Hashknife and the Fantom Riders

by W. C. Tuttle

  “Then what’s the use of livin’ and tryin’ to make somethin’ of yourself, Trainor? What good does it all do yuh? Nossir, I think that there’s somethin’ else.”

  “Why should there be?” growled Trainor.

  “Because God had somethin’ in mind when he created man. He gave men and women a soul—or whatever it is that makes us what we are. Where does that go when the body dies. Does it die, too. You believe in God, don’t yuh, Trainor?”

  Trainor shoved away his plate and bit off the end of a cigar before he said:

  “I’ve never had time to believe in anythin’ that I can’t see. Whatcha tryin’ to do, start a revival?”

  “Only what yuh can see?” laughed Hashknife. “Then yuh don’t believe you’ve got a heart inside yuh, eh?”

  “Damn, I can feel that!”

  “Some folks claim they can feel God A’mighty.”

  “Aw-w-w hell!”

  Trainor kicked back his chair and strode into the living-room, while Hashknife grinned at Quong and held out his cup for more coffee.

  Quong grinned and shuffled over with the pot

  “I no sabe Melican God,” he said softly. “I sabe Chinese God, you bet. Plenty good.”

  “They’re all the same, Quong. Do right all the time, help everybody, sing and smile. That’s God, Quong.”

  “You damn right! You be plenty bad, you catch hell sure.”

  “And yuh don’t have to die to get it either.”

  “Nossah. Plenty catchum lite here.”

  Hashknife grinned and followed Trainor into the living room, where he found the Circle Cross owner humped over in a rocking-chair, reading a newspaper. He grunted at Hashknife, but did not look up.

  “When does the sheriff start his posse combin’ the hills?” asked Hashknife.

  Trainor glanced up at him, but turned back to his paper.

  “How do I know?” he growled.

  “I just wondered.”

  Hashknife walked to the front door and squinted off across the hills. He leaned against the doorway and looked back at Trainor.

  “Say, I’ll betcha he don’t never do it. Trainor.”

  “Eh?”

  Trainor turned his head quickly.

  “Why won’t he?”

  Hashknife laughed shortly, seriously.

  “Trainor, I’ve come to the conclusion that the best thing I can do is to plumb ruin these Fantom Riders.”

  “Yeah?”

  Trainor placed his newspaper on the table and swung his chair around. Hashknife’s statement was worth his undivided attention, but the half-grin on his lips showed that he was a trifle skeptical.

  “Just how do you intend to do this, Hartley?” he asked.

  “By exposing the Fantom Riders.”

  Trainor squinted closely at Hashknife, as if trying to see if he was joking; but the tall cowboy’s face was very serious.

  “Yeah?” Trainor laughed shortly. “Well, just how are you goin’ to do that?”

  “I ain’t quite sure,” Hashknife grinned thoughtfully and shook his head. “I’ve got the goods on ’em right now, but I don’t want to tell anybody until I get set.”

  “Got the goods on ’em, eh? Tell me a little about it.”

  “Nope. I ain’t just sure enough yet, but I’ll make yuh a little bet that by this time tomorrow everybody’ll know who’s been doin’ all the stealin’ and shootin’ around here.”

  “That’s worth a bet,” smiled Trainor, “but the odds are all against yuh, Hartley.”

  “I’ll bet even money,” said Hashknife firmly. “I’ve got five hundred dollars that says I’m right. If you want to cover that amount—go ahead.”

  Trainor laughed and shook his head.

  “Not until I know more than I do now. You seem to think you have a cinch, and I never bet against a cinch.”

  “No, it ain’t a cinch, Trainor. I think I know who has been doin’ the shootin’; and the man or men who have been doin’ the shootin’ are the same ones that have been doin’ the rustlin’. Tomorrow mornin’ I’m goin’ to ask a few questions in Wolf Wells, and what I learn will either cinch the case against ’em or bust my theory entirely.”

  “Well—” Trainor turned back to the newspaper—“I wish yuh luck, Hartley.”

  “Thank yuh,” said Hashknife and clumped down the steps, going to the bunk-house.

  For a long time he sat on his bunk in the dark bunk-house, humped over with his elbows on his knees, thinking of what he was going to do. Piece by piece he knitted the elusive evidence together; his lean jaws shut tightly, as he debated just what to do.

  In all the years that he and Sleepy had untangled range mysteries and troubles, this was the most fiendish outfit they had ever tried to run to earth. The cattle stealing end of the thing was on a par with any rustling trouble, except the clever way in which it had been done; but the fact that three men had died from ambush; shot from behind, without a chance to protect themselves, while others had almost lost their lives, made it entirely different from anything they had ever encountered.

  “They don’t deserve a trial,” muttered Hashknife. “Killin’ ain’t bad enough. I can forgive a rustler, but I can’t stand for a dirty murderer.”

  Neither Buck nor Poco showed up that night, which was not surprizing, and Trainor rode away fairly early, after asking Hashknife if he was going to town with him.

  Hashknife was in no hurry. He cleaned his six-shooter carefully, put on a clean shirt after shaving and took his time about saddling his horse. Then he rode away unhurried. At the forks of the road he turned toward the right, as if heading for the Tomahawk, spurring his gray into a gallop.

  But as soon as he galloped around the first curve he reined off the road and pointed into the hills, circling toward where he had found the hidden rifle. Here he was forced to slow down to a walk on account of the rough going.

  It was an ideal morning. The early morning mists were still rising up the sides of the gray hills; a meadow-lark warbled from the cottonwoods, and a flock of turtledoves, like fast-moving shadows, hurtled past on their way to a water-hole.

  The gray horse threw up its head in alarm when a long-legged jack-rabbit bounded from under a sagebush, jigged a few times to loosen up its kinks and faded away into the protective coloring.

  But Hashknife was not considering the beauties of nature just then. He rode very straight in his saddle, his six-shooter swinging loose in his right hand, while his eyes searched every movement on the brush-lined hills.

  He was nearing the clump of trees in the little swale now, and the gray had slowed down to a slow walk. Once he drew up and made a motion, as if to dismount, but did not.

  Suddenly a shot crashed out. The gray jerked back and Hashknife instinctively ducked. There was a brushy ridge between him and the shooter. For a moment Hashknife thought the shot had been fired at him, but the next moment came the spattering reports, as two guns opened a rapid fire.

  Hashknife’s first thought was that Sleepy had engaged the enemy. Forgetful of all danger to himself he spurred the gray into a lunging run and swept over the ridge and into the swale, circling wide above the clump of trees.

  The tall gray hurdled sage and grease-wood, like a born hunter. Suddenly a horse came sweeping into them, its rider crouched low. Both horses were running at full speed, crossing each other at almost right-angles.

  Two six-guns spat bullets at almost the same moment, and Hashknife felt the hot sear of a bullet across the side of his neck. A swift sidewise glance showed the other rider sway in the saddle, but the next instant horse and rider swept out of sight.

  Hashknife tried to stop his lunging mount, but only managed to stop it almost against the grove of cottonwoods. He whirled in his saddle and tried to catch a glimpse of the other rider, but in vain. The gray hills had swallowed him up.

  A moment before, two wild riders had almost crashed into each other; both had fired with the intent to kill. Now a meadow-lark winged its way into the quiet swale
and lifted its voice in song.

  Hashknife felt tenderly of his neck and got stiffly out of his saddle. Lying just a few feet away was the .30-30 rifle and around it was scattered four unexploded cartridges.

  Hashknife smiled grimly and climbed back into his saddle, leaving the gun where he found it He jerked out the empty shell from his gun and replaced it with a fresh one.

  Then he spurred into a gallop again and went straight for the spot where he had told Sleepy to meet him. And the faithful Sleepy was right there, fairly bursting to know the meaning of those shots.

  “Damn it, I stayed here,” he wailed. “I’m never where there’s anythin’ goin’ on. What and who was it, Hashknife?”

  “Get on yore bronc and come on,” ordered Hashknife and Sleepy lost no time in following orders.

  They spurred down out of the hills and headed for town before Hashknife yelled back at him:

  “Shake up yore old coyote-bait, cowboy. I just swapped lead with Poco Saunders and I want to beat him to Wolf Wells.”

  “Poco Saunders!” yelled Sleepy. “Didja hit him?”

  “I hope not I swapped before I thought.”

  “Hope not?” panted Sleepy, trying to urge his horse to greater speed in hopes of keeping up with the racing gray. “Why in hell do yuh hope not, Hashknife?”

  “I’ll tell yuh in town,” yelled back the lanky one.

  CHAPTER XI

  TRAINOR met the Lanpher family at the hotel. Carsten was with them, and they were anxiously waiting for news of the jury which had been locked up all night, battling out the fate of Ben Lanpher.

  Many of the ranchers and cowboys were still in town, anxious to know the verdict, and the Lily of the Valley and the Antelope saloons had profited greatly thereby.

  There was an air of utter despair about the Lanpher family. They realized that nothing short of a miracle could save Ben from paying the extreme penalty for the crime.

  The fact that the jury was still battling for a verdict showed that some of the members were unconvinced one way or the other. Lanpher paced the short lobby of the little hotel, his lips twitching nervously, paying no attention to the words of comfort from Carsten and Trainor.

  Mrs. Lanpher and Helen sat together, staring out of the dusty window, seemingly resigned to their fate, speaking to no one. Mrs. Cassidy, the squaw, and Lorna had stayed at the hotel, awaiting the verdict, and now they came down the narrow stairway, scanning the faces of the group, as though wondering what the morning was to bring.

  Trainor spoke to Lorna, but she did not look at him. After a glance around the room she went straight to Mrs. Lanpher and Helen, who looked up at her.

  “You worry too much,” said Lorna softly, and then, as though imparting a great truth:

  “Sleepy says to not worry. Everything come out right pretty soon.”

  Trainor and Carsten moved in closer.

  “Who is Sleepy?” queried Mrs. Lanpher.

  “Oh, just a cowpuncher,” said Trainor. “He is a friend of Hartley, who works for us, Mrs. Lanpher.”

  “Just a cowboy?” Lorna spoke softly and looked straight at Trainor.

  “That’s all he is,” Trainor seemed slightly angry, and turned away, as if to dismiss the argument.

  Lorna turned to Mrs. Lanpher.

  “I don’t know why he says that everything will come out right. He says—” Lorna smiled softly—“that you’ll always have good luck when you find a pinto horse.”

  “Pinto horse?” asked Lanpher, ceasing his restless pacing of the floor. “What about a pinto?”

  Trainor and Carsten were looking at Lorna, but she did not turn away from Mrs. Lanpher.

  “I do not understand,” said Mrs. Lanpher. “How can a pinto horse bring one good luck?”

  Lorna shook her head seriously.

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Lanpher.”

  Trainor laughed sarcastically.

  “Indian superstition, Mrs. Lanpher,” he assured her.

  “That damn lie!” grunted Mrs. Cassidy blandly, and Trainor’s face went black with rage at the retort.

  “Well,” Lanpher laughed shortly, “Mrs. Cassidy should be a judge of that, Trainor. Personally, I hope that a pinto is good luck. There doesn’t seem to be much luck for us here.”

  Trainor bit savagely at his underlip and strode out of the door, with Carsten going out behind him. They crossed to the Antelope and disappeared. Mitchell, the lawyer, came in and sat down.

  “Nothing from the jury-room,” he said wearily. “They seem to be at odds over something. They are a hard-headed lot of cattle-men, and I feel that we shall get the benefit of any doubt. Still, our defense was so weak; so weak that the prosecution was content to send the case to a jury on our own evidence and plea.”

  Lanpher blinked painfully and walked to the door. Mrs. Lanpher was crying softly and Mrs. Cassidy was looking at her, with a face as immobile as bronze. Then she said:

  “You lose boy—you cry. Mebbe I lose husban’—I no cry. Too damn much cry; not ’nough laugh.”

  Lanpher had been leaning out, looking down the street, and now he turned back to those inside the lobby.

  “The jury has reached a verdict,” he half-whispered, and there was a decided catch in his voice, as he added—

  “We—we’ll know it all very soon.”

  Lonesome Hobbs came puffing up to the door and nodded violently.

  “They—they’ve agreed,” he panted. “I—I guess they gug-got hungry.”

  He turned and bow-legged his way across the street to notify every one, while those in the hotel lobby went slowly down to the courtroom; anxious, but still afraid to hear what the decision might be.

  The courtroom filled rapidly. Trainor and Carsten took seats at the table with the Lanpher family, and in a few minutes the sheriff brought Ben in the rear door. Ben was pale and appeared nervous, jerky. He sat down beside the sheriff and stared straight at the wall, ignoring the sheriff’s attempt at conversation.

  The courtroom buzzed with subdued conversation which ceased quickly when the gray-haired judge came in and sat down at his desk. The judge appeared tired and worn as he looked down at the prisoner and scanned the room.

  Then with a slow tread the jury filed in past the judge and sat down. Every eye in the room was upon them, and they seemed carefully to avoid looking at the prisoner who, after a searching glance, bowed his head.

  The judge rapped softly for order, and turned to the jury.

  “Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a decision?”

  Caleb Hardy, a raw-boned cattleman from the west side of the county, got slowly to his feet, holding a folded paper in his two big hands.

  “Judge, we have,” he said slowly, the lines of his face deepening, as he looked at the paper. “Yeah, we have. It’s all wrote out on this here paper.”

  He stepped slowly across the intervening space and handed it to the judge. The room was so still that one might hear the buzzing of flies on the window-panes, as the judge unfolded the paper and read it. For a moment he looked at the rear of the room, his eyes half-closed. Then he looked down at Ben Lanpher and said softly—

  “Ben Lanpher, stand up.”

  Ben glanced up at him for several moments before he got slowly to his feet, his hands resting on the table-top. The judge looked down at the paper and read aloud—

  “We, the jury, find Ben Lanpher guilty of murder in the first degree.”

  The paper slid from his fingers and he shut his eyes, as if he did not want to see how Ben Lanpher took the blow.

  Ben stared at him, turned his head and looked out across the silent crowd, his jaw set tight. Mrs. Lanpher began crying bitterly, and Ben stared at her, as if he did not understand what it was all about. Then he sat down and leaned forward on his folded arms, while the sheriff patted him on the back and tried to say words that would not come from his lips.

  The judge turned to the jury.

  “Gentlemen, is this your verdict?”

  They nodded sl
owly, and the foreman said hoarsely—

  “Judge, it was all we could do.”

  Trainor got up and crossed to Ben, offering his sympathy and hope; but Ben did not look up. Lanpher shoved Trainor aside and threw an arm around the boy’s shoulder.

  The room had been silent, as the audience watched every move of the main actors in the drama, but now there came the scrape of a footstep at the front door and Buck Avery came in. He started for the front of the room, but some one caught hold of him, whispering for him to be still.

  But Buck struck the hand aside and started down the aisle, just as the rear door swung open and Hashknife and Sleepy came in. As intent as the audience was on the prisoner, they gave more than passing interest to these two cowboys, who had used the private entrance to get into the room.

  Hashknife and Sleepy stopped near the judge’s desk and looked over the room. Lorna and her mother looked at them and they both smiled. Buck had halted about midway of the room in the center aisle, as if undecided what to do.

  “Ben Lanpher, stand up,” said the judge hoarsely.

  Ben did not hear him and the sheriff repeated the order. Ben stood up, his hand on his father’s shoulder, and looked straight at the grave-faced old judge.

  “Ben Lanpher, you have been found guilty of murder in the first degree, and it is the duty of this court to carry out that verdict. Is there any reason why I should not pronounce sentence upon you here and now?”

  Ben looked away from the judge and down at his father.

  “No,” Ben shook his head. “I—I guess—not.”

  “There is a reason, judge.”

  Hashknife had spoken softly, but his voice carried to the far end of the room like a trumpet.

  The judge turned and looked at him in amazement. Eph Baker, the prosecutor, was on his feet in a moment.

  “I object to this!” he snapped. “What right—”

  “There’s a mighty good reason, judge,” said Hashknife slowly, never taking his eyes off the crowd.

  “If you’ll let me, I’ll tell yuh why. If yuh won’t, I’ll tell it anyway.”