by W. C. Tuttle
“We’ll take that old Sharps along, and I’ll bet he’ll stop foolin’ folks. You feelin’ well enough for rough work, or do yuh reckon yuh better stay here and keep warm?”
“You try to stop me!” snapped Sleepy angrily.
“Pretty damn well,” stated the old squaw. “Good man—git well quick.”
Sleepy took several naps during the night, but Hashknife huddled in a chair and smoked innumerable cigarets. The discovery of the hidden horse had simplified things to a great extent. It meant that the bushwhackers had stolen the pinto and were using him for their work, instead of using their own horses, which might be easy of identification.
All night long Hashknife puzzled over different things, trying to untangle, a web of suspicions and bring them to a point where he could work upon a reasonable basis. There was nothing definite upon which to rest his suspicions, but he had the glimmering of an idea that might, if things worked out right, bring results.
CHAPTER X
HE WOKE Sleepy about two hours before daylight and they rode into the hills. To satisfy their own curiosity that the pinto had not been removed they went to the brush corral and looked at the animal.
Then they went back to the side of the cañon, hid their horses and sat down to wait. Daylight came, but nothing else. At nine o’clock they were both tired of the vigil. Both of them were to appear at the trial, and they felt that the pinto would not be moved that day, so they mounted and rode through the hills to Wolf Wells.
Train or, Carsten and Lanpher were together in the Antelope saloon when Hashknife and Sleepy arrived. Trainor invited them to have a drink, and afterward he and Carsten drifted away together.
Lanpher was frankly worried about the trial, although he tried to appear unconcerned. Hashknife drew him aside and they sat down together at a vacant card-table.
“I want to ask yuh a few questions,” said Hashknife easily. “You handle the business end of the Circle Cross, don’t yuh?”
“Yes,” nodded Lanpher, “I handle most of it.”
“How many head of cattle have you lost?”
Lanpher grimaced bitterly and shook his head.
“I don’t know exactly, Hartley. The last roundup showed a big loss. I have talked with several other owners and they have lost more or less, but I think that we have been hit harder than any of them. Of course, we were the largest owners.”
“You ought to be able to make a good guess at what you’ve lost,” observed Hashknife. “You’d get a pretty fair count at the roundup, and you know how much you’ve sold.”
Lanpher drew out a note-book and pencil, and, after making a few notes, tore out the page and handed it to Hashknife.
“There is the sales for this year, Hartley. I’ll get the approximate roundup count from Trainor and give it to you later. He will know exactly what we started with, and what the average increase would be.
“I have never attended to that end of the thing because I have been too busy with my other interests. I am not a practical cattle-man, but Trainor knows every phase of the business, and will be able to furnish you with facts.”
Hashknife glanced at the notes and put the paper in his pocket
“I’ve got to check up on the amounts, or the approximate amounts of stolen stock, so as to get some idea of the bulk these thieves had to handle,” he told Lanpher.
“Good idea,” nodded Lanpher indifferently, as he got to his feet. “Court is about to open, I think.”
He walked away toward the court room, and Hashknife sauntered down the street to the depot. Whitey Anderson was tilted back in an old chair, his feet on the table and a cob-pipe between his teeth.
“Howdy,” he greeted Hashknife. “Come in and rest your feet. How come you ain’t at the trial?”
“Danged place is too stuffy,” grinned Hashknife, seating himself on the counter beside the clattering telegraph instrument.
“I probably won’t be called before afternoon, anyway.”
Hashknife rolled a cigaret and listened to the clicking sounder, although he did not understand the difference between a dot and a dash.
“Say, I got into a kind of a mix-up over a darned telegram,” he told Whitey. “Along about the tenth of this month I sent a telegram to a certain party here in Wolf Wells and he swears he never got it.”
“Swears he didn’t?”
Whitey twisted the pipe-stem between his teeth and looked foolishly solemn.
“Swears he didn’t get it, eh?”
“Yeah,” Hashknife nodded seriously. “I think the darned jug-head got it all right, but didn’t want to answer it. Telegrams don’t get lost, do they, Whitey?”
“Hm-m-m! Might—but they don’t very often. About the tenth, eh? Who was it sent to, Hartley?”
“Well, I don’t want to say,” laughed Hashknife, “but if I knowed for sure, I’d make him a little bet that he got it.”
“By golly, I’d know if he got it.”
Whitey got to his feet rather belligerently.
Hashknife laughed softly.
“Don’t get mad, Whitey, but this feller said that you’d likely got drunk and lost it.”
“Is that so!”
Whitey slammed his pipe down on the counter and drew a bulky, flimsy-leafed volume from under the counter-top. He began flipping over the leaves, grunting to himself, while Hashknife peered over his shoulders, scanning the imprint of the telegrams.
Page after page flipped past, until certain dates caused Whitey to scan them closer. Carefully they looked them over.
“Did yuh sign your own name?” asked Whitey, going back over certain dates carefully.
“Yeah, I sure did,” said Hashknife, his eyes shining with sudden delight.
“Well—” Whitey slapped the book shut and tossed it back under the counter—
“Well, it never came to this office, Hartley—That’s a cinch. Where did yuh send it from?”
“Phoenix,” lied Hashknife. “Dang it, I thought this feller just didn’t want to admit it, but I guess it got lost.”
“Well, you can tell him that I didn’t lose it,” said Whitey half-angrily. “And you can tell him that I’ve only been drunk twice since I came here.”
“Aw, don’t mind him,” laughed Hashknife. “He was drunk when he said it.”
Hashknife wandered back uptown, sat down on the board sidewalk and scribbled a few words on the back of an old envelope. He seemed pleased with himself, as he softly sang:
“I loved a maiden, whose hair was like go-o-old,
And her eyes were as blue as the se-e-e-ea.
She said she’d be tr-r-r-rue,
But didn’t say who to-o-o.
I know now that she didn’t mean me-e-e-e.
Oh, I’m goin’ to Montana,
The trail’s mighty long-g-g,
But a trail’s always shorter
When I’m singin’ my so-o-ong.”
Hashknife wailed that last soft note and grinned at his own efforts. He was not musical. In fact, he hardly knew the difference between “Home, Sweet Home” and “Little Brown Jug,” except for the difference in words.
And it was not often that Hashknife sang; but just now he felt that he was entitled to lift his voice in song. Trainor was coming up the sidewalk with old man Shappee and Hashknife joined them. They were going to a restaurant; so Hashknife went along.
“You won’t have to be a witness,” said Trainor, as they sat down. “The sheriff and Lonesome testified about findin’ the body, and told about you bein’ with them. It would only be a case of repeatin’ the testimony.”
“I don’t reckon that the prisoner has got a chance in the world,” declared Shappee. “I never seen such a weak defense as he’s got. By God, I feel sorry for Lanpher; but I’d have to convict him, if I was on that jury.”
“Looks bad for him,” agreed Trainor. “It looks bad.”
“Well, it’s just so danged weak that the case will go to the jury in the mornin’,” said Shappee. “It ain’t what
you’d call interestin’. Eph Baker’s got a cinch case and he knows it.”
“Well,” grinned Hashknife, “yuh never can tell.”
“No, that’s a fact. Cow-country juries are funny things.”
After lunch Trainor drew Hashknife aside and tried to find out why Jimmy, the half-breed, came after him; but Hashknife only laughed and told him that Sleepy had sent for him.
“Jimmy made it look like somethin’ important,” grinned Hashknife, “but it wasn’t.”
Trainor lifted his eyebrows slightly, as if in disbelief, but Hashknife said nothing more. Carsten limped up from the courtroom and announced his intentions of getting some food, and in a few minutes court adjourned and Sleepy joined Hashknife.
The Lanpher family came along together and Hashknife noticed that Mrs. Lanpher had been crying. He went to them and tried to laugh away their fears.
“There ain’t nothin’ as bad as it looks,” he told her. “You keep on grinnin’, ma’am.”
“There seems to be little cause for smiles,” said Helen wistfully. “Everything is wrong.”
Hashknife shook his head quickly.
“No, m’am; that’s the wrong way to think. Down deep in yore heart you know danged well that Ben didn’t do it. He knows he didn’t; but when he looks at yuh and sees yuh cryin’ and looking goshawful sad—well, he kinda figures that yuh ain’t with him.
“Cryin’ is fine sometimes.” Hashknife turned to Mrs. Lanpher, as though half-apologizing. “Yessir, it sure helps once in a while. But if you needed help real bad, would yuh expect to’ get it from a cryin’ person or one that smiles?”
“I can see your point,” said Mrs. Lanpher sadly, but trying to smile.
“Certainly, we all can,” said Lanpher.
Mrs. Cassidy, the squaw, Lorna and Jimmy were coming from the courtroom and the Lanphers moved aside to let them pass on the narrow sidewalk.
Lorna stopped and looked at Mrs. Lanpher.
“Why do you cry?” she asked softly. “Are you afraid?”
Mrs. Lanpher forced a smile as she shook her head.
“I am trying to not be afraid, child.”
Lorna nodded and looked up at Hashknife.
“We are not afraid, are we?”
It was not what she said or the way she said it that made Hashknife stutter his reply of—
“Yuh—yuh bet we ain’t, Lorna.”
She smiled around at them and hurried to catch up with her mother, while the Lanphers looked after her.
“There’s the prettiest girl in the world,” declared Hashknife aloud, although he had meant to say it only to himself. Sleepy was looking queerly at him and Hashknife blushed hotly.
“Was Ben really going to marry her?” asked Helen.
“Is going to,” corrected Sleepy.
“Not if I can prevent it;” declared Lanpher quickly.
“Which you can’t,” smiled Hashknife.
Trainor and Carsten joined them; so Hashknife and Sleepy walked down the street and crossed over to the Antelope saloon, where they found Poco and Buck Avery. Poco was drinking steadily, but the whisky showed little effect on him.
Several poker-games were in progress, and in a few minutes Carsten and Trainor came in and took seats in a game. Carsten spoke to Poco, but only received a black look for his courtesy. Poco was in no mood for companionship.
Hashknife and Sleepy stayed around town for an hour or so, but did not go to the courtroom. The place was crowded to the doors and the sun beat down on the old frame building with great intensity.
Poco watched them mount and ride back toward the ranch and in a few minutes he mounted and went out of town, sitting very straight in spite of all he had drunk during the day.
Hashknife and Sleepy went straight to the brush corral and found the pinto still there. It was evident that the Fantom Riders were not aware that their hidden mount had been discovered—or perhaps they did not care.
“Mebbe they’ve found out that we know about the pinto and will quit comin’ here,” suggested Sleepy.
“They might, but I don’t believe it,” said Hashknife. “Somethin’ caused ’em to lay off us for a while; but they’ll be back. They won’t lay off us until they’re behind the bars or we’re under the grass.”
“I’ll choose the latter,” said Sleepy seriously. “I’ve always wished to have ‘Grand-paw’ carved on my tombstone. But I s’pose I’ll poke my nose into trouble along with you until somebody’ll select me a tenor-harp, which won’t match my sopranner voice a-tall.”
Hashknife shook his head.
“No, I don’t reckon we’re born to be shot, Sleepy. We’ve been shot at with everythin’ except a bow and arrows, ain’t we?”
“And sling-shots,” laughed Sleepy. “But some danged poor shot will nail us both with a .22 some of these days. That’s fate, old-timer.”
“Well, we ain’t learnin’ nothin’ by settin’ here,” said Hashknife, getting to his feet: He looked down at the brush corral and scanned the gray hills, where the heat-haze danced in Waves.
“I’ll tell yuh what to do, Sleepy. You go back to the Tomahawk and get a good sleep. Take it easy until an hour or so before daylight. Then you take that old Sharps rifle and come down here. Locate yourself where yuh can watch this pinto; sabe?”
“And if anybody comes after it, I’ll shoot ’em loose from their disposition,” nodded Sleepy eagerly.
“Make sure that it ain’t me, cowboy.”
“Well, I’ll sure know the shape of his jaw before I pull the trigger of that old dreadnaught, y’betcha. What are you goin’ to do, Hashknife?”
“I’m goin’ to the Circle Cross for the night; but you’ll sure see me or hear from me early in the mornin’. You better stick to the hills all the way home, Sleepy.”
“Danged right. I’ve only got one life to give for my country, and I’m sure goin’ to be stingy with that. Look out for yourself, long feller.”
Hashknife watched Sleepy ride away up the brushy slope, and swung back across the swale at the bottom of the corral cañon. He rode slowly, skirting the side of the hill until he reached the other swale above the road, where he had trailed Poco Saunders.
Near the cottonwood clump he dismounted and looked closely at the ground. There were a number of horse-tracks, jumbled together; some hardly visible, which were made before the rain.
Hashknife studied them closely, leading his horse from place to place. Then he found the imprint of a high-heeled boot, where a man had dismounted.
“Now what did he get off for?” wondered Hashknife as he scanned the swale.
The clump of old cottonwoods attracted him, so he led his horse down toward them. Farther down he found another heel-print, pointing toward the trees.
He walked up to the clump dropped his reins and looked around. There was nothing visible. He entered the clump and studied it from all angles. The road was not visible from any point in there.
“They didn’t hide here to bushwhack anybody, that’s a cinch,” he muttered. “Smoky was probably shot from the other side of the road, and Jimmy, the half-breed, was shot from that direction.”
Hashknife rolled a cigaret and leaned against the bole of one of the trees. As he passed the paper across his lips he lifted his head and glanced into the foliage. For a moment he stared intently and the cigaret slipped from between his fingers.
Just about the height of a man’s reach, hanging closely against the gray bark of the old cottonwood, was a rifle in a canvas and leather scabbard. It was so nearly the color of the old bark that it would hardly be visible, unless seen at close quarters.
Hashknife stepped over and unhooked the strap off the short limb. The rifle was a Winchester,. 30-30, wrapped in oiled cloth, and filled with cartridges. He examined it closely and noted the peep sights, the well-kept mechanism and the polished bore.
Then he took out his pocket-knife, opened the screw-driver blade and grinned widely as he deftly ruined the firing-pin. Then he wrapped the g
un in its oiled-cloth, slid it back into the scabbard and replaced it as he had found it.
He went back to his horse, mounted and circled back a mile into the hills before striking the road and heading for the Circle Cross. And for the first time since coming to the Ghost Hills Range, he relaxed in his saddle and sang softly, all unconscious of his words or music!
“There’s a range far away in a beautiful land,
Where cowboys live happy and free-e-e;
And all decks have six aces
All the girls pretty faces,
O-o-oh, that is the land for me-e-e-e.
I’m goin’ to Montana,
The trail’s mighty long-g-g,
But a trail’s always shorter.
When I’m singin’ my song.”
* * * *
Trainor came to the ranch alone that evening. He said that Buck had started drinking again and would probably stay in Wolf Wells that night. The case had gone to the jury that afternoon.
“You’ve got to give Eph Baker a lot of credit,” said Trainor, as they sat down to supper.
“He didn’t make any plea. He knows that the case is a dead open-and-shut; so he told the judge and jury that he would not make any plea. Mitchell had little to say.
“He talked kinda soft to the jury and asked them to remember that murder had been done from ambush twice just a short time before, and had been attempted since.
“He pointed out the fact that Ben was just a wild kid and was drunk at the time. No, Mitchell didn’t have no defense to speak of.”
“Then you think they’ll hang the kid?” queried Hashknife.
“No-o-o; they’ll likely send him up for life.”
“Life’s a long time,” mused Hashknife, sadly. “Didja ever think what that means, Trainor? It don’t even give yuh a fightin’ chance. Day after day, day after day—knowin’ that yuh can’t ever get out.”
“Feller had better die fightin’,” nodded Trainor.
“Yeah, that would be better. But what’s after death? Do we go into a better world, I wonder. I often wonder if cows and horses live in the hereafter.”
“That’s a hell of a thing to think about,” grunted Trainor. “Man would go loco tryin’ to think about it. My theory is this: When yore dead, yore dead—and that’s all there is to it.”