by W. C. Tuttle
Suddenly the drowsy gray bronco threw up its head, ears forward, as it glanced almost at right angles, and to the east. Hashknife turned quickly and looked in that direction.
About four hundred yards away, a man was crossing the ridge; a man who stooped low in the sage and appeared to be carrying a rifle. He stopped and appeared to turn in their direction.
Hashknife knew that the man had seen him; so he whirled his horse around and spurred him into deeper cover. As Hashknife drew up he saw the man running in the opposite direction, still running crouched over, and disappeared over the ridge.
Hashknife debated quickly. This man was armed with a rifle, and if it was the bushwhacker, he knew how to use it. He had a decided advantage, over Hashknife, because he could stop just beyond the ridge and wait for Hashknife to come to him.
“He must ’a’ been just givin’ it up as a bad job,” decided Hashknife, “and I caught him pullin’ out. C’mon, bronc.”
Hashknife rode back in the direction of the Tomahawk, but as soon as he crossed the top of the ridge, he spurred his horse into a gallop and cut the side of the hill toward where the man had disappeared. This left another ridge between where Hashknife rode and where the man had disappeared, and Hashknife felt sure that the man would not dare to try and cross back to his original position on the slope to the Tomahawk.
Hashknife rode about eight hundred yards along the side of the hill, swung back near the top and dismounted, leaving his horse in a heavy clump of grease wood. Cautiously he went to the top of the ridge and studied every inch of the country.
To the right of him was the spot where the man had crossed the next ridge, and Hashknife could see that the man had gone into a heavily wooded coulée. Minute after minute passed, but still Hashknife’s eyes studied every bit of brush in sight.
But there was nothing, except the heat-haze of late afternoon. Across the coulée in a jumble of rocks a ground-hog whistled shrilly, angrily, as the shadow of a circling hawk passed over the rocks.
Hashknife grinned and reached for his tobacco.
“Everybody’s gunnin’ for somethin’,” he said softly, “but a man is the weakest of all, when it comes to knowin’ when to duck. The ground-hog knows what to dodge, and that hawk ain’t got a chance to collect a feed. I suppose I’d know how to dodge bullets, if my ancestors for several hundred years back had been dodgin’ ’em a few times per day all their lives.”
Suddenly he caught sight of a moving object far down the coulée to his left. It was almost half a mile away, but he was able to see that it was a man on a pinto horse. As Hashknife watched him he swung to the right, climbed up a narrow coulée to the top of the ridge, where he stood, silhouetted against the sky, for several moments. Then he rode over the ridge and out of sight.
“Man on a pinto,” mused Hashknife. “Too far away for a shot with this old gun, and, anyway, I don’t know that he’s the man I’m after.”
He watched for about five minutes longer and went back to his horse, where he mounted and rode to the Tomahawk ranch-house.
They were all glad to see him, especially Sleepy, who was propped up in a chair, trying to teach Lorna to roll cigarets for him. Jimmy, the half-breed, was there but, like his aboriginal ancestors, did not ask questions.
Hashknife explained to Sleepy what had happened to him after leaving there that morning; told him of following Poco Saunders, and of seeing the man on the pinto.
“Jimmy,” Hashknife turned to the half-breed, “who rides a pinto horse?”
Jimmy squinted thoughtfully and shook his head.
“Nobody, I guess. I have pinto long time ago, but him stole, I think.”
“Long time ago? How long is a long time, Jimmy?”
“T’ree, four month, I think.”
Lorna had been an interested listener, but now she exclaimed:
“Why, the man that shot Sleepy was riding a pinto! I did not think to tell you before.”
“Pinto, pinto, who owns the pinto,” laughed Hashknife. “There’s no pinto on the Circle Cross. Buck Avery rides a Roman-nosed buckskin and a jug-headed roan. Poco has a sorrel and a bay; Trainor keeps four others at the stable, but there ain’t a pinto in the outfit.”
“Well,” grinned Sleepy, “mother says I’ll be ridin’ in a day or so; and we’ll find out who forks a painted bronc. You need me and my brains, cowboy.”
“Uh-huh,” Hashknife grinned widely. “I sure need yuh, Sleepy.”
Lorna and her mother went into the kitchen and Sleepy motioned Hashknife to come closer.
“I’ll tell yuh why Cassidy drew the deadline with the Circle Cross. It was because Trainor came to see Lorna and made love to her. He got drunk and bragged about it in Wolf Wells, it seems, and when Cassidy asked him if he was goin’ to marry her—well, I reckon Trainor wasn’t.
“Lorna didn’t tell me, but her mother did. Smoky Cole came to see her a few times, too; but Mrs. Cassidy says that Smoky was nice boy.”
Hashknife nodded slowly and looked straight at Sleepy.
“You ain’t stuck on her, are yuh, Sleepy?”
Sleepy rubbed his hand thoughtfully on his knee, avoiding Hashknife’s eyes for a moment, but looked up and said:
“No. She’s goin’ to marry Ben Lanpher, if he gets loose. They’ve been mighty good to me here, Hashknife. The old lady is a dinger, y’betcha. My own mother couldn’t ’a’ done more for me than she has. If old Cassidy don’t get acquitted, I’m goin’ down and blow a corner off that jail. Gotta do somethin’ to show my appreciation.”
Hashknife stayed to supper and spent the evening with them. Bright moonlight flooded the land when he started back for the Circle Cross, so he headed into the hills in preference to taking a chance along the lighted road. There were too many narrow places where a man might lie in wait with a sawed-off shotgun.
He rode slowly along the moonlit ridges, through the misty-gray-blue hills; silent, except for the occasional yipping bark of a coyote or the sleepy bawl of a cow. From far away came the faint whistle of a locomotive as the train drew near Wolf Wells.
Hashknife stopped his horse and rolled a cigaret. He could think clearer with a cigaret between his lips. He had the glimmering of an idea—a solution to the whole problem—but there were many tangles to straighten out, many loose ends to pick up yet.
“Gawd A’mighty,” he said half-aloud. “I ain’t askin’ nothin’ for me and Sleepy. That other two thousand that Lanpher offers us ain’t worth prayin’ for, but if you can see yore way clear to keep them dirty pups from fillin’ us with lead until T can clean up this layout, I sure wish you’d do it. Amen. C’mon, bronc.”
Which was the nearest thing to a prayer that Hashknife Hartley had ever offered—and it was not for himself or his partner—but for those who would profit more than gold.
* * * *
The trial of Ben Lanpher for the murder of Smoky Cole was the first case on the docket and caused much speculation in the Ghost Hills Range. They came from far and wide to sit in a hot, stuffy court-room and listen to the bickerings of the attorneys. Mitchell, the San Francisco lawyer, had worked swiftly in building up a defense, which he knew to be weak and insufficient. His only argument would be that Ben was too drunk to have done the deed.
There was no one who could say what kind of a bullet had killed Smoky Cole. Lanpher had told Mitchell about the doings of the bushwhacking rustlers, but Mitchell knew that there was little hopes of throwing the guilt upon a party or parties unknown; especially after Ben’s hat and gun had been found near the murdered man.
The fact that Ben and Smoky had tried to shoot each other in town, and that Ben had left town ahead of Smoky, tended to weaken the defense badly.
Eph Baker, the prosecuting attorney, chewed tobacco and grinned benevolently upon everybody. Eph was fat, and the hot weather bothered him considerably, but he realized that little effort would be necessary to win this case. He had prepared a scathing denunciation of young men who come to cowland and mix their whisky
with six-guns.
It had cost him much in perspiration to prepare this tirade, but the heart within him rejoiced that he would be directing his verbal broadsides at “city-folk” and not at the people of the range country. He felt sorry for the Lanpher family, and especially for the young lady, but Eph was cognizant of his place in the sun and was going to make a name for himself, in spite of his feelings.
Ben was a greatly changed young man since his few days in jail. He realized what his escapades had done for him and there was little doubt of his sincere repentance. His mother, sister and father sat at the table with Mitchell, while just away from them sat Ben and the sheriff.
Sleepy was able to sit in a saddle again and rode in with the family from the Tomahawk. He was a little pale and had not regained his full strength, but his six-gun swung at his hip and he prayed for an open shot at the man who had shot him from ambush.
The sheriff had questioned Hashknife regarding Lorna’s identification of the man, but Hashknife had evaded the question. Several other men, who had been at that meeting, tried to find out who she had meant, but Hashknife told nobody, except Trainor. The night after he had left the Tomahawk he had met Trainor at the front of the ranch-house and had told him what Lorna had said.
Trainor was very grave over the information, and tried to remember some one who might look or ride like Buck Avery, but was unable to do so. There seemed no doubt in his mind that Lorna was mistaken in the man, because of Buck’s condition.
They both agreed to say nothing more about it. Buck’s spree was over and he became a normal being once more. But Poco Saunders did not seem to relax for a moment. Hashknife felt that Poco was keying himself up to a point where he was going to kill somebody. Somehow, Hashknife felt that Poco knew the guilty man—or thought he did—but was waiting until he was sure.
And Hashknife had not been shot at for a day and a half, which showed that the Fantom Riders, whoever they might be, had relaxed their aggressiveness, or decided that he was a hard target to hit. Hashknife was inclined to favor the former.
The first day of the trial was devoted to securing a jury. Few challenges were used by either side, and the usual question—
“Have you formed any opinion as to the guilt or innocence of the defendant?” was omitted.
Every one conceded that it would be a short trial, because of there being no witnesses, except those who had seen Ben Lanpher ride away ahead of Smoky Cole. The old prospector had disappeared into the hills and no one knew where he had gone. No one knew where he had come from or who he was, and it was whispered that he might be one of the rustling gang.
Hashknife rode home that evening with Trainor and Buck, while Sleepy went back with the Cassidy family and Jimmy. The Lanphers had taken rooms at the hotel, intending to stay there during the trial. Poco remained in town, and Hashknife noticed that he was drinking a little.
Trainor and Hashknife discussed the case on the way home, but Buck had little to say.
“We’ve got to pull for Ben, thasall,” observed Trainor. “He’s up against a hard deal and I don’t look for him to get loose.”
“If he gets loose, Cassidy won’t have much trouble,” observed Hashknife. “Mitchell is goin’ to work from the angle that there was bushwhackin’ done before Smoky was killed and afterward. Mebbe he can convince that jury that Ben had no hand in it at all.”
“He might,” agreed Trainor.
Later on, Hashknife asked Buck what had become of Carsten and Buck told him that Carsten had stayed in town to see old man Shappee, but might be out to the Circle Cross the next day. Buck was not very communicative, so Hashknife let him alone. It was later in the evening that Poco came. He had been drinking, but the liquor only served to make him more quiet. Hashknife was outside the barn when Poco came out and they stood together for a while without speaking.
“Poco,” said Hashknife seriously, “did you see the color of the horse you trailed?”
“Color?” Poco studied the question for a while, before he nodded and said—
“Yeah—a pinto.”
“Who rides a pinto?”
“I’ve been tryin’ to find out,” said Poco slowly.
Quong’s supper triangle stopped the conversation, and the trial was not discussed at the meal. Trainor seemed greatly preoccupied, Buck a little sullen and Poco quiet as usual.
Toward the end of the meal, Hashknife turned to Trainor.
“Why do they call this gang ‘The Fantom Riders?’”
Trainor laughed shortly.
“I suppose it’s because they work like ghosts, Hartley. Nobody has ever seen ’em.”
“Has anybody ever tried to find ’em?”
Trainor leaned his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his hands.
“Tried to find ’em?” he repeated slowly, and laughed. “They sure have.”
“There ain’t much brains in the Ghost Hills, then,” observed Hashknife slowly.
“What do you mean?” queried Trainor quickly, while Buck and Poco grew interested. Hashknife grinned and pursed his lips.
“Just what I said,” he declared, squinting his eyes away from the smoke of his cigaret.
“It takes brains to catch ghosts.”
“Mebbe you could catch ’em.” Buck’s remark was sarcastic, but Hashknife merely laughed at him.
“Sure I could catch ’em—if it was worth my while.”
Trainor laughed and shook his head.
“I’m afraid they’d get you first, Hartley.”
“Thasso? They’ve sure done enough shootin’ at me. What I don’t understand is how they ever hit anybody. Such poor shootin’ as they’ve been doin’.”
Hashknife knew that the marksmanship had been good enough, but the shooter had picked his targets at long range. Buck laughed shortly and got to his feet.
“Well,” he said, “why don’t yuh go out and get ’em? It’ll be worth yore while, I reckon. The ranchers would be willin’ to pay yuh well.”
“Go ahead,” grinned Trainor. “The Circle Cross will sure pay yuh a good reward and the others will chip in.”
“By golly, I might, at that,” laughed Hashknife.
“Lemme know when yuh start in,” laughed Buck, “and I’ll pick out a soft spot to bury yuh in, Hartley.”
They finished their supper and went outside. It was growing dark and a slight breeze was blowing in from the north. A lone rider swung in through the main gate and rode up to them. It was Jimmy, the half-breed, and he spoke directly to Hashknife.
“You come.”
“What’s wrong now?” asked Hashknife quickly, thinking that the bushwhackers had been busy again.
“You come,” repeated Jimmy and refused to say more.
Hashknife went straight to the barn and saddled his gray horse. Trainor came down and offered to go with him, but Hashknife shook his head.
“I’ll find out what he wants, Trainor. Let yuh know later.”
They rode away with the three men watching after them, and went straight down the road. Jimmy did not speak until they were past the forks and heading toward Wolf Wells. Then he swung off the road to the right and said—
“We go here.”
It was just a little below where Hashknife had trailed Poco. There was no sign of a trail, but Jimmy went steadily on and into a brushy coulée where willows and cottonwoods grew in profusion. A tiny stream trickled over the rocks and on both sides the walls were almost precipitous. It was not a spot that a rider would choose in cutting across the country. The branches whipped Hashknife across the face in spite of their slow and cautious pace.
Suddenly Jimmy stopped and Hashknife rode in beside him. They were up against a brush corral. They dismounted and Jimmy led the way around to where three poles had been placed across the opening.
And just in front of them, plainly visible even in that weak light, stood a pinto horse. Hashknife studied the horse for a few moments and turned to Jimmy.
“Is that your pinto?”
> “Mine,” nodded Jimmy, “Tomahawk on left shoulder.”
“How did yuh find him, Jimmy?” Hashknife could not keep the elation out of his voice, and he placed a hand on the half-breed’s shoulder.
“I come through hills from town,” explained Jimmy. “Down there,” pointing back toward the road, “I find horse tracks. Rain make soft ground. Track point this way. I find ’nother horse track point this way.
“I wonder why horse come in this cañon. That’s how I find. I come to you first. That my pinto, you bet.”
“Good boy!” applauded Hashknife softly. “You’re the smartest man in the Ghost Hills, Jimmy.”
“Damn smart,” admitted Jimmy proudly. “Now I take my pinto.”
“Not yet,” said Hashknife. “We’ve got to leave him here for a while, pardner. We know where he is, but we don’t want anybody else to know that we know it; sabe?”
“Damn right!” exclaimed Jimmy. “I’m smart.”
“Well,” grinned Hashknife, “if we’re both smart, we’d better get out of here right now. C’mon.”
They went back to their horses, mounted and rode out of the cañon. Jimmy headed for the road, but Hashknife called him back and advised that they travel through the hills to the Tomahawk.
“Remember, they might be layin’ for us,” warned Hashknife. “We’ve got to be smart—me and you, Jimmy.”
“You bet,” agreed Jimmy. “I’m smart. Sometime damn fool. Jus’ alike—mos’ always.”
“And you said a lot of wise words,” laughed Hashknife.
They rode to the Tomahawk and Hashknife told Sleepy what they had found. Sleepy grinned with delight and fairly hugged Jimmy, the half-breed.
“But,” said Hashknife sadly, “if that son-of-a-gun is as smart as he seems to be, he’ll spot our horse-tracks. Yuh can’t get into that place without leavin’ plenty of sign.”
“Well, what’ll we do?” asked Sleepy.
“Be Johnny at the rat-hole,” grinned Hashknife. “We’ve got to be there when he finds the tracks, Sleepy. We’ll pull out of here before daylight and kinda drape ourselves on the edge of that cañon.