by W. C. Tuttle
“What time did yuh leave the ranch?” interrupted Hashknife.
“I dunno. It wasn’t much after daylight. Why?”
“Go ahead.”
“Like I just said, I’m almost to the Tomahawk, when I hears a shot. I stops and considers things. Mebbe I’m there live or ten minutes, when there’s more shootin’. I mosey on up the road, and I’m almost to the ranch, when I see the shooter. He’s quite a ways from me, but I think he seen me at the same time Anyway, he ducks real rapid.
“I take things kinder easy, and foller him. That rain made the ground kinda soft and I’m able to trail him, but it only winds through the hills and comes back to the road. Then I go back to the Tomahawk and find you gone. Anythin’ else?”
“Only to say that you told the truth, Poco. Do you want to ask me any questions?”
Poco considered deeply for a while, and then—
“Who are you, Hartley?”
“Cowpuncher,” grinned Hashknife. “Just a puncher.”
“Uh-huh. Why is somebody tryin’ to kill you?”
Hashknife scratched his head thoughtfully.
“Poco, I can’t tell yuh, because I ain’t sure. Yuh see, they ain’t never told me why. Mebbe I’ve got my own ideas on the subject, but a feller is liable to figure things a little wrong.”
Poco nodded thoughtfully, his eyes squinted. Hashknife studied him for a moment and then—
“Poco, I forgot to ask yuh one question.”
“Thasso? What is it?” Pocco did not look up.
“You asked me who I am—who are you?”
“Me?” Poco’s thin lips fluttered in a bitter laugh. “I’m a damn fool, I reckon.”
Hashknife laughed and slapped hin on the back.
“Poco, we all are, but we’re just as happy as though we had good sense. I hate to pry into anybody’s private affairs, but I’d sure like to know why Smoky held out to try and convict old Pinto Cassidy.”
“Don’t you think he’s guilty?” queried Poco.
“No—do you?”
“I did,” said Poco shortly, and after a few moments of reflection—
“He threatened to kill any Circle Cross puncher that trespassed on the Tomahawk.”
“Why?”
“I told yuh once that I didn’t know why, Hartley. But I think it was on account of the half-breed girl.”
Poco turned away and headed for the bunk-house, while Hashknife sat down beside the barn in the shade, and watched Poco go jerkily along on his high-heeled boots.
“You’ve got an ax to grind, but I don’t think yuh know where to find the grindstone,” observed Hashknife to himself. “I’d rather have yuh on my side than against me, ’cause, you come nearer bein’ a cold-blooded gunman than anybody I’ve seen for quite a while.”
Hashknife had never seen Poco Saunders in trouble, but he felt instinctively that Poco would be swift with a gun. Every motion betokened the gunman; cool, calculating, sober and unemotional.
Hashknife felt sure that Poco had been greatly affected by the murder of Smoky Cole, his bunkie. There was no doubt that Poco did not know who had killed Smoky, but that Poco was trying hard to find out.
Poco had used the past tense in speaking of his opinion of Cassidy’s guilt, and Hashknife wondered whether the recent bushwhacking had convinced Poco that both Cassidy and Ben Lanpher were innocent.
“Well, we’re earnin’ that Lanpher money that’s a cinch,” observed Hashknife. “This kind of a job needs armor more than it does brains.”
* * * *
He got to his feet as Trainor, Lanpher and a third man rode in through the big gate, and waited for them to come to the barn. It was not until this third man dismounted that Hashknife recognized him as being Carsten, the cattle-buyer, whom he and Sleepy had met at Lanpher’s house in San Francisco.
Both Trainor and Lanpher spoke to Hashknife, but Carsten did not even look at him.
“Hartley, will yuh take care of the horses?” asked Trainor, Handing Hashknife his reins.
Hashknife nodded and collected the three sets of reins.
“We’ll go up to the house,” said Trainor, and he and Carsten started away.
Lanpher stooped to take off his spurs and when he stood up, the other two were half-way to the house.
“I got Carsten aside and told him not to recognize you,” explained Lanpher hurriedly “I didn’t want even Trainor to know that Carsten met you.”
“That’s the stuff,” grinned Hashknife, but added, “Even if everybody else seems to know what we’re tryin’ to do here.”
“It must be only the guilty ones, though,” protested Lanpher quickly. “We had a talk with the sheriff and he plans a big sweep of the whole country very soon. How is Stevens?”
“He’s doin’ fine. That squaw sure beats the doctors.”
Lanpher frowned slightly, but a glad smile chased it away immediately, as he said:
“Hartley, my boy gets his trial day after tomorrow. We were notified of it today. Mitchell, the San Francisco lawyer, will defend him. He gets his trial even ahead of Cassidy’s second one.
“Mitchell is optimistic, but admits that the evidence is greatly against us. In fact—” Lanpher’s eyes were wistful and his voice broke slightly— “In fact, we haven’t any evidence in our favor, except Ben’s unsupported word. He—he had been rather wild, I am told, and that will all be against him; but my boy did not commit murder, Hartley.”
Hashknife shook his head in agreement and turned to the barn door with the horses.
“No, I don’t reckon he did. Ben was just a plumb damn fool, thasall. He’s got a hard, hard fight ahead of him, Lanpher, and some of them recent wild oats are goin’ to make all of yuh sick of the lad’s sowin’. But you stick with him.
“That prosecutin’ attorney is sure goin’ to hang a red fringe around the kid, y’betcha. He’ll make you think you raised a locoed bobcat instead of a boy; but don’t mind him. He’s paid to say nasty things about folks.”
Lanpher nodded slowly, as he held out his hand to Hashknife.
“Hartley, I appreciate what you’ve said.”
They shook hands solemnly and Lanpher went to the house, where Mrs. Lanpher and Helen were talking to Carsten and Trainor. Hashknife stabled the horses and went to the bunk-house, where he found Buck half-asleep on a bunk and Poco playing his interminable game of solitaire.
Hashknife told them that Lanpher and Trainor had returned, and mentioned the stranger, who limped slightly with his right leg.
“Kinda thin-faced?” asked Poco indifferently. “Little gray in his hair?”
“Uh-huh.”
Buck cleared his throat huskily.
“Must be Carsten, Poco;” and to Hashknife:
“He’s a cattle-buyer. Works for some Eastern outfit.”
“Sets on a horse like a puncher,” observed Hashknife.
Buck laughed.
“Oh, I reckon, Carsten ain’t no tenderfoot. Feller’s kinda got to sabe horses and cows, if he’s goin’ to mix with cattle-folks and buy their stock.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” admitted Hashknife.
He sauntered outside and saddled his horse. Inaction palled upon him so he rode up past the ranch-house and told Trainor that he was going back to the Tomahawk. Trainor came down from the porch.
“Lanpher just told me that Stevens is gettin’ along fine,” he said. “We’re glad to hear it. We talked with the sheriff today, and in a short time we are going to comb these hills so thoroughly that even a gopher will have to dig deep to keep out of our way.
“You go right ahead over to the Tomahawk and stay as long as yuh want to. Mr. Carsten, a cattle-buyer, will be here for a few days, and I will likely be busy with him. Ben Lanpher’s trial comes up Wednesday; so his father will likely be busy with the lawyer. Poco and Buck can take care of everything.”
He glanced down toward the bunk-house, and added—
“If Buck will try and stay sober.”
“I reckon
he’s sick of liquor,” grinned Hashknife.
“By God, I hope so! He ain’t got no judgment Well, so-long, and good luck.”
Trainor had been drinking a little—just enough to put him in rare good humor, and Hashknife wondered if he brought some liquor out to Buck.
Hashknife turned at the forks of the road and headed for Wolf Wells. He wanted to get away from the two ranches and mix with people. He felt that there was nothing to be learned from the people at either the Circle Cross or the Tomahawk; so why bother with them?
CHAPTER IX
IN THE Lily of the Valley saloon, Hashknife found Lonesome Hobbs and Bility Edwards. Lonesome’s fat face was as placid as a mountain pool and his eyes were round and solemn. Bility was also very solemn of demeanor.
They both nodded to Hashknife, who invited them to partake of his hospitality. It was then that Hashknife discovered that Lonesome and Bility were gloriously, shamelessly drunk. Lonesome nearly fell down in merely turning around to the bar.
He looked at Hashknife, wide-eyed and said—
“Gotta roo—roosh-ter?”
“Got a rooster?”
“Yesh,” nodded Bility, “Need one—bad.”
“What for?” Hashknife grinned at their earnestness.
“Fight,” explained Lonesome, trying to make the glass and bottle meet.
The bartender rescued them both, when Lonesome dropped them disgustedly.
“Whitey’s got roosh’er,” said Lonesome. “Pre’y good one, too, y’betcha. Fight’n rooshter. Yesshir, he’s gone af’er it.”
“Who’s Whitey?” asked Hashknife.
“He owns the depot,” said Bility with great deliberation.
Came the sound of unsteady footsteps, and Whitey Anderson bumped his way in through the front door. Anderson was in the same condition as Lonesome and Bility, and in his two hands he carried a bedraggled-looking rooster.
“C’mon with your fight’n animals,” croaked Whitey. “Bring ’m big and bring ’m strong. H’rah, f’r my he-hen!”
“Misser Andershon,” said Lonesome gravely, “shake han’s with my ol’ friend Hartley. Very ol’ friend, ’ndeed.”
“How doo-o-o,” drawled Whitey, and let loose of his rooster to shake hands with Hashknife.
The frightened bird flipped to the top of the bar, volplaned across to the top of a pool-table and scooted out the back door, cackling wildly. Lonesome made a grab at it, but missed and fell flat on his face, while Bility stumbled across him and almost knocked the bar loose from its moorings.
But Whitey paid no attention to any one, except Hashknife.
“Yesshir, I’m glad t’ meet ol’ friend of Loneshome Hobbs. Whatcha shay your—”
He looked around and discovered Lonesome trying to get back to his feet.
“Shay, Loneshome, what shay friend’s name? My gosh, you ain’t got ap’plexy, have yuh? Face’s all red.”
“Who shoved me?” wailed Lonesome, feeling of his nose, which was bleeding slightly. “Who done it, I deman’t’ know immed’ly.”
“You fellers go outside to do your bumpin’!” advised the barkeep angrily. “This ain’t no corral.”
“Where’s m’ rooshter?” demanded Whitey hotly, looking around. “Who’s got ’m? Loneshome have you got’m?”
“Nug oomp guff,” declared Lonesome, holding one hand tightly over his nose and mouth.
“He says he ain’t got ’em,” explained Bility solemnly.
“I think he’s a liar, Whitey; let’s shearch him.”
Bility staggered into Lonesome and tried to feel in his pockets, but Lonesome protested strenuously and Hashknife had to pry them apart.
“Got’m in hish pocket,” declared Bility.
“Can’t be dood,” Whitey shook his head violently. “Can’t put rooshter in pocket.”
“Tha’s right!” exclaimed Bility. “Too wild. Let’s shing a shong. What shay?”
“Not in here,” declared the bartender. “You cowpunchers start to sing in here and I’ll—”
“Don’t go no further.” Lonesome shook a warning finger at the bartender. “You’ve threated us s’ffidently, Misser Weed. We unnerstand yore at’tude perfec’ly; perfec’ly. You are not a frien’ of a workin’ man, so you ain’t. I refuse to shing in yore housh. C’mon.”
They strung out in single-file, with Hashknife bringing up the rear, and went into the street. Whitey leaned against the side of the building and tried to adjust his hat to an even balance.
“Mus’ go back t’ work,” he declared, trying to force himself to a semblance of sobriety. “I’m workin’ man.”
“Ain’t you goin’t’ shing?” queried Lonesome.
“Yesh, I’ll shing—shometime—but not yet. Gotta work.”
He shoved himself away from the wall and wended a very erratic way down the narrow sidewalk.
“Perfec’ly capable man,” declared Lonesome airily, “but he’s curshed with a thirsht. Ha, ha, ha! Rhymes like a po’m. Curshed with a thirsht.”
“You think yo’re funny, don’tcha?” queried Bility, with drunken sarcasm.
“Yesshir, I am. Betcha I c’n make you laugh.”
“Zasso? Betcha five dollars yuh can’t.”
“Lissen, that’s a bet, now.”
Lonesome shook a finger in Bility’s face.
“Can’t back down, yuh mus’ ’member.”
“Nosshir, I back down from no man. How yuh goin’ do it?”
“Take off yore boots, old shad face. I’m goin’ to tickle yore feet.”
“Tha’s dirty trick,” declared Bility. “That ain’t bein’ funny, you danged fathead—tha’s torture. But I’ll let yuh try it. I’m numb all over, anyway.”
He half-fell to the edge of the sidewalk and began tugging at his boot, which resisted his efforts stubbornly. Lonesome essayed to help him and Hashknife walked away, leaving them in each other’s arms and the boot still intact.
Hashknife crossed the street and bought some tobacco, afterwhich he sauntered down the street to the little depot. He found Whitey Anderson slumped in a chair, his head dripping wet and his shirt saturated.
“Water-cure,” explained Whitey. “Dam near drowned myself, but it sure sobered me up. I get with that blamed gang up there and drink too much. Anyway—” Whitey hooked his toe into the rounds of a chair and jerked it around for Hashknife—“Anyway, I’m sick as of this town and this job. Nothin’ ever happens, except somebody gets drunk and shoots up things a little. And I mostly always miss that.”
“Wolf Wells seems like a nice town,” observed Hashknife.
“It does? Well, you can have it, as far as I’m concerned. I’m goin’ to have another station or I quit poundin’ brass.”
Hashknife laughed softly over his cigaret. “I should think you’d get lots of excitement. Train comin’ in every day and all that.”
“My God!” Whitey stared at Hashknife wonderingly.
“Trains comin’ in—sa-a-ay, the only reason they ever come to Wolf Wells is because there’s a Y here, and it makes the engineer seasick to ride backward. Never any passengers.”
“One come in this mornin’, didn’t he?”
Whitey grew thoughtful for a moment.
“Uh-huh. That’s right, we did have one today. Yessir, I remember that Carsten came in.”
“Come very often?”
“Well, not every day,” grinned Whitey. “He comes every month or so—him and his limp. Yuh know, a horse or a cow stepped on him about six month ago and busted his ankle.”
“Cow or a horse?” grinned Hashknife. “Don’t he know which it was?”
Whitey chuckled softly and helped himself to Hashknife’s cigaret makings.
“I don’t think he knows. Yuh see, it was in the dark. They was loadin’ a train of stock out at the loadin’-corrals and Carsten was helpin’. He sure hollered to beat all. It kinda crippled him for a while.”
“Does he buy a lot of stock around here?”
“Yeah, I think
he does—quite a little. Mostly from the Circle Cross, though.”
“That’s what cuts down the profits on cattle—the freight,” observed Hashknife. “By the time yuh pay for a lot of cars from here to Chicago, yuh ain’t got much left.”
“They don’t pay the freight,” explained Whitey. “The buyer pays ’em so much F. O. B. They’ve got to load ’em, of course. But I guess they get a pretty good price, at that.”
“Are most of the cattle shipped, from here?”
“No-o-o. Mostly everythin’ north of here ship from here, and the Flying M and the Circle Cross ship quite a lot, but the-last two Circle Cross shipments went from the siding at Sandy, about five or six miles below here.
“That siding was put in for the 66 outfit, so they tell me; but anybody can use it. It’s about as close to the Circle Cross as this is, and if they pick their cattle from the south range, it’s closer.”
“No town there?” queried Hashknife.
“Nope; not even a shed. Just a loading-corral, that’s all.”
A man came in to argue about an overdue express package, so Hashknife sauntered back uptown; He stopped to speak, with the sheriff, who was filled with gloom over the fact that his deputy was hors do combat.
“Lonesome’s just plain drunk,” he announced. “He’s bad enough when he’s sober. I found him and Edwards out in the street, with their boots off, tickling each other’s feet. That’s a hell of a thing for grown men to do.”
Hashknife grinned widely and went back to his horse. He had tied the Sharps rifle to the horn of his saddle and now he rode away with it swinging in his hand. Instead of keeping to the road he turned into the hills and rode straight toward the Tomahawk.
* * * *
It was a broken country and he was forced to travel slowly, but it was much safer than to take chances of being shot at on the road. He passed the spot where he had picked up Poco’s trail that morning, and swung wide around the coulée to come down at the west side of the Tomahawk. He had no wish to take a chance on being shot at again, although he did not expect the bushwhacker to be on the job again that day.
He came out on the brow of the hill and drew rein. There was no one in sight at the ranch-house. The sun was low over the Western hills and the air was filled with the lazy drone of insects. From down in the hills a cow bawled softly.