by W. C. Tuttle
“I protest against this interference,” insisted Baker, appealing to the judge, who was staring at the cowboys.
“Set down, you fat hoptoad,” laughed Sleepy, and Baker’s teeth snapped angrily.
“Well, it is irregular,” hesitated the judge, “but—”
Mitchell was already on his feet and before the judge.
“Let him talk, your honor,” he begged. “It is a God-sent interference, if they have evidence.”
“Little bright-eyes over there is havin’ a fit,” said Sleepy, pointing at Eph Baker, who was struggling to swallow his anger.
Some one in the audience laughed cackingly and a ripple of laughter followed. The Lanpher family were staring at Hashknife and Sleepy, as if afraid that something would interfere with their last-minute assistance.
“The court will listen,” decided the judge, and there was evident relief in his voice.
“I’m sure much obliged,” said Hashknife slowly. “We’re sorry to be so late—but better late than never.”
He cleared his throat and hooked his thumbs over his sagging belt, while Sleepy moved back until he was against the judge’s desk.
“You’ve all heard about the Fantom Riders,” said Hashknife, a half-grin on his lips.
There was a perceptible movement in the crowd, a shuffling of feet, the clink of a spurred heel.
“And you’ve all lost more or less stock,” continued Hashknife. “It’s been a mystery where them cows went to. The Circle Cross lost a lot of cows; so Mr. Lanpher decided to hire a cattle detective, and gave him work as a cowpuncher.
“The Fantom Riders killed him. They hired another. Pinto Cassidy is charged with his murder, because he was killed on the Tomahawk ranch. Yuh see,” Hashknife grinned, “Pinto Cassidy drew a deadline between his ranch and the Circle Cross.
“Mr. Lanpher kinda run out of detectives. There wasn’t much use, it seemed. The criminals got wise to ’em as soon as they showed up, and a feller ain’t got much chance to stay in the game when men shoot from the brush.
“Me and my pardner—” Hashknife pointed at Sleepy—“We hired out to lay the ghosts. Nobody, except Lanpher, knew who we were. He hired us in San Francisco, and we sneaked in here without any brass bands. Not a danged soul knowed who we were—but they started shootin’ at us right away.”
Hashknife shifted his feet and his eyes narrowed a trifle. His smile was all gone now. Even Ben Lanpher had forgotten that he was a condemned murderer, and was watching and listening.
“They even mistook Jimmy, the half-breed, for me, and plugged him in the arm. They sure wasted a lot of lead and got little results. They plugged Sleepy once.
“I wondered how they spotted us so quick. I hired out to the Circle Cross, after Smoky Cole, the foreman, had been killed. Of course, Ben Lanpher was arrested for that killin’.
“I think I know why Smoky was killed, folks. Smoky was a hard drinker, a man who didn’t want to be bossed, and he might—talk.”
“Wait just a moment,” interrupted Baker. “Is this all guess work on your part? If you have proven facts—”
“Set down!” growled Sleepy angrily. “You can ask some questions after he’s all through.”
Baker subsided reluctantly.
Hashknife laughed shortly and started to speak, but Sleepy interrupted with:
“Buck Avery, I wish you’d set down. Yuh make me nervous standin’ there in the aisle.”
Buck snarled back a short answer, which was not intelligible, and a man moved over for him to sit down, but Buck ignored him.
“Go ahead, Hashknif e; he won’ t set down—yet,” said Sleepy, and Hashknife continued:
“Until we came here, nobody had ever seen the Fantom Riders. We seen him—on a pinto horse; so we had that much evidence. But nobody around here, except Jimmy, the half-breed, owned a pinto; and Jimmy’s pinto had been stolen.
“The shootin’ had all been done with a .30-30 rifle; but they all shoot the same size ammunition, which made it hard to prove which .30-30 fired the shots. Are yuh all interested in my story?”
“Keep weavin’, brother!” exclaimed a cowboy earnestly.
“Well, I got to wonderin’ about that dead-line,” said Hashknife thoughtfully.
“Men don’t draw deadlines just for fun; so I went on a still-hunt for a reason—and found it. Pinto Cassidy is in jail for killin’ that detective on Tomahawk property, but he never killed him. It was a damn easy thing to put that dead man there and lay the blame on the old man.”
“Can you prove that?” asked Baker quickly.
“I can. But I reckon I’d better let yuh into the mystery of the stolen cattle. It started over a certain feller wantin’ a girl. Her pa and ma didn’t want her to marry him; so he decided to get even with pa and ma by bustin’ up their herds.
“He got kinda stuck on another girl, but because she wasn’t white, he wanted to love her, but not as a wife. It’s things like that, gents, that causes dead-lines.”
“What do you mean?” roared Trainor. “You mean to say that I—”
Hashknife ignored him, but Sleepy’s eyes never left Trainor’s face, as Hashknife continued:
“There was only one man who could have told that me and Sleepy were comin’ here to work on this case. We met him in Lanpher’s home in Frisco. He was the link to a weak chain of evidence. I needed him; so I got a look at a telegram down at the depot. Here it is.”
Hashknife produced an old envelope and read aloud—
“Lanpher makes private shipment of one long one medium. ‘Watch for them soon.’”
“That was the telegram I discovered, and I knowed it was the wire that caused us to be met with bullets. Then—” Hashknife shoved the letter into his pocket—“Then Jimmy stumbled on to the pinto. It was back in the hills in a brush corral, hidden away. The bushwhacker could switch horses there any old time. It sure was a clever scheme—while it lasted.
“Old man Luck was kinda with me and I found that .30-30 rifle, hanging in a tree; where it was easy to get, but hard to find. We had the pinto, the rifle, the telegram that put us in bad with the Fantom Riders.
“Folks, your cattle were never herded out of the Ghost Hills. They were loaded right into cattle-cars and shipped to market. They were loaded at night, shipped at night, and the crooked buyer falsified his reports, split the pot with a dirty coyote and his hired whelps.
“I know of three trains of Circle Cross cattle that were shipped out of Wolf Wells and the siding down the line; but Lanpher’s reports show that only fifteen cars of stock were sold in one whole year. They—”
“Look out, Jim!” screamed Buck. “They’ve got us, damn their hearts!”
Buck’s gun flashed in his hand and his first bullet smashed into the judge’s desk beside Sleepy. The roar of his gun punctuated his screaming admission of guilt.
Trainor had flung himself sidewise, between Hashknife and the jury, which proceeded to lie down, fall down or to get out of line in any possible way, while Carsten drew a gun, seemingly out of thin air, and flung himself forward only to be met by Sleepy’s first shot, fired from his hip.
Carsten pitched forward, his gun spinning out of his hand, while over his falling body whistled the lead from Hashknife’s six-gun.
Trainor, with bullets thudding into his big body, laughed chokingly through the smoke and tried to make his nerveless finger pull the trigger of his big Colt. Then he went down sprawling on his face, his right hand still convulsively gripping the big gun.
Buck Avery had whirled and run to the rear after his first shot. He was seemingly bewildered as to what to do, but when he saw both Carsten and Trainor down he sprang through the door out into the street, with Hashknife, Sleepy and the sheriff racing after him.
They reached the street, only to see Buck vault into a saddle and whirl his horse around. Hashknife fired a shot at him, but it was a clean miss. Buck was swinging his six-shooter up and down, as if trying to shoot back at them, when a horse and rider came out
from between two of the buildings near Buck.
It was Poco Saunders, swaying weakly in his saddle, his reins dragging in the dust. A six-shooter dangled in his right hand and he seemed about to fall from his saddle; but at the sight of Buck Avery he straightened up and drove home his spurs.
Straight at Buck he went, and Buck waited for him, both shooting as they came together with a crash. Buck’s horse went down from the impact, and Poco fell from his saddle; the riderless horse falling halfway to its knees and stopping dead still.
Hashknife was the first to reach them. Buck was dead; filled with bullets from Poco’s gun. They turned Poco over and bolstered him against Buck’s body; while the crowd poured out of the courtroom and surrounded them.
Poco was not dead, but he was going fast. He tried to grin up at Hashknife, and his voice was weak, as he said:
“Shot at you by accident, Hartley—this mornin’. Get Trainor, if yuh can. He’s the head of the gang. Carsten is another. I helped ’em steal cattle, but I didn’t have anythin’ to do with the killin’. They didn’t trust me and Smoky, I guess.
“Either Buck or Trainor killed Smoky, my bunkie. Buck tried to kill you. That drinkin’ was all a blind, I think. I followed you and Stevens to the pinto and I seen you find the rifle, I laid for Buck. The rifle wouldn’t shoot.”
“Poco, I’m sorry,” said Hashknife. “I like you, cowboy.”
“Thank you, Hartley.” Poco looked around at the crowd and tried to smile. “I reckon I’m all through. They can turn Ben Lanpher and Pinto Cassidy loose now. I—I’m just a damn rustler, Hartley; but I never killed from ambush. I can go clean. And I want yuh to know that Smoky wasn’t in on the killin’. It was just Trainor and Buck.”
“Trainor, Buck and Carsten won’t do it again,” said Hashknife.
Poco nodded shortly and lifted his head, as if listening, but his eyes were glazing fast.
“Somebody singin’?” he asked wearily. “What are they singin’ about, I wonder? Why, I know that song. Gee, that’s—”
Poco smiled, but this time the smile did not fade. Hashknife straightened up, his lips shut tightly, a sadness in his eyes, as he turned to the crowd.
“They’re all Fantom Riders now, folks,” he said and turned away toward the Lanpher family near the courtroom door.
Sleepy was talking to Lanpher, as Hashknife came up, and in a moment Ben Lanpher joined them. He had been turned loose.
“Here’s m’ prize pup-prisoner!” yelled Lonesome, and they turned to see old Pinto Cassidy coming from the jail, walking alone. He was also free. Lonesome was behind him, grinning from ear to ear, and doing a burlesque war-dance.
“That’s damn good!” blurted Mrs. Cassidy hoarsely. “My man go home now.”
“Sure, I dunno what it’s all about,” protested Cassidy, as Lorna threw both arms around his neck and her tears mingled with the stubble of his wrinkled face.
“My God, I’m thirsty,” choked a lean-faced cowboy, who had been on the jury. He turned away toward a saloon, and several followed him.
“Hartley, I dunno what it’s all about yet,” admitted the sheriff. “Danged if it didn’t happen so quick that I never even remembered that I had a gun. Why, Trainor never even fired a Shot. Gosh A’mighty, you two fellers sure do know how to make a gun hop.”
The Lanphers surrounded them, trying to express their thanks but none of them could talk coherently. Ben shook hands with Hashknife silently and turned away to Lorna, who was with her father.
Lanpher was looking at them, as Hashknife touched him on the arm and spoke softly:
“Shoot square, Lanpher. This is between them.”
“I know,” breathed Lanpher. “It is not for us to say.”
Mrs. Lanpher and Helen had moved in closer, watching Ben and Lorna, who were talking softly. Ben shook his head, as if not understanding. He questioned her anxiously, but she shook her head again and turned away.
Ben frowned thoughtfully.
“Will we be goin’ home now, Lorna?” asked Cassidy huskily.
“Yes,” she said softly, without lifting her head.
Ben looked at her for a moment and turned to his mother.
“She won’t marry me,” he said slowly.
“Why?” asked Mrs. Lanpher foolishly.
“She says she don’t love me.”
“Damn good reason!” blurted Mrs. Cassidy.
Cassidy crossed to her and put his arm around her; but she did not look up at him as she said:
“Love is such a little word, don’t you see. It means today—not tomorrow or the next day. Ben wants to marry me today. His folks don’t want him to marry me. He is willing to marry me in spite of them—today.
“I am half-Indian.” She turned and faced them, her eyes half-closed. “Maybe the Indian half is the strongest. Ben would not love an Indian—tomorrow. And you will all be much happier. I want to be happy, too.”
“Damn right!” exclaimed Mrs. Cassidy inelegantly.
“Well,” Mrs. Lanpher gave a sigh of relief. “I’m glad it has all turned out for the best.”
“Yes, for the best,” said Lorna softly.
“But nobody has asked me what I think,” complained Ben. “Haven’t I anything to say about it?”
“Very little,” said Cassidy. “Go on back to your town and settle down, Bennie. You’ve been a lucky lad to stay as long as ye have. Come, Lorna. Are ye ready, Minnie?”
“Damn right,” said Minnie, “Momook klatawa.”
Hashknife and Sleepy were watching Cassidy, Minnie and Lorna crossing the street, when Lanpher grasped Hashknife by the arm, yanking at him nervously.
“I’m still in a whirl,” he declared. “It is like waking from a nightmare, don’t you know it? Why, there isn’t a man left on the Circle Cross. Four dead men! Can you imagine that?”
Hashknife nodded slowly, sadly. His face seemed to have aged years in a few minutes.
“Yeah, I can imagine it.”
“Well, I don’t know which way to turn.”
Lanpher nervously fumbled in his pocket and produced a check-book.
“I promised you a thousand apiece, didn’t I? I’m going to double that. My Lord, it was worth three times that much. I—I mean, it is worth everything in the world to me.”
Helen and her mother had come to them, and Lanpher turned nervously to them.
“I—I’m trying to pay my debts,” he explained, showing them the check-book.
“In money?” asked Mrs. Lanpher.
“That’s—right,” Lanpher’s voice softened and he shook his head.
“Not my debts, mother—my bills.”
He started to write a check, but stopped and looked straight at Hashknife.
“Hartley, will you and Stevens accept half-interest in the Circle Cross, and handle my half for me?”
“No, I reckon not,” he said slowly, apologetically. “Yuh see, me and Sleepy have got so much iron in our system that we’d kinda rust if we hung around in one place too long. Thank yuh just the same, folks. It’s a fine offer.”
“Will you come to visit us at San Francisco?” asked Helen. “Our home is your home now.”
“When you have a dry season,” said Sleepy. “Fog and iron don’t go well together.”
“Where will you go from here?” asked Lanpher, handing them each a check. “We want to keep trade of you two.”
“Keep track of us?” Hashknife smiled wistfully. “You’ll have a job, pardner. We’ve been called the antidotes for poisoned ranges. We’ll likely keep goin’ until our medicine gets too weak. But we’ll let yuh hear from us once in a while.”
When Hashknife turned he found Sleepy grinning widely at him.
“What did Helen Lanpher mean, Hashknife?”
Hashknife grinned and rubbed his chin.
“I dunno,” he confessed. “Did sound kinda funny. I wish it wasn’t so danged drizzly in Frisco town.”
“They have a dry season down there,” said Sleepy suggestively.
“It used to be a good country,” sighed Sleepy.
Hashknife laughed softly, glanced back toward the hotel, and they rattled their spurs across the door step together.