Sleepy and Breezy were playing pool at the Oasis, when the proprietor of the livery-stable came in. He wended his way to Sleepy and informed him that Hashknife’s gray horse had come back to the stable, sans rider.
Sleepy dropped his cue on the table and headed for the door, followed closely by Breezy. They trotted down to the stable, where they found the horse in a stall still saddled. Sleepy examined the horse and saddle by lantern light, but found nothing wrong with either.
“Must have broke away,” said Breezy.
“This horse don’t break away,” said Sleepy nervously. “What do yuh suppose happened, Breezy?”
“I gave yuh my theory, and almost got bit.”
“Saddle yore horse and let’s git goin’. Wait! You take my roan and I’ll ride Ghost. If this horse pulled out on Hashknife, it’s the first time he ever did. I’ll saddle the roan for yuh. He’s kinda foolish about strangers.”
A few minutes later they rode out of the stable and headed for the Box S. Sleepy didn’t know the road very well, but he took the lead, and they went streaking down across the old bridge, where the hoofs of their running horses sounded like the quick roll of a snare-drum.
Nor did they draw rein until they swept into the yard of the Box S. Len and Sailor were in the bunk-house, but came out at the sound of their arrival. In answer to their questions, Len told them approximately what time Hashknife had left there.
“That should have made me meet him,” said Sailor. “I never rode fast. By golly, that makes me wonder! After I left town and was pretty close to the bridge, I thought I heard a shot. I wasn’t sure which direction it was, and when I hit the other end of the bridge my bronco shied at somethin’ in the dark. He’s in the habit of shyin’ thataway, so I yanked him around and went on. It was so danged dark I wouldn’t know I was on the bridge, except that I could hear it under me.”
“That don’t sound so good to me,” said Sleepy. “If somebody bushwhacked my pardner⸺”
“Who in hell would bushwhack him?” asked Sailor quickly.
But Sleepy didn’t answer Sailor’s question. He swung the gray around and said to Len:
“Lend me a lantern, will yuh?”
“I shore will, Stevens; and I’ll go along with yuh.”
A few minutes later the three riders left the ranch, carrying the unlighted lantern.
Hashknife’s trip through space was rudely interrupted by a souse of cold water, which brought back consciousness in a flash. He flung out his arms weakly and encountered water on all sides. He was dazed, choked, fighting for breath, hardly knowing what it was all about. His head bumped something, which he instinctively grasped. It was an old stump.
He clung to this, trying to pump air into his tortured lungs, while a heavy weight seemed to press down on his head. As yet he did not remember anything. His past, present and future were all a blank, but still he fought for life. After a few moments he began to get back a glimmering of intelligence.
It seemed unnatural for him to be in the water. As he seemed to remember, he was not an amphibian creature. If he could only get that weight off his mind. He lowered his feet and touched bottom. After due reflection he shoved past the stump and his groping hands came in contact with some gnarled roots on the bank, where he managed to drag himself out of the water.
Again the world whirled around and he lost consciousness, but in a few moments he recovered again, his mind more clear, but his head one bunch of thumping nerves. Nausea overcame him and he sprawled on the bank, too sick to care about anything. He was still there when Sleepy and Breezy rattled across the bridge, and it roused him up a little.
He felt a little better, and he was beginning to remember. The events of the evening came back to him, although they seemed to have happened years before.
His clothes were soaked and his boots were full of water. He managed to remove his boots and empty them. It was rather difficult for him to get on his feet because everything seemed to whirl around, but he gritted his teeth and staggered ahead to the road.
Things were clearer to him now. He realised that he had been shot, but was unable to discover the exact spot where he had been hit. He was so wet that he could not distinguish blood from water, but he had a suspicion that he had been hit in the head.
“Bushwhacked,” he told himself. “That’s it.”
He dimly remembered the voices he had heard, and that one had suggested shooting him again. In spite of his condition he chuckled. Luck had been with him once more. It seemed an interminably long time before he saw the lights of Lobo Wells. They danced before his eyes like lanterns on poles, but he kept bravely on.
Something prompted him to keep off the main street, and he managed to find the rear stairs of the little hotel, where he climbed up and went to his room without seeing anybody. After he lighted the lamp and surveyed his features in the cheap mirror over the pine dresser, he got an idea of the extent of his injuries.
It appeared that a bullet had knocked a chunk of flesh off just above his left eye, and another had struck him a little farther back, behind the left temple, and had cut a jagged furrow to the top of his head. He mopped the gore away with a towel and examined the wounds, which did not pain him so much now.
“Looks as though I had been caressed with a few pieces of buckshot,” he told his reflection. “That bushwhacker misjudged his aim just enough to slip me two outside pellets. No wonder he thought I was plenty dead. That whole load would have torn my head off.”
He washed out the wounds, bound his head in a piece of pillow cover, stripped off his wet clothes and went to bed. His head ached too much for him to sleep, so he was still awake when Sleepy came in, stopped in the doorway and stared at Hashknife’s bandaged head.
Then Sleepy shut the door carefully and came over to the bed.
“My Gawd!” said Sleepy. “What happened to you, Hashknife?”
Hashknife told him, while Sleepy whistled softly.
“How didja get home?” asked Sleepy.
“Walked, I reckon. Don’t remember much about it.”
“I’m goin’ to get the doctor,” declared Sleepy. “You lay still and don’t try to stop me. Here’s yore hat.”
Sleepy picked the hat off the floor, where he had dropped it when he came in.
“We found it on the bridge. And that ain’t all we found.”
Sleepy dug down in his pocket, took out an object and handed it to Hashknife. It was a derringer, forty-one calibre, with a loaded cartridge still in the single barrel.
“It was down in the rut on the far side of the bridge,” said Sleepy at the doorway. “I’ll get the doctor right away.”
“Derringer, eh?”
Hashknife smiled weakly and shoved the derringer under his pillow.
Nan’s ankle was pretty sore the next morning, but she insisted on dressing, and Len carried her out to breakfast. Sailor had already eaten his breakfast, and was down at the stable.
Len told her about the boys going out to look for Hashknife, and that he was anxious to find out whether anything serious had happened. Little Larry was down at the stable with Sailor, who was saddling a burro for him to ride. They could hear Larry’s high-pitched voice as he gave expert advice on the matter.
“He’s a lovable little fellow,” said Nan. “This ranch will be wonderful for him, Len.”
“Then you don’t mind havin’ him here, Nan?”
“Oh, I love it.”
“I wondered if yuh would. Where do yuh want to sit this mornin’? You can’t do much movin’ around, yuh know, and I’d kinda like to ride to town and see if they found Hartley.”
“On the front porch. Don’t hurry on my account, Len.”
“Well, I won’t be gone long.”
He carried her out on the porch and made her comfortable in a rocker, stacking up some old magazines beside her.
“Len,” she said seriously, “you are awful good to me.”
“Mebby I am and mebby I ain’t,” he said brusquely. “See you later.”
Larry came up to see her after a while, his face flushed, clothes dusty.
“Me and the mule got along great,” he told her, with a triumphant note in his voice. “Sailor says I rode him to a frazzle. Sailor’s makin’ over a saddle for me. Well, I’ve got to get back to work, I s’pose.”
“What kind of work, Larry?” she asked.
“Cuttin’ wood for Whisperin’.”
“You should call him Mr. Taylor, Larry.”
“I did—once. Then he said we was well enough acquainted to call each other by our first names. What was all this about Mr. Hartley bein’ missin’?”
“Nobody seems to know, Larry.”
“Gee, I hope he’s all right. Me and him are waitin’ for the big wind to come along, so we can fly a kite. When yore ankle gets better you can help us.”
“All right, Larry. Perhaps your father will help, too.”
Larry thought a while.
“Mebby. It’s funny to think of him bein’ my father. Do you like him?”
“Why do you ask that, Larry?”
“Well, I guess he likes you.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“He told me that the boss was a nice lady. He wouldn’t say that unless he liked you, would he?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. I hope he likes me, Larry.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I’ve got to cut some wood.”
It was after twelve o’clock when Whispering beat the dinner gong, and Sailor came up from the stable with Larry. Whispering asked Nan whether they should carry her to the table or serve her meal out there. She decided in favour of eating on the porch.
It was Sailor who brought the tray out there. Nan held it, while Sailor brought out a small table.
“You carried my message to Mr. Baggs, didn’t you, Sailor?” she asked, still holding the tray in both hands.
“No, ma’am, I didn’t,” he said. “Couldn’t find him last night, and I plumb forgot to tell yuh this mornin’.”
The tray slipped from Nan’s fingers, struck on her two knees and went upside down on the porch, the dishes clattering down the steps. Her arms fell limply to her sides and she sagged back in her chair, her face turning white.
“My golly!” blurted Sailor. “Whatsa matter? Yore ankle?”
For several moments Nan did not speak, while Sailor watched her anxiously. Hearing the crash of the dishes, Whispering and Larry came running out.
“I reckon her ankle hurt,” said Sailor.
“You prob’ly stepped on it!” snorted Whispering.
“Aw, I wasn’t near her. She⸺”
“It’s all right,” whispered Nan painfully. “Oh, I’m sorry about the dishes.”
“Shucks, that’s all right,” assured Whispering. “I’ll load up another bunch for yuh.”
Nan shook her head wearily.
“No, don’t do that, Whispering; I’m not hungry now.”
“I know how yuh feel,” he said. “I had a sprained leg once. Them pains shore do shoot through. You jist take it easy, and when yuh get hungry I’ll fix up a snack for yuh.”
They went back to the dining-room, leaving Nan to stare out at the hills, wondering what would happen next. She knew that Baggs would watch for her to leave Lobo Wells, and when she did not appear at the station he would have her arrested.
Several times Whispering came out to the porch, anxious to prepare a meal for her, but she had no appetite. Her eyes ached from watching the road to Lobo Wells, and when she did see a cloud of dust, presaging the approach of a rider, she clenched her hands and swore she would be game, while cold chills raced up and down her spine.
She recognised Len at a distance, but the other rider was not familiar, until they came in through the big gate, when she recognised the huge figure of Ben Dillon, the sheriff. She gripped the arms of her chair and watched them ride up to her and dismount. The sheriff was coming for her, she knew. Len’s face seemed very grave, as he said:
“Ben, you’ve met Miss Singer, ain’t yuh?”
“Howdy,” said the sheriff. “I ain’t never had the pleasure.”
Nan couldn’t speak. Their faces seemed blurred.
“You remember sendin’ Sailor Jones to town last night?” asked the sheriff.
“Hey!” blurted Len quickly. “She’s fainted, Ben.”
“By God, that’s what she’s done, Len! What do yuh do for⸺”
Len picked her up in his arms and carried her into the house, placing her on the couch.
“What’s the hell’s been goin’ on now?” wailed Whispering.
“Get some cold water!” snapped Len.
Len bathed her face with cold water, which revived her in a few moments. Her mind was clear again, and she waited for the sheriff to say or do something, but he walked from the room with Len. Out on the porch he said:
“She ain’t in no shape to talk, Len. Personally, I don’t think Sailor had anythin’ to do with it, but Breezy said that Sailor was along about that time, and I jist wanted to kinda find out if she knew what time he got home.”
“I told yuh she didn’t, Ben. Sailor never went up to the house after he got back. It was only a little while before Stevens and Breezy came bustin’ out, lookin’ for Hashknife. Anyway, Sailor wouldn’t bushwhack anybody, and yuh say that Hartley was bushwhacked.”
“Hartley never said anythin’—it was Breezy. Sleepy told him. I saw Hartley this mornin’, and he shore had a close call. It’s got me all balled up. If you can tell me why anybody would try to shoot his head off with a shotgun I’ll put in with yuh. Why, the man is a stranger around here.”
“Yeah, that’s true, Ben. Kinda funny. First off they kill Prentice; then they try to kill Amos Baggs. Now they ambush Hartley. Who will be next? What did Hartley say?”
“Grinned like a danged fool. I asked him if he wasn’t scared, and he said he shore was—scared to death.”
Len smiled and rubbed his chin.
“Yuh say they threw him off the bridge?”
“Yeah. Prob’ly thought he was dead.”
“Hm-m-m. I wonder if Hartley has any idea who done it, Ben?”
“I asked Stevens the same question, and he said he didn’t. I told Hartley I was goin’ to try and find out who shot him, and he said he’d be much obliged if I could. Sometimes he makes me so damn mad, with his grinnin’—but yuh can’t help likin’ him, Len. And he ain’t a man I’d choose for a fight.
“Packs his gun pretty low,” nodded Len, “and them eyes of his are pretty steady, even when he grins with his mouth.”
“How’s the boy, Len?”
“Fine.”
“Well, I’ll be driftin’ back. Sorry I bothered Miss Singer, Len; but this deal is gittin’ me up in the air.”
“That’s all right, Ben.”
Len Ayres watched him ride away, and then went back into the house. Nan was curled up on the couch.
“Where is the sheriff?” she asked.
“Oh, he went back to town, Nan. He said he was sorry to bother yuh, but there was a few things he wanted to know. Last night somebody tried to kill Hartley on the road between here and town. Shot him off his horse and threw him in the river. Sailor was the only man along the road at that time. Breezy Hill knew what time Sailor left town, and the sheriff wanted to see if you had any idea what time Sailor got back here to the ranch. I guess he didn’t believe me.”
“But I didn’t see Sailor after he got back last night,” said Nan wearily.
“That’s what I told him. Do yuh feel better, Nan?”
“Much better.”
“Ankle pretty sore, ain’t it? I’ll betcha. Mebby I better take yuh to the doctor, Nan.”
“Well, that—yes, Len, that would give me a chance to talk with Mr. Baggs. He expected me this morning. Sailor never delivered my message to him. I guess he wasn’t able to find Mr. Baggs.”
“Shore. But I’ll tell yuh what we’re goin’ to do, Nan: we’re goin’ to take yore case away from Baggs. I don’t trust him. We’ll demand the will and all the papers and turn ’em over to another lawyer. Jist cut Mr. Baggs off at the pockets.”
Nan stared at him rather wildly. The idea was good, but the consequences might be terrible. She thought quickly.
“I—I don’t know whether I could stand the ride, Len,” she said weakly. “This ankle is awful sore. Maybe you better have the doctor come out here.”
“Whatever yuh want to do, Nan. Shall I bring Baggs out?”
“We—we’ll let him—I’ll be all right in a few days. You just tell him I got hurt, will you, Len?”
“Oh, shore.”
After Len left the room Nan wiped the perspiration off her brow and offered up a prayer for this short respite. If Len explained her condition to Baggs it might save her for a few more days.
Hashknife, with seven stitches in his scalp, and bandaged like a turbaned Moslem, was around town, minus his hat. Questions came thick and fast, but he told everybody that it was a mystery to him. He fingered the derringer in his pocket, and wondered whether it belonged to Jack Pollock, who was around the Oasis, still wearing his arm in a sling. Pollock—if he were really Evans—had used a derringer in Redfields. The gun did not bear any identifying mark, and was small enough to conceal in the palm of a man’s hand.
Hashknife tried to remember the two voices he had heard, but the memory was too vague, the voices seemingly too far away, although he could remember what was said. But he decided that the approach of Sailor Jones had hurried them and they had thrown him over the railing of the bridge on the spur of the moment, when otherwise they might have been more critical of his real condition.
Amos Baggs was a little more than just upset that day. He had been to the depot and seen the last train of the day go through to the West, and Nan had not been at the depot. He swore bitterly and went back to his office, trying to think what to do next. He was sure that Len had advised her to stay, in spite of his warning.
If he had seen Len Ayres when the puncher rode up to the front of his office he would have beaten a retreat out through the back door, but he didn’t have time. Len did not waste words, but delivered Nan’s message as briefly as possible. And Amos Baggs almost hugged Len Ayres. The weight of the world lifted from his shoulders.
Len met Hashknife a little later and told him about it, after they had discussed the events of the night before.
“I dunno what struck Baggs,” said Len. “He was so sour and so scared when I went in, and as soon as I told him about Nan sprainin’ her ankle he got real happy. I don’t figure him.”
“That’s a queer thing to make anybody happy.”
“Shore is.”
“What was the message?”
“That she had been hurt and wouldn’t be able to see him to-day.”
Hashknife didn’t tell Ayres what he had read in the letter from Baggs to Nan, but he knew that Nan lost no time in coming in to see Baggs.
“There’s somethin’ wrong in that end of the deal,” he told himself. “Nice girl and a crooked lawyer. He’s got her scared, I think. I wish I had her scared enough to talk. I’ll just about fool around here until somebody blows my head off.”
Sleepy had the same idea.
“It ain’t worth it,” he declared. “Wire Wells Fargo that we’re off the job, Hashknife. It was a foolish idea, in the first place. They can’t expect us to do anythin’. I’ll be darned if I think Len Ayres has got that money planted.”
“Yuh don’t? Ain’t it funny—neither do I!”
“Fine! So what’s the use of stickin’ around here, lookin’ for somethin’ that neither of us believe exists.”
“Sleepy,” seriously, “what do yuh reckon they’re shootin’ at me for?”
“That question can’t be answered. And if we stick around here much longer it never will—by us.”
But Hashknife made no move to leave Lobo Wells. For the next couple of days he stayed close to town, waiting for his wounds to heal and being sure not to acquire any fresh ones.
Out at the Box S, Nan’s ankle was nearly well again. Much of the arguing between Whispering and Sailor had ceased, because Larry was cutting the wood, much to the amusement of everybody. His ideas of measurements were rather flexible, and at times Whispering was obliged to take the wood back and cut it again; but never when Larry might be aware of it.
Came Saturday night and Sailor rode to Lobo Wells with Len. Whispering had been complaining about rheumatism for days, so he decided to stay at the ranch. Nan had completely recovered the use of her ankle. She had heard no more from Amos Baggs, but she realised that there was no more to hear. He had delivered his ultimatum, but had been kind enough to allow her this extra time.
Little Larry went to bed early, thoroughly tired. Whispering was down in the bunk-house, either in bed or deep in a game of solitaire. Nan was reading in the living-room when she heard a noise on the porch. As she lowered her book the door opened softly and in came Amos Baggs and Jack Pollock, the gambler.
“We saw you through the window,” said Baggs softly, “so we didn’t bother to knock.”
Pollock was looking at her with a curious smile.
“Some difference between a hall bedroom in a Frisco rooming house and ownership of a ranch like this,” he said. “Kid, I’ll give you credit; you’ve got plenty of nerve. Too bad you didn’t get away with it.”
Nan did not answer him. Baggs came up to the table and removed some papers from his pocket, which he spread on the table at her elbow. He took out a fountain pen and handed it to her.
“Just sign on that lower line,” he said, indicating it with a bony forefinger. “Sign it Madge Singer.”
“What is it?” Nan managed to articulate at last.
“Power of attorney,” said Baggs. “You just sign it, young lady. I’ll need that to handle this case. We’ve got to say that you are suddenly called to Frisco.”
“I—I’d rather not sign it now,” she said.
“You’drather not sign it now? What have you got to do with it, I’d like to know? You sign it. I’ve been pretty lenient with you, young lady; now you play square with me. Write your name on that line, and let’s get this over.”
Nan looked at Pollock, who was grinning at her. Baggs had been drinking, and his face was close to her.
“You say I’m going back to Frisco?” she asked.
“That’s none of your damn business,” Baggs said coldly. “You were an impostor. I’m merely saving you from jail. You’re not entitled to that much consideration, but I’m giving it to you. You sign Madge Singer’s name on that line, write a note to Len Ayres, telling him that you are suddenly called away, and we’ll all get out of here. You’ll either do this or stay in jail to-night.”
“Does Ayres know your handwriting?” asked Pollock.
“I don’t think he does,” said Nan weakly. She turned to Amos Baggs. “I guess I’d rather go to jail,” she said.
“You’re seventeen kinds of a fool!” snorted Baggs angrily.
Pollock was busy writing in a notebook. He tore out the page, and his eyes were hard as he looked at Nan.
“Let her go to jail, Amos,” he said. “She better take her stuff along, because she’s going to stay a long time.”
“I’ll pack my stuff,” said Nan firmly.
“With us watching you,” declared Baggs. “You’re too slippery, young lady. You’ve given us plenty trouble already. Hurry up; we want to get there before the jail closes for the night.”
Pollock laughed harshly, and then went to help her pack.
Sunday was not a busy day in Lobo Wells. Hashknife and Sleepy were at the livery stable, taking care of their own horses, while the stable-keeper was looking after the rest of the stock. As he led a pair of horses past the stall where Hashknife kept his gray he said to Hashknife:
“I think you lost yore pocket-book last night. I picked one up near yore stall this mornin’. It’s back there on the grain box.”
“All right,” grunted Hashknife, wondering what the man meant. Hashknife never carried a pocket-book in his life.
He hung up his currycomb and walked back to the grain-box, where he found a leather billfold. Inside it were twenty dollars in currency, some personal cards of people he did not know—mostly San Francisco people—and two tickets from Lobo Wells to San Francisco.
There was no owner’s name, but Hashknife was satisfied that it belonged to Jack Pollock. He put it in his pocket, intending to turn it in at the Oasis. The stable-keeper was out watering horses, when he and Sleepy left the stable, so Hashknife did not get a chance to speak to him about the billfold.
As Hashknife and Sleepy walked up the street toward the hotel, Len Ayres rode in. He tied his horse at the Oasis, but came directly across the street to them.
“How are yuh this mornin’?” said Hashknife.
“I don’t know yet, Hartley. Take a look at this.”
Len handed Hashknife a sheet from a notebook, on which was pencilled in a rather delicate hand:
“Dear Mr. Ayres,—I have just received an urgent message to come at once to San Francisco, so I’m leaving now for Lobo Wells. You will hear from me later.“Sincerely,“Madge Singer.”
“Dear Mr. Ayres,—I have just received an urgent message to come at once to San Francisco, so I’m leaving now for Lobo Wells. You will hear from me later.
“Sincerely,
“Madge Singer.”
“What’s wrong about that?” asked Hashknife curiously.
“I don’t know,” confessed Len rather lamely. “It don’t look right to me, Hartley. She didn’t say anythin’ about⸺”
“Baggs went out after her, while you were here in town last night, eh?” Hashknife took it for granted that Baggs was the messenger.
“Whisperin’ found this note on the table this mornin’.”
“She’s probably got an urgent message, as she says in the note. I don’t see anythin’ wrong with it, Ayres.”
“Mebbe it’s all right. In the first place, she always calls me Len, and in the second place, I call her Nan. Why did she use ‘Mr. Ayres’ and ‘Madge Singer’?”
Hashknife was inclined to smile.
“You might ask Baggs about it,” he suggested.
“I’ll do just that.”
Len went on up the street to Baggs’s office, while Hashknife and Sleepy crossed the street to the Oasis. Harry Cole was at the bar and invited them to have a drink. The place was nearly empty.
“How’s yore head this mornin’?” asked Cole, as he filled his glass.
“Head’s all right,” smiled Hashknife. “Have a big play last night?”
“Pretty good for the middle of the month.”
“Pollock around this mornin’?” Hashknife intended giving him the billfold.
“Pollock left on the eleven-thirty train for Frisco last night.”
“Thasso?”
“Yeah, he decided to pull out. Lobo Wells ain’t big enough for Pollock. He got smashed up in an accident in Frisco, so he came up here for a trip. I didn’t know you’d met him.”
“I hadn’t,” dryly. “Anybody else go west with him?”
“I don’t think so. What made yuh think they had?”
“Miss Singer went to Frisco on that same train.”
“Did she? I don’t think she knows Pollock.”
Hashknife and Sleepy left the saloon and walked up to the depot. The depot agent happened to be a genial sort of person, with plenty of time on his hands.
“You don’t sell many tickets, do yuh?” asked Hashknife.
“Not very many; why?”
“Remember sellin’ two one-way tickets to San Francisco lately?”
“Yesterday. A gambler from the Oasis, the one with the bum arm. Said he was goin’ out on the eleven-thirty.”
“Was you on duty when that train pulled out?”
“Sure. But I didn’t see who got on. Didn’t pay any attention.”
“What time did he buy the tickets?”
“In the mornin’.”
“Do you happen to know the name of the conductor on that train?”
“Sure—Tony Lawton. Train 63.”
“Gimme a telegraph blank, and you can send this where it’ll catch him as quick as yuh can.”
Hashknife wrote:
“Did you pick up two people at Lobo Wells last night who had lost tickets and paid cash. Wire at once.—Ben Dillon, Sheriff.”
“Did you pick up two people at Lobo Wells last night who had lost tickets and paid cash. Wire at once.—Ben Dillon, Sheriff.”
The agent squinted at it curiously.
“It’s all right,” he smiled, “but you’re not the sheriff.”
“That’s all right; he’ll get the answer, pardner.”
“Sure—that’s right. I’ll catch Tony right away.”
And the agent was as good as his word. Within an hour he was at the sheriff’s office with a telegram, explaining to Ben Dillon that it was an answer to the one a tall cowboy had sent.
“What tall cowboy?” asked the sheriff.
“I don’t know what his name is. He signed your name to the one he sent.”
The sheriff opened it and read this message:
“No passengers from Lobo Wells last night.“Tony Lawton.”
“No passengers from Lobo Wells last night.
“Tony Lawton.”
The sheriff’s face twisted thoughtfully.
“Tall cowboy with a bandage on his head?”
“That’s the one. I forgot the bandage.”
“All right; I’ll keep it for him.”
A few minutes later the sheriff left his office, and as he started up the street he saw Hashknife talking with Amos Baggs in front of a store. He walked up and held out the telegram to Hashknife.
“I reckon this is the answer to one you sent,” Dillon said. “It says there weren’t any passengers from Lobo Wells last night. What does it mean?”
Hashknife took the telegram, scanned it and put it in his pocket.
“Who’s Tony Lawton?” queried the sheriff.
“He’s the man who signed this telegram. Thanks, Dillon.”
Hashknife left them abruptly and started for the livery stable. Amos Baggs had a queer expression in his eyes as he watched the retreating back of the tall cowpuncher.
“He’s got me beat,” declared the sheriff. “Signin’ my name to a telegram, and not even explainin’ the answer. He’s shore got plenty nerve.”
“It’s funny he didn’t explain it,” said Baggs.
“That’s right. It said: ‘No passengers from Lobo Wells last night,’ and was signed by a man named Tony Lawton. Mebbe it was one of them code messages. They usually sound queer.”
“That’s probably what it was,” agreed Amos. “If you knew what was in the message he sent, you might understand this reply.”
“Oh, it don’t make any difference, anyway. Did somebody leave Lobo Wells on the train last night?”
“I don’t know,” replied Baggs. “I go to bed before the train arrives here.”
“I guess it was a code message,” decided the sheriff, “but what a danged cowpuncher would be sendin’ a code message for is more than I can make out. He’s gettin’ too darn fresh, usin’ my name on his telegrams; an’ when I see him, he’ll hear about it.”
Hashknife picked up Sleepy at the livery stable, and they rode out to the Box S. Sleepy didn’t know what it was all about, but he went willingly. They found Len and Larry on the front porch.
“Do you think there’s enough wind to sail that kite to-day, Mr. Hartley?” called the boy anxiously.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to wait a while, Larry. Take a look at this, Len.”
He handed Len the answer to the telegram, explaining that he had wired the conductor on the train.
“I’d have bet on my hunch!” snapped Len. “That proves it. But where is she, Hartley? Nobody saw her leave. All we’ve got to go on is the note she left.”
“Do you know her writin’, Len?”
“Never saw it in my life.”
“Maybe she didn’t write it. Maybe she didn’t go away with Baggs. But there’s one cinch bet: she didn’t board that train last night in Lobo Wells. Jack Pollock, the gambler, is missin’, and Harry Cole says he left on that eleven-thirty train for Frisco. But this mornin’ the stable-keeper found a billfold, which looks as though it belonged to Pollock, and in it is two one-way tickets from Lobo Wells to San Francisco. Pollock bought the two tickets yesterday mornin’.”
“For gosh sakes!” blurted Len. “I’ll say you’ve found out a lot.”
“Don’t do us much good. What we want to know is this: did Pollock intend takin’ the girl with him last night; and what became of them? Do yuh know if she was acquainted with Pollock?”
“I never heard her say.”
“Did you talk with Amos Baggs about her goin’ away?”
“I couldn’t find him, Hartley; his office was locked.”
“Well, he’s still in town. That damn fool sheriff read the answer to that telegram right in front of him. Some folks never will have any brains, and it seems as though about the time they get elected sheriff they lose all their natural sense.”
“Do you think Baggs knows somethin’?”
“He knows that we know the girl didn’t go away last night, and that we know Pollock didn’t take that train. It may not be of any interest to him to know this—but he knows it, if it is.”
“Have you any idea why this was done, Hartley?”
“Nope; have you?”
Len shook his head wearily, but Hashknife had a feeling that Len knew more than he was telling. Whispering and Sailor came to them, seeking information—Len had told them that he didn’t believe Nan wrote the note—and now he told them that Nan did not leave on that eleven-thirty train from Lobo Wells.
“Yuh don’t mean to say that somebody kidnapped her, do yuh?” asked Whispering. “Wouldn’t nobody do that?”
“There’s always somebody that’ll doanythin’,” declared Sailor. “We ain’t had a first-class hangin’ for a long time.”
“Catch a rabbit before yuh skin him,” grunted Whispering. “The worst of it is, this must have happened while I’m down at the bunk-house last night.”
“We left yuh here to guard her,” said Sailor.
“You left me here ’cause I had rheumatism, yuh mean. Nobody told me to ride herd on her.”
“Well, boys, it couldn’t be helped,” sighed Len. “There’s no blame comin’ to anybody. Mebby everythin’ is all right. I guess I’ll go to town and have a talk with Baggs,” and then savagely: “And he’ll talk to me, or I’ll saw off his damn ears.”
“That would be my idea of a holiday,” grinned Whispering as Len hurried down to the stable to get his horse.
“Why does everybody hate Baggs?” asked Hashknife.
“I dunno,” confessed Whispering. “I hate him for the things he said about Len at the trial. Old Harmony Singer hated him a-plenty. I had to talk pretty strong to keep Harmony from killin’ him. He shore was a tough old feller.”
“Singer was dragged to death, wasn’t he?”
Whispering nodded sadly.
“They didn’t make ’em better,” said Sailor.
“You knew Len’s wife?” Hashknife queried.
“Shore,” nodded Whispering quickly. “She didn’t shoot square.”
“Before he was sent up?”
Whispering and Sailor exchanged quick glances, and Whispering cleared his throat harshly.
“Afterward,” he said huskily.
Len was riding up from the stable, and the three of them went back to Lobo Wells. Len was plainly worried.
“I don’t know what to say to Baggs,” he confessed, as they neared the town.
“Take it easy,” advised Hashknife. “Just tell him that she went away without leavin’ any orders, and see what he has to say about it. No use rubbin’ him the wrong way. Don’t let him know that yuh suspect anythin’ wrong.”
“That might be best; I’ll do it.”
But Len got the surprise of his life when he went to see Baggs in his office. The lawyer was inclined to be dictatorial.
“No, I don’t know where Miss Singer went,” he said. “She left a note under my door sayin’ she was leavin’ for San Francisco and might not be back.”
He produced the note, written in the same hand and on the same kind of paper as the one she had left for Len.
“She didn’t tell me she might not be back,” said Len.
“Well, she told me. And, another thing, Ayres: I have power of attorney to run the Box S until she returns. Miss Singer signed the paper several days ago. If you want to see it⸺”
“Gave you power of attorney to run the Box S?”
“Exactly. And I’m going to run it, Ayres. You are through as foreman, and you can notify Taylor and Jones that they are also through.”
Len stared at him blankly.
“Kinda sudden, ain’t yuh?” he asked softly.
“Not at all. You and your men move out, and I’ll hire a new crew. It has been done before, so I’m not setting any precedent. I have explained to the sheriff just what I intend to do; so the less you say or do about it the better it will be for you, Ayres.”
Len was mad. He wanted to take that skinny neck between his two hands and squeeze real hard. But he was forced to admit that Baggs had the whip hand.
“I suppose you’ll sign and cash that thousand dollar cheque now?” said Len slowly.
“If it suits me—yes. I have the right.”
Len studied the situation for a while. Then he said slowly:
“She’ll have to come back to have that will probated.”
“I don’t think so. She has been established here, and if it is impossible for her to be present—well, it is merely a matter of legal procedure. I don’t think the court will even raise a question.”
“Another friend of yours pulled out on the same train last night, didn’t he?”
“Who was that?”
“Pollock.”
“Did he? I didn’t know it. Why do you say he’s a friend of mine, Ayres?”
“I heard he was.”
“Don’t you believe everything you hear, Ayres.”
“Who brought Miss Singer to town last night?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Can’t or won’t, Baggs?”
“I think that will be about all. If you will make out the pay-roll for yourself and the other two men I’ll give you a cheque for it. Be off the Box S by to-morrow evening.”
Len stifled an impulse to manhandle Baggs and left the office. Hashknife, Sleepy and Breezy were sitting on the sidewalk in front of the sheriff’s office, and Len went down to them. He drew Hashknife aside and told him what Baggs had done, while Hashknife whistled unmusically between his teeth.
“Showed you the note she left under his door, eh?” mused Hashknife. “She shore sneaked fast, Len. But where did she go from there? Who brought her to town? I felt sure that Baggs went out after her, but I just asked the man at the stable, and he said that Pollock was the only man who hired a rig from him last night.”
“Who is this Pollock person, anyway?” asked Len. “He came here after I went away.”
“Flash gambler, from Frisco. Unless I’m mistaken, his name used to be Evans, and he’s wanted for killin’. Looks to me like a slick-fingered killer. They tell me he used to work for Harry Cole of the Oasis. Cole told me that Pollock got busted up in a wreck in Frisco and was out here visitin’ while his arm healed up.”
“Hartley, do you think Nan ran away with Pollock?”
Hashknife studied Len’s face for a few moments.
“Len,” he said softly, “is this anxiety merely for the boss of the Box S, or is it⸺”
“I’m just a plain damn fool!” said Len savagely. “I’ve been a fool ever since I came back here. I suppose,” he added bitterly, “I’ll keep on bein’ a fool all my life.”
“And they are legion,” sighed Hashknife.
“What did you say, Hartley?”
“I just said that we’re in the majority.”
“Uh-huh—I suppose. Well, I hate to go out and break the news to Whispering and Sailor. They’ve lived there for years; sorta pensioned by Harmony. They’ll want to come in and kill Baggs. And, Hartley, I’m afraid it will require the sheriff to shake ’em loose from the Box S. I can land another job, but they can’t.”
“Well, he gave yuh until to-morrow night, didn’t he? Kingdoms have changed hands in shorter time than that. I’m goin’ up to my room and do a lot of thinkin’. And I’ve got a hunch that Nan didn’t run away with Pollock.”
“I hope yo’re right, Hartley. I’ll see what I can think about before I see yuh again.”
Hashknife went up to his room and sprawled on the bed.
“Of all the snake trails I ever follered, this is the worst,” he told himself. “What’s it all about, anyway? There’s one cinch bet, and that is that somebody around here is scared of me, and I don’t know what for.”
He reviewed the killing of Charley Prentice, who had been sober and industrious until Len Ayres came back. What was Prentice afraid of, he wondered? Was it because he had married Len’s ex-wife? Did he fear Len’s wrath so much that he drank himself to a physical wreck?
The evidence of little Larry would indicate that the man or men who killed Prentice wanted to throw the blame on Len. And would they commit murder merely to get Len out of the way? That was hardly reasonable, Hashknife decided. Did they want to close Prentice’s mouth, and at the same time dispose of Len? That sounded reasonable. Drunken men might talk.
For at least two hours the tall cowboy sprawled on the bed, his gray eyes blinking at the bare ceiling, until Sleepy came up and demanded to know whether Hashknife was playing a joke on his stomach or had he forgotten that it was past supper time.
Hashknife got up and washed his face in the cracked porcelain bowl. He placed his sombrero atop his bandages and did a few clumsy dance steps on the creaking floor, after which he sang softly:
“When my engine roars down through the cut,I’ll tell yuh what to do:If my darlin’s dead, just show the red;If she bet-ter-r-r, show the blue.”
“When my engine roars down through the cut,
I’ll tell yuh what to do:
If my darlin’s dead, just show the red;
If she bet-ter-r-r, show the blue.”
Sleepy looked at him curiously. It was not often that Hashknife sang a song—for which Sleepy was duly thankful, because Hashknife was not exactly a vocalist. But Sleepy knew that when Hashknife sang, even a short part of a verse, it was because he had solved something.
“What do yuh know?” asked Sleepy curiously.
Hashknife grinned softly and looked at himself in the old mirror.
“I know it’s time to eat, cowboy. Glad yuh reminded me.”
They found Ben Dillon and Breezy eating their supper; so they sat down at the same table. The sheriff masticated rapidly for several moments, his eyes on Hashknife. Then:
“Hartley, I’d like to have yuh tell me what that telegram meant. I’m not in the habit of lettin’ folks use my name on telegrams, the same of which I don’t know anythin’ about. The darn thing don’t make sense. You ain’t never showed me jist who yuh are, and—well, what about it?”
Hashknife smiled across the table at the sheriff, who grunted audibly, but waited for Hashknife to speak.
“I’ll pay for the telegram,” said Hashknife.
“That part don’t interest me none; I want to know what it was all about.”
Hashknife did not smile now. He looked at the sheriff with his level gray eyes, as he said softly: “I can’t tell yuh now, sheriff. Too many cooks always spoil the broth.”
“Yeah?” thoughtfully. “Well, you got a nerve, Hartley. Oh, it’s O.K. with me if all this is on the square.”
“It’s all right, I give you my word.”
Baggs had talked to the sheriff, telling him that he was firing the crew at the Box S, and saying that he might have some trouble over it.
“Kinda tough,” agreed Breezy, digging away at a tough steak with a dull knife. “Len’s got the kid to look after, too. Mebby he’ll rent the Prentice house and start housekeepin’. Be funny if he did, wouldn’t it?”
“Did Prentice own the house?” asked Hashknife.
“Belongs to Harry Cole,” said the sheriff. “Prentice rented from him.”
“Mebby Baggs will give us a job on the Box S,” grinned Sleepy.
“Stranger things than that have happened,” grunted Breezy.
“Shore,” grinned Hashknife. “I remember readin’ about the sea openin’ up and lettin’ the Hebrews go through dry-shod.”
“I never swallered that,” choked Breezy. “Must ’a’ been plenty mud. I don’t believe in mi-rackles, but the jigger that served this steak shore does. Hey, Charley! Take this steak back and try it on the next customer. I know when I’m whipped.”
“Don’t like taste?” inquired the Chinaman.
“Boy, I never got that far. Gimme some aigs.”
“Yessa.”
Hashknife turned to the sheriff, who was grinning.
“Pollock went away last night, didn’t he?”
“Yeah, he went away on the⸺” The sheriff hesitated as he remembered the wording of that telegram. “I heard he did,” he finished rather lamely. “What about him?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.”
“Do you know Pollock, Hartley?”
“Never met the gent in my life.”
“Then why are you so interested in him?”
“It ain’t so much the man as it is the things he does.”
“What’s he done?”
Hashknife paused with a forkful of food short of his lips. “Quién sabe?” he said softly.
“Well, I ain’t goin’ to git off. Harmony Singer told me that this was my home, didn’t he? No danged weasel-faced lawyer is goin’ to hoodle me out of my home. My work is sat’sfact’ry, and I stay here. Let him come out here. What do I care? I’ll jist pistol-whip him and retain m’ position. That’s me, all the time.”
Sailor Jones leaned back from the breakfast table at the Box S and glared at the red-faced Whispering, who was baking hot cakes. Across the table from Sailor sat Larry, his plate piled high with steaming cakes.
“I guess I’m about full,” the boy announced.
“Yuh ain’t full,” declared Whispering. “Yuh can’t be full of jist sixteen hot cakes. Eat up them five, and I’ll have some fresh ones for yuh. You satisfied, Sailor?”
“Got enough cakes—yeah.”
“Kinda puny, ain’t yuh? You only et ten this mornin’.”
“That lawyer took away my appetite. Mebby I better ride in and kill him. I’ll betcha I’d be thanked.”
“You’d be hung, you danged fool. Some few of us might e-rect a monyment to yuh, Sailor; but you wouldn’t know it. Git them killin’ notions out of yore head. Len says to go easy.”
“Yeah, he does!” snored Sailor. “And he never slept a wink last night. Looks like a complete accident this mornin’. ’F I ain’t as dumb as a horned toad, Len’s in love with Nan.”
“Yo’re crazy.”
“I can’t eat no more,” declared Larry at last. “Twenty-one is plenty.”
He slipped off his chair, sighed deeply, and went down to the stable to saddle his burro.
Sailor tilted his chair against the wall and rolled a smoke.
“What’s yore idea of this Hartley, Whisperin’?” he asked.
“I dunno. Len’s got faith in him. He shore dug up evidence that Nan never left on that train. But where’d she go? I’ll betcha she ran away with that gambler. Wimmin,” Sailor exhaled deeply, “are queer critters. I never understood ’em.”
“That’s funny, too,” grunted Whispering, “bein’ as you never had anythin’ to do with ’em.”
“I had a squaw wife once, Whisperin’.”
“Injuns are different, Sailor.”
Whispering sat down beside the table, resting his chin on his hands.
“I dunno what we’re goin’ to do, Sailor. Me and yuh have been together a long time, but I dunno who in hell would ever hire us two old wrecks together. We ain’t much good, that’s shore. Yuh jist kinda git old all to once, without realisin’ it, and nobody wants yuh.”
“I’m three years younger than you are, Whisperin’.”
“To hear you tell it—yeah. But yo’re too old, Sailor. We’ve got to look at this straight. There’s no jobs for us in this country. I might git on as a cook on some outfit—if they needed one awful bad. I can’t ride no more. You can’t even cook. Dang it, Sailor, we’re jist a couple of old derelicts. If we’d fought in the wars, instead of hidin’ in the brush, we could go to a home for soldiers.”
“I never hid in no brush, dang yuh! I was too young to go to war.”
“I wasn’t speakin’ about the Rev’lutionary War, Sailor.”
“Oh! Well, I fought Injuns. Me and them Apaches⸺”
“Uncle Sam ain’t offerin’ a home to fellers who fought to save their own lives.”
“I’m not askin’ him for a home, dang it!”
“You probably will be.”
Len came and sat down in the doorway. His gray-green eyes were bloodshot this morning and his hair hadn’t been combed.
“We’ll go in this afternoon, boys,” he said slowly. “I’ll get the money from Baggs. Don’t get drunk and act foolish. Save yore money this time.”
“I reckon that’s good advice, Len,” agreed Whispering. “We’ll need our money now. What’ll you do, Len—you and the kid?”
Len shook his head.
“I wish we could stick together, Len.”
“I guess we will, Whisperin’.”
“How can we do it?” asked Sailor quickly.
“I don’t know, Sailor.”
Len got quickly to his feet. Hashknife and Sleepy were riding in off the main road. They came up to the kitchen door and dismounted. Hashknife was grinning widely as they came in the kitchen.
“Smelled hot cakes,” he said. “How’s chances for some?”
“The best yuh ever seen,” said Whispering. He grabbed for a handful of wood and stoked the fire.
“Look upon us, will yuh?” laughed Hashknife. “Behold the new crew of the Box S!”
“What do yuh mean?” asked Len.
Hashknife chuckled as he sat down at the table.
“Gospel truth, Len. Amos Alexander Baggs himself hired me and Sleepy this mornin’.”
“No.”
“Shore did. Stipulated that we don’t keep none of you boys. Yo’re all fired.”
“We was all fired last night,” said Sailor.
“I don’t quite understand Baggs,” said Len slowly. “How did he ever select you two?”
“That,” said Hashknife, “is a question. Punchers are scarce, I suppose. Anyway, he explained that he needed us right away. Couldn’t seem to wait until the boys left. Said he’d send out a load of grub in a couple of days; so that was a gentle hint to get on the job and stay on it.”
“No other news?” asked Len.
“Not a thing. Gee, you shore make hot cakes, pardner. Wish we could keep yuh cookin’. Mebby we can talk Baggs into hirin’ yuh in a few days.”
“That’s all right with me—if he’d take Sailor, too.”
“Mebby we can fix it.”
“You take the job, if yuh can git it, Whisperin’,” advised Sailor. “I’ll git along. Pers’nally, I don’t know if I’d work for Baggs.”
“You’d work for me, wouldn’t yuh, Sailor?” asked Hashknife.
“Yo’re dang well right!”
“Well, yuh may be back here sooner than yuh think.”
“Thank yuh kindly, Hartley. I hope yo’re right. This is home to me and Whisperin’.”
“There’s no place like home,” said Hashknife thoughtfully.
“You re’lise it—when yo’re run out of it,” said Whispering, and turned away, wiping the hot-cake smoke out of his eyes.
“That damn smoke is kinda—kinda thick,” said Sailor, and sauntered outside.
Hashknife and Len exchanged glances of complete understanding. The smoke wasn’t at all distressing.
They loafed around the ranch all day. Len gave Hashknife all the information regarding the details of the ranch. Whispering cooked an early supper for them. Sailor hitched up a team to the buckboard to carry their belongings to Lobo Wells, and they drove away at sundown.
Len looked back and waved at Hashknife and Sleepy, but the two old men kept their eyes straight ahead. They didn’t want to look back. There was a suspicion of moisture in Hashknife’s eyes as he turned away, but his lean jaw was set with determination.
“Well,” said Sleepy expansively, “we’ve got a job on our hands, Hashknife.”
“We shore have, pardner. Hope the god of luck is with us. I’m still pawin’ in the dark, I tell yuh. Just guessin’, guessin’, without a danged thing to back me up. What do yuh do when yo’re holdin’ two deuces in a stiff poker game, Sleepy?”
“Think they’re a full house and play ’em hard.”
“That’s what I’m doin’; prayin’ to a special little god of mine—and bluffin’ like a fool. As soon as it’s dark, we’ll saddle up and sneak back to town.”
“Is this the end of the trail, Hashknife?”
“Who knows? I tell yuh, I’m bluffin’. I ain’t even got a pair of deuces. But when the other feller don’t know it⸺”
“Where does that girl come in on it, Hashknife?”
“We’ll ask her—if we’re lucky.”