanco told him the
effect Marion had had on Jimmy, and the old doctor thanked her for
coming.
“I don’t blame Jimmy.” He smiled, looking closely at Marion, as they
were introduced. “Don’t blame him in the least. Fact of the matter is, I
envy Jimmy.”
He chuckled to himself, as he gave them orders. As he left he put a hand
on Marion’s shoulder.
“Mrs. Cooper told me about the school,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.
I hope you can stay here until the boy is out of danger.”
“Oh, I don’t think I can stay here very long, Doctor.”
“I don’t expect him to be sick _very_ long.”
That night the cowboys all sat around the living room, telling stories.
Little Jimmy was worse and babbled incessantly about the school. No one
went to bed. The cowboys drowsed heavily, awoke to roll cigarets and
drowsed some more. They were all fond of Jimmy.
Morning came. Jimmy went to sleep and the cowboys dragged out to
breakfast. It was about nine o’clock when Mrs. Cooper came. It was the
first time she had ever been on the ranch, but Mrs. Blanco greeted her
warmly. Marion was asleep on a couch in the living room, but awoke at
sound of Mrs. Cooper’s voice.
Ma Cooper fairly hugged her.
“I met Mrs. Beebee this mornin’,” chuckled Ma Cooper. “She tried to
avoid me, but I cornered her, and what I told her would take the polish
off a mahogany table. Whoo-ee-e-e! Oh, we had it hot and heavy. She
swears you eloped with Andy Hastings. Ha-ha-ha-ha! Well, how’s the
little boy?”
“He’s asleep, Ma Cooper. Had a bad night, though. The doctor wants me to
stay here until Jimmy is better.”
Mrs. Cooper lifted her brows quickly, a smile in her eyes.
“The doctor does, eh? Well, always obey the doctor, honey.”
Marion flushed quickly, as she added—
“But I can’t very well do that, Ma Cooper.”
“Why not? Bless your heart, of course you can, if you want to. I’ll send
your trunk out. And when you get all through with the doctor’s orders,
come back and live with us. Hootie says he misses you. That’s quite an
honor. He never misses me.”
* * * * *
The three women sat down and talked for an hour. Mrs. Blanco seemed to
grow younger every minute. Tex came in and stood against the dining room
entrance, listening to the chatter, a smile on his lips.
He tiptoed through the hall and went to the bedroom, where Andy was
sitting beside the bed. Jimmy was awake, but his little face looked
pinched and drawn and his blue eyes clouded. He knew Tex and smiled.
“Hello, little pardner,” said Tex softly.
“He asked for you, Tex,” said Andy, “asked me to have you sing to him.”
“Sing to him? Jimmy do you want me to sing to you?”
“About the rose, Uncle Tex,” weakly.
Tex looked queerly at Andy. A strange request for a sick boy. But Tex
turned to a corner and picked up an old guitar that he had not played
for a long time. Softly he tuned it, while the little fellow watched him
wearily.
He began singing softly, in a crooning tenor, and little Jimmy closed
his eyes, listening. Andy rested his chin on his hands, tears in his
eyes. Out in the living room the three women stopped talking and
listened.
“He’s singing to the lad,” whispered Mrs. Blanco. “It’s the song he
likes best. Listen—”
“You may search everywhere, but none can compare,
With my wild Irish Rose.”
“He calls it his rose song.”
“... and some day for my sake, they may let me take
The bloom from my wild Irish Rose.”
The voice crooned the end of the song. Ma Cooper held out her hand to
Mrs. Blanco.
“I’m goin’ now,” she said softly. “I’m glad I heard the song, Mrs.
Blanco. I’ll come again. When you come to Pineville, come and see me,
will you. Marion, I’ll send out your trunk.”
She hurried out to the buckboard and rode away, leaving Marion and Mrs.
Blanco in the doorway, looking after her.
“That song made her cry,” said Mrs. Blanco softly.
“It almost made me cry, too,” confessed Marion.
Tex came out, closing the door softly behind him.
“He’s asleep again,” said Tex. “He was awake and knew me and Andy. Can
you imagine it, he asked me to sing.”
“I—I don’t blame him,” said Marion. “We heard you.”
“Pshaw! I was just singin’ for Jimmy.”
Ma Cooper sent the team spinning over the road to Pineville. She was
glad she had visited the B Arrow, and she decided to go again. As
strange as it may seem, she had never before exchanged a dozen words
with Mrs. Blanco. She had found her a delightful old Irish lady.
“Got a lot more class than some of these Pineville holier-than-thous,”
she declared to herself. “And everybody said she was an ignorant old
pipe smoker! Ignorant! If some of ’em had half her brains, they’d die
from headache.”
She drove up in front of Hootie’s store and found Oscar Johnson, who
seemed to have nothing better to do than to brace up one of the porch
posts.
“Are you awful busy, Oscar?” she asked.
“Not right now, Mrs. Cooper.”
“I was just wonderin’ if you’d do me a big favor.”
“Wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” he grinned.
“Well, I’ve got to get somebody to take this team and haul Miss Evans’
trunk out to the B Arrow ranch.”
“Out to the B Arrow ranch? Oh, yeah, shore. Is she goin’ to stay out
there?”
“Long enough to need her trunk.”
“Uh-huh. Want me to go right away, Mrs. Cooper?”
“If you’ll do it, Oscar.”
“Ain’t a bit busy.”
“Well, get in and we’ll load up at the house.”
Oscar carried the trunk down to the buckboard. The back of the vehicle
was hardly large enough to accommodate the trunk, and Oscar had no ropes
to tie it on.
“But I reckon it’ll ride there,” he told her, as he climbed in. “I’ll
take it easy.”
He drove out of town, holding the team in check. The last time he had
driven a buggy team he had smashed the buggy, and he was going to be
more careful this time. Everything went well until the crossing of
Stormy River, and he swung a little too far down the stream, where some
big boulders blocked a wheel, almost upset the buckboard and threw the
trunk into the river.
Oscar yelled like an Indian, whipped the team to the shore, where he
tied them to a snag, and then went galloping down the stream after the
trunk, which had wedged on a sand bar twenty feet below where it had
gone into the water.
“If I ever do anythin’ right, I’ll die next minute,” declared Oscar,
sloshing out of the river with the trunk in his arms, the water running
a stream from one of the corners.
He placed the trunk on the sand and surveyed it sadly.
“Wetter ’n hell!”
He sat down on it, removed his boots and poured out the water, while the
team watched him, possibly wondering what it was all about. It suddenly
occurred to him that he might be able to dry out the things, so he
opened the trunk, which was not locked.
It was fairly well filled with feminine attire, the top things being
dry. He dumped them out on the sand, grunting disgustedly when he found
the things sodden in the bottom of the trunk.
“Well, f’r heaven’s sake!” he grunted, and lifted a big, pearl-handled
Colt forty-five from the bottom of the trunk. It was fully loaded.
Ignoring the rest of the things, Oscar sat down, with his back against
the trunk and examined the gun. Oscar was not very quick minded, but
something seemed to tell him that a schoolteacher, under ordinary
conditions, would not own a new gun of that size and description.
He removed the cartridges and amused himself for a while by snapping it
at different objects. He liked the trigger pull and the balance of the
weapon. The pearl flashed in the sun like an opal as Oscar polished it
with a none too clean handkerchief.
He took out his own gun and compared them. They were the same model,
same caliber. But Oscar’s gun was shiny in spots, nicked, the trigger
pull altogether too heavy for accurate work. In fact, Oscar’s gun was
old. Suddenly a bright idea occurred to Oscar.
He took his pocket knife, unscrewed the handles of both guns and changed
handles, putting the pearl ones on his own gun. Now he had a new gun
with old handles, while his old gun, resplendent in mother of pearl,
went into the bottom of the trunk, along with the sodden clothes.
“What in hell would a schoolma’am want of a new gun, anyway?” he asked
himself. “A gun’s a gun. It ain’t stealin’, if you put back as good as
you take.”
Thereupon Oscar loaded the things back in the trunk, put it back on the
buckboard and headed for the B Arrow. Marion was asleep, much to Oscar’s
relief, and Mrs. Blanco told him to leave the trunk on the porch. Oscar
left it in a sunny place, hoping it would dry out a little, at least.
* * * * *
He drove back, stabled the horses in Cooper’s barn and went back to the
office, well satisfied with himself. The inquest over the body of Guy
Shearer was held that afternoon. Hashknife and Sleepy attended, but were
not called as witnesses. The usual verdict was rendered by the jury.
The sheriff had heard a number of remarks reflecting on his ability as a
peace officer, and he was not in a good frame of mind when he went back
to his office with Oscar.
“What do they expect me to do?” he asked plaintively. “I never had no
trainin’ at this here job. To hear some of them whippoorwills talkin’,
you’d think I ought to have an X-ray eye. I’m sick of the whole danged
job.”
“Same here,” agreed Oscar. “I took this job to help you out, Pat, and
you don’t need no help, not for what you’ve done.”
“We’re a awful mess, Oscar.”
“Speak for yourself. I’m all right for what I’m intended. A deputy ain’t
supposed to have any brains.”
Oscar took off his heavy belt and gun and placed them on the desk, after
which he sighed deeply and stretched out on a cot. The sheriff stared
sad eyed at the belt and gun, thinking over the woes of his position.
His fingers picked absently at the cartridges in the belt loops.
He ran his fingers over the butt of the gun, not because he wanted to
feel of the gun, but because of something to do. Then he shut one eye
and looked at the exposed breech of the gun. After a moment’s scrutiny,
he drew the gun from the holster and looked at it closely.
“Where’d you git the new gun, Oscar?” he asked.
Oscar sat up like a mechanical toy, quick and jerky.
“Wh-what gun?”
“This here one.”
The sheriff held it up.
“Oh, that one.”
Oscar swore inwardly at himself for leaving that gun on the desk.
“New gun, ain’t it, Oscar?”
“Pretty new.” Oscar sank down again.
“Pretty damn new, it looks to me. You never had it before.”
“No,” said Oscar. “It’s almost new, Pat.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“Where’d I get it?”
“Yeah, where’d you get it?”
“Oh, I dunno.”
“You dunno?”
“Well, my stars!” Oscar sat up and glowered at the sheriff. “What’s the
difference where I got it? When you start harpin’ on anythin’, you never
know when to quit.”
“I ain’t harpin’; I just asked you where you got it.”
“Where I got it, eh? Ain’t that harpin’?”
“Well, I just asked you. You’re my deputy. Ain’t I got a right to ask
you where you got a new gun?”
“Got a right, yes.”
“Well, where didja get it, Oscar?”
“You mean, who did I get it _from_?”
“If that’s the answer, yes.”
“I didn’t get it from nobody.”
“Didja find it?”
Oscar got off the cot and hitched up his pants. He was mad enough to
tell where and how he got it—and he did.
The sheriff listened, open-mouthed, while Oscar described how he lost
the schoolteacher’s trunk in Stormy River, how he recovered it and
wanted to dry out the clothes, and where he found the new gun.
“And that answers your question, Pat,” he finished. “Now forgit it, will
you?”
“And you took the pearl handles off it and put ’em on your old smoke
wagon, eh? You traded guns—Oscar Johnson, you damn fool!”
The sheriff got to his feet and advanced on the cot, half choking, as he
tried to talk.
“O-o-oh, you damn fool!” he wailed. “Who had a new six-gun with pearl
handles? Who did? Tex Blanco! He lost it at that holdup. That’s what
them wimmin stopped and picked up. That teacher got it. She’s stuck on
Tex, Oscar. She put the gun in her trunk, and you—you traded—oh, my
soul! Oscar you’ve ruined the evidence!”
Oscar sat up, rubbing his nose. Then he got to his feet and hitched up
his pants. He looked at the sheriff sadly and shook his head.
“Well, you kept on harpin’ until you got an answer, didn’t you.
Curiosity killed the cat, and it made you pretty sick. Now what’ll we
do?”
“Keep our mouths shut!” snapped the sheriff. “If we ever let this get
out, they’ll laugh us out of the valley.”
“Well, I’m not goin’ to tell it. Didn’t I try to even keep it from you?”
“You jist the same as stole that gun.”
“I traded,” said Oscar firmly. “Mine had a heavy pull on the trigger,
and it throwed me off. Some day I might accidently kill somebody.”
The sheriff stumped around the office, while Oscar laid down again and
began rolling a cigaret. Finally the sheriff sat down again, holding his
head in his hands.
“If I had knowed about that gun—” said Oscar slowly. “But I never once
thought about the schoolma’am havin’ Tex’s gun in her trunk. Why should
I? I never even remembered that Tex had a pearl handle six-gun. I
remember it now.”
“It’s too late now. It’s an old gun that’s got the pearl handles on it
now. Tex could laugh at us.”
“Unless you might make that girl admit findin’ it, Pat. If you caught
her before she found that gun in the trunk. Even at that, she might not
see that the gun was different.”
“You mean we might bluff her into admittin’ that her and Mrs. Cooper
found the gun there?”
“Why not? If we could get the gun, without Tex seein’ it, we can change
the handles back again.”
“Yeah, we might do that.”
* * * * *
The sheriff sighed and lifted his head. It was worth a try. He started
to suggest something more, but stopped short. Hashknife Hartley was
standing in the doorway, leaning against the door frame, slowly rolling
a cigaret, his face very grave.
“We might bluff her,” said Oscar, “but she’s got to be talked to before
she empties that trunk, Pat. She’ll see it’s been tampered with, and
she’ll get scared and give Tex back his gun.”
Hashknife looked at Oscar, who was lying on his back, staring at the
ceiling, all oblivious to Hashknife’s presence. The sheriff cleared his
throat harshly, glared at Oscar murderously.
“It won’t be any job to change the handles,” said Oscar.
“Are you goin’ to keep runnin’ off at the mouth?” asked the sheriff
explosively.
Oscar sat up, took one look at Hashknife and sank back.
“He’s got the hoof-and-mouth disease,” said the sheriff wearily. “Every
time he opens his mouth he gets his foot in it.”
“The inquest didn’t amount to much,” said Hashknife.
“Not much. How could it?”
“Did Shearer have any relatives, Sheriff?”
“In Chicago, I think. Rice sent some telegrams, and we’ll wait to hear
what they want done with the body.”
“None around here, eh?”
“Matt Sturgis is a forty-second cousin, or somethin’ like that.”
“Sturgis of the TD outfit?”
“Yeah. Shearer worked over at Garnet quite a while. Nice sort of a
feller.”
“What kind of a person was Buck Dennig?”
“Wild as a hawk, but square as a die.”
“Get along well with Tolman?”
“Oh, shore.”
“Like hell!” snorted Oscar. “They used to quarrel a lot. You must
remember I worked for ’em.”
“Quarrel over what?” asked the sheriff. “I never heard it.”
“Over money. Cleve Tolman gambled on the stock markets, and he got stuck
a couple times pretty hard. Buck was a gambler, too, but not on the
markets. I heard ’em hot and heavy one night a year or so ago. I reckon
Cleve had used some of the partnership money. Anyway, they decided to
each bank their share after that.”
“I found out after Buck’s death that they had separate bank accounts,”
said the sheriff, “but I never knowed why.”
“Well, that was why,” said Oscar. “Buck shore was mad, and he gave
Tolman hell. I couldn’t help hearin’ it. I thought it was all off with
the partnership, but next day they was all right again. But outside of
their quarrels, they was good enough friends, I reckon.”
Hashknife left the office in a few minutes. He had heard enough to know
that in some way Oscar Johnson had found the gun in Marion’s trunk and
had left his gun in its place. And he had also heard enough to know that
the sheriff intended getting a confession, if possible, and recovering
the evidence.
But both the sheriff and deputy were afraid that Hashknife had heard too
much.
“I don’t _sabe_ that feller,” declared Oscar. “You don’t know whether
he’s for you or against you.”
“Well,” said the sheriff sadly, “he prob’ly knows that it ain’t Tex’s
gun in that trunk. He kinda antagonizes me.”
“You don’t suppose he’s in cahoots with Tex, do you?”
“You git some real bright ideas, Oscar. Nossir, Tex Blanco held up that
stage, as sure as shootin’. Mebby him and Judd. Anyway, there was more
than one man. We won’t do nothin’ now, Oscar. We’ll wait until dark, and
then go out to the B Arrow. We’ve got to take a chance that she ain’t
found that gun. And even if she has, she wouldn’t rec’nize it.”
“That’s a good idea,” applauded Oscar. “But I hope Tex ain’t there.
Anyway, he don’t know about that gun, so we’re safe, as far as that’s
concerned.”
Hashknife found Sleepy at the Stormy River bar talking with Frank Shell,
the owner of the saloon, and Dobe Severn. Matt Sturgis, Shorty Gallup
and Alex McLean were playing pool at the rear of the room.
“What became of old Luke Jones?” asked Hashknife.
“He went to Garnet this mornin’,” said Dobe. “Sobered up and pulled out,
I guess. He’ll probably get drunk in Garnet. He shore raised hell at the
TD. Got drunk on prune whisky and pot-shotted everythin’ around the
place.”
Hashknife wanted a chance to talk seriously with the old cook. Luke
Jones had admitted that he knew something, and Hashknife wanted to know
what that something might be. Sleepy went with him from the saloon, and
they crossed the street to the bank, which was closed. Hashknife knew
where John Rice lived. They found the old banker at home.
“I’ll tell you what I want to see,” explained Hashknife. “Buck Dennig
cashed a check for ten thousand dollars the afternoon of the night he
was killed, and I want to see that canceled check, if it still exists.”
“Why, I suppose it still exists,” said Rice. “But what is the idea of
you wanting to see it?”
“Curiosity, I reckon, Mr. Rice.”
“I’m sorry, but I—”
“Do you think Buck Dennig committed suicide?”
“That would have been impossible, Hartley.”
“And you don’t think he buried that ten thousand before he died, do
you?”
“Buried it? Why would he bury it?”
“All right, he was murdered and robbed. If it isn’t too much trouble,
I’d like to see that check.”
The old banker’s mild blue eyes wavered under the steady stare of the
gray ones, and he turned slowly on his heel.
“Wait until I get my hat,” he said. “I—I suppose there would be no harm
in it, Hartley.”
They walked back to the bank, where Rice unlocked it, and they went
inside. It did not take Rice long to find the check, along with Buck
Dennig’s statement and several other smaller checks, drawn by Buck.
Hashknife spread them all out on the counter and examined them closely.
He was not an expert on handwriting, but his eyes were keen. Finally he
took out the warning note he had received and examined it again.
The old banker did not seem interested. The canceled checks meant
nothing to Sleepy, who talked with Rice about the murder and robbery. It
seemed that there was a difference in the opinions of the several
directors of the bank, and no final decision had been made as to how
soon the bank would resume operations.
“I suppose Cleve Tolman has taken over the TD ranch, ain’t he?” asked
Hashknife.
“Yes,” nodded the banker. “I believe he has a court order to that
effect. Buck Dennig died intestate and, as far as any one knows, he has
no relatives. Naturally the ranch and all of Dennig’s personal goods
belong to Tolman.”
Hashknife folded up the statement and checks, handing them back to Rice.
“Thank you, Mr. Rice,” he said. “Keep those where we can get at ’em, in
case we need ’em again.”
“Yes, certainly. Are you a—a detective, Mr. Hartley?”
“Under the circumstances,” smiled Hashknife.
“What was the queer idea of lookin’ at them checks?” asked Sleepy, after
they left the bank.
“Just playin’ a hunch, Sleepy. After supper we’re ridin’ to Garnet to
have a talk with Luke Jones. I hope he’s sober enough to come clean, or
drunk enough to talk.”
“Have you hit the trail, cowboy?”
“I dunno. Anyway, I’ve got a couple blazes in sight.”
* * * * *
Marion did not discover that her trunk had been soaked in the river.
Mrs. Blanco had ordered one of the cowboys to move it into the room
Marion was occupying, and she had had no cause to open it. Little Jimmy
was so sick that both women spent most of their time in the room with
him.
Tex came in from work about five o’clock. The doctor had not been there
since morning, so Tex sent Corbett after him. Tex was pleased to find
that Marion’s trunk had been brought to the ranch. Neither Tex nor
Marion had mentioned that gun again, and Tex did not know that Marion
suspected Hashknife of overhearing what she had told Tex that night
about finding his gun at the scene of the holdup.
Tex had offered no explanation, no alibi. Marion did not want to believe
that Tex robbed that stage, but the evidence was all against him.
The doctor did not get there until after supper and he decided to stay
awhile and watch the patient. Mrs. Blanco sat in the bedroom with the
doctor and Andy Hastings, while Tex and Marion sat in front of the
fireplace in the living room.
“It’s funny how things break,” said Tex. “Who would ever have bet on any
kind of odds that you would ever be stayin’ here at the B Arrow,
Marion?”
“I suppose not.”
“But I’m glad you are. I’m sorry for little Jimmy, but his sickness
brought me luck. It gave me a chance to see you for more than a minute
at a time.”
Marion stared in the flames, her chin resting in her palm.
“I know what you’re thinkin’,” he said slowly. “I’m no fool. You’re
thinkin’ how much better it would be if I was a respectable citizen,
instead of a man under suspicion of bein’ a murderer, stage robber and a
lot of other crimes.”
“I wasn’t thinking of that, Tex,” she said quickly.
“But I am, you know.”
“I don’t know it, Tex.”
They sat there together for a long time, saying nothing, while the
flames crackled in the old fireplace. Finally Tex walked over to a
table, picked up an old photograph album and brought it over to Marion.
“Some of the old Blanco family,” he said, opening the old book. “Oh,
they were respectable enough, I suppose. I’m the black sheep of the
family. Some of those tintypes are rather good. There’s my father, when
he was twenty. I reckon he was a gay young blade of Seville. Always
wanted to be a bull fighter, he said. Came to California to pick up gold
on the streets.”
Tex laughed shortly.
“Didn’t find the gold, so he went into the cattle business—and found it.
That next one is an uncle of mine. He was a bull fighter in Mexico City,
until he found a bull that was color blind. Saw the man instead of the
red cloth.”
Mrs. Blanco came from the bedroom.
“The doctor is still there,” she said. “He thinks the lad is gettin’
along well.”
“I was just showing Marion some old pictures,” said Tex smiling.
“Aye, and they’re old, too,” smiled Mrs. Blanco.
Some kodak pictures had been left between the leaves of the album and,
as Tex started to gather them up, Marion stopped him and took one of the
pictures. It was a very good snapshot of Tex and another man, standing
close together, holding their big hats in their hands, with a corner of
a corral fence for a background. The faces were well lighted.
Marion stared at the picture for several moments, and her face was white
as she looked up at Tex.
“Who is that—that man with you, Tex?” she asked.
“That?” Tex laughed shortly. “That’s Buck Dennig.”
“Buck Dennig? The man who was—who was killed?”
“Yes, Marion. Go ahead and say it.”
“Buck Dennig?”
“It was taken about five years ago, Marion.”
“Did you know anything about him, Tex?”
“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Mrs. Blanco. “Your face is all white,
lass.”
Marion shook her head, and her hands trembled, as she examined the
picture again, staring down at the smiling face of Buck Dennig.
“Nobody knew much about him,” said Tex. “He had no relatives, I guess.
He never spoke about his past. I don’t—”
Came a sharp knock on the front door. Tex walked over and opened the
door, admitting the sheriff and deputy. They did not stop to wait for an
invitation to enter. Oscar stopped at the doorway, while the sheriff
advanced toward Marion and Mrs. Blanco. Tex still had his hand on the
door.
“I’ve been talkin’ to Mrs. Cooper,” said the sheriff, addressing Marion.
“She didn’t want to get in bad with the law, so she talked quite a lot.
Now, it’s your turn. I want that pearl-handled six-shooter you’ve got in
your trunk.”
Marion’s face was whiter now, as she looked up at the grim-faced
sheriff, her mind trying to conceive that Ma Cooper had divulged their
secret.
“What pearl-handled six-shooter are you talkin’ about?” demanded Tex.
The sheriff did not turn his head, as he replied:
“That’s my business with this young lady. You keep out of it.”
“That’s what I say,” growled Oscar, trying to keep his nerve.
“Mrs. Cooper told you?” Marion’s voice was a whisper.
“Shore thing. Now, you dig up that gun. I could put you in jail for
doin’ a thing like that. Hurry up.”
“What did she tell you?” asked Marion weakly.
“About you findin’ that gun at the holdup. We know whose gun it is, and
we’re goin’—”
Tex acted quickly. In fact he acted so quickly that Oscar Johnson’s feet
went from under him and he fell along the wall, clawing for support, his
holster dangling empty. When the sheriff turned, Oscar crashed down on
the floor, and they heard the porch railing creak, as Tex vaulted it.
The sheriff sprang toward the doorway, while Oscar swore bitterly and
got back to his feet, feeling for his gun, which Tex had taken away.
“Let him go!” snapped the sheriff. “We’ll get him, Oscar. What we want
right now is that six-gun. Where’s the trunk?”
But before Marion could tell him, from somewhere out in the darkness
came the thudding report of a revolver shot. In another moment came a
spatter of shots, as if several guns were discharged close together. In
possibly five seconds there were three more shots, spaced about two
seconds apart.
The sheriff and deputy seemed rooted to the spot, unable to understand
what it was all about. Outside, somebody was shouting questions; a man
swore wonderingly. Frank Judd ran up the steps to the front door and
stepped inside, staring at the sheriff and deputy.
“What in hell is goin’ on around here?” he demanded.
“God knows, I don’t,” said the sheriff.
* * * * *
Someone came into the kitchen, and they all went into the dining room.
It was Hashknife Hartley, half carrying, half dragging Sleepy Stevens.
Hashknife’s face was white in the lamplight. The doctor had stepped out
from the bedroom, and now he went straight to Hashknife.
“In here,” said Mrs. Blanco, “on the couch. Don’t lay him on the floor.”
Judd grasped Sleepy’s feet, and they carried him into the living room
couch.
“For God’s sake, what happened?” asked the sheriff.
He had forgotten all about the trunk.
Hashknife shook his head, his lips shut tightly, while the doctor cut
away Sleepy’s vest and shirt, trying to determine the extent of his
injuries. So interested were they that they did not see Tex Blanco
return.
Marion was first to see him. He was standing in the doorway, leaning
weakly against the wall, while the left shoulder of his pale blue silk
shirt was gradually assuming a scarlet cast. The blood seemed to have
drained from his face, and his brown eyes were filled with pain.
“Tex!” whispered Marion. “Oh, Tex, you’re hurt!”
“It’s all right,” he said weakly. “I’m all right.”
Hashknife stepped over and helped Tex to a chair, where he slumped
wearily. Hashknife tore away the shirt and began mopping away the blood.
Tex had been shot rather high up through the shoulder. From the way he
carried his arm, Hashknife felt sure that no bones were broken.
“In the name of God, what happened?” demanded the sheriff. “Who done all
the shootin’, anyway, Hartley?”
Hashknife shook his head and watched the doctor.
“Nasty wound,” said the doctor. “Rib probably saved his life. Broke the
rib, but turned the bullet. Went all the way through, but turned aside
enough to give him a mighty good chance. Mrs. Blanco, will you get me
plenty of hot water and cloths?”
He got up from the floor and walked over to Tex, who was gritting his
teeth to keep upright.
“Lucky all around,” muttered the doctor. “Clean through and never
touched the bone. Miss Evans, you can help me, if you will.”
He had noticed that Marion was on the verge of keeling over in a faint,
so he used these means of bracing her nerve.
“Go out and help Mrs. Blanco fix the water. Nobody is going to die, my
dear. Regular hospital, we’ve got here. Sheriff, if you can’t think of
anything else to do, try closing your mouth. It has been open for five
minutes.”
“Well!” snorted the sheriff. “Won’t nobody tell me what happened? Two
wounded men, and no explanation.”
“I don’t know, Sheriff,” said Hashknife, looking down at Sleepy. “We
rode in here, down by the gate, and somebody shot Sleepy. I didn’t know
he was hit until he fell off near the back door out there. I was
shootin’ at the flashes.”
“I shot at somebody,” muttered Tex, “but they shot me first. There was a
lot of shootin’, I think.”
“Plenty,” said Hashknife grimly.
“Why did you come out here, Hartley?” asked the sheriff.
“Why did you come out here?” retorted Hashknife.
“I guess you knew why. I came out here to get that gun, and I’m goin’ to
get it. You keep your nose out of my business, will you? I’ve got the
goods on Tex Blanco, and I’ll put that girl in jail with him for tryin’
to destroy evidence. I don’t know what your game is, but you better not
monkey with the law.”
“I’m not monkeyin’ with the law,” said Hashknife.
He looked at Frank Judd, who had been shifting around nervously.
“Go and get Miss Evans’ trunk and bring it here, Judd.”
“You never mind!” snapped the sheriff. “I’ll get that there trunk and—”
“Aw, quit bluffin’,” said Hashknife. “Get the trunk, Judd.”
Judd brought the trunk and placed it in the center of the room.
“Open it up and find a six-shooter in it, will you?” requested
Hashknife.
The sheriff swore impotently, as Judd dug deeply in the trunk. Mrs.
Blanco and Marion came in, bringing the hot water and cloths. Marion
stopped short at the sight of Frank Judd digging in her trunk. Finally
he straightened up, holding the pearl-handled gun in his hand.
Hashknife took it from him and showed it to Marion.
“Is that the gun you found at the place of the holdup?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Fine,” smiled Hashknife.
He walked over to Tex and held it before him.
“Is that your gun, Tex?” he asked.
Tex stared at it for a moment and looked up at Hashknife blankly.
“That’s not my gun,” he said evenly. “My gun was new.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Hashknife seriously.
He turned the gun over in his hands, looking at it closely.
“There’s two initials scratched on the bottom of the trigger guard,” he
said slowly. “Looks like O. J.”
Hashknife looked keenly at Oscar Johnson, but the deputy was not
interested enough to look at him. Hashknife stepped over and handed the
gun to the sheriff.
“There’s your evidence, Sheriff.”
The sheriff’s face was a study in mixed emotions. He knew that the
evidence was ruined now. His idea was to have secured the gun, switched
the handles again, and to swear that the new gun was the one found in
the trunk. He looked at Oscar and longed to bend the gun over his thick
head. But all he could do was to accept defeat gracefully.
“All right, Hartley,” he said thickly. “You’ll hear more of this later.
I’m not through with you—yet.”
“Well, that’s fine, Sheriff.”
* * * * *
Oscar followed the sheriff away from the ranch, glad to be out of the
house, while Hashknife and Judd helped the doctor. Sleepy was still
unconscious when they put him to bed. Hashknife wanted to take him to
town, but the doctor would not listen to him.
“Right here he stays, Hartley, and right here I stay.”
Tex refused to go to bed, but stretched out on the couch. He had lost
considerable blood, and the heavy bullet had shocked him badly, but he
felt better now. There were too many things to talk about for him to
think of going to sleep.
He wanted to know how Oscar Johnson’s revolver happened to be in
Marion’s trunk. He listened in amazement to what Hashknife told him. Of
course, Hashknife did not hear all the story, but he had heard the
sheriff and deputy say enough for him to build up the rest of the story.
“And you knew they would come after that gun tonight?” asked Marion.
“Wasn’t sure, but I knew they intended to come and get it. They didn’t
want Tex to see that gun, until after they had switched handles again.”
“You saved my bacon, Hartley,” said Tex wearily. “They’ve got the goods
on me, I guess. But I want you to know that I’m mighty grateful for what
you’ve done for me.”
“How grateful, Blanco?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Hartley.”
“Grateful enough to tell me about that holdup?”
“To tell you what about it?”
“How your pearl-handled gun happened to be there.”
“Looks as though I lost it, don’t it?”
“Let’s stop sparrin’ around, Blanco. Where was you when that stage was
robbed?”
Tex turned his head and stared at the fire several minutes, while they
waited for him to speak.
“I didn’t try to prove any alibi,” he said slowly. “I’m not a good liar,
and this sounds like a lie. Nobody would believe it, so I kept still.
The night before the holdup I was goin’ to Garnet to the dance.
“I left the house and went down to the stable to get my horse. As I
stepped into the stable, somethin’ hit me on the head, and I didn’t know
anythin’ for quite a while. When I woke up I was tied tight, gagged and
blindfolded. I had an awful headache and a thirst. You’ve read about men
gettin’ loose from ropes? Well, I couldn’t. I reckon I rubbed all the
skin off my wrists.
“I don’t know how long it was before somebody came. I knew it was
daylight, because I had felt the sun for a long time. They unfastened my
legs and helped me to my feet, but didn’t say a word. It was hard for me
to stand up, even when I braced my legs.
“Then a man spoke to me and said he was goin’ to cut my hands loose. He
told me to leave the bandage on my eyes until I could count a hundred,
before I took it off. He warned me that he was counting, too, and if I
took it off too quick, he’d kill me. Then he cut my hands loose.
“My gun was gone. I felt for it first. I counted a hundred before I took
off that blindfold and gag. Then I found myself in a little clearing in
the brush, about two miles from here. My horse was there, tied to a
snag. My head was so sore I had to wear my hat on one side of my head,
and I was so thirsty I couldn’t talk. So I came home. I told mother,
because she would believe.”
“Sounds reasonable,” said Hashknife seriously.
“Don’t say that,” replied Tex. “It sounds like a badly told lie.”
“And somebody stole your gun, trying to make them think you robbed the
stage!” exclaimed Marion.
“If you believe my story,” sighed Tex. “I can’t hardly believe it
myself.”
“Oh, I’m glad I found that gun. Suppose the sheriff had found it, Tex.”
“I’d be in jail, I suppose. But, Marion, just before the sheriff came in
tonight, you were looking at Buck Dennig’s picture. What was it all
about?”
Marion went to her trunk and, after a few moments, she came back and
handed Tex a picture of a man.
“Why, that’s Buck!” he said. “Buck Dennig.”
“My brother,” said Marion softly. “Blaine Evans.”
“It’s Buck Dennig all right,” said Judd. “Little younger, but it’s Buck,
just the same, Miss Evans.”
“Then Buck Dennig was my brother.”
The doctor examined the picture, nodding slowly.
“That is the man we knew as Buck Dennig, Miss Evans.”
“That’s somethin’ to shock Cleve Tolman,” grinned Judd.
“They say I killed Buck Dennig,” said Tex bitterly. “And I haven’t even
a good lie to use as an alibi. We quarreled that night. I reckon I would
have killed him, because he called me a thief.”
“I don’t believe you killed him,” said Marion.
“Well, I can’t prove it, Marion. I suppose they are sayin’ that I killed
Guy Shearer and robbed the bank.”
Hashknife reached in his pocket and drew out the hondo, which bore the
brand of the B Arrow, and held it down in front of Tex.
“Who owns that hondo, Tex?” he asked.
Tex stared at it for a moment and took it in his good hand.
“That’s mine,” he said. “Where did you get it, Hartley?”
“On the floor of the bank, when we found Shearer. The rope was there,
too, but the hondo had been cut off.”
Tex stared at the hondo, turning it over in his hand.
“You found that on the floor—my rope and hondo?”
“The sheriff has the rope, I reckon. You can’t identify a rope.”
“Does he know you’ve got this hondo?”
“Nope, I sneaked it off the floor.”
Tex lay back on his pillow and closed his eyes wearily.
“And I’ve got no lie to tell about that,” he said. “I don’t know who nor
what you are, Hartley, but you’ve sure been a friend to me. That
evidence would hang me.”
“I suppose it would. Did you lose the rope?”
“I don’t know. Never missed it if I did.”
“Any of your boys carry a marked hondo?”
“I don’t think so. Do you know any, Frank?”
Judd shook his head quickly.
“I guess not, Tex.”
Hashknife put the hondo on the mantel.
“I’m goin’ to Garnet,” he told them. “Take good care of Sleepy, will
you? He means more to me than anythin’ on earth. I don’t like to run
away, when he’s bogged down thataway, but he knows me and he’ll
understand why I went.”
And without another word he went out to his horse and mounted in the
dark.
“We better get you into a bed, Tex,” suggested the doctor. “You probably
don’t realize that you are badly hurt.”
“Yeah, I realize it, Doc,” said Tex, “but I’m all right, except that I
don’t know what it is all about. Who shot Stevens and me, I wonder? What
was it all about, anyway?”
“I wish I knew,” said Judd. “Andy is asleep in the bunkhouse, and Tommy
and Kit are in Pineville. I ran out of the bunkhouse, when the shootin’
started, but I couldn’t see anybody. Who would want to shoot ’em, Tex?”
“Search me. I think the sheriff was mad enough to shoot somebody, but
he’s no bushwhacker. Who are these two men, I wonder? Nobody seems to
know much about ’em.”
“They seem all right,” said Marion softly.
“They _are_ all right,” declared Tex. “They’ve proved it to me. How
badly is Stevens hurt, Doc?”
“Bad enough to lay him up for awhile.”
The doctor went back to where Sleepy was lying. Little Jimmy had decided
to sleep through it all, and the doctor was satisfied with his
condition.
* * * * *
It was nearly midnight when Hashknife reached Garnet. He tied his horse
at a hitchrack near the Overland Saloon, the big gambling house of the
town, and went in. The place was fairly well filled and a number of
games were running full blast.
Hashknife went along to the bar, where he stopped and looked over the
room, which was hazy with tobacco smoke. He wanted to find Luke Jones,
and he expected to find the hardboiled old TD cook where the drinks came
fast.
The room buzzed with conversation, the click of chips, the droning
voices of the dealers, while glasses clicked at the bar and spurs rasped
along the metal bar rail.
No one paid any attention to the tall cowboy who leaned against the bar,
smoking a cigaret. At the rear of the room were a number of tables,
where drinks were served. The three piece orchestra struck up a dance,
and several of the chap-clad gentry tramped around the small dance space
with the girls, having a boisterous time.
Suddenly a girl screamed, and her scream was punctuated by the thudding
jar of a revolver shot. The room was in an uproar in a moment. The girls
scattered like a bevy of frightened quail. Hashknife shoved his way
through the crowd and found himself against a table which had been upset
by someone who stood not upon their manner of going.
A man was lying flat on his back on the floor and, against the wall,
standing alone, gun in hand, was Cleve Tolman, owner of the TD outfit.
Some men were moving in closer to him and he eyed them with evident
hostility.
“Keep away from me,” warned Tolman. “I shot in self defense, that’s
all.”
“That’s right,” said a cowboy, who had evidently seen the shooting. “The
other feller went for his gun.”
“Thank you,” said Tolman coldly.
He looked around and saw Hashknife, looking at him across the table.
“Somebody ought to get a doctor for him,” he said, and several men left
the saloon.
Tolman slowly replaced the gun in his holster.
Hashknife stepped in close and looked at the man on the floor. It was
old Luke Jones, ex-cook of the TD. Another man knelt down and lifted the
old man’s head and shoulders. But old Luke wasn’t dead. He groaned a
couple of times and opened his eyes. It seemed as if he had some
difficulty in realizing what had happened.
“Been drinkin’ quite a lot,” said one of the men.
Luke looked at him, but shifted his eyes to Hashknife.
“Where’s Tolman?” he asked hoarsely. “Didn’t I git him?”
“I guess you didn’t,” said Hashknife. “Never mind. Just take it easy,
old-timer; the doctor will get here in a few minutes.”
“Aw, to hell with the doctor! I’ve got mine, I guess. So he beat me to
it, eh? First time that’s ever happened, too. He wouldn’t pay me to keep
my mouth shut, Tolman wouldn’t. All I wanted was a thousand dollars.
That ain’t much.” He blinked around at the faces and added, “To keep
yore mouth shut.”
“Shut about what?” asked Hashknife softly.
“About Buck Dennig. I told him to give me the money or I’ll talk. He
called me a dirty black somethin’, and I went for my gun. Where is he,
the dirty sidewinder? Buck was my friend. I knowed more about Buck than
anybody. Buck’s got relatives. He’s got a mother and a sister. Tolman
didn’t know it until tonight. He called me a dirty liar, and then killed
me to keep me from tellin’ it.”
“You ain’t dead yet,” said one of the men.
“No, but I’m close to it. And this here Western country loses a good man
when I cash in. Where’s that doctor? Where’s Tolman?”
“Who killed Buck Dennig?” asked Hashknife.
“I dunno. Think I’d let him live, if I knowed. You’re Hartley, ain’t
you? I ’member you. Are you a damned detective?”
“Do I look like one?” smiled Hashknife.
“Why don’tcha go and arrest Tex Blanco if you are?”
“Did Tex Blanco kill him, Luke?”
“I dunno. Gimme a drink, can’tcha? How bad does a man have to be hurt
before he gets a drink. Where’s that doctor? I’m bleedin’ to death, I
tell you.”
“Listen to me, Luke,” said Hashknife seriously. “What do you know about
the killin’ of Buck Dennig? What do you know about that ten thousand
they stole from him?”
Luke blinked painfully.
“I think Tolman knew,” he said hoarsely. “They quarreled the mornin’
Buck drawed that money. I heard some of it. Tolman gambled for big
money. Buck tried to stop him. I didn’t hear it all, but I know Tolman
said, ‘We split here, Buck. I’ll buy or sell. Ten thousand down and the
rest on time.’ That’s what I heard that mornin’. Tolman knows, damn his
dirty hide!”
The doctor came elbowing his way through the crowd, and Hashknife got to
his feet. That end of the room was packed solid with interested
humanity, but Tolman had vanished. Hashknife did not wait to hear the
doctor’s verdict, but went back to his horse.
He was no nearer a solution than he was before. But he knew now that
Cleve Tolman and Buck Dennig had quarreled, and that Tolman knew Buck
was to draw that money. Evidently Buck had decided to buy out Tolman’s
interest in the TD, and had drawn the money to make the initial payment.
And it was also evident that old Luke Jones had tried to blackmail
Tolman out of a thousand dollars, knowing that his evidence might
convict Tolman. As far as the shooting was concerned, Tolman would have
little trouble in proving self defense, but he might have trouble in
explaining away what old Luke had told about him.
But there were other things that Hashknife had discovered, little things
which no one else had considered. He rode back to the B Arrow and found
only Mrs. Blanco and the doctor awake. The doctor assured Hashknife that
all the patients were doing as well as might be expected; so Hashknife
rode on to Pineville, knowing that all the beds were filled at the
ranch.
There was a light in the sheriff’s office. Hashknife tied his horse and
knocked on the door. The sheriff, half dressed, came to the door and
glared icily at Hashknife.
“F’r God’s sake, what are you doin’ around here?” he demanded. “I hoped
you wouldn’t never come back.”
“I saw a light,” grinned Hashknife. “The rest of Pineville is fast
asleep. You’re up late, ain’t you?”
“Aw, hell! C’mon in. I think I’d like to talk with you.”
* * * * *
Hashknife followed him in and the sheriff shut the door. Oscar, the
deputy, was stretched out on a cot, snoring. The sheriff sat down at his
desk and motioned Hashknife to a chair near him.
“Set down,” he growled. “I swore to myself that I’d curry you with a
six-gun if you ever came in here again.”
“Oh, you never want to feel thataway about anybody, Sheriff.”
“You made me so damn mad. What are you tryin’ to do, anyway? Goin’ down
to the B Arrow and—”
“Keepin’ you from gettin’ Oscar’s gun?”
“The big jughead!”
“How does it come you’re up so late—or early?”
“You don’t know, eh? Well, I’ll tell you why. Fifteen minutes ago Cleve
Tolman left here. He was here for half an hour, and he told me about
havin’ to shoot Luke Jones.”
“Yeah?” Hashknife smiled. “Tell you why he shot him?”
“Old Luke had been drinkin’; kinda got loco and opined to kill Cleve,
didn’t he?”
“Did Tolman tell you I was there, Sheriff?”
“He said you was. You didn’t see the shootin’, didja?”
“Nope. Oh, I reckon he shot in self defense.”
“He said he did. Hartley—” the sheriff stretched wearily—“who shot your
pardner at the B Arrow?”
“Who knows?”
“Was it Tex Blanco?”
“I never thought of that.”
“Did you shoot Tex Blanco?”
“I hope not.”
“Mm-m-m-m. Was Luke Jones dead when you left Garnet?”
“Nope. I don’t know how badly he was hurt.”
“Why did you go from the B Arrow to Garnet?”
“Exercisin’ my bronc.”
“Oh, I see. I suppose you were just exercisin’ your bronc, when you went
out to the B Arrow.”
“No, I went out there to keep you from makin’ a fool of yourself.”
“To keep me? You’re crazy. Hartley, sometimes I like you. Yes, sir, I
think you’re fine, when you mind your own business; but right here and
now I want to tell you to keep your long nose out of my business. I can
run my office.”
“Then you don’t need any help a-tall?”
“You’re damn right, I don’t!”
“You can catch’m all by yourself, eh?”
“All the catchin’ I need, yes.”
“You ought to run Scotland Yard.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh, a little corral they’ve got in London.”
“I dunno anythin’ about that, but I do _sabe_ my own job.”
“You must be a great help to the county.”
The sheriff glowered at his sock-clad feet and wiggled the big toe of
his left foot, which protruded through a hole in the wool.
“I reckon I can get along without your help,” he said wearily.
“That’s fine. Did Tolman tell you why he had to shoot Luke Jones?”
“He said Luke was loco and imagined things. Wanted Cleve to pay him a
thousand dollars or he’d tell somethin’. Cleve said he didn’t know what
it was he was goin’ to tell.”
“Tolman didn’t wait to see if Luke died.”
“That don’t mean anythin’. He shot in self defense.”
“I suppose you’d like it fine if I’d go away and let you sleep, wouldn’t
you, Sheriff?”
“I sure would.”
The sheriff didn’t tell him goodby, but he did slam the door rather
hard, after Hashknife was outside. Hashknife laughed to himself and went
to the hotel.
* * * * *
Doctor Brent did not leave the B Arrow until morning. All of his
patients were doing well, due to the fact that he had been on the spot
to handle their wounds at once. Sleepy was in worse shape than Tex, but
told the doctor that if he saw Hashknife he should tell him that
everything was fine.
The doctor met Hashknife in front of the hotel and delivered the
message. By this time nearly every one in Pineville knew of the shooting
at the B Arrow, and many had heard of the shooting of Luke Jones at
Garnet.
Hashknife was passing the post office, when Henry Goff, the postmaster,
accosted him from the doorway.
“I’ve got a letter for you, Hartley,” he said. “Sent to you in care of
the sheriff, but he don’t call for his mail until after the stage gets
in this afternoon, and I thought it might be important.”
Hashknife thanked him and went in to get the letter. It was in a plain
envelope, slightly soiled, and the penciled line inside read:
We got one of you and you’re next.
—THE BUNCH.
Hashknife compared it with the other letter he had from The Bunch, and
it did not require a practised eye to see that the messages had not been
written by the same person. In fact they were not alike in any detail.
Hashknife smiled to himself and went down to the sheriff’s office, where
he found Oscar Johnson.
“Pat’s gone out to the B Arrow,” he told Hashknife. “The things that
happened out there last night has got him kinda pawin’ his head. He
knowed you wasn’t out there, so he went out. Said he might git at the
bottom of things if you wasn’t around to horn in and spoil the deal. My
stars, but he was mad about that six-shooter deal!”
Hashknife showed Oscar the warning.
“By golly, they mean business, don’t they?” exclaimed Oscar. “So it was
The Bunch who shot Stevens and Tex. That lets Tex out, unless Tex—”
“Unless Tex what?”
“Well,” said Oscar slowly, “Tex was out there and got mixed up in the
shootin’.”
“Did he do any shootin’?”
“I’ll be darned if I know. He had my gun, you know, and I forgot to take
it away from him when he came back in.”
“So there’s no way of connectin’ Tex with the shootin’.”
“Not a bit,” wailed Oscar. “There’s a lot of things happenin’ around
here, and always there ain’t no clue. Somethin’ wipes out the evidence.
Me and Pat are jist about disgusted.”
“Were you awake when Cleve Tolman came here last night—or rather this
mornin’?”
“Shore, partly. He shot Luke Jones in Garnet.”
“I know all about that part of it. I was there.”
“Oh, yeah, I think Pat mentioned it. He wondered what you was doin’
there. Tolman said that old Luke was loco from too much drink. Demanded
a thousand dollars from Tolman and started to draw a gun on Tolman, when
Tolman wouldn’t give him the money. Old Luke has been makin’ his own
liquor at the TD, and that kinda stuff will make you crazy.”
Hashknife did not tell Oscar what Luke Jones had said. He knew that the
story would circulate fast enough, anyway. It was nearly noon when the
sheriff came back from the B Arrow, and he was not in a pleasant frame
of mind. Hashknife came down to his office and inquired about the sick
and injured at the ranch.
“I didn’t see ’em,” growled the sheriff. “Old lady Blanco wouldn’t let
me in the house. Said the doctor gave her orders to not let anybody in
to see ’em. But I saw Miss Evans and I shore told her about that gun.
She sent one of the punchers to Mrs. Cooper, with a note, askin’ her why
she told me what she did. And now, by God, I’ve got to apologize to Mrs.
Cooper.”
“She didn’t confess, eh?”
“Hell, no! I lied to get a confession.”
“Lyin’ seems to be a popular pastime around here.”
“Oh, go to hell!”
Hashknife laughed softly.
“Pat Lynch, who do you think killed Buck Dennig?”
“I dunno. My Lord, if I knowed—”
“Who robbed that stage?”
“Tex Blanco.”
“Who killed Shearer and robbed the bank?”
“I dunno.”
“The only thing you’re sure of is that Tex Blanco robbed the stage, eh?”
“That’s all.”
“All right. Just for the sake of an argument, how often is money carried
on that stage?”
The sheriff looked sharply at Hashknife.
“Not very often, I’d say.”
“Would Tex know enough about it to pick the right day?”
“Not unless he was told.”
“Who could tell him—Windy March?”
“By God, I’ll bet he could.”
“If the money was sent to Windy, he might.”
“What are you drivin’ at? Are you protectin’ Tex Blanco? And what’s all
this talk about? What’s all this to you? It seems to me that you’re
takin’ a lot of interest in all this stuff. Tex lost his gun after he
held up that stage, and them women found it. If it hadn’t been for
Oscar, the Swede jughead, we’d have Tex in jail. And if it hadn’t been
for you, we’d have had him, anyway. I could jail you for what you done.”
“Yeah? And I could have made Stormy River County laugh you out of the
state of Wyoming. Anyway—” seriously—“you always want to look before you
leap, Sheriff. Look at this.”
He let the sheriff read his latest warning.
“Tex never posted that,” declared Hashknife. “He hasn’t written a line
since Sleepy got shot, and he couldn’t have known that The Bunch was
goin’ to get one of us.”
“You ought to be a detective, Hartley. Still, you wouldn’t be much use,
because you’re always goin’ around provin’ that everybody is innocent.
Heffner’s yellin’ his head off for a chance to convict somebody. The
county commissioners are ridin’ him, and he’s ridin’ me. I’m ready to
quit.”
“You hadn’t ought to do that, Sheriff. There’s worse sheriffs than you
are.”
“Where?” asked Lynch bluntly.
“Well, I just can’t answer you off-hand.”
“That’s supposed to be funny, ain’t it?”
“It’s all in your point of view, Sheriff.”
When the stage arrived that afternoon, Windy March brought the
information that Luke Jones wasn’t dead and wasn’t liable to die until
his appointed time.
“Danged old wood-rat wasn’t hurt much,” laughed Windy. “Swore he was
dyin’, they tell me. Had a pint of whisky in the inside pocket of his
coat, and the bullet smashed it all to hell, cracked one of Luke’s ribs
and tunneled under the skin plumb around to his back.
“The doctor dug the bullet out, tied a few yards of bandage around Luke
and let him go. Luke was plenty sick, but he went back to the Overland
Saloon and celebrated his resurrection by gettin’ as drunk as a boiled
owl. I seen him this mornin’, settin’ on the sidewalk, runnin’ a rag
through his six-gun and singin’ to himself.”
As Windy was telling them about Luke Jones, Bud Hough drove through town
in a buckboard, accompanied by a short, heavy set man, dressed in black.
Bud waved at the men around the stage, but the other man merely nodded.
“I wondered what Bud was doin’ in Garnet,” said Windy. “Must have been
there to git that feller. I seen him git off the train.”
“Prob’ly somebody visitin’ Tolman,” said Oscar.
* * * * *
Hashknife rode out to the B Arrow that afternoon and found Sleepy
getting along fine. Tex was around the house, bandaged, and wearing his
left arm in a sling. Little Jimmy’s fever had been broken, and their
greatest concern was to keep him quiet.
Sleepy didn’t remember getting hit. He had heard one shot fired and
remembered reaching for his gun. The rest of it was a complete blank. He
was anxious to know what Hashknife had accomplished, but Hashknife was
unable to tell him anything, except about the gun fight between Tolman
and Luke Jones.
Hashknife did not tell him about the last warning, because it would only
serve to worry Sleepy. He met Marion on the front porch, as he was
leaving, and she told him that Mrs. Cooper had denied telling the
sheriff about finding that gun.
“The sheriff told me,” laughed Hashknife. “It was one way of gettin’ you
to confess, you see. It’s been done many times. What are you goin’ to do
about provin’ that Buck Dennig was your brother?”
“I don’t know. But that can wait. I asked the doctor to not mention it
to any one, and I wish you would do the same.”
“Shore, it’s all right with me.”
Marion stood with her hands on the rail, staring off across the hills.
“Just to think that Blaine came away out here, hiding from the world,
and made a success. And that fate sent me out here, too—but too late to
find him. Do you believe in fate, Mr. Hartley?”
“Yes’m.”
“Did fate send you here to help us—me, I mean?”
“You might say she did, Miss Evans—fate and necessity.”
“Necessity?”
“We needed the money, I reckon.”
“But why would anybody wish to kill you and Mr. Stevens?”
“Well,” smiled Hashknife, “I reckon they believe in fate, too; and
they’re afraid the cards might fall wrong, with us in the game.”
“Do you believe Tex Blanco robbed that stage?”
“Do you, Miss Evans?”
“I did.”
“So did I.”
“The sheriff believes he did, Mr. Hartley. Oh, I suppose many other
folks believe he did; and how in the world can he ever prove his
innocence?”
“They can’t prove his guilt, Miss Evans.”
“Would you want to go through life that way?”
“It is kinda tough. I can see his point of view. No jury on earth would
believe his story of what happened to him the night before the robbery.
I believe him, even if it does sound fishy. I shore hope that some
day—Miss Evans, you kinda like Tex Blanco, don’tcha?”
Marion turned away and walked to the end of the porch.
“Aw, shucks!” grunted Hashknife. “I wasn’t tryin’ to act smart and pry
into your affairs. I’m no blind man. And love ain’t nothin’ to make fun
about. Don’t get sore about it and put ground glass in Sleepy’s mush.”
Marion was laughing, and Hashknife crossed the porch to her.
“You ain’t sore at me? Gee, that’s great. Are you goin’ to marry Tex
Blanco?”
Marion shook her head slowly.
“Gee, that’s great!”
Marion turned quickly and she was not laughing now.
“What is great about it?”
“To think that a pretty girl really has sense. I shore was scared you
was goin’ to marry him.”
“What is that to you?” she asked, her eyes snapping.
“Nothin’ to me, of course, except that I don’t like to see a pretty girl
throw herself away on a man with a reputation like he’s got. Tex is
virtually an outlaw. He’s just out of jail, because they can’t put the
deadwood on him. They all know he’s guilty, but they can’t prove it. You
couldn’t marry a man like him, Miss Evans. You’d ruin your life. When
they told me you was liable to marry him, I didn’t believe it. I got one
look at you and I said you had too many brains for a thing like that.
I’m glad I’m right. It ain’t often I’m mistaken in human nature.”
“Thank you,” she said icily, turning to the door. “I’m inclined to agree
with the sheriff, when he says that you have a nasty habit of meddling
in affairs which do not belong to you.”
She closed the door behind her, leaving Hashknife alone on the porch. He
leaned against a porch post, a twinkle in his gray eyes, the corner of
his wide mouth twisting to a grin. He went slowly down to the ground and
walked around to his horse.
Tex came striding out through the kitchen and halted Hashknife. It was
not difficult for Hashknife to see that Tex was mad. He came up to
Hashknife, who was standing beside his gray horse.
“What did you say to Miss Evans, Hartley?” he demanded.
“Why, I dunno,” he answered innocently. “What did she say?”
“She didn’t say anythin’, but I know you did, because she was cryin’.
Lemme tell you somethin’, Hartley; you—”
“You didn’t ask her if she was mad, didja?”
“She was cryin’, I tell you.”
“Sometimes folks cry when they’re glad, Blanco.”
Tex glanced back toward the house.
“Glad?” He turned and looked at Hashknife. “What has she got to be glad
over?”
“I dunno, I’m sure. You might ask her?”
“Yeah, I might.”
“Does your shoulder hurt, Blanco?”
“Not very much. I can stand the pain all right. You didn’t hurt her
feelin’s, did you?”
“I tried to be easy. Blanco, did you ask her to marry you?”
“I did not,” firmly.
“Why don’tcha?”
“I’m no fool, Hartley. How could a man in my position ask a girl to
marry him? She’d be a fool to marry me.”
“That’s what I told her—and she got mad at me.”
“You—uh—” Tex opened and shut his mouth several times, while Hashknife
swung easily to his saddle.
“You’d be a fool to ask her, and she’d be a fool to accept,” said
Hashknife, gathering up his reins, “but go ahead. If men and women
didn’t marry because they knew they were fools, we’d run out of
population in a little while.”
“Well,” said Tex slowly, “you—I don’t _sabe_ you. This is none of your
business.”
“I know it; but if I minded my own business, you’d have a lot of misery
ahead of you.”
Hashknife reined his horse around and galloped down through the big
gate, leaving Tex to wonder what he meant. He watched Hashknife ride
away and wandered around to the front porch, where he found Marion
alone. She was seated in an old rocker, a magazine in her lap.
He sat down on the top step of the porch.
“Has Mr. Hartley gone?” asked Marion.
“Yeah, he’s gone,” said Tex. “What did he say that made you cry,
Marion?”
She did not answer him and he finally turned to look at her.
“He said you’d be a fool to marry me, didn’t he, Marion?”
Marion looked down at the magazine.
“Yes,” she said softly.
“He told me he did,” said Tex.
“He told you? What did you say, Tex?”
“I agreed with him.”
“Oh.”
“What else could I do, Marion?”
“I—I didn’t know that the question had ever come up,” she said slowly.
“It made me mad to have someone suggest that I would be a fool to do
something I had never really considered doing.”
“That’s what made me mad, too,” said Tex. “I—I knew you would never be
able to marry me. Gosh, I’m no fool. Mebby I was a fool awhile ago; but
I didn’t stop to think. I wish Hartley would stay away and mind his own
business.”
“I do, too, Tex.”
“Well, if you say so, I’ll see that he does.”
“I suppose he’ll have to come out here to see his partner.”
“We’ll have him moved to town.”
“The doctor says he must stay here until that heals.”
Tex hammered his heel savagely against the step.
“Well, there’s nothin’ to be done. Anyway, we can keep away from him
while he’s here.”
“Certainly. Still, that is poor thanks for what he did, Tex. If it
hadn’t been for him, you would be in jail now.”
“That’s true,” said Tex grudgingly. “Why did he do it, Marion?”
Marion shook her head.
“I asked Sleepy, and he said it was because Hashknife couldn’t help
doing things like that. He says that Hashknife never did any one a wrong
in his life. I don’t know what Sleepy’s idea of right and wrong amounts
to, of course. I reminded him that Hashknife lied to Hootie Cooper about
knowing Hootie’s brother, and he said, ‘Miss Evans, you can find lies in
the Bible, if you look close enough; and Hashknife’s lie didn’t hurt
anybody!’”
“No, I don’t reckon it did, Marion. Well, here comes the doctor. He’s
shore a faithful person.”
* * * * *
The next two days were uneventful. Hashknife made daily trips to the B
Arrow, but he did not travel the road. The doctor said that Sleepy would
be able to ride in about another week. Tex’s wound was healing nicely,
and Jimmy Hastings was out of danger. Hashknife had a long talk with
John Rice, the banker, regarding Buck Dennig. The bank had opened its
doors again, but Rice told Hashknife that Tolman had resigned as a
director.
Old Luke Jones came back to Pineville, still half drunk and more grouchy
than ever. He refused to talk with Hashknife about the things he had
blurted out in Garnet, when he thought he was bleeding to death. A few
stitches in his side gave him a great deal of pain, but outside of that
he was as good as new.
Hashknife had not seen Tolman since the shooting at Garnet, but the rest
of the outfit had been to town. He had talked with Shorty Gallup about
Buck Dennig, and had mentioned the things old Luke had spoken about.
“Old Luke better look out for Tolman,” said Shorty.
“He talked as though Tolman knew somethin’ about the killin’ of Dennig,”
said Hashknife.
“I dunno,” said Shorty vaguely. “I think he’s crazy, about Buck havin’
any relatives. Still, you never can tell. Luke and Buck were good
friends, and Buck might have told him more than he told us.”
“What’s your honest opinion of who killed Dennig?”
“I wouldn’t even make a guess.”
“It must have been somebody that knew Buck had that ten thousand
dollars, don’t you think?”
“Mebby. Buck always carried quite a roll. Somebody might have killed him
for what he carried, picked up that big roll and didn’t wait to grab
that hundred and sixty he had in another pocket.”
“Yeah, that’s true. Probably the same gang robbed the stage.”
“Looks thataway. What a cinch they had. That sheriff and deputy couldn’t
foller a load of hay in the snow. What we need is a good detective.”
“Had one, didn’t they?”
“I reckon so. Didn’t last long. Any detective is a fool to come in
openly on a case like this, don’tcha know it?”
“I suppose you’re right, Gallup. What do you think about Tex Blanco?”
“Oh, Tex is all right, I reckon. Anyway, he’s slick; I’ll say that much
for him.”
“Slick?”
“Shore. They can’t pin anythin’ on him, can they? I’ll say they can’t.
How’s your pardner gettin’ along?”
“Be out in a week.”
“Got any idea who shot him?”
“Yeah,” said Hashknife seriously.
Shorty eyed him closely.
“Do you mean that, Hartley?”
“I think I know.”
“That sounds interestin’. Why don’tcha do somethin’?”
“Can’t do a thing until I’m sure.”
“Why did they shoot him?”
Hashknife laughed softly.
“They thought poor old Sleepy was a detective. He don’t know yet why
they shot him, and I don’t want to tell him, ’cause he might pull out
some of his stitches laughin’.”
“Oh,” said Shorty dryly, “that’s why they shot him, eh?”
“Sure. We’ve been warned to get out of the country.”
“You did? Well, I’ll be darned. That detective was warned, too, wasn’t
he? Can you imagine that. They think you’re workin’ for the cattle
association, eh?”
“They didn’t say who we was workin’ for. I dunno where they got the
idea, I’m sure.”
“Well, ain’t you scared to stay around here, Hartley?”
“I’m still here, ain’t I? Sure I’m scared. When men shoot at you in the
dark, it pays to be scared.”
“You’re danged right. Well, I’ve got to be headin’ for the ranch. See
you later, Hartley.”
“So long, Gallup.”
The following morning Hashknife went to the B Arrow with the doctor,
feeling sure that no one would molest them together. Sleepy wanted to
get out of bed, but the doctor warned him against it.
After the doctor had gone back to town, Tex asked Hashknife if he would
stay at the ranch for awhile. Marion wanted to go to town, it seemed,
and Tex also wanted to go. But Tex was unable to handle the team with
one hand; so Frank Judd was elected to drive. Tex didn’t want to leave
his mother alone with the two patients; so Hashknife agreed to stay.
It was about an hour later, while Hashknife was enjoying a siesta on the
front porch, that Bud Hough and Dobe Severn, from the TD outfit, came
past, heading toward Garnet. Hashknife waved at them and they drew up at
the gate, while he walked down to them.
He noticed that both men had war bags fastened to their saddles, and
this meant that they were traveling away.
“Pullin’ out?” he asked.
“Goin’ down to the XOX outfit, south of Wallgate,” said Bud. “Change of
pasture makes fat calves, you know. Same man owns both ranches.”
“You mean the same man owns the XOX and the TD?”
“Shore. Name’s Billings, Ed Billings.”
“I thought Tolman owned the TD.”
“Sellin’ out today.”
“Is that so?” Hashknife was thinking swiftly. “Today, eh? Kinda quick
sale, ain’t it?”
“Billings has been out there with us for two or three days. They been
dickerin’ for a week or so. Heffner, the lawyer, is handlin’ the deal.”
“Is he goin’ to keep the rest of the crew?”
“I think all but Shorty and Sturgis. They might stay, but Matt said they
might go with Tolman. Well, we’ll drift on. If you want a job, you
better strike Billings right away.”
Hashknife hurried back to the house and met Mrs. Blanco at the steps.
“I’ve got to go,” he told her, and ran for his horse.
In town old Luke Jones, like a sore-headed bear, was looking for
trouble. Everybody ignored him, because he was dangerous, and being
ignored was something old Luke hated.
“You better cool off,” advised the sheriff. “Somebody is liable to bust
your earthly envelope, if you don’t look out, Jones. You ain’t sober
enough to make a fight.”
“Zasso?” Old Luke shoved out his lean jaw at Pat Lynch.
“Show me somebody that wants to choose me, Pat. I’m here to be selected
by anybody on earth—pre—pref-er-bly Cleve Tolman. He’s my meat, the
dirty sidewinder.”
“Aw, go sleep it off,” advised the sheriff, and walked away.
He had tried to start an argument with Bud Hough and Dobe Severn, but
they had ridden along, ignoring him. Shorty, Matt and Alex dodged him
for half an hour, with Alex arguing all the time with Shorty, to keep
him from going back and accepting Luke’s challenge.
Fortunately Luke did not see Tolman and Billings arrive and go to the
court house. Heffner was busy with a civil case, and they were obliged
to wait until he finished; so they waited in his office.
* * * * *
Tex, Marion and Judd arrived, tied their horses in front of Hootie
Cooper’s store and went in to see him. Mrs. Cooper was there, and she
chuckled with glee over Marion.
“The school teacher was a frost,” Mrs. Cooper declared. “He whipped both
of the Beebee kids the second day, and sent Ella Hall home with a note,
askin’ her folks to teach her to not carry tales. Oh, he’s still there,
’cause they’ve got to have a teacher, but old Sam and Beebee asked me
how soon you was comin’ back.”
Marion laughed, but shook her head.
“I don’t think I could take the school again, Ma Cooper.”
Mrs. Cooper looked sidewise at Tex and nodded sagely.
“You’ve had an awful time out there, ain’t you, Marion?”
“But I’ve enjoyed it.”
“You would. Oh, don’t hop me. I don’t blame you. I shore was surprised
at your note about that gun. Pat Lynch shore lied, didn’t he. And he’s
dodged me ever since. But he told Hootie what happened. You ought to
love Hashknife Hartley, even if he is a liar. C’mon over to the house
and let’s talk.”
“All right, Ma.”
Marion walked over to Tex and told him she was going home with Mrs.
Cooper for a few minutes.
“That’s fine,” he told her. “Don’t hurry.”
They had just opened the door, when Hashknife’s tall gray fairly spiked
his tail against the sidewalk, throwing gravel all over them. He was off
the horse and up to them before they recovered from their surprise.
“C’mon with me, Miss Evans!” he panted. “Don’t ask questions, ’cause we
might be too late.”
Tex and Frank Judd ran out of the store, wondering what it was all
about, and they saw Hashknife hurrying down the sidewalk, holding Marion
by the elbow.
“What’s the idea?” asked Tex.
“That’s what I want to know,” said Mrs. Cooper. “That tall cowboy is
shore sudden. They’re goin’ into the court house.”
“Well, I’m goin’ to find out,” growled Tex, and hurried down the street
with Judd.
Hashknife did not bother to tell Marion what it was all about, as he
rushed her up the one flight of stairs and down the hall to Heffner’s
office. He opened the door and shoved her in ahead of him.
Tolman and Billings were seated at a table, while Heffner was standing
up, enumerating something from a legal paper. All three men turned
quickly at the interruption.
“I am engaged just at present,” said Heffner quickly. “If you will wait
a few minutes, I will be at your service.”
“I reckon this is the right time,” said Hashknife.
He was out of breath and snapped his words sharply.
Tolman started to his feet, a scowl on his face, as Hashknife came
closer to the table.
“Ain’t been no deed signed yet, has there?” asked Hashknife.
“Why—_not yet_?” faltered Heffner. “I don’t see—”
“Then there won’t be none signed, folks. I understand that Mr. Tolman is
sellin’ the TD, all of the TD, and it just happens that this lady is
Miss Marion Evans, sister to Blaine Evans, deceased, who was known to
you as Buck Dennig.”
For a moment there was silence, as all three men stared at Marion. Then
Tolman laughed shortly.
“What kind of a holdup game is this?” he asked harshly.
“Not any holdup, Tolman. Miss Evans can prove it. You’ve no right to
sell all the ranch. In fact, I don’t reckon you’ve got any right to sell
any of it, until an accountin’s been made.”
“Why, that claim is ridiculous.”
“Ask Luke Jones, Tolman.”
“That damn’ drunken old liar!”
“You shot him, you know.”
“I shot him because he tried to shoot me.”
“Why did he want to shoot you, Tolman?”
“He’s crazy.”
“That’s a weak answer. Anyway, there won’t be no sale—not now, Heffner.”
“I guess not,” replied the attorney. “If you had been ten minutes later,
it would have required a lot of legal red tape to settle the matter.”
Tolman jerked his hat down over his eyes and walked from the room.
Tex and Judd had stopped just outside the doorway, listening to what was
being said, but Tolman did not look at them as he went past.
“I’m sorry about this,” said Billings. “Of course, you understand I knew
nothing about it.”
“You couldn’t know, Mr. Billings,” agreed Heffner warmly.
“I suppose it saves me a lot of time and money, as long as it had to
happen. Miss Evans—” he held out his hand to Marion—“if you ever want to
sell your half of the TD, just write me in care of the XOX ranch, at
Wallgate.”
“Thank you,” said Marion weakly. “I—I don’t know what it is all about
yet myself.”
Hashknife grinned at her.
“Go ahead and bawl me out for not mindin’ my own business.”
“But how did you know?” asked Tex. “How on earth did you know this sale
was being made here?”
“Couple little birds rode past and told me, Tex. You can talk it over
with Mr. Heffner, or—” Hashknife pointed toward the open door—“down the
hall a couple doors is where they issue marriage licenses.”
He laughed and walked from the room.
* * * * *
Tolman had halted at the sidewalk, seething with anger. He knew Marion
was Buck’s sister, knew it before anybody else did. But he took a chance
on disposing of the TD, hoping to get away before anybody discovered the
fact, if they ever did. He blamed old Luke Jones, although he wondered
how old Luke found out who Marion was. Tolman knew that Marion and Buck
looked alike. He had seen that the first time he met her, and wondered
why others didn’t see it, too.
Tolman didn’t want to make an accounting of what he had done with Buck’s
share of the ranch, and he stood there on the edge of the sidewalk,
trying to figure out his next move.
Suddenly old Luke Jones lurched out of the Stormy River Saloon and
started across the street. Tolman forgot his troubles, when he saw his
old ex-cook. He stepped into the street and started toward old Luke, who
stopped short.
“Go back to your hole, you dirty old badger!” rasped Tolman.
Old Luke laughed. Hashknife stepped out to the sidewalk and saw them
walking toward each other. Old Luke had both hands in the pockets of his
frayed coat, and he did not take them out. He was not wearing a
holstered gun. Hashknife stepped out of line with them. Someone was
running up the sidewalk, and Hashknife turned to see the sheriff.
“Stop it, Tolman!” he yelled.
But Tolman didn’t stop. They were not over ten feet apart when Tolman
jerked out his gun, and at the same instant the side of Luke’s coat
seemed to erupt a cloud of smoke.
Tolman jerked sidewise, half turned, tried to recover his balance, but
couldn’t do it. He staggered back on his heels and went sprawling in the
street, still clutching his big Colt gun.
“Oh, hell!” panted the sheriff. “Got him cold.”
Old Luke pounded the fire out of his coat, as he looked at Tolman, flat
on his back in the street. Men were running from every direction. Shorty
Gallup was the first to reach old Luke. He flung both arms around him.
“Somebody git a rope!” yelled Shorty. “Git a rope!”
“No you don’t!” snorted the sheriff.
“I saw it myself. I don’t like old Luke no better than you do, but give
the devil his dues. Luke shot in self defense.”
“Lemme alone!” growled Luke. “Git your paws off me, Gallup, or I’ll
pistol whip you.”
Hashknife looked back toward the entrance to the court house. Tex and
Judd were coming across the street, while Marion had joined Mrs. Cooper
and several people in front of the store.
The sheriff and Hashknife made a quick examination of Tolman. It did not
require a lengthy examination. The sheriff got to his feet and looked at
old Luke.
“You made a complete job of it, Luke,” he said coldly.
“He had it comin’, Pat!” Old Luke looked around at the crowd that had
gathered in the street. “I’ll bet you ten dollars that Cleve Tolman
killed Buck Dennig. Anybody want to take that bet?”
“If I take your bet, can you prove it?” asked Hashknife.
Luke shut one eye and looked at Hashknife.
“I can come nearer provin’ that Tolman killed him than anybody else that
Tex Blanco killed him.”
The eyes of the crowd shifted to Tex. Oscar had joined the crowd and was
standing beside the sheriff. Old Luke laughed gratingly and began
talking again. Hashknife whispered softly to the sheriff:
“Back my play, Pat. It’ll come quick now. Tell Oscar.”
The sheriff drew a quick breath, shot a quick glance at Hashknife, but
spoke softly to Oscar, who looked at him blankly.
“I tell you, I’ll bet ten dollars,” reiterated Luke.
“Somebody bet him,” laughed Hashknife and stepped over beside Shorty
Gallup. “You bet him, Shorty.”
“Why should I bet him?” growled Shorty.
“Mebby your pardner, Sturgis, will take the bet?”
Sturgis shot a quick glance at Hashknife.
“I ain’t got no money to bet,” growled Matt Sturgis.
“What didja do with all you got?” asked Hashknife, and his voice fairly
snapped.
“Damn you, what do you mean?” Sturgis whirled, facing Hashknife. “What’s
all this about? What money?”
Sturgis swung his hand over the butt of his gun, eyes snapping.
Hashknife was covered by the body of Shorty Gallup, so he had little
fear of Matt’s gun. Shorty did not seem able to move. Hashknife glanced
at the sheriff, who had his gun in his hand, a queer expression in his
face, as he tried to puzzle things out.
“Shorty,” said Hashknife, “which one of you two are goin’ to confess
first?”
That sentence was like an electric shock to Shorty. He ducked sidewise,
jerking at his gun, but it was not there, because Hashknife had deftly
plucked it out with his left hand, just before Shorty ducked.
Matt Sturgis did not shoot, did not even draw a gun. He started to back
away, thinking to escape, but the sheriff and deputy had him covered. He
backed about six steps, before he threw up both hands in token of
surrender.
“I quit,” he choked. “My God! I’ll talk,” he blubbered, as the sheriff
stepped over and took his gun.
“Talk, you dirty quitter!” rasped Shorty.
He had both hands above his shoulders and was looking at the muzzle of
Hashknife’s gun.
“Go ahead and talk yourself into a rope.”
“You two killed Buck Dennig, robbed the stage and killed Guy Shearer,”
said Hashknife.
“Shorty killed Buck,” declared Matt.
He was almost crying.
“Gimme a gun,” begged Shorty. “Lemme kill him, won’t you? I swear to
give it back as soon as I kill him. He’s yaller as mustard.”
“Sturgis, stop blubberin’!” ordered Hashknife. “Shearer forged that ten
thousand dollar check, didn’t he?”
“Uh-huh. Buck and Tolman quarreled and Shorty heard ’em. We framed with
Shearer for a three way split, and he forged Buck’s signature. Shorty
killed Buck, and we hid the money.”
“Yes, and you killed Shearer!” roared Shorty.
Sturgis was on the verge of collapse.
“Better lock ’em up, Sheriff,” said Hashknife. “They’ve told enough.”
Both men went willingly, and some of the crowd carried Tolman’s body
into the saloon. Heffner had reached there in time to hear part of the
confession. Tex seemed dazed, unable to comprehend what it was all
about. Hashknife slapped him on the shoulder, and Tex jerked out of his
trance.
“That clears you, Tex,” he said softly. “If I was you I’d go across the
street and talk to a certain lady. She might want to know about it,
don’tcha think?”
Tex blinked at Hashknife, turned and walked slowly toward the crowd on
the opposite sidewalk, where Judd was telling them what it was all
about.
Hashknife and Heffner walked into the saloon, where most of the crowd
were gathered and, in a few moments, the sheriff came in. McLean was the
only one left of the TD outfit, and he looked frightened to death. He
came straight to Hashknife.
“I—I didn’t have anythin’ to do with it, Hartley,” he said.
“I had you on my list for awhile,” grinned Hashknife.
“My God, I’m glad you marked me off.”
Hashknife laughed.
“It was lucky for me that Shorty and Sturgis caved in. I wasn’t sure of
Sturgis, but I had a big hunch, because they were together a lot, and
Sturgis was related to Shearer. I knew Shearer was in on it, as soon as
I studied that check. The signature was clever, but he didn’t follow it
out in writing all the check.
“The warnin’ they sent to Sears, the detective, was written by Shearer.
He also wrote the first one to me and my pardner. But the last one I got
was written by someone else, because Shearer was dead. I think they were
goin’ to rob the bank vault, with the help of Shearer, and intended
merely ropin’ him up to make it look good, but they got greedy and
killed him, for fear he’d talk, or to make their shares bigger.
“They stole a rope from the B Arrow, cut the hondo off and left it on
the floor to convict Tex Blanco. But the key that unlocked the inside
door of that vault was on Shearer’s key ring in Shearer’s pocket, and
the door had been locked after the money was taken. If they had forced
him to unlock that door, they’d never have bothered to lock the inside
door again, and put the key in Shearer’s pocket.
“Shearer told ’em about the money comin’ on the stage. I ain’t sure just
what their idea was, but I figure they went to the B Arrow to pick up
somethin’ to incriminate Tex Blanco, and got a chance that night to
knock out Tex and kidnap him. Anyway, they left his gun at the scene of
the holdup, and Miss Evans and Mrs. Cooper found it.”
“That’s shore the truth,” agreed the sheriff warmly. “Oscar dumped Miss
Evans’ trunk in the river and, when he tried to dry out the things, he
found the gun. Like a darn jughead, he traded handles, and killed the
evidence.”
The crowd laughed.
“And Tex knew that no jury would believe his story, so he never told
it,” said Hashknife. “I talked with Shorty yesterday, and he told me
what he thought about the killin’ of Buck Dennig. He said that somebody
must have killed Buck for what little money he had, but found the big
roll and overlooked the rest of it. Shorty and Matt tried hard to kill
me and my pardner, and they almost got my pardner. I reckon that’s all
the story, unless Shorty and Matt know more than I do.”
“I’ll be jiggered!” snorted the sheriff. “And I thought you was just a
nosey puncher, who wasn’t able to mind your own business.”
“What is your business, Hartley?” asked Heffner.
“Me?” Hashknife laughed softly. “I’m the detective you sent for to the
cattle association.”
“You are? But Sears said—”
“Sears is a clerk. He had his orders to run at the first sign of
trouble—and he did. I’ll bet he’s scared yet.”
“And that’s why you lied about where you come from!” exclaimed McLean.
“Yeah, and you come near gettin’ me killed off by makin’ me out a liar,”
laughed Hashknife. “You folks wasn’t near as wise as Shorty was. But you
didn’t have a guilty conscience.”
* * * * *
Hashknife left the saloon and went back to his horse. Marion, Tex, Mrs.
Cooper, Hootie and Judd were there, waiting for him. They had managed to
understand what it was all about. He looked at them and his face
wrinkled to a grin.
“Well, it was a nice afternoon, wasn’t it?” he queried.
Mrs. Cooper came up to him, her fat face grinning with delight, and held
out her hand to him.
“I want to be the first to shake hands with you,” she said. “The rest of
them just stand around and say, ‘My God!’ Tex Blanco has said it a dozen
times already, and Hootie ain’t far behind him. Marion ain’t said much,
but I’ll bet she’s thought a lot. Didja ever realize that she owns the
TD outfit right now? Tolman ain’t got a livin’ relative.”
Hashknife looked at Marion. Her face was white, and she was clinging to
Tex’s good arm, as if afraid he might get away from her.
Slowly Hashknife untied his horse and climbed into the saddle.
“It’s funny what changes you can bring into the lives of folks, when you
don’t mind your own business,” he said slowly. “Sometimes I’m glad I’m
nosey thataway. Well, I’ve got to get back and help Ma Blanco take care
of the sick folks. Gotta get my pardner back on his feet, you see. There
ain’t nobody’s business around here that looks worth my time mindin’ it
now. I’ll see you later, folks.”
He started to ride away, but stopped and called to Frank Judd. They
talked for a moment, and then Hashknife rode on down the street.
Judd came back, a half smile on his lips. They were watching Hashknife
going down the street, sitting very straight in his saddle.
Tex sighed deeply.
“Well, he must think I’m a fool. Honest to gosh, I couldn’t talk to him.
I wonder if he realizes what this means to me? Why, I’ve got the weight
of the world off my neck.”
“Cleared with one swipe,” said Hootie. “The long legged son of a gun! I
don’t give a damn if he never was in Mizpah, Arizona, or never heard of
my brother. Whooee-e-e! Well, Ma—” he turned to Mrs. Cooper—“I reckon I
better turn merchant again.”
Old man Beebee was hurrying up the street and caught sight of the group
near the store. He came over to them, chewing violently.
“I jist heard about it!” he panted. “Missed it, of course. Always miss
the fun of anythin’, ’cause I had to wash the danged dishes. Oh, hello,
Miss Evans. Sa-a-ay! I reckon you can have that school any time you want
it. Ma and Mrs. Hall have hauled in their horns, and the menfolks are
runnin’ things again.”
“She’s all through teachin’ school,” said Tex.
“Oh! Well, I don’t blame her. Awful job. Sorry.”
He turned and headed for the Stormy River Saloon.
Tex turned to Marion.
“I guess we better go home, Marion.”
“Yes,” she said softly.
“You tell Mrs. Blanco I’ll be out in a day or two,” said Mrs. Cooper.
“Mebby tomorrow.”
“That will please her,” said Marion. “We’ll look for you, Ma.”
They were halfway to the buckboard, when they met Oscar, grinning
widely, coming from the jail.
“Sturgis told the whole works,” he said. “The money is all hid at the
TD. They never spent a cent. Can you imagine it? I seen Hartley goin’
down the street, but I didn’t have no chance to stop him. Jist to think
that Shorty and Matt was the two tough jiggers of Stormy River. Well,
I’ve got to find the sheriff. He’s prob’ly around some’ers, with his
mouth wide open.”
Oscar trotted across the street, while they went on to the buckboard.
Judd untied the team and handed the lines to Tex.
“I’m not goin’ back with you, Tex,” he said.
“You’re not?”
“Aw, you can drive with one hand, Tex.”
Tex looked at Marion and back at Judd.
“Just why ain’t you goin’ back with us, Frank?”
“Well, if you want to know so bad, Hashknife told me if I didn’t let you
two come home alone, he’d whip hell out of me when we got there. And
that meddlin’ jigger means what he says.”
“Oh, yeah,” replied Tex rather blankly. “Well, under them circumstances,
I’ll forgive you, Frank. Giddap, broncs!”
“They’ll walk, if you’ll let ’em,” was Judd’s parting shot.
Tex nodded with complete understanding, and they went out on the winding
road toward home.
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine,
December 1, 1927. It is believed to be in the public domain in the
United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]
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